***This story contains elements common to Harry Potter, Fantastic Beasts and assorted writings from Pottermore. I own not a damn thing. The wizarding world that I love so much belongs solely to JK Rowling and her big, beautiful brain.***
October 2008
Brooklyn, NY
Monday
Lyra sat, chin in hand, watching raindrops slide aimlessly down the glass of the window in front of her. She was tucked into a corner nook of some token Brooklyn coffee shop where she mulled over her predicament, her overpriced pour-over, micro-roasted whatever completely ignored on the table before her.
Why no-maj mail? She mused to herself. That was one of the biggest questions she had about this whole thing since the letters began arriving some weeks ago. I mean, if I was stalking or otherwise trying to intimidate a witch or wizard with correspondence, I'd send a howler or maybe a deranged owl to peck my victim in the frigging eyeballs...No-maj mail seems an odd choice.
The thought had long since occurred to her that, perhaps, her creepy friend was indeed a No-maj, maybe one that had learned the truth of their world and was out to expose. She dismissed that theory early on. It seemed that as far as earth shattering, world changing secrets are concerned, exposing the true parentage of one nobody witch in New York would be relatively pedestrian compared to the whole "Hey, there is an entire secret world of magic out there that nobody knows about" thing.
She considered it possible that her would be assailant (Blackmailer? Murderer? Surprise Truffle Chef? - the guy hadn't really made his goals known to her) was from the family of someone she failed to save in her work and they were out for revenge. But they would have no idea about my father, she thought. That that and the whole damn Brit thing...OK. Take a step back there, Auror. Spell it out. What are the things you know? Make a list:
-You started receiving threatening letters 2 weeks ago
-The letters are straight no-maj and computer typed.
-They are post-marked from different spots around Great Britain - London, Brighton, Edinburgh, Liverpool.
-They always come on Tuesdays and Fridays, you have received 4 in total.
-They all make reference to "your secrets" and/or "the sins of your father"
-They all are addressed "to my beloved Lyra"
-They are creepy as hell.
Being neither martyr nor moron, she'd already taken the problem to Patrick, her supervisor at the Aurors office. He was concerned it could be a retaliatory play from a raid that had gone bad or even a preemptive kind of 'psychological warfare', as the No-maj guys would say, to put her off her game prior to some dark offensive. She and Pat deemed both of these things unlikely in wizarding New York. Most witches/wizards in the city with a penchant for 'darkness' were typically satisfied sitting around dark clubs, wearing all black and selling hallucinogenic potions to rave-going tourists. Those that did manifest some actual dark powers typically did so by ignorant accident. Bored debutante teens and trophy wives seeking revenge on unfaithful lovers and the like. They'd had the occasional no-maj banker get in over their head with some dark artifact, usually purchased on vacation, to curse his rivals and expand his profits. The typical result wasn't so much increased profit margins as incurable boils and boatloads of charmed spiders.
To be on the safe side, the team had come over to scan her apartment for evidence of curses or surveillance spells. Even the nice transplant guys from the no-maj FBI came over and swept for "bugs" in case her stalker was some kind of magic hipster who liked to do everything the hard way. Nothing turned up. Not a damn thing. Magic or not.
This is bullshit, she thought to herself. Why now? She had no idea who her birth mother was and her birth father had been dead for years. Plus, being raised by the Blacks since her infancy, she and her father had hardly known each other. Sure, there was a group of racist fanatics that would have wanted his loved ones eviscerated back in the 90's when they still had some power, but now? Her understanding of the Death Eaters across the pond was that they were an embarrassing fringe group composed mainly of the mentally ill and oldblood Grandpas aiming to make Christmas uncomfortable for their grandchildren by waxing poetic about the merits of blood purity. It didn't make much sense why someone would be clocking her now, after all this time.
She sighed loudly and rubbed her eyes. Checking her phone, she saw that she was due at her parents house in less than an hour. She pulled herself reluctantly from her nook in the coffee shop and made her way out the door, discarding her untouched beverage in the trash. She walked several blocks south to a dingy pub called The Bell House that served as a gateway to wizarding Brooklyn, where her parents lived. Waving politely to Don, the beleaguered barkeep, she descended into the musty basement, passing by crates of cheap wine and bags of stale peanuts. The last step of the staircase that led her down into the basement served as the first step in an opposing staircase that would lead her up and out into Seven Bells, the bustling pub at the center of the small wizarding town, about a quarter mile from her parents' home. As she ascended the stairs, she passed crates of bottled Butterbeer and yet more bags of stale peanuts. Making her way out of the basement to the front of the bar, she waved politely at Ron, the beleaguered bar keep.
She made good time to her parent's home, arriving at the Brownstone 10 minutes ahead of schedule. Her dad hated tardiness and would perpetually snark about her 'priorities and proper planning' whenever she was late. It drove her nuts. Almost as nuts as other people's tardiness...and now I see what he did there, she thought to herself before muttering the password to open the front door.
Stepping into the landing, she was greeted by the dramatic, earth shattering bellow of her parents Rottweiler, Bex. Rolling her eyes, she prepared herself for the assault. Bex, who had certainly never seen another human before, and double certainly had never seen Lyra before (even though she had been over 2 days ago) propelled down the stairs and smashed into Lyra's legs like a 75 pound canine cannonball. After several minutes and many belly scratches, he seemed to habituate (once again) to her existence. Extracting herself from Bex's furry embrace, she made her way down the narrow hallway to the kitchen where her mother was fussing over a crumble-crust and muttering something about "loud-ass dogs." Their conversation was simple and routine as her mother bustled distractedly around the room:
"Hi Momma"
"Hi Baby, did you pet that dog?"
"Yes, Mom I pet the dog."
"Good. Here, eat this, she said shoving a pastry into Lyra's hands." Lyra knew better than to resist. Resistance was futile. If Marla Calderon-Black offered you a crumble-crust, you better eat a damn crumble-crust or there would be hell to pay.
"Where's dad?" She asked, between bites.
"In the study."
"Ok, I'll go see him."
"Wait, Lyra! Did you eat the thing?" her mother called at her as she was trying to exit the kitchen.
"Ohmygod yes, Ma. I ate it. It was the crumble-crust of my dreams and I'll never be the same again," Lyra replied sarcastically.
"Oh good!" Her mother said without looking up. "Take one to your father."
"K."
Crumble-crust in hand, she ascended the stairs to the loft that was her father's study. He was reading some MCUSA environmental report on the near-extinction of the Horned Serpent. Alistair Black peered over both report and bifocals to zero in on his daughter with a pointed gaze:
"You're late," he remarked.
"Yeah, because Bex and Mom. Are you new here?"
"Are you? Proper planning, Lyra." He said with his trademark raised eyebrow. In her youth, Lyra had come to refer to it as 'The Dreaded Eyebrow of Justice.' Never got old...except for always.
"You are killing me right now, old man. Here, eat this thing. Mom says you have to." She plunked the crumble-crust unceremoniously on his desk.
"Of course she does" He quipped, eyeing the confection warily.
Lyra settled down on the leather couch across from her father's large wooden desk. She thumbed through a National Geographic she found on the side table while her dad finished reading his report. With a heavy sigh, he set it down and looked over to her.
"So, what did you want to talk to me about, kiddo?"
"I was wondering how I got here."
"Well, honey, you came up the stairs, I saw you do it. I'd give you a 7.5/10 for stair climbing while holding a crumble-crust."
"Dad."
"Lyra."
"I mean how did you get me? You know when I was a baby…"
"You know how."
"I know that I know. But take me through it again."
"Why?" Pressed her father.
Well dad, I'm being stalked by a crazy person who seems to be interested in my parentage so I'd like to pump you for clues if you'd be so kind. She blinked hard at the thought. Well, that won't do, she responded to herself.
"Because I like to hear you say how cute you thought I was." She countered sweetly.
Her father let out a decidedly humorless snort and began:
"Alright, well your mother and I decided to adopt in the early 80s after your brother Caelum started at Ilvormorny. We'd heard about the terrible things going on in Britain and we wanted to help. International adoptions were rare at the time, even considering the number of orphans created by the war, but the Black family name apparently still had some pull over there so we talked to the right people and got on a list after passing the interviews. We waited for 2 years, had almost given up, when we got an owl from the Headmaster of their wizarding school of all people who said he had a little girl for us. 8 months old. She was ours provided we met 2 conditions. First that we change her name but retain her given name as her middle name, and second that, when of age, we send her to the British wizarding school twice a year during term and once during summer break for visits as a guest of the school. It seemed odd but we said we wanted to at least meet you, so we hopped on a plane to Scotland and went to the school to see you."
She settled her chin in to her hand, studying the way her father's features softened as he spoke.
"The headmaster brought you down the hallway in his arms. You were all wide hazel eyes, chubby cheeks and grabby little hands. By the end of the meeting, you had pulled out your mom's earrings, thrown my glasses across the room and relieved the headmaster of a significant portion of his beard hair. We knew you were trouble, your mom and I, and we loved you instantly. You were just...ours. We accepted the terms and brought you home 3 days later. We named you, and started sending you off to Dogwarts or wherever when you were 10 for your visits. And that's it."
"It's Hogwarts, Dad." Lyra chided, fondly.
"Whatever." He dismissed, rising from his desk and walking over to stand in front of his daughter still seated on the couch.
"And I was the cutest?" She asked.
"Absolutely. We'd have left you there otherwise. You'd have roamed like a parent-less mongrel around the Scottish highlands. Turned ginger. Moved in with giants. Maybe they could've taught you to show up on time."
"Not likely." She quipped turning up her face with an innate smugness.
"Yeah, probably not." He said bending to kiss her forehead.
They left the discussion there and joined Mrs. Black downstairs for dinner. Following that, they passed the rest of the evening pleasurably in front of the fire, talking among themselves and reminding Bex that he was the most important fuzzy being in the universe. As Lyra was saying her goodbyes, including a 10 minute overture of farewell pettings to said fuzzy being, her father pushed a scroll into her hands.
"What's this?"
"No idea. Came by owl yesterday, I almost forgot about it."
"Cool, thanks."
Lyra stuffed the small scroll into her purse without thought and flooed home to her apartment in no-maj Manhattan. She and her work friends jokingly called the island no-Majhattan because of the revolving door of no-maj transplants from all across the globe that came to the city to conquer the world of fashion or finance or whatever. She liked it, all the different styles, all the accents. It wasn't boring. Witches and wizards on the island were different. They were almost exclusively born New Yorkers. Lyra was technically a born Brit, but she certainly had the soul of a New York witch. Her and her city fit together like old lovers. She loathed to leave and only did so on rare occasions, especially after having left so much in her formative years to go to Hogwarts for 'tutoring' or 'educational enrichment' or whatever platitude she was fed to get her on a plane 3 times a year.
She was just about to lay down when she remembered the scroll from earlier. She fished it out of her purse and struggled, opening it one handed while the other held her bedtime tea. She got it flatish on the table, took a big 'ol swig of tea and proceeded to spray her table, her cat and the scroll itself with chamomile after reading the words...the words written in her dead birth-fathers handwriting, which she would recognize anywhere.
Lyra,
You and Frog are in danger. Go to London. Find Harry Potter. Tell him the truth. He will help you.
Fondly,
Severus Snape
No-maj - Non magical person, muggle
See chapter 2 for more definitions.