Title: Finola Frost and the Secret of Lupin's Phial

Category: Books

Rating: K

A/N: This story takes place in the Harry Potter universe, after the second Wizarding War. It is an AU, in that with the exception of Voldemort and perhaps a few others, everyone lives. Muggles are knowledgeable about the Potter-verse, but consider it pure fiction. This is also a pro-Snape/Snape as mentor story, although he is not the only mentor figure.

Pro-feminist story; many if not most of the main characters are female. The MC is a Christian, so there is some discussion of Christianity and Christian elements. The MC is heavily autobiographical.

Protagonist is American; therefore, American spelling and terms are used. (Ex.: A jumper is a dress worn over a blouse, a biscuit is a bread roll instead of a cookie).

Warning: Some ableist language/behavior.

Chapter 1:

Red. Blue. That funny bluish-green, and that brownish clay color. Gray. Red. Eleven-year-old Finola Jane Frost knew the fake mosaic floor of her school cafeteria as well as her own home. That only made sense, considering she found herself face down on it so often, like today. Her crisp white blouse and navy school jumper were crumpled and her hair a mess, but that was nothing compared to her heart.

"If you can't stand up, how can you read?" The tall girl looming over Finola sneered, dropping the library book she'd stolen into a nearby garbage can. It landed smack in the middle of leftovers from Meatloaf Monday. Finola's chest squeezed. Now she'd have to pay for it out of her allowance, because none of the teachers would believe what really happened. She pushed herself up, trying to ignore the pinching and burning of her leg braces. Yet the more she tried to ignore it, the more the braces hurt, as if a million bugs were feasting on her ankles.

"Aw, whatsa matter, Freaky Frost? Did your little hair bow get knocked off?" Denise Stanford, the worst Queen Bee in the entire fifth grade, yanked the royal blue ribbon Mom had carefully braided into Finola's hair for picture day. The ribbon fell, its faux seed pearls scattering everywhere. Finola edged toward Denise, only to stumble over a pearl. Denise snatched Finola's glasses.

"Obviously, those aren't helping, either," Denise cracked. The students nearby lost it laughing.

Okay, that's it. Finola pulled herself to full height and tried to use her iciest voice. "Give me those right now, you odious toad!" Big vocabulary always got bullies in books to back down. Unfortunately, Denise was a real bully, and she just laughed.

"Ooh, 'odious!' Freaky Frost thinks she's smarter than us." She widened her eyes and put on a vacant expression, singing in a high, thick imitation of a speech impediment. "Frosty the Freak Girl, thinks that standing up is hard/acts all smart and proper, but is really a re-tard!"

"I mean it, Denise. Give me my glasses, and while you're at it, retrieve my library book. Now!" Finola jabbed a finger at her enemy.

The other students continued laughing, but Finola could no longer hear them. She had frozen in shock, because suddenly, her glasses were floating toward her, landing where they belonged. As she gaped, her library book did the same thing. Perfectly clean, it looked fresh off the printers'. And as for Denise…

Croak! Croak, croak! A huge green toad croaked furiously from the floor, its bulbous eyes seeming to glare at Finola. Finola's knees buckled again, and that horrible mosaic floor rushed to meet her.

"And then all of a sudden, there was a toad," Finola said later that day. The lunch monitor had found her and sent her to the nurse, after which Mom came to take her home.

"That snippy little girl probably made you hit your head," Mom said in a tight voice. "Fin, why don't you go up and lie down for a while?"

"But…"

"Now, Fin," Mom insisted, though gently.

Finola forced herself up the stairs and to her room at the end of the hall. The place enveloped her like the sanctuary it was. Her American Girl dolls smiled down from the oak shelves Dad had built a few years ago. Gramma's quilt, a collection of emerald, ruby, and sapphire starbursts on creamy white, invited her to curl up underneath with one of her many books. She crossed to the bookcase, intending to choose a favorite, but snapped her head around at a pecking noise. A huge snowy owl sat outside her window—would have flown in, in fact, had the window been open.

"Athena, get back here!" a female voice with a British accent hissed.

"Maybe I did hit my head," Finola mused. It wasn't impossible. Denise and her mean girl gang liked to hit or shove her, and then blame the bruises on cerebral palsy-induced clumsiness. Usually, the Disability Services worker at school believed that story, and assigned Finola extra physical therapy, usually during English so she had to miss her favorite class. She shook off the negative thoughts. Surely all she needed was sleep.

Finola read a bit, but indeed, her body and eyes were too heavy to let her concentrate long. She nodded off, until the insistent pecking at the window woke her again. She pushed herself up on her elbow and fumbled for her spectacles. Her clock radio read 5:49 PM. Dad was home from work. Had she truly slept that long?

"Finola? Honey?" Dad's voice sounded a bit confused. "Someone's here to see you."

The woman in the living room looked normal. Skin dark and beautiful as teak made her dark eyes, framed with sable lashes, stand out. Bushy, curly hair was caught up in a bun. But covering the bun was a black velvet…witch's hat? It matched her black, red-and-gold trimmed cloak, on which she wore a gold lapel pin. The pin's insignia read M.O.M. Finola shrugged. Maybe she had little kids, and they gave her the pin for Mother's Day or something.

"Hello, Finola," the woman said, extending a hand. "It's a pleasure."

"Nice to meet you." Finola shook the woman's hand before stepping back. Her own mom drew her over and put a protective arm around her.

"Now, who are you again?" Dad's voice, while not unfriendly, carried authority.

The woman smiled. "Hermione Granger-Weasley, Minister of Magic, London."

Ah, M.O.M.—Minister of Magic. But…London? A memory smacked Finola in the face. "Then I did hear a voice outside! It was you!"

The Granger-Weasley lady chuckled. "It was indeed." She took a sticklike object from the folds of her cloak, mumbled something, and waved it. The snowy owl from before swooped in and landed on her shoulder. "And this is Athena, one of our best Hogwarts owls."

"Hogwarts?" Where had Finola heard that name? It came back to her in a rush. "Hogwarts…Hermione…you…no, that can't be. That's fiction. You aren't real. I'm dreaming, or I have a concussion, or something."

But Hermione just gave Finola that compassionate smile again. "I assure you dear, I am real, as is Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As it happens, I am here because you have been accepted there."

"What?" Finola and her parents exclaimed at the same time.

"May I?" Without waiting for real permission, Hermione Granger-Weasley sat down—in Dad's La-Z-Boy, no less. As if ordered, Finola and her parents sat on the opposite couch.

"Finola," Hermione began, "this will come as a shock, I'm sure. It did for me when I was your age. You are a witch."

Finola searched Hermione's eyes for a sign of teasing. Yet the woman's gaze remained unyieldingly serious. Maybe she was delusional or something. After all, she believed Hogwarts was real.

"No," Finola said. "There's no such thing as witches, unless you count people like Wiccans, and I'm not one of those. I just became a Christian two years ago. Besides, witchcraft is wrong…the real kind," she hurried to say, not wishing to offend Hermione. "Mom and Dad let me read your books, but only because they knew they were fantasy, and only after our pastor said okay."

Hermione nodded. "That's understandable, and I commend you, Mr. and Mrs. Frost, for wishing to protect your daughter. Some parents and relatives aren't as attentive as you have been, especially…" She trailed off. "The magical training at Hogwarts will not damage Finola's soul, eternal or otherwise, or who she is as a person. Nonetheless, Finola, you are a witch."

"But that's impossible," Finola insisted. Her eyes darted around the room. "Look, if I were a witch, I could do this, like in Matilda." She fixed her eyes on Mom's coffee mug, sitting on a nearby end table, looking at it so hard her head ached. "Tip over, mug, tip over," she coached—but it didn't.

Dad stood then. "All right, Miss Granger-Worthy, whoever you are…"

"Granger-Weasley, and it's Missus," Hermione corrected, voice edged in steel.

"Missus," Dad echoed. "Enough games. I understand that you want to make Finola feel special and important—as she is. You might not know, but we have a highly gifted daughter. The thing is, she's also been through more than any girl her age should in her life." He and Mom exchanged a long look. "She was born with cerebral palsy, and mild though her case is, it's made her life extremely difficult. We don't need—Finola doesn't need—you or your Hogwarts or anything else making her situation worse."

Hermione—when had it become so easy for Finola to call the woman that in her head—nodded. "Yes, Mr. Frost. We are aware of Finola's gifts and her disability. At Hogwarts, we shall endeavor to serve both. I don't intend to play games." She turned to Finola. "Finola, tell me this. Has anything ever happened you couldn't explain? Have you ever done something you didn't mean to do, especially when you were angry or scared? Think back to when you were quite small."

Finola opened her mouth to deny such a thing, but memories took over. Her first clear one happened when she was about two. She'd just gotten the cerebral palsy diagnosis, Mom told her later, and her first pair of leg braces. She'd been trying to get down the stairs into the living room, but the braces held her feet in an odd position, and walking was hard. Finola tripped, nearly falling down the long staircase, until arms caught her.

To this day, Finola could call those arms into the front part of her memory. They felt like Dad's arms, strong and safe, but different. They belonged to a dark-haired man. His hair was messy. Finola remembered thinking he must not have a mommy to fix his hair. And he had hazel eyes like her own.

"There now, little bird," the man had said, setting her down, just before Mom ran in.

"Finola! Oh, honey, are you okay? Did you fall?"

Finola pointed. "The man caught me."

Mom looked puzzled, because there was nobody there. "What man, sweetheart?"

Finola pointed again. "Angel, Mommy. He was an angel."

Mom shrugged it off at the time. Finola had always talked more clearly than most kids her age, and she figured such a smart kid naturally had a big imagination. Years later, Finola would hear her parents speculating that Jesus had indeed sent an angel.

Finola's memories carried her forward, to when she was about four. She was at Memaw's house then, playing with her dolls in the backyard during a family reunion, when her older, boisterous boy cousins ran through her game. The younger one called to her to come play, and he opened the outside gate at her aunt and uncle's house just a few feet away.

At the time, Finola's aunt and uncle owned a large German shepherd named Hans. He wasn't much more than a puppy, but huge and untrained. He barked incessantly, frightening Finola into a frozen stupor. When he bounded toward her and threw her off balance, she grabbed a nearby stick.

"Go away, you big mean dog!" she remembered commanding. She'd waved the stick, and seemingly right then, Hans was gone. Instead, there was a tiny brown and black kitten.

Finola's parents, and her aunt and uncle, decided Hans had gotten scared off, and the neighbor's kitten got out. Finola's cousins really got it for letting Hans out, too. But when Finola tried to explain, Mom scolded her about making up stories.

As the years passed and Finola's affinity for books increased, she often noticed Mom and Dad exchanging worried looks. They let her read as much as she wanted, even taking her to the library or bookstore on weekends. Yet they were extremely careful around books like Harry Potter, because it seemed they wanted her to know real was real and stories were stories and that was that. They weren't even going to let her read the Narnia books, except that Aslan the lion represented Jesus, so that was all right.

Finola never told Mom and Dad about the other times. Like the time she'd been five and her leg braces hurt so much she just had to get them off. So, thinking what worked in her favorite movie might work for her, she jumped up and down and said, "Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo," and the braces unbuckled so she could remove them. Or the time when she was seven and terribly frightened at an orthopedic clinic visit. A kind red-haired woman, with bright green eyes, had come into the exam room while Dad, who brought her to the appointment, was in the men's room. The woman sat with her and said soothing things, but disappeared when Dad came back. Finola called the woman her Christmas angel, because of the red hair and green eyes, and because it was Christmas at the time. Dad told her it was just a friendly nurse.

Now, Mom and Dad looked as amazed as Finola felt. Mom spoke first. "Mrs. Granger-Weasley, are you telling us all this time…the angels, the incident with my brother's dog…" She trailed off.

"Yes," Hermione said. "Every single one was real, and those were angels. From the descriptions Finola gave you back then…" Her eyes grew a bit misty. "They might have been our own James and Lily Potter. In the Wizarding World, many of our deceased do watch over children. And perhaps Finola, being a Christian, needed—shall we say, a form she was comfortable with."

"Oh, Finola." Mom gathered her daughter in a hug.

Dad cleared his throat and shook his head. "All these years, we accused you of lying. I'm so sorry, pumpkin."

"That's okay," Finola said. "Sometimes I wondered if I made it all up, too. But…" A horrible thought occurred. "If I'm a w—what you say, does that mean I lose my salvation? That God doesn't love me anymore?"

"Oh no," all the adults disagreed at once. Hermione stepped in again.

"Many of our witches and wizards have been Christians—mostly nominal, but some practicing. Their power, while taught, seems to come from a somewhat Divine source. If anything, Finola, it was the goodness of your heart and strength of your soul that attracted Hogwarts to you. Don't you remember the other owl?"

"Wait! Yes…wait, I'll get it!" Finola raced up to her room and pulled out the left middle nightstand drawer, reaching for the red, green, gold, and blue-covered box where she kept her secret things. She read the address on the letter again.

Miss F. Frost

197 Cordia Ln.

The Room at the End of the Hall

Hollyhock Village, USA

Finola had never gotten a letter like that, but the sender must've known her. She always wrote "Ln" instead of "Lane" in her address, because she couldn't write legibly. She knew how to do her initials, and most of her address, because those letters were all straight lines and circles, and therefore easy. But the lowercase "e" on Lane was always too hard, so she abbreviated. Still, magic wasn't real. So she had waited until Mom and Dad were busy and typed out a reply on her computer:

To Whom it May Concern, she'd addressed it, like Ms. Brenneman taught in English, like a grown-up letter.

Thank you for the letter, but there must be some mistake. There is no Hogwarts; it's fiction. I don't think you're trying to trick me, but if you are, it's not funny. Sorry.

P.S.—I liked your owl. She let me pet her. But please don't send another one. That one pooped on our roof, and Dad was irrevocably incensed for hours. Perhaps your owl ate a rancid rat?

A few days later, Finola had been at her favorite birch tree, sitting on the swing Dad built for her, when she noticed the second letter in the tree's hollow place.

Miss F. Frost

197 Cordia Ln.

The Birch Tree with the Swing

Hollyhock Village, USA

Dear Miss Frost:

We assure you, magic is real and this isn't a trick. You will be contacted with more details. All the best from the extremely real Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress

P.S.—The owl you met was male. His name is Solomon. Yet he was not offended; he enjoyed you as well. Yes, rats can be rather rancid creatures, can they not? My sincerest apologies for the fecal matter on your roof.

Finola saved the second letter, and waited all summer to see what would happen. Now, on August thirtieth, she'd been sure she offended Professor McGonagall—or whoever she was—or had made the whole thing up. But now…

Finola brought the letter downstairs and held it out to Hermione. "I'm sorry," she began. "I honestly didn't know magic was real. Can I still come to Hogwarts, if Mom and Dad say it's all right?"

"No apology needed," Hermione assured her. "And yes, your place is open."

"Hold on," Mom spoke up. "Knowing what we know now, this is obviously a great opportunity for Finola. But why London and Hogwarts? Isn't there a—a school like yours here in America?"

Hermione nodded. "That would be Ilvermorny, and it is an excellent school. I'm afraid this part is my doing. You see, Finola reminds me so much of my younger self. A Muggle-born witch…that's non-magical…who doesn't fit in, who needs confidence, a reason to believe, her place in the world. When I heard of her, I pleaded with Headmaster Dumbledore to let her study at Hogwarts." She beamed. "He said yes." She murmured something, something that sounded like, "That's almost the only thing the old fool ever did right."

"We can't afford…" Dad began.

"Finola will be a scholarship student," Hermione interrupted. "So long as her marks and conduct meet scholarship standards, her place is secure for the next seven years. She will receive a rigorous magical and academic education, and at the end of that time, she may choose to return to the Muggle world or pursue a Wizarding career. Options have increased tenfold since the war. Finola might even choose to attend magical university."

"War?" Mom gasped. "Oh, you mean—what's his name, that awful man in the books…"

"Voldemort," Hermione finished with a low, businesslike tone. "Yes. He's gone now, praise Merlin…er, God. Gone for good. Finola will be safe."

"Are you sure?" Dad asked. "You know, smart and capable as she is, there are just some things Fin can't do, and…"

"Dad!" Finola protested. Much as she loved her parents, sometimes they acted like she was too fragile to get out of her own way. A thought occurred to her, filling her with hope. "Miss Hermione…would magic take cerebral palsy away?"

"Just Hermione dear, unless we're in Hogwarts territory, in which case it's Minister or Mrs. Granger-Weasley." Hermione shook her head. "Some things, even magic can't fix. But we can and will employ, what do you call them, modifications, to make things easier for you. For instance…" Hermione knelt at Finola's feet and tapped her shoes with her wand. Her braces disappeared, leaving behind shoes like the other girls wore, except these felt particularly supportive, holding her feet in the "correct" position the way her braces did.

"Wow! Mom, Dad, look! That's so cool!"

"The coolest," Hermione agreed. "Or wicked, as we Brits say."

"All right," Dad agreed. "And thank you, Mrs. Granger-Weasley. But I want to make one thing clear. It's barely the start of the school year, and Finola's already been targeted. Students and teachers have bullied her. My wife is on the school board, and…"

"And while your world is out of my jurisdiction," Mom picked up, "if Fin writes home and tells us anything like that is happening, I don't care if we have to ram our heads into that platform, somebody will pay for it."

"I assure you," Hermione said in the same tone she used when talking about Voldemort, "Finola will be protected. Dumbledore is a bit lax about those things, but he won't have nearly as much say as the professors. McGonagall and Snape, in particular, employ strict zero-tolerance policies. Finola may write as much as she likes, and will of course come back on breaks. Should she ever need you, you're never far away."

Mom and Dad exchanged eye messages. They both hugged Finola hard, something between a we're-so-proud-of-you hug and we're-afraid-for-our-girl hug. Dad stroked her cheek.

"You have our blessing, Finola. If this is what you want."

Finola thought it over. A new school, in a new country, with magic…it sounded terrifying, yet exciting at the same time. And perhaps being who she was, smart but with a disability, would be easier, too.

"It is," she said. "Don't worry. I'll be okay." She glanced at Hermione. "You were—you are—my favorite character. I always thought the series should be about you. Not that Harry wasn't interesting, but anyway. If you say I'll be okay, I will be."

Hermione squeezed Finola's shoulder. "Thank you for the vote of confidence, dear. Take tonight to pack." She raised her wand and conjured up a steamer trunk. "You may bring anything you need, but pack light, as we still must get your supplies. You'll be doing a side-along Apparition to Diagon Alley with me tomorrow. Oh, and Mr. and Mrs. Frost – just a few casual clothes. Finola will spend much of her time in school robes."

A/N: Okay, that's pretty much the boring part. Please read and review. I can't wait to bring you the next chapter.