"Every man has his price." — Robert Walpole
Harriet woke up feeling genuinely refreshed, the kind of rest that settled deep in the bones rather than just clearing the head. She stretched once, lazily, then dressed and headed downstairs.
The kitchen of Grimmauld Place was already occupied.
Occupied was putting it mildly.
Members of the Order were present, that was expected. But the Weasleys—especially the Weasleys—had fully settled in as if the house were some sort of long-term holiday rental. Bags stacked against walls, chatter too loud for the early hour, Molly Weasley moving about the kitchen with the authority of someone who believed the place belonged to her.
Harriet took it all in with a flat, unimpressed look.
Breakfast was already prepared. Molly placed a plate in front of her with a tight smile, the kind that pretended to be warm while failing completely.
Harriet didn't touch it immediately.
Instead, she waved her fingers casually over the plate, her magic brushing against the food in a way so subtle it would have gone unnoticed by anyone else. No foreign potions. No trace enchantments. No drugs. No emotional modifiers.
Clean.
Only then did she eat.
Sirius came down not long after, looking far more awake than the house deserved. His presence immediately shifted the atmosphere.
"You know," Molly snapped after barely a minute,
"some of us are actually trying to run a proper household here."
Sirius scoffed, one eyebrow raised.
"That's funny. I don't remember inviting any houseguests."
Molly bristled, stepping closer.
"This is not just your house anymore, Sirius!"
He leaned back against the table, smirking, unfazed.
"Last I checked, it wasn't yours either."
The tension hung in the air, sharp enough to make the room uncomfortable, but Harriet didn't pay it the slightest attention. When she finished eating, she stood, nudged Sirius, and whispered discreetly:
"Sirius. We're leaving."
That was all it took.
---
Upstairs, they went through wardrobes, trunks, and enchanted closets until they found what they needed.
Harriet adjusted her appearance first.
Her dark hair lightened strand by strand until it became a soft blonde, her eyes shifting into a clear, unremarkable blue. The dress she chose was simple but elegant—nothing that screamed wealth, nothing that invited attention. Just another witch strolling through Diagon Alley.
Sirius followed suit, slipping into a tailored suit that fit him almost too well. His hair lightened, his face subtly altered, and a pair of enchanted glasses completed the disguise.
They didn't look related.
They didn't look suspicious.
They looked forgettable.
Perfect.
They slipped out of Grimmauld Place without incident and made their way to Diagon Alley.
On the way, they stopped briefly at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. Harriet ordered without hesitation, enjoying the rare, mundane pleasure. Sirius watched her with an amused glint in his eyes but said nothing.
Then—Gringotts.
The white marble steps gleamed as always, timeless and indifferent.
At the counter, Sirius leaned forward. "Private room. I'd like to see Ragnok."
The goblin stiffened.
Moments later, they were ushered into a private chamber where a goblin with sharp eyes and an even sharper scowl waited.
Sirius grinned. "Long time no see, you little menace."
Ragnok's fingers twitched, clearly resisting the urge to draw blood. "Sirius Black. It hasn't been nearly long enough."
There was history there—unpleasant, loud, and undoubtedly expensive. Sirius delighted in it. Ragnok endured it because he was being paid to.
Sirius placed two photographs on the table.
One showed a balding man with shifty eyes.
The other—a rat.
"Peter Pettigrew," Sirius said calmly. "Animagus form included."
Ragnok's eyes narrowed. "State your offer."
"Twenty thousand Galleons," Sirius replied. "Alive or dead. Proof required if dead."
Silence.
Even for Gringotts, this was absurd.
Sirius added another pouch to the table. "And a thousand more to make sure the information travels. Everywhere."
Ragnok stared at the gold for a long moment.
"This will start something," he said slowly.
Sirius's smile was sharp. "That's the point."
The deal was sealed.
A hunt unlike any other had begun.
They left Gringotts without hurrying.
Behind them, the massive marble doors closed with a deep, resonant thud, as if the bank itself were swallowing the consequences of what had just been set in motion. Harriet took a slow breath, the air of Diagon Alley still thick with magic, voices, and the faint metallic scent of gold.
Sirius didn't speak right away.
They walked side by side, blending back into the crowd—two perfectly unremarkable figures among dozens of witches and wizards carrying parcels, arguing over prices, or dragging impatient children by the hand.
Only when they reached a quieter stretch of the street did Sirius finally let out a low whistle.
"Well," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets, "that's one way to stir the hornet's nest."
Harriet glanced at him.
"You're the one who smiled while doing it."
"Old habit," he replied lightly. "If you're going to start trouble, you might as well enjoy it."
Harriet: "Do you think this will go quickly?"
Sirius: "No… people will think it's a joke at first. It'll take a while before the 'what if it's true?' hits. That's when even one-year-olds will start looking for the rat."
They walked a little further before he spoke again, his tone shifting—less playful, more reflective.
"You know," Sirius said, "there was a time when things felt… not safer, exactly. But clearer."
Harriet raised an eyebrow.
"That sounds suspiciously like nostalgia."
He snorted.
"Oh, it absolutely is. Doesn't mean it's wrong."
They turned into a narrower street, the noise of Diagon Alley dulling behind them.
"When my parents were alive," Sirius continued, "the war wasn't hidden. It was everywhere. You knew who you were fighting. You knew what side people were on—or at least what side they pretended to be on."
He paused, searching for the right words.
"It was dangerous. More dangerous than now, in some ways. People disappeared overnight. Whole families. Businesses burned down. The Ministry was compromised long before anyone admitted it. And Voldemort—" he stopped himself, jaw tightening, "—the Dark Lord wasn't some distant threat. He was active. Personal."
Harriet listened without interrupting.
"My parents—and I mean the Potters, my adoptive but real family—weren't perfect," Sirius continued. "Far from it. They came from old pure-blood families, raised on tradition, pride, all that rubbish. And yes… they had blind spots. Plenty of them."
A faint smile crossed his face.
"But they were good people. Kind. Loyal to a fault. And they were loved—genuinely loved. Not feared. Not respected out of obligation. Loved."
He glanced sideways at Harriet, as if gauging whether she understood.
"They helped people. Hid them. Moved them. Funded resistance efforts quietly. They weren't loud about it, but everyone knew they could be trusted."
"And that made them targets," Harriet said calmly.
Sirius exhaled.
"Exactly. And they died for it. But I want you to understand how James and I were raised—and why we fought in this war—even if I thought, at the time, James trusted Dumbledore far too much."
They stopped near a small fountain tucked between buildings, its water charmed to sparkle faintly.
"And then there's the prophecy. Even I don't know what it says… only that it concerns you," he continued, voice lower now, "things changed. Not just for James and Lily. For everyone close to them. You could feel it. Like the air tightening."
Harriet folded her arms.
"So why didn't they leave?"
Sirius looked at her, surprised—but not offended.
"Leave the country," she clarified. "Disappear somewhere truly out of reach. New identities. New lives."
He stared at the water for a long moment before answering.
"Because it wouldn't have worked."
She waited.
"Once Voldemort heard the prophecy—or even suspected its existence—he wasn't going to stop," Sirius said. "Borders didn't matter to him. Distance didn't matter. If they'd run, he would've followed. And worse—he would've followed everyone they ever cared about."
Harriet frowned slightly.
"So they stayed to protect others."
"Yes," Sirius said simply. "And because running would've meant isolation. No allies. No warning. No backup."
He scoffed softly.
"People like to pretend hiding is safer. It's not. Not when your enemy has reach, followers, and patience."
"And the cottage?" Harriet asked. "Why that place?"
"That was Dumbledore," Sirius replied. "He suggested it. Said it was defensible. Said it was protected. Said staying within the country—within the Order's reach—gave them the best chance."
A hint of bitterness crept into his tone, but it didn't harden into accusation.
"At the time," he continued, "Dumbledore was our strongest ally. Whether we trusted him completely or not didn't really matter. There wasn't anyone else with that kind of power, influence, or information."
Harriet tilted her head.
"And they agreed."
"They did," Sirius said quietly. "Because they believed in fighting together. In standing their ground. In not abandoning the world they were trying to protect."
He looked away.
"And because, deep down, they probably believed they could survive it."
A silence settled between them—not heavy, but thoughtful.
"You don't regret it?" Harriet asked eventually.
Sirius let out a slow breath.
"I regret that it failed," he said. "I regret the cost. But the choice itself?"
He shook his head.
"No. They lived how they believed. And if they'd run, they would've died wondering who paid the price instead."
Harriet absorbed that.
"It was more dangerous than people remember," Sirius added. "The version you hear in history books is… sanitized. They don't talk about how thin the lines were. How often we were one mistake away from losing everything."
He gave a dry laugh.
"And in some ways, we did."
She looked at him then—really looked.
"You're not telling me this to glorify them," she said.
"No," Sirius agreed. "I'm telling you because you're walking into something similar. People watching you. Making plans around you. Deciding what you represent."
Harriet's lips curved faintly.
"I never asked to represent anything."
"Neither did James," Sirius replied. "Neither did Lily."
They stood there for a moment longer.
Finally, Sirius straightened, rolling his shoulders as if shedding the weight of the past.
"Well," he said, forcing a grin, "on the bright side, your plan with the goblins will cause more chaos than half the Order ever managed."
Harriet smirked.
"Efficiency matters."
"It does," he agreed. "And for what it's worth…"
He hesitated, then said it.
"They would've liked you."
Harriet didn't respond immediately.
When she did, her voice was quiet but steady
"That's not something I need," she said. "But I'll accept it."
Sirius chuckled softly.
"Fair enough."
They turned back toward Grimmauld Place, walking side by side—two people who understood, perhaps better than most, that survival was never just about hiding.
Sometimes, it was about choosing where to stand—and who to stand with.
After that they returned to Grimmauld Place without fanfare.
…
Some days later elsewhere—
In the darker arteries of Knockturn Alley, something small and trembling scurried through the shadows.
Peter Pettigrew froze as he saw it.
The notice.
His face.
His rat form.
His name.
A price so high it made his stomach twist.
He fled.
Into alleys. Into filth. Into hiding.
If he had to crawl through sewers, betray anyone, stab any back—so be it.
Peter Pettigrew would survive.
He always did.
...
Two weeks had passed. Harriet spent most of her time hidden away in the library and the training room, keeping her powers and progress to herself. The Order had no idea just how much she had grown, and she was happy to maintain that illusion. She moved like a ghost, training quietly, refining her combat skills, experimenting with magic, and pushing herself further than anyone could imagine—all while keeping her presence barely noticeable.
Meanwhile, the hunt for Pettigrew had stirred up far more attention than expected. Whispers and rumors flowed through Diagon Alley, the darker corners of the wizarding world, and even among certain goblins. Some laughed at the audacity of someone putting a bounty on a mere rat, others shook their heads in disbelief, while a few saw opportunity. The Order, in private conversations, grumbled at Sirius's impulsive move, muttering about responsibility, recklessness, and the inevitable fallout. But these murmurs did little to deter anyone; curiosity and greed were stronger than reason because even they wouldn't turn down that many Galleons.
Amidst this subtle chaos, Harriet received a message that surprised her: Fleur Delacour had invited her to France for a weekend. Apparently, there was a theater performance by a newly discovered actress of extraordinary talent, and Fleur wanted Harriet to join her. Naturally, Harriet accepted without hesitation.
"Any chance I can get there without the Ministry or anyone else breathing down my neck?" she asked Sirius later, after reading the invitation.
Sirius grinned, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Don't worry. I'll figure something out. Say you're sick, or that you have a private errand—something believable. No one really notices anymore."
Harriet smirked at the thought. It was effortless, easy. She had learned how little the world cared about the young witch who survived, unless she was needed. And that worked in her favor.
And with that, the plans for a quiet, cultured weekend in France were set.