Crossovers

Mimosa frowned, lips pursing as she glared at the folder in front of her.

She was James Potter’s daughter.

...She was sure the detectives that had come and gone hadn’t wanted her to have or see this little file. The way the muggle technology had been unsure about her blood but her mother’s, having grown up in a muggle household, did have at least some blood work they could pull from.

Her father’s wasn’t in any muggle database though, and it left-

There wasn’t any letter or explanation, no warning or reason for her to ever suspect that it wasn’t- it isn’t-

...Mimosa’s father, recognized by blood and magic both in the magical world, meant nothing here in the muggle one.

No. The only one recognized here, by the muggle world was…

Her eyes snapped forward, already stuffing the file away and hidden as a nurse came in.

It felt like all of her senses, since...Since It, had been hyperfocused, hyperaware of the things around her. She knew it unnerved the nurses and doctors. She’d already seen the scribble about it being a reaction to the traumatic experiences she’d already been through alongside more speculation about the scars she had that she wouldn’t talk about. The psychiatrist and the therapist they had brought to her would only sit in silence as she watched them, going eerily long times without blinking. She didn’t know and frankly, didn’t care about what their thoughts on her were.

What she cared about was that Uncle Vernon was dead, Aunt Petunia was dead and Dudley so mauled that he wasn’t expected to make it through the month.

What she cared about was being stuck in this muggle hospital with eyes on her at all times. What she cared about was Pyrites and Rosier and Rowle who had made some false offer to lure out the Dursleys, torturing and slaughtering the parents and ripping limbs off their son in front of them before killing them. Using their blood, Aunt Petunia’s blood to break the barrier over Number 4 Privet Drive.

What she cared about was the thought of returning the pain a hundredfold back onto them. Make them feel the squeezing heart-wrenching terror she had at the sight of her Aunt Petunia’s severed head when Mimosa went to collect the milk, what she could barely see was a severed penis shoved into her mouth before they’d rushed her at the door, crowding her back into the house and kicking her aunt’s severed head like it was no more than a pebble.

What she cared about was making them choke, severing limbs but not letting them bleed out.

...She would need to visit Knockturn. They’d have the books she’d need to learn how to make them hurt the way they’d made the Dursleys hurt.

Her own scars, the horrifying, stomach-curdling threats they’d made about what they’d do to her if only they could- they weren’t going to ‘break’ her since that would be their Lord’s pleasure-

Well those will at least give her ideas on how very deeply she needed to score down into their psyches.

xXx

She stared at the gifts sent by her friends. Fourteen now, she thought blankly. She’d been found and moved to St. Mungo’s to oversee the rest of her healing and it wasn’t likely she’d be attending Hogwarts come September. The mediwixen whispering the same thing- ‘trauma response’, ‘trigger might cause harm to herself’, ‘malnutrition’, ‘long term starvation’, ‘lingering pains from untreated injuries’. But now there were also Ministry workers with solemn faces who’d asked lots of questions about her first, her second and her third year until she was upset enough for the lights to flicker and things to rattle and float and they were ushered away.

Eventually, thankfully, she had managed to insist enough about Sirius Black’s trial (or lack thereof) that someone must have looked into it if only to make her shut up about it. Lo and behold, it took two weeks for Sirius to burst into her room as he ignored the chides of the mediwixen.

His name was cleared. The hunt for Peter Pettigrew was on.

Not only that but he’d whispered to her that Hogwarts was under investigation.

Someone had apparently found the link as to why Mimosa Potter was sent to live with muggles after the horrific attack on her; the first one she meant, the one that killed her parents. That link being Dumbledore himself, and the Board of Governors (or at least certain ones, Sirius told her with a scowl) had jumped on it to try to get an investigation into the safety of the students in an attempt to boot him from Headmaster position.

The problem was that the rumors and tall-tales about the things that happened on the grounds had actually been downplaying the things that had actually happened. Now the whole staff and the Board of Governors were being investigated and for the rest of summer the Ministry would be combing through Hogwarts.

So. There was that, and it was why those investigators had been sniffing around.

But then Sirius had been herded away, needing his own appointments and examinations after Azkaban and being on the run both.

xXx

When she was released to Sirius, things were still hectic. But they settled into Grimmauld awkwardly and she learned very quickly that living with Sirius was nothing like the Dursleys (which was to be expected) but also nothing like the times she had stayed at the Weasleys either. Sirius, after the first two weeks, seemed to become less attentive and often went out to the pub or brought home muggle women as he seemed to try to make up for lost time and youth. When she would leave, cloak hidden on her, Sirius seemed to think she was off to do dumb teenager things or hang around with some of the local Londoner teens. Didn’t question her at all. There was no curfew, not that he would be there to enforce it and as far as she could tell, no rules. September loomed closer and she wondered what they would be doing about schooling since Hogwarts was still functionally shut down and now, also down a good chunk of its staff.

Sirius didn’t seem concerned about that whatsoever though.

Mimosa did take some of those days to visit her friends.

But…

More and more, it felt like there was a growing distance. Ron’s entire family was busy fretting about what they were going to do about schooling since they couldn’t afford to send their children elsewhere, not to mention they had learned what all Ron and Ginny had been through in their entirety so they were extra smothering and watchful. When Mimosa was there, Mrs. Weasley was especially tender and gentle, but still completely smothering and frowning more and more whenever she tried to talk to Sirius who was often passed out, hungover or already out when Mimosa went over. She...Really, truly appreciated that, that there was an adult in her life, a maternal one, that actually and truly cared about her like that but Mrs. Weasley also had more than a handful of kids already to worry about.

Hermione was...Clever. But she was worrying about Hogwarts too, stressing about that and sometimes watching Mimosa when she thought Mimosa wasn’t looking, a frown that said she knew her friend was keeping secrets but not wanting to push given...It.

The constant awareness they had of what happened to her, and the way they were treating her because of it was grating most days, even if she did feel a little sliver of warmth in her chest on the better days.

Still, if either pried too much into what it was like in Grimmauld, she was aware that if Sirius was found unfit that she would lose access to the Black library and potentially also the portraits and Grimoires. And probably be given to a family that would be far more watchful of her in her ‘delicate’ state.

She wouldn’t let that happen.

It felt almost easy to slowly break off, especially with how frantic things were over the upheaval of Death Eaters attacking the Girl-Who-Lived and the unsure state of Hogwarts. She had a goal. She just needed the space and freedom to research and practice for that goal.

And she knew very well neither Ron or Hermione would be anywhere near alright with what she was planning. That they’d probably tell someone else and that was trouble she didn’t need. It was better this way.

It had to be.

xXx

She was incandescent in her anger, silent but with eyes glowing as she used one of their own burner wands against them.

There was a reason she hadn’t given names. Being sent to Azkaban would pull them from her entirely and she wanted to personally dispense punishment to them. Her arm was still bleeding from the ritual Pettigrew had cut her open for.

It was good, she thought icily, that she had been so thoroughly using her free time outside studying so voraciously. Sirius was a lax guardian who only grinned and winked when she would spend the entire day out and alone by herself, didn’t ask questions about where she was going or why (and wasn’t he concerned at all that she would be attacked again? Did he not care-) and had easily let her at the Black library. And, with only some minor cajoling, to the Potter Vault. She couldn’t take out any coins until she reached her majority, but anything else? Books, items, enchanted clothes kept in the Vault, portraits of Potters past? Free game.

It was how she found a few Grimoires, and how she awkwardly learned that James and Sirius had blood-adopted her as their daughter; blood and magic but that it didn’t blot out...The man her mother had gotten pregnant from. Sirius had been especially nervous and weary when she confronted him about it. That he was, in the eyes of magical society, one of her fathers (and that she by virtue was a Pureblood despite her mother being a muggleborn and her- naturalfather, apparently some nameless muggle man).

Sirius didn’t like actually being serious, or hard conversations and tended to just shut down and sulk and brood for a few days.

...But it honestly barely bothered her. The Grimoires were more important, the portrait of Dorea Potter nee Black, her grandmother was more important and her great-grandmother Anisha more important than Sirius’s parenting abilities.

Dorea Potter was quietly infamous for being a blood-ritualist, though it seems that she’d kept that quiet from her son and Sirius. Anisha was more familiar with bone-‘branding’, a practice technically banned in India but still privately tended to in certain families which involved replacing bones to carve runes into them before putting them back. Dorea had also been an accomplished free-style Duelist, as ‘improper’ as that side of dueling was considered.

Euphemia Potter’s portrait, or as she asked to be called Aunty Effie who married Mimosa’s grandfather Charlus’s brother Fleamont, had also been surprisingly skilled in another little known magical talent- legilimancy and occlumancy, an obscure magical knowledge that had been difficult to find books on.

The treasure of knowing, and speaking to her family (even if it was a ritual, it was a blood ritual and she was, is a Potter, as much now as she is a Black-) hadn’t stopped her ultimate quest; tearing into the three that tore the Dursleys apart.

She had no love lost for the Dursleys. But no one deserved what was done to them and even if they hadn’t been the warmest or kindest to her, they were still herfamily, and the family she grew up with.

They were hers.

And now, this, only a year later with the chance to destroy not only them, but the rest of the Death Eaters that showed up when Voldemort summoned them?

Mimosa didn’t really fight when she was snatched into a dark alley and forcibly side-apparated, and had only minimally snarled and kicked at whoever it was that had tied her up in a graveyard.

Voldemort was resurrected. Voldemort summoned his followers in an attempt to mock her when he killed her in front of them.

Voldemort had decades more experience than her, having traveled across the world in his search for knowledge to boost his power and ambition.

But that didn’t mean he found everything. That didn’t mean that his precious followers would give up their precious family Grimoires for him. That didn’t mean there weren’t things that could cripple or tear him apart. That didn’t mean he was all-powerful or all-knowing.

Dorea Potter was a blood-ritualist. Dorea Potter had never approved of Voldemort who stole powerful Purebloods and turned them into raving bloodthirsty thugs.

Blood was a powerful conduit for magic.

The runes carved in her bones enhanced control, the blood-rituals she had carefully, painstakingly gone through in the dead of night, waiting for the most auspicious times and with only precise ingredients and motives and willpower, allowed her some amount of control of her blood and could also negate it if used unwillingly. She had held off until Voldemort had once more created an anti-apparition and anti-portkey spell. Meant for her, she knew. But it would hold even after because she knew, from Dumbledore who had sent confidential letters via Fawkes, that he would just become a wraith thanks to his terrible horcruxes. He would still be connected and so, his spells would hold even after the blood he stole boiled him alive suddenly.

She’d watched silently, unblinking, as he shrieked after tossing her wand back to her and demanding her to make a show with a ‘duel’. His followers shifted nervously, and then with more panic as his unnatural body bent and shriveled before…

Well. Before he seemed to just implode in a fine bloody mist.

And it was good that he’d had his followers remove their masks (in yet another confident thought that she was going to die here) because that mist hit them all and in their gasps and cries of alarm, had gotten into several of their mouths, noses, eyes.

Stinging, burning pain would come from it, from her blood unwillingly taken.

In Knockturn, hidden beneath her cloak, she had heard many things.

Whispers, denials and demented excitement. Memories of revels in the past and those who participated the most in them.

These people were Death Eaters. The more pain she could inflict on them even from the fringe of their Lord’s physical destruction, the better as far as she was concerned.

Pettigrew wailed the loudest and she shut him up as she accio’d Voldemort’s wand by transfiguring his face so he had no mouth to scream from. Brother-wands. It was almost the same warmth of her own holly wand, though a slower feeling like spiced treacle.

Sirius wouldn’t notice she was gone for...Possibly a few days. Not the most watchful or vigilant. But these people? Several would notice their prolonged disappearance and eventually track them here.

The first thing, however, was to disarm. In the confusion, she managed to take not just wands but burner-wands off of five of them before someone seemed to realize she was still here and actively had both her own and Voldemort’s wand.

The ache of pain in her arm was easily ignored as spells and curses, both literal and not, started to fly at her.

Spells for smokescreens weren’t exactly smokescreens when made from the blood still sluggishly pushing out of her newest to-be scar. The charm suspended it in a haze that let her feel exactly who stood where, a red mist all around them thick enough with the lingering blood from Voldemort’s body imploding masking everything. She ducked around, careful about keeping a cover in the graveyard from all the presences she felt and continued disarming and then, subduing the Death Eaters with Dark spells one might expect from a Dark Lord, given she was using his wand, spells gleaned from exacting research into previous battles Voldemort had participated in and accounts of his magical prowess.

Some were incredibly painful, if the way they screamed meant anything and all that seemed to do was whip up a panic in the rest of them.

It was only when she had completely and entirely downed them that she began the arduous task of identifying the three she wanted.

She was unsurprised, in her search, to find Snape among them, dazed as he was by the effects of the one of the curses she’d used.

Dumbledore had mentioned that too. She didn’t like Snape and never would and she was sure the feeling was mutual. But, she only wanted three of them. What happened to the rest, she didn’t care all too much besides ensuring that none of them dare speak a word about this.

An experimental rune set that was the brainchild of Nana Dori and Aunty Effie would hopefully be the answer. Or, make them catatonic. It was a bit of a toss-up and those were the optimistic outcomes. She carved them with a transfigured stone onto the inside of their cheeks and on the roofs of their mouths, slowly, one by one. Careful healing spells from both a Gaelic Grimoire and Aunty Effie’s experience from being a Mediwitch made sure that regardless of the Dark magic that the runes were covered in healthy skin to hide them properly. Uncaring of the effects it might have on them long term aside, the command given with Voldemort’s wand that they had come to a Death Eater meeting or whatever they wanted to call their little party by their Lord who’d possessed some sap and in the process of trying to create a new body for their Lord, briefly succeeded. But the nature of the risky magic used meant Voldemort went on an unhinged rampage before the body imploded, happening to kill several of his loyal followers before then.

A few more needed to die to best sell this story. It was good that there were so many spells to choose from that could get that accomplished, and many she thinks fits the Dark Lord’s image to use.

Brother wands were really very handy.

xXx

She pursed her lips, sat in a muggle hospital.

They had found a...Relation. A half-brother of hers in the time she’d been whisked away apparently rather abruptly after...The Dursleys. An American man they’d contacted.

And then she vanished seemingly without a trace after a violent attack and murder under suspicious circumstances.

...And now here she was.

She should have been more diligent about him, she thought, blinking sharply.

Sirius had become too confident, strutting around muggle London without a care, bringing home women without a care. Stumbling around drunk without a care.

Her last memory of him was of his fading laughter as the spell hit him.

Azkaban had been broken into a week ago. Voldemort had found some other way, maybe really did possess someone else again.

She should have paid more attention to the escaping wraith. She should have paid more attention rather than being more concerned with making sure no one suspected her and the runes she’d carved into the mouths of Death Eaters didn’t let anything slip.

She...To be honest she wasn’t even all that close with Sirius. He’d called her Jimbo a few times when he was particularly drunk and implied things about him and her father that she didn’t want to think about. He was broody at times, and lashed out more than once when she had questioned him. They spent their time in the same house and she cooked meals for him, but they rarely actually talked. When they did it was a toss-up if he remembered because he was either drunk or clearly thinking about something else. More a reckless roommate than any...Father figure.

That didn’t mean she wanted him dead.

That didn’t mean she wanted him gone, lost to her forever.

He was still her father, still a connection that she could have, could clutch to.

Killing Bellatrix had been cold, and she’d spared the woman no mercy in her torture, face blank and hard despite the tears while she made Bellatrix hurt.

As far as the public had known though, Bellatrix escaped after killing her cousin in front of Mimosa. Mimosa was hardly going to tell anyone otherwise.

But it seemed her husband and brother-in-law knew better or suspected something more.

Mimosa, briefly staying with Andromeda Tonks (nee Black), had been targeted and attacked in Diagon and had her bleeding body stolen in broad daylight.

Mimosa killed them far more barbarically, with far less precision but they had gotten their own damage in. She escaped the underground tunnel they had taken her to and had passed out somewhere. Some muggle must have found her because when she woke up she was in a muggle hospital.

And that led her to now.

A muggle half-brother flying over to meet her and-...Possibly take over her custody. She was sure that would take a lot more involvement between the muggle and magical governments and that was without taking it international but the Ministry seemed to mostly ignore or look down on their muggle counterpart.

...She could have called for Kreacher and got swept away again to St. Mungo’s. She managed to grab one of the Lestrange’s wands when she’d killed them and their bodies had been thoroughly destroyed until not even the bones remained. She could have gotten Kreacher to take her and then she’d be stuck in St. Mungo’s while the Ministry tried to figure out where they could send her. The Dursleys were attacked, Sirius was attacked, she herself outright attacked. If they put her anywhere else, it led whoever was hosting her possibly being attacked as well, or at least targeted.

If she was on another continent however...Her injuries already seemed bad before she was dragged away. It might be assumed that she was outright killed and it wasn’t like anyone would be able to find the Lestrange brothers to get information out of them.

It might give her more time to try to find some way to either go around Voldemort’s horcrux loophole or it might make him assume that she really was dead now.

A twinge in her chest unwillingly pulled up the image of the Weasleys, of Hermione as much as she had carefully distanced herself, of Mrs. and Mr. Tonks and Nym even.

But another part of her head brought up the thought of a...Brother.

The closest thing she’d had was Dudley, maybe Ron but she’d known Dudley her whole life. A real, blood brother?

Someone who was hers? And, she thought, someone not involved in the Ministry or even Blighty at all.

And what if Voldemort found out about him somehow? If she wasn’t there to protect him (the way she couldn’t for Aunt Petunia, the way she didn’t for Sirius-) Voldemort would kill him just to get a reaction from her. Her fingers twitched.

...Her remaining fingers. They, being muggles, had amputated some of them.

It was good, she thought as she stared at her hands, that Aunty Effie insisted she practice being ambidextrous both with a wand and a quill or, as she’d been able to use during her brief tenure in the Tonks house, fountain pens. Her right hand was missing pinky, ring and pointer. The pinky gone entirely, the ring down to the second knuckle and the pointed also down to second knuckle though the rest of her fingers had been broken and she’d been able to at least cast healing spells on those. Her left was untouched; the Lestranges knew she was right-handed and had wanted to ruin her hand. They hadn’t, thankfully, been able to do much besides a few nasty curses at that specific area. Curses that the muggles seemed to think were a dangerous infection that could spread in her bloodstream if left alone.

She understood the thought but now it would be far more difficult to try to either regrow those fingers with a blood-ritual or potion, or at least find good prosthesis if she was going to be in the muggle world and it was already in her files.

Magical prosthesis could be incredibly intricate and seamless. From what she remembered of a few muggles she had seen, theirs weren’t quite up to standard in comparison. From what the doctor who had come to her had said, it was lucky she didn’t lose her entire hand, or her leg since whatever strange ‘infection’ had cleared up.

Which would be the runes in her bones actively purging the curses in her blood and body. Tricky bit of magic, needing tricky things to get it done and exacting times and circumstances to do. Anisha, however, had been adamant.

And good for it, by the look of things. Between losing a few fingers or a hand and leg, regardless of the well-meaning muggle doctors that did it, a few fingers was a less harsh burden.

She frowned more at her hands, more than eager to put thoughts of those she’d failed and those she would possibly, possibly leave behind away.

She had two more fathers, and their looks had passed to her through the ritual they used. Warm amber brown skin, wild warm-black curls (the shoot of white made from where that scar hit her hairline the same way it made some of the eyebrow hairs it touched white and the lashes it struck through white as it ended on the top of her cheek), the shape of her brows and cheekbones were from the man in her cherished photo-album. The shape of her jaw, the long elegant lashes, the length she had in her legs despite how small she was, even the shape of her ears were like Sirius.

The shape of an elegant throat, the soft round lips, those belonged to the woman in that beloved photo-album. Anything else seemed to be an amalgamation of them, Or, maybe from the unknown man Lily had been with. Her nose, perhaps. Her jaw wasn’t quite the same as Sirius’s though it was close. Her curls looked different to the kind she saw in the photos of James Potter, more defined if no less unruly. The shape of her eyes.

She wanted to know if she would see similarities in her half-brother. She wanted to know if she could look at him and see parts of herself in him and he could see parts of himself in her.

If he was hers in a way the pale blonde Dursleys could never have been, more viscerally, visually hers, closer to the way Sirius had been.

She wouldn’t make the same mistake she had with him regardless if he looked like her. But she was hungry.

Hungry the same way she had felt hungry when she had first gone to the Weasley house. The way she’d sometimes get watching Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon dote on Dudley. Hungry the way sometimes, some space, hidden secret moments, Aunt Petunia would brush her hair gently or idly offer an unconscious kind touch. Uncle Vernon sometimes patting her head when she brought him something or the one time letting her and Dudley both take the tiniest sip of whiskey. The glances she and Dudley sometimes ended up sharing when his parents would rant about hooligans and delinquents on long rides. The occassional way Aunt Petunia protectively put a hand around her shoulders when they went to market and people stared at her scar when she was young.

The Dursleys were no source of great affection or even care, but what scraps were offered she devoured and kept in her heart tightly.

She clenched her hands into fists, noting the odd peculiarity of her missing digits.

Aunt Petunia was gone, her body horribly desecrated. Those tiny gestures that seemed like nothing in the sea of negligence and fear and disdain were what most drove Mimosa in making sure that their deaths were far worse, far more humiliating and far more something deserved for taking that away from her.

This half-brother, she would admit, might take one look at her in all her scars, all the burdens she unconsciously packed with her, the suspicious disappearances and seemingly terrible attacks made on her and might turn right around. What were the odds she would be welcomed?

But even if it was out of twisted moral obligation, she would take it. If he offered, even begrudgingly, she would take it if he offered at all.

And she would hold onto it tightly so she wouldn’t lose him like she had lost the others.

xXx

Marcal Hopkirk kept his lips pressed tightly, the sight of the Girl-Who-Lived sitting despondently in the hospital cot as she stared down at her maimed hand was just...Terrible, absolutely terrible. Squib he might be, but the Hopkirks were not the sort of family to let something like that stop them from being a family and he was well aware the terrible roll of misfortune the teenager was on, any member of the magical community did with how the rags shouted it every other headline it seemed.

He glanced down again at the file he’d been given, of what the muggles knew and surmised about her. For...Mysterious people like her, and especially who’d been the victims of violence, squibs and other between-relations that happened to work on either side of their governments tended to be consulted in case it was an example of a magical or hedge-wixen or possibly a Being or Creature who’d be swept away should that be the confirmed case. When he had been called about an underage girl with horrific signs of attacks and injuries, he had not been expecting to see the Girl-Who-Lived in a muggle hospital.

His sister Mafalda had already spoke with him on the floo a few days ago about an attack on Diagon Alley that had stolen the girl from her most recent guardian-

And just after losing her godfather as well. The poor girl couldn’t catch any sort of break, Death Eaters were breathing down her neck and-…

A child should never have had to deal with what she dealt with. Cases with minors were always the hardest he thought solemnly.

...Getting out and off the Isles might be the kindest thing for her now.

He glanced again at the other file he’d been given. William Graham. A direct blood relative.

He was still curious on that, since the man in the photo was pale though there were definite and striking similarities. But Mimosa Potter was clearly a Potter any which way one should look at it, the singular photo of Lily and James that had been found somewhere in the attic of the Dursley house made a child that was clearly the both of them. Perhaps the mother had found someone similar looking to her husband and-

But well, that was hardly Marcal’s business anyways. The blood tests proved they very clearly were siblings, even if by half and the man had agreed to come out and across the pond. Whether that would lead to safely smuggling Ms. Potter out however…

Things were already looking bleak, with the recent stirrings of Death Eater activity and even the leaked confession that Voldemort had recently been even temporarily resurrected by unknown ritual. It was a sweet, spine-chilling relief to know it hadn’t lasted but now the thought that he was there, could potentially come back and back into power at that made a cold sweat dampen his temples, made his hands shake.

Squibs, in the eyes of his ilk, were perhaps even worse than muggles for ‘betraying’ magic, as though it was somehow a fault in them that they chose. And to think this poor girl had been so openly targeted by those kinds of people not once, not twice, but three times in recent years and that was besides what had apparently been going on in Hogwarts! And if, like the fearful whispers and murmurs Mafalda had whispered to him one night, Voldemort was trying to return and was behind the notorious Azkaban outbreak then...She would surely be targeted for interrupting the near-success of the previous war.

The problem was that she was an icon, some would even say a national treasure in the wixen side of the Isles. There might even be those delusional sorts to think that a mere child who already has gone through so much in such a short time could somehow defeat Voldemort again even when there was no concrete story of the night he was supposedly vanquished the first time. Their cousin had speculated it was the portrait of James Potter’s mother, a blood-ritualist who’d been of the Black family before marrying into the Potters that had aided her son and daughter-in-law with a ritual to protect her grandchild. Some say it was magic itself railing against Voldemort’s atrocities but those were the romantic sorts. And, the delusional that thought a babe still in nappies had somehow defeated the darkest Dark Lord in recent history.

Piffle, those fools.

And all this was before taking consideration that she’d been likely abused or at least heavily neglected by the muggle family she’d been placed with.

He was sure a Mediwixen got fired over that little breach in confidentiality when it hit the papers. But it was still the family she’d grown up around and the family she’d known through her early formative years. Terrible.

It was all just terrible, just terrible for the poor girl.

And if he could do anything for her, it was at least provide her a way to escape all this madness. No business of grown men and women attacking a child like that, none at all.

If this William fellow could be swayed into at least bringing her with him, then at worst if he feels he can’t care for a hurt, and deeply traumatized young witch then M.A.C.U.S.A. could at least discretely squirrel her to a magical family or community.

Getting the paperwork for a magical child to cross over from under the Ministry to M.A.C.U.S.A. was going to be an awkward affair already but given the Ministry was currently under duress of a potential revival of a Dark Lord and with several of his followers in high positions, they might be able to broker an easier time without, necessarily, alerting the Ministry and potential Death Eaters and sympathizers to the whole thing. He’d floo his sister tonight, he decided.

xXx

Part of her wanted to complain she wasn’t a child, that she was given coloring books and pencils as she waited, under watch, for her half-brother to arrive in a few days. But, being only fifteen she suspected that they would argue that so she didn’t bother.

Besides, the colored pencils were at least a way to become a little more comfortable with her hand the way it was. And she supposed it wasn’t the worst thing ever, at least they weren’t giving her cartoonish images to color in. Though she hadn’t been aware that adult coloring books were a thing either.

The lingering thought that she was going to leave behind Ron, Hermione and the Weasleys if given even the slightest chance tried again to rear its head and she ignored it while trying to pick between cobalt or berry blue for a certain portion of the flower she was coloring in. She didn’t have much else to do besides these coloring pages and the minor exercises she was guided into by a physical therapist and physician as they wrote down things.

Far, far less demanding than any exercises Wood had made her do anyways, not even enough to truly scratch the aches she’d get from her chores at Privet Drive. Her fingers twitched and she almost scribbled out of the lines of the delicate flower.

...Even after two years, she was still furious. She should have kept those three alive, to torture at will for years on end for what they’d done.

Her eyes turned to the greens instead, the stem and leaves needing more color. She’d already had olive and pea greens in the last flower coloring page she’d done.

They littered her little room now, these coloring pages. Not really like they were much allowing her to do anything else. At least she got regular meals, even if they were carefully curated given her...Previous eating habits. Or lack thereof. She did hear someone say something about an eating disorder which was odd, because before she’d only thought that those who purposefully starved themselves or made themselves sick up had eating disorders.

Her habit of stealing and hiding away some food, and the speed with which she tried to eat were apparently signs of being food-insecure.

Which. Made some amount of sense she supposed. But she didn’t see the problem; they were giving her food. She was eating it, if she might be saving morsels for later then whose business was it but hers?

Pine green, emerald green and seafoam green she plucked from the box.

No one had come for her yet from the magic side and she wondered why that was? Not that she was entirely upset, not with the prospect of a brother coming and whisking her away.

Another faint pang over the thought of the friends she hadn’t seen for months.

Since Hogwarts had started up again, but her Mediwitch hadn’t cleared her to go.

Well, especially not with the Ministry-posted personnel.

Before Sirius had died, Ron had written her and complained about some toad-woman who’d taken over DADA and how everything was going entirely theory, no practice. Hermione’s letter had been fuming, full of ranting tirades over the Ministry’s response and the Minister’s response especially over the recent going-ons and attacks. Full of denial, refusing to acknowledge that Voldemort could return. She’d also mentioned that the toad-woman, Umbridge, had even insinuated that the attacks on and around Mimosa were staged.

That, Ron had mentioned, had incited a war against her from Gryffindor, one that several Hufflepuffs had gotten involved in and that Parvati’s sister Padma had also gotten some of the Ravenclaws in on (mostly, Mimosa assumed, because their grades for their O.W.L.s were going to be affected). There was also the distant relation of Anisha’s niece being the Patil twins’ great-aunt-by-marriage which might have triggered an obligation to defend her honor in her absence.

Since, you know, the deaths of her family in two separate and horrifying instances left her with such terrible trauma that her Mediwitch actively forbade her from returning to Hogwarts besides her bad health over the years and the adventures she and her friends had gotten to there.

The Weasley twins had reportedly been some of the biggest contributors to this ‘silent’ war against Umbridge and a few of the other Ministry-sanctioned staff. Who, according to Hermione, had no history or education in education.

(Was that actually a thing in the magical world anyways? Had Snape gone to classes or something in order to become a Professor? She felt like he would have failed them. She was entirely sure there was no way Lockhart had ever been trained to educate either.)

It sounded a mess entirely. Mimosa, on the other hand for her fourth-year-that-wasn’t and for what she got through of what should have been her fifth so far had been doing ‘self-study’.

If she went to America, if he took her with him, then what would she do then? Attend Ilvermorney? Continue self-study if she could manage to pass her O.W.L.s and beyond independently? Or one of the smaller schools? They had a different grading system didn’t they? A different monetary system too.

She would learn it all, put up with it all if she was given the chance to go.

She stared down at the completed paper. If he was awful, well she’d already had the Dursleys. If he was worse…

If he was worse, she would figure something out as she always had. But until then, she would assume that he wasn’t, in fact, coming just for the chance to hurt her. She grabbed the specifically left-handed wacky scissors they’d given her that made the edges look lacy when she carefully cut around the flower. The large pack of colored pencils and the wacky scissors had come as gifts while she was stuck here, the same with the clothes brought to her.

Soft jumpers. Bizarrely grippy socks. Loose and long swishy skirts and joggers.

...She really did appreciate their kindness here. She set the finished piece to the side with the others she’d already finished today before a nurse came in with her lunch with a gentle smile as though Mimosa was something delicate.

Something delicate, a waif in the wind. Small, scarred, poor little orphan Mimosa with her knobby knees and shivering skinny frame.

Mimosa who stood above the mangled corpses of the men that dared to touch family that was hers. Mimosa who slaughtered Bellatrix for killing her family in front of her. Mimosa who made sure nothing was left at all of the Lestrange brothers that left yet more scars on her.

Mimosa who once more, this last time intentionally, destroyed Voldemort’s host-body. She watched her nurse smile over her colored flowers, trying to eat more slowly as she’d been advised to as the older woman put them up on the walls of her room with the rest of them.

It was only her age and her injuries that were keeping them from putting her in the juvenile psychiatric ward, she knew. That didn’t stop that she was visited at least every other day by a hospital therapist or psychiatrist as they tried to get her to talk about anything, even small talk.

She did give them some things at least. Just small things that would hopefully get them off her back.

The flowers Aunt Petunia picked out for her garden each year depending on season and popularity, which ones had thorns and which ones were a nuisance that tried to choke the other flowers out when she was gardening. What strange concoctions of cleaning products was best to use on what kinds of stains and messes she had learned over the years, as long as one kept windows open and didn’t breathe too deep using them. About how when Aunt Petunia found a video game Dudley had smuggled in that had ‘magic’ (superheroes; there was to be no freaky business in the Dursley house, and that included games and shows no matter how Dudley had whinged) and how it was probably the first time Dudley had ever been grounded.

At some point she got so lost in reminiscing she had accidentally mentioned her cupboard when talking about sneaking some of the toys Dudley had broken and discarded for herself but thankfully it seemed the old man hadn’t pried into it though he did have a frown and a pucker between his bushy brows.

Mentioned Sirius at some point, sparingly mentioning how she learned the best recipe for a hang-over breakfast (or brunch, or lunch depending when he woke up) and that she was sure he’d been in love with her father despite all the women he brought home.

Things enough that she was sure they’d be distracted by so she didn’t need to mention anything about the magical side of things. Mundane, but by the looks on their faces when they’d come, either the old man or middle-aged woman, enough that they’d not ask more deeply probing questions about uncomfortable things.

She met Marcal Hopkirk (and something about Hopkirk tickled at her brain just the tiniest bit but not enough for her to feel alert about it so it was probably nothing important), a squib who eventually and very quietly told her that the Ministry was currently being kept out of the case and questions about her records out of the muggle world put down elsewhere so as not to rouse suspicion as something needed to be done in cases that called for it.

Told her that, should things go smoothly with William (his name, her brother’s name) to the point she could be transferred over and under M.A.C.U.S.A. that regardless of if it turned out that William for one reason or another couldn’t care for her she could remain there and away from the Isles. Given, she assumed, the climate. Should William not pan out, then they were still in the process of trying to send her out of the country, though preferably avoiding most of Europe. The relations there were far more distant, but they had found a distant De Meath relation of the Potters, or the line that came from him when he’d fled to Canada in the 1860s with his lover. And a branch of Potters that were apparently known and respected Aurors in America as well. But they would see what the situation with Mr. Graham was like before sending out any letters or inquiries.

Her arms trembled slightly at the thought.

Because it was happening. To be honest, it didn’t feel real exactly, as much as she’d thought about it. But there were steps being meticulously taken to get her out and away.

She ate her lunch quietly, pushed away thoughts of what Hermione or Ron might be feeling knowing she was taken and severely injured when she was, or of Mrs. Tonks or Mr. Tonks, or Mrs. Weasley.

They might still be targeted, but it would surely only be worse if she were actually near them. She hadn’t actually seen them last summer, though she’d again gotten gifts in the post, even some makeup and jewelry from Lavender, and every few weeks they’d send letters. Mostly, recently, complaining about Umbridge and the inane decrees she was putting up.

It was safer for her not to be near them, for them. And it was safer if she was off the Isles entirely, for her.

...Until she either figured out what to do against the horcruxes or someone else did.

xXx

She stared out at the world from her window in the muggle hospital. When she was out, and (if all went well with William) before she was put in a muggle aeroplane she would need to contact Kreacher. To get the portraits, to grab the enchanted trunk and mokeskin bag of her important belongings and warn him that she was leaving the country and that he was not to tell anyone at all or even slightly hint at it to anyone. The portraits in Grimmauld were already under wards and enchantments for secrecy given when she had completely and utterly destroyed Bellatrix was in Grimmauld.

If William would take her, she knew nothing about where she would be going or the man she would be going with besides that he was her blood.

It was still enough to want to reach out and claw her hands into it regardless, still a ringing undertone of ‘hers’. The ward’s comfort-cat paused in her sleepy purring, perking up even as she felt the people coming to a stop outside of her room and a polite, firm knock.

“Come in.” she called, keeping her gaze on the overcast sky. Bonk, the cat named for her habit of lovingly head-bonking, stretched comfortably, curling and twisting in her lap with no care.

“Miss Potter?” came the unfamiliar voice and she turned over to look. Four men, one Mr. Hopkirk.

The other two she didn’t care about, but the fourth one…

His face. His face looked an awful lot like hers did, if very pale and with stubble, perhaps a bit more angular and masculine and the shape of the lips were notably different. He wasn’t particularly tall and the shape of the curls were like her own if only slightly more brown-black than warm-black. He easily could be the blue-gray eyed pale brother of James Potter from the photos, if older than James Potter had ever had the chance to be. Her left hand twitched on Bonk for a moment before a paw swatting softly at her reminded her to resume the soothing action of petting the purring calico. What was the saying? There are at least seven people with your face in the world at any given time? Looks like Lily had managed to find someone who looked like a far paler version of her husband.

“My brother?” slipped from her before anything else, completely ignoring the other three.

The man seemed to freeze for a few moments, his eyes landing somewhere on her forehead but only for a moment before they immediately skittered down to her nose instead where there weren’t any scars before his eyes skimmed the room, lingering on the multitude of flower coloring pages practically filled at least one entire wall, even cut out as they were in a wash of colors.

“Miss Potter, this is William Graham.” Mr. Hopkirk moved in and answered her first, sending a short look to the two other men he was with. “We were wondering if you would be up to speaking with him a little bit today?”

“Okay.” she answered, eyes firmly locked on him. He wore glasses.

She’d had to get a new pair but they were fake; some of the smaller rituals Anisha suggested gave her crisp, clear vision. Her round donation-bin glasses had been thoroughly destroyed by the Lestranges (and she did make them suffer especially for that- it was on a trip with Aunt Petunia she had gotten them and they also miraculously resembled the glasses James Potter preferred) and since she’d never gotten a proper eye exam it wasn’t like the hospital knew any better. Now she had reading glasses. She’d before found a book that was a little old but was clearly for a magical optometrist with a guide of spells and enchantments for glasses in a shady secondhand bookstore in Knockturn and she might as well have gotten more use out of the glasses she’d continued to wear. It felt like an important part of her, those glasses, nearly as recognizable as the scar on her forehead. Besides, it was good to have a barrier between her mystifying pale green eyes around the muggles. They seemed all the more glowing against the brown of her skin and the scar and white sliver of her hair. Her appearance, she knew, was striking as much as it was a source of othering her.

There weren’t a great multitude of styles to have gotten here, but kindly nurses sometimes brought in some store-bought pairs here and there. They weren’t round, but now she saw they looked similar to the pair her brother wore.

Hers.

“Alright.” she felt Mr. Hopkirk nod, “Mr. Binsted would like to monitor the conversation this time just in case. Is that okay?” he asked her next. She begrudgingly turned her eyes away from her brother to look at Mr. Hopkirk and then the man he’d mentioned. Tan pressed trousers and a soft looking cardigan. A lanyard. One of the people from some child custody thing that she’d only had to talk to once before. He very purposefully put out a soothing, harmless aura but his eyes were clever and observant.

“I understand.” she told them.

“Alright. You can call a nurse in at any time, or end the visit if you feel overwhelmed at all.” Mr. Hopkirk assured her.

She would do no such thing, but supposed it was nice of them to remind her. She nodded and watched Mr. Hopkirk led the other extra man out. Mr. Binsted moved to the side, taking a chair against the far wall.

“Please, don’t mind me.” he smiled, a bland but kindly enough look. William seemed to fidget for a minute before slowly, carefully moving towards the small and uncomfortable looking little loveseat across from the chair she was sitting in.

“I’m Mimosa.” she introduced herself plainly, watching him sit gingerly.

“Will.” he answered softly. “You...Like flowers?” he asked awkwardly and she stroked Bonk as she tilted her head just slightly as his eyes roamed the wall and a half.

“I’m mostly just going through the coloring book they’ve given me. There’s not much to do here otherwise.” she said as she craned to look at them herself. “Flowers are fine I suppose and I’m alright in a garden. Are you allergic to any flowers?” she asked him and he blinked at that, though his eyes still didn’t meet hers.

“No, not that I’ve ever noticed.” he smiled a little wryly, clearly a little uncomfortable and weary. Whether that was because they were being monitored or not she had no clue.

“Were you very surprised to learn about me?” she asked next and he winced a little.

“I...Wasn’t expecting to learn I had a...Little sister. And...Not the way I learned about her. You.” he said, a little tersely, eyes flashing towards her forearm where a peek of one of the scars was since she’d rolled up the sleeves to better feel the soft warmth Bonk provided in her lap. “Do you like cats?”

“I don’t mind them.” she shrugged. “My dormmate used to have one and so did my old babysitter. Or she bred them, I think.” she pursed her lips in thought. To think of it, she was pretty sure Mrs. Figg was breeding half-Kneazles. “Do you? Like cats?”

“I uh...I’m more of a dog person.”

“I do like dogs.” she nodded. Or, she had liked Fang when she was able to see him and when Sirius would become Snuffles even if he wasn’t exactly a true dog. Provided they weren’t like Ripper, or any of the other dogs Aunt Marge used to breed. Her fingers twitched again. Besides that, she had never had a bad experience with any dogs. Even Fluffy, before he was sent away and after he was no longer guarding something had seemed a relatively playful (if very slobbery) dog.

(Hagrid would be devastated- already he’d been kicked out of Hogwarts grounds-)

Bonk twisted in her lap in a luxurious stretch, baring her soft belly and tucking her cute paws beneath her chin. Obligingly she reached and scritched at her belly.

“Though I think I did end up knowing more about cats than dogs.” she mused, her left hand grasping a cute foot and swaying it as Bonk purred like a motor. She noticed the way his hands curled tight on his knees as his gaze lingered on her damaged right hand. “You don’t need to look.” at that his gaze did actually snap up to meet hers for a moment. “You don’t need to look at it. I know it makes some people uncomfortable.”

“That’s not-!” he immediately began with a quiet urgency before he winced, slouching again and breaking that eye contact. “It’s not that.”

“Okay.” she nodded easily.

“Does it- make you uncomfortable?” he asked her and she understood what he meant. To have this newest injury, or any of the scars of old ones stared at.

“I’ve had this on my forehead since I was still in the pram.” she pointed to her forehead and the white streak of hair and white in her eyebrow and lashes. “It’s not much to get used to staring after so long.” then she reached to tug on a white curl. “Aunt Petunia used to buy the pomade they sell for old men who want to hide their gray hair until she thought I was old enough for hair dye though. That and mascara.”

A little less openly jarring to look at than with that white streak against already ‘unnaturally’ green eyes and brown skin even if the scar was still there and she was still a clear outlier among the pale blonde Dursleys. She’d used the pomade-and-mascara all the time and it was only on occasions she’d have something spilled on her or it rained too heavily that it would begin to run.

Shockingly, Dudley had never bothered to try to mock her for it even if some of the meaner children in primary or his little group of delinquents did. During the summers, she would again begin using the hair dye-mascara combo, though she usually continued to use the mascara during schooling to at least cover her eyelashes and eyebrow- Lavender had even gotten her a long lasting waterproof magical brand of mascara during their second year. It seemed such a small thing but it was still so noticeable when she hadn’t or it had been washed off.

She hadn’t bothered dying it after the Dursleys-...

“I did dye it pink once, when I was thirteen.” during one of the regularly scheduled ‘girls night’ in her dorm that Hermione always summarily refused to join. Well it was really just a charm to turn it pale pretty pink and it only lasted a week but still. “Maybe I’ll do it again sometime.”

(-she might never see Lavender or Parvati or Hermione again-)

Bonk grabbed her hand with her paw, lurching forward and gently chomping on her hand to signal she’d had enough belly scratches and she obligingly moved her attention to that spot behind her ear, managing to snag the cat’s other foot to rock the cat from side to side playfully. He watched her play with the cat silently and she didn’t mind the quiet, so long as he was here.

“You live in America don’t you?” she asked him and he looked to her. The way he spoke seemed like the voices she’d sometimes hear in the news when they had something international or a special guest speaker in whatever radio station Uncle Vernon was listening to at the time, that strange accent. “Is it true their tea is swill?” she asked curiously. He seemed to choke for a second on a surprised chuckle.

“Wouldn’t really know.” he told her, smile a little less tense for the surprise, “More of a, uh, coffee drinker myself.”

“Coffee smells good but it never tastes good.” she frowned. Uncle Vernon preferred tea but sometimes if it was going to be a busy day at work he’d take coffee. Wasn’t sure why, they usually had the same amount of caffeine as his usual black breakfast blends.

“Good. You shouldn’t be drinking too much coffee at your age anyways.” he smiled, eyes crinkling just a little. She hummed thoughtfully at that, releasing Bonk’s feet. Maybe if he wasn’t very used to tea he didn’t know that plenty of teas were caffeinated?

“Will.” she said and he perked up slightly to show he was attentive. “I’ve never had a brother before.”

“I’ve never had a sister before.” he offered back.

Hers. Hers.

“I’m glad. That I’m getting a chance to meet you, even if it’s...Well. Not in the best of ways.” she shrugged, finally fully dropping her eyes down to Bonk. The cat noticed her attention and rolled to her feet, reaching up and draping her paws over her shoulders like a hug, nuzzling into her neck and she smiled at it, petting the cat.

“I…” he seemed to struggle with himself for a minute. “I’m glad to meet you too.”

She thinks it might be a little bit of a lie, but that was alright.

xXx

Two weeks of stilted conversations, circling neatly around the harder subjects and Mr. Hopkirk made good on his rushing promise to get things and papers in order as soon as he could manage it.

His sister, apparently, was in the Ministry and while her Department wasn’t the one to be able to send out these kinds of papers, she had friends in the Department that did. Enough that a vague amount of information and hand-waving got them what they needed without ever needing to mention or imply that the minor in question was Mimosa Potter, the missing Girl-Who-Lived.

Will would have to sign papers from M.A.C.U.S.A., a form to be told about and promise not to reveal magic but they couldn’t risk it here, or his connection to her being known so he would have to have her on American soil before being told about it. Which might cause him to drop her but by then she’ll already be in America and at worse, M.A.C.U.S.A. can either try to contact the De Meaths farther north, the American Auror Potters or otherwise put her with a different family until she reached majority.

When she was released and waiting into a hotel for the day of their flight to America, she summoned Kreacher.

The old elf wasn’t happy would be a terrible understatement but his bulbous eyes lingered on her scars and on her missing digits. He’d warmed up to her considerably more when they lived in Grimmauld, which only made him resent Sirius more for his lack of care and while she’d had to put her foot down to take over the kitchen, they’d garnered a...Friendly, almost, relationship.

Her things were shrunken with a snap of his fingers and into the deceptive mokeskin bag they went, which was then put on an enchanted strip of leather to make a pendant. There were anti-theft and anti-loss enchantments on it.

“Kreacher can find Mistress no matter where Mistress being,” Kreacher rasped at her waspishly, shoving another thing to her, “Mistress...Be trying to destroy Dark Lord,” he muttered in a low tone. “That,” he spat at the velvet covered thing he handed her, “Was of Master Reggie’s Dark Lord.” he bristled at it. “Kreacher...Kreacher could not do as Master asked…” the fight seemed to drain out of him.

The Dark Lord’s. Horcrux?

There was a vague tingle in her hands even with the velvet wrapped around it.

“I’ll see what I can do.” she told the old elf and he sniffled before seeming to compose himself.

“If Mistress calls Kreacher, no matter where Mistress be, Kreacher will come.”

“Thank you Kreacher.” she smiled, free hand patting the elf’s head. He harrumphed, grumbling about propriety. “I’ll make sure to call in.”

He would be terribly lonely otherwise, once more left to rot with Grimmauld.

xXx

Will had no clue what he was doing. He barely functioned as a human as it was, and now he was going to be bringing home a supremely traumatized teenager who had been through horrific abuse and neglect, the murder of her Aunt’s family, the murder of her godfather and an attack that no one could get anything about from her but led her to collapsing in the street somewhere for who knows how long. The files he’d been able to look at and the medical files too, all of them did nothing to prepare him when he’d first met his-

His sister. She didn’t flinch, but she was aware of everything around her, constantly cataloging people and what they were doing, even fine-tuned to hear near-silent footsteps outside of her closed door. There was the obvious way she kept firmly away from corners but liked to keep a direct line to any doors or windows no matter how high the floor. He’d spent lunch with her a few times and while she was stealthy, he’d noticed how she kept pieces for some later time.

Her eyes were a green he’d never seen in someone’s eyes before. Her gaze was intense, direct.

Her face looked a lot like a softer version of his, even with different lips and darker skin. The scar on her face was linked to an accident that took her parents when she was barely over a year old. She had only shots required to attend what he would call elementary school, and her schooling records from there disappeared.

And now he was taking her home. The very edge of his jacket was pinched between her fingers and she kept close to him. She liked two sugarcubes in her morning tea and plenty of milk, but three any other time of day if she wasn’t drinking water. She liked sweets. She walked silently, took short to-the-point showers, kept her space clean and tidy from years of ingrain habit and from idle comments, seemed to know well how to cook and handle a garden.

She’d needed glasses when she was younger and now wore plain-glass ones out of long-formed habit and comfort. She liked soft long-sleeved shirts or sweaters and otherwise had no care for how or what she was dressed in.

Lots of little things he’d been able to note in the very short time he’d known her.

And when he was with her, the majority of her attention was pinned onto him.

It made him nervous but made him cringe at the same time.

From what the reports had said, she had found her aunt’s severed head on the porch, a purposeful taunt before being attacked by the killers. She had also, they speculated, witnessed the death of her godfather in front of her.

Of course she would immediately latch onto and want to keep a close eye on someone she deemed as family and especially after the experiences she’d had under both of those families, didn’t care about what kind of man he was rather than that he was family.

This was a...Mess. It was all a mess. He was a mess. His head was aching.

The slight feeling of her hold on his jacket brought him back before he could spiral as she tucked even closer, though she’d been curiously aware of his personal space thus far and hadn’t commented or mentioned his lack of eye contact or stilted conversation skills. Whether it was because she had been taught that she wasn’t to question people before or because she was being polite he wasn’t sure. She didn’t seem bothered by it anyways, unfazed by most everything happening around her.

In that she didn’t immediately seem fazed. There were little signs, obvious to anyone looking.

She didn’t like when he was out of her sight for too long; considering that the Dursley family had been slaughtered on an outing, it was likely a lingering fear that he might also be attacked given what happened to two of her guardians already. Her sense of almost hyper-awareness was constant and she seemed especially vigilant of people near him, gently tugging him out of the way if someone was about to bump into him on sidewalks or slyly, inconspicuously sliding between any person she felt was watching him too long or too intently. She wore a bucket hat that she stuffed her hair under and kept her head down when out, and encouraged him to wear some sort of hat or otherwise cover certain parts of his face; she’d been specifically targeted before and this was a precaution that had been encouraged already until they left the country entirely given her peculiar features were very memorable.

She was using guarding behavior was the best way he could think of it.

He...Hoped that would calm down when they landed.

She seemed to lose time if she was left alone, wandering in her own head and could skip meals that way. He’d been told very firmly that she needed a stable diet and that she was much worse when she’d first came in, and at the very worst when she’d first showed up in a hospital after the death of the Dursleys when she was thirteen. Enough that they seemed baffled that there wasn’t permanent damage to her organs besides that she would always be small.

She was used to being active and did more than her recommended amount of exercise if given the chance.

She was ambidextrous but had been right-dominant; it was assumed the attacker had known and purposefully targeted that hand. It had been lucky enough that she still had the hand at all, as well as her left leg.

There had been a small note about her bones but it was figured it was from damage and malnutrition over the years and the scans she’d gone under hadn’t found anything concerning about it.

He already had what seemed like a tome of files and guides and papers, as well as a recommendation for therapy and psychiatric treatment and forms for those as well. Though she hadn’t been very forthcoming in her sessions with the ones at the hospital, she had spoken to them unlike the incident after the Dursleys where she ignored- or, unconsciously tried to intimidate the ones then. Given the severity of the incident she was involved in, no one had pushed and she had been taken away abruptly before much else could be done and seemingly vanished alongside the people who had taken her. Even if she avoided talking about what happened to her entirely, she did mention her godfather, presumably the man she had lived with after the Dursleys’ deaths and made some disturbing comments about what her treatment was like with the Dursleys and under her godfather.

She had, with him, mentioned dormmates by name but hadn’t directly spoken about them or her current relationship with them. She didn’t hesitate in agreeing to go with him to Virginia whatsoever, a man she’d just met regardless that they were half-siblings. When that question had managed to come out regardless that he was trying to hold it back, she had looked at him with those pale, cuttingly green eyes.

“I don’t know you very well yet, yes.” she’d nodded. “But I’m not going to lie and say that much matters to me. Regardless of who you are, you’re my brother. The only brother I’ve ever had. I’ll do my best by you.” and he hadn’t really known how to respond to that and had fled the hotel suite they’d gotten entirely for most of the day afterwards. Fifteen, and speaking with a resounding resolve that regardless of what anyone else said or did, she would be on his side.

She had no clue what he was like, but he had the horrifying, creeping feeling that she would stand by what she said. A fierce, blind loyalty despite that she was a wisp of a young girl who’d been let down again and again by the adults around her and survived truly horrific situations.

The pressure to not fuck this up swelled up in his lungs, making it hard to breathe. What made it worse was that even if he did let her down, she would probably only take it in stride because it was such a common theme in her life.

“Do they really give you peanuts like on the telly?” her question brought his attention back to where she stood tensely. “And wear those little caps?”

She wasn’t fond of large moving crowds indoors. Not that he could blame her; he wasn’t fond of crowds in general.

“The ones on this airline do. I wasn’t given any peanuts on the way here.” he answered her, not all that fond of planes himself.

She’d ask little questions if she was uncomfortable or felt the need to catch his attention; not for the sake of asking herself. Her files suggested but couldn’t confirm that she had been specifically taught not to question things, so these little questions were seen as important to encourage. He could practically feel her gaze. Better him than her working herself up over the trip.

It made him want to hunch and hide and run away anyways. That gaze was potent, with a frightening amount of unwavering loyalty. From a child who had gone through as much as this one had, it wasn’t even humbling anymore.

It was looming.

He could not afford to fuck this up.

He dry-swallowed another pill to try to ease the headache that was close to making him squint and curl up.

xXx

When Will had mentioned that he had dogs, the amount had not been mentioned. Not nearly so many cats as she remembered Mrs. Figg having, and no lingering pervasive smell of cabbages at least. She looked around at the den (because it was a den, rather than a living room or sitting room). She’d seen them on the property, along with a woman; Will hadn’t mentioned a partner at all, but Mimosa didn’t mind in particular. She could be a silent shadow in the household if need be, though they would need two forms for the muggles and perhaps a bit of a longer conversation if there were two and one not directly related to her if they weren’t married. She hadn’t seen a ring at any rate.

...It didn’t look like there was much of what Aunt Petunia would call a feminine touch but that could be an aesthetic choice just the same. Or, they could be partners that didn’t live together outright. The woman hadn’t seemed particularly old or young but she might be a member of his family though that wasn’t quite the tang she had gotten from the woman standing out and away as Will brought her into the house.

“I’ve washed and picked up after dogs a few times, when Aunt Marge came to visit,” she said in the room as she peered around. He was looking around too, looking slightly perturbed. The woman had moved or cleaned something in his absence maybe? “Not so many at once but I think I generally know my way around basic dog care.”

“That’s- the offer is...Appreciated, but you don’t need to assume care over them.” she could hear his frown and the way he was trying to pick his words carefully.

“I’m going to be living here right? They’re members of the household.” she said as her eyes tracked around the room before she turned to eye him. “And they’re part of your family yeah? I don’t mind helping out.” she told him and he once more seemed unsure what to say. Perhaps he was struggling over the thought that she had been hardwired to help serve and take care of the household since a young age, more akin to a servant than an actual member of that household. She knew it was somewhere in some writing that she had been some kind of labor to the Dursleys and then took part in cleaning up after and caring for a drunkard reckless godfather. From one set of doors she was haltingly told was his room but he was quick to show her the kitchen, mentioned a room of boat motors and fishing tackles, and then she was ushered up the stairs and he murmured something about some clothes being gathered for her from a friend but-...

...Mimosa had a cupboard for a room for a decade. Then, in Hogwarts, shared a dorm with lavish four poster beds and wooden desks with four other girls. When she’d stayed with the Weasleys, she’d shared a room with Ginny. Grimmauld, while it had been cleaned, was dark and maudlin on a good day and she only slept there, leaving the décor and furniture untouched in a room she barely used, a largely undisturbed shrine to Regulus Black.

“I know it’s empty now but if you want to paint it or get new furniture-”

“It’s...Mine?” she asked softly. A room of her own, not given as a space meant for someone else. Not Dudley’s second room, with the locks on the door, bars on the window and full of broken things. Not Regulus Black’s room, frozen and preserved. “For me?”

She wouldn’t mind settling into a room not totally hers; she was used to it and his bringing her home had to have been somewhat sudden to have to take account for.

It was clean. Light.

Hers. Her space in his home, hers. He remained silent behind her as she wandered around the room.

Her room. She would be staying here.

Staying here if he didn’t wash hands of her when magic was revealed to him, after he signed the forms. If he did decide to do that, his memories, and the memories of that woman outside and anyone else he told would be modified and she would be whisked away elsewhere. But for now, and despite the unstable position she was in, this room was hers.

Some things were probably, the room entirely probably, mostly prepared by the woman outside. She imagined the soft pillows and blankets were things Lavender would have in her own room, though most of it would probably be pink if it was her. The colors were light, but neutral on purpose. The furniture seemed lightly used, perhaps softly worn but that was hardly anything she’d fuss over. It was blank but notably welcoming, inviting her to make it into her own space, her own comfort.

She was aware when, downstairs she heard the door open, measured steps coming up but it seemed to slightly startle her brother.

(Brother, brother- she had a brother-)

She turned to regard the woman now that she was closer. Well dressed, hair well done, nails orderly and neat. Blue eyes, pleasantly made up face. A woman Aunt Petunia would both approve and disapprove of. Well maintained trim figure, fair faced. Aunt Petunia would approve of her orderly coordination and style, but be jealous of her all the same for those very things.

She was shortly introduced to Alana Bloom, a friend of his.

Alana, like most people when first looking at her in person, did a double take. Her eyes unable to avoid the scar on her face, the little white streak. But she was composed and didn’t linger or make any odd faces, so there was that. Mimosa was careful to keep the long sleeves of the loose too-soft sweater cover her right hand entirely, curled into a sleeve-paw. She glanced at Will before eyeing the woman’s hand, offering her left and making the woman switch quickly even as Will’s lips pursed.

“Mimosa. Nice to meet you.” she said softly, edging just slightly closer to where Will stood to the side of the door, neither adults pressing into the room.

For her sake. They were respecting this new boundary of her room.

...It was nice.

The donated clothes had come from Ms. Bloom and were neatly folded on top of a dresser already. They left her to settle with the implication that she would come down after a shower given how long it had taken to get to Wolf Trap.

Will said he’d only moved into the house recently on their way but it looked comfortable enough downstairs. He did mention he doesn’t much go upstairs, preferring the ground floor. The room immediately across from her new room was an office. Of sorts, had old case things in them so she’d steer clear of it.

Her door shut, she pulled out her mokeskin pendant, tugging out her trunk and wand both, tapping it to resize properly.

In terms of clothes, there wasn’t much but some of Dudley’s cast-offs, some of her Aunt Petunia’s old clothes, some of Ron’s and Ginny’s old shirts and dresses respectively, and a handful of old muggle t-shirts from when Sirius was a teen that had been left in Grimmauld. Mimosa was surprised they hadn’t been burned or something anyways. His favorite worn leather jacket was added when he died.

She didn’t really go out looking for clothes and didn’t shop about when she lived with Sirius who’d shove notes at her or left on the table for her to go out and enjoy muggle London like he’d done as a youth.

Too busy skulking Knockturn and the smaller roads that sometimes seemed more like just wide alleys that had shop doors to the buildings hidden behind other ones off of Knockturn.

Besides what she had in her trunk there were the donated jumpers and long skirts from her hospital stay.

The clothes left by Ms. Bloom were clean, no rips or tears. They would be too large on her, obviously, but they were of good quality and looked nice as well. She grabbed a warm-white blouse with long swishy sleeves and a pair of her Aunt Petunia’s dark violet cigarette trousers that Mimosa got only by virtue of her Aunt Petunia shrinking them. They weren’t good for yardwork or chores so she didn’t usually wear them but Aunt Petunia’s cast-offs were much preferable to Dudley’s and now, at fifteen and at this point, edging closer to sixteen, they weren’t so bizarre on her. She didn’t think she’d fit them for very long if she didn’t tailor them though; her Aunt Petunia was slim and tall, the curves she had were more subtle and willowy. Mimosa, now that she’d been eating more properly and getting nutrient and vitamins and all had started getting to a healthier weight. And very clearly, her hips had been growing fuller and her arse and thighs were beginning to get a bit of cushioning as well. There was also that her Aunt Petunia was taller than she was so the fit was different still again. But they fit for now and if she did finally get a proper bit of weight onto her, then the clothes that hadn’t shrunk might fit her soon too.

It was good Mimosa had clung so tightly onto those old clothes, she mused.

She pulled out the hair salves that best treated her wild curls, a faintly vanilla soap and eased into the bathroom. Good she had her own wash things, since the plastic container of muggle- well it advocated itself as an all purpose cleaner, body wash, shampoo, conditioner.

As always, her showers were perfunctory, a very quick and streamlined process. Showers, as always, were to be done quickly and efficiently with preferably barely-warm water for her in the Dursley house and years doing that stuck. She dried off with firm pats before wrapping her hair for a moment to dress. She wouldn’t bother trying to use her wand for actual charms or spells to dry herself until after Will signed the forms and knew about magic, after which thanks to her being more or less brought to hide, if she stayed small wards would be set around the property. She would need to look into a permit to use small charms and spells otherwise, but the pamphlets Mr. Hopkirk gave her indicated that because U.S.A. was so big that many mixed households and smaller households and a handful of day-time schools, especially if they were rural or had a certain distance from other muggles, could qualify for those little permits for underage wixen in a muggle household. Socks and the flimsy hospital slippers came on next and she silently slipped down the steps.

“-just want to make sure that you weren’t pressured to take this girl in-”

“I wasn’t pressured.” Will said, slightly louder than Ms. Bloom was talking and Mimosa paused, slowly sitting on the step. This seemed like it would be awkward to walk into.

“Will, you’ve heard about this girl once before this-”

“And I would have gone down then too if she wasn’t pulled somewhere else.”

“-and I don’t know if you’re able to care for a teenage girl who’s gone through the sort of attacks and abuse this girl has gone through-”

“That’s why I asked for your help, I wasn’t going to leaveher there-”

“But the way they got her papers through so quickly, and how fast they were to trust her to you, they didn’t give you time to actually think about your decision-”

“Because she was indanger there, of course they wanted me to take her and I already spoke with her case manager and got cleared, I’ve got the papers already-”

“But I’m telling you, that process should take months even without it being a child from out of country and you’re not even a parent, you’re a half sibling!-”

“Obviously this was under extraordinary circumstances-”

“I know that, but I just want to make sure they didn’t take advantage of you and force you to take this girl in-”

She patted one of the dogs that came to greet her, the dog letting out a huff of a ‘whoof’ as it promptly climbed into her lap, another dog, bigger, sniffed at the free hand she offered curiously. As quiet as it was, it made the room go quiet. She heard Will’s steps come close and glanced up at him as she scratched the dog’s chin. A small dog, pale fur, underbite. The bigger dog had sat down near her, plopping a paw on her foot was mostly white with a brown spot and big standing ears.

“How long-...Did you hear that?” he asked quietly. She peered at him through her lashes for a moment, nodding as she turned her gaze back to the dog lying imperiously in her lap. He crouched down in front of her, reaching towards her but faltering before he actually made contact. “I wasn’t pressured or forced to take you in. I did it because I chose to. Because I wanted to.” he told her softly.

...Which was nice, but she would have come even if he was forced or had his arm twisted, she wouldn’t have said ‘no’ to spare his feelings. At worst, he would take her being a witch badly and she’d be sent off to a magical household away from him.

She didn’t want that to happen, to be clear. But she was distinctly aware that it might happen. She heard Ms. Bloom wander closer, spotting her and a slightly startled, slightly guilty look came over her face.

“That’s- I didn’t mean anything towards you-” she began, tone gentle as though she were talking to some quivering delicate waif but solid, not wavering or halting.

Waif she still might be, she was hardly going to blow over at something like that.

“I think you should go.” Will said, head turned to the side but keeping his eyes straight so he looked at neither of them, tone tense.

“Will-”

“Alana.” he said more firmly.

Ms. Bloom looked at her in polite-adult-concern, then at Will in slightly deeper personal-concern (which was understandable; she was his friend not hers) before saying her goodbyes and leaving in a hurry, glancing back before disappearing out of sight. She heard the door shut and turned her attention back to Will who had a frown on his face.

“I understand where she was coming from. She’s your friend after all.” she told him and he frowned at her too.

“That’s no excuse for what she was saying. And what adults do don’t have anything to do with you-” he paused, “It’s not- even if I was, and I wasn’t, that wouldn’t be your fault. You don’t have to- to take responsibility for the adults around you.” he impressed to her.

It was a nice thought anyways. He seemed to see that thought on her face somewhere in the few moments he took to look directly in her face because he let out a short sigh through his nose.

“You might not believe me now, but we...We can work on that.”

“Okay. What’s this one’s name?” she asked, blatantly changing topics and he shot her a slightly frustrated, wry look before reaching out to ruffle the dog’s ears.

“That’s Zoe. Kinda call her Underbite more than her name. He’s Jack. C’mon, you can meet the rest.”

xXx

Auror Roche was a tall man, burly and broad but stooped down to let the dogs sniff his hands. Official Harkaway, a cheerful man who Auror Roche was escorting, had the files for Will to sign and she sat primly as they all sat in the den. Official Sanchez had sharp, keen eyes that seemed to catch every detail as they were let into the house after flashing badges and explaining their visit. They’d been given three days, enough for them to get over any lag and before any accidental slip-ups could really occur.

“We felt it best to bring this with us rather than send it in the mail, especially with the main goal of this meeting,” Harkaway blathered, his suit jewel-teal toned and his tie a sunny yellow color in stark contrast to the black suit and gray tie Sanchez wore that fit her solemn face. “But before we can get to any of that, we must proceed with our main goal.” he slid over a stapled stack of paper. Was that the norm here instead of parchment, she wondered?

“Is this...An NDA?”

“Essentially, yes.” Harkaway chirped, grinning widely. “Please, feel free to take your time in reading it but it is unfortunately a necessary precaution given the nature of the situation.”

Mimosa watched him flip through the papers, eyes scanning quickly and brow puckered. He did, however, warily grab a pen from his pocket and signed his name.

“Does she-?” his eyes flicked towards her and Harkaway laughed.

“No no, not at all! I’ll take that, thank you.” he slid the papers Will signed into a slim manila folder. “Well, let’s begin shall we?” he pulled out another file to set on the table, then pulled out his wand and a marble, setting it on the floor. “I am going to turn that marble into a vase.” he declared, “It will involve a flash of light from this.” he raised his wand pointedly and then as he said, cast a transfiguration spell to turn the marble into a vase. Will startled, immediately on his feet and partially in front of her. Auror Roche, who had never sat down, was alert at his movements. “Ta-da! Magic!” Harkaway said, entirely ignoring the tense man in front of him.

“What did you- what did you do? How did you do that?”

“Well I turned the marble into a vase, like I said. And, I used a spell. Which is magic. Because I’m a wizard. My colleagues, Auror Roche is one as well and Ms. Sanchez is a witch. As is young Miss Potter, who might become your ward depending on the outcome of today’s meeting.”

“I’m sure you are aware of the long periods of absence in Miss Potter’s records?” Sanchez broke into the conversation briskly, wand out and a mutter and a flash undoing Harkaway’s spell. The man scooped the marble back up to stuff in his pocket with an easy smile.

“I- yes.” Will answered, clearly still bewildered and still protectively half in front of her.

“A lot of that time was because I was at Hogwarts- my boarding school. And because it’s a magic boarding school, there’s no records and no way I could have told anyone about it in the hospital.” she said behind him and he glanced back at her, though his eyes were quick to return to their guests. “I’m sorry I couldn’t mention anything about it earlier.”

“And good that she didn’t! She’d be breaking the biggest rule of all! The International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy.” Harkaway pushed forward the papers he’d pulled out alongside the marble. “An important law to be sure.” he said, jovial. “Came in popular most especially after all the Salem business and the mass of witch hunts. Religious zealots, you know?”

Sanchez cleared her throat sharply and pointedly.

“Oh, but no offense if you partake in that kind of thing of course! Christianity, I mean.” he laughed airily.

“That paper,” Sanchez nodded towards the small booklet ‘that paper’ pertained to, “Is to ensure your part in the secrecy end of that law. If you do not feel you can keep that secret or if you feel the thought of a magical child in your household is unfeasible,” her dark eyes glittered in blatant disdain at the latter option, “Then we shall take temporary custody of Miss Potter and find her a new household.”

“Naturally we’d prefer that not to happen given what you’ve already gone through to bring her here but it has happened before that an unknowing No-Maj, that is to say, non-magical, has denied magical children. It’s a situation we’d like to avoid, understandably.”

“That’s-” Will slowly eased back into his seat. “Does that have to do with,” he glanced at her, “What happened to her? These...Magical people?” he asked, mouth twisting but his eyes darted to the floor where the momentarily-vase shaped marble had been.

“Miss Potter?” Sanchez’s eyes were a bit softer on her, her voice a bit kinder.

She tangled her fingers together, the feeling still...A little strange at the lack. She nodded and Harkaway pulled out more papers.

Old papers. Old newspapers. And all of them pertaining to her.

...Piled together like this, it was alarming actually. She knew she was...The Girl-Who-Lived but she was just...Who wants to know all these things about a child?

“These are from our colleague overseas. Miss Potter, you see, is actually very famous over there from the looks of it.”

“Because of an attack on her as a baby.” Sanchez’s lips pursed, voice sharp. “A blood-purity cult that led a civil war in the U.K.’s magical sector targeted her family. She survived, the cult leader died, and she was hailed as the Girl-Who-Lived and an icon of the end of that civil war. There seems to have been a recent resurgence of those cultists, the most prominent including the assault and murder of the Dursleys whom she was unlawfully placed with in the first place, the murder of Sirius Black and most recently, a brazen attack on a public wizarding market street that injured over a dozen bystanders and culminated in the abduction and presumed death of Miss Potter.” she said succinctly. And, really, for as short a summary as could be Mimosa couldn’t really say it was inaccurate per se.

But most of Mimosa’s attention was on one particular headline that backed up the woman’s words of ‘presumed death’.

She’d been assumed dead. Mr. Hopkirk had mentioned that it was a possibility that the wixen side would need to be told she had died to best free her from the growing shadow of Voldemort and his followers but it was another thing to see blatant evidence of it.

...Her friends thought she was-

Her fingers worried over themselves, hidden in her sleeves. She watched, keen to focus on anything else, as her brother reached forward towards the papers, still looking supremely wary.

“You know,” Official Harkaway began conversationally, “I’m honestly surprised that there weren’t laws against this. I mean, since you’re a minor.” he said as the papers spread out on the table. “Then again, a lot of things seem pretty backwards back there.” he shrugged easily.

If she was asked about anything else they were saying, she didn’t think she’d be able to recall, desperately glancing around the room and stroking the dog that jumped up to rest in her lap again.

Eventually they left, a business card left clutched in Will’s hand as the silence after however long it took, she couldn’t really tell, that it was just them again.

“...I wasn’t allowed to talk about it.” she said softly, not sure what else to say. He’d been told, reminded again that if he felt he was unfit that she could be relocated.

But if Voldemort tried to dig deep enough, if he got just the wrong scrap of information, Will might be targeted.

And if she was relocated, she couldn’t protect him.

“It- doesn’t change anything.” he said. “I just…” he scrubbed at his temples. “It’s just kind of…”

“I thought magic being real was pretty crazy at first too.” she sympathized. “I mean, it explained a lot of things I guess, me being a witch, but I only really learned about it when I was eleven. Aunt Petunia didn’t want any freakishness. Magic.” she spilled out, nervous and antsy.

“It’s not freakishness.” Will turned towards her, brows furrowed and eyes surprisingly sharp. “If it’s- if it’s enough that they have their own branches of government and a hidden society and- and everything, then it’s not freaky. It’s just...Different.” he said, clearly trying to fit this new worldview in but trying to console her still.

Hers pulsed inside her. He might change his mind later when he actually comprehended the breadth of everything that was explained today, but it was too late for that, she thought as she looked at him hungrily. Will didn’t see it at least, eyes and frown now looking down at the other packet he’d received. Official Sanchez had explained that it was usually given to the family of muggleborns and had a list of resources and national hotlines and keywords to use at governmental buildings. Another packet that was specifically a local version that had hidden pockets of stores and the like that could help.

The Dursleys had already known about magic and Violet was a special case anyways and she’d never asked or heard about Hermione’s parents getting something like this. Was it an American thing?

As it stood, in about a week a team of ward-makers would come to set some wards up. Some were a little...More specialized, given the nature of her rushed immigration and that she was a minor.

She wasn’t sure what else to say, or if she should.

...Her friends-

“C’mon. We’ll go to a diner tonight.” Will said, already shuffling the packets together and turning to grab his coat. She blinked up at him.

“Okay.”