.
Leaving the wand shop, Harriet found her thoughts drifting once again to Lord Voldemort, though her attention was quickly diverted by the way Hagrid was cradling something in his arms with exaggerated care.
"Oh no."
She knew exactly what it was.
Cream, sugar, and the delicate pleasure of finely milled wheat—
It was a cake.
Harriet's craving for good food had long dulled, in part, her hunger for happiness. Because of that, her senses were sharp when it came to anything edible. Her nose could always sniff out sustenance.
"Fool above," she muttered inwardly.
There was no doubt about it. It was a birthday cake. And Harriet had been born nearly eleven years ago.
Someone actually remembers my birthday?
Harriet—Harriet. Tenderness and happiness were things that hovered far too high for her to reach. She knew better than to grasp at them.
Do not drown in them.
That was the rule in that mad, broken world she had learned to survive in.
"I know, Harriet, your birthday's still a few days off," Hagrid said gruffly, his voice awkward but sincere, "but somethin' came up, and I can't stay with yeh."
Then, clearing his throat, he added, "Happy birthday."
At those simple words, the long-suppressed emotions in Harriet's chest thumped painfully, yet sweetly. She accepted the box with both hands, her fingers trembling despite her best efforts.
Should I let my voice quaver? It would suit my current identity.
With that thought, she clasped the giant's massive hand.
"Thank you, dear Mr. Rubeus Hagrid," she said softly. "In this world, it's the first time anyone has celebrated my birthday."
Her emerald-green eyes shimmered.
"I believe this joy will be sealed forever in the vault of my memories—only death or time itself could ever erode it."
She spoke with a formality that masked her helplessness, wrapping her gratitude in eloquence so her vulnerability would not show.
Hagrid burst into laughter, slapping his thigh and ruffling his wild beard. His eyes shone with unfiltered delight.
"Merlin's woolly socks, Harriet! Yeh talk proper posh—more Professor than the Professors!"
"Then perhaps, in the near future, we shall be colleagues," Harriet replied lightly. "Certainly-to-be-Professor Hagrid."
She had exposed her heart twice today. It was reckless.
But she found she didn't mind falling just a little further.
After some insistence, they returned to the Leaky Cauldron, trailed by a snow-white owl that fluttered silently above them. A birthday demanded presents, and Hagrid's eye for magical creatures was keen. He had added a loyal messenger to Harriet's life.
She named the owl Hedwig—a pseudonym she herself had once used in another life.
The two of them, along with the owl, shared the cake. Harriet tasted butterbeer for the first time, savoring its warmth and sweetness. It was indulgent, comforting, and dangerously pleasant.
The only flaw lay in Hagrid's shaky spelling.
"Happee Birthdae"—scrawled in thick icing—"Harley."
Not a single word was spelled correctly, save for her name. And even that had been a near thing.
"Right then, Harriet," Hagrid said, wiping cream from his beard. "We really must be goin'. Professor Dumbledore's business ain't finished yet!"
He hesitated, then added, "By the way… the Dursleys treatin' yeh all right? Their earlier manner set me on edge."
"If they give yeh any grief, send me a letter with Hedwig."
No need to trouble such an adorable little courier with that, Harriet thought. Aloud, she replied calmly, "Don't worry, Hagrid. My aunt and uncle are quite polite now."
…What happened to the politeness I mentioned? Is basic decency truly such a burden?
Her answer came soon enough.
Riding the Knight Bus home, Harriet was greeted by a mortifying sight. Vernon and Petunia Dursley were screaming at the front window, their faces twisted with rage. Dudley even brandished a golf club.
All of it directed at a single elderly man standing patiently at the door.
Silver-haired and mild-faced, the man spoke calmly despite the abuse. "No offense is intended. I am here for Harriet. She should be home by now."
"Get lost!" Vernon bellowed. "Get off my property!"
Such rudeness.
Harriet had enjoyed a rare, beautiful day, and the Dursleys had chosen this moment to force her to teach them a lesson.
Black flame flared briefly, sweeping through the window like a warning gust, provoking shrill shrieks. It was nothing more than a scare—measured, restrained.
"Dear Uncle and Aunt," Harriet said coolly as she approached, frost spreading subtly beneath her feet, "if you continue spewing disgraceful words, trouble may find you."
"Sorry!" came the immediate, panicked reply.
Silence followed.
"Good," Harriet said. "You're learning quickly."
Straightening her clothes, she turned to the elderly man, apologized for her relatives, and opened the door to invite him inside.
Oddly, his gaze never left her.
It wasn't judgmental—nor was it assessing. It was curious.
Yet it unsettled her all the same.
After minimal courtesy—seating him and pouring hot tea—Harriet finally spoke.
"Hello. I'm Harriet Potter. You should know that staring unabashedly at a young lady is considered impolite."
Her tone was sharp. Perhaps her irritation lingered from her relatives' behavior.
"Oh! Forgive me, child," the old man said quickly. He paused, as though recalling something distant. His expression grew complex before softening into a smile. "I seem to have forgotten my manners."
He rose, bowed gracefully, one hand behind his back and the other pressed to his chest.
"I am Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore," he said lightly. "Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, and Order of Merlin, First Class…"
The list went on.
Harriet froze, teacup hovering halfway to her lips.
The Headmaster himself?
Was this because of her changes?
Until now, Hagrid's words and the gossip of Diagon Alley had painted Dumbledore as the mightiest wizard alive. Yet standing before him, Harriet felt no oppressive pressure, no overwhelming sense of authority.
He felt like an ordinary grandfather.
And yet, her instincts screamed a warning: do not doubt his power. Before this man, resistance would be meaningless.
A paradox.
"Please forgive my earlier impropriety, Professor Dumbledore," Harriet said meekly. "I meant no disrespect. I spoke only to protect myself."
She chose to play the part of a timid, obedient child.
Dumbledore's smile widened, then softened. "No matter, my dear. I am merely curious about the changes in you. I wished only to talk."
Change—from boy to girl.
And perhaps something more.
Harriet knew she could not hide everything from a man like this. But she would not speak of that other world. It was poison. It was her deepest secret.
Slowly, she rose and stepped toward the cupboard under the stairs, turning the door aside so he could glimpse the cramped, miserable space.
"Forgive me, Professor," she whispered. "It may be messy… but I need a private place."
"It was a nightmare," she continued quietly. "I only survived… because of my mother's love."