Hey fellow internet wanderers! This is a re-write of one of my other stories, How To Save a Life. I started writing that almost a year ago, and it isn't well-written as I didn't have much of a plot in mind. Now I do, I'm redoing it so that it fits in with my new writing style and foreshadows things. One thing I will say for certain is that this is not a Voldemort!Daughter fic. Clara's parentage is certain, she is the heir to the Lestrange line. This fic also won't be too related to canon plots, more focusing on the ministry and the lore side of Harry Potter.
Review with idea's, or anything really except flames. It makes so much difference to my update time/quality.
Disclaimer: I can't think of ways to do a creative one. I don't own things, I'm just writing this for fun and because my muse will not shut up.
One thing that Clara Dinaka Lestrange did not expect to happen on her eleventh birthday was for a brown owl to give her a letter. An owl appearing at all was quite the excitement, an emotion which was rare at St Alban's preparatory school for young women. Amongst the several acres of grounds, there was bound to be a family of them, perhaps hiding in the forest, hiding in the bare branches, or maybe they nested in the big oak tree that guarded the tennis courts. Either way, the birthday girl doubted they looked as polished and as well looked after as this one did.
Its arrival had given the year-6 class quite the fright. The had been in the middle of learning Russian verbs, either bored out of their minds or illustrating funny ways the teacher could die (although this number was only made up of Clara and Siena, the others lacked the - creativity required), when an owl had rapped its beak against the window. This had garnered a few glances, though nothing more. The poor thing must have crashed into the window, but as no one wanted to be the first to go and look, nothing happened.
Tap. Tap.
The class was unanimously looking at the creature now, silently daring the next person to open the window. The ancient teacher coughed, and Clara reluctantly turned away from the welcome distraction.
Tap. Tap.
The rhythmic beating resumed louder than before, urging them to do something. In response, Ms Stokes ruffled her pale-yellow cardigan, and looked rather indignant. With a sigh, Annalise rose out of her chair, a straightened her plaited skirt. Her friendly, yet ambitious demeanour made her the unofficial leader of the class. She walked over to the window, and undid the cold latch. Without hesitation, the bird flew into the classroom, and performed a rather elegant loop before landing on Clara's table.
Penelope, Clara's roommate and friend, screamed and moved as far away from the creature as possible. A few of the girls, mainly the ones who were out of its reach, let out cooing noises. Though yet more children were wondering why it was carrying a letter in its groomed claws. Clara didn't know if she should take it, or not. However, after a few not so affectionate nips from the bird, and she tried to untangle the letter. The girl couldn't answer why anyone would attach a letter to the poor thing.
But once she untangled it a much bigger question was on her mind. The bird swooped gracefully out of the room, and the teacher tried to regain order. The letter very clearly pertained to her. Who would have sent her a letter, via owl? She didn't have many friends at the home, and all her other friends were in this classroom.
"Who the hell sends letters via owl?" Pen asked her, to which she shrugged. Maybe it was some elaborate prank to deliver a card. But the rough paper and wax seal, along with the logistics of training an owl seemed too eccentric. The whispers had about died down, and she had placed oddly addressed letter into her bag, when an exceptionally deranged receptionist flew into the room.
"Lestrange what did you do?" She practically yelled. Clara felt her mouth go dry. She hadn't meant to set her wardrobe on fire, and that was a week ago anyway. Or maybe it was about the year 3 she had made cry on her way to ballet. Again, it was a while ago and hadn't been intentional. She opened her mouth to explain when a man entered the room. He was wearing a suit, and held what looked like leather hand cuffs. They couldn't arrest her for any of that? Could they? She was barely above the age of criminal responsibility as it was.
"Mr Shacklebolt here is a police man. They have an order for your arrest." Whispers broke out again.
"Under what charges?" She asked, her no-nonsense voice bringing quiet to the classroom. Having read briefly a book of law, Clara knew that without evidence and charges they couldn't arrest anyone, particularly a minor. Of course, they could probably make up an offence and she wouldn't know that it was fake, but that didn't mean letting them walk her out of here was on the table.
"Under suspicion of terrorist involvement and enticing hate crimes."
The words floated out on the air of a silent classroom. Everyone looked shocked at the man, including the accused. Accusing a child, who spends the majority of her time trapped inside a private school, was like accusing a dog of stealing money from a safe. It wasn't feasible, it was impossible. Apparently to an eleven-year-old girl it was hysterical, as the quiet was replaced by maniacal laughter. Clutching her sides, the accused tried to stop, wheezing in hopes of regaining her dignity.
"What... under what" She caught her breath and met the eyes of the man. His eyes were deadly serious.
"What evidence do you have?" She said, only a little humour showing.
"Your left wrist will be all the evidence we need." The girl's hysterical mood changed suddenly. The man saw the recognition in her round eyes, and subtlety, without alerting the muggles, he gripped his wand.
Clara herself didn't know what to do. On her left wrist was an ugly mark that everyone had thought to be a tattoo. She had never told anyone about the way it seemed to move sometimes, but she didn't tell people a lot of things. But it was with a certain knowledge that she was afraid. He knew what it meant, and she was dying to know. Which might be the reality of the situation, because the facts suggested it wasn't a good thing. So, scared and confused and alone, Clara called out to the powers that be. The same powers that allowed her to set her wardrobe on fire, and made her socks fold themselves.
Get me out of here. Please give me a shot of getting out of here.
"No. I'm not going with you." She said. Nothing happened. The man glared at her, standing still.
"I'm innocent. I'm not going with you." She said, louder this time, as she gave a panicked look at the ceiling. The man stayed still, glaring at her. There was nothing else for it. She got out from her desk. Still the man stood.
"I'm going to pick up my bag and run." She said, and started walking towards the door. The man stayed still and she laughed.
"You can't move! That's brilliant. I'll be off then." She said, relief flooding her cackle. And then she ran, leaving her class and receptionist yelling after her. She saw no-one on her way to the entrance. She pelted through the corridors. She didn't have any time to grab her stuff. The mysterious letter was stowed safely away, but it was long gone in the panicked girl's head.
Left turn. Right turn. Terrorist? No. Through a door, down two flights of stairs. The carved oaken banister fooled her, as she tripped several steps from the bottom and fell; she was sprawled across the floor, pain flaring across her left side. She got up gingerly, her trance broken.
Tentatively she took a few steps, wincing at her ankle. Working through the pain as her teacher taught her, she continued to walk out of stairwell. She was near the entrance. She reached the top of the grand staircase in the foyer. The sight of a group of people dressed in flowing cloaks and vicar's robes made her stop. Scared that they were also here to arrest her, and scared of moving, she stood there, frozen for a minute. Then one of them, a woman with the reddest hair she had ever seen, saw her, and immediately drew a slender stick. Within seconds ten sticks were pointed at her. Although it felt wrong to call them sticks. They were wands to her imaginative eyes, given her own talents that was not completely ridiculous.
"Lestrange." Growled a man, whose appearance creeped Clara out to no end. "Where is Dawlish?" That must have been the man she stopped. It seemed so trivial now, it hadn't stopped her from being captured.
"I stopped him. He wasn't moving, so I ran." They tightened ranks, she realised that they probably thought she had killed him, and her cackle summed up her thoughts on the matter.
"Why do I want to arrest me? I'm not stopping you, you seem too experienced to be stopped by me. But I don't know what I've done?" She asked a single tear betraying her fear. She held up her hands, sensing an impending attack. They stopped moving forward, but didn't lower their wands.
"We just want to bring you in to question you." The red-haired woman said, a Yorkshire accent subtly lacing her words. The growled man interrupted her.
"As if. You are under arrest for attacking an officer, suspicion of murder, suspected death eater activities." It certainly was a long list, all the charges were ridiculous, and she knew they couldn't convict her because she was innocent. She slowly approached them, noting the fear on their faces. Most of them backed away, and she made a beeline for the kind woman.
"I surrender." She said, shock evident in her voice. The woman looked over Clara's head, her expression turned to one of shock and betrayal, and a soft hand gripped the victims outstretched one, before a horrible squeezing sensation came over them both. Clara felt her stomach compress.
It was over before it started, but it was long enough according to her breakfast, with made a lovely reappearance over a pair of shiny shoes.
Tonks certainly hadn't expected to have messed up this badly. Only a month after becoming a certified Auror, and she was aiding a Lestrange who she was sure had attacked one of her colleagues. She hadn't felt good about the case in the first place. The girl was 11, so was only two when the war ended. Yet they were accusing and charging her as an adult. They were instructed to dress for combat, which seemed ridiculous. When she had finally seen her cousin, the resemblance was uncanny and she seemed so alone.
Leading her to escape the minute she saw Rudkins flex his wand arm in the child's direction. Which caused to her shoes being covered in sick. And the distinct possibly of her losing her job and chumming up with the dementors. Clara scrambled away from the woman, and Tonks noticed she kept refusing profusely and tears were falling softly down her cheeks.
The Auror had always been good with kids, being a big one herself, so she crouched down against her mother's kitchen wall, and patted the girls back.
"Am I in pr-prison?" She asked between sobs. Tonks stopped trying to comfort her, realising that she was flinching from the contact. They'd bloody traumatised her.
"No, you'r not. I took ya home." Tonks took in the warm country counters of the kitchen. Admiring would have to wait, as she heard footsteps going down the stairs. Clara had obviously heard them as well, and she hid in on herself, too scared of Tonks, and too scared of whoever it was that was approaching.
"Mum." Tonks said. Andromeda was on a dressing gown, and held a wand, although it was pointed firmly towards the ground. At the recognition of family, Clara had lifted her head. Andromeda raised her wand and shrunk away from the child, who simultaneously backed further into the wall.
"Bella?" The elder woman asked. Clara shook her head violently. She looked so like new-comer, and a suspicion, no, a fervent hope was forming in her head.
"She had a daughter. I was sent to arrest her, but Rudkins was about to kill her." Tonks stood up slowly, and picked up her charge even slower. Clara noted the similarities between the eldest woman and herself. The hair, the eyes. It was if she was staring 50 years into the future.
"Mum?" Clara asked the woman. Andy felt her heart melt, and noticing the bottom lip of the girl quivering, she rushed forward and embraced her.
"No, I'm your aunt. Tonks is your cousin. You're safe here, I promise." The words flew from her mouth, she did not know fully what she was promising but she knew the words to be the truth.
Clara didn't say anything, but her shaking slowly stopped, the tension fell out of her limbs. If what they said was true, she had family at last. The moments blurred together, until she was standing in the bathroom with a towel, soap, and some (rather too big) clothes in her arms. As she settled into a shower, her normal attitude returned.
Vomiting and crying all over potential family members was a great way to introduce herself. She had poured her heart out, and now they would view her as damaged goods forever. Not to mention she had blindly trusted them, when for all she knew they could be lying, and an armed squadron could be coming for her. Of course, they seemed very genuine, and they let her be on her own. Her childlike hope of family coming to take her away had somewhat prevailed, at its usual point of eradication she had been sent to a boarding school -by a mysterious benefactor nonetheless- and it had flooded back.
She hoped she had not wished in vain. After alternating between boiling and freezing water for several minutes, she deemed herself free of regurgitated cereal and put on the oversized garments. Looking in the steamed mirror before she felt, she frowned at her reflection. Her normally chaotic hair was radiating perfection. She must ask after that shampoo.
"Stop stressing over your hair, you look lovely child!" The mirror exclaimed.
The mirror. Talked. On its own. Clara slowly backed out of the bathroom, her mind spinning. She walked into the kitchen with her mouth gaping. Only to find Tonks now with neon green hair and a wooden spoon stirring lunch by itself. Andy looked at her appearance and laughed?
"You ok? You look like you've seen a ghost?"
"The mirror... talked. And your hair wasn't green before, and the pot is stirring itself!" The girl screamed. She believed in science. In particles and solids, liquids, and gases. In momentum. The spoon was breaking the laws of physics. Which she really, really couldn't deal with right now.
The two women exchanged glances. Andy flicked a stick, like the ones the police were carrying, and the spoon stopped.
"You don't know who we are, do you? What you are?" Confused by their question, the petite girl shook their head, as a dawning suspicion, that she really didn't know anything, was formed. Deadly serious, Tonks gripped her arms and looked her dead in the eye.
"Lestrange, magic is real." And slowly, undetectable to the other occupants in the world, a dozen things in the 11 year olds mind clicked into place.