"The best way to predict the future is to create it." – Peter Drucker
The portrait did not move at first.
Dorea Potter simply watched her, eyes sharp beneath an expression worn by time. There was no surprise in her gaze—only a slow, careful assessment, as though she were measuring whether the girl standing before her was real… or another disappointment.
"So," Dorea said at last, her voice calm but layered with old magic.
"Someone finally came back."
Harriet shifted slightly, suddenly aware of the silence of the manor around her.
"It took longer than I expected," Dorea continued. "Another few years, perhaps, and the enchantments holding this place together would have begun to unravel. Old houses do not like being forgotten."
Her eyes fixed on Harriet.
"Who are you?"
Harriet exhaled. She knew exactly who was speaking. Dorea Potter had been respectable—by her own standards, not the Black family's. Dorea Potter (née Black) comes from the ancient and prestigious Black family, known for its obsession with pure-blood lineage and tradition. Unlike many of her relatives, Dorea was pragmatic and independent-minded, choosing to marry a Potter rather than strictly following the family's strict ideology. She is sharp, composed, and quietly discerning—someone who notices everything, judges swiftly, but does so with intelligence rather than blind prejudice. And yet, she carried the same presence Harriet had felt in her previous life—the kind of older relative who looked you up and down as if deciding whether they should have cut their own child's balls off for raising you like this. Harriet couldn't help but respond with measured docility.
"My name's Harriet," she said. "Harriet Nicole Potter."
She hesitated, then added more quietly, almost reluctantly,
"I think I'm… what's left."
Dorea's expression softened, just a fraction.
"Explain."
Harriet shrugged, a tired, almost careless motion.
"My parents are dead. The rest of the Potters too, apparently. And the Blacks…"
She made a vague gesture with her hand.
"They're not exactly doing great."
Her mouth twisted slightly.
"I inherited the properties. The vaults. Both names. I didn't ask for it."
She paused, then added, bluntly,
"I would've preferred not to be anyone's 'last anything'."
Dorea studied her closely now.
"And the Blacks?" she prompted.
Harriet leaned back against a shelf, arms crossing loosely.
"They're a mess," she said without heat. "Most of them are dead, insane, or obsessed with things that don't actually help them survive."
She tilted her head, eyes unfocused for a moment.
"They even married into the Malfoy family. Loud. Rich. Annoyingly convinced they matter more than they do."
"They attach themselves to whoever looks powerful and call it strategy. It's kind of pathetic."
Dorea allowed herself a thin smile.
"And Sirius?"
Harriet's expression shifted—not sad, not angry, just… complicated.
"He made mistakes," she said simply. "Some really bad ones. But he wasn't like the rest. Not really."
She shrugged again.
"That's about all I know."
For a moment, Dorea said nothing. Then, as if something in Harriet had caught her attention, she straightened slightly, as though the past itself had been invited back into the room.
"My era," she began, voice drifting, "was quieter on the surface. People smiled. They pretended everything was fine."
She looked away.
"We were wrong."
Harriet listened, silent now.
"It wasn't only about Voldemort, but about Dumbledore too—if only your father had listened and not trusted entirely this old cow… Looking back, it was like watching two children throw sand in each other's faces, but children who somehow managed to entangle all of magical Britain—and beyond—in their mischief," Dorea said. "For proof, Charlus and I went to Grimmauld Place for a reunion. We practically died there, a testament of allegiance to 'You-Know-Who'… apparently organised by my very idiotic sister."
A faint bitterness crept into her tone.
"Even if they weren't the best of people, they were family nonetheless… So I never thought…"
Her gaze hardened.
"The Black Family died the moment my sister's idiocy struck," Dorea said flatly. "I never liked her, nor the house she ruled. Grimmauld Place was suffocating—dark, resentful, clinging to its own decay. They chose to follow someone this time, instead of relying on themselves."
She turned back to Harriet.
"That mindset destroyed them. And the rest of the Potters died too, because they were too deeply involved in this conflict—thanks to Dumbledore…"
Silence stretched.
Dorea's eyes softened again, resting on the girl before her—not as an heir, but as a survivor.
"That is to say, you stand alone now," she said gently. "Carrying what remains of two houses that failed in different ways."
She paused.
"Tell me, Harriet Potter," Dorea asked,
"what do you intend to do with it all?"
"My full name is Harriet Nicole Potter," she added after a second, as if correcting an oversight that mattered only because it was hers.
Dorea inclined her head, acknowledging it.
"And what do you intend to do with what remains of our houses?" she asked again, her tone curious rather than demanding.
Harriet frowned slightly, as though the question itself tired her.
"Honestly?" she said. "Not much."
Dorea raised an eyebrow.
"I don't really want to fight old wars," Harriet continued, shrugging. "Or follow old rules. Or 'restore' anything just because people before me messed it up."
She paused, searching for the right words.
"I'll use the money. The properties. The names, if I have to. But mostly…"
Her gaze drifted toward the tall windows.
"I just want to see the world. Learn things. Exist without someone constantly telling me what I should be doing."
Dorea watched her intently.
"And heirs?" she asked gently. "Have you thought of that?"
Harriet let out a short, almost amused breath.
"Not really," she said. "And even if I did… I'm not exactly interested in men."
She said it plainly, without drama.
"I like women. So statistically speaking, the Potter line probably ends with me."
For a brief moment, Harriet wondered if that would earn disapproval.
It didn't.
Dorea's expression didn't harden. It didn't change much at all.
"As long as the inheritance serves you," Dorea said calmly, "it will not have been in vain."
She looked at Harriet with something close to warmth.
"Bloodlines matter less than people believe. What endures is what is used, not what is merely passed down."
Something in Harriet's chest loosened.
She hadn't realized how tense she'd been until that moment.
"…Thanks," she muttered, quieter.
They spoke after that—not about politics or legacy, but about small things.
The manor. Old spells. How absurd some pureblood feuds had been. Harriet complained lazily about Diagon Alley prices; Dorea laughed at how little they had changed. Slowly, naturally, the distance between them shrank.
Harriet found herself liking Dorea.
Not as a symbol.
Not as an ancestor.
But as a person.
Eventually, Harriet glanced around the library.
"Why are the other portraits inactive?" she asked. "I mean… they're here. But they're not there."
Dorea followed her gaze.
"Most portraits contain impressions," she explained. "Memories, habits, fragments of personality. Enough to answer questions. Enough to pretend."
She met Harriet's eyes.
"In the Potter family, there's a tradition of keeping only one active portrait—just in case, and it's usually of the most recent death," Dorea continued, her voice calm. "Having portraits of every deceased generation… well, that would be very unhealthy. And as you can see, I'm the last one; your parents didn't have time to make any more preparations."
Harriet nodded slowly.
After a moment, she asked, "Can I ask you something… weirder?"
Dorea smiled faintly.
"I doubt it will surprise me."
"The outside world," Harriet said. "Not just Britain. Not just wizards."
She hesitated.
"Devils. Angels. All that."
Dorea's gaze sharpened.
"They exist," she said without hesitation.
Harriet felt a chill—not fear, but confirmation.
"The Ministry knows," Dorea continued. "Or rather… they know enough. And they choose not to know more."
She scoffed softly.
"Fear makes cowards of bureaucrats. Pretending something doesn't exist is easier than admitting you are not at the top of the food chain."
She folded her hands.
"Old families were aware. Not all, but enough. We kept our distance. Observed. Rarely interfered."
"You never met one?" Harriet asked.
"No," Dorea admitted. "I knew of them. Never dealt with them directly."
She paused, then added, carefully,
"If you seek them, there are ways. Pacts. Contracts."
Harriet's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Dangerous?"
"Yes."
"Worth it?"
"…Potentially."
Harriet nodded.
"If I ever do it," she said, "it'll be after I've stacked enough protections to survive regretting it."
That earned her a look of approval.
"Wise."
A beat passed.
"And," Harriet added casually, "is there… I don't know. A mercenary guild? Somewhere you can put a price on someone's head?"
Dorea regarded Harriet attentively, her painted eyes softening a little at the sight of the young witch's calculated detachment. "You want someone found," she said, her voice calm but precise. "I can tell you this, there's no official guild of bounty hunters in our world. That sort of thing… it doesn't exist in the open. The Ministry certainly wouldn't approve." She paused, letting the words sink in. "But there are ways. People live off this kind of work, quietly. Discreetly. Mercenaries, trackers, independent sorcerers… they operate through networks, old connections, rumors."
Harriet tilted her head slightly, showing only mild curiosity, her hands resting lazily on her lap.
"Here's the important part," Dorea continued. "The goblins. They're the ones who circulate information without asking questions. If you want a name found, a person traced… or even dealt with, you place your gold where it matters, and the goblins will whisper it to the right ears. They know everyone, or at least, everyone worth knowing. And because they value their profit more than ideology, they don't care about right or wrong. They only care that the payment is real, and the task is convincing enough. It's… elegant, in a way."
Harriet's eyes flickered with a touch of amusement. "So I just bribe the goblins, and then everyone with a spine and a greed muscle does the rest?"
Dorea's lips quirked into the faintest smile. "Exactly. You don't need to move a finger. You put the gold in motion, and the world reacts. If the sum is tempting enough, even a man presumed dead might find himself hunted. Keep in mind, it's risky—sometimes the whispers get loud—but that's part of the charm. You remain unseen, and yet, you control the current."
Harriet leaned back, a lazy smirk playing on her lips. "Perfect. Sounds like my kind of game."
"Good," Dorea said warmly, almost approvingly. "Use it wisely. And as long as it serves your purposes, it's not wasted. But remember—the gobelins expect profit, not explanations. They won't ask why, only how much."
Harriet nodded, feeling the thrill of control spark faintly in her chest. A tool, a lever, a silent army ready to act—all without her moving from this manor. Her mind started spinning through possibilities: what she could achieve, how quickly she could draw Pettigrew out, how much chaos a single sum of gold could seed.
Harriet leaned back in the chair, letting the metaphysical warmth of Dorea's presence settle around her. The portrait's words still echoed in her mind—the goblins, the networks, the subtle ways of moving the world without ever being seen. For once, the weight of planning didn't feel suffocating; it felt… exciting..
She let her gaze wander around the library again, the bookshelves stretching impossibly high, filled with centuries of accumulated knowledge. Each volume was a potential advantage, a hidden skill, a secret waiting to be uncovered. And now, armed with her cheat-book and the subtle guidance from Dorea, she felt that the pieces were finally falling into place—and there were no pressing matters for now.
"I'll stay here," she said slowly, voice low but firm, almost to herself. "For a month. Just here. No distractions, no running around. Just me, the magic, and whatever else I need to learn."
Dorea nodded approvingly. "A wise decision. The house is yours while you need it. There is no rush. Time will serve you better than haste ever could."
Harriet smirked faintly, tilting her head. "Time's mine, then. One month to catch up, to get stronger… to see exactly what I can do when nobody's hovering over my shoulder. I can even test some of the things you mentioned. I promise that I will be careful"
"Careful, yes," Dorea said, her tone gentle but pointed. "Power is useless without control, and knowledge without discretion is dangerous. But I have faith you'll find your balance."
Harriet allowed herself a small laugh, one that felt lighter than it had in years. "Faith… that's cute. Don't worry, I'll keep myself alive long enough to make it useful." She leaned back further, stretching her legs lazily, already imagining the long hours of focused training, reading, and experimenting in this sanctuary. "A month. That's all it takes to get started. After that… well, the world won't know what hit it."
Dorea smiled, warmth radiating through her painted features. "Good. Take what you need from this place. Learn, grow, and return when the month is over. The manor will remain as it is, waiting for you."
Harriet got up and walked toward the grand windows of the library, gazing out at the estate. The sun filtered through the ancient trees, golden light falling across the stone terraces and perfectly trimmed hedges. "One month," she muttered again. "That could be more fun than I thought." Her eyes glimmered with that characteristic spark—a mix of mischief and resolve.
She turned back to Dorea, a lazy grin forming. "And don't worry—I'll be back before you even notice I'm gone."
"Good," Dorea replied simply, her tone carrying both reassurance and a subtle caution. "Use it well, Harriet Nicole Potter. This house is your haven, but the world outside is… less forgiving."
Harriet waved her off with a casual flick of her wrist, already moving toward the stairs. "Less forgiving, sure. But that's fine. I like a challenge."
As she climbed to the upper floors, the weight of her newfound freedom settled comfortably on her shoulders. For the first time in years, she felt the luxury of having space, time, and tools entirely to herself. The past, the dangers, the legacy of her bloodlines—all of it could wait. For now, she had a month to herself, a month to prepare, a month to shape her magic, her skills, and her plans in the quiet of the Potter-Black manor.
One month to become something the world would have no choice but to notice. One month to make herself truly untouchable. And with that thought, Harriet's lips curved into a rare, genuine smile, the kind that reached her eyes. The future could wait, but she wouldn't.