Haritha Potter

They set off down Privet Drive. They made an odd pair: a tall wizened man whose eyes looked like they held the secret of life and a short girl, scrappy looking with her unruly hair, scar, and trainers that seemed held together by nothing but sheer will. 

Hari felt awkward being with her headmaster outside of school and all. Usually they were in his office— an office she had tried her best to destroy last time they had spoke she thought with a twinge of guilt.

Dumbledore showed no indication of being affected by the strained atmosphere. “Keep your wand at the ready, Hari,” he said brightly. 

She furrowed her brow, did Dumbledore expect there to be a fight? Considering the entire Wizarding World were now aware they were barrelling face first into war she supposed it wouldn’t be too far fetched. The Dailey Prophet stories have taken on a grim tone nowadays and there were pamphlets about precautions to follow being sent out by the Ministry— useless and impractical as they were. Besides, war or not she was Haritha Potter. Trouble followed her everywhere. Her fingertips brushed the holly wood of her wand in her pocket, reassuringly.

Dumbledore continued, “However, I do not think you need worry about being attacked tonight.”

“Why not, sir?” 

“You are with me,” said Dumbledore simply. “This will do, Hari.” He came to an abrupt halt at the end of Privet Drive.

Dumbledore offered her his forearm and with a swish of his wand everything went black; she was being pressed very hard from all directions; she could not breathe, there were iron bands tightening around her chest; her eyeballs were being forced back into her head; her eardrums were being pushed deeper into her skull.

When the sensation passed they had apparated to a deserted village square; in the centre of which stood an old war memorial and a few benches. Dumbledore set down a winding path.

Hari raised a hand and pushed a wayward curl out of her eyes, her fingertips brushing the jagged scar marks that cut across her forehead the way lightening cuts across a stormy sky.

Dumbledores azure eyes caught the movement and his gaze lingered on the famous mark.

“So tell me, Hari,” said Dumbledore. “Your scar... has it been hurting at all?”

“No professor,” she replied.

Hari didn’t know whether it was due to her strengthening her occlumency shields or some other reason. She glanced up at Dumbledore and saw that he was wearing a satisfied expression. It seems he had an explanation— would he share it with her or skip past it the way he was prone to do?

“I thought so,” said Dumbledore. “Lord Voldemort has finally realized the dangerous access to his thoughts and feelings you have been enjoying. It appears that he is now employing Occlumency against you.” 

Ah, transparency. What a rare treat. Merlin did she hope this would be a new chapter of clarity for them.

“Well, I’m not complaining,” said Hari, who missed neither the disturbing dreams nor the startling flashes of insight into Voldemort’s mind. Dumbledore using the word ‘enjoying’ to describe it irked her slightly. 

Waking up feeling as though there was blood—Mr.Weasley’s blood— dripping from her mouth after she—Nagini in reality— had mauled him was a terrible moment. One she could happily go the rest of her life without reliving. But, Hari had to admit: her traumatic experience did save his life— most of her traumatic experiences ended up saving people’s lives… and sometimes killing them. Kill the spare—

She returned to the present before the bad memories could begin snowballing,“What are we doing here?”

“Ah yes, of course, I haven’t told you,” said Dumbledore. “Well, I have lost count of the number of times I have said this in recent years, but we are, once again, one member of staff short. We are here to persuade an old colleague of mine to come out of retirement and return to Hogwarts.” 

“How can I help with that, sir?” 

“Oh, I think we’ll find a use for you,” said Dumbledore vaguely. 

They proceeded up a steep, narrow street lined with houses.  

“Sir, I saw in the Daily Prophet that Fudge has been sacked.” 

Good riddance. The man had chosen to gaslight their entire society rather than acknowledge the problem properly, and—his fault or not—Hari would always hold a grudge for the treat she endured last year; by the media and Umbridge. What a bitch.

“Correct,” said Dumbledore, now turning up a steep side street. “He has been replaced, as I am sure you also saw, by Rufus Scrimgeour, who used to be Head of the Auror office.” 

“Is he— do you think he’s good?” asked Hari. 

“An interesting question,” said Dumbledore. “He is able, certainly. A more decisive and forceful personality than Cornelius.” 

She bit back a sigh; so much for clarity. Dumbledore knew very well she was asking about his personal opinion and not some politician’s answer. Hari had read in the Dailey Prophet about a disagreement between Scrimgeour and the headmaster… her skills at probing could use some work.

Dumbledore, sensing her dissatisfaction, said, “Rufus is a man of action and, having fought Dark wizards for most of his working life, does not underestimate Lord Voldemort.”

They continued walking in silence until they made it to a small, neat stone house set in its own garden, but as they reached the front gate an eerie scene met their eyes; the front door had been blown off its hinges. 

Dumbledore ventured inside, Hari following closely behind, clutching at her wand in her pocket.

As they stepped across the threshold. grandfather clock lay splintered on the floor, its face cracked, its pendulum lying a little farther away like a dropped sword. A piano was on its side, its keys strewn across the floor. The wreckage of a fallen chandelier glittered nearby. Cushions lay deflated, feathers oozing from slashes in their sides; fragments of glass and china lay like powder over everything. Dumbledore cast a quick Lumos and brought his wand high, so that its light shone upon the walls, where something darkly red and glutinous was spattered over the wallpaper.

Without warning, Dumbledore swooped, plunging the tip of his wand into the seat of the overstuffed armchair, which yelled, “Ouch!” 

“Good evening, Horace,” said Dumbledore, straightening up again. 

Hari furrowed her brow as the armchair transfigured to leave a pudgy, old bald man in its wake. The man squinted up at Dumbledore with an aggrieved and watery eye as he massaged his lower belly.

“There was no need to stick the wand in that hard,” he said gruffly, clambering to his feet. “It hurt.” 

The wandlight sparkled on his shiny pate, his prominent eyes, his silver mustache—that reminded her slightly of Uncle Vernon—and the highly polished buttons on the maroon velvet jacket he was wearing over a pair of lilac silk pajamas. The top of his head barely reached Dumbledore’s chin. 

“What gave it away?” he grunted as he staggered to his feet, still rubbing his lower belly. He seemed remarkably unabashed for a man who had just been discovered pretending to be an armchair. Hari wondered if this was a common occurrence for him— perhaps how he welcomed all his guests?

“My dear Horace,” said Dumbledore, looking amused, “if the Death Eaters really had come to call, the Dark Mark would have been set over the house.”

Never mind, Hari corrected, the display was a manifestation of fear and paranoia; a sentiment she could understand and it vaguely endeared her to the man. 

“The Dark Mark,” he muttered. “Knew there was something... ah well. Wouldn’t have had time anyway, I’d only just put the finishing touches to my upholstery when you entered the room.” He heaved a great sigh that made the ends of his mustache flutter. 

“Would you like my assistance clearing up?” asked Dumbledore politely. “Please,” said the other. 

They stood back to back, the tall thin wizard and the short round one, and waved their wands in one identical sweeping motion. The furniture flew back to its original places; ornaments re-formed in midair, feathers zoomed into their cushions; torn books repaired themselves as they landed upon their shelves; oil lanterns soared onto side tables and reignited; a vast collection of splintered silver picture frames flew glittering across the room and alighted, whole and untarnished, upon a desk; rips, cracks, and holes healed everywhere, and the walls wiped themselves clean.

Once the place looked like the home of a fussy old lady the bald wizard turned back to her, seeing her properly for the first time. 

“Oho,” he said, his large round eyes flying to Hari’s forehead and the scar. “Oho!” 

Hari bit back a sigh. Having people more than quadruple your age get star-struck over you was a weird sentiment— one she had yet to get used to, despite almost 5 years of it. 

“This,” said Dumbledore, moving forward to make the introduction, “is Haritha Potter. Hari, this is an old friend and colleague of mine, Horace Slughorn.” 

Slughorn turned on Dumbledore, his expression shrewd. “So that’s how you thought you’d persuade me, is it? Well, the answer’s no, Albus.” He pushed past Hari, his face turned resolutely away with the air of a man trying to resist temptation. 

Hari didn’t know what to make of his words. 

“I suppose we can have a drink, at least?” asked Dumbledore. “For old time’s sake?” 

Slughorn hesitated. “All right then, one drink,” he said ungraciously. 

She took a seat on the armchair that Dumbledore gestured to, one right in front of Slughorn. Hari got the distinct feeling it was to keep her most visible to the stout man, like a carrot on a stick. Her face was blank as Dumbledore asked Slughorn how he’s been doing, prompting the other wizard to list off a slew of conditions that one confronts at the age of — she scrutinized Slughorn for a second and then decided it was a lost cause— at the age of ancient. 

“And yet you must have moved fairly quickly to prepare such a welcome for us at such short notice,” Dumbledore responded, clearly not buying Slughorn’s act of being decrepit. “You can’t have had more than three minutes’ warning?” 

Slughorn said, half irritably, half proudly, “Two. Didn’t hear my Intruder Charm go off, I was taking a bath. Still,” he added sternly, seeming to pull himself back together again, “the fact remains that I’m an old man, Albus. A tired old man who’s earned the right to a quiet life and a few creature comforts.” 

Creature comforts he certainly didn’t lack, thought Hari, looking around the room. It was stuffy and cluttered, yet nobody could say it was uncomfortable; there were soft chairs and footstools, drinks and books, boxes of chocolates and plump cushions.

“You’re not yet as old as I am, Horace,” said Dumbledore. 

“Well, maybe you ought to think about retirement yourself,” said Slughorn bluntly. 

“But it sounds a rather tiring existence for a broken-down old buffer in search of a quiet life. Now, if you were to return to Hogwarts —” 

“If you’re going to tell me my life would be more peaceful at that pestilential school, you can save your breath, Albus!”

Dumbledore stood up rather suddenly. 

“Are you leaving?” asked Slughorn at once, looking hopeful. Hari too felt hopeful, she had been dreaming of Mrs. Weasley’s cooking.

“No, I was wondering whether I might use your bathroom,” said Dumbledore. 

“Oh,” said Slughorn, clearly disappointed. “Second on the left down the hall.” Dumbledore strode from the room.

Once the door had closed behind him, Slughorn fidgeted as silence permeated the room; he seemed uncertain as to what to do with himself. 

He shot a furtive look at Hari,“Don’t think I don’t know why he’s brought you,” he said abruptly. 

Hari merely looked at Slughorn; what was she supposed to do? Slughorn’s watery eyes slid over Hari’s scar, this time taking in the rest of her face. 

“You’ve got most your father’s features” 

“Yeah, I’ve been told,” said Hari. From the pictures in the album Hagrid complied for her she could admit her dad was a decent looking bloke—no Ginny my dad was not ‘hot’— but there was only so many times a girl could be compared to her father until she started wondering if she looked man-like. Hari had always wanted to be pretty like her mother in the old pictures, with her soft features. Sometimes Hari thought she was just an awkward jumble of hard edges; no matter how many times Hermione and Ginny said otherwise.

“Except for your eyes. You’ve got—” 

“My mother’s eyes, yeah.” Another common comment, pity her glasses made them look bug-like. 

“Hmpf. Yes, well. You shouldn’t have favourites as a teacher, of course, but she was one of mine. Your mother,” Slughorn added, in answer to Hari’s questioning look. “Lily Evans. One of the brightest I ever taught. Vivacious, you know. Charming girl. I used to tell her she ought to have been in my House. Very cheeky answers I used to get back too.” 

“Which was your House?” 

“I was Head of Slytherin,” said Slughorn. “Oh, now,” he went on quickly, seeing the expression on Hari’s face and wagging a stubby finger at her, “don’t go holding that against me! You’ll be Gryffindor like her, I suppose? Yes, it usually goes in families. Not always, though. Ever heard of Sirius Black? You must have done — been in the papers for the last couple of years — died a few weeks ago —” 

It was as though an invisible hand had twisted Hari’s intestines and held them tight.

“Well, anyway, he was a big pal of your father’s at school. The whole Black family had been in my House, but Sirius ended up in Gryffindor! Shame — he was a talented boy. I got his brother, Regulus, when he came along, but I’d have liked the set.” He sounded like an enthusiastic collector who had been outbid at auction.

 “Your mother was Muggle-born, of course. Couldn’t believe it when I found out. Thought she must have been pure-blood, she was so good.”

Hari felt her hackles rise at the words. 

“One of my best friends is Muggle-born,” she said curtly, “and she’s the best in our year.” 

“Funny how that sometimes happens, isn’t it?” said Slughorn. 

“Not really,” said Hari coldly. Slughorn looked upon her in surprise. 

“You mustn’t think I’m prejudiced!” he said. “No, no, no! Haven’t I just said your mother was one of my all-time favourite students? And there was Dirk Cresswell in the year after her too — now Head of the Goblin Liaison Office, of course — another Muggle-born, a very gifted student, and still gives me excellent inside information on the goings-on at Gringotts!”

Slughorn spent the next couple minutes droning on about all his connections; all former students that had gone to achieve a great number of things. Hari zoned out slightly as she thought about how Slughorn fell in the category of wizards that simultaneously held up the hierarchy in the Wizarding World but valued merit. The more people Hari met, the more she realized this mentality was the most dominant. Something in her revolted at the idea of forcing Muggle-borns to earn their spot by being brilliant while there was such a surplus of perfectly mediocre Pure-bloods. Crabbe and Goyle flashed through her mind.

As Slughorn returned to talking about the war Hari forced herself to pay attention.

“Still... the prudent wizard keeps his head down in such times. All very well for Dumbledore to talk, but taking up a post at Hogwarts just now would be tantamount to declaring my public allegiance to the Order of the Phoenix! And while I’m sure they’re very admirable and brave and all the rest of it, I don’t personally fancy the mortality rate —” 

“You don’t have to join the Order to teach at Hogwarts,” interrupted Hari. Dumbledore had brought her to convince Slughorn, she might as well help by doing more than just being visible and famous.

She continued, “Most of the teachers aren’t in it, and none of them has ever been killed — well, unless you count Quirrell, and he got what he deserved seeing as he was working with Voldemort.”

Hari’s eyes glazed over for a split-second as she was once again a tiny feral girl on top of a man emitting the wretched screams of one being burnt alive. She had gone for the eyes— Hari had overheard it in some old fighting movie, the ones Aunt Petunia watched when Uncle Vernon was out at the pubs— ‘go for the eyes kid, it’s a weak spot’. Her teeth bared as she dug her nails into his face, the smell of cooked flesh overtaking her senses. 

She unfurled her fists and felt the soft corduroy fabric of the armchair under her palm. Hari let the sensation bring her back into the plush, cluttered sitting room as her eyes refocused on Slughorn. Her walk down memory-lane so quick it was imperceptible to an eye untrained to Hari Potter’s mini episodes. 

“I reckon the staff are safer than most people while Dumbledore’s headmaster; he’s supposed to be the only one Voldemort ever feared, isn’t he?” Hari went on.

As if summoned Dumbledore reentered the room and Slughorn jumped as though he had forgotten he was in the house. 

Slughorn questioned,“Upset stomach?”

“No, I was merely reading the Muggle magazines,” said Dumbledore. “I do love knitting patterns. Well, Hari, we have trespassed upon Horace’s hospitality quite long enough; I think it is time for us to leave.” 

Not at all reluctant to obey, Hari jumped to her feet. 

Slughorn seemed taken aback. “You’re leaving?” 

“Yes, indeed. I think I know a lost cause when I see one.” 

“Lost...?” Slughorn seemed agitated. He twiddled his thumbs and fidgeted as he watched Dumbledore fasten his traveling cloak. 

“Well, I’m sorry you don’t want the job, Horace,” said Dumbledore, raising his hand in a farewell salute. “Hogwarts would have been glad to see you back again. Our greatly increased security notwithstanding, you will always be welcome to visit, should you wish to.” 

“Yes... well... very gracious... as I say...” 

“Good-bye, then.” 

“Bye,” Hari said, flashing him a tight smile.

They were at the front door when there was a shout from behind them. 

“All right, all right, I’ll do it!” Dumbledore turned to see Slughorn standing breathless in the doorway to the sitting room. 

“You will come out of retirement?” 

“Yes, yes,” said Slughorn impatiently. “I must be mad, but yes.” 

“Wonderful, ” said Dumbledore, beaming. “Then, Horace, we shall see you on the first of September.” 

“Yes, I daresay you will,” grunted Slughorn. As they set off down the garden path, Slughorn’s voice floated after them, “I’ll want a pay rise, Dumbledore!” Dumbledore chuckled. The garden gate swung shut behind them, and they set off back down the hill through the dark and the swirling mist. 

“Well done, Hari,” said Dumbledore. 

“…I didn’t do much professor,” said Hari admitted. 

“Oh yes you did. You showed Horace exactly how much he stands to gain by returning to Hogwarts. Did you like him?”

Hari chose her words carefully, “He’s interesting character.”

Dumbledore chuckled, “Horace likes his comfort. He also likes the company of the famous, the successful, and the powerful. He enjoys the feeling that he influences these people. He has never wanted to occupy the throne himself; he prefers the backseat — more room to spread out, you see. He used to handpick favourites at Hogwarts, sometimes for their ambition or their brains, sometimes for their charm or their talent, and he had an uncanny knack for choosing those who would go on to become outstanding in their various fields. Horace formed a kind of club of his favourites with himself at the centre, making introductions, forging useful contacts between members, and always reaping some kind of benefit in return, whether a free box of his favorite crystallized pineapple or the chance to recommend the next junior member of the Goblin Liaison Office.” 

Hari had a sudden and vivid mental image of a great spider— perhaps an arachnid— spinning a web around it, twitching a thread here and there to bring its large flies a little closer. How very Slytherin; his house indeed.

“I tell you all this,” Dumbledore continued, “not to turn you against Horace — or, as we must now call him, Professor Slughorn — but to put you on your guard. He will undoubtedly try to collect you, Hari. You would be the jewel of his collection; ‘the Girl Who Lived’... or, as they call you these days, ‘the Chosen One.’”

Her stomach clenched at the titles and clenched further when they once again apparated, this time to the Burrow. The familiar silhouette of the precariously towering house filled her with fondness.

Before he left Dumbledore headed into the garden shed, where they had a private chat.

She answered perfunctorily when he expressed his condolences for Sirius’ death and then shared her new found resolve to go through life the way Sirius would have wanted it. Hari added in a bit about taking out as many Death Eaters as possible, thinking it would show a spirit Dumbledore would appreciate from her. They spoke of the prophecy and sharing it with Ron and Hermione— she dreaded it but to be honest it was to be expected. Through it all she just kept wondering what Mrs.Weasley would have in that glorious kitchen.

Her interest was piqued when Dumbledore said, “On a different, though related, subject, it is my wish that you take private lessons with me this year.” 

“Private — with you?” asked Hari. 

“Yes. I think it is time that I took a greater hand in your education.” 

“What will you be teaching me, sir?” 

“Oh, a little of this, a little of that,” said Dumbledore airily. How deliciously vague. 

They parted ways and Hari headed into the Burrow, where Molly fussed about her ‘looking like a pack of bones’. She downed a bowl of scalding hot onion soup and a conversation with Mr. Weasley, who had just arrived from work, sleepiness slowly settling over her. At the first hint of a yawn she was shooed off to bed by Mrs. Weasley.

Passing by the nine-handed clock that showed each Weasley’s whereabouts— all nine of them pointing to ‘Mortal Peril’— she trekked up the stairs. George and Fred’s room had the slightly stale air that comes from disuse, the whole thing having been cleared out when they decided to live at the flat above the joke shop. The only stuff left in there were large brown boxes; and of course— the only thing Hari had eyes for in that moment— two beds. 

She collapsed on the closest one, kicking off her shoes, tossing her glasses onto the night-stand, and burrowing under the covers. As soon as her eyes fluttered shut Hari fell into the glorious unconsciousness lovingly referred to as sleep.