And so third year was off to a rocky start.
Professor Lupin may have got a lukewarm reception at the start of term feast, but by the end of the second week of class his popularity was soaring (as long as you discounted the Slytherins in Malfoy's pack, who whispered loudly about his wardrobe whenever Lupin was within earshot). Everyone else was agreed that his Defense lessons were the best they'd ever had. He brought them interesting creatures they'd never seen before and devised ways of teaching about them that was exciting without being terrifying. Even Neville managed to smile when they were learning about Kappas, before one of them reached out of the tank and grabbed his ear.
Poor Neville—he was having an even worse term than Harriet. She might have had a mass murderer after her, but Neville had Snape.
The story about the Boggart-Snape in Mrs. Longbottom's clothes had rocketed through the school, moving even faster than Professor Lupin's popularity (and probably having something to do with it). It put Snape in a fouler mood than anyone could ever remember seeing, and he was bullying Neville worse than ever.
Harriet spent Potions classes feeling miserable, angry and confused. She was angry because Snape was tormenting Neville for something that hadn't even been his idea in the first place, not really; it had been Professor Lupin's idea. But she was also miserable for the same reason, without any idea of why she should be; and she also felt confused, because every time she thought about it—every time someone brought it up—she felt just as uncomfortable as she had when Professor Lupin had first come up with the idea. She had no idea why, or what it meant, or how to make it go away. Really no idea how to make it go away, since everyone kept talking about bloody Snape-in-a-dress, especially Ron and Seamus and Dean, and congratulating Neville (who was also looking like he wished they'd stop). Dean even drew a couple of obscene pictures.
Then, just before the start of October, Sirius Black was spotted "not too far" from Hogwarts, according to an article by Rita Skeeter, whom Harriet was really beginning to despise. She didn't know how the horrid cow did it, but while the articles always said it would be a terrible thing if Black got what he was after, they suggested that Skeeter would like nothing better than to see him to blow up Harriet in the street, like he'd done those thirteen other people, so she could write the most amazing piece on it.
Rita Skeeter's rubbish appeared only weekly in the Daily Prophet, but Harriet's classmates goggled at her every day—and three times a week she had to put up with Professor Trelawney gazing at her with tear-filled eyes that swam alarmingly behind her magnified spectacles. Harriet couldn't like her, even though most of the class was in complete awe of her. Neville was quite frightened of her now, almost as frightened as he was of Snape, and trembled constantly throughout the class. Harriet could tell because his teacup rattled in its saucer for an hour and a half, from his leg jiggling his table.
Lavender and Parvati adored Professor Trelawney. They'd taken to haunting her Tower at lunchtimes and speaking to Harriet in hushed voices, like she was on her deathbed. Harriet had never minded sharing a dorm with them before, even when they were building their Lockhart shrine, but by the end of that first fortnight she was so sick of them she wished Crookshanks would claw their ankles.
What with Ron, Seamus and Dean chortling about Snape, and Lavender and Parvati whispering about her certain death, and Neville on the verge of a nervous collapse, Harriet was pretty well isolated to her friendship with Hermione. This would have suited her just fine, except she was also having problems with Hermione, because Hermione was hiding something from her.
She was taking three extra classes, two of which were scheduled at the same time as Divinations, and one of which was at the same time as Care of Magical Creatures. Harriet had known something was fishy from the start, but when Hannah Abbot asked her, as they waited in line for the loo, how Hermione was making it to Magical Creatures since she'd never once missed an Ancient Runes class, and didn't she have Charms with the rest of the Gryffindors on Wednesday afternoons, she knew something stranger than usual was going on.
"Hermione," she said that night as they were doing homework in the library. It was a perfect opening, since Hermione had three textbooks spread out in front of her, one from Transfigurations, which Harriet was also working on, and two from classes that Hermione couldn't conceivably be attending, because they were each at the same time as the other and both at the same time as Divinations.
"Yes, Harry?" Hermione asked, not looking up from her parchment, where she was feverishly writing about Muggles and electricity. "Is it really important? Because I need to get all these done for Monday—"
Right, then; Harriet wouldn't knock around the bush. "How are you getting to your classes?" she asked bluntly.
Hermione's quill paused, but then she started writing even faster than before. "We talked about this before. I explained it then—if you didn't understand then, I don't see why now would be any different, and I really need to—"
"You didn't explain it," Harriet said. "You said you fixed it with Professor McGonagall, but you didn't say how. How can you be in three places at once? You've never missed Divinations or Care of Magical Creatures, or Ancient Runes or—"
"Honestly, Harry, I know my own schedule." Hermione splattered ink across her textbook when she jerked her quill too hard out of her ink-well. "What does it matter how I'm getting to my classes? I still—"
This was a fair question, and Harriet knew that. And yet she couldn't see why Hermione would refuse to tell her what was going on. The fact that Hermione was keeping a secret and wouldn't even admit it was a secret was hurtful. Maybe it shouldn't have been, but it was. Of all the people who kept secrets from her, she'd never have expected Hermione to be one of them.
"It matters when you're keeping something from me," she said quietly, accusingly. "I know you are. I just don't know why."
Hermione's quill faltered. Her eyes flickered up to meet Harriet's, held them for a moment, and then dropped back to her paper.
"I promised Professor McGonagall," she said in a low voice, starting to write again, but more slowly than before. "I'm not to tell anyone."
"I'm your best friend," Harriet said. "I'm not 'anyone.'"
Hermione bent further over her parchment until all Harriet could see was the crown of her head. "I promised, Harriet."
"Fine." Harriet closed up her books and stuffed them in her bag.
"Where are you going?" Hermione asked, like she was surprised.
"To the Common Room," Harriet said shortly, slinging her bag on her shoulder. "Since you're not going to talk to me."
"Harriet," Hermione said as she walked off, sounding hurt and bewildered. But Harriet didn't look round, and Hermione didn't try to stop her. The further Harriet walked, the worse she felt; but she also knew that if she went back and sat at the table she would feel just as bad.
So she kept on walking, down the corridors which were growing chillier as autumn set in, feeling more and more miserable with every step.
The next morning, Harriet didn't have a chance to speak (or avoid speaking) to Hermione because she had a very, very early Quidditch practice to drag herself to. Oliver Wood, spurred by their taking the Quidditch Cup at the end of last year—and taking it from Slytherin, who had won it seven years in a row—was now more desperate than ever to close his Hogwarts career with another win. The entire team was convinced that anything less than a sweeping victory would kill him.
"We can't let the Cup out of our hands," was how he greeted them on that painfully early Saturday morning, when mist rose blue and silver across the wet grass. His eyes were burning with the light of determination, or maybe madness.
"It's not in our hands," Fred said, blinking tiredly at him.
"It's in McGonagall's office," George said with his eyes shut as he pretended to fall sideways asleep onto Harriet.
"It's got our names on it," Oliver said, his eyes burning so brightly that Harriet was afraid her broom was going to catch on fire. "Our names will stay on it. This is our year!"
"Of c-c-ourse it is, Oliver," Angelina yawned.
He dragged them out onto the field and put them through drills. Harriet had been half-asleep all the way out of her bed, down the stairs, into the changing rooms and across the lawn—the cold seemed to make her sleepier, rather than waking her up—but when she kicked off the ground and the icy air streamed around her, and that feeling of flying up, up, up soared through her stomach and all through her body, she felt her tiredness stripping away, piece by piece. By the time she was up above the goal posts, high enough to have a view of the whole pitch, she was wide awake.
She looked toward the gates for Dementors. Hermione had said they'd felt them, riding the carriages up the track: a wave of cold, like sinking into a river, and dreadful things had risen over her head like black water, closing her in, so she couldn't get out.
Harriet hadn't told her about hearing her mum. She hadn't told anyone. She still didn't really know if that's who it had been, not with any proof . . . but she did know, deep inside, where the memory had come from. It was like a knowledge in the heart, beyond the reach of proof.
Sometimes at night, when the dorm was dark and silent except for the sound of Crookshanks scritching about, she saw it in her mind: Voldemort coming into the room, her mum holding her, screaming—wordless in the memory, just a scream, a sound of terror. And then a flash of green light—
Harriet jerked as a Bludger went whistling past her face. "Wake up, Runty-ette Potter!" Fred called, pelting after it. "Don't go to sleep and fall off your broom!"
Harriet was shaking, though not from the Bludger. The green light—she'd dreamt about the green light a hundred thousand times, but she'd never thought, until then, to wonder if it hadn't been a spell. . .
"Harry!" Wood bellowed from the goalposts. "Get looking for the Snitch!"
George belted another Bludger at her for fun, sending her rolling into a dive; and after that, between the twins' Bludgers and Oliver's shouting at all of them, she didn't have time to dwell on any of what kept her awake at night.
But when practice was over and all the others were headed back to the castle, she found herself lagging behind. Hermione would just be doing schoolwork, pretending nothing weird was going on. Ron had gone almost entirely over to the Boy Side, and Ginny had her own circle of friends now that she wasn't possessed by the spirit of Tom Riddle. This was the first year Harriet had realized that although she was famous, she couldn't really say she was popular, not at all.
If she hadn't been at odds with Hermione and if Ron weren't too old now to have girls for friends, she probably wouldn't have even noticed.
Maybe she'd go and see Hagrid. He could always use some cheering up these days (like Harriet wringing Malfoy's git neck).
Mindful of the ever-present threat of Sirius Black, she climbed back onto her broom and flew along, only about three feet above the ground. The mist was still so high, even past ten in the morning, that it brushed her toes.
When something moved off in the gloom, she almost fell off her broom. Jerking it up, she shot into the air, up, up, until she thought she was a safe distance from a hex, and looked down.
It was the dog—the shaggy, zombie-like one she'd seen back before term started. He was watching her, wagging his tail. He trotted out of the shadow of the trees and whined.
She let her broom drop back toward the ground, cautiously, and then, when no spells came rocketing out of the trees, she dismounted.
"Hey, boy." She put out her hand, and he licked it, wagging his tail. "You don't look much better. Nobody's feeding you?"
He whined, wagging the tail some more. She scratched behind his still-filthy ears, thinking. She could ask Hagrid for some food . . . Surely he wouldn't snitch on her looking after a stray, not when he'd hatched a dragon.
"Come on," she said, slinging her broom over her shoulder. "Let's see if Hagrid's got anything for you to eat—"
But the dog whuffed and backed away, shaking his head from side to side. Nonplussed, Harriet said, "You don't want food?"
He stared at her and chuffed once, shortly. "You don't want to see Hagrid?" she said.
He barked, and tucked head against her hip.
"I guess that's a yes." She scratched behind his ears again, though she wasn't sure if he felt it through all the layers of dirt. "I s'pose I'll have to get you something to eat another way."
He wagged his tail.
"How was practice?" Hermione asked timidly at lunch.
"Fine," Harriet said, only half-listening and eying the baked chicken sitting regally on a bed of parsley. It was within reach of Seamus and Ron, so it was unlikely to survive for very much longer. She reached over and pulled off both legs and wings, piling them on her plate.
"Do—do you want to study together later?" Hermione asked, even more timidly.
Harriet looked at her. For the first time she noticed dark smudges under Hermione's eyes. She looked apprehensive and unhappy, like that hurt feeling that had been on her face last night and in her voice as Harriet had walked off was still lingering there like a shadow.
Harriet felt like a total jerk, so hard and sudden it was like Fred had really hit her with his Bludger.
"Sure, maybe," she said, not because she wanted to, but because she didn't and didn't want to say so. "Or we could do something else?"
Hermione's expression fell further. "I've too much homework."
It occurred to Harriet that something strange was going on—well, something else. Hermione shouldn't look this upset about having homework. Normally she thrived on it. She invented work for herself.
"What's the matter?" Harriet asked.
Hermione's eyes darted down the table to where Ron was sitting, but then quickly away again. "Nothing," she said, staring into her shepherd's pie.
"Did Professor McGonagall tell me you couldn't tell me that, either?" Harriet asked before she could stop herself.
Hermione's eyes filled with tears, making Harriet hate herself.
"Shit," she said. "I'm sorry. I'm being an arsehole."
"Harry. When did you start talking like that?" Hermione dried her eyes.
Harriet shrugged. She didn't know when or why, just that she liked the way it sounded. "Did Ron do something?"
"He . . . oh, it's stupid." Hermione mashed her fork into her pie crust, destroying it but not eating it. "Crookshanks attacked Scabbers this morning. Ron's convinced that's the reason Scabbers is looking so ill, but it isn't. When I met him in Diagon Alley, he was going to buy rat tonic for Scabbers, because he's old, or he'd got sick in Egypt, or who knows, and athe pet store is where I bought Crookshanks, so Scabbers was ill first. And Ron thinks it's somehow my fault how Crookshanks is after Scabbers, but all cats chase rats! It's in his nature, Crookshanks doesn't know it's wrong—"
She said it all in a low, quick voice, mashing her shepherd's pie all the while, not raising her face—because she was on the verge of tears, Harriet could tell by the sound of her voice. It wasn't like Hermione to cry because she rowed with Ron. They did that all the time.
"What did he say?" Harriet asked. "I'll look up that Bat Bogey Hex Ginny's always going on about if he was being an arse—"
"Oh, he didn't say anything really, he was just so angry. . ." Hermione tried to wipe at her eyes without anyone seeing. "He's not talking to me right now. I asked him how Scabbers was doing and he said he's hiding at the bottom of his bed, shaking, and stormed off. . ."
Harriet's anger was hot and fierce, fueled by her own guilt because she had done the same thing to Hermione last night.
"Well, he's a git," she said. "All cats chase rats, like you said."
But a little voice inside her asked, if that were the case, why Scabbers had never been bothered by a cat before . . . there were plenty of cats in Gryffindor tower, on the boys' and girls' sides, and yet Harriet couldn't ever remember someone losing a familiar to any of those cats, or even having any trouble from them. . .
Hermione tried to blow her nose without anyone seeing or hearing. "Well. . . I'd better get back to studying. . . I'll see you later?"
"Yeah," Harriet said. "I think I'll go for a walk. When I'm done eating," she added as Hermione's eyes lingered on her plate piled with untouched chicken.
Hermione left the table. Ron made a very obvious show of not watching her go, but once she was gone he started mashing up his remaining potatoes, much as she'd done.
Harriet piled the chicken into her napkin and left the hall. Nobody tried to stop her.
"Don't make yourself sick," she warned the dog as he tore at the first chicken leg she'd tossed down to him. It was like she blinked and the meat disappeared off the bone.
He whined, snuffling at the napkin she was holding. It struck her that he was very well trained; in hindsight, she was lucky he hadn't tackled her and tried to chew her hand off.
"Don't barf it up," she said, tossing the other leg down. "I don't know how to get into the kitchens to get you any more. I bet Fred and George do though. . . "
She dwelt on this as he snarfed the next leg, and then he looked so pitiful she gave him the wings, even though she knew it would probably make him sick.
"I'll have to think of a name for you. . . How about Snuffles?" she asked as he snuffled at the bones, gnawing on them.
He glanced at her, as if to say, If that's the best you've got.
Then he was promptly sick, all over the grass. Harriet sighed.
She stayed a little longer, playing a game of tug-of-war. Aunt Petunia hated dogs; the only ones Harriet had ever been around were Aunt Marge's horrible, evil bulldogs. Harriet decided she liked dogs. Snuffles had more energy in him than she'd have expected, given how starved he looked.
"Maybe you can be my guard dog," she said. "Protect me from Sirius Black."
Snuffles gave her a long, solemn look and licked her hand.
"Nah." Harriet toyed with his ears. "Too dangerous, I bet. He'd probably blow us both up. I don't want you getting hurt."
Snuffles whined, sounding long and sad. Harriet had never thought a dog could make such a mournful sound. It was almost like heartbreak.