Disclaimer: Harry Potter was written by J.K. Rowling.

Chapter 7: At an Angle

Gringotts. The wizard's bank, Hagrid had said. Run by goblins. Where, presumably—he hadn't outright said one way or the other—her parents had left her enough money to get to adulthood. It was a tall building, at the end of the alley, snow white stone with burnished bronze doors that stood twice as tall as Hagrid did, flanked by two columns that went easily three times as tall as that. And on either side of the door stood what she assumed was a goblin. The goblins were slightly shorter than her, which was novel, though they seemed no less dangerous despite that. They stood solidly, at attention, wearing armor and with weapons that were clearly not just for show. Or perhaps they were—it wasn't like Kitty had ever been quite this close to a battle axe before.

"Those are goblins, fer sure. Clever as they come, but not the most friendly."

She turned her gaze to Hagrid. Did he expect armed security guards to be friendly? Or even bankers? Uncle Vernon had an entire rant to do with bankers—not that she'd relied on his opinion without making sure he wasn't blowing smoke first. But the bank was—fancy. Over the top. And she was here in—she picked at the hem of her shirt—Dudley's old rags. Which, well. If the Dursley's had taught her anything, it was that everybody—no matter who they actually were—judged people on appearances first. And first impressions were important.

Hagrid put his hand on her shoulder when she'd stopped, steering her into the building. She took a moment to shake him off, glaring at him. She could damn well walk under her own power and—

Inhale, exhale. Breathe. She could do this. She had to do this. Projecting an image of strength was damn well important if she ever wanted to be taken seriously. She squared her shoulders, and stepped forward on her own.

The goblins bowed as they passed. Armed greeters, it seemed. Which was odd enough on its own.

Behind the first set of doors was a small waiting area, and on the other side of that was another door. This one of silver, and slightly smaller, with words engraved upon it. Kitty paused, stepping up to read.

Enter, stranger, but take heed

Of what awaits the sin of greed

For those who take, but do not earn

Must pay most dearly in their turn

So if you seek beneath our floors

A treasure that was never yours

Thief, you have been warned, beware

Of finding more than treasure there.

She traced the last line with her hand—it was about head height for her, before stepping back, glancing at Hagrid, who nodded. "You'd be mad ter try an' rob it. There's no safer place. 'Cept 'haps Hogwarts."

"A school is safer than a fortified bank for keeping stuff?" She sounded more than a little incredulous to her own ears.

"'Tis a castle, with thousand year ol' wards. An' it has Dumbledore."

Kitty stared a moment, before internally sighing. It would seem she'd have to look up what wards were. She already had enough of a list to have to write everything down. And seeing as there were not, in fact, public libraries, it may be rather difficult to actually find anything before she got to Hogwarts and its supposed famous library.

They probably weren't lying there. If there were not, in fact, public libraries, the only semi-public, well-stocked one would have to be famous.

...If Kitty were honest with herself, she'd have to admit that the revelation that public libraries were not a thing in Avalon had left her rather miffed, and that she was currently being somewhat petty in her judgments.

A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver door and into of the bank. Within was a magnificent hall in proportion to the rest of the building, seemingly all the taller due to the small stature of the goblins themselves. Dozens of goblins were sitting on high stools behind long counters on either side of the way, making notes in oversized ledgers, weighing coins using old-fashioned brass scales, examining precious stones through magnifying glass to ascertain worth. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of those , ever courteous and accepting the occasional tip. It was a hive, and Kitty felt rather small.

They made their way to the first free goblin at the counter, and Hagrid cleared his throat. "Mornin'. We're here to take money out of Ms. Kitty Potter's safe."

The goblin's face was difficult to read, Kitty thought. If only because he didn't quite react as a human's face might, but Kitty thought he looked somewhat bored. He hadn't even looked at her yet, either. "Do you have the key, sir?"

"Ah, got it here somewhere," said Hagrid, digging in his pockets. The first thing out of his pockets was a handful of moldy dog biscuits, which the giant managed to scatter over the goblin's book of numbers. So that's what a goblin's annoyed face looked like. The second thing out of his pocket was a used handkerchief. And a crumpled bit of newspaper, a small book, and— "Got it," said Hagrid at last, holding up a tiny golden key.

...Kitty couldn't help but feel the man was rather disgusting, as he scooped everything back into his pockets. Why on Earth would he carry around so much trash?

"Well that seems to be in order." The goblin was inspecting the key when she turned back to him. He still hadn't bothered to look at her.

"I've also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore. It's about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen." He apparently held the letter in higher regard than he did her key, as he was able to produce it immediately.

The goblin took the letter, touching it sparingly, and reading it carefully, face tight. He glanced up at Hagrid, studying him, before lowering the parchment. "Very well. I will have someone take you down to both vaults. Griphook!"

He waved his hand in dismissal, not even looking behind him to see if the goblin he'd named was actually there. She could see him trying to clean off his ledger after Hagrid turned away, before glancing down at her. She blinked up at him, smiled apologetically, and turned to shadow the giant who was now following who she assumed to be Griphook.

Down to the vaults apparently led down one flight of stairs and onto a ledge over a large cavern, upon which a cart waited for them. The cart was... not what Kitty had expected from a mining cart. It was completely made from metal, more of a frame with the frontmost 'drivers' seat above a spotlight lamp, and the seats along the middle facing outward. It looked vaguely like what she'd imagine a roller-coaster might look, if roller coasters did away with everything vaguely resembling safety measures. The rather steep drop the track made did nothing but reinforce that image.

"This way." It was... Griphook, the goblin. Leading them directly onto the cart. Kitty swallowed, and followed the Goblin and the Giant, sitting herself carefully on the seat. That she also had a death grip on that seat thankfully went unremarked upon.

If she remembered anything from Dudley's trip to Alton Towers with his parents, it was Dudley talking about how awesome the roller coasters were and complaining how he wished the rides were longer, and how shrill Aunt Petunia had been when worrying over the safety conditions and how many different things could go wrong.

Five and a half minutes later, Kitty had decided that the Gringotts mining carts were probably very similar to roller coasters, sans the whole going upside-down part. And the part where it was probably much longer than the average roller coaster ride. And the part where they somehow controlled a system of railroad switches at speed. That last one was easily the most terrifying.

And even so... Kitty peeled her hands off the cart's seat, fighting back the giddiness of adrenaline, turning to look at what was apparently her vault. And froze.

Because there in the stone, above the bronze vault door they'd stopped at, was carved a name.

CATHERINE AMARANT POTTER

Was... was that her? Maybe it was an ancestor of hers. Or maybe...

She'd long known that Kitty had to be short for something. The letter had been addressed to a C. Potter. Not a K. Not a Kitty.

She swallowed down the panic. There had to be a way to check that. There had to be.

Kitty climbed out of the cart, glancing at Hagrid where he was leaning against a pillar with shaky legs and looking somewhat green. Griphook was using her key to unlock the vault, before stepping back and returning the key to Hagrid.

That was another thing. Was there a reason that Hagrid—someone she had met all of once before, and under less than ideal circumstances at that—had her key? It was probably better than the Dursley's having access to it, but still.

The vault door—tall enough that a grown man could walk through, even if Hagrid would have to duck—swung open.

Gold, silver, and bronze. Piles of coins as tall as she was. She stared a moment, jumping as Hagrid put a massive hand on her shoulder. "All yours, Kitty."

She stepped into the vault looking around. It was much larger than she'd expected it to be—easily as large as the cupboard under the stairs, though she supposed that made sense if the main currency was as bulky as coins. She wondered how much it was all worth. There was a book next to the door of the vault. No—she realized, it was a ledger, similar to the ones she'd seen in the Gringotts Hall above.

Fingers brushed out, and she lifted the book—heavier than she'd expected—into her arms, opening the cover. It was indeed a ledger for the vault, detailing the amount of money in the vault—something like 52 thousand galleons—whatever those were- and every transaction the vault had been involved in since it had been opened on July 31, 1980. And there were a lot of them—a fee to Gringotts to keep the vault open, a yearly transfer of galleons from the Potter Vault to her—her trust vault, a few more that seemed to be outgoing, though she couldn't say for what.

"Griphook," she said, rapidly trying to remember everything she'd ever heard Uncle Dursley bluster to Dudley and Aunt Petunia in terms of finance and negotiation. He was quite proud of his skill and had wanted to pass it on to the next generation—a lost cause if you asked her. "Do you know who I could talk to in regards to my finances? I'd like to know what I'm dealing with."

"Now, now—I can explain anythin' y' need ter know—" Hagrid began, "Professor Dumbledore himself entrusted me t'—"

She turned to give the giant a look and he fell silent, she studied him for a long moment, before chirping, "Okay! Is there some sort of rule that say that I can't have access to my own vault without supervision, or is the key just in Dumbledore's hands—entrusted to you—he obviously trusts you very much—because..." she paused, unable to come up with a good reason other than outright accusing the man of trying to use his positions of authority to control and or steal from her. "Why does Dumbledore have my key?"

Hagrid was gaping at her, alternating between puffing up in pride and just looking confused. Kitty swore she saw the goblin smirking a bit behind him. "He's yer magical guardian," he finally managed. "Because yer a, ah—" he paused again, looking uncomfortable. "Because yer 'n orphan."

She stared him down, before nodding slightly. "Oh. Okay. Can I hold onto it? I should be responsible for my own key, right?"

The giant blinked. "Ah—sure, here."

Kitty beamed up at him. "Thanks Hagrid!"

The man almost seemed embarrassed at getting thanked so. "Jus—hold onto it. You don' wan' jus' anyone gettin' ahold o' it, yeh hear?"

She nodded obediently, deciding to drop the subject for now. There was nothing to say she couldn't come back later. "My parents left this to me. It's only right that I look after it."

Something in Hagrid relaxed at that, and she smiled up at him. "So how much is a..." she fished for the word she'd seen in the ledger, "galleon worth?"

Hagrid grinned a little, producing a small sack, moving forward to help Kitty pile some coins in. "O' course I can help y' there. The galleons are the gold ones. He held it up, dropping it into the bag. There's 17 silver sickles to a galleon, and 29 bronze knuts to a sickle."

Kitty resigned herself to getting very good at her 17 and 29 multiplication tables. He hadn't really answered her question though. "Mr. Griphook? Do you know what the conversion rate is from galleons to pounds sterling?"

"The current exchange rate is £14.85 to a galleon," the goblin answered, sounding somewhat grumpy.

She nodded, handing him a sickle. Which, was... about a pound? A small tip, but it was probably common information anyway. So for value... "Thank you."

The goblin bared his teeth at her in a parody of a grin. "There's a 10% exchange fee in either direction."

She bared her teeth similarly at him in return. That was... how did one calculate that again? Percentages were of 100, with decimal point math. Something else to hit the library for.

They finished loading the bag Hagrid had brought with almost 50 galleons, and a handful of sickles and knuts each. Kitty did the math. Almost £750. Which was... easily more money than she'd ever held in her life. This was... a little overwhelming. Also heavy.

"Right, that should be enough fer a couple o' terms." Hagrid said, standing up. He turned to Griphook. "Vault seven hundred and thirteen now, please, and can we go more slowly?"

The goblin stared at him with a slight scowl. "One speed only."

Hagrid visibly drooped.


Vault seven hundred and thirteen was far deeper in the cave system than her vault had been. The air was cold, and damp, and Kitty could have sworn that they'd passed a dragon at one point—breathing fire even. She wondered how deep the caverns went—though it made sense that the high security vaults were deeper down.

"Stand back," Griphook said, walking forward importantly but producing no key. Hagrid hadn't given the manager up front one, she remembered. Just a letter.

Griphook stroked the door gently, with one of his fingers, and the door pulled open, completely silent.

Griphook grinned at her. "If anyone other than a Gringotts goblin tried that, they'd be sucked through the door and trapped there."

Kitty blinked. "That sounds unpleasant." She was well acquainted with being locked into small spaces, but that was neither here nor there. Because there was no way a bed of coins would ever be comfortable, and there was also no way to get out. It was probably a decent way to capture thieves though, she supposed.

Griphook's grin grew wider.

Inside the vault was empty but for a small package, maybe a little larger than a fist—her fist, not Hagrid's. It didn't look like much, brown packing paper and twine. Hagrid picked it up, placing it in his coat, and stepping back.

"Alright, back to the surface," Hagrid said, very clearly wanting to leave. Kitty frowned at him. He looked quite green, still, and the ride up wasn't going to be any slower considering that at one point between the two vaults they'd gone uphill for a distance and not slowed much at all.

Kitty made sure to not sit behind him on the way back.


Diagon Alley was much brighter and louder than the depth of the Gringotts caverns, which was expected really, but made for an odd dichotomy. Kitty looked over her list, even as Hagrid leaned against a storefront, green and with shaky legs. She could sympathize—she was fairly certain that Griphook had been lying about the carts being one speed only and had deliberately sped up to mess with the Giant.

"Can we start with the wand?" Kitty asked. She was more than a little curious about the stick weapons. How they worked. If they made magic easier.

Hagrid started, for a moment, before nodding shakily. "Here. I'll walk yeh there. Would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them Gringotts carts."

Kitty shrugged, not caring one way or another. "Not particularly."

Ollivander's was the name of the shop, and Kitty entered it hesitantly. It didn't look like much. But it was the shop Hagrid had left her at. It was... rundown probably wasn't the right word for it. Dusty, certainly. Charged. It was charged. With magic or anticipation, she couldn't tell, but it hung in the air with the dust that was visible in the streams of light from the windows. She padded up to the counter—made of hard wood and worn down with age, looking for the proprietor, who was likely somewhere in back. A bell had rung when she entered though, so they were likely on their way.

She took a moment to examine an odd painting on the wall depicting some sort of magic fight. It was moving, and not in a continuous loop even, like a video. Unless it was a really long video. Except... one of the fighters had looked at her as she studied the painting, and made a rude gesture at her, telling her he'd take her on as soon as he'd wiped the floor with the others, and... definitely not a loop.

Paintings moved—she'd seen it in the Leaky Cauldron too—and they seemed to be at least somewhat self-aware. Which was... well, it had interesting implications, one could say.

"Good afternoon."

Kitty whirled around, spotting the man behind the counter almost immediately—he was hard to miss. Pale, with hair white from age and silvery eyes gleaming like the moon.

She took a deep breath, forcing herself to relax. "Good afternoon, sir."

The old man—Mr. Ollivander, in all likelihood, smiled at her. "Ah, yes. Miss Kitty Potter." It wasn't a question. "You have your mother's eyes. She was a talented witch, you know. Ten and a quarter inches, swishy, made of willow with the heartstring of a Ukrainian Ironbelly. Nice wand for charm work."

Kitty blinked, stepping back as Ollivander moved around the counter. "Your father, mahogany and unicorn hair. Eleven inches and pliable. Very good for transfiguration."

The man hadn't blinked once since she'd seen him, nor had his gaze wavered from Kitty. It was... unnerving, and he kept stepping into her personal space, and... inhale, exhale. Breathe.

"Does it matter?"

"Hmm?" The man had turned away, finally.

"What wands my parents had? Is there some sort of correlation?" she managed to keep the waver out of her voice, to which she was rather proud.

He turned back to her. Damn. "Occasionally, and occasionally not. One's nature is not always the same as their parent's, and the wand does choose the wizard—or witch—of course. A parent's wand may work for their child, but as often as not, the wand will fight them."

Kitty frowned. "You talk as if they are alive."

"Alive? Perhaps, perhaps. Magic is alive, you know. And it is a truth in this world that, that of which channels magic is changed by it." He was almost humming to himself, poking through one of the shelves accessible on the customer side of the counter, straightening something. "Well, now, Miss Potter," he'd pulled out a long tape measure, she realized. "Which is your wand arm?"

Kitty binked? "Wand arm?"

"Which hand are you going to use your wand with, Miss Potter." He seemed mildly annoyed that she was throwing off his act for clarification, but Kitty found no pity within herself for the man.

She blinked. "Could I use both? Will that effect it?"

"Yes."

Kitty stared at him, waiting for him to elaborate. The man sighed. "Think of your wand as something that channels magic. You have channels that you naturally create about you, and the wand connects to them to help you focus magic. The channels from one hand will likely be similar to the other, but reversed. You could still use it, of course. It will simply be less effective. Not as bad as an ill-matching wand but... all the same."

Kitty frowned. "My right hand." She wrote with her right, so she probably had more precision there.

"Very good. Now hold out your arm."

Kitty did so, and the man measured from her shoulder to her finger, then her wrist to her elbow, then shoulder to floor. At which point he let go of the tape measure and walked away to let the tape measure measure her itself.

"Won't these measurements change as I grow?"

"Hmm? Yes. But once a wand is matched it will grow with you. Like a good pair of shoes molds to your feet. Which is why you're not likely to ever get as good a match with another's wand."

"Huh."

"That will do," he said, and the tape measure crumpled to the floor. "Right then. Try this one. Beech wood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches, nice and flexible."

She took the wand gingerly, trying to feel the connection Mr. Ollivander said was there. It... wasn't, as far as she could tell, which told her absolutely nothing. Maybe she just didn't know what she was looking for. She sighed, waving the wand, and immediately flinched. A vase exploded off to the side. That was... wrong. The could feel it now. So wrong. Off key, nails on a chalkboard, wrong.

Mr. Ollivander snatched the wand back out of her hand, replacing it immediately with a, "Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try—" This one Kitty didn't even wave—it felt jarring, and not in a good way. Apparently this was noticeable because a third wand— "ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy"— replaced it. This one felt better, so she waved it, an entire line of filing cabinets pulling out from their moors— "no, no—definitely not," and another wand replaced that one.

This went on for quite a few wands, with Ollivander seemingly all too happy as it continued. Was he drawing this out on purpose? It wasn't like Kitty liked the raw feeling of an ill-matched wand.

And then he paused, in front of a shelf on the far side, hand touching a box. "Oh. Oh dear. That would be something, now wouldn't it."

Kitty placed the latest wand in the small pile growing in front of her, and took a step back, studying Ollivander as he stood staring at the still closed box, still on its shelf. He glanced back at her. She raised her eyebrow.

Ollivander huffed, tugging the box carefully from underneath a few others. "Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple." The words were matter of fact, as he opened the box, and held it out to her.

Kitty frowned, studying the wand. It was a lighter wood, with the handle still encased in bark, sanded down. Nothing special in comparison to the others she had tried—she glanced up at Ollivander—except that he seemed to believe it was.

She sighed internally, and lifted the wand from the case.

It didn't feel bad. Not at all abrasive, anyway, which was a relief after that last three dozen or so wands. Not that there hadn't been some wands that were less abrasive in that bunch, because there had been. But none of them fit quite right, and none of them had seemed to want to either. This one—this one might.

She waved the wand, and the wand, like those before it, pulled magic through her hand. Unlike the wands beforehand there was no... chafing, jarring, grating feeling. It wasn't perfect, but it didn't... hurt wasn't quite the right word. Her right hand felt raw in a very metaphysical way.

The wand had connected, nonetheless, pulling magic around and through her, overflowing into a magical haze that felt... right, warm, comfortable. Like Kitty had found a way to breathe for the first time without an elephant standing on her chest.

It was... it was something else, something beyond.

"Oh indeed! Good, very good—" He seemed very excited, and Kitty found herself smiling.

"It's not perfect, but..."

The man seemed mildly surprised. "Does a new pair of shoes feel perfect the moment you step in them?"

She shrugged. She wouldn't know. She'd been wearing Dudley's old shoes for as long as she could remember.

"The wand fits. It's quite curious you can feel the flow of magic so well, but I suppose that's to be expected." He glanced up at her scar, then down at her wand. "Quite curious indeed." He hummed, beginning to put the rejected wands back into their boxes, seeming to know exactly which wand went in each. "I expect great things from you, Miss Potter."

She blinked once, slowly, before looking down at her wand. "So. Is there a good way to carry this thing?"


Kitty left the wand store 7 galleons and 15 sickles lighter, with wand in holster and a bag containing a wand box and polishing kit. The leather of the holster was tight against her arm, and she could already feel that it was going to get sweaty. She'd get used to it, though.

Kitty looked down at her list, frowning. There were... a lot of books. And if she were honest with herself, she'd be buying even more books if she could manage it. And what she couldn't manage, was to carry all those books, through the streets, and on the train, to number 4 Privet Drive, all on her lonesome. And even if Hagrid helped her get them there, what with his pockets, she still would need to get them to school. Somehow. And she doubted the Dursley's would help with that.

So... luggage, she assumed. Or just a backpack? Was there a wizard equivalent? She'd... probably have to ask Hagrid. Except Hagrid was in the Leaky Cauldron, and she was not going back in there. There was an ice cream parlor, and a confectionery, both of which had appeal. A cauldron shop— which... might get something out of the way, she supposed. A joke shop, which was interesting, certainly. And a book shop.

There was a book shop. A second-hand bookshop, right to the side of the Leaky Cauldron.

...If she went in there, she'd probably miss Hagrid when he finally came out of the Leaky Cauldron. Which would be rude of her, as he was her guide.

She glanced longingly at the bookshop, with its quiet shelves and uncrowded interior, before trudging over to Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. She... normally wasn't allowed ice cream.

But now she had money. Money— she reminded herself— that she should be responsible with, if only because literally nobody else would be enforcing her financial security. She wasn't Dudley.

The flavours were odd. Clotted cream, bat's blood, and fizzy fever were mixed in with more normal flavours, like chocolate chili and earl grey, and—thank-goodness—vanilla.

Kitty picked out a toffee and rose tea mix that looked just daring enough to try, and settled outside the shop at a small table with her back to the wall.

This entire trip was exhausting on multiple levels, and she'd only managed one item on her list so far.

...At least the ice cream was actually pretty good. She could do without the sour bits in the rose tea though.

Kitty settled in to watch people—everyone from the visibly rich blonde family that held themselves above everyone else, to a group of older boys in predominantly yellow and black accessories that were jostling each other in ways that vaguely reminded her of Dudley and his gang. A small family behind her, a mother with two younger children, were also enjoying their ice cream and chatting over inconsequential things such as Quidditch, Exploding Snap, Kitty Potter apparently being spotted in Diagon Alley, and something about the Nimbus 2000 racing broom.

It seemed, that despite whatever fame she had in Avalon, that she was not immediately recognizable. Probably due to this being the first time that she'd been in Avalon. But sitting here, people watching, was almost... nice. And tying her limited world-view into knots, but so was everything else, and for the most part these people seemed like... people. Everything those people said and bought and interacted with, on the other hand, well... Kitty hoped beyond hope that everything would make sense eventually.

Ah, there was Hagrid. She took another bite of ice cream and stood up, making her way over to Hagrid, who noticed her. "Kitty! I see yeh found Florean Fortescue's! Great shop, that is. Did'ya get the toffee and rose tea there?"

Kitty winced at his volume, before looking down at her ice cream. Was the flavour truly so recognizable? She supposed that it did have a distinctive swirl. "The sour bits grow on you." Kitty politely did not add that rose tea was not supposed to be sour. "I'll likely need a trunk, or a school bag before we buy the rest of my things."

Hagrid seemed almost surprised at her words, before he nodded in what was probably supposed to be a decisive way. "I know jus' the place."


The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky by the time they'd successfully completed the list, with the addition of a steamer trunk, enough parchment, quills, and ink to last her the year, two extra books, and...

"Hagrid, I don't need an owl."

"'Course yeh do- owls are dead useful. They carry yer mail, and make great companions. Don' tell me yeh never wanted a pet."

Kitty stared at him, then at the pet store they'd stopped in front of. "You also don't need to get me anything for my birthday." Which was just as big an issue really. She didn't know the man. Where did he get the idea he needed to buy her anything? It wouldn't do to owe him, and Aunt Petunia would throw a fit if she came home with any sort of pet.

"I know I don' have to. Familiars are important, y'know. It won' hurt t' look about." He added.

Kitty sighed, looking at the store. She was tired—physically and emotionally and socially exhausted. Too tired, if she were honest, to fight the giant on this. "Fine."

Hagrid beamed. Kitty did the best to set him on fire with her eyes alone.

Aunt Petunia would hate it if she got an owl. Then again, Aunt Petunia was going to be miserable to be around this next month anyhow. And Kitty always did want a pet, even if she couldn't guarantee its safety from her family.

Except maybe now she could? Kitty set her jaw. It probably wouldn't take much- the Dursley's were terribly scared of wizards and witches, and with the threat of them even possibly stepping in on her behalf would set them far off the idea of harming her and hers. An implication here, an outright threat there... not to mention, as far as they were aware, now Kitty knew she had magic for the first time. That probably had weight, too.

The inside of Eeylops Owl Emporium was a mess, with owls and cages and owls in cages everywhere. Even as she stepped in a barn owl screamed at her from three feet away. She turned to stare at it, and it stared back, before flying off to the rafters in an apparent huff.

Huh.

Kitty looked at the front of the store, before turning and making her way through the narrow aisles, looking up at the rafters. ...There were a lot of owls. She had no idea how to go about picking one, or what the benefits were for the different breeds.

She huffed, studying a large grey bird that was perched on a cage in front of her. "I don't suppose you have any idea on how to go about this?"

The owl stared at her unblinkingly for a bit, before letting out a series of thin calls that reminded Kitty of a creaking door, before opening its wings and taking off for the rafters. Kitty took a step back. Its wingspan was easily larger than she was tall, which was... scary, if she were honest.

These were birds of prey. Predators capable of doing quite a bit of damage.

She huffed, glancing up at the owls that had gathered around her, and were studying her in turn. She took a step sideways and paused as each of their faces, and seemingly only their faces followed her movement. It was definitely creepy.

She looked them over carefully. Owls were supposed to carry mail. Presumably they all could. She had nothing to go on except appearances. But owls were animals. Beautiful, terrifying, intelligent animals, so she couldn't base her decision on appearances alone. They seemed almost communicative with her, too, which could very well be all a part of her imagination. "I need an owl that can carry and protect my mail against any that would try to intercept it. Who's smart, and strong, and who will be good company during downtime, since I assume we'll be seeing a lot of each other. But isn't that always the case," she mused. "I'd be your sole caretaker, anyhow. My family wouldn't be helping there, though I'm sure you can look after yourselves. You're owls." One of the owls let out a churring noise, almost as if it were laughing. Kitty felt rather silly. "I live in a... muggle household, so you'd have to deal with keeping out of sight of muggle guests since owls aren't normal pets." She paused, thinking it over. An snowy owl barked from the rafters. "I'd mostly be at Hogwarts anyway."

An almost silent beat of air alerted her to the owl that had landed beside her, studying her closely with pitch black eyes before it gently nodded its head with a half-hoot half-croon.

Kitty inwardly gave a sigh of relief. "You sure you want to come with me? I'm a celebrity, you know. I wasn't joking about people trying to intercept my mail." Her aunt and uncle might do it, if no one else.

The owl gave a solid hoot. It definitely understood her. Kitty smiled, holding her hand out. The owl nipped at her knuckles, gently, and she smiled, tracing the feathers above its beak. "Let's go tell Hagrid then."


Later that night Kitty sat in her bed, course books open around her. The Dursley's hadn't acknowledged her when she'd gotten home, though Kitty counted herself lucky they hadn't tried to lock her out. Diagon Alley, Avalon as a whole, was... a lot to take in. Too much to take in.

She curled into herself. Moving paintings, goblins, wands and magic, flying brooms. Some things were obvious.

Her fame...

Kitty could truthfully say she'd never wanted to be famous. But she could remember the sheer recognition and excitement in the eyes of those who did learn who she was—everybody from bar goers, to the seamstress at Madame Malkin's, to the occasional person on the street who'd been looking for her once it became known she was in the alley. It was a lot to live up to.

And now she had less than a month to prepare for Hogwarts, a boarding school with no easy way out. Full of people far more skilled than her who all had expectations about who she would be. Expectations she wasn't sure she would be living up to.

She felt very much like she was walking into the lion's den. Willingly.

But was it willingly? Every time she'd tried to run away they'd hunted her down and brought her back. They'd sent Hagrid when she'd tried to ignore their mailed invitation. She had limited options moving forward.

And so she was stepping into Avalon, face bare to the world, with barely any knowledge of what she was getting into.

Well. A lack of knowledge was something she could fix.

"Catherine Potter, better known as Kitty Potter, was born to James Potter and Lily Potter nee Evans, on July 31, 1980." Kitty read the sentence aloud. It didn't seem any less surreal for it, but she supposed it was rather definitive. The name she'd seen carved above her trust vault was her own, and not an ancestor's. Okay. She'd kind of expected that.

So why did it hurt so much? She put the book, Modern Magical History down on the bed, sitting back against the wall.

A lack of knowledge was something she could fix. It had to be. Even if the lack of knowledge included her own name.

Her new owl—spotted, female—fluttered through her open window and over to her headboard, looking at her with dark eyes. There was blood on her beak and claws. Kitty—no Catherine reached out to stroke the feathers on her neck, before tearing a strip of fabric from her shirt to wipe of the evidence of the owl's meal. The owl nipped at her fingers, and she gave a strained smile.

"This is going to be an adventure, isn't it?"

The owl let out something between a hoot and croon.

"You need a name, don't you?"

The owl didn't blink.

"I don't suppose I could just call you Owl?"

The owl narrowed her eyes.

"...I'll take that as a no."

Kitty sat back, discussing names with her owl, pointedly not looking at small passage in the book opened next to her on the bed. It was something to think about, names, and not just her owls. But she'd deal with the latter, first. It was less daunting.

AN: And here we have chapter 7, bless its heart. Special thanks to my beta-reader for putting up with me and helping me get this out here.