Harriet Potter and the Summer She Worked Retail

Exposition: The Realisation

Harriet Juniper Potter had never worried about money before.

That was a blatant lie, of course. Prior to turning eleven, being introduced to the wizarding world and the sizable vault her parents had left her, she was under the impression that she was little more than a financial burden. A freaky, no-good financial strain on the Dursley's coffers.

This was another blatant lie. Whilst her Aunt Petunia was a housewife who spent her days attending neighbourhood socials, her Uncle was a director of a branch in his company, Grunnings. And even if Vernon wasn't earning a very nice pay packet every month, Harriet was sure that the endless shit they bought Dudley gutted their bank account far more than whatever they had to buy her.

Still, being constantly told that her needs were unnecessary as she grew up had done a certain kind of damage to her psyche. Harriet couldn't help but think of the entire year at Primary she was unable to see the whiteboard but had refused to confess to her relatives that she needed glasses. Or, at the tender age of seven, being too scared to tell her Aunt Petunia that her school shoes were far too small and were riddled with holes. Or, in the middle of year 5, when she'd received the puberty talk and her relatives were given a pamphlet on preparing for puberty, Vernon had scoffed at the idea of buying the suggested products. Harriet remembered panicking, stealing all of the sanitary freebies in the public toilets, stashing them away, ready to ration them like a sneaky little hoarder.

It was the kind of panic that clawed at her insides, climbing up until it settled into a lump in her throat. It was the stress and strain she carried in the hunch of her shoulders, the creases on her forehead and the bags under her eyes.

But then it all melted away when Griphook opened her vault door. She had gained other things to worry about, namely that her parents had been murdered by a psychopath and she was some kind of wizarding Jesus, but the years of worrying about money had been lifted from her shoulders at the piles and piles of gold, silver and bronze coins that lined her vault floor. And Harriet wasn't splashy with the money, either. For a child, she had been damn right frugal.

She paid for her school board each year, and all the equipment necessary for her schooling. She stockpiled toiletries, sanitary products and, after 2nd year, long life food from muggle supermarkets, squirrelling it away in various hiding spots. With each Diagon trip, she treated herself with a couple of new books, or a pretty hair bobble or-or something that made Harriet happy, making up for her meager amount of belongings she owned. And in the Summer she turned 14, she converted her galleons into 60 British pounds (exactly 12 galleons, 2 sickles and 26 Knuts, wasn't that just so peculiar) and took to the muggle world to buy herself her own wardrobe, sick of wearing too-large clothes given to her out of spite. And even then she wasn't silly about her money. She bought herself new underwear and a good, sturdy pair of boots that she promised herself she would learn to enchant to make them last longer. Everything else she sourced from charity shops, spending hours combing through rails and bargain bins to find some nice bits. By the end of the day she ended up with a pair of new jeans, some Chunky -and only slightly threadbare- knitted jumpers that reminded her of the Weasleys, some rollnecks for the cold Scottish winter, a couple of cheap plain short sleeve tops and an unopened pack of nightgowns. But the true treasures found were the corduroy trousers in a gryffindor red, the pale blue swing skirt she found that came with a flutter of petticoats and the pretty white summer dress that looked as though it belonged in a Jane Austen novel, complete with delicately embroidered flowers, puff sleeves and an empire bust. For the first time in her life, Harriet felt feminine and normal.

But that was then and now it was the summer after 4th year, Cedric had just died, Harriet constantly shook with temors left by the cruciatus and for the first time all summer the deep haze had lifted as she sat at her tiny, wobbly desk. It was littered with strewn pieces of parchment, some of it haphazardly shuffled into a pile which covered the framed photograph of her best friends - picture Ron blew raspberries in protest until picture Hermione got him in a headlock, all of this unseen by Harriet. Her head was bent low, quill in hand as she finished her frantic calculations, muttering to herself and worrying the quill between her teeth, not realising how mad she looked with her ink stained lips and blown-wide eyes.

She was going to run out of money within the next couple of years. Before her seventeenth birthday, even!

She was going to have to get a job.

...Bollocks.