Okay. You clicked. You're here. Let's get the show on the road, then.

It was eleven AM on a Saturday and I was sitting at the desk, spreading a disappointing Vegemite substitute across an equally disappointing piece of gluten free toast. The only thing that wasn't innately disappointing was that I'd made a very good cup of tea. It was still steaming in my giant, garish mug and I was counting on it to make this breakfast worth getting up for.

That was when everything began to tremble, a fine juddering shudder that got bigger and bigger. My knife fell from the table.

I snatched up my mug and, clutching it, looked wildly around.

What was it you were supposed to do in an earthquake? Was it to get clear of things? Or hide under something? Under, I thought, in case something fell on you, and dived underneath the desk.

The shaking just got worse. I saw my disappointing breakfast fling itself past my ear and dive, Vegemite substitute-side down, for the floor. The plate followed, and ceramic shattered.

Something else broke. A bottle of gin committed a suicidal leap from the top of my refrigerator. I trembled.

Everything went white.

I woke up. From the dull ache all over my body and the pounding in my head, that was definitely my first mistake.

"...thhhquake?" I muttered, squinting at -

Nothing, actually. Everything was a blur. Where the hell were my glasses?

"Oh, good, she's waking up," said a voice. Some kind of English accent. Received pronunciation, or as close to it as I could tell. Huh.

I rolled - and almost fell off - a couch? A chaise? But somebody caught me by the shoulder, and I blinked up at him.

I had a fuzzy impression of a pale face and blond hair, dark shadows where eyes would probably be when I found my glasses. I blinked at the room, but all I could really see where blurry shapes and colours - cream and green, mostly, with light gleaming from metal here and there.

I sat up, feeling very queer indeed: my skin felt like it was burning up, and everything felt slightly wrong, a little too big or too small or - nothing was quite right.

Was I injured? I -

"Her eyes aren't focusing," said that same voice, sounding suddenly very alarmed. "What's wrong with her?"

"Calm down," murmured another voice, which sounded a lot less strained. "She's confused. She's probably had quite a rough journey."

Whoever these people were, they'd probably saved me from an earthquake. "Sorry," I said, laying a hand over my eyes. "Did you see where my glasses went?"

"Where your-" a pause.

"Muto lux," said that second voice, and things... cleared. Not perfectly, rather like I was wearing somebody else's glasses - somebody close to my own prescription.

I blinked. Again.

"What was that?" I asked, bringing my hands to my -

Holy shit, my hands were the wrong size.

I was the wrong size.

My heart rate sped wildly. It didn't feel like a dream. I didn't feel pain in dreams, and everything was still aching. I clenched my fingers, let them curl in upon my hands, and these strange small hands obeyed just as they should. I flinched.

I swallowed. Psychotic episode? Drugs?

"Where am I?" I asked, flat and wary, and looked up at the men looming over me.

The blond man was actually startlingly attractive: fit and big through the shoulders with an angular face and straight posture. There were distinct traces of hauteur in his expression, but mostly he just looked worried.

"You're in my home," he informed me.

I frowned. That... did not actually help me at all. "All right. Where's your home in relation to my home?"

He blinked. "My home is-"

"Miss Malfoy," interrupted the other man, a tall and pale person. Weak jaw, very blue eyes and a head of dark curls. "Do excuse me, but -"

"Sorry," I said. Miss Malfoy? "What?"

"Yes," he said, frowning. "I did think that would be the case."

Awkwardly, he came closer and dropped down to his knees by the chaise lounge I was sitting on, which... put him at my eye level. Okay, apparently I was short.

"Look, I'm sorry," I said again, "Something's really wrong with me and I need to go home. Or - get to a hospital or something. I'm sorry, I have to go." I got up, slithering from the lounge.

He caught my arm. His grip was strong. I was tiny. My heart rate skyrocketed.

"Let go of me," I said, feeling the thread of anxiety in my own voice.

He didn't move. "Miss Malfoy-"

That stupid name again.

"Let go of me." My voice rose, strained. I hated sounding frightened when I wanted to sound angry. I pulled. He held. Panic rose.

"Let her go," snapped the blond man. "You're upsetting her."

And he released me. I held my arm to myself and stared at him. His expression was hard to judge: tight jaw, pursed lips. Narrowed eyes. I hunched.

"Please sit back down, child," said the other one, the blond one with the pretty features.

Child, pfft. I thought he probably wasn't that much older than me - what, ten years? Maximum? - but I complied carefully. I took a slow breath and exhaled it, emphasis on the outwards breath. I hadn't had a bad panic attack in weeks. Now was a stupid time to break that streak. It'd be -

- but there was something wrong with me. I had no idea where I was. These strange men were bigger than me and they were keeping me from getting to help. I was going-

Breathe.

Breathe out.

Okay.

I was breathing. Breathing was good. My skin prickled, hot or cold, I couldn't tell. My stomach rolled violently. My chest hurt and my hands shook. I couldn't...

I took another deep breath, out, out, out, I could do this, I wasn't dying. I could figure something out, we'd deal with it, it would be -

How could it possibly be okay. I squeezed my eyes shut.

Breathing. Breathing, come on. I thought of sensation, feelings of the moment: the couch I was sitting on, the drape of my enormous tee shirt over my neck and shoulders, my hair curled over my ears, my nails digging into my hands. I was barefoot, my feet were cold. I was breathing.

Breathing was good.

I swallowed.

Then I realised they'd been talking. "Sorry," I said. "Could you repeat all that?"

The man who'd grabbed my arm made a clicking sound with his tongue. "I understand this is confusing for you, but do try to listen," he said, and I wondered if I'd get hurt if I punched his condescending face. "When you were born, the war was at its height-"

What war? I wondered.

"-and you were moved through realities to somewhere safer. Somewhere where magic does not exist. Your parents have only just been able to summon you back."

I blinked.

That was... not what I'd been expecting to hear. "What?" I said stupidly.

"You mean 'excuse me', not 'what'," corrected the blond man, as though he couldn't quite help himself. "What is that infernal accent?"

"I'm sorry, where are we? Is this some kind of..." I paused. "Anyway, none of that would explain why I'm so small."

They both blinked at me.

"Small?" repeated the blond man. "Are... people bigger, in the reality to which you were moved?" his brow furrowed. He gave the other one an unhappy look. "Do you know anything about the place you moved her to?"

He shrugged. "I switched her for an infant in a hospital there. Private hospital, of course. There is no magic there, and thus: no war. I did take pains to make sure her family was well off. Two parents, well paid, a sister, that sort of thing."

"Muggles, Marlow. You left her with muggles," muttered the other one, looking very, very discontent.

"There's no other kind, there."

Muggles? I thought. Then, bewildered: is this some Harry Potter themed practical joke? Because it's not very bloody practical.

"We're in Wiltshire, child."

"In South England?" I said numbly.

"South West," he corrected with a sniff.

"I'm from Melbourne." I looked up at him. "Um, is this all some sort of... joke?"

"Melbourne - Derbyshire?"

"Australia."

A pause.

"Oh."

The other man - Marlow, he'd been called, took a deep breath. Then he held out one hand and made a glowing ball of light out of nothing. "This is not a joke, Miss Malfoy."

Wait.

That's... what they'd been calling me. I licked my lips. That was. I paused. "My name's not Malfoy," I said slowly and carefully, but I still reached out with my too-small hand and put my fingers in the light. It was strangely warm. Not burning, but... warm. Cozy. I withdrew my fingers and rubbed them together.

"Yes," said the other man. "It is."

"...what."

Marlow cleared his throat. "As I said, Miss -" he paused. "Your first name, if you would."

I told him, and he paused.

He tried to repeat it but the sounds came out ugly and elongated in his accent. The awkward way he pronounced it made me think of a Goondiwindi farmhand. He'd probably be offended by that, but then, so would the farmhand. "Yes, more or less," I said.

Marlow looked briefly bemused. "How terribly ...continental." Then: "As I explained previously: you are originally from this reality. We moved you to keep you safe. Interdimensional magic is... something of a speciality," he said, preening a little.

I eyed him. I was sure that sounded much more impressive to somebody who had the faintest clue as to what it meant.

I glanced back at the ball of light resting in his hand.

"...Are you sure you have the right person?"

He frowned. "Quite sure, Miss - Miss Malfoy." And now we were back to that name. Riiiight. "I placed the mark on you myself twelve years ago," he added, and gestured at my foot.

I blinked at it.

There was a glowing... symbol, or sigil, or something on it. I couldn't feel it at all, but it sure was lighting up my skin. I blinked again, slowly.

"So... you took a baby, put a glowing tattoo on its foot and sent it to another world for-" I paused. "Sorry, did you say twelve years?"

"Give or take a few months, yes," said Marlow, looking very satisfied. He didn't seem to think there was anything unusual or weird about what I'd just repeated to him.

"I'm twenty six," I pointed out.

The blond twitched. "Excuse me?"

"Ah," said Marlow. "Well, er, yes. That can happen." He cleared his throat. "Not to worry, though. Sometimes these time lines don't quite match up. See, here, it's nineteen ninety-one, and -"

"I was two in nineteen ninety-one," I pointed out.

"Look, Miss Malfoy. Listen: I don't have time to explain interdimensional travel to you right now. It's complicated. But time and aging is quite different between time lines. There, perhaps you were twenty six; here, you are twelve."

"Okay," I said finally. "That's great. How do I get back?"

Alarmed looks crossed both of their faces. "Go back?" blurted the blond man. "With the muggles?"

I looked sideways at him and then, of course, it hit me. Of course I knew who this was. Lucius bloody Malfoy. I stared.

...He was prettier in real life. Or - just more charismatic, perhaps. Something less about his look and more in his manners and expression. And, apparently, he was also my father. Weird.

I rubbed my hands through my hair. "Well, yeah. If I stay here, how is my housemate going to make rent?"

There was also a book I was part of the way through, a short story I was writing, a load of laundry that had been in the machine and half a lamb leg I was meant to roast for the next few meals sitting in my fridge... I'm not saying my life was exceptionally exciting, but I did have things to do.

"Your... housemate," repeated Lucius. Then, "Rent. My daughter rents," he muttered, as though he couldn't quite believe such a thing. Then, "My daughter rents from muggles."

"I'm a muggle," I pointed out to him, which was in hindsight probably not the right thing to say.

He shot me the single most scandalised look I had ever seen in my life. His face went absolutely white, but a livid flush rose across his cheek bones. "You most certainly are not! I -" He took a deep breath, turned away, and took another deep breath.

"Mr Malfoy," said Marlow, looking torn between bemused and concerned. "Are you quite -"

"A moment, please." Malfoy held up one hand for silence, which he got.

Marlow turned back to me. "I do sincerely doubt it, Miss Malfoy, but here, let me-" and he passed me a long wooden stick - a wand, I thought, twisting up inside with fright and distress and excitement. "The most a muggle or a squib could produce from that is a few sparks of residual magic. Give it a wave."

I frowned. "I..."

I didn't want to. What if I was magic?

What if I wasn't?

The uncertainty was frightening but I didn't want it to end. There was a part of me that definitely wanted to have magic - which, well, yeah. Of course there was.

But there was also a very large part of me that did not want to be a twelve year old in a strange universe where everything was wrong and my father was some kind of terrorist.

"Um," I said.

"Go on," said Malfoy, softly, and he'd turned back around now, curiosity overwhelming whatever else he might have felt.

I chewed my bottom lip.

Awkwardly, I waved the wand.

The chandelier caught fire with a soft whump and exploded in a rain of crystal and sparks.

I yelped and dropped the wand, covering my face with my hands. There was a brief silence once the noise had stopped and I -

"Oh my god," I said, standing, staring, "oh my god I'm so sorry. Oh, shit." There were shards all over the floor, smoke was in the air, the bitter taste of something flammable on my tongue. Melted wax - they used candles, of course they did - and

Lucius clapped delightedly, looking up at he smoking jagged edges of what had been a very lovely chandelier. His face lit up when he was pleased, something sweet shining through all of the arrogant hauteur. He beamed at me. "Very good! Plenty of power. Lovely work, just lovely."

"I broke your light!"

"With magic."

I stared at him. "I..." I looked at the fixture again. "I... have magic?" I looked at Marlow, who was finally rising from his knees next to the chaise lounge.

His lips were curved, just a little. "Muggle, indeed," he said quietly.

He hesitated with some stiffness from kneeling for so long, and I automatically reached out a hand to help him up. He didn't take it, and it took me a moment to remember that I wasn't really big enough to counterbalance the weight of a grown man. I swallowed. Right. Tiny.

"I think perhaps it would be wise," said Malfoy in a very reasonable voice, which made me immediately wary, "if you would come and meet your mother and brother, and we can discuss the matter of you remaining here over morning t-" He stopped, looking at me like he'd only just noticed what I was wearing.

"What is... Does your - clothing - have profanity upon it?"

I looked down at the enormous tee shirt I used as pyjamas. 'LET'S NAP MOTHERFUCKER' was written across it, accompanied by a picture of a sleeping kitten.

It had been big on me before and now it was, happily, big enough to function as an ugly dress - for which I was very thankful - but that certainly didn't change the part where it had MOTHERFUCKER on it.

"Um," I said.

"Don't mumble," he responded automatically. Absently, with one hand, he waved his wand vaguely at the room and the shards of the chandelier took themselves off to a corner somewhere.

"It was for sleeping in," I explained. "It's not, er, day wear. Nobody was really supposed to see it. I... thought it was cute?"

"You summoned my daughter in her underpants," he said incredulously, turning on Marlow, who looked suddenly embarrassed.

"Well. Er. That is," said Marlow.

Any time you want to finish one of those statements, mate, I thought drily. I delicately refrained from telling Malfoy that he was lucky I'd actually gotten up and put on underwear. I slept in the shirt. The bra and underpants were optional.

Yeah.

That might have been awkward.

I glanced around and found that, weirdly, my mug had come with me and was propped against the back of the chaise lounge. It wasn't full of tea anymore, but it was there and unharmed: a huge, garish ceramic thing with a painted owl face upon it. It had yellow, pink, white and blue eyes, a bright orange beak, pale green wings - its eyes were slightly off-centre, giving it a shifty and suspicious look. It was hideous. I loved it.

I picked it up and clutched it to me. You and me, owl mug, I thought, peering at its suspect little eyes. You and me.

I did agree in the end to visit with the family to discuss my circumstances - not that I'd had much choice - and while Malfoy looked like he was going to dismiss Marlow from the house completely, he glanced at me and seemed to think better of it - which was fair, because there was no faster way to ensure I'd try to leave than to imply I couldn't.

"You are, of course," he said instead, in a voice that was positively gelid, "welcome to join us for morning tea."

Marlow seemed to understand that he was absolutely and in no way actually welcome, because he gave a weak smile and responded, "I thank you, but if you don't mind I'd prefer to have a look through your library here."

And that was that.

A house elf was summoned to provide me with clothing - and, I got the impression, to keep an eye on Marlow while he was loitering in the Malfoy library, a sentiment that Lucius disguised with the phrase, "to help you find anything that might interest you."

House elves were precisely as ugly as I'd thought they'd be. This one had a long, pointed nose and ears almost as big as - its? her? - head. Her skin had a grey-green cast to it, her eyes a yellowish sheen, and her long fingers seemed to have an extra joint compared to mine, and her pillowcase had a stain down one side that looked rather a lot like tea.

I watched her curiously, but also hopefully without giving any expression away. It was... very strange.

"I'll return shortly," said Lucius, with significantly less frost in his voice, "it wouldn't be right to leave Marlow to wander on his own. You might take the time to change," he added, fairly pointedly.

I took that to mean that I should be wearing pretty much anything else when he returned. Well, I didn't especially want to meet Narcissa Malfoy - my stomach gave a nervous, excited flutter at the thought - in nothing but a tee shirt with an obscene slogan on it, either.

There was... a lot of green.

Don't get me wrong: I liked green. I just looked awful in it. My skin colour came from somewhere in the south of Europe, and the colour varied from "olive" to "yellow-grey" depending on my health and what I was wearing. Greens and yellows were... bad.

I sighed and pulled on something from the pile anyway.

When Malfoy returned I was tying a broad strip of fabric that I assumed was some kind of belt around my waist.

I looked at my skin tone, then looked at his. To my knowledge, Narcissa was awfully pale, too. "You're sure it's me you want," I said carefully, glancing back down and fiddling with the ties. It looked totally wrong with a weird lopsided bow in the middle, so I turned it to one side. Who knew how fashion here even worked?

Well. It covered my butt. Good start.

"We completed those spells while you were sleeping it off," he said blithely, as though that wasn't a giant violation of my privacy or something. "Sometimes these things happen," he shrugged one shoulder.

Okay, I thought, but you're both blond. My hair is, like, black. I'd be asking questions about Narcissa's extramarital activities, if I was him - but if he had, it sounded like he'd already resolved it with a spell. Which had said I was his, apparently.

I scratched my neck.

He looked me up and down, sighed, and leaned forward to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. It was quick, but it was also... familiar. Intimate. I froze.

He drew back. I swallowed. "Um," I said.

"Please don't mumble."

"Sorry."

"I wanted to ask," he said carefully after a moment's pause. "You've told me that you're twenty six." At this, he gave me a dubious look, but I nodded and he went on. "I'd request that you not mention this to Narcissa. That is, your mother."

I raised my eyebrows. "You want me to pretend to be twelve?"

"Giving up her first child was... difficult for Narcissa," he said slowly, and I tried to keep my expression blank. Difficult for Narcissa, but not for you? I thought, quite uncharitably. I wondered if that was a product of mandatory masculinity, or if he really didn't believe that giving up his own child had hurt him.

If it hadn't, I wasn't sure I wanted to know him as a father.

"Difficult," I repeated, prompting him to continue.

His gaze was distant for a second longer. "She has already... Even twelve years was a lot to miss. I don't wish to make this any harder upon her." He dropped his eyes.

I licked my teeth thoughtfully. Then I shrugged. "Sure." I already looked twelve, and I really didn't think I wanted to stay here anyway. Pretending to be twelve wouldn't kill me.

"You're certain? It might be... limiting," he suggested delicately.

"I already look twelve," I pointed out. "And it probably won't be as limiting as you'd think. People see what they want to a lot of the time."

The corner of his mouth curled. "How very true," he murmured.

Then he straightened. "Very well, Narcissa has already called for tea. I'm sure she and Draco are waiting quite impatiently."

I nodded, although inside I felt nervous. Whether or not I intended to stay in this strange fictional reality didn't really seem to impact whether or not I wanted Narcissa and Draco to like me.

And I was so very bad at being liked.

As I followed Lucius through the room, down a hall way and toward our destination, I wondered if they'd be anything like what they seemed to be in the books? Draco, I was sure was a spoilt brat. But even Lucius had already proven to be a little more... multifaceted, than I'd seen in the novels.

I... well, I wondered.

The portraits on the walls were talking, hushed voices and gleaming eyes. They were painted upon canvas and the rough, treated weave of it was obvious, but it didn't seem to make much difference to the people in the images. I had about a million questions about that, but I held them in.

"You've graduated, then?" Lucius asked quietly as we walked. "I assume the -" he paused, and then continued, sounding like he'd swallowed something foul, "- the muggles, they do undertake some sort of ...standardised education?"

"They do," I said slowly. I wondered if that had cost him a lot to say. "Ten years of standard education at a minimum, in Australia. With muggles, anyway," I added, with a creeping sense of how surreal this all was.

The idea occurred to me, fleetingly, that I was probably in a coma somewhere having a very realistic Harry Potter themed dream. It felt real, though, and it was easier to concentrate on what felt real than on the probability that I was sleeping off an earthquake or dying somewhere else.

At any rate, I wasn't sure if he'd meant school or university, but both were true so I nodded. Did they even have universities here? "I've graduated. I finished my university degree a year ago. I took literature and criminology, which were probably poor choices for employment."

He looked sideways at me. "Criminology," he repeated uncertainly. "I'm not sure I know what that means."

"It's a reasonably young field of study. It's the study of crime, essentially." I chewed my bottom lip. "Um, so, instead of a political or justice-driven view point, we study crime and criminality from a social perspective. So... questions like 'why do we call certain things crimes?' and 'why would a person commit a crime?' and 'can the state commit a crime against a citizen?' and, well, that sort of thing. A lot of research goes into ways to prevent crime and violence through education and social services and -" I glanced sideways at Lucius, who was looking slightly bemused. "How to allocate resources to have the best preventative outcome for the criminal justice system, I guess," I said after an awkward second.

There was no real way to cleanly but accurately define this, so... I sort of trailed off.

Lucius's bemused expression hadn't changed, but he did look slightly curious. "What on earth persuaded you to study something like that?"

"Curiosity. Interest... Some idea that I could be part of something to change society for the better," I added cynically. Time and experience had proven that nobody actually listened to what criminologists had to say. Security was more important than welfare and penal populism was ever on the rise.

Also, like most of the criminology graduates I'd ever met, I worked in a totally unrelated field doing menial tasks nobody else wanted to do.

"Yes," Lucius said distantly, "I'm familiar with that idea."

I bit my lower lip. Lucius's ideals were, as far as I could tell, gross bigotry. That he might have felt the same way about them was... discomforting.

"That was before I had to interview my first prisoner," I added, trying to get past that moment. "He'd helped a fourteen year old girl inject drugs and she died. There's a lot to be said for criminological theory, but practice is... difficult."

He looked distinctly uncomfortable. "That is... not a pursuit I'd have chosen for my daughter. What does your husband think of this?"

I stopped walking. "Excuse me?"

"Your - Oh, pardon me. Are you unmarried? I thought, at your age..." he trailed off thoughtfully.

"I'm not married," I said warily. "I don't really intend to get married."

"It seems like that would be terribly unfair to your children." He raised his eyebrows and looked distinctly dubious. But he kept walking and I followed because otherwise I'd get lost in this overdecorated maze of a house.

"I have no intention of having children."

"You have no wish to - continue your blood line? Pass down your family name?"

"You sound like my father," I sighed. A less pushy version of my father, anyway. That was sort of ironic, because it seemed to me that the Malfoys had much more reason to be invested in procreation.

"I am your father," he pointed out.

Oh. Right. That.

I took a deep breath.

"I don't know. If I decide to stay here, I might revisit the idea," I wouldn't change my mind, but he didn't need to know that, "but there's not much point where I come from."

He looked faintly annoyed at the reminder that I may just race right back to Marlow and beg him to send me back to the real world, but he held his tongue about it.

"Do you, um, do anything? In terms of work?" I wondered. It had always seemed from the novels that he'd basically just haunted the Ministry of Magic and Hogwarts like a restless spirit, waiting to leap in and yell BUT BLOOD PURITY at awkward moments. And also to insult Hagrid's hut. I mean. As far as I could tell.

But he probably did other things, too.

"I'm on the board for a number of organisations," he said, which was... vague. "Some are charitable, others commercial; one is even the school that Draco will attend - and hopefully you, as well."

I nodded slowly. It was a very... it was a rich-person job, I thought a bit cynically. I glanced sideways at Malfoy. He probably owned shares in everything, too. Fingers in pies.

"Here," he said finally, hesitating before a double door, fingers hovering over the handle.

I swallowed and dragged my fingers through my hair. The nerves came rushing back. Narcissa was one of my favourite characters, and it was really... really nerve wracking, to wonder what she might think of me.

"Right."

He didn't touch the handle - instead, he flicked his fingers at it, and it turned and the latch clicked softly and the doors opened.

The room beyond was all in shades of dark wood, cream and silver and rich brown accents. There were huge windows and french doors out to a balcony. Sunlight streamed in, slanting across a table set for tea: gilt-edged cups and the elegant curve of a fine pot. There were a few plates between, filled with miniscule cakes and tiny, buttery sandwiches.

Behind the table was a woman. The books had described Narcissa as being pretty, but expressing herself in such a way as to ruin the appeal.

Obviously there was something wrong with Harry's perspective, because she was just - she was lovely. Her features were fine: her brow high and clear, high sharp cheeks with a healthy glow, eyes bright and engaged. Her hair was golden in the mid-morning sun, and there was a smile playing around the edges of her lips.

Her skin was creamy and I had a brief, horribly awkward moment of wondering what it would be like to scrape my teeth along her neck and -

Okay, no.

I blinked my eyes and let them slide to the other person at the table - a boy, just on the edge of adolescence, with a pointed face, pale skin, paler hair. Draco looked almost exactly as I'd imagined, which was lucky - at least one of them wasn't unfairly attractive. Although, he was ten or eleven, I supposed, so - well. Time would tell. There was more of his father than his mother in his face, so he probably would not be launching a thousand ships any time soon. He looked as though he'd been kept waiting for too long, kicking his feet and giving sulky looks in our direction.

Narcissa looked at me and exhaled softly. Then she stood and swept toward me, arms outstretched. I thought for a terrifying moment she was going to hug me, but all she did was to sweep up my hands in hers and wrap her fingers around mine.

Her hands were dainty, strong bones, fine cool skin. I could feel the cool metal of a ring. I let her squeeze my fingers and watched her face, but all she showed was a smile - part wistful, part delighted, all strangely intent.

"You've grown," she said, looking at me with a kind of terrifying desperation. I wasn't sure what that expression wanted from me, but I was fairly certain I wasn't qualified to provide it.

God, she was something to look at, though. She even smelt good: something soft and floral, too light to be synthetic; expensive. I wanted to inhale the scent of her hair.

I smiled uncertainly and tried not to think inappropriate thoughts about my mother. No. Come on, no. "Er," I said, then, "hello."

"Draco, come here to say hello to your sister," said Narcissa, looking over one shoulder.

He looked wary and not entirely pleased to meet me, which I thought was understandable - more understandable, perhaps, than the reactions I'd received from Narcissa and Lucius.

"It's good to meet you," he said, sounding as though he was not really sure that it was, in fact, good to meet me.

"You, too," I said, with an uncertain smile. "This is really weird," I added to him, as though neither adult was watching us intently.

He nodded, but didn't say anything else - although his eyes were narrowed and his mouth was a hard line. I wasn't sure if he had decided he disliked me personally or if he just didn't like the circumstances.

"Come, sit down, eat something - let me pour you some tea," said Narcissa, drawing me along behind her as she returned to the table.

We sat and settled, and Narcissa did offer me a cup - a lovely one, with a muted blue pattern around the edge, made of bone china so fine that it was translucent in the sun. I inhaled the steam when she poured, and for a moment everything was scented soft and faintly bittersweet, beautiful and homey.

I closed my eyes.

Mm.

When I opened them again, three sets of eyes were watching me with expressions that ranged from amused to slightly annoyed.

"I-" Narcissa stopped. "Do you know," she said in a strained voice. "I don't know your name. We'd decided on one, on Sixta, but-"

I told her, although considering Marlow's reaction it was sort of against my better judgement. But Sixta? Really?

She repeated my name carefully. Her accent was a lot better than his, but it didn't seem to sit well with her anyway. "It means conquest and triumph, doesn't it?" she added. "It's a good name. A little... ethnic, perhaps, but good."

Ethnic, Christ.

"We might change it, I think," she went on. "Not that it's not a lovely name, of course, but it's - a little bit, well. We could call you Victoria. It would keep the meaning intact but... Well, Victoria's quite a nice name, too, don't you think?"

"I'm not even sure I want to stay here, yet," I said, eyeing her. She was still beautiful, I was just... less attracted to her. Fancy that.

She looked stricken by that comment, though. "Not- not stay? Why ever not?" She raised one hand to her mouth. "I don't understand."

Lucius looked incredibly uncomfortable, although Draco looked more hopeful than distressed.

"I have a life and a family there, too, you know," I pointed out. I sipped my tea, though, and it was really nice. Really nice. Delicate. Steeped perfectly.

I did have a family, although my connection to them was fairly tenuous. I was sure they'd miss me if I left, but... well, nothing out of the usual way. They'd be sad, not devastated.

"She's agreed to discuss it with us before she decides," Lucius interjected.

Draco rolled his eyes, selected a tiny pastry and popped it on his plate, more or less ignoring the discussion.

"Oh," said Narcissa. It seemed to take her a moment to recover from this, and in the meantime she glanced at Draco's movements and said, "Here, please, take something to eat. There's cake, if you like."

"Oh, I can't," I said, prepared to undertake the awkward discussion about Why No Wheat Ever yet again. "I can't have wheat flour. Thank you, though. They do look lovely."

This, if anything, appeared to be quite the wrong thing to say. "You can't have wheat flour?" repeated Narcissa, looking bewildered.

"It's a disorder where - there are proteins in some grain crops that make me sick. It's like an allergic reaction," I tried to explain. I wasn't sure how much of that a witch would understand, but -

"Sprue?" she said, confused. "But that's a childhood deformity. Surely you've had it fixed?"

I blinked.

"I... what?" Sprue was an old-fashioned word for coeliac disease, but I hadn't thought it would even be a thing they'd know of.

"It's a very simple spell," she said. "Any healer can perform it -"

"Wait," I interrupted. "Are you saying that somebody can cast a spell on me - one spell - and I can eat wheat products?"

"Well, yes," said Narcissa slowly. "My dear, do they not fix this where you've come from?"

"No - I -" I opened my mouth to tell her there was no magic, but Lucius was looking distinctly uncomfortable. Conscious of distressing Narcissa, I shook my head. "No," I said slowly instead, "they must not have invented that one yet."

I paused.

"So if I stay here, I can have bread?" I asked brightly.

Please be aware: this story's not got much of a plot, and certainly contains very few power fantasies, unless you consider the power to consume gluten a really serious thing (I do. Your mileage may vary). This character is not here for dominion or to save the world. She just wants to eat bread and maybe live to thirty. Otherwise... I have vague and nebulous plans for the next few bits of this story but from then on it'll be "well whatever," which is 100% accurate to my SI because that's how I plan my own life too. But plans exist. You can drop me a comment below if there was something you particularly liked; if there was something you particularly didn't like, welp, you can always exit the browser window.