cclxxvi. kneel
Harriet sipped her tea as she read the paper alone at the Slytherin table.
The winter holiday had come to a close, and while the rest of the students returned to the school aboard the Hogwarts Express, Harriet had once again been asked by Professor Dumbledore to arrive via Floo, so she'd come alone earlier in the afternoon. Those people who'd stayed over the break eyed her funny as she sat at her House table by herself, burying her head in the paper.
She counted it a blessing the loathsome Umbridge witch didn't sit at the High Table. As far as Harriet knew, Minister Bones had called her back to the Ministry.
They should find her a cell in Azkaban, she thought, teeth clenched, but she'd settle for the woman simply being gone for now. So long as Umbridge was far, far away from Harriet. She kept reading the paper.
Rita's article had resulted in a mixed bag of letters to the editor, which Harriet guessed to be good news. The Wizarding world could be rather intractable in their opinions, so it would take more than one speculative posting from Skeeter to make people believe Neville wasn't the Boy Who Lived. Thank Merlin. I don't need that kind of attention. Harriet exhaled in relief and turned the page.
The new Minister didn't outright say Voldemort had returned, and Harriet assumed Bones would only make things more difficult for herself if she did, though she'd been wishing for some form of transparency. Bones urged the public to view the recent disappearances and deaths as the work of a new terrorist and budding Dark Lord and to prepare accordingly. It was a step in the right direction, but Harriet wanted to strangle someone just to get them to admit it was ruddy Voldemort. Would that be so bloody hard?
Hermione's newest endeavor was investing in the media, per Mr. Malfoy's suggestion, using Elara and Harriet's gold to buy shares in the Daily Prophet and other circulating outlets, like Witch Weekly.
"Lucius says controlling the narrative is half the battle," Hermione had told her, ignoring how Harriet had lifted a brown and mouthed 'Lucius?' "Rita will behave herself if she realizes more than her freedom is at risk. She's fanatical about her work. Besides, it'll make things easier, won't it? If we're not having to fight public opinion every step of the way. They can't circulate lies if the shareholders refuse to fund it."
Harriet didn't tell her that sounded terribly close to something Slytherin would say.
Taking another swallow from her teacup, she kept reading. To her ever-lasting irritation, Gaunt hadn't done them the noble service of dwindling into the night and vanishing completely. He had no comment for what had happened at his ignominious defeat in the Wizengamot vote, but he did have plenty to say on Bones' suitability as Minister.
"Fear-mongering is a far greater threat to our society than a fictitious Dark Lord," the reporter quoted Gaunt saying. "I fear Madam Bones has succumbed to the paranoia often fostered in her former department. It may serve well for an Auror to constantly warn the public of invisible enemies, but not for a Minister. I worry for the state of our economy and the safety of our children if we are to be hindered by a perpetual state of lock-down and home-grown terror—."
"Fecking arsehole," Harriet muttered, lip curling. She glanced around to ensure Slytherin didn't hear her cursing, but that particular arsehole hadn't made an appearance in the Great Hall yet. She instead glanced toward Snape reading his own copy of the evening Prophet, then toward McGonagall chatting with Sprout. The air surrounding the staff seemed lighter than it had been in months, the High Inquisitor's absence like a festering wound that had been finally cleaned out and healed. Flitwick even laughed at something the Ghoul Studies' professor said.
At least that's something Bones has done right, Harriet thought, humming softly under her breath. No more Umbridge. No more High Inquisitor shite. She wondered if the people in the Coven would want to continue lessons, since the professors would be free to teach normally again.
Lost in thought, Harriet almost didn't notice Longbottom standing at the end of the Slytherin table, staring at her.
To be sure, he meant to be inconspicuous, but Longbottom lacked any form of subtlety, which was especially sad considering Harriet herself wasn't all that subtle but noticed his pitiful efforts anyway. Whatever he meant by skulking at the end of the table, Harriet wanted nothing to do with it. He'd been asked to arrive through the Floo as well, for his own safety.
There was an hour left before the others arrived—perhaps more. Professor Dumbledore had told her it depended on the weather and how it interacted with the magic protecting the rails. Apparently, a major duty of the Department of Magical Transportation was maintaining the train and the wards that hid the land surrounding the rails from the Muggles. Things at the Ministry being what they were, it wouldn't surprise Harriet if they'd let the wards go to pot and her friends ended up late.
That isn't bloody important right now.
Folding the paper, Harriet tucked it under her arm and stood from the table. She managed to be more discreet than Longbottom and didn't run from the hall, but she did walk quickly, hoping to reach the dungeons before he caught up. Unfortunately for Harriet, she barely had a chance to cross into the entrance hall before Longbottom started running, shouting her name.
"Will you shut up?" Harriet snapped as she stopped at the head of the dungeon steps, glowering at the loud twit coming up behind her. "Do you really need to attract so much attention everywhere you go?"
A light blush colored Longbottom's cheeks, but Harriet couldn't tell if he was embarrassed or just angry. Judging by his furrowed brow and heavy frown, she guessed the latter.
"What are you on about, Potter?" he demanded.
She stared at him. "I beg your pardon?"
"With that article you had Skeeter write. What do you mean by it?"
"Mean by what?" Harriet retorted, already frustrated by this conversation. She knew nothing good would come from Longbottom chasing her down, and knew his fat, narcissistic head would be hurt by Skeeter questioning his status, no matter that people weren't blindly believing it. "I'm not the one who wrote the bleeding thing."
"Yeah? Then why is she telling people that I'm not—." He paused, swallowed. Harriet could see how his hands tightened into fists at his sides. "Why is she calling me a liar?"
"You'd have to ask her. I make it a point not to talk to Skeeter, but it was important for her to write about the Dark Lord."
Longbottom glared, part of his face illuminated by the torches set at the entrance to the dungeons, but the other part left dark, his expression difficult for her to discern. "Is it true?"
"Of course it's true. What do you think I've been saying for the past six months—?"
"Not about Voldemort," he snapped, the fire in the torches trembling for a moment. "About—who I am. About the Boy Who Lived."
A muscle in Harriet's jaw twitched, but she otherwise kept her face steady. "What does it matter? Do you really need validation for whatever stupid title people give you? Who cares what Skeeter says and her readers believe?"
"Obviously you, if you're making it a point to give the bint an interview!" Longbottom took a step closer, and Harriet narrowed her eyes. She didn't grab her wand. Not yet. "This isn't—this isn't a laugh, Potter. You're the one always chasing glory, getting all the attention. This is my life. My legacy. My mum died to that bastard. You've no idea what I lost. I—."
Harriet saw red. "You entitled cunt," she hissed. "Glory? Are you fucking mental? My parents are dead, I was maimed, my god-father was sent to Azkaban, and I was raised among Muggles who could barely stand the sight of me—all while you were coddled and loved and the whole ruddy world praised your stupid fucking name. Does it matter if it's true? Do you think I'm 'having a laugh?' Do you think I find anything in my whole bloody life remotely funny?" She got in Longbottom's face, snarling, and his eyes widened in surprise. "Don't talk to me about loss."
She expected him to say something—or maybe she didn't. Harriet didn't rightly know what she thought would happen, didn't know where this sudden blast of temper had come from. It overtook her the moment he opened his mouth and dared to start whining about loss and attention. She knew he'd lost his mum—but he had a mum now, a woman who'd married his dad when he was barely out of nappies. He grew up loved, protected. He grew up with people bowing to his whims, and without the dozens of tutors who'd trained him throughout his childhood, Harriet fully believed he'd be an extraordinarily average tosser of extraordinarily average skill.
Harriet grew up unloved and shunned, with a hungry belly and bruises and fingers chaffed from harsh cleaning chemicals. She grew up thinking her parents were drunks, that she was the unwanted castoff of negligent riffraff, and she still had to make sacrifices to this day because of Lord sodding Voldemort. Longbottom spat meaningless drivel about his legacy, and Harriet direly wanted to punch him in the teeth. If he really wanted the legacy that should have been his—the hardship, the torture, the terror and struggle—he could have it.
"Fuck you."
She expected Longbottom to say something, but she didn't expect to hear Professor Slytherin's voice from behind her.
"Miss Potter."
She stiffened, dread spooling in her stomach where the rage had been just a moment before. Her scar tingled. Fuck.
Harriet shut her eyes for a second, then turned to face their Defense professor as he silently came up the steps, his skin looking particularly pale and ghoulish in the wavering light. He had his red eyes fixed on her, his mouth pulled in a particularly peevish sneer. "Ten points from Slytherin for your language," he said, with an unvoiced note of censure in his tone. "Cursing like Muggle filth is unseemly and unacceptable."
Harriet bowed her head, grinding her teeth.
Longbottom didn't have the same common sense to shut his gob. "Wizards curse just as much as Muggles," he said to Slytherin with blatant venom. "You would know that if you were a pure-blood."
Harriet choked.
Slytherin's gaze switched to him like a hungry snake sensing movement. He stared for an uncomfortable amount of time, and Harriet got the distinct impression that he wanted to do something much, much worse to Longbottom than take a few points. Her recollection of what happened in Umbridge's office remained vivid, and no matter how much she disliked Longbottom, Harriet thought she might start sobbing if Slytherin dragged Longbottom into a locked room with them.
"If you were clever, you would have ensured you were never in a room alone with me."
Slytherin's lips parted, and the tip of his tongue flashed over the edge of his too-sharp teeth in an irritated gesture. "Detention," he finally settled on. "With your Head of House. I cannot be bothered to punish every insignificant puling Gryffindor who raises his voice against me." Then, he smiled, mouth closed and eyes as cold as a dead fish. "It's never ended well for any of them."
Quick as a flash, his arm moved, and his fingers closed on the hood of Harriet's robes, tangling in her hair, pulling the fabric taut enough to choke. "With me, girl," he snapped in a vicious line of Parseltongue, and Harriet had no choice but to follow as he yanked her down the stairs. Longbottom remained where he was, staring.
Slytherin didn't let go until they reached the dungeon corridor. Harriet stumbled, then jerked her robes straight. She turned to scowl at the wizard—and immediately recoiled when he grabbed her by the face, cold fingers harshly digging into her cheeks. Her heart thumped against her ribcage in fear.
"Enough of your insolence," he hissed. "My patience growsss thin with you, Potter. I have been gracious and lenient with your inattention, but it is time you were reminded to whom you are pledged."
His nails left scratch marks on her skin when he released her, not that Harriet dared voice a complaint. She felt the stinging on her face and ignored it. Slytherin seemed satisfied with her stoic response.
"Follow."
She did as told, falling into step behind Professor Slytherin as he led her to the common room. It was empty, of course, everyone from the House having left for the holiday, but the house-elves had already prepped the hearths for their return. This meant Slytherin had a dramatic backdrop for his favored seat, the winged chair rimmed in burnished firelight, seeming to embrace him in a golden lining as he sat down like a king assuming his throne.
Harriet stood off to the side, awkward, waiting.
Slytherin gestured to the floor in front of his feet. "Kneel."
She didn't move. "Professor, I—."
Eyes wide, Slytherin flicked his spider-like fingers—and the nape of Harriet's nape burned as if freshly branded. Gasping, she couldn't help but fall to her knees, grasping at the spot with her head bowed toward the floor.
The pain eased, though it didn't retreat entirely.
"That's better," Slytherin murmured, the susurration like wind through reeds. Harriet didn't look at him, but she felt his attention as keenly as she felt the cold leaching through her knees from the stone floor. "You were told, were you not, that you must attend me before the holiday's end?"
Harriet swallowed. "Yes, sir."
"Master."
"Yes, master."
He allowed the disrespect to slide for the moment. She would pay for it later. "And yet, this is the first I've seen you."
Harriet licked her dry lips and tried to formulate an excuse. Truthfully, she didn't have one. Slytherin hadn't summoned her, so she hadn't taken it upon herself to speak with him. Snape had warned her Slytherin would want her to account for the article Skeeter wrote, but she'd put it off—put it out of her mind, concentrating on her studies and hoping the wizard wouldn't care enough about her inattention.
It appeared she'd been wrong.
"I was busy, master."
"You are never too busy to serve my whims," he retorted, sharp as a whip. Harriet winced. "Such nonsense you prompted that reporter to write. I find myself pleasssed in how you have shifted attention, but I cannot fathom your disrespect in not reporting to your Lord."
Again, a sudden whorl of temper licked through Harriet like a hot flash, but she didn't dare let it past her teeth. He's not my Lord, she told herself, furious. I do not belong to the Dark Lord, no matter what face he wears. I should have told Skeeter to let the whole world know exactly who Slytherin is. Put it in every bloody headline for the next year, and see if he likes how I've shifted attention then.
She voiced none of this. "I'm sorry, master."
Slytherin didn't say anything. Harriet fidgeted on her knees, her nape still prickling like a blister. She'd moved her hands away from it and had to resist the urge to touch it again, to make sure it wasn't really injured. Slytherin didn't tolerate fidgeting. Any sign of boredom or slipping focus received harsh reprimands in his lessons.
"Tell me…do you believe you are the Chosen?" Slytherin asked, his voice low, cool. He posed the question lightly, but the hair on Harriet's arms raised, her intuition telling her the wrong answer would be dangerous. "Do you believe you are the prophesied downfall of the Dark Lord?"
Harriet stared at the carpet below her, tracing the many fibers with her eyes. She chose her words with precision, hardly daring to take a breath. "I don't think it matters, master. You told me you don't believe in prophecies, and so neither will I." She shrugged her shoulders, hiding a shiver. "You said you wanted me to tell the world the Dark Lord has returned. I am simply doing as you wished."
He laughed at that. Harriet hated his laugh—cold, high, and unrestrained, the kind of laugh he loved to make when she suffered a stunning defeat in their mock-duels or ended up injured. It crawled over her spine like limp, fumbling hands.
"Ah, you are listening, then," he said as his laughter eased, and Harriet stiffened when he stood. She felt the edge of his tailored robes brush her arm. "I will simply need to be stricter with you. I do not mind the occasional willfulness in my servants, dear Harriet, but don't let the leash hang you."
He started to walk away, and Harriet shifted to rise—.
"Remain as you are until I give you leave. I will know if you don't."
She stopped and settled on her knees again, bitterness souring the back of her throat. She heard Slytherin exit through the common room entrance—but his rune emblazoned on her skin persisted in burning. So, Harriet stayed kneeling near the empty chair, and the portrait of the snake twisting through the rowen roots kept vigil over her head.
The burning didn't stop for hours, not until the sounds of the first students returning to the dormitory from dinner echoed into the outer corridor. Only then did the feeling ease, and Harriet dragged herself off her bruised, throbbing knees. The back of her eyes strung with tears of frustration as she stomped off for her bed and a warm shower.