A/N The third and last part (maybe! It might be time for a new OC) in the Araminta trilogy. Just so you know, Harry Potter and all the magical things from that story belong to J.K. Rowling, not to me. This is fanfiction (as are the next chapters all the way to the end) and I'm not making any money. Wah. Please leave a review! I'm aiming for ten reviews for chapter two, or I might decide not to write the rest of the story. ;)
STORMING THE CASTLE
Chapter One
Dear Diary,
I suppose I should begin with a summary, as you've not been following my life story. I lived my early years at Malfoy Manor with my fathers, Harry and Draco Malfoy-Potter. They loved me; they called me their darling Araminta; they commented on my gray-green eyes; they cuddled me and stroked my blonde hair (streaked with honey and caramel, they said); they made sure my house-elf, Bollocksy, was always there to protect me. However, they couldn't protect me from the future, the present, the past, and probably not from the dangling participles that have plagued my very existence from the moment I arrived at Hogwarts.
Yes, Hogwarts. I blame it all on my education--or lack of it. When I arrived, I was far ahead of my classmates (Blake Parkinson and Selene Bulstrode, for example), and the Sorting Hat put me in Slythindor. Yes, Slythindor! It was awful. I didn't really belong to one House or the other, but at least I had my own room. Before the week was out, Dumbledore had given me an aging spell so I'd fit in with the seventh years, McGonagall had taught me how to find my unicorn Animagus form (which, after I lost my virginity, became a pegasus), and I'd tripped while holding the Time-Turner I needed to get to my classes.
My time in the Hogwarts past only got worse. I found out that Daddy Draco was part-elf, and he was sexy to boot. The elves told me that the prophecy I'd grown up believing--"Potter will find true love in the arms of a Malfoy"--wasn't about Daddy Draco and Daddy Harry after all. Aunt Hermione gave up her chance to be with Draco to help the prophecy come true when the Malfoy in the prophecy was always meant to be me. Confusing, I know. It was for me, too. I had to figure out a way to get Draco and Hermione, my real parents, together so that I could be born; find the right place in time; and marry Harry...not to mention that I had to save my friend Melannen, deliver Blake (who was born to Pansy Parkinson and Professor Snape), deliver Selene (who was born to Millicent Bulstrode by parthenogenesis), play Quidditch, and try to keep my grades up. Of course, I pulled it off with aplomb and with hardly any help from Bollocksy or Fawkes-Iolanthe, my phoenix.
It all fell apart when I thought I'd finally finished all of my tasks. I came back in time to find Harry waiting for me, but when I woke up the next day, it started repeating on me and everything was wrong in an alternate-universe sort of way.
Harry was in good health, but he was a scummy lounge wizard who took fashion tips from his seventies-era dad. His parents were (are) alive and kicking, and encouraging him to go down any path but the right one. When he brought me to Las Vegas (trying to get some milk without buying the cow again, I suspect) I found out that he only wanted to marry me for my money.
Hmph.
Problem is, I'm the cause of some of the problems. I cleared the way for Harry to defeat Voldemort with a Makeover Charm (beautiful people are happier and nicer, after all) in the past, but the consequences rippled back and forth in time. In the new present-future, Voldemort was already dead long before the Potters were twinkles in their parents' eyes. A representative of Joe Rolling introduced us, though, and said that if I got on a different plane, I could find a present where I fit in in happily.
I went outside for a cab and gave the driver a handful of Galleons I had sewn into the lining of my robes. I told him I wanted to take a plane, and he drove and drove for hours and talked about the Galleons until he finally let me off at someplace called LAX terminal 4.
I have to tell you, this sucks. I managed to get my transfigured passport before I left the hotel, but there isn't anyplace here to convert my funds to Muggle money. They keep suggesting I try a pawn shop. As if. So now I'm sitting here writing in this diary and trying not to cry because I can't get on a plane and there is this boy that looks sort of like a young Harry looking at me and he looks like a ghost and I feel all tingly and oh my...
Araminta
