Disclaimer: As we have had excellent proof recently that JK Rowling's law squad is quite effective, I would like to reiterate the fact that I do not own a single thing from the Potterverse. And now I shall go change my name and sell my house…
The freezing Minnesota winter takes months to thaw out, as any resident of the northern Midwest understands. And so it was that we of the Loon State shivered and slushed through the snows of March and April, waiting and hoping for spring to finally arrive in May. We weren't disappointed. The first of May was the most beautiful spring day one could ever have imagined, and the snows soon faded into the back of our memory.
But one person, no matter how long it was since I had last seen him, could never fade in my memory. I wore the pendant Draco had given me at all times, fingering it lovingly as I lay in bed at nights, wondering how he was, wherever he might be. Draco would have been proud to learn that both Dirk and I had incorporated magic into our lives to the best of our abilities; my hand-casting skills allowed me to use magic at any time, while Dirk was limited to Apparition, which both of us found extremely useful for getting to classes on time at the last possible moment. And, of course, I made good use of the broom that Draco had made for me. Dirk nicknamed it the Draconis 2000, and he and I would take turns flying it in a secluded park on the weekends.
But all was not right in our world. I missed Draco, terribly, even as I knew that he would probably be happier where he was now. And Dirk…Dirk had had some family issues of his own.
One chilly evening in late March, I was reading in the living room when there came a furious pounding on the front door. I jumped up and ran to the foyer, glancing at the clock on my way out and wondering who could possibly want anything at half-past eleven at night.
Dirk stood in front of me, panting and doubled over to catch his breath, when I opened the door. He looked up at me, his eyes full of unshed tears. "Mum—she's gone," he choked. "I think—I think she's been murdered."
I immediately led him in and sat him down in the kitchen while I made us some tea. Dirk explained then that he had come home late from his job as a shelver at the local library, only to find his mum not at home as she should have been that night. He peered into the kitchen to find it a total warzone: dishes shattered and boxes upended, with dark smears on the linoleum spattered throughout the floor, as if someone had hastily tried to wipe away a large spill. In the middle of the room lay a long carving knife, its glittering blade marred by the same dark liquid that stained the kitchen floor.
Dirk found his stepfather sitting in the living room, resting in a drunken stupor before the television set. When asked what happened, Jim Ewell had sputtered something out about Dirk's mother "being a crazy whore" and "wouldn't let her live a freak." Then, before he passed out again, he had looked Dirk in the eye and threatened "to take care of" Dirk in the same manner "if the bitch's craziness shows up in the pup, too." Dirk was terrified and fled the apartment, taking only what he could fit into his school backpack and all the money—most of which he and his mother had earned—that he could find. At that point, all I could do was wrap my arms around my best friend as he sobbed into my shoulder and wonder what in the world could have possibly happened to Ms. Vandimar.
The next day, I accompanied Dirk to the police station as his moral support, watching from the background as he told his story to the detective on duty. The detective was only marginally sympathetic, as Dirk's stepfather was one step ahead of us: he had filed a missing person report the previous afternoon, claiming that his wife had disappeared from the apartment with signs of "small resistance" in the kitchen. Mr. Ewell's alibi was that he was "out working" all day and arrived home late that night to find Mrs. Vandimar missing; but in my (and Dirk's) humble opinion, if Mr. Ewell was doing anything remotely productive that day that wasn't illegal, then Dirk and I were both Squibs.
Dirk, understandably, didn't want to live with his stepfather any longer—Mr. Ewell didn't particularly like his stepson, and Dirk had told me before that his mother was often the only thing that kept his stepfather from becoming a violent drunk. It didn't take a genius to understand that Dirk just wouldn't be safe if he stayed at "home" whilst the police ambled through their investigation. And so it was that Dirk moved in to live with me that very day. After all, Dirk was my best friend, and that's what friends are for, right?
Also understandably, Dirk was very much in a state of depression for weeks over his mother's mysterious (and frankly suspicious) disappearance. He would constantly study and do homework, barely talking to anyone and very nearly dropping his music practicing altogether. When our college application results came in a few days after he moved in with me—I was accepted to the University of Chicago, and Dirk had been granted a full scholarship to Indiana University–Bloomington for their music program—he hardly spared the acceptance letter a second glance. His apathy was quite frightening to watch for someone as close to him as I was.
It took all of my maneuvering and cajoling to take his mind off of his grief for any extended interval; I knew from my own experience that it was never a good thing to wallow in sorrow for long periods of time. In one of my latest efforts, as May blossomed into a beautiful Minnesota spring, I convinced Dirk to help me clean out the house in a spring-cleaning tradition my parents used to observe faithfully every year. Most of the time, they did it while I was away at school; thus, this marked the first year I would be cleaning the house, and I hoped having Dirk with me would help the both of us leave our mourning behind us somewhat.
It worked, to a certain extent. As we cleaned the first two floors, Dirk started to loosen up a bit, eventually laughing along with me as we shared memories of what we used to do with this knick-knack or that, or of my parents' reactions when they found me all decked out in Dad's tweed (complete with false moustache) for Cross-Dressing Day at school. It took us quite a while to make it through the bedrooms on the second floor, and I was thankful for Dirk's support whenever the emotions threatened to overwhelm me. But as we approached the attic late that afternoon, I was more than a little apprehensive; this was my parents' storage area and private realm, and I had never been up there before. Who knows what I would find?
The door to the attic, to my surprise, was locked. But Dirk quickly reminded me that I was a witch, after all, and an Alohomora did the trick to let us in. We spent the first few moments coughing out the dust that hung heavily in the air and letting our eyes adjust to the dim light that filtered through one sooty window. It was as small as attics come; Dirk had to hunch over slightly to let his head brush the rafters of the ceiling rather than poke a hole through it. There frankly wasn't much up there: an old mannekin wearing a faded print-floral summer dress, some file boxes stacked in one corner, a leaning bookshelf that had probably seen better days. I wandered over to the mannekin, examining the dress from all angles and imagining what Mum would have looked like wearing it.
"Hey, Estella?" Dirk interrupted my daydream. "This belong to your parents? It's really antique. Wonder what's inside?"
I turned to see Dirk knelt beside an old steamer trunk that lay half-hidden in the shadows of the attic. It was wooden, that much I could see, and it was ornately carved with some sort of floral pattern. I came over and dropped to one knee beside my friend, but I could see it no better in the twilight dark of the attic.
"Lumos!" I whispered, and a soft yellow glow lit up my outstretched hand, casting its light on the trunk before me. The floral pattern was that of repeated fleur-de-lis; two carved lions guarded the lock, their ivory teeth visible in a mouth open mid-roar. I let my non-illuminating hand trace the soft lines of the wood before moving to the cursive script that flowed beneath it: LMEP, it read.
"Whose initials are those?" Dirk asked without taking his eyes off the trunk.
I shrugged. "Dunno. It's not Mum or Dad, that's for sure. D'you think it's locked shut?"
In response, Dirk reached out for the latch—then pulled away with a yelp. "It bit me!" he exclaimed with more than a bit of indignation. "The blasted thing bit me!"
I peered at his bleeding finger. "Come on, Dirk, it couldn't have bitten you. It's a bloody trunk, for Pete's sake. Probably just a rough edge or something." To demonstrate my point, I reached out and touched the lock myself. I was shocked when the lock unlatched of its own accord; the trunk lid flew open by itself as well, revealing a yawning dark tunnel, complete with a step-ladder, that led much farther down than any normal steamer trunk should have been able to.
Dirk and I stared down at the tunnel in stunned silence for a full minute. "Um," was all I could come up with. "Do you want to go first?"
First Dirk, then I, carefully picked our way down the rickety stepladder that led down into the bowels of the trunk. The ladder groaned under our combined weight, and I silently prayed that it wouldn't crack any time soon—we still needed to get back up to the surface, after all. My Lumos charm was still in effect, and that provided an eerie golden light around us as we slowly wended deeper and deeper.
Dirk leaped down to solid ground first and surveyed the area as I joined him. "I can't believe this," he said in awe. "It just—it shouldn't exist! This is amazing!" I raised my glowing right hand and had to agree with him; if I didn't believe in magic, I would have sworn that I'd just gone 'round the twist.
Suddenly, torches flared to light around us, and I saw that we were in a medium-size room with a high ceiling, the walls lined with stocked bookshelves and an old-fashioned painting of a green moor. Near one of the walls was an antique work-desk with a single piece of parchment resting on top. I walked over and picked up the paper, cancelling the Lumos charm as I did so—and nearly dropping the paper when I read the first line. Dirk followed behind me and peered over my shoulder to read along with me.
It was in my mother's fine script, and it was a letter addressed to me. Slowly, I sank to the floor as I read through it.
My dear Estella,
If you are reading this, I can only assume that either Juan (that was Dad) or I have told you about the Wizarding World and the truth behind your past. If not, if we never had the chance to tell you, or if you discovered magic all on your own…this letter is meant to answer some of the questions I have no doubt you have come up with in that inquisitive mind of yours.
First of all, you must understand (though you may have already realized by this point) that Juan is a wizard, and I am a witch. We both studied at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (Juan's parents moved from inner Spain to England just in time for his acceptance letter to arrive) in another time, another place—and by that I mean it quite literally. Our magical world, the world of Hogwarts and Wizarding Britain, exists on a different dimension from the one you grew up in. That is how magic and its users cannot be seen or detected by non-magical peoples: we share the same world and space, but the shift in time dimensions keeps us irrevocably separate. Only the great Albus Dumbledore was able to piece together a way to connect the two dimensions, thus allowing us to move from our old world to this one. Neither Juan or I kept our old names, by the by, nor have you—but I can't spoil the mystery for you, can I, darling? I know you'd want to figure it out for yourself, if you haven't already discovered it.
Secondly, you are our daughter in spirit, but—oh, Estella, please do not take this the wrong way!—not by blood. (At this, my hand began to tremble violently, making the rest of the letter hard to read.) Your parents, especially your mother, were closest friends of mine at Hogwarts; and I was honored to be named godmother to both you and your twin brother. However, times were difficult during the First War, and both of your parents were soon murdered, your mother killed in the very same nursery where
you and your brother slept. Your brother was sent off to live with his mother's Muggle relatives, at Albus' request, while Juan and I were given custody over you. We were delighted to have you with us, and we swore to raise you as our own—and I hope we have succeeded at this with you, who has been nothing short of a dream come true.
This trunk belonged to your blood mother and contains what possessions of hers and your father's that I was able to collect after their deaths. If you look in the first desk drawer of this desk, you may find some photos and clippings of certain interest to you. The second drawer holds the very items on your parents when they died, as well as some old trinkets of mine and Juan's. Use them very well, my dearest star, and know that Juan, I, and both of your real parents are proud of everything you have grown up to be, and will be forever proud of whatever you may become in the future.
Forever my love (and Juan's, as well),
Tabitha Fields Bonavideo
Acts 9:36
For many long moments after I was through reading it, I stared at the letter without really seeing anything. I barely noticed Dirk move to the library, rummaging through the many books on the wall in search of something, I wasn't sure what. But I was too busy trying to hold back my tears to wonder at anything else.
I was adopted? Juan and Tabitha Bonavideo, the two people whom I had loved like my own parents, were really my godparents? Why were they waiting to tell me for so long—they never even got around to it, thanks to that damn car accident. On top of it, they both were magical, as were my real parents…which meant that I wasn't a Muggleborn-slash-Mudblood, as Draco had accused me of being once upon a time. It was a refreshing revelation, but one that I desperately wished any of my parents could have been alive to relate to me, rather than forcing me to divine it from an old letter.
I quickly wiped my eyes dry as Dirk sat down next to me, a thick leatherbound tome in his hands. He passed it to me wordlessly, and I was surprised to see that it was a copy of the Bible. Dirk had flipped it open to the Book of Acts, Chapter 9, Verse 36: the very quotation that Mum—I mean, Tabitha—had signed off her letter with.
In Joppa, there was a disciple named Tabitha, which is translated Dorcas.
Realization struck me like a heavy weight in the gut. "Holy crap," I swore. Dirk quirked an eyebrow, not quite understanding, so I continued. "My mum's maiden name was Tabitha Fields. Mum was born in the Harry Potter universe. Tabitha is another name for Dorcas. Do you remember anything from Book 5?"
Dirk thought for a moment before his eyes widened. "And Fields is just a synonym of—"
"Meadowes," I finished. "Dorcas Meadowes was a member of the Order during the First War, one who was killed by Voldemort personally, her body never found. It was all a ruse, I bet Dumbledore came up with it…so that she and Dad could leave their world and hide in ours with me."
"Isn't it funny that we're standing inside a room hidden in a magical trunk, and we're talking about Harry Potter as if all of these things really existed?" Dirk quipped. "Isn't that a major cause for concern in most areas?"
But I didn't laugh at his joke. Rather, I turned my attention to the antique desk, yanking out the first drawer and staring down at the moving picture that lay there, on top of what looked like multiple newspaper clippings. I slowly picked it up and studied this photo of eight young men and women waving back at me. All were dressed in black wizarding robes, the boys wore red-and-gold striped ties, and behind them loomed a large castle that could very well have once belonged to British royalty. Juan and Tabitha/Dorcas, my two foster parents, I easily recognized in this picture; they stood in the back row of faces, their arms around each other, smiling contentedly. On one side was another happy couple, both brown-haired and round-faced; and on the other stood a slightly chubby boy, whose nervous eyes constantly darted from one edge of the picture to the other. But Dirk's gasp from next to me—"Good Lord, they look just like you!"—shifted my attention from the back row to the front.
The front row was composed of three young men, their arms slung over each others' shoulders, flanking a single girl in the middle. The boy on the right edge had his jaunty dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and a coy smile plastered on his face; the boy on the left edge was already beginning to go gray, but his smile was still young and engaging—he reminded me a bit of Dirk. But Dirk was commenting on the pair in the middle, the young man with jet black hair that stuck up in all directions like mine did in the morning, and the girl with rich auburn hair and almond-shaped eyes as vivid a green as mine.
I sharply inhaled and flipped the picture over to check the back. Sure enough, my mother—Tabitha—Dorcas had written the event and the names on the back in black marker, just as she always did with old photographs. I blinked several times to make sure I was reading the names correctly—it was rather like reading a list straight from the Harry Potter Lexicon.
Hogwarts, Class of 1977, Gryffindor House
Graduation Day
Frank Longbottom
Alice Longbottom
Dorcas Meadowes
Ricardo Buenaventura
Peter Pettigrew
Sirius Black
James Potter
Lily Evans
Remus Lupin
I recited the list over and over in my head, slowly digesting the fact that I was indeed Harry Potter's twin sister, and that my parents had been killed by Voldemort just sixteen-and-a-half years ago. Dirk, meanwhile, rummaged through the clippings and other photos in the top drawer, finally pulling several out at once and reading from them aloud.
"Here's a wedding announcement: 'Lord James Leonis Potter and Miss Lily Marie Evans are to be wed in the Chapel of the Lions in Godric's Hollow on the twenty-fifth of December in the year nineteen hundred and seventy-seven…' Blast, aren't they formal! Hey, Estella, I guess that makes you a Peeress of the Realm, doesn't it? Oh, man, I'd love to see your neighbors' faces if they find out! And this is your birth announcement: 'Lord James Potter and his wife Lily of Godric's Hollow are pleased to announce the birth of twins on the thirty-first of July in the year nineteen hundred and eighty. Their names are Anne Lily and Harry James Potter—'" I gasped at that—my current full name is Estella Anne Bonavideo!
Setting down the picture on top of Dorcas' letter, I reached out for the second desk drawer and pulled it open. Dirk fell silent, respectfully, as we gazed upon the four lengths of wood that rested there on a soft blue cushion. The magic surrounding them was so concentrated that it was tangible, to me at least.
"Ebony, willow, mahogany, and what looks like cherry," Dirk muttered. Inwardly, I was proud of my nerdy friend for being able to name the woods just by looking at them. "Which belonged to whom, do you think?"
"Willow was Lily's, and mahogany was James'—Sorcerer's Stone," I replied automatically. "That leaves the ebony and cherry to Mum or Dad." I still felt awkward about calling James and Lily my parents—I lived with them for a year and don't even remember them, for crying out loud! But blood is thicker than water…
Dirk stretched out a hand and picked up the closest one, lifting it out and giving it a swish in the air. The golden sparks that came out from the end made me take a step away from my best friend. He grinned. "Mind if I borrow one of these? I can see how it could be very useful…and this mahogany one seems to like me."
"Sure—just try and take care of it, will you? I'm kinda attached to it—it was mine, after all."
The voice that answered was male, British, and most definitely not mine. I whirled around to find James Potter, my true father, barely aged from his graduation photo, leaning against the frame of the scenic portrait that hung on the opposite wall, a broomstick dangled carelessly over his free shoulder. I could almost hear Dirk's jaw drop behind me. I myself could see that the resemblance between us was striking.
"James?" I breathed. "Dad?"
The man in the painting nodded and set down his broom. "Yep, that's me. I used to hang in the Hall of Lords of the House of Potter, but Dor and Ricky moved me here after—after I died. Jeez, it's been nearly two decades, and it's still not a whit easier to think of myself as dead! So, you're Anne, huh? Welcome to the Potter family—or what's left of it, anyway. Where's Harry? Is he with you?"
I shook my head. "He's still in the magical world—my foster parents moved to the Muggle world to hide me, I think."
"Ah, yes…" James thought for a moment. "That's right, Albus had mentioned something about that. He must've told Dor and Ricky about that secret passage between worlds he was working on. Glad to see it worked. So, Voldemort doesn't know about you, then?"
"I doubt he even knows that my world exists," I replied. It felt so surreal to be talking to a painting of my dead father—my dead real father, even. My voice cracked on the next question. "Is—is Mum there? In the painting with you?"
James sighed. "No. We weren't married yet when I sat for this painting, and I don't even know if magical paints will hold for Muggleborns—it's never been tried before, that's for certain."
"Wait a sec," Dirk said slowly. "If you were painted before Estella—I mean, Anne—was born, then how could you even know about her?"
My father squinted at my best friend, as if trying to get a better look. "Did anyone ever tell you that you're a dead ringer for Remus Lupin? You even sound like him…anyway, to answer your question: Magical portraits only become active after the subject dies. Immediately after death, the soul gets transferred to whatever vessel is left of the deceased—specifically, the painting. Which is why I know everything about me that happened before Halloween of 1981. So, tell me, what's happened since then?"
Dirk and I proceeded to talk to the painting for the next four hours, describing everything that we could remember from the Harry Potter books. James—Dad didn't know that Lily—Mum was killed shortly after he was while defending Harry against Voldemort, and that stunned him for a while. If paintings were able to shed tears, I know Dad would have made the entire portrait soggy. It also visibly hurt him to know that Sirius had passed through the veil, still wrongly accused of a crime he didn't commit, while the real traitor was still running free and serving Voldemort the last time I had heard from the Wizarding World.
But soon, we were able to get him as chipper as the real James Potter ever was, telling him how Remus had become the Defense professor for a year (and was the best in the business); how Harry had led Gryffindor to victory for the House Cup, Quidditch Cup, and Tri-Wizard Tournament; and how Harry had been successfully using the Invisibility
Cloak since first year, the Marauder's Map since third, and was the best and youngest Seeker Hogwarts had ever seen. (A loud whoop and amusing victory dance followed that revelation.) Dad listened to us eagerly before regaling us with stories of his own: the reign of mischief by the Marauders during their years at Hogwarts; his wedding to Mum on Christmas Day after they had graduated; and the birth of both myself and Harry. Apparently, Mum had refused to undergo magical tests to predetermine the gender of the baby, as she wanted to find out the Muggle way; this led to a great shocker when I popped out first, with Harry trailing close on my heels. Dumbledore, especially, was concerned about my unexpected appearance, but Dad still wasn't sure exactly why he was so worried.
We talked and laughed and exchanged stories for hours, though it only felt like minutes had passed; when I next looked at my wristwatch, while stifling a rowdy yawn, it was nearly midnight. Dirk and I bid Dad farewell, who was disappointed to see us go.
"Feel free to come back any time," he said to us, spreading his arms to gesture at the room around us. "It's been so long since I've talked to anyone human, and it does me worlds of good to see you, Anne. You really are like your mum, in so many ways…Lily would be as proud of you as I am, I'm sure of it."
I sniffled a little. "Thanks, Dad," I replied softly. "I'll be sure to visit, as often as I can." Then, with a last wave to the painting of my father, I followed Dirk (who had pocketed Dad's old wand) onto the ladder and climbed out of the magical trunk. Once I had fully clambered back to the world of the attic, I turned around and stuck my head back into the opening. "I love you, Dad!" I yelled, relishing in the echoes that surrounded me.
"Love you right back, Anne!" came Dad's muffled response, and I closed Mum's trunk with a smile that would make the Cheshire Cat look downright depressed.
