Chapter 1
The hardest part, she found, was cleaning up the mess she had made after dumping everything from her duffle bags onto the bed. Most of it spilled onto the floor. The process of which, from the wheelchair and without her magic and an arm in a sling, was a struggle in itself, but Charlotte Lillian Potter was determined to start this right, even if she never really knew what she was starting or how it was supposed to end.
The war was over; the Light had won. Papers praised the victors, the survivors, and the herd of the magic world came scrambling in for her favor. From what Professor McGonagall had said, they wanted her to make decisions, even though she was barely conscious or moving for that matter.
It was her duty. The Wizarding World needed her.
Even now.
The war was over; the Light had won. People were returning to a semblance of normality, as much as they could. Charlie had heard of the shops opening up again in Hogsmeade, of how Diagon Alley had restored over half of the paved brick in its walkways, with a third of the shops repairing their windows and inventory, of how homes were being filled again by laughter, and love, and life. Charlie heard it all from the various newspapers of the world, reporting on the massive Terrorist attack on the greater London area, how the Muggles were returning to a sense of normalcy. But it never felt right to her, and, sitting in her wheelchair, glaring at the wand she carelessly tossed beneath her wheels (and which would not shatter), normalcy was the farthest thing from her mind.
Voldemort died by his own foolishness and her arrogance. She barely remembered much of the event, just bits and pieces. Hermione and Ron told her more about it in the hospital bed after she woke up three days later.
There weren’t as many casualties as she had expected, and luck was finally on their side, but there were enough to make her feel empty afterwards. The Weasley’s had lost Percy, and Ron sustained some injuries in an explosion to protect Ginny that they doubted he would be able to use his hand properly again. Luna was still comatose when Charlie woke up, sitting in the corner and staring off into space. Charlie had hoped the girl found some peace after what had happened to her, and if this was the only way, then so be it.
The list went on and on. Injuries and deaths, survivals and losses. And Charlie laid in her bed, unable to move her legs, unable to feel them. And there was nothing magic could do.
Madame Pomfrey said it was just swelling, that she would one day regain the use of her legs even through Muggle methods. Magic was out of the question: her body was allergic for lack of a better word. The explosion that knocked her out also tampered with her body’s equilibrium, the way her internal magic interacted with the external forces applied to it. A simple diagnostic spell was torture on her nerve endings, frying each one individually then immediately healing them only to repeat each second.
They took her to a Muggle hospital, where x rays and a full battery of exams were run, though everyone but Hermione seemed to be confused by the use of technology. Swelling of the spine. Numerous broken and fractured bones. Torn ligaments. Bruises, cuts, and scraps galore. She read the full write up one night, after everyone else had left and she could not sleep. A specialist was called in, and talked about how her magic had become toxic, rejecting all other forms, how it was a side-effect of whatever Voldemort had done.
Charlie thought it was her body just telling her to be done with the magical world. Too many people hurt. Too many dead. Too much destruction and chaos. Too much fame and notoriety. Too many bad memories. She was tired, and just wanted to be left alone.
Not even Hermione could fault her for that. Just a promise to stay in touch, done so by handy cellphone that still sat in its box, and a hug, and her best friend left her in the white, sterile room with tears mirroring hers.
Now, weeks after she was finally let out of the hospital, physical therapy scheduled, and pills prescribed, Charlie was ready to start her life again, to be normal. In two days when students would be heading to Hogwarts, Charlie would be leaving the world she knew for so long behind. She just had to decide where she would be headed.
She leaned over her chair, wobbling slightly, as she reached for some of the items dumped onto the floor. Books from her old classes, clothes that she had not worn in years, and an old teddy bear she had with her since she was young and slept in the cupboard beneath the stairs. It had flopped a bit away from the pile of her old belongings and sat straight up, a single dull button eye staring past her.
Charlie rolled over to the first companion she could remember having, the first friend who stayed with her, and picked it up by an arm. The fuzz was mostly gone and some of the stuffing flattened over the years, but Blue was still in the same bear she had carried along the first train ride to her home for seven years.
And she was surprised when she saw the corner of a business card sticking out of one of the tears with fluff and stuffing.
It took some maneuvering, and a bit of folding, to remove it without making the hole any larger, but Charlie held a worn and old business card of one “Reagan” from New something or other. The corners were wrinkled, and she could not read too much, the details of who Reagan was had been smudged away by time and wear from her own fingers. She traced where the full name should have been, and a smile grew slowly on her face.
Ten years, five months, and twelve days ago, Charlie had the pleasure of experiencing one of the worst weeks with her Aunt and Uncle, and then one of the best weeks of her life.
On the back were numbers she had traced over and over again, until she had memorized them originally, and then time and Hogwarts had pushed it away until it was a faint and distant dream. Mad wizards, basilisks, dragons, dementors, werewolves, and so many other things threatened her life, it would make sense that a single week would dissolve into her mind, no matter how happy it made her.
The hotel room she was staying at was out of the way, deep within the Muggle world, where reporters and groupies would not bother her. An old spin-dial phone sat on the nightstand next to her bed underneath a lamp whose shade was as dull as the faded wallpaper. It took some work but she was able to get herself over to it.
Some trial and error, but Charlie spun the last digit of the number and listened as the phone rang across the pond to a small town called New York City.
*!*!*!*!*!*
Henry Reagan was many things. Some of them he was born into, like being a cop. Others he developed, like being a morning person. It took years of waking up for the 12 am beat. It took years of waking up over some case he hadn’t solved as a detective. Years of waking up to walk into a precinct as captain, then as chief, and finally as commissioner. It would take years to unlearn that behavior.
Years that Henry would enjoy the peace and quiet.
Frank was already at the office. The grandkids were all at work, and the two boys were probably just getting to school. Nicki, if she was like her mother, was probably already up for three hours doing something smart or difficult. Most likely both.
Summer in New York was always a crap shoot, but the heat hadn’t overwhelmed the neighborhood yet, and he hadn’t the need to turn on the air conditioning this month, a small blessing.
He settled down at the table, a cup of coffee still steaming next to him, and the newspaper was spread out before him. It was time to enjoy the peace and quiet, even if he was alone.
Which is why the phone rang. Still, years of experience had taught him to keep it on the table instead of plugged in, charging. Henry picked it up, tucked it on his shoulder, and said, “Reagan residence.”
“Umm,” The voice on the other end was light, almost non-existent. “Hi.”
“Hello?” Henry said.
“I am sorry, I do not know what I am doing, and if I am disturbing you-“
“Who is this? Is this a prank call?” Henry said.
“No. no it is not.” The voice was stronger now, but the lightness, the ethereal nature of the feminine voice that just floated over the line, still permeated throughout it. “I am calling for Officer Reagan.”
“Before I confirm or deny anything,” Henry said, “who is calling?”
“Well, I am not sure if he would know me, or even remember me. It has been so long, and I had honestly forgotten about it until I found his card with this number written on it.”
“Your name, Miss.”
“Charlie. Umm, no? I do not think he would know me by that. Maybe, my full name. My full name is Charlotte Lillian Potter.”
Henry had felt many strange things in his life, conflicting emotions from the numerous conflicts and issues that have come up during the course of investigations, incongruities that pop up after working a cold case and the world just stop making senses; looking at the body of a five year old who was murdered by a loved one in a heinous and terrible way with no reason or understanding.
This was something that he certainly had never experienced; given his long career as a beat cop then as a detective, he felt new experiences were behind him. But a whirlwind transverse through his mind, battering against walls of his psyche that he didn’t even know existed, until something shattered under the force revealing a memory that hadn’t been in his conscious for over a decade.
“Charlie?” his voice broke. Henry heard it from far away; it wasn’t him speaking, but someone else who looked like him and sounded like him; it had to be.
The voice was silent.
“My God,” Henry continued. “What was that?”
“What, sir?”
He shook his head. He could remember that week, and it was only a week long, but he could see the details as if they had happened the day before. He could remember the sweet, broken seven year old, frozen and shaking as Mary brought her in. He could smell the breakfast Charlie cooked the first night she was here, stretching to reach the burners on the stove and stumbling over everything. Henry could still remember holding her tightly after discovering just why she was making breakfast at seven years old.
“I remember,” he said to himself. “Charlotte Lillian Potter.” The name sounded right on his tongue. A weeks’ worth of memories from over ten years ago, and he could picture them like it was only the day before.
“Yes, that is me,” she replied. “Is something wrong?”
“Definitely,” Henry shifted the phone on his ear and relaxed in his chair, “but not with you. Now tell me, Charlie, just what have you been up to for the past eleven years? Wouldn’t have anything to do with magic now would it?”
Silence again. “Mr. Reagan?” Charlie said softly, her voice barely coming over the phone.
“I’m not going anywhere, starlight,” he said, a pet name Mary gave the little blonde girl.
A soft sob came through the receiver, and Henry knew the long distant call would be a lot longer than he expected.
But he was okay with that. Even if someone magic did screw with his mind. That would be a problem to be solved later. For now, he had all the time in the world to talk to a small, lost girl; even if she was eleven years older now, Henry could tell in her voice that not much had truly changed.
*()*()*()*()*
Jamie hadn’t expected the late phone call from his grandpa. Not 10 o’clock late, with the expectation that he’d be over after his tour ended. On a Wednesday of all days.
He let himself in and dropped his duffle bag at the entrance. “Grandpa?” he called out. The house was dark, though light poked through the kitchen door. He followed it to see his dad and grandpa sitting on the patio, though he couldn’t hear anything between the two men, if they were talking at all.
The night air was crisp for a late August, the cold fronts settling much quicker this time of year. For the beat cop, it would mean long days out in the snow during winter, but he hadn’t found the will or desire to give that up. Now, in the backyard of his childhood home, the feeling doubled down. There was no will or desire to give this up either.
“Jamie,” Pops said, turning to look at him. He looked far older than he did at Sunday dinner.
“What’s wrong?” He felt the words slip out. It wasn’t anything that needed immediate attention. Or at least, nothing the rest of the family needed. He hoped.
Nothing related to the job either, though his dad had the same stiff posture as Pops.
“About eleven years ago,” his dad started, “the winter before your mom passed. Do you remember receiving emails about a stray?”
Eleven years ago would have been his last year at undergrad, the year he’d graduate and the year he lost his mother to that cancer. It was a hectic year, but mostly he remembered spending that last semester working hard and seeing his mother waste away.
Somewhere in those turbulent memories was a brief period and simple messages of something like a stray, probably during the winter.
“Kinda? Maybe,” he said. He sat down in the empty chair next to Pops, who offered a glass of Irish without another word.
“Remember any details?”
Jamie paused and watched Dad pass his drink from hand to hand, slowly, spinning the tumbler as it went. “What’s this about?”
Pops looked up from the patio. “Do you, Jamie?”
He didn’t reply right away. Between the questioning of just what they were asking and the actual answers, his mind blanked. But somewhere, deep within him, he could almost picture the small orphan child they found. “I remember-“ Jamie finished the whiskey in his glass. “A six year old girl.”
“Blonde hair, green eyes,” Pops added.
“Severely malnourished and abused,” Dad finished. “We found her lying on a park bench. No, under. Mary demanded we come home immediately with her, instead of waiting for the unis. Poor child wasn’t even frightened of us.”
Details flooded his mind. Jamie didn’t think he could forget hearing that over the phone on one of their almost daily calls. Mom had started talking a million miles a minute the day after they found that child, Jamie didn’t even have a chance to get a word in edgewise.
“Do you remember her name?” Dad asked him. Jamie shook his head. “Anything?”
“I remember Mom and the hitch in her voice when she talked about the hospital visit,” Jamie said. Grandpa took his glass and filled in three fingers. “I remember the call the next day, and how light and happy and her laughter, laughter that only came from when we were kids and doing something stupid and harmless. I remember-“
“The way her eyes lit up,” Dad finished. “Yeah, it was a good week.”
“And it was stolen from us,” Grandpa added.
“What?”
“Not you it seems,” Dad continued. “On Monday, early morning, Pops got a phone call from England. A long distance call like that isn’t small talk or catch up; it was important.”
“What your Dad’s saying is that girl, Charlie, called.”
“Right, that,” Dad frowned. “But I can’t remember her name. I can’t even see her face. I know the time, and that we took someone in. I can remember that. I can remember everything that happened, except who. It’s like-“
“Magic, Frank,” Grandpa finished. “It’s okay to call it what it is.”
Jamie froze as he lifted his glass for another sip. The existence of magic was not something that was discussed. Ever. NYPD had specific rules governing the strange and random events that reality couldn’t explain. He’d been told that it was to protect them as much as it protected others.
The first rule: never to speak of it to anyone.
“Pops!” Frank chastised.
“What? I know, you know it. That’s the point of this, Francis.” Grandpa put the bottle of whiskey on the patio. “Where your father can’t remember the small details, I can remember it as if it was yesterday.”
“Remember what exactly?” Jamie asked.
“Her name, her face, her laugh. I can remember that week as if it was last, instead of ten years ago.”
“Pops, you don’t know-“
“I know exactly what happened. They took that from us. They took her from this family, which while horrible is not the worst. They put her back with them.” The venom in the last word was usually reserved for pedophiles and rapists. But Jamie couldn’t believe that an orphan would be placed in such an environment.
“You’ve talked with her, yes? And-“
“I was commissioner too,” Pops said. “I still remember that conversation with those mag-“
“Pops!” his Dad stood up, but not from anger. Jamie had seen his father angry before, but this was fear. This was terror that something he couldn’t control was happening. “While you may still know, and I certainly do, Jamie cannot-“
“You’re talking about Macusa, aren’t you? The Magical Congress?”
Dad turned to him, the anger sitting just below that fear. “And how do you know about them?”
Jamie smirked at his father. “Dad, you honestly believe that the beat cops don’t notice these things. That we haven’t been exposed more than anyone? Especially these days.”
“You should not-“
“Vinnie.” Jamie held his glass up, but didn’t take a sip. He just stared back at his father over the rim.
Dad paused in his rant, whatever emotion he had died at the mention of his former partner. “Vinnie?”
“Yeah, he talked about it on a patrol, before…” Jamie trailed off, lowering his glass.
“How much?” Dad asked.
“Enough to be wary,” Jamie shrugged, “enough to know just what to look for when the really weird stuff happens.”
“Smart kid,” Pops added. “The rank and file should be aware.”
Dad said nothing, which was probably for the best; whatever deal made between the past with the magical community and police had established what they could and could not know, further limiting the contact with magic. Jamie agreed with his grandpa, especially after some close calls that he could never talk about to anyone other than his partner.
“So where does this leave us?” Jamie asked.
Dad said nothing again.
(*(*(*(*(*(*(*
Francis X. Reagan hated dealing with MACUSA, hated how quickly they kept him out of loop. They made a mess of things every time they got involved and left his people dealing with the aftermath.
Messes like this thing.
There was a hole in his memory. One that could have only been placed there on purpose, not old age. A very specific hole the size of a six year old girl whom had been starved and beaten. A child who brought a smile to his Mary’s face when she needed it the most.
But what he could remember was a mess of images, bits and pieces of the events. One of the few times that Frank used what hooks he had to make sure the child stayed with them, Mary enjoying waiting on her and spending time with her. Nicki was just as young and was a good friend for the little, scared girl. But as scared as she was, frightened of strangers and strange places, she didn’t flinch or pull back.
Not even when she burned herself trying to make breakfast for them the first day. Not when Frank found her sleeping on the floor instead of the bed, because it was too soft. Not when Nicki talked about all the scars on her back.
“Charlotte Lillian Potter,” Pops said. “Stayed with us for a week and a half before disappearing.”
No trace, no sign of her. In fact, Frank had almost forgotten about her entirely. A piece of time slipped away. Which in no way was right. He would not forget that child. Not on purpose. “Pops, what’s going on?”
“I just received a phone call from a girl in London, England, calling herself Charlie. Said she got this number from a very nice police man who took care of her when she was little.”
“I gave her a card the day we found her,” Frank said. His hand went to wallet immediately, a reflex after so many years giving his card out to people as a detective or chief. Still had a set for him as Commissioner, not that he gave them out anymore. “What happened?”
“She wants to visit.”
“And?”
“Francis, don’t you think this is all too perfect and simple, that the girl is “just” returning to our lives?” Frank matched his father’s frown.
“What do you suggest? Confirm she is who she says she is?”
“Charlie was the one who suggested we run her name,” Henry said, with a laugh. “Said as a cop it was important for us to make sure all the facts are straight. So she gave me a whole list of things to look up, however, was quite confused about the technology we have.”
He pulled out a notepad that was filled with scribbles and jargon. Frank recognized his pops writing from the many years the man spent at the kitchen table working cases. He also recognized the same hurried and frantic pace he used when he was upset. His father handed over the pad. “She added to make sure the commissioner saw it, that they’d verify a lot of what was there.”
Frank frowned. Why would the commissioner be required to verify it? Most background checks any cop could run, even if it was overseas. A few phone calls, and contacts between a variety of people, and the information would be given over a quick email.
Except the information being asked to be verified wasn’t simple. Frank scanned the list, though his eyes paused at the first bit. Frank said out loud, “Magical Congress of the United States of America? There might be some problems given their stances on ‘Muggles’.”
“I think someone has had a lack of history taught to them,” Pops replied, his smile wasn’t fully there. “The later parts are what worry me.”
Frank read through it quickly, and his frown deepened with each line. “Death Eaters and their terrorism within the UK, Charlie’s involvement in the war against them, and subsequent injuries.”
“Not much on that, but from her tone, it’s extensive.”
Frank didn’t like the fact that he was finding out about a massive terrorist attack in the UK second hand, even if it was from a person who survived it.
The Magical Congress of the United States of America was an archaic term used to denote the Magical community within the original thirteen colonies. Unlike the rest of American history, there was apparently some push back from the native cultures who were able to keep their land and lives separate from the foreigners. Their contact within his department was never easy or forthcoming.
First as a chief then when he became commissioner, Frank was required to know about the magical community, if only to ensure they stayed out of the way. They were too insular, and their predilection of simply ignoring the rights of people for their own laws, separate but equal his ass.
That didn’t stop him from finding out through other sources. A good cop didn’t let isolated communities stop him from knowing about problems.
Despite the horrific events that occured in London without him knowing about, those weren’t his concern. “Did she ask about us? Ask about…” Dad trailed off for a moment.
“No, thankfully,” Pops said. “She was more worried about you making sure she was who she said she was.”
Frank took another sip of the whiskey, letting it burn briefly before swallowing. Without looking, he knew he mirrored his son.
“She trusted you implicitly, Francis,” Pops said. His voice was soft and distant. “She wants to trust you, so much so that she is offering whatever she can to remind you of her.”
“Give any reason for that?” Dad asked.
“No, not openly,” Pops replied. “Sounded tired, exhausted, and just wanted to get away.”
“If her life continued the way I remember it, even as limited as that is,” Jamie said, “then I wouldn’t be surprised at that.”
Frank took another sip and placed his empty glass on the table.
“Francis?”
“Dad?”
“That’s not why she wants to get away,” he said.
“Then what is it?” Pops
Jamie took another sip, longer this time, while his father stared at his own glass. A girl they hadn’t known for over ten years had reached out to their family; a stranger asking for their help.
A lot of time had passed; people change over the course of a year, let alone ten. And Charlie was escaping from some horrible events it sounded like.
“You should call her,” Jamie said. He set his glass on the table but didn’t look up from it.
“Excuse me?” Frank asked.
“You always said to help when you can,” he continued.
“We don’t know-”
“Then you call and find out. Easiest way, and we don’t have to wait on any back channels to get back to us.”
Pops grabbed the bottle and poured Jamie another finger. “Smart son you’ve got there,” he said, smiling.
“So ignore the MACUSA all together?” Frank asked.
Jamie smiled. “She didn’t contact us through magical means. And wasn’t attempting any magic-”
“That we know of,” Frank interrupted.
“So why do they have to get involved at all?