Certain Dark Things || Book Two

xxxiv. thief's honor

In the wake of the Dueling Club's first—and most likely last—meeting, Hermione had come to two conclusions.

One, Gilderoy Lockhart was not nearly as talented and successful as he presented himself, and the realization punctured Hermione's budding infatuation like a lance through a balloon. Not that she'd ever admit to that infatuation, of course; it was embarrassing enough to think she'd found him so riveting and gallant when the wizard couldn't defeat an opponent not holding their wand or Vanish a golem before it attacked a student. How absurd.

Secondly, Harriet Potter had a problem with impulse control.

She wasn't thoughtless, no matter what Professor Snape said. No, if anything, Harriet was quite thoughtful; she always answered her letters in a timely manner, asked after people's welfare, helped first-years who needed assistance with directions or homework, and lent a hand when Hermione cleaned up her texts in the library. What Harriet lacked was faith in authority—and Hermione didn't mean the Ministry or the Headmaster. Subconsciously, the other girl simply had far too much difficulty understanding she didn't need to always act, whether to help someone or protect or attack another, because she'd never had someone to depend on in her life. The thought of it wrenched Hermione's heart.

If Elara hadn't noticed her that evening, if Harriet had stepped up and commanded that cobra away from Longbottom—oh, Hermione could visualize the resulting chaos with ease, and it sank heavily in her middle like a stone. Soon enough, rumor would have twisted Harriet into some sort of terrible, bigoted monster, and witnesses would have sworn they saw her egging the snake on, urging it to attack Neville or even Lockhart. Azkaban hadn't been an idle threat given by the Potions Master.

Hermione had several hypotheses on how Professor Slytherin would react if he discovered Harriet's ability, and few had favorable conclusions. Elara once made the joking comment that Professor Slytherin and Harriet might be related, and naturally Hermione disagreed—but, in the privacy of her own thoughts, she did have to wonder if Lily Potter had been indiscreet with Slytherin's father, Slytherin himself, or perhaps Minister Gaunt. Parselmouths didn't appear out of nowhere—not in Britain, at any rate. There was a connection between Slytherin and Harriet, though the exact nature of that connection had yet to be revealed.

Harriet spent much of the weekend quiet and withdrawn, sitting with them at their favored table in the common room but contributing little to the conversation. Truly, Hermione wished she had the right words to comfort the other witch, that she was as empathetically competent as others and could inherently know what Harriet needed—but Hermione found herself far too distracted by thoughts of the Chamber and their maturing Polyjuice to give Harriet her full attention.

It never strayed far from her mind. There hadn't been an attack for almost a month, but Hermione little doubted the perpetrator was still at large and simply biding their time. Harriet and Elara tried to understand her urgency—but they couldn't, because they were of magical blood from magical families, and they didn't feel the same sting of revolted eyes on her person, didn't hear upper years like Accipto Lestrange and his cronies whisper, "Hopefully the Heir does a bit of House cleaning for us." The first time Hermione heard the word Mudblood she'd thought it absurd sounding, and yet with each spat repetition, the word started to weigh heavier and heavier upon her, as if by the mere fault of birth, she carried with her all of magical society's problems, and couldn't wipe the stain off.

Mudblood.

Hermione shook herself and forced her mind back to the present. She, Elara, and Harriet stood cramped together in the stall in Myrtle's loo, looking down at the softly simmering potion perched on the toilet—the clean, empty toilet Hermione purposefully disconnected from the pipes so Myrtle wouldn't flood their brew. Harriet still looked queasy at the idea of drinking anything concocted in a loo, though Hermione assured her she came by every day during lunch and after dinner to make certain nothing fell in or disturbed it.