Ever wonder what it's like to appear in a fanfic? Greta's about to find out.

This premise came to me in two dreams. The idea wouldn't let go, so I sat down and got to it.

Bear with me as I set up a plot. Our first classic character appears next chapter.

"Viggo, you can have the lollipop after dinner." I shake the take-out in my free hand. "See here? We've got arroz con pollo."

"Pollo," my son repeats, but it sounds more like "po-ho."

"Yes, pollo. Then you'll have your lollipop, I'll put on some 'police cars,' on my phone, and then Mommy can finally—" I stop, staring at the boxes gathered in front of my apartment. "What the fuck?"

"Fuh," Viggo says, but I'm too much shock to stop him.

"Oh, my god," I say, putting him down, grabbing my keys out of my purse. I shove one in, but can't even push it halfway through the keyhole. "Shit."

"Shit."

"No, Viggo," I put my hand on my head. "That's a 'mommy-word,' remember? You don't get to say those." I pick him up, adjusting his weight on my hip, and rush towards the apartment offices.

He nods with a grin on his face, and says, very slowly: "Shhhit."

x

"What do you mean, 'not this time'?" It's all I can do to keep my voice below shriek-level.

"I mean, you're late on the rent. Two months late."

"Last time I was this late, you gave me another month, Danny."

"And I said, I wasn't gonna do that again. And I'm not."

I glare at him, the grease stains on his shirt, at his curled, thin comb over. Literally the stereotypical Jersey landlord. Probably why he's so hateful.

"What am I gonna do, then? Huh?" I know I'm not in a position to lace my voice with antagonism, but I can't help it. He knows what I've been through. What we've been through, I amend in my head, smoothing Viggo's bangs over.

"Not my problem." He waves me off.

"I have a child." I gesture animatedly to Viggo, who's digging through the diaper bag, probably for that lollipop I told him was in there.

"There's a womens' shelter on 7th. That's all I can tell you."

I roll my eyes. I know very well where that god-forsaken place is, and Danny knows that, too.

"I'm not going back there."

"You got no choice, sweetheart."

I curl my hands into fists. God, I hate it when he calls me that. He smirks when I sigh and drop my shoulders. Maybe this is better, I tell myself. Maybe by the end of the week, we'll be living somewhere where I don't have to answer to swine like this shit in front of me.

"Well, can you at least give me a ride? It's already eight. The busses stop in an hour, and that's if they're even still running." I make my voice waver as though I'm on the verge of tears.

"No can do," he says, shrugging with a smile. "My car's in the shop."

"You're a fucking liar. I just walked right by it."

"Hey," he says, jabbing a finger towards my face. "I'm sick of your shit, Greta. I'm done helping you out."

"Helping me out? When's the last time you've done anything but making life hell for every-freakin'-body who lives here?"

He's pulled out his phone. "You're trespassing and I'm calling the cops. If you think spending the night at the shelter is bad—"

"Fine," I say, throwing my bags all over my shoulders. "But don't you dare sell my keyboard!"

"Pick it up by tomorrow, then."

I lift Viggo and march out, slamming the door as hard as I can.

x

I sigh and check my watch, spooning the last of our dinner into Viggo's mouth. He drums his hands on the bench. It's nine-fucking-ten. Officially past both of our bedtimes. And the goddamn bus is nowhere to be found.

The sky is dark, with the last hint of sunset in the distance. To the right, a thumbnail moon gives the clouds around it a silver sheen. I take a breath. It's amazing how gorgeous such a crapshoot day can look.

I pull out my phone and scroll through the contacts. "No," I murmur. "No, no, nope. Hell fucking no, and dead." I pause on the name of my husband, and continue. "No, no." I glance at Viggo, who's trying to scoop an errant rice grain with a plastic butter knife. "This is some tough shit, kiddo." I sigh. "Apparently, next time we start over, I need to make at least one friend who can bail me out of fucking homelessness."

"Do you believe in magic, Miss?"

I turn my head to see the form of some old woman who's sat down on the bench. Her back is so hunched over, she's practically bent in half, and she looks like she's dressed to be a nameless peasant from Outlander. Also, she's obviously psychotic, her bright eyes lingering on me and Viggo as she awaits my response. I consider ignoring her, but she leans over. "I do." It's a conspirator's whisper, like we're chums stealing secrets, not strangers, idiotically waiting for a bus that's not coming.

"You do." I raise an eyebrow. "That's great."

"I do. Magic is everywhere. But muggles can't see it. Unlike me."

I nearly choke on my next inhale. Ah, a Harry Potter brand of psychosis. Haven't encountered that one before. I swallow some water and think of the irony, though, as a prolific writer of Potter fanfic. God, though, the last time I wrote any fanfic was a year ago. Maybe more. So okay, not prolific. But still. Irony.

"You're a witch?" I say. I probably shouldn't engage, but maybe I'll get some inspiration for a new story. If nothing else, this encounter might amuse me in the distant future. When I'm not concerned about where my toddler and I will be sleeping that night.

"Of the four of us here, you're probably the most witchiest witch," she answers with a smile.

Hmm. Me, one, Viggo, two, this crazy old bat. That's three…

"Shh," she says. "Your thoughts are so loud. He's going to see you."

I glance to where she's gesturing and my spine straightens of its own accord. It's a man in a top hat. In fact, his whole outfit looks old like that. Pin-striped and grey, with the vest and suit jacket. And he's pacing across the sidewalk like a caged wildebeest.

Normally, seeing a man dressed up like he belongs in a Steampunk quartet wouldn't startle me. But there's something fucking sinister in the way he moves. His limbs undulate like they're composed of enormous serpents. If we're in a movie, at this point, we are being introduced to the villain of the story. Seriously. He may as well be carrying a large butcher knife in one hand and a machete in the other.

He sees me and smiles, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes, which stay wide. They sparkle under the streetlamp.

I gasp and turn away. I wouldn't know, but I imagine that's exactly how a man grins before they rape a woman. Or how a hyena's eyes sparkle before it rips into the gut of some poor rabbit.

I pick up Viggo. "Don't worry," the woman continues as I throw bags over my shoulders. "I won't let him get you this time."

I glance at the man. He's walking over, eyes still on me, his stride so long, he appears as though he's floating.

"Into the park," she whispers. "Now!"

I fucking book it. I look back once more before I reach the trees of Lakedale Park, and I swear, that bitch has pulled out a wand and is aiming it at the man.

But that's fucking bananas.

Right?

Right?

x

"Mama."

I cover my eyes with my arm and grumble.

"Mama." Viggo's fingers are tugging at my shirt.

"You need milk, baby?"

"No."

Did I leave the window open again? 'Cause the birds are loud. It's like they're right… above….my…

I open my eyes before I can finish the thought, and leaves flutter, causing the sunlight to shift over my face.

I lurch up so fast, Viggo jumps and pushes out his bottom lip alongside a whine.

"I'm sorry, baby. I didn't mean to scare you." I glance around. No weird-ass old lady. No top hat man. I take a sigh as I position Viggo on my breast. He drinks and I groan into the blasted brightness, feeling stupid and pathetic for spending the night hidden in some bushes over what appears to have been a hallucination, at best.

"Or maybe it was a dream," I mumble as I reach into my purse for my phone. God. I need to call in today so I can figure out how I'm gonna procure lodgings for me and Viggo.

But my phone's got no service. "Fuck," I whisper. Do I have any change at all? There's gotta be a pay phone somewhere close by. I dump my purse on the sweater I'd laid out for Viggo to sleep on. My mouth falls open. "This has got to be a joke."

Instead of my wallet, there's a coin purse. Instead of my copy of The Hidden Life of Trees by Peter Wohlleben, there's Tree Potions: A Beginner's Guide by Famifigus Portetus. I reach in the compartment where my change ought to be and… yep, I pull out a fucking wand.

"Where the hell are you, you witch lady," I say loudly, standing. Bitch probably hired Top-Hat to scare me so she could get her jollies off. I peek out of the bushes and freeze when I see two kids whiz by on little broomsticks.

Good lord, there have been advances in toys since I last had the optimism to peruse a Babies R Us catalogue. Viggo clutches at my sweatpants, squealing at the sight. "Don't you dare put that on your Christmas list," I say. He refuses to take his eyes away.

I take a few steps out of the foliage to see if I can spot that old bag. Hmm. There's several families here, with children of varying ages playing.

"Aspen and Fiona, come here." Their mother sounds a bit alarmed. I realize, as she glances at me, that I'm what's alarming her. I look down. My hair's probably tangled up with a few leaves. I'm still in my work sweats. Oh and yeah, I just crawled out of some bushes near children like some kind of pervert. I want to reassure her that I'm normal, but that probably wouldn't help.

"Mama?" Viggo tugs at my pants.

"I'm here, baby," I say, scanning the environs once more. I don't see anyone who looks vaguely familiar, much less either of the weirdos from last night.

I narrow my eyes when I see the mother scolding her daughter. Fiona, I assume. "I don't know how you always get caked in mud," she says. And she's got a flipping wand in her hand. She flicks it near the girl's face, and with each movement, dirt flies off.

"Oh, my god," I say, tearing my gaze at the people around the park again. Half of them are in robes. Wizarding robes. Most of them have wands in their hands. In the distance, I see a father levitating a giggling toddler.

I close my eyes and breathe. It must be some Potter convention. Cosplay. Right? It's gotta be. But wouldn't folks dress up as recognizable characters? There should be, like, sixteen Hermione Grangers or something. I open my eyes again, but it just looks like a bunch of anonymous assholes with wands.

When several adults on brooms fly overhead, laughing and gossiping like they're on a work errand, I fall to the ground.

"Mama!" Viggo says, laughing as he tackles me. He thinks it's some game.

"Miss?" The woman is approaching. "Miss, are you alright?"

"I'm having some kind of episode," I mumble. "Hallucination or something."

"We should get you to the hospital," she says.

"No," I shout, pushing myself up. The last thing I needed was hospital debt on top of everything else.

"Mama, down," Viggo demands.

"Not now, honey," I say.

The woman looks behind me at my makeshift bed and widens her eyes. "Are you—I'm sorry, I don't mean to assume. But are you homeless?"

I give her a long stare. She's got dark eyes and skin. Her hair is in gorgeous, thick twists and she's got them pinned up on her head. And, most importantly, no top hat in sight. Finally, I nod.

"I'm so sorry," she says, her hand on her heart. "For how long?"

I glance at the newspaper in her hands. I don't know what I was expecting, honestly, but yeah. It's the Daily fucking Prophet. The headline states, "POTTER REFUSES COMMENT ON AZKABAN BREAK." Harry Potter's image is there. He holds his hand out as he passes a mob of paparazzi, shaking his head. Over and over and over...

"Miss?"

I jump. "Uh… what was the question, again?"

"Mama," Viggo says, holding his arms up. He looks concerned. He's such a sensitive little man. I grab him and lean him on my hip.

"I was wondering how long you'd been homeless."

My mind whirls. I need a cover and fast. Well, I'm a writer, aren't I?

"Since the war," I croak.

The woman looks appalled. Maybe it was the wrong thing to say. "But the war's been over for nearly three years now."

I nod.

"Oh, gods, I'm so sorry," she says. "You must be exhausted. Please, let me make you a meal."

I can't stop staring at my feet, twirling my wand in my hand. My wand.

"Miss," she says, touching my arm. "Do it for him, at least." I glance at Viggo, who's brushing his fingers through my hair.

I nod. "Okay."

"Good." She gives a brisk nod. "Get your things, then. We'll do a side-app."

"A side-what?" I say, but she's already turned to grab her kids.

x

Side-apparations suck. Majorly. As soon as we appear in her house, I grab onto the nearest surface, trying not to heave. Viggo, meanwhile, is acting like he's just had the time of his life. "More!" he demands.

I shake my head at him and he pushes his lip out. "Later," I say, reaching in the diaper bag. I pull out a Hot Wheels truck and let him roam the floor of the living area.

It's a nice place. Plush furniture, fireplace, low, wide windows that look over a neighborhood. I'd admire it a lot more if I weren't in the middle of some type of cognitive breakdown.

"What do you like?" she says. "Eggs, bacon? That good?" I nod. "Fiona and Aspen! Please get some tea for our guest. And… juice for your son?"

I shake my head. "We'll both have water, if that's alright."

"Of course! I shouldn't have assumed."

I take long, shuttering breaths as one of the children brings me water. "Thanks," I mumble.

"Are you really homeless?" the girl whispers, her eyes full of sympathy.

"Children! No rude questions! Make yourselves scarce, please." They both bound away, the girl glancing back at me once more.

"I'm so sorry," the woman approaches, wiping her hands. "I've just realized I've never introduced myself. I'm Anja."

"Nice to meet you," I say, my voice cracking. I take her hand. "I'm Greta Riverstone. My son, Viggo." It dawns on me that our names actually work perfectly in Potterverse. How have I never noticed that before?

"Pleasure. You're from the States, aren't you?" When I nod, she clasps her hand together. "How lovely! I so rarely meet Americans here. There's just no sense in them transferring all the way here, with the Ama Verde reserve in Mexico, you know?"

I nod like I know exactly what she's talking about. There's a chime. "Oh! That'll be the food." She ushers for me and Viggo to follow.

At the dining room table, she picks up her wand. "May I?" she asks. I shrug, and she levitates Viggo to the chair, which grows taller and narrower to adjust to him. Straps appear to tie him in, and a platter floats in front of him with toast and bacon and eggs, all cut up in toddler-sized pieces. "He can feed himself?" she asks. When I nod, she directs the plate within his grasp, and he starts going to town, starting with the bacon.

She places a similar plate in front of me. "Thank you," I say, just now realizing how starved I am. She politely waits for me to eat, washing up as she gives me random, sideways glances. I know she's about to ask for my details, and I'm pretty sure I've got some sufficient lies to fill in by now. At least, I hope to god they are.

"So, Greta," she begins. "What happened? How did you get here? How long have you been in Romania?"

I nearly spit out my water. "Romania?" I say between coughing fits.

"Come again?" she asks. I shake my head and she has a seat next to me, placing a hand on mine. "I know this must be difficult for you," she says. "But you need to tell me something, okay? So we can figure out exactly what you need. And where we can go from here."

"Right." Okay. I got this. "I'm muggleborn," I begin. "And my husband is also a muggle. Was a muggle." I glance out the window, where a rough wind is rustling the trees. "Uh- we were near Diagon Alley when it happened. You know, in London? We were captured by, uh, Death Eaters."

"You must've been on the registration list," she says.

"Maybe," I say. "I don't recall much. They, uh, killed him first." I take a long pause. Most of that statement isn't a lie. "And they tortured me with a variety of curses. The Cruciatus. And it made me a little—" I pause. "Confused. A lot of my memory is missing. Like—who they were, the Death Eaters that did this to me. And I don't remember magic."

"Magic?" she asks.

"How to do it, you know? I have my wand, somehow, but I don't know how to use it. It's like my whole education. Poof."

"Oh my…"

"Yes, so I can't hold down a job. No one wants to hire me. I'm essentially a muggle, you know? And no one, ah, no one wants to teach me anything, either. I mean, I don't blame them." I look out the window, aiming for a wistful look. "I just—" I put my hands to my eyes like I'm wiping tears. "I wish I was able to put a roof over our heads, you know?"

She puts her hand on mine again. I peek and her eyes are glazed. I wipe mine with a napkin and take a breath. "Where did you go to school?" she askes. "In the States?"

I shrug, because, honestly, who the fuck can tell.

"And how long have you been in Romania, did you say?"

I shake my head for what seems like the hundredth time this morning. "I just woke up here one day."

And that's the unbelievable, mother-flipping truth.