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A Sea of Sorrows -> Act 1, Part 1

Act 1: the Fall of the Gods

Dear Percy. This was the year the Gods fell from Olympus, and I fell from you. I miss the us from that year. I wonder, did either of us know what was in store?

Series Summary: A chronicle of the moments you fell in love with your enemy, Percy Jackson. An epilogue to your fate and an epitaph to your grave.

AKA in a universe where you are a traitor to Camp Half-Blood. This is an ode to the boy that led to your downfall: Percy Jackson.

Series Masterlist

Percy Jackson Masterlist

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

i. “OH, OH, tell us again how the legend goes?”

Your eight-year old self bounced on the heels of your feet. The little blue birthday hat atop your head started to slip, the elastic string too long to fit snugly around your head, but you hardly bat an eye. You clap your hands together, giggling, staring in awe as yet another star sparks in the sky and, it too begins its spiralling descent from its heavenly abode and to the feet of your earth-dwelling mortals. 

The star’s trail of divine dust, marking its venture across your frail vision, was reflected in your eyes. You raised an arm, as though trying to pluck the celestial from the sky.

Silena Beauregard giggled as she reached over to fix your askew birthday hat. 

You didn’t know if it was the mind of your eight-year-old self manipulating a shroud mist around the girl or if she genuinely held the most ethereal, luminous pieces of the sky within her dark blue eyes. You didn’t know, or perhaps, didn’t want to remember, if her midnight silk hair, glossed and draped over her shoulders as the night enveloped the horizon, had been anything but that. The bracelets around her wrist tinkled as she went about drawing your astray strands of hair back. You could smell her perfume as well, but its scent was so fleeting that you could never seem to recall it once she left.

You smiled at her, like if you had even the slightest chance, you wouldn’t have hesitated to delve into the velvety curtain of the night to retrieve only the finest of stars for her eyes to hold. 

She smiled at you, as though — impossible as it may have sounded — as though, in that moment, she loved you.

“Well,” she started, leaning over to place both you and Annabeth on her lap.

Clarisse La Rue took that chance to rip off her birthday hat (red, she had insisted) and replace it with her usual bandanna. The Stoll brothers, apparently, took great offence to that gesture, as they too whipped off their own hats to brandish like daggers at the Ares girl. Clarisse snarled at them, before taking her own, very real, spear and threatening to shove it down their throats or in some other choice places.

Beckdorf smirked, crossing his arms as he turned his head to appraise the face-off between the brothers and Clarisse, but he didn’t make any move to discourage the oncoming fight. And then, as was usual, Luke — the golden boy, the older brother to all campers (no matter if you were younger or older than him) — sighed, as though he’d just lost fifteen years of his life from their spat, and then plucked Clarisse’s spear out of her hands and lightly pushed his half-brothers into each other, sprawling onto the ground like dominoes.

“Can’t you guys ever settle down?” he asked, rolling his eyes. But then he smiled, so all of you knew that he didn’t really mean it. “I mean, it’s little Major’s birthday today and all we want is to enjoy the meteor shower in peace.” “Little Major is contradictory,” frowned Annabeth. An onlooker might’ve thought that Luke had just wished a deadly curse upon her entire bloodline, from the way her grey gaze furrowed. “How can she be little and major at the same time? It doesn’t make any sense!”

Before Luke could make a teasing remark (you could tell from the way the outer corner of his lip, the one without the dimple, twitched upwards), you cut in. “Please, Selly, pretty please! Tell me about the shooting star?”

“It’s a tale of wonder,” Silena finally began, her pearly white teeth shining through her picture-perfect smile. Her tone was hushed, like she was whispering a super-secret secret to the girls, “forged by immortals under a sky, much like this one.”

“In the days of old,” continued Beckondorf, his contribution to the conversation surprising you. The muscular boy was of few words, but you supposed that Silena’s presence had drawn him out from his carefully crafted shell. You and Annabeth shared amused looks, far more knowing beyond your years. 

“The Greeks looked up to the heavens and saw the gods in every corner of the night. They believed that the sky was a grand canvas, a blank machine of sorts, where the gods etched their stories in constellations and galaxies.”

“Now, the gods, they weren’t distant watchers,” said Silena, glancing at Beckendorf as she spoke. She looked at him as though she wasn’t reciting the tale to you, but to him, the only other person in the world. “They were keepers of hopes, weavers of destinies. And sometimes, just sometimes, they would lean so close to Earth that a star would slip through their fingers and streak across the sky. That’s what we call a shooting star.

“The legend goes that in those fleeting moments, the veil between us and the divine thins. It’s when the gods are listening, truly listening, to the heartbeat of the world. And if a mortal, pure of heart and full of hope, makes a wish upon such a star, the gods take notice.”

“They say that Aphrodite smiles upon lovers,” spoke Luke softly. He gazed up at the sky, and then toward the pine-tree in the far distance. “Athena guides the seekers of wisdom, Ares leads man into war, and that, if you were truly of a golden heart, Zeus himself might offer his insight.” 

His voice dwindled off, and if, at the time, perhaps you hadn’t been so caught up in your childish, insolent elation, you might’ve picked up on his bitter tone.

Annabeth turned to you. “So, on your special night, let’s wish on all the shooting stars. Together.”

Silena nodded, resting her head on Beckendorf’s shoulder. “Close your eyes, you wish on that star. You wish and you dream wish with all that is there in your heart, and just, believe. Believe, as the gods are kind, and they cherish the dreams of their children.”

“But you remember, Major,” Luke turned his saddened gaze back to you. “That old star can only take you part of the way. You have to help it along with some hard work of your own, and then, yeah. You can do anything you set your mind to.”

“Just promise us one thing,” murmured Silena. “That you'll never, ever lose sight of what's really important.”

“I don’t know what to do,” You stared up at her anxiously, fiddling with the string of your birthday hat. “Could you show me how to wish?”

She smiled once more, and it felt like the balance of the stars and sky had been reborn to take the form of Silena Beauregard. “Oh, I’m sure you already know how to do that.”

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

ii. Against all odds, you would say that you were looking forward to the Yancy school trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Yeah, you didn’t really care about art or architecture or the weird little naked statues of the gods (you definitely didn’t appreciate that), but you were looking forward to your first extraction mission as a demigod — even if this little outing of yours couldn’t be considered a quest, and even if it was long overdue.

Being undetermined was a disease in the world of Greek mythology, and it was a disease that followed you like the plague. it was a curse when your Godly parent refused to claim you, refused to acknowledge you. You were cursed from the start, cursed to run around, seeking kleos, and for what?

For absolutely nothing.

That was something no one let you forget. From your spot on the floor in Cabin Eleven, to the brown mass of curls on Grover’s head that frantically kept glancing back at you to make sure that no monster had snuck up on you during the last thirty seconds he hadn’t been looking at you. It even took Chiron about three years worth of convincing to let you go out, as he used the same reason (excuse) over and over again: you aren’t claimed. You don’t know how to defend yourself. It is too dangerous.

That’s what it always boiled down to. 

You weren’t claimed, fine. You didn’t need to be claimed to be able to fight. 

It was always the same broken record that played whenever someone opened their mouth, but instead of sweet melodies or even sweeter, praise, it was the string of never-ending, ‘you aren’t strong enough. You aren’t brave enough. You aren’t good enough.

You aren’t claimed.’

A voice in the back of your mind churned traitorously. Although, you supposed that you shouldn’t be the one to talk about betrayal. 

The speculations held merit, it had whispered.

Once a demigod was claimed, it was said that their powers grew exponentially. A claiming was essentially a blessing from your divine parent’s hand, a way of saying ‘I, as your parent, grant you your birthright as my child.’ You became blessed by Olympus to become faster, better, and stronger, a means to defend yourself from the monsters that lurked in the outside world.

But the thing was, once a godly parent claimed their kid, their godly side also began to radiate monster-attraction scent that enhanced their presence to monsters in a nearby radius. One would argue then, that meant unclaimed half-bloods would be better suited to high-risk jobs since they were at a lower risk of monster attacks than claimed ones. 

“But,” Clarisse La Rue had argued, “that also means that you have less experience fighting monsters, so what happens if you encounter a beast like the minotaur on the field? Less experience, plus no divine blessing is a stirring pot for demigod death.”

“So,” Chiron blinked at you, not unkindly. “You need to understand, we simply cannot be sending you out of camp, Major. Your mother is not in  a state where she is able to ward off monsters, and you…”

You…

You are not strong enough, you finish in your head bitterly. You were not strong like the others, not because you weren’t good with a sword or spear, but because you were not good enough to register as a child to your divine parent.

It was always Major, the side-kick. The pathetic little Robin to Luke’s Batman, or the golden rope to Annabeth’s Wonder Woman. Always the damsel in distress, never the prince. Always the one in the shadows, never the hero. Always the angel, never the god.

Since your mother’s passing four years ago, you had become a year round camper so you had more training under your belt than, say, ninety percent of the Apollo cabin. Yet, even they were allowed to leave camp and get up to all sorts of nonsense. 

Were you not enough for your godly parent to look up from whatever divine duties they needed to do? Were you not good enough for your godly father to come down to save your mother when she was on her deathbed? You weren’t even sure if your father knew your name. 

You sent Grover a small smile when he glanced back at you again. 

Next to you, Percy Jackson, pulled a face. 

Percy was a thirteen year old boy. With staggering sea-green eyes, black hair and tan skin, he was the half-blood Grover had called Chiron out for. For a year, it had been you, him and Grover fighting your way through the hell-hole that was Yancy Academy. Between failing classes, cheating off each other during tests (and failing those anyways because apparently both of you sucked at academics equally) and throwing dirt into Nancy Bobofit’s eyes, whenever she threw her weird bits of peanut-butter-and-ketchup sandwich on Grover, you would say that you and Percy were probably each other’s closest friends. Throughout the year, you and Percy had become each other’s anchor. You shared the burden of academic challenges, often finding peace in the fact that if you were going to fail, at least you’d do it together. 

There was a certain comfort in Percy’s company, a sense of acceptance that was rare and maybe even precious. He never looked at you with eyes of thinly veiled judgement that others often did, nor did he offer unwanted pity, that felt more like a burden than a comfort. It was probably because he had no idea of his demigod heritage, but with Percy, you were just you. 

Unclaimed, maybe, but never unseen. 

You liked Percy’s company, and you were impatiently waiting for the day Chiron gave you the all clear to return to Camp Half-Blood. There you and Percy could spend your days picking strawberries, sparring, whatever it was you two wanted to do. And hopefully, Percy would end up being unclaimed, or maybe even the son of a minor god, so you could ride out your days in the Hermes Cabin forever. Maybe one day, you would even be promoted to having a bunk. That would be especially great. 

“Excited for the trip, Major?” Percy grinned at you. 

You sighed, tilting your head on your seat so you could glance at him through the corner of your eyes. “Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”

Ahead of you, Grover squawked when Nancy Bobofit threw another bit of her sandwich at him. 

“I’m going to kill her,” muttered Percy, his eyes darkening at the red-headed girl. 

You patted Percy’s knee, trying to stop him from leaping toward Nancy. She sucked, but it wasn’t worth Percy getting expelled from Yancy just yet.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

i. “It’s easy,” said Luke, clapping your little, eight-year-old self on the back. “Wait and watch.”

And that you did. With bated breath and rapidly trembling fists, you waited and waited until the stars started to pour once again from the sky. They streaked down the horizon, the eyes of the sky shedding them like divine tear drops or that raindrops that slid down a window — the sort you would bet on with Annabeth about which would reach the sill first.

Beckendorf pointed at the brightest one he could find. He cleared his throat before saying his wish under his breath.

You tilted your head in confusion. “I didn’t hear the wish,” you frowned.

Luke smiled gently, his facade of happiness not quite reaching his eyes. “That’s the catch. You can’t let anyone find out about your wish, otherwise it won’t come true. It’s just between you, and the gods.”

He turned to the sky once more, and uttered his own wish. This time, you tried extra hard to pick up what he was saying, but you couldn’t hear much. You did catch a few words, something about history? It didn’t make too much sense to you though.

It was Silena’s go next. Her cheeks were pink as she made her wish, and she looked at the ground instead of the stars. Her wish was so quiet that even though she had placed you and Annabeth on top of her, you couldn’t hear a thing. 

Annabeth Chase, Clarisse La Rue, Travis and Connor Stoll, Harmony Crosscov and Critos Lyalin all prayed for their wishes as well. It wasn’t hard for you to predict what theirs might've been about. Annabeth’s probably had to do with architecture, Clarisse’s with her spear (possibly making it more deadly, even though you didn’t know why exactly a ten year old needed a super deadly spear in her collection). Travis and Connor probably asked to get a key for the camp’s gift shop so they could raid it even when it was locked. 

Harmony, a daughter of Apollo, had picked up the lyre she was strumming and held it to the sky as she wished, so you suspected hers had to do with maybe creating the most beautiful melody mankind had ever heard with it (although she already did that, so you didn’t know why she needed to use her wish on that). Critos was a son of Demeter, and he was the only one who weren’t entirely confident about, but you thought maybe it had to do with one of his plants — like the petunias that kept wilting? He had always complained about those.

Now, everyone had made their wish. Everyone but you. Your birthday posse turned to face you, the birthday girl, as you prepared to make what was going to be the most important wish of the night.

You were beside yourself in excitement. Today was your eighth birthday! The gods had to grant your wish, that was the intrinsic birthday rule, wasn’t it? The gods had to be looking, heck, maybe even your godly parent was looking. Maybe, just maybe, today would be the day you would get claimed.

You thought about using that as your wish. ‘I wish to be claimed.’ But you decided against it. You had only been at camp for about two months, that wasn’t that long compared to the other camper’s claiming stories. You had plenty of time ahead of you to get claimed, so you didn’t need to rush and waste your wish on something that was inevitable anyways.

Maybe you should wish to win the next capture the flag game? Gods know that the Hermes cabin would be ecstatic if you did. What about acing the Ancient Greek vocab test you had the next day? No, you shook your head. You were going to fail that anyways, wishing on a star wouldn’t save your pitiful grades. You would just have to hope Annabeth would be in a ‘helping-Major-cheat’ mood tomorrow.

Maybe you should wish for something to do with your mother? You frowned. 

The thought of her laughter, her warmth, her guidance - all the things you missed the most - flooded your mind. ‘If she could come back, would she be the same?’ you pondered, the uncertainty a heavy stone in your stomach. ‘And what would she think?’ The frown deepened as you considered. It wasn't just about what you wanted; it was about the balance of things, the natural order. But… she’s gone now. Was she? Could this wish bring her back?

You opened your mouth, but before you said anything, another thought struck you. And with that thought, a sense of peace began to settle over you, as if your mother's wisdom had reached out from beyond, guiding you once more.

That was it! 

The most perfect wish. The gods had to grant it, there was no way they could refuse. It would be the best blessing, the most perfect divine grant that couldn’t possibly be refuted.

In your excitement, however, you forgot about the wishes-were-supposed-to-be-super-top-secret-so-you-must-whisper-them rule, and ended up just blurting it out of your mouth, words churring out faster than you could comprehend.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

ii. Chiron — sorry, Mr. Brunner, led the museum tour.

It wasn’t anything you hadn’t seen before. Ancient Greek armour (that you knew weren’t that ancient), pots with little dancing figures painted on them, steles with, to no one’s surprise, weird naked statues of gods running across them. It was really nothing special, just the usual artsy stuff mortals were crazy for, but you did get a kick out of Percy snapping at Nancy when Chiron was rumbling about something to do with Greek depression or something.

“Will you shut the fuck up?” Percy gave her his nastiest stink-eye.

Everyone laughed. You nudged Percy’s shoulder, and he turned his gaze to you, kicking your shoe in retaliation, before remembering that Chiron and Mrs. Dodds were still there, and they didn’t look happy at all with Percy’s interruption.

Mrs. Dodds was an interesting character. She despised Percy with all of her being (not heart, you weren’t sure if she had a heart), but you would say she had a soft-spot for you. Like whenever she gave Percy after-school detention for blowing up a bin or something, you would turn, smile at you and hand you this weird melted candy bar that tasted oddly like hot fudge and sea salt?

While the chocolate was a much appreciated gesture, you didn’t enjoy the way she snapped at Percy, and you agreed that there was something off about her. Like in the way she wasn’t exactly… normal? But you doubted anyone would listen to you anyways, and if Chiron hadn’t picked up on it, then it probably wasn’t important.

“Mr. Jackson,” began the centaur in disguise. “Did you have a comment?”

“No, sir,” said Percy, his cheeks burning red.

Mr. Brunner pointed to one of the pictures on the stele. “Perhaps you’ll tell us what this picture represents?”

Percy looked to where he was pointing. He nodded slightly, that he knew the answer to that question (if he didn’t that was fine anyways, you would’ve just whispered it to him). “That’s Kronos eating his kids, right?”

“Yes,” Mr. Brunner said, raising an eyebrow. “And he did this because…”

“Well… Kronos was the king god, and —”

“God?” Mr. Brunner asked. 

You flinched slightly when Percy said it; you didn’t think the gods would be willing to hold back if they caught him making that little comment. The gods had incredibly short fuses, and it was often their temper that caused the most destruction — like when Ares shot that one archduke back in 1914 and started World War 1.

“Titan,” Percy fixed. “And…he didn’t trust his kids, who were the gods. So, um, Kronos ate them, right? But his wife hid baby Zeus, and gave Kronos a rock to eat instead. And later, when Zeus grew up, he tricked his dad, Kronos, into barfing up his brothers and sisters—”

“Eeew!” squealed a girl from behind you. 

“—and so there was this big fight between the gods and the Titans,” Percy powered through, “and the gods won.”

Nancy Bobofit mumbled, “like we’re going to use this in real life. Like it’s going to say on our job applications, ‘Please explain why Kronos ate his kids.’”

You didn’t like Nancy much, but there was probably some merit to her question. The gods cared so much about themselves, that one day they probably would manage to hijack mortal job interviews into a pop quiz of ‘what is Aphrodite’s favourite brand of perfume’ or ‘write a one thousand word essay on why Zeus is most supreme god, explaining clearly why his brothers Poseidon and Hades suck ass.’

You rolled your eyes.

“And why, Mr. Jackson,” Brunner said, “to paraphrase Miss Bobofit’s excellent question, does this matter in real life?”

“Busted,” Grover muttered. 

“Shut up,” hissed Nancy, her face even brighter red than her hair. 

Percy looked pensive for a moment, the most pensive you’d ever seen him apart from when he needed to decide between blue cookies or blue jelly beans. “I don’t know, sir.”

“I see.” Chiron sighed. “Well, half credit, Mr. Jackson. Zeus did indeed feed Kronos a mixture of mustard and wine, which made him disgorge his other five children, who, of course, being immortal gods, had been living and growing up completely undigested in the Titan’s stomach. The gods defeated their father, sliced him to pieces with his own scythe, and scattered his remains in Tartarus, the darkest part of the Underworld.”

Kronos. The name sent chills up your spine. The Titan lord who had once ruled before the gods, now a whisper from the past, yet his legacy lingered like a shadow. As Chiron recounted the tale, you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of foreboding, a sense that the history of the gods and Titans was not as distant as it seemed.

Your gaze shifted downwards to your trembling hands. You clasp them together to try and steady them. The tales of gods and Titans, of heroes and monsters, they all seemed like distant echoes of a world you were forced into but never truly belonged. You felt the weight of your unclaimed status, a constant reminder of your place, or lack thereof, in this mythological nightmare.

You watched Percy. His fate was yet to unfold, and you couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy. He had a path, albeit unknown to him, but you… you were adrift in a sea of uncertainty, a ship without a sail.

The gods, those mighty beings who played with the lives of mortals and demigods alike, they were the root of your turmoil. How easy it must’ve been for them, to watch from their celestial thrones, to judge and to ignore the pleas of their children. 

In the days to come, I would stand by you as you discovered the truth. But, when the weight of your destiny became too much to bear alone, my greatest regret was that I could not stand beside you. Your bond was a testament to the strength that friendship and loyalty could bring. Mine was a testament to the darkness and hatred of our world.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

iii. The battlefield was before you, a canvas of chaos painted with the scars of war. The earth itself seemed to mourn, its once green flesh torn and charred. The battlefield stretched out, a vast, open wound upon the ground. The grass was soaked with the blood of fallen warriors, and squelched underfoot as you walked among the remnants of what had once been a fierce and vibrant camp. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of burning flesh, a sensory assault that would haunt you for all your days.

The earth, which had once cradled life, now cradled the fallen, its bosom scarred by the violence it had witnessed. The camp, once a beacon of hope and strength for demigods, lay in ruins, its vibrant pulse silenced, save for the mournful wind that whispered through the shattered remains.

Luke Castellan had returned, but not as the triumphant hero he had set out to be. His quest to retrieve the golden apples had failed miserably. The cost of his ambition was written in the blood and lives of his quest mates, who had perished along the way. The monsters he had inadvertently brought to the camp's boundary were now a symbol of his failure, their snarls and roars a chorus of impending doom.

Amidst the cacophony of clashing steel and the cries of the wounded, a shadow loomed large. The dracanae, a beast of nightmares, slithered through the chaos, its presence a dark omen. Its scales, as dark as the void, absorbed the light around it. They were fighting not just for their lives, but for the very soul of the camp, against forces that sought to extinguish their light forever.

Monsters had breached the camp's defences, and panic had taken hold.

Luke stumbled across the boundary line of the camp, his face marred in blood, blood, blood. Luke's arrival had been a tragic procession, a lone figure staggering under the weight of failure and loss. His face, a mask of agony, was a stark reminder of the cost of their endeavours. The blood that stained him was not just his own but that of his questmates, their lives extinguished.

One of his eyes was doused in the red, liquid, acid, and you could make out a gruesome scar that trailed from above his eyebrow right down to his jaw. You sucked in a breath.

You had watched, your heart shattering, as Luke's knees buckled, his strength waning. The monsters he had unwittingly led to the camp's boundary now surged forward, eager to feast on the grief and fear that hung heavy in the air.

His face was as though it had been split open. You dropped your sword, and immediately rushed toward your old friend. Luke cried out in pain as he brought a hand up to his wound in an attempt to hold his face together.

“Luke! Luke!” you shrieked, almost tripping over the armour that was too big for your ten-year-old body. “Luke!”

You ran toward them, engulfing him with your arms. You had run, small legs carrying you faster than they ever had, toward the brother who had taught you to be brave, to fight, to hope.

The battle raged on beside you, but you could hardly care, for your oldest brother was in your arms with his heart and soul bore open and torn to shreds. 

As you had reached him, the world seemed to slow, the sounds of war fading into a hushed lull. You had wrapped your arms around him, a futile shield against the tide of darkness that threatened to engulf you both. Luke's eyes, once bright with mischief and courage, now mirrored the devastation that was before you.

The battle had raged on, indifferent to the small, poignant scene at its fringes. But for you, in that moment, there had been nothing else—only the piercing grief of a child holding onto the last remnants of a family that was swiftly being torn away.

“Archers!” Lee Fletcher called out to his fellow half-siblings. “On my mark!”

The sky above was a tumultuous canvas, where the wrathful gods seemed to paint with clouds the colour of bruises and ash. Their indifference hung heavy, a suffocating blanket over the carnage below. 

You had once prayed to them, believed in their wisdom and justice, but now their names left a bitter taste on your tongue.

“Now!”

A volley of arrows spiralled through, each one hitting its mark. One, two, three arrows in rapid-fire succession knocked off the beasts that stumbled into camp boundaries. A cyclops that had been standing over a bloodied mass of a young girl, hollered in pain as an arrow pierced its singular eye. A draco aionius roared out a blast of fire, but your eyes were so wrung out with tears and blood that you couldn’t see who it had shot down before it had been killed. The dracanae lashed out one final time before exploding into a heap of golden dust.

The cries of the wounded rose around you, a haunting chorus that melded with the wails of those mourning their kin. You saw families torn apart, sisters cradling lifeless sisters, brothers with eyes hollowed by a brother’s loss. Each face was a mirror of your own despair, reflecting a shared agony that would bind you to them in grief.

You stumbled upon the body of the young son of Demeter, his chestnut hair matted with blood, his eyes forever staring at a sky that offered no solace. 

Critos, you sobbed. Critos…

A mistake that no amount of tears could wash away. A young camper, a son of Demeter known for his gentle spirit and his ability to make the flowers dance, lay still on the ground.

With a heart heavy as lead, you made your way to the infirmary, the air thick with the scent of herbs and the low hum of healing chants. There, among the rows of cots, you saw her—a daughter of Apollo. Harmony. 

The sight of her, your friend who had once filled the air with melodies so sweet they could make the sky weep, struck a new chord of pain within you. Her hands, those delicate instruments of beauty, were now disfigured by the violence in the name of the gods. She had dreamt of music that would touch the divine, but now her dreams lay as shattered as her bones. Now, those hands were stilled, and the music was no more. 

Her hands, once so deft at the lyre, now lay motionless by her side. 

Her eyes met yours, and in them, you found not blame, but a silent understanding. It was the cruelty of fate, not the will of gods, that had brought this upon her. 

She looked up at you, her eyes not accusing but filled with a sorrow that echoed your own. In that gaze, you saw the reflection of every broken promise, every shattered hope. She had been there to celebrate your life, and now here she lay, a casualty of a battle she had no part in starting.

Anger surged through you, a fiery torrent that threatened to consume everything in its path. The gods, those distant arbiters of fate, had watched impassively as your world crumbled. They had remained silent, their celestial indifference a stark contrast to the cacophony of grief that filled the camp.

Your mother, a casualty of their indifference. Critos, your dear friend, your found brother. Harmony, who would never play her instruments again. Her god-given gifts, the blessings bestowed upon her by her father had been ripped away from her. You knew it — injuries, bone fractures, that were severe beyond repair. No one apart from the gods could save her, but you knew that no matter how much you wished on the stars, they would never answer.

You wept for Thalia, who you had never known but who had died for you and your family. You wept for Annabeth, her face wrapped in a cast of bandages, and was laid on the cot next to Harmony. You wept for Luke, who was only a few steps away from the white bags that enshrouded that bodies of—... of the fallen.

They were all lives that could have been saved. 

Silena cried in Beckdorf’s arms. Their shared silence was louder than any words could ever be, a mutual understanding of the depth of their sorrow.

In this moment of profound loss, the realisation hit you like a wave crashing against the shore: wishes were but fleeting thoughts, powerless against the tides of fate. The gods, distant and enigmatic, offered no solace to the grieving hearts of mortals. It was a harsh lesson, one that stripped away the veneer of mythical heroism to reveal a truth as old as time itself.

Was this what they had meant about not relying on some magical stars to make a wish?

The gods, those distant beings, had taken from you the family you had found in this band of warriors. They had watched from their lofty thrones as you had fought, bled, and wept, mere pawns in their celestial games. And in that moment, as the weight of loss bore down upon you, you felt the seeds of hatred take root. Hatred for the gods who had forsaken you, hatred for the fate that had been thrust upon you, and hatred for a world that could be so cruel.

In the end, you could only truly rely on yourself to make wishes come true.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

iv. Strapping your head-piece securely on, blue plumes spilling from the top. Your armour was strapped on and you were decked out in metal from head to toe. You double-checked that your sword was tucked into your sheath before joining the Athena alliance in their march for the Capture the Flag match.

You quite liked Capture the Flag. It was one of those games where you had to do something and everyone got to run around and play — albeit, Camp Half-Blood kids did run around like headless chickens most of the time.

Percy scrambled to catch up with, tripping over his shin-guard that was a few sizes too big for him. “Hey.”

“Hi,” you grinned at him.

“So what’s the plan?” He asked. “Got any magic items you can loan me?”

You shook your head. “Nah. Sorry. Magical items are things you get from your godly parent when they feel like it. I haven’t got anything.” you waved at your basic sword for effect. “That’s why I usually go with one of the spare swords from the training shed.”

You pointed at his pocket. “You’ve got Riptide, though, haven’t you? That’s more than enough.”

Percy shrugged. “I don’t have it anymore, it vanished. I’m stuck with a regular, boring sword like you.”

You frowned at this. Didn’t Chiron give it to him? He should still have it, shouldn’t he? “That’s strange. Just make sure Clarisse’s spear doesn’t touch you, it's electric and stings like hell. Annabeth will handle getting the banner from Ares.”

He gave you a lopsided smile. “Okay, Major.” He said ‘Major’ with the same tone you would call someone ‘Bossy’.

You laughed before catching him by the strap of his armour when he tripped over again. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Border patrol, whatever that means.”

“Ah,” you nodded. “That’s easy. Stand by the creek, keep the reds away.”

“What’re you doing?”

You rubbed your chin thoughtfully. “I think I’m supposed to be a decoy for Luke when he runs for the flag.”

Percy looked at you appraisingly. “I guess you do look like him. I see how that would work.”

He swerved to avoid getting a faceful of the dirt you’d kicked up at him with your shoes. 

Percy then started chasing you down to the creek where the Athena alliance were planting their flag, similar to how the satyrs would chase the dryads near the strawberry patch albeit a lot slower because of his armour that was triple his body weight.

You stopped when you reached the silver flag, causing Percy to topple into you and send the both of you flying into the ground. You laughed, tugging the boy up with your hands and punching him in the shoulder. He huffed before waving at you and walking down to the creek to assume his duty of border patrol. 

You went to stand by Luke.

Overall, you would say Capture the Flag was a success. 

The Athena win streak was not lost this match, and you got to beat down one of the Hephaestus kids with your sword, which was always a pretty good bonus. The blue team cheered loudly, carrying Luke on their shoulders as he waved the Ares flag about in the air. You were going to join them when you saw Percy, drenched in water, arguing with the air.

“I told you. Athena always, always has a plan,” said the air before shimmering and revealing Annabeth with her invisible yankee cap.

“A plan to get me pulverised,” snapped Percy. His arms were crossed as he stared down the daughter of Athena.

“I came as fast as I could. I was about to jump in, but…” She shrugged. 

“You didn’t need help?” you suggested, popping up between them.

Percy’s glare dropped as he saw you. “Sup, Major. I’m guessing decoying for Luke went well?”

“The best,” you agreed before noticing the wound on his arm. “How did you do that?”

“Sword cut,” He said, rolling his eyes. “Stupid Clarisse and her pig-headed minions.”

“No,” Annabeth interjected sharply. “It was a sword cut. Look at it.”

You watched, incredulous, as the blood disappeared. Where a gaping wound had been, only a faint line lingered, and even that was fading fast. In moments, it dwindled to a mere scratch, then vanished as if it had never been.

The smile slipped from your face.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

iii. Being a demigod was a curse. 

It was a relentless burden, especially when you had been confined within the walls of Camp Half-Blood for four years, and still, your divine parent remained a shadow, unclaiming and aloof. 

You lifted your face to the heavens, rain simmering on your face like little angels doting you with frigid kisses, each drop mingling with the silent tears that trembled down your cheeks. It was almost as though you were praying, but you knew better than that.

Prayer had once been a solace, a hope, but now it felt like a bitter reminder of divine neglect.

The pyres stood ready, a grim assembly for the ritual of farewell. The rain fell in a relentless drizzle, each drop a cold, indifferent tear from the heavens. You stood before them, the shrouds of your fallen family draped over the lifeless forms that had once been vibrant souls among you.

Being a demigod had always been a double-edged sword, but never had the blade cut so deep. The walls of Camp Half-Blood, which had once offered sanctuary, now felt like a prison, holding you captive with your grief and rage.

You raised your face to the sky, the rain washing over you, a cruel mimicry of the comforting touch you so desperately needed. It was as if the gods themselves were mocking your pain, offering water when it was solace you sought.

Your heart was a cauldron of fury, simmering with a silent rage that threatened to boil over. The gods, those distant observers of mortal toil, had turned their gaze away, leaving you to fend for yourself in a world that seemed to crumble at your feet. 

As you stood there, the injustice of it all seared your soul, igniting a fire within that no amount of rain could douse. Betrayal was a bitter pill to swallow, and it lodged itself firmly in your throat, a constant reminder of the gods' neglect.

Your hands, though trembling, were resolute. The delicate tremor was not a sign of weakness, but a testament to the strength that surged through your veins—a strength born of anger, of loss, of an unwavering commitment to those you called family.

With a heavy heart and a spirit ablaze with determination, you stepped forward to light the pyres. The flames caught quickly, their hungry tongues licking at the shrouds, consuming the last physical remnants of those you loved. The smoke rose to the heavens, a silent scream of defiance against the gods who had forsaken you.

In that moment, as the fire crackled and the rain wept, you made a silent vow. You would do anything for your family, for those who had stood by you when the gods had not. You would be their protector, their avenger, their unwavering support. And though the gods may have turned their backs on you, you would never turn your back on those you loved.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

iv. “I—I don’t get it,” he said.

Annabeth was deep in thought, face wrinkled in concentration, and you could only imagine the intense mental gymnastics happening behind her gaze. “Step out of the water, Percy.”

“What—”

“Just do it.”

Percy emerged from the creek, hair plastered to his face and body bone-tired, but strangely enough, completely dry. He swayed on his feet, and you reached out to steady him, your touch firm. 

“Oh, Styx,” Annabeth cursed. “This is not good. I didn’t want…I assumed it would be Zeus.…”

You could only meet Percy’s gaze in a muted horror. 

Of course you’d picked up on Annabeth’s train of thought. But the revelation left you reeling. You couldn’t believe it. You thought… of course they wouldn’t stick to the oath. This — the one thing! How could they? What? 

Your jaw clenched, and your grip on Percy tightened subconsciously.

Percy opened his mouth but before he could say anything, a canine howl reverberated throughout the forest.

Everyone tensed and Chiron barked out “Stand ready! My bow!”

Above you, a monstrous creature crouched on the craggy ledge, its silhouette massive against the sky. Its eyes burned like coals from the depths of a forge, and its massive jaws bristled with teeth, each one as lethal as a freshly honed blade. It stared down at you with an intensity that pierced through your body.

A hellhound. Your eyes widened, gripping the handle of your sword.

Nobody moved except you, who yelled, “Percy, run!”

You tried to step in front of the boy, your sword clutched in between your fingers. The hellhound barked, and although you expected it to forget Percy and redirect its course to you, it dove past you (ignoring you completely) and ripped into Percy’s armour.

You didn’t look back as Chiron and the Apollo cabin took care of the hellhound, focusing on Percy whose chest was blooming with deep, red bloodstains.

“Percy!” You cried out, dropping to your knees beside him. Your fingers fumbled with his chestplate, trying to ignore the slick, warm blood that coated your hands.

“Di immortales!” Annabeth exclaimed. “That’s a hellhound from the Fields of Punishment. They don’t…they’re not supposed to…”

“Someone summoned it,” Chiron announced, trotting over. “Someone inside the camp.”

The dead body of the hellhound melted into the shadows, presumably returning back to the Underworld, only, you didn’t care. What you cared about right now was Percy Jackson who was drenched in blood with a horrific gash torn into his body.

“You’re wounded,” Annabeth told Percy as if no one knew that. “Quick, Percy, get in the water.”

You draped Percy’s arm around your shoulder, helping him step into the creek with little protest.

“Chiron, watch this,” Annabeth said.

As Percy staggered into the creek, the water seemed to greet him like an old friend. The blood that had painted his clothes a grim crimson began to dissolve, carried away by the gentle current. You watched as the gruesome wound in his chest closed before your very eyes. The torn flesh knit together, leaving not even a scar behind. It was as if time had reversed, as if the claws of the hellhound had never touched him.

But that wasn’t the part that stunned you the most.

“Look, I—I don’t know why,” Percy tried to apologise. “I’m sorry.…”

“Percy,” Annabeth said, pointing. “Um…”

There was a sign above Percy’s head, an unmistakable one that no one did not know. A hologram of green light, spinning and gleaming. A three-tipped spear: a trident.

“Your father,” Annabeth whispered. “This is really not good.”

“It is determined,” Chiron stated solemnly.

Campers knelt around you, even those from Ares’ cabin, though they did so grudgingly.

“My father?” Percy was bewildered.

“Poseidon,” said Chiron. “Earthshaker, Stormbringer, Father of Horses. Hail, Perseus Jackson, Son of the Sea God.”

A shadow was drawn upon your face, eyes fixated on the trident above Percy’s head. The throb in your head returned and all you felt was a torrent of fervent, quivering, absolute rage that coursed through you.

I know that it wasn’t your fault, Percy, but at that moment, I couldn’t think of anything else.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

iv. The shroud burning had already taken place, the flames extinguishing along with the last rays of twilight. The camp was shrouded in darkness, a reflection of the sorrow that enveloped your heart. You stood alone, the grief a tangible presence that seemed to suffocate you with its intensity.

The gods had remained silent, their absence in your hour of need a betrayal that stung sharper than any blade. The ritual had been meant to offer closure, but it had left you feeling hollow, the embers of the pyres like the dying light of your hope.

That night, as the world around you faded into the quiet hush of slumber, a curious sensation took hold—a dream, or so it seemed, yet not quite. Dreams were fleeting. They often slip through the fingers of your mind, vanishing from your memory once you woke up. But for some strange reason, you felt the trickling trail of deja vu climbing up your spine. 

You thought that you’d had this dream before. Probably.

A shiver of recognition danced up your spine, a whisper of memory that felt like an old friend—or perhaps a ghost from the past. It was a dream that had etched itself into the grooves of your mind, returning with the silent stealth of a cat prowling in the night.

You strained to recall the last time this dream had visited you. It could’ve been a year ago, a month ago — even last night. But you did know that you’d had it. This dream had treaded the halls of your sleep before.

In the realm of dreams, you found yourself wandering through an ancient forest, the moonlight casting ethereal shadows upon the ground. The air was thick with the scent of pine and the whisper of leaves. The moon, a sliver in the sky, provided scant illumination, casting long, haunting shadows that danced between the ancient trees. Your footsteps were muffled on the forest floor, as though the earth itself conspired to keep your passage secret.

With a heavy heart, you spoke into the storm, “You could have saved her, but you didn’t.” 

The words hung in the air. “My mother. She was one of your most faithful, but, when she needed you most, you turned away. Why? Was her devotion not enough? What about Critos, who died alone, without his family, on the battlefield? What about Silena, who lost her sister? What about Harmony, who will never be able to use her hands again, never able to exercise the blessing that you gave her. What about all the countless other demigods, older and younger than me, who died for a cause — your cause — whose names you will never bother to remember.”

The silence that followed was your answer. 

Your voice broke as you continued, “What about me? For years, you ignored me — you still ignore me. For years, you left me to fight for myself in a world that you created. I don’t understand. We’re your children, aren’t we? Aren’t we supposed to matter to you? We deserved better.”

“You’re supposed to be our parents. We deserve someone who would fight for us, who would value our lives. But what do we get instead? Fucking selfish deities, with all the power in the entire goddamn world who leave us to suffer and die in some sick game you orchestrate just because you can!”

“You don’t understand! I’ve waited my whole life for just a sign from you. Our whole lives revolve around you! What more could you want from us?” The tears of the sky dripped onto your shaking form. 

“You take life after life! You take, take, take when we’ve already given you everything you could have ever wanted!”

The thunder seemed to mock your pain, and you trembled with a mixture of cold and fury. “You say these stupid things, give us stupid, stupid, naive hope — wish upon the stars, wish upon you and all will come true? We looked up to you! We wished, and wished and wished, but instead, you killed my family, tortured us beyond cruelty. What do you want from me?!”

You were screaming at the sky now, your mind pulsing with nothing but red-hot rage. “I’m done waiting! You’ve shown me exactly what we mean to you — nothing!”

Something clasped your shoulder. 

Turning around, your heart caught in your throat. Your eyes trembled, pupils dilated at the sudden contact. As you turned away, a presence enveloped you, not the warm embrace of a father, but the cold touch of something ancient and powerful.

A dark mist surrounded you. The air crackled with static, a lingering feeling of something you couldn’t quite name. 

And then, without warning, the forest fell away, and you found yourself standing at the edge of a clearing. The mist swirled here, gathering strength. From the heart of the mist, a figure materialised. It was tall and imperious, its form shifting and wavering as if woven from the fog itself. Its eyes, when they met yours, were bottomless pits of darkness, and you felt yourself falling into them.

“Child,” it spoke, and the words seemed to resonate with the very fibres of your being. “I have watched you, and I know the suffering you’ve been dealt by the gods.”

“They have wronged you, as they have wronged me,” the figure continued, the mist swirling with every gesture. “They sit in their celestial palace, blind to the struggles of those below. But I see your potential, your desire for justice. Together, we can make them regret.”

In the quiet of your dream, your heart stirred. You did not know who this figure was or what he wanted from you, but his words reached you. The gods, those distant watchers, had become but silhouettes against your tribulations, their figures blurred by the tears of your unanswered calls. Beings who had turned their back on you, refused to acknowledge when it mattered. Left you unclaimed, left your mother to die, left your brothers and sisters to die, and since the beginning of time, left humanity to suffer in a cyclic torture. 

And, so close, was the embrace of the mist — echoing your fury, validating your resentment. 

“Why should I join you?” you asked, though part of you already yearned for the vengeance he promised.

“Because your rage is a weapon that can reshape the world,” the mist replied, its form growing more defined, more commanding. “The gods fear what they cannot control, and they cannot control the fury of the heart. I will help you shield the loved ones you have left. If you join me, I promise they will be safe in the end. We will turn your fury into a force that will shake even the heavens. And you, my dearest, Major, will see to it that your family is treated better than the gods would ever care to allow.”

The mist’s words were a poison, sweet and lethal, the dream reached its peak, as you teetered on the cross-roads of a decision that could alter the course of history.

You stood still, the realisation dawning on you like a cold sunrise. This was Kronos, the Titan King, the very essence of time and treachery. The air around you grew colder, the mist swirling with a newfound intensity.

The mist around you thickened, and Kronos’s voice became more insistent. “I can help you,” he whispered again, the words slithering through the air like a serpent.

You felt the anger and sorrow within you stir, manipulated by his words. It was a dangerous game he played, but in your heart, the seeds of rebellion had been sown. 

“Join me,” whispered Kronos.

“Yes,” you found yourself saying, the word escaping your lips before doubt could take hold. “Yes, I will join you.”

With a resolve born of grief and betrayal, I turned my back on the sky and walked away. That was the moment, when I was only ten years old, that I swore my life to Kronos. It was the moment, I think, that sealed our fate. 

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

i. “I wish that we would all stay together.” you said.

“That’s my wish. I wish that, no matter what, no matter what place or lifetime we’re in, we will always, always, be family.”

“Promise me, ‘kay?” you continued, not fully sure if you were still talking to the gods or the people around you. “That in this life and the next and the one after, we will always find each other. Because we’re family.”

You turned to the demigods around you, who have all taken on some form of shock. The younger ones look appalled that you spoke your wish out loud (“how will it come true now?” protested Annabeth, though her face was tinged with a pink blush), while the older ones wore expressions you couldn’t quite discern.

“Major…” Silena breathed, her eyes, for some reason, glossy. Was she upset that you had said your wish too loud? 

“I mean it!” you looked to the heavens earnestly. “We’re family now, we have to stick together. Forever and ever and ever.”

Another star crossed the twinkling night tapestry. It was a dark, terribly dark, night, but unless someone else had been sharing this story, to you, the moment would remain of the most bright, luminous scenery you’d ever had the honour of bathing in. 

The gentle hand of the gods met their mortals upon the ground through the sky’s scattered stars, and they coated you and your family in their mystical star dust. 

Luke blinked himself out of his stupor. He offered you his hand to shake. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Major. Gods or not, we promise. Family.”

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, a gesture as warm as the sun's embrace, which seemed to spark a chain reaction. Annabeth, with a smile that could light up the darkest of nights, followed suit, her arms joining his. One by one, the rest of your family, a patchwork quilt of half-bloods, each with their own stories they bore in their hearts, came together in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

Under the star-swept sky, a canvas dotted with celestial wonders, the group hug grew, a living, breathing entity of connection and joy. You shrieked with laughter, the sound mingling with the chorus of chuckles and snorts around you. It was a symphony of happiness, a melody that resonated with the very core of your being.

You tried to pull your head out of the mass of limbs you’d become entangled within, seeking a breath of air, only to be lovingly dragged back into the fray. Someone’s hair tickled your nose, another’s elbow nudged your side, but it was all part of the beautiful chaos that was your home.

The hug was more than just a physical act; it was a promise, a silent vow of unity and support that needed no words. It was the understanding that no matter where life's journey took you, these bonds would remain unbroken. And as you stood there, enveloped by the people who had become your world, you knew that this moment would be etched into the stars above, a memory as eternal as the night sky itself.

“This is— the— best birthday— ever!”

And thought you meant that. You really, really did.

I wish I could’ve said sorry to you, Percy, back then.

Maybe then we could’ve stood a chance. * . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

Random fun fact: Major is anti-government and hates taxes 🥶😊, she also likes liquorice

taglist!!! (comment if you want to be added): @itzmeme

[to-fly-with-clipped-wings]

re-edited this one too!

Chapter 1.2 - Train Rides and Talking Hats

Chapter 1.2 - Train Rides and Talking Hats

Pairing: Harry Potter x Chosen One! Reader

‘“Oi,” you spoke, feeling your jaw clench at the blond boy’s demeanour. “I’d watch what I was saying if I was you, especially considering the crap that’s spewing outta your sewage-system of a mouth.” Draco Malfoy turned his sharpened gaze toward you. “And I’d be more careful if I was you. You don’t want to make enemies with the wrong people.” “Same goes for you.”’ OR: in which you hitch a ride on the Hogwarts Express and buckle up for one hell of a ride. → Set in a universe where you are the chosen one, and Harry Potter is your best friend who tries to help you navigate the woes of being the lone hero of the wizarding world. A swap au where you are the chosen one, your parents are dead but the marauders + Lily are not. Eventual Harry x Reader, slowburn, friends to lovers. Series Masterlist

.｡*ﾟ🗲.*.｡  　ﾟ*..🗲｡*ﾟ

Perhaps, if you had any less self-respect, having had a mental breakdown on the King’s Cross platform would have been your morning on the 1st of September.

The train leaves at eleven, Hagrid had told you. The Caddels had dropped you off at the station at half past ten before leaving to drop Odette off at her new school, Smeltings, they’d said. All you were really aware of was the nifty cane that came with the uniform, supposedly used to thwack fellow peers. An excellent training for later life.

Regardless of peculiar apparels or uniforms – you had now acquired a steadily rising fear that you would never be able to wear your own, if you couldn’t uncover where exactly platform nine and three-quarters was located at the station. 

There they were, right in front of you, platforms nine and ten – right there – but nowhere could you spot any semblance or notion of anything three-quarters related. The large plastic number nine leered tauntingly at you, swinging back and forth vaguely with the passing breeze.

You had pestered the guard manning the station. He hadn’t even heard of Hogwarts, and since you had no flying clue where or even what the school was, you couldn’t describe it to him. The guard stared at you incredulously, as though you were deliberately trying to be stupid (you didn’t miss how he eyed Hedwig, your owl, who chirped irritably back at him). It took every ounce of your remaining willpower to not snap or lunge at him and cause a scene in the middle of the station, especially when a congregation of people had formed a circle around you to observe the exchange curiously.

Apparently, according to a variety of people at the station, there wasn’t even a train that left at eleven o’clock. And, though it was obvious, platform nine and three-quarters completely did not exist. Like, at all. And to top the cherry on your fabulous sundae of anxiety and chagrin, according to the large clock situated on the arrivals board, you had a little under fifteen minutes to be seated on the train. 

You wished Hagrid had left you with more information, but when the man had dropped you back at your house and allowed you the time to blink, he had vanished. Urgent magical business, you mused dryly. Almost like the kerfuffle of being stranded on a station with not the foggiest idea of where to go. 

Were you missing something? Did you need to cast a spell? What if you missed the train? Oh, you knew you should have read the books before coming to the station. You swore at that moment to leave no page in your spell-books unturned (in hindsight, you knew you would drop this vow three days in).

Just as you were preparing to brandish your wand at the stray ticket box next to platform nine, trying your very best to formulate a spell that would divulge the presence of platform nine and three-quarters. 

In a perfectly timed turn of events, a group of people passed behind you, and you managed to glean a glimpse of their conversation.

“ – packed with Muggles, of course –

You heard your neck crack from how fast you wheeled around. Muggles. You had never been happier to hear a single word. The speaker was a stout woman, to an audience of about five red-headed children. Four boys and a girl, who from the conversation that ensued, you discovered was too young to attend Hogwarts just yet. 

You trained your eyes on them like a hawk, shadowing ‘Percy’, the oldest boy, as he dashed toward the brick wall of platform nine, pushing his trolley along with him. Wincing, you closed your eyes so you wouldn’t see him and all of his school supplies crash onto the floor. 

Miraculously, however, when you peeled your eyelids back open, the boy was gone. As were the twin brothers, Fred and George (or did their mother say George and Fred?). 

There was only one more boy left; a tall – though that entire family seemed to be on stilts – lanky, deeply freckled one. If you wanted to know where the sons were disappearing to, this was your final shot.

“Hey!” you called out, dragging your trolley behind you as you approached the remaining members of the red-headed family. Then, realising how the abruptness of a random girl yelling at someone may be perceived as abrash, you decided to dial back your advances. “Hi, sorry. Do you happen to know how to –” “How to get on to the platform?” she said kindly. “No worries at all, dear. Is this your first time at Hogwarts? Ron’s new, too.” 

She pointed at her last son. He had dirt on his nose. You nodded your head slightly toward him in greeting, but your mind was still hyper focused on how the clock was dwindling closer and closer to eleven. “Pleasure,” you smiled, desperation beginning to blemish your voice, evident as it began to inch one or two octaves higher. “So, er, I’m hoping that you do know how to get to the train?” “That’s right,” she said. “All you have to do is walk straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Don’t stop and don’t be scared you’ll crash into it, that’s very important. Go on, go now before Ron.”

You ruffled the collar of your shirt, which was looking far too neat and sophisticated (and therefore, not nearly as charming as you preferred it to be). “Thanks, Miss.” 

You sucked in a deep breath before gathering your courage and sprinted toward the very solid, opaque looking barrier of platform nine and three-quarters. 

You were running — running like a lunatic, might you add, when you realised you were almost there — and then, quite suddenly, you weren’t. 

Rather, you now found yourself underneath a sign that read Hogwarts Express, 11 o’clock.

Permeating through a brick wall was yet another box to check from your list of magical experiences. Twice, actually, if you counted the entrance to Diagon Alley. Odd was it indeed, but it was your odd now, and you lest would allow anyone try and rob you of it. 

You stood in awe, head on a swivel as you examined the new environment. A mammoth of a train, one whose size could only be attributed to the slight of one’s magical hand, with smoke seeping out of its charcoal chimneys, stood tall against the crowded stage of the station. 

You turned around to see if the red-headed family had made it through as well, and sure enough, there they were. The woman was still looking at you, and when you waved at her, her face split into a soft smile as she returned the gesture. You swept your dishevelled hair to the side – it had tousled itself into a heaping mess sometime during your episode on the other side of the train station. 

You only registered the consequence of this action when the red-headed woman’s eyes widened, and as an abrupt muteness circulated throughout the platform, capitulating the vocal cords of what seemed to be every single man, woman and/or child present there at that very moment. 

Families that were once bidding their children goodbye, lovingly caressing cheeks or smoothing down fly-away hairs, or families who were once loading trunks onto compartments, were now reacting in an identical fashion of the same scene that had transpired at the leaky pub; normal chatter was extinguished, and murmurs crept around the platform like an amateur thief in a treasure trove.

“The lightning scar!”

“Is that – oh, my sweet Merlin, it is!” “Oh – where –?!”

“Move! Let me get a glimpse!”

“Look, over there!”

“(Y/n) (L/n)!”

You stiffened under everyone’s combined gazes, the hasty switch of focus to you catching you off guard. But, as quickly as the alarm had rippled into your body, it had dispersed out. 

A smirk split your face, and you nodded toward the woman closest to you (who promptly went pink and near-fainted) as a way to acknowledge that you acknowledged their sudden interest in you. You heard someone chuckle at the sight, and a few more flurries of whispers were burgeoned from other by-standers.

During the time it took for you to jostle your trolley into an empty carriage near the back of the train, the number of people actively tracking your every move had died down, though only by a fraction. From the corners of your eyes, you could still see the odd third-year trying to estimate how many laces you had on your shoes, no doubt so he could pester his parents into buying the same pair. (You kept to yourself that they had previously belonged to Odette, however, as you seriously doubted anyone wanted to know that (Y/n) (L/n), hero of the wizarding world, still wore hand-me-downs.)

Unfortunately, it seemed that although you possessed the power to terminate the reign of the darkest and most powerful wizards in history, you had apparently not attained the muscles required to heave your trunk up the stairs onto the Hogwarts Express. You stumbled back, cursing as you reeled from the pain that rocketed through your foot after you dropped your trunk on your toes.

“Want a hand?” 

You looked up. It was one of the red-headed twins, from that family you had met before.

“Yes,” you said almost immediately. “Er, please.”

“Oy, Fred! C’mere and help!”

The three of you managed to successfully store your trunk into the corner of your compartment. Before you could thank the twins for their help, though, one of the twins pointed at the spot on your forehead where the thin lightning-shaped scar donned your skin. 

“You’re (Y/n) (L/n),” he announced. Just like Olivander, this had not been a question, but rather a statement.

“Yes,” you straightened your posture, raising your head a little higher. “That’s right. I am.”

The two boys gawked at you, and you subtly swept your sweaty hair to expose the scar even further. To your slightest dismay, however, the familiar voice of the red-headed mother drifted through the carriage before you were able to elaborate further on your tale of the lightning-shaped battle scar.

“Fred? George? Are you there?” Both the twins groaned at their mother’s summoning. Sparing one last glance at you, they ambled toward her call. “Coming, Mum.” You waved the twins goodbye. Sitting down by the window, you ducked your head so you could listen to the family, who were still on the platform, whilst being half-hidden at the same time. Their mother had scourged out a handkerchief and was furiously scrubbing at Ron’s nose to rid the smudge of dirt that laid upon it.

You watched with amusement as Ron tried to lurch away before being caught in his mother’s iron-fisted clutches once again.

“Mum – geroff!”

One of the twins snickered, leaning close to Ron. “Aaaah, has ickle Ronnie got somefink on his nosie?” 

“Shut up!” You saw the oldest of the red-headed siblings saunter towards his family, already draped in his robes. A shiny red and gold badge was pinned onto his chest, with the letter P engraved onto it.

“Can’t stay long, Mother,” he said stiffly. “I’m up front, the Prefects have got two compartments to themselves –”

“Oh, are you a Prefect, Percy?” One of the twins gasped, bringing his hands to his face in disbelief. “You should have said something, we had no idea.” “Hang on, I think I remember him saying something about it, once –”

“Or twice –”

“A minute –”

“All summer –”

You huffed a laugh at the back and forth going between the family. Percy the Prefect’s face was starting to sport a lovely bright, irritable shade of red. 

“How come Percy gets new robes, anyway?” queried one of the twins.

“Because he’s a Prefect,” their mother smoothed Percy’s already-perfectly-smoothened hair fondly. “All right, dear, well have a good term – send me an owl when you get there.” 

She sent him off with a kiss. 

You sunk back into your seat. For some reason, the jovial atmosphere you’d felt upon discovering the magical platform had now become strangely dampened. 

Call it a moment of weakness, sure – but in that moment, you wished that you could have a mother. A mother who would dote on you like that or who would comfort you. 

But, as soon as that looming train of thoughts had festered, you vanquished them from your mind – the other kids could keep their affectionate mothers who waved them goodbye as they left, the same, in fact, would go for their superficial, gentle-natured fathers; you had your fame and that topped any shred of whatever they may have had, whatever you were missing!

As though the red-head family were suddenly attuned with your train of thought, you heard the voice of the youngest child, the girl, pipe up. “Oh! (Y/n) (L/n) On the train? Please can I go see her, Mum, please, please, please…”

“You’ve already seen her, Ginny, and the poor girl isn’t something you goggle at in a zoo. Is she really, Fred? How do you know?” “Asked her. Saw the scar. It’s really there – like lightning.”

“Poor dear.” 

Your fingers traced the pattern of the scar, not particularly liking the feeling of pity emanating from the family.

“No wonder she was alone. I wondered. She was ever enthusiastic, though, when she asked how to get on to the platform. I’d have thought she’d be scared, by herself…”

“Never mind that, do you think she remembers what You-Know-Who looks like?”

The red-headed mother swelled. “I forbid you to ask her that, Fred! No, don’t you dare. As though she needs reminding of –... ”

The disarrayed ruckus of another family hurriedly barrelling onto the platform, and ushering their boy onto the train, stripped your focus from the ginger group. 

Observing the mop of black hair, you realised pleasantly that it was the boy you had met at the Quidditch store that day in Diagon Alley. Closely behind him, a stressed looking woman with copper-coloured hair, followed him briskly onto the train. Your lips twitched as you noticed that she possessed the same brilliant green eyes as her son. 

The father, a carbon copy of his son, followed seconds after, carrying a tremendously large trunk onto the train. There was one more man – perhaps one of the uncles the boy had mentioned – who remained on the platform. You guessed that he was allowing the family their final moments together. He didn’t really look alike to the mother or father of Quidditch Boy’s family, so you presumed that he was probably an uncle by choice, not blood. He had sandy brown hair with substantially sized scars running down the entirety of his face and neck. There was a large, shaggy black dog beside him too, and you swore that it had winked when it saw you looking at the group.

A shrill burst of steam raged outwards from the chimney of the train. You guessed that this was a warning to families that the train was about to depart right now. True to your word, just as Quidditch Boy’s mother and father practically leapt off the train carriage they’d left their son in, the train doors slammed shut, and the vehicle began dutifully chugging forward. 

Left behind now, was the platform of nine and three-quarters.

Leaning back in your seat, you exhaled roughly. This was it, the moment that marked the beginning of your journey into Hogwarts. You had no clue where you were going, but you just knew it would be good. A grand moment, you were sure, but what you were also sure of was that the next few hours on the train (or possibly days or months, who knew?) would result in you being bored out of your mind. Stuck in an empty carriage by yourself with no one to talk to – tragic – maybe it would do you some good if you popped down into one of the other carriages and try to find some other first-years.

Coincidentally, the door of the compartment was opened by none other than Quidditch Boy himself. His hair was askew, glasses lopsided and cheeks clearly flushed from the rush of trying to scramble onto the Hogwarts Express before it departed. He did not have his trunk with him, so his father was probably able to store it in time.

“Hey, again,” he flashed you a bashful smile. “Would it be alright if I could sit here with you?”

“Sure, no problem.” 

You observed him as he took the seat opposite you. He was already wearing robes of sorts, not the Hogwarts ones, judging from the lack of school emblem, but the sorts that you hypothesised would be the wizarding equivalent to a t-shirt and a pair of jeans.

“Er,” he started, causing you to look over at him. “It’s nice to see you. Again.” “Yeah.” you agreed with him, offering a lopsided smile. “Great. To meet you.” 

“Yep.”

The compartment fell into a highly awkward silence, one that you were not at all familiar with. Back with the Caddels, or even at your previous school, you had no problem whatsoever making friends with strangers. In fact, conversation came easily to you – you weren’t the most popular girl in the grade for no reason, after all. So the stuffiness invading the atmosphere was most definitely unwelcome, and honestly, unnatural.

Thankfully the awkward cloud hanging above you and Quidditch Boy dissipated abruptly when the compartment door slid open again, revealing the tall, freckled, ginger boy. The other first-year you’d spoken to: Ron.

His eyes widened when he saw you sitting in front of him. “Uh – sorry, anyone else sitting here? Everywhere else is full.”

Quidditch Boy shook his head and Ron took the seat beside them, so they were both facing you. Ron’s gaze hadn’t settled and he kept on glancing toward you and then toward the window whenever he made eye contact with you. It was amusing, his discomfort, from how often he did it.

“Hey, Ron.” The red-headed twins popped into the compartment suddenly. “Listen, we’re going back down the middle of the train – Lee Jordan’s got a giant tarantula down there.”

“Right,” said the youngest sibling.

So we’re not going to question the spider. Seems good.

“(Y/n),” the other twin, the one who hadn’t been talking to Ron, turned to you. “And other Kid,” referring to Quidditch Boy, “did we introduce ourselves? Fred and George Weasley. And this is Ron, our brother. Anyways, see you later, then.” The three of you said bye in unison as the twins left.

As soon as they were gone, Ron blurted out, “Can we see the scar?” You blinked at him, and he went pink. Though, you complied either way (as you had no qualms to showing off the lightning-shaped bolt). Pulling your hair back, the scar on your forehead was revealed to Quidditch Boy and Ron.

“Wow,” breathed out Quidditch Boy. “It really does look like lightning.”

Ron was equally stunned. “So that’s where You-Know-Who – ?”

“Yes.” You grinned brightly at their awed expressions. They stared at you a couple seconds longer before Ron diverted his attention quickly back to the greenery flitting through the window.

“So, is your whole family magic then?” you asked Ron out of curiosity. 

You already knew that Quidditch Boy’s father was a pure-blood and his mother was a muggle-born, whatever that meant; you weren’t going to be the one to say you had no idea what those were.

“Quidditch Boy?” puzzled Quidditch Boy, eyebrows furrowing. 

Ah, had you said that outloud? Whoops.

You laughed, bringing a hand to your nape. “Sorry, I don’t know your name, so I’ve just, kinda, resorted to calling you Quidditch Boy in my mind.”

“Oh, well, I’m, uh, Harry. Harry Potter.” said the boy, smiling at you once more. 

You slouched further into your seat. “Nice to meet ya then, Harry Potter.”

Ron interjected into the conversation, for which you were grateful. The ginger boy seemed to hold the power of evaporating awkwardness with a snap of his freckled fingers. “Pure-blooded means that everyone on his father’s side is magic. I’m the same – everyone in my family is a wizard, well maybe except for my mum’s second cousin who’s an accountant, but we don’t really talk about him.”

“I get it,” you said, cupping your chin with your hand. “I’ve got no clue what I am. But I know that my father had no magic.”

“A muggle,” Ron nodded appreciatively. “Well, basically everyone knows that your mother was a pure-blood, though. That makes you a half-blood like him, since you’re a mix I guess.” He pointed at Harry. You were slightly startled that he knew more about your family and lineage than you did yourself. Maybe you should get used to people knowing more about you than you did yourself.

“A muggle-born’s a witch or wizard who was born from muggle parents,” continued Ron.

You tilted your head to the side. “Where does their magic come from, if they’ve got no magical blood or whatever?”

Ron looked partially affronted. “Who knows, – magic isn’t exactly something that comes in a nice little package that gets delivered to you when the time is right! All I know is that if you’ve got magic, then you’ve got it. That’s all there is to it, really.” He waved his hands about in the air for further emphasis. This was probably a topic Ron was passionate about, as you noticed his ears flushing red under the combined blank stares of you and Harry. You ponderedthat if Ron were to ever wear something salmon-coloured, it would definitely wash him out. You wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between his face and his left knee.

You tried to recover from the painful silence. “Thanks, that clears it up. You two must know loads of magic then.” 

“Not nearly enough as my mum wants me to,” said Harry.

“Hear, hear,” mumbled Ron.

“Huh. Guess that’s one good thing that comes out of being an orphan. No pushy mother for me!” You chuckled at the uncomfortable looks on the boys’ faces. 

“I heard you went to live with Muggles,” said Ron, scratching the back of his neck. “What’re they like?” “Alright,” you shrugged. “Not outstandingly nice or anything, but they do their job. Would be cooler to have wizarding brothers like you though.”

“Not if you’ve got five of them.” answered Ron gloomily. “I’m the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts. You could say I’ve got a lot to live up to. Bill and Charlie have already left – Bill was Head Boy and Charlie was captain of Quidditch. Now Percy’s a Prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot, but they still get really good marks and everyone thinks they’re really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the others, but if I do, it’s no big deal, because they did it first. You never get anything new, either, with five brothers. I’ve got Bill’s old robes and Charlie’s old wand. I wanted an owl, but they couldn't aff – I mean, they got Percy one instead for becoming a Prefect.”

Ron’s ears went pink again. Your brain, it seemed, was temporarily delayed and was not able to formulate a response to that.

“I’m sure you’ll do better than all your brothers combined,” said Harry. 

Ron smiled gratefully at him. 

As the train rolled onward and your surroundings grew greener, you, quite helpfully, took Hedwig’s cage and placed her on the centre of the table, announcing that the first one to get nipped whilst feeding her treats would be declared the ultimate ‘Loser Lord and/or Lordess.’ Hedwig loved you, so obviously she went ham whenever the two boys got close to her in order to secure your victory.

The three of you fell into an easy conversation after that, and you barely even realised how much time had passed until a smiling, old-looking woman popped her head into the compartment and said “anything off the trolley, dears?”

With that lovely gesture, you had leapt out of your seat and essentially pounced onto the food she was offering. Your pockets were lined with wizard money now, an infinite stash really, and so there was nothing stopping you from buying multiples of everything she had. As such, you, Harry and Ron had to literally struggle and drag back the food you’d hoarded, before dumping it on the table.

“Hungry, are you?” said Ron, raising his eyebrows at the pile of snacks that was nearly as tall as him.

“Starving,” you grinned back.

You, Harry and Ron tore into the pasties and cakes, the mountain rapidly diminishing by the second. There was one incident with a chocolate frog creeping into Hedwig’s cage before getting mauled by her talons. The card that supposedly came with the treat, had also been destroyed, so Harry had given his to you. One with a moving picture of Albus Dumbledore, who had waved politely at your stunned expression.

Once you’d moved onto Bertie Bott’s Every-Flavour Beans, you found a lot of enjoyment when Ron had the misfortune of coming across a bean that tasted like dirty socks. Though, your amusement at Ron’s plight had been adjourned with the appearance of a round-faced boy.

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

“No, sorry.”

You were taken aback when the boy promptly burst into tears. “I’ve lost him! He keeps getting away from me!” “He’ll turn up,” said Harry.

“Yes,” said the boy, turning away dejectedly. “Well, if you see him…”

“Don’t know why he’s so bothered,” remarked Ron once the boy had left. “If I’d brought a toad I’d lose it as quick as I could.”

You deadpanned at him. “You haven’t even got any pets to lose, Ron. I’m betting that if you ever got one, you’d have even worse attachment issues than Toad-Boy.” “Mind you,” said Harry, talking around his mouthful of Cauldron Cake. “That’s saying a lot.”

“What’ve you got then?” asked Ron, turning his head to glare at Harry. “You seem awfully high and mighty for someone who probably doesn’t even have anything at all.”

“I’ve got a dog,” defended Harry. “Snuffles.” You stifled a giggle. “Snuffles? No way you named your dog that!” “I didn’t pick the name!”

“A dog’s not as good as an owl anyways,” you teased.

“I’d beg to differ – my dog totally is,” Harry grumbled, crossing his arms. “Plus you don’t even need to have an owl – the school’s got its own aviary shock-full of ‘em that you can send letters with.”

“One day, I’m gonna get an owl.” Ron sighed dreamily. “Just for myself, I wouldn’t have to share with Fred or George or Percy or Ginny.”

“Who’s Ginny?”

Before Ron could express the identity of this ‘Ginny’, the compartment door was opened by a bushy-haired girl whose face was wrinkled up irritably. Toad-Boy also made a reappearance.

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

“We’ve already told him we haven’t seen it,” said Ron, but the girl wasn’t listening. Rather, she had been staring at you. 

“You’re (Y/n) (L/n).” she declared matter-of-factly. “I saw you at the station. I know all about you, of course – I got a few extra books for background reading, and you’re in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century.”

Ron gaped at her and Harry blinked a few times repeatedly.

“Be surprised if I wasn’t,” you said, winking cheekily. You also had no idea what she was talking about though.

She studied you appraisingly before asking Ron and Harry “and who are you?”

“Ron Weasley.”

“Harry Potter.”

“Pleasure. Well, I’m Hermione Granger. I was ever so pleased when I got my letter to Hogwarts, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I’ve heard – I’ve learnt all of our set books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough.”

All three pairs of eyebrows furrowed in synchronisation. You, personally, had only caught about one-third of what she had been saying since she’d been basically rapping out her words. 

Herminkoni (was that what she said her name was?) began talking again. “Do either of you know what house you’ll be in? I’ve been asking around and I hope I’m in Gryffindor, it sounds the best by far, I hear Dumbledore himself was one, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t be too bad. Anyay, we’d better go and look for Neville’s toad. You three had better change, you know, I expect we’ll be there soon.”

Herpes Motion thus turned around and left, taking Toad-Boy with her.

“Well,” you announced cheerfully. “She was nice.” “Sure,” muttered Ron, reaching for a Treacle Tart. 

“She was right about one thing though,” said Harry, grinning and brushing his hair out of his face. “Gryffindor, by far, is definitely the best house.”

“Who’s Gryffindor?” you squinted your eyes at him. Ron attempted an exasperated face-palm with his left hand (he was still holding the tart in his right). Harry laughed at this, before proceeding to explain the four houses to you.

Gryffindor had been the house Ron’s and Harry’s families had gotten into. The house of the brave, it was known for. Ravenclaw, the house for smart people (you had a feeling you would not be getting into that); Hufflepuff was the house for the loyal and well-meaning. And finally, there was Slytherin. Both Ron and Harry detested the green-and-silver clad house, for it had been the house to pump out the most dark witches and wizards.

“Ah,” you said. “So naturally, we should hate that house, since that was the one Voldemort was – ” “Woah,” interrupted Ron, looking impressed. “You just said his name.” “Why wouldn’t I? It’s just a name. Anyways, I’m guessing that you both want Gryffindor then?”

“Of course!” Ron puffed out his chest. 

“Hey,” Harry began, rubbing your chin. “Have you — ”

Unfortunately, whatever Harry had wanted to ask had been interrupted by the compartment door sliding open again. 

This time, it was a group of three – the ringleader being a sallow-faced, gauntly blonde boy. The other two were giant-sized, goliath looking boys who looked like his bodyguards. And, of course, they were all fixated on you. (But then again, why wouldn’t they be?)

“Is it true?” he said. “They’re saying all down the train that (Y/n) (L/N)’s in this compartment. So, it’s you, is it?”

“That’s right,” you smiled at him.

His lips twitched into a small smirk. He waved his hand carelessly at the two body-doubles next to him. “This is Crabbe and that’s Goyle. And my name’s Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.”

Ron choked on his treacle tart, but you suspected that may have been him trying to disguise a sneer. Draco Malfoy narrowed his eyes on Ron.

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

Ron’s face went pink again and he sunk into his seat. 

Draco Malfoy raised an eyebrow at Harry, but before he could say something about his family, you cut him off.

“Oi,” you spoke, feeling your jaw clench at the blond boy’s demeanour. “I’d watch what I was saying if I was you, especially considering the crap that’s spewing outta your sewage-system of a mouth.”

Draco Malfoy turned his sharpened gaze toward you. “And I’d be more careful if I was you. You don’t want to make enemies with the wrong people.”

“Same goes for you.” 

You stared down Draco Malfoy. Harry was glancing back and forth between the two of you, and he looked ready to stand up if this altercation escalated.

“You don’t get to come in here and poke fun at us,” you muttered slowly. “Especially, if you want to be on good terms with me.”

His cheeks tinged a faint pink. “Not like I would want to be friends with the likes of you.” He placed the emphasis on ‘you’ the same way you did for ‘me’.

You, Harry and Ron all stood up. 

“I think it’d be best if you left.” you gritted out, disliking the boy less and less by every twitch of his rat-like face.

Unfortunately for you, Malfoy’s rattish face had broken out into a sneer. “You’ll regret making enemies out of me, (L/n). I promise you that much.”

He furiously spun around and out of the carriage, but not before he could shoot you a final scathing look. Crabbe and Goyle chased after him, robes billowing out from behind them.

“What a buffoon,” you huffed angrily.

“Agreed,” said Harry, still glaring at the door.

“I’ve heard of his family before,” said Ron darkly. “They were some of the first to come back to our side after You-Know-Who disappeared. Said they'd been bewitched. My dad doesn’t believe it. He says Malfoy’s father didn’t need an excuse to go over to the Dark Side.” “‘Specially if they thought it was the winning side,” added Harry.

The door opened before you could open your mouth. There was Hermit Yeti, yet again, standing at the entrance.

“What has been going on? Why did I just see three boys bolting out of this compartment?” She looked you up and down. “You haven’t been fighting, have you? You’ll be in trouble before we even get there!”

“They were the ones starting it – not us!” defended Ron, scowling at her.

“All right – I only came in here because people outside are behaving very childishly, racing up and down the corridors,” she said sniffly. “And you’ve got dirt on your nose, by the way, did you know that?”

“Thank you,” you interjected, glaring at her on behalf of Ron. “Could you leave now?”

And finally, Herm-onion left.

If you had to guess, it had been only an hour after that when the train had pulled to a stop. You had slipped on your robes, ensuring that they still had your signature wind-swept appearance about them. Ron and Harry were also wearing their school robes now too. The three of you stuffed your pockets with the remaining sweets before you left the train.

Hopping out of the train and onto the station, you were delighted to be met with the familiar, wild face of Hagrid, the giant-man. 

“Firs’-years! Firs-years over here! All right there, (Y/n)?” He beamed at you from under his scraggly beard.

You waved enthusiastically at him. 

The first-years, it looked like, had their own means of reaching the school, which involved travelling in groups of four in a little boat across a lake. You, Harry, Ron and the bushy-haired girl (to your displeasure) took a boat close to the front.

Whilst you did not dislike the girl, you weren’t fond of her tendency to huff or be bossy, especially when she did it toward Ron (which you found she did often). Harry hadn’t done anything to get into her wrong books, and nor vice versa, so they were probably on the most amicable terms between your little trio.

The boats glided in unison across the great body of water, before coming to a stop at the front of the school’s castle. You could hardly hear Toad-Boy’s reunion with his toad (“Trevor”) amongst the excited buzzing in your ears.

The gaggle of first-years came to a stop at the entrance of Hogwarts, a ginormous wooden castle door. Hagrid raised his fist and rapped three times on it. 

The door opened immediately. There was a stern, grey-haired witch standing behind it. She was sifting through the crowd intensely, and her gaze did not linger on your scar like how most peoples’ did.

“The firs’-years, Professor McGonagall,” said Hagrid.

“Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here.” The door was opened further and you streamed into the Entrance Hall. The entire school was huge, you realised, and was very elaborately decorated – like something you would read in a book. Flaming torches illuminated the corridor. The first-years were pulled into a little room, next to a place where you could hear the rest of the school talking.

It was then you noticed that Ron appeared quite pale under his freckles and that Harry was fiddling with his fingers. In fact, every first-year seemed to be exhibiting some sort of nervous tick, apart from Malfoy, who was rolling his eyes for some reason. 

You drew your eyebrows together in confusion. Should you have been scared too? It wasn’t like they were going to force you to fight each other or anything right? At least, that’s what you hoped. Although, you definitely knew that if they made you fight, you’d win.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” said Professor McGonagall. “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 speed free time in your house common room.

She continued giving a debrief of the houses, but as it was something you had already heard from Harry and Ron, it wasn’t anything new. You fidgeted restlessly, wanting to get onto the Sorting already.

“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 eyes lingered on your messy hair and ruffled collar, as one lapel stuck upwards. 

Once she left, you turned to Harry and Ron. “What do they do to get us into these houses? Is it like a test? Based on how you answer, that’s where you get in? Like, ‘what is the square root of sixteen?’”

“That’s probably only good for finding Ravenclaws and non-Ravenclaws though,” said Ron, taking you seriously. “My brothers said it was a test too, though. Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking.”

Harry was looking more unsettled by the minute. 

“Hey,” you said, patting his shoulder, mistaking his expression as anxiousness. “Don’t be nervous. I’m sure Ron’s brothers are just messing with us.” “Me too,” confirmed Ron.

“But,” Harry’s green eyes met yours. “A test? I didn’t know we had to do a test. In front of the whole school? I can barely do two spells, how will they sort me with that? I— I didn’t think — I mean, my dad said— I thought it had something to do with a ha –”

“Listen,” you began, patting his shoulder. “That’s already two more spells than I know, and probably most of the first-years too. That Malfoy kid included.” 

You narrowed your eyes at the said blonde boy, before returning them to Harry. “Don’t worry, alright? Test or not, I’m sure we'll all do great. Probably.” 

Beside you, Ron nodded in agreement (although it looked like his skin was also beginning to reach a sickly pale green colour).

“You’re right,” said Harry, and you were pleased to see that he was a fraction less scared than he was a moment ago. Although he did still look a tad bit confused.

Anyways, moving onto more pressing matters. You didn’t bother with ‘smartening yourself up.’ You were already pretty smart enough, in your opinion. Having bested the darkest wizard of the age at a meagre one year of age didn’t come to just anyone, you know?

After a whole debacle with some ghosts or something flying in to greet you before the ceremony, Professor McGonagall entered the room once more. You all trudged in a single-file line into the Great Hall.

You gaped openly at the Great Hall, which looked even bigger than the Entrance. Four long tables were lain across the room, with golden plates and goblets sitting on each. The students were segregated by houses, indicated by the colour of their robes and ties. There were also several candles floating in the air, which was pretty sweet too. Oh, and the roof looked like the sky as well. 

Professor McGongagall placed a three-legged stool in front of school, and then she placed a rusty-looking hat on top of it. You deadpanned when it broke into song, and even more when everyone burst into applause once it finished.

“So, we’ve just got to try on the hat!” Ron whisper-yelled to you and Harry. “I’ll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling a troll!” Harry gave him an unsure smile, and said “I tried telling you it was just a weird hat. You threw me off with the test talk.”

Professor McGonagall approached the stool, unravelling a long roll of parchment paper. “When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted,” she said. “Abbott, Hannah!”

Hannah stumbled from the crowd of first-years and toward the professor. She placed the hat on her head and after a moment of silence, the hat shouted out “HUFFLEPUFF!”

The table on the right, with the yellow-and-black clad students, the house of Hufflepuff, cheered and hollered as Hannah went to join them.

‘Bones, Susan’ went up next and she too went to Hufflepuff. ‘Boot, Terry’ went to Ravenclaw, and ‘Brown Lavender’ became the first new Gryffindor. The cheering from the red table was definitely the loudest, especially when right after ‘Bulstrode Millicent’ was sorted in Slytherin and all she got was only a polite and semi-subdued applause from her new house.

A few more people went, and then, so did ‘Granger, Hermione’ (so that was her name) who sat on the stool for a precariously long period of time before being sent to Gryffindor. Ron groaned. Toad-Boy (Longbottom, Neville!) got Gryffindor too, but somehow, he was on the stool for even longer than Hermione.

You were raising your hand to scratch at the itch in your ear when your name was called. 

As you stepped forward, the students in the Hall started to whisper loudly, just as they had done at the station.

“(L/n), did she say?” “The (Y/n) (L/n)?” Those comments did not help the rising ego blooming inside of you. You swaggered over the stool and sat down. Your fingers delicately gripped the brim of the hat. The fabric felt ragged and old underneath your fingertips. You brought the Sorting Hat down toward your –

“GRYFFINDOR!”

The hat had barely scraped the fly-away hairs on your head when it shrieked out. 

The Great Hall was silent for a few, stunned moments, taken aback by your instantaneous sorting. You stared back at them with wide eyes, darting downwards to look at Harry and Ron. They were wide-eyed too, before the dam of silence was broken, and they beamed gigantic smiles at you, alongside the entirety of the Gryffindor table erupting into cheers – louder cheers than for any of the people before you. 

You felt a warm glow in your chest. You looked around the table, and saw many friendly faces. Percy the Prefect had dived over the table (almost) to shake your hand vigorously and you could hear the Weasley twins jeering “we got (L/n)! We got (L/n)!” Even the resident Gryffindor ghost, Nearly Headless Nick, was congratulating you for your placement by patting your arm, which felt oddly like you were being doused in a bucket of cold water.

At the High Table, Hagrid was grinning and gave you the thumbs up of approval. Dumbledore, as you recognised him from the chocolate frog card, was up there too with a faint twinkle in his eye.

The only notable people left up, really, were Harry and Ron. 

Harry had been called first.

The Sorting Hat was sat upon his head for what seemed to be the better portion of an eternity. For the first time since your arrival, you felt a jolt of fear. What if you and your friends would be separated into different houses? You didn’t to be stuck in a full with only Neville and Hermione, everyday. What would happen if you woke up to find Neville’s slimy toad on your pillowcase or —

You felt a surge of joy and relief, as after a minute or two, the hat declared “GRYFFINDOR!” and the Great Hall erupted in cheers for Harry. You clapped your hands and smiled widely, looking for him among the sea of red and gold.

He took a seat beside you and you high-fived him.

“Nice to see you here, Potter, Harry,” you said, changing your voice to mimic McGonagall’s.

“Nice to see you too, the (Y/n) (L/n),” he snickered, mocking the way the students had reacted when they’d heard your name.

You grinned at him.

Ron joined you rather quickly, even though he was one of the last people to get sorted. You were delighted at this, as it meant you could still be with them for the rest of your Hogwarts years, if what Professor McGonagall had said about your house being akin to family, was true.

Dumbledore rose to his feet, “Welcome! 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! Thank you!” He sat down, and as he did, food magically appeared in front of you.

“Is he – a bit mad?” Harry asked you uncertainly.

“Probably,” you said, shrugging, reaching for the roast potatoes.

You scarfed down your food, listening to the conservation around you. You cheered when the dessert had come, causing the people around you to chuckle, quietly – except for Ron, who had gotten to the apple pie before you could.

You wrestled Ron for a slice of said pie, and were happily munching on it when you glanced back up to the High Table. Hagrid was drinking from his goblet, and Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore were in a deep discussion with each other. Another Professor, in a purple turban, was fiddling nervously with his cutlery, tapping his fork against the edge of the table. He was speaking with a professor with greasy black hair, a hooked nose and sallow skin.

The teacher, as though he could sense your presence, glanced straight past the Turban-Professor and bore his black eyes into yours – a sharp, hot pain seared within your scar, and you let out a hiss of pain.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked you, foreheading furrowing in concern.

“N-nothing.” The pain had left as quickly as it had come. How strange. You got the feeling that the hooked-nose teacher did not like you very much.

“Who's that teacher, the greasy-haired one?” you pointed at him, not discretely.

Harry stifled a laugh. “That’s Snape. No one likes him, they say he wants to be the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, but every year he gets stuck as the Potions one instead. My dad doesn’t like him at all – actually, my entire family doesn’t really either.”

“Why’s that?” you questioned.

“Not sure,” said Harry, but he scratched his cheek nervously. “They won’t tell me.”

Deciding not to press him further, you continued to watch Snape a little longer. He never looked at you again, though, after that.

Once the desserts had all faded away, Dumbledore had announced his final speech and conducted a very tragic school school orchestra. He wiped his eyes, from pain or sadness or you guessed maybe even both, when they had finished. “Ah, music. A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!”

Powering your legs through the sheer force of the food you’d guzzled down, you followed Percy up to the Gryffindor Tower. With horror, you realised that you’d have to climb an average of seven staircases everyday, simply just to get to your bed. 

Anyways, the entrance to the Gryffindor headquarters was through a painting of a Fat Lady and she flipped open when you told her the password, Caput Draconis. You scrambled through the portrait hole and into the Gryffindor common room. 

You lazily trudged up the stairs, and without even bothering to notice that your trunk had been transported up to your dorm room, you face-planted onto your bed and fell into a heavy sleep.

Perhaps you had eaten a bit too much, because that night, you had a very strange dream. 

You were staring into a mirror, desperately trying to tug off a purple turban from your head. When did you get a turban? How did you get a turban? The fabric of the turban grew tighter, making you feel a sharp pain in your skull as the turban squeezed your head like a vice. You wondered how you got into this mess in the first place.

Furiously pulling, pulling, at the turban finally caused it to unravel and expose your hair. With a start, as you glanced back to the mirror, you discerned that your face had, horrifyingly enough, taken on the face of Snape. His own black, empty eyes stared back at you. 

You scrambled back, leaping away from his cockroach-like eyes, only to find that, for some reason, there was a bottomless abyss behind you. You fell down, down, down into a pit. Closing your eyes as your head thrummed painfully, you braced yourself for the impact. 

A bright flash of green light, and a high, cruel laugh jerked you awake. 

Oddly enough, however, when you’d gone back to sleep, you hadn’t remembered the dream at all. You did question, however, the next morning why when you closed your eyes, all you saw was a luminous, green light in the shape of a lightning-bolt scar.

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→ Author's Note: Hello my lovelies, welcome to ch 1.2 yippee!! Sorry that its super long but we’re pretty already halfway through the ch 1 portion of the series XD — I’m guessing now that it's gonna reach about 1.4 or 1.5 but I could also be widely incorrect :P Anyways that’s all so catch ya next time :))) thank you

Time for this chapters analysis ~ You will have probs noticed one of the most canon-divergent parts of this series so far is that instead of the same dilemma Harry faced when he was getting sorted (Slytherin vs Gryffindor), as soon as the hat touched the little hairs upon your head, you were sorted into Gryffindor. During this chapter, and a little of the last one (but mostly this one), I've kinda been subtly trying to hint that the Reader is really quite arrogant and brazen. Rather than Harry as the chosen one, where he longs for a quiet and normal life, Reader dives headfirst into her role. She shamelessly self-promotes her lightning-scar and doesn’t try to hide it – she knows she’s special and she feeds into that!!  She’s kinda like James Potter in that regard >.< and therefore I want her to kind of be epitome of a Gryffindor (courageous and arrogant) and maybe, maybe not, a parallel to Draco Malfoy (who also got sorted into Slytherin ASAP, and is ambitious and arrogant) hehe → that’s also why Reader and Malfoy get more aggressive even more quickly than Harry did in canon… Anyways!!! This is the briefest hint at what I have in store for this series, and we’ll see how Reader’s arrogance courageousness deviates Harry Potter from canon.  Tbh I’m planning to make the reader Percy Jackson-coded (with the sass and reckless bravery and loyalty and what not) and maybe just the slightest bit Gojo-coded hehe,  I know that it's not that clear rn lol but I’ll work my way into it hopefully… Anyways, thanks again! :D Series Masterlist

Taglist (thanks for asking!): @kaverichauhan

[to-fly-with-clipped-wings]

back and running and newly edited :)

Chapter 1.1 - The Unexpected Visit

Chapter 1.1 - The Unexpected Visit

Pairing: Harry Potter x Chosen One! Reader

‘“I dunno what it was, no one does – but somethin’ about you stumped him, all right.” Hagrid turned to you, a mixture of warmth and respect blazing in his kind eyes. You straightened your back, preening under his gaze. So, what he was saying, basically was that you were the hero of the wizarding world. It had been you. The antidote to the disease. The champion. You were the saviour.’ OR: in which unexpected encounters open your eyes to a whole new world. One, it seems, you know nothing about, but knows everything about you. → Set in a universe where you are the chosen one, and Harry Potter is your best friend who tries to help you navigate the woes of being the lone hero of the wizarding world. A swap au where you are the chosen one, your parents are dead but the marauders + Lily are not. Eventual Harry x Reader, slowburn, friends to lovers. Author’s note: throughout this chapter I’ve put in some obvious parallels to the canon HP universe, but as we progress through the whole series, the plot may or may not become more canon divergent since you are you, and not Harry Potter… Anyways, welcome!!! Let’s see what (Y/n) (L/n), the girl who lived, gets up to. Thank you and enjoy! Series Masterlist

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Your scar was hurting.

The lightning bolt-shaped mark that rested above your right eye, in a manner of which your foster-mother, Mira Caddel, despised. Your hair had always been a flying mess because of her insistence in shaping it in such a particular way that it hid your ‘hideous scar’. You had definitely been through your pick of crude hairstyles and forced bangs in your lifetime. 

It also didn’t help that your foster-sister, Odette, enjoyed grabbing the ends of it when she pushed your head into the bowl of the toilet. You swore that she ripped out at least half of your head when she did (yet, strangely enough, when you got back up, your hair was as normal as it normally was).

Anyways, back to the matter at hand, you supposed. 

Your scar typically didn’t pain you. It was more like a weirdly-shaped birthmark at its best. But, right now, it was throbbing, releasing shockwaves of pain that reverberated throughout your head. 

You tried thinking of what you’d done to cause this. You couldn’t have hit your head on anything (even though this was a common occurrence since you had outgrown the cupboard under the stairs years ago), because you had just woken up. You didn’t think it was the usual migraine either, because they didn’t want to make you want to scratch off your lightning-bolt scar. You quite liked it after all — it added to your timeless charm. 

Maybe it was something you ate last night? What did you do last night? You couldn’t remember it point-blank but —

Oh, that was right. Seconds ago, you were fast asleep, in a dream that involved a bright green flash of light and the sound of a small child’s cry. You had a funny feeling that you’d had the same dream before. 

You clutched your forehead. The pain was slowly becoming unbearable, as though someone had stabbed a knife into your brain. You looked around, hoping to find some relief or explanation, but all you saw was the familiar sight of your tiny, cramped room. The floor was littered with clothes, books, and toys that you had collected over the years, mostly from the trash or the charity shops.

A sharp rapping on the door to the cupboard caused you to jump. 

A gruff voice snapped out. “Oi, girl! You awake yet? C’mon!” 

You groaned, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. Callum Caddel, the final puzzle piece to your ‘family’, if that’s what one would call this arrangement. He was your foster father, a well-established family man to most, but a wacky old sod to you. He always managed to go out of his way to irritate or prod a taunting comment toward you. 

Your real parents, you’d been told, were killed in a car accident when you were very little. About one year old, too. That was also how you’d acquired your lightning scar. The Caddels didn’t often answer your questions about your biological family, mostly because they didn’t know the answers themselves. You had wound up in the foster care system for about two years before they had taken you in, although you presumed the only reason they did was because they got a sum of two hundred pounds a month for it. The Caddels often did find themselves on the shorter side of the economical scale, and from your own experience, knew how they jumped like fishes out of a bowl at any chance of opportune (free) money.

You stood up, dusting off your tattered pyjamas. A spider scurried up the pant leg, and you bent down to pick it off. Spiders weren’t an odd presence in your humble abode, in fact, you thought yourself to be basically a spider magnet of sorts considering how many you’d find latched to you when you woke up.

The fast knocking resumed. “I want you out! Out!”

You pulled open the door harshly, meeting the pink, rounded, wheezing face of Callum. You snarked at him. “Woulda keep quiet, old man? I’m up.”

“Good riddance,” he spat, looking awfully sour for someone with a chocolate stain on the right side of his mouth. “Hurry up and make us breakfast, girl. We do our own jobs around here, you need to pick up slack! Least, I remind you that you were the one to pick that as your chore. Don’t you know how long we’ve waited for you to wake up?” You eyed him distastefully. “I don’t see much waiting,” referring to the brown mark on his face. 

He swelled like a bullfrog, huffing and crossing his arms across his chest. “What did you say to me?” You run a hand down your face. It was too early for this. Brushing past him, you entered the kitchen and began your routine of cracking eggs onto the pan.

You had just begun to fry the bacon when Odette herself decided to grace the kitchen with her glorious presence. Odette looked like an odd mix between her two parents. Her face was in a perpetual state of pinky rage, and her neck blended seamlessly into her torso (in a way that made it seem she did not have any neck at all). Her blue eyes were wide-spread and little, obviously drawn freckles lined her cheeks, sort of in a straight line. You enjoyed making fun at how her freckles seemed to be inching ever so slightly off her face everyday. With how aggressively she would apply them, some freckles would end up roughly the same size as a failed chocolate chip cookie. Her black hair was down, greasy and shiny and damp, which didn’t help her case either.

You were glad that you were not forced to share the same bathroom as her, because the times you’d stepped foot in it (you were forced to scrub it clean, you would have never done it willingly), the poor drain was quite literally clogged with what seemed to be half of Odette’s scalp. You would say that the poor thing ate more than its owner, and that was certainly saying something.

Mira entered the kitchen soon after. Her skin was deeply tanned from all the fake-tanning solutions she’d gone through, still, it was very patchy and not done well at all. Her box-dyed blonde hair was thrown over her shoulder and she brushed her long, claw-like fingers through it. “She looks like a doll”, Callum loved to swoon and you would love to reply with exaggerated, painful gagging, which never went down well with the Caddels.

She narrowed her eyes at you before taking a seat at the table and waving her hand at you. “Glad to see you’re up.”

You glared at her, muttering “lazy oaf”, under your breath before handing out the plates until there was only yours left. It was a flimsy child’s plate, one that Odette had outgrown at the ripe age of four. You powered through your food, the smiling face of Bambi peeking through your slowly diminishing heap of bacon.

Odette’s ugly mug began to twist itself into her gruesome smirk, and her lips parted. Probably to hurl out a teasing jab at your oversized clothes (which was not a phase!) or messy hair. But, before said insult could escape your foster-sister, you all heard the click of the letter-box followed by the flop of letters on the door mat.

Too intune with the deliciously appealing food on your plate, you did your very best to ignore the petulant stares of the Caddels, the stares that edged you down expectantly to fetch the mail. 

“Get the post, Odette,” you snapped at her, not glancing up from your precious. 

She huffed and got up to get the post.

Your ears were finally being blessed, listening to the heavy thumps as Odette tramped her way down the corridor to the front door. Just as you sank into your chair lazily, her high-pitched shrill cut through the air of the Caddels’ kitchen. 

Mira gasped and sprung up from her chair. “Odette!” She sprinted to where you’d heard the scream. The pointy part of her high heel hooked onto the leg of the chair you were sitting on, causing her to stumble. She caught herself on the back of your chair, but the force of her grip somehow managed to topple it over, sending you almost flying and then rolling across the floor. 

Groaning, you sat up from your new position on the ground. The clicking of heels and the heavy pants emitted from Mira and Callum respectively grew distant, as the pair of them rushed to check on their precious daughter.

Now, you didn’t really care about the girl herself, but when there was just the slightest possibility that she could be out there, embarrassing herself or prissing her pants in fear - well, now that was an opportunity you couldn’t bear to miss.

As you follow after them, you deliberated whether or not to pop up over to get the camera in order to capture the moment ahead of you.

Looking back, you think that, perhaps, you should have, considering that very moment was to become one of the very best ones you would ever have in your life.

“Who - who are you?” you heard Callum shout. “Don’t you dare come in! Don’t y - !”

“Ah, shut up Caddel, yeh great prune.” retorted another voice.

You did not recognise that voice. The Caddels were social people, sure. They frequently left the house for social outings, like the occasional meetings run by Callum’s drill firm, but never had someone stepped foot near the house. Too ashamed to reveal the tiny size of their floor plan, you reckoned, or maybe they were afraid that the dreadful state of your cupboard under the stairs would scare the lot of them off.

Of course, that did not mean no one knew of your existence. Years of praying that some knight in shining armour would come to whisk you away from the Caddels led you to pick up on rather strange occurrences. Very strange strangers would often stop (quite dramatically too) in the middle of the street to gawk at you. A tiny, funny looking man in a violet top hat had bowed to you once, or when a terribly old woman had winked at you from inside a bus. Ms Fig, the cranky, resident catwoman and your babysitter, down the street also treated you with a gentle softness, offering you extra packs of crisps to take home with you.  

The point was, this whole situation was odd. But why?

Your feet skidded against the floor as you came to a stop. 

A giant man, one no less than ten feet, with a great, scraggly beard and obsidian eyes that glinted slightly in the light, was stood in the doorway. You barely had time to notice that the poor door was hanging off its hinges, like it had been forcibly opened. 

The house was already rundown and shabby enough, and you hoped the giant man would pay for the repair funds. The house wasn’t big enough to fit the four of you, let alone some giant. This was evident when he squeezed his body into the house, causing the door to pop off its frame and go crashing down. The giant man jumped slightly, and the back of his head bumped into the hanging light bulb on the roof. Tiny little shards of crystals pelted down. 

Odette squealed and stumbled backwards into the house. The other two, who had gone ghost white with fear, were opening and closing their mouths like lost fish. Callum raised his pointer finger at the giant man, but did nothing more.

The giant’s eyes swivelled around the room before settling on you. His face, still hidden under his mass of hair, grew into a warm smile at the sight of you. A smile, you decided, had to take second place on your very short list of best smiles (after your smile, of course. The Caddels hadn’t qualified, with their hideous jugs, so it was a meagre list of two). 

“Ah, there she is! ‘Ello, (Y/n).”

You looked toward him, and if your hands wanted to tremble, you didn’t show it.

Who was this man, and how did he know your name?

“Las’ time I saw you, you was only a baby.” the giant man’s smile grew. His eyes swept you up and down, certainly taking note of the baggy, rumpled clothes you had on. “I got summat fer yeh.”

He turned around, fishing for something inside the massive coat he had on. He spun back around, brandishing two things; a letter made from yellowish parchment paper with a purple wax seal, and a slightly squashed box.

Now it was your mouth that was openly gaping at the man. He raised an eyebrow at you, grinning, before handing you the letter.

You almost ripped it out of his hands, your curiosity taking over you. The giant man chuckled at your eagerness. 

Ms (Y/n) (L/n)

The Cupboard under the Stairs

5 Alva St

Midlothian

You stared at the letter. 

You did often get letters. You were quite popular at school, after all, for your reckless charm. But, still, no one knew about the cupboard under the stairs. Not even a single whisper of it was breathed outside of the house. 

“W-what is that?” Mira croaked out. You had forgotten she was there.

The giant man looked like he was about to snap her at but you beat him to it. “Well, that’s what I’m finding out obviously. You think I know more than you?”

The giant man huffed out a small chuckle at your hostility.

Ignoring the faint flushing of Mira’s tanned face, and Callum turning a slight purple on behalf of his wife, you flipped the letter over and yanked out the paper within.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. Of Wizards)

Dear Ms (L/n),

We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

You read the letter, and felt a warm tingle surge through your body. 

Excitement. 

Hagrid smiled warmly at you.

“Yer a witch, (Y/n).” 

You had always known you were different, that you had something special inside you. The strange occurrences, the oddly shaped scar on your forehead. That didn’t happen to just anyone. You weren’t like the Caddels, you knew you never had been.

And now, you had proof. You were a witch. A real, honest-to-goodness witch. 

You grinned down at the letter, before tilting your head at the giant man. “I can’t believe it. A witch. That’s — that’s well, incredible!”

The giant man was openly laughing at your ecstasy. Even Mira, Callum and Odette had nothing to say. You could see them craning their necks to stare at the letter in your hands.

You smiled at the giant once more when a sudden thought struck you. “Ah — er, maybe I should’ve started with this, but, who are you exactly?”

His shoulders shook with each of his chuckles. “The name’s Hagrid. Rubeus Hagrid. Keeper o’ Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts — yeh’ll know all about Hogwarts, o’course.”

Mira stepped forward, quite suddenly. “I don’t understand. A witch? What are you talking about? Witches, wizards — the whole thing! Those aren’t real!”

Your smile faltered at this. In your excitement (the prospect of finally being whisked away from here), perhaps you had allowed a cloud of delusion to settle over your head. She was right. Magic? Wouldn’t you have known if there was a magical society thriving right under your nose? 

You shook your head at this. No. There had to be one. There just had to.

Hagrid’s face fell but he was quick to bring it back up. “Tha’s right. You lot are muggles. Yer hadn’t an inkling of magic.”

“What are muggles?” you asked, perking up at the unfamiliar jargon.

“A muggle,” Hagrid began, “is what we call non-magic folk like them. It’s real bad luck that you ‘ad to grow up with ‘em, instead of yer parents. I knew we shoulda left ya wit’ a wizarding family… ‘least then yeh woulda known about - ”

His eyes widened with realisation as he whipped around suddenly to face you, a sad expression taking over his features. “Then tha’ means you never learnt about yer parents. About Hogwarts. About yerself!”

He looked quite distressed, as he ran a hand down his big face. “A sad thing, really. The whole situ’tion with yer parents. A huge scandal, ‘specially since yeh don’t even know what happened. Ya know, every kid in our world knows yer name? Yer famous!”

Hagrid looked at you, his eyes sparkling brightly. You blinked dumbly.

“Yer famous!” he repeated, noticing the stunned faces on your and the Caddel’s faces. “Gulpin’ gargoyles, I knew Dumbledore said yeh didn’t know much but, I didn’t expec’ yeh knew so little.”

You sucked in a breath, chest puffing out affront. You certainly knew your stuff. Hell, you were salutatorian in your maths class, captain of the football team and the most liked person in your year level. You definitely weren’t stupid, if that was what Hagrid was suggesting.

Hagrid sighed deeply. “It begins, I suppose, with — with a person called — but its incredible yeh don’t know his name, everyone in our world knows — ”

“Who?” you asked testily, not quite enjoying the way he was talking about this whole thing like it was as obvious as the sky was blue or the grass was green.

“Well — I don’ like sayin’ the name if I can help it. No one does.”

“Why not?” “People are still scared of ‘im. Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this wizard who went… bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His  name was…” Hagrid visibly gulped. 

“Can you write it down?” you suggested helpfully, unfolding your arms.

“Nah - can’t spell it. All right - Voldemort.” Hagrid flinched, like some had just rammed a knife into his back. “Don’ make me say it again. Anyways, this - this wizard, about twenty years ago now, started lookin’ fer followers. Got ‘em too - some were afraid, some just wanted a bit o’ his power, ‘ cause he was gettin’ himself power, all right. Dark days, didn’t knew who ter trust, didn’t dare get friendly with strange witch or wizards… terrible things happened. He was takin’ over. ‘Course, some stood up to him - an’ he killed ‘em. Horribly. One o’ the only safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore’s the only one You-Know-Who was afraid of. Didn’t dare try takin’ the school, not jus’ then anyway.”

He breathed out, wiping at his eyes. “Now, yer mum was as good a witch I ever knew. Yer father was great as well. Brillian’, the two of ‘em were. Truly. But then, You-Know-Who turned up in the village where you was all living, on Hallowe’en ten years ago. You was just a year old. He came ter yer house an’ — an’ —”

He stopped suddenly, pulled out a very dirty handkerchief and blew his nose with it. A noise that caused the remaining chandeliers to rattle.

“He killed them,” you said quietly. It hadn’t been a car crash… no. They were murdered.

“He killed ‘em. An’ then — an’ this is the real myst’ry of the thing — he tried to kill you, too. Wanted ter make a clean job of it, I suppose, or maybe he just liked killin’ by then. But he couldn’t do it. Never wondered how you got that mark on yer forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That’s what yeh get when a powerful, evil curse touches yeh — took care of yer mum an’ dad an’ yer house, even — but it didn’t work on you, an’ that’s why yer famous. No one ever lived after he decided ter kill ‘em, no one except you, an’ he’d killed some o’ the best witches an’ wizards of the age — the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts — an’ you was only a baby, an’ you lived.”

You raised your hand to cup the scar on your face. A vivid flash of green filled your vision, but this time, you could hear something else — a high, cold, cruel laugh.

Hagrid sighed again. “Took yeh from the ruined house myself, on Dumbledore’s orders. Brought yeh ter a buildin’ an’ — ” he reached for his handkerchief. “An’ left yeh there, since yeh had no other family!” Hagrid dabbed at the corner of his eyes.

The amount of questions you held grew exponentially. “But, what happened to Vol — er — I mean, You-Know-Who?”

“Good question. Disappeared. Vanished. Same night he tried ter kill you. Makes yeh even more famous. That’s the biggest myst’ry, see… he was gettin’ more an’ more powerful — why’d he go?

“Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno if he had enough human left in him to die. Some say he’s still out there, bidin’ his time, like, but I don’ believe it. People who was on his side came back ter ours. Some of ‘em came outta kinda trances. Don’ reckon they could’ve done if he was comin’ back. Most of us reckon he’s still out there somewhere, but lost his powers. Too weak to carry on. ‘Cause somethin’ about you finished him, (Y/n). There was somethin’ goin’ on that night he hadn’t counted on — I dunno what it was, no one does — but somethin’ about you stumped him, all right.”

Hagrid turned to you, a mixture of warmth and respect blazing in his kind eyes. You straightened your back, preening under his gaze. So, what he was saying, basically was that you were the hero of the wizarding world. It had been you. The antidote to the disease. The champion. You were the saviour.

The Caddels gaped at you, and then at Hagrid, their heads swivelling like fans at a game of tennis. The foster-couple had their mouths angled toward the floor, looking positively bewildered and confounded at the entire exchange. You truly didn’t care what Mira and Callum thought of you. They were just muggles, according to Hagrid. They were ordinary and boring. Not like you.

You were a witch, a sorceress destined for greatness.

You looked up at the giant man, who was smiling at you with a twinkle in his eyes. “So, what do you say, Ms. (L/n)? Are you ready to join the wizarding world?”

You didn’t hesitate. You nodded eagerly, clutching the letter to your chest. “Yes, yes, yes! I can’t wait to go to Hogwarts!”

The giant man laughed heartily. “Tha’s the spirit, lass!”

“J-just hold on now,” muttered Callum, stepping forward. “That’s all dandy and all — ” you saw Hagrid’s eyebrow twitch. “—  but, who’s going to be paying for her funds? Not us, I can assure you.”

Hagrid scowled. “We’ll cover it then. Ungrateful old muggle.” 

You stifled a laugh. 

Callum snatched the letter from your hands, inspecting the list of equipment. “She needs all sorts of rubbish — spell books, wands, cauldrons. This is just some great joke isn’t it?” He turned to you suddenly, his moustache twitching violently. “You’re in one hell of a punishment after this, girl. Think it’s funny, do you? Wasting our time with this wizarding nonsense. Some hilarious prank.”

“It’s very much real,” spoke Hagrid, his voice rising steadily. “And don’ yeh worry yer little head off, Caddel. She’s one of us. You don’t need to be butting yer head into it now. Yeh’ve done all yeh needed to fer the past ten years, bare minimum from the looks of it, but we’ve got ‘er now. ”

Callum’s face went an ugly shade of purple. “Good, I suppose.” he replied stiffly. “Then get along.” 

He grabbed Mira’s shoulders and they started walking back into the kitchens. Odette turned to look at you, her eyes flickering to Hagrid, before her lips curled into a wide smirk. “Have fun, at your special school.”

You sent her a nasty glare, taking a step toward her before Hagrid disciplined her for you. A loud explosion blew Odette’s hair backwards, a warning blast that, to your pleasure, curtailed her growing ego. She shrieked and high-tailed it to the kitchen, sprinting faster than you’d ever seen her run before.

You barked out a laugh at Hagrid’s guilty face. 

“Sorry, shouldn’ta lost me temper. I’d be grateful yeh if didn’t mention that ter anyone at Hogwarts. I’m —  er —  not supposed ter do magic, strictly speakin’. I was allowed ter do a bit ter get yer letters to yeh an’ stuff — one o’ the reasons I was so keen ter take on the job — ”

“Why aren’t you supposed to do magic?” you asked, tilting your head at him in interest.

“Oh, well — I was at Hogwarts meself but I — er — got expelled, ter tell yeh the truth. In me third year. They snapped me wand in half an’ everything. But Dumbledore let me stay on as gamekeeper. Great man, Dumbledore.”

“Why were you expelled?” “We’ve spent alotta time here,” said Hagrid loudly. “We still gotta get yer books an’ all. Let’s get goin’.”

.｡*ﾟ🗲.*.｡  　ﾟ*..🗲｡*ﾟ

Diagon Alley was a strange little place.

After passing through a grubby-looking pub, the Leaky Cauldron, and getting your hand furiously shaken by everyone in the store, Hagrid had led to the small outroom beside the pub and whacked his pink umbrella against a stray, mouldy looking brick.

You raised an eyebrow unimpressed when nothing happened after a second. The very next second, however, the entire structure began to collapse and expose the treasures hidden within. 

A knobbly street with stores positively hanging from the ground as they towered over everyone — even diminishing Hagrid of his giant stature. From what you could see, there was a cauldron shop with various different kinds of pewter, copper, brass, even silver cauldrons. There was an owl emporium, from which you could hear the distant chirping of owls, and a ‘Quidditch store’ (whatever that was) with boys and girls around your own age stood around the place, pressing their noses to the glass. At the very end of the street, there was a snowy-white building, significantly larger than the rest, whose sign read ‘Gringotts.’ 

Hagrid had debriefed you on some of the commonly known things in the wizarding world; one of which was Gringotts. Gringotts was the resident wizarding bank, where wizards would deposit their money (knuts, sickles and galleons) into vaults that were fiercely guarded by goblins. Apparently your parents had even stored a wizarding fortune for you in one of those little vaults.

And so was true. A goblin named Griphook cracked open your vault to reveal piles and mountains of bronze, silver and gold coins. You reached inside and grabbed as many coins as would fit into your pouch. 

You visited another vault too, one for ‘secret Hogwarts business’ as Hagrid put it. Of course, you tried your best to get a peak at the small item wrapped delicately in its brown paper package, but Hagrid had been quick to shove it into his coat pocket.

After a tumultuous cart ride back up to the surface, you went about doing some boringish house-keeping work, which included sizing your robes, buying your books, stationary and other equipment (Hagrid wouldn’t let you get the rainbow, colour changing ink bottle nor the quill that sung melodies to you as you wrote).

The last thing that was left was getting your wand. But before that, Hagrid had departed mysteriously, telling you to stay put at Florean Fortescue's Ice-Cream Parlour with your chocolate and raspberry ice cream (with chopped nuts) until he returned.  

Naturally, you did not stay put.

Sauntering over to the ‘Quidditch’ shop you had passed before, ice cream cone in hand, you joined the small crowd still present in front of the display windows. You took a small lick of the chocolate syrup as you squinted your eyes at the thing everyone was obsessing over.

A broomstick.

You stifled a laugh. Of course, witches and wizards rode brooms – what else were you expecting? It must’ve been a form of transportation here. The label under the broom read ‘Nimbus Two Thousand - newest model of the Nimbus line.’ You looked at it appreciatively. 

You leaned to the right slightly, trying to look at the models surrounding the Nimbus, but you swayed too far and ended up bumping shoulders with one of the boys next to you. He jumped and turned to you with a start.

“Sorry,” you grinned at him. “I was trying to look at the other brooms.”

He smiled back at you uncertainly. “That’s fine. Are you a first-year at Hogwarts too?” The boy had messy black hair and rounded glasses perched on his nose. His brilliantly emerald-stained eyes shone out, past the glare of his lenses, as he made eye contact with you. He was quite scrawny for his age too, or perhaps that was created by the robes he was donning. Weirdly, your breath stuttered slightly. Now that was strange - your breath had never frozen quite like that before. Maybe it was part of the wizard charm, he was the first wizard you had really talked to (aside from Hagrid, but you were still unsure if he was a giant, a wizard or both).

Oh cripes, he wanted an answer didn’t he? “Uh — yes, I am. First-year. Hogwarts.” You nodded, in order to solidify your statement.

“That’s cool,” said the boy. His hair flopped onto his face and he pushed it back to expose the unmarred skin on his forehead. Your hair too had also fallen onto your face, covering your scar, but you weren’t as fussed about adjusting it. “I’m a first-year as well.” He gestured to the shop in front of you. “Do you like Quidditch? Well, you’re standing here so you probably do. Do you play much? What position?”

“If we’re being honest here, I frankly have no idea what you’re talking about.” You scratched your cheek, smiling sheepishly at the boy. He blinked, tilting his head. “Oh, like you don’t know what Quidditch is? At all?” “Yeah.” you answered. “I just came here to check out what had everyone so excited.”

“Oh, okay,” said the boy. “Are you a muggle-born then? Sorry — I hadn’t realised.” You continued to smile blankly at him, head empty from the stuff he was speaking of (what on earth was a muggle-born?).

“I’m a half-blood, see. My father’s a pure-blood, but my mum’s a muggle-born,” he said. “They’re out picking up some extra supplies with my uncles. Don’t worry if you aren’t familiar with anything yet! My mum was too, when she was invited to Hogwats, but then she ended up being top of her year and head girl. Here, let me explain Quidditch to you - you’ll love it…”

The boy rambled on with his speech about the sport - something about seven players, four balls, something called a chaser? which was what position he played. You certainly didn’t absorb anything he was saying, but you did note that he had a nice smile. A bit awkward and unsure, but it was still nice.

He was about to dive into the finer details of the game when Hagrid’s voice called out. “(Y/n)! (Y/n), where are you?!” 

You grinned apologetically at the boy, stuffing the end part of the cone into your mouth. “Sorry - that’ll be me. Great talking to you though, see ya at Hogwarts!”

You began to scurry away toward the sound of Hagrid’s distressed call, missing the way the boy’s green eyes widened at your name. “(Y/n)... (L/n)?”

His father, James Potter, snuck up behind him and clasped a hand on his shoulder. “What’s up, little Prongslet?”

The rest of his family came piling up behind the two. His mother, Lily Potter, whose forest-green eyes and bright red hair were positively sparkling at the sight of her husband and son. Lagging slightly behind were his uncle, Remus Lupin – with his robes prim and proper, not shabby at all, how he liked them – and his other uncle, Sirius Black, who was currently partaking (with much joy, might one add) in trying to pull Remus’s robe hood over his face. 

“Alright, Harry?” asked Lily, her fingers brushing away his bangs. “What’re you looking at?” “Um. Nothing,” said Harry Potter, tearing his eyes away from the spot you were last standing and back to his family. They met his gaze with their own warm, bright ones. “At least, I think so.”

.｡*ﾟ🗲.*.｡  　ﾟ*..🗲｡*ﾟ

The thing, Hagrid had left to do, ended up being a present for you. A little something for your admission into Hogwarts, he had mentioned. You were grinning ear to ear, thanking him profusely, when you had discovered what he had given you. You were proud to say that now, tucked delicately under your left arm, was a beautiful snowy owl, fast asleep with her head under her wing. You’d have to decide a name for her later, you thought.

The final store to get checked off was a shabby building tucked nicely away in the corner of Diagon Alley. Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC.

The place was tiny and quiet, and it almost reminded you of a strange library - though the only difference was that it was near empty and the shelves were lined with boxes containing wands rather than books.

Hagrid took a seat on a small pink spindly chair, though he nearly leaped off it when a soft voice echoed out within the small shop. “Good afternoon.”

“Hello!” you said back, twisting your neck to try and get a glimpse of the voice. “I’m (Y/n) - “ “(L/n). (Y/n) (L/n), yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon.” An old man popped up in front of you, his watery grey eyes fervently scanning your figure up and down. 

Mr Ollivander touched the lightning scar on your forehead with a long, white finger. “I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it," he said softly. “Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… Well, if I’d known what that wand was going out in the world to do…”

He shook his head, before suddenly whipping out a measuring tape to eyeball the length of your dominant arm.

“I remember when your mother was here, buying her first wand. Twelve inches exactly, malleable, unicorn hair. Aspen.” The measuring tape flew away from his hands, now measuring the width of your nostrils by itself.

Your mouth blubbered slightly, gaping at the man in astonishment. “How do you remember that?” The man chuckled. “I remember all of the wands I’ve ever sold, (Y/n) (L/n).”

“Do you know my father’s one, then?” “Your father never purchased a wand.”

You furrowed your eyebrows. Was your father like Hagrid then? Expelled from Hogwarts before he could get a wand? (Well, Hagrid did have a wand you guessed, tucked inside his flowery pink umbrella). Your eyes widened. 

Was Hagrid your fath —

“He was a muggle,” explained Mr Ollivander. The tape had now switched to measuring the length of your face. “He didn’t have any magic.”

“Oh.” was all you said in reply.

“That’s quite enough,” he spoke to the tape, which fell limp to the floor. “Right then, Ms (L/n). Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it, and give it a wave.”

You took the wand from his hands but before you could do so much as to lift it, Mr Ollivander snatched it out of your hand at once.

“Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try -”

And try you did, but Mr Ollivander had snatched it back almost instantaneously once again.

“No, no - here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out.” You tried. And tried. And a little more. The pile of wands on the spindly grew and grew until the poor chair was squeaking and compressing under the weight. Yet, despite the failures in finding your wand, the more Mr Ollivander pulled from the walls, the happier he became.

“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we’ll find the perfect match here somewhere - I wonder, now - yes, why not - unusual combination - holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.”

You took the wand and it immediately spluttered to life. A shower of golden sparks exploded from its tips as you brought it swooshing down from your head. An explosion of colourful fireworks emitted from it, creating little light spots, like the sort you’d find at the surface of a swimming pool. Hagrid whooped and clapped and Mr Ollivander cried, “Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well… How curious. How very curious…”

He began wrapping your wand in a brown paper bag. “Curious… curious…”

“What’s curious,” you asked, furrowing your eyebrows at him.

Mr Ollivander’s silvery gaze hooked onto yours. “I remember every wand I’ve sold, Ms (L/n). Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather - just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother - why, its brother gave you that scar.”

Your throat became dry.

“Yes, thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember… I think we must expect great things from you, Ms (L/n)... After all, He Who Must Not Be Named did great things - terrible, yes, but great.”

Great things. 

Terrible, yes, but great. That was right.

Ollivander, in his old manly rambles and silvery light gaze, was correct. That was you — (Y/n) (L/n). The only survivor of Voldemort’s wrath, and the sole hero of the wizarding world.  It was you who bore the weight of this burden now, and you sure did hope that your shoulders were steady enough.

→ Author’s note: Hello my lovelies, thank you so much for picking up The Girl Who Lived series! 💖 (I think I’ll abbreviate it to TGWL when I write about it though hehe)!!! If you couldn’t tell, this will follow the plotline of the books but it will deliberately omit, add or change some events ;0 Hoped you somewhat liked the whiff of interaction we got between reader and Harry (verrryyy brief but there is more to come, promise!) You don’t have to read this next part but I like analysing and explaining texts so I’m kinda gonna go ham on this chapter//series Reader grew up with her foster family rather than her aunt and uncle like Harry. There was no particular reason for this, ‘specially since both families are pretty similar 😀 Though, one thing that I wanted to point out was that the Caddels aren’t supposed to be as abusive as the Dursleys. The Dursleys are cruel to Harry because they hate magic and they’re spiteful of it, because Petunia was jealous of Lily.  On the other hand, the Caddels are an ordinary, Muggle family who happen to be quite prudent and stingy. They have a small house that’s not big enough to house four people, which is why reader lives in the cupboard under the stairs. Odette and reader’s relationship is a more hostile version of a typical sibling relationship, not the social hierarchy pyramid that was Harry’s and Dudley’s.  Anyways, the point is they hold no real grudge against magic, but they aren’t fond of reader herself, hence the mocking jabs. Because of this distinct lack of hatred, not only did reader receive her letter on the first day, rather than that canon goose chase/hunt thing, but Hagrid also wasn’t as aggressive to them as he was to the Dursley’s. They don’t hate magic, nor do they hate the reader. To them, she kind of just exists This partly ties into reader’s quite arrogant and brazen personality (which I will analyse more in depth later on… no spoilers!) So yeah, the Caddels aren’t evil or abusive at heart, just a family who needs money and happens to have taken in a teenager with a bucket load of angst (which I will also tap into later ;)  (One more thing soz… but if you’re wondering why you met Harry instead of Draco in Diagon Alley like in the og books, well in the canon, Harry goes to Diagon Alley like on the 31st of July (very late). On the other hand, reader received her letter first up so they went to get the supplies on like the 1st hence her and Draco’s times don’t overlap! I chucked Harry in here because since he lives with his parents now, James would def want Harry to get his stuff ASAP to teach him random crap and Lily would want him to start studying or practising for school LOL) Series Masterlist

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yay kind of?!

hey guys just wanted to let you know !! the next part for 'a sea of sorrows' will be out soon but im also definelty rewriting the first part because i hate it and i will be changning a bunch of things so please check that out when i fix it up!!!! ill reblog the post as well when i finish the major edits! ;) thank you <3

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A Sea of Sorrows -> Act 1, Part 1

Act 1: the Fall of the Gods

Dear Percy. This was the year the Gods fell from Olympus, and I fell from you. I miss the us from that year. I wonder, did either of us know what was in store?

Series Summary: A chronicle of the moments you fell in love with your enemy, Percy Jackson. An epilogue to your fate and an epitaph to your grave.

AKA in a universe where you are a traitor to Camp Half-Blood. This is an ode to the boy that led to your downfall: Percy Jackson.

Series Masterlist

Percy Jackson Masterlist

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

i. “OH, OH, tell us again how the legend goes?”

Your eight-year old self bounced on the heels of your feet. The little blue birthday hat atop your head started to slip, the elastic string too long to fit snugly around your head, but you hardly bat an eye. You clap your hands together, giggling, staring in awe as yet another star sparks in the sky and, it too begins its spiralling descent from its heavenly abode and to the feet of your earth-dwelling mortals. 

The star’s trail of divine dust, marking its venture across your frail vision, was reflected in your eyes. You raised an arm, as though trying to pluck the celestial from the sky.

Silena Beauregard giggled as she reached over to fix your askew birthday hat. 

You didn’t know if it was the mind of your eight-year-old self manipulating a shroud mist around the girl or if she genuinely held the most ethereal, luminous pieces of the sky within her dark blue eyes. You didn’t know, or perhaps, didn’t want to remember, if her midnight silk hair, glossed and draped over her shoulders as the night enveloped the horizon, had been anything but that. The bracelets around her wrist tinkled as she went about drawing your astray strands of hair back. You could smell her perfume as well, but its scent was so fleeting that you could never seem to recall it once she left.

You smiled at her, like if you had even the slightest chance, you wouldn’t have hesitated to delve into the velvety curtain of the night to retrieve only the finest of stars for her eyes to hold. 

She smiled at you, as though — impossible as it may have sounded — as though, in that moment, she loved you.

“Well,” she started, leaning over to place both you and Annabeth on her lap.

Clarisse La Rue took that chance to rip off her birthday hat (red, she had insisted) and replace it with her usual bandanna. The Stoll brothers, apparently, took great offence to that gesture, as they too whipped off their own hats to brandish like daggers at the Ares girl. Clarisse snarled at them, before taking her own, very real, spear and threatening to shove it down their throats or in some other choice places.

Beckdorf smirked, crossing his arms as he turned his head to appraise the face-off between the brothers and Clarisse, but he didn’t make any move to discourage the oncoming fight. And then, as was usual, Luke — the golden boy, the older brother to all campers (no matter if you were younger or older than him) — sighed, as though he’d just lost fifteen years of his life from their spat, and then plucked Clarisse’s spear out of her hands and lightly pushed his half-brothers into each other, sprawling onto the ground like dominoes.

“Can’t you guys ever settle down?” he asked, rolling his eyes. But then he smiled, so all of you knew that he didn’t really mean it. “I mean, it’s little Major’s birthday today and all we want is to enjoy the meteor shower in peace.” “Little Major is contradictory,” frowned Annabeth. An onlooker might’ve thought that Luke had just wished a deadly curse upon her entire bloodline, from the way her grey gaze furrowed. “How can she be little and major at the same time? It doesn’t make any sense!”

Before Luke could make a teasing remark (you could tell from the way the outer corner of his lip, the one without the dimple, twitched upwards), you cut in. “Please, Selly, pretty please! Tell me about the shooting star?”

“It’s a tale of wonder,” Silena finally began, her pearly white teeth shining through her picture-perfect smile. Her tone was hushed, like she was whispering a super-secret secret to the girls, “forged by immortals under a sky, much like this one.”

“In the days of old,” continued Beckondorf, his contribution to the conversation surprising you. The muscular boy was of few words, but you supposed that Silena’s presence had drawn him out from his carefully crafted shell. You and Annabeth shared amused looks, far more knowing beyond your years. 

“The Greeks looked up to the heavens and saw the gods in every corner of the night. They believed that the sky was a grand canvas, a blank machine of sorts, where the gods etched their stories in constellations and galaxies.”

“Now, the gods, they weren’t distant watchers,” said Silena, glancing at Beckendorf as she spoke. She looked at him as though she wasn’t reciting the tale to you, but to him, the only other person in the world. “They were keepers of hopes, weavers of destinies. And sometimes, just sometimes, they would lean so close to Earth that a star would slip through their fingers and streak across the sky. That’s what we call a shooting star.

“The legend goes that in those fleeting moments, the veil between us and the divine thins. It’s when the gods are listening, truly listening, to the heartbeat of the world. And if a mortal, pure of heart and full of hope, makes a wish upon such a star, the gods take notice.”

“They say that Aphrodite smiles upon lovers,” spoke Luke softly. He gazed up at the sky, and then toward the pine-tree in the far distance. “Athena guides the seekers of wisdom, Ares leads man into war, and that, if you were truly of a golden heart, Zeus himself might offer his insight.” 

His voice dwindled off, and if, at the time, perhaps you hadn’t been so caught up in your childish, insolent elation, you might’ve picked up on his bitter tone.

Annabeth turned to you. “So, on your special night, let’s wish on all the shooting stars. Together.”

Silena nodded, resting her head on Beckendorf’s shoulder. “Close your eyes, you wish on that star. You wish and you dream wish with all that is there in your heart, and just, believe. Believe, as the gods are kind, and they cherish the dreams of their children.”

“But you remember, Major,” Luke turned his saddened gaze back to you. “That old star can only take you part of the way. You have to help it along with some hard work of your own, and then, yeah. You can do anything you set your mind to.”

“Just promise us one thing,” murmured Silena. “That you'll never, ever lose sight of what's really important.”

“I don’t know what to do,” You stared up at her anxiously, fiddling with the string of your birthday hat. “Could you show me how to wish?”

She smiled once more, and it felt like the balance of the stars and sky had been reborn to take the form of Silena Beauregard. “Oh, I’m sure you already know how to do that.”

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

ii. Against all odds, you would say that you were looking forward to the Yancy school trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Yeah, you didn’t really care about art or architecture or the weird little naked statues of the gods (you definitely didn’t appreciate that), but you were looking forward to your first extraction mission as a demigod — even if this little outing of yours couldn’t be considered a quest, and even if it was long overdue.

Being undetermined was a disease in the world of Greek mythology, and it was a disease that followed you like the plague. it was a curse when your Godly parent refused to claim you, refused to acknowledge you. You were cursed from the start, cursed to run around, seeking kleos, and for what?

For absolutely nothing.

That was something no one let you forget. From your spot on the floor in Cabin Eleven, to the brown mass of curls on Grover’s head that frantically kept glancing back at you to make sure that no monster had snuck up on you during the last thirty seconds he hadn’t been looking at you. It even took Chiron about three years worth of convincing to let you go out, as he used the same reason (excuse) over and over again: you aren’t claimed. You don’t know how to defend yourself. It is too dangerous.

That’s what it always boiled down to. 

You weren’t claimed, fine. You didn’t need to be claimed to be able to fight. 

It was always the same broken record that played whenever someone opened their mouth, but instead of sweet melodies or even sweeter, praise, it was the string of never-ending, ‘you aren’t strong enough. You aren’t brave enough. You aren’t good enough.

You aren’t claimed.’

A voice in the back of your mind churned traitorously. Although, you supposed that you shouldn’t be the one to talk about betrayal. 

The speculations held merit, it had whispered.

Once a demigod was claimed, it was said that their powers grew exponentially. A claiming was essentially a blessing from your divine parent’s hand, a way of saying ‘I, as your parent, grant you your birthright as my child.’ You became blessed by Olympus to become faster, better, and stronger, a means to defend yourself from the monsters that lurked in the outside world.

But the thing was, once a godly parent claimed their kid, their godly side also began to radiate monster-attraction scent that enhanced their presence to monsters in a nearby radius. One would argue then, that meant unclaimed half-bloods would be better suited to high-risk jobs since they were at a lower risk of monster attacks than claimed ones. 

“But,” Clarisse La Rue had argued, “that also means that you have less experience fighting monsters, so what happens if you encounter a beast like the minotaur on the field? Less experience, plus no divine blessing is a stirring pot for demigod death.”

“So,” Chiron blinked at you, not unkindly. “You need to understand, we simply cannot be sending you out of camp, Major. Your mother is not in  a state where she is able to ward off monsters, and you…”

You…

You are not strong enough, you finish in your head bitterly. You were not strong like the others, not because you weren’t good with a sword or spear, but because you were not good enough to register as a child to your divine parent.

It was always Major, the side-kick. The pathetic little Robin to Luke’s Batman, or the golden rope to Annabeth’s Wonder Woman. Always the damsel in distress, never the prince. Always the one in the shadows, never the hero. Always the angel, never the god.

Since your mother’s passing four years ago, you had become a year round camper so you had more training under your belt than, say, ninety percent of the Apollo cabin. Yet, even they were allowed to leave camp and get up to all sorts of nonsense. 

Were you not enough for your godly parent to look up from whatever divine duties they needed to do? Were you not good enough for your godly father to come down to save your mother when she was on her deathbed? You weren’t even sure if your father knew your name. 

You sent Grover a small smile when he glanced back at you again. 

Next to you, Percy Jackson, pulled a face. 

Percy was a thirteen year old boy. With staggering sea-green eyes, black hair and tan skin, he was the half-blood Grover had called Chiron out for. For a year, it had been you, him and Grover fighting your way through the hell-hole that was Yancy Academy. Between failing classes, cheating off each other during tests (and failing those anyways because apparently both of you sucked at academics equally) and throwing dirt into Nancy Bobofit’s eyes, whenever she threw her weird bits of peanut-butter-and-ketchup sandwich on Grover, you would say that you and Percy were probably each other’s closest friends. Throughout the year, you and Percy had become each other’s anchor. You shared the burden of academic challenges, often finding peace in the fact that if you were going to fail, at least you’d do it together. 

There was a certain comfort in Percy’s company, a sense of acceptance that was rare and maybe even precious. He never looked at you with eyes of thinly veiled judgement that others often did, nor did he offer unwanted pity, that felt more like a burden than a comfort. It was probably because he had no idea of his demigod heritage, but with Percy, you were just you. 

Unclaimed, maybe, but never unseen. 

You liked Percy’s company, and you were impatiently waiting for the day Chiron gave you the all clear to return to Camp Half-Blood. There you and Percy could spend your days picking strawberries, sparring, whatever it was you two wanted to do. And hopefully, Percy would end up being unclaimed, or maybe even the son of a minor god, so you could ride out your days in the Hermes Cabin forever. Maybe one day, you would even be promoted to having a bunk. That would be especially great. 

“Excited for the trip, Major?” Percy grinned at you. 

You sighed, tilting your head on your seat so you could glance at him through the corner of your eyes. “Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”

Ahead of you, Grover squawked when Nancy Bobofit threw another bit of her sandwich at him. 

“I’m going to kill her,” muttered Percy, his eyes darkening at the red-headed girl. 

You patted Percy’s knee, trying to stop him from leaping toward Nancy. She sucked, but it wasn’t worth Percy getting expelled from Yancy just yet.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

i. “It’s easy,” said Luke, clapping your little, eight-year-old self on the back. “Wait and watch.”

And that you did. With bated breath and rapidly trembling fists, you waited and waited until the stars started to pour once again from the sky. They streaked down the horizon, the eyes of the sky shedding them like divine tear drops or that raindrops that slid down a window — the sort you would bet on with Annabeth about which would reach the sill first.

Beckendorf pointed at the brightest one he could find. He cleared his throat before saying his wish under his breath.

You tilted your head in confusion. “I didn’t hear the wish,” you frowned.

Luke smiled gently, his facade of happiness not quite reaching his eyes. “That’s the catch. You can’t let anyone find out about your wish, otherwise it won’t come true. It’s just between you, and the gods.”

He turned to the sky once more, and uttered his own wish. This time, you tried extra hard to pick up what he was saying, but you couldn’t hear much. You did catch a few words, something about history? It didn’t make too much sense to you though.

It was Silena’s go next. Her cheeks were pink as she made her wish, and she looked at the ground instead of the stars. Her wish was so quiet that even though she had placed you and Annabeth on top of her, you couldn’t hear a thing. 

Annabeth Chase, Clarisse La Rue, Travis and Connor Stoll, Harmony Crosscov and Critos Lyalin all prayed for their wishes as well. It wasn’t hard for you to predict what theirs might've been about. Annabeth’s probably had to do with architecture, Clarisse’s with her spear (possibly making it more deadly, even though you didn’t know why exactly a ten year old needed a super deadly spear in her collection). Travis and Connor probably asked to get a key for the camp’s gift shop so they could raid it even when it was locked. 

Harmony, a daughter of Apollo, had picked up the lyre she was strumming and held it to the sky as she wished, so you suspected hers had to do with maybe creating the most beautiful melody mankind had ever heard with it (although she already did that, so you didn’t know why she needed to use her wish on that). Critos was a son of Demeter, and he was the only one who weren’t entirely confident about, but you thought maybe it had to do with one of his plants — like the petunias that kept wilting? He had always complained about those.

Now, everyone had made their wish. Everyone but you. Your birthday posse turned to face you, the birthday girl, as you prepared to make what was going to be the most important wish of the night.

You were beside yourself in excitement. Today was your eighth birthday! The gods had to grant your wish, that was the intrinsic birthday rule, wasn’t it? The gods had to be looking, heck, maybe even your godly parent was looking. Maybe, just maybe, today would be the day you would get claimed.

You thought about using that as your wish. ‘I wish to be claimed.’ But you decided against it. You had only been at camp for about two months, that wasn’t that long compared to the other camper’s claiming stories. You had plenty of time ahead of you to get claimed, so you didn’t need to rush and waste your wish on something that was inevitable anyways.

Maybe you should wish to win the next capture the flag game? Gods know that the Hermes cabin would be ecstatic if you did. What about acing the Ancient Greek vocab test you had the next day? No, you shook your head. You were going to fail that anyways, wishing on a star wouldn’t save your pitiful grades. You would just have to hope Annabeth would be in a ‘helping-Major-cheat’ mood tomorrow.

Maybe you should wish for something to do with your mother? You frowned. 

The thought of her laughter, her warmth, her guidance - all the things you missed the most - flooded your mind. ‘If she could come back, would she be the same?’ you pondered, the uncertainty a heavy stone in your stomach. ‘And what would she think?’ The frown deepened as you considered. It wasn't just about what you wanted; it was about the balance of things, the natural order. But… she’s gone now. Was she? Could this wish bring her back?

You opened your mouth, but before you said anything, another thought struck you. And with that thought, a sense of peace began to settle over you, as if your mother's wisdom had reached out from beyond, guiding you once more.

That was it! 

The most perfect wish. The gods had to grant it, there was no way they could refuse. It would be the best blessing, the most perfect divine grant that couldn’t possibly be refuted.

In your excitement, however, you forgot about the wishes-were-supposed-to-be-super-top-secret-so-you-must-whisper-them rule, and ended up just blurting it out of your mouth, words churring out faster than you could comprehend.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

ii. Chiron — sorry, Mr. Brunner, led the museum tour.

It wasn’t anything you hadn’t seen before. Ancient Greek armour (that you knew weren’t that ancient), pots with little dancing figures painted on them, steles with, to no one’s surprise, weird naked statues of gods running across them. It was really nothing special, just the usual artsy stuff mortals were crazy for, but you did get a kick out of Percy snapping at Nancy when Chiron was rumbling about something to do with Greek depression or something.

“Will you shut the fuck up?” Percy gave her his nastiest stink-eye.

Everyone laughed. You nudged Percy’s shoulder, and he turned his gaze to you, kicking your shoe in retaliation, before remembering that Chiron and Mrs. Dodds were still there, and they didn’t look happy at all with Percy’s interruption.

Mrs. Dodds was an interesting character. She despised Percy with all of her being (not heart, you weren’t sure if she had a heart), but you would say she had a soft-spot for you. Like whenever she gave Percy after-school detention for blowing up a bin or something, you would turn, smile at you and hand you this weird melted candy bar that tasted oddly like hot fudge and sea salt?

While the chocolate was a much appreciated gesture, you didn’t enjoy the way she snapped at Percy, and you agreed that there was something off about her. Like in the way she wasn’t exactly… normal? But you doubted anyone would listen to you anyways, and if Chiron hadn’t picked up on it, then it probably wasn’t important.

“Mr. Jackson,” began the centaur in disguise. “Did you have a comment?”

“No, sir,” said Percy, his cheeks burning red.

Mr. Brunner pointed to one of the pictures on the stele. “Perhaps you’ll tell us what this picture represents?”

Percy looked to where he was pointing. He nodded slightly, that he knew the answer to that question (if he didn’t that was fine anyways, you would’ve just whispered it to him). “That’s Kronos eating his kids, right?”

“Yes,” Mr. Brunner said, raising an eyebrow. “And he did this because…”

“Well… Kronos was the king god, and —”

“God?” Mr. Brunner asked. 

You flinched slightly when Percy said it; you didn’t think the gods would be willing to hold back if they caught him making that little comment. The gods had incredibly short fuses, and it was often their temper that caused the most destruction — like when Ares shot that one archduke back in 1914 and started World War 1.

“Titan,” Percy fixed. “And…he didn’t trust his kids, who were the gods. So, um, Kronos ate them, right? But his wife hid baby Zeus, and gave Kronos a rock to eat instead. And later, when Zeus grew up, he tricked his dad, Kronos, into barfing up his brothers and sisters—”

“Eeew!” squealed a girl from behind you. 

“—and so there was this big fight between the gods and the Titans,” Percy powered through, “and the gods won.”

Nancy Bobofit mumbled, “like we’re going to use this in real life. Like it’s going to say on our job applications, ‘Please explain why Kronos ate his kids.’”

You didn’t like Nancy much, but there was probably some merit to her question. The gods cared so much about themselves, that one day they probably would manage to hijack mortal job interviews into a pop quiz of ‘what is Aphrodite’s favourite brand of perfume’ or ‘write a one thousand word essay on why Zeus is most supreme god, explaining clearly why his brothers Poseidon and Hades suck ass.’

You rolled your eyes.

“And why, Mr. Jackson,” Brunner said, “to paraphrase Miss Bobofit’s excellent question, does this matter in real life?”

“Busted,” Grover muttered. 

“Shut up,” hissed Nancy, her face even brighter red than her hair. 

Percy looked pensive for a moment, the most pensive you’d ever seen him apart from when he needed to decide between blue cookies or blue jelly beans. “I don’t know, sir.”

“I see.” Chiron sighed. “Well, half credit, Mr. Jackson. Zeus did indeed feed Kronos a mixture of mustard and wine, which made him disgorge his other five children, who, of course, being immortal gods, had been living and growing up completely undigested in the Titan’s stomach. The gods defeated their father, sliced him to pieces with his own scythe, and scattered his remains in Tartarus, the darkest part of the Underworld.”

Kronos. The name sent chills up your spine. The Titan lord who had once ruled before the gods, now a whisper from the past, yet his legacy lingered like a shadow. As Chiron recounted the tale, you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of foreboding, a sense that the history of the gods and Titans was not as distant as it seemed.

Your gaze shifted downwards to your trembling hands. You clasp them together to try and steady them. The tales of gods and Titans, of heroes and monsters, they all seemed like distant echoes of a world you were forced into but never truly belonged. You felt the weight of your unclaimed status, a constant reminder of your place, or lack thereof, in this mythological nightmare.

You watched Percy. His fate was yet to unfold, and you couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy. He had a path, albeit unknown to him, but you… you were adrift in a sea of uncertainty, a ship without a sail.

The gods, those mighty beings who played with the lives of mortals and demigods alike, they were the root of your turmoil. How easy it must’ve been for them, to watch from their celestial thrones, to judge and to ignore the pleas of their children. 

In the days to come, I would stand by you as you discovered the truth. But, when the weight of your destiny became too much to bear alone, my greatest regret was that I could not stand beside you. Your bond was a testament to the strength that friendship and loyalty could bring. Mine was a testament to the darkness and hatred of our world.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

iii. The battlefield was before you, a canvas of chaos painted with the scars of war. The earth itself seemed to mourn, its once green flesh torn and charred. The battlefield stretched out, a vast, open wound upon the ground. The grass was soaked with the blood of fallen warriors, and squelched underfoot as you walked among the remnants of what had once been a fierce and vibrant camp. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of burning flesh, a sensory assault that would haunt you for all your days.

The earth, which had once cradled life, now cradled the fallen, its bosom scarred by the violence it had witnessed. The camp, once a beacon of hope and strength for demigods, lay in ruins, its vibrant pulse silenced, save for the mournful wind that whispered through the shattered remains.

Luke Castellan had returned, but not as the triumphant hero he had set out to be. His quest to retrieve the golden apples had failed miserably. The cost of his ambition was written in the blood and lives of his quest mates, who had perished along the way. The monsters he had inadvertently brought to the camp's boundary were now a symbol of his failure, their snarls and roars a chorus of impending doom.

Amidst the cacophony of clashing steel and the cries of the wounded, a shadow loomed large. The dracanae, a beast of nightmares, slithered through the chaos, its presence a dark omen. Its scales, as dark as the void, absorbed the light around it. They were fighting not just for their lives, but for the very soul of the camp, against forces that sought to extinguish their light forever.

Monsters had breached the camp's defences, and panic had taken hold.

Luke stumbled across the boundary line of the camp, his face marred in blood, blood, blood. Luke's arrival had been a tragic procession, a lone figure staggering under the weight of failure and loss. His face, a mask of agony, was a stark reminder of the cost of their endeavours. The blood that stained him was not just his own but that of his questmates, their lives extinguished.

One of his eyes was doused in the red, liquid, acid, and you could make out a gruesome scar that trailed from above his eyebrow right down to his jaw. You sucked in a breath.

You had watched, your heart shattering, as Luke's knees buckled, his strength waning. The monsters he had unwittingly led to the camp's boundary now surged forward, eager to feast on the grief and fear that hung heavy in the air.

His face was as though it had been split open. You dropped your sword, and immediately rushed toward your old friend. Luke cried out in pain as he brought a hand up to his wound in an attempt to hold his face together.

“Luke! Luke!” you shrieked, almost tripping over the armour that was too big for your ten-year-old body. “Luke!”

You ran toward them, engulfing him with your arms. You had run, small legs carrying you faster than they ever had, toward the brother who had taught you to be brave, to fight, to hope.

The battle raged on beside you, but you could hardly care, for your oldest brother was in your arms with his heart and soul bore open and torn to shreds. 

As you had reached him, the world seemed to slow, the sounds of war fading into a hushed lull. You had wrapped your arms around him, a futile shield against the tide of darkness that threatened to engulf you both. Luke's eyes, once bright with mischief and courage, now mirrored the devastation that was before you.

The battle had raged on, indifferent to the small, poignant scene at its fringes. But for you, in that moment, there had been nothing else—only the piercing grief of a child holding onto the last remnants of a family that was swiftly being torn away.

“Archers!” Lee Fletcher called out to his fellow half-siblings. “On my mark!”

The sky above was a tumultuous canvas, where the wrathful gods seemed to paint with clouds the colour of bruises and ash. Their indifference hung heavy, a suffocating blanket over the carnage below. 

You had once prayed to them, believed in their wisdom and justice, but now their names left a bitter taste on your tongue.

“Now!”

A volley of arrows spiralled through, each one hitting its mark. One, two, three arrows in rapid-fire succession knocked off the beasts that stumbled into camp boundaries. A cyclops that had been standing over a bloodied mass of a young girl, hollered in pain as an arrow pierced its singular eye. A draco aionius roared out a blast of fire, but your eyes were so wrung out with tears and blood that you couldn’t see who it had shot down before it had been killed. The dracanae lashed out one final time before exploding into a heap of golden dust.

The cries of the wounded rose around you, a haunting chorus that melded with the wails of those mourning their kin. You saw families torn apart, sisters cradling lifeless sisters, brothers with eyes hollowed by a brother’s loss. Each face was a mirror of your own despair, reflecting a shared agony that would bind you to them in grief.

You stumbled upon the body of the young son of Demeter, his chestnut hair matted with blood, his eyes forever staring at a sky that offered no solace. 

Critos, you sobbed. Critos…

A mistake that no amount of tears could wash away. A young camper, a son of Demeter known for his gentle spirit and his ability to make the flowers dance, lay still on the ground.

With a heart heavy as lead, you made your way to the infirmary, the air thick with the scent of herbs and the low hum of healing chants. There, among the rows of cots, you saw her—a daughter of Apollo. Harmony. 

The sight of her, your friend who had once filled the air with melodies so sweet they could make the sky weep, struck a new chord of pain within you. Her hands, those delicate instruments of beauty, were now disfigured by the violence in the name of the gods. She had dreamt of music that would touch the divine, but now her dreams lay as shattered as her bones. Now, those hands were stilled, and the music was no more. 

Her hands, once so deft at the lyre, now lay motionless by her side. 

Her eyes met yours, and in them, you found not blame, but a silent understanding. It was the cruelty of fate, not the will of gods, that had brought this upon her. 

She looked up at you, her eyes not accusing but filled with a sorrow that echoed your own. In that gaze, you saw the reflection of every broken promise, every shattered hope. She had been there to celebrate your life, and now here she lay, a casualty of a battle she had no part in starting.

Anger surged through you, a fiery torrent that threatened to consume everything in its path. The gods, those distant arbiters of fate, had watched impassively as your world crumbled. They had remained silent, their celestial indifference a stark contrast to the cacophony of grief that filled the camp.

Your mother, a casualty of their indifference. Critos, your dear friend, your found brother. Harmony, who would never play her instruments again. Her god-given gifts, the blessings bestowed upon her by her father had been ripped away from her. You knew it — injuries, bone fractures, that were severe beyond repair. No one apart from the gods could save her, but you knew that no matter how much you wished on the stars, they would never answer.

You wept for Thalia, who you had never known but who had died for you and your family. You wept for Annabeth, her face wrapped in a cast of bandages, and was laid on the cot next to Harmony. You wept for Luke, who was only a few steps away from the white bags that enshrouded that bodies of—... of the fallen.

They were all lives that could have been saved. 

Silena cried in Beckdorf’s arms. Their shared silence was louder than any words could ever be, a mutual understanding of the depth of their sorrow.

In this moment of profound loss, the realisation hit you like a wave crashing against the shore: wishes were but fleeting thoughts, powerless against the tides of fate. The gods, distant and enigmatic, offered no solace to the grieving hearts of mortals. It was a harsh lesson, one that stripped away the veneer of mythical heroism to reveal a truth as old as time itself.

Was this what they had meant about not relying on some magical stars to make a wish?

The gods, those distant beings, had taken from you the family you had found in this band of warriors. They had watched from their lofty thrones as you had fought, bled, and wept, mere pawns in their celestial games. And in that moment, as the weight of loss bore down upon you, you felt the seeds of hatred take root. Hatred for the gods who had forsaken you, hatred for the fate that had been thrust upon you, and hatred for a world that could be so cruel.

In the end, you could only truly rely on yourself to make wishes come true.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

iv. Strapping your head-piece securely on, blue plumes spilling from the top. Your armour was strapped on and you were decked out in metal from head to toe. You double-checked that your sword was tucked into your sheath before joining the Athena alliance in their march for the Capture the Flag match.

You quite liked Capture the Flag. It was one of those games where you had to do something and everyone got to run around and play — albeit, Camp Half-Blood kids did run around like headless chickens most of the time.

Percy scrambled to catch up with, tripping over his shin-guard that was a few sizes too big for him. “Hey.”

“Hi,” you grinned at him.

“So what’s the plan?” He asked. “Got any magic items you can loan me?”

You shook your head. “Nah. Sorry. Magical items are things you get from your godly parent when they feel like it. I haven’t got anything.” you waved at your basic sword for effect. “That’s why I usually go with one of the spare swords from the training shed.”

You pointed at his pocket. “You’ve got Riptide, though, haven’t you? That’s more than enough.”

Percy shrugged. “I don’t have it anymore, it vanished. I’m stuck with a regular, boring sword like you.”

You frowned at this. Didn’t Chiron give it to him? He should still have it, shouldn’t he? “That’s strange. Just make sure Clarisse’s spear doesn’t touch you, it's electric and stings like hell. Annabeth will handle getting the banner from Ares.”

He gave you a lopsided smile. “Okay, Major.” He said ‘Major’ with the same tone you would call someone ‘Bossy’.

You laughed before catching him by the strap of his armour when he tripped over again. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Border patrol, whatever that means.”

“Ah,” you nodded. “That’s easy. Stand by the creek, keep the reds away.”

“What’re you doing?”

You rubbed your chin thoughtfully. “I think I’m supposed to be a decoy for Luke when he runs for the flag.”

Percy looked at you appraisingly. “I guess you do look like him. I see how that would work.”

He swerved to avoid getting a faceful of the dirt you’d kicked up at him with your shoes. 

Percy then started chasing you down to the creek where the Athena alliance were planting their flag, similar to how the satyrs would chase the dryads near the strawberry patch albeit a lot slower because of his armour that was triple his body weight.

You stopped when you reached the silver flag, causing Percy to topple into you and send the both of you flying into the ground. You laughed, tugging the boy up with your hands and punching him in the shoulder. He huffed before waving at you and walking down to the creek to assume his duty of border patrol. 

You went to stand by Luke.

Overall, you would say Capture the Flag was a success. 

The Athena win streak was not lost this match, and you got to beat down one of the Hephaestus kids with your sword, which was always a pretty good bonus. The blue team cheered loudly, carrying Luke on their shoulders as he waved the Ares flag about in the air. You were going to join them when you saw Percy, drenched in water, arguing with the air.

“I told you. Athena always, always has a plan,” said the air before shimmering and revealing Annabeth with her invisible yankee cap.

“A plan to get me pulverised,” snapped Percy. His arms were crossed as he stared down the daughter of Athena.

“I came as fast as I could. I was about to jump in, but…” She shrugged. 

“You didn’t need help?” you suggested, popping up between them.

Percy’s glare dropped as he saw you. “Sup, Major. I’m guessing decoying for Luke went well?”

“The best,” you agreed before noticing the wound on his arm. “How did you do that?”

“Sword cut,” He said, rolling his eyes. “Stupid Clarisse and her pig-headed minions.”

“No,” Annabeth interjected sharply. “It was a sword cut. Look at it.”

You watched, incredulous, as the blood disappeared. Where a gaping wound had been, only a faint line lingered, and even that was fading fast. In moments, it dwindled to a mere scratch, then vanished as if it had never been.

The smile slipped from your face.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

iii. Being a demigod was a curse. 

It was a relentless burden, especially when you had been confined within the walls of Camp Half-Blood for four years, and still, your divine parent remained a shadow, unclaiming and aloof. 

You lifted your face to the heavens, rain simmering on your face like little angels doting you with frigid kisses, each drop mingling with the silent tears that trembled down your cheeks. It was almost as though you were praying, but you knew better than that.

Prayer had once been a solace, a hope, but now it felt like a bitter reminder of divine neglect.

The pyres stood ready, a grim assembly for the ritual of farewell. The rain fell in a relentless drizzle, each drop a cold, indifferent tear from the heavens. You stood before them, the shrouds of your fallen family draped over the lifeless forms that had once been vibrant souls among you.

Being a demigod had always been a double-edged sword, but never had the blade cut so deep. The walls of Camp Half-Blood, which had once offered sanctuary, now felt like a prison, holding you captive with your grief and rage.

You raised your face to the sky, the rain washing over you, a cruel mimicry of the comforting touch you so desperately needed. It was as if the gods themselves were mocking your pain, offering water when it was solace you sought.

Your heart was a cauldron of fury, simmering with a silent rage that threatened to boil over. The gods, those distant observers of mortal toil, had turned their gaze away, leaving you to fend for yourself in a world that seemed to crumble at your feet. 

As you stood there, the injustice of it all seared your soul, igniting a fire within that no amount of rain could douse. Betrayal was a bitter pill to swallow, and it lodged itself firmly in your throat, a constant reminder of the gods' neglect.

Your hands, though trembling, were resolute. The delicate tremor was not a sign of weakness, but a testament to the strength that surged through your veins—a strength born of anger, of loss, of an unwavering commitment to those you called family.

With a heavy heart and a spirit ablaze with determination, you stepped forward to light the pyres. The flames caught quickly, their hungry tongues licking at the shrouds, consuming the last physical remnants of those you loved. The smoke rose to the heavens, a silent scream of defiance against the gods who had forsaken you.

In that moment, as the fire crackled and the rain wept, you made a silent vow. You would do anything for your family, for those who had stood by you when the gods had not. You would be their protector, their avenger, their unwavering support. And though the gods may have turned their backs on you, you would never turn your back on those you loved.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

iv. “I—I don’t get it,” he said.

Annabeth was deep in thought, face wrinkled in concentration, and you could only imagine the intense mental gymnastics happening behind her gaze. “Step out of the water, Percy.”

“What—”

“Just do it.”

Percy emerged from the creek, hair plastered to his face and body bone-tired, but strangely enough, completely dry. He swayed on his feet, and you reached out to steady him, your touch firm. 

“Oh, Styx,” Annabeth cursed. “This is not good. I didn’t want…I assumed it would be Zeus.…”

You could only meet Percy’s gaze in a muted horror. 

Of course you’d picked up on Annabeth’s train of thought. But the revelation left you reeling. You couldn’t believe it. You thought… of course they wouldn’t stick to the oath. This — the one thing! How could they? What? 

Your jaw clenched, and your grip on Percy tightened subconsciously.

Percy opened his mouth but before he could say anything, a canine howl reverberated throughout the forest.

Everyone tensed and Chiron barked out “Stand ready! My bow!”

Above you, a monstrous creature crouched on the craggy ledge, its silhouette massive against the sky. Its eyes burned like coals from the depths of a forge, and its massive jaws bristled with teeth, each one as lethal as a freshly honed blade. It stared down at you with an intensity that pierced through your body.

A hellhound. Your eyes widened, gripping the handle of your sword.

Nobody moved except you, who yelled, “Percy, run!”

You tried to step in front of the boy, your sword clutched in between your fingers. The hellhound barked, and although you expected it to forget Percy and redirect its course to you, it dove past you (ignoring you completely) and ripped into Percy’s armour.

You didn’t look back as Chiron and the Apollo cabin took care of the hellhound, focusing on Percy whose chest was blooming with deep, red bloodstains.

“Percy!” You cried out, dropping to your knees beside him. Your fingers fumbled with his chestplate, trying to ignore the slick, warm blood that coated your hands.

“Di immortales!” Annabeth exclaimed. “That’s a hellhound from the Fields of Punishment. They don’t…they’re not supposed to…”

“Someone summoned it,” Chiron announced, trotting over. “Someone inside the camp.”

The dead body of the hellhound melted into the shadows, presumably returning back to the Underworld, only, you didn’t care. What you cared about right now was Percy Jackson who was drenched in blood with a horrific gash torn into his body.

“You’re wounded,” Annabeth told Percy as if no one knew that. “Quick, Percy, get in the water.”

You draped Percy’s arm around your shoulder, helping him step into the creek with little protest.

“Chiron, watch this,” Annabeth said.

As Percy staggered into the creek, the water seemed to greet him like an old friend. The blood that had painted his clothes a grim crimson began to dissolve, carried away by the gentle current. You watched as the gruesome wound in his chest closed before your very eyes. The torn flesh knit together, leaving not even a scar behind. It was as if time had reversed, as if the claws of the hellhound had never touched him.

But that wasn’t the part that stunned you the most.

“Look, I—I don’t know why,” Percy tried to apologise. “I’m sorry.…”

“Percy,” Annabeth said, pointing. “Um…”

There was a sign above Percy’s head, an unmistakable one that no one did not know. A hologram of green light, spinning and gleaming. A three-tipped spear: a trident.

“Your father,” Annabeth whispered. “This is really not good.”

“It is determined,” Chiron stated solemnly.

Campers knelt around you, even those from Ares’ cabin, though they did so grudgingly.

“My father?” Percy was bewildered.

“Poseidon,” said Chiron. “Earthshaker, Stormbringer, Father of Horses. Hail, Perseus Jackson, Son of the Sea God.”

A shadow was drawn upon your face, eyes fixated on the trident above Percy’s head. The throb in your head returned and all you felt was a torrent of fervent, quivering, absolute rage that coursed through you.

I know that it wasn’t your fault, Percy, but at that moment, I couldn’t think of anything else.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

iv. The shroud burning had already taken place, the flames extinguishing along with the last rays of twilight. The camp was shrouded in darkness, a reflection of the sorrow that enveloped your heart. You stood alone, the grief a tangible presence that seemed to suffocate you with its intensity.

The gods had remained silent, their absence in your hour of need a betrayal that stung sharper than any blade. The ritual had been meant to offer closure, but it had left you feeling hollow, the embers of the pyres like the dying light of your hope.

That night, as the world around you faded into the quiet hush of slumber, a curious sensation took hold—a dream, or so it seemed, yet not quite. Dreams were fleeting. They often slip through the fingers of your mind, vanishing from your memory once you woke up. But for some strange reason, you felt the trickling trail of deja vu climbing up your spine. 

You thought that you’d had this dream before. Probably.

A shiver of recognition danced up your spine, a whisper of memory that felt like an old friend—or perhaps a ghost from the past. It was a dream that had etched itself into the grooves of your mind, returning with the silent stealth of a cat prowling in the night.

You strained to recall the last time this dream had visited you. It could’ve been a year ago, a month ago — even last night. But you did know that you’d had it. This dream had treaded the halls of your sleep before.

In the realm of dreams, you found yourself wandering through an ancient forest, the moonlight casting ethereal shadows upon the ground. The air was thick with the scent of pine and the whisper of leaves. The moon, a sliver in the sky, provided scant illumination, casting long, haunting shadows that danced between the ancient trees. Your footsteps were muffled on the forest floor, as though the earth itself conspired to keep your passage secret.

With a heavy heart, you spoke into the storm, “You could have saved her, but you didn’t.” 

The words hung in the air. “My mother. She was one of your most faithful, but, when she needed you most, you turned away. Why? Was her devotion not enough? What about Critos, who died alone, without his family, on the battlefield? What about Silena, who lost her sister? What about Harmony, who will never be able to use her hands again, never able to exercise the blessing that you gave her. What about all the countless other demigods, older and younger than me, who died for a cause — your cause — whose names you will never bother to remember.”

The silence that followed was your answer. 

Your voice broke as you continued, “What about me? For years, you ignored me — you still ignore me. For years, you left me to fight for myself in a world that you created. I don’t understand. We’re your children, aren’t we? Aren’t we supposed to matter to you? We deserved better.”

“You’re supposed to be our parents. We deserve someone who would fight for us, who would value our lives. But what do we get instead? Fucking selfish deities, with all the power in the entire goddamn world who leave us to suffer and die in some sick game you orchestrate just because you can!”

“You don’t understand! I’ve waited my whole life for just a sign from you. Our whole lives revolve around you! What more could you want from us?” The tears of the sky dripped onto your shaking form. 

“You take life after life! You take, take, take when we’ve already given you everything you could have ever wanted!”

The thunder seemed to mock your pain, and you trembled with a mixture of cold and fury. “You say these stupid things, give us stupid, stupid, naive hope — wish upon the stars, wish upon you and all will come true? We looked up to you! We wished, and wished and wished, but instead, you killed my family, tortured us beyond cruelty. What do you want from me?!”

You were screaming at the sky now, your mind pulsing with nothing but red-hot rage. “I’m done waiting! You’ve shown me exactly what we mean to you — nothing!”

Something clasped your shoulder. 

Turning around, your heart caught in your throat. Your eyes trembled, pupils dilated at the sudden contact. As you turned away, a presence enveloped you, not the warm embrace of a father, but the cold touch of something ancient and powerful.

A dark mist surrounded you. The air crackled with static, a lingering feeling of something you couldn’t quite name. 

And then, without warning, the forest fell away, and you found yourself standing at the edge of a clearing. The mist swirled here, gathering strength. From the heart of the mist, a figure materialised. It was tall and imperious, its form shifting and wavering as if woven from the fog itself. Its eyes, when they met yours, were bottomless pits of darkness, and you felt yourself falling into them.

“Child,” it spoke, and the words seemed to resonate with the very fibres of your being. “I have watched you, and I know the suffering you’ve been dealt by the gods.”

“They have wronged you, as they have wronged me,” the figure continued, the mist swirling with every gesture. “They sit in their celestial palace, blind to the struggles of those below. But I see your potential, your desire for justice. Together, we can make them regret.”

In the quiet of your dream, your heart stirred. You did not know who this figure was or what he wanted from you, but his words reached you. The gods, those distant watchers, had become but silhouettes against your tribulations, their figures blurred by the tears of your unanswered calls. Beings who had turned their back on you, refused to acknowledge when it mattered. Left you unclaimed, left your mother to die, left your brothers and sisters to die, and since the beginning of time, left humanity to suffer in a cyclic torture. 

And, so close, was the embrace of the mist — echoing your fury, validating your resentment. 

“Why should I join you?” you asked, though part of you already yearned for the vengeance he promised.

“Because your rage is a weapon that can reshape the world,” the mist replied, its form growing more defined, more commanding. “The gods fear what they cannot control, and they cannot control the fury of the heart. I will help you shield the loved ones you have left. If you join me, I promise they will be safe in the end. We will turn your fury into a force that will shake even the heavens. And you, my dearest, Major, will see to it that your family is treated better than the gods would ever care to allow.”

The mist’s words were a poison, sweet and lethal, the dream reached its peak, as you teetered on the cross-roads of a decision that could alter the course of history.

You stood still, the realisation dawning on you like a cold sunrise. This was Kronos, the Titan King, the very essence of time and treachery. The air around you grew colder, the mist swirling with a newfound intensity.

The mist around you thickened, and Kronos’s voice became more insistent. “I can help you,” he whispered again, the words slithering through the air like a serpent.

You felt the anger and sorrow within you stir, manipulated by his words. It was a dangerous game he played, but in your heart, the seeds of rebellion had been sown. 

“Join me,” whispered Kronos.

“Yes,” you found yourself saying, the word escaping your lips before doubt could take hold. “Yes, I will join you.”

With a resolve born of grief and betrayal, I turned my back on the sky and walked away. That was the moment, when I was only ten years old, that I swore my life to Kronos. It was the moment, I think, that sealed our fate. 

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

i. “I wish that we would all stay together.” you said.

“That’s my wish. I wish that, no matter what, no matter what place or lifetime we’re in, we will always, always, be family.”

“Promise me, ‘kay?” you continued, not fully sure if you were still talking to the gods or the people around you. “That in this life and the next and the one after, we will always find each other. Because we’re family.”

You turned to the demigods around you, who have all taken on some form of shock. The younger ones look appalled that you spoke your wish out loud (“how will it come true now?” protested Annabeth, though her face was tinged with a pink blush), while the older ones wore expressions you couldn’t quite discern.

“Major…” Silena breathed, her eyes, for some reason, glossy. Was she upset that you had said your wish too loud? 

“I mean it!” you looked to the heavens earnestly. “We’re family now, we have to stick together. Forever and ever and ever.”

Another star crossed the twinkling night tapestry. It was a dark, terribly dark, night, but unless someone else had been sharing this story, to you, the moment would remain of the most bright, luminous scenery you’d ever had the honour of bathing in. 

The gentle hand of the gods met their mortals upon the ground through the sky’s scattered stars, and they coated you and your family in their mystical star dust. 

Luke blinked himself out of his stupor. He offered you his hand to shake. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Major. Gods or not, we promise. Family.”

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, a gesture as warm as the sun's embrace, which seemed to spark a chain reaction. Annabeth, with a smile that could light up the darkest of nights, followed suit, her arms joining his. One by one, the rest of your family, a patchwork quilt of half-bloods, each with their own stories they bore in their hearts, came together in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

Under the star-swept sky, a canvas dotted with celestial wonders, the group hug grew, a living, breathing entity of connection and joy. You shrieked with laughter, the sound mingling with the chorus of chuckles and snorts around you. It was a symphony of happiness, a melody that resonated with the very core of your being.

You tried to pull your head out of the mass of limbs you’d become entangled within, seeking a breath of air, only to be lovingly dragged back into the fray. Someone’s hair tickled your nose, another’s elbow nudged your side, but it was all part of the beautiful chaos that was your home.

The hug was more than just a physical act; it was a promise, a silent vow of unity and support that needed no words. It was the understanding that no matter where life's journey took you, these bonds would remain unbroken. And as you stood there, enveloped by the people who had become your world, you knew that this moment would be etched into the stars above, a memory as eternal as the night sky itself.

“This is— the— best birthday— ever!”

And thought you meant that. You really, really did.

I wish I could’ve said sorry to you, Percy, back then.

Maybe then we could’ve stood a chance. * . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

Random fun fact: Major is anti-government and hates taxes 🥶😊, she also likes liquorice

taglist!!! (comment if you want to be added): @itzmeme

[to-fly-with-clipped-wings]

A Sea of Sorrows Percy Jackson x Traitor! Reader

Series Summary: A chronicle of the moments you fell in love with your enemy, Percy Jackson. An epilogue to your fate and an epitaph to your grave. AKA in a universe where you are a traitor to Camp Half-Blood. This is an ode to the boy that led to your downfall: Percy Jackson. will be divided into five acts, each for one of the first five books, with moments between you and Percy that shaped the end. Also, Luke and Ethan will still be traitors as well, but what they do in canon might change since you are here too!!!

Percy Jackson Masterlist

------------------------------------------------------------->

Act 1: the Fall of the Gods

Dear Percy. This was the year the Gods fell from Olympus, and I fell from you. I miss the us from that year. I wonder, did either of us know what was in store?

Part 1

Part 2

Act 2: Grains of Sand

Hey Major. This was the year that my quest felt lonely without you. I wish you came back. Why did you need to go?

Act 3: Riptides in a Reef

Percy. This was the year I wanted to come back to you. I mean, I always did. But this was the year it hurt the most. How can we be so close, but so far at the same time?

Act 4: Poisoned Veins

This was the year I wished we could be together forever. Screw the labyrinth, Kronos, Luke, the Gods. Just come back to me. Please. Major?

Act 5: My Sea of Sorrows

I'm sorry, Perce. You are my sea of sorrows, but I am not yours. Love, always and forever, your Major

*characters are aged up one year (so in tlt, yall are 13 and the great prophecy is at 17)

[to-fly-with-clipped-wings]

Percy Jackson Masterlist

“If my life is going to mean anything, I have to live it myself.”

--------------------------------------->

Percy Jackson:

A Sea of Sorrows

Summary: A chronicle of the moments you fell in love with your enemy, Percy Jackson. An epilogue to your fate and an epitaph to your grave. AKA in a universe where you are a traitor to Camp Half-Blood. This is an ode to the boy that led to your downfall: Percy Jackson

[to-fly-with-clipped-wings]

1. The Very Beginning

The Very Beginning - Killing Butterflies

Pairing: (H. Potter x Black! reader)

"I think he's brilliant," the boy said coldly. "Do you?" Draco said, jeering. "Why is he with you? Where are your parents?" "They're dead." Your mouth opened once again in shock before shutting. You were torn between apologising to the boy for bringing it up, or telling him to join the club. OR: in which you and the boy who lived have a less than fairy tale beginning

Series Summary: (Y/n) Black - the one and only heiress to the noble house of Black - who also happens to be the daughter of the infamous Regulus Arcturus Black (and the niece of the notorious criminal Sirius Black). But despite the titles, rules and expectations that befall you, there are only two things that you long for, at which you will not cease to achieve: Firstly, to fill in the big shoes left behind by your late father. And secondly, burn the butterflies that flutter within your stomach in the presence of Harry Potter (who happens to be the sworn enemy of, perhaps, your entire family).

-> Series Masterlist and Summary -> Harry Potter Masterlist

The sharp noise of a hand rapping upon your bedroom door at an ungodly hour is how your day had begun. You jolted awake, harshly rubbing your eyes and scowling at the sound that had forced you up.

As your eyes began to unblur and focus, a voice called out from beyond your room. You didn't catch that they said, though.

Grumbling, you tossed your blanket aside and grudgingly walked to open the door to your bedroom.

Cracking open the door, you expected to see Dobby, the Malfoy's house elf, bidding you a good morning and handing you a cup of water.

To your surprise, however, outside was Draco Malfoy, your distant second cousin (something along those lines, you'd never really been fussed enough to check). He was still in his nightwear. His hair was slicked, as always, and he had been tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for you to emerge from your room.

"Finally, there you are," he rolled his eyes, but he didn't bother to mask the excitement that was stretching across his face rapidly. "Guess what the owl just dropped off?"

He didn't wait for you to guess, as he just brandished two thick, yellowish letters toward you.

Your eyes widened as you registered the words scrawled on top of the envelope.

Ms (First Initial). Black

(Y/n)'s Bedroom

Malfoy Manor

Skipping over the last few words of the address, you felt far more awake. "The Hogwarts letters have arrived?"

You felt a grin quickly cross your face and without a second thought you raced off to the dining hall with Draco hot on your trail.

"Narcissa! Lucius! Can you believe it?!" You beamed at them, skidding to a halt at the entrance of the room. Beside you, Draco nodded his head profusely.

Narcissa gave you both a gentle smile, and Lucius gave a grunt in acknowledgement, not glancing up from his newspaper. 

Draco handed you your letter and you pulled out the parchment inside.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand. Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed.    of Wizards)

Dear Ms Black, 

We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva Mcgonagall

Deputy Headmistress

You clutched the letter tightly in your hands and grinned once again. 

Lucius eyed both you and Draco before saying "I don't see why you both are so excited. I mean, it's obvious you two were going to get in to Hogwarts from the moment you were born."

Draco's joyful stance deflated slightly, taking on a more poised composure. He nodded again, but far more solemnly as he mirrored his father's expression of casual disinterest.

 Narcissa patted Lucius's hand lightly. "I'm just glad that you decided against having either of them sent to Durmstrang," she said, referencing the cause of their heated argument just days ago.

He lifted his chin up before sniffing. "I still think it would be a better choice than Hogwarts and all the mudbloods they'll be exposed to. Not only to mention the more respectable curriculum!"

"Let's not get back into this again, Lucius."

Lucius sighed and returned to his paper, drawing a long sip from his cup of tea.

Interjecting into the conversation, you asked "when will we be able to get our stuff for Hogwarts?"

"Yeah, I want to get my wand," added Draco, turning his nose upwards. "I also want to check out the new model for the Nimbus line."

"Well," began Narcissa. "Your father and I have quite a bit of work for the Minstry that we have to get completed before the months ends, but I do suppose we can pop down to Diagon Alley on the 31st to grab your new school equipment."

You and Draco both nodded at her words and with a satisfied look on her face, she said "alright, wonderful. Now the two of you get dressed whilst I send the owl to Hogwarts with your answers. I will send Dobby up when he finishes preparing breakfast."

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

31th, July, 1991 - Approximately thirty days later.

"Mistress Malfoy requests that you show up downstairs to leave for Diagon Alley, Miss Black," chirped the house elf in front of you, Dobby. He was a dopey little thing, but you found him to be earnest and sweet. His large green eyes ogled at you and you swore that they got larger every time you saw them.

You crinkled your nose, trying your best to ignore the feeling of apprehension that settled in your stomach. You'd be travelling by floo powder, and while you did agree it was one of the best ways to get from one place to another, the journey itself was rather... tumultuous.

Dobby squeaked at your expression. "Dobby is sorry, Miss Black. B-but Mistress Malfoy said that she did want extra time to pick up supplies...!"

If you had been any other person in the Manor, you'd have slapped Dobby off of you and given him a severe punishment for making such a comment. But, thankfully, you weren't and instead you just gave him a slightly awkward thumbs up.

"Ah, that's fine, Dobby, I was just thinking of something else. But don't get troubled by it."

Nodding at Dobby in goodbye you grabbed your bag and hurried down the stairs to the fireplace. You were greeted by three disgruntled faces.

"Now that (Y/n) has finally arrived," said Lucius, throwing you a pointed look. "Let's get going."

One by one, you each grabbed a handful of the powder, threw it into the fire, stepped into it, crying out "Diagon Alley!" and were then suddenly sent through a series of fireplaces before tumbling out of the fireplace inside of the Leaky Cauldron. After being tossed out of the floo network, you leaned on the wall, gasping for air, dusting off your robes that were now caked in soot.

Tom, the barman, widened his eyes at the presence of you and the Malfoy family, but there was little time to gauge his reaction. You all strode through the pub to the small out room.

Tapping his wand on a brick on the wand, Lucius revealed a whole new addition to the drab setting of the Leaky Cauldron. Not that it was anything astounding to you, though.

Narcissa placed her hands on the shoulders of Draco and you, getting your attention. "Now," she said. "Lucius will go and handle your book list and stationery supplies and I will go to Eeylops Owl Emporium to pick out owls for the two of you. In the meanwhile, you two go to Madam Malkin's and get your robes sorted out. We will meet up by Ollivander's once all of this is completed."

"Wait, no," said Draco frowning. "I want to see the brooms first."

"Okay, then," Narcissa compromised. "We'll meet up by Quality Quidditch Supplies and then go to Ollivander's."

She then proceeded to clap her hands together and shoo you both away.

As soon as the both of you were at of earshot, Draco turned to you and mumbled "Don't you think that mother does that a lot? She gets all bossy and and commanding out of nowhere?"

You looked at him and then nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, I suppose she does." He seemed pleased with your answer, and that was that apparently.

When two of you had entered Madam Malkin's shop (Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions), a rather squat woman greeted you at the door and then ushered you to the back of the shop and onto the footstools.

Two more witches bustled toward the two of you. "Hogwarts, am I right dearies?" asked one of them.

"Yes," you said, answering her question.

The shop fell into a silence as the witch attending to you slipped a long, black robe over you and began diligently pinning the fabric to your frame. 

You tried your best not to wince whenever she accidently stuck a pin into you, instead resorting to scowling at a corner of the room. It sapped a lot of your willpower, though, and your scowl was steadily growing into glaring at the poor mannequin at the window.

A few minutes later, a rather scrawny boy with tousled black hair and glasses entered into the shop.

He was nothing too impressive, you noted, but on closer inspection you did realise that his eyes were the most brilliant, vivid shade of green. It put your own eyes to shame, really. 

The boy stood on the stool next to Draco and Madam Malkin began fixing up a robe for him too.

"Hullo," said Draco immediately, "Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes," said the boy, who did look quite nervous. But it wasn't unusual, most people looked nervous when they spoke to one of the Malfoys.

"Us too," drawled Draco, tilting his head casually towards you. 

You dipped your head in hello, and he too quickly (and with much awkwardness, mind you) reciprocated the gesture.

"My father's next door buying my books and Mother's up the street looking at owls," continued Draco. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first-years can't have their own. I think I'll bully Father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."

"First-years can't have brooms because they want to make sure we know how to play properly first," you reminded him in a jabbing tone.

He shrugged. "Have you got your own broom?" he asked the boy.

"No."

"Play Quidditch at all?" Draco pressed on, despite the other boy's clipped answers.

"No."

"I do - Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree."

"Do you know what house you'll get into?" you questioned him, causing the boy's head to swivel from Draco to you.

"Er, no." he said sheepishly.

"Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they?" said Draco, "but I know I'll be in Slytherin..."

You smirked slightly and nodded at that.

"...All our family have been - imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?'

The boy mumbled "mmm," and you raised your eyebrow curiously at him. The boy looked very clueless to the words that Draco had been spewing out. It made you wonder if maybe this was the first time he had heard them.

With a furrowed brow, you wondered if that was because - maybe - he was a mudblood.

"I say, look at that man!" Draco cried out suddenly.

A man of considerable height stood outside the window. He grinned at the scrawny boy and gestured towards the two large ice-creams he hand in his hands. With his scruffy, untamed mass of hair you seriously wondered if he was a giant. But even with his great size, he was too small to be one. Maybe he was a giant that suffered from an extreme case of dwarfism. He was tall, sure, but was probably still only the size of a regular giant's ring finger.

"That's Hagrid," the boy answered properly for the first time. "He works at Hogwarts."

Your mouth widened into a 'oh.' You had heard of the Hogwarts gamekeeper through Lucius, who was a school governor. 

"I've heard of him," you supplied. "He's like the maid there, isn't he? A savage drunkard?"

The boy gave you a less than displeased look, but Draco agreed with you. "I hear he lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and again he gets drunk, tries to do magic and ends up setting fire to his bed."

"I think he's brilliant," the boy said coldly.

"Do you?" Draco said, jeering. "Why is he with you? Where are your parents?"

"They're dead."

Your mouth opened once again in shock before shutting. You were torn between apologising to the boy for bringing it up, or telling him to join the club.

Luckily, though, Draco handled it for you. 

"Oh, sorry." he said, but you were certain even that Hagrid man could tell he didn't sound too sorry. "But they were our kind, weren't they?"

"They were a witch and a wizard, if that's what you mean."

Guess he wasn't a muggle-born after all. Perhaps he was just a really slow pure-blooded boy? He should've been familiar with all the wizarding terms, even if he hadn't been raised by his parents. How weird, you thought.

"I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you?" continued Draco. Merlin, that boy just kept on talking. "They're just not 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. I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families. What's your surname anyway?"

Madam Malkin though, before the boy could answer, announced he was done and free to go. The boy quickly hopped down form his footstool and gathered his new robes.

"Well, I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose," said Draco, bading him goodbye.

When the boy had left, Draco began speaking to you. "You're awfully quiet. Where's your usual blabbermouth?"

You scowled deeply at him. "Nevermind that. We arrived before him, why does he get to leave first?"

"Oh, sorry about that dears," said your witch, straightened up and pulling the robe off you. "Female robes just take a few minutes extra and I figured you'd want to leave with your friend."

"Okay," you said simply, but you frowned at her anyways. For good measures.

You dug into your bag and handed her enough Galleons to cover the price of both sets of robes.

You and Draco left the store and immediately headed (basically sprinted) towards Quality Quidditch Supplies.

You wished you could say something interesting happened there before Narcissa and Lucius had arrived, but really, it was just Draco's nose pressed up against the glass of the shop whilst you stood next to him, admiring the broom in a much more dignified manner.

Your guardians, upon their arrival, wasted no time in dallying and the four of you made your way to Ollivander's for your wands.

The store was rather slim and its sign Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC had begun to peel off. Regardless of its poor appearance, to an old wizarding family like yours, you knew that the wands there were nothing short of the best.

The wide, watery gray eyes of the store's owner were the first thing that you saw when you entered. 

"Hello, Ollivander," said Lucius, almost politely. 

"Why hello to you too, Mr. Malfoy," he said softly. His face was wrinkled and elderly. "What a wonderful family you have there."

His gaze seemed to grow distant before he snapped his eyes suddenly back to Lucius. "Elm with dragon heartstring core, sturdy and thirteen inches long, am I right? And for your lovely wife here, another elm wood too, twelve and a half inches but with a unicorn hair core. Springy, no?"

You shivered a bit at the man's piercing stare and his freakishly sharp memory.

"Well then," he fixed his eyes now on you and Draco. "What arms are your wand arms?"

Draco held out his right arm and you obediently stuck out your [dominant arm]. He then began to measure the lengths between your fingertips and elbow.

"Hm, I see," he said, nodding his head seriously once he had finished. He suddenly dashed to the shelves and scanned through them. Taking out two boxes, he handed the first to Draco ("Dragon heartstring, cedar wood, bendy, ten inches") and the other to you ("pine wood, phoenix feather, nine and three quarters").

He didn't say anything else and just observed you and Draco closely as you both waved the wands around in the air.

Needless to say, when all of the windows and lamps shattered within seconds, it was just a tad bit obvious that these wands were not to be.

Ollivander tutted and turned around again. He didn't look that upset however. He bustled to the back of the shop and pulled out a few more boxes. Waving the next few wands had no better effect than the first ones.

Ollivander suddenly gasped, as though an idea had just sprung up into his head, and using his own wand, summoned a box from the top shelves.

Handing it delicately to you, he murmured, "ten and a half inches. Cypress wood, unicorn hair core and pliant."

Taking the wand into your hand, you raised it above your head and waved it. A tingly, warm feeling suddenly flooded through your body, and with it, a spectacular shower of sparks emerged from the wand.

Ollivander looked delighted and exclaimed a few words of praise. Narcissa was smiling widely and even Lucius looked somewhat pleased. 

"They do say that cypress wands pick only the most noblest of wizards!" cried Ollivander, his grey eyes positively shining. "It's no surprise that one it would pick was the heiress to the house of Black!"

Draco glared at you, his frown reappearing from frustration. He had yet to find a wand that would choose him. He grabbed another box from Ollivander's table.

He ended up trying out quite a few more wands before he came across a wand that picked him. Honestly, you were surprised that there was a wand out there that tolerated the boy enough to be stuck for the rest of his life. You didn't pay attention to it was made of but knew it also contained a unicorn hair core like yours.

You were instead admiring your wand, turning it over in your fingers. An intricate vine-like pattern weaved up from the wand's base and smoothed itself out near its middle. Despite all of the crevices formed from its spiralling trail, it still managed to fit your fingers perfectly. It was quite a beauty.

Lucius handed Ollivander fourteen Galleons and Ollivander bowed at the four of you as you left.

"All that's left is the apothecary's," you said.

All of you headed towards the said shop and you took the time to look at the owls Narcissa had picked up for you and Draco.

For Draco, she had somehow gotten an eagle owl (even though the Owl Emporium did not sell them). He looked particularly smug with his newly acquired wand and owl. 

And for you, Narcissa had gotten a large tawny owl who was blinking at you with its massive eyes. You cooed at it, and smirked when it hooted back. 

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You later named him Castor. You quite liked the name, which was as a star in the Gemini constellation. It was also, you believed, the name of a distant relative who had died of dragon pox some time ago.

You handed the owl a letter addressed to 12 Grimmauld Place. It was a note to Kreacher, informing him of your acceptance to Hogwarts and a request to send back one of his sandwiches in his reply.

Waving the owl off, you couldn't quench the growing excitement inside of you. In just a few weeks, you'd be on the Hogwarts Express on your way to becoming a Hogwarts student, and eventually a fully fledged witch.

Who would've guessed what happened to you before then?

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

Hi guys 💞😀

Thank you so much for sticking till the 1st (technically 2nd) chapter!! 💓💗💛

The fun fact today is:

You didn't speak to Draco for two days because you got mad at him for "copying your wand's core"  and gave him a lecture on at least trying to be original.

[to-fly-with-clipped-wings]

heeyy I know I have like 3 series I havent updated in a while but I was randomly struck with inspiration 💡 wld you guys think of a percy jackson x child of demeter! oc but instead of being nice and cute and flowers like demeter kids, she gets her mother's super agressive side (think like literally just Sundew from wings of fire lmao 😆) it would be like the sunshine x grumpy trope but in the most unstereotypical way....... "whatever you say flower-girl" "i will take my flowers and stuff them right up your -"

angrily chews on vegetarian sandwich

[to-fly-with-clipped-wings]

CH 1.2 OF THE GIRL WHO LIVED IS OUT!

SORRY FOR THE WAIT BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE BUT ITS OUT NOW HOPE YOU ENJOY!1!1!!

Series Masterlist

Chapter 1.2: Train Rides and Talking Hats

[to-fly-with-clipped-wings]

Chapter 1.2 - Train Rides and Talking Hats

Chapter 1.2 - Train Rides and Talking Hats

Pairing: Harry Potter x Chosen One! Reader

‘“Oi,” you spoke, feeling your jaw clench at the blond boy’s demeanour. “I’d watch what I was saying if I was you, especially considering the crap that’s spewing outta your sewage-system of a mouth.” Draco Malfoy turned his sharpened gaze toward you. “And I’d be more careful if I was you. You don’t want to make enemies with the wrong people.” “Same goes for you.”’ OR: in which you hitch a ride on the Hogwarts Express and buckle up for one hell of a ride. → Set in a universe where you are the chosen one, and Harry Potter is your best friend who tries to help you navigate the woes of being the lone hero of the wizarding world. A swap au where you are the chosen one, your parents are dead but the marauders + Lily are not. Eventual Harry x Reader, slowburn, friends to lovers. Series Masterlist

.｡*ﾟ🗲.*.｡  　ﾟ*..🗲｡*ﾟ

Perhaps, if you had any less self-respect, having had a mental breakdown on the King’s Cross platform would have been your morning on the 1st of September.

The train leaves at eleven, Hagrid had told you. The Caddels had dropped you off at the station at half past ten before leaving to drop Odette off at her new school, Smeltings, they’d said. All you were really aware of was the nifty cane that came with the uniform, supposedly used to thwack fellow peers. An excellent training for later life.

Regardless of peculiar apparels or uniforms – you had now acquired a steadily rising fear that you would never be able to wear your own, if you couldn’t uncover where exactly platform nine and three-quarters was located at the station. 

There they were, right in front of you, platforms nine and ten – right there – but nowhere could you spot any semblance or notion of anything three-quarters related. The large plastic number nine leered tauntingly at you, swinging back and forth vaguely with the passing breeze.

You had pestered the guard manning the station. He hadn’t even heard of Hogwarts, and since you had no flying clue where or even what the school was, you couldn’t describe it to him. The guard stared at you incredulously, as though you were deliberately trying to be stupid (you didn’t miss how he eyed Hedwig, your owl, who chirped irritably back at him). It took every ounce of your remaining willpower to not snap or lunge at him and cause a scene in the middle of the station, especially when a congregation of people had formed a circle around you to observe the exchange curiously.

Apparently, according to a variety of people at the station, there wasn’t even a train that left at eleven o’clock. And, though it was obvious, platform nine and three-quarters completely did not exist. Like, at all. And to top the cherry on your fabulous sundae of anxiety and chagrin, according to the large clock situated on the arrivals board, you had a little under fifteen minutes to be seated on the train. 

You wished Hagrid had left you with more information, but when the man had dropped you back at your house and allowed you the time to blink, he had vanished. Urgent magical business, you mused dryly. Almost like the kerfuffle of being stranded on a station with not the foggiest idea of where to go. 

Were you missing something? Did you need to cast a spell? What if you missed the train? Oh, you knew you should have read the books before coming to the station. You swore at that moment to leave no page in your spell-books unturned (in hindsight, you knew you would drop this vow three days in).

Just as you were preparing to brandish your wand at the stray ticket box next to platform nine, trying your very best to formulate a spell that would divulge the presence of platform nine and three-quarters. 

In a perfectly timed turn of events, a group of people passed behind you, and you managed to glean a glimpse of their conversation.

“ – packed with Muggles, of course –

You heard your neck crack from how fast you wheeled around. Muggles. You had never been happier to hear a single word. The speaker was a stout woman, to an audience of about five red-headed children. Four boys and a girl, who from the conversation that ensued, you discovered was too young to attend Hogwarts just yet. 

You trained your eyes on them like a hawk, shadowing ‘Percy’, the oldest boy, as he dashed toward the brick wall of platform nine, pushing his trolley along with him. Wincing, you closed your eyes so you wouldn’t see him and all of his school supplies crash onto the floor. 

Miraculously, however, when you peeled your eyelids back open, the boy was gone. As were the twin brothers, Fred and George (or did their mother say George and Fred?). 

There was only one more boy left; a tall – though that entire family seemed to be on stilts – lanky, deeply freckled one. If you wanted to know where the sons were disappearing to, this was your final shot.

“Hey!” you called out, dragging your trolley behind you as you approached the remaining members of the red-headed family. Then, realising how the abruptness of a random girl yelling at someone may be perceived as abrash, you decided to dial back your advances. “Hi, sorry. Do you happen to know how to –” “How to get on to the platform?” she said kindly. “No worries at all, dear. Is this your first time at Hogwarts? Ron’s new, too.” 

She pointed at her last son. He had dirt on his nose. You nodded your head slightly toward him in greeting, but your mind was still hyper focused on how the clock was dwindling closer and closer to eleven. “Pleasure,” you smiled, desperation beginning to blemish your voice, evident as it began to inch one or two octaves higher. “So, er, I’m hoping that you do know how to get to the train?” “That’s right,” she said. “All you have to do is walk straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Don’t stop and don’t be scared you’ll crash into it, that’s very important. Go on, go now before Ron.”

You ruffled the collar of your shirt, which was looking far too neat and sophisticated (and therefore, not nearly as charming as you preferred it to be). “Thanks, Miss.” 

You sucked in a deep breath before gathering your courage and sprinted toward the very solid, opaque looking barrier of platform nine and three-quarters. 

You were running — running like a lunatic, might you add, when you realised you were almost there — and then, quite suddenly, you weren’t. 

Rather, you now found yourself underneath a sign that read Hogwarts Express, 11 o’clock.

Permeating through a brick wall was yet another box to check from your list of magical experiences. Twice, actually, if you counted the entrance to Diagon Alley. Odd was it indeed, but it was your odd now, and you lest would allow anyone try and rob you of it. 

You stood in awe, head on a swivel as you examined the new environment. A mammoth of a train, one whose size could only be attributed to the slight of one’s magical hand, with smoke seeping out of its charcoal chimneys, stood tall against the crowded stage of the station. 

You turned around to see if the red-headed family had made it through as well, and sure enough, there they were. The woman was still looking at you, and when you waved at her, her face split into a soft smile as she returned the gesture. You swept your dishevelled hair to the side – it had tousled itself into a heaping mess sometime during your episode on the other side of the train station. 

You only registered the consequence of this action when the red-headed woman’s eyes widened, and as an abrupt muteness circulated throughout the platform, capitulating the vocal cords of what seemed to be every single man, woman and/or child present there at that very moment. 

Families that were once bidding their children goodbye, lovingly caressing cheeks or smoothing down fly-away hairs, or families who were once loading trunks onto compartments, were now reacting in an identical fashion of the same scene that had transpired at the leaky pub; normal chatter was extinguished, and murmurs crept around the platform like an amateur thief in a treasure trove.

“The lightning scar!”

“Is that – oh, my sweet Merlin, it is!” “Oh – where –?!”

“Move! Let me get a glimpse!”

“Look, over there!”

“(Y/n) (L/n)!”

You stiffened under everyone’s combined gazes, the hasty switch of focus to you catching you off guard. But, as quickly as the alarm had rippled into your body, it had dispersed out. 

A smirk split your face, and you nodded toward the woman closest to you (who promptly went pink and near-fainted) as a way to acknowledge that you acknowledged their sudden interest in you. You heard someone chuckle at the sight, and a few more flurries of whispers were burgeoned from other by-standers.

During the time it took for you to jostle your trolley into an empty carriage near the back of the train, the number of people actively tracking your every move had died down, though only by a fraction. From the corners of your eyes, you could still see the odd third-year trying to estimate how many laces you had on your shoes, no doubt so he could pester his parents into buying the same pair. (You kept to yourself that they had previously belonged to Odette, however, as you seriously doubted anyone wanted to know that (Y/n) (L/n), hero of the wizarding world, still wore hand-me-downs.)

Unfortunately, it seemed that although you possessed the power to terminate the reign of the darkest and most powerful wizards in history, you had apparently not attained the muscles required to heave your trunk up the stairs onto the Hogwarts Express. You stumbled back, cursing as you reeled from the pain that rocketed through your foot after you dropped your trunk on your toes.

“Want a hand?” 

You looked up. It was one of the red-headed twins, from that family you had met before.

“Yes,” you said almost immediately. “Er, please.”

“Oy, Fred! C’mere and help!”

The three of you managed to successfully store your trunk into the corner of your compartment. Before you could thank the twins for their help, though, one of the twins pointed at the spot on your forehead where the thin lightning-shaped scar donned your skin. 

“You’re (Y/n) (L/n),” he announced. Just like Olivander, this had not been a question, but rather a statement.

“Yes,” you straightened your posture, raising your head a little higher. “That’s right. I am.”

The two boys gawked at you, and you subtly swept your sweaty hair to expose the scar even further. To your slightest dismay, however, the familiar voice of the red-headed mother drifted through the carriage before you were able to elaborate further on your tale of the lightning-shaped battle scar.

“Fred? George? Are you there?” Both the twins groaned at their mother’s summoning. Sparing one last glance at you, they ambled toward her call. “Coming, Mum.” You waved the twins goodbye. Sitting down by the window, you ducked your head so you could listen to the family, who were still on the platform, whilst being half-hidden at the same time. Their mother had scourged out a handkerchief and was furiously scrubbing at Ron’s nose to rid the smudge of dirt that laid upon it.

You watched with amusement as Ron tried to lurch away before being caught in his mother’s iron-fisted clutches once again.

“Mum – geroff!”

One of the twins snickered, leaning close to Ron. “Aaaah, has ickle Ronnie got somefink on his nosie?” 

“Shut up!” You saw the oldest of the red-headed siblings saunter towards his family, already draped in his robes. A shiny red and gold badge was pinned onto his chest, with the letter P engraved onto it.

“Can’t stay long, Mother,” he said stiffly. “I’m up front, the Prefects have got two compartments to themselves –”

“Oh, are you a Prefect, Percy?” One of the twins gasped, bringing his hands to his face in disbelief. “You should have said something, we had no idea.” “Hang on, I think I remember him saying something about it, once –”

“Or twice –”

“A minute –”

“All summer –”

You huffed a laugh at the back and forth going between the family. Percy the Prefect’s face was starting to sport a lovely bright, irritable shade of red. 

“How come Percy gets new robes, anyway?” queried one of the twins.

“Because he’s a Prefect,” their mother smoothed Percy’s already-perfectly-smoothened hair fondly. “All right, dear, well have a good term – send me an owl when you get there.” 

She sent him off with a kiss. 

You sunk back into your seat. For some reason, the jovial atmosphere you’d felt upon discovering the magical platform had now become strangely dampened. 

Call it a moment of weakness, sure – but in that moment, you wished that you could have a mother. A mother who would dote on you like that or who would comfort you. 

But, as soon as that looming train of thoughts had festered, you vanquished them from your mind – the other kids could keep their affectionate mothers who waved them goodbye as they left, the same, in fact, would go for their superficial, gentle-natured fathers; you had your fame and that topped any shred of whatever they may have had, whatever you were missing!

As though the red-head family were suddenly attuned with your train of thought, you heard the voice of the youngest child, the girl, pipe up. “Oh! (Y/n) (L/n) On the train? Please can I go see her, Mum, please, please, please…”

“You’ve already seen her, Ginny, and the poor girl isn’t something you goggle at in a zoo. Is she really, Fred? How do you know?” “Asked her. Saw the scar. It’s really there – like lightning.”

“Poor dear.” 

Your fingers traced the pattern of the scar, not particularly liking the feeling of pity emanating from the family.

“No wonder she was alone. I wondered. She was ever enthusiastic, though, when she asked how to get on to the platform. I’d have thought she’d be scared, by herself…”

“Never mind that, do you think she remembers what You-Know-Who looks like?”

The red-headed mother swelled. “I forbid you to ask her that, Fred! No, don’t you dare. As though she needs reminding of –... ”

The disarrayed ruckus of another family hurriedly barrelling onto the platform, and ushering their boy onto the train, stripped your focus from the ginger group. 

Observing the mop of black hair, you realised pleasantly that it was the boy you had met at the Quidditch store that day in Diagon Alley. Closely behind him, a stressed looking woman with copper-coloured hair, followed him briskly onto the train. Your lips twitched as you noticed that she possessed the same brilliant green eyes as her son. 

The father, a carbon copy of his son, followed seconds after, carrying a tremendously large trunk onto the train. There was one more man – perhaps one of the uncles the boy had mentioned – who remained on the platform. You guessed that he was allowing the family their final moments together. He didn’t really look alike to the mother or father of Quidditch Boy’s family, so you presumed that he was probably an uncle by choice, not blood. He had sandy brown hair with substantially sized scars running down the entirety of his face and neck. There was a large, shaggy black dog beside him too, and you swore that it had winked when it saw you looking at the group.

A shrill burst of steam raged outwards from the chimney of the train. You guessed that this was a warning to families that the train was about to depart right now. True to your word, just as Quidditch Boy’s mother and father practically leapt off the train carriage they’d left their son in, the train doors slammed shut, and the vehicle began dutifully chugging forward. 

Left behind now, was the platform of nine and three-quarters.

Leaning back in your seat, you exhaled roughly. This was it, the moment that marked the beginning of your journey into Hogwarts. You had no clue where you were going, but you just knew it would be good. A grand moment, you were sure, but what you were also sure of was that the next few hours on the train (or possibly days or months, who knew?) would result in you being bored out of your mind. Stuck in an empty carriage by yourself with no one to talk to – tragic – maybe it would do you some good if you popped down into one of the other carriages and try to find some other first-years.

Coincidentally, the door of the compartment was opened by none other than Quidditch Boy himself. His hair was askew, glasses lopsided and cheeks clearly flushed from the rush of trying to scramble onto the Hogwarts Express before it departed. He did not have his trunk with him, which meant that his father was able to stash it onto the train it in time.

“Hey, again,” he flashed you a bashful smile. “Would it be alright if I could sit here?”

“Sure. No problem.” 

You observed him as he took the seat opposite you. He was already wearing robes of sorts, not the Hogwarts ones, judging from the lack of school emblem, but the sorts that you hypothesised would be the wizarding equivalent to a t-shirt and a pair of jeans.

“Er,” he started, causing you to look over at him. “It’s nice to see you. Again.” “Yeah.” you agreed with him, offering a lopsided smile. “Great. To meet you.” 

“Yep.”

The compartment fell into a highly awkward silence, one that you were not at all familiar with. Back with the Caddels, or even at your previous school, you had no problem whatsoever making friends with strangers. In fact, conversation came easily to you – you weren’t the most popular girl in the grade for no reason, after all. So the stuffiness invading the atmosphere was most definitely unwelcome, and honestly, unnatural.

Thankfully the awkward cloud hanging above you and Quidditch Boy dissipated abruptly when the compartment door slid open again, revealing the tall, freckled, ginger boy. The other first-year you’d spoken to: Ron.

His eyes widened when he saw you sitting in front of him. “Uh – sorry, anyone else sitting here? Everywhere else is full.”

Quidditch Boy shook his head and Ron took the seat beside them, so they were both facing you. Ron’s gaze hadn’t settled and he kept on glancing toward you and then toward the window whenever he made eye contact with you. It was amusing, his discomfort, from how often he did it.

“Hey, Ron.” The red-headed twins popped into the compartment suddenly. “Listen, we’re going back down the middle of the train – Lee Jordan’s got a giant tarantula down there.”

“Right,” said the youngest sibling.

So we’re not going to question the spider. Seems good.

“(Y/n),” the other twin, the one who hadn’t been talking to Ron, turned to you. “And other Kid,” referring to Quidditch Boy, “did we introduce ourselves? Fred and George Weasley. And this is Ron, our brother. Anyways, see you later, then.” The three of you said bye in unison as the twins left.

As soon as they were gone, Ron blurted out, “Can we see the scar?” You blinked at him, and he went pink. Though, you complied either way (as you had no qualms to showing off the lightning-shaped bolt). Pulling your hair back, the scar on your forehead was revealed to Quidditch Boy and Ron.

“Wow,” breathed out Quidditch Boy. “It really does look like lightning.”

Ron was equally stunned. “So that’s where You-Know-Who – ?”

“Yes.” You grinned brightly at their awed expressions. They stared at you a couple seconds longer before Ron diverted his attention quickly back to the greenery flitting through the window.

“So, is your whole family magic then?” you asked Ron out of curiosity. 

You already knew that Quidditch Boy’s father was a pure-blood and his mother was a muggle-born, whatever that meant; you weren’t going to be the one to say you had no idea what those were.

“Quidditch Boy?” puzzled Quidditch Boy, eyebrows furrowing. 

Ah, had you said that outloud? Whoops.

You laughed, bringing a hand to your nape. “Sorry, I don’t know your name, so I’ve just, kinda, resorted to calling you Quidditch Boy in my mind.”

“Oh, well, I’m, uh, Harry. Harry Potter.” said the boy, smiling at you once more. 

You slouched further into your seat. “Nice to meet ya then, Harry Potter.”

Ron interjected into the conversation, for which you were grateful. The ginger boy seemed to hold the power of evaporating awkwardness with a snap of his freckled fingers. “Pure-blooded means that everyone on his father’s side is magic. I’m the same – everyone in my family is a wizard, well maybe except for my mum’s second cousin who’s an accountant, but we don’t really talk about him.”

“I get it,” you said, cupping your chin with your hand. “I’ve got no clue what I am. But I know that my father had no magic.”

“A muggle,” Ron nodded appreciatively. “Well, basically everyone knows that your mother was a pure-blood, though. That makes you a half-blood like him, since you’re a mix I guess.” He pointed at Harry. You were slightly startled that he knew more about your family and lineage than you did yourself. Maybe you should get used to people knowing more about you than you did yourself.

“A muggle-born’s a witch or wizard who was born from muggle parents,” continued Ron.

You tilted your head to the side. “Where does their magic come from, if they’ve got no magical blood or whatever?”

Ron looked partially affronted. “Who knows, – magic isn’t exactly something that comes in a nice little package that gets delivered to you when the time is right! All I know is that if you’ve got magic, then you’ve got it. That’s all there is to it, really.” He waved his hands about in the air for further emphasis. This was probably a topic Ron was passionate about, as you noticed his ears flushing red under the combined blank stares of you and Harry. You ponderedthat if Ron were to ever wear something salmon-coloured, it would definitely wash him out. You wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between his face and his left knee.

You tried to recover from the painful silence. “Thanks, that clears it up. You two must know loads of magic then.” 

“Not nearly enough as my mum wants me to,” said Harry.

“Hear, hear,” mumbled Ron.

“Huh. Guess that’s one good thing that comes out of being an orphan. No pushy mother for me!” You chuckled at the uncomfortable looks on the boys’ faces. 

“I heard you went to live with Muggles,” said Ron, scratching the back of his neck. “What’re they like?” “Alright,” you shrugged. “Not outstandingly nice or anything, but they do their job. Would be cooler to have wizarding brothers like you though.”

“Not if you’ve got five of them.” answered Ron gloomily. “I’m the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts. You could say I’ve got a lot to live up to. Bill and Charlie have already left – Bill was Head Boy and Charlie was captain of Quidditch. Now Percy’s a Prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot, but they still get really good marks and everyone thinks they’re really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the others, but if I do, it’s no big deal, because they did it first. You never get anything new, either, with five brothers. I’ve got Bill’s old robes and Charlie’s old wand. I wanted an owl, but they couldn't aff – I mean, they got Percy one instead for becoming a Prefect.”

Ron’s ears went pink again. Your brain, it seemed, was temporarily delayed and was not able to formulate a response to that.

“I’m sure you’ll do better than all your brothers combined,” said Harry. 

Ron smiled gratefully at him. 

As the train rolled onward and your surroundings grew greener, you, quite helpfully, took Hedwig’s cage and placed her on the centre of the table, announcing that the first one to get nipped whilst feeding her treats would be declared the ultimate ‘Loser Lord and/or Lordess.’ Hedwig loved you, so obviously she went ham whenever the two boys got close to her in order to secure your victory.

The three of you fell into an easy conversation after that, and you barely even realised how much time had passed until a smiling, old-looking woman popped her head into the compartment and said “anything off the trolley, dears?”

With that lovely gesture, you had leapt out of your seat and essentially pounced onto the food she was offering. Your pockets were lined with wizard money now, an infinite stash really, and so there was nothing stopping you from buying multiples of everything she had. As such, you, Harry and Ron had to literally struggle and drag back the food you’d hoarded, before dumping it on the table.

“Hungry, are you?” said Ron, raising his eyebrows at the pile of snacks that was nearly as tall as him.

“Starving,” you grinned back.

You, Harry and Ron tore into the pasties and cakes, the mountain rapidly diminishing by the second. There was one incident with a chocolate frog creeping into Hedwig’s cage before getting mauled by her talons. The card that supposedly came with the treat, had also been destroyed, so Harry had given his to you. One with a moving picture of Albus Dumbledore, who had waved politely at your stunned expression.

Once you’d moved onto Bertie Bott’s Every-Flavour Beans, you found a lot of enjoyment when Ron had the misfortune of coming across a bean that tasted like dirty socks. Though, your amusement at Ron’s plight had been adjourned with the appearance of a round-faced boy.

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

“No, sorry.”

You were taken aback when the boy promptly burst into tears. “I’ve lost him! He keeps getting away from me!” “He’ll turn up,” said Harry.

“Yes,” said the boy, turning away dejectedly. “Well, if you see him…”

“Don’t know why he’s so bothered,” remarked Ron once the boy had left. “If I’d brought a toad I’d lose it as quick as I could.”

You deadpanned at him. “You haven’t even got any pets to lose, Ron. I’m betting that if you ever got one, you’d have even worse attachment issues than Toad-Boy.” “Mind you,” said Harry, talking around his mouthful of Cauldron Cake. “That’s saying a lot.”

“What’ve you got then?” asked Ron, turning his head to glare at Harry. “You seem awfully high and mighty for someone who probably doesn’t even have anything at all.”

“I’ve got a dog,” defended Harry. “Snuffles.” You stifled a giggle. “Snuffles? No way you named your dog that!” “I didn’t pick the name!”

“A dog’s not as good as an owl anyways,” you teased.

“I’d beg to differ – my dog totally is,” Harry grumbled, crossing his arms. “Plus you don’t even need to have an owl – the school’s got its own aviary shock-full of ‘em that you can send letters with.”

“One day, I’m gonna get an owl.” Ron sighed dreamily. “Just for myself, I wouldn’t have to share with Fred or George or Percy or Ginny.”

“Who’s Ginny?”

Before Ron could express the identity of this ‘Ginny’, the compartment door was opened by a bushy-haired girl whose face was wrinkled up irritably. Toad-Boy also made a reappearance.

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

“We’ve already told him we haven’t seen it,” said Ron, but the girl wasn’t listening. Rather, she had been staring at you. 

“You’re (Y/n) (L/n).” she declared matter-of-factly. “I saw you at the station. I know all about you, of course – I got a few extra books for background reading, and you’re in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century.”

Ron gaped at her and Harry blinked a few times repeatedly.

“Be surprised if I wasn’t,” you said, winking cheekily. You also had no idea what she was talking about though.

She studied you appraisingly before asking Ron and Harry “and who are you?”

“Ron Weasley.”

“Harry Potter.”

“Pleasure. Well, I’m Hermione Granger. I was ever so pleased when I got my letter to Hogwarts, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I’ve heard – I’ve learnt all of our set books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough.”

All three pairs of eyebrows furrowed in synchronisation. You, personally, had only caught about one-third of what she had been saying since she’d been basically rapping out her words. 

Herminkoni (was that what she said her name was?) began talking again. “Do either of you know what house you’ll be in? I’ve been asking around and I hope I’m in Gryffindor, it sounds the best by far, I hear Dumbledore himself was one, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t be too bad. Anyay, we’d better go and look for Neville’s toad. You three had better change, you know, I expect we’ll be there soon.”

Herpes Motion thus turned around and left, taking Toad-Boy with her.

“Well,” you announced cheerfully. “She was nice.” “Sure,” muttered Ron, reaching for a Treacle Tart. 

“She was right about one thing though,” said Harry, grinning and brushing his hair out of his face. “Gryffindor, by far, is definitely the best house.”

“Who’s Gryffindor?” you squinted your eyes at him. Ron attempted an exasperated face-palm with his left hand (he was still holding the tart in his right). Harry laughed at this, before proceeding to explain the four houses to you.

Gryffindor had been the house Ron’s and Harry’s families had gotten into. The house of the brave, it was known for. Ravenclaw, the house for smart people (you had a feeling you would not be getting into that); Hufflepuff was the house for the loyal and well-meaning. And finally, there was Slytherin. Both Ron and Harry detested the green-and-silver clad house, for it had been the house to pump out the most dark witches and wizards.

“Ah,” you said. “So naturally, we should hate that house, since that was the one Voldemort was – ” “Woah,” interrupted Ron, looking impressed. “You just said his name.” “Why wouldn’t I? It’s just a name. Anyways, I’m guessing that you both want Gryffindor then?”

“Of course!” Ron puffed out his chest. 

“Hey,” Harry began, rubbing your chin. “Have you — ”

Unfortunately, whatever Harry had wanted to ask had been interrupted by the compartment door sliding open again. 

This time, it was a group of three – the ringleader being a sallow-faced, gauntly blonde boy. The other two were giant-sized, goliath looking boys who looked like his bodyguards. And, of course, they were all fixated on you. (But then again, why wouldn’t they be?)

“Is it true?” he said. “They’re saying all down the train that (Y/n) (L/N)’s in this compartment. So, it’s you, is it?”

“That’s right,” you smiled at him.

His lips twitched into a small smirk. He waved his hand carelessly at the two body-doubles next to him. “This is Crabbe and that’s Goyle. And my name’s Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.”

Ron choked on his treacle tart, but you suspected that may have been him trying to disguise a sneer. Draco Malfoy narrowed his eyes on Ron.

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

Ron’s face went pink again and he sunk into his seat. 

Draco Malfoy raised an eyebrow at Harry, but before he could say something about his family, you cut him off.

“Oi,” you spoke, feeling your jaw clench at the blond boy’s demeanour. “I’d watch what I was saying if I was you, especially considering the crap that’s spewing outta your sewage-system of a mouth.”

Draco Malfoy turned his sharpened gaze toward you. “And I’d be more careful if I was you. You don’t want to make enemies with the wrong people.”

“Same goes for you.” 

You stared down Draco Malfoy. Harry was glancing back and forth between the two of you, and he looked ready to stand up if this altercation escalated.

“You don’t get to come in here and poke fun at us,” you muttered slowly. “Especially, if you want to be on good terms with me.”

His cheeks tinged a faint pink. “Not like I would want to be friends with the likes of you.” He placed the emphasis on ‘you’ the same way you did for ‘me’.

You, Harry and Ron all stood up. 

“I think it’d be best if you left.” you gritted out, disliking the boy less and less by every twitch of his rat-like face.

Unfortunately for you, Malfoy’s rattish face had broken out into a sneer. “You’ll regret making enemies out of me, (L/n). I promise you that much.”

He furiously spun around and out of the carriage, but not before he could shoot you a final scathing look. Crabbe and Goyle chased after him, robes billowing out from behind them.

“What a buffoon,” you huffed angrily.

“Agreed,” said Harry, still glaring at the door.

“I’ve heard of his family before,” said Ron darkly. “They were some of the first to come back to our side after You-Know-Who disappeared. Said they'd been bewitched. My dad doesn’t believe it. He says Malfoy’s father didn’t need an excuse to go over to the Dark Side.” “‘Specially if they thought it was the winning side,” added Harry.

The door opened before you could open your mouth. There was Hermit Yeti, yet again, standing at the entrance.

“What has been going on? Why did I just see three boys bolting out of this compartment?” She looked you up and down. “You haven’t been fighting, have you? You’ll be in trouble before we even get there!”

“They were the ones starting it – not us!” defended Ron, scowling at her.

“All right – I only came in here because people outside are behaving very childishly, racing up and down the corridors,” she said sniffly. “And you’ve got dirt on your nose, by the way, did you know that?”

“Thank you,” you interjected, glaring at her on behalf of Ron. “Could you leave now?”

And finally, Herm-onion left.

If you had to guess, it had been only an hour after that when the train had pulled to a stop. You had slipped on your robes, ensuring that they still had your signature wind-swept appearance about them. Ron and Harry were also wearing their school robes now too. The three of you stuffed your pockets with the remaining sweets before you left the train.

Hopping out of the train and onto the station, you were delighted to be met with the familiar, wild face of Hagrid, the giant-man. 

“Firs’-years! Firs-years over here! All right there, (Y/n)?” He beamed at you from under his scraggly beard.

You waved enthusiastically at him. 

The first-years, it looked like, had their own means of reaching the school, which involved travelling in groups of four in a little boat across a lake. You, Harry, Ron and the bushy-haired girl (to your displeasure) took a boat close to the front.

Whilst you did not dislike the girl, you weren’t fond of her tendency to huff or be bossy, especially when she did it toward Ron (which you found she did often). Harry hadn’t done anything to get into her wrong books, and nor vice versa, so they were probably on the most amicable terms between your little trio.

The boats glided in unison across the great body of water, before coming to a stop at the front of the school’s castle. You could hardly hear Toad-Boy’s reunion with his toad (“Trevor”) amongst the excited buzzing in your ears.

The gaggle of first-years came to a stop at the entrance of Hogwarts, a ginormous wooden castle door. Hagrid raised his fist and rapped three times on it. 

The door opened immediately. There was a stern, grey-haired witch standing behind it. She was sifting through the crowd intensely, and her gaze did not linger on your scar like how most peoples’ did.

“The firs’-years, Professor McGonagall,” said Hagrid.

“Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here.” The door was opened further and you streamed into the Entrance Hall. The entire school was huge, you realised, and was very elaborately decorated – like something you would read in a book. Flaming torches illuminated the corridor. The first-years were pulled into a little room, next to a place where you could hear the rest of the school talking.

It was then you noticed that Ron appeared quite pale under his freckles and that Harry was fiddling with his fingers. In fact, every first-year seemed to be exhibiting some sort of nervous tick, apart from Malfoy, who was rolling his eyes for some reason. 

You drew your eyebrows together in confusion. Should you have been scared too? It wasn’t like they were going to force you to fight each other or anything right? At least, that’s what you hoped. Although, you definitely knew that if they made you fight, you’d win.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” said Professor McGonagall. “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 speed free time in your house common room.

She continued giving a debrief of the houses, but as it was something you had already heard from Harry and Ron, it wasn’t anything new. You fidgeted restlessly, wanting to get onto the Sorting already.

“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 eyes lingered on your messy hair and ruffled collar, as one lapel stuck upwards. 

Once she left, you turned to Harry and Ron. “What do they do to get us into these houses? Is it like a test? Based on how you answer, that’s where you get in? Like, ‘what is the square root of sixteen?’”

“That’s probably only good for finding Ravenclaws and non-Ravenclaws though,” said Ron, taking you seriously. “My brothers said it was a test too, though. Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking.”

Harry was looking more unsettled by the minute. 

“Hey,” you said, patting his shoulder, mistaking his expression as anxiousness. “Don’t be nervous. I’m sure Ron’s brothers are just messing with us.” “Me too,” confirmed Ron.

“But,” Harry’s green eyes met yours. “A test? I didn’t know we had to do a test. In front of the whole school? I can barely do two spells, how will they sort me with that? I— I didn’t think — I mean, my dad said— I thought it had something to do with a ha –”

“Listen,” you began, patting his shoulder. “That’s already two more spells than I know, and probably most of the first-years too. That Malfoy kid included.” 

You narrowed your eyes at the said blonde boy, before returning them to Harry. “Don’t worry, alright? Test or not, I’m sure we'll all do great. Probably.” 

Beside you, Ron nodded in agreement (although it looked like his skin was also beginning to reach a sickly pale green colour).

“You’re right,” said Harry, and you were pleased to see that he was a fraction less scared than he was a moment ago. Although he did still look a tad bit confused.

Anyways, moving onto more pressing matters. You didn’t bother with ‘smartening yourself up.’ You were already pretty smart enough, in your opinion. Having bested the darkest wizard of the age at a meagre one year of age didn’t come to just anyone, you know?

After a whole debacle with some ghosts or something flying in to greet you before the ceremony, Professor McGonagall entered the room once more. You all trudged in a single-file line into the Great Hall.

You gaped openly at the Great Hall, which looked even bigger than the Entrance. Four long tables were lain across the room, with golden plates and goblets sitting on each. The students were segregated by houses, indicated by the colour of their robes and ties. There were also several candles floating in the air, which was pretty sweet too. Oh, and the roof looked like the sky as well. 

Professor McGongagall placed a three-legged stool in front of school, and then she placed a rusty-looking hat on top of it. You deadpanned when it broke into song, and even more when everyone burst into applause once it finished.

“So, we’ve just got to try on the hat!” Ron whisper-yelled to you and Harry. “I’ll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling a troll!” Harry gave him an unsure smile, and said “I tried telling you it was just a weird hat. You threw me off with the test talk.”

Professor McGonagall approached the stool, unravelling a long roll of parchment paper. “When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted,” she said. “Abbott, Hannah!”

Hannah stumbled from the crowd of first-years and toward the professor. She placed the hat on her head and after a moment of silence, the hat shouted out “HUFFLEPUFF!”

The table on the right, with the yellow-and-black clad students, the house of Hufflepuff, cheered and hollered as Hannah went to join them.

‘Bones, Susan’ went up next and she too went to Hufflepuff. ‘Boot, Terry’ went to Ravenclaw, and ‘Brown Lavender’ became the first new Gryffindor. The cheering from the red table was definitely the loudest, especially when right after ‘Bulstrode Millicent’ was sorted in Slytherin and all she got was only a polite and semi-subdued applause from her new house.

A few more people went, and then, so did ‘Granger, Hermione’ (so that was her name) who sat on the stool for a precariously long period of time before being sent to Gryffindor. Ron groaned. Toad-Boy (Longbottom, Neville!) got Gryffindor too, but somehow, he was on the stool for even longer than Hermione.

You were raising your hand to scratch at the itch in your ear when your name was called. 

As you stepped forward, the students in the Hall started to whisper loudly, just as they had done at the station.

“(L/n), did she say?” “The (Y/n) (L/n)?” Those comments did not help the rising ego blooming inside of you. You swaggered over the stool and sat down. Your fingers delicately gripped the brim of the hat. The fabric felt ragged and old underneath your fingertips. You brought the Sorting Hat down toward your –

“GRYFFINDOR!”

The hat had barely scraped the fly-away hairs on your head when it shrieked out. 

The Great Hall was silent for a few, stunned moments, taken aback by your instantaneous sorting. You stared back at them with wide eyes, darting downwards to look at Harry and Ron. They were wide-eyed too, before the dam of silence was broken, and they beamed gigantic smiles at you, alongside the entirety of the Gryffindor table erupting into cheers – louder cheers than for any of the people before you. 

You felt a warm glow in your chest. You looked around the table, and saw many friendly faces. Percy the Prefect had dived over the table (almost) to shake your hand vigorously and you could hear the Weasley twins jeering “we got (L/n)! We got (L/n)!” Even the resident Gryffindor ghost, Nearly Headless Nick, was congratulating you for your placement by patting your arm, which felt oddly like you were being doused in a bucket of cold water.

At the High Table, Hagrid was grinning and gave you the thumbs up of approval. Dumbledore, as you recognised him from the chocolate frog card, was up there too with a faint twinkle in his eye.

The only notable people left up, really, were Harry and Ron. 

Harry had been called first.

The Sorting Hat was sat upon his head for what seemed to be the better portion of an eternity. For the first time since your arrival, you felt a jolt of fear. What if you and your friends would be separated into different houses? You didn’t to be stuck in a full with only Neville and Hermione, everyday. What would happen if you woke up to find Neville’s slimy toad on your pillowcase or —

You felt a surge of joy and relief, as after a minute or two, the hat declared “GRYFFINDOR!” and the Great Hall erupted in cheers for Harry. You clapped your hands and smiled widely, looking for him among the sea of red and gold.

He took a seat beside you and you high-fived him.

“Nice to see you here, Potter, Harry,” you said, changing your voice to mimic McGonagall’s.

“Nice to see you too, the (Y/n) (L/n),” he snickered, mocking the way the students had reacted when they’d heard your name.

You grinned at him.

Ron joined you rather quickly, even though he was one of the last people to get sorted. You were delighted at this, as it meant you could still be with them for the rest of your Hogwarts years, if what Professor McGonagall had said about your house being akin to family, was true.

Dumbledore rose to his feet, “Welcome! 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! Thank you!” He sat down, and as he did, food magically appeared in front of you.

“Is he – a bit mad?” Harry asked you uncertainly.

“Probably,” you said, shrugging, reaching for the roast potatoes.

You scarfed down your food, listening to the conservation around you. You cheered when the dessert had come, causing the people around you to chuckle, quietly – except for Ron, who had gotten to the apple pie before you could.

You wrestled Ron for a slice of said pie, and were happily munching on it when you glanced back up to the High Table. Hagrid was drinking from his goblet, and Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore were in a deep discussion with each other. Another Professor, in a purple turban, was fiddling nervously with his cutlery, tapping his fork against the edge of the table. He was speaking with a professor with greasy black hair, a hooked nose and sallow skin.

The teacher, as though he could sense your presence, glanced straight past the Turban-Professor and bore his black eyes into yours – a sharp, hot pain seared within your scar, and you let out a hiss of pain.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked you, foreheading furrowing in concern.

“N-nothing.” The pain had left as quickly as it had come. How strange. You got the feeling that the hooked-nose teacher did not like you very much.

“Who's that teacher, the greasy-haired one?” you pointed at him, not discretely.

Harry stifled a laugh. “That’s Snape. No one likes him, they say he wants to be the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, but every year he gets stuck as the Potions one instead. My dad doesn’t like him at all – actually, my entire family doesn’t really either.”

“Why’s that?” you questioned.

“Not sure,” said Harry, but he scratched his cheek nervously. “They won’t tell me.”

Deciding not to press him further, you continued to watch Snape a little longer. He never looked at you again, though, after that.

Once the desserts had all faded away, Dumbledore had announced his final speech and conducted a very tragic school school orchestra. He wiped his eyes, from pain or sadness or you guessed maybe even both, when they had finished. “Ah, music. A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!”

Powering your legs through the sheer force of the food you’d guzzled down, you followed Percy up to the Gryffindor Tower. With horror, you realised that you’d have to climb an average of seven staircases everyday, simply just to get to your bed. 

Anyways, the entrance to the Gryffindor headquarters was through a painting of a Fat Lady and she flipped open when you told her the password, Caput Draconis. You scrambled through the portrait hole and into the Gryffindor common room. 

You lazily trudged up the stairs, and without even bothering to notice that your trunk had been transported up to your dorm room, you face-planted onto your bed and fell into a heavy sleep.

Perhaps you had eaten a bit too much, because that night, you had a very strange dream. 

You were staring into a mirror, desperately trying to tug off a purple turban from your head. When did you get a turban? How did you get a turban? The fabric of the turban grew tighter, making you feel a sharp pain in your skull as the turban squeezed your head like a vice. You wondered how you got into this mess in the first place.

Furiously pulling, pulling, at the turban finally caused it to unravel and expose your hair. With a start, as you glanced back to the mirror, you discerned that your face had, horrifyingly enough, taken on the face of Snape. His own black, empty eyes stared back at you. 

You scrambled back, leaping away from his cockroach-like eyes, only to find that, for some reason, there was a bottomless abyss behind you. You fell down, down, down into a pit. Closing your eyes as your head thrummed painfully, you braced yourself for the impact. 

A bright flash of green light, and a high, cruel laugh jerked you awake. 

Oddly enough, however, when you’d gone back to sleep, you hadn’t remembered the dream at all. You did question, however, the next morning why when you closed your eyes, all you saw was a luminous, green light in the shape of a lightning-bolt scar.

.｡*ﾟ🗲.*.｡  　ﾟ*..🗲｡*ﾟ

→ Author's Note: Hello my lovelies, welcome to ch 1.2 yippee!! Sorry that its super long but we’re pretty already halfway through the ch 1 portion of the series XD — I’m guessing now that it's gonna reach about 1.4 or 1.5 but I could also be widely incorrect :P Anyways that’s all so catch ya next time :))) thank you

Time for this chapters analysis ~ You will have probs noticed one of the most canon-divergent parts of this series so far is that instead of the same dilemma Harry faced when he was getting sorted (Slytherin vs Gryffindor), as soon as the hat touched the little hairs upon your head, you were sorted into Gryffindor. During this chapter, and a little of the last one (but mostly this one), I've kinda been subtly trying to hint that the Reader is really quite arrogant and brazen. Rather than Harry as the chosen one, where he longs for a quiet and normal life, Reader dives headfirst into her role. She shamelessly self-promotes her lightning-scar and doesn’t try to hide it – she knows she’s special and she feeds into that!!  She’s kinda like James Potter in that regard >.< and therefore I want her to kind of be epitome of a Gryffindor (courageous and arrogant) and maybe, maybe not, a parallel to Draco Malfoy (who also got sorted into Slytherin ASAP, and is ambitious and arrogant) hehe → that’s also why Reader and Malfoy get more aggressive even more quickly than Harry did in canon… Anyways!!! This is the briefest hint at what I have in store for this series, and we’ll see how Reader’s arrogance courageousness deviates Harry Potter from canon.  Tbh I’m planning to make the reader Percy Jackson-coded (with the sass and reckless bravery and loyalty and what not) and maybe just the slightest bit Gojo-coded hehe,  I know that it's not that clear rn lol but I’ll work my way into it hopefully… Anyways, thanks again! :D Series Masterlist

Taglist (thanks for asking!): @kaverichauhan

[to-fly-with-clipped-wings]

Prologue - Killing Butterflies

Prologue - Killing Butterflies Pairing: (H. Potter x Black! reader)

'When had the pangs in his heart become so painful? So loud? He hadn’t a clue. So, when Regulus found it within himself to straighten up and gently remove his hand from your grasp, he didn’t register it – the complete and utter sadness taking hold of his nerves and paralysing them like snake venom. He silently pressed his lips to your forehead in a final goodbye.' OR: in which the vague exposition of Killing Butterflies is revealed.

Series Summary: (Y/n) Black - the one and only heiress to the noble house of Black - who also happens to be the daughter of the infamous Regulus Arcturus Black (and the niece of the notorious criminal Sirius Black). But despite the titles, rules and expectations that befall you, there are only two things that you long for, at which you will not cease to achieve: Firstly, to fill in the big shoes left behind by your late father. And secondly, burn the butterflies that flutter within your stomach in the presence of Harry Potter (who happens to be the sworn enemy of, perhaps, your entire family).

-> Series Masterlist and Summary -> Harry Potter Masterlist

Regulus Arcturus Black was a man who, for as long as he could remember, had never felt an emotion that had not been either sorrow, rage or the bitter sting of regret.

And even now, though he gazed toward the delicate form of his daughter, he was certain that the only emotion that was building inside of him was an overwhelming sense of deep, deep regret.

A feeling so powerful, yet one that had become somewhat of a solace to Regulus. An old friend accompanied him once more. However, what made this instance so peculiar was that this regret did not hurt or impair him – it did not itch under his skin or alight a vicious fire throughout his veins. This particular regret seemed to permeate, strangely, from beyond the confines of himself.

'When pressure builds to dangerously high levels, it will be released in one way or another.'

How puzzling. From where had that sentence emerged?

Well, for all Regulus knew, there were multiple ways in which his degree of built up pressure was being released.

For one, it could be within the tears that he bore on his pale face for the world to see, or in the way he had buried his head in his hands to tug at his curly locks of hair – or, remarkably enough, as the aloof memory that had suddenly just settled its stronghold at the forefronts of Regulus’s mind.

A weapon that stood forth in times of profuse despair and desolation, yet it was one that usually remained mute in Regulus’s lovely ballads of pain and regret.

It had been years since he had thought about this memory. Despite this, however, it was one that he’d treasured dearly.

He had been seven years old, and his brother, Sirius, had been eight, when the latter had somehow smuggled a muggle book into the house. Regulus remembered how horrified his younger self had been when Sirius had revealed the origin of the new novel. Sirius had quickly been able to calm Regulus down, wrapping his arm around Regulus's shoulder and they nestled into a dark corner in Sirius's room in 12 Grimmauld Place as Sirius read the book aloud.

It had been about volcanoes and explained the peculiar ways a volcano functioned, at least according to the muggle mind. Sirius had pointed to the sentence about that sentence pertaining to ‘built up pressure’ and made a rather crude comparison between volcanic eruptions and their mother, causing Regulus to gasp, and then to giggle and cover his mouth.

Regulus often wondered if his younger self would have guessed that reading a muggle book of all things with his older brother would later become the only memory that allowed him to conjure a patronus.

When had the pangs in his heart become so painful? So loud? He hadn’t a clue.

So, when Regulus found it within himself to straighten up and gently remove his hand from your grasp, he didn’t register it – the complete and utter sadness taking hold of his nerves and paralysing them like snake venom.

He silently pressed his lips to your forehead in a final goodbye.

Wiping his eyes, and glancing at Kreacher (who was standing in the corner of the room, his own tears streaming down his face) Regulus muttered the words "Expecto Patronum."

A blur of blue was expelled from his wand and his patronus stood dutifully in front of him. Bending down, Regulus whispered to the patronus, urgently muttering to the creature.

Kreacher, the wretched looking house-elf, gazed up at Regulus, his large, glassy eyes swollen and bloodshot.

"Kreacher." He spoke hoarsely, his throat thick. "Promise me that you will always take care of (Y/n), no matter what happens. Care for her tenfold the amount you do for me. Promise -.."

Kreacher nodded earnestly, before promptly bursting into tears again. He sobbed loudly into Regulus's robes.

Taking Kreacher's hand into his own, Regulus asked the elf to show him to the cave - the Great Cave that the Dark Lord had taken Kreacher to and from which the house elf had returned gasping and terrified, not all that long ago.

Kreacher nodded, tightening his grip on Regulus's hand. With a loud crack, both he and Regulus Disapparated from the room.

And so, 12 Grimmauld Place was left in silence.

The only sign of movement was in the wispy blue trails of a dog, as it took flight through a window.

------------------------------------>

Hello everyone!!!!! ^^

Thank you so much for picking up this series😊 I can't wait to share with you guys the story of young (Y/n) Black as she battles being the last Black, the daughter of a former death eater, the niece of a heinous criminal and her budding crush on Harry Potter Just for reference, so sorry that this chapter is incredibly short. I promise that the later chapter will be literally triple this size but yeh

To start, I'd like to set the context for you guys to make reading this book a lot less confusing haha:

The plot of this series will be following the plot of the Harry Potter books (That being said, Regulus does actually die in 1979 (a year before most of the H.P. crew is born) so to account for this, Regulus will in fact be dying a year later!! :D)

Also in this chapter I did make up and add a few things that aren't canon but are vital for the plot later on so please excuse these additions!!

This book will be written in second person

Also, this book will be a slow burn and enemies to lovers. Their romantic journey will be stretched on for quite a long time before they actually get together

Continuing on…

Your mother, due to unknown reasons, gave up full custody to Regulus and has never showed up in your life. Her blood status (and identity) is also unknown, but everyone just assumes - or hopes - that she was pure-blood.

Canonically, Walburga Black died in 1985. So basically when you are five years old. During this time, you do live in 12 Grimmauld Place, and when Walburga tragically dies, the laws of the Ministry require you to live at the Malfoy Manor.

BTW!!! I got this idea from the Demon Slayer anime where at the end of the episode they reveal "extra details" about the characters or story. I just love this idea and I'm definitely going to use it!!!

^ majority of these will be about (Y/n) and will be about one per chapter

But since it's the very first chapter of this book I'm gonna throw in a whole bunch of them!!! 😀

You look almost exactly like your mother (so essentially you don't really need/have to look like you come from the Black family) but your mannerisms and personality definitely come from Regulus.

You have greyish eyes (essentially grey streaks within your natural eye colour). This is a small detail but exists because grey eyes are ICONIC within the Black family (everyone has them!!) and as your eyes are not purely grey, it helps symbolise your alienation with your family and heritage. You are supposed to be a Black… but are you really?

You and Kreacher are pen pals and write letters to each other almost weekly.

The prologue scene is set around a month or two after you were born.

And lastly, you have a very soft spot for house elves and for the longest time, Kreacher was your best friend. Also, quite possibly, your only friend.

Taglist (thanks for asking btw (: ) - @mysouleaten

[to-fly-with-clipped-wings]

Killing Butterflies Masterlist

Harry James Potter x fem! daughter of Regulus Black! reader

Summary: Being (Y/n) Black - the one and only heiress to the noble house of Black - who also happens to be the daughter of the infamous Regulus Arcturus Black (and the niece of the notorious criminal Sirius Black) is pretty tough to be frank. However, despite the titles, rules and expectations that befall you, there are only two things that you long for, at which you will not cease to achieve: Firstly, to fill in the big shoes left behind by your late father. And secondly, burn the butterflies that flutter within your stomach in the presence of Harry Potter (who happens to be the sworn enemy of, perhaps, your entire family).

Prologue:

'When had the pangs in his heart become so painful? So loud? He hadn’t a clue. So, when Regulus found it within himself to straighten up and gently remove his hand from your grasp, he didn’t register it – the complete and utter sadness taking hold of his nerves and paralysing them like snake venom. He silently pressed his lips to your forehead in a final goodbye.' OR: in which the vague exposition of Killing Butterflies is revealed.

[to-fly-with-clipped-wings]

YIPPEE 💖💖💖💖💖🕊️

HELLOOOO MY BEAUTIFUL TURTLE DUCKLINGS LOVE OF MY LIFE LOVELIES CHAP 1.1 OF THE GIRL WHO LIVED SERIES IS UP!!! PLS CHECK IT OUT!!!

[to-fly-with-clipped-wings]

Chapter 1.1 - The Unexpected Visit

Chapter 1.1 - The Unexpected Visit

Pairing: Harry Potter x Chosen One! Reader

‘“I dunno what it was, no one does – but somethin’ about you stumped him, all right.” Hagrid turned to you, a mixture of warmth and respect blazing in his kind eyes. You straightened your back, preening under his gaze. So, what he was saying, basically was that you were the hero of the wizarding world. It had been you. The antidote to the disease. The champion. You were the saviour.’ OR: in which unexpected encounters open your eyes to a whole new world. One, it seems, you know nothing about, but knows everything about you. → Set in a universe where you are the chosen one, and Harry Potter is your best friend who tries to help you navigate the woes of being the lone hero of the wizarding world. A swap au where you are the chosen one, your parents are dead but the marauders + Lily are not. Eventual Harry x Reader, slowburn, friends to lovers. Author’s note: throughout this chapter I’ve put in some obvious parallels to the canon HP universe, but as we progress through the whole series, the plot may or may not become more canon divergent since you are you, and not Harry Potter… Anyways, welcome!!! Let’s see what (Y/n) (L/n), the girl who lived, gets up to. Thank you and enjoy! Series Masterlist

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Your scar was hurting.

The lightning bolt-shaped mark that rested above your right eye, in a manner of which your foster-mother, Mira Caddel, despised. Your hair had always been a flying mess because of her insistence in shaping it in such a particular way that it hid your ‘hideous scar’. You had definitely been through your pick of crude hairstyles and forced bangs in your lifetime. 

It also didn’t help that your foster-sister, Odette, enjoyed grabbing the ends of it when she pushed your head into the bowl of the toilet. You swore that she ripped out at least half of your head when she did (yet, strangely enough, when you got back up, your hair was as normal as it normally was).

Anyways, back to the matter at hand, you supposed. 

Your scar typically didn’t pain you. It was more like a weirdly-shaped birthmark at its best. But, right now, it was throbbing, releasing shockwaves of pain that reverberated throughout your head. 

You tried thinking of what you’d done to cause this. You couldn’t have hit your head on anything (even though this was a common occurrence since you had outgrown the cupboard under the stairs years ago), because you had just woken up. You didn’t think it was the usual migraine either, because they didn’t want to make you want to scratch off your lightning-bolt scar. You quite liked it after all — it added to your timeless charm. 

Maybe it was something you ate last night? What did you do last night? You couldn’t remember it point-blank but —

Oh, that was right. Seconds ago, you were fast asleep, in a dream that involved a bright green flash of light and the sound of a small child’s cry. You had a funny feeling that you’d had the same dream before. 

You clutched your forehead. The pain was slowly becoming unbearable, as though someone had stabbed a knife into your brain. You looked around, hoping to find some relief or explanation, but all you saw was the familiar sight of your tiny, cramped room. The floor was littered with clothes, books, and toys that you had collected over the years, mostly from the trash or the charity shops.

A sharp rapping on the door to the cupboard caused you to jump. 

A gruff voice snapped out. “Oi, girl! You awake yet? C’mon!” 

You groaned, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. Callum Caddel, the final puzzle piece to your ‘family’, if that’s what one would call this arrangement. He was your foster father, a well-established family man to most, but a wacky old sod to you. He always managed to go out of his way to irritate or prod a taunting comment toward you. 

Your real parents, you’d been told, were killed in a car accident when you were very little. About one year old, too. That was also how you’d acquired your lightning scar. The Caddels didn’t often answer your questions about your biological family, mostly because they didn’t know the answers themselves. You had wound up in the foster care system for about two years before they had taken you in, although you presumed the only reason they did was because they got a sum of two hundred pounds a month for it. The Caddels often did find themselves on the shorter side of the economical scale, and from your own experience, knew how they jumped like fishes out of a bowl at any chance of opportune (free) money.

You stood up, dusting off your tattered pyjamas. A spider scurried up the pant leg, and you bent down to pick it off. Spiders weren’t an odd presence in your humble abode, in fact, you thought yourself to be basically a spider magnet of sorts considering how many you’d find latched to you when you woke up.

The fast knocking resumed. “I want you out! Out!”

You pulled open the door harshly, meeting the pink, rounded, wheezing face of Callum. You snarked at him. “Woulda keep quiet, old man? I’m up.”

“Good riddance,” he spat, looking awfully sour for someone with a chocolate stain on the right side of his mouth. “Hurry up and make us breakfast, girl. We do our own jobs around here, you need to pick up slack! Least, I remind you that you were the one to pick that as your chore. Don’t you know how long we’ve waited for you to wake up?” You eyed him distastefully. “I don’t see much waiting,” referring to the brown mark on his face. 

He swelled like a bullfrog, huffing and crossing his arms across his chest. “What did you say to me?” You run a hand down your face. It was too early for this. Brushing past him, you entered the kitchen and began your routine of cracking eggs onto the pan.

You had just begun to fry the bacon when Odette herself decided to grace the kitchen with her glorious presence. Odette looked like an odd mix between her two parents. Her face was in a perpetual state of pinky rage, and her neck blended seamlessly into her torso (in a way that made it seem she did not have any neck at all). Her blue eyes were wide-spread and little, obviously drawn freckles lined her cheeks, sort of in a straight line. You enjoyed making fun at how her freckles seemed to be inching ever so slightly off her face everyday. With how aggressively she would apply them, some freckles would end up roughly the same size as a failed chocolate chip cookie. Her black hair was down, greasy and shiny and damp, which didn’t help her case either.

You were glad that you were not forced to share the same bathroom as her, because the times you’d stepped foot in it (you were forced to scrub it clean, you would have never done it willingly), the poor drain was quite literally clogged with what seemed to be half of Odette’s scalp. You would say that the poor thing ate more than its owner, and that was certainly saying something.

Mira entered the kitchen soon after. Her skin was deeply tanned from all the fake-tanning solutions she’d gone through, still, it was very patchy and not done well at all. Her box-dyed blonde hair was thrown over her shoulder and she brushed her long, claw-like fingers through it. “She looks like a doll”, Callum loved to swoon and you would love to reply with exaggerated, painful gagging, which never went down well with the Caddels.

She narrowed her eyes at you before taking a seat at the table and waving her hand at you. “Glad to see you’re up.”

You glared at her, muttering “lazy oaf”, under your breath before handing out the plates until there was only yours left. It was a flimsy child’s plate, one that Odette had outgrown at the ripe age of four. You powered through your food, the smiling face of Bambi peeking through your slowly diminishing heap of bacon.

Odette’s ugly mug began to twist itself into her gruesome smirk, and her lips parted. Probably to hurl out a teasing jab at your oversized clothes (which was not a phase!) or messy hair. But, before said insult could escape your foster-sister, you all heard the click of the letter-box followed by the flop of letters on the door mat.

Too intune with the deliciously appealing food on your plate, you did your very best to ignore the petulant stares of the Caddels, the stares that edged you down expectantly to fetch the mail. 

“Get the post, Odette,” you snapped at her, not glancing up from your precious. 

She huffed and got up to get the post.

Your ears were finally being blessed, listening to the heavy thumps as Odette tramped her way down the corridor to the front door. Just as you sank into your chair lazily, her high-pitched shrill cut through the air of the Caddels’ kitchen. 

Mira gasped and sprung up from her chair. “Odette!” She sprinted to where you’d heard the scream. The pointy part of her high heel hooked onto the leg of the chair you were sitting on, causing her to stumble. She caught herself on the back of your chair, but the force of her grip somehow managed to topple it over, sending you almost flying and then rolling across the floor. 

Groaning, you sat up from your new position on the ground. The clicking of heels and the heavy pants emitted from Mira and Callum respectively grew distant, as the pair of them rushed to check on their precious daughter.

Now, you didn’t really care about the girl herself, but when there was just the slightest possibility that she could be out there, embarrassing herself or prissing her pants in fear - well, now that was an opportunity you couldn’t bear to miss.

As you follow after them, you deliberated whether or not to pop up over to get the camera in order to capture the moment ahead of you.

Looking back, you think that, perhaps, you should have, considering that very moment was to become one of the very best ones you would ever have in your life.

“Who - who are you?” you heard Callum shout. “Don’t you dare come in! Don’t y - !”

“Ah, shut up Caddel, yeh great prune.” retorted another voice.

You did not recognise that voice. The Caddels were social people, sure. They frequently left the house for social outings, like the occasional meetings run by Callum’s drill firm, but never had someone stepped foot near the house. Too ashamed to reveal the tiny size of their floor plan, you reckoned, or maybe they were afraid that the dreadful state of your cupboard under the stairs would scare the lot of them off.

Of course, that did not mean no one knew of your existence. Years of praying that some knight in shining armour would come to whisk you away from the Caddels led you to pick up on rather strange occurrences. Very strange strangers would often stop (quite dramatically too) in the middle of the street to gawk at you. A tiny, funny looking man in a violet top hat had bowed to you once, or when a terribly old woman had winked at you from inside a bus. Ms Fig, the cranky, resident catwoman and your babysitter, down the street also treated you with a gentle softness, offering you extra packs of crisps to take home with you.  

The point was, this whole situation was odd. But why?

Your feet skidded against the floor as you came to a stop. 

A giant man, one no less than ten feet, with a great, scraggly beard and obsidian eyes that glinted slightly in the light, was stood in the doorway. You barely had time to notice that the poor door was hanging off its hinges, like it had been forcibly opened. 

The house was already rundown and shabby enough, and you hoped the giant man would pay for the repair funds. The house wasn’t big enough to fit the four of you, let alone some giant. This was evident when he squeezed his body into the house, causing the door to pop off its frame and go crashing down. The giant man jumped slightly, and the back of his head bumped into the hanging light bulb on the roof. Tiny little shards of crystals pelted down. 

Odette squealed and stumbled backwards into the house. The other two, who had gone ghost white with fear, were opening and closing their mouths like lost fish. Callum raised his pointer finger at the giant man, but did nothing more.

The giant’s eyes swivelled around the room before settling on you. His face, still hidden under his mass of hair, grew into a warm smile at the sight of you. A smile, you decided, had to take second place on your very short list of best smiles (after your smile, of course. The Caddels hadn’t qualified, with their hideous jugs, so it was a meagre list of two). 

“Ah, there she is! ‘Ello, (Y/n).”

You looked toward him, and if your hands wanted to tremble, you didn’t show it.

Who was this man, and how did he know your name?

“Las’ time I saw you, you was only a baby.” the giant man’s smile grew. His eyes swept you up and down, certainly taking note of the baggy, rumpled clothes you had on. “I got summat fer yeh.”

He turned around, fishing for something inside the massive coat he had on. He spun back around, brandishing two things; a letter made from yellowish parchment paper with a purple wax seal, and a slightly squashed box.

Now it was your mouth that was openly gaping at the man. He raised an eyebrow at you, grinning, before handing you the letter.

You almost ripped it out of his hands, your curiosity taking over you. The giant man chuckled at your eagerness. 

Ms (Y/n) (L/n)

The Cupboard under the Stairs

5 Alva St

Midlothian

You stared at the letter. 

You did often get letters. You were quite popular at school, after all, for your reckless charm. But, still, no one knew about the cupboard under the stairs. Not even a single whisper of it was breathed outside of the house. 

“W-what is that?” Mira croaked out. You had forgotten she was there.

The giant man looked like he was about to snap her at but you beat him to it. “Well, that’s what I’m finding out obviously. You think I know more than you?”

The giant man huffed out a small chuckle at your hostility.

Ignoring the faint flushing of Mira’s tanned face, and Callum turning a slight purple on behalf of his wife, you flipped the letter over and yanked out the paper within.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. Of Wizards)

Dear Ms (L/n),

We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

You read the letter, and felt a warm tingle surge through your body. 

Excitement. 

Hagrid smiled warmly at you.

“Yer a witch, (Y/n).” 

You had always known you were different, that you had something special inside you. The strange occurrences, the oddly shaped scar on your forehead. That didn’t happen to just anyone. You weren’t like the Caddels, you knew you never had been.

And now, you had proof. You were a witch. A real, honest-to-goodness witch. 

You grinned down at the letter, before tilting your head at the giant man. “I can’t believe it. A witch. That’s — that’s well, incredible!”

The giant man was openly laughing at your ecstasy. Even Mira, Callum and Odette had nothing to say. You could see them craning their necks to stare at the letter in your hands.

You smiled at the giant once more when a sudden thought struck you. “Ah — er, maybe I should’ve started with this, but, who are you exactly?”

His shoulders shook with each of his chuckles. “The name’s Hagrid. Rubeus Hagrid. Keeper o’ Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts — yeh’ll know all about Hogwarts, o’course.”

Mira stepped forward, quite suddenly. “I don’t understand. A witch? What are you talking about? Witches, wizards — the whole thing! Those aren’t real!”

Your smile faltered at this. In your excitement (the prospect of finally being whisked away from here), perhaps you had allowed a cloud of delusion to settle over your head. She was right. Magic? Wouldn’t you have known if there was a magical society thriving right under your nose? 

You shook your head at this. No. There had to be one. There just had to.

Hagrid’s face fell but he was quick to bring it back up. “Tha’s right. You lot are muggles. Yer hadn’t an inkling of magic.”

“What are muggles?” you asked, perking up at the unfamiliar jargon.

“A muggle,” Hagrid began, “is what we call non-magic folk like them. It’s real bad luck that you ‘ad to grow up with ‘em, instead of yer parents. I knew we shoulda left ya wit’ a wizarding family… ‘least then yeh woulda known about - ”

His eyes widened with realisation as he whipped around suddenly to face you, a sad expression taking over his features. “Then tha’ means you never learnt about yer parents. About Hogwarts. About yerself!”

He looked quite distressed, as he ran a hand down his big face. “A sad thing, really. The whole situ’tion with yer parents. A huge scandal, ‘specially since yeh don’t even know what happened. Ya know, every kid in our world knows yer name? Yer famous!”

Hagrid looked at you, his eyes sparkling brightly. You blinked dumbly.

“Yer famous!” he repeated, noticing the stunned faces on your and the Caddel’s faces. “Gulpin’ gargoyles, I knew Dumbledore said yeh didn’t know much but, I didn’t expec’ yeh knew so little.”

You sucked in a breath, chest puffing out affront. You certainly knew your stuff. Hell, you were salutatorian in your maths class, captain of the football team and the most liked person in your year level. You definitely weren’t stupid, if that was what Hagrid was suggesting.

Hagrid sighed deeply. “It begins, I suppose, with — with a person called — but its incredible yeh don’t know his name, everyone in our world knows — ”

“Who?” you asked testily, not quite enjoying the way he was talking about this whole thing like it was as obvious as the sky was blue or the grass was green.

“Well — I don’ like sayin’ the name if I can help it. No one does.”

“Why not?” “People are still scared of ‘im. Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this wizard who went… bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His  name was…” Hagrid visibly gulped. 

“Can you write it down?” you suggested helpfully, unfolding your arms.

“Nah - can’t spell it. All right - Voldemort.” Hagrid flinched, like some had just rammed a knife into his back. “Don’ make me say it again. Anyways, this - this wizard, about twenty years ago now, started lookin’ fer followers. Got ‘em too - some were afraid, some just wanted a bit o’ his power, ‘ cause he was gettin’ himself power, all right. Dark days, didn’t knew who ter trust, didn’t dare get friendly with strange witch or wizards… terrible things happened. He was takin’ over. ‘Course, some stood up to him - an’ he killed ‘em. Horribly. One o’ the only safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore’s the only one You-Know-Who was afraid of. Didn’t dare try takin’ the school, not jus’ then anyway.”

He breathed out, wiping at his eyes. “Now, yer mum was as good a witch I ever knew. Yer father was great as well. Brillian’, the two of ‘em were. Truly. But then, You-Know-Who turned up in the village where you was all living, on Hallowe’en ten years ago. You was just a year old. He came ter yer house an’ — an’ —”

He stopped suddenly, pulled out a very dirty handkerchief and blew his nose with it. A noise that caused the remaining chandeliers to rattle.

“He killed them,” you said quietly. It hadn’t been a car crash… no. They were murdered.

“He killed ‘em. An’ then — an’ this is the real myst’ry of the thing — he tried to kill you, too. Wanted ter make a clean job of it, I suppose, or maybe he just liked killin’ by then. But he couldn’t do it. Never wondered how you got that mark on yer forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That’s what yeh get when a powerful, evil curse touches yeh — took care of yer mum an’ dad an’ yer house, even — but it didn’t work on you, an’ that’s why yer famous. No one ever lived after he decided ter kill ‘em, no one except you, an’ he’d killed some o’ the best witches an’ wizards of the age — the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts — an’ you was only a baby, an’ you lived.”

You raised your hand to cup the scar on your face. A vivid flash of green filled your vision, but this time, you could hear something else — a high, cold, cruel laugh.

Hagrid sighed again. “Took yeh from the ruined house myself, on Dumbledore’s orders. Brought yeh ter a buildin’ an’ — ” he reached for his handkerchief. “An’ left yeh there, since yeh had no other family!” Hagrid dabbed at the corner of his eyes.

The amount of questions you held grew exponentially. “But, what happened to Vol — er — I mean, You-Know-Who?”

“Good question. Disappeared. Vanished. Same night he tried ter kill you. Makes yeh even more famous. That’s the biggest myst’ry, see… he was gettin’ more an’ more powerful — why’d he go?

“Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno if he had enough human left in him to die. Some say he’s still out there, bidin’ his time, like, but I don’ believe it. People who was on his side came back ter ours. Some of ‘em came outta kinda trances. Don’ reckon they could’ve done if he was comin’ back. Most of us reckon he’s still out there somewhere, but lost his powers. Too weak to carry on. ‘Cause somethin’ about you finished him, (Y/n). There was somethin’ goin’ on that night he hadn’t counted on — I dunno what it was, no one does — but somethin’ about you stumped him, all right.”

Hagrid turned to you, a mixture of warmth and respect blazing in his kind eyes. You straightened your back, preening under his gaze. So, what he was saying, basically was that you were the hero of the wizarding world. It had been you. The antidote to the disease. The champion. You were the saviour.

The Caddels gaped at you, and then at Hagrid, their heads swivelling like fans at a game of tennis. The foster-couple had their mouths angled toward the floor, looking positively bewildered and confounded at the entire exchange. You truly didn’t care what Mira and Callum thought of you. They were just muggles, according to Hagrid. They were ordinary and boring. Not like you.

You were a witch, a sorceress destined for greatness.

You looked up at the giant man, who was smiling at you with a twinkle in his eyes. “So, what do you say, Ms. (L/n)? Are you ready to join the wizarding world?”

You didn’t hesitate. You nodded eagerly, clutching the letter to your chest. “Yes, yes, yes! I can’t wait to go to Hogwarts!”

The giant man laughed heartily. “Tha’s the spirit, lass!”

“J-just hold on now,” muttered Callum, stepping forward. “That’s all dandy and all — ” you saw Hagrid’s eyebrow twitch. “—  but, who’s going to be paying for her funds? Not us, I can assure you.”

Hagrid scowled. “We’ll cover it then. Ungrateful old muggle.” 

You stifled a laugh. 

Callum snatched the letter from your hands, inspecting the list of equipment. “She needs all sorts of rubbish — spell books, wands, cauldrons. This is just some great joke isn’t it?” He turned to you suddenly, his moustache twitching violently. “You’re in one hell of a punishment after this, girl. Think it’s funny, do you? Wasting our time with this wizarding nonsense. Some hilarious prank.”

“It’s very much real,” spoke Hagrid, his voice rising steadily. “And don’ yeh worry yer little head off, Caddel. She’s one of us. You don’t need to be butting yer head into it now. Yeh’ve done all yeh needed to fer the past ten years, bare minimum from the looks of it, but we’ve got ‘er now. ”

Callum’s face went an ugly shade of purple. “Good, I suppose.” he replied stiffly. “Then get along.” 

He grabbed Mira’s shoulders and they started walking back into the kitchens. Odette turned to look at you, her eyes flickering to Hagrid, before her lips curled into a wide smirk. “Have fun, at your special school.”

You sent her a nasty glare, taking a step toward her before Hagrid disciplined her for you. A loud explosion blew Odette’s hair backwards, a warning blast that, to your pleasure, curtailed her growing ego. She shrieked and high-tailed it to the kitchen, sprinting faster than you’d ever seen her run before.

You barked out a laugh at Hagrid’s guilty face. 

“Sorry, shouldn’ta lost me temper. I’d be grateful yeh if didn’t mention that ter anyone at Hogwarts. I’m —  er —  not supposed ter do magic, strictly speakin’. I was allowed ter do a bit ter get yer letters to yeh an’ stuff — one o’ the reasons I was so keen ter take on the job — ”

“Why aren’t you supposed to do magic?” you asked, tilting your head at him in interest.

“Oh, well — I was at Hogwarts meself but I — er — got expelled, ter tell yeh the truth. In me third year. They snapped me wand in half an’ everything. But Dumbledore let me stay on as gamekeeper. Great man, Dumbledore.”

“Why were you expelled?” “We’ve spent alotta time here,” said Hagrid loudly. “We still gotta get yer books an’ all. Let’s get goin’.”

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Diagon Alley was a strange little place.

After passing through a grubby-looking pub, the Leaky Cauldron, and getting your hand furiously shaken by everyone in the store, Hagrid had led to the small outroom beside the pub and whacked his pink umbrella against a stray, mouldy looking brick.

You raised an eyebrow unimpressed when nothing happened after a second. The very next second, however, the entire structure began to collapse and expose the treasures hidden within. 

A knobbly street with stores positively hanging from the ground as they towered over everyone — even diminishing Hagrid of his giant stature. From what you could see, there was a cauldron shop with various different kinds of pewter, copper, brass, even silver cauldrons. There was an owl emporium, from which you could hear the distant chirping of owls, and a ‘Quidditch store’ (whatever that was) with boys and girls around your own age stood around the place, pressing their noses to the glass. At the very end of the street, there was a snowy-white building, significantly larger than the rest, whose sign read ‘Gringotts.’ 

Hagrid had debriefed you on some of the commonly known things in the wizarding world; one of which was Gringotts. Gringotts was the resident wizarding bank, where wizards would deposit their money (knuts, sickles and galleons) into vaults that were fiercely guarded by goblins. Apparently your parents had even stored a wizarding fortune for you in one of those little vaults.

And so was true. A goblin named Griphook cracked open your vault to reveal piles and mountains of bronze, silver and gold coins. You reached inside and grabbed as many coins as would fit into your pouch. 

You visited another vault too, one for ‘secret Hogwarts business’ as Hagrid put it. Of course, you tried your best to get a peak at the small item wrapped delicately in its brown paper package, but Hagrid had been quick to shove it into his coat pocket.

After a tumultuous cart ride back up to the surface, you went about doing some boringish house-keeping work, which included sizing your robes, buying your books, stationary and other equipment (Hagrid wouldn’t let you get the rainbow, colour changing ink bottle nor the quill that sung melodies to you as you wrote).

The last thing that was left was getting your wand. But before that, Hagrid had departed mysteriously, telling you to stay put at Florean Fortescue's Ice-Cream Parlour with your chocolate and raspberry ice cream (with chopped nuts) until he returned.  

Naturally, you did not stay put.

Sauntering over to the ‘Quidditch’ shop you had passed before, ice cream cone in hand, you joined the small crowd still present in front of the display windows. You took a small lick of the chocolate syrup as you squinted your eyes at the thing everyone was obsessing over.

A broomstick.

You stifled a laugh. Of course, witches and wizards rode brooms – what else were you expecting? It must’ve been a form of transportation here. The label under the broom read ‘Nimbus Two Thousand - newest model of the Nimbus line.’ You looked at it appreciatively. 

You leaned to the right slightly, trying to look at the models surrounding the Nimbus, but you swayed too far and ended up bumping shoulders with one of the boys next to you. He jumped and turned to you with a start.

“Sorry,” you grinned at him. “I was trying to look at the other brooms.”

He smiled back at you uncertainly. “That’s fine. Are you a first-year at Hogwarts too?” The boy had messy black hair and rounded glasses perched on his nose. His brilliantly emerald-stained eyes shone out, past the glare of his lenses, as he made eye contact with you. He was quite scrawny for his age too, or perhaps that was created by the robes he was donning. Weirdly, your breath stuttered slightly. Now that was strange - your breath had never frozen quite like that before. Maybe it was part of the wizard charm, he was the first wizard you had really talked to (aside from Hagrid, but you were still unsure if he was a giant, a wizard or both).

Oh cripes, he wanted an answer didn’t he? “Uh — yes, I am. First-year. Hogwarts.” You nodded, in order to solidify your statement.

“That’s cool,” said the boy. His hair flopped onto his face and he pushed it back to expose the unmarred skin on his forehead. Your hair too had also fallen onto your face, covering your scar, but you weren’t as fussed about adjusting it. “I’m a first-year as well.” He gestured to the shop in front of you. “Do you like Quidditch? Well, you’re standing here so you probably do. Do you play much? What position?”

“If we’re being honest here, I frankly have no idea what you’re talking about.” You scratched your cheek, smiling sheepishly at the boy. He blinked, tilting his head. “Oh, like you don’t know what Quidditch is? At all?” “Yeah.” you answered. “I just came here to check out what had everyone so excited.”

“Oh, okay,” said the boy. “Are you a muggle-born then? Sorry — I hadn’t realised.” You continued to smile blankly at him, head empty from the stuff he was speaking of (what on earth was a muggle-born?).

“I’m a half-blood, see. My father’s a pure-blood, but my mum’s a muggle-born,” he said. “They’re out picking up some extra supplies with my uncles. Don’t worry if you aren’t familiar with anything yet! My mum was too, when she was invited to Hogwats, but then she ended up being top of her year and head girl. Here, let me explain Quidditch to you - you’ll love it…”

The boy rambled on with his speech about the sport - something about seven players, four balls, something called a chaser? which was what position he played. You certainly didn’t absorb anything he was saying, but you did note that he had a nice smile. A bit awkward and unsure, but it was still nice.

He was about to dive into the finer details of the game when Hagrid’s voice called out. “(Y/n)! (Y/n), where are you?!” 

You grinned apologetically at the boy, stuffing the end part of the cone into your mouth. “Sorry - that’ll be me. Great talking to you though, see ya at Hogwarts!”

You began to scurry away toward the sound of Hagrid’s distressed call, missing the way the boy’s green eyes widened at your name. “(Y/n)... (L/n)?”

His father, James Potter, snuck up behind him and clasped a hand on his shoulder. “What’s up, little Prongslet?”

The rest of his family came piling up behind the two. His mother, Lily Potter, whose forest-green eyes and bright red hair were positively sparkling at the sight of her husband and son. Lagging slightly behind were his uncle, Remus Lupin – with his robes prim and proper, not shabby at all, how he liked them – and his other uncle, Sirius Black, who was currently partaking (with much joy, might one add) in trying to pull Remus’s robe hood over his face. 

“Alright, Harry?” asked Lily, her fingers brushing away his bangs. “What’re you looking at?” “Um. Nothing,” said Harry Potter, tearing his eyes away from the spot you were last standing and back to his family. They met his gaze with their own warm, bright ones. “At least, I think so.”

.｡*ﾟ🗲.*.｡  　ﾟ*..🗲｡*ﾟ

The thing, Hagrid had left to do, ended up being a present for you. A little something for your admission into Hogwarts, he had mentioned. You were grinning ear to ear, thanking him profusely, when you had discovered what he had given you. You were proud to say that now, tucked delicately under your left arm, was a beautiful snowy owl, fast asleep with her head under her wing. You’d have to decide a name for her later, you thought.

The final store to get checked off was a shabby building tucked nicely away in the corner of Diagon Alley. Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC.

The place was tiny and quiet, and it almost reminded you of a strange library - though the only difference was that it was near empty and the shelves were lined with boxes containing wands rather than books.

Hagrid took a seat on a small pink spindly chair, though he nearly leaped off it when a soft voice echoed out within the small shop. “Good afternoon.”

“Hello!” you said back, twisting your neck to try and get a glimpse of the voice. “I’m (Y/n) - “ “(L/n). (Y/n) (L/n), yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon.” An old man popped up in front of you, his watery grey eyes fervently scanning your figure up and down. 

Mr Ollivander touched the lightning scar on your forehead with a long, white finger. “I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it," he said softly. “Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… Well, if I’d known what that wand was going out in the world to do…”

He shook his head, before suddenly whipping out a measuring tape to eyeball the length of your dominant arm.

“I remember when your mother was here, buying her first wand. Twelve inches exactly, malleable, unicorn hair. Aspen.” The measuring tape flew away from his hands, now measuring the width of your nostrils by itself.

Your mouth blubbered slightly, gaping at the man in astonishment. “How do you remember that?” The man chuckled. “I remember all of the wands I’ve ever sold, (Y/n) (L/n).”

“Do you know my father’s one, then?” “Your father never purchased a wand.”

You furrowed your eyebrows. Was your father like Hagrid then? Expelled from Hogwarts before he could get a wand? (Well, Hagrid did have a wand you guessed, tucked inside his flowery pink umbrella). Your eyes widened. 

Was Hagrid your fath —

“He was a muggle,” explained Mr Ollivander. The tape had now switched to measuring the length of your face. “He didn’t have any magic.”

“Oh.” was all you said in reply.

“That’s quite enough,” he spoke to the tape, which fell limp to the floor. “Right then, Ms (L/n). Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it, and give it a wave.”

You took the wand from his hands but before you could do so much as to lift it, Mr Ollivander snatched it out of your hand at once.

“Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try -”

And try you did, but Mr Ollivander had snatched it back almost instantaneously once again.

“No, no - here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out.” You tried. And tried. And a little more. The pile of wands on the spindly grew and grew until the poor chair was squeaking and compressing under the weight. Yet, despite the failures in finding your wand, the more Mr Ollivander pulled from the walls, the happier he became.

“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we’ll find the perfect match here somewhere - I wonder, now - yes, why not - unusual combination - holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.”

You took the wand and it immediately spluttered to life. A shower of golden sparks exploded from its tips as you brought it swooshing down from your head. An explosion of colourful fireworks emitted from it, creating little light spots, like the sort you’d find at the surface of a swimming pool. Hagrid whooped and clapped and Mr Ollivander cried, “Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well… How curious. How very curious…”

He began wrapping your wand in a brown paper bag. “Curious… curious…”

“What’s curious,” you asked, furrowing your eyebrows at him.

Mr Ollivander’s silvery gaze hooked onto yours. “I remember every wand I’ve sold, Ms (L/n). Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather - just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother - why, its brother gave you that scar.”

Your throat became dry.

“Yes, thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember… I think we must expect great things from you, Ms (L/n)... After all, He Who Must Not Be Named did great things - terrible, yes, but great.”

Great things. 

Terrible, yes, but great. That was right.

Ollivander, in his old manly rambles and silvery light gaze, was correct. That was you — (Y/n) (L/n). The only survivor of Voldemort’s wrath, and the sole hero of the wizarding world.  It was you who bore the weight of this burden now, and you sure did hope that your shoulders were steady enough.

→ Author’s note: Hello my lovelies, thank you so much for picking up The Girl Who Lived series! 💖 (I think I’ll abbreviate it to TGWL when I write about it though hehe)!!! If you couldn’t tell, this will follow the plotline of the books but it will deliberately omit, add or change some events ;0 Hoped you somewhat liked the whiff of interaction we got between reader and Harry (verrryyy brief but there is more to come, promise!) You don’t have to read this next part but I like analysing and explaining texts so I’m kinda gonna go ham on this chapter//series Reader grew up with her foster family rather than her aunt and uncle like Harry. There was no particular reason for this, ‘specially since both families are pretty similar 😀 Though, one thing that I wanted to point out was that the Caddels aren’t supposed to be as abusive as the Dursleys. The Dursleys are cruel to Harry because they hate magic and they’re spiteful of it, because Petunia was jealous of Lily.  On the other hand, the Caddels are an ordinary, Muggle family who happen to be quite prudent and stingy. They have a small house that’s not big enough to house four people, which is why reader lives in the cupboard under the stairs. Odette and reader’s relationship is a more hostile version of a typical sibling relationship, not the social hierarchy pyramid that was Harry’s and Dudley’s.  Anyways, the point is they hold no real grudge against magic, but they aren’t fond of reader herself, hence the mocking jabs. Because of this distinct lack of hatred, not only did reader receive her letter on the first day, rather than that canon goose chase/hunt thing, but Hagrid also wasn’t as aggressive to them as he was to the Dursley’s. They don’t hate magic, nor do they hate the reader. To them, she kind of just exists This partly ties into reader’s quite arrogant and brazen personality (which I will analyse more in depth later on… no spoilers!) So yeah, the Caddels aren’t evil or abusive at heart, just a family who needs money and happens to have taken in a teenager with a bucket load of angst (which I will also tap into later ;)  (One more thing soz… but if you’re wondering why you met Harry instead of Draco in Diagon Alley like in the og books, well in the canon, Harry goes to Diagon Alley like on the 31st of July (very late). On the other hand, reader received her letter first up so they went to get the supplies on like the 1st hence her and Draco’s times don’t overlap! I chucked Harry in here because since he lives with his parents now, James would def want Harry to get his stuff ASAP to teach him random crap and Lily would want him to start studying or practising for school LOL) Series Masterlist

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The Girl Who Lived Series Masterlist

Summary: Set in a universe where you are the chosen one, and Harry Potter is your best friend who tries to help you navigate the woes of being the lone hero of the wizarding world.

Aka a swap au where your parents are dead but the marauders + Lily are not. This fic is a multi-chapter one, and will pretty much cover all of the major events that happen at Hogwarts, with a slight twist since you’re the chosen one and not Harry. Eventual Harry x Reader, slowburn, friends to lovers.

Main Harry Potter Masterlist

Chapter 1.1: The Unexpected Visit

‘“I dunno what it was, no one does - but somethin’ about you stumped him, all right.” Hagrid turned to you, a mixture of warmth and respect blazing in his kind eyes. You straightened your back, preening under his gaze. So, what he was saying, basically was that you were the hero of the wizarding world. It had been you. The antidote to the disease. The champion. You were the saviour.’ OR: in which unexpected encounters open your eyes to a whole new world. One, it seems, you know nothing about, but knows everything about you.

Chapter 1.2: Train Rides and Talking Hats

‘“Oi,” you spoke, feeling your jaw clench at the blond boy’s demeanour. “I’d watch what I was saying if I was you, especially considering the crap that’s spewing outta your sewage-system of a mouth.” Draco Malfoy turned his sharpened gaze toward you. “And I’d be more careful if I was you. You don’t want to make enemies with the wrong people.” “Same goes for you.”’ OR: in which you hitch a ride on the Hogwarts Express and buckle up for one hell of a ride.

Chapter 1.3: To Win

Coming soon xoxo

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Harry Potter Masterlist

"The mind is not a book, to be opened at will and examined at leisure. Thoughts are not etched on the inside of skulls, to be perused by an invader. The mind is a complex and many-layered thing."

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Remus Lupin:

A Fight Well Fought

Summary: when Hogwarts is being faced by a surge of bullies, Remus Lupin finds himself at the brunt of it. As a prefect, and a victim, he has to bring in extreme measures to get this surge under control. And you, the knight in shining armour and self-proclaimed bully buster, are the extreme measures.

Harry Potter:

The Girl Who Lived Series Masterlist

Summary: Set in a universe where you are the chosen one, and Harry Potter is your best friend who tries to help you navigate the woes of being the lone hero of the wizarding world.

Killing Butterflies Masterlist

Summary: Being (Y/n) Black - the one and only heiress to the noble house of Black - who also happens to be the daughter of the infamous Regulus Arcturus Black (and the niece of the notorious criminal Sirius Black) is pretty tough to be frank. However, despite the titles, rules and expectations that befall you, there are only two things that you long for, at which you will not cease to achieve: Firstly, to fill in the big shoes left behind by your late father. And secondly, burn the butterflies that flutter within your stomach in the presence of Harry Potter (who happens to be the sworn enemy of, perhaps, your entire family).