ccxlv. the spy
Breakfast at the Tor was one of the strangest meals Harriet had ever attended.
Everyone ate like they had a hedgehog wedged under their rear, sitting with their backs as straight as cauldron stirring rods, their faces stricken and stiff. It was a miracle they could get anything off their forks into their mouths.
The Sangforts sat at one end of the long dining table, grouped together with their fancy French coffee and the smell of cigarette smoke, their shoulders raised toward their ears. With them was a girl named Elinor, who was near enough to Harriet's age, blonde and sharp like her mother and father, and wholly disinterested in the scene. She apparently attended Durmstrang. The only dark-haired Sangfort slumped by Cladius, snatching up her cup to indolently glare at the contents. Her hair fell to her shoulders in thick waves, and she was pretty, maybe somewhere close to Snape's age if Harriet had to guess. She had circles under her dark, bloodshot eyes and little raised scars on her right cheek, as if she'd turned away from a Blasting Curse at the last moment and had been caught by its edges, leaving behind a fine array of marks only visible in direct sunlight. Her name—given by Cladius—was Iris, Gauthar's sister.
Mr. Aeter sat with Slytherin—who was the only person present that didn't appear as if something prickly was lodged under his rump. He drank tea and listened while Cicero spoke avidly at his side. It would have made for a companionable scene if Harriet hadn't noted Slytherin's snide amusement and the tense set of Mr. Aeter's hands when he didn't realize someone was watching. It rattled around Harriet's head until she decided Aeter looked distinctly annoyed—Slytherin giving him nominal attention and bemused platitudes that didn't serve Cicero's purpose. Whatever that was.
More people dotted the table, but Harriet paid particular attention to those Cladius had mentioned earlier. "Malcolm" and "Myles" were a son and father respectively, branch members of the Mirthcut family. Neither received Slytherin's rather casual announcement of Harriet's status with grace; they openly gawked, outraged, and Malcolm sputtered in protest until Myles nudged his side. Claudius had also said Iris would be "dreadfully disappointed," but her eyes only flickered in Harriet's direction before dismissing her entirely.
"Her, my Lord? Your apprentice?" burst out a younger woman with spectacles, tidy robes, and a severe part in her brown hair. Harriet vaguely remembered her being a seventh year when she'd just begun Hogwarts, and she thought her name might be Bonnie. Slytherin's eyes fell upon the woman and she blanched. "N-not that I'm questioning your judgment, simply—."
"It's not such a curious choice when you know my apprentice better, Miss Bonespell," he said, steepling his fingers. He hadn't touched the food in front of him, and Harriet fully believed he only showed up to make everyone else uncomfortable. "She is exactly what I wish for in a student."
Bonespell looked as if she'd swallowed a lemon.
When breakfast hobbled to its drawn-out conclusion, Slytherin tossed his napkin on the table and excused himself and Harriet to one of the nicer studies, where he assessed how well she'd truly studied the material over the summer. He was much less effusive in private than in the dining room, and expressed annoyance each time Harriet made a mistake or confused a rune.
"I guess I can't expect perfection," he sighed as he looked over the parchment Harriet had completed for him in the hour, leaning his hands against the table's edge. He summoned one of the Sangfort's Self-Inking quills and started marking off her mistakes with sharp flicks of his wrist. "I was by far more proficient at your age, and perhaps it's my hubris to expect similar results from you. Maybe it's the wont of a master to hope their apprentice exhibits similar alacrity." He drummed his fingers, and Harriet fidgeted. "Well. I am exceptional. Nevertheless, I expect better effort on your part in the future, Miss Potter."
"Okay."
He raised a brow.
"Erm—yes, Master."
Harriet tried to imagine Slytherin—or rather Tom Riddle—as a teenager. He probably wouldn't look much different than he did now, but she had difficulty picturing him at Hogwarts as a student. Did he listen to his professors? Did they like him? Did he have friends?
Harriet wrinkled her nose as she bent her neck over the book again, Slytherin opening it to the interpretation of runes chapter. Even the stodgiest of Slytherin students had juvenile moments at school, but Harriet couldn't believe Riddle ever had a laugh with his mates, pulled a prank, passed notes, and ran from the caretaker.
He probably came out of the womb stuffy and sullen.
She smirked—and Slytherin's finger drummed on the table again.
"Something to share, apprentice?"
"No, Master."
"I expect your next recitation to be perfect, then."
They kept at it for more than an hour, the environment particularly unforgiving for Harriet's concentration. Slytherin's presence distracted her, as did thoughts of the unhappy glowers at breakfast, and what those displeased people might be considering. She'd gotten enough backlash from Lestrange at Hogwarts over the apprenticeship and wasn't looking forward to handling more sour prats here.
Slytherin lectured her on the proper grouping of runes respective to their elemental grouping, spelling a new book open to float before him. When he paused, Harriet dared speak. "Pr—Master?"
"Yes?"
"Can I—what's the point of all this?" Harriet backtracked almost as soon as she spoke. "What I mean is, what am I meant to know by learning all this stuff about runes and spell-making?"
He contemplated her for a moment, gesturing the dusty book aside. "I had wondered when you would think to ask."
"I…I didn't know if I should."
"If you're afraid to ask questions, you're a fool." He leaned on one hand, tipping his head. Sunlight shimmered through the sheer, patterned curtains that fell like a waterfall over the towering window at his side, and the light bathed Slytherin's profile. Harriet always thought he looked odd in strong illumination—a bit blurred at the edges as if his silhouette never came fully into focus. The red of his eyes looked more amber, and he appeared altogether too human when seen outside of his dark classroom. "I can hardly hex you for stupid questions."
He laughed—and Harriet forced a close-lipped smile. She disagreed and thought it likely he'd hex her silly if she voiced something "stupid."
"As you might have considered in your years under Babbling's tutelage, runes are an early, primitive form of magic; our first attempts to harness our wild birthright outside the purview of the fae. Rendered as they are, they represent the most basic building blocks of witchcraft. In simple terms, Potter, I am ensuring you have the foundation required to build you into the witch I deem worthy as my apprentice." He swept out a hand, forming it into a fist. "What need will you have of the redundant, vapid incantations scribbled in Hogwarts' syllabi if you understand magic on a more fundamental level? How do you think I've ascended past the mundane? I sought to know more. You, too, will know more one day, Miss Potter. You'll never be my level, but you'll pass your peers if you continue to do as I say."
The lesson continued well past noon, dragging on until a barn owl arrived, fluttering in through the transom and going into a panic when Slytherin snatched its missive away.
"Wretched thing," he hissed as he shooed the bird, already reading the parchment unfurled in his hand. Harriet pretended she wasn't watching his eyes dart over the page. "Ah, well…that is interesting," he muttered to himself. "Continue with your studies. I expect a critical review of the next four chapters in the book to be ready by this evening. And you have best be thorough."
Slytherin left after that, leaving Harriet to slump over the table and grumble about ridiculous expectations. Luckily, having Hermione as a best friend meant Harriet had become well-versed in skimming and annotating, so she completed the assignment with plenty of time to spare. She explored the vast study, poking through the Sangforts' things until she slouched onto the velvet settee hidden by the raised hearth and took a nap.
Though Harriet didn't sleep deeply, her dreams flickered red-tinged and uneasy, anger licking at her bones like flames trying to catch onto kindling. Her heart raced in her chest, and she snarled at the house-elf who came to wake her for supper. The poor thing squeaked and popped away, Harriet staring at the spot they'd been with befuddlement.
What in the world?
Dinner proved much the same as breakfast—namely awkward, no matter that Slytherin hadn't shown up, leaving the head of the table empty. Harriet was annoyed, her completed assignment tucked away in her robes, and she stabbed at her roast as she ate. She avoided eye contact and conversation.
When does he want me to turn this in? The middle of the night? Where did the bastard go?
She didn't receive an answer to that, and any conversation at the table stayed muted and stilted as if Slytherin's presence lingered without his physical body there. Harriet ate half of her meal and decided she'd had enough, excusing herself to her room with a napkin loaded with meat slipped into her robe pocket. Once there, she discovered a group of packages left atop her trunk, and a quick peek through the wrappings showed it to be the rest of her purchases from Mr. Jestergrass.
"At least I won't have to wear the same outfit for a second day," she muttered as she flipped through the buttoned shirts, her thumb testing the soft, sturdy fabric. Magic tingled against her skin.
Harriet fed her stolen dinner to her familiar and golems, suffering Livi's bored complaints while the smaller snakes wriggled about their bedding, pleased with the offering. She stayed shut away long after night had fallen, and no one came to bother her, much to Harriet's relief. She finally decided to have herself a bath, and so gathered up her new pajamas and dressing gown, sneaking down the corridor to the washroom. She spelled the door shut, refusing to let anyone sneak up on her, and ran the water. Steam quickly filled the room and smudged the gilded mirror.
Slytherin seemed in a rush, Harriet thought as she submerged herself, hunkering down until the bubbles rose to her nose and her hair floated atop the surface. The soap smelled strongly of green apples. It's not as if I'd expect the bloke to say where he's off to, but it does seem curious. I wonder if Snape knows what happened.
She stayed there until her skin pruned, and then convinced herself to leave the tub and dry off. Harriet plaited her damp hair and dressed in her silk pajamas, huffing when she tied the sash on the emerald green dressing gown. It had moving snake motifs stitched into the fabric.
Can't get more Slytherin than this, she snarked, though she couldn't help but run a fond hand over the sleeve, watching as what looked like the approximation of an adder gently squirmed under her touch. It is rather cute, though. Elara would roll her eyes.
She grabbed her used clothes and headed back to her room—and it was only after she'd stepped past the threshold that Harriet realized the wards she'd set had vanished. Someone stood in the shadows by her desk.
The door snapped shut and locked.
"Who—?!" She dropped her things and fumbled for her wand, the slender bit of wood slipping to the floor still tucked inside its brace. She hadn't put it back on. Stupid! Harriet told herself, already panicking. Stupid, stupid—!
The intruder muttered an incantation, and the candles in the wall sconce ignited themselves. Harriet froze and stared at Iris Sangfort, the older witch still in her day robes—and holding one of Harriet's books, leaning against the desk. Harriet's trunk was wide open.
"How—? What—?" she stuttered, but by then, she finally had her wand in hand, and she was ready to hex the woman first and ask questions later. "This is my room!"
"Relax," Sangfort commented as if Harriet were being unreasonable. She tossed Harriet's book aside and lifted another. "Quite a collection you've got in that trunk of yours, Potter. Several of these are banned at Hogwarts, aren't they?"
Harriet snapped out a Summoning spell, and the book blinked from Sangfort's hand to her own. "Get out," she said, tossing the book aside before another thought occurred to her. "Where—? Livius!"
The sleepy Horned Serpent answered her hiss, poking his head out from under the bed.
"What in the blazes are you doing?! You let this woman in here?!"
Livi looked at Sangfort, and his tongue flickered. "Ssshe sssmellss of the wissse one."
"What are you talking about?"
Sangfort's eyes narrowed at Harriet's usage of Parseltongue, and she stepped away from the desk, crossing her arms. "He said you'd need looking after."
"W-Who—?"
"But I'm not convinced you haven't pulled one over on the old man. His heart's too tender for his own good." Sangfort wrinkled her nose. "I think you'll fall all too comfortable into Slytherin's den."
"What are you talking about—?"
The door at Harriet's back flew open, and she didn't have time to recoil before she was yanked back by her robe. Snape stepped between her and Sangfort, kicking aside the dropped laundry.
"Out," he ordered Sangfort. He had his wand levied toward her, his knuckles white with the force of his grip. Sangfort didn't move.
"The company you keep speaks volumes about your intentions," she said to Harriet, who remained entirely baffled by the entire exchange. "And your integrity."
The end of Snape's wand rose in warning. "Out," he repeated with a final, lingering menace. Sangfort curled her lip but accepted Snape really would hex her in the face, slipping past the two of them in the doorway to reach the corridor. She gave Harriet one last inscrutable look before departing, sparing Snape no further attention. Snape didn't lower his wand until she was out of sight.
"I—what was that about?" Harriet demanded, feeling disheveled and wrong-footed in her night things next to Snape in his enveloping robes. She had little spots of water on her shoulders, and the plait left her scar much too exposed. "How did she even get in here? I warded the door!"
Snape glowered into the hall as he tucked his wand away into his sleeve. "Iris Sangfort is one of Dumbledore's spies," he delivered with a crisp, low bite of irritation, surprising Harriet. "She is unaware of my true loyalties and does not trust me, which suits the Headmaster's purposes for both of us. It also appears she does not trust you, and has taken it upon herself to inspect your possessions and probably report back to Dumbledore. As for how she got in here—Miss Sangfort is a regrettably gifted Cursebreaker."
"Regrettably?"
"Regrettable in that she is incredibly shortsighted." Snape turned his gaze to Harriet's room, brow lowered. He muttered a spell, and a sweeping yellow glow scanned the floor, the walls, and the desk, finding nothing. He grunted. "What did she say?"
"Something about 'him saying you'd need looking after.' And Livi—oh."
"Oh?"
"Livi told me she smelled like Dumbledore, I guess."
"You guess?"
Harriet flushed. "Well, it's not like he gives names, and he changes what he calls people when it suits."
Snape scoffed as he looked the room over again, then turned to Harriet. "How convenient. Your familiar makes for a worthless watch—." He stopped mid-sentence and stared at her. His eyes widened. Harriet opened her mouth to ask what was the matter, and he abruptly reached out, startling her when his fingertips grazed her neck.
"What are you—?" Her own hand rose to touch the same spot his had, then she flinched, realizing what Snape had seen. She averted her eyes. "It's nothing."
"It is not." He jerked his hand back from the brand as if stung, and his fingers curled into a fist. Her bath had washed the concealer away. "Why did you not say anything?"
Harriet shrugged, the tops of her ears burning red.
"Who was it?"
She tried to answer him, to say something, but the words lodged themselves somewhere in her chest. All that came out of her mouth was an odd click of her throat closing, her breath huffing. She tried again to similar effect and looked at Snape with confusion.
He understood before Harriet did. "You gave the secret to Jestergrass." Harriet nodded. "Fool. There's a gaes now. You can't speak of it, not of it or information related to what happened. He owns the truth and it is his to give."
"I don't want to talk about it anyway, so it doesn't matter."
"Fool," he said again as if she hadn't heard him the first time. "Forget about Sangfort. She won't be an issue. Come with me." Snape gestured her into the hall, and Harriet went, watching as he warded her door with something stronger and nastier than she had. He stowed his wand again and ushered her along. "Quickly. Don't linger out in the open."
Remembering the unfriendly looks at the dining table, Harriet followed him into the room he'd taken up residence in, the door snapping closed behind them. The space looked untouched, the bed perfectly made and everything put together aside for a black valise and a few scraps of parchment on the desk.
Without a word, Snape pointed to the floor before the vanity, and Harriet went to stand there, tugging on the side of her dressing gown. The latches on the valise sounded loud when Snape popped them open and rummaged through his things. He remained silent as he did so, searching by candlelight, and Harriet watched the muscle in his clenched jaw jump with the effort to keep his thoughts to himself.
He's upset, she realized, not entirely sure what to make of the sudden warmth in her chest. He's upset about this.
Snape found whatever it was he sought, and he returned to Harriet clutching a squat, white jar.
"Tip your head back."
She did so, staring up at the ceiling, and tried not to tense when she heard the jar's lid rattle. Snape smeared a cold, gritty cream over the brand with his index finger, then rubbed it in with his thumb, his touch featherlight but persistent. Red tinged Harriet's cheeks as she held very still, not letting her gaze wander away from the ceiling overhead, even if she could see the top of Snape's head in her periphery vision.
"Erm—so, what is this stuff?"
Snape finished rubbing the gunk in, then stepped back, jerking his head toward the mirror. Taking that as a direction, Harriet lowered her chin and turned, inspecting her neck in the mirror above the vanity. She expected to find something like Elara's concealer, something that left a thin but perceptible shift in skin tone—but whatever Snape had put on her vanished the brand completely.
"Oh," Harriet said, reaching to touch the spot. The cream was gone, though the skin tingled with magic. Snape took her wrist and shoved the jar into her hand. "Thanks. I haven't been able to find anything else that works."
"You won't. I'm the creator."
She turned the jar over in her hand, finding no label or the residue of one. Harriet looked up into his face, wondering, and Snape scowled at the wordless question he must have seen in her expression. He tucked his hair behind his ear on the right side, then swiped at his neck with brusque, rough swipes of his sleeve. It reddened the skin, but more importantly, it scrubbed away the potion hiding the faded brand emblazoned into his flesh.
"But you weren't found guilty," Harriet said, staring at the line of symbols and numbers. "When they took you to Azkaban. I saw—. You weren't found guilty."
"Neither were you."
Harriet didn't have a response for that. She gripped the jar so tight, the glass threatened to break.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. Whether it was the Minister or the Aurors, they shouldn't be able to treat people so callously, not without consequences. What was even the point in fighting if arseholes who branded witches and wizards out of spite continued to be in power? It wasn't bloody fair.
Suddenly, a cursory knock hit the door, and the knob turned without the person waiting for an answer. Harriet had an uncharacteristic moment of clarity wherein she realized what an inappropriate tableau the scene presented: her in her pajamas, standing close to Snape in his bedroom late at night, alone. She didn't have time to be embarrassed. From one breath to the next, she transformed into her Animagus form and jumped to Snape's shoulder. He cursed and fumbled to grab the jar before it hit the floor.
When Slytherin walked in, he found Professor Snape standing on his own, holding a potion jar with a ruffled crow perched upon his shoulder.
"I need you to go to Dumbledore tonight. Pyrites has been less than informed, and you must go get more information on Malfoy's defection," Slytherin ordered, his tone cold and impatient. What? Malfoy did what? He paused when he saw Harriet and lifted a speculative brow.
Snape, taking this as permission to speak, replied—. "My familiar, my Lord. I was in the middle of sending a tincture to one of our arthritic colleagues."
Disinterested, Slytherin said, "Yes, well." He held out a folded letter, the contents of which Harriet could only speculate. "Don't let me stop you."
Left with little other recourse, Snape brought Harriet to the desk, and he Transfigured one of the balled-up parchments into a small box. He set the jar inside, then used a bit of conjured twine to tie it to Harriet's leg. He stepped to the window and pushed it open. Slytherin said something else, something bored and drawling, but Harriet didn't hear it. She was too preoccupied with the weight tied to her leg—and the open window Snape nudged her toward.
Shite, she thought, eying the drop. I've been practicing, but this is a little much—.
A sudden shove had Harriet outside, and she beat her wings, panicking. Luckily, she only needed to glide a few meters to reach a tree, and she made a sloppy landing on one of the thicker branches. She heard the window snap shut somewhere behind her.
That was close, she sighed, clacking her beak. The package on her leg dangled, and Harriet struggled to lift it up, flapping and hopping until the twine stopped digging into her skin and Snape's stupid box settled in a divot between the trunk and a patch of leaves. As she worked, she considered what Slytherin had said, and it made a suspicious amount of sense why the wizard had vanished earlier in the afternoon.
Did Malfoy really defect? Merlin, does that mean he's gonna vote against Gaunt?
Getting one or two people to change their minds about the Minister was one thing; getting Lucius Malfoy with his majority votes to openly challenge Gaunt was another. That would change things. Harriet could hardly imagine what a wizarding world without Tom Riddle at its helm would look like, but it felt nice to hope. It felt nice to believe that he and the bastards like him, the people who would brand her or Snape or others, would get what was coming to them.
I have to write Hermione! Harriet thought. But that means I have to get back inside.
She gazed up at the indomitable wall of the Tor and the many shut windows. Harriet squawked.
…Bloody hell.