Certain Dark Things || Book Five

xxxix. crux horrificus

Autumn fell across the highlands in a pall of colorful leaves and cold, northern squalls.

Life found a pattern at Hogwarts as it always did despite the hardships its occupants faced. Harriet kept an ear out for rumors, but she heard nothing about any further use of Umbridge's special quill in detentions. The witch did hand out a few detentions, but those were fulfilled with Filch polishing toilets or with Sprout preparing the greenhouses for winter. Mostly, Umbridge contented herself making sure everyone adhered to her petty rules, and following Harriet like a bad smell.

She didn't appear the morning after Slytherin's punishment, though she was there the next, claiming to have suffered a bad fall in her office that required recuperation. Whatever the case, she resumed her usual activity and didn't pay Harriet—or Slytherin—more mind than typical. Slytherin's Memory Charm had caused her to forget all recollection of the Hogsmeade trip. Harriet couldn't meet the woman's eye, and the tortured screaming added new ambiance to her bad dreams. In her worst nightmares, she enjoyed it.

She had detention with Professor Snape every night, which was less of a punishment and more of a chance to catch up on the obscene amount of homework assigned by the professors. Some evenings, they reviewed Slytherin's lessons, either by revising the material or practicing in mock-duels, and sometimes Snape strove to teach her new spells. On a few rare occasions, she served an actual detention, either disemboweling toads or sorting beetle eyes—and it never failed that would be an evening when Umbridge came sauntering through. Harriet didn't know how Snape anticipated her surprise inspections.

More often than not, Snape sat at his desk, neck-deep in work. Slytherin would come by, but rather than looking for Harriet, he would spend the time lounging in a conjured armchair like an indolent gargoyle, and he would complain to Snape. Harriet would sit in the corner, pretending to work on her homework, and she would listen to Slytherin monologue while Snape occasionally added comment and generally agreed with anything he said. Harriet concluded Slytherin needed to hear himself speak more than he needed to breathe, and the Potions Master suffered the brunt of it.

Twice, Snape glimpsed the thin bandage she kept wrapped around her hand, and he made as if to ask about it, but Harriet hid her hand in her robes, and the subject was dropped.

Hermione's personal project continued apace, or so she told Harriet. Whatever the case, no more burglary was required, and no Auror showed up to send anyone to gaol. Owls continued to pelt Hermione with post in the morning, and she read her letters with a smug expression over her morning tea.

Life wasn't ideal, but it settled like sand in the bottom of an hourglass, and Harriet stopped looking over her shoulder for emerging dangers at every turn.

She found new enjoyment in tutoring the younger students, immersing herself in their problems rather than her own. They had petty issues with one another that Harriet could solve simply by listening or giving a spot of advice. Once or twice, she needed to flick a bully between the brows and remind them to knock off their rubbish.

She wished everything could be so easy.

xXx

Harriet smothered yet another yawn into her robe's sleeve.

Sunlight filtered through the library's tall windows in reluctant bands of yellow and gold, setting dust motes alight in sleepy puffs and plumes that hung in the air. The wooden chair beneath her rump creaked as she leaned into the back of it, her wand resting against her lap.

It was a Saturday, and the smarter students had gone outside to enjoy one of the final warm days Hogwarts would experience until the new year, but Harriet was in the library among the dusty shelves, seated at the head of the longest table available. The failing heat outside made it stuffy, and Harriet felt like she might be coming down with a bit of a head cold.