Chapter 2

As usual on my birthday, I slept late while my uncle brought a tray filled with my favorite foods- eggs, cinnamon toast, bacon, blood sausage, fried potatoes, and pancakes. It was a wonder to him that such a skinny girl could eat it all, but I managed.

After I had finished, my uncle placed the tray on the floor, sitting on the end of my small iron-framed bed, trying not to hit his head on the slanted ceiling of my attic room. He smoothed back his dark hair, looking into the eyes of the seventeen-year-old girl in front of him.

"Jack."

"Yes?" I was immediately nervous- It was the tone he used for bad news.

Uncle sighed, kneading his temples. "Come down to the living room once you're dressed- and dress nicely, please." He looked pained for a moment. Almost wistful. "I'm sorry."

When he left, I didn't know what to do. I glanced around the room- small with a slanted ceiling, plaster walls, wood floor covered with a braided rug made from scraps of fabric. The small bed with its patchwork quilt perched in the corner. The ancient wardrobe squatted against the wall, and red-and-white gingham curtains (again, leftover fabric) fluttered in the wind of the hot August morning. It was the room of someone who made do with what she had, and was happy about it. It was home.

Nervously, I opened the wardrobe and began to dress. I pulled out some nice clothes- a knee-length red circle skirt and a white blouse. I had made the skirt myself, and even in my nervousness relished in the movement of the fabric. Buttoning up the waistband, I looked at myself in the mirror hanging on the inside of the wardrobe. I looked nice- tired, scared, a bit too skinny, but this was as good as it was going to get.

I slipped on some shiny black oxfords and carefully stepped down the staircase that led down into the living room. In it sat Uncle, along with several other wizards I didn't know. They all looked a bit out of place, wearing very expensive-looking robes. I wondered if they were uncomfortable in the rather rough surroundings. I had no idea why a bunch of obviously wealthy wizards would come to a tiny cottage in the middle of the Berkshires.

"This must be Jessica," said the tall one with a lion's mane of hair. He had an accent- English by the sound of it, much harsher than Uncle's lilting speech from southern Wales. I myself had a combination accent- Welsh from Uncle, Boston from school, and Berkshire from home.

I nodded, prepared to speak, but Uncle did it for me. "Yes, this is her. I have cared for her for the past seventeen years." I sat on the worn corduroy couch next to Uncle. I hadn't been called my real name in years.

"Seventeen years, Dafydd?"

"Yes."

"Hm." The tall man turned to me. "My name is Rufus Scrimgeour, and I am the British Minister of Magic."

"Pleasure to meet you," was the response that automatically came to my lips. We shook hands, and there was a brief silence. The Minister cleared his throat.

"Now, Jessica. I understand that what I'm going to tell you may come as a shock." I tilted my head to listen, kneading the fabric of my skirt in my hands. A brief nod from Uncle told the Minister to continue. I focused on the Moke tank in the corner, the three little lizards slipping around their habitat. Claudius, Augustus, and Nero were their names. I cocked my head at the Minister, focusing on his face. I didn't look him in the eye.

"You were informed that your parents were killed in a magical accident. However, this is not true."

"Excuse me?" Uncle put a hand on my shoulder, and I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass of the Moke cage. I was completely white.

"In truth, they were killed by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, for political reasons."

"No." The word came out in a whisper. I shook my head and stood, clearing my throat. "Minister, with all due respect, I believe you are mistaken. My parents were broom makers. They worked for Cleansweep before moving to America." I turned on my heel to leave.

"Jack, please." It was Uncle. He touched my wrist. Slowly, I sat back down.

The Minister looked dismayed. "I know this is distressing for you." I neglected to speak. He sighed, clasping his hands. "But your parents were not broom makers. They were a figurehead in the wizarding society of the United Kingdom. You see, even though they held little power, they were an image, a symbol." He took a deep breath. "I grew to know them in my career as an Auror. It was a sad day that I learned of the death of King Edmund."

I froze, Uncle still holding my hand. Edmund Harcourt was a broom maker. There was no other option.

"And your mother was so very kind. I was fond of Queen Rhoswen."

Rhoswen Harcourt, née Rhoswen Glyndwyr, grew up in southern Wales with her brother Dafydd "Dai" Glyndwyr. She was a queen as much she was a dragon.

"I am very sorry for your loss. They were very benevolent towards Muggles, and with their amount of influence, it was threatening to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at the height of his power."

This was impossible.

"The concealment was for your own safety. We didn't know if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would target you as well. Even when he was defeated, we decided it was too dangerous. Many of his supporters would still target you. So you were transported, in the care of your mother's guard."

I turned to Uncle. I had never looked like him- He was tall- I topped off at 5'2". His eyes were hazel- mine were dark brown, almost black. He was serious- I had a permanent expression of mischief on my face. I couldn't comprehend that we weren't related. I had always assumed I looked like my father.

"To put it simply; your full name is Jessica Artemisia Helena Ligeia of the house Harcourt, Heir Apparent of the Wizarding throne." He bent his head. "There has been a Regent in your absence in the past eight years- Madeline Cleary. She will serve until you are willing to take the crown. It was put in your parent's will that, if it was safe, you to know when you came of age. It was their wish that should anything happen to them, you would live a normal childhood." He stood, smoothing his ash-colored robes. "I know you will need time…."

I didn't hear the rest of what he said. I clattered up the staircase and rushed down the narrow hall, knocking my head on the slanted ceiling. Three steps later, I burst into my narrow room, slamming the door behind me. Not knowing what else to do, I sank onto the braided rug, tracing the familiar seams and knots made by a girl named Jack Harcourt.