Work Text:
Harry’s hands were cracking, as were the hands of all the other girls around her scrubbing robes. She knew she’d need to make a salve later to soothe her aching hands, or the work would take twice as long and she’d lose what precious free time she still had.
Hogwarts, a dream of so many witches and wizards, always held an odd mystique to Harry as a child. When it was an unreachable dream with a few geniuses held within the walls, she’d imagined getting to study within these hallowed halls. She should have known that the allure would fade in person.
She sighed, and reached again for the scouring potion to begin on a new robe. Magic could of course clean robes, and even clean them better, but many denizens of Hogwarts found a special joy in knowing that their robes were hand washed by those who could perform magic. Although the castle employed Squibs, they were in far less demand than lesser-blooded witches and wizards.
That was why Harry had yet to reveal she was a witch.
Witches and wizards were paid more than squibs, and unfortunately for Harry, any and all money she made would go to the Snatchers who brought her there two months prior. All she needed to do was keep her nose clean for two years, and then she’d be able to leave and return to her family. For all that she’d spent a good amount of time unsupervised and helping out Eleni and Rispah in the alleys, she was sure her parents had noticed her absence by now.
When she reflected on how she came to be at Hogwarts (which she had plenty of time for while cleaning robes), Harry had to admit to feeling somewhat embarrassed by the whole thing. She’d cemented her identity as a plain-looking and androgynous ruffian in the alleys so well, that she’d allowed herself to grow lax with her regiment of identity-muddling cosmetic potions. It was just her luck that the one day she’d forgotten to appropriately prepare before going out had been the day some Snatchers looking for pretty-enough orphans descended on the alleys.
The curse of Lily’s good genes.
Luckily, her free time scanning the edges of the ground and forbidden forest for ingredients gave her the ingredients necessary to maintain her plainer appearance, and soon she was a familiar enough face that no one questioned whether her figure had always been quite so flat, her eyes less green, her face more freckled. The only thing she could no longer pass for was fully male, although that was mostly due to castle records.
Reaching for the next robe on the pile, Harry found that she’d completed her share of the laundry already. Loading wet robes into a basket, she made her way to the clotheslines outside, intending to, erm, wander in the direction of the forest “accidentally” after hanging.
Soon she found herself free to paste an appropriately vague expression on her face and stroll intentionally aimlessly towards the edge of the Forbidden Forest. So intent on her subterfuge was she, that Harry was startled to suddenly find herself in a crowd of people. Suddenly surrounded, and cursing her own inattention, Harry focused on the source of the chaos. A distraught woman, with pale blonde hair, facing off against an incredibly wizened wizard robed in fluorescent pink.
“We send our children here!” The woman said, anger radiating coldly from her voice. Harry watched in mild disinterest, looking for a convenient route for escape.
“Lady Malfoy,” the man replied, and Harry recognized him as Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of the school, “We are making every effort to help the children recover, including your son. You must trust the staff, and give them the time to find a cure.”
“Lord Riddle has spoken well, Headmaster. If our children are not safe at Hogwarts, I hardly think the problems lie in this illness alone. If any child should die under your care? Rest assured, you will suffer the consequences.”
A tall man, with a sallow complexion and hooked nose stepped forward, and took the woman’s arm. “Narcissa. Let us go to my labs. We can discuss treatments there.”
Harry had stopped paying attention. A mysterious illness tended to cause distraction when one had spent 16 years of life finding cures where no one else could.
For all that Squibs lacked a magical aura, they also lacked skill in legilimency. And Severus knew the edges of every mind in Hogwarts.
He had thought so anyway. Until that moment, a few weeks before, where he noticed in the corner of his mind a distinct absence. A place where his thoughts slid off of someone else’s. He’d shaken it away; there were more pressing concerns at the time, namely, Narcissa and Draco. But then, the students woke up, each with an interestingly similar story.
A young woman, with brilliant green eyes, holding out a hand and guiding them out of their minds via their magical core.
He’d naturally begun attempting to find this person, who had cured the school in a single night. He’d checked all the students unaffected by the illness. Then all the maidservants and valets. And finally, those without any magic at all.
And as she walked into the room, dull green eyes meeting his, Severus felt a slow smile cross his face. Success.
She heard in the washing rooms a week after her ill-fated exploration of the grounds. The students had woken up.
Harry took the news with the same unflappable air as always.
“I’m glad they are well,” she replied to Margo, a girl who’d always been enthusiastic enough to keep Harry up to date on the gossip of the castle, “Any loss of life is tragic.”
And as far as Harry was concerned, that was the end of that.
A few weeks later, she and the other Squibs were called to the dungeons. Harry looked into dark, knowing eyes, and realized she’d made a terrible mistake.