Chapter Text
Harriet suspected something was wrong when Ron leaned over and smelled her hair.
He wasn't subtle about it either. He bumped her shoulder and took a loud inhale right next to her ear. Harriet, who had been nose deep in a really boring passage about the goblin wars of the 1450s, lifted her head from her book and gave him a confused look.
"You smell really good," Ron said, in a strange, dreamy voice.
"...um, okay?"
Harriet glanced toward Hermione, who was sitting opposite the table. She expected to find her glaring at Ron or similarly perplexed, but instead, she was staring at Harriet.
"You do smell good," she said. "And your hair... your hair is fantastic today."
Harriet frowned, vague alarm bells ringing at the back of her mind. She smelled the way she usually did, and her hair had never been fantastic a single day in her life. It was a mess of a bird's nest, its own ecosystem of dark curls and spikes, untameable even with magic.
"Thanks," she said slowly, "but what's going on?"
Hermione blinked, offering no answer.
"Can I touch your hair?" Ron asked.
"No! No, you can't touch my hair." Harriet closed her book and got up, casting a worried look at her friends. "If this is a joke, it's not funny."
"Sorry," Ron said, drawing back. "I didn't want to make you mad, sorry, sorry."
Hermione was frowning. Her gaze traveled back and forth between Harriet and the book she had opened in front of her.
"We're going to be late for class," she eventually said.
"Yeah," Harriet said. "Let's go."
They shoved their books into their bags and exited the library. Harriet walked ahead, wondering if she should stop by the Hospital Wing. Maybe there was some sort of magical illness that made people say strange things. Maybe Madam Pomfrey would know what to do.
"Harriet," Hermione said, catching up to her and taking her hand. "I'm so happy to be your friend."
Before Harriet could answer, Ron had grabbed her other hand.
"Me too!" he said with explosive enthusiasm.
"Your best friend," Hermione said.
"No, I'm her best friend!" Ron countered, giving a tug on Harriet's hand.
"Guys..."
Now they were both tugging on her hands. She jerked herself away.
"What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing," Ron said. "I just—I just love you."
"I love you," Hermione echoed, taking a step toward Harriet, hand stretched out.
It wasn't the first time they were saying it. There had been a lot of "I love you" during that awful time spent camping while they were searching for the Horcruxes, and some more after Voldemort's defeat. Their friendship was all the stronger for it. Except this time, it was different.
They both had put some peculiar inflection on the word 'love', like a desperate line thrown out into the void. Like they would die if she didn't say it back.
"And I love you, both of you. Now, I'm going to the Hospital Wing, are you coming?"
Both their faces fell, sudden worry creasing deep lines into their features.
"Are you sick?" Ron asked, while Hermione started rummaging around in her bag, saying she had aspirin if Harriet needed some.
"I'm fine, but—"
"Harriet!"
That was from Neville, who had appeared round the corner and was heading toward them. For a second, Harriet hoped he'd be normal, hoped that whatever was wrong was only affecting Ron and Hermione. Then that hope died when she saw the glint in Neville's eyes. He looked at her the way he looked at his favorite plants—with boundless awe and love.
"Harriet, wow... you're... you're so beautiful. Your eyes... they're so green. Like... like the tender shoot of a young Mandrake."
Ron snorted.
"Give it up, Neville. She's not interested."
"She's with me," Hermione said as she placed a hand on Harriet's shoulder. "She always liked me best. It's a girls thing. You boys wouldn't understand."
"That's not true," Ron said. "Harriet was my friend before she was yours. She didn't even like you at first! Not until we fought the troll. Right, Harriet? Tell them."
"There's something wrong with you," Harriet said frankly. "Can't you see it? No, stop touching me!"
Neville had reached for her, and stepped back with a sheepish expression.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! You're just so beautiful, I—"
"Is he bothering you, Harriet?" Ron said, setting a hand on the wand holstered at his thigh.
"No. No one's bothering me. Let's stay calm about this."
"I'm very calm," Hermione said, looking at Harriet for approval.
"Me too!" Ron quickly added.
"I'll be calm for you, Harriet," Neville said.
Harriet rubbed at her face, groaning into her hands. Whatever it was, it was contagious. What could be the trigger? All Neville had done was look at her. Had they all ingested Amortentia during lunch?
"Potter," said a new voice, and Harriet cursed her bad luck.
"Piss off, Malfoy," Ron said.
"I wasn't talking to you, Weasel. I was addressing the most beautiful witch in all of existence. Lady Potter..."
Draco pushed past Neville. His face bore the most serious, solemn expression Harriet had ever seen on him. She feared what would next come out of his mouth.
He went down on one knee.
"Will you marry me?"
Harriet stared. Any second now, she would wake up. This couldn't be real. It just couldn't.
"She's not going to marry you!" Ron said, barking out a laugh. "She doesn't even like you."
"You testified on my behalf at my trial," Draco said, looking at Harriet with hope. "You're the reason I didn't go to Azkaban, the reason I was allowed to come back to Hogwarts. You saved me, Harriet. And I can offer you so much. I have lands, I have money, I have a powerful name—"
"No," Harriet said.
A spasm seized Draco's face, taking away all hope and leaving behind a crestfallen expression.
"No?"
"No, I'm not going to marry you. Get up."
He got to his feet, now looking like a kicked puppy.
"Will you at least consent to being my mistress?"
Harriet emitted some kind of wheezing sound. She wasn't quite sure if that was an aborted laugh or the start of a desperate wail.
"Leave her alone, Malfoy," Ron said, stepping between her and Draco. "She doesn't want you."
And he drew his wand, which immediately escalated the problem. Draco drew his, aiming squarely for Ron. They faced off, features etched with mutual dislike.
"As if she could ever love someone like you," Draco spat. "You're nothing, Weasley. You don't have a Knut to your name."
"Because I don't measure my worth by the size of the pile of Galleons in my vault," Ron retorted. "I'm her best friend, and what are you? Some poor ferret trying to paw at her, hoping for crumbs of affection."
Draco winced. His wand flashed, a purple spell streaking toward Ron who shielded against it then opened his mouth to launch his own attack. Harriet was faster. Both their wands were ripped from their grasp and clattered to the floor.
"No fighting!" she snapped, struggling for control of the situation. "If you fight, I won't love you anymore!"
That threat was far more effective than she had thought it would be. Instantly, everyone was apologizing profusely, even Hermione and Neville who hadn't drawn their wands at all.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Draco cried out.
"We're not fighting," Ron said, lifting his hands in the air.
"Please don't hate me," Neville whimpered.
Harriet took a deep breath.
"We're all going to the Hospital Wing," she said. "Come."
She walked down the corridor at a fast pace, trailed by her bickering friends. They were whispering behind her back, loud enough that she could hear everything.
"She won't marry you."
"She won't marry you either."
"Guys, she said no fighting!"
"We're not fighting!"
"She's so dreamy..."
They crossed paths with more people, and each and every single person started following them, some calling out for Harriet, some telling her she was beautiful, some asking if they could touch her. The entire population of the castle seemed to have lost their mind, and over—what?—her beauty?
Harriet kept her wand at the ready. They were almost there.
She went down one more staircase, turned another corner, collected two more Slytherins, one of whom asked if she was single, and finally she reached her destination.
"Madam Pomfrey!" she called, hoping the solution would be as simple as a wand flick, or perhaps feeding everyone a potion.
The Medi-Witch stepped into view. A smile broke out on her face, warm and immediate.
"Miss Potter, hello. What brings you to me today?"
Harriet gestured at her crowd of admirers.
"Everyone is saying they're in love with me. I think it might be Amortentia or something similar. Maybe a curse?"
"Oh, my dear, no, no. This isn't the work of a potion or a spell. Of course everyone loves you! You're simply so wonderful." Her eyes were gleaming, her smile widening, edging toward the line of fanaticism. "So, so wonderful..."
Fuck.
Harriet stepped back, considering her options. Her gaze scanned the crowd and found only adoring expressions and imploring eyes.
"Do you love me?" someone asked.
"Please, look at me!" someone else said. "Just one look, please!"
"She's my best friend!" Ron was saying to Draco. "Mine!"
The crowd swelled, people advancing on Harriet, seeking to be closer to her.
"I just want to touch you!"
"Can I have a lock of your hair? I'll put it under my pillow."
"Harriet, please!"
Hands reached out. Someone grasped her robes, someone else her wrist, a third person yanking at her hair. That was enough. She fired off a few Stuns, neutralizing the people that were the most aggressive. A ripple went through the crowd.
"Stand back!" Ron shouted. "She said! No! Fighting!"
"Are you okay, Harriet?" Hermione asked
"Wands down, everyone!" Madam Pomfrey said, looking severely disapproving. "Miss Potter needs a calm environment!"
No. What Harriet needed was help, and she wouldn't find it here.
She ran.
Pushed her way through the crowd, bolting for the door and out of the room. She left her robes behind when someone grabbed them and wouldn't let go.
"Harriet!"
"Wait!"
"Don't leave me!"
A cacophony of anguished demands erupted behind her. The crowd followed, and soon she was being hunted through the corridors by a horde of ravenous people. She didn't want to hurt them. She couldn't stop either, couldn't make them see reason.
She had to keep running.
Her feet led her down, into the dungeons, where the cool air and the musty smell were of some comfort to her. Someone bellowed her name, pleading with her to turn around. She went faster instead.
"What the devilry is going on?" said Sir Nicholas as she blew past him.
He didn't seem to be affected by the lunacy that had taken over the school, but Harriet didn't have time to determine why. The floor shook as people trampled the flagstones right in her wake.
She was almost there, almost, almost.
She rushed across the remaining distance, yanked open the door, slipped inside the room, then quickly slammed the door close and turned the key into the lock. Two seconds later, something collided heavily with the sturdy wood. The door creaked but held on. Heart racing, slightly out of breath, Harriet stepped back, gripping her wand tightly.
The handle jiggled. Then came a series of knocks, frantic and urgent.
"Harriet! Open the door!"
"I love you!"
"I just want you to look at me! Please, Harriet!"
Harriet took another step back.
"Miss Potter," said a deep voice right behind her. "Would you care to explain the reason of your intrusion into my office?"
Harriet whirled around. Snape stood there, mere inches from her, all dark and tall and broody. The sight of him brought immediate relief, followed by a pang of worry. He was going to react like everyone else—try to touch her, tell her he loved her—fuck, she hadn't thought this through.
She hadn't thought at all.
Rushing to Snape had been nothing but instinct.
"I'm—I'm in trouble," she said.
His black eyes took her in from head to toes, a sweeping, scalding look, before cutting to the door. The crowd was banging against the wood, making a racket, begging to be let in. Harriet flinched as Ron bellowed he loved her. A sneer split Snape's face, and with a flick of his wrist, the din vanished, leaving only silence.
Harriet exhaled. Her shoulders slumped, fingers relaxing around her wand.
"Walk me through the last few minutes," Snape said.
He wasn't coming closer, nor was he looking at her with that manic glint that had lit up everyone's gaze. He seemed normal. As Snape as ever—calm, collected, and annoyed to see her.
"I didn't do anything specific. We were in the library, Hermione, Ron and I, working on our History of Magic essays, and Ron told me I smelled good, and Hermione complimented my hair, completely out of the blue. Then Neville looked at me like I was his favorite plant, and Draco proposed, so I went to the Hospital Wing but Madam Pomfrey was also affected. It's like they're all in love with me—obsessed with me, and I have no idea why!"
"Tilt your head back."
"What?"
"Do it."
Harriet obeyed, looking at the ceiling for a brief moment. Snape made no comment.
"Is it Amortentia?" she asked.
"It's not Amortentia. It's you."
"Me? What do you mean, me?"
"How do you feel?"
She squinted at him. Fine, she was about to say, but then she realized it wasn't true. Now that the adrenaline was fading, there was something that bothered her, there alongside all the biological processes of her body—something alien. Some odd throbbing on either side of her throat, echoing in tandem. She was thirsty, too. Incredibly thirsty, actually.
"I need... I need water," she said.
Snape cursed.
She opened her mouth to ask what was wrong but couldn't get the words out. The world was wobbling, her vision edged by darkness. Her legs bent under her, and then she was falling, falling...
Someone caught her just as oblivion rushed up to meet her.
*
Warmth.
All-encompassing warmth, cocooning every inch of her.
Harriet blinked. Her eyelids fluttered open, a weak groan issuing from her throat. She was—oh, she was in a bathtub. A bathtub full of hot, steaming water, which explained why she felt so nice and warm. She still had her clothes on, which struck her as strange. Why had she decided to take a bath without disrobing first? And whose bathtub was this, because she didn't recognize—
"How do you feel now?"
Oh.
Oh, yeah.
This was Snape's bathtub, and she was in Snape's bathroom, because she had sought refuge in his quarters after half the castle had turned into a pack of rabid fans.
"Better," she said.
"Drink," Snape said, shoving a glass of cool water into her hands.
She didn't ask questions. She drank the entire glass, gulping down the water like it was some life-giving elixir. Snape watched her with severe dark eyes. He accepted the glass back without a word and vanished it without taking his gaze off her. He was crouched down, close to her, his cloak pooling on the floor around him like a puddle of ink.
It occurred to her that he must have carried her here—carried her, put her in the tub, turned the water on, and made sure it was comfortably warm. She was grateful her clothes were still on. She had fantasized about being naked in front of him, but not like that, not when she was in distress.
"Is everyone alright?" she asked. "It's not permanent, is it? They're not going to be stuck adoring me for the rest of their lives?"
"They will be fine. The effect dissipates once one is removed from the source. I've sent a message to Minerva and have no doubt she is organizing everyone's recovery as we speak."
Harriet sighed, reclining fully in the tub. She did feel better now that she'd gotten water, around her and in her. The odd throbbing on the sides of her throat was still present, but it didn't seem urgent.
"What's happening to me?"
"You've come into a creature inheritance," Snape said, watching her like an hawk. "A vanishingly rare magical phenomenon that only affects a handful of people every decade. Congratulations, Miss Potter. You continue to be the most special girl on the planet."
"I didn't choose this," she retorted with a scowl.
Raking her brain, she tried to recall what she knew about creature inheritances. The subject had been broached by Snape himself during their Defense class in 6th year, but only in passing. Snape had given them an optional essay that only Hermione had bothered to do. Harriet hadn't paid attention to the details of the lesson, though she remembered now inheritances came from old, dormant bloodlines that sometimes activated when a witch or wizard went through a traumatic life event or came of age. Then they gained the powers of the matching creature. The textbook had had the example of a man with a dragon inheritance who had grown wings and could breathe fire, which she had thought was so cool.
She obviously wasn't a dragon.
"What am I? What creature?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Snape said. "You're a siren."
He leaned closer.
"A stunningly beautiful woman, capable of casting a spell over anyone you come in contact with, your magic weaving a song around them, irresistible, undeniable, pushing them to steer their ships toward jagged rocks, oblivious to the danger as they scramble toward you, risking their very lives, all for the fleeting, desperate hope of getting to you..."
He plucked a strand of her hair, twisting it around one long, slender finger.
"...of touching you..."
He trailed that finger down her cheek.
"...of getting a single kiss from your perfect lips..."
His gaze flicked down to her mouth. He leaned back abruptly and turned his head away.
"A siren," Harriet said, looking at the lank curtain of hair that hid Snape's face.
"As I said, it's obvious."
His diction was crisp, and when he looked back at her, there was a layer of ice over his obsidian eyes. She recognized it as the expression he used to wear during their Occlumency lessons.
"How do you know?"
"The way your friends reacted is a dead giveaway. Your need for water is another. And lastly, there is physical evidence."
Harriet reflexively looked at her lower body. She still had two legs. She wiggled her toes in her sandals. Yep, no siren tail here.
Snape handed her a small mirror. She angled it toward her face and gasped at what she saw.
She had scales.
Faint, shimmering scales, glowing iridescent on her cheekbones and forehead, as if someone had applied some serious makeup to her face. Under her fingers, the scales were smooth and hard. She ran a nail over them and winced at the low thrill the motion sent down her back. Her heart stuttered in her chest, adrenaline rushing anew in her veins.
A siren.
She didn't want to be a fucking siren!
"How do I stop it?"
"You can't," Snape said. "This is the start of your transformation. It will eventually culminate in a full physical change, from human to siren. Afterwards, you'll be able to switch at will between forms."
"Okay." That was slightly reassuring. "How long will it take?"
"About a week."
"A whole week?"
"Which is lucky for you. Some inheritances take a month or more to settle."
"How do you know all this?"
He gave her a blank look.
"This is part of the Defense Against the Dark Arts curriculum, Potter. I merely skimmed the chapter when it came to teaching you, but I studied every aspect of creature inheritances. Any witch or wizard bestowed with one may represent a danger, to others if they wield their powers against them, or to themselves if they're not in control."
He plucked the mirror from her hands.
"A single siren could turn the tide of any battle by walking out onto the battlefield and charming the combatants. Imagine if you had had this power during the Battle of Hogwarts, Potter. You could have commanded all the Death Eaters to lay down their wands, and they would have obeyed you."
"Fuck," Harriet whispered, knowing it was true, knowing she now had that kind of power.
Everyone had been so desperate to please her earlier. They would have followed any order she'd have given.
"Your power of seduction is unmatched," Snape said.
"But I don't want it!"
"And we come to our main problem. The physical transformation will proceed regardless of how you feel about it. You need to master the more challenging side of your inheritance so you can live among your peers without causing riots."
Harriet huffed through her nose.
"It doesn't affect ghosts."
"Indeed it does not," Snape said in a mild tone. "They are not beings of flesh and cannot be stirred by siren magic. But unless you're planning to live among them from now on, you'll need to learn to control your power."
"How?" Harriet said, a hot prickling of frustration rising in her chest. "I'm not even doing anything! I'm just... there."
"You're projecting your magic outward."
"What? No, I'm not!"
"You are," he said, a muscle spasming in his jaw. "You're doing it right now. Tamper it down."
"I don't know how!"
Snape made a sound at the back of his throat. His lips curled back, crooked teeth flashing, and something flickered behind the ice in his eyes.
"From here," he said, and he slapped his palm against her chest—and left it there. "Breathe."
She took a full, deep breath.
"Good," Snape said. "Now breathe out. And in... and out... yes, very good... again."
She breathed as he instructed, matching his rhythm. In, out, in, out. Each breath was calming, steadying both her mind and body. She hadn't realized how unbalanced she'd been. Snape's hand was set between her breasts, pressed against her wet blouse, and it offered a grounding contact that was more than welcome. She leaned slightly against it.
"Picture your magic around you, expanding and contracting with each breath. It is a living organism, intrinsically linked to every single one of your moods, of your actions, of your reactions. Think of it as a cloud enveloping you, ever-present, ever-shifting. Pick a color for it if that helps."
"Gold," she said.
"No need to tell me. Keep breathing."
She did, imagining the golden cloud of her magic around her, a mass of tiny, moving particles, each one belonging to a larger system.
"You have control over it," Snape went on. "You can choose to draw it back within yourself. Picture it happening. Will it."
He kept coaching her. His voice lulled her into a calm, placid state, where her thoughts flowed smoothly and the world was simpler. She exhaled in and out, thinking of her magic, imagining it receding inside her body.
"Good," Snape said at last. "Very good, Potter."
And this felt strange for two reasons. One, having Snape compliment her at all, which never happened, and two, because he had called her by her last name when the moment was so intimate. But of course he'd use her last name. It was ridiculous to imagine he'd call her Harriet.
Even more ridiculous that she wanted him to.
She opened her eyes. He had removed his hand from her chest. His face was pale, and his eyes so very dark.
"Did I do it?" she asked. "Is my siren magic contained?"
"Partially. It's weaker than before, but it's not entirely neutralized. I suspect it will take time before you're able to fully control it."
She frowned.
"How can you even tell? You're immune."
He stared at her, his expression unreadable.
"Is it because you hate me?" she said.
She knew he did. He had hated her throughout all her years at Hogwarts, asking her impossible questions, taking points from Gryffindor when she failed to answer, glaring at her in class and during meals. He kept doing it even now. She had thought saving his life in the Shack would change things, that he'd be a different man now that Voldemort was gone, that perhaps they could be friends—or more.
Nothing had changed.
And it was fine, she kept telling herself. He was alive, which was what mattered above all.
"I'm not immune," he said.
He was on his feet and had turned away the next instant. She gaped at his back. How could he say that? He was obviously immune! He had touched her, but only to help her, and he hadn't said anything crazy.
"Stay in the bath as long as you need. I'll talk with Minerva and make the necessary arrangements."
"What arrangements?"
"You'll have to remain here," he said, keeping his back turned as he spoke. "For everyone's safety. I will be teaching you how to control your magic."
"Okay."
She wasn't overly enthused by that prospect, but she couldn't get back out there without being certain she wouldn't charm her friends unwittingly. And Snape knew what he was doing. She'd be safe with him.
"Hopefully we'll manage it before the transformation fully sets in," he said.
She looked at her legs.
"You mean I'll have a siren tail."
"Yes. A tail, and gills, and the entire breathing apparatus of a siren. You might already be feeling some prickles along your throat."
She lifted a hand and pressed her fingers to the side of her throat, where the strange throbbing persisted. Swallowing made the feeling stronger.
"I wish I was a dragon," she said.
Snape emitted a low, rippling sound. Was that a laugh? Had she made him laugh?
"Things are never simple with you, Potter."
He left her on those words, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
She remained in the bath. Slowly, she sank further into the water, until her nose was just above the waterline. Then she relaxed and let the water claim her. Holding her breath, eyes open, she felt like she was floating. There was something intensely satisfying in being fully immersed, watching bubbles stream toward the surface as she let out her breath through her lips.
She had never liked water that much before.
She'd been a creature of the air, at ease on a broom, zooming in the sky. She'd wanted wings, not a tail.
Fate had never given her a choice. Not when Voldemort had decided to go after her, not when a piece of his soul had latched onto hers, not when trouble had found her again and again, every year, and not when she'd fallen for the Half-Blood Prince through his book, only to discover it was Snape.
Of course she wouldn't get a choice now.
She was a siren, and she had to live with it.