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It was the final nail on the “Harriett speaks Parseltongue” coffin when Treeslider absolutely refused to move with her to her new James Potter approved apartment. As preparations for her departure became more and more imminent Treeslider had made himself scarcer and scarcer culminating in his return to hiding under Caelum’s bed and hissing angrily at anyone other than Caelum who stopped by to reason with him.
Pucey, Bannett and Caelum were watching the chaos unfold from outside the Master bedroom as Harrett lay on her stomach trying to lure a reluctant boomslang out from under the bed with urgently hissed promises and a basket of still wriggling doormice.
“You know,” said Pucey thoughtful as he chewed on the garnish from his house elf made strawberry dacquirrie, “you really have to admire her commitment to the bit.”
Bannett winced. “It is a big sad really. You'd think Lord Potter would take her to a mind healer by now. All that time alone probably did a number on her. She probably thinks she can speak to all sorts of animals. Like Snow White singing to the forest animals or something.”
Caelum doesn't known or care who Snow White is. He still isn't entirely certain of whether or not Harriett can speak Parseltongue and he's not sure if matters. Even without speaking a word of snake language he has reached an understanding with Treeslider who is clever enough to have figured out that if he just manages to avoid moving to the apartment James Potter has bought for Harriett (probably complete with anti-boy wards and with regularly scheduled inspections from Junior Aurors) he's going to get to eat as many pigeons as he likes.
Caelum is however certain of his role as Harriett Potter’s boyfriend. After all, he braved a Sunday dinner at Potter Place, a last minute babysitting session with Addy and three absolutely horrible flying motorcycle lessons with Lord Black for the continued privilege of calling himself Harriett’s boyfriend.
“It’s important to be supportive of whatever your girlfriend do whatever it is she is trying to do, even if it is a complete waste of everyone’s time,” he says confidently. “The two of you would understand if you had girlfriends.”
Harriet turns around to glare at the three of them. “I can hear you, you know.” She gets up to slam the door closed.
They can hear what sounds like yelling in hisses.
Caelum thinks to himself that if the wizarding community could see Harrett Potter wearing and old Quidditch sweater and potions boots while yell-hissing at a rude snake, they would cease to consider Parseltongue a dark art. Certainly she has entirely demystified the language to him.
Pucey hiccups and grabs a fresh drink from the house elf. “Well, I think it’s time she gave it a rest. Besides, what's Lord Potter going to think when he drops in to check on our Harriett and finds a great big snake? Treeslider is safer here.”
Caelum gives Pucey a look of deep scorn at the mention of “our Harriett.” He is drinking black coffee at the insistence of James Potter that he immediately stop drinking. He's found himself a lot harder to provoke over these last few weeks. He hasn’t tried to hex Pucey in weeks. Perhaps there's something to this sobriety nonsense.
Bannett is reading from the Daily Prophet and suddenly points at an article. “Look here. It looks as though they’re going to have some sort of event for the tournament champions. Promote unity in the magical community after that thrashing Dumbledore’s people gave the Cows.”
Caelum scans the paper with disinterest. “I wonder whose hairbrained idea this is. Probably Lord Malfoy’s. I suppose they're going to try and pretend the Veela girl is a pureblood or suddenly discover that the American champion was secretly stolen by muggles from a wizarding family and really has four magical grandparents.”
He considers it. “You know, it is a stupid idea but some are just desperate enough to believe something that ridiculous to justify believing in pure blood supremacy. After all, if they could believe the Pretender was a pureblood Black heir they could be easily convinced to believe that Jacob Owens was the heir of Slytherin or some such nonsense.
Pucey snatches the paper, “Oi Harriett! You think your buddy Rigel is going to make an appearance at Lord Riddle’s Triwizard Champion Party?”
The door opens. Harriet is a bit wrinkled but she is triumphantly carrying Treeslider in her arms. The snake would look forlorn if snakes could look forlorn.
“What are you yelling about?”
Pucey hands her the paper. “Look! They are having a big celebration before they crown the tournament winner.”
Harriet takes the paper with a sour expression on her face and walks back into the bedroom closing the door behind her.
Pucey eyes Caelum somewhat amused. “You don't suppose she actually knows something about where Rigel the Pretender is, do you?”
Caelum snorts in disgust. “That one could barely find pants or a wand before she moved in with me. If she knew something I’d bet she’d have forgotten it by now. Besides, my cousin and the Pretender didn't tell her anything other than to lay low. The Aurors didn't even bother to interrogate her. Knows nothing except Potions.”
Bannett and Pucey politely don’t mention that Lord Potter probably used his considerable political influence and role of Head Auror to keep Harriett from questioning.
Caelum considers what Harriett has told him about the Pretender. Absolutely nothing. It would be suspicious if it was anyone else. With Harriett any non potions talk was suspicious. He thinks back to a conversation with Regulus from the night he'd agreed to let Harriett move in with him. It's fuzzy from the amount of Firewhisky he had drunk that night. He recalls Regulus saying something about Harriett knowing something but can't remember what.
“She doesn't know anything” he says with more confidence than he feels. Caelum shudders. You don't grow up Bellatrix Lestrange’s son without developing some survival instincts. Something bad is about to happen and they had better get as far away from it as possible.
He eyes Harriett’s packed up possessions thoughtfully. Perhaps it is time to visit the Lestrange properties in Paris. A perfect 15th or 16th or 17th birthday present for his girlfriend.