Thanks for the kind reviews, follows, and favorites! Un-betad and Un-British, so have mercy. See you at the end.

Halloween

Halloween came every year, no matter how much Severus willed it not to. Albus put out an announcement for a Halloween costume party that would take place in the Great Hall (joy, Severus thought sarcastically) and the first Quidditch Match of the year drew closer, between Gryffindor and Slytherin. Many nights, he watched Potter come to dinner with windblown red hair, her robes streaked with mud, beaming with reddened cheeks.

I'm so sorry, Lily.

He found himself thinking that very sentence often on Halloween (and even throughout the year itself). If he witnessed a striking sunrise, he found himself disgustingly sentimental and thinking of Lily. When was the last sunrise she had watched? Over ten years ago at least, and then never again. When he came across an interesting Charms article in the paper, he found himself thinking of Lily. She'd dedicated her whole young life to fighting against the Dark Lord—fighting against Severus—that she'd never had the chance to explore any career.

Now that her daughter was at Hogwarts, he couldn't help but think of Lily even more often. Every time he saw her child and witnessed the little moments Lily had died for and never been able to see—

I'm so sorry, Lily.

Not to mention, the snooping into Quirrell's activities hadn't led to any forthcoming leads or concerns. The man was almost always in his chambers when he wasn't in the classroom, but he never missed a meal. It had crossed Severus's mind to use Legilimency on him—but the other man would never meet his eyes, not even across a crowded room.

It was shaping up to be a miserable winter, but Severus had expected no different.

The announcement for the Halloween costume party was posted on the bulletin board in the Common Room. Hermione, Ron, and Harriet had to elbow fellow Gryffindors aside to make it to the front of the crowd to read it.

YOU'RE INVITED!

(Years 3rd through 7th)

TO A SPOOKTACULAR

COSTUME PARTY!

It was complete with little skeletons that danced and dig jigs, even when their limbs fell off, in which case the limbs joined the festivities on their own.

"No First or Second Years? That's—that's discriminatory! Right, Hermione? Did I use that word properly?"

"You did," she admitted. "Though it does make sense. First years can't very well go to Hogsmeade for any costumes, can they?"

"Not to mention eleven year olds aren't conductive for a party atmosphere," George chimed in, nudging Harriet aside to scratch a tentative fingernail at one lackadaisical skeleton on the flyer. It renewed its dance with twice the enthusiasm.

"I say they shouldn't let anyone below fifth year in. Why should the older students have to babysit?" Oliver Wood said under his breath from behind them.

"Oi!"

"Bloody offensive, that's what that is!"

"Don't take it personally," Wood said. "You're thirteen. What kind of fun can thirteen year olds have? Potter—if you want Halloween off from Quidditch practice, we'd all understand."

Harriet stared blankly, rubbing at her forehead where a headache seemed to be forming. Behind her, the twins leaned their heads together and began to mutter quiet schemes for the upcoming party. "Why would I want Halloween off? The match against Slytherin is coming up, and I need practice more than anyone."

Wood looked impressed. He clapped her on the shoulder, hard. "That's the spirit, Potter! Those snakes don't stand a chance. See you there."

He pushed his way through the crowd, shouting for Angelina who he had just spotted coming down from the girl's dormitory. Harriet gestured a hand towards Wood and exchanged incredulous looks with Ron.

"What's that all about? Oliver asked Alicia to come to practice even after that Transfiguration accident when she had buttons for eyes—why would he give me a day off?"

Ron and Hermione looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"Perhaps he thought you'd prefer it that way, is all," Hermione said carefully. Harriet scowled.

"You've all gone barmy. We're going to be late for Herbology if we don't get a move on," Harriet muttered, slinging her bag over her shoulder and headed for the door. She didn't bother to see if her friends were following, but if she had, she might have seen the look exchanged between Ron and Hermione.

"Doesn't she—?"

"She's in denial. Best not to mention it unless she does."

Ron nodded. "Right. Don't mention it. I can do that."

#

Harriet spent the entire day in a foul mood. Her headache only became worse, and she often found herself with that strange sense of déjà vu that had plagued her earlier in the year. It became so strong that she was sometimes convinced she had double vision. For a moment in Transfiguration, McGonagall looked decades younger, with darker hair and less wrinkles. When Harriet blinked hard, McGonagall was staring at her with a stern expression like the girl had nodded off. Harriet had looked down at her empty page of notes to avoid the older woman's severe gaze.

"Maybe you should go to Madam Pomfrey to get something for your headache. You have a free period since Defense Against the Dark Arts was cancelled." They were in the Great Hall and Harriet was in so much pain she could barely stand to look at her plate. The food there made her nauseous. Her eyes were red and bloodshot from having been rubbed so much, and her headache only seemed to be getting worse.

"Figures a time like Halloween would make Quirrell cancel all of his classes. I'll bet he's hiding in his chambers scared to open the door. Go on, Harriet. Hermione's right—you really don't look well."

"Thanks," Harriet said through gritted teeth. She pushed her plate away and stormed off, immediately feeling guilty as she remembered the confused expressions on Ron and Hermione's faces. She groaned. It wasn't her fault she'd awoken in such a foul mood—her dreams last night had been horrible. She'd run out of the Dreamless Sleep Madam Pomfrey had given her earlier in the year and—until now—hadn't had need for it. Maybe she would visit the older mediwitch.

But that turned out to be a foul idea as well. Madam Pomfrey just stared at her with a pitying expression as she explained her symptoms, nodding sympathetically. She returned with several vials.

"Something there for your headache. Also, more Dreamless Sleep, and a strong Calming Draught. Would you like me to write you a note to give you the rest of the afternoon off?"

Harriet gaped. "No! It's just a headache—"

"If you need to talk to someone, Harriet—"

She jerked the potions away from the older witch's hands and tucked them into her bag and called out as she was leaving: "I don't need to talk!"

In the corridor outside of the hospital wing, she swallowed one of the potions to help her headache. It did ease somewhat, but she was in no hurry to return to her friends. With no class until Charms later in the day, she decided to wander the hall in search of a place to be alone. Perhaps she could find a nice dark niche in a corridor and take a nap.

With her luck, it was only natural that she would run nearly headfirst into Professor Snape while rounding a corner. She jerked away from him like she'd been burned. For a moment, he was a younger man—still greasy and hook-nosed, but with a youthful smirk and not so many frown lines. Harriet groaned and pressed her hands against her eyes, lashes flickering under her palms. Judging by the black look on his face, Snape seemed to be in one of the foulest moods that she had ever witnessed.

"Potter—whatever sentient creature which burdened us with this life as we know it also saw fit to give you eyes. Quit trying to pop them back into your skull and use them to watch where you walk. Now remove yourself as far from my vicinity as physically possible whilst still remaining within school boundaries." Snape never ran out of breath when he was saying something mean.

"I'm sorry," she said, suddenly ashamed that her eyes were filling with tears. She pressed against her eyes harder, hoping her palms would obscure her shame and any glimpses of Snape's bitter anger. "My head hurts. I can't see well."

"That's not my bloody problem," he said, stepping around her. "Ten points from Gryffindor. If I want to hear your excuses, I'll ask for them on twelve inches of parchment."

Furious, Harriet wrenched her hands away from her face to look into his fathomless eyes. Her face was wet with tears, eyes red and puffy.

"I said that I was sorry, Professor."

His eyes narrowed and his arms crossed. Harriet saw that he had a vial in one hand that he seemed to be delivering to the Hospital Wing. The air in the corridor chilled just with his expression and Harriet shivered. Professor Snape could be much more frightening than Uncle Vernon. "Ten more points from Gryffindor for your cheek, and detention—Saturday at six. Now get out of my sight."

Harriet turned on her heel and did as she was told. It took her half the trip back to Gryffindor Tower for her tears to stop, but her embarrassment still stung like one of the bees in Aunt Petunia's garden. She snarled the password (Caput Draconis) at the Fat Lady and let the portrait slam behind her. She didn't stop until she was in her dormitory, under the covers of her four poster bed. With the curtains drawn, there was no light. She could pretend that she'd never run into Professor Snape in the first place.

Harriet allowed one long breath to escape her.

The curtain rippled.

"Harriet," a woman whispered. She shuddered, sitting up. There was someone just outside her bed, but there had been no one in the dormitory when she'd arrived.

"Hello?" Harriet whispered.

"Harriet," the voice replied. "Mummy loves you so much, Harriet."

She tore open the curtains and cried out as her hand collided with wood. Bars surrounded her bed—she was in a crib. The Gryffindor dormitory was gone, and instead there was a room very much like a nursery with soft pastel walls. Kneeling in front of the bars, fingers creeping through to wiggle at Harriet, was a woman she'd never seen before but had also seen every time she looked in the mirror.

The door burst open and a man stood there, tall, thin, with dark hair and eyes that seemed to glow red in the darkness. Then, Harriet was the man, looking down at her mother, telling her to step aside. Behind her in the crib rested a red-headed toddler, crying. The voice that came from Harriet's throat was high but masculine and filled with an ironic, humored malevolence. She raised her wand and from it burst a flash of green light. Lily collapsed, emerald eyes vacant.

Harriet's gaze turned on her younger self. She was stalking closer, staring down into the crib.

"Harriet," the voice, her voice, whispered. "Harriet."

Harriet awoke, shuddering in the darkness. Someone had drawn back her curtains—Hermione. Bast was curled up at her feet, yellow eyes watching her owner shrewdly. Behind Hermione, the dormitory was empty, the light slanting through the windows letting Harriet know that it was much later than when she had first laid down to rest.

"You missed the rest of classes," Hermione said quietly. "Are you feeling any better?"

Harriet shook her head.

"You were having a bad dream. Do you want to talk about it?"

Harriet shook her head again, a hand clasping over her mouth. Her chest caught and shivered with great, quiet sobs. Hermione crawled into the bed and drew the curtains around them until just the darkness prevailed. Her hand grabbed Harriet's free hand in the darkness, fingers warm. She squeezed and didn't let go.

#

Saturday morning dawned cold and rainy. She had been awoken by Hermione's hair, wild from sleep, tickling her face as the other girl moved away. Harriet's stomach growled fiercely since she'd barely eaten the day before. She shut her eyes against the grey light coming through the windows. Her headache had returned with a vengeance. Fumbling around with her eyes closed, she found another potion Madam Pomfrey had given her and drank it all.

"Does your head still hurt?" Hermione whispered. As it was Saturday, the other girls in the dormitory were still asleep, Lavender snoring noisily.

What does it look like? She thought, rubbing at her forehead. She sighed silently.

"Yes," Harriet replied as kindly as she could. It wasn't Hermione's fault that her head hurt worse than the time Uncle Vernon had banged a frying pan against her crown. "But the potion is helping."

"Should we dress and go down for breakfast? More than likely, we'll be the first ones there."

Harriet's stomach growled in assent for her. Hermione took her clothes to the loo while Harriet drew the curtains around her bed to change. She wouldn't risk having Lav or Pavarti wake up and catch her nearly naked.

Combing her fingers through her hair to try and get rid of the tangles, the redhead went out of the dormitory to linger in front of the fire in the Common Room which had stoked itself alive at dawn. The cold had always bothered Harriet more than it seemed to bother her relatives—especially Uncle Vernon and Dudley, who had enough natural padding to keep them comfortable—and she longed for the weather to turn warm again so that she, Hermione, and Ron could do their homework on a blanket laid out on the front lawn of the school the way they had in early September.

Harriet held out her cold hands close to the flames, but couldn't seem to warm them. The chill ran deep inside of her today. She'd chosen her warmest black jumper, but there was a spot in her chest that felt cold and still.

Today is going to be a very bad day, Harriet thought to herself instinctively.

"Ready?" Hermione breathed, bounding from the dormitory staircase and into the Common Room. Her hair had been brushed to no avail, as it seemed bushier than ever. Harriet gave a weak smile.

Hermione had been right that they would be the first to breakfast. The only other person present was Professor Vector, who neither Hermione nor Harriet had ever had in any class. The woman gave them a polite nod before returning to her magazine and taking a deep drink from a steaming mug.

"Hot chocolate?" Hermione asked out loud. It appeared in her cup, warm and fragrant. Behind them, another Gryffindor entered—Wood, dressed in his Quidditch gear. Tucked under his arm was a notebook he wrote all of his strategies in. He took a seat further down and began to flip through it, distracted.

"I have Quidditch today," Harriet remembered faintly. Hermione frowned.

"I thought Oliver excused you."

"No one gets excused from Quidditch," she said, sharper than she had intended.

Hermione nodded. "Right. I must have misunderstood."

Afraid that her reply wouldn't be kindly, Harriet focused on her plate, asking for some toast and jam. When it appeared, she took lackluster bites from it, staring at a far window to watch the rain fall. She was still staring when Ron appeared ten minutes later and did not see the concerned look he exchanged with Hermione.

When Ron went to open his mouth, Hermione shook her head sharply. Harriet could barely be bothered to take notice even when the Hall had filled and did not move a muscle until a person wiggled between her and Ron, throwing an arm over each of their shoulders.

"My favorite Firsties," Fred said. "I've come bearing gifts."

"Gifts?" Ron asked through a mouthful of eggs. "What kind of gifts?"

"Costumes," George replied in a whisper, sitting on the other side of Ron. Everyone leaned forward to listen. "For the party tonight. Jordan helped sneak us into Hogsmeade. We brought enough for you all as well, as long as you promise to keep away from the punch."

One twin leaned over to flick the other in the ear. "You're giving too much away, George."

"Mum would kill us, Fred."

"Why should we stay away from the punch?" Harriet asked.

"It won't be fit for Firsties, that's why. Are you three in or out?"

"In!" Ron said before Hermione could utter a word. "What kind of costumes have you got? They'd better be brilliant."

#

The costumes turned out to be three masks. The five of them ended up in a corner of the Common Room in the early evening. Harriet was sulking in an armchair after Wood had thrown her out of Quidditch practice for missing seven out of ten golf balls he'd chucked up to her from the field. "Nobody blames you, Harriet," he'd said while studiously looking at anything but her. "Just take the rest of the day off like I told you to."

Back in her dormitory, Harriet had drunk the last vial for her headache and taken some sips from the calming draught as well. It made her feel distant from things, like she were watching her life as a movie on the telly or standing outside a window looking in.

Fred and George, with their enthusiasm, made up for Harriet's lackluster presence. Their costumes were matching silvery beards of outrageous length and silver spectacles. Each had a set of robes charmed to a shimmery purple.

"Where'd you get the money for those?" Ron asked sullenly, holding up a mask of a boar—tusks included. "I know mum couldn't afford anything like that."

"Won some sickles off of a group of Firsties—magnetized Gobstones are the future, brother!—and Angelina bewitched the robes. Frugality is our middle name, after all."

"Your middle name is Gideon, Fred."

"That's your middle name, George."

"Is it? Sometimes I get the two of us confused—"

"This is a terrible idea," Hermione muttered, holding her mask between her hands. It was a grey cat—Hermione had refused the tail.

"It's a brilliant idea," Ron insisted. "Weren't we just complaining about not being able to attend the party? Now Fred and George have gone out of their way and spent their own money—"

"Money they stole from First Year students," Hermione said, rolling her eyes.

"Oi—we worked hard for ever sickle—"

Hermione scoffed and turned to look at Harriet, whose mask was a brown mouse. It had funnel-like, blush colored ears and whiskers that twitched when she spoke. Harriet had put it on right away, enjoying the odd apathetic sensation it gave her to watch her friends through the round eyeholes. "Harriet? What do you think?"

Not often in her life had anyone asked Harriet such a question—as a matter of fact, this seemed to be the first time. Her heart seemed to flutter distantly. She should tell Hermione what the other girl wanted to hear, but hadn't she asked for Harriet's opinion?

"I think it could be fun," Harriet said, quiet as her mask's namesake. "It will be better than sitting alone in Gryffindor Tower all night."

Fred, George, and Ron waited with bated breath for Hermione's reaction. The girl looked torn, eyebrows drawn low and lip between her teeth. Finally, her shoulders sagged and she gave in.

"Oh alright," she consented. She gave Harriet a weak smile and tugged the mask over her face. "How do I look?"

"Brilliant."

#

The party officially started at five in the evening. By that time, dusk had settled over the castle. The Great Hall, which had been filled with decorations at each of the day's meals, was truly decked out and splendid. Pumpkins floated above their heads, jagged mouths glowing from the candles inside of them. Bewitched bats circled the ceiling, swooping dangerously low to their heads. A thin fog crept along their ankles, disguising the stone floor, and a band (the people costumed to look like skeletons) played where the Staff Table used to rest. There were various treats decorated to look like disgusting human and animal body parts or blobs of glowing slime.

"Punch?" Dumbledore-Fred muttered to Dumbledore-George.

"There. Flitwick is guarding it."

"Distraction," both Dumbledores said together, creeping off and leaving the trio to themselves.

"This is amazing," said Ron behind his mask. Even Hermione looked grudgingly impressed. No one seemed to pay them any attention as there was so much commotion—students in costume dancing or rushing this-way-or-that-way with cups of punch or candies shaped like eyeballs. Even Harriet found she could enjoy the sights and sounds and smells.

"Is that Seamus?" Ron asked, pointing to a shrouded figure across the room. He disappeared into the crowd to investigate, and then it was the two girls alone.

"Should we dance?" Hermione asked, breathlessly. "This is the first party I've ever been to. We shouldn't waste it, should we?"

"I don't know how to dance," Harriet admitted.

"We're the top of our class," Hermione said even though she was the top of their class. "I'm sure we can figure it out!"

Hand in hand they made their way into the mass of dancing students. The two girls copied the less embarrassing movements—what was the use of wiggling their hips so much? All it did was throw Harriet off balance and she found she much preferred to just sway happily or move her arms along to the beat.

When a slow song came on ("Really! It's a Halloween dance!" Hermione said, rolling her eyes) they came off of the dance floor to find Ron and Seamus standing by the punch. They handed the girls each a cup. Harriet's was full nearly to the brim.

"I don't know what Fred and George were talking about," Ron said. "This is my second cup and it's the best punch I've ever had!"

"Is that you Potter?" Seamus asked, squinting through the holes of her mask. His costume consisted of nothing but a poorly drawn beard and moustache that was a shade too light for his natural hair color. "What were you and Granger doing out on the dancefloor? Having seizures?"

"At least we had each other to dance with," Hermione snapped. Harriet took a deep drink of her punch and Ron was right—it was fruity and tangy and tasted faintly of orange juice. Hermione made a face. "This tastes funny."

"What?" Ron said, looking into his cup. "Does not!"

"Does too. You shouldn't drink anymore, we don't know what your brothers did to it—"

"You aren't the boss of us, Granger," Seamus said.

"That's a good point!" Ron said, looking as though he had just stumbled upon such a thought himself. "You aren't the boss of us."

Glaring, she turned to Harriet. "You as well? Or are you going to listen to reason?"

"I can't taste anything Hermione," Harriet said. Her cup was nearly empty already anyway. She finished the rest of it and set the cup aside.

"I won't have any more though. Fred and George really were being very suspicious about it."

"Thank you!" Hermione cried. "I heard that the Professors turned the trophy room and beyond into haunted corridors. That sounds like fun, doesn't it? Shall we investigate?"

"Coming along?" Harriet asked Ron and Seamus. A light feeling had come over her and the cold spot in her chest had nearly thawed away.

But the 'Haunted Corridor' turned out to be as frightening as Helga Hufflepuff. Bored with fake cobwebs and dancing skeletons, the four of them made their way back into the Great Hall, narrowly dodging Professor Sprout who was dressed as a Venomous Tentacula by ducking into a little enclosure behind a tapestry (where it turned out that a Seventh Year disguised as a Chuddly Cannons beater and a Sixth Year wearing a disgustingly creepy spider costume were snogging). They were as hurried to exist that niche as they were to slip into in the first place and they ran straight into Dumbledore.

"Fred!" cried Ron. "You're my favorite brother!"

"Been in the punch, hasn't he?" Dumbledore-Fred asked, shoving off Ron's sloppy arms. "I warned him. Come on, Ron. Your party is over."

"What?" Ron roared. "It's barely six!"

Hermione, Harriet, and Seamus laughed as Ron was dragged away by Dumbledore-Fred, shouting indignities all the way. Ron's interactions with his brother were hilarious, and none of them could seem to stop laughing except for Hermione who was shaking her head as if to say I told you so. It wasn't until after they had disappeared from the Great Hall that Harriet realized exactly what Ron had said.

"Six!" Harriet shouted suddenly, feeling a little light-headed. "I've got somewhere to be!" Grabbing another cup of punch from the table as she passed, she started for the door. Over the music, she couldn't hear Hermione's cries for her to come back or explain, but Harriet wouldn't have stopped even if she did. She was going to be very late.

It was the one night a year that he took out Lily's picture. Most often, he was staring at the empty frame—Lily had hated him when the picture was taken and usually disappeared, refusing to acknowledge him—but sometimes she would stand her ground and glare at him with her eyes and her flushed face and lips thinned with fury. He didn't know which occasions he hated more.

This is why Snape could not quit his job and spend the rest of his life in the countryside. This is why he could not become a hermit and write articles for potions journals until he died. He had suffered from selfishness as a youth and it had cost him the life of the only person he'd ever loved—except for maybe his mother. While he was sitting in his office, Lily was dead. Dead. He sat her picture down with trembling fingers and pressed his face into his hands. He would not fail Lily now—never again.

Most days of the year, Severus was able to Occlude away his self-deprecating thoughts, but this was the one time of the year where he allowed himself to face exactly what he was and exactly what he had done. The tension between his parents. His mother's death. His lack of social success in school. His fallout with Lily. Lily's death. On this evening, all of his failings seemed to come to a crux and rest on his shoulders until his spine curved with the weight.

His only chance at redemption rested with the girl more than seven floors up, more than likely eating the dinner served to First through Third years in their Common Rooms. The girl with a penchant for sleeping in broom closets and hiding behind tapestries. The girl who he could barely look at on his worst days and who he struggled to show basic kindness to.

It seemed like once again he was doomed to fail.

A chime went off—the signal that someone was at his classroom door after hours. He groaned. Pushing himself up from his desk chair wasn't the most difficult thing he had ever done, but it felt like it came close. Duty, he thought to himself. This is my duty.

But he didn't know how right he was in that fact until he opened his classroom door to find Harriet Potter standing just beyond it.

"Hello Professor. I'm here for my detention." And then she promptly bent at the waist and vomited.

#

"Can't you help me?" She asked, vomiting into a basin he had conjured for her. She held her red, tangled hair in a clumsy fist, but Severus wasn't going to offer any assistance with such things. He wanted her to suffer. "Isn't there a spell or a potion that will make me feel better?"

"I don't make potions to sober eleven year old degenerate rule-breakers, and you'll say sir or professor when you address me. Drink!" He felt lost with fury, clutching at the arms of his chair with a frightening grip. The stupidity of this child—the nerve of her!

She obediently picked up the cup of water next to her and took several long gulps.

"I thought it was punch, professor," she groaned. Her stomach rolled with the effort it took to speak, and she spat up all of the water she had just drank.

"Drink. And if you have any sense of self-preservation, you will stop speaking." He was going to explode. His wrath felt like a tangible heat behind his breastbone eating away at his insides. Someone would pay for this—the girl, of course, but also whoever had thought to serve a massive group of underage students alcohol. He grinned nastily at the thought of the punishment that would await them and the teacher who had failed to guard the food and drink properly. Perhaps he would be allowed to watch.

Sniffling, Potter drank. He looked away from her obvious misery. He'd never seen Lily look so upset. She'd always had an air of apathy around her, a detachment that was enviable at best and infuriating at worst.

Don't think of her. Put her away.

It took several long moments punctuated by the girl's retching to put Lily and all of his guilt into the back of his mind.

"Am I going to have more detention?" she asked, looking at him with red, tearful eyes.

"Weeks more," Severus replied cruely. "Starting next Saturday, like how was meant."

"But you just said Saturday at six, sir," she said.

"How could you think I meant this Saturday of all Saturdays?" He snapped.

"I didn't know that you celebrated Halloween, sir."

He took a deep breath in through his clenched teeth to compose himself and forced himself to stare at her blankly. "Why are you being so dense, Miss Potter?"

She stared back confused, lips very red and cheeks flushed from alcohol and exertion. "I don't know what you mean, professor."

"I would not expect you to serve a detention on this day."

She groaned loudly, putting her head down towards the basin and letting her hair slip free from her hand to fall around her face. "Not you too."

"Potter, desist with the dramatics," he snapped. "And if you must speak, speak plainly."

"First Oliver gave me Halloween off—then Hermione and Ron—and all my teachers today giving me these looks—and Madam Pomfrey—everyone is treating me like some kind of freak or something and I don't understand!"

There was silence as realization dawned over him.

"You don't know what today is," Severus said.

"It's Halloween, Professor," she said, sounding suddenly very drained and tired. "I don't know what else it's supposed to be."

"Kit!" He snapped. With a pop, a House Elf appeared, bowing low, with crooked ears and yellow tennis-ball eyes.

"Professor Snape calls for Kit?"

"Tea for Miss Potter, and the Daily Prophet from tomorrow's date in 1981. Visit Madam Pince's archives, if you must, but don't tell her what they are for. That will be all." At his curt dismissal, the elf disappeared with another snap of its fingers.

Detached, he thought to himself. I must be detached.

He waved his hand and the fire in the grate grew and warmed the room. Lily's daughter was watching him with a furrowed brow, frowning deeply. He saw the irony that this duty would also fall to him. He had killed her mother and father and he would have to be the one to tell her the significance of this day.

Lowering himself into his chair, he rubbed at his temple with a long-fingered hand. "Miss Potter. October 31st in 1981 is one of the most infamous dates in modern Wizarding history."

She didn't speak. There was a sort of understanding and acceptance coming over her face. She shook her head.

"Denial becomes no one. Do you mean to tell me that you truly don't know today's importance?"

She shook her head again.

"Your aunt and uncle—they never told you." Of-fucking-course. Speaking it aloud, he knew it to be true. Not for the first time, he was overcome with such loathing for Petunia and the fat Muggle she had married that he longed for their painful and slow demises. Lily rolled in her grave at the treatment of her daughter. You didn't speak to Lily for ages before her death, how could you make such assumptions?

The girl was sick again and crying, neither condition which helped the other. When she was finished, she staggered to her feet and came to his desk where the newspaper rested. HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED DEFEATED! was the title, and the image was the destroyed Potter home at Godric's Hollow. She picked up the paper with trembling hands, lips pressed together into a thin white line.

She turned back to her basin and was sick again and for the final time. He said nothing and let her retch in piece. He would not have known what to say to her even if he'd wanted to speak. When she was finished, the girl stood, swaying heavily, and lurched for the door with sudden sobriety.

"Potter," he said sharply.

"Got to go," she mumbled, throwing the door open.

He stood and chased after her. One of the inserts of the paper fell loose and fluttered behind her while she ran with surprising strength and steadiness (most likely a skill honed from plenty of running from her doltish, abusive family)—but Severus's legs were twice as long. He came within sight of her easily the next floor up and was about to overtake her when she ducked into the Great Hall.

Severus cursed and through open the doors. Inside, it was dark and crowded. Her red hair would appear darker in the dim light, and therefore he could not use that feature to find her. She was so short that she would stand a head below her own class, not to mention the Third Years and more who were all getting in his bloody way.

He spotted Albus's purple pointed hat and silvered beard in the darkness and turned him around with a frantic hand on the shoulder. As soon as he touched him, Severus knew this was not the real Dumbledore—this was a child, youthful and thin. A freckled face stared at him in shock.

"Weasley," he snarled, pushing the child away. There was another Albus across the room which he suspected was the other Weasley twin. No, Dumbledore would be in costume, which would make the old coot much more difficult to find. What was the codger's costume? Surely he'd gone on about it in Severus's presence, but his mind remained steadfastly blank. Curse himself and his own ability at blocking out nonsense that was detrimental to his sanity.

He'd have to find the girl on his own.

A child bumped into him from behind.

"Sorry," she mumbled, and he grabbed ahold of her shoulders, wrenching the mask from her face.

"Granger," he said. "Where's Potter?"

The girl looked terrified, her horror made comical by the dramatic lighting and music. "Professor! I—I know First Years aren't s-supposed to be—"

"Listen to me," he said, bringing their faces so close his nose nearly touched her own. Her eyes crossed to watch him, face blanched white. "Where is Potter?"

"I don't know sir, she left some time ago—said she had somewhere to be—"

"Useless," he snarled pushing her away.

He circled through the crowd again, dark eyes looking for the girl or Albus. He at last stumbled upon the old man leaning against a giant pumpkin. He was covered in strange familiar silver armor and face paint, an ax in one hand. He was gesticulated to Minerva who wasn't in any sort of costume that Severus could see.

"You old bloody fool," Severus shouted to be heard over the music.

"Severus, you said you weren't chaperoning this evening—"

"I'm not bloody chaperoning and I'm still managing to do a better job than you halfwits—the punch is alcoholic and Potter has run off."

"What?" McGonagall said. Her lips thinned. "Alcohol—Potter—"

"Your auditory skills are astounding," he snarled. "End this fiasco. Now."

"I'll stop the band," McGonagall said, pushing through the students towards the stage.

Albus leaned in, face serious, to ask: "What did you say about Miss Potter running off?"

Harriet was in a dark room that was difficult to recognize with her head spinning the way it was. Tears obscured her vision and she couldn't seem to blink them away. Why had no one told her? Not Aunt Petunia, not Uncle Vernon, not any of her friends who had treated her funny for days. How could you let your own friend go on traipsing around the castle like it wasn't the anniversary of her parents' brutal murders?

She sat down heavily on the cobblestone floor clutching the newspaper in her hand. Burned in her mind was the image of the destroyed house. She had lived there once—long ago, before she could remember. Her mother and father and her. A family, in a pretty, average house.

Not for the first time, she hated Voldemort and what he had done to her parents. Of all the members in the resistance that Professor Dumbledore had spoken of, why was it her family that he killed? Why couldn't it have been someone—anyone—else? She hoped that if he wasn't dead already, Voldemort never thought to come around her again. Harriet would finish him off herself!

She snorted through her tears. Right. Harriet Potter, Cupboard-Tenant-Extraordinaire. Harriet Potter, who was the shortest and skinniest girl in her whole class.

Something in the distance stirred: a hard-soled shoe on cobblestone. She sniffed loudly and listened. No more sound. When her tears cleared, she realized she was in the 'Haunted Corridor', only it was completely vacant.

"Hello?" She called, her voice thick with tears. She cleared her throat. "I said, Hello?"

Squinting through the dark, a man appeared. His image was smoky but strangely familiar. It made her eyes tear and head throb. The sight of him sent a chill up her spine and her eyes widened, trying to see clearer in the darkness. The shape of the man's head was…strange—

"Harriet Potter," he said, and it was his voice that she finally recognized.

She drew in a lungful of air and screamed, scrambling for the door, though she didn't know precisely where that was.

"Petrificus Totalus!" Harriet felt her body become stiff like stone. Her awkward position caused her to fall forward where she struck the cobblestone face first. Her nose burst with pain and blood flooded her nostrils. She was panicking, her mind moving a million different directions. I'm going to die. It's the day of my parents' deaths and now I'm going to die too.

The man stood above her. Harriet could feel his presence and her skull and scar throbbed with agony. Tears fell down her cheeks and pooled with the blood on the floor. She couldn't draw breaths and her head swam. She felt the tip of a wand press against the back of her skull, tangling in her red hair.

Just beyond her, a door opened and a girl stood there, shouting Harriet's name.

Hermione, she thought. Hermione run or you'll die too, run—run.

The wand was gone but Harriet was slipping away. She felt small hands turning her over and saw Hermione's pale face above hers and it was the last sight she saw.

#

There was no gentle sensation of waking. She jerked into consciousness with Madam Pomfrey's face above her own instead of Hermione's. Harriet tried to screech but her throat was raw and lungs burned. The matronly woman rested her wand on the girl's breastbone and her lungs seemed to fill with cool air which gave her some relief.

"Don't speak, Miss Potter. You've suffered trauma but you are safe now. Close your eyes—"

But Harriet was already following those orders and falling asleep again. When she awoke next, there was light streaming through the window displaying the familiar cots of the Hospital Wing. Hushed voices brought her attention to Professors Dumbledore and Snape who were maintaining a quiet conversation despite Snape's heated expression.

When she turned her head, she saw sitting on the nightstand the newspaper from October 1981. She closed her eyes and turned away. Her head throbbed and her mouth felt like something had crawled inside it to die. The rustle of her head against the pillowcase must have been loud enough for the professors to hear, as their conversation stopped.

"Miss Potter. How are you feeling?" Professor Dumbledore asked, gently lowering himself into the seat at her bedside. Professor Snape had not moved towards her but was watching shrewdly.

"Okay," Harriet lied. Her voice was scratchy.

"I must ask you about the terrible assault on your person which took place last night."

Last night? Had so much time passed?

"It was a man—I never saw his face."

"My child, if you did not see his face, how do you know it was a man?" he asked gently.

"I've dreamed of him," Harriet replied immediately. "I hear his voice. It's a man."

This seemed to trouble Dumbledore greatly. Several long moments were spent with him staring at her carefully, thoughtful. When he spoke, he spoke slowly: "Start at the beginning then, my dear. It is my understanding that you attended the Halloween party the previous evening?"

Shamed, Harriet nodded. "Yes, professor. I'm sorry."

"I think there are more important matters," he said smiling faintly. "Please continue."

"I went to the party. I had some punch."

"Yes, from what I hear, the punch was rather special. Madam Pomfrey dealt with a few dozen overzealous punch-drinkers in the aftermath of our celebration."

"I didn't know what was wrong with it, professor, or I wouldn't have had any. I got upset. I was thinking of my family, so I went into the corridor that the professors had decorated—The Haunted One. I thought I was alone but there was suddenly a man there. He was the man from my dreams, and he cursed me. I don't remember much after that."

Professor Dumbledore nodded. "That is the story I was relayed. Miss Granger—"

"Hermione," Harriet breathed, suddenly remembering the presence of her closest friend. "Is she alright? Did she get hurt?"

"Not at all my dear. It seems her presence startled your attacker. When Professor Snape and I arrived on the scene, you and Miss Granger were alone."

Harriet shuddered. That meant that somewhere in the castle was the man with the strange head and the high, thin voice—that voice—there was something…

"Voldemort," she said, suddenly. "Voldemort."

Professor Snape gave a violent twitch and even Professor Dumbledore seemed startled. Snape's eyes seemed to burn into Dumbledore, but the older wizard wouldn't look away from her.

"Yes, child? What about him?"

Harriet shook her head, suddenly feeling lost the way a person felt when entering a room and suddenly forgetting what it was they had business there doing in the first place.

"I'm sorry, Professor. I think I'm tired."

"Of course. I will let you sleep. Professor Snape has kindly volunteered to watch over you while you rest. Please know that we plan to take every precaution necessary to ensure your safety and the safety of your classmates."

She smiled weakly. No one had ever protected her before—except for Mr. Prince. "Thank you, professor."

With a last kind smile, Professor Dumbledore left, sharing one more meaningful look with Professor Snape. Being alone with him made Harriet nervous—she didn't remember much from her detention but she did remember there was plenty of vomiting involved. She shuddered in embarrassment and could feel her face growing redder.

"Miss Potter," Professor Snape greeted apathetically, choosing to sit in the chair Professor Dumbledore vacated. He crossed his arms over his narrow chest and stared at her blankly. "If you are ever in my vicinity as intoxicated on illegal substances as you were last night, I will personally see that the outdated, medieval punishments Filch advocates for are used to discipline you. Copiously."

"Yessir," she said, though she hadn't understood what some of the words in his sentence had meant.

"You've suffered head trauma. Madam Pomfrey insists that you take the vial on your nightstand. It will make you sleep while you mend." The rigidity in his voice left no room for argument, but after what she had put him through the night before, Harriet planned to do whatever Professor Snape said from that moment on. As soon as the vial was emptied, Harriet felt distant and sleepy.

"'m sorry about last night, profess'r," Harriet said.

"I'm uninterested," Snape replied, staring resolutely at the curtain separating Harriet's bed from the next. It was a strangely surreal experience, sitting in the hospital wing with Professor Snape watching over her.

"My aunt an' uncle never talked about my parents. I don't even know what they look like." She was speaking without her own consent, words dripping from her mouth like drool while she slept.

Professor Snape gave no indication that she'd even spoken. His face remained like stone. Perhaps she was already dreaming. Harriet closed her eyes and slept once more.

RIP Alan Rickman. I was devastated to hear the news. I hope you found something in this chapter that you've enjoyed. I took liberties. I believe Halloween of 1991 fell on a Thursday and not a Saturday. Will you forgive me?

I hope you're up to reading a little paragraph from me. I knew when I started this fic that I wanted to take reviewers suggestions to heart. This chapter, if you're kind enough to leave a few words about what you've read, perhaps you could also take some time to talk to me about Harriet's sexuality in your opinion. While this is a Harriet/Snape fic to the end, it will be slow to get there, and I can't expect Harriet to never have any experience with her own classmates. Know that I'll never dive too deeply into any Harriet/non-Snape pairing, but I feel like Harriet would choose to place her affections with those who protect her and show her affection, regardless of their gender. I can't speak for my whole gender or country, where I grew up, it isn't uncommon for a girl to have sexual experiences with her own sex. At risk of sounding hopelessly ignorant, is it the same way in the UK?

While we're waiting for Harriet to grow, mature, and come around to Snape (and for Snape to get a clue as well), what semi-romantic pairing might you tolerate for young Harriet?