In Ink and Inheritance (Book 1)

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.