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Chapter 1 – In Ink and Inheritance
Harriet Potter’s POV
The library was quiet in that way I liked best — heavy with the scent of parchment and dust, sun filtering through the tall windows, and not a whisper in earshot. It was early enough that even Madam Pince hadn’t started patrolling yet, and late enough that no one would ask why I wasn’t with my friends at breakfast.
I traced the worn edge of the book in front of me.
Ancient Wizarding Bloodlines of Britain: Legacy and Ritual.
I don’t know what made me pull it from the Restricted Section. Maybe it was the way Professor McGonagall had mentioned my father in passing last week, referring to James Potter as “a proper heir to an old house — reckless as he was, he never forgot his lineage.”
That line stuck with me more than I thought it would.
Because the truth is, I didn’t know what it meant to be a Potter.
I knew what it meant to survive as one. To carry the name like a torch in the dark. To be stared at in hallways and whispered about in corridors. But not what it meant in the way the wizarding world saw it — the old way. The way of crests and betrothal contracts and dancing at galas where words were only half the conversation.
I ran my fingers along the curling script of the Potter family motto etched into the corner of the page. Fidelis et Fortis.
Loyal and Brave.
I let out a breath and leaned back in the chair, letting the sunlight hit my face. My hair — longer now, soft and dark like my dad’s — warmed in the light. I’d started tying it back with velvet ribbons, half out of practicality, half because it felt more… me. Not the scrawny girl in Dudley’s cast-offs anymore. Not the war-torn child the papers made me out to be. Just Harriet. Delicate-looking, maybe. But not fragile.
I was learning that there was a difference.
“Potter.”
I startled slightly, snapping the book shut. “Wood,” I said, blinking up at the Gryffindor Captain.
Oliver stood across the table, arms crossed, robes neat despite the faint trace of broom oil on his collar. He always looked like he’d stepped out of a school handbook — stern, focused, and far too handsome for his own good. Which was annoying.
Mostly.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, gesturing to the chair beside me. “May I?”
I nodded. “Sure. Just… reading.”
His eyes flicked to the title still barely visible beneath my hand. I waited for a smirk, maybe a joke about me brushing up on pure-blood politics like some Slytherin socialite.
But instead, he said, “That’s a good one. Dry, but useful.”
I blinked. “You’ve read it?”
“Course I have,” he said. “My mum made me memorize half the codes of etiquette before I could ride a broom without crashing into guests.”
I smiled a little at that. “So you’re one of the old families too?”
“Wood’s a minor house,” he said with a shrug. “Not as flashy as the Blacks or Malfoys, but we’ve been around. My gran keeps the family crest over the fireplace like it’s sacred.”
That made me hesitate. “I don’t even know what mine looks like.”
Oliver’s brow furrowed, but not with pity. “Gold stag on silver, last I checked. You should look it up. The Potters were respected. Not just for their magic — for how they treated people.”
I turned that over in my head. “It doesn’t feel like it belongs to me.”
“Maybe it doesn’t yet,” he said, softer now. “But it could. That’s the thing about heritage. It’s not just blood — it’s what you make of it.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. So instead, I nodded and looked down at the book again.
He stood after a moment, pausing like he wanted to say more. “We’ve got practice at six,” he said. “You flying?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
His lips quirked at the corner. “Good. The new brooms aren’t the only ones that need breaking in.”
And with that, he left.
I exhaled slowly.
It was strange. People saw me all the time — The Girl Who Lived, the scar, the spectacle. But Oliver saw past that. He looked at me like I was more than just a name. Like he expected something real from me. It was… grounding.
Once he was gone, I opened the book again and turned to the chapter on traditional roles of heirs in wizarding society. There were references to seasonal galas, to the importance of magical dancing, and to how young witches of noble lineage were expected to conduct themselves in public.
It felt ridiculous — all of it. But then I thought of the Yule Ball coming next year, and how the pure-blood girls would move through the crowd with practiced grace while I stood in the corner pretending not to care.
I didn’t want to pretend anymore.
I wanted to understand this world. Not just the fights and the dark lords and the prophecy bits — but the living part of it. The small rituals. The secret meanings. The language of legacy.
Maybe if I understood where I came from, I’d know where I was going.
And maybe then, I could finally stop feeling like a shadow of a girl I never got to meet.
Chapter 2 – The Binding Thread
Oliver Wood’s POV
The letter arrived wrapped in deep blue parchment — the color of family magic.
I’d been up early, like always, sharpening quills for practice and sketching play rotations for the Ravenclaw match. The owl landed not at my breakfast plate, but beside me on the couch in the common room. That alone told me it wasn’t just fan mail from some Quidditch-obsessed second year.
No, this was different. Heavy. Intentional.
I recognized the wax seal immediately.
The Wood family crest, pressed in gold. A tall oak tree with runes woven into the roots. But what made my stomach flip was the second crest, smaller, stamped just beneath ours.
A stag.
The Potters.
I broke the seal, expecting a formality. A vault update. A family history pamphlet Gran had dug up just to make my eyes roll.
Instead, I got this:
*Let it be known that on the tenth day of Samhain, in the year 1852, the House of Potter and the House of Wood did enter into sacred agreement, sealed by wand and blood.
A betrothal, to be honored by the eldest unmarried heirs of both lines within seven generations.
Upon mutual eligibility, the contract shall awaken. Its terms are binding by oath and ancient rite. Interference or refusal will invoke magical consequence.
This bond is now active.*
I read it twice. Three times. My pulse pounded like I’d just flown a full match in a storm.
There was a name at the bottom of the scroll, written in older ink.
Harriet Lily Potter.
Of course.
The last Potter. My teammate. The girl with solemn green eyes and a spine of iron under all that quiet grace.
Fate was a strange, cruel, beautiful thing.
It could’ve been anyone. But it was her.
I leaned back into the couch, the fire crackling beside me. Gran’s letter had been attached, but shorter than usual:
*It’s come into effect. Do not make light of this. Magic that old carries a will of its own.
Respect it. Respect her.
— Gran*
Respect her. As if I could do anything else.
I thought of Harriet at practice — the way she moved, not just on a broom, but through the world. Thoughtful. Alert. Stronger than anyone realized. She wasn’t loud like Angelina or mischievous like the twins. She didn’t demand attention. She just was.
And now… she was mine?
No. Not yet. Not really.
But the magic thought so.
I folded the parchment and tucked it away in my trunk, away from curious eyes. I had no idea what I was supposed to do with this information. Tell her? Ignore it and hope she got the same letter? Wait for a goblin to show up and drag us to the altar?
I didn’t have long to wait.
—
It was snowing again by the time practice ended. Harriet stayed behind, like she always did, her braid falling over one shoulder as she cleaned the mud off her boots with a flick of her wand. I watched her from a distance, unsure if I should say anything — if she knew.
She caught me staring. I looked away.
Later that evening, I saw her again in the common room. She was curled up in the corner chair, still in her uniform, a book of family lineages open in her lap. The firelight painted gold across her cheeks, softening her already delicate features. I think I was halfway to her before I realized I’d stood up.
But then something strange happened.
An owl tapped at the window. A Gringotts owl.
Harriet looked up, blinking as she stood to let it in.
I froze, watching from the stairs.
The bird landed on her shoulder, elegant and pale, and dropped a single scroll into her hand — parchment thick and crisp, edged in gold.
Her fingers hesitated on the seal. I recognized the symbol from across the room.
The Potters.
She broke it open. Read the first few lines. Her body stilled.
Then she looked up, and our eyes locked across the common room.
There was something in her expression I’d never seen before — not fear, not confusion.
Recognition.
Like the magic had whispered its truth to both of us at the same time.
And now there was no turning back.
Chapter 3 – A Name in Gold Ink
Harriet Potter’s POV
The scroll was warm in my hands. Not from the fire, or the owl that delivered it — but from the weight of it. The pull.
My name was written across the front in gold ink.
Harriet Lily Potter.
In all my years at Hogwarts, through every Howler, every Ministry notice, even the odd enchanted note from teachers — nothing had ever arrived like this.This wasn’t a letter. It was a summons. A declaration.
I opened it.
*Let it be known that on the tenth day of Samhain, in the year 1852, the House of Potter and the House of Wood did enter into sacred agreement, sealed by wand and blood.
A betrothal, to be honored by the eldest unmarried heirs of both lines within seven generations.
Upon mutual eligibility, the contract shall awaken. Its terms are binding by oath and ancient rite. Interference or refusal will invoke magical consequence.
The bond is now active.*
I read it once. Then again. The words didn’t change.
It wasn’t a joke.
The name listed beneath mine — in the same precise ink, underlined as if to ensure I didn’t miss it — was Oliver Benjamin Wood.
My heart did something strange in my chest. Not panic. Not even dread. Something quieter. Like the whisper of a thread being pulled tight.
He knew.
I was certain of it the moment I looked across the common room and saw him frozen halfway down the stairs, watching me.
He didn’t look surprised.
He just looked… steady.
Like he’d been waiting for this. For me.
—
Later, long after the fire died low and the others had gone to bed, I sat on my windowsill with the scroll in my lap. I didn’t cry. I didn’t tear it up or scream at the stars. I just… breathed.
Because part of me wasn’t shocked.
Maybe I should’ve been. Maybe I was supposed to react like any normal thirteen-year-old girl would — with horror or outrage or a loud rant about outdated customs and patriarchal nonsense.
But I wasn’t normal.
I never had been.
And deep down — deeper than I usually let myself look — I wanted something like this. Not the contract itself, not the magic forcing my name beside someone else’s. But the idea that I came from something. That I had a legacy. A place. A tether.
Even if it came in the form of ancient blood magic, it still meant I belonged somewhere.
That someone wanted me.
And if I was being honest — painfully, quietly honest — I didn’t mind that the name next to mine was Oliver’s.
I liked the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t watching. Like I wasn’t a war symbol or a Quidditch prodigy or a headline. Just a girl. Maybe one he wanted to know better.
He was older, sure — focused, intense, maddeningly responsible. But he was kind. And strong. And I liked how seriously he took things. Like nothing about life was casual or careless.
That kind of steadiness… it was rare.
And if fate — or some great-great-grandfather’s overconfident matchmaking — had tied us together, well… there were worse names I could’ve ended up beside.
Like Malfoy, for instance.
I shuddered.
No. Oliver Wood was hardly a punishment.
But he was a problem.
Because now what? Was I supposed to tell McGonagall? Ask Dumbledore if he thought love could be conjured like a spell? Or worse—keep it all to myself like some buried hex no one else could see?
Was I supposed to feel something already?
I pressed my forehead to the cold glass of the window. Snow had started to fall again, soft and silent.
What if I didn’t have a choice?
What if this magic really was a chain, not a thread?
And why… why did a small, secret part of me want it to be true?
I folded the scroll slowly, carefully, as if breaking it might trigger something. I tucked it into my trunk beneath my extra jumper and sat back on the bed, still dressed, still tangled in too many thoughts.
That was when the note arrived.
A small slip of parchment fluttered in through the cracked window, hovering just in front of me before falling gently onto my lap.
The handwriting was neat and sharp. Familiar.
Common room. Ten minutes. If you want to talk.
— Oliver
I stared at the note.
Then I stood, heart thudding, and reached for my cloak.
Because suddenly, I did want to talk.
Maybe fate had given me a name.
But I wanted to know the boy behind it.
Chapter 4 – Between Name and Choice
Oliver Wood’s POV
I wasn’t sure she’d come.
The note had been simple. No pressure. Just an opening. If she didn’t respond, I’d understand. I wouldn’t chase her down like a crazed romantic from a bedtime story. Even if part of me — the part that hadn’t stopped thinking about her since the contract arrived — desperately wanted to.
But when I turned toward the fire, she was already there.
Harriet stood just inside the common room, her braid tucked into the collar of her cloak, hands clasped tightly in front of her. She looked like she might bolt any second.
“I didn’t know if you’d actually—”
“I wasn’t going to,” she said, cutting in quietly. Then added, almost to herself, “But I couldn’t sleep.”
I nodded and moved to the long sofa near the fireplace. “Sit?”
She hesitated, then crossed the room and took the far end of the couch, folding her legs beneath her. There was space between us, but the silence stretched thin across it, vibrating with everything neither of us had said yet.
I cleared my throat. “You got the letter.”
Her eyes flicked to mine. “You did too.”
“Yeah.”
She looked back at the fire. “So… what now?”
I swallowed. That was the question, wasn’t it?
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I’ve been trying to figure that out. All I know is… we didn’t ask for this. But the magic doesn’t care about that.”
She gave a small, dry laugh. “Story of my life.”
We sat in silence for a moment. The fire popped. Somewhere upstairs, the twins were probably rigging something unspeakable in the dormitories.
I looked over at her — really looked.
She was beautiful, yes. But more than that, she glowed in quiet ways. Her strength wasn’t loud, but it was there — a steady thing, forged in fire and silence and far too much grief for someone her age. She hadn’t crumpled. She hadn’t lashed out.
She’d endured.
“I don’t want to scare you,” I said after a long pause. “Or make you feel trapped. If I could tear the contract in half right now to give you a choice, I would.”
Harriet didn’t look at me. She reached into her pocket instead and pulled out the scroll. The same gold-inked document I had hidden in the bottom of my trunk.
“I think… part of me is scared,” she said, voice quiet. “But not of you.”
That stopped me cold.
She turned her gaze toward me — those eyes, impossibly green, impossibly old. “I’m scared because some part of me doesn’t want to tear it up.”
The admission hung between us like smoke.
“I’ve never belonged to anything,” she continued. “Not really. I’ve always just been the girl in the cupboard. The weapon. The story people whisper about. But this… this makes it feel like maybe I came from something real. Something worth continuing.”
“You do,” I said instantly, before I could stop myself. “You are. You’re more than a name, Harriet. You’re—”
“Don’t,” she said gently. “Not unless you mean it.”
I stared at her for a long moment, then nodded once. “I mean it.”
Something in her relaxed, just a little. She looked down at the scroll again. “So what happens now?”
“I think,” I said carefully, “we take it slow. Talk. Learn. Decide what it means for us, not just for the Potters or the Woods. No magic. No rules. Just… us.”
Harriet bit her lip. “You’re a lot more romantic than I expected.”
“I’m Scottish,” I said with a smirk. “We’re dramatic by nature.”
That made her laugh — a real one this time, warm and surprised.
I felt like I’d just won a game I hadn’t known I was playing.
“So,” I said, leaning back, “do you want to ask me anything? Anything at all.”
She tilted her head, thoughtful. “Alright… what would you have done if the contract named someone else?”
I gave her the most honest answer I had.
“I wouldn’t have come down to the common room.”
She didn’t speak, but her breath hitched just slightly. Her eyes dropped to the floor, and a bit of pink bloomed across her cheeks.
For a long moment, there was no magic in the room. No legacy. No fate or contracts or bloodlines.
Just Harriet.
And me.
And something that, for the first time, didn’t feel like a trap.
It felt like a beginning.
Chapter 5 – A Legacy I Never Chose
Harriet Potter’s POV
I hadn’t told anyone.
Not Hermione. Not Ron. Not even Professor McGonagall — though there had been a moment in Transfiguration where I thought about it. She’d looked at me with that stern, perceptive expression of hers, the one that always made me feel like I was being seen through. Like she knew something was off.
But I stayed quiet.
Because how do you explain to someone that your future — your life — might’ve been written for you a hundred years ago in someone else’s ink?
I sat at the edge of the Black Lake that morning, knees drawn to my chest, the scroll heavy in the pocket of my cloak. The air was crisp, and frost still clung to the grass in silver threads. I liked it here. It was the one place I could hear myself think.
The contract hadn’t changed. Every time I reread it, the same words stared back at me like they were carved in stone:
A bond of betrothal, to be honored by the eldest unmarried heirs of both lines within seven generations… the bond is now active.
It sounded final. Irrevocable. Like a spell already cast.
I didn’t know how to feel. Angry? Not exactly. It didn’t feel cruel — just… unfair. Like being handed a riddle you didn’t ask for and being told to solve it with your future.
And Oliver.
Merlin.
He was older. Almost an adult. And I wasn’t stupid — I knew what the older girls whispered about him in the dorms. The dreamy Quidditch Captain. Tall, serious, handsome. But I hadn’t seen him like that until this. Until he looked at me like I was something real.
He didn’t laugh when I said I was scared. He didn’t treat me like a kid. And he didn’t make promises either, which somehow made me trust him more.
Still, the age difference sat between us like a chasm.
He’d be graduating in a few months. I was only thirteen. Barely out of second-year robes. He had callouses from years of training; I had scars from things no one could see.
And yet… the magic still named us.
I drew the scroll from my pocket and ran a finger over the edges. There was no blood ink. No spark or glow. But it thrummed faintly when I held it. Like it knew.
Like it was waiting.
I needed answers. Not just about the contract, but about the Potters. I barely knew anything beyond my parents’ names and how they died. I didn’t know what kind of people they were. What their house stood for. What it meant to be born with this name.
So I made a decision.
After classes, I’d go back to the library — to the dusty old lineage books and bloodline scrolls and crumbling archives Madam Pince hated to see touched. I’d find the Potters. I’d find the Woods.
I’d learn what this legacy meant.
Because if fate really was calling me by name…
I wanted to know who I was before I answered.
Chapter 6 – What the Blood Remembers
Harriet Potter’s POV
The Restricted Section had never looked more welcoming.
Madam Pince was distracted by a loud first-year with a nosebleed charm gone wrong, which gave me just enough time to slip past her desk with a forged note from Professor Flitwick and a very real determination.
I didn’t know what I was looking for exactly. Just… something. Some piece of my family buried in dusty ink and old parchment. Something that could explain why my name had ended up alongside Oliver Wood’s in a contract neither of us had ever seen coming.
It didn’t take long to find the right shelf.
Ancient Alliances of the Noble Houses of Britain.
The spines of the books here weren’t just dusty — they were lined with traces of magic. Faintly warm, faintly humming. As if the history inside them wasn’t just recorded, but remembered.
I pulled one from the middle, the leather binding cracking slightly as it opened.
My eyes skimmed the index: Potter, House of — page 312.
I flipped, heart pounding.
*The House of Potter is among the oldest of the sacred twenty-eight, though its members often favored more liberal ideals. Known for their loyalty and wit, the Potters were staunch supporters of Muggle-born rights and often intermarried with Half-Blood lines, much to the chagrin of more traditional houses.
In 1852, a formal magical betrothal was signed between the House of Potter and the House of Wood — an arrangement designed to reinforce magical alliances in the North. The contract was sealed by blood and bound with conditional activation magic — designed to remain dormant until both heirs reached magical maturity.*
I frowned.
Magical maturity. What did that mean?
I was thirteen. Still struggling with a Patronus, still trying to understand half of Divination, still flinching when people mentioned Azkaban. I didn’t feel mature.
And yet the contract had activated. For both of us.
“Most likely triggered by external magic,” said a voice to my left.
I jumped.
There, in a dusty gold frame, sat a portrait of a man with sharp gray eyes and long, silver-streaked hair. He wore old-fashioned robes lined in deep green and the unmistakable air of someone who’d once had an estate and people to boss around.
“You startled me,” I said, clutching the book.
“Good,” he said. “Students need startling now and again. Keeps your minds from rotting.”
I stared. “Who are you?”
“Archibald Wood,” he said proudly. “The first Wood to sign the betrothal pact with your ancestor — Ignatius Potter. Ah, that old duel of a man. He couldn’t duel worth anything, mind you, but clever as a fox.”
“You’re Oliver’s ancestor?” I asked, breath catching.
“In a manner of speaking.” The portrait studied me. “You’re the Potter girl.”
“Yes.”
“Hmph.” He eyed me like he was sizing up a suit of armor. “You look like her, you know. Euphemia. Your grandmother. She was sharp. Stubborn as acid and twice as clever.”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out.
No one had ever said I looked like anyone before.
He tilted his head. “The contract’s awake, isn’t it?”
I nodded.
He sighed — not disapproving, but heavy with history. “It’s old magic. Not the kind you can hex away or talk circles around. It was meant to protect our houses — ensure magical strength, preserve lines, forge unity. It was never about romance.”
“Then why betrothal?”
“Because magic recognizes balance,” he said simply. “And sometimes, it binds those who would make each other stronger.”
I blinked. “Stronger how?”
“Ask yourself, child: When you think of the boy — what do you feel? Fear? Frustration? Or something that steadies you?”
I didn’t answer.
But I knew the truth.
Oliver wasn’t just kind or brave or irritatingly perfect at Quidditch. He made me feel… anchored. Like I was something real and not just a girl shaped by war and prophecy.
And I didn’t want to admit it aloud, but I didn’t want to lose whatever was blooming between us — even if it had started with a contract I never chose.
“Is it… wrong?” I whispered. “To not hate this?”
Archibald’s expression softened. “Child, the magic only binds what already wants to connect.”
I swallowed hard, then closed the book and tucked it under my arm.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
He gave a stiff nod. “Tell my great-great-grandson to stop flying in the rain like an idiot. He’ll catch his death.”
I cracked a smile and slipped out of the aisle, heart pounding a little faster than before.
Maybe this wasn’t about fate.
Maybe it was about becoming.
And I was finally ready to learn what that meant.
Chapter 7 – The Pull of the Wind
Oliver Wood’s POV
The snow was falling sideways.
Thick, wet flakes slashed across the pitch in waves, and half my team looked ready to mutiny. Alicia’s broom was icing over. Fred had already hit George in the face with a Bludger — “accidentally.” I was losing control of the session faster than I cared to admit.
Except her.
Harriet.
She flew like the cold didn’t matter, like her broom recognized her heartbeat better than the wind. Her braid whipped behind her like a banner, and every dive was surgical. Focused. Clean.
I’d called practice mostly to clear my own head — to feel something solid beneath me again. But watching her in the air was like watching the contract come alive.
The bond is now active.
I hadn’t stopped thinking about those words since I read them.
I’d told myself I could handle this like everything else. Train. Lead. Keep my head down and give her space. She was thirteen. Young. Too young. I was nearly seventeen, and the magic didn’t seem to care about that — but I did.
Still… I felt it.
Every time she turned midair. Every time our eyes met. It wasn’t dramatic, or painful, or even overly romantic.
It was just… pull.
Quiet. Constant. Like gravity.
“WOOD!”
I snapped out of it just in time to dodge a rogue Bludger. Angelina narrowed her eyes at me from the goalpost.
“Merlin, are you in love or just losing your touch?”
“Practice is over!” I called, voice sharper than I meant.
There were groans of relief. Brooms began descending.
Except hers.
Harriet hovered above the pitch like she hadn’t heard me. Then she leaned into her broom and glided down in one long, elegant curve. Her boots crunched into the frost-dusted grass as she dismounted.
“You alright?” she asked, pulling her gloves off finger by finger.
I shrugged. “Just snowblind and short on patience.”
She didn’t smile — not exactly. But something softened in her eyes.
“I’ve been reading about the Potters,” she said suddenly, like she’d been holding it in all day.
“Oh?” I tried not to sound too interested. Failed.
“They were known for mixing magic with intention. Not just power for power’s sake. Everything had purpose. Even contracts.”
I watched her as she spoke — the way her breath curled in the air, the way she stood like she belonged on that pitch more than anyone else.
“I found a portrait,” she continued, voice lower now. “Of one of your ancestors. Archibald Wood.”
My eyebrows lifted. “You spoke to him?”
“He had opinions,” she said dryly. “But he said something… strange.”
I waited.
“He said magic only binds what already wants to connect.”
We stood in silence, snowflakes clinging to her hair, my gloves, the still air between us.
“And do you think that’s true?” I asked.
She looked up at me — eyes impossibly green, impossibly honest. “I don’t know. But I think it’s trying to tell us something.”
I stepped a little closer before I realized I was moving.
“Do you feel it too?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” I said, no hesitation. “But I also know it’s not fair to you.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t want it.”
That stopped me.
She was thirteen. But she wasn’t a child. Not in the way others were. She’d lived through more than most adults. Fought for herself in ways no one should’ve had to. She spoke like someone who knew the weight of her own name.
I reached up and gently brushed a snowflake from her braid.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “Not until you want me to.”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.
“Okay,” she whispered.
That was all.
Just okay.
But it felt like a promise.
Chapter 8 – Signed and Sealed
Harriet Potter’s POV
The next morning, I found the envelope on my pillow.
It was official — thick parchment, perfectly folded, sealed with the emblem of the Department of Magical Contracts and Heritage. I hadn’t even known that was a real department.
My stomach twisted as I sat up in bed, fingers hovering over the seal. Lavender and Parvati were still asleep, soft snores filling the dorm. I slipped out of bed quietly, took the envelope with me, and padded barefoot into the common room.
The fire was dead, the windows still fogged from the storm. I sank into the armchair Oliver had been in the night before and broke the seal with trembling fingers.
Inside were three documents.
The first was a Notice of Activation — cold and formal.
*Per the terms of the pact between the House of Potter and the House of Wood, dated 10 Samhain 1852, magical binding of betrothal has been confirmed.
Activation occurred on the 17th day of Yule, current year.
Heirs named: Harriet Lily Potter and Oliver Benjamin Wood.
The contract is recognized by the Ministry of Magic and overseen by the Department of Magical Contracts and Heritage.
Refusal or interference will result in magical breach penalties.*
Penalties.
I clutched the page tighter, pulse rising.
The second sheet was worse. A guide.
It listed expectations. Obligations. Formal evaluations in seventh year. A pre-betrothal magical compatibility assessment. Optional etiquette training. Attendance at one sanctioned social event before the end of the year.
My hands trembled.
This wasn’t just some romantic legacy anymore.
This was a schedule.
This was real.
The third sheet was a questionnaire. To be completed by both parties and returned to the Ministry within fourteen days.
I dropped the parchment in my lap and stared into the fireless hearth.
I hadn’t asked for this. Neither had Oliver.
And yet…
I thought about the way he’d looked at me on the pitch. The way his voice had dropped when he said, I’m not going anywhere. The way he hadn’t tried to rescue me or fix things — just stood still with me in the middle of the storm.
And I thought about the way it felt when I held that scroll.
Not like a trap.
Like a door.
But a door to what?
I couldn’t decide if I was terrified or strangely… hopeful.
I pulled my legs up beneath me and read the parchment again, slower this time. There was a part that mentioned sponsors — magical guardians who could oversee the process if parents or immediate family weren’t available.
My chest tightened.
I didn’t have anyone to list.
No mum or dad. No godfather I knew about. No one.
Until now, it hadn’t bothered me as much as I thought it should. I’d grown used to standing on my own.
But this…
This made me feel the empty space around me in sharp relief.
And yet…
I wasn’t alone, not really.
I reached into the drawer of the desk near the fireplace and pulled out a quill and a fresh piece of parchment.
Then, heart pounding, I wrote his name.
Oliver Benjamin Wood.
Not in the Ministry form yet. Just on paper. Just to see how it felt.
It didn’t make it less scary.
But it made it real.
And real was something I could work with.
Chapter 9 – No Turning Back
Oliver Wood’s POV
The Ministry envelope was waiting on my bed when I got back from breakfast. Stark white against the dark wool of my blankets, like it had dropped out of the sky just to ruin my morning.
I didn’t open it right away.
I already knew what it said.
I could feel it in my chest — a quiet pressure, like a promise unspoken. The kind that doesn’t loosen even when you try to pretend it’s not there.
Eventually, I sat down on the edge of the bed, peeled open the seal, and scanned the formal language.
The contract is now recognized under the Ministry’s authority… magical breach penalties… heirs listed: Harriet Lily Potter and Oliver Benjamin Wood… compatibility assessment required by year’s end…
I rubbed my face with one hand and exhaled hard.
They weren’t kidding.
And yet, I wasn’t angry.
Not exactly.
It was more like the world had shifted slightly under my feet — not in a bad way, just… tilted. Realigned.
And her name being there — Harriet Lily Potter — didn’t feel wrong.
But what did sink its claws into my chest was the line near the bottom:
Note: Special consideration required due to age disparity.
Of course.
Thirteen and seventeen. Four years. A world apart in some ways.
I knew what people would say. That she was too young. That I was too old. That it was a mistake. That it wasn’t natural — not the contract, not the quiet looks across the pitch, not the way my chest tightened when she said my name.
And maybe they’d be right.
But magic didn’t care about our rules. It never had.
—
“Mr. Wood.”
I looked up from the parchment to find Professor McGonagall standing in the doorway to the dormitory.
How she got past the stairs, I didn’t know — and frankly, I wasn’t brave enough to ask.
“Come with me, please.”
—
Her office was still the same — tartan armchairs, an ever-pouring tea set, and a sense that you shouldn’t even think about misbehaving within five feet of her.
I stood stiffly in front of her desk, Ministry letter still clutched in one hand.
She didn’t ask to see it. She didn’t need to.
“I take it you’ve received your notice,” she said, steepling her fingers.
“Yes, Professor.”
“And?”
“And I don’t plan to run from it.”
She raised a brow. “Is that pride I hear in your voice, Mr. Wood?”
“No, ma’am,” I said quickly. Then, after a pause: “Respect.”
“Good,” she said, but her gaze sharpened. “Because this is not a simple situation. Harriet is still a child under magical law. The contract may be active, but that does not give you license for anything beyond the bond’s formalities. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Professor.”
“Her guardians are deceased. The Ministry will try to insert itself as her proxy. I’ll be keeping a close eye on this.”
I nodded, heart pounding.
“She may look strong,” McGonagall added more softly, “but she’s been through more than most grown witches. You will not add to that.”
I swallowed hard. “I would never hurt her.”
“I believe you,” she said. “Which is why I’m telling you this now: if you’re going to be a part of her life, you must let her grow into her own voice. You may be linked by bloodlines, but it’s her choice that matters most.”
My chest tightened.
“I understand,” I said.
She studied me for a moment longer, then nodded. “Very well. I’ve arranged for a supervised trip to Hogsmeade for the two of you this weekend. You’ll be required to attend as part of the social contract expectations. Formal dress robes are not required — though I advise you to look presentable.”
I blinked. “You’re… letting us go together?”
“Supervised,” she repeated. “And not alone. Miss Granger will be accompanying you. She’s read more about magical bonding rituals than I ever hoped she would.”
That… sounded about right.
McGonagall leaned back slightly. “I trust you, Oliver. I would not say so lightly.”
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Thank you, Professor.”
As I turned to leave, she added, almost as an afterthought: “And for Merlin’s sake, don’t let Fred and George anywhere near it.”
—
That night, I stood by the fireplace long after everyone had gone to bed. The parchment from the Ministry sat beside me on the stone ledge.
I thought about her.
About the way her voice sounded when she was unsure. About the way she’d said I didn’t say I didn’t want it. About how even in all of this — the pressure, the magic, the history — she still stood tall.
This wasn’t just about ancient promises.
This was her.
And I was already falling.
Chapter 10 – Telling Them
Harriet Potter’s POV
I wasn’t going to tell them.
I’d convinced myself it would be easier to keep it quiet — at least until I could wrap my head around it myself. But the second Hermione sat beside me in the common room, clutching a rolled-up study schedule and a suspiciously sharp quill, I knew it was time.
Ron was slouched in the armchair opposite us, fiddling with a Chocolate Frog card and pretending not to eavesdrop.
I stared at the fire for a long moment before saying, “I need to tell you something. And I need you both to not… freak out.”
Hermione looked up instantly, concern flashing across her face. “What happened? Is it You-Know-Who? The Dementors again?”
Ron sat up a little straighter, suddenly alert. “What’s going on?”
I reached into my cloak pocket and pulled out the Ministry envelope.
Hermione’s eyes widened. “That’s official Ministry parchment. What—?”
“It’s a betrothal contract,” I said, quickly, before I could chicken out. “Between the Potters and another pure-blood family. It was signed a hundred and seventy years ago. And… it activated last week.”
They both stared.
Hermione blinked. “A what?”
Ron choked on his frog. “A what?!”
I let the scroll unroll across the table. Their eyes scanned it, taking in the thick lettering, the gold seal, the phrase The bond is now active.
“It was between the Potters and the Woods,” I said. “And now that both heirs are… of magical maturity or whatever it’s called, it triggered. The Ministry recognizes it. There are penalties if we try to reject it.”
Ron went pale. “Woods? Like—Oliver Wood? Our Oliver Wood?!”
Hermione leaned closer to the document, muttering under her breath. “There’s no exact definition of magical maturity, but I’ve read that it can activate early if the magic between the parties starts to resonate—oh no, that explains the compatibility forms—Harriet, they’ve scheduled an evaluation!”
I buried my face in my hands. “I know. I read it. Three times.”
Ron was still frozen. “He’s seventeen.”
“I know.”
“He’s massive!”
“Also true,” I mumbled into my palms.
Hermione snapped back into focus. “Are you alright? I mean—do you want this?”
I looked at her, then at Ron, who looked halfway between horror and needing to throw something.
“I didn’t choose it,” I said quietly. “But I don’t hate it.”
Hermione’s expression softened.
Ron, however, stared at me like I’d just told him I was moving to Mars.
“You don’t hate it? Harry—he’s ancient. He shaves.”
I laughed — a little. “He’s not ancient. He’s just older. And he’s being really respectful about it. He hasn’t done anything weird or pushy. He’s just… there.”
Ron grumbled something that might have included the word “broom-polishing prat.”
Hermione laid a hand on my arm. “What does it mean going forward?”
“There’s a Hogsmeade visit,” I said. “Supervised. You’re coming, apparently.”
“Of course I am,” she said firmly.
Ron crossed his arms. “And me?”
I gave him a look. “You’re lucky I told you at all.”
He opened his mouth to argue, then slumped back in the chair. “I still think it’s bloody mad. But… if he does anything you don’t like, I hex him first.”
Hermione smiled. “I’ll hex him second.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Thanks, you two.”
Hermione leaned over and hugged me. “You’re not alone in this. Magical contract or not.”
Ron just muttered, “Still think we should look into if we can unbind it. I bet Fred and George know something.”
“Absolutely not,” I said quickly.
But the moment was lighter now. Less sharp. The fear didn’t feel quite so heavy with them beside me.
And even though I had no idea what the Hogsmeade visit would bring, I knew one thing:
No matter what magic said, I got to decide how this story unfolded.
And I wasn’t writing it alone.
Chapter 11 – The Walk Between Worlds
Oliver Wood’s POV
Hogsmeade had never looked more like a painting.
Fresh snow blanketed the roofs, draping over signs and shutters like icing sugar, and the shops flickered with enchanted lanterns that cast warm, golden light through the winter haze. It should’ve felt ordinary — I’d been here a dozen times.
But not like this.
Not with her.
Harriet walked a few steps ahead, flanked by Hermione, her cloak buttoned neatly to her chin, her braid wrapped in a soft blue scarf that didn’t match her uniform but somehow made her look older. Not in the grown-up, put-together way. Just… more herself.
She didn’t glance back at me.
She didn’t have to.
I felt the thread between us humming the second we left the castle gates. It wasn’t loud or dramatic, just a steady awareness — like gravity, except personal.
Ron had joined us too. Uninvited, obviously, but I didn’t push it. He hadn’t spoken to me all morning except for one suspicious glare and an unnecessary elbow nudge when I offered Harriet my hand over a snow drift.
Fine.
Let him be protective. I would’ve been too.
“I read through the contract expectations,” Hermione said briskly as we approached the village. “You’re not required to engage in any physical displays of affection, but you are expected to demonstrate ‘intentional compatibility.’”
Harriet groaned. “What does that even mean?”
Hermione didn’t miss a beat. “Proximity. Conversation. Shared decision-making. Essentially, acting like you aren’t about to murder each other.”
Ron muttered something under his breath. I caught the words quidditch lunkhead.
I ignored it.
As we crossed into the heart of the village, I took a deep breath. “Madam Puddifoot’s is off-limits, by the way. I refuse to be evaluated in a pink, frilly death trap.”
Harriet snorted. “Agreed.”
I smiled.
We ended up at The Three Broomsticks, seated at a booth near the window while Ron and Hermione pretended they weren’t obviously giving us space.
Madam Rosmerta gave us a curious look as she served our butterbeer, her eyes lingering for a half-second too long on our table. She knew. Of course she did.
Everyone in the wizarding world would, soon enough.
“You look like your mind’s ten miles away,” Harriet said gently.
I glanced at her.
She sat across from me, hands curled around her mug, cheeks pink from the cold. Her gaze was steady. Open.
“I was just thinking,” I said. “About how strange it is… to be here like this. With you.”
She didn’t look offended. “Because of the contract?”
“Because of everything,” I said quietly. “You’re thirteen, and I’m on the edge of leaving Hogwarts forever. And yet here we are — in a booth, under supervision, pretending we know what this is.”
Her voice was softer now. “Do you wish it hadn’t happened?”
I looked at her for a long moment.
“No,” I said. “I don’t.”
She swallowed. “Even though it means waiting?”
“If that’s what it takes,” I said, “I’ll wait. I’ll wait until you’re ready — or until you tell me to walk away.”
She didn’t speak. Just nodded once, and took a slow sip of her butterbeer.
I could’ve left it there.
But I didn’t.
“I see you, you know,” I said. “Not just as the girl the world watches. Not the name on the scroll. You, Harriet. And I like what I see.”
Her eyes flicked up, wide and vulnerable. “Even if I’m still figuring out who that is?”
“Especially then.”
She smiled.
It wasn’t big or dramatic — but it stayed. That soft, warm smile that crept into her eyes and made something in my chest tighten.
When we stepped out of the pub an hour later, snow had started falling again.
I offered her my scarf as the wind picked up. She hesitated, then took it, wrapping it around herself carefully.
“You’re going to freeze now,” she said.
“I’ll survive.”
We walked side-by-side back toward the carriages, just close enough that our shoulders brushed.
Ron and Hermione trailed behind us, bickering softly, and for once I was grateful for their presence.
Because even though we were bound by something old and powerful and impossibly complicated — this moment was simple.
Just a girl.
And a boy.
And a walk through the snow.
Chapter 12 – More Than a Name
Harriet Potter’s POV
I didn’t go back to the castle right away.
After the carriage dropped us off, Hermione and Ron headed inside — Ron still sulking about the “public proximity clause” and Hermione already outlining an action plan for filling out our Ministry forms.
But I lingered.
The snow had slowed, the sky hanging heavy and gray, and I found myself drawn back to the edge of the Black Lake. The path was half-covered in ice, my boots slipping once or twice, but I didn’t care.
I needed the quiet.
Needed space to breathe.
Because something had shifted in Hogsmeade — not because of the contract or the Ministry hovering over us, but because of him.
Oliver hadn’t tried to charm me or impress me. He hadn’t offered some grand speech or made this feel like a performance. He’d just… listened.
Watched.
Waited.
He saw me in a way most people didn’t — not as a symbol, or a Seeker, or The Girl Who Lived.
Just as Harriet.
And that… did something to me.
It unraveled a knot I didn’t know I’d tied in my chest. The one that tightened every time I looked in the mirror and didn’t quite know what I was growing into. I’d been bracing myself — for the fear, for the weight of the contract, for someone to push me toward a future I wasn’t ready for.
But Oliver hadn’t pushed.
He’d offered.
And in doing that, he’d reminded me I had a choice — not over the magic, maybe, but over what it meant.
And I was starting to think…
Maybe I didn’t hate what it meant.
I sat down on the bench nearest the water, pulled out the notebook I’d been quietly keeping since October, and turned to a fresh page.
I didn’t write a letter. Not this time.
I wrote a list.
Who I Am (So Far)
• My name is Harriet Lily Potter.
• I’m thirteen.
• I hate pumpkin juice but drink it anyway to be polite.
• My favorite spell is Lumos.
• I braid my hair now because it feels like something I chose.
• I’m scared of Azkaban.
• I still miss my mum and dad.
• I like flying more than I like winning.
• I don’t know what I want to be yet.
• But I think I want to be someone who can be loved.
• Not because of magic. Not because of contracts.
• Just because I’m me.
I stared at the list for a long time, then underlined the last sentence.
The breeze picked up. Somewhere behind me, the clocktower chimed once — a low bell that echoed across the lake.
Time was passing.
Things were changing.
And I was, too.
Not into someone else. Not into some perfect pure-blood heir. But into someone who could walk beside Oliver Benjamin Wood — not just because magic had chosen us.
Because I wanted to choose myself first.
Chapter 13 – Quill to Paper, Heart in Hand
Oliver Wood’s POV
The questionnaire sat unopened on the table next to my bed, untouched since the owl dropped it off three days ago.
I’d looked at it.
I’d thought about it.
But I hadn’t put quill to parchment.
It wasn’t the questions that scared me — I’d faced Slytherin beaters with bats twice the size of my arm and walked into strategy meetings with McGonagall herself. No, it was what the questions meant.
Because they weren’t asking about magical skill or bloodlines or even romantic intent.
They were asking about her.
Do you feel drawn to your intended in the presence of others?
Do you believe they trust you?
Have you witnessed signs of magical resonance (i.e., warmth, shared magic, or emotional clarity)?
Do you believe your bond will grow stronger with time?
Optional: In your own words, describe how your intended makes you feel.
That last one sat like a stone in my chest.
How did she make me feel?
Seen.
Challenged.
Calm.
Terrified.
Like I was already a little bit hers — and trying very hard not to be obvious about it.
I dropped the quill, leaned back in the chair, and ran a hand over my face.
I didn’t know how to say that without sounding like a lovestruck idiot. Or worse — like someone taking advantage of a thirteen-year-old girl whose life had already been shaped by everyone but her.
“Stuck again, are we?”
I turned toward the voice.
Archibald Wood’s portrait stared down from the far wall, perched above the fireplace. My gran had hung it years ago “for luck,” though I wasn’t sure what kind of luck came from a man who once tried to duel his own son over wedding colors.
“Just thinking,” I muttered.
“That’s your first mistake,” he grunted. “You’re overcomplicating it.”
“It’s a magical contract involving a minor and a war-scarred heir to a bloodline on the brink of extinction,” I snapped. “How exactly do I not overthink that?”
“By remembering that the contract didn’t pick at random,” Archibald said, leaning forward in his frame. “That girl — Potter — she’s more than just history. She’s magic incarnate. Power restrained by heart. And you…”
He squinted. “Well, you’re not as dim as you look.”
“Thanks.”
“Look, Oliver.” His voice dropped, surprisingly serious. “This isn’t about obeying. It’s about earning. The contract only lasts if it’s strengthened by something real.”
I sat with that for a moment. “So what if I’m already starting to care for her — properly — and I don’t know what to do with that?”
“Then you keep caring,” he said simply. “And you give her space to grow into someone who chooses you back.”
I didn’t say anything for a long time.
Then I turned back to the form.
And I started writing.
*She makes me feel like the quiet parts of life matter again. Like this isn’t just about duty or magic or names. It’s about her smile when she forgets I’m watching. The way she listens when no one else does. The fire that’s always there — even when she doesn’t notice it herself.
I want to protect her. But more than that… I want to see who she becomes.
And I want to earn the right to be there when she does.*
I sealed the page.
Not with a spell. Not with wax.
Just with truth.
And for now, that was enough.
Chapter 14 – Questions and Shadows
Harriet Potter’s POV
I stared at the first question for ten minutes before I even picked up my quill.
Do you feel drawn to your intended in the presence of others?
Yes.
More than I wanted to admit.
Not in a hearts-and-flowers way. Not the way Lavender talked about dreamy Quidditch captains or how Parvati gushed over wizarding pop stars. It was quieter. He didn’t make my heart race — he made it steady. Like standing in the eye of a storm and realizing you’re still whole.
I wrote the word yes, neat and careful.
Then moved to the next one.
Do you believe they trust you?
Yes. Maybe more than he should.
Have you witnessed signs of magical resonance (i.e., warmth, shared magic, or emotional clarity)?
Yes. Especially when we’re near each other. I don’t know how to describe it — it’s like the magic between us… listens.
I hesitated on the final, optional line.
In your own words, describe how your intended makes you feel.
I chewed the tip of my quill, heart tight.
Then wrote:
He makes me feel like I’m not just the product of a prophecy or a headline. He makes me feel seen, not watched. Heard, not measured. Like I could become someone — and it wouldn’t scare him away. Maybe it’s the contract. Maybe it’s just him. But with him, I feel real.
I exhaled.
Folding the parchment closed was harder than expected. Like sealing it made it permanent.
Just as I tucked it into my bag, the common room portrait swung open and Hermione burst through, breathless, snowflakes caught in her curls.
“Harriet,” she said, eyes wide. “Have you seen this?”
She thrust the Daily Prophet at me. The front page screamed in bold black letters:
“SIRIUS BLACK SPOTTED NEAR HOGSMEADE: MINISTRY CONFIRMS ESCAPED PRISONER WAS SIGHTED JUST BEYOND HOGWARTS GROUNDS”
I sat up straighter. “That’s the prisoner — the one from Azkaban?”
Hermione nodded grimly. “He was seen last night near the Honeydukes exit. The Ministry’s already reinforcing Dementor patrols. Professor Lupin’s posted a watch schedule. They think he might try to get into the castle.”
I swallowed, remembering the chill that crept over me during the last match. The hollow, bone-deep cold. The screaming that wasn’t quite in my ears but somewhere in the back of my skull.
Dementors.
They were getting closer.
And Sirius Black… for some reason, he was coming for me.
Ron came barreling down the stairs, hair sticking up in all directions. “You saw the paper? We’re not allowed out without a prefect now — even to the pitch.”
“Great,” I muttered. “Just in time for practice.”
“Don’t be daft,” Ron said. “They’re saying Black wants to kill you.”
Hermione elbowed him.
I didn’t answer.
Because in the very bottom of my stomach, I already knew: whatever Sirius Black wanted, it had something to do with the past.
With me.
And for the first time since the contract arrived, I wasn’t thinking about marriage or magical resonance.
I was thinking about how to survive the next game.
Chapter 15 – When the Wind Fell Still
Oliver Wood’s POV
The rain came down like a curse.
Not a drizzle. Not a storm. A monsoon. Sheets of icy water slammed into us from all directions, turning the air into needles and the pitch into a whirlpool of mud and chaos. I’d played in bad weather before — but this? This was the kind of game that turned into legend or disaster.
I squinted through my goggles, flying blind half the time. My fingers were numb on the handle of my broom, even with gloves. The wind screamed through the stands like a living thing.
Still, we flew.
Still, we fought.
Because that’s what Gryffindor does.
Harriet was high above us all, slicing through the sky like she belonged to it. Even soaked through, she was still graceful — sharp-eyed and silent. She hadn’t come down once since the match started, hadn’t missed a beat.
I was so damn proud of her.
Until I saw her pause.
Midair.
Stiff.
Then came the cold — not from the storm, but from something else. Something deeper. Something that turned the marrow in your bones to ice.
That’s when I saw them.
Dementors.
Dozens of them, gliding across the pitch like smoke with purpose. Not supposed to be here. Not during the match. Not this close to her.
Harriet hovered in place, swaying.
She didn’t dive.
She didn’t fly.
She froze.
And then her broom started to tip.
“NO—” I screamed, but the wind ate the sound.
I dove, fast — faster than I ever had before — my stomach bottoming out as she tumbled from the sky.
Her body spun through the rain, dark against darker clouds, her broom spiraling off in the opposite direction like a puppet cut loose.
The stands screamed.
I couldn’t hear them.
All I could see was her.
Falling.
Falling.
Falling.
She hit the pitch with a sickening thud and didn’t move.
I hit the ground seconds later, slipping in the mud as I ran toward her — legs numb, throat raw, water blinding me. The world narrowed to her shape curled against the soaked grass.
“Harriet—” I choked, kneeling hard beside her. She was pale. Drenched. Her lips slightly parted. Her wand still clutched in her fingers like she hadn’t even realized she was falling.
I grabbed her hand.
“Harriet, come on—wake up.”
Nothing.
Rain pounded down on both of us.
Someone shouted behind me — McGonagall, I think. And Pomfrey. I heard thunder crash. The Dementors were retreating. Someone had cast a Patronus — probably Dumbledore.
But I didn’t care.
She wasn’t moving.
I pressed my forehead to her wet knuckles, breath hitching.
“I’ve got you,” I whispered. “You’re not going anywhere. Not while I’m here.”
Lightning lit up the pitch.
And all I could do was hold on.
Chapter 16 – In the Quiet After the Storm
Harriet Potter’s POV
Waking up felt like swimming through cold treacle.
I was floating, weightless, my limbs numb and heavy all at once. My mouth was dry. My skin prickled with gooseflesh. I could hear the crackle of firewood and the soft clink of vials — and someone breathing just a little too fast.
When I opened my eyes, the Hospital Wing ceiling swam above me — high arches, soft candlelight.
Everything ached.
My fingers, my ribs, my head. Merlin, my head.
Then I saw him.
Oliver.
He was slumped in the chair next to my bed, soaked cloak half-draped over his lap, hair still damp and sticking up at odd angles like he hadn’t touched it since the match. His hands were clasped between his knees, knuckles white. His expression was a mix of exhaustion and something like…
Grief.
“Oliver?” My voice cracked.
His head shot up.
“Harriet—Merlin—” He was already on his feet, stumbling closer, hovering like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch me. “Are you—? I mean—how do you feel?”
“Like I got thrown out of the sky,” I rasped.
The corner of his mouth twitched, but it didn’t turn into a smile.
“You did.”
Right. The match.
The storm.
The… Dementors.
It hit me in a wave. The screaming. The cold. The way the world vanished beneath me, all sensation ripped away until there was nothing but air and fear and—
I sat up too fast and gasped.
“Easy.” Oliver pressed a hand to my shoulder, steady but gentle. “Don’t push it.”
Madam Pomfrey materialized beside me like she’d apparated from thin air.
“Miss Potter. You’re awake. Good. You’ve got a minor concussion and a touch of magical exhaustion, but nothing we can’t fix.”
“How long—?”
“About six hours,” she said briskly. “You’ll be here overnight.”
I looked back at Oliver. He hadn’t moved away.
“I didn’t see them coming,” I whispered.
“No one did,” he said softly.
There was a long pause.
I swallowed. “Did we win?”
His mouth twisted. “They called the match off.”
That was answer enough.
I exhaled slowly, settling back against the pillows. My hands were still trembling, just slightly. I didn’t know if it was from the fall or the memory. Maybe both.
Oliver sat again — not in the visitor chair now, but on the edge of my bed. He still looked wrecked. Like someone had taken the solid, unshakable captain and unmoored him.
“I thought I lost you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I saw you fall and… I’ve never been that scared in my life.”
My breath caught.
“It was like watching the world drop out from under me.”
I didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t supposed to say things like that — not with me still bandaged and reeling and younger than him by years that felt heavier than ever in this room.
But he did.
And it didn’t feel wrong.
“I’m still here,” I murmured.
He nodded once. Looked down at his hands.
“I know we didn’t choose this,” he said. “The contract. The timing. Any of it. But if anything happens to you again—if you fall like that and I can’t catch you—Harriet, I don’t know what I’d do.”
I didn’t think.
I just reached out and took his hand.
He didn’t pull away.
The room was quiet except for the fire crackling and Madam Pomfrey muttering about potion rotations.
And for a moment, despite the pain and the fear and the cold still lingering in my bones…
I felt warm.
Chapter 17 – Weight and Oath
Oliver Wood’s POV
I didn’t sleep.
Even after Madam Pomfrey kicked me out of the Hospital Wing. Even after Harriet had smiled — actually smiled — and told me she was fine. I’d nodded, said all the right things.
But the image of her falling didn’t leave me.
Not when I showered.
Not when I lay down.
Not even when I shut my eyes and begged my brain to let it go.
She’d dropped like a stone.
Arms slack. Hair wild. Like a puppet with the strings cut. And I’d been too far. Too slow. Too helpless.
I’d always thought magic was the most powerful thing in the world.
Until I saw what it couldn’t stop.
—
“Mr. Wood.”
I looked up, bleary-eyed, as Professor McGonagall stood in the doorway of the Great Hall, robes pressed and expression unreadable.
“Walk with me.”
Not a request.
I followed her silently down the corridor, boots echoing against the stone. The castle was quieter than usual — storm-swept and heavy, like it still remembered what happened on the pitch.
We stopped outside her office. She opened the door with a flick of her wand, gesturing me inside.
“Sit.”
I did.
She took her seat across from me, laced her fingers together, and studied me for a long, uncomfortable moment.
“You care for her.”
Not a question.
I met her gaze. “Yes.”
“You are aware of her age.”
“I am.”
“You understand how this looks to the outside world.”
“I do.”
“And yet you continue to—”
“I’m not doing anything wrong,” I cut in, trying to keep my voice level. “I’m not rushing her. I’m not leading her anywhere she doesn’t want to go. I’m just—” I broke off. Swallowed. “I’m just here. Because she needs someone to be.”
McGonagall’s eyes narrowed.
“Magic doesn’t always concern itself with age or timing,” she said after a moment. “It concerns itself with balance. And like it or not, Oliver, you have been placed at the other end of hers.”
I said nothing.
“She nearly died yesterday.”
“I know,” I whispered.
“She will face worse before this is over.”
I closed my eyes.
“I know.”
McGonagall leaned forward slightly. “Then you must decide what your role is. Are you her protector? Her partner? Her future?”
I met her gaze again. “I think I’m becoming all three.”
She didn’t nod.
But she didn’t argue either.
Instead, she slid a thin slip of parchment across the desk.
It was a Ministry addendum. A formal acknowledgment of emotional entanglement between contracted parties. It didn’t bind us tighter — but it recognized something deeper was forming. It was rare.
Unusual.
Serious.
McGonagall’s tone softened. “You don’t need to sign it. Not yet. But if this continues — if you stay close to her, as you have — the Ministry will expect it.”
I stared at the line where my name would go.
Then folded the parchment carefully and stood.
“I’ll protect her,” I said, voice quiet. “With or without magic’s permission.”
She gave a single nod. “Then go rest, Mr. Wood. You’ll need it.”
—
Later that night, I stood outside the Hospital Wing, hand hovering over the door.
I didn’t go in.
Not yet.
She needed sleep.
But I waited there anyway.
Just long enough to know she was still breathing.
Chapter 18 – Light in the Dark
Harriet Potter’s POV
I was discharged from the Hospital Wing the next morning with a vial of bruise salve, a warning about magical exhaustion, and strict instructions to avoid Quidditch practice for at least a week.
I nodded, thanked Madam Pomfrey, and lied through my teeth.
Because there was no way I was staying grounded with everything happening.
I didn’t even make it halfway back to the tower before the whispers started.
“She fell—”
“Fainted in midair—”
“I heard she screamed—”
“Dementors. Swarmed the pitch—”
I kept my head down.
Let them talk.
Let them wonder.
They didn’t know what it felt like — that cold. That void. Like drowning in nothing, like being pulled through memories I never gave permission to have. I still heard the screams sometimes. My mother’s voice, maybe. Or mine.
Or both.
By lunch, I couldn’t breathe in the Great Hall.
By dinner, I didn’t even try.
So I went somewhere I hadn’t before.
Professor Lupin’s office.
I didn’t knock at first. Just stood outside the door, uncertain. The halls were empty. The torches burned low. I was one step from turning around when the door opened.
He looked surprised. Then concerned.
“Miss Potter?”
“I—” I swallowed. “I don’t know where else to go.”
He stepped aside without a word and let me in.
—
His office was warm. Mismatched chairs. A chipped tea set. A trunk full of old books and linty scarves. It felt… human. Not like a teacher’s office. Like a person lived here.
He didn’t ask questions right away. Just poured tea and handed me the cup without a word.
We sat in silence for a while.
Then: “The Dementors.”
I nodded.
“They affect everyone,” he said gently. “But you… they seem to strike harder.”
I looked down at my hands. “They make me feel like I’m dying all over again.”
He didn’t flinch.
He didn’t call me dramatic.
He just nodded. “That’s because you’ve known real loss. Real fear. They feed on what’s already heavy.”
“I couldn’t move,” I whispered. “I couldn’t even think. I just fell.”
“You need a defense,” he said.
I looked up.
“A proper one.”
He rose from his chair and crossed to a small shelf near the desk. Pulled out an old wooden box.
“The Patronus Charm,” he said, as if that answered everything.
I blinked. “I’ve read about it. But that’s… advanced magic.”
“You’ve done more advanced things already,” he said with a faint smile. “But yes — it’s not easy. It requires focus. Memory. Hope.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Do you know my life?”
He chuckled. “That’s why I’m going to teach you.”
He paused.
“But Harriet—this will only work if you believe there’s something worth protecting. Something strong. Something yours.”
Something mine.
I thought of Oliver.
Not the contract. Not the parchment. Him.
His hand on mine in the Hospital Wing. His voice in the rain. The way he looked at me — not like I was broken or a burden or an obligation.
Like I was real.
Maybe I wasn’t ready.
Maybe I’d never be.
But I wanted to try.
“Okay,” I said.
Lupin smiled. “Good. We’ll start next week.”
As I stood to leave, I turned at the door. “Professor?”
“Yes?”
“Do you have something worth protecting?”
He met my eyes for a long moment.
“Yes,” he said softly. “I used to think I didn’t. But lately… I think I do.”
I didn’t ask who.
But I understood.
Chapter 19 – The Quiet Between Us
Oliver Wood’s POV
I found her in the Astronomy Tower.
Late. Cold. Curfew-long-passed kind of late. I hadn’t meant to follow her, but something in me had noticed she wasn’t at dinner, wasn’t in the common room, wasn’t asleep.
She’d slipped into the shadows like she always did when her thoughts got too loud.
She didn’t flinch when I stepped into the tower behind her.
“Sorry,” I said quietly. “Didn’t mean to sneak up.”
“You didn’t.” She kept her back to me, eyes on the stars. “I figured you’d find me eventually.”
“I usually do.”
She exhaled a soft laugh — almost a puff of air more than sound.
The sky stretched out above us, cloudless and crisp. Snow clung to the ledges, the breeze sharp and honest. She stood in her cloak, hands buried in the folds, her braid damp from fog.
“You alright?” I asked, approaching slowly.
She didn’t answer at first.
Then: “No.”
Honesty.
Sharp. Simple.
I closed the distance and stood beside her. Not touching, not pressing — just near enough.
“I’m scared,” she said. “Of what’s happening. Of the way they make me feel. Of… not being enough when it counts.”
I waited.
“The Dementors, they don’t just make me cold. They drag me back. Every time. I hear my mum. Screaming. Begging for my life.” She paused. “And I don’t remember her. Not really. But I hear her die.”
My chest tightened. I didn’t speak. I didn’t move.
She turned toward me, eyes shining with something she wasn’t ready to cry.
“Lupin’s going to teach me the Patronus Charm.”
My eyes widened. “That’s powerful magic.”
“I don’t care,” she whispered. “I need it.”
“You’re not alone in this, Harriet.”
“I know,” she said. Then, quieter: “That’s why I’m telling you.”
Her gaze met mine — not shaky or fragile, but steady in its vulnerability.
“I don’t want to hide,” she continued. “Not from you. I know I’m young, and you’re older, and this whole contract is a mess of ancient magic and Ministry interference. But I trust you. I want to trust you.”
You could’ve lit the stars with what bloomed in my chest at that.
“I feel the same way,” I said. “You’re not just some name on a scroll. You’re… you.”
She stepped closer.
I reached out instinctively, brushing her glove-covered fingers with mine.
No kiss.
No declarations.
Just two hands finding each other in the cold.
“I’ll be with you,” I said. “Every step.”
Her voice cracked, just slightly. “Even if I fall again?”
I squeezed her hand.
“I’ll catch you this time.”
She leaned into my side — small and solid and real — and I wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.
The wind didn’t matter.
The stars didn’t matter.
Only her.
Only us.
Chapter 20 – The Shape of Light
Harriet Potter’s POV
I didn’t think it would be this hard.
The charm was simple — on paper.
Expecto Patronum.
Two words. A wand movement I could do in my sleep. And a memory.
That was the part that broke me.
“Try again,” Professor Lupin said gently. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t look disappointed. Just waited.
I steadied my stance, wand raised, the chill of the practice classroom seeping into my sleeves.
Expecto Patronum.
Nothing.
Not even a spark.
My breath fogged the air. My knees trembled slightly, though I wasn’t sure if it was nerves or the lingering weight of the Dementors. I closed my eyes and dug deep. What memory was strong enough? Not just happy — powerful.
Flying?
Too fleeting.
Fred and George’s last prank on Filch?
Too funny.
Then I saw it — clear and warm and real.
Oliver’s face. The moment in the Hospital Wing. His hand holding mine. His voice whispering You’re not going anywhere.
I opened my eyes.
“Expecto Patronum!”
A faint shimmer of silver burst from my wand.
Not a full shape — but something.
Lupin smiled. “Better. Again.”
—
We practiced for nearly an hour.
By the end of it, I was shaky but proud. My arm hurt. My head throbbed. But I had light. Not enough to drive back a dozen Dementors, maybe — but enough to prove I could.
I could do this.
I would.
Lupin handed me a chocolate bar as I pulled my cloak on. “You’re stronger than you think.”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“You don’t have to feel it,” he said. “You just have to believe it’s in you.”
I nodded and stepped into the hallway.
And found him there.
Oliver.
Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, scarf wrapped snug around his neck. His hair was damp, cheeks red from the corridor draft.
“You waited?” I asked, surprised.
“Of course I did.”
I walked to him slowly. Let the weight of the lesson roll off my shoulders.
He reached up, brushing a curl from my forehead.
“Did it work?”
“A little,” I said. “Enough.”
He smiled. “It’ll be more next time.”
There was no one else in the hallway. No Ministry official. No contract. Just us.
“You were my memory,” I said softly. “The one that worked.”
His eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t say anything.
Just pulled me into his arms.
And in that quiet, magical corridor, for once…
I didn’t feel like a weapon.
I felt like a girl worth holding.
Chapter 21 – The Things We Miss
Oliver Wood’s POV
You learn a lot about people by how they sit at breakfast.
Fred and George always slouched like the table owed them something. Alicia perched like she was already strategizing three hours ahead. Angelina stirred her porridge counterclockwise. And Harriet—Harriet folded into herself like she didn’t quite believe she was allowed to exist peacefully.
Until recently.
Now she leaned into the table with quiet confidence, fingers brushing Ron’s when she laughed, shoulders square when Hermione read aloud some absurd Ministry ruling. Her braid still curled down her back, loose and a little uneven. I liked it better that way.
But this morning?
This morning felt…off.
It started with Ron.
He was hunched over his plate, arms cradling something under his cloak, muttering. Hermione kept darting glances at him, her expression a blend of frustration and fury, the kind that usually preceded some sort of magical explosion — or at least a shouting match outside the library.
Harriet looked tired. Not Patronus-practice tired. Worried tired.
After breakfast, I caught up with her near the Charms corridor.
“Something going on?”
She looked at me like she wanted to say no — but didn’t.
“It’s Scabbers,” she said finally. “Ron’s rat. He’s been acting weird. Hiding. Jumpier than usual. Hermione thinks it’s more than stress.”
“More than stress?”
“She thinks something’s wrong with him.”
I raised a brow. “It’s a rat.”
Harriet hesitated. “Yeah… but we’ve seen a lot of things that aren’t what they seem lately.”
Fair.
She tucked her hands into her sleeves and glanced down the corridor. “It’s not just that, either. I keep getting this… feeling. Like something’s waiting. Watching. And the Dementors haven’t even been near the grounds in two days.”
“You think it’s Black.”
She nodded. “Lupin’s worried too. But he won’t say why.”
My jaw clenched. I hated that she was caught in the middle of this. A contract binding her to a boy nearly grown, a murderer apparently hunting her, a rat with secrets, and magic that kept asking more than it gave.
I touched her wrist gently. “You’re not alone, you know.”
“I know.”
She didn’t smile.
But she didn’t pull away either.
As she headed off to class, I watched her braid swing behind her, tension in every step. She carried everything so close to the chest — even now, even with me.
And yet…
I couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was coming. Something bigger than contracts or broomsticks or bloodlines.
And this time?
No amount of strategy would be enough.
Chapter 22 – Silver and Shadows
Harriet Potter’s POV
The Patronus came on a Wednesday.
I hadn’t expected it. I hadn’t even felt ready. But Lupin had nodded at me across the empty classroom, wand in hand, and said, “Just try. One more time.”
So I did.
I closed my eyes.
Thought of Oliver’s voice in the rain — You’re not going anywhere.
Thought of his arms around me in the corridor, holding me like I was made of something worth protecting.
And I spoke.
“Expecto Patronum.”
The light burst from my wand like a gasp — bright, clean, shimmering silver. It didn’t fizzle or fade. It took shape.
A doe.
Slender, strong, delicate in the way all living things are when they’re moving toward something that matters.
It ran across the classroom floor on silent hooves, circled once, then disappeared into a thousand motes of light.
Lupin just stared.
Then smiled. “There it is.”
I didn’t realize I was crying until I laughed — the kind of laugh that breaks out of you when something heavy finally lifts.
“You did it,” he said quietly.
I nodded. “I really did.”
—
I was still glowing — actually glowing, Hermione said, shaking her head in amazement — when we got back to the common room that evening.
Ron was hunched near the fire, arms wrapped around himself. The curtains to the boys’ dorm were open, and I saw his trunk half-spilled across the floor.
“Ron?” I stepped closer. “What’s—?”
“It’s Scabbers,” he said, not looking up. “He’s gone.”
My stomach dropped.
“Gone?” Hermione echoed.
“He—he was in my trunk this morning,” Ron said. “I swear. I gave him one of those weird crackers Fred brought back from Zonko’s. He was fine. But now—”
He held up a scrap of fabric — part of a bedsheet, torn and stained. And something else.
A tuft of fur.
Dark. Coarse. Too thick to belong to Scabbers.
“Crookshanks?” I whispered.
But Hermione was already shaking her head. “That’s not cat fur.”
Ron looked at both of us, pale and furious. “What’s happening?”
I didn’t know.
But deep in my gut, that same feeling I’d had on the pitch came roaring back — the one that said this isn’t just fear.
It’s fate.
Chapter 23 – The Snap Before the Storm
Oliver Wood’s POV
Harriet was unraveling, and most people didn’t see it.
Not Hermione — too busy cross-referencing magical creature fur samples with hex defense guides.
Not Ron — too furious over the rat to realize anything else.
Not the professors — caught in lesson plans and Dementor patrol updates.
But I saw it.
I saw it in the way her hands trembled after every class.
In the way she stared too long at the fire when she thought no one was watching.
In how she clutched her bag tighter every time someone mentioned Sirius Black.
Even now, across the common room, I could see the weight she carried like it was stitched into her shoulders.
She was on the couch, legs folded beneath her, the compatibility form still half-filled in on the cushion beside her. She wasn’t even pretending to finish it.
I crossed the room quietly and sat beside her.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.
Just leaned her head against my arm.
I waited.
Finally, she whispered, “I don’t know if I can hold it all.”
I looked down at her — at the shadows under her eyes, the way her fingers twisted the edge of her sleeve.
“You don’t have to.”
She shook her head. “Yes, I do. The Patronus. The contract. Black. The dreams. Ron. Hermione. I feel like if I stop holding any of it, everything will fall apart.”
I reached over, brushing a knuckle gently against her cheek. “Then let me hold part of it for you.”
She turned her face slightly, just enough to look at me. “Even if I break under it?”
“I’ll catch what breaks,” I said softly. “And we’ll build something stronger.”
Her throat worked around a silent breath. Then she nodded.
We didn’t speak after that.
I stayed with her on the couch, one arm looped around her waist beneath the blanket someone had tossed over her earlier, and we listened to the fire crackle while the castle murmured around us.
But even with her in my arms…
I felt the shift.
Something was coming.
Something that had teeth.
And this time, I wasn’t sure if I could catch her in time.
Chapter 24 – The Hollow in the Tree
Harriet Potter’s POV
It started in the boys’ dormitory.
Ron had burst into the common room, clutching a squirming, frantic Scabbers in both hands, his face pale and wild-eyed.
“He’s back,” he shouted. “Scabbers—he’s alive!”
Hermione jumped to her feet. “What? But—Crookshanks—”
“I found him hiding in the sheets at the bottom of my trunk. He’s skinny, twitchy, looks like he hasn’t eaten in days—”
He stopped, holding Scabbers up for us to see.
The rat looked… wrong.
His fur was patchy. His eyes darted madly. And he kept clawing at Ron’s arm, trying to get away like he was afraid of something just behind us.
“Where are you going?” I asked, as Ron turned toward the portrait hole.
“He keeps trying to run. I’m not letting him vanish again — I’m going to take him straight to Hagrid. He’ll know what to do.”
“I’m coming,” I said.
Hermione hesitated for a beat, then nodded. “Fine. But we go together.”
We didn’t take the Invisibility Cloak.
We should have.
The castle was quiet as we slipped out under the Cloak of Night — past the greenhouses, over the frozen slope, through the scraggly stretch of bare trees that bordered the Forest.
Scabbers wriggled harder the closer we got to Hagrid’s hut.
Then, he screamed.
A horrible, high-pitched squeal that made Ron yelp and drop him.
“Scabbers!” he shouted.
The rat hit the ground running.
Ron bolted after him, boots sliding in the snow.
Hermione and I sprinted after them both — heart pounding, wand clutched in my hand. The wind howled through the trees. We lost sight of Scabbers in the brambles.
Then something crashed through the underbrush.
Massive. Black.
A dog.
No — not a dog.
Grim.
The same hulking, shadow-eyed thing I’d seen in the alley in London. In the clouds. In my dreams.
It barreled toward Ron with terrifying speed. He barely had time to scream before it was on him — not biting, not mauling — dragging. Its teeth clamped on the hem of his robes and it hauled him across the frozen earth like he was weightless.
“Ron!” Hermione cried.
“Stupefy!” I shouted, firing at the creature. The spell missed — hit a tree with a crack.
Ron and the Grim vanished beneath the thrashing branches of the Whomping Willow.
For a second, we stood frozen.
Then we saw it.
Crookshanks — Hermione’s cat — darted into view, nimble and low. He pressed a paw to one of the Willow’s gnarled roots.
The tree froze.
Its limbs stopped moving, held in eerie stillness.
And at the base of the trunk… a gap.
A tunnel.
“Did he—did Crookshanks open it?” Hermione whispered.
“Come on,” I said. “We don’t have time to argue.”
She didn’t even hesitate.
We crawled in after them — into the roots, into the dark, into whatever truth waited below.
Chapter 25 – The Absence of Her
Oliver Wood’s POV
The first sign that something was wrong came at dinner.
Harriet wasn’t there.
Neither were Ron or Hermione.
I waited — ten minutes, then fifteen — watching the doors like a hawk. No sign of them. And when I asked one of the first-years if they’d seen Harriet in the library or coming from Charms, they just shrugged and said she left the common room with Weasley and Granger before curfew.
That wasn’t like her.
Not anymore.
Not with Sirius Black still at large and every professor on high alert.
I was halfway to the tower when I ran into Angelina. “Wood, where are you—?”
“Have you seen Harriet?”
She shook her head. “Not since class. You okay?”
No. Not even close.
I turned and headed straight for McGonagall’s office.
—
She didn’t answer at first when I knocked.
So I opened the door anyway.
She looked up from a stack of parchments, her expression sharp. “Mr. Wood, this is highly—”
“Harriet’s gone.”
Her brows rose. “Gone?”
“She’s not in the common room. Not at dinner. Not in the library. No one’s seen her or the others in hours.”
McGonagall stood so fast her chair scraped the floor. “Are you absolutely certain?”
“I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
She swept toward the fireplace and grabbed a small vial of emerald powder. “We’ll alert the staff.”
“No,” I said, voice rough. “I’m coming too.”
She gave me a look — that crisp, authoritative glare that normally turned full-grown Aurors into quivering second-years.
I didn’t back down.
“She’s mine to protect,” I said quietly.
McGonagall studied me. Not just my words. My resolve.
Then she nodded.
“Follow me.”
—
The castle was chaos within fifteen minutes.
Professors fanned out across the grounds. Filch muttered about secret passages. Flitwick summoned every known map of Hogwarts. But I didn’t wait.
I knew where she’d gone.
The Grim.
Harriet had mentioned it once — just offhand. A black dog. Bigger than a wolf. Something she kept seeing. She hadn’t called it an omen, but I’d heard the fear in her voice.
And now Weasley’s rat had mysteriously come back to life, and she was missing, and all I could see in my head was that bloody dog dragging her somewhere dark.
I ran.
Down the slopes. Across the grounds. Toward the Whomping Willow.
That’s when I saw it.
The tree was still.
Unmoving.
A cat — Crookshanks — sat at its base, tail twitching, eyes locked on something I couldn’t see.
There was a hollow space near the roots.
And a tunnel.
“Harriet,” I breathed.
Then I dropped to my knees and crawled into the dark after her.
Chapter 26 – The Truth with Teeth
Harriet Potter’s POV
The Shrieking Shack was colder than I expected.
Not in temperature — in silence. A kind of dead space, full of dust and memories that didn’t belong to me but somehow knew my name.
We found Ron first.
He was sprawled against the far wall, pale and dazed, his wand a few feet away.
Then we saw the dog.
Or… what was left of it.
Fur twisted. Limbs stretching. And in a blur of motion and magic, the creature became a man.
Gaunt. Hollow-cheeked. Hair like ink-spilled straw.
Sirius Black.
Every part of me screamed to move — to fight, to run, to destroy.
But I didn’t.
Because he didn’t attack.
He didn’t even reach for his wand.
He just… looked at me.
Like he knew me.
Like he’d been waiting a lifetime to see me standing here.
“Harriet,” he said hoarsely. “You have your mother’s eyes.”
Ron groaned from the floor. Hermione backed against the wall, wand raised and trembling. “You’re—You’re supposed to be—”
“I’m not here to hurt her,” Black said, eyes still locked on mine. “Not now. Not ever. I’m here for the rat.”
My heart kicked hard against my ribs. “What?”
He pointed to Ron. “Scabbers. He’s not a pet. He’s a man.”
“That’s insane,” Ron rasped. “He’s my rat!”
“No,” said a new voice behind us. Calm. Measured.
Professor Lupin.
He stepped into the room like he’d always known this moment would come.
“He’s right,” Lupin said. “The rat is Peter Pettigrew.”
“No,” I whispered. “Pettigrew is dead. He—he was killed by Black—”
“That’s what you were told,” Lupin said. “It’s what the Ministry believed. But they were wrong.”
Black turned to me. “I would never betray your parents, Harriet. Never. James was my brother.”
My hands trembled around my wand. “Then who did?”
They both looked down at the shaking bundle of fur in Ron’s arms.
Scabbers was trying to run.
“No,” Ron muttered. “This is mad—this is crazy—”
Lupin raised his wand.
“Revelio.”
The rat twisted, screamed, shifted—
And then, crouched where Scabbers had been, was a man.
Small. Beady-eyed. Greasy.
Peter Pettigrew.
Alive.
My knees nearly gave out.
Black surged forward — not to kill him, but to grab him, to force him to speak.
And Pettigrew did.
He confessed.
To everything.
To the betrayal. To the Potters’ location. To the night my parents died. To the years spent hiding as a pet. To letting Sirius rot in Azkaban for a crime he committed.
By the end, I wasn’t shaking.
I was burning.
This wasn’t just about history anymore.
This was about truth.
And for the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to carry a legacy of power, pain, and magic soaked in blood.
But I also knew something else:
I wouldn’t let it define me.
Not this.
Not the contract.
Not even the name Potter.
I was going to decide what came next.
Chapter 27 – What’s Left After Fire
Oliver Wood’s POV
The tunnel opened into rot and dust.
The Shrieking Shack smelled of mildew and something older — the kind of place pain remembers how to breathe. The walls moaned with every gust of wind, but all I could hear was my own heartbeat.
I followed the sound of voices.
Harriet’s voice.
Low. Steady. Nothing like the soft, unsure girl I’d held on the Astronomy Tower. This voice was iron wrapped in velvet.
I reached the top of the stairs just in time to hear her say:
“I don’t want vengeance. I want the truth to cost something.”
She stood in the middle of the room like a storm waiting to be called by name — wand steady in one hand, eyes sharp and glass-green, a silver glow still clinging faintly to her shoulders like her magic hadn’t quite settled yet.
Lupin was beside her.
So was Black.
And between them — trembling, pale, eyes flicking everywhere — was a man I recognized only from old textbooks and whispered Ministry records.
Peter Pettigrew.
Alive.
Alive and guilty.
Ron was leaning on one elbow near the wall. Hermione stood beside him, looking like she’d aged ten years in an hour.
Harriet didn’t see me yet.
But I saw her.
Not just the contract-bound girl I’d come to care for. Not even the warrior the world whispered about.
This Harriet was power.
And she had finally stopped apologizing for it.
I stepped into the room.
Her eyes flicked to me — and for one moment, the fire in her softened.
“Oliver,” she said. Just that.
But it was everything.
I crossed to her, silent, steady, my presence a promise.
She didn’t have to ask if I believed her.
She didn’t have to explain.
I was here.
Always.
Black turned toward me, startled. “And who’s this?”
Harriet didn’t even flinch. “Mine.”
Black blinked. “Yours?”
She didn’t explain that either.
Didn’t need to.
We stood side-by-side in the broken heart of a house, the past unraveling around us, the weight of blood and betrayal soaking into the floorboards.
And I knew — from the look in her eyes — that this was just the beginning.
The fire had been lit.
And she would never be the same.
Chapter 28 – The Price of Being Right
Harriet Potter’s POV
We made it back to the castle just before sunrise.
The sky was gray, heavy with mist, and I was still shaking — not from fear, but from adrenaline. From knowing.
Peter Pettigrew had escaped.
One moment he was cowering at Sirius’s feet, confessing everything.
The next, he was gone — Disapparated into the trees after a scuffle no spell could contain, leaving behind only the smell of burnt magic and the ghost of a chance.
Sirius didn’t blame me.
But I did.
Because now the Ministry would never believe us. No body. No proof. Just the word of a prisoner and a girl who kept surviving things she shouldn’t.
Dumbledore was waiting in the Entrance Hall when we stumbled in — mud-slicked, blood-smeared, hollow-eyed. He didn’t ask questions. Just ushered us upstairs, summoned Madam Pomfrey, sent Ron to the Hospital Wing.
Sirius stayed behind.
So did Lupin.
And Oliver—
Oliver never left my side.
Even when I sat in McGonagall’s office hours later, hands curled around a cup of tea I didn’t drink, he stood behind my chair like a shield.
“I believe you,” she said quietly.
But belief wasn’t enough.
Not without Pettigrew.
Not with the Ministry already issuing a statement by owl: Black remains at large. Extremely dangerous. Do not approach.
It was like nothing had happened.
Like truth had dissolved the second it became inconvenient.
“He should be free,” I said. My voice cracked.
McGonagall looked at me with something almost like sorrow. “And perhaps he will be, one day.”
“But not today.”
“No.”
I didn’t cry.
I wanted to.
I wanted to scream and slam my fists on the table and demand they fix this — that someone fix something.
But I didn’t.
I stood.
And walked out.
—
Oliver found me by the Black Lake.
The same bench. The same path. Everything the same except me.
I didn’t say anything when he sat down beside me.
But I leaned into him.
And he put his arm around my shoulders like he already knew how to hold this version of me — the one who had seen betrayal live, wear a face, and walk away untouched.
“They didn’t listen,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“I did everything right.”
“You did.”
“And it still wasn’t enough.”
“No,” he said softly. “But you were.”
I turned my face into his shoulder, breathing slow, slow, slower.
He didn’t kiss me.
He didn’t speak.
He just held on.
And in that silence, I started stitching myself back together.
Chapter 29 – A World Without Walls
Oliver Wood’s POV
My trunk was packed.
My broom polished.
My locker in the team room empty for the first time in seven years.
This was supposed to feel like victory — like stepping into the rest of my life. Puddlemere’s offer still sat folded in my pocket. My mother had already reserved me a flat in the Highlands, close enough to the training grounds.
But none of it felt real.
Not without her.
Harriet stood with her back to me at the edge of the pitch. Same braid. Same boots scuffed from climbing the Astronomy Tower. But there was something different now — something heavier, deeper. She wasn’t just the girl from the contract anymore.
She was the girl who’d summoned light from the dark.
The girl who’d faced truth and let it burn through her.
The girl I would have chosen — with or without magic.
She turned when I stepped closer.
“You’re really going,” she said softly.
“I don’t want to,” I said. “But I have to.”
“I know.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then I held out a box. Small. Dark velvet. Not a ring.
She opened it.
Inside, a necklace — a simple golden pendant, shaped like a snitch with open wings.
She frowned. “Oliver—”
“It’s not a gift,” I said. “It’s a Portkey.”
Her eyes shot to mine.
“It’s tuned to a safehouse near the reserve fields. If you need me — really need me — it’ll take you straight to me. Doesn’t matter where you are.”
“Is this Ministry-approved?”
“Absolutely not.”
She huffed a laugh, but it caught at the edges. “What if I use it and you’re in the middle of training?”
“Then training can wait.”
I stepped closer. “Harriet, I know you’re staying. I know there’s more coming. I can’t fight it for you. But I’ll never stop standing beside you.”
She reached for my hand.
“I don’t want this to end,” she whispered.
“It’s not ending,” I said. “It’s just changing.”
She leaned in — her forehead pressed to mine.
We didn’t kiss.
We didn’t need to.
Because I knew — in the space between goodbye and next time — that I wasn’t walking away from her.
I was walking toward whatever we’d become.
Chapter 30 – Inheritance
Harriet Potter’s POV
The train pulled away with a cry of steam and steel.
I stood on the platform long after the crowd had thinned, the last trunk hauled away, the final owl vanished into the sky. The scent of smoke still clung to the stones, and in my pocket…
His Portkey.
I hadn’t told Ron or Hermione about it.
They’d said goodbye just after the final feast — Ron still nursing a bruise from the Shrieking Shack, Hermione holding a stack of letters from Lupin, hands ink-stained from research she wasn’t even assigned.
They didn’t understand what I felt as I watched Oliver disappear through the window.
Not really.
Not what it meant to be chosen by someone who wasn’t fated to stay.
Not what it meant to be trusted to hold a piece of him and carry it forward.
Not what it meant to be mine outside of prophecy.
The Ministry had sent another letter yesterday.
A reminder of the contract. A formal list of expectations for the coming year. It ended with a note of “encouragement” from the Department of Magical Lineage:
Heirs born of legacy must understand that magic rewards those who endure.
I folded the parchment without reading the rest.
Because I wasn’t born of legacy.
I was building my own.
And it wasn’t written in bloodlines or headlines. It wasn’t about war. Or prophecy. Or a contract signed by strangers who never knew my name.
It was built in moments.
In ink-stained fingers.
In quiet hands held beneath moonlight.
In the whisper of a promise across a Portkey chain.
In Oliver.
In me.