cclviii. on a sinking ship
Harriet threw herself backward to avoid the curse flying toward her face.
The second curse came faster, and she had just enough time to dodge, shoes scraping against the flagstones, her left hand flying out to catch her balance. Her fingers brushed the wall.
Shite!
Harriet tried to dodge the final curse, but she was already at the wall, and all she could do was throw herself against it and duck. She could feel the wall's rough grading scratch her skin through her uniform as she slid against its surface, and the spell's heat grazed her face. She turned away, eyes shut—and the curse hit the wall next to her with a sizzling sound.
"I instructed you to block, Miss Potter. Not to dodge."
Professor Slytherin's appearance wavered in the Underneath's oily torchlight. It slipped over his skin like paint—orange, yellow, red, veined in green where it reflected off the frigid standing water. Strange magic veiled the so-called Chamber of Secrets, blurring where Slytherin's magic had chipped the rock or scorched the floor, the damage peeling and flaking away into nothingness, revealing unmarked stone.
It'd been a surprise for Harriet when Slytherin informed her their sessions would be taking place in the Chamber—or the Underneath, as she called it. She'd pretended to be suitably awed and impressed when he'd shown her the entrance in the girl's loo—and she'd pointedly not thought about the Moon Mirror in Salazar Slytherin's office that provided a much simpler ingress, one her master discounted because of his own arrogance. It was funny, thinking about Slytherin having to sneak into his ancestor's chamber through a loo.
Unfortunately, her situation didn't stay funny. Harriet's acting must have been less than stellar, as Slytherin was visibly annoyed with her, and after a terrible night of sleep with her hand aching, Harriet could barely string two sentences together without stumbling over her own thoughts. That frustration leaked into her tone now as she snapped—.
"I don't know how!"
Slytherin bore his teeth. "Then figure it out!"
He makes it sound simple, Harriet grumped as she struggled upright, using the wall for leverage. She brushed off her skirt, for what little good it did her. Water filled her shoes, and her socks had been irrevocably scorched by spellfire. They must have been at this for thirty minutes by now. But I can't summon knowledge I don't have out of my arse!
Slytherin had limited his magic to one spell this afternoon, with the instruction for Harriet to block it with magic. The problem was, that spell consisted of a singular unspoken curse Harriet knew couldn't be blocked because of what Snape had taught her years ago.
Purple, she seethed in her own thoughts. Purple is at the bloody top of Birch's ruddy Law! Anything green and above gets progressively harder to block, especially if you don't know the other nonsense like the viscosity or density. Ah—.
Harriet forced herself to the side, straining her back as she bent back to avoid the crackling spell aimed at her face. Her arm sunk shoulder-deep into one of the reflection pools, and she nearly followed it.
Slytherin sighed as he watched her scramble upright again. "Our sessions are shorter than I'd prefer, Potter, and you're wasting my time."
"I don't know a Shield Charm strong enough," Harriet retorted, keeping her temper in check. "It's in nothing I've been taught before."
"You do," Slytherin asserted. "You have the tools for this assignment. Use them." He resumed his casting position, lazily pointing his wand at her. "Again."
Harriet spread her feet and bent her knees, bracing herself to dodge once more. No matter what Slytherin said, until she figured out his ridiculous riddle, she didn't know how to block the spell, and she didn't much fancy spending the evening in the hospital wing. Not after last night with Umbridge.
The spell came again—slower, a warm-up—and Harriet stepped to the side, away from the reflection pool.
A shield, a shield, I need—.
Again, the curse sailed toward her, glowing a blazing, inky violet, and Harriet jerked back, moving faster. She jabbed her wand downward.
"Bombarda!"
The small blast cracked the flagstones, scattering negligible shrapnel hunks. Slytherin arched a brow but said nothing, simply spinning his wand around for another go. Harriet nearly flubbed her next incantation in her rush, biting her own tongue as she felt the air heat with Slytherin's curse. It came blasting toward her—.
"Aes Clupeus!"
A bronze shield formed, and she snatched it off the ground, ducking behind its rim.
Harriet had never used this particular incarnation of the spell. She always used it to conjure a sword in her practices with Snape—and, in fact, he'd told her not to bother using a physical shield in fights, that they hampered more than they helped. Harriet didn't care at the moment, clinging to the barrier by its ugly, roughly hewn handles. The curse hit the shield, the vibration rippling through her hands, and Harriet exhaled, expecting that to be it—.
Violet light glowed through her eyelids, and Harriet yelped as the curse sunk into the shield's metal and poured over her arm, seeping across her skin like a blanket of furious hornets. Harriet threw the shield from herself and swatted at her stinging limb.
"Clever, but crude, Miss Potter," Slytherin told her, watching as Harriet wriggled on the ground, trying to put out a fire that wasn't there. He yawned. "Did you think it would be that simple? No, not quite. Get up and prepare yourself for another bout."
"My arm—."
"It will cease burning in a moment. Do get up, girl."
True to his word, a few seconds passed, and the curse quit hurting, though it left an uncomfortable, prickly tightness like a bad sunburn over her forearm. Her writing hand throbbed in time with her heartbeat, and Harriet tried shaking it out, but the healing cuts on the back of it stung mercilessly under the bandages.
Sodding Umbridge.
What was she meant to do? The curse couldn't be blocked by magic; Harriet had never heard of a shield strong enough to block a bloody violet spell with such ridiculous density. If it could eat right through bronze, there was a good chance it'd eat through any substance Harriet could Transfigure, and even if she managed to find something thick enough to block the spell, it'd be far too heavy for her to lift.
What to do?
She stood facing Slytherin again, her mind racing, ready to dodge. A conversation with Snape suddenly filtered through her ears—.
"I don't understand how anyone could think about all this during a duel."
"The key is memorization, Potter—and, should that fail you, knowledge of stance and color theory."
Color theory? Then, what in the blazes is opposite purple? Orange? Yellow?
A lot of red and orange shields guarded against water spells, which typically had a very high VERD. It was best to dodge them rather than fussing about with a conjured shield, which—in an ideal situation—would be what Harriet would do when encountering a violet curse flying at her sodding head. However, she'd learned duelists could get a leg up if they understood the spell's ENT—or the Elemental Negation Transformation. That was a fancy way of saying they knew the major element trying to splat in their face.
The ENT didn't always work. Magic was, by its very nature, twisty and confounding, and though there were only four official elements—water, fire, earth, air—each element broke into a complicated web of branching elements—ice, lightning, wood, etcetera. Some spells didn't conform to the elemental wheel at all, such as curses that attacked the mind or enervated a target. Suffice it to say, though Harriet could guess Slytherin's spell was somehow water-based from how it'd felt flowing against her skin, that didn't necessarily mean it was.
Can't use something solid, and a shield doesn't have the strength to negate it. But what if—.
The curse launched toward her, and Harriet jerked aside, her eyes narrowed in concentration, her arm aching.
Bugger it.
As if in slow motion, she saw Slytherin's arm moving—overhand, because most curses were overhand, the wand's motion starting from the crown of his head, flicking to trace an invisible rune. In answer, Harriet's hand moved as if on its own, starting from the base of her spine, sketching a rune opposite of her master's.
The violet curse burst from his wand the moment Harriet snarled, "Bombarda Terracus!"
The two spells met midair—and Harriet's hex, purposefully incanted to take on a thicker element with a denser, more yellow light than the standard version—cut through Slytherin's, dispersing it into nothing. It fired toward him, and he blocked it with a negligible flick of his wand.
"Excellent," he said, a pleased smile tipping the corner of his mouth. "Though, for future reference, an opponent won't dally for an hour while you try to counter his spellcraft."
Harriet took a deep breath and replied, "Yes, Master." Though what she wished to do was hex him again. Both Dumbledore and Snape had warned her never to have a go at Slytherin with her full intent. She had to mask her ability, keep him ignorant of her competency.
"Come here, Apprentice."
He used Parseltongue to address her, never a good sign in Harriet's opinion. Nevertheless, she scuffed her shoes and approached Slytherin, ignoring how his red eyes followed her every movement until she stopped in front of him, schooling her expression into something passably polite.
"Your arm."
She presented it—stopping herself from flinching when he tugged her sleeve back to reveal the tender red skin. He tutted like a concerned parent, though Harriet wasn't fooled. His smile remained steadfast as he surveyed the injury, becoming bolder when he noticed one spot had blistered.
"A good lesson to learn, my Apprentice. If you are not certain you can block a spell, it is better to dodge."
"You told me to block it."
"And? Do you not know your limits better than I? Are you so foolish as to do everything you are told, even when you know it impossible? What is that Muggle expression? Would you jump off a bridge because I said to do so?"
Harriet didn't point out he'd gotten the expression wrong. She suspected he'd done so on purpose. He brought up his wand and dragged the tip down her forearm, the stinging worsening as the color lessened, disappearing when her arm looked normal once more.
"I would do whatever you told me, Master."
Slytherin paused and looked at her, frowning. Harriet wondered if he'd sensed the sarcasm under those words—but then he laughed, releasing her so she could step back and adjust her sleeve.
"Very well. Come, Apprentice. Our session is at an end; allow me to escort you back to the common room."
Harriet didn't have much choice in the matter, but she guessed a courteous Slytherin was better than one trying to hex her into paste. She fell into step behind him, careful not to tug on his robes as he walked ahead of her, his posture stiff and his gait nothing short of arrogant. Harriet felt a bit like a large bug scuttling in his shadow.
Or like Renfield. Bloody hell. If I get a strong craving for flies, I'll be in trouble.
Harriet guffawed—and quickly stifled the noise when Slytherin glanced over his shoulder.
They returned to the castle proper, stepping out of the loo without worrying about who might see them lingering about. Naturally, Myrtle stayed away, the ghosts always quick to flee when they felt Harriet approaching. Slytherin remarked her absence was a nice change from the norm, and Harriet didn't comment.
They crossed from the main stairs into the entrance hall, passing the doors to the Great Hall. Madam Umbridge stood there with her clipboard in her hands, and her beady eyes followed the pair of Slytherins as they walked. Harriet refused to meet the woman's gaze—though she noticed Slytherin did so without issue, dismissing her with a bored flick of his eerie stare. Harriet feared she'd stop them, but she didn't, and they kept on into the castle's depths.
"You have detention with Ssseverus tonight, do you not?"
"Yes. Every night."
"I expect your marks to reflect the increased tutelage. I'm being generous in allowing my servant the free time to mind you."
"Yes, sir." Harriet paused. "Master Slytherin, can I ask a question?"
"Of course."
They entered the dungeons, taking the steps down one at a time, the torches blazing on the walls. "Are you not worried about Madam Umbridge? You don't think she's going to be bothersome?"
"I worry about nothing, Potter." He scoffed, and Harriet could tell he'd rolled his eyes, though she didn't see it. "Especially not over insignificant rats like Dolores Umbridge. Great sorcerers need not swat at every pest that nips at their heels. They get what they deserve eventually." He glanced over his shoulder again, face taking on a contemplative expression. "Though, since you're interested, I could show you how best to deal with her."
"Oh, er—."
Harriet was spared answering by their arrival at the common room entrance. She expected Slytherin to leave her there, but to her chagrin, he preceded her inside, leaving Harriet with no choice but to follow. Her face blazed scarlet as everyone present turned to look at them.
Slytherin folded his hands behind his back as he stood surveying the large room. "As you were," he instructed the students, and they begrudgingly returned to their homework or conversations. Harriet spotted her friends in the very back, seated at their favored table by the window, and she tried to dart in that direction, but Slytherin extended a casual hand to grip her by the shoulder, keeping her in place.
"Do not be so quick to walk away. It does them all well to be reminded of their place," he said to her after a minute of them standing there doing nothing.
"Their place, Master?"
"Beneath you, Apprentice. And mostly definitely beneath me." He released her. Harriet didn't heave a sigh of relief, but it was a near thing. "I expect you will remember what I've told you about keeping your nose clean. I will be very displeased should you have another encounter with Madam Umbridge."
"Yes, Master."
Before she could scuttle away like an undignified hermit crab making a break for it, one of the first-years approached. The hair on Harriet's nape stood on end as the short girl came closer.
They don't know better yet, she told herself, wincing at Slytherin's sudden interest. They don't know not to come to him with questions—.
"Miss Potter?"
Eden Prince blinked dark, nervous eyes up at Harriet, and Harriet blinked back.
"Miss Potter, can I ask something?"
Wait. Is she talking to me?
"Er—yeah? What is it?"
"Could you help me with my Charms assignment? Professor Flitwick said we could finish the extra credit, but I'm having trouble understanding it."
"Oh, um. Sure? In a few minutes."
"Thank you!"
The girl returned in the direction she'd come from, and Slytherin tilted his head, curious, having expected her to ask him a question, not his apprentice. His eyes swiveled to Harriet. "Explain."
Harriet scratched her warm cheek, not meeting his inquisitive look. "The, uh—the younger students sometimes ask for tutoring. I help sometimes. A bit."
Slytherin tilted his head again, and Harriet worried he'd tell her to stop—and she wondered why that bothered her so much, wondered when giving others little tips and pointers had started to mean anything to her. She expected Slytherin to take it away from her now, because he always seemed intent to take away any form of happiness—.
"Good," he said instead. "Very good. I am pleased."
"…Sir?"
She flinched when Slytherin patted her head, thumb brushing her fringe. "I said I am pleased. Go on, then. I can see you're desperate to escape."
Confused, Harriet stuttered her thanks and ducked from under his gentle hand, uncomfortable with his easy touch in front of her classmates. She darted around the couches and winged chairs until she reached Hermione and Elara, the former going over their Transfiguration assignment with Malfoy, the latter listening with a bemused air as Gabriel Flourish spoke with her. The red-headed boy blushed to his roots when Harriet slipped by him to sink into her favorite chair, and he stuttered an excuse to Elara before running off.
"What's his deal?" she mumbled.
"Oh, you know teenage boys," Elara answered, her lips twitching as she reached for the reading she must have set aside when Flourish approached her.
"Can't say I do," Harriet sighed in reply. She passed her hand over her tired eyes, pinching at the bridge of her nose—which proved to be a mistake. It brought the thick bandages to Hermione's attention.
"Are you still hurt?" she demanded. "I thought you said you were going to see Madam Pomfrey after Charms?"
"Didn't have time."
Elara stared at the hand as well, and Harriet slipped it under the table, clearing her throat.
"What exactly happened again?" Elara asked, her suspicions clear.
Sweat warmed the skin beneath her collar, and Harriet shifted, trying to shake the feeling. She hadn't told them about Umbridge. She knew Elara would blame herself, and Hermione would wage a war against the woman, putting herself in danger. Harriet loved them too much to let them take the weight of this on, and so she kept the truth of her injuries to herself, even if she hated lying to them.
"Just had a little accident while training," she fibbed, forcing a smile. It felt strange, like her face didn't quite remember how to make the expression. "Don't worry about it. It's all right."
"If you're sure…."
"I am. I'm—." She swallowed, throat dry. Across the room, Slytherin watched them. "I'm fine."
xXx
A heavy silence cradled the dormitory, encompassing its sleeping inhabitants like a spell-warmed blanket with Charms threaded into its fabric. Everyone had gone off to Morpheus—all except for Harriet, who remained awake in the stuffy enclosure of her curtained bed, a dim magelight hovering by her ear.
She spread a towel across her lap. Her right hand rested on her knee, the bandages unraveled and strewn across the counterpane like shed snake skin.
Harriet considered the letters splayed on her flesh, the cramped kerning, the harsh slash she put across her t's. She thought of Umbridge then, remembered how she'd gotten up from her desk every thirty minutes to ensure Harriet's pace hadn't slowed. She remembered how the woman had lingered at the edge of her awareness, fairly quivering with excitement as the invisible strokes lashed at Harriet's flesh, and the blood had pattered on the parchment, sticky between her shaking fingers.
"He's going to enjoy this," Umbridge had said.
Harriet hadn't told Dumbledore and Snape about that. He's going to enjoy this. She knew whom Umbridge meant. She all too clearly recalled how Gaunt had gripped her by the hair in Azkaban and peered into her mind, into her memories, and though he hadn't seemed to have much success, she imagined he'd have an easier time of it with a willing target.
He's going to enjoy this.
Harriet hadn't reacted when Umbridge said those words. When the witch had reached out to run her stubby fingertips against the livid, weeping incisions, Harriet had stared at the ruined parchment, her face blank, the taste of copper on her bitten tongue. She could barely see the staggered lines through blood seeping into the page.
I must not tell lies.
But she kept lying. To Hermione and Elara, Snape and Dumbledore, Mr. and Mrs. Flamel, Sirius and Remus. She kept telling them she was fine when she wasn't fine at all. Not in the slightest.
In her mind's eye, Umbridge's wide mouth spread in a mocking grin. It felt as if a shadow stood behind her—a tall, wide shadow, peering with the red eyes of a maniac waiting to relive and eat Harriet's agony one breathless moment at a time.
There was nothing she could do about that. He had what he wanted, and Harriet would have to live with it—but she wouldn't live with the constant reminder emblazoned on her body, ripe for everyone to see and question and gawk at.
She placed her wand's tip just below her knuckles, lining it up.
"Pests get what they deserve," she mumbled, picturing Gaunt's face, her grip shaking. Then, Harriet exhaled, the air hissing through her teeth. "Sectumsempra!"
