Chapter One - Dublin's Daughter

Dublin's streets were sparse as the clock tower standing proud in the heart of the city struck five 'o'clock in the morning. The nightclubs had all shut their doors, the last drunken stragglers had long since stumbled over doorsteps and collapsed, exhausted but elated, into beds. The foxes, rats and dogs alike, had all snuck away – vanishing clean into the night as they caught the dangerous whiff of sunrise. The dirty orange glow of a thousand street lamps still lit many roads and pathways, although there were few souls awake to see them. A car would speed past unlit shop windows and locked pub doors, the noise of it only a snore in the silence that would hold until daybreak.

Further beyond Dublin's heart the orange bulbs of light became few and far between, and further still they flickered with dying enthusiasm, until finally the alleyways and roads met at a street eclipsed in total darkness. Both street lamps assigned to Haven Quay had spluttered into an early death, and no one had thought to replace them. Far from the city centre, and a half minute walk from the least attractive bank of the River Liffey, Haven Quay was one of many streets in a desolate and abandoned corner of Dublin that most of the city's residents had long since forgotten.

Almost exactly three quarters of the way down the road, opposite an alley leading to the waterfront, stood a large, square brick house with a brick wall running along its perimeter. The house had a driveway, in which was parked a small silver car and a mini-bus. Stamped along the side of the bus were the words 'Safe Haven Orphanage' with an address and telephone number beneath. A single dim light shone through thin net curtains on the second floor of the orphanage, behind which a girl was pouring over a letter.

She was a pretty sort of girl, with a round face and wavy copper-coloured hair that had been stuffed back into a ponytail. Although hunched over, she was clearly short and the thinning vest top she wore clung unflatteringly to her stomach and sides. Her eyes, encircled with dark, tired shadows, were a shade of amber that shone as they skimmed once more over the letter grasped in her hand.

Dear Miss McKinley, it read.

Once again I am writing to confirm the arrangements in place for your departure.

A portkey will leave at twenty minutes past five in the morning of Saturday the thirty-first of August. Please bring all you need with you, as no return journey has been scheduled.

Your lodgings at the Leaky Cauldron, Diagon Alley, have been organised and you will take the train from London Kings Cross Station, platform nine and three quarters at eleven 'o'clock on the first of September. Enclosed is a list of all required items for fourth year students at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Best wishes,

Professor P. Sprout

Head of Hufflepuff House

The letter had arrived two days previously tied to the leg of a withered looking tawny owl. It had beaten the morning post, so Emer had been expecting the summons of the orphanage's administrator, Janice Smith, after breakfast.

"Y'teacher 'as sent me another letter." Ms Smith had said, without looking at the girl leant back in the chair opposite her, instead peering at Professor Sprout's untidy scrawl. "You'll be goin' back to y'boarding school shall ya?"

"Aye." Emer had said, struggling to keep the grin from her face, and the memory of a similar moment from her mind. Four years previously Professor McGonagall, an extraordinarily stern-faced Scottish witch and deputy head teacher at Hogwarts, had arrived on the orphanage doorstep with a fierce expression and a letter.

Emer remembered the glazed eyes of Ms Smith as the stranger was ushered into a tiny office and offered tea. Without skepticism, Ms Smith had accepted the news that the tiny and misleadingly innocent faced girl she had been burdened with had won a scholarship at a faraway boarding school. McGonagall had presented all the official documents and announced that she was to escort Emer to London, where she would buy her new school uniform and then travel by the train to Hogwarts. Ms Smith had offered more tea.

Once safely away from the eager ears of the other children, McGonagall had revealed the truth to Emer – that she truly was, as her mother had told her, a witch.

Emer hadn't truly believed it to be real until she boarded the train on the first of September, dressed in her new wizards' robes and dragging a trunk that was bigger and heavier than she was. She had sat herself down in a compartment and stared, open mouthed at the families outside the windows, all of them dressed in robes just like hers. A bushy haired girl and a boy with a toad had joined her, both of them first years, and together they had exchanged excited gabble of all they knew of Hogwarts.

Almost four years had passed since that first journey, and Emer McKinley was no longer a first year nervous for never-before-known freedom from the orphanage in which she had grown up. She had become a witch, with magic the children at Safe Haven were too dull to dream of. She had made real friends for the first time in her life, Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom had only been the beginning. Soon enough she was rubbing shoulders with Seamus Finnegan, a sandy haired Irish boy, and his best friend Dean Thomas, whom she had fancied for a while in her second year. She had also met Harry Potter, whose name she had only dimly remembered from her mother's stories, and a whole clan of redheaded freckle-faced Weasleys.

Ginny Weasley had arrived in Emer's second year, and immediately recognised a kindred spirit. But now, although still good friends, Ginny spent more time with students her own age and Emer frequently forgot to reply to her letters. This was through no fault of her own; her summer had been spent writing and receiving letters and packages from Ginny's sixteen-year-old twin brothers, Fred and George.

They had met following an act of rebellion one sunny afternoon in her first year. Skipping her last period lesson, Emer had 'refurbished' an entire bathroom on the second floor. She had enchanted the pipework so that every time someone attempted to use a toilet, one of the cubicles (and all of its contents) would explode. The cursed cubicle had changed every hour and so the nervous students was never sure if their chosen toilet would regurgitate everything once they flushed the chain. It became common to dare unfortunate friends to use the cursed bathroom, while waiting gleefully for the results. Emer took quiet pride in the fact that she had never been caught – a little first year Hufflepuff girl wouldn't even have been considered to be the instigator of the destruction of a boy's lavatory.

Fred and George Weasley were the naturally suspected culprits and so had been carted off to answer questions. It further baffled the teachers when the twins could provide a solid and completely honest alibi; they had been in Charms, levitating Professor Flitwick. But Fred and George were intrigued, and had interrogated the other students. Eventually they cornered Emer and demanded the truth. She, a little in awe of them, had relented and for the next three years would occasionally provide an extra pair of hands if they required them.

However, it had become apparent within the very first week of this summer holiday that the twins needed her help in a much more important way than simply keeping an eye out for teachers. A bedraggled old owl had collapsed spread-eagled on her bed one morning, flying in through the open window a note tied to its foot. After checking the owl was still alive, Emer had read the words scribbled on the scrap of parchment.

Paddy,

This has to be quick – Mum's just left and doesn't know we took Errol. We need money so we're demonstrating our immeasurable talent to the wider world and selling some of the stuff we made last year, the fake wands, sweets…etc Only thing is, Mum's getting suspicious. She found a fake wand the other day and we laughed it off, but she isn't too impressed with our O.W.L results (three passes each, don't know what she's talking about), so she's been trying to sneak into our room to find out what we may or may not be up to. We've decided that, all things considered, we need to move our merchandise to somewhere a little more parent-free, i.e. your bedroom.

Try sending us a reply with the bird pronto, but we'll send you the stuff regardless.

Love and hugs,

Fred, George.

She had agreed, and undertaken the difficult task of receiving and hiding the packages – none of which she was entirely sure were legal, almost three times a week for the last month. In return, the twins had kept her updated on everything she was missing in the wizarding world.

Emer had heard all about the Death Eaters' rampage at the Quiddich World Cup in finer details than even the Daily Prophet could have provided – Mr Weasley worked for the Ministry of Magic and had found himself, Harry, Hermione and the youngest Weasley brother Ron, in the thick of the action. Emer lived with Muggles, but she was well aware of what returning Death Eaters might mean.

Emer dropped the letter from Professor Sprout onto the bed and stood up. Her trunk was open on the floor beside her, crammed with books, clothes and the Weasley twins' products. She was to take everything they had sent her to school, so they could begin their 'business' without being caught by their mother. Emer had no issue with this, other than the fact that it awkward to fit anything else in her trunk. She didn't own much, but every spell book, potion ingredient and scrap of parchment she had collected over the last three years had to leave the orphanage with her. The Muggles she lived with were entirely ignorant of the magical world – and she considered it a threat to her own sanity of they ever found an item of hers that explained how to transfigure a mouse.

She checked the clock ticking gently on the floor beside the chest of drawers. It had fallen from the wall nearly a year ago, and she hadn't thought to move it. She had fifteen minutes to get to the portkey. The walk to the waterfront would normally take less than a minute, but she was cutting it fine. She had the heavy trunk to contend with.

Emer slammed the lid shut, and clicked the locks into place. She undressed quickly and pulled on the jeans, t-shirt and jumper she had left on her bed. She stuffed her pyjamas and the letter into her rucksack alongside her wand, purse and handful of Fred and George's sweets that she dared not test. A pair of high top trainers lay discarded on the floor, and she pulled them on before hoisting the bag over one shoulder and grabbing the handle on one end of her trunk. She did not tie her laces.

Emer kicked the door open and dragged the trunk along the hallway. She wasn't bothered about waking the other children; she wouldn't see them until next summer anyhow. The trunk thudded down the staircase and each hollow bump reverberated around the silent halls.

Finally she reached the front door and scrabbled in her pockets for her keys. The clock on the wall told her she had ten minutes left. She found the keys, and was pushing them into the lock when a figure drifted into the hallway. Emer ignored the girl as she struggled with the door, shoving her weight against it until the lock clicked. She stumbled as the door swung open, and nearly fell backwards onto her trunk.

"You leavin' then?" the girl said. Her eyes were smudged with make-up she hadn't removed before she slept and her hair was scraped back into a high ponytail. She wore a leopard print dressing gown, and bright pink slippers. Emer nodded and began trying to haul the trunk over the threshold and into the night. The girl watched her, an amused smirk playing on her permanently pouted lips.

With a loud thunk, Emer managed to pull the trunk through the doorway and onto the drive. She glanced up at the clock, seven minutes.

"You told Smithy?" The girl asked, stepping forward and leaning against the doorframe.

"Course I did." Emer snarled, propping the trunk up against the wall and trying to lift it into her arms. "Going to school aren't I? I do this every year, or haven't you noticed?" The pink-slippered girl shrugged, as if she neither noticed nor cared where Freak McKinley went.

"Look," Emer said, panting a little. "This is a lovely chat and all, but I have to go now, so if you don't mind."

"Want a hand?" the other girl said, surprising herself as much as anyone else. Her cheeks flushed a little, but Emer couldn't see that in the darkness. Together they lifted the trunk, one side each, and staggered out of the driveway.

Emer led the way, crossing the road and following the path opposite that took them to the waterfront. A rat scurried across the pavement into the shadows. They heaved and hauled the trunk between the houses either side, before dropping it down on the concrete parapet that looked out over River Liffey. Emer strode up the bank, searching for the portkey, and ignoring her assistant who was hovering by the metal chain separating them from the water.

"This where the taxi's picking you up?" she called dubiously, glancing up the road towards the glittering city lights of central Dublin along the river. Emer was peering behind abandoned crates and did not answer.

Everyone in the home was under the impression that every year she was picked up by a taxi early in the morning that would take her to the 'shit-hole boarding school' they all privately envied. Never before had anyone waited to watch her leave, so the trip to the deserted bank had never been questioned. Now however, Emer straightened up with a filthy pale pink sock clutched in her hand, she faced a problem.

"Aye, something like that." She said, stretching the sock and tying it in a knot around the handle of her trunk. Emer gripped onto both the sock and the trunk, making sure that neither she nor her luggage would be left behind.

"What's the time?" She asked the girl, who snapped open a plastic diamond covered mobile phone from the pocket of her dressing gown.

"Nearly twenty past."

"How near?"

"What? I dunno, um like two minutes? The hell's wrong with you?" Emer grimaced.

"Look." She said urgently, "You remember when you stole Sean's birthday money, spent it on drink, and Patrick Kelly got the blame?"

The girl scowled, "No I never. How dare…how did you…?"

"Never mind how I know, but if you tell anyone about anything you've seen tonight, I swear to God I'll grass and don't think I won't."

"That's blackmail, so it is!" the girl hissed angrily.

"Aye," Emer's eyes twinkled as her face spread into a grin, "So it is."

"But, I don't…" The girl broke off, her eyes wide in shock. The display on the screen of her phone had just changed from 05:19 to 05:20, and Freak McKinley, with her trunk and dirty old sock had vanished into thin air.

The sudden tug behind Emer's navel was no more comfortable than it had been the first time she had used a portkey. She had been sent spinning away from the girl with the ponytail, the only reality she had to cling to was the handle of the trunk and the dirty sock.

And then she landed, unceremoniously collapsing against her trunk in cobbled courtyard. There was a rickety wooden door facing her, surrounded on all sides by crates full of bottles. A metal sign hung over the door, creaking slightly as it swayed in the breeze. The Leaky Cauldron, it read.

Emer checked herself over and, after concluding that she was all in one piece, she stood up, untied the pink sock from her trunk and left it on top of a crate. Then she tugged at the trunk with both hands and dragged it towards the door.

The sun hadn't reached the little London courtyard quite yet, and so the only real source of light was a lantern hanging beneath the swinging sign. Emer was shattered, and the lack of light didn't help as her limbs demanded sleep.

She opened the back door of the little pub, which had been left unlocked, and stepped inside, heaving her trunk with her. The Leaky Cauldron was empty, every spindled chair balanced on a table top and only one candle burned in a bracket on the wall. Rows of bottles behind the bar were stacked neatly for the following day's customers and the front door was bolted with a large padlock. A lingering smell of musky ale held the room in a peaceful sleep. Emer breathed it in with mounting delight – this pub, and the hidden secrets behind the back wall of the courtyard, were the first steps towards home.

A door, almost hidden by the racks of bottles, creaked open and an old man shuffled in. His crooked face broke into a toothless grin as he recognised her and whispered, "Miss McKinley!" He was bald, hunched over and wearing long, black nightclothes. His slippered feet made a quiet scuffle across the stone floor as he side stepped the counter and moved towards Emer. She reached out and shook his hand vigorously, smiling at the glint in the old man's dark, sharp eyes.

"How are you Tom?"

"Fine, I'm fine." He said, rummaging in his dressing gown. "Got your room-key in here somewhere…"

"How much do I owe you?" Emer asked, swinging her own backpack from her shoulder and reaching for her purse, "I've only got Muggle money, I was going to exchange it in the morning but…"

"No need, no need. Aha!" He batted her question away and pulled out a single iron key tied to a piece of string. "School paid your lodgings. Room 6 ma'am, if you would follow me."

With a silent flick of his wand, the heavy trunk rose gracefully into the air and glided behind them as they crossed the floor and climbed the twisted staircase that led to the guest rooms. Tom ducked under an archway and, pressing a finger to his lips, crept down the hallway. A loud rumbling snore droned through the gap beneath one of the doors branching from the corridor, and Emer was forced to bite back a laugh. She imagined a sleeping dragon curled beneath the bed sheets, one wing hanging over the side of the bed and hot breath slowly singeing the curtains.

"Here y'are." Tom said, inserting the key into a door on the left hand side. It clicked and swung forward, revealing a tiny room taken up almost entirely by a four-poster bed with drapes patterned with green and gold swirls. A tall mirror leant against the wall in one corner and window looking out onto the now deserted Charing Cross Road faced them as they stood in the doorway.

The trunk followed Emer into the room, landing neatly on top of a low wooden table beside a burning candle. Emer watched it jealously, it would be nearly another three years before she would be allowed to perform magic outside of Hogwarts.

"Got everythin' you need?" Tom asked, passing her the key. She nodded, "Well, you know where the loos are an' I'll open up the bar at half seven." She thanked him and he backed out of the room, shutting the door and leaving her alone once more.

As weary shop keepers rolled up their clattering shutters and London's bells chimed six 'o'clock in the morning, Emer McKinley sighed in her sleep beneath swirls of emerald and gold, her jeans, t-shirt and jumper all heaped in a pile on the floor and a scarlet steam engine puffing its way through her dreams.