cxciii. the animal within
The odd confrontation with Mad-Eye Moody overshadowed Harriet's late-night conversation with Cedric Diggory until the next afternoon, when she happened to glance at the Hufflepuff table for the first time that day. Squabs and Hinde had their heads turned, watching, their expressions hateful.
"Harriet," Hermione asked, frowning. "Why are those Hufflepuffs staring at you like that?"
"I dunno." She hurried onward without a look behind her. Hermione followed.
"Did you say something to them?" She marched forward to match Harriet's stride. "You didn't hex anybody, did you? After what happened with McLaggen, McGonagall said she'd suspend you for a week if you put one toe out of line—."
"I didn't do anything, Hermione. Blimey," Harriet grumped. "And besides, McGonagall can't suspend me. She was brassed off and talking nonsense; the form requires a signed acknowledgment from a student's guardian, so you know the second word got out about me being suspended, someone would go looking for that form."
Hermione had that vaguely dazed look she got whenever Harriet managed to surprise her. Harriet just gave her head a fond shake, and they continued on to the library.
"But—why the staring, then?"
"I don't know, really. Probably because I spoke to Diggory last night. They don't want their golden Hufflepuff mixing with a nefarious Slytherin, do they?"
Hermione made a noise halfway between disgust and disbelief, though whether that sound was meant for Harriet or Squabs remained a mystery. They came into the library proper, and Terry Boot stood waiting, brightening as he spotted Hermione, who forgot all mention of any Hufflepuffs and blushed scarlet.
Harriet refrained from making faces when Boot and Hermione hugged and Terry kissed Hermione's cheek.
She left the starry-eyed pair in favor of a group of third years, including Ginny, Luna, and Galen Lament, a slightly pudgy and morose Slytherin who had a touch of Banshee blood somewhere in his family line. Harriet didn't know when he'd started hanging around Ginny and Luna, but it was better than him following the other third years in his dorm, Volatile Vandran and Reinhold Burke. A pair of tossers, those two.
"All right, you lot?" she asked, settling at their table.
"Hey, Harriet—could you help us with this bit on Matagots?" Ginny asked, gesturing at the textbook in front of her. "We're supposed to do twelve inches on the anatomy compared to common cats, but if we ask Slytherin, he'll probably make us visit the pair he keeps for demonstration."
The trio shivered, and Harriet sympathized. She hadn't much liked Slytherin's Matagots either, and Fay Dunbar still had scars from their lesson.
She assisted the third years, though her presence at the table seemed to ring a bell for other, younger students to come rushing over, desperate for a bit of help to finish off their weekend assignments. Harriet didn't mind helping, especially since the information was old for her and didn't require much thought. She could let her mind go where it willed.
"Are you really trying to become Professor Slytherin's apprentice?" Gabriel Flourish asked as she gave his write-up for Transfiguration a glance over. Harriet paused to look at him.
"Yeah? I guess so."
"But why? Don't you—?" He stopped and lowered his voice. "Don't you find him scary?"
"Of course I do. It's—." Harriet hesitated, knowing she couldn't tell him the truth, and the lie pricked against her very bones. Gabriel watched her as she swallowed and grimaced. "It's just a really good opportunity."
He was confused; Harriet could see it in the tightness around his blue eyes, which looked incongruent on his young face. "You shouldn't."
"What? Why?"
"I…I heard Accipto Lestrange talking to Cassius Warrington in the loo. He said he's going to be Slytherin's apprentice—that he'll make sure of it."
"Is that so?" Harriet replied, voice flat. That wasn't something she'd stopped to consider. "Is that what he's been saying?"
"That's only what I heard."
She couldn't claim to know Accipto Lestrange well. He and Harriet belonged to two separate, unvoiced groups in Slytherin and didn't interact. He and his main cohort—Warrington, Dread, and Vuharith—were vocal in their admiration of the Dark Arts and smuggled the books into the school. They indulged on illegal potions—frightening, mind-altering concoctions Snape would probably kill them for if he knew they had them, and hid in the oldest derelict classrooms in the castle's depths. Rumor had it that Lestrange had cursed a younger Gryffindor mute in his second year, but Harriet didn't believe that. He hadn't been expelled, after all.
What his behavior amounted to was their social circles never eclipsing aside from Lestrange's occasional snide commentary about Hermione's heritage and Harriet telling him to sod off. Elara ignored their relation, never wanting to acknowledge someone who openly thought Muggleborns should be culled as someone on her family tree.
Harriet's eyes flicked back to Gabriel, and a sudden, unexpected fear crawled into her chest, a feeling like numb prickles going through her skin. "You should stay away from Lestrange," she told him, voice low. "You and your friends. Don't be eavesdropping on him, especially not somewhere where he could catch you out—like a loo."
Gabriel flushed. "I'm not afraid of him," he asserted. "We can take care of ourselves, you know."
Harriet gave him a light flick in the middle of his forehead.
"Ow!"
"I never said you couldn't. You and Walt need to keep your noses out of things, yeah? Concentrate on your schoolwork and leave Lestrange to be a git on his own."
"All right…."
Their conversation ended there. Eventually, Harriet extracted herself from the table and said goodbye to Luna and Ginny, going to find her friends in their favored corner of the library. Hermione and Terry made for a predictable picture, their chairs scooted together, reading from the same textbook. Elara sat at the other end of the table in the best seat by the window, though little light and warmth came through it. Elara glanced up from a dreary-looking tome when Harriet approached and dropped her feet from the extra chair, nudging it out.
"Thanks," Harriet said as she slumped into the seat, sighing. Her shoulders ached with nervous tension, her mind churning. "Gabriel Flourish is going to give me a bloody heart attack."
"The second year? Why?"
"He eavesdropped on Lestrange and seemed to think that was a perfectly good idea."
Elara's shoulders stiffened much as Harriet's had. Flourish was a half-blood, not a Muggleborn, but to bigots like Lestrange, a half-blood was just as bad and just as worthy of his contempt. Given a chance, what would he and his sneering counterpoint Warrington do to a little half-blood boy caught alone in a secluded place? Harriet didn't want to know.
"Did you disabuse him of that notion?"
"I told him he and Murton need to keep their noses to themselves." Harriet snorted. "It makes me worry, though. Them seeing me—all of us—playing into Slytherin's games. Can't go about saying why we really entered his stupid competition, can we? So, they're going to assume we condone what he does, that we want to…participate." Harriet searched Elara's face. "And if I actually manage to become his apprentice…."
"You tell them the truth, as far as you're able," Elara said to her, gently closing her book upon her thumb to hold her place. "That regardless of your opinion about the wizard, being taken on as an apprentice at fourteen by one of the few Defense Masters in Europe is too much of an opportunity to pass up."
"Is it really, though?"
"It's definitely why Hawkworth applied despite already seeking an internship at the Ministry." She glanced about what bit of the library was visible to them. "And rumor tells that Craft's father is a Gean-Cánach, which means Craft is quite literally allergic to Dark magic. Pucey certainly seemed uncertain during the first trial, and Nott—." She tapped her forefinger against her chin in thought. "Nott wants out of his house, if I had to guess, and his father is loyal to Slytherin."
"Huh," Harriet muttered, considering. She thought about what she'd seen that night outside the forest again and realized much of what Elara said lined up with her own suspicions. Oh, there'd been many eager participants present, but some besides Harriet, Elara, and Hermione hadn't appeared quite so keen.
"Hawkworth and Craft won't make it past the next trial."
"How do you reckon that?"
"Because Slytherin doesn't want them to." Elara shrugged. "Craft is useless to him in the long run, and Hawkworth is too questioning because he has options outside of Slytherin's control."
"What about us?"
Elara shrugged again, an elegant lift of one shoulder, her gaze distant. "He doesn't care either way about Hermione or me, and I don't expect we'll make it much farther. Neither of us has any true talent in defense, but if it's possible for us to better your chances by hindering someone else, we will."
Harriet blinked, and Elara smirked at her.
"That's cheating."
"And getting lessons from Dumbledore isn't?"
"I never said it wasn't."
Elara shook her head and resumed her reading while Harriet slouched in her chair, elbows propped on the rests. She considered leaning back and grabbing a quick nap before Pince came around and ousted her, but Harriet's head felt heavy with worries over Slytherin and his looming trial. She wondered if the Tri-Wizard Champions felt something similar.
Speaking of the Champions, the tell-tale thump and giggle of witches moving through the library had Harriet opening her eyes, but not in time to duck beneath the table. Viktor Krum had already spotted her.
"Fuck…"
Harriet smiled as best she could as he approached, though not without an uncomfortable twisting sensation in her middle. Viktor bore the unmistakable signs of having been outside on his person, the shoulders of his red cloak darkened with rainwater.
"Harriet," he said, ignoring his fans huddled conspicuously at the end of the row. He also ignored the unwavering weight of Elara and Hermione's stares.
"'Lo," she replied, swallowing. "Need help with revisions?"
He made a noise, air through his nose, a kind of frustrated, genteel huff some of the older Slytherins did instead of back-chatting. He looked annoyed, both with Harriet and the tittering coming from girls following him. "I vas hoping to talk vith you."
"I'm, err, busy studying right now. Could we have a chat later?"
For several seconds, Viktor said nothing. Then, he exhaled and reached into the inner pocket of his cloak, extracting a letter. "For you."
He extended it, and when Harriet reached out to accept, he brought his other hand around to cup hers between his two, the letter against her palm. He didn't release her immediately, only loosening his hold when Harriet pulled back. "I hope ve vill speak soon."
Harriet smiled and hoped it looked sincere, though she couldn't be fussed if it didn't. Already she could see the poisonous glances of Krum's inadvertent entourage—their hatred almost tangible in how thick it tainted the air. They were the reason Harriet had no intention of reading Viktor's letter, why she didn't want to talk to him. She was only human; she didn't want more Bubotuber Pus in the post, didn't want to shoulder more vitriol from her peers, didn't want more gossip or nasty rumors swirling about for a relationship she didn't understand. Harriet didn't even know if she liked Viktor.
No one said anything as the Bulgarian left, nor did they comment when Harriet shoved the letter out of sight without a thought for its contents. She ignored the girls who lingered behind to make nasty comments just out of earshot and slumped further into her chair.
Beneath the table's edge, Elara moved her hand to grasp Harriet's arm and give it a simple squeeze.
"Bugger them," she whispered to no one in particular. Thunder rolled outside, resounding against the mountains, muffled by the forest—and then, distantly, a flash of lightning touched the window.
Harriet didn't notice at first, used to the changing weather surrounding the castle. Then, Elara's hand on her tightened, and Harriet tipped her head to see her friend, silently asking what the issue was.
"It's storming," Elara commented, her gaze faceted on the window at her side. The lightning flashed again and glared against Elara's stark profile, gleaming in her colorless eyes.
"It does that often enough if you haven't noticed."
"Hilarious, I assure you." Her gaze cut toward Harriet, unamused. "Think, brat. It thunders enough, true, but lightning is rarer."
"Light—?" Harriet caught on to Elara's subtle hinting, her eyes widening. "Oh! A lightning storm!"
"The first one of the season."
The final stage had finally arrived, and Harriet had almost missed it in her maundering. The Animagus potion! Finally, it's ready!
Harriet was out of her chair in an instant, everything else forgotten in favor of rushing to the dorm. "Hermione!" she said. "Hermione, stop flirting and let's go!"
"It's a library; we're studying!" Hermione retorted, face aflame, though Terry smiled, dead pleased with himself. "Where are you off to in such a hurry?"
"My potion is ready!"
"Potion? What potion?"
"The potion!"
"The—?" Hermione suddenly gasped, then made a grab for her things, hastily shoving them into her satchel. "Sorry, Terry, we have to go!"
Terry watched their scrambling with a bemused light in his eyes. "You three are weird," he said with definite fondness.
They didn't run to the dormitories—that would have drawn far too much attention despite it being a weekday, but they did walk quickly, dodging out of sight when a group of older Slytherins passed by. The sixth year prefect, Pendarves, was a good sort but brooked absolutely no mischief, and the trio were definitely up to mischief that afternoon.
The common room remained mostly empty aside from Melvan Knight and his girlfriend Caia Verpia hanging over each other by the main hearth, much too preoccupied in themselves to notice three fourth years slip by into the girls' corridor. The sounds of weather were muted underground, but the crash of rain on the lake reverberated over their heads and shimmered in the submerged windows.
"Where are you thinking of drinking it?" Hermione asked as they entered their room, and Harriet knelt by the side of her bed. Rather than putting the potion in her trunk, she'd hidden it in Livi's nest, a bit leery of someone coming across it if they managed to force their way into her luggage. She lifted the bed skirt and stuck her head under, Livi's blue eyes staring at her.
"Misstresss."
"Where's my box?" she asked, reaching out to pet his snout, Livi's tongue flicking.
The Horned Serpent nosed about his blankets and torn pillows until the small black Stabilizing Box was visible. "I watched your tressssure."
"Thanks, Livi."
Picking it up, she brushed a bit of fluff from the surface and settled on the bed proper, joined by Hermione and Elara. The former jerked the hangings closed while the latter carefully picked up the Mandrake potion, studying it.
"It should be fine to drink here, yeah?" Harriet asked, eager, and Elara nodded after a moment of consideration.
"It should. But, you must promise you won't be upset if you don't—." Here she hesitated as if grasping for the right word. "If you don't feel anything."
"What do you mean?"
"I can't describe it. You have to experience it for yourself."
With that cryptic remark, Harriet was left to use her wand, pointing it at her own chest as she incanted "Amato Animo Animato Animagus," for the final time and opened the potion. It uncorked with an audible pop!, all three witches holding their breath as Harriet placed the rim against her mouth and drank it down.
"Ugh," she murmured, dropping the empty bottle on her nightstand. "Tastes like fermented rubbish."
Elara nodded. "Mine did as well."
"Ugh!" Harriet crossed her legs and settled in the bed's middle, joined by her friends, the space cramped with three witches hidden between the hangings.
"Close your eyes."
Harriet did so, taking a deep breath.
"Let your mind wander. Seek out the magic in yourself, pull it over your head, your body."
"Sounds funny."
"Shh."
Inhaling, Harriet let the room's smell seep into her lungs—damp condensation from the lake, Pansy's perfume, cat from Millicent and Hermione's familiars. The tinge of ink and parchment clung to their clothes from the library, and her sheets had a light musk from the natural detergent the house-elves preferred.
Her fingers laced together, her thumb rubbing against her index finger at a slow, repetitive pace. She felt a bit odd knowing Hermione and Elara were essentially watching her meditate, and she sought something within herself that was different than it'd been before.
Well, she thought. I'm a tad peckish. And that potion's taste is still in my mouth. Merlin, that's nasty.
As the minutes passed without change, Harriet wondered if all her time and effort in trying to become an Animagus would amount to nothing, if she'd be one of those witches who just didn't have the magic in herself. She didn't think Elara would be disappointed—not in her, at any rate—but what about Sirius? He went on at length about how fun and clever her dad used to be, how he'd been an Animagus just like Sirius, and Harriet couldn't help the lingering doubt that her godfather might find her…lesser if she failed. That it was somehow her fault.
Wait—.
Somewhere below the doubt and the slow morass of her idle thoughts, something else lurked. Harriet sought it out, looking at it as if from the corner of her eye—and she understood why Elara couldn't quite bring herself to describe the sensation. It slid against her awareness like gossamer, cold as silk and yet sharp, stinging. It had all the substance of tissue paper, tender as new skin threatening to tear. It pooled around her body like an open robe, and slowly—so slowly—Harriet imagined herself pulling it upward.
The magic slunk higher, over her arms, across her back, jarring a shiver from her bones. It crept toward her shoulders inch by painstaking inch, leaving prickles in its wake, conforming to her shape, pressing in, until Harriet could feel it rise around her neck—.
Somewhere from deeper than where the magic resided, deeper than anything Harriet understood, a darkness stirred, whispering. "Harrrrriet," it said. "Harrrrriet."
She startled.
The magic tore between her insubstantial fingers, tattered, and disintegrated against her body. Energy popped, sparked. It twisted as it went—and Harriet screamed, screamed as bones snapped and flesh tore, trembling hands catching her by the shoulders before she could pitch herself from the bed. A wail lodged itself in her throat.
The voices of her friends came as if from a great ways off. Lights blurred, the torches flickering, dying.
"Elara—!"
"No, not here—!"
"—we need to—!"
"—help me move—!"
"Madam Pomfrey—!"
Whatever happened after that, Harriet didn't know. The pain swelled, consuming, and she shut her eyes against it for a final time.
A/N:
Viktor: "We need to talk."
Harriet, stuffing breadsticks into her bag: "I gotta go, something came up."
Viktor: "….This is a library, where did you get breadsticks?"