Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

1980

New York, U.S.A.

Carmine and Viola Le Fay were proud to say they were perfectly extraordinary people, thank you very much.

Carmine had recently been appointed as MACUSA’s Secretary of State. Though his family had left England generations ago, he took great pride in his family’s legacy. He took meticulous care of all the family assets and housed the entire Le Fay library in his Manhattan townhouse where he could keep a close eye on it. 

Everything about him screamed nobility—a feature inherited from generations of ancestors leading all the way back to Ancient Greece. His facial structure was sharp, noble, intimidating. His eyes were a subtle amber, a color that would have been unsettling were it any brighter or vivid. Many often had a difficult time maintaining eye contact, which only lent his reputation more power.

Viola had a different legacy than her husband’s, and unlike him, she was not proud of it.. Her father and mother were non-magical, and she hated any reminder of that fact—hated anyone who dared look down on her for it. She had scratched, clawed, and worked her way to becoming the Head of the American Auror Department. 

Her appearance served as a jarring contrast to her disposition. Where Viola’s interior was sharp, demanding, and cold, her golden hair, cupid’s bow lips, and button nose, made her look closer to a fairy princess than the ice queen lurking underneath.

For such proud people, the thought of producing anything but perfect and powerful children was simply unacceptable. Their first daughter was already proving to be mediocre—they could not allow another mistake. Especially with the eyes of the public trained firmly on them. 

A stillborn child, for example, was unacceptable. 

But they were not completely without options. Le Fays did not give up. Ever.

What most people did not know was that Morgana Le Fay, Carmine’s direct ancestor, had been stillborn. Her mother had been half fae. Desperate to save her child, she used the fae magic within her to take a soul from another world—a soul without a body to call home—and placed it into her child’s body. 

And thus Morgana Le Fay was born, kick-starting a legacy that had helped to shape western magical Civilization. 

Due to the unusual nature of the magic in their Blood, stillborns were not uncommon for the Le Fay family, and it was not uncommon for the parents to acquire the missing parts through … less than savory means. 

They had everything to gain, and in their eyes, nothing to lose.

So, under the light of a blood moon on Ostara, they took the cold infant body without a soul deep into the Catskills in New York.

~~~~~

Margaret liked being normal. 

If you had asked her at fourteen she might have said otherwise, but at twenty she was perfectly content with her normal life, her perfectly imperfect loving family, her stereotypical suburban childhood home in Northern Arizona, and her completely normal, bright future. 

Her middle school experience was hell, but concurrent enrollment and AP classes had kept her busy enough in high school that she was finally able to crawl out of her shell enough to engage with life. When she graduated high school, she was already halfway finished with her Bachelor’s degree and was able to get a good scholarship at a school out of state for the second half. 

She was a perfectly normal English major (Legal Studies Minor) with perfect grades, attending school events, going to parties, drinking refreshments at said parties she wasn’t legally supposed to, and getting a little too intense about their school’s rivalry with the neighboring university.

It was all right for her to let loose a little, because she’d factored it into her life plan. So long as she continued following that general path, she knew she’d be okay. 

Her family was proud. She was proud. Everything was perfect.

Until the Blood magic.

~~~~~

Most of the time, the List home in Phoenix, Arizona, was quiet. The only occupants were typically just Eric and Alicia List, and their fourteen year old son, Andy. 

But on March 20th that year, it was the fullest it had ever been. 

Margaret, child #3 and the only daughter, had not only finished her Bachelor’s degree a semester early at only twenty years old, but she had been accepted to a top-14 law school with a full-tuition scholarship.

Jeremy, the eldest son, had flown from Los Angeles with his wife Emma and their infant daughter Maggie, using vacation days he, as a workaholic, probably wouldn’t have used anyway.

Jordan, the second-eldest, had driven almost seven hours to visit home during his medical school’s Spring Break, even though he probably should have been studying for finals. 

Margaret had driven her belongings from her student apartment in Salt Lake City to her parents’ home in Phoenix, where she planned on living until term started in August.

In the living room, laughter from young Andy’s latest joke faded as a very red-faced Eric List lifted his champagne flute high. 

“Attention, my beautiful family!” he called, his speech slightly slurred. “I just want to take this opportunity to tell you all how very, very proud I am of all of you. Today, though, is about Maggie in particular—Maggie the elder, not Jeremy’s Maggie, who I know we’re all praying is being good for Jenna next door.”

“Doubt it,” laughed Emma from her place curled up in Jeremy’s lap on an armchair.

Eric chuckled warmly. “Yeah, you’re probably right. But, back to Maggie.” He looked directly at Margaret now, grinning so wide it was a wonder his face didn’t split in half. “Maggie. Margaret. My only daughter, and my most formidable foe who loves to make me look like a moron every time she visits home. I’m not complaining—I’m glad I have such intelligent children—but I do wish her future spouse luck, because unless he’s also a debate champion, that poor bastard’s never going to win a single argument.” 

Margaret flushed a bright pink as her mother, sister-in-law, and brothers heartily laughed.

“But seriously, Maggie,” Eric continued, sobering slightly, “you’ve been through some tough times. There would have been no shame in taking a different route—a safer, easier route. We’d’ve been proud of you no matter what you did. But you knew what you wanted, the life you pictured for yourself. 

“Instead of allowing your past pain to make you bitter, you turned it into motivation to be better. I’m proud of how hard you’ve worked, but I’m so much prouder of the woman you’re becoming. So here’s to you, honey. To Maggie.” 

Margaret flushed a dark pink as everyone else echoed the toast. Her dad finished off his drink and wrapped her in a bone-crushing hug. 

“Thanks, dad,” she breathed in a shaky whisper, blinking back tears. 

“I love you, kiddo,” Eric said as he pressed a kiss to her crown. 

Margaret tucked her face in his shoulder. “Love you too.” 

After her dad came her mom, who was nearly a whole head shorter but managed to envelop her anyway. 

“I still can’t believe all of this–” Alicia said when she pulled away, gesturing at Margaret’s head “–came out of me. That big brain must’ve come from your father, because it certainly didn’t come from me.”

Margaret rolled her eyes. “That’s a load of horse crap and you know it. You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met in my life—Andy, don’t even think about touching that fucking glass.” 

A loud whine. Margaret turned around to pull her champagne out of the teen boy’s reach. 

“But you get to drink!” he whined. “You’re not even twenty-one!” 

“Do as I say, not as I do,” retorted Margaret. “You, kid, are staying far away from drugs and alcohol until you are at least twenty-one.”

Andy whined and turned to his mother, who simply shrugged. “I don’t like it when Maggie drinks either, but she’s legally an adult. And champagne isn’t half as bad as Jungle Juice.” 

Margaret’s face went bright red. “How did you–” 

“You trust your roommate far too much—you’re lucky I’m such a chill mom,” said Alicia breezily as she stepped away to refill her own glass.

Margaret took a sip of champagne and turned back to Andy. “Anyway, point is, no booze for you. That’s why mom got the sparkling cider, don’t let it go to waste.”

“You mean why you told mom to get the cider,” said Andy with a pout. “I’d be at Mrs. Jorgensen’s house right now if you didn’t make mom and dad let me stay.” 

“I didn’t make them do anything.” Margaret pulled him into a side-hug. “I just told them how much I wanted you here, and since this is my party, I get final say.”

Frowning, Andy curled into Margaret’s embrace and pressed his face into her shirt. She set her glass down and hugged him fully. He was getting taller, but he was still short enough that she could put her chin on his head.

“I don’t want you to go to D.C.,” he mumbled after a moment.

“What?” Margaret pulled back enough to look him in the eye. “What do you mean? Once I’m, as you said, a ‘hotshot lawyer’ I’ll be able to get that beach house in California and take you to Disneyland every summer, remember?”

Andy shrugged and looked down. “Yeah, but… you’ll be gone. I looked it up, Washington D.C. is two thousand three hundred miles away—that’s a five hour flight. You’ll only get to visit for Christmas, and maybe not even then. You won’t even be here on my birthday.”

Margaret softened at the tears forming in his eyes. She pulled Andy into the hall and wrapped him in another hug, tighter this time. More like a mother than a sister.

“You’ve always been here,” continued Andy, his voice thick with emotion. “Before you went to college you were here more than Mom and Dad… but now you’re going even further. And D.C. is the capital, it’ll be a huge target for terrorists, won’t it? What if you never come back?”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Margaret cupped his face gently and brushed away his tears. “Andrew, I swear I will never leave you. We’ll FaceTime every single day, I’ll text every morning and night, and I’ll do whatever I need to be there on your birthdays.”

Andy wiped his nose on his sleeve. “But what if you forget all about me?”

Margaret yanked him right back into a hug. “I will never leave you, not permanently,” she said, her throat tight with emotion. “Wind, rain, snow, fire—doesn’t matter. I’ll kill a bitch for you. You won’t lose me. And I couldn’t bear losing you.

“Just focus on yourself while I’m gone, okay? Don’t rush through being a kid like I did. Make friends. Have fun. Get in trouble, but not too much trouble—do not become a headline.  Can you promise me that?”

Andy laughed wetly. “I promise I won’t become a headline.”

“Good.” 

The door to the living room suddenly swung open and Eric list stumbled out, looking much less sober than he had during his speech.

“I forgot to pick up your cake,” he said, pulling his keys from his pocket. “I’m gon— gonna go get it from Albie’s.”

“Whoa, dad,” said Margaret with a laugh, “you’re in no condition to get behind the wheel—let’s not flirt with tragedy.” She plucked his keys from his hand. “I’ll get it for you. I’m probably the most sober person here, anyway. Albie’s Bakery, you said?”

Eric looked guilty. “Yeah. I’m sorry, honey, I was gonna pick it up earlier—“

“Don’t apologize,” Margaret said, waving him off. “You’re busy. I get it.”

Andy folded his arms with a huff. Margaret knew what he was thinking: Mom and Dad are always busy.

Andy was young, and Margaret had shielded him from reality for long enough that he didn’t fully understand why their parents couldn’t be home as much as they wanted to. All he knew was that he was heating up leftovers by himself almost every night, just like Margaret had once done for them both.

“I’ll come with you,” said Andy, but Margaret shook her head. 

“Albie’s is less than a ten minute drive away,” she said, “and I know for a fact you haven’t eaten any dinner. Go eat some pizza, and I’ll be back just in time for you to be ready for dessert.” 

Andy whined, but nodded. “‘Kay,” he grumbled, before turning and trudging back into the living room.

Eric sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I really am sorry, honey, I swear I meant to get it, but then I worked a double yesterday and your mom was stuck in the ER all night–”

“Dad, it’s okay,” said Margaret. “If the cake is all ready and if I take the freeway, I’ll be back in less than half an hour. Not a big deal.”

“If you’re sure it’s okay–”

“I’m sure. I’ll be back in a few.” Margaret hugged him quickly and walked toward the garage door. “Love you.” 

“Love you, honey.”

“Drink some water, old man.”

She gave him one last smile before snatching her purse from the hook closing the door. Whistling, she turned to her mom’s Civic and rolled her eyes at the bumper sticker that read: Always. Next to it was a picture of Snape’s doe Patronus.

She hadn’t interacted with Harry Potter since she was fifteen years old. Her mom didn’t support it either, but she was just so busy she kept forgetting to peel it off. 

When she got into the car, she plugged in her phone and set her Spotify to shuffle, tapping her fingers to the beat of a recent Lady Gaga song as she pulled into the street.

“–Now you’re both in a trance, time to cast your spell on the night…” she mumbled as she pulled up toward an intersection. The red light bathed over the car, and something in Margaret’s gut (probably the pizza from dinner) jerked painfully. 

She ignored it and slowed to a stop before the line.

“Abracadabra, amor ooh–” her voice died as a paralyzing chill crawled up her spine.

The air in the car went cold. Margaret’s fingers grew stiff and cold, and against her will, her grip on the wheel tightened.

A trickle of unease crept into awareness. The air buzzed with an odd, unfamiliar, nauseating energy.

Somehow, for some reason, she couldn’t force her muscles to move.

Then, though she had not wanted to move, her foot lifted off the brake. It didn’t press on the gas, but it didn’t need to in order to roll down the slight incline she was currently on. 

Slowly, the car inched forward. Margaret’s heartbeat grew louder the closer to the center she rolled. On all sides, the roads curved before reaching the light, which meant she couldn’t be seen by oncoming cars.

 Why couldn’t she move?

It wasn’t paralysis; her foot had moved, but it had done so without her permission. Her hands wouldn’t move either, but her head slowly began to turn to her right. Her eyes stared into the darkness without blinking. Even when her eyes grew dry and started to scream in protest, they still refused to blink.

Suddenly, her foot stomped on the brake and she jerked to a stop smack-dab in the middle of the intersection.

Her fear turned into full-blown panic..

She couldn’t move! Why wasn't her body listening to her?

Her window was down in the corner of her eye. There were houses and businesses nearby. If she could just make herself scream, someone was bound to hear her, right? Someone could help her. Pull her body from the car, at the very least, before someone sped around the corner 10 miles over the speed limit like literally everybody did on this road and–

Focus, she chided herself.

Open your mouth. Scream.

Eyes still trained on the dark road to the right, she concentrated.

Relax the jaw. Loosen muscle keeping jaw shut. A crocodile’s downward bite force is nearly unmatched, but its ability to force its mouth open is pathetic in comparison. That is how researchers are able to tie their jaws shut with ropes and put those cameras on their heads to record their nighttime behaviors.

Don’t force it. Don’t strain. Just slip out of the ropes.

Her lips parted. Her jaw remained shut. Was she imagining it, or was the dark road getting lighter?

Nope, it was getting lighter. Another car was coming. And she was firmly stopped in the intersection.

No time to scream. 

Don’t force my foot from the ropes.

Don’t wrench it. Don’t pull away.

The light was getting brighter.

Just… slip–

Her fingers uncurled from the wheel. The horrible twist in her gut worsened and her hand jerked. Was her appendix bursting? Odd heart attack pains that had migrated?

Or maybe it was something else. 

Whatever this is, it’s prepared for a struggle. 

So, she did the opposite. She relaxed. Completely. 

The lights grew brighter. A truck swerved around the corner.

It seemed that whatever this was was surprised or wasn’t built to adapt quickly, because for one glorious moment, the feeling lessened enough for her to regain control over her foot and slam onto the gas just in time to avoid the big pickup that hit the horn and flashed her the bird as it zoomed by.

A hysterical giggle left her lips. She sped out of the intersection and forced her head back to a forward-facing position–

–only to come face-to-face with a pair of headlights.

~~~~~

“…sped into the wrong lane…”

“...semi-driver … stroke … couldn’t stop…”

“...Eric and Alicia are waiting out there … no idea what to tell them…”

The voices swam in Margaret’s head, but as time went on, she finally got the gist:

When she hit the gas, she had sped into the left lane and ran straight at a semi-truck at the same moment the other driver had a stroke and died at the wheel.

The doctors were shocked that her insides were still technically her insides. But clearly their knowledge couldn’t be trusted much, since they thought their painkillers were actually having an effect when they were definitely doing diddly-squat. Margaret felt every tug, every cut, every suture, every cauterization.

She began praying for death less than halfway in.

Eventually it ended, and she felt herself being rolled for a while, then transferred to a new bed (and by god, if that wasn’t almost as agonizing as the surgery itself), then covered with blankets.

A few minutes passed.

Then the door opened, and a bloodcurdling, gut-wrenching sound cut through the quiet.

“Oh god,” the voice of her mother choked out, “oh, my baby… how— why…”

“Oh my–” Jordan. She heard someone—probably him—run into the connected bathroom and vomit into the toilet.

Sheesh. She must’ve looked really bad.

She heard Andy’s hiccup, then Eric murmuring his name and the rustle of fabric and the slide of a door—her father had pulled her little brother from the room.

A trembling hand grasped hers and then she felt a kiss being pressed on the back of her palm. “When do you think she’ll wake up, Dennis? And how long are we talking, recovery time?” 

The doctor cleared his throat. “Alicia… I am so sorry, but the extent of her injuries, we’re barely keeping her alive as it is. She… we don’t have much hope that she’ll ever wake up.”

Silence. A hiccupped sob—Emma. The hand holding hers tightened painfully. Margaret wanted to cry out, to tell her mom to loosen the grip, but she couldn’t.

“You don’t know my sister,” said Jeremy’s voice, his voice trembling with rage. “She’ll wake up just to spite you now. Wait and see.”

“I…” The doctor sighed. “I hope you’re right, Jeremy. I really do.”

~~~~~

The next few months were pure hell.

Margaret never stopped feeling everything, hearing everything too. She never gained the strength to make noise or give any sign of life, and for some reason the monitor scanning brain activity continued acting erratically and kept messing up readings that would have ascertained her mental state.

Nobody knew she was awake.

She had to listen to her mother blame her father every time they argued over her unresponsive body.

Four months into the constant, waking nightmare, as her father was sitting by her bedside and reading her the news, she felt a stack of papers land on her leg. Pain sizzled up her exposed nerves.

“What’s this?” she heard her father ask.

She heard her mom sigh. “I can’t. Just read it.”

“What?” The weight of the papers lifted. “Ali, you can’t be serious. When did you even have time to get a lawyer to draft these?”

Horrified realization dawned.

No, please no. Margaret wished she could cry, tell them to stop fighting, to fix their relationship, to stay a family, but she couldn’t move. She was trapped in her own body, in so much pain she couldn’t even sleep to escape the eternal beep of the heart monitor.

Alicia laughed, the sound thick with tears. Then, “My baby is gone, Eric. My only girl. My pride and my joy. I’ll never see her smile again, or hear her laugh, or see her graduate, or help her pick out a wedding dress, or hold her children–” A sob. “You couldn’t pick up a stupid cake at a store only ten minutes from our house, and now I’ll never be complete again. I know you didn’t mean it, and I still love you, but at the same time I can’t stop myself from hating you, too.”

“You’re giving up hope,” came Eric’s shaky voice now. “There’s still brain activity–”

“Erratic, spotty brain activity,” Alicia snapped. “Nothing conclusive. The only reason they haven’t legally declared her is because we work here. None of these people can declare our daughter dead and then bear to look us in the eye again. Look at her, Eric.” She was dissolving into sobs, each word punctuated by a hysterical hiccup. “You can read her the news and all her favorite books and even steeam those Harry Potter movies hoping she’ll wake up and berate you for it all you want, but it won’t change anything.” 

Quiet, ragged breathing. 

Say no, Margaret begged internally. Fight this, fix it—at least for Andy’s sake. Don’t destroy everything.

“Fine.”

Margaret’s heart broke.

Another five months went by.

The next piece of major heartbreak came when Emma was visiting, reading Stoker’s Dracula aloud.

“Come freely,” she read. “Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring–” The sound of the door opening cut her off. “Hey, Jere. You’re here early.” 

A chair scraped against the floor. 

“Jordan’s dropping out of med school,” Jeremy’s tired voice said. 

“What?!” Emma’s voice gasped. “Why?”

“Said he can’t stand to see people recovering while Margaret’s… yea. So, that’s that.”

Silence. “There’s something else,” said Emma. “Tell me.” 

“Remember the South Korea promotion?”

“Yeah.” 

“I got the offer last week. I asked them to let me think about it.” 

“Last week? And you didn’t tell me?” 

“I had to think about it, Em. It’s a great opportunity–”

“Your sister’s here–”

“Don’t.” Jeremy’s voice was low, dangerous. “My sister’s not here. Her body’s here, her heart’s beating, but she’s not—” A choked sound. “My dad’s being cruel, keeping her half-alive like this.” 

Silence again. 

“My job is here, too, Jere. We can’t afford for me to quit.” 

“I know. You and Maggie’ll stay here.”

“What? But–”

“I can’t look at her, Em,” said Jeremy, his voice breaking. “My daughter looks more and more like my sister with each passing day. It’s not forever—just three years. Three years in a place without any reminders of my sister. Then I’ll come back.” 

“Maggie’s still a baby,” cried Emma. “You’re going to abandon me with a toddler–”

The scrape of a chair. “My parents’ll help–”

“They’ve got their own problems too, Jeremy! Andy, the divorce, the house, the hospital bills!” 

Footsteps moving toward the door. “This isn’t a discussion, Emma. I’m going–” 

“Jeremy, if you take that promotion, we are done.”

Jeremy sighed. “If that’s what you want.” 

“It’s not what I want— Jeremy, don’t you dare leave!” 

“Goodbye, Emma.” 

“Fuck you! Come back here, you coward!”

There was a sliding sound, then a click as the door shut.

She heard Emma throw something—the book, probably—and collapse into her chair as she began to cry. 

The remnants of Margaret’s heart shuddered and cracked further. 

Her sanity’s last straw came two weeks before the one-year anniversary of her accident. 

Andy was visiting. He was alone, which wasn’t new, but something was… off about the way he sounded. His pulse under her fingers felt slow and thready. His skin was clammy and cold and dry. Every time he spoke, he sounded dehydrated and exhausted.

She’d been worried about him since she first became aware after the accident, but it had steadily been growing with each visit he made. With each secret he told her when nobody else was around. 

Like the nurse who had been slipping Andy prescription painkillers in exchange for his allowance. 

Their parents were busy with their divorce and their work, Jeremy had left for South Korea, Emma was juggling work and being a single parent, and Jordan had apparently started working copious hours as an Uber driver to pay the bills. Nobody had time to pay attention to her baby brother, who she had always watched closely. He wasn’t used to being unsupervised, and the moment he wasn’t being watched, a predator had pounced. 

Meanwhile, Margaret couldn’t do anything but sit and listen.

“Mom doesn’t know I’m skipping school to be here,” Andy’s scratchy, sad voice said. “I’m actually on probation now ‘cause of how often I’ve skipped. I took another dose of Matt’s Fent stuff about an hour ago, and I’m not gonna show up to Gym high, so…” 

Margaret’s heart bled. The ache in her heart had grown so intense and spread so much that she could no longer distinguish physical from emotional pain. She would have given anything to just hold him, to comfort him, to tell him she loved him once more. That even though she wasn’t there, she would always be with him. 

But she was trapped in the pure hell of her own broken body.

“You broke your promise, Maggie,” he said in a whisper, his words slow and heartbroken. “You said you wouldn’t leave me. B-but you did. I’m all alone. I’m so scared. I can’t live without you here. You promised you’d–” 

A shuddering sigh, then words lined with sobs: “I miss you so much. I can’t do it without you. I just can’t. It– it’s like an elephant on my chest—it’s so bad right now I can barely breathe. I– can never focus, I can’t eat—I’m so tired, too, my eyes can hardly stay open all day. Everything sucks without you. You’re more my mom than Mom is, I don’t wanna–” 

A stuttering gasp, followed by a horrible, choked gurgle. 

Ice flooded Margaret’s paralyzed body, followed by panic. 

“I can’t breathe– What’s– I don’t– I can’t—”

Where are the nurses?! Margaret thought desperately, trying and failing to scream, Somebody help, he can’t breathe, SOMEBODY HELP HIM–

The hand holding Margaret’s jerked as the boy tipped off his chair with a loud clatter. His grip weakened, but stayed firm. Margaret’s finger rested on his pulse. It was slow and growing slower.

“Maggie… I— help– no–”

She had no choice but to listen and lose the last remnants of her sanity as she listened to her baby brother gasping for air that his lungs refused to take. The only thing that remained as he slowly faded was his grip on her hand. 

She heard his last gasps. Felt the last beat of his heart under her finger.

Heard her mother’s screams when she walked in five minutes later. 

Two weeks later, her father finally relented. 

Eric List and Alicia Steere pulled the plug on twenty-one year old Margaret Rosemary List on March 20th. Exactly one year after the accident. 

She welcomed Death with the ghost of a smile.

~~~~~

The afterlife sounded like the woods. Trees rustled above her. Somewhere, an owl hooted. A pebble dug into her back, but the sensation was nothing compared to the last year of her life.

Her body felt weak and sore, but the agony had gone. No stomach-churning smell of burnt flesh, no sticky blood and goop. No broken bones. No fried nerves. No ventilator, no heart-hung bypass machines, no IV, no bandages, no hospital gown that had practically fused to her destroyed skin, no catheter, no more diaper! 

Of all the humiliations that came with being in a coma, the diaper was, without a doubt, the worst. Not the most painful, but if she could’ve eliminated anything from the experience, she would get rid of the diaper first.

Elation flooded through her. Was Andy here? She had to see him. Had to hold him, had to tell him how much she loved him, had to reunite with the boy she practically raised herself. They would wait for the rest of their family together. 

The sound of voices pulled her from her own head. Angels, maybe? She hadn’t been very religious, but her family did go to church for Easter and Christmas, and she had been baptised as a baby—she had tried to be a decent person, too, so there was no reason she wouldn’t be in Heaven, right?

“I can’t believe you nearly wrecked the whole thing,” a deep male voice grumbled. “She wasn’t magical, Vi, how strong could her mind have been? It’s a miracle I managed to skip forward and find the soul again as the plug was pulled but before it could be collected.”

“It’s not my fault if the soul you picked is just as strong as you wanted,” retorted a light, angelic voice. “Next time, you can do the blood-body control and I’ll do the soul transfer.” 

“Baby, we’re never doing this again. Don’t know what my ancestors were thinking—if this gets out, and our reputation, our careers, everything we’ve worked for is done. Viola, maybe–”

“Don’t get cold feet, Carmine,” the woman named Viola hissed. “So long as you properly wiped the soul’s memory, the only people who will ever know about this are you and me. Without the adult memories, the baby’s mind is just that—a baby. She won’t remember. I refuse to have gone through all the trouble of killing someone in another universe–”

“–the semi driver’s stroke makes two someones; the little brother was kind of collateral damage so I guess that really makes three–”

“–and pulling a soul through worlds just for you to bow out now. There’s no going back. No reversing this. You would know, you checked.”

Margaret’s head spun. 

Pulling a soul through worlds? Blood-body control? Her little brother, collateral damage? A baby? Was she a fucking baby?

This had to be some bizarre pre-death hallucination. Or maybe they hadn’t actually pulled the plug and she’d finally lost her mind? 

A memory floated back up. She’d lost control of her own body. Her limbs, her head, even her eyes had moved without her consent. 

Was this real? Had these people done that? Had these people taken her perfect life, her family, her bright future, and ripped it away?

What was happening? 

A whimper vibrated in her throat.

The first sound she’d been able to make in a year.

The voices went silent.

“Did she–“

“Yeah.”

Large hands scooped her up. The pebble no longer dug into her back. 

“Hello, sweetheart,” the male voice—Carmine—cooed. “Welcome to the land of the living.”

Margaret whimpered again. It took all her strength, but she managed to force her eyes open. Through the trees above her, she could see the blurry outline of a full, blood-red moon bathing them in red light, though there was the flickering orange of torchlight coming from the sides.

They landed on a handsome man with sharp, aristocratic features and dark hair. His amber eyes were just shy of being too vivid, too intense to maintain eye contact with. The only thing that ruined his appearance was his horrible seventies porn mustache. 

When he saw that her eyes were open, he smiled. “There you are. And wow, look at those eyes! Almost inhuman. Like mine, but… more.”

“Well, the book did say that some features would be pronounced from the power of the spell.” A woman stepped into view, revealing a sweet-looking woman (though Margaret had a feeling that this woman was anything but) with golden curls and dark brown eyes. Her features were a little more rounded, beautiful in a gentle way. 

Both looked at her with a mixture of joy and a clinical satisfaction that made her gut churn. 

“I just realized we didn’t think of a name,” said Viola. “We should pick something similar to her old name, just in case there’s a lingering aftertaste in her mind. It’ll be easier to brush aside.” 

“You’re right.” Carmine mused. “Not Margaret anymore… maybe Marguerite?”

Viola shot him a look. “Too similar. She’s a different person now. She’s magic—she’s better. How about…” Her lips curled into a deceptively happy smile. “Megara.”

Carmine grinned and placed a quick kiss on the woman’s lips. “Megara Le Fay. I like that.” He looked back down at her. “Hello, Megara. Welcome to your new life.”

Her infant muscles weren’t strong, but she couldn’t bear to look at these people any longer. She forced her head to turn away to take in her surroundings, only to immediately wish she hadn’t. 

They stood in the center of a clearing. All around them were dark shapes piled in a circle—animals. Dozens of mutilated animal carcasses covered in blood. Deer, coyotes, bobcats, a bear, foxes, rabbits, various snakes, wild turkeys, a mountain lion, squirrels, and many more she couldn’t identify.

But the animals weren’t the worst part. 

The worst part was the man tied to the post only a few feet away. Directly at his feet was the bundle of blankets she’d been laying on before. She started at his feet—feet covered in drying blood—and slowly looked upward, her horror growing with every second. 

His intestines were hanging out of his stomach like rotten, slimy sausages. His ribcage had been forced open and now the sharp points faced outward like the world’s worst white-picket fence. Where lungs and a heart should’ve been was empty space and bloody sludge. 

His mouth hung open in a long-since-silenced scream, revealing the bloody stump where his tongue had been severed. And his eyes… they were completely gone. In their stead were two blood-filled, mutilated eye sockets. 

The hollow spaces pierced her soul in a silent accusation.

Margaret—Megara now, opened her mouth for the first time and began to scream.

~~~~~

The nice thing about being magically forced into the body of a baby is that you can wail and scream from sunup until sundown for an entire year and everybody thinks it’s just colic.

She’d been brought into a world with magic. Power had been forced upon her, power she would have traded in an instant if it meant getting her family back. 

In protest, she magically shattered every single lightbulb and dish she saw for months. And instead of thinking of herself as Megara, the name Carmine and Viola loved so much, she chose to think of herself as Meg instead.

The first clue as to the world she’d been dragged into, kicking and screaming, had been the ritual itself. If that wasn’t evil dark magic, she didn’t know what was. The second had been the jet-black wand Carmine pulled out to vanish all of the corpses in the clearing, leaving behind no evidence of their heinous crime. 

The third clue had been the Elf.

Yes, the Elf. Tilly. A sweet little elf with wrinkly skin, eyes the size of tennis balls, and ears almost as big as Carmine’s hand. Tilly wore a clean frilly maid’s uniform instead of a dirty pillowcase like Dobby.

When they teleported back to a luxurious New York penthouse that screamed 1970s, Carmine and Viola had placed her right in Tilly’s arms and told her to give her a bath and put her to bed. 

Meg’s wailing turned to violent shrieks when Tilly put her in a fucking diaper and set her wriggling infant body in a crib to lose her mind all by herself.

She later learned that in Magical America, Elves were not called House Elves but just Elves. This was because Elf enslavement had been outlawed only a few years after the non-magical Civil War. However, that didn’t mean Elves were considered equal in the U.S. Often, the Elf population did often work for wizarding families in a similar way, because magical society moved so slowly they were still learning how to cope with taking care of themselves. It was bullshit, but as a baby, Meg wasn’t really in a position to change things.

Because Carmine and Viola were so self-absorbed, Tilly was the one who had to deal with her. In her defense, though, she had lost more than a couple of her marbles from the whole ordeal. If she had been fully sane for that period, she would have taken it easier on the poor thing.

The screaming eventually quieted, but Meg’s rage never did. 

Carmine and Viola had said that what they did was irreversible. Meg would, of course, check that information herself, then enact her revenge and tear the world apart to get back home, but until she could actually lift the giant ancient tomes in the Le Fay library, all she could do was plot and seethe and stew in her hatred. 

She soon came to find that Viola and Carmine, despite all the effort they’d gone to to ruin her life and bring her into this new magical world, were not doting parents. They didn’t behave cruelly toward her or anything, but Meg only saw them in the mornings before they left for work and when they returned after dark—never in between. Their other child, Lavinia, a pouty girl with dirty blonde hair and brown eyes, was incredibly emotionally neglected. Meg would have felt bad if the jealous child didn’t try to smother her with a pillow once. After being caught and reprimanded by Tilly, the girl then decided to ignore her existence entirely.

It was good, she’d decided. It made it easier to pretend to be a normal baby if the humans of the house rarely saw her. 

And it allowed her to properly digest the world she was now in. 

Though she hadn’t read or watched Harry Potter in years, she’d always had a great memory. She remembered House Elves, she remembered basic spells like Accio and Lumos and Reparo that she saw Carmine and Viola occasionally used. The Floo was also familiar, and she vaguely remembered MACUSA from the Fantastic Beasts movie—she hadn’t gone to see the second and third installments of the prequel trilogy, but she did remember the first one.

So, she came to the entirely reasonable conclusion that either Rowling had somehow peeked into another world and then used that to make up a new conflict for her book, or that Rowling was either a squib or muggleborn and had decided to exploit the secret magical world and invented Voldemort and Harry Potter to make money off of muggles.

She never would have guessed that all of it was real. That Rowling hadn’t invented Voldemort and Harry Potter at all, but might have been documenting real events.

Not until a year and seven months into her existence as Meg. 

 It was seven months after she stopped screaming like a lunatic and had shifted her energy to plotting the downfall of Carmine and Viola. She was sitting in a high chair as Tilly fed her diced peaches—or, she tried to. Meg knew if she was going to kill her soul’s thieves, she had to be extremely proficient in magic—combative magic, especially.

So she practiced levitating things.  

The first time she’d done it a few weeks before, Carmine and Viola had practically jumped for joy. Our child isa prodigy, they had proclaimed. A true Le Fay. Poor, forgotten Lavinia had stomped away to her bedroom. Meg would have felt bad if she hadn’t seen Lavinia attempt to slip window-cleaner into her baby bottle before being caught by Tilly.

Now, Meg levitating food (and launching it at Carmine and Viola) was just as common as the owl delivering the morning paper. 

Carmine fixed himself a cup of coffee as Viola paid the owl and began to read. She only got a few paragraphs in before she sucked in a sharp breath. 

“Carmine,” she whispered as she sank into a seat. “Have you heard anything from the British Ministry?” 

Carmine shrugged and mixed the creamer in his coffee. “I have a meeting with their Minister at noon. If things don’t improve soon they’re hoping we can send some trustworthy Aurors across the pond—which I’m only telling you because you’ll find out later today anyway.”

Viola placed the paper flat on the table, headline facing up. “They’re not going to need us.” 

“What? Why— Oh, sweet Merlin.” Carmine hissed, grabbing the paper and frantically flipping through. “Why was the press told this before we were? I’m going in early.” He slapped it down on the table and continued speaking, but Meg couldn’t hear anything after catching sight of the headline:

DARK LORD VANQUISHED BY THE BOY-WHO-LIVED — PEACE IN EUROPE AT LAST.

Megara’s heartbeat leapt into her throat. 

Dark Lord. Boy-Who-Lived. 

She glanced at the date. 

November 1st, 1981.

The coffee pot exploded, and Meg started to scream again.

~~~~~

By the time she turned five (twenty-six), Tilly had become her closest friend and only ally. 

The sweet Elf helped Meg pretend to be the perfect golden child and prevented her from going at Carmine and Viola with a knife in their sleep when she finally learned that the only way to get home would be to murder at least five innocent souls (it wouldn’t work if she used rapists or murderers, the souls literally had to be innocent) and thus could not go home without becoming someone her entire family wouldn’t recognize.

If she did that, then she definitely would not end up in the same afterlife as Andy and her family anyway.

So, she figured orchestrating Carmine and Viola’s deaths would have to suffice. But to do that without being caught, and to protect her knowledge, she would have to learn occlumency. 

Tilly had come to see Meg as a daughter figure after all the time they’d spent together, so it wasn’t difficult to convince her to help Meg learn. She figured she had the advantage of instilling good habits into a developing brain now, instead of waiting until she was an adult. 

It would help her kill time, too, especially since she couldn’t do any magic that would require a wand until she started school at eleven. She’d need to prove herself capable at school in order to convince Carmine and Viola to make her the sole heir of the Le Fay family name and assets. Only then would she be the sole owner of the ancient Le Fay library and all the knowledge within. Only then could she take everything the Le Fays had and turn it into something they would have loathed.

She figured that would suffice as reparations for what they’d done to her. That, and their slow, sticky, painful, humiliating deaths. 

That would be the sum total of her achievements in this new life. Maybe Margaret would have wanted to step in and prevent some of the tragedies she knew would occur in the U.K. between 1991-1997, but Meg was less inclined to do so. 

She’d already lost everything. Her family, her future, her body, her life. People died every day—she wasn’t obligated to agonize over a few casualties across the ocean.

And if she ever felt guilty about letting Cedric and Sirius and Remus and Tonks and Fred and countless others die by resolving to stay away? She just reminded herself that it wasn’t her problem to fix. She hadn’t asked to come to this world. She hadn’t asked to have this knowledge.

It’s not like she could do much against Voldemort anyway. He was a Dark Lord, and she was just a former pre-law student without a good chunk of her marbles. Not exactly prime Dark-Wizard fighting material.

Besides, everything would turn out right in the end. Mostly. Sure, those kids would be traumatised, but Meg was also traumatised, and she was just fine. Except for the nightmares, of course. But other than that… fine.

~~~~~

The years flew by much faster than Meg expected them to. By the time she turned ten (thirty-one), she had formulated an all new plan for her life: become Carmine and Viola’s sole heir, kill them both the second she became a legal adult, send Lavinia to some far corner of the world, rehaul elven civil rights in Magical America, and live the rest of her life completely alone with only Tilly by her side.

The autumn before she turned eleven brought the first large hiccup. 

Carmine and Viola caught the dragon pox. 

Like the AIDS epidemic sweeping the non-magical world, dragon pox was deadly but not taken seriously by the government because only poorer classes had been affected so far. 

Once Carmine and Viola contracted it, however, the attitude had started to change. But it was too late. The healers who came to the penthouse never said as much, but the way they spoke to her and the always-sour Lavinia said enough: 

They were going to die. Soon.

After all of Meg’s planning, all the poisons she’d researched, they were going to be killed by magical smallpox on steroids. 

“They’re no longer contagious,” a healer told her and Lavinia one day as the big medical team began to file out of the house. “Unfortunately, there’s not much we can do at this time. Make sure your elf gives them plenty of liquids, keep them in bed, apply the creams and lotions we’ve left, and they’ll need the pain medicine as well. One swallow each day.” The healer handed Lavinia a piece of paper. “Here’s the instructions.” 

“Will they be okay?” asked Lavinia, her voice strained. 

The healer hesitated. “I wish I could say,” she said after glancing back at the closed door to Carmine and Viola’s bedroom. “It’s fifty-fifty at this point. They could wake up tomorrow completely healed, but–”

“But probably not,” cut in Meg, maintaining her pretense of a frightened child afraid of losing her parents. “That’s what you’re saying, right?”

The healer crouched down to meet her eye and took her hands. “There’s still hope,” she said softly. “And your parents are strong.” 

Meg’s face screwed up in pain. She ripped her hands from the healer’s and ran right up the stairs to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. 

How could this have happened? What was she supposed to do now? Why did these two keep throwing wrenches in her life plans?

“Tilly!” she snapped. 

Tilly appeared with a small pop. “Miss Meg!” she exclaimed in her squeaky voice. “What did the healer say? Do theys think the Mister and Missus live?” 

“Probably not,” snarled Meg, kicking a pillow and watching it soar across the room. “This ruins everything! I haven’t had a chance to handle the will! How can I—why are you smiling?” 

Tilly was giving her a mischievous smile that she never ever showed to Carmine, Viola, or Lavinia. 

“Tilly knows something Miss Meg doesn’t,” she sing-songed. “Something about Mister and Missus’s will. Something that won’t fix everything, but still fixes lots.”

Meg was at her side in an instant. She grabbed the Elf’s small shoulders desperately. “What is it?! Tilly, please, you have to tell me!” 

“Tilly doesn’t have to do anything,” the Elf teased. “Miss Meg said it herself a million times that she doesn’t have to do anything if she doesn’t want to.” 

“I know what I said,” Meg hissed frantically. “But Tilly, I swear to God, Merlin, Morgana, and Mother Magic herself, if you don’t tell me I will lose my shit–” A small hand covered her mouth.

“Shh!” the Elf ordered firmly. “Sit, calm down, and then Tilly will tell Miss Meg.” 

Scowling, Meg let Tilly push her into a chair. She took a deep breath, held it, and let it out. Tilly made her repeat the action several more times. 

“Good. Now, Miss Meg knows Tilly is very proud of how well she has done after what Mister and Missus did to her.” Meg nodded. “Well, Mister and Missus are very proud of Miss Meg too. Mister and Missus think Miss Meg is a better Le Fay than Miss Lavinia.” 

Meg was gripping the arms of the chair so tightly her knuckles had turned white. “Are you telling me…”

“That Mister and Missus changed their will right after they got sick? That it’s legally binding? Yes.” Tilly looked incredibly proud. “Miss Meg is the sole inheritor of the Le Fay titles and family assets. Miss Lavinia only gets half of the things Mister and Missus earned themselves—none of the family fortune. Miss Meg gets everything else as soon as she turns seventeen.” 

Meg’s growing smile fell at the last sentence. “Seventeen? What if they die before then?”

Now Tilly’s steam lessened. “Miss Lavinia becomes Miss Meg’s guardian. But Miss Lavinia can only use her part of the money. If she uses Miss Meg’s inheritance, it has to be for Miss Meg’s wellbeing. It says so in print.” 

A shadow flitted across Meg’s expression. “That’s… so vague, Tilly. She could buy like, five luxury cars with my inheritance and then get away with it by saying it’s for me. She could move into one of the estates I inherited and claim it’s for my sake. Do I at least have access to the whole thing?” 

“Miss Meg will have sole access to her half of Mister and Missus’s personal fortune immediately. It’s the Le Fay family money that Miss Meg will have to wait for.” 

Meg groaned and flopped onto her bed, yelling into her comforter, “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“Tilly is sorry, Miss Meg. Tilly knows how excited Miss Meg was to get her revenge.” 

Meg shot back up and met Tilly’s gaze once more. “Tilly, tell me. You were just in there with them. You’ve seen Dragon Pox before, when you worked at St. Atticus’ during the war, right? Do you think they’ll live through this?” 

“Miss Meg, I don’t think–”

“Tilly, if this is going to kill them, I need to know. You know the only reason I didn’t go completely nuts after what they did to me was one, occlumency; and two, the knowledge that one day, I would get some semblance of justice. Not just for me, but for my brother and my family, and that semi driver and his family. Carmine and Viola didn’t just kill three people, they ruined at least a dozen more lives in the process. I need to know if I’ll ever be able to make them pay. I need to know what my most likely future is. Please.”

Tilly shifted awkwardly on her feet, but Meg’s pleas were too heart-wrenching to resist for the Elf who had been her only friend for just shy of eleven years.

“If Miss Meg must know…” She sighed and looked down at her shiny uniform shoes. “Tilly thinks it would be a miracle if Mister and Missus lived through the night. Miss Lavinia will most likely be Miss Meg’s legal guardian by sunrise.” 

Meg buried a furious scream in a pillow, a scream that soon morphed into a plethora of curses. Tilly soon wrapped her in a hug as Meg dissolved into angry sobs.

That night, after all the healers were gone and Lavinia had fallen asleep, Meg slipped into Carmine and Viola’s bedroom. She locked the door. The silencing charms cast on the room would do their job tonight.

What she found was not what she had expected. Though, she honestly wasn’t sure what she had expected.

Viola was sitting limply in bed, her skin tinged green except for the red pox pustules covering her head-to-toe. Tears were streaming down her face as she called her husband’s name, only to get no response.

Carmine’s chest wasn’t rising and falling. 

Fury welled up in Meg’s chest. It was far too kind of a death for him. If she’d just arrived thirty minutes earlier… 

Viola had yet to notice her. Meg stayed in the shadows for a few moments longer, watching this woman who had taken so much from her finally know a fraction of the pain that Meg had carried daily for over a decade. 

Good, Meg thought. Let her suffer a bit longer. 

Finally, Meg’s patience began to thin. Sunrise was creeping closer and her time was limited. Viola was looking worse than she had only hours ago—if she continued at this rate, she’d be gone soon too. 

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” 

Viola gasped. Her head snapped toward Meg, and her expression crumpled.

“Megara? Oh, sweetheart, you shouldn’t see this!” she gasped. “Go get Tilly or your sister, your father’s–”

“Dead, yeah,” Meg said flatly. “I can see that.” 

When she stepped into the dim firelight coming from the hearth, she saw Viola’s expression falter. Meg could imagine quite vividly what she was seeing at the moment—it was an expression she’d practiced many times. A cold, vengeful, stony mask. 

She knew she looked frightening in this light, especially someone suffering under the mild delirium brought by the pain of Dragon Pox. She knew the light from the fire made her thick and wavy golden hair glow, and that the angle turned the already bright and unsettling amber of her eyes into inhuman jewels glittering in the darkness. The shadows cast across her face left most of it in darkness. 

Meg was grateful for the small mercy that was her facial structure. Though she’d gotten Viola’s thick golden hair and the classic Le Fay amber eyes from Carmine’s bloodline, her facial structure was remarkably similar to Margaret’s. Her cupid’s bow lips, her dimples, her heart-shaped face, her straight nose.  It was different enough that she would definitely struggle with body dysmorphia all her life, but similar enough that she could force herself to look in the mirror most of the time.

“Megara…” Viola breathed, looking confused. “Why are you in here? You should be in bed.”

Meg slowly stalked forward. “I’m here, Viola,” she said in a cold, controlled voice, “because Carmine fucked up the memory wipe on the night of Ostara in nineteen-eighty.” 

Viola’s face turned from a darker froggy green to a pale, sickly green. 

“W-what?” 

“I think you heard me just fine,” Meg snarled. With every step she took, the more Viola shrunk back. “I remember everything you two did to me. I’ve always been able to remember. You possessed my body, forced me to stop in that intersection. You destroyed my life. Killed that driver. You’re the reason I had to listen to my baby brother die alone from a drug overdose. You ruined not just my life, but the lives of my entire family. You remember doing that, right? I did some research—Blood magic, of all things. The darkest of dark arts. Illegal almost everywhere except in fuckin’ Albania. In the U.K., using it just once gets you a life sentence in Azkaban. What you did would earn you the Dementor’s Kiss, no question.”

“You—” Viola glanced at Carmine’s still body. “We made you better, Megara. We imbued your soul with more magic than most adults could ever hope to possess. You were nothing before, and now you’re–”

“You come from a non-magical family yourself, Viola,” Meg hissed. “You think they’re nothing?”

“Of course, I do!” Viola sneered. “They thought I was odd, they never tried to understand after I got my Ilvermorny letter. No-majes, they’re not like us. We’re better than they are. You’re better than you were, Megara!”

“No, I’m not!” Meg spat. “I was good, and smart, and I had a future. I had a family that loved me! I had a father and a mother–”

“I’m your mother–”

“NO YOU’RE NOT!” Meg nearly grabbed the nearest candlestick and bashed in the woman’s head, but managed to restrain herself. 

Viola went still, wide eyes trained on Meg’s murderous glare.

“My real mother,” said Meg, her voice a deadly hiss, “was Alicia List. She loved my father, Eric, until you murdered me. My entire family fell apart while I was forced to listen. My baby brother, who I practically raised, died afraid and alone. I will never see any of them ever again. Because of you.”

A cold laugh escaped Meg’s lips as she reached Viola’s bedside. “You ruined all Margaret’s life plans when you killed her. Now, you’ve ruined my new plans. Why couldn’t you have lived just a few more years? I mean, I appreciate the inheritance; it’s really the very least you could do after everything. But you’ve also condemned me to being under Lavinia’s thumb for the next six or so years.”

Viola swallowed audibly. “Alright,” she said, her voice shaking. “I understand now. I… I know I’m dying. Carmine is–” A sob escaped. “Call a lawyer right now. I’ll change the will. You’ll receive the Le Fay title and assets now instead of at seventeen.”

Meg studied Viola’s expression. She looked repentant, but one thing Meg had learned very quickly about the woman before her was that she was ruthless. She did not apologize, and she did not accept fault. 

Viola did not change her mind once it was made. Especially not if she felt threatened. She was much more likely to retaliate. It was what made her a great dueller, but a horrible person. 

“No, you won’t,” Meg realized softly, picking up a fallen pillow. “You’re forgetting that I’ve been watching you, studying you for almost eleven years now. You’d sooner take me out of the will entirely than admit you did me wrong. Carmine might have; he was spineless. But you… no. You’re not going to last much longer, and I will not leave without at least some of the justice I’m owed.” 

Viola opened her mouth to scream, but Meg was younger and healthier and therefore much faster. She slammed the pillow over Viola’s face and shoved her on her back. 

A more painful and bloody method would have been more satisfying. But anything else would have raised eyebrows, sparked an investigation.

So, smothering it was. 

“This is for Andy,” Meg snarled, holding the pillow with all her body weight. “For my family. And for me. Rot in Hell, you evil, selfish bitch.” 

Viola screamed weakly into the pillow and grabbed at Meg’s hands and arms. Unfortunately for her, the healers had clipped and filed her nails to nubs so she couldn’t scratch herself and get an infection.

Viola kicked and scratched and let out muffled screams for a solid minute. Finally, she went limp. Meg held the pillow in place for another five minutes just to be certain.

When she checked Viola’s pulse, she found nothing. No heartbeat. No breathing.

Meg slipped the pillow under the woman’s head and adjusted the blankets to make it look like she’d died in her sleep just like Carmine. 

When both were positioned, she stepped back and surveyed the scene. 

The satisfaction she had expected never came. No sense of peace or healing. 

It was because she’d only killed one of them, she figured. If she had been able to kill both, she would feel better. But she didn’t.

She just felt… empty.

With a blank expression, Meg turned around and went back to bed. 

When Lavinia banged on her door the next morning to tell her that Carmine and Viola were dead, she burst into crocodile tears for her “beloved parents”. All the healers, the lawyers, the officers all fell for the act hook, line, and sinker.

Tilly was right. Lavinia got half of Carmine and Viola’s personal fortune and assets. She got the New York townhouse, stocks in their businesses, earnings from investments that would allow her to live comfortably for the rest of her life.

She looked very smug about it until Meg’s inheritance was read.

Just as she had expected, Meg got the lion’s share. She got the old properties in England, the family library, the seats on the British Wizengamot, two-thirds of Viola’s fortune and all of the Family’s money from the days of royalty still sitting in a vault in Gringotts. When she turned seventeen, she would become head of the Le Fay family. She would technically be “Lady” instead of Miss. She would be responsible for passing on the family line, managing all the family’s assets, and if it were the old days, she would dictate who her family members married. 

But Tilly was also right about guardianship. Lavinia was in charge for the next six years and five months.

Lavinia, who was more than a little bitter about the inheritance and far too happy to spend money that rightfully belonged to Meg, immediately moved them both into a property that had been owned by the Le Fay family in the twelfth century and remodeled into a more modern home in the late seventeenth century just before they were dethroned.

Because Merlin never had children, Morgana Le Fay had seized the throne of Magical England over a thousand years before. Until they were overthrown by the creation of the Ministry of Magic, of course.

Lavinia claimed the move was because it would be closer to her budding business, but Meg knew the truth. The true Le Fay ancestral seat was technically a historical site owned by the government, but Gewinnan Hall was the next best thing for anyone who wanted the prestige of the Le Fay name. 

Until Meg turned seventeen, Lavinia would pretend she was the heir. She was the mistress of Gewinnan Hall and Lady Le Fay, and nobody would tell her otherwise.

Worst of all, however, was the location of Gewinnan Hall. 

It wasn’t in the U.S. 

It was just outside of Bath. In England. 

Which meant she wouldn’t be attending Ilvermorny in Massachusetts that coming September, like she’d planned. Instead, she would be attending Hogwarts. And her first year would begin in the fall of 1991. 

Entirely against her will, Meg Le Fay would be attending Hogwarts at the same exact time as the Boy-Who-Lived.

Chapter Text

Her Hogwarts letter arrived in late July.

Meg sat on her new bed in Gewinnan and stared at the envelope blankly.

Miss Megara Le Fay

Smallest Bedroom on the First Floor

Gewinnan Hall

There had been a time when she would’ve given anything to receive one of these letters. Somewhere out there in an alternate world roughly twenty years in the future, Margaret List prayed to receive that letter, to be Sorted, to live in a world where good wins and evil loses.

Of course, she was fully aware that wouldn’t be the case. It wasn’t a story now, but real life, full of very complex, very unpredictable, very real people. And real people rarely acted the way you wanted them to.

“Nope,” she said finally, tossing the envelope aside without breaking the seal. “I do not want to get murdered by Voldemort, thank you very much. Sorry Boy-Who-Lived, I’m not getting involved. I decided that long ago.”

Coward, a little voice in the back of her mind hissed. It sounded like Margaret. Letting little kids fight battles you could prevent altogether.  

She groaned, draping an arm over her eyes. “Shut up, Jiminy.”

Margaret’s voice didn’t stop. Imagine how fucked up Harry’ll be psychologically once he hits adulthood. Or Ron. Or Hermione. 

Fully aware she was acting crazy, Meg hissed, “I didn’t ask for any of this!”

Neither did Harry, Margaret retorted. But he’ll willingly face Voldemort anyway. And he’s eleven. You’re thirty-two. 

Meg groaned and buried her face in a pillow. 

One day, she’d be rid of the ghost of Margaret List altogether, but that day would not arrive any time soon.

You’re no better than Dumbledore, Margaret whispered. Sending children to do all your dirty work.

Ice shot through Meg’s blood. 

“I did not raise a little boy like a pig for slaughter,” she snarled, sitting up. “I am not that– that— utilitarian geezer!”

Then prove it, you coward.

With a snarl, Meg crawled off her bed and snatched the letter off the floor. 

“Fine,” she snapped, ripping open the seal, “I’ll go to that fucking school. But I’m not changing shit. I won’t risk changing the ending—the very happy ending.” 

~~~~~~

On the last day of July, Meg managed to hitch a ride with Lavinia to buy her school things. 

She’d pulled her hair back in a ponytail and had opted for a muggle t-shirt and jeans instead of witch’s robes. Lavinia looked about ready to strangle her when she saw it, but thankfully, she was already running late for her meeting and couldn’t afford to waste anymore time. She managed to force her into a cloak before they left, but that was it.

The moment they arrived at the Leaky Cauldron and passed through the brick wall, Lavinia snapped at her to be back in that spot at three p.m. or she’d leave her to find her own way back. Then she turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd without giving her another glance. Meg gave the back of Lavinia’s head a nice view of her middle finger. It was lucky Meg had already had a pouch full of her own money, otherwise she would’ve been shit out of luck.

Because of its sheer size, America had dozens of shopping centers for the magical community—which reached well over sixty thousand. The magical community in the UK, however, barely scraped five thousand. So, they only had one place for witches and wizards to shop located in the heart of London:

Diagon Alley.

It was just as crowded and cramped as she had imagined it would be. 

By the time she reached Ollivander's, she was sweaty and cranky and disheveled. It didn’t help that the cloak Lavinia had grabbed was a winter cloak, chock-full of heating charms that would’ve been nice if it wasn’t 75 degrees fahrenheit and sunny. Wasn’t London supposed to be cloudy and cold? 

The bell on the door jingled loudly as she entered. Despite the chaos outside, it seemed that everyone had already bought their wands and moved on to other stores. 

Wand boxes lined the shelves on every wall, reaching up so high she had to squint just to glimpse the top. It was musty and a tad too warm, so she untied her cloak and draped it over her arm. Just as she did so, a shockingly white head of hair appeared in the corner of her eye. 

Mr. Ollivander, she presumed, if his laser-blue eyes were any indication.

“Hello,” he said, his voice wispy and his slow scan making her skin crawl. It was like he could see the depths of her very soul, and the longer he looked, the more she felt the urge to flee. “And… I rarely say this, but… who might you be, young lady?” 

Meg straightened her spine. She would not let this man freak her out. He was by no means the scariest player in the game—if she couldn’t handle Ollivander, she’d never be able to face more frightening figures like Dumbledore.

“Good morning, Mr. Ollivander,” she greeted, her voice steady and polite. “I’m here to buy a wand for my first year at school.” 

Ollivander’s brows furrowed. “Hm. And what is your name?”

Meg forced her smile to remain in place. “Does it matter?” 

“Yes, I’m afraid it does,” he replied smoothly. “For my inventory, and for proof of purchase in case you encounter any issues—not that you will with one of my wands, of course.”

Meg suppressed a snicker. Ah, the pride of an old man. “I’m Megara Le Fay, Mr. Ollivander. My sister and I just moved here from the United States.”

The old wandmaker hummed and finally cracked a smile. “A Le Fay in my shop…” He turned and began to scan the boxes of wands on the shelves. “I had hoped it would happen one day. I heard about your parents—so sorry to hear… at least you still have your sister…”

Meg winced while his back was turned. “Yeah,” she said, her voice strained. “Silver lining, I guess.” 

It seemed that Ollivander either did not hear her or chose to ignore her, instead choosing to clap once; a measuring tape shot out of his waistcoat and began measuring her arms, her waist, her neck, her palm, her fingers—pretty much every inch of her body. After a minute, it flew back into his pocket.

He turned back toward the large wall of wands. “Which is your wand arm?”

“I’m right-handed,” she answered. He nodded and pulled out a box, revealing a medium-toned brown wand within. 

“Beechwood with a phoenix feather core. Eleven and a half inches. Whippy.” He placed it in her hand, only to quickly replace it with a lighter one. “No, no, not that. Try this. Apple with unicorn hair.. Twelve inches. Reasonably supple.” She took the wand, but almost immediately handed it back.

“That one doesn’t feel right.” And it didn’t. It felt cold, like it didn’t like her.

Ollivander hummed and set it aside. “You have good instincts, Miss Le Fay. How about…”

The next four wands felt just as funny.

Then he handed her a fifth wand, almost black in color. “Cypress and phoenix feather. Ten and a quarter inches. Rigid. Give it a wave.”

She did, and a glass of water on the counter shattered.

“Oh god, I am so sorry–“

Ollivander waved it off. “Don’t apologize, the boy who came in before you did the same thing,” he huffed, looking more than a bit put out. With a flick of his wand the cup was restored—though the water was still spilled. 

He stared at Meg for a good ten seconds. “Hm,” he mused, stroking his chin. “Perhaps… yes, it may fit quite well.”

Meg frowned as he stepped toward the back wall and began to search. “What might fit well?”

“A wand I do not typically give to first years. In fact, I rarely make it at all; this combination only chooses the most exceptional of sorcerers, and those are few and far between. I made this particular wand many years ago, and have not made another since—impossible to place, this one, hardly worth the time or cost to ship the wood.”

“You’ve never placed this wand combination? Nobody’s ever gotten this wood?”

“The wood itself is not uncommon—if not costly to have delivered all the way from Japan—and the core is amongst the three most common in the world,” Ollivander explained as he shuffled to the shelf near the back and began to search. “But the two together tend to create an extremely discerning wand. There was one young wizard in particular who was very put out that it did not choose him after I explained its preferences. In the end, however, he found his perfect match… Yew and phoenix feather, thirteen and a half inches, unyielding…” He trailed off, his hand faltering. “The things he did with it… Not a day goes by that I do not regret giving it to him.” 

Meg fidgeted uncomfortably. This wand had rejected Voldemort? Evil as he was, Voldemort was indeed exceptional. If it didn’t like him, there was no reason it would prefer her.

After composing himself, Ollivander yanked her back to reality when he made a triumphant sound. He pulled out a box with a faint layer of dust on the top and turned back to her.

“Cherry with a dragon heartstring core,” he said, looking almost excited. “Twelve inches. Unbending.”

He pulled out the wand, and Meg’s breath caught in her throat. The wood was a reddish brown with a dark brown grip separated by a gold band. The tip was smooth and pointed like any other wand, but the grip looked like a wood feather had grown out of the wand and wrapped around the hilt until it ended at a sharp point. 

It was beautiful. Sleek, polished, both subtle and eye-catching at the same time. Not plain, yet not too over the top. She could understand why Voldemort liked it. It was kind of badass.

She steadied herself and gingerly took it from Ollivander’s hand.

The handle warmed and spouted gold sparks before it was completely wrapped in her palm. A rush of warmth spread over her skin, bringing with it a burst of energy. 

Ollivander hummed, a near-manic glint in his eye. “There’s something about you, Meg Le Fay,” he said, his voice soft and far away. “This particular wand has rejected witches and wizards of all kinds, from all backgrounds. I look forward to seeing what unique qualities you possess that drew it to you.”

“I’m nothing special, really,” Meg denied, though she had yet to take her eyes off the wand.

“Oh, I very much doubt that,” retorted Ollivander. “I can see it, plain as day: you are anything but ordinary. The sidelines will not suit you.”

Words died in her throat and she finally ripped her eyes away from the wand. 

The sidelines would not suit her? 

He couldn’t possibly have known about her predicament, but she checked her Occlumency shields all the same. 

When she was certain they hadn’t been breached, Meg swallowed her nerves and smiled tightly. “Thank you, Mr. Ollivander. For the wand, and for the um… advice. I should probably get— get going. How much for this?”

With a knowing glint in his eye, Ollivander told her the price, accepted her money, and watched her walk out the door as fast as possible. 

Her experience in Stowe and Packers was much more comfortable. The attendant had perfectly normal dark blue eyes, and helped her pick out the perfect trunk, which she could customize to her heart’s content. She immediately requested an extension charm and a featherlight charm. She was not going to lug that thing everywhere. And no normal trunk could fit all the shit she would need to last her ten whole months.

They told her that her trunk would be ready in an hour, so she went to Flourish and Blotts next.

The moment she stepped in, she nearly turned around and walked right out. 

Not only was it full of books stacked everywhere in a fashion that would have made any self-respecting librarian have a heart attack, but Flourish and Blotts was filled, wall to wall, with hordes of people as well. 

Unwilling to wait long enough for the line to become even longer, Meg fought her way through the crowd and, by some miracle, managed to find all her school books—plus a few extra that looked interesting.

Eventually, she managed to stumble into the line behind a girl with the largest mane of bushy hair Meg had ever seen in either life. The poor thing desperately needed some oils and a heat diffuser. 

Her stack was even larger than Meg’s, which was saying quite a lot.

When Meg was bumped into from behind, she stumbled straight into the girl. When she muttered a quick apology, the girl turned to her with a giant grin that displayed her slightly larger-than-average teeth. “Hello! Are you going to Hogwarts, too?”

“Yep. How’d you figure?”

“We have the same books,” the girl said quickly, “You must be a first year too. I’m Hermione, by the way. Hermione Granger.”

Meg froze.

Oh.

Meg had been this girl for Halloween once. Now the girl herself stood less than three feet away, looking so different yet so similar. 

This wasn’t a hero. This wasn’t a soldier. 

This was a child. 

A little girl with teeth a bit too large and a slight lisp who would one day have a horrible slur carved into her arm. Who would be the target of slander and judgement. Who would be on the run for a year. Who would fight in a battle and see the dead bodies of peers, friends, and loved ones alike. 

Meg’s stomach churned.

The girl didn’t seem to notice her reaction and continued, “My parents are with Professor McGonagall right now setting up an official account at Gringotts—they already exchanged some muggle money so I could get my books while I wait, and I couldn’t decide on one or two extra, so I just got as many as I thought I’d need to get caught up with everything. Is your family magical? You’re not dressed like most people here–“ 

“My whole family’s magic,” Meg managed to blurt when she found her voice. She cleared her throat and, forcing down the discomfort that threatened to crawl out, continued, “but I grew up in America, and I went to grade school with muggles… hence the clothes.” She also spent twenty years as a muggle, but that would probably just make the girl wary of her.

She should have known better than to think the conversation would end there.

Hermione looked ready to burst with happiness. “You went to a muggle school? In America? And you’re going to Hogwarts!— Well, of course you are, Professor McGonagall says it’s the best magic school in the world, and everything I’ve read seems to agree. What house do you think you’ll be in? I was reading this–” She gestured to the copy of Hogwarts: A History in the middle of her stack “–and I hope I’ll be in Gryffindor—Dumbledore himself was in it. But I wouldn’t be too upset with Ravenclaw either… What about you?” 

Meg glanced over Hermione’s shoulder and suppressed a wince when she saw how slowly the line was moving. The small store seemed to be rising in temperature by the second.

“I suppose I’ll be in Slytherin,” Meg guessed. It was what she got almost every time she took the test on Pottermore as Margaret. If not Slytherin, it was— “Or Ravenclaw. I’m not sure. I honestly haven't thought about it that much yet.”

Hermione’s eyes grew wide in horror. “But I read that You-Know-Who was in Slytherin, and loads of dark wizards have come from Slytherin this past century alone!” 

“That doesn’t necessarily mean that every Slytherin is guaranteed to be evil,” Meg reasoned. “I really don’t care, honestly. It doesn’t matter that much, at the end of the day.” As long as it’s not Gryffindor, she added mentally. Gryffindor tower sounded too loud and chaotic—too much like her family had been. Anything that didn’t remind her of them would work just fine. She didn't need to have a breakdown every time someone acted a little too much like her dad or brothers or mom.

Hermione looked positively horrified. “Doesn’t matter— of course, it does! It determines where you’ll spend the next seven years of your life! It–” 

The person at the counter finished, and Meg pointed at the poor attendant, who was trying to get Hermione’s attention. “They’re calling you—it’s your turn.”

“Oh!” Hermione rushed to the desk and eagerly paid for her books, all but forgetting about Meg’s existence as she did. When she finished, she gathered her books in her arms and turned back to Meg. 

“I should probably go find my parents and Professor McGonagall,” the girl gushed, “but it was so lovely meeting you—I’ll see you on September first?” 

Would she? She wasn’t certain. Meg might throw herself from the top of Gewinnan’s tallest spire first. 

“Sure,” she heard herself say, “see you.” 

Hermione gave her a bright grin, probably ecstatic to have made a new magical friend, and all but skipped out the door.

Strangely enough, the sudden quiet felt just a little weird. 

Meg brushed away the feeling and quickly paid for her books. After fighting her way through more crowds, she managed to stumble into Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. 

The bell above the door chimed pleasantly when she entered. It was full of robes of all kinds for—as the sign advertised—any occasion a wizard or witch might find themselves in.

“If you’re here for Hogwarts, dear, come right to the back,” the voice of an older woman called. 

Meg cautiously followed the voice to the back of the shop until she found the source—Madam Malkin, a short, squat, pleasant-looking woman. She was standing next to a boy standing on a stool. He hadn’t turned to look at her yet, but it was impossible to miss such messy jet black hair. 

It seemed today was the day Meg would continue to meet the contestants for Britain’s Most Memorable Hair. 

The boy on the other stool with a second witch taking his measurements had hair just as noticeable as the first boy’s, but for a different reason. His hair was so blonde it was almost white, and it was slicked back so flat he almost looked bald at first glance. 

Madam Malkin smiled sweetly when she came into view. “Hello, dear. First year at Hogwarts?” 

Meg nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” 

“Oh!” Madam Malkin looked delighted. “Are you American?”

“Yeah, I’m…” Meg trailed off when the black haired boy turned to look at her and she locked eyes with Harry Freaking Potter. 

She wished she wasn’t certain about it, but he looked both exactly like she would have expected, and yet only vaguely like Daniel Radcliffe. He was much thinner than Daniel, for starters. His hair actually stuck up everywhere—it truly looked like it had a life of its own—and his eyes… they were almost inhumanly bright. Had his mother’s eyes been so green? Or had the Killing Curse given him one more reminder of all it had ripped away?

Not to mention the fact that it was July 31st. Harry’s birthday. 

Hagrid must have brought him. 

It took all her willpower not to let her eyes wander to his forehead, where his messy bangs covered his scar—though, at his temple and eyebrow, she could see the ends of white raised lines…

Once she got past who she was and actually looked at him, the first thing she noticed was how skinny he was. Unlike what she’d thought at first glance, the little baby fat told her that this wasn’t a naturally skinny child, but a starved one. Then her eyes moved to the mounds of tape on the bridge and hinges of his glasses. Then the clothes that were roughly four sizes too large. 

Something welled up inside her chest. Something sour, something cold and fiery and nauseating all at the same time. Her throat burned with a melting pot of emotions, but one most of all stood out. An emotion she hadn’t felt since before Andy’s death. An instinct she had assumed to be long dead. 

A terrifying feeling. One she refused to name. 

Close behind it was rage. White-hot rage. Indignation. And a terrible ache. 

When she realized that they were all waiting for her answer, Meg quickly cleared her throat and looked back at Madam Malkin. “I am,” she said. “I moved from New York to Bath a few months ago. I’ll be a first year.”

“Oh, how exciting!” Madam Malkin said with a grin. “You just wait in that chair, dear, and Aila will help you when she is finished with this young man.” She gestured at the blonde boy and the witch currently taking his measurements. 

The boy sniffed and looked down his pointed nose at her. “An American, you say?”

Meg finally glanced at the blonde boy. Light blonde hair, pointed face, air of superiority… he only vaguely resembled the actor, but she’d seen a picture of Lucius Malfoy in the Prophet, and if this wasn’t his son, she’d deep-fry and eat her beat-up high-tops. 

“I’m from the U.S., yeah,” said Meg as she sat. “I lived in New York all my life. Until now, of course.”

Malfoy scoffed. “A Yank. Are you certain you should be starting school at the same time as the rest of us? Maybe you should wait.” He looked at Harry and nodded at her with a smirk. “My father says Americans are all brainless oafs, you see. I’ll bet you she’s no different.” 

Harry’s hands curled into fists, and his curious expression melted into a scowl. He opened his mouth to speak, but Meg beat him to it. 

“Have you ever even met an American who wasn’t an uber-rich tourist?” she asked, her voice neutral. “If you did, you might think differently.”

He was still just a child. Even if he wanted to play the stereotypes game, she should still be the bigger person. Though, if he kept it up at Hogwarts, she would not be responsible for her actions.

Draco sniffed. “I don’t need to. You’re all the same.” 

Meg just smiled. It was a little like being insulted by a cockatoo mimicking a child’s voice. “Well, you can think whatever you want about me,” she said. “I really couldn’t care less if I tried.”

Malfoy’s jaw dropped. He looked scandalized, like the thought of someone not giving a shit about him was downright blasphemous.

Draco frowned. “Well…” He scrambled for something else to say. “Anyways, I was just telling him,” he nodded at the quiet dark-haired boy, “that it’s ridiculous that first years can’t have their own brooms. I think I’ll bully Father into getting me one and I’ll smuggle it in somehow.” He looked at Harry. “Have you got your own broom?” 

Harry fidgeted uncomfortably. “I don’t,” he said, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world. 

“Play Quidditch at all?”

“No.” Harry was turning pink.

Something in Meg’s chest tightened at the sight, and she forced an easygoing smile before saying, “I don’t. Same goes for plenty of magical people. Besides, if you did smuggle one in, they’d probably confiscate it.” 

Draco huffed. “My father’s on the board—he’d never allow them to take my broom. I’ll be the exception. If all else fails, he can just pay them to let me on the team. He knows the Slytherin Head of House, anyhow.” 

Meg bit back a smile and glanced at Harry, who looked at Draco with undisguised distaste. 

Draco kept talking. “Father says it’s a crime if I’m not picked to play, and I must say, I agree. Either of you know what House you’ll be in yet?” He gave Meg a smirk. “I doubt you even know what the Houses are.” 

Harry deliberately avoided looking at either of them, and Meg’s irritation grew. If Malfoy didn’t stop gabbing…

“Slytherin, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff,” she said. “Really, if you’re going to try to trip me up, at least ask me something that isn’t in Hogwarts: A History.”

Malfoy huffed at her unflinching calm. Suddenly he paused and gawked at something outside the front window. 

“I say, look at that man!” he exclaimed. 

Meg followed his gaze. When she saw what he was looking at, her eyes nearly bulged out of her skull. Outside the shop stood a man who was at least eight or nine feet tall. He wore beat-up clothes and his hair and beard were even more wild than Hermione’s had been. He held two big ice cream cones and gestured at the door, communicating that he couldn’t come in because his hands were full.

“That is a… very large person,” she managed.

Harry sounded very pleased to know something they didn’t as he said, “That’s Hagrid. He works at Hogwarts.”

Draco wrinkled his nose. “I’ve heard of him,” he said. “He’s sort of a servant, isn’t he?”

“He’s the gamekeeper,” said Harry. 

“Yes, exactly,” Draco continued. “I heard he’s a sort of savage—lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed.” 

Harry’s eyes went cold. “I think he’s brilliant.” 

“Do you?” said Draco, with a slight sneer. “Why is he with you? Where are your parents?” 

Meg opened her mouth to intervene, but this time, Harry beat her to it.

“They’re dead,” he snapped, his hands curling into fists.

Draco didn’t seem to care too much about that. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “But they were our kind, weren’t they?” 

“They were a witch and a wizard, if that’s what you mean.”

“I really don’t think they should let the other sort in, do you? They’re just not the same, they’ve never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine!” 

Harry’s shoulders stiffened, but Draco didn’t seem to notice.

He continued, “I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families. At least some people here still have it right—unlike Americans, who seem to pop out half-bloods like rabbits.”

Meg’s eye twitched. She could handle being insulted. But the racism and the timid, self-conscious look on Harry’s face? 

She would not tolerate that.

“Listen here, you little inbre–”

“That’s you done, my dear,” Aila suddenly blurted breathlessly, speaking loud enough to drown out Meg. “We can charge it to your family’s account, so you don’t have to wait for your father to return.” 

Draco nodded shortly. “Good,” he said as he hopped down and turned to Harry. “I’ll see you at school.”

Harry said nothing. Draco didn’t seem to notice he hadn’t received a reply, and walked straight out. 

When he was gone, Aila ushered Meg onto the stool in his place. 

For a few minutes, an awkward silence hung in the air. Meg stared at the wall, frantically trying to figure out what to say. What to do. 

God, he really was so thin. 

She couldn’t bear it. Just looking at him made her want to wrap him up in a big warm blanket and shield him from the whole world. To hide this little boy from all the evil that wanted to hurt him.

But… she had firmly resolved to stay out of the action. That was what she had decided to do, and she was not one to change her plans once her mind was already made.

“Are you… okay?” 

Meg blinked back to the present to find Harry giving her an odd look. 

“I’m all right,” she said quietly. “I just don’t have much patience for people like that.” 

Wait, was that a bruise on his temple? His hair covered most of it, but it was definitely the same yellow as a healing bruise. 

At the sudden taste of copper, she quickly stopped biting the inside of her cheek—a bad habit she’d never been able to break.

“Are you okay?” she found herself saying. “I noticed you seemed a little uncomfortable.” 

Harry hesitated, almost like her question had caught him off guard. 

“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m Harry, by the way.”

“Meg.” She managed a small smile. “So, you’re nervous to start school?”

Harry’s cheeks turned pink. “Is it that obvious?”

“Just a little,” said Meg. “But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Plenty of other people get nervous too. Even me, a little.” Not completely a lie. Of course, the things she was nervous about were completely different from what Harry was worried about. Still true, if a little misleading.

Harry hesitated, looking at her from the corner of his eye. “Well, I guess it’ll be nice for us both to already know someone, then. That way we won’t be completely alone?” 

Her mouth moved before her brain and—“Yeah, it will be better.” 

Wait.

Did she just say that? She hadn’t meant to. 

It would not be better for her, actually. How would she stay uninvolved if she hung around Harry at school? And it’s not like she had the heart to go back on her word and hurt his feelings. 

Harry’s eyes lit up, and her heart softened.

Ah, fuck. Maybe-

No!

No, no, no. 

Her plan—she had to remember her plan. If she could just get Sorted into a different House and make sure he met Ron so he forgot all about her, everything would be fine. 

“Alright, you’re all set, dear,” Madam Malkin said, saving her from saying anything else. “Would you like to take your robes now or have them delivered?”

“I’ll take them now, if that’s alright,” said Harry, following Malkin toward the front. 

By the time Meg was finished with her fitting and arranged for her robes to be delivered, Madam Malkin was still explaining to Harry the way Wizarding money worked. The timing worked just well enough that they ended up walking out at the exact same time.

Hagrid appeared the moment the stepped through the doors, preventing Meg from slipping away and blaming it on the crowd.

“Here ya go, Harry,” he cheered, handing the boy a big cone with two scoops—one pink, one dark brown. “Chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts—didn’t know what yeh’d like best. I’ll buy another if yeh don’ like it.” He paused when he finally noticed Meg. “An’ who’s this?”

“Oh,” Harry flushed again. “Meg, this is Hagrid, the gamekeeper at Hogwarts. Hagrid, this is Meg—er, I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard your last name?”

Meg smiled tightly. “Just Meg.” She turned to Hagrid and shook his free hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Hagrid. I’ll let you two enjoy the rest of your day–”

“Are you here alone?” blurted Harry, brows furrowed. 

“Uh…” Meg hesitated, confused. Why would that matter? “Yeah. I mean, my sister dropped me off, so as long as I’m on time to meet her in a few hours I won’t be stranded here or anything.” 

Harry’s frown deepened. He looked down at his ice cream, then back at her. 

“Why don’t you join us?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude–”

“Nonsense,” said Hagrid. “No firs’ year should hafta do their school shopping alone. What have yeh got so far?”

Taken aback, Meg answered that she’d already got her wand, her books, her robes were being delivered, and her customized trunk was probably almost ready. 

“Perfect!” cheered Hagrid, clapping a hand on her shoulder and nearly knocking her off her feet. “After we get yeh an ice cream we’ll go righ’ ter Stowe an’ Packers to get Harry’s things and pick up yer trunk—it should be finished by then.” 

Meg tried to politely decline, but less than ten minutes later she found herself holding a large cup with two huge scoops shoved inside—one coffee brown, the other light, creamy vanilla. Hagrid wouldn’t even let her pay, despite her protests that she had more than enough gold to pay for her own ice cream.

To her dismay, it was absolutely delicious.

“Say, Meg,” Harry said once they’d sat down at a table outside Fortescue’s, “Those Houses you mentioned—which do you think you’ll be in?”

Meg hesitated with her spoon halfway to her mouth. Why did everyone keep asking that? 

“I mean, on paper I thought Slytherin…”

Hagrid shook his head and her voice died. “Yeh don’t want ter be in Slytherin,” he said. “There’s not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn’t in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one.”

“Vol-, sorry—You-Know-Who was at Hogwarts?” asked Harry, his eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline.

Hagrid nodded darkly, like the mere memory was a personal offense. “Years an’ years ago,” he said. “Believe me, Meg, yeh don’t wan’ to be in Slytherin.” 

Meg hummed in concession. “I’d rather not be stuck in a dorm full of magical Hitler Youth” –namely Malfoy and his buddies, she thought privately– “so I’ll probably be in Ravenclaw with how much I read. I don’t want Hufflepuff since I have literally nobody I’m loyal to and I’m only a hard worker because I have no choice; and I’m definitely not brave or chivalrous enough for Gryffindor…” She shrugged. “The smart house it is, I guess.”

“So, Slytherin is for the ambitious and cunning, Ravenclaw is for smart people, Gryffindor’s for the brave and chivalrous, and Hufflepuff is for loyal, hard-working people?” summarized Harry, looking disheartened. “I don’t think I fit any of those categories.”

Meg suppressed a scowl. God, even this kid’s self-esteem was battered and bruised. Someone needed to help him through that.

He’s not your kid, she told herself. Not your responsibility.

But nobody’s taking responsibility for him right now, her conscience argued. Hagrid will help Harry buy school supplies and then drop him right back and his aunt and uncle’s house.

“I doubt that,” she said, shoving back her inner conflict. “Chivalry is thoughtfulness, honor, and readiness to help others—among other things. I’ve known you for twenty minutes and you’ve already shown some of those. And I doubt you’re stupid or lazy.” 

Hagrid smiled warmly. “She’s right, Harry. Don’ worry—everybody fits somewhere.”

After they finished their ice cream, Meg made a beeline for Stowe and Packers to get her trunk—her password-protected, magically extended trunk. Harry was eyeing hers with starry eyes, so she suppressed a sigh and ordered the same for him. 

She only paid for the name engraving because it was his birthday and it would be douchey not to. Not because she wanted to see him happy or anything. Nope.

Oh, who was she kidding. His smile at getting something brand-new for the first time made her chest feel warm in a way that made her sick to her stomach. 

They went to Amanuensis Quills next, and Meg quickly paid for the parchment and quills while Harry and Hagrid got distracted by some color-changing ink wells.

Next they bought cauldrons (thankfully, Hagrid refused to let Harry buy a solid gold one that might have prompted a certain Potions master to murder him on the spot), glass phials, collapsible telescopes, and brass scales for weighing potion ingredients. Then came the Apothecary, where they bought the required ingredients for potions that wouldn’t be provided.

As they left the Apothecary, Meg saw Lavinia emerging from a store with a satisfied smirk. A quick glance at her watch told Meg that her time had run out. 

“Goddammit,” she muttered, though both Harry and Hagrid heard her loud and clear.

“What’s wrong?” asked Harry.

“Nothing, really,” Meg said. “My sister’s just leaving Primpernelle’s—she’s the one in the green robes—which means she’s finished her meeting, and she has no problem with leaving me behind, so I’d better hurry. I’ll um… see you at school, I guess.” 

Unless she faked her death and left the country. Which wasn’t completely off the table.

Harry looked disappointed, but brightened when she mentioned school. Which only made this harder. “Yeah,” he said, looking anxious, “see you at school!”

With a quick wave, she turned and ran after the elder Le Fay, whose expression soured when she saw her. 

Lavinia was a tall woman in her mid-twenties, with dirty blonde hair and dark brown eyes that would have been pretty if they weren’t always narrowed in bitterness. Really, Lavinia was a stunning looking woman, but the multiple murder attempts on a literal toddler had made her quite ugly in Meg’s eyes. 

“I hope you have everything you came for,” said Lavinia, sporting a sneer. “‘Cause I’m not bringing you back.”

“I’m all set, so don’t you worry,” Meg shot back, her voice sugary sweet. “It’s sweet of you to care, though.” 

With a scoff, Lavinia grabbed her arm, and after the horrible sensation of being sucked through a dentist’s suction tube, they stood in a lavish entry hall.  

See, Gewinnan was not a house. 

It was a mansion. Nearly a palace.

In the twelfth century it had been a country home for the Le Fay family, back when they ruled over magical England, but it was downsized in the seventeenth century and turned into a giant manor instead. When their crowns were taken during the formation of the ministry, they fled the country to a place they could take control of. 

Meg found that hilarious, since they’d actually been given seats in the Wizengamot, incredible political influence, and could keep their immense wealth, but losing their crowns was just too humiliating for those proud uppity bitches to bear. 

First they landed in France, where they happily remained until the French Revolution, when they decided that France was no longer their cup of tea. After that was America, which had already been founded but was in dire need of funding and a “guiding” hand. They never regained their positions as royalty, but they practically built Magical North America, which they preferred to England, where their ancestral properties remained.

All that time, Gewinnan Hall remained in the family’s possession, waiting for them to return. And return Lavinia had. 

The beautiful four-story structure with gleaming stones and towering spires had carefully manicured ivy crawling up the outside that were decorated with different flowers depending on the season: in Spring it was purple wisteria, in Summer it was morning glories, in Autumn it was marigolds, and in Winter it was red roses. 

Right now, she could see morning glories peeking around the windows of the entryway. The beautiful carpet atop the wood floor had moving designs woven into it, and the crystal chandelier above them scattered light around the room in rainbows. The stairway before her was grand with a polished wooden banister, and it went up to the second and third floors of the manor. On the other side of the stairway was a grand, polished fireplace with an opening that pushed seven feet tall for Floo travel. 

Some days it felt like living in Downton Abbey—if Downton Abbey had moving paintings full of judgmental ancestors and the household staff only consisted of one three-foot-tall Elf. 

“Miss Meg and Miss Lavinia is back! Tilly is so happy Miss Meg decided to go to Diagon Alley after all! Tilly will take her trunk up to her room, and Miss Meg can tell her everything that happened, and everything she got, and if she met any interesting people—oh, and Tilly hopes Miss Lavinia had a good meeting too.” The last part was added as an afterthought. The elder sister scoffed and stalked toward the kitchen.

Meg tried not to feel awkward. There had been a time when Meg had hoped Lavinia might be an ally, but she proved to be too similar to Viola and Carmine for Meg’s tastes. And Lavinia could never get over her jealousy enough to have a truly civil conversation. 

Meg began to ascend the stairs toward her room—the room Lavinia had thrown her things into the day they arrived, which coincidentally happened to be the smallest room in the house. 

Coincidentally. 

“Miss Meg must tell Tilly everything,” the elf insisted, quickly following close behind. “Was Diagon Alley crowded? What kind of wand did Miss Meg get? Did Miss Meg meet any new peoples?”

Meg patiently answered Tilly’s questions all the way to her bedroom, where the elf ooh’ed and ah’ed over every little thing in her trunk, extracting every detail of the trip in the process. 

When Meg started organizing her books, Tilly (with a searching look)  asked, “And what will Miss Meg do about Mister Harry?” 

Meg paused for only a moment before resuming her task. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said coolly. “I met him, I felt sad for him, I’m going to avoid him as much as possible. Just like I said before.”

Silence. Meg glanced at the Elf and nearly flinched at the withering glare she was met with. 

“Miss Meg knows that is not what she wants to do,” snapped Tilly. “Miss Meg knows she wants to help Mr. Harry, but Miss Meg is too proud to admit she might have to change her plans.” 

Meg groaned and flopped back onto her bed. “Fine,” she said. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, okay? And you’re not helping by trying to tell me what to do.”

“Miss Meg knows what she is going to do,” said the elf plainly, moving toward the door. “Nobody can really tell Miss Meg what to do but Miss Meg. It’s time for Tilly to make dinner. Miss Meg should finish unwrapping her things. And start on her new plan.” 

“I’m not making a new plan, Til!”

In response, Tilly just shut the door, leaving Meg to glare at the wall in silence. 

Meg wasn’t sure how long she lay there, telling herself that Harry was not her responsibility, and that he’d be at Hogwarts soon enough and she really didn’t have the emotional energy to give a damn about anyone but Tilly these days anyway.

Eventually, a pop cut through the quiet, and a bowl appeared on her bedstand, sitting in the corner of her vision. Another pop, and a fork appeared next to it. 

When the smell wafted toward her, she inhaled sharply. She slowly sat up and peered into the bowl.

Soy sauce. Garlic. Ginger. Peppers. Shrimp. 

Stir fry. 

It looked just like her mom’s thirty-minute budget stir-fry—the healthy meal she’d occasionally make in huge portions so they’d never go hungry if both of their parents were forced to work late.

Because the Lists would never let their children go hungry. Or any child. Not if they could do something about it. 

And suddenly, she was no longer in her bedroom at Gewinnan. 

She sat at the kitchen counter as her mother worked on the very same stir-fry. A very young Margaret watched her make it enough times to have the recipe memorized. 

This was before things got hard. Before the economy tanked. Only a few months before Andy was born.

“But why do we have to have other kids at dinner this Sunday?” Meg groaned. “Will I even get my second roll?” 

Alicia shot her daughter a stern look. “Ezra and Kennedy’s parents are struggling a little bit right now, and they have to work extra hours on the weekends. So, your father and I decided that we’ll have them over every Saturday and Sunday so they have a good, home-cooked meal. And we’ll be sending them home with the leftovers. All the leftovers.” 

Margaret gasped in outrage. “Even the leftover cupcakes?! Why don’t they get their own?”

Margaret didn’t even like Ezra. Yeah, they were in the same class at school, but he always looked grouchy and yelled at her once for bumping into him during art class and spilling paint on his pants, even though it was an accident. 

Alicia paused, lowered the temperature on the stove, and turned to face her daughter. Her stern frown had turned a little bit sad. 

“Maggie,” she said softly, putting a hand on Margaret’s smaller one. “You’re not understanding what I’m saying. They don’t have what we do, honey.  They don’t have the money for cupcakes, or dinner rolls, or for Sunday pot roast. Can you imagine never having a hot, homemade dinner every Sunday? Or ever?” 

Margaret shook her head in mute horror. The thought of never having her mom’s pot roast for dinner, of never getting a first roll, never mind a second one…

Alicia continued.“It’s important you realize that while we’re not rich, we’re much better off than many other people. We can afford to pay for our house. To get you fun Christmas and birthday presents. To buy you cute new clothes when you grow out of your old ones. Ezra and Kennedy’s parents can’t do any of that for them. We’re in a place where we can help them, Maggie, even if it’s just a little.” 

“But… why do we have to do it?” 

“Because, honey,” said Alicia, squeezing Margaret’s hand, “Ezra and Kennedy don’t get new clothes. They’re left alone all the time, and Ezra has to take care of Kennedy all by himself. Can you imagine being forced to do that for your younger sibling? If your dad and I suddenly had to work more and could hardly ever come home at all, let alone make you nice dinners?” 

Margaret’s cheeks turned pink. 

So that’s why Ezra had been so upset and glared at her all the time now. She just thought they were his favorite pants—even with the stains—and that was why he wore them every day. It was why he always walked home instead of waiting at the car pick-up with most of the class. Why he stole other kids’ lunch money.

“Maggie, if someone is hurting, even someone we don’t know or particularly like, and we can do something to ease their troubles, we have a duty to help them. Not because we owe them anything, or because it’ll help us, but because no kid deserves to go hungry.” 

Alicia’s eyes glistened with emotion. “Every child deserves good clothes and new school supplies and someone to hug them when they’re hurting. I would hope that if you ever met someone who didn’t have food or good clothes or enough love, that you would do what you could to help them.” 

Margaret looked down at the counter. Guilt welled up in her chest. She didn’t know Ezra was having a hard time—she just thought he was grumpy because he didn’t like her or any of their classmates. If she’d known, she would have given him her whole lunch, and used her allowance to help him buy stuff at the vending machines instead of stealing from them and getting sent to the principal’s office all the time.

“Okay,” she mumbled. “He and Kennedy can have both of my rolls. And my cupcakes. And he can have the Little Debbie snacks you put in my lunch.”

Alicia laughed, the sound lined with tears. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. We’ll give them plenty to take home, but it’s good of you to offer.” 

She rounded the counter, pulled Margaret into a tight hug and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. 

“You’ve got a big heart, honey,” she whispered against her hair. “Please never lose it.”

“I’ll try, Mommy,” said Margaret, her voice muffled by her mother’s shirt. 

Alicia laughed again and held her tighter. “That’s all I ask, baby. That you try your best.”

Meg blinked, and she was back in Gewinnan, her view of the bowl blurred from the tears that filled her vision. 

If her mom could see her now… trying to ignore a child being abused and neglected, willing to let him run into danger when she was in a position to help…

She’d be so disappointed.

An agonized, choking sound escaped Meg’s throat. Her legs suddenly felt weak, and she slowly slid to the ground.

“I…” Her throat felt tight. “I’m sorry,” she managed, her voice coming out strangled. “I’m just… I’m sorry, Mommy, I miss you, I’m sorry, I–” A sob escaped, and she buried her face in her hands.

Not for the first time in the past eleven years, Meg wept. 

She wanted nothing more than to curl up in her mom’s arms, and just be properly held. Tilly was wonderful, but she couldn’t envelop her in an embrace like her parents could. And it wasn’t like she trusted anyone else. 

That thought made her feel worse. 

Of course she didn’t want Harry to suffer. He was just a kid. So were Ron and Hermione and Neville and Luna and—oh, all those who were going to die in the Battle of Hogwarts, so many of them were just children. Babies who should’ve been going on first dates and spending time with their friends and…

So many kids would become soldiers if she didn’t take direct action.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t known that before, she’d just… chosen to ignore it. 

Heart aching, Meg stormed to her desk, yanked out a piece of paper and a pen (because quills sucked), and began to write.

A few hours later in Surrey, a young boy with unruly jet-black hair and bright green eyes laid in bed and thought back on what he knew was the happiest day of his life yet, even if he had been sent to his new bedroom without dinner.

He’d been whisked away by a giant who baked him his first birthday cake (it was actually pretty good, if a bit squashed), found out he was a wizard, got accepted into a magic school, went to a magic alley just for magic people, met goblins and learned he actually had loads of money, got a magic wand, and met a girl who looked like a fairy princess and actually seemed to like him. 

He hoped they ended up in the same House. It would be nice to have a friend at school. He’d never had one of those before—a friend. Dudley had always scared them off, but Harry got the feeling that, if they ever met, Meg would be the one doing the scaring. When she’d started to get angry at that blond boy, she had looked truly frightening. Until the shop attendant interrupted, of course.

He smiled and closed his eyes to sleep. 

A small pop cut through the quiet, and Harry’s eyes shot open. 

A dark shape moved in the darkness near the door. Harry reached for his glasses and shoved them on his face before quickly scrambling out of bed. Heart pounding, he threw open the curtains to let in the moonlight.

Nothing. No dark shape, no intruder, nothing was different. 

Then he saw his bed.

The blanket was the same blue color, but it was much softer and thicker. Half certain he was dreaming, he gingerly pulled it back and slipped in to find brand-new, clean cotton sheets atop a mattress that felt more like a cloud than the flimsy, stained, sad excuse for a mattress that the Dursleys had given him. And the pillow—oh, the pillow!—he’d never laid his head on anything so soft in his life! It was like someone, in the split second he’s been out of bed, had switched out his pathetic little bed that was only a single step up from his cupboard bed and given him a bed even nicer than the ones from those fancy hotels on tv!

He moved to stretch out on the bed when his feet hit something by his feet. Sitting up, he spied a brown box tied with a crimson ribbon by the foot of the bed. He pulled it onto his lap cautiously. It obviously wasn’t from the Dursleys (they’d never given him anything with a ribbon tied on it); it must’ve been magic. Like how Hagrid and the owls had found him.

He gingerly removed the ribbon and set aside the lid. His eyes flew wide open. Sitting on the top was a brand-new pair of sneakers, nestled next to a bottle of multivitamin gummies. Under them was a pair of jeans in his size without any stains or rips, and with that was a new shirt! Under that was a denim jacket just like the one Derron Mulaney, the coolest kid at school, wore all the previous year.

Beneath that was a bulging red sack with a gold drawstring. On it was tied a note.

Harry –

Your bed will only look and feel different for you. Your relatives won’t notice a difference. Save the clothes for September 1st—first impressions are very important. Hide them until then. You’ll also find that your glasses have been repaired and the prescription is better suited to you. Take two gummies a day. You’ll feel better if you do.

Happy birthday, kiddo. 

Sincerely,

A Fairy Godmother

p.s., Don’t eat all the sweets in one sitting. 

He pulled the sack open and his face lit up. Jellies, chocolates, cakes, pops, nougats, peppermints, and a million other types of candies were piled inside. A few he’d tried before, but most were completely new.

A fairy godmother. 

His chest grew warm. It was just like Cinderella, except his shoes weren’t made of glass. He fell back on his new pillow and clutched the bag of sweets to his chest with a grin.

There was no way this wasn’t all a dream. 

And he hoped he never woke up.

Chapter Text

Meg spent the entire month of August doing only what she could describe as pouting and plotting. 

If she did want to help Harry, she’d have to settle for working from the sidelines to a degree simply because she wouldn’t be near him all the time. She was no Gryffindor; she wasn’t particularly brave—no braver than the average person—and her? Chivalrous? The notion was laughable. 

So she had to figure out how to get around that House barrier, regardless of where she ended up. 

Beyond that… she was more than a bit stuck.

All she knew was that she couldn’t let that little boy with the sad green eyes be treated like a tool for a war he had never signed up for. And for that child’s sake, she would try to keep as many of his fellow students safe as well, if only to spare him the trauma of those losses. Though she hadn’t figured out exactly how to achieve that, she would. Until then, she had settled on three primary objectives: 

1. Keep the timeline on track for a while. If things changed too much too early, then she would lose her advantage. The first two or three years would proceed as closely to canon as possible without endangering Harry in the process. 
2. Keep Harry (and by extension, Ron and Hermione) as safe as possible. No risking the children’s lives unless it was completely and utterly out of her control no matter what she tried. 
3. Destroy the horcruxes. The Diadem was already in Hogwarts. The Diary would be brought into the school in second year. The Ring was at the Riddle House. And the Locket was in Grimmauld Place under Kreacher’s obsessive care. 

They would be easy enough to get to, and she would dispose of them with Riddle none the wiser. The real variables were Hufflepuff’s cup, Harry, and Voldemort’s pet snake.

She didn’t know how to get the cup out of Bellatrix’s Gringotts vault without riding out on dragonback; nor did she know when Voldemort would make Nagini his horcrux. Had he already done it, or would he do it after he regained his body? Or would Pettigrew help him do it? There was only one, completely horrible way to be certain.

And then there was Harry.

Until she figured that out and took care of the horcruxes, she would keep things as close to the original story for the next two years while preventing Harry, Ron, and Hermione from throwing themselves into danger every chance they got. 

It would have been nice if she could speedrun the whole thing, but no matter what scenario she dreamt up, nothing seemed to fit. If only she could remember who Lucius Malfoy would plant the diary on in the first place…

And therein lay the third variable. 

Margaret had possessed an excellent long-term memory. Once she memorized something, her mind became a steel trap. At the time of her death, she could’ve recited almost every Harry Potter movie by heart despite not having seen them in almost five years. 

Unfortunately, it seemed that Carmine’s memory spell hadn’t wiped her core memories of her family and her identity—they were far too strong to be taken, but plenty of other things had been lost; like the color of her dress at her first recital, or what car her aunt Chrissy used to drive, or the events in the books and movies of her childhood. It might have allowed her to rewatch Star Wars for the first time and be truly surprised by the ending of The Empire Strikes Back, but it also erased a few very important details of the next seven years.

As a result, she had no idea who the diary would possess, nor did she have any clue where Peter Pettigrew was hiding or how he’d been hiding for the past decade. And she definitely didn’t remember who Barty Crouch Jr. would replace in 1994, only that it was someone Dumbledore trusted.

But hey, at least she remembered that Snape would tell them in third year to turn to page 394! Because that was so helpful!

She had more than one tantrum about it.

When the morning of September first arrived, Tilly had to physically drag Meg out of bed. And she was only successful because she bribed Meg with a piping-hot cup of coffee. 

When she arrived in the kitchen, Lavinia was already dressed and sitting  at the kitchen table with a cup of earl grey and a slice of half-eaten toast.

“So,” said Lavinia, scanning her with barely-restrained glee, “you’re leaving today for Hogwarts.”

Meg poured a bit of milk into her coffee and nodded. “Yep. You won’t have to see me for ten whole months.” 

“Thank Morgana for that,” muttered Lavinia as she took a sip of her tea. “Tilly can take you to the station, but the second you’re on that train, she needs to come right back here and help me prepare for a party tonight. I’m having a few new friends over.” 

“She’s right here, you know,” Meg spat, gesturing at Tilly, who was gathering Lavinia’s discarded dishes. “And she can hear you.” 

“So she knows her instructions.” 

Meg’s expression twisted in anger, but Tilly caught her eye and shook her head frantically. Meg hesitated.

She could explode now, get upset at the casual disrespect, but Lavinia would spend the next ten months taking it out on Tilly if she did. Not for the first time and not for the last, she cursed Carmine and Viola for making Lavinia her guardian. 

Breakfast was a tense affair, but at least the coffee was good. The idea that Hogwarts would serve the students black coffee wasn’t likely to become a reality, so Meg savored hers as much as she could until it was finally time to get ready. 

Tilly wanted to do her hair in fancy braids and curls, but Meg insisted on a simple ponytail, which Tilly insisted on tying up with a ribbon.

“Tilly, why is it red?” Meg asked, shooting the elf a tight frown. “I don’t even like having accessories in my hair, but it’ll be even more uncomfortable to be wearing red when I’m Sorted into Ravenclaw.”

Tilly didn’t look the least bit sorry. “Miss Meg must wear the bow,” she said. “It’s good luck.” 

“Listen, I know you have a thing with bows, but I don’t and–”

“Miss Meg is going to be late if she doesn’t hurry,” Tilly interrupted in a sing-song voice. 

A quick glance at her watch confirmed Tilly’s words, and a frustrated growl escaped Meg’s lips as she rushed to pull on jeans with magically extended pockets for her wand and a plain lavender top. She was just yanking on her bright red converse when Tilly snapped her trunk shut and gestured for her to hurry up. 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were anxious for me to leave,” Meg teased. 

Tilly’s smile faltered. Meg immediately regretted her flippance. 

“Tilly will never be happy to see Miss Meg go,” said the elf softly. “Tilly’s going to miss Miss Meg very much this year. After all, it will only be Tilly and Miss Lavinia…” 

“I’ll be back for Christmas break,” Meg said. “I’ll be back before you know it.” 

“The Christmases at Hogwarts will be much better than the Christmases at Gewinnan while Miss Lavinia is here,” said Tilly, shaking her head. “And Miss Meg should stay with Mister Harry for the Holidays.” 

“Tilly, we won’t even be in the same House. Besides, I’m just going to make sure he’s safe—it’s not like we’ll be super close. He’ll spend the break with the Weasley kids.” 

Tilly just held out her hand. “It’s ten-thirty, Miss Meg. Yous is going to be late if we don’t leave now.” 

Meg sighed, but double-checked her wand in her pocket and took the elf’s hand. 

With a pop and the horrible sensation of being squeezed through a tube, they stood on the platform with the rest of the bustling families. She vaguely registered Tilly getting a few odd looks, but her eyes were glued to the train before her. 

The Hogwarts Express was beautiful. A large, gleaming scarlet engine swimming in steam. 

A giddy, irrepressible smile crawled onto Meg’s lips. “Ten year old Margaret would be losing her shit right now, Til,” she breathed.

Tilly just shook her head and pushed her toward the train. “Yes, yes, she would—now, hurry! Miss Meg needs to find a compartment before they’re all full!” 

Meg couldn’t help but laugh. “Wait, Tilly,” she said. “I have one more thing to do.” 

“What? Tilly did everything—is something missing? Oh no–”

Tilly's voice died when Meg knelt and pulled her into a hug. 

“I’ll miss you, Tilly,” Meg whispered into her large ear. “So, so much.”

Trembling, Tilly returned the embrace. “Miss Meg is going to be a great witch,” she said. “Tilly hopes Miss Meg makes some friends too.”

After a long moment, Tilly pulled away. Her blue, tennis-ball-sized eyes were watery. “Miss Meg must go now, or she’ll miss the train,” the elf said, smoothing down stray hairs and picking lint from Meg’s shirt. 

Meg’s chest grew tight. “I’ll write to you at least once a week, okay? The Hogwarts owls should have no problem getting past Gewinnan’s barrier now that Lavinia’s given them permission.” 

“Tilly will hold Miss Meg to that promise,” threatened Tilly, though any bite was negated by the tears forming in her eyes.

Smiling, Meg swallowed the lump that threatened to form in her throat and turned toward the Hogwarts Express. 

She should’ve been excited about this. It should have been exciting, the beginning of a life of magic and wonder. But all she could feel was a cold and heavy dread. And a grief she didn’t dare acknowledge in such a public place. 

If she closed her eyes, she could remember the first time she had seen this exact train on TV while curled up on her father’s lap. 

Once upon a time, nowhere in the world was safer than her dad’s arms. Now, however, she felt anything but safe most days. 

By stepping onto the train, she was willingly walking straight into a giant serpent’s gaping maw.

With a deep breath and one last smile at Tilly, Meg lifted her trunk and boarded. The moment she had cleared the steps, she looked back just in time to watch Tilly disappear with a pop.

Right. Lavinia’s instructions. Tilly was only allowed to ensure she got on the train. Seeing her off properly was not an option. 

Heart feeling just a little heavier, Meg slipped into the nearest empty compartment and loaded her trunk onto the overhead storage. She only had a minute of peace before the door slid open and someone appeared in the doorway. 

“Maybe this one—Meg?” 

Harry looked genuinely but pleasantly surprised to see her. Behind him were two identical boys with flaming hair (undoubtedly the Weasley twins). One held Harry’s trunk, and the other held the cage of Harry’s snowy owl Hedwig. 

Meg suppressed a smile when she saw him wearing the clothes from the box Tilly had delivered for her a month ago.

In a split second, Meg forced herself to adopt the childlike mask she’d been practicing all month. She figured that if she was going to get involved in any way, she should take extra measures to avoid blowing her cover. Which meant adopting a more childlike voice and pretending that she still had a fraction of the innocence any normal child should have.

“Harry,” she greeted with a smile and a voice slightly higher than her normal pitch. “It’s good to see you again.” 

“You too,” said Harry, his smile blinding.

Meg noticed when one of the twins—she couldn’t tell if it was Fred or George—opened his mouth to undoubtedly complain about holding the trunk for so long, so she spoke first. “You can sit in this compartment with me, if you want. It’s just me in here, so there’s more than enough room.” 

Harry seemed relieved that she’d invited instead of forcing him to ask. Meg would’ve preferred spending the nine hour journey going over her plans for the year, but she wasn’t going to hurt Harry by rejecting him outright. 

They all had to help push Meg’s trunk aside to make room for another before loading Harry’s. By the time they were actually finished, all four of them were out of breath. 

With a huff, Harry brushed his bangs from his sweaty forehead.

And that was when Meg saw the scar for the first time. 

It wasn’t a neat little three-stroke mark like in the movies. Instead, it looked like a real lightning bolt, with branches creeping down to his right eyebrow and temple. She could easily believe that he had been split open and a piece of a dark, mutilated soul had fused itself to him. His bangs and glasses had covered it sufficiently before, but now that she could really see it…

Voldemort had always been undeniably evil. 

Meg was more than aware that he’d murdered countless people, including the young parents of the boy standing before her. But this was up-close, physical evidence that Voldemort had tried to murder an innocent child. A baby. 

Anger welled up in her chest, wrapping around her throat like a vice. 

It’s a good thing Quirrell’s literally got eyes in the back of his head, she thought murderously. He’s going to need them.

She managed to wrestle her expression back into a neutral smile before Harry noticed. He didn’t need her gawking at him when he was already nervous about the start of school. 

The twins, on the other hand, were far less subtle. 

“What’s that?” asked one, pointing at Harry’s forehead.

Before Harry could answer, the other blurted, “Blimey! Are you–”

“He is,” said the first one, before finally meeting Harry’s eyes. “Aren’t you?” 

Harry blinked. “What?” 

“Harry Potter,” they chorused. Harry shifted uncomfortably and glanced her way. 

“Oh.” Harry looked uncomfortable. “Um–”

Meg stepped between Harry and the twins, sporting a scowl. “Yes, he is,” she said. “And before you ask, he doesn’t remember anything about that night or Voldemort. Now stop staring like that before you wind up on the nasty end of a stinging jinx, boys.”

She didn’t even realize that she’d used Voldemort’s name instead of calling him You-Know-Who until the twins flinched. 

Luckily, Mrs. Weasley chose that moment to call for the twins. With one last look at Harry, they left the compartment and hopped off the train. They faintly overheard the family chatting and the twins making fun of Percy the Prefect, but instead of listening, Harry turned to Meg. 

“Thanks for that,” he said. “I’m not used to being…”

“Famous? Recognized in public?” Meg finished for him, sitting down and gesturing for him to sit opposite her. “I figured as much. You kind of had that deer-in-headlights look.”

“You knew who I was, back in Diagon Alley,” Harry said as his eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Meg shrugged, pretending not to notice how tense and suspicious he’d gotten. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. I know what it’s like to be treated like a museum exhibit. All I see in front of me is a normal kid who invited me for ice cream.”

Harry visibly relaxed.

When he sat across from her, she nodded at his sneakers—the ones she had picked out for him from a catalogue. “I like your shoes, by the way. Are they new? They look new.”

Harry turned as red as the train and nodded. “They were a birthday gift. From a…friend.”

Meg smiled warmly. She quickly glanced at his glasses, happy to see that they were the ones she’d gotten him. The old ones had undoubtedly been bought when his head was much smaller, so the new ones were larger and since he wasn’t squinting as much as he had in Diagon, she figured the prescription was better too.

The train whistle cut through the air and the train began to move. When Meg glanced out the window, she caught sight of a little ginger girl running to the end of the platform while crying. 

Just as the train officially departed the station, a boy with the same shade of fiery red hair as the twins and a face full of freckles stepped in, looking shy. 

“Anyone sitting there?” he asked, pointing at the seat next to Harry. “Everywhere else is full.”

Harry shook his head and the boy sat down. He glanced at Harry in awe, then curiously at Meg, then looked down at his hands and pretended he hadn’t looked at all. Meg noticed with a small note of amusement that he had a black smudge on his nose. The urge to wipe it off followed close behind. His mother would probably have wiped it off with her thumb if she’d seen it before he boarded.

“Hey, Ron.” 

They all turned toward the voice at the door. The twins had returned. 

“Listen, we’re going down the middle of the train—Lee’s got a giant tarantula down there.” 

Ron looked horrified by the prospect. “Right,” he mumbled faintly.

“Harry,” the other twin said, “and er–” He turned to Harry and whispered loudly, “What’s the mean one’s name?” 

Meg rolled her eyes. “I’m not deaf, and my name is Meg. You are?” She already knew, but she was hoping they’d say which was which.

“Right.” The first twin smirked. “Harry and Meg. I don’t think we introduced ourselves. Fred,” he pointed to himself, “and George Weasley.” 

“And this is Ron,” George added, “Our brother. See you later, then.”

Once they were gone, Ron immediately turned to Harry and blurted, “Are you really Harry Potter?” 

Harry nodded as Meg bit the inside of her lip to suppress her laughter. He really couldn’t keep it in a second longer, could he?

“And I’m Meg,” she piped up, unable to stop herself from pulling out a handkerchief and a water bottle Tilly had packed for her. “Sorry, you’ve got a little mark on your nose” She wetted the cloth and held it out. “Probably grease from the train car handle or something. Here.”

Ron turned bright red and took the handkerchief with a mumbled ‘thanks’, wiping the wrong side of his nose. 

“No, the other side,” said Harry, pointing. Ron quickly switched sides, and a moment later the mark was gone.

“Thanks,” he said again as he handed back the handkerchief while looking sheepishly at Harry. “Sorry for asking like that, I just—well, I thought it might be one of Fred and George’s jokes,” said Ron. “And have you really got—you know…”

He hesitantly pointed at Harry’s forehead. Harry pulled back his bangs to show his scar. Meg pushed back the wave of fury that rose at the sight. 

Tom Marvolo Riddle, when I get my hands on you…

Ron stared openly. “So that’s where You-Know-Who…”

“Yes it is,” said Harry. “But I can’t remember it.”

“Nothing?” 

Unlike before when the twins had gawked at him, Harry didn’t look unnerved. In fact, he seemed eager to talk to a boy his age. “Well, I remember a lot of green light, but nothing else.” 

“Wow,” Ron breathed. 

“Are all your family wizards?” Harry asked eagerly. Ron replied in the affirmative, and Meg smiled faintly as the boys began to tell each other about themselves. 

When Harry mentioned his aunt and uncle, Meg had to turn to the window to hide her scowl. 

She had just begun to fantasize about shoving an apple in Vernon’s mouth and roasting him on a spit when Ron’s gasp yanked her back to the present.

“You said You-Know-Who’s name!” Ron was saying to Harry, sounding both shocked and impressed. “I’d’ve thought you, of all people–”

“It’s just a name, Ron,” Meg said simply. “He wants people to be afraid of his name—it makes it much easier to manipulate everyone that way. I think it’s very brave of you to use his name, Harry.”

Harry’s shoulders slumped slightly. “I’m not trying to be brave,” he protested. “I just never knew you shouldn’t. See what I mean? I’ve got loads to learn…” He looked down at his hands. “I bet… I bet I’m the worst in the class.” 

“You won’t be,” Ron reassured quickly, smiling. “There’s loads of people who come from muggle families and they learn quick enough. And if there’s anything you don’t know, you can ask me!”

While they were talking, the train had carried them out of London. Now they sped past lush green fields full of cows and sheep, complete with white picket fences. 

They stopped talking for a while, and Meg pulled out a book to pass the time: The Art of Duelling: Making Your Offense a Good Defense and Vice Versa  by Herberta Cathedon.

Meg didn’t pay much attention when the trolley came around—not until Harry stepped into the hall and came back with a giant armful of candy.

“Dear god,” she gasped when he dumped it on the seat between him and Ron. “Y’know, there will be food when we get to school.”

Ron was gaping at Harry’s haul. “Hungry, are you?”

“Starving.” Harry unwrapped a pumpkin pasty and took a large bite.

Meg faltered. What had the Dursleys given him for breakfast if he was this hungry? Sure, she could eat herself, but she wasn’t famished like Harry seemed to be.

Ron pulled out a lumpy package and unwrapped it, revealing the sandwiches inside. Meg fought the urge to grimace. The bread looked a little dry and so did the meat. It had clearly been made in a hurry.

At the sight of it, Harry held out a pasty. “Swap you for one of these,” he said. “Go on–” 

“You don’t want this,” said Ron. “Mum hasn’t got much time,” he added quickly, “you know, with five of us.” 

“Go on, Ron, have a pasty,” Harry insisted. He looked incredibly insistent; it took Meg a moment to realize that this was probably the first time Harry had ever had something of his own to share. 

When Ron was happily munching on his pasty (his corned beef sandwiches were quickly forgotten), Harry grabbed another pasty and held it out to her. “D’you need something too, Meg?” 

“Well, I’ve got some sandwiches too, so…” She glanced at the pastry in his hand, then at the brown bag on the seat next to her. Inside was a turkey and cranberry hoagie made by Tilly, charmed to stay fresh and cool until she opened the bag.. “I don’t want to take your food, Harry–”

“You’re not taking it, I’m giving it to you,” Harry insisted. “Besides, I got plenty. I’ll need help finishing it all before we get to Hogwarts.”

The smell of pumpkin pie wafted to her nose, and her resolve crumbled.

“Alright,” she caved, taking the pasty. “But we can’t eat too much junk—there will be a big feast tonight that we’ll want to save room for.”

“But it’s only lunchtime,” Ron said around a mouthful of food. “We won’t need to worry about dinner for hours.” He nodded at the pasty. “Go on, Meg, I bet they’re much better than whatever sandwich your mum packed.”

Meg faltered. Her mom’s packed lunches had been wonderful. Margaret was always the kid with the cosmic brownie that everyone else wanted. 

Instead of wallowing in the memory, she bit into the pasty.

She froze. Her blood turned to ice, and her face flushed.

It tasted like her mom’s Thanksgiving pumpkin pie. The recipe had been given to Alicia by her mother on her wedding day, who got it from her mother on her wedding day and so on. Margaret was supposed to have received it when she got married. No matter how many times Tilly and Meg had tried to recreate it, they’d never gotten it perfect. 

Meg hadn’t had her mom’s pie in twelve years. Until her very first pumpkin pasty. 

It tasted like home. 

She blinked the tears away and swallowed the pasty in her mouth. “Thanks, Harry.” 

Harry’s curious glance lingered, but he didn’t say anything. Instead he nodded and took a pasty for himself.

When they’d worked their way through the pasties and finished off the cauldron cakes, they pulled out the Chocolate Frogs.

“What are these?” Harry asked, holding up a package and tossing another to Meg. “They’re not really frogs, are they?” 

“No,” reassured Ron. “But see what the card is. I’m missing Agrippa.” 

“What?” asked Harry with a frown.

“Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know—Chocolate Frogs have cards inside them, you know, to collect. Famous witches and wizards. I’ve got about five hundred, but I haven’t got Agrippa or Ptolemy.”

Meg peeled hers open and quickly snapped the frog’s head off before it could hop out of reach. She lifted the card out and smiled. 

“It’s your lucky day, Ron,” she laughed, lifting up her Agrippa card and holding it out. “Take it. I’m not much of a collector.” 

Ron’s eyes grew almost as big as Tilly’s. He looked at her like she had given him a million dollars. “Thanks!” he exclaimed, taking the card. “Now all I need is Ptolemy for a complete set!” 

Harry had unwrapped his own card, and with wide eyes, gasped, “so this is Dumbledore!” He stared at the portrait on the card.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Dumbledore!” gasped Ron. He shook his head and pointed toward the stack of frogs. “Can I have a frog? I might get Ptolemy–” Harry handed one over as he read the description of Dumbledore on the back of the card, and Ron thanked him quickly before tearing it open. 

When he turned the card back over, he gasped. “He’s gone!” 

“Magic pictures and portraits move,” explained Meg. “Often, figures in portraits will move between portraits to identical portraits elsewhere. Your Dumbledore is probably on someone else’s card right now.” She opened another frog and quickly stopped it from hopping away before peeking at the card. She audibly groaned. 

Morgana Le Fay. 

“What’d you get?” Ron stood and peered at her card. “Oh, Morgana. I’ve got six of her—ooh! Guess what I heard!” He plopped back in his seat. “I heard that a Le Fay’s starting Hogwarts this year. It was in the Daily Prophet. Apparently her parents died of Dragon Pox or something, so she came here and is living in a castle in the country or something. And she’ll be in our year.”

“Did the Prophet say her first name?” asked Meg after a small beat. 

“Don’t think so,” said Ron. “Probably something real posh, though.”

Harry’s eyes had grown wide. “Le Fay?” he echoed. “Like the sorceress from the King Arthur stories?”

“Yeah, the family left England centuries ago,” said Ron. “They didn’t like that their power was being limited by the Ministry of Magic—Merlin never married or had an heir, so Morgana’s daughter made herself queen. Claimed Merlin was secretly her dad, but nobody knows if that’s really true. Rumor says they give animal sacrifices to their fairy ancestors for extra power every full moon. But that’s blood magic, and it’s illegal in most places.” He shoved half a chocolate frog into his mouth.

“Why’s it illegal?” asked Harry. 

Meg’s eyes were glued to her pasty as she said, “Because it defiles the laws of nature. Almost all blood magic requires hurting someone.”

Ron nodded quickly. “Lots of Dark wizards and witches do it. It’s why they’re so scary”

“I wonder what she’ll be like,” said Harry, looking curious.

A snort of laughter escaped Ron. “My mum reckons she’ll be a spoiled princess that expects everyone to do everything she says. Dad’s not so sure, but he doesn’t know that she’s not like that, so he didn’t say much. I bet you anything she’s in Slytherin. Fred and George have been planning how to get into the Slytherin common room since the first article about her came out around Christmas.” 

Meg’s jaw was clenched tightly enough to crack chestnuts. She didn’t care what children thought of her. But honestly, the thought of Molly Weasley hating her was just… if she remembered right, Molly sometimes let gossip dictate her opinions, which had led her to mistreating Hermione at one point. 

But she really didn’t want Molly Weasley to hate her—not when Molly had always reminded her of a more tightly-wound version of her own mother.

Feeling a bit sick, she set aside her pasty and returned her gaze to the window. 

When the fields outside turned to wild woods and the sunlight grew warm the way it does only in the late afternoon, the compartment door opened. A teary-eyed, round-faced boy with dirty-blonde hair poked his head in. 

“Sorry,” he said, “but have you seen a toad at all?” 

Ron and Harry shook their heads. Meg said, “we haven’t, sorry.” 

The boy’s face scrunched up and he wailed, “I’ve lost him! He keeps getting away from me!”

“He’ll turn up,” Harry said kindly.

The boy sighed miserably. “Yes, well, if you see him…” He left and closed the door behind him. 

“Don’t know why he’s so bothered,” said Ron. “If I’d brought a toad I’d lose it as quick as I could. Mind you, I brought Scabbers, so I can’t talk.” He gestured to his lap.

Meg finally realized with a start that the lumpy sock he’d been holding wasn’t a sock at all, but a rat. 

An ugly, patchy-haired, fat rat. 

Something about it put her on edge. 

Probably its excessive ugliness, she mused internally as she brushed the feeling aside and pretended not to feel as though she was forgetting something important.

“He might’ve died and you wouldn’t know the difference,” said Ron in disgust, unaware of the thoughts behind Meg’s smiling mask. “I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but the spell didn’t work. I’ll show you, look…” 

He rummaged around in his trunk and pulled out a wand that had definitely seen better days. It had small chips and scratches on it, and something white glinted at the end. 

“Unicorn hair’s nearly poking out. Anyway–” 

He raised his wand, but the compartment door slid open again. The boy was back, but this time Hermione, of all people—already in her Hogwarts robes—was with him.

“Has anyone seen a toad?” she asked. “Neville’s lost one.” 

They all shook their heads. 

Hermione’s eyes landed on Meg and lit up. “There you are! I was wondering where you might’ve gone–” She caught sight of the wand in Ron’s hand and completely forgot about Meg altogether. “Oh, are you doing magic? Let’s see it, then.”

Ron blinked, taken aback. He then cleared his throat. “Erm—all right: Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow. Turn this stupid fat rat yellow!”

He waved his wand… and nothing happened. 

“Are you sure that’s a real spell?” said Hermione with a slight laugh. “Well, it’s not very good, is it? I’ve tried a few simple spells just for practice and it’s all worked for me. Nobody in my family’s magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it’s the very best school of witchcraft there is, I’ve read—I’ve learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough—I’m Hermione Granger, by the way.” She turned to Meg. “After I left Flourish and Blotts that day I realized that you never said your name. And who are your friends?”

This was all said very, very fast. It was a good thing Meg was paying attention. 

Meg kept her polite smile in place. “I’m Meg.”

“I’m Ron Weasley,” muttered Ron when Hermione turned to him expectantly. 

“Harry Potter,” said Harry.

Hermione’s eyes went wide. “Are you really?” she gasped. “I know all about you, of course—I got a few extra books for background reading–” Meg suppressed a snort. More like a few extra mountains of books. “–and you’re in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century.”

Harry looked dazed. “Am I?”

“Goodness, didn’t you know, I’d have found out everything I could if it was me,” continued Hermioned. “Do you know what House you’ll be in? I did some research and asked around, and I hope I’m in Gryffindor, it sounds by far the best; but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t be too bad…” She shrugged. “Anyway, we’d better go and look for Neville’s toad. You three had better change; I expect we’ll be there soon.” 

With that parting remark she left, taking Neville with her. 

Meg sighed and opened her book again as Harry and Ron talked about the Houses, which led to Ron telling them about his older brothers that had already graduated school.

The mention of Gringotts made her tune back into the conversation.

“–that’s why it’s such big news,” Ron was saying, “They haven’t been caught. My dad says it must’ve been a powerful Dark wizard to get round Gringotts, but they don’t think they took anything, that’s what’s odd. ‘Course, everyone gets scared when something like this happens in case You-Know-Who’s behind it.”

Meg bit her lip. 

Voldemort was behind it, but she couldn’t exactly say that, could she? 

Ron asked what Quidditch teams they preferred, and when Harry admitted he didn’t know any, the redheaded boy launched into the most thorough and passionate explanation for the game that Meg had ever heard. 

He had just begun explaining the finer points of the game when the compartment door opened again. Only this time, it wasn’t Hermione or Neville. 

Draco Malfoy, flanked by two other boys who were about twice his size. Probably Crabbe and Goyle. 

Meg wasn’t one for criticizing the appearance of children, but since she’d already compared Draco’s head to a hard-boiled egg in her head multiple times, she figured referring to them internally as Meathead #1 (Crabbe) & Meathead #2 (Goyle) wasn’t going to hurt anyone.

“Is it true?” he asked, ignoring Ron and Meg in favor of staring only at Harry. “They’re saying all down the train that Harry Potter’s in this compartment. It’s you, isn’t it?” 

Harry’s eyes flickered to Crabbe and Goyle, then back to Draco. “Yes.”

“Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle,” Draco introduced carelessly when he noticed Harry’s glance. “And my name’s Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.” 

Ron let out a small cough that sounded suspiciously similar to a snicker. Draco’s eyes shot to him. 

“Think my name’s funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children they can afford–” 

Meg rolled her eyes and sighed, pulling Draco’s attention to her. “You spend a lot of time spouting things your Daddy said. Do you have any original thoughts?”

“Oh, it’s you,” he sneered. “I still can’t believe they let a yank into our school.” Meg rolled her eyes, but he ignored her and turned back to Harry. “You’ll soon find out some types of wizards are much better than others, Potter. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.”

He offered his hand for Harry to shake, but Harry didn’t move to take it. He glanced at Ron, who had flushed at the insult at his family, and Meg, who was leveling Draco with a sharp glare.

Harry met Draco’s eyes. His voice was icy as he said, “I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks.”

A pink tinge colored Draco’s pale complexion. “I’d be careful if I were you, Potter,” he said slowly. “Unless you’re a bit politer you’ll go the same way as your parents. They didn’t know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riffraff like the Weasleys and yanks and that Hagrid, and it’ll rub off on you.” 

Harry and Ron shot to their feet. Meg moved a bit slower, more deliberate. 

“Say that again,” Ron snarled, his face even redder than his hair. 

“Oh, you’re going to fight us, are you?” Malfoy sneered. 

Harry lifted his chin. “Unless you get out now,” said Harry.

Malfoy opened his mouth, smirking, but Meg stepped between him and Harry and Ron. 

This was getting exhausting. She had barely gotten to read her book at all, and she needed to change into her robes soon or she’d be rushing. She hated rushing. 

“Walk away, Malfoy,” she warned, her pitch lowering. “I don’t care who your father is—if you start something here, I promise you will not enjoy how I finish it.” 

The temperature in the compartment dipped just enough to be noticeable. A spark of hesitation glimmered in Malfoy’s eyes. He shifted on his feet.

The tense atmosphere shattered when Meathead 2 suddenly howled in pain and yanked his hand away from the candy he had been attempting to steal. Scabbers the rat hung off his finger, its little teeth buried deep into Goyle’s knuckle. Yelling, Goyle swung Scabbers around violently until the rat finally flew off and hit the window with a painful-sounding thunk. All three were gone in a flash.

A second later, Hermione returned with an incredulous frown. “What has been going on?” she asked, looking between Meg’s pinched frown, the sweets scattered everywhere, and Ron picking up Scabbers by his tail. 

“I think he’s been knocked out,” Ron told them. He squinted and looked closer, then huffed. “No—I don’t believe it—he’s gone back to sleep.” He set Scabbers down and turned to them. “You’ve met Malfoy before?” 

While Harry explained their previous encounter in Diagon Alley, Meg pulled her robes and shoes from her trunk. She squeezed past Hermione and jogged to the bathroom. Once she changed into her robes, she turned and stared at her reflection in the mirror. 

It was surreal, wearing Hogwarts robes. They hadn’t changed color to match her House yet, so her tie was black with the Hogwarts emblem stitched on. She smoothed down her hair and double-checked that there was no food in her teeth. 

Just as she was double-checking her Mary Jane’s, a voice echoed through the train: “We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes’ time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately.” 

Nerves twisted in Meg’s gut. 

Hogwarts. She was going to Hogwarts. 

She wanted to laugh and cry and rage and run away all at the same time.

When she returned to the compartment, it was to the sight of the boys stuffing their pockets full of the remaining sweets. Hermione was already gone. 

Only minutes later, the train slowed to a stop at the Hogsmeade station, and Meg prepared to walk to her doom. 

~~~~~

Hogwarts was officially the most beautiful place she’d ever seen in her life. 

The early Gothic style castle was perched on a mountain and overlooked an unfathomably huge black lake. The turrets scraped the heavens, and many of the windows glowed with golden light. 

She spent the entire boat ride gaping at the scenery around her and trying not to cry at the wonder of it all. Eleven years of magic, and nothing had ever left her speechless like this. 

As much as it killed her to admit, Ilvermorny was not half as beautiful as Hogwarts. Ilvermorny looked more like a college campus with colonial-style buildings. Hogwarts was a real-life castle. 

They eventually reached the opposite shore and followed Hagrid to a pair of giant wooden doors. The giant double-checked that everyone was there—and somehow returned Neville’s toad to him—before raising a gigantic fist and knocking three times. 

The door swung open immediately. There stood a tall, older witch with ebony hair streaked with gray, her robes a vivid emerald green. 

She seemed more than a little terrifying. Meg respected her immediately.

Hagrid handed them off to the Head of Gryffindor House, and they followed her into the spacious entrance hall. The ceiling was so high she could barely see it, and she was pretty sure half a football field could fit inside and there would still be room. 

McGonagall led them up a magnificent marble staircase at the far end of the Entry Hall. The giant door at the top muffled the buzz of hundreds of students within.

McGonagall led them to a smaller, empty chamber just to the side that was hardly large enough to hold them all. Nerves prompted the children to crowd together tightly. Meg allowed Harry to grip her sleeve, and if he practically stood on her toes, she pretended not to notice. 

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” said Professor McGonagall, her voice echoing in the space. “The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your Houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your House will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your House, sleep in your House dormitory, and spend free time in your House common room.

“The four Houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each House has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your House points, while any rule-breaking will lose House points. At the end of the year, the House with the most points is awarded the House Cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever House becomes yours. 

“The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting.” 

Her gaze lingered on Neville’s cloak, which was fastened below his left ear, and on the bit of cauldron cake smudged on the corner of Ron’s mouth. Harry tried to flatten his hair—a vain attempt, if you asked her. 

“I shall return when we are ready for you,” said Professor McGonagall. “Please wait quietly.” 

She walked out of the chamber. Meg immediately pulled out her handkerchief again and instructed Ron to wipe his mouth, then turned to Neville and helped him straighten his cloak after he elbowed her twice while trying to do it himself.

Beside her, Harry turned to Ron. “How exactly do they sort us into Houses?” he asked.

“Some sort of test, I think,” answered Ron. “Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking.” 

Harry’s face dropped. Meg took his hand with a comforting squeeze.

“It’s not the kind of test you’re probably thinking of,” she said, only loud enough for him to hear. “There’s a magic hat that will be put on your head. It’ll look into your mind a little, and then it will sort you into the House that suits you best. Don’t worry too much.”

Harry’s frame visibly relaxed. He gave her a grateful look and quickly turned to tell Ron the same. 

The ginger boy shook his head and whispered, “I’ll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling a troll!”

The ghosts appeared a moment later and, frankly, startled the living daylights out of them all. One had been unkind enough to move right through Meg without a warning or apology. It felt like the time she did the ice-bucket challenge in middle school. 

She quickly decided she didn’t like ghosts. At all. 

When Professor McGonagall returned, she instructed them to form a line before leading them out the door and through the giant double doors of the Great Hall. 

If Meg was stunned by the beauty of the Entry Hall, the Great Hall left her positively gobsmacked. The night sky above her was full of stars that were usually hidden by light pollution, and the hundreds of candles hovering overhead were like stars that had descended to join them. 

They walked down the middle aisle between the tables filled with students in blue and yellow robes, while students in green and red filled the tables on the far left and far right respectively.

At the far end of the hall was the staff table. Most obvious was Dumbledore, in his large Headmaster seat that reminded her more of a throne. Along the table were many people she didn’t recognize, but also some who were too distinct to miss. Like Professor Flitwick, who was part goblin and half the size of those around him. There was Professor Sprout, who literally had a small sprout growing from her frizzy hair. And Hagrid, of course, who she couldn’t have missed if she tried. 

Snape was obvious too. He didn’t look much like Alan Rickman, and for that, Meg was glad. She could be more objective and clear-headed if he didn’t look like an actor she admired. He wasn’t as unpleasant-looking as some fanarts suggested, either. He was still pale, his nose still hooked, and his hair appeared a little greasier than Meg would allow hers to look outside the house, but had she not been looking for him, he would not have stood out amongst the assortment of staff members at the high table.

His intense, unreadable gaze was locked on Harry, and though the boy didn’t notice, she certainly did. 

The worst sight of the day was the skinny, trembling man near the end of the table. He wasn’t the most obviously strange one of the bunch, but his shifting gaze and large turban told her exactly who he was. 

Quirrell. 

A chill went up her spine. 

She’d been so worried about the long term issues, she hadn’t even begun to properly emotionally digest the fact that she would be sharing the castle with Voldemort himself for the entire year.

How was she supposed to focus on being Sorted while Wizard Hitler sat only a few yards away? 

This was a bad idea. She should have found another way to stay in the U.S. She should’ve homeschooled herself. Tilly could’ve helped; it worked well enough when learning Occlumency, why not other things? There was still time to run. She could still escape. She could turn around right then and bolt out before anyone could catch her–

Her palms stung, breaking her out of her internal spiral. She glanced down to see four small red half-moons on each hand. 

But that would rouse suspicion in not just Quirrell, but Dumbledore as well. Drawing attention to herself would only make things worse. In their eyes, she needed to be seen as a perfectly average little girl. Unremarkable. Ordinary. 

Quirrell must have felt her gaze, because suddenly she found him glancing back at her. Nausea twisted in her stomach.

Luckily, he didn’t seem to catch onto anything odd, as his eyes moved right past her. Unluckily, however, was the fact that when she looked away, she somehow managed to look directly at Dumbledore.

They locked eyes. 

Though she was certain he wouldn’t attempt legilimency on a first year in the middle of the start-of-term feast, she still slammed the wall protecting her mind into place and broke eye contact to stare at the night sky above. 

See, Albus? she thought. I’m just an ordinary, awestruck first year. Nothing unusual about me whatsoever.

When they finally reached the platform at the front of the room, McGonagall set a stool front and center, then placed a pointed hat on the seat. It was quite possibly the oldest, most worn, most ugly, dirtiest-looking hat she’d ever laid eyes on in her life. It would have given Tilly a heart attack.

For a tense moment, there was silence. Then a large rip near the rip opened wide—much like a smiling mouth—and began to sing:

“Oh, you may not think I’m pretty, 

But don’t judge on what you see, 

I’ll eat myself if you can find 

A smarter hat than me. 

You can keep your bowlers black, 

Your top hats sleek and tall, 

For I’m the Hogwarts Sorting Hat 

And I can cap them all. 

There’s nothing hidden in your head 

The Sorting Hat can’t see, 

So try me on and I will tell you 

Where you ought to be. 

You might belong in Gryffindor, 

Where dwell the brave at heart, 

Their daring, nerve, and chivalry 

Set Gryffindors apart; 

You might belong in Hufflepuff, 

Where they are just and loyal, 

Those patient Hufflepuffs are true 

And unafraid of toil; 

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw, 

If you’ve a ready mind, 

Where those of wit and learning, 

Will always find their kind; 

Or perhaps in Slytherin 

You’ll make your real friends, 

Those cunning folk use any means 

To achieve their ends. 

So put me on! 

Don’t be afraid! 

And don’t get in a flap! 

You’re in safe hands (though I have none) 

For I’m a Thinking Cap!”

The hall burst into applause as the song ended, and the hat bowed to each table before becoming still again.

Professor McGonagall stepped forward, now holding a long roll of parchment. Meg’s heart stuttered in her chest.

“When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted,” she announced, before looking at the parchment. “Abbott, Hannah!” 

A pink-faced girl with pigtails stumbled out of line, put on the hat—which fell right over her eyes—and sat down. After a moment the rip on the hat opened again and–

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

The Hufflepuff table cheered as the girl went to sit down in one of the empty seats at the end.

Next was Susan Bones, who was quickly sorted into Hufflepuff. Then Terry Boot, who became a Ravenclaw. Then the C last names were called and Sorted, then D names, then E names, then F names. Hermione was sorted into Gryffindor, and she beamed as she skipped past them to the table full of students clad in red and gold as her robes shimmered and changed to the new colors. 

The H names went quickly, then the I names, then the J names, and finally, the last of the K names was called. One student with the last name Larrington went before her (Slytherin). 

Then, the moment she had been dreading. 

“Le Fay, Megara!”

Whispers broke out in the hall. Many did not sound very nice. 

Meg felt frozen. She glanced at Harry and Ron, who were looking around at the other students curiously. 

With a small shake of her head, she schooled her expression into one of cool confidence and stepped forward. She could feel hundreds of stares boring into her from all sides. The most terrifying one of all came from the eyes hidden under a turban. 

She took the hat and sat on the stool. With a small intake of breath, she slipped it on and let it fall over her eyes.

“Oh, this is very interesting,” the hat whispered in her mind. “You’re a very long way from home, aren’t you? The mind of an adult trapped in the body of a child. Forever displaced… and I now have the difficult task of placing you somewhere.

The hat chuckled, and the sound seemed to echo inside her carefully-guarded mind. “Your thirst for knowledge is that of a Ravenclaw, but your cunning mind and ambition… you would thrive in Slytherin.” 

Her anxiety grew. I know that, she thought back. But if you put me in Slytherin, I might end up strangling one of those stuck-up brats. I’d rather not go to Azkaban if I could help it. 

“Perhaps not the best option, then,” the hat hummed. “What an interesting mind you have. I have never had to Sort an adult before. They are much more complex than children.”

Come on, Meg snapped internally, her patience steadily thinning, it’s obviously Ravenclaw. I’m not going in Slytherin no matter what, I only work hard because I have to so Hufflepuff’s out, and I am neither brave nor chivalrous which eliminates Gryffindor. I’d fit right in in Ravenclaw.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so certain about that.”

Taken aback, Meg stiffened. 

What’s that supposed to mean? 

“To say you lack courage would be blatantly false,” argued the Hat. “And chivalry is more than honor and etiquette. It is the desire for justice and fairness. The instinct to protect the weak and vulnerable. My dear lady, these are things you possess in abundance. They overshadow your ambition, your desire for knowledge, and even loyalty. You wish to do what is right, regardless of personal cost.”

Meg’s frown deepened. I really don’t think you’ve got it right–

“Oh, but I do. Grief has left you disoriented for many years, yes, but now you have a cause to defend, innocents to protect. You will find new family within your House, but it will not be Ravenclaw.” 

Wait, I think you’ve misunderstood–

“Yes… it’s very clear now… you belong in GRYFFINDOR!” 

The last word was yelled out for the entire hall to hear. 

Feeling almost detached from her body, she pulled off the hat and stepped down from the stool. McGonagall gave her a subtle nod. Though she wasn’t grinning, she didn’t look cold or unwelcoming.

Nobody was cheering, but plenty of people were whispering—the first Sorting of the night that hadn’t elicited instant applause from their new Housemates. 

Then she took a step toward the Gryffindor table, and a few people—two heads of fiery red hair seemed to be the source—started to clap. People followed suit, and soon enough, the Gryffindor table was cheering and beckoning for her to sit down like they’d done for the other kids.

Feeling dazed and unbalanced, she took a seat. She glanced down to see that her plain robes had already changed from plain black to crimson and gold. Gryffindor colors.

The last House she would have ever expected to get. She would have expected Hufflepuff over Gryffindor.

“You were sitting there for a long time!” said Hermione with an excited grin as she settled in the seat directly across from her. “It was almost five whole minutes!”

Meg managed a nervous smile, enduring the pats on the back and enthusiastic greetings. 

“Sounds about right,” she managed. “The Hat and I had a little argument.”

Hermione looked like she wanted to interrogate her further, but all commotion at the Gryffindor table was cut off when McGonagall cleared her throat and gave the table a stern frown—though Meg could’ve sworn she saw the corner of her mouth twitching. 

She hadn’t realized the cheering had gone on for so long. Then again, McGonagall had been forced to do the very same thing for several other Gryffindor Sortings, so she figured she wasn’t very special. 

She glanced back at the High Table. Hagrid gave her a thumbs up when she caught his eye, and she nodded back. A glance Dumbledore’s way revealed a grandfatherly smile and curious twinkling eyes. She double-checked her mental walls and smiled in her best impression of an eleven-year-old. 

Next was Neville, who almost sat there as long as she did before the Hat finally yelled “GRYFFINDOR!”

He almost took the hat with him to the table, but once he set it down he practically sprinted to sit down by them.

After the L’s finished came the M’s, and the hat had barely touched Malfoy’s head when it yelled “SLYTHERIN!”

Then finally, Harry’s name was called. Whispers broke out in the room—much louder than they had for her though not nearly as nervous or mean—as he walked up to the stool.

She knew the conversation being had under that hat. He had the hat on for a little less than a minute when the rip opened and– “GRYFFINDOR!”

Her relief returned as the Gryffindor table erupted, the cheering ten times louder than it had been for anyone else. She was worried, for a moment, that he might get sorted in Slytherin anyway, but thankfully that hadn’t changed.

When Harry came and sat down, it was only a couple seats down from her. After Harry, they were joined by Dean Thomas, then a few others whose names she didn’t recognize from the books, then finally Ron was sorted into Gryffindor. After Blaise Zabini turned out to be a Slytherin, the Sorting was finally over. 

Thank. God. 

Dumbledore stood up and cut through her inner conflict. He was beaming at the assembly of students like they were his favorite sight in the world. 

“Welcome!” he called, his voice filling the hall. “Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!” He nodded. “Thank you!” 

With that, he sat back down. Everyone clapped and cheered. Meg followed along hesitantly and shot Dumbledore a confused frown; she supposed when you had the sort of renown he did, you could pull weird shit like that. 

Meg didn’t have time to dwell on the enigma that was Albus Dumbledore before the feast appeared before her eyes.

It was… a lot. 

She ate more than her pride would allow her to admit. They met the Ghost of Gryffindor Tower, Nearly Headless Nick—though he preferred to be called Sir Nicholas. Meg was glad she turned away when Seamus asked why he was called nearly headless, because judging by the disgusted gasps and groans of the other first years, it was a gruesome sight that would have destroyed her appetite. 

When the desserts came out, she nearly wept. Scattered everywhere was a multitude of pies, tarts, eclairs, donuts of all kinds, trifle, Jell-O, tapioca pudding, rice pudding… though she couldn’t find any cheesecake or ice cream that wasn’t normal vanilla or chocolate, which was a bit of a bummer. 

Talk amongst the first years eventually turned to their families. She heard Seamus give his famous ‘half-and-half’ speech, Neville’s horrendous story about his Great Uncle dropping him from a balcony, and Lavender Brown’s parents taking her on vacation to celebrate her getting into Hogwarts.  At some point, Hermione had turned to Percy to ask about the classwork. 

Eventually, Parvati Patil turned to her. “So, Megara–”

“Just Meg, please,” said Meg before taking a big bite of lemon meringue pie. 

“Alright, Meg,” Parvati corrected, “why did your family move back? They were gone for so long, everyone thought the family had died out or went back to fairyland,” she said the last part with a laugh. “But you’re here, and you look…”

“Normal,” Lavender Brown finished for her. “Your accent sounds American, but I thought the Le Fays had gone to Russia and died out there—or, well, that’s what my cousin said.”

“My aunt said they lived on an island with the fairies down by Australia,” Seamus interjected.

Another first year added, “my grandfather said they were locked away on the South Pole and married Polar Bears.” 

Thankfully, everybody else seemed to recognize how insane that one was, because their section of the table burst into laughter.

“Well, um, the truth is…” She cleared her throat, took a long sip of pumpkin juice, and waited until people had quieted enough so she wouldn’t have to repeat herself. 

“The Le Fay family’s been in the U.S. for centuries. I can’t speak for anyone else, but I’m certainly not from fairyland, nor am I Russian, and I’ve never been to the South Pole—though my great uncle did look a lot like a bear in the photos we’ve got of him. 

“I don’t know what people have been saying about me–” In the corner of her eye, she saw Ron turn bright red. “–but Carmine, my–my dad, was actually the Magical Secretary of State, and my uh, my mom Viola was the Head of the Auror Department. She was the only witch in her family—here you’d call her a muggleborn. I grew up in Manhattan, and Lavinia, my sister, went to Ilvermorny. But then Carmine and Viola both caught dragon pox, and a few months after that, Lavinia and I moved back into an old family property here in England for her cosmetics business. Her stuff is sold at Primpernelle’s, I think.”

Everyone was staring intensely. Meg pretended not to be bothered as she looked at Lavender and asked, “So, what classes are you most excited for? I’m itching to start Transfiguration, myself.”

The diversion seemed to do the trick. The girls started excitedly discussing the next day’s classes, and Meg turned back to her food with a satisfied smile. She spent the rest of the feast eating in peace.

Later, when everyone had their fill, Dumbledore gave another spiel telling them not to enter the Forbidden Forest, not to do magic in the halls between classes, and not to enter the third-floor corridor on the right side unless dying painfully sounded like an attractive end to their time at school.

Meg already knew how to get past Fluffy and the other obstacles. She was just dismal at chess, so she’d need a chess master that wasn’t twelve years old to get past it.

Then came the school song that made absolutely zero sense and sounded worse than anything she’d ever heard in either life, and finally, it was time for bed.

The walk to the Gryffindor Tower finally answered Meg’s long standing question as to how Hogwarts students weren’t all 500 pounds after all the giant feasts: 

The goddamn stairs. 

Meg was going to have calves of steel in less than a month. 

Someone hissed her name, and she to the person who had moved to stand next to her. 

It was Ron, the tips of his ears bright red. He had a distinctly sheepish look in his eyes.

“Hey, everything okay?” asked Meg.

Ron seemed to be having trouble looking her in the eye, and not just because they were going up the stairs. 

“Well,” he said, “I just want to—about what I said on the train–”

“Oh,” Meg realized, her expression turning soft. “I’ve dealt with much, much worse than some silly rumors. Don’t worry about it.” 

Ron’s frown deepened, and she shared a look with Harry, who had moved to walk by her right side. 

“Worse?” Ron echoed. “What do you mean, worse?”

Meg just shook her head and smiled. She spent the rest of the trek to Gryffindor tower dodging questions, instead turning them on their heads so the boys did ninety percent of the talking.

When they finally climbed through the portrait hole behind the painting of the Fat Lady (who turned out to be very pretty and polite), Meg couldn’t stop the smile that crept onto her lips. 

The Gryffindor common room was… well, perfect. It was round and much bigger than the movies depicted it to be—it probably could have held a hundred people all standing together. The fireplace was almost as tall as her, and was wide enough to fit at least three or four kids sitting side-by-side. The ceiling stretched up impressively high. All the doorways showed the tell-tale rounded arch of Anglo-Norman architecture. 

Crimson and gold tapestries lined the empty spaces on the walls, and the lancet windows on the opposite ends of the rounded room were large enough to let in an abundance of light during the day. Now, however, the torches, candles, lamps, and the fireplace provided more than enough illumination. The stone floors were almost completely covered by large, intricate rugs of a variety of colors.  Multiple mahogany tables sat in different places around the edges of the room, but they were easily outnumbered by the plush sofas and armchairs covered in soft, velvety pillows and blankets. A large notice board stood near the windows, full of pinned notices for tryouts and lists of rules. 

It would have made any art/architecture nerd faint on the spot. Like furniture and decor of the Victorian era had blended seamlessly with architecture and tapestries from the eleventh century.

Somehow, none of it looked tacky or too over the top. Instead it felt comfortable. Cozy. Like a more medieval version of Margaret’s grandparents’ cabin.

Percy led them through a pointed archway to a large room with two staircases winding up to two separate landings that Meg was certain looked out over the common room. Straight in front of them were three large stained glass windows, though it was too dark to see what they depicted. 

The nine first year girls were instructed to go up the stairs to the right, and the thirteen first year boys were instructed to go to the left. All of their things would already be in their assigned room, Percy explained so all they had to do was find it. Their roommate designations would not change once in the seven years they would be there unless they worked something out with Professor McGonagall.

Meg was very happy to learn that no boys would be able to ascend the staircase to the girl dorms. 

The landing overlooking the common room had a sofa, a few armchairs, and even a round wooden table with wooden seats. Up here, there were no tapestries lining the walls, and they could see the exposed stones and wooden beams holding the structure together. There was no fireplace either, but the multiple lamps and torch on the wall more than compensated for the lack of light.

Thankfully, Meg would not have eight roommates. Instead, the door with the big 1 engraved on a golden plate led to a small hallway with two doors facing opposite each other, with a third door at the end of the small hall that turned out to be a bathroom.

The door on the left side had five beds and did not contain her things. The one on the right had four poster beds with crimson and gold drapes placed in a circle around the room, and she found her things at the bed sitting directly next to the tall window. Between the window at her bed was a small dresser with two big drawers and a small one on top. Between her bed at the one to her left was a moderately-sized wardrobe clearly meant to be used by two people. 

She then slipped back out and peeked in the bathroom. Five wooden stalls sat directly to her right. Thankfully the toilets were relatively modern, the only difference being the chain one had to pull to flush instead of a small lever or button. Directly opposite the stalls were five sinks with mirrors, and at the far end were four large tubs fitted with regular faucets and shower heads. Each tub had a small shelf against the wall behind the faucet, and a small bench as well. There were big, thick curtains that could be drawn around each unit and fastened shut for privacy. 

When she went back into the bedroom, her other roommates were there. 

Lavender and Parvati were excitedly unpacking their things in the two beds across the room, and Hermione was quietly doing the same by the bed on the other side of the wardrobe. When she saw Meg approaching, her expression lit up. 

“Meg! Well, that’s just wonderful, isn’t it? I was a bit worried I’d have to share the wardrobe with someone I was unfamiliar with. I assumed it’s meant to be split down the middle, so I hope you don’t mind that I already began placing my things inside.” 

Meg shrugged and pulled her trunk open. To her surprise, her uniform, stockings, and scarf had already changed from plain black to crimson and gold

“The space split pretty evenly, so as long as your stuff is on one side it’s fine,” she responded absentmindedly. 

Meg placed her underwear and training bras in the bottom drawer of her nightstand instead of in the wardrobe. It just felt more private.

The rest of her clothes (uniform duplicates, robes, and muggle attire) were soon carefully organized in the wardrobe. As she worked, Hermione rambled on about things she’d read about the dorms in Hogwarts: A History. Meg gave the girl a nod or a hum every few sentences to indicate she was listening. 

The only time the girl paused was when Meg pulled out her digital alarm clock. It had taken a great deal of cajoling to convince Tilly to charm it for her so Hogwarts’ stupid anti-technology bullshit didn’t short it out.

“Why did you bring that?” asked Hermione innocently. “Why not use magic instead? We are witches, after all. We don’t need that sort of thing.” 

Meg’s expression tightened. “Because,” she said, her voice forcefully light, “muggle inventions are sometimes better than magic. And I don’t want to forget the amazing things muggles can do.” 

The curious girl seemed to accept that and they continued unpacking.

Finally, Meg was able to change into her pajamas and turn off the lights. She could hear as Parvati and Lavender whispered and giggled behind shut curtains across the room. Hermione, buzzing with excitement, was all too happy to pull her drapes shut and go right to sleep. 

Meg lay in bed and stared at the dark wood canopy above her, mind racing after the unbelievable day she’d had.

She was at Hogwarts. 

Hogwarts. Her. 

A trembling hand rose to the small sliver of moonlight peeking between the curtains. Her skin was a tad darker, closer to golden than Margaret’s had been. Her hands were still lined with a layer of baby fat. The small, weak, unweathered hands of someone completely inexperienced. Out of her depth.

How could such hands hope to hold the weight she planned to take?

She heard Hermione shift and sigh in her sleep, and her chest grew tight.

If Meg did nothing, that little girl would one day be tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange. She would carry a slur on her arm for the rest of her life. How could Meg ever allow such a thing to happen? How could she let Ron lose his brother, as obnoxious as Fred may have acted on the train, in a horrible battle at only twenty years old? How could she let Harry die at only seventeen years old? 

It was one thing when she was an ocean away, but now that she’d met them, seen them, spoken to them, shaken their hands, seen the innocence they had not yet lost…

Meg was not a monster.

She’d made her decision, and she would stick to it. Like her wand, she would be unbending, even when she wanted nothing more than to run back and hide in the U.S. To go home. Her hand curled into a fist and fell back to the blanket. 

Why did she have to be the one to do this? 

There were probably plenty of people who would have jumped at the chance to take her place. To leave their ordinary, nonmagical life behind. To go to Hogwarts and maybe have a cheesy, awkward romance with a canon character and live happily ever after. To beat Voldemort with the power of friendship, or whatever. So many other people would have been able to find happiness in such a life.

But Meg was not that person. She would not, could not forget who she had been. Nor would she assimilate to this new world without a fight. This wasn’t home and it never would be. 

Yet despite this, she was still going to risk her life. Risk torture and grief and fear and pain and death for a world that had taken everything from her—just to spare a few kids some nightmares. 

Either she was the biggest bleeding heart on the planet, or she was just plain stupid. Or both. 

Probably both. 

She groaned and pulled the covers over her head. What little rest she managed to get that was anything but peaceful.

Chapter Text

When Meg woke in a cold sweat the morning of September 2nd, 1991, it was to a pitch-black ceiling and soft snoring in the bed to her left. 

A tiny sliver of soft light peeked through the crack between the maroon curtains, and the gold embroidery grew warm under the faint illumination of twilight. Not quite bright enough to indicate that the sun had risen, but light enough to know that going back to sleep was useless if she wanted to look presentable for classes and arrive in the Great Hall in time to eat more than a piece of toast.

Trembling hands rubbed tired eyes in an attempt to drive off the sandpaper quality of her eyelids. 

The typical nightmare usually starred her little brother choking on his own blood, her family screaming that she’d abandoned them, and that poor murdered muggle man glaring at her with empty eye sockets still dripping with blood. 

She had long since grown accustomed to that one. It usually came with a cold sweat, some tears, and some nausea. Easy enough to brush off with a shower and a cup of black coffee.

But this new one…

The image that lingered wasn’t of empty eye sockets, but a completely different face. 

Only the eyes, serpentine slits floating in pools of blood, managed to cling onto her consciousness instead of slipping through the sieve of memory.

She wasn’t sure what to make of it. 

At least it hadn’t left her hunched over the toilet puking her guts out. 

With a sigh, she pulled the drapes open and slipped out of bed. A glance out the lancet window and her desk clock confirmed her earlier observation: the sun had not yet risen. It was only 5:54—six minutes before her alarm. The sun wouldn’t peek above the horizon for at least another half hour. 

Only Hermione had drawn her curtains shut; the other two girls had left theirs wide open and were fast asleep. Lavender was snoring loudly. 

Meg gathered her bathrobe, her towel, and her bag of toiletries before slipping out of the room. She made sure to disable her alarm before she went.

When she stepped into the First Year Girls’ bathroom, Hermione was already there, adjusting her uniform nervously. She didn’t notice Meg’s presence until she brushed past her to set her things down on a bench by a tub.

“Oh!” gasped Hermione, jumping slightly. “You’re awake, too! I’ve been up for at least twenty minutes, I was just so excited, I couldn’t sleep another wink!” 

Meg gave her a tired smile and nodded. “Yeah, neither could I.” 

She pulled the big curtain shut and turned on the faucet as Hermione speculated about what their schedule would be and what the classes would be like and how excited she was to make a magic potion or to make something fly. 

After her nightmare, Meg kind of just wanted to enjoy her hot shower in peace and quiet. But she didn’t have the heart to tell the girl to shut up and go away, so she listened to Hermione ramble while she massaged shampoo into her scalp. By the time Hermione finally realized she still had to pack her book bag and rushed out, Meg had already stepped out and started applying chamomile lotion onto her skin. 

Meg preferred the smell of the herb in all of her products, from her shampoo to her lotion to the candle she kept on her nightstand at Gewinnan. It was soothing; the same tea Eric, her father, used to drink when he couldn’t sleep. If she came in, he happily made her a cup and rambled to her about a book he was reading or something. 

She wondered sometimes whether he still drank it after her death, or if the memory hurt him as much as it did her. 

By the time Meg was dressed and finished stuffing the last of her supplies into her book bag, Lavender and Parvati were just barely waking up and the sun was barely peeking over the horizon. Hermione waited for her by the door, practically buzzing in anticipation the entire walk down to the Great Hall. 

Breakfast was just beginning when they arrived and sat in a spot close to where they’d been the night before. Hermione promptly loaded her plate with food before pulling out a textbook and disappearing behind it.

Meg sluggishly spooned a few poached eggs and strawberries onto her plate as she mourned the lack of anything with caffeine in sight. Only milk and pumpkin juice. Of course, a glance at the staff table told her that the teachers were not as limited as the students were. Quirrell was quietly, if a bit shakily, sipping something from a teacup instead of a goblet.

Her hand curled into a fist and promptly destroyed the piece of toast she’d intended to eat. 

She wasn’t sure if she was more upset about her woeful lack of caffeine or the fact that she was staring straight at fucking Voldemort in disguise and nobody knew the truth but her. 

When he registered the gaze locked on him, Quirrell’s pale blue eyes flickered up to clash with amber. Alarm flashed in her stomach. She quickly schooled her expression and busied herself with a new slice of toast.

For a long, horrible moment, she could feel his gaze lingering. Only when he finally looked away could she finally muster the resolve to pick up her fork. 

The eggs, toast, and fresh sliced strawberries that had seemed so mouthwatering only moments before now looked less appetizing than any public school meal she’d ever received. 

It was then that Harry and Ron seated themselves on the bench directly to her left. Meg watched with wide eyes as they filled their plates with French Toast, jam, and powdered sugar. 

“Are you going to have any protein with that giant plate of sugar?” asked Meg with visible amusement. “Eggs, bacon, sausage, something?” 

Ron shoved a bite into his mouth. “Eggy bread’s already got eggs,” he said. “It’s in the name and everything.” 

“All those simple sugars’ll make you crash before lunch.”

Rolling his eyes, he retorted, “You sound like my mum. We’ll be fine. Won’t we, Harry?” 

Harry nodded, his mouth full. Once he swallowed, he added, “After all this, we probably won’t even need lunch.”

Meg’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that so?” 

“Yep.”

With a doubtful hum, she turned back to her meal and slipped two apples into her book bag. 

Soon after, Professor McGonagall came around with the first year schedules. She raised an eyebrow at the utter lack of anything nutritious on Ron and Harry’s plates, but unlike Meg, she didn’t bother advising differently. She just handed over the schedules with a knowing glint in her eye. 

Meg thanked her and looked down at her schedule. Their first class was Charms with Professor Flitwick. 

Meg nearly swore aloud at the second class on the schedule.

Potions. 

Meg glanced at the Slytherin table, where a tall, dark shape with a permanent scowl was handing schedules to the students in his House. 

In different circumstances, he would’ve made an excellent ally. But as things stood, she couldn’t trust him not to blab everything he heard to Dumbledore. She just hoped he wasn’t as awful to students as she remembered from the books. He certainly didn’t look as foul as Rowling had described him—at least, as far as she could remember. Except for the scowl, of course, but she figured it could just be an extreme case of Resting Bitch Face.

With that thought, she glanced back down at the schedule. After Potions was an hour-long lunch period, then Transfiguration, then Herbology. Tuesday would bring Charms, History of Magic, Herbology, then Transfiguration. 

No Defense Against the Dark Arts until Wednesday afternoon.

She wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad. On one hand, it gave her more time to prepare. On the other hand, the suspense might kill her before the thought ever crossed Voldemort’s mind. 

By the time breakfast was over, Meg had only eaten half of the food she’d piled on her plate. Ron and Harry had licked theirs clean. High on sugar and anticipation for the first day of school, the boys practically sprinted from the Great Hall toward class. 

Meg finished her goblet of juice and moved to follow. Just as she stepped through the large doors, however, a body halted her progress. 

To her consternation, their robes were green and black, and their top was a shiny, slicked-back blonde.

“Malfoy,” she greeted, maintaining a neutral expression. 

She tried to walk around him, but he stepped in her way again. 

Sighing, she clipped, “Do you need something?”

“You’re a Le Fay,” he said tightly. “And you didn’t tell me.” 

Meg raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I needed to disclose my full government name to every single person I come across.”

Malfoy’s face twitched slightly. He looked upset. “If I had known who you were–” He huffed. “You know I wouldn’t have spoken like–”

“Like what?” Meg cut in, her voice taking on a hard edge. “Like garbage? Like I was less than the dirt beneath your shoes? No, Draco, I don’t know that. Because I don’t know you, and you gave an abysmal first impression.” 

His cheeks turned pink. “I– If you had introduced yourself properly with your real name–”

“It doesn’t matter what my name is, Draco,” said Meg calmly. “You should treat everyone with respect, regardless of whether they’re from an ancient magical bloodline or a muggle. I’m not your enemy, but we’re not friends either. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a class to get to.” 

Malfoy went from pink to furious red. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

She took that opportunity to pat his shoulder, then slip past him and hurry in what she hoped was the right way toward Charms.

Thankfully, her instincts were right and she arrived exactly five minutes before the period began. 

The Charms classroom was large and full of light that streamed in through the tall lancet windows on one end of the room. It was light, airy, and smelled faintly of old books.

Professor Flitwick began class by hopping atop the pile of books behind his desk and introducing himself. He explained that yes, he was part-goblin; no, he did not do metalwork; no, not all goblins were constantly looking for ways to steal from you; and no, he had never worked in Gringotts. His speech was very polite and full of smiles, but it felt rehearsed. Like he’d said it a million times over the years. 

He then moved to roll call. When he reached Harry’s name, he gave an excited squeak and fell off his stack of books. 

The rest of the class period was dedicated to the general history of Charms and the categories of spells they would be learning this year. 

Meg was disappointed at how elementary they all were. Simple levitation spells and basic wand movements—nothing exciting. Understandable, since it was a class of beginners, but still disappointing.

She left the class feeling just a tad disheartened. 

“When’s lunch again? ” Ron groaned as they walked out of the classroom. He looked a little pale and queasy. Harry looked no better, and the loud growl his stomach gave made him flush bright pink. 

Meg smirked and pulled the apples from her bag. 

“Maybe tomorrow you’ll both eat something a little more nutritious,” she teased as she handed over the fruit. “Some healthy protein and complex carbs will make you feel much better than French toast.” 

“French toast?” echoed Harry. 

“Ron called it eggy bread.”

“Oh.” Harry frowned. “Is it really French?” 

“I’m not sure; that’s just what it’s called back home.”

Neither boy ran toward class this time, which gave Hermione the opportunity to tell them all about the Charms she was most looking forward to learning. Meg only half-listened.

Would Snape act true to his book self? Or would he act more like Alan Rickman’s interpretation? A part of her hoped the latter was true. Alan Rickman’s Snape was far more likeable than book Snape. 

When they arrived, the room was buzzing with conversation. Meg took the opportunity to quietly arrange her things at her seat. 

The moment Meg’s watch hit nine a.m., the door to Snape’s office swung open. The buzz of conversation died as an unpleasant sort of tension engulfed the atmosphere.

Snape began the class by taking roll call, though unlike Flitwick, he made no attempt to pretend to like any of them. He stopped when he reached Harry’s. 

“Ah, yes,” he said, his voice quiet but cold, “Mr. Potter. Our new… celebrity.” 

Malfoy and his friends snickered behind their hands. Meg shot them a glare, but Malfoy turned red and glared back. Looks like someone’s pride had taken a hit.

When he finished taking attendance, his onyx eyes swept over the room. It was like being stared down by a black hole, or the maw of a Dementor. Meg double-checked her Occlumency shields just to be safe. 

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making,” he began. His voice was soft, like he couldn’t care less whether they heard him or not. Luckily, his presence had managed to capture the attention of everyone in the room, so nobody missed a single word. 

He continued, “as there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren’t as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.”

His dark eyes landed on Harry. 

“Potter!” he snapped. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?” 

Hermione’s hand shot up eagerly. 

Harry looked taken aback and completely lost.  

Meg frowned. Why was Snape asking about the Draught of Living Death? It certainly wasn’t a First Year potion. If she remembered correctly, Slughorn had taught it in book six to a class of N.E.W.T. students. There was no way Snape honestly expected him to know something like that on the very first day.

“I don’t know, sir,” said Harry awkwardly.

Snape’s lips curled up into a sneer. Ignoring Hermione’s hand he tutted, his voice flat but mocking. “Let’s try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?” 

Harry’s shoulders hunched slightly. “I don’t know, sir.” 

“Thought you wouldn’t open a book before coming, eh, Potter? All right, perhaps you’ll be able to tell me the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?” 

Meg’s frown deepened. Another N.E.W.T. level concept, followed by a trick question. What game was he playing? 

Just as the thought crossed her mind, she caught the subtle, gleeful gleam in Snape’s eye. Her hands curled into fists under the desk as the realization crept in.

He was enjoying this. 

He was well aware Harry had no way of knowing the answer; he just wanted to embarrass the poor kid. 

Without fully thinking it through, she blurted, “They’re the same thing.” 

All eyes shot to her. She met Snape’s glare with a calm, if entirely false, smile.

“It’s a trick question,” she continued, her firm voice filling the enclosed space, “Wolfsbane and Monkshood are both alternate names for aconite.”

Snape’s eyes flashed. “I asked Potter, not you, Le Fay,” he snarled. “If

you intend to do all the thinking for him in this class–” He suddenly froze, his voice dying when he caught sight of her desk. “What… is that?” 

Meg followed his harsh glare down to her ballpoint pen and spiral notebook. 

“They’re my school supplies, Professor,” she replied, her voice sickly sweet. “I’ve found that a pen and spiral notebook are much more efficient for note-taking, and they take up less space on a desk. Professor Flitwick thought they were great—if you want one of your own I have extras.”

Snape’s tall, imposing shadow stalked forward until he stood directly over her. “I do not want your muggle writing utensil,” he hissed, spitting out the word like it tasted sour in his mouth. 

Meg didn’t flinch.

To a child, he might have come across as frightening. She could see Neville shaking his head frantically in the corner of her eye. But she, an adult, could see him for what he truly was: a pathetic, insecure bully—someone so bitter about his lot in life that he had decided to take it out on little kids. 

She decided in that moment that she loathed him.

“Two points from Gryffindor for speaking out of turn, and another point for tainting my classroom with these.” He pulled out his wand, flicked it, and her pen was gone. “Should I see them again, you will earn yourself a detention.”

Meg’s jaw dropped in fury. “I paid for that—you can’t just vanish someone else’s property–”

“Another point for insolence,” he snapped. “In my class, you will use the proper materials and show the proper etiquette.” 

“You–” 

“Keep speaking, Le Fay, and Gryffindor will have negative points before lunch.”

Meg opened her mouth to retort when pain flared in her shin. To her right, Ron was silently making cutting motions. Harry was shaking his head on his right, and Hermione (obviously the kicker) was glaring from her left. Her eyes promised pain if Meg ruined all the progress she’d made in Charms that morning for knowing the name of the witch who had invented the first Charm that required a wand.

Meg didn’t give a shit about points or the House Cup, but… well, she didn’t want to push away the very kids she was trying to look after either. 

She snapped her mouth shut with an audible click, and furiously pulled out a quill and parchment. Only when her notebook was out of sight did Snape resume the class. 

Malfoy and his lackeys snickered loudly. Meg shot them an acidic glare, and in return Malfoy sneered right back. It seemed that someone hadn’t taken her rejection very well. 

Ah, well. Maybe one day he’d decide to fix his crummy attitude.

The rest of the lesson was just as pleasant as the beginning. They began to make a cure for boils, and Meg threw herself into the work. Snape seemed to be looking for things to criticize on her potion, constantly commenting on her posture, the way she held her knife, the rate she added her ingredients; all this he did while praising Draco for every little thing.

The only upside seemed to be the fact that she had successfully pulled most of his open hostility from Harry onto her. And unlike Harry (or Neville, who accidentally melted his cauldron and spilled it all over himself), she seemed to have a natural aptitude for Potions. 

At least, that was what she hoped everyone else thought.

Truthfully, Potions was, at its essence, simply a mix of chemistry and cooking. Years of preparing meals for herself in college and her perfect AP Chem grades had left her more than prepared.

Of course, her aptitude only upset Snape more.

By the time class ended at noon, she’d already named the angry vein on his temple that bulged every time he looked at her. (His name was Ricky, and Meg expected to see him often over the course of the next seven years.)

“Don’t feel too bad,” said Ron as they walked to the Great Hall for lunch. “Percy told me Snape’s harsh with everyone but the Slytherins. And it’s not like he took the only one you had.” 

“It’s the principle of it,” Meg retorted with a huff. “He stole something that rightfully belonged to me. Something I paid for with my own money on my own time! It’s official, I hate that sour son of a–”

“I mean,” Harry cut in nervously, “maybe you shouldn’t have spoken up?”

Meg’s head snapped to face him. “Don’t tell me you’re on his side.” 

“I’m not! I just…” He looked embarrassed, but he wasn’t about to back down either. “He is the professor, and he was just asking–” 

“He’s an asshole,” Meg cut in. “Harry, those were N.E.W.T. level questions he was asking you. Advanced stuff. There’s no reason you should know what the Draught of Living Death yet. Or a bezoar. And the aconite; as I said, it was a trick question. He was trying to humiliate you.”

Harry stopped in the middle of the hall. “I’m sorry, what?” 

“Yeah. Did you see the look in his eyes? He wasn’t just harassing you, he was enjoying it.” 

Harry’s mouth twisted. “But why? We’ve never even met.” 

“Because, as I said, he’s an asshole,” supplied Meg as they entered the Great Hall for lunch. “People like him are so unhappy with their own lives they make it their life’s mission to make everyone else just as miserable as they are. He’s officially my least favorite person in this castle.” 

Her eyes flickered toward the seat Quirrell had occupied that morning.

Yes, Snape was her least favorite person. Parasites didn’t count. 

~~~~~

The rest of Monday and all of Tuesday brought with it a very, very worrying realization: 

Everything was too easy. 

It wasn’t that she was a genius, or even above-average intelligence; she was just an adult doing stuff meant for children. It was like putting a college student with a decent grasp of math in a class full of kids learning their times tables. Had she been their age it would’ve been an even playing field, but she wasn’t. She could turn a matchstick to a needle without a problem in Transfiguration because she had the brain power of a seasoned debate champion and not a child whose brain hadn’t fully developed yet. If things continued as they were, she’d take the top spot in every class.

The reality of the situation was that, for the first time in either life, she was going to have to bring her grades down. On purpose. If she didn’t, Hermione might end up smothering her with a pillow in the middle of the night.

She settled for pretending to be less proficient in Charms and History of Magic. She didn’t have to pretend to dislike Herbology as she already hated getting dirty and sweaty, so Hermione could outpace her there if she wanted.

The only classes Meg refused to change in were Potions and Transfiguration. 

In Potions, she wasn’t willing to show Snape a weakness of any kind. If they were going to continue hating each other, she could not– would not show any weakness.  

And regarding Transfiguration, Professor McGonagall was quickly becoming her favorite teacher ever—in either life. The Head of Gryffindor House had smiled at her perfectly transfigured needle on day one, and it was the most validated Meg had felt in twelve years.

The only class she had previously planned to pretend to be average in was Defense. 

She couldn’t let Voldemort see her as anything but a completely normal, unremarkable student. She would endure his class quietly, learning what she could during the class period before rushing out of the room as swiftly as possible.

If she had her way, that one o’clock class bell would never ring. Lunchtime would never end, and she would never have to step foot in Quirrell’s classroom. 

Not for the first time, she did not get her way. 

When one o’clock inevitably arrived, Meg found herself struggling to find a seat in Quirrell’s classroom. Her feet felt as though they were made of lead, so she’d walked much slower than intended and ended up being one of the last students there. Harry and Ron were sitting in the center of the second row together. They’d been gushing about learning Defense ever since seeing it on their schedule. She would have felt bad at how violently their bubble was about to burst if she wasn’t worried about being murdered by the teacher.

Because she had the worst luck in the world, the only spot she could find was directly in the middle of the front row.

Meg settled down next to Hermione, feeling very much like she was signing her own death certificate. She nearly vomited when Quirrell shuffled into the room five minutes later.

“G-g-good afternoon, children,” he said, looking absolutely petrified of the twenty little kids sitting before him. “I-I am P-Professor Quirrell, your D-Defense Against the D-Dark Arts t-t-teacher. I-Instead of n-normal attendance, I thought t-today we m-might g-go ‘round the room, and when it’s your t-turn you will s-stand up, introduce yourself by first and l-last name, and t-tell the c-cl-class your House as well as a fun fact about you—perhaps a h-hobby, what you wish t-to b-be when you g-grow up, or s-something you a-are excited t-to learn in in s-school.” 

Meg stared at Quirrell in abject horror. 

If she hadn’t been sure that he was evil before, she certainly was now. Other professors had just taken attendance and moved on. Even Snape had waited until after the roll to start his bullshit.

But this…

It was like the first day of high school all over again. But worse.

Quirrell pointed at a thin, wiry boy sitting a few seats to Meg’s left. “How ab-about you st-start us off, hm?”

The boy hesitantly stood up and lifted his chin proudly before speaking. “I am Theodore Nott. I’m in Slytherin—obviously.” He gestured at his green robes. “I suppose I will work at the Ministry after I graduate, like my father.” He promptly sat down, ignoring Quirrell’s shaky, solitary applause. 

Quirrell gestured to the boy sitting on the other side of Hermione. 

He stood up and gave the room an awkward smile. “I’m um, Dean Thomas, Gryffindor. A fun fact about me, um… my favorite author is J.R.R Tolkien?” He sat down, and there was a beat of silence.

A throat cleared and Meg flinched minutely—Quirrell was looking at her with nervous, expectant eyes. 

Right. It was her turn. 

Meg quickly broke eye contact and rose to her feet with a small smile. 

“Hello,” she began. “I’m Meg Le Fay, and I’m in Gryffindor. Um… a fun fact about me is, I guess… I grew up in the U.S. So… yeah.”

She sat down, keeping her eyes locked on Quirrel’s tie instead of his eyes.

A scoff sounded from behind her. “Is that the only thing interesting about her?” a girl’s voice said not-so-quietly. “I thought she’d tell us about the fae blood. Maybe her family’s not so interesting after all.”

When Meg glanced back, she was met with a little girl in Slytherin robes and sporting the most unappealing black bobbed hair Meg had ever seen. Sitting next to her was a smirking Draco Malfoy.

Meg raised an eyebrow and smiled before turning back around. As far as schoolyard taunts went, it was incredibly weak.  

As the introductions continued, Meg turned back to the front where Quirrell was nervously shifting. 

He was very pale and thin, though Meg couldn’t tell if that was his natural appearance or if being a vessel for an evil parasite had done that to him. His fingernails were short and ragged like he’d been biting them obsessively before walking in and didn’t bother to try and file down the sharp edges. 

Instinctively, amber eyes flickered to the turban. 

Odd, how one could be so close and yet feel no indications of the darkness lingering under just a few layers of fabric. She felt hatred, of course. Fury, terror, disgust. But no dark power or aura brushed against her senses. No physical signs of anything amiss—aside from the cloud of garlic fumes that clung to him like Pigpen from the Charlie Brown cartoons. If she hadn’t already been aware of what lived on the back of his head, she would have been none the wiser. 

How easily evil slips under the radar, she mused silently. Quirrell didn’t look or act like someone Voldemort would voluntarily recruit, so she doubted anyone would put two and two together unless it was spelled out. 

When Quirrell turned back in her direction, she quickly fixed her gaze on the blackboard and feigned interest in the coming lesson. 

The class seemed to last for hours instead of just seventy-five minutes. The entire time, she could not force herself to truly focus on anything that Quirrell said or did. The writing on the blackboard looked to her more like ‘I’m hiding an evil immortal cult leader on the back of my head’ instead of any of the facts he managed to articulate around his feigned speech impediment. 

When her watch finally hit 2:15, she hid herself in the sea of students filing out of the room before he could look back in her direction. Once she reached the hallway, she practically sprinted to the bathroom to vomit. 

~~~~~

The next morning, Meg woke up feeling lighter than the day before. Not 100% better, by any means, but at least she had survived her first lesson with Quirrell. Only about one-hundred more to go.

She rolled out of bed, took a shower, got dressed, and walked down to the Great Hall for breakfast with Hermione hurrying to follow. 

When mail arrived, so did her first copy of the Daily Prophet. If she was going to handle whatever bullshit the gossip column wrote about her, she probably needed to actually read the thing. 

So, for the first time ever, Meg didn’t stop reading after the story about the Gringotts break-in on August 1st. 

Instead, she flipped the page… 

And immediately wished she hadn’t. 

There were a few small stories about inconsequential things, like what Gilderoy Lockhart had worn while announcing his next book, or whether or not the members of the Weird Sisters band were all dating each other. 

But one of the stories, written by none other than Rita Skeeter herself, jumped out most:

LIONESS OR FAIRY IN DISGUISE?

Just this week, the younger daughter of heiress Lavinia Le Fay became the first member of the family to attend Hogwarts after a two century long absence. As I have explained previously, loyal readers, the Le Fay family has been dogged with accusations of Blood Magic for centuries due to their fae heritage. Lavinia has adamantly denied any such involvement in anything remotely Dark on her part, but when asked about her young sister she grows skittish and, dare I say, frightened. I have previously commented that the heiress’s behavior seemed eerily similar to how most of us act when speaking about You-Know-Who. Many have speculated whether she was more Fae than witch, if she preferred to dabble in the darkest of Arts, and if the rumors of her inhuman nature were true. There has been talk of fangs, claws, wings, and pointed ears. Some have even speculated  that, like the fae, she lives on a diet of solely human flesh. 

Well, dear readers, her arrival at the Hogwarts’ School of Witchcraft and Wizardry yesterday has finally given some clarity. Many of us expected the young girl to find her way into the House of snakes, a house some believe caters far too much to the Dark Arts. However, in a truly shocking turn of events, Megara “Meg” Le Fay was sorted into Gryffindor—a House notorious for its affiliation with the Light! After being Sorted, she was seen sitting and partaking of the feast near none other than Harry Potter himself, who she seems to have befriended!

What does this tell us about our young not-Princess? Is she truly one of the brave and chivalrous, or has her Fae Blood given her the ability to hoodwink the Sorting Hat? And why has she gravitated to the Boy-Who-Lived? A kinship between orphans, perhaps? Or maybe the youngest of the Fae Blood has something more sinister up her sleeve? If her seemingly normal but very comely appearance is any indication, I predict that she will have the innocent young men of Hogwarts wrapped around her finger very soon. We here at the Prophet would urge those at Hogwarts to keep an eye on such a promising but precariously influential young figure. 

Meg’s stomach churned in disgust. This was the sort of thing Skeeter had been writing? Telling people she was evil and manipulative? That she probably ate human flesh? And now that she’d seen her, she was already commenting on her appearance, and speculating that she might seduce every boy in school? 

First: Meg was (physically) eleven. Commenting on her appearance in such a way, implying that she was a seductress or something?? It was the most inappropriate, repulsive thing Skeeter could have done. 

Second: That bitch hadn’t even met her! What the hell did she even know? 

Meg had every right to sue the ever-loving shit out of Skeeter and the Prophet for libel. She threw down the paper with a snarl of frustration. 

“No wonder everyone thought I was going to be awful,” she snapped. “Skeeter’s got everyone convinced that I’m going to seduce all the boys here to do my evil bidding. Which, by the way—gross.” 

The thought alone made her want to puke.

Hermione’s eyes grew wide and she snatched the paper.

“This is awful!” she gasped, face red with anger. “This horrid Skeeter woman’s never even met you, and she’s throwing around accusations with no foundation whatsoever!”

“How did she even see where I sat, anyway?” Meg hissed angrily. “It’s not like the press is allowed–” She stopped. 

Oh, right. Now she remembered. 

The creepy, voyeuristic bitch was an unregistered animagus—a beetle. She could’ve been literally anywhere that night. On the window, under a bench, on the back of a students’ cloak.

As bad as that was, Meg had to bite her lip to hold back her smile. From the moment she began planning her approach to the next seven years, she knew she had to have an in at the Daily Prophet. And it had just dropped into her lap. Literally. 

Blackmail. 

Being an unregistered animagus was no small thing. For Skeeter, exposure would mean losing her job at the very least. Worst case scenario would mean jail time. 

Hermione ranted angrily about Skeeter’s audacity for a good twenty minutes before she actually began eating, and by the time Harry and Ron arrived, the paper was safely tucked between two thick books inside Meg’s bag.

Her good mood was ruined later that day when they were informed that their very first flying lesson would take place that afternoon. 

Meg tried every trick in the book to convince Professor McGonagall to excuse her from the lessons. Nothing worked. The Head of House saw through every trick: a fear of heights, the desire to spend the time on homework, a stomachache… all of it was mercilessly shot down. 

“All first years are required to attend, Miss Le Fay,” McGonagall told her after class that day. “So far you have shown yourself to be a competent young woman; I am confident you are capable of handling something as simple as a broom. You may find flying very enjoyable.”

That did not end up being the case.

In fact, after watching Madam Hooch escort Neville to the hospital wing after losing control and flying into the wall, she did not want to touch a broom ever again. 

“Did you see his face?” she heard Malfoy say from behind her, “Maybe if he’d given this a squeeze, he’d have remembered to fall on his fat arse.”

Meg turned around just in time to see Harry storm forward and snarl, “give it here, Malfoy.” He moved to grab a small, glass sphere from the blonde boy’s hand, but Malfoy held it out of reach. It glinted in the light and the gray smoke grew darker in response.

Right, she’d forgotten about Neville’s remember-thingy. 

“No,” sneered Malfoy, “I think I’ll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find.” He hopped on his broom with a grin. “How about on the roof?” 

Harry scowled and grabbed his broom to follow.

Meg pursed her lips. If she remembered correctly, this would be the day he was put on the Quidditch team. Flying was one of his favorite things in the world; to take it from him by interfering now would be unnecessarily cruel. 

Besides, if things didn’t go entirely her way, he might need the skill to survive the dragon in fourth year.

“Harry, no way!” Hermione protested. “You heard what Madam Hooch said—besides, you don’t even know how to fly–”

Harry ignored her and shot into the air. 

Meg watched with detached horror as Harry rose up, up, up—more than twice as high as Neville had gone—until both he and Malfoy were little more than specs of black robes against the blue sky.

He loves flying, she reminded herself as her fingernails dug into her sweaty palms, He needs this moment. Don’t think about how high he is. Or about the dozens of ways he could kill himself on that thing. 

Malfoy threw the little ball and Harry shot after it. 

“Oh god,” squeaked Meg when Malfoy threw the little ball and Harry shot after it. Within seconds the boy caught it, spun mid-air, and screeched to a halt only inches before a big window near Gryffindor tower.

Everyone else cheered as Harry returned to the ground, but Meg sank down onto the grass and gripped the blades with white knuckles. 

The little twerp nearly became a Potter-pancake and everyone was cheering. 

She hadn’t wanted a drink this much since her prom date ditched her for his ex halfway through the night. 

But she was fresh out of spiked punch, so she had to settle for touching grass instead.

“Harry Potter!” Professor McGonagall’s voice cut through the chatter as she stormed out onto the field. 

Harry stepped forward, his face ashen.

Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow. “Come with me.” 

Meg watched on in worry as he followed her back into the castle. 

Thanks to Neville, Madam Hooch was extra cautious when she returned and Meg managed to keep her feet firmly on the ground until they were released early. 

“Not much else to do today without flying,” she said as she waved them back toward the castle. “But I don’t think we’ve shown that we’re quite ready for that privilege just yet.” 

Privilege. More like punishment, if you asked Meg. She practically bolted back toward the castle the moment she could. Nobody could make her get on the Swiffer Duster of death inside those walls, so that was where she stayed all afternoon. 

”I start training next week,” Harry informed her and Ron that night at dinner after telling them that instead of punishing him, McGonagall had given him a spot on the Quidditch team. Just as Meg had expected. 

“Only,” he continued, “don’t tell anyone. Wood wants to keep it a secret.” 

It was just then that Fred and George entered the hall, spotted Harry, and hurried over. 

“Well done,” said George quietly. “Wood told us. We’re on the team too—Beaters.”

”I tell you, we’re going to win that Quidditch Cup for sure this year,” Fred crooned. “We haven’t won since Charlie left, but this year’s team is going to be brilliant. You must be good, Harry, Wood was almost skipping when he told us.” 

“Anyway, we’ve got to go, Lee reckons he’s found a new secret passageway out of the school.” 

“Bet it’s the one behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy that we found in our first week. See you, Harry, Scary Fairy.” 

Meg snorted and turned back to her food. They hadn’t actually called her by her name the entire time she’d been there—not that she was complaining. There were worse things to be called.

Her good mood was almost instantly soured when Malfoy approached, followed closely by Crabbe and Goyle. 

“Having a last meal, Potter?” he sneered. “When are you getting the train back to the Muggles?” 

Harry gave Malfoy a cool look. “You’re a lot braver now that you’re back on the ground and you’ve got your little friends with you.” 

Crabbe and Goyle were anything but little, but since they were in the Great Hall with an entire table of teachers trying to pretend they weren’t watching, all they could do was crack their knuckles in what they probably thought was a menacing manner. Meg bit her lip to suppress a laugh.

“I’d take you anytime on my own,” said Malfoy haughtily. “Tonight, if you want. Wizard’s duel at Midnight in the Trophy Room. Wands only—no contact.” 

Meg grabbed Harry’s hand before he could speak. 

In no universe was Meg about to let Harry wander around the castle without his Invisibility Cloak at night with an angry and desperate Voldemort lurking about. The thought alone made her want to puke. 

“That’s not happening,” she said decisively. “Duelling you is both a waste of time and entirely beneath us decent folks who don’t steal things from kids in the hospital wing. Now go away; you’re spoiling my appetite.”

Malfoy tried to spit out a retort, but she shot him a glare that could have killed a troll. 

“I will hex you, kid. Leave.” 

Malfoy seemed to realize that she wasn’t joking, and sulked back to the Slytherin table with Crabbe and Goyle in tow.

“Meg,” Harry hissed, “Why did you–“

Meg tucked a strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail to hide her worry. “You do know that Malfoy had no intention of actually showing up, right?” she said. “He just wants to get you in trouble for breaking curfew.”

Ron huffed petulantly. “But he–!”

“He’s trying to bait you into doing something stupid,” Meg interrupted. “I guarantee he doesn’t actually want a fair duel.”

“What makes you think that?” contested Ron with a peevish scoff. “Are you a legilimens or something?” 

Without thinking, she corrected him: “Occlumens, actually.” 

Silverware clattered loudly.

“What!?” gasped Ron, scrambling to catch his knife and fork. “You’re an oc–”

“Shh!” hissed Meg when she saw multiple heads snap toward the source of the disturbance. 

“You’re an occlumens?”

Meg’s heart stuttered in horror when Hermione audibly gasped. Thankfully, nobody else was sitting near enough to have overheard. 

Heart thundering, she hurried to remedy her slip-up. “I’m studying occlumency. It’s a tradition for all Le Fays to learn” –it wasn’t– “and I started this summer, but I’m really not good at it yet. It takes way more brain power than any child could ever muster to be any good. Anyway, Draco probably didn’t even plan on showing up to the stupid duel and would’ve just told Filch where you were to get you in trouble. Have you tried these roasted potatoes? They’re to die for. Here–” 

She quickly pulled the tray closer and began piling food on the boys’ plates, avoiding the wide-eyed looks both Ron and Hermione were giving her. 

When she accidentally met Harry’s eyes, he didn’t look shocked. His brows were furrowed, and his green eyes were trained on her intensely; like he had discovered a new piece of a difficult puzzle. 

She pretended not to notice and continued eating her dinner.

The moment the meal was over, Meg practically bolted out of the hall. She was so focused on escaping, she didn’t notice Malfoy lurking at the exit of the hall; nor did she notice how long it took Ron and Harry to catch up with her. 

That night, Meg was awoken from her usual turbulent dream by a harsh shake and someone hissing her name.

Meg groaned and cracked open an eye; the direct moonlight to the eye made her wince, but she managed to catch the frizzy hair looming overhead.

“Wassup?” Meg croaked, exhausted. 

“Get up,” Hermione repeated, looking worried. “Ron and Harry are going to sneak out to duel Malfoy.” 

Meg scoffed and turned away to bury her face in her pillow. “Nuh-uh,” she mumbled sleepily, “I shut that down.” 

Hermione shook her again. “You did, but then I overheard them challenging Malfoy after dinner by the bathrooms. They’re meeting at midnight.”

Meg’s eyes shot open, flaring with panic. “You sure?”

“Positive.” 

“But I told them–” 

“You didn’t really think they’d actually listen, did you?” Hermione scoffed and shook her again. “They’re boys, Meg. Come on! They’ll get in trouble and lose us House points!”

Meg shoved her face in her pillow and spat a string of muffled curses that would have made Tilly faint.

“All right,” she hissed as she sat up and pulled her dressing gown from where it hung over the bedframe. “Just let me grab my shoes.” It was lucky that she wore flannel pants and t-shirts to bed instead of a frilly nightgown; she wasn’t about to be seen out and about in something like that. 

When they reached the common room, it was dark and empty.

“You don’t think they left already, do you?” Hermione worried, shuffling nervously on her feet. 

Meg shook her head. “Have you met those two? They couldn’t be on time to anything if they tried, and it’s not even half-past eleven yet. If they left before us, I’ll eat my shoes.” She plopped down on a brown velvet armchair, catching her reflection in a mirror and grimacing. 

Her golden hair looked like a rat’s nest. She pulled a hair tie from her wrist and wrestled it into a ponytail as Hermione began to pace.

About fifteen minutes into waiting, a door up the boy’s side of the staircase squeaked open and closed, the sound followed by two pairs of footsteps.

When the shadows of Harry and Ron came into view and began to slink toward the portrait hole, Meg turned on a lamp. 

“Hello, boys,” drawled Meg, her eyes flashing. 

“Meg?” Harry gasped, hand pressed to his heart. “What’re you doing up?” 

Meg’s eyes narrowed, glowing slightly in the orange light. “I thought you understood why you shouldn’t rise to Malfoy’s bait,” she growled through a tight frown. “But you completely ignored me. I’m very disappointed with you both.” 

Disappointed, yes, but also furious.

She had not gone through all the emotional turmoil of deciding whether or not to change the future just for Harry to get himself killed less than a week into the first year. 

Harry’s eyes narrowed and his head tilted, like a puppy starting to realize that the ball was still in her hand after she’d pretended to throw it.

“You think too much about it,” snapped Ron. “Malfoy’s a Slytherin, but even snakes have a reputation to uphold. We’re defending Harry’s honor.”

“I almost told your brother, you know,” Hermione blurted shrilly, still pacing. “Percy’s a prefect, he’d put a stop to this.” 

Harry had the gall to frown like he was annoyed with them. 

“Come on, Ron,” he said with a huff as he opened the Fat Lady’s portrait and stepped out.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Meg spat as she rushed after them. “Harry James Potter, don’t you dare take another step!” 

Harry froze. His wide green eyes met hers in the dim light. 

She opened her mouth to continue when Hermione slipped through the portrait hole and let it fall shut behind her. 

“Don’t either of you care about Gryffindor?” the girl chastised, “Do you only care about yourselves? I don’t want Slytherin to win the House Cup, and you’re going to lose all the points I got from Professor McGonagall for knowing about Switching Spells–“

“Ugh,” Ron groaned, “please, both of you just go away!” 

Meg’s eye twitched.

Why was she stuck with these kids, again? Right. Because Fate hated her guts. 

“Boys,” she said tersely, “once again, I guarantee that Malfoy told Filch where you’ll be. All you’re doing is missing out on sleep and risking detention.”

“How could you possibly know that for sure?” Harry countered. 

“Because that’s exactly what I’d do if I wanted to fu- screw over a couple of dumbasses like yourselves!” she snapped back. “Now, I’m going to count to ten, and if you two aren’t back inside the common room when I’m done, I promise you will be sorry.” 

Her voice died when she saw the odd looks she was getting. It took her longer than it should have to realize her mistake. 

“Oh god,” she breathed in horror, “I’m turning into my mother.”

She hadn’t had to use the Mama Bear™  voice since… oh, for at least fifteen years. Maybe more. The last time she’d used it, Andy had tried to take their dad’s car for a joyride before he had his learner’s permit.

A sniffle cut through the quiet and yanked Meg back to the present. 

“Did you hear that?” she asked.

“Yeah,” whispered Harry, looking toward the source of the sound. “I think it came from behind the armor.” 

Ron sucked in a worried breath. “Mrs. Norris?” 

Meg shook her head. “Nah,” she said, “if it was, Filch’d already be here and handing out detentions.” 

Harry shuffled toward the armor with Meg close behind. 

As Meg had predicted, it wasn’t Mrs. Norris. It was Neville, curled up against the wall fast asleep. 

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” Meg breathed in exasperation. 

She gently shook the boy, who woke with a violent jerk and a squeak. He nearly fell into a sharp point in the armor before Harry grabbed him.

“Thank goodness you found me,” he gasped when he realized who it was, “I’ve been out here for hours, and I couldn’t remember the new password to get in to bed! The Bloody Baron’s been by twice already and I was all by myself!” 

Meg cursed inwardly. 

She’d already known this new life wasn’t a second chance at happiness or success or peace or anything like that; however, she hadn’t expected it to be her own personal Hell, designed by the devil himself. 

She could watch over three kids—maybe. But she had absolutely no desire to babysit every single minor in Gryffindor tower.

“Keep your voice down, Neville,” hissed Harry, shooting a worried glance down the corridor. 

Meg pulled Neville to his feet with a sigh, guiding him back toward the portrait hole. “Let’s all just get back inside so Neville can get some sleep.” She gave the shorter boy a gentle smile and continued, “the password’s ‘pig snout’, okay? So–” 

She looked at the portrait behind Hermione and froze. 

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” she snarled. 

The Fat Lady was gone. 

Hermione’s expression dropped in horror. “Now what are we going to do?” she cried, picking at her nails. “Filch’ll come by any minute now, and–”

“That’s your problem,” snapped Ron unhappily. “Harry and I’ve got to go, we’re going to be late.” 

Meg tried to stop them. “Oh, no you’re not–”

“Yes, we are,” Harry insisted, giving her a defiant stare before following Ron down the tower stairs. 

Meg looked to Hermione, who had gone pale at the idea of being caught out of bed by Filch, and Neville, who just looked relieved he wasn’t alone.

With a groan, Meg hurried after the boys. She’d go with them to the trophy room, show them Malfoy wasn’t coming, then get them all back to the Gryffindor tower safe and sound before Filch showed—hopefully the Fat Lady would be back by that point. And if they ran into Quirrell, she’d just have to improvise. 

Hermione and Neville trailed after her like baby ducklings. 

When they caught up, Ron glanced back at them with a murderous glare. “If any of you get us caught, I’ll never rest until I’ve learned that Curse of the Bogies Quirrell told us about, and used it on you.” 

Meg suppressed a snort. How terrifying. 

Hermione opened her mouth, probably to tell them all a fact about the Curse of the Bogies, but Harry hissed at them to be quiet and waved them forward. 

Meg bristled at the idea of being bossed around by an eleven year old, but followed anyway. 

All they had for light was that of the waning gibbous moon through the tall windows lining the hallways and the occasional torch. Most seemed to be extinguished for the night, but a few had been left on near staircases and tight corners. Meg kept waiting to run into Filch or his demon cat or worse, but to her surprise, they never did. 

At some point, Hermione and Neville each took one of her hands. She wasn’t too upset about that—at least they wouldn’t wander off.

When they finally reached the empty trophy room on the third floor, Meg checked her watch with a triumphant huff. 

“It’s twelve-oh-one,” she said, turning to the boys. “And Malfoy isn’t here. Now, let’s go.” Before we bump into the death eater with the world’s worst parasite, she added internally. 

“Let’s wait just a minute,” said Harry. “Maybe he’s late.”

“Maybe he’s chickened out,” Ron suggested hopefully. 

“He’s not here and he’s not coming,” Meg insisted, grabbing Harry and Ron’s shoulders and pushing them toward the door to the next room. 

A voice from the next room made them all freeze in their tracks. A voice that wasn’t Malfoy. 

“Sniff around, my sweet, they might be lurking in a corner.” 

Meg’s eyes grew wide in a mixture of relief and dread. Relief that it wasn’t Quirrell, Snape, or Dumbledore; horror that it was Filch. 

Just as she’d predicted. 

Had this happened in the books? It was too perfect a coincidence to be completely organic. Maybe she subconsciously remembered it without knowing? Was that even possible? 

For the hundredth time in less than a week, she cursed Carmine and his shitty memory wipe. 

The five of them scrambled toward the other door to the corridor as Filch’s footsteps grew nearer. They barely managed to scurry out of sight before Filch entered the trophy room. 

Meg took Harry’s sleeve and began pulling him down the long hallway in the direction they’d come from. 

Filch spoke again, closer now. “There in here, somewhere… probably hiding.” 

Neville squeaked in terror and broke into a run toward the common room. Because their luck was just that bad, he grabbed Ron on the way down in an effort to stop his fall and only succeeded in yanking them both directly into a suit of armor. 

The crash was more than enough to wake up half the castle. Meg paled and yanked Neville to his feet just as Harry yelled for them to run. 

Great. As if they hadn’t already drawn enough attention to themselves, Harry had just made it much, much worse. 

Without any other choice, they all sprinted down the hall and around the corner, then made two more turns. When she realized they were headed in no particular direction, Meg grabbed Harry and Hermione and attempted to steer them toward the common room, only to realize she had no idea where they were. 

The castle looked very different in the dark.  

After stumbling through a surprise hidden passageway, they finally slowed to a stop.

“I think we’ve lost him,” panted Harry, slumping against the wall. 

Meg closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath. 

She was not going to get angry. 

This was partially her fault too, she told herself. She could have gone about it much differently, could have stayed at dinner longer to prevent them from encountering Malfoy again, but she didn’t. She had been careless. Of course Harry, who felt the need to prove himself, would take the bait.

“I—told—you,” Hermione wheezed, clutching at her chest. She gestured at Meg, who opened her eyes at the sound of her name. “We—told—you! Meg guessed exactly what would happen!” 

Neither Ron nor Harry looked very eager to admit it. They both looked at Meg, expecting her to join Hermione in chastising them. To their surprise, she just shrugged. 

“Nothing we can do about it now but go back.”

“She’s right about that, at least,” Ron admitted begrudgingly. 

Meg resisted the urge to snap that she was right about all of it.

Instead, she commented, “For future reference, guys, things like crashing suits of armor could probably be blamed on Peeves if nobody yells.”

 Harry’s flush was hidden by the shadows. “Oh. Er—sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” said Meg tightly. “Let’s just go before we bump into anyone else.” 

They didn’t get more than ten paces before their luck worsened. As if Meg’s comment had summoned him, Peeves shot through a closed door in front of them, blocking their way towards the common room. Or, at least the direction Meg thought the common room was in. Their run had thoroughly ruined her sense of direction. 

When the poltergeist caught sight of them, he squealed in delight. Meg’s stomach dropped.

“Wandering around after midnight Ickle Firsties?” Tutted the poltergeist. “Naughty, naughty, you’ll get caughty.” 

“Not if you don’t give us away, Peeves, please,” pleaded Harry. 

Peeves acted like he hadn’t heard either of them. “Should tell Filch, I should. It’s for your own good, you know.” 

Ron made the mistake of swatting at the ghost and snapping at him to get out of their way.

The poltergeist grinned, took a deep breath, and began shrieking: “STUDENTS OUT OF BED! STUDENTS OUT OF BED DOWN THE CHARMS CORRIDOR!”

Panicked, they all ducked past Peeves and ran around the corner, only to meet a dead end and a closed door. Harry yanked on the knob. It was locked. 

“This is it!” Ron moaned as the sound of Filch’s uneven run grew louder. “We’re done for! This is the end!” 

“Oh, move over!” Hermione snapped, pulling Meg’s wand from her hand before she could protest. She tapped the lock with a hissed “Alohomora!” and the door swung open. 

Meg stumbled inside and pushed the door shut with the others, taking her wand back with a frown. The other four pressed their ears to the door to listen as Peeves yanked Filch’s chain. Thankfully, the caretaker didn’t check the room.

Maybe the trophy room hadn’t felt familiar, but Hermione’s words were ripped straight from the movie. 

What had happened after that again? 

She turned around to take in their surroundings and froze.

Oh.

Only a few yards away sat Fluffy, Hagrid’s giant three-headed dog. 

It was almost too big for the corridor, and it wasn’t even standing upright. It had two giant paws with claws as long as her arm, six ears perked up in surprise, six eyes trained directly on them, and dozens of teeth that revealed themselves when it began to growl softly in warning.

Amber eyes flickered to the trap door under its feet and narrowed. 

Through there was the devil’s snare, the keys, the chessboard, and the stone. 

She placed herself in front of the kids and gripped her wand tighter. This was exactly the sort of danger she had wanted to avoid.

“Guys,” she hissed lowly, “open the door and slowly walk out—make no sudden movements.”

They were lucky enough to have caught it by surprise, which was probably the only reason they weren’t puppy chow yet. 

“What?” Ron hissed. “And face Filch? I don’t–” His voice died when he saw what she was looking at. “Oh.”

Harry, Hermione, and Neville followed his example and went pale. 

“Move slowly,” Meg cautioned when the growling increased in volume. “Don’t startle it more than we already have.” 

Thankfully, they all listened to her this time. After stumbling backwards out of the door, shutting it as quietly as possible, they sprinted back to the common room. Luck seemed to be on their side now, because they managed to avoid any more hiccups until reaching the Fat Lady, who was thankfully back in her portrait. 

“Where on earth have you all been?” She asked in shock, looking between the bathrobes hanging off their shoulder and their flushed, sweaty faces. Meg’s hair probably looked like a rat’s nest again. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Meg gasped. “Just let us in—pig snout.”

The portrait swung open and Meg dragged the kids toward the stairs in the vain hope they’d go straight to bed and forget about the entire ordeal. 

Neville complied, darting straight to bed with a quiet “goodnight”. 

But with Ron, Harry, and Hermione? She had no such luck. 

“What do they think they’re doing, keeping a thing like that locked up in a school?” hissed Ron, eyes wide. 

Hermione glared at the boy. “You don’t use your eyes, do you? Didn’t you see what it was standing on?” 

“It wasn’t standing on anything,” Meg fibbed, trying and failing to guide them all toward their separate dorms. If Hermione pointed out the trap door, then Ron and Harry’s curiosity would urge them to investigate. 

And that road led straight to Voldemort Confrontation Boulevard. 

“I wasn’t looking at its feet,” Harry huffed. “I was a little busy with its heads.” 

Hermione pulled out of Meg’s grip. “No, not the floor. It was standing on a trap door. It’s guarding something.” 

Meg tried to shove down her panic. “Oh, please,” she scoffed. “Who would be stupid enough to hide anything remotely important in a school swarming with hundreds of kids?”

“Hogwarts is the safest place in the country,” Hermione reasoned, giving her an odd look. “It’s not stupid—it’s brilliant.” 

“Now,” the girl continued, still glaring at the boys, “If you two don’t mind, Meg and I are going to bed before either of you comes up with a clever plan to get us all killed—or worse, expelled.” 

With a huff, she turned and stomped up the stairs toward the girl’s dorms. 

“She needs to sort out her priorities,” Ron quipped.

Meg whirled on them. “Go to bed and stay there,” she snarled. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning—if you can manage to get to your dorm without almost dying.”

Both boys withered under her glare and slunk up the stairs. 

Once she was certain they were safely locked in their dorm she began her own trek up the stairs, mentally kicking herself all the way.

She’d let four kids wander around alone with a killer on the loose, and almost got them killed by a giant dog. And what was worse was the realization that she’d been completely unprepared. All those spells she’d memorized had flown out of her head the moment she was faced with a real-life Cerberus. 

Once in her dorm, she climbed right back into bed and stared blankly at the wood above her head.

Had the events of tonight happened in the book? She knew that Harry, Ron, and Hermione would have run into the dog eventually, but she’d assumed they would stumble into it like in the movie—unless it was something that had been changed for the adaptation.

She buried her face into her pillow and groaned. Once again, Carmine and his shitty memory wipe were making her life ten times harder. 

Maybe it was better that she hadn’t stopped the boys from sneaking out after all. Or maybe it would make things worse. 

Chapter Text

For the next four weeks, Meg was woken every morning before dawn by an entirely new nightmare:

Every time, she dreamt of going back to the third-floor corridor alone. The door was always locked; she always unlocked it without a problem. 

Every single time, without fail, she walked in to find the bloodied, shredded remains of four children strewn everywhere. Before she could open her mouth to scream, one of the dog’s jaws always lunged at her. 

She would jerk awake, covered in a thin layer of sweat and tears with her hands lifted to defend against the nonexistent maw clamped around her throat.

By the time she finished washing off the sweat in the shower, Hermione would already be up and unhappily wrestling with her unruly hair.

The young girl would greet her each time, and the exhausted Meg would hum in response while trudging back to the room. She dried her hair, pulled it into the same ponytail each day, got dressed, and went down to breakfast alone to nibble on eggs and toast until she could finally go to class. She did her work, responded when others spoke to her, and pretended everything was fine when in truth she was haunted by one singular thought day and night: 

She had completely frozen at the sight of that damn dog.

It was the worst wake-up call ever; the reminder that first, while she remembered a great deal of the plot on paper, living it was an entirely different matter altogether. She hadn’t recognized the events leading up to that moment because she did not live inside Harry’s mind. It was no longer from his point of view, but hers, and she did not see the world exactly as he did. 

Second, the sight of that dog served as a brutal reminder of just how far Dumbledore’s carelessness stretched. 

The headmaster had placed a giant, unruly, flesh-eating monster inside a corridor with locks flimsy enough to be bypassed by a spell from a beginner’s Charms textbook. 

Yes, the dog would keep students and intruders alike from going through the trapdoor, but what would keep the curious students from the dog? Any rational adult knew that a simple warning wouldn’t prevent students like Fred and George, and not everyone would be lucky enough to catch the beast off-guard as they had that night. 

Meg had known that protecting the kids was not something she could entrust to Dumbledore, but until now it had been little more than a distant worry. A bridge to cross at a much later date. To her chagrin, the bridge had arrived sooner than she was comfortable with, and crossing it would be a terrifying, treacherous endeavor that would require delicacy, skill, and strength she wasn’t convinced she had within her.

She hadn’t actually mastered many offensive—or even defensive—spells yet. She had the words and the wand movements memorized, of course, but memorizing and mastering were two different things.

What she ultimately needed was practice. Real practice, not just theory and memorization. Lessons with a teacher would be preferable, but seeing as she was sorely lacking in instructors… she had to make due with what she had: herself. What she could not spare, however, was a safe, private space to work. That was something she did not have and could not seem to find a solution for. 

Luckily, the issue resolved itself within the month. September 20th, to be precise. 

She would have liked to claim it as a self-discovery, a moment of genius or an example of her flawless memory; in all honesty, however, it was a complete accident. 

She’d been pacing on the seventh floor of the Astronomy tower after a long DADA lesson (which was incredibly painful for reasons other than the genocidal parasite on the back of the teacher’s head), when the wall to her right rippled. 

Her feet froze in place. The sudden stop would have knocked her off-balance had she not grabbed the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy behind her. 

Meg’s jaw dropped as she watched the stone wall shift and morph into a large, ornate wooden door. 

Was she hallucinating, she wondered? With how stressed she’d become in recent weeks, it wouldn’t have come as a surprise.

She glanced up and down the hallway to ensure nobody else was nearby. When she was certain she was alone, she cautiously grasped the handle and pushed. 

As soon as her foot landed inside the threshold, four giant stone sconces roared to life and the darkened room became flooded with orange light. 

The ceilings towered high above her, the wooden beams almost beyond eyesight. Lining the entirety of the wall to her right was a towering bookcase packed to capacity with thick, dusty tomes that looked as though they’d been plucked straight from the school library. To her left was a wall of only mirrors, and in front of it were lined several practice dummies and large landing pads not unlike those used in gymnastics. At the very far end of the room were two plush armchairs with a wooden table between them atop an ornate maroon rug. On that table rested an antique gas lamp. The floor beneath her feet was a sleek marble that gleamed in the firelight.

A large analog clock hung on the wall near her head, the sound of its steady ticking mingling with the crackling of torches in the near-silence.

A delighted laugh escaped her lips. It was the Room of Requirement! It was the perfect solution to her problem: a room that became whatever the user needed most. Why hadn’t she remembered it sooner?

I’m a complete moron, that’s why, she mused internally. Wonder ballooned in her chest as she wandered toward the books. She pulled the nearest one off the shelf, brushed off a layer of dust, and read the title aloud: 

“Becoming an Animagus: Unleashing the Inner Beast.” 

She made a face and set it back in its place. “A little too much work just to move around unseen. I need to sneak around as soon as possible…”

An entire shelf further to her left shifted loudly. Multiple feet over her head, a thick book with a blue cover inched out far enough to be seen without falling to the ground. Meg grabbed the rolling library ladder and rolled it directly next to the book. She climbed up and pulled out the tome. 

“The Ins and Outs of Magical Snooping for the Paranoid Beginner,” she read aloud. Thumbing through the contents revealed step-by-step instructions for each spell, detailed illustrations, and examples of practical applications with theoretical explanations. 

The Disillusionment Charm, several transfigurative spells, Polyjuice, the Revelio charm, and many more lay within.

Meg grinned and quickly descended the ladder while pulling her wand from her pocket. 

When she exited the Room of Requirement hours after curfew that night, she did so under a successful Disillusionment Charm. 

The next month and a half went by much faster than the first two and a half weeks and was twice as productive. 

Almost every night after curfew, she waited until everyone had fallen asleep to hop out of bed. Once flannel pajama pants, slippers, and oversized band shirts were swapped out for sweatpants, converse, and a camisole, she cast the Disillusionment charm and snuck straight to the Room of Requirement. 

In just a few weeks she studied stunning spells, blasting curses, disarming spells, summoning charms, and more.

If she was being completely honest with herself, she’d admit that despite her progress, it was still going less swimmingly and more like a frantic doggy-paddle. She made progress, but something was holding her back. Her initial casting was more than adequate, but her stamina was positively dismal. One or two particularly strong Stunners in succession required at least a ten or twenty minute rest before she could continue practicing. Maintaining the Disillusionment Charm on her way back to Gryffindor Tower each night felt more like she was Atlas holding the weight of the sky instead of a competent witch casting a moderately easy charm.

Maybe she had overestimated her abilities. Or maybe she wasn’t channeling her magic properly. Or maybe her movements or posture or something were off. Or maybe it was all three. But without a teacher, she had no way of knowing for certain that the real problem was. A book could not observe and tell her what she was doing wrong in real time. So she had to settle for her difficult, painful, slow progress. 

Multiple times a night, she had to stop and remind herself that slow progress is better than no progress, and that throwing a tantrum would not miraculously fix anything.

On top of her nighttime activities, she also had normal schoolwork. It wasn’t difficult, but she did need to stay awake for it and actually finish it, which proved to be very difficult after spending all her nights in the Room of Requirement. 

Sleep deprivation’s no joke, she knew that. But she had never been quite this tired in either life. Margaret had been excellent at managing her time to avoid all-nighters almost completely, so she’d never had less than six hours of sleep before a school night. 

Meg got roughly three or four hours every night, which led to every free moment becoming naptime. It didn’t matter where she was—if she had any more than ten minutes available, she was out like a light. She found herself falling asleep in the middle of nearly every History of Magic lesson, which wasn’t difficult to do even with eight hours of sleep. Every study session in the library, every meal in the Great Hall, every break time by the Lake was spent trying not to fall asleep. Coffee (or any caffeine at all in any form) would have been a lifesaver, but such things were not available to students. On most days she barely registered the existence of anything but her work, which underneath her exhaustion, was a dulled and distant worry.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione would become close friends with or without her intervention—that much she knew for certain—so she didn’t pay as much attention to their relationship. She didn’t need to be in their tight-knit circle to keep them safe. Just near enough to step in where necessary. 

In fact, she told herself, that was probably for the best. If they ever found out the truth about her, they would feel less lied to (or creeped out) if they weren’t as close. There was no need to make people think she was a creep or a cougar or anything of the sort. 

So caught up in herself, she didn’t notice the arrival of Halloween until she walked into the Great Hall one day to find dozens of Jack-O-Lanterns hovering overhead in place of the usual candles. 

Her stomach churned at the sight. After a moment of horror, she forced herself to continue walking. When she reached her seat she didn’t fill her plate. She simply stared at it blankly as the ache in her chest grew worse with every passing moment.

The List family loved Halloween. 

Every holiday was a chance to go all out; they never held back if they could help it. In their home, the holidays were for family togetherness and excitement. “Moderation” or “low-key” disappeared from the entire family’s vocabulary on those special occasions.

But her family was long gone now. A day that once brought excitement and warmth now ushered in nothing but a cold ache.

Viola and Carmine had celebrated occasions on the magical Wheel of the Year only: Imbolc, Ostara, Beltane, Litha, Lughnasa, Mabon, Samhain, and Yule. They never bothered with the muggle version of holidays, which had been a small but much needed mercy. She had successfully avoided her old family holidays for years.

Until today. 

Today, it had snuck up on her and rammed straight into her chest going eighty miles an hour.

Ignoring the large hole in her chest she glanced over at Harry, who was eagerly digging into his breakfast. Was he aware of what October 31st meant to him, she wondered? Did he know it was the anniversary of the day he’d lost everything? The day his parents died for him? The night his godfather had chased down Pettigrew and been thrown into Azkaban to rot? The day he’d been dropped off on the Dursleys’ doorstep?

Judging by his behavior, she doubted it. And she wasn’t about to burst his bubble—not when he looked so excited as Ron relayed his brothers’ recollections of past Halloween feasts at Hogwarts. 

She then opted to glance at Quirrell. Where Harry looked healthy and happy, Quirrell looked frail and miserable. He was shaking terribly as he clutched his morning tea with white fingers. His skin was pale and the dark circles under his eyes were prominent enough to be seen all the way from where she sat.  

Harry might not know what Halloween meant to him, but Voldemort clearly did. And he was taking it out on Quirrell.

Meg might’ve felt bad for him if he wasn’t harboring a genocidal maniac. 

The rest of breakfast went slowly as Meg tried to force herself to finish her toast. When the Daily Prophet arrived, Meg was happy to find absolutely nothing about herself in the gossip column. 

When breakfast was finally over, she breathed a sigh of relief and rushed toward the Charms classroom—a room completely devoid of any Halloween decorations whatsoever. 

That day, they would be working on Levitation Charms, something Meg had perfected days into her self-instruction in the Room of Requirement. Professor Flitwick put everyone into pairs to practice. Meg ended up with Neville.

“Now, don’t forget that nice wrist movement we’ve been practicing!” Flitwick reminded, perched on top of a stack of books. “Swish and flick, remember, swish and flick. And saying the magic words properly is very important, too—never forget Wizard Baruffio, who said ‘s’ instead of ‘f’ and found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his chest.” 

Meg turned to the white feather with a frown. How should she go about delaying her performance without interfering with her grade?

“How about you try it first, Neville,” she suggested. 

Neville’s eyes grew wide. Perhaps he was regretting his choice to sit next to her. “Oh, uh, are you sure?” he stammered. “Maybe you should try—just in case I destroy the feather by accident.” 

He looked so crestfallen it made Meg’s chest hurt. She’d bet her last galleon that Neville’s biggest problem was his self-esteem, not an inherent lack of magical ability. 

Meg opened her mouth—to say what exactly, she wasn’t sure—when Hermione’s voice came from the row behind them. 

“You’re saying it wrong,” she was saying to Ron, who had been partnered with her. “It’s Levi-o-sa, not Leviosah.” 

Ron’s freckled nose wrinkled angrily. “You do it then, if you’re so clever.” 

To the boy’s consternation, Hermione did it without problem, and within seconds the feather steadily floated four feet above their heads. 

Flitwick cheered and awarded Gryffindor two points for getting it right first. 

“Alright, Neville,” said Meg, turning back to her partner, “how about I give it a try, and if I do it right” –and she would, obviously– “you try and copy me.” 

Neville nodded nervously. “Sounds uh, sounds good,” he said. 

Meg turned to the feather. With precise movement and perfect pronunciation, the feather began to float. She couldn’t resist making the feather do a few flips before bringing it down.

Unfortunately, Flitwick saw this display. 

“Superb, Miss Le Fay!” he squeaked, clapping in delight. “Two points to Gryffindor for flair!” 

She gave Professor Flitwick a practiced smile. When his back turned, she faced Neville once more. 

“Okay,” she coaxed, “now you try.”

Neville went white as a sheet, but picked up his wand and turned to the terrifying feather. 

Meg placed her hand atop his. “It’s not just about the movement and the words,” she said gently. “It’s about intent, too. Your will. If you think you can’t, then you can’t. But if you think you can, then you can. Okay?”

Neville swallowed nervously, then turned to the feather. With a deep frown, he shakily copied her movements and managed to whisper the incantation. 

To his (and Meg’s) surprise, the feather floated about three inches above the desk–

–then melted.

Neville’s expression crumbled, and he bowed his head in shame. “I knew it,” he moaned unhappily. 

“And that’s why it didn’t work,” Meg insisted. 

Neville whimpered in self-pity and stared at the desk. 

“Hey,” Meg encouraged gently, “you believed in yourself long enough to make it float in the first place. That’s progress!” 

Neville flushed a bright red and looked down to hide his bashful smile. 

When class ended, Meg found herself walking out behind Harry, Ron, Seamus, and Dean.

Ron was complaining about Hermione—loudly.

“‘It’s Levi-o-sa, not Leviosah!’” he mocked, fuming. “It’s no wonder no one can stand her. She’s a nightmare, honestly!” 

Meg’s heart sank when Hermione brushed past them all, purposefully bumping Ron’s shoulder in the process.

“I think she heard you,” said Harry with a stern frown sent Ron’s way. 

The red-haired boy shifted uncomfortably. “So?” he said, hiding the sheepish blush that crept onto his cheeks. “She must’ve noticed she’s got no friends.”

Shock slammed into Meg’s chest, and her feet stuttered to a stop. The person walking behind her huffed and quickly swerved around her to avoid a collision, shooting her a scowl as they went. She didn’t notice, too caught up in her own swirling thoughts. 

The Golden Trio wasn’t… the Golden Trio. It was just a duo—and not even truly golden, if Ron was treating another student like that. 

Ron’s words couldn’t have been true. Hermione was a sweet girl, it was unthinkable to Meg that she hadn’t made a single friend in two months of school. But then who was Hermione friends with? She always sat by Meg in class instead of with her peers, and she never failed to choose the same table as Meg when doing homework in the library. So who was she friends with, if not those boys? 

Realization came slowly and brought with it no small amount of shame. Hermione thought Meg was her peer.  Hermione had been clinging to her for months. But Meg, oblivious and blind, had blown her off. She’d blown off the poor girl because while Meg knew she wasn’t Hermione’s peer and therefore not a good choice for a best friend, Hermione didn’t know that. 

Meg perched on the closest stone bench and attempted to quiet her racing mind long enough to remember the exact catalyst for their friendship. She initially thought the run-in with the dog would do it, but clearly, that was not the case. So what was it? It wasn’t the train, or the dog, or the flying lesson… it had to have been something big, something significant enough to make it into both the book and the film… something dangerous enough to form a bond that would survive the journey to hell and back time and time again–

Oh. 

Her stomach sank as the memory rose from the depths of her organized mind. 

A Halloween feast interrupted by the abrupt arrival of a screaming professor, bringing news of a troll in the dungeon. But the troll would not be in the dungeons. Instead, it would find its way into the girls’ bathroom—the very bathroom Hermione was hiding in because–

A nauseating mixture of relief and frustration flooded in as she remembered: 

Hermione was crying in the bathroom because of what Meg had just heard Ron say. Hermione wasn’t friends with Harry and Ron, so she didn’t have any friends. Things hadn’t changed after all—even if Meg’s slight against her had been unintentional, it was better for the timeline that it had happened.

Ron was supposed to hurt Hermione’s feelings, and Hermione needed to have no friends because she needed to hide in the girls’ bathroom until dinnertime. Harry and Ron had to come and save her, and by some miracle, Ron would manage to knock it out with its own club.

But what if the club didn’t knock the troll unconscious, like it was supposed to? What if it only made it angrier? What if things shifted just enough that the beast killed Hermione before the boys arrived? 

Meg’s stomach twisted, but she got to her feet and began the walk toward the Defense classroom. 

If she was present in that bathroom, Meg could ensure that Ron, Harry, and Hermione experienced enough of an adrenaline rush to bond without ever facing the troll alone. 

Of course, Meg would have to face the beast herself instead of letting a little boy do it. 

Piece of cake, she thought with a note of bitterness as she neared Quirrell’s classroom. Just fight a troll with less than two months of serious preparation, scare a few kids into becoming friends without scarring them for life, and try not to let anyone die in the process. No biggie. 

Just as Meg expected, Hermione didn’t show up to Defense at all. Or lunch. 

Meg poked her head inside the girl’s bathroom on her way to Double Transfiguration after, and her chest tightened at the sound of poorly-suppressed sniffles and hiccups coming from the very last stall by the window. 

Meg said nothing and quietly shut the door. 

She could not afford to be a shoulder to cry on for every kid in Gryffindor Tower. Her mission was to ensure that as many innocent people lived to see the turn of the century as possible. It was better to let Hermione cry for a few hours more than to risk disaster.

That knowledge didn’t make it any easier to walk away. Especially when the big sister inside of her wanted nothing more than to wrap the girl in a crushing hug and never let go.

Double Transfiguration that afternoon felt off without Hermione there to answer all the questions with textbook-accuracy. Meg tried to fill that role, but the memory of Hermione’s cries and the looming troll fight took any and all enthusiasm she might have mustered. 

After class ended, Professor McGonagall kept Meg behind. 

“Miss Granger has not yet missed class once this term,” said the professor, hiding the concerned gleam in her eyes behind a stern frown. “You are her roommate, and as I understand it, she has become somewhat of a shadow of yours. Is there something I should be made aware of, Miss Le Fay?” 

Meg’s heart sank at the reminder of her obliviousness. She plastered a fake smile for McGonagall and shoved her guilt into the depths of her mind. She would wallow in it later.

“She just wasn’t feeling well, Professor,” said Meg. “She was up late reading, but she must’ve lost track of time because when I woke up this morning, she was still up. She wasn’t feeling well after Charms—could barely keep her eyes open—so I promised I’d let her copy my notes from today’s lessons after she took a nap. I was just about to check on her.”

Professor McGonagall’s expression softened, but only slightly. 

“I will allow it this once,” she said. “But inform her that moving forward I do expect better time management. Reading all night will not be accepted as an excuse in the future.”

Meg nodded and turned to leave. “I’ll tell her,” she promised brightly as she opened the door. “Have a nice afternoon, Professor.” 

Professor McGonagall nodded and gave her a small, rare smile. “Enjoy the holiday, Miss Le Fay.” 

Meg suppressed a grimace at the reminder of the date, choosing instead to nod and walk out. The moment she was out of sight, she turned and bolted toward the Astronomy Tower.

Homework, Halloween, and Hermione’s feelings could wait. Meg had a troll fight to prepare for. 

By the time dinner rolled around, Meg was exhausted, hungry, and felt only slightly better about her upcoming fight. In all honesty, she would have preferred facing the three-headed dog again. At least she knew to calm that creature: music. A troll, however… it would take a severe concussion to bring down one of those. It typically took multiple full-grown wizards or witches to handle such a feat; tonight she would only have herself. 

Walking toward the Great Hall at 7 p.m. that night felt like walking to her execution. Death by club. Or a giant foot. Or being torn in two. Or, if she didn’t get food soon, perhaps starvation would do it before she ever laid eyes on the troll. 

Meg was pulled from her internal spiral by a voice calling her name. She flinched back to reality and turned to face the source.

“Are you okay?” asked a frowning Harry where he had fallen into step on her right, “You look sick.” 

“Of course I’m okay,” she said brightly, trying to ignore all of the different ways she might die in the next few hours. “I just… I uh, I don't like Halloween—or Samhain. I hate it all. The whole ‘Spooky Season’. I’m like the Grinch, but for Halloween.”

“You– how could you not like Halloween?” sputtered Ron indignantly. “It’s great! Carving pumpkins, eating candy, playing jokes—well, that one’s less funny when you’re the butt of them, I guess–”

“It doesn’t matter why,” interrupted Meg. She felt as if she’d been wound tighter than a bowstring, and any deviation from her plan might drive her insane. “Don’t let me stop you from enjoying it, though. I’m just going to grab some food for myself and Hermione. I think she’s still hiding in the girls’ bathroom after this morning.”

With that she shot him a pointed look, and he turned almost as red as his hair. 

Meg added, “I think you should probably apologize next time you see her, Ron.”

Ron looked to Harry, who nodded with an awkward grimace.  

Ron opened his mouth to speak when Meg caught sight of the Weasley twins rounding the corner down the hall.

Why hadn’t she thought of it before? She didn’t need to attend the Halloween feast at all—she could just grab something from the kitchens! Skipping the decorated Great Hall altogether would do wonders for her ability to focus on the coming task. 

“I just remembered something—er, enjoy the feast, boys,” she said absently before rushing toward the twins as fast as she could without running.

She managed to halt her momentum before she slammed straight into George, instead placing herself between them and the Great Hall. 

“You guys know where the kitchens are, right?” she asked quickly. She didn’t know exactly at what point Quirrell would burst into the feast; any moment wasted could lead to reaching Hermione too late. “I need to know how to get there. Now, if possible. I can’t take too long.”

“How’d you–”

“I know about the Marauder’s Map,” she said with a huff. “It’s how you pull off your pranks. Point is, can you please help me find it?” 

The twins look startled, to say the least, but Fred recovered first. 

“I don’t know how you know about that, Scary Fairy, but as we do happen to know every inch of this castle” –Meg bit back a laugh at that; she knew of at least two places they’d never find or venture to on their own– “and are happy to help you find what you seek… for a price.” 

Meg bit back a groan at their matching smirks. It was a wonder these two weren’t in Slytherin with how opportunistic they were.

“And that would be…?” she prompted.

The twins turned to one another. They seemed to communicate without words for a moment before turning to her. 

“We haven’t decided yet,” said George. 

“Well, I need to get to the kitchens right now, so…”

“Why?” 

Meg blinked. “Why, what?”

Fred’s teasing smile was now tinged with confusion. “Why do you need the kitchens? The Great Hall is right there, and it’s time for dinner.” He nodded at the open doors. “Trust us, the Halloween feast is to die for.” 

“You couldn’t pay me any amount of money to miss it,” added George.  

Meg sighed, trying to hide her exasperation and likely failing. “I just– I don’t like Halloween, okay? I’ll do whatever you want—within reason—if you help me get some food from the kitchens right now.” 

The boys shared a look.

“All right,” said Fred, draping his arm over her shoulder and steering her toward the main stairway. “I’ll show you. Let’s go tickle the pear, Scary.”

Meg choked on her spit. “I’m sorry—what did you just say?”

Fred, in typical thirteen year old boy fashion, snickered. “Come on.”

Meg grimaced and turned her focus to the stairs as they began to descend. She did not want to hear dirty jokes from a thirteen year old, thank you very much.

She opted to say nothing at all and instead followed Fred down the grand staircase and to a giant painting of a fruit bowl. 

“What is this?” She asked, folding her arms. “It doesn’t look like a kitchen.” 

“Oh, ye of little faith.” Fred teased before reaching up to the oil-paint pear and giving it a small scratch. 

The pear began to giggle, and a moment later the portrait swung open to reveal a short tunnel.

“Oh,” said Meg. “When you said ‘tickle the pear’, you meant… literally.” Thank god, she added mentally. 

Fred wiggled his eyebrows. “Of course,” he said, “what’d you think I meant?” 

That earned him a flat scowl in return. He was thirteen; he knew full well what ‘tickling the pear’ sounded like. 

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” he continued. “Just be sure to close the painting behind you when you exit and enter, or Filch’ll know someone got in.”

Meg nodded before brushing past him and hurrying into the tunnel. When she emerged out the other side, she was faced with a sight that would’ve given Tilly an aneurysm.

The room was teeming with elves. At least fifty enslaved elves clad in nothing but pillowcases. Clean, well-fitting pillowcases, but still pillowcases nonetheless.

She bit her tongue before she could dissolve into a storm of swearing.  

Until now, the elf population in Hogwarts had completely slipped her mind. Yes, she’d been occupied with other matters, but that was no excuse for forgetting where her food was coming from, who had brought her trunk from the train, who did her laundry, replenished her soap, and cleaned up the messes students left everywhere.

Hogwarts didn’t run on magic, it ran on slave labor. 

She could not allow herself to forget that. 

Dumbledore, along with every witch and wizard with any knowledge of the workings of the school, was knowingly complicit in slavery. 

Sure, one could claim that the elves were happier as slaves, but that was a load of bullshit. It was the same argument people had made in favor of human slavery, and it was just as absurd. Elves weren’t happier, they just had no idea what life looked like outside of enslavement. They were taught that their worth lied in their service, and that without that service, they were nothing. To someone trapped by such a system, a miserable certainty was better than the unknown.

Her blood simmered. 

She would fix this, she decided right there and then. When Lavinia was out of the way and Riddle was dead, she would devote all her time and resources to not only freeing the elves of Britain, but reshaping the system to protect and assist them. They would have unions, rights, reparations, and the ability to choose what they wanted for their lives. It wouldn’t happen overnight, but she would ensure that Hogwarts was slavery-free before she died (hopefully not at the hands of Voldemort or a Death Eater).

That thought knocked her back to the present. She forced a smile and addressed the horde of waiting elves. 

“Hi,” she greeted gently, “it’s wonderful to meet you all. I’m Meg, and I’m in Gryffindor. I was wondering if you had any food from the feast that I could take in a basket or something? My friend isn’t feeling well, and I was hoping she and I could eat dinner in private. Would that be all right?”

“Of course!” A high-pitched voice immediately squeaked as a short, female elf jumped up on the nearest stool with a picnic basket in hand. “All the rest of yous get back to work! Mimsy will get Miss Meg and her friend plenty of food!”

Meg opened her mouth to explain that she didn’t need much, but the elves had returned to the hustle and bustle of pre-feast preparation, and Mimsy was already darting around and stuffing food into the basket. In less than two minutes, Mimsy placed a basket holding two servings of ham, potatoes, broiled vegetables, pumpkin pie, two small bottles of pumpkin juice, and an ungodly amount of candy in Meg’s arms. 

“Here you go, Miss Meg!” cheered Mimsy. “We hopes this is enough. If Miss Meg needs more, she can come right back!” 

Meg’s chest warmed, and a smile crawled onto her lips before she could stop it. 

Mimsy looked a great deal like Tilly; it was nice to see a quasi-familiar face again. She’d have to spend more time in the kitchens going forward. Especially if she wanted to gradually warm the crowd before her to the idea of freedom—which would not happen overnight. 

“Thank you, Mimsy,” she said gently. “I’ll return the basket as soon as I can–” 

“Oh, Miss Meg can keep the basket, of course–”

“–it’ll give me an excuse to come back and get to know you all better.” 

Every elf in the room paused and looked at her again, all wearing identical expressions of shock and a cautious excitement. It had probably been a very long time since someone just wanted to visit, rather than asking for something and immediately leaving. 

Mimsy’s expression was more cautious than the others. Her mouth opened and closed in surprise, not unlike a fish. 

“Thanks again,” said Meg, taking advantage of the stunned silence to step toward the exit. “I’m sure Hermione will love it. Have a wonderful night.” 

She waved as multiple elves sent replies of “good night, Miss Meg” in return, and slipped out through the painting. 

The sound of Dumbledore’s voice jovially introducing the feast reached her ears before she even reached the top of the stairs, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She had time to eat and get some food to Hermione before the commotion began. 

When she entered the bathroom, she was greeted by the sound of Hermione’s sniffles. 

“Hermione?” she called cautiously. 

The sniffles stopped. 

“Who is it?” the plugged, scratchy voice of Hermione asked from the very last stall on the right. 

“It’s Meg,” she said as she slowly moved closer, “I brought you some dinner. I haven’t seen you all day, so I figured you could use something to eat.”

Another sniffle. “I’m not hungry. Go away.” 

“Yeah, I’m not about to do that, sweetheart,” said Meg as she placed her cloak next to the stall Hermione sat in and sat atop it. “I couldn’t possibly enjoy the feast while you're here, miserable and all alone. I know for a fact you haven’t eaten since lunch; I’m not going to let you skip dinner. I’ve got a basket for us both, so you don’t even have to open the stall to get it. I’ll just place it right here” –she set the basket right underneath the door so it was accessible to them both– “and we can eat here on the floor until you’re ready to come out.” 

It wouldn’t be the most sanitary thing in the world, but it would suffice. 

Hermione sniffled, but finally muttered a soft all right. 

Meg rolled up her sleeves before starting to eat. Hermione waited a minute to follow her lead—the tantalizing smell of the holiday feast was too enticing for a sad, starving little girl to resist.

Meg waited until they finished eating the main course and began to pick at the desserts to speak again. 

“What Ron said today… it’s not true,” she said when Hermione’s sniffles between bites had slowed to a complete stop. 

“Isn’t it?” Hermione said quietly. “I… I try to– I don’t mean to be… I was trying to help him—but I know that nobody likes being around me. I don’t try to be a know-it-all.” 

Something in Meg’s chest lurched. Meg sighed and turned to face the stall directly. “Now, don’t start to let some boy determine how you think about yourself. Boys sometimes say mean things when they’re insecure. It doesn’t make it right, and it’s not a valid excuse, but he said it because he felt bad about himself after you upstaged him in Charms, not because it was true. It’s not true. He was just being a dumb boy.”

Meg put extra emphasis on the last two words, which elicited a small huff from the other side of the stall. It was close enough to a laugh that Meg would count it as one. 

“Hermione, listen…” She sighed, trying to find the right words. She didn’t want to become Hermione’s only friend, but she couldn’t continue acting as she had. Hermione was just as lonely as Margaret had been as a child; the difference here was that Meg knew the signs and had neglected to try to fix them. 

Hermione was an important part of the story, yes, but the tears on the other side of the wooden stall door were very real. Not fictional.  

Meg continued: “All my life” –her current life, at least– “I haven’t been around other kids much. I’ve not really had many chances to polish my social skills, but that’s no excuse for how coldly I’ve acted toward you. I’m sorry, and I promise I’ll try to do better.” 

Hermione said nothing, so Meg cleared her throat and continued, “And by the way, I told Professor McGonagall you missed class because you stayed up all night reading and had to take a nap, and that I’d get you up to speed. She wasn’t thrilled that you missed, but she said she’d excuse it just this once. We can work on catching you up tomorrow afternoon, if you want. Go out to the Black Lake and enjoy the autumn air before everything freezes over. I’ll even bring snacks.” 

“...I’d like that,” croaked Hermione, her voice slightly muffled—she must’ve been in the middle of chewing.

Meg smiled and blinked away the prickling that suddenly sprouted behind her eyes. For a moment, it felt just like coaxing Andy into doing his homework at the dinner table. He’d always been so reluctant to sit down and do it, despite being the smartest kid in his class (the ADHD diagnosis surprised absolutely nobody).

“Good,” she managed to choke out as she frantically wiped away the few tears that managed to escape. 

The two finished their food in silence after that. Meg pointedly avoided touching the pumpkin pasties—she could not withstand any more reminders of home in one day without crying, something she refused to do where anyone else could see or hear. Crying showed vulnerability, and that was something she would not do.

Hermione was happy to eat both pumpkin pasties. Before long, the basket and bottles of pumpkin juice were completely empty.

Meg checked her watch and glanced toward the door. Dinner was almost through, and still no troll. She bit back a curse. Her backside was starting to get sore. 

“Feel better?” Meg asked carefully, trying to hide her impatience. 

Hermione was quiet for a good ten seconds. “You can go on without me, if you want,” she said. “I’ll be just a few more minutes.”

Meg shook her head, then remembered Hermione couldn’t see her. “No, I’ll stay here with you until you’re ready.” 

“Honestly, Meg, you can go—I just want to wait until my eyes aren’t puffy anymore–”

“Hermione,” Meg cut in, her voice firm, “I’m not leaving you alone. That’s what friends do—they don’t leave, even when their ass–er, behind is sore from sitting on the tile floor.”

She heard Hermione’s breath hitch. 

“We’re… friends?” the girl squeaked. 

Despite her better judgment, Meg softened at the cautious, vulnerable note in Hermione’s scratchy voice. “I guess we are, sweetheart,” she said softly, unable to stop the term of endearment from slipping out. Hopefully the girl would be too preoccupied with the friend part to notice. “I don’t sneak food from the kitchens and dirty my cloak on the yucky bathroom floor for just anyone, y’know.”

The latch on the stall clicked. Meg got to her feet just in time for Hermione to jump out and yank her into a vice-like hug. 

For a moment, Meg was frozen. Hugging anyone but Tilly was foreign, and the warm, fuzzy feeling in her chest was more alien than she’d like to admit. 

When her lack of response began to grow awkward, Meg managed to blink away her shock and return the embrace with a warmth she hadn’t felt in years. It was not the warmth of a companion or best friend, like the kind she felt for Tilly, but the warmth of a big sister for a child. 

Just as she did so, however, Hermione stiffened and her breath hitched. Panic flared in Meg’s chest. Had she waited too long to reciprocate? Had she hurt the girl’s feelings? 

Hermione began to slowly pull away, her wide and fearful eyes locked on something behind Meg. Something high above their heads.

“Meg,” whispered Hermione as she began to tremble, “don’t move.”

Meg’s heart sank when a low rumble echoed against the tile walls. She didn’t need to turn to know what loomed just out of sight. 

The troll.

Her hand twitched for the wand holster clipped to her waistband as she ignored Hermione’s whispered warnings and turned around.

She shouldn’t have felt as surprised as she did at the sight before her. The troll stood at least ten to twelve feet tall, with gray-green skin stretched over a lumpy body. Its head was much smaller than the rest of its bulky body. Its arms and legs were thicker than most trees, and Meg would bet that she wouldn’t be able to wrap her arms around it all the way if she tried. 

The rancid, rotten porta-potty stench it gave off might have been the worst part if it wasn’t holding the largest club she’d ever seen in either life.

Meg grabbed Hermione’s arm and gently put herself between the creature and the shivering girl. 

She had to wait for Harry and Ron to arrive, at which point they’d get Hermione to safety and retrieve a teacher. She would stall the troll until they returned. They’d feel the danger, escape it together, and bond over the trauma without ever being in too much real trouble. Hopefully.

“Okay,” Meg breathed, her mind racing. “On the count of three–”

Before she could come up with a way to stall, the door slammed shut from the outside and the lock snapped closed. 

The noise startled the troll, fixated on the only living things in sight—them—and swung its club with a snarl. 

Hermione screamed. Meg grabbed her and dove to the side just in time for the club to shatter the tile they’d been standing only an instant before. It swung at the sinks next, and Meg pushed Hermione back before it hit them.

In theory, fighting the troll was daunting. Reality was much different. Reality was worse. 

The door swung open again, and Meg barely had time to be relieved at the sight of Harry and Ron before the troll lifted its club to turn her into a Smucker’s product. Acting on instinct, Meg threw herself over Hermione. She waited for the impact… but it never came. Instead, there was a dull thunk and a confused grunt from the troll. 

Meg and Hermione looked between the troll’s legs to see the boys throwing debris at the troll’s head. Meg’s stomach twisted. 

“Oi!” Ron yelled with more confidence than reason would have allowed as he lifted a metal pipe, “Pea-brain!” 

Harry took that opportunity to grab Hermione, who was frozen in terror. 

“Come on, run!” he yelled as he dragged her to her feet. 

In its confusion the troll turned on Ron, who was still throwing things at its head. Harry moved to help, but Meg grabbed his cloak and pushed him and Hermione toward the door. 

“It will crush you like a bug!” she snapped, whirling back to look at the troll as Ron lunged out of the club’s path, falling to the ground. “I’ll get Ron, you two get help!”

She didn’t bother to check if they followed her orders and turned back to the troll, who was only growing angrier by the second and lifted its club to turn Ron into a peanut butter and ginger sandwich.  

“Hey, ugly!” she screamed, throwing a chunk of wood at its head. “Over here!” 

That was enough to shift the focus from Ron to her. In a second, she pulled her wand from the holster at her waist. With all the force she could muster while facing an angry, bellowing troll, she pointed it directly at its face and yelled out one of the spells she had spent the afternoon practicing.

“BOMBARDA MAXIMA!” 

A massive shock wave shot from her wand and slammed the creature back into the far wall with enough force to shatter the tile. Its eyes were still open, so in a moment of panic, she lifted her wand again and barked out, “STUPEFY!” 

Once again, the spell hit its mark. The troll clumsily shuffled a step, then stopped. Its eyes rolled back in its head, and with a loud whine, it fell to its knees and collapsed face-first on the ground. The impact shook the room, and Meg winced at the near-deafening boom that followed.

The bathroom fell silent, save for the trickling water falling from the many broken pipes.

The exhaustion suddenly hit Meg like a ton of bricks. Her vision swam for a moment as she let out a groan and slumped against one of the few mostly-intact sinks. 

Breathe, she reminded herself. In, out. In, out. You’re fine, just breathe. 

“Bloody hell…” Ron gasped, climbing to his feet and stumbling closer. 

“Is it… dead?” Hermione asked hesitantly.

Meg closed her eyes and bit back her frustration. Of course she and Harry hadn’t gone for help. Why had she expected them to run away while she and Ron were still stuck with the troll, again?

Right. Because she had mistakenly thought they might have survival instincts that weren’t piss-poor. 

Harry shuffled a step closer and watched the shallow rise and fall of the troll’s torso. “I think it’s just knocked out,” he said. He turned to Meg, bright green eyes wide with shock and awe. “How’d you do that?” 

“I just caught it off-guard,” said Meg, sounding tired and weak even to herself. “We were very, very lucky.” 

A slam made them all flinch, and a moment later Professor McGonagall, Snape, and Quirrell burst into the room. 

McGonagall seemed to be on the verge of a stroke. Quirrell took one look at the troll and stumbled down onto a toilet while clutching his chest. 

“Oh goodness!” Professor McGonagall cried in horror.

Snape, the only one who didn’t seem to be beside themselves at the sight, stepped closer to the troll with a frown. His dark eyes zeroed in on the only wand in sight—hers—and then at her. 

Meg averted her eyes and tried to look as shaken and exhausted as possible. It wasn’t very difficult. 

Another thing Meg hadn’t accounted for in her planning was how terrifying McGonagall would be in the aftermath. “What on earth were you thinking? You’re lucky you weren’t killed! Why aren’t you in your dormitory?! Explain yourselves!”

Meg opened her mouth to spin a prepared lie that would save them all from trouble—she and Hermione had gone to the bathroom during the feast and didn’t know about the troll so Harry and Ron had come to warn them—but Hermione beat her to it. 

“It’s my fault, Professor McGonagall,” Hermione said, looking down at the fragments of tile beneath her shoes. “I went looking for the troll myself. I just finished a book about trolls and thought I could handle it on my own. If Meg, Harry, and Ron hadn’t found me, I’d be dead. Harry and Ron distracted it, and Meg–”

Meg attempted to lie. “It was a group effort,” she said. “We all hit it–”

In stopping the troll, she wanted to reduce the danger the kids faced (Harry hadn’t jumped on the damn thing’s back, at the very least). She had not intended to draw Quirrell/Voldemort’s attention—especially not now, when only a bombarda maxima and a stupefy were enough to tire her out. 

“No, it wasn’t,” Harry insisted, stepping forward as Meg shut her eyes in defeat. “Ron and I distracted it, yeah, but Meg knocked it out.” 

Ron just had to make it worse by adding, “Yeah, and with only two spells! They were uh, bomba maximo, and uh, stupidy?”

“Bombarda maxima and stupefy,” Hermione corrected firmly, as if daring Meg to try and lie. 

Everyone was looking at Meg now. She stared at the floor, her mind whirling for some story she could spin to stay under the radar.

She could feel Quirrell’s gaze burning into the side of her head. 

For a fleeting moment, she wished that the troll had turned her into finger paint after all. 

“Be that as it may,” said McGonagall, turning her ire toward Hermione, “it was an extremely foolish thing to do. I would have expected more rational behavior on your part, and I am very disappointed in you, Miss Granger. Five points will be taken from Gryffindor for your serious lack of judgment. As for you two,” she looked at Ron and Harry now, “I hope you realize how fortunate you are. Not many first-year students could face a fully-grown mountain troll and live to tell the tale. Five points will be awarded to both of you, for sheer dumb luck.” 

Meg internally relaxed. Maybe McGonagall would pass over her entirely–

“And you, Miss Le Fay.” 

Meg’s spine stiffened. She kept her eyes locked on the troll’s large ear.

“I don’t know when you learned how to cast blasting curses and stunning spells, but under normal circumstances, no one your age has any good reason to know how to cast either of them. You are incredibly lucky that neither spell backfired on you; you would not have had the chance to try another.” 

“Professor, she saved our–” Harry started. 

“However,” McGonagall continued, eyeing her critically, “your actions saved four lives tonight, including your own, and you managed to contain a fully grown mountain troll.” She eyed the giant troll-shaped indentation in the far wall. “That cannot be ignored. Five points will be given to you as well, and Professor Dumbledore will be informed of your actions.” 

Meg’s stomach churned. Dumbledore would be informed. What would he do? Would he grow suspicious? Or would he want to use her somehow? Recruit her to the Order of the Phoenix to mingle with the rest of his puppets? A shaky breath escaped her lips. 

Professor McGonagall’s angry mask faltered. “Now, go back to Gryffindor Tower, all of you. Students are finishing the feast in their Houses. And you three–” She gestured at Harry, Ron, and Hermione, “–ensure that Miss Le Fay eats and rests. She has overexerted herself.”

Understatement of the century, in Meg’s opinion. Her endurance truly was pitiful.

The four first-years moved to leave, but Meg’s vision swam and she swayed precariously. A hand clamped down on her arm. She flinched, glancing up through her eyelashes at the one who had prevented her fall.

Snape.

His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp. A spark of suspicion gleamed behind an onyx gaze. 

Dread crept in. If she hadn’t drawn Voldemort’s attention, she had undoubtedly drawn Snape’s. 

“Thanks,” she croaked, pulling away to stand on her own two feet. Harry rushed to take her arm and gave her a small smile when she glanced his way. She couldn’t help but smile back.

Meg chanced a glance at Quirrell as they left, only to find him already watching her with a quizzical frown.

She pretended not to see the flicker of red behind his watery blue eyes as she passed.

~~~~~

The first morning of November was deceptively quiet. 

Meg woke from a sleep full of trolls and dead children and blood-red serpentine eyes to a quiet dormitory, the silence only broken by Lavender’s snoring and the faint birdsong from the Scottish Highlands outside the window. A glance at the clock told her she’d woken up an hour earlier than usual—thanks to the nightmares, no doubt.

She slid out of bed and sluggishly padded toward the bathroom. When she caught sight of her reflection above the sinks, she grimaced. 

The dark circles beneath her eyes looked more like bruises than anything. Her eyes were red and bloodshot, and her hair hung limply around her head in greasy tangles. 

She huffed and claimed the nearest shower.

The hot water was a godsend. She spent much longer in the shower than she usually did, and by the time she was finished and had pulled on her uniform (sans cloak, stockings, and shoes), Hermione was already in the bathroom and wrestling with her hair.

When the girl caught her eye in the mirror, she smiled shyly and gave her a quiet, “good morning” before continuing to butcher her poor curls with an old hairbrush.

Instead of her normal grunt and beeline toward the bedroom, Meg smiled back. 

“Morning,” she replied. Impulse drove her to quickly grab a few hair ties, a small bottle, and a wide-toothed comb from her shower caddy. She gently pulled the brush from the girl’s hands. 

Hermione frowned, confused. “What’re you–”

“Can I try something?” asked Meg softly. “I promise if you hate it I’ll never touch your hair again.”

“You can try if you want, but… it’s a lost cause,” said Hermione timidly. “My mum’s been trying to straighten it for years and it only gets worse every time she tries.”

Meg smirked and placed her hands on Hermione’s shoulders.

“I don’t plan on straightening anything,” she said with a small squeeze.  Without elaborating, she then pulled her wand from the holster and summoned a stool from the corner—Hermione gasped at the advanced magic—before gently pushing the girl to sit. 

Hermione obeyed when Meg had her turn around and lean back against the sink, though she tried to sit up when Meg began to wet her hair. 

“Wait,” she protested, “If you do that it won’t dry in time for class.”

Meg smiled and carefully pushed her back down. “I’ll make sure it’s ready in time, I promise. Just trust me.”

Hermione gave her a skeptical look, but didn’t try to sit up again. Meg carefully saturated her coarse hair with water, taking extra time to avoid getting the girl’s uniform wet. She then guided Hermione to sit upright again before plucking the leave-in conditioner from her shower caddy. Hermione did as she said, keeping her back to the mirror as Meg worked.

By the time she was finished, the sun had crested over the horizon and blazed through the bathroom window.

“Okay, all done,” said Meg proudly. “Go ahead and take a look.”

Hermione slowly and anxiously turned to face the mirror, looking almost as if she expected to find a disaster.

What she saw instead made her jaw drop.

Her previously frizzy, unruly hair had been pulled back in two Dutch braids that turned into pigtails at the base of her skull. Meg had carefully dried and styled Hermione’s wet hair to give the curls more definition. Reduced was the unmanageable frizz, easily dominated by separate, tamable curls.

Of course, it was nowhere near as good as it could be with the help of proper products and a good hair routine, but it was much better than what the girl had been struggling with before.

“So?” prompted Meg with a satisfied smile, “what do you think? Yay or nay?”

“I-I…” Hermione’s eyes suddenly looked glassy, and Meg’s stomach dropped. Did she hate it? 

Her answer came in the form of the small, sobbing girl practically tackling her in a hug.

“It–it’s wonderful!” hiccuped Hermione, her face buried in Meg’s shoulder. “Nobody’s ever been able to– how did you–”

Meg chuckled and returned the embrace far more readily than she had the night before, when she’d been caught completely off-guard. “Let’s just say that the U.S. is far more diverse—in lots of ways—than the U.K. is,” she explained.

It’s not as though she could say that she’d actually learned about curly hair from TikTok videos in a past life. It was only 1991; smartphones hadn’t even been invented yet, let alone the idea of social media apps.

“I can do this for you more often, if you want,” she offered.

Hermione pulled back, her face lighting up almost as bright as the sun peeking through the window. 

“Would you really?” she gasped happily.

“Sure.” Meg shrugged. She glanced at her watch and her eyes widened in horror. She snatched another hair tie and quickly began to pull her hair into a tight ponytail. “Shit. We need to go. You can head on down to breakfast without me, I’ll meet you there.”

Hermione’s shoulders squared. “I’ll get your bag for you. We’ll go together.”

“Wait, Hermione–” But the girl had already disappeared through the doorway. 

Meg sighed, but her smile didn’t falter. It seemed that she’d gained a permanent shadow. 

When Meg and Hermione entered the Great Hall for breakfast, they were immediately hit by a tsunami of whispers and stares. Clearly, rumors about the night before had been thriving—each undoubtedly more ludicrous than the last.

“Ignore them,” said Meg to the anxious girl beside her. “Trust me, what happened last night’ll be old news by next week.”

Hermione didn’t look convinced, but she nodded anyway.

A few minutes into their breakfast, two bodies plopped down next to them.

“Morning,” said Harry on Meg’s right.

Meg smiled. “Good morning, boys.”

“Heya,” Ron added as he began to shovel eggs onto his plate. 

Meg cleared her throat, and he paused. 

“Didn’t you have something you wanted to say to Hermione, Ron?” she asked. A sliver of sharpness lingered beneath her calm smile.

“Uh…”

Meg raised an eyebrow. “About what you said yesterday morning.”

The boy turned bright pink. “Oh. Right.”

Meg nodded and released his hand. “Go on.”

Ron hesitantly turned to Hermione, who had shrunk down slightly when he sat next to her. His eyes darted around, looking anywhere but at the girl he had indirectly put in danger with his cruel words.

“I’m er… I’m sorry.” 

“Sorry for what?” prompted Meg.

Ron shot Meg a quick glare, but still acquiesced. “I’m sorry for… for what I said. I didn’t mean it. I was just angry that you did it before I could.”

Meg’s eyebrow rose, but she nodded in satisfaction. It wasn’t winning any Best Apology Awards, but it was okay for now. “What do you think, Hermione?” 

Hermione’s lips trembled for a moment before she burst out, “I’m sorry too, Ron! I only wanted to help, I didn’t mean to upset you! I promise I’ll only help if you ask from now on!”

Ron looked shocked by the apology—shocked enough that he finally looked up. 

“Y-your hair,” he blurted, brows furrowed in confusion. 

Hermione stopped. “M-my what?” 

“Your hair,” Ron explained, his cheeks growing redder by the second, “it’s ni… it looks er– looks different.” 

Now it was Hermione’s turn to blush. “Oh, um, thank you. Meg did it for me.” She then hurried to add, “And thank you—both of you—for coming after us last night. It was really brave.”

“It was,” said Meg, her amusement melting away at the memory. “Brave… and reckless. Thank you, but next time, get an adult.” She took a sip from her milk and gestured at the boys’ empty plates. “Hurry and eat, breakfast’s almost over.”

Ron and Hermione turned to their food, but Harry frowned at her, his green eyes sharp. “There wasn’t time to get an adult last night,” he said quietly as Hermione and Ron began to talk separately. “We had to–” He stopped when Meg placed a hand on his arm. 

“There was time—when I told you to run. There’s nothing we can do about it now, but in the future… let an adult handle it.” She sighed and stabbed a strawberry with her fork. It was pointless to mention the moment when she’d explicitly told him to get help as he’d clearly chosen to ignore it entirely. “You’re a student—a child; you’re here to learn. It should be left to the adults to take care of dangerous things whenever possible.” 

“You say that like you’re not a student too,” said Harry, his voice quiet but careful. “Why? Are you different, somehow?”

Meg’s blood ran cold. 

If there is a god, she thought, he will save me from this conversation.

She forced a laugh, but it came out tight and strangled “What’s that supposed to mean?” Gesturing at herself she added, “I’m very clearly a student just like you, Harry.” 

Harry’s eyes narrowed, and for an agonizing moment, Meg began to spiral with the worry that he’d somehow figured her out—even though the Harry from the books was famously unobservant.

Rescue came in the form of a tall shadow looming over the table. Meg stiffened and looked up at Professor McGonagall’s tight expression. 

“You are all recovered from last night, it seems,” she commented, her Scottish accent thicker than normal. “Good. Now–” Meg’s eyes widened when the teacher held a small piece of folded parchment to her. “The Headmaster would like to speak to you about the events of last night. You will report to his office immediately after your last class this afternoon. On this paper are written directions to the Headmaster’s Tower and the password to his office.”

“But we already explained what happened,” interjected Harry, his frown deepening. “Why does he want to speak to us?”

Professor McGonagall shook her head. “He does not,” she clarified. “He only wishes to speak to Miss Le Fay.” 

Three pairs of eyes slid to Meg. 

She stared at the paper as though it were a warrant for her arrest—which it kind of was. 

“There’s not much else to tell,” she argued weakly, suddenly feeling faint. “I just learned those spells from a book in my family library, that’s all.” 

“You can tell him as much this afternoon, then,” said McGonagall. When she saw how pale Meg had gotten, she softened—but only slightly. “You are not in trouble, Le Fay.” 

Meg knew for a fact that wasn’t exactly true.

She pressed the paper in Meg’s hand and walked away, leaving a now-green Meg behind to stare at the heaviest piece of paper she’d ever held.

Three sets of curious, worried eyes burned the top of her head. Without another word, Meg grabbed her bag and stood. 

“I’ll see you in class,” she said, her voice clipped. “Enjoy the rest of breakfast.” Hermione moved to follow, but Meg put up a hand to stop her. “I’ll be fine. Finish your eggs. You don’t want to be starving during Double Potions.” 

She calmly walked out of the hall before they could protest.

As soon as she was certain she hadn’t been followed, Meg ducked into the nearest empty, secluded classroom and collapsed at a desk. Her calm composure melted away, leaving a trembling, panicked wreck. 

She wasn’t ready to deal with Dumbledore—she honestly didn’t think she’d ever be. He might be against the Dark, but that didn’t make him someone she could be honest with, either. Would he decide that eliminating her was safer than allowing such a wild card to run amok? It wasn’t impossible. On the contrary, it felt extremely likely. 

Suddenly, she shot back to her feet and began to pace, her fury and terror growing by the second.  

“If that little shit just got an adult when I told him to–” She stopped herself and shook her head. “No, this is on me, not Harry. He’s just a kid—a good kid. I’m the one who should’ve handled the situation better. Just a few more seconds of stalling, and it would’ve been fine. But no, I just had to lose my cool and go straight for a bombarda fucking maxima!”

She kicked a desk, then yelped at the pain that shot up her leg. “Jesus, Merlin—sonofabitch!” she snarled while hopping on her good leg. 

A groan escaped her throat as she slumped back against the desk.

For a moment, she just sat and caught her breath. Losing her temper wouldn’t solve any of her problems, but hot damn it felt good to hit something. Even if it meant she would be limping all the way to her first period.

The bells signalling the end of breakfast began to ring through the halls, and Meg let out a shaky laugh. 

“No rest for the wicked,” she quipped to the empty room. 

She could get through meeting Dumbledore. She could trick him and walk away without trouble—she had to believe that or she had no chance of succeeding. If she gave up here, then all her planning, all the emotional turmoil, all her effort so far would be for nothing. She would have faced a troll for abso-fucking-lutely nothing (even if that didn’t feel real yet).

She simply had to continue performing as she had been for the past eleven years. Viola and Carmine had been fooled, and so had everyone else. Her childlike act had never been seen through, and she would not lose to a man wearing bejeweled slippers.

So occupied with her thoughts, she didn’t see the shadow that had lingered just outside the door. Nor did she notice the dark shape that followed just out of sight as she began the journey toward the dungeons. 

~~~~~

Somehow, Meg arrived at the Potions classroom before Harry, Ron, and Hermione—despite the fact that she arrived barely two minutes before the bell. They appeared in the doorway less than thirty seconds later and walked straight to the table she had chosen. 

“Are you feeling better?” asked Hermione, eyeing her flushed face and stiff smile. “You seemed pretty shaken when you left.” 

“I’m fine, thanks,” said Meg, her voice tight. “Enjoy the rest of breakfast?” 

Harry nodded, eyeing her carefully as he settled himself in the seat directly on her left. “It was good.”

“Rumors are flying like mad, though,” said Ron eagerly. “Fred and George’ve started telling people you strangled the troll with your bare hands. I told them what really happened, but they didn’t seem to care. Thought their version was more funny.” 

Meg’s lips thinned in displeasure. Rumors like that would only make her look more abnormal. “Nobody’ll believe something that crazy.” 

“I wouldn’t be so–” Ron was cut off by the large dungeon door to the hallway slamming shut. 

Snape’s shadow swept into the room with its usual dramatic flair, but his usual sneer had been replaced by a stony, ice-cold glare that zeroed in on her the moment she was in sight.

Meg returned it with a calm stare of her own until he finally looked to her left at Harry. His mouth twitched with poorly-disguised hatred as he limped past. 

Meg frowned. He was limping? Why—oh, right. 

He’d intercepted Quirrell’s attempt to steal the Stone the night before, and got a mangled leg for his efforts. 

Meg would’ve felt a little pity if she didn’t hate his guts. 

The rest of class was miserable. Something horrible had clearly crawled up Snape’s ass and died, because he was twice as nasty as usual, and hovered almost exclusively over their table, insulting and berating them every chance he got—regardless of whether they did something wrong or not. 

By the time the double period ended, Meg was ready to strangle him with her bare hands. 

She endured the whispers and stares all throughout lunch with her head held high, though she couldn’t stop herself from shooting a small stinging jinx at Fred’s shin when he teased her in the hallway.

The worst part of the day, however, was Defense Against the Dark Arts. 

However bad she had expected it to be, it was worse. Quirrell didn’t play his incompetence to the same severe degree he had before, and the lesson was actually educational. His stutter made so few appearances, it was almost as though it had disappeared entirely. 

Worst of all, he seemed focused on her to a frightening degree. It wasn’t obvious to the unobservant student, of course, but Meg, who was hyper-aware of the man’s every move, knew that his attention rarely strayed from her the entire lesson—even if his eyes did. He called on her for almost every question.

For the first time, Quirrell acted like a somewhat competent teacher. 

It was sickening.

Her last class of the day, History of Magic, was a much-needed reprieve. It gave her the chance to sit near the back, close her eyes, and spend seventy-five minutes fortifying her Occlumency shields before meeting Dumbledore. An outside observer would think she had fallen asleep.

Unfortunately, the school day could not last forever, and the four o’clock bell rang no matter how much she might have wished they wouldn’t. 

Meg’s hands shook the entire way to the Headmaster’s tower. When she reached the large Griffin statue, she hesitated. 

You can still run away, a voice whispered in the back of her mind. She huffed and shook it off. 

“Jelly Baby.” 

The Griffin statue began to rise, and a staircase soon came into view. Meg stepped on before her courage had the chance to desert her.

Once she reached the top of the staircase, she was met with a closed door. The warm glint of the golden knob seemed to taunt her. She sucked in a breath and twisted it. 

She was prepared to find Dumbledore at his desk waiting for her. Instead, she was met with an empty office. The only other living thing present was a magnificent bird perched next to the desk near the far end of the room. 

Fawkes. The phoenix. 

A smile found its way onto Meg’s lips at the sight. 

Fawkes was stunning; the kind of creature one can’t truly believe in even when staring straight at it. No movie could do such a beautiful thing justice. His golden, crimson, and fiery orange feathers positively glowed in the afternoon sun that peered in through the window. His beak was the same shining gold as the feathers on his belly and the tips of his wings. His dark eyes glimmered with intelligence. 

“You are just beautiful,” she breathed, forgetting where she was in favor of the creature before her. “Wow…” 

Fawkes’ chest puffed up and he let out a proud chirp. When she didn’t move, he gestured at her hand with his wing and puffed out his chest more, as if demanding she pet him.

Meg obeyed with a small giggle. “All right, if you insist.”

Her mind chose that moment to remind her that Maggie, her little niece, loved birds. She would have just melted at the magnificent bird perched before her. Meg’s smile faltered.

“I was born in a place called Phoenix, you know,” she said softly, more subdued now. “It’s pretty hot there. Sometimes, during the summer, it feels like the world’s melting from the heat of the sun. But that’s the desert for you.” Her smile fell. “I’d give anything to go back. Well, almost anything.”

Fawkes trilled softly and nudged her hand gently, as if hoping to comfort her. 

“I used to wish I was a bird,” she breathed absently. “The freedom to fly far away and see the world, then the power to return back to the nest each time.” She hummed bitterly. “I got the first part. Not so much the second.” 

She sat in silence for a while longer, petting Fawkes as he cooed happily. 

Eventually–

“I see you have become acquainted with Fawkes, my phoenix.”

Meg flinched violently, spinning around to see Dumbledore standing by the door she had come through only minutes before. 

“Du– Professor!” she gasped, pressing a hand to her pounding heart. 

Dumbledore’s eyes sparkled genially at her flustered state. 

“I apologize for my tardiness,” said the old wizard as he approached. “I am the one who asked you to come straight here, but as Professor Snape had an urgent matter to discuss with me, I was forced to make you wait.” 

Meg smiled tightly. “That’s all right,” she said. “Fawkes kept me company.” 

“Yes,” said Dumbledore with a smile and a twinkle in his eye, “Phoenixes make for wonderful companions. They are intelligent, emotionally intuitive, and possess wondrous powers. Not to mention, they are excellent judges of character. Shall we sit? I imagine we will be here for a few minutes.” 

Meg’s stomach twisted, but she sat in the chair he gestured to as he took his seat across his desk. 

“Miss Le Fay, I imagine you’re confused as to why I’ve asked you here. After all, you have already faithfully recounted last night’s events to several professors.” 

Meg looked down at her hands shyly, just as a normal child would when embarrassed and confused. “A little, yeah. I mean, I just… used the first spells that came to mind,” she added softly. “I read about them in a book from my family’s library, and when I saw the troll about to kill Ron, I just reacted.”

Dumbledore nodded and folded his hands on the desk. “Understandable, of course. You did very well, Miss Le Fay. You saved your friends’ lives with only two spells. Spells that require much more mental and magical discipline than the typical eleven year old possesses. That is what I wish to speak to you about today.”

Meg adopted an innocently confused expression. “I study a lot, if that’s what you mean.”

“Not quite.” Dumbledore watched her for a moment with that grandfatherly expression on his face, and that was when she felt it.

A brush against the wall of ice protecting her mind. It took all of Meg’s self-control not to recoil. Nobody but Tilly had ever tried to reach into her mind, and the mental touch of Dumbledore felt almost painfully uncomfortable in comparison. It was like hearing styrofoam squeaking right next to her ear while touching those horrible wool blankets with the satin trim at her aunt’s house and biting into a soft grape all at once. Multiplied by fifty.

And she had to pretend not to feel any of it or risk arousing suspicion.

In ideal circumstances, she would press charges for the attempted use of legilimency on a child. But these were not ideal circumstances, and she could not afford to react in the slightest. Not in front of this man, who commanded the respect and near-worship of at least 60% of magical Britain. Any claims she made against him would be, at best, brushed aside as the silly outburst of a little girl. At worst, it would be seen as a slanderous attack on a pillar of the community. 

She felt when his curiosity turned to surprise; it brought her no small amount of satisfaction to see the smile on his face waver, even if only for a moment. 

Meg had spent a great deal of time not only fortifying the tall, thick layers of ice that protected her mind, but also learning to project the image of a completely blank mind to any intruders on the surface of that ice.  All Dumbledore could see in her mind now was an empty abyss of nothing instead of the defences she’d painstakingly built over the years. Even if he wanted to forcibly break through her walls, he couldn’t. That would require finding said walls inside the abyssal illusion, and she very much doubted he had the time to try.

“Is something wrong, Professor?” she asked politely when a small crease formed between his brows, her voice just off enough to unsettle his nerves without making him truly suspicious.

It was the least he deserved for trying to violate the privacy of someone he thought was a little kid. Not in a gross, pedophilic way perhaps, but very shitty regardless.

She felt him slowly and carefully retreat from her mind as his smile returned.

“Not at all, Miss Le Fay,” he said genially. “I simply wanted to offer my condolences for your recent loss. It is rare such a thing happens nowadays. And to move across the ocean almost immediately after, I imagine it’s been quite jarring for you.” 

Meg adopted a morose frown and let her shoulders slump, even as she felt the fury and hatred for the deceased Le Fays rise within her. When she looked up at him again, her glassy eyes were borne of anger and bitterness, not the grief she knew he saw.

“It’s been, um, hard,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “But I’ve been dealing, I guess. It’s easier without a house full of things reminding me of them. This way, I get to pretend that I’m just on vacation with my sister, instead of… well, y’know.”

She quickly wiped away a tear, and pity appeared in the old man’s gaze. 

Dumbledore nodded sadly. “I understand. Since I saw your Sorting and then the article in the Prophet, I have been worried about your wellbeing.”

Meg’s eyes narrowed. She knew he didn’t truly care about her wellbeing, just what she could potentially do for him in his fight against the Dark. He was damn lucky she 1) was firmly against Voldemort, 2) needed his sneaky, manipulative ass alive for her plans.

“Why?” she asked, feigning ignorance. “Why would you care?”

“Because I was very much like you once,” he said, and suddenly he looked very tired. “Young, frightened, without guidance, desperately trying to live up to a lost legacy of powerful ancestors.”

Meg’s jaw visibly tightened.

Seeing this, he continued, “I understand that you wish to prove yourself, and that desire was what led you to stay in that lavatory instead of retrieving an adult. Am I mistaken?”

It took a considerable amount of willpower not to laugh in his face. 

He very much was mistaken. But if that was what he wanted to think, she would let him run with it. It was easier than coming up with a cover story herself. 

She bowed her head and stared at her shoes. “...no,” she said, sounding as petulant and embarrassed as she could manage. 

Dumbledore’s eyes scanned her, his expression momentarily unreadable before returning to the sage grandfatherly look he’d undoubtedly practiced extensively over the years. 

“I see no reason to lecture you,” he finally sighed. “You are undoubtedly aware of how lucky you were to have survived, and I know Professor McGonagall has already, as they say, ‘chewed you out’.”

Meg couldn’t help the snicker that escaped. “She looked like she couldn’t decide whether to keel over or kill us all,” she quipped. “For a second, I was worried her heart was going to give out from the shock.”

“I see,” said Dumbledore with a twinkle in his eye, “I’ll be certain to give her some relaxing tea for Yule—it would probably be more appreciated than the yearly scarf after such a trying Samhain.” 

That caught Meg off-guard enough to make her childlike mask waver. The books and movies had shown Christian/muggle holidays instead of pagan/magical ones, and the school had celebrated Halloween instead of Samhain. Him referring to Yule and Samhain instead of Christmas and Halloween… it simply didn’t fit with what she knew.

Dumbledore caught her surprise. “I apologize, the corresponding muggle holidays are–”

“Christmas and Halloween, I know,” said Meg. “The Le Fays have always exclusively celebrated magical holidays. It’s just that we celebrated Halloween instead of Samhain here at school, so I’m just a little confused. If you celebrate the magical holiday on a personal level, why hold schoolwide celebrations for the muggle holidays?” 

“Hogwarts once celebrated only magical holidays,” Dumbledore answered patiently. “It left many muggleborn students feeling left out, displaced. When I became Headmaster, it was decided that since magical homes celebrate these occasions alone, it would be prudent to expose magical children to muggle holidays while at school to promote cultural sharing and understanding.”

“So, instead of Samhain, the school celebrates Halloween?” Meg clarified after a beat, a frown creeping onto her lips. 

“Yes.” 

“Oh.” Meg’s frown deepened. “And Christmas is celebrated instead of Yule, Easter instead of Ostara—things like that?” 

Dumbledore nodded. “Precisely.” 

“What about the magical occasions during the school year that don’t have a muggle-slash-Christian counterpart, like Imbolc or Mabon?”

Dumbledore’s expression turned downward, a mixture of confusion and contemplation. “I suppose they are not observed at all.”

Meg forced herself to nod as if she wasn’t fighting the urge to take the bowl of water next to Fawkes’ perch and dump it on his head. 

No matter how much she wished to tell him how horrible an idea that was, that refusing to celebrate those holidays only validated the victim mentality of purebloods who believed that muggleborns were a threat to their way of life, she couldn’t. She had drawn enough attention to herself for one week. 

Luckily, the headmaster seemed completely oblivious to her inner turmoil.

“How are you finding school so far, Miss Le Fay?” he asked. “I hear you have been performing very well in your classes—almost too well.” 

Meg’s stomach flipped as she shrugged. “I’m enjoying it. Though, the school library doesn’t have nearly as many books as my library, so I don’t spend nearly as much time reading here as I do at home. But it’s all right.” 

“I see.” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “I hope you do not find your classes too dull or easy. If you feel as though you need more advanced instruction, we can give you an advanced curriculum, or even put you in second year classes if necessary–”

“No, no, that’s all right,” interrupted Meg, her voice wavering with slight panic. She did not need to be seen as anything other than a normal smart kid. No matter how much a faster, more advanced pace would suit her in the academic sense, it would also make her stand out. And it would separate her from the kids.

At the look of surprise Dumbledore gave her, she rushed to add: “I like the coursework as it is. And I’m…” She looked down at her hands shyly. “I’m already different enough. I want to stay with my friends.”

Dumbledore’s expression softened. “I understand,” he said. “In that case, we will keep you on pace with your fellow First Years for the time being.” 

He studied her face for another moment before rising to his feet and moving toward the exit.

“Thank you for taking the time to speak to me today,” he said as he opened the door. “I am very glad to see you doing so well after last night. If you do change your mind about an advanced curriculum, you may inform Professor McGonagall and we will revisit the idea then.”

Meg nodded and met Dumbledore’s eyes again. Her chest tightened fearfully at the thoughtful gleam behind those half-moon spectacles. She bid him a good afternoon, then descended the Gryffind staircase as fast as she could, hyperaware of the curious eyes locked on her until she was out of sight. 

She remained tense until she reached the Room of Requirement, where she spent the rest of the afternoon tending to her occlumency defenses.

Dumbledore hadn’t broken through her wall or gained access to anything—nor would he be doing so any time soon—but she had roused his curiosity with her skill in the area. If the look in his eye told her anything, it was that he would not let this go. But she would be ready for whatever he threw her way. She had to be.

Chapter Text

The next two weeks were almost a complete 180-degree flip from how things had been before the night of Samhain. 

Even if Meg had wanted to keep her distance from the ‘Golden Trio’, they wouldn’t have let her. Each morning Hermione got up before her and set out all of Meg’s things so they could spend extra time on her hair. Meg, unable to stand watching Hermione butcher her poor curls again, ordered proper products for curly hair and books about the proper care of curly hair, and soon enough it had become an essential part of the day. Meg would help Hermione with her new routine, Hermione would tell her all about the book she was currently reading (it changed almost daily), and Meg would be sufficiently distracted from whatever nightmare had plagued her the night before. Ron and Harry never failed to find them at breakfast—Harry always on Meg’s left and Ron always sat on Hermione’s right. In class, during breaks, even when she studied; there was never a moment when Meg was not surrounded (or being tailed) by those three kids. 

The only true privacy to be found was during her nights in the Room of Requirement. But that did not mean it was a peaceful—or even a very pleasant time. Unlike the friendship of Harry, Ron, and Hermione, her secret studies were not going as well at all. Her progress remained slow, exhausting, and downright infuriating. Yes, she was expanding her repertoire of spells, but that meant nothing when she could only cast a few at a time before collapsing. 

She was certain that people were starting to notice how stretched thin she was; the dark circles under her eyes were getting harder and harder to explain away, her appetite was steadily and noticeably waning, and her micro-naps were becoming harder and harder to wake up from.

Still, she continued pushing her limits. She couldn’t afford to relent, to accept anything other than exceptional progress. And she hadn’t collapsed in the middle of class yet, so she saw no reason to change her habits.

Dumbledore did not ask to see her again, and he gave no outward indication that he thought of her as anything but a normal (if a bit gifted) student. She hadn’t felt the slightest brush against her mind since that day. 

But that did not mean she wasn’t being watched. Quirrell continued to behave differently, giving a little more attention to her in class than he had before, playing the part of a semi-competent teacher—though he had not made any other moves. Yet. 

As for her biggest enemy… Snape’s suspicion felt like the Eye of Sauron. He arrived at every meal mere moments after she did, hovered around their table during classes, and he seemed to pop almost everywhere during breaks and between classes. She could hardly leave the Gryffindor Tower without running into him at least once. It was still unclear if he was doing it on purpose or if she was just that paranoid. She tried not to think about it too much for fear of going insane.

She had more pressing issues than a teacher with a petty grudge. 

Mid-November ushered in the week of Harry’s first-ever Quidditch match. The day before the match, Snape confiscated a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages that Hermione had given Harry. When he had gone to ask for it back (something Meg very strongly advised against doing) he caught Filch assisting Snape with a very injured leg and grumbling about ‘three heads at once’ in the staffroom. . 

He immediately decided that Snape had let the troll in and got hurt trying to get past the three-headed dog. When he rushed back to relay this to them in the common room, Ron had little problem jumping on the anti-Snape train while Hermione refused to believe that a teacher would do anything against Dumbledore’s wishes. 

Meg remained silent as her stomach twisted with indecision.  

“While the situation is… odd,” she said, cutting through Ron and Hermione’s back-and-forth over whether being a teacher automatically made one a morally upright person (spoiler: it does not), “a bad leg and the mention of three heads is not enough evidence to determine whether or not he’s guilty. He could’ve been making sure nobody was using the confusion to get past the dog and he got hurt in the process. Or maybe there’s another three-headed creature lurking somewhere in the school. It’s not like any of us can say for certain that we know even half of the secrets this school holds.”

Harry’s nose scrunched up. “I don’t think that’s it. He must’ve–” 

“Harry,” Meg argued, “being an asshole isn’t admissible as evidence in a court of law. An injured leg doesn’t prove anything. Say I stumbled in the hall and skinned my knee. Would that mean that I tried to break into Flitwick’s office for the answers to next week’s quiz?” 

“Well, no, but you’ve got no reason–” Harry began before Meg cut him off.

“That’s right,” she said. “And as far as we know, neither does Snape. Let it go—at least for tonight. You need to focus on tomorrow’s game–”

“Quidditch has matches, not games,” interjected Ron. 

“–fine, match,” she corrected while rolling her eyes, “If you get hurt because you were distracted, I’ll be pissed. Snape and the dog’ll still be there after you beat Slytherin, and then you can whip up conspiracy theories to your heart’s desire. Sound good?”

Harry glared at the use of ‘conspiracy theory’ to describe his hypothesis, but thankfully, he dropped it for the time being. 

“You don’t know that we’ll win,” he said. 

Meg tried and failed to hide her smile. “Maybe I do. Maybe I’m a seer, and I foresaw that you’re going to kick Slytherin’s ass tomorrow.” 

“Or maybe you don’t actually know anything and you’re just trying to make me feel better.”

Meg sighed heavily and shot him a look. “Even if I was, feeling confident can make you play better.” 

“No it can’t,” grumbled Harry with a childish pout. “You made that up.”

“I did not,” she shot back. “It’s been studied in athletes many times over. Confidence makes you quicker, more focused, and helps you process things faster. And you made the team in only your First Year. If anyone has a reason to feel confident, it’s you, kid.” She nodded at the three unfinished essays on the table. “Now, finish your homework, all of you, and we’ll all get to bed early so you can sleep a full eight hours tonight.”

“Don’t tell me you finished the Potions essay already?” gasped Ron, looking almost betrayed that she’d finished something he had barely started. 

“Uh, yeah,” said Meg, leaning back in her armchair and opening her book. “It took me, like, ten minutes. I’m just waiting for you.” She gestured at his woefully empty parchment. She was surprised to find that Hermione’s didn’t contain much more, though her mind quickly drifted far away from the written words as the children returned to work with envious glances her way. Hermione looked particularly unhappy, but Meg’s mind had already begun to wander.

The more time she spent around these kids, the more she began to realize just how contrarian they were. They only did as they were told if they genuinely thought it was a reasonable request, or if there was the threat of punishment they were unwilling to face. She wasn’t sure she could keep them from poking their noses into the Stone and Flamel. Had she remembered Harry would see Snape’s leg when trying to retrieve his book she would have stopped him, but of-fucking-course she didn’t. She was too preoccupied with an essay for Snape’s class—a flawless essay she would’ve been comfortable submitting for one of her college courses since Snape liked to nitpick everything she did to death—to quickly rifle through her memories before he made it out the portrait hole. 

They weren’t going to check in with her before doing things. Not only did they not know who she was and what she knew, she got the feeling they wouldn’t listen to her even if they did. 

Should she, could she manage to keep them from going after Quirrell and the Stone? Would it be better to block them at every turn, or to follow along their escapades and protect them wherever she could? Was the first option even possible? The second had always been the tentative plan, but she would have preferred the first.

I’m not Dumbledore, she thought to herself as Ron complained loudly about Snape’s requirements, I don’t let kids walk into danger alone to handle my problems for me. That, I will change.

She resisted the urge to bury her face into 

Maybe these kids are doomed no matter what I do. But I’ve already committed—I’m not going to back down. If they jump into danger alone, I’ll just have to follow. 

A touch on her arm brought her back to reality. 

“Meg?” 

Meg’s eyes snapped up to Harry, who was watching her with a careful frown. Hermione and Ron still argued over the homework a few feet away.

“Hm?”

“Are you… okay?” asked the boy. 

Meg forced a smile. “Of course,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You broke your quill.”

And so she had. Two halves of a quill she’d gripped tight enough to snap rested in her palm, now useless. Meg cleared her throat and stuffed the pieces into her book bag. “Just thinking about uh, about homework. How far are you on the essay?”

Harry didn’t look convinced, but he accepted the shift in topic. “Not much. I don’t really understand what Snape wants us to write, or how he wants us to write it. We’re not supposed to copy from the book either.” 

“Can I take a look at what you have now?” 

Harry nodded. Meg pulled the parchment nearer to her and pulled out an unbroken quill. He’d been telling the truth. The boy had written barely a paragraph, and not a particularly great one. It was very clearly the writing of an eleven year old boy who did not enjoy what he was doing. 

And the grammar. Dear god, the grammar mistakes were egregious and plentiful. Enough to make any English major faint in horror.

She looked up at Ron and Hermione, who looked equally as puzzled over their own papers. Even Hermione looked a little stressed as she juggled her many pages of notes in a frantic effort to organize her thoughts. 

These kids haven’t been taught basic essay writing skills, she realized. They were being asked to ramble for twelve inches of parchment with no instructions on how to go about doing it in the first place. This was the first real essay they’d been assigned for any class. Every other professor had asked for two to three paragraph essays at most (roughly four to five inches)—twelve inches was a huge jump. 

For the millionth time, she mentally cursed the headmaster and the ministry for failing to establish at Hogwarts any of the core classes muggle children took in middle and high school. 

With a sigh, she pulled out her notebook and three pencils, tore out three pages, and set them before each child. 

“Okay,” she clipped, grabbing Ron and Hermione’s attention, “Crash course on academic writing. I’m going to teach you guys how to make an essay outline.” 

Hermione frowned. “I don’t think–” 

“Did you learn how to write an essay longer than three paragraphs in school at home?” Meg interrupted gently. “Well, I did. And, not to brag, but I’m damn good at it.” She ignored their wide-eyed looks and began sketching out a basic outline on her notebook. “I’m going to teach you kids how to organize your information before you begin the final draft—it’ll cut the time spent writing in half, I promise. Take notes.” 

The three kids shared curious looks, then slowly took the supplies and gave her their attention.

The next two hours were spent with Meg guiding the three children through organizing information and forming a basic essay outline. A lot of the terms she used (basic terms) were things they’d never heard before. What kind of moron neglected to teach their students how to use quotation marks before assigning a paper that required at least three quotes from a book? 

Oh, wait, she knew exactly who: Severus fucking Snape.

By the time lights out was called, they each had a solid roadmap for their Potions essays and had written satisfactory introductory paragraphs. Well, satisfactory for a sixth grade level, at least, which was more than enough for Meg. Maybe she couldn’t prevent Harry from zooming around on his broomstick of fear and misery, but she could at the very least help him with schoolwork.

~~~~~

The next morning was pleasantly crisp, the birdsong danced in the light breeze, the sun shone without reservation, and everyone was buzzing with excitement for the first match of the season.

Everyone, that is, except for Meg. 

Today was her first real move. The first time she would pick up a piece and move against him directly. 

She knew she’d gone past the point of no return when she took out that troll, but this felt different, somehow. Like she was taking a conscious step over the line instead of stumbling over it. 

She had no intention of leaving anything to chance—she was not going to gamble on Harry’s ability to hold on to his jinxed broom long enough for her to run to the staff box. The instant that flying stick so much as twitched wrong, Meg would set Quirrell on fire. Maybe she’d get lucky and Voldemort would be forced to crawl back to Romania in search of a less crispy host. 

It was unlikely, but a girl could dream. 

Harry was also buzzing at breakfast, though it was half excitement and half terror. Meg had to practically hand-feed him herself to ensure he wouldn’t pass out from hunger in the middle of the match.

When she found a seat in the Gryffindor section near Ron and Hermione, her hands had begun to shake for reasons beyond the cold, as her gloves did nothing to quell the trembling. It was lucky that her crimson and gold scarf could be brought up to hide the way she chewed her bottom lip nervously with the excuse of covering her nose and cheeks from the cold. Lavender  also had loaned her a purple beanie, since it seemed that Meg had forgotten to bring one that wasn’t green, and the girl had nearly had a heart attack upon seeing the “enemy’s” color on game day. Meg had scoffed and continued to work on styling Hermione’s curls into low space buns—only for Lavender to snatch the green beanie from her hair and shove the plum purple one in its place, messing up Meg’s French braid in the process.

She couldn’t help but grin when she saw the banner that Neville, Seamus, Ron, and Dean had made for Harry reading POTTER FOR PRESIDENT in bright red. Dean, who apparently had a talent for art, had painted a large gold lion underneath. 

In the stands, she hovered at the back of their little group, ready to sprint toward the staff box when Slytherin began to play dirty. She remembered it clearly: in both the book and movie, Quirrell began to tamper with the broom after most of the attention had been diverted to Slytherin’s shitty sportsmanship. 

Soon enough the teams filtered onto the field and mounted the brooms, listening to Madam Hooch speak for a few moments about rules and reminding both teams to play fair. As Oliver Wood and Marcus Flint shook hands (though it looked more like they were trying to crush the others’ hand), Meg’s eyes flitted over the Gryffindor players until she found Harry. He looked only slightly less pale than he had at breakfast. When his head turned toward them and he undoubtedly saw the banner his roommates had made for him, he visibly straightened up with a smile. The knot in Meg’s gut lessened–

–only to return in full force when Harry mounted his broom and rose up into the air with the rest of the team. 

God, they were really going to do this. Kids were really allowed to play this game of death. 

He loves Quidditch, she reminded herself as Hooch blew the whistle and threw up the quaffle. I won’t take that from him, no matter what my cortisol levels say. 

She only half-listened when Lee Jordan began his incredibly biased commentary and the game began.

How anyone could follow it, she had no clue. The only reason she was able to keep track of Harry was because he had taken to hovering high over everyone while watching for the snitch. Everyone else, save the keepers, was either a red or green blur.

After Gryffindor scored for the first time and the sea of crimson exploded into cheers, Ron turned around to look at Meg with a blinding smile. 

“Isn’t this great?!” he shouted, barely audible despite standing less than a foot away.. 

Meg forced a smile that probably looked more like a grimace—though Ron didn’t seem to catch it. “Yeah,” she shouted back, “it– it’s exciting!” In all honesty, the atmosphere reminded her of being at a football game. Which, of course, just reminded her of her own time in college. Her chest tightened. 

What she wouldn’t give to be cheering (and buzzed) on the cold bleachers of the football stadium with her age-appropriate friends instead of where she stood at that moment, worried sick over a reckless eleven year old being targeted by wizard Hitler. She could’ve been drinking spiked punch, or dancing with a hot guy whose name she probably wouldn’t remember in a week, or eating overpriced hotdogs she probably didn’t have room for in her budget but would buy anyway because it was an “essential part of the experience”. 

Instead, she was here. Standing at under five feet tall and not a drop of alcohol in sight. 

She was jostled out of her thoughts by a giant form shuffling into the seat on her left. 

“Budge up there, move along, ‘scuse me,” came the gruff but friendly voice of Hagrid. Once students shuffled out of his way, he finally sat. Unfortunately, this meant he now blocked Meg’s path to the exit. 

Meg tried to keep the worry off her face and greeted Hagrid as cheerfully as she could in tandem with Ron and Hermione, who, unlike Meg, had joined Harry on his visits to see Hagrid.

“Been watchin’ from me hut,” said Hagrid after returning the pleasantries. “But it isn’t the same as bein’ in the crowd. No sign of the Snitch yet, eh?” 

“Nope,” said Meg, “but it’s still early.” 

That seemed to alert Hagrid to her presence, and he gave her a kind smile under his bushy beard. 

“Hullo, Meg,” he said cheerfully. “Haven’t seen yeh outside meals since the firs’ day o’ school. Been busy with homework, I ‘spect?”

Ron groaned with a smile. “It’s all she ever does—outside napping, ‘course. Never has time to relax.” He nudged Hermione. “Even this one sometimes puts away the books.”

Meg bristled. “I do other things!” 

“Yeah, like what?” 

“I–” Meg stopped herself. 

What had she done these past few months outside of studying, eating, and sleeping? She’d been trying to map out her plans for future plot changes (a very hard thing to do when still unsure of how her present actions would affect the timeline later on), of course, but she couldn’t exactly tell them that. Mentioning her time in the Room of Requirement was also a no-go. 

Circe’s tits, she realized internally, I must seem so fucking boring to the outside observer. It’s a wonder these kids want to be around me at all.

She wondered, if they had known the truth about her age, whether anyone would believe her if she told them that after finishing her work over the week, Margaret List had typically spent her college weekends getting wasted at parties and using a fake ID to follow her friends into clubs, where she met guys whose names she definitely wouldn’t remember come morning. 

Probably not. They would probably think that Margaret was just as serious as Meg was. 

Grief and hatred had killed that side of her, unfortunately. Fun had, to an extent, lost its meaning. She tried to ignore how much that bothered her. 

“I… just care about school a lot,” she finally said, adopting a childish pout and folding her arms like she’d seen Andy do a million times. Judging by Hagrid’s laugh, her act was more than convincing. 

“O’ course school’s important, but yeh got ter relax a bit from time t’ time,” he said. “How ‘bout, after the match, you all come back ter my house for a bite, eh?”

Ron and Hermione smiled politely and accepted, though Meg gathered from their expressions that a “bite” would result in breaking a tooth. 

Meg opened her mouth to politely decline, when Lee Jordan bellowed in fury, calling Marcus Flint a slew of names that would have made a sailor blush. Dean started yelling about giving Flint a red card, and Ron quickly explained that red cards didn’t exist in Quidditch.

Meg jolted in horror. She’d gotten sidetracked. She needed to get to the staff box, but Hagrid was in the way. Gone was her chance of slipping out unnoticed. If word got out someone set a teacher on fire and she’d been seen going in that direction only minutes before… 

She would have to take the less direct route. The longer route. Harry might have to hang on to his jinxed broom longer than she had planned.

Damn you, Rubeus. 

“‘Scuse me, Hagrid,” said Meg, moving to shuffle past him. “I need to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” 

Hermione pulled her eyes from the match. “Do you want me to come with you?” 

Meg waved her off with a deceptively nonchalant smile. “It’s fine. Just keep watching the game–er, match.” She quickly corrected herself when Ron opened his mouth to correct her for the hundredth time. “You both can bring me up to speed when I get back.” 

She nearly tripped on Hagrid’s large boot, but the half-giant caught her, then easily lifted her over the back row (like a fucking cat) to set her down. Humiliation painted her face a bright red. 

“There yeh go,” he said brightly, unaware of Meg’s mortification. “Hurry back, don’ want ter miss too much.” 

Meg nodded and rushed away as fast as she could without another word. She felt eyes on her back all the way down the stairs, and with a great deal of frustration, she turned left toward the bathrooms instead of right, which led to the staff box. 

She weaved through wooden beams and doubled back twice, pretending to be slightly lost in case anyone caught a glimpse of her. The sound of screaming Gryffindors gave her a vague idea of what was happening in the game. The increasing number of angry yells made her sweat nervously. 

Then, just as she had begun to climb the many, many stairs toward the staff box, the crowd gasped. Meg’s heart stuttered in worry. She rushed up the stairs as quietly as she could and slipped behind a tapestry that separated the wooden beams from the staff box. She peered out through a gap under one of the benches. Quirrell sat less than two feet away, almost directly in front of her. Snape sat just above her and slightly to the right. 

She heard both men mumbling softly, quickly, furiously. If she were anywhere else, she doubted she would have been able to hear either of them.

It was almost too easy. She pulled out her wand, then made the mistake of glancing toward the pitch. 

She quickly stepped behind the tapestry and slapped a hand to her mouth to suppress the scream that threatened to escape. 

Harry was only hanging on by one hand. 

She didn’t have time to set him on fire.

With a shaky breath, she hid behind the tapestry directly behind the man—she could see the outline of his turban oh god she was technically face-to-face with Voldemort with only two pieces of fabric separating them oh fuck oh god—grabbed the back of his robes, and shoved him as hard as she physically could. 

He yelped as he fell headfirst over the row in front of him, but Meg didn’t stick around to see what happened next. She saw Harry climb back on his broom out of the corner of her eyes, then began to sprint down the steps of the staff box. 

She heard cheers as Harry resumed his chase after the snitch, and just as she looked back at the blur she was certain was him, she rammed straight into another body and nearly tumbled down the stairs. She barely grabbed the railing and the person she’d hit before they both reached the ground the hard way.  

“Meg?” a familiar voice gasped. 

Meg felt the color drain from her face. She released Hermione’s robes and shuffled a step back. 

“Hermione!” she panted, “what-what’re you doing here?” 

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. She pulled Meg into a secluded corner before speaking. “Snape was jinxing Harry’s broom. I came here to stop him, but he seems to have been distracted by Quirrell nearly falling out of the staff box to his death. What are you doing here?” 

Meg swallowed the lump that suddenly appeared in her throat. “I’m uh… I came to do the same. On my way to the bathroom, I saw Harry’s broom begin to act strange. I ran up here to tell a teacher when I heard someone behind the tapestry mumbling a jinx, so I stopped it.” 

A furious voice hissed something angrily just out of sight above them. A pair of footsteps began to descend toward them. Thinking quickly, Meg slapped a hand over Hermione’s mouth and dragged her behind a tarp in the corner. She pulled out her wand and mumbled the disillusionment charm while turning Hermione’s head away from the approaching form. 

Their forms shifted to match their surroundings just in time to see a red-faced Quirrell hurrying down the stairs. His mouth didn’t move much, but the cold, angry voice followed him. Meg couldn’t decipher what was being said, but she got a clear view of the man’s eyes.

Instead of blue, they were red. Dark, bloody crimson. The pupils were small serpentine slits. His skin looked pale—not in the normal sickly way, but in an unnatural, inhuman way. For just a moment, when he thought nobody could see, he looked more snake than human.

Meg’s heart dropped into her stomach. She was glad she’d turned Hermione’s face away from the sight; it was enough to give any kid nightmares. 

Just as Meg’s mind began to catch up with her eyes, the sight was replaced with normal Quirrell—though the angry, indecipherable hissing voice did not stop. It continued snarling as the shaking Quirrell passed them and rushed down the stairs.

Meg didn’t loosen her grip on Hermione until she was absolutely certain that Quirrell was gone. Then she waited another thirty seconds. 

When Hermione began to squirm, Meg lowered the charm and began to drag the girl down the stairs. 

“Why did you do that?” Hermione gasped as they descended. “Did you push Professor Quirrell? Snape was the one jinxing Harry’s broom, not him! I saw it myself!” 

Meg rolled her eyes, but said nothing. 

Hermione wasn’t about to take silence for an answer. “He could have died, Meg!”

“Shh!” Meg hissed, pulling the girl faster. They needed to get back to their seats before anyone could see them lurking in the area Quirrell had been mysteriously assaulted only moments before. 

“I’ll explain later, I promise,” she growled lowly, pulling them both behind a tapestry painted Ravenclaw colors just before someone passed by—a staff member, she was pretty sure. Maybe a parent. It was an adult, no doubt. 

When they were gone, Hermione ripped Meg’s hand off her mouth with a glare. “Explain now. Or I’m not moving.” 

Meg could’ve screamed in frustration. “Fine,” she hissed quietly so only Hermione could hear, “I heard two people whispering, like they were jinxing someone. I shoved one as a distraction. It worked. Harry’s safe—well, as safe as anyone can be on a broom—but we can’t be seen lurking around nearby or we’ll get in trouble. Now, come on!” 

Hermione let Meg drag her away this time. They reached the top step to the Gryffindor student section just in time to see Harry nearly choke on the snitch, then spit it out triumphantly. 

Meg sagged against the wooden railing in relief.

“Thank fucking god, she breathed, burying her face in her hands and sliding down to sit on the step, “it didn’t change.”

She didn’t catch Hermione’s narrowed glance, or the shadow that lurked just out of sight at the bottom of the stairs.

~~~~~

It turned out that Hagrid was 100% serious about having all four of them over for a snack after the match, which was how less than thirty minutes after almost pushing Voldemort to his death—his current host, anyway—Meg found herself seated in one of Hagrid’s oversized chairs, her legs weighed down by Hagrid’s dog, Fang, who whined every time she stopped scratching behind his ears. She blankly stared at the dog’s fur, trying to figure out how she could spin everything she’d done without freaking Hagrid out enough to report her actions. Then Voldemort would just straight-up kill her for daring to put her hands on him. 

Or maybe it would make him look closer. And when he found out she used to be a muggle, he’d kidnap her, torture her until she was begging for death, then finally feed her (still alive) body to Nagini. If Nagini was even in the picture yet. Maybe he’d get Nagini just to kill Meg. Maybe he’d use Meg’s death to make Nagini a horcrux—again, if Nagini wasn’t one already. 

Or maybe she could just keep her mouth shut and hope Hermione said nothing.

“It was Snape,” Ron was telling Harry emphatically as Meg half-listened, “Hermione and I saw him. He was cursing your broomstick, muttering, he wouldn’t take his eyes off you.” 

Meg swallowed thickly. To defend the adult man who bullied children or not? 

Things hadn’t changed much regardless of the actions she’d taken so far (small as they were), but she didn’t know whether that would hold. Would diverting suspicion from Snape do anything at all, or would it make it easier to ensure everyone worked together down the road? Or would it make the kids suspicious of her? Hermione already kept glancing at her every few minutes—if she told Ron and Harry… 

She honestly didn’t know what they’d do if they knew who she was. 

Ugh. If she was going to be shoved into any British media, why couldn’t it have been Doctor Who? Then she could’ve told The Doctor who she was and things would be much easier. They would know what to do and she wouldn’t have to juggle so much. 

But no. 

She was stuck with children and incompetent adults who put children in danger because Dumbledore told them to. 

Fang’s whine broke her from her thoughts—she really needed to stop zoning out like that—and she smiled softly before resuming the ear scratches. Fang’s tail thumped against the floor happily. 

“Rubbish,” said Hagrid in response to Ron’s story. “Why would Snape do somethin’ like that?” 

Meg deliberately avoided meeting Harry’s expectant eyes in favor of cooing softly at Fang.

“I found out something about him,” said Harry to Hagrid. “He tried to get past that three-headed dog on Halloween. It bit him. We think he was trying to steal whatever it’s guarding.” 

The teapot slipped from Hagrid’s hands. 

“How do you know about Fluffy?” he sputtered in shock. 

Meg’s head snapped up to gape at him incredulously. “Y-you… you named Cerberus’ meaner cousin ‘Fluffy’?” How had she forgotten that? 

Hagrid looked affronted. “Fluffy’s not mean! Most o’ the time he’s real sweet—he just gets grumpy when yeh wake him up from ‘is nap, is all. An’ I bought him off a Greek chappie I met in the pub las’ year—I lent him to Dumbledore to guard the–”

“How much did you have to pay?” interjected Meg. “I can’t imagine a three-headed dog comes cheap.” 

She ignored the frustrated glance that Harry sent her—likely for stopping Hagrid before he could spill the beans.

Sorry, kiddo. But I need this. 

It was partially a tactic to derail the conversation away from the Stone, and partially a test. If she could pull the conversation away and prevent Hagrid from name-dropping Flamel, she’d have a bit of a better grasp on how much influence she had over things.

The kids would probably learn about the Stone either way, if their previous behavior were any indication. But if she could give herself some time, that might help her decide on what steps to take next.

Hagrid’s face brightened, and he soon launched into the story of buying Fluffy, raising him, training him, learning what calmed him, how he got along with Fang—the whole nine yards. 

The topic never returned to Snape, nor did it drift toward Flamel. 

That night, Gryffindor Tower was host to a party so chaotic it almost could have been confused with one of the frat parties she’d attended in college (except with less creeps who denied you entry if they didn’t find you hot enough and more fumbling teenagers hopelessly trying to look cool in front of their crushes and friends). 

Despite wanting nothing more than to join (god, she hadn’t partied properly in almost thirteen years), she had a date with the Room of Requirement that night and she needed to wait for the perfect moment to slip out unnoticed. So she sat in an armchair near the portrait hole, fiddling with her wand and staring into space.

Unfortunately, she had chosen a very comfortable chair, and she hadn’t had more than three uninterrupted hours of sleep all week. The deafening sound of partying had little effect on her waning energy. Soon enough she was not sitting on the chair—she had curled into a ball and become one with it. Her eyes were just beginning to droop when–

“Hey, Scary Fairy!” 

Meg jumped back to awareness and flinched away from the one who had shouted directly in her ear. She covered her ear and turned to the source with a glare. 

“Fred,” she spat, “what the actual fuck?!”

The Weasley boy dissolved into laughter, messing up her hair and earning a harsh slap on the wrist. 

The boy laughed jovially and avoided the sharp swipe at his hand. “Just came over to make sure you weren’t going to lurk in the corner all night! We won, Scary! Celebrate!” 

In her exhausted state, Meg wasn’t in the mood for jokes. “Don’t call me that right now, Fred Weasley. I’m too tired.”

Fred didn’t seem fazed. “All right, Fairy.” 

“Ugh.” Meg rubbed her eyes. “I have a name, you little shit.”

Fred draped himself over the top of the chair with a shit-eating grin. “Yeah, but ‘Fairy’ fits you better, dontcha think? Your hair is shiny like fairy dust, you’re as small as a sprite, and you look like an itty-bitty baby cherub!” He pinched her cheek playfully.

She wrenched her head away, tired mind buzzing with irritation.

A baby cherub? Her soul was thirty-two, for god’s sake! Mentally, she was a whole year older than Snape and Sirius and Remus! Her real birthday (not the day she’d been shoved into her current body) was only a few days—

Oh. Wait.

A horrible, painful lump formed in her throat.

It was November fifteenth.

Margaret’s birthday was on the tenth. So sleep deprived and consumed in her studies, she had completely forgotten her own birthday. She’d never forgotten before. Remembering it, eating a cupcake and blowing out a candle… It was a rebellion against the Le Fays. The day would always be a tether to who she really was. And she had completely forgotten.

Thirty-three years old. 

She was a thirty-three year old woman who looked like a fucking baby cherub.

Her vision blurred. Her chest grew unbearably tight, and the room swayed. 

“I have to go,” she blurted, pushing Fred away and jumping to her feet. “Good… beater-ing in the match today.” 

Fred looked confused. He opened his mouth to stop her, but she had already slipped out the portrait hole.

~~~~~

Lord Voldemort was a patient man. 

He had spent ten long years without a form to call his own, without his followers, without his power. His power—the thing in the world most precious to him, taken away by a toddler. 

It was humiliating. Maddening. Every morning, the first thought on his mind was of the many ways he could kill the Potter boy. 

He had almost succeeded today. But, of course, because Fate was intent on making him wait for what was rightfully his (starting with Harry Potter’s life and ending with everything else in the world), his attempt had been cut short. 

But Lord Voldemort was a patient man, and so he would continue to bide his time and prepare. He had endured months at this school now, forced to listen to an incompetent man teach equally incompetent children. He wondered—was it Dumbledore’s fault the children were so lacking, or was the future of Magical Britain this dim by nature? 

Had all of the mixing of muggle blood truly restricted the children who should have been the pride of Europe? 

No, he did not truly believe that. He hated muggles, to be sure, but muggle blood was not the deciding factor. His existence proved that. And, unfortunately, as much as he despised the old man, Dumbledore was also a half-blood like himself. And he had even invited one or two exceptional muggleborns to join his ranks. Muggles were a lesser, stupider, weaker breed, of course, but the occasional muggleborn did manage to stand out. His pureblooded followers liked to believe otherwise to make themselves feel better, and to ensnare their loyalty he had taken to echoing the same extreme sentiment and pushing it even further. It was easier to push extremists into action than those with lukewarm opinions.

But magical blood was magical blood, even if some magical blood was better than others.*

The mixing of muggle blood was not the cause of this weakness.

Whatever the reason, mudblood, half-blood, or pureblood, it had become very clear that Hogwarts was utterly bereft of any true potential.

Or… so he had thought. 

Everything changed the night of Samhain. 

Though Quirrell’s attempt to reach the Stone had not borne fruit, the endeavor had not been a complete waste. It had led him to something fascinating—or rather, someone. 

For almost two months, Megara Le Fay had performed adequately in his classes. Well enough to maintain excellent grades, but still average enough to be of little consequence to him. Of course, he had initially expected more—the sharp gleam in her eye the night of the Sorting had him convinced that she would be in Slytherin, but he had been sorely disappointed. He told himself that it was likely a trick of the light. 

He gathered that she would be an excellent resource in future years when she wasn’t so young—he would charm her adult self as he had done so many before, and in return for his attention she would provide all of the secrets of the Le Fay line. 

That was before she bested a fully grown mountain troll with only two spells. 

It was a feat he doubted even Bellatrix or Barty or Severus could have accomplished. Dumbledore could do it with relative ease, and so could he, of course. But few others could have been expected to do such a thing. 

The idea that an eleven year old who had only been learning to use a wand for less than two months had done it without losing consciousness or permanently damaging her magical core? It was unthinkable. A lesser mind than his would call it impossible. 

For Merlin’s sake, she had been dripping with power that night. Power far beyond any child. Different than anything he’d ever sensed before. But why hadn’t he felt it before? It’s not as if she was–

The realization had hit him so hard he nearly sent Quirrell to his knees.

Megara Le Fay was hiding. 

Hiding her intelligence, her power, her potential. 

But why?

After the events of today had prompted him to wonder just how much he wanted to know the answer to his question. Perhaps the better option would be to kill her and nip this future threat in the bud. 

He had felt her magic again (tinged with fear as it was) lurking only inches away as Quirrell jinxed Potter’s broom. It was intoxicating—he wanted that power. Wanted it at his beck and call. The allure of it had lowered his guard.

His want had disappeared very quickly when she had grabbed Quirrell’s robes and shoved him with all her might, sending him tumbling down the staff box and nearly costing him his current host’s life.

The fury he had felt had surely been excruciating for Quirrell—not that he cared much about that. For hours afterwards in Quirrell’s office, he simmered and seethed. 

He had skinned people alive for less. Wiped out entire bloodlines for milder insults.  If she knew who he truly was, who she had laid her hands on, she never would have dreamed– and yet she had!

An anxious fury bubbled up inside him. Not only had his attempt on Potter’s life gone sour, but a new wildcard had entered the equation.

She knew he’d tried to kill Potter. That much was certain. If she chose to blab, many would not believe her, but Dumbledore would not be among them. The old man had a spectacular talent for doing exactly what inconvenienced Lord Voldemort most. 

In a move that was most uncharacteristic for him, Lord Voldemort reached for reassurance. Comfort in knowing that even if he should fail in his quest for the Sorcerer’s Stone, he would still remain on this earth. He took over Quirrell’s body and rushed toward the seventh floor of the Astronomy Tower under the cover of night. 

He needed to check on the diadem. Needed to hold in his hands the physical reminder of his invincibility. His superiority. No other had accomplished the feat he had. Herpo the Foul had created only one horcrux—Voldemort had created five. A diary, a ring, a locket, a cup, and the diadem. And once he had his body, Nagini (who waited patiently in the Forbidden Forest for him to visit each night) would become his sixth. And then he would search out the seventh. Perhaps he would use the sword of Gryffindor; the perfect insult to Dumbledore and his precious House of Lions. 

No other witch or wizard had split their soul so many times. None but him possessed the power or strength of will—the Diadem would serve as a physical reminder of that. It would ground him. It would help him decide what to do about that bothersome, if abnormal, little girl.

He would have worried about Quirrell knowing the secret of the Diadem and its location, had he intended for the man to survive the process of bringing him back to life. It was honor enough to host his spirit, and it would be an honor to die bringing him back to full power. Not that Quirrell was aware of this; the Dark Lord could not afford to bring the man’s inherent cowardice into play.

Taking complete control over his host’s body drained the man’s energy to an extreme and resulted in his drinking far more unicorn blood than he would have preferred; with the Stone so close, however, he was willing to put more strain on his vessel than he might have in different circumstances. 

He was nearly to the Room of Hidden Things when movement caught his eye. 

A short disillusioned figure, scurrying down the hall from the opposite direction. Undoubtedly a student breaking curfew. Disappointing for a seventh year, mediocre for a fifth year—the year in which students first learned the charm. 

Though, if Quirrell’s eyes told true, that would be an incredibly short fifth year. 

He almost dismissed it. What did he care if some reckless child wandered about at night? It was likely a student from Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff sneaking back to their common room after the party in Gryffindor tower. However his instincts, which rarely failed him, urged him to follow. 

When he caught up to the figure, he realized why. 

They had stopped before the Room of Hidden Things, waiting as the stone wall rippled and shifted to reveal its entrance. 

The door looked much different from what his memory claimed, but it was in the same spot across from the tapestry of Barnaby the Barmy, so he was certain it was the same room. The figure did not hesitate to push open the door and slip inside. 

Lord Voldemort made the uncharacteristically impulsive decision to slip in behind them. After all, the door to the Room of Hidden Things disappeared when not in use, and his interest had been sufficiently piqued. 

When the door clicked shut behind him and the torches flared to life, he was not, in fact, met with the Room of Hidden Things—not as he had known it, anyhow. Instead, it seemed to have changed into a personal library mixed with a training studio. 

Why had it changed? Where were the mountains of hidden objects? 

He was jolted from his confusion when the disillusioned figure let out a frustrated, broken scream, grabbed a pillow from one of the armchairs on the far side of the room, and flung it at the dummy nearest to him. 

He quickly stepped out of the way and turned back toward the figure just as they released the disillusionment charm.

The first thing he saw was waves of thick blonde hair, resting on small shaking shoulders like a lazy waterfall of spun gold. Then the figure turned to face the corner in which his invisible form lurked, revealing the face of none other than Megara Le Fay. 

Her amber eyes glowed unnaturally in the orange light—a breathtaking, inhuman sight, even when glassy and unfocused. She then began to pace while muttering to herself, though he was certain she did not realize the thoughts had left the safety of her mind. 

“Okay, okay, Maggie, you’re okay,” she breathed in a strained voice. “It’s fine—you only forgot the date and missed your birthday. Big-fucking-whoop. There’s absolutely no need to– no need to–” 

She broke off with a sharp, wet laugh and sank into the nearest chair while hugging herself. 

Lord Voldemort’s (Quirrell’s) lip curled. An emotional breakdown. He had no time to listen to silly little girls cry over whatever trivial problems they had bumped into that day. He turned to leave when she spoke again. Her words stopped him cold.

“My name is Margaret List,” she said, as though trying to remind herself. 

The Dark Lord paused.

What? 

He looked back at her again, silently willing her to continue with a stare so intense

“I’m thirty-three, born in Phoenix in ‘02. I had a family who loved me.” A tear escaped down her cheek. “I’m real. I’m not a fucking child.”

A half-snarl, half-sob escaped. “Dammit!” she hissed. “I pulled myself through the LSAT without help from anyone else, and I can do the same now. Just– just breathe. It’s okay.”

A growl escaped and she shot back to her feet. When she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the mirror, her face twisted with rage. With a snarl, she picked up a lamp and hurled it at the large mirrored wall. A spiderweb of cracks broke the seamless reflection, sparing her from the discomfort of her own appearance. 

The crash seemed to cut through the haze of emotion, bringing her swiftly back to reality. She slumped back into the armchair. For a few minutes, Megara did nothing but take deep, purposeful breaths while staring blankly at her trembling hands. Finally–

“Jesus,” she sighed, rising back to her feet surveying the damage. “Ridiculous. Acting like a fucking child. At least your soul was shoved into a rich kid in Manhattan in the eighties—with magic. Magic’s real, and you have it now.” 

She pinched her arm, then continued. 

“Stop complaining, dumbass.” It came out as more of a hiss than anything. “This is leagues better than being a peasant in the middle of the thirteen hundreds when the plague was big or something like that.” 

With a wave of her wand and a muttered spell, the mirror repaired itself and the pristine lamp returned to its spot on the nightstand. An easy, effortless movement.

A grin crawled onto his—Quirrell’s—face. 

Now, Lord Voldemort prided himself on his self-control. On his ability to plan ahead, to take only steps that had been carefully planned and all outcomes considered. 

At that moment, however, the idea of passing up such a golden opportunity was unthinkable. He would be the first to acknowledge that his next course of action was reckless, bordering on foolish. But the potential return on such an enticing investment was too enticing to ignore. 

Yes, it would undoubtedly harm Quirrell and require more unicorn blood, but it seemed such a small price to pay when faced with the idea of securing such a powerful, wealthy, influential, and lonely young witch as one of his own. But, in the end, Quirrell was all he risked—and it’s not as though the man offered much (if any) value beyond his current purpose. 

It’s not as if this ‘Margaret’ could actually do anything to harm him. No one but Quirrell knew of his presence in the school, and even if this girl somehow figured it out, what could she do against him? The idea of being bested by this adult-muggle turned child-witch was simply laughable. 

He shoved Quirrell’s consciousness even further into the recesses of his own mind and glamoured his appearance before releasing the concealment charm. 

Muggle or witch, it mattered not. A handsome face and attractive form disarmed all members of the female sex. His original form had never failed him in that regard.

His lips curved into a subtle, but undeniably charming smile.

“Hello, Megara.” 

~~~~~

Meg flinched when an unfamiliar voice pierced the silence. A male voice—smooth, deep, almost musical. She whipped around to face him and promptly faltered. 

Wow, she thought absently, he’s hot.

If she had to guess, she’d pin his age at somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties—though that did little to indicate his true age since wizards and witches aged half as fast as muggles did upon reaching magical maturity. He could have been forty, for all she could see.

He was pale—almost unnaturally so. A kind of pale that would be unnerving anywhere outside England, where the sun came out maybe every seven years or so. His thick black hair was perfectly groomed, and his dark eyes were like pieces of coal or pools of ink sucking her in. His cheekbones were sharp enough that, should she slap him, she would have reason to worry about slicing her palm open. He was tall and lean, with the faintest hint of muscle definition under his pristine dress-shirt. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal a nondescript brown wand strapped to his left forearm.

“What the–” she sputtered in shock, “Who are you? How– how’d you get in here?”

The man smiled softly. “I did not come into the room,” he said, the sound low and soothing. “I was made by it.” 

Meg’s frown deepened. “That’s not possible.”

“I assure you, it is.” 

“Not according to Gamp’s Laws of Transfiguration.” 

The man’s easy smile didn’t budge. 

“That is true, yes,” he conceded, “but it only applies to true life. As a creation of the room I am not technically alive. I am a consciousness and vessel created by the castle; merely a simulacrum of a person created to help you. It’s similar to turning a goblet into a bird. The resulting bird is not truly alive, but it is not non-living, either.”

Amber eyes narrowed, but her white-knuckle grip on her wand loosened. The point lowered from his face. “Even if that was true, why would the Room of Requirement create some random man to help me?” she demanded, her frame drawn tighter than a bowstring.

He stepped forward, and Meg’s wand snapped back up to point at his face. 

“Stay there.” 

He sighed, but obliged. Before Meg could make any more demands, he had pulled out the plain brown wand and shot a spell at her with the nonchalance of a man calmly batting away a house fly. She didn’t have time to react beyond a startled yelp and shut her eyes before it hit.

But no pain ever came. 

After a moment, she cracked open an eye. Nothing seemed different.

She leveled him with an angry scowl. “What the fuck was that?! You can’t just–” She stopped. His smirk grew.

Her voice sounded different. It was slightly deeper—like the voice she used when not pretending to be a child. And he didn’t look quite as tall as he had before. He still stood over her, but now the difference in their heights had shrunk to less than half a foot.

He gestured at the mirror. Despite her better judgement, she looked. 

Her heart stopped. 

She truly was taller. Her body was no longer the thin, flat body of a little girl. In its place was the form of an adult woman. She had hips and breasts and the baby fat had melted away, leaving a face startlingly similar to that of Margaret List—if all of Margaret’s insecurities had been corrected.

Gone was the little childlike sprite; in her place was one of the fae. Tinkerbell replaced by Titania. 

Her baggy jeans and t-shirt had turned into deep violet duelling robes. Sneakers swapped out for sleek black boots. The clothing fit perfectly, as though it had been tailored to her exact specifications. 

The woman in the mirror was probably about twenty-five in muggle years and mid-thirties in magic years. 

“How…?”

“A complex glamour,” the man said right behind her ear. “Combined with an aging spell. It predicts what you will likely look like in fifteen years and morphs your appearance to match it for a limited time.”

Meg sucked in a surprised inhale; she hadn’t noticed his approach. 

“It will only work inside this room while I am present,” he told her. “But with me, you can exist in a form that feels like yours. One that feels like home.”

Meg couldn’t tear her eyes from her reflection.

The man stepped closer until his chest barely brushed her back. “I can teach you things beyond your wildest dreams, Meg,” he said smoothly. “Things even the most powerful of sorcerers could scarcely imagine.” 

She felt more than saw the smile that crept onto his face. “All you need to do is come here every night at eleven for three hours. A small sacrifice, I think, for what I offer.”

Meg opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. 

“In this room, with me,” he continued, gesturing to her reflection, “you will be not a child, but the woman you are. I will mold you into a witch even the fiercest of warriors will hesitate to cross wands with you.”

For a long moment, Meg didn’t move. Didn’t look away. She hadn’t seen her own face in over eleven years; now here it was, staring back at her without the distortion of childhood softness. 

Meg swallowed the lump that had begun to form in her throat. 

Feeling breathless now, she asked, “What’s the catch?”

“Only obedience,” said the man easily. “While we are in this room, you do everything I tell you to—within reason, of course. I will not ask you to do anything I do not feel is absolutely necessary.”

Meg’s teeth worried at her lip. He was offering her everything she wanted. Everything she desperately needed.

And asking for nothing in return.

It was far too good to be true. 

His story was bullshit, of course. The mental gymnastics she’d have to do to believe him would be astronomical—she’d either have to be so emotionally compromised she couldn’t tell up from down or completely stupid.

The only person in the school who might pull something so sneaky (and so predatory) was Voldemort. Dumbledore wouldn’t bother with disguises, and it wasn’t Snape’s style either. Any other staff member would have shown their true faces from the jump.

But how could it possibly be Voldemort?

She’d done extensive research on magical exhaustion in both the Hogwarts and Le Fay libraries; it was simply not possible for Quirrell to handle such a strain on his powers when he was already hosting Voldemort’s spirit—not for an extended period like he was suggesting. Once or twice a week? Perhaps. But nightly? Not a single chance in heaven, hell, or earth. The Forbidden Forest didn’t have nearly enough unicorns to keep up with such a demand. 

Unless he’d found a way around such a thing. Or was a completely arrogant, short-sighted moron.

No, Tom Riddle wouldn’t be that stupid. Hubris may have played a part in his downfall in the books, but that didn’t mean his pride would overwhelm all sense of reason. Unless his current state was affecting his ability to think clearly? She couldn’t be certain.

This entire situation was completely out of left field. She had not anticipated anything like this, especially not so soon. 

She was left with two options. 

One, she could turn away and walk out. Refuse his offer. Ignore everything that had happened tonight and continue with her current (tentative) plans to keep Harry from as much danger as possible without fucking up the future too much. That was the easier plan, and safer in the short term.

Two, she could stay and learn from him. After all, she’d never heard of anything like the spell he’d used to alter her appearance before; that suggested a level of proficiency far beyond what any of the staff would be willing to teach a preteen girl. She would pretend to play into his hands while draining every drop of useful information she could possibly get her hands on until she found the truth, and then once his true identity became clear she would decide whether to trust or kill him. 

Number two was much more difficult, of course, and dangerous in the short term. But ignoring the potential threat he carried would be more dangerous—not to mention downright stupid. It was risky now, but safer in the long run.

Keep your friends close and your potential enemies/allies closer, and all that jazz. 

Glancing back at the sharp, vivid amber eyes in her reflection, her mind made itself up.

To this new game piece, Meg Le Fay would be a frightened, abandoned, de-clawed kitten. He would take her under his wing, teach her, keep her close. And while he nurtured the cuckoo in his nest, she would prowl. Poke, prod, observe. Pretend to open up and bring down his guard. Learn if he was a pawn, a knight, or a king. 

If she didn’t like what she found, she would rip out his throat with her teeth. If she did, she’d cautiously welcome him to the Pride.

“All right,” she said, forcing her voice to lighten as she brushed past him to sit in the nearest armchair. “Here, sit with me a sec.” 

His expression betrayed nothing as he obeyed. 

“Before anything else,” said Meg, “I should probably know your name.”

The man’s smile turned soft and genial. “Well, I have none, but you may–”

“Cool,” Meg interrupted, forcing a small, innocent smile. “In that case, we’ll give you a name.”

She had no intention of letting him get too comfortable—and she knew just how to do it. Liars didn’t get to pick names they liked. They got whatever name Meg chose.

Keeping her entire body, face, and voice still and calm, she dropped the bomb: 

“I like Thomas,” she said, smiling. “You look like a Thomas, don’t you think?” She pretended to think it over. “Yeah, definitely Thomas. It suits you.”

She watched his reaction like a hawk. Though she was reasonably sure that Voldemort wasn’t stupid enough to waste his time, energy, and knowledge on a card as wild as her, she needed to be certain. 

Riddle would never consent to being called his birth name—or any variation of it. Anyone who tried would undoubtedly meet the business end of his wand. 

His response would tell her enough. 

If he was Voldemort, she’d find an excuse to get the hell out of dodge. Play it off as being little more than a stubborn, bull-headed independent girl of little consequence instead of a suspicious opponent retreating before an attack. Act like the young, uncertain girl she’d died as. 

If he passed her little test, then either he was not Voldemort, or he had the presence of mind to put impulse aside for whatever his endgame was. In that case, she could continue. 

The man’s expression didn’t waver. 

He blinked. 

A muscle in his jaw shifted. 

His smile suddenly felt stiff. 

Dread began to pool in Meg’s gut. It took all her willpower not to let her facade fall.

Was it truly…? But why would Voldemort do something like this? He was arrogant, but not brain-dead! What could he possibly want from her that he couldn’t get from Lucius Malfoy’s money and influence or Bellatrix Lestrange’s lethal skill and devotion? 

Just when she began to formulate her exit, the man’s smile became soft and easygoing. He lounged back in the chair comfortably. 

“You’re quite right,” he said lightly, eyes watching her expression just as intensely but not half as obvious. “‘Thomas’ is perfect.” 

The only outward reaction Meg gave was the slight relaxing of the shoulders.

If Voldemort was stupid and reckless enough to pretend to be this man, he would have been stupid and reckless enough to react. Or he had an endgame she couldn’t yet see but probably needed to uncover before he caught her by surprise.

She could proceed.

“Okay, then, Thomas,” she said, pulling her lips into a soft, hesitant smile. “I’ll gladly accept your help.” 

Thomas hummed. “Good choice,” he said, his voice nearer to a purr. “We’ll meet nightly, eleven to two in the morning.” 

“Starting tonight, I’m guessing?”

“Precisely.” He turned to face her more fully and continued, “now, to begin, I will need to assess where to begin. How is your occlumency?”

Meg smiled easily and leaned back in her chair. “It’s very good.” 

She didn’t elaborate. There was no reason to tell him how long she’d been working on it, or on her many defences.

“Legilimency?” 

“Proficient, but nothing to write home about.” She actually sucked at it, since she was a decent human being with no desire to invade the minds of other people unless absolutely necessary. But he didn’t need to know that. She would not be working on any mind arts with someone she did not trust.

“Your magical stamina?”

Meg hesitated a moment. Then– “Not where I’d like it to be. There seems to be something stopping me from developing in that area. I can memorize spells and wand movements all day long, but the actual casting leaves me exhausted two or three spells in—especially offensive spells.” 

Thomas mulled this over, watching her closely as she awaited an answer. 

“You may be drawing on your magic improperly,” he supposed as he rose to his feet. “How does it feel when you draw on your magic?”

Meg shrugged. “Like lifting a weight with my diaphragm,” she said. “Some are heavier than others. The stronger the spell, the heavier the weight.

A crease appeared between Thomas’s brows. 

“It should not feel like that,” said the man with a shake of his head. He reached out and tapped the center of her sternum. “It should be felt here, and it should feel like drawing water from a well. As your core develops, that well should grow deeper and more plentiful.” 

“And how do I fix it?” she prodded, unable to help her cautious curiosity.

Thomas’s lips twitched. “Your soul has obtained magic in an… atypical manner,” he explained. “Your instincts are still unsure of how to properly access it. Thankfully, however, the remedy is quite easy and can be done right now.”

Meg raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yes,” assured the man as he took a step closer. “Now, close your eyes and take a deep breath,” he instructed, returning his hand to the same place on her sternum. The touch was done clinically, but something about it seemed as though it was meant to be more than that. 

She resisted the urge to physically remove the hand and followed the instructions. 

“Good.” His breath brushed her face, and a shiver ran down her spine. “Reach for the magic you have been drawing on and hold it.”

Meg focused on the ball of warmth residing in her gut just underneath her diaphragm. She imagined reaching down and grabbing it in her fist. It was hot, pulsing with power; like picking up a hot coal. 

“It burns,” she bit out with a small wince. 

“I know,” said Thomas, sounding much too gentle for comfort. “Don’t stop. Turn it or twist it in the direction of my hand. The intent and shift should align your magic with the proper channels, and it will fall into place.”

She tried to pull it outward and upward, but it remained in place. Something in her stomach twinged sharply.

“It won’t budge.”

“Keep at it.” A tinge of frustration colored Thomas’s tone. 

The sound triggered a spark of indignation in Meg’s chest. Her lip curled, and she focused harder. 

Green eyes and a horrible lightning scar flashed in her mind. 

She had to succeed. She had to grow, to progress, to figure out the mystery of Thomas—if only to protect that little boy.

Then, as if her emotions had wrestled all barriers into submission, it happened. The ball of warmth did not move from her core, but the channel she had been using to access it—however unconsciously—snapped into place right up her spine and ended underneath where Thomas’s fingers rested. 

Electricity flooded her veins. She distantly heard Thomas gasp before it rushed outward. The torches flared, a breeze from nowhere swept through the room, and even Thomas was sent stumbling backward into the semi-destroyed armchair. 

Amber eyes flew open. 

Her vision was sharper. The light was brighter, the shadows darker. She could feel the energy of the fire, the magic of the castle, and the startling amount of power radiating off of the man rising from where he’d fallen.

“Whoa,” she breathed. She quickly pointed her wand at the armchair. 

“Reparo.” 

The stuffing, wood, and fabric flew back together with an ease and speed she’d never felt before. This whole time, she had been forcing her magic through a bumpy, winding, unpaved one-lane side road lumbering behind a semi-truck going 50 miles an hour. Now it was going down a brand-new direct highway at 90 mph with no traffic for a hundred miles.

Unable to help herself, Meg felt her lips curl into a triumphant grin. 

She pointed her wand at a book she’d left unfinished the previous night. 

“Accio.” With even less resistance than the first spell, the magic snapped through her and yanked the book into her hands without hesitation.

“Fuck yes!” she hissed, setting the book down and turning to Thomas. “What next?” 

Thomas’s answering smile could only be described as predatory. 

Three hours later, Meg left the Room of Requirement feeling stronger than she could have thought possible… and more vulnerable than ever.

The time of planning and worrying was over. 

Meg had officially made her first move--on more than one front.  

She just hoped she was prepared for what came next.

Chapter Text

The next month flew by faster than she could keep up with, and not in the “time flies when you’re having fun” sort of way.

More in the “she kept so busy and had so little rest the days started to blur together” kind of way. 

Doing just well enough in class to seem gifted but not abnormal; keeping the kids from ruminating too much about Snape’s supposed murder attempt; forcing the boys to do their homework and despairing at how ill-prepared they seemed for basic school tasks; meeting Thomas every night; dodging Hermione’s attempts to weasel the truth of the Quidditch match out of her; and trying to act completely normal under the gaze of nosy headmasters, crabby potions masters, and evil parasite-burdened defense professors alike. 

Before she knew it, winter break was only a week away. 

Despite wanting nothing more than to hide away in her apartments at Gewinnan and brave the holiday season with Tilly, she had instead elected to stay at Hogwarts with Harry and the Weasley kids.

Which meant being roped into the dreaded Christmas celebrations.

A flash of blue light shot past her head, only inches from setting her hair on fire. 

“Shit!” she yelped, rolling out of the way and throwing a hex back in return. 

Thomas blocked the yellow spell away with a bored hum. 

“You’re distracted tonight,” he said, sounding decidedly displeased as he shot two spells that she managed to block, this time much more easily.

“I just hate Christmas,” she explained between hits, sending an Expelliarmus right back. 

He blocked it with ease, and hummed his inquiry while returning while throwing another non-lethal jinx. 

“The whole season reeks of consumerist greed,” continued Meg, voice dripping with disdain as she blocked it. “And Dumbledore seems determined to pretend Yule doesn’t exist, which means the Christmas cheer will probably be dialed up to thirty.”

She then tossed two spells his way, both of which were batted away. Thomas visibly fought off a very bored yawn.

Meg fought the urge to scowl. If he was going to play at being a friend and mentor, then he could at least do a better job at pretending to give a shit. Or at the very least pretend to let her win every once in a while.

“I think we should just get rid of all muggle holidays in school,” she then said, forcing an airy sort of nonchalance. “I mean, muggleborns are the ones who should be assimilating to wizarding culture; not the other way around. Right? They should get used to celebrating magical holidays only.”

He only raised his eyebrows and sent a hex at her in response.

“A part of me wonders if you’re right,” she huffed, deflecting the blow and dodging the one he sent directly after it. “If we should start taking muggleborns from their families at the first sign of magic to be raised in magical homes.”

Thomas finally faltered, giving Meg the opening to hit him in the chest with a knockback jinx. Elation flooded her chest when Thomas went flying back into the wall of pillows and cushions with an undignified grunt.

“Ha ha!” she cheered, throwing her hands up in celebration. “Take that! Not such a boring duelling partner now, am I?” She leaned forward tauntingly. “Still yawning?”

Thomas’s eyes snapped up to glare at her through thick eyelashes that she would have killed for. 

“That was dishonorable,” he snarled as he rose back to his feet. 

“Oh, please,” shot back Meg, “since when did you give a shit about honor? Are you not the one who told me that in a fight to the death, honor goes right out the window?” 

Straightening himself, Thomas bit out, “I did.”

“Then you should be proud of me for landing a blow on you after just one month,” she gloated. “Not to mention the fact that I only slept three hours straight last night.” 

A cold anger flashed behind Thomas’s eyes. Despite the blip of fear that it sparked in her chest, Meg didn’t let her smirk falter. 

–at least, not until a red light flashed and a loud crack cut through the silence. Meg gasped as pain exploded up her leg and sent her to the floor. 

“Yes, well done,” drawled Thomas as he slowly approached. “But you celebrate much too early. You allowed me to recover, then mocked me instead of landing another blow to keep me down.” 

She saw him crouch next to her before a long, pale finger guided her chin up to meet his abyssal gaze.

“Oh, come on,” she said, keeping her voice to a soft croon despite the pain. “You know my stance on muggles. If you really thought I’d changed my mind over a holiday, that’s on you.” 

One thing she had learned about Thomas these past weeks? 

He may not have said outright that he agreed with the blood purists and Death Eaters, but his backhanded comments and political hints showed he was no friend to muggles or muggle-borns. And if the way his jaw tightened when Harry was mentioned was any indication, he was not someone to be trusted alone in a room with the boy and a wand. 

A small part of her had begun to fear, despite the evidence to the contrary on Quirrell’s gaunt face every day, that he was no knight, rook, or pawn. A horrible part of her knew exactly what piece he was, though her consciousness refused to accept it. If it was him, why bother with her? She used to be a muggle, for god’s sake, and he hadn’t killed her. He hadn’t hurt her either—not permanently, at least. Every scratch, burn, and broken bone he inflicted was swiftly healed at the end of each lesson. The only pains she walked away with were phantom ones. And the Cruciatus had not been used so much as mentioned.

Friend or foe, the game he’d chosen was a long one. A patient one. But whatever it was, she could play it too. 

Thomas’s eyes narrowed, as if he knew where her mind had gone despite her still rock-solid mental shields. She would have worried about that, of course, but she knew that if he was who she feared and had heard half of the things that crossed her mind, she would’ve been dead or under the Imperius within the first week. 

As neither had happened yet, she figured she still had some hope. 

“Get up,” he snapped as he released her and returned to his previous position, leaving Meg reeling. 

Another thing he’d taken to doing was giving her whiplash. One moment he’d be inches away, practically undressing her with his eyes, and the next he’d hurl a freezing charm at her face.

When her hesitation earned her a sharp look, she quickly moved to try to heal her leg.

“Don’t.” 

She hesitated. “But it’s broken. I can’t even stand on it, how am I supposed to–” 

“You must learn to duel while injured,” he said, his voice deceptively soft. “Now seems as good a time as any. You will thank me for it one day.”

Meg fought the urge to hurl the immature comment that sat on her tongue as she slowly pushed herself up. And when the first spell came, she fiercely pretended not to see the red within his gaze.

________________________________________________________

Meg’s entire body ached fiercely when she woke the next morning—her leg especially. Though all her injuries had been healed at the end of the lesson, stress and phantom pains were much difficult to erase. Her body knew the fractured tibia was no longer an issue, but it seemed that her mind had yet to get the memo.

“Sleep well?” asked Hermione as Meg applied oil to the girl’s curls. 

Meeting Hermione’s observant gaze in the mirror for a heartbeat, she clipped, “Pretty well, yeah.”

Hermione’s thick eyebrow arched upward. “All night?” 

“Yep,” she said as she wiped her hands on a towel, then picked up a wide-toothed comb and began gently arranging the damp curls. “Do you want dutch braids or a bun? Or maybe we could leave it loose today? Let the curls breathe?”

The last suggestion was more to hide her shaking hands than anything—she knew very well that Hermione never liked having her hair down on weekdays. If she was in class, she wanted her hair tied back.

“Braids, please,” said the girl.

Meg smiled faintly. “Comin’ right up.” 

She felt Hermione’s gaze trained on her face in the mirror as she began to work. 

“Where did you go at one in the morning last night?” Hermione suddenly asked.

Meg sputtered in surprise. Her grip on Hermione’s hair tightened involuntarily, but quickly relaxed when the girl hissed in pain. 

“Fine, you win,” confessed Meg tightly. “I didn’t sleep well. I had a… a weird dream. I went down to the common room to collect my thoughts for a little.” 

Hermione’s brows pulled together in a frown as she pulled away and turned to look Meg in the eye.

“I went down to the common room,” she argued. “You weren’t there. Where’d you go?” 

Meg’s jaw tightened, as did her grip on the comb. “I just went for a walk,” she lied. “I needed some air.”

Hermione looked aghast at this. “You were just… roaming around the castle?” she gasped. “But what if you’d been seen? If you get caught sneaking around after curfew–” 

“Hermione, chill–”

“You’re the one who lectured the boys for sneaking out, and now you–”

“Hold on–”

“You’ll get in trouble and then you’ll lose Gryffindor points; I know you don’t really care about that, but everyone else does, and I know you care about that–”

Hermione’s voice died when Meg wordlessly cast the disillusionment charm. 

When certain the girl wasn’t going to continue her lecture, Meg deactivated the charm. 

“That’s the disillusionment charm,” breathed the younger girl. Wonder crept into her expression. “That’s a fifth year spell.”

Meg’s lips thinned unhappily. She had done spells in front of Hermione that weren’t in the typical first year repertoire before, but nothing above a second or third year level. Nothing that would raise her brows too much. 

The disillusionment charm, on the other hand, was notoriously difficult. For a first year to do it at all, let alone silently… it wasn’t exactly subtle. But she was tired and couldn’t think of anything else to dissuade the inquisitive girl.

“If anything is going to lose Gryffindor points, it won’t be me,” said Meg, sounding tired. “I just had a nightmare and needed some air last night, okay? Now, turn around so I can do your hair. Unless you want me to leave it like this?” 

Hermione pursed her lips, but huffed and turned around all the same. 

The night before was not brought up again. 

________________________________________________________

Fridays were nothing short of brutal. 

The morning was spent in double Potions with a professor who hated her and did everything he could to unbalance her, then after lunch she had to sit in a room with evil incarnate (who looked her way far more than she was comfortable with), then she got to end the day listening to the most boring professor in the world drone on about subjects that would have been interesting from literally anyone else. 

Add on the fact that her entire body was ready to break down from exhaustion, and it was a goddamn miracle she managed to remain upright until the bell tolled four.

“I never thought I’d say this,” she sighed as she sat by the Black Lake with the kids that afternoon, “but I fucking hate Fridays.”

Ron slapped a hand over his mouth to hide his snort of laughter. Harry visibly bit the inside of his cheek with a grin. Hermione whirled on her in horror. 

“Meg!” she gasped. “Language!” 

Were she feeling any less shitty, Meg might’ve corrected herself. But she was too tired. So she simply shrugged instead and fell back to lie on the grass. 

“Better you learn it from me than somewhere else,” she mumbled around a yawn. “Just don’t say it around any adults, ‘kay?”

Her eyes fluttered closed just in time to miss the look the kids shared. 

Whatever peace or rest she might have found was swiftly interrupted by the finger that jabbed her in the ribs. 

“Hey!” she yelped, sitting up and swatting away Ron’s hand. “What was that for?” 

“You know something about the three-headed dog, don’t you?” said Harry, abandoning any attempts at pretense. 

Meg froze. It was only for a moment, but still noticeable enough for it to be seen as the confirmation it was.

Harry’s eyes narrowed. 

“You do,” he accused.  You stopped Hagrid from telling us about it. You act odd whenever we bring it up.” 

“And you knew that Snape would curse Harry’s broom before it happened,” tacked on Hermione. “You never went to the bathroom; you were going to the staff’s box. I saw you double back before going straight there. But then you pushed the wrong person.” 

Chin up and arms folded, Ron added, “And after McGonagall said Dumbledore wanted to talk to you the day after Halloween, I heard you talking to yourself in that classroom. You called Harry a kid—you call us all kids. But you’re a kid too.” 

“Or,” finished Harry, his frown deepening, “is there something you’re hiding?”

Meg’s mouth suddenly felt dry. Her head was already pounding from lack of sleep; this was the absolute last thing she needed. 

“O– Of course not!” she sputtered with a forced laugh. “Why on earth would I be hiding something?”

“The Disillusionment Charm is much too advanced for us, Meg,” Hermione said sharply. “But you did it wordlessly. You can summon things without a wand every morning when you help me with my hair.” 

Ron’s nose scrunched as he jabbed a finger into her shoulder and demanded, “Where do you disappear to at night? Hermione told us you leave the tower at the same time every night and get back sweaty and exhausted hours later?.” 

“Why were you so afraid of Dumbledore?” asked Hermione.

The tone shifted from curious to accusatory when Harry added “If you knew about the troll ahead of time, why didn’t you warn anyone before?” 

“We’ve been watching.” Hermione was picking at her nails nervously. “You hold yourself back in every single class–”

“Except Potions,” interjected Ron. “But I think that’s just because you want to rub it in Snape’s face that he can’t trick you.” 

“Or,” snapped Harry, accusation and betrayal coating his tone, “are you and Snape working together? Is that why you pushed Quirrell? To stop him from saving me?” 

Those last words hit Meg like a dagger to the heart. To hide the hurt welling up in her eyes, she climbed to her feet and walked a few feet away. Once she had composed herself, she turned to look at the three kids once more. 

Kids. 

They were just kids, 

“Are you honestly–” She laughed, hoping the sharpness in her tone hid the ache behind it. 

“If you’re right,” she reasoned, trying to keep her cool, “what’s to stop me from silencing you three forever? There’s no one around. You couldn’t beat me in a duel if you tried. And besides, I have the high ground here; you let me stand and gain my balance while you’re still sitting with your wands tucked away.” 

She could see the color slowly drain from their faces as the words left her mouth. The fear in their eyes turned her brief flash of anger sour in her stomach.

“You…” A sigh escaped. Her shoulders fell, and she tucked her wand away. “You three are so goddamn lucky that I would cut off my wand hand before ever intentionally hurting any of you.”

It took a second for her words to sink in. Once they did, relief washed over the three young faces so dramatically it made Meg want to puke. 

“So, you’re not working with Snape?” asked Harry. 

“Of course I’m not working with Severus fucking Snape!” Meg snarled, much harsher than she’d intended. 

Hermione visibly flinched. 

“I mean, I…”

What to tell them? She couldn’t tell them the whole truth; they wouldn’t believe it. But letting them come to their own conclusions had led to an attempted murder accusation.

“At the Quidditch match,” she said carefully, “I did know that you were going to be attacked, Harry. But,” she quickly added before he could jump to any conclusions, “I also knew if I did anything even slightly wrong, your attacker would succeed in throwing you to your death. I did the only thing I knew would guarantee your safety—at least, as safe as one can be while on those sticks of death.

“And the troll–” A heavy sigh escaped as she sat back down. “Honestly, I completely forgot about that until it was too late. I disappear each night to study and train so that sort of situation doesn’t happen again. And yes, I hold myself back in class, but…” 

She trailed off with a frown. 

Turns out, it’s very hard to come up with a good excuse when one has only had three hours (tops) of sleep the night before.

“You’re right to think there’s more to me than what I’ve told,” she managed, her voice tight. “I hadn’t counted on you looking closely enough to see it. But none of my secrets are malicious—not toward you, at least.”

“Why keep them?” asked Ron lowly, as if afraid that speaking too loudly would break the seal of this lakeside confessional. His frown didn’t soften, however.

Before Meg could clam up, Harry grabbed her sleeve. 

“Hey,” he snapped, a touch of hurt swimming in those vivid green eyes. “We won’t stop until we know the truth. You might as well come clean.”

Hermione nodded, eyes shining with curiosity and concern. 

“My mum likes to say that ‘a burden shared is a burden eased’,” she added.

Meg glanced at the beach and woods around them. The area looked deserted, but… well, one could never be too careful. She pulled out her wand—ignoring the way the kids tensed—then quickly cast a Muffliato and a notice-me-not charm around the space. When she was certain they would not be overheard she turned back, feeling grave. 

“I cannot tell you everything,” she said, her voice firm. “But, what I can tell you is a little hard to believe–”

“Why can’t you tell us?” butted in Ron with a frown. “Because you don’t trust us?” 

Meg sent a tired glare his way. 

“It’s not that,” she said flatly. “I don’t think you’ll go running your mouths about all my secrets. But none of you are occlumens. I can’t tell you certain things without worrying that someone will be able to steal it from your mind.”

“But it’s illegal to use legilimency on anyone under seventeen!” protested Hermione.

“If my adversaries cared about the law,” Meg explained, “that would be something to consider. But they don’t.” 

She turned to Harry. A touch of understanding mingled with fear now sat behind his eyes. 

“You want the truth? Fine.” She sucked in a small steadying breath before finally–

“I know things. I can’t tell you ninety-nine percent of what I know. I wish I could. But I can tell you that my name wasn’t always Megara. That in nineteen-eighty, a married couple in New York found the soul of a muggle woman from forty years in the future and placed it into the body of their stillborn daughter.” 

Hermione’s hands flew to her mouth. 

Meg ignored it and continued, “They made her a witch, yes, but they failed to erase the memories of her past life. So…”

“So what?” asked Ron impatiently.

“The thing is,” continued Meg despite the interruption, “this girl might have been a muggle, but she was not completely ignorant of the wizarding world. Or its recent history. Which means–”

“You know the future,” Harry realized, sounding as though the air had been punched out of his lungs.

“I’m not a seer,” Meg hurried to explain. “And while Carmine wasn’t completely successful at wiping my memories, that doesn’t mean it didn’t work at all. I’ve forgotten a lot. Most of the time it feels like I’ve lost more memories of the future than I kept—and what I do remember is from one specific timeline that may have already begun to change from my presence alone. Which, depending on how you look at it, could be a good or bad thing. But I do know that one thing for certain.” 

She cleared her throat and glanced around to double-check they were alone. The charms had not budged, but somehow, that had not eased her. A horrible itch on the edge of her consciousness triggered a shudder she struggled to suppress. 

Nobody outside the bubble she’d created could possibly be listening in. 

So why did she have the horrible feeling that they weren’t alone? 

Stubbornly shaking off the thought, she returned her gaze forward.  To the innocent boy whose childhood would be colored by trauma and tragedy no matter what she did or tried.

And if Thomas was who she feared, that meant he was deviating from the canon plotline. She couldn’t predict everything that would happen.

He needed to know.

And if she was already spilling… well, she might as well tell him now.

“Voldemort” –she ignored Ron’s flinch– “is not gone forever.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “He’ll be back, and when he returns, he’ll come for the one who defeated him.” 

Out of the corners of her eye she could see when Hermione gasped and Ron went white as a sheet. But she kept her eyes on Harry.

A bystander might have thought her Medusa in disguise with how still he had become. 

Guilt curled in her gut but she pushed forward. 

“I already had a life once before,” she said gently. “I’m not terribly concerned about my second teenage experience—once was more than enough. I’d much rather stand between you and the forces that want to steal your chance at enjoying those precious years of your life.” 

There was a long moment of silence as the kids digested her words.

“Is Voldemort going to kill me? In the future you know, I mean?”

Harry’s voice only shook a little as he asked this. 

Meg didn’t flinch, nor did she hesitate to take his clammy hand in her own. 

“Harry,” she said, keeping her voice and expression gentle, “you are going to live a long, happy life. All three of you will. You will grow up, finish school, get married, and have children. I swear.”

The kids didn’t seem to catch the evasive nature of her words, instead visibly sagging with relief. 

“That is why I disappear each night,” she continued. “I’m studying. Training. Preparing for the future.”

“If you’re studying to fight You-Know-Who, we can help you,” offered Ron, looking nervous but surprisingly resolute. “We–”

Meg held up a hand to interrupt “No offense, but you’re eleven years old, Ron. That seems so grown-up to you, but as someone who is mentally if not physically an adult, I’m not about to allow you to run headfirst into danger. Period.” 

“You can’t do it alone!” argued Hermione, her voice cracking with distress. “You may not be our age, but you’re still our friend–”

“Hermione,” cut in Meg sharply, “I can’t focus properly on my next steps if I’m worrying about where you’re poking your noses. Which is why I need you all to quit investigating Fluffy. Get any and all thoughts of Flamel out of your heads, and let me handle this.” 

She didn’t realize her slip until it was already too late. 

“Flamel?” echoed Harry sharply. His eyes narrowed. “Who’s that? What does he have to do with whatever Fluffy’s guarding?” 

“Nothing–”

“We don’t believe that–” 

“Well, tough!” snarled Meg. 

Harry’s mouth snapped shut.  

Meg’s anger didn’t last long in the face of the startled, nervous looks she was getting. 

“You’re children,” she sighed as her shoulders slumped. “I’m the adult. If you need to know something, I promise I will tell you. You deserve to know, of course, but I cannot take the risk of changing too much too early. I’m going to be forced to make hard decisions. I might have to let bad things happen to prevent worse things. I’m not going to put that on you as well. So just… for the time being, forget Snape and Fluffy and the trapdoor and Halloween and that I ever mentioned Flamel in the first place.”

The words weighed heavily on the ensuing silence.

Her eyes drifted back to the lake lying peacefully on her right, and he kept her eyes on it when she spoke again. 

“Nothing needs to change,” she said with a slight grimace. “I’m not going to change my routine—unless you no longer wish to spend time with an adult. I understand why it would be awkward or uncomfortable now. Especially for you, Hermione, seeing as we’re uh, roommates.”

More silence. 

“I’m glad we know,” blurted Ron with pink cheeks. “It explains a lot. And it makes it a little less annoying that you always pile vegetables on our plates at dinner.”

Hermione nodded, looking a little shy. “You said you were an adult, so that means you finished muggle school. Right?”

Meg faltered.

“Yeah,” she said in a strangled voice. “I finished public school, and I also completed my Bachelor’s degree in English. I was preparing for law school when–” 

Her body wouldn’t listen to her—her body wasn’t her own. Headlights. Screeching metal. Oil. Fire. Snap, snap, snap, crack goes her spine.

“Anyway,” she managed, blinking out of the fragmented  memories,  “the answer is yes. I finished muggle public school, and I enjoyed the learning—even when I didn’t like the people.”

She was rescued from the past when Harry asked, “How old are you really?”

A startled snort escaped her lips. 

“You’re asking me my age?”

A flush enveloped Harry’s face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“No, no, it’s fine,” she brushed off, still smiling. “My birthday isn’t really March twentieth; that’s the day Viola and Carmine shoved me into this body. But my real birthday is November tenth, two-thousand and four.” 

It was positively hilarious, the way their jaws dropped in unison. 

She continued, “So taking that and the time differences into account, I suppose I turned thirty-three last month.” 

She didn’t mention her little meltdown. Or the person who’d walked in on it. 

“Thirty-three?” echoed Harry with eyes wide as tennis balls. “That’s…” 

“The same as Professor Snape!” blurted Hermione without thinking. 

“Yep. It really is too bad we hate each other’s guts,” Meg mused with a nod. “In another life, maybe we could’ve been friends, but unfortunately, he is just… the fucking worst.” 

Ron threw his head back and cackled loudly. 

“I’m serious,” insisted Meg with no small amount of heat. “He’s lucky I’m so short now, or I woulda strangled him within the first month of school.” 

Before she could officially launch into a tirade, the bells signalling dinner chose that moment to echo across the grounds.

“Alright,” grunted Meg as she rose to her feet and dropped the privacy charms, “interrogation time’s over. C’mon.” 

Her legs had gone weak and stiff from sitting in one position for so long, and judging by the grimaces on the kids’ faces, they felt the same. Meg pulled Hermione up just as Ron tried to rise too fast and toppled to the side with a yelp. 

A loud, distressed squeak made Ron scramble upright. 

“Oh no, Scabbers!” he gasped, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a squirming lump of gray fur. “Thank Merlin he doesn’t look hurt—Mum would kill me…”

Meg froze. 

“You had your rat in your pocket for the whole conversation?” she asked weakly, unsure why she suddenly felt so unsteady. 

Ron was examining the trembling vermin anxiously.

“Yeah,” he said, “he fell asleep in my robe pocket last night and I didn’t realize he was still there until Potions. I’m surprised he didn’t wake up once this whole conversation.”

Meg nodded numbly. 

Why did she suddenly feel like puking? Like she’d missed something monumental?

“Let’s just... go,” she mumbled clumsily, eyes glued to the rodent as she began walking in the direction of the castle. 

________________________________________________________

The week between that conversation and Christmas break held an ease that Meg hadn’t even realized was missing before. The laughter came easier, the kids accepted her odd behavior in stride now when they had resisted before. Hermione asked her endless questions about what she’d learned in her muggle school and what the future was like—Meg had to watch what she said in some areas, but for the most part, she didn’t think telling an eleven year old about the internet, kindles, and texting would break the world. 

Ron, like any sports-obsessed kid, wanted to know how the Chudley Cannons would do in the coming years. Unfortunately, as she knew nothing about future of Quidditch, she could not help him. Save for the World Cup before their fourth year, of course, but she was not about to tell him about that. 

She might tell Arthur, though. Perhaps he could bet and make a shitton of money off it. Maybe then Ron wouldn’t be stuck with those horrendous dress robes for the Yule Ball. Not that Meg was going to let him go through that, anyhow. 

If a certain parasite in disguise didn’t kill her first.

Harry was the one who asked the least questions about the future of the world. He seemed content not to know about the world around him. 

No, what Harry wanted was his own future.

One of the few things Meg could not give him details on. Instead, she tried giving tidbits about other things he might find interesting, about sports and the drama of the internet (he pretended not to like gossip, but anyone who paid attention could easily see that Harry Potter loved drama that didn’t involve him), but that wasn’t what he wanted. 

What he really wanted broke Meg’s heart every time, and stomped on the pieces every time she couldn’t tell him something.

Harry wanted to know who he’d marry. How many children he’d have. Would he have a big family? Would they have a nice house outside the suburbs? Would he like his job? 

Most importantly: would he be happy? Someday safe and happy? 

Thankfully, she could answer that last question with a fervent and confident yes. The rest? She couldn’t reveal them without potentially altering his path and ruining that happiness. She didn’t want him to marry Ginny because Meg told him he would, but because he genuinely loved her. She didn’t want him to have three kids because that was the future spelled out for him, but because he and Ginny had thought it through and come to that decision themselves.

Occasionally, one of them would ask about her life before, and the conversation would falter until the subject was changed. 

It was nice to be more herself with them in private, though. 

It made the rapidly approaching holiday a little less frightening. 

Far too soon, Hermione departed for the holiday break, her present from Meg tucked in her bag with strict instructions not to open it before Christmas morning. 

Meg had debated whether or not to give presents, but… well, everyone else was participating. She would guide those who remained in lighting candles and preparing the log for Yule, but she supposed that Harry had missed out on enough happy Christmases in his life. 

So, she would keep her grievances to herself.

________________________________________________________

It seemed the universe was done waiting for her to figure it out herself. Shortly before midnight on December 24th, Meg finally got the confirmation she’d been waiting for. 

She’d suspected since the first day they met, of course, but tonight had confirmed it. The request he’d made of her was bad enough; his reaction to her refusal was the final nail in the coffin.

Something about knowing for certain, rather than simple suspicion, was so much worse yet better than the alternative. It was good to be sure, but the truth was a terrifying one. 

Standing firm, chin lifted, fists clenched to hide the way they trembled. She looked him in the eye, finally certain of who he was and what he was capable of, and declared:

“I will not.”

A muscle in Thomas’ jaw twitched. “You will.” 

He looked the same as he usually did, though today he had begun the lesson looking irritated. There was a heaviness to his eyes, a spiritual exhaustion that did not dare to appear on the mask he wore so flawlessly. 

Voldemort was running on fumes. Because of Meg. Because, for some reason, he had decided that she was a worthwhile investment. 

If she wasn’t so terrified, it would have felt a little like a victory. 

“I will not cast an Unforgivable, Thomas,” she spat, feeling her hackles rising. 

She took a step forward, fully aware of the precipice she stood on. If she played this wrong, there was a very good chance she may never leave this room. 

If she played it right… well, the chances of death were probably higher. 

“The Imperius Curse,” she began, her voice soft and sharp, “is for simple-minded fools, incapable of properly inspiring others to their cause. One doesn’t even need to be an occlumens to resist.”

Voldemort’s glare sharpened. His (undoubtedly glamoured) nostrils flared. “Take care how you speak, Megara,” he hissed, on the brink of sounding more serpent than human.  

Meg took another step. 

“The Cruciatus is for cruel, weak-willed savages.” 

Another step. 

“And the Killing Curse?” 

She released a sharp, acidic laugh. 

“The Killing Curse is reserved for only the most base, most mundane, most mindless of beasts. They deserve nothing more than to be put down like the mongrels they are–”

“Crucio.” 

Pain. 

Some say that under torture time becomes meaningless. It blurs together. Seconds or hours could pass. 

That was not true. 

She felt every heartbeat. Counted every breath. Every ounce of suffering. She was effectively blind and deaf to everything but the pain and the seconds slowly ticking by. A thousand white-hot knives flaying her alive, ripping out her tendons, drowning her nerves in acid, and she was acutely aware of every single moment.

In the end, he held it for thirty-four seconds. 

When he finally lifted it, Meg came back to reality laying on the floor, curled in on herself and twitching. Her cheeks were wet with tears and sweat that soaked into her hair and dripped to the floor.

It took her a few minutes to recover. To fully digest what had happened. To ride out the aftershocks.

To hide her triumph. 

She had insulted him, refused a direct order, then insulted him in every way she knew Tom Riddle loathed. Indirectly called him simple-minded, uninspiring, foolish, weak-willed, savage, base, mindless, beastly, and worst of all (for him, at least), mundane.

But he had not killed her. 

After over a month of expending his precious energy on her, putting up with her constant insubordination and disrespect, when she went too far, he hadn’t killed her. 

Whatever his purpose, she was extremely valuable to him for some reason. Was it her money and resources? Maybe, but unlikely when he had the Malfoys. Was it the Le Fay bloodline and reputation? More likely, but as far as motives go… still weaksauce. 

Anyone with any ounce of logic or reason would consider the time he spent with her to be a spectacularly bad idea. He had to resort to Unicorn blood to sustain himself. How much did he need to consume to compensate for the energy he expended just to maintain his disguise with her? More than he would have needed otherwise, that was certain.

It must be her situation. She was in Gryffindor house, a child in body and adult in mind, isolated by her secret, close to Harry Potter, powerful but in need of refining, intelligent but lost, and she did not like Dumbledore. 

And, unlike many of his loyal followers like Bellatrix Lestrange, she had not spent the last decade in Azkaban losing her mind. 

The realization hit her like a truck. 

So, she thought numbly, that’s why he acts like that. Why he stands so close, why he soothes his cruelties with gentle touches and soft words. He wants a newer, less damaged Bellatrix. One with more resources, one who is physically younger and would therefore be able to work for him longer.

In a life where she was any less prepared for the world she was entering, it might have worked. Though his personality was severely lacking (he had absolutely no sense of humor, she had come to find), he was exactly her type on the physical level. Thick dark hair, sharp cheekbones, lean but well-toned figure, and a devastating smile that would make any girl weak in the knees. 

Add a leather jacket, longer/messier hair, and motorcycle and he’d be the exact kind of guy Margaret would’ve brought home just to spike her parents’ blood pressure.

It all made sense now; in the most horrible, vomit-inducing kind of way possible. 

Now she was really glad she’d never opened her mind to him. Or told him about the books and movies, or even given any indication she knew anything about the future. In his eyes, she was just a clueless woman who happened to be shoved into a body that possessed a bloodline acceptable to his ideology, friendless and stumbling through a world while grieving the revenge she never got.

But she knew this world. Had been obsessed with it as a child. She knew the darker side of what the so-called ‘Dark Lord’ promised; how he treated those who worked for him, what a world under his control would look like.

And she’d lived in the United States in the 2020s. The similarities between Voldemort and a certain someone were too obvious and horrifying to miss.

He was stupidly confident enough, blind enough, to convince himself he would come out on top where she was concerned.

But that was Voldemort’s biggest weakness, wasn’t it? It wasn’t his past, or his horcruxes, or any physical shortcoming. 

It was his arrogance. 

He believed so strongly in his own superiority that he never considered she might be playing him just as much as he was her. Never considered that he might fail in obtaining the Stone with it so close, so of course he could spare the energy to meet her every night. He couldn’t imagine that a young, lonely, vulnerable young woman wouldn’t be won over by a pretty exterior and his (admittedly very persuasive) charms. 

He believed that those very charms were enough to make her overlook the discrepancies in his lies.

And yet, he was also insecure. 

Insecure enough that her schoolyard taunts had hit a nerve sensitive enough to trigger his use of the Cruciatus. 

She was willing to bet that it was the mention of mundanity that pushed him over the edge. If there was anything Tom Riddle did not want to be called, it was mundane, ordinary, or lowly. 

Finally, her limbs stopped twitching enough to allow her the strength to sit upright. 

Thomas- No.

Voldemort- No.

She would not call him by any pseudonym or title. He was Tom Marvolo Riddle. Riddle was no god. Technically, he wasn’t even a Lord, as Tom Marvolo Riddle had never claimed the official Gaunt Lordship.

He was nothing but a mortal man whose reach far exceeded his grasp. 

One who was now crouched next to her trembling form with a mask of concern pinned securely atop the monstrous reality that was his face. 

She quickly and subtly checked her occlumency defenses—still firmly intact, thankfully. It was good to know that the Cruciatus had done nothing to them. 

“Why must you force my hand?” he asked, his voice deadly soft as he brushed her sweaty hair behind one ear. “My only purpose is to help you, Megara. I do not suggest things because they are enjoyable, but because you need to know them. Unpleasant as they are, these so-called ‘Unforgivable’ curses are valuable tools. You never know when you might stumble into a situation dire enough to require their use.” 

She felt his dark gaze scanning her face, and though he gave no outward indication of it, she knew he wanted to smile. 

He had enjoyed hurting her. It must have been cathartic to finally take his frustrations out on someone after so many years without his body or wand. 

A large, cool hand began to stroke her back, moving up and down in what were probably meant to be soothing motions. 

“Y-you…” Meg stuttered out. There was no need to play up her shock or pain; despite the whirling gears of her mind, her body struggled to catch up. 

Tom smiled sadly and inched closer. “One must know how some spells feel to better discern when their use is necessary. You would have been more prepared had you allowed me to fully explain before shutting down the conversation with insults.”

When Meg just stared at him wordlessly, she caught a flicker of irritation behind his eyes. 

“Get up,” he ordered, his voice soft but unyielding. “We still have a few hours left in our lesson.”

“I was just hit with the Cruciatus,” protested Meg weakly as he hauled her to her feet. “Give me a minute.” 

Riddle was unmoved. “In a real conflict,” he said, leaving her swaying form and walking to the other side of the duelling circle, “your enemy will not wait for you to recover. We will continue.” 

Meg didn’t have another chance to protest before he sent a bolt of yellow light at her chest.

Hours later she lay on the floor of the empty Gryffindor girls’ dorm and stared at the ceiling with wet cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. To rid herself of the sweat and lingering burn of the curse she had taken a long bath, and now her dripping-wet hair was making a small puddle underneath her head.

She was lucky that every other Gryffindor girl in first year had gone home for the holiday break. 

It allowed her to finally lie down in the center of the room and weep.

Not necessarily sad tears, or even ones of fright.

Tears of relief. Quiet sobs mingled with aftershocks and exhaustion.

The weight of uncertainty was gone. The truth was terrible and terrifying, of course, but at least she was no longer guessing. Now, she could finally plan ahead.

Voldemort was weak. Vulnerable. This was her best chance at studying his weak spots and habits before he regained his body and became a much more immediate threat. 

So, just for this year, she would soak up all the information she could. Watch him. Ensure he continued tiring himself out every night so he couldn’t run out of patience and attack Harry in his sleep.

Was her plan foolish and reckless? Yes. 

But perhaps that’s why she’d been put in Gryffindor. Foolish and Reckless was practically their motto.

With such a wildly unexpected move on Riddle’s part, she needed to ensure the plot remained as close to canon as possible. It was too early to change too much, so everything else needed to stay the same if she was going to continue meeting him. 

Relief was soon replaced with dread.  

Everything else needed to stay the same. At least for this year.

She needed to let them go through that trap door. To let them look into Flamel and the Stone. 

But they didn’t have to go alone. If she couldn’t direct them toward a different path, she would walk the dangerous one with them and be their shield whenever necessary. 

She pushed herself upright and a groan escaped her lips when her muscles protested loudly. 

It was nearly 4:30 in the morning, and her body was punishing her for every minute she remained awake. She could scheme more in the morning.

________________________________________________________

Meg’s Christmas began with the sound of Ron shouting from the bottom of the stairs past eleven—which meant she’d slept nearly eight hours without a single nightmare. With a pained but surprisingly well-rested groan, she managed to roll out of bed and trudge down the stairs where Ron waited, practically vibrating with excitement. 

“Happy Christmas, Meg!” he said when she came into view. 

She echoed the sentiment around a yawn and plopped herself on the couch with her wand out. She’d seen the presents piled beneath the tree in the common room upon her return from the Room of Requirement, and she was mentally prepared to take the job of the human trash can.

At home, all the wrappings and ribbons and tags had been snatched up by her dad and shoved in his trusty garbage sack before they hit the ground.

A faint smile found its way onto her lips at the memory. 

She looked up when Harry descended the stairs.

“Happy Christmas, Harry!” exclaimed Ron excitedly, “come on, we’ve got to open our presents; I arranged them all into piles already—yours is the middle one!” 

Harry looked positively floored. “I… I’ve got presents?” he gasped.

Meg’s eye twitched.

One day, she was going to murder Petunia and Vernon Dursley. With her bare hands. 

“What did you expect, turnips?” laughed Ron, who didn’t see Harry shrug as if to say, ‘even that much would’ve been a stretch’.

Meg took a calming breath and gestured at the pile with a smile. 

“Come here,” she said kindly, “you can’t open them from across the room, now can you?

She had to admit, she was excited to see him open them. His ‘Fairy Godmother’ had splurged quite a bit on his behalf. 

Of course, without access to her full inheritance, she had to make do with the small allowance Lavinia sent and therefore was unable to get him everything she had hoped to, but it was good enough for now. 

Golden eyes watched as the young boy rushed to the pile and picked the first one off the top—his first real Christmas present ever. Not some junk from the Dursleys, not something from that one Christmas with his parents, but a real present he could open and enjoy himself.

Meg schooled her expression. She knew that wrapping paper. She had a roll of it hiding under her bed upstairs. 

When Harry read the tag, though, his brows furrowed. 

“Are Fairy Godmothers a common thing for wizards?” he asked suddenly. 

Ron looked up from his half-unwrapped maroon sweater and frowned. 

“I don’t think so,” said the ginger-haired boy. “It’s not something I’ve ever heard of.” 

 Both boys’ heads swiveled toward Meg, who had fixed a confused frown onto her face. 

“Fairy godmothers are just in fairy tales, Harry,” she said with faux innocence. “I mean, godmothers are real, but a fairy godmother? I don’t think that’s common, even in the magical world. It’s probably just someone sending you something under a false name.” 

“But… why?” wondered Harry, sounding conflicted and looking just a tad lost. “Why not just put their name?” 

Meg’s chest tightened. She didn’t want to out herself with that yet. He knew her true age now, but the gifts from his ‘Fairy Godmother’ could perhaps be a source of comfort until Sirius was able to step in as his actual godparent. She still looked eleven, and she knew she couldn’t—nor did she have the right—hold space as a parental figure in his life. When Sirius was out of Azkaban and cleared, she’d phase the gifts out and replace them with things under her own name. The things Sirius would give would undoubtedly erase any thought of her from his mind.

“There could be a million reasons they could’ve done that,” said Meg, “but I don’t think they’d refer to themselves as your ‘Fairy Godmother’ if they had bad intentions.”

Harry considered that for a moment. 

“They got me presents for my birthday, too,” he said softly. “Clothes and a new bed and sweets and stuff. It was…” He looked embarrassed. “They left it in my bedroom. You don’t think I’m being followed, do you?”

Meg scoffed softly and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t think so, Harry. I think someone just wanted to get you new things for your birthday, and now they want to get you something for Christmas. Don’t overthink it.” 

“I have no way to thank them, though.”

“Yes you do,” countered Meg warmly. “You can thank whoever it is by accepting and enjoying your gifts. Now go on, I’m curious what this mysterious friend got you.”

Harry stared at the present for another long minute before he finally began to open it. He didn’t rip the paper, like Ron was doing with his things; instead, he opened it in the same careful way Alicia List used to insist on so she could reuse the paper for the next year. 

The memory made her heart hurt. 

When he finally removed all the wrapping and opened the box, Harry’s jaw dropped. 

Inside sat a pair of brand new shoes. 

Air Jordans, to be exact. Pure white trainer with black and red accents. 

“Dudley was begging for a pair of these…” she heard Harry whisper in awe, “but Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon said no for some reason.” 

“Is that so?” said Meg, feigning confusion. “What a coincidence.” 

It wasn’t a coincidence at all. 

Tilly had overheard Dudley’s tantrum when she dropped off Harry’s present that night. And the multiple times she’d gone to check on him over the last month of summer.

So, yeah, her present was borne out of just a little pettiness. For the first time, Harry had something that Dudley wanted but couldn’t get. 

“These are really expensive,” Harry said. “I saw them in Dudley’s catalogue—they’re at least one hundred fifty pounds.” 

Meg whistled lowly. 

“Pricey,” she commented. “This Fairy Godmother must really like you.” 

Harry’s expression slowly morphed into a fragile smile. He blinked several times before reaching for the next package: a slightly lumpy one with red wrapping. 

“I think I know who that one’s from,” said Ron, turning slightly pink as he munched on a peppermint. “My mum. I told her you didn’t expect any presents and—oh, no, she’s made you a Weasley sweater,” he groaned when Harry opened it to find an emerald green sweater and a box of homemade fudge.

Meg smiled and turned to the small pile before her. 

It seemed Tilly had, once again, ignored her request for no presents, and had sent her an original clothbound copy of The Hobbit, signed by J.R.R. Tolkien himself. 

She had to admit, it made her choke up just a little bit. Her mom used to read The Hobbit to her when she was young. 

With the book was a box of some caramel and chocolate covered pretzel sticks. Her mom used to make them every Christmas season; Meg wasn’t much of a sweet tooth, but those were always an exception.

Meg had to blink away tears before picking up the next present: a box of Peppermint Toads from Hermione. 

She had just bitten into one when Harry unwrapped the gift labeled with her name. Inside, he found a broomstick care kit.

Around the treat she snarked, “If you’re gonna zoom around on one of those death sticks, you might as well take care of the damn thing.” 

Ron cackled loudly as he opened the gift she’d gotten him: a chocolate frog card and a package of licorice wands. He was confused for all of two seconds until he saw that it was a Ptolemy card: the very last one he needed for a complete set. 

As she watched him dance for joy, she silently resolved to get him Pokemon cards next Christmas. Or was Pokemon even a thing yet?

Finally there was only one gift between the three of them. 

One for Harry. 

Meg knew what it was before it slithered to the floor, looking like a gleaming silver puddle. Ron gasped. 

“I’ve heard of those,” he said in a hushed voice, the box of Every Flavor Beans slipping from his hands. “If that’s what I think it is… they’re really reare, and really valuable.” 

“What is it?” asked Harry. He picked the cloak off the floor and studied it closely.

“An Invisibility Cloak,” answered Meg, her voice a small croak. Her eyes remained glued to the object, bringing with it pure dread. 

One of the Deathly Hallows. Only feet away. Another was currently clutched in Dumbledore’s aged, meddling hands somewhere in the school. And the last was in a small town… something Hangleton, she was pretty sure. Buried beneath the floorboards of the deserted Gaunt shack. 

All three Hallows. They were so close. Would it be safer to collect the ring as soon as possible? Keep it hidden in a safe place until she finally had a tool to destroy it? 

She shook off the thought. None of the three were going anywhere, so it could afford to be a worry for another day. 

“Try it on,” gasped Ron excitedly. 

Harry put the Cloak around his shoulders, turned to the mirror, and gasped. Just as Meg expected, only his head was still visible, and the rest of his body had completely vanished. 

“There’s a note!” exclaimed Ron suddenly. “A note fell out of it!” 

Harry pulled the cloak from his shoulders and plucked the letter from the floor. There was no address on the outside other than Harry’s name. 

“‘Your father left this in my possession before he died’,” he read aloud as Ron pulled the Cloak from Harry’s grasp and began to admire it. “‘It is time it was returned to you. Use it well. A very Merry Christmas to you’.” He frowned and looked at the back, then at the message again. 

“There’s no signature,” he said softly. 

“Here,” offered Meg, “let me see.”

 Harry handed over the paper without argument. Meg scanned Dumbledore’s note, and her frown sharpened when she only found what Harry had read. 

Why had James Potter given the Cloak to Dumbledore in the first place? Had he offered it, or had Dumbledore asked for it? If he’d asked, what reason had he given? Would that reason have been the truth? 

She fought a frustrated snarl and handed it back. 

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I think it really was your dad’s.” 

Harry hesitated. “You think, or you know?” 

“I know.” 

Before Harry could interrogate her more, Fred and George Weasley burst in through the portrait hole wearing Santa hats and their Weasley sweaters. Meg snatched the Clock from Ron and shoved it under a couch cushion that she then sat on. There was no telling what the twins would do if they got their hands on an Invisiblity Cloak, and Meg was not keen to find out. 

She rolled her eyes when George shoved a Santa hat on her head before doing the same to Harry and Ron, who were quickly forced into their sweaters.

The real cherry on top was when Percy came to investigate, and Fred and George shoved the sweater over his head. They didn’t bother with the sleeves, which resulted in poor Percy (whose sweater, according to the grinning Fred, did not read P for Percy, but for Prefect instead), being frog-marched back to his dorm to get dressed for the day while being instructed (not asked) to sit with his family instead of the prefects for the holiday.

Christmas Dinner for British people did not take place at the end of the day, much to Meg’s surprise. It was at two in the afternoon, and it was unlike anything she’d ever seen in her life. 

When the bell finally tolled two and they made their way to the Great Hall, Meg found that unlike Christmas dinners with the List family, there was no ham. Or sweet potato casserole, or monkey bread, or peppermint pie—all of which her family used to fight over like the dogs in A Christmas Story. 

That did not mean, however, that it was an unpleasant affair.

On the contrary. 

It was the most insane Christmas feast she’d ever seen in her life. Before her lay at least a hundred large turkeys; mountains of roast and boiled potatoes; patters of pork sausages; dishes upon dishes of peas, gravy, and cranberry sauce. Littered among the plates were stacks of small tube-shaped packages that Ron soon explained were called Christmas crackers, and they functioned similar to a wishbone: two people each take an end and yank it apart, and whoever comes away with the largest piece gets the prize inside. 

The real Christmas joy, however, was the people present. And all those who were not present. 

Like Quirrell. 

Quirrell, citing a headache, had decided not to come down for the meal.

Which was just as well, because Meg knew that maintaining her cool after the night before would be impossible. Not just because he was Riddle in disguise, but because he’d fucking tortured her.

Aside from him, everyone still present in the castle had joined. And every staff member was drinking like it was five o’clock. Dumbledore’s usual floppy hat had been swapped out with a floral bonnet, Hagrid was red-faced and looking like a giant brown-haired version of Santa, Flitwick was giggling at his own jokes—even McGonagall, the most strict person Meg had ever met, was tispy.

When the Christmas pudding was brought in, Meg was very disappointed to find that while the staff got a version with brandy in it, the students got a non-alcoholic version. 

She was not an alcoholic. Never had been. 

But watching Snape of all people finally relax after a glass of sherry while she had to remain alert and high-strung and still recovering from the aftereffects of the Cruciatus? 

Well, she would’ve willingly stabbed someone for just a single sip of wine. (Let’s not get into the war crimes she would’ve committed for a quality glass of whiskey or rum.)

After the meal she’d been given little choice but to join Harry and the Weasleys for a big snowball fight that lasted most of the afternoon. She was reluctant to join at first… then Percy managed to hit her square in the face and knocked her on her ass.

Then it was war. 

Nobody was certain of teams or winners, but when they returned hours later they were all wet, freezing, pink-cheeked, and exhausted.

Then came Christmas supper—a smaller meal made from the leftovers of Christmas dinner. There were turkey sandwiches and potatoes and all the foods they hadn’t been able to finish earlier. 

Sometime between supper and dessert, Hagrid proposed a Christmas carol sing-a-long. The idea was a hit, and so they pressed pause on the trifle and cake and Hagrid began to bellow out Joy to the World. 

Everyone but Snape and Meg joined in—probably for similar, grief-related reasons. Instead of singing, they both became very interested in their food and drinks. Snape was lucky enough to have a drink. Meg was not. She had to bear it while stone-cold sober. 

First, they started with the standard songs: Silent Night, O Come All Ye Faithful, Jingle Bells. Then came the more magical ones, like God Rest ye Merry Hippogriffs. 

She could handle those. They were common enough that she wasn’t bombarded with memories every time she heard them.

And then came the song. 

Sung by people who had once been nothing but a fiction, surrounded by holiday festivities without the people she wanted and missed more than anything. 

“Have yourself a merry little Christmas… Let your heart be light. Next year all our troubles will be out of sight.” 

Meg visibly stiffened. Her grip on the cider in her hand turned white.

This very song—always the Judy Garland version—had once been played on Christmas Eve as they all sat by the fireplace in their Christmas pajamas and just… talked. Basked in the company of family. 

It was their yearly ritual.  

“Have yourself a merry little Christmas… Make the Yuletide gay. Next year all our troubles will be miles away.”

Meg’s nose itched. Memories pressed on her firm mental shields, memories she had kept firmly tucked away so as not to break down and ruin Harry’s first Christmas away from the Dursleys.

“Once again as in olden days, happy golden days of yore…”

Her niece’s clumsily decorated sugar cookie. 

Her mother’s awkward laugh when they all realized how overboard she’d gone with the bourbon in the eggnog. 

Watching her brothers open the presents she had spent months saving for. The smiles on their faces. The gifts they shoved at her in return. Not expensive—nobody had the money for expensive gifts—but priceless to her nonetheless. 

Those days had truly been golden.

The love had been tangible, then. She wished she had savored it more. 

“Faithful friends who are dear to us will be near to us once more.”

The last time she’d seen her childhood best friend was just before she’d left for Christmas vacation. They were supposed to meet for lunch just after Easter to catch up. 

“Someday soon we all will be together, if the Fates allow–” 

Meg could hardly breathe. They’d never be together again. Her dad would never carry her from the couch to bed after she fell asleep during a movie. No more birthday pancakes. No more Valentine’s Day flowers from her father and brothers because for their family, it was a day for all kinds of love—not just romantic. 

“Until then, we’ll have to muddle through somehow.” 

She’d been muddling through for almost twelve years now. 

Grief was exhausting. Yes, it was love persevering, but it seemed to persevere for the sole reason of stabbing her in the heart every chance it got.

Why had she stayed at school over the break again? Why didn’t she go back to Gewinnan where Lavinia would ignore the holiday in favor of Yule and Tilly knew everything that hurt too much to handle?

She thought she could do this. She thought she was strong enough to sit through a holiday so saturated with memories.

How wrong she’d been.

“So have yourself a merry little Christmas now…”

The song died out, and Meg’s glassy gaze slid to the brandy sitting in front of Snape. He picked it up and downed what was left of the drink, and in the process, accidentally made eye contact. 

For a moment, it was like looking in a mirror. 

This day marked at least a decade without someone (or multiple someones) they cared for most in the world. Even if Snape had fucked up every single step of the way, Meg knew that Lily Evans had been a huge part of his life, even when they were no longer friends. To lose someone who occupied that much space left a hole that could never be completely filled.

She broke the contact first in favor of the juice inside her cup and ignored the eyes that lingered with suspicion and curiosity.

A glance at her watch told her that the festivities would probably last for no more than another hour. Meg could do that. Just a few more minutes. 

She tried thinking of what she would do when meeting with Riddle that night. How she acted after the night before would determine the success of her ruse these next months. She couldn’t seem too unaffected or he’d grow suspicious, but he’d think her too weak if she acted too afraid or skittish. 

“I’ll be home for Christmas… you can plan on me.” 

An invisible fist grabbed Meg’s heart and gave it a violent yank. She gripped the table to steady herself. 

“Please have snow, and mistletoe, and presents on the tree.” 

The room swam slightly. 

“Christmas Eve will find me, where the lovelight gleams…”

She glanced at the door and tried to think of how best to slip out without being followed. 

“I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.” 

Nope. Subtlety could go fuck itself. 

She climbed out from her place between Percy and the very distracted Ron and rushed to the doors. Thankfully, they were already opened a crack and she was able to slip right through.

The singing didn’t falter behind her. 

I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams…

A tear finally slipped free and pulled a strangled half-sob half-snarl of frustration from her throat. 

Of course, Hagrid picked the two most painful songs in the world to sing back-to-back. Tomorrow, she’d go straight down to his hut and strangle him herself.

Once she reached the dormitory, she sat atop her bed and stared at the small tree one of the Elves had put by the window. Its multicolored lights seemed to mock her. 

Another year. No driving around the neighborhood to look at the lights. None of the inside jokes and homemade eggnog with extra bourbon. No ham. No Christmas pajamas. No being woken up at sunrise by her niece or brother to take pictures on the stairs in their pajamas while Frank Sinatra floated from the bluetooth speaker. 

Her father hadn’t been waiting with the trash bag. Her mother hadn’t shoved a camera in her face. 

She’d spent ten years ignoring Christmas altogether because it hurt too much to remember. Too afraid that anything but Christmas with her family would be the thing that finally broke her. 

She’d been right. 

The Cruciatus hurt less than the ache of loss that had punched a hole in her chest.

Her eyes stung with unshed tears. She blinked them away before the could fall. 

Oh, what she wouldn’t give to go home, to see her family again and be that girl again. To live the rest of her life believing that magic and wizards and witches were only on the screen and the page. To hold her family again. To wake up in her childhood bed with the smell of breakfast wafting from downstairs, just as it had when he was young. 

But she knew, when she opened her eyes in a few hours, she would still be in the same four-poster bed. And it would hurt just as much. 

She would get up, walk to the portrait hole, disillusion herself, and sneak to the Room of Requirement to meet her worst enemy and pretend to be completely clueless long and convincingly enough for him to exhaust himself. 

Her clock chimed softly and a curse escaped her lips. 

“Time to face evil incarnate,” she grumbled, before pulling out her wand to disillusion herself.

That night, Riddle seemed determined to push her. Like a test of some sorts. 

Judging by the smirk on his face when she left at two a.m., she passed. 

With how exhausted she was—physically and emotionally—it better have been worth it. 

She was trudging back toward Gryffindor Tower when she saw it. 

A door at the far end of the hall opened, but nothing seemed to come out before it closed. Then the sound of soft footsteps. Meg followed the sound all the way to the base of the tower and waited until she heard the Fat Lady let someone in. 

Harry. It had to be Harry under the Cloak. 

She’d figure out why he was out and about in the first place later, but for now… 

She rushed back to the room as quickly as she could. The halls were practically deserted, save for the one time she had to duck into a corner and pray her charm was good enough as Snape and Filch passed by, looking for a student out of bed. Otherwise, though, there was nothing to stop her. 

When they were gone, she finally managed to slip into the room.

And there it was. 

The Mirror of Erised.

Sitting by the far end of the room like it wasn’t about to break her heart. She lowered the disillusionment charm and took a step closer before hesitating. 

“Just once,” she breathed, gathering her courage. “Just tonight. Then I’ll be satisfied.” 

A part of her knew she was lying to herself. The louder part didn’t care. 

It took a moment for the image to appear. When it did, a sound escaped her lips that sounded more like a weak, wounded animal than a human. 

There they stood. 

Her parents, arms around each other with the matching wedding bands on their left ring fingers gleaming in the light of the full moon shining through the window behind her. To the left of them was Jordan, dressed in scrubs—he’d finished school and achieved his dream. Next to them were Jeremy and Emma with bright smiles on their faces. Jeremy pressed a kiss to Emma’s cheek, who giggled and swatted at him but didn’t pull away.

Standing in front of them was a little girl. Maggie, her mini-me, hair wild and eyes bright, clung to her legs in a manner not unlike a very energetic koala.

And on her right stood a tall, healthy teenage boy. His eyes still had life in them. He wore a shirt from his dream university.

“Andy.” The sound was raw, more of a low croak than anything. 

Andy’s image nodded at her own reflection, and that was when the tears finally began to fall. 

Megara Le Fay was nowhere to be seen. In her place was Margaret Rosemary List, her pin-straight chestnut hair shining and more beautiful than she had ever given it credit for. The soft, curvy body she’d once despised was now a most welcome sight. 

And her eyes. 

Not golden. Not sharp and odd and just plain wrong.

They were blue. Gentle and round and the most vibrant sapphire she’d ever seen. 

“You were beautiful,” Meg breathed, watching Margaret’s lips move in sync with her own. “I never truly saw myself as I really was, but now I do. Only when it’s too late.” A bitter laugh escaped. “At least I’ve still got some of the same features. Same mouth, same nose. Same general face shape. Same eyebrows.”

She moved and her reflection moved with her. Thinking ahead, Meg quickly pulled out her wand and silenced the room with a muttered, ‘muffliato’.

The image of Alicia put a hand on Margaret’s shoulder. Meg instinctively reached for her in return, only for her fingers to meet air. She shook herself. 

“I know you’re not real,” she told her family. “You’re just a projection of what I want more than anything: to see you all again, to talk to you just one last time. To see that you’re going to be okay without me, even though I saw that you weren’t and probably won’t ever be okay again.”

She looked up at her dad, whose eyes were brimming with tears. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said as she took a step closer, “I know I’m not actually telling you, but I need to say it to your face just… just once, that it was the Le Fays who did this to me, Dad. They targeted me, they would’ve done what they did no matter where I was or what I was doing. You sending me out was not the cause, and I have never blamed you. Not for a single second.”

Her voice shook, and she let the tears fall freely now. If they were crawling down her cheeks they weren’t blurring her vision; if it was a choice between seeing her family or not having raccoon eyes in the morning, the decision was very easy.

“And Andy…” A small sob escaped her when his eyes snapped to her. His bright, youthful, alive eyes. No trace of pain, or withdrawal or addiction or fear. Just Andy, looking much older than the age he’d died at. This was her little brother if he had never lost her. A little brother who got into his dream school and lived the life she always wanted him to have.

This was Andy if she had managed to protect him. If she had been there to do her job as his big sister.

“Oh, Andy, I’m so sorry I left you,” she choked out. She brought up a trembling hand to where his cheek should’ve been, only for her hand to meet the cool glass of the mirror. “I ne– never meant to. I never meant to leave any of you. Those monsters, they… they took control of my body, made me watch. But I fought them. I beat it, even! But they, uh… they were prepared for that. Forced that truck driver to hit the gas instead of the brake.

“They seemed to think giving me magic made up for ripping me away from you—not that they knew I remembered my past life. But one thing that was very obvious from the start was that they didn’t understand love at all. Magic is wonderful and amazing, and I’d love to show you—the real you—the things I can do now. But I’d rip this power from me without a second thought if it meant getting back to you. To be Margaret again.”

The energy she’d felt but a moment before faltered. She sat on the cold stone floor. The reflections of her family sat with her. 

“I spent ten years cooking up this big grand plan to destroy their lives and legacy right in front of their eyes before killing them just as slowly and painfully as they murdered me. Y’know, as vengeance. But stupid fucking dragon pox got to them first.” 

She sniffled and wiped her tears with her sleeve. 

“Then Lavinia forced me to move here, to England, of all places. I’m surrounded by the British everywhere I turn.” 

Jordan’s reflection made a face that made Meg giggle, though she quickly sobered. 

“I think you’d be proud of me, Mom,” she managed to say. “I found a little boy, one who was scared and alone and dressed in rags. I’m going to take care of him. Not just keep him alive, no. I’m going to make sure he’s happy and healthy and emotionally safe as well as physically, because his aunt and uncle are doing a shit job at it. I got him a new bed and some clothes for his birthday, and some Air Jordans for Christmas—though he doesn’t know they’re from me. Just his ‘Fairy Godmother’. His name is Harry. Harry Potter.” 

The reflections of her family sat up straighter. 

“Yes, like the books,” she said with a sigh. “I think Rowling was able to see through universes or something and wrote it down, maybe? Then it got turned into movies, which only confused it all more. Some people look like their movie counterparts, and some don’t. For example, Harry only kinda looks like the actor who played him, but Professor McGonagall is the spitting image of Dame Maggie Smith.

“Anyway, the point is that I’m stuck in the children’s book series that I used to be obsessed with, and it’s only book one out of seven, so I’ve got a lot of shit to look forward to. Oh, and Jeremy? I was right all along: Snape is a fucking asshole. I’m right, you’re wrong. Suck it.” 

She caught a glimpse of her father’s frown, and the sight was enough to bring tears back to her eyes. 

“Sorry. I shouldn’t… not when this time is so limited. Even if you’re not even–”

She couldn’t bring herself to say they weren’t real another time. 

Instead, she did what she used to do when calling home from school: debrief them. 

“Remember those old Pottermore Sorting Hat quizzes I used to force us all to take?” she asked softly. “I always got Slytherin or Ravenclaw. But when I actually put that hat on my head here, it said that my uh, my desire to do the right thing ‘overshadows my ambition, my desire for knowledge, and even loyalty’. Which is to say… I’m in Gryffindor.” 

She saw her dad’s reflection throw his head back in a laugh. Her mother grinned and shook her head, like she’d already known. Jeremy looked confused. Jordan was shaking his head in disbelief. She could see Emma mouthing, ‘but Ravenclaw??’; little Maggie didn’t understand, but she could see that Meg was smiling, so she followed suit. And Andy’s face was scrunched up in disbelief. 

“I’m sorry, is that so hard to believe, you little shit?” 

Andy shrugged with a mischievous grin. 

“Well… screw you too, kid.” 

Andy feigned offense, but she watched him dissolve into laughter. 

“There’s that smile,” she breathed around soft chuckles. “I missed that. I only wish I could hear you too.” 

She drank in the sight of her family smiling and laughing and having fun. 

This was the last memory she had wanted of them. A happy one. Not the sounds of them falling apart. 

She continued talking to them for hours, telling them almost everything that had happened to her since coming there. She didn’t mention Voldemort or her nightly lessons, though. Or about her plans to intervene with the timeline outside protecting Harry. Though they weren’t really her family, she didn’t want to see how concerned and upset they’d be if they knew she was getting her hands so dirty.

She wanted her last image of them to be one without pain. Without worry.

Eventually, all things must end, and Meg cut herself off mid-sentence when the silver light of the moon began to turn pink.

“The sun’s coming up,” she realized, looking at the window. “I’ve been here almost all night. I… I need to go before people realize I’m…” 

Her gaze moved back to the mirror. To the people who held her heart.

“I don’t want to go.” 

Her mother looked at her as if to say, I know, baby. But you must.

Meg’s shoulders slumped. 

She felt the tears returning as she got back to her feet. 

“I can’t come back,” she choked out. “If I do I’ll never leave, and if someone comes to move it while I’m gone, I… this needs to be on my terms. Does that make sense?” 

Her dad nodded and smiled softly, eyes shining. Jeremy’s reflection put an arm around Margaret’s and squeezed before stepping back to let Jordan give her a similar embrace. Emma brought her fist to the glass, and Meg laughed as she gave her a little fist bump. Little Maggie demanded they do their secret handshake—the parts could be done against a mirror, at least.

It wasn’t real, but if Meg concentrated hard enough, she could almost feel them. 

Then her mom then pressed a kiss to Margaret’s temple and tucked a stray chunk of hair that had fallen from her ponytail behind her ears. 

Her dad put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her crown before mouthing something. She didn’t catch it the first time, but she did the second: 

We love you. We’re proud of you.

Finally, it was Andy’s turn. He hugged her reflection and rested his head on her shoulder. Then, he met her eyes and smiled. Not a sad smile. A peaceful, contented smile. 

One that said I’m going to be okay.

The tears began to build again. 

“I love you,” she whispered, the sound barely audible. “Good–” 

The word got stuck in her throat.  

“Goodbye.” 

She took another moment to memorize their smiles, to memorize her own face—the face she would never see again. To etch the sight of her family happy, healthy, and together into her mind and keep it safe forever. 

Little Maggie was picked up by her mother and gave an adorable little wave.

Meg sucked in a trembling breath, forced a smile, and walked away from her family for the last time.