cclii. progress for progress' sake
It was ten-thirty in the morning, the sky brilliantly blue, the sun bright, and Harriet Potter was running through the streets of London.
This was not how she thought her day would begin.
Remus was the one who noticed the problem first. The house had been in a state of controlled chaos since dawn, far too many trunks crammed into the kitchen by the large hearth, familiars squished into cages, brooms gathered and cauldrons stacked. The Weasleys in particular were in a rush to get all their things together, and the twins drove their mother spare with pranks and Apparating every few steps.
The Malfoys were thoroughly unimpressed, and tempers were short between the two pure-blood families with Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy going on about poorly bred children from their seats in the parlor. The latter had hesitated to send Draco back to Hogwarts but had extracted a promise from Professor Snape to ensure his safety. She and Lucius would continue to stay at Grimmauld until their safe house could be secured.
Perhaps thirty minutes before they were due to step through the Floo and enter Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, Remus tried to use the Floo…and found it wouldn't work. He made several attempts, as did Sirius. Then, the adults gathered around the hearth, scattering silver powder over the iron grate, puzzled and confused—until Lucius, sipping tea in the doorway like he owned the bloody property, pointed out, "Gaunt owns the Floo Network, you understand? He may not be able to access this port or discover the password, but he can rescind accessibility."
"You could take this all a bit more seriously, Lucius," Mr. Weasley said, his voice short, cutting.
"That I'm sitting in this hovel at all proves how seriously I'm taking matters, Arthur."
That prompted Sirius to dash out of the house and Disapparate, returning several minutes later with a furious expression and damp shoes. "What the fuck is that arsehole thinking?" he raged. "I tried Andy's Floo, and it's not opening to the Platform either. Tried Apparating there—and then Apparating to Hogsmeade, not a wanking thing. What in blazes is he thinking? This is affecting everyone!"
"He's proving a point." Malfoy lounged at the dining table in his morning robe, snapping his fingers at one of his house-elves to get him toast. "Both to you and to the public. He is everywhere, omniscient, etcetera, etcetera. How could there possibly be a Dark Lord on the prowl when he's in control of every movement within our world?"
Sirius had looked at him, then at Harriet—and the room full of teenagers behind her. He cursed again.
This was how Harriet found herself on London's streets, rushing with her trunk flying behind her, hidden from the Muggles. The others ran as well, Elara keeping pace with Harriet as a dog, Hermione wheezing directions for the benefit of the witches and wizards who'd never ventured into the Muggle world before. Molly Weasley sounded as if she might have a gasping fit, and Sirius was spitting mad.
The people at the station weren't much better. Magical folk flooded Kings Cross from the direction of Diagon Alley and other close, secluded warrens. Insults and demands for accountability flew with a fervor, and Ministry Obliviators had their hands full trying to wrangle the Muggles goggled by the students in summer cloaks and styled uniforms with their clearly magical parents who hadn't expected needing to leg it through Muggle London. Harriet thought she saw the police, under orders of a harried Ministry employee, setting up yellow tape to block off the station.
"This is an absolute disaster," Mr. Weasley muttered as he hurried his sons and daughter along. "The Department of Magical Law Enforcement will be swamped trying to sort out the legal and illegal usage of magic today. It makes me ill to think of the backlog."
Harriet wondered if that was the point, or perhaps a bonus in Gaunt's eyes. After all, Voldemort was out there bloody killing people, and if Gaunt was helping him, or at least facilitating it, keeping the Ministry busy with other trivial matters would benefit him.
Wards shimmered like opalescent curtains around Platforms Eight, Nine, Ten, and Eleven—all down the row, misdirecting those Muggles still bobbing about the station like missing bits of flotsam, while those getting off the arriving trains stumbled through the doors as dazed as Mooncalfs. They were hurried along by annoyed Ministry workers who hadn't expected their day would include Muggle-sheparding.
The congestion and confusion worked in Harriet's favor for once; no one took the time to give her a second glance as her group pushed through toward the wall between Platforms Nine and Ten. Elara transformed back into a witch, and she held Harriet's wrist like a vice.
"Merlin, steady on."
"Not until your backside is on the train."
Harriet grumbled, but she didn't protest as Elara and Hermione rushed her onto the Hogwarts Express, nearly slamming her ankles into the metal steps in her hurry. Only once inside did she look back toward the platform—and her insides twisted to see the Aurors prowling its length.
"I don't think he's considered how this looks," Hermione insisted as they wrangled their familiars and luggage and went off in search of a compartment. "From one side of his mouth, he insists the Dark Lord was defeated years ago and there's nothing to worry about. From the other side, he's ordering more Aurors to patrol public areas. People see this."
"People are stupid," Elara said, blithe as could be. They found an empty compartment and she slung the door open, freely glowering at a pack of second-year Hufflepuffs who'd made moves in that direction. They scampered. "They'll believe anything written in the Prophet, no matter what's happening around them."
They sat down, joined soon enough by Ginny and Luna. Most everyone who came down the train's passage complained about the mess on the platform—though a few paused to peer into their space, and Harriet heard the whispers.
"They let her back in?"
"Didn't she go to Azkaban?"
"Didn't she kill—?"
Hermione snapped the curtains closed.
Eventually, the train lurched into motion, and they started on their way. Harriet looked out the window to watch London disappear, wishing she could have taken more time to say goodbye to Sirius, that the Flamels could have come to see them off, but that wasn't how things were.
Things can never be that way, Harriet reminded herself. Voldemort ruins everything.
"So, who ended up being prefect for your year?" Ginny asked as she picked apart the sandwich her mum had shoved into her hands. Harriet had one as well, tucked into her trunk. Livi had probably stolen it. "Is it Harriet? What with her being Slytherin's apprentice and all?"
Harriet frowned, having not heard anything about it.
"Hermione is the prefect," Elara said as she crossed one leg over the other and leaned back, opening the day's Prophet.
"Well." Hermione cleared her throat, her cheeks darkening. "Technically, Elara is prefect."
Harriet, Luna, and Ginny looked between the pair, confused. Hermione sighed and elbowed Elara.
"Slytherin sent me the badge," Elara explained without looking up from the paper. "He pointedly stated in his letter he hadn't selected you because your duties as apprentice would not allow for the trivialities allotted to a prefect. He wanted to make sure I had no allusions about any favoritism on his part." She turned a page. "I passed the badge on to Hermione."
"That's a great idea," Luna commented, nodding.
Ginny, on the other hand, just looked more confused. "That's, uh, not how that works, is it?"
"Not…really," Hermione admitted. "But, ah, Elara pointed out a specific bylaw—a very old bylaw—which details how a prefect can, in suspension of their duties, select a person to act in their name and accept the title and chores of their office."
Ginny snorted. "Slytherin will never go for that. He'll pick a different prefect. Slytherin doesn't have Muggble-born prefects. No offense, Hermione."
Hermione seemed to take some offense, but she kept her tone light. "None taken."
"The more important section of the bylaw about prefects and their selection—," Elara interjected. "Is the part that explicitly states that while the Heads of House are responsible for prefect selection, only the Headmaster may dismiss a prefect. Not the Head of House."
"Oh, that's wicked isn't it?" Ginny clapped her hands once and laughed. "Slytherin will be right brassed off."
"He can be brassed off all he wants. It's the bylaw."
Conversation turned to the newspaper in Elara's hands and the trite put out by the writers. "Even Rita's scared of Gaunt," Hermione commented. "And she's the most audacious reporter they have there. Even if she wanted to write more Ministry-critical articles, they're getting turned down by her editor."
Harriet rolled her eyes. "But if she writes homophobic slander about a fourteen-year-old, that's on?"
Hermione sighed and shrugged as if to say, "They're idiots."
Elara pursed her lips, one of her elegant brows twitching. "Never mind Rita. Gaunt commented in an interview on the 'security and sanctity of Hogwarts.'"
"And?"
"He's saying he desires for the Ministry to become more involved in Hogwarts, which has largely existed as a secular entity beyond the Ministry's control. He believes it's time the school fell under government control."
"He won't be the first Minister to try," Hermione harshly commented.
"He might be the first to succeed."
Elara flipped to another page, the paper sliding through her gloved fingers. "More disappearances. Naturally. But, there's one here distinct enough for the editor to allow a piece on. Seraphina Steele; she's suspected to be an Unspeakable."
"Suspected?"
"It's not as if the Department of Mysteries is handing out their payroll list. Suspected is as close as they can get to knowing."
"Huh."
They speculated more Seraphina Steele and who might be a secret Unspeakable. This went on until Luna found a Chocolate Frog in her pocket and started to munch on it—not caring a whit for the stray lint on the sticky surface. "Hermione?" she said.
"Yes, Luna?"
"It must be hard to attend the prefect meetings."
Hermione blinked, her brow furrowed. Harriet often got the impression Luna annoyed Hermione with her flights of fancy and sometimes puzzling diction, but she kept herself polite and friendly. "I don't understand."
"Well, since the prefects are all up in their cabin and are meant to be patrolling, I thought it must be difficult to be doing that while sitting here with us. But, maybe I'm being silly. Maybe you can astrally project!"
"Oh, bugger—!"
Pale as a ghost, Hermione rushed out the door, her shiny badge pinned to her lapel, and they didn't see her again for the rest of the ride. She rejoined when the train began to slow, and they brought their trunks down from the overhead compartments. Harriet leaned onto her feet, rubbing at her sore shoulder. An otherwise quiet, simple trip had made her forget what waited for her outside their comfortable escape, and when she opened the compartment door, she was bluntly reminded. Students stopped in the middle of the corridor to stare at her, and those wearing blue and bronze crowded closer, buzzing with noise.
Before they could say anything—before Harriet could say anything—a group of Slytherins pushed to the fore.
"Stop blocking the way," Erin Mason, a tall blonde girl who was entering her fourth year, told the Ravenclaws. Aidan Shafiq was with her, as were Galen Lament, a morose boy in Erin's year with banshee-blood, and Theodric Barrow, a normally witty, laid-back boy who was in the Quidditch reserves.
The four Slytherins stared down the Ravenclaws until they looked away and shuffled off.
"Hi, Harriet," Mason told her. "Have a nice holiday?"
"Err—," was Harriet's clever response, because nice wasn't really the word she'd use to describe it.
The Slytherins didn't have much time to linger as they were clogging the path just the same as the Ravenclaws. "See you later!"
Harriet watched them leave as the others in her compartment got the rest of their things together. What was that about?
Fog filled the station and descended upon Hogsmeade in a thick, obscuring curtain. They could hardly see the carriages waiting for them as they followed Professor Grubbly-Plank's voice toward their destination, and a nervous cluster of first-years stumbled by.
"Was I ever that short?" Ginny wondered aloud as she watched them go.
"You're still that short," Ronald said as he appeared from the gloom, followed by Finnegan and Thomas. Ginny stepped on his foot.
Their journey to the castle hadn't yet come to an end, as Harriet and her friends learned there was congestion on the path toward Hogwarts caused by extra carriages coming up from a settlement in the lower valley. When parents failed to reach London through the usual means in the morning, several of them elected to wait until evening to see if they could Floo or Apparate into Hogsmeade. Apparently, Gaunt still hadn't seen fit to lift the blockade, and those parents had sent their children to the nearest magical village, Keenbridge, and Dumbledore had extra carriages and staff shuttling lost students up to the castle.
All in all, those who greeted them at the entrance hall doors appeared particularly unhappy, and when they entered the Great Hall, Harriet didn't see Professor Dumbledore or Professor McGonagall. Snape sat in his usual seat with his usual grimace, as did Slytherin. Luckily, Harriet remembered at the last second to duck out of the way and yank her apprenticeship chords from her robe pocket, slinging them around her neck. Slytherin narrowed his eyes as she rushed toward her seat at Slytherin table.
"Merlin," she murmured, sinking into Hermione's side, hiding behind the girl's unbound hair. Harriet didn't notice the numerous eyes that had turned from their conversation to stare at her. "I don't know who would've killed me first if I hadn't grabbed these—Snape or Slytherin."
"Snape," Hermione told her, primly folding her hands together on the empty table. "Slytherin needs you alive."
"Bloody marvelous."
Professor Dumbledore slipped in through the staff entrance only a scant few seconds before McGonagall brought the new first-years through the main doors. Harriet watched the Headmaster, noticing the short, squat witch who walked behind him, almost hidden by Dumbledore's spangled robes. She looked…familiar.
As the witch took a seat next to the Headmaster's golden chair, she reached for the goblet placed by her plate, and in doing so turned her face toward the hall.
"Oh fuck me," Harriet hissed, hunching lower in her seat.
"What? What is it? Are you all right?" Hermione asked, looking away from the High Table.
"She was at my hearing."
"Who?"
"That witch." She jerked her chin toward the woman. "Umbridge, I think. She's from the Office of the—the Inspector or something."
"Inspectorate?"
"That."
Hermione looked troubled. "That's a small department founded by Gaunt, and it exists under the authority of the Minister's cabinet. It deals with inspections and inquiries above the level of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."
"She tried to say I was doing Dark magic and get me thrown in bloody Azkaban. What is she doing here?"
Across the table, Elara sighed and rubbed at her temple. "It can't be for anything good."
The Sorting commenced with a song from the Hat—a rather grim and ominous ditty about new dangers encroaching upon the school.
"Bloody rag," Malfoy muttered, leaning on his arm. Harriet hadn't noticed where he'd gone once they'd reached the station, but she had noticed he was careful about where he sat. Crabbe and Goyle were on the other side of the table, Malfoy choosing the place between Hermione and third-year Emile Elderberry instead. He looked unhappy.
The feast commenced, and Harriet sighed as she dished herself food, trying to ignore the unrelenting press of eyes coming to rest on her bowed head.
"Anthony Goldstein's staring at you," said Reed Winickus, a third-year. Harriet had never liked Winickus; slim and beady-eyed, he was always sneering and crude, and he once made a comment about the length of her skirt that had Harriet barring him from her study table in the library. "D'you wonder if he's thinking about doin' you in, Potter?"
Harriet breathed in to respond—and Walt Murton, sitting across from him, kicked Winickus somewhere sensitive. The boy yelped, attracting eyes from the High Table.
"Stuff it," Walt muttered, a scarlet blush on his pale cheeks. He ducked forward so his dark hair fell in his face.
"Just because you're in love with the bint—."
Another kick, another yelp, and Professor Snape swept from the table to chastise the pair. Harriet just hunkered down in her seat and concentrated on the food.
When the last of dessert had been had, the final smudges of treacle scooped from the dishes, Professor Dumbledore rose from his seat and spread his arm as if to encompass the room. The silver stars on his long, trailing sleeve glinted in the candlelight.
"Welcome, welcome!" he greeted. "It brightens my heart to see you here once again—or for the first time! On behalf of my staff, I am happy to greet you and open Hogwarts' doors for yet another year of excellent learning!"
People clapped a polite, tired applause, most students already eager to find their beds.
"Now, Mr. Filch would like me to remind you of his extensive list of banned contraband not allowed in the school's corridors. Most notably, that includes all products from Zonko's Joke Shop, and those from Messrs. Gambol and Japes' establishment. I would also like to add a note about the Forbidden Forest being, as the name might suggest, forbidden to students—."
"Hem, hem."
Dumbledore startled, and the whole of the Great Hall brought their attention to the squat witch rising from her seat at the Headmaster's side.
"Ah," the Professor said. Harriet flattered herself in thinking she knew him just well enough to recognize his irritation, no matter how hidden. It sparked behind his friendly eyes. "Lest I forget, allow me to detour into an introduction for the esteemed Madam Dolores Umbridge, who is at Hogwarts on the request of our Minister to perform new, mandatory inspections of our classes."
"Circe's curse," Harriet whispered, the oath leaving in a soft breath. Had it only been hours ago that Elara mentioned Gaunt's article in the Prophet? "He's proving a point," Mr. Malfoy had said. Harriet had never heard of Ministry inspections happening at the school, and given the sudden muttering rising from the spectators, neither had anyone else.
"This won't go over well," Elara said.
Harriet glanced toward the far end of the High Table. Professor Slytherin had his hands laced together, his chin balanced on his steepled fingertips. He wasn't looking at Umbridge, but rather straight ahead, into the middle distance, as idle as a predator waiting for its prey to cross its path.
"Now, where was I? Ah, yes. The Forbidden Forest—."
"Hem, hem."
The cloying sound of Umbridge clearing her throat for a second time earned a round of mean titters from the student body. She pretended she didn't hear them, and the witch smiled at Professor Dumbledore, her lips spreading like the wide, gaping maw of a hungry toad.
"Did you have something to add, Madam Umbridge?"
"Yes, yes I did. Thank you for the introduction, Headmaster. I must say I am honored to be selected as the Ministry's representative here at Hogwarts. I am authorized to act as the Minister's agent in our hallowed school—."
Harriet leaned on her bench, folding her arms on the table. "Have you ever heard someone interrupt the Headmaster before?" she asked Cengor Pendarves, now a seventh-year and head prefect for their House. He tucked a strand of his tidy brown hair behind his ear and considered Harriet's question.
"No," he finally settled on. "Not at the feast, at any rate. But, today seems to be a day for firsts."
"And none of them good."
Umbridge was still speaking. "Every Headmaster and Headmistress of Hogwarts has brought something new to the weighty task of governing this historic school, and that is as it should be, for without progress there will be stagnation and decay. There again, progress for progress' sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering. A balance, then, between old and new, between permanence and change, between tradition and innovation…."
Harriet slouched in her seat, exhaling through her nose. "What is she even banging on about?"
"—Because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognized as errors of judgment. Meanwhile, some old habits will be retained, and rightly so, whereas others, outmoded and outworn, must be abandoned—."
"It's as I said earlier," Elara replied without bothering to lower or modulate her voice. Indeed, several people in the Great Hall had started speaking at volume, and none of their Heads of House moved a finger to do something about it. "Gaunt means to interfere at Hogwarts, and I imagine Umbridge is his first stepping stone. Through her, he'll be able to justify further decisions to lambaste and 'correct' the administration here. She'll find fault with every class—just wait and see."
Harriet didn't want to wait and see. She didn't understand everything the witch said—but she knew she'd been at her trial, and she'd been all too happy to see Harriet, a bloody teenager, get thrown to the Dementors. That type of person had no business at Hogwarts.
When Umbridge's long-winded speech drew to a close, a few people clapped—notably Accipto Lestrange, seated at the far end of the table with the rest of his irritating arseholes. Umbridge finally sat, and Dumbledore got to finish his yearly warnings, though he kept his musings short. He dismissed them with a wave, and Harriet stood with her friends, ready to find her bed.
"So, do you think she's going to be sitting in on classes?" she asked around a yawn. "Does that include Defense?"
Hermione's face did a funny thing where it froze halfway between a grimace and a rather wicked grin. "Oh, I would pay to see that."
"You might have your chance," Elara commented as they waited their turn to pass into the Entrance Hall. "I would imagine her secondary goal is to make Harriet's life miserable, and what better way to make her miserable than to trail her into her classes? That seems to be Gaunt's dream at the moment."
"You'd think I'd spat in his pumpkin juice."
"You might as well have with what you said at your trial."
Harriet didn't have a response for that.
They passed through the torch-lit entrance hall, surrounded by chatty Slytherins eager to find their dormitories. They were almost to the top of the steps that plunged into the earth and the dungeons below, when a shadow pulled itself away from the alcove, and a familiar figure stepped forward.
Terror ratcheted through Harriet's heart and crept into her veins like frozen sludge. Her feet stuck to the floor, and the rich dinner she'd just consumed threatened to make a reappearance.
It's not him, she told herself, on the verge of panic. It's not him, it's not him. He died. He's dead. Snape killed—.
"Harriet."
The flames of the nearest brazier shifted. The light wavered and fell upon the figure, and Viktor Krum stood waiting, staring at Harriet.
A/N: I borrowed some of Umbridge's lines from OotP. Her position is different here, but in many ways, she's doing just as she was meant to do in canon: undermine Dumbledore. Now…how that will go with Slytherin, we'll have to see.
Harriet's fan-club: "Here's a pamphlet."
Harriet: "…"
Harriet: "Why does this say 'Vote for Potter, The Better Dark Lady'?"
Fan-club, stuffing pamphlets into their pockets: "No reason, no reason."