"Up! Get up! Now!"
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The door shook violently as someone hammered on it from the outside.
Inside the cramped cupboard, a beautiful black-haired girl frowned. With a casual flick of her wrist, she plucked a ball of Black Flame out of thin air. The flame hovered silently above her palm, devouring light rather than giving it.
Emerald eyes swept across her surroundings.
Cramped. Damp. Cold.
A space so narrow she could almost touch both walls at once.
The familiar, tumbledown cupboard beneath the stairs.
…So I really came back?
The flame dissipated, sinking into her skin like smoke returning to embers.
Her memories stirred.
She remembered going to bed late—too late, really. When she opened her eyes again, she had found herself in a strange city called Backlund. A city of gas lamps and fog, of rigid class lines and hidden horrors.
No money.
No shared language.
No way home.
Fortunately, child labour still existed there, or she might have starved to death before ever understanding where she was. Even so, the misery of that poverty had far exceeded her imagination. Hunger gnawed constantly, and the fear of being discarded like trash never left her.
If she hadn't stumbled into the Demoness Sect…
Her gaze drifted downward.
An eleven-year-old body, thin as a twig. Arms too slender, legs too long, bones delicate enough to snap if mishandled.
Yet her chest already showed promising curves.
As expected.
"So the Potion's power is still inside me," she murmured.
That bizarre world had possessed its own rules, its own supernatural system—what they called Transcendent Paths, twenty-two in total. After being adopted by the Demoness Sect, she had walked the Demoness Path step by step. The supernatural power embedded in that Path had reshaped her completely, turning Harry into Harriet—body, instincts, and fate alike.
Later, she had met the adventurer Gehrman Sparrow. Through him, she had joined another Transcendent organization—the mysterious Tarot Club.
And then, when rumors spread that Mr. Door would soon return, Harriet—ever curious, ever reckless—had followed the Fool's vague hint and gone to investigate, hoping to find a way home.
"So… was it Mr. Door's power that brought me back?"
She closed her eyes, sensing herself carefully.
Something was wrong.
Her soul felt thinner. Lighter. Incomplete.
Why was she only Sequence 7 now?
The realization should have frightened her, but instead she exhaled slowly.
"Forget it," she said softly. "As long as I'm rid of that cursed world, anything's fine."
As Emperor Russell once said:
"All is good."
She stretched her frail limbs, pushed open the cupboard door, and stepped out.
The house looked exactly as she remembered it.
Nothing had changed.
The familiar smell of roasting meat drifted through the air, instantly teasing her appetite. In that other world, she had learned to eat to relieve stress, and the habit had stubbornly followed her home.
A Demoness's constitution allowed her to gorge herself without ever losing her figure—one of the few blessings of that dangerous Path.
Following the aroma, she entered the kitchen.
On the table sat a plate of well-roasted meat, glistening with oil.
Without hesitation, Harriet picked up a knife and fork and began to eat.
She had barely swallowed her second bite when a loud, booming voice echoed from the living room.
"I told you, Smeltings is a proper school! My darling Dudley, you'll—"
Vernon Dursley.
Her stout, pig-headed uncle.
His belly entered the kitchen first, followed by a thick neck and a chin that blended seamlessly into a forced smile. He froze mid-sentence when he saw her.
"Who—who are you?!" Vernon screamed. "How did you break into my house?!"
A graceful figure stood by the table, black hair cascading like a waterfall in the morning light. Emerald eyes glinted with lazy amusement.
Harriet Potter calmly slipped the last piece of roast into her mouth, dabbed her lips with a napkin, and turned to face him.
She regarded the purple-faced bulk blocking the doorway.
"Good morning, Uncle Vernon."
Her voice was soft and smooth, like honey warmed by the sun.
"Haven't seen you in a while. You haven't changed a bit."
Vernon's mouth fell open. His stubby finger trembled as it pointed at her.
Behind him, Aunt Petunia peeked out and let out a shriek.
"Impossible! You—Lily? No… no, you witch!"
She clapped a hand over her mouth, swallowing her own gasp.
Too alike.
Those eyes were Lily's exact copy.
But her sister had never carried such a bewitching, dangerous air. The girl before her was unnervingly lovely—like a Medusa stepped straight out of myth.
"Who are you?" Petunia shrilled. "Get out or I'll call the police—!"
Her nails dug into Vernon's shoulder as she yowled like a cat seeing a ghost.
"Good heavens…"
Dear cousin Dudley, blessed with the mental density of a brick, simply stood there, mouth hanging open.
"What? Don't you recognize me?" Harriet laughed softly, covering her mouth with one hand. Her brows curved like crescents.
"Harriet Potter. Your niece. Does that ring any bells?"
The name sounded only slightly different, yet Petunia's mind leapt to a dreadful possibility—one she didn't dare say aloud.
"Damn magic! You monster!" Petunia suddenly screamed.
Rage flared in her chest. Everything was slipping out of her control.
Vernon felt the same. Magic—and everything connected to it—repulsed him.
"Damn it!" he roared. "Who said you could do this?!"
He stomped forward, teeth bared.
Same as always.
Grab the brat. Teach her a lesson. Lock her in the cupboard. Cancel her supper.
In his mind, it made no difference.
Just get the freak out of sight.
"Dear Uncle Vernon," Harriet said gently, "that's no way to treat a lady."
A chill seeped into his skin.
Something invisible gnawed past the fat, coiling around his throat.
Black Flame slid along his arm like a living thing, wrapping itself tightly around his neck.
"I… can't breathe…"
Thud.
Vernon dropped to his knees, face draining of color.
"Yes, Uncle," Harriet continued calmly. "Very impolite to be offensive."
She sat down, crossing her right leg over her left, resting her chin in her hand. Her eyes sparkled with unmistakable pleasure—a small vice she had picked up in that other world.
Petunia collapsed beside her husband, trembling.
"You—don't! Please! Good Lord, what are you doing? Stop!"
She clawed uselessly at the flames, tears blurring her vision.
"Please—please stop, Harriet! We're family!"
"All right."
Harriet waved her hand.
The Black Flame vanished instantly.
She was no villain. This had merely been a lesson in manners.
She could have killed them both in a second if she wished.
"But," she said lightly, "you'll answer my questions. Carefully."
From their reactions, this world clearly had its own supernatural powers.
And Aunt Petunia had just called her mother a witch.
If she meant the kind Harriet knew…
Heavens.
Surely not.
"About my mother," Harriet continued, standing up. "You never told me, did you? That wasn't very nice."
She stepped closer as the last traces of flame faded.
"Magic—damn it—I—" Vernon tried to roar again, but his voice cracked.
Harriet smiled.
Still stubborn. Still loud. Still exactly the man she remembered.
"Shh," she murmured. "Shouting won't help. It only tightens your collar."
She turned her gaze to Petunia, whose face had gone ashen.
"Aunt Petunia," Harriet said softly, "you said I resemble my mother. Let's sit down like a family and chat—about 'magic,' and exactly what you're so afraid of."
Childlike curiosity shone in her eyes.
Yet her words carried a blade of ice.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A sharp, persistent rattle came from the window, carrying a faint trace of spiritual power.
An owl beat its beak against the glass, a pale yellow envelope clutched in its talons.
Harriet raised an eyebrow.
She opened the window and took the letter, glancing at the emerald-green ink.
"Surrey, Little Whinging, Privet Drive 4."
"Miss Harriet Potter, at the kitchen table."
British postmen use owls now?
Who would write to her?
She had no friends here.
With that thought, she opened the envelope.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards;
Grand Sorcerer, Order of Merlin, First Class;
Chief Warlock, Wizengamot)
Dear Miss Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A list of required books and equipment is enclosed.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
Harriet stared at the letter.
Then she smiled.
Slowly.
Dangerously.