Haritha Potter

Desperate hands, Hermione’s maybe, pull her body out of the tub. Hari retches up water and bile on the cold bathroom tiles as Hermione holds her. Hermione dresses her. Soon she is clothed and in Ron’s trembling arms. Through it all she is not within her own mind.

For the next few weeks Hari is barely conscious of her surroundings. She does what she has always done and trusts Ron and Hermione, they trade concerned glances over her head.

Hari finds herself having fits of desperation. She runs to Nearly-Headless Nick and asks about ghosts. Hari is met with an apologetic tilt of his almost detached head and wants to bash her own head into a wall. She has renewed nightmares and wakes with a voice hoarse from screaming. Some days she cannot get out of bed. Others she wanders the halls of Hogwarts aimlessly and alone.

Hari bumps into Luna Lovegood in one of these aimless wanderings. Something about Luna’s soft, sad smile and kaleidoscope eyes stop Hari from leaving in search of solitude.

“I’m sorry about your godfather,” the pale blonde whispers.

Haritha tries to twist her face into a grateful smile. She thinks she fails but Hari knows Luna is kind enough to not think of it as rude.

“Thanks.”

Luna’s eyes loose some of their perpetual far-away look and she says, “There is so much noise coming from the wrackspurts. Sometimes you can hardly hear yourself.”

Hari got the oddest feeling that she should understand what Luna was talking about but she hadn’t the faintest clue.

Nonetheless she nodded, “I’ll try and keep away from them Luna.”

Luna’s smile held a hint of knowing as she started away from Hari. Her whimsical nature making it seem like she was floating rather than actually walking.

“The wrackspurts won’t shut up. You have to make yourself louder. What are you saying Hari?”

Luna’s words were framed like a warning but her voice was just as unhurried and melodic as ever. Hari’s eyebrows furrowed, trying to come up with a response.

“You should go, the end of the year feast is beginning soon. Ron and Hermione will get worried.” Luna slips away leaving Hari confused.

For the first time in days she focuses on something other than her grief. Mulling over the eccentric witch’s words, Hari joins other stragglers in making their way to the Great Hall.

She makes a point to stare ahead, acting like she does not notice the whispers and stares that follow her. Now that the Daily Prophet has chosen to once again christen Hari as the ‘Girl Who Lived’ and laud her as the ‘lone voice of truth’, everyone was eager to love her again. The entire British Wizarding World was contend in pretending the ridicule she experienced did not come from them and that they had stood by her through it all. She supposed she ought to be used to the fickle nature of people. Such is the life of a celebrity, she thought bitterly.

Hari makes her way through the Great Hall, decked in green and silver, towards the Gryffindor table. The tension in her shoulders only bleeding away slightly when she was in between Hermione and Ron.

Dumbledore rises from his seat, his eyes twinkling as always, seeming as though he had never left Hogwarts. As if the disastrous events of the ministry never occurred. His words were grave but his voice jovial when he spoke.

“As we move into summer holidays with heavy news hanging over our heads and warnings of darker times I will urge you, enjoy the coming months as you all usually do. Emptying your heads of everything your professors have aimed so hard to stuff it with, and come back to us next year, ready to relearn it all.”

A ripple of light laughter echoed around the hall, students relieved that their headmaster was once again Dumbledore rather than a toad dressed in pink frills. Hari’s eyes wandered to the back of her hand where ‘I must not tell lies’ gleamed pale against her tan skin. She was vaguely disappointed that Dumbledore had rescued Umbridge from the centaurs. The ridiculous, torturing, prejudiced woman could have died there for all Hari cared.

Dumbledore continued, “And finally, before we eat, congratulations to our house cup champions, Slytherin!”

As if any other house had a chance with how the Slytherins rushed to suck up to Umbridge. Hari’s eyes wandered over the Slytherin table as the wave of noise and celebration began.

Draco Malfoy’s celebratory mood was dampened if the pinching of his pointed features were any indication. Clearly the fact that his father had been sentenced to Azkaban for his involvement with Voldemort’s Death Eaters at the Ministry had Malfoy on edge. The boy had even tried to duel Hari in the corridors, as if she were to blame for his father partaking in illegal activity. Snape had shut down the fight before it even occurred, perhaps because he knew, however begrudgingly, that Malfoy was no match for her.

Her emerald eyes found their way to Tom Riddle — the second. The boy was as dignified as ever, a pleased smile on his disgustingly aristocratic features. With coiffed black hair and his uniform perfectly proper, Riddle looked so much like his father. As always, Hari’s mind drifted towards a boy in a diary. For a moment she was in a dark, damp chamber as ‘Tom Marvolo Riddle’ rearranged itself to ‘I am Lord Voldemort’. A memory preserved for 50 years, pressed into the pages of a book like a flower, and she had killed him.

Diary Tom, as she had taken to calling him in the privacy of her own mind, haunted her. Mrs. Weasley had thought Ginny a stupid child for trusting an object with its own mind, but Hari understood. She too had trusted him. Nobody takes girls seriously, especially not awkward ones on the cusp of teenage girlhood, not even themselves. So, when a handsome older boy with a deceptively kind smile offers to listen, of course you pour your heart out. Hari herself had told him things she’d never told anyone else. She thought he understood. She was wrong. Diary Tom had forced her to come to terms with a truth twelve year old Haritha Potter was avoiding. The Wizarding World may be magical but magic does not erase the ugly parts of human nature.

Across the hall Riddle slowly turned to look at her, his head tilting as he considers her. Hari feels slightly chagrined, knowing that his acknowledgement of her staring meant she had been looking for too long. Often Hari tried her best to skip over Riddle entirely, that way she wouldn’t have flashbacks. His brown eyes met hers and she, refusing to betray embarrassment, met his gaze with a steady one of her own. She tried her best to make her face blank and disinterested.

Hari felt a faint probing at her mental shields, an attempt Tom quickly abandoned. She felt grateful for her determination to learn occlumency despite Snape’s paltry attempts to teach her. Honestly the man’s conduct during their ‘lessons’ made it seem like he was more interested in creating the most uncomfortable experience for her rather than actually teaching her. Really Snape’s entire approach to being a professor seemed to be to make his students uncomfortable. Not for the first time Hari wondered why he chose teaching as a profession.

Eventually she turned her attentions onto the plate in front of her. Ron had it loaded with potatoes, chicken and all the food Hari would typically reach for. She shot Ron, who still managed to look concerned with his mouth stuffed with potatoes, a grateful look. Hari attempted to force an appetite by reminding herself she would probably starve most of summer.

As she shoved the food down her throat, food that was probably excellently cooked but tasted like nothing to Hari, she did her best to engage in the world around her. She faked smiling at Seamus’ jokes and tried to play along with Lavender’s dramatic rendition of some couple’s break-up. Hari’s amusement was most real when Dean described how Peeves had refused to let Umbridge slip away quietly, instead embarrassing her by causing a scene, mimicking the clopping of hooves and her screams.

She vaguely thought she ought to feel bad for being cheered up by Umbridge’s trauma but the woman was truly despicable. Besides, Hari always did find a grim satisfaction when well-deserved punishments were doled out, a trait she often sought not to dwell upon.

Later in the evening she found herself packing, last-minute and just as reluctant as always. Hermione stared at her as she shoved her books and clothes into her trunk randomly.

The muggle-born adjusted her silk scarf over her curls as she spoke.

“It’s not your fault.”

Hari didn’t look up, “I know.”

“Do you? Do you really Hari because—”

She slammed her trunk shut and turned to face Hermione.

“I know I’m not at fault because I—”

All year her friends had been treating her like a ticking time-bomb, in her most self-aware moments Hari could admit it; she was a mess. Suddenly the anger that had swept away her grief left her once more. She deflated. Her voice was small and concern painted her face.

“I don’t know what going on Hermione.”

Hermione was silent.

Hari continued, “I know just as much about the war as a random witch right now but I’m not a random witch am I? No I’m Hari Potter, Girl Who Lived and apparently the Chosen One. What the fuck does that even mean!”

Hari lets out a long breath and then continued shoving clothes in her trunk. Hermione speaks up hesitantly.

“I’ve been trying to research about what Voldemort wants to achieve, it can’t be to eradicate all but the pureblood because we know he is a half-blood himself. But there’s nothing in the history book at the Hogwarts library. Even if there was, we would have to be careful as the books there are highly censored.”

Hari almost smiles as Hermione reverts to what she’s good at to try and help.

“Sirius,” Grief threatens to claw its way up her throat, she forces it down, “He probably left Grimmauld Place to me, we can take a look in the library there.”

Hermione nods as she crawls into bed. Hari sits on her trunk to shove it closed and drags it off her bed.

Hermione pulls the curtains around her bed closed, “Goodnight Hari.”

Clambering into the sheets Hari responds, “G’night Hermione.”

As the curtains around her bed closes Hari rolls on her back and stares at the ceiling of her four-post bed. Like every other night, Gryffindor red is the last thing she sees as Hari drifts off to dream of Sirius’ last laugh and the veil between life and death.