2,517ccc. the holy grail
Harriet wasn't entirely sure, but she thought she might be drunk.
Refreshments were plentiful at the reception, and the many tables stationed about the hall had a propensity to wander, meaning one selection of beverages often found itself replaced by another. In this manner, Harriet found the cider she'd sampled replaced by something that packed a proper punch. She hadn't recognized the change before she'd already drunk three-fourths of her glass, and by then, she didn't much care. She'd finished it and taken another.
Professor Dumbledore glanced in her direction, ostensively to check on her well-being, and he did a double-take when he saw her choice of refreshment.
"Oh dear," he hummed, gently prising the cup from her fingers. "Let's stick to the water for the rest of the evening, shall we?"
The effects of the alcohol worsened as the minutes passed, and though at first Harriet enjoyed the slightly muffled, cotton-like feeling it gave her thoughts, it quickly grew to a heavier despondency. She felt slow and lethargic, like her head wasn't quite attached to her neck the right way. She wanted to be anywhere else but there, and she scowled at the black draperies on the walls. Her responses to anyone asking her a question grew shorter and shorter.
Eventually, Professor Dumbledore led her into a lounge attached to the main hall, which Harriet gathered usually belonged to the staff and found use as a place to smoke, drink, or enjoy a private meal away from the student body. There were several sumptuous sofas and long, gilded sideboards, and the diamond-paned windows overlooked the wide valley below, draped in shadows as the night thickened. Even as distracted and unhappy as she was, Harriet saw the stars and thought them breathtaking.
I wonder if Mr. Flamel and Perenelle loved them too, she thought to herself, brow furrowing. I wonder if that's why they wanted to be buried here.
Older witches and wizards comprised most of the room's occupants, those who'd tired of the more colorful visitors in the main congregation or simply didn't have the vigor to stand for so long. It was one of these such wizards that Dumbledore approached—a large, robust man with a thick, silver mustache and a pinstriped waistcoat stretched over his portly stomach. He vaguely reminded Harriet of Uncle Vernon, except Uncle Vernon never appeared quite so eccentric or laughed so jovially.
"Albus!" the wizard greeted, voice booming. He was definitely English. He rose with some effort from the sofa he'd commandeered to shake hands with Dumbledore. "Dragged yourself out of the castle finally, I see! Good of you to come! Shame it has to be on such an occasion."
"Horus," Professor Dumbledore greeted with a dip of his chin. "It's good to see you, despite circumstances. I'm certain Nicolas would have been happy for so many friends to have the chance to reconnect." The hand on Harriet's shoulder gave her a small pat. "Harriet, this is a good friend of mine, Horus Slughorn. He was our Potions Master at Hogwarts before Professor Snape was hired."
"Ah, Severus. How is the lad doing? He never answers my letters." Before Professor Dumbledore could do little more than open his mouth, Mr. Slughorn continued. "He was one of my best students, you know! I knew it from his very first year. A proper artist with a cauldron! Shame he's so shy, though."
Harriet didn't know why the thought of Snape being shy struck her as hilarious—especially at a funeral reception—but a giggle escaped, and another nearly followed before she covered her mouth. Mr. Slughorn's eyes lowered to her, and he blinked, though his smile remained.
"And who's this?"
"This is Harriet," Professor Dumbledore introduced. "Harriet Potter, Nicolas' ward."
Slughorn's brow rose in recognition. "Oh, ho!" he said—and Harriet braced herself for any mention of the Ministry or the nonsense in the Prophet, but then—. "Lily's daughter!" Slughorn said. "Of course, of course! I should have noticed the resemblance."
Harriet was so thrown by the comment, she gawked. She didn't see it, but Professor Dumbledore smiled at Slughorn, giving him a small, thankful nod.
"She was one of my favorite students, you know," Slughorn went on, settling into his sofa again with a gust of air. Dizzy, Harriet found herself sitting down as well before she realized it, Professor Dumbledore's hand firmly guiding her into place. He gave her shoulder a pat.
"I'm going to go ensure Mr. Black hasn't found any trouble…" he said, unheard by Slughorn or Harriet.
"I know I say that fairly often, what with having taught so many clever boys and girls over the years, but she really was. She was a clever girl, Lily. Sharp as a tack in Potions—and though she didn't have poor Severus' artistry for it, she was an absolute treat with Charms. She used to combine the two in the most fascinating ways." He rubbed a finger over the bristles of his mustache in thought. "We really weren't meant to have favorites as professors, mind you. But I was ever so disappointed she wasn't Sorted into my House. I even offered her an apprenticeship after she matriculated."
"What—what House were you in?" Harriet asked, finding her voice.
"Slytherin, of course. I was Head of House before retiring."
Harriet wasn't at her most perceptive, but she thought Mr. Slughorn sounded oddly…nervous, or tense. As if mentioning his old House stirred unpleasant thoughts and he quickly suppressed them.
"That's my House," Harriet told him.
"Truly?" Mr. Slughorn replied, brow raised. "Oh! Poor James must have rolled over in his grave."
The wizard chuckled, but his words touched an old insecurity, and Harriet's stomach lurched with discomfort. "Yeah. I've heard that before."
He realized his offense and quickly spoke. "Oh, forgive me. I'm sure James would have been perfectly happy to see you in Slytherin. He was only a boy when I knew him, after all. People typically grow out of their House rivalries. I've seen more than one parent in my time change their mind about old House prejudices."
Harriet nodded, though she'd never know if that was true. She'd only ever know James as the memory of a young man who did some rather detestable things to fellow students, and who, by all accounts, would have hated Harriet for being odd, ugly, and Sorted into Slytherin. She comforted herself by imagining he'd have grown into a better person, and maybe he wouldn't have liked other Slytherins, but he'd have loved his own daughter despite her Sorting. However, the truth would always be a mystery.
"So my mum was good at Potions?" Harriet ventured, changing the subject.
Mr. Slughorn accepted the olive branch and jumped into a story about Lily, about a gift she gave him at the end of school that he loved until the magic faded upon her death. He spoke at length about her mum in school, which Harriet enjoyed more than she'd expected. The people in her life who'd known her parents really didn't know Lily all that well, and only had stories of James' exploits, for good or for ill.
Meanwhile, Harriet got the impression Slughorn hadn't been the fondest of James and knew Lily much better. He told her about how Lily used to stomp into his office during his meeting hours and demand extra tutoring, since she loathed always being second-best to Snape in class. She'd had the unfortunate habit of forgetting to tie her hair back, and more than once, she'd singed off the long ends. She would compete with Snape, and Slughorn released a fond laugh when he admitted to knowing Snape purposely let her mum win a few times. Lily got proper angry when she found out.
"I've pictures, of course," he said, and Harriet wasn't all that surprised when he fished out an expandable photo wallet from his waistcoat. There was a plethora of people merrily waving from inside. "I tend to carry them with me. Ever since leaving Hogwarts, I've had the propensity to never stay for long in one place. I blame it on spending so many years tucked away in that old castle—especially during the winter! Dreadful, those Scottish winters. I've been favoring the Amalfi coast during that time of year—anyway."
He flipped through several folds in the wallet, grumbling under his breath as he did so. "Oh! This is an autographed portrait from Gwenog Jones! She was one of my students—went on to become the captain of the Holyhead Harpies." He showed a small picture of a woman soaring on a broom. "And here—back when I had a full head of hair! Oh ho! That's Bilton Bilmes and Ambrosius Flume." He showed a picture of himself—a slightly younger-looking version of the wizard in front of her—with two smiling young men in Hogwarts robes. "Oh, and this here is Eldred Worple when he was only a second-year! He went on to write quite an interesting auto-biography detailing his life among the vampires…."
Harriet discreetly rubbed at her tired, bleary eyes as Slughorn chattered. At length, he found the photograph he sought, and he handed the wallet over to Harriet so she could have a proper look. She recognized her mother right off; the red hair was very distinct, even if the photograph had aged a tad. She stood next to a sallow, lanky teenager, and Harriet grinned at the image of a young, scowling Snape standing behind his cauldron.
"That's Severus there with Lily. I think it's the only photograph I have of him, now that I consider it. I could never get him to attend the club dinners…."
Harriet paid no mind to Mr. Slughorn's nattering, tracing her mother's youthful features with fondness. She flipped to the next fold, and there was another picture of Lily, though she was older in this one and the shot was less candid. She wore nice dress robes, and stood with Harriet's father. Harriet guessed they'd been at some kind of party.
She turned the fold again—and her heart stopped.
"That'll be the Quidditch team for seventy…eight, I believe. Yes, that's right. Seventy-eight! The last champion team I had while teaching."
Harriet swallowed, bile burning the back of her throat, nausea threatening to turn her stomach inside out.
"Finally have her, do you?"
Her voice shook when it came out. "Do you remember their names?"
"Of course! The Keeper there was…."
He rattled off a line of names that meant little to Harriet. They sounded Pureblood, and were probably dead, the poor blighters. She waited until he reached the bottom of their formation, where the Seeker stood, and his voice faltered.
"Oh. Poor lad. That's Regulus Black. Your godfather's brother, if I remember correctly. It was a shame to learn about his death…."
Harriet stared into the small face, so familiar but different than it was in her memory. Here, Regulus Black's hair was thick and dark and his face unlined. His eyes were black—but Harriet had seen him since this photograph, since his death. Thick bands of white streaked his temples, and his eyes glowed a haunting crimson.
She'd seen that man before. She'd seen him in a rundown manor, standing behind the risen Dark Lord. Regulus Black was a Horcrux.
xXx
The metal cart rattled like Galleons in a tin as it rocketed along the metal rails.
"Ruddy thing," Rabastan Lestrange cursed as he gripped the edge of the seat under his rump. The goblin manning the cart's lever leered a delighted smile and switched to another gear. The cart screamed ever downward into the pits below Gringotts.
"Can't you slow this thing down?" Rabastan barked at one of the pair of goblins assigned to him.
The goblin curled his lip. "One speed only," he sneered, and behind his silver mask, Rabastan matched the creature's disdain.
"We thought you didn't wish to linger, Master Lestrange," said the other, and his tone fairly oozed disgust. "The wizards might not be able to arrest you within the bank's walls, but that doesn't stop them from gathering outside of it."
Rabastan swallowed, and he snarled, "Shut up, you nasty thing." The cart lurched around a waterfall, and he doubled his grip on the seat. "If you impede upon my mission for my Lord, you'll regret it."
The goblins rolled their eyes, but they fell silent. They said nothing until they reached the vaults in the deepest reaches of the earth.
Rabastan didn't know what the Dark Lord meant for him to retrieve from the Lestrange family vault. He'd only been told he would recognize what he sought when he found it, and that he would direly regret any failures. Such a task would normally fall to Rodulphus or Bellatrix, but neither was in the shape necessary to quickly duck into Gringotts and duck out.
The laws kept Aurors out of the bank proper and let him access the vault, but the goblins didn't have to offer asylum, and he bet every coin to his name they'd alerted the Ministry to be on guard.
His gloved hands tightened into fists at his sides.
When the taller of the two goblins opened the vault door with a practiced touch, Rabastan kicked him aside and stepped through. Wisely, the goblins didn't follow. The air coursed heavy and dense through the slits of his mask, filled with dust and ineffable musk of old, weathered magic. Torches roared to life, and the light gleamed upon the accumulated Lestrange wealth.
At first, Rabastan gazed about the gathered hoard, and then, unbidden, his head tipped, and his covered eyes fell upon the far wall.
There, resting alone upon an iron shelf, resided a golden goblet.
Once he'd seen it, the Death Eater couldn't look away. The air thickened, his breath coming in short, choppy rasps as he crossed the floor. Had he ever seen that goblet before? Had his brother placed it there on the bidding of the Dark Lord? Was that what he'd been sent to gather?
He approached, deaf to the hungry, rumbling growl that crept from depths unknown. The goblet began to tremble, bidding him to come closer, closer—.
He stretched for it. Rabastan's fingers grazed the polished gold—.
Outside, the goblins heard the screaming. They looked at one another, and the first snapped, "Close it! Close it before it gets out!" in Gobbledygook.
The taller of the pair rushed to slam the towering door—but he was too late.
From within the vault came a blast of blazing magic, and it flung the goblins backward, lifting them off their feet before hurling them from the platform. Their shouts of dismay followed them as they plunged into the dark below.
A shambling figure appeared at the vault's threshold. Dark magic rolled from his hunched body in palpable waves, dripping like ichor from pale, sweaty skin. In his hand, the goblet hung loosely from white, twitching fingers.
He raised his head—and red, lurid eyes stared into the gloom.
A/N:
Everyone: "Oh, that guy with Voldemort is definitely the cup!horcrux! Definitely!"
Me: "Is he? That's nice." *sips tea*
I was struggling for my life trying to complete this chapter xD. Who has stolen my writing mojo? Please return to the Lost and Found.
Dumbledore: "I'm going to be an excellent guardian."
Harriet: *already drunk*
Dumbledore: "Mmm not off to a great start."