Chapter Text
On the 21st of June, 1980 at 11:15 a.m., Petunia Dursley gave birth to a perfectly healthy, blonde haired, blue-eyed girl. She was a darling thing, exactly everything that Petunia had ever wanted and more. And Vernon Dursley, doting husband that he was, would swear until the day he died that’d he’d never once, not even for a second, hoped for a boy instead of a girl.
On the 31st of July that same year, mere seconds shy of midnight, the Potters of Godric’s Hollow gave birth to their own little girl. Black haired where the Dursley girl was fair, and under much grimmer circumstances. They were in a magical hospital, quite the opposite of the one where the Dursley’s had stayed, and the dimly lit room had just been visited by the specter of a shimmering white dog with dark tidings. “It’s not your fault, James,” said Lily at once, stroking their baby’s thin cheek.
James was staring at the place where the ethereal hound had disappeared. “If I’d have been there,” he said, voice brittle, “I could have kept a look out—or dueled him myself. Sirius and I have been practicing. We took out the Longbottoms in a practice duel last week, and they’re the best aurors the Ministry has.”
“You were needed here,” insisted Lily.
“But the Prewett’s—.”
“He would have killed you too,” said Lily quietly. James looked up, and for a moment, they caught each other’s eye. “Here, do you want to hold her?”
Gently, James took the girl and cradled her in his arms. He couldn’t help but smile at least a little bit, despite what they’d just learned. “He might not have killed me. He might have asked us to join up again. And come to think of it, I actually look quite dashing in black.”
Lily exhaled a single chuckle and shook her head. “What would that be, the third time he’s tried to recruit us? Fourth?” She sat up straight in her hospital bed, crossed her arms in a haughty pose, curled her lip up on one side and with a serpentine drawl said, “Even those of impure blood may find a place amongst my ranks if they are sufficiently talented.”
James shuddered and clutched their baby closer. “Lily please, that was horrible.”
Lily collapsed back onto the bed, eyes twinkling. “That’ll be the Dark Lady Lillian to you, Potter.”
“I’m not calling you that.”
Lily smirked, “Oh no? May I remind you that I just carried around that baby of yours for the past nine months. I think I’m owed a bit of respect.” James rolled his eyes, but Lily was pleased to see that the humor glinting in them was genuine.
“She looks just like you, doesn’t she?”
James smiled, “I reckon she does. Except for the eyes of course. Those are your eyes.”
Now, the Potters of Godric’s Hollow were embroiled in a very dangerous war, one that the Dursleys knew absolutely nothing about (well Petunia may have known a bit, but she wasn’t the sort to admit it if she did). The Potters were both strong, and magically talented—remarkably so—but they were also quite young, and in the end, no match for the Dark Lord once he’d decided to destroy them. They were both killed hardly a year later, in their very own home, where the Dark Lord had sought them out specifically. Only their little girl, Harriet, survived. And that was where things got rather mysterious.
No one knew why nor how Harriet Potter managed to survive her encounter with the Dark Lord. One moment the Dark Lord and his masked followers were terrorizing Great Britain from the shadows, and then suddenly he was gone.
Some theorized it was love, and human sacrifice of course, that slayed the Dark Lord. Some thought the Potters had performed ancient pagan rituals to protect their precious girl, and Voldemort had stumbled into a well-laid trap when he broke into their cottage that Samhain night. But still there were a few others that wondered. After all, it must take great magic to deflect a killing curse—terrible, but great. And perhaps that sort of thing was innate.
~ * ~
“Are you a good witch or a bad witch?”
Harriet Potter crossed her arms and glared at her cousin Daisy Dursley and Daisy’s two, stupid friends. She knew very well what she was supposed to say, but it wasn’t fair. “Can’t I be Glinda this time?”
“No. You’re the Wicked Witch of the West,” said one of Daisy’s friends. She was tall for an eight-year old, though not as tall as Daisy.
“But I’m always the wicked witch. I want to be the good witch.”
“Well you can’t,” said the other one of Daisy’s friends.
“But—.”
“Just come and get us, Hairy!” said Daisy, and she pushed past Harriet to run off toward the little creek that cut through the far edge of the park.
The other two girls ran off in opposite directions, but Harriet followed Daisy. “If I catch you, then that means I can be Glinda next time,” called Harriet, once she reached the copse of trees near the creek.
“Daisy?”
She heard a giggle, and Harriet looked up—and then up some more, all the way up to the highest branch in the tree. “How’d you get up there?”
“Magic,” said Daisy with an air of great superiority.
Harriet blinked, impressed despite herself. She couldn’t begin to guess how to make herself fly up to the top of a tree. And then suddenly she felt a splash of water from the creek, and all at once her over-large jumper was thoroughly drenched. “Agh! Daisy!”
“You’re supposed to say you’re melting,” said Daisy.
“I’m not melting,” said Harriet, “I’m soaking wet. Aunt Petunia is going to kill me.”
Daisy laughed and jumped out of the tree. She seemed to float to the ground in slow motion, and when she landed in front of Harriet, she crossed her arms, looking smug. “You could use magic to dry yourself off.”
“I don’t know how,” admitted Harriet.
“Well that’s why you can’t be the good witch. You can either be the Wicked Witch of the West, or you can be the scarecrow. Those are your only choices.”
“I don’t want to be the scarecrow,” said Harriet.
“Well then, there you go.”
“You can’t just make up the rules, Daisy,” said Harriet, “It has to be fair.”
But Daisy wasn’t listening anymore. She’d walked back over toward the creek and begun tossing stones into it, making bigger and bigger splashes. And then all at once, Daisy had leapt back and landed on the muddy ground by the creek with a great cry of alarm.
“What? What’s the matter?” said Harriet, rushing over.
A moment later, Daisy’s friends came running over as well. “Daisy?” said one, “What happened? Did Hairy push you in the creek?”
“It’s a snake!” said Daisy, pointing toward the large stone she’d just unearthed.
Harriet looked down, and sure enough, a thin, brown spotted snake was slithering around on the mud near the creek bed. Harriet recoiled at first, just like the other girls, but she watched it move for a few seconds, slowly tasting the air around it, and she couldn’t help but feel just the smallest hint of fascination. She’d never seen a snake before after all, at least not in person.
As if sensing her gaze, the tiny snake looked up and made eye contact with Harriet. It tasted the air again, and then in a sibilant voice said, “Have you seen any frogs around here?”
A talking snake? Harriet supposed she’d seen weirder. “Frogs?” said Harriet, “Uh, no. Not recently.”
“Very well. Let me know if you see one. I’m very hungry.”
“Okay.”
“Ew, are you talking to it?” demanded one of Daisy’s friends.
Harriet shrugged, “He seems friendly.”
“Daisy, your cousin is such a freak,” said the girl.
“I know,” said Daisy, shaking her head and fixing Harriet with a disgusted look.
Harriet opened her mouth to defend herself. She wanted to tell them that it was perfectly normal to speak to someone who spoke to you first, and if anything, the other three girls were being weird by just ignoring the talking snake. It was a talking snake! It wasn’t like that’s something you see every day. The least they could do was answer it.
Harriet didn’t get a chance though. A woman’s voice called out from the area by the swing set, “Cheryl! LeAnn! Time to go home!” and the other two girls had to quickly bid their goodbyes.
Harriet glanced over to see if Daisy’s and her minder for the day, an old lady called Mrs. Figg, was ready for them as well. But the old woman was distractedly searching through her big old carpet bag.
She turned back to find Daisy looking at her with a raised eyebrow.
“What?” said Harriet.
“Were you really talking to that snake?”
Harriet shrugged, “You heard him say he was looking for a frog. Seemed rude not to answer.”
“I didn’t hear it say anything,” said Daisy, “All it did was hiss and look at you. And then you hissed back, and it almost seemed like… like it understood you.”
“I didn’t hiss,” said Harriet, “I just told him I hadn’t seen any frogs. You heard me.”
Daisy considered her for a long moment. “I could only hear hissing. I think it must be magic,” she said.
Harriet looked up, mood instantly brightening. “Really? I did magic to talk to the snake?”
“You must’ve done,” said Daisy.
Harriet grinned. Every once in a while, she could make things happen, like Daisy did, but it was always unexpected. And she always ended up in terrible trouble for it with Aunt Petunia.
“I’ve an idea,” said Daisy, pointing behind Harriet to Mr. Tibbies, one of Mrs. Figg’s many cats. He’d followed them over to the creek, and was lying fast asleep on a boulder beside the tree that Daisy had climbed. “Have you ever seen a cat jump when it spots a cucumber?”
Harriet shook her head.
“It’s a laugh. They jump because they think there’s a snake.”
Harriet nodded, thinking that it did sound pretty funny.
“You should tell the snake to go over near Mr. Tibbies. I bet he’d jump up to the very top of the tree if he spotted a real snake.”
“I don’t know,” said Harriet, biting her lip as she looked at the sleeping Mr. Tibbies, “It seems kind of mean.”
“Oh go on Harriet. It’ll be funny.”
Harriet reached for a strand of hair and pulled her fingers through it a few times, still considering. Her hair was always very tangled, so pulling her fingers through it was a task Harriet had to engage in pretty often.
“I’ll let you be Glinda next time.”
She paused, fingers caught in particularly thick knot. “Really?”
“Yeah. But just the once.”
Harriet shrugged and turned to find the snake.
He was still slithering along the creek bed, and Harriet briefly took a moment to decide how best to address him. “Excuse me, Mr. Snake?”
The snake turned to look at her. “What is it? I’m searching for my dinner.”
“Well I saw a frog just now,” she told the snake. “He was hopping over here by this big boulder.”
“Indeed?” said the snake, turning and beginning to move in the direction Harriet indicated.
“Yeah, it’s just over there.”
The snake slowly made its way toward Mr. Tibbies, and Daisy slapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.
“I don’t smell a frog,” said the snake petulantly.
“Well you’re nearly there,” said Harriet, fully focused on her task now. She hardly even noticed when old Mrs. Figg approached them, curious about what they were up to.
“It’s a really big frog,” invented Harriet, “And it’s sleeping on top of this boulder, just go up and have a look.”
The snake made it to the top and approached the sleeping Mr. Tibbies. He flicked out his tongue, “That’s not a frog,” he said. But he didn’t get a chance to say anything else, because in that moment, Mr. Tibbies opened his eyes and spotted the skinny little snake, slithering around by his tail.
Mr. Tibbies screeched. As Daisy had predicted, he leapt so high off the boulder, he almost reached the top of the tree. He landed several feet away, every single strand of his fur stood at full attention, and he tore off through the park like his tail was on fire.
“Wait! Mr. Tibbies!” cried Mrs. Figg in alarm.
Daisy and Harriet had both doubled over in laughter.
And then Mrs. Figg turned back to face them. Her lined face was pinched in fury, and she dropped her carpet bag. “You wicked, wicked thing!” she yelled, bearing down on Harriet. “Using snake speech to scare my Mr. Tibbies. Only the darkest witches and wizards that ever lived spoke to snakes. Your Aunt will be hearing about this, oh yes she will!”
And with that, Mrs. Figg turned and began marching back toward the entrance of the park.
Harriet had stopped laughing while Mrs. Figg scolded her. Daisy, on the other hand, had only laughed all the more. “See!” said Daisy, in between laughs, “See, didn’t I tell you? You are the wicked one.”
Harriet bit her lip, her hand reaching up of its own accord to try and detangle another strand of her hair. “Mrs. Figg seemed pretty upset,” she said.
“Who cares,” said Daisy, “Did you see how he jumped? That was,” she paused, trying to catch her breath, “That was the funniest thing I ever… ever saw. You earned it Potter. You get to be Glinda next time.”
Harriet pulled her fingers free from her hair and ducked her shoulders. “I don’t think I should be Glinda next time,” she said, “Maybe Mrs. Figg was right. Maybe I really am the wicked witch.”
“Of course, you are,” said Daisy with a careless shrug of her own golden blonde hair. “Now we should probably head home before you get into any more trouble. My mum’s already going to be furious with you.”
Harriet sighed.
Daisy chuckled one more time and began walking toward the park’s gate. “Oi, you coming? Best not wait around too long, you never know when a house might land on your head.”
~ * ~
Harriet awoke to a loud rapping at her bedroom door. “Up! Get up!”
“Coming Aunt Petunia,” called Harriet, without bothering to open her eyes. She’d stayed up late last night, trying to make a candle wick light up using just her magic. Daisy had put her up to it of course, and the abandoned candle on her bedside table was a sore reminder of her failure.
“Don’t make me come in there,” warned Aunt Petunia a few minutes later, when Harriet had fallen back to sleep, “Come down and help me with breakfast.”
Harriet groaned and rolled out of bed. She quickly changed into some of Daisy’s old hand-me-downs, which the girl had somehow managed to turn all black for Harriet—on account of the fact that Harriet was supposed to be a dark, dark witch. It’d been more than two years since they’d last played Wizards of Oz, and still Daisy insisted on calling her that.
Harriet arrived in the kitchen to find all manner of pots and pans in use. There was bacon frying in one pan, sausage in another, eggs boiling on the back burner, and orange scones in the oven (from the smell of it). “What’s going on?” asked Harriet, who was certain there was still another week before Daisy’s birthday.
“Mind the bacon,” said Aunt Petunia, holding a large bowl of fruit salad. “I’m going to check on Vernon.”
Harriet carefully turned a few pieces of bacon and did her best to keep her hair out of it this time—Petunia had not been pleased last time Harriet had ruined their food. But what was going on? This was a large breakfast for just the four of them—maybe Aunt Marge was coming to visit again?
“Aunt Petunia,” said Harriet, when her Aunt returned with an empty coffee mug, “Er, what’s this all about?”
“You’ll see soon enough,” she snapped, “Now watch those sausages. Vernon hates when they’re too black.”
Harriet sighed, “Yes Aunt Petunia.”
Half an hour later, Aunt Petunia had managed to rile Daisy out of bed, and the four of them sat down at the table for what Harriet considered to be a remarkably formal sort of affair for breakfast.
“Have a scone dear,” said Aunt Petunia, attempting to place one on Daisy’s plate.
“I’m not hungry,” said Daisy and Harriet scoffed at her. Harriet had been sent to bed without dinner last night for being cheeky to her uncle about something or other—Harriet hardly even remembered at this point.
“I’ll take it,” said Harriet.
“After Daisy,” insisted Aunt Petunia, “This is her day after all.”
Harriet refrained from saying something smart like, “Every day is Daisy day in the Dursley household,” and instead just asked, “Why?”
Aunt Petunia pressed her lips firmly together and put a scone on Uncle Vernon’s plate. “Thanks Pet,” he said, not looking away from his newspaper.
Daisy was still looking tired, but she blinked a few times, chased a piece of pineapple from the fruit salad around her plate for a minute and then asked, “What is so special about today?”
Petunia was quiet for a moment, and then, she stood up straight and grabbed for something off the mantle behind her. “You received a letter.”
Daisy glanced over and made bewildered eye contact with Harriet. Harriet could only shrug. She had no idea what was so special about receiving a letter.
Then Aunt Petunia handed the letter to Daisy, and Harriet could see that it was written on fine, thick parchment. Green calligraphy addressed the letter to:
Daisy Anne Dursley
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging, Surrey
“Hogwarts?” said Daisy, and then her eyes opened wide, “School of Witchcraft and Wizardry? No way!”
“It’s your letter of invitation,” said Aunt Petunia proudly, “They want you to attend school there.” She paused and looked at Vernon, “It’s supposed to be the finest school of magic in the entire world. Very exclusive, and a boarding school.”
“Exclusive boarding school, eh?” said Vernon, “Sounds like Smeltings.” He put his paper down and smiled fondly at his daughter. “And where else for our Daisy? You’ll do us proud, I expect.”
Harriet decided quickly that she’d had just about enough of this. “What about me?”
“What about you?” snapped Aunt Petunia, “There’s no letter here for you.”
Harriet rolled her eyes, “That’s fine. I wouldn’t want to go to school with Daisy anyway. But there must be some other school of magic I can attend.”
Aunt Petunia’s narrow shoulders straightened up, “You’ll attend Stonewall High, and you’ll be grateful for it.”
“But I want to learn magic too!” said Harriet, and she was surprised at her own vehemence. She was a witch, she was! Good witch, bad witch, she didn’t care. Harriet Potter was a witch, and she was going to learn magic if it was the last thing she did.
“If you think we’re going to pay for you to learn magic, then—.”
“I’ll get a scholarship!” insisted Harriet.
Daisy snorted. “A scholarship? You? For what? You can barely do magic at all.”
“I can talk to snakes,” said Harriet, “And… and remember that time I made that horrible jumper shrink? Or when I made my hair grow back after Aunt Petunia tried to cut it? What about that time I wound up on the roof of the cafeteria? That was magic, I just know it.”
“Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t,” said Aunt Petunia primly, “The fact of the matter is, our Daisy is going to Hogwarts and today is her day. You’re not going to spoil it for her.”
“But—.”
“No buts,” snapped Aunt Petunia.
Before she could really think about it, Harriet found herself storming back up to her bedroom, breakfast uneaten. She was still hungry, but Harriet couldn’t bear to look at Daisy’s stupid, smug face for one second more. She slammed her bedroom door behind her and collapsed onto her bed, burying her face in her one measly pillow.
She didn’t leave her room for the rest of the day—not when Aunt Petunia told her to wash the dishes or sweep the floor, not when Uncle Vernon scolded her to listen to her aunt, and certainly not when Daisy knocked to inform Harriet that Daisy and Aunt Petunia would be taking a trip to diagonally, whatever that even was, to buy Daisy’s school supplies.
Around sunset, her stomach gave a great rumble, but Harriet ignored it. She’d been focusing on her stupid candle for the past hour, and she was determined to make it catch fire. She’d tried almost everything by now—pleading with the wick, yelling at it, glaring at it for long enough to make her eyes water.
Good witch, bad witch, Harriet didn’t care. She just had to be a witch. She had to be!
Harriet sighed and began pacing the few short steps from one end of her room to the other. She couldn’t really explain why it was so important to her—why it rankled so much that Aunt Petunia wanted to send Harriet to Stonewall High instead of a magic school. It just… it wasn’t right. Harriet was a witch! She belonged in a school with other witches and wizards. Harriet kept repeating that to herself as she paced, returning every few steps to glare again at the stubborn candle.
It was late at night when Harriet heard the front door open and the excited footsteps of her cousin racing up the stairs. Without knocking, Daisy burst into her room and began dumping out bags and bags of the most amazing things Harriet had ever seen in her life.
“These are the schoolbooks, look!”
Harriet glanced at the titles. Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, she read, The Standard Book of Spells Grade 1.
“And look, this is a teacup that will keep the tea warm as long as you please. And this is candy that tastes like everything. Here try this one!”
“It looks like a bogey,” said Harriet.
“It is!” said Daisy excitedly.
“I don’t want to eat a bogey.”
“Oi, lighten up, Potter. Have this one then. It’s grass.”
Harriet sighed and stepped away from Daisy and Daisy’s many miraculous purchases. “Go away Daisy,” she said, “I want to go to sleep.”
“But you didn’t even see the best part,” said Daisy, and Harriet couldn’t help but watch as Daisy reached into one of the bags to remove a long, slender box.
“Mr. Ollivander said it’s made of willow. It’s swishy and great for Charms, just like Aunt Lily’s.”
Harriet blinked, her mouth suddenly going dry, “Uh, what did you say?”
“I said, my wand is almost exactly the same as Aunt Lily’s. The wandmaker said the wood even came from the same willow tree. Wicked, right? It’s like the wands could sense we were related.”
Harriet found her attention utterly transfixed on the length of wood in her cousin’s hand. Maybe it was her imagination, but Harriet swore she could feel a sort of warmth emanating from it. “Can I try it?” she found herself asking.
“What? Are you mental? No, you can’t try it. Ugh, you’re such a muggle. You can’t just try someone else’s wand.”
Harriet gazed at the length of soft brown wood, tapered on one end, and intricately carved into a red hewn handle on the other. There were soft looking leaves carved into the handle, and long vines that wrapped around, curving all the way to the tip. It was somehow the most beautiful thing Harriet had ever seen. “What’s a muggle?”
“It’s someone that doesn’t have magic,” said Daisy, carefully putting her wand back in its box.
Harriet watched it closely, eyes glued to the wood until it was firmly hidden from sight. “I do have magic,” said Harriet.
“Prove it then,” said Daisy, “Go on. Have you managed to set the candle on fire?”
“No,” admitted Harriet.
“Well then. I reckon you should keep practicing, shouldn’t you?”
Daisy gathered her belongings and left the room. Feeling more despair than Harriet had ever felt before, she collapsed onto her bed and pressed her eyes closed. Her cheeks were wet and burning, and it felt suddenly all too clear why Harriet had wanted to be a witch so badly. It was because Lily, Harriet’s mother had been a witch. She suspected her father had been a witch—er wizard as well. She didn’t know too much about them other than that. Aunt Petunia didn’t like to talk about it. But Harriet hadn’t needed Aunt Petunia to tell her that they’d loved her. Just like Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon loved Daisy, Harriet’s parents had felt just the same about Harriet before they’d died. She knew it.
She could feel it sometimes, she thought. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but every once in a while, Harriet thought she could remember what it was like to have two loving parents of her own. They would have wanted Harriet to go to a fancy boarding school for magic—maybe not Hogwarts, but somewhere. And they would have taken her to get her school supplies, and bought her a wand, and magical candy, and maybe even a broomstick. She would have gotten a wand, just like her mum’s, made from the same exact tree and everything.
Harriet sniffled and wiped her eyes off on the sleeve of her dark grey jumper.
Only… only Daisy had gotten there first. Daisy had wound up with a wand made from the same tree as Harriet’s mother. Daisy was the one going to magic school, and Harriet? Harriet couldn’t even light a candlewick with her magic.
~ * ~
Harriet spent the next month in a very dark mood indeed. She was snippy with her aunt and uncle—even more so than usual, and their arguments nearly always lead back to the discussion of magic school and Harriet’s perspective attendance at such an institution.
“Comb your hair.”
“Why?” complained Harriet, “It’s not like anyone’s going to see it—except Mrs. Figg, and I doubt she cares.”
Mrs. Figg still thought Harriet was some horrible delinquent after she’d set that snake on Mr. Tibbies. Whenever Harriet and Daisy were sent to her house for minding, she’d let Daisy out to play in the garden, but Harriet had to sit still for hours so that Mrs. Figg could keep an eye on her and make sure she didn’t cause any more trouble. Harriet had had to endure years of suspicion over one stupid prank, and she was frankly not in the mood for that today.
“Just do it,” said Aunt Petunia, pressing a hand to her forehead. Thankfully, she didn’t threaten to cut off Harriet’s hair again.
“And clean your room!” she added, curling her lip in distaste after she glanced at the dirty laundry piling up on Harriet’s bedroom floor.
“What’s the point? Nobody ever goes in there. It’s not like you ever let me have friends over.”
There was an unattractive snort from the direction of the staircase, and then Daisy appeared—with hair perfectly coiffed and clothes pressed. “What friends? You don’t have any friends.”
She carried a leather backpack over one shoulder and Harriet knew she’d stuck a set of witch’s robes inside of it. They were thick material, corn flower blue and trimmed with these fine satin buttons. They were beautiful, and they’d looked absolutely terrible on Harriet when she’d snuck into Daisy’s room to try them on. They’d been much too long on her, and they’d bunched around the shoulders, not to mention the pale color of the robes had made her look peaky.
Harriet’s fists balled up in frustration. Aunt Petunia stepped swiftly between them and only then did Harriet notice the adult-sized robe draped over her aunt’s arm. Even she got to dress like a witch, and as far as Harriet knew, the woman could do even less magic than Harriet.
“Now, Harriet,” she said, “And then hurry up downstairs so we can drop you off at Mrs. Figg’s.”
Harriet turned to her aunt. “Can’t I go with you? Please? I want to see Diagon Alley.”
“Don’t be absurd,” said Aunt Petunia, “You’ll wander off and get yourself blown up like your parents.”
“I won’t!”
“Pet!” called Uncle Vernon before Harriet could think up a suitably scathing retort, “There’s another letter from Daisy’s school.”
Harriet followed Aunt Petunia and Daisy down to the kitchen where Uncle Vernon was standing at the counter, tiny eyes squinched up and jowls aquiver like he’d only just learned reading that very morning. His attention was trained on another one of those parchment letters which Daisy’s school had sent. “I think there’s been some kind of mistake,” he said, “They addressed it to the girl.”
“Harriet,” she muttered. She wasn’t the girl.
Aunt Petunia snatched the letter and tore it open.
Harriet watched as Aunt Petunia’s eyes moved quickly back and forth over the parchment. Abruptly, she looked up and hissed, “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“Don’t lie,” snapped Aunt Petunia, “You wrote to them, didn’t you? You couldn’t stand the idea that Daisy might be better than you. You wrote to them and begged them to let you in, didn’t you? Admit it!”
Harriet opened her mouth, ready to spew all sorts of vitriol. Her aunt was always accusing her of the most ridiculous things: forcing random people to bow to her in town, stealing her aunt’s make up (she was pretty sure that was actually Daisy), making her flower beds wither and die. It wasn’t fair. And it didn’t even make sense!
“Why—?” she began, but paused and took a breath, trying to speak more calmly, “Why would I do that?”
It was no good though. As soon as she’d asked the first rhetorical question, about a hundred more jumped to the forefront of her brain. “How would I do that? I don’t know the school’s address, do I? And I don’t even want to go to school with Daisy. I already told you that, but you never listen to me!”
“You watch that tone, girl!” said Uncle Vernon.
“I’m tired of watching my tone!” she said, “I didn’t do anything! It’s not fair!” Harriet punctuated this last pronouncement by banging her fist on the counter—unfortunately landing right on top of Aunt Petunia’s crystal butter dish. The thing cracked in half and several crystal shards embedded themselves in Harriet’s fist.
Harriet hissed and cradled her hand to her chest. The lights in the kitchen flickered.
“Sheesh, calm down!” said Daisy, “Merlin you’re such a freak.”
Harriet felt her eyes start to water but she did her best to ignore it. She looked up to meet Aunt Petunia’s gaze and was not the least bit surprised to find her looking absolutely furious. “That was a wedding gift from your grandmother!” she said.
Harriet opened her mouth—and then promptly closed it. This entire conversation was turning into a disaster, a train wreck and a half. She’d likely already earned herself an extra list of chores and an early bedtime for the week. Now she had an injured hand on top of it. Things were looking bleaker by the second.
“I don’t want to go to school with Daisy,” she reiterated, trying to force some calmness into her voice. It was difficult, and Aunt Petunia wasn’t helping matters, muttering about Harriet’s ungratefulness and appalling lack of manners while she swept up the broken crystal.
Uncle Vernon grunted and handed Aunt Petunia a wet rag to pick up the smaller pieces of glass. “Just write them back and tell them… tell them,” Harriet paused, considering. Perhaps it was optimistic but, “Tell them I’m going somewhere else—to a different magic school.”
“We’re not paying for you to go to magic school,” said Uncle Vernon at once, “You’re going to Stonewall and you’ll be thankful it’s not a Juvenile Detention Center—which is what you’d deserve.”
“Ugh, fine!” shouted Harriet. Her hand gave a nasty twinge and Harriet saw a thin streak of blood leaking from one of the spots where the glass had gotten stuck. Suddenly Harriet wanted to be alone.
“Give me that,” snapped Aunt Petunia, reaching for Harriet’s hand.
“No! I’ll deal with it myself,” said Harriet, and she turned on her heal and marched out of the room. She’d made it to the foot of the stairs before she heard Uncle Vernon grumbling to Daisy and Aunt Petunia.
“Mark my words, that girl will grow up to be a criminal—just like that wretched godfather of hers, locked up in Alcatraz.”
“Azkaban,” corrected Aunt Petunia.
“What’s Azkaban?” asked Daisy.
“Wizarding prison,” said Aunt Petunia, “Very dangerous place. Impossible to escape.”
Harriet froze, one foot raised for the stairs. Her injured hand was still clutched close to her chest, but suddenly it didn’t seem so important anymore. Godfather? What godfather?
Ignoring the blood on her hand, Harriet hurried straight back to the kitchen.
“I have a godfather? A wizard?”
Aunt Petunia pursed her lips, “Don’t ask questions.”
“I do, don’t I? What’s his name? Can I write to him? Why’s he in wizarding prison?”
“Enough! Get yourself cleaned up so we can go to Mrs. Figg’s. We’re already late.”
“But—.”
“Listen to your aunt, girl!” suddenly roared Uncle Vernon. He’d gotten to his feet and now towered over Harriet, “I’ve just about had it with your attitude lately. Your aunt feeds you, clothes you, provides you with a roof over your head. You’ll show her the respect she deserves! Is that understood?”
There was about three seconds in which Harriet considered arguing back. Instead she sagged, gripped her injured hand, and muttered an angry, “Fine.”
She slowly made her way to the bathroom upstairs and couldn’t help but wonder what it would have been like to grow up with this unknown godfather of hers instead of the Dursley’s. She wondered if he would have listened to her. If he would have called her Harriet—or Harry even.
Harriet sighed and looked at herself in the mirror. “Are you a good witch or a bad witch?” she asked, her voice lilting into the sing song chant that Daisy favored.
Apparently, Harriet’s godfather was the bad kind. Locked up in wizarding prison, was he? Well that explained why he wasn’t around to visit her.
Harriet closed her eyes and found herself imagining a man with long black hair, sparkling eyes and a roguish grin. He was holding a wand, like Daisy’s, but longer and made of darker wood. There was a purple cat. “What’s this mischief?” he said, “You’re a little marauder, aren’t you Harry?”
He sounded impossibly fond.