Death Becomes Her — Book #1.

For a brief moment of time, she had thought that the danger had passed—that nothing could keep her from the happiness she so rightfully deserved but turns out that fate had a different point of view when she's sent back into the year, 1985. Nothing better than playing cat and mouse with four vampires—bloody hell, what had she gotten herself into this time? {Fem!Harry — Book #1}

Disclaimer: I in no means own anything associated with the Lost Boys, not Harry Potter. I merely own my imagination.

I have not watched Lost Boys not Harry Potter in a long time; though I should probably brush up on my Potter lore before delving deeper into this. I have done research on both and I sincerely hope that this idea doesn't blow up in my face.

Right. On with the little teaser chapter. Am working on the first one as we speak.

— Prologue —

London — 31 July, 2001.

"I just want to be alone." It did not take a fool to notice the immense concern shimmering behind Hermione's gaze, nor the brief flash of disappointment that had crossed Ronald's features, but as Harriet Potter excused herself from the table, she couldn't find the time to care either. "Just have fun, I'll see you two tomorrow."

It had taken all her willpower to push herself up and out the chair, but not wanting to add more silence to a rather uncomfortable night of celebration, Harriet knew it was best she leave before she messed things up.

Up until the moment she had finally tumbled out the crowded pub, their eyes had never left her form. Perhaps she was being selfish but the raging battle within her was something she could no longer ignore.

I have everything and yet I want more. It never seized to amaze her how the thick blanket of darkness hanging above her could become so beautiful—the stars shimmering in all their glory. How such an innocent thing could withhold its ground surrounded by eternal darkness would always boggle her mind. I am lost but would it be fair of me to ask for guidance?

The emptiness she felt at that moment could easily be described as despair ripping the last shred of hope she had within her—that somewhere in the dark and dreary world out there that happiness would soon knock on her door.

Despite the danger having passed, despite the losses she had overcome and the sacrifices she had made; would happiness ever find her? Often times she would wander aimlessly through her dreams, something that she hadn't done since—no!

She couldn't bare to think of him. The one man she could trust with all her secrets and in the end, she had done nothing to save him as he plummeted towards the abyss waiting to swallow him whole.

She had lost so much and had gained more throughout the years but a dark part of her wanted more—yearned for more. It was a part of her she had fought to hide from the prying eyes of those around her.

There was a darkness within her that even she, herself, could not deny but for the sake of those she cared for, she'd rather suffer through her own misgivings than burden them with her problems.

I am a selfish little git. Thinking that I'm the only one with all the problems; that I'm the only one that sacrificed it all. But was asking for a moment of true happiness too much? Would life rather see her suffer than cut her some well deserved slack? She wanted nothing more than to turn around and barge back into the Leaky Cauldron but would it be for her sake or for those she cared about; sit there and pretend that nothing was wrong; to live life without worrying, because what was there to fear?

She had done her part more than once—so what was blocking her path between finding happiness? Did she need more closure or was she waiting for a sign that would reassure her that the danger had passed? You should be celebrating this night with them. You only turn twenty one once. Why not make the most of it?

What would her parents say if they saw her now? Would they be proud of the young woman she had become or would they have demanded better from her? In all honesty, everything she had done was hoping that she'd never be a disappointment. That she'd never let anyone down but had she truly tried her best?

"Who is this person staring back at me?" It was a question she'd often ask herself, one that would always remain unanswered. At that moment, it had felt like the whole world had turned their gaze upon her—mocking and laughing at the mistakes she had made. That she could have done better, that she could have done more had she known that everyone she had ever cared about would either leave her behind or vanish at the likes of her hands.

You are weak, Harry. You couldn't save your parents. You couldn't save Dumbledore. You couldn't save Sirius. You couldn't even safe your friends. What hopes do you have upon saving yourself?

Someone was bound to get hurt, one way or another. And she'd always be powerless to stop it from happening. She didn't deserve them. How could they still look at her without being disgusted and angered? How could they love her without feeling an ounce of anger? It had been her fault—.

"Happy Birthday, Harriet." Smiling politely at the elderly woman—she recognized to be one Francesca Le Fray; a fellow Auror—Harriet murmured her thanks before continuing down the street. It was praises like that which caused her heart to ache in guilt and the burning sensation below her breast to tingle. She had left so abruptly that she did not even thank her friends for the gifts they and many others had bestowed upon her. Some friend she was.

Shaking her head in hopes that it would ease the pounding at the back of her skull, Harriet Potter sighed in contempt. Such was life—it never failed to remind her that she wasn't the one in control. Taking a deep breath as she finally neared Grimmauld Place, Harriet couldn't help but think back to the first time she had found herself standing before the building. It had done good, for a first impression. Considering that number twelve was hidden from muggle eyes, most residents have accepted the amusing mistake in numbering that had caused number eleven to sit beside number thirteen.

Living in apartment sixteen herself, she often found herself chuckling at the confused expressions some would portray upon first seeing it. Though her apartment was small in most eyes—mostly Hermione's—it was bigger than what Harriet was use to.

It was home.

And then the absurd thought hit her. Did someone like her deserve a second chance? Was there such a thing as redemption? Would there be a place on this earth where she could go where no one knew who she was nor cared what she did? A place where she could hide and not continuously look over her shoulder for the first sign of danger?

Because the moment her fingers curled around the brass painted doorknob leading to her apartment; the last thought that crossed her mind was, did my doorknob just turn into a portkey, before a bright light consumed her and all she knew was darkness.

"It's time for you to come home, princess."

Author Note; I sincerely hope that I'm the only one thinking that this could have been better. I am not a perfect writer so I am not going to judge whether you don't like how I wrote Harry as a female. This is purely written for fun, though I'd like to hear the thoughts on this rather odd idea of mine.

Much love.