Chapter Text
Hattie woke with a start. Her eyes snapped open, and she recoiled as a jolt of pain stabbed through her forehead. It was the kind of ache that hadn’t visited her in years. Not since Professor Quirrell’s clammy fingers had brushed against her skin, with Voldemort on the back of his head shouting to kill her. She swallowed hard, trying to steady her breathing, her hands trembling as she rubbed at the temple that throbbed like a warning bell.
Bits of the nightmare still flooded her mind. Voldemort whispering to someone she recognized in a flash: Peter Pettigrew. She could see the dusty blonde-haired man trembling, wringing his hands while a giant snake coiled around furniture in a Muggle house. And then… a scream. A Muggle, stricken and lifeless, falling as Voldemort cast the killing curse. Hattie shivered violently, curling the blankets around her small frame as if they could shield her from the echoes of that dream.
Her mind was already racing with what she would write in her next letter. Sirius. Her godfather. She had been writing to him all summer. Somehow, knowing he was out there, even hiding, made her feel less alone when the nightmares came. She sat up, the ache in her forehead dulling to a steady throb, and quietly padded to her desk and reached for the parchment on her bedside table.
Dear Sirius, she began, her hand shaking slightly as the letters formed. The words poured out faster than she could think, the panic of the dream spilling onto the page:
“Something awful happened last night… I had a dream, or maybe a memory, I don’t know… Voldemort, Peter Pettigrew, a giant snake… and a Muggle died. My scar hurt so much I thought I might-”
She paused, biting her lip. She could never quite write everything. Even to Sirius, there were things too sharp to fully commit to paper. But she could tell him enough, the way her nightmares had grown darker now that summer was ending, the way the pain of her scar had returned like it had years ago.
“…I don’t know what to do. I’m scared, but I don’t want to be. I know you’ve told me to stay safe and to write if I need help. I… I need to write. Please, if you can, answer soon.”
She didn’t know how to finish the letter or if she should rewrite it to sound less scared. Her stomach growled, though, and she left the letter unfinished at her desk.
The house was quiet. Ever since she had told the Dursleys about her godfather, Sirius Black the escaped convict who, she had hinted, cared for her deeply and would do anything for her, they’d taken to leaving her alone more and more often. It seemed her mention of him had worked better than any spell. Earlier that summer, Petunia had even persuaded Vernon that Hattie could stay home by herself while they went on holiday to the beach. It had been the best summer weekend since she had lost their love.
Her stomach growled, and she combed through her wild dark brown hair with her fingers. She glanced at the clock. Breakfast. She had started helping Petunia early in the mornings, before Vernon and Dudley ambled out of their beds, because that meant she got some of the more fresh helpings – she had been tired of getting Dudley’s leftovers.
Pulling herself up, she smoothed her clothes and tiptoed down the hall.
“Morning,” Hattie said softly, not wanting to startle her aunt.
Petunia glanced up and gave her a brisk nod. “Morning. Set the table.”
Her hands shook slightly as she set the table, not from fear of Petunia scolding her, but from the leftover rush of the nightmare still prickling through her veins. She poured tea, put some bread in the toaster, and laid out the bacon as evenly as she could. The smell of frying fat mingled with the faint scent of cleaning products, that sterile, too-perfect smell that always clung to Number Four, Privet Drive.
When she finished, she glanced up. Petunia was watching her from the counter, a hand wrapped tight around the handle of the frying pan, as if she’d just remembered Hattie wasn’t quite… normal.
“Thank you,” Petunia said eventually, her tone clipped but softer than usual. “You can eat before the boys get down.”
Hattie allowed herself a small, tired smile. Maybe Petunia did care, just a little, or maybe she was still worried what might happen if Hattie tattled to her godfather, the escaped murderer who’d do anything for her. Either way, the moment was strange enough that Hattie sat without arguing. She buttered a piece of toast and had just taken a bite when heavy footsteps thundered down the stairs.
“Morning, Dad!” Dudley’s voice echoed through the hallway, followed by a louder, gruffer, “Morning? What’s good about it?” from Vernon Dursley.
The kitchen door swung open, and both Dursleys appeared. Dudley was dressed in a tracksuit several sizes too small, his blond hair flattened in patches from sleep. Vernon, red-faced and bristling, dressed in a thick robe.
“What’s this?” Vernon demanded, eyeing the table. “No sausages?”
“Grapefruit,” Petunia said, pouring him tea. “And low-fat spread.”
Vernon’s face turned a deeper shade of puce. “Grapefruit?” he repeated, as if she’d just sworn in front of him. “What in blazes is wrong with having bacon?”
“The nurse from Smeltings said-” Petunia began.
“Oh, the nurse,” Vernon interrupted, throwing up his hands. “What would she know about proper English breakfasts?”
“She knows,” Petunia said firmly, “that Dudley’s blood pressure is far too high for a boy his age.”
Dudley slumped into his chair, poking the plate in front of him.
Vernon shot Petunia a glare. “I thought that woman was exaggerating.”
Petunia pursed her lips. “She wasn’t. I won’t have my Dudley collapsing at school.”
Hattie hid a small smile behind her teacup. The image of Dudley collapsing during P.E. wasn’t something she’d ever wish for… but it wasn’t a terrible picture either.
Vernon noticed her smirk. “And what are you grinning about?” he barked.
“Nothing,” Hattie said quickly, her eyes dropping to her plate.
The room fell silent except for the scrape of cutlery and Dudley’s occasional theatrical groan. Then, just as Vernon was grumbling about the “state of modern food,” the doorbell rang.
“Who on earth-?” Petunia began.
Vernon’s glare swung toward Hattie. “Go get it.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you!” he thundered. “You’re done eating.”
Hattie bit her tongue and left the kitchen. The doorbell rang again as she reached the front hall. She opened the door to find the postman on the stoop, a broad grin splitting his face.
“Morning,” he said, holding up an envelope. “Got one here for you, Miss Potter. Thought I’d best deliver it myself!”
Hattie’s eyebrows rose. The envelope was covered with stamps of every color, some even layered on top of one another. The postman chuckled. “They must’ve wanted to make sure it got here!”
“Thank you,” she said, taking it carefully.
“Pleasure,” he said, still smiling as he walked away.
When she shut the door, Hattie stared down at the envelope, dumbfounded. She turned it over and saw her name was written in an unfamiliar handwriting.
Dear Hattie,
We’re all so excited for the Quidditch World Cup! Arthur’s got tickets from work – top box, can you believe it? We’d love for you to come stay with us and go to the match. You can stay through the end of summer, if you like. Ron’s beside himself. Ginny is excited to spend time with you too!
We’ll be by to pick you up in a few days. Hope we put enough stamps on this!
Love,
Molly Weasley.
Hattie’s grin stretched so wide her face hurt. The World Cup! She could hardly breathe for excitement. Clutching the letter, she dashed back to the kitchen.
“Uncle Vernon! Aunt Petunia!” she said, breathless. “A letter from Mrs. Weasley! They’ve invited me to go to the Quidditch World Cup and stay with them for the rest of summer! Can I go?”
Vernon looked up, his expression souring the instant he saw the envelope—then turning to outrage when he caught sight of the stamps. Hattie thanked Merlin that he glossed over her use of the word ‘Quidditch.’ He hated magical words and she normally tried to avoid them, but it had come out in her excitement.
“What’s this?” he demanded, snatching it from her. “Look at this! Covered in stamps! Every last inch! The postman will think we’re a house full of lunatics!”
“He laughed,” Hattie said quickly. “He thought it was funny…”
Vernon’s mustache bristled. “Funny? It’s abnormal!” he bellowed.
Petunia laid a hand on his arm. “Vernon, dear…”
But he wasn’t finished. “You’ve made us a laughingstock in this neighborhood, girl! A laughingstock! The postman is probably telling everyone on the street!”
Hattie bit her lip, clutching the edge of the counter. “Please,” she said quietly. “I really want to go. I’ll be out of your way the rest of summer.”
Vernon opened his mouth to retort, but Petunia cut in smoothly. “Actually,” she said, “if she goes, we could book that proper holiday you wanted. The one in Majorca. A full two weeks this time.”
Vernon blinked. “Majorca?”
“Yes,” Petunia said, tilting her head meaningfully. “Without having to worry about… her lazing around our house.”
For a moment, Vernon’s face worked furiously between outrage and temptation. Finally, he grunted, “Well… if it gets her out of here…”
Hattie’s heart leapt. “So…I can go?”
Vernon looked like he’d bitten into a lemon. “Fine. Go. But don’t expect us to drive you to wherever it is!”
“I won’t!” Hattie said, hardly able to keep her voice steady. “Thank you! Both of you!”
She hesitated, taking half a step forward, as if to hug Petunia, but stopped herself. Petunia gave her a stiff nod, eyes darting toward Vernon as if to say, go while he’s still in a good mood. Hattie didn’t need telling twice. She darted upstairs, the letter clutched to her chest. Her room felt brighter somehow, sunlight spilling through the curtains. Hedwig was on her perch, but another owl was there too, tiny and hyperactive, flapping its wings excitedly.
“Pigwidgeon!” Hattie laughed. Ron’s ridiculous new owl swooped in circles before dropping a crumpled letter on her desk.
She unfolded it quickly.
Hattie,
Mum’s sent you a letter too, but I wanted to make sure you knew. We’ve got tickets to the World Cup (can you believe it?) and Mum says you can stay till school starts. Hermione is coming as well. Write back quick so we can tell Dad! I’ve told them you said yes anyways, so we’ll be there Sunday at 5 o’clock to pick you up! Pig’ll wait for your answer (he’s very proud of himself, don’t laugh).
—Ron
Hattie grinned so hard her cheeks hurt. She grabbed a quill and parchment.
Ron,
Got your letter! Tell your mum I said thank you a million times. I can’t wait! World Cup, your house, you and Hermione, everything! I’ll see you soon.
—Hattie
She rolled the letter, tied it to Pigwidgeon’s leg, and watched the tiny owl zip off out the window with a proud squeak.
Then she turned to her half-finished letter to Sirius. The parchment still sat on her desk where she’d left it that morning. She picked up her quill and added a final few lines:
P.S. I’m going to the Quidditch World Cup with the Weasleys, and I’ll be staying with them the rest of summer. If you need to reach me, send your letter there. Hope you’re all right. —Hattie
She folded it neatly, sealed it, and turned to Hedwig, who watched her with keen amber eyes.
“Take this to Sirius, girl,” she said softly. “I know you’ll find him.”
Hedwig gave a gentle hoot, nipped her finger affectionately, and swept out the window into the bright morning sky. Hattie turned to her room and frantically began to pack, readying for the next day (Sunday) at 5pm.
-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-
It was barely half past four the following day, but Hattie sat neatly on the bottom steps of the stairs in the foyer, her trunk packed and ready by the umbrella stand. Petunia had spent the morning on the phone confirming their seaside hotel booking, something about “the view of the pier” and “Dudley’s dietary needs.” Vernon had muttered about traffic and motorway gas prices for the better part of an hour. Every so often, one of them would glance into the hallway, see Hattie waiting there, and promptly turn away.
They hadn’t said a word to her since breakfast.
At ten minutes to five, Hattie checked the clock for what must have been the fiftieth time. Her hands fidgeted in her lap. She didn’t know exactly how the Weasleys would arrive, but she suspected the car. They’d used a flying one to get her, Hermione, and the entire Weasley brood to Hogwarts once after Dobby sealed the passage to Platform 9 3/4. But that was two years ago, and she couldn’t imagine the Weasleys would bring a flying car to a muggle neighborhood.
At ten past five, Vernon appeared in the hallway, his watch chain glinting against his enormous stomach. “Well,” he said loudly, “it seems your lot have forgotten you, eh?”
“They haven’t,” she said, trying to sound confident.
“Oh, haven’t they?” Vernon’s mustache quivered as he smirked. “Five o’clock came and went. What’s the matter? They couldn’t afford the petrol?”
Dudley lumbered in behind him, smirking down at Hattie. “Maybe they decided not to come,” he said through a crunch. “Maybe they got sick of her.”
“Quiet, Dudders,” Vernon said fondly, though his eyes glinted toward Hattie. “Wouldn’t blame them, mind you. I’d change my mind too if it meant driving halfway across the country for-”
He didn’t finish.
A deep thud echoed through the sitting room.
All three turned and ran into the sitting room.
BANG! The sound came again, from somewhere behind the boarded-up fireplace.
Petunia shrieked from the kitchen, “Vernon! What was that?”
Another, louder BANG followed by several muffled voices.
“Told you we should’ve let Ron go first!”
“Blimey, it’s blocked!”
“Move over, George, you’re standing on my foot!”
Hattie’s eyes widened. “Oh no,” she murmured.
Vernon turned puce. “What the? Who’s in my fireplace!?”
Before anyone could answer, there was a series of frantic thuds and scraping noises, then a final explosion of sound and the entire boarded-up fireplace burst outward in a shower of soot and broken plaster. Petunia screamed. Dudley dove behind the sofa. Four figures spilled out of the gaping hole, coughing and blackened from head to toe.
“Everyone all right?” came Arthur Weasley’s voice, cheerful but winded. He straightened, dusting himself off, spectacles askew, his thinning red hair sprinkled with ash. “Good gracious! Terribly sorry about that! I was told you had a fireplace connection here. I didn’t know it had been blocked off!”
Fred and George were grinning wildly despite being coated in soot, and Ron was spluttering, wiping ash from his face.
Vernon stood frozen for a heartbeat, eyes bulging. “What-what is this? What have you done to my wall!?”
Arthur looked mortified. “Ah….er…. sorry about the damage! Just a bit of a mishap with the Floo Network. Happens all the time! I can fix it in a jiffy-” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wand. At the sight of the wand, Vernon’s face deepened in color.
“NO YOU BLOODY WELL CAN’T!” Vernon roared, face purple now. “PUT THAT STICK AWAY!”
Arthur blinked. “My wand?”
“YES! WAND! MAGIC! NONE OF IT IN THIS HOUSE!” Vernon bellowed.
Hattie’s face burned. “Mr. Weasley. It’s all right. Really. I-”
Ron turned to her then, his face lighting up despite the soot. “Hattie!” he said, his grin breaking into something softer. “You’re ready then?”
“Since last night,” she said. “Been waiting all day.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, a bit sheepish. “Sorry we’re late! Dad had to argue with the Floo people about authorization forms.”
Arthur, still trying to placate Vernon, turned back to her and smiled kindly. “Good to see you again, Hattie. I’m afraid we’ve made rather a dramatic entrance.”
“You can say that again,” Vernon muttered furiously.
Arthur offered his hand. “Arthur Weasley, sir. And these are my sons: Fred, George, and Ron.”
Fred gave an exaggerated bow. “At your service!”
George winked. “Lovely place you’ve got here! Very… tidy.”
Vernon sputtered. “TIDY!? YOU-YOU BLEW A HOLE IN MY LIVING ROOM!”
Arthur flushed. “Quite right, yes. My apologies again. Just a small structural miscommunication. I’ll have it fixed. Just let me-”
He pulled out his wand again, but Vernon shouted, “NO!” loud enough to rattle the windows. “If you so much as twitch that thing I’ll have you sued! Arrested! I’ll-”
Arthur froze, wand half-raised. “Ah… right. Of course. Muggle legal procedures, yes. Best not to interfere.” He slipped the wand back into his pocket, still looking mortified.
“George,” he said quickly, turning toward the boys, “you and Fred take Hattie’s trunk. Ron, help her through the Floo once we reopen the connection.”
“Right, Dad,” said George, hefting Hattie’s trunk easily. “Come on, Fred.”
Arthur leaned toward Hattie. “Now, dear, you’ll need to use the Floo Powder. Have you ever done it before?”
Hattie shook her head. “No. I’ve heard of it, though.”
“Perfectly safe,” Arthur said reassuringly. “Mostly. You just take a pinch of powder, step into the fireplace and say your destination clearly. The Burrow.”
Hattie peered into the soot-blackened opening doubtfully. “Say it clearly. Got it.”
Ron stepped beside her, brushing ash from his sleeve. “Don’t worry,” he said with a grin. “I’ll go with you. We’ll go together. Just hold my hand…uh, or whatever,” he said awkwardly, ears reddening.
Instead, Hattie slipped her hand through the crook of his arm. “This all right?”
He nodded quickly, cheeks pink. “Yeah. Fine. Perfect.”
Arthur smiled, handing her the pot of Floo Powder. “All right then, when you’re ready: The Burrow.”
From behind them, Vernon was still spluttering. “You can’t just-just vanish from my house!”
Arthur called back, “We’ll seal it right up behind us, not to worry!”
But before Vernon could explode again, Hattie and Ron stepped into the fireplace. The smell of soot filled her nose, warm and sharp. She felt Ron’s arm tense beside her.
“Ready?” he said.
She nodded. “The Burrow!”
The powder flared green, swirling up around them and the Dursleys’ kitchen disappeared.
For a dizzying moment, they spun past blurred fireplaces, colors and voices flashing in their wake. Then, with a jolt, they landed in a cozy sitting room filled with redheads, warmth, and the smell of something wonderful baking. Hattie glanced around the room, grinning to see Hermione and Ginny seated together with a Witch Weekly, smiling up at Hattie. The Twins crowded her trunk, laughing about something. Mrs. Weasley was running from Fred and George to fuss over Ron and Hattie. There were also two red-headed men Hattie hadn’t met before, but knew they must be Bill and Charlie, Ron’s other two brothers.
The moment Hattie stepped through the green flames, her boots hit a soft rug instead of the Dursleys’ hard tiles. She coughed once as soot swirled around her, blinking until the haze cleared. Then she heard a loud cheer.
“She’s here!” Fred announced triumphantly, clapping her on the shoulder hard enough to make her stumble.
“Welcome to the Burrow, dear!” called Mrs. Weasley, bustling forward with her arms outstretched. The kitchen behind her smelled like fresh bread and roast chicken. The air was warm, cozy, and wonderfully alive with chatter.