Chapter Text
There once was a girl named Harriet Lily Potter. She had thick dark hair that reached down to her chin in a scattered mess, and bright green eyes that she had once shared with her mother. But whereas Lily Evans’ face had been round and covered in freckles, her daughter’s face was pinched thin with hunger, and pale from a lack of sun.
And while Lily Evans’ eyes had usually been filled with laughter, Harriet’s were filled with angry tears.
“It’ll be okay,” Harriet muttered to herself, dragging her trunk along the side of Wisteria Walk. “I just need to-" She stopped short, stumped. She set her trunk on the ground and slumped onto it. What did she need to do? She’d blown up Aunt Marge, run away from home (just in the nick of time— Uncle Vernon might very well have killed her), and now she was standing in the middle of the street with nowhere to go.
Perhaps she could fly to London? Or where did Hermione live again? Hertfordshire? That was north of London— probably only an hour or two by broom, right? Or maybe she could call Hermione and her parents could come pick her up.
She did have some muggle money. She checked her watch— it was only eight in the evening. Maybe she could put her cloak on and fly to the railway station. It was too far to walk, but at least she knew where it was and then from there she could regroup and figure out her next steps.
Harriet was startled out of her thoughts by someone exiting the house nearest where she was sitting. It was Mrs Figg’s house! But the person leaving wasn’t Mrs Figg— it was a different old woman, hunched over and walking carefully with a cane. She had a large carpet bag over her shoulder. She looked almost familiar to Harriet, but maybe that was because she looked like such a stereotypical old woman she could've been right out of a picture book.
“I say, what are you doing here?” the old woman said, but her tone was soft, not accusatory.
“Just waiting for someone to pick me up. Mrs Figg babysits me sometimes so I thought she wouldn’t mind if I waited here.” Harriet said. The words slipped easily off her tongue. This was her best skill, she thought: lying to throw off suspicion.
“Are you really waiting for someone, Harriet?” the old woman said with a strange smile, still slowly making her way down the front walk.
“I— how did you know my name?” Harriet tensed up. Her wand was in her pocket, but what good was it when she couldn’t cast any spells? They’d definitely expel her if she used magic again now. If they hadn’t expelled her already.
“Of course I know your name,” the old woman said, unperturbed by Harriet’s reaction. “Besides, I’m a friend of Arabella’s, aren’t I?” Arabella. That was Mrs Figg. Was this woman a witch? But how would she know Mrs Figg?
Harriet frowned. “But Mrs Figg is…” She didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
The old woman frowned disapprovingly at her. “I shouldn’t think it would matter that Arabella’s a squib,” she said.
Harriet’s mouth dropped open. “She’s a squib?” she asked, breathless with sudden confusion. “But I thought— she never said anything—“
The disapproval vanished from the old woman’s face, replaced by a curious look. “Really now? I suppose she didn’t want you to be bothered by all that nonsense,” the woman said, with a pointed look at Harriet’s scar.
Despite herself, Harriet smiled a little. It was a whole lot of nonsense, wasn’t it?
“Now what are you really doing here?” the old woman asked. She had finally reached the end of the walk and was standing in front of Harriet. Even though Harriet was sitting down, the woman was so stooped over she was barely any taller.
Words poured out of Harriet before she could stop them. “My relatives kicked me out because I did some magic, but I didn't mean to,” she said, the words spilling out of her faster than she could even think them. “My aunt— not even related to me, and she’s awful— she was saying so much nasty stuff about my mother and I just couldn’t control it any more, and I accidentally— well she inflated or something, and floated away, and my uncle was about ready to kill me so I grabbed my stuff and left and he was too busy trying to get Marge down with a rope to come after me—” She furiously blinked away the tears she could feel coming on.
The old woman patted her shoulder consolingly. “My my, that sounds like quite the trouble, dear,” she said.
Harriet gave her a watery smile. “I just don’t know what to do,” she admitted. “I feel so lost.”
The old woman gave her a considering look. “I think I might have something that might help. What do you know of divination?”
“Divination?” Harriet asked. “I think they teach that at Hogwarts. Like predicting the future?”
The old woman shook her head. “Some people say that you can use divination to predict the future, but I think it sounds like wishful thinking to me. People so desperate to know what’s to come that they’ll believe the first thing that comes along. But the future isn’t the only thing you need to predict, is it now?”
Harriet scrunched up her face in confusion. “But doesn’t predict mean looking at the future by definition?”
The old woman laughed a little. “I see you like books,” she said, but Harriet thought that wasn’t really true. Hermione was the one who liked books, Harriet had just grown used to them by virtue of being best friends with Hermione. Hard to avoid, really. “No, dear, there are other things. If you turned in your homework late, could you predict what your professor would say? That’s not predicting the future— that's simple cause and effect. And what about the present? If you want to know what someone’s doing. Or the past, where they’ve been? Divination can help you learn more about the world, past and present, about the consequences for actions, and the actions that need to be taken for certain consequences to come about. Do you see?”
“That sounds pretty cool,” Harriet said, reluctantly impressed. She’d heard Parvati talk about divination before, but she usually talked about magic crystals and only doing things if the moon approved, which Hermione thought was all too silly to bother with. Hermione didn’t care one whit whether the moon thought she would have a bad hair day.
“It can be,” the old woman acknowledged. “And like all powerful things, it can also be dangerous.” She gave Harriet an evaluating stare. Harriet raised her chin, determined to not show any fear. The old woman smiled at her. “But perhaps a small bit can help you tonight,” she said, and pulled a cloth bundle from her bag.
“I can’t do magic—” Harriet started, but the old woman shushed her.
“This isn’t the kind of magic that can be detected, dear,” she said, and pressed the bundle into Harriet’s hands. “This is the kind of magic that surrounds us, that touches everything. Natural magic.”
Harriet took it, not hesitating for a moment before unwrapping the bundle. It was a deck of cards. Immediately, she knew that they belonged to her. They felt right in her hands, like they were meant to be there. “What are these?” she whispered in awe.
The old woman nodded approvingly. “Good, good. Your magic has bonded. These, Harriet, are tarot cards. Have you heard of them?”
Harriet shook her head.
“No matter, you will learn. There are 78 cards, and each one has a different meaning. In time, you will learn all the meanings, either through books or by studying the cards themselves. But for now, you will make your own meaning.”
“How?” Harriet asked. “Won’t I get it wrong if I’m just guessing?”
The old woman shook her head. “There is no ‘wrong.’ The cards are just a conduit, the same way your wand is a conduit for your spells. They help, but ultimately the meanings will come from you. If you have it in your mind what the cards mean, and you’re focusing on the magic, then the right cards will come to you.”
“That sounds too simple,” Harriet said, suspicious of anything that seemed too easy. Immediately she worried she was being rude.
But instead, the old woman chuckled, clearly pleased. “You’re not wrong, girlie. It takes real artistry to be able to read and interpret the cards. You have to keep the meanings firmly in your mind, before and after drawing, or the magic can lead you astray. In time, you’ll be able to ask more complex questions, and understand more complex answers. You may learn a few things from books, or from fellow diviners, but ultimately most of the knowledge you gain will be through self-discovery, through trial and error. You’ll predict, and you’ll be wrong, and you’ll learn. And some day, Harriet Potter, you will be great.
“For now… Let’s keep it simple, shall we? Shuffle the deck. And draw a single card. Let’s see what a little beginner’s luck gets you.” The old woman tapped the cards in her hands, and Harriet felt something like a spark.
Harriet complied. She wasn’t very good at shuffling, especially with her hands shaking, but she felt she was able to mix the cards up at least. And then she drew a card. “The page of wands,” she read, mystified.
“What does it mean?” the old woman asked.
Harriet had been about to ask her the same question. Instead, she paused, and studied the card. The figure was dressed sort of like a knight, but with less armour. She was surrounded by discarded wands, but held one in her wand, and waved it with a flourish before winking at Harriet. “It’s me,” she said suddenly. “And in the picture she’s waving her wand, so, er…”
The old woman smiled. “Why don’t you try it?”
Harriet looked at her like she was crazy, but there was a knowing look in the old woman’s eye. “Alright,” she said doubtfully, but stuck her wand out anyway and gave it a half-hearted wave. A moment later, there was a loud BANG and a bus appeared out of nowhere, almost knocking them both to the ground. The bus gleamed purple and brass, with wide windows that showed beds of all things.
“Wh- what…” Harriet said, mouth open in stunned surprise.
“It’s the Knight Bus, dearie. It’ll take you to where you need to go.”
The door opened for her and light spilled out. There was a conductor inside, gesturing her in impatiently. She quickly wrapped the cards back up and slipped them in her pocket, and glanced over at the old woman, waiting for her to get on the bus first.
“Oh no, I have my own means of transportation.”
“Oh,” Harriet said. “Thank you so much for helping me,” she added, sincere in her gratitude. “Can I ask your name?”
“You can call me Ms Crone, dear,” the old woman said. Harriet tried not to react to that, but she must have failed because the old woman gave a small laugh. “Have a nice trip. Perhaps we’ll see each other again.”
Harriet nodded, and got on the bus. As she was getting the spiel from the conductor and counting out the sickles she needed, she happened to glance back out the window.
Ms Crone was gone.
“—and the witch said he’d been there for ages! Just sitting there, all alone! Not even getting along with the other cats. No one wanted to adopt him, can you believe that? And with how well-behaved and gorgeous he is! I’m sure he’ll get along wonderfully with Hedwig while she’s staying with me. Don’t you agree, Harriet?”
Harriet blinked. “Yeah, definitely,” she said automatically, before realizing what she was agreeing to. She gave Crookshanks a sceptical look. He was smugly nestled into Hermione’s arms, staring at Harriet across the café table in a way that could only be described as vaguely threatening.
“Oh Harriet, is everything okay?” Hermione said, her eyes settling on Harriet's nervous fingers.
“Er, yeah, I'm fine,” Harriet replied, and then took a quick sip of tea to cover up her discomfort.
“I'm really sorry about your family,” Hermione said. “I wish you could've come stay with me instead of having to go back this summer. I don't understand why Professor McGonagall said you couldn't when my parents agreed and your relatives clearly don't care!”
“Yeah,” Harriet said, face heating up at the memory of Hermione detailing to their professor all the reasons that Harriet should stay with her over the summer. Professor McGonagall had been sympathetic but ultimately nothing changed, so it was all for nothing.
“So what happened this time?” Hermione asked, hesitantly, and Harriet wished she’d go back to lecturing about how terribly the witch at the Magical Menagerie had been treating her new cat.
“Er,” Harriet said, trying not to squirm too much in her seat. “We got into a bit of a row,” she said, staring down into her tea as she felt her face heat up.
Hermione huffed. “That’s nothing new. But how did you end up here in Diagon? And staying at the Leaky Cauldron of all places? There’s got to be a nicer place to stay! You’re still recovering! You should be in St Mungo's.”
“I don’t need a hospital, Hermione! Madam Pomfrey patched me right up,” Harriet said weakly. “I was hardly injured at all.”
“Your memory’s come back, then?” Hermione asked pointedly.
Harriet sighed. “No, my memory hasn’t come back. But Madam Pomfrey thinks it’s just because I hit my head while down there. It’s totally normal!” She’d been kidnapped by Lockhart’s stalker and taken to the Chamber of Secrets as bait. No one had been able to find her. So what if she’d walked out a day later, with the stalker gone, a dead basilisk, and no memory? Sometimes stuff just happened. Totally normal. She was sure that when Lockhart woke up from his coma he would be able to explain everything.
“Normal for you, maybe,” Hermione said, clearly worried. “But it really doesn’t seem safe to stay at the Leaky Cauldron. Harriet, what if that man is still looking for you? To get revenge?”
“I dunno, it’s just the first place I thought of. Why would he want revenge on me, anyway?” But Harriet didn't know why, because she couldn't remember anything that had happened. “Maybe I'll move later.” Once she'd had a moment to breathe.
“But how did you get here?” Hermione insisted. “Your relatives didn’t bring you, did they?” she asked, rightly sceptical that Harriet's relatives would do anything to help her.
“After what I did to Aunt Marge?” Harriet laughed. “They booted me out the front door. I think they thought I would sleep in the park or something.” She’d slept there before, on a few different occasions. It wasn't as bad as everyone made it out to be. No worse than the cupboard, at least for the first few days.
Hermione’s lips pressed together, but she didn’t say anything. Harriet knew that look, the one that meant Hermione was getting ready to ask a particularly difficult question.
“I took the Knight Bus!” Harriet said hastily. “Have you heard of it? It’s brilliant!”
“Oh! Er— I think I have,” Hermione said. “It sounds familiar. Where does it go? How did you find out about it?” Question successfully diverted. Hermione would always jump on an opportunity to learn something new.
“It was a bit of a surprise, actually,” Harriet said sheepishly, not wanting to tell her about the old woman and the tarot cards (which she kept in her backpack). Hermione would be intense with her questions, and Harriet wasn’t ready for that yet. She’d tell her later, once things had calmed down. And anyway, this was still basically the truth. Just leaving a few things out. “I was holding my wand and standing in the street and then the bus appeared. It turns out you just have to wave your wand about and it’ll pop right up and take you anywhere in Britain you want to go!”
“Really?” Hermione said, a curious gleam in her eye. “How come no one notices? Was it fast? Was it expensive?”
“About six quid. But in sickles I mean. And it’s got all these crazy enchantments on it— cars and stuff just move right out of the way! It’s bizarre and excellent. It had beds! It's a bit rough though. One woman kept moaning to go slower and I thought she was just being a bit much and then she vomited out the window!”
Hermione winced. “I’m not sure my parents would like it if I came home sick,” she said. “Maybe I’ll just keep taking the train. My parents don’t like me taking it alone, but I’m almost fourteen so really I’m plenty old enough. I had to beg for ages just to get them to let me come today.”
“Couldn’t they come with you?”
Hermione quickly shook her head. “No, no, they would never be interested in anything like that,” she said. Harriet didn’t think that was true. She’d met Hermione’s parents at King's Cross a couple of times, and they’d always been very friendly and curious about magic. She didn’t know why Hermione thought they wouldn’t want to come.
“You can ask, though. And think about it! You could visit me all the time, now that I’m here!” Harriet said, pleased. Maybe this would be her first summer that wasn’t terrible. She could sit in the sun every day and do her homework at a desk and actually get her school supplies early for once-
A shadow fell over their small table.
“I think not, Miss Potter,” came the sinister voice of the last person she’d expected to run into at a café on a sunny summer day: Severus Snape. Easily her least favourite Professor. Okay, that wasn’t technically true. She preferred Snape to Lockhart. And to Binns. And probably to Quirrell, given that Quirrell had tried to eat her and the smell of fake garlic had given her a headache.
Snape at least knew a lot about potions, and sometimes he could be funny (though only ever in a mean way), but mostly he snapped at them and assigned them loads of homework and quizzes. Hermione thought he was an amazing teacher because his lectures were always filled with information that the textbook missed, but Harriet thought it was unfair that he put questions about that information on the tests. Taking really thorough notes in class was the only way to get a decent grade, and Harriet always had trouble paying attention.
She at least appreciated that he'd never kidnapped her, but she had a sinking feeling that was about to change.
“What?” Harriet said stupidly. Hermione had turned bright red the way she normally did when rule-breaking was involved. Except they weren’t even breaking any rules! They were allowed to be outside! It was summer!
“I’ve been sent to collect you and take you back to your family,” Snape said, scowling at her. “Your little… holiday… is over.”
“My family doesn’t want me back,” Harriet said, but her stomach was starting to churn. They’d been angry at her, yes, but Snape could make anyone do anything. Even Uncle Vernon.
Snape narrowed his eyes at her. “Yes. I’ve been informed of your assault.”
“Assault!?” Harriet exclaimed. That was hardly fair! It had been an accident!
“Your uncle’s sister is still in the hospital,” Snape informed her, disgust dripping from his voice.
The bottom of Harriet’s stomach dropped away. “Wh- what?” she said. “She was just— she just inflated—”
Hermione was looking at her in horror, clutching Crookshanks tight as if to stop Harriet from hurting her cat too.
“Yes. And then she dropped out of the sky. She fell nine stories. If it had not been for the Ministry showing up when they did, she would currently be dead.”
Harriet felt sick at the thought of killing Aunt Marge. Even if she was awful in every way. “I didn’t mean to-“ she said weakly. She couldn't bring herself to look over at Hermione, dreading seeing the look of judgment on her face.
“No? You didn’t seem very broken up about it a moment ago.”
“I didn’t know!” Harriet protested, but she felt five inches tall. She didn’t even know why she was defending herself any more.
“You didn’t care to know, did you? You left as soon as you’d cast the spell,” Snape spat at her. “You attacked a defenseless woman and left without even staying to see what exactly you’d done.”
“I didn’t…“ but Harriet’s heart wasn’t in it. That’s exactly what she’d done. Aunt Marge may be horrible, but she was a muggle. She didn’t have magic to protect her.
"Harriet..." Hermione said, but Harriet shook her head, refusing to look at her.
“Come along,” Snape hissed at her, yanking her arm. “I am taking you home.” He paused for a moment, his eyes drifting over to Hermione. “Miss Granger. I trust you’ll use the remainder of your summer to reconsider your choice of acquaintances.”
Harriet couldn’t stand it any more. She grabbed her bag and practically ran from the table, not even stopping to hear Hermione’s reply.
Snape caught up with her in seconds. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I have to get the rest of my things,” Harriet said through clenched teeth.
“I think not. I’ve already collected them.” Snape pulled a small leather pouch out of his pocket and tossed it to her. She snatched it out of the air, momentarily taken aback at how light it was.
It did feel like there was a shrunken trunk in there. Harriet glanced inside it anyway. “How did you get this?” she said faintly. He'd have to have gone into her room, right? She felt sick at the thought of what had briefly been her private sanctuary being invaded without her even knowing.
“Any idiot would be able to deduce where you were staying,” Snape said, glaring at her. “Now will you be quiet? I have no desire to waste my entire day answering the questions of a juvenile delinquent.”
Harriet felt herself go numb at the words. How many times had she heard her relatives call her the exact same thing? Her aunt had shouted at her, her uncle had practically beat it into her. Certainly that's what they'd told all the neighbours, and her teachers at primary school. Over and over, that she was a good for nothing delinquent. That she was too stupid to be asking questions, that she should stay quiet and out of sight and pretend that she didn't exist. That she was a burden, that she deserved every punishment she got. But she'd never heard those words from any of her Hogwarts teachers before.
She felt the dream of Hogwarts slip out of her grasp, that feeling of safety and security that she didn't feel anywhere else. The illusion shattered, and she realized that it didn't matter that she had magic or went to a private school. She was still her, everywhere she went. Still the same useless girl. Still the girl in the cupboard, who should never have hoped that she could ever be anything more.
Harriet didn’t protest. She couldn’t gather up the energy. The whiplash from her wonderful morning to the emptiness she was now feeling left her stunned.
“Hurry up,” Snape barked at her, when she didn’t immediately follow after him. She jerked into movement, but she didn't know where he was going. He didn't seem to be going to muggle London, so how were they going to get to Privet Drive?
He wasn’t going to actually kidnap her, was he? But he must have been sent by— well, someone. If he knew all that stuff about what had happened to her relatives. Professor Dumbledore, then? Christ. Did the Headmaster know what she’d done? He was going to be so disappointed in her.
Without noticing it, Harriet had slowed down again, until she was jerked back to awareness by Snape grabbing her arm again and dragging her along.
“What did I just say?” Snape said in his nastiest tone. His pace was much quicker than hers, and she had to practically run to keep up.
Harriet followed him quietly, clutching desperately at the small pouch. She could already picture the look on her relatives faces: the narrowing eyes, the tight lips, the barely suppressed anger that would explode as soon as Snape left.
“What—“ Harriet exclaimed as Snape stopped abruptly and grabbed her shoulder.
“Brace yourself,” he said, and less than a moment later Harriet felt the most horrendous sensation of being shoved head first into a tiny tube and twisted around. It felt like her insides were trying to become her outsides. A breathless moment later, she stumbled to the ground beneath her, cobblestones replaced by smooth pavement. Panting, trying desperately to keep her breakfast down, she glanced up. They were on Magnolia Crescent.
“How-“ Harriet managed, but Snape scoffed.
“That was Apparition,” he said. “Surely even you’ve heard of it. It’s the most common form of Wizarding travel.”
Harriet’s face went red. “I mean, I’ve—“
“Quiet. Show me to your house.”
Harriet pushed herself slowly to her feet. The crow sitting on the streetlamp above felt like a death omen. Or was that ravens?
“Without dawdling,” Snape snapped at her. “For the last time, I do not have all day to waste on this deplorable errand.”
Harriet forced herself to walk. One foot in front of the other. The familiar route she’d taken countless times, straight to Number 4 Privet Drive. She knocked on the painfully familiar and disgustingly ordinary door. Snape was lingering in the street, not even bothering to come up with her. Uncle Vernon’s car was in the driveway, so Harriet braced herself.
The door opened.
“You,” Uncle Vernon said, with even more disgust in his voice than Snape had. Harriet hadn’t thought that was possible. “I see you’ve come crawling back.” He looked over at Snape and his scowl deepened. He roughly grabbed Harriet’s arm and dragged her inside, slamming the door behind her. Her arm hurt something fierce.
Harriet stared out the window, watching Snape turn and walk away. He hadn’t unshrunk her trunk. The absolute bastard.
Harriet was back in her cupboard. She’d wondered what it would take to finally get locked back in here. Apparently almost killing Aunt Marge was the limit.
She was hungry, too. Harriet hadn’t eaten since breakfast yesterday. Aunt Petunia let her out three times a day, only for a few minutes each, but it was enough for her to use the bathroom and drink as much tap water as she could stomach. She desperately wanted a shower, but at least she had a few rags lying around her cupboard and some spare deodorant that she kept in her bag so really she was okay for a few more days. When she was a kid, it had been enough to clean herself hastily from the sink, with the occasional shower when she hadn't been in trouble for a while. Now that she was older it felt harder to keep herself clean, especially with how little time she got.
She was terrified that she would get her period. Hermione had got hers at the end of last year, and Lavender and Parvati had both got theirs this year. Harriet was the only one left. Hermione had given her some stuff, since Harriet didn't think Aunt Petunia would help her at all with it, but that was all in her trunk, which was still tiny. It was usually dark in the cupboard, so every morning she felt around to make sure there wasn't any blood in her bed. She had nightmares of waking up in a puddle of blood and Aunt Petunia finding her.
But for now at least, her basic needs were being met. It wasn’t worse than any of the punishments she’d had before as a kid.
It felt worse, though. Maybe she’d gone soft, maybe her standards had changed. Being in the sun yesterday with someone who genuinely liked her had made it that much harder to go back to the cupboard, back to the darkness and the isolation. It’d been years since she’d been locked up like this. Since before Hogwarts. And she’d grown a bit, too. It was more cramped in here than she remembered. She could barely change her clothes. At least the mattress was still in here, so she didn’t have to sleep on the floor. The spiders were still in here too, unfortunately.
Harriet sat cross-legged on the ground, gingerly keeping her wrist in her lap. It was very tender from yesterday. Uncle Vernon had been furious at her, and furious at Snape for bringing her back, and furious at Professor Dumbledore for forcing them to let her return. And wasn’t that a strange feeling. She knew Professor Dumbledore wanted her to be at the Dursleys’, but it sounded like he’d really had to work at convincing them to take her back. Or someone had, Snape maybe. Uncle Vernon had hinted that Professor Dumbledore had offered them something pretty good, and that was the only reason they’d been willing. Money or something. Professor Dumbledore was paying them to take care of her right now. She hoped he wasn’t paying too much, but she knew what Uncle Vernon was like. He’d do anything to weasel money out of people. He was constantly complaining about how expensive everything was now, but they never seemed to bat an eye at buying Dudley lavish presents.
She didn’t have enough light to read, since the light in the hallway was off. The Dursleys were still awake— she could hear the TV in the living room— but they liked to keep the cupboard as dark as possible. She only had one book, anyway: the Adventures of Fiona Fire-eye, which she’d had in her bag because she’d just bought it. It was about a girl who turned into a dragon and went on wonderful adventures. The rest of her books were still in her trunk. Harriet had no idea when the spell would wear off, but she was worried it would happen while she was asleep and the trunk would crush her to death in the small space, so she had it shoved against the wall as much as possible. As long as she slept curled up, she should be okay.
Harriet was tired. That was good. That meant she’d fall asleep sooner. And that meant tomorrow would come more quickly, and the day after that, and the day after that— and maybe she’d get to move back to her bedroom. And then eventually she’d go back to Hogwarts. Just two more months. Then she’d be able to go back.
Two more months.
With all her heart, Harriet wished she could turn into a dragon too. Then she could fly away from Privet Drive, and no one would be able to ever force her to come back.
Every morning, Harriet woke up to Aunt Petunia banging her fist against the door of the cupboard.
“Get up!” her aunt would shriek at her.
“Yes Aunt Petunia,” Harriet would gasp, still fighting off the fogginess of sleep. This was a very familiar way of waking up, but Harriet had got used to the soft sounds of her alarm at Hogwarts. Often she’d be woken up by the first rays of sunlight creeping into her dorm room— she was a very light sleeper. She certainly didn’t need Aunt Petunia shouting at her.
Harriet quickly straightened herself up, a mad dash to get into clothes that weren’t pajamas. She slept in an old giant shirt of Dudley’s, so it was easy to just swap it out and pull on the rest of her clothes. She was so thankful she’d had a few spare items of clothing in her bag— she’d left Privet Drive in such a haste that she’d just thrown stuff in there rather than properly packing her trunk.
Her trunk, which was still small. It didn’t matter. What would she do with any of that, anyway? At least she had her wand. Not that she could use it.
After escaping her cupboard, she was immediately set to work making breakfast for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. Uncle Vernon started work at eight, and he had to drive an hour away, so Harriet made breakfast for them quite early. Dudley would still be asleep for a few more hours.
“You burnt the bacon,” Uncle Vernon said, glaring at her.
Harriet glanced at it. It looked fine to her. “It looks—“
Uncle Vernon threw the plate on the floor. The ceramic shattered, and bits of bacon went flying. “I said, you burnt the bacon!” he shouted at her.
Harriet gaped at the mess. She looked helplessly over at her Aunt Petunia.
“Clean it up!” her aunt snapped at her. “Don’t just stand there, you idiot girl!” Her aunt went back to her magazine.
Harriet wordlessly fetched the broom and started sweeping.
“And make another round of bacon! Quick, now! I have to get to work.” Her uncle had a strange glint in his eye that she didn’t like. “Unless you want me to lose my job, and the only thing that’s keeping you from living in the streets,” he said.
Harriet decided not to mention that the streets would probably be preferable to living here, and instead focused on how to do the impossible task of cleaning the floor and making more bacon at the same time. It involved half-heartedly sweeping with one hand and flipping the bacon with the other, but at least no one yelled at her for it.
After breakfast, Aunt Petunia usually permitted her to use the restroom. She got ten minutes, which was excellent because it meant she could rinse off and still use the bathroom and clean her teeth. She didn’t have time for a full shower, but the soap Aunt Petunia gave her made her skin itchy anyway.
Still, she’d kill for a new toothbrush. At Hogwarts, they used this special mouth rinse potion which kept your teeth perfectly healthy (although Hermione didn’t have much faith in it and still brushed every day), so she hadn’t had to get her own toothbrush. She wished she’d thought to get one while she was on her own in London, but she didn’t think she’d be coming back here so soon.
Which meant she was left with Dudley’s old toothbrush that they’d given her. It was missing some bristles and overall was completely disgusting. It was a good thing wizards and witches couldn’t get cavities, or she’d be in trouble. Still, the old toothbrush always made her teeth ache.
After her bathroom time was up, she had a few quick chores (the number of chores for a given day depended on how swollen her wrists here), then back in the cupboard. She got a small lunch (almost every day!), made breakfast for Dudley (and lunch for Aunt Petunia) before getting another bathroom visit, although this one was shorter. Then it was back to the cupboard.
This time for the entire afternoon. At least unlike the morning she had enough light to just barely see. She re-read her book, but then she’d read it too much and it got boring, so she switched to just looking at the tarot cards, studying the art over and over again and making up stories in her mind about what the characters were doing. She found that if she put cards right next to each other, the people would visit each other and move between cards. She could spend hours just picking cards at random and seeing what would happen when she combined. Could and did, because there wasn't anything else to do in her cupboard.
Until dinner, which she also had to make. At least Dudley was usually out and about at various friends’ houses, so she was only cooking for two. Not that it mattered when one of the two was Uncle Vernon. He had been especially wicked lately, pushing her around and throwing things and just generally showing off. He wasn’t hitting her though which was good but also scary because that meant he had something else planned. That was just what he was like. Nights were always the worst. Uncle Vernon would make her stay up until Dudley went to bed so that she could be on hand to fetch him drinks and clean up after him.
Dudley revelled in it, staying up later and later and forcing her all around the house doing whatever it is he wanted. And heaven forbid she accidentally wake up her aunt while doing so, who was a dangerously light sleeper. Her shoulder still ached from the last time Aunt Petunia had been woken up at three in the morning.
Her life continued like this for what felt like years, but was maybe only a couple of weeks. Aunt Marge was still in hospital, but it sounded like she was doing okay, at least from what Harriet overheard. Her uncle only ever mentioned Marge to her directly when she was being punished.
Harriet kept track of the days by making tiny scratches in the door. She had to, otherwise the days blended together so much that she completely lost track of time. Even then, she had a bad feeling she'd mis-scratched a few times. And it was hard to count them in the dark. She was always so tired and groggy, and she desperately missed the sun. The traces she got of it during the day when she was allowed out were all that was keeping her going. She desperately wanted to go outside, but she wasn't allowed, because her relatives had told everyone she'd run away. She wasn't even allowed to stand near any windows if the curtains were open, although she did anyway every chance she got.
Until one day— The light in her cupboard was dimming, which meant that the sun was no longer angled nicely to come in the windows by the front door. In other words, it was almost time to make dinner. But instead of Aunt Petunia coming to fetch her, Harriet heard the sounds of activity coming from the front hall.
“Almost ready!” Aunt Petunia called.
“Mum, let’s goooo,” Dudley whined. “We’ll be late for the film! Piers is waiting!”
“One moment, pumpkin! Mummy is just finding her keys.”
Harriet’s stomach dropped. Uncle Vernon always drove if he was going. She wasn’t going to be left alone with him, was she? Her stomach twisted and she felt her breathing quicken without her permission. He wasn’t home yet, right? She hadn’t heard him come in. Please let her be left alone.
“Why can’t dad drive,” Dudley whined. He liked Uncle Vernon’s new car a lot better than Aunt Petunia’s old-fashioned saloon. Harriet knew everything about what Dudley did and didn’t like. How could she not? It was all he talked about.
“I told you, he’s out to the pub with friends,” Aunt Petunia said, but her voice was kind. “Aha! Let’s go, darling.”
Harriet leaned back in her cupboard. Well. That was alright then. He’d be out all night drinking, and then be too tired when he got back to do anything more than crawl into bed. He’d be in a right state tomorrow with his hangover, but she’d make an extra large breakfast and then maybe he wouldn’t go off on her too much.
Shame it was too dark to read. She felt like it had been long enough that she could read her book again. Instead, she started writing her own stories in her head, wild things about what Fiona could do, that had eventually turned into what she could do if she were a dragon. She was eager to compare to the actual sequels later and see how she’d done. She’d taken heavy inspiration from Lockhart’s own books, which were filled with adventure. Except this time the hero was her, turned into a fearsome dragon. She was especially proud of the one where she (as a dragon, of course) went all the way to Paris and stopped an art heist at the Louvre. Then she’d eaten the criminals and stolen the treasure for herself, taking it away to her dragon hoard where she shared with all of her dragon friends. Only she couldn’t remember any actual paintings, so she’d had great fun making up her own. Still. It would be nice to leave the cupboard.
An hour or two later, Harriet really wished she could leave the cupboard. The air was starting to get a strange burnt smell, and was it her imagination or was it getting warm in here?
It was definitely not her imagination. Was something burning? But everyone was out. Had Aunt Petunia left the stove on? She thought she could hear— and then the smoke hit her, and Harriet realized that the house was on fire. And she was locked in the cupboard.
Harriet jumped to her feet, narrowly avoiding slamming her head on the ceiling in her panic. She grabbed her tiny trunk, shoved it into her bag with the few other possessions she had around, and desperately pushed at the door. It didn’t open. Every breath burned. Desperately, she tried kicking it, putting her weight into it, but it was solid, of course it was. Hadn’t she tried and tried to open it when she was younger? It wasn't like she was that much bigger now. She could feel the smoke burning her throat, burning her lungs, and she didn’t know what to do, she couldn’t remember a single thing anyone had ever taught her about fires, and her mind was spinning and her heart was racing and she felt like she was going to burst—
The cupboard door exploded open. Magic. She’d done magic.
Smoke was thick in the hallway, but it seemed to be concentrated above her, towards the ceiling. The fire was spreading, and it was so hot that Harriet could feel her skin starting to burn like she’d been all day in the summer sun.
But her cupboard was right near the front door, and she could see that it was safe in that direction. She grabbed her bag and her shrunken trunk and crawled as quickly as she could. Her lungs were burning, aching with the acrid smoke. It took her precious seconds to unlock the door, her hands shaking the entire time. But then she got the front door open and ran to safety, as far away from the house as she could get.
She could hear fire trucks in the distance, but she didn’t once look back.
The Dursleys were going to blame her for this, she knew it. And she’d done magic again. Her third offence. She was going to be expelled.
Despite her fear and the pain in her lungs, the burns on her hands, despite the knowledge that she’d lost Hogwarts, the one place she actually loved, and probably lost her friends as well, she felt a grim satisfaction at knowing that it was over. The Dursleys would never take her back now.
The wind in her fair, the sun warming her face— Harriet was finally free.