No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue;

I could not foresee this thing happening to you.

-Paint it black, Rolling Stoes

By noon, Harriet was in London, with pocket money and new clothes- a boring black skirt, black sweater set, black knee-high stockings and slightly scuffed black leather mary-janes that were only a tiny bit too big. It was like a funeral. She found herself walking in the confident she-swagger she'd adopted during her difficult years at Hogwarts, the heels making a confident clack-clack, her shoulders back, and her head high, eyes quickly scanning the people, buildings, and cars around her, looking for anything that didn't fit.

Everything was wonky- she knew that things ought to appear taller, since she was in fact shorter, but instead her surroundings seemed smaller somehow. The buildings were drab and sad, the people feeling more like animated paper dolls than creatures with souls and hopes and desires. She had outgrown muggle things, it seemed; outgrown ordinariness, and grown into war and death and darkness.

Harriet stopped by a stand and got a muggle iced drink with just over half of her spending money. She was going to need to strike a balance between her old intimidating persona, and seeming like a harmless child, and the children around her were sipping cold drinks, carrying trinkets their parents had bought them, chattering to whoever would listen. Sipping a cold drink was the easiest option- and, she realized as the sugar hit her stomach, she needed to eat something. She wasn't used to needing food anymore, having relied on a complex crazy-quilt of potions and regenerative spells.

Harriet found a quiet corner with a cafe chair set aside, and sat down in the shade. There were half-a-dozen families visible, most likely out on their summer break. They wore the comfortable, slightly-wrinked clothing of tourists. It was a beautiful day, which didn't happen too often in London. Certainly there had been very few nice days where Harriet had been- Dementors had allied with Voldemort, and started breeding, leaving a fog of depression and dark magic over the entire isle.

Now, it was different. Blue skies, with artistically puffy clouds adding texture and depth, surrounded Harriet like nostalgia. It was warm, but not humid, and a slight breeze came off the Thames with a promise to keep the day comfortable no matter how high and bright the sun might rise. It was a perfect early summer day. Harriet didn't care for lovely summer days, though. It had been a lovely summer day when Harriet's son – Sirius, named after her godfather, had died.

The fog given off by the Dementors had faded, after nearly a hundred of them had been returned to Azkaban. Things had seemed as safe as they ever got, with a somewhat-reclaimed ministry and her own faked untimely death. She could go out in public, around muggles if not wizards. Harriet had gotten restless, and she'd gone out with the excuse of replenishing supplies.

That was, it seemed, what the death eaters had planned; they used the irristably beautiful day to launch a wide-scale attack, counting on restless wizards leaving home for the first time in months to take advantage of all the gaps in their defenses. Harriet was only one of a dozen witches and wizards that had come out from under heavy wards, she found out after the fact.

While the others were being picked off, while a skirmish was happening in her own home between Hermione, Ron, and seven death eaters, Harriet debated the merits of green or red apples. She argued over five cents with a cashier. She helped an old lady take her bags to the car. She stared at the blue, blue sky for a long wistful moment in the parking lot. She had never decided what action caused her to apparate back a minute too late to take little Siri and apparate somewhere nobody could even find her.

He had been four, all dark hair and bright eyes. Green eyes, a bright grass-green tinged with yellow on the very edge. So quiet Harriet had thought there might be something wrong with him until he started talking, and she discovered he was simply meticulous about everything. Even his toys had to be put away when he was done playing with them.

Now, she didn't even have a picture. Nobody else knew about him. Nobody remembered him. He would probably never exist again; children were one of those things that were far too random to count on. Oh, she might have another child; it seemed none of the curses inflicted on her before had been carried with her, but it would never be the same child. Would never be her little Siri-bug.

Harriet set down her drink. Her fingers were so cold they were numb, and she could no longer stand looking at the happy families milling about. She needed to be going, and she could figure out where after she'd started moving. Time to get the dance started, and leave old things behind. Memories would only hurt her.

"No truth can cure the sorrow we feel from losing a loved one. No truth, no sincerity, no strength, no kindness can cure that sorrow. All we can do is see it through to the end and learn something from it, but what we learn will be no help in facing the next sorrow that comes to us without warning."
― Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

She fell asleep in a hotel lobby. Really, she'd meant to sit down for a few minutes and figure things out, somewhere warm and safe, but the chair had been very soft, and the concierge was an older lady that rather reminded her of Mrs. Weasley, and the next thing she knew people were milling about in the soft morning sunshine, and there was a breakfast buffet.

Harriet grabbed a plate and piled it high with sausage, wondering at her anonymity. She hadn't been anonymous in nearly twenty years- first the girl-who-lived nonsense, then disfiguring scars. The sausage was extra delicious as she had eaten nothing and walked quite a bit. The hotel lobby was comfortable, but not somewhere she could stay forever. Eventually someone would notice her, and inquire about her parents, and then there would be problems. The easiest thing would be simply to return to the Dursley's.

Harriet wasn't fond of taking the easy way, though, as a general rule.

Another alternative to wandering aimlessly was to attempt to access her Gringott's account (though without a key, she was not sure how successful that would be) and get a room somewhere. And a wand. However, that would broadcast to anybody who cared to look that she had knowledge she shouldn't. She suspected she might be better off not broadcasting that sort of thing.

At the same time, however, the sorts of resources she had in her muggle life were extremely limited. She knew the Dursley's, Dudley's monstrous little friends, and Mrs. Figg. Steadfast allies, none of them. Mrs. Figg meant well, of course, but she'd certainly return Harriet to the Dursley's, who would probably lock her in the closet the rest of the summer.

Sirius Black was in Azkaban, and Harriet wasn't sure how to get him out without a wand. Remus was who-knows-where; Hermione had probably not heard of magic yet, and without the ability to apparate Harriet had no idea how to contact any of her wizarding friends. Frankly, she had no idea how to get to most wizarding places from the muggle world; she'd apparated like it was going out of fashion in her old life.

She wasn't sure if it was possible, or if possible wise, to apparate with her child's body. Still, it might be the easiest way to get where she wanted to go. But where on earth did she want to go? Everything was contaminated with memories, or else empty, leaving her mind to torture her as it wished.

"No matter how far you travel, you can never get away from yourself."
― Haruki Murakami, After the Quake

In the end, Harriet found herself apparating to Godric's Hollow, to Potter's Cottage. It had been left intact- or more accurately, looking as if a bomb had gone off ten years ago. Most of the roof was gone, and there were birds nesting in the rest of it. Plants had taken over what the birds had not- ivy had made its way over the walls and in the windows, and grass had sprouted where there had once been carpet in Harriet's bedroom. The walls were still covered, under the moss and ivy, in charmed wallpaper that cheerfully spelled out the alphabet. Harriet sat down heavily next to her crib, memories of the night coming into her head, overlaying the ruins.

Harriet held the cat in her arms, dragging it onto her charmed broom, trying to convince it to fly. Nothing happened, but she kept going. Cats were magic. Brooms were magic. They really ought to work together.

Harriet's mother stood in the doorway, watching her, a smile on the corner of her mouth. "Harry, it's bedtime. Time to let the kittey go."

Harriet let the cat go, pouting at her mother. Bedtime was her least favorite time. It was boring, laying in the crib, to sleep.

There really was a person in the doorway, Harriet found, and for a long moment she thought she'd gone mad, instead of simply slightly damaged. Then the cold part in the back of her mind observed that the person was taller than her mother- mannish, face obscured by a deep shadow that only a very bright day could cast. A mix of animalistic fear and reckless anger overcame her, freezing her body while her eyes frantically tried to adjust well enough to tell friend from foe. Before she could see in the shadows, the figure took a small step forward into the light.

Severus Snape stood like a black blight, eyes dark as murder glaring directly down at Harriet Potter.