Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Wool's Orphanage
The sun was just beginning to peek through the window, dimly lighting the small, cold room where Harriet Potter Peverell spent her days. The Wool orphanage never seemed to have a warm atmosphere, not even in the summer. The air was thick with the smell of aged wood and dampness from the walls, covered in yellowed paint that had cracked over the years of neglect. The light filtering through the tattered curtains was weak, insufficient to lift the weight of the sadness that hung in the atmosphere.
Harriet lay in an iron bed, with sheets rougher than soft, stained in ways she couldn't remember if caused by her own dirt or the passage of time. The blanket covering her, worn and faded gray, barely kept her warm. With her eyes half open, she took a moment to observe the place where she had been trapped since her arrival.
She was an eleven-year-old girl, but her eyes, large and deep green, displayed the hardness of someone much older. Her brown hair, long down to the middle of her back, was messy from the night. She was thin, not from a lack of food, but from a lack of care. Her pale, marked face had a beauty that defined elegance even in its simplicity. Her cheeks were slightly sunken, and her lips red like crimson.
Harriet slowly got up, her bare feet touching the cold, creaky wooden floor. The room was narrow, barely enough for a bed, a table with a chair, and a window that looked out onto a gloomy backyard, surrounded by high brick walls that barely let any daylight through. The walls, despite being decorated with old propaganda posters, still bore marks from past blows. The low ceiling made it feel constantly confined, as if under a constant reminder of her status: an orphan, forgotten by all.
The matron of the orphanage, Mrs. Crabb, didn't take long to enter. She was a middle-aged woman, with a thick, emotionless face, always carrying a cold look as if her soul had been eroded by years of service to the orphanage. She wore a gray, outdated gown that she never took off, even on the hottest days of the year, as if her presence was reflected in the austerity of her clothing. Mrs. Crabb was undoubtedly a woman who enjoyed the suffering of others. Her voice, always authoritative, rose as she entered the room, causing Harriet to tense instantly.
"Get up, Potter Peverell!" the matron shouted, always using Harriet's full name. "You don't have time to be daydreaming! Breakfast is ready, and work awaits you."
Harriet sighed heavily, knowing that any response would be ignored. She was nothing more than a child who had to follow the rules of that place, no matter how much she wished to rebel. She got out of bed without saying a word, taking her time, as it was the only small rebellion she could afford.
The other children at the orphanage didn't help much. In general, the boys kept their distance, but Harriet always noticed how they laughed behind her back, whispering about her to each other. They looked at her as someone strange, a different girl who didn't fit into the gray world of Wool. Her clothes were dirty, her hair disheveled, but most of all, what scared them was that aura of disdain and sadness that had formed around her.
There was one who was always crueler than the others: Samuel. He had pale skin and deeply dark eyes, with dirty hair always stuck to his forehead. His words, always sharp, were like daggers that Harriet learned to dodge, but they never stopped hurting. Samuel called her "dirty," "undesirable," and often pushed her in the hallways. There wasn't a single day when he didn't try to make her feel even smaller than she already did. The other children, although they didn't dare to bother her directly, always watched her with curiosity, and some even joined in Samuel's taunts, especially because they feared becoming his next target.
On the other hand, there was a younger girl named Clara, with blonde hair and light blue eyes, who always looked at her from a distance, with a mix of fear and admiration. Clara didn't dare approach, but her gaze sometimes said something more. Harriet knew Clara wasn't like the others, but she couldn't trust her. No one in that place was trustworthy, at least not in her experience.
That day, like all the others, Harriet prepared for another day full of humiliations and forced labor, but something inside her told her that all of that would change. Something in her soul urged her to believe that her destiny was beyond the walls of that miserable orphanage. She didn't know what it was, but she was sure that one day, someone would come for her.
Like every other day, Harriet descended the orphanage stairs slowly, already used to the creaking wood under her feet. The echo of her steps resonated in the narrow, cold stairway, the hollow sound bouncing off the bare walls of the hallway. The matron, Mrs. Crabb, waited at the entrance to the dining room, watching with her cold gaze as each orphan took their place at the rickety chairs. The children murmured amongst themselves, some animated, others with the same indifference as always, but no one looked at Harriet. No one paid her any attention.
The orphanage dining room was a gloomy place. The walls were decorated with aged paintings of dark, desolate landscapes, and oil lamps hung from the ceiling, weakly lighting the space. The tables were long and narrow, the chairs worn by the years, and the smell of rancid food lingered in the air. The atmosphere of the room was tense, heavy, and always tinged with an uncomfortable stillness, as if the very place was suspended in time.
Harriet sat at the corner of the table, as usual. Most of the children grouped in other places, forming small cliques. The murmurs would quiet each time the matron made her rounds, but as soon as she left, the laughter and comments would resume, mocking those who sat alone.
Today, like always, the food was simple: oatmeal porridge, thick and poorly prepared, almost inedible. Harriet picked up the spoon and, despite how tasteless the meal was, devoured it without showing any signs of disgust. As she ate, her thoughts wandered, as if every bite was an excuse to enter her mind and analyze how she felt. She wondered who she really was. She felt that there was something inside her, something that made her different from the other children at Wool. Her strange dreams, the fragments of memories she couldn't understand, all of that troubled her. There was something inside her, a power she couldn't explain, a power that no one else seemed to have.
Sometimes, when she watched the other children laugh and fight among themselves, she couldn't help but feel that none of it fit. They were so simple, so... ordinary. There was nothing extraordinary about them, and yet, she couldn't stop feeling like an outsider, as if she were trapped in a reality that wasn't hers. She couldn't explain it, but there was something that didn't belong in that place, something that kept her distant.
Once she finished eating, as usual, the children were called to perform their daily work. The orphanage had one rule: after each meal, everyone had to help with the tasks of the day. Harriet knew she would be sent to the garden behind the building, as always. There, she would plant potatoes and carrots, a task that was never difficult, but certainly boring. The garden was in a deplorable state, with poorly cared-for plants and hard, compacted soil. As she worked, the air was always filled with the fragrance of damp earth, the only fresh scent she could find in the place.
The work was heavy and tedious, but Harriet never complained. Sweat dripped down her forehead, and drops fell onto her clothes, soaking them, but her expression remained impassive, focused on the task. She looked around, searching for her usual companion in these chores: Clara. Every day, without fail, Clara joined her. Though the girl wasn't usually so outgoing, her presence was a silent comfort. Clara, with her light blue eyes and blonde hair, was always by her side, working meticulously, without hurry, without words, but with a tacit connection. Harriet had never understood why Clara stayed close to her, despite the distance the other children kept between themselves and Harriet, but Clara's company had always been a breath of fresh air in the midst of her solitary existence.
As she placed the potatoes into the furrows, her mind wandered with those questions, unaware of the passing time, until a shadow was cast over the ground. She slowly lifted her gaze and saw a couple no older than 50 approaching from the edge of the garden. They stopped a few steps short of where she was, watching her silently. The man was tall and sturdy, with graying hair and a short beard, while the woman had dark hair, though slightly graying at the roots, and an expression that was serious but kind. Both were dressed elegantly, a stark contrast to the dirty, rustic environment of the orphanage.
The woman gave Harriet a faint smile as the man spoke softly. Harriet didn't fully understand, but she sensed they were talking about her.
"Look, dear, that girl seems to be one of the hardest workers," the man said in a gentle tone, though they didn't come too close. Harriet felt their eyes on her but didn't look directly at them. She remained focused on her task, wishing they wouldn't watch her anymore.
"Yes, there's something in her gaze. She doesn't seem like the other children," the woman replied, with a smile that could almost be considered a concern. Her voice was soft and filled with a tenderness that Harriet rarely heard. The woman paused for a moment, watching as the girl continued working, meticulously, as if she were used to being alone.
"Do you think she would adapt well with us?" the man asked, looking at the woman with a mix of doubt and hope.
The woman thought for a long moment. Her eyes scanned Harriet, noticing something that the others would never see: the girl's calmness, her ability to focus, and an inner strength that seemed to shine despite her situation. Finally, the woman nodded slowly.
"She could be..." she said, as she moved a little closer to Harriet. "Maybe she is the girl we've been looking for."
Harriet glanced at them briefly but didn't say anything. She knew that of all the places she could be observed, this was just another one to add to the list of people who looked at her without understanding her.
"What's your name?" the woman asked, straightforward, her gaze fixed on Harriet as if looking for something in her. Harriet briefly lifted her eyes, surprised by the question.
"Harriet..." she answered quietly, almost like a whisper. She wasn't used to speaking much, let alone being directly approached by strangers.
The woman smiled again, but this time with a more thoughtful expression. She briefly exchanged a look with her husband before refocusing on Harriet.
"Harriet..." she repeated softly. "What a lovely name. It's a pleasure to meet you."
The man nodded and observed the land she had been working. Then, with a lower, more thoughtful voice, he added:
"We're looking for a girl like you. Someone with... responsibility, with character. And it seems you have that. Would you like to leave this place someday?"
The words of the couple hung in the air, and Harriet’s heart began to race—not with the exhilaration of a dream coming true, but with the weight of uncertainty and fear. Leaving the orphanage? The thought seemed so impossible, so foreign to her. For as long as she could remember, Wool had been the only place she knew, the only life she had. Its walls had been her world, its cold corners the only ones to shelter her from the harshness of reality. The idea of stepping beyond those walls was as distant as a star in the sky, something she could never reach, no matter how hard she tried. "Leave?" she whispered the word, almost as if speaking it out loud would make it unreal, a fantasy that might dissolve with the first breath of doubt. It felt so wrong, so unsettling, to even consider. Her gaze drifted to the grim faces of the other children, the ones she had grown up with, who remained unaware of the conversation unfolding just a few feet away. She had always assumed this place was the only thing she deserved, the only life there was for someone like her.
The man, patient and unwavering, nodded firmly. "Yes. You wouldn't have to stay here any longer. You could come with us."
Harriet’s throat tightened. Her voice faltered, struggling to find its way out. She opened her mouth, but the words she longed to speak were lost in the air, swallowed by the overwhelming uncertainty that clung to her. The woman’s smile softened, a gentler curve of her lips this time, and Harriet thought she saw something more—genuine kindness, a flicker of understanding. The man’s eyes, sharp but kind, held hers for a moment, as if seeing something in her he was sure of, though Harriet couldn’t begin to understand it. “We’re not here to pressure you,” the woman said, her voice warm. “We simply... wanted to talk to you. There’s something special about you, Harriet. Something that makes us think you might have a better future than this.”
A better future? The words echoed in Harriet’s mind, turning over and over. Was that even possible? She had never considered herself special. She was just another orphan, just another forgotten soul among so many others. What could they see in her? What could anyone possibly want with someone like her? Her hands, still rough from the hours of work in the garden, trembled slightly at her sides. She clasped them together to hide the shaking.
The man spoke again, his voice low and reassuring. "We’d like you to think about it. We’ll talk to the matron and see what we can do." His words lingered, a promise wrapped in possibility. The couple turned to leave, their footsteps soft against the worn floorboards. Harriet stood frozen for a moment, her mind in turmoil. She watched them walk away, her chest tight with the conflicting emotions swirling inside her. Was there hope in their words, or was it simply another fleeting dream that would vanish in the morning light? Was this a second chance, or just another illusion?
As the couple disappeared into the shadows, a small spark flickered in Harriet’s heart. It was faint, but undeniable—a warmth she hadn’t felt in years. Could it be? She turned toward the dusty window, her eyes searching for the first light of dawn, wondering if, for once, there could be something beyond the darkness that had been her life. For the first time in a long time, a fragile seed of hope was planted inside her. She didn't know if it would take root, but it was there, and that was enough for now.