Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

You couldn’t believe it. You were frothing with rage, angrier than you might have ever been in your life.

Your fingers trembled with it, electric fury zipping up and down your wiry arms. Looming in your parents’ bedroom, your mom futzed about with an enormous quantity of bags strewn over the thinning duvet. Duffel bags, a hiking pack, that knapsack you stained with Pepsi Zero in sixth grade. A ratty blue suitcase. She zipped it shut. Her fingers trembled, too.

Finally, you forced your jaw to move. “You cannot be fucking serious.”

“Language,” your mom replied, without missing a beat. Without even looking at you. You crushed sharp half-moons into your palms. Always, this insufferable policing! Her drab floral dress, vaguely turquoise and faded with age, swished around her calves.

“That’s all you have to say.” You had your fury locked down in a bear trap but it was tearing at the teeth. “So, what—Dad chewed you out again and that’s it? That was the final straw?”

She dragged the suitcase to the floor with a loud thunk. Then she did look at you. Her gaze was frosty. “Yes. And I think that’s quite reasonable. I’ve had enough of his—!” She clamped her thin lips over the curse. “I should have done it years ago. I should have thrown him out the second he got himself sacked.”

Should have thrown him out when he threatened to beat you for wearing fishnet tights to a Halloween party. But no, of course, this was her final straw. Not bodily harm to her then-underaged daughter. Then again, your dad found her adding broccoli to the dinnertime soup a few nights ago and called her a cunt to her face, so you couldn’t blame her entirely.

“You should have,” you replied, the words hissing on the way out. “Four years ago, when I wasn’t this close to graduation!” The trembling had gotten stronger, rocking your vocal cords, contorting the end of your phrase into a trill. You were so hot—the whole room felt like a sauna.

She’d moved on to the duffel bags, stuffing an ugly pair of shoes and a peppermint-scented Yankee Candle into the bulging fabric. The zipper protested pitifully. “I refuse to spend another minute in that man’s house. Get your things, pack your bags, and quit pestering me!”

Despite spending most of your time since age eleven several states away at Ilvermorny, you’d seen the divorce coming plain as day. It was impossible not to, with how your parents screamed at one another for years upon years. And how your dad was perhaps the worst person you’d ever met. They were better off apart, certainly, but that wasn’t the problem.

“Is there no one you could stay with in America? So I don’t have to move halfway across the world!?”

Your mother shook her head vehemently, fighting with the duffel zip. Her sleeves flew up with the effort, revealing the splotchy burn scars under the threadbare blue cloth. The sight of them worsened both your moods. “You know damn well we can’t afford that.” She was right, and you hated it. “Your grandmother already agreed to take us in.”

Us. We. You put your foot down. “I’m not going.”

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m not. I have a life, I have friends, and I don’t want to quit magic school to go and be a checkout girl in Liverpool!”

The duffel bag zipped shut, and the back zipper exploded open. The peppermint candle tumbled out and shattered on the grubby wood floor. It must have been your mom’s second last straw of the week because swore bloody murder, threw up her hands, and yelled, “FINE! Stay with your father, then! See if I care!”

That was a truly awful idea. Your dad was an unemployed deadbeat who bitched and yelled at the Olympic level. Without your mom’s job to support the family who knew how you’d keep the lights on. But quitting Ilvermorny felt like cutting off your own arm. You were someone else, in the austere castles and evergreen woods—not a washed-up gas station attendant from Pennsylvania. And now you really really wanted to win an argument.

Against your better judgement, you steeled yourself. Your mom had since launched into a tirade about how ungrateful you were, how you never appreciate anything she did for you, how you were just like your father, which you interrupted, sharply raising your hand in a silencing motion. “Alright then! I suppose. I. Will.”

Your mother opened her mouth to dress you down as loudly as she could, but instead she snapped her mouth shut. She leveled a stare. “Get out.”

Wordlessly, you left, impotent and furious.

Settling on your bed, tears pricked at the squint of your eyes. You were eighteen now—you would leave and get your own place if you could afford it. But the Lukoil only offered part-time shifts, and going to magic school meant you didn’t even have a high school degree. The owner, a fifty-something guitar freak named Denis, paid you in cash under the table because he knew your mom in high school.

Everything will be fine, you thought emphatically, shaking your head to clear it. You flopped onto your bed and kicked your legs, staring at the ceiling. Living with your dad would only be for a few months, and who knew how long you’d be stuck in Liverpool? Britain was a whole other beast… their magic school might not even take you.

Just a few months. You’d survive.

You didn’t last three weeks.

Your mom knew you well enough to know you might change your mind. She’d left your grandmother’s phone number scribbled on an old business card and taped to the bathroom mirror. After the seventh screaming match in four days you called, beginning with a calculated you were right. You knew it was all she needed to hear.

She acquiesced. Smugly. You were on a plane the very next day.

“There’s a letter for you, Y/N,” wheezed your grandmother, moving to extract herself from her rocking chair as you clattered down the stairs. Waking up for the first time in your grandmother’s house was jarring. It was cramped, shabby, and the walls were peeling, but it was blessedly quiet.

You waved her back down, zipping to her side. “Really? From who?”

She hummed, gesturing to the coffee table, where the day’s mail had been thrown. “No idea.”

From the pile of Sainsbury’s coupons and campaign ads, you extracted a thick, cream-coloured envelope.

MISS Y/N L/N
Her Grandmother’s Spare Bedroom,
12 Heartford Rd,
Wavertree,
LIVERPOOL

By September you were boarding the train to Hogwarts.

Dreadful name, but they had a wonderful headmaster. Somehow he’d learned of your plight and invited you to register as a transfer student. No need for you to handle the business with Ilvermorny—you couldn’t have gotten luckier. After handing a quick, enthusiastic response to a bedraggled owl who’d been waiting outside your door, it returned a few days later with a gifted copy of Hogwarts: A History.

It was your companion for the train ride, in fact. Thick, cream-coloured pages slid like water under your fingertips. This was your third read-through, but it had already become your magical Bible.

Hogwarts was founded in the tenth century by four great wizards: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. The school is divided into four houses, each originally led by one founder. Gryffindors are brave, Hufflepuffs kind, Ravenclaws clever, and Slytherins ambitious.

Like at Ilvermorny, there were four houses which grouped students by personality, but that was where the similarities ended. Instead of being selected for driving personality traits, Ilvermorny students were chosen by affinity for one of four vocations: adventurer, healer, scholar, and warrior.

Eleven-year-old you, wide-eyed information sponge that you were, was tossed into Horned Serpent, the house of scholars. That lined up the best with Ravenclaw. You had a small group of friends there, but they were all very quiet, spending most of their time studying instead of going out and having fun. Perhaps this time around, you’d be sorted somewhere new.

The remaining houses mapped onto one another less neatly. Hufflepuff was probably Pukwudgie, the house of healers, since it was the kindest vocation. However, the last two were a total wash. Thunderbird and Wampus favoured adventurers and warriors respectively, two very brave—and therefore Gryffindor—vocations. You supposed warriors needed to be braver than adventurers, but ambition in the way Salazar Slytherin seemed to imagine it wasn’t very Thunderbird. Going by animal, Slytherins were represented by snakes… but Horned Serpent was most accurately Ravenclaw, so that didn’t work either.

You traced over the entry on Slytherin with your finger. Something about the House was strangely alluring, not just because it was unique among all Ilvermorny’s options. Ambition was such a strange thing to filter for compared to kindness and bravery. Might it be a more appropriate place than Ravenclaw…?

You mulled it over, sinking into the plush, burgundy seats of the Hogwarts express. Getting to Ilvermorny was never this glamorous. The only sound was the gentle chug of the train and the muffled chatter of students in their cabins.

You could feel your true self finally returning, after months of being frayed. Something special in your parents brought out the worst in you. Like a wild bull stabbed by a matador. You hadn’t seen eye-to-eye, frankly, since your magic had awakened. They’d never really known what to do with you. It had freaked them out from day one… arguably for good reason.

You put that out of your mind. The train’s pleasant rocking lulled you into a meditative half-sleep—this was a good time to reflect on the pertinent question.

Am I ambitious?

Well… you’d jumped at the chance to go to Ilvermorny and get out of your parents’ house, but what kid wouldn’t? You tried your best to learn more, find a way to ingratiate yourself in wizarding society… but your goals were pretty small. Just avoiding immediate problems, i.e. your dad. You weren’t exactly gunning for a proposal from one of those magical Boston nouveau riche—now that you considered it, you kind of wish you had. Damn it.

You sighed. ‘Ring by spring’ was all well and good, but your Ilvermorny classmates all knew who you were. A bumbling No-Maj-born kid who marvelled at the white stone walls and tables that moved by themselves. No money, no prospects. Pretty, but in a Midwest kind of way. Dusty and flighty, the kind of girl you rolled around without asking her name, sticky with the excesses of sweat and the Blarney afterparty. Carried away by the wind come morning, disappearing back to her small town, in a blink, forgotten. The plan never would have worked.

Trying to stay and finish school in Ilvermorny was pretty ambitious. True, but it also was a colossal failure. So perhaps you were ambitious, just bad at it. That seemed like a fair conclusion. Although, being around ambitious people might help you find more success… and hey, reading between the lines of the book, Slytherin was founded mostly as the house of rich people. There had to be some kind of benefit to that, right?

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. This was silly. According to Hogwarts, A History, students were sorted by a sentient hat, so you would just let it pronounce you Ravenclaw and be done with—

Then you saw it.

The Hogwarts Express had chugged into its home stretch, rolling onto a stony bridge overlooking a great, black sea. Across the inky waves was it. An enormous stone castle, towers layered on top of one another like a living thing; mountainous, spiraling, thick slabs of stone weathered by the weight of centuries. Moonlight bathed it in a silver cloak and fiery, golden light bloomed from its windows. At once you lost your breath, drowning in awe—love—terror—envy—need.

A fire ripped from your core, shooting upwards and scorching your throat. Smoke poured from your mouth, you gasped for air, bending to the screaming, undeniable echo in your mind: That is who I am meant to be.

Hogwarts was a living fabric of infinite possibility. Ilvermorny was a sickly imitation. The castle had grown out of something ancient, eternal, powerful. You felt like a child again, when your magic awakened, watching fire erupt from your hands with nothing but your own will.

You could scarcely believe your luck. With one look you never wanted to leave, but you got to live within its walls, in this world, for a whole year—

Your stomach dropped. Just one year. And then you’d be gone. Carried away by the wind.

Something hardened in your centre. The same one that rooted you to the spot in the fight with your mother, but deeper, heavier, wilder. You weren’t going back to yellowed wallpaper, rotting bookshelves, empty fridges. Someway, somehow, you’d have a piece of that magic. It would be good. It would be right.

Perhaps you did belong in Slytherin.

Now, to plan.

The Express came to a screeching halt, jolting you sharply from your thoughts. There wasn’t much time, so The Plan was half-formed, but an outline would have to suffice for now. Parting the privacy curtain in your cabin, you marched to battle.

Fortunately, your wizarding robes were new. The latest fashion, according to the magazine you'd ordered them from—perhaps the first time you'd ever been trendy. Your hair was nice, and you'd swiped on some mild makeup for your first day. You might be able to fool someone from a distance if you played it cool.

How do rich people act, again?

You stepped assuredly off the train, even though you didn't know where you were going, which seemed enough like rich-person behaviour. Hogwarts Station was a jungle of sound—chattering students, wheels grinding on the track, lakewater railing against the whispery grey cobblestone. The castle caught your eye once more and you couldn't help but stare, its enormity rippling through you in great, spiraling shivers.

“You're new,” said a high, yet masculine voice from behind you. It took everything in you not to flinch.

Shit. The Plan wasn't finished enough to test on people. You turned your head to find a pale, sharp-boned boy sidling up to you. He smiled in a peculiar, lopsided kind of way, but his brows were narrowed.

“That I am,” you replied, and immediately his expression morphed into surprise. Ah—the accent.

“You’re American?” He remarked, the same as he would Atlantean. By now two of his friends had gotten bored and wandered over to him. He jerked an arm at one. “Crabbe, check this. She's American.” Fucking hell, not more people!

Despite your heartbeat doubling in pace, you put on a mask of charmed indifference, rolling your eyes and giggling politely. “Crazy, right?” you replied, playing up the accent. It got the reaction you were expecting. “I just transferred in. So far—” perhaps it's best to be truthful “—I'm impressed.” You flashed your warmest possible smile.

The lowlight must be working wonders for you. The boy flushed slightly, a dust of red brushing up his cheeks, nearly to the roots of his shock-blond hair.

“Hogwarts is all well and good—a bit shabby, if you ask me, really—but you should see my manor in Wiltshire.” He preened, shooting you another of what you realized now was an attempted nonchalant smirk. “We keep a very clean house.”

Inwardly, you tensed. A manor? Were all Hogwarts students secretly rich, or was your luck downright terrible?

You nodded. “I’d be delighted to see it, I’m sure.” He grinned, cheeks growing just the slightest bit rosier.

The blond stuck out an arm for a shake. “Malfoy,” he said proudly, like he expected you to know it already. “Draco Malfoy.”

Before you took his hand, there was a tap on your shoulder. You turned to see a tall, slender woman had manifested behind you.

There was no need to ask for her name, as one of Draco’s friends, a dark-haired girl, exclaimed, “Good evening, Professor Sinistra.”

Dark-skinned with full, mauve-tinted lips and foxlike brown eyes, Sinistra cast an intense, but beautiful figure. She was taller than you, looming over your shoulder with quiet poise. Her effect, so it seemed, wasn’t exclusive—Draco had dropped his hand, and had taken on a more schooled expression. He nodded her way. “Professor.”

“It’s nice to see our student body be so welcoming to newcomers,” said Sinistra. Her voice was low and smooth, like water on river stones. “But I have to get this one Sorted.” She put a cool hand on your shoulder. With the other, she gestured at Draco and his group. “Run along now. It wouldn’t do to be late for supper.”

Studiously, Draco’s party turned on their heels and scurried towards the castle. Tension you weren’t even aware of eased out of your body. Now your head felt light, and your limbs vaguely gooey.

Sinistra, conversely, was warm and spry. “Welcome to Hogwarts,” she intoned, ushering you into a brisk clip toward the castle yourselves. “There is a lot to cover in very little time, but I imagine you will learn much by doing.”

You nodded along, struggling to keep up with Sinistra’s long strides. “Dumbledore sent me a copy of Hogwarts, A History.”

“As usual, he is wonderfully prescient. In the book, most everything is covered. I am glad to hear I won’t find you tripping over the shifting staircase.”

The closer you drew to Hogwarts, the more mystical it became. Enormous towers stretched into the clouds, imposing as a mountain. Instead of passing through the main door with the rest of the student body, Sinistra swerved you to the side through a back door overrun with snarling roots and wide, glossy leaves.

“I apologize for not introducing myself sooner,” said Sinistra, swinging the door shut and waving her wand, casting a silent, presumably locking charm. “I am Aurora Sinistra, your Astronomy professor.”

She extended a hand, which you shook, and gave her your name.

Sinistra smiled. “The Headmaster said as much.” She took you by the shoulder again and urged you down a cramped, stone hallway that twisted wildly, like an enormous snake. “Come, we have much to do in very little time. Hogwarts takes transfer students very rarely, and hardly ever those in their final year. Unfortunately, you and I will have to miss the first meal; it would be hardly appropriate to send you around with a gaggle of first years. I will give you a brief tour myself.”

That you were grateful for. The last thing you wanted was to trail behind a bunch of eleven-year-old freshmen like an oversized puppy. “Will I be sorted today?”

Sinistra nodded. “Soon. Once the tour is complete, Headmaster Dumbledore will return with the Hat.”

The tour passed quickly. Fortunately, most of the rooms were a little familiar after all your read-throughs of Hogwarts, A History, like wandering through Disneyland after bingeing the classic three. Professor Sinistra was a fox on her feet, skittering from room to room with mirth gleaming behind her dark eyes, not fully obstructed by her generalized professionalism. You almost regretted selecting Astronomy during registration—undoubtedly, when you became concretely student and teacher, this childlike friendliness would disappear.

After identifying the relevant locales—dorm towers, Great Hall, library, bathrooms, multitudinous forbidden areas—Sinistra whisked you into the Potions classroom. It was cozier than at Ilvermorny, whose potion lab was sterile and white. Here, there were real oak desks, iron teaching cauldrons, and ingredients bursting from little glass bottles lining the dusty shelves.

“Headmaster Dumbledore will be arriving shortly,” said Professor Sinistra, leaning on the Potions teacher’s desk. “We will just have to wait for him—there is not a lot to say about the Potions classroom that you would not already know. Are you taking Potions?”

You nodded. It wasn’t your best subject, that was Defense Against the Dark Arts, but you were on track for the NEWT.

“Good, then. Our Potions teacher, Professor Snape, sets out all the ingredients ahead of class. You will not have to go hunting around—in fact I recommend that you do not try that at all. He is rather… touchy about his storeroom.”

Sinistra looked nervous just thinking about it. You nodded again. Got it. Don’t fuck with Snape.

The door swung open before Sinstra could elaborate.

Somehow, Dumbledore looked exactly like you were expecting. Something in his handwriting evoked the soft, wise voice of a strong, but kindly old wizard. Clutched in his hand was a rough mass of burlap, that you recognized immediately. The Plan could begin again.

“Headmaster!” Exclaimed Professor Sinistra. “Your timing is impeccable. Our tour has just finished.”

“Good evening,” he said, voice light and mild. “I was afraid to be running a little late. The Hat had quite a lot to sing about this year!” The Headmaster settled the hat on one of the desks and turned his gaze to you. “Miss L/N. I am glad to see you in person. No difficulties on the way to Hogwarts, I trust?”

You shook your head. “Nothing to worry about.” You only had to stalk the post leading to platform Nine-And-Three-Quarters for a few minutes until a wizarding family wandered in. You’d followed behind them.

“Aurora is dying for a spot of supper, I’m sure, and I imagine you are much the same. Shall we begin with the proceedings?”

You steeled yourself. Step One: Get Sorted Into Slytherin.

Dumbledore explained the sorting process to you, pulling out the chair at the desk on which the Hat was perched. “Take a seat here,” he gestured, “And the Sorting Hat will sort you into one of our four houses.” He gave you a knowing look, eyes twinkling. “You know of this already, I trust?”

You nodded, giving him a small smile. “Read all about it.”

With an answering smile, Dumbledore settled the hat’s large brim on your head. It slipped below your eyes and suddenly you were in a deep, black void.

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Elsewhere.

Malfoy Manor was a cool, dark place, and Lucius loved it that way.

His ancestors were staunchly committed to aesthetic consistency, something Lucius was raised to appreciate. The Malfoy colours splashed on the family crest, silver and emerald green, highlighted the walls and carpeted the floors. The effect was stark; the rich brown of his work-desk appeared lighter and sharper, the wood grain in crisp relief, and even the sunlight had a cooler, whiter hue.

Lucius scratched his signature into the letter he’d just finished. The Gastrell Museum of Fine Arts had requested a donation, which he was happy to oblige. Narcissa had mentioned redecorating the reading room, and the painting taking up most of the north wall was too blue to suit her new vision.

Or, was it too morose? He stamped the letter with his signet ring and rose, stretching his legs. Lucius could barely recall—Narcissa had only mentioned it in passing. He should ask her when they next saw one another.

He strode toward the owlery—a menial task he wouldn’t have to do if Harry Potter hadn’t freed his blasted house-elf, but the exercise was pleasant. Rounding the corner, Lucius was surprised to run into Narcissa taking her leave from it.

“Lucius,” she said, a touch startled. “You’re home.”

He nodded. “I returned a few hours ago.” She nodded, so he continued on. “Draco made it onto the train alright, I trust?”

“He did. I hardly need to accompany him anymore—Gregory and Vincent sweep him up as soon as he arrives.”

That warmed Lucius to hear. “Was Pansy there?”

“She’s always there. You know how girls are with their betrotheds—it hasn’t exactly clicked for Draco yet, I don’t think.”

Narcissa was hardly falling all over him when their parents first made the marriage agreement. She kept a cool head; it was one of the things he liked about her. “I see,” he said mildly. “Care for a drink? I’ve finished all my business for the day.”

She stepped away from him, out into the hallway. “No thank you. I have an early morning tomorrow. Alcohol wouldn’t be the best idea.”

Lucius shrugged. “Tea, then?” He proposed to her retreating back.

“I need to sleep. Goodnight, Lucius.”

She turned the corner, and the click of her heels soon faded into quiet. In the empty doorway, Lucius sighed. He’d ask about the painting tomorrow, then.

Narcissa was always colder when Draco was out of the house, and he’d be home before long at Yule. And there was work to do in the interim.

The things one does for family. He entered the owlery without another backward glance.

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The void wasn’t as empty as it had seemed.

Well, well! A croaky voice echoed in your head. A transfer student, eh? Not often we get any a’ those… Let’s see…

Immediately, you were straightforward. I’d like to be in Slytherin, you thought.

A strange noise resounded through your mind, like the rhythmic squeak of an old trampoline. It took you a moment to realise the Hat was laughing. Slytherin! No, that won’t do. That won’t do at all.

You frowned, as much as you could in a mindscape. Already things were panning out worse than you’d anticipated. Why not? They’re characterized by ambition, resourcefulness… it fits best over all the others.

Yes, yes… It groused. There was silence for a small moment. An oppressive silence, suffocating. ...But you’re a muggleborn, girl.

Why should that matter?

The trampoline sound returned. Then the Hat explained—you hated what you learned.

That’s stupid.

Yes it is. An astute observation, eh? Fancy Ravenclaw?

You tried and failed to scoff. An unfortunate mindscape limitation. Let me into Slytherin.

When they find out you’re a muggleborn, you’ll find Slytherin a very lonely House, girl.

You were resolute. They won’t find out.

That gave the Hat some pause. Oh?

Without exposing the whole plan—who knew if the Hat would talk—you thought about that magical feeling of seeing the castle along the water, and your conversation with Draco. I lied once. I can do it again.

That was a little lie. A very little lie.

A start is a start.

Silence returned, as stifling as before. This space, without the Hat to warm it, was lonely, empty, nothing.

A whole house, for a whole year, can ye? It replied.

Yes.

The trampoline was louder and creakier. Ambitious. Very, very ambitious.

You waited with bated breath.

Good luck, girl.

“SLYTHERIN!” The hat cried, and you shot up in your seat, aflame, awake, alive.

The Feast was excellent. Shame that you skipped it entirely.

Sinistra’s stomach was growling by the time she showed you to the Slytherin dorms. A portrait kept the door locked, only allowing entry to those who knew the password. Slytherin’s painting was of a man in a billowing grey cloak, its edges painstakingly embroidered, and a locket around his neck. In her haste, you and the portrait didn’t stop for conversation; Sinistra simply tossed the password, ‘lifeblood,’ in his direction as you approached, and dutifully the door swung open.

The common room was pretty, soaked in tasteful greens, silvers, and mahogany, but you paid little attention. Scurrying up the left-side staircase to the girls’ dorm, you called back down to Sinistra that everything was fine, she should head to the Feast, you’d come once you were done exploring, and you really weren’t that hungry anyway. She didn’t take much convincing.

As soon as she disappeared around the corner, you bolted to the library.

Like before, there wasn’t a living soul in the room. Fortunately, librarians also need to eat. Every creaking step made you cringe, shivers scraping up and down your spine—while you weren’t technically breaking any rules, you certainly didn’t want questions.

Fortunately, you only had to wander the musty aisles for a few minutes before finding what you were looking for.

In a lonely corner of the library, harbouring dust so thick you were certain the caretakers had forgotten it was real, was Genealogy. A cursory glance showed that the section was once well-loved, beams filigreed and coated in green paint that had peeled ages ago. Perhaps Salazar had dumped a potful of Galleons into it. He seemed the type to care.

All the shelves were sagging with the weight of several enormous books, pages thick and yellowed. One set documented all the notable families in Britain’s wizarding world, with volumes dating back to the eleventh century. Jeez. You didn’t need info that old—the mid-seventeen hundreds were as late as you needed.

Step Two: Reinvent Yourself.

It was true that Slytherin would be a lonely place for a Muggleborn… but you weren’t a Muggleborn. Not anymore.

You grabbed one of the enormous genealogical records, dated 1701–1799, back nearly snapping at the weight. After plonking it on the desk, you grabbed another book, microscopic by comparison, titled Wizarding Families in the Modern Age. You’d have to know it cover to cover.

From this day forward, you were someone else. Y/N L/N wasn’t a broke gas station attendant from Carlbridge, Pennsylvania, oh no. She was from somewhere else—Vermont, that would be nice. Lush and green, just like the hills speckling the route to Hogwarts. You’d always wanted to live in Vermont. You were a pure-blooded girl, not exactly noble, but not nobody. Respectable. Worthy of highborn connections. Courtable, even.

Visions of BYU girls flashed across your mind, smiling from the glossy magazine print on the admissions flyers sprayed into all your neighbours’ mailboxes. Ring by spring. No, you wouldn’t stoop that low.

Back to the matter at hand. There was no way of getting around your last name. All the professors would call you Miss L/N, and asking them to call you something else would bring undue scrutiny. However, to your benefit, no one knew anything about your parents. Your mother could be anyone.

To start, you flipped through Wizarding Families in the Modern Age. You’d need a good baseline.

According to the book, there were a great number of pure blooded families floating around Britain, but the only ones that really mattered were the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Those were the old-money families, the ones with enough wealth to really worry about this sort of thing. Important to note for someone trying to fake being one of them. The author, Guinevere Nott, had provided a helpful table—Abbott, Avery… Fawley… Longbottom, MacMillan—

You stopped dead. It was right there in plain ink.

Malfoy.

Wasn’t that—that guy you met outside the Express, wasn’t he—?

You let out a deep, tense breath. Well. Shit.

Draco was a lot more important than you’d given him credit for. Seizing the book, you flipped to the index and read every page with his name on it.

Coming up for air, you tried to rationalize out of a panic attack.

This is fine, you thought. Perhaps even good. So what if the Malfoys might be the most powerful pureblood family with a kid at Hogwarts—perhaps even on the whole list? So what if Draco was their only son, the sole inheritor to more money than you could possibly imagine? Many families were rich—but no one was Malfoy rich.

Draco was the final boss of a game you hadn’t even finished the tutorial for. If anyone would sniff you out, it would be him. But, of all the people to befriend, he would be the most useful… high risk, very high reward.

You schooled your breath, froze every feature into a mask of blank resolution. Fine. You’d just have to be a very good player.

The thick genealogy book was imposing, but remarkably well-organized. It took some digging, but you earmarked a few pureblood families that left for America. Cross-referencing them took even more time, and you worried you might not be able to finish without violating curfew, but at last you had your list.

First, the Wixtons. Left for greener pastures in colonial America in 1724. They had the unfortunate luck of almost exclusively having daughters; the name was extinct by 1800. Another option was the Belltrees; most of the British ones died of plague, the survivors sailing to America for the sake of their health. Apparently that was sufficient—and they’d intermarried with the Rosiers at some point in history. That was a good tie-in. Finally, there were the Gastrells. Staunch blood purists, they had some falling out with the Fawleys and quit Britain entirely.

You mulled it over, running over the names with your fingertip. They seemed so inconsequential, confined to petite entries in a reference text. Holding within them all the complexity and import of an ant.

Which to choose? The Gastrells seemed a bit too important—and who knew if Draco’s family took the side of the Fawleys. That was too risky a gambit.

The Wixtons were the safest bet, but they may have died out too early for the connection to matter. In all likelihood they’d intermarried with Muggles a decent amount down the line, for the name to have disappeared.

The Belltrees were vaguely pathetic for having died of the plague—but they persisted in America. That showed resilience, didn’t it?

Besides. Your mother’s maiden name was Fernsby. The plant connection felt fitting enough.

Y/N Belltree. It didn’t sound half bad.

You glanced at the clock inlaid above the exit at the far wall. It was past curfew now. Shit. It was five past ten, so you were only behind by a few minutes, but you’d need to be quick. Replacing the books to their respective shelves, you slunk out of the room.

Contrary to your expectations, the hallways were utterly deserted. You’d expected a posse of third- or fourth-years to be scurrying about at the very least. In the dark, the hallways widened, and the shadows leered, inky fingers licking at your ankles.

Navigation was twice as hard without light to go by. Most of your clues were revealed by your other senses; Slytherin dorms were in the dungeon, and slowly but surely the air grew colder. Darkness pressed even deeper. Cold from weathered, earthy stone seeped into your soles.

You reviewed Professor Sinistra’s directions over and over again, convinced you had missed something and made a wrong turn somewhere down a wayward hall, until finally you spotted a lone yellow lamp jutting out of a dark green wall.

Drawing nearer, the wall came into clearer view. Under the lamp was the portrait you were looking for, thank God. You’d made it back, and though you were later than you had wanted, you’d made good time.

Thanks to the rush of Sinistra’s appetite, you hadn’t gotten a good look at the painting’s face. Up close, you found delicate oil brushwork of a sneering man. His hair and beard were cut short, and his cheekbones could have cut glass. Accentuated by his charcoal robes, there was something steely in his silver eyes. Greyer than grey. Sharper than sharp.

“You’re late,” said the portrait. You bowed your head.

“I’m sorry,” you replied. “Lifeblood.”

Unlike before, the portrait stalled before opening. Its icy stare plunged into you. Illuminated only from above by the lamp, he resembled an anglerfish. You felt like prey.

“You’re the transfer student,” it—he—said. He had a frosty voice, and you felt colder just speaking to him. “From across the sea.”

You nodded, shivers ghosting along your neck.

“In my House.”

His gaze never broke yours. You nodded again.

“Peculiar.”

The door swung open.

A handful of students were still awake, some large number of younger ones crowded in a circle on the floor playing cards. A few glanced up when you wandered in, but turned away just as quickly.

Compared to the dungeon-y exterior, inside was much more cozy. Torches dotting the walls painted orange light on the waxy stone, and nearly everywhere was carpeted, rebuffing the chill. Long, intricate tapestries insulated the walls, depicting near-Biblical tableaus of serpents, lions, and men with swords.

Laughter abounded, and chatter filled every other gap. A part of you desperately wanted to settle in and make friends, but the second your foot touched the edge of the common room carpet you were hit with a seismic wave of exhaustion. Psychically, you were spent.

The portrait’s words had spooked you a little, too. Did he know something…?

The air in the common room felt thick, and the idea of pushing through the exhaustion to exchange pleasantries made your nerves scuttle. Tired like you were, perhaps you would let something slip. You couldn’t risk it.

Crawling up the left-hand staircase, you came to the bed Sinistra had shown you. There were your suitcases, just as you had left them.

Most of the surrounding beds were empty, the remaining seventh-year girls likely catching up with their friends long into the night. A notable exception was the girl across from you. Her privacy curtain had been thrown open by a wayward arm, so you could see the wild honey-blond curls framing her slack face.

You settled into your sheets, throwing the thick green coverlet over your shoulders. The bedspread was cozier than you’d expected—then again, being in a dungeon, the Slytherins would have to bundle up by necessity.

It was… peaceful. Finally, peaceful. No parents, no hubbub, no expectations. For a few blissful hours, there was no performance. The day’s tension melted from your bones, pouring down the bedposts and soaking into the ancient stone floors.

You reviewed the last two steps of the plan, just to be safe.

Step Three: Make Draco Like You.

Just… make friends. Your dad is a regular pure-blood wizard, but your mom is a Belltree. There aren’t many of them left—certainly none in Britain. Aren’t you such a rarity? Aren’t you such a prize?

Perhaps you could befriend that dark-haired girl standing behind Draco. Given her reaction to Professor Sinistra, you might even have Astronomy together. It was as good an opportunity as any.

Step Four: …Use Those Connections To Find A Nice Job In Magical Britain, Preferably One That Makes A Lot Of Money And Lets You Live Near A Castle.

…And that was it. How specific.

Fuck it. You’d flesh it out later. You had already done quite enough today. Honestly, you deserved to feel a little proud.

Turning your face into the silky, golden pillowcase, your lips curved into a small smile.

Sleep claimed you in minutes.