Harriet ran for her life.
Her feet thumped at an irregular pace over the rumbling floorboards, the sting of thick splinters aching in her legs. She slung herself around the corner as the house shook to its roots—and Voldemort screamed in rage, his followers scrambling to escape the hole Harriet had blasted under their feet. Most had fallen through to the floor below—but she thought one or two might have avoided the fall. Definitely the red-eyed bloke who'd moved to the side. Maybe Barty. She hadn't stuck around to see.
Her knee slammed into the wall, her injured arm skimming the rotted wainscoting. Cracks wended upward, ripping the ancient wallpaper, splitting the ceiling as the entirety of the old, rickety manor began to fold in upon itself. Harriet stared wide-eyed, feeling as if her brain had been bounced inside her skull one too many times, all her wits rattled to pieces.
Harriet blinked, then blinked again, shaking her head. Her cheek throbbed, a sluggish trickle of blood seeping along her gums from her bitten tongue. Her knees shook, and her muscles ached from the Cruciatus—but she had no time to breathe, no time to stop. There was a window at the end of the corridor, and Harriet braced her wavering hand with her other arm, gritting her teeth.
"Reducto!"
The window shattered, glass blasting outward in a hailstorm of brittle shards. Harriet returned her mum's wand to its brace on her leg, her fingertips buzzing and numb, and hoisted herself onto the sill. Outside, the drop straight down would land her in a tangle of brutal gorse, the property rolling away in a steep incline toward those untended grass fields and the graveyard.
Harriet grappled for the magic inside her, and it came easier than it had before. She pulled it up and over her like the tingly fabric of her Invisibility Cloak. It covered her skin and her clothes, snapping in, her body and limbs shrinking—but Harriet wasn't used to her new form. She lurched—her black, skinny talons scratching against the mottled paint—and frantically beat her wings, trying to get airborne. Something caught under her feathers, and she raised up, jumping for the sky—.
For an instant, the wind swelled beneath Harriet's wings, the unfamiliar plumage twitching and billowing, and then—.
She dropped. The abrupt sensation of her startled stomach flopping loosened Harriet's hold on her form. Suddenly, the wind was in her robes, not her wings, and Harriet didn't have time for more than a short yelp before she hit the ground. Stars burst in her eyes as she rolled, shoulder colliding with a rock, her legs skidding against sharp foliage until she landed in a heap on her back, staring at the black fog overhead.
"Shite," Harriet choked, remaining sprawled in a stunned heap as the world spun around her. She could feel the dirt on her hands, tall stalks of grass bent under her arms. Pain radiated through her injured shoulder and made her fingers twitch.
Harriet hadn't a chance to gather her bearings; in the distance, over the crunch and patter of the roof caving in upon the house, came a cold, terrifying scream. "Find her!" Voldemort ordered, the grating sound accompanied by a swell of magic growing like a mushroom cloud. "Bring her to me!"
Rolling to her abraded knees, Harriet fumbled for her wand, wiping wet grit away from her eyes on her bloodied face. She scrambled into the taller grass, hoping it did something to mask her presence as she prepared a spell. "Evanesco Vestigium," she whispered, practicing the motion Snape had taught her to erase the magical signature of her passage. The next spell, "Misceo Omnia!" Harriet had only seen Fleur use once all those months ago during the first task, but she hoped the Muddling Charm did what it was meant to do.
Footsteps came running from the direction of the house, and though Harriet hadn't any idea where to go, she dashed in the opposite direction, remaining low to the ground. Every inch of her hurt in some manner, but she pushed the pain away, forcing her body to go faster, willing her feet to be silent and steady over the irregular terrain. In the distance, she could hear the pop and winnow of magic as the Death Eaters searched.
Harriet tripped once, catching herself on her right arm. The limb gave out beneath her, the cut opened by Crouch weeping, and Harriet cursed, the sound too close to a sob.
Get a grip, she told herself, repeating it. Get a grip, get a grip. You're leaving this bloody place and going home to your friends. Now think, Potter, think!
Harriet wondered if she should make for what she assumed was a Muggle village. Maybe she could find help—but what could Muggles do against wizards? And she had no doubt Death Eaters and Voldemort would have no issue cleaving a path through an innocent, unsuspecting crowd to find her.
She listened for the pop of Apparition, waiting for Aurors or Ministry people to appear. Harriet was underaged—and off school premises. Hadn't the Trace gone off? She must have cast half a dozen spells by now, and the Dark Lord had said the stupid house had belonged to his Muggle family. Surely someone in the bloody Ministry had received some kind of alert?
Maybe it's because of the Death Eaters, Harriet reasoned. So many adult wizards nearby might muddle the Trace. Either that or the Dark Lord did something to the property.
Whatever the truth, Harriet remained alone without any sign of incoming support.
Okay—what do I do, what do I do? She panted and peered through the swaying grass as her mind raced in a frantic circle. She couldn't make a Portkey; the only thing she knew about their creation was it took a great deal of power and skill, nothing beyond that. She'd seen others use the Patronus to send brief messages, but Harriet had never done that, and if she could figure it out, what would she say? Help, no bloody idea where I am, but am in desperate need of a pick-up? She was nowhere near a Floo, without access to a broom—but there was another method of transport Harriet had heard magical folk talk about. She'd never used the Knight Bus before, but she knew how to summon it. If she could get far enough away from here and lose the Dark wizards in the countryside, maybe she could call the Bus and escape.
"That's a very iffy maybe," Harriet whispered to herself as she tried to see which way to run. It was easy to get turned around in the grass, and the last thing she wanted to do was scamper right back into the Dark Lord's clutches. If she popped her head up to check, she'd be seen.
"I need to keep my Invisibility Cloak in my back pocket," she quietly griped, moving in a crawling half-crouch, looking for a glow of lights in the sky. "And Livius. Let's see how the bloody Dark Lord likes taking a Horned Serpent's bite right in the face—."
Her panicked ranting came to a stuttering halt as she heard cloth rippling in the air. Harriet froze like a rat praying an eagle passes her by, and after a moment of nothing happening, she dared peek over the stalks.
Voldemort had gotten tired of searching. Harriet could hardly believe her eyes as she saw the Dark Lord fly at least three meters from the ground with no broom, looking like a ghastly, unearthly fiend hovering against the black of night. He jerked his wand up—and great gouts of flames soared from its tip, crashing into the ground like the bodies of molten serpents devouring the fields. The sight horrified her—roiling, sticky Dark magic sloshing across the grounds, spiraling arms of inferno uncurling like the tentacles of a heinous, chthonic thing—.
It looked like Hell on earth.
Her face bathed in heat, Harriet bolted.
The graveyard! The graveyard—! If I can get to the other side, if I could find a path, a road—.
A rustle came from her left, and Harriet dove to the ground, avoiding a streak of red. "Stupefy!" she snarled in return, aiming for the Death Eater's mask that glowed a burnished white in the dark. He blocked it with an efficient motion—but he hadn't anticipated her other hand palming a glob of dirt and flinging it into his eyes. The mask blocked most of it, but the Death Eater grunted—flinched—and Harriet's second Stunner didn't miss. She ran before his body hit the ground.
She could feel the Dark Lord coming. Her scar prickled and stung with the force of his swelling rage—.
Thwack!
Harriet collided head-first with an iron fence. She scaled it without further thought, gritting her teeth as she hurtled over the top. The sharp finials ripped her robes.
It was clear the cemetery had been filled and closed a great while ago, the tombs and mausoleums left to moulder and slowly fade. Harriet crouched in the shadow of a headstone, arm pressed to the cold marble, trembling. Behind her, the fields glowed with fire and released black plumes into the fog above.
The residents of the village would see. They'd call the fire brigade, police, the news—gawpers. Voldemort could kill them or Obliviate them, but it would attract attention—attention she didn't think the Dark Lord wanted at the moment. Not when he only had six ruddy Death Eaters under his command. He would have to find her now or give up the chase and retreat.
Closer, she heard metal shriek and something heavy bang into the earth. Harriet darted for cover by the next grave. She couldn't see a thing. Every which way she turned, the markers loomed and the fog filled in the gaps like cotton stuffing with no indication of where the exit might be or where the Dark Lord would appear.
Breathing hard with nerves, Harriet flattened her palm and set her wand on it. "Point me—." But point her where? She needed a location—and needed to know her where she was in relation to that place. Hogwarts? London? The exit?" "Exit," Harriet tried, and the wand spun in pointless circles.
Voices carried in the slow, meandering breeze, blending into the snapping blaze. Harriet couldn't tell what was being said or who spoke, but the voices had come too close if she could hear them, and she decided to pick a direction and move.
Harriet remained close to the ground as she darted from stone to stone, crouching under the low-hanging branches of a withered yew tree. Then—the yawning, open vacuum of a large spell being slung moved through the air like a Muggle aeroplane, and one of the larger mausoleums exploded in a red fireball, blasting hunks of brick and marble into the sky.
Merlin!
"Come out, come out, dear Harriet," the Dark Lord called in the distance. "We have no time for children's games. Come out and face me as your Mudblood mother once did."
Harriet had no bloody intention of facing the madman. He could bring up her dead mum all he wanted, but she knew Lily Potter would rather be slandered by her murderer than have her daughter foolishly defend her name. Harriet didn't stand a chance against him.
She continued away from the voice, cursing every snap and crunch of dried grass or loose gravel. Then, at last, coming around the stone skirts of a weathered angel, she stopped at the edge of a road splitting one half of the graveyard from the other. It had other, smaller paths splintering off of it, leading Merlin knew where. If she followed the main road, Harriet must be able to find the exit!
Bracing herself to move, Harriet lurched—and nearly collided with a Death Eater.
In any other circumstance, it would have been comical how they both recoiled and froze, staring at one another. Harriet would recognize that long, stark blond hair anywhere; some locks escaped his hood and fell across his chest and neck like stray streaks of moonlight. Malfoy stumbled.
Sucking in a breath, Harriet raised her wand and—.
He lowered his.
Harriet didn't dare move as Draco's father tipped his wand away, slowly, not allowing it to drop completely. His empty hand went to his masked mouth and pressed one gloved finger to his lips.
What is he on about? Harriet wondered, her eyes narrowed. She was a breath away from hexing the bastard anyway, but her instinct told her to wait.
With his arm back at his side, Malfoy made a subtle turn with his wrist and pointed at one of the stray paths.
Harriet glanced in that direction, then back at Malfoy. The subtle motion became more decisive, and a frustrated huff buffeted the mask's cover.
"Anything, Malfoy?" came a voice—Crouch, Harriet recognized, the hair on the back of her neck rising.
"Nothing," Malfoy called in reply. Then, he continued to stride up the road as if nothing had happened, and Harriet followed the path he'd gestured at. She didn't have the wherewithal to consider the wizard's behavior now; she needed to get away, get free, and then, maybe then, if she survived this nightmare, she could think about it.
The path eventually led to a small gate that a groundskeeper might have once used, the rusted hinges groaning when Harriet shoved it open. She had to climb a short but steep incline, kicking through mounds of leaves to find the steps, but when she reached the top, she found a dirt road. Without pause, Harriet started running.
Her knees burned, and her lungs ached, every exhale like burrs catching in her ragged throat. Harriet ran past the old trees, putting the graveyard behind her, though she didn't think the road led toward the village. It pulled to the right, past a large, untended field, short garden walls made of flagstone and crooked wooden fences. It looked as if there was nothing for miles.
She could just make out the shape of a cottage looming between the untended walls of birch trees and bilberry bushes. Wheezing, Harriet diverted herself off the path and made for the cottage. As she came closer, she realized the building had long been abandoned—the roof caved in, the wooden door hanging off one hinge. The breeze caused the door desperately holding on to sway, exposing the dead snake skin nailed to its front.
Ancient, corroded cauldrons littered the garden. Someone had carved little runes into the dropping eaves, and there was evidence of an herb patch once cared for under the sill of the single, empty window. Hope kindled in Harriet's belly; this was no Muggle house. She could feel the old pinpricks of magic left to wither on the property. It wasn't pleasant in the slightest—some nebulous part of Harriet's panicked brain recognized it as Dark—but it was magic, Dark or otherwise.
Gasping for air, Harriet ran through the broken doorway—and nearly tumbled into the pit opened in the middle of the floor. The boards once covering the foundation had been ripped out, and someone had dug into the earth. There were snake skeletons everywhere, snapping and popping under Harriet's shoes, dozens upon dozens of them left to die in the house.
She swallowed and ignored the gruesome mess. She skirted the hole's ragged edges and dared to light her wand, giving herself just enough illumination to see by. The light fell across the dilapidated forms of cheap, busted furniture, including the ugliest potions bench she'd ever seen. There, on the far wall, was the hearth.
Hardly daring to believe she might have stumbled upon a bit of luck, Harriet dashed to the mantel and began searching through the rubbish left there. "Floo powder, Floo powder," she murmured, not caring for the mess she made as she tossed empty boxes and jars aside. "Please, please, please...."
A shadow fell across her, blotting out the weak starlight. Harriet whirled—but not in time to stop the silent spell that slammed her into the stone hearth. Her head bounced off the mantel, and Harriet crumpled.
From the doorway, the Dark Lord stared down at the girl sprawled in the forgotten ashes. "Very good, Harriet," he whispered, the barest ghost of snake-like sibilance falling from his strange, fanged mouth. "Lord Voldemort is impressed, and I am so very rarely impressed. You did so well to make it this far."
He stepped into the cottage. Harriet rolled to her back, dazed and terrified, blood dripping from her wounded forehead. It clumped in her lashes, her brow, under the bridge of her spectacles.
Not now. I was so close—.
"I'll let them know how hard you tried in the end. How very well their pet did," Voldemort crooned. "But this is where our game ends." The bone-white wand raised.
No, no, no, no—.
Harriet tried to use the wall at her back to stand. She tried to lift her right arm, but it hurt too much. Everything hurt too much. Something hot burned against her chest.
"You won't win," she managed to stutter through bloodied lips. Though this would be her end, Harriet would not grovel for mercy. Not to this wizard. He had no heart capable of mercy. "They won't let you win, no matter if I'm there or not. You'll never win."
"I've already won," he whispered. "Gaunt, Slytherin. They will fall in line eventually because it is in their nature. The pieces will always want to be whole. Those who stand against me—the old man, the Ministry, your friends...they will accept me as their Lord and Master, or they will die. Just like you."
The burning against her chest increased. Harriet ground her teeth and met the Dark Lord's red eyes.
"The only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing," she quoted, spitting in his direction. The burning stung like searing hot glass pressed to her skin. "That's Edmund Burke, a Muggle. You might give him a read since he has more sense than you. It doesn't matter if you kill me, if you kill Dumbledore—until it is just you, the Wizarding world will never be yours."
Voldemort pointed his wand at her. "Then it will be just me."
Harriet braced herself—.
Suddenly, it felt as if a hook had lodged itself under her navel, and she sucked in a breath—.
Voldemort's eyes widened, lips parting. He screamed, "Avada Kedavra!"
By the time the green light hit the hearth, Harriet Potter was already gone.
---
A/N: I picture the Animagus form as something that needs a measure of practice, even after you've successfully pulled your second body into being. So, I head-canon the closer you are to mammalian or human, the easier time you have of it. So Rita is actually exceptional in her Animagus usage; even Peter, to an extent, would have had a bit of rougher time of it than James or Sirius. So, all this to say, Harriet will need more practice than Elara did.
We'll get more into Malfoy's behavior in a later chapter.
Lucius: "Listen, Linda."
Harriet: *raises wand*
Lucius: "LISTEN, LINDA, LISTEN."