Whisper's In The Dark
The attic was always cold.
Not the kind of chill that made you shiver—but the deep, lingering kind that settled in your bones like old grief. It clung to the air, soaked into the dust-thick wood, and wrapped itself around Harriet like a second skin.
She had stopped pretending it was a room two summers ago. The mattress was more springs than stuffing, a limp excuse for comfort shoved beneath the slanted eaves of the roof. One tiny, grimy window sat crooked in its frame, leaking only the thinnest wash of moonlight when the clouds parted. It didn’t open. Nothing up here did.
Harriet Potter—fourth-year witch, orphan, and unwanted ward—sat cross-legged on the edge of the mattress, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her dark red hoodie, once two sizes too big, now hung perfectly off her smaller frame, swallowed by shadows and silence. Her wand, tucked into her sock, pulsed faintly with warmth, the only reassurance that she hadn’t imagined it all—that Hogwarts, magic, the Goblet of Fire, all of it—was real.
She pressed her forehead against her knees and exhaled slowly. Her ribs ached. Not in a way that would cause alarm at school—Dudley had gotten smarter about bruises after first year—but enough that laughing too hard would sting. Uncle Vernon had shoved her earlier that afternoon for not answering his call fast enough, and she’d taken the wall instead of the floor.
No one apologized.
No one ever did.
She’d stopped crying about it before her tenth birthday.
Outside, the wind howled. Something scratched against the windowpane—probably a branch or a bird or maybe just the building itself groaning with the weight of time. She didn’t flinch. Let the shadows come. She had nothing left they could take.
The house was silent now. The Dursleys had gone to bed an hour ago, slamming doors and muttering about “that unnatural freak leaving tomorrow.” The World Cup was in two days, and Mr. Weasley had written to say they’d collect her by midday. The letter hadn’t even been addressed to her, just shoved into the mail slot with Aunt Petunia’s grocery coupons. Typical.
She hadn’t responded. What was the point?
Ron hadn’t written all summer. Not once. Neither had Hermione, though she’d sent a cold note with a checklist of school readings. “Don’t forget your Arithmancy, Harry. It’s important to stay ahead.”
Right.
Not a word about her injuries. Not a question about how she was coping with the Dementors. Not even a “how are you?”—just tasks. Assignments. Expectations.
And she’d finally, finally begun to ask herself: what if they weren’t her friends anymore? What if they never really had been?
The thought made her stomach twist in guilt—and relief.
She stood slowly, careful not to wince at the tightness in her ribs. Her bare feet padded quietly across the attic floor. She dug beneath a floorboard she had loosened two summers ago and pulled out the small cloth bundle hidden beneath: a notebook, a feathered quill, and a folded piece of chocolate wrapper enchanted to keep her secrets from prying eyes. She had learned the charm herself, late at night in the library, when Hermione had stopped letting her check out certain books “for her own good.”
The chocolate wrapper shimmered faintly with magic as she whispered the unlocking spell.
Inside the notebook, she wrote:
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July 28th
They think I’m stupid.
They think I won’t notice.
That they only write when they want something. That Dumbledore says things in riddles on purpose. That my friends aren’t really friends.
I know I sound paranoid. But paranoia is how I’ve stayed alive.
I don’t trust the Light anymore.
I think something’s wrong.
Really wrong.
Maybe I’m not who I think I am.
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She stared at the last line.
Maybe I’m not who I think I am.
The sentence had come out of nowhere, but it struck her like lightning. A whisper from a place she hadn’t dared to listen to before.
She closed the notebook and tucked it back into the floor.
That’s when the knock came.
A soft one—too soft for Uncle Vernon. And not at the attic door, but at the trapdoor that led to the attic stairs.
Harriet’s muscles went tight. She reached for her wand.
The knock came again, followed by a whisper: “Potter.”
Dudley.
She blinked in surprise. Dudley had never once willingly approached her door. Not unless it was to mock or threaten. And his voice didn’t sound cruel—it sounded... uneasy.
“Someone told me to give this to you,” he said, just loud enough to be heard through the wood. “Said not to tell anyone. Said it was ‘dangerous.’ Here.”
A thin slip of parchment slid under the crack in the door.
Harriet didn’t move until she heard his footsteps retreat fully, the stairs creaking under his bulk. She waited one more minute. Then she pounced.
The paper was thick. Cream-colored. Expensive. Magical. She felt the thrum of power the second her fingers touched it.
She unfolded it slowly.
You are not what they say you are.
And soon, you’ll understand everything they tried to steal from you.
—A Friend
There was no signature. No seal. But the script was neat, slanted, and very old. And the parchment… buzzed faintly with runic symbols only visible when held at an angle.
Old magic.
Goblin-forged.
Harriet swallowed.
She was shaking. Just slightly.
Not out of fear.
But out of the smallest spark of something she hadn’t felt in months—maybe years.
Hope.
Something was happening.
Something she hadn’t been told.
And she was going to find out what.
---
The next morning, the sky was iron-gray.
The Burrow was just as chaotic as she remembered—Mrs. Weasley waving a wooden spoon, Ron yelling about socks, Ginny chasing Crookshanks with a brush—but Harriet barely registered any of it.
She smiled. She hugged. She laughed at the right jokes.
And she said nothing.
Because the moment they arrived, Ron had barely acknowledged her. His attention had gone straight to Viktor Krum’s stats and the Firebolt pamphlet clutched in his hand.
Hermione had greeted her with a stiff smile and a thin “you look tired.”
No hug.
No warmth.
Just polite detachment.
It told her more than words ever could.
And for once, Harriet didn’t feel like apologizing for existing.
She felt like fighting.
And when the goblin courier appeared at the kitchen door that afternoon—stoic, formal, offering her a sealed envelope with her name written in ancient ink—Harriet didn’t hesitate.
She took it.
She pocketed it.
She smiled at Ron and said, “I need a walk.”
And she didn’t look back.
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