ccxliii. sang avant tout
Another Apparition nearly took Harriet's legs out from under her.
Thankfully, Snape was the one who traveled with her, so the journey induced less nausea and dizziness, though it did little for her exhaustion. She had to lean on his arm to catch her breath, and surprisingly Snape remained still. A moment passed, and Harriet pushed herself off of him, muttering her thanks.
They'd landed somewhere far from the city, somewhere at a higher altitude that had Harriet's head spinning until she could acclimate to it. They stood knee-deep in thorn bushes Slytherin wasted no time in blasting apart, the air redolent with the smell of broken, oozing greenery and crushed, bitter berries. Clouds muddled the sky, but where they parted, the stars gleamed bright and vivid, almost magical.
A cobbled path cut higher up the mountainside, and Slytherin led their little band to it, his tailored robes rippling in the breeze. This wasn't the first time he'd seemingly led Harriet to the middle of nowhere, so her apprehension remained somewhat nominal, though "nominal" around Slytherin could be hard to quantify. Harriet couldn't think of a single time she'd been anything less than horridly nervous in his presence.
Harriet wrinkled her nose at the feel of her new shoes biting into her feet, not yet properly formed, though the rest of her attire was perfect, and she imagined she looked something like Slytherin and Snape, wrapped up in dark colors, the thin dapples of moonlight rippling on the sleek, shiny silk. They strode along the path, three figures in the wilderness, silent aside from the rustling grass and kicked gravel.
Then, Harriet stumbled in the dark, and Snape's hand shot out to grab her by the collar and keep her upright before Slytherin noticed.
A house appeared through the dense highland trees, a solid structure seemingly melded from the shadows against the brighter night sky, ringed in clouds like a priest's untidy tonsure. It clung to the cusp of the mountain, soaring over part of a high, rocky cliff, its feet boring deep into the stone. To Harriet, it looked like a vulture, menacing with its wings hunched, Gothic windows gleaming instead of beady, watchful eyes.
There was no gate to stop them, only a sudden, intense buzzing in the air that prickled against Harriet's skin and unnerved her like walking under a hornet's nest. Without prompting, Snape muttered a curse under his breath and drew his wand across the back of his hand. The skin parted, and as the blood welled—Harriet's stomach swooping—the buzzing abated to a tolerable level. Slytherin kept walking, and she forced herself to follow. Snape's blood dripped along his skin to the ground below.
The building only looked eerier as they drew into the shadow thrown by the moon dripping past the sculpted eaves. Harriet's eyes widened as her gaze rose higher and higher, taking in the details of the gables, the clawed dormers, the black patterned shingles like a dragon's dark, fire-scorched hide. The milky sheen of candlelight waited beyond the crystal panes of the towering main doors.
"What is this place?" she asked. Slytherin obliged her by answering.
"The Tor, an ancestral home of a friend of mine," he drawled, leaving Harriet with no doubt this person wasn't a friend at all, but rather a follower. "He's always been a great admirer of my work and is often privileged to host me and my attaché during the summer holidays."
Harriet made the appropriate noises of acknowledgment, glancing toward Snape as they started up the stone steps. Moss grew between the cracks, and the slate had worn smooth and shiny where centuries of foot traffic had trampled through.
A house-elf opened the doors with magic, though they said nothing as Slytherin stepped over the threshold, only bowing until their dirty ears flopped on the flagstone floor. Harriet frowned but kept her mouth shut. She glanced around the foyer and found more of the grim, aging elegance exhibited outside. It looked old—but not in an extravagant way, more so that the walls were comprised of heavy, gray rock first stacked by Pictish wizards in a time so far removed it was difficult to believe. The windows, framed in oak, came later, the stone cut away to allow it, and the brass fixtures came later still.
The house-elf raised their wrinkled head to peer at her from under furry brows.
Nervous, Harriet fidgeted and tucked her hair behind her ears, fiddling with her spectacles. A smidgen of gratefulness toward Slytherin for forcing her to update her wardrobe wormed in Harriet's chest, and she smothered it, not wanting to feel any kind of appreciation for a bloke who'd probably gladly watch her get tortured. Still, Harriet looked more the part of a distinguished apprentice and less like a scrawny girl in a blouse she'd grown out of and worn-out school shoes. At least the homeowner wouldn't take one look at her and throw her out on her ear.
The house-elf disappeared with a small snap!, and the trio remained in the dim foyer, waiting. Harriet kept her hands knotted together in front of herself to prevent them from fidgeting more, though she couldn't prevent her feet from wandering. Her new shoes echoed in the silent room, and she stared at the artwork framed on the walls as she slowly paced. The largest piece hung over the dormant hearth, a very poncy family portrait, though given the old clothes the unimpressed occupants wore, Harriet guessed they were dead.
"My Lord Slytherin."
Harriet turned to see a man wearing a hastily knotted dressing gown had appeared halfway down the steps to the first level. Behind him came a woman, her hair plaited for bed, a decidedly peeved set to her pressed mouth. Their looks reminded Harriet of the Malfoys, what with their pale hair and sharp, upturned noses, but where the Malfoys were willowy and delicate, these people were tall, sharp, and Northern, as solid and unerring as the house they inhabited. The gaze the woman sent over the room could have chilled hot iron.
Harriet expected Slytherin to speak, but he didn't until the wizard—his hand clenched tight on the iron railing—came to the bottom step.
So he's not higher than him, she realized, barely restraining an eye roll. It was much too late for silly, pointless posturing.
"Gauthar," Slytherin greeted, hands open. "At last. I anticipated being greeted by better company than your house-elf."
"Forgive me, my Lord. We did not expect you."
Slytherin smiled—a cold, rigid flick of his mouth. "I said we'd be arriving today. Have you misconstrued the date?"
"No, my Lord. Simply, we thought with the hour—."
Slytherin waved his hand, tiring of his own game. "Enough." He vaguely snapped his fingers behind himself, gesturing someone forward, and because Snape didn't move, Harriet lurched into motion and came to stand next to him. Gauthar and the woman flicked their dark eyes from Slytherin to her and stared. "This is my apprentice, Harriet Potter. Potter, this is Gauthar and his wife, Nefaria Sangfort."
Like many stuffy pure-bloods, the witch and wizard kept their facial expressions muted, but not even the weak gray moonlight and lowered lamps could hide the sudden surprise and fear in their eyes.
"Well—." Gauthar's voice cracked ever so slightly, and he cleared his throat. "When Lord Slytherin informed us he would be bringing a guest, we hadn't known it would be someone so…distinguished."
Harriet couldn't quite decipher his tone, so she opted to say, "Right, yeah."
Slytherin merely sniffed. "I would consider Miss Potter neither a guest nor distinguished." He reached out to lay a hand on her shoulder, and when his fingers barely grazed her shoulder, Harriet begrudgingly stepped closer so the gesture was less awkward. "She's merely an extension of myself. Is that understood?"
Gauthar and Nefaria nodded. "Of course, my Lord…."
"Considering your marvelous hospitality, I assume our rooms are prepared."
"Yes, my Lord. They are prepared." Gauthar hesitated then, his thumb passing over the thick gold ring on his middle finger, turning it as his attention fell onto the wizard still lurking behind Harriet. "I assume the—Potions Master will be on his way?"
Harriet noticed the slight hitch in his question as if he meant to say something else and didn't.
Snape stirred. Not physically; he didn't move a bit, but a shadow in his face tightened the skin around his eyes, and it was a look Harriet had grown familiar with when the Potions Master was on the brink of delivering a particularly cutting retort.
"Oh, let's have him stay," Slytherin said with an offhand wave. His teeth gleamed for a moment in a wide smile—there and gone. He moved on without waiting for a word from either party. "I tire of these pleasantries. The rooms, Gauthar. Now."
Harriet didn't get a chance to see much of the house after that. Mr. Sangfort led them straight from the foyer up the stairs, and they wended upward at sharp angles, lit only by the occasional candle in a glass globe, casting just enough light to see by. They came to a passage lined with dark paneling, a dozen doors on either side. Mr. Sangfort bowed Slytherin into the first room on the right before leading Snape further down the way. Meanwhile, Nefaria took Harriet to the door by Slytherin's, tension easing from her posture. The glance she sent toward Harriet as she opened the door radiated suspicion, covered in a lingering blink.
Harriet stepped inside, the door swinging closed. Her eyes and feet were heavy, ready for sleep no matter where the bed after a day of continuous emotional upheaval. The curtains hung open over the window, and the cold light coming from the moon gave shape to the heavy, antique furniture: a wardrobe with an owl bar on the top, a desk, a padded chair, a large carpet, and a four-poster bed with a down counterpane and waiting hangings. Her trunk sat at the bed's foot.
Exhaling, she stumbled to it and yanked the lid open after fumbling with the latches. She felt for pajamas in the dark, then grabbed the first one she found, dragging it out, heedless of the socks and other things that came with it. Her new clothes fell to the floor with soft, muted thumps, the fabric of her nightdress comfortably worn as she tugged it on over her head. A moment later, she flopped face-first onto a duvet that smelled of dust and, with her nose pressed into the sheets, surrendered to the insistent tug of sleep.
xXx
A solid, sliding weight on the center of her back woke Harriet with a snort.
"Whazzit?" she gasped, her cheek sticky with drool, glasses crooked on her nose. Pale, wispy daylight had just barely begun to bleed over the windowsill and creep upon the floor. At a glance, Harriet thought the room was empty, then she registered the weight on her spine and panicked, wriggling, but the weight went with her, rolling, until she slipped from the edge of the mattress, the hangings rattling on the bar—
And Harriet landed on her backside, several meters of irritated Horned Serpent spilling into her lap.
"Livi!" she sputtered with relief, slumping against the bed. "You scared the life out of me! I thought you were—."
She paused, looking into the bright, unhappy eyes of her familiar. He wrapped his coils around one of her legs.
Oh no.
In her rush to get her things together at Grimmauld, she'd neglected to remember putting her familiar and golems in the trunk the morning prior. She'd thought it would be the best place to keep Livi and the other snakes safe should the worst happen, and Elara or Hermione could get them to Hagrid. Now, here she had Livius in a house of strangers, in a place where one bloke could see him, and another could understand him.
What was she meant to do now?
"Misstresss," Livi hissed, his purple tongue flickering in and out as he tested his new environment. He seemed unimpressed. "Thisss isss not the ssstone placcce."
"No," Harriet agreed, pushing her fringe from her eyes. "This isn't Hogwarts."
"There isss a ssstench in the air," he continued, angular head turning. Harriet's skated her fingertips under his jaw and along his smooth scales. "What isss it?"
"Dark magic, I reckon." Harriet couldn't be sure, given she couldn't smell the difference like Livi could, and she didn't know if the general uneasiness she felt was part of it or solely blamable on her nerves. She did feel—something. An awareness she didn't have the vocabulary to describe, like an eye centered on the back of her head that wasn't exactly open, but just as aware of her as she was of it.
"The ssstone placcce iss bessst."
"Yeah, it is." She pulled at his coils to begin unwinding them from their tight hold around her leg. "It's also a lot safer than it is here. Livi, you have to be careful." She didn't try telling him he needed to stay in his habitat inside her trunk; he could get out of it, as he'd demonstrated this morning, and though he listened to her on most things, he could be very willful. "Slytherin is here—remember, another Parselmouth? And I don't trust him."
"The Ssspeaker," Livi said, his coils pulling in on themselves, his neck retracted as if readying himself to strike. "The foul one who carriesss the sssmell of the offender."
"The wizard from the Aerie."
"The offender." Livi sounded downright menacing. "It carriesss the sssmell of bad sssleep."
Harriet frowned, but when she asked him to explain, he couldn't. What did that mean, "bad sleep?" Her familiar had a way of conveying information she often only understood in hindsight—like when he'd continually called Pettigrew the "rat one," unable to tell Harriet more than what he'd deemed necessary to know. He couldn't conceive of how that might be unclear.
Sighing, she glanced around the room. Her things lay in a bunch, not unlike a pile of shed snake's skin in an otherwise orderly space. She recalled from the night before the general layout of things, but with the light she confirmed the furniture reflected the decor of the foyer, though dust clung to the curtains and mantel, and if Harriet had to guess, she'd say the sheets had been changed only moments before Mrs. Sangfort showed her the door. The room wore its disuse like a thin, gray veil.
The quiet pressed in, close and thick, interrupted only by pockets of Livi's hissing and sounds of the wilderness—loud, wild birds in the distance, the breeze playing in the shutters, the wood gently rattling against the stone. The enormity of her situation fell upon Harriet's shoulders again, and she seemed to sink into the floor, her heartbeat picking up.
How did I even end up here? she asked herself, head resting on her knees. Bloody hell.
She allowed herself a minute to hug her snake close and to be frightened of what lay ahead, but she indulged for no more than that minute before accepting she couldn't hide in her borrowed bedroom for the rest of the holiday. She was where she was meant to be—training, getting better, learning how to defend herself and her loved ones so people like Slytherin and Gaunt and Voldemort couldn't hurt and threaten them. She wanted to be home, but being home wouldn't do anyone any good in the end.
"All right," Harriet reassured herself, taking a deep breath. "I can do this. Livi, remember the rules, right? No one but me can see you, especially not Slytherin." She'd have to enlist Snape's help in obtaining extra food, and she'd probably get an earful for taking her familiar to this place. Grumpy blighter. "Do you understand?"
Livi made his displeasure plain, turning his snout away from Harriet. "I will bitesss him."
"Well, as nice as that sounds, I don't think it'd get you very far…."
After settling her snake and golems on an impromptu nest of sheets under the bed, Harriet got herself off the floor and went to gather her things and find a washroom. She counted herself lucky it was just across the hall, not a soul in sight to catch her quickly skirting along. She bathed and dressed in the same clothes from the tailor, taking particular care to ensure she looked just as put together as she had last night, even using the Sleakeazy's Hermione had given her so the worst of her cowlicks laid tidy and neat. A glance in the mirror showed she didn't entirely look unlike herself, and yet there was an unfamiliarity in the tidiness of her appearance, as if someone had painted her portrait and hadn't gotten the details quite right.
Piqued, Harriet tugged at her apprenticeship cord, letting the ends hang unevenly against her middle.
Once she had her things tucked away in her trunk, she rolled her shoulders back and decided to brave the house. The feeling of being watched followed her through the corridor toward the stairs, and the dark eyes of former Sangforts muttered under their breath from their portrait frames, most still asleep and snoring, no living inhabitants up and about at that hour.
Harriet retraced her steps to the foyer, and though poking around a stranger's house made her nervous, she forced her face to remain confident and blank as she went in search of the wizarding foyer where the main hearth would be, or the kitchens. She chose one promising archway and stepped through. She only stopped to look out a long row of black mullioned windows, studying the steep drop of craggy rocks on the cliff below. A narrow set of steps wound down the mountainside into the forest.
"Where did you wander in from?"
Harriet yelped and spun around, her back bumping into the window. A man had appeared in one of the many recessed doorways, unshaven and seemingly dressed in yesterday's robes. He must have only just opened the door, as the smell of peat moss and scorched barley wafted through the air, clinging to his cloak. He was older than Mr. Sangfort, but Harriet had always been shite at guessing the ages of magical folks and so couldn't say how old that was. He did resemble Mr. Sangfort, sharing the same coloration and general proportions. Grey tinged his light hair, kept just long enough to tie the ends together at the back of his neck, and the eyes under his raised brow flashed black as coal.
"Well?" he stressed when Harriet didn't answer.
"I—uh, I came with Professor Slytherin?" she stuttered, clearing her throat. "I mean, I arrived last night with Professor Slytherin. I'm a guest. I was looking for the kit—dining hall."
The wizard's posture relaxed as his gaze swept over her. He snorted, then shoved the door open wider at his back. "Come along, then."
Harriet followed, but hesitated at the threshold as the man ambled inside once more, either certain she would enter or indifferent if she didn't. Beyond the door waited a much larger chamber than she'd expected, the ceiling lofted and ribbed with thick, ancient wood beams strung liberally with chained chandeliers. The light was needed, as the room served as some sort of workroom, many scarred tables arranged against the walls and through the room's middle, forming aisles all under the purview of a raised platform where a circular table with an arrangement of comfortable armchairs had been situated. It took Harriet several moments to study the nearest workspace and realize the tools were meant for runecrafting.
Could it be a coincidence? Harriet pondered as she studied an expensive, engraved chisel, trailing one finger through the fine residue of stone dust left on the surface. An iron clamp attached to the table's lip held a hewn bit of rock steady under a stationary magnifying glass. Slytherin has me studying golem-creation and spellcraft, and then has us summer in the house of a rune-crafter. A bloody good rune-crafter, if this equipment is anything to go by.
The wizard continued up the wooden steps to the raised platform, joining another wizard at the table who had his dragonhide boots propped up on a spare chair. He had his seat turned from the entrance so Harriet couldn't see anything more than his legs and the side of one well-muscled arm, the sleeves lazily tugged passed his elbows.
"Come have a seat, girl. Stop loitering in the doorway."
Harriet considered leaving, then judged it better to be polite for the moment—if wary. She climbed the steps after the first wizard while the second turned his head to see her, dark brown eyes following her progression to the platform. He didn't much resemble the Sangforts; if anything, Harriet thought he looked somewhat like Silas Goldhorn, in that he had a more physical build than most wizards she'd met. He also had a large white scar marring the left side of his face, the rope-like tissue pulling slightly on his jaw and upper lip.
"Who's this, then?" the second wizard asked, a subtle lisp tinging his words. The first bloke waved Harriet toward a third chair, and she sank into it, perched on the edge like an anxious bird about to fly.
"Another one of Slytherin's," the Sangfort wizard said, grunting as he fell back into his cushioned chair. "Ah, we had better switch to tea, Cicero. I doubt this one's old enough to drink anything more than pumpkin juice."
Cicero's eyes raked over Harriet again and he huffed, dismissive. "Merlin, he's dragging children along with him now? She'll be another Selket before the week's out."
Harriet didn't know what a Selket was but assumed she didn't want to be one. The house-elf she saw the night prior appeared from thin air and used magic to lay out a tea service, Charming the steaming pot to pour rich breakfast blend into the sturdy cups, adding biscuits to the saucer. Harriet thanked them, and the silent elf's mouth gaped before they promptly vanished.
The two wizards eyed her speculatively. The first looked away to take up his cup, sighing. "I suppose introductions are in order if you're to be a guest in my son's house. Claudius Sangfort, at your service."
"Harriet Potter, sir."
"Potter, eh?" said the one named Cicero. He showed little interest in his tea and instead chose to nurse the dregs of scotch in his glass tumbler. "Thought that family died out with the last son. James, or something."
"He had a daughter," Harriet informed him, her tone cool but passable. As the scarred wizard went to set his glass down again, he extended his left arm—and the light fell across the red mark emblazoned there in all its horrific glory, a skull with a writhing serpent falling past its mandible.
Harriet stiffened. Death Eaters. They were Death Eaters. She should have realized—.
Don't be a coward. You can do this. Don't—.
Mr. Sangfort noticed her reaction and a small smile played at the corner of his mouth, twisting like a thorned bramble. He had watchful eyes—eyes that followed every twitch of her hands and the set of her shoulders, a predator determining if she was friend or food. "You must forgive him his manners. This is Cicero Aeter. Cicero, you shouldn't be so dismissive of our Lord's recruits. It's quite rude."
Cicero laughed—a burst of uninhibited noise that rose the hair on the nape of Harriet's neck. "I'll bother with niceties if this one lasts more than a week."
"I'm not a recruit," Harriet objected, picking up her tea. She judged whether or not it was safe to drink, and without caring what the blokes at the table thought, she tugged on the leather strap under her collar under the necklace tumbled out, and she dunked the Erkling spoon into the cup. It stayed the same color; nothing was present but a cuppa tea. "I'm his apprentice."
Claudius blinked and his lips parted, a soft inhalation belying his surprise. Mr. Aeter whistled low, then tossed back the rest of his drink. "Malcolm's not going to like that one bit," he said, clear glee in his voice. He gave the impression that he very much looked forward to witnessing Malcolm's displeasure.
"Forget Malcolm, Myles will be undone. Oh, and Iris will be dreadfully disappointed." Mr. Sangfort threaded his long fingers together and rested his chin upon them, contemplating. "This should be entertaining. Tell me, Apprentice Potter; has your Master made mention of why he chose to bring you to the Tor?"
"If he had, I'm sure I couldn't tell you." Harriet sipped her tea, wishing it had cream and sugar but not wanting to ask. She noticed how Mr. Sangfort's gaze slipped passed her to the workroom for a moment, and she wondered if he had similar thoughts as she did.
One finger rose to tap against his lips, his brows furrowed.
"As expected. Naturally, if you ever require resource material, or perhaps references, you may come speak with me, Apprentice Potter. I live to serve our Lord—and you, by extension."
Harriet swallowed, then bit her tongue. Mr. Sangfort was clever, if unsubtle. Perhaps he took one look at her and decided subtly wouldn't get him anywhere. Either way, they'd known each other for mere moments, and he already worked to ingratiate himself with her. All the better to earn Slytherin's favor.
Cicero, on the other hand, still had a shadow of suspicion hanging about him. "Are you really his apprentice?" he asked. When Harriet nodded, he continued. "You're not the first to aim for it, you see. Far from it. Our Lord entertains new students every season, but I've never heard of him accepting an apprentice before. Especially not one so…untried. What are you, a fourth year?"
Bristling, Harriet muttered, "A fifth," and Cicero cracked a wide, mocking grin.
"Oh, well, that makes a world of difference, doesn't it?" He laughed again, that same loud, brusque noise that wouldn't be amiss among a wolf pack. "You're about to make several older lads and lasses very unhappy. You'd best be prepared for that."
Harriet's fingers tightened on her cup. He had a point. She hadn't given it much thought to who else beyond Hogwarts might want to be Slytherin's apprentice. Sometimes it was easy to forget the world didn't cease to exist beyond the school's gate; there were others who'd graduated from Hogwarts or different schools who wanted Slytherin's attention, who were earnest in their desire to serve him and obey in a way Harriet was not.
What happened if Slytherin grew tired of her wary obstinance? What happened if he decided to cut her loose and take on one of those waiting pupils? What of her task? Would she fail Professor Dumbledore? Her friends, her family?
"There's no need to frighten the girl," Mr. Sangfort reprimanded Mr. Aeter. "Surely a bit of friendly competition wouldn't faze someone our Lord has decided worthy of his tutelage?"
Harriet knew there'd be nothing friendly about it, and on some level, the idea of faceless witches and wizards having it out for her because of her ties to Slytherin did frighten her. The uncertainty of it lingered unwelcome like tacky, persistent jam under her fingertips.
"I am not frightened," she decided, setting her cup aside, the taste gone sour in her mouth. "I have nothing to fear."
Mr. Aeter lifted a brow to Mr. Sangfort, chuckling. "Like I said, I'll bother with the niceties if the fool lasts the week."
Beneath the table, Harriet clenched her hands into fists. This was going to be a very long holiday.
A/N: I got a new young pet in the home so updates may be a bit slow while he settles in and stops chewing absolutely everything in sight.