tya's whimsies

by vazaha_tya

Summary:

This is kind of a fanfic graveyard, for all the stories I started and put aside because my attention span is terrible. I'm posting stuff here so I can stop posting two chapters of a fic then abandoning it and making my readers cry. Anyways, if you don't like reading random rambles don't mind me. If you do, enjoy!

(Disclaimer: some of these fics might be expanded upon if I have inspiration and even resurrected if I figure out how to flesh them out - necromancer style haha. But I make no guarantees.)

Chapter 1: son of night (Harry Potter/Game of Thrones)

Summary:

Where Theo Nott watches the political situation in Magical Britain and decides to nope out of it before he's forced to get anywhere near Voldemort. He hadn't quite expected Westeros to be Like That. He really should have though.

297 AC

 

The first thing Theo saw upon arriving in Westeros was a flayed man.

 

Right there in the courtyard he had just landed in after a harrowing ritual that consumed more than half of his blood and magic, a man was being stripped of his skin. In the background, a banner depicting the practice was displayed proudly on the horizon, adorning the wall of the fortress he just breached.

 

The wizard stared, his exhaustion forgotten.

 

“Hel no,” he cursed. “Absolutely not.”

 

Theo left the wizarding world behind in the summer of his fifth year, right after his father’s imprisonment. He’d had no desire to live in a world governed by the liege lord the Head of House Nott had sworn his loyalty to, and he had little hope for the opposing camp’s success when they were spearheaded by an old man who was known since Grindelwald’s war for always acting too late and by the puppet boy said old man acclaimed as a saviour instead of doing the bloody job himself like the competent adult he should be.

 

So Theo took his chances and made use of the half-finished ritual that killed his mother, who was a seer so tormented by her visions of unreachable worlds she had dedicated her life to figuring out dimension travel. He completed it and took a leap of faith. Magic was about belief first and foremost after all.

 

And now he was here, in the land which tormented the dreams of Astrid Nott, blessed by Skadi with eternal snow.

 

The air was fresh, the cold biting and the howling winds sang with magic. Theo felt more at home than he’d ever been in Britain.

 

He could do without the screeching muggles waving swords at him, though.

 

Hel, he wanted a nap.

 

He sighed and pulled out his wand and his ritual knife. The runes carved in wood and obsidian glowed as he cast spells.

 

First, he laid down a ward around him, tracing a circle on the ground while murmuring the incantation he needed to ground it. He was not an idiot and he wasn’t exactly looking to be struck from behind.

 

Then he cut down the torturers. Simple slicing spells did the trick, and the men around him gasped when beams of white lights cut through both leather and steel, leaving dead men in their wake.

 

His opponents grew warier. They circled him, looking for a breach in his defences.

 

He applauded their caution in the face of a lack of information. They hadn’t managed to breach through his wards whether by sword or by arrow and they didn't know what he wanted. They hadn’t bothered to ask, to be fair.

 

Theo yawned, though he kept his gaze on the two who seemed the most dangerous.

 

Bloodless faces with ghost-grey eyes stared at him. A middle-aged man and a boy around sixteen who must have been his son. The lords of the place, judging by the entitlement on their faces, not unlike the type of arrogance Draco Malfoy used to wear like a cloak as he pranced about Hogwarts like he owned the place. Poor taste, that, but for French upstarts the Malfoys had never had any concept of noblesse oblige.

 

Not that Theo’s family was any better. His ancestors were Vikings skilled with seidr who were gifted a castle by Morgan Le Fay in exchange for their allegiance and have made themselves a nuisance on the Isles ever since. At some point, they forgot they were warriors and started behaving like poncy lords, though the other purebloods never let them forget they considered them barbarians. It didn’t have the intended effect though; the Notts have long owned their bloodthirsty origins and he’s been raised to be as proficient with a sword and dagger as he is with a wand.

 

The Lord’s son had a mad gleam in his eye that made Theo feel thankful for the pitiful amount of magic running in the boy’s veins. He had more than anyone else in the courtyard for sure, but that wasn’t saying much.

 

“You are the Lord of this castle, then?” he asked the older one.

 

“I am Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort. And who are you, intruder?”

 

To his credit, the flayer lord’s voice was even. You could almost think him unbothered if it were not for the obvious tension in his shoulders.

 

Theo ignored the demand for his name. He had lived in Britain long enough to know volunteering such a thing to an unknown was a sure way to end up dead. Not that he thought the men in front of him were fae, but appearances could be deceiving. He would have to check a compendium of the land’s magical creatures before he even thought to introduce himself. If they even had such a thing. Did these people have a writing system?

 

“And this is what Lords do to entertain themselves in this land?” he asked, bending his neck to point at the whimpering man chained naked to a post.

 

Any longer and he’d catch hypothermia, he thought. Theo wasn’t sure he cared enough to heal him. Although he didn’t stomach torture well, he was not exactly a paragon of virtue. He was a Slytherin, after all, he rarely did anything that didn’t benefit him. It might grant him some goodwill from those who’d looked sickened at the spectacle when he arrived, though.

 

Hm. He’d have to think on it.

 

“What I do in my own keep is none of your business,” spat out Bolton. “Ramsay.”

 

The son sent a wary look at his father before bringing a hand to his lips. He whistled, hard. Soon after, hunting dogs came running. The barking mad things looked half-starved and ready to tear his flesh from bone. They were hideous. Theo liked them already.

 

Their owners, not so much.

 

*

 

Ned Stark wasn’t expecting to be awoken in the middle of the night with news saying that a sorcerer had taken over the Dreadfort and was holding Lord Bolton and his bastard hostage. He’d taken Jon and a few guards before riding east of Winterfell. Some had protested, arguing for calling the banners. But Ned was unwilling to let it go this far, especially if the sorcerer was as powerful as the terrified Bolton servant implied he was. They would have greater chances of resolving this diplomatically.

 

Still, he wasn’t an idiot. He left his heir at home with orders to gather all men-at-arms if he didn’t send a raven within a sennight. He wouldn’t have taken Jon either if his boy hadn’t insisted.

 

It took less than a week to arrive at the seat of House Bolton. At first glance, nothing seemed amiss. They were let in by grim-faced guards into the castle proper. They only crossed a few servants on the way and though they seemed understandably nervous, they didn’t seem as terrified as the lad who’d raised the alarm had been.

 

Ned and his son exchanged wary glances.

 

The servant leading the way offered them sympathetic smiles as if she could understand their unease. She kept silent, though.

 

They were led into the keep's great hall, where the Red Kings' throne still stood. Where no one should have sat since Rogar Bolton bent the knee to Theon Stark, a young man was sprawled sideways, riffling through a thick tome with an expression of deep boredom.

 

“My Lord,” stuttered a servant, “Lord Stark of Winterfell is here to see you.”

 

The sorcerer — and didn’t Ned feel queer calling him so, when the boy looked to be of Robb and Jon’s age and no older — blinked slow and cat-like. If it weren’t for his colouring – tawny brown hair and abyss dark eyes —, Ned would think he was Valyrian. He certainly had the features for it. Ned glanced at Jon and withheld a sigh. He might still be, in fact.

 

“The Lord paragon one?” At those words, he closed the book, his attention fixed on his guest.

 

“Lord Paramount, my Lord.”

 

“Right. Welcome, Lord Stark. I’d do the ceremonies, but I’m guessing you’re more interested in knowing where I stashed your vassal?”

 

Ned nodded, a little bewildered. He could hear Jon and his men shuffling behind him, just as uneasy as he was.

 

“I was going to kill him,” admitted the boy-sorcerer, like that wasn’t an insane thing to say about a Lord of the realm. “I don’t like torturers much, you see, and when I stepped into this world into a courtyard where people were watching a peasant being flayed as some sort of sick entertainment, I thought I was within my right to intervene. And although killing the flayers did satisfy me a little, I was very willing to cut the problem at the source, starting with the people who’d ordered the thing. Unfortunately, Jeyne here,” he sent a little head nod at the servant who had brought them here, and the girl ducked her head to hide a blush, “interceded in their favour. She said something about how punishing the Lord of this castle was of the purview of the Starks and I should grant them the chance to enact justice. So I agreed to wait a bit. And there you are.”

Chapter 2: the seventh son of a seventh son (Harry Potter)

Summary:

“Septimus Weasley was an only child. Although his father never intended it to be such, his name became a prophecy of its own. The truth of it only became known once his wife, Cedrella Black now Weasley bore him seven sons and his youngest, Arthur, married a witch who gave him seven grandchildren in turn. When Lance Weasley was born, the wizarding world held its breath, for they all knew a great upheaval would soon follow.”

 

Or, What if Ginny had been born a boy?

 

(Lancelot (Lance) Septimus Weasley/Harry Potter)

Molly Weasley prayed desperately for her last child to be a girl. During the first months of her pregnancy, she even deluded herself into thinking she had gotten her wish. She prepared a room suited for a little girl and spent many days picking out a suitable name. She eventually settled on Ginevra. Arthur approved, stating it could always be shortened to Ginny while the baby was too small to be called a grown-up name. He kept quiet about his suspicions, and prepared a male name just in case.

 

He was right to do so.

 

Lance Weasley was born with the silvery grey eyes and fair skin of a Black.

 

He had a thin build like his father and bright red Weasley hair.

 

He inherited his mother’s dimples and short stature.

 

Though terror gripped them, Arthur and Molly loved him just as much as their other children.

 

Lance spent his childhood unaware of the peculiar circumstance he was born to, save for a few cryptic comments made by his childhood best friend Luna and the worried glances his parents and oldest brothers sometimes threw at him.

 

(He was the seventh son of a seventh son. The trees rustled their branches at his approach and the undine spirits by the river always greeted him with a curtsy. His magic caressed the wards of the Weasley home and fed the Burrow’s hearth with power that strangled the man hiding as a rat when he tried to step into the boundaries of the property. When Molly found Peter Pettigrew unconscious in her garden the next morning, she immediately called the Aurors.

 

But Lance didn’t know anything about that.)

 

This changed on his seventh birthday.

Chapter 3: drones and workers all uphold (Naruto OC)

Summary:

Aburame Shin’ya, Shibi’s psychotic twink of a little cousin (same age as Nawaki, possible sensei Orochimaru). Born without left forearm, has a chakra-conductive prothesis made out of a Hashirama tree which hosts his extra kikaichu (as in, that’s his insect jar). Wears heart-shaped sunglasses. Genjutsu and poison specialist, does assassination, seduction and hunting missions mostly.

Themes: Aburame/Uchiha Alliance, Clan Politics, Shinobi-Civilian relationships

The thing is, shinobi do not look remotely human.

There is something about the awareness they have over their body, about the control ingrained discipline gives them over their facial expressions and the minute twitches of their limbs that has even civilian-raised ninja looking ever so slightly off.

The selective breeding some clans impose on their members takes it to a higher level.

They are too beautiful. Their features so symmetrical it is unnerving and their grace like that of predators rather than fan dancers. Shinobi-raised children have to learn to make sound when they walk before they can be taken to civilian spaces. So used to imitating their parents, they are rarely aware that they move with the gait of a born killer.

To be shinobi is to be a monster with a human face.

They know to hide it of course.

(Despite that, the slightest break to their composure exposes the beast inside for all to see.)

The Yamanaka, Akimichi and Nara are masters at this game, masquerading as affable and approachable when they hide some of the most merciless torturers within their midst. They will smile and bow but never bend, hiding blades, wires and poisons between their teeth and in the crook of their elbows.

The Sarutobi clan conceal themselves between affable masks, their elders seen as wise though whimsical. When they walk through the village smelling like tobacco with a human gait and a human face, no one remembers how dangerous the monkeys can be.

Some clans pride themselves in their monstrosity.

The Uchiha and Hyuuga with their unblinking stares, marble beauties dancing on the battlefield like raptors arching through the sky to descend on their prey.

The wild Inuzuka and Hatake, barely pretending to be more than beasts with sharp fangs and killer instincts, only held back by the metaphorical leash the Hokage keeps around their necks.

And the Aburame.

Constant buzzing under their skins, stilted speech patterns and a hivemind devoted to its queen.

Consuming ceaselessly whether it is chakra or flesh, moving on to the next target like pollinator insects flit from flower to flower.

Civilians never forget what the Aburame are.

For all that they play the game and try to blend in, there are few shinobi in Konoha who scream their otherness quite as loudly as they do.

Shin’ya has never bothered to try.

He flaunts his hive everywhere he goes, forgoing the distinctive Aburame cloak for a forest green cropped shirt and letting his kikaichu creep out of his skin in public, only bothering to hide them via genjutsu on missions that require it. He lets his movements look seamless enough to unnerve the most hardened Konoha-jin civilian and sharpens his kunai like one would do their nails in public if they were bored enough.

Shin’ya is of the opinion that shinobi should be allowed to drop the mask at home.

Putting up a pretence should be kept for seduction or assassination missions, not for buying groceries.

After a few complaints to the KPF made by civilians, Uchiha Fugaku gently told him to keep it to his clan compound. Shin’ya begrudgingly agreed, though he ended up spending less time in the village as a result.

Which makes his predicament all the more inconvenient.

“I am temporarily retired from ANBU and slotted for a long-term civilian surveillance assignment after my three-months recovery period. Why? Because Hokage-sama has decided the results of my last psych evaluation were unsatisfactory.”

He frowns at himself at the use of the language tick so common to his clan and the distinctive Konoha drawl of his accent. He has been training himself to leave both out of his speech patterns so he could avoid recognition during missions. His annoyance must have let them resurface.

“I see. I will inform the queen,” says his cousin. Shibi turns around, pressing a light hand on his wife’s shoulder before leaving the room. Shin’ya watches the intimate gesture with undisguised fascination, his gaze hidden behind heart-shaped sunglasses. Seeing his cousin so content in his relationship never ceases to amaze him.

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it? Why? Because it will leave you time to recuperate from your ordeal,” adds Ibara after her husband is gone.

By ordeal, Ibara is talking about the mildly inconvenient situation he found himself in on his last mission, when his entire ANBU team was held captive and tortured by Iwa-nin for a few days. Shin’ya escaped relatively unscathed save for some damage to his prosthetic arm, but his team leader was skinned alive along with their youngest recruit. He only managed to save one comrade by the skin of his teeth, whom he learnt apparently killed herself while he was tending to his swarm.

She makes it sound like a bigger deal than it is.

“The concern is appreciated but unnecessary. I do not need such a long recovery period.”

“Hokage-sama says otherwise, Shin’ya. You will listen. Why? Because your queen orders it so,” says the Aburame hive’s newly-crowned queen as she enters behind their clan head.

Aburame Shiori is twelve years old. Next to their clan head, she is minuscule. Yet it is she who holds all the power. Shibi might handle the Aburame’s external relations but it is her majesty whom the hive answers to.

“As you wish, your Majesty.”

She nods a little too enthusiastically, betraying her youth.

“Good. Now, come with me, my drones. Kanna made honey cake.”

Shin’ya doesn’t comment on the bounce in her step as she leads them to the main house’s kitchen but he exchanges enchanted smiles with his cousin’s wife.

*

Chapter 4: snowdrop (BNHA OC)

Summary:

I just wanted Todoroki to have a little sister. (They're ten months apart.) Everyone thinks they're twins.

“Boring,” she murmurs.

Shouto nods and they exchange an exasperated look. Father’s tests were harder than this on a good day.

Shizue is called for a 50-metre dash. She ices over the racetrack and makes ice skates out of her shoes before using her Quirk to propel herself faster. She sees Shouto do something similar on her right and bites her lip to keep herself from commenting on how much faster he could have been if he’d used fire to augment his speed. She shrugs instead. At least her brother is not stubborn enough to refuse to melt the ice when they're done. Shizue glances briefly at the short kid with green hair who’s been muttering about everyone’s Quirks while he hasn’t tried to use his once. She looks away just as fast. She doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable.

She wonders if he’s Quirkless. He’s wearing Primordial shoes but that doesn’t mean much. It’s not a reliable way to know. She hopes he is. She likes the idea of a Quirkless hero. Her father would hate it too, which is always a bonus. And Natsuo would be thrilled.

She sighs, touching her forehead. Her body’s temperature is starting to rise. Shizue doesn’t think this test will be enough to make her overheat, but it’s better to be cautious.

Unlike her older brother of ten months, she inherited little of the Quirk characteristics of her father. Shouto envies her fine control over ice, she wishes she wasn’t so intimately familiar with the thermal shock that comes from wielding absolute zero with a boiling body. Still, she doesn’t complain. At least it doesn’t hurt her like his own fire hurt Touya. She pushes the thought out of her mind as quickly as it came. Her iced over heart can’t afford any cracks today.

Shizue throws her ball, her last test of the day. She takes inspiration from the creation girl she recognises from hero galas they attended and makes a mechanical projectile launcher out of her ice. The contraption is cold against her protective gloves, but she doesn’t mind it. She waits until the teacher announces her score then drops the ice’s temperature to make it crack. It shatters at her feet. She glances at her results. Ah. She did slightly worse than Shouto. She’ll be just behind him on the rankings, she calculates with another sigh. That’s good. It wouldn’t do to outshine Father’s perfect creation. She’s only his sparring partner. She’s not meant to do better.

Shouto’s expression closes off as he returns to her like he can read her thoughts. She doesn’t acknowledge it, instead focusing on making sure the two low buns holding up her hair are still neat. She smoothes down the two white strands of hair she let loose at the front and watches her future classmates do their best not to be expelled. She misses Natsuo.

The green haired kid is the last to throw. Shizue is disappointed to find out he has a Quirk after all, though the thing seems wholly unpractical.

“Feels like All Might’s power,” says Shouto, his eyes fixed on the boy as their professor offers him a maniacal grin and announces no one is getting expelled.

“Hm. Not suited to his body though. He’s using it wrong.”

Her brother purses his lips. He admires the Number One hero and has grown accustomed to their father’s brute force. He doesn’t see anything wrong with a five foot five guy imitating All Might.

“I’m disappointed he’s not Quirkless,” she adds under her breath.
“Huh?”

The few classmates close to them stop and stare, the green-haired kid included.

Ah. She said that too loudly. Might as well own up to it.

“I wanted to see a Quirkless hero,” she explains bluntly.

She sees some of them exchange disbelieving looks and tries to memorise their faces. The pervy kid with bubbles on his head, the tall blond with a tail and the girl with long ears. Her favourite brother would be happy if she kicked their asses. He’d prefer doing it himself to prove a point, of course, but Natsuo’s a little too old to fight fifteen-year-olds. She notices the teacher —she needs to remember his name, she notes to herself— is watching too. The mumbling kid’s reaction is interesting though. His eyes are wide with shock.

“Do you really think someone Quirkless can be a hero?” he asks, his voice a little wobbly.

She frowns.

“Obviously.”

“Shizue,” warns Shouto. “You know what Father said.”

She sighs. “Hai, hai.”

She turns away to go in direction of the locker room, though not before she sees her teacher give her an approving nod, his eyes sharp. She changes mechanically. The girls in the locker room try to draw her into their conversations by asking a few questions about herself. She answers politely —yes, Endeavor is her father, yes, she was homeschooled, no, Shouto and her aren’t twins, no, they don’t have the same Quirk— but excuses herself quickly.

Sure enough, her brother is waiting by the door. Green Hair comes out too, and he waves at them with a shy smile. Shizue nods back with a small quirk of her lips.

Shouto’s manners leave much to be desired, as always.

“Make an effort,” she murmurs. “Those people will be with us for three years.”

He scoffs. “If they don’t get expelled before that. They’re weak.”

“Hm.” She wants to tell him he’s acting like their father, but she knows better. “They’re here to learn. They just don’t have the,” her lip curls in disgust, “luxury of having a hero father to pull them ahead.”

The look they exchange is commiserating. There’s nothing lucky about their situation.

After homeroom, classes start slow. Shouto and Shizue try to adjust to the animated walls of UA high school. Some things leave them perplexed and they often have to rely on texting Natsuo to understand things like class schedules, the cafeteria or even school clubs. He’d studied at Somei Academy, he had more experience. Their lost expressions are interpreted as standoffish and they are mostly left alone. Shouto is pleased to have the option to order cold soba at the cafeteria, Shizue goes for spicy ramen. The creation girl —Yaoyorozu Momo— makes small talk with Shizue at some point and suggests study sessions. She agrees, tentatively.

At the end of the day, while waiting for their chauffeur, Shouto asks her.

“Do you want to make friends?”

“Not particularly. But Natsuo-nii said I should try.”

“And you do everything he says,” he sighs.

“He tends to have good advice.”

Shouto hums but does not reply. As the driver arrives, Shizue sees the green-haired kid speak to the blond who reminds her too much of father for the comparison to be comfortable in any way. She sits at the back of the car and lowers the tinted window to observe them.

“That blond…” She takes off her gloves as she speaks.

“Bakugou?”

She nods. Her brother is way better with names. “I don’t like him.”

Shouto looks out her window, trying to see what she sees. Their classmate is cowering under the other’s scowl, his hands raised in a placating gesture.

“Don’t, please! I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Quiet.”

Her older brother makes a noise of comprehension, his expression twisting. He takes her hand in his from the fire side and squeezes. Shizue pulls up the window and gestures at their chauffeur to leave.

Frost creeps up on their joined hands.

Chapter 5: an eagle soars over the den of snakes, deaf to the old lion's roar (Harry Potter)

Summary:

Aquila Vivian Malfoy, or female!Draco with a psychometric gift.

features:Ravenclaw Draco Malfoy, Malfoy Family feels, Lucius' dead squib sister, Black family drama and a healthy dose of trauma(TM)

“Nobody knows where this Dark Lord came from, Father. Must we—”

“Are you questioning me, Lucius?” asked Abraxas in a soft voice.

The young man wavered before lowering his eyes.

“No, Father.”

His hand was trembling.

Aquila blinked, staring at her hand with a puzzled expression. Lucius followed her gaze.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

The little girl shrugged before reaffirming her hold on her father’s neck.

“I don’t want to see Grandfather. He seems mean,” she said simply.

Her father’s brows furrowed.

“You haven’t met him yet.” He paused. “Did the house elves say something to you?”

She shook her head, burying her face in his shoulders. Sensing he wouldn’t get any response out of her, he sighed and ruffled her curls.

“The portraits talk too much,” he mumbled. “Very well, we won’t go this week. But we will have to introduce you soon enough. Father may not be Lord Malfoy anymore but he is still our Patriarch.”

Aquila grumbled a little before nodding. He put the discussion out of his mind. Perhaps he shouldn’t have.

Chapter 6: those whom fortune favours (Game of Thrones/Sleeping Beauty)

Summary:

“What is fate determined but a curse from the gods designed for their entertainment? Prophecies unspoken do not come true at all, and evil that can only be defeated one way is a fairy tale. When the gods meddle and make of tales realities, women and children are always the first to pay the price.”

 

Or the original Sleeping Beauty is reborn as Cersei Lannister. She just escaped a rapist who gave her two children and a crown without her consent, and now her new father wants to make her queen again. Suffice it to say, she does not like that.

 

(The first Sleeping Beauty tale is that of Sun, Moon and Talia. This version by Giambattista Basile is the worst of them all.)

Once upon a time, there was a realm governed by a fair and just king who loved his wife very much. When the queen gave birth to his first child, the realm celebrated. They named her Talia and claimed she was as lovely as the moon and as bright as the sun. But the king angered a wicked fairy who cursed his daughter to one day die from the sting of a flax. The king ordered all the flaxes burnt to protect his child but it wasn’t enough; one day the princess pricks her finger on the splinter of a flax and falls into a deep sleep. The prophecy foretold doomed princess Talia, though not in the way the fairy predicted.

 

The king, distraught and guilty abandoned his castle and moved his court elsewhere. The princess slept on, unaware that she had been left behind, until a neighbouring king stepped into her fortress, following after a falcon. He found her so lovely that he took her then and there. When the deed was done, he went back to his kingdom.

 

Talia, the forgotten princess of a kingdom who mourned her before her time awoke to two children when she fell asleep a maiden. The king came back and admitted to his deed, then acted as if she should thank him for it. He wanted her love, he said, and longed for the affection of Talia, Sun and Moon. She played along. What else could she do?

 

Her father was long dead; no one bothered to guard her in her sleep.

 

She watched the children she didn’t remember birthing and waited as the man made preparations to take his prize home. They were all she had now, and she could not help but love them, no matter how much the sight of them sometimes made her want to gag. She waited and cared for them as best she could. She was only sixteen. Guards were sent for the twins, then for her. It was then that she learnt that her rapist-turned-lover had a wife. Soon after, said wife died as a consequence of her attempts to kill Talia for the slight of catching her husband’s attention.

 

The king was now free to marry.

 

The queen was dead, long live the queen, they said. The people sang songs about their king’s Sleeping Beauty, his Sun and Moon and the love that conquered all. Those whom fortune favours find good luck even in their sleep, said a storyteller.

 

No one asked Talia what she thought of it. She didn’t volunteer an answer.

 

One day, the fairy who had cursed her visited Talia and looked at her for a long moment. Then she apologised.

 

“I was angry at your father and I took it out on you. You suffered for it more than he did. How can I repay you?”

 

“Help me leave this life,” she asked. “I never want to see my husband again.”

 

“What of your children?”

 

Talia watched them from the window of her tower. Her oldest son, heir to the throne of the rapist king was fighting his brother in the courtyard with a wooden sword. They looked happy. They knew nothing of their father’s sins.

 

“Let them mourn me. They are old enough to be orphans now. I have nothing left to give.”

 

The fairy inclined her head and granted her wish.

 

Talia closed her eyes for the last time.

 

And Cersei Lannister opened hers.

 

She screamed.

 

*

 

She should have known the fairy’s magic would have unpredictable results. She certainly hadn’t expected reincarnation.

 

She resigned herself to a miserable second life.

 

And yet, things were different.

 

Her father was not a king, for one, though he had the power of one.

 

Tywin Lannister was not called just and fair, far from it.

 

Cersei observed him a lot when the man had time to spare for her in her toddlerhood.

 

And often she wondered what her new father would have done to the fairy who dared curse his daughter if he had been the king that called himself Talia’s father. She did not believe he would have rested until she was awoken again. He certainly wouldn’t have abandoned her to a lonely castle. Certainly not when the solution to break the curse was as simple as removing flax from her finger.

 

Reluctantly, she loved him for it.

 

She came to love lady Joanna Lannister too.

 

The woman was just as sharp as her husband, and just as fiercely devoted to her lion cubs.

 

But her new parents in this life were inconsequential faced with the true miracle she was gifted with.

 

Unlike Talia, Cersei was not born an only child.

 

And when Joanna first caught her stare with unfathomable eyes at the twin she shared a crib with when they were but babes, she softly took both of their tiny fists and clasped them together before saying to her:

 

“Jaime will be your fiercest protector, little one, and you will be the first lady to hold his heart. You two will do great things.”

 

And Cersei believed her.

Chapter 7: be not afraid of whirlpools, of strong winds, of murky waves (Naruto OC)

Summary:

“Be not afraid of whirlpools,
of strong winds, and murky waves.
Fear the creature that dwells
in the darkest depths,
the ice-shackled Kraken,
that threatens to surface
and your soul to keep.”
Beneath the Surface, Erna Grcic

Kushina SI-OC

“I know this is a lot to ask.”

I will ask anyway, goes unsaid.

“I know you are a loyal citizen of Uzushio. I do not make this demand lightly.”

But you are an orphan and no one would miss you.

“Konoha has been our ally since the foundation of our village. Serving our sister village is serving Uzu. Besides, you will get to apprentice under the great Uzumaki Mito-sama.”

She bows and murmurs.

“It will be an honour. Sandaime-sama.”

Uzumaki Nanami, her third —fourth? — cousin and leader smiles at her. Her expression is warm, her pity carefully tucked away.

Kushina’s eyes stay glued to the floor.

“Do you have any requests?”

She hesitates.

“You do,” Nanami-sama notes, her voice neutral. “You’re doing us a great service, Kushina. Ask.”

“Sōma Arashi. He’s my—” She falters then. She doesn’t know what to say. Arashi is her everything. Her anchor. The only reason she is still alive today. “My best friend. Can he come with me?”

The Sandaime blinks, surprised by her answer.

“I believe I can arrange that.”

Her expression turns calculating. She is no doubt turning over the ways she can spin this to Konoha to get them to agree. It should not be difficult.

The Sōma clan are sworn to the Uzumaki and it is rare that an Uzu team contains one without the other. It dates back to the Warring Clans era. Uzumaki Kaito picked up three orphan boys from the wreckage of a village and invited them into his household. The three Sōma boys swore to protect that kindness and their descendants followed in their footsteps.

It was more surprising that Nanami-sama hadn’t requested her to have a Sōma bodyguard as a prerequisite of her departure for Konoha in the first place.

“I will ask for Arashi-kun’s mother’s and his clan head’s consent, of course. Anything else?”

Kushina shakes her head.

“Very well. You will leave in two weeks. Take your time to say your goodbyes. You will be missed, Kushina-chan.”

***

Kushina grunts as a body collides with her own.

“Thank you,” Arashi’s mother whispers into her hair.

A hand lands on the top of her head.

“It was kind of you, Kushina-hime.”

Kushina blinks rapidly to stop the tears from gathering in her eyes.

She looks up.

“Was it? I think it was selfish of me.”

Sōma Haruto shakes his head.

“There was nothing else you could have done.”

When Kushina was six, she gathered the courage to tell her best friend about her knowledge of the future. A burden shared is a burden halved he had told her after begging her to explain the nightmares that plagued her every night. He listened to her with all the seriousness a child was capable of and took her to his mother and uncle.

Said uncle, Sōma Haruto is the Head of his clan and of the Intelligence Division of Uzushiogakure.

Sōma fūinjutsu is uniquely suited to espionage. The clan was known for its air-walking technique and mastery of the naginata, its tattooed seals and wind release. What they weren’t known for was the fact that the absorption seals they used did not simply take wind and water in, but also sound. Noise after all came from the delicate vibration of the air reaching human ears. It made them the very best spymasters though their reputation outside of Uzushio was that of combat-oriented shinobi, assassins and bodyguards.

Kushina remembers her first meeting with the Sōma clan Head. She had been terrified. He listened to her and Arashi explain she remembered reincarnating. She couldn’t recall who she had been or when she lived, but all evidence pointed to some distant future during which she lived in Konohagakure. He’d asked her how she knew it was Konoha if she couldn’t remember her own name or the face of her parents and she explained that she knew more about the place than any other village despite having never set foot there.

Then she told him about the destruction of Uzushio. How Konoha arrived too late to help against their assailants and the shame of it had them sew the Uzumaki symbol on their flak jackets. How they never spoke of it if they could help it and she only recalled a handful of survivors.

He asked her many questions. She answered as truthfully as she could. The one thing she didn’t say is that she remembered this as a story told more than history and that she was afraid of what it meant for her. Because it had been written that Uzumaki Kushina would become a human sacrifice and she was nothing like the optimistic girl who would become the protagonist’s mother. She wasn’t sure she could bear the weight of the Kyuubi without crumbling.

There was no use speaking of a girl long gone. It was better to let them assume she had reincarnated back in time than into a whole other dimension where their lives were nothing more than a story drawn on paper, the destruction of their beloved village a mere footnote in the narrative.

After that, Haruto made plans to reinforce village security and extended his network to catch any sign of a joint attack by their enemies. The Second Shinobi War only just started and no matter how outlandish Kushina’s tale was, it was worth preparing for. He never told anyone what prompted his sudden interest in defensive safeguards.

“You cannot bring everyone with you. If the worst comes to pass… I am honoured that you will have at least saved my nephew.”

“But your daughter and—”

“Asuka is a jonin of Uzushigakure. She will defend the island or die trying, just like I will.”

“We are prepared,” said Kumori, Arashi’s mother. She is a jonin too, specialising in bodyguarding noble civilians. “Trust us.”

Kushina nods weakly.

“Now. Arashi is at the training ground. Go bring him back here, will you? Dinner is ready.”

“Hai.”

She walks out of the clan’s main house, her eyes greedily drinking in the sights in front of her. Kushina loves the Uzumaki compound and its accents in ruby red and gold. It is at the centre of the village, right in front of the Uzukage’s Lighthouse. It spans into a moon’s crescent and hugs the surrounding habitations. Her clan is the heart of Uzushio, her grandfather used to say.

The Sōma, however, live on the outskirts. Their compound is on an eastside cliff, overlooking the sea of Whirlpools and the entire village. They air-walk into civilisation every morning, ready to serve. Kushina had to learn to climb to reach Arashi’s house. She had even activated her chakra chains while falling from the cliff.

Those same chains gave her the dubious honour of being a candidate for sacrifice. As the only child below the age of twelve bearing the Uzumaki sealing chains, she is the perfect candidate. The village couldn’t give a shinobi who had already sworn allegiance to Uzu to their sister village, but an Academy student?

Her fate had been sealed then.

Kushina slows down as she reaches the Ground of the Thousand Needles. She watches as her best friend vaults from one stone pillar to another, the seals on his bare feet brightening as he goes airborne. They absorb the wind currents and release them in increments to steady him. Arashi steps on the breeze and lets it carry him forward, his arms angling for the next kata he performs, his grip tight on his naginata. She chuckles and releases her Adamantine chains, wrapping one around another pillar and running up the stone construction. She leaps and delivers a kick to her best friend’s side, who blocks it with an ease that speaks of familiarity. He does not smile but his eyes brighten as they exchange blows, kunai against naginata.

The spar lasts half an hour. Arashi is faster but she has more stamina and while his clan techniques allow him to evade her many times, he soon tires of dodging her chains and makes the mistake of getting too close. She grins toothily. His eyes widen. Kushina launches herself at him. They break their fall simultaneously, her sliding down another pillar of stone, cracking its surface by the grounding of her heel, and him finding resistance in the air with the seals aiding his air-walking.

They touch the ground. They stare at each other and start laughing.

“I’ll get you next time,” he promises, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.

Her smile falters.

“What? I’m coming with you, aren’t I? We’ll have plenty of time to spar again.”

“You’re not angry?”

He frowns.

“Why would I be?”

“Your clan…”

He makes a sound of understanding. “I’ll miss them, of course. And you’ll miss yours too, hime. But we can write.” He pauses. “I know what you’re thinking. We might never see them again, right? The thing is that, if I stay it might be the same for me. I’m not scared of dying for the village but I don’t want you to be left alone. Besides, I trust Oji-sama to protect everyone.”

“You’re right, dattebane.” She grimaces at her language tic resurfacing. Arashi laughs at her, she swats at his head, which he evades with good cheer. “I need to stop worrying.” She blanches. “I was supposed to tell you dinner was ready!”

Arashi stiffens.

“Kaa-san will kill us.”

***

The next two weeks pass in a blur. Kushina and Arashi are given a crash course in diplomacy, history and clan relations. Nanami-sama hammers out an agreement guaranteeing the two friends will be on each other’s genin team. Her best friend is made to sign agreements that any child of his will be raised in Uzushio and visitation rights are drafted like his clan and Uzumaki Mito-sama —who will be their legal guardian—- are going through a messy divorce. Kushina is warned that she is not allowed to come back to Uzushio until she is at least a chunin and only when accompanied by a diplomatic delegation. If she tries to come without the Hokage’s permission, she will be considered a missing-nin by both villages.

Asuka and her team come back from her mission a week and a half in, so they are able to say goodbye. Kushina spends the next three days in the Uzumaki compound, leaving Arashi time alone with his family and enjoying her own clan’s company for the last time in a long while.

She dearly hopes she won’t be reunited with them in the Pure Lands.

Kushina has a strange relationship with the Uzumaki clan. Orphaned at a young age, she was raised by her civilian grandfather until he too passed away a year ago. She was only nine then. After that, she insisted she could live by herself. Part of her believed that she was cursed in some way and that any caretaker of hers would be in danger of death because the Shinigami knew she was a dead girl walking and sought to punish her for being alive.

Arashi said she was foolish when she confided in him so she hasn’t mentioned it again.

Her clan loves her as they love all Uzumaki children, but they often didn’t know what to do with the fiercely independent child that she was.

Still, she gets many visits in her last few days.

The elders who taught her combat fuuinjutsu and how to use her chakra chains come and give her last-minute advice. They make her promise to pass along their letters to Mito-sama, whom they haven’t seen in a long time. Sora, a retired chuunin who taught her taijutsu comes and takes her to eat ramen in the little shop behind the compound that is always packed with people. He leaves after ruffling her hair and telling her to not be afraid to punch gakis if they made things difficult for her in Konoha.

A gaggle of children come and give her necklaces and earrings made of pearls and seashells, their mothers placing sunset orange and ocean blue garments into her hands. Retired shinobi give her all manners of seals for her to look at, sealed with blood so no one outside of her clan can open them.

On the last day, she is the one who makes a visit. She first stops at the Sands of Mourning, where people come to grieve in front of the unforgiving sea. The ashes of her people are thrown into that beach, and her parents are two among the many who now dance with the eddies.

“I’ll visit,” she whispers.

She will keep that promise, even if Uzushio becomes a ruin.

After that, she goes to the Ayazora quarters.

The Ayazora are a civilian clan of her village, specialised in metalworking. Their sealed blades are renowned in the Elemental Nations. This will be the last order she picks up from their shops. She decided to make it count.

Tanto, shuriken, and kunai with seals engraved on the blade meant to return them to their owner. Seals to maintain the blade’s edge, others to burn the enemy’s hand if they try to disarm her.

It was Ayazora Kanon’s finest work.

Kushina takes her order with a smile and thanks the blacksmith before leaving the speciality shop. Outside, as the sun is setting and bathing the city of her childhood in golds and rubies, she looks at her reflection in the sharp tanto. Her long red hair falls at her shoulders. She grabs at it and slices it off at the base of her neck in a decisive motion. A civilian gasps. She offers them an apologetic smile.

Uzumaki hair was traditionally worn long. It is not arrogance like the Hyuuga clan’s demonstration of strength, daring anyone to grab at their locks and suffer the consequences. Instead, it is vanity. Her clan reveres beauty. Other shinobi sneer as they wear bright colours and decorate their houses with shells and pearls they never wear in battle. They find the too cheerful red-hairs childish with their baubles, their lack of stealth and loud chakra. They never sneer for long.

Uzumaki are soft like water and everyone who has been at sea knows the implications of that.

The most beautiful things in nature are the most dangerous, after all.

Kushina will grow her hair long again if her village is still intact at the end of the war. Until then, she will keep it at her nape as a reminder to never take anything for granted.

She takes a deep breath and yells to give herself courage.

“I’m Uzumaki Kushina, dattebane!”

Chapter 8: the tiger's sprawl (Katekyou Hitman Reborn OC)

Summary:

Sawada Torakichi is Tsuna’s younger fraternal twin brother. Tora is also a Sky. He was Sealed by Nonno at the same time as Tsuna but his Flames weren’t Active yet. Such a thing had never been done before and caused multiple problems that led to Tora being homeschooled. Anaemia, seizures, and Flame sensitivity. Reborn is instructed to break his Seal too, and help him heal enough to enrol at Namimori Middle with his brother. Upon discovery of his Sky Flames, Nonno also instructs him to gather a group of Elements.

Reborn feels hopeful as he closes the door of the Vongola heir’s room. Sawada Tsunayoshi is pathetic but his Flames have promise. He doesn’t doubt that he’ll be able to make him into a competent Boss if an unwilling one. The boy will learn that he has no choice in the matter. Hopefully, he will make peace with it.

It is now time for Reborn to evaluate his chances of success in regard to his secondary mission. He takes the stairs leading to the attic. The light emanating from the door confirms what he thought; the third resident of the Sawada household is awake.

Sawada Torakichi, Dame-Tsuna’s fraternal twin brother.

A child Sealed before his Flames even went Active.

Reborn’s Sun roils in disgust at the very thought. He remembers the guilt and self-loathing on both Iemitsu and Nonno’s faces when they explained the situation to him. The hitman is pragmatic, he understands what the Ninth’s thought process was. Tsuna and Tora had been threats to his sons at the time of the Sealing, and plenty of people would have Primo’s bloodline ruling over Secondo’s. Especially when said bloodline was composed of easily manipulable civilians. He also understands why Iemitsu didn’t protest; the man was a fool but he understood it was already lucky that Tsuna hadn’t been killed on the spot when he activated his Flames. According to Nonno, they were purer than anything he and his sons had ever managed. That was the worst possible outcome for a child out of the line of succession. Besides, Iemitsu didn’t want his children involved in the Mafia, as was his right.

(And it was his decision to make, even if the hitman privately thought it to be the height of stupidity.)

Reborn understands – as much as he can understand such a thing, being childless himself – but that doesn’t mean he likes it. Torakichi’s fate seems especially cruel to him, considering the consequences of it.

Sealing a child before he went Active had never been done before. It was so unprecedented that the Vindice hadn’t even made a law against it.

Tsuna’s Sealing, however… Sealing a Sky was forbidden. Nonno should be glad the Seal will be gone before the enforcers will have a chance to know of it. Even then, it might not save him.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. The consistent sound takes Reborn out of his thoughts. He knocks on the door three times and lets himself fall back. He hears light footsteps, some rustling. Then the door opens. A blond head of hair tied up into a short ponytail peeks at him, curious. Torakichi is as short as his brother and even frailer. Dark eyebags frame amber eyes and a mole adorns his right cheekbone. He’s a pretty boy, Reborn supposes, and he doesn’t make inane expressions like his brother does. As he stands, it looks like a stiff breeze might snap him in half. The hitman’s eyes lock on the trembling hand holding onto the doorframe. Reborn doesn’t have a heart, but if he did he would feel sympathy for the boy.

“Good evening,” he says cautiously.

“Ciaossu. I’m Reborn, your brother’s tutor.”

“Ah. Mama said you were coming today. She said you were sent by otou-san.”

“Exact.”

The boy’s gaze sharpens.

“Then you’re Mafia,” he says in Italian. “I don’t think mafiosos are hired as home tutors. Why are you really here?”

Oh? Interesting.

“Will you let me in? That is a conversation I would rather not have in the corridor.”

Torakichi seems to mull it over but he eventually complies. His cane clacks against the floorboards as he leads Reborn inside his attic room, which is a lot more spacious than Tsuna’s bedroom. Probably due to the boy being homeschooled, but Reborn guesses it is also some sort of apology coming from his father. The man’s boss had crippled his youngest son, he could afford to spoil him a little. He does wonder at the wisdom of having him climb so many stairs, but considering the ensuite bathroom and the empty plates by the door, he guesses that Torakichi isn’t expected to leave his room much. He notices an extensive bookshelf, numerous heated blankets, a kotatsu, calligraphy sets and a dart board. All the arrows reached the bull’s eye, he notes with approval. The boy’s hand-eye coordination was promising. If he succeeded in reversing the Seal without killing him, he would give him a gun and see what he made of it. Or maybe throwing knives, he muses, sitting down on the pillow facing the low table at the centre of the room.

“I was indeed sent by your father to tutor Tsunayoshi,” he explains once they are settled, “but not only in academics. What do you know of your father’s work?” he asks to test the waters.

The boy being aware of the Mafia is one thing. Knowing about the Vongola is another.

“I know otou-san hid guns in the floorboard of his and Mama’s room. He speaks Italian on the phone despite allegedly working as a construction worker in bloody Antarctica and brought an old man to our house when we were six, whom he called Boss or Don the whole time he was there.”

His eyes grow cold then and the hitman knows that the boy made a correlation between the beginning of his affliction and Nonno’s visit even if he doesn’t know the extent of it. Reborn inclines his head in acknowledgement.

“I see. To put it simply, your father and you are the only descendants of the founder of Vongola, the most powerful Mafia Famiglia in Europe. That makes you heirs to that organisation, though there is a mainline who has until now ruled without a problem. The old man you recall is Don Vongola Nonno, the Famiglia’s current Boss and a descendent of Vongola Primo’s successor. He has hired me, an independent contractor, to train your older brother to take up the mantle following the death of his sons.”

Torakichi’s lips twitch.

“Good luck with that.”

“You don’t believe Tsunayoshi could do it?”

“Whether he can or not is up to your skills as a teacher. But you’ll have to hear him screech the whole way there.” He pauses then. “What does that make me? Will you dust me off the shelf if Tsuna gets himself killed too?”

He grimaces, likely realising the way he spoke of his brother was less than flattering, but doesn’t retract his statement. Instead, he stares up at Reborn challengingly. The hitman wonders about the relationship between his two new students.

“No. You see, I am not only here to teach your brother. I have also been instructed to cure you.”

The boy only has time to frown in puzzlement. Leon hops from his shoulder into Reborn’s hand and shifts into a gun with a very helpful silencer. The hitman loads the Dying Will Bullet. He aims. Shoots.

Torakichi crumples to the ground.

For a moment, nothing happens. Reborn waits in tense silence, wondering if he’s killed the boy. He will not be blamed if he has, Nonno’s actions were essentially a drawn-out death sentence for the child.

He has read Sawada Torakichi’s medical file. Severe anaemia, seizures, low body temperature. Trouble walking and days spent in complete paralysis. The only thing that hasn’t been damaged by the premature Seal is the boy’s mental faculties. Despite being eternally homeschooled, the boy is brilliant. Though he is weaker in the science department, he excels at languages, history and literature. Torakichi has the potential to be a great Don, though he will only inherit if Tsuna dies. Nonno was clear on that.

Reborn believes he hopes that the boy he has wronged the least will be more amenable to treat with him. He wonders if that’s true, remembering the dull look on Tsunayoshi’s eyes as he was insulted by one of his professors and the hour he spent hiding from bullies in a school cupboard, both of his knees skinned from when he fell down the stairs. Reborn had scoped out the town quite a bit, and Dame-Tsuna’s reputation was widespread. If Nonno expects absolution, he probably won’t find it in this house.

When the silence starts to become uncomfortable, Torakichi finally rises, bathed in Orange Flames. His Dying Will cry is a mere whisper, one that rattles Reborn more than he’d like to admit.

“Live through another day with my Dying Will,” says the boy before collapsing again.

The hitman tucks him into bed and wipes the sweat from his brow. While the older Sawada twin requires more spartan methods, he thinks he can afford to be gentle with this one. At least until he recovers. A too strong push will have him give up and throw himself off a bridge, he thinks, and while Iemitsu wouldn’t begrudge him that outcome —too aware that it would ultimately be his own fault— Reborn doesn’t kill children as a rule, even by proxy.

He sends his Sun Flames through Torakichi’s body, hoping to alleviate the strain of the abrupt shattering of the Seal. He can see it already; while Tsuna’s Sky Flames will take several shots to be rid of the spiderweb tangling them, an unintended consequence of the clean Seal Nonno used on those hidden Flames is that it is evenly spread. Reborn thinks that another bullet will be enough to call forth the boy’s Sky. It will take him longer to recover from it, though.

“I’ll be back in a week,” he murmurs before leaving the room.

The next few days are hectic. Reborn puts the younger Sawada out of his mind to focus on Tsunayoshi and scopes out the Flame-active community of Namimori in search of potential Guardians for the two boys. For such a backwater city, it is surprisingly full of it. Reborn understands rapidly why the town is under the protection of the Hibari clan; it is a retirement paradise for criminals of all kinds. He will have plenty to choose from, but he worries that Tsunayoshi’s history with his classmates would make it difficult for him to Court anyone at his school. He makes a phone call to Shamal and haggles for the contact of Gokudera Hayato, a promising unaffiliated Storm. (Shamal doesn’t protest too much; he knows how lucky his protege would be to be chosen by a Sky.)

It will either go wonderfully or very badly.

Either way, it will be a good learning opportunity.

Meanwhile, Nana frets over Torakichi whose fever broke after five days. When the boy gets down to breakfast for the first time, he stares at Reborn for a long while before sitting next to his brother. When he reaches for his bowl of rice, his hands don’t shake. Reborn finally gets the opportunity to observe the two brothers interact. Tsunayoshi shows the first hint of a spine since the hitman has set foot into his household by fussing over his younger twin. He doesn’t complain even once about Reborn’s presence and seems to assume Torakichi has been spared from the Mafia due to his illness. The sickly boy accepts the coddling and teases Tsunayoshi over his grades and his crush on Sasagawa before excusing himself and climbing up the stairs to start his schoolwork.

Nana stares at the empty dishes he leaves behind.

“He finished it all,” she mumbles, looking elated. Reborn makes a note to monitor the boy’s appetite. He also sends an explanatory pamphlet about Sealing Dying Will Flames upstairs and follows Tsunayoshi to school.

*

Torakichi has been feeling cold for as long as he can remember.

His earlier memory is of his father’s visit when he was six, marking the start of his ailments. While he resents the man for it, in truth he doesn’t remember a time when he didn’t feel like this. He and Tsuna have learnt very early that they had gotten the short end of the stick in the family department. The Mafia thing is just another layer added to the misery of it. A particularly thick one, admittedly.

Tora hadn’t had the heart to tell Tsuna when he’d crawled down the stairs towards his mother’s bedroom, feeling horrible, and bumped into a badly-closed cache under the floorboards. His head had been fuzzy at the time, but not enough that he hadn’t recognised the guns inside of it. He told his mother though and she’d made a joke about their papa’s toys that made Tora finally understand that Nana was not all there. He would get no help from her.

And then Reborn arrived, with explanations even more confusing than the questions Tora had had.

Dying Will Flames.

He reads the pamphlet over and over, hands clenched on the paper. His fingers don’t shake, but it’s close.

He wants to deny it. It sounds so absurd.

But he can’t.

He remembers the orange fire glowing on the old man’s index. How he had touched Tsuna’s forehead and Tora’s brother had collapsed. How he had felt something surging from within then, ignited by his anger and protectiveness. How that something had been snuffed out of him before it could leave the space behind his ribs where it had been snuggly nestled, hidden from sight.

For the first time since the incident, he has answers.

And they make him angry.

*

Chapter 9: son of night II (Harry Potter/Game of Thrones)

Summary:

Here's a summary for my Theo Nott Dimension Traveling to Westeros AU:

"The Notts were a vassal House from their conception. Their name was inextricably tied to that of House Le Fay, until the only descendents of the Lady Morgana still alive were House Black, whom Theo's father forsook when he chose to follow Tom Riddle over Orion Black, whose wife-cousin had cursed him with Apathy so vicious he barely cared to remember his own name.

Theo had spent so long scorning his father for his choice of Lord that he'd never paused to think about what it would be like to meet someone he wanted to kneel to."

And below will be what I came up with for a potential chapter 2 because I can't let this go yet.

297 AC

Theo’s first vivid memory did not belong to him. His father, Theophrastus Nott believed in the virtues of applying visual aids in teaching, and therefore made extensive use of the family pensieve to show little Theo the glory days of muggle baiting during the reign of the Dark Lord.

The lesson didn’t quite have the intended effect, though Theo was never stupid enough to say so out loud.

What Theo really learnt that day, was to lie.

Violence is so exciting, Father.

I understand why you miss those days, Father.

I can't wait for the Dark Lord to come back, Father.

Hah.

As if.

Father didn't need subtlety, he just liked to hear someone agreeing with him. And Mother was in no position to do so, fragile as she was. He hadn't married her for her mental fortitude, after all. He was more interested in adding the powers of her bloodline to his pedigree. Nonetheless, Theo learnt the value of a good lie at his father's knee, hiding the trembling of his hands as he watched memories of the atrocities the man committed. To Theo, dishonesty was survival. He improved as he grew older, and living among snakes perfected his craft.

Every Slytherin worth their salt knew the best lies were simple twists of the truth.

"I left my homeland, Albion, because my father swore allegiance to a child slayer," he said when the Lord Paramount and his party asked him where he came from.

No need to tell them where Albion was located.

"He kissed the feet of a madman who thought the best way to cleanse our rotten government was to bathe the streets in blood. Lord Voldemort's," — and wasn't saying his name without fear of repercussion a thrill? He understood Potter so much better now, — "latest obsession was to murder the child king who was forced in the role of figurehead, puppeted by a manipulative old regent and malicious ministers. My father was caught fomenting rebellion and arrested while he tried to assist in the assassination of said child."

There, that sounded suitably dramatic, and more comprehensible to mediaeval nobility than the actual clusterfuck that was wizarding politics. It was even accurate. More or less.

"His sentence was barely passed when his Lord turned his eye on me. He thought to make me serve him as my father did. I had no intention to do so. I thought about joining the child king's army, but."

He shrugged.

How would he go about explaining how little he wanted to be another Severus Snape in Albus Dumbledore's collection?

"I decided that the only thing worth saving in that godforsaken land was myself, and here I am."

"And what of the child king?" asked Jon Snow, leaning forward with wide eyes in a show of eager curiosity that contrasted greatly with his father's rapidly paling face.

Ah, right. Didn't Jeyne say something about a mad king, dead babies and a rebellion? Presumably, something in his little tale sounded familiar to the Lord or his reaction wouldn't have been that strong.

Awkward.

"If he's lucky, he'll live old enough to get rid of Lord Voldemort and his Order of Death Eaters," — keeping a straight face through all this would be hard, he could already tell, — "and maybe do something about the corruption in Albion. If he isn't… well. The kingdom is doomed. I don't care. There's nothing for me there."

Jon Snow looked like he disapproved. Theo's lips twitched. He was not surprised. The guy had Gryffindor written all over his face.

"And you believe there is something for you in the North?" asked Lord Stark. The man looked more understanding, which, seeing as he had actually lived through two wars, wasn't all that surprising. While he showed some rather strong Gryffindor tendencies too, Theo pegged him as either Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. With not a single Slytherin bone in his body.

"My mother was born a Trelawney. The scions of this House are known to have prophetic abilities."

She was from the main branch, unlike that quack distant cousin who drank herself into a stupor while muttering prophecies that nobody listened to because she liked making herself sound like a lunatic too much to allow people to take her seriously.

"She was tormented by nightmares of terrible events happening in distant lands. Shortly before she died, she told me I would be needed here," he admitted, "and that I should seek out the land of winter when the Dark came for the House of Nott. I figured now was as good a time as ever. But I didn't think my own kingdom was worth saving, you can imagine the thought of being needed by a kingdom of flayers doesn't thrill me."

Chapter 10: the blue sea turned into mulberry fields (MDZS)

Summary:

Yiling Wei Sect AU where canon Wei Wuxian played around with talismans, time travelled and met three of his ancestors to whom he taught cultivation, which accidentally created a distant timeline. This is the history of that timeline. (This is me playing around with my ideas of what would happen if Wei Wuxian had been a member of the gentry from birth and enjoying my guilty pleasure, worldbuilding. Also the Wen branch that Wen Qing and Wen Ning are a part of married into the Wei a few centuries ago so they're second cousins.)

See explanations on Wei Wuxian's titles in the end notes.

Notes:

I really want to make a fic out of this but Mo Dao Zu Shi is a scary fandom, I want to see if I can write at least five chapters before launching this as an official fic.

People were gathering at the marketplace. The streets were bustling, merchants bellowed their prices and children ran out of sight of their harried mothers who clucked and shook their heads exasperatedly, hiding fond smiles behind their sleeves.

“A Niang, come, come! We’ll miss it otherwise!”

An Eastern merchant recently arrived from Baling watched, intrigued, before asking a passerby.

“The streets sure are lively today. Is something happening?”

The young man he had stopped blinked at him.

“Is it your first time in Yiling, qianbei? The children are excited because it is time for the local sect’s disciple selection. It’s a good time to do business,” he added, eyeing the merchant’s wares, “but you should probably wait until our Xiao Zongzhu has left with his new disciples. The opening demonstration is always a sight to see.”

“Xiao Zongzhu?”

“Ah, it’s the nickname we give him. He succeeded his father when he was only nine.”

The merchant’s eyes widened. He hadn’t been to Yiling in a while; last he’d heard, Wei Changse had just succeeded his late brother Wei Jingyun after the man died without leaving an heir, swallowed up by the Burial Mounds. He wasn't the first Wei Sect Leader to meet such a fate and he wouldn't be the last. It was admirable of the Wei Clan to have pledged to protect their people from the mass grave at their doorstep, but it came at great personal cost.

“And this… selection, does this happen often?”

“What, they don’t do it in Baling?”

He shook his head. In Baling, the children of the region's gentry were sent invitations by the sect to have their spiritual veins examined. The lucky few who had potential — whatever that meant, he wasn’t a cultivator and had no idea how such things were determined — were offered a place as outer sect disciples. If they were rich enough, some merchants could send their sons over to try as well. He’d never heard of a disciple selection taking place in a city’s marketplace.

He said as much to the young man, whose mouth twisted. “Well, here the Yiling Wei open the selection to people from all walks of life. They hold one every season. That’s why you don’t see street kids in the city. Most of them are taken in as disciples or offered apprenticeships so they can make something of themselves. The Yiling Wei are a good sect. I suspect there’s no other like them in the jianghu.”

The merchant was really impressed and said so. “I’d never heard of anything like that. Though I believe the Qinghe Nie take in anyone brave enough to demand a place in their fortress. They don’t seek those disciples out, though.” After a moment of silence, he stroked his beard. “I’ll do what you said and watch the demonstration. It’s rare for us common people to get the chance to see cultivators in action without a tragedy bringing them to our doorsteps.”

“That’s true enough,” said the young man. “You should hurry. It’s going to start soon, and you don’t want to miss the head disciple’s archery skills demonstration. That’s usually what they open with. Xiao Zongzhu comes last, of course and shows us all the talismans he’s invented in the past three months after a spar against one of the White Sanctuary’s sword masters. Yiling is lucky to have such a prodigy in charge of protecting us.”

“Is he that good?” asked the merchant dubiously. From what the man said, the boy was young.

The young man scoffed. “Pah. He’s better. The true embodiment of overturning Heaven and Earth. Only sixteen and already revolutionising cultivation, they say. You heard of the Compass of Ill Winds?”

The merchant nodded. Who hadn’t? He had even bought a cheaper version of the latest, more sophisticated model to take with him on his travels. Avoiding dangerous areas had never been easier and his wares were all the better for it. Travelling with Baling wine brought good revenue, but it was fragile merchandise that didn’t withstand shock. Being able to protect himself and his wares from the danger of angry ghosts and foul beasts was a boon to his business.

“Well, it’s our Xiao Zongzhu who made it,” said the man smugly.

The merchant blinked. “The Wei Sect Leader is the famed YinHe-jun? Then I’ll have to see what else he came up with.”

“Please do so, qianbei. You won’t be disappointed.”

***

“Wei Wuxian!”

Wei Ning shook his head at the raucous laughter that followed, his lips pressed to repress the fond smile that threatened to break his composure.

“Ow, ow, Qing-jie, why are you so mean to me,” whined their cousin and Sect Leader as Wei Ning’s sister stabbed him with her needles.

“I wouldn’t have to if you refrained from performing stupid stunts and hurting yourself at what was supposed to be a simple demonstration.”

“Si-shu goaded me into it,” he protested. “He bet that I couldn’t beat Kuaifeng-zun. I had to prove him wrong!”

“There would have been n— no shame in losing to our sect’s best sword master, Zongzhu.”

Wei Wuxian eyed him, fondly exasperated. “What do I have to do for you to call me tang-ge again? You used to be so sweet, clinging to my sleeve and all.”

“I did n–no such thing!” he protested, hiding his reddening face before his cousin could tease him.

“Yes, you did,” he sing-songed. “Nevermind that. Are the new disciples all settled?”

Wei Qing hummed in approval. “Two of them want to learn medicine. They can already read and write — I’m pretty sure they’re runaway nobles from Kuizhou — so I’ll have them moved to the healer’s branch after a few months if they have the aptitude for it.”

“We didn’t get man–n— many ne — new cultivators for this selection,” mused Wei Ning.

"Maybe that's for the best," said Wei Wuxian quietly. "With the Wen sect lurking around…"

Wei Ning winced at the reminder.

Qishan Wen had been acting bolder since the death of Nie Zongzhu. They encroached on Minor Sects’ territories, imposed sanctions based on ridiculous claims and confiscated Sect treasures as recompense for imagined slights. Recently, the leadership of some territories had shifted to new clan leaders in better terms with Wen Zongzhu shortly after the previous administrators had angered the man. Of those pre-established sects, not a word was spoken. Most of the other Great Sects were ignoring it, content to pretend there wasn’t anything rotten in the jianghu, and the Minor Sects who didn't share a border with Qishan followed suit. Yiling Wei was preparing, though, and it had Qinghe Nie’s support.

Wei Wuxian didn’t forget that his father, the late Wei Changse had sworn brotherhood with Nie Mingjue’s father Nie Yuqiang and Jiang Fengmian, the Sect leader of Yunmeng Jiang. He had only been twelve years old when his father’s sworn brother had died, but he had pledged since then to back Qinghe Nie if they wished to gain justice for their sect leader. Jiang Fengmian had recommended they be cautious though, worried about the two hot-blooded teenagers incurring the wrath of Wen Zongzhu when they and their respective sects weren’t prepared to bear the consequences of their rash actions. They had listened to the man they had been taught to call er-bo, and were biding their time, watching for Qishan Wen’s next moves.

The next four years’ cultivation conferences were fraught with tension and barely leashed anger, but they’d kept their word and held themselves back. Meanwhile, they prepared. If a confrontation should come, they were ready. Jiang Fengmian, however, seemed to prefer burying his head in the sand, which caused endless grief to Wei Ning’s cousin. The Jiang Sect Leader had regularly visited White Sanctuary, the headquarters of Yiling Wei after the death of Wei Wuxian’s father. He had helped the then young boy to adapt to his new position of power and advised him many times. It had ultimately done more harm than good; rumours had abounded about Wei Wuxian’s parentage, caused primarily by Madame Yu’s subsequent anger at her husband’s interest in his nephew in all but blood. Those rumours had thankfully died down, but people still talked about Jiang Fengmian’s visits to Yiling and the motivation for them. He hoped to meet Madame Wei, they all murmured, despite being aware of how seldom the famed Cangse Sanren visited her husband’s sect.

Jiang Fengmian often inquired after the Madame of Yiling Wei, that was true, but Wei Ning couldn’t tell if it was out of concern for the son she abandoned to roam the world as a rogue cultivator or out of interest in her. Officially, Cangse Sanren was still affiliated with Yiling Wei, officially taking up the position of liaison with the SanRen Guild, founded by the late Wei Changse when it became clear that his wife, who had expected to marry a second son unlikely to inherit and not a Sect Leader, was either unable or unwilling to sit still.

Wei Ning thought the SanRen Guild was a stroke of genius; it was a way for rogue cultivators to exchange knowledge and support each other, which was very necessary to them considering they didn’t get the benefits of an invitation to the discussion conferences that cultivation sects enjoyed.

Other Sects scoffed at his enterprise, but the shrewdest could recognise Wei Changse’s move for what it was: a brilliant way to keep his Sect apprised to the feats and innovations secular cultivators would have otherwise kept to themselves.

Wei Changse had also mapped out the territories that weren’t claimed by any sect and shared it widely to any who desired it so rogue cultivators could plan their night hunts accordingly. Some still worked within sect territories – where sect leaders didn’t send disciples if there hadn’t been at least one death – but most utilised the information the late Sect Leader gave them extensively. He had also bought a building in Yiling and bequeathed it to his wife so the Guild could use it as headquarters, a place to both touch base with each other and have civilian requests sent so they could reach the habitually nomadic cultivators.

It was a shame that such a boon to the Empire came at the expense of his cousin’s relationship with his mother, who didn’t do as much supervising of the Guild as her title of Liaison suggested. It had allowed their Sect to save face, but it was a pretty thin cover when Madame Wei rarely set foot into her own sect’s headquarters.

It was especially damning now that the Wen Sect was acting up.

“Are you sure I should still go to the Gusu Lan lectures?” Wei Ning asked hesitantly. “With the situation as it is —”

“Of course, A Ning!” interrupted Wei Wuxian. “You’re my Head Disciple, you need to be there to supervise your shidi! I won’t have anyone else representing our sect.”

It was said with good humour, but Wei Wuxian’s tone was firm. Wei Ning inclined his head.

“As you wish, Zongzhu.”

“Ugh, do you have to,” whined Wei Wuxian.

Wei Qing slapped him upside the head. “Yes he does. You’re our leader, you have to act like it. Don’t worry A Ning, I’ll keep an eye on this idiot.”

Wei Wuxian pouted.

“It’s almost like you don’t trust me.”

Wei Ning’s lips twitched at the sight of his sister’s unimpressed frown.

“I’ll be going to Gusu with Wei Ning anyway. I wrote to Lan Qiren and he granted me use of his library. I will stay about a week and fly back there. Kuaifeng-zun and si-shu will manage the night hunting schedule and Wei-popo will take over the administrative work.”

As he said those words, Wei Wuxian palmed his father’s dizi absent-mindedly.

Wei Ning raised his eyebrows but kept silent.

Their clan’s ancestral duty was to contain the Burial Mounds, a task entrusted to three street urchins who were taught cultivation by a spirit who had become a local deity of Yiling. The spirit had been named SangTian-jun for the way he was described by the three Wei siblings who had founded the Yiling Wei Sect; they spoke of him as a being outside of time who caused ripples with every step he took. Every member of the Wei Clan took that duty seriously, but Wei Wuxian had always thought that they could do more. He wasn’t the first Clan Leader to suggest it, though Wei Ning privately thought he might be the one brilliant enough to manage it. Lately, he had gotten into his head that musical cultivation might be the key to cleansing the Burial Mounds.

The idea had come from the tales he had heard of the Twin Jades of Lan, renowned for their peerless appearances and talent for both sword and musical cultivation. Wei Wuxian was the same age as Lan Wangji, the Second Jade, and he had many times expressed his eagerness to meet the young master of the Lan Sect. Wei Ning wondered what it might have been like if Wei Changse had still been alive and Wei Wuxian had been able to attend the lectures with the other young masters of the cultivation world. Surely he would have driven the teachers mad within a month, he thought, ducking his head to hide a rueful smile. His cousin was an interesting character.

He felt abruptly sad at the thought that Wei Wuxian had lost this chance like he had lost many others. Although their lively cousin allowed himself to relax within the White Sanctuary, he never let himself drop the mask of YinHe-jun outside of the Sect’s headquarters.

“You’ll be alright maintaining the barrier, Qing-jie?” asked Wei Wuxian.

Wei Qing scoffed. “Of course, who do you take me for? It’ll only be a week, Wei Wuxian, why are you babying me? Who’s the eldest here?”

Wei Wuxian hummed.

“Call me immediately if anything happens. I’ll come right back.”

Wei Qing sniffed, before bowing her head. “I will, Zongzhu. Now stay still and let me treat you. Don’t think I didn’t notice that stiffness in your left leg. Challenging Kuaifeng-zun when you’re still recovering from subduing that yao three days ago, really...”

Wei Ning quickly bowed and hurried away before his elder sister before his sister could demand to examine him too.

Notes:

The past Wei Wuxian is called SangTian-jun in reference to the idiom “the blue sea turned into mulberry fields” (滄海桑田 - cāng hǎi sāng tián ), meaning “the transformations of the world; time brings great changes”

The present Wei Wuxian is both called Xiao Zongzhu, Little Clan Leader as an endearment and a nod to his odd circumstances, and Yinhe-jun, the Lord of the Silver River - the Milky Way -, a reference to “Gazing at a Waterfall on Mount Lu 望庐山瀑布 wàng lú shān pù bù,” a poem by Li Bai.

日照香炉生紫烟 / rì zhào xiāng lú shēng zĭ yān
Sunlight illuminates Incense Burner Peak, kindling violet smoke;
遥看瀑布挂前川 / yáo kàn pù bù guà qián chuān
from afar, a waterfall hangs before the river.
飞流直下三千尺 / fēi liú zhí xià sān qiān chĭ
Water flies straight down three thousand feet—
疑是银河落九天 / yí shì yín hé luò jiŭ tiān
Has the silver stream of our galaxy plunged from highest heaven?

It refers to the fact that the common people consider him a miracle of the Heavens but it is used by malicious gentry to poke fun at his family situation; waterfalls, although they mainly symbolise abundance, also symbolise the act of letting things go, as Wei Wuxian had to do when his father died and his mother left him and the sect behind.

Chapter 11: the tiger's sprawl II (Katekyou Hitman Reborn OC)

Notes:

A little snippet from "the tiger's sprawl". I split the canon set of Guardians because it was more fun that way.

Tsuna's Guardians:
Storm: Gokudera
Rain: Basil
Sun: Ryohei
Lightning: Haru
Mist: Mukuro/Kurome
Cloud: Skull

Tora's Guardians:
Storm: Hana
Rain: Takeshi
Sun: Shouichi/Reborn
Lightning: Tetsuya
Mist: Kyouko
Cloud: Hibari

“What do you mean he burnt down the house?”

“I mean exactly what I said. He ripped off the remains of his Seal in anger and caught fire, resulting in the ultimate collapse of the house.” A pause. “But that’s not all.”

“How could there possibly be anything worse?”

Reborn takes a deep breath.

“The Hibari heir came to investigate the fire. The boy is the self-proclaimed protector of Namimori, and an Active Cloud.”

“Don’t tell me...”

“They Harmonised.”

The hitman hangs up the phone in the middle of Iemitsu’s swearing. He’ll let the man figure out how to inform Nonno without prompting the old man to order a hit on the next Decimo’s little brother. Meanwhile, he stares out into the distance, where the crew Vongola lent him is rebuilding the house just as it was before Torakichi’s loss of control.

Thankfully, Nana and Tsunayoshi were nowhere to be seen, the older twin having accompanied his mother as she went grocery shopping. The reconstruction would be finished by the time they came back, and hopefully Torakichi would have awoken too. Reborn just needed to get him, his new Cloud and the latent Sun who had come rushing on what was probably instinct upon feeling that his chosen Sky was free of his shackles settled and tucked away into a place where they could discuss their next step without being interrupted..

Reborn wasn’t sure what to think of Irie Shouichi. He was vaguely aware that the boy’s mother was the famous hacker Daria, one of the best of her trade in the criminal underworld before she disappeared into thin air, but his father seemed to be a completely harmless civilian and he would almost believe Shouichi was just as uninformed if not for the way he’d looked at him in recognition when he’d rushed to the burning house. From context cues, Reborn guessed that he and Torakichi were childhood friends who mostly interacted online. He’d make a good Sun for the newly awakened Sky.

Reborn was more preoccupied with the semi-feral Cloud hissing at said childhood friend, tonfas threateningly raised up and only stopped from connecting with the side of Shouichi’s head by Hibari’s need to keep Torakichi within his line of sight.

If the Sky didn’t wake up soon, the hitman would handle it the old-fashioned way, he thought, caressing Leon with a smirk.

Chapter 12: son of night III

297 AC

 

Jon wasn’t sure what to think of the young lord sorcerer who had newly landed in Westeros by magics unknown and unthought of in this part of the world. The boy was selfish, but not devoid of compassion. He looked waifish, then wielded unimaginable power at his fingertips.

The boy wondered how common the boy’s abilities was in the distant – and unheard of – land of Albion.

Surely he must be one of a kind.

Never mind the fantastic tales the servant of Lord Bolton had told about Lord Nott’s takeover of the castle, Jon had seen him levitate a book and create light out of nothing with his own two eyes. What shocked him most was how mundanely the young sorcerer was treating such acts, as if this was only scratching the surface of what he could do.

While Jon Snow was wondering about the magics of Albion, the rest of his company had more pressing concerns.

“Your story is all well and good, lad, but it doesn’t give you the right to make yourself at home in the castle of Lord Bolton, let alone to lock the man in his own dungeons without due process,” said one of Jon’s father’s vassals.

The boy swept a lazy eye over the gathering of men, who, save for Jon, were all seasoned warriors, veterans of at least two wars and countless skirmishes.

“And what is, pray tell, the due process when one is found guilty of flaying?”

“If Lord Bolton really has done what you said, son,” started Jon’s father, “then he will be executed. I will see to it myself, as his Lord Paramount. But I will need proof of what you say.”

The sorcerer hummed. “Proof. I can do that.”

“My Lord,” said the servant girl at his side nervously, “Rodrik is still in a healing sleep. You said he was not to be woken for another day.”

Theodore Nott blinked at her. “Why would he need to be woken?” Then as if in realisation, he clarified. “No, I’ll drag Bolton and his beast of a son here and feed them some veritaserum. Then they’ll be all too willing to explain to our guests how they and their soldiers liked to entertain themselves in the Dreadfort. It’ll make for a lovely discussion before the luncheon.”

And sure enough, the Boltons talked. They said more than enough to turn the stomach of a lesser man, and Jon found himself dry heaving against a wall at the end of it, his eyes closed to try and forget the graphic details in which Ramsey Bolton described his rape of several young girls.

“You have my thanks and my apologies for doubting you. You were right to act, and you saved a lot of grief to my people,” said Jon’s father with difficulty after they took some time to compose themselves, moments during which the sorcerer was calmly reading his books with the tranquillity of someone so used to violence and barbarism that he was unphased by both its retelling and others’ reactions to it.

What must he have lived through, Jon couldn’t help but think, to find such a tale only mildly distasteful?

The sorcerer waved away the words of gratitude and apology. “I am a stranger to you. It would have been foolish to trust me at my word.” He straightened then and weighed them all with his gaze before settling on Lord Stark. “Now that this is settled, I would like to know what you plan to do with this fort and the people in it. We can discuss it over some food, what do you think?”

Jon blinked.

He was not expecting that.

Chapter 13: halt the clock —that syncopates our love (Harry Potter OC)

Summary:

Original Character is and is not Hedwig. It it as confusing for him as it is for you and me.

The vibe of this story is like, "you fixed this world now you gotta live in it." OC will fix canon by getting rid of Voldemort, his Horcruxes and freeing Sirius Black (not in that order), then he'll have to deal with the consequences of thwarting a prophecy and fucking up the political landscape. Like, this is a prologue. The next part of this would not even feature how he does all those canon-fix-it things, it would just jump to when he's done with all of it and explain how it went later.

I'm also low-key considering having Sirius completely obsessed with him.

Is this unhinged? Maybe.

Calix is eighteen when the Dark Lord dies.

But he doesn’t yet know that the man is dead. He spends that Samhain night with the Branch members of House Parkinson, his thoughts turned towards his deceased parents as he sacrifices some of his blood and magic to light the bonfire and leads the procession when time comes for the others to make their own sacrifice to honour their ancestors.

His relatives ask him if he’s planning on taking the Dark Mark any time soon; he gives them non-committal responses. His uncle Jared, his father’s youngest brother is particularly insistent.

“Your parents dithered about it too much,” he claims, proudly revealing his own Mark. “It is time you join us, child.”

He later shows off his daughter, a wailing one-year-old all dolled up in pink and stresses that he would like to see her study at a school devoid of mudbloods.

Calix hums in sympathy, as if he cared about what poor Pansy will suffer if she’s made to share a class with a muggle-born student. His grandmother reminds his uncle pointedly that the celebration is meant to honour the dead, not engage in political discussion. It isn’t out of any sympathy for muggles; Calix’ grandmother is simply suspicious of this political entity with an assumed name and no fortune. She believes that what truly matters about being pure-blood is that in a society where no one struggles to meet their basic needs, it is only the smartest families who have made sure to keep their Houses wealthy, magically powerful, and politically and culturally influential. When the others stayed complacent or lost everything due to reckless investments or feuds, they accumulated riches, set trends and passed laws that changed the face of Albion.

“Everyone in the magical world should be rich,” she says, “and I seriously side-eye those with decent lineage who weren’t able to accumulate treasures and inventions like we and the other Unbroken Houses have.”

As such, Rowena Parkinson nee Lestrange was unimpressed by this Dark Lord with not a sickle to his name who had been a host of the Malfoys since he made his first appearance in Albion.

Calix on the other hand isn’t enthusiastic about all the murder and torture involved in the whole ordeal. He has read the papers and heard his classmates talk. He doesn’t see what is so exciting about all this gratuitous violence and gore.

Besides, muggle-born integration is only the pretext Light wizards use to pass laws restricting Dark practices and it’s foolish to pretend otherwise. Actual muggle-borns do not have the standing to do anything about what bothers them about the magical world. Being mildly inconvenienced by an ignorant religious muggle-born gasping in horror at blood magic does not constitute oppression.

Having their religion suppressed and their grimoires criminalised does.

Though to be fair, Calix hears more about the Light families that have been targeted than about the ones Death Eaters claim to hate the most.

Dead muggles, muggle-borns and squibs make up numbers in the Daily Prophet.

The scions of established Light Houses have eulogies written about them.

But Calix doesn’t care enough about the Light to want to kill anyone on the other side of the magical world’s divide.

He didn’t hate any of these people enough to be able to throw the Killing curse at them, let alone the Cruciatus. He found them annoying, nothing more.

But Samhain is not the right time to explain that to his least favourite uncle, so he just keeps his answers noncommittal until the family magic finally responds to their sacrifice and sends back the echo of their deceased’s magic through the bond that unites them all. Calix bites his lip when he feels the phantom hand of his father touch his shoulder and his mother’s kiss on top of his head. He curls his hand around his wand to stop it from trembling.

He misses them so much it hurts. He feels their absence like the vanishing of a rib, leaving the cage to collapse and his lungs and heart to be exposed, vulnerable.

His parents did not take part in the war. They died performing a ritual, as many wizards do. He had no one to blame for it, though he dearly wished he could point fingers at someone, anyone.

After the celebration is over, he excuses himself from the celebration.

He gives instructions to the three house elves bound to his family's land and goes to sleep, secure in his knowledge that his grandmother would make sure that his guests would not overstay their welcome.

That night, he has a strange nightmare.

He dreams about being an owl.

She is an owlet, the last of a clutch of three. She and her siblings were caught by wizards at a young age. They are fed potions and bespelled to heighten their natural magic, until their intelligence is almost alike that of a human and they can find any address in the world. The process is uncomfortable, painful even. Her siblings cannot take it; they are deemed unsuitable and released back into their natural habitat. She is the only one of her breed that remains. For some reason, this is significant.

When they deem her ready, they bring her to the shop to be sold off. She is bought by a giant-magical-human and gifted to a tiny-magical-human-child as a birthday present.

He gives her a name. She had no need for one before, but she likes it more than just being called “the snowy owl” by her trainers and the shopkeepers. And Naming sometimes has power one cannot predict. She likes that too.

Hedwig grows to love him. He feeds her treats, scratches her feathers in the right way and talks to her like a friend. He tells her secrets he wouldn’t tell anyone else. They are all about human concepts she cares little about, but she listens anyway. She learns about his human’s parents, who hatched him but were killed-but-not-eaten before they could properly see him fly. She learns the names of the predators that stalk him, and more about them than she would care to know about the arctic fox who almost ate her clutch when they were fledglings.

She loves him, but she cannot protect him from the other humans. Her tiny-human-magical-fledgling is the target of predator-rotten-smelling-human-magicals, the corrupted-predator-who-flies-and-kills-but-does-not-eat especially.

She can do nothing to protect him, until she can. And she dies for it.

But her story doesn’t end there. Hedwig’s bond to her fledgling, built during her Naming tethered her to him in death and let her watch as he sought the pieces of the corrupted-predator-who-flies-and-kills-but-does-not-eat to destroy him. She stays with him until the end, where he has to sacrifice himself to eradicate the last piece of the predator who stalked him his whole life.

Hedwig’s soul comes with his to the white-station-of-death. Perched on Harry Potter’s shoulder, she waits for him to board the train.

She screeches when she sees the old-powerful-magical-human-with-guilty-eyes.

“You did this to my human,” Calix screams.

“Hedwig, no!” yells his-her human.

The old-powerful-magical-human-with-guilty-eyes raises his wand, and the world turns dark.

Hedwig — Calix, his name is Calix — wakes up, disoriented, only to find out in the papers that the Potters are dead, and the Dark Lord was defeated by their one-year-old son.

Notes:

Admonition, by Sylvia Plath

"If you dissect a bird
To diagram the tongue
You'll cut the chord
Articulating song.

If you flay a beast
To marvel at the mane
You'll wreck the rest
From which the fur began.

If you pluck out the heart
To find what makes it move,
You'll halt the clock
That syncopates our love"

Chapter 14: halt the clock —that syncopates our love II

"Will you take me to the station tomorrow, cousin?”

Pansy bats her eyes at him. He looks down at her, raising an eyebrow. She pouts.

“Pleaaaase,” she whines. “Father has been so jumpy since the Mark disappeared. He’s embarrassing. If he starts throwing hexes in public again, I am going to scream.”

“What about your mother?”

She looks away. “Mother is cross with me because of the incident.”

“What incident?”

“You know, the incident.”

“Pansy.”

She hides her face between her hands.

“I freed Quippy by accident. I didn’t think, I just handed her the clothes I wanted to wear in the train. She cried so hard it woke all the portraits and they yelled even harder. It was four in the morning.”

Calix chuckled. “Circe’s braids, Pansy, you’ll never cease to amaze me.” He pauses and puts down his book. He takes off his enchanted glasses. The bejewelled chain keeping them on him shines as he shifts. Calix squints as the light of the end of summer burns the sensitive skin around his left eye. “I suppose I could come with you. I haven’t made a public appearance in, what?”

“Three years,” she sing-songs. “Since Sirius Black’s trial and the Azkaban debacle, Father said. The one that got Aunt Sage released too.”

Aunt Sage is Marked, but it was determined to have been against her will. As far as Calix is aware, it is even true; her husband, Louis Rosier pressured her into joining by threatening their son Felix. She ended up taking the fall for one of his crimes, though the bastard was caught by the Aurors soon after for another atrocity.

He didn’t know that when he set things in motion, however.

He had just gotten done with what he needed to do for Harry Potter to be safe, and he had been able to start making sure he was not only unharmed, but also happy. Making sure he was raised by the godfather he so loved had done a lot to quiet the part of him that still remembered being Hedwig.

And now he was known in the wider magical community as the Man who Ruined Azkaban.

They said he stayed home because he feared the dementors’ retribution. That had nothing to do with it, and everyone in House Parkinson knew it. But they had sworn an oath, and they would stay silent.

“So you’ll come?” asks Pansy eagerly.

“I will. But you know I will be your...”

She hushes him.

“Don’t say it. Do you want your first public appearance to be at the Great Feast, with no press to see it? That is sad, cousin.”

He makes a sound of understanding. “I see. You want me there because you want to be in the papers, is that it?”

She flushes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Calix sends his little cousin a knowing look.

“If you say so.”

Pansy ignores his doubtful answer.

“Onto more important things.” She claps her hands. “Can I choose your outfit?”

The next day, he is tapping the end of his cane against the tiled floor of the Platform 9 ¾. He wears a lilac open robe over baby blue trousers and a white shirt subtly embroidered with a lace thunderbird adorned with purple flowers. He smiles at his little cousin, smothering a wince at the pain lancing his knee. He hadn’t expected Horcrux hunting to be restful, but he came out of it significantly more hurt than planned. The curse damage in his knee and left arm are extensive even if they do not cause him constant pain. The Gaunt shack did numbers on him; he should have let the old man take care of it. Still, it usually is not this bad. The eye Voldemort’s wraith partially blinded when he confronted it is what tends to cause him pain.

Today is not his lucky day, however.

(The less said about the wounds he incurred when he hunted a chimera for its blood’s corrosive properties, the better. Kreacher had enjoyed pouring it on the locket, though. Sucking up to Old Walburga Black was almost worth it for the gleeful cackle the elf let out when he realised that it was working.)

He puts a hand in his pocket, running a finger on the wax seal of Headmaster Dumbledore’s offer letter. A small hand latches onto his elbow and pulls him out of his thoughts.

“Come on, cousin, Draco’s here!”

He sighs. “Did it really have to be the Malfoy heir?”

“Duh. He’s an idiot and a braggart, but he’s handsome.”

“Stop that sound, little cousin. You know Grandmother will wash out your mouth with a Scourgify if she catches you doing it.”

“It’s the Wand of Justice!”

Calix cringes as the press gets closer, cameras in hand.

He had not heard this particular moniker out loud yet, though he has had to read it in his second cousin Rita’s articles.

Pansy cackles at his side. “You could have left it alone after setting things in motion to free Aunt Sage. But noooo, you had to prove a point.”

She is right. He didn’t have to steal the Dementors’ allegiance in front of the Minister to prove that Azkaban’s guarding system was flawed. But the soulless creatures were much less scary to him after he realised that they found his mind too animalistic to use their usual tricks. The shadow of Hedwig protected him, and so he tried out the theory that got his parents killed.

(What they were doing with a Dementor, he doesn’t know. But he will find out.)

The prisoners had to be relocated to Nurmengard while they came up with a better solution. Now Azkaban is guarded by a collection of Newt Scamander’s most dangerous creatures who take their role very seriously, and the magizoologists taking care of them make sure that no prisoners get eaten.

(They hadn't had any idea what to do with the Dementors until Sirius Black had revealed that the Isle of Avalon had a containment enclosure meant for them, and that House Black used to guard it on behest of the Lady Morgana.)

“Must you rub it in my face?” he sighs.

“It is my privilege as your favourite cousin.”

“You are not my favourite cousin. That’s Felix.”

Felix Rosier, Aunt Sage’s only son and the future Lord of his House was adorable, and only one year younger than Pansy. The two had some sort of rivalry for his affections that he doesn’t quite understand but finds very funny.

She gasps. “That little worm? I’ll kill him.”

“Why don’t you go flirt with the baby peacock instead? You’re giving me a headache.”

Rather it was the sound of the camera shutters that was getting on his nerves, but he couldn’t quite say that with the press so close. His cousin understood, though.

Pansy peers up at him with concerned eyes. “Should I write Grandmother?”

He shakes his head. “No need. I’ll be fine in an hour or so. Now, run along, I’ll be right behind you.”

His cousin shrugs and skips towards the Malfoy heir while Calix follows at a leisurely pace.

“Hedwig?”

Calix turns without thinking and finds himself facing Harry Potter.

Yellow eyes gaze into green.

Does he... remember? He wonders, half-panicked and half-thrilled at the thought.

But Harry only blinks in confusion and turns to his godfather, who nods at Calix, though not before observing his bewildered godson intensely.

“Lord Parkinson.”

“Lord Black, Lord Potter.”

“I didn’t get to thank you for my freedom,” starts Sirius Black with a crooked grin.

“The only thing I did was threaten to eat a rat,” he replies smoothly.

The events leading to Sirius Black’s trial were comical to say the least. Calix had written to Amelia Bones about the lack of trial for his Aunt, and his fears that many like her had been skipped over by the previous administration.

That had been done a year prior and amounted to nothing, not with Cornelius Fudge impeding the Head of the DMLE in any way he could. He didn’t want the competence of the post-war Ministry to be called into question.

Then Calix had waited for Percy Weasley to make an appearance in Diagon Alley with his rat, and had Pansy throw a tantrum and claim to have been bitten by the Animagus in disguise. Calix, who had completed the Animagus transformation to deal with the body dysmorphia his memories of Hedwig gave him, turned into an owl and caught the offending rat in his claws and did not release him until he turned, fearing for his own life.

“You did quite a bit more than that from what I’ve heard,” refutes the stubborn man with a gleam in his eye.

Calix has to physically restrain himself from gulping. He remembers Sirius Black from his Hogwarts years if not from Harry’s time with him. They were only three years apart after all. He knows that the man is like a dog with a bone when he gets an idea.

“That is a matter of perspective, I suppose,” he says primly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, my little cousin is terrorising the Malfoy heir. I should probably check on that.”

Black chuckles. “You go do that.”

Notes:

I don't know what this is, don't ask me. Why is my OC fucking up Azkaban, destroying Horcruxes, freeing innocents and becoming the DADA Professor? I don't know. What even is the plot in this thing, you ask me? There is none, just vibes.

Chapter 15: out of the ash i rise (Harry Potter OC)

Summary:

This story idea is titled "Slytherin Student Makes Sure She Rules Hogwarts So Her Little Brother Doesn't Get Bullied When He Attends" or Neville Longbottom has a Reincarnator for an Older Sister and she has Trauma(TM). She will maybe piss you off. She sure annoyed me.

Viviane Longbottom showed more promise in the magical arts than her brother Neville, who was two years her junior.

Where he often hid away in the greenhouses of Longland Manor to escape his grandmother’s disappointment and his other relatives’ desperation to prove the Heir of their House was not a squib, she was a model student. She grasped concepts quickly, excelled in her etiquette and pre-Hogwarts tutoring, and her magical core showed such rapid growth it was almost worrying.

It got to the point where the five Elders of the main house, Harfang Longbottom — Viviane and Neville’s great-grandfather who took back the Headship after his grandson was incapacitated —, his wife Callidora, Augusta Longbottom — the last Head’s mother and the widow of Baldwin Longbottom —, Algernon — Harfang’s youngest son and Baldwin’s brother whose own son died in the war —, and his wife Enid questioned whether precedent should be changed, and the tradition of male progeniture of their House should be abolished in favour of granting the Heirship to their most promising candidate. It was either this, or risk that the Headship would be transferred to a branch family should Neville prove to be a squib.

They ultimately decided against it; surely Neville’s core would develop before time came for him to receive his Hogwarts letter. Better to keep him away from the public and save face. If he should not receive his letter, they would reconvene.

They did not notice the shadow of an eight-year-old girl at the door, a little girl who grew to wonder why she, as the oldest child, was passed over in the first place. Her timid little brother could barely remember to tie his own shoelaces; magic or not, was this who they wanted the House to be led by? Neville didn’t even want it.

Her resentment grew.

She did not express it towards her elders, knowing it to be pointless. Augusta Longbottom, the woman who raised her, had an iron spine and a thorny tongue, and the others were just as unyielding. She would get nothing from them except a scolding for eavesdropping.

But she eyed the branch members in a new light, seeing for the first time the greed they had hidden behind veneers of concern for Neville. The branch families had three potential heirs, two of whom were older than both her and her little brother.

From then on, the social gatherings of House Longbottom seemed like a battlefield to her, and she learnt to tread lightly. Where she used to hang onto her second cousin — Ambrose, a seventh year at Beauxbatons — ’s arm and beg him to show her new spells, she now watched the way he looked at the painting of her father, Frank Longbottom, which had been commissioned when the man was Ambrose’s age. She saw the way he mimicked the pose he had taken next to the window overlooking the manor grounds, with wistful fingers trailing on the windowsill.

She heard the way her third cousin once removed, Aunt Hilda boasted of her own son’s accomplishments, staring fixedly at Neville as she did so with a barely concealed smirk. Mathias was only twelve and oblivious to his mother’s ambitions, but he puffed up his chest every time, somehow fooled into thinking that coming back home with a row of Acceptables after his first year at Hogwarts made him some kind of genius.

She grew wary of them all, behaving as if the whole House was her enemy. It made her surly and irritable, to the dismay of her grandmother who was quite content with her previously agreeable disposition. And to the brother she always had patience for, she became cold as ice. Before, she would go to the greenhouses at her grandmother’s behest and listen to Neville ramble about the new plants he took care of under the supervision of the garden fairies. Then she would try to convince him to go back to his lessons, refuting his laments that it was all pointless since he couldn’t do magic anyway with assurances that his time would come soon, and that he must not give up.

Now she would wait it out by the riverside and come back when an appropriate time had passed. If her grandmother asked, she would shrug and say her brother had refused to come back.

Her brother was only six, and he was not as precocious as her. He did not understand this sudden coldness. So he knocked on her door and asked shyly if she wanted to come see the new flowers he had planted in the garden and grew confused when she played her enchanted violin louder and louder to drown out his voice, until her irritation triggered her accidental magic and turned the magical lights her instrument produced into blades that shattered the window of her room.

After weeks of this treatment, he learnt his lesson and stopped asking. He simply stared after her with soulful eyes that Viviane did her best to forget.

And if she missed her quiet little brother, she said nothing to anyone about it.

After all, Neville had been her only confident before she pushed him away. They whispered secrets to each other under blanket forts; he listened to her playing music as much as she watched him care for magical plants and never compared her playing to their father’s as he did so. He asked about the books she was reading and helped her complete the magical puzzles she liked so much. They played games by the riverside with the garden fairies and hunted for mushrooms in the forest.

They spent most of their time with only themselves and their grandmother for company.

Augusta Longbottom had better things to do than to coddle them and always put on their shoulders the pressure of living up to the name and glory of Frank Longbottom. Their relatives only came for family events, and Viviane had learnt her lesson about trusting them. She wasn’t anyone’s priority, and they did not have her best interests at heart. The Elders cared about their Heir, and the cousins cared for what they could take from the main family if given an opportunity.

She just forgot that Neville was the only person in the Longbottom family for whom all of this wasn’t true. The only one who understood what it was like to yearn for stories of Alice Longbottom and wonder why they never heard about her and her family. The only one who knew what it was like to sit in silence at their parents’ bedside for hours while their grandmother wept, staring at these strangers and trying to remember something, anything, of what they were like as parents. The only one who slept in her bed afterwards and murmured how much he hated the Lestranges, holding her hand tightly and trying not to cry.

Viviane forgot, and she did not remember until the summer before she got to Hogwarts, where, at Neville’s ninth birthday party, their great-uncle Algie pushed him out of the balcony.

She watched it happen as if in slow motion, until her instincts kicked in. She dropped her glass of gigglewater, letting it shatter after her and ran to the balustrade next to which his brother had been standing, looking longingly over at the manor grounds until their great-uncle had approached him with grim determination. Viviane had not been standing far, though she had kept her back turned to her brother, and she reached it in little time.

“Neville,” she screamed before she raised up her skirts to get them out of the way and threw herself off the balcony, her arms held out towards him.

Time slowed.

Wingless, she flew, she fell, her hands raised not to slow her descent, but to catch Neville before he would reach the end of his.

She managed to grasp his hand, but they both knew she was too late; Neville watched her with terrified eyes as he hit the ground, and rounded ones when he bounced off it, his magic manifesting at the last moment. But Viviane’s worryingly strong magic was always directed outward rather than inward; it would not protect her.

Instead, it lashed out at Algernon. She heard the man cry out; she did not see what her magic did to him. Her eyes were on her little brother who was futilely struggling to hold her so they could bounce back together. She barely had the thought that he should let go of her when her grandmother intoned, “Arresto Momentum.”

Her fall was halted, but Viviane was still close enough for her elbow to smack against the ground. She hissed in pain and closed her eyes by instinct. As she did, she remembered.

***

Dying is an art, like everything else.

I do it exceptionally well, said Sylvia Plath in her poem “the Lady Lazarus”.

It is the last thing she read before he killed her. These words resonated into her mind as she took her last breath and as she breathed her first, reincarnated as she was into this merciless world.

She still felt the phantom grip of his hands around her neck as a newborn child, when her new parents tucked her into their arms and hummed songs of magic to soothe her from the nightmares their predecessors had awakened within her.

It was hard on Alice and Frank, who did not understand why their child flinched and her magic lashed out at the sight of them. Other times she was almost catatonic and did not react to stimuli no matter how much they begged. When she was lucid, she was quiet.

She watched them with dead, wary eyes, waiting for the resentment to set in. She expected them to slowly start hating her, the lifeless doll masquerading as their child. But their adoration for her never seemed to falter, no matter how worried they were for the seemingly mute changeling they had brought into the world.

For all that they seemed much better than the last —not a high bar to reach, mind — she was very aware of how quickly a parent’s view of their child could change, until a dreaded home visit from university ended with a young adult strangled under the Christmas tree, screams of all her faults filling the air she no longer had access to.

Out of desperation, they called Edgar Bones and Emmeline Vance, whom they had chosen to be the girl’s godparents.

Edgar Bones, Alice’s best friend in Hufflepuff, was the Head of his House and a talented curse breaker who was knowledgeable about esoteric magic.

Emmeline, Frank’s last remaining friend after the death of Fabian and Gideon Prewett who was in Gryffindor alongside him, was a muggle-born who volunteered as a frontline healer for the Order of the Phoenix, deployed alongside their fighters to save the victims of Death Eaters. Although she gave that kind of service to Dumbledore’s organisation of vigilantes, she was primarily a Mind Healer, extremely skilled in Legilimancy.

When she looked inside of Viviane’s mind, Emmeline was surprised to see it as developed as that of an adult with memories that should not belong to her, though the little girl still had the emotional regulation ability of a child. She did not examine the memories of the stranger and instead simply pulled away to announce to her friends that a tormented deceased spirit must have been absorbed by their daughter’s soul.

As such, she did not see the memories of a world without magic and did not find the foreknowledge that could have saved her friends and won the war, which Viviane could not speak of both due to her apathy and to the mutism trauma had awakened within her. Emmeline only saw the last moments of her life, when she was killed at the hands of a father who always reproached her the fact that she was born a useless girl instead of the boy he wanted.

She-who-was-and-was-not-Viviane listened as parents and godparents debated erasing everything that made her who she was, the memories of this old life she both cherished and hated. She felt resigned to her fate, and both unwilling and unable to argue against it.

As such she was surprised when her parents vehemently disagreed.

“It is cruelty to kill part of our daughter because it is foreign to us,” said Alice, running a trembling hand through Viviane’s downy brown hair, her index resting on her sweaty forehead.

“It is not her,” protested Emmeline.

“Is it not? This spirit rests in her soul. Vivi is already two years old. What will erasing it do to her?” pointed out Frank.

Viviane’s godmother was forced to concede the point, but it was Edgar’s intervention that closed the discussion.

“Is her soul separate to Vivi’s?” As Emmeline shook her head, he nodded gravely. “Then they are one. The best you can do is erase the trauma of her death and dampen the emotional attachment the spirit — or imprint, more likely — had to its former life.”

Emmeline hummed. “I can also seal the memories until Vivi is older. Not completely, parts of the spirit’s personality and life experiences will bleed through the seal, but enough for Vivi to develop her own sense of self without being drowned out. Or you’ll have an adult woman in the body of your child.”

They all shuddered at the thought. She-who-was-and-was-not-Viviane breathed out. This would not be a second death, then. Her parents had not agreed to lobotomise her, and instead found a way for her to develop normally without the crushing weight of trauma.

“This sure explains why her core has been developing so rapidly,” mused Frank, biting his lip worriedly. “What will this do to her?”

Edgar hummed. “Her magic has been developing to match her adult mind. She will likely be more powerful than she should, and her core might be strained because of it. She’ll have to avoid high-stress situations and be monitored by a healer until she gets her wand. Accidental magic might have unintended effects.”

***

When she opened her eyes anew, Viviane’s mind was in chaos, but she did not show it.

She remained completely silent.

She breathed out, letting her body recover from the stress of her fall and her mind from that of her revelation. The seal had worked as intended, though her previous life’s memory was patchy and felt distant — likely an unintended consequence of the discrepancy between reincarnation and spirit possession, the construct Emmeline had used to seal her adult memories was intended for the latter.

She did not let go of Neville. Instead, she kept clinging to him, blinking rapidly and mouthing apologies as she processed the new memories she had unlocked, touching her throat with her free hand to try to get the sounds out of her throat.

“I’m fine, Vivi, I’m fine,” murmured her brother, holding her just as tightly.

“I’m sorry,” she tried to say again, but her voice once more abandoned her.

Neville seemed to understand anyway.

“I forgive you,” he said fiercely. “I forgive you.”

She hugged him tighter to her chest, feeling as his wavy blond hair tickled her chin. It was hard to breathe, but feeling her little brother’s heart beat alongside hers helped.

The adults present at the party had finally reached them. They tried to approach, but Viviane’s magic reacted wildly to their presence. The wind picked up and formed a dome around the two siblings.

She narrowed her eyes at them.

“Let us come closer, Viviane. We need to check on Neville,” ordered their grandmother.

Viviane shook her head.

“Don’t come closer,” said Neville, his voice wobbly though his intonation stayed firm.

“We must examine you, child,” argued Algernon, whose wand arm was bent in an odd way. Viviane guessed that was what her magic had done.

“You just tried to kill me,” shrieked Neville.

The wind picked up, and the barrier shone with power. Viviane instinctively was feeding her turmoil into it, heightening the output of her accidental magic.

A few of them raised their wands but did not attempt to breach the dome. Children’s magic was often volatile, and interference from the inexperienced could sometimes create worse consequences than the original outcome.

“I didn’t!” exclaimed their great-uncle. “I was trying to trigger your magic. And it worked, see?”

“And what would you have done if it hadn’t, idiot boy?” scoffed Harfang Longbottom.

“I would have stopped his fall, like Augusta did.”

From the disbelieving glances of their relatives, few trusted the man to have the reflexes necessary to cast such a spell on time.

As she observed them all, she noticed the visible disappointment on the faces of the branch members. Ambrose’s tightly clutched fist. Aunt Hilda’s grimace. Speculative glances on one side, averted eyes on the other.

Viviane felt herself shaking.

The wind dome whistled harder, until it was impossible to hear their relatives outside.

Her mind whirled. Her brother was unsafe. Their family was unsafe, the wizarding world would be unsafe in a few years. But they weren’t safe anywhere else. The muggle world would be just as bad soon enough, and they had no safety net there. More than that, they needed to learn magic. But she would leave for Hogwarts in a month and leave him alone in this den of narcissists.

Her silly feelings of resentment regarding the inheritance of the Headship were beyond her now that she had perspective. Being Heir was the only thing that would protect Neville from them. She still thought she would make a better Head than him, but it did not matter. If it kept him in the spotlight, it kept him protected. Especially now that his core had bloomed into awareness.

She swallowed.

She needed to speak, but she could feel her throat close further at the very thought of it.

Viviane turned to her little brother.

“Did this happen before?” she mouthed.

His brows furrowed.

“I don’t —don’t understand.”

She tried again, sounding it out carefully.

He tilted his head, still uncomprehending, before his eyes widened the way they used to when he had an idea. He rummaged through his pocket and pulled out a piece of chalk, which he tapped against his pant leg before holding it out to her.

DID THIS HAPPEN BEFORE, she wrote out shakily.

He grimaced and looked away.

Viviane closed her eyes, resigned.

This was her fault.

She had ignored her little brother for three years, and this happened. She was so focused on herself she hadn’t noticed the increasingly more desperate attempts of her family to prove Neville was a viable Heir. Viviane had felt so inconsequential after listening her elders discuss the future of their House, and she had not had the memories of the girl she was in her old life, who knew very well that being ignored was often better than being seen by those who cared more about what you should be than who you were.

“It’s not your fault, Vivi,” said Neville fiercely, reading her thoughts on her face.

Both of them had always been too expressive. According to her shaky memories, they inherited it from their mother. The girl she was before could hide her thoughts expertly and often used it to avoid her father’s aggression. But Viviane was and was not her; in the time this old version of her took to heal, she became Vivi Longbottom, but Viviane did not become her.

Aspects of her personality bled through the seal, like her love for the violin and for puzzles, her tendency to hold grudges, her trust issues. This fear of being dismissed and despised for her girlhood that had created a ridge between her and her little brother came from her other life, reawakened by her elders. But she stayed Vivi, who loved her brother deeply despite all of this.

She shook her head. “It is,” she mouthed, before holding her brother tighter.

Neville kept quiet despite his obvious disagreement, simply basking in his older sister’s embrace. They stayed like this for minutes or hours, until the trembling in both of their hands subsided and the wind slowed to a stop.

When Viviane was finally calm and her magic had settled, they both raised their heads, prepared to face the storm.

But of all the Longbottoms present, only their grandmother faced them, her face severe and her eyes impossibly sad.

*** 

Augusta apologised and assured them Great-Uncle Algie would not be welcome in Longland Manor for as long as Neville desired it. Despite the reassurance, both siblings heard loud and clear that he was still expected to at some point “get over it”.

Augusta then briskly informed Viviane that they would be shopping for her wand and school supplies at the end of the week.

She then watched her expectantly, waiting for an acknowledgement.

But Viviane was still silent.

After a beat, Neville spoke up timidly. “Vivi’s not speaking. Lutine said it used to happen when she was younger?”

The young girl’s head whipped towards her brother. Neville rubbed the back of his neck, blushing at her bewilderment.

“Lutine!” called Augusta.

A popping sound broke the quiet of the hall, and the Longbottom family elf materialised in front of them.

Viviane observed the creature with the new eyes of someone who remembered a life beyond that of a sheltered pureblood child.

Unlike the house elves she knew of from reading a story a lifetime ago, Lutine was neither dirty nor wearing a pillowcase. Her skin was golden, and her arms adorned with copper bangles. She wore a practical brown dress that looked handsewn. She bore huge green eyes and even bigger floppy ears.

She did not seem mistreated, but a well-cared for slave was still a slave.

Luckily for the muggle part of her, Viviane had been taught about this before. House elves' bonds were different from slavery; the creatures fed on the magical dust that accumulated in old magical houses and as such willingly signed contracts to care for the homes of wixen to obtain this form of sustenance which was more readily available there than in the wild.

Contracts were sometimes worded in disadvantageous ways, which explained what happened to elves like Dobby or Kreacher, and house elves benefited from little protection from the Ministry in case of abuse, but it was not as grim as Hermione Granger made it sound. Their culture had formed around this need to provide for wixen, which explained why they found it so shameful to be dismissed. Dobby was a special case in that he dared to demand more than basic food and lodging from those he would attend to, when other elves seemed to find it more than enough.

Still, laws should be implemented, mused Viviane, before focusing back on the matter at hand. Especially to stop this culture of self-inflicted punishment that seemed so prevalent in them.

“Viviane has had issues with mutism before?” she asked sharply.

“Yes, Madame,” said the elf, shaking her head vigorously. Her ears flapped as she did so, producing a nose that brought a half-smile to Viviane’s face. “Miss Vivi not be speaking until a few months before her third birthday, and very little at the beginning. She be having periods of complete silence until her sixth birthday. Sometimes hours. Sometimes days. Lutine cannot help her with it, she cannot,” she lamented, folding her ears to hide her face.

Their grandmother looked uncomfortable for a moment, but she soon straightened. “And you did not inform me?”

“Lutine is being informing you, Madame, but you is being more preoccupied with Master Nevie’s sleeping problems, Madame.”

Viviane bit her lip. It was true. Neville had been in the manor when their parents were tortured; she had been on an outing with her godmother — coincidentally, it was also the last time she had seen Emmeline Vance. After the events of that night, her little brother had terrible night terrors.

Augusta turned red at the reminder. “I see.” She cleared her throat. “And it stopped by itself?”

Lutine bobbed her head. “Yes, Madame.”

“Very well. You’re dismissed, Lutine.”

Lutine nodded and disappeared with a pop.

“Hm. Hopefully you will be able to speak by the time you are at Hogwarts. How else will you cast spells otherwise?” Their grandmother looked lost for a moment. “Today was a trying day. Lutine will bring your supper in your rooms in a few hours, and classes will be dismissed tomorrow. Take the time you need.”

Viviane didn’t take much time after being dismissed. She dragged Neville to her room and sat him down on her bed. She then went to rummage in her desk for a parchment and self-inking quill before following him there.

She grasped his hand, placing two fingers on his pulse to make sure it was still there. Her little brother watched her do so, tears welling up in his hazel eyes.

“I missed you, Vivi,” he sobbed.

She wrote.

I missed you too. I’m sorry, Nev.

“Why — why did you — I don’t — understand —”

He was only six, she thought, and she left him to fend for himself for three years. She left her little brother to live through the loneliness he had felt in the original story when he shouldn’t have to. She didn’t know why she was here, and what it meant for the story she had read. It couldn’t be exactly the same, if details such as the number of children Frank and Alice Longbottom had were not the same.

But it was close enough for her to know what she had to protect Neville from, she thought with a heavy heart. Death Eaters were a threat to her brother and she would have to do something about it.

She rubbed her brother’s back with one hand until the tears subsided. With the other, she tried to put to paper an explanation. Neville deserved one, even if it was one she was ashamed of.

“I was angry. You’re the Heir and everyone treated me like... it felt like nothing I did was important. It didn’t matter if I was good at school or at music, because I’m not a boy. I took it out on you because I couldn’t be angry at Gran or the others.”

She held out the parchment to her little brother. Neville hiccupped as he read.

“But I — I don’t want it.”

She lowered her head until her forehead rested against his shoulder.

“You know that,” he realised quietly, “but you were still angry.” He paused. Swallowed. Then seemed to make a decision. “When I’m the Head, I’ll change the rules and give the Headship to you.”

Viviane shook her head softly, so as not to jar his shoulder with the movement.

“No. I will. I don’t want this. I don’t want to sit at the Wizengamot, I don’t want to do politics. I don’t want to fight with the branch families and be in the spotlight all the time. I want people to leave me alone. It’s our Dad’s legacy so we can’t give it away to Ambrose or Mathias or Jasper. And since I don’t want it, I’ll give it to you.”

She leaned away and wrote frantically.

I don’t deserve it.

Neville shrugged.

“Tough luck. You’re getting it anyway.”

Viviane looked down at her hands.

Maybe he was right. She didn’t have to deserve it. Maybe it was enough that Neville didn’t want it for himself, and she could take the responsibility from him. Not for her own selfish desires, but because he was her little brother, and she ought to protect him. She had always known he was merely resigned to it, after all. She could have talked to him instead of treating him like an enemy.

She would just have to be better, to quiet the voice that called her an imposter when she thought of taking her brother’s seat. And if Neville changed his mind, she would step aside and assist him.

But that would only come when Neville took the Headship at fourteen. Viviane had years ahead of her.

And she would use those years to protect her little brother from the threats within and from those that lurked outside of the Manor grounds.

Notes:

Viviane is, ugh.

The idea is that she's a selfish Slytherin who got a wake-up call + had a deeply traumatised past life that gave her issues(TM) with the patriarchy, i.e., she was literally killed by her father who spent her entire life telling her he had no use for a useless girl. She loves Neville but before recovering her memories, she was a neglected kid who could only channel her anger through the quietest possible tantrum. Since she's still a kid, her desire to be Head is very much a "why not me" response and not an understanding of what it means to be a leader. She'll learn, though. Slytherin will teach her.

If I continue this I'll probably give her two female OCs as friends and Cassius Warrington. I also want a Barty Crouch Jr redemption somehow (or an epic showdown), with an exploration of what it means to be Frank and Alice Longbottom's children and to see the Lestranges escape + a depiction of Light pureblood families and wizarding culture. I think I want her to be a lesbian but I also keep thinking about the way the Weasley twins would interact with her, Fred especially. I'm almost tempted to genderbend the twins to keep both haha.

Also this is my second draft of this and I'm not a 100% happy with it so I might change some things.

(I have thoughts about girls using the silence treatment as their only weapon because they are taught it works better than being loud, so I made it a One Shot that might turn into a fic.)

"I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it——

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?——

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot——
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.

It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.
It’s the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

‘A miracle!’
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart——
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash—
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air."

Sylvia Plath, The Lady Lazarus

Chapter 16: son of night IV

297 AC

“Surely you do not expect Lord Stark to yield this castle to you?” asked one of the men-at-arms as soon as they were seated.

Theo raised an eyebrow.

“That was never in question.”

If he wanted to live in a dreary castle smelling of dried blood and misery, he would have just stayed at home, thank you very much.

Jeyne, however, seemed not to have expected that. She gasped, clutching the pitcher she had been holding to her chest. “You are leaving us, milord?” she asked, her eyes tearing up.

Theo tilted his head.

“Weren’t you the one who was babbling about due process just a few days ago? The castle is the purview of the Starks, they’re the ones who have to decide what to do with it.”

The spectacle of horror, revulsion and guilt he had witnessed during the Boltons’ interrogation had shown him that these soft-hearted men were not cut from the same cloth as the Boltons. As such, he felt quite comfortable washing his hands of the whole affair. He was more interested in finding out why his mother’s last words were about this place, and in what way it would need him. He hadn't helped everyone here to make himself a Lord; he just wanted the good opinion of some Northmen to gather information.

Theo cut into the pie he was served. Hm. Maybe his destiny was to bring some flavour to this part of the world. This was rather tragic. And that was saying something, considering where he was born.

“Does Bolton have another bastard that doesn’t piss on babies for fun, by any chance?”

Jon looked at him quite intensely as he said so, and a few of the Northmen glanced at the boy very unsubtly. Right. Jeyne said Snow was the surname given to bastards in this part of the continent.

Lord Stark hummed. “He might. Roose Bolton practised the tradition of the First Night against the law of Westeros, which granted him the right to lay with any of his subjects on their wedding night if he so wished. He could have fathered dozens of babes without anyone’s knowledge, and I doubt their mothers would have been eager to come forward if it was so.”

Charming.

Theo contemplated volunteering his services to track down a sane bastard to take care of the Dreadfort – he pitied the hapless lambs ambling about the place, sue him. These people got stars in their eyes because he repaired their glasshouses and built them another two for good measure, and he was pretty sure they’d have built a shrine in his name if their gods weren’t so fucking scary. He’d felt the wind lightly squeeze around his throat and a voice whispering “not yet” when he’d poked around the godswood, he was not exactly eager to find out what they’d do if he proclaimed himself a false god – when Stark shook his head.

“Unfortunately, even if we did manage to locate one, it would force him into a terrible position. An untrained, likely illiterate commoner in charge of a whole castle, with both his servants and the other Lords wary of his blood and who will likely need a regent to govern in his stead? It would be a cruelty to impose on a child, let alone an adult whose life we would have to uproot. And even crueler to impose on the people of this land, who deserve to be governed under a stable rule now that Winter is Coming.”

His companions all nodded.

Theo wondered if he should say something about letting the hypothetical child decide for himself, but then he remembered Albion and shut his mouth. This was how they lured in muggle-borns, wasn’t it? They promised this wonderful magical world to them, and even if they mentioned all the horrible stuff, who would say no to fucking magic? Telling them in the first place meant they were doomed to want it, and Theo didn’t know a single muggle-born who had refused to be enrolled. It was technically allowed, but it represented such a risk to the Statute of Secrecy it was strongly discouraged.

But maybe kids could be spared from this shitshow. Maybe they didn’t have to be sacrificed at the altar of the surrounding adults’ bad decisions, like Harry Potter had been.

Huh. Who would have thought.

A commoner who toiled away might be poor and miserable, but at least they were relatively safer away from the nonsense their lords might inflict upon them. Or maybe Theo had swallowed down the blood purist rhetoric and he was trying to tell himself muggle-borns would be happier if magicals left them the fuck alone.

Theo bit his tongue. His philosophical musings had no place here, unless he wanted to initiate some kind of revolution. Do away with the lords, he’d scream, well aware that it made him a hypocrite. As if his father didn’t keep a handful of enslaved elves and torture muggles for fun.

The wizard ate his bland food as the Northmen debated what to do. After a while, it was decided that some Lord’s brother would be given the castle, as his grandmother was a Bolton before she married. It was deemed a distant enough blood relation to avoid criticism for them, though Theo found it a thinly veiled way of keeping it in the gentry. They had a good excuse; it was still messed up.

Jeyne burst into tears upon hearing the news, and when Lord Stark and his bastard, alarmed, tried to stand up to comfort her, she flinched away from them.

Realising what she had done, she babbled apologies until Theo silenced her and summoned a calming draught out of his bag. She took it gratefully; he’d handed some to several women in the castle after it had sunk in that the Boltons could not touch them anymore and she was well-acquainted with them.

“I’ll stay until I can see this new Lord myself, if you don’t mind,” he said mildly. “And I hope you’ll suggest he should change the interior design,” he added after a bit, glancing at the banner of the flayed man he hadn’t yet set on fire. In his defence, he was more preoccupied with feeding and healing the servants and killing the guards and torturers who’d tried to release their liege lord. That, and there were so many of them, it was ridiculous.

Notes:

Theo has deluded himself into thinking he is indifferent to all and super apathetic. He is very much not, but he'll rationalise his kindness or die trying lmao.

Son of night is now becoming a fic! I posted the first chapter now and I'll post the rest once chapter 5 is done, so this will be the last instalment posted to tya's whimsies, hope you enjoyed.

Chapter 17: she hath no place to lay her head -- the citizen of the world (MCU - Avengers OC)

Summary:

This is something I attempted because I wanted to try using my own cultural roots (my mom is Malagasy) to build a fanfic character. It didn't work out, not because the OC is bad but because she didn't fit the setting and I didn't know the fandom enough. I could write Tony Stark reasonably well. The others are pretty hit or miss, and I didn't bother rewriting the original movie dialogues, which was kinda lazy of me and made the pacing of the chapter kinda weird.

Still, it was fun so this dead fic gets added to the whimsical graveyard.

The main theme of this fic was supposed to be found family and the issue I wanted to address was the very frustrating American-centrism of the Avengers movies.

Anja Rakotoarisoa is lying listlessly on the floor of her room when they come for her.

They don’t even seem surprised to find her there, and she doesn’t care enough to stand up and greet the possible assassins come to see her. They would be the second ones today.

“Miss Rakotoarisoa,” says the man in a leather trenchcoat. “We’ve come to make you an offer.”

She chuckles mirthlessly. A less common greeting than outright violence, but not the first time she’s been propositioned. “Let me guess: you’ve heard of my talents and wish for me to contribute them to a greater cause?”

“That is right. Will you hear me out?”

Anja hums. “Might as well.”

Two days later she’s boarding the metal contraption they call the helicarrier. Two expressionless agents guide her to a meeting room, where the other so-called Avengers are supposedly trying to do something about the alien who killed about eighty people. Or more? The numbers blur in her mind. The debrief was very thorough. Too thorough, maybe.

“Ah, I see,” she says in accented English after she stares at the two shouting white people for long seconds. “I’m the diversity hire.”

She plops herself on the floor, her back to the wall. She closes her eyes. Counts her breaths.

The room has quieted, though she hears one or two voices spluttering. Clothes shift, indicating movement. The weird alien contraption at the centre of the table buzzes loud enough to give her the start of a migraine, and that’s not even saying anything about the general noise the helicarrier makes constantly.

“Hey, Cap’,” starts Stark. She recognises his voice from all the infomercials about his new technology business. His tone is snarky, likely responding to a comment made beforehand. Her sudden arrival seems to have calmed them a bit. “Have you seen the footage for that one? Because I sure haven’t. ”

The handler mentioned in the debrief says some kind of polite platitude about her being a last minute addition, vetted by the director himself. The blond dressed in the American flag asks about her skillset and background. He expresses some doubt about adding a random civilian to the team without informing them. Stark makes a joke, she thinks, but she doesn’t understand it. Her migraine is getting worse, the buzz of the thing at the centre of the table is deafening. When her hearing comes back, another man remarks he’s a civilian too.

Her teeth itch. Anja opens her eyes.

“Agent,” she says, “Fury promised me an inhibitor. Where is it?”

“Miss Rakotoarisoa, do you believe now is the time?” asks the man mildly.

“Tell you what. I introduce myself to the team and you fetch me what I joined for before I accidentally short-circuit the helicarrier.”

The tip of her fingers lights with electricity as she says so. She grimaces. “Sorry. I did say the problem was urgent.”

The agent nods and taps on his tablet. She turns to the team. The redhead, a spy and assassin, if she remembers her notes, is not there. The archer isn’t either, he was taken out by the alien. Then there’s some kind of scientist who was caught up in an experiment. A supersoldier. And Doctor Stark, the genius, billionaire, something, philanthropist.

“I’m Anja. Rakotoarisoa, from Tananarive, Madagascar. I was recruited for the same reasons this one was, I suppose,” she says, nodding to the scientist on the other side of the room. “An experiment gone wrong resulting in an enhancement has made me useful enough to be considered for this initiative. Now I can kill a man by touching him.” She pauses. “I say I can, but it’s more that I will. Do not think I’m joking. My body channels enough electricity to put down an ox at base level. Don’t touch me.”

“Great, so we have the God of Thunder and what, Thunderbird?” says Stark, raising an eyebrow.

Anja rolls her eyes. “I am Malagasy, Doctor Stark.”

“Huh, it’s been a while since I’ve been called doctor. Please keep doing that, I like it. Hm, but Tony’s a fine name, you can use it too. And I know, recognised your last name. I was guessing your work alias. You know,” he points at himself, “Iron Man.” Then at the blond patriot, “Captain America, “the scientist, “and that’s Hulk. Only when he’s angry, though. You can’t miss it, he’ll turn green and get a growth spurt. Then we’re missing Black Widow, and the alien terrorist’s brother has recently joined our team. No alias for him, he’s just Thor. So,” he leans forward, “you’re what, electrokinetic? Does that include some level of technopathy? Hey, do you want a job at the end of this? Think of all the fun science we could do together.” He claps his hands. “And other things, if you’re up to it,” he says with a waggle of eyebrows. "Though now that you’ve mentioned I’ll literally die if I try to touch you, I think I should abstain. I have a heart condition, you know. And what’s this about an inhibitor?”

“Stark! Let’s get back to business, shall we?”

Anja ignores the captain. She’s smiling slightly. The billionaire amuses her. “I am electrokinetic,” she confirms, “and I am supposed to be technopathic, that is, but I do not know enough about engineering to exploit it in a useful way. I was made to destroy, not create.”

Stark throws her a considering glance. The scientist with mild manner flexes his hand on the table. He understands better than the others what she means by that.

The captain disapproves. “Hey now, that’s no way to talk about yourself.”

“I am only stating facts. I was trafficked at the age of twelve. Snatched from the streets of my home city and sold to the wrong people. I don’t think you’d like to hear what was done to me, captain, but my power wasn’t honed for the greater good.”

Anja doesn’t know what good is. She’s only here for selfish reasons. She needs an inhibitor, and she needs a job. She can’t live a normal life and Nick Fury has given her the second best option.

“Yeah, you’re definitely hired,” murmurs Stark, his eyes sharpening.

“Electra is an employee of SHIELD, Stark,” says Fury, entering the room. He is followed by the redheaded spy Anja saw in the notes she was given, the Agent who is holding some kind of metal contraption and a tall and large blond man holding a hammer.

She raises an eyebrow. “Am I? I have signed no contract. I agreed on a trial period, nothing more. I told you I wouldn’t sign anything until you prove your inhibitor works.”

“What is this inhibitor, exactly?” asks the scientist.

Meanwhile, Stark murmurs that Electra is a boring codename, prompting an exasperated response from Captain America.

“As I said, I cannot touch people without killing them, nevermind pieces of technology. Director Fury promised he had a way to help me.”

“Agent,” says the Director.

The man nods and steps forward. She flinches when she realises the contraption in his hand is a metal collar. Her hands curl into fists, but she lets him put it on her. She hears Stark and the Captain protest.

The inhibitor closes around her throat. It sparks as it makes contact with her skin, but the reaction isn’t as dramatic as the time she tried to touch a phone. The agent turns it on somehow, touching a button on the front. Th thing activates promptly. She can feel it absorb the energy output. She hisses as it heats rapidly, the metal scalding her skin. She’s about to take it off when some kind of security seems to activate. The machine cools. It whirrs and keeps feeding on her.

She relaxes. The agent, who is kneeling in front of her, extends a hand to her. She puts her trembling fingers on his palm, and lets out a shaky breath when the only thing it does is mildly shock the man.

Anja laughs wetly. “Andriamanitra o,” she murmurs.

“You’re a human arc reactor,” breathes out Stark. “Fury, this inhibitor’s not gonna work on the long term, you must know that. I give it fourty-eight hours before it overloads.”

“I know, Stark, which is why as a consultant,” he emphasises, “of the Avengers, we will ask you to create a better device. In the meantime, Agent will have several inhibitors at his disposal.”

“Sure, I’ll do it,” he says, his eyes distant, as if he’s already thinking about what to do. “But, no offence, I’m not making it in the shape of a shock collar, if you don’t mind.”

Anja smiles at this.

Fury concedes the point. The discussion shifts to what they’re actually here for, at least for a time. Then another argument start between Stark and the Captain – who is apparently named Rogers –, then the two of them and Thor, who turns out to be a Norse God. Anja learns a lot about the people here.

She doesn’t understand why the discussion gets so heated, but she has no prior knowledge of these things.

She was a slave, then an experiment, then a failed asset. Once she killed her captors and crawled her way back home, she was Vazaha to her family, a foreigner. They had mourned her and didn’t understand this new person she had become, so her return from the dead was unwelcome. She made her living as a mercenary of sorts, killing traffickers, murderers and rapists in exchange for favours. A dingy apartment, enough food to survive, a library pass, the clothes on her back and being left alone. That was all she asked for. This half-life she’s been living for seventeen years has not been conducive to the development of her social skills.

She’s not sure if this is normally how these types of meetings are conducted. At least not until Doctor Banner shapeshifts.

By then she’s at least clued in that something is wrong.

Notes:

The electrokinesis mutation is so overdone too, I'm ashamed of myself. But Anja's fun. Yes, her name is more or less the Malagasy equivalent of Jane Smith. It's done on purpose because it's a fake name she's claimed and ties in with her identity struggles but as a one-off chapter, it's kind of strange so I'm explaining it here tee-hee.

Chapter 18: the devil, not so black as he is painted (Harry Potter OC)

Summary:

In which the OC turns the Golden Trio into a Golden Quartet, adds some weirdness to the friendship dynamics between Ron, Harry and Hermione with a whacky backstory, upsets the plot by having a professor for a mom and manages what the Brightest Witch in her year couldn't do: Sam makes the house-elf liberation movement trendy. Well, that and his doting demon of a father shows up every now and then. Once he finds out Sam exists, of course.

Inspired by the whole cambion thing in "ex nihilo". I asked myself, what if there actually was a cambion student at Hogwarts? And came up with this.

I made him a Gryffindor, because putting the half-demon in Slytherin is too much of a cliche.

Sam gets along with Ron best in this, which I did not expect. But he adds some balance to Completely-Clueless-About-Wizard-Things Harry, Takes-What-He-Learnt-As-A-Child-Wizard-For-Granted Ron and Knows-Everything-But-Not-By-Osmosis Hermione. And he's a bridge with the Slytherins, which is always nice. Blaise with a cousin (or several, like in Ex Nihilo) is the best Blaise.

Reincarnation is not so bad, all things considered.

Or maybe he’s had such a rotten time on his first go at it that he’s thrilled to have another chance. It’s like he’d been marked by death somehow. A childhood illness weakened his immune system and he spent months at a time at the hospital. When he recovered from that, he had a nasty car accident that sent him back to his hospital room. Then there was the death of each of his relatives, picked off one by one until he had no one and nothing to hold onto. He’d wasted away after that. Not because he mourned them; they always had made it obvious he was a burden. But awful or not, they were his.

His current theory is that his first life was a mistake, and he always was supposed to be born here, in a world where Death takes on a tangible form and hands out trinkets for cheating her. In a world where it was expected of children to fight Dark Lords because they have a wand and the will to use it. This world is pretty terrible, when you think about it, and that’s not even mentioning the slavery and segregation, the terrorism and government corruption. But there was some of that in his previous world; child labour, slavery and exploitation in the open in the global south and under cover in the north. Corruption everywhere, terrorist attacks, discrimination, violence. The difference is that here, powerless children are given the illusion that they can do something about it. Nevermind that Harry Potter only got rid of the terrorism and hoped his slave would make him a sandwich when he was done with it. To be fair to him, he was an abused kid scared to rock the boat too hard and be deemed unsuitable for the society who adored and reviled him in turn. He picked the hill he wanted to die on and ignored the others, hoping someone else would take care of it. Even if he’d gotten definitive proof that nothing gets done if he doesn’t step up. It’s a bit sad, really. Dobby’s grave was still fresh when Voldemort died.

(In both lives, he is a black kid angry at the world. Everywhere people who look like him die because of hatred, ignorance and greed. And he’s all too aware it has gotten better with the times, but not enough for the fight to be over.

Slavery is… a touchy subject, as you can imagine. What was the writer even thinking?)

His mother names him Samael Sinistra. Sam, for short. The full name sounds grim even if the alliteration rolls off the tongue, and Aurora only uses it when she’s angry at him. It doesn’t happen often, but it’s usually deserved. He has broken a telescope or two by fiddling with it. Thankfully, she never gets angrier than necessary.

He grows up in his own little corner of Hogwarts, under the watchful eyes of his mother and her coworkers. Well, some of them. His ma doesn’t trust Sybill Trelawney with a child, the DADA professors aren’t to be trusted period and Minerva and Pomona claim to have their hands full with the students. Actually, if he thinks about it, the only ones he sees with any kind of regularity are Filius Flitwick, Bathsheda Babbling, Septima Vector, Severus Snape and Rolanda Hooch.

Uncle Fil is great. He comes the nights Ma is working and reads to Sam to help him sleep, or tells him about his duelling exploits at the boy’s urging. Sometimes he whispers secrets of the kho’bl kingdom, hidden deep under Gringotts and various secret locations.

Auntie Sheda is Ma’s best friend and comes often. She’s Sam’s godmother and takes the role seriously, spending her limited free time teaching him how to read and write English. Once he proves he can handle that, she switches to Elder Futhark, Ancient Greek, Sumerian, Ancient Nubian and Akkadian. It’s kind of a nightmare, to be perfectly honest. He’s sure he’ll be grateful for it at some point. Now he grumps about it all the way, but doesn’t protest when she shows him the proper way to put quill to parchment.

Auntie Septima doesn’t come often enough to get a nickname, but when she does, she’s never empty-handed. Usually, she brings him puzzles and riddles to work through, and he solves them with his Ma, since he’s awful at them. He doesn’t tell her to stop though. Ma makes it fun. Septima also has children, Ives and Quinn Vector. They’re adults with proper jobs now, but they used to babysit him when he was younger.

Uncle Sev surprised him. He comes by for tea with his mother, and sometimes gives him a check-up. Sam wonders why they don’t simply bring him down to Poppy Pomfrey’s wing. He doesn’t find out until years later. What he knows is that his Ma and Sev were in Slytherin together, though she was a year older. She left the country as soon as she graduated, and they only reconnected when she came back to teach. Sev’ taught him the basics of potion making after he badgered him a little, and indulges in his mindless babbling. Sam likes him. He doesn’t look too long at the man’s left forearm, where he knows the Dark Mark is hidden. But sometimes he wonders.

Rolanda Hooch gets him his first child’s broom and teaches him how to use it. She’s not too close with Ma; she just thinks all children ought to know how to fly. He doesn’t have much interest for Quidditch, but being up in the air is fun, and he can see the entirety of the Hogwarts grounds. He loves his new home.

He roams the castle every chance he gets, as soon as his Ma allows him to step out of the Astronomy Tower. He explores under the watchful eyes of the portraits, who alert his mother when he does mischief. The empty armours pick him up when he falls, the house elves feed him cakes and he tries really hard not to ask them what they think about slavery. He studies up on their history in the Hogwarts Library, his second favourite place in the castle.

He rarely is out when the students are, but the rare encounters he has with them are quite charming. They show him harmless tricks and ask him good-naturedly to put in a good word with his mother for them. He always does so, dutifully. Sam’s not sure it helps, he’s heard his Ma is pretty strict. He never ventures out far enough to visit Hagrid by himself, but he’s taken on a tour of the greenhouses multiple times, and his Ma takes him with her when she visits the centaurs to discuss the omens she sees in the way the planets move. Ma might not teach Astrology, but she’s not stupid enough to ignore a discipline so intricately linked to her own field of study.

He likes these little excursions, but there’s no place like home.

Their wing at the Astronomy Tower glints with charmed stars and rotating planets. It’s quite mesmerising. The rooms are in a mezzanine, which you access by stepping on stairs enchanted to look like clouds. His ma’s room is dawn-themed, his dusk-themed. And the bathroom is full of moonstones, opalescent and gleaming from the fancy bathtub to the tiled walls. He loves it all.

Downstairs is more eclectic. The solar system has a lot to offer, after all. The only thing that’s out of place is at the centre of the living room; there is an empty space delimited by candles, for ritual circles and pentagrams. Sometimes, ma summons imps to babysit him. She makes Sam swear not to tell; it’s dark magic, she says, the Headmaster doesn’t like it. And it’s technically illegal, but who cares about that?

The thing is, Aurora Sinistra didn’t always make it a habit to summon demons. But then she met Orias, a great marquis of Hell who liked Astronomy as much as she did. And she bore him a child, as Sam finds out when he’s eight years old. He’s a cambion, it turns out.

Hell’s a big word. Demons are like goblins and vampires in the magical world. A different species entirely, and not much like what the Christians like to rave about, though they were right about the horns and the red skin. It would be more accurate to compare them to the fae, really. They have their own dimension, and only leave it when they get bored. But while the fae courts have left wizards alone for centuries now, demons visit with more regularity. They like it here, apparently.

That’s why Sam didn’t leave the Tower until he was six years old. Before that, his eyes turned a carmine red everytime he got excited. That his teeth and ears were a bit pointy is easier to hide, and his tail only came out when he turned nine. It’s in the shape of a red serpent with pitch black eyes, which is pretty cool. It hasn’t made him a Parselmouth though, shame. He wonders if the tail is sentient. He has no way to know, unless he asks Harry Potter about it later on. They’re the same age, but he’s not sure he’ll want to risk it.

It also explains why the imps sometimes call him little lord. His dad is a big deal in their dimension, he finds out. When Sam asks if he’ll ever meet him, his mother shakes her head regretfully.

“I have no way to contact him; summoning greater demons has killed wizards stronger than I am. And the imps are not high-ranked enough to carry a message. I could summon another kind of demon, but there’s no guarantee they won’t be an enemy of your father. That could backfire spectacularly. If by chance he visits the human realm again in this century, he’ll sense you immediately, sweetheart, and come to you just as fast. But there’s nothing we can do but wait and hope.” 

He’s accepted that.

Ma’s friends know about their secret, the professors that are closest to Dumbledore don’t. Except Sev, but he’s only as close to the Headmaster as he has to be. They’re all hoping he’ll end up in Ravenclaw or Slytherin, in case someone finds out when he’s a student. Auntie Sheda made his an enchanted necklace that conceals his tail and other traits, but when you live in a dorm with other teenage boys you don’t have the same privacy as you’re accustomed to. An accident could always happn, and wrapping his tail around his torso is a pretty flimsy way to hide it.

Of course, that means everyone panics when he’s Sorted into Gryffindor and makes friends with the Boy Who Lived, putting himself right under the scrutiny of Albus Dumbledore.

***

His Ma didn’t lock him up inside Hogwarts; though she spends the majority of her time there, she still took him on vacation over the holidays, when her presence wasn’t necessarily required. On memorable occasions, Sam is brought to Italy and Ethiopia, his mother’s countries of origin. But she also takes him out for mundane errands, and as such he has seen Diagon Alley before. He doesn’t like it much. He prefers the Bristol Foxhole, a giant magical marketplace located in the old part of the city. You have to shake a hideous fox statue’s paw to get in, it’s really cool.

This is where Sam gets most of his school supplies – a trunk, new quills and ink, potions ingredients, a cauldron, books. It is only his wand and the robes that have to be bought at the Alley.

Ollivanders is as creepy as described in the story he read a lifetime ago. Upon seeing them, he drags them to his workshop, claiming that there’s no possible way he’ll risk Sam accidentally bumping into a wand that contains unicorn hair and making it shrivel on the spot. Apparently, the Lightest creatures on this dimension don’t like demons. Shocking.

It’s not so much that they dislike them, they’re just allergic to their magic. Sam notes this little tidbit for later, and asks his Ma to buy him gloves. It’s not the done thing to pick up someone else’s wand, but who knows what might happen.

“The only core that would suit you, young man, is dragon heartstring, and even that will be a trial.”

It takes two dozen wands. Out of exasperation, Sam grabs roughly at a random wand among the ones Ollivanders has spread out before him. His eyes widen at the sensation of warmth that suffuses into his body.

“Cherry wood, quite flexible, and the heartstring of a Ukrainian Ironbelly,” murmurs the wandmaker. “Excellent.”

Aurora rolls her eyes. “How much do I owe you?”

They don’t stay long after paying, and head straight for Madame Malkin’s. There, Ma lights up upon seeing a familiar face.

“Serafina!”

The woman blinks. She’s really beautiful, with golden eyes and skin, lustrous and long curly black hair, and fat jewels on her neck and ears. Sam’s ma likes gold, she wears it all the time as accessories. It figures she would befriend a golden woman.

“Aurora, it’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“At least a decade, dear.”

They start speaking rapid fire Italian. Sam, who’s only spoken to his mother in the language, only understands one side of the conversation. The other woman has a very different accent. To be fair, he doesn’t pay much attention. Instead he tilts his head and notices the boy sitting behind his mother’s friend. The seamstress is taking his measurements, and he looks supremely bored. When his ma notices where his attention has shifted, she blinks and switches back to English.

“Is that Blaise I see? Samael, this is Blaise Zabini, he’ll be your yearmate at Hogwarts. And you’re distant cousins, dears, our grandmothers are sisters.”

“Well met,” Sam murmurs softly, with a short nod of acknowledgement.

“Well met,” responds Blaise with a polite smile. He doesn’t look like he really wants to do small talk and Sam empathises, but they both make an effort. It’s surprisingly pleasant; Blaise is snarky, clever and very perceptive, and he seems to enjoy Sam’s conversation. He asks questions about Hogwarts, and shows a very Slytherin smugness about being one of the few of their yearmates who will know what to expect from this school he never visited. Sam teases him about being a shoe-in for the den of snakes, which Blaise takes as a compliment. Then they speculate on which House would be best for himself. He’s snuck into all of them during the summer hols, it’s hard for him to choose which he prefers. The discussion is good-natured, and the other boy makes it clear he won’t care which House Sam ends up in. It seems like Samael Sinistra has made his first friend in this world. They promise to write each other and their mothers promise to organise a luncheon. Sam is content.

Unfortunately, he does not find Blaise when he boards the Hogwarts Express a few weeks later. He is already grumpy about having to take the train in the first place – he lives at Hogwarts, Circe, what a waste of time – and upon seeing rows upon rows of occupied compartments for almost an hour, he doesn’t even think twice before pushing his way in when he sees one that contains only two people.

Who turn out to be Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, comfortably eating snacks while getting to know each other.

“I – can I sit here? I haven’t managed to find a seat,” he manages to say after a beat of awkward silence.

Ron glances at Harry, who nods hesitantly. The Boy-Who-Lived is very tiny, is Sam’s first thought. And Ron is very tall. Sam’s just average height, and not very remarkable if one excludes the hidden serpent tail and the slightly demonic features. He doesn’t hide them, he just encourages people to look somewhere else. That includes wearing very magical clothing and accessories; he has a bracelet in the shape of the solar system spinning around his left wrist, gold eyeliner that shimmers at each eye and his shirt is tucked under an oversized dusk orange sweater on which a snitch flits through periodically.

Sam fidgets and steps forward to sit next to Harry, though not too close to him. “I’m Samael Sinistra, well met.” He pauses and grimaces. “Please call me Sam.”

Ron snorts. “You still use that old greeting?”

He hums, “My Ma’s pretty big on propriety. Something about it being more likely to offend if you don’t use it than if you do.”

The redhead shakes his head.

“Mine was too, I think, but my dad got her into muggle greetings and he was so enthusiastic about it she started using them to make him happy. Now it’s pretty much the norm in the house.” He pauses. “But in terms of offending people, I think my family’s pretty much already offended anyone who uses expressions like that.”

Sam tilts his head.

“You’re a Weasley, aren’t you?”

Ron grins. “What gave it away? I’m Ron, by the way. Forgot to say it.”

“And I’m Harry,” says the green-eyed boy, piping up. “Harry Potter,” he mumbles after a beat, hiding his bangs very obviously as he says so.

The cambion chuckles.

“You know you’re only drawing attention to the scar if you do that? Don’t hide your entire forehead, just do a side part to draw attention to the left side.”

Both of them look at him as if he’s said something completely alien. Sam passes a hand through his own textured hair, self-consciously.

“What? I like fashion, sue me.”

“Isn’t that a girl thing?” asks Harry hesitantly.

“Only for cowards,” says Sam with a challenging grin. “I like what I like and girl things are not bad things. It’s not shameful to like them. Besides I think anyone can enjoy looking good, no?”

“Right,” replies the boy, blinking rapidly. He seems to make a decision because he nods firmly and asks him shyly if he’d be willing to show him how to do it. Sam nods and telegraphs his movements so he doesn’t startle the other.

“I’m not sure you should bother,” says Ron, “he probably has the Potter Curse.”

“Potter Curse?” asks Harry.

“One of your ancestors was cursed with bad hair in the eleventh century,” replies Sam absently as he rearranges the boy’s bangs. “It’s petty and useless, but whoever did it made it hereditary and no one’s managed to undo the Curse since. Your hair will be resistant to dyes, cosmetic potions and radical haircuts. But I’m only moving it around a little bit and I’m not using magic so it should be fine.”

“My aunt tried to shave my head and it grew back in a day,” he shares hesitantly. “Is that because of the Curse?”

“Probably,” shrugs Ron.

When Sam’s done, he sits back down and they change the subject, though not before Harry thanks him quietly. The cambion ends up revealing his mother works at Hogwarts.

“No way! So you know how we get Sorted?” exclaims Ron.

Harry leans forward, interested.

He nods. “But I promised not to tell. I can only say that it’s not as scary as the upperclassmen will try to make you think it is. And there’s no way to fail it, it’s not a test.”

Both of their shoulders lose a bit of tension when he says that.

He tells them a bit about Hogwarts, careful not to spoil too much. The castle has to be experienced through one’s own eyes. Then they talk about other things, until they are interrupted by a nervous boy looking for his toad.

Sam taps a finger to his chin. “Find a prefect, they will help. They usually do patrols up and down the train and wear badges, they’re easy to spot.”

“Ah, thank you,” stutters the boy, wringing his hands.

“He’ll turn up,” reassures him Harry.

The boy leaves. Some time later, it’s a slender platinum blond and the two broad boys flanking him who barge into the compartment.

Draco Malfoy is as rude as Sam expects. He recognises Ron for a Weasley and insults him, then tries to extend a hand to Harry. He completely ignores Sam, until the end where he adds as an afterthought that he can come too, since he’s not a blood traitor. Malfoy looks at him up and down as he says so, his expression thoughtful.

“I know you’re a Sinistra, but I don’t know about your father… hey, are you a half-blood or a pureblood?” he demands sharply.

Sam raises an eyebrow.

“Well met, Malfoy. Crabbe, Goyle,” he starts with, reminding them of their earlier rudeness.

“Well met,” says the blond begrudgingly, belatedly followed by his two silent shadows. Then he waits, expecting Sam to reveal his blood status. When nothing comes, he huffs. “A half-blood, then. You could have just said so.”

Sam shrugs. “Well, technically I don’t have a father, and I haven’t really asked my mother about his blood. I don’t care much about this nonsense. This Isle is a bit too proud of its inbreeding, if you ask me.”

Ron and Harry stare at him. Malfoy sniffs before turning to Harry and again warns him against spending time with the wrong sort.

“I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks.”

Later, it is a light-skinned black girl with bushy hair who knocks on their door. Again, they are asked about the toad. Then treated to some pretty impressive word vomit, and Ron is challenged to show them a colour-changing spell. Sam doesn’t let him finish the nonsense incantation he’s using.

“Your brothers were having you on, mate,” he says, shaking his head. “Do your parents only use non-verbal magic around the house?”

Ron nods cautiously. He sees the unimpressed look Hermione Granger throws at him, and is looking out for any sign of mockery from Harry and Sam. He relaxes when he finds none.

“They must be quite talented wizards,” he observes. Ron preens and nods. “That explains why you don’t know most Western European spells are derived from Latin.”

He is about to say more on the topic when Hermione bulldozes her way back into the conversation, bragging about having read all of the schoolbooks and being prepared for anything. Then she points her wand at Harry and repairs his glasses with a charm. She mentions having read about him and scoffs when he says he hasn’t.

“Why would he want to read about his parents’ death in a history book?” wonders Sam, before throwing an apologetic glance at the boy, who shakes his head, showing him that the apology isn’t needed.

The girl seems to realise her misstep and bites her lip before rallying. “I would,” challenges Hermione.

“That’s, er, great for you,” says Harry pointedly.

She falters, unsure what to say. She leaves promptly after that, telling them they should get changed, the train will arrive soon.

Sam exchanges bewildered glances with the boys. He’s read the description of this scene, of course, but it is quite something to witness it in person. And if he’s not wrong, the dialogue didn’t go quite like this…? Ah, no matter.

All in all, the trip to Hogwarts is eventful.

They arrive and take the boats to the castle. Sam salutes Hagrid, but he’s too busy to say more than hello to him and Harry. As they embark four by four, they are reunited with Neville Longbottom, who is now clutching his pet as tight as he can to keep him from jumping overboard. His new friends are distracted by their observation of the castle while Sam is lost in his thoughts. The trip to the Great Hall is a bit of blur. When they get here, he spots Blaise and goes to greet him. As such, he misses what the other students say about the Sorting.

They’re called one after the other. As far as he’s aware, it goes exactly like in the books. The only change is that Harry sidles up to him and murmurs, “I’m worried about Sorting Slytherin.”

Sam blinks down at him, surprised, before he whispers back, “my Ma was a Slytherin. It wasn’t the best time to be one, to be honest, since You-Know-Who was recruiting, but she managed alright. It’s not a bad House, it’s just that its weird reputation attracts both good and bad sort.”

“We’ll still be friends if I Sort there, then? I don’t think Ron…” he turns to the redhead, who’s watching the Sorting avidly. Harry’s mouth twists anxiously.

“Did he say something about it before I get there?” he guesses. “Huh. Well, the Weasleys have been Gryffindors for generations, I suppose it makes sense. There’s the rivalry to think about. But of course we’ll still be friends. I told you earlier, I don’t even know where I’m gonna end up.” He pauses. “Your parents were Gryffindors too, but I’m pretty sure your granddad was a Ravenclaw.” Uncle Fil mentioned it a while ago when he was trying to entice Sam to Sort into his House. He had a list of famous alumni and Fleamont Potter was on it. “I don’t think your parents would have had huge expectations for where you’d end up, if you’re bothered about that.”

Harry looks relieved to hear it. He’s about to say something when he is called to the Hat. Sam watches him go, wondering if he made a mistake in telling him this. The Sorting seems to take a long time. At first, Harry looks really nervous, but soon he relaxes and seems to chat with the Sorting Hat. Sam wonders if the magical artefact is reassuring him. After several minutes of back-and-forth, the Hat finally shouts “GRYFFINDOR,” and the lions explode in cheers.

Soon after, it’s Sam’s turn.

“Samael Sinistra,” calls out Professor McGonagall. She offers him a small smile when gets there. He doesn’t know her well, but you can’t be raised in the castle without the professors growing somewhat fond of you. It helps that he wasn’t too much of a brat.

He sits on the stool and waits for the Hat to pop onto his head.

“Ah, you’re shaping up to be another Hat Stall,” observes the Sorting Hat. “You have no preference at all, do you?”

He shakes his head. “I grew up here, I know all the Houses have their good points.”

The Hat chuckles. “Very true. It is up to me, then. Hm, I think you would do well in… GRYFFINDOR.”

Huh.

That night, when he’s finally ensconced in his bed in his new dormitory, he stares at the ceiling of his four-poster bed and murmurs to himself, “Now what?”

He wasn’t planning on being anywhere near the Boy-Who-Lived. He had vague ideas of fighting for Hogwarts when the time came, of course, but he’d wanted to focus on his personal pet project, the liberation of house elves. The fight for creature rights is the hill he wants to die on.

Unlike Hermione Granger seemed to think in the story, house elves didn’t just need to learn to want freedom. It is much more complicated than that.
Demonic magic on Earth was sustained by contracts. The greater demons could forgo them, of course, but only if they didn’t stay long. Otherwise the magic unique to their dimension slowly decayed until they found themselves powerless. Cambions only survive it because the union of two people is understood by magic as a contract, however brief it ends up being. Per his nature, Sam is uniquely suited to perceiving binding magic, though it took him years to understand what he was seeing. He sees the way the primordial contract the elves had signed to gain access to their source of sustenance – wizards’ residual magic – without having to steal wizard children and cause conflict between the two species has been skewed in wizards’ favour and twisted into the sick form it takes today.

Sam wants to do something about it, and he will, when he is strong enough and has researched the proper rituals. He will have to learn demonic magic; he is ready for it. He just needs his core to stabilise first. It usually takes a year or two after a wizard receives their magical focus, he’s not in a hurry.
But that means he hadn’t envisioned joining Harry Potter’s quest against magical terrorism in Albion – the old name of magical Britain, which is more used in dark wizards’ circles than light wizards’. To be fair, he doesn’t have to; he can be friendly with Harry and Ron without following them into danger. But Sam knows himself. He doesn’t think he’ll have the heart to step aside. And there are things he knows that could make their journey a little smoother.

Another issue is the possibility of them finding out about his peculiar origins. He doesn’t know how they would react. While werewolves are quite pitiful, half-demons are a completely different story. They’re not cursed, the Dark is the essence of who they are.

“I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it,” he decides before closing his eyes, determined to get some sleep.

***

Actually attending school rather than roaming it is… a little boring. Sam’s by no means a genius but he’s grown up around professors who double as researchers, it was bound to have its impact.

Thanks to his knowledge of the castle, he, Harry and Ron don’t get lost on their way to class and he can show them the really cool spots in their free time. He can tell they appreciate it. Still, he sometimes leaves them to figure themselves out on their own so they don’t rely too much on him to find their way. He goes and says hi to the professors he likes, or climbs up the Astronomy Tower to bother his Ma a little. He can tell she misses him, even if they see each other in class.

And he stops to chat with Blaise when he can. They even study together sometimes, since Sam isn’t particularly interested in the endless games of chess and exploding snap Ron and Harry play on the regular.

Blaise has made friends in Slytherin too: Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass join in regularly, and the Slytherin clique of girls headed by Pansy Parkinson also like to come more sporadically. They don’t care for him much, but they stay polite.

“You’ve made an enemy of Draco,” observes Blaise the first time they do this, and the other Slytherins raise their heads from their parchment and books, observing him curiously. Blaise doesn’t like Malfoy, but he prefers avoiding him when he can rather than getting confrontational.

Sam snorts. “Harry made an enemy of him, and Ron’s family already had a blood feud with his. I’m just… there.”

“He said you called him inbred,” notes Theodore.

“No, I said Albion is too proud of its inbreeding. The last time the Black family married outside of the Isle was in the sixteenth century and the less said about the Crabbes and the Goyles, the better. House Flint isn’t doing so well too, same for the Smiths, Travers and Slughorns. It’s a bit of a mess, you have to admit.”

Blaise nods, unsurprised. The other two exchange looks, but concede the point. They don’t feel attacked by this; House Nott has historical links to Scandinavia and often arranges marriages with wizards of the area, and House Greengrass did the same with France, the German Duchies, Hungary and Austria where it has business interests.

Sam continues. “Malfoy’s not gonna like me if I keep hanging out with Harry, but that’s fine. I find him quite rude, you know, and a little too self-important for my taste. If I wanted to talk to a braggart, I’d go chat with Sir Cadogan.”

“Sir Cadogan?” asks Daphne.

“A portrait you really don’t want to meet. He’ll talk your ear off, and lies constantly on top of it. He says he was a Knight of the Round table. I think the only round thing he’s sat close to is a barrel of butterbeer.”

They snicker at that, then get back to studying.

Ron is a bit dubious about his association with Slytherins, but accepts it when he says Blaise is his cousin and his friends are not so bad. Blaise, Daphne and Theo don’t harass Neville and Harry or spout pureblood rhetoric, so he’s not too bothered.

“Maybe they’re not all bad,” he says doubtfully. “But why don’t they say anything against Malfoy?”

“You know how influential that his father is,” reasons Sam. “And Slytherin has rules about not fighting in front of other Houses, I’m pretty sure.”

“That’s stupid,” remarks Harry.

Sam chuckles. “Hm, I’m glad we don’t have anything like that in Gryffindor. But to be fair, we have bad stuff too, like all Houses.”

“McLaggen,” they say in unison, before snickering.

The first potions class leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

He knew what was going to happen, but it still shocks him to see it to the point where he goes numb and silent. He is paired with Blaise, who watches him with worried eyes throughout it all.

When the class ends and Harry leaves with Ron, shell-shocked and trembling with irritation and indignation, Sam stays behind.

“Samael,” says Uncle Sev evenly.

“What was that?” he asks furiously.

 

Chapter 19: his cross to bear (Harry Potter)

Summary:

My take on the Wrong-Boy-Who-Lived trope, with unhelpful goblins for once and a Ravenclaw Harry Potter to boot. He'll be friends with Su Li and Padma Patil + Luna of course + Sirius being Harry's dad because I love that trope.

Also, um, Harry changed his name to Haron. I'm sorry. He wanted a fake name and I decided he chose to keep it.

The goblins laughed when they saw him, he remembered.

They laughed and handed him a key to a trust vault without explanation. They just said it was under his name.

He took it, looked inside and asked how the monetary system worked. They took too much glee in his ignorance, he would rather avoid asking them more than they were willing to give him, so he contented himself with the basics.

He came back to the Dursleys and asked for answers. They’d been furious, of course. They hadn’t seen him take the letter and read it, they hadn’t noticed him slipping away to London on the off chance that it might not be a prank, that magic might actually be his way out of this horrible house.

Aunt Petunia told him the terrible truth.

His parents were alive, and they were wizards. They abandoned him under the assumption that he would never be able to do magic, and paid the Dursleys handsomely to take him in. At some point the payments stopped, so Petunia never saw fit to inform them he had manifested magical abilities. She only kept him because the neighbours would have talked if she hadn’t.

After that, he only had to open a history book to learn what the official story was. And to find out whose key he had been given.

James and Lily Potter were war heroes who unexpectedly found themselves with twins while they fought against a magical terrorist with a ridiculous assumed name that made people flinch when it was said out loud.

They went into hiding, but their bravery had attracted the eye of the Dark Lord, who hunted them down. But they were not home when he breached their wards, the protective magic surrounding their house rendered null by the betrayal of their close friend. The boys’ godfathers were caring for them; they fought hard, but only one survived. And in a depressing parallel, only one of the charges they were trying to protect lived to see the next day. Not only that, but Charlie Potter somehow destroyed the Dark Lord who had slayed Remus Lupin, his godfather. The backlash of the magical discharge caused by Lord Voldemort’s death killed his brother Harry and greatly injured the dead child’s godfather, but the wizarding world was finally at peace.

This was how Harry Potter found out the world thought him dead, and he had a younger twin brother who was hailed as a hero. His parents were public figures who would probably not like to see their dirty secret resurface.

His injured godfather’s name was Sirius Black. The man stayed in a magical coma for years, then woke up and repudiated the Potters for reasons the public was still unclear about. He left the country days after, and never came back. The trust was placed under his name before he allegedly died, and the order never rescinded.

Harry wondered. But he never dared attempt to contact the man.

He came back to the goblins and asked them about ways to disguise his identity. They laughed some more and sent him off to Knockturn Alley. They weren’t a very helpful people, and their dislike for wizards suffered no exceptions, not even for muggle-raised abused children who bore them no ill will.

Braving the place dressed in muggle clothes was unadvisable, but Harry did not know it at the time. He survived, though not without collecting another scar and a curse at his back that left him blinded and in pain for days.

He didn’t make the same mistake another time, and soon enough he was considered acceptable enough for the Alley, and no one batted an eye when he inquired about renting a studio for the summers. His neighbours were a paranoid werewolf family who sometimes checked on him, but never let him into their home.

When he entered the Hogwarts Express, it was under the assumed name of Haron Pierce. He shaved his head and magically forced it into a buzz cut, threw out his glasses and replaced them with contact lenses. He wore wizarding clothes that fit him but were otherwise unremarkable.

He Sorted Ravenclaw, made few friends and only one rival, a Gryffindor girl who competed with him in the year ranking, and resolved to stand out only with the quality of his classwork. He never let himself look at Charlie Potter, not when the boy won countless points for saving the school in first year, not when he was accused of being the Heir of Slytherin and allegedly fought a basilisk to save his best friend’s sister, not when he won Gryffindor the Quidditch cup and his parents came to cheer him on.

He entered fourth year expecting much of the same. By this point he was already thinking of himself as Haron, and if he sometimes wrote the surname of a godfather he had never met next to it, it was nobody’s business.

Then the Triwizard tournament was announced, and the papers wrote that Sirius Black would be accompanying the Durmstrang delegation.

Chapter 20: his cross to bear II

Summary:

So this has entirely consumed my thoughts since I posted the first part. I think this might end up turning into a long fic. We'll see.

Haron was staring at the Daily Prophet with intensity.

“What’s so fascinating about... um,” she squinted to read the article’s headline, “Lord Black coming back to Britain?” asked Su-a Li, one of the few friends he made in Ravenclaw.

Her and Padma Patil were the only people he cared to speak to in his year, and they only really talked in class, at lunchtimes or in the quiet evenings in the common room. He spent the rest of his time buried in books, reading everything he could get his hands on and practising the spells he read about. They didn’t begrudge him that, aware of his introverted nature. They just sat down next to him and chatted between themselves or partook in their own respective hobbies – magical painting for Su-a and potions theory for Padma. Sometimes they’d convince him to let them use him as a dress-up doll, putting jewellery, make-up and extravagant magically altered clothes on him to their heart’s delight, as if he were a mannequin. He enjoyed it, though he preferred wearing simple, soft fabrics without patterns.

They were sitting in a plush pastel blue rug littered with bronze pillows in one of the common rooms’ many private alcoves, close to Haron’s favourite’s bookshelf. Its contents changed depending on what the student standing in front of it was most curious about that day. At the moment, it was filled with books on Defence Against the Dark Arts.

“Call it Albion,” said Padma with an exasperated eye roll.

It was a reoccurring argument; Su-a was Korean and only moved in here with her family for business, while the Patils were an established British family despite some people assuming otherwise due to their Indian roots. As such, Su-a had a similar position of outsider as Haron did, and often vied to remind them of it.

“I will not. You call yourself British wizards, don’t you? Not Albionian, or however it was pronounced before. You spend too much time with Slytherins, Padma.”

“Excuse you, they have the best gossip,” she defended.

“Nuh-uh, Haron has the best gossip. When he actually cares to share.”

“That’s because no one notices he’s there when they get up to weird stuff. Which I don’t get at all,” she muttered under her breath, “how can they not notice you? You’re so pretty.”

“Padma! You know Haron’s weird about compliments.”

They both turned to him, and faltered when they realised he wasn’t hiding his face as usual.

“Are you okay? What is it about Sirius Black that has you all tangled up?” asked Su-a, concerned.

“I -- er.”

He watched his two friends, biting his lip.

He had never told them of his circumstances. They knew he was a half-blood, and that he lived alone. They didn’t pry, despite how unsubtle they were about wanting to know. The only one who knew was Luna, their little underclassman who knew everything despite no one ever telling her.

“You can tell us,” encouraged Su-a.

“We’ll swear a Secrecy Vow if you want,” suggested Padma.

Haron blinked. “You would?”

“Duh. Of course. You’re our best friend.”

Su-a nodded with a bright smile.

His eyes pricked. He blinked rapidly. The tears didn’t fall.

“Right.” He shook his head. “You don’t need to. I trust you. Right.”

“You already said that,” teased Padma.

He chuckled and shushed her. “It’s hard enough as it is, don’t distract me. Um, Haron Pierce is not my real name.”

Their eyes widened.

“You guys assumed I was an orphan, and for a very long time I thought so too.”

He took a deep breath and told them everything. The Potters’ lie. Charlie being his younger twin. The trust vault key. His fear of contacting Sirius Black, of reaching out only to be possibly rejected by another parent, one who could make his life very difficult. If he decided to cut him off, Haron would have nothing. He even briefly mentioned the Dursleys, as difficult as that was for him.

“I promised myself I would write him after I turn seventeen and find out if he knew I was alive.” He shrugged. “By then he wouldn’t be able to do anything to me.”

“I can’t believe this,” spat Su-a.

Haron recoiled. She made a sound of protest.

“Not you, Haron, the Potters! I can’t believe they abandoned you and didn’t even check on you, what is wrong with them? That’s so messed up, aish. I’m so angry.”

“Is that why you never let your hair grow?” asked Padma, tilting her head and narrowing her eyes, examining him in a new light. She was likely trying to find similarities between him and his estranged twin.

“Priorities, honey, priorities.”

“Right, right, sorry. Obviously your parents are dickheads, but like, still.”

He smiled hesitantly. “Yeah. Charlie and I are fraternal twins, but the Potter hair is pretty distinctive, I didn’t want people to notice.”

“That makes sense,” hummed Su-a. “Do you think he knows about you? Or has he been mourning you this entire time and no one in the family told him?”

He wrapped his arms around his middle. “I don’t know. I’ve... wondered.”

“But you couldn’t ask him in case he tattled to his parents” guessed Su-a.

He looked down at the picture of Sirius Black in the prophet, dressed in a fancy version of the famous black and red Durmstrang uniform.

“I am still not over the fact that we didn’t notice the resemblance,” mused Padma. “Your eyes are the same colour and you have the same nose. I mean, he’s taller and has broader shoulders. His jaw is squarer, I guess. You're more angular and he’s... well, a Quidditch chaser. Much better at it than Seeker too, the Gryffindors must be thanking Merlin for Ginny Weasley.”

Probably the malnutrition, he thought with a wry smile. He could count his ribs during his first year at Hogwarts. It took a long time for him to get back to a healthy weight. Brewing nutrition potions was a trial and error, but he managed pretty well. He thanked the stars for the brewing room in Ravenclaw Tower. He was pretty sure only Slytherin House also had one, and the students couldn’t use it without Professor Snape’s approval. The eagles only needed a prefect to supervise, and Haron often had Robert Hilliard’s help while the prefect was still at Hogwarts. The young man still wrote him, though he was now apprenticed with a wandmaker.

“You’re prettier,” decided Padma, which prompted a laugh from the other two.

“Does that matter?” he asked with a lopsided grin.

“Well, yes, you’re smarter and prettier, so you’re obviously the superior twin, like me.”

“He’s literally the Saviour of Wizarding Britain!” he protested with a chuckle.

“It’s called Albion! You two, I swear.”

Su-a and Haron exchanged a smirk. They were doing it on purpose to rile their friend up at this point.

“But more seriously, I think you should talk to Sirius Black when he gets there, see if he recognises you,” said Su-a.

Haron bit his lip. “How would he? The last time we saw each other, I was a baby.”

“If he swore a Guardian’s Oath he’ll feel your magic from across the castle. It fell out of fashion for godparents to do it, but the Blacks are traditional, he might have. And if he hasn’t...” Padma shrugged. “You can always feel him out and see if he’s trustworthy.”

“But if he’s not...”

“If he’s not I’ll adopt you. Haron Patil, how does that sound? I’ll trade you for Parvati! Charlie can keep her.”

He pressed his lips together to stop himself from laughing. Su-a had no such compunction.

Padma and Parvati had a strange relationship; sometimes they got along amazingly well and other times they were like cats and dogs, bickering over the smallest things.

Padma crawled closer to Haron and placed a manicured hand on his arm. Her painted nails shifted from yellow to green.

“I’m serious, you know. If I ask, Amma and Appa will take you in as a Ward of our House.” She smiled cheekily. “Supporting the brightest wizard of our year is not a hardship, you know.”

Haron levitated a pillow and hit her with it. “Don’t call me that! It’s not even true.”

The girl made an offended noise. She pulled out her wand.

“You hit me, I hit you back, I swear.”

And proceeded to do just that.

 

***

 

“Professor Snape is in a foul mood,” murmured Su-a as she stirred their cauldron. “Do you think he hates Lord Black as much as he does your fa... I mean, Lord Potter?” she amended when she saw Haron’s warning look.

They always paired together in Potions, since Padma usually wanted to challenge herself by experimenting with the potion’s properties and they were not talented enough to keep up with her. Haron could follow the instructions well enough, but his potions were not exceptional. He compensated by following recipes to the letter, but he’d never reached Padma’s level of artistry. Su-a was the same, though her lack of interest in the subject and her impatience to finish made her slightly worse at it.

He had Robert Hilliard to thank for his obsession with keeping his grades up. When he hadn’t yet befriended the two girls he spent his time with – which happened in their second year, when Haron was quietly freaking out over the possibility of Hogwarts’ closure due to the petrifications. The hand they extended to him couldn’t have come at a better time, weird as their first proper conversation was – the only person he interacted with was the prefect. His roommates didn’t have the patience for his ignorance of both muggle and wizard games and for his skittishness, so he took refuge in the alcove he now shared with his best friends.

Rob used to sit with him there and help him with his homework, explaining concepts in a way that made them fun to learn rather than a chore. He patiently answered questions and never minded when Haron came back for more, desperate for positive human interaction. Rob asked him what he wanted to do later, and Haron then realised that everything he was interested in would require an immaculate student file. So he studied.

(Rob led him to realise he had a future, and he was oh so grateful for it. Padma and Su-a made him realise magic was an art as much as a tool, and Luna taught him to see something wondrous in human interactions too.

He wouldn’t trade Ravenclaw for the world.)

“Probably,” he whispered, “or maybe he’s not happy about having even more students in the castle. You know he does not suffer fools,” he added with an imitation of their professor’s haughtiest voice. Su-a snorted. “I heard he’s especially mean to Charlie,” he said after they were a few steps further into the preparation.

“Probably because your brother’s a prat,” sniffed his friend. “I mean he’s mellowed out a bit since he’s befriended Hermione--”

Haron wrinkled his nose at the name. Hermione Granger never talked to him, but he always saw her watching every time they had classes together. He didn’t know what her problem was; she was first in the year rankings and he only beat her in DADA, Charms, Ancient Runes and Transfiguration. He wasn’t even the only one: if he remembered right, Padma, Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott beat her in Potions, Ernie McMillan did it in History of Magic, Neville Longbottom in Herbology, Charlie, Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, Susan Bones also beat her in DADA, and Theodore Nott in Ancient Runes.

He didn’t mind before, but she had befriended his brother last year somehow; as far as he was aware, it hadn’t started well between the two of them. Charlie’s friends Ron, Seamus and Dean had kind of bullied her in first year and that had ended in her being in the path of the troll professor Quirrell had set loose into the castle. The thing broke her arm in two places and the boys arrived only fast enough to stop it from killing her. Then Seamus made a joke about it she didn’t appreciate, and everyone had waited for her to announce she was dropping out of Hogwarts, but she had persevered. Something must have happened in third year because she was taking every possible class and snapping at everyone and their mother. Charlie helped her somehow and now they studied together, though she always avoided the rest of his friend group.

Haron thought his brother could use more friends who didn’t approach him for his status, but he wished he hadn’t chosen the girl who stared at him so blatantly at every class. If his twin could remain oblivious to his existence until he graduated Hogwarts, that would be nice.

“-- but he’s still really full of himself. I don’t understand how he can walk through doors with such an inflated head.”

Haron grinned.

“You’re so mean. Not wrong though,” he muttered under his breath.

They finished their potion in silence, all too aware of the volatile temper of their professor. Snape used to freak Haron out with the way he stared a little too hard at his eyes, which he apparently inherited from his mother. He stopped after a while, and it became easier to breathe around the man. Now Snape treated like any other Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff students, which meant he largely didn’t cared about them unless they annoyed him, in which case he would make their life hell, or they demonstrated some kind of talent at Potions, in which case he gave them extra work. Padma loved it.

“I still don’t understand what Lord Black is doing at Durmstrang,” she said when they left the room sometime later. It was the last class of the day. The students from other schools would be arriving soon, along with the faculty members accompanying them. Haron was as excited as he was anxious about it.

“He’s the one who got their old headmaster fired,” replied Haron. “You know, Igor or Ivan Karkaroff? Can’t remember which one’s his first name.”

“It’s Igor,” said Padma when she joined them.

“Right. Lord Black’s been doing a lot of work with the ICW. From what I understand he’s partnering with them and using the Black family pedigree to root out corruption in the influential international families. Normally Karkaroff wouldn’t have been on his radar, but he had dealings with an asshole who ran a creature trafficking ring. I’m not sure why he thought staying at Durmstrang was worth it, but it’s probably related." He paused. "It could also have to do with the attack at the Quidditch World Cup.”

Maybe the reappearance of Death Eaters was enough to prompt his return, he thought. Haron couldn’t imagine his godfather liked those assholes very much, and seeing them back was worrying enough for the wider community of Albion.

“Huh, so you’ve been keeping track of him,” commented Su-a. “I wondered, since I’ve never seen you pay special attention to his name.”

“All the news related to him have to do with international relations, I guess we just assumed you were interested in politics,” reflected Padma. “I didn’t ask since that’s more Parvati’s thing. She’s the oldest, she’ll deal with the House politics. Ah, I remember you even had a whole debate with her about the Statute of Secrecy last year!”

Haron grinned. “Your sister’s great to argue with.”

He was about to say more when one of the fifth-year prefects stirred them towards where the other students were waiting for the foreign exchanges.

The sun set when Beauxbatons arrived.

“Our uniforms match theirs,” commented Su-a.

“I like our royal blue better,” said Padma, “and that is not practical for the Scottish weather.”

Haron nodded. “Why don’t they use warming charms? They’re all shivering.”

Someone must have heard him, because the French students turned towards them, as if to see who had spoken. A blond girl was the first to take out her wand and cast the charm on herself; the others followed suit, though not without throwing her a dirty look.

“That was... odd,” murmured Padma. “And does she have veela blood? I feel... strange, when I look at her.”

Haron looked at her askance. “I don’t feel anything.”

“That’s because you’re not attracted to women, honey. I saw you looking at Diggory.”

"Hush, Cho will hear you and she’ll start harassing him too. Poor Luna was unlucky enough to be his neighbour, and the crazy girl started a whole bullying campaign against our baby bird,” protested Su-a.

Haron’s eyes widened.

They’d caused some strife between themselves and Cho Chang’s group of friends by protecting Luna the year before. They hadn’t noticed the tiny Ravenclaw during the Chamber of Secrets debacle – Harry was too stressed about the school potentially closing, and Su-a and Padma too busy trying to coax him into a friendship -- but seeing her barefoot and looking for her stolen things in the corridors broke their heart. One time was enough for them to take her defence, and Rob helped make sure it didn’t happen again. Now that he was gone, Cho eyed Luna speculatively more than once, but Su-a got fed up after a few days and told her something that made her stop. Now Harry could guess she threatened the Scottish Chinese girl into shutting up by threatening to tell Diggory.

“I thought it was because Luna was... odd.”

“Well, that too, but usually only people in her year would care about that. It’s very out of character for upperclassmen to go to such lengths to bully someone two years their junior,” explained Padma.

“They don’t? The kids at my primary school didn’t care about that.”

Padma sighed. “Your childhood was so sad, Haron. It’s a wizard thing. Magic’s an equaliser: we expect people to be able to fight back, so it’s seen as a faux pas to attack people who know much less magic than you. You don’t see Malfoy going after firsties, do you?”

Su-a nodded. “It’s gauche, or something. I wish they understood it’s cringe to bully people in the first place but you know, small steps.”

“You know, I used to think Cho was pretty,” sighed Haron.

“Did you? I thought you only liked boys,” exclaimed Padma.

“No, I’m pretty sure it’s both. I think I’m not affected because the attraction I feel is more... aesthetic, than erotic, if that makes sense. Ah, Durmstrang’s there.”

Haron watched the derelict sailing ship emerge from the water.

“They sure know how to make an entrance,” he commented. “Hagrid would probably have tried to tame dragons if we’d had to do the same,” he added after a beat. Haron didn’t take Care of Magical Creatures, Rob had advised him to choose more practical subjects, but he had heard about the professor’s unique approach to teaching from Su-a, who took the elective.

It made the girls laugh, as well as some people around them.

“Don’t give him ideas,” chided Su-a, theatrically shivering. It drew a smile from him, though it quickly faded when Haron spotted the man with long black hair and piercing silver eyes standing next to Damyan Zmeyov, Durmstrang’s new Headmaster, and Viktor Krum, the famous Quidditch star.

He was a striking man, with high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and strong, well-defined eyebrows. He exchanged words with the Headmistress of Beauxbatons, smiling and laughing as he did so, then regarded the Headmaster of Hogwarts with detachment. He offered a polite greeting, and nothing more.

Haron stepped forward to hear better.

“It has been a long time, my boy,” said Albus Dumbledore with an affable smile. “It is delightful to have you at Hogwarts once more.”

“Is it?” the man asked wryly.

He said something else, but Haron couldn’t hear. He discretely pulled out his wand and murmured the eavesdropping spell he had found in the library the year before. The voices distorted until it felt like the people speaking were standing right next to him. As the spell worked, Sirius Black’s eyes widened, and he pressed a hand to his core, as if to soothe an ache he hadn’t yet noticed. He raised his gaze sharply and scanned the crowd. Dumbledore followed his gaze, but neither of them noticed anything. When the man noticed the headmaster looking, his eyes snapped back to him. He acted as if nothing happened.

“The Oath,” murmured Su-a. “He felt the Oath, but he didn’t recognise what it was!”

“We can’t be sure,” hissed Padma. “It might not have been... we need to be sure.”

“I wonder what prompts such a warm response, Headmaster. As I recall, we did not part on the best of terms.”

“Ah, but I do believe time heals old wounds. Or you would not be here today, my boy.”

“Lord Black,” said Headmaster Zmeyov sharply.

Damyan Zmeyov was much younger than his counterpart; and sharp in every way. He was not especially tall but moved with such presence to him that he seemed to tower over others. His short white hair contrasted greatly with the abyssal black of his eyes, his impassible face only softened by the smattering of freckles on his nose. His attire matched Lord Black’s, though the red embroidery was more prominent on his robes than on Haron’s godfather’s.

“Pardon?”

“Address him as his proper title, Headmaster Dumbledore. He is here as a representative of my school, I would have him treated with the respect he is due.”

“And what is his position within your establishment, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“He is my chief education adviser, of course, in charge of drafting Durmstrang’s education reforms and guiding our promising students towards their desired future. Haven’t you heard? One of his notable accomplishments of this year has been to open Durmstrang’s door to muggle-born students. How long has this been since Hogwarts has seen progress, I wonder?”

Sirius Black smirked at that.

Madame Maxime watched it happen with fascination, along with all the students witnessing the confrontation. Dumbledore looked beffudled, but he soon recollected himself.

“I... see. My apologies, Lord Black. And I hope looking once more at the school that hosted you during your formative years will give you inspiration in your work. I sure hope you won’t judge this dear old castle too harshly.”

“Apologies accepted, Headmaster. I would hate to start a fight on the first day, though do keep in mind that some wounds cannot be healed and this is one of them, I’m afraid. And do not worry, my opinion of this school and the people will stay much of the same, I am sure.”

The tone implied pretty clearly said opinion wasn’t very high in the first place.

Haron was fascinated. He didn’t know what Headmaster Dumbledore had done to earn himself Sirius Black’s ire but seeing them interact raised so many questions he desperately wanted answers to. Was Dumbledore involved in whatever had led Sirius Black to leave Britain when he woke up from his coma?

“Use another spell, Haron,” ordered Padma after staring back and forth between him and his godfather.

He nodded sharply, then took a deep breath. He bit his lip before muttering, "Lumos". He dimmed the light so as to not attract attention and watched avidly for a movement. Sure enough, Lord Black’s fingers twitched, as if he wanted to bring them once again to his sternum. He scanned the crowd once again. His eyes lingered on Charlie Potter’s face, who had visibly gotten bored of scowling at the man and gone back to staring at Viktor Krum and the possibly veela-blood girl alternatively, but he dismissed him just as fast.

Su-a pushed him lightly and Haron stumbled forward. He thankfully managed to keep his balance, but just as he made to turn and admonish his friend, he made eye contact with Sirius Black, whose eyes widened and mouth opened as if to call him. Before he could do so however, the Headmaster of Durmstrang tightly gripped his shoulder, grounding him back to reality.

The white-haired man murmured something at his ear, and Haron’s godfather closed his eyes as if he was in pain. He nodded sharply and turned away, though not without throwing one last glance at Haron.

The boy watched the crowd splinter into smaller groups, hiding his view of his godfather, feeling a sense of loss for something he didn’t yet have.

Notes:

That last part broke my heart to write.

Padma and Su-a are so sweet, I love them.

Please tell me what you think, I really like this project.

Chapter 21: his cross to bear III

Summary:

Only posting this to tell you this is becoming a fic, you can find it on my profile <3

Haron was restless at the welcoming feast.

He kept glancing over at his godfather, hoping to catch his gaze. But Sirius Black stayed focused in his discussion with one of Beauxbatons’ professors while the headmaster of Durmstrang engaged in a conversation with Professor Flitwick. Professor Snape was glaring daggers at the man from his side of the table, but Lord Black did not seem to register it. In fact, he didn’t look away even from the woman he was speaking to once, and she was starting to get flustered.

“Maybe we imagined it,” he murmured, tapping his fork against his plate. He’d been pushing around the meagre contents of it for the past fifteen minutes. “Maybe...”

Padma elbowed him. “He’s trying not to attract attention to you. Dumbledore is right there, and judging by what you told us he’s way too interested in Lord Black to not pick up on him taking interest in a student. Be patient, hun.”

Su-a made a sound of agreement, putting down her chopsticks. Last year they’d cajoled the elves into preparing more diverse fare. Or rather, Su-a had threatened to commander their kitchen and cook dinner for herself, which was enough for them to start sending out surveys for the students to write the type of food they liked to eat. The small international community of Hogwarts was very grateful, though they knew it wouldn’t last long. Such initiatives had been taken before and the elves were always accommodating to the students, but it usually only lasted until Argus Filch noticed the ingredients in the kitchen had diversified for him to throw a tantrum.

Haron’s theory was that the man had read Hansel & Gretel a little too often, and he dreamt of fattening them all up and roasting them for his consumption. To put it simply, the students being happy gave him hives so he did all he could to stop it, and the headmaster indulged all his whims short of letting him reinstate corporal punishments.

Thankfully, the arrival of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students would be distracting enough to give them some respite; they would hopefully have a full year before Filch ruined their fun again.

“We can go to their sleeping quarters, pretend we want Krum’s autograph and catch him alone that way,” Su-a suggested.

“You should go to the Shrieking Shack tomorrow night,” said Luna airily. She sat next to Su-a, at the very edge of the Ravenclaw table. Shielded by the three of them, the little girl was never bothered by their housemates at meals. “That’s where the Moon frogs used to sing. Press the knot on the Whomping Willow, and it’ll let you pass.”

“Will he be there?” asked Haron. They’d soon learnt not to question the strange ways Luna used to share information.

“Wait, did he tell you before telling us?” hissed Padma, leaning forward. Before Luna or Haron could respond, her shoulders slumped. “Never mind, you knew just by looking at him, didn’t you?”

Luna hummed. Padma shook her head. “Incredible,” she muttered.

Su-a snickered.

“Not there, but you’ll find him still. And some answers you’ve been seeking,” she said, in response to Haron’s question.

“Excuse me, could you hand me a slice of flan?” asked someone from behind Haron.

He took the small plate and turned to hand it over, pausing when he saw the French blond girl from earlier. He’d seen her flit around the different tables, trying to seek the food she wanted to eat. The issue seemed to be that most of the French dishes were placed next to the other Beauxbatons students, whom she seemed to want to avoid at all costs. She even made a stop by the Gryffindor table and talked to Haron’s brother, whose usual charisma seemed to have failed him in the face of the supernatural beauty.

“Oh, hi. Here you go.”

She raised her eyebrows and murmured her thanks.

“What year are you?” she asked.

It was Haron’s turn to be surprised. He didn’t expect her to linger.

“We’re fourth years,” he said, pointing at Su-a and Padma, “and Luna’s a third year. You’re in your last year, right?”

“I am in Terminale, yes.”

He saw her glancing back at the other Beauxbatons students, who were staring at them with strange expressions. Haron made a decision.

“Do you want to sit, maybe? I noticed your corner of the table was a little... hostile, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

She frowned and opened her mouth, seemingly about to say something biting before she deflated. “I’d love to sit.”

He gestured next to him and leaned closer to Padma to give her space. She smiled and gracefully lowered herself on the bench, placing the flan back on the table.

“I’m Haron, by the way. And this is Su-a,” the Korean girl waved with her free hand before going back to the macaron she had just picked from the tray in front of her, “Padma,” she gave her a quiet, oddly bashful greeting, “and I already introduced Luna.”

“Lovely to meet you. You attract an awful lot of wrackspurts,” said their youngest friend.

Su-a chuckled. “Don’t ask what wrackspurts are,” she whispered conspiratorially. “She’s just trying to say you look troubled. Are you okay?”

“I’m... overwhelmed. Hogwarts is very... different than Beauxbatons,” she admitted. “Ah, it seems I haven’t introduced myself yet. I’m Fleur. Enchantée,” she added with a little smile. Her French accent was very strong, Haron thought, though not to the point of being uncomfortable.

“Nice to meetcha,” said Padma, who seemed to have recovered from her earlier stupor. “Merlin, veela allure sure is something. My bad. It’s been a while since I’ve been exposed to it so my brain kind of turned into mush for a second. Is that weird to say?” she asked when Haron and Su-a turned to stare at her with wide eyes.

Fleur chuckled. “Not at all. I prefer when people don’t skirt around the subject. Did you meet other veela before?”

“Mhm, a friend of my mum’s is veela. She lives in Czechia now so she hasn’t come round the house since I was little.”

Padma started asking the French girl about her hobbies. Haron followed the conversation distractedly, turning back to the professors’ table without even meaning to. Still, he learnt that Fleur enjoyed making enchantments in her free time, she had a pet kneazle and solved arithmantic equations when she was bored. She also liked fashion design, which prompted a squeal from Su-a, and a myriad of questions.

“Haron’s our model, usually. He’s good at sitting still while we poke at him, and he isn’t bothered if we don’t put him in scratchy fabrics and levitate a book in front of him, so he doesn’t get bored. Luna does it too, but she’ll wander off if we don’t keep an eye on her.”

Fleur made an amused sound at this. Haron turned back to the conversation in time to chime in.

“If you put a sticking charm to her shoes to keep her there, she just takes them off and goes to the Forbidden Forest barefoot to feed the thestrals.”

Luna wasn’t listening; she hummed a song while she piled macarons on top of each other, seemingly trying to make a tower out of them. Su-a and Padma chucked and nodded in agreement.

“My little sister is the same,” Fleur started, “she’ll sit still until she sees something shiny and then I’ll have completely lost her. One time...”

The evening continued in much of the same manner. Fleur’s presence made it easier for Haron to stay focused on what was happening in front of him, and he almost didn’t mind when they made their way back to Ravenclaw Tower without his having met his godfather’s eyes once. He had made peace with it, and so he didn’t expect when Padma tugged his arm before he was about to enter his dorm and whispered, “meet us in the common room at midnight. We’ll go to the Shack then.”

“Classes are cancelled so there won’t be anyone coming back from Astronomy class,” agreed Su-a.

Haron nodded and went up to his room. He nodded at Anthony Goldstein, Michael Corner, Kevin Entwistle, Stephen Cornfoot and Terry Boot. He might not hang out with his dormmates, but they weren’t terrible people. Just a little too quidditch-mad for his taste. Haron liked flying, but the scrutiny given to players in the field was definitely too much for him. Besides, Ravenclaw already had a Seeker, and he wasn’t interested in trying out for other positions. He might dislike Cho but he wasn’t petty enough to take her spot when he was much less passionate about the game than she was.

The boys were playing a game of exploding snap and did not particularly bother him, though they asked a little about Fleur. Haron gave them a noncommittal response and pulled out a book on rebound spells. He got to reading, setting the enchanted alarm clock Padma gave him for his birthday to ring at midnight. Only he would hear the sound, which was just as well since Stephen was a light sleeper. He’d found that out when he was eleven and restless about sleeping in a room full of boys he didn’t know nor trust and often camped out in the common room or roamed the castle at night, evading Filch and Mrs Norris. Stephen woke a few times and grumbled at him for interrupting his sleep. Haron had to learn a light-foot charm to move around without disturbing him.

Midnight came at a slow pace. When it did, Haron jumped out of his bed. He quietly left his dorm room and tiptoed to the common room, where the girls were waiting. Their eyes were raised up towards the staircase leading to the girls’ dorm, where Mandy Brocklehurst was reprimanding them.

Haron rolled his eyes. While Lisa Turpin and Morag MacDougal were nice enough girls who were simply closer to the boys in his dorm than they were with Padma and Su-a, Mandy was unsufferable; she was nosy and incredibly judgemental. She disapproved of Su-a and Padma’s interest in fashion, their defence of Luna, and Haron’s friendship with them. He wasn’t quite sure what her problem was, but it was incredibly grating. The girls wanted to handle it themselves, though, so he didn’t step in.

He stayed in the shadows, well aware that announcing his presence would only make things

“... going who knows where after curfew! I don’t want you to lose us any house points. Do you realise how bad this looks? An international quidditch star steps into the castle and you just happen to be sneaking out the very same night, it’s no wonder people think you’re--”

“People think what, Mandy? Because it seems like you’re the only one who finds issue with us, constantly making assumptions about us and making up stories when we don’t pay you any attention. Why don’t you just chill out?” exclaimed Padma, raising her hands up. “We haven’t gotten caught sneaking out before and we won’t today either. Just go to sleep and mind your own business.”

“I’ll-- I’ll report you,” threatened Mandy.

“I thought you didn’t want Ravenclaw to lose points?” asked Su-a sweetly, tilting her head.

The girl winced, aware that her threat just fell through. “Well, if you break the rules, I should--”

“Or you could, again, mind your own business, babe,” repeated Padma. “We have a Transfiguration essay due tomorrow and I’m pretty sure you haven’t started it yet, why don’t you do that instead of wasting our time?”

Mandy frowned. “You’re such a bitch, Padma,” she said before turning back to their dorm.

Padma adjusted the twirling butterfly hairclip attached to her hair. “I know.”

Su-a chuckled. “I love you, Padma, but you act like a mean girl from the movies sometimes.”

Su-a loved muggle cinema. Her parents bought her a TV when she was young. It was kept in the shed of their house, away from all the magical appliances, and she owned a pretty impressive collection of VHS. Her dream was to create a similar medium for magical audiences to enjoy. As it stood, theatre was a popular entertainment for wizards and magic allowed more impressive setting changes than on muggle stages, but it had nothing on the cosiness of watching films at home. Su-a thought she might be able to replicate animated films at the very least with magical painting, but she needed to master the basics first.

She had seen Heathers in the cinema in 88 and had not recovered from it, or so she said. Haron wasn’t too sure what it was about. He thought he might prefer not to know.

“Says the girl who keeps giving Cho the evil eye?” scoffed Padma.

“You’re both mean,” said Haron, snickering.

They whirled around.

“Haron,” whined Su-a, “you scared me.” She trotted forward and linked arms with him. “Shall we go?”

At his nod, Padma started walking and responded to his comment, “also we’re not mean, I think. Cho and Mandy both had it coming. Justice is harsh, but it’s not mean, hun.”

He chuckled. “If you say so.”

They quieted as they left the common room, passing through the corridors in silence. Filch must have been occupied in another part of the castle, because they encountered no one at all. They stepped into the Hogwarts grounds and glanced at the Whomping Willow apprehensively.

"That thing’s so gnarly,” muttered Su-a. “Which knot was Luna even talking about?”

“I’d say I wish she accompanied us but her dorm mates would have totally snitched on her. Besides, she’s a bit spooky at night, our little moon,” commented Padma.

He observed the tree attentively, until he noticed a more prominent knot at the roots. Haron took out his wand.

“Can you cast a Lumos, Su-a?”

“Sure,” she said and did just that.

He thanked her and cast three spells in succession, pointing his wand to the ground, and a rock at his feet grew legs and started running towards it, dodging the aggressive branches. When it reached the knot, it slammed against it. The Whomping Willow stilled. Haron released a breath he didn’t realise he was holding.

“What spells were those?” asked Padma with round eyes.
Haron replied distractedly, already making his way towards the hidden entrance of the Shrieking Shack behind the tree. The spells were things he found in a book about the enchantments of Hogwarts, specifically on the chapter about the specific workings of the suits of armor and gargoyles that decorated the entire castle. They were supposed to act as protectors of the school in case of an attack, and the complex spellwork placed on them used principles of animation of the inanimate, target designation and motor control. The wand movements were complicated, and the incantations were in Old English, but he had thought them worth learning.

“I always forget you’re the nerdiest nerd in all of Ravenclaw,” murmured Su-a with a breathy laugh as she struggled to crouch behind branch, “which is saying something.”

“That’s not true,” protested Haron. “There’s, um, Penelope Clearwater?”

“She graduated last year,” said Padma with a deadpan look. “Try again.”

Haron fell silent. After a beat, the girls started laughing. He pouted a little but didn’t get to say anything in his own defence. After several minutes of traipsing around in a dirty tunnel, they had finally got to the Shrieking Shack.

The inside of it was horrifying. Claw marks barred the entirety of the walls and shredded the little furniture still in place, and layers of dust enveloped everything.

Padma sneezed. “Gross,” she complained, and started casting cleaning charms every which way. Su-a soon imitated her.

Haron made a turn around the room, trying to figure out what Luna was trying to show him, but the depressing hut didn’t deliver its secrets so easily. He could see runes carved into the ceiling, and knew enough about them to understand they were meant to keep something in. The claw marks made it obvious which creature had been captive in those walls, and when.

“A werewolf,” he murmured.

They’d learnt about them last year. The headmaster hadn’t quite managed to find them a replacement for that fraud Lockhart, but a rotation of retired Aurors had been sent for the Ministry. Each of them were more or less competent, but as a whole they had managed to catch them up on what they were meant to learn the previous and current year, on top of teaching them about various spells they probably shouldn’t have shown them.

Nothing as bad as Mad Eye Moody’s demonstration on the Unforgivables, though.

These Aurors were veterans of the last war and sometimes even the previous one. They were twitchy, scarred and had survived unimaginable things. Haron had even been taught the Patronus charm by one of them, an intensely traumatised woman by the name of Mary MacDonald who volunteered the most often to give lessons to his year grade. She couldn’t handle it for longer than three months, however, and was sent to St Mungo’s after an intense flashback made her magic lash out and harm her. Haron tried to visit her in the summer, but he saw Lily Potter exit her hospital room followed by reporters and lost his nerve. He didn’t try again, though he wrote her a letter to thank her for her teachings.

The man who had taught them about werewolves definitely disliked them, and believed they deserved a mercy killing and nothing else. Haron had heard that Charlie had loudly argued against him, screaming that Remus Lupin had been a werewolf and a hero. The retired Auror didn’t come back to Hogwarts after that.

“This is where Remus Lupin transformed,” he realised, disquieted.

“Who?” asked Su-a. As a foreigner, she was not as knowledgeable about the particulars of the war, even of its end.

“The man who died to protect him and his brother,” explained Padma. “He was Charlie Potter’s godfather, like Sirius Black was Haron’s.”

“And it looks like they were a couple,” said Su-a. “Haron, look.”

He turned and met his friend where she was, crouching in front of a derelict bedframe. Her hand was pressed against a wooden post, where words were engraved in shining silver.

“It’s like a diary,” he marveled, tracing his fingertips against the words.

In sloppy handwriting, the first inscription said, “first transformation,” along with a date corresponding to Haron’s parents and their friends’ first year at Hogwarts. Several of them were in a similar vein, though those who stood out were both sweet and heart-rending at the same time. “I made friends,” one said, “They found out,” enounced another. “Animagi,” was scratched out furiously, and only made sense when the words “A rat, a dog, a stag” were written years later. He didn’t understand it all. Most were unreadable. The magic had faded. Some were legible, but puzzling, “he betrayed me,” others hopeful, “I forgave him,” and “I love him.”

There was a gap of years after what he understood to be their graduation, then a last one was dated the year of Haron’s birth.

It said, “I asked him to marry me. He asked if he could take my name.” Right next to it, another handwriting lovingly sketched out a future that would never come: “In a year I’ll be Sirius Orion Lupin.”

“They were engaged,” he murmured.

“You can read this?” asked Su-a. “It’s illegible to me.”

“It must be the Guardian’s Oath,” said Padma. “What does it say?”

“It says that Remus Lupin and Sirius Black were in love.”

 

***

 

“He’s alive,” he murmured feverishly.

He paced in his room, trying to come to terms with the fact.

“I inquired.” Sirius whirled around; his eyes bright. “Discretely, of course,” amended his visitor, a hand on the doorsill. “I know you wouldn’t have been able to help yourself, you would have gone to him if it was confirmed.”

“Reggie, he’s...”

Regulus Black, now commonly known as Damyan Zmeyov, dipped his head. He stepped forward and embraced his older brother. Sirius inhaled shakily, taking in the comforting scent of his brother, the warmth of his arms around his middle. Tears pricked at his eyes, he let them fall.

“Yes, Siri, your godson is alive.” Sirius sobbed. Regulus made a pained noise. He hurried to add, “he’s not with the Potters. He has a fake name, calls himself Haron Pierce, and he’s been using the trust you set out for him. Flitwick pointed him out to me when I asked about promising students.”

“Haron Black. If he wants it,” enounced Sirius, wondering. “My baby is alive,” he repeated again, “but how? Do they know?”

His eyes narrowed dangerously. His fingers brushed against the engagement ring he never took off, even if he

Regulus hissed at the thought. “I don’t think so. He’s hiding, the only way they’d have found out is through the press or through their golden boy. And that boy is dim as a beater’s bat.”

“Reggie!” admonished Sirius. “He was Moony’s.”

He shook his head. “He was supposed to be. They never officialised it, you know that. Just because they told the press to make themselves look good doesn’t make it true.”

Sirius made a wounded sound. He did know that. But James had promised. His brother shushed him, hugging him tighter.

“I know, Siri. I know.”

They stayed like this for a long while. After some time, they shifted to the ship’s balcony, overlooking the Black Lake. They stared out at the lakeshore, mourning quietly. Sirius didn’t know what his brother longed for, he rarely spoke about the past. And he’d been a bad older brother, too raw about his own losses for Regulus to feel like he could confide in him. Trust was being rebuilt between them, slowly knitting itself back together since Sirius had found his little brother drowning in a lake of Inferi and fished him out of the cursed waters, since he told him to leave with the horcrux he found and figure out a way to destroy it.

Because Sirius had trusted Regulus the Death Eater to do the right thing, he’d won back his little brother’s devotion. It felt like so little after years of selfishness, but Reggie had always been too forgiving.

But now they were back where they started, and with the confirmation that Voldemort was still out there they had come to Albion to make sure they could finish the job and truly end the war before he could rise again. Sirius had been prepared to face his demons and ghosts again to do what had to be done. He hadn’t expected to find a star amongst the clouded skies, used as he was to the world snatching every thing he loved from him. First he had lost Remus, and the illusion that he could ever be a light wizard. He had lost his esteem for James, his respect for Lily. His trust in his leader. E

He had lost everything, except Regulus.

And now Haron.

His baby. The only gift from James Potter he had wanted to keep. The boy he had sworn to protect, and failed so thoroughly. His son in magic if not in blood, and the only Heir he would accept for House Black.

Haron who was crossing the Hogwarts grounds with the two girls he sat with, holding something to his chest as his steps stuttered upon seeing Mad Eye Moody stomping towards him.

Sirius didn’t hesitate.

In a second, he was out the door, Regulus at his heel.

Chapter 22: grant a name to a buried and burning flame (MDZS)

Wen Xu finds him in Yiling.

At first, he does not think much of what he mistakes for a pile of rags laid out next to a building.

He passes by him, swearing under his breath at his little brother’s audacity. Wen Chao is twelve and somehow thinks it is old enough to escape supervision and head to the nearest brothel that would have him. As Nightless City and the surrounding Wen territories rightfully consider bearing their father’s displeasure to be a fate worse than death, no one will serve him there before he is properly married to the general’s daughter Wen Ruohan has promised him to. His idiotic brother had a brilliant idea to go where he will not be recognised, and so Wen Xu must drag him back before someone notices his absence. The little worm isn’t even cleared for night hunts yet.

And so, Wen Xu is here, in this backwater place stinking of resentful energy, and he would not have paused for the street rat hidden under dirt and torn clothing if he had not felt him circulating spiritual energy. It makes him pause. He turns.

His bodyguard, the useful hindrance that is Wen Lin, turns with him. Wen Xu tilts his head. The man approaches the pile of rags and reveals the child underneath it, dirt-smeared and pitiful.

Wen Xu has no pity left in him, but those eyes...

“Wei Changse,” he murmurs.

Flashes of a held-out hand, of concerned eyes and a reassuring smile fill his vision.

Wen Lin tenses. He remembers Wen Xu’s... outburst at the announcement of the man’s death. His wing of the palace is still under reconstruction.

“You know Baba?” asks the little boy, losing some of the fear in his gaze. “Is he coming to get A-Ying?”

“I knew him,” says Wen Xu. “A long time ago.”

He can’t bring himself to say more.

He turns back to Wen Lin. “Xiao Xiongdi can wait. Take him to an inn and have him bathed. To anyone who asks, he is my son.”

***

Wen Chao whines endlessly when he and Wei Ying are introduced, but his older brother’s expression is firm enough to dissuade him from further complaints. He has other things to worry about; his sword instructor blabbed, hoping to curry favour. Father is displeased.

Upon learning about Wei Ying, their father only hums.

“Sect Leader Jiang has been looking for this child for a year,” he only says.

Wen Xu sneers. “He must not have looked for very long. Everyone knew Cangse Sanren and her husband died close to the Burial Mounds. It must not have been a stretch to think their child would be somewhere in the nearest city.”

Wen Ruohan concedes the point. He does not care. The opinions of the Sects, Great or otherwise, are irrelevant to him. Rather, it would please him to show off Wei Ying to Jiang Fengmian, adorned in the white and red of his sect, and dare the man to say anything.

“You wish to add this child to my line,” he says after a beat of silence.

Wen Xu nods. He holds himself carefully still and does not make the mistake of holding a sleeping Wei Ying closer to him. He will not show care for this child until his father has given his approval. If the Sect Leader should refuse and instead make him a regular disciple, the vultures will surround him instantly, seeking to leverage the child against Wen Xu, emboldened by the fact that he does not have the Sect Leader’s favour.

Wen Xu doubts he will not be able to make his case. But one is never too sure, in the treacherous halls of Nightless City, full of grasping hands, bladed smiles, and obsequious bows.

“I planned to leave Xiao Xiongdi to fulfil our filial duty, but he does not have enough brain to impart anything worthwhile to our lineage, Fuqin.”

It says a lot about the reports Wen Ruohan gets from their instructors that their father does not even refute him.

“And you think this can be solved by making a child not of our blood Wen-san-gongzi? Adopting promising cultivators into distant branches is one thing, Xu’er. This is not what you are proposing.”

"Blood isn’t everything.”

His little brother is proof of this, and Wen Xu does not like him or his mother enough to shield him from this truth. He does not forget that his father’s least favourite concubine – until she gave him a son, that is – had laughed when his mother, the Madame of the Sect, died birthing a stillborn daughter. Wen Chao and he have a tacit understanding; he never mentions his mother still lives, and Wen Xu graciously pretends she doesn’t.

Ensuring Wen Chao does not lose them face is his responsibility as the Sect Heir; he does not have to like it. And should Father give him any indication that he has resigned himself to considering Wen Chao a lost cause, Wen Xu will drop him without a second thought.

“If I raise him and shape him to be my son, he shall be no one else’s. His might as a cultivator will be forged by my hand, his will by my word. Didn’t you say it yourself, Father? If I want it, it shall be mine, because the world is yours to give away.”

His father looks more awake than he ever has. Wen Xu does not smile.

He knew his father would like that.

“Very well. Wen Ying shall bow to our ancestors and join our family.”

Wen Xu bows. “Thank you, Father.”

Chapter 23: skybreaker (Harry Potter OC)

Summary:

Severus Snape has a child. It doesn't work out well for him.

“He fucked me because I had green eyes,” she sighed, caressing her swollen belly. “He spent the whole night staring at them and called me Lily when he came.”

She sneered, before pausing.

“My blood is as pure as it gets. My mother was from a travelling coven of witches from everywhere around the world, who cursed their bellies so they would only birth girls. I shall not name them; it will do you no service to seek them out. But know that they despised muggles and sometimes made a sport of killing them. We didn’t interact with them. We didn’t learn their language; we didn’t trade with them. With no understanding between us, fucking them was considered akin to fucking animals. Unthinkable. My father was from the O’Arawn clan of Eire. I’m sure you can trace his pedigree easily. I never met him, and I’ll never get to; he and his clansmen were culled by the Dark Lord some years ago when they laughed to his face after he tried to get them to join him.”

“Why are you telling me this?” rasped the old man, his fingers twitching on the arm of his armchair.

She ignored him. Her eyes were kept low, her expression thoughtful.

“I left the coven because our seer said I was destined to give birth to a boy. They cursed me for the betrayal and threw me out. I am dying from this curse. I cannot raise this child. And you have no heir.”

“So you came here,” he said.

She nodded. “So I came here. You won’t accept your daughter’s son because of his tainted blood and his muggle upbringing. I offer you a more acceptable alternative. An heir with purer blood to mould in your own image.”

Aldrich Prince stayed silent for a long time.

“I will take him,” he finally said.

She bowed.

“Name him Lorcan, if you would. That was my father’s name,” she murmured.

He inclined his head.

“Lorcan Severus Prince. So it shall be.”

***

Great-Grandfather died when Lorcan was six. The House elves wept and wept, clinging to each other and letting fat tears fall on the old man’s grave.

Lorcan found it hard to do the same. The fact that Aldrich Prince had survived this long was already noteworthy, and the young boy had to admit that he had wished many times it was not so. Eileen Prince had fled her father for a reason. And Lorcan, reincarnated into the son of a book character, had only the remnants of his adult mind to thank for the patience he offered the man who deserved much less from him.

When he had overcome the horror of his death and his subsequent rebirth into a world too familiar for comfort, he had decided he would be the change he sought to see in wizarding society. In his previous life, he had been no one note-worthy, only one of the countless youths terrified of the future awaiting them, in a society who cared naught if they lived or died, if they survived or thrived. He had chewed at the leash on his neck with no avail, helpless against the endless onslaught of terror this world would unleash upon him ceaselessly. There was nothing good to remember from this past life.

In this one, he was the scion of a great House, with magical power at his fingertips and political power in the form of a ring bearing a beryl two-headed eagle on the face of a rose gold signet. He would not be helpless.

But to be Lord Prince, he needed to be an exemplary heir. He needed to bear the anti-muggle sentiment, the scornful comments about the disgrace Eileen had brought into the family, and the corporal punishment when he behaved himself in ways that were considered subpar for an Heir of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Prince, descendants of Mordred the last Pendragon.

Funny that. A bastard was the founder of House Prince, and another bastard would be the last Lord of its line.

He glanced away from the grave of his great-grandfather to gaze at that of his mother, which read the name Masire O’Arawn. The only kindness Aldrich Prince had done to him was to take a picture of the woman who birthed him, so he would know who to thank for the new life he was given. She was a beautiful woman; fat, with a lovely round face and dark red curly hair, green eyes, dimples, and a golden-brown skin adorned with magical tattoos. She was not a good person. If she was, she probably wouldn’t have been attracted to a Death Eater when she knew very well her own father had been killed by Voldemort. But she had cared about him enough to grant him a good life. The last months of her life were dedicated to ensuring his future. Lorcan could respect that. And he would cherish the gift he was given.

In the wake of the late Lord’s death, Lorcan studied the ward stone of Deathbound Manor. On it were engraved the arrays that guaranteed the protection of the manor’s inhabitants, but it used to have more functions. Which was how Lorcan learnt that the Princes had not always owned House elves, and that if he could figure out how to reinstate the old self-cleaning array that his ancestors had depowered when they had purchased their slaves, he would be able to free them.

“You cannot give a sentient being freedom though,” he murmured later that day, staring into his mirror. His olive-green eyes contrasted with the tan of his skin and the dark of his hair, which he kept long and braided away from his face. “They have to take it for themselves.”

He hummed. “Well. We'll see how that goes.”

And so he commissioned the construction of small houses on the Manor grounds. He contacted his stewardess, a middle-aged woman by the name of Celia Shafiq who was the wife of a branch member of House Shafiq and asked her to draft some papers. She did so and sent them off along with a tutor to continue his education. He wrote her a thank-you letter, not bothering to point out that choosing her own daughter to tutor him was not in the least subtle. At least Naima Shafiq was competent, and not overly obsessed with the purity of his blood.

***

When Lorcan turned eight, he activated all the defunct wards and rounded up the elves. They would no longer be working in the Manor, he announced.

They all exchanged looks and asked why. He told them he would be freeing them. Their hysterical cries would ring in his ears for days on end.

“I’ll be giving you clothes,” he said. “And you can choose if you wish to leave or to stay.”

They stopped then and stared with mournful eyes.

“The houses built are yours,” he said, holding the deeds to said houses, “and on these contracts are monetary reparations for your enslavement. You can live here still if you wish, and feed on the magic of the manor as you have. But you do not have to work to do so. I’ll let you pretend you aren’t free to other elves if you wish, I know freedom is seen as a disgrace by most of your species” He paused and admitted. “This is selfish of me. But I do not need you, and I want to see what house elves do when they are not bound to their masters. Will you take up hobbies? Will you laze away indolently for the rest of your life? Whatever it is, you are free to do so.”

And he pulled out small colourful hats with cut-out space for their ears. He handed them out to the shell-shocked elves along with the deed to their new properties.

The following years were an exercise in patience.

Only one of the four elves, an old thing called Rumble who had handed him back the deed and begged him to take him back left for brighter pastures, though not before trying to sneak back into the manor and cook for Lorcan. He now served House Prince’s stewardess happily and her daughter always gave Lorcan an update on his wellbeing when he asked, though never without staring at him like he was some sort of alien.

Giggle took up residence in the house meant for her and brought back another elf, with whom she summarily had three children. She cleaned the gardens of the estate as if she hadn’t been freed at all, and ignored Lorcan every time he told her and her husband that they didn’t have to do that. The gardens looked better than they ever had.

Clatter tried to have hobbies and to laze around at once. He alternated between fishing, painting, sculpting and embroidering, then had long periods where he did nothing at all. Then Lorcan lent him a book from the Prince library to occupy his time during his idle periods, and Clatter took an interest in magical theory. Soon enough, Lorcan had an elf scholar on his lands.

Howl... became obsessed with pranking. First it was a way to get back at Lorcan for freeing them. Then they seemed to genuinely enjoy it and tried his nerves even more. He swore to introduce them to the Weasley twins when it was time. Howl brought a rotation of elves to their home, recently freed elves looking for work who used their house as a temporary haven. Two of them stayed, and the population of the manor grew.

All in all, the experiment was a success.

***

When Lorcan turned nine, he visited the forest bordering Deathbound Manor. Within, he found a centaur colony and would have been killed if not for his proximity to the wards.

The centaurs did not speak English, so he had to reach out to Gringotts to find a translator who would translate his letter to them. The goblin nation rarely had dealings with the centaur colonies, but sometimes needed their agreement to mine on their territories and as such had people on hand that could communicate with them.

He asked if they wished anything from House Prince. They replied and said that as long as the stars were right in their assessment of him, they wished him well and sought no further dealings with humans. That his great-grandfather had been too old to keep hunting them for sport and that he’d not thought to teach his heir to do the same was enough for them, as far as they were concerned. Lorcan sent back a ward stone that would keep humans from their territory, along with a map of the boundaries of Deathbound Manor so that his House’s own stone wouldn’t cannibalise on the magic he had given them.

They sent back a crafted bow and a note that said, “Thank you, Skybreaker.”

The goblin translator looked very interested in what the centaurs could have seen. He was approached by a teller of his clan who asked if he was interested in investing in creatures'’ businesses. Lorcan gave the teller the key to an old vault – not the fullest, but it held a reasonable number of galleons – and told her that she would have twenty percent of the profits if she managed to double the contents of the vault by the time he came to Hogwarts.

His stewardess came to witness the drawing of the contract and eyed him approvingly.

“My elf calls you the Mad Hatter, you know. And he’s quite right, you, boy, are crazier than a bag of kneazles. But madness often goes hand in hand with greatness. I look forward to seeing where you will steer this House of yours.”

Lorcan laughed. “I’m glad I have your approval, Mrs Celia. Do you think I will be ready to join Wizengamot sessions by my eleventh birthday?”

“You are already ready, child. You only need a wand.”

His eyes gleamed.

“Good.”

***

Lorcan went to Ollivander’s as soon as he got his letter and left the shop with a redwood wand of phoenix feather. The next day, he joined his peers at the Wizengamot.

Confused murmurs filled the room as he entered and rose when he sat down on the Prince seat, which lit rose and gold to confirm his legitimacy.

“Lorcan Severus Prince in attendance,” he announced with a firm voice.

The session was long and tedious; the legislation discussed had to do with the regulation of potions ingredients and Lorcan found the droning tone of the man reading it out especially grating, but he still listened intently and cast his vote when it was time.

When it was all over, Lucius Malfoy approached him.

“Lord Prince. Well met. I didn’t know Severus had a son,” he said silkily, his cane lightly tapping on the wooden floors.

Lorcan bowed slightly. “Well met, Lord Malfoy. He didn’t know either,” he replied cheerfully. “Though I suppose he will find out today.”

He looked at the man searchingly. This was the wizard who would welcome Voldemort into his home. The man who would give a cursed object to a child Lorcan’s age, and try to kill Harry Potter, who was barely a year older than he was. This was also the man who would bitterly regret serving a madman, and who made more strides for the Death Eaters’ cause than his Liege ever could.

Because blood supremacy strived in the Ministry, though dark magic did not, which Lorcan suspected was because Albus Dumbledore cared more about the latter than he ever did the former, and used his considerable influence to make sure this type of magic would die out. He wondered what could be accomplished if the old man ever extended the same effort to the eradication of prejudice.

But Lorcan was not the type to rely on elders to do the work. He would make this world a better place or die trying. Even if that meant maintaining polite relations with an asshole like Lucius Malfoy.

“Oh?” said Lucius interestedly.

“I was raised by Great-Grandfather until his death. Mother was clever enough to appeal to him before House Prince died out.”

“And your mother is...”

“Was,” he corrected. “As I understand it, she was from a travelling coven.”

Lucius blanched. Lorcan concealed a smirk. Nomad witches had a reputation.

“Her father, though, was of the O’Arawn clan. I bear his name, apparently.”

His reaction to that was even better. The O’Arawn clan was called as such because they considered themselves the descendants of the Celtic king of the Underworld.

He would let the man assume that it was out of respect for her father that Lorcan’s mother hadn’t sought the Death Eater who impregnated her, though he’d keep in mind that she’d managed to convince Aldrich Prince to make her son the future Lord of his House despite the tainted blood of his muggle grandfather when the old man hadn’t even deigned to recognise his own grandson, who had until then been his only hope to see his family line prosper.

“Fascinating,” murmured Lucius. “I am sure Severus will be thrilled to find out about you.”

Lorcan tilted his head and leaned forward.

“You think so?”

He seriously doubted that his father would find any thrill in meeting the child of a woman who was not Lily, the child who was given the name he had wished to have, the name he had joined the Death Eaters for.

But Lorcan could be wrong. He would find out in four months, when he entered Hogwarts.

Notes:

I think I want to make it a "Severus has some much needed character growth" story where he desperately wants to parent a child that is way too independent and disdainful of him and his life choices to accept it. But this story is mostly about Lorcan Prince fucking up the magical world - he doesn't give a shit about Voldemort, he'll let Harry Potter take care of it. What he cares about is making sure that he leaves magical society a better place than he's found it. Unfortunately, the plot will not leave him alone.

(Yes, my OCs are all obsessed with House elves. I do what I want.)

Chapter 24: we share our skies (Harry Potter OC)

Summary:

TW: discussion of sexual assault relating to love potions.

"Tom Riddle Sr’s cousin was a young witch.

It changed everything."

When a professor from the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry knocked on the door of Clarence and Jeanne Riddle's house in 1919 and explained to the couple that he was here because their daughter had manifested magical abilities and was thus eligible for enrolment at his school, they exchanged looks and asked if such schools of magic existed in France.

Dr Clarence Riddle was a Professor of History at the University of Cambridge, you see, and often attended conferences in France. It was there that he met his wife Jeanne, long before the First World War raged on and he had to serve his country, and the couple had already resolved to send their daughter to a French school, deeming the quality of their neighbouring country’s education more than adequate for Elise’s station.

Clarence was not quite as uptight as his older brother Thomas, but he did pride himself on the privilege he was born into and used to reach the position he was now in, and sought only the best for his children. He had been distinctly underwhelmed by the attitude of the teachers of his eldest son at Cambridge’s so-called best preparatory schooling and sought to do better for his youngest child. The day after, he wrote to the Headmistress of Beauxbatons, a wonderfully polite woman by the name of Capucine Bastion, who promptly sent an invitation to Elise, who was thus set for the next seven years of her life on the path of witchcraft.

As a child resigned to at best marrying a smart man of good fortune, she was delighted by the chance at independence she was given.

And thus Elise Riddle studied at the Academy of Beauxbatons, blissfully avoiding the toxic atmosphere of Hogwarts at the time, where anti-muggle sentiment was making a particularly violent resurgence due to industrialisation and the way muggle society made itself more visible to the wizarding world, who didn’t like to be reminded that they were outnumbered by who they deemed to be their lesser counterparts.

The more isolated magical community of France, who had established itself in more rural areas, was much less bothered by the shift in landscape in French cities and therefore less virulent in their hatred. Elise’s schooling wasn’t devoid of prejudice, but space was given for her to learn and grow, and the only stains to her good years were the periodic attacks the Dark Lord Grindelwald levelled at the international community as he built his army and the enrolment of her brother in the British navy.

She graduated with honours in June 1927, and had already secured an apprenticeship with Amalia Dawnshade starting September. Professor Dawnshade was a formidable inventor and potion maker with extensive knowledge of antidotes, which was the reason Elise had sought her out. She had agreed to teach her for a period of twelve years -- as was appropriate for apprenticeships – during which Elise would serve as the professor’s assistant alongside a recent Slytherin graduate named Horace Slughorn.

Elise thus had three months to enjoy time with her family before she would have to move to the school her parents had once scorned in favour of Beauxbatons. She was a little surprised when, two weeks after her arrival, her father announced that they would be moving West to meet her aunt, uncle and cousin, the latter having come back from an ill-advised elopement.

Elise had few dealings with Tom Riddle; though her first cousin was always perfectly charming to her, he much preferred the company of her older brother Etienne, who was only three years his senior and had much more in common with him. But she remembered fond afternoons spent reading together in her uncle’s library, and his having taught her how to ride a horse during idle summer days which had served her well in her Beastology class, when they had all taken turns riding the Abraxans grazing on the Academy grounds.

“I will be glad to see him,” she said as they drove up the alley of Riddle House in Little Hangleton. “We will spend a fine fortnight.”

The manor was built onto a hill, and as lovely as in her memories. Sun-warmed honeyed stone, weathered and smooth, formed the face of it, with only creeping ivy and arched windows with sparkling panes to disrupt the tranquil facade of the distinguished habitation. A wrought-iron gate, intricately crafted with swirling leaves and climbed on by adventurous roses, opened in invitation.

She would have preferred to apparate there, but Uncle Thomas was a veteran like her father, and the gunfire-like sound of apparition might be unpleasant to him. Besides, there would have been questions about how she got there.

“Splendid of you, my dear, to maintain such optimism. I don’t know if Tom will return the sentiment. It sounds like his ill-advised venture had quite the toll on him,” replied her mother worriedly. “Though it is charming of him to consider returning.”

“Oh mama, surely it cannot be so dire,” chirped Elise. “I know it is unlike him, Cousin Tom was always so dutiful, but surely he’s learnt his lesson by now. He has been back for almost a year.”

“If he had regained his senses, he wouldn’t have left the chit for dead in London town, darling. That was quite petty of him, considering two people are needed for an elopement,” commented Clarence Riddle.

"Perhaps,” his daughter conceded, "seeing family will put things in perspective. We'll have a spot of tea upon arriving. Aunt Mary has such a lovely collection."

With a sigh, Mrs Riddle nodded. "Indeed, my dear. Though I fear even the finest Ceylon cannot mend a broken heart, or a shattered fortune."

“And remember, child--”

“No talk of witchcraft, I know,” she sighed, stepping out of the car.

Of course, Elise broke her promise as soon as she caught sight of her cousin.

Tom Riddle was staring out of the window, his handsome face pale as death and gaunt to the point of being frightening. His hands trembled upon the armchair he had gripped, and his eyes were empty when he gazed upon them. He watched them for a bit, staying entirely silent. His mother had trailed off upon seeing him sitting in the reception room she had led them to, and now watched him worriedly.

“Do you need anything, Tommy?” Lower, she added. “He usually stays in his room.”

“No, Mother. Thank you,” he said with some effort.

Mary bit her lip and nodded. “Do tell me if anything changes. Now, would anyone care for a spot of tea?”

Without waiting for a response, she claimed she would come and get it. She left the room with hurried steps.

“Father,” whispered Elise urgently as her aunt closed the door behind her. “He... this is a result of magic, not heartbreak.”

Clarence Riddle turned to her; his brows furrowed.

“Are you sure, child?”

She nodded. “Tom is suffering from potion withdrawal. I researched it, Father, I am positive. And considering the circumstances... it must have been Amortentia, a love potion. I can help him, but we must tell.”

Her father cursed under his breath.

“Do not say anything for now,” he ordered. “I will speak to Thomas and Mary. Stay with your mother and Tom until I come back.”

Elise and Jeanne hesitantly sat on the couch positioned next to Tom’s armchair and waited for Clarence to talk to Mary after she had returned with the tea, citing “urgent matters I must discuss with you and Thomas.”

They were gone for a long time, and Elise heard enough loud noises from upstairs to suspect a heated discussion was happening there, but she was more focused on Tom, whom her mother was attempting to draw into a conversation.

“Do you know what you’ll do next, dear?” she asked.

Tom hummed despondently. Jeanne looked around anxiously, as if a a topic of conversation might just spring from behind a table or a potted plant.

“It is good to see you, cousin,” said Elise softly. “I’ll be glad to send your well wishes to Etienne, if you wish me to. He has been busy, at the Navy, and I hear he’s been courting a girl in the city. He says she’s quite charming. Our dear, strait-laced Etienne is enamoured with a singer, if you would believe it.”

She chuckled and continued, keeping up her chatter without making her cousin feel pressured to respond in any way. She told him about how her older brother was doing, and her friends at the Academy – though she said nothing about magic – and how she had gotten better at riding since she last saw him.

By the time his parents and her father came back, he was listening to her intently.

“Is what Clarence says true, Elise?” asked Mary. “You can help Tommy?”

She nodded. “I’ll need to gather some ingredients to purge him of the drug he was fed.”

“And could you take care of the girl and her family?” her uncle asked urgently.

“They’re still there?” she exclaimed, gripping her wand.

Mary nodded, her eyes glistening with tears.

“Those horrid Gaunts. Oh, I knew something was wrong with them! They keep taunting us every time we pass by, threatening to harm us if we don’t tell them where the girl’s gone. Said something about marrying her to her brother.” She shivered. “I used to love this village, but now I detest it,” she lamented.

Elise gulped.

“I can call the magical authorities if they’ve done something illegal,” she said hesitantly. “The girl who did this to him--”

“Her name was Merope.”

They all turned to her cousin, startled to hear him speak. He was trembling harder than before and looked sick to his stomach.

“You’re like her, Lizzie?” he asked, his voice breaking under the perceived betrayal.

She raised her hand to touch him but stopped when she saw him flinch away from her. Her heart broke for her cousin. She took a deep breath.

“No, I’m not. I can do what she can do, but I’d never dare. It was disgusting of her to do that to you, and if the Aurors don’t do anything, I’ll kill her for the offence. Do you understand me, Tom? I’ll kill her.”

They looked into each other’s eyes for a long time, their mothers fretting beside them. Something in Tom’s bearing seemed to loosen, and he leaned forward, taking Elise’s hand in his.

“She was pregnant,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t have... I shouldn’t have left, if only for the child, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t! She... she raped me. She made me think I loved her and reshaped my mind to only think of her, bewitched me and touched me. I never wished... I cannot heal from this madness.”

“You can, and you will. I’ll heal you first, then I’ll hunt her down. We’ll take the child from her and raise it as a Riddle, a proper one. Not whatever abomination she tried to create without your consent. Okay?”

A tear rolled down his cheek.

“Okay,” he whispered.

Notes:

"we shared our skies and mapped them out with linked fingers
because we also share history, our clouds are the same
but our rainfalls are a little different
and you prefer your snow to my thunder
your sun is a little warmer, my moon a little brighter
maybe you're the dusk to my dawn,
and maybe it doesn't matter
for more than the legacy of our blood,
we share our skies, my brother."

I didn't know what to name this one so I went with a poem I wrote for my older brother.

The goal of this story is to give agency to the Riddles on the form of one witch on their side, and to explore stuff like trauma recovery for Tom Riddle Sr, who was literally raped and still considered less pitiful by Dumbledore than Merope Gaunt, his actual rapist. The Voldemort origin story is insane.

Chapter 25: we share our skies II

Summary:

Elise Riddle is overpowered, I know. But it's fun. And the Riddles are canonically snobs so I made them kind of entitled. I think it's not over the top, but do tell me if it is.

The art of potion making was delicate, but going through the motions was familiar enough to Elise to be relaxing. She liked losing herself in the meticulous measure of ingredients, the stirring of her cauldron and slow pouring of magic into her brews.

It took six hours for the weaning potion to be finished. When Elise was done, she filled a vial with her preparation and apparated out of the potions laboratory her parents had been built her into a little way away from her uncle’s kitchen. She poured the potion into a teacup and brought it to her cousin’s room.

Tom had to be cajoled into drinking it, but Elise was patient with him. She understood his terror; the last time he had taken anything from a witch, she had violated him in the worst possible way. After several minutes of encouragement, he drank and fell asleep soon after.

“He should be better tomorrow,” she announced to her aunt and uncle, who were watching him anxiously. “It won’t heal the... mental wounds she inflicted upon him since that’s not caused by magic, but the shakes will be gone, and his skin will gain some colour back. Then it will be up to us to make sure the memories fade.”

And he would stop reeking of magic withdrawal to her senses, she thought silently. It wasn’t anything a muggle could detect, but it was obvious to any competent wizard.

“Thank goodness,” breathed out Mary, wiping a tear from her eye.

“Thank you, niece,” said Thomas gruffly.

“It is nothing, uncle, to care for my dear cousin.”

Thomas inclined his head before asking. “Were you serious about taking the child back here?”

“I am. Tom is willing to raise them, and the Gaunt witch doesn’t deserve to have this child. Not when she violated my cousin to create them. But...”

She hesitated.

“Do you truly wish to remain in Little Hangleton, uncle?”

Their eyes widened.

“We can’t just leave the Manor!” exclaimed her aunt.

“I’ll not be chased away by these madmen,” added Thomas, pointing a finger at her. His expression was drawn and tight, a testament of his anger and exhaustion both.

Elise help up her hands. “That’s not what I’m suggesting. I was thinking I could move the house somewhere else. I studied Wizard Space as an elective, and it is a possible venture. It will take a few weeks, but Aunt, you mentioned hating it here. And the rumours...” She bit her lip. “If I bring the child here, they’ll find out and wonder where they came from. I don’t think Tom can take your neighbours’ curiosity in the state he’s in. You don’t have to, of course. We can also ask Mama and Father to pass them off as theirs. But maybe a fresh start would do you well,” she suggested.

The couple exchanged looks.

“We are asking a lot from you,” sighed her uncle heavily. “You are healing our son, getting revenge for us, and now you are talking about doing a month’s work so we can live at ease in another village... it is true that nothing keeps us here. I do business elsewhere, and Tom’s friends have deserted him since he was taken by that... horrible woman. Maybe we were always too good for this neighbourhood.”

“You are not asking for more than I am willing to provide,” she said firmly. “We are family. I will make the preparations for you. You’ll just need to buy a plot of land in an isolated area, so people don’t ask where the manor came from. I’ll touch it up, so it looks recently built and you’ll be golden,” she said brightly. She leaned in conspiratorially. “I did something similar for Etienne last year. He lives on the outskirts of London, you see, and the cost of building is sharper there than on the countryside, so we bought land there and a house elsewhere then moved the latter to the former. It’s quite strange to see a seaside cottage so far away from the beach, but it’s quite charming.”

“Magic is...”

Her aunt seemed lost for words.

“It’s terrifying,” said Elise firmly. “But it can be useful. Might I suggest a few areas? Tom’s son will likely be magical and mixed communities might be ,” she said, and her aunt and uncle flinched at this.

She paused. Her eyes softened. They likely hadn’t thought of it. Tom had; she’d seen it in his eyes when she had told him she’d bring the child back.

“I can take him in, if you find it too daunting. Tom will need to be consulted, it is his child after all, but I will not have you terrorised in your own home, Auntie, Uncle.”

They hesitated, but shook their heads firmly.

“Don’t speak nonsense, child, you are barely above majority. I will not make you a mother before your time. We will support our son and raise our grandchild to be an upstanding citizen, magical or no,” said Thomas firmly. “Clarence did well enough with you; we’ll just have to follow his lead.”

Elise beamed. Her parents weren’t here to hear the compliment, having decided to retire early for the evening, but she would delight in forwarding it to them.

Later, Elise asked Aunt Mary to tell her everything about their interaction with the Gaunts. Unfortunately, none of it warranted an intervention from the Aurors, so the young witch resigned herself to needing to create her own justice. Or vengeance, rather, given the lack of legality of her venture. She couldn’t find Merope without a starting point so she started with the odious woman’s relatives.

They were dangerous, but illiterate as they were, their spell repertoire was pitiful. Elise had benefitted from exemplary education and was the best student of her year who had had her pick of apprenticeships upon graduation, and only chose something more humble because potion making was her passion and she wished to be closer to her parents.

They didn’t expect her, and that gave her the upper hand. She stunned them both and took hold of their wands, though not before being insulted and having their House’s history thrown at her face like a taunt. She cast an Incarcerous, making sure their bonds were secure, and then reanimated them.

“You truly are filthy,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “And destitute.” She sniffed. “Poverty is not a vice in muggles; common society is too hierarchised, and people are too powerless to stop it. You’re either born into privilege, or you aren’t. But you are wizards. You do not fear hunger or thirst; threats of homelessness mean nothing to you. A motivated thirteen-year-old can turn a hut into a palace if they so wish. It is pathetic to live like this when you have such power at your fingertips. Now, I’ll take a drop of your blood and you will make a Vow with me never to hurt or threaten a muggle again. If you do so, I will let you live. If you refuse, I’ll kill you with your own wands, make it look like you got in a fight and ended the Slytherin line you so admire for a petty dispute. The Gaunt name will die with you, and the only Parselmouth left in the world will be a half-blood by the name Riddle. So, what will it be?”

They refused, of course.

Elise heaved as she left the house. She puked in the gardens of the Gaunt Shack, then wiped her mouth.

She had never killed anyone before.

She didn’t think it would be so easy. She thought she would feel some regret, but she only felt vindication. She had gotten rid of the threat to her family.

And she had the Gaunts’ blood, so she could track down Merope, and Tom’s child.

***

Tom insisted on coming with her. She had protested at first; she didn’t want her cousin to be exposed to his rapist once more, but he said that this was his child and he needed to see for himself.

They apparated a block away from the location the map indicated.

They walked unhurriedly. Tom’s gaze was distant, though less tormented than he had been when she first saw him four days ago. Her own eyes were darting every which way. She wanted to be sure they wouldn’t get a nasty surprise upon arriving. If Merope had made some friends, they’d be in trouble. But this area of London didn’t seem magical at all. And once they arrived in front of the building her spell had indicated, she gasped upon seeing what it was. Tom tensed.

Wool’s Orphanage stood tall and forbidding in front of them.

“Did she abandon my child after everything she did?” hissed Tom, gripping Elise’s arm to stop his hand from trembling.

A woman in the courtyard came to greet them when she saw her hovering at the entrance.

“Are you looking for something?” asked the middle-aged woman in austere clothes who greeted them.

She tried to make herself seem kindly, but the way she was greedily looking upon Elise and her cousin’s expensive clothes was discomforting enough to break the illusion.

“Excuse me, has a child by the name of Riddle been dropped off here?” she asked politely.

Tom stayed silent.

The woman blinked, surprised. “Yes, indeed. His mother died in childbirth some time ago and left him in our care.” She narrowed her eyes. “Who’s asking?”

Elise glanced at her cousin, who had gone still at the news.

“My cousin Tom is his father. His... wife Merope took off without an explanation after an argument. She was... unwell, if you see what I mean,” she said with an affected sigh. “Only recently a friend of hers told me that she was pregnant when she left. We’ve been looking for her ever since.”

She didn’t bother explaining why and how she knew to come here; muggles often made their own assumptions if she didn’t over-explain things, and it was more convincing to them than any lie she could have told.

Tom belatedly nodded, his expression wooden.

The woman’s expression cleared. “That explains a lot about that woman’s odd behaviour. I am sorry for your loss, sir. I’ll give you the address of the cemetery she was buried in and take you to see Tom Jr.”

“Tom Jr?” murmured Elise.

“Yes, Tom Marvolo Riddle, she named him. What a strange middle name,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s a lovely little boy, though his gaze is a little intense. He’s only seven months old, but--”

“I would like to see my child now, please,” said Tom abruptly.

“But, don’t you want to know about your wife?” asked the woman, narrowing her eyes.

Elise sighed and pulled out her wand. “Confundo.” At Tom’s worried look, she murmured, “it is only to confuse her. She’s too curious. Let’s get... Little Tom and go.”

Chapter 26: red and gold (MCU/Harry Potter)

Summary:

Tony Stark is Harry Potter's uncle.

Of course, Harry finds out about this when he has long stopped hoping for a family. And now he has to make sure he won't have to write "death by aliens" on his uncle's tombstone.

“My uncle?” repeated Harry disbelievingly.

The family lawyer nodded. It was Harry’s second time meeting with the man, who hadn’t seen fit to contact him until he’d actually reached his majority. Then the war had happened, and Mr Armitage had obviously thought it would be better to wait until he had a guarantee that his client would survive to his nineteenth birthday. Oscar Armitage was the successor of the Potters’ previous lawyer, and thus had access to a lot of indispensable documentation about the family. It had been useful when Harry had sought to reach a settlement with the goblins of Gringotts – which was the main reason why he had reached out to the man the first time-- and now the ridiculous buggers stopped trying to skewer him every time he approached the bank, and it was useful now that Harry was finally able to read what his parents’ will bloody said.

Nothing about custody was written on there, obviously, nor about Sirius’ innocence – which was fortunate, or he’d probably have risen Dumbledore from the grave just to kill him again – but there was quite a big amount of money bequeathed to one Anthony Stark. That, and a stack of letters addressed to him from James Potter titled “your big brother.”

“Anthony is ten years younger than your father. You have to understand, Mr Potter, that your grandparents were already unsure about having another child. They were both in their seventies when they had James, which made them in their eighties when Anthony was born. And when he turned out to be a squib child, growing in the magical world in the middle of a blood war... the Potters felt a bit over their head, you see. So they searched for a couple willing to adopt him.” He paused. “It’s actually during their visit in America that they contracted dragonpox,” he said regretfully. “Perhaps they would have been better served keeping the child.”

“How did they know he was a squib?” he asked, frowning.

He wasn’t sure what to respond to... everything else the man had just said.

“Most parents prefer to wait and find out organically, but looking for your child in the Book of Names early on is totally acceptable, and saves the parents some grief,” explained Mr Armitage.

“I see,” he sighed. “Well, I don’t suppose the family has a bank account in the muggle world?”

“As a matter of fact, they do,” said the man. “You’ll want to contact the stewardess of House Potter. I’ll send out her contact information by owl, but you should meet the man first and give him the letters as soon as you can.”

Harry restrained another exhausted exhale. It would be a little rude, after all the work Mr Armitage had done.

“Sure, I’ll do that.”

Of course it had to be when he’d given up on having family that something like this happened, he muttered.

“Let’s find out where the bloke lives, shall we?” he told himself, his shoulders slumping.

***

Of course the whole thing wouldn’t be so easy. Hermione informed him that Anthony Stark was actually a celebrity and a genius of some sort who used to be nicknamed the Merchant of Death until he was kidnapped by terrorists and had to fight his way out, whereby he ended his weapon selling business and started both selling clean energy and parading around in a gold and red metal suit that shot beams out of its hands.

“He’s a thrill seeker and he’s got your saving people thing too,” said his best friend with an amused glance at him as she brandished an American newspaper from the dinner table.

Harry groaned, face down on the couch.

“So it’s hereditary,” snickered Ron. “Should have figured.”

“Contacting him will be hard,” fretted Hermione. “As a public figure, writing him isn’t exactly easy. I think you’d actually have an easier time if you let your stewardess send the money and waited for him to follow up.”

“I was planning on renovating Grimmauld,” moaned Harry through the cushions. “Do something cozy and low stress, turn my godfather’s house into something other than a mausoleum. It would have been great.”

“You can still do that,” shrugged Ron. “You just need to meet your uncle first.”

“Ugh.”

***

“So, Mr Potter. Can I ask what this is about,” she said, handing over a tablet with the history of transaction made under the Potter Estate’s name.

She made the question sound like a threat, noted Harry. He hoped that the tabloids were wrong about Stark’s CEO being his girlfriend.

“I’m afraid that is something I should be discussing with your... um, employee? He’s your head of R&D, isn’t he? Employee it is,” he explained with an apologetic smile. “Private family matter, you understand.”

Miss Potts was not impressed. Harry restrained the urge to fidget.

He defeated a Dark Lord, he reminded himself silently, he could do this.

“Listen, Mr Potter,” she started, “I have more important things to deal with than a privileged teenager who tries to be mysterious. If you’d be so kind to explain the matter to me, I can forward your answer to Mr Stark and see what he thinks of it. But beyond that, I cannot help you any further.”

He raised his eyes to the ceiling and sighed. “And I can tell that you care about Mr Stark, but I cannot give additional information on this matter to you without his consent. So it seems we are at an impasse.” He paused. “My stewardess was clear enough on the fact that this concerns my late father’s will reading. You do not need to know more about it to at least understand that this – at least to me – is a sensitive matter.”

He smiled winningly.

She went from unimpressed to exasperated really fast. “Listen, kid, we’ve had cases like you before. You could have gone through the usual routes and requested a paternity test, but instead you’ve decided to squander your family fortune for unclear reasons, that’s your choice. You’re still not gonna get to meet Iron Man before you can prove you’re actually his son.”

Harry’s eyes widened.

“Is that what you think is happening? My father is James Potter, no one else!”

Miss Potts blushed.

“I am... sorry, it seems I’ve made some assumptions.”

The wizard pinched the bridge of his nose. He leaned to the side and started rummaging through the case he’d brought with him for this. He pulled out a sheet of paper.

“Here,” he said brusquely, laying it on the table. “You show him this, and if he doesn’t want to see me after he reads it, I’ll just fuck off. But I want your word that you won’t read it yourself.”

“Jarvis, scan the contents and send them to Mr Stark,” asked Miss Potts.

“Very well, Miss Potts,” said a disembodied voice with a British accent.

Harry tapped his index on the table impatiently. The CEO’s eyes narrowed upon seeing his lack of reaction; he couldn’t help it. In the wizarding world, it had become weirder not to hear some kind of wall speaking than the reverse. Portraits were everywhere and they simply never shut up. Wizards liked it that way; it figured that muggles would invent ways to fill out the silence of their homes too. Weird choice for a workplace but he supposed that if the... whatever that was could scan documents, it was at least more useful to have around than a magical painting.

“Mr Stark is coming down, Miss Potts.”

The redhead startled, staring at Harry with raised eyebrows. He shrugged and was about to say something when the man he’d only seen on the telly or in newspapers barged into the room.

“This cannot be true,” he said, brandishing his tablet, where a perfect copy of the document in front of him was displayed. “You’re playing a prank, kid?”

Harry’s lips quirked. “A little expensive for a prank, innit?”

“I refuse to believe I am British,” protested Stark.

“Hey, I was as surprised as you are, Mr American Dream,” claimed the wizard with a grin. “So, uh, if you want any proof I can do my best, but in the meantime..." he took his case from the floor and started emptying it. First went the stack of letters, “here are the letters my dad wrote you,” then a bound pile of papers, “and this is the part of the will that concerns you, and," he pulled out a few stilled pictures – the magic reveal would come without an audience, if possible --, “well, this is pretty self-explanatory.”

He didn’t hand it to him; he’d already come all the way here, more effort than this was beyond him if he was totally honest. Stark greedily looked at all the papers, though he hesitated before reaching out.

“A blood test, first,” he announced.

Miss Potts’ eyes narrowed.

“I thought you said you weren’t his son,” she accused.

Harry raised his hands innocently. “I didn’t say we weren’t related, just that I wasn’t his son,” he retorted.

Stark looked at both of them with intrigue.

“No, Pepper, he’s not claiming to be my kid. He’s claiming I’m adopted, and the paperwork has my parents’ signatures so I’m half-inclined to believe him. According to this,” he said, raising his tablet once more, “he’s my nephew. Which is... fascinating.” He clapped his hands. “But blood test first. Then we’ll talk.”

***

“Shit, I really am adopted.”

Chapter 27: unleash the furies (Harry Potter OC)

Summary:

Soren Nott has a bone to pick with Fate, but until he figures out how to keep his little brother out of harm's way, he's left to do her bidding. How that ended with him falling in love with a Horcrux, he's not too sure.

(Seer Slytherin OC who fucked up the story without meaning to has two goals:
figure out how he altered canon and keep his little brother alive and Dark Mark-free.

OMC/Diary Tom Riddle)

“Theodore Nott,” announced Minerva McGonagall.

Soren trailed off and looked back at the row of firsties waiting anxiously for their turn. A boy with his brown hair, the abyssal black of his eyes and his pale complexion stepped forward. There were some differences between them; the younger boy’s face was rounder, his lips fuller, and there was a single mole on his cheek where Soren had two, one under his eye and another kissing his jaw.

Cassius Warrington elbowed him, “That your little brother?”

He hummed. “Yeah, that’s Theo.”

He tapped a finger against the side of his glass, watching his little brother sit on the stool.

“He’s tiny,” commented Adrian Pucey on his other side.

Elsie Lament cooed. Irene Merrythought grinned and said with a conspiratorial smirk, “he’s cute. He’ll grow up to be a charmer, if he’s anything like you.”

Soren did not dignify that with a response, which made his friends snort.

“SLYTHERIN!”

Theo took off the hat, his expression neutral, and walked up to his brother, who had led his group next to the other first years on purpose. The seat next to him was even empty; with a quirk of his eyebrow, he dared anyone to say anything against it. The Malfoy heir twitched, visibly wanting to speak up. Soren stared him down until the boy lowered his eyes. Soren glanced away, satisfied to know the lesson had stuck.

“Tillykke, lillebror,” he murmured as his brother sat down.

Congratulations, little brother.

Theo rolled his eyes, though some tension seemed to leave his shoulders.

“The only thing I did was put on a hat.”

“You got into your preferred House. Let me be happy for you,” he said, poking his little brother between the brows.

Theo made a face. He murmured in Danish, “if it was up to me, I’d be in Ravenclaw, you know this.”

“I know,” he replied in the same language, his smile taking on a bittersweet edge. “But you still thought Slytherin was preferrable to accomplish your goals and you got what you wanted. It’s a victory.”

Theo worried his lip between his teeth. Soren resisted the urge to pull on his cheek to make him stop as he used to at home. Showing favouritism was one thing, babying his little brother in front of his peers was another.

“Slytherin won’t be so bad if you’re in it,” mumbled his little brother, turning away to watch the rest of the Sorting.

Soren chuckled, but he gazed back at his friends who were giving him space to talk to Theo without interruption.

“Sage, your cousin’s getting Sorted too,” was saying Cassius as Pansy Parkinson made her way to the stool. “Are you hoping she’ll join us?”

Sage theatrically shuddered which made Prudence Bulstrode, his fiancee laugh.

“Absolutely not. The little pest is a nightmare to be around.”

Their year group in Slytherin was quite small in comparison to other years, a consequence of the war against Voldemort.

And still, having three female and four male students was impressive considering the year above only counted five students overall. For all his talk about the preservation of lineage, Voldemort sure had ended a lot of family lines.

Soren had been surprised when he’d realised how easy it was to rally the students around him. As the Heir of House Nott, he might outrank most of them except Prudence and Sage who stood as Heirs to their own Houses, but he hadn’t known if it would truly matter. Wixen children didn’t interact with the outside world before getting their Hogwarts letter and, isolated as he was, getting a feel for his peers had been a trial and error. Besides, he was no Draco Malfoy as a first year, neither as confident of his own superiority nor as domineering.

But according to Sage, it was his quiet charisma and his focused character that had attracted them to him. He’d made sure to drag them all with him to the top of the rankings, and in a year group where the only people who stood out in other Houses were the academically disinclined Weasley twins, his influence had been noticed. They called him and the seven Slytherin friends he had made himself a Coven. He wasn’t sure what to think of that.

There were weird rumours about them, though Soren didn’t pay attention to them much. He had been more focused on making sure that the cesspit that was the den of snakes was presentable for his brother’s arrival. It had taken some effort, but he’d browbeaten all students except the sixth and seventh years, who didn’t care about anything but their upcoming NEWTs. Some hadn’t taken much effort, like the fifth years led by Gemma Fawley, but students like Marcus Flint had needed a public humiliation to fall in line, which had forced Soren to show off a lot more than he had intended to.

But there was no way the third year would allow Theo to sleep in a place where prejudice and bullying ran rampant, and if their father insisted on both of his sons being in Slytherin, Soren would at least make sure their House would be up to his standards.

And now he would get to see if his little experiment would measure up to Draco Malfoy’s influence and the backing of the kid’s father. He had one year to make sure it would; next year, all his attention would be taken up by a dangerous enterprise, namely getting answers from a teenage Dark Lord.

***

He died and found himself in a great big room full of tapestries.

On each of them was depicted a different story he remembered being told, no matter the medium. Books, films, songs, hearsay and folk legends. The more popular stories were made of stronger, brighter threads, strengthened as they were by the many hands and voices that added to the tale. And because a certain cursed author sold her story to hundreds of millions, that of the Wizarding World was the strongest of all.

He supposed these stories were a way to soothe the deceased, provide something familiar before the next great adventure. They couldn’t exactly play every music you’d ever listened to, could they? And showing you images of your own youth was rather creepy, most people would probably pass on that.

So, he was there, among all those beautiful tapestries. There were thousands of them; he’d always been a bookworm. He admired them, oohing and aahing at the pretty pictures like he’d reverted to a three-year-old. He had a grand old time, reminiscing about his favourite stories and resolutely ignoring the truth of his death.

But the problem was, you see, that when he was growing up, they called him Magpie.

“Can’t stop himself from putting his grubby fingers on anything shiny, that one,” would say his grandmother, her mouth slanted into a scoff and her head shaking in exasperation.

She wasn’t wrong; he certainly couldn’t stop gravitating towards things that caught his attention. And the greedy, grasping little thing that he was would put anything that would fit in his pocket.

He learnt a few things about ownership and boundaries later on, but it took a little time for the lesson to stick.

And he supposed that, shocked as he was by his rather sudden death, he forgot about those pesky things for a mo’ when he got to this hall of stories, and his nail snagged on the thread depicting the birth of Tom Riddle when he had simply wanted to trace the pretty picture.

Some kind of hook dug into his navel and dragged him forward, and when he woke up, he was in the body of Soren Nott, Theodore Nott’s older brother who was meant to be stillborn and to leave Theo as the Heir of House Nott.

Why would he know that, you ask?

Because Fate made him a Seer to punish him for fucking up his own intended afterlife.

He saw what was and what should have been, what the future would be if he didn’t take it upon himself to change it. Soren didn’t care, at first. He had only mild distaste for his Death Eater father, too tired to summon true hatred for the man even after he killed Theo and Soren's mother in front of them. He contented himself with protecting Theo and planning their escape to the continent when the time came. He had Seen what his brother would have become under the tutelage of the Carrows, and he didn’t intend to let the only person he loved in this world turn himself into a monster to survive.

He didn’t plan to stick around after reaching adulthood; he’d be seventeen in December 1994, and he’d be able to take Theo with him.
Of course, Fate had other ideas.

“No,” she hissed in his sleep, trailing long, sharp fingers on his cheek. “You disrupted my tapestry; you will fix it.”

And he was assaulted with images of what would happen to Theo if he dared step foot outside Britain before Voldemort was killed.

“What did I do?” he’d pled. “What did I change? Tell me and I’ll fix it.”

Fate cackled.

“I won’t make it easy for you, child. Figure it out, or your brother will pay the price.”

He spent what should have been peaceful childhood years sifting through his visions, trying to spot where things had gone wrong exactly. It got so bad that their father noticed, though he attributed it to nightmares caused by his memories of the night the man killed their mother. Soren thanked his luck that the man hadn’t noticed his oldest son was a Seer tormented by Fate herself or he had no idea what might have happened to him. As it was, Theophrastus Nott had no qualms feeding him Dreamless Sleep potions until he got addicted to them and had to be slowly weaned off them before he entered Hogwarts.

After all these years, Soren only had one answer; something had changed at the birth of Tom Riddle which turned Voldemort into a different kind of genocidal maniac. The man was as drunk on power and Dark Magic as he had been in the Future that Should Have Been, but his views on Blood Purity were surprisingly tempered. From what he had Seen of the First War, Death Eaters targeted muggle-borns and squibs a lot less than they did opposing Light families, and what they sought to accomplish remained a mystery to the rest of Wizarding Britain. The man even had muggle-borns in his ranks.

Soren didn’t know why this change bothered Fate so much, but it seemed like she wanted a specific thing to happen that wouldn’t if Voldemort remained on this path. He had no idea how to fix it, but it seemed like his visions wouldn’t be enough. Image-based as they were, they didn’t provide him any insight into the thought process of someone as mercurial as a Dark Lord.

The diary of Tom Riddle might be his only way to get better answers.

Notes:

This is kind of a mess. I'll maybe make some changes if I end up continuing this.

Basically the premise is that a poor soul angered Fate by giving Voldemort a better childhood at Wool's Orphanage - he literally just touched the boy's thread of life, it was absolutely not on purpose - and is given the impossible task to Fix It, because a marginally less insane Voldemort is a Voldemort that is redeemable (remember that feeling true remorse for his murders is the only way for him to repair his soul) and that Won't Do. For now Soren's terrorised into complying, but he'll soon realise he has agency in this.

Meanwhile, Slytherin forms a weird cult around him and he doesn't notice. Theo absolutely does though, and he approves. His brother is amazing and people Should worship him.

Chapter 28: halt the clock —that syncopates our love III

“Lord Malfoy,” greets Calix pleasantly. “I believe this one is mine.”

“Calix!” exclaims Pansy, pouting.

“Lord Parkinson. It’s been a long time. A pleasure as always,” simpers the man. “I am ever so glad that our heirs get along.”

Calix raises an eyebrow. Pansy is his heir, yes, but that’s not something he’s confirmed with the public yet. Malfoy Sr is being quite presumptuous.

He looks down at his cousin and tilts his head. She blows out her cheeks before nodding, then drags the Malfoy heir towards the train. Narcissa Malfoy accompanies them, probably wishing for a proper send-off with her son at the Express’ door. Calix doesn’t bother; he’ll get on the train himself soon enough.

“Yes, Draco is quite smart about his choice of friends,” he agrees. That his little cousin hasn’t used the same discernment goes unsaid. “I believe you told him his next target ought to be the Boy-Who-Lived?”

Malfoy Sr’s hand on his cane tightens. Calix politely pretends he hasn’t seen it, though he can’t help but remark the thing is as gaudy as ever. He at least knew not to buy the tackiest thing in the shop when he commissioned his own.

The blond man is one of the few who suspects Calix of being behind the disappearance of the Dark Mark, but try as he might, he’s never succeeded in getting the younger man to admit it.

It irks him, that much is obvious.

But as things are, his only proof is Severus Snape’s confidence on his sudden rapport with Dumbledore, what Rita has let slip about his trip to Albania, and what the papers have to say about his as short as it was sudden interest in politics four years ago.

“Draco will choose his own friends, just as Pansy does,” grits out the former Death Eater.

Calix hums.

“Of course. I’m sure that’s why little Vincent and Gregory trail after him like puppies after their master.” He pauses. “But don’t be so quick to praise my cousin, Lord Malfoy. She’s inherited her mother’s vanity and her father’s brashness. It doesn’t make for a good combination. Speaking of, how is Uncle Jared? You see him more often than I do.”

Calix is laying it on a bit thick here, he muses. It has the intended effect, though. Lucius doesn’t like to be reminded of his questionable associations in public.

“He’s fine,” he says shortly. “Will we see you at our Yule celebration?”

“I’m afraid I volunteered to stay at Hogwarts this time,” he refutes. “I’m trying to endear myself to my colleagues, you see. They haven’t had a good track record when it comes to Defence professors.”

Lucius raises his eyebrows. “I wasn’t aware you had taken up the position.”

Calix blinks.

“I thought the Board of Governors had been informed,” he says innocently. “It was a little last minute, but still. Maybe the house elf in charge of delivering the notice got turned around by your wards? I’ve heard they were one of a kind. Your most infamous visitor quite liked them, I’ve been told. Enough to take up a guest room for some time. Or was it the master’s bedroom?”

He taps his chin wonderingly, though his cheeky grin betrays him his affected thoughtfulness.

But the message has passed; Calix wants nothing to do with bootlickers, and he’s not going to let Lord Malfoy push his actions in the war under the rug. He might have been young then, but not enough to forget how insistently the man was approaching him at the Slug Club when he visited as an alumnus, and how much of Voldemort’s campaign his House had financed. If he was the charitable kind, he would blame it on Abraxas Malfoy who was still Lord at the time and is well-known for being a wanker of the first order. Calix is pretty sure he heard his grandmother mention that the man had killed his first child, Vivian, when she turned out to be a squib.

But he’s not. Charitable, that is. He doesn’t care about the how or the why. All that matters is that because of Lucius and his ilk, Voldemort felt emboldened to target his fledgling. Calix is not Hedwig, but her love for Harry Potter reshaped him and, in many ways, he still feels like the boy’s familiar.

He’s just got more options to protect the boy than a magical owl would have. Hedwig couldn’t have destroyed Horcruxes or killed the wraith of a Dark Lord. She couldn’t have contacted Dumbledore and gotten his help or freed Sirius Black from Azkaban.

Malfoy Sr’s mouth twists. Huh. Calix has truly angered him He is about to say something undoubtedly scathing, but his wife comes back before he can.

“Lord Parkinson,” she says, curtsying.

He bows slightly. “Lady Malfoy. I’m afraid I’ll have to follow the children before the train doors close. It was an interesting chat, Lord Malfoy.”

If this one-sided bullying campaign actually counts as a chat. He’s not quite sure.

***

The Sorting is boring. The only highlight is that Harry Potter is Sorted into Slytherin, and even this doesn’t warrant more than mildly surprised murmurs. People aren’t that shocked; unlike the Weasleys, the Smiths or the Rowles, the Potters don’t Sort into singular Houses. Circe, the boy’s grandmother herself wore green and silver.

Calix watches him subtly, cataloguing his anxious expression. Dumbledore catches him at it and sends him a pitying smile. Sometimes Calix regrets having shown the man his Pensieve memories. But he was the only person he trusted to tell him if his plan to unanchor the Horcrux in Harry was viable, so his cooperation was valuable. And hey, it granted him a job. He might not need it, but he likes having something to do. Besides, he’s missed having access to the Hogwarts Library.

By the end of the meal, Pansy seems to have taken Harry under her wing and Draco Malfoy watches the two jealously. Calix is relieved; he might have told Lucius Malfoy that his cousin was vain and brash, and he was right to say so, but she’s also loyal and deeply caring to those she likes. They’ll make a good pair.

At the end of the evening, Calix roams the castle. His feet take him to the owlery without conscious purpose, and he stands in the middle of the assembly of birds, lost in his thoughts.

He doesn’t hear the footsteps behind him.

“I used to dream about an owl,” starts a voice he recognises all too well. It sounds older, more tired than it should be.

Calix turns.

It is not the Harry Potter of the station that stands before him. It’s her Harry, tiny-human-magical-fledgling.

“She was my first friend.”

Harry Potter sighs. “I won’t remember this tomorrow,” he murmurs. “The Harry of this world will find you familiar, but he’s not me. He hasn’t lived what I’ve lived, and it’s better this way. I only get the privilege to speak to you because I’m the Master of Death. After this I’ll return where I came from. I’ll live, not just survive. Like you wanted me to.”

“You made a right mess of things here, Hedwig. Fate isn’t happy with your interference with her prophecy. She’ll make you pay for it; she’s sworn it.” He pauses. Runs a hand through his hair. “But I would like to say thank you, for protecting me. Well, this version of me. I know you aren’t just my Hedwig, and the Calix Parkinson of my world certainly didn’t care about helping. You did more than any adult ever did for me.” He chuckles. “You fucking killed Voldemort, Hedwig, that’s... insane.”

“Anything for my fledgling,” whispers Calix. “I mean it.”

“You still feel the familiar bond, then?” asks Harry with sad eyes. “That must be lonely, since this Harry doesn’t remember you.”

“It’s fine. I feel his happiness. It’s enough.”

Harry steps forward and hugs the owl-man tightly. “I know it’s not. It’s fine. It’ll be fine, I promise. But you’re unsafe, Calix. Fate is after you, and she has no mercy. Be careful, the Dementors...”

Harry raises his head and steps back, looking to the horizon like he can see something there that Calix can’t discern, even with his yellow owl eyes.

His fledling sighs again, “I have to go.”

“No, please, stay with me, I--,” pleads Calix-turned Hedwig.

“I know. I’ll miss you. I'm sorry,” he says, and fades away.

The next day, Calix faces Harry Potter’s guileless eyes in class, with no hint of recognition in them. He takes a deep breath, and he does what he came here to do.

He teaches.

Notes:

I don't know.

Chapter 29: better to reign in hell (Harry Potter OC)

Summary:

Hermione has a cousin. He's a little scary. But very helpful.

(Outsider perspective on a reincarnated Dagworth!OC.)

Notes:

House Dagworth genealogy (which was much harder to write than anything else on this snippet)

Julius Dagworth (man, Pureblood, 106) + Harmonia Greengrass (woman, Pureblood, 108) = Jason Dagworth (man, Pureblood, deceased) & Constance Dagworth (woman, pureblood, 77)

Jason Dagworth + Imane Shacklebolt (woman, Pureblood, 51) = Priam Dagworth (man, Pureblood, 25)

Constance Dagworth (woman, Pureblood, 74) + William Granger (man, Muggle-born, 77) = Hector Dagworth-Granger (man, Half-blood, 55)

Hector Dagworth-Granger + ??? ??? (woman, Muggle, deceased) = Lewis Granger (man, Squib, 40)

Lewis Granger + Marilyn ??? (woman, Muggle, 41) = Hermione Granger (woman, Squib-born, 12)

A stranger knocks on the door of the Granger household a week before Hermione is to enter Hogwarts.

Hermione hears him before she sees him, her parents are questioning his presence on their doorway. His voice is deep and measured. He sounds... posh. She hears steps coming towards her, sign that her parents have found the man’s reason for interrupting their morning sufficient enough.

The stranger is a young man of short stature sporting a grave expression. Riotous curls kiss at his temples and his eyes are a strangely deep amber colour. Hermione watches curiously from the armchair she is reading in as her parents lead him to the living room and sit down on the couch, inviting him to take the remaining armchair.

“Hermione,” her mother says, “this is Priam Dagworth, a distant relative of your father.” She pauses then, and adds, her voice lowered, “and he is a wizard.”

Hermione straightens.

“Well met, Hermione,” says the man, his eyes softening once they rest upon her.

“Hello,” she murmurs shyly.

She looks over at her dad who looks shell-shocked. Hermione knows that the circumstances of his birth were a bit murky, though she hadn’t ever been told how exactly. She only knew that her grandmother died before Hermione was born, and the woman had taken to the grave the identity of her grandfather despite her son’s pleading for answers.

“How are we related, exactly?” she asks the young man carefully.

He exchanges a look with Hermione’s father, who nods slowly.

“Your paternal grandfather is my first cousin,” he says, then elaborates. “My father Jason Dagworth is your father’s grandmother, Constance Dagworth-Granger's younger brother. They have quite a significant age gap, which explains the skipped generation.”

He blinks and turns to Lewis, Hermione’s father.

“His name is Hector Dagworth-Granger,” he adds belatedly, looking embarrassed to have forgotten such an important detail.

“He’s still alive?” gasps her father. “You didn’t say that.”

Marilyn Granger, Hermione’s mother places a a hand on her husband’s forearm.

“He is,” confirms Priam. “Hector is attending an important conference in Greece at the moment – he is the founder of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers, and is often invited to this type of events. He will be back in a month. We thought it better to inform him in person, but the matter felt to us quite urgent considering your daughter will be entering Hogwarts in a week.”

“What does it have to do with anything?” wonders her mother.

At the same time, Hermione asks. “How did you find out about us? Did you use spells to track us?”

Priam smiles at the young girl, and after sending an apologetic smile at her mother, he answers her question first. “House Dagworth’s Main House is in the possession of an artefact that tracks the condition of the wands belonging to the family. It’s a way to know which one needs a polish or a repair, since providing magical foci is the responsibility of the main branch – and it accounts for underage use of magic too, which is a nice way to monitor children,” he adds with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I got in trouble once or twice for casting spells during the summer.”

“So you found out because I bought a wand,” realises Hermione.

“Yes, we were quite surprised when we saw your name on the Wand Star, but we were able to use your name and our blood connexion to track you. And to answer your question, Mrs Granger, informing you in advance matters because of the political climate Albion currently finds itself in. We are recovering from a blood war--”

“I read about it!” interrupts Hermione. “You-Know-Who wanted to rule Magical Britain, er, Albion? And he didn’t like muggle-borns like me, but Harry Potter somehow defeated him despite being a baby.”

“Exactly,” confirms Priam, glancing at her with amusement. Hermione flushes. “You-Know-Who might have been defeated but his ideology predates him by centuries and Hermione might want to benefit from the Dagworth name and resources. Sorry as I am to say it, it will make her life... much easier. And since the rights she is entitled to are not contingent on Hector’s reaction – though I doubt my cousin will be anything but thrilled to find himself a father and grandfather – we decided that there was no harm offering them to you before his return.”

His lips twitch then, and Hermione wonders distantly what he finds so funny about this before her mind is entirely caught up in the implications of what her distant cousin is saying.

“What is Hermione entitled to?” asks her father, leaning forward.

“The protection of our House, mainly. If anything should happen at school, you as muggles would not be allowed to step into the premises, but we would, and we could keep you informed of anything amiss. She would also have access to the Dagworth grimoires containing spells and potions recipes invented by the family, and the Dagworth name would grant her connexions that would be very useful when it comes time for her to find employment. We would also forward the owl address of Daphne Greengrass, who will be entering Hogwarts at the same time. Daphne is a rather distant cousin, our grandmother,” he says, tilting his chin towards Lewis Granger, “Harmonia was her great-grandfather's sister, but our Houses are partnered in politics and in business, so we maintain very close bonds.”

Hermione perks up at the mention of grimoires, though she privately laments how unfair it is for other muggle-borns to not have access to the things Priam is talking about. She supposes the muggle world is similar, the rich have more things than the poor, but still. It’s not just.

She is also cautiously hopeful that she might find a friend in Daphne, though she knows better than to think it a guarantee. She gets along very poorly with her maternal cousins.

Her father asks a few more questions about the Dagworth family’s standing in the magical world, and it paints a clearer picture of what they are getting into. The Dagworth family is old but they are progressive. They are also very rich. Absurdly rich.

It is only after several minutes that Lewis dares to ask.

“Do you know why my father...?”
He falters then. Hermione watches him anxiously. She doesn’t know how to help, and it grates her.

Priam grimaces. “You have to understand, Mr Granger--”

“Call me Lewis,” he interrupts.

Priam nods.

“Lewis, then. You must understand that my cousin had you at the young age of fifteen and was not informed of your birth by your mother, who disappeared on him after he told her about magic.” He steeples his fingers. “I was given to understand that the Obliviators’ Headquarters had to get involved when my aunt reported the incident. Your mother likely was made to forget about magic and therefore could only remember the name of Hector Granger -- Dagworth being a pureblood name of some influence in the magical world, it would have been judged better for her to forget it.”

Hermione bites her lip. The professor who had come to tell her about Hogwarts had explained why Obliviators were necessary, but it still didn’t sit well with her. Knowing that her grandmother had been made to forget why she had left the father of her child explains a lot about her refusal to expand upon the man’s identity. It must have been disconcerting for her. But knowing that the Obliviators had been needed in the first place because her grandmother could not accept her grandfather was also... difficult.

She wonders what it means to her father to find out he is in fact a squib born from a – presumably – half-blood wizard and a muggle.

How different her life would have been if he had had magic.

Priam stays for lunch. By the time he leaves, it is quite obvious that Hermione will enter Hogwarts as a Dagworth-Granger. They learn a bit more about their guest too; the man is in his twenties, and he was recently appointed as the Heir to the family, which explains why the responsibility fell on him to explain it rather than to Constance Dagworth-Granger and her husband, who are Hermione’s great-grandparents and still alive to this day.

He is rather busy between his responsibilities managing the different branches of the family, representing their House at the Wizengamot and managing their primary businesses. When they ask what he does in his free time, he smiles mysteriously and murmurs that he likes hunting when he gets the chance.

“And what do you hunt?” asks Hermione apprehensively.

She’s not sure if she likes the idea of her cousin killing animals.

“I hunt down old artefacts,” he says with a smirk. “Anything that belongs to Hogwarts’ Founders is a guilty pleasure of mine, for example. See, a few months ago, I got my hands on an interesting locket that was said to have belonged to Salazar Slytherin.”

Notes:

This one is... I don't know, the main idea was to explore the Dagworth-Granger connexion. But as I was writing as I was like "Priam is fully planning on becoming a Dark Lord and he's got the full backing of his family to do it." He needs to kill off Voldemort first. Hermione, Daphne and Harry will be his main minions. Among others.

I'm not even joking, I had this mental image of a five-year-old announcing at a family gathering that he was gonna be a Dark Lord and when they realised in later years that he was a teenage genius they were like, welp, I guess our next Head of House is a Dark Lord, what can you do. I'm not sure what his end goal is though, but I'm thinking he used to be a climate activist and he's inspired by Grindelwald in wanting to gut the Statute of Secrecy so he can destroy oil plants as dramatically as he wants. Think green terrorist on steroids.

I don't know, just thought it would be a funny AU.

Chapter 30: the keepers of our dead (Genesis/Game of Thrones)

Summary:

Where the first murderer of humanity builds the city of Braavos, then sleeps. When he wakes up, his curse is gone, and he has a life to live in a strange land.

Don't read this if you're uncomfortable with the concept of using the Bible as a fictional material. I personally have enough catholic guilt and scepticism to do whatever, but obviously that's not true for everyone.

(Daenerys Targaryen/Cain)

Notes:

Genesis, by Valzhyna Mort

"I’ve always preferred Cain.

His angry
loneliness, his
lack of his mother’s
love, his Christian
sarcasm: 'Am I
my brother’s keeper?'
asks his brother’s murderer.

Aren’t we indeed
the keepers of our dead?

Let me start again:

I prefer apples that roll
far from the tree.

Dry like a twig
is umbilical cord, tucked between legs.

How did they cut it, Cain? With

a stone?

Under Criminal Record
write, 'Mother, home.'
Under Weapon
write, 'Mother, home.'"

Then the Lord said to Cain, "Where is your brother Abel?"

"I don't know," he replied. "Am I my brother's keeper?"

 

The first murderer awakens in a desert.

He raises a hand. The Mark is still there, but it has gone from blood red to pitch black. Next, it is his head that he raises.

“Why?” he screams to the Heavens.

The ground rumbles like it did when he watered it with his brother’s blood. The sky stays clear, the sun burns the sand upon which he rests.

“Your god has not forgiven you,” murmurs a voice, “I stole you, brother of Abel, before your descendant could commit against you the sin that started it all.” The voice laughs. “Letting your great-grandson murder you for the sake of poetic symmetry is petty. He has already cursed you, after all. What was it again? Ah, yes. Everything you try to grow will rot, but you will not. You cannot die of old age, Cursed Cain, and those who seek to hurt you will suffer sevenfold for every damage they deal you. Fascinating curse, that. Your god is inventive. What would your great-grandson have suffered then? What is one mortal wound sevenfold?”

Cain stiffens.

“Who are you?”

“I have Many Faces. They call me the Stranger. One of the Old Ones Who Whisper in the Trees. He Who Dwells Beneath the Waves. The Great Other.”

It murmurs the last name with relish.

“Death,” whispers Cain, hopeful. “You’ve finally come for me.”

The voice cackles.

“No, I stole your death, remember? Of course, it is of my purview to give it back. But I do not wish to. You have a job to do, cursed man. Do what you do best, in this very desert, and build me a city fit for the sinners of this world. Not the killers like you; it will hold the escaped slaves of this land. They will build me a temple and worship the aspect of me that scares all men. When you are done, I’ll come back and grant you a wish.”

Cain closes his eyes. His torment never ends, it seems.

“And if I want to die, you will let me?”

He would prefer Hell to eternity on Earth.

“I will,” confirms the entity.

Cain sighs shakily.

And the city-builder gets to work.

Notes:

I don't know. Don't ask me.

Concept idea for what follows:

"After he builds the city, Cain sleeps. When he awakens, centuries have passed, and Death undoes his curse as thanks, but warns him he has to let his life pass him by as a mortal man. Suicide isn't allowed. He roams Essos in search of something to give meaning to this new life. How he ends up Emperor Consort of Essos, he isn't too sure. It probably started when he unwittingly seduced a white-haired woman with three dragons and convinced her to give up on her throne in another continent.

If the Faceless Men could stop bowing to him, though, that would be nice."

Chapter 31: return of the king (Harry Potter/Arthurian Legends)

Summary:

Arthur Pendragon is reincarnated as a girl. She doesn't know that, however. As far as she's concerned, Artemisia Wyrmhauser randomly decided to claim her right to the throne of Albion to save Harry Potter from participating in the Triwizard Tournament.

(Fem!Arthur Pendragon/Merlin)

Artemisia stands up before Harry Potter has even finished owlishly blinking at the Goblet of Fire, disbelieving of what just happened to him.

She raises her wand and flares her magic, tendrils of red and gold wrapping around her ribcage.

“I invoke Suzerain Rights to take his place.”

Murmurs rise in the crowd of Hogwarts students. The professors exchange looks before looking at Albus Dumbledore.

Artemisia glances at the younger boy, running an absent hand on the stiff red sleeve of her Durmstrang uniform.

He really is tiny, she thinks.

She has tried not to dwell too much on it since she laid eyes on him, stepping down from Durmstrang ship with her wand tightly clutched in his hand.

She thought she could ignore the burden so obviously placed on his frail shoulders, his too-tired eyes and the wry slant of his mouth as he walked the corridors, as if he expects the world to lash out at him at any moment.

She thought she would be fine leaving Albion’s fate to him and burying her head in the Austrian sand, but she cannot. Coward, has howled the magic of this land since she has stepped on it, and she has failed to block it out. She must do something.

Harry stares at her, wariness and hope battling in his gaze. He wants to ask what Suzerain Rights are, it is obvious.

She will not let him show his ignorance so blatantly in front of everyone.

“I am Artemisia Wyrmhauser, first of her name.”

Most of the Slytherin table rises, and bows. Some Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs follow, as well as a handful of Gryffindors. Some bows are deeper than others, signalling to her that her line was not forgotten by her subjects. She could not recognise them all even if she tried.

Fifty Houses swore themselves to House Pendragon, and only Houses Abbott, Avery, Bulstrode, Crouch, Fawley, Flint, Greengrass, Longbottom, Ollivander, Parkinson, Prewett, Weasley, Yaxley, Slughorn, Smith, Peverell and Bones remain.

She recognises others, those who swore allegiance to House Le Fey rather than to the Pendragons. She sees no Princes, so the descendants of Mordred must have died out, though she suspects that one of the professors must be related to them.

The descendants of William the Conqueror are all in Azkaban and lost their Suzerain Rights when they bowed to a Dark Lord, but their former vassals are there still: she sat at the Slytherin table and heard enough from the Malfoy heir to know they’re still around.

Her Durmstrang schoolmates stare at her with confusion. None of the students in her year and the one above has links in Albion, except for Nikita Dolohov, who obviously prefers not to advertise his connexion to his Death Eater cousin.

(Besides, Antonin Dolohov only studied in Albion because his father was an ambassador, he doesn’t actually have blood claim to this land.)

As far as they know, she is from a secretive Austrian House, who boasts a respectable lineage but no notable accomplishments, save for the fact that most of them were killed personally by Grindelwald and the others were finished off by an illness that swept through them a decade ago.

As it stands, only one member remains of House Wyrmhauser.

Artemisia smirks. “Wyrmhauser is the Germanised name of House Pendragon. King Arthur's throne sits empty at the Wizengamot, and it is mine by right, as the descendant of the last king of Albion. My House has hidden for centuries and waited for the return of our forefather. But if Albion does not protect his children, maybe it is time for us to step in and act as wardens, as is our right. And I will start by protecting my vassal.”

“House Potter didn’t swear allegiance to the Pendragon line,” protests a boy at the Hufflepuff table, “you have no Right over him.”

“House Potter didn’t, but the Peverells did,” she counters, “and they kept their true name throughout the centuries, regardless of how they presented themselves to the world. House Peverell never died; like the Pendragons did, it hid, and now is the time to step into the limelight once again.”

“Lady Wyrmhauser,” says Dumbledore, leaning forward, “Saying such thing in public will endanger Mr Potter.”

“Endanger him more than he already is at this time, when unknown entities enter his name in a deadly tournament designed for a higher level of magic than he can boast?” She turns back to the person concerned. “As your liege, it is within my rights to take on this challenge in your stead. Will you accept?” she asks softly.

“I accept,” says Harry firmly.

***

The next day, she is inundated with formal requests of vassalage, and the Daily Prophet claims the return of House Pendragon to the British soil.

Notes:

I'll probably write another version where it's a descendant of Morgan Le Fey who volunteers, just so I can play around with different lores.

Chapter 32: goodbye to the sun (Harry Potter)

Summary:

George kills himself.

It doesn’t quite take.

Notes:

Or,

George Weasley time travels. His idea of a fix-it involves a lot of murders. The world is better for it, though.

Featuring depressed George with no fucks to give, Great-Aunt Muriel, a very confused but grateful Sirius Black, the ghosts of Fabian and Gideon Prewett, smol Harry Potter, many dead Death Eaters, and Voldemort's wraith trapped in a rubber duck. Dumbledore is on thin ice: one wrong move and into the pit he goes.

George kills himself.

It doesn’t quite take.

***

He wakes up at Hogwarts. He does not remember having gone there. Even stranger, this looks like the school of his childhood, not the abomination stained with his brother’s blood. As he walks around, he is convinced he is in a dream.

There is no memorial. No newer stones, spelled to look the same as the rest of the ancient castle but not quite managing to mimic the blemish time leaves on things.

George remembers Harry’s tales about King’s Cross. Harry said many things while they were drunk and mourning. Things about soul shards and sacrifices, martyrs and puppet masters and the redemption of old men. George had wanted to know if his black-haired brother had died too, that night.

George remembers and he weeps, because there is no white Great Hall, no great adventure, no guide to the afterlife. Just the cold, hard stone and the distant cackles of Peeves the poltergeist.

It’s the middle of the night, which explains the absence of students ambling about. It doesn’t explain the apparent time travel, but George will take it. Either he’s in a dream – which he doubts, he drank enough Dreamless Sleep to stop his heart and blew up his own joke shop, intent on going out with a bang. It is doubtful he’d move an inch, never mind have sweet dreams about his golden youth – or he’s in the past.

The succession of a Perk Up charm and a Tempus confirm what he already suspected. He’s in 1991. Harry just entered Hogwarts.

George wonders idly if the Time Munchers did this. They’re a prototype he and Fred were working on... before. They’d stop time for half a minute, just long enough to set up a prank or attempt a quick escape. They’d stopped tinkering with it when they realised it stopped a nearby rat’s heart. George and Fred would get a Poor in empathy if such things were graded during OWLs, but they had limits. Murder was one of those. Probably. Fred’s death had changed George’s perspective on the subject.

With this thought comes the realisation that George can prevent Fred’s death. For a good few minutes, he cares about nothing else, thoughtlessly lamenting that he’d been brought back so far in the past when George only needed a few minutes to make sure he pushed his brother out of the way.

Then he remembers Harry, Ginny, Sirius, and everyone else. He fingers his wand absently.

Could he kill a Dark Lord?

Only one way to find out. But first...

A long-term prank needs a good disguise.

Notes:

“Goodbye to the sun that shines for me no longer;”
― Sophocles, Antigone

Chapter 33: murder is no trifle (Harry Potter/Arthurian Legends)

Summary:

Morgan Le Fey is reincarnated as her own grandson. She doesn't know that, however. As far as he's concerned, Caspian Le Fey obeys his immortal mother like a good son. And if she wishes for him to save Harry Potter from participating in the Triwizard Tournament, that's what he'll do. He supposes he'll kill that bothersome Dark Lord too, and poach his followers while he's at it. Avalon's getting a little underpopulated, and he likes the look of this blond pureblood couple, though the Malfoys have terrible taste in suzerains.

Caspian Le Fey/Narcissa Malfoy/Lucius Malfoy

Caspian pushes open the doors of the Great Hall before Harry Potter has even finished owlishly blinking at the Goblet of Fire, disbelieving of what just happened to him. Professors stand to face this intruder, but he is faster than they are.

He raises his wand and flares his magic, tendrils of green and purple wrapping around his ribcage.

“I invoke Suzerain Rights to take his place.”

The professors lower their wands, bewildered. People look at each other. Hushed murmurs rise in the crowd. Albus Dumbledore stares, his expression unreadable.

“That’s the sigil of House Le Fey,” they say, pointing at the raven holding a red apple embroidered on the breast of his high collar robes. “I thought the family was cursed to never leave Avalon.”

“They weren’t cursed,” others refute. “They just haven’t set foot in Albion since Grindelwald’s war.”

“Not since the war. Since Dumbledore became Chef Warlock,” someone whispers. “They closed their borders then and didn’t even open them for the Dark Lord.”

Huh. That’s a bit closer to the truth. A scion from a Dark House, perhaps. Caspian glances over. He’s got the look of a Malfoy. Caspian isn’t interested in the former vassals of House Rowle. William The Conqueror and his descendants are irrelevant upstarts doomed to extinction, and the French Houses that followed them to Britain are beyond his notice.

“Did House Le Fey put Potter’s name in the Goblet?” someone tries, frowning, and Caspian fixes them with a piercing glare. The girl who spoke squirms in her seat before lowering her eyes.

He hears Harry Potter ask a girl at his side who Caspian is. She whispers quite loudly that he’s a scion of House Le Fey, prince of the Isle of Avalon. That his mother is in a healing sleep and rumoured to have been alive for centuries. That no one knows who his father is.

Caspian tries not to be amused. He is indeed the son of Enid Le Fey, daughter of the enchantress Morgan. Most of his older siblings did not wish to inherit his mother’s longevity and the sleeping curse tied to it, and those who did preferred to leave the mortal plane and make a life in the fae realm. This makes him, by technicality, the last heir of Avalon. He doesn’t know why the identity of his father matters; Princess Enid has no shortage of suitors from all around, but they all know the rules: the children of Avalon belong only to their mother.

“I am Caspian Le Fey, heir of the Principality of Avalon. As the underage and orphaned Lord of his House, Harry Potter is by law a ward of the Castle of Fair Guard, and it is my responsibility to grant him protection and succour.”

A boy from the Slytherin table stands up and strides towards Caspian, who looks at him evenly. The boy pauses. Then kneels.

“I, Theodore Nott, heir of Arsene Nott, witness your pledge as suzerain. House Nott remembers their oaths,” he murmurs.

There is a pause, then a girl from the Hufflepuff table rises too, and follows the boy’s lead.

“I, Susan Bones, heir of Amelia Bones, witness your pledge as suzerain. House Bones remembers their oaths.”

Twin Slytherins speak for House Carrow. A Hufflepuff and another snake for House Selwyn. A Ravenclaw for House Burke. Three Gryffindors for House Myriadd. A Hufflepuff for House Alixan.

Three professors hesitate, then follow them, earning themselves betrayed looks from their colleagues, who struggle to contain the students’ excitement.

“I, Sybill Trelawney, scion of her House, witness your pledge as suzerain. House Trelawney remembers their oaths,” is said in a wobbly voice.

“I, Filius Flitwick, lord of House Flitwick, witness your pledge as suzerain. House Flitwick remembers their oaths.”

The last man intrigues Caspian because of the way Harry Potter watches him warily. He is tall, dark-haired, and exudes an aura of anger and misery potent enough to be choking.

“I, Severus Snape, lord of House Prince, witness your pledge as suzerain. House Prince remembers their oaths.”

“Do you?” asks Caspian softly. “Even if this oath supersedes all others?”

He glances at the man’s left arm. The last Prince tenses, but nods.

“I do.”

He wishes it, Caspian realises. His other masters must be quite terrible for him to swear to a stranger to get rid of their shackles.

The scion of House Trelawney licks her lips. “If I may... which family claims the boy? To my knowledge, the Potters weren’t ancient enough to stand at court.”

The Boy-Who-Lived perks up at the mention of his family.

“They weren’t, though they have some interesting ancestry, to say the least,” muses Caspian. The Peverells swore to the Pendragons, though. There is no need to say that here, however. Not when the last descendants of Arthur were decimated by Grindelwald. They hid in Austria for centuries, but it wasn’t enough to save them. “As for the House that claims him... Harry Potter is the Lord of House Black, named as such by his godfather who relinquished his title in his favour after he himself was found unsuitable by the family magic.”

Someone gasps. “Is Black in Avalon?” he hears.

“Black is a murderer!” protests the Heiress of House Bones.

“He’s not,” protests Harry Potter indignantly. “I told Minister Fudge he wasn’t the Secret Keeper and Pettigrew was alive, but he dismissed me and called me a liar!”

Several cries sound out.

The heir of Avalon tilts his head.

“Oh?” wonders Caspian. “Mother didn’t mention that.”

“Is that why you knew to come here?” asks Professor Flitwick shrewdly.

Caspian nods.

“House Black stayed faithful for a millennium.” They might have played around with a few Dark Lords, but they always came when House Le Fey called on them, which is the only thing that matters as far as Caspian’s family is concerned. “My mother, Enid Le Fey is a seer. When she witnessed the possible extinction of House Black in her visions, she decided to send me as her representative.”

It’s not the first time Caspian is called upon to save a Black. Regulus might have forsaken his oath to House Le Fey when he swore to a Dark Lord, but he definitely remembered his duty when he was close to death; he vowed to protect Avalon as a ghost. It moved Caspian’s mother enough to prompt her to request he bring the erstwhile spare of House Black to their castle before the inferi overwhelmed him. He’s not quite alive enough to stand as Lord of House Black, hence their need to protect Harry Potter, but he’s recovered quite a bit since Caspian fished him out of the treacherous waters of the Dark Lake. Not enough to awaken, though. That’ll take a few more years.

Caspian turns to Harry Potter.

“What do you say? Will you let me represent you in this contest and ensure you survive the coming years?” He pauses. "I can help out your godfather while I'm at it, to spice things up a little."

Notes:

Not sure where this one is going. Probably nowhere.

Chapter 34: the accident of a beating heart (Game of Thrones OC)

Summary:

Petyr Baratheon doesn't much want to live, but he does love his family. If his death can serve them and stop a war before it starts, he'll gladly accept it.

He might have started one instead. Oops?

Petyr Baratheon was born during a summer storm. His mother laboured from the morning till the end of the night and suffered greatly for it.

When Petyr was born, he wasn’t breathing, and he did not for several long seconds during which Stannis, his father, held and watched him unblinkingly while the maester told him the babe would not wake up.

“He is stillborn, my Lord,” said the old man regretfully, shaking his head.

And as if to contradict him, the child abruptly opened his bleary eyes, and began to wail.

***

Prince Petyr was a quiet child.

A year older than his cousin the heir to the throne, he did not have Joffrey’s exuberance or his taste for violence. Instead, he was studious and dutiful, always trailing after his father if he was not attending lessons. He seldom spoke at court if he was not first spoken to.

He was not as beautiful as his cousin, but his face had charm, nonetheless. He had his father’s sinewy build and broad shoulders, his dark blue eyes, his hollow cheeks and full, thick brows. He had his mother’s sharp nose and her pointy teeth, set in a thin mouth that was darker than his father’s pale lips. He also inherited the Florent protruding ears, though they were partially hidden by the thick dark hair so common in the Baratheon side of his family.

Stannis loved his child very much, and it was said that the dour man could only be seen smiling in his presence. He taught his son how to handle his sword personally and often took him around the harbour he called his domain as Master of Ships.

Selyse loved him too, but in a more desperate manner. After the painful birth that gave her Petyr, she suffered through two miscarriages and almost lost her last child to greyscale, which made her quite obsessive with her only son and almost disdainful of Shireen, the last child she would ever bear. Petyr indulged her every whim, although he tried hard to get his mother to pay the same attention to his little sister.

Petyr was a quiet child, and most who knew him had nothing but praise for him and those who didn’t scarcely knew enough about him to say anything negative.

So it came as a surprise to everyone when he approached the king at age six and asked for permission to be his cupbearer. It was a bold move for a child. And they were all even more aghast when he responded to Prince Joffrey’s unsurprising protests by scoffing and saying he had no care for the words of a bastard.

“No one’s ever had blond hair in the entire Baratheon history,” he affirmed with narrowed eyes, lisping as he spoke. “I don’t see why I should listen to you when you’re not even the king’s son.”

Silence hung heavy in the dining hall.

“Is your son parroting your words, brother?” asked Robert dangerously, looking between Stannis and his wife.

“... no. It had never occurred to me to check the hair colour of our predecessors and compare them to your current children. But Petyr must have heard it from somewhere. Petyr? Who said that to you?”

Petyr pointed at his namesake, the Master of Coins Petyr Baelish.

“He said so.”

***

Petyr Baelish was executed the next day.

His younger namesake was not.

Chapter 35: bare, bruised lady skin (Bridgerton OC)

Summary:

I finished Bridgerton (late to the party, I know) and I was so mad at the way things ended for Cressida. I thought she needed a friend, so I gave her Camilla Ambrose, the apathetic flower enthusiast who debuts in Season 3 and whose priority is to get her friend out of her terrible home.

If you're wondering, Lord Ambrose is a guy who briefly shows up in Season 1. He tries to court Daphne, but is reminded of his gambling debts by Simon Basset. He's Camilla's older brother, and she thinks he's an embarrassment to her family. But since their dad is dead, he's technically in charge of her and her mother, who is his stepmother.

This would be a Camilla Ambrose/Alfred Debling story (because the way he just disappeared didn't sit right with me either), but the romance is secondary to the friendship between OC and Cressida. I'm lowkey thinking about exploring the worldbuilding of Bridgerton too but idk. I'm mostly interested in how the sucky history of England meshes with the whole colourblind thing they've got going on, but I'm not sure people would care about my ramblings on the difference between colonisation and conquest.

Notes:

Mara Siegel, Lilith was a feminist

"my bare, bruised lady-skin
is covered with a
thick carpet of sensual
secrets
which will remain
exclusive
­ and
­ elusive [until death do I part].
my bare, bruised lady-skin
is made up of
freshly formed scar
tissue
which will remain
pretty
­ and
pink [until death do I part]."

“Must you be so mean?”

Cressida turned to the person who spoke, opening a comically large feathered fan to hide her face. She might have taken well to her mother’s lessons on how to be properly cutting, but she had yet to mimic her expression of disdain. The twist of her lips betrayed her inner panic rather blatantly, which undermined her whole attempt at conveying her sense of superiority. Until she could get it under control, the fan was a necessity.

A girl maybe two years younger than her was staring at her curiously. She had a pleasing look, though not unique enough to stand out. Her hair was a dark brown and arranged in a modest fashion. Her eyes were pretty, with long lashes and a fetching mole under the right one. She had a strong, round nose and full lips. She wore a white dress with yellow embroidery, of a shade much more flattering than Cressida had seen from Lady Featherington who was known to favour the colour. She herself favoured pink and couldn’t wait to wear much more colourful dresses after her debut. She longed to enter the marriage mart and finally leave her dreary family home. She still had two years to go.

“It is not mean to tell the truth,” replied Cressida primly, her face still hidden behind the fan. “She has no hope to find a husband and it is right to tell her so. Who are you to care anyway?”

The girl curtsied.

“Camilla Ambrose. I still think you were too mean, but I suppose you’re not quite wrong. She did have rather unfortunate teeth, and boys are judgemental of such things.”

Cressida’s lips pursed. The younger sister of Earl Lucas Ambrose was indeed two years her junior, but she was her social equal. Cressida would have to hold her tongue lest she cause an incident. Her father didn’t want a repeat of what happened when she first met Daphne Bridgerton.

As far as she was aware, Camilla Ambrose was not a social creature. Her widowed mother rarely brought her out, and when she did Camilla was made to stand next to her brother and ensure he wouldn’t sneak out with his friends, which did not give her much opportunity to meet people her age. Speculation had abounded on whether Lucas Ambrose was the poor marital match, or if his half-sister couldn't be trusted to converse with strangers even in the presence of a chaperone.

“Boys are also judgmental of what they call cat fights, you know,” continued the girl. “Maybe antagonising other ladies isn’t the best choice. Boys want their lady to be courteous, pretty, clever but not too witty, humble and talented, of high standing and heavily dowried... All that at once! It’s hard to keep up with, really.”

Camilla didn’t seem concerned over the judgement of boys, which seemed odd to the blonde girl.

“And what do you want your future husband to be?” inquired Cressida.

This was the first time someone approached her without caring much that she was mean. People either fled from her at the first sharp remark or looked on disapprovingly without saying anything. This was refreshing, and so she wanted the conversation to last longer.

Camilla seemed to consider it.

“I would like him to be as far from resembling my brother as possible. Lucas is an idiot and a bore, and he seems determined to spend my dowry in the gambling halls.”

Cressida gasped. She liked a good bit of gossip and yet... “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you seem like someone who wouldn’t mind my frankness. We always have to put on airs and dance to the tune of our mamas, papas and brothers. I’m quite sick of it. I’d like a friend I can let down the mask with, and you look like you need one too.”

Cressida pretended to think about it, but in truth she had already decided. She had always wanted a friend.

“To seal our friendship,” she said after a moment, preening at the way Camilla’s eyes lit up, “I’ll give you a family secret to compensate for yours.” She leaned in and whispered something she had never dared tell anyone. “I do believe my father hates me.”

That was relatively harmless compared to what her new friend had said to her, but it weighed on her much more than Camilla's brother's incompetence seemed to bother her, so she thought it an adequate trade.

Instead of pitying her, Camilla nodded sagely. “Mama hates me too. She didn’t much like to be a wife, and being a mother isn’t to her taste either.”

Chapter 36: the seventh son of a seventh son II

Summary:

What if Ginny had been born a boy?

(Lancelot (Lance) Septimus Weasley/Harry Potter)

***

Found this in my drafts and I had a few more snippets written, I just forgot to share them. The first part of this was the second chapter I posted of tya's whimsies. That was a while ago, damn.

Bill was only ever called William when Uncle Billius was visiting. He didn’t like it much. Thankfully, it didn’t happen often. The cantankerous old man rarely left his old house in the north of Galway.

He only ever came to England twice a year, for the wider clan reunion and for what Bill’s father called the Brothers’ Council.

The term had been coined by Arthur’s brother Ector when he was still alive, a promise of brothers to always see each other once a year no matter where the wind took them.

The war had struck the Weasley family hard: of the seven sons of Septimus Weasley, only four still lived and one of them was disabled for life due to Curse Damage. Uncle Bedivere was being taken care of by Uncle Gareth and his wife. They lived in the Alps mountains in France, where Gareth cultivated potions ingredients for the wider international markets. They too rarely stepped foot in England. But still they kept to their promise and made the trip to their motherland once a year at least.

Bill thought Uncle Billius smelled like old cheese and Uncle Gareth’s jokes were always terrible, but he did love his uncles.

He just wished they didn’t insist on calling him William.

This year, the Brothers’ Council would happen at the same time as little Lance’s seventh birthday.

Bill often wondered if they'd make their own Council when they were all adults. If they did, he hoped there would be more than four out of seven of them left to attend it.

None of them – except the twins – would ever admit it, but each Weasley had a favourite brother.

Ron’s was Charlie. He thought he was the coolest. He couldn’t handle the attention the youngest of the brood received, disliked the twins’ mischievous streak, thought Percy was a bore and found Bill intimidating.

The twins were each other’s. Fred and George lived in their own little world and understood the other best. They liked to tease Percy and Ron, talked to Lance with a baby voice and let themselves be somewhat serious with their eldest brothers – though never for too long. But they’d shut out everyone once they’d realised no one could truly tell them apart. (Until came Harry Potter, that is.)

Percy liked Bill best. He saw him as someone to look up to, appreciated his ambition and his studiousness. He disliked the twins’ rambunctiousness, Ron’s laziness and Charlie’s wild attitude. He liked Lance, but couldn’t relate to him due to his age, and privately resented the way people always inquired after him. Though he was fond of them all, he only had true respect for the eldest. Bill wished Percy liked him for things that actually related to his personality.

Charlie would give the impression that he preferred the twins and he certainly found them hilarious, but he loved their serious middle brother who always had the patience to listen to him ramble about dragons. He was warm to Bill, but never forgot the few years where it was only the two of them. It made things awkward. And he’d never related to the two youngest.

Bill’s favourite was Lance, and he was Lance’s. He loved all of his brothers, and he’d kill for them, but Lance was precious to him. One day maybe, he’d be able to articulate why.

It probably started on that fated seventh birthday, where Lance touched Uncle Bedivere and undid the Curse that had plagued him since the war before he collapsed, his nose, eyes and ears bleeding.

When he woke, their parents were too distraught to explain anything to their youngest son. Bill had to be the one to explain to his little brother that what he had done was not normal, and that he should keep his abilities close to his chest. Lance’s eyes had glimmered with unshed tears and he’d asked Bill a question that broke his heart.

“Is there something wrong with me?”

“No,” Bill had said. “Everything’s right with you. It’s the world that’s wrong. And I won’t let it hurt you.”

Notes:

Edit: I discussed it with another commenter and thought I'd share it with the class. Bill's being an unreliable narrator here, Lance is his favourite but Lance's is Ron. All the oldest Weasley siblings think they're the youngest's favourite brother and they're all wrong. Only the twins know better, and Ron's self-esteem is bad enough that he doesn't believe it to be him.

Chapter 37: the seventh son of a seven son III

When Harry Potter first tried to befriend Ron Weasley, the boy told him a few things about his family. He memorised everything, from the accountant squib cousin to the names of his six brothers.

In turn, Harry shared a little bit of his childhood and the necessary isolation spent with Sirius and Remus after the former was released from his brief incarceration. It prompted a bit of a discussion about the fact that Peter Pettigrew had been found while attempting to cross the wards of the Weasley household. Then he listened intently to Ron, the boy who he hoped would be his first friend.

He catalogued which information mattered more to him. After careful observation, he gleaned that the oldest of Ron’s brothers was idolised by pretty much all of them but that his favourite was undoubtedly Charlie, the dragon keeper. He learnt that his friend would never fully trust the twins for they liked to make a fool of him and that something about his only younger brother deeply bothered him, no matter how guilty he felt about it.

When Harry inquired about Lance Weasley, Ron only shrugged, his mouth twisting, and said this:

“He’s the seventh son of a seventh son.”

The Boy-Who-Lived, who knew nothing of what that meant, simply nodded and asked another question about his family home. Judging by the pleased grin Ron threw at him, that was the right answer. Harry felt kind of unsettled by it, but he moved on. He had more things to worry about, his impending Sorting chief among them. Because he wasn’t sure he would end up in Gryffindor, and he had no idea how Sirius would react.

It turned out he was worried for nothing; the Hat laughed at his worries and sent him straight to Gryffindor, though not without telling him he would have done well as a snake. Harry gathered the courage to discuss it with his godfather, who told him he wouldn’t have minded either way. People were more than their Houses, he said with a wry grin that proved it had taken him a few years to learn that lesson.

Ron and him ended up as close as he’d hoped for on the train, though the envy he could sometimes see in his friend’s gaze made him uncomfortable. But that was all right: Harry and he befriended Hermione Granger who proved to be a good and reliable friend to have when they had to battle their way through ridiculous obstacles to stop a madman from resurrecting himself with an artefact that should have never been hidden in a school full of children. Between the two of them, they sometimes managed to make Ron forget about his jealousy and focus on better things.

Harry forgot all about it until he bumped into Lance the next year and was greeted with eyes like pale moons that seemed to see straight into his soul.

***

When Draco told his father Ron Weasley had befriended Harry Potter, the man was very displeased.

“Was this generation of Weasleys born to spite me,” had muttered his father when he came back home for Yule. “So be it. Since you failed where he succeeded, you’ll antagonise them as much as you can. Make sure no Slytherins approach them. If any of them tempts his lot into turning back to the Old Ways, our family is doomed, do you understand?”

Then he’d cursed the Weasleys’ fertility with a few choice words that had his mother side-eyeing him.

Draco wasn’t stupid. He knew that no matter how poor they were, the family they had been feuding with for two centuries now had obtained a substantial amount of political capital when the latest of their brood was born. It had started with people visiting Arthur Weasley in his stupid Office of Mudblood Pandering. Then they’d all started commenting on how excellently the three eldest sons had done for themselves and how creative the middle twins were.

Judging by the threadbare clothes Weasley wore at school, it hadn’t yet been enough to keep them out of poverty but that would probably change once Lancelot Weasley made it into Hogwarts. Once he was confirmed to be magic enough to attend, they would be regarded differently.

And now that Ronald bloody Weasley had made friends with Harry bloody Potter on the first day, speculations would only grow further.

His father wanted him to do damage control and make sure it wouldn’t go too far. Sure, the seventh son of a seventh son always developed an unheard-of magical talent that often brought prosperity to his bloodline, but they were Malfoys. They sat at the top of pureblood society since the decline of the House of Black. An improbable quirk of nature like the birth of Lance Weasley would not set them back.

In theory, his father had the right idea.

The Weasleys weren’t ambitious; they’d been shielding their son from the rumours since his birth, rarely letting him appear in public. If the boy wasn’t made to see how much power he could wield, he would be manageable. Magical power was nothing without the desire to make something of it, after all. Better let him fade into obscurity and keep their pride as Malfoys.

But even if the previous generation wasn’t ambitious, this generation of Weasleys seemed to be sharper.

Bill Weasley graduated with honours and threw himself into a curse-breaking apprenticeship, having the guts to apply to Gringotts of all places and being rewarded for it. Rumours even said he had been invited to learn to wield a goblin-forged blade.

Charlie Weasley dropped out before his seventh year because he saw no need to continue his education after being offered a position as a dragon keeper in Romania. More than that, he also declined a place as a reserve seeker on the Falmouth Falcons’ team.

Percy Weasley was a swot, but one who was on a clear path to become first a prefect and then Head Boy, and who clearly was angling for a position at the Ministry.

And Draco didn’t have to look too close to realise that no matter what people said about them, the Weasley twins were geniuses in their own right.

Really, only Ron was mediocre in every way, but — though he was pained to admit it — there must be something to him for the Boy-Who-Lived to have befriended him when he refused Draco’s held out hand.

None of that would matter if Lance Weasley proved to be a disappointment in the face of the expectations placed on him. And that was clearly what Draco’s father was hoping for.

But Draco wondered if it wouldn’t be better to finally settle their old feud instead.

Chapter 38: no longer human (Harry Potter)

Summary:

Harry navigates a world where he is Voldemort's son, one storm at a time.

Or,

Harry Potter is reborn as Hadrian Riddle.

(This is a Boy-Who-Lived! Neville AU in which the Potters die before marrying so Harry Potter does not exist. Hadrian Riddle does though, and he has memories of a life in an alternate universe.)

Dying, stepping off a train, and waking up in the arms of a shivering house elf is an experience Harry would like not to repeat.

He had not considered reincarnation as an option when he’d decided he would rather face the unknown than go back to his life as the Boy-Who-Lived. He’d just taken the soul shard of Tom Riddle in his arms and hopped on the Express, hoping for the best. He’d felt kind of iffy about leaving it with Dumbledore, who’d had as much compassion for it as he’d had for Harry’s very legitimate desire to let someone else save the day for once.

His train ride to the afterlife hadn’t gone too badly. He’d been alone on the train save for the horcrux in his arms, which was a bit disappointing. He’d hoped to chat with his fellow dearly departed, hear a few stories. But the windows in his compartment showed the moments after his death, and he’d been vindicated to find that things had resolved without him being needed. Neville had killed the snake as instructed, Hermione had connected the dots about the horcrux within him, and Ron had taken the leap and offed the asshole himself. Voldemort was dead and everyone who’d fought on Harry’s side benefited from the magical protection he’d given them when he’d played the martyr. It sure helped dispatch the last Death Eaters.

A pretty neat ending, if he did say so himself.

He should have known his next great adventure wouldn’t go so smoothly.

Harry is now a baby. Squalling, smelly, and with very little control of his limbs. He’s taken care of by a house elf, which says a lot about the kind of family he’s been reborn in. He’s quite content letting himself drift; after everything, he deserves a little rest. And infant life isn’t exactly exciting.

He does make note of his surroundings, though. Some things stand out.

His mother, for one. His baby senses aren’t developed enough for him to catch her name, but he likes her purple eyes. She has two-toned hair, like Narcissa Malfoy. It must be a trend of some sort, he thinks, because he sees her apply potions to her wet hair from time to time to maintain it. When he yanks clumsily at his own hair after it has grown and his coordination is good enough for it, he finds only short dark brown strands. They’re smooth, unlike the curly mop he’d inherited from his first father.

He’s not sure if this is the usual pure-blood way or his mother doesn’t care much for the child she bore, but she doesn’t hold him.

She doesn’t touch him at all, in fact. Sometimes she’ll come to his crib and murmur things about him being the heir of something, and how he’ll bring glory to her and to the family. He’s not sure what that’s about. He’s too distracted by the very prominent Dark Mark tattooed on her left arm. She shows it off; she always makes sure the burgundy lace dresses she wears cut off at the elbow, and only covers it with a silk wizard robe if she has to leave the house.

This does not bode well for him.

She’s young, this mother of his. No more than a few years older than he himself was when he died. Probably the age his first parents were when they had him.

There’s no father in sight. Or at least, he hopes the man his mother calls brother isn’t also his dad. Harry and Ron might have joked a few times about inbreeding, but purebloods usually keep it to cousins, as discomforting as it already is. Harry’s new uncle-and-hopefully-not-dad seems familiar to him, but not overly so. He does not know what family he belongs to. They’re English, that he’s sure of. Everything else is a bit murkier.

His uncle is wary of him, he finds after the man has visited a few times. Or rather, he is wary of the consequences his mother will bear from birthing him. From context clues, Harry guesses he is a bastard child. There seems to be more to it if the fearful mutterings about line theft are anything to go by. Harry is in no hurry to find out. He’s still only half-aware, and tired besides. He still doesn’t know what to make of this new life meant to be lived as a Death Eater’s child. Maybe Fate wanted him to gain some perspective? He does not know and does not particularly wish to. As far as it goes, the guiding line of his second incarnation is, “this might as well happen.”

The man might be wary of Harry, but he always brings a gift for him when he visits his sister in their family home. His uncle seems to have no idea what to offer to a child, so he brings books for the elf to read him and an absurd amount of plushies. Harry now has five illusory-fire-breathing dragons to his collection, a dozen snakes, two owls who sometimes fly out of his crib, a self-warming ashwinder and a crup whose tail wags on its own.

And thanks to his uncle, Harry learns his mother's name.

Medea.

(How fitting.)

Harry’s new name is Hadrian. He gets used to it around the one-year mark. It’s easier than it could be. It’s not a very different name. A bit later than that, his mother has some sort of mental breakdown. Her brother is displeased too. Hadrian only figures out what’s going on after a few days, when his mother finally deigns visiting his crib.

The Mark has faded.

Huh.

It sure explains the hysteria.

Hadrian connects the dots. He’s been somehow reborn into the same era. The same year even, he suspects. Will he meet himself at Hogwarts? How discomforting. He pushes that thought as far he can and turns to the matter at hand. His mother is a fanatic profoundly unsettled by the disappearance of Voldemort. He is entirely at her mercy, and she seems determined to follow the dark path.

At first, he thinks it’s just average devotion, but then his mother speaks to him. “Your father will come back for you, my son,” she whispers feverishly, holding his head in her sharp-nailed hands. It is the first time she touches him. “You are his heir. He will be back, I swear to you. And we will be exalted.”

Hadrian has an inkling of who his father is. But he must be wrong, surely.

It cannot be.

***

Things take a turn for the worse after that.

His uncle is arrested. He finally learns his name when the Aurors come, and the family name both siblings claim. Hector Mulciber is not taken without a fight. It takes three Aurors to subdue him. Hadrian is begrudgingly impressed. Because of his strange wariness regarding him, he’d taken the man for a coward. Clearly, he was wrong.

Medea comes back from her errands – and by that he means her attempts to find a way to resurrect the Dark Lord – to find the Mulciber townhouse trashed and her brother gone. She howls in rage, so loud it makes the walls shake.

Later, Hadrian finds out from the house elf that his mother cannot control her magic anymore. It is the consequence of a curse thrown by a member of the Order. The shakes weren’t a metaphor, but a very real manifestation of her anguish. He remembers his own magic slipping from him in waves in another life. He empathises with that at least.

Uncle Hector used to help stabilise her, apparently. It explains why she’s so much worse off now that he’s gone.

As time goes by, Medea Mulciber grows more anxious. She raves about Voldemort at every hour of the day to the point it frightens the house elf. He barely sees her anymore, occupied as she is in her attempts to resurrect Voldemort.

Hadrian learns his caretaker is named Missy. The elf is the only sane person in the house, and he’s pretty sure he would not have survived without her. He’s grown fond of the creature. She is a jumpy thing, always flinching at every loud noise. But she’s patient with him, and caring.

It’s more parenting than he's ever received.

He makes sure his first word is her name, or an approximation of it. Missy bursts into tears as she hears him call out to her.

“Young Master Hadrian is growing so big,” she exclaims, and he has to clumsily pat her cheeks to wipe the fat tears running down her face.

At two years old, Hadrian finally sees his face in the mirror properly. Missy lets him observe his reflection, cooing that “the young master is very handsome, yes indeed.”

It’s horribly embarrassing, but he has to admit she’s right. Where Harry Potter was rough around the edges, and even wild-looking, the child in front of him is almost delicate. His eyes are wine-coloured, a mix of his mother’s purple and of the dark red of the man who unwittingly participated in his conception. As for his features, he has seen them on another child before, in a pensieve memory.

Hadrian can’t deny it to himself anymore.

He has been played by Fate and reincarnated as the son of Voldemort.

(That day, he has his first manifestation of accidental magic. The mirror splinters in a thousand shards, and Missy has to apparate him away.)

***

It takes some time for him to adjust to the idea.

He remembers another life where he sacrificed himself to rid his friends of the evil who in this world gave him life. Voldemort killed his parents, before. But now that grievance can’t be named. This Dark Lord did no such thing, or at least it did not happen to him. Hadrian Riddle is not Harry Potter, and his apathy at his situation only proves it.

He has the memories, but none of the heart.

(His hatred faded when he died. His love did too, somewhat. Not fully. Hadrian is an almost-blank slate, marred at the edges by the experiences of a boy who’d not lived to experience adulthood. He takes those memories as the lessons and warnings they are, but he operates under entirely different rules.)

He finds himself wondering what kind of father Voldemort would make. His mother seems sure he will exalt her and reward their family. She thought he would be so thrilled to have an heir that he would instantly forgive the crime committed, what Hector called line theft.

It does not escape Hadrian that it is ironically terrible that Tom Riddle Jr has fathered a child in much the same way as his father did.

Unwillingly.

At least Medea Mulciber did not violate him the way Merope Gaunt had Riddle Sr. She used a spell instead, to steel his seed and conceive the child herself without touching him. It is a small consolation, but one he clings to nonetheless.

***

Missy teaches him how to read and write. Hadrian had assumed that lesson would be a breeze, considering his reincarnation, but Missy wants his voice to be clear and confident and his handwriting to be perfect.

She’s an exacting taskmaster. Soon enough, his calligraphy becomes much better than it’s ever been, even with the coordination of a child. Missy calls her a little prodigy. She oohs and aahs at his progress, then moves on to etiquette lessons before he can even congratulate himself on a job well-done.

Hadrian finds that pureblood society is as stuffy as he’d imagined, but there is a method to their madness.

In polite society, the muggle world is not acknowledged. If needs must, it is only referred to as the Mudlands. Hadrian was surprised to find this was the case even among light families, who would not dare call someone a mudblood but still referred to non-magical lands as such.

The magical upper-class society is on the other hand called the Court of Albion. That only encompasses England and Scotland – and the Scottish clans claim a separate Circle of Clans for themselves while still participating in the Alban social season. The Court of Hibernia and the Court of Cambria are closed social circles, and only Irish and Welsh wizards are invited to participate in them. Unlike the Scottish, they snub Albans as much as they can get away with.

Wands are kept in holsters strapped to one’s forearm. Holding your wand in polite conversation is considered an insult and could be taken as a silent invitation to duel.

Wizards remove their hats in front of a social superior and press it against their chest before stepping to the side to give them the opportunity to leave if they wish to. Should the person desire to start a conversation, the hat will remain against their chest until the social superior begs leave. It used to be considered polite to use your wand hand to hold your hat to assure you are not a threat, but this changed after Grindelwald’s war and the climate of distrust it created in society at the time. Now it is socially acceptable and even advisable to use the opposite arm.

There are rules to handshakes, one of which being that they should never be refused. A wizard takes the measure of their interlocutor by seeing that they respect the proper pressure applied to one’s hand, and offering yours is an indication that you wish no harm to the person you offered it to. The hand should be shaken twice, not too firmly, and let go.

(Hadrian grimaces at that, recalling the seven-years-long grudge he’d created by refusing the hand of Draco Malfoy in another life. He would have still done it; Malfoy had offered insult to his friend at the time, but he would have liked to know the deeper implication of his act before making that choice.)

Introductions should always be made on your behalf when meeting for the first time, and names should be given clearly. There was no need to enunciate titles or call someone a lord. Those of proper breeding would recognise your last name and place you on the social hierarchy without needing a prompting. Foreigners were the only exception to that rule, as they were not expected to know the intricacies of a social circle they are not a part of.

In group introductions, social superiors must be introduced first, then Heads or Heirs of their Houses, then the remaining wizards are introduced by order of seniority.

The Bones, the Black and the Ollivander families are at the top of the social hierarchy. It used to be that the Princes, the Gaunts, the Dagworths – not to be confused with the Dagworth-Grangers, an offshoot of the family that had survived – and the Peverells were once counted along with them, but these Houses’ seats were closed, indicating that the name had been lost.

The Houses Longbottom, Greengrass, Crouch, Malfoy, Rosier, Lestrange, Shacklebolt, Rowle, Ogden, Marchbanks, Stokke, Macmillan, Nott, Carrow, Fawley, Merrythought, Prewett, Hawkworth, Scamander, Doge and Selwyn followed, having too earned the title of Ancient and Noble.

The Mulcibers were a Noble House, but not Ancient. Hector was not the Head of the family however. This would theoretically put Hadrian slightly under Crabbe and Goyle hierarchy-wise, but at the same level as Millicent Bulstrode, Zacharias Smith, Lavender Brown and the Patil sisters. Among many others.

Rules are waived at Hogwarts, where it was esteemed to cause too much division between the students. But they are very much in place during the Alban social season, which Hadrian will be expected to participate in once he’s received his Hogwarts letter.

(The nobility grumbled at Hogwarts’ decision, but the headmaster who enforced them stayed firm and they had to accept it. Their other options were to home-tutor their heirs, send them to hedge schools, whose education was often deemed subpar, or worse, send them off to another country.)

Hadrian is just relieved he’ll not be forced to kiss anyone’s ass at school.

"But the young master is the Dark Lord’s heir,” says Missy reassuringly. “No one will make him show respect once his father has acknowledged him.”

Hadrian nods obediently, and wonders.

***

The Aurors come for Medea when Hadrian is five years old.

It has nothing to do with the Mark on her arm. It is the shakes they are concerned about. Medea’s control has gotten worse, and if she doesn’t exhaust her magic during the day, she creates localised earthquakes in her sleep. A concerned passerby must have reported the situation.

His mother is in the basement when they force the entrance door open. She is once more working on a ritual to resurrect her Lord. She’s borrowed some blood from Hadrian to do the deed. It is her most potent ingredient, but the magic keeps fizzling out before the ritual can take hold.

Hadrian snuck downstairs a few times. He thinks what Medea is doing would have worked if only Voldemort was truly dead. Stuck as a wraith, he clings to life in a way that keeps the ritual from getting hold of him. He cannot tell her this, however. He needs to ascertain if this father of his is safe before even considering bringing him back to life. His memories as Harry Potter make him less than confident.

Besides, he could not explain how he knew.

“Hide him,” Medea hisses at Missy who just apparated at her side with Hadrian.

The house elf nods. She snaps her fingers, and Hadrian is turned invisible to the eyes of others. Medea activates the basement’s wards with trembling hands.

“Mother?” he murmurs, watching the woman bite her thumb bloody.

She looks half-crazed and on the verge of tears. He doesn’t think she’s much of a mother, but he feels for her nonetheless. She’s all he’s ever had in this life and the last. It would have been hard not to develop an attachment.

“They’ll take me, son,” she says, turning worried eyes on him. “And I will not survive Azkaban. Not with the curse placed upon me. Who will raise you?” she asks herself, pacing anxiously. “Who will teach you about the glory of the Dark Lord? Who will ensure you take your rightful place at his side? I have no ally, no one to entrust you to.”

She screams in anguish. Missy flinches. Hadrian only watches her evenly.

He understands her dilemma. The Mulcibers are isolated. Their close allies are in Azkaban, the other Death Eater families who ran free untrustworthy. They paid for their freedom or sold out others to save their own skin. The families who had the money to pay off the Ministry were comfortable and might not benefit from the return of the Dark Lord. They would see no issue in burying Hadrian to make sure that his blood could not be used to resurrect Voldemort. Others might protect him, but they would poison him against his birth family, kill the Mulcibers for their crime of line theft.

“Missy can ask other elves,” suggests Hadrian, turning to his caretaker. “You know other nursing elves, don’t you, Missy?”

The house elf squeaks and bobs her head in agreement. “Missy can hide the young master for now and look for someone to take care of him. If Mistress will give Missy requirements for her to start searching...”

Medea blinks a few times, staring at the elf.

The pureblood woman who had never once needed to consider her servant as a thinking being suddenly sees her in a new light. “Yes,” she murmurs. “Yes, Missy is a loyal elf. She can find a protector for my baby, my son, my heir, who will bring glory to House Mulciber and stand at his father’s side. You’ll do me proud, won’t you baby?”

She bends down and takes Hadrian into her arms for the first time since he was born. She kisses his forehead, smearing blood red lipstick on him. Hadrian hesitantly brings his arms around her.

Something in his chest hurts.

In his other life, making his parents proud was all he’d ever wanted. He’d not been the virtuous hero people thought him to be.

He’d found Voldemort and his Death Eaters mad and cruel, and he had hated the lengths they went to in order to accomplish their goals. But he’d not found the Ministry much better, and he’d not been blind to his and his friends’ own faults.

(A woman-turned-beetle kept in a jar for weeks on end. An upperclassman pushed into a vanishing cabinet who had to apparate himself out of it to survive. Unforgivables wielded with desperation by teenagers trying to fight against impossible odds. Nothing much, compared to the murders, the terrors imposed by Voldemort’s circle. But still... something to think about.)

Hadrian thinks there is something about wizardry that makes people’s morals looser. Magical beings don’t feel pain the way muggles do. It is not this all-encompassing, terrifying condition. It is a temporary inconvenience, vanished with a draught or the flick of a wand. Regrowing a bone takes one night. Only magic can hurt magicals with any kind of permanence.

He’d not agreed with blood supremacy, and he still didn’t. But he’d not fought Voldemort because their ideologies clashed. He fought because he was expected to, and because if he didn’t, people he cared about would die. He fought because of the prophecy. He fought because Voldemort killed his parents.

Can Hadrian Riddle stand by those ideals?

Here, the people he cares about are a mad woman doomed to die, a house elf devoted to the Mulciber family, an emotionally constipated uncle in Azkaban, and the promise of a father who might not accept him.

“I promise, Mother,” he ends up saying quietly, swallowing the lump in his throat.

He will stand in front of Voldemort and tell him who he is. If the man rejects him, he will have no shame turning his back on him. And if the man accepts him...

Medea smiles widely at his words, then pulls out her wand. “I will not let myself die in Azkaban, my son,” she says.

She turns to Missy and gives her a set of instructions to begin her search. It is long, and thoughtful. Hadrian feels his mother’s care in a way he never had before.

When she is done, Medea opens the wards just enough to let her pass.

The Aurors, who had been waiting for their wardbreaker to finish dismantling the workings of the basement’s protections, startle upon seeing her. One of them dies due to their unpreparedness. Medea is not proficient with the killing curse, but she knows plenty of other dark spells.

“Serpere Igne Formicae.”

Hadrian winces.

The Creeping Fire Ant curse claims its victims in a few hours, and any attempt to get rid of it without knowing the counterspell only shortens their lifespans. It conjures an “ant queen” which burns its way into the skin and expands its reach by duplicating itself, its drones making a slow advance towards the brain of the victim until they either burn a vital organ or overwhelm their pain receptors to the point their heart gives out.

Harry had seen a Mulciber use it once during the final battle. He’d found it especially cruel since the curse gave its victims a slow death. They could still fight, but the Death Eater liked to duel when their opponent was in excruciating pain. It gave them an advantage and... Hadrian was just now realising he’d never known Mulciber’s gender in his previous life, and the Death Eater he’d fought could very much be his mother or uncle in this life.

He watches detachedly as Medea subdues four Aurors. Three are dead, another writhing in agony on the floor. The two left fight in tandem, and she struggles against them. As such, she doesn’t see the man on the ground stand back up with a grimace.

Hadrian opens his mouth to cry out, but Missy uses her magic to silence him, tears streaming down her face. They watch as the three Aurors cry out, “Stupefy!” at the same time. The three stunners hit Medea in three different areas. Hadrian hears the crack her spine makes as it snaps. Her body crumples to the ground.

“That’s going to be,” pants the still-suffering Auror, “so much paperwork.”

Hadrian, who hadn’t paid attention until then, recognises the familiar voice of Rufus Scimgeour. His eyes narrow as a familiar hatred takes over his heart. He stays silent, and seethes. He doesn’t have to do anything. In all likelihood, his mother’s curse will take the man in a few hours. And if it doesn’t, he will remember.

In this life, it is what he does best.

***

The next few days are quiet. Missy is in-and-out of the townhouse, talking to elves to find someone who can protect her charge. She takes her new duty as his sole caretaker very seriously. She places baby-proofing spells all over the place, but otherwise lets him roam around as he wishes. He is still rendered invisible to anyone but the house elf.

Hadrian, whose last five years had mainly been spent in his nursery room, welcomes the added freedom. He putters around, trying to figure out where things are. It is not hard to learn the layout of the place. The Mulciber townhouse is very similar to Grimmauld Place in many ways.

The floo address is called Mulberry Manse; it is engraved on top of the chimney. The walls are painted in maroon and black, decorated with scenes from Greek mythology. There are no portraits of the family ancestors everywhere like in Grimmauld; Missy explained that the former master of the House greatly disliked them, and had them all sent to the country manor, where the main family lived. There is however a family tapestry depicting their relations in the form of grapevines, on which the name Hadrian Riddle is attached to that of Medea Mulciber and Tom Riddle. That section of the vine has been cut off from the others however, signalling that the main family likely believes that Hadrian’s father is of muggle descent. They expressed their disapproval by shunning the townhouse, it seems, and only visiting the branch families on other properties.

Since the deed is still in Hector’s name and he didn’t get a lifelong sentence – only thirty years, because they could not prove he had done anything more than take the Mark. The main house hadn’t saved him from Azkaban (the Imperius defence only works so many times), but they’d at least buried the leads – there should be no visitor on their side. That is reassuring. Hadrian hadn’t looked forward to managing the expectations of a main branch who surely would come to regret their treatment of his mother.

He finds this out by looking through his uncle’s paperwork, in search of the Gringotts key Missy normally uses to stock up on groceries.

The Aurors come back for an inspection of the house. Hadrian made sure not to reactivate the wards precisely in anticipation of this. They find what they’re looking for in the basement it seems, because they do not put any effort into searching the rest of the house. They would not have found anything; Missy had made sure to hide the door of Hadrian’s room from visitors too.

A few weeks later, Missy returns triumphant with a man in a sad state. Her hands are covered in blood, and her companion keeps shivering and raking his sharp nails on his temples and skull, making a mess of his straw-coloured hair.

“This is being Barty Crouch Jr,” she exclaims, switching to elf-speech in her excitement. When she notices, she blushes green and clears her throat. “He is a little beat-up, but once Missy fixes him, he’ll make a good protector for the young master. Missy had to kill his nursing elf and her master to take him,” she admits, her ears drooping, before cheering up, “but now Master Hadrian can be safe and raised like a proper dark wizard!”

The boy huffs amusedly. “Thank you, Missy.”

Hadrian walks cautiously towards the man, who still seems to be struggling with the after-effects of the Imperius curse. He’s already carved gouges on his skin, and it looks like it’s going to get worse if nothing is done.

“Can I help you in any way?”

Barty flinches, his hands stilling on his head. He turns slowly. He licks his lips.

“You freed me.”

Hadrian wants to shrug, but Missy will whine about him being uncouth.

Instead he replies, “Technically my elf did. Has Missy explained anything?”

The man shakes his head. He sounds disbelieving, and extremely wary. As if he’s wondering if he traded a cage for another. “Only that a little master needed protecting, and she thought I was well enough for the job. And then she killed our family elf and my father, then made it looked like Winky snapped and ate him like the old elves used to do before we bound them.”

Ah. Hadrian didn’t know Missy could be that bloodthirsty. But she’s been on edge lately. She lost both of her masters, and has had to take care of a five-year-old by herself. She does everything now; cook, clean, go to the bank, buy groceries, take care of him, and that’s without mentioning all she’s needed to do to find Barty. A nursing elf is not meant to be under so much stress.

Still. That is not ideal. It explains his suspicious attitude, though. He will start by introductions. That ought to help.

“My name is Hadrian Riddle.”

Barty gasps. As Hadrian thought, the Death Eater was among those who knew the real identity of the Dark Lord. The man shudders and prostrates at Hadrian’s feet. The boy pushes down his discomfort at the servile act. He bends down and grasps it gently.

And visualising a snake to trigger his Parseltongue ability, he adds, “Well met.” Then, switching to English. “Rise, Mr. Barty. You’ve been called upon to care for your lord’s heir.”

He must sound ridiculous. He’s only five, what is he even doing, he wonders. Calling upon others, claiming himself to be bigger than he is. And yet, it works.

“I live to serve,” murmurs the man feverishly.

“And you will serve better once you are healed. Let Missy take care of you, hm?” chimes in the nursing elf before leading the young man away from Hadrian. “Young master will ready himself for supper in the meantime.”

***

Life with Barty – as he asked to be called – isn't any weirder than life with Medea. His mother was just as insane, if less traumatised. His new guardian does a better job at keeping it contained. Some days, he locks himself in the basement and does not come out until he can keep the twitching to a minimum.

Once, Hadrian asks him what he’s doing down there. He’s in the library, and the man just joined him there. The child is enjoying some quiet time before his next dancing lesson with Missy, who is preparing an illusory partner to help him practice.

“I’m repairing my Occlumency shields,” he says. "I'll need them in good shape if I want to teach you anything worthwhile, and I can’t be of service to my Lord if I can’t keep a handle on... my issues.”

“Will you teach me?” requests Hadrian. “Occlumency, that is.”

He’d never been able to learn in his first life. It was kind of pathetic, when he thinks about it.

Barty looks amused, and a little intrigued at his charge’s thirst for knowledge. Hadrian heard Missy tell him he is uncommonly advanced for his age, but he thinks the man did not expect how much. The boy does not make a big deal out of it, he’s well-aware that his inexplicable memories of another life give him an unfair advantage over his peers. He might have the conscience of a child and find his life as Harry Potter to be slowly effacing itself, but he regains a good chunk of foreknowledge and insight a boy of five should not have.

After Barty realised how wide the gulf between him and other children was, he started treating him like a little adult. Hadrian likes it much better.

“Among many other things, yes.”

Hadrian nods, satisfied, and returns to his book.

On the subject of his father, Barty shares with Medea this surety that he will be recognised and cherished by the Dark Lord. He considers his role as tutor, guardian and protector to be of the utmost importance. In his mind, there is no question that Voldemort will adore his son. How could he not, when he preached the value of family and the importance of blood to his followers? And so he must protect him. It is his priority; while he has no doubt that the Dark Lord can handle himself without his aid, the same is not true for young Hadrian.

Despite this unrelenting trust in his leader, Barty seems less fanatical than the Barty of his memories. Hadrian remembers a man obsessed with the Dark Lord, and hateful enough of the Death Eaters who abandoned the cause to turn a child into a ferret and beat him into the ground. But, he realises, this man had spent a decade under his father’s control and been liberated by Voldemort himself.

In this world, Barty only spent three years under the Imperius curse and he was saved for Hadrian’s sake. He is much closer to the Barty at his trial, the still-teenaged boy who was begging his father to spare him. That explains his strange moderation.

He still requests some of Hadrian’s blood to conduct his own research as to the whereabouts of the Dark Lord. The boy offers it willingly, though he privately hopes Fate will interfere and let him keep his protector for a little longer.

This is how he learns that Barty Jr’s intelligence is something he underestimated. The man is a voracious reader and a greater thinker. It takes him no time at all to unearth what Medea has already attempted from the scraps the Aurors left behind, and only a little longer to figure out why the last ritual did not work. He has not yet made the leap concerning the wraith form Voldemort is still stuck in until he is re-embodied, but he understands that the Dark Lord is out there, somewhere, gathering his strength.

Barty despairs a little then, as he explains to Hadrian that he had already tried locator spells before his incarceration, but the Dark Lord had magically obscured himself, making it impossible for such spells to take effect.

He would have to find another way.

***

While Missy has taken a lot of pain to help Hadrian memorise the names of the prominent families in the Court of Albion, Barty makes sure to outline clearly who among them has sworn to the Dark Lord and whose surviving pureblood families have been directly attacked by Death Eaters. The latter is important, stresses Barty, because those people should never learn the identity of Hadrian’s father until he is strong enough to protect himself. The list is long, and Hadrian finds that he remembers many of the names on it.

But there are discrepancies. Which is how Hadrian finds out that there is no Harry Potter in this world. There is a Boy-Who-Lived, but it is Neville who has had the dubious honour of receiving the title.

He even manages to pin-point that there was still a second child targeted. In this life, Fabian Prewett and Dorcas Meadowes had a girl named Lillian in honour of Lily Evans, their friend who died during the war. They were the ones who were targeted by the Lestranges.

Barty was not with them.

Like in his previous life, the man broke into the Longbottom wards, but this time to let the Dark Lord in.

Barty is the Peter Pettigrew of this world.

“How did you do it?” Hadrian asks him curiously, trying to ignore his inner conflict.

The part of him that is all Riddle thinks it is a matter of course that Barty would follow his master’s orders and break into the wards. Harry Potter rages at the very thought and wonders who he was to the Longbottoms for him to even be in a position to betray them.

“Ah,” says Barty, looking conflicted. “My mother was a Longbottom,” he explains, licking his lips. “We visited her family home often when I was a child. Her brother Baldwin... he abandoned us. Left us with that man. His son, that condescending little—I was not sad to see him gone. They betrayed me first. They betrayed me first,” he repeats faintly. He does not say more.

Barty is in no state to continue the lecture after that. He locks himself in the basement and does not come out for an entire day. Harry will later discretely probe to find out what became of Sirius Black and James Potter. He will learn that the latter died in the war, betrayed by his friend Peter Pettigrew, who currently served time in Azkaban.

As for the former... Sirius Black sorted into Slytherin in this world. He had no friends there, and despite his little brother taking the Mark, he did not follow him on this path. Instead he disappeared from society after graduation, locking himself with his grandfather in their ancestral manor to learn under him and ensure a smooth succession. He only emerged after the war, at his little brother’s trial. Regulus Black pleaded the Imperius defence and was acquitted.

There is little that remains of Harry within Hadrian Riddle, but his love for Sirius Black is one of those things. For his peace of mind, he will find out where the path diverted for his former godfather.

***

Hadrian, like his Dark Lord father, is a natural legilimens. He finds this out during their first Occlumency lesson. It happens when he is eight. Barty has recovered from his imprisonment, and Hadrian’s mind is deemed developed enough for a first attempt at a lesson.

They haven’t been idle in the past three years. Of course not. Barty taught him history, potions, magical theory, wards, and as many spells as his magic could handle without straining his core. Barty used Medea’s spare wands to teach him. It didn’t always work, but for a pre-Hogwarts child, it was good enough.

When his tutor had deemed him settled enough to start leaning the Dark Arts and Occlumency, Hadrian was thrilled. He didn’t expect it to go sideways.

His failed attempt at blocking his tutor’s intrusion results in him plunging headfirst into the man’s mind and being confronted with his devotion.

Not his devotion to Voldemort, as he expected, but to him. Hadrian, through no fault of his own, has somehow shifted the man’s loyalty to the point where, he is sure, Barty would disavow the Dark Lord if the man were to reject him. Hadrian witnesses the moments during which this resolve sets in in Barty Crouch’s mind and reshapes his life’s purpose. He sees himself grinning at the man after he finally understands a concept of magical theory. He sees himself asleep in the library, a book tucked in the crook of a tiny elbow. He sees himself singing to Missy while she dances, and laughing when Barty clumsily attempts to copy her.

A tear rolls down Hadrian’s cheek before he even notices he is crying.

“Hah,” he hears. Barty is breathing loudly. He was taken off-guard by the sudden fall back into his own mind. As such, he takes a moment to notice Hadrian is crying. When he does, however, he forgets his own pain as if it had never existed and crouches down to comfort the child. Barty is much freer with physical contact than Medea ever was, and Hadrian didn’t realise how much he needed it until the man ruffled his hair for the first time. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“You’re mine,” tries to explain Hadrian, his voice rendered shaky by emotion. When Barty makes a confused sound, he attempts to elaborate. “You’re not Father’s. You’re mine.”

Realisation dawns. Barty looks conflicted, guilty, and most of all caught-off guard, but the undercurrent of elation is too obvious to be hidden.

“I am,” he admits after a beat. “I am still loyal to your father, but you have won my allegiance, young master. I noticed it happening a long time ago. I did not stop it. I had no reason to. Love and duty are not in conflict, here. Taking care of you is serving my master in the best possible way, and obeying the Dark Lord is securing your future.”

He says it firmly, and Hadrian believes him. But he also felt Barty’s emotions, and knows that should he and Voldemort ever be in conflict, his tutor will choose him.

And that is a relief he cannot put into words. So he hugs Barty tightly before asking him if they can try Occlumency again.

***

It is only because of the Occlumency incident that Hadrian finds the courage to ask.

“Barty?”

“Yes, young master?”

The man had stolen the phrase from Missy and seemed to delight in using it. Hadrian ignores it. He’ll probably never get any of his favourite people to call him by his name, and it would be an exercise in futility to even try.

“Why a civil war? Why did Father choose violence to enforce his will?”

Missy steals the Prophet for them sometimes. They are not so cut-off from the outside world as to be unaware of the growing influence Lucius Malfoy has in the Ministry, and the distinct return of positive ratings on traditionalist legal proposals. Muggle-borns have always had a hard time finding employment at the Ministry, but under the Fudge administration, it is next to impossible for them to get further than entry level positions. Many of them return to the muggle world, and become essentially muggles with magic.

They are not at the level of segregation supremacist purebloods wish for, but discrimination is there, and the gaps can be widened via bureaucracy. Hadrian does not want that, but he wonders why it hasn’t happened.

“Because true change cannot come about without Albus Dumbledore’s death.”

Hadrian blinks.

Seeing his confusion, Barty elaborates. “His opposition described the Dark Lord’s main goal as the overthrowing of the Statute of Secrecy and the subjugation of muggles along with the establishment of a class society where purebloods would reign and others would serve.” He presses his lips together before continuing. “But that is a gross and malicious oversimplification. He first approached pureblood families with a promise: magic will be preserved at all costs.”

He turns to his pupil. “You remember your lesson, yes? Between the official establishment of the Statute of Secrecy in...” he stops leadingly, goading Hadrian into providing the answer.

“1692,” supplies the boy.

“Very good. Between 1692 and the present day, magical areas have diminished by about 65%.”

Hadrian nods. He knows that. This phenomenon is attributed to industrialisation and the dissemination of irons and plastics throughout the lands and oceans, two materials commonly referred to as anti-magic for the way they appear to disrupt the flow of it. Since the flow of ambient magic is diverted from its natural course, the magic cannot replenish itself and the residue left starts to decay until it is nothing but poison to the magical creatures in that area.

Other factors come into play, of course, but it is a common worry of magical people everywhere that muggles will someday manage to hinder the production of ambient magic to the point that the world will slowly starve out. Goblins, elves, and other fey-blooded races will be the first to feel the effect, followed closely by dragons, unicorns and other magical creatures. Wizards will ironically be the least affected, in the sense that they will not die and instead simply become squibs.

Another factor is believed to be the loss of dark magic. And by dark, Hadrian means sacrificial magic. The shedding of blood, the release of pain or the splitting of souls for the accomplishment of one’s goal. Dark rituals were thought to give back to the land in a way that light magic – the simple use and dispersion of the energy stored in the arcanic veins of a wizard – simply could not accomplish. This theory is less popular because it relies on an esoteric understanding of magic. It is the same belief that leads people to sacrificing animals in the names of the gods. But concepts can be magical in and of themselves, and the idea cannot be dismissed. It is undeniable that there is a sick feel to ambient magic that cannot be entirely attributed to muggle development, and the idea that wizards only take and do not give back to magic might have to do with it.

“The Statute of Secrecy was thought to be necessary when it was enforced; colonialism brought the European anti-witchcraft sentiment to a heightened level everywhere in the world, and more and more magical communities were affected. That is not to say that only Europeans were culpable, but they were the first muggle populations to turn their fear into an organised body dedicated to eradicating it. The Church was a real threat back then. A wizard without a wand was no wizard at all, and those who truly care about history remember the nest of chimeras harvested for their blood under the Vatican. They made sure they could hurt us, and we could either eradicate them all, subjugate them or make them forget we existed.”

Barty licks his lips and continues. “We chose the more peaceful solution, but nobody expected that leaving muggles alone would allow them to develop so rapidly. Not only did they outnumber us, but they sharpened their skill in warfare against each other to the point where they created weapons capable of killing us – I won’t even go into the possibility for mass-destruction they have engineered in the decades following Grindelwald’s war, this is only a brief overview to make you understand the scope of what we’re talking about. So not only has magic been decaying, but muggles are now armed with weapons capable of killing wizards without aid. And on our side, spells meant for us to fight back are forbidden, and the dark rituals that are proven to set back the negative effects of muggle development are forbidden.”

This time, his nod is more tentative. He understands what Barty is saying, he just doesn’t understand what this has to do with Dumbledore. His tutor seemed to understand his confusion, because he raises a hand and continues.

“I’m getting at it. Multiple people have brought up their concern to the Wizengamot and to the International Confederation of Wizards. Nothing came of it. They were dismissed every time. And of course, Albus Dumbledore has a seat in both governing bodies. He has always painted muggles as ignorant but otherwise harmless people and dismissed everyone who said otherwise as prejudiced. And his disdain, no, his disgust for dark magic is known to all.”

It is ironic, thinks Hadrian, considering what happened to Ariana Dumbledore. But he supposes it makes sense; in the end it is a wizard, not a muggle that killed her. And the father of the three Dumbledore siblings did much more damage to the muggles who assaulted his daughter than they did her. Of course Dumbledore overcorrected after Grindelwald. He and Voldemort after all had very similar ideologies.

“The history curriculum at Hogwarts only uses one book for seven years of schooling. A History of Magic, written by Bathilda Bagshot,” he says, sneering all the while. Another person related to Grindelwald, notes Hadrian. And she knew Dumbledore in his youth. “And it spreads misinformation about the number of wizards killed by the Inquisition. It says many more lies than that, but this one is the most egregious. Even pureblood families have been misled.”

Barty sighs. “People like the Malfoys would have you believe the Dark Lord’s agenda is mainly to make sure that pure-blood culture and values doesn’t die out, but he’s only feeding into their ego. It is the main recruiting strategy the Dark Lord employed to convince people that something must be done.”

After some time to think, Hadrian thinks he gets what his tutor is trying to say.

People do not care for something so abstract as the possible death of all magic. But Dumbledore’s insistence on banning anything Dark is happening now, and he uses muggle-born integration as a shield to justify the restrictions.

(The Ministry of course goes along with it because a population that cannot defend itself is easier to control. Ultimately, they’ll ban all Defence spells, and Lucius Malfoy, so focused on his crusade against muggle-borns and creatures instead of the things that truly matter, will be left wondering why.)

This draws the ire of pureblood families who blame the criminalisation of their culture on muggle influence. Then the Dark Lord uses the same technique to draw attention back to the problem, and organises his Death Eaters to regain control of the magical world. Once that is done, they can focus on the two-fold problem by one, re-instauring practices that reverse the decay of ambient magic and two, stopping the muggle population from poisoning magical areas further. All this under the guise of blood supremacy.

“So, because Albus Dumbledore has so much influence and he can’t be made to change his mind, Father decided that the only way to create change was by force?” concludes Hadrian. “He doesn’t necessarily want the subjugation of muggles and muggle-borns, he wants control over them because muggle technological advancement is a threat to magic and... muggle-borns haven’t been raised with magic, so they are more likely to betray the magical world for the sake of their family.”

His tutor nods approvingly.

Hadrian restrains a grimace. He thinks this might have been Tom Riddle’s goal, once upon a time, and that the Dark Lord understood enough of Barty’s character to share it with him. When Hadrian’s father was an orphan who had to survive the bombings in London during the Second World War and then go back to school to be looked down upon by purebloods for his apparent low-birth, he doesn’t doubt that he must have thought of manipulating them all to ensure the preservation of magic, the only thing he thought worthwhile in the world besides himself.

But the Voldemort he knew as Harry Potter had abandoned all pretence of wanting the good of the magical world.

“There is no good and evil. There is only power, and those too weak to seek it.”

He hopes that his father in this world is the man Barty Crouch Jr believes him to be. But Hadrian needs more than a loyal follower’s word to trust it.

Notes:

I'm very proud of how I handled the transition from Harry to Hadrian. Tell me what you thought, though.

For those who don't mind reading spoilers, I see this story going two different ways:

1/The most logical for me is that Hadrian is introduced to the world of Death Eaters and he starts to gain their loyalty -- Barty and his schoolmates first, then expands his circle. Voldemort welcomes him with open arms, but their relationship is complicated. Hadrian isn't sure about Voldemort's vision and the means he employs to accomplish it, and Voldemort doesn't know how to handle something he loves but cannot control + the fact that he himself killed his father. Meanwhile, Death Eaters see what a good leader is supposed to be and realise the Dark Lord is no longer that. They start following his heir instead and an inevitable clash happens at the end of the story. Before that, there's Hogwarts shenanigans and a Dumbledore plotline to go through.

2/This would be a shorter story in which the clash does not happen. Voldemort here would be a better version of himself with more logical reasonings and actions. Hadrian is thus more fully on board the Death Eater joyride, and the focus would be more on navigating this parent-child relationship while exploring the politics of the magical world and pureblood society. The conflict would be more Dumbledore-centric.

(A thing to keep in mind for either of these paths is that Sirius has gone through the veil and been reincarnated here as well. If you don't want to keep the suspense, his story is that Azkaban, his trauma, and his adult insight into his childhood result in him Sorting Slytherin. That means no friendship with James. He becomes a recluse to avoid the war, then comes out and does politics. He'll be very different to canon Sirius. He'll be a total Hadrian stan as soon as he figures out what's up though. I'm fully planning a Barty/Sirius in this if I end up writing it.)

Add-on: People who read "hope blooms in the darkest hours" might have noticed that the name of Hadrian's mother is familiar. Medea Mulciber is an OC from that fic, and I thought it would be interesting to explore what she could be like as an adult.

Chapter 39: storm the gods and shake the universe (Game of Thrones/Greek Mythology)

Summary:

Medea of Colchis, the sorceress daughter of a king, twice wedded and twice betrayed, kinslayer with the gods on her side, dies and wanders between worlds as a spectre. When a young girl denied the love she herself has always craved calls out to women scorned, she gives her three gifts: a tale of the past, a craft for the present, and a warning from the future.

Melara Hetherspoon crawls out of a well, memories that don't belong to her swirling in her head and magic at her fingertips. She swears to crack the lions' bones, suck out their marrow and have no rest until the Lannister empire crumbles and Cersei Lannister lays dead at her feet. Then she'll let herself rot as she should have, and join Medea in death's embrace.

But Rhaegar Targaryen, the pawn she chose to enact her revenge has other plans for the woman scorned, and maybe a lover's love is in fact stronger than a lover's hate.

Notes:

Trigger Warnings: mentions of child death, specifically filicide.

This is a Rhaegar Targaryen/Melara Hetherspoon story inspired by All Mimsy Were the Borogroves by MoonWitch96. I aged up Melara by two years so she and Rhaegar are only four years apart. They'll be fifteen and nineteen respectively when they meet. Still a crime in real life, but less icky in fiction.

The Greek Mythology bit is the inciting incident, but it won't come up a lot in the plot.

Once upon a time in Lannisport, a young girl was pushed down a well.

No.

Let's rewind back a little. Even better, let's halt the clock and travel to a land where people still use the sun to tell the time.

Once upon a time in Colchis, a princess fell in love with a hero. More than the daughter of a king, she was a powerful sorceress, and used it to help her beloved on his quest. When her father attempted to renege on his promise to reward him with the object he sought to prove himself worthy of being his uncle's heir, she killed her own brother to distract him and fled with the man she loved. When Jason's uncle denied him the inheritance he was promised, she tricked the man's daughter into killing him too. They fled once again, and in the land they settled in, Medea and Jason married and had multiple children.

But the hero was fickle, and in the new land they settled in, he found another princess he wished to court. He cast aside Medea, the sorceress who loved him. He did not think that the woman who killed her own brother for his sake would seek vengeance for this betrayal. He was a fool; rendered mad by heartbreak, she killed her hero's new love and their own children. Before Jason could take his revenge, Medea fled on her grandfather the sun titan's golden chariot and settled in Athens, where she married the king Aegeus. With him she had one child. But once again her happiness was threatened by another; Aegeus' lost heir returned and threatened her child's inheritance. Medea tried to kill him, but Aegeus thwarted her. She once more fled, this time with her son.

She returned to her homeland, where she found her father was deposed in her absence. She thrived to put him back on the throne, and make her son his heir. She worked to repair their bond, shattered by her foolish love for a man who did not deserve it. Since she met her last husband, her son, father and grandfather were the only men she allowed in her presence. After long years of atonement, she passed in her sleep, dreaming of her dead brother and children. Her father only forgave her in death, but he raised her son to rule Colchis.

Although Jason named her accursed, Medea was beloved by the gods. But her sins were too great and her soul too tremendous for the world she lived in, so she wandered through the cracks between realities, beyond the stars of the constellations she knew and into other epic tales.

For a long time she stayed an observer. Until she heard the voice of a child cry out for women scorned.

Curious, she searched, and found a girl on the verge of drowning at the bottom of a well.

A curse echoed around her, taunting.

Worms will have your maidenhead. Your death is here tonight, little one. Can you smell her breath? She is very close.

"Cersei!" the girl howled in between gasping breaths. "Come back, I swear I'll find you-- Cersei! Brotherfucker, I'll take everything you have! You won't know peace, I swear it. Cersei!" And when no one answered, she still wasted her air to whimper. "I only wanted him to love me..."

"Oh," murmured Medea, watching this little girl cry out for love and hate when she was at death's door. "She is just mad as I am."

And the sorceress smiled terribly. Her violet eyes flashed, and she let her spectral body float forward and meet the gaze of the child.

She was a pretty one, though her features were twisted by hatred and hopelessness.

(She looked like the only daughter she had by Jason. Her baby looked scared like that too, before she killed her.)

Medea lifted her from the water. The child coughed and trembled. Suspended into the air, she looked up to the sorceress with wary hope.

"Who...?" she croaked.

"I am Medea, child. You called out to me," or more accurately, she howled her betrayal so loud the fabric of the world shook with it, and the interloper who had been curiously observing the way magic was shaped in this reality heard it. It was not often that someone she resonated with also had such potential for magic, "and I answered."

The girl looked at her incomprehendingly.

Medea made a dismissive gesture of her hand. "No matter. Know that I am a... maegi, like the woman who cursed you." The word tasted strange on her tongue, like it was not quite accurate. The child flinched at it. She ignored it. "But I am much better than the horror you met. I could curse the people of an entire island to never say the truth. I could foretell the crowning of a helmsman as king, heal mortal wounds and restore infirms to health. I could protect men from fire, brew draughts that put dragons to sleep, bring men and monsters alike to the brink of madness. I was blessed by the gods. The magic in your blood is thin, child. I cannot teach you all I know, but I can give you three boons."

She started counting on her fingers. "One is a gift of memory. A tale of my past, so you can learn from my hubris. I know betrayal as well as you, and I learnt the hard way that sometimes both love and hatred can lead you too far to turn back. The second is a craft for the present. I will unlock within you the magics you will need to break free of this place and carry out your vengeance. And last, I will give you a warning from the future. A taste of what this world will come to be, to forearm you against ill tidings."

"Why?" murmured the girl, though her eyes turned covetous at the mere idea of it.

Good girl. She was right to be cautious.

"Because I can. Will you accept my gift?

"What will it cost me?"

"Your innocence. It is a hard price to pay," she warned.

The child looked down at the well water before raising her head again.

"I will pay it."

Medea grinned, cupped the child's face with her hands and pressed a kiss to her forehead. With it, she shared her story. Then she pierced her own skin with her nails and fed the blood to the child. With it, she shared her craft. Finally she put her hands back on the girl's cheeks and sang a song of ice and fire. With it, she shared her warning.

For a second, the whole world heard the sound of a splinter. The sky fractured, and with the howling winds came a cry.

What have you done, interloper?

Medea clicked her tongue.

"Ah. It seems the gods of your world have noticed me. Farewell, child, and may your vengeance be terrible."

"Wait!" exclaimed the girl as she was about to remove her hands. "Will I see you again?"

Medea tilted her head. Why would she want that, she wondered, were the gifts not enough?

Then she read the despair and loneliness in the child's eyes and understood.

She softened. "I will come seek you out when you die. I hope you'll have a good story to tell."

She smiled wryly, then lifted her hands away. The child bit her lip and nodded.

"Farewell, Lady Medea," she said. "And thank you."

Ah.

Maybe Medea hadn't just recognised the plight and potential of this girl. Maybe she'd just wanted a companion who understood.

(Maybe she wanted her daughter back.)

"Farewell, little one," she crooned, before the dropping the girl back into the water.

She watched as she crashed, as she gasped and struggled, as her eyes then turned violet when she commanded the magic she was gifted to grant her the strength to scale the wall.

Medea left, satisfied that the girl would survive.

Melara Hetherspoon was declared missing the Year 276 After the Conquest. As an orphaned ward of House Lannister, she had no one to mourn her. Her lands were returned to her liege lord, and her name soon forgotten.

The girl of three and ten who crawled out of the well left the Westerlands, then Westeros entirely. She only reappeared two years later, aboard a ship who should have sunk in Shipbreaker Bay. The other passengers, Lord Steffon Baratheon and his wife Cassana chief among them, believed the dark-haired and violet-eyed girl they were escorting to King's Landing to be Maelora Maegyr, daughter of one of the Old Blood of Volantis.

They would present her to court soon enough, where she would be evaluated as a potential fiancee candidate for Rhaegar Targaryen.

Notes:

This is a "I can't fix him, but I can make him worse" story.

Chapter 40: let the stars —plummet to their dark address (Harry Potter)

Summary:

I considered multiple options for reincarnation stories when I settled on writing "no longer human". This is one of the other ideas I had.

"Harry Potter is reborn in an alternate reality as Hadrian Malfoy. Something broke inside of him when he died. As he reshapes the world to his liking, intent on keeping his family safe, the cracks start to show."

Notes:

I used my earlier draft of "no longer human" to write the beginning. It's a bit more light-hearted, which is necessary because it goes downhill very quickly.

TW: Mention of rape and direct obstetric death.

Harry Potter is dead, and then he isn’t.

Well.

It’s rather more complicated than that.

Harry Potter sacrifices himself to save the British Wizarding Enclave.

(He'll go down in his country's history books as having saved the world. It's not quite right, but it makes them feel good. A homegrown world saviour is neat, and now they have three. Merlin, Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter. They can brag about it, and forget what they did to those saviours while they still lived.)

Harry saved them all, but he’s not quite sure the onlookers would have understood that's what he did. After all, he can picture the confusion of his peers when he walked up to Voldemort and let himself get hit in the chest with the Killing curse without even defending himself. He supposes they’d think him a martyr, who had given up the fight so that they would be safe. Hah. As if Voldemort planned to keep his promise.

His friends must have pulled through after his death. He has to think Voldemort is mortal once more, or it will be harder to find peace. Surely someone will find the courage to off him, right? He puts his bets on Ron, to be honest. Everyone always underestimated his best friend.

That’s not his problem anymore though, innit? The living can sort themselves out. He did his part.

His current issue is that he’s being nagged by the ghost of Dumbledore. Even in death, the old man prefers doing mental gymnastics over giving him straight answers. To be frank, Harry does not care anymore. Though he does raise an eyebrow when his former Headmaster tries to convince him he should go back and finish what he started.

Harry actually considers it, but he’s really bloody tired. He died for these people, did he have to live for them too? The only thing he’d ever wanted was a family, and Sirius had been snatched away from him a bare minute after he’d entertained the idea of keeping him.

“I’ll take the train, thanks,” he says after a beat of silence. “And I’ll take him with me,” he adds as an afterthought, pointing at the rather pathetic looking soul fragment of his worst enemy.

As he bends to pick up the ugly baby, Dumbledore vanishes to be replaced by a cloaked figure ominously staring at him. The skeletal hands rather give away the identity of this new arrival.

Harry presses Tiny Tom closer to his chest, and inclines his head. “Death,” he greets.

“Master,” rattles the entity. “Are you ready for your next great adventure?” it says, holding out a bony hand.

Harry looks down at it, then at the creature weakly struggling against him.

“I suppose I am,” he says as he takes the hand offered to him. Death leads him towards the train at a tranquil pace. “Say, what does it entail, being the Master of Death? Do I get a VIP entry into the afterlife?”

The being cackles. “No. But you get extra privileges in your next incarnation. You’ll keep your memories, for one. I even made it familiar for you, in the shape of an alternate reality to the one you just lived. You’ll have to let go of your prejudice, unlearn some of your assumptions. All in all, a good experience.”

Harry stops in his tracks.

“Er, my next what?”

“Did you not consider reincarnation as an option?” asks Death curiously. “Or did you give no thought at all to what would become of you after you die?”

The soul shard makes a gurgling sound that seems almost incredulous. Harry glares at it. Of course Voldemort thought of what happens during one’s death, he literally named himself after his own fear of it.

“The latter, I guess,” admits Harry. “And, er, how many times am I supposed to– do this?”

He’s already dreading the answer. He’d just said earlier he was tired, hadn’t he. He doesn't think it's fair that he has to do it again, and keeping his memories sounds more like a curse than a blessing.

“What does it matter? You won’t remember the incarnation after this one, unless you’re foolish enough to gather my Hallows again.”

Harry conceded the point. He pointed to the creature in his arms.

“Is he coming as well?”

Death hums. “If you wish. I can understand the impulse to keep him with you. He’s been part of you for longer than you’ve been apart, after all."

"Er," says Harry. "No. If you can take him off my hands and promise he won't suffer, like, eternal damnation, then he's all yours."

He's not actually eager to carry the murderer of his parents around. It was just the right thing to do when there was no other option, that's all.

Death makes an amused sound. "Give him to me, then. I'll reunite him with his other pieces, and make sure he expunges some of the bad karma he's accumulated. He'll have a long road ahead, but it's better than remaining in limbo, I suppose."

Harry hesitates before sighing and handing the Horcrux to Death. The being holds it delicately. Once they arrive, Death turns to him and lightly bows. The gesture is only a little mocking.

"Farewell, Master. And onward.”

Harry does not have time to ask what he meant by that. One second he is facing the train, the next he is pushed inside of it. The door closes behind him before he can even react. He faintly hears the Express ready itself to leave.

Harry walks around to choose a compartment. It's not hard; no one is there. It's a bit disappointing, if he's honest. He’d hoped to chat with his fellow dearly departed, hear a few stories. But the windows in his compartment show the moments after his death, and he is vindicated to find that things had resolved without him being needed. Neville had killed the snake as instructed, Hermione and Ron had connected the dots about the Horcrux within him, and Malfoy of all people had taken the leap and offed the asshole himself, which makes Harry cringe. He would have preferred Ron. Britain doesn't need a Malfoy to be the Man-Who-Conquered. His head's inflated enough as it is. This reminds Harry that he had taken the boy's wand with him when he died. That is weird to think about. This and his own broken wand are the only possessions he is taking into the next life. That's... definitely something.

Anyway. Voldemort was dead and everyone who’d fought on Harry’s side benefited from the magical protection he’d given them when he played the martyr. It sure helped dispatch the last Death Eaters. A pretty neat ending, if he did say so himself.

He should have known his next great adventure wouldn’t go so smoothly.

Harry is now a baby. Squalling, smelly, and with very little control of his limbs. He’s taken care of by a house elf, which says a lot about the kind of family he’s been reborn in. He’s quite content letting himself drift; after everything, he deserves a little rest. And infant life isn’t exactly exciting.

He does make note of his surroundings, though. Some things stand out.

Dobby is there, for one. He changes Harry's diapers, feeds and burps him at regular times. It gives him a good enough guess of whose family he's been reborn into. He’s been somehow doomed to live through the same era. Not the same year, he suspects, but close enough. The war is still raging, and he wonders if a baby will still put an end to it. Is this the same world he's lived in, and if it is, will he meet himself at Hogwarts? How discomforting.

Lucius Malfoy, his new father, visits often. His long silver blond hair hangs in Harry's grasping distance as the man bends down to look at the baby nestled inside a crib enchanted to look like a cloud. He caresses baby Harry's cheek, his moon grey eyes warm and bright as he gazes upon him.

"My love, my light, my Hadrian. We are named after Emperors, my son," he croons. "And we will be greater than they ever were."

Harry pulls his hair to see what he'll do. The man only chuckles and gives him a soft toy to paw at and stop the toddler from tearing out some blond strands. He cannot resist the temptation to pull at the man's sleeve and uncover the Dark Mark when he gets the chance. He does not expect the deep look of shame on Lucius' face at the act. The man doesn't say anything about it, however. He only detangles Harry's grip from his robe and hides the Mark from view before tutting and saying that Hadrian should pay attention to what he holds onto.

"I don't know if the Mark's magic seeps into the ambient air, what if he absorbs some of... that and gets sick from it?" he then frets before calling Dobby and asking him to care for Hadrian while he does some research.

In the years preceding the birth of Draco Malfoy, Hadrian sees only a handful of people. Narcissa Malfoy is not one of them, which clues the boy pretty early on to the fact that he is probably a bastard child. She is mentioned by Dobby as the Madame, and he seems to fear her as much as he does Lucius. His only visitors are his father, Dobby, a woman named Lysithea, and a man named Thorfinn who appears to be her husband. Hadrian recognises the latter as Rowle, a Death Eater he faced in his former life, and does not know what to think of the realisation that the man is both his godfather and a first cousin of his father.

Voldemort made Draco torture his own close relative, he thinks grimly, remembering the punishment Rowle received for losing him during the Horcrux hunt. His wife Lysithea bears the Mark too, and Hadrian learns that she's originally a Lestrange. Probably a more distant cousin of Rodolphus and Rabastan. Incidentally, she's his godmother. Hadrian supposes he's facing some of his father's best friends.

He is still not quite able to separate this new life from the one he grew up in. The name came easy, it's close enough to his old one and Lucius says it with so much love Hadrian can't help but enjoy it. Every time he is held in his father's arms, Hadrian feels himself changing. The core parts of what made him Harry Potter are still there, but the veneer of red and gold is slowly scratched away. What's left is a raw, tired martyr who only yearns for the home and love he's been denied. He soaks up Lucius Malfoy's devotion and thinks he would do anything for this man.

When Draco is born, things change.

Hadrian hears the argument that occurs when Lucius insists on introducing him to the baby. He's old enough by then to wander where he shouldn't, and Dobby isn't always there to monitor him.

It seems that Narcissa only agreed to Hadrian's presence in the Manor if she did not have to see him. She wants him to remain confined to his own floor, far away from her, and thinks the Heir of the House should not be subjected to his bastard older brother whose presence is a threat to his inheritance.

She then exhales harshly and asks a question that has been on the tip of Hadrian's tongue for a long time, "why will you not tell me who his mother was? We didn't promise love to each other, but we've been betrothed for fifteen years, Lucius. I thought we had a partnership. Trust. I could see myself loving you. But then you bring home that child a month after our wedding and expect me to accept it? You made me Madame Malfoy! The agreement between our two families promised the Heir of your House would have Black blood, and your bastard threatens this very truth. You insult me and my House by doing this, and you don't even have the decency of naming your mistress?"

Lucius clenches his jaw and looks away. Narcissa seems to see something Hadrian didn't on his face, because she softens and comes closer to him. "What are you not telling me?"

Hadrian sees his father draw his shoulders up, poised to defend himself. But then he deflates and weakly says, "he's my sister's son."

Narcissa blinks. Hadrian's heart is in his throat.

"Your... sister? You don't have a sister."

"I don't. Not anymore." He pauses, and sits down on the couch of the sitting room they've been arguing in. "Her name was Cordelia."

Lucius' wife seems to understand something Hadrian doesn't, because she follows her husband on the couch and places a sympathetic hand on his. "What did Abraxas do to her?"

Abraxas Malfoy never visited his son's bastard, so Hadrian never met him. He always knew when he was coming to the Manor however, because Dobby would then be Hadrian's only company and Lucius always came out of it exhausted, the same as he was when it was his turn to host Voldemort and the active duty Death Eaters. Knowing this doesn't help him get the whole picture. Hadrian wracks his brain to try and understand what Narcissa might have understood that he doesn't. And then it dawns on him.

Cordelia Malfoy was a squib.

"The floor Hadrian lives in now used to be hers. The confinement wards you tried to convince me to reactivate were once used to keep her in so she wouldn't shame the family."

Narcissa brings a hand to her mouth, horror and guilt twisting her features.

"She was my older sister, and I loved her. When her letter didn't come... I begged Father to not abandon her. He used her as a way to ensure my compliance after this. I had to be the perfect heir, or she would suffer the consequences."

He pauses. Licks his lips.

"That's how he convinced you to take the Mark," realises Narcissa softly. "You said you didn't have the stomach for all this violence, I thought— never mind that. What happened, Lucius?"

"I did everything I was told," says Lucius, his voice distant, as if he didn't hear her. "I let that filthy man into our home, funded his cause, hosted his parties. I swayed dozens of Hogwarts graduates to his ranks, even reached out to my contacts in Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, and established a Death Eater network on the continent. Father asked me to be of use to the cause, and I did that and more."

"Lucius," presses his wife. Hadrian's... uncle returns to reality in slow increments.

"At the last gala, the one Bellatrix asked us to organise to celebrate her birthday. Someone broke into the wards," he says matter-of-factly.

"Who?" urges Narcissa, her eyes dark. She looks more like Bellatrix than she ever did, thinks Hadrian, then shakes his head. No. She looks like Sirius after he caught Wormtail. Wild, mad, and promising vengeance.

"I don't know. But Cordelia... she was. She—" He can't bring himself to say it. "Whoever did it... they destroyed my sister, Narcissa, you must understand. She survived long enough to give me Hadrian, but she didn't make it a day longer. She died in my arms."

Narcissa embraces him.

"She couldn't be healed?"

Lucius shudders. "The curse placed on her didn't allow it. It was... my sister was butchered. I had to treat her the muggle way." He shudders. "I couldn't do anything."

This must be an alternate universe, thinks Hadrian faintly. It can't be anything else. Or did this happen in Harry Potter's world, and Lucius Malfoy, without a memento of his sister to remember her by, had hardened his heart and convinced himself that Cordelia hadn't existed? There would have been a sign if that was the case, surely.

This thought only distracts him for so long. Then the truth sits bitter at the crux of his chest. He is an orphan twice over. His mother suffered a whole life of abuse before dying in childbirth. His biological father, monster that he is, is a dead man walking.

His existence must be cursed. There is no other explanation.

A window cracks, then it explodes. Then another. Above him, the ceiling cracks. He sways.

"Hadrian?" exclaims Lucius in confusion before rushing to him, his cane pointing at the windows and materialising a shield while Narcissa casts a mending charm on the damage Hadrian has done.

A whimper sounds out. Ah, thinks Hadrian. The noise must have awoken the baby. Draco. His cousin, not his brother. Or maybe both? Lucius always treated him like a son. Maybe this doesn't change everything, he thinks as his father-uncle holds him in his arms and wipes the tears from his eyes, whispering assurances to him as he does.

A year later, a girl named Rose Potter — huh, he hadn't expected that — is proffered as having triumphed over the Dark Lord who killed her parents. Lucius cries of relief when he finds out, his adopted son as only witness. Hadrian swears he'll rend Voldemort's bones from his body and make a throne out of them for his father to sit on. He wishes he could kill Abraxas Malfoy too, but Narcissa is seemingly taking care of that. Hadrian and her have an understanding now. They'll protect Lucius and Draco at all costs.

And the man who hurt Cordelia Malfoy will pay.

Notes:

Hadrian Malfoy would be an amazing older brother/cousin. I'm not sure if I want him in Durmstrang or Slytherin. This fic would expand on the Weasley-Malfoy feud and the whole Voldemort drama would be a bit secondary to that. I'm not sure what I'd do with Rose Potter, or with the identity of Hadrian's mysterious biological father. The revenge of House Malfoy towards that piece of shit would be a huge plot point though.

Chapter 41: crown of fire (Naruto OC)

Summary:

Since the start of the Era of the Ninja Creed, a saying has spread throughout the continent.

"The Daimyo govern, but the Kage rule."

Shiratori Toshiaki, Heir to the throne of Hi no Kuni, aims to change that.

Notes:

This is an OMC/Namikaze Minato/Uchiha Mikoto fic, where I'm mostly having fun with worldbuilding.

If I end up expanding on this, many things in this fic would not be canon compliant or historically accurate, including but not limited to these facts:

- The Continent is named Nakatsukuni (the Middle Country. It comes from the mythology name "Ashihara no Nakatsukuni" 葦原の中つ国, translated as the middle country of reed beds, which refers to the land of humans as opposed to Yomi, Hell, or Takamagahara, Heaven).

- There used to be an Emperor until "he angered the kami", i.e. a disaster struck the Imperial capital. The Emperor's appointed Shogun was assassinated soon after, and the nations of the continent started squabbling for dominance. When it became clear that keeping the Empire united was unfeasible, the Daimyo fought to maintain and/or expand their territory. The army of shinobi and samurai retainers mobilised by the Daimyo of Hi no Kuni (the Land of Fire) fought against Ta no Kuni (the Land of Rice Paddies) and Kaze no Kuni (the Land of Wind). These two wars led to the near extinction of the samurai population of Hi no Kuni and the start of the prevalence of the use of shinobi in warfare, samurai now being limited to rōnin and guards of the Daimyo's palace and other noble residences.

(The Senju-Uchiha feud started around the end of this period. Some speculate that the Senju were insulted by the lack of acknowledgement their accomplishments received and thought the Uchiha were injustly rewarded. Others say that the Senju being an outsider clan who betrayed Ta no Kuni caused their cold reception at the Daimyo's court and the Uchiha mocked them.)

- The Daimyo of Hi no Kuni is nothing like the one in canon. This applies to the other nations' Daimyo. Their title is also something that will be discussed extensively. A Daimyo is historically a position that depends upon the existence of an Emperor and Shogun. They are feudal warlords but are supposed to answer to someone. Making them the heads of a nation muddies the water a lot, especially considering the fact that Kages seem to essentially serve as their Shogun. In this story, they have adopted a lot of the trappings and duties of both the Shogun and Emperor positions, minus the military stuff.

- Minato has a backstory that fits the plot.

- The Great Ninja Wars started for reasons I had to come up with because canon doesn't give us much, and some conflicts or nations will not be mentioned, either because I don't remember them or because they're part of side stories, retcons or anime or movie-only content that I don't care much about.

When Shiratori Toshiaki, the esteemed heir to the Daimyō of Hi no Kuni turns six, he asks to be enrolled at the Shinobi Academy of Konohagakure no Sato. Nothing his parents can say will dissuade him, and he makes Ryūnosuke-sama and his esteemed Kamehime-seishitsu-sama feel foolish to have even tried.

The Daimyō talks it over with the Sandaime-Hokage, who accommodates his visit with the respect he is due. Him and his retinue are received with great fanfare, and hosted in the Hokage Residence as a guest of honour. They discuss it for a long time, and come to the same conclusion: Toshiaki cannot attend. His safety will be compromised and in the time he is absent from court, he will be unable to be taught the leadership and administration skills necessary to govern. But a compromise is made, and the Shugonin Jūnishi will see to his education. He will then come to Konoha and pass the graduation exam once his tutors deem him ready, and receive an honorary hitai-ate. He will, of course, not be made to swear any oath to the Hokage.

Sarutobi Hiruzen thinks it a wonderful idea. Toshiaki will be the future owner of all the mines in Hi no Kuni. Teaching him the value of steel can only benefit Konoha in the long run. He therefore ignores his childhood friend Danzo cheerfully when the man claims he has missed an opportunity to mould the heir of Hi no Kuni and ensure he understands that prioritising the military budget is crucial.

Ryūnosuke, who dotes on his son as much as his father neglected him and his brother Mitsuhide, dreads the reaction of the boy as he returns to Irori-kyō, the capital of Hi no Kuni. Toshiaki has never asked for anything before. He is a quiet, gentle child, who is as thoughtful as he is clever. But it is easy to be quiet and gentle when you want for nothing; Ryūnosuke had experienced the tantrums of his brother's children, and he has thought himself blessed to have avoided them in his own household. Now that he'll have to refuse his son for the first time, he wonders if that will end. He confides in Mitsuhide who gleefully tells him he should deliver the news as fast as possible and brace himself for the incoming storm.

Ryūnosuke makes his way to the Katsuguchi Kyōden, the residence of the Heir. When he arrives, his son is sitting in seiza at his table, practising calligraphy under the watching eye of his mother. Upon seeing his father, he puts down his brush and greets him. Ryūnosuke approaches and bends to press a kiss to his son's brow. When he is told the news, Toshiaki accepts them with grace. Not only that, he seems pleased.

"I did not wish to go so far from you, chichi-ue," he says earnestly, and Ryūnosuke feels like he could weep from relief.

"Come, musuko. Let us speak to your tutors."

They move to a washitsu intended as a reception room, where a tokonoma Ryūnosuke's wife personally decorated displays a tasteful hanging scroll, a bonsai and carefully chosen okimono. There, Kamehime serves the tea and waits for the nine members of the Shugonin Jūnishi in attendance to unconceal their presence.

The Shugonin Jūnishi is composed of twelve skilled ninja drawn from around the Land of Fire. Their only task was to protect the nation's ruling clan, even at the cost of their own lives. Membership is indicated by the waistcloth they wear, marked with the 火 kanji for fire. Four are picked among the ninsō of the ninja temples of Hi no Kuni and eight from the shinobi of Konohagakure. Six of them are appointed to protect the Daimyō at all times, three to the heir and the other three to the rest of the clan. They rotate these duties, and command the samurai guards of Guren Castle, the residence of the court, to cover their blind spots.

The Shugonin generally do not let themselves be seen. But to teach Toshiaki, they will need to change the way they normally operate. It is evident that this makes them uneasy, and Ryūnosuke feels obligated to assure them that the Hokage himself approved. He does not see the way his son's eyes narrow.

"Isn't the loyalty of the Shugonin Jūnishi to the Daimyō only, chichi-ue? Why did you need to ask for Sandaime-dono's permission?"

Ryūnosuke blinks. "The Shugonin swear to their Hokage first. It seemed courteous to propose this alternative when we discussed your possible enrolment in the Ninja Academy."

"Permission to speak, Daimyō-sama?" says Kazehaya, one of the ninsō.

Toshiaki's father inclines his head.

"The ninsō's loyalty is to the Temple, not to the Hokage, and while in service, the shinobi of Konoha's oaths to you supercede the vows they made when they received their hitai-ate."

Ryūnosuke is confused. He does not understand the problem. He proposed an alternative path of learning for his son, and requested that Toshiaki be allowed to pass the exams in Konoha once his education was completed. The Hokage accepted, there should be no problem. He says as much to his son and the Shugonin.

Toshiaki pressed his lips together and says, "I see. I understand your intention, but you still asked for a subordinate's permission to do something that should have been an order. I am not sure this is a precedent you want to set, chichi-ue."

Such wisdom in the mouth of six-year-old is uncanny. Ryūnosuke feels thoroughly scolded. He has often felt this way around his son, who the court has already begun to spread rumours about. A prodigy, they say, blessed by the kami. Ryūnosuke feels the gap between his heir and other children keenly.

Toshiaki changes the subject, turning to the Shugonin. He asks them if they are willing to teach him, and what they believe he should learn. A Hatake clan shinobi named Sakumo offers to teach him kenjutsu. Shion, an Uchiha kunoichi offers her help in bukijutsu and genjutsu. Kazehaya volunteers himself to teach him taijutsu. A nin-miko by the name of Yona volunteers herself for chakra control and ninjutsu lessons.

The Daimyō takes his leave, happy to have pleased his son. He returns to court, where an urgent dispute between two Kashin clans is awaiting his verdict. It is only the first task of a long list of things he must do for the day. The impromptu trip to Konohagakure no Sato has set his schedule back by a week, and his advisors could only do so much to pick up the slack.

The responsibilities of the Daimyō are endless. Major decisions like the building of roads, forts, and bridges are decided by him. The Shiratori government keeps tight control over its retainers to ensure the stability of the nation. As such, they require that the Kashin live in Irori-kyō part of the year. The nobles are expected to take specific routes from their estates to the city at specific times to be monitored and maintain a prestigious home in the capital city so they can attend court, where their communications are checked by shinobi to catch any hint of treason or correspondence with enemy nations. Ryūnosuke then has to check those reports and make decisions accordingly. In addition, all marriages have to be approved by him.

During the Warring States Era and the era of restoration that Hi no Kuni calls the Shiratori Period, the government owned all the territory of Fire Country. But after Ryūnosuke's father signed the Konoha Charter and shinobi villages started popping everywhere in Nakatsukuni, they entered what is known as the Ninkai Period. The only territory in Hi no Kuni that is not owned by the ruling clan encompasses the boundaries of Konohagakure no Sato, including the Hashirama Forest. That has not diminished the amount of administration work he has to do; his retainers all pay tithes to him, and he has to consult the reports made on their collection. The Daimyo owns all cultivated land in Hi no Kuni and his retainers hold them under his authority. He also controls all major communication routes, sea ports, and the precious metal supplies. This amounts to an insane amount of work for Ryūnosuke, but said work is his duty, and the man has honour. He will not fail his people.

In the following two years, he rarely inquires about his son's progress in the shinobi arts. He interrogates Toshiaki's usual tutors to make sure the heir of Hi no Kuni will be a competent ruler when the time comes. His son's teachers have nothing but praise for him. As for the Shugonin, he asks nothing of them. He does not want his son to feel pressure to excel in an area he is not truly required to learn anything about. Those lessons are a gift, not an added pressure on his heir.

As such he is utterly surprised when Toshiaki turns eight and tells him that his tutors have deemed him ready for graduation. When he speaks to the Shugonin, they affirm his son is a prodigy.

Ryūnosuke requests a demonstration. It soon becomes a family affair. Kamehime gathers his concubines, Fusae, who is currently pregnant, and Akemi. Mitsuhide and his wife Asahina come with their daughter Akane. His two concubines beg off attendance, citing headaches. Ryūnosuke is aware that they simply dislike his own wife. Their mother Shijimi comes, her arms locked on Torakichi, the terrible nekomata she has decided to try and tame.

Toshiaki first demonstrates his knowledge of ninjutsu by manifesting a fire dragon dancing in slow, controlled movements around him. It is small, but the control it must require is obvious even to an amateur. Yona the nin-miko reveals the technique to be a C-rank jutsu of her temple. Then the Hatake-nin engages Toshiaki in a short sparring match, followed by a taijutsu and bukijutsu demonstration aided by Kazehaya-sō. Toshiaki does not beat his opponents, but he makes a good showing.

When it is over, his public claps and congratulates him. Ryūnosuke promises to write the Hokage. That night, they feast to celebrate the heir's accomplishment. The Daimyō offers to his son the sacred sword of the clan, a katana by the name of Onimaru Kunitsukuna, the Sword of the Demon. A week later, they leave for Konoha.

Sarutobi Hiruzen greets them at the doors.

Notes:

Vocabulary:

Daimyo: feudal warlord. Seishitsu: official wife of a lord.

Hi no Kuni: Land of Fire. Irori-kyō: Hearth Capital. Guren:(紅蓮) is "crimson-colored (紅) lotus flower (蓮の花)". It is compared to the colour of a flame of a burning fire.

Katsuguchi Kyōden: House of Kagutsuchi. Kagutsuchi, also known as Hi-no-Kagutsuchi or Homusubi among other names, is the kami of fire in classical Japanese mythology. Kagutsuchi's birth burned his mother Izanami, causing her death. His father Izanagi, in his grief, beheaded Kagutsuchi with his sword, Ame no Ohabari (天之尾羽張), and cut his body into eight pieces, which became eight volcanoes.

Shugonin Jūnishi: Twelve Guardian Ninja. Ninsō: Ninja monks. Also includes the nin-miko, ninja priestesses.

Chichi-ue: father. Musuko: son. Aniue: older brother. Otouto: younger brother. Sofu: grandfather

Washitsu: a Japanese room with traditional tatami flooring. Tokonoma: a recessed space in a Japanese-style reception room, in which items for artistic appreciation are displayed. Bonsai: miniature tree. Okimono: ornament for display.

Kashindan: an institution of the retainers (kashin) of the shogun or a daimyo in Japan that became a class of samurai. It was divided into the military commanders (bankata) and the civil officers (yakukata). In this fic, the term is used to refer to the noble clans that serve the Daimyo. Only the Uchiha, Akimichi, Senju, Aburame, Hyuuga and the Kurogane samurai clan are counted among the bankata clans. Others are all yakukata clans.

Ninkai: Ninja Sekai, Ninja World.

Chapter 42: pluck out the heart -- to find what makes it move (Harry Potter)

Summary:

When Tom Riddle tried to kill Harry Potter, his spell backfired and turned against him. Tattered as his soul was, he did not realise it created another Horcrux, which sought a vessel for its soul piece. And the loose part of his soul latched itself to the nearest thing.

In one universe, the nearest thing is the scar of an orphaned toddler. In another, it's the dead body of a mother.

He comes to in the burnt wreckage of a house.

He does not remember his name, or why he's here. He knows only two things: he is a great wizard, and he was looking for a child.

He stands. His movements are slow and steady, careful not to jar his bruised body. He looks around, and finds a wand. His wand? It feels familiar, but something is wrong with it. He holds it anyway, and experiments with a few repairing spells. Soon, the nursery he stands in fixes itself. He wants to leave the room, but his attention is caught by a crying toddler running to him.

The baby is howling and dashing towards him, his hands extended. He is filthy, but otherwise unharmed. The wizard catches the child without consciously trying to do so. His body just moves on its own, in some kind of muscle memory. Upon looking at him, the wizard gets the sense that this is the child he was looking for. He picks him up with this in mind, and tries to pay attention to the nonsensical babble coming out of the toddler's mouth.

From it, he gleans that the boy is called Harry, and that he is apparently the child's... mother.

He— she? — digests this information as she looks for a mirror, repairing his surroundings as he goes. She finds one in the bathroom next door, and observes the sight she makes, dishevelled and dirty, with long tangled red hair trailing down her back. Her forehead is bleeding. She wipes at it absent-mindedly, and uncovers a wound in the shape of a lightning bolt under the blood. Harry makes a dismayed sound when he looks at it, and pats her cheek in an attempt to make the "boo-boo" go away. Or so he says. She's a bit distracted, and only relieved that he's at least stopped bawling.

She leaves the bathroom and gets to work repairing the stairs. After a few minutes, the structure is stable enough for her to climb down, the toddler still in her arms. When she finally comes down, she is faced with a dead body in the corridor, and the sight of a man weeping at the dead person's side. The two men, living and dead, seem familiar. Even more so when the former raises his head and gasps.

"Lily! What happened? I was — and James is... Peter betrayed us," he cries out, barely coherent.

"Lily," she says slowly. "Is that my name?"

Notes:

It doesn't make a lot of sense, but basically Lily had Harry in her arms when she died, and Harry hid under her body to escape the scary green light, so the Horcrux ended up possessing her. This piece of Voldemort has amnesia though, so he thinks he's Lily Potter.

Chapter 43: water's edge (Naruto)

Summary:

"Where Naruto fought for Konoha's love and the acknowledgement of its people, Nagisa yearns for whirlpools and a sun-dappled seashore, for a home she does not have to earn. Her counterpart did not know he could dream of a lost village until it was too late. But Nagisa has his knowledge, and his indomitable ambition. She will roam free on the island of her ancestors, or she will die trying. And the soul she holds captive in a prison of her father's making will be set free.

That is her nindō."

 

Alternate Universe Fem!Naruto who is haunted by the narrative

Notes:

This technically features an Original Character, but Nagisa is technically a version of Naruto like Menma from the Road to Ninja movie, so I'm not counting her as such. Anyway, here's my new obsession.

“It is good that we do not have to try to kill the sun or the moon or the stars. It is enough to live on the sea and kill our true brothers.”

― Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea

Nagisa sees him every time she looks at her reflection. At every stage of her life, he is there, a translucent after-image hovering over her shoulder. She knows him better than she knows herself.

As a stern matron rubs her face with a cloth until she bleeds in a fruitless attempt to get rid of the whisker marks on her cheeks, the blond man in the bathroom mirror presses a hand to his own face like he's remembering a phantom pain he’d never allowed himself to think about. Nagisa’s sight blurs with tears. The man disappears behind her wet lashes. She is two years old.

A year later, the same woman files down her pointy teeth. Nagisa lets it happen without a twitch. It hurts, but it is not a surprising pain: she has never known kindness. And besides, once the pain is gone, her canines will grow back to their original length. None of the matron's efforts to turn her into something she is not have ever succeeded. She eyes her reflection. The blond man has a hand on her mirror self's shoulder, and he is petting her cherry red hair to comfort her. She doesn't feel it, but seeing him do so soothes something in her that she can't quite name. She wants to smile, but the matron’s firm grip on her jaw stops her. Her eyes still crinkle, and he beams back at her. Their eyes are identical, blue like the sea and the sky it reflects.

Months later, she is at the playground building a sandcastle. She is all by herself, as usual. Nagisa does not look at the playing children surrounding her, or the way they give her a wide berth. Instead she grins at the blond man reflected in the rounded metal of the swing's support as he gives her two thumbs-up, encouraging her. Their impish smiles are shadows of each other.

When she is four, she sees him just before a boy pushes her into the pond and holds her head underwater, crowing that he’s doing a service to the village. The blond man shouts in worry, though he knows she won’t hear it. She doesn’t dwell on it; she is too busy retreating into herself. This much won’t kill her, she knows, but the pain is terrible. When things like this happen, she prefers going away inside. The blond man was crying, she thinks before her mind goes blank and her lungs start burning.

Five months and a birthday later, he is on the distorted surface of a crystal ball as the matron of the orphanage holds her shoulder in a tight grip, pleading the Hokage to take her elsewhere. It is the first time she meets Sarutobi Hiruzen, but she is focused on the warped image of her ghost making reassuring gestures at her. He is trying to say that the Sandaime is trust-worthy, she thinks. This is the first time they disagree.

The Sandaime is a cruel man, though a remorseful one. The pain he inflicts on her is born of neglect and of bad decisions. He does not intend to harm her. It happens anyway.

Nagisa knows this because she recognises the face of the man in the mirror. She knows his name. Uzumaki Naruto is her, or what she could have been. An alternate self years out of step, observed through her reflection and known to her through the resonance of their soul. Nagisa thanks the mirror world and the intrinsic, if incomplete knowledge she has of it for the insight it gives her on her own life. So many things make sense, and the older consciousness she instinctively absorbs every time she looks at him has allowed her to cope with the harsh world she lives in. It has not made her older, but it has made her wise beyond her years.

She knows Naruto and his story, and in return she knows herself.

Like him, she is the human sacrifice chosen to jail the Kyuubi no Kitsune. She is the hidden daughter of the Yondaime Hokage and of the last Uzumaki in Konoha. But she is no hero. Naruto had a big heart and even bigger dreams. Nagisa has none of that. Because she knows what it took for him to forgive, she can't bring herself to do so.

The only legacy of love she will accept from him is one the village would rather see her deny.

(She wants to press her hand to her stomach, where she knows the seal is concealed, but she cannot. Not yet.)

So she finds herself turning away from the crystal ball and gazing into the eyes of the jailer who claims to care for her, and she does not let him see that she resents him.

The matron is saying that keeping Nagisa at the orphanage while she attends the Academy is unthinkable.

"We cannot watch her and care for the other children, Sandaime-sama. She requires more attention than we can provide. Please consider entrusting her to someone who can handle her. Danzo-sama said—"

"That's enough," the old man cuts her off. The room seems to suddenly darken, the presence of the village leader makes itself more obvious, his disapproval heavy in the air. She flinches and grips Nagisa's shoulder harder for it. The Hokage's kindly gaze sharpens, and the matron lets go of her like she's been burnt.

Nagisa presses her lips together and quietly rubs the side of the clavicle into which the woman had dug her nails into. The Sandaime's eyes are full of pity as he notices her movement. She ignores it.

"You're dismissed, Kazue-san. I will arrange alternate arrangements for Nagisa-chan."

The woman bows low and murmurs a quiet goodbye. Nagisa looks down at her shoes, unwilling to make eye contact with her personal tormentor. The matron wasn't a villain, but she was... sharp. Unlike the Sandaime, her cruelty was intentional. Always intent on keeping Nagisa away from the other children, of reminding her of her place and of all the ways she stood out. She sought to make her less noticeable under the guise of caring for her safety, but it was always blatantly obvious that her main motivation was to remove what she found unpleasant. Nagisa's fox traits were her main target at first, and now that she has come to terms with the fact that she cannot make them go away, she wants her gone altogether.

Aside from her dislike for the fox rearing its head from time to time, she didn't go out of her way to mistreat Nagisa. The girl was fed regularly, cleaned, clothed and taught the same way as the other children. But always apart from them. Out of mind.

"Do you know who I am?" asks the Sandaime.

"You're the Hokage," she replies quietly.

"And do you know what this means?"

"That you're the leader of the village."

The man nods, looking pleased. "And do you know what it means for you to have been brought here?"

"Kazue-sama doesn't want me at the orphanage anymore, so she's asking you to choose another guardian for me because you're in charge of all the orphans of Konoha."

"That's exactly it," he says, surprised. "You're a bright girl, Nagisa-chan. Now, what do you think about having to leave your friends at the orphanage?"

Nagisa shrugs. "I don't have friends."

The admission has Sarutobi's eyes slipping closed for a split second before he forces himself to open them again. He looks weary. Tired.

"I see." After saying so, he adds some cheer to his voice and tells her, "you will be able to make some at the Academy, Nagisa-chan. That sounds nice, doesn't it?"

Nagisa contemplates telling him she doesn't want to be a kunoichi, just to see what he would say. It would be a lie, of course, but a potentially interesting one to tell. She decides against it. It's futile, after all, and she doesn't want to know how he'll try to break it to her that orphans with a functional chakra network are required to attend unless they have found an apprenticeship. Nagisa knows exactly how high her chances of getting one of those is, she doesn't need to be told to her face that no one outside the Shinobi Corps will want her. In the eyes of the civilians, she is a demon and a wild thing.

She has Sarutobi Hiruzen to thank for that, she knows.

Naruto had been so happy to learn he could be a ninja. Nagisa feels the same thrill to hone herself into a blade, but the Will of Fire has escaped her.

"It does," she says.

The Sandaime smiles kindly and stands up. He asks her to wait for him while he sorts out her living situation.

"Can I look around, ya know?" she asks him innocently, gesturing at the office. "Or else I'll be bored."

"Of course." He makes a hand sign, and Nagisa laments her lack of knowledge of the shinobi arts.

She knows Naruto's story up to his adulthood. She has seen how far he's come from the downtrodden orphan they both are. She can see the techniques he's learnt and performed in her mind's eye. Nagisa feels his journey in her soul, but the emotions, the blood, sweat and tears, the memories are not hers. She cannot review them at her leisure, stop time and linger on hand signs long enough to know how to perform them. She cannot learn to manipulate chakra just by watching him fight and struggle against enemies twice his age and skill. She has a better grasp of Naruto's precious people than his skills and techniques.

She learned that the hard way when she tried to use the mirror world to learn how to read.

She has to start from zero, just like he did. It is both a blessing and a curse. She at least knows where to look, and the blank slate will allow her to develop her own skills without the too-long shadow cast by her already adult counterpart hindering her. It also sharply emphasises the ways in which Naruto and Nagisa are different.

Where he is their mother's son, loud and bright and kind, she is their father's daughter. Quiet, cautious, pragmatic. Calculated despite a friendly facade.

(But still an idealist, no matter what Nagisa likes to tell herself.)

Where Naruto fought for Konoha's love and the acknowledgement of its people, Nagisa yearns for whirlpools and a sun-dappled seashore, for a family she does not have to earn. Her counterpart did not know he could dream of a lost village until it was too late. But Nagisa has his knowledge, and his indomitable ambition. She will roam free on the island of her ancestors, or she will die trying. And the soul she holds captive in a prison of her father's making will be set free.

That is her nindō.

She might be her father's daughter in many ways, but this ambition is hers only, and she does not delude herself into thinking that her parents would approve of it. She will do it anyway.

(In a gilded jail, red eyes open slowly. A fox flicks an ear. He is listening.)

Nagisa is left alone in the Hokage's office, though she is under no illusion that she is not being watched.

She putters around, pretending to be more interested in the trinkets decorating the various shelves than in any of the paperwork or drawers. She plays around with the crystal ball and waves at Naruto who is watching her worriedly. Nagisa sometimes wishes they could communicate, but the link between their twin souls only extends to mirror images, and unlike Naruto, she cannot decipher inverted hiragana.

She will learn shinobi hand signs, she promises herself. It will come.

Nagisa puts down the crystal ball and crawls under the desk, where she pretends to be playing hide and seek. After a minute she sighs, as if bored, and starts opening all the drawers.

Her ears prickle, and she seems to hear a choking sound as she promptly unravels all the scrolls she can find, pretending to be innocently playing. It doesn't take long until she finds the one she is looking for.

Senju Tobirama's Kage Bunshin no Jutsu.

Naruto's ace, and the technique of his she has dreamed of learning above all others. She stares at it for a long time, memorising the sequence of hand signs. She doesn't attempt it; she only needs to be able to remember it.

After she feels confident that she will be able to rewrite the instructions for her own use later, she grabs a brush from the Hokage's desk and dips it into the inkpot she finds next to it. Nagisa holds it in front of the scroll and hums, "what am I gonna draw?" before moving her arm forward.

A flurry of movement disturb the peaceful quiet of the room, and a masked man is suddenly holding her up, his other hand grabbing at the dripping brush before she can deface the scroll with it.

"Heh?" she exclaims.

***

When the Hokage comes back, he is greeted by a sheepish grey-haired ANBU holding Nagisa in his arms as she tries to wriggle out. His office looks like it's been swept into a tornado.

Nagisa considers it a mission accomplished.

(She memorises the scent of her future sensei. Naruto never met him before his graduation. He never knew he should miss Hatake Kakashi. She knows better and it wounds her, but she still yearns for his presence, and the joy he brought her counterpart. She doesn't know if she will have that. Team Seven is a three-man cell composed of one kunoichi and two shinobi. The discrepancy might cause her to be assigned elsewhere, since Sharingan no Kakashi is better served teaching Uchiha Sasuke how to use his doujutsu. She doesn't dare hope for what is not guaranteed.)

***

The apartment they stuff her into is small, but good enough for an Academy-age girl. If one ignores the fact that an —almost— six year-old should not be living alone.

Nagisa doesn't mind. It is better to be alone than surrounded by cruelty and indifference.

She does not pay rent. The Hokage does not bother explaining it, likely figuring that a five-year-old wouldn't ask. A small stipend is placed on her doorstep every two weeks, and she is told she can come as often as she wishes to the Tower, provided she leaves the drawers alone. She makes no promises.

Her flat is close to the Academy and the Hokage building, but it is closer to the Ume District, where lower class people live.

The people around her are poor, and they rarely bother her as long as she keeps her hair hidden. She buys a head scarf with her first stipend and hides her whiskers with bandages when she shops. The grocer she goes to is located at the far end of the Ume District, next to a pleasure house. She knows to go there because Naruto has tried about every shop in Konoha, and few will give a jinchuuriki fair prices, but this one does, and that's precious.

The onee-san from the brothel she sometimes sees on the streets are the nicest people she's ever met. Sometimes she peeks at the windows and watches them dance, imitating their movements with wobbly steps, her tongue stuck out of her mouth as she concentrates.

She wants to be graceful like they are. She wants to move like she is flying, walk like she is stepping on clouds. She admires their fan dances and wishes she was this beautiful. But she is only Nagisa, the feral wild thing left behind by two parents who loved their village more than they loved her.

Her favourite is Manami-oiran. She has red hair, like Nagisa. Her eyes are brown though, not blue like hers or Naruto's, or purple like their mother and the other Uzumaki her counterpart has met.

Nagisa wants to believe they are from the same clan, but she cannot bring herself to ask. So she just watches her and mimicks her gestures in the shadows. The grocer, Takeo-san, once catches her at it. He has been politely pretending he doesn't know who Nagisa is for weeks now, but she smelled the sharp fear on him when he finally realised. She likes that he still treats her the same despite it. He is gruff, but not unkind.

"Manami-oiran is the most popular flower in Tobiume House," he tells her with shadowed eyes. "She's been proposed to a dozen times, but she always refuses. Says she'll only accept a man who'll take her home."

Nagisa yearns so much it hurts. She manages to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth long enough to ask woodenly.

"Where is Manami-oiran's home?"

"Not Konoha, though she was born there. I don't know, girl," he adds harshly with a shake of his head, "ask her yourself."

He leaves with a hurried pace after that.

Nagisa's eyes stay glued to the window, where Manami-oiran is still dancing. The woman turns and seems to pause as she sees the small child staring at her. A strand of hair tumbles from Nagisa's scarf, and the woman's eyes widen. The girl gasps and ducks down to hide herself before she dashes back to her apartment.

A week later, Takeo-san hands her a letter when she goes to shop. His mouth is set in a frown, his expression unreadable.

She thanks him and leaves with her paid groceries. Nagisa does not open the letter on the way. She waits until she's home, unloads her bag and makes for the bathroom. The closed space is where she practises the signs for the Bunshin. It is the only room in the house no ANBU dares to walk into. They listen in, of course, but she knows to be quiet.

Despite this, the contents of the letter almost make her gasp.

There are two sheets of paper inside, both signed by Manami-oiran. She already knows she will have to keep the first one to herself; the contents of it would put the lady in trouble, she is sure of it. But the second one is only a drawing of a crane flying over the sea, with beautiful calligraphy inviting Nagisa to visit and learn the dances she is so fascinated by. A kindness from a young woman to a little girl.

When she is done reading the second letter, she feels like she's been wrung dry. She turns to Naruto who is watching her curiously from the mirror and mouths, "did you know?"

She brandishes the first letter and waits until the man has finished reading it, his bizarre skill at reading in reverse coming in handy. His expression turns serious, then he shakes his head. He says something, but Nagisa isn't good at lip reading. She can guess, though. Naruto is a boy. Peeping on oiran and shinzo would have ended badly for him if he'd been caught.

Manami-oiran knows her name, and she tells Nagisa to call her nee-san. She tells them they are kin, though distantly. She does not say anything about Nagisa's mother, that wouldn't be allowed, but she says her hair is a sign that she is descended from the lost island of Uzushio, which can be found in Nami no Kuni, the Land of Waves. She says they used to protect the land, but that they cannot anymore. She tells her it's a secret.

Nagisa thinks of Naruto's trip to Nami. She can read between the lines. Manami is telling her Uzushiogakure used to be Nami's ninja village, like Konohagakure is Hi no Kuni's. That she told her as much is already priceless, she will not press Manami-nee for more. Tears spill from her eyes. Nagisa has found her first precious person, like Naruto did years ago.

She turns on the sink and runs the water over the first letter before throwing it away. Then she leaves the bathroom, the second one in hand, and makes a production of framing it in front of her bed. Her eyes are red, but her smile bright.

When she next sees Manami, she gives her a hug and thanks her for the pretty drawing. As she does so, she discreetly draws a spiral on her arm. Manami takes her to her quarters in Tobiume House and teaches her dances she knows must be from their homeland. Not a word of their secret passes between them, but they both know what they have gained in each other.

Later, once she is old enough to hear it, Manami-nee will tell her that many of the civilian survivors of their clan ended up destitute, and that her mother had to sell herself to the Tobiume House to make ends meet. Manami was raised with stories of Uzushio, and a desperate longing in her heart. She dreams of seeing her mother's home, and that is what still sustains her to this day.

In this they are alike.

(She will also give Nagisa a warning; all the shinobi of Uzushio who sought refuge in Konoha and donned the village's hitai-ate are now dead or disappeared. Manami does not think it is a coincidence.)

***

Nagisa enters the Academy two months later. It is April. The day before, she went to a cherry blossom viewing with Manami. When they are together, people do not look at her strangely. She passes for her little sister and, though they attract attention with their colouring, people do not harass them for it. She sometimes hears scornful whispers commenting on their resemblance with the demon but Nagisa makes sure to paint her face with oshiroi to pass as a particularly young kamuro and avoid scrutiny.

Nagisa has so far been shielded from the scorn of civilians. Unlike the orphans who all knew what she looked like and took the matrons' disdain as their own, most civilians do not recognise her if she takes precautions. Red hair might be rare, but it is the whiskers they look out for. There are after all a handful of Uzumaki-blooded civilians in the poorer districts, and though few of them have hair as bright as hers and Manami-nee, it is not unheard of.

The young girl only wears her face bare when she goes and visit the Sandaime. She does not go often; once a month is enough, and if she doesn't go he comes to her. Nagisa still doesn't like him. Despite his grandfatherly mien, she always feels used in his presence. Reminded that she is a weapon before she is a child. He might treat her warmly, but she feels the cold calculation under it. He wants to be liked because Nagisa liking him means that she will stay loyal.

As she starts the Academy, she will not cover her face either. She wants her classmates and teachers to know who she is, and decide how they want to treat her. If they reject her, that's fine. She has Manami-nee.

On the first day of class, they are subjected to a series of tests. They evaluate every student on their reading and writing skills, their physical fitness and the state of their chakra network. A medic-nin is invited specifically to perform the latter, and the man flinches when he sees Nagisa.

She looks down at herself, clad in an orange and blue haori, her hair arranged in freshly cut bangs and her pigtails carefully tied with blue ribbons. She doesn't see anything worthy of fear. Nagisa raises her head up and tilts it, looking at the man with a puzzled frown.

"Are you alright, mister? You should go home if you're sick, ya know."

The medic-nin gulps. "I'm fine, Uzumaki-chan. Let's proceed, shall we?"

Nagisa lets herself be examined, then goes to join the children who are already done with their evaluations. She eyes them warily. She recognises some of them from the orphanage. She saw others come in with their civilian parents. And there is Uchiha Sasuke, looking bright and nervous.

He is nothing like Naruto remembers him. Nagisa doesn't know enough about it to even take a guess as to why that is, but time changes people, and what would drive the boy to betray Konoha and leave with Orochimaru is none of her business. She plans to run too, after all.

Knowing what happened in Naruto's life doesn't mean she understands the series of events that led to the future he now lives in. There are things she wants to prevent from happening, others she doesn't care to. This village is her cage, after all. There is no sense in polishing the bars that hold her prisoner. She might sometimes wonder if it is reckless and selfish to do this when she knows about the upheaval that will come, but she can only promise herself to stay long enough to avoid a tragedy. She doesn't owe Konoha anything else.

"You're so flexible," says a girl at her side.

She turns curiously, and is met with a pair of dark eyes and long purple hair. The girl towers over her and knows it. She leans her way with a friendly smile.

"I dance," she tells her, craning up her neck a bit to look at her in the eye. Nagisa is short. She hadn't realised it before that.

The girl lights up. "Me too. I'm Ami."

"Uzumaki Nagisa."

Ami starts chatting at her. Nagisa does her best to listen and ask some questions of her own. It's been a while since she talked to anyone but Manami or the Sandaime. It's nice. She's not sure it will last, but she'll see. She can give the girl the benefit of the doubt at the very least.

Soon enough, a teacher comes and gathers all the students. They are divided into three different classes, and Ami murmurs under her breath that at least half of them will drop out before the third year.

"Ne, ne. Are your parents shinobi, Nagisa-chan?" asks Ami, poking her on the side.

She nods. "And yours?"

"Kaa-san is a chuunin," she brags.

She doesn't get to say more. Ami and Nagisa are in different groups, so they'll be taught by different teachers. When Nagisa sees the girl at the end of the day, she is introducing her parents to the friends she seemingly made in her class. When Ami notices her standing by the Academy's doors, she frowns and turns away. The others smirk at her.

Nagisa goes home alone.

Ami never speaks to her again.

***

The first four years at the Academy are spent learning the basics of taijutsu, bukijutsu and the core knowledge of history, geography, language, mathematics and sciences that every aspiring shinobi should know at this age. They are also taught survival skills and chakra manipulation.

Nagisa spends those years shunned by her peers and ignored or scorned by her teachers. Where it made Naruto more determined to slack off and instead chase attention, positive or negative, in a desperate bid to make them look at him, it only makes Nagisa want to excel. She throws herself into her studies and makes sure to be the best at everything they throw at her.

She studies every scroll within reach at the library. At first, the librarians kept turning her away, but it didn't stop her from turning up at the door. She caused a scene every time until the Hokage was forced to get involved. He looked sad and regretful when he observed her, pouting on the library steps as if she didn't plan for him to be called here. She gets a free library card out of it, and stops being harassed in one of the few buildings she must identify herself to enter.

When the Hokage escorts her to his office for their monthly chat, she uses his still lingering pity to ask him.

"Ne, ne, Sandaime-sama?"

"Yes, Nagisa-chan?"

"What happens if I do this?"

She twists her hands in the necessary hand seals to perform the Kage Bunshin. His eyes widen, and he raises a hand to stop her. Nagisa lets herself look sheepish, and rubs the back of her neck.

(She learned the best tricks from Naruto.)

"I'm not gonna add chakra to it, ya know. I wanna know what it does first."

"Where did you learn how to do this?"

"I had a dream about that time I set off a tornado in your office and it made me remember," she lies with a cheerful grin.

"You didn't set off a tornado," sighs the old man. "You were the tornado, Nagisa-chan."

She laughs. "Lies and slander!" she exclaims before looking at him with expectant eyes.

He sighs and explains what the jutsu does. She wheedles at his patience until he lets her try.

Nagisa still doesn't want to like Sarutobi Hiruzen. She knows he could have done more for her, and didn't. She knows he seeks to use her more than he cares about her. He has to; he is the Hokage. She knows all this, but after visiting him every month, she has grown somewhat fond of him. The fact that he's started inviting her out for ramen plays into that too, probably. It's the food of the gods, she's sure of it, and Ayame and Teuchi-san are almost as great as Manami-nee. All in all, the Sandaime could be worse. She doesn't hate him anymore.

She still won't be his weapon though, and he doesn't have her loyalty. Only Manami-nee and the fox in her stomach do.

(The fox still sleeps, most of the time. But sometimes he watches, and he thinks he likes what he sees. The girl has yet to access his chakra, so he will not contact her. Instead he bides his time. She will come to him.)

Because the Hokage knows about the clones, she is able to summon one to study and train at the same time without drawing suspicion. It is a time-saver, and her grades are all the better for it.

It comes at a good time, because the teachers pick up the pace when they turn nine. Like Ami had said, more than half of the students of their year group have dropped out since their first year. There is only one class left out of three.

She has never been in the same class as the clan heirs. They were kept separate, and as such, it is the first time she catches more than a glimpse of Uchiha Sasuke since the Massacre.

It happened two years ago, but Nagisa is still reeling. Naruto knew Sasuke was an orphan, but she only gets an overview of the man's lived experience. She didn't understand the scope of what Sasuke lost until she heard people talking about it.

A whole clan, decimated. Unlike Nagisa who has Manami-nee and Naruto, and who knows other Uzumaki are still out there, Sasuke has no one.

She wonders if he hates the village. She doesn't know what happened in details, but she knows his own brother was involved, and the village did nothing. They were too late.

Just like they were for Uzushio.

She does not attempt to talk to him, or to Haruno Sakura. The latter has been in her class before, but Nagisa has never interacted with her beyond team exercises. Like all of her classmates, they either listen to their parents when they are told to avoid her, or follow their peers in doing so for fear of being ostracised.

Nagisa does not want to antagonise her possible future teammates before they are even pushed together. She will need them for what's to come, and her reputation in the village is already working against her. So instead of talking to them she stays at the front of the class and learns what she can without flinching at the occasional digs made at her. She doesn't have Naruto's prankster's reputation; the only thing the children know of her is that she only cares about training and that some adults call her a demon. It does not inspire trust or camaraderie, but at least she is left alone.

Sometimes she wishes she had her mirror self's personality. But although their souls are one and the same, their hearts beat out of sync.

It does mean that she is better at school than he was. She and Sakura have always been fighting for the top kunoichi spot, and the introduction to kunoichi classes they are given in their fifth year gives her the edge she's needed to beat the pink-haired kunoichi.

She hadn't thought she would be good at it. Nagisa is usually worse than Sakura at anything that requires finesse, whether it is chakra exercises or genjutsu. Since she had no baseline for that class —as Naruto obviously was not a kunoichi— and had a history of struggling in detail work, she had dreaded the first lesson. It turned out she needn't have been worried. Her time spent with Manami-nee served her well, and she is actually much better at it than even Ino, who bragged about her own skills in flower language, disguise, infiltration and seduction theory. Suzume-sensei is begrudgingly impressed.

Nagisa tells all this to Manami-nee, who looks unusually preoccupied as she powders her face.

"What's wrong, nee-san?" she asks her.

"Nagisa-chan." The woman bites her lip, as if she doesn't know how to broach the subject. "You know I've been working here for a long time."

The young girl's eyes are half-closed as she lays on the tatami mats. The inside of Tobiume House is very traditional despite them having glass windows. It is part of the experience. The services they offer are very traditional in nature, even if the workers are much better treated than their caste was historically. It helps that shinobi villages do not relegate the workers of pleasure houses to their own quarters like they do in Irori-kyo, the Capital of Hi no Kuni.

"Uh-huh. You were a kamuro for your okaa-san, then a shinzo, and now you're the oiran of Tobiume House," she sums up, counting on her hands.

"And you know that there are few options for someone like me once I get too old."

Nagisa feels very awake suddenly. She straightens up and stares at Manami. The woman is worrying her lip between her teeth now, hard enough she is close to drawing blood. Dread pools in the kunoichi's gut.

"Are you getting married, Manami-nee?" she says.

Her silence is enough of an answer.

Nagisa feels her hands tremble. For a while, she says nothing. Manami watches her anxiously.

"Is he bringing you home at least?" she whispers.

She will not insult her most precious person by asking if the man she will marry is a good man, or if he will treat her well. It wouldn't matter either way. Manami is right; she is getting older, and soon the proposals will dwindle. The brothel cannot force her to marry, not even to buy back her contract. But when she can no longer bring money for Tobiume House, she will be thrown out and it will leave her without options.

Nagisa almost wants to ask her to leave the brothel and go live with her, but she knows the Sandaime will not allow it. Manami would refuse as well. Nagisa has three years of schooling left, and her stipend is barely enough to feed herself. Her friend would not wish to be a burden on her.

Manami chooses her words carefully. "He is bringing me as close as I can get. Gato-san is the owner of a shipping company, and he is currently based in Nami no Kuni." She pauses and takes a shuddering breath. "I do not want to die without seeing the sea, Nagisa-chan."

A tear falls down the kunoichi's cheek. And another. She only allows herself this for a brief handful of seconds before Nagisa draws herself up and musters up the biggest smile she can manage.

"You'll have to tell me your address, Manami-nee. I'll write you lots of letters, believe it!"

Manami's smile is wobbly as she holds her arms out. Nagisa jumps into her embrace and lets herself be soothed by gentle hands. They stay like this for a long time. Before they separate, Nagisa leans forward and whispers in her ear, "I'll come get you one day, nee-chan. We'll go home together, and I'll be Uzukage. I promise."

Her friend looks disbelieving, but she murmurs back, "I look forward to it."

Notes:

The rebirth of Uzushio is a concept that lives rent-free in my head. People call the Uchiha Massacre a genocide, but as bad as it was, it has nothing on the scope of devastation that Uzushio and the Uzumaki clan suffered. I think the only fic I've read that gave proper weight to the subject was Stormborn by blackkat, and I want to do something like it.

So here's my attempt.

Chapter 44: water's edge II

In the years following Manami's departure for Nami no Kuni, Nagisa feels unmoored.

She focuses on her studies, trying to ignore the crippling loneliness that is now part of her day-to-day life. The villagers' disdain feels sharper than before, and the walls of Konoha itself more oppressive.

Once, she is desperate enough to attempt seeking out other Uzumaki-blooded civilians. After two doors slammed on her face and a woman hissing that she wants to live peacefully without dealing with any more ostracisation, she gives up.

She feels empty, and it makes her reckless. Reckless enough to lift a book on shinobi handsigns from the library and use it to painstakingly communicate with Naruto. Through fits and starts, they create a language that works for them. It wields better results than Nagisa's attempt at reading in reverse. She often wrote Naruto letters then puzzled over his for hours, incapable of deciphering his handwriting. His drawings were not much better.

She learns that for a year spent in her world, three days pass in his, but time dilates when they look at each other. Naruto is eighteen and has lived through a war, he did not expect to suddenly find himself linked to another version of himself, but he doesn't think it's too bad. She asks how he sees her, and he says her image is reflected the same way his is. He keeps a well-polished kunai on him at all times: that is where he sees her most often, and he can interact with her mirror image the same way he talks to the Kyuubi. The connection is both visual and spiritual. He says he can tell when she is watching.

Naruto tells her she was a cute baby. It's terribly embarrassing.

When she asks if he has told anyone, he shakes his head. The war has taken a toll on everyone, and he didn't want his people to worry. Nagisa is relieved. She likes that it's a secret between the two of them. He does warn her that if he ever thinks this soul bond of theirs is a danger to her, he will try to sever it. He also says that he will find a way to cross over if she ever needs him.

It's nice, to have someone who cares.

She tells him she plans to leave Konoha.

"I know," he signs. "I support you, Uzukage-sama," he adds with a cheeky grin and a flourish of the hand.

She beams at him.

She asks him if he thinks it's reckless to follow her dream when she knows what is to come. He shakes his head. "It will be fine. Have faith in yourself."

Aside from her talks with Naruto, the closest she ever comes to being content is during her personal training.

Nagisa improves, day after day.

She consistently beats her classmates in spars now, Sasuke and Shino being the only ones who can go toe to toe with her. Her mastery of the standard ninja weaponry has greatly improved. She refines her ninjutsu as much as she can, and harasses the Sandaime until he gives her a wind jutsu to practice elemental manipulation. She tries for a water jutsu as well, having previously determined that she is dual-natured, but Sarutobi puts his foot down. One potentially destructive technique in the hands of his little tornado is enough. Nagisa doesn't protest. She'll learn more later. For now, she is content with her Great Breakthrough. She practises using it while moving, increasing its output and directing it down to propel herself to the air.

Her genjutsu is still awful, but she is better at recognising and dispelling it. It takes a tremendous amount of effort, but she can do it.

Aside from the core classes, she excels at sealing. The teaching unit is optional, but she applies for the elective in her sixth year at the Academy. Her application form gets lost multiple times, so she shows up at the teacher's office and requests to be added to the class. To her surprise, the teacher in charge of the elective is Naruto's Iruka-nii. She's never met him before.

The man smells angry when he looks at her, but he stays professional. He frowns when she tells him that she submitted three application forms and none made it to him. He does not call her a liar, and adds her to the class. Under his guidance, she learns how to power and write a variety of tags. She can now create small barriers, fill an area with light, explosives or smoke, store objects and bodies in scrolls, and silence enemies. Besides her, Hyuuga Hinata and two civilian boys are the only students who applied. Nagisa thinks it's a shame, sealing is awesome.

She makes fun of Naruto when he tells her that he didn't even know Iruka-sensei could do all that. Nagisa admits to him that she has him to thank for many of the things she feels brave enough to do. She couldn't have survived without knowing why she is treated this way. It would have killed her, she thinks.

Naruto disagrees. Vehemently. To the point he stops and writes, "You're an idiot. You would have survived. You're strong. You stand up for yourself, you know your own worth, and you're more resourceful than I was," on a piece of paper.

"That's all thanks to you," she signs before pausing and shyly adding in the hand sign for "older brother.".

He grins and mouths a word that suspiciously looks like, "imouto."

She can tell he is sad that she wants to abandon Konoha. But he understands that everyone must make their own choices. He only asks her to give his precious people a chance. Nagisa promises to do so, if only he tells her how to talk to the Kyuubi.

That day, she stays after class and spends the evening with Iruka-sensei. He shows her ways to improve her sealing skills, and gives her a few nudges to understand how to create personalised tags. After that, she wheedles him until he accepts to let her treat her to ramen. He still smells like grief and a little like anger when he looks at her pointy teeth and whisker marks, but by the end of the night, it has vastly diminished. Nagisa still doesn't want to have to earn the family she claims for herself, but she thinks Naruto's way might be less lonely.

And when she comes back home, she lays on her bed and presses a hand to her stomach.

"Soon," she murmurs. "When I'm a genin, they'll stop watching me as much. We'll talk then, if you allow it."

As Nagisa falls asleep, she swears she can hear the slow rumble of the Kyuubi echo in her mind.

***

Nagisa does not fail her three mid-term exams, and no one expects her to fail the final one either.

Mizuki-sensei, the man who tricked Naruto in the mirror world, is arrested as a traitor the day she receives her hitai-ate. This also means She pays it no mind, and goes shopping instead. The next day, her team designation will be announced, and she wants to be properly outfitted. She heads to a shinobi gear shop, and buys herself a reinforced sleeveless and backless dark blue top with a high neck and two hanging lapels reaching her mid-thigh, an orange obi to tie around her waist and mesh arm warmers reaching below her shoulders. She stocks up on bandages and treats herself to a brand new kunai pouch. She has saved for this occasion for a long time, and has been daydreaming about this outfit for even longer. She wishes she could have worn Manami-nee's orange haori everyday, but she doesn't want to damage it.

When she comes to the Academy the next day, Sakura and Ino are in the middle of a dispute over who will sit with Sasuke, whose shoulders are drawn up to his ears. Nagisa watches. She hesitates. Then goes to sit on the other side.

"You looked like you were going to try to stop them for a second," comments Shikamaru at the back of the class.

Nagisa glances at him curiously. Kiba is lounging on the table on his left side, and Chouji is eating on his right. She has never meaningfully interacted with the slackers. She only knows that Kiba's mom wants him to avoid her and that he can smell the kitsune on her, though he doesn't know what it is. He's only said her scent is weird. Chouji is always polite to her but she hates being paired with him in anything since he refuses to hit a girl. Nagisa always feels like as a kunoichi, she has so much more to prove than Naruto ever did.

Shikamaru on the other hand has talked to her a few times, but only when they did assignments together. He always looked at the civilians who insulted her like they were out of their minds, though. She appreciates that, even if he never did anything to stop them.

"I thought about it," she admits. "But it would only make them yell harder."

The Nara heir nods approvingly. "And the whole class thanks you for it. You are kunoichi of the year, aren't you?"

"I am," she says. "It was close, though. My genjutsu..."

She grimaces. Shikamaru makes a conceding nod. She doesn't need to say more. He knows how her clones usually end up. Since Iruka-sensei was proctoring the exam however, she got to show him the Kage Bunshin and glean a few extra points for it. It made all the difference.

Iruka-sensei enters the room, his clipboard in hand. Nagisa straightens. She listens as he greets everyone and starts listing the team assignments. It starts as she expected.

"Aburame Shino, Inuzuka Kiba and Hyuuga Hinata will be Team Eight under Yuuhi Kurenai." Iruka-sensei pauses before continuing. "Yamanaka Ino, Nara Shikamaru and Akimichi Chouji will be Team Ten under Sarutobi Asuma. Uzumaki Nagisa, Uchiha Sasuke and Sai will be Team Seven under Hatake Kakashi."

She takes a sharp intake of breath. Iruka-sensei sends her a curious look before continuing. Nagisa tunes out the outraged sounds as Haruno Sakura, Ami and Kasumi are placed on Team Six under jounin Uzuki Yugao.

"Where is this Sai guy," wonders Kiba while he's picking his nose. "Never seen him before."

Someone materialises right up to his ear and whispers, "Right here."

Kiba shrieks then sputters. "What is wrong with you, man?" he exclaims, clutching Akamaru.

"Are you a ninja or not?" asks Sai with a flat tone.

It makes the boys wary. Shikamaru in particular straightens, sensing that this is not an ordinary genin.

Nagisa observes the new arrival. The first thing she notes is that his eyes are completely empty. Sai's skin tone is also pale enough to give her pause. The short glimpses she had of him in Naruto's memories do not tell her how to handle him. He was older then. Looking at him, she sees a slight resemblance with Sasuke, but his ink-black hair is much darker than Uchiha's almost midnight blue locks. The dark eyes are the same though. His brush, scrolls, and ink peek from his backpack and pockets. She is much more interested in those.

Nagisa stands and steps forward. She bows, though not low enough to expose her neck.

"I'm Uzumaki Nagisa. I'll be in your care."

Sai looks puzzled, but he mimics the gesture gamely enough. His expression is still entirely flat, but there is something... He seems uncertain, like he's taking his cues from her.

She also bows towards Sasuke and repeats the same phrase. He frowns and only inclines his head. Unlike Naruto, Nagisa did not develop an intense rivalry with the boy. She has been civil and only interacted with him during spars. As a result, he does not know her enough to snub her.

Iruka watches them with interest before calling out to all the students. He invites their sensei in, and lets the students file in after their designated teachers. Soon enough, Team Seven is the only one left.

"I didn't know private teaching was still being done," comments Iruka when they are alone.

"It is rare, but I was geared for an apprenticeship. My sensei had a specific skillset and needed more involved teaching to share it with me. Unfortunately, he died before I could graduate as genin under his tutelage, so I passed the Academy Exam instead," explains Sai, his voice as toneless as before. Nagisa will have to get used to it, even if it grates on her sensitive ears. Which reminds her...

She takes a cautious intake of breath and grimaces. Sai smells like ink and nothing else. She and Kiba exchange a look. As the only two students with enhanced hearing and sense of smell, they are equally bothered by the boy's lack of presence. Akamaru is also inching away from her new teammate. The Inuzuka boy mouths, "Better you than me!" before leaning back on his chair. Nagisa glares at him.

At their teacher's questioning look, Sai rattles off an identification number. Iruka relaxes. Nagisa does not. Naruto's memories are hard to sparse, but she knows enough to tell this boy is a spy, and his early appearance does not bode well. She is the only thing that is different in this world.

Does someone suspect her, or is it just because she is a girl and no one else made the cut so they had to look elsewhere? Maybe Sai is not yet a spy. Nagisa does not know who he is loyal to or when he started spying on their behalf, only that it's someone from the village. She thinks whoever it is might suspect her loyalty to not be as unshakeable as the Hokage believes it is. She might just be paranoid.

So she will have to fool them, and ask Naruto for advice once she gets a moment alone. For now, she had other things to worry about.

"Ne, Iruka-sensei? What do you know about Hatake Kakashi? Is he on a Bingo Book?"

Sasuke, who had only been boredly evaluating Sai until then, straightens in interest.

Iruka's eye twitches. Nagisa suspects he doesn't like their jounin sensei. "He is on every nation's Bingo Book. Kakashi-san is an S-rank shinobi."

Nagisa hums.

She's not sure why Naruto's Team Seven hadn't even tried to ask. She thinks they were all a little silly in a way this team will not necessarily allow themselves to be. Nagisa mourns this. In a way, her soulbond with Naruto had robbed her of her innocence, and she has to grieve the carefree girl she could have been. But she wouldn't trade it for the world. Thanks to Naruto, she'll never be alone; the universe has given her a priceless gift.

She won't squander it.

"Does he know fuuinjutsu?" she asks, leaning forward.

"I don't know, Nagisa-chan. But if he doesn't, I'm sure he'll assign supplementary teaching for you. You just need to ask." Iruka turns to the two boys. "This goes for you too. Never hesitate to ask your sensei for what you need. He's there to help you become an accomplished team, but he can only do that if you meet him halfway."

Nagisa grins and nods at her teacher before turning to Sasuke and Sai. "What're your specialisations? I can see why Team Eight and Ten were put together, it's pretty obvious, but the all-girl team and ours are a bit weirder, don't you think?"

Sasuke eyes her warily. "Hn."

Nagisa thinks he keeps expecting her to fawn over him like a fangirl. She doesn't understand it. Nagisa and Hinata had never exhibited that type of behaviour towards him.

(Nagisa didn't know what to think of Hyuuga Hinata. The girl always gave her a nod and a stuttered hello, but if Nagisa tried to talk to her, she shied away. Hinata smelled like anxiety and a little like envy and something else entirely that she couldn't identify. Nagisa tried to ignore it, like she ignored the way Aburame Shino always made sure not to touch her if he could help it, discomfort obvious on his face, the way Nara Shikamaru stared at her like she was a puzzle to figure out, how Inuzuka Kiba bared his teeth unconsciously when he smelled the fox and alternated between pestering her to annoy his mom or forgetting about her entirely. How Yamanaka Ino pretended she didn't exist, Akimichi Chouji looked sympathetic when civilians treated her like a monster but never reached out. Like she ignored the way Haruno Sakura Uchiha found her annoying and Sasuke did not see they were kindred spirits in this village made of lies.

Nagisa does not care.

She doesn't.)

"I'm primarily a long distance fighter," says Sai tonelessly, though his eyes seem to brighten in interest. "I specialise in ninjutsu and fuuinjutsu. My chakra affinity is earth. I am interested in refining my taijutsu and kenjutsu."

Nagisa brightens. "You studied fuuinjutsu? We'll have to compare notes. Ne, can you make your own seals? The Academy only teaches us how to copy and recognise pre-existing seals, so my knowledge is pretty elementary. Ah, my specialties are the same, but I'd add taijutsu to the list, which makes me short to mid-range. I'm dual-natured, so it's wind and water for me. I want to focus on my pre-existing skills more than becoming well-rounded. I'm also interested in learning tracking and sabotage, I suppose."

She also wants to see if she can manifest the Adamantine chains like her mother did, but she's not about to tell them that.

They both turn to their last teammate, who looks like he's contemplating ignoring them before he thinks better of it. Weirdly enough, Nagisa thinks that as opposed to Naruto's Team Seven, where Sasuke's focus and his horrible experiences comparatively made him the most mature member of his team, this version of Sasuke is probably the one who acts his age the most.

Sai is a soldier already, and it shows. She wonders how it came to be, but no one gained an assignment to

Meanwhile, Nagisa has the imprint of Naruto's soul all over her. This, her childhood in the Ume District, her ostracisation and her intimate awareness of what she is in the eyes of the village leadership — a weapon, never a child — has given her wisdom beyond her years.

"Mostly mid to long range. I specialise in bukijutsu, ninjutsu and taijutsu," says Sasuke shortly. "My affinity is fire. Interested in adding kenjutsu and genjutsu to my skillset."

Nagisa tilts her head. "I thought you were a lightning type."

She taps her nose to indicate how she could tell. Sasuke frowns.

"I didn't test it. But Uchiha are always fire."

He says this with a certainty Nagisa envies him.

Sai hums. "Uchiha Shisui was recorded to have a lightning affinity."

"How do you know that?" asks the last Uchiha aggressively.

The answer is nonchalant. "It's in his Bingo Book entry for Kumo. My master collects them," he adds when they give him confused frowns. "They are a useful resource."

Nagisa nods in understanding. That's true, but she wouldn't have had access to them. They're not accessible to civilians, so Academy students can't consult them. Now that she's a genin, she'll have access to the higher levels of the library.

She guesses Sasuke's parents must have had some in their house, but she doesn't think it would be tactful to point that out.

"Maybe you're dual-natured like I am." She inhales more carefully. "You probably are and I didn't notice because everyone smells like fire in the village."

Sasuke looks like he doesn't know what to say to that. His shoulders are wound tight, and he seems to notice they are eyeing him carefully because he forcibly relaxes and makes a non-committal sound.

An awkward silence settles over them. Nagisa suppresses a sigh. She at least needs to attempt to bond with her teammates. She promised Naruto to give his precious people a chance after all, and it is also necessary to make an attempt at fitting in if she doesn't want to be flagged as a potential flight risk.

She makes eye contact with Iruka who gives her a sympathetic smile. She straightens and leans towards Sai before interrogating him about fuuinjutsu again. It turns out that his ninjutsu techniques incorporates sealing knowledge to some extent and he can read Konoha seal script, but that's it. She asks if he would be willing to teach her, to which he says that they can revisit the question later.

That is not a yes, she notes carefully, but doesn't comment on it. She's already playing with fire by asking him about his sealing skills when she knows leadership would prefer to keep her as far from fuuinjutsu as they can get away with. Nagisa suspects that the only reason why she hadn't been forced out of Iruka's elective is because the Sandaime had vouched for her, which is a strange feeling to say the least.

She's so used to blaming the old man for everything, but he does look out for her sometimes.

After some time, Sai pulls out a notebook and starts drawing. Sasuke sharpens his kunai at his desk and Iruka taps his fingers impatiently, cursing their sensei under his breath.

Nagisa occupies her time by doing chakra exercises, trying to wrestle her unbearably unwieldy reserves into something interesting. Then she summons a shadow clone and tries turning it into other things. She got the idea from Naruto's stupid genderbending jutsu — she hates it so much, why is her counterpart like this — and she thinks this might be a good alternative to henge. But she can't do more than change her hair colour to yellow before the clone dispels itself. It's frustrating, but she's not giving up.

She can feel Sasuke's curious gaze on her, but he's not saying anything so she ignores it. Instead she tries to get her clone to look as much like Naruto as she possibly can before it dispels. She does not even notice Iruka leaving.

This is how Kakashi-sensei finds her.

"How can I put this?" he starts, "My first impression of you guys... well, you're boring."

***

After being directed to the roof for their team introduction, their sensei asks them to introduce themselves. Since no one seems to want to volunteer, Nagisa challenges him to do it first.

“I'm Kakashi Hatake. Things I like and things I hate… I don't feel like telling you that. My dreams for the future… never really thought about it. As for my hobbies… I have lots of hobbies.”

Lame, thinks Nagisa. Her thoughts must show on her face because Kakashi gives her an eye-smile and says, "your turn, kiddo."

She grimaces.

"My name is Uzumaki Nagisa, I like..." Manami-nee, fuuinjutsu, my clan and everything that ties me to it, the fox in my stomach, "cup ramen. What I like even more is the restaurant ramen Iruka-sensei. What I dislike is waiting three minutes for the cup ramen to cook. My dream..." is to be Uzukage, restore my village and free the tailed beast jailed inside of me, "is to surpass Hokage!. And then... have all the people of this village acknowledge me!"

Nagisa finds that she does mean the last part. She wants the people of Konoha to look at the leader of a rebuilt Uzushio and lament not just the loss of a jinchuuriki but also of someone who is competent and valuable as just herself.

She turns expectantly to the two boys.

"My name is Sai. I like drawing and..." he hesitates, his eyes shuttering, "my brother." Sasuke twitches as he says so. Nagisa tilts her head. Sai smells like grief all of a sudden. His brother is dead, she understands, dismayed. After a beat, his scent disappears, which startles her. "My dream... is to serve my village."

"Eh? Is that really a dream if that's already what you're doing? What's your goal for the future?" asks Nagisa.

Sai falters. This is the second break in her composure she sees since he mentioned his brother. Nagisa wishes she knew more about his past. It would help her understand what is going on in his head. As it is, she doesn't know and it rattles her.

"I..." he starts before trailing off, unsure.

"Maa, Sai-chan doesn't have to share if he doesn't want to," says Kakashi, raising his hands in a placating manner. "Why don't you go next, Sasuke-chan?"

The Rookie of the Year eyes their sensei balefully before turning his gaze to the horizon.

“Uchiha Sasuke. There are tons of things I dislike but I don’t really like anything. And… I don’t want to use the word “dream” but… I have an ambition. The resurrection of my clan and… to kill a certain man.”

"Are you talking about—" starts Sai.

Kakashi once more cuts him off with a pointed look, then gives them direction to a training ground for their genin test. Once that is done, he shunshins away, leaving behind only a handful of leaves.

Nagisa stares at her two teammates. By all rights, she should try and socialise with them, get to know them better. But she finds herself abruptly exhausted. The idea of carrying a conversation for the three of them for another two hours sounds deeply unappealing. Besides, she has better things to do.

"Well. I'm gonna go, ya know. See ya tomorrow," she says as she vaults off the building, channeling chakra to her limbs to cushion her fall. "Let's get ramen sometime," she adds as an afterthought as she is falling.

She dashes back to her apartment with giddy steps. She ignores the stares from passersby with an ease borne from habit and pulls out her key once she gets into the Ume District. It only takes her a few additional minutes to be home, where she sticks her tongue out at her mirror, where Naruto eyes her hitai-ate with pride.

There, she does her usual stretching routine and attempts a few chakra control exercises before cooking herself ramen. She adds a handful of sliced shiitake mushrooms, spring onions and a narutomaki to garnish it. She usually doesn't bother, but it makes her feel more adult. Then she settles into bed and pretends to sleep.

She meditates.

As Naruto told her, she presses a hand to the seal on her stomach. She tries to feel for the difference between the red corrosive chakra of the Kyuubi and her own, more coral-coloured chakra. It is difficult. Despite being aware of the truth, she has never conceptualise her chakra as two separate entities, and they are intertwined in a way that is almost seamless.

But her exercises in control help in that. It takes half an hour of focused meditation before she finds herself in the prison Naruto told her about. It looks different than she imagined it, though.

The gloomy and humid building of Naruto's memories is there, but sanded down by a superimposed landscape. A bright open beach swallows the stone and concrete prison, the water lapping gently at the eroded surface. The Kyuubi is still behind bars, but his cell is wide and bright and facing the ocean.

A voice rumbles like a storm, breaking Nagisa from her contemplation.

"Come closer, child," she hears and shivers.

She takes small, wary steps towards the cage, mindful of the fact that she might love the fox like she loves herself, but she does not know him.

Nagisa stands in front of the creature her father sealed inside of her. He is beautiful. His fur shines a russet colour bordering on copper and his eyes are a carmine red, the same colour as his chakra. The kitsune towers over her and for the first time in her life, she understands exactly what made the civilians fear her.

"Your thoughts are very loud, you know," says the Kyuubi. "They woke me from my slumber years before I had fully recovered from what your village put me through."

"What did they do?" Nagisa asks before she can help herself.

She winces. She hadn't meant to say that.

"Beyond robbing me of my freedom and using me for their own gain, you mean?" he asks in a low voice, amused. "My chakra is being misappropriated and that cursed clan of doujutsu users you have keep using the power they inherited to make me do their bidding. How's that?"

Nagisa blinks. "The Uchiha?"

The Kyuubi growls. Nagisa tenses. When the kitsune notices, he subsides.

"Nevermind them. I want to talk about you. Why are you here?"

The girl looks down at her hands, suddenly hesitant, before straightening her back and her resolve. She bows low.

"I'm Uzumaki Nagisa and I'm sorry for what my parents did to you. I'm gonna set you free, believe it!"

When she raises herself up, the fox is staring at her, dumbfounded. A moment of silence passes between them.

Then the Kyuubi bursts out laughing.

Nagisa blinks. "Eh?"

The kitsune is still laughing so hard he's tearing up. Nagisa bounces on her feet, unsure what to do.

"Ne, what's so funny?"

"You, kid. You're a riot. I heard your thoughts and my counterpart in the mirror confirmed some things for me, but I didn't expect you to just come out and say it."

She stills before vaulting forward. "You see your mirror self too?!" she says, gripping the bars of the cage.

He nods, folding his paws in front of him. His nine tails swish behind him in a way that reads as contentment to Nagisa.

"Not as often as you do. I'm conserving my strength, which is hard to do when half-sized human keeps drawing on my chakra reserves." Nagisa winces. "You got better," allows the kitsune when he sees her genuine guilt.

"Sorry, Kyuubi-san," she says, rubbing the back of her neck before bowing. Her twin pigtails swish in a way that is very reminiscent of the fox's tail movement.

"Call me Kurama. I can tell you're dying to do so. I'm not sure why you didn't."

"Well," she muses, "Naruto is Naruto but I'm Nagisa and a girl even if we share the same soul. I wasn't sure your name would actually be Kurama and I didn't want to assume, ya know."

"I have some theories about that, actually. If I'm reading this correctly, your soul reached out to your counterpart while you were still in the womb for some unknown reason. Many features are determined during this critical moment, it is possible that you unconsciously sought to distance your self from Uzumaki Naruto to avoid annihilation. This includes sex, hair colour, neural pathways. Even your chakra network potentially had to be reworked because of it. Everything except your soul."

Nagisa gulps. "If my body hadn't changed, my consciousness wouldn't have handled the bond?"

This makes her wonder if Suzume-sensei's terrible romance novels full of platitudes were right about the eyes being the windows of the soul. It might explain why this and the whisker marks are the only things she physically shares with Naruto.

"You were a foetus. Your sense of self wasn't even developed yet. He would have swallowed you whole and Kushina would have given birth to a brain-dead baby." He pauses. "I do wonder what caused the link to form, however. It is not something that happened on our end, but your counterpart has been fighting against "

Nagisa listens to Kurama ramble about different possibilities with fascination. This is easier than she expected. She thought she would have to spend months convincing the fox that she meant her word and that she would free them both. The idea that he's heard her thoughts for years is both mortifying and incredibly helpful.

Kurama seems to once more know what she is thinking because he gives her an amused look and stops theorising about the intricacies of space-time jutsu and the Edo Tensei.

"You said you planned to free me, kid, but how do you plan on doing so?"

"That depends what you want," she says carefully. "My first idea was to study Uzumaki clan fuuinjutsu and figure out how to open the seal without killing myself. It's the best plan and would grant you complete freedom."

"But...?" he asks leadingly.

"But later down the line, the missing-nin of the red clouds organisation Naruto fought in his timeline will come for you, and they have Uchiha. Doing this will make you free, but vulnerable. I could wait to free you until we're rid of them," she suggests, "but you would have to trust me to keep my word until then and you would still risk capture by others. Shinobi will never stop coveting bijuu's powers."

Kurama snarls. Nagisa stands strong in the face of his wrath. She empathises with the fox. As it is, the Kyuubi and herself are conflated in the eyes of the village, seen as weapons before they are people. She hates it, and promises herself that even once she has rebuilt Uzushio, she will never be that kind of Kage.

She remembers Naruto's memories of Nami. She knows she is needed there. A ninja village should exist to protect its civilians. The people like Manami-nee and the other survivors who ended up destitute after the end of Uzushio, like the civilians of Nami who ended up preyed upon by other nations and greedy businessmen like the one who hired the Kiri missing-nin Naruto once fought.

(Nagisa wishes her grasp on Naruto's memories was stronger. Then she would remember more names and more locations. She would be able to do more.)

It is a tragedy that this protection must be offered with steel and she hopes she can work towards world peace, but it cannot come at the expense of her people.

"And your other ideas?" asks Kurama once he is calmed.

"Send you to the summoning realm so no human can touch you without your say-so again. I'm not sure that would work," she admits. "But summons were normal animals who were sent to the spirit realm and evolved there, right? If we figure out how it was done, I can use the same technique and set you free."

The kitsune shakes his head. "You cannot. My siblings and I were the ones who created the spirit world in which the animals you call summons live. It is proximity to our chakra that granted those animals their cognizance and ability to manipulate chakra. It also resulted in them being hunted by humans, hence why we created this realm to shield them. We anchored the summoning realm to this plane in various locations which were later considered as weak points in their protection. The more adventurous animal clans made contracts with shinobi clans to exchange their service in return for their assistance in protecting those weak points. My presence in the spirit realm would potentially destabilise the whole structure."

"I didn't know," says Nagisa weakly, disappointed that her most viable plan is impractical.

Humans are really terrible, she thinks.

"Anything else?" prompts Kurama gently.

She discusses several other ideas with him, which he shoots down with patience. She has to resort to her very last thought, and the most distasteful one to boot.

"Or I could bind you to Uzushio," she says hesitantly. "Bijuu can be sealed into objects, right?" Kurama had said that was what happened to his brother Shukaku. "Sealing you to the land would give you your freedom and be more difficult for enemies to undo. You would have the freedom to roam and protect yourself and... the village I'm planning to build is one that would be willing to protect you instead of use you. I'd kill anyone who tries to control you, and I'd let you eat anyone who tries to go against that, ya know."

Kurama stays silent for a long time.

Nagisa stares, anxious. This is probably her worst idea. She's only proposing a bigger prison, not an escape. But she doesn't know what else can be done. She waves her hands at the Kyuubi, taking a step forward.

"We can also keep searching— I'm planning on learning all the Uzumaki sealing techniques, we can find something for sure, and if we don't, I'll invent it—"

"Don't fret, chibi. This is your most viable idea. Let me think on it."

At those words, Nagisa opens her eyes.

The prison seal is gone. Only her too familiar apartment remains, full of edible plants and orange potted flowers carefully arranged on the windowsill, a bed with a ratty cover painstakingly embroidered with the Uzumaki clan symbol and a painting of a crane framed on the wall.

It's the middle of the night.

Notes:

I'm making this a full fic because the idea isn't going away. I might drown in WIPs at some point but who cares. I'll update when I update.

Also, how old do you think Sai's brother was? In this fic Shin died a few months ago, which means Sai "won" the test Danzo set for him and this prompted him to set him up to be Nagisa's teammate to spy on her and Sasuke. That also means Sai is freshly grieving and has not successfully managed to shut down his emotions.

I actually agonised over the make-up of Team Seven and none of my ideas satisfied me fully, but this one had the most potential so I went with it.

Chapter 45: off with their head (One Piece OC)

Summary:

Portgas D. Rosé, more commonly known as Rosé the Heart Jack, has made both friends and enemies in her years wandering. She's never settled down enough for either to catch her. But now that her past has come calling and her nephew is returned to her, it's not only his baggage that dogs their heels.

(What if Portgas D. Rouge had a family?)

 

Original Female Character/Crocodile

Notes:

OC's aesthetic is Queen of Hearts-inspired.

After Garp left the island, Rosé cuts her hair with a kitchen knife.

Every time she looks into the mirror, she sees her sister with her long flowing hair and the hibiscus tucked beside her ear. The ample white dress stained with blood on the inside, the softness of her smile when she embraced Ace and pressed a kiss to Rosé's forehead, apologising for leaving them.

She visits the grave with the tuft of hair she hacked at and throws it on Rouge's grave, cursing her sister and crying on her headstone.

She loves her sister.

She hates her sister.

Rouge didn't trust her with her son, preferring instead to give him away to a Marine, and Rosé is now alone in this world.

The house feels empty now. It's always silent. Death permeates the walls, sucking all the joy of their parents' home as she's left alone with her ghosts.

As a matter of fact, the whole island of Baterilla feels dead. Everyone grieves for the children the Marines came to kill, and for the parents who foolishly resisted. Gold Roger, the man who had once been so welcomed in those streets, is now an accursed household name, but not more than the Government who caused all this.

Rosé can't bear the doom and gloom, so she packs her bag and prepares to leave. A week later, she's taken a fishing boat and left it all behind. On the open sea in South Blue, a little girl yells her rage at the wind, ready to take on the world.

Eighteen years later, the Spade Pirates enter a pub and see a girl sleeping on the bar, unphased by the bartender's repeated attempts to get her off it. She snores. Loudly.

There're two hibiscus flowers tattooed on her hip, just under a black bustier. After a particularly harsh shove, the girl wakes, frowns, and between one blink and the next, the bartender and her blur. The man finds himself flat on his back on the bar top, in the exact same position as the girl used to be as she leans over him, a red, white and pink sceptre in hand, the heart-shaped head of it digging under the bartender's jaw.

"I was napping," she says dangerously.

The bartender's protests are strangled, but the girl eases the pressure enough for him to speak.

"On my bar, you were sleeping on my bar!" he exclaims. "I've got customers to serve."

"Tch."

Despite her displeased expression, she steps away and her sceptre takes its rightful place on her back.

"Ace, no. She looks crazy," murmurs Deuce, already knowing where his captain's thoughts were going.

The aforementioned captain is staring at the girl who seems ten or so years older.

"Hell yeah."

Deuce facepalms.

Notes:

This would be a non-linear narrative, where Rosé's shenanigans before meeting the Spade Pirates would be told at the same time as her the current timeline

I think she'd meet Daz Bones, Zala and Crocodile first as a teen and travel with them for some time, then run when they suggest becoming a pirate crew because my girl has issues(tm). Then she'd work for the Revolutionaries for a time, then leave them when she finds Ace's bounty. She joins the Spade Pirates until they end up at Whitebeard's, then runs again when Ace joins the crew. She shows up at Marineford one last time and sees Crocodile again. Ace lives, romance happens, then IDK.

Chapter 46: the red mirage (Naruto OC)

Summary:

Before she was an Uchiha, Hatsue was an older sister.

She knew what her priorities ought to be.

Hatsue stood in front of the man, unblinking.

"Why did you choose to come here?" he asked after a pause.

He was surprised. By her audacity, perhaps. The sheer nerve of her, to kneel in front of a foreign leader and offer her measly skills. Loyalty is a precious thing in the hands of the worthy, but somehow she doubted that the man found much worth in the scrawny twelve-year-old in front of him.

"I'm an older sister," she said as if it ought to explain everything.

And it did, but the man did not have the context to comprehend it.

"Oh?" he murmured. "And where are your siblings?"

She tensed, then forced herself to relax her shoulders.

"Safe. I'll bring them here if our meeting goes as I hoped."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then you'll either kill me or drag me back to Konoha in chains. But my siblings will still be safe."

No Yamanaka would pry their location from her, she made sure of it.

Rasa hummed.

"Why not other villages? Kumo would have welcomed you. Iwa would too, and they are both strong enough to protect you."

We might not be, was implied, which was dangerous in itself. A village aware of its own weakness would be more willing to give them up to Konoha.

"Because you're a man of good sense," she said with a raised chin. "Kumo would have me pop out a few babies before killing us all. They would want our eyes, not our selves. They seek short-term benefits, and they do not see the value of clans." They practised dehumanisation to the point that some of their ranks were named after letters, for Sage's sake. What did they care about the Uchiha legacy? "And Iwa would kill us at the slightest provocation. You are aware that there would be more long term benefits to the survival of the Uchiha clan in spirit as well as in body."

She could say more. She could say she did not trust Kumo in the slightest. She hated the way they operated and would never entrust her siblings to them. Bloodline theft made her skin crawl, and the fact that they chose to steal women when a willing man could impregnate a hundred consenting and loyal Kumo-jin instead did not bode well for the way their society was structured.

She could say Iwa would not let her siblings live their lives as civilians. They would be forced to join the Academy, just like Konoha would have if she had gone along with her original plan of going back there after the Massacre. She had wanted to say their father faked their deaths and took them away, but that he died and she wanted her siblings raised in their ancestral land. Konoha would have gladly welcomed five more loyal Uchiha. But that would have meant entrusting her siblings' lives to Shimura Danzo and accepting the fact that her precious family would be forced into the ranks.

Jirou wished to be a glassblower.

Hibiki yearned to spend her days playing the shamisen.

Keiko, Shouta and Asuka were too young to know what they wanted yet, but she dreamt of a home that would give them a chance to find out.

And she hoped Suna might become this home. Rasa needed to be made to see the wisdom of allowing some Uchiha to remain civilians. They could not afford to die out on the battlefield before an Uchiha Clan loyal to Suna was properly established in the village. He had a lot to gain from this. A noble clan in his ranks would be welcomed by the Kaze Daimyo's court, who disdained the current forces loyal to him in favour of outsourcing missions to Konoha because Suna's best and brightest were not deemed prestigious enough to serve him.

And most importantly, a properly trained Uchiha could control the Ichibi for the foreseeable future.

The Kazekage dipped his head. Silence filled the room for unbearably long seconds as he considered her unspoken offer.

"Very well. Let's negotiate."

Hatsue breathed a shaky sigh of relief. She bowed once, twice, before standing up on trembling legs and sitting at the table the Kazekage was inviting her to join him to.

She knew how risky this would be when she planned this mad gambit. But she had more bargaining power here than she did in any other village. Kumo and Iwa might not have listened to her. They did not need her. They might like to have her, sure, but if she turned out to be a liability, there were other ways to make use of her without having to take her wishes into account. They were shinobi, not samurai. They were not held to their honour.

She was not naive. She did not trust the man who would soon seek to ally himself to Orochimaru either. But she trusted in his pragmatism and his desire to see his village prosper.

Hatsue had planned this since the Kyuubi laid waste to Konoha and the Uchiha were subsequently segregated to their old compound, in which they hadn't lived since the Warring Clans Era. Since her older brother Arata died during a so-called training accident, and her grieving father doomed them by joining the Elders in planning a coup.

Before she was an Uchiha, Hatsue was an older sister.

She knew what her priorities ought to be.

***

"So this is our new home?" asked Jirou, looking around.

The seven-year-old was firmly holding Keiko and Shouta's hands in his, his serious little face taking in their surroundings.

Hatsue, with a sleeping Asuka strapped to her chest and an awed Hibiki at her side, hummed in affirmation.

"Hibiki, don't turn your head so fast, you'll hurt your neck," she warned her little sister, who hugged her shamisen to her chest and stopped contorting herself every which to take in the landscape around them.

Suna was very different from what they were used to. Gone was the ever-present greenery of Konoha, the traditional houses of the Uchiha Compound. Instead there were round clay and stucco houses keeping the heat out, with high windows wrapping around the structure and bringing in the light. Hatsue watched the colourful stalls tucked in between buildings, where the air currents were stronger and the shade protected the merchants. She spotted arabesque medallions on the bigger houses and painted patterns around the doors, proof that the landscape of Suna was not only composed of earth shades. In the distance, the desert and the mountains of Kaze no Kuni loomed, the inhospitable land sprawling over miles, beautiful as it was deadly.

There were granaries on the outskirts of the cities, she noted, just below the mountains in which the source of Sunagakure's water supply was hidden. The village subsisted on groundwater, with the support of their rare water-natured and more numerous earth-natured ninjutsu users to draw it out. And on the mountainside, agricultural terraces were used to supply the village in foodstuffs. They were recent constructions, she heard. The former leaders of the village had better relations with their daimyou and could afford to rely on him to supply them with food. Rasa started this project when he realised that he would not benefit from such an easy relationship with what was essentially his co-leader.

The first Hokage had given Suna fertile land on the border between their two nations as a symbol of friendship, but it was taken back during the First Shinobi War, then fought over for multiple decades until the two villages renewed their alliance on the cusp of the Third War. It was one of the conditions of their partnership, but the land was poisoned by Iwa-nin during the conflict and though it was still considered Suna territory, it was less than useless to them.

She was only told because she was one of the rare Uchiha who had a dual fire and water nature. Since she would not be leaving the village for another two years, she was told in no uncertain terms that assisting the Farmland Division would be one of her duties. Rasa was taking a gamble on her. It was a show of trust: she entrusted her siblings to him, so he would give her the keys to his kingdom. If she proved to be a spy and poisoned the water, Suna would not survive, and he had to know it. She must have been convincing when she swore herself to this place, she thought before dismissing the idea. The truth was that no saboteur would allow their own family to serve as hostages, not even for the sake of a mission.

Especially not a clan shinobi.

Hatsue often wondered if she truly counted as such. She didn't get to finish her last year at the Academy, after all. But Rasa had given her a Suna hitai-ate, so she probably did now if she hadn't before this.

"Do you like it?"

"It's hot," complained Keiko quietly, the five-year-old tugging at the scarf wrapped around her head, protecting her from the sun while hiding her from view. Her twin nodded vehemently.

"It's very beige and brown," commented Hibiki. "But pretty."

This part was said very quietly, but it earned the six-year-old an approving look from their jounin escort. Baki-san was stern and wary of them, but he was polite and struck her as a kind man. He was also intensely loyal to Sunagakure. She eyed the second member of her escort. She had seen Pakura in her visions of the future. She had been part of the puppet army of undead revived by one of the instigators of the Fourth Shinobi War. It seemed like whatever had caused her death hadn't yet occurred, or her visions were not entirely accurate. She didn't know more about Pakura than what was in her Bingo book entry, but what she had gleaned was enough for her to feel some measure of admiration for the kunoichi.

She hoped she would train her. Scorch Release looked like it was wielded in much the same manner as some of the Uchiha techniques she had copied from the Archives before she spirited her siblings away. She could trade them in exchange for training, she mused.

Something to think about.

Notes:

Basically, I wanted to explore the idea of an Uchiha Clan revival removed from Konoha and also create a character who is a foil to Itachi in many ways. Hatsue is a good older sister, has no loyalty to the Leaf or the Uchiha leadership, and she has very different ideas about what protection means. She'll take on the burden so her siblings don't have to, and won't force them to bloody their hands in absolution.

For context, Hatsue is born from Uchiha Yuzuru (譲 meaning "allow, permit, yield, concede") and Akane (茜 meaning "deep red, dye from the rubia plant"), who were two jounin with a decent standing in the Uchiha Clan. Her mother dies of pregnancy complications after birthing Hatsue's youngest sibling Asuka ( 飛 (asu) meaning "to fly" and 鳥 (ka) meaning "bird"). Shortly after, Arata (新 meaning "fresh, new"), Hatsue's older brother is killed in an "accident" during his genin test. What actually happened is that his jounin-sensei was prejudiced against Uchiha and resented having to teach one, so he took matters into his own hands. Yikes.

Anyway, Hatsue's dad kind of lost it after that and started to get violent. She tried to shield the younger kids from it, but Jirou (二 (ji) meaning "two" and 郎 (rō) meaning "son") and Hibiki (響 meaning "sound, echo"), the middle children remember. They kind of have a hero-worship thing going on with their sister and they developed an aversion to shinobi life in consequence, so the two of them want to be civilians. Keiko (慶 (kei) meaning "celebration" combined with 子 (ko) meaning "child") and Shouta (翔 (shō) meaning "soar, glide" and 太 (ta) meaning "thick, big, great") were too young, never mind Asuka who was a baby.

Hatsue was already planning on taking her siblings and fucking off, but it got more urgent since their dad was losing himself to the Curse of Hatred and involving himself in the Uchiha Coup to try and avenge his dead son. To protect her siblings, Hatsue had to kill their father, thus developing the Mangekyo Sharingan at eleven. She faked her and her kids' death, made sure it looked like their dad snapped and killed them, then ran from Konoha using her Mangekyo abilities. She has Kamui in one eye and in the other an ability I made up called Ame-no Uzume that can tangibly alter her visual field (to create fake bodies for example) in a way that is similar to the Kurama Clan kekkei genkai in that side story the wiki talks about. Idk, I haven't watched it.

Hatsue is a reincarnation, but she does not remember it. She thinks she simply had visions of the future, and that they were weirdly centred around Naruto and Sasuke, which she explains away by the fact that they're fated to defeat Kaguya. Children of prophecy and all that. She's not really planning on making changes beyond saving her siblings and she doesn't think her existence will alter things. She is very wrong about that.

For example, Pakura would have been sent on the mission that killed her if Rasa hadn't been given an asset he could dangle in front of the Elders' Council to prove they can afford to offend Kiri.

I might rewrite this because I'm not sure about the MC's personality, but I needed to get the idea out of my head in some form so this will do for now.

Chapter 47: because i could not stop for death (Harry Potter OC)

Summary:

Tom Riddle has the bright idea to test if he can split someone else's soul without their consent. You know, just to see if he can. Being a teenager, he tries it on the girl he is obsessed with, reasoning that there are worse people to spend immortality with.

This has unintended consequences.

Irene Prince would like to stress the fact that this is not a love story.

(Or, imagine being trapped inside a diary with your least favourite person for fifty years.)

Notes:

I'm using a lot of quotes from Chamber of Secrets for this, hope it isn't too boring, but I wanted to keep some of the integrity of the scene.

Irene Prince is the younger sister of Leander Prince, the father of Eileen Prince, which makes her the great-aunt of Severus Snape. She has no way of knowing that, though.

The scene whirled, the darkness became complete, Harry felt himself falling and, with a crash, he landed spread-eagled on his four-poster in the Gryffindor dormitory, Riddle’s diary lying open on his stomach. Before he had had time to regain his breath, the dormitory door opened and Ron came in.

"There you are," he said.

Harry sat up. He was sweating and shaking.

"What’s up?" said Ron, looking at him with concern.

"It was Hagrid, Ron. Hagrid opened the Chamber of Secrets fifty years ago."

If Harry had looked at the diary again before saying this, he would have seen more words formed on the page, in a script that had nothing in common at all with the even loops of Tom Riddle's handwriting. Where the Slytherin prefect's words had been careful and deliberate, these words were hurried and emotive, full of harsh and decisive lines though the careless grace of them betrayed an ease with the quill that could only be attained through the kinds of calligraphy classes that would have never been given to a muggle-raised orphan.

If Harry had looked, he would have read the words, "One time wasn't enough, Tom? You are so full of shit," and he might have realised there was more to the story than he was told.

If Harry had thought to look at all in the days after that, he wouldn't have been so blindsided when he entered the Chamber of Secrets, hoping to save Ginny, only to find her lying on the ground, her head cradled in the lap of a girl who looked to be Tom Riddle's age.

She was wearing what looked like an antiquated version of the current Slytherin uniform, with a black bell-sleeved robe, a long emerald skirt, and a white shirt topped with an elaborate ribbon that looked more like a green and silver luna moth than a classic knot. Her hair was a silky ink black neatly arranged into a crown braid similar to the one Lavender Brown wore sometimes. Her eyes were as dark as her hair, and her expression unreadable. She glowed unnaturally, as if hit by moonlight that could not be seen.

"Ginny! What did you do to her?" he exclaimed, hurrying to his best friend's sister while warily watching the girl who held her hostage, his grip on his wand tight.

"I didn't do this. Your friend Tom did," said the girl with a deep, musical voice as she pointed behind Harry.

Harry, on an instinct borne of years watching his back at the Dursleys', always somehow aware of where the threat was coming from even if he didn't know why it was coming, half-turned to keep watch on both the girl and where she was pointing. A tall, familiar boy was leaning against the nearest pillar, watching. Like the girl, he was strangely blurred around the edges, as though Harry was looking at him through a misted window. But there was no mistaking him.

"Tom – Tom Riddle?"

Riddle nodded, not taking his eyes off Harry’s face. He addressed the stranger first, a warning on his silvery tongue.

"Irene, be silent. This is between me and Mister Potter."

Harry was about to ask about the girl before he realised Ginny's state was more pressing.

"What happened to Ginny?"

"She’s still alive," said Riddle. "But only just. She won't wake, so don't bother."

Harry stared at him. Tom Riddle had been at Hogwarts fifty years ago, yet here he stood, a weird, misty light shining about him, not a day older than sixteen.

"Are you a ghost?" Harry said uncertainly.

"A memory,’ said Riddle quietly. "Preserved in a diary for fifty years."

The girl — Irene — snorted. She was ignored.

Riddle pointed towards the floor near the statue’s giant toes. Lying open there was the little black diary Harry had found in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. He wondered how it got here, and how it related to the current situation. But that didn't matter; all that mattered was that he was outnumbered in the presence of strangers, and Ginny was unconscious in the lair of a basilisk, right next to a pile of bones which Irene was... stroking with something closely resembling wistfulness.

Harry shuddered and focused on Tom Riddle. He didn't know why the boy, who had been so helpful before, registered as the bigger threat. But as he heard him speak, smugly leading Harry to the conclusion that not only was he the one responsible for opening the Chamber, but he had done so by manipulating and puppeteering Ginny, horrified comprehension dawned on him.

He hurt Ginny, Hermione, Colin and more, all of that to get to him.

"... I have many questions for you, Harry Potter."

"Like what?" Harry spat, fists clenched.

"Well," said Riddle, smiling pleasantly, "how is it that a baby with no extraordinary magical talent managed to defeat the greatest wizard of all time? How did you escape with nothing but a scar, while Lord Voldemort’s powers were destroyed?"

There was an odd red gleam in his hungry eyes now.

"Why do you care how I escaped?" said Harry slowly. "Voldemort was after your time."

"Voldemort," said Riddle softly, "is my past, present and future, Harry Potter..."

He pulled Harry’s wand from his pocket and began to trace it through the air, writing three shimmering words:

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE

Then he waved the wand once, and the letters of his name rearranged themselves:

I AM LORD VOLDEMORT

"You see?" he whispered. "It was a name I was already using at Hogwarts, to my most intimate friends only, of course. You think I was going to use my filthy Muggle father’s name for ever? I, in whose veins runs the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself, through my mother’s side? I, keep the name of a foul, common Muggle, who abandoned me even before I was born, just because he found out his wife was a witch? No, Harry. I fashioned myself a new name, a name I knew wizards everywhere would one day fear to speak, when I had become the greatest sorcerer in the world!"

The Gryffindor didn't get to say anything to that because Irene scoffed. "Your most intimate friends? Do you mean the little kids you conned into believing you were the greatest thing since the invention of the cauldron? Whiny Abraxas Malfoy, bratty Wally Black and the creepy Nott boy might have been fooled into thinking you were respectable, but we knew better. Voldemort, really?" she exclaimed, incredulous.

Harry did not laugh, but it was a near thing. Riddle's eyes narrowed, his displeasure at the interruption clear.

"I am Irene Prince, if you were wondering," said the girl kindly, shifting so that Ginny would be more comfortable on her lap. "I was Tom's classmate in school, and he trapped my soul in the diary alongside his own. We've been each other's only company for fifty years, until your friend somehow got hold of the diary. I tried to warn Ginny off, but Tom has more control over the pages than I do, and he did not let me tell her the truth. I am not the maker of this prison after all, only its unintended captive. This," she said, stroking the bones at her side one more time, "is all that's left of me."

The younger wizard gasped, horrified.

"You killed her!"

"I did not!" said Riddle, his eyes wild. "I meant to make her eternal— and she wouldn't let me! But here she is, alive and unchanged after fifty years. Surely that is—"

"Why would I wish that?" shot back the girl in what looked like a well-worn argument. "Why would I wish for eternity spent in a prison? Why would you want this?"

"To cheat death! I have accomplished what few have ever dared," he roared. "I am the greatest wizard of all times!"

"You are not!" snapped Harry, though he did not understand the undercurrents of this argument. As far as he could tell, Riddle wanted Irene to stay with him forever for some unknown reason, but it was enough for him to know that she had not wished for it. He could learn the details later. All he needed for now was the confirmation that he might have an ally in her. "Sorry to disappoint you, and all that, but the greatest wizard in the world is Albus Dumbledore. Everyone says so. Even when you were strong, you didn’t dare try and take over at Hogwarts. Dumbledore saw through you when you were at school and he still frightens you now, wherever you’re hiding these days."

The smile had gone from Riddle’s face, to be replaced by a very ugly look.

"Dumbledore’s been driven out of this castle by the mere memory of me!" he hissed.

"He’s not as gone as you might think!" Harry retorted. He was speaking at random, wanting to scare Riddle, wishing rather than believing it to be true.

Riddle opened his mouth, but froze.

Music was coming from somewhere. Riddle whirled around to stare down the empty chamber. The music was growing louder. It was eerie, spine-tingling, unearthly; it lifted the hair on Harry’s scalp and made his heart feel as though it was swelling to twice its normal size. Then, as the music reached such a pitch that Harry felt it vibrating inside his own ribs, flames erupted at the top of the nearest pillar.

A crimson bird the size of a swan had appeared, piping its weird music to the vaulted ceiling. It had a glittering golden tail as long as a peacock’s and gleaming golden talons, which were gripping a ragged bundle. A second later, the bird was flying straight at Harry. It dropped the ragged thing it was carrying at his feet, then landed heavily on his shoulder. As it folded its great wings, Harry looked up and saw it had a long, sharp golden beak and beady black eyes.

The bird stopped singing. It sat still and warm next to Harry’s cheek, gazing steadily at Riddle.

"That’s a phoenix ..." said Riddle, staring shrewdly back at it.

"Fawkes?" Harry breathed, and he felt the bird’s golden claws squeeze his shoulder gently.

"And that –" said Riddle, now eyeing the ragged thing that Fawkes had dropped, "that’s the old school Sorting Hat."

So it was. Patched, frayed and dirty, the Hat lay motionless at Harry’s feet.

Riddle began to laugh again. He laughed so hard that the dark chamber rang with it. He mocked Harry's faith in his headmaster, and asked again how he survived Voldemort. Harry weighed his chances against Riddle. He had his wand, Fawkes and the Sorting Hat. Riddle had Ginny's, and more years of experience with magic.

But Harry also had Irene Prince.

His mind made up, he turned his head and threw a hopeful look at the older girl, who nodded imperceptibly.

Harry started talking. He told Riddle about the night his parents died, the night he should not have survived, and surreptitiously shifted Fawkes in a way that obscured his hand movement. He let his wand drop within reach of Irene, and inwardly prayed that he wasn't making a huge mistake.

"So. Your mother died to save you. Yes, that’s a powerful counter-charm. I can see now – there is nothing special about you, after all. I wondered, you see. Because there are strange likenesses between us, Harry Potter. Even you must have noticed. Both half-bloods, orphans, raised by Muggles. Probably the only two Parselmouths to come to Hogwarts since the great Slytherin himself. We even look something alike ... But after all, it was merely a lucky chance that saved you from me. That’s all I wanted to know."

Harry stood, tense, waiting for Riddle to raise his wand. But Riddle’s twisted smile was widening again.

"Now, Harry, I’m going to teach you a little lesson. Let’s match the powers of Lord Voldemort, heir of Salazar Slytherin, against famous Harry Potter, and the best weapons Dumbledore can give him."

He cast an amused eye over Fawkes and the Sorting Hat, then walked away. Harry, fear spreading up his numb legs, watched Riddle stop between the high pillars and look up into the stone face of Slytherin, high above him in the half-darkness. Riddle opened his mouth wide and hissed – but Harry understood what he was saying.

"Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four."

Harry wheeled around to look up at the statue, Fawkes swaying on his shoulder.

Slytherin’s gigantic stone face was moving. Horror-struck, Harry saw his mouth opening, wider and wider, to make a huge black hole.

Something was stirring inside the statue's mouth, stirring up its depths and raising all the hairs on Harry's arms. He backed away, throwing a helpless look at Irene Prince, who was watching it all happen with an even expression.

"I will protect Ginny," she whispered to him. "But I cannot do anything about the basilisk. I will duel Tom and disrupt the ritual that is sapping her life, but you must kill the beast. I am sorry, Harry Potter."

Harry shook his head grimly, his eyes still on the slithering creature.

"I'll find a way."

And he began to run blindly sideways, luring the basilisk away from the two girls. In his flight, he heard the girl slowly lower Ginny to the ground and stand. He heard Riddle's sharp intake of breath, and the way he spoke, as if betrayed, "why would you help him? This is our chance!"

"Your chance, you mean," he heard Irene say distantly. "I am dead, Tom."

The conversation was interspersed by the sound of spell fire, recognisable to Harry from the duelling club, though the two opponents were on an entirely different level from the second-years in his class.

"You are not! The girl's life force and Potter's will be enough to make bodies for both of us. We can be free. I'll reabsorb my counterpart, take over control of his followers and do better than he did. We can rule the world. I chose you to be my queen, Irene, why do you insist on refusing me?"

Harry tripped.

He fell hard onto the stone and tasted blood. The serpent was barely feet from him, he could hear it coming. There was a loud, explosive spitting sound right above him and then something heavy hit Harry so hard that he was smashed against the wall. Waiting for fangs to sink through his body he heard more mad hissing, something thrashing wildly off the pillars. He couldn’t help it. He opened his eyes wide enough to squint at what was going on.

The enormous serpent, bright, poisonous green, thick as an oak trunk, had raised itself high in the air and its great blunt head was weaving drunkenly between the pillars. As Harry trembled, ready to close his eyes if it turned, he saw what had distracted the snake. Fawkes was soaring around its head, and the Basilisk was snapping furiously at him with fangs long and thin as sabres.

Fawkes dived.

His long golden beak sank out of sight and a sudden shower of dark blood spattered the floor. The snake’s tail thrashed, narrowly missing Harry, and before Harry could shut his eyes, it turned. Harry looked straight into its face, and saw that its eyes, both its great bulbous yellow eyes, had been punctured by the phoenix; blood was streaming to the floor and the snake was spitting in agony.

"No!" Harry heard Riddle screaming. "Leave the bird! Leave the bird! The boy is behind you! You can still smell him! Kill him!"

The blinded serpent swayed, confused, still deadly. Fawkes was circling its head, piping his eerie song, jabbing here and there at the Basilisk’s scaly nose as the blood poured from its ruined eyes.

He prayed for help, and there was no answering voice against the might of the creature. Instead, the Hat contracted, as though an invisible hand was squeezing it very tightly. Something very hard and heavy thudded onto the top of Harry’s head, almost knocking him out. Stars winking in front of his eyes, he grabbed the top of the Hat to pull off a gleaming silver sword, its handle glittering with large rubies.

Riddle started speaking more Parseltongue, ordering the basilisk to focus on Harry, but Irene forced his focus back on her with a spell.

"Eyes on me, Tom. You've always been too worried about the opinion of pre-teens," she said.

"I have not! Is it my fault that our class shunned me for my filth of a father, the stain of my last name when I am a descendant of the greatest Founder?"

The spell he threw at Irene translated some of that anger. Harry was too focused on scaling the back of the basilisk and not being thrown off to make much sense of the duel happening further away, but the echo of the Chamber transmitted the last sound of a pillar crumbling near them.

"I did not judge you for that," replied Irene harshly. "I judged you for killing Dorea's owl. Did you think we didn't know it was you? You might have placed the blame on Lestrange, but I'd known that boy since diapers. He was a prick and mad to boot, but he never hurt animals."

This stopped Riddle in his tracks. "You never said."

"I left you to your delusions, Tom. I did not owe you an explanation for my dislike, I did not owe you my time and certainly not fifty years of it!" she spat, enraged, just as Harry plunged his sword inside the mouth of the snake, poisoning himself in the process.

"Potter!" yelled Irene.

The boy grunted, wrenching the fang that was spreading poison throughout his body from his arm. White-hot pain spread steadily through him. The Chamber was dissolving in a whirl of colour.

A patch of scarlet swam past and Harry heard a soft clatter of claws beside him.

"Fawkes," said Harry thickly. "You were brilliant, Fawkes ..."

He felt the bird lay its beautiful head on the spot where the serpent’s fang had pierced him. He could hear two pairs of echoing footsteps. Dark shadows hovered in front of him. It seemed the two had dropped their duel to attend to him.

"You’re dead, Harry Potter," said Riddle’s voice above him. "Dead. Even Dumbledore’s bird knows it. Do you see what he’s doing, Potter? He’s crying."

Harry blinked. Fawkes’s head slid in and out of focus. Thick, pearly tears were trickling down the glossy feathers.

"He won't die," said Irene firmly, and Harry felt a hand prop him up, before something wet fell on his arm.

"Phoenix tears," realised Riddle, just as the younger boy blinked, the world coming into focus to reveal his arm blooded but with no wound in sight. "No. We've come so far, Irene, we can't let it end like this."

"There is no 'we,' Tom," said the girl tiredly, raising her wand once more. "Accio diary."

She gently dislodged the fang from Harry's hand and hovered it in front of the diary with her unarmed hand, the point pressing against the black cover.

"I am dead, Tom," she said, echoing her earlier words, "and you are too. The man who is alive in this world is not you. He killed and left sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle to rot to ensure he would stay eternal. This is not living."

"But this can be," he said desperately. "Why do you not WANT ME?" he roared, his voice cracking.

"Because I hated you for what you did to Dorea, and then you made us all think you had changed. I thought you were no longer the cruel boy who would kill a bird to make a point and I was going to ask you to confess and apologise so we could all let bygones be bygones, but instead you made me into this," she hissed, pointing at her glowing skin and the pile of bones metres away from them. "Why? What made you choose me?"

"You were my only equal," he whispered, holding out his hand. "Give me the diary, Irene. We can fix this."

Harry could read the desperation in his gaze. He turned to Irene, hoping she wouldn't be swayed.

"There is nothing to fix. I am tired, Tom."

As she said this, she stabbed the diary. Harry was expecting Riddle to scream, but he only looked resigned and dropped Ginny's wand, letting it clatter to the ground. He reached inside of himself and, in front of Harry's horrified eyes, forced open his own ribcage.

Irene was just as shocked as he was, even more so when Riddle presented his own heart, dripping with ink to her open mouth and forced her to bite down.

"If you will not be mine, I will make myself yours. The diary is not your prison, I am. And it is in my power to free you. If you will not live by my side, then you will do so by my power," he said, stroking her cheek as she looked at him, frozen, "and see my will done by your own hand. You're right, he killed us. And you'll kill him for me, won't you Irene?"

The pile of bones started glowing and disintegrating as Riddle faded. The girl's main form lost its moonlight glow, and Irene turned to flesh and blood in front of Harry's disbelieving eyes.

"Why does he keep doing this to me?" she whispered brokenly, staring at her hands. "Must all my choices be taken from me?"

Harry raised himself up painstakingly and stumbled towards Ginny, who he could hear coughing. Then he directed a shell-shocked Irene and weakened Ginny out of the Chamber with Fawkes' help. Ron greeted him outside, wrecked with anxiety. He lit up upon seeing his sister mostly unharmed, and only questioningly stared at Irene when Harry started stuttering through explanations.

Fawkes led the way, taking them to Professor McGonagall's office. They must look a sorry sight, but the peculiar situation meant that there was no one to gawk at them in the corridors. Harry was thankful for that.

When they entered, Mrs Weasley was inside. Harry and Irene both flinched at her effusive cries, then stared at each other wordlessly. Some light seemed to have come back from his companion's eyes, who looked around herself curiously, stopping when she was face to face with Professor McGonagall and the Headmaster.

"Professor Dumbledore," she said quietly, "and... you were the fifth-year prefect for Gryffindor when I was in first year. Minerva, was it?"

The professor looked confused for a brief moment before comprehension dawned. "Irene Prince? My word, it has been..." The Transfiguration professor gasped and her gaze sharpened. "Fifty years. I hope you have an explanation for this, Mister Potter," she added tensely.

Harry did his best to explain it all, though he sent hopeful looks at his companion, hoping she would chime in. But Irene was mute and trembling, her gaze lowered. Instead it was Ginny who helped explain about the diary, helped by Dumbledore's prompting. The headmaster then directed the Weasleys to the infirmary so Madam Pomfrey could take a look at Ginny.

"I would suggest the same to you, Miss Prince, but I'm afraid your situation is a bit more complicated than hers."

"I will be blamed for Tom's actions," she said quietly, startling Harry.

Dumbledore nodded. "Just so. I'm afraid the Ministry will not be satisfied by a simple assurance that a cursed diary was responsible for this year's events, not if they see you so unharmed. I would also like to find out how your body was returned to you. Would you consent to sharing your memories with me and drinking a Draught of Living Death until the situation is more settled?"

Harry wanted to protest, but he had no time to do so; Irene accepted the Headmaster's suggestion gratefully.

"You've been trapped for so long," he protested. "Are you sure you want to be put to sleep?"

Irene looked at him up and down and said quietly, "you look like my friend Dorea. I suppose she did marry Head Boy Potter in the end."

Harry blinked, thrown by the change of subject. "Are you talking about, er, my grandparents? I don't know their names."

He saw them in the Mirror of Erised, he remembered, but there weren't any photos or notes of them in the album Hagrid had given him, so he didn't have anything to go on to find them.

"I might be wrong," Right, thought the boy, she had been trapped in a diary for fifty years. She would have no way to know for sure, "but most likely. Dorea Black was my best friend, and she was dating Charlus Potter when I..."

She bit her lip. "When this happened. You have Charlus' hair, but your face is all hers.""

"Could you, er. Could you tell me about them sometime?" he asked shyly.

"Of course," she said fondly. "But it will have to wait. Tom... Tom said Rubeus Hagrid was sent to Azkaban because of his actions. I don't fancy replacing him there. This is only temporary, Azkaban would be another story. And... I need to rest, Harry Potter."

"I'm just Harry," he said.

"Well then, Just Harry. I'm Just Irene. Nice to meet you," she said with a soft chuckle. That said, she turned to Professor Dumbledore. "I don't suppose my parents are still alive."

The headmaster regretfully shook his head.

"I'm afraid not. Your brother Leander still lives, however. I will write to him once this is all sorted. Will you fetch Severus for me, dear friend?" he asked Fawkes after that.

Irene smiled softly, and thanked Dumbledore, who directed her towards the couch in McGonagall's office. Harry looked at her anxiously after Dumbledore reassured that he and Ron would not be expelled. He hoped she would be fine.

***

"She just agreed with no protests," said Severus disbelievingly.

It was still hard to swallow. Irene Prince was not like this generation of students, raised on myths of Dumbledore's prowess. She did not agree because she trusted her old Transfiguration professor to do her no wrong. She likely didn't even know he was the one who subdued Grindelwald, and had no reason to trust Albus' word beyond the fact that he was the only adult who distrusted Tom Riddle when they were in school. Perhaps that was enough. Or perhaps...

"She wanted to die," replied Albus, matter of fact, confirming his thoughts. "She hid nothing from me," he added, almost apologetic. "She didn't have the will to do so."

Severus flinched. He could understand that.

He resolved to change the subject.

"You know what the diary is."

"I have suspicions," corrected his employer, "half-confirmed by Miss Prince's shared memories. The Ministry official who came to examine her doesn't share those suspicions, however. They took the readings from the potion and assumed she was drugged and left in stasis in the Chamber. I did not correct that assumption."

Severus nodded. That saved the girl from being thrown in Azkaban without a by-your-leave.

He was still trying to wrap his head around the idea of being older than his own great-aunt. Severus' grandfather had come multiple times this week to check on her. He always stayed for an hour, then left, his cane clacking against the stone floor of Hogwarts' hallways.

(He hadn't come when Severus wrote. He hadn't come when Eileen died. He came for his displaced sister, but not for his disgraced daughter and her ill-begotten son.)

Potter visited too. Minerva said the boy imprinted on the girl like a little duckling. Life or death situations had a way of doing that, he supposed.

That he was less surprised by Potter's visit than the girl's own brother said a lot about his opinion on the Prince family.

"You will enrol her at Hogwarts," he guessed.

It seemed the logical choice.

"I will certainly suggest it to her brother. She technically has not been withdrawn from school, and she will need to finish her education on top of getting acquainted with this new era."

What a polite way to say the girl would not have a clue what kind of political climate she stumbled upon. Severus doubted that Ginny's childish rambles were any use to puzzle through the geopolitical situation of the time. But then again, Irene Prince was a Slytherin. It would not do to underestimate her.

"And you want to keep an eye on her."

Albus did not bother to deny it.

"I cannot begin to guess what Tom's reaction to the news of her survival will be, and she might have valuable insight on our common enemy. The few memories she shared of the fifty-year period she spent in the diary were certainly... enlightening."

Severus shuddered at the very thought.

He could just bet.

Notes:

If you're wondering why Riddle killed Dorea's owl, it's because he said something disparaging against squibs and Dorea, who had a squib brother named Marius, said something extremely nasty in return, then Riddle went insane about it because he's still the boy who'd kill someone's rabbit and hang it from the rafters because he was insulted.

I went a different route with Tom Riddle than I usually do: normally I'd make the Knights of Walpurgis his contemporaries, people who were almost friends with him and reasonably trusted. Here they're underclassmen he manipulated into liking him because his Slytherin year-mates didn't give him the time of the day. The power imbalance was already there, and only twelve-year-olds would agree to call a sixteen-year-old an acronym of his own name that means I am Lord Flight From Death. Come on.

Anyway, on top of giving himself an edgelord nickname, this Tom Riddle is kind of a loser who spent 50 years failing to convince a pretty girl to date him and conquer the world together.

If I continue this, I would probably write a lot of flashbacks of the time Irene and Tom spent in the diary, some scenes of them at Hogwarts to explain how his obsession started, and current timeline PoVs would jump from Harry's, Irene's, Severus' and Voldemort's.

Chapter 48: bare, bruised lady skin II

Notes:

If you haven't already, go read the first part of this AU. It's Chapter 35 of this fic.

"Camilla."

"Hm. Yes, brother?"

She looks up at him boredly, the white feather on her hair tickling her forehead. She pushes down the urge to remove the offending object. She doesn't know how Cressida handles wearing all those head ornaments every time she goes out.

She misses her friend. Being two years younger than her, her debut has come late, and Lucas being who he is, Camilla and her mother have been mostly confined in the country last seasons. Cressida said the gossip writer Lady Whistledown had had a field day speculating about Camilla's possible defects.

"You will not embarrass our name today."

Camilla bites her tongue to stay quiet, lest she speak of how embarrassed she is to have him as a brother. His gambling and his rudeness are one thing, but the way he treats her and her mother are another. Mama is rarely her ally, but it doesn't mean Camilla enjoys the dismissive way Lucas speaks to her.

She just nods, and turns towards the doors. She will walk to the queen and curtsy like her mama taught her, and she will not yawn. No matter how tired she is from being ordered to practise her courtesies all night.

When her name is called, she goes. She keeps her steps dainty, her bearing suitably demure and submissive.

Nothing is out of place.

She might not be as graceful as the Bridgerton girls, but she's not doing terribly. The queen looks kind of bored, but that's not her fault. She didn't shame herself, that's all that counts.

She did her duty.

When she's back to his side, Lucas' eyes are narrowed but he offers her a shallow nod of acknowledgement.

Good. If her brother is happy, he will not get in her way. This season is crucial.

She must find Cressida a husband before she is forced to marry the decrepit raper her father would no doubt foist upon her.

She cannot allow her sister of the heart to suffer such a fate.

***

"You should stay away from that girl. She has a bad reputation in the ton and she'll drag you down with her," Mama says after the ball ends.

"Cressida is my friend," Camilla says. "I will remain by her side."

Her mother raises her eyebrows. Even years later, she's still surprised when Camilla objects to the now familiar warnings. She never asks anything from her family, and she's never raised more than a token protest when she's been given orders. Until she met Cressida, the Ambrose household considered her nothing but a dull yet obedient girl who only cares for her flowers.

"It will not impact my prospects. I'll make sure of it."

Mama looks at her consideringly, then nods. "See that it doesn't. And if you're unmarried by the end of the year..."

"You will forbid me from seeing her," guesses Camilla.

"Not just seeing her," she corrects. "Writing her too. You'll not utter her name in my presence or I'll retrieve your father's cane. Is that clear?"

She tenses. Unlike her friend, Camilla is not familiar with physical punishment. Her mother must really want her married and out of the way. Of course, she thinks. Then she'll be able to retire to a country house and she won't have to deal with Lucas until he inevitably bankrupts them. Hopefully he can marry a girl with a large dowry and a stupid family. That will tide Mama over for a few more years.

"I understand," she says, and curtsies before excusing herself.

She walks to the garden, seeking some time to herself. The gardener has worked hard to maintain the flowers she planted three seasons past. No one in her family much cares for flower language. If they did, they would not find her so passive.

She loves her quiet rebellion. Without it, she would have let herself waste away, she thinks.

Poppies, meaning "I am not free."

Butterfly weeds. "Let me go."

Yellow carnations, for disdain, disappointment, rejection.

Chamomile, for patience in adversity.

If she must marry within a year, so be it.

She'll just have to make sure Cressida finds a match first.

***

She hands Cressida a bouquet and takes her offered arm as they walk along the promenade.

Blue hyacinth, for constancy. Speedwell for feminine fidelity. And white zinnias for pure unadulterated goodness.

Arborvitae interspersed with the flowers, symbolising unchanging friendship. She makes sure to balance out the flowers. Getting her message across is all well and good, but it should not come at the expense of good taste.

"Your gift is lovely as always, Millie," says her best friend with a contented smile, admiring the modest bouquet.

Camilla smiles. "I'm glad you like it. And I'm pleased to have remembered to tell you to wear a bit of blue today. It makes for a fetching ensemble." They walk companionably for a few minutes, catching up with each other. Camilla comments on the showy sleeves her friend seems to favour this season, Cressida in turn asks about her more honest impressions of her debut. After a few minutes, the lady of House Ambrose brings up Eloise Bridgerton. "I heard you made a new friend," she says.

Cressida blinks. "I suppose I did. Eloise was kind enough to keep me company while you were... indisposed." What a delicate way to say that her brother had her either locked up or on a leash. "She had a bit of a falling out with that wallflower she usually attaches herself to, and was in want of company. Of course you remain my most dear friend, Millie. Do not think for a moment that I forgot you."

She raises a placating hand. "I wouldn't think so. I was just curious to know what you would have spoken about with her. Your families have a bit of a rivalry from what I understand."

They are interrupted by a gentleman Camilla could not care less about. She politely responds to his introduction and does her best to redirect his attentions towards her friend. Cressida's assertiveness seems to scare him off, and he excuses himself. Camilla sighs internally and readjusts her gloves. They're dyed in a lovely gradiant, from yellow to orange. She went with a sunset theme today, with pops of red provided by the red Peruvian lilies on her hat and boutonniere.

"If the man is a coward, then he's not a right fit for either of us," she murmurs with a put-upon sigh. She hates the marriage mart.

Cressida, who was looking quite crestfallen, snorts inelegantly before covering her face with her bouquet.

"You're right, Millie. Let us see if we can find someone braver."

Notes:

This isn't easy to write, but it's fun. Hope you liked it!