Snape would not wake up.
And Madam Pomfrey didn't want to let Harriet in.
"I'm here to see him," Harriet said stubbornly.
"I think it's an excellent idea," Professor Dumbledore said. "I should think Harriet's presence would have a healing effect, wouldn't you say, Madam Pomfrey?"
"What he needs, Headmaster, is rest." Her arms were tightly crossed, and she'd starched up her cap and apron. Or maybe the house-elves had done it. Harriet imagined her grimly tying on the apron and cap to meet them, like she was going into battle. "Unbroken, undisturbed rest. That, and the proper spells and potions, will have the greatest healing effect I can give."
"I have every faith in your excellent healing skills," said Professor Dumbledore. "I know Severus could not be in better hands. But—if you'll indulge an old man—I'm afraid I grew up with the idea that a little friendly compassion is a good addition to the best medicine, and I cannot quite get it out of my head."
Madam Pomfrey didn't budge. Harriet tried not to dance from foot to foot. Hadn't they already decided this? Why were they delaying?
"Very well," Madam Pomfrey said at last, as if it was anything but. "But only one visitor at a time, and no one but the two of you. I won't have an endless parade of gawpers tramping through his room. The Lord only knows what all he was out there doing to himself."
"Thank you, Madam Pomfrey. Harriet and I are in your debt."
Pomfrey looked like she'd cash that debt in now, to keep them out of Snape's room, but she unwarded the door and let them in. "Which of you first?"
"Harriet may go first," said Professor Dumbledore. "I am quite content to wait out here."
"In with you, then, Miss Potter."
The room was identical to the one Harriet had slept in two nights ago, down to the horridly impersonal furniture. The window had been repaired, and an ugly armchair added—and there was Snape.
He was unconscious. He hadn't been awake since he'd collapsed after seeing Harriet, Madam Pomfrey had said. The fall had broken his back in three places, one of his hips, and numerous other bones, and he'd apparently done enough magic to drain himself into a coma. Although Pomfrey had put him into a healing sleep to let him rest while his bones healed, it should only have lasted twelve hours.
Those twelve hours had passed yesterday morning, when Harriet was smashing her porridge bowl.
Feeling oddly trepidatious, she approached the bed. Snape looked. . . not small, exactly, but smaller than he usually did. It was easy to overlook when he was frightening everyone, but he was not a tall man. His hair fell back from his face, which didn't look peaceful but careworn and hollow, and his skin was a worse color than usual.
The spell-light that mapped his heartbeat hung above his chest, brightening and fading like it was sleeping with him. If it weren't for that, Harriet might have thought he was dead.
"I wish you'd let me send for a few Healers from St. Mungo's," Pomfrey was whispering to Dumbledore.
"The confidence I expressed in your abilities was not idle flattery, Poppy."
Harriet was glad she'd come—the relief of seeing he was really alive went as deep as blood and bone—but she didn't know what to do now that she was here. She'd never been to visit anyone in hospital. Maybe it was only the fuss Pomfrey had made, but Harriet was now terrified of doing something to make him worse off (though she had no idea what that could be).
"I think that's enough, dear," said Madam Pomfrey. "You've classes to get to."
But Harriet didn't want to leave without doing something. She touched his hand where it lay on the blanket. The veins on the backs of his hands stood out, stark and eerie.
"Thanks for saving my life," she whispered, hoping neither Pomfrey nor Dumbledore could hear exactly what she'd said, and pulled her hand away.
"I want to come back later," she said as Pomfrey shooed her out into the hall.
"Miss Potter—"
"A fine idea," said Professor Dumbledore (Pomfrey pressed her lips together, McGonagall-like). "I'm sure he will appreciate the company, in his own way. Have a good day with your classes, my dear."
Mondays, Harriet brooded as she trudged down to the Great Hall, were bad enough without worrying about someone being in a coma, maybe forever, because they'd saved your life (especially when you were still worrying they'd have been safe if you'd only listened to them).
She found Ron and Hermione by habit, or maybe by some sort of homing signal: as she sat down at Gryffindor table, barely noticing what she was doing, she realized Ron was next to her and Hermione across the table.
"Was he all right?" Hermione asked anxiously.
"No change."
Ron cleared his throat but didn't say anything. Harriet knew he didn't care what was wrong with Snape, but he'd had the surprising tact not to say even that much. Really, his silence was quite considerate.
She put her head down on the table. "Please tell me one of you has got good enough at Divs to foresee we're not going to have class today."
"I say we skive off," Ron said.
"I don't think all three of us could pass that off," Hermione said skeptically.
"Come again?" Ron asked, as Harriet rolled her head to one side to stare. "Are you, Hermione Granger, not skinning me for suggesting we ditch a class?"
"It's Divinations," Hermione said coolly. "And anyway, the last thing Harriet needs right now is that—woman—predicting Professor Snape is going to pop his clogs for an hour and a half. You know she will. She won't be able to resist, especially now that she's lost the possibility of Sirius Black—well."
"We could say some Slytherins hexed us," Ron said, "and left us lying in a dark corridor with tentacles and boils all over our faces. She ought to eat that up."
They hid in the Room of Requirement until it was time for Transfigurations.
"I still can't believe I had some creep sleeping in my bed all those years," Ron said, as he'd done some eighty-seven times since Saturday night. "It's—brrrrrrr. Gives you a chill up your bloody spine, it does."
Hermione shot him a sharp look and mouthed something that Harriet couldn't work out, but she didn't try very hard.
"Have you heard from Sirius Black?" Hermione asked.
"No. . . but it's only been a day. . ."
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," Hermione said timidly. "About—him being your godfather. I was going to—until I saw how upset it made you, just knowing he and your dad were friends. . ."
"It doesn't matter," Harriet said quietly, leaning her head against the window pane. The newly returned sunlight glinted white-gold off the lake.
They arrived to Transfigurations in time to join everyone else in the corridor.
"There you are, Harry!" said Parvati.
"Where were you?" Lavender asked.
"We told Professor Trelawney about—you know," Parvati said, dropping her voice to conspiracy level. "Our spell."
Harriet had forgotten all about it.
"She's quite excited," Lavender said, eyes shining. "She said she'll give us extra points!"
"Brilliant," Harriet said dully.
"Bet you wish you were participating now, Hermione," Lavender said, smug.
"Somehow, I'll live," said Hermione.
"What spell?" Ron asked.
"It's girls only," said Parvati primly, as the door to Transfigurations opened to expunge Professor McGonagall's N.E.W.T.-level class.
"It's a Divs spell," said Hermione to Ron as they all filed into the classroom. "You wouldn't be interested anyway."
Harriet did quite poorly in the lesson, which was about—about—well, even as the bell rang and they were all packing away, she couldn't say. Turning something into something else. Probably.
"Miss Potter," said Professor McGonagall over the sound of scraping chairs, "do stay behind. Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, you run along."
"We'll wait for you," Hermione whispered.
Resigning herself to a lecture on attentiveness, Harriet trudged up to Professor McGonagall's desk.
"You look exceedingly glum, Miss Potter," said Professor McGonagall. "Well, here's something that might cheer you up."
It took Harriet a moment to realize Professor McGonagall was holding out a broomstick, one with brilliant gold lettering on a gleaming handle. She blinked a few times, but it didn't disappear.
"It's ready?" she said.
"Not a thing wrong with it that we could find," said Professor McGonagall, smiling faintly. "You have a very good friend somewhere."
Something tickled the back of Harriet's thoughts. . . something recent, about a broom. . .
"It's not the way I'd've chosen to make up for being twelve fucking years in prison, but the broom didn't make it."
"Thank you, Professor," she said slowly.
She found Ron and Hermione loitering on the landing. Everyone else had already gone down to lunch, and the corridor seemed to echo with the silence.
"What did she—" asked Hermione as Harriet walked up, and then she saw the broom. "Oh!"
"Bloody hell, that's it," Ron said in a hushed voice.
"I forgot to tell you," Harriet said to Hermione. "You were right. Sirius Black did send it to me."
News traveled through the school as fast as spell-light. The spectacle of Professor Snape being carted into the school, unconscious and bleeding, by that great oaf Hagrid—with famous Harriet Potter and mass-murderer Sirius Black—was witnessed by a great number of students, quite a few of whom were in Slytherin. Since Professor Snape was not allowed visitors Under Any Circumstances, the only resort his Slytherins were afforded was the discussion of his welfare as often as possible: with an eye-witness if they could be got, though second, third, and fourth-hand reports did just as well.
"But did he look like he was going to be all right?" Daphne asked on Monday evening, having lost count of how many times she'd said it since Saturday night.
"Was all over blood," said Millicent. "That sound like he'll be all right?"
Asteria looked as pale as if Professor Snape were standing next to her. There was blue paint smeared on her hands. She'd been disappearing a lot lately, and when Daphne asked what she was doing, Asteria would only shake her head.
"It's got something to do with Potter," Draco said venomously.
"Well, she was carried in with him," Tracey said coolly, making Draco flush.
"And Sirius Black," Millicent added.
"Sirius Black was trying to finish Potter off," Draco said, "no great pity if he did—and somehow Professor Snape got caught up in it. I bet you anything that's what happened."
"Why should Professor Snape give a rat's arse if Black wants to blast Potter into a million bits or two?" Tracey asked, rolling her eyes. But Daphne, for once, could barely be bothered with Tracey: she was far more curious about Asteria, who, at Draco's words, had gone bright red and shot him a look that was almost. . . angry.
Asteria didn't get angry.
"They were all brought in together," Pansy said in a dangerous voice that really meant, Shut it, Davis, if you want to keep all your hair on. But Tracey wasn't made of porcelain. She ignored Pansy altogether, addressing Draco:
"If you'd said Professor Snape had been out for a walk, and run into Potter—or dragged her out to the forest for a detention—and Black attacked them then, I might believe it."
"Who's to say that didn't happen?" Draco asked, while Pansy stared molten hatred at Tracey, who stayed as cool as a mountain lake. "All I said was Professor Snape was hurt because of Potter. If Black jumped the both of them, and Professor Snape was only in the wrong place at the wrong time, it's still Potter's fault for not taking one of those million chances she had before, and popping off—"
There was a bang as Asteria's chair clattered. She'd stood up so fast she'd knocked it down. With a burning look at Tracey and Draco, she fled from the table. Staring after her, the both of them looked, for a moment, quite shocked.
"Nice going," Pansy called after her (though as a deadly insult it lacked depth).
"What's got into your sister?" Draco asked Daphne, recovering his bravado. "She's jumpier than normal."
"Excuse me," Daphne said, and followed Asteria out of the common room. She caught up to her one floor above, where Asteria had stopped to lean against the wall.
"Tell me what's wrong," Daphne said. Hearing her own voice saying it just like that, in that old, familiar way, made her remember a hundred thousand times before, in winters and in summers, down at the rocky seashore or up on the cliffs, beneath the cypress tree that twisted out of the earth in their yard. Asteria was a runner; when her heart was too full, she took off, faster than anyone could follow.
And Daphne would always walk after her. She always found her, eventually.
Asteria shook her head, but turned round, wiping at her eyes. "It's so mean," she whispered. "How can they talk about someone dying like that?"
"It isn't serious, Aster. It's only their way of expressing their feelings. We're all worried about Professor Snape—"
"So am I," Asteria said passionately, "but to say she should have died—can't you see how terrible it is, even to say such a thing?"
"Of course I do," Daphne lied, because Asteria couldn't bear to hear anything less.
But Asteria looked at her steadily, as if seeing to the very back of her.
"No," Asteria said quietly. "You don't."
Something twinged in Daphne's chest. "All right," she said, preserving her calm even though her heartbeat fluttered with alarm. "You're right. I don't care if Draco and the others talk of Potter dying. It's only talk, Aster."
"And you none of you like her. You all hate her. Admit it." Before Daphne could say a thing (though what it would have been, she didn't know), Asteria went on, "Why? She's a lovely person—she's the only one other than you who's been kind to me in this dreadful place, when all those people in there, your friends, have been cruel and heartless—oh, how can you wish her dead?"
Daphne was startled on more level than one. She'd known Asteria was unhappy, but to hear her call Hogwarts "dreadful"—and her own friends, whom she really did consider to be such, most days, named cruel and heartless, and Harriet Potter praised—
"When has she been kind to you?" she asked, seizing on this last, disagreeable surprise. Asteria lent disproportionate weight to things both kind and cruel; it was probable Harriet Potter had really done nothing, and she could be brought to see that.
"She was the one who saved me from those horrid boys," Asteria said, lifting her chin, as if she knew—again—exactly what Daphne was thinking. "And when Professor Snape had me meet with her, she was extremely thoughtful and, and good to me."
Those meetings. There had been just the one, to Daphne's delight—but it seemed to have done enough damage. Daphne had had no idea how much, till now.
"Well. . ." Daphne said. "Well—that's—I'm glad to hear that. It's only talk, Aster."
But from the look on Asteria's face, Daphne knew that, for the first time, she had failed to put an end to what was troubling her. If she hadn't made it worse, she had confirmed some dark suspicion lurking in Asteria's heart, some poison working against her.
And the suspicion darkening her own heart, that if Harriet Potter had been there, Asteria would have turned to her—
The wish that flared inside her, echoing Draco's words, did not feel quite so idle, then.
Monday turned into Tuesday, which flowed into the rest of the week, and eddied into the weekend without a murmur. Harriet continued to visit Snape, who continued to not wake up. On Wednesday she thought to bring him flowers, though with him so deeply unconscious, they were more for her own comfort. The room was so barren and cheerless.
But he'd see them when he woke up.
If he did.
On Saturday, when the anemones had dried out, Snape had been unconscious for a week. There hadn't been any change at all.
The Slytherins seemed to feel his absence along with Harriet, but nobody else did. The Gryffindors, in fact, were particularly cheerful. Their good spirits roused Harriet's sleeping dragon of a temper, so she avoided the common room as much as possible. There was a lot of going to the library to humor Hermione and going down to the Quidditch pitch to fly the Firebolt with Ron.
The Firebolt galvanized the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and the sight of it reduced Oliver to silent, overjoyed weeping—every time. The first time Harriet mounted it and kicked off, rising quicker and lighter into the air than she'd ever felt, she thought back to the summer and trying to make a Patronus by flying.
She wondered why Snape hadn't wanted to tell her what they looked like—that he could cast one strong enough to repel dozens of Dementors—that he'd sent it to her when she was in hospital last year, after falling off the stairs, and during the summer when she couldn't sleep.
She wish he'd wake up, so she could ask him.
In the meantime, there was someone else she wanted to talk to. He was awake, but avoiding her.
She knocked on Lupin's office door. He answered it promptly enough, but when he saw her, his face became even more guarded, and he didn't seem to want to meet her eye.
"Harriet," he said. "I'm sorry, but now's not the best time—"
She gripped her hands into fists. "Excuse me for saying, but you owe it to me to talk to me."
He didn't answer. But after a moment, he opened the door enough to let her in.
She walked in and sat down with loads more assurance than she felt. Hands behind his back, Lupin paced down one side of the room, still not looking at her. He seemed as unsure of himself as could be.
Breathing in to steady her courage, she said, "Sirius Black told me to tell you, 'When you see Remus again, tell him I'm shit at goodbyes, or I'd have said something better.'"
That made Lupin finally look at her. She was taken aback to see his eyes gleam with—tears?
"He's right about that," he said hoarsely after a long moment, and she thought he was almost smiling. "That's the worst good-bye I've ever heard."
She didn't know what to say to that, or how to go on. He lowered himself slowly to a chair behind his desk, staring at thin air.
"Why didn't you tell me he was my godfather?" she asked eventually.
When he looked at her again, his face was grim. For the first time, she noticed the fleshy marks on his face, like heavy scars healing over.
"For many reasons," he said, his voice rough, "several of which were intensely selfish. . . But also because I thought it would hurt you more to know. Your parents' friend was a blow enough, but your godfather. . ."
Hermione had said the same thing.
"But you knew he was innocent," she said.
Lupin shook his head slowly. Something painful etched across his face. "I didn't know. . . not until I saw Peter. It never felt right, but I accepted it—for twelve years I accepted it, because all proof pointed to Sirius. . . But when I saw him again, I wanted to believe in his innocence. . . a great deal more than I should have, considering all the danger," he said bitterly. "I sometimes wondered if I was only convincing myself that the doubtful truth felt righter than what I had to believe was true. . ."
He was looking out the window, now, where the faint sunlight remaining from the afternoon glinted on the glass. Harriet wondered how much of what he was saying was really meant for her. She wasn't sure she really understood all this.
"But doubt," he said, very quietly, "is a pain too lonely to know that faith is his twin brother."
Harriet didn't know what to say to that.
"He loved you very much," Lupin said, still watching the window. "When you were a baby—and still."
Was that what all that sadness had been, in Black and in Snuffles? Love?
She didn't know. She didn't know what it felt like to be loved.
"Why does he call me 'holly-berry'?"
Lupin smiled, but from the expression on his face, he might just as easily have cried. "That was always his nickname for you. It drove Lily mad. She had first planned to name you Holly, but when you were born she suddenly changed her mind. . . Sirius can be very stubborn."
Harriet felt like her entire body was holding its breath. This was what she'd been trying to get out of him and Snape all these months: the world of her parents' life, beyond the last moments they'd been alive. In the Mirror of Erised she'd seen them for the first time, but it wasn't knowledge, it wasn't. . . this.
"I'm sorry," Lupin said, and she really did believe him that time. "I should have tried to—I shouldn't have pushed you away this year. I feel I've left it too late, now. . ."
The bottom seemed to drop out of her chair. "You're leaving?"
"Professor Dumbledore has refused my resignation," he said, sounding oddly bitter.
"You resigned?"
"I could have killed you, or turned you. I may very well have turned Severus."
Harriet had not known this—had not realized, though she felt very stupid for not thinking of it before—and no one had mentioned it, not even Dumbledore. Damn it. "Snape got bit?"
"Madam Pomfrey wasn't able to find any indication that I did bite him, but she is waiting till the next full moon to be sure. If he turns, it will ruin his life. Not even Albus Dumbledore will be able to keep me—either of us—here for long." He scrubbed a hand across his face. Those thinly healed wounds stretched all across his skin, like the marks of claws and teeth. . .
If Harriet had thought she wasn't fit for helping Asteria, it was nothing to what she felt now. She wondered if she ought to excuse herself and go, but she still had things she wanted to ask, and she was afraid that this might be her only chance; that he might start pushing her away again.
"I hear you've been visiting him," said Lupin after a long pause.
"Oh—yeah. He saved my life." It was a bit awkward to say here, because Snape had saved her from Lupin; but he only smiled, looking very sad.
"Here," he said, and pulled a piece of folded parchment out of his pocket. "I thought you might like to have this back. Perhaps I'm wrong to give it to a student. . . but I know James would certainly have considered it part of your rightful inheritance."
Though the parchment was blank, she knew what it was.
"It was yours, wasn't it? You're all Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs. . ."
"Yes. Our nicknames for each other."
"You called Sirius Black 'Padfoot,'" she said. "And Pettigrew 'Wormtail'—and my dad was Prongs? Was he an Animagus, too?"
"A stag." Lupin smiled, in a sad, complicated way. "We used to call him King of the Forest as a joke. . . Lily would only call him that when he was being an arrogant prat.
"Would you like some tea?" he said abruptly a moment later, and Harriet knew then that he wasn't going to turf her out.
"Yes, please."
Lupin made tea and talked to her, at long last, while it grew dark outside and the fire lit so softly in the grate that neither of them noticed.