Chapter Text
You were alone in an orphanage before your lungs had properly even learned how to cry.
An infant of only three days old when your mother carried you there, cold and shivering as though death had already taken her by the hand. Her steps weak, but still held purpose. Her skin had lost all memory of warmth or sunlight, and her eyes were hollow.
But her hollow eyes look down at you only.
The woman’s lips were dry and her breath faint, she spoke your name clearly, as if she'd rehearsed it her entire life. With the last of her strength, she handed you over.
The woman reached into her pocket and handed over a locket. A cameo style, far too large for a newborn, hung from a chain worn at the clasp. The matron later admitted she considered selling it, as it might have paid for bread and medicine for a month. But something about it compelled her to keep the necklace with you.
You would never see your mother again. She died shortly after placing you in the matron's arms. But you have always known she loved you. You felt it as surely as you felt your own name, even when no one else dared speak it aloud.
You were not like the other children.
Not because of your heirloom, which you now kept hidden beneath your blouse, or the circumstances of your odd arrival. It was something that was unspoken.
The first incident came when you were only four years old.
It was winter. Frost had crept through every wall of the orphanage. One of the older boys had stolen your precious necklace and pushed you into the snow. Your hands stung, lip bleeding, and tears froze like icicles on your cheeks. But when you looked up at him, something changed. The air had thickened and he had dropped your necklace and ran off with the speed of a spooked rabbit.
A sudden light flickered behind your eyes.
Then every mirror in the orphanage shattered at once.
The adults called it a phenomenon. The matrons crossed themselves and whispered scripture. The other children simply stared. You did not yet have the words for what you had felt only the certainty that it had come from the very core of you.
After that, they called you strange. The odd one. The girl that was best avoided. You learned to sit alone, to keep your hands folded, to speak only when spoken to. The whispers continued, sometimes even among the nuns. One called you the devil's child beneath her breath. Another claimed your birth had been cursed. For that you were outcasted.
The next strange occurrence came when you were eight.
An infestation of lice had spread through the orphanage like wildfire. One by one, every child was shaved bald, regardless of pride or vanity. You sobbed for hours. Your hair had been the one thing you could claim as your own. You cried yourself to sleep that night, clutching your pillow with silent rage.
But by morning, your hair returned twice as long and healthier than ever before. The type of hair ancient queens and princesses would have.
“Witchcraft” they hushed.
No one dared question it. The incident was forgotten. Just like the mirrors. Just like the time the cups exploded without warning… or when the candles that flared when your emotions rose.
However the time you turned eleven, the strange events ceased entirely. Not another flicker. Not another tremble.
But there was one thing remained heavily: your knowing, the oddly good intuition you possess.
It was more than instinct. You knew things. You sensed them before they occurred. Sometimes they came as whispers. Other times as vivid visions, even scents or colours on the air. You could tell when someone was lying. You could feel the pull of danger before it arrived. It wasn't magic in the traditional sense. It was something deeper.
And you lived that way, half-seeing, half-blind, up until you turned sixteen.
The orphanage did not keep girls much longer once they got older. You were not cast out just yet, but the signs were clear. It was only a matter of time. You were expected to find work, a place to stay, and perhaps a husband if you were lucky enough. And so, you took a job kneading dough and sweeping at a bakery in your northern English town. Your hands became raw from the heat. Your skirts were dusted in flour. You ate well enough, thanks to the kindness of the owners, who let you take home whatever was left at closing time.
Still, you often thought of marriage. Not out of romance but survival.
There was one man in particular. More than twice your age, twice your width, and twice the more wealthy than your average working man. He had thinning hair and a crooked smile. He spoke somewhat kindly to you, promised money. You did not love him, but you very nearly said yes.
And then the knock came just as you considered sending a letter to the thin-haired man.
It was late March. Rain poured against the windows and the grey skies had darkened the entire corridor. A stern matron called you downstairs with a blank yet curious expression on her face, her tone unreadable.
You expected to see the man with the crooked smile.
Instead, a stranger stood in the foyer. He was older. His hair silvering. His coat damp from the rain. His expression was one of calm dignity. His presence filled the room — not in the way of men who sought to command it, but in a quieter, gentler way.
"May I speak with her?" he asked softly.
You were led into the a spare room. The man sat carefully and looked at you not with suspicion, nor pity, nor desire — but with something else.
Recognition.
"My name is Eleazar Fig," he said with a nod. "And I am a professor."
You blinked. "A professor of what, sir?"
"Magic Theory."
You stared at him, your brow knitting in confusion. "Have you taken something, sir?"
He chuckled, his eyes crinkling with a kind sort of amusement. "I assure you, I am quite sane. The reason for my arrival is because I believe you are not only a witch, but a rather exceptional one."
You let out a hollow laugh. "That’s what the priest said when I was seven.”
He said nothing. Instead, he lifted a carved stick from within his coat pocket, pointed it at the unlit candle resting on the dresser, and with a flick, the flame burst to life.
You were silent. You eyes must be deceiving you, right?
In your silence, he handed you a letter, a formal invitation to a school called Hogwarts. A school of witchcraft and wizardry.
Professor Fig then explained everything for the next hour — everything from spellcasting, wands, and the history of magic. The ordinary non-magical world you were so familiar with your entire life vanished.
You listened silently, breathlessly.
Then, when he paused, you found yourself speaking.
"I must ask you something, Professor Fig," you said at last.
"By all means," he replied, a soft smile warming his face.
"I think I’m psychic… if that’s even real. I don't know how or why, but... I just know things. Sometimes it's a voice. A flicker. Sometimes I feel it in my chest, like something terrible is coming. I see people before I meet them. I know when someone lies. Always."
Fig tilted his head slightly, intrigued. "That is peculiar. But not unheard of."
"Is it normal? For a witch?"
He hesitated for a moment. "Sometimes. But always trust it. You may well be a seer."
You lowered your gaze, fingers toying with the chain around your neck. "A seer? Like in the books?”
He did not answer at once. Instead, his gaze drifted to the necklace.
"That is a lovely necklace. Where did you get it?” Professor Fig asked.
“I was told my mother gave it to me when she dropped me off here. It’s the only heirloom I own.”
“Your mother? Do you know anything else of her?” He Questioned with a tone of pure curiosity.
“No… I don’t. I was told she died.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry dear. If you like, I could look into some ministry records. Your last name… I swear to Merlin himself I’ve heard that name.” He said
“Merlin?” You question at the unusual interjection.
Eleazar Fig chuckled. “It’s something we witches and wizards say a lot.”
“Do you mind if I have a small look at your necklace? It may hold a clue.”
You nod and unclasp the piece. This isn’t something you trust with many, but your intuition tells you that you can trust this man.
He turned it over in his palm, brows furrowed in quiet concentration. "There seems to be some sort of enchantment... how odd. It’s not cursed thankfully. There’s been too many instances with cursed jewellery. Perhaps it holds some sort of protection? I’ll have a think on it.”
You shivered slightly. "I always felt there was something strange about it. When I’m not wearing it, things feel blurry.”
He looked up sharply. "Blurry?"
“I’m unsure on how to properly word it.”
"That’s quite alright. We can speak of it another time," he said gently. "But not tonight. When we return to my home, may I show this to my wife? She is a magical historian, and I believe she might recognise something I do not."
“Home…?” You questioned.
“Yes, my young student. Home. I can’t just leave you here, can I? Especially a seer.” He chuckled.
You offered him a small, cautious smile. "Thank you, Professor Fig.”
He handed you back your necklace and you it once more around your neck, the chain warm against your skin.
Professor Fig stood and extended a hand to you.
"I would like to offer you temporary guardianship. A place to stay. Till you start school. You have much to learn — and time is short. Just five months until the start of term."
You looked at the man who felt more like a sign than a stranger.
“Yes.”
And that night, you left behind the walls that had both sheltered and stifled you. You stepped out into the storm and followed Professor Fig to a home filled with ticking clocks, floating candles, and the kind smile of Miriam Fig, who welcomed you as though she had known you your whole life.
And thus began the life that had been waiting for you all along.
⸻
You awoke the next morning to a sunlit room and the distant sound of birdsong. The scent of parchment and lavender clung to the air. When you came downstairs, Mrs Fig, or Miriam which she insisted you called her greeted you warmly and placed before you a breakfast so perfect you thought you were still dreaming — a full English breakfast. Perfectly cooked eggs that poached to perfection, perfectly grilled sausage, baked beans, tomatoes, and toast spread with real butter. A meal of luxury you never thought you’d get to experience in this lifetime.
As you tucked in, Miriam sipped her own tea with a smile. Then she set her cup down with a soft clink.
"My husband told me about your necklace," she said. "He mentioned he theorised it certains magical properties. If you're comfortable, I'd very much like to examine it."
You nodded. "Of course. I'd like to know more about it too."
She stood, moving with a slight limp. "Come with me, dear. My study is just down the hall."
You followed her through the corridors. Halfway there, she paused, wincing slightly.
"Are you quite alright?" you asked, concerned.
She brushed it off. "Just a little sore this morning. I had an... accident at work not to long ago. A goblin. Cleverer than I gave him credit for. I escaped, but not without a few reminders. My assistant has been researching in my place.”
She gripped the doorframe and opened it into a study filled with glowing globes, shelves of ancient books, and several other artefacts.
She gestured to a chair near the hearth. You sat and unclasped the necklace once again handing it to her.
Miriam held the cameo gently. "It's exquisite," she murmured. "though aged, is still vibrant. Goblin silver? And the wax carving here...". "Is it beeswax? Shellac? I can't place it."
She stepped back with a quiet laugh. "Well. Stubborn little thing."
"What does that mean?"
"It means," she said with a smile, "whatever enchantment was placed on this doesn’t want to reveal itself.”
"So you can't discover it?"
"Not yet, I’m afraid," she said.
She returned it to you carefully and it felt warm again, as it always was.
And you sensed... it had been listening.
⸻
September first arrived like the rising tide.
The months of living with the Figs had been a gentle dream. You'd received your school supplies, new robes, spellbooks, parchment, and — most important of all — your wand. Crafted by Ollivander himself, it had shimmered when it chose you. The wood, core, and length were catered perfectly to you.
You were in London now, beside Professor Fig, preparing to travel by carriage to Hogwarts. Your new satchel hung from your shoulder, still smelling faintly of Miriam's tea. In your hands were two carriers — one holding a soft, oversized black kitten which you had named Hades, the other your elegant barn owl, Athena. They were both gifts from Eleazar and Miriam to aid you on your journey.
A carriage stood before you, elegant and waiting — but drawn by no visible horses.
Fig gave a small smile. "Everything ready?"
You nodded. "Positive."
"Your wand?"
You showed him the wand nestled safely in your cloak.
Miriam approached then, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder.
Before you could speak further, another man arrived.
He was tall, well-dressed, and carried the confidence of someone used to command. He introduced himself as George Osric, a friend of Miriam. Your feeling of security and safety suddenly vanished, something terrible was going to happen to George.
No... you mustn't let this ruin your trip so you pushed the negativity aside.
He climbed into the carriage beside you. Fig followed, settling on your other side.
The carriage jolted into motion as it lifted off the ground.
Rain speckled the windows. Fog curled against the glass.
George leaned forward and opened a leather case. From it, he retrieved an artefact wrapped in silk, ancient, small, and pulsing with blue light.
"Miriam sent this with me," he said. "We're not sure what to make of it."
Fig took it carefully and then passed it to you.
The moment it touched your hand, light rippled across your skin.
You stared.
No one else reacted.
But you could see it,threads of light in the air, like veins of magic. A shimmering trail.
"I can see something," you whispered.
George leaned closer. "See what?"
"Traces. Threads... magic."
Fig's brow furrowed. "Traces of ancient magic?"
Before they could question further, a violent shudder rocked the carriage.
Your chest tightened. That sense again,that deep, dreadful knowing. It wasn't just fear. It was certainty.
Something terrible was coming.
You opened your mouth but it was too late.
The sky shattered with a roar. A dragon descended.
The sky cracked open.
A deafening roar split the air as talons tore through the roof of the carriage. The dragon descended like a storm, its obsidian scales gleaming red with firelight, eyes wide with rage. You screamed as the carriage jolted violently, spinning into chaos.
You felt it an instant before it happened the searing twist in your stomach, that haunting tug in your ribs like something inside you was pulling at fate itself. A premonition. A warning.
But you were too late.
Fire engulfed the air. The dragon's maw snapped open, teeth flashing. George lunged forward to protect the artefact, but the beast struck with blinding speed. Wood shattered. Canvas tore. George was gone in an instant — swallowed in flame, vanished into the wind.
The world tilted. Fig wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close.
Your owl screamed and vanished fleeing to safety.
Your kitten, Hades, flailed wildly in his carrier. The cage tumbled from the wreckage,falling, falling, plummeting through the air.
Without thinking, you shouted “Accio!” The spell tore from your wand instinctively. The cage froze in mid-air, then zoomed in towards your arms. Hades cried out but landed safely against your chest, his long black fur bristling as his green eyes wide with panic stared up at you.
“I’ve got you!” You say to the creature.
Fig grasped the portkey, the glowing artefact now reacting violently to the threat around you. Within in an instant you vanished with Professor Fig and a wailing half-kneazle.
The next thing that happened was hard stone beneath your knees. Fig hit the ground beside you with a grunt. Your hand still clutched the portkey. Hades, miraculously unharmed, immediately darted from your arms and leapt onto your shoulder, burying his head into your neck, his small body trembling against you.
The area shimmered before you like something pulled from a dream. Damp air curled along the walls. Carvings glowed faintly. Hades lifted his head slightly, ears twitching, his tail curling tightly around the back of your neck.
“Are you alright?” Fig asked breathlessly.
You nodded, standing slowly, one hand instinctively rising to steady Hades where he climbed on to your shoulder.
After some discussion on how a typical dragon would never attack a carriage and an exchange of wiggenweld potion, you then felt better and ready to explore the unfamiliar surroundings. Hades shifted, his claws lightly gripping into your clothing as his gaze flicked around the cavern.
Fig’s brow furrowed. “Lead the way.”
You lit your wand with a whispered the spell Professor Fig taught you “Lumos” and lit up the dark cave, the light catching in Hades’ green eyes, making them glow faintly in the dimness.
The next spell you learn is “Reparo” and at your touch, the broken bridges restored themselves with a wave of your wand, Hades watching the movement intently, his ears flicking at every crack and shift of stone.
This place is the home, or was, the home of a seer as you could tell from the murals on the stone walls in the ruins.
The two of you explore wherever you had landed more and ventured further in, the place you were led to was the inside of Gringotts bank where you were led down deep underground into a vault that was unfamiliar. Hades remained perched on your shoulder, unusually still now, as though sensing something deeper within the air.
Together, you battled guardian sentinels forged of pure stone and arcane. Fig taught you spells as you fought: Protego, Stupefy, Revelio. Your hands burned, your pulse thrummed, and yet something in you awakened. The magic inside you answered back. This magic had been suppressed for so many years, finally having an opportunity to be let out. Hades hissed sharply as to warn you of the incoming guardians. It’s good to know his kneazle side allows him to sense danger.
Next, you approach a pensive.
Fig approached it with reverence. A silvery memory swirled within, beckoning you both to look in. A vision unfolded: a two wizards in the very same room you’re in right now…
As you snap back into the real world, you hear Professor Fig call out:
“Someone’s coming!”
An evil sneer echoed from behind you. Hades’ claws dug slightly into your shoulder at the sound.
“Who are they?” A dark voice sneered out.
Another voice, the one you recognise as the goblin banker from before who led you down here and… very kindly locked the you both in.
“I don’t know. But… Sir- you shouldn’t be in here.” The voice said nervously.
The large ancient doors of the bank fly open.
You turned sharply,a goblin stood there, flanked by his army, gleaming eyes. A low growl comes from the miniature beast on your shoulders.
“I was right.” The unfamiliar, armour covered goblin spits out.
“Ranrok,” Fig muttered darkly. This was the Goblin that greatly injured Miriam, the one you recognise from the newspaper with the moving images.
The goblin’s gaze snapped to the Pensieve, then to you.
“Seems my reputation has precedes me” he snarled. “Beginning to think no one was ever going to enter Rackham’s vault.”
“And why are you here!” Professor Fig pulls out his wand.
Ranrok’s voice rose as he raised his hand. “No need for that. Just give me what it was you found here and we can let bygones be bygones.”
You didn’t like the feeling that vibrated through your soul. Hades shifted restlessly against you as to agree with your feelings. You looked towards the other Goblin, the banker. He was going to die in ten… nine… eight…
“But sir, they had the key.” Said the friendlier Goblin.
“Choose your next words wisely.” Said Ranrok coldly.
“I only meant that the instructions for vault twelve were quite clear.” The goblin who was about to meet his doom panicked out.
A blast of dark magical light blasted from Ranrok’s hand, first levitating the the innocent banker in the air before he was slammed to ground with force so hard you heard several sickening cracks.
You saw his death coming from your sight and not just because Ranrok is a goblin who kills without showing any mercy.
“I have no patience for traitors. Now, where were we?” Ranrok taunted.
“I’m not giving you anything, Ranrok!” Grunted Professor Fig, putting himself in front of you in a protective fatherly manor. You instinctively brought a hand up to steady Hades as he shifted, his fur still raised.
“Well… perhaps you’ll learn the hard way.” Said Randok as he pressed a hand in yours and Professors Fig direction sending a blast of the same red magic energy in your direction.
The impact of the blast sent the both of you tumbling backwards with a painful grunt, the air escaping from both your lungs. Hades was jolted from your shoulder but scrambled immediately back against your chest, claws catching into your clothing as he clung to you.
As the two of you stood up to recover, the space suddenly fills up with smoke and with the same energy from when you were fighting the guardian statues before. Hades’ head darted back and forth, tracking movements you could not yet see.
In an instant, a giant statue, bigger than any other grew from the ground. It must have known its sanctuary was under attack. Hades let out a sharp hiss, pressing closer into you.
“Hold on.” Said Professor fig and he pulled you to one side, pulling you away from a collapsing pillar. You kept one arm close to your chest to keep Hades secure as debris fell around you.
You look around for an exit and thankfully there is one.
“Over here Professor!” You point towards an opening, a way of escaping.
You touch the water-like door on the wall and then the world fractured again.
And then—
The echo of distant music.
You blinked in confusion.
You were standing just outside the grand double doors of the Great Hall. Hades was still pressed tightly against you, his breathing slowly beginning to steady.
Fig steadied himself beside you, breathless.
“We… we made it,” you whispered, your voice shaking.
“Just in time,” he replied.
The doors opened, revealing a sea of candlelight and students seated in neat rows beneath the enchanted ceiling. The Sorting Ceremony had already begun. Hades shifted slightly in your arms, his green eyes blinking at the sudden brightness.
A tall man with dark hair and deep-set eyes turned at the sound of your arrival.
“Eleazar”he said smoothly, “fashionably late as always. I do hope the new fifth year didn’t get too lost.”
His tone was aristocratic. Every word seemed dipped in condescension.
“Professor Black,” Fig replied, inclining his head. “A delay, yes.. but we’re here now.”
The Headmaster’s eyes shifted to you, briefly flicking to the small black creature clinging to you before returning to your face.
You bowed your head slightly. He looked vaguely amused.
“Well,” he said, waving toward the Sorting Stool, “bring her forward. Let’s get this over with, shall we?”
A woman with ginger hair and spectacles, Professor Weasley, you later learned called your name gently.
You stepped forward, gently easing Hades into your arms to hold him close against your chest.
Whispers stirred all around you. A student arriving now? So late? And sorted as a fifth year? Why is she holding her cat here?
The Sorting Hat sat on the stool like a relic from centuries past, its stitched mouth twitching and ready to talk.
You sat.
It was lowered onto your head and the voice slithered into your thoughts at once.
“Oh… how very curious.”
You stiffened, one hand absently stroking Hades’ soft black fur as he remained curled in your lap.
“A Seer… and ancient magic in your veins. Well now, that is something that isn’t brought here often.”
You swallowed hard.
“A Seer,” The sentient hat spoke, almost amused. “Oh, you have much to learn. But we shall come to that. Hm. You’re not quite what I expected.”
The hat’s voice shifted thoughtfully.
“Ambition… but not cruelty. Clever, yes… but no hunger for glory. A deep heart, I see. Loyalty. A yearning to belong. Well, well…”
The hall was silent.
Then, in a voice for all to hear, the Sorting Hat cried:
“Hufflepuff!”
The table in black and gold erupted into cheers and applause. You stood, cheeks flushed, Hades shifting in your arms as you rose, and crossed the floor, your robes now adorned with the soft hues of yellow. Your new housemates welcomed you with grins and curious glances, a few eyes lingering curiously on the long-haired black kitten with striking green eyes.
Professor Fig offered you a small nod of approval before disappearing with Headmaster Black.
You had survived dragons and vaults, visions and danger, and now, at last, you were here.