A Different Type of Meddling
Please Read / Important Author's Note: This is story will be a collection of SI/OC-inserts that will experiment with all the different ways HP could've gone when someone from our world, with the knowledge of J.K. Rowling's books, has the choice, chance, and power to interfere with canon. Some might be short, some might be long, and even more will probably only rate as Character Introductions. Read at your own peril.
Aside from all the possibilities I want to explore, my other main reasons for writing this is (1) To improve my skill at writing (2) To experiment, improve, and learn more about the process of character development (3) To push myself to think things through and to stretch my limits in regard to my "writing stamina." And by that, I am referring to how much I can write in one sitting. In all my previous stories, I never managed more than (usually) 1,500 - 1,900 words per chapter.
If there are any spelling or grammar errors, please tell me in a constructive and helpful manner. I'm here to improve, not be roasted over a fire. Thank you.
Chapter Notes/Warnings: I have never been to France, I don't speak French, and I'm not all that familiar with the culture. Forgive me if there are any errors. I'm giving this my best shot. Hopefully, as time goes on, I will get better at writing. If you want to take any of these ideas and turn it into a story of your own, feel free. Just promise to tell me about it.
General Summary:
Being reincarnated into the universe of J.K. Rowling's most beloved book series is not as easy as it seems, especially when you hold important knowledge of a future that could change the course of that reality's history...Undoubtedly AU. Experiments on all the ways OC-Inserts could affect the world of HP. Some might be short, some might be long, and even more will probably be something like Character Introductions. Read at your own peril.
Inésse
The Other Evans Girl
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23rd of January, 1982
Had I been a normal human being, I would've stated with absolute certainty, that there was nothing more discomfiting than being sat down and confessed to. No, I don't mean a love confession –I doubt I'd ever be that lucky (or unlucky, as the case may be).
There was something about people giving you that look –the look that told you they were going to sit you down and spill their deepest and darkest secrets. It terrified me, really. It wasn't my greatest fear, but it was right up there, just below that time I had met Death.
Yes. That is what it sounds like. Cross-dimensional reincarnation was hard to wrap my head around, but after nearly two decades of actually living in an alternate dimension, I had little choice but to accept it.
But I digress –confessions. Those were an emotional pain to deal with if only because it meant that a major upheaval of my life was going to occur and that my stability would be threatened.
For someone who had the floor of their life ripped from right under their feet, this was terrifying.
And it was the exact situation I would be dealing with this morning, judging from the strained smile on my mother's face.
Marianne Bonnefoy was the woman who wad birthed me and raised me. She was my second mother, loved just as much as the first woman I had known and called mother. In this world, she was the only parent I had ever known and had ever needed. I admired and loved her deeply. She was a French artist, a single mother, and a strong woman.
She was also a witch.
No, I'm not insulting her.
She was capable of magic, used a wand, and was part of hidden society of magical beings. And no, I'm not talking about those green-faced, cackling witch stereotypes, either. I'm talking about your Harry Potter type of witch.
In fact, if you wanted to get technical, she was a Harry Potter witch. The world J.K. Rowling had written about was my reality now –or at least, a version of it. I had begun to put the pieces together when memories of my past life had started reassembling themselves when I was sixteen. Growing up in magical France, in the 1970s, left little chance to stay ignorant about the new Dark Lord plaguing Britain. The countries surrounding England kept a wary eye on the growing problem, just waiting for the moment when England's problems would become their problems. No one wanted a repeat of Grindelwald.
But the escalating war in Britain ended abruptly on October of 1981. I knew what had happened before the how's and who's had spread throughout the rest of the world. As soon as the whispers of a baby with a lightning bolt scar had stopped the Dark Lord had begun to spread, I knew the truth. It was the last piece of information I needed to confirm my theories.
I remember just sitting there, staring blankly at the gaggle of excited British muggle-born refugees in utter shock as they gathered around one of the tables in the far corner of the restaurant. They had been exuberant at the prospect of returning home. The other customers had overheard the news and the small restaurant had become filled with excited chatter, both in English and in French, within a matter of minutes.
Marianne had thankfully written it off as understandable shock and relief that there would be no rampaging Dark Lords invading France, though she had given me a strange look for the degree the news had seemingly affected me. Voldemort was a threat, yes, but he was a distant threat for many of the other magical populations in Europe. Distant enough for people not to worry and look over their shoulders at every turn.
It took me approximately a month to properly absorb and process that information.
By early November, I had made one of my Thought Lists.
First had been: Harry Potter was a real person.
The second: the events that had transpired in the series were likely to transpire here.
Then third: I really, really, really wanted to live. Meeting the anthropomorphic representation of Death once, when I had been in between my new life and my previous life, was more than enough for me.
And finally, Fourth: as tempting meddling sounded, it was not my place. Meddling would also probably get me, and perhaps Marianne, killed in a painfully horrific way.
I didn't want to die. I didn't want Marianne –my mother— to die. I didn't want to irrevocably screw things up.
Final conclusion? Stay away from Britain and all the crazy hijinks Potter and his friends would get themselves into and do my best to ignore the pangs of guilt I felt at letting people –not characters, not anymore— die.
Let people die.
Let people die.
…DamnitI'mlettingrealpeopledie!
Yeah, that went about as well as it could go for a person who had been raised with strong morals could ever go. I was, for the entire month of November, stuck on repeat.
In other words, I couldn't swallow that conclusion and felt absolutely sick with myself at the prospect of letting people die.
It was now January of 1982, and I had not yet made a decision. It was easy to say that my hands were tied and that interfering would just lead to a worse outcome, but that wasn't the case. Not really. While the possibility of things going to hell in a hand basket was there, that wasn't the only thing there.
Lily, James, Sirius, Harry, Remus, Fred, and Tonks. All of them were real in this reality, and I had the knowledge that could potentially change their fate. It was different when I knew I could take a portkey to Britain and find these people. They'd be right there, in the flesh. Real people with real lives –not book characters or actors in a film. Lily and James were already dead. Sirius had already been incarcerated and consigned to be forgotten by the rest of Britain, nothing more than a problem they wanted buried. Remus was a werewolf and most likely still mourning his friends.
Could I really let things play out the way I knew they would play out?
Could I really? Could I deal with the nightmares and the guilt that would inevitably come to haunt me? Could I deal with the knowledge that I had blood on my hands?
I…I couldn't—
"Inésse."
My eyes snapped open in shock as two, warm hands tenderly cupped my cheeks. The worried gaze of my mother, Marianne, met mine from where she had leaned over our small table to take my face in between her hands. It was then I realized that I had, once again, become too engrossed in my thoughts.
I smiled at her shakily even as I reluctantly removed myself from her grasp and the comforts she offered before I took a calming sip of my now cold cup of coffee. The bitter taste brought me back down to reality. The imagined faces of people I had never met were locked away once again as I focused on the food in front of me and the person sitting just across the table. I wasn't in Hogwarts, I wasn't in England, and I wasn't surrounded by the accusing gazes of Lily and James Potter. There was no blood on my hands, not really, and Lord Voldemort was dead and gone and would stay that way for the next ten years, at least.
At this moment in time, I was just Inésse Zinnia Bonnefoy, nineteen-year-old daughter of Marianne Bonnefoy –nothing more than a girl enjoying breakfast with her mother within their comfortable apartment, with la Tour Eiffel peeking out from in between the curtains of our dining room window.
I breathed out deeply, allowing my eyelids to fall slightly as I consciously relaxed all of my muscles. I could feel my mother's gaze on me, though I couldn't see her, as I gazed downwards; I hadn't meant to worry her again.
After a few more moments, I looked up to meet her eyes, smiling once again, but with a (hopefully) steadier and more reassuring expression. "I'm fine, mother," I assured, placing a hand over her own. Silently, I thanked heaven for small mercies –my hands, too, remained steady.
She gave me a dubious look that clearly communicated her disbelief before leaning back to finish her meal. I suppressed a grimace. She was undoubtedly one of the most perceptive people I had ever met –in both lifetimes.
We finished our respective meals in silence. The silence between us was normal, but the strained atmosphere between us wasn't. Had I caused it? Or did it have something to do with the strained smile she'd sent me earlier and the letter she had been clutching all morning?
By this time in the morning, I was usually already on my way to Madame Lefebvre's studio; I had pursued and been granted an art apprenticeship with her after my mother had finished homeschooling me and the Magical French Ministry had deemed me the equivalent of a Beauxbatons graduate. But this morning, I refrained from leaving as I usually did, acting on a gut instinct.
Marianne made no comment.
I watched in silence as she banished the plates and leftovers to their respective places before preparing herself a glass of water. I took the time to study her once again, noting the slight puffiness of her eyes and the way her lips were pursed. There was an undercurrent of exhaustion in the way she held herself, a far cry from the sharp eyes and confident posture she usually sported.
She was, as usual, dressed well. There was not a hair out of place and her make-up was immaculate, but I could read the signs. I had already concluded that the letter, and therefore a second party, would be a part of this situation –the way she had avoided my eyes earlier, when I had asked her about the letter was telling, along with the subdued mood she had been in all morning and most of last night.
All the signs told me that this news would most likely be unwelcomed.
When she finally lifted her eyes from the dark wood of the table, I was left mentally flailing in alarm. There was something close to heartbreak in her eyes that instantly set me on edge. My muscles tensed involuntarily as I gave her my full attention, focusing my gaze unerringly on her face and the crisp, light blue envelope in her left hand. Marianne flinched.
"Mother," I said finally, gaze still fixed on the envelope in her hand, even as a sick feeling welled up at the pit of my stomach.
I really hoped it wasn't what I thought it was.
I had no idea what I would do if the only other person I truly treasured in this life was killed. Tentatively –fearfully— I voiced my guess, "Is it Alaude?" My eyes flicked upwards to catch her reaction.
Marianne reared back as if slapped. "Non!" she gasped, eyes wide in surprise as she reflexively stood up in shock. "No, Inésse, this is not about Alaude! He's fine," she assured me vehemently, "I promise, Alaude is fine."
I relaxed immediately. If my older half-brother was still alive and well, chances were that whatever news she was about to deliver couldn't be as bad she thought it would be. "Oh," I said lamely, "Good." We waited for a few more seconds to calm our heartbeats. Gradually, the color returned to both of our faces.
Alaude Bonnefoy was my older half-brother from Marianne's first marriage. He was someone I had loved for as long as I could remember in this life. I had long associated him with warmth and safety. He was my closest confidant and my dearest friend. He was my brother in all the ways it counted. I couldn't imagine losing him. It was a fear Marianne and I both had to face every day, however, because of Alaude's chosen career.
Alaude had chosen a career as a specialized Auror –specifically, a field-medic. The fact that he was deployed with a team on missions that needed a fully-trained medic, despite the repertoire of healing spells all Aurors were required to learn, said much about the high risks his job required of him. It was times like these I could sympathize with your stereotypical Reckless Hero's friends and family –people who had a saving-people-thing were, if you'll pardon my language, a constant pain in the ass to those who tried to keep aforementioned heroes safe.
"No," Marianne repeated, calmer now, "It's not about Alaude, Inésse. It's about something else," she hesitated, "—someone else." My eyebrows rose questioningly.
I made a vague encouraging noise. This was all the prompting she apparently needed. "Nearly two years ago, when I was on business in London, someone I used to know tracked me down and made me promise to give something to you when the time came," she explained cryptically. "His name was Martin…" she trailed off, eyes becoming somewhat glazed.
"And…?" I prompted. She shook her head, refocusing on the letter in her hand. There was a pensive look in her eyes now.
"When you asked me about your father, I told you that he died two weeks before I found out I was pregnant. That…wasn't the entire truth," she admitted.
I looked at her blankly.
She sighed. "Two years after my sister and I left Beauxbatons, we moved to London to be closer to our only remaining blood relative –our aunt. While I was there, I begun to grow fascinated with muggle culture. Eventually, after extensive tutoring from my muggle uncle, I was ready to interact with them. I made friends," she smiled wistfully.
"But it didn't last long," I guessed. She nodded.
"Eventually, Francine and I parted ways," she paused, taking sip from her glass, "I went back to France and married Alaude's father and had Alaude in 1960. Then his father died in 1961, one year later. In '62, you know I remarried. My second husband died about two weeks before I found out I was pregnant with you."
I nodded. I had heard all of this before and had a sneaking suspicion about where this was going. "I know. And then?" I prompted.
"Three days after my second husband died, I left Alaude with your Aunt Francine. I wasn't thinking very coherently," she admitted. "I ran to London, checked into a hotel, and attempted to drink myself into oblivion. It went on like that for about a week before I ran into one of my old muggle friends. Martin," she clarified. "He and his wife were on the verge of a divorce. We both went out drinking that night, and well…" she sighed tiredly.
I could fill in the blanks. "So," I hesitated. "He's…?"
She nodded.
"And why are you telling me this now?"
"He sent you a letter," she explained, eyes falling on the light blue envelope in her hand. My eyes followed her gaze.
"He knew about me?" I asked. She nodded again, lips pursing slightly.
"The day after that, we admitted that we had made a mistake –not that either one of us consider you a mistake, Inésse!" she clarified vehemently. "We both love you, don't doubt that, but he loved his wife, and I held no romantic feelings for him. We resolved to fix ourselves and our lives before parting ways as friends, thinking that was the end of it. But then you were born, and I suspected. I had some tests done before contacting him."
"Then what happened?"
"We talked it over. We decided that we'd keep it secret and that you would be my daughter. He was there for the birth and visited you for the first two years before stopping. He decided to distance himself from us to spare both his family, himself, and you the potential emotional pain."
I…could understand that. The news was a shock, certainly, but I had an entire lifetime to back me up and the emotional maturity of an adult. It might've been a life-changing and hurtful event for me had I been a true nineteen-year-old with all the problems being an immature teenager entailed, but I wasn't. Not since I had regained my memories of my past life starting at age sixteen.
I processed the information slowly, face pulling into a contemplative expression. In front of me, Marianne watched me cautiously.
Well, I thought wryly, wasn't this just an enlightening morning?
After a few moments of pensive silence, I sighed, running a hand through my deep auburn hair in mild frustration. As if living as a witch and accepting the fact I now lived in Harry Potter Land wasn't enough, life just had to be…well, life. With all the trouble and unexpected turns it always entailed, regardless of universe.
Ah, screw it.
"Look," I began, meeting Marianne's gaze, "I understand why both of you did what you did. I don't feel hurt or insecure. I understand," I explained steadily. Marianne remained unreadable, watching me intently. "I've never felt like I was lacking. I have you and Alaude, and that's all I really want or need. I wouldn't mind getting to know him, if that's what this is about, but all in all, I have no strong feelings either way. It's a shock and surprising," I admitted, "But not…crippling or traumatic."
"You're certain?" she asked softly, strangely.
"Yes," I replied readily, holding her gaze.
"…You asked me earlier why I was telling you all this now," she murmured after a few moments of silence. "I'm telling you this now because Martin died last month. This letter arrived yesterday," with that statement, she placed the light, blue envelope in front of me before she stood up. "I'll leave the decision up to you, Inésse," she smiled softly before turning on her heel, towards her bedroom, closing the door softly.
I stared after her for a few moments, processing her words and concluding that she had gone into her bedroom to grieve. She knew this man, this Martin, and cared for him. To me, he was a stranger, but to her, he had undoubtedly been a good friend. I felt a distant sort of sadness along with my curiosity, but nothing else.
I turned my attention back to the letter sitting innocuously in front of me. I debated the pros and cons of opening the letter, wary of another potentially emotionally draining confession, but eventually decided it couldn't be any more surprising than what had already been revealed.
I pulled the letter from the envelope, unfolding it to be greeted by beautiful black script on crisp white paper. This man, my biological father, Martin, had put effort into this letter.
My little Inésse,
This may be a cliché way to start a letter, but if you are reading this, I am mostly likely dead. I find it odd, but I feel I must apologize to you for dying. I apologize, too, for having not done my job a father –as your father; I know that I have been a stranger to you all your life. Believe me, this is one of my greatest regrets, if not the greatest.
But on this topic, I will no longer waste breath. There is no point in wishing I could change the past, especially with my time near at hand. Just know, Inésse, that I love you and have always loved you and that I regret the choices I made that led me so far from you.
I have made arrangements for you, though they are not nearly enough to account for my neglect, I nonetheless hope that it brings a priceless happiness to your life. I will not speak more of this matter in this letter. Instead, I implore you to seek out an old friend of mine, one Vincent Johann Sutherland, who lives in London, England. Your mother will know where to find him.
I hope that giving you this opportunity will not drive you even further from me, dead though I may be. I acknowledge that what will be revealed to you may hurt you, but I sincerely hope that you may learn to love my gift to you, in time, and that you may be loved in return.
With love,
Martin H. Evans
At the bottom of the letter, there were two colored drawings of a flower I recognized as a Zinnia, my namesake. One was magenta while the other was a bright yellow color. Underneath both, written in elegant calligraphy, was the inscription:
Lasting affection and Daily remembrance.
I don't know how long I stared at the letter in contemplative silence. My mother had made it clear that whatever this was, it was my decision.
Did I want to know more about this man? Did I want to get involved with whatever arrangement or 'gift' he had decided to give me? I skimmed through the letter once again, reading in between the lines. Phrases like 'priceless happiness' and 'may be loved in return' spelled out exactly what this 'gift' he was giving me would be.
A sibling. Or siblings, if he had more than one child.
I didn't know how to feel about that.
For the longest time, 'family' in this life consisted of Alaude and Marianne. My beloved older brother and my strong, admirable mother. When I was younger, that sphere had included my Aunt Francine, but she had died two years ago. They were all I had ever needed. Did I want to add to that sphere? Did I want to go through the effort of getting to know strangers, albeit strangers who shared my blood? Was that even a good idea, considering the circumstances of conception?
I was wary of the idea. Very wary.
That wasn't even taking into account he, along with his children, were probably British. I may not have decided on the no-interfering-with-the-plot idea, but the stay-away-from-England idea had been in effect since the shards of my memory had been put back together. Forming close ties with these people was not conductive to that idea.
After nearly an hour of fruitless debate, I gave up. I needed a second opinion from the person I trusted the most, aside from my mother. I folded the letter and put it back into the envelope before inserting it securely within one of my bag's many pockets. Quietly, so as not to disturb Marianne, who had fallen asleep, I slipped into her room to borrow one of her coats.
Madam Lefebvre wouldn't be happy with me, but this took precedence. I left a note for Marianne, explaining where I was going before placing a light kiss on her forehead.
I may have had the memories of someone who had already lived their own life (no matter how short it had been), but Alaude had a strange sense of wisdom I lacked.
He would know the best course of action and whether or not finding Evans' other children was worth the effort and potential emotional turmoil.
As I departed, however, I had the nagging feeling I had failed to connect a few very important dots.
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Please Review.
Feedback helps me get better. Also, I might take requests if I like the idea enough. :-)
For those of you who didn't quite get it: Flower names + Evans family in England + 1960s/1970s + World of Harry Potter = ?