Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Hariel Lilian Potter had done many impossible things in her thirteen years of life, but making her aunt float like a balloon filled with rage and helium might have been one of the strangest, even for her.
She hadn’t meant to do it. She’d just been so angry, so furious she could barely breathe. Hariel should have known; she should have known that her magic would lash out as the simmering rage pooled in her belly. It had always reacted for her when she was angry or scared. As a child, it had caused her all sorts of problems she had never been able to explain. How could she tell her teacher her hair was blue because she hadn’t done anything when Dudley had been kicking her under the table, or that she’d ended up on the roof because she was scared of what Dudley and his gang would do if they caught up to her on the playground? Her magic had always reacted to try and keep her safe, but as Hariel stared with wide eyes at the image of Marge Dursley floating around on the ceiling, she had to admit that this might have been her most spectacular incident of accidental magic.
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?” Uncle Vernon’s face had been steadily going through various colours before finally settling on the rather unpleasant shade of puce that it currently was. Hariel felt she should have been more concerned, having never seen Uncle Vernon turn such a shade of red before. In general, when his face turned a shade different from his standard blotchy red, it never meant anything good for her, but Hariel rather thought he was in shock. Her attention was drawn back to Vernon as spittle flew from his mouth; he lurched to his feet, sending his chair crashing backwards. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY SISTER, YOU UNNATURAL LITTLE FREAK?”
Hariel flinched back even as she noted absently that Aunt Marge, for her part, had stopped screaming. This didn’t mean she was making no noise at all, as she was making a funny sort of high-pitched wheezing sound that somewhat absurdly reminded Hariel of the Weasleys’ tea kettle when it had boiled. Aunt Marge’s fingers (that had swollen up like the rest of her) grasped helplessly at the ceiling, scrabbling to find some purchase to anchor her balloon-shaped body to the house. Personally, Hariel didn’t really see such a difference in Aunt Marge’s form than usual, but Hariel knew better than to say such thoughts aloud.
“I—I didn’t mean—” Hariel started, her voice barely a whisper. Trembling slightly, her heart gave a jump as Hariel realised that she didn’t even have her wand on her. It was upstairs in her trunk. After all, it wasn’t like she was allowed to do magic outside of school anyway. It made her feel vulnerable, knowing that should Uncle Vernon decide to lash out, she didn’t have anything that could protect her from him.
“BRING HER DOWN!” Vernon roared, his eyes glinting madly even as he attempted to grab Marge’s foot, only succeeding in spinning her around like a fat ceiling fan. “BRING HER DOWN THIS INSTANT!”
“I can’t!” Hariel’s voice cracked as she swallowed around the stone lodged in her throat. “I don’t know how!”
Petunia had pressed herself against the wall, one hand clutched to her chest, the other pointing a trembling finger at Hariel. “The neighbours,” she gasped. “Oh my God, Vernon, the neighbours will see—”
Aunt Petunia’s voice seemed to be enough to break through Uncle Vernon’s rage. In his panic, he released Aunt Marge’s foot, and Hariel watched as she began to drift toward the open patio door.
“NO!” Uncle Vernon lunged for Marge again, his fingers brushing her shoe. “Close the door! DUDLEY, CLOSE THE DOOR!”
But Dudley, Hariel noticed, had wedged himself behind his mother, whimpering despite being roughly the size of a young hippopotamus. His piggy eyes were fixed on Hariel with absolute terror, as if she was going to inflate him next.
The moment stretched. Aunt Marge bobbed against the doorframe as Uncle Vernon scrambled for purchase on his sister’s shoes again. Petunia made a high-pitched shriek as Marge started to drift out of the doorway. Hariel watched all this with wide eyes, feeling anxiety beginning to lie heavy in her stomach. Clenching her trembling hands into fists, Hariel could feel something inside her snap. Darting her eyes to each of her relatives, Aunt Petunia cowering in the corner, clutching at the pearl necklace she always wore for special occasions, Dudley trying to hide his ginormous bulk behind his mother, his gaze panicked as he caught her eye before rapidly looking away, and Uncle Vernon, desperately trying to grasp his sister even as she floated further out of reach. Hariel made a snap decision in that moment. Hariel hated this house. This place where she’d never been welcomed or loved. And she made up her mind. She was going to leave, and she was never going to come back.
“That’s it,” she heard herself say. The words came out calm, which seemed to terrify the Dursleys more than if she’d screamed. “I’m done.”
Vernon’s head whipped toward her. “You’re not going anywhere until you fix this!”
He lunged for her, meaty hands extended. Hariel flinched back before she could help it, her magic responding to her fear and blasting Uncle Vernon right off his feet, sending him flying back into Aunt Petunia’s precious china cabinet, the crashing sound of her aunt’s best china being crushed under her uncle’s weight. Petunia screamed, rushing over to the groaning, hulking form of her husband while Marge made a sort of balloon-animal squeak as she finally drifted out the patio door and into the night sky.
“I’m leaving,” Hariel said, heart beating wildly, but a sort of anticipation beginning to build inside her at the idea of finally leaving this house. Of never seeing the plain white walls and the awful forms of her horrible relatives ever again. “And I’m never coming back.”
Taking in the scene one last time, Hariel turned and raced for the stairs, taking two at a time as her relatives registered what she had said. As she turned the corner into the hallway, she could hear Uncle Vernon’s bellow shaking the house. “COME BACK HERE! YOU COME BACK HERE AND PUT HER RIGHT! I’LL SNAP YOUR RUDDY STICK YOU LITTLE FREAK!”
Hariel barely took a breath as she threw open the door to Dudley’s second bedroom (never her room, even if she slept there). Reaching under the bed, Hariel heaved her trunk out and threw it open, glad that she had never really unpacked when she got back from Hogwarts. Hariel grabbed everything she could find, shoving it as quickly as she could into her open trunk. Books, robes, homework that she hadn’t really gotten around to starting yet. All of it was thrown haphazardly into the trunk as quickly as she could.
Slamming the trunk shut, Hariel turned and quickly took in what was left in the room—small piles of old, broken toys, comics and books. Dudley had never had any interest in reading. Eyes catching on Hedwig’s empty cage on the window, Hariel grabbed it, glad that she’d let the snowy owl out to hunt earlier in the evening. Snatching her wand from the old, broken bedside table, Hariel clutched it tightly in her hand, taking a deep breath to try and steady her breathing and calm the pounding of her heart as she realised what she was doing. She was leaving, truly leaving this prison, and she didn’t care what anyone said. She was never coming back. She knew her parents had left her money; hopefully, there was enough for her to live on.
As Hariel took one more glance around the room, she heard footsteps thundering on the stairs. Uncle Vernon, probably, though he sounded like a herd of angry rhinos with the thumps she could hear as he stomped.
Grabbing her trunk, Hariel heaved it toward the door. It weighed a ton, and Hariel wondered absently why her trunk always seemed to weigh more than anyone else’s that she knew. Shaking her head to rid herself of the absentminded thoughts, Hariel hauled her trunk out of the room and onto the landing just as Uncle Vernon reached the top of the stairs.
“You’re not going ANYWHERE!”
He tried to grab her, but Hariel slipped out of his way and pointed her wand in his face. Her hand wasn’t as steady as she would like, but Hariel felt having a wand in his face more than made her point as her uncle backed up a step, glaring at her.
“I’m leaving. She deserved what she got. And if I have my way, I’ll never have to see any of you ever again. Now let me through!” Hariel glared at Uncle Vernon as she lugged her trunk toward the stairs.
“They’ll never take you back now. You’ll be expelled for doing that freakishness outside of school. And don’t even think about coming back!” Uncle Vernon shouted at her as she reached the bottom of the stairs.
Hariel didn’t even pause, moving toward the front door and throwing it open- only to freeze on the threshold at the sound of Aunt Petunia’s voice.
“You walk out that door,” Petunia’s voice was high and sharp as glass, “and you’re never coming back. Never! Do you hear me?”
Hariel turned to look back at her aunt—really looked at her. Petunia’s horselike face was pale, her lips pressed into a line so thin they’d almost disappeared. She looked older than she was, and for the life of her, since she’d seen photos of her and learnt more about her, Hariel had never been able to figure out how her beautiful, fiery-haired mother could be related to such a bitter, horrible woman.
“Good,” Hariel said quietly. “We finally agree on something.” Hariel turned and hauled her trunk out the front door and into the night.
The door slammed behind her with a finality that echoed down Privet Drive. For a brief moment, Hariel just stood there on the path. The perfectly manicured lawns on either side, her trunk resting beside her, wearing the ridiculous, enormous cast-offs from Dudley that hung off her thin frame and lifted her eyes to the night sky, the stars gleaming brightly above her as she breathed deeply. Just listening to the world go by for a moment.
The night air was cool against her flushed face. She could hear Aunt Marge somewhere above, drifting over Little Whinging like the world’s worst hot air balloon. She could hear Uncle Vernon inside, cursing, still shouting for his sister as she bobbed along the rooftops. She could hear her own heartbeat, rabbit-quick in her chest.
Suddenly, the world came into sharp focus again, and her breath hitched as the full weight of the evening came crashing down onto her. She wasn’t even thirteen yet. She had nowhere to go. She had just performed underage magic in front of muggles. She was probably expelled from Hogwarts. All of this swirled around in her head, but the only thought Hariel could focus on, the only thing she could think of, was that she was free.
Grabbing her trunk, Hariel straightened her spine and began dragging it down the pristine, boring street. With its houses all the same, with their perfect gardens and painted walls. She wondered what the neighbours were thinking, watching as Hariel dragged her trunk, tripping in her too-large trainers.
Hariel had no idea where she was going, no idea what she was going to do, but as she turned the corner onto Magnolia Crescent, she figured that anywhere was better than what she had just left behind.
The corners of her trunk scraped against the pavement, the sound echoing unnaturally loud in the deserted streets. Every few houses, a dog would bark, setting off a chain reaction down the street. Hariel winced each time, half-expecting someone to throw open a window and demand to know what she thought she was doing, dragging a trunk through Little Whinging at this time of night.
But no one did. The windows stayed dark, the curtains stayed drawn. It was as if the perfectly normal residents of Magnolia Crescent had collectively decided that whatever was happening outside was Not Their Problem. Very British of them, really. Entirely different from the residents of Privet Drive, who were always peering out of windows to spy on their neighbours.
Hariel paused at the small park, setting her trunk down for a moment to catch her breath. Stretching her arms out in front of her to try and reduce the ache that had begun to form from lugging her heavy trunk through the streets, she sighed as she sat atop it, wondering what on earth she was going to do.
Glancing around, Hariel’s eyes trailed over the park, taking in the abandoned slide and the rusty climbing frame. The park looked different at night—somewhat creepy with its deserted swing set, the chains creaking in the wind as the leaves rustled on the trees planted around the play area.
Pursing her lips, Hariel’s stomach plummeted as the events of the night caught up with her. I’m definitely expelled. The thought swooped through Hariel’s head suddenly. Tears stung her eyes at the thought of not returning to Hogwarts. Biting her lip harshly, Hariel tried to keep the tears at bay as she hurriedly wiped her eyes, thinking desperately of where she could go. The Burrow was out- she didn't even know where it was. Not to mention that the Weasleys were in Egypt for the summer, visiting Bill, Ron’s eldest brother.
Hariel’s hands twisted together as she sat on her trunk, thinking of where else she could go. She thought of Hermione, but not only did she have no idea where Hermione lived, having never visited her before, but she had a feeling Hermione was travelling with her parents this summer as well. She’d mentioned something about it on the train ride back from Hogwarts at the end of the year.
Diagon Alley. The thought came to her like lightning. She had gold in her vault, didn’t she? There had to be somewhere to stay in Diagon Alley. The Leaky Cauldron had rooms, she remembered that from her first visit with Hagrid. She couldn’t quite remember what the man's name was who ran the pub, but Hagrid had seemed friendly enough with him when he took her to Diagon Alley for the first time. That was sorted easily enough, but how on earth am I going to get to London? Hariel thought.
She couldn’t exactly walk to London from Little Whinging, and while Hariel was nearly positive that she’d been expelled, given what she’d done to Aunt Marge, she still hesitated to use more magic just in case it would make the situation worse. Hariel didn’t know any magic that would get her to London easily. It’s not like she could fly on her broom; well, she thought, I could, however, thinking it through more, she could see the holes in her plan easily enough. She wouldn’t be able to lug her trunk behind her (it was far too heavy). Using a featherlight charm would work, but she’d still have to get to London without being seen, and while she had her invisibility cloak, it wouldn’t be big enough to cover her and her trunk. She was in enough trouble already without exposing magic to muggles as well. Burying her head in her hands, Hariel groaned as she tried to think of another solution.
A low growl had Hariel’s head snapping up, and made every thought flee her mind.
Hariel froze, her hand tightening on her wand. Breath hitching, Hariel’s eyes scanned the hedgerows across from her. There, between the gap in the hedge, something moved. Eyes gleamed as they caught the streetlamp’s light.
Hariel’s heart pounded as she stared at the two glistening silver eyes, mind racing. A dog, it had to be a dog. A massive dog, granted, probably the size of a small bear, but Hariel didn’t think dogs grew that big, did they?
“Oh, brilliant,” she muttered. “Absolutely brilliant. Run away from the Dursleys, probably get expelled, and now I’m going to die. Perfect end to a perfect freaking day.”
The shape moved closer, and Hariel’s breath caught as she made out more of the details of it—shaggy black fur, a long snout, and those gleaming silver eyes that seemed almost too intelligent for an animal. It wasn’t attacking, though. Just watching her.
Shakily, Hariel took a step back, her eyes never leaving the creature. Before Hariel could move further, her heel caught on a stone. Hariel’s eyes widened as she felt herself fall. The movement sent her wand arm flying up—
BANG!
The quiet of the night exploded with sounds and a flash of purple light. Hariel lay on the pavement beside her trunk as she stared wide-eyed at the massive triple-decker bus that materialised out of thin air, screeching to a halt inches from where her trunk still stood on the pavement.
Gold letters over the windscreen spelt out “The Knight Bus” in flowing script. The doors hissed open, and a spotty youth in a purple uniform leapt out, looking bored.
“Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this eve—”
He stopped mid-speech, finally actually looking at Hariel properly. She was still sprawled across the pavement, but she shook herself off and scrambled to snatch her wand where she had dropped it upon the arrival of the bus, pushing herself to her feet as she faced Stan, looking at him more closely and concluding that he couldn’t be that much older than she was, eighteen or nineteen at most.
“What were you doin’ down there?” Stan asked, his practised speech giving way to mild curiosity.
Hariel brushed off her jeans as she faced him, clutching tightly to her wand. “I fell over,”
“’Choo fall over for?” Sniggered Stan.
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Hariel muttered, annoyed, still checking the state of herself. One of her hands was bleeding from the fall, and she’d managed to rip a hole in the left knee of her jeans.
“Woss that on your ‘ead?” Said Stan abruptly.
Hariel’s eyes widened, “Nothing,” Before she quickly flattened down her hair over her scar. She wasn’t going to make it easy for the Ministry to find her if they were already looking.
“Woss your name?” Stan persisted, Hariel narrowing her eyes at him even as she thought of a name to give other than her own.
“Lavender Brown,” She finally said, absently wondering why she didn’t give Hermione’s name as she watched Stan take in the information. “So- so this bus,” she went on, hoping to distract Stan from thinking too deeply about Hariel’s rather suspicious behaviour so far, “Did you say it goes anywhere?”
“Yep,” Stan said proudly, patting the side of the bus as he did so. “Anywhere you like, long’s it's on land. Can’t do nuffink underwater. ‘Ere,” he said, looking suspicious again. “You did flag us down, dincha? Stuck out your wand ‘and, dincha?”
“Yes!” Hariel said quickly. “Listen, how much would it be to get to London?”
“Eleven sickles,” Stan said. “But for thirteen you get ‘ot chocolate, and for fifteen you get an ‘ot-water bottle an’ a toofbrush in the colour of your choice,”
Hariel nodded as she dug into the very bottom of her trunk, searching for the money she knew she had stored in there somewhere. She counted out the eleven sickles and handed them over to Stan before he helped her heave her trunk onto the bus.
Hariel followed and immediately had to grab onto a brass pole to keep from falling. Instead of seats, the Knight Bus had brass bedsteads crammed in haphazardly, and as she watched, they all slid backwards with a tremendous crash as the bus took off.
“You might want to sit down,” Stan suggested helpfully, after Hariel had already been thrown onto the nearest bed. “It’s a bit of a rough ride.”
That was like saying the ocean was a bit damp, Hariel thought sardonically as the bus shot off.
The Knight Bus didn’t seem to follow any laws of physics Hariel was familiar with. It jumped from Surrey to London in a series of nauseating BANGS, squeezing between buildings that definitely weren’t wide enough, hopping over cars, and at one point, she could have sworn they went through a bridge rather than over it.
Hariel watched as Stan grabbed a crumpled copy of the Daily Prophet from a bed as it rolled past, flicking through it as the bus dodged and squeezed through the streets. The front page caught Hariel’s attention, the headline catching her eye.
”'Ere, you 'eard about Sirius Black?" he asked, looking up and seeing where Hariel was looking.
Hariel grabbed onto the brass bedframe as the bus mounted the pavement to avoid a car. "Who?"
Stan’s eyebrows raised. "Sirius Black? You haven't 'eard of Sirius Black?"
Hariel shook her head, and Stan thrust the newspaper toward her with evident relish. The front page Hariel had just been staring at was dominated by a photograph of a man with a gaunt, sunken face, waxy skin, and long, matted hair. But it was his eyes that made Hariel's breath catch—dark and empty, staring out from the picture with an expression that seemed to bore right through her.
"'E's a murderer," Stan said, clearly delighted to have such a captive audience. "Got 'imself locked up in Azkaban twelve years ago. Killed thirteen people wiv a single curse, 'e did. Blew up 'alf a street."
Hariel stared at the photograph. The man—Black—didn't look like he could blow up anything. He looked half-dead already, his face hollow and haunted. The picture version of him didn't move much, just sat there in his prison robes, occasionally blinking those terribly empty eyes.
"Thirteen people?" she repeated.
"Wiv one curse," Stan confirmed with morbid satisfaction. "Twelve of 'em Muggles, just standin' about minding their own business. And one wizard—blew 'im to bits, they say. Nuffink left but a finger." He made an explosive gesture with his hands that Hariel found rather tasteless, given the subject matter.
"That's... horrible."
"'E was You-Know-'Oo's right 'and man," Stan continued, lowering his voice as though someone might overhear on the careening, impossible bus. "One of 'is most loyal supporters. They say 'e went mad when You-Know-'Oo fell. That's why 'e did it—killed all them people in some kind of rage."
The bus lurched violently, and Hariel had to grab the bedframe again to avoid being thrown to the floor. When she looked back at the paper, Black's eyes were still staring at her.
"But 'ere's the fing," Stan said, leaning forward with the air of someone about to share a particularly juicy secret. "'E escaped, din't 'e? First person ever to break out of Azkaban. They dunno 'ow 'e did it. Place is s'posed to be impossible to escape from—surrounded by Dementors, ain't it? No one's ever managed it before."
Hariel felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night air whistling through the bus windows. "When did he escape?"
"Few weeks ago. Ministry's in a right state about it. Got everyone out lookin' for 'im." Stan jabbed a finger at the photograph. "'E's dangerous, Black is. Mental. They're sayin' 'e could be anywhere."
Hariel looked at the picture again. Those hollow eyes were still staring at her from the page.
Wonderful, she thought grimly as if tonight wasn't already going brilliantly.
"'Ere, you alright?" Stan asked, peering at her. "You've gone a bit green. It's the ride, innit? Takes some people like that."
"I'm fine," Hariel lied, handing the paper back. "Just tired."
Stan shrugged and went back to his newspaper, muttering something about the Wimbourne Wasps' chances in the league, and Hariel was left clinging to her bed as the Knight Bus hurtled through the night, the image of Sirius Black's empty eyes burned into her mind.
“Leaky Cauldron!” Stan announced suddenly, and the bus screeched to a halt so abruptly that Hariel was thrown forward onto the floor.
She picked herself up with as much dignity as she could manage (not much), and Stan helped her get her trunk off the bus.
“There you go, Miss Brown. You sure you’re alright? Only you look a bit peaky.”
“I’m fine,” Hariel assured him, though she wasn’t entirely sure she’d ever be fine again after that ride. “Thank you.”
The Knight Bus vanished with another BANG, leaving Hariel standing on the pavement outside the Leaky Cauldron at half-past midnight, with a trunk, an empty owl cage, and absolutely no idea what she was going to tell the barkeeper.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door.
*
The Leaky Cauldron was nearly empty at this hour, much emptier than when Hariel had been here previously with Hagrid. A few candles flickered in their holders, the shadows dancing across the room. Even in the dark, with just candlelight to see by, there was something warm and cosy about the Leaky Cauldron. The smell of mead and stew lingered in the air, adding to that comfortable feeling, and Hariel took a breath as she pulled her trunk into the inn, the door shutting behind her.
Tom, the barkeeper, stood behind the bar, polishing a glass that already looked clean. He was a stooped, bald man with a face that Hariel couldn’t tell the age of; wrinkles littered his face, open and friendly as it was, but it completely masked her ability to guess how old he might be. Her perusal of his person stopped as he looked up at Hariel’s entrance, his expression shifting from mild curiosity to something she couldn’t quite read.
"Heiress Potter," he said, setting down the glass with a soft clink. He came around the bar with unexpected speed. Hariel was surprised that he’d come around the counter in all honesty. Granted, she’d only been in the Leaky Cauldron once, but she had only ever seen him behind the counter. She watched as he performed a small bow—it wasn’t anything dramatic, just a slight inclination of his head and shoulders, that Hariel barely noticed in her exhaustion, but it still made a wrinkle form in her brow, both from the bow and the term of address he gave her. Heiress? "We've been expecting you."
That made Hariel's stomach drop. We. That didn't sound good. That sounded like the opposite of good. That sounded like they knew this was where she would have come, which didn’t make any sense, until the Knight Bus had shown up; she hadn’t been able to figure out how to get here. Somehow, she didn’t think she’d be able to get out of this. She clenched her wand tightly in her hand as Tom continued talking.
"The Minister of Magic himself is here to see you," Tom continued, confirming her worst fears. "He's been waiting in the private parlour. If you'll follow me?"
The Minister of Magic. Hariel felt the blood drain from her face. They hadn't even waited until morning. The Minister himself had come to deal with her, which meant this was serious, which meant she was definitely, absolutely, without question expelled.
Her legs felt like they belonged to someone else as she followed Tom through a door behind the bar and down a narrow corridor. Her mind raced through possibilities—could she run? Where would she go? Could she live as a Muggle? She didn't even have her O.W.L.s; she couldn't do magic legally. Would they send her back to the Dursleys—
Tom stopped at a door, knocked twice, then pushed it open. "Heiress Potter, Minister."
The room itself was small but comfortable, Hariel noted absently, with a crackling fire and a round table with a delicate tea set balanced on it. Beside the table, rising from an armchair with a broad smile that seemed entirely unsuitable for the situation Hariel had found herself in, was Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic.
Hariel had never officially met him, but she’d seen him the year before when he’d come to arrest Hagrid for opening the Chamber of Secrets. Just because he had to be seen doing something, it hadn’t given Hariel the best impression of him. He looked much the same as she remembered—a portly man in a pinstriped cloak, lime-green bowler hat clutched in his hands, with an air of someone who desperately wanted to be liked.
"Hariel!" he said warmly, as if they were old friends. It made Hariel’s brow furrow. The difference between the way the Minister greeted her and Tom was significant but she just couldn’t work out what was different in her exhausted state. “There you are at last. I was getting quite worried. Sit down, sit down, you must be exhausted."
Hariel sat, mostly because her legs gave out, words pouring out of her mouth before she could stop them. "Minister, I—about my aunt—I didn't mean to, it just happened, I couldn't control it—"
"Oh, that." Fudge waved a dismissive hand, still smiling. "My dear girl, we don't send people to Azkaban just for blowing up their aunts. The Accidental Magic Reversal Squad was dispatched to Privet Drive within minutes. Your aunt has been punctured and her memory modified. She has no recollection of the incident at all. So that's that, and no harm done."
Hariel stared at him, blinking. She opened her mouth to speak and then closed it again. This was nothing like what she’d expected. She’d come into the room expecting to be expelled, and here was the Minister for Magic telling her it was no big deal. It made no sense.
"I'm... not expelled?"
"Expelled?" Fudge actually laughed, though it sounded a bit forced. "Of course not! Goodness, no. We don't expel people for a bit of accidental magic. These things happen, especially with young wixen. Young wixen’s emotions run high; it's perfectly understandable."
Hariel frowned at the word wixen. She felt like she had heard it before somewhere, but wasn’t entirely sure where. It made her head pound. None of this made sense. Last year, a house-elf had performed a Hover Charm in the Dursleys' kitchen, and she'd received an official warning. Now she'd inflated a woman like a balloon, and the Minister of Magic was sitting here telling her it was perfectly understandable?
"But the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry—"
"Circumstances," Fudge said, and something flickered behind his jovial expression. Hariel frowned as she looked at him, trying to work out what she had seen. "We must take circumstances into account. You didn't mean to do it. No harm was done. Let's leave it at that, shall we?"
Hariel nodded slowly, still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Fudge's smile tightened slightly. "However, I must ask that you remain here at the Leaky Cauldron for the remainder of the summer. Tom will see to your needs, and you'll be able to access Diagon Alley for your school supplies. But I must insist—" his voice took on a more serious tone, "—that you do not venture into Muggle London. Not under any circumstances."
"Why?" The question was out before Hariel could stop it.
Fudge hesitated, turning his bowler hat in his hands. "I expect you've heard about Sirius Black?"
Hariel frowned, trying to figure out what that had to do with her and why Minister Fudge was bringing him up. "Yes," she said carefully. "I heard he escaped from Azkaban."
"Indeed, he did. First person ever to do so." Fudge's expression had grown grave. "He's extremely dangerous, Hariel. A supporter of You-Know-Who, one of his most devoted followers. And we have reason to believe..." He stopped, seemed to reconsider his words. "Well. Suffice to say, it would be best if you stayed somewhere safe and populated until you return to Hogwarts. The Leaky Cauldron is well-warded, and Diagon Alley is always busy. You'll be perfectly secure here."
There was something he wasn't telling her. Hariel could feel it; she’d gotten good over the years at figuring out when adults weren’t telling her something. Why would the Minister of Magic personally come to warn her about an escaped prisoner? That didn’t make any sense. Why not just send an employee to ensure she’d made it to the Leaky Cauldron if they were worried when they hadn’t been able to find her at Privet Drive?
But she was too tired to press, and frankly, too relieved about not being expelled to question her good fortune.
"I understand, Minister," she said. "I'll stay here."
"Excellent, excellent." The jovial mask slipped back into place. "Tom has your room all ready—Number Eleven, very comfortable. And do let him know if you need anything at all. Anything." He stood, placing his bowler hat on his head. "I'll leave you to get some rest. It's been quite a night for you, I'm sure."
He paused at the door, looking back at her with an expression Hariel couldn't quite decipher.
"Take care of yourself, Hariel. And do stay out of trouble."
Then he was gone, and Tom was there again, reaching for her trunk with that same peculiar deference.
"This way, Heiress Potter. Your room is ready."
Hariel followed him up the creaking staircase, mind clouding in exhaustion. All she wanted to do was go to sleep now. It had been a long night already. But she couldn’t quiet her mind entirely, and questions buzzed around in her head. Why hadn't she been punished? Why had the Minister himself come? What did Sirius Black have to do with her? Why did everyone keep saying her room was ready, as if they'd known she was coming? Why was Tom referring to her as Heiress Potter?
Number Eleven was at the end of the corridor—a large, comfortable room with a four-poster bed draped in deep red curtains, a writing desk by the window overlooking Diagon Alley, and a fire already crackling in the grate.
"Will you be wanting anything, Heiress Potter?" Tom asked, placing her trunk at the foot of the bed. "Tea? A late supper?"
"No, thank you," Hariel managed. "Just sleep."
"Of course." Another small bow. "Breakfast can be brought up whenever you wake. And Heiress Potter?" He paused at the door, his weathered face soft with something that looked almost like pride. "It's an honour to have you here. A true honour."
Before Hariel could ask what on earth he meant by that, he'd slipped out, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
A tapping at the window made her jump, turning to the window and slumping in relief as she saw the bright white feathers illuminated by the moon. It was only Hedwig. Hariel crossed to let her in, and the owl settled on the desk with a reproachful look that clearly said she did not appreciate being left behind during dramatic escapes.
"Sorry, girl," Hariel murmured, stroking her feathers. "It was a bit of a rush."
Hedwig nipped her finger—gently, but with apparent displeasure—before tucking her head under her wing.
Hariel sighed before looking at the room properly. It was a comfortable room, large with a four-poster bed that she was beginning to think was a bit of a staple in the magical world. After all, Hogwarts had very similar beds in the dormitories. A large, comfortable, plush-looking chair sat by the fireplace, with a table next to it; the fire crackled, adding warmth to the room. Hariel meant to undress properly, really she did. But all she managed to do was toe off her trainers before collapsing onto the bed, and her body decided for her before she could think to change.
She didn’t even pull back the covers, just lay on top of the bed coverings. Exhaustion crept over her as she rested contentedly for the first time since she’d left Hogwarts at the end of the school year, even as questions continued to spiral in her mind as sleep claimed her.
She didn't notice the faint shimmer of magic at the edges of the room. She didn't see the way the fire burned a little brighter, a little warmer, as if responding to something. She didn't hear the soft creak of floorboards in the corridor outside, or the rumble of conversation downstairs in the bar as patrons continued their discussions.
Hariel Potter slept, and as she did, she had no idea her whole world was about to change.
Tomorrow, everything would be different; she just didn’t know it yet.