Chapter Text
Reaching up into the cabinet for plates had her wincing, pain flaring up in her back. Her back was littered with barely healed lash wounds from her uncle’s belt. Anytime she stretched or moved, they tugged uncomfortably.
She never winced when they tugged, never grimaced, never let the pain she was in show on her face. Showing weakness of any kind, especially surrounded by predators as she was, was a death wish.
“Hurry up, stupid girl!” Her aunt yelled, her shrill voice grating on Harriet’s sensitive ears.
She carefully grabbed the plates, balancing on the stool as she carefully stepped down. Harriet placed the plates on the counter, scowling as she started to place the food on them. A serving of mashed potatoes, a scoop of beans, some carrots, and chicken.
The food she had cooked, food she wouldn't be allowed to eat. Harriet scowled harder, only to carefully remove the expression from her face as she set the plates on the table one by one. She left the room swiftly, not wanting to chance running into her whale of a cousin or her bastard of an uncle.
Petunia glowered at her once she looked up from her magazine. Her aunt was perched on the couch, attempting to appear elegant and poised. It just made her look uncomfortable.
“Finally done?” the woman sneered, rising from the couch with a small stumble. Harriet bit her cheek to keep from laughing.” Go to the attic. It needs to be cleaned, brat. Throw anything useless out. And if I find out you kept anything, it’ll be the belt for you.”
Harriet nodded, an especially meek look on her face for her aunt to discard. Her aunt leaves, calling for Dudley and Vernon from up the stairs. Harriet sighed soundlessly, an angry scowl on her face as soon as her back turned.
She quickly heads for the attic, soundless steps barely gracing the floor. Thankfully she misses running into either her cousin or her uncle. The attic, a place she had never cleaned before, is a dust-filled hell.
Even the latter to get up in it is coated in dust. As it hits the floor, dust falls from it in a wave. She grimaces, sneezing as it tickles her nose. Every surface inside the small, darkly lit room was dusty. The light bulb still works, but it flickers now and then.
Harriet stares around the space, taking in how some of the boxes seem to be way bigger than her. She was tiny enough, half-starved as she was. Some had stuff spilling out of the top. She sighs softly, rubbing her nose to prevent another sneeze.
She approaches the smallest box she can find. Unlabeled cardboard and nothing else. She frowns as she pulls it open. It's light, light enough for her to pick up easily. Harriet comes face to face with a box full of lacy underwear. All soft colors and some have bows on them.
She drops it quickly, disgusted, harriet shakes her hands out, as if to get rid of a taint. Her nose wrinkles as she shoves the box closer to the attic hole to drop the box out of. She goes to the next box, hoping it will not be something equally gross.
Christmas decorations were in her second box, she slid it to the farthest wall, far away from the entrance to the attic. The third box was full of old pictures, polaroids by the looks of them. Harriet frowned softly as she peered into the box.
Her aunt would probably want to keep them, Harriet thought to herself. She carefully closed the lid of the box and slid it next to the Christmas stuff. Two more boxes of Christmas things, another box of weird pictures, all of them she slid against the wall.
As Harriet turns to look through another box, her knee bangs right into a solid wooden trunk. The pain brings tears to her eyes, as abrupt as it is. She hisses out a breath, hands cupping her knee as she glares at the trunk.
She opens the trunk out of some revenge plan. Her hands tingle as she prys the lid open. Inside the trunk is an arrangement of things that couldnt possibly have belonged to her aunt. Red and gold clothing, posters, books, bottles, and dried plants all rest in her view at the top of the trunk.
Carefully, she grabs one of the books off of the top. Written in sparkling gold is a name she doesn't recognize. Lily J. Evans is stylized and beautiful. She flips to the first page, seeing it filled with words written in beautiful calligraphy.
Harriet stares at the book, knowing it was a journal for this person. The trunk must be Lily’s things. Harriet closes the book, carefully placing it down where she had found it. She shuts the lid to the trunk, feeling oddly hollow.
Her aunt only had one sibling, a sister. Harriet’s mom.
***
Harriet spends the rest of her evening cleaning the attic. She doesn't finish that night, but her aunt doesn't seem bothered. Harriet doesn't really think much, the rest of the night. Not even when she’s curled up in her bed.
She couldn't comprehend what she had found. Lily Evans's journal, her mom's journal. Harriet swallows harshly, quickly finishing up the breakfast so she can go back to the attic. The trunk is exactly where she had left it.
It seems ominous now, just sitting on the floor innocently. Her hands shake as she approaches it, sweat clinging to her skin and making her hands clammy. She exhales and opens the lid. Her mom’s journal sits on the top, on a bed of black, red, and gold cloth.
Harriet gently grabs the journal, flipping it open to the first page. Even with it flipped open she can't bring herself to read it. She swallows, flips it shut, and sets it to the side. She grabs a different book, a common courtesy by someone named Jessica Swimmer.
She doesn't open the book, fearing what might lay within it. With a heavy heart, she starts looking through the rest. More books, more clothes, all colored red and gold and black. There are bottles and a granite bowl with a black stone rock, remnants of something colored dusty white on one side.
Harriet finds one book, ancient looking with worn yellow pages, called The Marauder’s Tomb . It sounds dramatic, especially considering four teenage boys wrote it. She wondered why her mother had it. There were feather quills, loose pieces of parchment, and so many other unexplainable things. As well as the continuation of her journals.
Harriet had no idea what was going on inside her mother’s trunk, but it was absolutely not normal. She decided, once she had everything strewn around her, that she would get her answers from her mom's journal. Maybe Lily Evans wrote an explanation for what she sees, for what was in her trunk.
As she packs everything neatly back into her mother’s trunk, she leaves her journal out. She sets it on the lid once she shuts it. Then, Harriet stands and goes back to cleaning the attic. Her hands itch with curiosity. She was wanting to know, wanting to learn.
Cleaning the attic seems to take a million years, hours pass by with her throwing boxes down the ladder, vacuuming the dust-up, swiping the cobwebs away. She cleans and cleans until the attic is no longer a dirty dusty hellscape.
Then she takes the boxes, empties them into trash bags, and folds the boxes into what's left of the bags. She drags them to the trash bin, shoving the bags inside. Harriet finally finishes, just in time for Vernon to get home.
While she had been doing that, while Petunia visited misses-across-the-road, Harriet hid her mother’s journal in her cupboard. Under her piles of clothes and what broken toys she had snuck away.
***
A witch. Lily Evans, her mom, was a witch. The resounding shock she felt had her clamping a hand over her mouth, lest the hysterical giggles escape her. Despite what she sometimes liked to think, her cupboard was not soundproof.
Her mom was the reason she was the way she was. Odd, abnormal, a freak. Everything her aunt and uncle called her, was because she was like her mom. Harriet had noticed odd things that had happened around her, usually in highly stressful situations that usually involved her uncle or cousin.
She had done impossible things, mostly because of them. She had turned her teacher’s hair blue, only after being made fun of. She had teleported onto the roof, but only because Dudley was chasing her. She had grown all her hair back after Petunia shaved it all off. She had knocked over one of her aunt's vases, shattered across the carpet, and in the panic, she had fixed it completely.
Harriet could only consider these instances as magic. She had explained it away in her mind, maybe as some sort of defensive mechanism. Magic, from her aunt's point of view, was evil, abnormal, something only freaks do. And what was Harriet, if not a freak?
Of course, there were other things her aunt hated or thought abnormal. Like performers, circuses, carnivals, dancers, gymnasts, brightly colored hair, boys who were physically affectionate with their friends, and so many other things. Harriet had heard her rants, heard her scream and ramble about the odd folk, the ones she thought were less than her, simply because she was “normal”.
Harriet had also decided, early on after one too many rants, that anything her aunt found disturbing, she’d embrace full-heartedly. Circling back around to the fact her mom was magic and she was almost certainly magic too, Harriet was still mostly in disbelief.
Magic existed, and not just in the television sense. No, like actual, real-life magic. Magic that used motions, and words to invoke reactions. Magic that used wands, potions, newt’s eyes, and all of that. She wondered how her mother died, then.
They weren't drunks, obviously. Maybe a car crash could have happened, but they were magic. Almost invincible, in her mind at least. Harriet was determined to find out what happened to her parents. That meant she’d need to read all of her mom's journals.
Harriet hoped that any of her questions would be answered.
***
The marauder’s tomb sat in her hands. She had taken a break from reading her mom’s journal. Harriet would admit to being overwhelmed. She figured the marauder’s tomb would be more lighthearted.
She didn't expect to find out her dad and his friends were mischief makers of the highest caliber. The book, now that she had brought it into the light, was a soft red color with the words in gold lettering. She had grabbed it, a few other books, and the continuation of her mom’s journals from the attic when her aunt left her in the house by herself.
It didn't happen often, but Petunia knew Harriet feared her uncle. So she’d threaten her, then leave off to one of the neighbor’s houses. It made it easy to sneak little bites of food or broken toys she could play with when they locked her away.
Harriet sighed softly, rubbing her thumb over the gold letters. The cool plastic feels nice under her thumb. She softly opens the cover. Her father, prongs as he’s referenced in the book, was a prankster. He and his three friends, padfoot, wormtail, and Mooney. She had no idea where the names came from.
The start of the book was dated, with a list of helpful spells for the so-called marauders to use. One’s that turned people’s hair, skin, and clothes into colors. One that stuck them almost permanently to surfaces, one that had plates spill food into people's laps. All sorts of spells.
It was fascinating. The book was full of prank ideas and creations from the four boys, now men. Harriet had to close her eyes when they had a full conversation in the pages, writing to each other as they, presumably, passed the book back and forth. It made her heart hurt, an unbearable thing.
Harriet had never mourned her parents, she knew next to nothing about them. What she had known was only bad things. Her parents were unemployed, drunks, and drug users. They hadn't wanted her. They had died in a car crash and she was dumped with Petunia and her family.
She hadn't even known their names before she found her mom’s school trunk. Now she knew so much, but so little at the same time. She doesn't know her mom’s favorite color or her dad’s favorite word. She knows Lily Evans, Potter after she married, was a witch. And she knows prongs, her father, was a wizard.
The books were helpful, yet they caused her pain. She figured it was a normal thing, to start to grieve the death of her parents so late in her life. She was nine years old, nine years of them being dead. Nine years of the durselys and their tender care.
Harriet suddenly felt old, weary even. She had barely experienced the world and there was a whole other one. She closed the book, sighing once more, and placed it under her clothes with the rest.
She needed to sleep some.
***
When Harriet woke up, she had a plan in her mind. A plan some insanely stupid she had to stop and stare at the dirty wall of her cupboard for a few minutes. It was erratically reckless of her, this plan, so stupid, so foolish. She felt like an idiot for even entertaining the idea of what she was thinking of doing.
See, if her mom was magic if her mom had been taken away to a magic school to learn it. If her dad was magic. Then surely, surely, her aunt had to have known. Especially every time Harriet experienced an unexplainable event.
She was counting on it, in fact. Her aunt had never bothered to keep her opinions quiet, she was outspoken. The plan banked on that as well, her reckless idea. Harriet hoped Petunia would be so enraged she admitted it. Admitted to Lily being magic, to Harriet being magic.
It was still a ridiculously idiotic plan.
This plan, her stupid plan, would get her into trouble. Would likely see her starved for a while, to learn to keep her mouth shut. Would likely see her locked away, but when didn't they lock her away? It seemed like everything she did had them locking her away, starving her, or adding chores to the ever-growing list.
So what did it matter? Harriet needed to know. She needed to understand.
With a deep sigh, Harriet clambered out of her cupboard and went to the kitchen. Her aunt was already in there, scowling down at the morning paper. Harriet’s stomach fluttered with nerves as she formulated the question.
She cracked eggs into a hot pan, and the sizzle of the bacon filled the silent room.” Aunt Petunia?” she asked into the soundless kitchen.
Her aunt slapped the paper onto the table,” what?” she spit wapishly.
Harriet grimaced, not looking at the woman.” was my mom magic?” she asked quickly.
The resulting silence is deafening. Harriet glances a glance at her aunt over her shoulder. The contorted fury that covers the woman's face seems to cover her speechless outrage perfectly. Harriet swallows nervously, keeping an eye on the breakfast so it doesn't burn.
The silence seems to take forever, her aunt stays still. Her face morphs further, unreadable emotions trailing along behind the anger, and something that Harriet would say was sadness.
“How. dare. you.” the woman whispers suddenly. She breaks the astonished silence easily, her hands clenching and her face turning a violent puce color. “How DARE you speak to me about that- that woman! How dare you ask about magic !”
Harriet watches the woman rage with wide eyes. The resulting rant is informative but very dangerous. Petunia threatens her with Vernon, with time locked away, with no food. She threatens her and spills all of her bitterness about Lily while she does.
The brunette watches with keen eyes. Information about her mom and aunt poured out of the raging woman easily. Even as Harriet is banished outside, she feels success settle over her like a cloak.
***
Harriet figures that she deals with her subsequent isolation easily enough. It was a consequence she was familiar with. She’d deal with the boredom by reading through all the books she had smuggled away. She’d deal with the cramping hunger pains like she always did, by pressing her knees into her stomach and waiting for them to go away.
After Petunia had some time to cool down, she dragged Harriet in from the garden and shoved her into the cupboard. Harriet was small, small enough that Petunia could yank her around easily enough.
Harriet might come up to just below her stomach, but she was rake-thin, skinny like a twig, short enough to duck between an adult's legs to escape, but easily grabbable. Her uncle could hall her around like a plastic bag, light in a breeze.
She hadn't even tried to escape like she had said, the consequences of a stupid, reckless idea. It had gotten her what she wanted though, so she wouldn't complain too much. Her isolation gave her time to think, and really parse through her thoughts.
It gave her time to adjust to the idea. Magic was real, this was a fact of life- aparaently . Her parents had died, though it was likely not from a car crash like Petunia had said. As the woman was a liar and Harriet knew better than to trust her words.
Her mom was magic, as was her dad. There was a school for people with magic, people like her . It was to teach them and it was called Hogwarts. This school had four houses, though Harriet only knew two of their names. Which were Gryffindor, her parent's house, and Slytherin, which was her mom’s friend's house.
The sorting was done with a magical hat that could sing. Her dad was mischievous and had three close friends. All four of them were pranksters. Her dad was skilled and smart. Her mom loved charms class, but also loved potions. She was skilled in both, plus creating spells.
She had fallen out with her friend during her fifth year, but she had gotten together with Harriet’s dad during her sixth. Her dad’s name was James Potter and Lily had loathed him for a long time before something had changed.
Harriet liked knowing these things. She liked knowing so much about her parents. She certainly liked knowing things about them that the Dursleys didn't know. Not everything she learned was happy, of course, but some things were best left unsaid.
She had read most of her mom’s journals, except for the last one. She couldnt bring herself to. She had flipped through it, finding the unfinished pages daunting. Harriet hadn't been able to do it, to read the last journal her mom had written in.
So she didn't. She instead read the other journals again, learning about her mom's friends and anything she could glean about the ‘loathed’ James Potter from her writing. Her mom had some close friends, girls named Mary McDonald, Marlene McKinnon, and someone named Magnolia Frost.
Magnolia featured in a lot of her writings, but only after her third year. Her mom sometimes referred to magnolia as a word Harriet didn't understand, ‘ genderfluid’. The explanation hadn't helped much either.
Perhaps it was a magic thing, being able to switch genders at will. Sometimes Magnolia was referred to as Lia, the girl. And sometimes Magnolia was referred to as Mags, the boy. Other times, magnolia was simply magnolia, with neither she nor he used to refer to them.
It was fascinating. Harriet found herself searching for every bit of information on magnolia frost, just as she did her parents. Genderfluid must be a magic thing because Harriet found it so captivating.
***
Despite loving reading her mom’s journals, they could only hold her attention for so long. Harriet liked having the other books, especially the ones about magic, to read as well. It was one day, the cupboard door was still locked, though she could hear the Dursleys stomping through the house, where she discovered her mom’s potion book.
It was tucked between a journal and a charms textbook. Advanced potion-making the book was called, by someone named Libatius Borage. It was full of interesting tidbits and facts, but it was also full of potion recipes.
Like one called veritaserum, a truth potion used for criminals to get them to confess their crimes. Or another called polyjuice potion, was a copycat potion used to mimic a person's appearance and voice. All it needed was DNA added to the potion.
They were fascinating, though the instructions were unclear and messy. Her mom had cleared some of them up, but the rest just made no sense.
While some of it seemed like utter nonsense, there was something that Harriet recognized. Like lavender, a herb used in a ‘calming drought’. Or rosemary, which was used in several potions. Harriet had cooked with rosemary before, it was a shock to find it could be used in magical potions.
One of her neighbors, who had sometimes watched her while the Dursleys went on trips, grew lavender and a few other herbs she recognized from the book in her garden. It was wild to think about, but the more she thought about it, the more she thought about all her interactions with Mrs. Figg.
Her curiosity stirs to life at her complicated thoughts. She pauses in reading the potions textbook to think about Mrs. Figg. It was too much of a coincidence , Harriet thought. There was no way that crazy old lady was magic.
Sure, her cats were odd and far too intelligent. Sure, she sometimes said things that seemed like pure nonsense. But there was no way she was part of this fantastical magical world Harriet was learning about in her mom's journals.
Mrs. Figg was insane, her house always smelled like lemon, cats, and ash. Her cakes were always too hard to chew and her tea was far too bitter. Harriet gaped as the pieces aligned like a puzzle in her mind.
Every time Mrs. Figg would get started on a tangent, she’d cut herself off mid-word, but only because she didn't want to mention the magical world to Harriet! Shock vibrated down her spine as she thought over every interaction. She picked through her memory with a fin-toothed comb.
Alright, Mrs. Figg was somehow in the know about the magical world. She grew herbs for potions in her backyard, which Harriet had easy access to. Harriet shakes herself, she doesn't need to think anymore about Mrs. figg or she might do something stupid, like confront her.
It doesn't matter that Mrs. Figg knows, or that she kept it from Harriet.
***
Curiosity would be Harriet’s downfall. This much was obvious. She had gotten herself into trouble over curiosity so many times. Not even just with her relatives, no it was everywhere else too.
Like at school, she stole a book because the librarian wouldn't let her check it out. Or like the time Mrs. Danver wouldn't let her into her yard with the rest of the kids to show off her chicks, so Harriet snuck in during the night.
Of course, she hadn't been caught those times either. She was rather sneaky, a habit of hers that had served her well. Her curiosity had led her to do stupid things, especially like smuggling her mom’s magical books down from the attic or asking her aunt about her mom.
All of her problems, well not all , could probably be found to be stemmed from curiosity. So it was no wonder that she found herself in Mrs. Figg’s backyard with a pair of garden shears and an old used plastic bag she had scrounged from the garbage.
She was going to make a potion, even if it killed her. She had been cooped up for far too long, with nothing but magical, fantastical books to stifle her boredom. Harriet had thought long and hard and couldnt seem to help herself.
Harriet had read through the marauder’s tomb and the advanced potion-making to find the simplest recipe. The advanced potion-making book was the most complicated, along with the later pages of the marauder’s tomb . She wasnt going to let that stop her.
She had already planned it out. She could get water from the tap, one of Petunia’s old pans that she never used, and the herbs from Mrs. Figg’s garden, and she could make a small fire in the garden shed.
It seemed so easy, so simple. Harriet was an idiot . Nothing had ever been simple or easy for her. Which is why she had gotten herself locked out of the house during the night for making a mess of dinner. Which was why she was sneaking into Mrs. Figg’s backyard with a plastic bag and garden shears to snip some clippings from her herbs.
Harriet had never felt more ridiculous than she did crouching alongside Mrs. Figg’s house with her shears and bag clenched tightly in her hand. She watched the shadows from the window as Mrs. Figg puttered around her house.
She’d need to be quick and quiet. Those damned cats would likely try to eat her if she drew their attention. With all the stealth and grace of a particularly scared mouse, Harriet crept alongside the building until she reached the fence. The gate was shut.
The gate. Was shut .
With a stifled scream, she glowered at the very shut gate. If she didn't think it would get her caught, she’d curse at the thing. With a deep breath, she rose from her crouch, sending suspicious glances over her shoulder.
She was only four houses away from number four, her aunt's house. Harriet carefully set her things down and approached the fence. If someone were to witness her, they’d think she was staring down a bomb.
She just needed to get it over with. It would be loud. It would suck. And she’d certainly need to get out of there fast, but she needed to get it done.
“The things I do for my curiosity,” she muttered, only a tad bitter.
Her hands shook with anticipation and adrenaline as she grabbed the metal latch. A small clink came from it as she lifted it to unhook the mouth from the pole. Her heart was pounding in her chest as she slowly pushed the gate open.
The chainlink fence creaks and groans as she shoves it open. The whole time her face is set into an angry scowl, as if it's the gate's fault for being so noisy. Which it is . As soon as she has it open enough to slip through it, she grabs her bag and shears from the ground, and squishes through.
Every noise it makes as she slowly pushes it back to rest against the metal pole it connects to, she grimaces. She doesn't lock it, that's an idiotic thing to do, as she’ll need to leave through it. She sucks in a breath and crouches back down.
Harriet was lucky not to have been caught, now she just needed that luck to carry on for the rest of the night. With a soft sigh, she starts creeping along the way. The garden full of herbs and other plants was in the very back.
She crept along, slow and steady, careful not to step on anything but grass. None of the cats seemed to be in the back, despite the corpse of a bird lying innocently on the back porch step. Harriet was thankful, grateful even.
The garden was full of colorful plants, ranging from flowers to dill to carrots, all neatly tucked into raised garden beds. They were mixed through, herbs resting alongside flowers and vegetables.
Harriet ignored the juicy-looking tomatoes and the nice green cucumbers, even as her stomach disagreed. She had only come for herbs to make potions, she wouldn't steal Mrs. Figgs's food. Even though it looked delicious.
She shook her head and separated the bag and shears. She clipped a few sprigs off the rosemary bush and stuffed them into her bag. Her eyes strayed back to the tomatoes.
One couldnt hurt, right? Just one. Harriet thought, staring longingly.
With a careful movement, she grabbed the smallest one on the plant and tugged it off. She brought the red vegetable to her mouth and bit down. Her eyes slid shut as she gobbled it down quickly.
It had been so good she might cry. She didn't though, she swiped her juice-covered hands on the ground and used her shirt to wipe her mouth off, then she went right back to cutting the herbs.
Harriet took a few flowers alongside the herbs because she had read that flowers had magical properties as well. She took only a few snips of them, hopefully, Mrs. Figg wouldn't notice. She was soon done, with a bag full of plants and the taste of success.
The only thing she had to do was walk out. That was all, simply go back the way she came. Only, as Harriet turned around to do just that, she came face to face with one of Mrs. Figg’s cats. It was an ugly thing, too large for a normal housecat and long-haired. It was brown and had the face of a squashed rat.
They were locked in a staring contest. Green eyes staring down into yellow. Harriet blinked first and the cat let out a yowl. Harriet flinched at the high-pitched noise, her head darting up to stare at the back door.
“Shit!” she hissed, scrambling to her feet and running. She hit the back fence of Mrs. Figg’s backyard hard, the chain links juggling around noisily as she scrambled over it.
Thankfully it was a short fence. She caught sight of Mrs. Figg’s head poking out the door just as she dashed down the small alley that separated the neighboring yards. She hid behind one of the houses that didn't have a fence, hoping she hadn't been caught.
With a hand held against her heart, she started to take deep breaths, trying to calm down. Her heart pounded in her ears. A small smile crawled across her face as she stared up into the night sky, giddiness bubbled up her throat, making her let out a breathless laugh.
She dropped her clippings to cover her mouth with her other hand, laughter pouring out of her. There Harriet crouched, laughing like a lunatic as she stared up into the night sky. It was only once she calmed down, however, that she noticed the lack of garden shears.