Harriet might have had hedgehog hair and a pair of ugly glasses and be half the size of some of the girls in her year, but she wasn't going to wear an unflattering bandage around her neck on her first day of classes. At least her hair was long enough to cover the scratches on her neck.
She also changed into her school robes behind her curtains, because she didn't want Lavender or Parvati seeing that she was still wearing the same training bra she'd worn all of last year, one that had (of course) come from Oxfam and had Winnie the Pooh on it. It was bloody embarrassing, but it was even worse not to need anything more grown-up because she had as many curves as a broomstick. People talked about young girls blossoming into womanhood, but Harriet had apparently been sold a packet of empty seeds.
Moodily, she supposed that if these things bothered her so much now, it must mean she was growing up—only figuratively, of course. And without the "figure" part.
When she pulled open her hangings, she found that Hermione had also been dressing behind hers. She kept smoothing a hand down the front of her robes, like it wasn't lying as perfectly flat as she wanted.
"What have you got to hide?" Harriet teased her. "You at least wear a real bra."
Hermione blushed. "An A cup, is all," she said, rolling her eyes.
More than I've got, Harriet thought, but she didn't say it because she was afraid it would sound too self-pitying.
Even though Harriet and Hermione's morning routine involved nothing more than pulling a brush through their hair and exchanging their pajamas for uniforms, it still somehow took them longer to get ready than any of the boys. But when they got to the common room, there was no long-suffering Ron waiting and complaining about being so hungry he was ready to eat the sofa cushions.
"Have you seen Ron?" Harriet asked Neville, who was stuck half under the sofa.
He pulled his head out. A spider dangled precariously from a lone thread hanging off his left ear. "He went down with Seamus and Dean. You haven't seen my Monster Book of Monsters, have you?" he asked anxiously. "It seems to have run off. . ."
"Mine did that, too," Harriet said. "Lay out a piece of meat for it, it'll come."
He hurried off, looking more worried than before.
"It shouldn't surprise me that Hagrid assigned us a book that has to be fed or is willing to take it out of our own skin," Hermione said as they climbed out the portrait hole. "Do I want to know what his first lesson is? Or am I really better off not knowing until I have to deal with it?"
"I heard he's got a colony of giant, man-eating spiders somewhere in the Forbidden Forest," said Fred, manifesting out of thin air and leering over their shoulders. "Acromantulas, as they're called, that love to eat titchy little third years. . . "
Harriet rolled her eyes. "Ron's the one with a spider phobia, not me."
"Ah, yes. Where is our little brother?" George asked, manifesting on Harriet's other side. "Thought he was joined at your hips."
"Apparently he went down to breakfast with Dean and Seamus."
"The lure of bacon being too strong to resist." After wiggling his fingers in front of his mouth to imitate pincers, Fred left, George taking off with him.
"D'you think Ron's avoiding us?" Harriet asked Hermione.
"I suppose he wants to have boys for friends now," Hermione said as they stepped into the hall of staircases, passing a portrait of ladies in crinolines who were playing cards with a group of Benedictine monks. "I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if they teased him about being friends with us. Fred and George, too."
Harriet frowned. "But Fred and George are friends with all us girls on the Quidditch team."
"Well, that's different, isn't it? You're teammates—and you're not Fred and George's closest friends. If it isn't pressure, Ron might simply want boys for friends now more than girls."
But if Ron was preparing to ditch them, he wasn't going all the way today: when they finally made it to the Great Hall, they found he'd saved their timetables for them.
"Loads of new subjects today," he said as Hermione eagerly snatched hers up. "You and me, Harry, we've just got Care of Magical Creatures and Divination, but Hermione's schedule's a madhouse."
Harriet peered over Hermione's shoulder and saw:
Divination, 9 o'clock
Arithmancy, 9 o'clock
Muggle Studies, 9 o'clock
She glanced at Hermione's face, expecting to see a sheen of scholarly terror at Professor McGonagall's booking her into three simultaneous subjects: since she couldn't possibly be in three places at once, it would deprive her of prime learning opportunities. But instead of the sheen of scholarly terror, Hermione was wearing the sheen of excitement.
"Told you," Ron said, shaking his head.
"Um, Hermione?" Harriet said.
"Yes, Harry?" Hermione tucked her sacred schedule safely into her day planner, making sure it lay entirely flat so it wouldn't get wrinkled.
"You don't see a problem with your schedule?"
"No," Hermione said, now digging a knife briskly in the marmalade. "I fixed it last night with Professor McGonagall, like I told you."
"But—" Harriet said.
"Oh, Harriet, don't worry," Hermione said, biting impatiently into her toast. "Professor McGonagall and I have it all straight."
Harriet shared a look with Ron, who shrugged and started shoveling fried eggs off a nearby platter and straight into his mouth. Harriet helped herself to sausages and fried tomatoes, wondering if everyone's friends were so odd.
"If Divination's first, we'd better get going," she said as Ron mauled a fourth helping of kippers. "It's in the North Tower, it'll take ages to get there."
"Sinf ennaroo deggsperd?" Ron asked, his mouth bulging. Hermione looked revolted.
"Since all I had to do for the past month was wander round the castle," Harriet said. "I can't believe I understood that," she marveled.
"I can't believe you'd try to talk with that much food in your mouth," Hermione said to Ron, who helped himself to three more fried tomatoes.
Everyone in Gryffindor had opted to take Divination, probably because it was a soft option. Due to Harriet's holiday explorations, she, Ron and Hermione (picking up Neville as they left, because they knew he'd get hopelessly lost) were first to the tiny landing on the top floor of the North Tower. Under the circumstances, though, being first was hardly welcome. It made them all worry they were in the wrong place.
"D'you think this is the right place?" Hermione asked anxiously, peering through the lone window, a narrow arch that looked out on the mountains.
"Harry, you got us lost, didn't you?" Ron asked.
Something shiny flashed off the edge of Harriet's lenses. She twisted her head to get rid of it—and then she saw what they were looking for.
"See for yourself." She pointed above their heads.
"Sibyll Trelawney, Divinations teacher," Hermione read, craning her neck back.
"No one told us to bring brooms," Ron said as Lavender and Parvati clattered onto the landing, clutching their textbooks and looking excited about a lesson for the first time in Harriet's memory. "Shortsighted of 'em."
"How are we supposed to get up there?" Seamus asked.
As if his words were the signal, the trap door unlatched and a spindly ladder unfolded like the legs of a giraffe, its bottom rung landing at Harriet's feet.
"Ladies first," Ron said, eying the ladder. Rolling her eyes, Harriet slung her bag across her body and climbed up.
The room at the top of the ladder was, well, like a fortune-teller's attic. Velvet and tassels seemed to cover everything; the lamps all had dark shades, dimming the light; and the thick smell of too many different flavors of incense crawled inside her nose and mouth like smoky worms.
"Harry!" Hermione prompted her from below, and Harriet edged out of the way, groping through the smoky darkness for stray pieces of furniture, so Hermione could climb into the room. The rest of the class followed, and they all stood clumped near the hole in the floor, peering round for the teacher.
Neville saw her first, with a trembling squeak. Harriet was badly started, too, until she realized their teacher couldn't possibly be a human-sized insect: it was just the effect of a huge pair of spectacles and a glittery shawl.
"Welcome," she said in a dreamy voice as she shimmered out of the shadows. "How nice to see you all in the physical word at last."
Nobody had any idea what to say to something so extraordinary, so they clumped together nervously instead.
"Sit, my children, sit," she said. They all managed as best they could, Ron stubbing his toe on an ottoman and swearing in a muffled voice, and Neville tripping over a stool and falling flat on his nose. Harriet collapsed into an armchair that sucked her into its seat like quicksand.
"Welcome to Divination." Professor Trelawney had seated herself near the fire. It lit her face on one side, dropping the rest into shadow, glinting off her left lens. It gave her an almost sinister appearance that was rather undone by her misty voice. "My name is Professor Trelawney. You may not have seen me before. I find that descending too often into the hustle and bustle of the main school clouds my Inner Eye."
As with Professor Trelawney's previous pronouncement, nobody had any idea what to say to this. If she was worried that she'd got a whole class of lumps, however, it didn't show on the side of her face exposed by the firelight. She continued as if their stunned silence was all the reply she wanted.
"So you have chosen to study Divination, the most difficult of all magical arts. I must warn you at the outset that if you do not have the Sight, there is very little I will be able to teach you. Books can take you only so far in this field. . ."
Ron turned from his seat next to Seamus to grin at Hermione, who was looking taken aback.
"Many witches and wizards, talented though they are in the area of loud bangs and smells and sudden disappearings, are yet unable to penetrate the veiled mysteries of the future," Professor Trelawney continued, her voice reminding Harriet of the incense. "It is a Gift granted to a few. You, boy," she said suddenly to Neville, who almost fell backwards off his pouffe in alarm, "is your grandmother well?"
"I think so," Neville said in a trembly voice.
"I wouldn't be so sure if I were you, dear," said Professor Trelawney. Then she continued placidly, "We will be covering the basic methods of Divination this year. . . "
She went on, describing the sort of fortune-telling they'd be doing, but Harriet only half-listened. Wasn't she going to say more about Neville's grandmother? If she knew something, she certainly ought to say more than that. Neville was now looking extremely worried—well, more than usual.
". . . unfortunately, classes will be disrupted in February by a nasty bout of flu. I myself will lose my voice. And around Easter, one of our number will leave us forever."
Tense silence fell on the room, almost as thick as the incense. Professor Trelawney didn't seem to notice.
"I wonder, dear," she said to Lavender, who shrank back from her, "if you could pass me the largest silver teapot?"
Lavender, looking relieved, got up to get it; but when she'd set it down in front of Professor Trelawney, she said, "Thank you, my dear. Incidentally, that thing you are dreading—it will happen on Friday the sixteenth of October."
Lavender went white—at least, a shade of gray in the dimness. Harriet looked at Hermione, and as one they frowned.
"Now I want you to divide into pairs. . . "
Harriet expected Hermione to say something as everyone started moving to collect their teacups, but she remained so intensely silent that Harriet knew she was thinking harder than usual about something. They both fetched their teacups without speaking, hearing Professor Trelawney say to Neville, "Oh, and dear, after you've broken your first cup, would you be so kind as to select one of the blue-patterned ones? I'm rather attached to the pink."
And as Harriet turned away, she heard breaking china behind her, and Neville giving a squeak of dismay.
"Right," Harriet said once she and Hermione were back at their table, trying to weigh down the bulging pages of her book with her saucer so they'd stay propped open, "what can you see in mine?"
"I'm sure I can't see anything," Hermione said in a whisper.
Harriet twisted Hermione's cup around, trying to make out a shape in the soggy leaves. The incense was making her eyes water and her head feel thick and stupid. "Maybe this is a hippo . . . could be a sheep. . ."
Hermione turned a page in her book, deeply silent.
"How are you doing, my dears?" Professor Trelawney had shimmered up next to their table. Both of them jumped.
"Um," Harriet said, trying not to wince as Professor Trelawney's beads refracted light off her own lenses. "Fine, Professor."
"Let me see. . . Is this your cup, dear?" She scooped it out of Hermione's grip even before Harriet nodded. "Let me see. . . Ah." Her eyes seemed to grow even larger behind her spectacles. "The falcon—my dear, you have a deadly enemy."
"Well, obviously," Hermione said in a normal speaking voice. The whole class stared at her, including Harriet, who'd never imagined she could talk to a teacher like that. "Everyone knows that. You-Know-Who?"
Choosing not to reply, Professor Trelawney continued to turn Harriet's cup in her hands.
"The club . . . an attack. Dear, dear, this is not a happy cup. . . The skull—danger in your path, my dear. . . And. . . what is this here?" Professor Trelawney held the cup closer to her enormous eyes while the whole class stared and Harriet wasn't sure whether to be afraid or mortified.
"No. . ." Trelawney murmured, staring at the cup as if transfixed, "this cannot be. . ." Then she screamed, making everyone jump. Neville smashed his second cup. Harriet's cup landed on the table, slopping tea dregs across the crimson table cloth, and rolled to the floor. Harriet's heart was thumping very hard.
"No—do not ask me—it is too dreadful," Professor Trelawney said feebly, teetering backward until she found her chair, which she sank into.
"What, Professor?" everyone asked. "What is it?"
"My dear. . ." Trelawney gazed soulfully at Harriet, her hand pressed to her throat. "You have the Grim."
A couple of people looked confused, but most of them gasped. "Oh, Harriet!" Lavender said in a tortured voice. Hermione, however, was watching Trelawney through narrowed eyes.
"The Grim!" Professor Trelawney repeated, perhaps because Harriet did not scream like the others and fall backwards off her chair like Neville. "The spectral dog that haunts the churchyard, the harbinger of death—there, in your cup! A great darkness is reaching out for you, my dear, as if you stand upon the brink of the abyss. . . "
Everyone sat frozen, having no idea what this dark pronouncement meant, but certain it was something very bad. Harriet's face was on fire and her hands felt like ice.
"I . . . I think that is all for today," Trelawney said, tilting weakly in her chair. "Yes. . . until next we meet, children. . . "
They all rose in silence and clambered down the ladder. Harriet could feel everyone looking at her. Hermione grabbed her arm and pulled her briskly along with her, and by the time they reached the Transfigurations hall, the bell had rung and a mass of students swarmed between Harriet, Hermione and the rest of their class.
"I don't believe a word of it," Hermione said under her breath as she marched Harriet toward Professor McGonagall's classroom. "Not a word."
"Which part?" Harriet's voice came out so sharp it surprised her. "The part where I have two mass murderers after me? You said yourself—"
"Oh, Harriet, everyone knows about You-Know-Who and Sirius Black—I don't at all believe she saw anything in your cup except a load of soggy tea leaves. She was just playing off what she knew—there was no Grim in that cup, if such a thing as a Grim even exists and she wasn't just, just making it up to scare everyone—"
"What about Neville's cup?" Harriet persisted. "She said he'd break two and he did—"
"Of course he did, because she told him he would. It's not fortune-telling, it's psychology!"
They were at the door to the Transfiguration classroom, though it wasn't open yet. All they could do was stand in the hall and wait for the rest of the class to turn up. Even though this wasn't a mixed class, Harriet felt like she was waiting outside of Potions for the Slytherins: she'd just rather they bugger off. When the other Gryffindors trickled up, staring at her again the way they'd done last night, only more, she grit her teeth and looked away, out the window.
Her eyes fell on the forest, and she remembered, for the first time in days, about the giant black dog. But that had been a real dog: she'd petted it, got its dirt under her fingernails. It wasn't an omen, just a dog.
It was much more likely that Sirius Black breaking out of Azkaban was the death omen Trelawney was really looking for.
Severus knew why Dumbledore always scheduled their start-of-term meeting on the first very long day of classes: it was so they could all get together and belt out their grievances. After two months spent without having to endure the little pustules, they were more sensitive to student antics than they'd been at the end of the term, when ten months of hardheaded stupidity had worn calluses on their hearts. But wounds opened fresh on the first day of term, when complaints were verbal and lengthy. By the end of the year, they'd be sitting in silence, trading weary looks of resigned disgust. Of course, Severus preferred to communicate through looks of disgust at any time.
Before all the teachers had dropped in, when it was just the four heads and (ugh) Lupin, Minerva started them off with a different sort of complaint than the usual.
"That wretched, pea-brained, chicken-hearted, gapeseed Sibyl Trelawney," she raged.
"What's she done?" Sprout asked kindly.
"What does she always do?" Minerva flashed back. "She's told her new crop of third years that one of them is going to pop their clogs—"
"Does that every year," Sprout commiserated, shaking her head; Flitwick nodded and sighed his assent.
"She what?" Lupin asked, curious. Sprout started to explain, but Minerva snapped:
"This year she told it to Miss Potter!"
A beat of cold, bright silence followed this pronouncement. Flitwick's mouth fell open, and Sprout's eyebrows flew into her hair. An odd expression flitted over Lupin's face, one that was almost like anger. For the first time, Severus was glad to attend a staff meeting: he could drop something into Trelawney's tea later to give her the runs.
"Yes," Minerva said into the silence, two spots of bright red in her cheeks.
"That insensitive, grandstanding old wart," Sprout said, shaking her head again.
"Why in God's name would she do something like that?" Lupin asked. He even sounded almost angry. Twat.
"Every year Sibyl makes an impression on her newest crop of third years by predicting that one of them will be dead by the end of the year." Minerva's eyes flashed like claws unsheathing. "It's nothing new—they all take it quite seriously, they're only children—but when they first walked into my class this morning, I thought someone really must have died. The look on Miss Potter's face—oh, I could wring Sibyl's neck. Terrorizing that poor child to impress the others—!"
"Did you talk to her?" Lupin asked, while Sprout continued to shake her head (which she'd been doing all throughout Minerva's speech).
"I told them that Sibyl Trelawney always does this and that no one has ever died. But no one looked really convinced, except Miss Granger, who seemed to have thought it rubbish from the start. You'll like Miss Granger," Minerva said to Lupin. "Very enthusiastic student. Almost a little too enthusiastic at times, but. . . "
"She is Miss Potter's closest friend," Flitwick added to Lupin, who looked interested. Severus wished the werewolf would go die. Preferably by falling off the top of the Astronomy Tower and landing on a bicycle with no seat.
The staff room door opened and Burbage came in, with that vapid look of silly good nature on her face, meaning that Minerva could no longer abuse Trelawney with impunity. She seated herself next to the werewolf, and they bent their heads together, continuing to whisper sharply (Minerva) and murmur (Lupin).
When Trelawney glided in, Severus wondered if it could be counted as evidence of how clairvoyant she wasn't, that she shimmered over to a seat and arranged her shawls without once seeming to detect Minerva's glares of murder.
Less than a minute later, Dumbledore joined them, beaming round as if he'd missed them all terribly.
"Good evening to you all," he said, managing to sound, every year, as if this staff meeting already held a place in his heart that outranked all the rest. "Thank you for taking the time out of your hectic evenings to meet with me—just a few announcements, and then we can all adjourn to cozier firesides. . . "
He always said this, or some variation of it, and yet the meetings went on forever. Severus had taken to walking out of them when he was done, since the others abused the opportunity to vent until his only option was to leave before his temper frayed and he started abusing them.
Trelawney had taken a seat near Dumbledore's, which she always did. Under the pretense of changing his, Severus moved round the table and sat next to her. It gave him an excellent view of the spikes in Minerva's eyes—but unfortunately left him sitting directly across from Lupin. Ugh.
Dumbledore called up the tea. Minerva stirred hers so hard she cracked the cup. Dumbledore appeared not to notice. Lupin looked like he was trying not to laugh.
"In the interests of not keeping you too long, we'll move on to our first order of business. . . " Dumbledore said.
And so the meeting went. Or rather, it started, and dragged. Severus said almost nothing, even foregoing the opportunity to twit Minerva about the Gryffindors, so he could concentrate on the right moment to douse Trelawney's tea. When it occurred—Dumbledore had turned to give Minerva, who was seated directly on his right, his full attention, and Trelawney was nodding off—it went off without a hitch; but he'd had practice.
After that, he gave his report of the day. "Students annoying, as usual."
Dumbledore twinkled, of course. "Anything unusual at all?"
"It's certainly astounding that they manage to dress and feed themselves, but not unusual."
The others clearly felt this level of repudiation was in bad taste. They always did. Lupin looked almost amused, though. Probably laughing at him.
"If that's all," Severus said, pushing his teacup away, "I have better things to be going on with."
"That's all I need," Dumbledore said cheerfully, while Minerva pursed her lips.
"I have a question, before Severus goes," Lupin said as Severus stood up. "What about—Asteria? Was that her name? Asteria Greengrass."
Severus bristled, the way he always did whenever a non-Slytherin mentioned one of his. "What about her?"
"When students have panic attacks in my classroom, I generally worry about them," Lupin said calmly, making Severus want to punch him in the teeth.
"Is that what happened?" Sprout asked interestedly. "I heard someone fainted—one of the first years, was it?"
"Severus?" asked Dumbledore, cutting cleanly through the rising murmurs of curiosity. "What of Miss Greengrass?"
Severus hadn't thought it was possible to despise Lupin more than he already did, but there his loathing went up a notch. He sent him a look of pure, poisonous hatred. The werewolf had the bloody gall to look confused.
"Asteria Greengrass is from a pure-blood family of limited means," Severus said in his most quelling voice. He hated discussing his Slytherins with any non. They always acted as if being from That Sort of Family was in bad taste. "She was raised near an isolated hamlet in North Cornwall. Her attachments to everything familiar are exceedingly strong. Her fear of the unfamiliar is so trenchant it approaches terror. Lupin's class was the last in her day. She overloaded."
Minerva's lips were pressed together in disapproval of some fucking thing-or-other; Severus, the Greengrass family, Slytherins, pure-bloods, who knew. Trelawney seemed to have nodded off next to him. If she slept through the meeting and left without drinking her tea, he would really be pissed.
"Do you think she can adjust?" Lupin asked, looking worried, as if this was any of his goddamn business. "Is this common?"
"We have had children who couldn't cope with boarding school life," Minerva said. "But rarely. She may have to be sent home."
"Asteria Greengrass is mine to deal with," Severus told them, You bloody stay out of it implicit in his tone. Minerva's phantom tail bristled. Lupin gave him a look he couldn't interpret but which he was sure wasn't complimentary.
"Do you think it feasible for her to remain at Hogwarts?" Dumbledore asked calmly, as if none of these silent spats were lancing across his staff table.
"I think it's much too soon to tell," he said impatiently. "She might adjust or she might not. I can't tell you after I've only met her in person for the first time last night—after she's only been in classes for a single day."
Dumbledore tapped his fingers against each other, considering. "You will keep me abreast?" But it wasn't really a question.
Severus just nodded once, curtly. Keeping Dumbledore—or any of the staff—informed about the lives and movements of his Slytherins was never of paramount importance. His House always operated best with the least said to outsiders. He'd had a more fruitful discussion about Asteria Greengrass's probable future with her thirteen-year-old sister than at this table.
"If that is truly all," Dumbledore said, "you may go."
Severus left them, despising the lot.
"I'm sorry," Asteria keep saying tremulously. "I'm so sorry."
"Shh, Aster." Daphne cleaned her face with a warm flannel. It was more to make Asteria feel better than from any real need; she was one of those few, fortunate people whom tears didn't disfigure. In fact, tears would surely only make her look more captivating to males, rousing their protective instincts. It would have been fortunate had she been more like any of her other sisters. Daphne knew that she and Leto both needed to make excellent marriages, because Asteria certainly wouldn't be able to bring herself to do it, not even for them.
"I really am—"
"Shh." She dried Asteria's face and then dropped both damp flannel and towel into the hamper for the house-elves to launder. "It isn't your fault, Aster. It was too much."
Asteria looked miserable. "Other people don't have panic attacks on their first day of classes."
"Now, how do you know? I'm sure they certainly do. Anyway, it doesn't matter what other people do and don't have. I think you were very brave today."
Asteria looked deeply skeptical but said nothing. Daphne knew she was tired, too tired even to speak to her dearest sister. If it weren't for the burning need to apologize, she probably wouldn't have said anything until some time tomorrow.
"Well, Professor Snape has said you may sleep with me, in my dorm," Daphne said. "Wasn't that kind of him?" Asteria nodded gravely. "Shall we go, then? Would you like to rest now?"
Another grave nod. Putting her arm around Asteria's waist—she couldn't comfortably reach her shoulders any longer; she was just a touch too tall—Daphne led her sister to the third year girls' dorm.
The only person inside it was Millicent. Daphne was grateful: Millicent wasn't likely to talk.
"Hello, Millicent," she said anyway.
Millicent just looked at her. She was chewing on a licorice wand. Daphne had always suspected Millicent didn't like her very much, but then she didn't know who Millicent did like.
"This is my sister, Asteria. She'll be staying in our dorm for a while."
Millicent's eyes traveled to Asteria, who was flinching at the prospect that she might be spoken to and have to suffer the agony of knowing she ought to reply while being too afraid to. But Millicent only kept chewing on the wand. Anyone else would have found this off-putting (Daphne included) but Asteria relaxed. Only a tiny bit, since in the presence of a stranger, the threat of a stray remark was always imminent, but even that tiny bit was welcome.
Pansy was probably in the hospital wing, attending Draco after the hippogriff had slashed him. She'd dictated a furious, tear-filled letter to Daphne, to be sent to Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy. Daphne was quite sure that Draco was all healed, but he'd tossed and moaned that he was in agony, and Pansy had hung over him, shedding tears and crying for Hagrid's resignation.
Draco had snogged (as the vulgar girls said) Pansy at the end of last year, which had turned her even more insufferable than usual; but if she was now Draco's not-quite-official girlfriend, then she was less likely to be in the dorm, tormenting Asteria. Daphne might ask Professor Snape if she could share Asteria's dorm instead; Pansy could be as cruel as a scorpion, and Asteria could be reduced to tears by the thought of a baby bird fallen out of a tree.
So she got Asteria ready for bed very quickly and hid her trunk under the bed. Then she bundled her into the four-poster, but Asteria was relieved to go. She closed her eyes, looking exhausted. Daphne paused in pulling the hangings shut, thinking that perhaps she ought to stay with her until she fell asleep—but then she heard Pansy's voice ringing in the hall and jerked the hangings shut instead.
"Millicent," she said quickly, "if you could say nothing to Pansy about my sister—it would be a great favor—"
"Don't like Pansy near enough to tell her anything," Millicent said around her wand.
Before Asteria could thank her, Pansy threw open the door and came into the room. It was obvious had been crying for some time, but unlike Asteria, she did not cry well. In fact, she looked so terrible, and so oblivious to it, that Daphne was really taken aback. She had always assumed that Pansy hungered after Draco for reasons of status, but it was impossible to think that she'd be this distraught unless she honestly had feelings for him.
"Oh, Pansy," said Daphne, because Pansy would know they weren't truly friends if she ignored her now. (Millicent just stared at them, chewing on a new licorice wand.) "Have you been with Draco all this time?"
"He's in agony," Pansy choked as more tears leaked out her eyes. "That useless hag Pomfrey couldn't do anything for him!"
This made Daphne even more certain that Draco was faking, but she said, "How horrid. Do you think he'll have to be sent to St. Mungo's?"
"How should I know?" Pansy snapped. "I only came back here because Pomfrey threw me out, the stupid old bitch." Then she caught sight of herself in the mirror. "I'm taking a shower," she snapped, and grabbing her bath things out of her dresser, she slammed out of the room so hard pieces of stone plaster dusted down from the ceiling.
Millicent snorted. "Cow," she said round her licorice wand. "If I was Draco, I'd fake being a hundred percent just so she wouldn't be blubbering all over me."
Draco was relieved Pansy was finally gone. He'd almost been regretting that he hadn't just let Pomfrey fix his arm and left, because having Pansy around for that long was exhausting. He didn't know why, but her habit of fussing constantly and agreeing with everything he said, and snapping at Daphne, who'd come to see how he was doing, had got on his nerves. It shouldn't have—she was only doing what any good sycophant would do—but it had become really quite boring and he'd wished she'd have gone to the loo or something so he could have had five minutes of normal conversation with Daphne, or even with Goyle, who came with her, and brought him an empty napkin from the dinner table that had once contained a bit of pudding Goyle thought he might like (only he wound up liking it more and ate it on the way to the infirmary).
Pansy was gone for the evening, at least. He'd decided he was going to go back to class tomorrow, because being an invalid was really amazingly dull, especially when everyone thought you were faking it. Well, he was, but he thought being clawed by a hippogriff would've entitled him to a bit more sympathy from Pomfrey, at least. Until she'd healed him, it had hurt a whole bally lot—felt like he was bleeding to death. After healing his cut, though, she'd clearly expected him to go, and given him such a look when he couldn't describe where it still hurt (because it didn't really), that only his pride had kept him from fleeing the hospital wing.
At least Mother and Father would be suitably angry. They might even try to get that oaf Hagrid sacked. What was Dumbledore thinking, making him a teacher? And those Nons said Snape took favoritism too far. . .
Deep inside, a tiny part of him wished he hadn't been slashed because he'd really been enjoying the lesson. Hippogriffs were terrifying and impressive. Father kept peacocks, but imagine having hippogriffs for pets. . . And then the thing had clawed him, and he'd looked like a total ass. The whole experience had been humiliating, and he knew all those Gryffindors would be saying he deserved it. . . the only thing to do was milk the negative part of the experience for all it was worth. A Slytherin had to save face.
He lay staring at the ceiling for a long time, both bored and something more unpleasant. It was times like this that you knew who your real friends were. The only people who'd come to visit him were Pansy, Daphne, and Goyle. He'd actually been surprised to receive them, even. He didn't expect to have friends. His parents had always been quite clear that people at the top had very few friends, true friends, and Malfoys were certainly at the very top. They had many things that other people didn't, but they didn't really make friends, only allies and enemies. It was just part of being who they were.
Sometimes, he wished it wasn't.
The next morning, Malfoy swaggered into Potions with his arm in a sling, acting as if failing to follow directions was some sort of heroic feat. Pansy Parkison immediately started fawning over him.
"Just to warn you," Harriet muttered to Hermione, "I might barf in my cauldron."
Hermione sent Malfoy and Pansy a scathing glance. "A waste of perfectly good bile," she said primly.
Harriet snorted trying to swallow her giggle. She had the odd sense that Snape heard her. But he didn't look up from what he was doing, except to say, "Settle down," to Draco, who for some reason was setting up his cauldron on Harriet and Hermione's table.
"Sir," Draco called to Snape, "I'll need some help cutting up my ingredients—what with my arm—"
Snape did look up then. His eyes flicked over Harriet and Hermione, and he said, "Weasley, cut up Malfoy's roots for him."
Harriet heard Ron make a choking noise behind her. She felt very bad for Ron, and extremely guilty because her first thought had been, Thank God he didn't send Pansy over here.
To make up for this selfishness, she said, "I can do it, sir—"
This attempt at soothing her guilt earned her a quelling sneer. "Miss Potter, do you think I'm so mentally feeble that I can't tell the difference between you and Mr. Weasley?"
Harriet blushed, but she knew when she'd been beaten. Or at least when she ought to shut up. This one time, that was.
Behind her, Ron was chuntering under his breath over the thwack thwack twonnng of his knife hacking savagely at Malfoy's daisy roots. He was probably imagining them to be Malfoy's neck, arms and legs.
"If you're dying to help me, Potter," Malfoy said, his gray eyes glinting, "you could skin my shrivelfig."
"You could stop being a git, too, but that's not likely to happen," she snapped. By accident she said it a little too loudly—Snape must have heard her that time, especially since he was sweeping past their table as she said it—but he only continued sweeping past without saying a word.
When he stopped at Neville's cauldron, Harriet would rather he stopped to sneer at her some more.
"Orange, Longbottom," Snape said, ladling some of Neville's Shrinking Solution into the air and letting it splash back into the cauldron. "Orange. What color should it be?"
Neville was so terrified of Snape he couldn't speak. Snape looked even more disgusted, which was impressive considering how disgusted he always looked during their class.
"Tell me, boy, does anything penetrate that thick skull of yours?" he asked Neville. "Didn't you hear me say, quite clearly, that only one rat spleen was needed? Didn't I state plainly that a dash of leech juice would suffice? What do I have to do to make you understand, Longbottom?"
Neville looked like he was about to cry. Harriet felt much more horrible than she would have if Snape had bullied her like this.
"Please, sir," said Hermione, raising her hand, "please, I could help Neville put it right—"
Snape turned enough to fix Hermione with a special blend of cold disgust. "I don't remember asking you to show off, Miss Granger," he said, and Hermione went as pink as Neville.
Hot in the face, Harriet glared at Snape. She would almost have sworn his expression flickered, but she knew she'd have to be as mad as Sirius Black to have really seen such a thing.
"Longbottom." Snape turned away from Harriet to curdle Neville with a look. "Unless you wish me to feed this rancid swill to you and find out what it will do to your insides, you will fix this travesty of a potion by the end of class."
He swept away, leaving Neville white and trembling.
"Help me!" he moaned to Hermione.
"Your pals aren't as stalwart as you, Potter," Malfoy drawled, unpleasantly close to Harriet's ear.
"You won't be so stalwart either if you don't watch out," Harriet retorted. She was intensely displeased to see that Malfoy had shifted round in his chair to lounge on the side closer to her. Eurgh. The dead caterpillars she was supposed to add next to her potion were more appealing.
"Aren't you worried about your oafish friend, Hagrid?" he asked, and Harriet seriously considered throwing leech juice in his face. "He was a teacher for a day or so, wasn't he?"
"How would you like to be permanently skinning your shrivelfig one-handed?" she ground out. She wasn't going to ask What do you mean "was," Malfoy? She wouldn't sink so low as to fall for that.
No one else was paying them any attention. Hermione was muttering instructions to Neville out of the corner of her mouth; Ron had taken advantage of Malfoy's distraction to return to his own potion.
"Father's not too happy about my injury, you see," Malfoy said in a mock-mournful voice. "He's complained to the school governors. And to the Ministry of Magic. Father's got a lot of influence, you know. And a lasting injury like this"—he heaved a long, fake sigh—"who knows if my arm'll ever been the same again?"
"You're putting this on to get Hagrid fired?" Harriet hissed.
"Well," said Malfoy, lowering his voice and leaning toward her; she leaned away. "Partly, Potter. But it has other uses, too. Weasley, slice my caterpillars for me."
At the end of class, Snape loomed over Neville again and examined his potion. His profile was facing Harriet—she could see only one of his eyes, and the great, scimitar-like curve of his nose. She thought again of the hippogriffs, how they'd slash at you without warning. Neville looked ready to faint.
"Miss Granger," Snape said, letting the ladle clang back into the cauldron, "I was under the impression that this is Longbottom's cauldron, and Longbottom's potion, not yours. I was under the impression that your cauldron is over there in front of you, not here in front of me. Five points for doing another student's work for him."
Hermione went bright red, looking mortified.
Bloody sick of Slytherins, Harriet grabbed her bag and Hermione's hand when the bell rang and shoved past the other students out the door.
As they gained the stairs, Ron came storming up to them, pushing between them so that Harriet had to let go of Hermione's hand. "Can you believe that arsehole?" he demanded. "Five points because the potion was all right! Hermione, you should've told him Neville did it by himself—"
Hermione didn't answer. Harriet looked around Ron, but Hermione was gone. Bewildered, they stopped and stared down the stairs, ignoring their classmates who streamed around them, heading to lunch.
"Where did she go?" Ron asked, turning, baffled, to Harriet.
Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, climbed past them, smirking malice all over his git face. Harriet wondered she would achieve Snape-levels of disgust soon.
"There you are," Ron said as Hermione ran up the stairs toward them, staggering under a load of her books that seemed bigger than usual, and tucking something down the front of her robes.
"Where did you go?" Harriet asked as Hermione joined them, panting a little.
"What?" Hermione said, looking confused.
"You were right here with us—"
"Then you were gone," Ron said. Harriet wished he'd stop doing that. It made her feel like she was constantly talking to Fred and George.
"Oh." Hermione pushed her hair out of her face, which was red, perhaps from running, which had also got her out of breath. "I forgot something and had to go back—oh no—" she squeaked as a seam on her bag split and several books the size of small refrigerators thumped to the floor.
"Surely you don't need all those," Harriet said, bending to help her gather them up.
"You know how many subjects I'm taking—hang on, if you could hold those, I can re-sew the seam—"
"But you don't have any of these today," Harriet said, frowning at Rudimentary Runology. "Today's just Defense Against the Dark Arts."
"Mm." Hermione beamed at her bag as she got the seam to re-knit itself. "Thank you, Harriet. I wonder what's for lunch? I'm starving."
"D'you get the feeling Hermione's not telling us something?" Ron asked slowly as they watched Hermione march off toward the Great Hall.
Harriet didn't say anything: she knew Hermione wasn't telling her something.
Everyone was curious about DADA, considering that their history with it had gone from bad to worse. Professor Lupin's turning up to class only to lead them out again got them even more curious, and after he blithely hexed chewing gum up Peeves's nose, most of them (especially the boys) were impressed; and then, when he led them at last to the staff room, they were mystified. Already this was loads more interesting than Lockhart's "All About Magical Me" quiz.
Harriet had never been to the staff room before. It was a long room paneled in dark wood and scattered with furniture so mismatched it had all probably come from different centuries. The fireplace was enormous and carved on either side with a set of oak trees, stained with soot after all the fires. Snape was sitting next to it in a low armchair, reading the sad book about the woman who killed herself. He looked up when they entered, his eyes glittering.
"Leave it open, Lupin," he said as Professor Lupin made to shut the door. "I'd rather not witness this."
He stalked away, taking his book with him. But at the door he suddenly turned back, a vicious sneer gathering on his face.
"Possibly no one has warned you, Lupin, that this class contains Neville Longbottom. I wouldn't trust him with anything important, if I were you—not unless Miss Granger is hissing instructions in his ear."
Neville went a bright, humiliated red. Harriet felt her face grow hot, too, and she glared at Snape harder than ever. It was bad enough he bullied Neville in his class, but in front of a new teacher, in their first class?
But Professor Lupin only raised his eyebrows. "Actually I was hoping Neville would assist me with the first stage of my lesson," he said. "I'm sure he'll perform it admirably."
Snape's lip curled in a sneer more impressive than possibly any he'd ever done before, and he shut the door behind him with a snap.
"Down this way." Professor Lupin beckoned them toward an ancient, towering wardrobe, the kind with curlicues carved on every edge. When he stood next to it, the wardrobe jerked, banging off the wall and making several people, including Hermione and Neville, jump.
"Nothing to worry about," said Professor Lupin calmly. "There's a Boggart in there."
Harriet had no idea what this meant, but judging by the looks on most faces, this was something to be worried about. Neville went the shade of curdled milk, and Parvati edged behind Ron.
"Boggarts like dark, enclosed spaces," Professor Lupin explained. "Wardrobes, the gap beneath beds, cupboards under sinks—I once met one that had lodged itself in a grandfather clock. This one moved in at the end of last week and I asked the teachers to leave it for us to take care of.
"So the first question we must ask ourselves is, what is a Boggart?"
Hermione's hand shot up. "It's a shape-shifter," she said when Professor Lupin nodded at her. "It can take the shape of whatever it thinks will frighten us the most."
"Couldn't have put it better myself," said Professor Lupin, and Hermione glowed. "So the Boggart sitting in the darkness within hasn't, at this moment, assumed a form. He doesn't yet know what will frighten the person on the other side of the door. Nobody knows what a Boggart looks like when he is alone, but when I let him out, he will immediately become whatever each of us most fears.
"This means," he went on, ignoring Neville's small splutter of terror, "that we have a huge advantage over the Boggart before we begin. Have you spotted it, Harriet?"
Harriet was taken aback, not only because she'd been called on without warning, but also because she'd never had to try and answer a question with Hermione bobbing up and down on the balls of her feet next to her. "Er," she stammered, "because there are so many of us, it won't know what it should become?"
"Precisely," Professor Lupin said. Hermione put her hand down, looking a little disappointed. "It's always best to have company when dealing with a Boggart. He becomes confused. Which should be become, a headless corpse or a flesh-eating slug? I once saw a Boggart make that very mistake—tried to frighten two people at once and turned himself into half a slug. Not remotely frightening.
"The charm to repel a Boggart is simple, yet it requires force of mind. You see, the thing that really finishes a Boggart is laughter. What you need to do is force it to assume a shape that you find amusing.
"We'll practice the charm without wands first. After me, please . . . riddikulus!"
"Riddikulus!" said the class.
"Good," said Professor Lupin, smiling slightly. "Very good. But that was the easy part, I'm afraid. You see, the word alone isn't enough. And this is where you come in, Neville."
The wardrobe shook again, though not as much as Neville, who walked forward as though he was heading for the gallows.
"Right, Neville," said Professor Lupin, beckoning him closer. "First things first: what would you say is the thing that frightens you most in the world?"
Neville's lips moved but no noise came out.
"Didn't catch that, Neville, sorry," said Professor Lupin cheerfully.
Neville looked wildly around, as though begging someone to help him, then stammered, in hardly more than a whisper, "P-professor Snape."
Nearly everyone laughed. Even Neville grinned apologetically. Something about his reply bothered Harriet, though she couldn't put her finger on why it should. What with the way Snape treated Neville, it made sense. . .
Professor Lupin was looking thoughtful.
"Professor Snape . . . hmmm . . . Neville, I believe you live with your grandmother?"
"Er—yes," said Neville nervously, "but—I don't want the Boggart to turn into her, either."
"No, no, you misunderstand me," said Professor Lupin, smiling again. "I wonder, could you tell us what sort of clothes your grandmother usually wears?"
Neville looked startled but said, "Well . . . always the same hat, a tall one, with a stuffed vulture on top. And a long dress . . . green, normally . . . and sometimes a fox-fur scarf."
"And a handbag?"
"A big red one."
"Right, then," said Professor Lupin. "Can you picture those clothes very clearly, Neville? Can you see them in your mind's eye?"
"Yes," said Neville uncertainly, plainly wondering what was coming next.
"When the Boggart bursts out of the wardrobe, Neville, and sees you, it will assume the form of Professor Snape," said Lupin calmly, while Neville gulped. "And you will raise your wand—thus—and cry 'Riddikulus'—and concentrate hard on your grandmother's clothes. If all goes well, Professor Boggart Snape will be forced into that vulture-topped hat, that green dress, that big red handbag."
There was a great shout of laughter from the class, and the wardrobe wobbled more violently. But Harriet, instead of laughing, felt a gathering wave of something . . . unpleasant. . .
"If Neville is successful, the Boggart is likely to turn his attention to each of us in turn," said Professor Lupin. "I would like all of you to take a moment to think of the thing that scares you most, and imagine how you might force it to look comical . . . "
The room went quiet. Harriet tried to push aside her confusion and weird feelings and think: What scared her most?
Her first thought was of Voldemort—a Voldemort returned to full power, a Voldemort who had made her mother scream like that, in the dark places in her mind . . . but before she could possibly think of a way to make him funny, while she was thinking of that—something quite different pushed that thought aside.
She remembered a feeling of cold so strong it drowned you, so surrounding it blinded you, and saw the streaming black cloak, ink on old parchment, and the words, The Dementor is one of the most dangerous creatures that haunts this world . . .
She shivered, looking round to distract herself. Next to her, Ron was muttering to himself, his eyes shut tight, "Take its legs off. . . "
"Everyone ready?" Professor Lupin asked, glancing round at them all.
Harriet felt a lurch of fear. She wasn't ready. How could you make a Dementor less frightening? Would it really become a Dementor, dredging up her worst memories, making her fall dead into a faint? But she didn't want to ask for more time, because everyone else was nodding and brandishing their wands.
"Neville, we're going to back away," said Professor Lupin, motioning them all to step back against the walls. "Let you have a clear field, all right? I'll call the next person forward . . . everyone back now, so Neville can have a clear shot—"
They all retreated, backing into the walls, leaving Neville alone in front of the wardrobe, looking pale and frightened. But he'd pushed up the sleeves of his robes and was holding his wand ready.
"On the count of three, Neville," said Professor Lupin, his own wand aimed at the wardrobe's door handle. "One—two—three—now!"
Sparks shot from the tip of Lupin's wand, hitting the doorknob like a small explosion of fireworks. With a clunk, the latch turned, and the wardrobe door banged open. Snape stepped out, and Harriet was really shocked—not only did it look exactly like Snape, but it looked exactly like the Snape she'd seen last summer at the Dursleys, when he'd broken open her bedroom door.
Neville was backing away, his wand held shaking out in front of him, his mouth opening and closing. Snape was bearing down on him, reaching inside his robes, the look in his eyes so menacing anyone would have quailed—was that what the Dursleys had seen, before he'd Immobilized them?
"R-r-riddikulus!" Neville squeaked.
A noise like a whip-crack shattered the tense silence. Snape stumbled: instead of his usual black robes, he was now wearing a long, lace-trimmed dress and a towering hat topped with a stuffed vulture. Harriet's stomach was filled with a hot queasiness like mortification, which was incredibly confusing.
The class let out a roar of laughter and the Boggart paused, confused. Professor Lupin shouted, "Parvati! Forward!"
Parvati walked forward, her face set. Snape rounded on her. With another whip-crack, he was gone, replaced with a mummy, one covered in bloody bandages stretched across its face, except for the remains of its rotting teeth and skin decaying around its over-wide mouth. It raised its arms, lurching toward her—she cried, "Riddikulus!"—and it tripped over its bandages, its head rolling off and tumbling across the floor, to excited screams and yells.
"Seamus!" Professor Lupin called.
A banshee—Seamus robbed her of her voice. Then Dean's Boggart turned into a severed hand and he snapped it in a mousetrap. Ron was next, transforming the Boggart into a giant spider, twice as tall as a grown man, that made Lavender shriek. Ron's roar of "RIDDIKULUS!" vanished its legs, sending it lurching wildly across the floor, scattering everyone—but Harriet stayed planted as it rolled thundering toward her, her heart hammering as she raised her wand—
"Here!" Professor Lupin darted just enough in front of her that the spider vanished with a crack, turning into a glowing silver orb that simply hung in the air, neither moving nor making any noise.
"Riddikulus," he said, almost lazily, like this was something he'd seen a hundred thousand times, and with a crack the silver ball disappeared, falling to the floor as a cockroach.
"Forward, Neville, and finish him off!" he said, and Neville charged forward, looking determined.
"Ridikulus!" he shouted, and they had a split second view of Snape in the lacy dress again before Neville cried, "Ha!" and the Boggart exploded, like the smoke left after a firework, and was gone.
"Excellent!" Professor Lupin said, as the class broke into applause. "Excellent, Neville. Well done, everyone. Let me see . . . five points to Gryffindor for every person to tackle the Boggart—ten for Neville because he did it twice—and five each to Hermione and Harriet."
"But I didn't do anything," Harriet protested, still feeling slightly shaken.
"You and Hermione answered my questions correctly at the start of class," Lupin said lightly, but again Harriet sensed he was holding something back. "Very well, everyone, an excellent lesson. Homework—kindly read the chapter on Boggarts and summarize it for me . . . to be handed in on Monday. That will be all."
Chattering excitedly, the class streamed out of the staff room. Harriet, however, felt somehow unpleasant, like a greasy hand had smeared itself over her heart. She wasn't shaken like she'd been after Trelawney's lesson, or alarmed as she'd been after Hagrid's, or even angry, the way she'd been after Snape's. Snape-in-the dress had bothered her, though, was still bothering her, and she didn't know why—nor did she know why Professor Lupin had jumped in front of the Boggart rather than let her have at it. Part of her was relieved that she hadn't had to hear her mum screaming, or fainted in front of the entire class . . . and yet, if she couldn't deal with a Dementor or a Boggart, how was she supposed to defend herself if she met one on her own?
No one else seemed to have noticed anything. They were all talking about their Boggarts and how they'd vanquished them.
"Did you see me take that banshee!"
"And the hand!"
"And Snape in that hat!"
"That was the best Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson we've ever had, wasn't it?" Ron said excitedly.
"He seems a very good teacher," Hermione said. "I only wish I could have had a turn with that Boggart—"
"I wonder why Professor Lupin's frightened of crystal balls?" Lavender wondered to Parvati.
Maybe he met Professor Trelawney, Harriet thought.
"I really shouldn't have done it," Remus said, for at least the fifth time.
"Officially," Minerva said, "no, you shouldn't have." Her lips thinned. "But unofficially—speaking far, far off the record—it will do them both a bit of good. Severus to have Longbottom standing up to him, and Longbottom to learn to be less frightened of him."
Thunder rumbled outside the windows of Minerva's parlor, thrumming the glass, down which the rain streamed, glowing golden-orange in the reflected firelight. Minerva's fire was cheerful and bright, but Remus felt a weariness that it couldn't touch. It owed itself at least in part to the moon that grew fuller by the day, somewhere beyond the screen of the storm, but also to his own lapse back into adolescence: his retaliation, plus its target.
"I shouldn't have done it," he repeated. "But when Neville said he was the thing he feared most—and the way Severus belittled him as he walked out, in front of the whole class and me—"
"He's always like that," Minerva said simply. "Though he's rather worse with Longbottom than with the rest."
"And Albus doesn't step in?" Remus asked, even though he knew the answer, however hard it was to believe.
"Albus thinks the children ought to learn from certain unpleasant experiences." Her lips pressed together again. "Such as unfair teachers. I don't like it, and I certainly don't like how Severus takes it as license to run rampant in that way . . . but—oh, who can know? Albus has wisdom that I do not, but all the same, I've never approved."
"It wasn't professional of me to retaliate," Remus sighed. "And having experience with this sort of thing—particularly with Severus and this sort of thing—I'm afraid I'll have only made things worse for Neville."
"Well," said Minerva. "At the risk of sounding like Albus—the things we do often have more consequences than we can ever foresee, and it's rarely only to the good or to the bad. You never know what might come of it."