ccxi. the circle of magical mastery and manifestation
Harriet stared at her kidney pie and thought she might vomit.
"Well, you need to eat something," Hermione sighed, reaching for the platter of Yorkshire puddings. Elara poured more pumpkin juice into her glass. "Here, have a bit of this with some gravy…."
Harriet didn't want to have a bit of this or a bit of that; she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. Maybe she could live with the mole people. Might make for a nice holiday.
"If your meeting's before supper, you're most likely going to miss the meal. Try eating something," Hermione said with an insistent frown. "Or have a spot of tea. Maybe it'll soothe your stomach."
"My stomach's fine, Hermione. It's just trying to escape at the moment," Harriet groaned. Her knuckles were white around her fork, and she prodded the tines along the plate's rim. With Slytherin's final trial behind her, she thought her appetite would return with a vengeance—but now her nerves were worse than ever, and Harriet gave serious thought to hiding in the hospital wing to avoid her first meeting with the professor.
"Hey, Potter," Bole called down the table. Harriet could tell by his grin and the smothered laughter of his friends he was about to say something terrible. "Did ya learn anything new from your Daddy yet?"
Bole and the group of Quidditch players laughed. Harriet wondered if she could throw her Yorkshire pudding at his head and get sent to detention.
"Careful, Lucian," Craft said from his spot farther along the table, sipping his herbal tea. "She's already put poor Accipto in his place. You wouldn't prove much of a challenge."
Laughter turned to Bole's expense, and he flushed scarlet. Harriet was happy Lestrange hadn't been at meals today and had been dreading her next confrontation with him. The twat personified "sore loser."
Harriet turned her attention to the High Table. Professor Slytherin's chair remained empty, though Snape sat in his usual place, picking apart his dry toast. Harriet looked to the Headmaster, and he happened to catch her eye, giving her a reassuring smile. Harriet tried her best to return it, then focused on eating something.
When lunch ended, she stood with her friends and gathered her satchel. Harriet glanced around and saw heads turn away, gazes darting back down to plates or laps, though the whispering didn't change.
"Can she really talk to snakes? Like Professor Slytherin?"
"—do you think—?"
"Maybe she's not really a Potter—."
"You-Know-Who could too—."
Harriet chewed on her lower lip as she walked away, head bowed, pretending she didn't hear anything. Hermione and Elara caught up with her, exchanging worried glances over the top of her head before they all continued to class.
The hours ticked by, and Harriet's trepidation rose, her meager lunch turning in her stomach like rocks. "Try not to think of who you're apprenticing to quite so much," Hermione told her as their last class of the day drew to a close. "Think of it as being someone—else. Anyone else. It really is an amazing opportunity, and you'll do brilliantly!"
Harriet tried to keep her words in mind as she left Transfiguration and dragged her feet to the Defense corridor. Slytherin hadn't given her an exact time for their meeting beyond "before dinner," so she stalled for as long as possible, attempting to scrounge up some semblance of excitement. Not having a bloody clue what to expect, she just felt nervous.
He can't actually hurt me, Harriet told herself. It wouldn't be allowed. Right?
She nodded to herself as she eased open the classroom door. Slytherin wasn't inside, but the gentle rustle of displaced parchment came through from the office, as did the candlelight and smell of melting wax. Harriet climbed the steps up to the entrance and tapped on the open door. Slytherin lifted his gaze from his desk to peer at her, unblinking.
"I, er…didn't know when I was supposed to come? Sir?"
He continued to stare for another moment, then glanced toward the standing clock with its swinging pendulum. "Our appointment is not until six. Sit."
Appointment?
Harriet sat, though she wished he wouldn't talk to her in Parseltongue. She much preferred when it was something she shared with her snakes. The professor took another minute to finish whatever had his attention before consulting the clock again. He sniffed, then looked Harriet over from her head to her toes.
"Is that the best you can wear, Potter?" he asked in a tone not all that dissimilar to Malfoy's. "Did your parents not leave you money?"
Harriet's jaw ticked at the mention of her family, and she glanced down at herself. She thought she looked quite nice, especially considering the pains she endured to ensure her socks stayed clean, her skirt straight, and her shirt unwrinkled. In answer to Slytherin's snide question, she decided to lie and shrugged. "If they did, I don't have access to it. And I'm wearing the standard uniform, Professor. I'm not supposed to wear anything else on a school day."
Her answer did little to assuage the disgruntled look on Slytherin's face, though he didn't appear to care enough to say more. Instead, he finished reading the parchment before him, marked something, then rose. One raised hand summoned his cloak to him.
Cloak?
"Wh—where are you going, Professor?"
Slytherin paused to look at her. "We are going to Yewbarrow, Miss Potter."
"…Yewbarrow?"
He tugged the cloak to rest on his shoulders without pulling his arms through the sleeves, flattening the silk lapels. "Did you not look into apprenticing before? Did the Mudblood tell you nothing?"
Harriet's entire body stilled at his use of the slur, but she didn't allow herself to retort, not when he had an expectant smile tilting his mouth, waiting. She wanted to kick him between the legs and march out of the room, but she didn't—couldn't. Harriet kept her face empty and shook her head. "A bit."
"Hmm. Well, it'll be a learning experience. Follow."
Slytherin strode from his office with Harriet begrudgingly trailing at his heels. The castle was mostly empty and quiet, given everyone had skipped off to dinner, so they didn't encounter anyone on their way to the entrance hall. She would have given just about anything to be able to run to her friends at their House table and stay there, but Harriet didn't, sighing quietly as she followed her professor outside.
Slytherin didn't say anything as they walked, his robes and cloak rippling in the late afternoon breeze. He kept a quick pace, though only Harriet's footsteps crunched on the gravel path.
They reached the gates, and Slytherin retrieved his wand, slashing it through the air. The metal rattled, then clanged open, wrenched apart as if by massive hands. Trepidation rose again in Harriet's chest, and though she faltered a step, she didn't stop. She couldn't. Not now. There was no going back.
What could possibly be in bloody Yewbarrow? What IS Yewbarrow? she questioned as they strode past the school's boundaries, and the faintest whisper of magic licked against her skin. If Hermione had known anything about it, she would have told me.
"Your arm, Miss Potter."
Startled, Harriet jerked her attention from the open highlands to Professor Slytherin, finding he had his pale hand extended, waiting. She gulped and offered her wrist, which he took, pale fingers curling like twitching spider limbs until he had a firm grip.
She received no further warning before Slytherin yanked them into Apparition, twisting sharply on his heels. The pressure hit Harriet in the middle, her breath smothered on an ill-timed inhale—but, just as swiftly as it had begun, the sensation stopped. Harriet stumbled, and Slytherin released her arm.
She didn't have a single inkling as to where they'd landed. "Wh—where are we, sir?" she dared ask as she took in their surroundings, fiddling with her sleeves. Harriet had expected "Yewbarrow" to be the name of a town, but instead of buildings or streets, they'd appeared on the edge of a rather ramshackle cliff, green, unforested mountains crawling skyward around them. There was one building higher up the hill, though Harriet could only see the roof's edge from where she stood.
"Keep up, Potter."
Slytherin had already started ascending the stone steps carved into the earth, and so Harriet rushed to keep up, squinting against the slanted, golden sunlight to get a better view of the building ahead.
Beige, almost coral-colored bricks built a rounded tower surrounded by less symmetrical additions, the roof Harriet had spotted below domed and comprised of gleaming glass. It had a grand air to it without being palatial—practical but beautiful, much like Hogwarts when compared to Beauxbatons. In Harriet's opinion, the style looked distinctly Roman, maybe built or designed initially during the occupation hundreds of years ago. It was much too bright and warm for a bloke like Slytherin to be marching toward.
The steps turned into a sharp incline, a flagstone path leading toward the arched entrance, another set of stairs eclipsing the doors. Harriet's curiosity got the better of her, and she paused to take in the sight. A large plaque was at the top of the open foyer's arch, bearing a bronze "C" surrounded by three "M"s like mountains.
Slytherin hissed at her, a wordless command to pick up her feet and hurry along.
They climbed the granite steps, footsteps echoing, reaching the entrance flanked by burnished, burning braziers. Harriet was so taken with the architecture she didn't notice Slytherin had come to a sudden halt, and she walked right into his back.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
At first, Harriet assumed Slytherin was talking to her, and then she spotted a pair of very dashing, cloudy blue robes.
"Oh, well," Professor Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles as he turned from the wall he'd been admiring. "It's quite an auspicious occasion, isn't it, Tom? It's been decades since Hogwarts had an apprentice in attendance. Forgive me for wanting to attend."
Slytherin looked like he wanted to spit. He glowered at Dumbledore, then blanked his seething expression, continuing inside. Harriet couldn't help but flash the older wizard a toothy grin.
"Hello, Headmaster."
"Good evening, Miss Potter. Are you ready for your ceremony?"
"I—yes?" Her confusion must have shown on her face because Professor Dumbledore chuckled. "Honestly, I haven't a clue."
He glanced at the back of Slytherin's head, then gestured Harriet to continue inside with him. "I'm sure Professor Slytherin has only forgotten to tell you we're at the Circle of Magical Mastery and Manifestation's citadel. The Circle is responsible for research conducted into Charms—which includes a dedicated branch for Defense."
They crossed through a short antechamber and entered the central tower directly, the towering walls lined with shelves and wooden mezzanines, more books than a thousand people could hope to read in a thousand years rising to the domed ceiling. Those loose volumes not yet re-shelved flew like flocks of birds, moving on their own, and a few doddering wizards rattled about with their carts, trying to wrangle the books into submission.
"The ceremony is your induction as a member of the Circle," Dumbledore patiently explained as they continued to walk after Professor Slytherin. He didn't stop for directions, apparently knowing just where to go. "An apprentice is a minor member, but the day may come when you decide to take on a more fundamental role and be responsible for creating your own research, or taking on an apprentice of your own."
The more the Headmaster spoke, the wider Harriet's eyes grew.
"Are you in the Circle, Professor?"
"Oh, no. I do have a chair at the Thorwich College of Transfiguration, but not here. Professor Flitwick is a notable, contributing member of the Circle, though his areas of mastery are Animation and Alteration rather than Defense."
Professor Slytherin clicked his tongue. "If you're done doddering, old man."
"I beg your pardon, Tom. I do so enjoy a chance to dodder, as you say."
They kept in silence for a minute, passing through a vaulted corridor, coming to a stop before a set of solid oak doors. Slytherin consulted the clock on the wall and popped a hand on his hip, tapping his foot.
"Err, can I ask what's gonna happen in this ceremony?" Harriet kept the question vague and hoped Professor Dumbledore would answer, but Slytherin spoke first.
"You'll be officially initiated by an unimaginative witch named Lelani Clocks, the C-triple-M's elected Head, and have our registration as master and apprentice recognized by Grandmaster Goldhorn." Slytherin kept his tone polite—or, well, what passed for polite with Slytherin—though Harriet thought he sounded especially cold. Dumbledore softly hummed an upbeat chorus from a popular Muggle song.
"Silas Goldhorn is the head of the C-triple-M's Defense branch," the Headmaster said for Harriet's benefit. "An impressive wizard, Master Goldhorn. He investigates incidents involving Dark creatures that the Ministry might find themselves ill-equipped to handle." His beard shifted as he smiled. "He pops by for tea when he finds the time in his busy schedule."
Slytherin glowered at the Headmaster before turning away. Harriet surmised this Goldhorn bloke must be friends with the Headmaster—which meant he probably didn't much care for Slytherin. Knowing she wasn't walking into a den of his sycophants eased her anxious nerves
The clock chimed six, and the closed door before them eased open.
A short, pudgy witch with glittering, gem-encrusted spectacles stuck out her head. "Master Slytherin and apparent apprentice?"
"Yes, yes," Slytherin said with a rather impatient sigh, brushing aside the door so he could stroll into the chamber beyond. "We do have an appointment, after all."
Taken aback by his abruptness, the witch let out a small huff and patted the pink ruffles at her throat. "Well!" she said before looking at Dumbledore and Harriet. "Headmaster! How nice to see you!"
"A pleasure as always, Mistress Antwork. I trust you and Jon are well?"
"Simply grand. He had a touch of the Flagrant Flu this summer, but nothing a trip to the apothecary couldn't settle. Who's this here?"
Dumbledore settled his hand on Harriet's shoulder. "This is Harriet Potter, Tom's apprentice."
"Oh, but you're such a young thing!" the witch gushed. "Still in your Hogwarts robes! You must be talented for a Master to take you on while you're a student."
Harriet blushed to her roots. "Well, I—er, that is to say—," she stuttered.
The witch and Dumbledore traded glances before she laughed. "Nervous too, I see. In you come, in you come. You'll have to wait on the bench by the entrance here, Headmaster. I hope you understand."
"Of course. I'm only here to witness a rather special occurrence in Hogwarts' history…."
The chamber inside the doors was not large or overly grand, though it possessed a solemn air, the rounded walls heavy with tapestries, a recessed pit containing an odd, oblong podium of sorts. A collection of plain wooden chairs resided on the raised stone dais beyond, and there sat a dark-skinned witch perusing parchments on a floating lectern and a snoring wizard so old, he made Dumbledore look spry.
"And here we have Master Poults—Elliot, for Merlin's sake, will you wake up?!"
Master Poults snorted and sat up, making a grab for his fez before it could hit the floor. "Justa' resting ma eyes, Alm."
Mistress Antwork huffed as she had at Slytherin and bustled on to introduce Harriet to the next witch. This woman wore a stern expression worthy of McGonagall as she lifted her head. She, too, wore spectacles, but hers came with several other lenses attached on slender brass arms, and when her focus shifted, new lenses clicked into place.
"This is Mistress Clocks, our Head here at the Circle of Magical Mastery and Manifestation."
"Apprentice Potter," Mistress Clocks acknowledged, her voice as dry as desert sand. She tapped the lectern's surface, and it floated aside. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance."
"Hullo, ma'am," Harriet replied, still flushed and more than a bit unsettled by the attention. She supposed it was better than being under Slytherin's judging gaze. "It's nice to meet you."
Mistress Clocks blinked, the motion slow and unbothered. "I knew your mother," she said without preamble. "She had just signed on to be my apprentice a few months before she died."
Harriet hadn't known that. She gaped at the witch, wordless, though Clocks didn't appear to expect her to say anything. Instead, the older witch turned her head to Mistress Antwork.
"Are we waiting on Silas, then?"
"Yes. He should be here in just a minute. I did send a reminder that we had a swearing-in today, but you know how he is."
"Indeed."
Slytherin cleared his throat. "I do hope Master Goldhorn isn't thinking of wasting my time," he said. He'd stepped into the pit and had his back leaning against that strange, heavy wood podium. Though perhaps a meter below them, his voice carried authority, and Harriet caught the chilling undercurrent of fear flickering among the Circle attendants. It came and went, too fast to linger, though it persisted like the buzz of an agitated fly in a jar.
Fortunately, nothing else could be said before the hearth on the far wall flickered green, and out stepped a new wizard who could only be Grandmaster Goldhorn.
He wasn't as old as Harriet had expected, though age could be tricky to predict among magical folk. She guessed him to be about sixty, his red hair thick with silver where the careless waves curled about his ears, though his scarred face was relatively unlined. He wore no robes, dressed almost like a Muggle in a canvas jacket and jeans, though he had his wand blatantly strapped to one thigh in a holster and a set of wicked daggers attached to the other. He had mud on his sturdy boots that fell off in clumps on the otherwise clean floor.
"Silas!" Dumbledore greeted from his place by the doors. "I see you're just coming in from the field. Good to see you well."
Rather than acknowledging anyone else in the room, Goldhorn knocked the rest of the mud from his footwear and went to Dumbledore, recognizing him with a friendly clap to the shoulder.
"Albus," he said, gruff, accent decidedly Irish. "Good tae see you."
They exchanged pleasantries, the rest of those in attendance looking on with baffled expressions. Harriet saw Dumbledore lean in and murmur something in an undertone. Goldhorn grunted.
Slytherin once more cleared his throat. "If we could get on with the proceedings, Grandmaster," he called, irritation prickling like bits of new frost in his tone. "That is, after all, why we're here. Dumbledore's presence is incidental."
Goldhorn turned from Dumbledore and looked down at Slytherin. Something unspoken passed between them, and though Harriet didn't know what it was, she knew it to be distinctly unfriendly. Goldhorn grimaced and made for the dais, heavy green eyes finding Harriet at last.
"You the apprentice, then?"
"Yes?" she answered, sounding uncertain, choked. She coughed and tried again. "Yes, that's me."
"Stand down there, then. On the other side from your Master."
The title sent chills along Harriet's spine, but she nonetheless took the steps down into the pit and came to stand on the opposing end of the podium from Slytherin. He watched her with his unsettling red eyes, a slight, knowing smirk on his lips.
"Shall we be gettin on with this?" Goldhorn said, voice loud enough to echo on the chamber's stone walls. "I've work tae be gettin back to."
"As professional as ever, Silas," Mistress Clocks quipped as she stood, straightening how her violet robes fell against her black dress. "Certainly. Let us commence."
She and Goldhorn joined Harriet and Slytherin in the pit, though they stood facing one another on either side of the podium's center. It looked very much like an odd dining table, should that table lack chairs and be chest-high and marred with ancient blotches of dark ink.
"We are here to witness the tentative admission of one Harriet Dorea Potter into the Circle of Magical Mastery and Manifestation, full admission pending her mastery qualification at a future date. Acting as initiator: Mistress Lelani Clocks. Recognizing intent: Grandmaster Goldhorn. Are there any objections?"
None came, the room quiet.
Mistress Clocks retrieved her wand—a short, pale bit of wood—with a fluid gesture. A wave of it conjured a long scroll that unfurled across the podium, one end in front of Harriet, the other in front of Slytherin. Flowing green ink began to swirl on the surface.
"Before you is a document vowing your intent on this day. Master Tom Slytherin vows to his intent of teaching Apprentice Harriet Potter to attain mastery in Charms with an emphasis in Defense. Apprentice Harriet Potter vows to her intent of qualifying for said mastery. Both parties will be bound for a period of no less than four years, unless intent is otherwise severed. Should qualification not be met in four years, the contract must be resworn."
Harriet had to stand on tip-toe to read the writing before her. Her side of the scroll was written in green, while the writing on Slytherin's was written in blue. He thought nothing of taking up the quill that had appeared and gracefully writing his signature at the line on the bottom. Harriet, on the other hand, rushed to read as much as she could, knowing Hermione would box her ears if she knew Harriet had signed something without scrutinizing it first. The emerald copperplate included a list defining what qualifying for a Defense mastery entailed, most of it centering around the completion of an original project that would, in some manner, expand and better the field of magical research and practice.
There were no secret clauses about obeying her Master, no bits about Slytherin at all, really. 'Apprentice resolves to submit one qualifying dissertation, monograph, spellscript, or achievement within the four year period to be assessed by the Grandmaster and the Circle of Magical Mastery and Manifestation's council. Qualification and recognition of mastery is pending council's approval of presented dissertation, monograph, spellscript, or achievement.'
Bloody hell, Harriet thought, reaching for her own quill. She felt queasy, but she scribbled her name at the bottom of the scroll.
Mistress Clocks watched her sign, then gestured Mistress Antwork forward. The other witch extended a bit of wax and a seal. Mistress Clocks used her wand to melt the former and drip it on the scroll's center.
"As initiator, I sanction Apprentice Potter's admission into the Circle of Magical Mastery and Manifestation." She pressed the seal into the wax, then peeled it back. It was too far for Harriet to see properly.
A second seal found its way into Grandmaster Goldhorn's large hand. Unlike Mistress Clocks, he hesitated, so much so the wax on the scroll had almost cooled before he set the seal in it. "As Grandmaster, I recognize the bond between Master and Apprentice formed this day." He pressed down, ratifying Harriet's fate—but not before the wizard's eyes flicked to Slytherin and narrowed. "Fecking travesty that it is."
Slytherin only smiled. The scroll snapped closed on its own, coming to a close in the podium's middle, binding itself with a simple black ribbon. "Sticks and stones, dear Silas," he crooned. "Be sure to give my love to your wife and children."
Goldhorn dropped the golden seal, and it hit the floor with all the weight of a death knell, the chime resounding in the silent chamber. Master Poults snored in his chair. "Scum of the earth," Goldhorn growled—and then he was gone, striding right back to the Floo he'd appeared from, disappearing in a whorl of green flame.
Mistress Clocks ignored the tension and picked up the scroll, settling it under her arm. "This will be filed in the archives," she said before turning to Harriet. She considered her for a moment, taking in her young face, the dark smudges beneath her green eyes, then nodded. "I wish you the best of luck, Apprentice Potter."
"Thank you, ma'am."
With that, Mistress Clocks took her leave, followed by her floating lectern and Mistress Antwork, who managed to wake Master Poults for a final time and escort him from the chamber. Harriet quickly climbed the steps from the pit, eager to return to Hogwarts. What would Hermione and Elara make of all this? Hermione would probably be excited, though Elara would be more reserved. She'd look at signing anything with Slytherin as a bloody nightmare waiting to happen.
"A moment, Miss Potter," Dumbledore said, and she paused, going when he gestured her closer. The Headmaster pointed to one of the many tapestries, and as Harriet shuffled up to it, she could see a line of new golden thread wriggling on the gray surface. She squinted and read, "Harriet Potter, 1995. M: T. Slytherin."
"A record of your admission," Dumbledore explained, beaming. Harriet glanced at the other names and saw they riddled all of the tapestries, this one being the newest, with Harriet's own name about two-thirds of the way toward the bottom. The thread looked so fresh, shining as if polished. Harriet couldn't identify the emotion swirling in her chest when she looked at it, but it wasn't difficult to return Professor Dumbledore's smile.
Slytherin stood to the side, observing them, eyes distant. Cold.
Dumbledore patted Harriet's shoulder. "Congratulations," he told her. "You've done Hogwarts very proud today. Very proud indeed."
xXx
The return trip to Hogwarts was made in silence, their path lit by the nascent twinkle of stars and the smoldering light of day lingering on the horizon. Harriet walked with Slytherin, though she maintained a careful distance between them, not trusting his pensive mood.
Most of the professors were waiting for them in the entrance hall, eager to extend their own congratulations. Flitwick was quite excited for Harriet, given her mastery was going to be in Charms, though in a different branch of the subject. Snape was notably absent, though no one aside from Harriet seemed to notice. The weight of their expectations impressed upon her how novel this situation was, how rare it was for a student to become an apprentice. After all, if in four years she really did manage to make or do something that swayed the C-triple-M council, she'd have a mastery, the same as any professor at Hogwarts.
Harriet kept staring at the toes of her shoes, shrinking a little more each time one of her teachers touched her arm and extolled their confidence. She wanted to tell them she was just doing this to survive, that she wasn't anyone special or worthy of their regard—just a girl who wanted to learn how to protect herself from the man standing at her side. From the man who'd murdered her family.
No one at all said a word to Slytherin.
Soon, the professors departed after giving their final best wishes, Dumbledore bestowing one last reassuring touch on her shoulder before he left for his office. Harriet went to dart toward the dungeon stairs, wanting to disappear into the common room—but Slytherin finally decided to move.
He placed his hand on the back of her neck and pressed in with his fingers. "Remember, Miss Potter," he whispered into her ear, holding her in place. "You're my apprentice. Not Flitwick's or McGonagall's. Not Dumbledore's. Mine."
"Y-yes, sir. Of course."
He didn't let go. Instead, Harriet felt the pressure increase just shy of leaving bruises. "Don't make me regret this," he hissed, almost too quiet to be heard. "Because I assure you if I do, you will as well."
"I—." She swallowed. "I won't."
He withdrew, and Harriet ran for the dungeons.
A/N: In my head-canon, Wizarding Britain uses "Grandmaster" in the medieval sense that Silas is the head of a "military" order—or, in this case, the practice and research of defense. It's not that he's above the other masters in the C-triple-M (indeed, he is not), only that the title is attached to his particular role. Outside of his membership to the Circle, I imagine his profession is the magical world's equivalent to a Witcher. (A lot of backstory for a random OC but okay)
The deal with the apprenticeship is, no matter the ulterior motives, Harriet has essentially signed on to earn her PhD…at fourteen, lol. Hope you lot enjoyed a chapter basically all of world building xD
We see Dumbledore is definitely more reserved with Harriet here, but he's playing into his role as a caring Headmaster. Truly, I believe he would have come regardless of which student was becoming an apprentice, but he's not about to let Slytherin take Harriet wherever he wants unsupervised.
Slytherin: "…"
Slytherin: "You ruin all of my fun."
Dumbledore: *nods happily*