Disclaimer: I own nothing but the ideas and characters you don't recognize.
A portly man with graying hair walked down a well-trodden path of a forest in eastern Scotland, searching for royal helleborine. It was already mid-June, and with the school year only ending a few days prior, the man had already lost two weeks of the already short flowering-season of the plant, which he needed freshly plucked for a new potion he was attempting to create—according to his research the properties of the helleborine would lessen the acidity of the potion he was most recently working on, thus making it safe for consumption. Wandering aimlessly off the path, the man continued to mull over problems with his potion, only stopping once he could no longer hear the noise of the stream he had passed half an hour earlier. Bending down, he shuffled the litter on the ground around, scooping a handful of soil and stones up.
"Let's see then…dry, coarse—a bit of minerals and sediments, some limestone fragments. Yes, this should be the perfect area for the flower…now, if I were an orchid, where would I grow?" The strange man, cloak swirling around him in the warm June breeze, looked around, noticing sunlight coming through what looked to be the edge of the tree line. "Aha! Perfect place, perfect place…" Waddling over to the area, he noted a wide assortment of weeds and flowers, all blooming in the half-shaded area, before finally seeing the dark-red buds he had been searching for.
Kneeling down beside the plants, he produced a rather intricately decorated stick from a pocked within his vest and, with a flourishing movement, conjured up a simple basket. Taking a silver knife from another of his vest pockets, he carefully sliced a few of the stems, placing them in the baskets, ensuring that the flowers were safely attached. "Now all I need is to get them to some water…possibly try to cultivate them. Pity that the newest herbology professor hasn't yet been announced; it would be so much easier to work on this if I had assistance from another capable individual." Continuing to mutter to himself, he collected a few more stems, before standing up and placing a statis charm on the plants.
Dusting himself off quickly, the man looked around for anything else that might be of use to him. Frowning at the lack of useful plant life, he began walking back towards the stream he had previously heard, before laughing lightly to himself and disappearing from the wilds, only to reappear a few miles west, where he could clearly hear the water from the stream.
"Good thing this is the old country, otherwise I might have to worry about muggles. Even in these modern times they still believe these woods are full of fairies, elves, and other fanciful folk." He gave a hearty laugh, shaking his head. "Of course, no one thought to think that we were the culprit; that wizards and witches started the rumors of the woods being haunted and full of creatures that would wreak havoc."
Walking closer to the stream, he realized it was smaller than he had anticipated—more of a brook than a stream, really. Glancing around hurriedly, the man noticed a surplus of fluxweed growing around the bases of several nearby trees—perfect, as his stock was slowly dwindling, and fluxweed did tend to last quite a while when dried properly. Grinning and humming quietly to himself, he gently cut a few bundles of the plant, wrapped them in some spare cloth, and set them in the basket with the helleborine. Nodding to himself, he stood up, brushing his pants legs off once again—and froze.
Was that…crying? Shaking his head at the impossibility, the man turned around to leave before freezing again. It couldn't be crying, it wouldn't be even remotely probable, and yet, it was the very distinct sound of a crying baby. Sparing a quick look around to be sure that no one was near, he whipped out the same strange stick and muttered incoherently, only for a bright light to shoot out of the stick, leading him the direction of the wailing. He made his way through the brush, brambles pulling at his cloak and sticking him in the legs. Wincing, the man made it to a small clearing where a large rowan tree stood alone in the center. There, at the base of the tree, lay the culprit of the wailing—a tiny baby, swaddled in pink and green, lying in a crib-like basket.
The man rushed to the child, looking around for something, anything, that might indicate why it was there. Not it, he corrected himself, she. Carefully picking up the distressed child, a piece of paper fluttered innocently to the ground, dancing in the summer breeze.
"What's this?" He muttered, shifting the child so that he could pick up the note and read it. "Oh-ho!
'Dear My Mysterious Prince,
I know we met but two times, and only the second did we join together, but it was enough to get me with child. My parents are furious and have threatened the life of our child, should she remain here any longer. I cannot leave my family—they would hunt me down, I am sure, and our little one would not survive—but even so, I cannot live with the thought that our daughter, the only proof of our love, would be harmed. Therefore, I have decided to leave her here, in hopes that you will find her, and I shall lead my family away from this place so that she will be safe. I will not pretend to know exactly what you are—Fae, Fair Folk, or otherwise—but I hope that you will, at least, be able to give a life to here, whereas I can only provide death. My one request is that her name remains what I gave to her at birth: Rowan, for the tree that we met beneath, the tree we fell in love beneath.
I love you both with all my being—in this world, and the next.
Love always,
Aspen Gallagher.'"
The man sat there for some time, gently rocking the now slumbering child, before quietly conjuring up a quill and parchment, and scribbling a hasty note upon it. Nodding with satisfaction, he stood up, the child still in his arms, and looked down at her with sad eyes. "Well, Miss Rowan Gallagher, let us see what the headmaster will think of you." Gathering her basket and his, he took out the same stick, and within the blink of an eye, the two were gone. The only evidence that the clearing had been invaded was a note, nailed to the rowan tree, fluttering in the breeze, reading:
If you are acquainted with one Miss Aspen Gallagher, please write to me as soon as you read this correspondence, as it is of the utmost importance. You may address the letter to Professor Horace Slughorn, Hogwarts School, Scotland
"And that, my dear, is the story of how your Uncle Horace found you." A stern looking woman looked down upon a child, lying in bed, tucked in for the evening. "Nearly eleven years have passed since he brought you here and discovered that you were, in fact, down for the list of future students, and so I decided to take you in."
The girl smiled, her stormy eyes bright as she looked up at the only mother she had ever known. "Thank you, Aunt Minnie." She snuggled deeper into her pillow, her auburn hair surrounding her head like a halo, and yawned.
A barely discernible smile crossed the woman's face, as she gently tucked the blankets tighter around her ward. "I believe that means it is time for you to get some sleep—you have a big day tomorrow, after all. And, as I have no classes to teach in the morning, we can spend it together, for your birthday. Horace has no evening classes on Wednesdays, so you'll be able to spend time with him as well. Alright, child?"
Rowan nodded sleepily, her eyes sliding shut. "I love you, Aunt Minnie. Thank you."
Misty-eyed, the stern woman's face softened as she looked at the girl. "I love you, too, my dear girl. Now sleep." Turning around, she flicked off the light, cracking the door shut as she left.
A/N (this is slightly long, but will *hopefully* be the only long one.) Hello, all! Just a couple quick notes to clear up some confusion before it begins! This story will take place in the Marauder's time at Hogwarts, minus the first two or three chapters! However, there is a bit of a twist: Voldemort never existed. That's not to say that Tom Riddle was never born—he was—he just never became evil. He may or may not show up in this story (it wouldn't be as anything important), but his lack of wanting to cleanse the Wizarding World will mean that there are some major changes to the story line that we all know and love.
Also, I really despise Slughorn in the books—not because he's evil or horrid or anything, but because I always felt like he was partially to blame for Voldemort becoming so evil and so powerful, yet he never took responsibility for his own actions. So, I've opted to tweak him a little bit. I feel as though part of the reason Slughorn was so obsessive about "collecting" influential students was to make up for his failing with Tommy-boy. Therefore, he won't be as obsessive about it, and he will have some nicer qualities, although he will still stay true to his Slytherin roots!
Anywhooo…that's it for now! Please let me know what you think of it, any constructive bits you have to offer, or even ideas you have that you'd like to see (although no promises on that, as I do have a good amount of this planned out). XoXo—Saturn