ccxxxviii. queen of wands
They set her trial for July thirtieth.
Harriet laughed when she opened the Ministry's letter and read their chosen date. She didn't know if having it the day before her birthday was better or worse. Sirius had spoken tentatively of a shared party for her and Neville, but the looming trial cast a pall on the festivities, and really, Harriet wasn't in the mood to celebrate. No matter what anyone said, her first day of being fifteen years old might mark the beginning of a life sentence in Azkaban.
She had no energy for her letters, no energy for anything, spending many of those final days numb and trapped in her own head. "'arriet," Mr. Flamel had told her, warm hands settling on either side of her face to urge her to look at him. "All will be well, oui? You must know you are not alone."
Harriet had only nodded at him.
On the evening of the twenty-ninth, Hermione and Elara had enough of her moping and dragged her out of her bedroom. They hid in the trophy room, which was less a room for trophies and more a catch-all for the burgeoning rubbish and collectibles they cleared from the rest of the house. The heat seemed to settle there with a vengeance, like a sweltering Boggart lurking out of sight, creeping out from under the curio cabinets to lounge across the carpet. They allowed themselves one candle, lest the light leaking from under the door attract attention from their house guests, and sat together on the velvet sofa.
"Don't get used to this," Hermione said with clear warning as she exposed a bottle hidden in her pocket. "I really don't approve, but just for tonight—."
Harriet took the bottle and turned it toward the light, whistling low. "Firewhiskey? Really?"
"I may have nicked it from Sirius and blamed the Weasley twins."
A laugh escaped Harriet, the feeling rusty. "Barmy. Barmy, but brilliant."
They conjured small glasses, and there was only enough in the bottle to split once between the three of them—though that proved plenty. They each took one sip and sputtered, heat flaring through Harriet's mouth and nose, bringing tears to her eyes.
"Oh, that's awful," she choked, and then started laughing again. "This is a bloody awful idea."
Elara's face looked like she'd licked tarmac, and Hermione's cheeks glowed red. "Merlin!" she coughed, wrinkling her nose. "Well, it is called Firewhiskey. It stands to reason it would burn." She looked into her glass with a critical eye. "Shall we toast to something?"
"Reckon I don't have much to toast to at the moment," Harriet grumbled, so it fell to Elara, seated in the middle of them, to lift her drink.
"To Terry," she said, and that was something Harriet could toast.
"To Terry."
"Terry," Hermione added. In the dim, orange light, her eyes glowed with moisture, though she didn't cry. "And the Muggles. And the Muggle-borns."
Harriet turned her head, about to ask what she meant—then, brief flickers of conversation, snippets of newspapers from across the country, the unmoving pictures of people reported missing rose in her mind's eye. So she lifted her glass again and clinked it with the others. "The Muggles."
They sipped their drinks, the terrible taste matching their terrible spirits and not mingling well at all with the muggy heat. Nonetheless, Harriet found herself relaxing into her corner of the sofa, watching the Firewhiskey glitter like gold as she swiveled it inside the Transfigured tumbler. Hermione hummed part of a song from the wizarding wireless, and around them, Grimmauld Place creaked and groaned like a tired ghoul.
Shifting, Elara reached into her pocket and withdrew a deck of cards.
"Oh, not that nonsense," Hermione huffed as Elara hooked her foot around the leg of the coffee table and tugged it closer. Harriet sat up a bit, blinking, and realized Elara held her tarot deck.
"Something being nonsense to you doesn't mean it's nonsense to me," Elara said coolly, already stripping off her gloves to shuffle with her left hand. "Thousands of years of successful Divinations should show you it's not all complete bunk, Hermione."
Hermione only huffed again, but she sat up like Harriet did, folding her legs underneath herself. She balanced her glass on her knee. "All right, then. Divine something for us, o fortune teller."
Elara rolled her eyes and bumped Hermione's leg with her own. "I'll divine a good curse for you, Granger, once we're back in school and not under threat of chores if we're caught out."
"Half the challenge would be getting away with the crime, though."
"Who are you, and what have you done with Hermione Granger? Harriet, our swot has gone missing."
Hermione only flicked her arm, though her mouth had formed a smug grin.
Elara split the deck once, twice, three times, then slid it together. "One of you twits ask a question."
A dozen questions popped inside Harriet's mind like champagne fizz, some more serious than others, though the first to come out of her mouth was, "Why is Neville Longbottom such a prat?"
Elara smirked, then held her bare hand flat over the deck before drawing the topmost card. "Queen of cups, reversed. He has difficulty expressing himself. I'd say he's an insecure, needy knob."
Harriet snorted while Hermione only took the card from Elara to study the gruesome picture. As far as Harriet knew, the deck had been in the Black family for some three hundred years, so it contained some rather bleak images carved and pressed into the magic cards. They didn't move—or weren't supposed to, but Harriet swore she'd seen the crude little people change into different poses. It was unquestionably eerie.
"Is that really what it means?" Hermione asked with a skeptical inflection as she handed the card back. "Or are you having us on?"
"I am most certainly not 'having you on,'" Elara replied. "It symbolizes emotional instability—a dependence, perhaps around the identity he's built his entire life around. He is definitely insecure, and possibly questioning his purpose in life."
Not for the first time, Harriet felt a stab of pity for the Boy Who Lived—for the boy who had been fed a lie since birth in what was now a defunct bid to confuse the Dark Lord. The pity didn't last, however, when Harriet recalled Neville had been handed absolutely anything he desired from the time he could walk, while she had festered in the dark of a boot cupboard.
Clearing her throat, Harriet said, "Do another, then. How about…hm. Will Gaunt fall into an acromantula pit and be devoured by giant spiders?"
Hermione giggled, her cheeks flushed.
Elara shuffled, then drew a card. "Ten of pentacles. Everything will work out well for him; he is due a windfall."
"Boo!" Harriet cried, and Hermione burst out into proper laughter, the pair of them having to stifle themselves before someone came looking for the noise. "That's rubbish! Do another!"
They continued asking Elara questions, almost all of them absurd—including "Will Albus Dumbledore fulfill his lifelong dream of becoming a ten-pin bowling champion?", "Will Luna Lovegood ever find the Crumple-Horned Snorkack?", and "Will Minerva McGonagall find love with a handsome tom cat?" Eventually, their breathless laughter settled, and the firewhiskey's muddling effect eased. Their small group subsided into a thoughtful silence. Harriet leaned her head on her godsister's shoulder while Elara shuffled the deck once more.
"Could you do a proper reading for me?" she softly asked. "Not a silly one, I mean. A real one."
Elara paused, but then she wordlessly nodded and concentrated on her task. Harriet noted how she put more effort into her movements, more ceremony. When she passed her hand over the deck, rather than drawing one card, three magically lifted and laid themselves face down on the table. Elara tapped the first with two fingers before turning it over.
"Past: seven of swords. Deception, consequence. Your path began with lies and close betrayal. You were driven to escape through subterfuge."
Harriet scoffed even as she arched an eyebrow. "My aunt being a right cunt seems to fit 'close betrayal.'"
"It could refer to Snape," Elara added. "About what he did before, though I assume you're correct. The meaning is open to some interpretation."
She moved on to the middle card. "Present: ace of pentacles. You are about to start a new beginning, but it must be nurtured to see fruition. There is something you have not yet done that needs to be completed, or your efforts will be for not, and the new cycle will fail."
"Mmm," Harriet replied. She downed the last of her drink and let it burn down her throat.
"Maybe this year's going to be great," Hermione chimed in. "Once the trial is over. That could be what you need to complete before having a 'new beginning.'"
"You don't believe in tarot readings, Hermione."
"Well, no—but I can go along with the spirit of it, can't I?"
Harriet grinned and shook her head, earning an eye roll. Elara moved on to the final card.
"Queen of wands. Representative of the feminine spirit, symbol of strength, courage, and determination. You've divined your path, and you're bound to walk it with your head held high."
Harriet studied the three cards laid out under the candle's yellow sheen, the faded ink carvings seeming particularly ghastly in such inadequate lighting.
"Codswallop," Hermione hiccuped.
"God bless you," Elara drawled as she returned the cards to the deck and shuffled.
"Oh, you know what I mean."
They continued to bicker, arguing the merits of Divinations over Arithmancy until they devolved into talking rubbish about Trelawney, something they both equally enjoyed. The three witches chatted until the hour grew later, the candle dwindling, and they dozed together on the sofa. Harriet stirred from the warm, familiar haze after the others had dropped off to sleep, and she was about to stand when she caught sight of the tarot deck abandoned on the coffee table.
Quietly, listening to the soft flutter of Hermione's snores, Harriet lifted the little wooden box and slid back the lid, the cards neatly tucked inside. One by one, she flipped them over until she found the queen of wands again, and Harriet studied the image, holding it close. The ugly woman printed there seemed to watch her.
"You've divined your path, and you're bound to walk it with your head held high."
Harriet returned the deck to its box and set it on the table once more. Standing, she kissed her godsister and best friend both on their brows before blowing out the candle and making her way upstairs alone.
xXx
The dawn of July thirtieth found Harriet Potter at her desk, writing.
The quill's nib scratched over the surface of her parchment, the black ink gleaming in the thin fingers of sunlight coming through the curtains before it dried dark and lusterless. Harriet's eyes followed the movement of her hand but otherwise appeared dim and still, her lids bruised by a long, sleepless night. She'd already washed and dressed, wearing her best robes, her hair limp against her back in a tight plait, her blouse colored blue as Mr. Dirigible had requested. He'd actually suggested she wear her school robes to forcibly remind the Wizengamot of her age, but Harriet had refused. She would not be seen as a child.
The trial was not set until later that evening, but as they had done with Sirius, Harriet knew the Aurors would arrive early to take her back into holding. The thought of going with them terrified her, but she wouldn't be alone; the Flamels had arrived late last night in anticipation of the Ministry spiriting her away before they could alert her guardians. She wouldn't be alone, but that did little to mitigate her nerves.
Her necklace with the Atlas and Hugh's skull lay on the desk. So did her second wand, neatly tucked into its leather leg brace, and the bit of charmed, stolen silver Hermione had gifted her years ago. Harriet finished writing, scrawling her signature at the bottom of the parchment before letting it dry and folding it in thirds. She applied wax to the edge, then magicked it closed with her seal.
Harriet wrote a name across the front, then set the letter aside with the others. They neatly lay in a row, waiting.
She licked the pad of her thumb and grabbed another sheet of parchment.
Everything in the room had been carefully tidied or put away, even the nest below her bed removed and sorted, her den of snakes tucked into their proper carrier inside her buckled trunk. Little sign of habitation remained.
A knock at the door gave her pause, her hand stilling, heart turning inside her chest. "Come in."
She hadn't thought much about who might be coming for her—Sirius or Remus, perhaps, or Mr. Flamel—but she was still surprised when Snape's dark, looming form opened the door and crossed the threshold.
Why is he here? Did he come to see me off? It's not like he'll wish me luck or anything.
"Your escort has arrived," he said, voice flat, giving away none of his inner thoughts. "Early, as predicted. The only time the Ministry can be expected to be early."
Harriet took a steadying breath and nodded, turning to finish her final letter. Preoccupied, she didn't see Snape's black eyes move about the room, taking in the stack of waiting missives, her possessions laid out or neatly packed away. His brow furrowed—and then his head jerked, his gaze all but burning a hole in the witch's head.
Harriet finished her task, then set aside her quill and capped the inkwell. She stood, confused as to why Snape was still there, and why he was staring at her with his face set like stone. She felt like she was perilously close to getting told off, so she wiped her hands against her robes, then picked up one of the letters she'd left sitting out. Turning, Harriet extended it toward Snape.
"Here," she said. "Take it. You might as well have it now."
The Potions Master snatched the letter from her, flipping it to reveal his name carefully written across the front. He stared.
It happened quickly; Snape's hand formed a fist, and the letter burst into flames, combusting without a spell. "What do you think you're doing?" he thundered.
Harriet stepped back, startled, and he stepped closer, stirring the ashes with his robes as they swept across the floor. Her leg bumped into the chair, and she had to grab it before she fell into the desk's edge. His eyes flashed with sudden, inexplicable rage, and Harriet's breath caught in her chest as she looked up at the furious wizard.
"You little fool—!"
He flicked his wrist, his wand snapping into his hand, and he raised it toward the desk—.
Harriet lurched forward, blocking his aim before he could burn the rest of the letters. He moved the wand away, but Harriet thought she might turn to soot just from the look he gave her. She hadn't seen Snape so angry in a while.
"Do you think making yourself a martyr will change anything?!" he demanded.
"I have to try."
"No, you do not. You need only do what that insipid, mawkish barrister instructs you to do! What part of that do you find difficult to understand, Potter?! How dare you—!"
Harriet forced herself to meet his gaze and not flinch. Normally she didn't have a problem doing so, but Snape was bloody livid. She should have known he'd be the first to guess her decision, but she thought he, of all people, might understand.
"I—." She sighed, but he had no intention of letting her speak.
"How you could conceive of being so utterly selfish, so—!"
"People are dying, Snape! Or disappearing! Bloody loads of them! If I can change that by speaking up, I can't stay quiet. I can't lie—I'm not a coward. I'm not going to play into Gaunt's stupid games," she said, willing him to believe her. She slowly gripped his wrist to push his wand farther still. Her loved ones and friends deserved those letters, and she didn't want him to destroy them. "Somethings are more important."
Snape ripped himself free of her, Harriet's hand falling between them. "No," he spat, enunciating each word. His eyes gleamed and flashed like fresh ink. "They're not."
He left with one final, scalding look, his temper gathered about him in a veritable storm as he swept from the room, slamming the door behind him. Harriet listened to the echo of it and tried to breathe through the sudden lump in her throat, her hand still in the air, holding nothing.
Selfish.
She lowered it to her side again. On the floor, her final words to Snape left a mess of blackened bootprints, one feeble corner of the parchment scorched and singed but still somehow intact. The rest—cinders.
Someone called her name from downstairs. Harriet blinked and stepped over the ashes. She opened the door, and prepared herself to meet her fate.
A/N: That's an actual reading I did for Harriet lol.