Silent Eye's
Harriet stood at the edge of the Burrow’s garden, watching the owl vanish into the morning mist. It carried her letter across countries, over seas, through stormclouds—straight to Durmstrang.
Straight to him.
She didn’t know what she expected. Not truly. She hadn’t asked a question or issued a demand. She hadn’t even signed it.
She’d simply written:
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You saw what they didn’t.
You looked when others turned away.
I see you, too.
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It wasn’t a declaration.
It was a challenge.
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The days that followed were a strange blend of stillness and calculation.
Ron returned to treating her with passive aggression—snide jokes about Quidditch, whispers to Ginny behind cupped hands. Hermione offered tight smiles and no affection. And the others at the Burrow tiptoed around her as if sensing something under the surface had cracked—and something sharp was leaking through.
But Harriet?
She was calm.
Still and unshakable, like deep water hiding jagged stone.
The Gringotts satchel remained hidden beneath her bed, locked with both spell and blood. She opened it each night, memorizing documents, tracing signatures, copying rune shapes until her fingers cramped.
She didn’t know what she was preparing for.
She only knew that she was.
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The day the letter came back started like any other—overcast and quiet, with Molly bustling in the kitchen and Arthur muttering about misfiled Ministry reports.
Then a knock at the window.
An enormous black owl, regal and silent, stared in at her like royalty awaiting tribute.
Harriet stood slowly. The hair on her arms stood up.
She opened the window. The owl did not move until she extended her arm. It dropped the letter into her palm and vanished into the clouds without a sound.
She stared at the parchment.
Thick. Heavy. Edged in black.
There was no seal. No signature.
Just her name.
Harriet.
Written in clean, angular strokes.
She didn’t open it right away.
She waited until she was back in the attic bedroom, door locked, wards in place. Only then did she slit it open with a flick of her wand and unfold the single sheet inside.
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They teach us silence.
To speak only when necessary.
But some things deserve words.
I did see you. Not as they do. Not as a symbol.
I saw someone standing in the fire who didn’t burn.
Write again. If you wish.
—V.K.
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She read it four times.
The corner of her mouth twitched.
Not quite a smile. But close.
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Hogwarts loomed closer each day. The buzz of the Triwizard Tournament had begun—rumors flying faster than the owls. It would be hosted at Hogwarts. Two other schools would attend. Some even whispered Durmstrang would come. Harriet kept her face blank, her ears open.
She heard the name “Krum” spoken a lot.
Too much.
Always with fawning admiration or shallow scorn.
They didn’t know him.
Not really.
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At night, she wrote again.
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You asked for silence. You’ve earned a reply.
I’m not what they made me. You know this. So do I now.
I’m surrounded by liars who speak kindly, and friends who grin when they should flinch.
What they call Light has teeth, and it bites the children who serve it.
Tell me about Durmstrang.
Tell me how you learned to speak without words.
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She sent the letter without ceremony, this time by Hedwig.
If he was alarmed by her intensity, he didn’t show it.
His response came four days later.
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Durmstrang teaches pain first.
Then power.
Then control.
We do not flinch. We endure.
You are not one of us.
You are fiercer.
They will try to tame you. Let them try.
I will watch.
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---
It became a rhythm.
Letters exchanged in stolen hours, tucked under floorboards or in coat linings. No names beyond initials. No promises. Just truth.
Viktor didn’t flirt. Didn’t flatter. Didn’t pry.
But Harriet had never felt more seen.
He didn’t ask if she was okay.
He told her the world was cruel and that surviving it was power.
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Then the day came.
The morning the Durmstrang ship rose from the depths of the Black Lake like a monster from myth.
She stood on the Hogwarts grounds, surrounded by cheering students, pretending to smile at the spectacle.
But her eyes were fixed on the figure standing at the prow of the ship—tall, broad-shouldered, his coat lined in crimson, his stance carved from iron.
Viktor Krum.
He stepped off the ship without flourish, without words. His eyes scanned the crowd once.
Paused.
Found hers.
Held.
And then he looked away and moved toward the castle.
But the message was clear.
I see you.
And she breathed easier.
Just slightly.
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