Chapter Text
An Essence of Dittany
Prologue
It was hard to tell which made Harriet want to retch more—the Knight Bus’s homicidal driver swerving through late-night London traffic at 100 miles per hour or the stench of the unwashed man in the bed beside hers, which occasionally collided with her own like some fierce game of mattress bumper cars.
The crystal chandelier wobbled dangerously above as a disembodied shrunken head shouted obscenities from the bus’s rear view mirror—like a cursed car air freshener that almost certainly didn’t smell like Royal Pine or an evergreen forest (despite the head’s greenish tint).
Across from her, a snore ripped through the chaos. The only other passenger on the bus was a homeless wizard, no doubt, his robes hung together only by scraps of mismatched cloth stitched over a lifetime of holes riddling his attire. A get up complementary to the holey pillow cases house elves so often wore, a practise of the wizarding world she still found most loathsome.
Somehow, even despite the wave of carsickness (Knight Bus sickness, more like), her stomach painfully gurgled anyway, leaving her clutching her stomach. The last remnants of her lamb and mint pasty—which was more delicious than it sounded—from the West Cornwall Pasty stall at the most recently visited bus depot nearly eight hours ago had all but evaporated.
There was a magicked, self-service bus trolley with snacks, but the thought of junk food made her stomach turn even more—her steady diet of chocolate frogs and packets of crisps had taken their eventual toll. Even a teenager’s stomach could only endure so much. But Harriet knew it was especially bad when Aunt Petunia’s dreaded home cooking sounded almost delightful.
Closing her eyes, she thought, without a shred of fondness, of the only house she’d ever called home: Uncle Vernon framed in the doorway, jowls quivering, fist aloft, bellowing that she wasn’t to set foot back inside until she’d rid herself of that “ruddy owl.”
Hardly Hedwig’s fault, really. Dudley had been the genius who thought it wise to poke his sausagey fingers through Hedwig’s cage while waving a half-eaten Hobnob in her face. To be fair, it was one of his rare moments of generosity, though Hedwig’s sharp little warning peck—more polite than painful—had him howling as if she’d bitten his finger clean off.
And that had been the final straw that had snapped the proverbial delivery owl’s feathers.
Harriet knew she should have apologised on Hedwig’s behalf, appeal to Vernon’s slightly less than better nature (if he even had one) but she couldn’t summon the energy to care. Too many sleepless nights had passed with the same image burned into her mind like the afterimage from staring too long at the midday sun: Sirius’s face, twisted in pain, fading forever into the veil at the Ministry of Magic only weeks ago.
She rubbed a hand down her face miserably, trying once again to will away that final moment, the flash of Bellatrix Lestrange’s curse sealing the fate of the only remaining person she actually considered family. The Knight Bus rattled beneath her, its fixtures groaning in protest with every violent turn. A crooked canvas swung from the wall, its cheery script proclaiming “Home Sweet Home” like a bad joke. Harriet pressed her face into the thin pillow, a bitter laugh catching in her throat. Home sweet Knight Bus, indeed.