Pew, pew,
My minny me slew
My daddy me chew
My sister gathered my banes
And put them between twa milk-white stanes;
And I grew, and I grew,
To a milk-white doo,
And I took to my wings, and away I flew…

-The Milky-White Doo

The thing is, Macbeth wasn't really the unimaginable bastard that everyone thinks, it's just that Shakespeare lied when he was writing about murders and witches and ghosts. The story always changes depending on who's telling it, Dad always said, and a good girl never trusts a Muggle storyteller. Especially an English Muggle.

I was five and had no idea what Shakespeare even was. But I nodded my head like the good lass I was and wandered off to watch Wanda, the house-elf, polish the silver in the hall afterwards.

"What's an 'unimaginable bastard'?" I asked Liana about an hour later, sitting on her bedroom carpet and hugging my teddy bear close. She was nine years old and concentrating on starting a flame using only magic.

"It's a bastard that's unimaginable," she replied, not taking her eyes off of the taper sitting on her nightstand. I could have sworn it was starting to smoke a little.

"What's a bastard?"

"Go away, I can't concentrate."

"Liaaaaaaa..."

"Shush. Or I'll set your hair on fire."

I pouted my lips and flung myself dramatically across the floor, Sir Fluffington landing squarely on my chest. Stared up at the painted ceiling, a smattering of stars across a night sky, Charmed by my mother to sparkle even in the dark. Mum was always good at Charms.

"Liana..."

"I mean it, Kate, and it will hurt."

Of course I knew it hurt. I accidentally did it on my last birthday (which my family actually considered a blessing in disguise – sure, my head might have been on fire, but, hey, at least I wasn't a Squib).

"Just tell me and I'll leave you alone! Promise!"

Liana sucked in a deep breath through her nose and, scowling, turned to face me. I attempted to employ my best puppy-dog eyes on her, which Mum always said simply made me look as though I had a digestive problem.

"A bastard," she said in her best 'I'm-older-than-you-and-therefore-know-more-than-you-do-so-you-can-go-put-that-in-your-nose-and-smell-it' voice. "Is someone who makes someone else's life needlessly harder. Like you do to me. Now go away!"

With that, I was unceremoniously shoved out of her room, and the door slammed in my face.

That same day at dinner, when Mum declared that the Malfoys, friends of the family, had invited us to tea in three days time, I declared that I would not go because Draco Malfoy was an unimaginable bastard who laughed at little girls and made them cry.

Mummy choked on her filet mignon and Wanda dropped an entire bottle of red wine.

So I had a very normal childhood, thank you very much. My father worked very hard at the Department of International Magical Cooperation, my mother worked very hard at being herself, and my sister, once she reached the proper age, left our lovely mansion on the craigs of Aberdeenshire to attend Hogwarts and worked very hard at being the perfect child. She was utterly flawless, being Sorted into Slytherin without a doubt, getting perfect marks, sending owls home describing her friends, her classes, and the amazing food.

There was a tiny skirmish in her third year when a lad who was bothering her while studying got sent to the infirmary with his eyebrows burnt off and his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth, but beyond the muffled screaming, he never said another word about the incident and there was absolutely no proof, so no detention for Liana. She was just too good at covering her tracks.

As for me, I had the regular pre-Hogwarts education, of course. I was taught basic maths and how to read by Wanda, who was all right when she wasn't trying to impress my mother, which means she was pretty much insufferable most of the time. When I was eight I got a sort of crash course in the abridged history of Britain from Dad to go along with my reading and sums, but we never got past the Battle of Rosslyn. Daddy loved William Wallace almost as much as he loved Mum, and was the only Muggle he would ever admit to admire.

But Mum. Where to start with Mum. Dignified and sophisticated, a cool French contrast to my father's flaming Scottish pride. She loved her gold, her husband, her oldest daughter, and most of all, herself. No, wait, scratch that. Her lineage was her pride and joy.

That's our surname, you know. Progers. Comes from 'integer progenies', Latin for 'an entire generation'. An entire generation of purebloods, followed by another and another. Mum made Dad give up his name (Murchadh, which, although is an impressive family line in itself, is a bit tricky to spell to others) and it's our crowning glory. Great-Auntie Regina would sometimes bemoan the fact that Progers was left out of the Pure-Blood Directory in the 1930's, but that's mostly when she was drunk.

I really didn't like Auntie Regina, to tell you the truth, and wasn't the least bit sorry when she went and died. Uncle Pierre wasn't the least bit sorry either because then he inherited enough money to formally tell the family to go to hell and marry the Mudblood he'd fancied for the last decade or so.

Good riddance. Mudbloods, Muggles, I wanted nothing to do with them. They scared me.

"Muggles are the monsters that hide under your bed, Katelyn," Mum told me when I was a child, her blue eyes full of warning. "Come to gobble up young witches in the night."

"They have teeth and claws and dripping fangs," Liana always added once the candles had been blown out and I had snuck from my room to hers across the hall and crawled beneath the covers with her. "They snatch you out of your bed in the dark of the night. They'll draw and quarter you."

"Draw and quarter?" I breathed, seven years old, chewing on the end of my dark plait.

"Hang you by your neck and then cut off your head." She made a horrible squelching noise, clenching and unclenching her fist. "Cut you into four pieces. Or, if they don't do that, because you're a girl, they'd tie you up and set you on fire."

I clung to her, suddenly shaking with fear, hiding my face in her pillow. I didn't want to burn. I had grown up on tales of witch hunts, from the Pendle witch trials to the Salem trials in America. Burning, burning always seemed to be the worst way to go, the stuff of nightmares for me. Tears ran down my cheeks, wretched gasping sobs. "I don't wanna be cut to pieces, Lia, I don't wanna burn..."

My older sister pried my tiny fingers off of her nightgown, pushed me a little away from her, scowling. "Don't be stupid," she said as I wiped my nose with my sleeve. "I'm going to school in a month, remember? I'll learn magic, so if any Muggle tries to do that, I'll be ready."

"What about me?"

"I'll protect you too."

She was so beautiful, so fierce in the moonlight that spilled into the room through her enormous windows, shining off of her hair, lighting up her eyes. Liana, perfect Liana, the very epitome of a pureblood witch. I loved her dearly.

I missed her very much when she left for Hogwarts.

A few days later, I finally asked my father what he thought of it all, Mudbloods and Muggles. He was examining the Daily Prophet in his study, his reading glasses perched on top of his thick, curly dark hair.

"Muggles?" He was only half-paying attention.

"Have you seen one, Daddy?"

"Of course I have."

"What do they look like?"

"Well, like people, I suppose. You've seen one?"

"Have I?" I tilted my head, biting my lip. Wanda had put too much starch in my socks again, and I kept drawing up one foot to scratch at the ankle of the other. "I don't suppose so."

He chuckled. "Didn't Mummy take you down to the village the other day?"

"Yes, but...those were Muggles?"

"What else would they be?"

"I thought..." I paused. What had I thought? "But Liana and Mummy said they're horrible monsters! With teeth, and claws, and-"

"That's the thing, isn't it, lassie?" My father said, finally putting the newspaper down and lifting me onto his lap. He smelled like ink and cigars, and a spicy sort of scent that I always associated with magic and always have. "They look just like us."

"So we're the same?"

"No, of course not."

This scared me more than the talk about fangs and claws, and I nervously bit at my thumb, not understanding. Seeing my confused look, he drew his eyebrows together thoughtfully and spoke in a deep, grave voice. "You see, the thing about monsters is, you can't ever tell who they are. All too often, they look just like you and me."

I suppose it could have been worse. Much worse. Instead of telling me all the gory details of medieval witch hunts, my mother could have read me Toadstool Tales instead. I discovered that book when I was ten and the descriptions of "wee Willykins and his little golden hopping pot" made me want to vomit. Violently. I was very happy to give it to Draco Malfoy on his birthday. I hope it gave him nightmares.

Mum was great friends with his mother, Narcissa Malfoy, in the way that both women hated each other but didn't want the other to know it. Somehow badmouthing someone behind their backs was more enjoyable than badmouthing someone to their faces. For her part, my mother encouraged my liaison with Draco, and often dragged me with her to visit the Malfoys at their mansion in Wiltshire.

A sample of one of our childhood conversations is attached below.

Me: "Mummy said we were only staying for half an hour."

Draco: "How long have you been here?"

Me: "A long time."

...

Me: "I have to pee."

Draco, snorting: "That's nice."

Me: "Shush."

Draco, mockingly: "Na, Ah dinnae think Ah wull."

(Had I been older, I probably would have used some of my father's more creative obscenities for a mocking Englishman. As it was, I only knew 'unimaginable bastard.')

Me: "You unimaginable bastard."

Draco: "Scottish slag."

(Of course, we had no idea what that meant. I still thought that a bastard was just an annoying person, and Draco probably picked up the word 'slag' from a Wizarding Wireless Network programme that he wasn't supposed to be listening to. The funny thing about children is that they're always listening, and always looking for a chance to repeat what they hear. Especially if it's cruel.)

Another period of silence.

Me, trying to keep my legs from shaking: "Wonder what they're talking about."

Draco: "I heard your Mum and mine talking about the Ministry, and the Minister elections approaching, and-"

Me, whining: "I have to g-o-o-o-o..."

Draco, hesitant: "...your name came up a bit too."

Me: "Merlin's girly knickers, what did I do this time?"

Draco, practically spitting out the words: "...they're talking about...marriage."

...

(Let the record show that I would have rather swallowed several pints of Skele-Grow followed by being trampled by a herd of centaurs rather than marry Draco Malfoy.)

Me, forgetting my dire need of a bathroom for the moment and staring at him in horror: "Marriage? I'm ten! You gotta be really old to be married, like, thirty!"

Draco: "I know."

Me: "You are absolutely the last person in the world I would wanna marry."

Draco: "Exactly how I feel."

Me: "...I feel very uncomfortable agreeing with you."

Draco: "Extremely."

We then agreed that I would push him down a flight of stairs, leading to his house-elf, Dobby, calling both of our mothers and I being sent home in disgrace. My mother never brought up the topic of marriage again, though I knew from then on that it was what she expected. Therefore, Draco and I arranged several methods of sabotage; I would lock him in a closet for three hours, he'd make me climb a tree and leave me there with no way to get down, I'd try to put Dungbombs in his pants drawer only to have them be weirdly defective and never really go off. I'm pretty sure they're still there and they still haven't gone off.

That was our friendship.

I had other playmates, of course. Pansy Parkinson lived in London with her parents, a city girl whose name was the only thing I found likable about her. Pansy, I said, what a lovely name. Yes, I know, she said, and that was that and we were great friends in the way that we both hated each other immensely.

Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, though everyone just called them Crabbe and Goyle. Not very talkative, but I was required to be polite to them because their parents were friends with the Malfoys and therefore friends with mine. The few times they and their parents stopped by in Aberdeenshire (and it was always the both of them, never one without the other), we'd walk down to the river and I'd watch then chuck rocks across the surface just to hear the splash. Every once in a while they'd threaten to toss me in as well, which I'm sure they were perfectly capable of. Both of them were easily twice the size of me.

They weren't a particularly energetic or creative lot, but they were better than nothing.

Then there was Blaise Zabini, who I really only knew through Draco. Both of them had a habit of following me around every time I visited, mocking my accent, even though as I got older I worked on mimicking my mother's perfect vowels and discarding my father's lovely brogue. It didn't matter.

A few times in a year all six of us would get together, usually at the Malfoys' place. We'd sit around in the gardens and watch the albino peacocks wander around. Talk about useless things, catch up, play hide and seek and tell stories. Pansy was a wonderful storyteller. She went to Diagon Alley all the time with her parents, and made up stories for the odd people she saw; a hag carrying two entire bags full of lacewing flies, a dumpy little man selling amulets in a booth who hid every time he saw a Ministry official walk by, a couple of Aurors that she was certain were searching for a Dark Wizard on the run.

"Rubbish," I'd say. "There's no such thing as Dark wizards anymore, not since You-Know-Who."

"That's like saying there's no such thing as evil," Pansy countered, folding her arms across her chest and narrowing her round, beady eyes at me. "And you know perfectly that that's not true."

"Evil wizards and Dark wizards aren't necessarily the same." Draco murmured.

"What's the difference?" Blaise asked.

"One becomes great, the other doesn't," Draco said calmly, rolling a few Gobstones around in his open palm. No one really felt like playing, but he had them out just in case. "An evil wizard is just a wizard who does bad things. A Dark wizard is someone like-"

"Like You-Know-Who," I interrupted. "And You-Know-Who is dead. Harry Potter killed him ten years ago."

"You really think so?" Goyle asked. It was rare that he or Crabbe spoke, and when he did it was in a low, raspy voice, even at only eleven years old. "You really think he's dead?"

Draco shook his head, sunlight shining off of his hair, making it look like he was wearing a silvery blond cap. "Nah, I don't think so. I bet he's still out there, somewhere."

"Harry Potter would be our age, wouldn't he?"

"You're right, Blaise. Do you think we'll see him at Hogwarts, Draco?"

Draco was our leader, unofficial and unannounced, but unanimous just the same. He looked up from his idle Gobstone rolling, a bright sort of gleam in his eyes. "Yeah, I bet we will." He spoke carefully, the words even and measured. "I bet he'll be a sure friend of ours, won't he?"

"My stepdad says he'll probably be a great wizard," Blaise mused, leaning up against a hedge and tilting his head back to look at the sky. "That much power to take down You-Know-Who, as a baby, no less..."

"Couldn't he be a Dark wizard, though? I mean, no one's seen him in a decade...maybe that's why You-Know-Who tried to kill him, because he knew that if Potter grew up he'd be a challenge to him..."

"That's exactly what my father thinks," Draco said. "And I hope he's right. It's a shame You-Know-Who wasn't able to finish what he started, but if my father's right, perhaps Potter could be the one."

Pansy threw her head back and laughed, her dark chestnut hair swinging behind her and catching the sunlight. "The one? You're so dramatic, Draco!"

"That's rich, coming from you," I said, and it was true. Pansy had a dramatic nature that rivalled even mine. "And I don't really believe a word of it, Draco. Harry Potter is no Dark wizard, there's no such thing."

My vowels came out a bit too long in that statement, and I felt my cheeks immediately begin to burn with mortification. Blaise leaned forward, a sort of mocking smile on his lips. "Don't you mean, 'Och, Ah dinnae believe ye'?"

...I wanted to slap that smirk right off of his face. But these were my friends, if you could call them that, and I wanted their acceptance because they were all I knew. We had already all agreed to sit together on the Hogwarts Express when September came along. They were my future.

And they all laughed, and I ducked my head and laughed, and we played a game of Gobstones, and I was very careful with my vowels from then on. It wasn't until it was getting dark that we headed back inside, where our parents were waiting.

I was the last to Floo back home with my mother. While she stayed for a few moments to chat with Mrs. Malfoy, Draco and I stayed in the drawing room, sitting beneath the long ornate table. Dobby had left a few biscuits on the table, and I nibbled at one just to have something to do.

Finally, he broke the silence. "You don't think that Dark wizards don't exist?"

I paused, not quite sure how to answer. "Do you think that Dark witches exist?"

"Of course they do. Look at Auntie Bellatrix."

"It's what you said. Dark wizards are just great evil wizards."

"I never said that."

"It's what you meant though, isn't it?"

He blinked. "Dark wizards are just great wizards. Who says that they're evil?"

"I think it's sort of implied with the whole 'Dark' part?"

"Evil is a matter of perspective."

I laughed. "Is it?" I was expecting a joke, perhaps another jab at my accent. Instead, Draco's pale face remained completely serious.

"What's evil to you?"

"Monsters." I said honestly. "Muggles. People who want to try to hurt me."

"Wouldn't that make You-Know-Who good, then?" He leaned against the leg of the table, looking at the marble fireplace where no fire was lit. I never liked the drawing room. It was always too cold, too dark, with eerie portraits hanging on the purple-coloured walls and a tinkling chandelier that moved when there was never a breath of wind. "If he was getting rid of something evil, that means he was good."

I pulled my legs up to my chest and rested my chin on top of my knees. What he was saying made sense, but... "But we're not allowed to say that." It didn't make sense. "Whenever people talk about You-Know-Who, they always make it sound like he's was so bad. Why aren't we allowed to say he's good?"

"Because of the Muggle-lovers," Draco said knowingly. "Blood-traitors. Like your uncle."

"He's not my uncle anymore, Mummy told me."

"Well, Albus Dumbledore, then."

"But isn't Albus Dumbledore a Dark wizard?"

"What?" He gave me a look as though I was the biggest idiot in the world. "Are you mad?"

I huffed. "Well, according to you, Dark wizards are just great wizards. Isn't Dumbledore a great wizard?"

"Don't be stupid, Kate." Draco paused for a moment, thinking over his words carefully. "Father says Dumbledore had the potential to be a great wizard, to help our kind. But instead he decided to associate himself with lesser beings. He limited himself, so no, he isn't a great wizard."

"He's probably a greater wizard than your father, though," I murmured, partially because I didn't like being called stupid. Even if I was.

"My father is not a blood-traitor."

"Your father isn't Headmaster of Hogwarts." I tilted my head. "If you dislike the old man so much, then why are you going to Hogwarts in September?"

Draco shrugged. "I would have preferred Durmstrang, myself, and father agrees. But mother doesn't want me so far from home. And besides, You-Know-Who went to Hogwarts."

"And you plan on becoming a 'Dark' wizard yourself?"

He fixed me with cold grey eyes and a tightened jaw. "I plan on becoming a great wizard, yes. Greater than Harry Potter, if I have to be. "

"Greater than Harry Potter?" I asked incredulously as the door to the drawing room opened and my mother called my name. "Ha. Good luck at that, half-wit."

"Just you wait. You'll probably be Sorted into Hufflepuff, then who'll be laughing?"

"Ha!" I stood up abruptly and hit my head on the bottom of the table. Wincing and heading over towards the door, I threw one last comment over my shoulder as I left. "Hufflepuff? I'd probably leave if I was Sorted into Hufflepuff! Wouldn't you?"

My entire family, for something like the last fifteen generations or so, have all been Sorted into Slytherin. My father came from a long line of proud Slytherins, all the way back to Bhaltair Murchadh, who was one of the first students to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. My mother's grandfather emigrated from France sometime during the nineteenth century, and all of his descendants had been in Slytherin as well. Sure, there were a few irregularities. A few Squibs here and there, which was an embarrassing business, and we did our best to cover them up.

Liana was the family prodigy. Whether it was the Progers side or the Murdchadh side, whenever we met up with our numerous aunts, uncles, and cousins, I could always be sure that she would hold the spotlight. Even at home, when the only attention we had to vie for was that of our parents, she would win every single time.

For example, the day I got my Hogwarts acceptance letter was the same day she received a shiny new prefect's badge. It was to be expected, though. After all, she was one of the brightest students in her year; Mum and Dad would never accept anything other than perfection from her, while never really expecting anything from me.

It didn't bother me, though. Not at all.

A week before the first of September, our entire family travelled to London. It was a family tradition, ever since Liana turned eleven, to spend a week staying at the Leaky Cauldron as a sort of holiday, seeing as it wouldn't make sense to go all the way to King's Cross Station one day a year to hop on a train that would only take us back to the Scottish Highlands, where Hogwarts was located. So Mum came up with the idea to turn it into a family treat, and I looked forward to it every year. It was one of the few times a year I would see witches and wizards outside of my family and playmates, and London, although full of Muggles and danger, was a beautiful city.

The first year I was to be sent off, Liana and I travelled to Diagon Alley to buy our school things. It was the first time we went by ourselves without Mum (or, rather, the first time I went without Mum). It was a fairly uneventful trip, gathering our standard supplies; cauldron, potion ingredients, telescope, wand (hawthorn, ten and a half inches, unyielding with a dragon heartstring), thank you very much Mr. Ollivander next up is Madam Malkins hurry up and make sure you have your purse Katey-Kat and don't walk into the nice man's way.

I scowled and barely dodged a stout wizard in bright orange robes walking out of Flourish and Blotts who was carrying a stack of books taller than he was, following after my sister. "Don't call me that, Lia!"

Using her tall stature as a guide, I navigated through the hordes that crowded the Alley on a daily basis. The sounds, the smells, the utter chaos of the cobblestoned streets made me grin despite myself - listening to old witches arguing over the price of lionfish spines, little boys pooling their pocket money to buy ice cream from Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, teenage girls hovering around the newsstands burying their noses in copies of Witch Weekly. It was all as familiar to me as if I had listened to it my entire life. Which, of course, I had.

Most of all, I felt safe there, in a way I couldn't really feel at home. True, I had Mum and Dad, and Liana was proving to be a formidable witch, and no one in the village below the craigs where we lived seemed to suspect our magic. But even at eleven years old, I had nightmares of angry mobs with pitchforks and fire. When Mum took me through London for the first time (walking at a brisk pace, I might add, to minimise any contact with Muggles), I was terrified to leave her side.

The scariest part was just what Dad had said. All the monsters just looked like ordinary men.

But Diagon Alley, oh, Diagon Alley. Everywhere I turned, magic. I couldn't help but smile to see it, owls screeching in cages, wizards discussing the latest articles in Transfiguration Today at the top of their voices. Magic was as natural and as easy as breathing, but I couldn't take in enough of it.

Liana, just a few stores away, turned around with a grin lighting up her face. At fifteen she was as beautiful as ever, tall with curves in all the right places, long blonde hair and gorgeous green eyes, just like our father's. She walked like a queen, confidence radiating from every pore, the very image of a pureblood princess. Then again, she had always been that way.

(If I must say anything about myself at eleven years old, it must be this: I was plain, clumsy, and not very bright. But, hey. At least I wasn't a Squib.)

"You're my little sister, of course I'm going to call you that," she drawled, her upper-crust vowels almost exactly like our mother's. I was still struggling to rid myself of that unmistakable Scottish burr. "And I will call you that the entire time you're at Hogwarts, so there!"

"Then I'll be avoiding you at Hogwarts," I grumbled, kicking at the ground as I walked and accidentally scuffing my shiny new shoes.

"Ha! That's likely! I'm in charge of the first-years of my house, don't you forget!"

She's oddly acting rather chipper, I thought as I made my way through the crowds, stopping for a moment as a cat ran out of Magical Menagerie and into the shop across the street followed by several hassled looking employees. Smiling too bright, laughing too loud. I loved my sister, I really did, but I was all too aware of the cruel coldness that she could possess at times, too.

I don't know. Maybe she was lonely. Maybe she missed me. I'd like to think she did. Despite her teasing and her annoying pet-name, I was rather excited for school to begin. I was ready, so ready, to explore the enormous castle Liana had described to me, the moving staircases and sprawling grounds and magical classes. The safety it promised, where we wouldn't have to hide or be afraid. I was ready to learn how to use my magic, actually use it and discover any talent I possibly had lurking inside me.

(That's what I kept telling myself, at least. I had to have something, some sort of talent. I could feel it like a sweet sort of secret, in the quiet moments when I was alone. Something more than Liana Proger's little sister, something more than a pureblood princess. Something more than my lineage.)

"Katey-Kat! Come on! We've still got to get you your robes!"

"Coming! And don't call me that!"

Everyone knows what the houses mean, and from what my sister had told me, I had a pretty good idea. Slytherin was, of course, the Awesome House. The House to end all houses. Ravenclaw was second-best, and I secretly labelled it in my mind as the "We-Are-Unable-To-Get-A-Life-Outside-Of-Books" House. Worst of all would probably be Gryffindor, which Liana described as "We-Traded-Our-Common-Sense-Gene-For-Courage-And-Also-We-Smell-Really-Bad" House.

I had absolutely no idea what a Hufflepuff was and didn't really care to find out.

Saturday night, the night before the morning our parents would see us off to King's Cross, I cracked open the door of my room at the Leaky Cauldron just a tiny bit and peeked out into the hallway. Opened it a bit more, heard the wood creak and paused. There was a light at the end of the hall, at the stairs leading down to the pub below, the slightly muffled sounds of conversation and late-night laughter floating in.

My bare feet padding against the worn floor, I crossed the hallway, nightgown flying behind me like a ghost, slipping into Liana's room.

"Lia? You awake?"

No answer. I squinted in the darkness, and could see her breathing beneath the blankets. Still asleep.

"Lia?"

Still no answer. I bit my lip and dared to call a little louder.

"Lia."

Still silence.

"L-"

"Say my name one more time and Morgana help me I will string you up by your toes and feed you to a troll."

Ah. So she was awake. I bounded over to her bed and bounced on my knees on the very end, feeling very shy and very young. Knowing that in twenty-four hours, my whole life would be changed, I was obviously feeling a bit nervous. What if I wasn't put in Slytherin? What if Liana suddenly abandoned me at Hogwarts, leaving me to fend for my own? What if I forgot to pack something? What if I missed Mum and Dad?

Suffice to say, I had to be put in Slytherin, or the world would end. Or something.

Liana raised her head slightly, eyes drowsy with sleep but still managing to glare irritably at me. "What? What do you want?"

I suppose I could have lied and said I was having a nightmare. Or managed to put all of my fears into words, to see if my older sister could possibly quell them. But I didn't do any of those things.

Instead, I tilted my head and met her eyes, the question forming on my lips before I even knew what I was thinking. "What's evil?"

She blinked. "Evil?" A pause, a slightly derisive snort. "Are you serious?"

"I'm not...I mean, I am, I'm not joking, Lia."

"Ha! Go to bed, Kate."

"Just tell me, please!"

"Evil is something that's not good."

"What's good?"

"I'll tell you what's good - annoying little sisters letting their better older sisters get some sleep. Good-night."

"So is You-Know-Who good, then?"

Silence, nothing but the gentle sound of both of us breathing. I waited, perhaps for her to formally kick me out, or perhaps she was just ignoring me until I went away. At any rate, I was slightly surprised when she sighed and sat up, twisting her hair out of her face and pulling a hairpin from the pocket of her nightshirt. This simple gesture meant she was going to talk to me, and I waited patiently on the end of her bed as she pulled out her wand from under her pillow and lit a candle without saying a word.

"You-Know-Who," she said finally. "Wanted to get rid of evil."

"So that makes him good, right?"

"But you can't repeat that."

"Why not?"

She paused for moment, staring at the flame and the light it cast, highlighting the planes and angles of her face, casting shadows over her cheekbones. "Because other people might not agree."

"Why?" It seemed very logical to me, and I was quite aware that I wasn't all that bright. "How could they not agree?"

"They like Muggles and Mudbloods, and they have all the wrong ideas about all the wrong things. Like Dumbledore. Or Uncle Pierre. Or some people you might meet at Hogwarts."

"Don't they know they're dangerous, Mudbloods and Muggles?" I was very confused. Muggles and Mudbloods were the reason everyone had to hide their magic, my mother always said. "Do they like having to hide?"

"They're soft," Liana said promptly. "They're cowards, afraid to take what's truly theirs. Afraid to reach their full potential." Potential, there was that word again. Draco had said that his father had said Dumbledore never reached his full potential. "But it doesn't matter what they think. What matters is that you remember that you're better."

"I'm better."

"That's right. And tomorrow, you're going to make everyone proud."

Macbeth was not have been the unimaginable bastard that everyone thinks he is, and the history books prove it. What most people don't know, though, is that the three witches he supposedly met, were actually real too. Double, double, toil and trouble and all that tosh, that's all real.

I don't know how much of his destiny Macbeth was told by Moira Murchadh, my great-great-to-the-something-grandmother. She was supposed to be a fabulous Seer, a gift that sadly was lost throughout the generations. Had I been able to see my own future, maybe I would have done something different that night.

At any rate, my sister let me sleep with her that night, just like we did when we were kids, and that's how I like to remember Liana. Hairpins neatly arranged on the pocket of her shirt, begrudging me every square inch of blanket that I took from her. We were supposed to be asleep hours ago, but she kept me awake (revenge, she called it, and if I was going to wake her up I'd better deal with the consequences) by telling me stories of wizards who saved kings and witches who won wars and parents who ate their children, who turned into milk-white doves and flew away.

The sun was rising by the time she stopped talking. I was half-dreaming of battles to be won and spells to be cast and flashes of the future. I didn't know what Liana dreamed of, and to be honest, I still don't know.

(Macbeth was not a tyrant, and my sister was not evil. She wasn't.)

She tucked the covers around me like she always did, and grabbed the taper off of the nightstand.

Out, out, brief candle.

(It all depends on who's telling the story.)

.:tbc:.

Quote at the beginning is from "The Milky-White Doo", a Scottish fairy tale.

I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I own Macbeth. They belong to J.K. Rowling and William Shakespeare, respectively. The idea of a Scottish protagonist actually came from the book Code Name: Verity by Elizabeth Wein, which is an excellent book and I highly recommend. I apologise if I have unknowingly been influenced by any other sources that I have not credited.

I do own Katelyn and Liana. They are my own creations.

This is a rewrite of an OC story I wrote several years ago, known as "Girl, Eleven, Demanding a ReSort". While this does follow the same plot and use the same characters, quite a bit of it has been revamped and hopefully changed for a better. I have kept up the original so that anyone who wishes can see the contrast between the two styles.

I hope you enjoyed, and any constructive criticism would be appreciated. I am happy to be back and writing on fanfiction dot net.

Mischief Managed!

-Leila