ccxlii. deorc wendan
Saying goodbye to her friends almost proved too much for Harriet.
She didn't cry because she told herself it wasn't worth wasting the tears over. It frightened her to think of what Slytherin might do without the presence of other students or the Headmaster, but Harriet respected Professor Dumbledore enough to believe when he said Slytherin wouldn't hurt her—or, at least, not hurt her excessively. So Harriet didn't cry when she told her friends and family she had to leave, though it was a very near thing.
Snape didn't speak as they left Grimmauld. He had no scathing comment for her watery eyes or unhappy pout as they passed through the front door and descended the steps, the night hot and humid and miserable around them. They crossed the road in the dark, the streetlights closer to the house all dim and busted, leaving a definite shadow through which they could walk without being readily observed. They reached the park, and Snape encircled her upper arm with his large hand before tugging her into Apparition. Harriet leaned into the feeling and held her breath until she felt solid ground beneath her feet again.
Hogwarts waited beyond the boar-flanked gates, looking glassy and stately, as if a fresh rain shower had given its stone walls a quick wash. Harriet's nerves settled as she looked over the familiar setting, and she didn't hesitate to follow Snape as he opened the locked gates to allow them passage. The crunch of their footsteps was loud over the humming insects and the distant slosh of water against the lakeshore.
"Am I just spending the rest of summer at Hogwarts, then?" Harriet asked, her eyes fixed on the back of Snape's black cloak as he walked ahead of her. She wondered if he ever got hot in that. Cooling Charms only went so far in the height of summer. "You could have said something."
Snape didn't answer her. The locks to the school's main doors thumped like falling hammers as they fell back from their chambers and released the wards, allowing the pair to pass into the foyer. Irked by the Potions Master's silence, Harriet grumbled, "I wouldn't have thrown such a fit if I'd known."
Snape stopped, cloak falling flat against his legs. "Potter," he said, looking ahead. "Mind your impudent tongue."
"What? I was only saying—."
"Not with me. With Slytherin. Do not be disrespectful. Do as he says, then make yourself scarce."
He kept walking, and their path continued to the dungeons, Harriet's lightened trunk thumping on the steps behind her. Well, spending the last month of holiday at Hogwarts meant staying out of Slytherin's way would be easy. He'd probably set her to more bloody studying, and that could be done easily enough anywhere in the castle. Maybe she could visit Hagrid tomorrow or go down to the lake. She wondered if it was warm enough to swim in during the summer, though she couldn't really do more than an awkward paddle.
Snape muttered the password to the common room door, and the wall opened to reveal the entrance. He stepped back to extend his arm, gesturing Harriet to walk ahead of him, and she sighed as she went, bracing herself for what waited inside.
Slytherin sat in his preferred place by the main hearth, the common room dark and desolate aside from the grim, guttering flames ensconced therein. He was writing in a bound leather journal, the pages tipped ever so slightly toward the light, but when they entered, he snapped the journal closed and tucked it inside his robes.
Harriet scratched her neck.
He watched her and Snape with his unyielding red eyes until they stopped by one of the sofas facing his chair, at which point his gaze roved away as if bored and uninterested. "Good evening, Miss Potter."
"Er—hello, Professor."
"Master," he corrected, the word flung sharp as a whip crack, startling Harriet. His head snapped around again to fix her with a glare. "That is my proper form of address."
"Sorry, Master."
"I find myself…displeased, apprentice. Though I have given you ample time and have been generous considering your circumstances, you have not checked in with your progress this summer. Explain yourself."
He had his wand in hand—where it had come from, Harriet couldn't see. She knew one wrong word would probably see her hexed in the face.
I should keep my mouth shut then, shouldn't I?
Fidgeting, Harriet tugged her wand from her sleeve, then stepped closer to Slytherin, bracing herself for a curse. When he did nothing but stare at her, she pointed at the empty goblet set on the end table, and Slytherin inclined his chin, a brow raised. Harriet picked up the goblet and, turning it round in her hand, pointed her wand to its side. "Serpensfiet."
She winced as the glass heated itself nearly to the point of burning her palm, but it lasted for only a moment, the goblet's shape melting and reforming into that of a solid glass snake. It was wonky; Harriet's talent would never be in delicate, pretty Transfigurations, though it definitely had the right shape and the indents suggesting eyes and a mouth. Concentrating, she turned it over and cast the spell she usually used to sharpen her quills to instead carve small runes on the snake's belly. Once satisfied, Harriet muttered, "Surgit," and a trickle of magic wound itself into the creature. It glowed a gentle blue for a moment, then began to move.
"Hmm," Slytherin said, extending his arm. Harriet let the weak little golem fall into his open hand, and Slytherin inspected it between his fingers with clinical detachment. It didn't last for long, breaking apart into glass rocks that the professor repaired and returned to its proper cup form. "At least you've absorbed the material, though I did not ask for updates purely on a whim."
"I—it won't happen again?"
"It won't." Slytherin stood, the motion eerily similar to the easy, malleable roll of a snake raising its head. He dropped the goblet on the table, and his eyes flickered over Harriet's clothes. "This is unacceptable."
She glanced down at herself. She wore the same clothes she'd had on at her trial, a blouse and skirt that didn't quite fit, her robes too short, the lot slightly wrinkled from her slouching over various tables and breaking into a nervous sweat. A fine misting of cake and icing splattered across her front.
"You are my apprentice, Miss Potter. The first Hogwarts has seen in decades, and perhaps one of the youngest ever selected for such an honor. Have respect for the position."
Harriet's response was an eloquant, "What?" Slytherin looked more peeved by the second. His eyes flicked to Snape behind her, then back to Harriet.
"Leave the trunk here. An elf will forward it." He swept past her, and Harriet stumbled as she spun in place. "Come along."
Dread replaced the relief Harriet had felt as Slytherin led them out of the common room and back up the stairs to the foyer. What did he mean by "an elf will forward" her trunk? Forward it where? Were they not staying at Hogwarts?
They trailed outside, back into the brunt of silvery moonlight. Slytherin passed through the gates ahead of Harriet and Snape, and he didn't turn to acknowledge them as he held out his hands. Snape settled his forearm in one, and Harriet followed his lead, gingerly placing her wrist in the other. Slytherin's fingers closed around it like the jaws of a trap slamming shut, and Harriet flinched when he pulled them into Apparition. He lacked the care Snape used, and she felt like sicking up her supper when they landed.
Harriet sucked in the warm evening air and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to regain her equilibrium. When the ground stopped moving under her feet, she lifted her head and looked around, finding they'd arrived on a dimly lit road with old-fashioned stone houses lining the cobblestones. Despite the poor lighting, it was a pleasant enough place, but there was a heaviness in the air, a stolid kind of haze Harriet couldn't see or physically touch but could feel all the same. The lack of cars proved it magical, as did the old, flame-lit lanterns spotted along the lane.
They walked forward from the Apparition point at the road's head, and Harriet tried to appear somewhat composed as she surveyed the buildings they passed. She thought most were shops, but they didn't have proper signs with names over the fronts. Instead, the eaves above the doors had sigils or symbols. They walked by one using the alchemical mark for a crucible, the front windows a murky, bottle-green, and another with a skull, both the windows and door barred with iron.
Slytherin stopped them before a tall, crooked building bearing a simple thread and needle on its painted sign. They had to step through an archway and climb a dingy set of stairs to reach a solid oak door, and a bell clanged when Slytherin pushed it in.
Harriet dragged her feet coming inside, and from her place behind the professor, she peered around his side to peek at the interior. It was a tailor shop: the inner walls held thick shelves built of richly colored wood that shone under the warm orange light of the brass lamps, iron rods hung underneath stocked with robes, cloaks, belts, and scarfs. An empty mannequin with pins stuck in its blank face stood in attendance by the entrance, and it turned to the trio as they entered.
"The proprietor will be with you in a moment," it rasped in a dry, strained voice that gave Harriet goosebumps. Snape shut the door at their backs, the bell chiming again.
"Uh, Pro—? Master?" Harriet corrected herself mid-word, and Slytherin tipped his head to indicate he was listening. "Where are we?"
"My personal tailor, Miss Potter."
Obviously we're at a bloody tailor, twat. Where is this place?! Harriet cleared her throat before her thoughts could get the best of her. "And it's not—closed? It's getting late."
She sensed the eye roll in Slytherin's answering quip of, "Of course not."
"We are in Eyam, Miss Potter, in a closed magical hamlet that populates a hidden sector of the village," Snape explained for her benefit, his voice more subdued than usual. "The shops of Deorc Wendan only open at night and serve a specific kind of…clientèle."
"Oh." What does he mean by that?
They didn't have to wait much longer before a door in the back thumped and opened, a short, spindly gentleman with a monocle and thick white hair coming through with his arms full of heavy fabrics. He froze when he spotted their party, strange eyes widening, then dipped into the best bow he could manage at the moment.
"L-Lord Slytherin!" he said, his reedy voice matching the mannequin's. "An honor, as always, as always. I was not—ah, expecting you. Was there an issue with your last order?"
"No, Mr. Jestergrass. I'm here for a different reason." Slytherin placed his hand between Harriet's shoulders and gave her a shove, forcing her to step forward. "I need you to make my apprentice presentable. A full wardrobe, though she'll need something to leave the shop in as well."
The wizard—Mr. Jestergrass—gaped momentarily, then fidgeted with his monocle as he regained his composure. "A—an apprentice? I hadn't known—."
"I haven't acknowledged her properly yet," Slytherin told him, cool, studying his sleeve rather than the shop or the man in front of them. "Which is why we are here."
"Naturally, naturally…." He set his burden on the long mahogany counter and straightened, turning his attention to Harriet, sizing her up. Color returned to his nervous face as he studied her. "Such an honor to be selected for this—privilege. Your name, miss?"
"Harriet. Err, Harriet Potter."
"Miss Potter. Forgive me; she appears quite young, my Lord. I was under the impression wizards did not take apprentices until they finished school?"
"It is my will," Slytherin retorted, Mr. Jestergrass bowing his head. "And yes, she's young, but Miss Potter is exceptionally skilled—though her manner of dress leaves much to be desired."
"What's wrong with how I dress?" Harriet blurted. All three men looked at her as if she'd asked something stupid, and Harriet flushed scarlet, glaring at the floor. Well, sod them. What does it matter how I look?
Sighing, Mr. Jestergrass urged the wizards to have a seat and wait, though Snape remained standing, and he gently chivvied Harriet behind a screen to start taking her measurements. He didn't use his wand, his hands emitting a steady mint-green as he held the measuring tape between them. He would mutter numbers under his breath, and sensing Harriet's curious look, he glanced up and flashed a small, anxious smile. His ears, covered by his hair, twitched.
"It marks the numbers in my ledger as I speak," he explained. "So I can use the template later to create more of your needed attire."
"Oh. That's brilliant."
"Yes, yes…." He stood, grunting at his creaking knees. "Now, let's get you sorted. I would imagine you'd like the same materials your master prefers?"
Harriet didn't have a clue what Slytherin had in his robes, but she nodded, deciding she had little choice in the matter. Mr. Jestergrass twisted his hands, and spools of cloth came off shelves from the opposing wall, flapping like strange, lopsided birds.
In short order, Harriet found herself tugged, pulled, and cinched into a pair of high-waisted trousers and a black, buttoned blouse, paired with a waistcoat done with something called jacquard silk. It had a subtle raised pattern of leaves that drifted and shimmered in the movement of the light. Mr. Jestergrass stepped back around the screen and spoke with Slytherin while she changed, reappearing at the right moment to make magical adjustments. Next came the robes, fashioned so the cuffs edged in gold fell just past her wrists, the hem below her knee. Then came the cape and hood, pinned at her throat with a gleaming silver brooch. Harriet glanced over her shoulder into the standing mirror to notice the inside of her hood was white. The rest of her outfit came in shades of black and gray, accented in gold.
"You'll need this as well, as a finishing touch," the tailor said, threading a bit of white rope under her hood and over her shoulders, letting it fall against her middle. Harriet plucked up one end and frowned as she studied the little tassel there.
"What's this for?" she inquired as the tailor gathered her old clothes and deposited them in a paper sack. He handed it to her, and Harriet tucked it under her arm. "Is it a fashion thing?"
"It marks your apprenticeship with a division of Charms. You'll want to wear the cord with your school robes as well." Mr. Jestergrass stepped back to study her, adjusting the rope—or cord—so the ends were even. "How old are you, exactly?"
"Fifteen." Or at least I will be in a few hours.
"Ah," he said, the corners of his mouth twitching into a soft smile. He breathed in as if he wanted to ask something but then thought better of it. "I have a daughter about your age."
"You do? What House is she in?"
"House?" he asked, puzzled, then understanding dawned on him, and he let out a short, twittering laugh. "Oh, my kind don't go to Hogwarts. Not usually."
"What do you—?"
Mr. Jestergrass ushered her back out from behind the screen, much to Harriet's frustration. Slytherin looked up from the magazine he'd been flicking through and tossed it aside, standing from the waiting chair.
"Your work is as excellent as ever, Oak," he pronounced as he came to stand before Harriet, inspecting her attire. Harriet felt odd and off-balanced under so much expensive fabric, and she wondered if Slytherin really expected her to last the summer wearing so much black.
Lost in thought, she flinched when his pale hands gripped her upper arms and pushed. "Stand up straight, girl. Like that." He didn't release her, not even when Harriet braced herself and brought her eyes to his. "This is how you will dress when you are in my presence," he told her. "You are my apprentice, not a child's ragged poppet, filthy from play. You exist as an extension of my name, a testament to my knowledge and ability. I have given you a great honor denied to many others. You will not sully that by appearing like an unfortunate Mudblood tart. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, Professor."
One hand rose from her arm to settle on her shoulder, and his fingers dug in exactly where Gaunt's had only hours before. Harriet almost whimpered from the pain.
"I mean, yes, Master."
He released her, and Harriet wisely chose not to roll her arm or grimace as she stepped aside. Slytherin went to discuss having further outfits made with Mr. Jestergrass, and Harriet went to stand next to Snape near the door, directing a dark, unhappy glower out the clouded window panes.
"This is stupid," she muttered under her breath. "There was nothing wrong with my clothes. My school things would'a worked just as well as any of this stuff."
Snape said nothing. Harriet glanced up at him and found the wizard staring off into the middle distance, eyes open and unblinking. He'd been acting oddly since he'd shown up at Grimmauld, and Harriet hadn't been able to understand why until now. He looked very much like a weathered house with all the windows dark, not a light to be seen; you knew someone was home, but knocking on the door would either be ignored or unheard altogether. If she hadn't known better, Harriet would've said he was in a state of shock.
"Snape?" she asked, receiving no response. Harriet stretched a tentative hand between them and touched his covered wrist. "Snape, are you all right?"
He stirred at last, then blinked, looking down at her and her fingers tugging on his sleeve. He gave his arm a half-hearted shake to dislodge her. "Keep your hands to yourself, Potter."
There's something wrong, she thought, pursing her lips. Snape's not one for a chat, but he's definitely not one to go about in a daze like a bird who hit a wall. He looks like he's waking up from a Stunner, for Merlin's sake.
"Are you—?"
"Worry about yourself."
At the register, Mr. Jestergrass finished compiling a price total and Slytherin drummed his fingers on the counter. "Yes, that will do. Forward the expense to the Potter account at Gringotts."
Snape stopped Harriet's outraged exclamation by stepping on her foot. She scowled at him instead.
"Now I have to pay for all these bloody clothes I didn't want?"
"It's better this way," he muttered. "You don't want to be indebted to Slytherin."
Harriet relaxed, realizing the truth of the statement. No, she didn't want to be indebted to Slytherin, and she'd much rather pay for this with gold than have Slytherin hold it over her head later.
She ground her teeth and exhaled through her nose, her gaze falling on the bespoke sleeve of her new robes. Madam Malkin's and Twilfitt and Tattings made nice clothes, but these felt different—dense in a manner Harriet didn't have the vocabulary to describe. Magic made its own weave in the fibers, prickly like the grazing heat of a fire but still bizarrely cold like lake water molding over her skin. She remembered how the man's hands had glowed with unspoken spells, and she wondered if that had something to do with it.
They were nice clothes. They just weren't what Harriet would have chosen for herself, and she resented Slytherin forcing her to get them.
"That will do. Send the packages to this address." Slytherin waved his hand, ostensibly to magic something onto the parchment Mr. Jestergrass had between them. He turned, gesturing for Snape and Harriet to precede him out the door—when the tailor spoke up from his place behind the counter.
"I would be willing to forgive the debt, Miss Potter," he told her with a slight smile. He held up the Gringotts purchase ticket between two of his skinny fingers. "If you are willing to trade."
His words gave Harriet pause. Slytherin's red eyes narrowed, but he nonetheless gave his head a negligent flick to urge Harriet closer, and she once more approached the tailor. It could have been a trick of the light, but he appeared taller than he had only minutes ago, peering at her with curiosity in his odd, reflective eyes.
"What kind of trade?" she asked. Mr. Jestergrass seemed to consider it for a moment, humming, then snapped his fingers.
"A secret!" he said—and suddenly all the odd and curious things Harriet had noted since her arrival in the village made perfect sense. He wasn't a wizard; he was Fae. Deorc Wendan was a Fae settlement.
The revelation took Harriet aback for a moment, and she speculated whether or not it would be a good idea to slap a hand over her mouth and scuttle for the exit. The Fae could be mean, she knew, and they always wanted strange things. Mr. Flamel had told her bartering with them could be dangerous.
Sensing her hesitation, Mr. Jestergrass softened his voice. "Just one," he promised. "A little one."
Slytherin clicked his tongue. "Get on with it, Miss Potter," he nagged. "We've places to be tonight."
Snape said nothing.
Swallowing, Harriet took the last step to the counter and squared her shoulders, nodding to Mr. Jestergrass. He bent at the waist to lower his ear, which Harriet could see had a definite point to its end, hidden by his thick, pale hair. She took a breath and tried to think of what secret she could give him. Something unimportant. Something no one else but her would care about.
Harriet leaned closer, whispering. "The Minister branded me in Azkaban. I haven't told anyone."
Mr. Jestergrass straightened then, his brow crumpling as his eyes fell from Harriet's own to her neck, then back again. He couldn't see it, Harriet knew. She'd been particular in how she plaited her hair and had smeared Elara's concealer over the area. Harriet didn't know why she'd told him. Maybe because it was so outrageous it bordered on the absurd; cleared of all charges, but branded for life, just like a Death Eater. Sometimes it made her want to laugh until she cried.
The ticket vanished from Mr. Jestergrass' hand. "I'll throw in a cloak," he muttered. Harriet nodded and stepped away from the counter, joining her professors.
"Good evening, Mr. Jestergrass," Slytherin said as he turned the knob and opened the door to the summer night.
"Until we meet again, Lord Slytherin."
The bell jangled one more time, and Harriet went down the steps and through the archway to the road beyond. More and more people had begun to filter into the lane, wizards and Fae alike, all dressed in varying dark, obscuring shades. Next door, the shop with a skull on the sign had ominous red light oozing over the threshold.
"Now," Slytherin said with a pleased grin, straightening his robes. "Let's be off to where we'll spend the rest of our summer together. I'm sure they're waiting patiently."
A/N: I hope you enjoyed this little interlude at a new location! Happy Birthday, Harriet!
I ended up choosing white for the DADA academic color as a branch of Charms because A) it was my color when I graduated aha. It was the velvet lining of my hood and one of my cords. And B) because the general category of "arts" is also white.
Harriet: "All these clothes are black. I look like I'm going to a funeral."
Harriet: "…"
Harriet: "A funeral for Snape's sense of humor."
Snape: "It's being buried right next to my PATIENCE."