The Unrequited, by H. B. Prince

by WhereDreamsAreWontToBe

Summary:

Harriet is back at Hogwarts for a final year. She doesn't quite know why, but what matters is that she is here.
Back at Hogwarts too, is Severus Snape. Most students don't quite know why – and they certainly wish he weren't – but what matters is that he is here. In particular, Harriet finds it matters to her.
There are also new additions to the school this year: werewolves enrolled in the brand-new Lupin Programme.
(Also, Hogwarts is back at Hogwarts, and it does know why.)

Notes:

This is not an author's note. If you're disappointed by this fact, don't be. An awfully long one is waiting for you in the next chapter. Cheers!

Chapter 1: Prologue

The message had been succinct, as ever.

new project for you. usual procedure.

a. sidney

Mr. Sidney was a perfectly affable man but he never bothered with pleasantries when texting. Anyone who had once witnessed the intense half-murderous focus he aimed at his phone – the devil's device – while painstakingly searching for the right keys understood why.

Hence, as per the usual procedure, Harriet was standing in front of a high Victorian building, unremarkable in a Victorian street of Victorian buildings but for the discreet sign on the wall. The young witch went to seize the brass knocker for a second time but it escaped her hand as the door suddenly opened.

“Miss Hedwig, what a lovely surprise! Come on in.”

The noticeably unsurprised man who had spoken the greeting was about seventy years of age, on the sprightly side of portly and very much consonant with his Victorian surroundings, down to the combed moustache curling quirkily at the corners of his mouth. Alan Sidney, the author of the summons.

Harriet followed him in through the entryway and into the main space, a large pentagon-shaped room with walls covered in bookshelves from the shiny parquet floor to the high plaster ceiling. She had been coming here quite regularly for the past year and it struck her how unchanged the place had always appeared. No matter the season, no matter the time of day, it was always the same cool temperature, the same soft luminosity, the same library smell. The same clutter over the furniture – well-used objects and some that looked like they would come and go, yet all of them seemingly ever unaltered, like the decor in a painting. Had she not known any better, she would have thought magic was involved.

There were also the same two placid women, sat at mirroring desks on opposite sides of the room. Proper dress, proper chignon, not so proper welcome that consisted in the two of them raising their heads at the exact same time, staring at her blankly for three exact seconds before looking away, simultaneously again. Those women were the greatest mystery of all. She had never heard them speak a single word to Mr. Sidney or each other – much less to Harriet herself – and they always looked very busy with some kind of work that did not require them to move anything behind their elbows. As Mr. Sidney had not taken the trouble of introducing them further than a laconic the staff, she did not know any more.

“As you undoubtedly have guessed, I have here a new manuscript...”

“Mr. Sidney, before you show me anything, may I just remind you?” Harriet interrupted. “I'll be resuming my schooling this coming year, so I won't be able to deliver any work very quickly.”

“Of course, dear girl. As I understand, our partnership is about to get considerably less fruitful. Nevertheless, you can still manage one single work over the whole year, can you not?”

Harriet nodded. Honestly she would probably need the occasional distraction from school. Returning to Hogwarts after the war and a subsequent gap year would certainly prove to be challenging.

“Splendid! My new writer hasn't expressed any preference for swiftness in the process. He was, however, quite adamant about his choice in illustrator. I believe his exact words were: This Poe Hedwig, or no one else.”

Mr. Alan Sidney was at the head of a small and very unique publishing house which was meant as a bridge between arts. Writers of poems or short stories would contact him to have their work illustrated by one of his team of artists. Artists would come to him with a portfolio of their watercolours and other charcoal drawings in the hope he would know a writer fitting their style amongst his regulars.

Poe Hedwig had been part of his illustrating team for a year. Mr. Sidney had chanced upon her, drawing alone in a park, one late summer evening. Poe Hedwig had found solace in drawing since childhood, and all the more so at the time of the meeting, as she was battling depression on her own. Poe Hedwig's sombre depiction of the pond and reeds she had been facing had apparently touched something in the publisher, who offered her a job on the spot. She had, for some reason unknown to everyone especially herself, accepted immediately. Since then, Poe Hedwig had illustrated several works for different authors and had become particularly dear to Mr. Sidney.

Poe Hedwig, evidently, was Harriet Potter.

“I must say, I quite agree with him on the matter,” the publisher commented, putting on an antiquated pair of small metal-framed glasses. “Your essences should blend magnificently on my paper.”

A couple of dignified sniffs came as one from behind the two desks.

“Alright then, you know I trust your judgement, sir. Let's see what this is about,” Harriet said finally.

Mr. Sidney turned to a dark wooden table haphazardly covered in files and documents. One wrinkled hand hovered over the table a moment, fingers fluttering, then dropped to retrieve a black leather folder. He handed it to Harriet with a strange gauging look.

“This one is poetry.”

Harriet slowly opened the folder, revealing the rather thin stack of pages that formed the manuscript. Her eyes casually brushed over the few words printed on the first page. Skimmed the title. Caught on the author's name.

The witch glanced at the publisher in confusion, then went back to contemplating the almost bare sheet of paper, frowning.

The Unrequited

H. B. Prince

“H. B.?” she breathed.

“Oh, standing for Henry Balthazar I think. Or is it Bartholomew? Anyway, it matters little.”

Two clattery sounds of wood on wood resonated in concert as the women in the back shut their drawers synchronously.

“As usual, I'm giving you a week to get acquainted with the work and come back to me with your answer.”

Tentatively, Harriet lifted the first page. The second did not enclose many more words.

To a pair of green eyes,

hers or yours.

“That won't be necessary Mr. Sidney. I'm in.”

Chapter 2: Chapter 1

Notes:

Hello! to you adventurous reader who decided that, maybe, this work was worth further consideration.
So. I am rather new to fanfiction – the writing side of it, not the compulsive reading (in that I am fairly experienced) – and this is definitely the first substantial project that I'm actually projecting to share and finish.
This is an Eighth Year fic and, at present, the idea is to post chapters roughly around their corresponding time of year. In effect, that would be something like once a month, perhaps twice at some point.
Note that I'm going into this remarkably unprepared, which for me means that:
- yes I have the whole story planned out
- but very little has been written yet
And I love writing but I'm slow as a snail and life never has to try very hard, to successfully get in my way.
Nevertheless, for now I'm motivated so let's be hopeful!

(What I'm pretty sure will help keeping me your devoted, reliable author – or at least guilt-trip me into writing – is Feedback! Don't hesitate if you feel like dropping a comment, I will cherish them. And feed on them like a self-conscious but starving vampire.)

Lastly and I promise after that I'm letting you get on with the story (I guess I'm my own warning: I am a long-winded kind of person, working at curbing the impulse but it is no simple task).
This fic is not beta-read which means that:
- please forgive my mistakes and weird phrasing
- if you're a native English speaker and you want the job, you are welcome to it!

To hide in a bush

 

She was dancing around in a flowered sundress -
she had a sundress -
in the muddy playground like it were a palace.
Blue dress and yellow socks on a canvas of brown,
a bold splash of colour on the tones of this town.

She was laughing out loud at her glaring sister -
she had a sister -
soaring right to the clouds on the swing and higher.
White smile, green eyes, red hair on a canvas of grey,
daring splash of colour on the shades of my days.

She leapt.
The sundress swelled,
the sister yelled.
She floated,
she landed.
Delicate.

She was magic.

 

From The Unrequited, by H. B. Prince

Stepping through the Great Hall's doors was eerily reminiscent of Harriet's one experience with a time-turner. The comforting knowledge of witnessing a scene already observed upset by a growing inner disquiet: the awakening of a hidden sense that revolted at your having fucked with the holy linearity of time.

Before her stretched the long tables, silver-clad for the Welcoming Feast. Overhead, the crowd of floating candles cast their warm lights and soft shadows on every small surface. The enchanted ceiling displayed its summer-night sky wonder in sprinkles of brightness over shades of dark blue. The spectacular vision, the bright-eyed faces sprouting everywhere from black student robes, the proud colours of houses advertised discreetly on ties and napkins – Harriet was entering her typical start of year memory.

And yet, she was doing so as a stranger.

She had seen this place torn apart in the fury of a fight. She had seen it illuminated not by a see of candles, but by a tempest of deadly spells. She had not been able to see the spring-night sky, occluded as it was by the unsettled dust from shattered stone. It had been violent and it had seemed irreversible. The room had frozen in her mind in its most ravaged state; she could not think of it as it used to be, any more than she could acknowledge it now in its restored glory.

“Well,” Ginny said from behind her, “Hogwarts is certainly back to being Hogwarts.”

“It's disturbing, isn't it? How much it doesn't look like anything happened,” Harriet murmured.

“No, it does not. But we look it.”

Her red-headed friend was right, Harriet thought. The faces were bright-eyed with expectation, but also lined with a sort of wary tension. When before, the feast had been a time of boisterous reunion, the atmosphere was presently subdued, the ambient noise a superposition of hushed voices.

“We do,” she agreed in a flat tone – they both heard it spoken with relief.

“It's okay Harriet. Let's just take the hint and celebrate new beginnings.”

With a smile, Ginny led the way to the Gryffindor table. Harriet followed with a wistful frown.

As she settled in her chair, she glanced up at the High Table. Finally! – a novel sight. Professor McGonagall as the Headmistress appeared strangely natural. She was presiding in the central seat with her usual gravitas. The lack of twinkly eyes or benevolent smile was in effect quite reassuring. Instead she had her thin lips pressed together in a typical Minerva McGonagall fashion while she looked upon her students with kindness.

The rest of the table offered a more ordinary view. Professors Flitwick, Sprout and the usual crowd. Hagrid, who waved a bear-sized hand at Harriet. Filch, the tireless. A couple of new faces that would undoubtedly be introduced as teachers for Transfiguration, DADA or Potions. But Harriet was not overly intrigued by the presence of a few unknown people. What piqued her curiosity however, was the empty seat at the right of the Headmistress – traditionally, the place occupied by the Deputy. The absence was not the concern. Whoever it was was most assuredly in the process of herding first years and other newcomers toward the feast. No, Harriet rather wondered at the identity of this new Deputy, given that, as far as she could see, all potential candidates for the position were already accounted for.

She did not have to wonder for very long. From outside the hall soon came a telltale sound of lively chatter echoing in the wide spaces of the castle. The excited conversation died down abruptly as the group appeared through the doors and took in the overwhelming magic of the Great Hall. Harriet could have noticed the unusually high number of young students, or the unordinary presence of a few other teenagers, visibly older and showing some interesting scars. But she did not really, for her attention had been stolen by the utterly unsettling appearance of a very familiar sallow-cheeked wizard in midnight robes.

Her eyes widened and her breath caught in the back of her throat. She watched him lead the children through the room, then step up on the dais to take a place next to the Sorting Hat. She watched him still as he stood, his back straight but ostensibly relaxed. His neck was concealed behind a high collar and a row of buttons. His eyes were black and inscrutable as ever, steadily fixed on one point in the room.

Naturally, that point would be Harriet herself.

With an outward calm that she did not feel, she held his gaze with a blank stare of her own. She searched for something – anything – that would betray one of his thoughts, that would reveal some of the emotions she knew him to experience on occasion. Because she had read it. In his words and between the lines, she had never felt as close to the truth of Severus Snape, and it all rushed through her head, her heart, her very soul as she beheld the impenetrable mask of the man's face.

He betrayed nothing though. She would admonish herself later for feeling so bitter a disappointment.

Harriet blinked, breathed, then attempted a tentative close-lipped smile.

An interminable beat passed; he nodded. The movement was barely perceptible, maybe she had dreamt it altogether – but she had not. She would admonish herself later for the elation that filled her chest.

Her smile reached her eyes as she averted them.

“Have you talked to him since?” Ginny's voice was a cold glass of reality splashed on her turbulent thoughts.

“To whom?” Harriet tried.

The other girl promptly shot a pointed stare at her.

“Right. I guess you mean: have I talked to him since the day he woke up in St Mungo's and immediately dismissed me?”

“Yes.”

“Then, no. I have not seen him, nor heard anything other than rumours. And surprisingly enough, he hasn't reached out.”

She conveniently forgot to mention she had come across rather specific information about a certain H. B. Prince.

Ginny was about to press her further but was interrupted by Professor McGonagall's request for silence. The Great Hall had indeed reclaimed its erstwhile noise level following Snape's entrance. His mere presence here was controversial; the statement of his new status as Deputy Headmaster was bound to stir dissent among the masses.

“Welcome students, to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And to all those who were here before, I am very pleased to say: welcome back. It has been an arduous journey for us all, finding how to rise up in the aftermath of a war. For many, it remains an ongoing struggle. However hard we have worked this past year to make this castle safe and comfortable as it once was, to restore it into the home it used to be for the wizarding youth of Britain, Hogwarts still bears the marks of the battle that raged within its walls and on its grounds. More importantly, I know that no wonder of material repair could erase from your minds the fear or the harm. The crimes students of the year 97-98 were subjected to. The horror fighters in the Final Battle lived through. I want you to know that the entirety of the faculty will be there for you should you need support. This feast has not for purpose to forget. Tonight, together, we honour the sacrifice of all who fought and gave themselves to this war by moving forward. By starting to build a brighter future for this institution, and our community at large.

“I would like to thank all of you for the easy acceptance you showed about delaying your magical education until Hogwarts was ready. I would also like to thank the great many of you who accepted to take part in last year's unique experience of a two-semester immersion into muggle schooling.”

That had been quite the initiative. Especially because the idea had first come, not from any of Hogwarts' professors – nor from Hermione for that matter – but from the Ministry-affiliated Board of Governors. Thereupon the Ministry had worked diligently to bring the project to fruition, hand in hand with their muggle counterparts. Educational staff had been requisitioned from muggle-borns' families and muggle acquaintances of wizarding folk. A building in London had been provided to host a whole boarding school for the year and some of Hogwarts' teachers had visited to prepare desirous students for the deferred 1998 OWL and NEWT exam sessions.

Harriet, having spent her seventh year on the run, had passed on the NEWT revision. After the insanity of the war, she had needed a reprieve and had consequently declined the offer of muggle classes as well. Out of their famous trio of friends, she was the only one who had elected to return to Hogwarts for a final year. Ron had definitely moved on from education – George had not required NEWTs to hire him for the shop. There was an awkward incongruity to these two grieving brothers at the helm of a joke shop, but somehow, they made it work. For her part, Hermione had been Hermione and had faithfully attended all NEWT classes before passing the exams with flying colours. She was currently away in France, studying all sorts of magic at a wizarding university, in the company of none other than Draco Malfoy with whom, of all people, she had become much better – acquainted after the war.

Harriet missed them.

“Now, without further ado,” the Headmistress continued, “let us proceed to the Sorting ceremony.”

The hat broke into a song that was almost refreshing in its matter-of-fact-ness and its complete overlooking of any sombre event. As the last notes faded, Snape produced the list of new students out of thin air. Since he was Severus Snape, his small flourish of hand garnered him everyone's immediate attention.

“I'm not convinced that rehiring Snape was the best way to make students feel safe at Hogwarts again,” Ginny remarked.

Something in the statement offended Harriet.

“Seriously, Gin? Without him, Hogwarts would probably be Voldemort's School for Pure-blood Wizards by now.”

“I know,” the redhead replied calmly. “And maybe they know too. But most students see him firstly as Headmaster Snape.”

Harriet thought on it a moment.

“Do you feel unsafe?”

“No. No, I don't. I understand,” Ginny said rather coldly.

“You haven't forgiven him.”

“Have you?”

“That's different.”

It was entirely different. In the role of the Death Eater spy, Professor Snape had been a cruel and unfair teacher. Under the stress of this role, he had turned crueller and more unfair. As the Headmaster, he had walked a very fine line, casting morals aside and deciding on the amount of misery that would have to be borne. For that, he had been pardoned by the law. Harriet forgave him for his wrongdoings as a spy-professor. She did not even care how unsuitable a teacher he had proved to be. What she struggled with was personal. She cared that Severus Snape had been a cruel and unfair man. Toward her. She did not think she could forgive that. She also knew that she was already well beyond that.

“Regardless, there's no one I trust more than him,” she settled.

“Which I'm sure looks great on a CV, but I do hope this is not the only requirement to meet to be employed at this school. Does he even like teaching?”

Harriet looked up at Snape, who was carefully dropping the Sorting Hat on the top of a first year's head like one would deposit voluminous junk in a malodorous dustbin.

“Maybe that was his only option. Maybe that's the only thing he knows. Maybe Hogwarts is safe for him,” she hypothesised. “He's an academic whose students leave well educated, if slightly traumatised. Why shouldn't he be here?”

“I don't know,” Ginny replied, frustration in her voice. “He just can't waltz in here like he didn't let us be tortured. Some of us assuredly owe him our lives. But he owes us too. At least a form of expression of guilt.”

“He won't apologise. You'll have to work through this on your own.”

“Why, is he above saying sorry?”

“Probably not. But I don't think it has anything to do with his pride. It's like he won't accept gratitude for saving the wizarding world. He did good, and he did bad. But he never really bothered about the ethics. He didn't differentiate, he did it all for the same purpose that had nothing to do with us people. However he feels about it, there's one thing he doesn't care about, and that's how we feel about it.”

Harriet stopped talking to find Ginny staring at her, half-perplexed, half-amused.

“That's just my opinion, I might be completely wrong,” she defended herself quickly.

“No, what bothers me is that you make sense. Harriet Potter, expert in Snapes and other dungeon bats. That rather suits you.”

Harriet made a face which, in turn, made Ginny laugh. They turned their attention back to the Sorting and clapped politely for each new student, until the last one got up the stool to join the Slytherin table under Snape's watchful gaze.

When the last of the applause had died down, McGonagall spoke again.

“I trust you will all be warmly welcomed in your new houses. If you have any question or issue, you can refer to your house prefects. They will make themselves known. If the matter is of greater importance, again, your teachers are there to guide any student who might need help, and so are the Head Girl and Boy, respectively Ginevra Weasley and Justin Finch-Fletchley.”

The Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables broke into loud cheering. Ginny grinned and waved around good-naturedly.

If Snape's return was strategically questionable, the Head Girl and Boy appointments sure were a shrewd move from Professor McGonagall. Ginny for a Head Girl was the obvious choice: a young pure-blood witch who was both a fighter in the war, and a well-known opposition figure and student leader during Snape's tenure as a Headmaster. Pairing her with a muggle-born Hufflepuff from Harriet's year was a bit on the nose, but made for a clear statement. Harriet had been surprised at Ginny's enthusiasm when she learnt who had been named Head Boy. Historically, the youngest Weasley had been rather irritated by Justin's general behaviour, what she had called his daddy's boy's jolly vainglory. When Harriet had pointed it out, Ginny had answered that they had come to know each other better during their London year of muggle schooling and that he had matured agreeably. Understand, Harriet, she had said, that he is still a bit of a cheerful windbag – that's in the blood coursing through his veins – but overall he's okay.

McGonagall went on, introducing the new teachers, which most students seemed to find of little interest, and formally announcing Snape's return as Potions Master, Head of Slytherin and Deputy Headmaster, which was a cause for much greater agitation. The man was now installed next to the Headmistress, two of his long-boned fingers tapping a leisurely measure on the white tablecloth.

“Moreover, after many proud years as Head of Gryffindor, I am happy to pass the mantle to Professor Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank. In other news, some things haven't changed. Unsupervised access to the Forbidden Forest is still forbidden. For students involved in the Lupin Programme, a safe warded area has been set up in the south-west part of the forest, where you will be escorted on the evenings of each full moon.”

This particular measure had not been a Board of Governors initiative. But faced with a front of war-weary Ministry officials who were suddenly desperate to make a change and a number of eager werewolf families, the Board had relented and taken all possible precautions to ensure everyone's absolute safety.

“Classes start tomorrow at nine. Quidditch trials will be announced in due time. Any proposal for clubs should be presented within the fortnight. This being said, I wish you all a good appetite and a successful year on the fence of a new millennium.”

Nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak, came an unbidden voice from Harriet's memory.

– – – – –

The battle had not reached the dungeons. No corpse had recently lied on the uneven ground. The damp walls had not been spelled back together. The unique doom and gloom atmosphere had stayed unaltered for centuries, and wasn't that a comforting thought?

Harriet was walking down the dark corridors to her first Potions class and each step that took her further into the grim bowels of the castle made her heart a little lighter. Each intake of humid air blew the melancholy away from her mind.

Ginny and Luna were walking ahead, the redhead making conversation for two, while her white-blond friend moved around in a sort of hypnotic trance. She was dancing among the shifting shadows. The vision was quite fascinating and Hogwarts must have thought so too, for it had erased the Ravenclaw's shadow, making her the free shade of no object, a bright queen of darkness, leading all of her tethered subjects into a wild dance for freedom. There was something ethereal, Harriet believed, in these moments when Luna lost her earthly clumsiness to shine with an ineffable beauty.

As they approached the classroom the lights steadied, putting an end to the phantasmal scene and Luna regained her mundane awkward quality.

Ginny turned to Harriet.

“Luna and I will sit together in Potions, like we did in our sixth year,” she informed her. “If you're alright facing Snape on your own, of course...” she added with a smirk, pushing the classroom's door open.

Harriet affected feigned indifference as they entered the empty room.

“Sure, I'll just go and find moral support elsewhere.”

Harriet took a seat in the back; Ginny and Luna settled on the bench in front of hers.

“I'll be fine,” Harriet continued with a genuine smile. “There's every chance he won't even allow me in his class anyway.”

“Nah, half of his NEWT students got in with an Exceed Expectations OWL. If he wanted to reinstate his Outstanding standard for us, we would have been notified long ago.”

“I'm not sure he believes I actually managed to get an EE on my own. Plus, he knows that anything I achieved after was only thanks to his textbook.”

“I think you're selling yourself short,” Luna chipped in. “And even if you don't have his book this year, he'll be the teacher. You just have to let him be the book.”

Ginny burst into laughter.

“You don't know what unspeakable things she did to that book, Luna! She read it so many times that all the pages ended up creased and stained. She spent every waking minute with it. She actually slept with it, tucked under her pillow or all cosied up in her arms, Hermione told me. I wouldn't wish that fate on anyone, not even Snape.”

“That is highly exaggerated, Gin,” Harriet retorted with a scowl. “I wasn't that badly obsessed. Besides, the pages were already creased and stained when I found it. I'm convinced this was the origin of Hermione's mistrust of the Half-Blood Prince by the way.”

“Well, maybe you should avoid taking Professor Snape to bed, but you understood what I meant, didn't you Harriet?” Luna asked earnestly.

Harriet smiled.

“I did. But Snape and I don't exactly have the best track record, so that might be complicated. Not to mention he isn't quite the supportive and available kind of teacher either.”

“Oh, I don't know that. I think he was rather patient with me.”

“That, Luna, is because you are irresistible and disarming,” Ginny explained. “Two qualities that no-one has ever attributed to Harriet – except for Voldemort of course.”

A few of their classmates came in; Ginny and Luna picked up their earlier conversation. Harriet settled back in her seat and looked around. Evidently, Snape had lost no time in reclaiming his dominion over the Potions classroom. The most gruesome ingredients were back on display, well-organised on the shelves. Any touch of colour or light that Slughorn had added had been removed. Floor and lab benches were immaculate and the teacher's desk was cleared of stray papers. The air was heavy with a distinctive mix of herbals scents, organic smells and the faint lingering trace of cleaning spells.

At the precise time the clock was striking the hour, Snape made his grand entrance. The door opened in a violent rush of air and the Potions Master walked in at a brisk pace, in a great billow of black cloak.

“I assume no elaborate introduction is needed. This is seventh year NEWT Potions. I expect you are all familiar with my requirements for students of your level. I am aware that the sort of NEWT classes you have followed so far will have brought you to a superficial understanding of the art at best. As it stands, Professor Slughorn's teaching calls for an inquisitive mind if you wish to learn anything of some relevance. Unfortunately, most of you do not have the gift of curiosity, at least not when it comes to Potions.”

There, his eyes paused on Harriet, with a resigned expression that frankly amused her. Here was her confirmation that he thought her presence in his class absurd. Everything was right in the world.

“Inasmuch as very few or perhaps none of you intend to pursue a Mastery in this field, your lack of talent is in fact not a fatality, only dispiriting. As such–“

Every head turned to the opening door as it rudely interrupted the Professor in his speech. The young witch who entered was out of breath and a bit red in the cheeks, as one would expect from a student late to Snape's class, but she looked at the man with a bright smile, which was very uncharacteristic of a student in her position.

“Good morning, sir! I'm dreadfully sorry I'm late, I'm afraid I got lost for a little while down here. Honestly, sir, judging by the location of this classroom, I could almost believe you do not want to be found.”

And then she laughed. It was a delightful laughter, melodious and probably contagious under the right circumstances, but still. She was late and she was laughing right in front of Snape's humourless face. The odds were not in her favour.

The wizard looked down at the small witch, one eyebrow slowly arching up. Her smile did not falter.

“Good morning to you too, Miss Whitefang,” he drawled. “Now that you have found us, I trust that you shall henceforth arrive on time to my classes. Although I do not generally care for company, I do appreciate seeing my students when I am supposed to educate them. You may take a seat...”

He scanned the room.

“Next to Miss Potter.”

Harriet was very well-versed in all the ways it made Snape physically hurt to utter her name and yet, she had no clue how to interpret that last one. The name had passed his lips with its usual reluctance, sure enough. However, she could not detect a hint of scorn, suspicion, or animosity. She did not recognise one emotion from the vast array of Snape's Potter-induced moods. She could not even see that it was coloured in anything at all. How peculiar.

“Hi! I'm Zoe.”

The new girl was smiling at her just as brightly as she had at Snape.

“Harriet.”

Past the wide smile, Zoe Whitefang looked disturbingly like Luna. Pale-skinned blond girl with big blue eyes, small built, smooth features and an air of kindness. She could have been Luna's earthbound, overly cheerful twin, only differentiated by the blue and pink locks in her bob cut and the silvery scars that marred her skin. And the black and yellow tie.

“This is exciting, isn't it?” Zoe said in a low voice that somehow managed to stay high-pitched.

“Snape's Potions class? It usually is a source of anxiety, rather than excitement. But I guess I was eager too, at the start of my first year.”

“Oh, well-”

“If,” Snape's profound voice resounded again, “it is of any interest to you, Miss Whitefang, I was just explaining that in spite of the wonted impermeability of students' thick skulls, my aim this year is to impart to you sufficiently comprehensive knowledge, both theoretical and practical, so that you can be released safely into the wild, and brew potions of adequate quality for professional or personal usage. Provided that I be somewhat successful in this endeavour, passing your Potions NEWT should be a mere formality.

“Now that this is out of the way, this first class will be dedicated to a simple assessment of your practical skills.”

Snape went on describing the specifics of their task and soon after, they were all standing behind their heating cauldrons, cutting and measuring.

“I already know quite well what Potions is about, I've had a lot of lessons,” Zoe took up as if there had not been a ten-minute interruption since last she talked. “But I meant exciting as in: isn't it thrilling to be taught by a renowned master of his art?”

“Oh yes,” Harriet replied sardonically, “I'm sure that's the one thought at the front of everyone's mind.”

The other witch gave her a confused look.

“Never mind, you'll get it soon enough. You're part of the Lupin programme, right?”

“Yes, yes I am.” Her wide smile revealed a pair of perfectly innocent-looking canines. “You're not opposed to my being here or anything?” she asked, biting her lower lip in a worried reflex.

Harriet laughed.

“No, I'm pretty okay with it. I am curious though. As I understood it, the werewolf community had rallied around Voldemort during the war. How come so many werewolf families immediately supported a project that is clearly not in line with his politics?”

“We're a community, but mostly we function in packs. During the war, most pack leaders decided to join the Dark Lord, but inside the packs there was a lot of discord about it. Deference and obedience don't always go hand in hand with sameness of opinion. After you killed the Dark Lord, well – let's just say things were a bit chaotic on our side too. So much so that packs were re-formed, which literally happens never, and certainly not all of them at once. The new ones are made of families that are more or less politically aligned.”

While Zoe was adept at multitasking, following the instructions and chatting away simultaneously, Harriet possessed no such skill. She had paused in the preparation of her ingredients to listen to her cheery neighbour. Therefore, she started when the liquid in her cauldron suddenly boiled. She checked her book, lowered the heat, and looked up to find a pair of obsidian eyes staring at her.

She felt her cheeks flush some terribly undignified shade of pink and she intimated to Zoe that she needed to focus on her work. They brewed side by side in companionable silence for a while.

“Anyway,” Zoe almost burst out after one too many unspoken minutes, “a good number of the new Alphas spoke in favour of the programme, and here we are. I, for one, was delighted! I never went to a real school and at that point I was quite resigned to accept it as my fate. Luckily, the programme was implemented just in time for me to spend a final NEWT year at Hogwarts.”

“Were you homeschooled?” Harriet asked, trying to keep some of her attention on her bubbling cauldron.

“Something like that. Me, my brothers and the children in our pack had a sort of standardised curriculum that we all followed. But even when the whole lot of my brothers was still in school with me, there were barely fifteen of us, half of that being my brothers, and I was the only one my age. So this opportunity; this is terrific!”

Now that Hogwarts had become a school again – not a battlefield – Harriet supposed it was terrific, in a way. Still, she was struck by a sentiment of otherness, contemplating this girl whose main purpose in life, for the time being, was her education. How foreign this state of mind felt to her, now more than ever. But had she ever truly experienced it? Had she ever sensed, as deep and primordial as they did, Hermione's thirst for a perfect mark, or even Ron's despair, faced with a long assignment that is due the day after? She knew she used to enjoy the idea of it.

“How many brothers did you say you have?” Harriet inquired.

“Seven,” Zoe answered with a grimace.

“Ginny there has six of them.”

“I've heard about them, yes. The Weasleys. They seem like a fun lot. Still, I sympathise with Ginny.”

“They're alright. I've kind of become part of the family over the years and they can be a bit much at times, but they're great.”

“Have you grown up with them?”

“Not really, no.”

“Then you don't know what your friend went through.”

They continued to chat in an easy back and forth – admittedly more coming from Zoe than Harriet but it was comfortable – sometimes interrupted when Harriet felt Snape's insistent stare on her. Zoe told her all about her house in the woods and her pack and the great forest they could lose themselves in when the moon was full. She talked about her childhood. She said she dreamt of becoming a Potions Master, or at least having a decent job that comprised some brewing. She told her about her favourite singer, her favourite flower, her favourite way to cook meat. She told her how she loved handcrafting colourful objects for herself and her friends, and how above all else she loved knitting, and was that very British of her? She thought so but then again she hadn't been abroad. Harriet replied that she had no idea, she had not travelled much either, but the list of knitting Brits she knew was quite extensive. Harriet shared bits of her life too, Ron and Hermione of course, and the Weasleys. She mentioned Mr. Sidney and the work she did for him. That got her thinking about the manuscript, about Snape's words and the shapes that were already drawing themselves in her mind. The ones that she had been too afraid to put on paper so far, lest they revealed themselves a pale reflection of the man's poetry.

She did not voice those thoughts.

As was his habit, Snape decided to take a closer look to his students' cauldrons when they had made sufficient progress in the brewing. It always appeared as a somewhat lazy stroll about the room, with regular stops behind the backs of every young brewer. He would appraise the concoction, ignore the squirming student and eventually deliver some kind of criticism or sometimes just leave with a small grunt. Harriet thought his comments were overall nicer, less cutting, than they used to be. Whether that was because he was not a Death Eater anymore, or because he had always been kinder to NEWT students, she could not judge.

He finally arrived at their lab bench and peered at Zoe's brew.

“Good,” he simply said and Harriet choked on her saliva.

She threw a wild look of wonder at the girl next to her. She was sure she had never heard the man praise anyone in such an forthright manner. Even Slytherins were bestowed upon with convoluted approval. Zoe Whitefang had to be brilliant indeed.

Harriet had no time to recover from her surprise for, already, Snape was turning to her. Her, not her potion.

In the fumes that had risen from the brewing cauldrons and that now engulfed the room in a humid, smoky haze, Severus Snape looked like a lonely black cat in the foggy back-alley of some ill-famed London district. He was standing there, very immobile, his body filled with a tension that told he could disappear in the blink of an eye. His gaunt face, his lanky hair, his dark clothing, stainless but visibly worn, gave him an aspect that was both ominous and wearied. She could almost perceive the nervous sway of a tail in the slight movement of his fingers.

“My classroom has yet to be converted into a tearoom. A little quiet as you work would be appreciated, Miss Whitefang, Miss – Potter.”

He had addressed them both; he had not taken his eyes off Harriet though.

- - - - -

H. B. Prince's poems had been haunting Harriet for a few sleepless nights when she decided to do something about it. Seeing Snape every day, even when it was only in the form of a passing black shape in a draughty corridor, had revived his words in her mind. She could not help thinking of them, they were almost tangible, she could smell them, taste them in the air. At times they just disappeared but suddenly here they were again, waltzing around along a rhythm only they knew. So at night, tucked in her bed, her Gryffindor sheets safely wrapped around her body, she had read the manuscript again by the light of her wand. She had read it once more and then another time, until the letters had been printed on the back of her eyelids and on her retina. So that she would dream of them only, when she finally fell asleep. So that, when she inevitably woke up, she would also be greeted by their sight.

Gradually, the ink had flowed from the words and her mind's paintbrush had reshaped it into lines and curves, into light and shadow. But it was never a full picture. It was a swift sketch that did not linger. Before she could capture the drawing in a conscious thought, the ink was free again and the brush at work for another scene.

Harriet had been going round in circles for days. It was not uncommon in her creative process, but she had never lived through it with such intensity and so little respite. What was strange too, was that it had not started until she had returned to the castle and seen Snape. Certainly she had been struck by the man's poetry from the moment she had summoned the courage to delve into these pages. She had been fascinated and deadly curious. She had begun to reflect on what she could draw. She had felt Snape's emotion; it had spurred a creative passion in her and her imagination had run wild for some days. However it had been her own mind that had taken her adrift. At Hogwarts, Snape's words had made her a hostage of their world.

Harriet knew what had to be done. She needed to get that paintbrush out of her brain, transfigure it into a charcoal and darken some paper with the chaos of her mind. She needed to draw and she was more than ready to do so.

Therefore she found herself wandering the castle on a particularly restless night. She had gone through the book again but it had done nothing to appease her swirling thoughts. She had gathered her drawing equipment in an old bag and left her dormitory in search for a quiet, open place that would offer her art the freedom it craved.

Her walk through the unlit corridors should have been a dreary affair. Nothing but the cold clung to the bare walls; any ray of light slid off the stone to be absorbed in the empty space. Yet Harriet was feverish, vibrant with an energy that was not entirely hers. She felt it radiate from her skin, illuminate her way through the lifeless castle.

Harriet Potter was adventurous and she was a rule-breaker, a combination of qualities that had often led her to tread the many floors of this school for the mere sake of exploration. Hogwarts, though, never gave away all its secrets. It was not a place that one could ever fully know, even if one was in possession of a magical map. For one mystery that unfolded, it conceived a dozen more. Hence, at the turn of a corridor she thought she knew well, the young woman found a door that opened onto a narrow passageway, that widened into a sculpted archway, that led to a courtyard she had never visited.

It was square, with open galleries all around like a cloister. The fountain in the centre was dry and covered in moss; the ground was wild with weeds, flowers and uncut grass. The wooden bench looked frail and unsteady in its untamed surroundings, but there was something very delicate in its form. As in the carving of the stone that still exposed a profusion of exquisite details, although the material had turned dark and eroded with the lack of maintenance. Ivy was running up the walls with an elegance that made one forget nature was advancing and it was at work to destroy the creations of humanity. The courtyard was dark enough and the moonlight faint enough that the place hosted no shadows. The night air was chilly but the vision above head, the authentic starry sky, made up for the inconvenience.

Harriet tiptoed to the bench, unsure if she were, or not, an intruder. The old wood did not protest as she lowered herself on the bench and she took it as a sign that she belonged here, in this moment. Here, she would draw. She would illustrate.

She settled, prepared her tools, and waved her wand to lighten up her corner of the courtyard. Little lights appeared all around, like as many silent fireflies. Finally she closed her eyes and waited for the imagination to come and take possession of her hand.

Harriet had not opened her eyes yet that a deep, vibrant sound rose to disturb the stillness of the night. It surely came from afar but was so profound it resounded quite clearly in the empty courtyard. The initial sound soon evolved into a melody that sung right to Harriet's heart.

She basked in the enchanting music for a while, her charcoal suspended above the paper. The tune was beautiful, not quite heartening, like a happy memory fraught with melancholy. It was skilfully executed by a single cellist playing with abandon, as if the night were theirs. Harriet supposed it was. That night belonged to the lone musician, and to her too, as well as any other soul that roamed around, escaping nightmares or chasing dreams.

Harriet felt her art respond to the cello's notes. She smiled. The night belonged to all of its sleepless wanderers and in its peaceful cradle, they would create together one work of art.

She lowered her hand on the paper and her charcoal started to dance.

Notes:

The music that inspired this chapter's cello solo is Melting Waltz, by Abel Korzeniowski (just imagine a little more cello and a lot less everything else). Also, you might have recognised Zoe Whitefang. Yes, she is shamelessly based on Wednesday's Enid Sinclair.
Until next time!