cclvi. i must not tell lies
Her footsteps echoed into the quiet corridor as Harriet headed to her destination.
Sunset curdled the sky outside the windows, shades of blue and purple and violet peeling away at the golden horizon until it leached into the clouds, limning the roving thunderheads in bronze gilt. The light danced on the lake, and if Harriet looked long enough, she could see the silhouette of Merpeople playing in the shallows.
Unfortunately, she didn't have much time to linger. She figured Madam Umbridge probably wouldn't appreciate her being late to detention.
School had only been in session for a few days, so Harriet hadn't heard much about the new inspector, but she had heard some. Briar Thorn and Izumi Takagi from second year had told her last night when they cornered Harriet in the common room that Umbridge had visited their Charms class. That visit had entailed nothing but a long, superior look from Umbridge toward Flitwick, a swipe of her quill, and a swift exit from the classroom. Otherwise, the witch had tromped about the castle, simpering and sniping, telling off students in that obnoxious, passive-aggressive way of hers. She'd given detention to Madri Misra in third year for throwing a Fanged Frisbee inside, but that detention had been handed off to Filch.
Apparently, Harriet was the first to get a personal touch from Umbridge herself.
The memory of Slytherin's warning haunted her as she climbed the stairs, footsteps bouncing in the enclosed space. "She will ultimately aim to see you expelled and forced from the campus," he'd said. "Keep your nose exceedingly clean."
"Calling the Minister a nonce and claiming he's in league with the Dark Lord probably wasn't the best way to keep my nose clean," Harriet muttered to herself.
"Yar, probably best not to repeat tha'," replied the nosy portrait of a whaler on break. Harriet told him to sod off.
On the third floor, a rustling noise turned her head, and a gummy feeling gripping the bottom of her shoes slowed her steps.
"What do you want?" Harriet asked Set, directing a sharp glance downward at the distortion pulling at her shadow. Her patience had been decidedly less abundant with the creature since his behavior at the Riddle House, where his grasping fingers had knocked her wands to the floor and grabbed the attention of Lord Voldemort. Harriet still believed she could have gotten away unnoticed—or at least with a head start—if not for Set, and his absence in Azkaban had left Harriet questioning his very nature.
Of course, she'd poked around a bit over the years, searching for information on Set and what he might really be, but Harriet had been met with more dead-ends than not, and his recent less-than-helpful actions made her wonder if he was some form of poltergeist, like Peeves. The general consensus she'd unearthed agreed seeing something not quantifiable by magical standards was bad news—the kind of news that got a witch sent to St. Mungo's…permanently.
A stint in Azkaban was enough incarceration for Harriet.
Set shifted, and one long, misshapen arm pointed toward a branching passage. Harriet approached it to humor him, but once she looked down the darkened way, she wished she hadn't. "Oh, bugger it," she hissed as she saw Accipto Lestrange walking closer. He didn't notice her at first, seemingly preoccupied with his own thoughts, but his head rose before she had a chance to slip away, and he sneered.
"Don't you have a master to be serving?" he asked her, the particular emphasis leading Harriet to believe he meant his words as a nasty innuendo. "Or did he finally let you off your knees for a breather?"
Harriet glared, her stomach turning. "Nice. Shouldn't I be asking you that?" She jerked her chin toward his chest, specifically the Guardian of the Magical Right pin glittering on his lapel. "Slytherin didn't want you, so what? You crawled to the next available lowlife?"
A few feet separated them by the time Accipto stopped walking. Harriet pulled out her wand without hesitation. "Put that away," he snapped. "Apprentice or not, I'm still a prefect, Potter, and you'll address me with respect."
"I don't give a Niffler's arse if you're a prefect. You touch me, and I'll hex your legs backward."
"Just wait, you stunted half-breed," Lestrange replied, his eyes narrowed into thin, hateful slits. "You'll get yours before too long."
"Wouldn't hold your breath for that."
Lestrange continued on—going where, Harriet could only guess. Hermione had told her she'd seen him lurking in all manner of dark and desolate parts of the castle the last few days. They both wagered he was indulging in those nasty, forbidden potions you could either brew yourself or buy off shady blokes in Knockturn Alley. They cost a mint to make or purchase, so Harriet wondered if Gaunt was lining Lestrange's pockets. Rumor had it he'd been raised by far-flung Lestrange relatives, but she doubted they had the gold to keep him in supply.
The distant tolling of bells echoed in the hall. Harriet directed an irritated glance at the floor and the shadow swirling underfoot. "Great," she mumbled. "I'm late."
She retraced her steps and followed the stairs up the final two floors, finding the abandoned office Umbridge had taken over. Harriet knocked, and after being admitted, she opened the door, revealing a room with the walls painted an obnoxious shade of magenta, the windows covered in lacy curtains and heavy valances. Little china plates sat on the shelves instead of books, and each one had a picture of a kitten surrounded by tiny flowers.
What in the world? Harriet puzzled. Why were the walls pink? Had they always been pink? Had Umbridge chosen pink?
There were two desks in the office, the Ministry witch herself seated behind the bigger one, while the smaller student version waited in the room's middle, stocked with parchment and a quill. Umbridge sipped tea from a frilly cup, everything on her desk perfectly in its place, the fire warm in the hearth at her back. If Harriet didn't know she'd tried to throw her into Azkaban, she would've thought it a welcoming—if a bit odd—scene.
"Good evening, Miss Potter," Umbridge greeted in a bright, cheery voice. It hardened as she added, "You're late."
"Er, yeah. Sorry, ma'am. Peeves flooded the closest stairwell."
A blatant lie, but Umbridge seemed uninterested in discovering the truth and moved on. "Have a seat."
Harriet shuffled toward the smaller desk, tired after a long day of studying and fielding uncomfortable looks from suspicious students. Seeing the parchment and quill, she imagined Umbridge would have her writing lines, and though she was in for several tedious hours, it would pass quickly enough. She was relieved the woman wasn't more imaginative.
Umbridge stood, and the chair creaked as her sizable backside lifted from it. "Do you know why you're here, dear?"
Harriet didn't roll her eyes, though it was a near thing. Dear. Harriet was not anyone's dear. "Because you assigned me a detention."
"And why is that?"
"Because I called the Minister a nonce."
Umbridge's eyes narrowed as she came out from behind her desk, her heels clacking little snippy notes against the flagstone. "You're a terribly troubled child, Miss Potter. That is why you're here—so I can help you. I have been sent by the Ministry to give aid to students such as yourself, and I understand that's why you said those nasty lies in class today. You need help."
Harriet didn't open her mouth to argue. She just waited for the woman to get on with her point. Bit like listening to Aunt Petunia go on a tear, she mused. I bet they'd get along swimmingly.
Umbridge folded her hands together and held them under her chin, continuing. "You've been lied to, Miss Potter, but that is not an excuse to further spread misinformation. Being confused does not pardon you from causing undue panic—."
"I'm not confused," Harriet rebutted.
"But you are." Umbridge stood in front of her, beady eyes set on her face. "Of course you are. That's why the Ministry feels it best to look into what kind of environment Hogwarts' staff is fostering here. Why else would a young girl attack a fellow student and claim it was He Who Must Not Be Named?"
"His name's Voldemort, since you sound confused yourself," Harriet informed the witch, savoring Umbridge's sour expression. "And I was cleared of any crimes by your Ministry, ma'am. I didn't hurt Terry Boot, and I never claimed Voldemort did, either. I said it was Barty Crouch Junior. Your lot found him dead in the Atrium, right?"
Umbridge's temper slipped in visible degrees as she lost control of the situation. "You're a liar, Miss Potter, but it isn't your fault. You simply need a firmer hand, and correction."
Harriet didn't like the sound of that one bit. "I'm not a liar," she reiterated, though she knew it'd be better to keep her thoughts to herself. Irritation simmered just beneath her skin, and it caused her neck to itch something fierce, the words tumbling out against her will. "The Dark Lord's back, and that's not something anyone should ignore, especially not the Ministry. Aren't you meant to be protecting people—."
"Quiet!" Umbridge barked like a kicked Diricawl. "That is enough of that. No more talking, Miss Potter. I believe lines will suit for your punishment in these detentions. You will write, 'I must not tell lies.'"
Harriet grunted, turning her attention to the stack of parchment in front of her. She pulled the first sheet forward on the desk and picked up the quill. "How many times, Madam Umbridge?'
"Oh, until the message sinks in." She laughed—the sound childish and abrasive, not at all suited to an adult. Harriet stifled her anger and annoyance down to tolerable levels, resolving to complain to Hermione and Elara later. As Umbridge continued to stand in place as if waiting for something else, Harriet noted a mistake in her setup.
"I've no ink, ma'am."
"You'll find it unnecessary once you begin."
Harriet studied the quill, twisting it between her fingers so she could see all sides. It didn't look like a Self-Inking Quill; those had a dark line of pigment through the shaft and into what Hermione called the "rachis." This feather didn't have that, and indeed, Harriet thought the quill rather strange. It had a small, golden ornament under the barbs where her fingers rested, and the black vane warbled with a glutinous red sheen.
Shrugging, she put the nib on the parchment surface and started to write. The dark, scarlet ink flowed without issue.
By her third repetition of 'I must not tell lies,' the back of Harriet's hand began to itch. On her fifth copy, the itch devolved into a burn, and Harriet stopped writing to scratch at it. She squinted at the reddening skin, watching as it peeled like a blister after a terrible sunburn, and it was then she noticed the letters.
In her own lazy scrawl were the words I must not tell lies. The ink was her blood.
Umbridge smiled.
"You—you can't do this," Harriet said, stumbling over the words as the pain caught up to her, every subsequent stroke of the quill's nib scratching deeper into her flesh. Hogwarts didn't allow for corporeal punishment. It'd been that way ever since Dumbledore became Headmaster decades ago. "You can't force a student to do this."
"You'll find that I'm perfectly within my rights." Pleased with the results, Umbridge turned and went back to her seat. "Keep going, Miss Potter. We'll see how well you learn this lesson."
"I'll tell Dumbledore."
"Oh, please do. Open communication with your Headmaster is vital for your education, after all." The witch sank into her chair like a smarmy, full toad. "You poor, poor thing. I really do think Minister Gaunt is right about you."
Harriet glared, but she couldn't resist rising to her bait. "Right about what?"
"Right in stating you're not fit for staying at Hogwarts, of course." Umbridge tutted under her breath. "You can't even complete a simple detention without throwing a fit, after all. My goodness, what ever shall we do with you?"
Harriet said nothing as Umbridge returned to her tea. What does that mean? What—? Is the Ministry going to commit me? Like a loon? Like…Azkaban?
Her aching hand curled into a fist around that nasty quill, her blood drying on the parchment. She should snap the quill into pieces, tear the parchment apart, and storm out of there. She should grab her wand and show that miserable bint exactly what she deserved—.
An echo of Slytherin's voice imposed itself upon her yet again. "I do not have the time to waste on that insignificant woman, and I've no interest in playing Gaunt's pointless games."
Harriet grit her teeth.
" You will be a model student, and we will proceed as planned."
She put the nib back into place. Breath held, she continued to write.
xXx
The intermittent patter of blood hitting the stone floor underfoot echoed in the dead silence of Hogwarts' midnight corridors.
Harriet's breath escaped her in pained bursts as she walked, clutching her hand tight in its soiled sleeve. It didn't matter how she held or tried to cover it, as the blood simply seeped through the fabric and oozed between her shaking fingers. Her head swam, black spots eating at the edges of her vision, but Harriet didn't let that stop her. She kept walking.
The gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's passage presented an obstacle. Harriet had to retrieve her Atlas, wincing and gasping as her hand moved, to figure out the password. Crimson fingerprints painted the glass by the time she returned it to her pocket and started up the spiral steps.
Darkness fully covered the Headmaster's empty office when Harriet eased inside without invitation, allowing the door to shut behind her with a muffled thump. A few of the old portraits stirred when she passed in front of them, her lit wand throwing light into their painted faces. She asked one of the more modernly dressed Headmistresses to get Professor Dumbledore for her, and the woman did as bid—if with a bit of huffiness.
Harriet waited in the dark office, shivering, her gaze fixed on the world outside of the mullioned windows as the seconds passed into minutes, and all the warmth of her being seemed to slip between her fingers and hit the carpet.
They can't commit me, she told herself again. They can't. They can't—but then again, they can't just send teenagers to Azkaban, and yet—.
The door to the upper level opened, and the torches blazed of their own accord as the Headmaster entered his office wrapped in his dressing gown. "Harriet?" he asked, his voice befuddled and raspy with sleep. "Is something the matter? What are you doing here at this hour?"
Harriet didn't hesitate to unwrap her bloodied limb and hold it in front of herself for Dumbledore's inspection. The Headmaster focused on the injury as he came down from the mezzanine, the little crease between his brow growing deeper the closer he drew.
"Umbridge gave me detention," she said. For the entire duration of her stint in that horrid, pink office, she hadn't shed a single tear, but now the sob built in her chest, struggling to break free. Professor Dumbledore gently turned her hand in his own, and his eyes widened when he inspected the damage. "She said—she told me they'd take me away if I—if I could do a simple detention, and Professor Slytherin—he won't—he won't accept me doing anything—."
Professor Dumbledore urged Harriet over to one of the cushioned winged chairs by the hearth, and she all but fell into it as he continued to inspect her hand. Nodding to himself, he retrieved his wand from his robe, holding it over the weeping incisions. "Episkey."
Nothing happened.
"As expected," Dumbledore muttered to himself, conjuring a cloth before the wand once more returned to its pocket. He folded the cloth and pressed it to the injury. "Hold that there. Wait here just a moment, Harriet—."
Two swift strides brought him to the hearth, and after sprinkling a quick dash of Floo powder over the grate, he vanished in a whorl of green fire. With the Headmaster gone, Harriet concentrated on keeping pressure on her hand, swallowing the hiccups crawling out of her lungs in harsh, jagged bursts. She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't. She wasn't a child. She wouldn't—.
Green sparks sputtered before the flames writhed in the fireplace, admitting the Headmaster once more. Before the fire could die down, another person stepped from the hearth.
"How unsurprising," Snape griped as he materialized, still dressed for the day in his indomitable black robes. He brought with him the smells of the dungeon, the thickness of an unknown potion bubbling in an iron cauldron. He had been brewing, she could tell. "Potter finds mischief when she's meant to be asleep in her dorm—."
His voice cut off with all the abruptness of a slamming door when he saw the stained cloth swaddling Harriet's hand.
"I had detention with Umbridge," she explained, looking down to her lap as she unwrapped the fabric Dumbledore had conjured. The words she'd scratched into her own skin over the long, dragging hours had formed grooves in the flesh, and they hadn't congealed. Harriet wondered if some kind of wicked magic kept the blood flowing freely. "And she had this quill that—."
A shadow fell across her, and Harriet sucked in a breath as Snape swept over her, robes pooling on the floor as he knelt. He took her hand between his own and squeezed too tightly, Harriet yelping. "Steady on!"
His touch softened, his black eyes searching her face before he reached for the bloodied cloth. "Give me that."
Harriet gave it to him, and Snape used a clean corner to dab away the fresh blood. The words could be clearly seen. Snape's fingertip shook as he traced the jagged letters.
"Why did you not stop?" he demanded. "When you realized what it was doing—?"
"Not like I had much of a choice," Harriet snarked, wincing. His skin felt warm where hers was cold and clammy, his long fingers gently depressing her knuckles and bones to survey the extent of the damage. "If I didn't finish to her satisfaction, she was going to tell the Ministry I'm a fragile nutter and they would take me away—."
"She'll tell them that anyway after you carved into yourself!" Snape snarled. "You little fool—!"
"I didn't know what else to do!" Harriet cried. Her eyes burned, and she used the hand not held by Snape to wipe at them. "I didn't know what to do!"
A lull fell upon the trio, the Potions Master ignoring the tears glittering in Harriet's lashes as he cleaned her injury and the Headmaster stood over them. At length, Professor Dumbledore said, "I believe I will go have words with Madam Umbridge."
Snape said nothing.
Professor Dumbledore left, leaving them both in the dimly lit office, Harriet letting out a tired, shuddering breath. Snape retrieved his wand and spelled cool water to pour over her wound, heedless of the sodden mess he left on the fancy carpet below them. The few spectating portraits whispered to one another, but the rest continued to slumber, rumbling snores lightening the heavy silence.
"D'you think talking to Umbridge will do anything?" Harriet asked, already knowing the answer in her heart. "She can't—she won't do this to other students, will she?"
Snape's lips formed a thin line as he searched through his pockets, removing various little vials and bottles for him to inspect. "Worry about yourself for once, girl."
"I don't care about myself."
His fingers spasmed where they held her, sliding up to grip Harriet by her wrist. Her eyes rose to meet his, finding Snape had leaned closer, barely leashed fury glinting in his gaze. "You must. It isn't your job to protect the students."
"It has to be someone's!" She gave a half-hearted attempt to shake him off, but Snape held firm. He opened one of the vials and dripped a measure of ripe, sticky potion onto the back of her palm. It tingled when he rubbed it into the wounds. "If Umbridge is gonna tie Dumbledore's hands, and Gaunt's forcing everyone to look away, then why not me?"
"Don't antagonize the bitch, Potter."
"I've already landed a month of detentions with her." Harriet shut her eyes, dread settling over her shoulders, crawling around her neck like a noose. She would have to go back. She would have to do it again, have to sit there and feel the slow, agonizing drag of the quill's invisible nib biting into her flesh—.
Snape conjured gauze and a long roll of bandages, proceeding to wrap the injury. "Detention," he said as if repeating the word without any meaning attached to it. Then, firmer. "Detention. You have detention with me for the rest of the year."
Harriet choked, sputtered. "What!"
"I'll ensure Madam Umbridge thinks your punishment is suitably gruesome and demoralizing." He tied off the bandage with a final, firm tug. "You won't be subjected to her again. I swear it."
Oh, Harriet realized, her stomach flopping as the unexpected thought occurred to her. Relief overcame the dread, and she could have cried again. Oh. If I've got detention with Snape, I can't get it with Umbridge, and it's not actually detention. That's…smart. Thoughtful. I'll…I'll be safe with Snape. I always am.
Snape stood. "Let's return you to the dungeons. I will speak to the Headmaster later."
He held out his hand, his fingers spotted and stained with her blood. It had gotten under his nails, into the creases of his palm, but Snape didn't seem to notice. Harriet placed her hand in his, and he helped her to her feet. He released, but only after she was steady on her own.
For a long moment, they looked at one another and said nothing. Then, Snape headed for the door, and Harriet followed. If she had reached out, she could have touched the fluttering black wool of his cloak—but she didn't. She didn't. Harriet kept her good hand folded over the bad one and clasped them to her chest, where she could feel her heart beating too fast for its own good.