In Ink and Inheritance (Book 1)

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I was supposed to react like any normal thirteen-year-old girl would - with horror or outrage or a loud rant about outdated customs and patriarchal nonsense.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.