Her fame in the magical world escaped Helen for two more days. The barkeep of the Leaky Cauldron, Tom, shielded her as best he could. This was made easier as she had paid for a room for the rest of the summer. Curious as she was though, it was not long before Helen found out. It was her fourth day in Diagon Alley. Tom greeted her happily as she came down for breakfast (scrambled egg on toast with cranberry juice). She liked Tom. He had been kind to her and made sure she was safe. It was why she had decided to always eat breakfast at the bar; so she could keep him company.
Never before had she been given the luxury of choosing what she wanted to eat, or indeed even a full night's sleep. Staying at The Leaky Cauldron however granted Helen more freedom than she could have thought possible. Her room was bigger than even Dudley's had been. Most of the space was taken up by the large bed, but a desk had been stashed beneath the window overlooking Charing Cross, and the fireplace had a silver filigree mirror hanging above it. She even had her own bathroom with all the necessities; an almost box-like room tiled in gleaming black and white and ornate taps.
Every morning, when rationality returned, and her heart stopped thundering, she would roll out of the mass of pillows and duvets in her king-sized bed (it felt more like universe-sized to the small girl) and head on down. Owls would arrive like clockwork with the post. Tom had a subscription to every daily newspaper that there was. Although this had startled Helen at first, she had taken it upon herself to hand out the newspapers. Despite being able to do it much quicker with magic, Tom let her help.
That morning, there was a headline in the most popular newspaper, The Daily Prophet, that caught her eye: DEATH EATER TRIALS: THE SECOND WAVE. Curious, she unfolded the newspaper:
While many remember the devastation caused in the Blood War by the group known as the Death Eaters, not all will know that many did not receive trial. Yes that's right dear readers, people were sent to Azkaban without a trial! This oversight by the previous administration was caught by none other than the Deputy Head of the DMLE, Rufus Scrimgeour.
"This is a travesty," Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, enthused righteously. "How do we know that good, upstanding citizens who were simply under the imperius have suffered these long years in Azkaban? We shall be holding trials immediately."
Although frightened by this revelation, this reporter is confident that the current Ministry will not stand for such injustice. What will be uncovered dear readers? Have the innocent really languished away in Azkaban for over a decade? Of course, this brings a much more horrifying thought to mind – what if not all the Death Eaters escaped justice? What of the Potters, we must ask. Were all those involved in the horrors of that night truly caught? If the Death Eaters and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named are capable of wiping out such a prominent family, what's to say they won't do it again?
The article continued on in the same simpering tone but none of it registered in Helen's mind. Sometimes she hated wanting to know everything. Pushing away her half-eaten plate, her brow furrowed. What had the article meant, wiped out? Miserably, she traced figures in the condensation of her glass. How had her parents died? It obviously was not drunk in a car crash like Aunt Petunia had said. What did she know about her family? Questions raced around her head so fast Helen felt ill.
Puttering around behind the bar, Tom noticed the despondent look of his youngest patron, and frowned. Tucking a cloth in the front pocket of his apron, he eased a smile across his face and hobbled over.
"Somethin' wron' with ya toast?" he asked breezily. Startled, Helen looked up and shook her head vigorously.
"No, its great thank you." She insisted and tried to smile. Tom raised an eyebrow disbelievingly and hummed.
"But?" he prompted. Someone yelled for a drink and Tom sent her a pointed look before disappearing. Helen heaved a sigh. Feeling decidedly more wretched than when she had woken up, she twisted her hands agitatedly in her shirt. Despite having her own money, Helen had been far too nervous to spend any except at The Leaky Cauldron. She still wore Dudley's cast offs. Luckily, she was able to due to the instant-wash basket in her room. That didn't stop them from becoming even more threadbare though. Her shirt especially was riddled with holes along the broken hem. Far too used to such clothing to be embarrassed, she saw no need to buy new ones.
Planting his hands on the counter, Tom smiled kindly.
"Now, ya gonna say what's botherin' ya?" he asked gently. Helen wrestled with herself for a minute before sighing. With an embarrassed flush spreading up her neck, she cautiously pushed the newspaper towards him. Frowning, Tom unfolded the paper. It did not take long for the problem to become clear. Sighing, he folded the paper and pushed it decisively away.
"Oh." He said, tapping a finger nervously on the wooden countertop.
"Do ya know anythin' about tha night?"
Helen fidgeted in her seat; her hands clenching and unclenching in her shirt.
"Do you," she breather in deeply, her chest aching familiarly, "do you mean the night my parents died?"
Tom had never wanted to be the one to tell her. He never should have had too, but he was determined to do it correctly. With a wave of his hand, a steaming mug of hot chocolate appeared. After making sure she had taken a good gulp, Tom straightened as much as he could.
"Well, just ta warn ya, everyone knows this story." Tom scratched his chin. "Bit of a legen' in the magical world. People think yer a bit of a celebrity, so you gotta be careful, alrigh'?"
Helen nodded quickly at the serious look Tom levelled at her. Nervous, she gulped down more of the cocoa.
"Alrigh' so, there was this war ya see. A terrible one. Many people died. Yer parents fought in the war – on the front line in fact." Tom said it as if she should be proud, and Helen was. Her parents must have been very brave if everyone knew of them.
"They were so high up in the war effort, tha eventually they caught the attention of You-Know-Who." Tom finished in a whisper, his eyes darting cautiously around the room. Entranced by the gruesome tale, Helen did not notice as she leant closer to the bar.
"You-Know-Who?" she asked hesitantly. Tom held a finger to his lips.
"The Dark Lord," he shuddered slightly. "He started the war – said some were not worthy of practising magic. Rubbish a'course. When they had ya, yer parents went into hidin' because he was looking for 'em."
Helen had a terrible feeling in her gut. There was really only one way this story could go, but she listened dutifully anyway.
"- well one nigh' he found ya. Yer mum and dad put up a good fight, but nobody survived when You-Know-Who decided ta kill 'em." Tom sighed wearily. He seemed to have aged a decade, but that was nothing compared to how Helen felt. Her mouth was dry, and no amount of hot chocolate seemed to soothe her.
"But tha's where things got tricky see," Tom shot her a small half-smile; his eyes pitying. "because ya survived; ain't no one done that before. Not only did ya live, but You-Know-Who disa'ered. So, to some yer a hero who killed 'im and ended tha war."
Why had she lived? Surely someone must know, Helen determined, and if not, then she would find out. Her mug was empty. Fiddling with her shirt hem, she let her raven hair cascade across her face; the loose bun unravelling around her shoulders. Seeing as she was distracted, Tom easily switched out the remainder of her breakfast for a bowl of full-fat yoghurt with fruit and honey. He had eyes – he was quick to notice the hollow cheeks, baggy clothes and taped glasses of his youngest patron. Gently, he encouraged her to eat.
"What ya thinkin'?" he asked softly. Swallowing her mouthful, Helen blinked. Emerald green eyes shone despondently from behind silver wire-frames. Tiredness radiated from her sloped shoulders to how her head hung low.
"I think," she started slowly, "I think I want to know You-Know-Who's name."
Tom shuddered. His grip tightened on the counter before he took a hold of himself. If anyone deserved to know, she did.
"Alrigh', alrigh'. His name was Vol-Voldemort." Tom shuddered again. Helen thought it was a ridiculous name. Who named their child Voldemort? Despite her bitterness, she could see though just how the name affected people. Tom was still pale; his eyes darting nervously about them. Never mind that the magical world had come up with a way to not say the name. The war must have been terrible, Helen mused. A flicker of pride and pain wrestled in her chest.
With a clunk, she dropped her spoon into an empty bowl. She had not even realised she had finished. Silently, Tom cleared it away. Still, she did nothing except nod her head in thanks.
"Maybe ya should go and lie down fer a bit?" Tom suggested; guilt etched into every line of his face. Helen baulked at the idea; her mind suddenly whirring a hundred miles an hour. Scrunching up her nose in thought, she kicked her feet back and forth irritably.
"No," she said. "No, what I need to do is to find out the truth."
She hopped down from the stool so suddenly it almost toppled over on top of her. Steadying it, Helen sent a fleeting smile at a dumbstruck Tom before rushing back up to her room. It seemed she finally knew what to spend her galleons on.
After two days of practically camping out at Flourish and Blotts, Diagon Alley's main bookshop, most of Helen's money was gone. As well as her patience. Every book she found on Voldemort and the Blood War all seemed to follow the same thread: The Ministry had had everything in control. This frustrated Helen to no end. In none of the books she had found did the statistics agree with the statement. The death toll had been enormous. Most of the casualties however seemed to have been muggles or muggleborns. Although never said outright, most books seemed to deem this an acceptable loss. Helen often felt sick after reading but powered on regardless. She was determined to. She would not let her parents sacrifice be in vain.
Just before noon one Thursday, Helen gave up. Surrounded by a pile of books in a far corner of the bookshop, she sat cross-legged on the floor. With her head in her hands, she squeezed her eyes tightly. Words flashed against her eyelids in a dizzy array until she wanted to cry. At the end of the stack, a girl appeared. She carried a shopping basket on one arm as she hovered hesitantly. Finally, the girl threw back her head and marched over to Helen.
"Are you alright?" the girl asked. Surprised, Helen squinted above her. A black girl about her own age with bushy hair and rather large front teeth stood in front of her. Pushing her glasses up her nose, Helen blinked rapidly.
"Ugh, I guess." She said glumly. The girl frowned as if she did not believe her but was unsure as to what to say. Awkwardly, the two girls looked anywhere but each other until the girl jerked her head next to where Helen sat.
"Are those your books?"
"Kinda, well I'm reading them." Helen rubbed her neck sheepishly. Without prompting, the girl sat down abruptly and pulled one of the books towards her.
"Key Conquests of the Blood War?" the girl read out dubiously. Feeling a bit like she was on show, the young Potter heir nodded silently. The girl shuffled through a few more of the book titles before turning around imperiously.
"Why are you reading so many books about the Blood War?"
Helen did not think the girl was trying to be rude; though she was definitely feeling uncomfortable as the stranger attempted to interrogate her.
"I wanted to get as many opinions as possible." She shrugged.
"But why?" the girl seemed genuinely confused. "In a revised version of A History of Magic, there's a whole chapter dedicated to the Blood War. I heard its even on our Hogwarts booklist."
Helen had read it. The book had seemed to gloss over the numbers even more than the ones she had found in Flourish and Blotts. Shuffling the books around her, she managed to find a scrap of parchment and her pencil. Triumphant, she thrust it under the other girls nose.
"Yes it does, but A History of Magic only provides an overview. Besides, none of the data matches what the books are saying anyway." Helen tapped the paper with her pencil importantly. The girl pursed her lips disbelievingly but read what was given to her. While she did that, it struck Helen that it was the first time she had managed to have an actual conversation with someone her own age. No Dudley here to mess it up, she thought victoriously.
"This is very thorough." The girl sounded surprised. She looked at Helen with grudging respect as she handed back the parchment.
"But why wouldn't A History of Magic cover any of this?" she pointed out. Helen shrugged.
"I dunno. Maybe because its only supposed to provide a broad view of the war? We are still in school." Helen said. The girl was silent. Helen felt as if she was being judged. Pushing her shopping basket aside so she could kneel more comfortably, the girl thrust out a hand.
"I'm Hermione Granger. I'll be starting at Hogwarts this year." The girl said promptly. Taking the hand extended to her, Helen smiled.
"Nice to meet you, I'm Helen Potter. I'll be starting my first year as well."
"Are you really?" Hermione asked. Wincing, Helen suddenly remembered that the chapter also covered the fall of Voldemort.
"Yes, but none of what the book says is true." She said. Hermione wiggled her nose thoughtfully.
"What about the other books?"
"There are more books?" Helen asked aghast. The horror on her face must had been obvious as Hermione let out a soft laugh. Scrambling to her feet, she picked up her basket and waved impatiently.
"Come on!"
Helen scrambled to follow her. Tucking her things into her pockets, she happily followed Hermione's self-assured footsteps. Bookcases and streams of bobbing books passed them by as they weaved their way through the veritable maze. Eventually they emerged into the front of the shop. Here, the open space was full of milling people. Hermione took no notice and instead darted through them with ease. Following behind her as quick as she could, Helen stumbled to a stop beside her wayward companion. Taking up half a wall was one of those stands most bookshops had. The ones with bestseller! Or Read Now! In fancy cardboard cut-out above them. Instead though, the one in Flourish and Blotts read Helen Potter – The-Girl-Who-Lived. It even flashed. Her mouth fell open in horror.
"See," Hermione was saying smugly. "There are loads of books about you."
Helen could see that. There were books on her family history, articles on theories about how she had survived, autobiographies of her childhood, and perhaps most disturbing of all, fictional stories where she was the heroine! Had the magical world known how the Dursley's treated her? Had they known about the cupboard? Or how she had to dumb down her grades? Tears pricked her eyes. They must have, why else would there be so many books on her childhood? Helen was shaking, but not she realised, out of fear. These people were making money out of her suffering. She knew that it could have been much worse, but that did not mean that the way the Dursley's had treated her was acceptable.
Hermione had finally seemed to realise that she was not talking. Frowning, she tapped Helen's shoulder cumbersomely.
"Are you alright?" she asked, worried that she had upset the small girl she had found hidden behind books taller than her.
"No," Helen said, her voice trembling. Hermione's face fell. Biting her lip, she watched as the smaller girl shoved her glasses up her nose determinedly before pulling down as many books as she could reach.
"What are you doing?" Hermione asked eventually. Glassy-eyed but resolute, Helen took a deep breath.
"I'm gonna read as many of these as I can."
Dithering in her spot, Hermione shook herself mentally before offering her shopping basket.
"Maybe, maybe I could help you go through them? Find out what's real." She said. Stilling, Helen blinked. Quietly, she dropped the books into the proffered basket. Together, the girls walked up to the counter. As the shop assistant rang up her order, Helen contemplated the girl beside her. She was blunt and bossy yet also kind. Thanking the till clerk, she took her bag of shrunken books. Tom would un-shrink them for her.
"I'm staying at The Leaking Cauldron," Helen said. "Maybe we could meet there tomorrow for breakfast."
Hermione's face lit up. She nodded her head so vigorously that her coiled hair flew about her head. Helen giggled. The girls parted ways reluctantly as Hermione had to return to her parents. Waving goodbye, Helen felt the knot in her chest loosen for the first time since she had read that article.
When she returned to The Leaky Cauldron, Tom the barkeep was delighted to see her in a better mood. The small girl had been unusually quiet, and her large, sad green eyes had had him worried. He listened cheerfully as Helen explained her day as she munched down on her dinner (gammon and chips). Tom did not know who this Hermione girl was, but he was grateful that she seemed determined to make the young Potter a friend.
As she climbed into bed that night and snuggled into fresh sheets, Helen popped a gooey marshmallow in her mouth. When she had started yawning into her dessert, Tom had plied her with hot chocolate and sent her off to bed. Swamped by goose-feathers, she propped one of her new books, Foundling Years: The Beginnings of Society, on her knees and buried herself between its pages. It was only as the candle on her bedside flickered out that she realised the time. Tired, she shut the book, took off her glasses and fell asleep happy.