The Puppet Master's Smile
Harriet woke before dawn, heart pounding.
Not because of a nightmare.
She didn’t have those anymore.
Now she had real memories—too sharp to fade, too brutal to dismiss. The smell of burning canvas still clung to her hoodie. She could still feel Ginny’s weight as she pulled her away from collapsing tents. The crackle of cursed fire. The shrill scream of magic in the air.
And Karkaroff’s voice.
“Before someone recognizes you.”
“You wear the mask well.”
“When yours cracks…”
She sat up slowly, her joints aching like she’d run a marathon. She didn’t move right away, letting the familiar scent of The Burrow—smoke, cinnamon, and laundry—settle around her like a warm illusion.
But it didn’t soothe her like it used to.
Because now she saw it for what it was.
A temporary reprieve.
Not a home.
Not safety.
She glanced at the satchel near her cot.
The documents were still there. The truth was still there.
And so was the weight.
---
By the time the rest of the house stirred, Harriet was downstairs sipping lukewarm tea and pretending to read The Daily Prophet. She didn’t really see the words. The front page screamed about Death Eaters and chaos. The Ministry was “investigating.” Several arrests had been made. The usual lies.
Ron stumbled into the kitchen, yawning loudly and scratching his head.
“Morning,” he muttered, grabbing toast. “Did you see Krum during the attack? Bet he just flew away like a coward. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s all talk, really.”
Harriet didn’t respond.
She stared at him over the rim of her cup, cataloging every casual insult, every jealous sneer. She had noticed the pattern before, but never truly acknowledged it.
Ron only liked her when she was small.
Smaller than him.
Harriet Lily Potter had always played her part well—quiet, modest, humble, grateful for scraps of friendship. Never challenging. Never demanding.
But Harriet Lyra Malfoy?
She wasn’t built to stay small.
“Where’s Hermione?” she asked coolly.
“In the garden,” he said with a mouthful of toast. “Probably reading something about ethics or whatever. I dunno. She’s been sulking ever since the match.”
Harriet stood and left without another word.
---
She found Hermione under the willow tree, book in hand, brows furrowed.
“Hermione.”
Her friend looked up. “Oh, Harry. Good morning. I was just reading about the legislative response to magical terrorism in post-Goblin War Europe—did you know the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is still using some of those tactics?”
“I need to ask you something.”
Hermione blinked. “What is it?”
Harriet tilted her head, voice low. “Do you trust Dumbledore?”
The air went still.
Hermione closed her book slowly.
“I—of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”
Harriet said nothing.
Hermione frowned. “He’s the greatest wizard of our age, Harry. He’s—he’s Dumbledore.”
“And that means what, exactly?” Harriet asked. “That he’s never wrong? That he never lies?”
Hermione’s expression hardened. “Where is this coming from?”
Harriet took a step closer.
“I think he’s hiding things from me. Big things. I think he’s been doing it for a long time.”
Hermione rose, brushing off her robes. “Harry, I know you’ve been under a lot of stress lately, but you can’t just start questioning the Headmaster like he’s—”
“Like he’s what?” Harriet’s voice sharpened. “Like he’s God?”
Hermione’s mouth snapped shut.
“I don’t know who to trust anymore,” Harriet said. “But I know when someone’s manipulating me. I know when I’m being handled.”
Hermione didn’t reply.
Didn’t comfort her.
Just stared at her like she’d grown horns.
That was all Harriet needed to see.
She turned and walked back into the house.
---
Dumbledore arrived later that day.
The tension in the Burrow tripled the moment he stepped through the door.
He came in with that usual twinkle in his eye, the grandfatherly smile, the calm demeanor of someone who never lost control.
“Ah, Molly, Arthur—always a pleasure,” he said warmly, removing his cloak. “And dear Harriet. You’ve grown again, haven’t you?”
Harriet forced a smile. “Not much room left for that, Professor.”
His smile tightened.
“Well,” he said, clapping his hands. “May I speak with you, my dear? Privately?”
She nodded, already knowing this wasn’t a request.
They moved to the sitting room. Molly handed her a biscuit on the way in—more from habit than care—and Dumbledore closed the door behind them.
“Please,” he said, gesturing to the armchair. “Sit.”
Harriet sat.
Dumbledore took the couch across from her, folded his hands, and tilted his head.
“I wanted to speak to you about the events at the World Cup.”
Harriet said nothing.
“You were seen,” he said quietly. “By many. And I have been... made aware... of some troubling rumors.”
She kept her gaze level. “Rumors?”
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly.
“There are whispers, Harriet. That you’ve been approached by individuals aligned with less savory parts of our world. That you were seen speaking to Igor Karkaroff, for example.”
She smiled sweetly. “I suppose they should get glasses. I speak to lots of people. Must be all the fame.”
Dumbledore didn’t laugh.
“There are also whispers,” he continued, “that you were seen leaving Gringotts. And that you were in a part of the bank no student should have access to.”
Her pulse didn’t spike. Her breathing didn’t change.
She had practiced this.
“Whispers are dangerous things,” she murmured. “They don’t have to be true to cause damage, do they?”
Dumbledore’s eyes gleamed. “No. They do not. Which is why I need you to be careful, my dear girl.”
There it is, she thought.
Not concern.
Control.
She tilted her head. “Careful of what, exactly? The truth?”
His expression didn’t shift—but something in his aura tightened.
“Harriet,” he said softly, “there are things I cannot tell you yet. Things too dangerous for you to know.”
“You mean like how I’m not a Potter?” she asked lightly, voice like a knife wrapped in silk.
Silence.
Dead silence.
Dumbledore didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But she saw it—a flicker.
A chink in the armor.
“How long have you known?” she asked.
He didn’t answer.
“How long,” she said again, voice rising, “have you known I wasn’t who you said I was?”
“Harriet—”
“That I was taken from the Malfoys. That you bound my magic. That you created Harriet Potter because it suited your war effort better than Harriet Malfoy ever could.”
He stood abruptly.
“That is enough.”
“No,” she snapped. “It’s not.”
The air between them sparked with magic. Her wand was in her hand before she realized it, glowing faintly at the tip.
Dumbledore looked at it. Then back at her.
“I never meant to hurt you,” he said. “Everything I’ve done has been for the greater good.”
She laughed—bitter and cold.
“You keep saying that. But all I see is a scared old man using children like chess pieces.”
He sighed.
“You are angry.”
“I’m awake.”
That silenced him again.
Then he nodded. Slowly. Coldly.
“Very well,” he said. “I had hoped we would avoid this.”
And with that, he left.
---
That night, Harriet didn’t sleep.
She stared at the ceiling of her room at the Burrow, hands folded over her stomach, the Gringotts documents spread out across her bed.
She re-read the bloodline test. The ritual documents. The letter from Narcissa—her mother.
Each word lit a fire under her skin.
She wasn’t just angry.
She was furious.
And she was done playing nice.
---
The next morning, she wrote two letters.
The first was for Sirius.
Short. Sharp. Blunt.
---------------------------------------------
I know who I am. I know what he did.
I need you.
Come.
—H
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The second was unsigned.
She folded it twice, sealed it with a spell only goblins could break, and addressed it to one place:
Durmstrang Institute – Headmaster Igor Karkaroff
---