Certain Dark Things || Book Three

xxviii. the head of slytherin house

When she exhausted all other options, Harriet decided it was time to talk to Professor Slytherin.

She didn't want to talk to Professor Slytherin. In fact, she put it off for an entire week after her stay in the hospital wing, thinking of any excuse she could, any idea at all to get back on the Quidditch team, before entertaining the notion of involving her Head of House.

Slytherin usually allowed his House to govern itself, letting the upper-year run roughshod over the younger students, so long as they kept to whatever arbitrary rules he assigned and listened to Snape. In the same breath, he demanded a kind of constant, befuddling obeisance—wanting his students to both defer to him and leave him alone. Harriet had heard stories of Slytherins getting detentions for months or being suspended because they came to him with the wrong issue. Slytherin defined the word capricious.

Harriet really didn't want to talk to him, but Slytherin was the one who had the final say over things like Quidditch team appointments. She could try going to Snape, but the Potions Master would most likely tell her to bugger off, and if he did listen to her, he'd still have to go to Slytherin for authority. Slytherin would be pissed at Harriet for not deferring to him in the first place—and, well, Harriet had tasted enough of his temper to last a lifetime. She'd most likely find herself banned rather than reappointed.

That brought her here, standing outside the closed door to her Head of House's classroom just before dinner was set to begin, clutching her bag like a makeshift shield. Hermione and Elara didn't know she'd come; they both thought it was a spectacularly stupid idea.

I could let the issue go, Harriet considered, eying the corridor leading back downstairs. Terry had a point when he said Flint won't be captain forever.

But Harriet was convinced the issue went deeper than Flint, and she adored flying. She was actually good at it, in the way that Elara was just good at Transfiguration and Hermione was good at Charms. It had been a bright spot in an otherwise stressful term, and Harriet didn't want to give it up. She just wanted to fly.

Bracing herself, she held her breath and knocked.

Nothing happened for a moment. Then, a brush of silent magic opened the door, and Harriet took the metaphoric plunge, hoping she wouldn't regret this. She'd expected the professor to be in his office, but no; instead, Slytherin sat at his desk in the classroom, seemingly engrossed in some kind of letter. His red eyes rose and tracked Harriet's slow, grudging progress into the room. None of the torches were lit, the shutters closed, the only light glowing from a single candle on the desk.

"Miss Potter," he said, setting aside his letter. "Did you need something from me?"

He'd only said a few words, and already Harriet wanted to turn around and run from the room. She'd had a persuasive speech thought out, and now it all melted into a jumble in her brain. "I, um—."

Slytherin raised a brow, the corner of his mouth lifting in what could have been a smile, but instead came across as a snide smirk. "Yes?"

Harriet swallowed and steeled her nerves, knowing she needed to say something, anything, before Professor Slytherin got angry. "Erm—Marcus Flint kicked me off the Quidditch team," she blurted.

"And this concerns me how?"

"He—he doesn't have a proper reason to do so, Professor. I know I—the broom was ruined, but I can replace it, and I wasn't negligible! I—I'm the best player on the team." Well, Harriet wasn't entirely convinced of that, but a spot of self-confidence and bravado would serve her better than weak-mouthed mumbling. It firmed her voice. "I shouldn't have been let go. There's no grounds for my dismissal, and the—our House is going to lose the Cup if I don't play."