Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Long, black hair draped onto cobblestone: a pair of spectacles sat dangling off the end of Quill’s fine curve of a nose. The ground beneath her body felt hard, solid, and real. It was the first thing Quill noted when she woke up, brown eyes fluttering. She pushed her spectacles back up along her hawkish nose and watched as her vision settled, righting itself.

“It worked,” she croaked out, her harsh, rasp of a voice cutting through the alleyway. It was lighter though, more childish than before, and carried a different accent. Quill was not surprised by this, as it had been a part of the plan. They would age with the story. According to this world, she’d been born in September 13 of 1979: a Virgo stellium, representing earth as best as she feasibly could. And if her calculations were correct, she would be almost twelve now. They had not wanted to go into a world carved to a fine detail – that would erase the excitement, the pleasure, of the discovery and adventure that awaited them. Quill wanted to pick this world apart since she was seven years old, when her baba had read the first book to her until the both of them were too tired to continue.

Still on the ground, she traced her hand across the cool, dirtied stone. Quill used it to ease herself up to her feet, which were bare. She’d not figured the details of her arrival. At the time, Quill was far too focused on other things, but the regret at having neglected it bit at her the moment the chill did. An English summer did not carry the harshness of a much more American heat. She’d spent her last year in New Orleans, visiting her makeshift coven, having traveled from California in order to do so. The English sun could never compare. She embraced it, though yearned for a more familiar heat. That was the price of long-distance travel.

Quill wore sensible pajamas: sleeping pants and a plain green t-shirt. No doubt one of her friends would be left out in their underwear. There was no telling when they would meet up again. Quill could only hope they managed to survive without her until then. She couldn’t believe she forgot to add shoes. She absently swiped her hand at her pants, trying to smear away the grime that covered her palm. Her legs wobbled as she began to walk in quiet awe.

Part of her hadn’t believed, though she’d been emboldened by the faith of her friends. Yet, here she was. She couldn’t decide if it was a miracle or a curse that she’d landed in some back-corner alley, stacked away behind rubbish bins. There was a long street of back-end doors. In her eyeing everything, she noted the lack of plastic and advertising. The buildings consisted of old, colorful brick and slanted roofs with intricate designs. She could almost hear the roaring buzz of businesses, of a market come to life, but she was stuck on the other side. Quill leaned against one building, suddenly hesitant, as she inhaled deep breaths of the August air. Wandering came with the risk of accidentally stepping into Knockturn Alley and as far as anyone knew, she was a lost, little, muggleborn girl. It wouldn’t be good. Quill knew that much.

Just the thought of stumbling into someone like that had a shiver running up and down her spine. She was no coward, but she was cautious. It was the last thing she needed; especially given she didn’t even have her own wand yet. She’d no doubt be useless without it. Quill started walking once more. She could feel it. The difference. Quill had felt magic before. Of course, she had. It was how she got here, but her level of magic was different. Quill was no natural witch, she had to tap into it, had to beg for a glimpse of what could have been, a mere glance into a dying world. This time, it was everywhere. It was a current that ran through the walls, under the ground she walked, and drizzling down from the atmosphere high above.

Quill felt it within herself, like an electric current of something. The magic had accepted her, had taken her in, and made her into a something, rather than a pitiful nothing. Upon realizing this, she wanted to up and dance, but she settled for walking a little faster, hands flapping just a smidge. She was composed. She could do this. She could wait until she found a room somewhere, then squeal to her heart’s content. Quill turned a corner and hoped to find herself promptly bombarded with the chattering of a hundred people gathered in a long, curling alley with a dozen or more propped up businesses, where people were dressed in robes, were coated in cloaks, their heads covered in pointed hats of all fabrics and colors. Where she could feel as though she was right in the middle og one of the movies, or reading the books for the very first time.

Instead, she found herself stepping into a rather dark alley, where the light seemed dim even during the middle of the morning, where roaches crawled and spiders creeped. There was the scent of rot and mildew and Quill’s nose twitched at the sharp smell of it. Her worst nightmare had just come true. She was in Knockturn Alley – and she would have to get through it in order to get to Diagon Alley. She could only hope it was a short, brisk walk and that she’d be left wholly alone. It was just her luck that it was much worse than that. The moment she’d walked into Knockturn, what noise there was went totally dead. Quill could still feel the hum of magic, but there was nothing else. Whatever buzz of business she heard seemed even more distant than before.

There were a few people clambering about: all of them were cloaked in black. They stared hard at her, their mouths stuck in a grim fashion. It didn’t make sense. Those old colorful bricks had been deceptive, in the sudden dim light, they looked gray and brown. She wondered what Knockturn Alley would look like if not kept away in the dark – and yet it was. The buildings were just as condensed, their signs ragged and worn. It never did make much sense to Quill for there to have been an evil alleyway just in the middle of the joy and wonder that was Diagon Alley. Quill ignored the sudden feeling of muck caking itself onto her bare feet. If she squelched in something, she didn’t dare look down. All she had to do was walk fast and avoid looking anyone in the eye. She was sure most people wanted to mind their business, right? Not everyone was what they seemed.

A loud, wheezing cough was the only noise Quill could hear. The cough stopped, but the wheezing grew closer. Quill wondered if cigarettes were a thing in the wizarding world, because whoever it was clearly smoked something quite regularly. It was a wet, gulping sound, filled with congestion. Quill wondered if maybe an antihistamine could help. She continued to walk, ignoring the sound of a limping gait and the click-clack of a cane.

Good god, did this alley never end? Was it an illusion. She passed several shops with skulls in the display cases – shrunken heads, dead spiders, taxidermized animals of all creatures big and small. She passed Borgin and Burkes. More and more people were stepping outside of their businesses and simply stopping to look at her. She could feel the hate in some of their stares. It unnerved her. It was more open than anything she ever felt in New Orleans, which had a very similarly dark and grim aura. She could hear whispers, but not what they contained, she could sense the cruel jests within them. And yet, no one moved. No one did anything to her, but it felt like they very easily could.

The owner of the wheeze spoke and when she spoke, Quill envisioned a rather toothless, balding hag. “You don’t belong here,” hissed the old woman, who then, using her cane, propelled herself forward and beat at the square of Quill’s back. It was sudden and instant. Quill let out a scream as she fell onto the ground. Much like a zombie, the old hag had an unexpected level of upper body strength as she grappled onto Quill’s five-foot-nothing form. No one made any move to help Quill escape from the demented hag, instead preferring to laugh and chuckle to themselves.

The hag had managed to grappled herself around Quill’s leg. She had a total of three teeth, one halved and jagged, and was prepared to dig into her calf like it was a free buffet. Their tryst was interrupted by the swing of a door, which came out sharp and fast, hitting Quill right in the head. She yelped, only to find herself pulled up to her feet by an unexpected savior.

Oily black hair, straighter than her own, came down to his shoulders. A large beak of a nose, even harsher than hers, protruded out from his face. His mouth was set in a thin, white line. Quill knew who it was. She felt it in her gut. “And what exactly,” he droned, “do we have here?” Severus Snape was most disapproving, but it felt quite natural coming from him.

“I think I’m lost…” Quill tried to put on her best scared, little girl voice, but she was never the best actress. However, she doubted even a more capable performer than herself could have swayed Snape into feeling any sort of level of pity. She stared into his beady, black eyes and felt a sharp pain in the corner of her brow. Was he trying to probe her mind? Already? Quill had prepared for this. She pretended to take no notice of it.

“Clearly,” he said with gritted teeth, the sarcasm dripping off every individual word. He looked over at the hag, who had crouched down, mumbling incoherently to herself. “You would do well to not come here alone. Where is your guide?”

“My what?” Quill asked, playing as dumb as she could.

“Your guide. Your professor. The person in charge of leading you and your dimwitted parents on a tour through Diagon Alley in order to prepare you in your current and future attempts to collect your school things. That guide.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Quill said, twisting her fingers together.

Snape flared his nostrils. “I would cease lying if I were you.” He held out his hand. “Give me your letter.” It seemed he had resigned himself to doing the task his colleague had failed to do. Of course, in their defense, Quill doubted she was even on the list.

She looked down at her clothes, fiddled with her empty pockets, and declared, “I don’t have a letter.” Glancing up at Snape’s less-than-amused face, she returned his attitude with her best ‘are you an idiot’ stare.

“How did you get in here?” He snapped.

Quill shrugged. “I woke up here.”

“And there it is, the first truth of the morning.” Snape looked at the hag. “Agatha, you know better.” He promptly kicked her aside. In her old world, Quill would have sneered at such treatment towards both the homeless and the elderly, but in this one, she simply stuck out her tongue, flipped her the bird, and followed behind Snape. Quill looked back at the store he had come from, thinking she might have caught him in some sort of tavern or wizarding bar. It turned out to be nothing but an apothecary.

“I suppose it shall be me who has to do this,” Snape declared. “Given it is likely there’s been yet another error last month, somewhere along the line, a certain ministry employee has failed at their job and thus needs to be reprimanded, if not fired. I suppose you know you’re different, special, unusual, and or peculiar. Whatever adjective you prefer. You’re a witch, and a wizard in the broad sense, get over it fast, because it means nothing but a life of misery for you. Presumably, you’re some muggleborn who has slept walk her way in here. Not the first case to happen nor will it be the last. You shall address me as Professor, Professor Snape, or Sir. Nothing else will do. Any other display of familiarity and I’ll have you in detention before you can even so much as breathe.”

“I’m a witch?” Though she knew the truth, the statement itself made her giddy with excitement. She’d dreamed of some variation of this day for years. She tried not to let her questions bubble out, like who the other error was. She had a seeping suspicion that she knew them.

“Yes. Keep up! I loathe to repeat myself.” Snape bit out. “You will be going to Hogwarts, a school for witches and wizards. You’ll learn what it means to be a member of this society there, but I shall try my best to teach you with the limited time we’ve got. I’ll spare a day to guide you – and no more. Do you understand?”

Quill jerked her chin so fast that it her head almost snapped clean off.

“First, we need to go to Gringotts. We’ll set up your account there. Luckily for you, I make a keen habit to memorize the school lists in the event of a misplaced letter. You’ll need to get your wand next.” Snape turned to stare angrily over her. “Know this, a witch must never be without her wand. It can harm, heal, and help – all in equal measure.”

His robes bellowed behind them, as if mystified by some sort of bellowing charm. Quill took great note of it, for she wished to one day do the same. If at any point Snape pondered on the location of her parents, then he never asked. Quill wondered if it was quite normal for wizarding children to be left around on their own all day – or maybe it was the result of living in the nineties. In truth, she was grateful. Quill didn’t have a good enough lie. She realized now that she had been woefully underprepared. Blaming her excitement, she held her chin up and knew she’d persevere.

Gringotts was an imposing building, done up all in pearly-white marble. The doors were plated in gold – and across the building was a poem inscribed into the marble. Quill paused, reading it out loud, mouthing words that brought back a familiar feel of nostalgia. “Enter, stranger, but take heed,” she said, “of what awaits the sin of greed. For those who take, but do not earn, must pay most dearly in their turn, so if you seek beneath our floors, a treasure that was never yours, thief, you have been warned, beware, of finding more than treasure there.”

If Quill had her timeline right, there had been a recent theft. Voldemort had attempted to steal the philosopher’s stone – succeeded in his attempt, but failed in getting what he wanted. The vault had been broken into. Quill wasn’t sure how he’d done it. It was never truly explained in the books. “Do not steal from Gringotts,” Snape warned, not putting much stock into her reading comprehension skills. Harry was right, of course. Snape was a dick, but Quill loved him more than most. She always loved the characters that nobody else did. He felt more real in that way.

“What happens if I do?” She asked, curious of his answer.

“You’ll get burned alive and quite possibly eaten by a dragon.” Snape answered dryly. Surprisingly honest. Quill figured he must like the idea of her being dragon food. She was clearly a blight on his otherwise pleasant day.

They entered into a hall of goblins: short creatures with bulbous, hooked noses. Their skin was waxy, having a rather melted look. Their ears were big, pointed – and most of them were rather bald, with maybe a few tufts of wispy hair here and there. Snape walked right up to the nearest one available. “I have a student here,” he said, then clarified. “Muggleborn. I expect the standard.”

The goblin nodded, then gave Quill something similar to a smile. His front row of teeth were sharp, predatory. Quill could very easily imagine just how fast such teeth could sink into her skin. She’d already had enough of bitten into today, thanks. She gave a hesitant smile back. “My name is Crowbar. I will be working with you today.”

Quill paused. “Crowbar?”

“Yes,” the goblin nodded. “I’ll need you to sign your name here, please. First and last.” Quill hid a genuine smile at poor creature’s name. Her amusement turned to dread as she realized she had to fill in a rather serious piece of paper. She thought back to the name she’d agreed upon with her coven of friends. None of them were using their real names: this new world was supposed to bypass it, to not see anything wrong with their unusual names, but she hadn’t figured in that they would be asking for a last name as well. She quickly wrote down her first and only name. Quill slid the paper back, waiting for a question that didn’t come. She wasn’t so obvious as to let out a sigh of relief when Crowbar the goblin took it back without question. He waved his spindly hands and she watched as the contract shifted and glowed.

Quill waited for Crowbar to bring her and Snape down to her vault, but the smile slipped down her face when she realized he was walking back up with a simple bag of money. “Twenty-two golden galleons, five silver sickles, and twenty-five bronze knuts.” Her mouth popped open in horror. Not only did she not get a trip down into the vaults, but Crowbar pronounced ‘knuts’ as ka-noots. She had the terrible, terrible feeling that this was not a lot of money, or even a decent amount of money. It would cover the bare minimum of what she needed.

“We will not be spending this frivolously. You will get exactly what you need and no more. It is for essential school supplies.”

The question came out before Quill could help herself. “What if I need a place to stay? What if my family believes that witches are…evil?” He knew it the way she knew it. It was another truth. Back in her old world with her old life, her family was religious. They loved her, but they would not accept her witchy ways with an open heart, much less with any sort of kindness or compassion. They would condemn her.

“Then, for now, we shall find you a place at the Leaky Cauldron.” Snape looked down at her very seriously. “Tom has been known to accept strays for summer work in exchange for a room. The ministry doesn’t insert itself into family matters – that includes runaways, but no money means no housing and no food. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, Miss Quill. Be quick-minded, diligent, and you’ll get by well enough.”

Their next stop was Ollivanders. Stopping her outside of the door, Snape pulled out a few of the golden coins and fed them into her hand. Quill eyed the building with wonder in her eyes. This was it. She was going to get a wand. She could kiss the building. Aside from Gringotts, it felt like the oldest building in the alley. The magic was ancient, twisting deep into the brick and beams. “This will be the most expensive part, aside from your books. I’m going to get more of your less important items. The less time I spend here, the better. Wait outside for me when you’re done.”

Quill exhaled, then placed her hand onto the door, and pushed open. She heard the sound of a bell chiming, the shop signaling that another customer had arrived. Instead of a mystical, slightly whimsical old man, however, inside she found a face she’d been waiting to see. “Nibbs!” She exclaimed, seeing the white-haired girl for the first time in what felt like forever.

Nibbs’s eyes drew up from eyeing the long counter in boredom. Her eyebrows didn’t even so much as budge when she took the sight of Quill in. Her hair was chopped to her chin, uneven in bits, when made sense considering the other girl had a habit of cutting off her hair when in the midst of an emotional episode. “Oh,” she said. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

“What do you mean?” Quill questioned.

“Well, I’ve been here since the start of the summer – and so far, everyone else has shown up but you. I was beginning to think you were lost in some sort of timey-wimey, space time continuum nonsense.” Nibbs shrugged. “It’s not like you to be late.”

Quill huffed. “Well, I’m not late. A wizard arrives precisely when she means to.”

“Been here a day and you’re already quoting Gandalf. Typical.” Nibbs laughed, displaying for the first sign of emotion since Quill had walked through the door.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Quill said, offended.

“It’s just cliché is all.” Nibbs stated nonchalantly. Her accent was not like Quill’s. She’d chosen something quite a bit more northern and far less posh.

Quill shifted uncomfortably, not a fan of being called out the way she was. “I’m a nerd, alright. I’m doing nerd things, like exploring Diagon Alley and getting my freaking wand. Speaking of which, why are you here?”

Nibbs declared. “I’m distant family. I wrote it onto my paper: distant relative to the Ollivanders, here for school. Did you not do something like that?” She said it in a knowing way, rubbing it in that she’d thought of something that Quill hadn’t. Normally, Quill was the smart one. Everyone knew that. In that way, she was the leader of the group. “Mr. Ollivander, or Grandad, as I get to call him, has left me in charge while he’s out and about for an hour.”

“Does that mean I have to come back later? Because my escort is not going to be happy. You won’t believe who I got by the way.”

“Nah, I’ll do it! Grandad’s been training me up on some of this stuff anyways. You know, there’s a reason the escorts step out. It’s considered polite to do. It’s why Hagrid leaves Harry. Getting your wand is kind of a private moment and a pretty big deal. Wands say a lot about their wizards. It’s kind of the same with astrology. You’re actually supposed to keep the details pretty secret, because it might give others insight onto your character that you might not want them to know.” Nibbs patted her hands along the table, reciting the information as if beaten into memory.

Quill’s eye twitched. She hated not being the one to know things. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of Nibbs’s idea first. She figured everyone else would want to start from the ground up, like her. That they would be sad loser muggleborn children together. Quill remembered the information she heard earlier. “What’s the situation with the others?”

“Well, Inky’s a Black.”

Quill paused. “Well, Nibbs, that’s a rude way to put it. Okay. Unacceptable.”

“I meant the family.” Nibbs stared blankly.

“Right, of course you did.” For context, Inky was a creole girl straight out of the heart of New Orleans. “She did that on purpose, didn’t she.”

Nibbs continued. “No one knows who her father is. Grandad says Walburga Black may as well have picked her up off the street, but they’ve all gone and accepted it because, well, Inky ensured that they would. I met her in July. She’s made herself Irish, I think.”

“Our girl has a sense of humor,” Nibbs let out a quiet chuckle. “Of course, Penn was the idiot who didn’t give herself a family, so she’s stuck at the Leaky Cauldron, waiting tables and the like. She’s gone and made herself Scottish, you know. All that effort and she didn’t even plan ahead. So, who did you stick yourself with?”

Quill blinked slowly, then looked down. She was filled with shame at the thought of having done the exact same blunder as Penn of all people. She felt her cheeks sting with blush, though her ambry skin concealed the bulk of it from being seen.

“Oh, Quill,” Nibbs remarked forlornly. “You didn’t.”

“Just give me my wand.” Quill bit out. “Now.”

“Alright, alright. Give me your dominant hand.”

Quill stepped up, giving her left hand to Nibbs.

“Mhmm,” Nibbs said, poking and prodding at it. She went into the back and fumbled with a few of the boxes, before picking out one. “Try this. Acacia and unicorn-tail hair. 11 inches, quite flimsy. Go on, give a flick.”

Quill reached to touch it, then loudly yelped at the burning sensation that engulfed her hand. “Definitely not that one,” she hissed.

“I’m getting better at this, I promise!” Nibbs exclaimed as she snatched the wand back, putting it in its rightful box. She ducked back down into the stacks. She came out with another one. Elm wood with a phoenix feather core, fifteen inches, very firm. Only it too was a mistake. It spat out a gush of filth all over the floor.

“Okay, right, not that one either. I don’t know how to clean that up, so we’re just going to move over here.” Nibbs ushered Quill to the other side of the counter, eyeing the pile of goop warily. “I’ll get Grandad to deal with that later.”

“It stinks in here,” Quill murmured.

“Yeah, well, it happens.” Nibbs said.

Quill poked. “Does it really?”

Nibbs sighed, then shook her head, her hair swishing back and forth. “No, that’s actually a first for me. These wands really do not like you. I’m sorry!”

Moving onto the next box, Nibbs proudly declared. “Blackthorn wood with a unicorn-tail hair – quite contradictory, if I do say so myself – standing at around nine inches, bit small, but you know, that’s alright, it’s all in the motion you know, and it’s quite swishy. Go on, try it.” As she handed it to Quill, she took more than a few steps away, as if waiting for something to explode.

Quill nudged it tentatively with her forefinger, then made a grab for it when nothing bad happened. A gentle warmth flooded through her hand as she let out a sigh of relief. She was magical. She was magical. She was magical. Quill was a witch. A real one. She had a wand right in her hands. “I did it, I did it, I did it!” She cheered, waving the wand up and watched as bouquet of flowers shot out its end. The flowers drifted to the floor, a few of which scattered into the muck.

“Thank Merlin,” Nibbs said, sounding just as relieved as Quill. “I was beginning to run out of ideas. Just in time, too. We have another customer. When you’re done, I would go and find Penn. She’s a bit glum over her mistake. She’ll be happy to have you with her!”

Quill nodded, then paused. “Wait, what’s your wand?”

“I don’t know. What’s my sun sign?”

“Aquarius,” Quill grinned. “You’re all Aquarius.”

Nibbs let out a genuine smile. “Rowan, now shoo.”

Quill grabbed her wand and openly squealed, ignoring the weird looks she got from the other family. She walked outside, intent on lingering around in wait for Snape. This was an unfortunate beginning, to be sure, but it was going to get better. Quill wasn’t always an optimist, she was certainly more of a glass-half-empty kind of girl, but what could go wrong in a world filled with magic? These were going to be the best seven years of her life. 

Chapter Text

Inky remembered that fateful night the best of the four, though, being at the beginning of their journey, she was not quite aware of that fact just yet. The day she found out, however, she would be unsurprised. Inky, after all, was the one to put the entire situation together. It was she who had delved into the craft first. It was she who had gathered the girls and tended to them, ripening them like fruit.

One fact about Inky? She loved women, adored them, in a deeply, soufully platonic way. Since elementary school, Inky had craved the connection she saw in the movies. The ease of friendship, the bonds of sisterhood, and so on. And yet, for her entire life, people avoided her like the plague. It was as if she had something inside of herself that naturally repulsed people. Maybe she was too white? Maybe she was too black? That was the curse of being Creole – she was always going to be something other. Too much of everything, not enough of anything.

It took Inky a while to find her people. She’d met Nibbs first. Nibbs had been one of her first online friends. For the longest time, Inky likened herself to the whale whose song could be heard by none of its own kind. It lived its life alone, destined to live life forever alone. Then, someday, someone answered the call. It was silly. Truly, it was. Inky had logged onto the long-dead Pixie Hollow game, which had been bootlegged and re-uploaded online. Only most people didn’t know that the fairy game from their childhood could be found once more, so it was like wandering a wasteland of whimsy and nostalgia. And yet, Inky had found her, had found the little fast-flying fairy playing a mini-game. Together, they’d become fast friends, having realized they were the same age, having lived very similar childhoods.

Quickly after, Nibbs had introduced Penn to their group. In the real world, the two of them were cousins. Inky had stumbled into Quill not long after, having argued with someone over the technicalities of a spell in some subreddit. Inky knew she had to have her. It was an instant connection. Their life had quickly evolved into rituals, spells, and escapist fantasies burgeoning from the worsening times. Most of them didn’t work, but some did – and that was all Inky needed. Inky liked to think she had the most natural level of power among the girls. In that way, she was kind of like the leader of their quartet. It was she who had suggested the eternal shift, after all – the adventure that didn’t need to end.

When Inky woke up in a musty, moth-eaten bed, her black curls still encased in a purple, satiny bonnet, the first thing she did was kick her feet and squeal. It didn’t matter that the room she was in smelt strongly of a strange sort of sour odor – or that the bedding she sat on felt damp in weird places and probably hadn’t been washed in at least a decade. She ran her fingers down the crushed velvet, her front teeth biting at her lips. Her hands were smaller, younger, as was expected.

It was decided, rather, Inky had decided, that she would be a lost heiress, unlike the other girls. One of her favorite characters ever in the entire franchise had to be Sirius Black – and while she read more fics of him being gay than anything, she had to have him as her father. So in a brief bout of mistaken heterosexuality, she’d been made. To fit into the world more, she’d given herself an Irish accent. Soft and lilting, she’d been inspired by Nicola Coughlan and her home of Galway. It was something all four of the girls had been insistent on: no strange questions on their Americanisms, as it would give them away entirely. Inky had never left New Orleans, having lived and been the caretaker of her grandmother for pretty much her entire life.

Inky got off of the bed – the floorboards creaked beneath her feet. She reached for the door and yanked at it excitedly. It opened for about a total of two seconds before slamming right back shut. Whatever happiness she felt died in the span of a second. Inky reached to pull open the door once more and winced as it about snapped itself off the hinges at the speed it fitted itself right back into its place.

“Damn,” she said. “What in the world?”

There was the sound of a clearing throat. Inky looked and yelped at the sight of a strange creature looking right back at her. It had a long, almost deflated nose that sagged off of its face and a pair of bulbous, yellow eyes. It’s ears hung down to its shoulders. It wore a strange, dirtied toga-like dress. “Mistress says the filthy half-breed must stay in its room.”

Inky gaped, having never been spoken to like that in her life. New Orleans was a very naturally diverse, very open sort of place. While the systemic racism was still deep in its roots, it was a different sort of place. Inky had never been called a ‘half-breed’ before, at least, not to her face. “Pardon moi?”

Kreacher, because this had to be Kreacher, slapped his hand to his face and spoke in a very plain, very professional level of English. “It’s not a race thing. Kreacher knows how it might be considered a race thing, but Kreacher feels he must explain that it is not the case. You’re a filthy half-breed because Mistress found out your mother was an Irish muggle.” He stressed that last word.

“I don’t know. It still feels very racially targeted.” Inky said, blinking slowly.

“Filthy muggle nonsense!” Kreacher declared. “You’re disgusting because you’re not fully magic. Just half magic. Your veins are coated with the mud of the mundane.”

Inky rubbed at her chin. “Aren’t you fully magic.”

Kreacher balked. “That’s different. Kreacher is nothing more than a vile worm, built for nothing but to kiss his Mistress’s feet and use her sweat to purify the floors.”

Inky suddenly felt very wary over the floors she stood upon with her bare feet. “You rub Walburga’s sweat into the floors?”

“That’s Honorable Grandmother, to you! Filth!” Kreacher declared, then sniffed. “The half-breed reminds Kreacher so much of Master Regulus. He can’t understand why Master Regulus would ever dare breed with someone so lesser than himself.”

Inky jerked her head up. “What?”

“Master Regulus copulated with muggle Irish filth!” Kreacher threw himself onto the floor and began to sob. “Now Kreacher has to lock away the family secret until it dies a slow, horrible death.”

“No, no,” Inky tried to softly correct. “I’m the child of Sirius Black. Not Regulus. Definitely not Regulus. I wrote Sirius Black on the paper.” Her voice got more higher pitched than it normally was as she began to think back onto what she wrote. The night before was already beginning to blur. No, no, no, no!

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Kreacher said in between sobs. “Sirius Black was a raging homosexual! He would never have been able to do it all the way!”

Inky collapsed back onto the bed and joined Kreacher in his sobs. “And Regulus isn’t? I wanted to be the daughter of Sirius Black,” she cried. “I was going to get to ride on his motorcycle. I can’t believe this is happening to me.”

After about fifteen minutes of self-pity, Inky tore her head off of the pillow. “Kreacher,” she called out. “Are you really going to keep me in here until I die. It really just clicked that that’s what you said.”

Kreacher sniffled. “Kreacher does not want to kill the spawn of his most favorite master, but his Mistress insists, but Kreacher pities the poor filthy creature.”

“Well,” Inky said, trying to play to his pity. “Don’t you think I should at least get the chance to grovel before Honorable Grandmother, to, you know, try and make amends for the filth of my blood?” It felt awkward to speak in such a way about herself. It was oddly reassuring to know it was just a magic thing – and not an ethnicity thing, though she didn’t like how he kept emphasisng her Irishness. Mostly because she wasn’t actually. Inky just didn’t want to be English, which she felt was fair.

Kreacher tilted his head. “Kreacher is under strict orders!”

Inky then felt compelled to try something. “Let me out.” She said, turning her simple request into a sudden, haughty demand. “As the heiress of this family, I have some sway over you – and I now demand that you let me out.” She didn’t like how it came out of her so easily. It was something her friends teased her about – the fact that Inky knew her worth, that she was a self-care queen, and anything along those lines. Inky could be a bit of a snob, a bit uppity, and she was rather self-concious about it. She had no idea where it came from. She hadn’t exactly grown up in an abundance of wealth.

Kreacher’s face slackened as he turned towards the door. He waved his hand and it opened. He collapsed to the floor into a strange fit of self-mutilation, tearing at his ears until Inky saw droplets of blood. “Stop!” Inky said, already feeling sick. “Stop it!” The house-elf stopped, freezing, then cried.

As much as she wanted to comfort him, Inky looked at the open door and knew it was probably one of her only chances to try and get Walburga to see reason. That, or she can escape out onto the street and find some sort of magical law enforcement. She walked outside the door and into the halls of Grimmauld Place. In its prime, she imagined it must have been a beautiful home. Portraits of her now ancestors moved through the halls, staring at her warily. Sure enough, she had no doubt they knew of her parentage and of her so-called sullied blood.

She heard the sound of a hacking cough – the sort of cough that tore out the throat. She wandered into what must have been the sitting room at one point in time. An older woman, thickened with age, sat in a green winged-chair. Her black hair was touched with silver and underneath her gray eyes were severe lines and bags. There was a fire burning in the pit. It was the beginning of summer.

“Kreacher, stoke the fire,” Walburga sighed, having heard the sound of footsteps. “I am so cold. I’m always so cold. When will this misery end?”

“Have you considered being a decent person?” Inky asked gently.

“You,” Walburga sneered, but her eyes did not leave the fire. “I should have known. That damned elf. Can never do anything right. He won’t be joining his mother on the mantle.”

Inky huffed out a laugh. “It’s not his fault and you know it. The house considers me its heiress – it demands that Kreacher listen to me.”

“You shouldn’t know that,” Walburga said, suspicion coating her words. “I found you roaming the Irish countryside, child of filth, I had been looking for my family’s blight for quite some time. Why my Regulus betrayed me so, shamed his family the way he did, I shall never know. But it is not the first time a man in war has to sate his lust on something inferior, given the absence of quality.”

“That’s disgusting.” Inky scoffed, crossing her arms.

“That’s life,” Walburga croaked. Her face seemed to seize up. “You are here to haunt me.”

“You cannot kill me. I am on the school registry. I’ll be attending Hogwarts.” Inky swallowed. “And...And you’re dying. Aren’t you? You definitely don’t have long.” It was a guess. Not a hard one to make.

“More things you shouldn’t know.” Walburga huffed, finally turning her gaze to Inky. “You have his eyes – our eyes. Like frosted iron. They know far too much for what should be an ignorant girl.”

“You never intended to let me die in there,” Intuition was a witch’s greatest gift. Inky’s words were consumed by the heat of the moment, flowing out from an innate sense of knowing. This was not the first dying old woman that Inky had seen. Her Nana had been much the same before passing. Grumpy, reflective, dying with old biases kept close to her chest, yet with a hand more open than before.

Walburga did not respond to it, for her eyes had shifted into sleep, loud bear-like snores sounding in the air. Inky took it as a form of reluctant acceptance, gratified by the fact that she was never going to die here. She only wondered why. It seemed perfectly in character for Walburga to kill her, but maybe the old woman was eager to cling to the last of her line – even if dirtied.

Inky took the time to explore. She was well aware that there were many dark artifacts in the house – she was also aware of the biggest one. Slytherin’s locket, the horcrux. To tamper with it or to not. That was the question. It was capable of possession. She wondered if there was an apparition hidden inside: one of Tom Riddle’s ghosts, so to speak. An incredibly sexy, thirty-year-old slice of a spirit that was more evil than not. Drool-worthy, but dangerous: her kryptonite.

Yeah. Probably best to wait. At least until she had access to Quill and together, they could plan and research. There were so many fanfiction theories as to how horcruxes worked – and now, they were in the position to put those theories to the test. Inky tried to quell her giddiness. It was the sort of feeling that made her want to hop around on her feet and hug something tight to her chest. But. She was Inky. She didn’t do things like that. She was cool, poised, a real lady. Yet, she had done it. She was here. Inky could get a quick-start on canon – she could. She and the girls knew where all of the horcruxes were and had a pretty specific idea as to how to beat them.

Inky wondered about the timing of it, all of course. Where was Harry Potter right about now? Inky had no idea the date. She snapped her fingers, “Kreacher,” she whispered. There was a solid pop as the house elf could do nothing to resist her commands. She turned to the poor thing. “What’s the date?” She asked. “In fact, give me the whole newspaper.”

Within mere moments, she had an issue of the Daily Prophet in her hands. The desire to act like an idiot yet again consumed her. She was not Penn, Inky decided, and thus would casually open it up like a normal person. The pictures moved along the ink. To think, people thought this was magical sometime ago. Wizards would be incredibly shocked by muggle social media. Though she only been away from it for a few hours at best, Inky didn’t miss it. She hadn’t thought of it even once. Well, okay, so maybe it was on the back of her mind quite a bit of a lot.

Inky let out a teeny, tiny, little sigh of relief at the date: it was late May, which meant that canon had not officially started. She knew sometime during the summer, Harry Potter would release a snake, get locked away in his room, and the Dursleys would go to live in some shack in an attempt to escape Harry Potter’s fate. Inky had time. Not a lot of time, mind you, but time. Inky didn’t know exactly what just yet, but she could kickstart something. Anything. Harry Potter’s destiny was in her hands. She knew his location on Number 4 Privet Drive in boring town of Little Whinging, which was in Surrey, which was….someplace outside of London? Inky tried not to think about the thrill such a thing gave her (or about her poor geography skills). She might not have managed the landing exactly right, but Inky was far from having a rough start. She was still a Black. She had power, money. Inky only hoped her idiot friends had done something similar. But, if she was the most powerful of their four, knowing them, they were straight out of luck.

“Kreacher, when do Hogwarts letters typically go out?” She asked.

“June,” the house-elf grumbled, not too pleased to be ordered around by the likes of her.

“You’ll have to help me, you know. I think, at this point, it’d be considered elder abuse to drag Honorable Grandmother to Diagon Alley. Do I have a trust fund? Am I trust fund baby? Because that would help out a lot.” Kreacher, being an unpaid slave, didn’t actually seem to know the heart of the Black family’s banking details as he gave a strangled sound and promptly disappeared.

Inky frowned. “That was rude.”

She shook her head – and looked at the house she now half-owned: time to rummage through it and hope she doesn’t get cursed. It always killed her on the inside when Mrs. Weasley had just taken to throwing everything out. Inky was sure there were precious items, invaluable, that had been thrown out simply because they had the audacity to be of a darker magic. Inky thought this as she passed through the corridor with all of the house-elf heads tacked along the walls. Okay, so maybe there were a few things that could be thrown out. God - or, Merlin, she should say, she had to prepare for the awkward interaction between her and her now uncle. She’d been so stoked to call him her father. The fact she was now his niece might change their dynamic some. Inky wished she could say Sirius didn’t seem the type to hold a grudge, but the entire world would know she’d be lying.