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gonzoclock · 6 months ago

Note

Do you have any fun deleted scenes or scrapped ideas from your fics? I know whenever I start writing a fanfiction they always evolve until I’ve all but scrapped the original premise. Also huge fan of your work, thanks for being such a huge inspiration to me!

Boy do I ever! (And as such this is going to be a LONG post, so buckle in.) (Also full of VERY OLD VERY FIRST DRAFT writing. Fair warning and all.)

In James Potter, Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew, (pause for breath) and the Prisoner of Azkaban I initially was going to just... keep writing. Have Regulus be back, explore the ramifications of that, etc. Unfortunately it was just... boring. So boring. So I scrapped it and decided to cut it down to where it currently ends. And trust me, that's for the best. That said, here is a sample of what that could have looked like (ft. a conversation between brothers):

Regulus takes a deep breath in through his nose. He needs to calm down, or he’s going to fall over.

“Okay,” he says, opening his eyes. “Alright. Who’s Lord Black?”

“Me,” Sirius says, then pauses. “Uh, old me, I mean. I call him Senior, but he hates that.”

Regulus makes a note in his head to call old Sirius Senior, then immediately dismisses the notion. If Sirius, old Sirius is really Lord Black, then Regulus needs to be respectful. Even if the idea gives him hives.

“I need to talk to him, then,” Regulus decides. “Right now.”

“Are you sure?” Potter cuts in. “You could take a couple days? Term has already started, but it’s only been a week- you could get resorted and all settled into school, and then talk to Old Man Sirius?”

Regulus is shaking his head before the older boy can even finish talking. “No, I need to talk to Lord Black. He’ll tell me what to do.”

“You are not going to be impressed with him,” Sirius warns. “Because- and I cannot emphasize this enough- he’s me. He’s treating the title like I would, Reg.”

Regulus takes a second to let himself feel horrified, then shakes his head again. “Still,” he decides. “It would make me feel better. I need- I need to see the house.”

“Alright,” Sirius sighs. “Okay. We need to get you cleared by Madam Pomfrey, but then we can go.”

Regulus hesitates, then nods.

“And- Regulus?” Sirius asks. Regulus braces himself. “He’ll probably freak out a bit when he sees you. It’s been around thirteen years for him since you died, and, well. He’s me.”

“Ah,” Regulus says. He thinks for a moment about how he’d react if he found out Sirius had died, and decides instead to think about literally any other thing.

“We’ll go get Pomfrey,” Lily says, tugging Potter with her. Regulus watches them go, then blinks.

“Hang on, why are they here? They weren’t on the Tapestry.”

“Oh,” Sirius says, then laughs. “The Tapestry was your origin story, Reggie. Me and James came from a magical Map, and Lily and Severus came from a book. The Philosopher’s Stone reacts to Blood Magic in a really fascinating way, yeah?”

“You- Severus?”

Sirius and Severus’s rivalry is legendary. And by rivalry, Regulus does mean bullying. It’s bullying.

Sirius sighs. “Yeah. We have to be friends now- or Lily and James will cry on us. Neither of us are very happy about it.”

“You’re not even- you’re not even secretly cruel to him?” Regulus asks, reeling.

“Ha, nah. Turns out- and Reg, I will absolutely not hesitate to cram you back into that Tapestry if you go spreading this around- but it turns out that he’s… not a bad bloke. Just a bit prickly.”

Regulus sits back down on the bed, stunned. Sirius pats his back in commiseration.

Regulus doesn’t even care that much about Severus, or who he’s friends with. What he does care about is that, apparently his brother is capable of… growing? And changing as a person?

Maybe Regulus should re-examine his own views, since apparently nothing is sacred and anything goes.

Then there's Peter Pettigrew and the Ghost of Christmas James, which initially was going in a WAY different direction, if only because I sort of went into it with like no plan at all. Regulus was going to come into the story way earlier, as he'd just been hanging out at Grimmauld. For no real reason I can remember, either. He was just chillin. Here's some of that:

Peter’s never been to Grimmauld, but based on the stories Sirius had told them about the place, he’d expected darkness and dust and an overwhelming feeling of suffocation.

Instead, the floorplan inside is surprisingly open (with a sitting room to the left and an office to the right, and stairs leading to the next floor just after that), the wooden floors are polished and gleaming, the windows are clean- it’s not cheery, not exactly, but it certainly doesn’t hold any of the doom and gloom Peter had been expecting.

Despite the warmer-than-expected atmosphere, Peter feels very cold all of a sudden. Because not only are things clean, and (dare he think it) welcoming, the house is lit. Which means-

Someone rounds the corner, holding a steaming mug of what is probably tea. At the sight of Peter, Harry, and James still standing in the doorway; he freezes. And then, for a long moment, he simply stares.

Peter just… stares back. He is completely at a loss here. What the hell does he even do- should he be going for his wand? Can he- is this a fight he’s going to be able to win? He has no idea.

What he does know is that he’s getting really rather sick of all these dead people.

“Hey, Regulus,” James finally says, albeit rather weakly. “You’re, uh, looking good.”

Chapter Break

James is right, of course- Regulus is looking good, surprisingly so. He’s wearing a sweater and casual slacks, and his long black curly hair is tied up and out of his face with what seems to be his wand. Around his neck is a chain, with an ornate looking ring strung through it and resting next to what might be an amulet of some kind.

Most impressive of all is, of course, the fact that he’s not dead. In fact, Peter would go so far as to say that he looks very much alive- other than the fact that he seems to have a rather gray-tinged tone to his skin.

Peter almost laughs at the absurdity of it all. What is his life?

Unfortunately, true or not, James’s words break Regulus out of his stupor. In an instant, almost faster than Peter can see, he has his wand out and pointed directly at Peter.

“Drop the boy,” he says, wand unwavering.

Harry’s arms tighten around Peter’s neck at the same time Peter tightens his hold on the kid. His stomach swoops unpleasantly. He doesn’t remember how good Regulus is at dueling, but he doesn’t really want to find out with Harry right here.

“I think the fuck not,” Peter says, keeping his voice as level as he can.

“Yeah, no,” James says, arms folding. “We’re not-”

“Potter, I don’t know why you’re- back, or what’s going on, but you should know that Pettigrew is-”

The fear that had been mounting turns instantly to an icy-cold rage. Hypocrite.

“Is what,” Peter asks. “A Death-Eater? Because if you want to compare forearms, I’d be more than happy to-”

“Oh, fuck off,” Regulus says, glaring. “You know as well as I that the brand has nothing to do with it. One of the two of us is responsible for that child being orphaned, and it’s not me.”

“Maybe we should-” James tries again, but Regulus isn’t done.

“Kreacher, take the Heir to the nursery, please. Keep him safe.”

Peter has the time to tighten his hold on Harry before suddenly he isn’t holding anything at all.

He doesn’t especially remember what happens next- all he knows is that one second, he’s standing empty-handed in the hallway, and the next he’s got Regulus against the wall, wand pressed into his neck. Regulus’s own wand has fallen on the floor in the interim.

“Give him back,” Peter says. The rage, fear, guilt, everything that’s been a near constant for the last week- all of it is gone, leaving nothing but a sickening light-headed feeling in their place.

Regulus’s eyes narrow, but he makes no move other than that.

“I’ll kill you,” Peter says. He’s not bluffing. He couldn’t bluff right now if he wanted to- there’s nothing but cold calculated rationale sitting in his chest right now. If he kills Regulus, they can start tearing the house apart looking for Harry. If-then, cause-and-effect. Easy-peasy.

Something in his eyes must show his thought process to Regulus. He swallows once- then forcibly relaxes his face again. “What makes you think it’ll stick this time?” Regulus asks. “Didn’t last time.”

Peter is about to cast a cutting curse to Regulus’s throat to test that theory when-

“Regulus,” James says.

And in an instant, the fear is back. Peter can’t help it- he tenses up. Regulus does too- and his eyes widen, looking over Peter’s shoulder.

James’s tone is the cheeriest Peter has heard it be in a long time. But Peter doesn’t think that’s what Regulus is worried about, since to anyone but a Marauder James would simply sound pleasant rather than terror-inducing.

Peter risks a look behind him- and then he throws himself back from Regulus, pressing his own back to the wall across from him.

To the outside observer, it would look like James hasn’t changed at all- still just a ghost in a white sheet, with those two infernal eye holes cut out of it.

But there’s- Peter had thought those eyes looked like black-holes before, but that’s nothing compared to now. He can’t look away- James looks somehow both smaller than he is, and larger than anything else in the house. It’s like he’s turned himself into a point at the center of the universe, the pinprick before the big-bang.

Peter has never had the misfortune of running into a Dementor, but he thinks that being kissed by one might feel something like how he feels now, just looking at James from fifteen feet away.

“Bring my son back to me, please,” James continues.

Regulus licks his lips, then clears his throat. “Kreacher, will you- bring the Heir back to us, now?”

Just as quickly as Harry had been torn away from him, Harry is suddenly back in Peter’s arms. Peter can’t help it- he sinks to the floor, gathering the kid close. His heart slows considerably at the familiar weight of the boy in his arms, the feeling of his arms around Peter’s neck.

“Harry, are you okay?” Peter gets out, before he has to take in a huge gasping breath. Huh- he had definitely forgotten to breathe.

“I met a new best friend!” Harry says, seemingly completely unfazed by what’s just happened. “His name is Kreach! Also Wormy, can I be a dragon when I grow up?”

“You can be whatever you want to be, bud,” James says. When had he floated over here? His hand waves through Harry’s hair again. Harry giggles, then rests his head on Peter’s shoulder.

Peter feels somewhat frozen. He just wants to get out of here, out of this place that Harry could be taken from them at any moment for any reason, never to be seen again. At that thought, Peter’s stomach twists. He feels nauseous.

When the fuck did Harry manage to sneak into Peter’s heart? He’s a kid. Peter doesn’t like kids.

Except this one, apparently. Damn it all.

Oh well, something to worry about another day. At least James seems to be back to normal.

“Well,” Regulus says, hand clutching around the ring hanging around his neck. “That was… something. You can leave, now.”

Peter thinks that’s a great plan.

Then there's Regulus Black and the What the Hell, where originally the beginning focused much more on Harry and Luna and their silly hijinks. (Also fun fact: the horcrux in Harry's head was originally pulled out by Luna and turned into a half baby, half snake, which means by the time they got to Regulus he had two children AND a baby to worry about. Fortunately for him, I scrapped that idea.) Oh, and then I also had Regulus deciding to go to Severus Snape, which I managed to write all of one chapter of before realizing it was crazy ooc of him to even consider that lol. I can't find where that is, so I must have deleted it, but it existed once. Anyways, this sample is actually canon compliant with the posted fic, so take that how you will:

“Why- um, why are you here?” Harry asks finally, letting the snake down.

“I followed a light,” Luna responds. Her face crumples again for a second, but then she clearly forces her expression to relax again. “I thought it would take me to my Mummy, but it just took me here.”

“Um,” Harry says. “Okay?”

Luna is staring at him again, her big eyes zeroing in on his forehead.

“Does that hurt?” She asks.

Harry’s hand reflexively reaches up and touches his scar. He runs his fingers over its bumpy spidery lines, zigzagging across a good half of his forehead.

“Sometimes,” Harry says, bringing his hand down.

Luna reaches her own hand up and brushes her fingers over it. Harry holds his breath and sits as still as a statue as he feels her cool fingers run over it. Her brow furrows, and she frowns. She presses her fingers against his head a little harder.

“Um,” Harry starts.

“Sh,” Luna says.

Harrys ‘sh’s.

Luna’s eyes narrow, then she sits back again, looking satisfied. “I think I can fix it,” she decides.

Harry blinks, although his heart is soaring. “Really?”

If Luna can get rid of his scar, maybe the Dursleys won’t think he’s a freak any more!

Luna nods. “It might hurt, though,” she says. “It’s really stuck in there.”

Harry sits back, thinking hard.

“I can manage hurt,” Harry decides. “Do it.”

Luna nods again, face serious. Harry screws his eyes shut as she reaches her hand up again.

At first he doesn’t feel anything other than her feather light fingers on his scar.

Then there's a slight pulling feeling- which very rapidly goes from a gentle tug to an intense feeling of being torn apart from the inside out.

Harry doesn’t cry out, though- Harry’s not sure he could if he wanted to. He doesn’t have the air.

It feels like it lasts hours. Then, with a final snapping sort of sound, the sensation stops and Harry topples over. He feels warmth trickling down from his forehead and down his face, past his eyes and nose and into his mouth. He thinks he tastes blood.

Harry gasps as he opens his eyes.

The girl is on the ground, either fainted or dead. Harry crawls over to her, grabbing at her arms despite the pain pulsing in his head. He props her up on his legs. Her head lolls, and he gives her a little shake to try and get her to open her eyes. She doesn’t- but she does take in a shuddery gasp.

Harry looks around wildly. He doesn’t know what to do, but he needs to do something. He can’t just leave Luna here- if Petunia sees her, she’ll probably lock them both up in Harry’s cupboard.

Instead of finding a solution, Harry freezes as he hears the back door begin to open.

Chapter Break

The back door slams open, so loud that Harry jumps what feels like three feet into the air.

“HEY! Are you out here?”

Harry lets out a long shaky breath as he sees his cousin walk outside, taking the porch steps down into the garden two at a time, and landing as heavily as he can each time.

Dudley isn't ideal, but he's also not Petunia or Vernon. All in all, could be worse.

“Where are you? Mummy said you had to play with me,” Dudley calls, casting around the garden.

Harry doesn’t think that’s true at all- Petunia prefers Dudley to ignore Harry. It’s Vernon who encourages the playing.

Regardless of who it was, though, it doesn’t change the fact that soon Dudley is going to see Harry, and then Luna. Harry gasps.

What if Dudley wants to play with Luna? Dudley’s games hurt, and Luna can’t be hurt! She’s Harry’s best friend.

Harry has maybe seconds before they’re seen- what does he do?

It’s too late. Dudley sees Harry, and his eyes light up.

“What,” he asks, stomping over to where Harry is standing. “Is that?”

Harry tries in vain to position himself in front of Luna.

“Let me see,” Dudley says, stepping forward.

“No,” Harry says.

“What?” Dudley asks, stopping.

Harry can’t blame him- bad things happen when Harry tells his relatives no. Harry knows that, and so do they. So Harry doesn’t say no, not if he can help it.

Harry grits his teeth.

“No,” Harry says, stronger this time. “She’s just pretend.” “No she isn’t,” Dudley says, still looking a bit confused. That’s good- if he’s confused, then he’s not yelling for his parents.

“Yes she is,” Harry says, nodding. “How else could she have gotten here?”

“She coulda climbed the fence,” Dudley says, kicking a lump of grass at the sleeping Luna. It falls just short.

Harry shifts, thinking fast.

“But where would she have come from before that? I pretended her.”

“Well,” Dudley says, developing a shrewd glint in his eye, “if it’s all just pretend, it won’t hurt nothing to let me see. I want to see.”

“No,” Harry says firmly. “I’m pretending she’s poison- if you touch her, you’ll die.”

“That’s not fair,” Dudley says, expression turning thunder-y. “Move!”

He takes another threatening step forward, and Harry takes a reflexive step back. Too late, he realizes that he’s stepped right into one of the holes he’d been digging in the garden. He just manages keep from squashing Luna.

As he lands with a jolt, Luna shifts slightly. Harry looks back at her, then up at the slowly approaching Dudley.

Dudley smiles- it’s a cruel smile, one that Harry knows to mean that someone is about to get kicked, or bit, or hit. Or all three.

Harry is usually alright with that- well, not alright, but it is a fact of life. The only thing is that he’s not the only available target right now- and he can’t let Dudley hurt Luna. He just can’t.

Harry casts around, looking for something- anything- that could be used to keep the girl safe. There’s nothing, nothing but grass and weeds and- and a stick. A twig, really. Harry still reaches for it, then brandishes it up at Dudley.

“Stay back,” Harry says, a bit shakily.

Dudley laughs. “What,” he says. “You gonna cast a magic spell on me? With your fairy wand?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, narrowing his eyes.

Behind him, Luna stirs again. Harry pushes down a wave of panic as Dudley’s eyes flicker to her.

“Yeah,” Harry repeats, waving the stick around a bit. Anything to keep Dudley’s attention on him and not on Luna. “I’ll- I’ll turn you into a bug!”

Dudley gets a perplexed look on his face, then bursts into laughter.

Luna lets out a little groan, then props herself up. Harry’s heart leaps, then sinks again. He doesn’t know if Luna is going to be any help at all.

“Did it work?” she asks, squinting at Harry.

“Who are you?” Dudley asks, sobering up.

“Oh,” Luna says, looking past Harry and over at Dudley. She stands up, albeit a bit unsteadily, to face the boy. “I’m Luna. Who are you?”

“Want to play a game?” Dudley asks, plastering a fake smile on his face and brushing past her question.

“No! Go away!” Harry says, a bit desperately.

“Shut up, freak,” Dudley says, stomping down hard on one of Harry’s legs.

Harry’s vision abruptly goes white, and pain bursts like stars in his head. As the sharp pain recedes, it leaves a pulsing sort of burning pain in its place- Harry can’t be sure, but he thinks his leg might be a bit broken now. It sure feels like a worse version of how his wrist had felt when that had been broken last time.

When his vision clears, Harry realizes that he’s drawn his leg up to his chest. He’s shaking, and his cheeks feel wet- either his scar has started bleeding again, or he’s crying.

“Baby,” Dudley spits.

Harry just glares, biting on the inside of his cheek to keep himself distracted from the pain in his leg.

“What sort of game?” Luna asks, seemingly unbothered by Dudley’s violent outburst.

“It’s called chase,” Dudley says, eyes snapping back to Luna.

“How do you play?”

Harry shakes his head, and Luna’s big blue eyes flicker over to him.

“Easy. You run- I chase,” Dudley says.

“What happens if you catch me?” Luna asks, sticking her hands in the pockets of her overalls.

Dudley smiles. “Nothin,” he says.

Harry shakes his head again, biting down even harder. He thinks his cheek might be bleeding.

“Shut up, freak,” Dudley says, turning to look at Harry again.

Harry can’t help but pull his other leg up too- he wouldn’t put it past Dudley to go for a round two.

Dudley looks about ready to do just that when Luna says, “okay. Sounds fun. When do we start?”

Dudley’s smile is back. “I’ll give you a three second head-start,” he says. “One-”

Luna reaches out, placing a cool hand on the top of Harry’s head.

“Two,” Dudley continues, grin widening.

Harry squeezes his eyes shut.

“Th-”

Chapter Break

“I forgot to ask what happens if we win,” Luna says, frowning.

Harry would respond, but he’s a bit busy dry-heaving onto the ground. The hard-floored, definitely-not-Little-Whinging ground.

“Where are we?” Harry asks, once he feels a little less like his stomach is trying to twist in on itself. Although- his leg does hurt so bad that every time he breathes it sends up little shooting reminders right to the back of his neck and then back down again.

Despite this, Harry looks up to take in his surroundings. They seem to be in a breaking down house, of some kind. It’s dark, and quiet, and dusty, and sort of makes Harry think of his cupboard- safe, but claustrophobic.

For some reason, Luna has started running around the room, waving her hands in big sweeping motions. It looks like she's trying to clear away a bunch of bugs- only Harry doesn't see anything of the sort.

“I dunno,” Luna muses, finally slowing down. “I followed one of your lights again. I feel really tired, now.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “Are you gonna-?”

Luna plops herself onto the ground, then simply lays down and closes her eyes.

“Okay,” Harry says.

That's about it for published fics (the werewolf one has TONS but I haven't finished it yet so I don't want to share anything in case I use it, and my main series was surprisingly straight-forward), but I also have a couple other scraps of things that are otherwise never going to see the light of day, so here's what I have written of the first of those:

Prologue

“They say you’re the best,” says the stranger. Filch doesn’t know who he is, or what he looks like- he’s wearing a too-large hat, and an odd sort of cloak that obscures his features. He’s twirling a stick of some kind between his gloved fingers.

Filch lets out a snort. “I wouldn’t say the best,” he says, “but I am pretty damn good.”

“I’ve heard the stories,” the stranger insists. “If you aren’t the best, I don’t know who’s better.”

“You haven’t done very much research then, son,” Filch says. “And you’d best start doing some now- I’m retired.”

The stranger leans back in his chair. “This one is worth coming out of retirement for,” he says.

Filch can’t help but snort again, nearly choking on the laugh. “I’ve heard that one before.”

The stranger seems to stare at him from underneath that hood, then gets up to leave. “Very well- I’ll see myself out.”

Filch narrows his eyes. No, hang on. “I never said I wouldn’t hear you out,” he says. “I agreed to meet you, didn’t I?”

The stranger doesn’t relax, not quite- but he does settle back. “I thought you might say that.”

“Well?” Filch says, leaning back in his own chair. “Get on with it, then.”

The stranger leans forwards. “Tell me, Detective. Do you believe in magic?”

Chapter One

Argus swears to himself as he trips over a chunk of fallen armor.

The cat chirps at him- he thinks she might be laughing at him.

“Bugger off,” Filch mutters.

The cat meows, twisting around Filch’s legs. He feels a rush of warmness for the thing despite himself- Filch has never been one for animals, but over the last decade he’s grown to appreciate cats in particular. Not that he’d ever willingly admit it to anyone, of course.

“You think you’re so funny,” he grumbles.

The cat chirrups again, then bolts off, leaving Argus to clean up.

It’s hard to believe that Argus has been at this for a decade.

Or rather, hard to believe that it’s been just a decade. Magic notwithstanding, this has been one of the worst cases he’s ever taken on. Argus doesn’t even like children. Much less rich children. And rich magical children? Forget it.

Sure, there's the occasional bright spot in the darkness- that Percy Weasley is almost enough of a good egg to atone for the sins of his brothers.

As if. That’s not even close to true- it would take half a million Percy Weasleys to make up for one Fred, or half of a Charlie.

Argus still doesn’t know how that boy managed to get so many damn baby dragons into the castle, and the fact that that’s on the (extremely short) list of cases he hasn’t been able to crack haunts him to this day.

But that Nymphadora character- well, they’d been a headache and a half to manage, but they're the only student in the last ten years that got even close to recognizing Argus for what he is: namely, a damn good detective.

The fact that they’d then immediately decided to turn Moriarty to his Sherlock is irrelevant- at least the ‘rivalry’ had been entertaining. At times. And the cat liked them well enough, at least.

Enough to help them out on their escapades, even.

On second thought, there are no bright spots and all children are nothing but blights upon the face of the planet.

Argus lets out a long sigh as he drags the bottom half of the suit of armor back to the pedestal.

A decade.

Argus had already been getting on in years when he’d officially retired- and now he’s nearing sixty-two. This case has taken a decade from him. Argus would’ve dropped it long, long ago- if not for the fact that the stakes are so goddamn high.

Well, and the money.

Argus was already pretty well off, but now he’s worth at least a few million dollars. Or he would be if he didn’t keep giving it all away.

Damn bleeding heart- he curses his father every day for passing on that fucking moral compass. Why couldn’t he have gotten his mother’s coldness on top of her brains?

Eh, whatever- it’s not like he needs the money anyhow.

Besides, there is every chance in the world that Charlie Weasley would have stayed on as an assistant to the Care teacher had he not received an ‘anonymous’ grant giving him the means to get to Romania and into the program there- and Argus really would have given up on the case at that point, consequences be damned.

And then the first little bit of a particularly crack-y one:

In Which Kreacher Would Rather Die Than Let the House of Black Fall (And Gets Into a Loving and Committed Relationship With a Dementor About It)

Kreacher has been a staunch defender of the House of Black for millenia. Kreacher is old, even by Elf standards. Kreacher knows the magic, the family, the home, better than anyone else. Ever.

Kreacher also knows that nothing lasts forever.

Walburga Black, Lady Black, is as good as dead. Kreacher feels no one way about this.

Orion Black is dead. Kreacher feels no one way about this.

Sirius Black is imprisoned. Kreacher hates Sirius Black, Kreacher hates him, Kreacher wishes every day that Regulus had been born first, but Kreacher knows that isn’t the way and Kreacher knows that Kreacher hates Sirius for not being his brother more than anything else. And for the last three years, Sirius Black has been in Azkaban. For something he didn’t do, the Heir has no traitorous bone in his body, but nonetheless: Sirius Black is in Azkaban, and Kreacher can do nothing about it.

Regulus Black is dead. Kreacher feels-

Pain.

Besides the point. The Lady is useless, the Heir imprisoned for life, the- the Spare, deceased… there’s no point in denying it. The House of Black is ending.

Kreacher just- and Kreacher does blame Regulus for this, that irritating boy that managed to worm his way into Kreacher’s heart enough to leave an exit wound on the way out- Kreacher just hadn’t anticipated it ending so soon.

Except…

There is one left. One more chance.

Lady Black is useless, now. Kreacher knows this- he knows this because the magic knows this. Every day, the magic siphons more and more from Lady Black’s title, sending it Sirius Black’s way instead- the soon to be newest Lord Black.

Kreacher is not one to question the magic’s judgment.

Kreacher is one to grumble incessantly about it, though, and he will be damned before something ridiculous like the fall of the House of Black keeps Kreacher from doing just that.

Soon, Sirius Black will be Lord Black. And there is to be an Heir Black, too.

The child is not a Black in name. But the magic doesn’t lie- and for whatever reason (Kreacher will not question the magic’s judgment, Kreacher will not)- that means, Harry Potter is his last chance.

Kreacher isn’t supposed to do this. But the House of Black isn’t supposed to fall, either. So Kreacher will interfere.

The stream of magic is as familiar as it is invigorating. Kreacher reaches out to it, wrapping its ribbons tightly around his own magic- although they look and feel nearly identical- and lets it carry him away. Away from the House, away from Kreacher’s home- towards the Heir.

At first, Kreacher doesn’t know where he has ended up. Then, the dust clears- and Kreacher still doesn’t know where he’s ended up. A cupboard, of some kind, by the looks of it- a small one. And it’s occupied.

The little boy stares at Kreacher with huge green eyes, catching the only light filtering in through the closed cupboard door.

Kreacher levels the most vicious glare he can at the thing. Kreacher is planning on using the boy to revitalize the House of Black, but he certainly doesn’t need to play nice to do that. And with the boy’s dark brown skin and unruly black curls, he has a distinct Potter look about him (aside from the eyes)- which means Kreacher is already less inclined to be nice than he already would have been to begin with.

Still, he can’t just ignore the Heir, and Kreacher has questions he’d like answered. For one- “Why is the Heir in a cupboard?”

The boy looks around, as though seeing it for the first time. Then, his gaze returns to Kreacher. He doesn’t say anything. Kreacher sighs. Enough of this.

“Come with Kreacher,” Kreacher says, reaching a hand out.

The boy doesn’t move. He just stares. Kreacher narrows his eyes. “The Heir is coming with Kreacher,” Kreacher says.

Kreacher would just take the Heir. But for as little as Kreacher is supposed to be doing this, he’s not technically breaking any rules. But taking the Heir without the Heir’s permission? That would be breaking the rules.

Fortunately, the Heir is a child. And children love nothing if not to make deals.

“If the Heir returns with Kreacher, Kreacher will provide the Heir a treat,” Kreacher says.

The Heir’s eyes narrow further, and for the first time, Kreacher is realizing how small the thing is. Kreacher knows children, knows what they should look like and when. The Heir is four. The Heir should not look like he is two.

Kreacher adjusts his tactics.

“If the Heir returns with Kreacher, Kreacher will provide the Heir a meal,” Kreacher says. “Supper.”

The boy considers another moment. He is smart- of course he is smart. The magic may have limited options, but… Kreacher knows for a fact that there’s other children of the House of Black it could have chosen. This is, for whatever reason, the best choice. Which means the boy is- at the very least- bound to be intelligent.

Intelligent, yes. But also, four. And hungry. The boy reaches for Kreacher, and Kreacher wastes no time taking them away in a swirl of magic. Back to the House. Back to the magic. Back to home.

A home Kreacher will not let fall.

***

There is something about the boy, Kreacher realizes. He has been home for a little under two weeks now, and things are going… well. Surprisingly well. Kreacher had thought there would be more fighting, more tears, more tantrums once the boy realized Kreacher had no intentions whatsoever of taking him back to wherever it is he came from. There is none of that.

But there is something. And it’s not anything good.

It takes another three days for Kreacher to realize what it is. What he’s feeling, where he’s felt it before.

The Heir is sitting at the table, coloring quietly and intermittently snacking on pretzels. Kreacher is keeping an eye on the boy, because Kreacher is no stranger to children- and the quiet ones tend to be the ones that need the most watching. This one… isn’t, he is polite and attentive and not at all prone to whinging, but Kreacher will not let that lull him into a false sense of security. So he will watch. Even though that involves hours upon hours of sitting with the child in silence. (Kreacher doesn’t know if the boy speaks yet. Regulus was the same way. Kreacher does not think about this.)

Kreacher is patient, and not prone to boredom. But he does not sit idle- he investigates the magic, twirling and twisting it around, checking on its strength, the direction of its flow.

The magic likes the Heir. But not all of the Heir. It will not, for example, go anywhere near the branching lines of the scar plastered across his face. It hasn’t the whole time the Heir has been here, and Kreacher wants to know why.

He’s gotten sick of passive observation. It’s time for direct action. Kreacher wields his own magic, and pokes it at the scar.

And the magic screams.

The boy doesn’t notice, because his core is not yet awake or active- and Kreacher is glad of it. The less aware the boy is of it, the less it will take root, Kreacher hopes.

But Kreacher notices. Notices, and realizes. By the time Kreacher’s ears have stopped ringing, his eyes have stopped streaming tears, he’s already moving, reaching to find something he's done his best not to think about.

The last four years have not been easy on Kreacher. This is for a lot of different reasons- the fall of the House of Black, Lady Black’s descent into madness, Regulus dying…

The locket.

Kreacher spent a long, long time trying to find a way to destroy the odious little thing. When he finally realized he was doing more harm to Kreacher than he was the locket, he tucked it away- safe, hidden. Kreacher would destroy it, he would… just not now. Not until the House of Black was strong once more.

Now, it seems, Kreacher has no choice. Because the soul of darkness that lies in the locket, the one that killed Regulus and hurt Kreacher…

It lives in the Heir’s head, too.

And Kreacher will not let it take the boy. Not another one.

There is one thing that Kreacher had thought about trying. A last-ditch, desperate attempt to destroy the locket- or, rather, what the locket contains- for good. The danger it posed, though… was far too great. Kreacher hadn’t dared attempt to risk it.

Now, though?

Kreacher doesn’t think he has a choice.

***

Kreacher waits until the Heir is sleeping. The boy sleeps lightly, but Kreacher is not worried- between the silencing charms, the warming charms, the enchanted harp strumming lullabies, and the child-proofed room (warded, of course, to prevent wandering), Kreacher knows very well that the Heir is not going anywhere. Kreacher has never technically had to raise a child on his own, but he is very old, and he has encountered his fair share of neglectful parents. Kreacher is confident in his ability to keep a child alive and well.

Not so confident is he in Kreacher’s ability to make a child feel loved, but that’s never been a priority of Kreacher’s. There have been many Lord Blacks that grew up without love, and they’d…

Kreacher pauses, thinking about Walburga Black, and the desperate measures Kreacher is taking to keep the House from falling because of her actions, and because of the actions of the Lords and Ladies before her. Then, he sighs. Kreacher will add ‘finding someone to love the Heir’ to the list- after taking care of the Horcrux in the boy’s head.

The Locket is as despicable as ever. Unfortunately, Kreacher requires it for this next step. The next step, being, of course, Azkaban.

Kreacher doesn’t want to go to Azkaban. But desperate times call for desperate measures, so Kreacher lets the stream of magic take him away, until it will take him no further, and then he begins to pull, dragging himself inch by inch towards where the magic itself freezes over, sinking chill into Kreacher’s bones and making him feel every inch the 8,000 year old Elf he is.

Still, Kreacher pulls. And pulls. And pulls and pulls and pulls until finally Kreacher is coming to a stop on the isle, shivering and breathing hard. The ground beneath Kreacher is rough and stony and sharp, and Kreacher presses himself harder into it, the pain piercing through the steadily rising fogginess that is clambering at Kreacher’s mind. Around his neck, the Locket hums. It can sense the like magic, Kreacher is sure, and it feels at home.

Kreacher does not think that will be the case for much longer. Not if things go according to plan.

The magic cannot be used to move any further, as it’s too atrophied. Kreacher can’t use the Black family magic either, as…

Well. Kreacher doesn’t want it to know he’s here. It’s shameful, an Elf coming here. Unheard of, even. The less waves Kreacher makes, the less likely the magic of his home, of his family, will take umbrage with his actions here.

Kreacher looks up the sheer cliff he has found himself at the base of, and then further still. Kreacher cannot see as well as he used to, but he can still make out where the face of the cliff turns into a building. Dark, and rough, and bleak, square and utilitarian in its single-minded purpose. Even from here, Kreacher can tell the building is nothing but a husk, hollowed out of everything that gave it life. Assuming it had life to begin with.

And last but not least, one of my favorite hp things I've ever written, and also EXTREMELY crack-y, and I may or may not come back to it eventually but you get a sneak-preview anyway:

Prologue

Once upon a time, there were three brothers.

The eldest was shrewd, and his ambition blinded him, and he died, and thus he served his narrative purpose.

The second eldest was brash, and his recklessness ruined him, and he died, and thus he served his narrative purpose.

The youngest was smart, and brave, and most of all humble- and he saw his brothers both fall, and took their failures as the object lessons he knew they were, and because of that he got his happy ending. And thus, he served his narrative-

No, hang on. That’s not quite right. Not this time.

This time, there were only two brothers- and the first got to be smart, and the second got to be brave, because in this fairy-tale there was no little brother to be the best of them both.

Although- there was a little sister.

But little sisters don’t get to be the best of their older brothers. Little sisters to older brothers are to be treasured, and protected, and when her older brothers are just a little too smart, or a little too brave…

Little sisters get to serve their narrative purpose.

Which was… what, again? Oh! Of course.

To die.

And thus, she served her-

Wait. Is that a little too sad? Hm. Well.

Let’s not pick this story, then- let’s choose another. Here, how about this?

Once upon a time, there were three sisters.

Chapter One

Ariana takes a deep breath in and holds it for a beat too long- just like mother said to do when things get to be a… little much.

Above her head, another spell shoots past, missing her by inches and shattering into fractals against the wall that showers down little red sparks onto her arm. It stings, and Ariana doubles down on not breathing, as the alternative is hyperventilating.

This is not a ‘little much’. This is the end of the world.

“Look at what you did,” Albus says, in that cold uncaring voice he’s taken to using around them. The one that makes him sound like he thinks he’s better than them. “You nearly took Ariana’s head off.”

“That was you, asshole!” Aberforth yells, flinging another spell Albus’s way before ducking back behind the overturned table as Albus sends one right back. “Look at her, she can’t even move, she's so scared! What is the matter with you?”

Well. Aberforth isn’t wrong. Ariana is terrified. Albus is leaving, Aberforth is fighting, and Ariana is- well. Put it this way. If she can’t get control of herself?

She’s going to kill them all.

“Albus, we really should be going now,” Gellert says, buffing his fingernails from where he’s safely sitting behind a shimmering shield.

“Fucker,” Aberforth spits. Gellert shrugs.

Ariana’s going a little lightheaded, as she seems to have hit her limit as far as lack-of-oxygen-intake goes. She inhales. It doesn’t do much- not against the sticky feeling of her magic clinging to her airways.

(According to mother, the magic goes to her lungs first, because that’s the easiest place to start.

“It wants to ride the air all the way through your body,” mother said. “Don’t let it do that.”

“Okay,” Ariana said. “But what about when I need to breathe?”

“You need to breathe less than you need the magic not to take over,” mother said. “Better you faint, first.”

“Okay,” Ariana said.)

“Fucker,” she whispers to herself, on the exhale. She’s not supposed to swear, but the fact that she can feel her magic as much as she can means that she’s much closer to losing control than she’d thought- and also Aberforth had just said it, which means she gets to, too. It’s only fair.

Another spell shoots just past her, and she inhales again on reflex- and can almost feel the magic creeping further and further through her body, like an insidious parasite that’s gleefully making its way through her bloodstream.

Her stomach twists. She doesn’t know if she’s going to be able to pull this one back.

Ariana resumes not breathing.

“Can’t you just stay?” Aberforth pleads.

Ariana doesn’t know why he bothers, he’s fighting a losing battle. Albus has always wanted to leave, always had grander aspirations than this, so why bother forcing him to stick around?

Well, besides the fact that that would leave Aberforth to deal with her. The Dumbledore household’s resident ghost-that-isn’t-dead-yet. The fading echo.

Ariana feels her eyes well with tears. Useless. Less than useless. A burden. That’s all she is. Even to Aberforth, her favorite Aberforth, the one that holds her after her nightmares and sings her to sleep and still reads her stories when she asks (even though at twelve she’s practically all grown up now) and finds kittens for her to play with and mends all of their clothes and argues with Albus over who’s turn it is to do dishes even though they’re magic and-

Even to him, Ariana is nothing more than a chore.

Her magic continues to creep, bringing with it a nauseating empty feeling- like it’s hollowing her out as it goes.

“No,” Albus says, simply and casually and cruelly.

Ariana’s heart breaks a little, then. Albus is leaving. She doesn’t think she believed it, not until just now. Aberforth is her favorite, yes, but she loves Albus just the same.

He’s her oldest brother, the one who teaches her about history and the stars and helps her through her math lessons and retells her favorite greek myths over and over again with the same excited passion he has for teaching anyone about anything, no matter how many times she’s had him tell her about the labyrinth, or about Aphrodite, or any of it-

And he’s leaving?

“No,” Ariana hears someone say. She thinks it may have been her.

It must have sunk in for Aberforth too, because he lets out a wordless scream of rage. But this is Aberforth, and he’s always been a bit hotheaded, so he doesn’t leave it at that. No, he fires one last spell at Albus- and this one. Oh, this one flies true, shooting towards Albus in a magnificently clean-cut arc that has his blue eyes widening.

Gellert, quick as a flash, has his wand out and is shooting his own spell- and as true as Abe’s aim had been, Gellert’s aim is truer.

It hits the spell, changing its trajectory and forcing it to veer sharply right- right towards where Ariana is sitting frozen on the couch.

Albus’s eyes widen further, and his mouth opens as he raises his wand as well, shooting out a third bolt of light.

And the funny thing is, Ariana is sure that if he hadn’t, then it would have missed her the same as the other spells did. But he had. And it changes the trajectory for a second time.

And the magic inside of her surges.

And then-

Everything goes white.

Chapter Two

“Er,” says the voice.

Ariana tries to blink, but she seems to have forgotten how to open her eyes. Or- maybe it’s that she’s forgotten to close them? Everything is so bright.

What’s happening? Where is she?

“I don’t normally get to say this in my line of work, but- are you alright?”

Ariana tries to get up from where she thinks she’s lying on the floor, but that’s about as effective as blinking is.

“And- well, I get to say this even less, but- have you considered trying to breathe?”

Ah! Breathing. She remembers how to do that.

As the rush of cool air enters her lungs, she feels the last vestiges of her sick magic ebb away as well- the same way it always does after she’s had an episode.

Which, of course, means she’s just had an episode.

And just like that, the events of the last hour come rushing back to her, and Ariana is suddenly on her feet and breathing hard, heart hammering at a million miles per hour. Unfortunately, she’s still extremely off-balanced, which means she’s overshot and is in the process of falling flat on her face when the man catches her.

“Careful, there,” he says.

Oh, absolutely not.

“Get- off- me,” Ariana hisses, pushing back and nearly falling over again in the process. Her heart is beating so quickly she thinks it may give out. She does not like being touched by anyone but her brothers, let alone men. Men she doesn’t know, especially.

“Ah,” the man says, a sad sort of recognition dawning on his face. “Yes. Trauma. This I am accustomed to.”

As she recovers from her stumbling backwards, she gets a better look at the man- he’s wearing a simple black robe that makes him stand out in sharp contrast from the oppressive white blankness of the rest of the world. He’s tall, too, with dark brown skin, and a crooked sort of smile. He’s got a mop of curly black hair that falls charmingly over his forehead, brushing up against his long dark eyelashes- which are framing his sparkling green eyes, looking at her with a soft sort of kindness she’s only ever seen from Aberforth. That, more than anything, calms Ariana- but not by much.

“Usually, this is the part where I try to tell you that this is all just part of the journey and, considering your age, that things are going to be alright in the long run. The problem is that I don’t actually know what you’re doing here or why any of this is happening at all.”

Ariana doesn’t know what he’s talking about, or where she is, or what’s going on, but her head is starting to hurt from all the bright white and she’s still feeling light-headed, and there’s a niggling feeling in the back of her mind that’s trying to tell her that something is incredibly wrong here and-

“You know,” the man says. “I think I’m going to try and make things a bit more comfortable for the both of us.”

And then he’s snapping his fingers and just like that, quicker than a blink, instead of standing in the middle of a white void Ariana is sitting in a cushy armchair in front of a roaring fire, wearing a simple blue dress, and holding a fragile-looking teacup with little flowers (daffodils, her mind supplies) painted delicately on the side. There’s a curl of steam wafting off the surface of the tea. She doesn’t taste it, because she still doesn’t know what’s happening, but it smells like chamomile, and despite herself, she relaxes.

In front of her is the man, sitting on a matching chair- he’s changed as well, wearing a black dress-shirt, slacks, and dress-shoes. Instead of a teacup, he’s holding a sheaf of papers, frowning slightly as he reads through them.

Ariana shifts in her seat. She’s certainly not going to bring attention to herself by asking silly questions like ‘who are you’ and ‘where am I’, so instead she turns her focus inward. Namely, towards her magic.

Normally, after an episode, her magic is withdrawn and distant for weeks, if not months. That said, she can still feel it. She can always feel it. It’s a rot that’s eating her from the inside out. How could she possibly not feel it?

She takes care to keep track of it, though- even when it’s distant like this. Just in case. Except- it doesn’t feel distant. Nor does it feel like an infection.

It feels like it did before. Which is impossible. Unless-

And just like that, Ariana knows both where she is, and also who the man is.

“Are my brothers dead as well?” Ariana asks, since she’s no longer got anything to be afraid of.

Well- besides the answer to that question.

“No,” the man- Death, that’s Death- says absently, still looking over the pages.

Ariana sinks back into her seat, letting out a huge sigh of relief. Good. That’s- that’s good. She might be dead, but- well, it was bound to happen sooner rather than later, and at least she didn’t take any of her family out with her. She’s not happy about being dead, but honestly? Could be worse. At least there’s an afterlife, apparently.

Death is still completely immersed in his pages, and his head is cocked now. Whatever is on that paper, it must be interesting. Or concerning. “Although- to be completely honest? I don’t know if you are, either. Dead, I mean.”

Ariana feels her blood turn to ice in her veins.

That should probably have filled her with hope, or relief, or something- but she can’t help but wonder… if not dead, what else?

And is it going to be worse?

Death must pick up on her apprehension, because he finally looks up from his papers. “Oh, sorry- I mean, it’s nothing to be worried about. Probably. I mean- damn. Sorry. I’m not very good at this. Honestly, your situation is probably much more in my Lady’s wheelhouse. I’m not sure why the powers that be sent you my way.”

“Are you being vague on purpose?” Ariana asks. She didn’t mean to sound so biting, but to her credit, she is very worried. And apparently, now that her magic is no longer forcing her to freeze in the face of danger, her natural inclination is to provoke it instead.

This is probably going to be an issue in the future, if she has one- Ariana has been compared to a baby bird by her brothers more times than she can count, and although she loathes the comparison she can’t help but see the reasoning behind it. Her watery blue eyes are far too big for her pointy face and she’s small and bony, much smaller and sharper than all the other village children (from what she'd seen of them through the windows), and although her hair is long and blonde it’s wispy too- feathery, even. Also, her nose is rather beaky.

The point is, she is not in any shape to fight anyone, ever.

“No, I’m sorry,” Death says again. He does sound genuinely apologetic, so Ariana decides to forgive him. For now. “I’m trying to figure this out- reading your file, that sort of thing.”

“File,” Ariana repeats, the goodwill she’d managed to scrounge up for Death rapidly dwindling almost as soon as she'd pulled it together.

“Yes,” Death says. “Surprisingly bureaucratic, death is.”

“I see,” she says. She doesn’t.

“Really, I should be calling my Lady up, but-”

“Who is your Lady?” Ariana cuts in. On purpose or no, the deity is being ridiculously obscure, and if she needs to ask clarifying questions then by god is she going to be asking them.

“Oh,” Death says. “Magic. My Lady Magic.”

Ah. Hm. Ariana doesn’t really- hm. She doesn’t have much to say to that particular deity. Not anything especially kind, in any case.

“I would prefer it,” Ariana says, somewhat carefully, “if we could leave… her out of this.”

“Yes,” Death says, flipping a page over and squinting at it. “I thought you might say something like that. And, frankly, I would prefer that as well- she’s been planning something of a- well, she calls it a ‘game’ but I think it’s probably more akin to something that will dictate the fate of the universe and what-have you- and she’s been rather tetchy because of it.”

“And you are quite sure you aren’t trying to make me feel completely lost on purpose?” Ariana asks, raising an eyebrow in what she hopes is an expression similar to the one Albus is fond of- namely, the ‘you are being unnecessarily irritating to me right now’ expression.

Death looks at her for a moment, then has the audacity to laugh- although he catches himself nearly immediately afterwards, sobering up. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I- sorry.”

“Yes,” Ariana says, feeling her nose wrinkle. “Quite.” “Right,” Death says. “Well. The good news is that I think I’ve figured it out.”

This startles Ariana out of her annoyance. “You- you mean to say you’ve figured out what’s going on? Just now?”

Death nods, green eyes glinting with mirth.

“But- how? We’ve been talking this whole time!”

“Oh, dear one- I’m Death. If I couldn’t handle a little bit of multi-tasking, I’d be pretty much sunk.”

Ariana can’t really argue with that. In fact, now she feels somewhat foolish. She takes a sip of her tea instead, in an attempt to cover her embarrassment. It’s delicious. “Well?” She asks, bringing the cup back down to her lap. “What is happening?”

“You- hm. Well. There are two things I know for sure about you. One of which being that you are without a doubt dead, which is why you came to me,” Death starts.

Ariana hesitates, then nods. She’s feeling surprisingly conflicted about that- she thought that is what she’d have preferred, at least compared to the unknown, but it’s just hit her-

She’s twelve.

Maybe she didn’t want to die quite yet.

“And the other thing?” Ariana asks, voice wavering just the slightest bit.

Death clears his throat. “Right. The other thing I know for sure about you is that you are, er, also-”

“Also what?”

“Very much alive?”

Ariana stares at Death. Death looks back at her, smiling awkwardly.

“You are terrible at explaining things,” she decides.

Death sighs, smile dropping. “Yes. You’d think I’d be better at it."

Chapter Three

Ariana takes a deep breath, relishing in the feeling of being able to breathe so freely without her magic encroaching. “Okay. One more time. What, exactly, is happening to me?”

“You’re not dead, either. Hence the- the breathing. And heartbeat. And showing up entirely unannounced.”

The problem is, that doesn’t make any sense to Ariana at all. How can she be both dead, and not dead?

For once, Death seems ready to try and actually explain: “basically, in the simplest possible terms, you had a magical… accident, let’s call it.”

Ha- accident is one word for it. Ariana prefers the term ‘attack’. Or, possibly, ‘allergic reaction’. Or maybe even ‘catastrophe’. She nods for Death to keep going, though- now is not really the time to argue over semantics.

“Your magic reacted to your brothers’ and Gellerts’ spells, and resulted in two things: your death, and also your displacement.”

“Displacement.”

“Yes,” Death confirms. “In time, specifically.”

“Time,” Ariana repeats.

“That’s why you came to me here, in the pocket outside of where space and time intersect, instead of- well, you’d have no way of knowing this, but normally, I’d have gone to you. Let you down gently, before leading you on. There hasn’t been a person here in- well. Maybe ever. Not linearly, anyways.”

Ariana hesitates, then nods. She’s not one-hundred percent following, but she thinks she gets the gist.

“The point is,” Death continues, “is that now you have a choice.”

“Choice?” Ariana asks, feeling her heart skip a beat.

“Dear one, you’ve done nothing but repeat my words back to me for the last several minutes. Haven’t you gone long enough feeling like an echo?” Death asks, and although there is a note of reproach in his voice, Ariana thinks it was meant to be in good humor.

She’s not really in a humorous sort of mood.

Ariana would like to feel more indignant over that, but mostly she feels abruptly very sad. It’s not like Death is wrong, after all- that is exactly what she’s felt like. Her whole life, almost.

Just a fading echo.

She looks down at the teacup in her hand, tracing the daffodils with her thumbnail. All at once, something hardens in her chest. Ariana is done with that. She’s never- she is never being someone else’s echo, ever again.

With that thought, she looks back up at Death. He looks somewhat bemused, but raises an eyebrow in an obvious gesture for her to speak her piece.

“You said I get a choice,” she says. “I want whichever one that lets me keep living.”

Both of Death’s eyebrows are up, now. “Are you- dear one, are you sure? Because- and I may be a bit biased, but- death is a significantly easier choice.”

“I don’t care,” Ariana says. “What do I need to do to get back?”

“You don’t,” Death says. “You’re out of time. Literally, outside of time. I can- I have the option to bring you back to life, which is something that has quite literally never happened to me, but- it wouldn’t be your old life.”

Ariana doesn’t think she cares. In fact, she thinks she might prefer that.

She was already never going to see her brothers again. She’s made her peace with that.

Well- probably she has.

Doesn’t matter. She’ll have the time to do that later.

“Well then. Tell me what I need to know about my new life,” she says.

Death smiles, softly. “Okay,” he says, before immediately launching into his explanation. “For one, this isn’t going to be a reincarnation deal- you still have your body, so I’ll just be slipping you into your new time as is.”

“Where? Or, when? Or do I get to choose that, too?”

Death laughs ruefully, and shakes his head. “Certainly not,” he says. “There’s a very specific spot opened up for you. Don’t ask me why, that is squarely in my Lady’s wheelhouse and I don’t think she’d explain it even if we asked.”

“You didn’t tell me where, though,” Ariana says.

“Hm,” Death says, checking his paper again. Ariana has the suspicion that that might just be for her benefit- make him seem more human. “Sixty-seven years.”

Oh. Oh, that’s- that’s almost no time at all. Unless- which direction?

“In the future, or the past?”

“Future,” Death says. “Speaking strictly linearly.”

Huh. Forget not seeing her brothers again- they could very well still be alive in her new time.

“Where?”

“With an old family,” Death says. “England. Not far from home at all- in more ways than one.”

Ariana’s brow furrows as she thinks, fingernails tapping absently on the teacup. It’s not exactly the brand-new start she’d been hoping for, but it’s also not death, so- she’s not about to complain.

“And my magic?”

Death grimaces. “See, that’s my Lady’s wheelhouse too- only in this case, I really don’t know. You could still be an obscurial-”

“Obsc-” Ariana remembers her resolve not to echo and switches gears mid-word- “A what?”

“Er- a person with a magical illness like yours.”

“Oh,” Ariana says, resolving to look up the term as soon as she gets back. Or- forward.

“As I was saying, you could be the same, or… or your magic could be perfectly healed, like it is now, or something in between- or maybe you won’t have magic at all. I don’t know.”

Ariana desperately hopes for the latter. But she isn’t expecting it. Ariana has long since learned it hurts less to stay as realistic as possible. She doesn’t think her magic is a curse lifted as easily as all that.

Ha- as if dying and coming back to life seventy years in the future is easy.

But still.

“You said I’ll be with a family. What family? And- how? If I’m not being reincarnated…”

“That,” Death says, “is going to be the trickiest bit. I’ll have to rework some things- and I definitely won’t be able to catch everyone. But for the most part, it will be like you’ve always lived there- born and raised.”

“Without changing my appearance?” “Like I said- I’m simply slipping you in. Same as ever.”

Ariana nods, feeling somewhat relieved. She didn’t really want to have to deal with a new body on top of a new everything else.

“Except,” Death says. “I do believe you’ll need a new name.”

Ariana looks up at him. He looks apologetic, but…

“I get to choose?”

Death pauses, looking a bit surprised- likely at the eagerness in her voice. “I don’t see why not,” he says.

Good. A body is one thing, but a name… this is good. After all, she’d wanted a new life, and what better way to signify that by leaving her old name behind? It’s poetic.

Besides, she’d never really liked the name ‘Ariana’. It’s a derivative of Ariadne- the princess who gave all of herself away to Theseus, only to be abandoned. Not a bad myth, not by a long shot, but-

Ariana is tired of being someone who gives all of herself away.

She looks down at the teacup in her hands. The one with the little painted daffodils.

This time, she wants to put herself first.

This time, she’s done being the echo.

This time, for once, she’s going to be the one echoed.

“Narcissa,” she says, looking back up at Death. “My name is Narcissa.”

Death looks at her for a moment. Then, a smile spreads across his face. “Nice to meet you, Narcissa. Now- let’s get you home.”

ANYWAYS THE END

Holy shit that was. So long. Thank you for all those that stuck around long enough to get through what is essentially a pile of scraps.

And thank you for the ask! I always love the chance to talk about some of the behind-the-scenes stuff :D

#thanks again for the ask!#hp fanfic #regulus black and the what the hell #jprlsbpp(pfb)atpoa #peter pettigrew and the ghost of christmas james #marauders #crack treated seriously #house elves

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