Letter's & Lightning
The common room was loud with celebration.
Gryffindors shouted, danced, and reenacted her dragon dodge with increasingly absurd gestures. Fred had charmed a mini Ridgeback to chase George, who leapt over couches while cheering “HAR-RIET! HAR-RIET!” like a Quidditch chant.
She sat near the fireplace, legs tucked beneath her, eyes half-lidded in thought.
Someone tried to hand her a butterbeer. She accepted it. Sipped once. Set it aside.
She felt… nothing.
No adrenaline left. No satisfaction. Only the distant ache of bruised ribs and the familiar pressure of being watched. Applauded, this time.
But no one here had seen her.
Not really.
"You're a bloody menace," Seamus said with a grin, flopping into the seat beside her.
"I try," she murmured.
Dean leaned over the back of her chair. “Did you see yourself? Merlin’s beard, Harry. You looked like a storm goddess. If that dragon had any sense, it would’ve just bowed and handed over the egg.”
“That dragon had more manners than half this tower,” she said with a dry smile.
Seamus cackled. “Fair enough.”
The cheer dimmed for her only when Ron pushed his way through the crowd, grin plastered on his face like everything was fine.
“You should’ve told me,” he said, slapping her on the shoulder.
She blinked. “Told you what?”
“That you entered. Would’ve backed you up. Made a plan. Gone over tactics, you know?”
Her jaw tensed. “I didn’t enter.”
He scoffed. “Come on, Harry. You don’t have to lie. It was brilliant, yeah? You pulled it off. Everyone’s talking about you—again.”
She stood slowly, the scrape of the chair against stone slicing through the chatter.
“You think I did that for attention?” she asked, voice low and sharp. “You think I chose to go up against a dragon because I wanted to one-up you or Cedric or anyone else?”
Ron opened his mouth, closed it, then frowned. “Well… yeah, kind of.”
Harriet stared at him.
“You were supposed to be my friend.”
“I am—”
“No, Ron. You’re a fan when it’s easy, and a critic the second I don’t shrink for you.”
Gasps from the group around them. Silence swept through the room like a swift spell.
“I didn’t ask for this,” she said, voice trembling not with fear—but with rage. “I didn’t ask for fame, for scars, for fire. But I’ll be damned if I let you paint me the villain in a story you’ve never bothered to understand.”
She turned and walked out.
---
The corridors were blissfully quiet.
Harriet didn’t realize she was shaking until she reached the stone alcove near the owlery—her hiding place of choice since second year.
She braced her hands on the windowsill, the cold seeping into her palms.
A soft flutter broke the silence.
Hedwig landed beside her.
And tied to her leg was a letter.
Harriet took it wordlessly, fingers trembling. She fed Hedwig a bit of dried meat and kissed her feathers.
The owl stayed.
Waiting.
Guarding.
The parchment was heavy and dark—Durmstrang standard.
She opened it.
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I heard what he said.
You were right not to strike him.
He is not worth it.
But you are.
—V.
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She sat down hard on the stone bench.
Read it again.
Then again.
And then she pulled out her own parchment and wrote without thinking.
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You always know when to write. I don’t understand how.
Everything here is chaos. They think dragons are the problem. Dragons make more sense than people.
I didn’t flinch. But I wanted to.
It’s hard pretending to be unbreakable.
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She hesitated.
Then added:
I’m glad you saw me.
She sealed it, tied it to Hedwig’s leg, and whispered, “Go.”
The owl soared into the sky like a white streak of vengeance.
---
Two days later, a package arrived at breakfast.
It wasn’t wrapped in fancy paper. No ribbons. Just a thick, rectangular box with a plain wax seal.
Everyone stared.
“Expecting something, Harry?” Hermione asked coolly.
Harriet shrugged. “Apparently.”
She opened it slowly.
Inside was a sleek, hand-bound notebook.
Black dragonhide.
Enchanted ink that shimmered faintly with protective runes around the edges.
Inside the cover, a message:
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This is yours.
Write what they cannot see.
Remember what they will try to take.
I see all of it.
—V.
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Hermione glanced over her shoulder.
“Who’s it from?”
Harriet smiled slightly. “Someone who doesn’t lie.”
Hermione’s lips pursed.
Ron muttered something foul under his breath.
Harriet closed the book gently and tucked it into her robes.
---
That night, lightning struck.
Not metaphorically—literally.
A freak storm rolled over the castle. Thunder boomed. Rain pelted the windows. Most students huddled together in the common rooms, whispering ghost stories.
Harriet wandered the halls.
She couldn’t sleep. Her head was a storm of its own.
She found herself near the trophy room, the glow of old torches lighting the dusty cases.
Footsteps echoed behind her.
She didn’t turn.
“I know it’s you,” she said softly.
Karkaroff stepped into view from the shadows. “You are harder to track than most ghosts.”
“I don’t enjoy being hunted.”
“I’m not hunting.”
She looked at him then. “Then what do you want?”
He approached slowly, eyes sharp but not unkind.
“You’ve stirred the nest. Dumbledore knows you’ve found pieces. He’s watching you closely.”
“I know.”
“He will strike soon.”
“I’m ready.”
Karkaroff tilted his head. “No, you’re not.”
Harriet’s jaw tightened.
“You have power,” he said. “But you lack allies. You have secrets, but not yet strategy. And worst of all—you are still playing by someone else’s rules.”
She stared at him.
“What do you want me to do? Burn the castle down?”
His lips twitched. “If that is your move, do it well.”
He stepped closer. “Viktor is watching you, too.”
She blinked.
“He sees what you are becoming. Do not push him away.”
She swallowed.
“I don’t know how to let him in.”
Karkaroff’s eyes softened—for a second.
“Then learn.”
And with that, he vanished into the dark.
---