By the time Harriet 'Harry' Potter was four, she'd decided that she was invisible. It wasn't a spontaneous decision – the kind that young children usually make – but one made after much thought and consideration.

After all, there had to be a reason why her mum would always make dinner for three, not four, and why dad had only bought a single training broom. Or why Charlie got weekly lessons with Uncle Albus – who always seemed so taken back when she called him that, even though Harry had known him since she was born – and she, of course, was never invited to join them.

Yes, a four-year-old Harry Potter thought she was invisible – an awesome super power, once she learnt how to control it, she'd giddily decided. A twelve-year-old Harry Potter knew better.

She'd figured it out somewhere between the fifth forgotten birthday and Charlus's – never Charlie's – shocked, "She's my sister?" when Harry's Hogwarts letter arrived. And if that hadn't driven home that she wasn't wanted, the Chamber had been enough.

As she'd stood over the deathly still body of her only friend – everyone else at Hogwarts having been driven away by vicious rumours spread by her brother – with a basilisk fang sticking out of her arm and the laughing and increasingly more blurred remnant of Voldemort in front of her, Harry Potter had had enough.

Nobody would miss her, her only friend was dead and the credit for saving the Philosopher's Stone – the only thing she could be remembered for – was, of course, stolen by her brother – just like everything else in her life.

If she came out of this alive – and how could she, she'd been bitten by a bloody basilisk! – the credit would just be stolen by her brother, never mind the fact that he was still cowering under an invisibility cloak in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. They'd make a good couple, she thought with a snort, both whiny brats.

Everything was foggy now, and she just wanted to sleepsleep like the little, hissing voice in her head told her to. It's not like her parents would miss her – And something inside of Harry snapped. All the years of anger, of hatred and resentment poured out of her in towering, raging black flames.

All the spite and the bitterness brought to life, twisting, and snapping and moving with evil intent towards the no longer laughing form of Tom Riddle. "Noooooooo – "he screamed, voice a piercing shriek that turned into a tortured, ear-splitting scream of pain. Good, Harry thought, with a satisfied smile, as she leaned back into the flames – letting them wrap around her in a warm embrace.

All those years of keeping her fury inside seemed so useless – so, ridiculously pointless when faced with the sheer, exhilarating rush of just letting go and giving in to the flames.

She heard a squawk, and smelt something vaguely similar to cooked chicken. Dumbledore's chicken had decided to join the party, then. And just in time to swoop in and save the day, she thought sarcastically, then let a nasty smile spread over sooty skin… She always had wanted to try chicken…

And so the delicacy that is flame-roasted Phoenix was discovered, and Charlus Potter was forgotten about in favour of his now-legendary sister.