3. THE PRISONER OF AZKABAN
never wound a snake; kill it - h. tubman
xcvi. a mundane afternoon
Like many of the other youths who populated Diagon Alley on that unseasonably chilly summer day, Harriet Potter had her nose pressed to the glass of Quality Quidditch Supplies, ogling the broom on display.
"It's the fastest broom ever made," Draco Malfoy said, admiration clear in his voice, no trace of its usual smarmy undertone present. "Better than anything Nimbus Racing has in their lineup. Their concept model for the Number Two-Thousand-and-Two is years off yet. The whole Bulgaria national team has already put in for six Firebolts."
Harriet pulled far enough away from the glass to eye Draco, one brow raised. "Have you gone begging your daddy for one yet?"
"Shut up, Potter," Malfoy snapped, scowling even as he fidgeted, adding in an undertone, "He said no."
She laughed.
"You're just jealous you haven't got a father to ask for anything."
The insult stung, but it lacked bite. "Yeah, right. Being able to buy whatever I want without asking my mum or dad is so difficult."
Draco scowled and crossed his arms, his eyes locked on the glitzy, obscenely expensive broom. The tag read, "Price by request," and Harriet had actually gone and asked the manager. The total, had it been in pounds, was high enough to give Uncle Vernon a heart attack if he'd heard it.
Behind them came the familiar voice of Narcissa Malfoy cutting through the squealing and excitement. "Draco, Harriet, come away from there now. We're ready to depart."
With a grunt, Harriet peeled herself from the glass and Draco did the same. His mother waited at the back of the crowd with Elara and Hermione by her side, the trio having finally exited the stationery shop across the lane. Mrs. Malfoy looked as suave as ever, her cold blonde hair caught and twisted into a fashionable chignon on the back of her head, diamonds glittering on the lobes of her ears. Elara wore what she typically wore: a white, high-collared blouse with her House pin sparkling in the sparse sunlight, her black robes open to reveal the blouse and a long skirt falling past her knees. Hermione's wild hair had been tamed into a French plait not unlike the one on Harriet's head, though the humidity rose a halo of fine, frizzy curls around her face. She had a new, self-inking quill in her hands and was inspecting it with a pleased gleam in her eyes.
"Come along. We've an appointment at Twillfitt's next."
Harriet huffed but followed her minder all the same. From the corner of her eye, she saw Elara give her a knowing smirk, which only forced another huff. Shopping with Mrs. Malfoy took too long and proved almost mundane. She wouldn't let them wander off and made them get all those things Harriet usually forgot about until the last minute or just blatantly ignored—like socks and four bloody kinds of shampoo and bits of feminine things Harriet really didn't like to consider. She thought they'd never escape that flowery smelling shop.
"So, are you going to purchase a Firebolt?" Elara asked at length as they headed to the South End of the alley.
Harriet snorted. "No. Bloody thing costs more than a Muggle car. Besides, my Two-Thousand-One is perfectly fine."
"It's not your Two-Thousand-One, Potter," Malfoy put in, nose in the air. "It belongs to the team."
"Shut up, Malfoy."
"Mother! She told me to shut up!"
"Behave, children."
They clamored into Twillfitt and Tattings, finding a single, stocky witch in the establishment waiting behind her counter. She looked up when the door opened. "Narcissa, darling! Wonderful to see you, as always!"
"Patricia."
The two exchanged busses on the cheeks and polite society chatter, commenting on the newest fashion trends and which families had come to their properties in the city for the season and which were out of country and who had done such and such a thing. Harriet found all this thoroughly boring and plopped herself down on the nearest seat by the door, a wooden bench with some kind of inlaid Cushioning Charm. Elara and Hermione joined her—as did Draco, complaining until they budged over and gave him room to sit. He didn't stay long, because a minute later Mrs. Malfoy urged him back onto his feet and he disappeared into the backroom to have himself fitted for new robes.
"No wandering off, am I understood?" Mrs. Malfoy warned the trio of waiting witches, one pale eyebrow lifted. "We'll just be a moment."
They nodded and she vanished behind the heavy curtain with her son and the seamstress. Harriet slumped, legs kicked out in front of her, and released a third—and final—huff.
"Really, Harriet," Hermione chided as she crossed one leg over the other and gave her friend a consoling pat. "You act as if you're being tortured."
Having actually been tortured, Harriet didn't think much of Hermione's comparison but chose not to mention it. "I'm just bored. She won't let us go off anywhere interesting. Shopping's—boring."
"But necessary," Elara quipped. She picked up an abandoned Witch Weekly magazine and flipped through it. "Your trunk's half empty and your robes all improperly sized. As are mine. She's taking us to the Optomagitrist after this, too."
"The what?"
"Magical eye doctor, for new glasses."
"Oh. But—."
"Hermione, do you think these potions in here are actually viable?"
The abrupt change of subject put Harriet off and she sighed, looking out the window as the other two picked over the potions in the magazine. Given the dodgy weather and the fact that school had only let out a little over a week ago, Diagon Alley was relatively idle, a thin stream of witches and wizards going about their errands and business, meeting for lunch or wrangling small children. Harriet flicked aside the rather dowdy curtain to improve her vantage and watched people passing the shop. At one point, she thought she caught sight of Professor Slytherin but couldn't rightly tell; the wizard was a terror at close range, but looked unremarkable at a distance.
She'd thought on what Professor Dumbledore had told her about the Defense instructor and Voldemort for much of her summer vacation so far and had come to the conclusion the Headmaster hadn't exaggerated when he said she'd come away from the conversation with more questions than answers. Chief among those questions was why? If Professor Slytherin was connected to the Dark Lord—either directly or through whatever nebulous magical nonsense made him look like the monster—why was he allowed on at the school? She wondered if Professor Dumbledore had any say in the matter, or if the Board knew anything about Slytherin.
Merlin, she mused to herself, lips pressed in a line. Does anyone even care? They elected Gaunt as Minister and that bloke is just as terrifying. She had the very Hermione-like urge to go to the library and pull old periodicals and records to discover more about the Minister and Slytherin. Should she? It might prove dangerous to poke her nose blindly about in their business and after everything that had occurred last term, Harriet didn't want to go looking for trouble.
It frightened her that Albus Dumbledore, who was meant to be the greatest wizard of their age, couldn't handle or best everything. What did he mean when he said Slytherin was and wasn't the Dark Lord? What kind of magic was that? Harriet had never heard of such a thing, and true she may not yet be thirteen, but she had a firm grasp on the basics and the strange notion of clones—like those in Dudley's sci-fi programs—went against a lot of the magic theory she'd been taught. Besides, Gaunt and Slytherin weren't clones; they looked different, but not by much.
The ruffling of air in feathers brought her gaze up to the transom and the brown owl swooping overhead. Harriet expected the owl to drop off a letter for the witch—Patricia?—and so she yelped when a thick envelope whacked her in the face. The owl hooted, satisfied, and left through the transom once more.
"Who is that from, Harriet?" Hermione asked, and Harriet shrugged, turning the envelope over to examine the looping, exaggerated salutation. She snorted.
"Lockhart."
"Did you say Lockhart?!"
"Why on earth is that grinning buffoon writing to you?"
Harriet flicked open the thick, fancy parchment and skimmed the contents. "I suggested some stuff he could write about in his new books and the berk has been sending me post ever since he left the school, asking for more ideas. He's going to give me ten percent of his profits." She folded the letter back up and stuffed it in a pocket. "'Course, I also have to stay quiet about his past plagiarism."
Hermione's eyes boggled. "You're blackmailing Gilderoy Lockhart?!"
"What? No." Harriet paused. "Well, when you put it that way—a bit, maybe."
"Harriet!"
Behind her magazine, Elara stifled a small, unmistakable chuckle.
"Don't sit there and laugh! That's not at all funny."
"Coming from the witch who had us rob a man fully capable of cursing us into the next life." Elara flipped a page. "If I have another asthma attack in his presence, I think he'd let me suffocate."
"He wouldn't!"
They didn't mention the 'he' in question, as if collectively afraid they'd summon his dark, sneering form right out of a cupboard or from behind a rack of robes. The heavy curtain scratched against the metal rod as Draco reappeared, dodging his mother's fussing, and Mrs. Malfoy called to Harriet. "You're next."
"Do I have to?" she complained, slouching onto her feet.
"Yes, darling. I've seen the atrocious state of your wardrobe. Now do as you're told."
"I only showed you that under duress," Harriet grumbled. Nevertheless, she trudged after Mrs. Malfoy into the second room where the seamstress waited with pins ready and accepted her fate.
x X x
The sun made a valiant attempt to poke through the grim clouds but failed in the end, leaving the patio outside the restaurant more than a bit dismal. The staff had even set out fire-salamanders to give the tables heat, and Harriet watched the lizard lazing in its dish of gravel as she picked over her food. It spat out tiny flames as it snored.
Harriet didn't actually know the name of the restaurant, only that it was in a brick building on Empiric Alley and that Mrs. Malfoy apparently knew the proprietor, who kept stopping by the table to chat in French. Sighing, Harriet leaned back in her chair and studied the striped canopy overhead, fidgeting with the gold frames of her new, round glasses.
"I think they look nice," Hermione commented as she spread a bit of butter on her pumpernickel.
"Really?"
"Yes. They pair very well with your eyes."
Harriet hummed in appreciation and popped a large bite of pasta into her mouth. "'Hanks, Hermione."
Mrs. Malfoy shot her a look that clearly told her to not talk while chewing, her fork and knife moving across her plate on their own, cutting her food into tiny, manageable squares.
They'd almost finished their meal when Snape arrived. He oozed from an opposing alley and appeared on the main lane, dressed in the same thick, black robes he wore during the school year, and several of the better dressed toffs making their way to and from the Ministry startled, one witch dropping her parasol and gasping. Snape gave the lot a hard, indolent glare, then swept across the lane and marched straight to the restaurant Harriet and the others sat at with their food.
"Narcissa," he greeted with a sharp tilt of his head, glancing at the gathered teenagers. Well, teenagers and Harriet; she hated being the youngest of the bunch sometimes. He studied them, then the empty patio and the street, squinting at every potential witness to his presence. "I trust there were no…issues."
"None at all, Severus," she replied—glossing over Harriet's less than gracious complaining and Elara tripping Draco into a huge cauldron outside Potage's Cauldron Shop. "Did you finish your business at Slug and Jiggers?"
"Yes. The school's accounts are settled."
"We missed your company today. You could have come along for a robe shopping yourself—."
"Forward the bill to Dumbledore," Snape said, earning a miffed sniff for his interruption. He attention turned to Draco and the bored boy straightened, a nervous twitch shifting his pointy nose. "I trust, Draco, that you'll forgo relaying this little outing to your father?"
"Lucius is out of country for the week, Severus," Mrs. Malfoy told him with an errant flip of her hand. "He's been so terribly busy at the Ministry, you know."
"Indeed." Snape kept his eyes on Draco and Malfoy finally nodded, throat bobbing as he swallowed. Satisfied, Snape turned to address Harriet and Elara. "Say your farewells. We're departing."
"You won't stay for a quick bite, Severus?"
"No. I've potions that need tending."
"You always were a spoilsport."
Harriet was glad to hop to her feet and abandon her overly salted food, though it did mean leaving Hermione behind and returning to Grimmauld Place with Snape. "I'll write when I can," Hermione promised as they embraced. "I don't know when exactly. Hopefully we can come back to Diagon Alley together for our school supplies before the summer ends."
Hugging her all the tighter, Harriet finally released and said goodbye to the Malfoys as well, scowling at Draco when his mother had her back turned.
"Prat," she mouthed.
"Ugly," he returned, and Harriet scowled all the more at his smug expression. He was an unbearable jerk and she hoped he didn't make the Quidditch team this term.
The Malfoys departed and Snape set off without a word, expecting Elara and Harriet to keep pace as he led them toward the nearest Apparition point. Harriet couldn't help but stare at the profile of the man's face, the hawkish nose and pale complexion, remembering how he'd appeared just a few nights ago in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place. Though it'd been dark in the dreary space, Harriet had spotted him right off when she came downstairs for a glass of water—but Snape didn't see her. No, he remained at the table with his head bowed over his arms, his hair a black, oily curtain hiding his face from view.
His hands had been shaking.
Thrown by the oddity of the situation, Harriet brewed him a cuppa and the Potions Master only moved when she'd shoved the mug into his grasp. He'd looked…tired, and in pain. Harriet couldn't fathom why, and nor could she understand why the sight had distressed her.
"Potter!" Harriet blinked and realized Snape had his hand extended for her arm, already holding Elara in the other. "Any day now, girl."
Shaking her head, she gave the wizard her wrist and Snape's fingers tightened over her sleeve. They disappeared in a resounding crack!
A/N: Dumbledore: [receives shopping bill] "I am never going to financially recover from this."
I was going to include a recap of what's happened, but honestly what bit of it I wrote sounded bloody atrocious and doesn't scrape the surface of all the small things that are snowballing into bigger issues later on. So here's the abbreviated version: Y1 - Harriet runs away from the Dursleys, meets Sirius Black's daughter, Snape made an Unbreakable Vow to Lily Potter, Hermione's a ward of the Malfoys, and a possessed Quirrell accidentally kills himself with Harriet's wand. Y2 - Harriet lives at Grimmauld, Basilisk loose in the school, finds it in Ravenclaw's Aerie instead of the Chamber, Luna possessed by Diadem!Voldemort, Elara kills snake and destroys Diadem with Fiendfyre. There we go.