A/N: This takes place eleven or so years after the first chapter, after Meg and Harry's daughter has been born. Meg and Lark live in , USA; Meg felt it best to get away from England while Voldemort was terrorising it. Okay. Just thought I'd clear that up, in case anyone got confused. : ) Read on. Please review, I love you all, etc, etc.
Disclaimer: Oh, yeah. I own Harry Potter. Because GOD KNOWS I would've killed off my two favourite characters. Of course. Yep. I enjoy crying myself to sleep. (That was sarcasm, in case you didn't notice. I don't actually own anything except Meg and Lark)
"Larka Harriet Lily Delarosa!" Meg glared at the crisp white paper in her hand, silently blaming it for all the problems that were currently wreaking havoc on her life. Her headache had just begun to fade, and already pain was pricking her skull again.
"Yeah, Mama?" Larka bounced in, her black curls framing her angel's face. Her eyes, as brilliantly green as sparkling emeralds, snapped and crackled mischievously. She was a female version of her father, shrunk to eleven again and given the innocent childhood he'd never had.
"Lark, I just got a letter from Mrs. Vega, the mother of the little girl you were baby-sitting the other day," Meg began sternly.
Instantly, Lark's face fell. She began to twist her fingers together nervously. It was a habit she'd inherited for her mother, and it always gave away her guilt as readily as a written confession. "Oh! Mariana! Right. She was sweet. How is she?" she said innocently, peering up at her mother through long, dark eyelashes to enhance the honest look.
"Uh, seems that she told her mother that 'the nice baby-sitter' had 'made the chair dance with the lights'. Mrs. Vega, of course, assumed the six-year-old was making things up…until she found a broken light bulb under her kitchen chair. Now she wants to know how you managed to get a chair up around her $12,000 chandelier," Meg said.
Lark shrugged. "I don't know," she mumbled. Meg glared at her daughter. It only took a few minutes of stern silence for the young girl to squirm guiltily. "She wouldn't stop crying! I had to do something! I saw something floating on TV, and then I got an idea, and I floated the chair around the lights for just a minute and she stopped! She thought it was hilarious! It was like…well, like magic!" Lark blurted.
Meg sighed. The faint hints of pain at the base of her skull had swept into a full-blown blaze of soreness. Again. "Lark, baby, you know you can't use magic around here! This is a neighbourhood full of Muggles. There's not a witch or wizards for thirty miles, love, and you know I can't do mass mind-wipes," she said, her voice softening.
Lark gave a tiny sigh. "Mama, it's just so hard not to do magic. It's like breathing for me. I just can't stop."
Meg surveyed her daughter for a moment. She understood the feeling. The threat of a Death Eater attack had pressed Meg's mother into teaching Meg fourth- and fifth-year magic before she ever set foot in Hogwarts. Meg had followed her mother's example and taught Lark all the spells she could. In the back of her mind, the thought always lurked that on the horrible chance that Voldemort killed Harry, that the Dark Lord would come after his daughter next…
"Mama? Are you okay?" Lark's worried voice broke through her reverie.
Meg nodded, slightly flustered. "O-of course." She sighed, the weariness in her bones increasing by yet another degree. "I don't know what to tell you. The Ministry won't come after you if you use magic, but I will. If I find out you even thought about using even a Lumos spell in front of a Muggle…" She let her voice trail off warningly.
Lark darted forward and twined her slender arms around her mother's waist. "I'll be good, Mama. I promise. I'll only use magic when you say I can," she swore, looking up at Meg with sincerity in her big jade eyes.
Meg hugged her only child tightly. It was hard enough being a single mother; being the single mother of a witch in a neighbourhood of Muggles was another thing entirely. Still, she knew she wouldn't trade Lark for all the peace and security in the world. "I know you will, baby," she said softly. She kissed the top of Lark's head and let go. Meg ran a hand through her thick auburn hair, just beginning to be touched with silver at the temples. "Speaking of magic, I've got a potion on the stove. C'mon. You can help me test it out."
"What's this one for?" Lark asked, bouncing along beside her mother as they headed for the kitchen of their small apartment.
"I'm trying to figure out a way to make these freckles go away," Meg said, pointing at her nose and cheekbones. A heavy dusting of freckles stood out against her tanned skin, a feature she'd hated ever since she was Lark's age.
"I like your freckles, Mama," Lark protested, opening the fridge and digging around for a can of her favourite soda. Meg had made the mistake of summing a can of the English-made soda once, two years previous, and since then Lark had become addicted to it. Her daughter was, by law, an American citizen, but sometimes her voice showed traces of her mother's British accent.
"Thank you, love, but I don't. They're cute when you're eleven, but by the time you're…well, my age, they stop being cute and start being just a pain." She found her wooden in the jar of utensils and stirred the potion absently. The portable iron cauldron was small enough to pass for a Dutch oven in case anyone ever asked, and just big enough for the potions she experimented with.
Lark, her soda in hand, stood on her toes and peered over her mother's shoulder at the potion. "It's pretty. And it smells good," she said optimistically.
Meg smiled and nodded. "That it does." The swirling, murky draught was deep pink, ebony bubbles bursting over the surface. It smelled–and hopefully tasted–like crystallised pineapple. She took a deep breath and lifted the spoon to her lips. "Here goes nothing."
Lark squeaked and sat down her drink long enough to cover her eyes with her hands. The potion slid down Meg's throat easily, thankfully tasting as good as it smelled. She'd made some horrid-tasting concoctions in her time.
For a moment, the whole kitchen seemed to hold its breath. Lark certainly did, and if it hadn't been for her pet ferret leaping from the countertop to her shoulder she might have gone on not breathing forever.
She gasped and broke the silence, uncovering her eyes and scratching Sofia's dark grey head. "Girl, what are you doing? You know better than to come in the kitchen when Mama's experimenting," she whispered.
Meg turned to her daughter, spoon still in hand. "Well? What's the verdict?" She squeezed her eyes shut nervously.
Lark was quiet for a minute, then burst, "Gone! Mama, your freckles are gone!" She laughed delightedly. "It worked!"
"Really?" She laid the wooden spoon by the stove and ran her fingers over her nose, as if she could feel the absence of the hated spots.
"I'll go get a mirror! Mama, you invented Freckle Juice!" Lark ran from the kitchen, Sofia falling unceremoniously to the floor.
Meg chuckled. She was quite pleased at herself for having finally created a potion that did was it was supposed to. The last one, designed to erase the grey from her hair, had left her with faintly lavender skin that took two weeks to fully disappear.
The doorbell rang just as she opened the drawer full of vials and jars to bottle her potion. "Just a minute!" She yelled, grabbing a large glass Mason jar. The doorbell rang again, and she could've sworn it was getting more insistent. She rolled her eyes. Jehovah's Witnesses frequented the apartment complex they lived in, and those little buggers could be terribly demanded once they'd convinced themselves your immortal soul was at stake.
Jar in hand, she cut the heat under her cauldron and walked to the front door. Sofia was lying in front of the door, fast asleep. "Move, child. You're in the way," Meg scolded gently.
The ferret cracked open her black eyes, peered disdainfully at Meg, then lifted herself from the carpet and strolled regally over to the windowsill as if to say, 'This is all my idea, I want you to know'.
Meg laughed and opened the door. A bitter wind slammed into her, bringing with it the taste of cold. Snow swirled through the doorway. Laughing, she blinked several times to melt the snowflakes from her eyelashes. It took her a moment to realise that her visitor wasn't joining in. She cleared her throat nervously and squinted. The sunlight, pale as it was, reflected off the snow and intensified to a blinding degree. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the sudden brightness; finally, she regained enough sight to be able to determine who was on her front step.
Standing before her wasn't one of the usually scrawny, wool-suit-clad men assigned her neighbourhood by the Jehovah's Witnesses, but a woman, probably her own age or a little younger. Her deep-set green eyes, like two clumps of frozen moss, swept over Meg with what she recognised as mild contempt. She'd seen it enough times on the face of random Slytherins–mostly Malfoy. It had never set well with him that a pureblood like her chose a half-breed like Harry. The woman's silky, straight brown hair fell to her shoulders in manicured sheet, as perfect and flawless as her ivory skin. Her deep green business suit brought out the colour of her eyes and offset her hair beautifully.
Meg was suddenly acutely aware of her faded jeans and black T-shirt with the skull-and-crossbones splayed across the chest. Her bare feet were still a little dirty from Sofia's–incredibly short–early morning walk, and she knew there were dark circles under her eyes. "Can I help you?" She drew herself up to her full height, all five-feet-three-inches of her.
The woman looked down at her. She had probably four or five inches on Meg. "I'm looking for Margaret Delarosa?" she said primly. Meg noticed she had a pristine London accent.
"That's me." Meg felt a warm, furry body against her ankle and scooped Sofia up, unconsciously hugging her close. "If I may be so bold…who are you?"
"I am Vanessa Christiansen-Potter. If I may?" She gestured at the apartment.
Potter. Did that mean…? –It's a common name, girl. Stop assuming every Potter on the planet is related to him,–she snapped at herself. Trying to shake the shock from her mind, she nodded and stepped aside. "Of course." Sofia slithered to the ground.
Vanessa stepped over the threshold just as Lark trotted up. "Here's the mirror, Mama," she said. "I found it in…" Her voice trailed off when she realised her mother wasn't alone.
"Oh. Right. Lark, love, this is Mrs. Christiansen-Potter. She's come to visit Mama," Meg introduced hurriedly.
"It's Ms," Vanessa corrected sourly.
"O-oh. I'm sorry." Meg blushed slightly, then looked at Lark. "Baby, go watch a movie for a bit. I think The Lion King is in the DVD player in the living room." As Lark scurried off, she gestured at the table. "Please. Have a seat."
Ms. Christiansen-Potter settled herself on the very edge of a kitchen chair, as if the scuffed wood could somehow transmit its worn appearance to her if she touched it too extensively. Meg closed the door and hovered awkwardly in front of the refrigerator. "Can I get you anything?" she offered nervously.
"No, thank you. Actually, I have an appointment at 4:30 that I simply cannot miss, so if we can get this over with quickly I'd be most appreciative." Vanessa gave Meg a simpering smile.
It took all of her willpower to sit down in front of this unpleasant woman and smile politely. "What–" Her voice stuck in her throat. She cleared it uncomfortably and tried again. "What brings you all the way out here, Ms. Christiansen-Potter?" –Other than forcing me to say your irritatingly long name four thousand times,–she added silently. Frustration and anxiety made her long fingers itch for her wand. She always felt stronger with her wand firmly in her hand.
Vanessa smoothed her skirt primly. "It's a small matter, really. I could give you all the legal mumble, but I'm sure it wouldn't impress you," she said with a small, very fake laugh. "It concerns your daughter, actually."
"Lark?" Meg blinked in confusion. Her eyes drifted to the letter lying on the counter. "Oh, no. She hasn't…done anything, has she?" Fear slammed into her like a charging Erumpent. This woman looked a lot more dangerous than Mariana's mother, who was, after all, a little dim. While Mrs. Vega may not suspect anything magical, despite eyewitness accounts of levitating household objects, Meg had a horrible feeling that Ms. Christiansen-Potter would not be so quick to dismiss the possibility.
"Oh, heavens no. I've never even met her. Lark, is it?" Vanessa waved her hand casually, and Meg had to disguise her sigh of relief as a cough.
"Yes. Her-her name is Lark. Well, Larka." Meg bit her lip to keep herself from saying anything else. Unlikely as it seemed, Ms. Vanessa Christiansen-Potter could bear that skull-and-snake tattoo on her left forearm, concealed under the woollen sleeve of her jacket.
"Yes. Well, you see, it's a matter, of…mm…how do I say this?" Vanessa paused. "Inheritance. Yes. Let's call it inheritance. For simplicity's sake, you understand."
"Inheritance? Lark? But no one in my family has–" Meg began, frowning.
"Not your family, of course," Vanessa interrupted hurriedly. "Her father's family. The Potters."