Evergreen

The letters find her in the middle of her mad dash to her first class of the day - the fifth-year Slytherins and Hufflepuffs, two mornings a week - running full tilt down the third floor corridor, dodging around loitering clumps of students who stare after her, bemused. She's not late by any means - if anything, given when she left her rooms, she should still arrive in her classroom fifteen minutes early. But she prefers being a full half hour early to make sure she's in order before she's in front of students. She feels too - well, scattered - otherwise.

The owls - fucking two of them, one brown, one grey - collide with her head just as she's about to skid to a halt in front of her classroom door - the twin impacts nearly make her lose her footing, and she just barely catches herself on the wall to keep herself upright, her nails digging into stone. The birds squawk and flap at her, outraged - flustered, probably, by her carelessness - possibly by her entire frantic existence. Harriet fixes her glasses, tugs some stray feathers out of her braid, and scowls at the letters the owls thrust in her face.

"Yes, alright," she snaps, using her wand to free the two envelopes from their claws - she would absolutely get shredded into pieces if she tried to use her bare hands with the way they're both glaring at her. The owls offer her two more identical disgusted looks before turning tail and flying away down the corridor, badly startling two Ravenclaw first years just coming around the corner with their violent flapping. Harriet waves at the two girls apologetically as they clutch their chests before ducking inside her classroom.

Despite her unusual tardiness, she's still been beaten by only one student - a Slytherin boy whose academic focus reminds her powerfully of Hermione as they inched closer to their OWLs in fifth year. He doesn't look up at Harriet as she blusters to her desk and deposits her bag on her chair, his nose utterly buried in Ancient Runes. She somehow manages to spill all of her graded essays on the floor and has to spell them back into neat piles - and he still ignores her so thoroughly, she can't help but smile fondly at the top of his head.

Harriet glances only once over the two envelopes before dumping them in her bag - there's nothing interesting or alarming about them - nothing that stands out. They are normal and average in every sense of the word - so much so that when class finally begins, she promptly forgets about them entirely.

And she doesn't think about them again until much later in the evening - after classes and dinner and breaking up a small duel between a couple of distressed NEWT students one floor down from her rooms. The letters flutter free of the books and piles of student essays when she dumps her bag out on her desk - she'd asked the NEWT students for two rolls of parchment, and of course she'd received three from each student - she should probably talk to McGonagall about the pressure they're putting on themselves more so than any pressure the staff might be putting on them -

More to procrastinate on grading those monstrosities than out of any real interest, she falls into her chair and picks both letters up, turning them over in her hands.

They're both addressed to her, each of them in unfamiliar handwriting - Professor Harriet Potter. The quality of the envelopes is identical - in the sense they're both quite nice and probably obscenely expensive, though in an admittedly subtle and tasteful way. The seals holding them shut are identical, too - a perfectly round circle containing a bouquet of flowers. Neville would probably be able to identify each individual bloom despite their shrunken size, but Harriet's plain hopeless with all plants that can't be used for Dark or Defense magic. The entirety of each seal is vibrant red - rather blood-like, truth be told, and too reminiscent of the color of fucking Voldemort's creepy eyes for her tastes. Harriet frowns over the first before she cracks it open, tugs out a single sheet of parchment, and flips it open.

Dearest Harriet,

I write this letter to signal my intention to court you through the winter solstice, in accordance with the Custom. Thank you most sincerely for entertaining my offer.

Forever yours,

Professor Charles Collins

She reads it - doesn't understand it the first time. Reads it again, and the words sink in, though she doesn't quite accept them - because what? Reads it a third time, and yes, it does say what she'd thought it said -

Harriet gawks at the letter for a solid minute before cracking open the second - this time, a bit frantic -

Dear Harriet,

I write this letter to signal my intention to court you through the winter solstice, in accordance with the Custom. Thank you most sincerely for entertaining my offer.

Peter Fortescue

Harriet blinks rapidly. Re-reads the second letter - holds up the first beside it - not really to compare, though it's impossible to miss that they're essentially fucking identical -

"What the fuck?" she whispers - rather urgently, truth be told. Because what the fuck? What the fuck?

The capitalized C in Custom suggests it's pureblood bullshit - the kind of stuff she's still not well-versed in - though, she's been told by enough people, she probably should be. She could fire-call Hermione about this - because Hermione has made an effort to understand where Harriet hasn't, but she's been trying not to bother Hermione so much after running just about every single one of her lesson plans by her during her first year of teaching last year. Hermione had been patient - had listened along with every single thing Harriet had planned - and had told her at the end of each of their little sessions that Harriet knows what she's doing - that she should trust herself. It'd taken Harriet, unfortunately for Hermione, the entire academic year to understand that for herself - to accept it. No, she can't bother Hermione again - especially since Hermione's voice has been the loudest in telling Harriet she should educate herself more on magical custom -

Neville. She can go downstairs to Neville instead.

Neville is in his first year of teaching himself - his first month, really. The only reason Harriet had beaten him to joining the Hogwarts staff, she thinks, is because Sprout had only retired at the end of the last spring term, and Slughorn had retired a year sooner, resulting in Snape moving back to Potions and McGonagall contacting Harriet. He's been handling the first few weeks remarkably well from what Harriet can see - but, maybe - no, surely - he'll be looking for a distraction from classes at this point? Harriet certainly would've welcomed it this time last year -

Neville's rooms are one floor down from Harriet's - with a view of the Quidditch Pitch instead of the Black Lake, which doesn't quite make sense, though Harriet had offered to switch during the summer, and Neville had politely declined. Harriet drags herself down the secret staircase that spits her out only a few steps away from Neville's door - doesn't let herself hesitate before pounding on it.

"Oh, hi, Harrie," he says, blinking rapidly, when he answers - seems a bit surprised, which doesn't quite make sense, until he adds: "Er - you okay?"

Right - it's showing. Is it showing? Probably. She feels rather off kilter. She nods, a little jerking - shoves the two letters into his stomach.

"Read these," she says. "What the fuck do they mean?"

Neville blinks at her again before moving the letters so he can read the contents - holds them up together the way she had, as if to compare. His brow furrows for a moment before his eyes widen - and he curses under his breath in a very un-Neville way. "You opened these?" he asks, sharp - looks up at her again, a vague kind of panic blooming in his face. "Both of them - you opened them yourself?"

"Er - yes?" Harriet says slowly - dragging the word out because she's worried about the look on his face and suddenly doesn't fancy hearing what he has to say -

Neville seizes her wrist and drags her into his office.

Two hours later, seated in one of his two armchairs - a creeping vine patting her gently on the shoulder, consoling - Harriet still has her face in her hands. Has had her face in her hands for the last forty-five minutes.

"What the fuck?" she asks again - for probably the sixth or seventh time - not really expecting an answer. Her tone verges on hopeless. In the other chair, Neville heaves a sigh.

"I'm sorry," he offers - sounding rather hopeless himself. He's been speaking very quietly and very carefully since around the thirty minute mark, when he'd finally explained that by opening the letters with her own two hands, she'd once again entered into a fucking binding magical contract against her will.

At least one of the wizards, they've agreed, had guessed accurately that she'd know absolutely nothing about the fucking Custom and had sent the letter hoping she'd just open it and become, effectively, trapped. Collins - the new Muggle Studies professor - Harriet finds him pretentious on a good day - dislikes how he talks about Muggles on a good day - has actually gone as far as telling him off in the middle of a staff meeting because of the way he'd been talking about Muggles while discussing proposed changes to his syllabi on a bad day. He must know Harriet fucking loathes him - must know she's still ignorant to most pureblood nonsense like this - he'd taken advantage of that - he'd taken advantage of her. Fucking prick -

With Fortescue, they're a little less certain - he's just opened a branch of his uncle's ice cream parlor in Hogsmeade, which means he's been the area more often - but Harriet's only met him a couple of times - and only in passing. She's never had a true conversation with him. He's a nice bloke, if a bit over the top - a bit too loud for her tastes. But he doesn't strike her as the type to take advantage of her lack of knowledge - to take advantage in general -

"And now I have to let this happen?" she asks again, her voice muffled in her palms. "Or - ?"

"Or there are terrible consequences - dunno exactly what they are, can't remember, but I know it's definitely something you want to avoid," Neville pauses. Harriet glances at him - his eyes are fixed on the fire in front of them. How he feels comfortable lighting a fire in his office when it has morphed into a greenhouse in its own right - the unofficial Greenhouse Longbottom, she's heard the students call it already - is beyond her. Plants of every color - from vibrant green to a dull yellow, burnt orange to purple like a bruise - spill from every corner - creep up from the cracks between the stones on the floor - dangle from the ceiling - crowd on the mantle. They even hover on either side of the opening to the fireplace, some of the leaves leaning towards the flames as if to warm themselves. "You don't have to be nice, I don't think, but you do have to - accept the gifts and go on the dates."

Harriet's stomach churns. She puts her face back in her hands.

"What the fuck?" she repeats - for no other reason than to get it out.

"It ends on the winter solstice, like the letters say," Neville offers - he clearly means it to be comforting, but his voice only sounds strained. "When it gets to the end, you can just reject them, and then it's over. And now you know about the Custom, so - so you'll never open another letter like this again, yeah?"

"Yeah," Harriet scrubs her hands over her face. "I just - I don't get it. Well - not Fortescue - him, I guess I can get it. Maybe. But - Collins has to know I fucking hate him, right? He can't think he's going to change my mind?"

Neville shrugs - scratches his left ear. He's slumped in his chair, his long legs sprawled out in front of him. "He's got a bit of an ego, though," he points out - probably reasonably - and ignores it when Harriet grimaces. "He probably thinks he can change your mind. You know half the girls in this school think he's a looker, right?”

"Half the girls in this school need to seriously re-evaluate their taste in men," Harriet mutters - pats absently at the creeping vine that's been stroking her shoulder for the last five minutes in thanks. "I fucking hate this," she adds - for not reason other than to say it. Again. But she won't apologize - she needs to get it out -

"I'm sorry, Harrie," Neville says, reaching to pat her on the back in time with the creeping vine at her shoulder. "You could always try to get them to rescind the offer - Fortescue might, though Collins - "

Harriet groans. Neville's right - Collins probably does think he can change her mind - which means the likelihood of him rescinding is slim to none.

She's forced to see Collins at breakfast the next morning - obviously, given they live in the same fucking castle. He stares at her openly before she even makes it to the staff table, his eyes pressure on her skin as she crosses the Great Hall, and so Harriet, somewhat shamelessly, decides to use Snape as a human shield - as Collins, for all his ego and bluster, still shies away from the Potions Master. Despite his pardon - and despite his continued employment at Hogwarts - plenty of people still consider Snape - well, quite dangerous.

Which - unacceptable, of course, but -

She seats herself so Snape is directly between herself and Collins - takes the extra step of making sure her seat is directly next to Snape to discourage any kind of approach from Collins at all - and earns herself a sharp glance from the former, a flicker of annoyance from the latter. She smiles weakly at Snape - they've been getting along better since she returned to Hogwarts as a professor, though there's still - distance, for lack of a better word - between them - and she ignores Collins entirely.

"Morning," she says - false brightness. Snape turns his head to narrow his eyes at her - and all the while, behind him, Collins watches with such rapt attention, it borders on inappropriate.

No, doesn't border on it - it is inappropriate.

"Potter," Snape says stiffly after a moment of glaring at her - probably studying her to make sure she hasn't done anything stupid - which, she has, and isn't that a bit of a punch to the gut - and turns back to his coffee and toast. Harriet focuses on the line of his nose rather than look beyond it at Collins and his staring eyes.

"Busy day today?" she asks him to distract herself - butters her own toast. Snape's entire face twitches - his jaw tightens.

"What are you doing?"

"What?"

"You don't make a habit of sitting next to me - you certainly don't make a habit of nonsense small talk with me. So, I'll ask differently - what's wrong with you, Potter? Has someone died?"

The last question is asked with deep annoyance - maybe even anger.

Harriet ignores the twinge in her chest.

"Sorry," she says. She's been trying to give him space since returning, truth be told, no matter how civil they've been - she figures it's the least she can do, given he would probably like to avoid any and all reminders of the last days of the war - and she can't imagine the mere sight of her doesn't remind him. She turns her full attention to her breakfast, willing her cheeks to cool down. It's not fair to him to use him as a human shield, and it's not fair to him to use him as a distraction - what she should really be doing is leaving him alone.

She tucks into her breakfast in silence. Snape ignores her for the rest of the meal.

Collins - maybe to his credit, though she suspects there's a grotesque motive behind it - waits until the late afternoon - after classes finish - to approach her for the first time as a -

As a fucking suitor.

"Hello," he says when Harriet finds him waiting for her outside her office and doesn't bother hiding her frown - her outright scowl. "Harrie - "

"Nope," she says coldly. "You don't call me that."

Collins somehow manages to look politely confused, despite the circumstances - despite her words. Truth be told, the half of the girls in the castle that like him aren't necessarily wrong in that he's objectively attractive - he has a boyish face, brown hair that always seems to fall just so, and blue eyes - not quite as blue as Dumbledore's had been, but blue enough, she supposes. He's young - just barely pushing thirty, if she had to guess - she doesn't know his exact age and will not be asking. He always dresses impeccably, as well - sharply tailored robes in various colors, all of them perfectly accenting his fair skin tone. He's not quite vain to the extent Lockhart was - no one would ever match that - but he still takes it a step too far. He's not her type. Not in the slightest. And it's not just because she would very much like to hex him in the face.

He takes a shallow breath before he says: "Forgive me, I - "

"I didn't know what that letter was when I opened it, and you were hoping for that, weren't you?" she cuts him off before he can spew absurd lies - glares daggers at him to drive the point home. "Don't deny it."

Collins only tilts his head. It's a very Voldemort gesture, and Harriet's stomach churns.

"I didn't know that," he says - lies - it's definitely a lie - she's quite sure of that. "I'm sorry - "

"If you were really sorry," she tries - this is really her only opportunity, and it's the only thing she could reasonably see forcing his hand: "you'd rescind it."

A pause. They stare at each other. Collins lifts his chin slightly.

"Well, I can't do that," he says, and her heart sinks and sinks and sinks, though she hadn't expected any different. "You'd never give me a chance, otherwise."

Right, because she doesn't like him, and he clearly fucking knows that, and - what the fuck - what the fuck is wrong with him - ?

Well, Neville had said she didn't have to be nice -

"Because I don't like you," she snaps. "And forcing me into this won't change that!"

Collins lifts his chin more - stares down his nose at her. It's rather pointy - it looks too small on his face. "We'll see," he says. And then he takes his hands out from behind himself - she hadn't realized they hadn't been visible until now, somehow - and presents her with a bouquet of blood red roses.

Which she, well, loathes - if only for the fucking color.

She takes them because she must - because there will be terrible consequences if she doesn't, though she still doesn't know what those consequences are - shoots him the dirtiest look possible as she does. Collins merely smiles mildly - tilts himself forward slightly in a bow.

"We'll see," he says again.

Harriet turns on heel, stalks into her office, and slams the door behind her. She doesn't feel in the slightest bit bad about dumping the roses in the trash.

Fortescue is more - awkward.

The Daily Prophet gets wind of Collins and his - his fucking pursuit. Most likely because Collins himself leaked it like an utter prick - and it'd only taken him two days to do so. The headline blares it at her from the very front page the morning it breaks - Hogwarts Muggle Studies Professor Courting Girl Who Lived - accompanied by a photograph of the Hogwarts staff - probably because it's the only picture in existence of the two of them together - though they're not together, with no less than Snape, McGonagall, Flitwick, and Hagrid between them in the image. The article causes whispers and stares from the students, thinning lips from McGonagall, disappointed looks from Flitwick - as Collins, as a Ravenclaw, is one of his, and Harriet makes no secret at the staff table that she is not a willing participant in this -

The article also results in Fortescue showing up in the castle himself that very evening - she supposes it was only a matter of time, and she's a little surprised he'd waited two days at all, with or without the Prophet.

His offering is a bouquet of white lilies, which is - an attempt at being thoughtful but really only makes Harriet recoil because lilies are lilies, and her mother is fucking dead.

"Oh, Merlin, I'm sorry," Fortescue says when he sees the look on her face. "I - didn't think. I really didn't. Here - you don't have to take these - " he vanishes the lilies and shows her his empty palms. Harriet, again trapped outside her office door, stares at him.

He's rather tall. He reminds her a bit of Oliver Wood, actually - he'd clearly been an athlete - quite devoted - before he'd taken up the family business of ice cream. She blinks at him rapidly when he smiles a bit awkwardly, swinging his now-free hands at his sides.

"I - heard about Collins," he says. "Thought it was rather unfair that he gets to live in the castle with you, and I don't, so I thought I should come up here. Also - I didn't realize you'd accepted two?"

The last sentence is half a question. Harriet swallows hard.

"I didn't know that I was accepting anything when I opened those letters," she says. "I didn't know about the Custom."

Fortescue blanches a bit - and it's genuine, she's quite sure - runs a hand through his blonde hair. "Well, shit," he mutters. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry enough to rescind?" Harriet tries - with a little more hope, this time - because he'd taken two days to come up here, and he seems to be actually sorry. But Fortescue's face pinches in a way that's vaguely guilty, and she knows before he opens his mouth what his answer is:

"Er - no, I'm sorry. My - parents want me to try."

Jesus - what is she, a prized magical creature to be won at fucking auction?

"I'm not looking for a boyfriend right now," she grumbles - glances away. Crosses her arms over her chest - tries desperately not to look like she's hugging herself in the process. "I don't suppose that matters?"

"Maybe you'll change your mind?" Fortescue offers - so obviously strained, he actually makes himself wince. Harriet heaves a sigh.

"Unlikely," she says.

Daily Prophet (September 28th 2001) - Harriet Potter Courted: Two Wizards Make Play for Savior's Hand via the Old Custom

Witch Weekly (September 30th, 2001) - Readers Polled - Which Wizard is a Better Match for Harriet? See Inside for Results!

2. Shared Interests

Neville calls Hermione in on the weekend for extra support - though Hermione has already written Harriet no less than six frantic letters about the Custom before she finally makes it to the castle.

Harriet supposes she's lucky none of those letters had included the words: why would you open them? Hermione doesn't say it, either, when she steps out of Neville's fireplace - she only hugs Harriet fiercely, which is - it's nice. Harriet's been dreading this a little, in truth - she knows Hermione loves her, of course, but Hermione also occasionally can't stop herself from expressing outright horror at Harriet's general and enduring lack of knowledge about the magical world and its customs. Custom. That she doesn't say a word - in print or out loud - speaks to how obvious it must be that this is really fucking Harriet up, and it hasn't even properly started yet.

Neville calls Hermione in because the dates will start soon, and even though they can't really prepare Harriet for what that means, they can give her guidelines. Guidelines that won't really help - but are the loosest set of rules she can lean on to know what's allowed and what isn't. None of them would put it past Collins to try to take advantage again - even Hermione, who doesn't quite know him, seems to only expect the worst.

"You have to go on the dates," Hermione says as they tuck into sandwiches Neville's requested from the kitchens. A vine rests on her shoulder, showing remarkable interest in roast beef for a plant. "But - they can't force you into anything you don't want to do - you don't have to kiss them, for example."

"Okay," Harriet says - and her relief leaks into her voice, because she has been dreading that possibility - she doesn't really want to kiss Fortescue, and she really, really doesn't want to kiss Collins. "But where's the line - like, can they make me hold their hands or something?"

"No," Hermione shakes her head with absolute certainty. She's brought six books with her, all with titles like The Customor Magical Courting or some other such bullshit - she's probably read them all cover to cover twice in the last four or so days. "The magic requires you be near them and participate in the activity they've chosen for the date. There's nothing they can do to compel you sexually, however - we're lucky that purebloods are prudes. That's baked into the Charms."

"The Charms," Harriet mutters - disgusted. It's great she won't be outright sexually assaulted because of this, but the fact that such Charms exist at all is foul misogyny all the way down - the frown on Hermione's face tells Harriet quite clearly that she agrees. "Fine, okay. But how long do I have to stay on a date? They can't make me stay with them for a week, right?"

"Oh, no - no one has ever successfully made a date last longer than eight hours," Hermione says.

"That's probably also down to the purebloods - anything longer would be improper," Neville adds, and Hermione nods.

"Oh, well - that's just wonderful, isn't it?" Harriet says with dripping sarcasm - can't stop herself. Both Neville and Hermione wince -

"I'm sorry, Harrie - I didn't mean - "

"There's nothing good about this, Harrie - no one's saying there is - "

They speak at once, and Harriet cuts them both off before they can twist themselves into knots over it -

"Forget it," she says firmly. "This isn't your fault."

A pause. Neville picks the crust off his sandwich, his head still down - leaking guilt all over the place. Hermione stares into the fire for a moment, thoughtful - the vine plays with her hair a little.

"Customs like this should be seriously looked at - they shouldn't be able to force you into this if you had no idea what you were doing opening the letters," she says slowly - Harriet nods, though, of course, for her, it's already useless - she wouldn't want any other witches falling into this trap, though hopefully, because her experience has already been so publicized, very few will be. "If anything, this kind of thing should be made illegal."

"Good luck with that," Neville mutters. "You know how the old families get about stuff like this."

Another silence falls. Not one of them makes any move to break it. Harriet sets her sandwich aside, only half finished - her appetite is utterly gone.

The dates start the following Monday. Fortescue and Collins are each aggressive in their own ways.

Collins asks her to teach him how to fly - presumably because he wants her to associate something she enjoys with him - and everyone knows she loves flying. And perhaps she would appreciate it with anyone else - under any other circumstances - as she hasn't had much time to indulge since she started teaching. Except it only takes her three outings - luckily not consecutive outings, or she'd really be in trouble - to come to resent flying - to come to outright hate it, in some ways - because all Collins does is complain whenever they're out on the Quidditch Pitch - usually in the early mornings to try to dissuade students from coming to watch, though they usually end up with a small audience anyway - the scattering of cherries on top of a shit cake. He complains about how cold it is up in the air, even with Warming Charms - he complains about how sore his thighs get after each of their sessions - he complains about how rough the fucking broom handle is on his precious hands, scraping up his palms because he, for some reason, refuses to wear gloves. Harriet always asks why he keeps asking to fly, then, if he fucking hates it so much, which always leads to him insisting he doesn't hate it, and she's a wonderful teacher - and it's all so patronizing, she doesn't bother stopping herself from rolling her eyes and stalking away.

Fortescue asks her to visit him in Hogsmeade to sample some of his new ice cream flavors. This she doesn't mind so much - except it's exceedingly awkward each time. Fortescue seems as unenthusiastic about this entire thing as she feels - his comment about his parents had been more telling than she'd initially realized. His uncle had been lovely - always so accommodating and welcoming to Harriet when she'd been stuck in Diagon Alley - or lonely in Diagon Alley - growing up. But Fortescue's parents seem a bit - well, prat-ish - or perhaps a bit more preoccupied with appearances than they really should be and making their son desperately uncomfortable in the process. They don't really talk much other than Harriet telling him truthfully that some of the flavors are good - some are great. He's nice, she supposes - much nicer than Collins, and much less of a chore to be around than Collins, despite how awkward the entire thing is - but he's not really the type of man she'd be looking for if she'd been looking for a man at all - which she isn't. She's not even really sure what she'd be looking for - she just knows Fortescue isn't it.

The Prophet, now thoroughly entrenched in all of the nonsense, boring though it is, runs speculation every other day on the type of man she wants - who could possibly capture Harriet Potter's eye? They run long quotes from experts who talk about what famous witches of years past have looked for - which would surely inform what Harriet must be looking for because obviously all famous witches are the same. She cancels her subscription out of disgust and protest after a week of this and sends a very strongly-worded letter to the editorial staff when she does, but she still sees the stupid paper each morning in the Great Hall - and her bullshit is always on the front page, even higher than the growing violence from an upstart group of escaped Death Eaters.

The only person who seems to find it more annoying than she does is Snape, who, she hears from a third year Hufflepuff two weeks into the dating, actually set a copy of the Prophet on fire in the middle of class one day after telling students not to bring the paper into his classroom and being repeatedly ignored. That probably shouldn't bring warmth to her chest - he shouldn't be setting things on fire like that in front of students, really - but it does. She has to bite back a smile - though, if the way the Hufflepuff raises her eyebrows is any indication, she fails a little.

McGonagall calls Harriet to her office at the end of the second week of October - just about three weeks into this bullshit - the afternoon after Harriet had outright shouted at Collins on the Quidditch Pitch in front of several students because he'd nearly taken her head off after losing control of his broom while trying to impress her. Harriet arrives expecting a lecture about civility - finds herself instead ushered to the twin armchairs in front of the fire.

"Eat," McGonagall says severely, shoving a biscuit tin at her. Harriet's been feeling vaguely ill all day, so she merely glares at the offering and shakes her head. "Potter - "

"I'm not feeling well," she grumbles - slumps into her chair in a way that should probably get her told off - doesn't. McGongall feels bad for her, then - which, that's embarrassing. That's really fucking embarrassing, actually. She needs to get her act together - McGonagall is her fucking boss -

"Fine, then," McGonagall shoves a cup of tea forward instead. "Drink."

"I'm not apologizing to him," Harriet says - forces herself to sit up properly - forces herself to take the cup of tea. "If that's what this is about. He was being a moron."

"I don't disagree," McGonagall braces her elbows on her armrests - folds her hands in front of her chest. "Are you alright?"

Oh, yes - she definitely feels bad.

"I'm fine," Harriet lies. But, of course, she's not fine, and McGonagall knows her well enough that it must be obvious. She hates the dates. She hates the eyes - and the eyes are only increased by the dates - so she fucking hates the dates. Reporters press their faces to the windows outside of Fortescue's shop each time she's there. They try to sneak onto the grounds each morning for the Quidditch Pitch nonsense. They're everywhere, and they're always watching, and Harriet feels quite like a butterfly, pinned with sharp needles to velvet, held open, on forcible display.

The Headmistress sighs.

"Harriet - "

"What would happen?" Harriet blurts out. Hermione and Neville have thus far refused to tell her, and she hasn't had time to go seek out the answer herself. "What would happen if I just ignored it?"

McGonagall sighs. She removes her spectacles and pinches the bridge of her nose.

"You would fall into an enchanted sleep," she says. "Only each of them kissing you on the mouth would wake you."

Harriet blinks rapidly. What the fuck? "What - like Snow White? Or - or Sleeping Beauty - or - ?"

"I do believe those Muggle fairytales were heavily influenced by the Custom, yes," McGonagall says - her voice drips disgust, too, and it's reassuring, sort of. "To - spare you the necessity of kissing either of them, I would suggest you continue to - suffer them. Until it ends."

"Fucking pricks," Harriet mutters under her breath, sagging in her chair again. McGonagall pretends not to hear her.

In the middle of the fourth week of this fucking bullshit, Harriet takes a walk in the early, early morning on a day Collins decides to forego the painful flying lessons - takes a solitary walk through the mist that rolls off the lake as the sun rises, weak and hidden behind the low autumn clouds.

The visibility is poor enough that she's effectively wandering through nothingness - she can't see more than a step ahead of herself and spends more time watching her feet than squinting into the fog. It's almost enough that she can convince herself, for a moment, that she's alone on the grounds - that there's no Custom - there's no lurking reporters - even no staff - no students. False isolation - it's possibly more comforting than it should be. She possibly gets a little too lost in the sensation -

She nearly runs straight into Snape when she nears the lake shore - he emerges suddenly, unexpectedly - his lean figure cutting a dark line through the world of white.

"Oh, hi," she says - a little off balance. Snape's been mostly ignoring all of the bullshit with the Custom, setting fire to the Prophet in the middle of class notwithstanding - and she can't blame him for that. He probably doesn't want to listen to her complain - which she does, sometimes, in the staff room to Neville - though he often drags her off to his office for privacy when she really gets going. Probably because it makes more than Snape uncomfortable and annoyed - Flitwick, in particular, has started to look pained each time it comes up -

"Potter," Snape says stiffly. It's cold enough this morning - a biting mid-October breeze keeps lifting her hair off her poor ears. His nose is a little pink at the tip. "What are you doing?"

"Taking a walk," she gestures lamely at the mist around them. "Getting away from - all of that - stuff."

For a split second, the corner of his mouth lifts in a sneer that is undeniably nasty. It flickers away the next moment - he turns to stare out over where the water would be - is, behind the shroud of white, unreal as it feels from where they stand. Harriet tries - fails - to bite back a frown.

Does he think it's funny? That she's - she's fucking suffering through this? This fucking indignity? Maybe he does - he has no reason to like her, and he has no reason to care what she's subjected to now that she's the hero - and he still gets hit pieces written about him in the Prophet - in fucking Witch Weekly, questioning his loyalty despite his pardon. She can't resent him for it if he finds this crap with the Custom amusing after all that -

A mermaid breaks the surface of the lake so abruptly - dark enough in the mist that it's visible even a stone's throw out - that Harriet flinches and reaches for her wand.

Snape doesn't tell her off for it - merely lifts a hand at her - placating? He moves so his feet are sinking into the water a couple of centimeters. Crouches. The mermaid slips forward through the grey water - comes close enough to toss a - a stone? Snape catches it in one hand - nods his thanks and stands. The mermaid turns his back and dives back underwater, vanishing with a flash of his tail.

"Er - ?" Harriet says, watching as Snape withdraws from the water himself, the hem of his cloak now soaked, glistening - such a quick exchange - silent and efficient - and Snape had clearly been waiting here for it. He stares at the stone in the palm of his hand for a moment before taking his wand out - pointing it at it - frowning when nothing happens.

"I'm checking the wards," he says almost absently - he puts the stone in his pocket - flicks his wand once, though nothing happens that Harriet sees. "Per Minerva's wishes. I still have access - "

He stops short of verbalizing it - that he'd been Headmaster. That Voldemort had made him be Headmaster - that Dumbledore had intended it, no matter Snape's wishes. He'd resigned the second his pardon had come through - and had only stayed on as Defense professor because, apparently, McGonagall had begged. Harriet doesn't know if she'd begged again to get him to shift back to Potions - hasn't asked the Headmistress. Would never ask Snape himself.

It's not her business.

"Is there a problem with them? The wards?"

"They're still not - whole - in some places," Snape stares out over the invisible lake for a long moment, his gaze as - unfocused - as Harriet's ever seen it. "They remain, like so much else in the castle, a work in progress."

"Oh," Harriet's stomach squirms. How had she not realized that? She knows that construction on some parts of the castle proper is ongoing - of course she knows, as when she's not being harassed by Collins and Fortescue, she's using her spare moments to help with the continuing repairs. But she'd never heard anything about the wards - she'd just assumed. How has this never come up - ?

"It's not public knowledge," Snape adds - glancing at her. "For obvious reasons."

Right. A sour taste erupts in Harriet's mouth. The group of escaped Death Eaters - lead by fucking Rudolphus Lestrange, of all fucking people. They're getting bolder and bolder and bolder. They haven't struck near London or near Hogwarts yet - the two seats of true power in magical Britain - but they've hurt people throughout the wide countryside between them. They've hurt people - and the Ministry hasn't been able to find them yet - and when the Prophet isn't writing about her fucked up love life, they're writing about this failure - they're writing about instability and lack of security and questions about what the Ministry could possibly do if a new Dark Lord tries to rise -

"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asks quietly - Snape looks at her again, his jaw twitching.

"Not this morning," he says. Adds before her heart can sink: "If you can - make time," a pause, and - is that a grimace? "I will be going to the ward edge in the forest on Friday morning to work on repairs and rebuilding."

"Oh - " Harriet has to bite back the big, stupid smile that nearly sneaks up on her. She'd much prefer working on the wards with Snape than suffering through another fucking flying lesson. "Yes - I'll make sure I'm free. Thanks, Snape."

Snape nods to her once - short and jerking - before sweeping away back up towards the castle. Harriet turns to watch him go for as long as she can - watches him disappear into the rolling mist.

Collins doesn't ask for a flying lesson on Friday because on Thursday, he dumps himself off his broom and ends up covered in mud, his face flaming, the watching students chortling in the stands. Harriet tries not to look to pleased - there's a very real chance he'll come up with something worse for them to do together, he's so fucking vindictive.

But she manages to contain herself, and Collins elects to forego a day to lick his wounded pride, and so on Friday morning, Harriet meets Snape in the Entrance Hall before the sun even rises - doesn't even need an alarm spell to wake herself, as she opens her eyes on her own a half hour before she's due to meet him.

Snape is wearing his usual black cloak - no additional outerwear - not that he ever does - but he doesn't eye her Gryffindor scarf nearly as disdainfully as she expects him to. In fact - he seems rather cheerful - or as cheerful as he ever gets. He doesn't scowl at her when she says good morning - doesn't roll his eyes when she casts a Warming Charm the second they step outside the front doors and the chilly wind immediately starts to make a mess of her hair. He leads her down the sloping grounds without commenting much at all - the browning grass crunching with frost beneath their feet, the grey light of approaching dawn casting the world in monochrome - and into the shadow of the forest. But his expression is as relaxed as she's ever seen it - the corners of his mouth are soft, no hint of a scowl anywhere in his face.

He's in such a good mood - for him - that she can't stop herself from asking after they've walked long enough that they've abandoned the forest path: "Why'd you let me come with you this morning?"

Snape's steps pause for a fraction of a second - long enough that it's noticeable - before he continues plowing forward through the undergrowth. Reaching branches snag at his cloak - he ignores them, and, somehow, they don't catch once on Harriet's own clothes. His wand is lit to lend them sight through the lingering darkness, held at waist height.

"Perhaps I knew you'd pitch a fit to the Headmistress if I told you no."

That's - probably fair. But - she wants to help. Is that such a bad thing?

"You could've still said no," she points out - because that answer sounds like a dodge more than anything else. "And I've never worked on wards like this before."

"Obviously I'll teach you, Potter."

"Snape."

He pauses again - exhales harshly through his nostrils, sending billowing steam up in front of his face.

"Do you wish to go back inside?" he asks - she can tell it's through his teeth, though his back is still to her. That relaxed expression is probably gone. Harriet blinks once - bites her lip.

"No, of course not," she says.

"Then stop complaining," he jerks his head. "And follow, you absurd girl."

Fine - he clearly doesn't want to actually answer the question - she won't force him. Harriet maybe grumbles a bit beneath her breath, but she follows all the same.

They walk for at least an hour all told before they reach the ward boundary, most of it in quiet, only the slightest fraction of it tense - and Harriet, if she squints, can actually see the magic crackling through the air when they reach it, drawing a hard line between the school grounds and the wider world outside. She tugs her wand from her sleeve when Snape signals her to - stands and watches him as he starts to walk slowly along that hard line, his wand pointed at the ground - he doesn't speak as he moves, but she can see the magic pouring out of the tip of his wand and folding itself into the flickering wards - the light that comes from his wand is a lovely and rich gold, speckled with blues and greens and reds - and it's being welcomed in easily - seemingly thoughtlessly -

"There's no spell," he says after several steps. His eyes are not on his wand or the wards or on her - they're pointed straight down at the ground in front of his feet. "You simply need to offer it. The Hogwarts wards have always been built on love - of the place and its people."

Oh.

Yes, Harriet loves Hogwarts. She loves it so much, she'd died for it - and would do it again, again, again. Without hesitation. Without so much as a thought. Yes. No wonder he'd asked her out here. She's never done wards before, but this - this would be easy for her.

"Okay," she says quietly - a little breathlessly, maybe. "Where do you want me to start?"

"Follow behind me," he says - cuts her a glance that lingers for a moment. His eyes a bright in the flickering light of the wards - of his own magic. Heat rises to her chilled cheeks. "We'll do two layers to reinforce what's already here - seal any cracks. With luck, we'll do possibly a kilometer this morning."

"Great," Harriet says. She steps behind him - draws her wand. And offers.

Daily Prophet (November 12th, 2001) - Updates on Harriet Potter Courting; see page two for our continuing coverage on the Death Eater attacks

Witch Weekly (November 16th, 2001) - A Close Match? Sources Close to Harriet Tell All about the Two Suitors!

3. Providing

Eventually - or perhaps it's more appropriate to say quickly - Harriet's trips to the ward borders with Snape are the only thing keeping her sane.

Collins is so fucking annoying. So fucking annoying - and demanding - and prat-ish. And Fortescue, while he's clearly still vaguely uncomfortable about this whole thing, hasn't shown any signs of actually stopping, which is just as annoying in its own way. He's clearly bowing to the continued pressure from his parents - and Harriet's lost all patience for it - for him - for both of them.

By the third week in November, Harriet's persistent migraine becomes nearly unbearable, and she develops a stuffy nose - is quite clearly getting sick, and it's fucked up that it's a relief, but it is. She shouldn't hope it's severe enough to get her a fucking break from these fucking dates, but she does. On the first day of the illness, she's not sneezing, but she is having a bit of trouble breathing, her lungs feeling tight and water-logged, and she probably shouldn't teach through the day - does anyway. On the morning of the second day, she outright faints in the middle of a corridor on her way to the Hospital Wing for Pepper Up - wakes up blinking at the Hospital Wing ceiling to find Pomfrey flushed and checking her vitals and the back of her head aching something awful.

She has Bowtruckle Flu, apparently, and a concussion from smacking her head on the stone floor when she'd fallen over. The bluish mucus she produces when she starts sneezing confirms the first. The tender lump on the back of her head confirms the second. Snape apparently provides a treatment for both - Pomfrey all but shoves both potions down her throat and sentences her to bedrest, all while telling her off for teaching the day before.

"If Severus hadn't found you, you would have lain there for hours, Potter," she says furiously - stands over Harriet with her hands on her hips, glaring hard enough that Harriet can't help but shrink back into her pillows. "You should know better - don't you ever do this again!"

What follows is two days of isolation that Harriet can't properly enjoy because her head's so fuzzy, and she spends so much time sleeping. Pomfrey keeps giving her Snape's potions - and they're certainly helping, as the noxious blue of her mucus dampens even after the first dose. It helps to loosen up her chest, too, and free up her nostrils for breathing. The lump on her head diminishes - her headache mostly fades, though the sinus pressure persists - more Bowtruckle Flu than concussion. She lays about in the Hospital Wing behind curtains, listening as students are dragged in for hexing each other in the corridors - for making catastrophic mistakes during class. One student apparently comes in with a long giraffe's neck - only the general weakness in her limbs stops her from getting up to sneak a look at such an absurdity. She listens as Pomfrey tells them off one by one - surprises herself by feeling a bit nostalgic for similar tellings off from her own school days.

On the morning of her third day of bedrest - of seven, as Pomfrey has mandated, because she doesn't trust Harriet to take care of herself - Fortescue shows up with chocolates.

"Hi," he says, peering at her worriedly as she lays pathetically against her pillow. "No offense - you look quite dreadful."

She doesn't hate Fortescue, still, despite her general annoyance with him. She's actually feeling quite charitable towards him at the moment because of the chocolates - she watches him knock over Teddy's get well soon card while trying to fit it on her bedside table and only feels a little irritated instead of outraged. But she doesn't like him. She certainly doesn't want him. She thinks they can be friends, maybe, several years removed from this torture - because she's almost certain now he has as little interest in this as she does, and only the pressure from his parents keeps him going. But he could say no to them. He could stand up to them. And he doesn't.

"I know," she mutters, pressing a handkerchief to her nose. Her mucus is sky blue today. "Thanks for the chocolate."

"'Course," Fortescue says. He hovers beside the chair next to her bed rather than sitting. "Are you - feeling any better? It was in the Prophet you fainted."

Of fucking course it was. She picks at her blankets - sighs.

"I feel okay, I guess. I'm just - a little bored."

She is. After three days being mostly alone, the novelty has worn off. And all her friends are busy and have only been able to send letters, not visit - not that she'd ever hold that against them. And she'd like to not feel like garbage. And she's definitely not going to be able to go with Snape to work on the wards at all this week -

"Well - it'll be gone in a week, right?" he says - kind of bright, kind of awkward, as he always is. Harriet shrugs. Fortescue sighs. "I'm sorry. I'll - stop bothering you. You need to rest."

Harriet shrugs again. For all that she's - bored, he's not someone she wants to spend time with - and the last thing she needs is someone getting the wrong idea. Especially not Collins. Especially not the Daily fucking Prophet.

He sees himself out, and she makes no effort to stop him.

Collins is much more annoying, as usual, with his repetition of the ugly red roses and his naked revulsion at her illness.

He visits on day four, which is when what Pomfrey calls the purge is in full swing. Harriet's sneezing violently when he stops in, her handkerchief splotched with baby blue, and he grimaces - and then actually says, when she sneezes for the fourth time in his so-far two minute visit: "Can you stop that, please?"

She glares at him.

"I'm - " sneeze " - sick, Collins. I can't just turn it - " sneeze " - off."

He glares at her - she thinks, for a second, he might outright accuse her of faking it. Pomfrey has Harriet's wand - has kept it from her because of the whole bed rest thing - Collins probably doesn't realize how lucky he is - he'd have gotten himself fucking hexed ten times over already.

"When is Pomfrey letting you out?" he demands - actually recoils when she sneezes so violently, the handkerchief inflates in her hands. Harriet wipes again at her leaking nose and scowls.

"In three days - "

"Good," Collins says before she can finish. "I want you out on the Quidditch Pitch with me before you go out into the forest with Snape."

A pause. Harriet blinks rapidly.

"Excuse me?"

"You think I haven't noticed?" Collins bares his teeth in a nasty smirk. "You - sneaking around with him? Did he even declare his intentions when he was supposed to?"

What? What the fuck? Harriet outright gawks for a moment. "What on earth are you talking about?" she asks stupidly - Collins rolls his eyes.

"Don't play dumb, Harriet - it's not becoming," he says. Crosses his arms over his chest. "Those little jaunts into forest are so obviously dates - "

Harriet's heart twists violently in her chest.

"No, they aren't," she says - too quickly, and her voice is too high, and she sneezes and coughs at the same time afterwards, sending a sharp pain down her throat - a moan slips out of her mouth before she can stop it. Collins stares down his nose at her, visibly disgusted.

"Yes, they are - it's absurd to suggest otherwise," he shakes his head once. "Really - I expected better, Harriet."

He then just turns to leave, and she should probably just let him go given she doesn't even want him here at all - but he'd had to go and say that - and - and the thought that bursts into her head next comes flying out of her mouth before she can stop it:

"Why are you worried about Snape and not Fortescue?"

Collins turns to aim another smirk at her.

"Fortescue isn't a threat, and we both know it," he says coldly before shoving his way through the curtains around her bed. The ward doors slam shut not long after, leaving Harriet with nothing but ringing silence and her own racing thoughts.

Harriet lays awake coughing and hacking up the remains of the blue mucus that night - coughing and hacking and thinking - utterly unable to stop it. By around three in the morning, the coughing has mostly ended - and she's more confused than ever - just in time for Snape to appear.

"Pomfrey has run out," he says when she gawks at him - he places a vial of the potion on her bedside table, his behavior entirely casual, like it's not the middle of the night, and she's not wearing a nightdress under the thick blankets on her temporary bed. "I made enough for the next three days - that should bring you to the end of it."

Harriet keeps staring. Her mouth opens. Her tongue outright betrays her - lurches straight for the worst possible thing for her to say:

"Collins thinks you're trying to date me."

Snape sort of - freezes. It's very dark in the ward, and she can barely make out his features in the lack of moonlight - but she can see his eyes - glittering the way they always do - and she can see how they dart away for a moment before snapping back to her. He stares at her - she stares back, swallowing hard. Her heart pounds in her chest. Her breathing - still a bit wheezy - is too loud -

"I'm not," he says evenly - and - and her stomach shouldn't be plunging like that, should it? Her lungs shouldn't be twisting around each other that way - they really shouldn't.

"Right," she manages. "That's what I told him - he's rather insistent. But I know you don't - feel that way about me."

He doesn't even really like her, trips to the forest notwithstanding. He'd mostly ignored her last year, no matter how civil he'd been when they had interacted. He certainly hadn't sought her out. Wouldn't he have done that if - if Collins is right, and he does -

But he doesn't. He doesn't seek her out, and he doesn't interact with her unless he must, really, and he doesn't like her, and she shouldn't be so - so disappointed about that -

Snape looks at her for another long moment. His hands, she sees through the shadows, flex at his sides.

"I make an effort," he says, "to not delude myself into believing that I am worthy, Potter."

That - what? What? The words, at first, especially on the surface, sound - like sarcasm. He's mocking her, surely, because of all of the articles and all of the speculation and who could capture the Savior's attention? All of that bullshit - he thinks it's absurd, and he's mocking her for it. Except - except Snape doesn't hide his sarcasm - it drips from his words, open and obvious, when he wields it - sharp enough to cut if one is willing to let it. But it's - it's not present here. And he'd have no reason to hide it - but -

But - surely - surely he's not being - serious -

Her mouth is hanging open. She can't make it close.

"You need more sleep," he adds - maybe when he realizes she's not going to respond - and he sounds grumpy - he glares at her a bit through his hair. "I'll leave the rest of the potions for Pomfrey."

"I - what?"

"Sleep, Potter," Snape says - he turns his back on her, reaching for the curtain. "I'd very much prefer it if you didn't backslide."

He sweeps out of the ward before she can recover. Harriet stares at the closed curtains, her heart hammering inside her chest.

Daily Prophet (December 1st, 2001) - Muggle Borns Demand Answers on Death Eater Attacks; Minister Holds Public Forum

Witch Weekly (December 3rd, 2001) - UPDATED Reader Poll - Who Will She Choose?

4. Gifting

The winter solstice will end things a few days before Christmas, but that doesn't stop the gifts that start in December. In fact, it is a routine part of the Custom for suitors to lavish their targets with gifts, as Hermione and Neville say, and so Harriet is subjected to increasingly absurd gifts from both Collins and Fortescue throughout the month.

Collins starts it a few days after Harriet is finally released from bedrest - the morning he insists on keeping Harriet away from Snape - because Snape, he still seems to believe, is a threat to him. And maybe he's not wrong. Snape - she can't stop thinking about him. Snape, who'd said he -

Collins gives her a fucking book about herself. An unauthorized biography that'd been published when she'd barely turned eighteen, clearly written in the space of a month after Voldemort died, obviously with no research behind it. She gawks at it stupidly after he presents it to her with flourish - as they stand beneath flurries on the Quidditch Pitch.

"I'd noticed you don't have a copy," he says of her bookshelf in her office - she hasn't let him into her private rooms, of course, but he's right she doesn't have a copy - not in the office he's seen - not in the bedroom he hasn't.

She doesn't fucking want a copy.

"You know they didn't talk to me for this," she says flatly - glares at him, the book hanging precariously from two fingers. If she drops it in the slush from the latest bout of sleet, oh fucking well. It's no real loss. "And they made a bunch of shit up."

"Did you even read it?"

She hadn't - not in its entirety. She hadn't had the stomach for it - the chapters on the year she'd spent as Undesirable Number One had caused a panic attack, and Hermione had put a stop to it at that point. Hermione had also found a solicitor to send multiple threatening letters to the publisher, who had issued a very small retraction on some of the more sordid nonsense - in particular the made-up affairs with multiple Ministry officials, some of them traitors - in the Prophet.

Harriet suspects fewer people read the retraction than read the fucking book.

"That doesn't matter."

"You may learn something," Collins says, and she very nearly punches him in the nose with the book. Learn something about herself? She turns and stalks away instead.

The gifts get more ridiculous after that - and less personal. Collins gets her a broom polish that would actually ruin her current broom - the Firebolt Supreme. Fortescue gets her so much chocolate, she wouldn't be able to eat it all if she lived to be three hundred. She takes to handing it out to her first and second years to get rid of it. Collins then presents her with a NEWT-level book on Defense Against the Dark Arts, which - if he's trying to tell her she's a shit teacher, he can fuck right off. This practice of gift-giving, according to Hermione, is supposed to demonstrate how much they know about her - all it does is prove neither of them knows anything about her at all. It's becoming outright offensive, in truth - and she doesn't bother hiding how much she hates each and every gift after the first day.

Snape - doesn't mention the thing he said in the Hospital Wing. He also doesn't try to put a stop to the ward work - if anything, he gets both annoyed and amused when Harriet tells him, blushing, that Collins considers him a threat and wants to try to limit their trips into the forest.

"Pathetic," he says, his lips curling nastily, summing it all up rather well - and Harriet smiles a little nervously and does not squirm. She doesn't want a boyfriend - she'd been honest with Fortescue when she'd said that in September - she doesn't want the circus that would surround any real relationship she has - doesn't want the rumors and the whispering and the speculation in the press - but -

But with Snape, it's -

It's starting to feel a bit -

Different.

At the end of the first week in December, when she and Snape meet in the entrance hall to go check the wards, he's got his hair in a low ponytail, one strand falling forward over his forehead, and the sight of it makes Harriet's mouth go completely dry.

It's just - it looks - he's not handsome in the traditional sense, but he's - he's always been a little - a little arresting - but this - this is a lot. It's a lot, and she's already been having - thoughts and - and feelings about him, and this is -

Anyway.

She's not given too long to fixate on it, given they find a - a scar, for lack of a better word, just outside the wards nearest Hogsmeade.

Snape actually steps through the boundary to examine it - Harriet follows after only a fraction of a second's hesitation, quite certain that even if she can't get herself back through the wards, Snape will pull her back through. She hovers beside him as he crouches over the blackened slash carved into the earth - as he frowns and runs his wand through the air above it - then passes his hand over it, palm down, as well. She doesn't ask - waits instead for him to come to a conclusion. When he stands, he looks out at the thinning trees - the rolling slope that leads down to the village proper. His eyes narrow.

"Someone attempted to get through," he says - which is what she'd guessed - and also sends her stomach sinking. Harriet swallows.

"Didn't succeed," she points out - because they didn't, whoever they were - though she knows both she and Snape know full well who it was. Snape looks at her - his jaw works.

"No," he agrees. "Our work held - we should reinforce here, all the same."

"Right," she says - follows him back through the boundary easily. He walks a little slower this time as they walk the line to reinforce - walks so slowly that her own steps carry her close to his back. She watches his shoulders move - watches the ponytail lift with each wintery breeze. The tips of his ears are red. She can't help but smile at the sight.

Things with both Collins and Fortescue come to a head a week and a half before the winter solstice.

Fortescue had asked her to come down to the village to visit him on a Wednesday evening, and she'd had to go because of the fucking Custom despite the mountain of grading she still hasn't gotten caught up on. She'd dragged herself down there, making minimal effort with her appearance to properly demonstrate how much she doesn't want to be there, prepared to sit through more ice cream sampling -

Only when she arrives at the little shop, the sills frosted with fresh snow, she finds both Fortescue and Collins waiting for her.

Harriet doesn't hesitate when she sees them both through the window - if anything, her temper, which she's somehowmanaged to keep in check throughout this whole ordeal - it finally - finally - slips entirely out of her control.

She storms inside.

"What's this, then?"

She stays by the door - crosses her arms and glares, her chin up. Fortescue, for his part, at least looks a little uncomfortable - Collins, however, puffs out his chest and juts his own chin forward.

"We'd like to talk to you about Snape."

Perhaps her glare would land better if her face wasn't fucking heating up.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't start with that again," Collins snaps. "He hasn't even formally declared his intentions, but he's dating you - and taking time away from us - "

"It does seem rather unfair, Harrie," Fortescue says - because he has no spine at all.

"Don't call me that," Harriet snaps. "And he's not dating me."

"Oh, you just spend two to three mornings alone with him a week to do ward maintenance," Collins says acidly - makes it sound more like he thinks she and Snape go out to the forest to - to fuck - her face heats up further. "And I'm sure he would've murdered us both if it wouldn't've triggered the Sleep - "

For a moment, Harriet's brain sticks - because what?

Collins sneers.

"Oh, is he playing that he doesn't care? You should see the way he looks at me, Potter, when we come in from flying. If looks could eviserate, I assure you - I'd be quite dead."

He sounds almost - pleased by this. Because - because Snape can't act, as he'd said, without risking the wrath of the stupid magic binding the Custom? Would he have - if he could have without - ?

"He's not dating me," she manages to repeat. Adds, perhaps stupidly: "I know because I asked him, and he said he's not trying to date me. Period. End of story."

"Maybe he's waiting until after the solstice," Fortescue says. "Because you're going to reject us both."

Collins shoots him a vicious glare. "You don't know that."

Fortescue actually manages an irritated look in return. "Don't be a twat, Collins - we both know it's true."

Collins shakes his head - probably because Fortescue has turned out to be worthless in this little ambush. He rounds on Harriet again. "I want every morning until the solstice," he snaps. "Every morning - no more little trips with him out into the forest. Do you hear me?"

Harriet rolls her eyes.

"Fine, you child," she snaps back - because she has no fucking choice, again, and he is so getting hexed into oblivion when this is over. "Fortescue, did you actually want a date tonight, or can I go take a bath and wash this fucking conversation off me - ?"

She cuts off. Stops dead - and shushes Collins furiously when he sucks in a huge breath to start running his mouth again. The hairs on the back of her neck are prickling in a way they haven't - in years. Her skin is - vibrating, almost, suddenly -

Harriet turns - slowly. Reaches quickly for her wand - stares out of the front windows. There are no reporters tonight - because Fortescue and Collins hadn't tipped them off - because they hadn't wanted witnesses for this? But - but reporters have been lingering in Hogsmeade - they -

Darkness - only darkness out in the road - but -

"Potter," Collins says, sounding fucking irritated, and Fortescue hisses at him.

"Shut it - "

Cuts off - two sharp intakes of breath behind her. In front of her -

The silver mask seems to float - the body of the person wearing it melts into the shadows on the street as they stand, perfectly still, and stare into the store - at the three of them, lit as if in a fucking fishbowl -

"Is that - ?" Collins starts stupidly - and Fortescue must do something nonverbal to get him to stop talking - maybe hits him - she hopes he hit him - Harriet lifts her wand slightly, taking a step back, closer to the two of them -

Two more masks appear, flanking the first. The first drifts forward, a tall body coalescing in the light pouring from the shop windows.

He - it's Lestrange - it must be - moves to open the door, and Harriet spells it shut violently, her wand sparking with the force she puts behind the spell.

"Expecto Patronum," Fortescue says behind her - because he isn't quite fucking useless, as it turns out. Silvery light fills the room - washes out the golden light he usually bathes the shop in. Outside, all three Death Eaters are drawing their wands - Harriet throws up a Shield Charm, stepping backwards - bracing. "Death Eater attack on Fortescue's," Fortescue is muttering frantically to his Patronus -

The windows - the door - the entire front of the shop - explodes.

The glass and wood and stone hits her Shield Charm - clatters to the ground. Cold air rushes into the space, bringing with it snow - it bites at her cheeks. Harriet takes another step back - glances - Collins appears to be frozen, hasn't even drawn his wand, while Fortescue is visibly shaking, though has successfully sent his Patronus off -

"Look at you, Potter," Rudolphus's voice says in a rasp - and, fuck. Fuck. He's not his wife, but he's dangerous - he's fucking dangerous - and from what she can tell, Fortescue maybe has limited battle experience - Collins, none at all - "All these men clamoring over you - don't they know you're nothing without the old man and the traitor?"

Dumbledore and Snape, he means. Harriet's wand is warm and quivering in her hand. "Run," she says out of the corner of her mouth - she knows there's a back door to this store, and they'll be nothing but dead weight to her if their shocked reactions are any indication. Rudolphus laughs - all three of them are advancing - all three of their heads bobbing together, their robes still vanishing into the shadows -

"Oh, they won't be going anywhere," he says.

The first of the hexes crash against her Shield in a blinding flash of rainbow colors - Collins yelps, and she's close enough that she feels it when Fortescue grabs him - feels it when they stumble away. Harriet squints into the light - doesn't take her eyes off of the three of them. The second volley follows too-close on the first - her Shield shatters, and she dives to the left - hits the ground too-hard on her knees, jarring pain - upends a table and scrabbles behind it -

She lifts herself to chuck two hexes over the edge of her makeshift shelter - misses both, she knows, when three sharp, barking laughs answer her. Turns herself - presses one hand to the table - spells it as solid as she can, two Shield Charms to reinforce the wood -

The table rattles violently - one impact - possibly from the left. A pause follows - they're playing with her, maybe - trying to scare her - trying to stress her - fucking pricks. Harriet takes a slow breath - shuts her eyes for a second. Braces. Lifts -

The volley she sends this time is timed intentionally - two with a pause between them, then a third following the second rapidly to hopefully catch them off guard - and it works. The third spell hits the Death Eater to the right - sends him crashing into the ruined wall behind him - Rudolphus snarls - curses - she ducks back down behind the table to avoid the jet of red light he fires at her -

They're not trying to kill her, then. They're trying to take her alive. Of course they are. What the fuck - what the fuck?

The table rattles again - again - again - more bursts of rainbow light. Impatience? Harriet ducks further - forces herself to breathe normally. Fuck this. Fuck this - they don't get to do this - not when she won - not when she fucking won -

She lifts again before there's even a lull - fires a spray of spells that scatter - possibly out of her control, but does it really matter if she hits one of them? Someone curses - one of them, though she's exposed herself a little too much - her left shoulder explodes with pain, and she barely bites back a cry - warmth - wetness - begins to spread almost immediately -

Blood - red, so much of it, already soaking her arm - she tightens her grip on her wand, exhaling through her teeth -

A sharp crack - almost shocking in its volume - in its violence - and both remaining Death Eaters are still flinching when she peeks over the edge of the table, telling her that -

Snape - it's Snape -

He steps through the rubble at the front of the store, his eyes so utterly wild - they flicker to her corner with the table and the blood and narrow with such spitting hatred, her breath catches. The Death Eater who is not Rudolphus stumbles backwards - though Rudolphus is stupid enough to try Snape when he looks like that - steps forward, jutting out his chest, lifting his wand -

Snape doesn't curse him, necessarily. He - crushes him to the floor face first - pins him there -

The final Death Eater makes the decision to run, then - and Harriet, despite the pain - despite the growing dizziness - still has the presence of mind to trip him - takes his feet right out from under him, sending him sprawling face first into the remains of the front counter. Blood explodes from his nose, and he collapses to the ground, howling in pain -

And then Snape is in front of her - crouched right in front of her - and his hands are on her face, pushing her hair out of the way. His face is -

She has never seen his face like this.

"Look at me," he says hoarsely, though she is - but she's dizzy, getting dizzier, and having trouble focusing. His brows are meeting over his nose, and they're also taking over his entire face - blurry and dark. "Look at me, Potter - "

She's going to faint. She knows it. "Thanks for coming," she slurs, and Snape's expression flickers strangely - she can't see enough to make it out -

"Always," he mutters as she slips into black.

Fortescue withdraws the next day.

"I mean, we both knew it was a farce," he says when he comes to her office to tell her. She's not in the Hospital Wing - her arm is bandaged, as a cursed wound means it won't close immediately, but she'd refused to sleep in the ward once Pomfrey and Snape had both been forced to declare her stable enough - though Snape had escorted her to her rooms, ignoring her protests that she'd been well enough, staring in a way that had made her guts twist - she knows he carried her up to the castle, too, and that's - "But - last night. I ran. I ran because I had to. Because I would've made it worse for you in that duel, not better. And you deserve someone who wouldn't run - someone who wouldn't make it worse."

"Thanks," Harriet says stiffly. Picks a little at her bandages. Adds, grudging: "If it helps - I hate you a little less than Collins."

Fortescue smirks a little. "Maybe friends in a couple years?" he offers.

"Yeah," she replies. Manages a small smile. "Maybe friends in a couple years."

Collins refuses to withdraw, and he refuses to cancel the Quidditch dates even with Pomfrey giving him a dressing down about Harriet's injury. She suffers through them for another week and a half - and then goes up to the Hospital Wing each morning to make sure her wound hasn't reopened - and it hasn't each time, luckily. The Prophet has picked up the story about the Death Eaters, obviously, hailing Harriet as a savior once again, ignoring Snape once again - but at least they are finally - fucking finally - criticizing Collins for his behavior in the same stories. Even the students, before they finally depart for break, have started whispering nasty things about Collins - have started acting up in his classes. It's all rather touching, really. Whenever she hears he's given someone detention, she makes sure to grin extra wide at them in the corridors when she sees them.

Snape's mood has been deteriorating - once the students leave, the dirty looks he's been fixing Collins with become much less subtle - outright drip with hatred. He also lets Harriet sit beside him at meals, though they don't really talk about it - the seat next to him is just open each morning, and he doesn't complain when she takes it each morning. While it mostly keeps Collins away during meals - even just generally throughout the day, it doesn't stop the dates, of course - but it's enough. It'll get her through to the end of it.

The solstice comes, and Harriet summarily rejects him in public - in the middle of breakfast, actually - exactly as he deserves. Flitwick actually claps over it, and Snape smirks viciously, and Collins flushes furiously and storms from the Hall. Harriet laughs a little as he goes - grins at the small group of Slytherins who have remained behind for the holidays - who cheer a bit for her as she returns to the staff table and her seat beside Snape.

On Christmas Eve, Harriet gets the bandages removed, the flesh on her shoulder a bit pink - a bit raw - but whole - and there is a staff party after the remaining students go to bed.

It's not raucous by any means, no matter what the Weasley twins had suggested to Harriet in the past - it takes place in the staff room, and outside of a little more alcohol than normal, outside of boughs of holly and fairy lights strung along the walls and a small Christmas tree tucked into one corner, it feels no different than a particularly festive night after a staff meeting. They chat in groups as they always do - they nibble biscuits and little cakes as they always do. Collins is the only one not present - his pride still too wounded. No one seems to miss him in the slightest.

The true difference between this night and any other night is that they exchange gifts at this little party. Neville brings all of them a cutting of his affectionate vine plant - for several long minutes, they all dissolve into semi-drunken chortling as they become acquainted with their new little office pets. McGonagall gets her a proper broom polish - one that won't fucking ruin her broomstick. Hagrid presents her with rock cakes and a lovely photo album comprised of pictures of Harriet, Ron, and Hermione over the years -

Snape approaches her quietly during a lull - long after most other gifts have been exchanged - and hands her a package that's shaped like a book. When she blushes and moves to open it, he says, softer still: "I would prefer it if you opened this somewhere private."

Harriet blushes more, but she nods - can't begin to guess what it's going to be. Surely - surely it's not something sexual. He wouldn't.

Later - much later - back in her rooms with her belly full of two glasses of wine, she sits in bed and opens it. It's - it's a ragged copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Five.

Harriet opens it, her heart in her throat.

There is a folded parchment tucked inside the front cover. All it says is: I apologize for taking so long to give this to you. The first page says in his always-spiky handwriting: This book is the property of the Half-Blood Prince.

The pages are littered with his notes, as his old Potions book had been. But alongside his spiky letters are much softer words - curves and laughter and even little smiley-faces -

Her mum.

Harriet reads the notes they'd written to each other until the sun rises. The jokes. The little arguments. The genuine friendship that had existed between them, once. The friendship she knows he still mourns - still misses.

She cries herself to sleep. The tears are not happy - are not sad. They simply are.

Daily Prophet (December 22nd, 2001) - Harriet Potter Subdues Rogue Death Eaters in Hogsmeade Duel

Witch Weekly (December 22nd, 2001) - Harriet Potter Rejects Both Suitors, Catches More Death Eaters in Wild Week

5. Truth

She knocks on his office door on Boxing Day.

When he opens it, looking a bit cranky, she says without pausing: "You wouldn't have run."

Snape blinks twice. Narrows his eyes.

"Of course I would not have fucking run," he says in tones of deepest disgust. His eyes flicker down to her shoulder. Harden further.

"Do you like me?" she blurts before she can even think to stop herself - and he blinks rapidly, his lips parting, his gaze darting back up to hers.

"Potter - "

"Do you want to be with me, Snape?" Harriet demands - and he blinks again, a dull flush rising to his cheeks.

"Potter, I don't deserve - "

"I think that's up to me," Harriet says before he can finish that absurd thought. "I think it's up to me who deserves me. I think you do."

Snape blinks at her some more.

"You cannot mean," he starts -

"I do mean," she cuts him off again - and seizes the sides of his face and kisses him.

She finds herself dragged into his rooms and thrown on the bed.

"Oh," she says as she bounces on the mattress, splayed out - settles, genuinely surprised - even more surprising, he crawls to join her, watching her carefully with dark eyes. His bed is softer than she'd ever thought it would be. It is, of course, layered black. "Er - "

He stops dead - his expression shutters. "I'm going too fast."

"Oh, no, absolutely not," Harriet blinks rapidly herself. Smiles - maybe a bit too wide, but she doesn't particularly care. Snape's shoulders relax a fraction - the corners of his mouth soften once more. "I just - I dunno - I never expected this."

"I like to think I'm subtle," he - Severus? - says with biting sarcasm - Harriet laughs.

"Collins suggested that once or twice," she admits. Severus bares his teeth in a nasty smirk.

"Oh, did he?" he advances on her now - she crawls backwards until her shoulders hit the headboard - lets herself get borne down beneath him. Exhales in a stutter when he moves to hover over her entirely, his hands braced on either side of her shoulders - his knees between her spread legs. His robes are getting tangled around them and between them, but that doesn't matter - her jeans feel too rough against her skin, suddenly - she should - she should take them off, maybe - "Collins is lucky he's still breathing, truth be told - "

"He said the only reason you didn't do anything about the Custom is because it would've triggered the side effects."

"It would have," Severus lifts one hand and brushes her hair out of her face. Harriet leans into the warm touch - nuzzles his palm slightly. "I assure you, Potter - "

"Harrie."

Severus pauses - looks down at her for a long moment. The corners of his mouth twitch slightly - curve up. "Harrie - " he says as if testing the taste of the name on his tongue - Harriet shudders a little. "I assure you - had I been able to put a stop to it, I would have."

He leans down - pauses just short of kissing her. Their noses brush - the eye contact is - well, it's unspeakable. She feels stripped bare - she feels impossibly warm - she feels safe. Harriet whines a little in the back of her throat - and Severus finally smiles, and -

It's remarkably soft.

"I really like you," she says - and it's true. She hadn't been looking for a boyfriend - and she's not sure that's what Severus would be. He'd be a partner, she thinks - someone she can lean on. Someone who'd lean on her, maybe - quietly, in his own way. She reaches - takes his face in her hands again. Pulls him down so their mouths meet.

They shed their clothes slowly - Severus maps her chest with his lips and his teeth - splays his big hands at her hips. Their skin presses together, warm - and his cock presses, blunt, between her legs. When he slips inside her, it's with slow thrusts - steady thrusts - until Harriet squirms her legs nearly over his shoulders, at which point he cooperates with bending her in half and pounding her into the mattress. She comes apart in a rush - comes apart when he tells her how good she's being for him - when he tells her how perfect she is - words landing softly between them, like a secret - just for them - only for them -

Laying sated afterwards, staring up at his dark green canopy, she asks: "Are you going to date me now?"

Severus laughs.

"Yes, Harrie," he says. "I am."

Notes:

I’ve had serious internet issues for abt two weeks…but I’m working on my other fics! I promise!

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