Yes, yes, I know. These types of stories are all Mary-Sues. None of them have any plot. The writing is always terrible. So I'm gonna go ahead and do it anyway, and against all odds, am planning on proving the stereotype wrong.
My sanity would like to beg you all to tell me when I make mistakes. I know I will, so please help me by flaming the illogical stuff. Yes, I did ask for it. Yes, I did mean it.
Harry Potter belongs to You-Know-Who. You know who I mean.
Please tell me what you think, and I hope you enjoy it!
Prologue
"I really don't want to do this, Cecily."
No answer.
"Cecily? You don't need to play mind games. That was a no."
Cecily differed.
"Fine, then." I shoved no less than four pillows, three textbooks, and one library book to the side of my bed. "Hop up, kitty." Purring, Cecily did so. I scratched behind her ears absently and went back to biology.
It was a cosy, if slightly chilly, day at Cecily's house. Her family was lounging about in various states of apathy and her favorite human had actually let Cecily on the bed during the day. The cat was happy. I, however, was not.
I had been staring at page 374 of my book for twelve minutes now, trying to memorize all the differences between killer and suppressor T cells. Somehow, I was expected to formulate all the boring details into a two-page essay. Which, I might add, happened to be due in twenty minutes.
"I really don't want to write this, Cec," I complained again. Cecily, being a feline, did not bother to look at me, so I rolled off my bed and walked over to my desk to hunt for a pencil. While I sorted through my menagerie of pens and markers, I continued the rant. "Honestly, Cec, home schooling is hard. I mean, Mom gave me a deadline! She doesn't give Nickolad deadlines." Granted, that might be because my baby brother was seven and currently perfect in every way. "Next time I'll just do the—hang on."
Pencil in hand, I strode to the door. "Hey, Mom?"
Her voice came from the direction of the living room. "Yes, dear?"
"If I make supper, can I get out of my paper?"
She laughed. "Your father's bringing home pizza. Nice try."
Ah, sarcasm, how I love you. I closed my door and heaved a sigh. I would die miserable, cold, and—worst of all—not even lonely. "Don't you hate it when you do things by halves, Cecil?"
Seeing that the cat offered no sympathy, I sat down at my desk and began scribbling out my essay. The worst part was that I had chosen its subject myself.
Fifteen minutes and a throbbing hand later, I stood, stretched, moaned, and collapsed full-out on my bed. Cecily had to scramble out of the way. "Sorry," I mumbled into the blankets and whatever miscellaneous item was squashing my nose. "You'll probably live, though."
Cecily stepped onto my back in retaliation. I thought about shooing her away, or perhaps even expressing disapproval, but I was tired. People do stupid things when they are tired.
I, for example, fell asleep.
Chapter One
I awoke soaking wet and spluttering mad. "Nickolas Philip, I will have your hide for that!" At least, that was what I meant to say, until something touched my leg and I plunged underwater.
Needless to say, the anger was swiftly replaced by horrified panic. I kicked and spluttered my way up to the surface, only to breathe in a lungful of water. Choking, I remembered my basic rule of swimming and leaned backward. It worked: I was instantly floating on my back, free to cough myself into next week. Well, preferably a Saturday.
By rolling over and paddling, I was able to see that I was in the middle of a large lake. Words can't describe the feeling that that gave me. I'm a bad swimmer. It's not that I'll drown in a bucket of water, just that I like to stay within grabbing range of the water's edge. A lake does not constitute "edge." Still, I could back float for a pretty long time, so I shouldn't have felt queasy. That I was shivering made perfect sense—this lake felt like ice water.
Slimy scales brushed my foot and I yelped. Ah, yes, that might explain the queasiness. Evidently my childhood phobia of large, toothy, unseen aquatic creatures was still alive. Forcing down the rising fear, I surveyed the other side of the lake. There was a sprawling castle on a cliff. I blinked. That seems ominously familiar. . . .
Regardless, it was the most promising sign of civilization I had yet seen, and the faster I escaped the frigid water, the faster I could think about what had happened. Fun as that would be.
The castle, I decided, was brooding. The many windows stared down at me with a sullen, resigned air. The towers did their best to pierce the few clouds in the sky. I turned away and wrung out my hair. If this was a dream, then it was certainly a realistic one. My muscles were shaking with exhaustion. And I hadn't noticed before, but the season had changed from winter to summer. That was nice—freezing to death is not a good thing in my book. I plopped down on the shore to dry off and warm up.
The lake was actually quite pretty, if you care for scenery. I don't, so I thought, instead. Essay, Cecily, library book in my face, indignant Cecily, large body of water. Could cats create portals when they felt spiteful? I hoped not. Cats are mysterious enough as it is.
"Enjoying the view, are you?" asked a cold, snide voice from directly behind me.
To my eternal credit, I managed not to jump. Instead, my fingernails dug into my palm. "W—what there is of one," I replied. There went the calm and composed image. Though if this was a dream, the person behind me would not notice and I could relax.
Sadly, the man's next words contained a not-so-subtle smirk. "I hope you have a good reason for being here."
I frowned and stood up. "I was drowning. Of course—" Standing face-to-face with me was none other than Professor. Severus. Snape. Of course. "You're kidding."
"I am afraid not," he disapproved, eyebrow raised, "Miss . . ."
"Black," I supplied automatically. "Morgan Black." I looked like a slack-jawed, stunned fool and I knew it. This was unreal.
The other eyebrow shot up, too. I mentally smacked myself. Nice, Morgan, now he's going to think you're related to those people. Brilliant. And speaking of, what are you going to tell him? "Can you take me to D—Professor Dumbledore?"
Snape stared back at me impassively.
"Please?" When he didn't respond, I sighed. "Since I'm obviously not supposed to be here, I think the least you could do is bring me to the authority figure." That came out wrong. "The person in charge." Unless, of course, Dumbledore was already dead. Now there was a worrisome thought. "Sir."
Evidently a decision was reached, because Snape turned on his heel and strode off in the direction of the cliff. Hogwarts. Oh, dear.
The path up the cliff to the castle immediately gained a spot in my mental compilation of dreaded walkways. I hadn't bothered to put on socks that morning, so my feet had absolutely no protection from the multitude of sharp stones littering the acclivous footpath. I bit my lip, stepped gingerly, and stayed silent. Snape was taking me to Dumbledore. He didn't have to be nice about it.
Two very sore feet later, we had entered the school. Snape, I was certain, was trying to lose me. Either that or Hogwarts's corridors were a lot trickier than the books had described. Nor were they full of rushing, black-robed students. That both calmed and worried me. More intriguing were the animated paintings on the wall. Some of them gave me cheery waves. I gulped.
Snape halted abruptly. "Fizzing Norwig," he said, or something very similar. A statue of a gargoyle moved to reveal a staircase.
Snape swept up it. I muttered a thank-you to the gargoyle and followed more slowly, eying the griffin door-knocker as I went through the opened door at the top. It was a very nice office, filled with books, more books, silver smoke, and an empty perch. The Sorting Hat lay on a shelf, appearing very old and tattered indeed. In the back of my mind, I heard Snape talking.
"Headmaster, I found a girl wandering the grounds."
"Oh?"
I shook the stray thoughts out of my head and walked toward the voices. Seated at a desk surrounded by a multitude of blank picture frames was a white-bearded man with half-moon glasses. He smiled kindly at me. "Good afternoon. I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts."
I swallowed dryly. "I am Morgan Black, sir."
He nodded. "I imagine you have something you wish to tell me, Miss Black?"
I hesitated. This was it—just where I got cold feet. "You might not believe me."
"True," agreed Dumbledore, "but it can't hurt to find out."
Three minutes later I finished describing exactly why this was not my world, that Hogwarts featured prominently in a popular book series I had read, and how this might have happened. In retrospect, I sounded rather comical and embarrassed.
"What was this student's name?" Dumbledore asked.
I pursed my lips. Snape coughed. "I think you would know already, sir." Not to mention that Snape had disguised a "Potter." Not to mention.
The Headmaster beamed. "Ah, I thought so."
Thought what?
Changing the subject, the wizard continued. "My dear Miss Black, this has happened before."
Possibly the most relieving words I'd ever heard. On the other hand, this had happened to others? Boy, did that open my thinking. "So I'm not insane?"
He laughed. "You are a victim of what is called the Ceteri Portal." Portal sounded right. "Every few hundred years an occupant of your world touches an object that transports them into this world."
"Okay. Where's the closest portal? Assuming some of your people disappear, too?"
"I am sorry, my dear. It is likely that a few occupants of this world are affected by the Ceteri Portal, but locating a portkey is quite impossible."
That sounded nice. I tried to ignore the sinking feeling. "Every few hundred years?"
"Yes."
Finding a portal wouldn't help me anyway. "Lucky me." I stared at a scuff mark on the floor.
"Disastrous as this is, I think it will be wise for us to discuss your future before you venture forth into the world."
At another time I would have smiled at the quirkiness of his turn-of-phrase. Not right now. "Yes," I said dully. "Public school."