-Chapter One-

So, you obviously know the story of Harry Potter. Many people do. Knowing this story though, implies you know how Lord Voldemort was defeated – Harry Potter. It implies many things actually, including the fact that you're aware of the elusive and hard-to-be-found Gods and Goddess' of Ancient Greece. What you might not be aware of though, is how they aren't really supposed to exist in the same universe.

Oh they could, because Harry Potter is canonically a giant idiot who can't see something happening right in front of his eyes – but let's just imagine, for a moment, that they weren't.

Now.

Now imagine them together. Imagine demigods – children of Hecate having their own children, passing down the gift of magic that just won't disappear from their bloodline, because magic itself is something above even the Gods themselves. Imagine wix that are demigods – being hunted down and killed by monsters that smell not only a delectable meal and foe, but also something else, an entire vat of pure magic that would empower a hoard of monsters for centuries yet, and just the idea is intoxicating to the gods-damned archetypes. Imagine them – imagine the demigods and the wix and the demigods-who-are-wix banding together, creating communities that could defeat these monsters that came for one of their own. Imagine that in a village of wix, a village of a hundred, two hundred, eight hundred – only one will be a demigod-who-is-wix, or four, or a hundred. They are either alone, or surrounded by those they would call sibling or cousin, or just relative.

Gods flock to Gods, after all.

Now imagine these communities, these hidden towns that wield magic and powers-from-Gods, and imagine them growing and growing, in both number and cleverness. Imagine them speeding past their mundane counterparts, to reaches untold, creating castes and hierarchies and governments. Imagine them, the wix and the demigods-who-are-wix, imagine them hiding away as the mundanes become jealous and hateful, slowly decreasing their presence until, all at once, they don't exist. To mundanes, wix are a fae-tale, a story told in front of a fire about imaginary powers and imaginary magic and imaginary gods.

Imagine those mundanes growing in mind and body, believing wix are bedtime fables for centuries, and unwittingly pushing them farther and farther away, until only magicks specifically designed to keep them away, keep mundanes far, far from the sight and sound of wix, are able to safely keep wix-communities integrated into the places they call home.

Imagine that Hogwarts was only able to be hidden from mundanes because the thrice-great granddaughters and thrice-great grandsons of Salazar Slytherin, Helga Hufflepuff and Godric Gryffindor were children of Hecate that had the insane, absolutely preposterous idea to hide the valley in the Cairngorms that Hogwarts within stood from mundanes, forever, only for the powerful magic that which they used to do more than they anticipated. Imagine that the Gods are unable to find, unable to see through the magicks which previously before they could sense half a world away. Imagine that Hecate is quietly jealous of her children, and overly vindictive – imagine that the Gods believe they destroyed themselves.

Imagine that both mundanes and the Gods believe wix to be gone, and that they convince themselves they never existed.

(You don't have to imagine – we've done the same thing in our own world. We've lost the true truth to Father Time – we forget he existed too.)

For the majority of her life, Lorelei "Call me Lorie" Potter had lived by three rules that she had made for herself as a child. Rule One: never form an opinion until you are properly – and fully – informed. Rule Two: always give everything at least two insert-noun-here, because basing things off a singular experience was stupid, not to mention unfair. The number had changed over the years, but averaging prompted Lorie to do things in binary sets.

An example of that was swimming lessons. The first time she went to lessons with her school, she had a vaguely queasy stomach every time she ducked her head under the surface, and dreaded next week's lesson. The second time, it only got worse, with the added benefit of literally being sick, and a pounding headache, and Lorie asked Petunia to write her a note, which Petunia did.

She never went swimming again.

Understandably, there were some things Lorie took longer to decide on, and couldn't get out of even if she didn't like it. An example of that was primary school – very quickly she showed herself to be very proficient and speedy when it came to school-work. It took a little while for her to convince her uncle to let her join Dudley's primary school year, let alone an older class – Vernon Dursley did not approve of it all, girls being raised up in school, children being called prodigies and geniuses. At the time, Lorie had been six, Dudley eight. Lorie would have gone from being primary one, to primary four, maybe even primary five.

It was a big thing, and it took until the winter holidays, when her report card came in, stating that the teacher had been asking for material from the primary seven class, for Vernon to finally grumble about the bloody education system not telling you when your own little girl is a genius prodigy, and acquiescing, signing the attached forms along with Petunia, attending several meetings in and out of St Grogory's Primary School.

Lorie's final rule, Rule Three, was so: never talk about the monsters.

The monsters were always there, watching, waiting, snatching. More than once, little Lorie – too small to run, too weak to fight back – had been bundled into the back of a car and taken somewhere. She would cry and scream, and make as much noise as possible, scratching and hitting until either, a) they tied her up, b) they reached their destination, or c) the car flipped.

The fact that every single time she was taken in a car, it flipped, did not go unnoticed.

Little Whinging had since gotten a larger police force, more security cameras, and both St Gregory's and Privet Drive themselves required key-card access, the gates and roads respectively needing the officers on duty and residents to use their security passes to enter each. Lorie herself had a personal police officer assigned to her whenever she left either area without Vernon or a male teacher. Officer Staffox – and when Staffox wasn't there, Officer Smith – stayed at a distance, and regularly practiced different defensive manoeuvres with her so she could escape different grips.

Sometimes they worked. Most times, they didn't. Everyone thought it was because she was weak – and she was, just not that weak. Lorie knew it was because they were monsters. But that was the rule – Rule Three. Don't talk about the monsters. The one time she did, Lorie got assigned a psychologist for two years. At first, when talking to them, she told them all of what she never usually mentioned in the post-escape interrogation with the police-officers. She told them about the one-legged, the one-eyed, the winged, how they whispered about the Great Game to get her across the magical barrier around the wretched town – and then Lorie realised they thought she had PTSD and was imagining things.

Lorie wasn't imagining things. She'd managed to free herself by slicing into a wing-tendon once, taking advantage of the woman's screaming to both get out and attract the attention of someone who could take her to the police. It had been pretty easy, though next time a winged person grabbed her, they glared at her murderously before stiffly turning their backs to show the guard over the naturally unprotected region.

However, one good thing had come out of telling someone about the monsters – her Aunt Petunia finally told her the truth about her mother. Who was a witch. Who could use magic. Who was murdered by a dark wizard by the name of Voldemort the day before Petunia found Lorie on her doorstep with a letter that she gave Lorie to read, having kept it all these years.

Inside, it explained the precarious situation that Lily and her father, James, had been in. Voldemort had wanted to kill them, or more specifically, her brother David. Lily had David when she was nineteen – barely, according to Aunt Petunia – on August first, nineteen seventy-nine, and it was only a couple of months after his birth that they got word that Voldemort was looking for them, to kill David, as he was prophesied to defeat him.

Which he did.

But the Potter's were in hiding for a long time before Voldemort found them, scared for the life of their son, and in that time – not that most knew – they had Lorie. The letter-writer stated it had been much the surprise to find out she even existed, when Voldemort's attack was discovered, though close family friends stated they knew either of her, or simply her, having spent time with her as a baby.

Voldemort's attack itself took place on the Halloween of nineteen eighty-three. David was four years old but already very, very brave, Lorie only having turned two that past July. When Lily and James were both dead, Voldemort faced David, who somehow vanquished the evil man, leaving himself on the verge of death. Only the most experienced of St Mungos Hospital for Magical Maladies' healers understood his condition and were able to treat him, placing him in an enchanted sleep so his magic could recover from the fatal blow – his magical core had been cracked, the amount of magic used to do whatever had been done to the dark wizard too much for a still-developing core.

Having always thought David had been dead alongside her parents, Lorie was more upset over the fact that the letter told them that David was in a coma, rather than the fact that she hadn't been told this all from the start. She didn't speak to Petunia directly for weeks – and even wrote to this 'Albus Dumbledore', trying to find out more information. In the three years since she sent it, Lorie hadn't received a reply.

Until today.

"Girl, what's taking so long? Looking for letter-bombs?" Uncle Vernon laughed at his own joke, Lorie cringing slightly. Her uncle thought himself funny.

Tucking the letter in her hoodie's kangaroo pocket, Lorie scooped the rest of the post up, running back into the kitchen to set it down beside Uncle Vernon's newspaper, joining Dudley at the table. He looked up at the sight of her, pushing her plate from one side of the table to the other.

"Thanks," she said, thoughts on the parchment burning against her stomach. Digging into the cooked breakfast, Lorie used her right hand to steal Uncle Vernon's newspaper, scanning the pages at lightning speed as he looked through the post. Once Vernon realised what she'd done, he tugged it back, placing it out of her reach, chuckling.

"Little tyke, there's nothing in there for you to see – take one of Pet's magazines."

Lorie grumbled, before instead reaching for Dudley's comic. Deftly, without looking up, he grabbed her wrist, squeezing it hard enough to bruise.

"Don't even think about it, midget."

"Let go," Lorie whined, trying to tug it away and failing as Dudley kept eating, eyes glued to the laminate paper. Glaring at him, Lorie concentrated, looking to her hand. A few seconds later Dudley yelped, tumbling sideways off his chair as he pulled away his hand sharply, dropping her wrist. Triumphant, Lorie finished her breakfast quickly, skipping out of the room just as Petunia called out her name in anger.

Running up to her room, Lorie snickered, before leaning against the sticker-coated door, locking herself in with the newly screwed-in bolt – she'd paid for it with her own money that she'd gotten for cutting the neighbours' grass. She'd get an earful when she went down – she wasn't supposed to use magic, let alone on Dudley, despite how she apparently didn't have enough to attend Hogwarts anyway – but right now? Lorie had a letter to open.

Going to sit at her desk, Lorie took out the envelope from her pocket, sitting down and peering at it. Miss Lorelei Sophie Potter, Lorie's Bedroom, Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. No postcode. Lorie frowned. Why doesn't it have a postcode? Hand reaching out blindly, she opened her desk-drawer, taking out the original letter from Dumbledore. Looking between it and the new letter, Lorie's confidence wavered.

It wasn't the same handwriting.

But…it couldn't be her Hogwarts letter. She wasn't even eleven! She was turning thirteen in, quite literally, a week. They were going to Blackpool tomorrow for it, plus an early celebration for Lorie getting her GSCE's, which they all knew she'd passed – she studied university material for fun. Dudley would be getting his newest order for this years' Smelting's uniform in the post, but her exam results would come later, after they got home. Dudley's uniform had changed, apparently, though it would likely be the same uniform, only a different stitch – Petunia had complained loudly, but still filled in the forms. Lorie thought she'd seen a message from the post office between the pile of bills and taxes and this.

Placing Dumbledore's letter down, Lorie turned it over, swallowing at the sight of the purple wax seal. Cracking it, the young girl slid the envelope open, taking out the thick sheaf of parchment, unfolding it and staring at the thick, looping, imposing calligraphy.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

"No, no, this isn't right…" Lorie read the rest of the letter, wondering if it was all handwritten – because unless the school's entry-age had increased, or they were making a terrible, absolutely horrendous joke, she should have gotten this years ago.

Lorie looked to the mirror in front of her, staring at herself. I'd be with eleven year olds. She might be small, but she couldn't pass for being that young – she wasn't like her mother had been in her pictures, ageless and unidentifiable, unless you compared her ten year-old self to her sixteen. Lorie was all sharp cheeks and olive skin and maturity, surrounded by a halo of silken black curls that were always coming out of her ballerina bun. I can't pass as an eleven year old. It might only be two years, but it looked like four, sometimes.

Head tipping back down, she shuffled through the parchment. Ms Thomsonicle-Pocus hadn't written out a very concise list of things to bring – it seemed more like school requirements rather than an actual checklist. It didn't even include pyjamas, or normal clothes. It's a boarding school, too – it should have more than this. Maybe I should write to a teacher, to see if they can come explain life in Hogwarts, Lorie thought before realising that she'd actually have to get these somehow.

She'd have to tell her aunt and uncle she was a witch.

Immediately, Lorie stuffed the letter and envelope into her drawer again, hiding it beneath her old jotters from primary, filled with poems and both artful and correct mathematics. They couldn't find out. She'd have to write a letter to Hogwarts, explaining that she couldn't go – and what about her muggle education? She was planning to take her A-Levels this coming year, provided her GSCE'S were marked appropriately. Vernon was already boasting to the neighbours that she was going to go to Cambridge. Going to Hogwarts…it was impossible. No. She couldn't go.

Lorie bit her lip.

The truth was this: she did want to go to Hogwarts. But a second truth was this: she did actually want to go to Cambridge.

"Maybe I can do both?" She whispered, wondering who she was asking. The Lorie's eyes caught her calendar, eyes going wide. "Shit! AUNT PETUNIA! BALLET STARTS EARLY TODAY! I HAVE LESS THAN AN HOUR!"

"WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY EARLIER? GET YOUR THINGS! VERNON WILL TAKE YOU!"

Lorie, who had already rocketed to her feet, packing her bag quickly, rolled her eyes. "DON'T YOU THINK I'M ALREADY DOING THAT, YOU MADWOMAN?! TELL UNCLE VERNON I'LL BE DOWN IN TEN MINUTES – I NEED A SHOWER!"

"BE QUICK!"

"YES AUNT PETUNIA!"

The letter in the drawer sat forgotten – for now.

"-so, Monica, you can walk away now-"

"My name's Maven!" Monica glared down at her. Lorie ignored her, simply staring venomously and continuing.

"-and go fuck your boyfriend, or you can bloody damn well do your part for this performance. This is the last one you're in, before you leave to go up North, with or without Ernest-"

"His name is Ernie!"

"-who, by the way, won't be going with you, because he still goes to fucking boarding school in Scotland – and his name is Ernest, actually, I stole his wallet at one point – and is a fucking minor, unlike you, who is what, eighteen?"

Monica clenched her jaw, "I'm turning seventeen in a month."

Lorie rolled her eyes, "And Macmillan's something like fourteen. I don't care. What I do care about is your dedication to our performance, and you're slacking. Now either get your arse in gear, or tell us you're leaving by tomorrow evening. I've had Sharon learning your part-"

"My name is Shannon," said girl chided from beside Monica on the floor, wiping down her pointe slippers.

"-and she can do it. She's dedicated. You aren't, and if you are, we can't see it."

Monica huffed, "I am dedicated."

"Prove it, then!" Lorie let off one last snap, before leaving, heading over to where her stuff sat, thrown over not one, but six chairs. Gathering it up, Lorie grumbled, wishing that practice had ended earlier, so she could use the shower there at the studio, below them in the basement changing area. Uncle Vernon would notice if she let an odd smell get into his fancy new Mercedes.

"Potter, over here when you're packed up," her instructor called. Lorie grimaced, wondering if she'd gone too far with Monica. Zipping up her bag, she swung it over her shoulder, padding over to the woman, fiddling with a stray strand of hair – or rather, a thick wad.

"Yes, Ms Morgan?"

Zoe zipped up her hoodie – black, with the studio logo on the back and breast-pocket, professional in comparison to Lorie's bright, eighties Electro pullover. Though, she did have a thin, grey zip-hoodie over the top, so maybe that made up for it. She handed over a black scrunchie at the sight of her, causing Lorie to thanks her before pulling all her hair back, tying it up. Most likely, Zoe would find Lorie's actual hairband somewhere on the studio floor before she left that evening, or another ballet student would.

"I'm retiring after this performance. I thought you should know."

Lorie's mind went blank for a moment. "What?"

Zoe's nails scraped over her stomach, "I'm having a baby. When my ex-husband decided he was going to work more hours for child-support, he got a promotion, and found a new partner – we've already made arrangements about it all. Everything's. Harold was rather fortuitous in life, and John wants to be the best dad he can be…I'll be moving in with him and Harold, in Westchester, living in a separate wing."

"Westchester…like, America?"

"Yes. I'm moving a week after the performance. You're my favourite little bird, Lorelei – I've made some calls, recommending and referring you to some other studios. I think you could settle in well with the Sam's."

"The Sam's – Ms Groves and Ms Shaw, right?" Lorie was still stuck on the part where her teacher was leaving. Zoe nodded. "…Oh."

"Come here."

Lorie burrowed into her arms, feeling her eyes burn. "Good- good luck. In America." Zoe pressed a kiss to her head.

"Thank-you, little bird. Do you have anything to tell me in return?" She joked, referring to their back and forth, from over the years – each told a detail about their life, and while Zoe had the best adventures to share from her lifetime, Lorie always had something to say.

Lorie, at this though, hesitated, reminding herself of the parchment in her drawer, the letter she had yet to bring up with her aunt and uncle.

"Lorelei?"

Lorie pulled away, taking her mentors hands and bending down, staring at her middle. "You be good for your mummy. She's got so many stories to tell. All you have to do is ask." She stood straight, squeezing. Zoe squeezed back. "I got invited to my parents' private school, two years late. They have an entry-rate of eleven, and if I went, I'd be joining midgets. I want to take my A-Levels and go to Cambridge, and do ballet, and not disappoint my aunt and uncle-"

"Lorelei, you're ranting at a very fast pace. Luckily, I can translate Lorie Potter. What would your parents want you to do?"

"The private school, definitely – it's older than Cambridge by several hundred years, according to my mother's history text-book. My dad's family have been going there for centuries. It's part of my heritage, a culture I've not joined or been allowed to join – Aunt Petunia never got a letter, not like my mother."

Zoe nodded. "Take correspondence courses."

Lorie grimaced, "I don't think-"

"Let me rephrase: take your A-Levels through correspondence courses. You've never had trouble with work, and if you have trouble, a school that old will have a library that will help. And surely you'll get some kind of discount for being part of such a family, going there for so long. What's it called, again?"

Lorie's lip twitched. "That's classified." Zoe hummed, before bringing her into a hug.

"Thank-you for talking to Maven earlier. I think she'll drop out, too. And talk to your relatives, Lorelei – promise me?"

"I promise, Zo." Lorie said quietly, before the hairs on her arms rose, a feeling in the back of her head warning her of an approaching danger. Unfortunately though, it was the familiar kind of danger. "I've got to go. Bye."

"Bye, Lorie."

Lorie gave Zoe a quick smile before running towards the exit, glancing at a clock – five, nearly ten minutes Uncle Vernon had been waiting. He's going to be so pissed.

"Girl!" Came his shout as she exited the building. Lorie grimaced, jumping the wall to the waiting car, opening the door and sliding in, noting that the police were absent today – why was that? "All the other girls left already – where were you?"

"My teacher is retiring," Lorie revealed, "She recommends I transfer to the Sam's Ballet Troupe."

At that, Uncle Vernon snorted, driving off. "Bunch of lesbos. If Morgan's retiring, that's it. No more ballet. When's she leaving?"

"After the performance," Lorie swallowed, looking to her bag. "I have a couple more sessions over the next month, before we do our matinee dress-rehearsal on the second Saturday of August, and then the opening night afterwards."

Uncle Vernon grunted, "We're going to Blackpool. You aren't staying behind."

"I know, I know – it's all been arranged." Lorie said in a whisper, before silence took up the rest of the car journey. Relatively soon though, they reached Privet Drive, and it was to Lorie's utter confusion that the security gate had disappeared. "Where's the gate?"

"What gate?" Uncle Vernon gave her a strange look. "Are you high? Is that why you're late?"

"What? No!" Lorie stared at him, and that was when she finally noticed the red film over his eyes. "What the hell – who are you?"

Not-Vernon glanced at her, before his mouth opened and an unfamiliar voice escaped. "Strange, they say you know immediately." Lorie's arm whipped out, nails going to scratch his face, only for her limbs to snap to the sides of her body, seatbelt pulling her back against the seat. Not-Vernon then started emitting a disgusting presence, her magic and instincts screaming at her like they always did when she was being kidnapped.

"I was quite interested in this 'game' once I discovered it, but I waited," Not-Vernon started, sounding whimsical. Lorie snarled, going to shout at it, but something stopped her. "I wanted to see how you reacted – how the mortals reacted. It was enlightening to know that such a proud, English, middle-upper class family set in their ways would refuse witness protection, especially seeing as you have been kidnapped multiple times."

Lorie shut her eyes, gritting her teeth. For fucks sake, why is it monologuing? Not that it's not interesting and informative…Lorie took a breath, focusing on its voice. Rule One: don't form an opinion until you are properly and fully informed.

"So I planned, I watched, I adjusted my plans, and then I executed them – your family, not the plan," it paused, causing Lorie to let out a startled, silent gasp of shock, eyes flying wide open. "Well, the plan too, but your family as well."

It killed the Dursley's. Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, Dudley…

"You killed them?" Somehow, she broke through whatever stopped her from talking, a migraine immediately pounding through her forehead. Immediately, the car pulled over – not helping her migraine – swerving, the windows shimmering briefly – showing a high-way, and beeping cars and trucks and lorries – before Little Whinging returned. The monster turned to her as it stopped.

"Oh, this is why my fellows couldn't complete the game – every time we counter you, something new appears." It looked fascinated. Or rather, Not-Vernon looked satisfied, face pinky-red as it always went when his blood-pressure rose. "Do you even know what the game is, demigod?"

Demigod? "No," Lorie choked out, squeezing her eyes shut as her migraine became more like a sharp knife in her brain. "What- what's the game?"

"The game is to get you out of the Dead Zone. Not even the Gods have power here, and we monsters tracked that to you. And once we found you…you are a well of power, a delectable treat. Demigod, blessed of Ningirama – though you may better know her as Trivia, or perhaps Hecate."

"The Gods aren't real," Lorie argued. "Magic is as magic is. I'm a witch, no more."

The monster looked surprised, "An unaware demigod?" It sniffed deeply, eyes immediately glazing. "Oh, oh, oh…" Not-Vernon shivered in a disturbing way, leaning towards her. "So strong, so powerful…"

It came close – too close. Lorie focused on her magic, face pained as she violently struck her head against it's, magic empowering the blow so much that Not-Vernon was blown out of the car, door collapsing as Not-Vernon went flying. Instantly, the rest of her invisible restraints were lifted, and Lorie got out of the car, grabbing her bag as almost an after-thought, and Vernon's wallet too randomly, waiting neatly in the glove compartment alongside several CD's that Lorie knew Petunia despised-

Lorie's heart panged. Aunt Petunia's dead. She didn't have any evidence, or proof, but somewhere in her chest, she knew it to be true. Her shoulders shook, but she didn't let herself cry, running off, up the tall grass side of the motorway, stumbling and clawing her way up the wet dirt, reaching the overpass before another truly coherent thought passed through her brain. I need my things. I need to go back to Privet Drive.

"Where am I, though?" Lorie squinted around, trying to find a landmark or signpost – she found one quickly, right in front of her. Large, green, and full of words, Lorie quickly understood she was barely outside of Greater Whinging – but still unfortunately about four or five miles from Little Whinging. If Dudley were here, he'd just nick a vehicle. He'd told her enough stories about being stranded in London by his friends after they went out to get sloshed, in Smeltings, never mind that both were technically illegal.

A car approached, slowing, window rolling down. Mrs Polkiss' head popped out. "Lorelei Potter? What are you doing out here? Where's your supervisor?" Lorie couldn't help but glance behind her, to the Mercedes – to where people now surrounded Vernon's body. She looked back to Mrs Polkiss and stepped forwards, hands reaching to her head, grabbing it tightly.

"What- get your hands off of me!"

"Forget. Forget this meeting." Lorie focussed her magic to her hands, trying to convey her desire. Mrs Polkiss' cries died down, her eyes glazing over. Lorie swallowed, letting her go, staggering back, before running across the road, hiding behind a bush, watching Mrs Polkiss as she frowned, looking around in confusion before shaking her head, not looking worried in the slightest. Lorie waited for her to drive off before she straightened and looked around. If I climb this hill, I can get to that car-park. The hill wasn't very steep, so she could see up to the top.

Getting started, Lorie wondered slightly numbly just exactly how the monster killed her relatives. Uncle Vernon…the monster must have been possessing his body. Lorie glanced back at the body, swallowing. It's not glowing anymore. It was just a sack of flesh. The monster was gone. Possession. Maybe the monster pushed out of his Uncle Vernon out of his own body to make room, or…or maybe she killed him, and the monster just vacated the body left behind. It was a sickening thought.

Aunt Petunia…her aunt was dead. Lorie was definitely sure of that. Her instincts didn't pull her to check, or her magic. Nothing. Not even a slight whisper, or doubt. I hope she's somewhere better. Her aunt had always been bitter. She'd loved Lorie like her own, but she'd been bitter – only Lorie's apparent lack of Hogwarts letter had ever made that bitterness truly fade. After those weeks Lorie had ignored her, their relationship improved, repaired itself as Lorie and Petunia both vested an interest in each other.

And Dudley…

Her instincts immediately jumped in favour of searching for him, searching for his body. At that, it was like a cascade – and doubts started to form, multiplying as she realised that this was how she was thinking.

She had to find Dudley.

Confidence renewed, Lorie held herself stronger, striding up the hill towards the carpark, hands coming to tip her hood up as she scanned the packed lot. There was a distinct lack of security cameras. Did Greater Whinging not get the message? She mused darkly. Monsters roam this land.

Choosing a car was less difficult. Dudley liked sharing – it was something he and Lorie had in common. Lorie knew which cars had electronic alarms by the brand and labels on the windows, and which were less likely to attract attention in her neighbourhood. That narrowed the choices down significantly. She settled on a fancy-looking Prius, that at first glance seemed to be pretty expensive, but on second, was obviously inferior to the more expensive brands. A bonus was the lack of electronic alarm.

And the fact that the owner had left it unlocked.

Lorie let out a harsh laugh, before throwing her bag in the passenger seat, not needing to look behind her due to the car being a two-seater. Hotwiring the car wasn't hard – honestly, they left instructions on what not to touch, and why.

It was only later, when nearing Privet Drive, that she realised her problem – she couldn't actually get into Privet Drive and out again without attracting some…attention. Luckily, she did know the weaknesses to the police's system. Perks of being the one they were protecting. Just, implementing a plan was her main concern. And getting caught by anyone, really. Lorie was a very well-known figure, and she looked a lot different from most in Little Whinging, too.

"Could I change my appearance for if I got caught? No, if I did I'd be in hell of a lot of trouble." She spoke to herself to fill the silence, before stopping on Magnolia Crescent. Hood still up as she left, Lorie looked like any random teen – except for her tights, and compression shorts. I could be identified by these…she thought idly as she waved to Mrs Figg without thinking, bending down as an approaching cat mewed.

Said approaching cat was very familiar to Lorie. Her name was Nimkee. Lorie liked to think they were friends. Sometimes, she even thought Nimkee understood her when she talked to her, when she sat in the park, or her aunt and uncle's garden, Nimkee visiting.

"Mrow," Nimkee brushed her hand up against Lorie's hand, which she rubbed across the black cat's head, scratching behind her large ear before picking her up, kissing her, smiling as her plumed tail wrapped around her arm.

"Hello, babe. How are you?" Nimkee made a noise that Lorie interpreted as I don't care, I can tell there's something wrong with you. Tell me. "I'm in a bit of a pickle, actually. Uncle- Uncle Vernon and Aunt- Aunt Petunia are…they're dead, Nimkee-san." Nimkee pushed her head against Lorie's chin. "I need you to find Dudley for me. He's alive, I know it – I'm going to get my stuff from my room. Espionage, dream profession. I can do it. But if Dudley's not there, I won't know where to start, let alone where to go." Nimkee mewed again, Lorie translating it to Put me down, I'll find him, you be safe, ma cherie.

Lorie put her down, movement in Mrs Figg's window prompting her to speed-walk away, keeping her eye out for neighbours. The streets were empty, per usual, though she could see life inside the houses – wives getting ready for dinner, husbands sitting in front of TV-sets, kids playing on the floor with toys a younger Lorie would have squealed over, teens like herself and Dudley lying across sofas with books and video-games and all-sorts.

Coming to the end of Magnolia crescent, Lorie was suddenly inspired by the sight of a garden. I can sneak in through the back. If she was quick, she might even be able to get back through before the guards came running to see who exactly snuck into the Dursley household – especially if she had been 'kidnapped' again. It was the only explanation Lorie could offer for explaining her disappearance and Uncle Vernon's death on the motorway.

"I have to get away," Lorie muttered, thinking of the Wizarding World. Non-magicals could think her dead, and it would solve a lot of problems – including her monster problem. Hogwarts was one of the safest places in the United Kingdoms. Except Gringotts, she remembered, all of a sudden. Her mother's belongings, which Petunia had gifted her – the journal she kept before Hogwarts told of her journey to Diagon Alley, and to Gringotts, home of the Goblin Horde. Could I request sanctuary? Lorie knew she could request it somewhere, she just had to be able to. A magical world without a sanctuary wasn't much of a world.

Quickly glancing around as she came to the opposite house from Privet Drive, that shared a fence and therefore made them neighbours, Lorie wandered into their garden, only to curse herself at the sight of Mr Findley doing his afternoon weeding. Dammit. She took a chance to peek into the kitchen window, wincing at the sight of Mrs Findley and her sister. Great. Absolutely great.

How was she going to get to number four now?