Harry Potter: The Slytherin Heiress

A spark flared at the tip of her wand. The parchment caught, curled, and slowly burned to ash.

She no longer needed the permission slip she'd stumbled into.

Praeris sat on the common room sofa while the fireplace crackled and roared behind her, demanding nothing from her attention.

She closed her eyes. The Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library surfaced in her mind, every book she had ever handled, every decorative stroke on the covers, every line of handwriting, all of it sharp and exact. The deeper areas she had never reached were something else entirely: grey mist, formless, impossible to see into.

Cursed Dark Arts Objects had stated: "Certain Dark Arts objects can form a psychic connection with their possessor..."

"The psychic connection formed by a Dark Arts object may influence its possessor, tempting their mind and affecting their psyche. Due to an immature mind, this influence is more pronounced in adolescent witches and wizards."

"The longer the contact with the Dark Arts object, the deeper this mental penetration becomes, and the longer it takes to fully shake off the influence."

So that was why Madam Pince had contacted her guardian. That was why Professor Snape had come down on her so hard.

Praeris kept reading. The book had moved on to instructing its reader on how to craft Dark Arts objects capable of influencing other minds.

No wonder it lived in the Restricted Section.

She skipped past those sections and kept searching.

"Clearly, the majority of malevolent Dark Arts objects can only influence a person's mind. But some more powerful Dark Arts objects can control a person's mind entirely, and subsequently manipulate their actions in reality."

"We can identify the manipulated by the following characteristics: large gaps in memory, behavior inconsistent with their personality, a progressively weakening body, and so forth."

"The first two require no elaboration. What must be emphasized is the last characteristic. Magic involving death is the most evil of all magic. Dark Arts objects connected to soul magic possess a stronger degree of activity and personal consciousness."

"According to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, we know that the transmission of magical power is equitable and cannot be generated from nothing. Dark Arts objects connected to soul magic have their power fixed at the moment of creation, and it continuously dissipates throughout their existence."

"Therefore, some such magical objects will subtly absorb their possessor's strength in order to sustain their own prolonged existence."

Praeris leaned back against the sofa and tilted her head up. She blinked.

Her expression went grave. Her brows pulled tight.

The matter of Ginny Weasley had just become very clear, the way the moon becomes clear when the clouds finally part.

This little girl had gotten hold of a Dark Arts notebook tied to soul magic. The notebook had tempted her, perhaps actually controlled her, driving her to do terrible things. And the whole time, it was draining her life force. Threatening her.

As for the Heir. The things Praeris had seen and heard on the eve of Halloween drifted back to the surface.

The notebook's maker was either one of the Heirs, or someone who had witnessed the Chamber of Secrets incident firsthand.

The second option she dismissed quickly. If witnessing the Chamber of Secrets was enough to open it, then calling it the Heir's exclusive domain would be meaningless.

The trail went cold again.

What actions had the notebook pushed Ginny into? What had attacked Mrs. Norris? What did any of this have to do with the girls' lavatory, with that puddle of water sitting in front of the door?

And... should she actually do something about what the notebook was doing to Ginny Weasley?

What a joke. She was a Slytherin.

Praeris, oh Praeris. Have you already forgotten how that Weasley spewed his insults at you? Have you forgotten how he laid into your companion? Have you forgotten what those Gryffindors call Professor Snape behind his back?

She deliberately chose not to notice that the last two incidents had involved Malfoy's own provocations, or Professor Snape's rather obvious bias.

"Prae, aren't you going to eat?" Millicent waved a hand in front of her face. "You're not planning to skip another meal, are you?"

"When have I ever—"

The words were already out. Praeris hit the brakes and swallowed the rest.

"Ah. You weren't about to say you've never skipped a meal, were you?" Millicent said. "Miss Prince, who so generously gifted her buttered bread to Malfoy on Saturday morning and then was nowhere to be found by Saturday afternoon?"

Millicent poked her in the stomach. "Are you made of iron?"

Fortunately Praeris was not ticklish, or she would have folded entirely.

Millicent dragged her by the hand to the table. Tonight's dinner was braised lamb leg and Scotch eggs, the eggs wrapped in minced meat, coated in breadcrumbs, deep-fried to a crisp shell with a soft center.

Praeris ate with enthusiasm. Malfoy, beside her, could not have been more different.

His gaze was fixed on nothing. His fork stabbed into the lamb leg, again and again.

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Praeris was willing to bet he was imagining Potter's head.

Pansy shot frantic looks across the table. Praeris looked down and ignored her.

Pansy coughed. Twice.

Praeris glanced up and said, "Apple juice?"

"I don't want any!" Pansy said through her teeth.

Praeris turned the glass toward Malfoy. "Then you drink it."

Still somewhere far away, Malfoy took it on instinct and drank. He nearly spat it across the table, coughing hard. "Cough — you—"

"Sour? Good." Praeris's tone didn't change. "That's exactly how you're feeling right now. Hold onto that. Let it remind you that next time you're in a match, you don't get to zone out like this, you don't even know what you've been eating."

"What do you know, "

"Ah, right. Nothing." Her smile was sharp enough to cut. "I wouldn't understand the feeling of losing to someone, because I've never lost."

"And I certainly wouldn't be like some people, unable to eat after dropping one match, sitting here haunting the table like a vengeful spirit." She raised an eyebrow. "If you actually care that much, then pull yourself together. Wallowing won't make anything better. It never does. But if you steel yourself and move forward, you still have a chance."

She turned away from him and looked at Millicent. "I want half a custard tart. Do you want the other half?"

Millicent blinked. "Oh, yeah, sure."

Down at the far end of the table, the older Slytherins wore complicated expressions.

Myles shook his head slowly. "Terrifying. No wonder she's the professor's assistant. Marcus, it must have been rough for you, right?"

Marcus assumed Myles meant the stretch last year when he had been Praeris's student. He nodded firmly. "It was tough, honestly. But she's friendly most of the time. Gentle, even."

Marcus did his level best to defend the non-existent gentleness of his conjugate teacher.

As had been established, Slytherin's lessons were concentrated on Wednesdays. Monday only had Herbology in the afternoon.

So Praeris spent the entire morning working through the Dark Arts knowledge she had consumed, careful not to let herself get indigestion. She also made herself stop every half hour, keeping the promise she had made to Professor Snape. She hadn't gone to the Restricted Section, technically, but she was clear-eyed enough to know the difference was only a matter of location.

By the time she surfaced, the news of Creevey's attack had already spread through every corner of Hogwarts.

"Who's Creevey?" Millicent said, voicing the confusion of most of Slytherin House.

Praeris took a sip of black tea. "Potter's admirer. The one with the camera. The signed-photo boy."

The Slytherins around her immediately connected the dots, apparently remembering the incident when Malfoy had mocked Potter about it.

The attack had hit the school hard. Non-purebloods in the other three houses were frightened, quietly terrified they might be next. Only the Slytherins seemed to be enjoying themselves, swaggering around and telling anyone who would listen that the Heir was coming to clean house.

Praeris wanted no part of that. But Creevey's attack told her one thing clearly: the notebook's grip on Ginny Weasley was tightening.

She couldn't quite tell which worried her more, whether that little girl's willpower would hold, or whether she herself was drifting toward the top of someone's list.

A few days later, Praeris used an errand delivering medicine for Professor Snape as her excuse, and got her first look at Creevey.

Through a gap in the curtain, she saw Colin Creevey lying rigid on the bed. His camera still hung around his neck. His whole body was fixed exactly as it had been at the moment of the attack, and his eyes were locked wide open, frozen in terror.

"This looks a bit like a Petrification Charm," Praeris murmured.

Madam Pomfrey shook her head. "If only it were."

"Give Professor Snape my thanks." Madam Pomfrey looked worn down, tired around the edges. "Stop looking. Merlin knows how many people have come to gawk at him already. Poor child. He wouldn't want this."

She reached out and drew the curtain closed.

Praeris lowered her head. "I'm sorry. I didn't think. I hope he gets better."

"That's what we all hope," Madam Pomfrey said.

Creevey's image replayed itself in her mind on a loop. It kept pulling her back to something she had read as a child, the Greek mythological creature, the Gorgon. Medusa.

Muggles had King Arthur and Merlin. Wizards had the great sorcerer Merlin too. Was it so impossible that somewhere in the wizarding world, there existed a creature like Medusa, something whose gaze turned its victims to stone?

She was still turning it over when she walked out and nearly ran into two Gryffindors. They spotted her and pulled back, nudging each other, murmuring just loud enough to reach her. "It's a Slytherin. What's she doing here? She's definitely up to no good..."

There it was. The exact reason she hadn't touched the Ginny Weasley situation.

Who would she even tell? The Gryffindors?

She could already picture Ron Weasley's face, suspicious and defensive, wound up tight. He would be certain Praeris had some scheme against his little sister. He might even decide the notebook was her doing in the first place.

A Slytherin, suddenly worried about his sister. Wasn't that reason enough to be suspicious?

The teachers, then?

Professor Snape's position on the matter had been the same since first year and showed no signs of changing: no skill, no meddling. Free time means reading. Stop causing trouble.

Praeris bit her lip, a small anxious motion. She didn't know what to do.

"What's wrong, Prae?" Millicent said. "Are you staying for Christmas again? I saw Professor Snape's already finished the list of students staying over the holidays."

"I'm staying — ah! Prote — Protego Totalum!"

Without any warning, Goyle's cauldron exploded. Swelling Solution sprayed in every direction.

Her first instinct was a Shield Charm, but that would have bounced the potion straight back. She shoved the incantation aside and threw out Protego Totalum instead.

The spell took time to expand. Even pushing herself to the limit, she could only cover the girls immediately around her. It was enough for most of them, but not entirely. Daphne's hand swelled up anyway. Millicent and Pansy, right at Praeris's sides, were unharmed.

The Slytherin boys? Not one escaped.

Malfoy, who had been standing closest to Goyle, swelled up until his face looked like a pig's head.

Praeris shouldered through the crowd clamoring around Professor Snape for anti-swelling potion and moved to his side to help hand it out.

Fine. Why was she even thinking about Ginny Weasley? She had no time for that now.

She could already see her Christmas holiday laid out clearly in front of her: the office, the professor, cauldrons going day and night, brewing enough anti-swelling potion to replace everything used up today.

One by one, every victim got their antidote. One by one, Praeris collected back the empty bottles and phials.

Professor Snape swept past her and descended on Goyle's cauldron like a gale, fishing out the firework shards still sitting at the bottom of the pot.

His face was black as ink. The classroom was as if someone had cut the sound entirely.

It was obvious enough: someone had played a prank on the king of hell himself, and she, one minor imp, had been caught in the damage.

The bell rang. Praeris shook her head at Millicent. She wouldn't be walking with her.

She loaded a large crate of reagent bottles with a charm and followed Professor Snape out.

Inside the office, she went straight to work hunting for sorrel and shrub wormwood. Professor Snape sat down in his chair and closed his eyes.

Praeris had followed him long enough to know what that meant. He was holding the fury down.

"Professor." Her voice was quiet in the stillness. "Something seems off."

Snape's eyes opened. His gaze cut toward her like a blade.

Praeris knew how thin the ice was right now. She had better have something real to say, or nobody would want to see what came next.

She pointed to the side, the professor's private storeroom. "When you lock that door, the keyhole faces right."

Every time Professor Snape entered or exited the storeroom, he had something in his right hand, so he locked it one-handed, with his left.

When locking with the left hand, the keyhole naturally ended up on the right side. Otherwise the palm blocked it, awkward to see, easy to catch a finger.

The lock had a bit of rust on it. If you didn't have the grip strength, the way Praeris didn't, you set down whatever you were carrying and used both hands. Right hand doing the work, left hand steadying. Keyhole facing left.

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