The house the freshly-healed man took her to had a musty scent about it, almost unused. He grimaced upon entering, and shot her a sorry look.
“Spend most of my time in the case or elsewhere,” he nodded to his briefcase, which Harry began to eye with renewed appreciation.
Something niggled at the back of her memory.
An old acquaintance, Dumbledore had said.
“You're Newt Scamander,” she breathed, tracing his features with restless eyes.
The man inclined his head with a shy smile, “That I am. You have a Qilin for me, Mr.…?”
She tried not to flinch, “Rigel. Call me Rigel.”
Belated understanding flashed through the man's eyes, and Harry gathered that Dumbledore had neglected to mention her name when talking of the creature. That, coupled with her current appearance as a Weasley bastard, would explain his surprise.
She let loose a breath and sat down on one of the sofas, casting a wandless cleaning charm almost perfunctorily.
“You were saying something about a stone—?” Harry's words were cut off by an abrupt rapping against the door.
The two of them stiffened, and Scamander called after a careful pause, “Password?”
“Fangtastic Fonzies,” The words came out wheezing, tired and desperate, and Harry and Scamander jumped up from their seats.
The door opened to admit two wizards. One of them had hair that was such a nondescript brown that Harry automatically suspected disguise charms at work. He was panting, and evidently the one who had given the password, for he was supporting an only half-conscious companion.
The shock of black hair registered just as the scent of aconite reached her nose.
“ Professor!”
The uneasy feeling that had been fogging her mind ever since she'd escaped the wards of the awards ceremony grew stronger even as she and Scamander helped the man set Professor Snape down on one of the larger sofas.
“McKinnon,” Scamander summoned his First Aid Kit and passed it to her, “What happened?”
She ignored the kit in favor of casting in-depth diagnostic charms. He had two puncture wounds from a blade— likely from a freedueling opponent, now that she thought about it. She had seen Scar out and about this very night, after all.
Harry began the healing process while keeping an ear out for McKinnon's response.
“—blew up the safehouse by the time we'd gotten there. Went to a secondary one and that was destroyed, too, only the dratted masked men who did it were still there. Had knives on them. Snape was the best duelist in our group, and most of the fighting fell on him automatically, and, well…” The man sighed, “Dumbledore showed, and I took Snape and Abernathy and ran as fast as we could at the first sign of distraction. Abernathy will be checking up on the other groups, I expect. The rest from our team didn't make it.”
So many losses, tonight. She wondered if there would ever be a day she would wake up to a clear conscience. The heaving cloud of guilt that overwhelmed her didn't seem to be going away.
Snape was here because of her, she was sure. Almost all of those people McKinnon had mentioned were here to help in her escape. When would she stop being a curse to those she cared about?
She suspected the answer was not one she would like, and her headache only mounted. She finished off the healing and spelled some blood replenisher into his stomach.
“Rigel,” the voice that spoke was soft, hoarse, and so very tired.
She'd recognize it anywhere, but she had never wanted to see it like this.
“Yes, Professor?” she told herself that her voice didn't waver at all. She had to wonder how he'd recognized her, though. She was still wearing her glamour. After a thought, she dispelled it.
“You foolish child,” Snape's eyes assessed her with grave urgency, and it took Harry a moment to realise he was searching for injuries.
The lump in her throat grew, and it was all she could do to choke out, “Sir. I'm so sor-ry. I—” she didn't know what else to say. What else could she say? “I—”
Snape averted his gaze, no longer meeting hers. Her heart stuttered, skipped a beat, shattered. He wasn't ready to forgive her, and rightfully so—
He blinked hard, once, twice. By the third blink, Harry froze as she realised the emotions her normally impassive Professor was holding back. The moment felt unreal, like the world had turned on its head.
And then just as quickly, it was over. When he turned to face her, his eyes were rimmed red, but mercifully dry.
“You—” his voice, a beacon that had come to give her natural reassurance, made her tremble with something much like the innocent reliance of a baby Qilin.
He pushed himself up into a sitting position, eyes sharpening as the situation began to properly sink in.
She stood up, ignoring her burgeoning headache in favour of watching him. Or trying to. Somehow, it was even more painful.
“Rigel.” He was standing, now, arms reaching forward to grip her by the shoulders. He shook her once, far too gently, as though to check if she were real.
“You absolute idiot,” His soft tone took away any heat his words might have held, “ Imbecilic child. What were you thinking? ”
Harry swelled with all the things she wanted to say, all the things she couldn't say, until the only thing that escaped her lips was an apology. “I am so so sorry for decieving you—”
His eyes flashed as they often did whenever she said something he thought foolish, “That is not the point, you ridiculous boy!” Her headache spiked and she shivered, and whatever he must have seen in her eyes made his hands drop to his sides.
“What education, what knowledge is worth your life?! ” He hissed. For all that he had retreated, his anger hadn't abated in the slightest. And Rigel deserved it, Harry told herself. Harry deserved it. But out of every scenario she could've imagined…
Harry had never dreamed that this was the direction his ire would take.
She ought to have, in retrospect.
“—your penchant for idiotic decisions can land you a lifetime's stay in Azkaban, reckless child—”
He was on a roll.
“I'm… sorry?” Harry offered, this time with a lot more confusion than guilt infused in her words.
His scowl told her in no unclear terms that he had caught the insincerity behind the apology this time. Harry would have said more, but she was distracted by the pulse of shock that bloomed across her forehead, rising from her temples. It stung and burned her, and she set her teeth against the pain even as her vision swam and went dark.
A wordless groan escaped her, and she was dimly aware of her own knees giving way and flopping onto the floor uselessly. Of someone gripping her like a lifeline and saying words that her ears decided were best served in broken pieces.
“— what is the matter, child —?”
Harry gave over almost all her focus to managing the pain searing through her head.
Dom, what is going on?
Can't talk, kid. Don't come in here. It's Zuriel.
Her heart rate rose in anxiety even as she tried to focus past the pain and on his short, clipped words.
He was dealing with the Rod of Zuriel.
She recalled his earlier confidence in their many conversations in her mindscape. And that one time at the Yule Ball—
"Get back, you fool! I can handle Zuriel's crawling mist!"
Dom was capable enough to handle the threat. He had to be.
She focused, instead, on her blurry reality. Bits and pieces of her vision came to her, and it took her a minute to realise that the blackness now obscuring her vision wasn't any dizziness but Snape's dark robes.
She felt foreign magic near her skin, and recognized an attempt at diagnosing her. A quick, urgent thought, and her magic blocked it.
He couldn't know her gender. Every carefully laid plan would fall to pieces. There was no way he wouldn't connect her to Harriet Potter.
Harry sent some of her own healing magic through her body, mainly to sooth the growing ache, and sent a numbing spell through her head. The relief was immediate, though she was cognizant of the fact that it was only an illusion.
The sensation of a hand caressing the back of her head made it easier to focus on what was real, and the voices around her grew distinct.
“His magic is not letting me—” She'd never heard Snape sound so lost, and she never wanted to again.
“—try laying him down—” That was likely Scamander.
She heard some rustling, and felt herself being lifted in someone's arms and hoisted onto the sofa.
“By Salazar, Rigel, wake up.” The words positively sounded like a plea, and Harry felt wretched all over again. All she did was make him worry, when she didn't deserve any concern in the first place.
“‘M fine,” she mumbled on numb lips. She must've overdone the numbing magic in her pain.
She felt her cheek brush against Snape's robes as he embraced her, “Thank Merlin.”
“I'm fine,” she repeated, this time with more clarity. She really was feeling better. Her hand hesitated, then rose to pat him gently on the back. “Really.”
He released her from his tight grip, turmoil-filled eyes searching her for any hint of a lie.
“What happened?” He asked finally.
“I'm not entirely sure,” she admitted, wincing at the scowl it produced on his face. “It was because of the Rod, though. I've got it handled now.”
Yup, threat eliminated! Dom's voice echoed through her head in confirmation, smugness in every syllable. I'll share what happened later.
She flashed him the mental equivalent of a smile even as gratitude flooded her, Thanks, Dom.
As one, everyone present in the room shifted their attention to the staff resting idly against a dusty sofa. The blood red jewel that adorned it had lost its unnatural sheen. Indeed, the entire staff seemed to have lost its magnetic pull.
She huffed out a tired but satisfied breath.
“You still fail at providing even a modicum of reassurance,” Snape informed her.
“I guess some things never change.” Harry flashed him a small smile, inviting him to lighten up.
He did not seem amused.
As she drank the glass of water Scamander offered her, Harry tried to ignore the dangerously ruminating expression on Snape's face.
“It doesn't tell blood status.” He said after a while, voice mild.
She froze, “What?”
He raised an eyebrow at her, “Most basic diagnostic charms don't show blood status.”
Harry swallowed, “I know that.”
“Of course, you do.” Snape tilted his head in a way that told Harry he was leading up to a single. damning. question. “You studied healing.”
“I did,” Harry agreed.
“What do you have to fear, then?” Snape leaned forward, and she was forced to meet his dissecting gaze, “What is it that makes you refuse such charms so vehemently?”
And Bullseye, she thought with some alarm. He really was too sharp for her good.
Since she couldn't answer, she asked a question of her own, “How did you know it was me?”
“What?” Snape's expression told her that he had not missed her attempt at distraction.
“Earlier, when I healed you,” Harry elaborated, “I was still wearing my glamour. How did you know it was me?”
Snape scoffed, “I saw a teen with familiar magic who knew healing. I'm also certain you called me ‘Professor’ at some point. Who else could you be?”
“Healing should be a part of common education,” Harry said, still avoiding the earlier question, “Knowing such a crucial art shouldn't make identification so easy.”
Snape rolled his eyes, “It is only rare knowledge for the Hogwarts educated, and you were the one who called me your Professor and gave it away, so that's a moot point.”
A hint of surprised realisation flitted across his face before it settled into something like calculation, “It is most odd, however, that I can think of yet another person who fits this criteria.”
Harry kept her expression neutral, no matter that she was convinced he could hear the loud, rapid beating of her heart. “Oh?”
“Mhm.” He cocked his head consideringly, and Harry contemplated fleeing just as his wand popped out of a hidden holster and he dropped three consecutive privacy charms.
Then he carefully, deliberately, placed it on the coffee table and nudged it out of his reach.
“Harriet Potter. You called me your Professor, too, didn't you?”
She tried to take a deep breath, then another. But there was either too little air or she'd forgotten how to breathe, because her lungs came out empty, and she could feel herself hyperventilating.
Snape's lips parted, but whatever words he spoke seemed to traverse the distance between two worlds before they reached her.
“Breathe, Rigel—”
He knew. Someone had finally figured out the ruse, and she was going to Azkaban, or worse—
“Deep breaths. Try to match your breathing with mine.”
What was she going to do? It couldn't end like this. It couldn't. It c o u l d n ’ t—
White hands rubbed circles across her palms, and tired lips spilled potion secrets like they were magnets to sanity.
“Mordred dammit, Rigel, snap out of it—!”
Through the hurricane of her panic, a single beam of light shone.
So what? It said. So what if he knows the truth?
No one can know, she told it, holding back a hysterical sob, they just can't!
Leo knows, it told her. And he came all the way here just to support you.
Her panic lessened at that, as if suddenly at a loss as to why it rose in the first place.
Do you really think that after everything, Snape would turn you in?
Harry felt warmth re-enter her being as she considered the answer: a clear, resounding NO.
“Harry—”
She blinked away her tears of frustration and found she saw more clearly than ever.
Snape's white knuckled grip on her wrist relented at the first sign of her coming to.
“I'm fine,” she considered the half-sob-laugh that escaped her at the end of the statement and reevaluated it.
Snape had his eyes trained on her in acute worry, as though she were a cracked piece of glass he didn't know to handle correctly.
No, Harry thought, I need to get better with my comparisons.
He was looking at her with a worry that said he cared about what happened to her, like he would do anything to see her eyes light up again.
How could she ever have thought someone like him would turn her in?
There was unconditional love in every groove and line slashed across his face, care in every raised eyebrow and dryly spoken word. Somewhere, somehow, in sometime known only to them, she had become his own. He looked on her with unwavering fondness, like she'd already made a place in his heart as surely as the Malfoy and Black family magic had taken root in hers.
Those eyes spoke clearly the words that had only been saved airing, the bond that had formed without either of them knowing or fully understanding. They told her she was his child.
Harry spread her arms with a firm smile that belied the water in her eyes.
“Can I have a hug?”