"Being alone is not the same as being lonely." — Hachiman Hikigaya
The infirmary doors finally opened, and Harriet stepped out, stretching slightly as she moved. The corridors were calmer now, the last of the students packing for the morning's departure creating soft echoes in the distance.
Almost immediately, congratulations started arriving. Some classmates came over, grinning or offering pats on the shoulder. "You were amazing!" whispered one. "I can't believe you survived," another added, eyes wide.
Harriet gave a small, lazy smile, shrugging. "Thanks," she said. "Really. I'll try to enjoy the applause while I nap later." A faint laugh escaped her, amused at the mix of awe and relief on their faces. She wasn't one for speeches, and she wasn't planning to start now.
Idiots, she thought. Since when did Gryffindor bravery turn into collective hypocrisy…?
With a polite nod, she made her way down the corridor. Students stepped aside or gave her a wide berth, some whispering among themselves. Harriet barely noticed. She just wanted to get back to a room where she could sit, lie down, and stop thinking about anything at all.
Harriet entered the Gryffindor dormitory, weary but steady on her feet. Luggage lay scattered across the floor, robes were tossed onto beds, and a few of the girls were still trying to sort out the chaos from the day's events. Hermione, Parvati, and Padma were there, quietly moving about, but Hermione's head snapped up the moment she saw Harriet.
The moment Harriet stepped inside, Hermione scanned her from head to toe. Seeing that she was relatively unharmed, Hermione let out a long, relieved sigh
"Harriet!" Hermione rushed over, her eyes wide with concern. "You—you're awake! How do you feel? Really?"
Harriet smiled faintly, leaning back against the bed. "I'm… alive. That's a start. But I'm tired. Very, very tired." She paused, then gestured toward Parvati and Padma. "Could you give us a few minutes? Just… you and me?"
The other two glanced at each other, shrugged, and quietly left the room, muttering goodnight as they went.
Hermione exhaled sharply, a mixture of relief and worry flooding her features. She moved closer, scanning Harriet's face and body as if trying to find a place untouched by the horrors she'd been through.
"I—I don't even know where to start," Hermione said softly. Her voice wavered, betraying her usual calm and collected demeanor. "After… after you were chosen as champion, I didn't know what to believe. I didn't know if I should support you or… or stay away. And I—I know I distanced myself, and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…"
Harriet shook her head, a small, lazy smile forming. "Hermione, it's fine. You didn't know. Nobody did. And honestly… I kind of expected it. People change when things get scary. I didn't blame you. Not really."
Hermione's hands twisted nervously, her eyes dropping to the floor. "But I did. I doubted you, and I… I stayed away when you might have needed me most. I—I thought I was protecting myself, but… I think I was also trying to protect you, even if I got it wrong."
Harriet's gaze softened. She reached out a hand, resting it lightly on Hermione's arm. "It's okay, Hermione. You came back when it mattered. That's what counts. I didn't need perfection—I just needed you not to disappear completely."
Hermione looked up, meeting Harriet's eyes. The intensity there caught her off guard—there was warmth, understanding, but also that little spark of Harriet's fearless, sarcastic charm. Hermione swallowed hard, her chest tightening. She's still the same Harriet… and yet, she's changed too. Stronger, sharper… but still somehow just herself.
"I was scared for you," Hermione admitted quietly. "I didn't know what you were walking into. I didn't know how dangerous it really was. I—I didn't want to lose you, Harriet."
Harriet smiled faintly, but her eyes carried a deeper understanding. "I know. And I appreciate that, Hermione. Really. But this year… things are going to be messy. Dangerous. I don't want you caught up in it."
Hermione shook her head. "I don't care about that. I care about you. I want to help. I want to be there."
Harriet leaned back, a small smirk tugging at her lips. "Hermione… you can't protect me. And this isn't about helping. It's about you, your safety, your life. Hogwarts isn't just a magical playground. There are people out there—people who will hurt you because of who you are, who your parents are. You don't need that, not because you care about me, but because you care about yourself."
Hermione's voice dropped to a whisper. "And you… you're asking me to step back?"
Harriet's eyes softened, a rare gentleness in her gaze. "For now, yes. Not because I don't want you around. But because I want you to be safe. If nothing else, think about your parents. Think about what could happen if you got involved. You can come back to me later, if things settle—but right now, step back. Just… be smart."
Hermione swallowed, the weight of Harriet's words pressing on her. She wanted to argue, to insist, but she also knew Harriet was right. She had underestimated the dangers of this year—and she had underestimated the way the world could be cruel, not just with Mangemorts but with anyone who didn't fit their narrow mold.
"I… I understand," Hermione said finally, her voice quiet but steady. "I'll be careful. I'll… stay back, for now."
Harriet's smirk returned, faint and teasing. "Good. Because honestly, I need a little peace. Just a little. No heroic speeches, no worrying, just… me lying down without someone hovering over my shoulder."
Hermione smiled faintly, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'll leave you to it… but I'll be nearby, in case you need anything."
Harriet gave her a lazy wave. "Perfect. You can hover at a safe distance. I'll survive. Probably."
Hermione lingered a moment longer, watching her friend settle onto the bed, and thought: She's still Harriet. Fearless, sarcastic… infuriating. And somehow… I can't stop caring.
As she quietly left the dormitory, Hermione carried the tension of the conversation with her—the worry, the relief, and the bittersweet awareness that Harriet needed her space, even if it hurt to step back. For Hermione, this was the balance of friendship: close enough to care, far enough to survive.
… There hadn't been any shouting, just a conversation—but both girls knew perfectly well that they weren't exactly close friends anymore. They had drifted too far apart over the past year for that. So, even though the discussion went smoothly, it was far too brief and far too impersonal for what it had been—and they both knew it. They just didn't want to say it out loud.The night passed without incident.
Harriet didn't sleep particularly well, but she didn't wake screaming either. Her mind simply refused to settle, thoughts drifting lazily from one subject to another, looping back on themselves until exhaustion finally claimed her. When morning came, it did so gently, filtered through the tall windows of the dormitory and accompanied by the muted sounds of trunks being dragged across stone floors.
Hogwarts was leaving.
By the time Harriet made her way down to breakfast, the castle felt different—lighter, restless, as though it were already preparing to be empty again. Students filled the Great Hall in clusters, voices overlapping in excited chatter about holidays, plans, families waiting at home. Some conversations dropped noticeably when Harriet passed.
She noticed, of course. She always did.
A few heads turned. Some glances were curious, others wary, some openly uncomfortable. There was no hostility—at least not openly—but there was an unspoken awareness hanging in the air. She wasn't just a student anymore. She was linked to something. To rumors. To fear. To a truth most of them didn't want to acknowledge.
Harriet didn't let it bother her.
She took her seat, ate slowly, mechanically, more focused on the rhythm of the moment than the food itself. Dumbledore stood at the staff table near the end of the meal, waiting for the hall to settle. When he finally spoke, his voice carried easily, warm and familiar.
It was the same speech as in the films.
A reminder of courage, unity, and the darkness that existed in the world—but carefully phrased, carefully restrained. No names spoken aloud. No accusations. Just enough gravity to feel sincere, and just enough distance to avoid panic.
Harriet listened, detached.
She noticed, absently, that Draco Malfoy had not approached her once since she'd left the hospital wing. Not even a sneer, not even a half-hearted comment thrown her way.
He probably hasn't heard from his father yet, she thought, a faint smile tugging at her lips. Must be nice, living in suspense.
She didn't miss the way a few Slytherins glanced at her during the speech, their eyes lingering just a second too long. They knew there was a connection. They just didn't know what it meant yet.
When breakfast ended, Harriet gathered her things without ceremony and headed back to her dormitory. The corridors were crowded now, trunks stacked near staircases, owls fluttering overhead, parents' names being shouted excitedly across common rooms.
She moved through it all like a ghost—present, acknowledged, but ultimately alone.
Strangely, she didn't mind.
The walk down toward the carriages and eventually the train was quiet, almost reflective. The castle's architecture loomed around her—arches layered with centuries of magic, staircases worn smooth by generations of footsteps, towers cutting sharply into a pale sky. Hogwarts was magnificent in a way that felt ancient and indifferent. It would endure, long after all of them were gone.
The grounds stretched wide and green beyond the doors, rolling hills dotted with trees swaying lazily in the breeze. The lake glimmered in the distance, deceptively calm.
For someone who had just survived what she had, Harriet felt oddly… disconnected.
So this is fame, she thought dryly. Surrounded by people, yet entirely on your own.
She'd expected something else. Anger, maybe. Gratitude. Support. Instead, what she felt most was disappointment. Not sharp enough to hurt, just dull and persistent. The magical British world felt small. Insular. Reactionary.
Sometimes, she wondered if, in exchange for magic, they had all collectively decided to stay mentally stuck somewhere between medieval superstition and outright stupidity.
Then she remembered her previous life
Office politics. Ego. Greed. Fear dressed up as morality.
She huffed softly. Never mind. People are just idiots everywhere.
Near the edge of the crowd, a familiar figure drifted toward her—pale, distant, eyes focused on something only she could see.
"Luna," Harriet said, slowing her steps.
Luna Lovegood blinked, then smiled faintly, as if she had expected her all along. "Hello, Harriet."
"You were looking for me?"
"Yes," Luna said simply. "I thought it might be important."
Harriet raised an eyebrow. "That sounds ominous."
Luna tilted her head, studying her in that unsettling, unfocused way. "You feel… lighter. But also thinner. Like something important stopped weighing you down, but something else hasn't quite filled the space yet."
Harriet huffed softly. "That's one way to put it."
"It usually is," Luna replied.
There was a pause.
"You should be careful," Luna added gently. "People tend to notice when someone changes like that. They don't always like it."
Harriet crossed her arms loosely. "People don't like a lot of things."
"That's true," Luna said. "But they especially don't like things they can't understand."
Harriet watched her for a moment, then sighed quietly. "I'll keep that in mind."
Luna smiled, satisfied. "Good. Also… don't forget to take care of yourself. People like you tend to forget that when everyone else decides they're important."
That made Harriet pause.
"…I'll try," she said, more honestly this time.
"That's enough," Luna replied softly. "Trying usually is."
And just like that, she drifted away, as though the conversation had never really been necessary in the first place.
Harriet watched her go, strangely comforted. She hadn't changed — she had simply woken up. And that was something a lot of people wouldn't like.
The train waited, black and imposing, steam curling into the cool air. Harriet found an empty compartment and settled inside, stowing her things without much thought. As the train began to move, the countryside rolled past the window—fields giving way to forests, villages shrinking into the distance.
She leaned back, finally alone.
Her thoughts drifted, unstructured at first. Dumbledore. The Dursleys. The inevitable surveillance that awaited her once she crossed back into that miserable little house. She didn't know where to start. Everything felt tangled.
Then her fingers brushed against the necklace at her throat.
The book-shaped pendant was warm.
She frowned.
She'd always had it. As long as she could remember. Somehow, impossibly, the Dursleys had never noticed it—despite their talent for spotting anything remotely out of place. She couldn't recall when she'd first held it, only that it had always been there.
On impulse, she grasped it.
Something shifted.
The compartment seemed to dim slightly, not darker but… quieter. The pendant unfolded in her hands, expanding seamlessly into a real book—thick, weighty, its cover etched with faint symbols that rearranged themselves as she stared.
A grimoire.
The pages turned on their own, stopping at sections filled with diagrams, spell structures, theories, notes—her notes. Knowledge she recognized without remembering learning.
Harriet inhaled sharply.
As she read, understanding didn't come gradually. It clicked—fully formed, immediate. When she focused on a concept, it rose to the forefront of her mind, clear and accessible, as though she'd been practicing it for years.
"…Well," she murmured. "That's convenient."
The grimoire wasn't loud. It didn't speak. It didn't demand anything. It simply was. A repository of her knowledge, constantly updating, refining, organizing. No grinding. No trial and error. No endless repetition.
Normally, mastering magic required experience—time, failure, discipline.
It didn't skip everything, but it shortened it significantly.
For someone inherently lazy, it was a godsend.
She laughed quietly, closing the book as it folded back into its harmless little pendant. "Okay. Maybe that is a cheat code."
But at least it was one she could understand. No ominous voice. No hidden intentions.
She also knew instantly how to make it disappear and reappear. It felt like an artifact bound to her soul—perhaps the reason she hadn't been able to access it before was the fragment of No-Nose's soul lodged in her forehead… She decided she would study the grimoire more thoroughly once she was somewhere safe.
The train rocked gently as miles passed beneath it, and Harriet sank deeper into thought.
She would have to face the Dursleys again. Dumbledore's watchful eye. A world that wanted to use her while pretending it was for her own good.
Then another thought surfaced.
Wait.
She'd been a banker once.
She understood assets. Leverage. Liquidity.
And in this life… she was a Potter. And a Black.
Which meant money. A lot of it.
She stared out the window, a slow grin forming.
Why did protagonists always hide? Suffer quietly? Endure years of insults just to have a dramatic payoff at the end?
Why not enjoy things now?
Money made problems flexible. It bought options. Time. Distance.
"All right," she murmured. "First step."
Escape everyone's surveillance.
Second step?
"Gringotts."
Those infuriating, sharp-toothed little green men were going to be very useful.
The train sped on, carrying her forward—toward confrontation, toward freedom, toward a future she would shape not through suffering, but through practicality.
For the first time since waking in the hospital wing, Harriet felt something close to excitement.