THE GIRL NAMED ᏀᎡᎪƝᏀᎬᎡ → (ʜᴀʀʀʏ ᴘᴏᴛᴛᴇʀ × reader)

Prologue

August 1988

The scent of warm bread and burnt dough drifted lazily through the air, curling through sunbeams that stretched across the kitchen floor. Light spilled in through the windows, golden and slow, catching on the floating flour dust and the steam rising from the griddle.

Y/N stood on a chair dragged up to the counter, sleeves pushed past her elbows, a streak of batter on her cheek. Her braid had mostly come undone, curling wildly around her shoulders as she focused, tongue peeking from the corner of her mouth.

“Not too much,” Hermione said from beside her, watching closely as Y/N tried to pour batter into the pan. “You’ll make it too fat and it won’t flip.”

“I like fat pancakes,” Y/N muttered, squinting.

Hermione sighed, hands on her hips. “They don’t cook in the middle, though. You want it even.”

Y/N didn’t argue, but she did glance up at their dad like she might get backup.

Philip was at the stove, already wrestling the last attempt out of the pan with a spatula that had seen better days. “I say let the pancake be who it wants to be,” he said solemnly. “Round, lopsided, burnt on one side. It’s still got heart.”

“That one’s got smoke,” Hermione said, frowning toward the pan.

Philip flipped it anyway. It landed half-folded, still steaming.

Y/N giggled.

“That one’s going to the compost,” came Dinah’s voice as she passed behind them, carrying a laundry basket tucked against her hip. She paused just long enough to press a kiss to the top of Hermione’s head, then reached over to tuck a loose curl behind Y/N’s ear.

“Careful with the batter, love,” she said softly. “It’ll drip down your sleeves.”

Y/N glanced down at her arm. “It already did.”

The kitchen was alive in that quiet, familiar way it always seemed to be on Saturday mornings. The smell of cinnamon mixed with scorched oil, the radio hummed faintly from another room, and sunlight traced slow paths along the walls.

Philip handed Hermione the spatula with a flourish. “Alright, boss. Show us how it’s done.”

Hermione gave a tiny nod like she’d been waiting for this moment her whole life. She stepped up to the pan, adjusted her grip, and watched the bubbles form around the edges of the batter like she knew exactly what to look for.

Y/N leaned her chin on the counter beside her. “You’re not flipping it yet?”

“Wait for the edges to dull,” Hermione said, not taking her eyes off the pan.

Philip leaned back against the sink, arms crossed loosely, watching them both. “You two are dangerous in here,” he said, mostly to himself. “You’re gonna overthrow me.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Dinah said calmly, setting the basket by a stool. “Especially now that you’re teaching the Cardons how to make lemon bars.”

Philip made a face. “Sophie nearly set their oven on fire.”

Y/N giggled. “She said she thought the smoke was ‘just steam with personality.’”

“That sounds about right,” Dinah murmured with a smile.

He raised an eyebrow, about to respond, when Y/N elbowed her sister gently and whispered, “It’s getting crispy.”

Hermione gasped, snatched the spatula, and flipped the pancake too fast. It folded in on itself with a wet hiss.

Philip winced. “Oof.”