AN: Massively AU! Catgirl!Hermione (or Neko!Hermione, if you prefer) and Metamorphmagus!Genderfluid!Harry[et]
I generally try to avoid too many author's notes at the beginning of stories (especially short ones), but this is one which needs a bit of explanation first.
I wrote this story a couple of years ago as part of an Original Fiction story series which is only veeeery loosely based on Harry Potter. I couldn't help but be strongly reminded of it, given the chaos currently sweeping the US (as of June 10, 2020), what with all the Protests in the middle of a Pandemic, and I reckoned that I might as well publish a Harry Potter AU version of it here as a reflection of the times. ... You'll see what I mean, if you've been following the news at all.
The story is set in the same Universe as my three chapter short-story, The Institute, which you might like to read first, though it really isn't necessary. All you really need to know is that the premise was originally, "What if Harry Potter was more 'realistic' and more like the X-Men or Stephen King's Firestarter?"
A whole load of stuff is different. It's set in our current time (more or less) instead of the 1990's. There's no Trace - the Ministry and "Hogwarts" don't have god-like magic - no owls - i.e. no letters and no magically detecting where every magical child that's ever been born or has turned 11 is, that sort of thing. Magic isn't done with wands, etc...
In the Original Story, The Institute, the "Harry" and "Hermione" characters have different names (it wouldn't be Original Fiction if they didn't). Fifty Shades of Grey was originally a Twilight fanfic, so there's precedent for this sort of thing. I just flipped the script, and turned it into a massively AU Harry Potter fanfic.
You might be wondering why I didn't just post this short story as part of The Institute, rather than putting it into Harry's Shorts, and I really had to think about it for a while brefore deciding to put it here. This story takes place roughly eight years later, and I was hoping to put a few short sequels between then and "Eight Years Later," and then have this become (hopefully) the first chapter of a novel.
I actually wrote some bits of this story in Moments in Love and Hermione's Furry Little Problem, so if you've read those, you will recognise a couple of the scenes. This story's perspective is mostly (but not entirely) told from the point of view of the OC, and thus contains all of the stuff that never made it into the other stories because it wasn't relevant to their plots. This particular story is really the OC's story, giving us a look at the Harry Potter characters from the outside.
Warning: drug use
Anyway, without any further ado, I give you...
There's no Such Thing as Magic
"How do I look?"
"What?" Clara kept reading, ignoring her little sister who appeared to be leaping up and down next to her armchair.
"Look at me!"
Clara sighed and set the book on her lap. She raised her eyebrows skeptically at the younger girl. Her sister's violently violet and neon-green tutu, and rainbow striped tights made her eyes water. She glanced at her sister's head, which was only slightly less migraine inducing—knotted Fuchsia coloured hair, sparkly cheeks, and purple painted lips.
"Er, erm… You really wearin' that, Gemma?"
"It's a rave, not work, Clara," her sister whined.
"Oh, well, in that case—" Clara rolled her eyes. "I mean, come on. We've only just 'ad breakfast, and we're not even meeting Warren till seven."
"So—what're you wearin' then?" asked Gemma defensively.
"Oh, I dunno, just some jeans and my paisley t-shirt I suppose."
"You're hopeless!" Gemma shook her head. "At least let me paint your face a bit."
"Fine!" Clara rolled her eyes again. "But I've got a lot of studying t'do for exams—"
"You've got all weekend for that," Gemma griped, grabbing Clara's hand and pulling her out of the armchair. "We've gotta get you sorted—Maybe a blue streak in your hair—find you something proper to wear."
"You just said face paint!"
"I lied!"
Clara gave in to the force of nature that was her younger sister and left her course-book, Goddesses in Myth and Modern Culture, lying on the threadbare yellow armchair in which she had just been sitting. The day passed by in a blur as Gemma gave her a makeover fit for a rave.
For the umpteenth time since her younger sister had joined her in London the moment she had finished secondary school, Clara wondered why she had ever agreed to let Gemma stay with her. Mum and Dad had been all too eager to get Gemma out of the house, and Clara really couldn't blame them; it was very hard to concentrate with Gemma bouncing off the walls.
Still, Gemma's exuberance and bubbly nature were infectious, reminding Clara what she had been missing out on while burying herself in schoolwork for the last few years. By the time Gemma was finished with her, Clara was almost as excited as her little sister, ready to just have a good time and forget about college and exams for a bit.
Clara had electric-blue streaks in her hair as promised, and she was wearing the oddest ensemble of clothing imaginable, including a short, frilly, lime-green skirt, a scarlet bustier which revealed more of her mid-riff than she was entirely comfortable with, and thigh-high shiny black boots which made her feel a bit like a Dominatrix. The effect was completed with pearlescent azure fingernail polish, glittery rainbow swirls painted on one side of her face, and sparkly silver stars and crescent moons on the other.
"Blimey!" she laughed, "You made me look like Lady Gaga!"
"Not even close," Gemma muttered, peering at her sister with a critical eye, "but it'll do."
It was just about teatime at that point. One porkpie, a fizzy lemonade, and a packet of crisps later, Clara got back to reading the chapter about the relation of so-called witches during the middle-ages to Goddess worship (or the lack thereof). Gemma, who was on the first of her two days off from the Chip shop where she worked, lounged about on the sagging couch watching Doctor Who and EastEnders the rest of the afternoon.
Ignoring the blaring television, Clara's eyes lingered on the pages about witch-burnings, torture, and the Malleus Maleficarum, which were engrossing and gruesome.
"Shame there's no such thing as real magic," she muttered to herself, feeling oddly angry about something which had happened centuries ago. "I'd show those bastards a thing or two."
When Warren arrived at six-thirty, Clara was glad that Gemma had got her all dressed up and made-over that morning and early afternoon. Warren spotted her reading the Comparative Religions course-book and chuckled.
"Blimey, Clara! Don'tcha ever take a break, then?"
"There's an exam on Monday," said Clara waspishly, "You should be studying for it too."
"Plenty o' time for that this weekend," Warren retorted breezily, echoing her sister's sentiments. "Anyway, I thought we'd get into the club a bit early, give us time for these to kick in before the DJ kicks things up."
He held up and shook a little plastic sandwich bag within which were several pale-blue pills.
Gemma's eyes widened. "Is that—?"
"Bloody hell, Warren! Wha'd'you think you're doin'?" Clara glared at him. "My sister—"
"So?" Warren looked bewildered.
"So, Mum and Dad would kill me if anything happens to her! I don't want Gemma messin' with that stuff."
"It's clean—I promise!" said Warren. "I tried some the other night with Mitch."
"So that's why you were late to class the other morning," Clara huffed. "No! Gemma's my responsibility."
"Oh, go on, Clara," Gemma pleaded. "I'm not a baby anymore. It's not like I've never tried anything before."
"'E's not the same as a pint or smokin' a bit of pot, Gemma! … If you're gonna try it, I don't think your first time should be in a club. Maybe after exams, you and me can have a quiet night in, play a bit o' music—"
"Where's the fun in that?" said Warren. "She'll be alright—it's not like we're goin' to some dodgy place in Hackney. It's a proper nightclub with security an' everything."
Clara rubbed at her forehead, which thankfully was one of the body-paint free spots on her face, inwardly cursing at Warren for making her look like a spoilsport.
"Alright then!" she moaned. "Fine—but only one. Don't be giving Gemma any more'n' that later on—promise me!"
"Promise!" Warren grinned.
"Ooh! Ta, Clara," squealed Gemma, bouncing on her toes and beaming. "I'll be good. I promise!"
"Yeah, well, just watch out for handsy blokes," said Clara worriedly. "Or handsy girls for that matter," she added quickly.
Gemma giggled, looking excited at the idea.
"I mean it!" Clara gave her sister a severe look. "I don't want you goin' off and snogging some stranger you'll regret snogging later. That stuff makes everyone seem nice."
"Yes Mum!" said Gemma, rolling her eyes.
~o0o~
Feathery melodious wisps skipped across thunderous throbbing rhythms and looping arpeggios, braced by stuttering swells of strings and soaring seraphic voices. The writhing crowd seemed to move in frozen moments of time like an old flickering film reel, caught as it was in the flashing strobe lights and lasers.
Clara tried to keep a cool head and her eye on Gemma, but it was getting harder to focus as the rushes of elation swept through her in rolling waves. She kicked herself mentally. She knew it had been a mistake to take a molly herself while she was supposed to be watching out for her sister, but she had let Warren talk her into it as well.
At least Warren was dancing with Gemma nearby—he apparently had enough of his faculties and common sense left to stay close to the edge of the dancefloor and not let her get lost in the crowd. With that thought, the roll really kicked in, pulling Clara into the heavy beats; the psychedelic synth drops buzzed through her brain and she felt herself extending beyond her body.
The pounding rhythms seemed to slow, sensually caressing Clara as she danced through liquid air; the border between dream and reality blurred; the sense of separation between herself and the bodies gyrating around her melted away.
One body in particular caught her attention (such as it was), a tall, elderly man near the bar who seemed both out of place and yet not at all. He cut an odd figure in his tie-dyed t-shirt and ripped jeans, his long flowing beard—a relic of another time—glowing red, then yellow, green, and violet, as the strobes and lasers shifted through the colours of the rainbow.
In the part of her brain still coherent enough to form sentences, Clara supposed he was an old hippie reliving his glory days. His eyes were piercing, scanning the undulating crowd as he nodded in time to the music, but an inviting warmth radiated from him belying his glacial gaze; the air around him seemed to ripple with his presence.
Another elderly figure—this one shorter and jowlier, balder, and unbearded—jostled past her, grumbling as he emerged from the dancing throng of exuberant ravers. To no surprise at all, he made a beeline for the old hippie at the bar.
"Nice bell-bottoms, grandad!" she heard a familiar sounding voice chortling nearby; she turned to see the boy who was dancing with her sister. In his baggy clothes and a tall red and white striped hat, Warren was impossible to miss.
"Your look's a bit outdated innit, mate?" he called out above the sound of the music.
"Hark whose talkin', Warren," giggled Gemma, her vibrant cheeks glittering. "That Dr. Seuss hat is so nineties." She grinned at the jowly man. "Don't mind 'im! I think your retro look is cool, gran'pa."
"Mmm... I like your tie-dyed friend with the sexy, long Gandalf beard," Clara heard herself saying through her fog of bliss. Then, to the surprise of the rational part of her brain, Clara slinkily draped her arms around "Gandalf's" shoulders, giving him a kiss without warning.
"Excuse me!" gasped the jowly man, clearly as shocked by her forward behavior as she was herself.
"I'm so sorry!" Clara squeaked, quickly pulling away, mortified. "I didn't mean to—"
"An' there you were tellin' me not to kiss any strangers," Gemma giggled, earning herself a glare from her sister.
"Never mind, never mind, dear! No harm done," said the elderly hippie in a surprisingly posh accent, his clear eyes twinkling. "It's quite alright, Elphias—I do believe these youngsters are simply under the influence of some sort of ecstasy-inducing substance. I must say, this does take me back more than a few decades."
"Er, yes. I suppose so, Albus," Elphias grimaced. "But this... this music—Whatever became of Abba and the Bee Gees?"
"Oooh... I love Abba!" said Gemma gleefully.
"I was thinking more of the previous decade," Albus chuckled at his jowly friend. "The summer of '67 in particular, when 'free love' was all the rage. In any case, my dear Elphias, I confess that I find this music quite intoxicating indeed. And can you truly not hear it? ... the echoes of days gone past?"
"Well... I suppose there are hints of Abba, maybe a bit of Donna Summer too," Elphias grudgingly admitted, glancing at his watch. "But I'm getting a bit of headache, and I am more than ready for a change of venue. Our contact is late."
"I am sure they shall be here soon," Albus replied soothingly. "Perhaps a dance while we wait, Elphias?"
Elphias raised his eyebrows skeptically.
"I should leave you both to it then," said Clara, feeling even more embarrassed when she realised that the two elderly men were more than just friends. "Again, I'm really sorry…"
"Not at all!" said Albus graciously, "But there's no need to run off too quickly." He shot a look at his partner who shrugged. "Well, then, if you are not up for a dance with me, Elphias, I think I shall take up with this delightful young woman instead... if she doesn't mind."
"No, er… I mean, yes—no, of course I don't mind." Clara cringed at her fumbling response.
"Very well, very well," Elphias sighed. He made his way to the bar where he ordered himself a stiff drink.
As she made her way back towards the dancefloor with Albus, Clara saw Elphias sipping on his cocktail and massaging his forehead; Elphias, in turn, watched her and Albus as they began to dance in time to the pulsing electronic rhythms.
Clara began to relax, feeling the rolling waves of euphoria again as Albus beamed at her. He was surprisingly limber for someone who looked like Merlin in a t-shirt and tatty jeans. Despite the intensely rushing surges of jubilation sweeping through her from head to toe once more, the girl with glittering rainbows and stars and moons painted on her face still had some measure of her faculties. She eyed the old man at the bar cannily.
"Your friend seems a bit put out, Mr. ...?"
"It's Dumbledore, but you may call me Albus, and don't mind my partner, Elphias. This is just a casual outing for us. We haven't been a serious item for some decades. And you are?"
"Clara... Clara Dawson. The pink haired girl is my little sister, Gemma... and the bloke with the silly hat is Warren—'e's just a friend!"
"Well, Miss Dawson... I am quite delighted to make your acquaintance."
Clara batted her eyelashes and blushed. Warren bounced by with Gemma, both of them grinning and chortling.
"Oh, shut it!" Clara moaned at them. "It's just a dance!"
Finally, the lengthy dance track came to an end and Albus looked as if he thought that perhaps it was time to rejoin his companion. Clara didn't really know why, but she was reluctant to see him go.
"I am sorry my dear, but I really must be getting on," said Albus, seeing her disappointment.
"Yeah, of course," Clara bit her lip shyly, feeling a bit embarrassed again as she peered into his kind looking eyes. "It was nice meetin' you."
Albus hesitated before returning to his partner.
"Take care, dear," he said gently, raising his bushy eyebrows as he reached into the pocket of his jeans. Albus retrieved a glossy card with embossed gold lettering and handed it to her. "For emergencies only! I may not look it, but I am quite capable of resolving most problems—including imminent danger. Should you ever have need, give me a ring and leave a message if I do not immediately answer."
"Oh... Ta, Albus!" Clara's eyes lit up. "Will do..."
Elphias shook his head and smirked when Albus joined him at the bar.
"Really, Albus… You know I love you dearly, but you are incorrigible..." Clara heard Elphias saying as she turned to rejoin Warren and Gemma.
She passed by a well-dressed young man with vaguely Gallic features, closely cropped brown hair, and one gold earring, who was holding a briefcase and appeared to be heading for the two elderly gentlemen.
Clara shrugged off her curiosity and began dancing with Gemma and Warren again.
~o0o~
"Rise and shine, sleepyhead," said a giggly voice.
She groaned when the voice flung a pillow at her head, and she blinked open her eyes. The light glaring through the window of her flat seemed too bright for London—it was almost sparkling in fact, hovering in the air like a curtain of diamonds, and she felt more clear-headed than she had for weeks.
Clara yawned and smiled at her giggling sister who was sitting on a chair near the bed, clad in naught but an over-sized t-shirt, and knickers, eating a bowl of cornflakes.
"That was amazing," said Gemma. "I've never felt anything like that—and there's not even a hangover."
"That's because it was clean," said Clara, "like Warren said. It's not very often you get anything pure like that—most of the time it's mixed with 'orrible stuff. So, I hardly ever do it—and you shouldn't either. Don't you dare start thinkin' about doin' it every weekend, or I'll ship you back to Mum and Dad!"
Gemma stuck her tongue out at her. "I wasn't going to anyway. I'm not interested in turning into a junkie."
"Good!" Then Clara narrowly eyed her sister's bowl of cereal. "There better be some more cornflakes left, or that's it—you're out on the street."
Gemma giggled and ran out of the room. Clara slumped back against her pillow and grinned. An hour later, after a lot of face paint removal, a shower, and a bowl of cornflakes, it was back to the books.
~o0o~
A whole week went by; exams were over until the end of next term. Clara was thrilled to have passed her Comparative Religions exam with flying colours, and far less thrilled with her barely passing marks on her physics exam. And, of course, the weekend looked like it was going to be a drizzly, dreary one. With nothing much better to do Friday evening (after turning down Warren's invitation to go clubbing again) the Dawson sisters settled on the sagging yellow couch with take-out curry, crisps, and fizzy drinks, and turned on the television.
The BBC news seemed like a good place to start, but after about ten minutes, both girls were beginning to feel a bit queasy.
"Eeek!" squealed Gemma, gripping her sister's arm tightly and squeezing her eyes shut. "That's horrid!"
"Bloody hell!" Clara gasped, her eyes still glued to the ghastly images. "Zombies? …in Yorkshire? That's actually real? I thought Warren and 'is mates were just off their nut—saw some rubbish on YouTube or something."
Clicking the remote, she turned up the volume.
"…but it's nothing to be too alarmed about, according to authorities," said the announcer in his clipped accent. "Responding to fears of an outbreak resembling the popular American programme, The Walking Dead, a government spokesperson had this to say…"
The screen cut away to an acutely harried looking bespectacled woman already in the middle of speaking. "…although the mobile-phone videos and photos uploaded to social media accounts appear to confirm the rumours that the attacks upon several homes in Edgewater Village in Yorkshire—following the attack at Peabody Farms earlier this week—were committed by so-called 'Zombies', the CIDSC's ongoing investigation in conjunction with MI5 reveals that they are false and have no bearing in fact.
"While we cannot reveal the details at the moment until the conclusion of the investigation, in order to quell any possible fears and prevent a panic, we can say at this time that the attacks were committed by patients undergoing treatment for an extremely rare necrotizing bacteria which gives them the appearance of corpses and severely incapacitates their normal brain functioning.
"I would like to reiterate that there is absolutely no evidence that this bacterial infection is contagious, and that there is no cause for alarm—no, sorry, no further questions. The government will inform the public of any updates and issue a full report when the investigation is completed."
"I can't believe it! This is horrible," moaned Gemma, who looked pale and more than a bit frightened.
"It's alright, sweetie," said Clara confidently, putting an arm around her trembling sister and kissing the top of her head. "It's not gonna happen. You heard 'em. They've got it all under control, and it's not contagious."
"That's what they always say... right before everything goes to pot!"
"That's just in silly movies and TV shows. Come on then, let's find something better to watch."
"Y-yeah, okay. But after… I don't want to be alone tonight. Can I sleep in your bed with you?" asked Gemma, snuggling even closer.
"Of course you can! You can stay with me every night for a bit, if you want..." Clara smiled ruefully. "It's not like I've got a love-life at the moment."
That got a nervous little giggle from Gemma.
~o0o~
In a dungeon cell with stone walls and iron bars a circle of cloaked figures surrounded her, drawing nearer, draped in shadow and flame; acrid fumes of sulfur burned her throat and nostrils. Raising their arms, the figures chanted in voices icy. The sound of sirens echoed in the distance and the cloaks dissolved into billowing clouds of ash, revealing rotting flesh and wriggling maggots under peeling skin, and empty sockets for eyes.
The stench of death turned her stomach, but there was nowhere to run as the Undead reached for her with scabrous, skeletal hands, their fleshless maws opening wide.
The Darkness closed in; she screamed in terror, the hands grasping her arms now gloved, the bodies attached to them garbed in black uniforms, the heads helmeted, and the faces covered with gas-masks. Her wrists were shackled with cold steel, her arms drawn together, and pulled above her head. She dangled, her tiptoes barely reaching the floor.
Gas-masks were lifted to reveal leering grins. She wrinkled her nose at the stink of their hot breath, revolted and horrified, knowing what was coming next. Beads of cold sweat formed on her skin, enveloping her, illuminating her, cloaking her in a curtain of shimmering diamonds full of blazing light.
The groping hands jerked back as if burned and her fear melted away, replaced with righteous anger and regret as the shackles and chains shattered, releasing her. The pathetic figures shrank away from her shining luminescence; their shrieks ripped her heart and drew tears as they burst into flame, but she knew that she could not save them from what they had done to themselves…
~o0o~
When she woke to a buzzing sound on Monday morning, groggily blinking her eyes, she felt confused and unsettled, but she wasn't sure why.
Clara's first complete thought was that she was late for class, but then she remembered that she was on break for two weeks until the beginning of the summer term. Feeling Gemma pressed against her back and Gemma's arm curled around her waist, Clara decided to ignore her mobile and let it go to voicemail. Besides, she could use a bit more sleep herself, somehow certain that it would be more peaceful than the slumber which had preceded the interruption.
When her mobile buzzed again five minutes later, she groaned and grabbed it off her nightstand.
"Bloody hell! … Can't a girl sleep in on a Monday for once?" she grumbled to herself when she saw whose number was on the screen; she sighed and took the call, "Warren, wha'd'you want? I'm trying to sleep—wait, what? Slow down… Huh? A protest…? No, I didn't see it on the news—been ignoring it since Friday night. … More NHS cuts? Bloody Conservatives—Lib Dems, and Blair and Brown's lot can go t'hell too if they're supportin' it! … Yeah, alright then… Half an hour—see you in a bit."
"Half an hour for what?" murmured Gemma, who was stirring now.
"Protest, love," said Clara. "The Tories are trying to push through more NHS cuts."
"Really!" Gemma bolted upright, looking thrilled. "A real protest?"
"Yeah!" Clara grinned at her little sister's exuberance. "Your first real protest. Not much point in dressing up fun for it though—it's not like a Pride Parade. Besides, it's still drizzly, so, best to throw on a coat too—"
"How about a bit of face-paint?"
"Well—Warren said 'e'd be here in half an hour."
"It'll only take five minutes to throw on jeans and a t-shirt. I can do us both up quick—nothing too fancy."
"Yeah—okay then," said Clara with a little laugh, shaking her head, "I suppose it's a good enough excuse for a bit o' face-paint."
~o0o~
The drizzle had turned into a downpour and Clara was drenched. Panicked, she pushed her way through a crowd of wet protesters, doing her best to avoid direct confrontation with the police while looking for her sister and Warren.
Everything had been peaceful to begin with, hundreds of people filling the roads, marching towards Downing Street. The atmosphere had almost been festive despite the miserable, drizzly weather—Clara and Gemma weren't the only ones with face-paint among the younger people in the crowd, and some were even hefting boomboxes playing rap or dance music.
Even when the protesters from other groups had started arriving and the crowd grew bigger, the mood had still been one of ebullience, an exhilarating feeling of shared experience—of solidarity in the face of those who would deprive society of that which made life worth living. Then the police had arrived.
At first, despite the anxiety which began to sweep through the gathered, it seemed as if the police were simply going to keep the peace and make sure that things didn't get out of hand. Then, out of nowhere—later, some would say that they had seen them emerging from police vans marked with the insignia of the special tactical units—a small group of perhaps fifteen or twenty masked individuals dressed all in black hurled a few bricks through windows.
The response of the police had been swift; but instead of going after the masked men in black—who were left to run around unchecked and throw a few Molotov Cocktails and more bricks—the police in riot gear stormed the crowd of protesters and started whacking at them with their truncheons.
Bloodied people fell in the streets. College students began hurling their water-bottles at the cops in response. An elderly protester was knocked unconscious while some nurses and teachers screamed at the police to stop. Several burly union workers set upon a police officer who had thrown an otherwise helpless teenage girl to the ground and was beating her with his billy-club.
All hell broke loose as the rain began coming down in buckets and teargas canisters were fired into the throng. Clara had somehow been separated from her sister and swept away by the scattering crowd when the canisters began bursting and billowing white clouds filled the streets.
For a split second, her eyes stinging, Clara was certain that she saw her younger sister being roughly shoved by cops wearing gas-masks into the back of a police van. Terrified and angry, Clara coughed, the acrid fumes burning her throat and nostrils as she pelted across the street, splashing through puddles, dodging bottles and batons, trying desperately to reach her sister. But she didn't get far; a strong hand grabbed her arm. She whirled around furiously, balling her fists, ready to punch someone.
"It's me..." gasped Warren as he dragged her towards the pavement on the other side of the street. "Come on... We gotta get out of here, Clara!"
"Not without Gemma!" she shouted, rivulets of rainwater dripping from her soggy hair, face-paint running down her cheeks.
"It's too late!" said Warren, his own eyes looking redder as the billowing, opaque clouds of teargas drew closer. "The coppers already nicked 'er—I sawr it. She'll be alright—we'll bail 'er out tomorrow. But it won't do 'er any good if we get nicked too!"
Clara was torn. The only thing that mattered was saving Gemma, but Clara was forced to admit that Warren was making sense. She glanced back at the police van—only barely visible now—one last time before allowing Warren to lead her into an alley away from the mayhem.
Shivering from cold and fear, her heart thudding loudly in her ears, her sodden clothes clinging to her skin, she ran, and for a brief moment Clara thought that she and Warren had escaped the police. Rounding a corner into another wet alleyway, Clara suddenly realised that she had lost Warren. Panicking, she spun around to see him in the clutches of two armed policemen in special operations gear.
"RUN!" Warren screamed at her. Clara hesitated for a moment. "GO... GET OUT OF HERE! NOW!"
Clara bit her lip, turned, and ran for it, leaping over pallets and knocking down rubbish bins. Amazingly, she managed to find her way through the maze of alleyways and emerged, gasping for air, onto a London street untouched by the riots. She swept aside the wet hair clinging to her cheeks and eyelashes with one hand, smearing the face paint even more, while digging into the pocket of her sopping coat for her mobile with her other.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" she swore, realizing it must have fallen out of her pocket in all the chaos. "This is bollocks! Fuck!"
Clara searched every pocket in vain, twice, knowing she wouldn't find it. Almost in tears, she looked around wildly, spying a red phone-kiosk nearby—probably one of the last ones in London, a relic to amuse tourists.
Not knowing what else to do, Clara darted into the phone box and slammed shut the door. For a few minutes she leaned back against the glass trembling and sobbing with her face in her hands.
Finally beginning to calm down a bit, Clara considered her options. She was too frightened to go home by herself, and there seemed little point in ringing her parents who lived in Chippenham—besides, they'd probably murder her for losing Gemma.
Gemma!
Clara's tears began flowing in earnest again. What had she been bloody thinking, bringing Gemma to a protest? Gemma was barely eighteen.
Clara tried telling herself that she couldn't have known how it would turn out—most of the protests in recent years had been peaceful by and large—but she wasn't having much luck convincing herself. Of course the bloody government would crack down on the one protest she had brought her little sister to.
Sniffling, she wiped her runny nose on the sleeve of her useless coat—good enough for drizzle, but not this bloody downpour—and tried to think again of someone she could call.
Then she remembered the sweet old hippie she'd met in the London nightclub. He had said to give him a ring if she was ever in trouble. Clara wasn't sure if he could really do anything to help, but there was something about him—something reassuring. She supposed that Mr. Dumbledore might have some experience with this sort of thing, having apparently passed through the protests of the 1960's and 70's unscathed.
Hands shaking badly, Clara fumbled in her purse for the card he had given her and some coins for the phone. Holding the telephone receiver to her ear with her shoulder, the card in one hand, she tried inserting the coins into the slot with the other. She cursed when several coins slipped from her fingers and clattered to the pavement.
Ignoring the coins on the ground, Clara reached into her purse again for more change. This time the coins successfully slid into the coin-slot.
"Please pick up..." she moaned to herself, "Please pick up..." Clara gasped with surprise and relief when there was a click and she heard the comforting plummy voice on the other end of the line say, "Hello…"
~o0o~
The umbrellas provided less protection from the elements than one would have hoped for, as the wind had risen, driving the cold rain at an angle. It was only mid-afternoon, but one wouldn't know it as the sun was well hidden behind the nearly black rain-clouds. Only the hardiest of pigeons and tourists (and perhaps an escaped protester or two) remained in Trafalgar Square; the rest had all wisely taken shelter under eaves or in hotel rooms.
The two young women under the umbrellas looked around the square at the base of Nelson's column and spied a college girl who didn't look any older than them, hugging herself and shivering under one of the bronze lions. She was the only one without an umbrella and looked like a drowned rat.
"That's gotta be 'er, don't you think?" said the girl with a long violet fringe blowing across her face.
The other young woman—the one with black hair whipping in the wind—she nodded. "Yeah—I think you're right, Dora. Brown hair with blue streaks—blue coat..."
"Poor thing!" Dora muttered. "That coat looks soaked through."
Taking a nervous glance around, the black-haired girl tentatively approached the miserable looking, thoroughly drenched girl while Dora kept a sharp eye out for any potential threats. The shivering, dripping girl looked just as anxious to see a stranger nearing her.
"Er... are you Clara—Clara Dawson?" asked the black-haired girl; the dripping girl hesitated as water streamed from the bedraggled ends of her hair.
"It's okay, Dumbledore sent me," the black-haired girl reassured her, "I'm Harriet... Harriet Potter."
"Oh, thank God!" Clara heaved a huge sigh of relief before sneezing violently. "Y-yeah, I'm Clara."
"Brilliant!" said Harriet, peering at Clara sympathetically. "Let's get you out of here then. That's Dora—she's with me."
After brief introductions, the three of them traipsed through the rain-soaked streets of London towards Piccadilly Circus, trying to get as far away from where the riots had been as possible on foot, hopefully to find some transportation.
They were in luck; Dora hailed a passing taxicab. The cabbie seemed a bit reluctant to pick them up at first, as if he thought they might be trying to escape arrest, but after a quick radio-call to his dispatcher he was reassured that the riots near that part of London were by and large over, dispelled by police and rain. Nevertheless, once inside the cab, Clara slunk down in her seat, just in case a bobby had her description.
Past Hyde Park they drove, and past Regent's Park. Nearly half an hour had gone by when the taxi came to a stop in front of a house on the far side of Hampstead Heath, all the way at the end of the extension.
Harriet glanced at Clara hesitantly. Dumbledore had left her with the task of revealing everything to the young woman he'd met in a nightclub, not wishing to alarm the girl by seeming completely mental over the phone.
"You gotta be the one to tell 'er, Harriet," said Dora. Harriet nodded and took a deep breath.
"Er... I know this will seem a bit weird," she told Clara, "Sorry in advance—it might be a bit of a shock—but we're actually not at this house, we're at Number Forty-Two."
"Are you joking? There's no Number Forty-Two..." Clara's expression altered from one of bewilderment to one of astonishment when the air rippled and the space between Number Forty and Number Forty-Four expanded, revealing a two storey house which hadn't been there moments before.
"B-b-but how... what...?" Clara stammered, her head spinning; her knees felt wobbly and she wondered if she was dreaming or if someone had somehow slipped her something a lot more powerful than Ecstasy during the protest.
"We'll explain inside," said Harriet apologetically, catching her before she fainted and collapsed. "I promise, it'll all make sense."
Unnerved, Clara let Harriet half-carry her as they followed Dora into the house which shouldn't exist. Dora took her soggy coat and hung it on a tall brass rack just inside the front door. Clara swallowed anxiously when she was led through the foyer and into a spotless, gleaming kitchen, but her trepidation lessened considerably upon seeing another girl who looked much younger—fourteen or fifteen if she had to guess—with a head of unruly tawny-brown ringlets which spilled over her shoulders.
"Oh, you poor thing," said the bushy-haired girl. "You're soaked to the bone. Come upstairs with me and we'll find you some clean, dry clothes. I've got some which will fit you. I know you're closer to Dora's age, but you're about the same size as me. She and Harriet will make some hot cocoa while we find you some things. By the way, I'm Hermione... Hermione Potter."
Clara tried to follow everything the younger girl was saying, but she still felt dizzy and the girl's words had tumbled out in a rush. But Clara had definitely made out the last bit.
"Oh," Clara responded, "Are you Harriet's sister then?"
"No!" Hermione giggled, shaking her head. "I'm Harriet's wife."
Clara gasped and peered back and forth between Harriet and Hermione. Harriet's face reddened, looking a bit sheepish.
"Erm—sorry, I don't mean to be rude," said Clara, blushing herself. "I was just a bit surprised…" she trailed off, feeling stupider than ever, and still wondering if someone had slipped her something during the protest.
Clara had no qualms at all about two girls being together or married—she'd messed around a bit with a girl in secondary school herself and quite enjoyed it—they just seemed a bit too young to be married.
"We'll explain in a minute," said Hermione. "You'll catch your death of cold if you stay in those wet clothes any longer—if you haven't already caught cold," she added when Clara sneezed.
Clara had a good look around as Hermione led her up several flights of stairs, thinking that everything looked awfully posh and elegant—like it belonged in a manor—considering that the house had looked quite ordinary from the outside—ordinary for a house in a relatively well-off borough of London, anyway. It was also much larger on the inside than ought to be possible, but as she had just seen it appear out of thin air, she decided to simply accept the possibility that she was hallucinating from some sort of surreptitiously administered drug, or the shock and upset of losing Gemma.
Still shivering, Clara stripped herself naked in Hermione's (the Potters'?) bathroom, suddenly feeling embarrassed when she realised that she hadn't been hiding anything under her nearly transparent wet t-shirt after giving Dora her sopping coat to hang up; she reassured herself that at least she was only among other young women.
As she toweled off in the bathroom and wiped the remnants of face-paint away while Hermione rummaged in the bedroom cupboards and drawers for clothes, Clara listened to Hermione's explanations through the half-open door with one ear.
It all seemed nonsensical. Magic couldn't be real, as much as she wished it was, but she had just seen a house appear out of nowhere, and far too many flights of stairs for a two-storey house. But even the one thing which was at least in the realm of possibility still struck Clara as very odd.
"Wait, you mean Harriet's actually your age and a guy?" Clara asked, her head swimming as she tried to wrap her mind around things when Hermione passed her some clothes through the door; she winced at how insensitive she must have sounded again.
"I'm so sorry!" she moaned. "I just keep putting my foot in it, don't I?"
"It's quite alright, really! Harriet's actually almost a year younger than me," said Hermione brightly,
"At the moment, Harriet really is a girl in all ways you can think of—I suppose genderfluid is the best way to describe her—but unlike non-magicals who are trans or genderfluid, she can physically change gender at Will, and she aged herself up a bit to meet you—she usually looks much younger and I expect I must look very young to you too."
"Erm," Clara tried to think what to say as she tugged on the fresh pair of knickers; she didn't want to sound stupid again. Thankfully, Hermione kept on going, not missing a beat as her words kept rushing by.
"We're both actually older than we look, Harriet and I. We just naturally have baby-faces." Hermione paused to sigh. "At least Harriet can make herself look older whenever she pleases. It's a bit annoying being so young looking—no one really takes you seriously when you look thirteen or fourteen."
"I can imagine," said Clara, straightening the skirt of the pretty, floral dress that Hermione had given her. "One of my friends from secondary school has the same problem, actually. I haven't seen her since last summer, but she still looked about fifteen."
Feeling a bit better in dry clothes and slippers, she followed Hermione back downstairs.
Sure enough, when Clara entered the Parlour she was stunned to see a teenage boy with short black hair who looked strikingly similar to the girl with long black hair she had met in Trafalgar Square, sitting on a plush, burgundy sofa next to a crackling fire.
Clara was almost convinced that everything Hermione Potter had said was true—the boy's iridescent eyes, which seemed to shift from blue to green depending on how the light struck them, were exactly the same as Harriet's, too pretty to be a boy's eyes really.
"Hi!" said Harry—his voice moderately deeper now—with a wry look at Clara's expression. "Yeah—it's me. Sorry to surprise you again, it just seemed the best way to help you get used to the idea of magic being real.
"Er, yeah! I suppose…"
"Well, if this still isn't enough, take a look behind you." Harry grinned.
Clara spun around and gasped again. Hermione Potter had sprouted a bushy ginger cat tail, cat ears, and whiskers.
"Wait, what?" she sputtered, gaping incredulously.
"I was actually born like this, believe it or not," Hermione sighed, her tail twitching. "My mum and dad were both Wizards too. Mum was the one who could transform into a cat—not all Wizards can do animal transformations—it's an inherited trait—like Harry's ability to transform his anatomy. My mother's best reckoning was that some of the feline genetic code got passed on to me, but not in the normal way. … I'm stuck like this—in between. I have to use an invisibility spell of sorts to hide the cat features when I go out in public."
"Blimey!" said Clara weakly, plonking herself in a stuffed armchair before she fainted, thinking back to the odd thoughts she'd had when studying for her Comparative Religion exam. "Yeah—okay! I'm convinced. Magic is real!"
She rubbed at her forehead, suddenly feeling a pain in her chest as everything that had happened hit her with full force again, now that the confusion about magic had been resolved. Harry shot her a concerned look, catching what must have been an anguished expression on her face.
"Hey, she'll be alright you know—your sister—and your friend too," he said quietly. "Dumbledore has some contacts in Scotland Yard, and it shouldn't be too hard getting them out—especially with a bit of magic."
"Thanks—thank you," said Clara, trying force her face into what she hoped was a grateful looking smile.
Dora passed her a steaming mug of cocoa and a sympathetic look. Clara took a sip, contemplating the mess that she'd made of things; the heat of the cocoa and the fire in the red-brick hearth worked their own sort of magic, and the knot in her stomach began to unwind as the warmth spread through her body.
She took some more sips and watched the tongues of orange flame flickering in the fireplace, losing herself in their dance. For a moment she teetered on the precipice and the air rippled, a curtain of diamonds briefly visible before her eyelids grew heavy.
Magic—it was real! Thanks to magic, her nightmare would soon be over and her sister safe, was Clara's last thought as the last bit of adrenaline drained away and she passed out from exhaustion.