lxx. madman muttering

For once in her life, Harriet enjoyed receiving attention.

After being poisoned last year, Harriet spent the latter part of the term subjected to rumors and curious, watchful gazes, most everyone wanting to know just what had happened, and who had wanted to off a little first-year Slytherin. The eyes following her now held none of that sharp pity; her housemates looked at her with triumph, with something akin to appreciation, and Harriet felt proud.

"I honestly can't believe you can fly that well," Hermione remarked as she sipped her Butterbeer, fresh from Hogsmeade, smuggled in by an older student who knew a secret way out of the castle. Around them, Slytherins celebrated their win over Gryffindor with less restraint than they usually exhibited, and every so often one of them would wander over to their table, clap a hand on Harriet's shoulder, and congratulate her. "It was unexpected."

"Gee," Harriet replied as she broke apart a Chocolate Frog. "Thanks, Hermione." Elara snickered.

"You know I don't mean it like that." Hermione scowled, and Harriet grinned, offering her a slightly melted leg. "No, thank you—those are so morbid, it's still kicking! Anyway, I thought there'd be a bigger learning curve in Quidditch. Obviously you're talented, but you flew just as well as any of the others, and they've been playing for years or were raised with brooms in their childhood."

"I don't know, I think it's easy."

"Easy for you."

"No! You're just too—tentative. The broom can tell you're nervous and it makes the broom nervous, too."

Hermione groaned and lowered her head into her arms. "It's Defense all over again."

"What d'you mean?"

Hermione straightened, blowing stray curls out of her face as she jabbed a finger in Harriet's direction. "She's a prodigy, and she doesn't even realize."

"It's not surprising," Elara agreed, savoring her tea.

"Hey!" Harriet protested. "It's not hard. You just—you take the broom, right? You, err, you sit on it and you—you just fly!" Hand motions accompanied her vague explanation, and Hermione's face turned pink with her effort not to laugh. "You sit, and—don't laugh, blimey. It's not hard, I promise!"

"It would have to be simple for Potter to manage it."

Biting back a groan, Harriet turned in her seat and scowled at Malfoy, the lone Slytherin in the bunch not celebrating their win. He wore a sullen expression, even if he did have one of the Butterbeers in hand and had been pleased enough earlier to see the Gryffindor team in low spirits. He strode over alone, Goyle and Crabbe both off having a laugh with one of the older Slytherins.

"Go away, Malfoy."

"I have just as much right to be here as you, precious Potter."

"Then go over there and be fat-headed and entitled, not here."

"If it weren't for the brooms my father bought the team, you'd be worthless," Draco snapped, cheeks flushed with anger. "As worthless as Longbottom!"

"Would not," Harriet retorted, unable to help herself. Arguing with Malfoy had little point, but she hated the prat's accusation. It fed on her own niggling self-doubt. Maybe it was all the broom. Maybe she'd be rubbish on the slower brooms owned by the other teams—and what would happen if she didn't play as well the next game? Or the next? How quickly would her House's admiration turn to scorn?

Her stomach flipped in her middle, and she shoved her Butterbeer away.

"You're not special, Potter." Malfoy got in her face, and Harriet refused to back down, though she wished she was standing instead of sitting. Draco wasn't overly tall, but the difference in height itched at her nerves. "Just you wait until father buys me my own broom. Next year, you won't stand a chance."

"I'm gonna write to your mum and tell her you're being a berk again."

"She's my mother, Potter, just because you're a rotten little orphan doesn't mean—."

Behind him, a seventh year most definitely not drinking Butterbeer stumbled toward their table and tripped over a chair—or his own two feet. He crashed into Malfoy, throwing the second-year forward…right into Harriet.

Wham! Their heads collided, and she fell out of her chair with the pointy-faced bully sprawled on top of her.

"Harriet!" Hermione exclaimed as she and Elara jumped to their feet, the latter having to step over the older boy sprawled on the floor. Malfoy rolled off Harriet, dazed and disheveled, holding his sore head, and Hermione helped Harriet sit up. Her glasses clattered to the floor, split at the bridge.

"You broke my glasses!" Harriet exclaimed, reaching for the pieces. Her face burned, and when she touched her nose, it twinged beneath her fingers, red dripping against her lip. "And my nose! You broke my glasses and my nose!"

To his credit, Malfoy paled when he saw the blood on Harriet's hand, and his voice rose several octaves. "Wh—? Why didn't you move your stupid ugly face, Potter!"

"Your head's so fat with your ego, I couldn't dodge it!"

"Ah, shite," slurred the seventh year getting to his feet. Harriet couldn't recall his name, and she couldn't see him well enough at the moment to guess. "My fault, my fault. Here—lemme jush, lemme jush fix it real quick like—."

"No!" Harriet squawked as the tall boy pulled out his wand and started waving it in her direction. She wasn't about to let him try magic on her!

"Oi, Abelard!" said one of the boy's friends, coming over to grab the boy's arm. "Let off the second-years! You've banged up our Seeker!"

"C'mon, idiot, you're pissed—," said another.

Harriet used her chair to help herself stand, sniffling against the blood trickling faster from her throbbing nose. Tears stung in the corner of her eyes, but she'd had worse from Dudley and wasn't about to cry. The other Slytherins offered to fix her up, but Harriet continued to shake her head. "I'm going to go to Madam Pomfrey."

Hermione nodded. "We'll come with—."

"No," Harriet protested, voice thick. "You heard what Slytherin said about curfew. I'll go and get a pass from the infirmary."

"If you're sure…."

Harriet couldn't say she was sure, but she wasn't about to let one of the older, sloshed Slytherins have a go at healing her, and if she was quick, Slytherin himself would never have to know. She bundled her ruined sleeve up to her nose—lamenting the fact she'd have to owl Madam Malkin's and get a replacement—and headed off out of the common room. She was almost through the opening when she heard a sharp smack, followed by, "Ow! Bloody hell, Granger, I didn't mean to do it—!"

The portal closed, sealing the drunken laughter and Malfoy's protests inside. Alone in the dungeons, Harriet picked up her feet and hurried forward with her head tipped back and her nose pinched closed, though she still felt the warm, sluggish trickle of blood moving along her cheeks and jaw. She crossed the entrance hall, footsteps echoing, chased by the soft crackling of torches dimmed for the night and snoring portraits. She could taste copper when she breathed in, her head woozy, face aching where Malfoy's thick skull whacked the bones. Prat.

"Kill…."

Harriet came to a sudden halt. Dread welled in her middle.

"Filthy blood…kill…kill…."

"No," Harriet whispered, trembling, turning where she stood as the voice grew louder. Blood dripped from her sleeve and her chin, pattering on her shoes and floor. There was something terribly familiar about that heinous whispering—and she wasn't imagining it. She wasn't. Her bloodied fingers fumbled at the brace on her wrist until she grabbed her wand and held it out, heart thumping loud and incessant in her chest. There was nobody there. She stood in the middle of a long corridor, doors shut along its length, walls bare—and she was alone. "Show yourself!"

Her shout echoed into the distance. The voice disappeared with it, leaving the pale witch with nothing but her racing pulse and haggard breath. A minute passed.

Harriet didn't think she wanted whoever that voice belonged to come forward—not really. Images of Quirrell and his grotesque, deformed head popped up in her thoughts like scenes from a horror film, and Harriet would do anything to never see something like that again. She didn't know what to do. She was almost to the infirmary; returning to the dungeons would lead to questions about her un-healed face, and Harriet couldn't very well go running to a professor in the dead of night, talking about invisible voices in her head, covered in blood and half-blind without her glasses. They'd think she was a nutter!

Maybe I am a nutter.

Scared, Harriet continued on, wand still clasped in sticky fingers, running until she slipped inside the hospital wing proper and breathed a sigh of relief. She found a bit of luck when she knocked on Madam Pomfrey's office door and the medi-witch appeared, still awake, though she wore her long dressing gown and a distinctly weary expression. She glanced down at Harriet and jumped.

"Gracious Rowena—Miss Potter! You scared me half to death, girl! What have you gotten yourself into now?"

Harriet realized her running about had done little to help her broken nose, and blood ran freely down her front. "I—tripped?"

The older witch obviously didn't believe her, but she simply tutted under her breath and ushered Harriet into the ward, helping her sit on the edge of the nearest bed. Madam Pomfrey raised the lights before turning to Harriet again. "All right, look this way, Miss Potter…yes, definitely broken. Now, hold still, lest you want a crooked nose. It'll hurt for just a second…episkey!"

Harriet flinched, but otherwise didn't react as the medi-witch fixed her injury. Madam Pomfrey used her wand to siphon some of the blood from Harriet's skin, then paused, frowning at how peaky the young witch looked and the obvious swelling darkening her eyes. "Wait here a minute, Potter."

"Okay."

Madam Pomfrey bustled off to her office again, and Harriet sat tensely on the bed, listening, both hoping she would and wouldn't hear that voice again. There had been something…familiar to the sound, something Harriet couldn't quite put her finger on, but had nonetheless recognized. It kept poking her in the back of the head, and if she could only wrestle down her panic for a moment, she knew she'd figure it out! Was their someone moving about the castle in an Invisibility Cloak like Harriet's? But why could only she hear them? Was it the same person who wrote those words on the wall and hurt Mrs. Norris?

The doors to the ward parted, edging open to admit Professor Dumbledore. Puzzled, Harriet froze and watched her headmaster shuffle into the ward backward, his reason for doing so becoming apparent when Professor McGonagall followed him, a student levitating in the air between them. The student held their hands stiff before themselves, their whole body immobile, and even at the distance, Harriet could just make out the blur of crimson and gold at their neck.

Looking up as she entered, Professor McGonagall caught sight of the Slytherin witch and sputtered. "Miss Potter! What are you doing here?!"

Harriet thought it obvious what she was doing there, but she didn't sass the professor, given the woman was now settling one of her own unmoving students onto a bed. "I—I tripped," she stuttered, staring at the boy. He was small, smaller even than Harriet. A first-year? "Or—well, some bloke named Abelard tripped, and—well, my nose got broke."

"Minerva," Professor Dumbledore interjected. "If you could retrieve Poppy and inform her of the situation, it'd be much appreciated."

Professor McGonagall did as he asked, and Harriet carefully placed her feet on the floor. She still felt lightheaded as she came to stand by Professor Dumbledore, and she had to blink black spots from her vision as she peered at the Gryffindor settled on the bed. The boy didn't move, didn't shift, didn't even appear to breathe. "Is he…Petrified, Professor?"

"I'm afraid so, Harriet."

The young witch swallowed, her heart once more striking an uncomfortable rhythm against her breastbone. Petrified. She'd heard the voice, and now a boy laid in the infirmary, stiff as stone. She should tell Professor Dumbledore, she knew, and as Harriet glanced up at the elderly man, her throat tightened. I should tell him what I heard…but what if he doesn't believe me? she wondered. It sounds barking, even to me. What kind of invisible, whispering madman could I hear that a wizard like Professor Dumbledore couldn't? What if—what if he thinks I'm a liar? What if he makes me go back to the Dursleys? What if…what if he thinks it's me?

"Harriet?"

"Y-yes?"

The Headmaster studied her for a moment, then asked, "Could you lend me your assistance, my girl?"

He gestured at the object the boy clutched to his face—a camera, Harriet realized when she bent closer and squinted. An old Muggle camera, probably one of the few bits of Muggle tech that would actually work inside a magical place like Hogwarts. Harriet edged her stained fingers between the camera and the boy's palms and shivered at the cold, clammy feel of his skin. She slowly edged the device from his frozen grip. "D'you think he got a picture of who did this to him, Professor?"

"That is my hope. Young Mr. Creevey is passionate about his photography, and it appears he chose the wrong night to indulge in sneaking out of his tower." Dumbledore gently laid the camera lens-down on the bed so he could use his one hand to free the cover on the film compartment. It clicked open—and smoke spilled from the crevice, Harriet grimacing against the smell of melted plastic as Professor McGonagall returned with Madam Pomfrey and gasped aloud.

"Oh, the poor dear," McGonagall whispered as she looked down at Creevey and touched the Petrified boy's forehead, smoothing his mousy fringe. "Albus, it could have been so much worse—."

Professor Dumbledore held up his hand. Harriet narrowed her eyes—and winced. What does she mean by that?

"Over here, Miss Potter," Madam Pomfrey ordered as she set down an open jar and a glass vial. Harriet went, rounding the bed to stand before the fussing matron. "It's too much. This can't be allowed to go on, Albus. It's attacking students—."

"The Aurory, at the very least, needs to be notified—."

"The Aurory received my petition, as did the Minister. I can only wait for their response, as you well know." Dumbledore pointedly interrupted the witches again when they began to argue, and Madam Pomfrey went back to rubbing stinky bruise cream on Harriet's face. The young witch thought the wizard sounded…bitter, or as bitter as Professor Dumbledore ever could sound.

"Does this have to do with the Chamber, Professors?"

"Don't ask questions, Miss Potter. This is nothing for you to worry about." Madam Pomfrey uncorked the vial, the motion rushed. "That's a Blood Replenishing Potion. Merlin knows you've lost enough down the front of your shirt."

Harriet drank the potion—and though she wanted to kick a fuss at being ignored like a child, she didn't. Instead, she stored away the conversation so she could tell Hermione and Elara what she'd learned. Maybe Hermione was right. Maybe the professors did know more than they were letting on.

"Back to the dormitories with you, Miss Potter," Professor McGonagall said, her tone brusque. She shared a final, lingering look with Professor Dumbledore, who nodded slightly. "Come along."

Harriet went. Despite the presence of a mature witch at her side, she grew anxious in the cold, poorly lit corridors, sticky with blood and chilled to the bone, shirt clinging to her collarbones. Professor McGonagall set a brisk pace, and they had almost reached the entrance hall when Harriet swore she heard the voice again and stopped dead, her mind whirling in a thousand directions, wondering if someone was going to appear from nowhere, if they'd attack, if Harriet and the professor would be nothing more than rocks like that Gryffindor boy—.

Pain prickled through her neck just as Professor Slytherin stepped around the corner.

He paused upon seeing them standing there, and when he recognized Harriet, the wizard's eyes hardened. "It appears Potter needs to be reminded of my curfew rule," he hissed as he strode forward. Harriet shivered.

"Miss Potter was in need of an escort to the infirmary," Professor McGonagall told him, her voice as cold as the look upon her face. "She may be missing her glasses, but I assume you can see the blood plainly enough, Professor Slytherin."

He sucked air through his teeth and didn't reply, flicking out the edge of his robes in dramatic fashion as he spun on his heels. "Very well. I've no time for this. Come, Potter."

Being ordered about like a misbehaving dog was growing old for Harriet, but she nonetheless fell into step behind Professor Slytherin, and the wizard rushed her back into the dungeons, all but shunting her into the common room without going inside himself. The party had wound down in her absence, fewer Slytherins milling about the shared space, and so Harriet continued on into her room, finding Elara and Hermione waiting for her there. Hermione handed over her repaired glasses, and Harriet was so exhausted from Quidditch and the after-party, she wrote herself a note to speak with her friends about what happened in the morning. They got ready for bed.

It was several hours later, long after the last of the smuggled Firewhisky had been drained, the silver lanterns doused, and sleepy Slytherins folded themselves into their blankets, that Harriet woke from muddled nightmares and sat upright, gasping, the warm coils of her Horned Serpent wrapped about her bare legs. She remembered. She knew why the voice was familiar, why she thought she heard it in the hall when Professor Slytherin appeared. She knew.

"It's a ruddy snake!"