If anyone were to conduct an exclusive interview with Harriet, the former Demoness of Undying, there would likely be one question they could not resist asking.
How had she advanced to such a terrifyingly high position at a speed that defied common sense?
And how, even more astonishingly, had she managed to maintain a stable and healthy mental state throughout that process?
The answer, of course, was complicated.
First, there was her mother's magic.
That gentle yet resilient protection had wrapped itself around Harriet since childhood, preventing her from collapsing under pressure and helping her overcome hurdle after hurdle that would have broken ordinary people. It was a quiet force, rarely noticed, yet always present—like a steady hand supporting her from behind.
Second, there had been the remnant soul.
Some fragment of another being had once resided within Harriet's body. Whoever that person had been, they were undoubtedly a noble soul.
That fragment absorbed corruption on her behalf, isolated malignant curses, and even digested the bitter fruits of backlash when Harriet teetered on the edge of losing control. Time and time again, it had shielded her from consequences that should have been fatal.
Unfortunately, after assisting Harriet in advancing to the rank of Demoness of Undying, the remnant soul had seemingly dissipated. She could no longer sense its presence, no matter how carefully she searched.
Of course, there was another factor—one Harriet considered extremely important.
Pleasure.
Maintaining pleasure was essential to maintaining sanity.
Enjoying fine food, teasing prey, engaging in heart-to-heart conversations with Miss Justice, cultivating harmonious and affectionate relationships with beautiful girls… all of these brought joy and balance to her life.
And then there was shopping.
The act of purchasing things naturally generated anticipation and delight. The moment money left her hand, the promise of something new and enjoyable replaced it.
Harriet, who had just withdrawn a truly astonishing sum of gold from Gringotts, had not forgotten this particular joy.
Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, along with the surrounding shops of Diagon Alley, soon found themselves welcoming a remarkably enthusiastic customer.
School uniforms? Three spare sets, at the very least.
Casual clothing in various styles? One of each.
Accessories and cosmetics? At least a dozen.
All kinds of miscellaneous magical items? The more, the better.
As for mystical items designed for combat or self-defense—
There were none of those.
Or rather, an eleven-year-old little witch simply did not have access to such things.
Textbooks were handled with much more restraint. Harriet purchased only the books listed on the school's required materials, plus a few additional history books that caught her interest. After all, she knew perfectly well that the Hogwarts library was the true treasure trove of knowledge.
There was also another reason she stopped herself.
Hagrid was already carrying an enormous pile of bags, boxes, and packages, and Harriet felt vaguely guilty about adding to his burden.
"Oh—that's… that's enough, isn't it, Harriet?" Hagrid asked hesitantly, his arms trembling slightly under the weight.
"Sorry, Hagrid," Harriet replied with a small smile. "I got a bit carried away. Unrestrained desire isn't exactly the mark of a proper lady."
Even so, before they left, Harriet insisted on forcing several new sets of clothes into Hagrid's hands.
She reasoned that his salary couldn't possibly be high, and if he truly had spare money, he wouldn't still be wearing such old, worn-out clothing.
With that, they arrived at the final destination of the day.
Ollivanders Wand Shop.
To be completely honest, the shop was smaller and shabbier than Harriet had imagined.
The romantic fantasies she had built up in her heart melted away the moment she saw it.
The gold lettering on the sign above the door was faded and peeling. It read:
Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
Inside, the shop was narrow and cramped. Aside from the counter, thousands of long, narrow boxes were stacked haphazardly, reaching almost all the way to the ceiling.
"Good afternoon."
An elderly man with snow-white hair seemed to glide out from the shadows, appearing before them without warning.
There was something undeniably eccentric about him.
"Ah, Hagrid! Long time no see! Oak, sixteen inches, slightly bendy, wasn't it?"
"Th—that's right, Mr. Ollivander," Hagrid replied, rubbing his hands together awkwardly. A faint trace of loneliness crossed the giant's face.
Mr. Ollivander's pale, almost silvery eyes then turned to Harriet.
"And now… this young lady."
His gaze lingered on her face, his expression growing strangely complex, as though he were recalling something long forgotten.
"A curious combination. Black hair, green eyes… Another Potter? No, no, the child of James Potter and Lily Potter should have been a boy…"
Hagrid opened his mouth, clearly preparing to explain the complicated circumstances, but he was interrupted by a sudden fluttering sound.
An owl squeezed through the narrow gap in the door, dropped a bundle of newspapers onto the counter, and immediately flew off without a backward glance.
The Daily Prophet.
The front-page headline was printed in enormous letters:
THE TRUTH REVEALED!
The Girl Who Lived—Harriet Potter!
TO PROTECT THE SAVIOR, DUMBLEDORE USED A CLEVER RUSE TO SPREAD FALSE NEWS OF A "BOY"!
The article vividly described how Dumbledore had orchestrated an elaborate deception to protect the true savior, Harriet Potter, allowing her to grow up safely while the world believed her to be a boy. Now that the danger had passed, the truth had finally been revealed.
Harriet glanced at the newspaper out of the corner of her eye, marveling at Dumbledore's influence.
His prestige in the wizarding world truly lived up to its reputation.
At the same time, she felt reassured. The Headmaster clearly bore her no ill will and had taken her situation seriously. Otherwise, he would never have moved so quickly to apply a "patch" to her transformation.
Ollivander picked up the paper and skimmed it rapidly. A flash of realization passed through his eyes before his expression returned to its usual focus.
"I see. An extraordinary strategy," he murmured. "Well then, Miss Potter, come along. Let me have a look at you."
He produced a tape measure with silver markings.
"Which is your wand arm?"
"My right," Harriet answered, extending it.
The tape measure sprang to life, measuring her arm length, shoulder width, height, and even the span of her fingers. Meanwhile, Ollivander moved swiftly among the shelves, retrieving one box after another.
"Try this one. Mahogany and unicorn hair, nine inches, springy. Give it a wave."
Harriet had barely taken hold of the wand when Ollivander snatched it back.
"No, no, not right! Try this."
She grasped the next wand and gave it a gentle wave. Instantly, frost spread across the nearby shelves.
Ollivander shook his head decisively. "Absolutely not. It seems… something special is required."
He disappeared into the depths of the shop and returned after quite some time, holding a dust-covered box.
"An interesting choice," he said thoughtfully. "Hawthorn and dragon heartstring, ten and a half inches, hard. Contradictory, perhaps? Cursing and healing. Go on—try it."
The moment Harriet's fingers closed around the wand, warmth surged from her fingertips and flowed through her entire body.
The magic within her—separate from her Demoness power—responded instantly, as though it had finally found the perfect channel. It flowed naturally, gentle yet powerful, and a faint, unfamiliar glow rose around her.
"Wonderful! Truly wonderful!" Ollivander exclaimed, his voice rising with excitement.
"The wand chooses the wizard! Hawthorn and dragon heartstring—it will be a formidable wand. Loyal, resilient… inclined toward healing, or perhaps powerful curses."
"Thank you, sir," Harriet said sincerely, stroking the smooth surface of the wand. "It feels as though it's part of me."
After paying seven Galleons, Ollivander muttered thoughtfully, "Very interesting… I had originally thought another wand might have an even deeper connection with you."
He glanced at her forehead.
"After all, its core feather comes from the same phoenix as the one in your wand. And the owner of its brother… left you that scar."
Hmm? Where was the scar?
"For a young girl, a scar can invite unwanted gossip," Harriet replied calmly. "So I had it covered."
In truth, after becoming a Demoness of Undying, that flaw had long since vanished.
"Oh! I see," Ollivander said. "In any case—holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches. Its brother belongs to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."
Lord Voldemort's brother wand?
Harriet's heart skipped a beat as curiosity surged within her.
"May I see it?"
Ollivander studied her for a long moment, then silently retrieved another long box.
When Harriet grasped the holly wand, the sensation was entirely different.
There was only a faint resonance—a distant nostalgia for the past, but no real compatibility.
"Well," Harriet said softly, releasing it, "it seems it no longer suits me."
If you'd like, I can also:
Tighten the prose further for professional web-novel style
Adjust tone toward darker / lighter fantasy
Align terminology more closely with official Harry Potter canon