cxiii. insidious little things
Somewhere on the fifth-floor corridor, while much of the rest of the student body tucked into their lunches and enjoyed their midday break from classes, Harriet Potter's head peeked from an oval mirror set high on the stone wall. She turned in place, squinting, and studied the ground, the wall, and then the corridor itself, blowing her hair from her eyes as she did so.
Mrs. Norris happened to be passing by—and when the old cat glanced up to see a head hanging from a mirror, two green eyes blinking at her, Mrs. Norris yowled. Harriet stuck out her tongue and the cat went sprinting in search of her master, which meant it was time for Harriet to scamper. She jerked back, the cold prickling over the crown of her head and against her cheeks until she appeared once more in the seventh-floor reading room.
"That one leads to the fifth floor," she said to Hermione and Elara as she hopped off the mantel. The smell of old soot tickled her nose, the rug underfoot dusty and frayed "Could be a bit dangerous to go through, though, since it's out in the open and high on the wall. I think I scared Mrs. Norris half to death."
Elara snorted and took another bite of the sandwich she'd stolen from the Great Hall, flicking specks of dirt from her thigh. "At least we know where Filch is now."
"How does he understand what that daft cat is saying? D'you think he can speak feline?"
"Don't be silly, Harriet."
"I don't think it's silly. I mean, I can talk to snakes, after all."
She dropped onto the ratty couch next to Hermione and dragged the sheet of parchment she'd been using closer, beginning a loose sketch of the seventh floor. Hermione watched her do so for another minute before speaking up.
"It seems a waste to put all this on paper. It could be ruined so easily."
"It's a map, though, Hermione. Isn't this how you're supposed to make maps?" Harriet studied the ornate hearth flanked in badgers and drew the shape of it in minuscule, biting her lip as she concentrated on holding the quill steady. "I guess I could use an Impervius Charm, but then I couldn't add anything more to it."
"Even an Impervius Charm would only protect it from liquid—not from fire, or tearing, or crumpling." Hermione crossed her legs, the lifted foot bobbing as she thought. "We're magical for goodness' sake. There has to be a better way."
"Well, I left my stone and chisel in the dorm, so unless you've got a better idea, I'm going to keep using the quill." Harriet finished a notation and sighed, eying the mess of convoluted directions and half-filled in sections. In theory, finding the Moon Mirrors sounded like a thrilling afternoon adventure, but it consisted mostly of them blundering through rooms that hadn't been touched in a few centuries, getting chased by pixies and Elara's persistent dusty allergy. "It feels impossible to actually map all these bloody things. A third of the mirrors don't exist half of the time—look, like this one. The reading room disappears on Tuesdays!"
"That was probably by design," Elara remarked after finishing her food, wiping her hands clean. "I doubt anyone other than Rowena Ravenclaw herself was aware of all the Moon Mirrors and their positions."
"What about Slytherin?"
"Maybe, but doubtful. He may have assisted in creating them, but I would assume he didn't help place them all."
"True." Harriet folded her splotched map after drying the ink, then had a sudden thought. It was likely only the Founder could locate every Moon Mirror—but Harriet knew exactly where to find Rowena Ravenclaw to ask. "Huh."
I'd have to go back to the Aerie, though, she reminded herself with a grimace, choosing not to say anything. Merlin, I don't want to do that. The portrait might not be there, either. It could have been toasted along with the Basilisk.
They gathered their school things and the rubbish left over from lunch and departed, dragging wary feet down the long path to Defense Against the Dark Arts. They passed the Headmaster and Filch on the fifth floor, the latter gesturing wildly about with a yowling Mrs. Norris tucked under his arm. Professor Dumbledore gave the three Slytherin witches a knowing smile as they hurried by.
"We could probably look for more Moon Mirrors after dinner," Harriet mentioned as they walked. "We have plenty of time before Astronomy, after all."
"Can't," Elara replied.
"What, why?" Elara muttered something unintelligible and Harriet raised a curious brow. "What d'you say?"
"I have choir practice," Elara repeated, louder, and from the way her eyes shifted about, Harriet knew she wasn't entirely comfortable admitting as much. "McGonagall signed me up for it."
Hermione brightened at the mention of something extracurricular that didn't involve charting broom cupboards for three hours. "Oh, that should be fun, shouldn't it? I didn't know you could sing!"
Elara went decidedly pink in the face and scowled. Harriet coughed.
"I've signed up for the debate club," Hermione rushed on with a tentative smile. "I would have done it last year, but what with things being as they were….Anyway, it'll be good for both of us to have a hobby outside of schoolwork!"
Harriet barely suppressed a snort as she didn't really consider "debate club" too far from the realm of schoolwork, but she kept her comments to herself. She wouldn't judge her friend on what she found enjoyable. "Say, isn't that the club with all the Ravenclaws in it?"
"Yes—I mean, I'm not sure. It probably has a good few—." Hermione cleared her throat. "Why do you ask?"
Smirking, Harriet said, "No reason, really. I was just wondering if Mr. Boot would be joining you—ow."
Hermione whacked her arm.
They rejoined their class in the first-floor corridor outside the Defense room, finding spots against the wall while they waited for their inimitable professor. Nearby, Longbottom stood with Seamus and Weasley, the Gryffindor trio looking put out and sullen. Neville didn't have his shirt tucked in and Ron had foregone his tie, a trend Harriet noted was popular with the older boys—well, popular until Professor McGonagall came around docking points for disheveled uniforms or too much makeup.
"I was hoping he'd get the sack," Ron said under his breath, having enough sense to check the corridor before speaking. Merlin only knew where Professor Slytherin might suddenly appear. "It was almost nice having that Lockhart bloke substitute last term. The daft tit didn't have a clue what he was talking about, but at least we weren't afraid of getting hexed."
"Dad says Slytherin's got the Board in his pocket, basically." Longbottom ruffled his own hair, exhaling. "I don't understand it much, but he told me it's more complicated than it seems."
"Bloody Basilisk could have at least done us a favor and eaten him before it croaked."
Next to Harriet, Hermione stiffened and grit her teeth. She turned as if to give Weasley a piece of her mind, but the door chose that moment to sail open and crash against the wall, so she snapped her jaws shut and followed the rest of their peers into the cold room.
Harriet hadn't missed Professor Slytherin in the slightest over the holidays. Seeing him again—appearing like a summoned demon in the thicker shadows bleeding between the lit torches—sparked anxiety in her veins and it prickled along her arms. The uncanny resemblance to Tom Riddle stirred those haunting memories of the Aerie as the Diadem's specter looked down upon her with mad red eyes and screamed his rage at her.
"Welcome to your third year of Defense Against the Dark Arts under my instruction," Slytherin said as he approached his lectern, his movements calm, almost apathetic. Gone was the frantic, hate-filled ire of the previous year; the elimination of the Basilisk and the person framing their professor had returned Slytherin to usual calculating self. Harriet almost preferred the angry version. At least then he would only set them to reading and ignore their presence until the bell rang. "Quite the achievement. Despite the…interruption incurred in your previous year of study, I have sufficiently taught you basic shielding and offensive spells. You have all matriculated…to the minimum standard."
People twitched under Slytherin's judgmental gaze but the class remained otherwise silent.
"For your third year, your studies will progress from practical spell knowledge to theory and its possible application. In particular, we will be concentrating on learning and recognizing various Dark creatures." He smiled and Harriet shivered, because a smile like that couldn't mean anything good for the rest of them. "Today's lesson will introduce you to a rather banal and common monster called a boggart."
A small snap! came from somewhere on Harriet's right, and she turned to see Elara had broken her quill in half.
Professor Slytherin didn't notice or, more likely, didn't care; he waved his hand toward a large trunk hidden behind his desk and it rose up over the barrier, drifted through the air, and landed with a bang in front of the class. Everyone stared at it—and when the trunk jumped, Lavender Brown shrieked.
"Now, now, where's that Gryffindor courage?" Professor Slytherin soothed as he swanned over to the trunk and placed a placating hand on it. "There's nothing to fear—so long as you have no fear, of course." He laughed—the sound higher and colder than his usual voice, a keening, unhinged sound Harriet despised.
"Can anyone tell me what a boggart is? Yes, Mr. Malfoy?"
"It's an apparition that takes on your worst fear."
"Close, but not quite. It is not an apparition; it is, by common terms, a parasite." Professor Slytherin flicked his fingers and stepped back from the trunk, receding once more into the shadows. "Boggarts infest magical homes and gain their sustenance through the emotional energy of fear. To harvest this emotion, the amorphous being takes the form of the greatest fear of the nearest witch or wizard."
He suddenly waved his hand and the trunk's lid opened, the belts securing it closed flapping like broken bird wings. Vapor rose from the trunk's insides, coiling in upon itself until it congealed like lumpy toothpaste, twisting and expanding, the class taking in a collective gasp and leaning back in their chairs as the moving shape landed before Parvati—.
The Gryffindor let out a shriek as the form solidified into a twitching, lopsided mummy. Bedraggled bandages covered its withered form and black blood oozed from the crevices where the bandages didn't reach. The mummy bellowed, groaning like wind through dry reeds, its joints creaking and snapping as it reached for Parvati—.
Slytherin gave his wand an indolent twirl. "Riddikulus!"
The mummy disintegrated back into a whorl of smoke. The Professor dispersed it the trunk before it could take another shape, and once the lid shut, silence held the room like a stiff, painful spell. Overcoming her shock, Parvati started to sob. Lavender put an arm around her shoulders to comfort her and the witch only cried harder, the trunk jostling itself not two yards away.
"Five points from Gryffindor. Come now, Miss Patil. I do hope you paid close attention to the lesson, lest you wish to fail the test."
Truth be told, if Harriet hadn't heard Snape dispatch a boggart over the summer at Grimmauld, she wouldn't have the slightest idea of what occurred. The bottom of her hands felt tacky with sweat and her heart had fallen somewhere down by her feet. The mummy had looked so—real. Had it been real?
"Professor Slytherin," Lavender said in a strained voice, holding onto her friend. Parvati's shoulders heaved up and down. "I think Parvati might need a Calming Draught."
The professor sighed as if terribly put upon. "Yes, yes. See her off to Pomfrey if you must, Miss Brown. That'll be a fail for both of you for the day."
Lavender helped Parvati to her feet, who needed no more prompting to bolt down the middle aisle stretching between the Gryffindors and Slytherins, forgetting her things behind her. Her crying continued into the corridor where it echoed back to them from a fading distance. Slytherin's lip curled as the girls disappeared, and another flick of his wand slammed the door in their wake.
"Longbottom. You're first, then. Approach and perform the spell."
Neville grimaced, but—to his credit—he got up without comment and came to the front of the room. He didn't blink when Professor Slytherin stared him down, nor did he flinch when the trunk crashed open again. Harriet gripped the edge of her desk as the boggart writhed, transforming into a wild-haired woman in black robes, her face twisted as if caught in the middle of a malicious laugh. Neville didn't let the boggart gather itself. Instead, he shouted, "Riddikulus!" as soon as he could and turned the boggart into a scarecrow that swayed and toppled over.
A new, cutting smile appeared on the professor's face, his head tilted so only the barest glimpse of torchlight could gleam in his terrifying eyes. "Very well. A passable demonstration, Longbottom. As you can see, laughter is the weapon of choice against a boggart. It's a simple-minded creature. Fixing a humorous image within your mind and using the incantation will force it to assume a less frightening visage, and will—in essence—starve the parasite to death. The rest of you should have no difficulty with this exercise. Next, Mr. Weasley."
Several students followed Longbottom. If they ignored Slytherin's snide comments and concentrated, most were successful to varying degrees, the boggart flopping from shape to shape as students obeyed their professor's command and stumbled up from their desks, though no one actually laughed, no matter how funny looking the creature became. If the boggart turned toward Slytherin, he struck it with a silent variant of the Knockback Jinx and forced it closer to the class once more.
Harriet didn't know what the wizard meant by humorous image, and she wasn't sure what her boggart would become. Sitting in her chair, listening to others worry and shout and cry over the cracking sound of the boggart's shifts, Harriet tried to think of what could possibly be her worst fear and couldn't decide.
Most everything scared her, honestly. Harriet wasn't very courageous—just stubborn, stubborn enough to persevere despite her doubts, racing pulse, or clammy hands. What would the boggart become? A Basilisk, perhaps? Or—the Dark Lord? Tom Riddle? What would happen if Riddle showed up in the middle of the classroom with Slytherin to bear witness?
Merlin help me if it does, Harriet griped, chewing on her lip. What was a 'humorous image'? Riddle with clown makeup? A Basilisk sock-puppet? Turn Quirrell into a two-headed penny?
"Miss Black," the professor called.
Next to Harriet, Elara didn't move.
"Your turn, Black."
"No thank you, Professor."
Heads turned in the resulting hush. Fay Dunbar gasped.
Blinking, Slytherin's expression shifted from one of perverse delight to distaste, and he flung the boggart back into the trunk as he strolled out from behind the lectern and crossed the aisle. Harriet swallowed past the lump forming in her throat, Slytherin coming to stand before Elara's desk and, by extension, near Harriet's own. He braced his pale, skinny fingers on its edge and lowered his face nearer Elara's. She shrunk farther into her seat.
"You will either do as you're told," he said, voice quiet and deriding. "Or you will receive a failing mark for the day."
"Yes, Professor." Elara crossed her arms and yet still didn't move. Harriet almost kicked her for bringing his scrutiny onto herself—but doing so at the moment would be unwise. Slytherin's lip pulled back to bear his sharp white teeth.
"Detention, Black. Tomorrow afternoon."
"Of course, Professor."
He straightened and, as if sensing her attention, jerked his head toward Harriet. "You," he snapped. "You're next, Miss Potter. Approach the trunk."
Nodding, Harriet stood, expending the effort to put as much space as possible between herself and Slytherin, and hurried forward. She could feel all eyes upon her as she faced the front of the classroom, her fingers clumsy and cold as she tugged her wand from its brace and held it in her fist.
What would it become? Quirrell? A Basilisk? Riddle? A Dementor—?
Bang! The trunk lurched and skittered several inches on the stone floor. Without warning, Slytherin again cast a spell and the lid opened, allowing the boggart to come spilling out like bubbling tar. Harriet sucked in a deep breath, preparing herself—.
The boggart stiffened and expanded, becoming larger than anything it had so far. It grew large enough to almost blot out the torchlight and Finnigan, in the second row, swore aloud and almost fell out of his chair. The boggart grew—until it stopped. Confused, Harriet took a step back as her classmates exchanged puzzled murmurs.
After all, how odd was it that Harriet Potter feared a boot cupboard?
The little door came open and the innocuous brass chain rattled against the painted panel. The hinges complained, a noise so ingrained in Harriet's memory, she jumped as if jolting awake from terrible dreams, ducking to avoid the stair riser. A black haze of tiny spiders spewed from the inside and the class shrieked, Ron Weasley screaming louder than anyone—and yet all Harriet could do was stare at the unrelieved darkness bared within.
"You don't have the right to anything, you ungrateful freak!"
Her mouth was dry, dry as a bone.
"See if we let you out before Christmas!"
Harriet didn't understand. She hadn't expected this, not in the slightest. Why the cupboard? Why the cupboard?
"You don't talk to me like that!"
The voices were only in her head. They weren't here. She wasn't afraid of—.
"There is no such thing as magic."
The darkness seemed to swell and creep closer and closer.
"There's no such thing—."
She wasn't afraid of—!
"—As magic."
"Potter!"
Stumbling, Harriet turned to her professor, who once more had his wand trained on the immobile boggart-cupboard. She gawked at him, breathing hard, and Slytherin rolled his eyes as he again defeated the boggart and dismissed the ugly, creeping mist into the trunk. The torches flickered in their brackets. "What a dismal showing. Return to your seat, Potter."
Harriet did so. She dropped into the chair behind her desk, her wand still in hand, and didn't hear the giggling or whispered speculation over the roaring in her ears. She didn't feel Hermione's hand on her arm or see Elara glowering at their instructor. Harriet just stared at the empty blackboard and tried to remember how to breathe.
What in the hell had that been?
A/N:
Harriet: "Professor Slytherin looks like he's in a good mood."
Slytherin: "Good morning, children! It's trauma time, my favorite time!"
Harriet: "Why do I go to this school."