Chapter 1
Little Harriet Potter loved her cupboard. The small, cramped space was taken up by a single bed frame with a thin, worn out mattress and a tiny threadbare blanket. It was safe and the tight space made her feel as if she were held in a rather loose hug. But most important, was the fact that it was hers, as was the collection of Things that hid beneath the bed.
Under the bed was her collection of Things. Her Things were odd and not completely normal, just like her. A red rose from Aunt Petunias flower garden three years prior that never wilted, an iridescent marble that seemed to shimmer with a faint energy, a broken green bottle with impossibly sharp edges, and her favorite, a wind-up toy bird that would spout unbearable truths when the little key in its back was turned.
“Petunia Dursley is an insufferable twit who thinks that the more she feeds her whale of a son the more he will love her, unfortunately, Dudley Dursley will never love anyone quite as much as he loves sweets.” was its first truth when she wound up the little toy in the privacy of her cupboard, and indeed was quite the unbearable truth when heard by a passing Petunia. Even after a harsh beating, Harriet felt it was well worth it.
She kept her Things hidden inside her cleanest socks beneath her bed, not that the Dursleys would bother to search her cabinet. Under their keen watch she was unlikely to get away with keeping anything with any bit of value. Her pretty drawing of a field of flowers from art class in her third year of school was swiftly taken and tacked up onto the fridge.
At first Harriet had felt a swell of pride, until days later. From her cupboard she had overheard Aunt Petunia gushing to one of the neighbors who'd come over for supper about how talented her Dudders was at art. Uncle Vernon, in the type of good mood that only appeared when he drank a little too much brandy after dinner, let out a roar of laughter and said between chuckles “Only a fairy would draw flowers of all things! You aren’t a fairy now are you Dudley?” Dudley, face most likely red in anger, let out a piggish squeal of, “NO!” and marched over to his mother, snatching the drawing from his hands and ripping it to shreds. The next day Dudley proudly presented what might have been a red house… or two men tearing each other to gory shreds, one couldn’t tell with the red and black crayon scribbles he’d made on the paper. Either way Uncle Vernon slapped him on the back and placed it on the fridge where Harriets own drawing had once been.
Either way, Harriet learned how to hide the things she wanted to keep, whether that be in her oversized pockets, the crevice in her cupboards wall, or in a sock beneath the bed. Things to keep were things to hide.
But then everything changed. A letter came in the mail, and it came for her. Ms. Harriet Potter of 4 Privet drive, the cupboard under the stairs. She had just managed to read its contents before the letter was snatched from her fingers. This thing to keep, she was not able to hide from the Dursleys. She was a witch. All the odd, unexplainable things that happened around her, the hair that grew back overnight, the strange dreams of events that would happen the next day, suddenly weren’t unexplainable.
The letter was torn and burned. The next day came more letters through the mail slot, five in total, they were burned and the slot was nailed shut. But whoever was sending the letters would not be deterred. The next day an abundance of letters flooded the house through the chimney and the Dursleys came to the surprisingly smart realisation that as long as the sender did not get a reply, the letters would not stop coming.
First they had tried to write it for her, ‘no Harriet cannot come’ was written and uneasily passed to a waiting owl. When that didn't work, evident by the shock of letters appearing in every nook and cranny of the house, they had tried to write it as if they were her. This did not work either. Frustrated, Uncle Vernon had slammed Harriet down onto the table, forcing a pen into her fingers and attempting to make her write it herself. When Harriet continuously refused to do so, he had beaten her bloody and thrown her back into her cupboard.
Like every time before, the next morning her wounds were mostly healed and a new flood of letters nearly suffocated Dudley.
Locked away in her cupboard, ignoring the screams of her Aunt and Uncle, Harriet took out the letter she had managed to hide away in one of the oversized pockets of her hand-me-down pants. Her eyes, which had long since been used to the very dim light of a hanging light bulb, skimmed the letter again.
After a long minute, her trembling fingers reached into a crack in the wall and pulled out a blank, coffee stained piece of paper, hidden away to be used later on, and a pencil with a worn down tip. With those two items in hand, Harriet began to write, ‘Dear Professor McGonagall…’.
The next day, no letters came. Uncle Vernon, with immense relief and satisfaction, declared a family trip as celebration. A trip Harriet wasn’t invited on. Harriet felt immense relief as, at last, the Dursleys packed up their bags and left, not to return for a week. Harriet had no intention to be there when they returned.
[][][]
If she was being honest, Minerva had barely thought of Harriet Potter. Of course on Samhain, while she mourned her fallen friends, Harriet came to mind and she often found herself mourning Harriet alongside James Potter and Lily Evans. The mind was a strange complex thing when introduced with grief, and when Minerva mourned Harriet, it wasn’t for her loss. In a way, Harriet had died that day, the Harriet whose parents still lived.
“Pity the living” Albus had told her, and that's what she would do. She worried about her students, not just the Gryffindors. She nurtured them and helped them grow, watched wonderful witches and wizards alike graduate and go on to great things. She laughed with Poppy Pomfrey, argued with Severus Snape, shared tea and lemon drops with Albus Dumbledore. She even ate Hagrid nearly inedible rock cakes while his dog Fang drooled all over her lap, but not once had she truly thought about Harriet Potter, The-Girl-Who-LIved.
Until now.
Minerva stared down at the letter, if you could call it that. The piece of paper was of muggle make, blue lines ran across the paper, it came without an envelope and the writing was near ineligible, merely stating the child's acceptance and requesting help for her school shopping. The writing seemed rushed, as if sending a response wasn’t important enough to bother with more than a hurried scribble. Paired with the brown spots of spilt coffee or tea, Minerva found that she had little hopes for the child. Surely, based on the lack of effort present, Harriet had been madly spoiled, to the point that Minerva wasn’t keen to find out. She couldn’t bear the thought of coming face to face with the young Potter Heiress and not being able to find the beloved faces of two of her favorite students in the young girl's face.
So Minerva made her decision. Quickly jotting down a note (one that was much neater than Miss Potters) and handing it off to one of Hogwarts’ many house elves, Minerva sat back with a sigh. And again, she mourned the Harriet Potter who could have been, disregarding the one that was.
[][][]
Harriet wasn’t sure what she was expecting to find when the doorbell rang, but a stout, kindly looking woman was not it. The woman's face was split into a warm smile, one that faltered slightly when she took in Harriet. Harriet knew what the woman must be seeing, a too small girl in too big clothes, broken glasses framed by a birds nest of unruly black hair. (Not that the woman could talk, with her strange mustard yellow robes).
She wasn’t stupid, she knew the way the Dursleys treated her wasn’t normal, but then again she wasn’t normal was she? Freaks like her didn’t deserve food on a regular basis or an actual room. She had long ago come to terms with who she was. Maybe she didn’t deserve the bruises and scars, but maybe she did, she couldn't, wouldn’t believe that they would treat her the way they did for no reason. There was always a reason, she unfortunately had to deal with being enough of a reason.
Unlike the strangers who would worry and fret over her to the point of suffocation, the woman kept the smile on her face, even if Harriet could see the tightness in her jaw and the hard look that appeared in her eyes. Harriet was used to that look, especially on the days when Uncle Vernon had a tough day at work and went to fetch his favorite belt, a worn leather thing too small for his waist with its rusted metal buckle.
“Hello, Harriet Potter I assume?” the woman looked her right in the eyes as she greeted her and it made Harriet feel itchy all over. She hated eye contact, it felt wrong, no one held her gaze without some sort of malicious intent and she was not looking forward to the kind of punishment magic would bring.
Harriet squared her shoulders and brought her gaze to her feet, “Yes, Ma’am.” i'm not a threat, i'm nothing, please for god sake stop looking at me. Harriet resisted the urge to reach for one of her Things, specifically the marble that rolled restlessly in her pocket.
She heard the woman take a sudden breath, almost a gasp, before the itch subsided, “My name is Professor Sprout, Head of Hufflepuff, I'm here to help with your school shopping. Are your guardians home?”
Relieved at the absence of Sprouts eyes on her, Harriet dared to look up, if only slightly, and watched as Sprout fiddled with a bulky bag, seeming to be searching for something. “No Ma’am, they are very busy and won't be back till later.” Harriet supposed that technically it wasn’t a lie, nor was it the truth.
Harriet thought that she had done rather well in her… deception, but Sprout looked unconvinced. Anxiety rose like acid into her throat as the seconds ticked by. At last, Professor Sprout seemed to find what she was looking for and let out a quiet ‘a-ha’. It was a rather large bejeweled golden key on a lengthy leather cord, “This is for you Miss Potter.” she said, presenting the ornate key to her, as if it met anything to her at all. Regardless, Harriet obediently put the key around her neck and tucked it into the collar of her shirt.
“Now! We must be going! Please take my hand if you will.” Harriet stared at the presented hand, heavily calloused and scarred from what could only be years of work, and hesitantly grasped it.
“This will be quite unpleasant for your first time dear, but it will be over soon.” said the kindly witch. Harriet had only a split second to be alarmed before a whirling, sucking, sensation took hold of her body and they were off.
[][][]
The trip felt like it took hours when Harriet knew in reality it was only a few seconds. But it was complete hell. It was as if she was turned inside out repeatedly, as if each time she was back to normal, something went wrong and she had to be turned inside out again. Harriet stumbled away from the elder witch just in time for vomit to come hurling out of her mouth. It burned as the contents of her stomach emptied themselves onto the sidewalk and in between fits of sickness, Harriet thought with grim satisfaction of the anger the Dursleys would feel when they came home to find her gone.
Harriet stiffened as a hand came down and patted her back consolingly. The gesture, while attempting to offer comfort, did the exact opposite. Only Harriets jagged fingernails puncturing into the flesh of her palm stopped her from lashing out at the person connected to the hand.
“Now, now dear, get it all out.” Sprout said with an honestly disgusting amount of sympathy. Harriet wanted nothing more than to smack the witches hand away from her, but was too weak from her vomiting to do much else than shift away. Luckily, it seemed the professor got the hint quick enough.
A few minutes later Harriet managed to look at her surroundings and found them very different from Little Whinging. The whole place was rather sketchy. Dark, dirty buildings lined the streets and stray cats dug through knocked over trash cans. Homeless men and women eyed them and Harriet knew the hunger in their eyes, she saw it every time she looked into the mirror.
Professor Sprout ushered her into the sketchy looking pub they had landed in front of called ‘The Leaky Cauldron’. Harriet kept her head lowered as they moved through towards the back exit, everyone in the building wore the same strange clothing Sprout did, some even wore pointed hats.
Harriet waited for one of the people to stop them on their way, instead the barkeep called out a greeting to the two of them and went back to cleaning the cups that littered the bar. They made their way to the back and stopped right in front of a red brick wall, the professor took out a fancy looking stick from inside her robes and tapped a rhythm onto different bricks. Before Harriet had time to ask, the wall unfurled into a doorway and she couldn’t believe what she saw before her.
Buildings in all colors, some seemed to sway and some were only connected to the ground by a pair of stairs. By god though, what really took her breath away were the ,people. Some wore similar clothes as Sprout, while others wore more normal looking attire such as dresses, suits, and skirts. Odd creatures were perched on shoulders or wore a leash and walked side by side with their owners. It was so bizarre that she couldn’t find the proper words to describe it, not even in her head.
Professor Sprout turned to her with a wide grin, “Welcome, to Diagon Alley.”