In Ink and Inheritance (Book 1)

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.