| ORACLE |
Chapter 02 : The Unknown and Unexpected
Beep. Beep. Beep-.
Blearily, Hollis cracks open an eye to glare at the offensive analog clock; faint sunlight bleeds into quiet suburbia, spilling colour into the grey streets. The witch fixes the alarm with a piercing glare and definitively switches it off before retreating back to the corner of her bed. Except Hollis really should wake up and despite her squawks of complaint, her owl chastises her by pecking her ear sharply. The witch winces with a painful expression—which the pale owl pointedly ignores—, moving her hands to cover her bruised ears, Hollis glares at Hedwig preening her feathers: who remains unperturbed by her mistress' blatant show of annoyance, communed by Hollis' green-eyed stare.
She sighs, long-suffering, and touches for her rounded spectacles on the bed-stand; Hedwig, appeased at last, voices her approval by lightly, more affectionately nipping Hollis' fingers, Hollis sniffs, her pride personally affronted and undermined. The world slides into focus; rounded glasses rest lopsided on the bridge of her nose at constant threat of slipping off. Rises to straighten her back, Hollis absentmindedly notes her joints cracking as she stretches her arms upwards, her fingers interlaced.
Silhouettes of furniture outlined by the faint light filtering through the barred window substitute blurred facets of shade. The teen stifles a sleepy yawn with her left hand; her first step forward almost results with her falling flat on her face when she snags her foot in the folds of cotton sheets. Hollis wobbles as she struggles to regain her balance, although, her efforts are in vain; she tumbles anyway and a startled yelp escapes her throat.
Hollis recovers from her bewilderment swiftly enough for her to hastily out her arms to support herself, barely managing to stop a fraction of an inch from the floor from smacking her face. "Shite." Hollis grits between her teeth; she downwardly glares at alabaster blankets pooled on the wooden floor. Fortunately, Hollis has the honed reflexes of a Seeker, a more than decent one if she must say; if she didn't quickly react on the field, she'd constantly be nailed by Bludgers before even getting near the Snitch, Beaters or no Beaters.
However, her humiliation is unforgotten; as juvenile as it, Hollis is pointlessly agitated —she is excessively obstinate and refuses to admit her pitfalls, instead she devotes all of her agitation towards an inanimate object. All the whilst fixing the forsaken object with a hateful stare —like Hollis blames it for her near demise—, she makes to properly fold the blankets, her fingers pinching the opposite corners to even out the creases, then fold: once in half and in half again. Set down at the foot of her bed, Hollis redirects her efforts into searching for her bunny slippers, which are nowhere to be seen.
In the dim room, she can't really make out anything with the lighting, even with the assistance of her glasses. She's knelt on the floor, fumbling around blindly for the slippers and trying not to bump into anything; the witch curses quietly under her breath, even with her spectacles, Hollis of course butts her head against a cabinet at least once or else she wouldn't be Hollis Lily Potter.
Bloody hell, Hollis' lousy eyesight remains the bane of her very existence. She groans under her breath as she sullenly rubs her very sore temple; the Seeker has one hand outstretched to catch the slipper that tumbles down from high up on the shelf: where she had kicked it aimlessly last night.
At least she found both; Hollis squints as she peers into the dark space under the aged wooden cabinet. She triumphantly grins when she recognizes the dark outline of rabbit ears in the obscurity; straining to reach with her just too short arm, Hollis outstretches her fingers —they just barely brush the material— and manages to closer her fingers around the sole, and fish the slipper out.
Quickly slipping both on her feet, Hollis hurries to go about her regular morning schedule, while trying not to wake anyone up. Brushes her teeth, makes a valiant attempt at taming her unruly mane (and fails spectacularly as usual), dons an old grey t-shirt accompanied with a pair of comfortable, baby-blue jeans with a few holes —that happens to be one of the few pairs she owns that aren't hand me downs—, before setting about making breakfast after drowsily stumbling down the staircase, still not completely awake.
Hollis has just laced the ribbons of the ragged apron when she finally recalls the dreaded grapefruit diet: only when she had been scanning the fridge for eggs —and finding none— then noticed the list pinned askew to the door with a company magnet ("Grunnings Drill Manufacturing Company" it reads in cartoonish, blue letters), an indecipherable signature —most likely the school nurse from Smeltings— scrawled messily in black ink at the bottom.
Heaving a resigned sigh, Hollis thoughtfully examines the grapefruit in the porcelain bowl set on the counter that she had breezed past probably due to her self-imposed study session the previous day that Hollis has still not recovered from. Meticulously inspecting each citrus fruit, eventually she decides on the smallest one —a pale yellow-gold— since she still has the sweets stashed under the wooden floorboards.
Looking for a knife, Hollis searches the wooden drawer next to the sink for the one with the worn handle; it's not too difficult considering they're so neatly organized: perfectly arranged in neat rows designated by wooden dividers. She retrieves it quickly enough; second column, first cell.
Cutting a modest slice for herself, Hollis tentatively takes a bite of a segment; the tartness makes her suck in her lips. Hollis is in the midst of washing the aftertaste out with water when she identifies heavy footsteps lumbering down the stairs. She hastily downs what is leftover of the slice, forces herself to not make a face, and trashes the rind. She's just finished washing the knife and drying it with a clean washcloth when Uncle Vernon passes her in the kitchen.
They exchange their usual pleasantries —meaning none— and her uncle grumbles about Hollis being a general nuisance even though she's doing absolutely nothing. His insults are something Hollis is entirely too used to, so she can't really care, only make absentminded notes on anything particularly creative and focus on leveling her volatile temper. However, his comments are relatively tame today. Perhaps yesterday's business dinner went over well or else she'd be getting an earful right about now. Either way, she's a bit grateful.
Hollis only rolls her eyes in response to any proposed questions and simply hums quietly under her breath; the name of the tune the brunette can't place at the moment, although she does doubt that even given the proper time that she would even remember. Some unpleasant, catchy song another third-year witch had been singing in the dormitory when Hollis had stepped through the portrait hole that she has not forgotten since.
Hollis silently offers the grapefruit; Uncle Vernon briefly glances at the proffered grapefruit in her hand. He demonstrates his personal aversion with a grimace. He sets off to work without taking anything with him or giving Hollis an answer; she delicately raises a brow, but assumes that since the restriction that prohibits the consumption of anything remotely not healthy applies to all of them, her uncle will secretly pick up breakfast at a cafe on the way to work.
It's never as simple as just saying no. Her relatives are incapable of that, so underhanded; although, on another note, she does echo the sentiment.
Hollis is severely tempted to set fire to anything resembling a grapefruit on sight. Unlike her unfortunate relatives, she will not be dying a slow death, although she still partakes in their misery. The characteristics of fatigue are setting in on her complexion; Hollis is only saved by the trove of various assorted sweets stashed under the loose floorboard that no one has knowledge to with the exception of herself.
Her hand twitches to where she holsters her holly wand, in the back pocket of her jeans, except she grasps for nothing. Hollis' wand is safely locked up in her room as it usually is during the summer.
An ' incendio ' and then nothing would be left except grey ashes however unsupervised magic is strictly forbidden and moderated; Hollis resorts to glowering at the offending grapefruit across the table from where she stands by the sink.
Since it is a Friday, Hollis speculates that her cousin won't be back anytime soon; usually Dudley goes skateboarding with his troupe of minions around the end of the week. Had her cousin not been intimidated by the threat of her magic, she would have been his lackey, tasked with carrying his skateboard(s) for him.
As per usual, when she sees Aunt Petunia sweep into the kitchen with a mop which makes Hollis' dark eyebrows rise infinitely higher since her aunt usually leaves that up to Hollis to take care of.
Today, her aunt is wearing a cotton dress in an obnoxious shade of pink (that reminds Hollis too much of the dreaded holiday called "Valentine's Day") dotted with cheery daffodils. Her aunt's dark hair is combed neatly as usual and her aunt critically eyes the carmine-tinted headband holding back Hollis' unruly hair with something akin to contempt.
Her hair is apparently characteristic of the Potter family which she was unaware of until Lupin tactfully informed her that her endeavours to attack the wreck —which is viewed with general amusement by the common populace— are hopeless .
Before thin lips can move to make another undoubtedly baseless (and snide) remark, Hollis makes herself scarce, wordlessly as per usual, and dismisses herself as she's expected to do when faced with her relatives. For appearances, the Dursleys like to pretend that she doesn't exist and Hollis prefers to pretend that she's anywhere but where she is (4 Privet Drive), so it tends to work out perfectly for both parties involved as long as Hollis stays out of sight and mind which she is glad to do.
Hollis idly runs a free hand through her choppy locks; usually her hair falls past her shoulders, stopping at the mid of her back. In the summer, for sake of practicality, she prefers to keep it shorter and cropped closer to her neck. At times, the weather can be unbearable and Hollis finds it infinitely easier to maintain a bob.
She is nagged less about it as well; although it does not prevent her aunt from underhandedly commenting during dinner about how it makes Hollis look like a delinquent and how she finds Hollis' rugged appearance is generally unacceptable.
Hollis has resignedly accepted, lifetimes ago, there is nothing she can do that will stop her relatives from nitpicking and that acceptance has made her better for it since she no longer needs to seek for familial affection that will never be reciprocate: not by them at least. Although, Hollis could care less now: her small clique of friends, Sirius, and Lupin are enough and more than that.
The sun is at the peak of its course at noon, a speck of white light in the cloudless sky high above her head. Hollis wipes a bead of sweat from her forehead with the back of her gloved hand, as she gives her work a thoughtful once over. With the summer sun bearing down on her back, she is sweating profusely from the difficult labour; her fatigue is magnified tenfold by the insufferable heat.
When Hollis takes a tentative step forward, she blinks; the background spins sharply. She faintly feels her body sway precariously with the slightest movement; Hollis supports herself with the shovel to keep herself standing steady.
' I definitely need to sit down. ' Hollis hazily reflects and she slumps down to rest her back against the trunk of the elm; the shade provides a reprieve —she detests summers the most— for her to rest for a few minutes before she makes a second attempt at resuming work. After a moment of consideration, Hollis decides to figure out what species the should be red-stained tulips —all Hollis has is the papery tab with its picture, except the blue ink is washed out and she can't make out the faint letters— are and withdraws the encyclopedia from her knapsack to reexamine it.
Tucking her feet neatly underneath her, Hollis begins to skim the pages absentmindedly to search for the tulip without knowing much about the cluster of bulbs prepped in the wheelbarrow; if she was Neville, except Hollis isn't, she might have identified it as a fringed hybrid or parrot tulip. Her fingers stop on page 210, Estella Rijnveld. She knows they are; flares of white run along the folds of the deep-red petals, apparently characteristic of the species and a very distinctive mark.
It is late midsummer, but Hollis doubts that planting the bulbs a little earlier than recommended (autumn) will stunt growth and they will most likely bloom normally and without issues. She gives a glance to the charmed watch she wears on her left wrist; the dials tick at a painstakingly slow pace, a few minutes is enough Hollis decides. Hollis feels a lot less lightheaded. Her thoughts keep on drifting back to Sirius and his lack of response.
Gardening is good for her, it's decent practice for Herbology as she's already pointed out, although the magical plants they work with in class are far more difficult; she remembers the Venomous Tentacula which Hollis is more apt to ever forget she encountered (and the almost scars). It also is a sufficient way to keep her mind off things when she's not finishing her summer assignments.
She's just about picked up the shovel when Hollis is alerted by the racket sounding inside the house and a crack, like a gunshot, ' Maybe apparition... '; she furrows her dark brow in concern, drops the shovel as just as she picked it up five seconds before. Throwing the backdoor open, Hollis is there just quickly enough to witness a vase shattering to a million shards, watch the water spill to the ground at her feet; ' The hydrangeas. ' Hollis bemoans, "Aunt Petunia is going to kill me..."
"Whatever for, Miss Potter?" A dry voice queries.
Hollis starts, stumbles back a few steps, and spins around to be faced with two unexpected visitors: both her Transfiguration and Potions professor. Both of whom are much more somber than they are usually, although that might be difficult to tell considering that neither Professor McGonagall or Professor Snape are particularly eccentric, unlike many other wizards or witches.
Maybe for that reason, they were the ones appointed to see Hollis regardless of the house rivalries or any cause of personal strife; although that still doesn't explain why they are here in the first place. It must be quite serious to require the attentions of Hogwarts; in fourteen years, the only visit she's ever had was when Dobby visited and the evening had ended disastrously.
Hollis is desperately hoping this won't be a recurring case. She straightens her back, which is an almost immediate response to seeing her teachers, despite it still being the summer. Her poor posture is constantly critiqued although it's mostly because of Hollis' tendency to slouch and let her attention drift during class before Mione can act quickly enough to correct her before the professors do.
"Miss Potter." Professor McGonagall assumes a thin smile, if it can be called one; her lips twitched upwards as if she was struggling to keep it there, except it crumpled another an unnameable pressure that left behind only a grim expression.
Hollis is heading off track again; she meets Professor McGonagall's green eyes cautiously, while steadily avoiding Snape's gaze as discreetly as she can manage. Hollis maybe blames him for Peter Pettigrew and the ousting of Lupin that had led to his resignation; worse, he is the reason that Sirius was sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss. It is not out of line for Hollis to disregard her professor especially since she is sure if she speaks, she will say something she will regret.
The austere woman's eyes usually has a hard gaze, severe expression, but her features are softened by something almost tragic and instead she looks similarly grim.
Professor McGonagall pushes back her billowy sleeves and gingerly waves her arm, keeping her motions small and her fir wand steady; the shards littering the tiled floor of the kitchen fix themselves together, mending until the present cracks disappear. A tap on the repaired vase collects the spilt water, the second tap transfigures the washed-out hydrangeas vivid shade of blue, the colour of bluebell flames.
"Professor Snape. Professor McGonagall-."
Hollis manages a somewhat confused, polite smile just as Aunt Petunia blusters into the room, her face pallid. The teen sucks in a breath quietly while observing her aunt's reception to the unexpected guests. From the way she purposely averts her eyes when they meet Professor Snape's gaze —the Potions professor's lips curl with displeasure— and her brief, almost furtive glance at Professor McGonagall: who raises one grey brow while maintaining perfect severity. It is the exact displeased look the professor would have donned if confronted she donned when encountered with a student if they had perhaps botched an absurdly simple transfiguration; maybe a match to a needle.
Also, Hollis is extremely glad that the shattered vase is repaired; the porcelain vase had been gifted by the wife of one of Uncle Vernon's business contacts and Hollis remembers polishing that stupid thing for hours every time a guest were to come over, just so the Dursleys could subtly mention it and brag as they loved to do, which makes Hollis aggressively roll her eyes, which in turn brings up another realm of complaints from her aunt and uncle about how utterly disrespectf-.
"What exactly are they doing here?" Hollis internally winces but evenly levels her aunt's gaze; subconsciously, she clenches her fists before relaxing her grip. Hollis feels her magic dancing around her wildly, as if restless. If her temper snaps-, her temper will not snap, Hollis promises herself, even as she glares at her aunt, whose voice is steadily rising; her voice is sharp, almost shrill now. "What did you do?"
"I did nothing." She responds evenly, but she's unable to shrug off the instinctive flinch when Aunt Petunia takes a step closer; too close, enough that Hollis can see the veins of her aunt's narrowed, pale eyes. Hollis would be personally affronted, but she can't muster forth the effort. A part of her will be —for a long time— the young girl who lived in the cupboard under the stairs, who was frail and unable to ever raise her voice above a bare whisper in her own defense, who was struck if she spoke out of turn.
"Don't you raise your voice, you ungrateful brat."
"Petunia." Snape interjects smoothly, he keeps his voice low and certainly quiet enough, however Hollis feels the understated anger lacing his words and the threat lingering underneath as well as a strange, unidentifiable familiarity between her aunt and her professor; she can feel the unspoken hostility. "I would advise you to lower your voice, unless you want the neighbours to overhear our conversation." Aunt Petunia purses her lips immediately and her complexion darkens with unidentifiable anger.
"We are here to take Hollis; she shall be back within a few days after we handle certain matters." Professor McGonagall discloses plainly after she directs a quick, backwards glance directed at the dark-haired man standing behind her. "Severus, please assist Miss Potter in gathering her things." Her aunt seems at a loss of what to do. If it had been anyone else but the head of the houses, anyone but no-nonsense Professor McGonagall or apotheosis of snide: Professor Snape, perhaps her aunt wouldn't have been so conflicted. Hollis acutely observes that Aunt Petunia seem more thrown by Snape's sudden appearance, than by the presence of Professor McGonagall.
' How do you know my aunt? '
She wants to ask but doesn't ask; the question seems inappropriate of Hollis to ask, especially of her teacher. Hollis gesticulates for Professor Snape to follow her towards the staircase which lays across from the kitchen and leads the way to her bedroom with him following closely behind her. Pausing momentarily in front of the door before hesitantly pulling it open, the door creaks in protest. Hollis really hopes he won't notice or ask questions about the bars on the window. Hollis briefly looks at him, but Snape's expression is stoic and she is unable to read anything which makes her distinctly uncomfortable.
Hollis never has been able to understand Professor Snape, not even in the most remote aspect: not his motivations or purpose or anything. However, the tense atmosphere that both professors exhibit worries Hollis; she feels the wrongness to her bones.
"What do I need to take with me?"
"Everything." He acknowledges offhandedly without explaining. Meeting Hollis' confused expression, Professor Snape sighs before specifying more clearly, "We need to resolve a few things before returning; it will take a few days at least, but it might be a week before you return therefore I would advise taking all of your belongings."
"I see." Hollis acquiesces with a small nod and resumes packing, first by collecting her magical supplies : her holly wand, Firebolt, the Invisibility Cloak, the various spellbooks along with her notebooks. Than, Hollis packs her clothes quickly, although Snape at the cakes: various sweets, etc. buried under the floorboard —which she unearths to retrieve the envelope— quirks an eyebrow. "Grapefruit diet." Professor Snape appears only more perplexed by her vague explanation. "Sorry, you didn't ask..." He covers his mouth, of Hollis wasn't mistaken, he had smiled, but he couldn't have.
While Hollis struggles with the overstuffed suitcase, one finally shut, the other still combatting her efforts to shut it. The cakes are the only things left behind, although she does take some of the snacks Mione sent her as well as the treacle tarts which can actually be fitted, crammed into the case. Professor Snape lightly taps it with his wand and it securely clicks shut; Hollis blinks incredulously before flashing a grateful smile. "Oh, thank you."
"Let's go." Snape ignores it pointedly, blatantly, and while she struggles to get a better grip on the heavy luggage, he easily manages both with a wordless spell possible a derivative of the levitation charm. She wants to stubbornly protest that she's strong enough to carry them herself how else would she be a member of the Quidditch team; the teen is silenced by a knowing frown however she steadfastly keeps a tight grip on the suitcase holding her broom.
"I can handle this one," Readjusting her hold on Hedwig's metal cage, Hollis accidentally disturbs her; the white owl cracks open an amber eye with curiosity, but doesn't make another move besides that. She simply closes her eyes once again, to sleep.
"Right.. So are you going to tell me what this is about?"
"Are you always so curious, Miss Potter?" Hollis awkwardly looks to the side; her face flushed with embarrassment, she tightens her hold on the suitcase and cage, refusing to take umbrage at his words.
"Not always.."
He heaves another sigh; it seems she's not the only one who's been sighing so frequently. "I am not granted permission to tell you, Miss Potter; you will find out when we arrive."
Based on his avoidance of the subject, Hollis knows it can't be possibly any good; she already feels her stomach sinking with a horrible feeling. The teenaged witch feels concern wash over her once again as she follows Professor Snape down the wooden staircase, knows with her heart as absurd as it sounds.
Hollis is distracted however, almost snorts when she overhears the professor badmouthing Aunt Petunia quietly under his breath about the unnaturally immaculate household and horrendous colour palette of the house in general.
She agrees vehemently with his opinion: one of the few times she does. It is indeed horrid.
| Author's Note |
I changed fem!Harry's name from Ivy to Hollis. Read a story with that name and I don't know, it just seems like it suits her bounds more than Ivy does. It just FEELS better. Also in this AU, she is closer to Lupin and Sirius.
Also, my headcanon is based on the idea that Harry's dark hair would have an undertone of red, an auburn, if grown out. Because of that, it would make her resemble her mother, Lily, far more than James especially considering her green eyes and if Professor Snape was faced with fem!Harry, the resemblance would make him less severe towards Hollis. My reasoning is that she wouldn't look like James' living picture and instead Snape would see Lily's only daughter and would not make a point to bully fem!Harry and be more apt to advise her in her studies, albeit begrudgingly.
I'm also sorry this is slow-moving, but I don't want to rush it. Fem!Harry aka Hollis will definitely meet Robin at least by chapter 5 or 6, will be in America by 4 or 5. I need to somehow get Hollis there first, without making it too abrupt.
|Disclaimer |
I do not own Harry Potter, I do however own this story so please do not post this elsewhere without my permission.
