It was a year and a few months after, that her happiness was replaced with shock and realisation.

The day after Samhain, a celebration on the 31st of October, something her father and grandmother celebrated by wearing masks, lighting a pyre, dancing, and telling each other's fortunes, she was giving them the silent treatment. She had tried to convince them she was old enough to participate, at four years old, but they hadn't budged, sending her to bed the moment dinner had ended. Her initial plan of staying awake and sneaking outside had been halted by a delicious cup of warm milk and honey, no doubt Beady's doing.

Now she had missed everything and had to wait until next year to try and celebrate it.

Deeply focused on her hand's motor control, and basic etiquette, when handling the spoon filled with fruit and yoghurt up to her mouth, she didn't look up when the owl carrying the daily French newspaper ticked its beak on the window. Her grandmother waved her hand, the window latch releasing, and the owl came inside, exchanging the paper for some coins. It was an everyday occurrence.

Spoon almost at her mouth, and her elbows still at her side, her eyes were already filled with victory. Opening her mouth, the spoon was just an inch away, when her grandmothers loud gasp had her attention shifting, losing control, and dropping the content of her spoon on her lap. Looking at the splatter of yoghurt and fruit on the napkin in her lap she focused her eyes on her grandmother with a frustrated sigh, gathering the napkin and placing it on the table. First, they hadn't allowed her to watch the Samhain celebration and now this?

But her grandmother wasn't looking at her or her father, her hand pressed to her mouth and eyes still focused on the front page of the paper.

"Alphard," her grandmother whispered in English, something she rarely did, "Alphard, he is gone. They say he is dead."

Her grandmother pushed the paper in her father hands. He grabbed the paper tightly, his eyes widening with shock as he translated the sentence on the page. Maia just looked on curiously. Who was dead?

"Oh Merlin." Her father now spoke, everything about him radiating shock. He blinked erratically, his eyes wide, letting out a relieved breath. "Oh Merlin, he is gone."

Now her eyes were flickering between her father and her grandmother. What were they talking about? Who died?

They both seemed to have forgotten she was even at the table, but she made no attempt to change that, staying as quiet as possible. They would talk more if they forgot about her being there.

"The Dark Lord defeated by a baby." Her father sounded incredulous.

At that her eyebrows came together as she tried to place who they were talking about. What Dark Lord?

"Harry Potter." Her grandmother confirmed, nodding with a big smile on her face. "The Boy Who Lived. May he prosper."

The fucking what now? Harry who?

It took her a minute to place it, gathering another spoonful of her breakfast and putting it in her mouth. Correctly this time.

Harry.

Harry Potter.

Harry Potter.

She froze. It was as if lightening had struck, her brain connecting the name with a very old memory.

At this point her eyes were the size of plates, shock filling her body, spoon hanging from her lips. Her father and grandmother were talking, but her brain wasn't registering any of their words.

Harry fucking Potter.

Her family was magical and someone named Harry Potter had just defeated a Dark Lord.

Slowly realisation started to set in.

Her spoon fell from her lips on her lap, now unprotected by her napkin, but she didn't care.

Harry 'The Boy Who Lived' Potter. The children's book that woman had read to her and her sister when life was still good. The boy who had gone to a magic school and defeated an evil wizard.

Her head shot up and her eyes flickered from her father to her grandmother, taking in both of their relieved faces. This wasn't another dream, right? She wouldn't suddenly wake up somewhere else? The room wasn't going to fall away around her and reveal she was actually dead?

No.

Pulling herself out of the spiralling thoughts, she gave herself a mental slap. She had decided that ages ago. This was real and she was alive, suck it up.

"…Maia?"

A voice pulled her out of her thoughts, her eyes flickering to her father who was looking concerned his eyes focused on her face.

"What is wrong little star?" He made a move to stand up.

She blurted out the first thing her mind thought of, her eyes moving over the current scenario with lighting speed.

"I dropped my spoon."

Quickly she passed her fifth, sixth, and seventh birthday, in the magical world of Harry Potter. It had taken her a few sleepless nights and countless hours to come to two conclusions about her situation.

One, she remembered next to nothing about the books.

Which, from her perspective, wasn't her fault. After the woman died of an obvious drug overdose she had tried to forget about everything, and even now she didn't want to unnecessarily bring up any memories. It had been random children's books the woman had read once, when she had been very little, and she had never even touched them again afterwards. It wasn't like she had been expecting this to happen.

Two, she didn't care.

First of all, for all she knew this wasn't the same. Sure, Harry Potter was a person, but who knew, it could all be a coincidence, both Harry and Potter were common names in England and for all she knew Dark Lords were too. And why should she care anyway? So, if she was currently residing in the world created from a story, it didn't make it any less real to her. As far as she knew it had ended with everyone happy and the evil wizard dead.

She had her own life to live, Harry Potter could clearly manage his own.

It was all it took for her to put any worry out of her mind and focus on her own life.

One of those focus points was finally attending her classes. She had her father and grandmother for the basics, but for some she had private tutors, and she loved every bit of it. Her grandmother and father were fully aware of her motivated studying and she didn't even bother hiding it. It had let to a curriculum many people would probably find a bit much, definitely for a seven-year-old, but she flourished. It helped that in the rich pureblood society her attitude was applauded, not frowned upon. Her ability was seen as a sign of excellence and not the pressure she, or her parent, put on herself.

In all honesty, she didn't mind the pressure. She never had a big education, dropping out of middle school, and the military hadn't been very keen on educating its soldiers. Now she was learning everything she had once dreamed of: language, etiquette, dance, music, arts, and science. It was a privilege to have access to so many resources and she was going to shamelessly make use of them. In secret she practiced her magic. Books floating to her hands, the repair of a fallen teacup before her grandmother noticed, and trying to get a wild rabbit to stand still so she could pick it up. It reminded her she was different now, that she was new. With every small affirmation of her magic she couldn't help the combination of wonder and eagerness that filled her.

She was new.

Magic was in everything they did. The runes in the house that responded to everyone, the paintings with the memories of the people painted, the reading of tea leaves during the morning tea to see if you had to bring an umbrella outside.

Life with magic was so much better than without.

Today was a day like any other. She had her science lesson this morning and was now occupied with the last chapter in her French grammar book. Her grandmother had long since left her to read and review, going to talk to her father and write some letters. Turning the last page of the last chapter she sighed, finally she was done. English had been easy enough, but French was on another level. The pronunciation and vocabulary were fine, but the grammar was hard. This was the second time she had studied the book and finally she felt a sense of understanding and memorisation set in.

Putting the book back in its place next to the French dictionaries, she made her way out of the library, rows of simple future and pluperfect still running through her mind. Her grandmother had been adamant that this was the last time they would go over the grammar book, and for the following weeks they would just talk, read, and write in French, getting more active with the language.

Closing the library doors behind her she started walking down the hall, observing her house yet again. From both the exterior and interior of the chateau it was clear the Matthieu family had old money.

Many rooms, shining surfaces and metals, old antiques, and all of that for a total of three people.

The house itself was situated on a big piece of land in Bretagne, close by the sea. From the outside it was all white stone, build in the fifteenth century, and a representation of classical Renaissance architecture. The house was perfectly symmetrical, one side pointing towards the east, the other towards the west, and with big columns at the main entrance supporting the entablature above it. Inside it was light, the sun easy making its way through the high windows and reflecting off the stone floors. Paintings of old relatives, that liked to watch and talk to her, hung from the walls, together with tapestries, and, in some rooms, ceilings were decorated with moving frescos.

Her bedroom was one of the darker rooms in the house. Her walls were emerald green and the rooms accents were purple, colours both chosen by her father and grandmother. They represented both their houses in Hogwarts and Beauxbatons, and Maia liked the colours well enough not to change them.

She never strayed very far from her usual spot in the library anyway. It was the first place they looked if they couldn't find her.

"Can you tell me where grandmother and father are currently residing?" She asked, turning her head to the wall of paintings. The image of a distant grandmother nodded at her, her thin white dress and pink shawl straying behind her as she left the painting.

Maia stood and waited, observing the painting which was now empty, save for the blooming nature and the distant image of the very same house in the background.

"They are in the west parlour, little one." A head of light blond curls appeared back in the painting, one hand now filled with light pink tulips she had most likely gotten from the painting of her husband a few rooms over. Maia bowed and turned around to make her way to the west wing.

Arriving at the parlour, she knocked on the door. Finally having some knowledge about manners, she was never going to let it go. She liked being polite and befitting of the person she was born to be.

"Come in." The voice of her grandmother reached her ears through the doors.

Opening a single door, she was greeted with the sight of the west parlour and her two family members. The room was mostly made out of high windows, the rain outside clattering against the glass. Red leaves were visible on the trees and the wind was blowing, but even though the outside was wet and cold, the room was warm and comfortable.

There was a record playing in the background with classical music. A fire burned in the fireplace on the left side of the room, two gold and emerald couches opposite from each other with a table in the middle, on a big carpet on the stone floor. The red of the fire, and the candles burning in the chandelier, made the golden decoration on the walls and ceiling shine.

Her father and grandmother sat on the opposite couches facing each other, with the teapot floating in between them, refilling their floating cups. Her father looked up from his newspaper and gave her a little grin.

"Done reading Maia?" His voice was nice and low, never too loud. To this day she had yet to hear him scream or yell.

Her grandmother looked up from the book she was reading and raised her eyebrow in question. French was her subject to teach after all.

"Yes, I have finished the last chapter." She turned her look from her father to her grandmother and gave her a small nod. "I am confident to further my studies."

In old pictures her grandmother had the same hair as her mother, a light brown, but now it was mostly grey, paired with some small wrinkles on her face, the only indicators she was in her seventies. Her eyes were a twinkling baby blue, opposite from her mother who had hazel eyes, and drew most of the attention on her face. Maia often wondered who her grandfather was, but the first time she had asked about him her grandmother had left the room, and her father had told her to never say or ask anything about the man again. She had listened and never repeated the question. It hadn't stopped her from digging in drawers and going through old photo books, but her search had been futile.

The lack of familial ties to her father or her grandmother did make her a bit put out. She couldn't talk about Black family members, not about grandfather, couldn't go to England, and not touch the magical books in the library. The latter rule was broken often enough, but the others she put on hold with reluctance.

They both did nothing to suppress their slight smirk at her speech, which in return made her scowl. She neither wanted to be seen as cute or adorable. She had manners and she was going to use them.

Her current height made it easy for her to sit herself on the couch. She was tall for a seven-year-old, standing at a proud 4 feet 4 inches, or 132 centimeters, and she was glad everything was pointing towards another life of height superiority.

Her father didn't speak and moved to pick her up from the spot next to him, placing her on his lap. Not voicing a single protest at his actions, she made herself comfortable. Over the last few years she had also stopped taking a seat on his lap, as it wasn't proper for her age, and she suspected he missed it. This position would actually help her in her endeavours, because now he had to get her down again to get away from her.

"Father, grandmother, I have a question." She spoke, leaning against her father's chest.

"What is it, chérie?" Her grandmother put her book open on the couch next to her.

"I wondered if we had any plans for Yule this December?" Maia quickly continued before they could answer. "I know that England is a lot safer than it was years ago and I would like to meet more of my family."

Her grandmother raised her eyebrow at this and looked towards her father.

"Most of my family is estranged from each other, married or otherwise. I haven't heard from any of them in a long time." Her father answered, looking hesitant.

"The last time we saw most of them was at our wedding or at..." Her father's voice trailed off. He still had trouble talking about her mother's death.

"Sophie wouldn't have wanted you to keep Maia all to yourself Alphard." Her grandmothers' tone was soft, but her eyes were firm, this time siding with her. "Yule is a family celebration."

Yule was the celebration they had during the last twelve days of the year. They would bring in trees, decorate them with different greeneries and magical decorations. They exchanged gifts, and on the first day of Yule, the longest night of the year, they would watch the sun come up in the morning. In her last life she never celebrated any holidays. If they were lucky they could celebrate her sister's birthday, but that was that. Here they had many more than just Yule. The Equinoxes, both spring and autumn, May Eve, the Summer Solstice, and Samhain. Each with their own celebration.

On her birthday, the autumn equinox, the equator was the closest to the sun, instead the north or south pole. It represents balance, one half of the world shrouded in darkness, the other in light. Twelve hours of night and twelve hours of day. After that the night would last longer than the day until the next equinox.

She was pulled out of her thoughts by her father placing his arms around her.

"I know." He looked at her face. "How about I send a letter to my sister? It probably is time that we stop ignoring each other."

He looked a bit put out that he had to send the first letter, but she just leaned back into him, showing him she was grateful.

"Sophie would have loved to celebrate Yule with you and my family." Her father got a distant look in his eyes. "At our wedding she managed to get Walburga and Sirius to be in a room together without them cursing at each other, everybody was surprised. I don't think I will ever be able to manage that."

He smiled sadly.

She swallowed, but her resolve did not waver. This was her opening and she would take it. It was in her right to know and she would keep her foot down this time.

"Father," she began slowly, "how did mother pass away?"

The arms around her tightened a bit and it remained silent for a couple of seconds. It seemed as if her grandmother and father were talking to each other with looks alone. Grabbing the tea cup that had appeared before her, she let them decide, taking a sip of the still hot tea.

It seemed like they came to an agreement, because they both looked at her at the same time.

"First you should know that your mother loved you very much." Her father began, his voice soft. "She was so excited when she was pregnant with you, picking out names, clothes, toys, and everything. She wasn't scared for a second, she had no doubts."

Her father blinked fast, swallowing a few times, his voice trailing off.

Her grandmother continued for him, and Maia turned her head to look at the older woman.

"During the last months she started to show signs of exhaustion." Her grandmother smiled sadly, but didn't let it stop her. "Fetus Vigor Absorptius, it's a disease rare enough it took healers weeks to recognise, and by that time she only had one option left."

Her grandmother looked down at her tea, took a deep breath, and then looked back up to her.

"She loved you more than anything in the world, and she wasn't going to let this disease take you from her. Healers induced your birth and did everything to save the both of you, but Sophie was too far gone."

At the last part her father pressed his face in her hair.

"What does this disease do exactly?" She asked, looking between her grandmother and father.

The possibility of a disease wasn't her fault, right? Enough people get sick when they are pregnant.

"Fetus Vigor Absorptius is a disease where the baby needs a lot of energy to develop. It's a magical disease and hard to diagnose." Her father began.

"In the beginning your mother would just feel tired, but the identifying point is when her magic started becoming erratic and by that time it was too late." He explained, stroking her hair. "In most recorded cases it resulted in the death of both mother and child. You were an exception."

"And mother wasn't." Maia finished, looking at her lap.

Was it her fault? Would this woman, her mother, already have the disease regardless of what fetus she grew? Did she take the place of an already empty soulless fetus body and is that why she didn't die? No way she could get answers to any of those questions.

Both her grandmother and father spoke at the same time, their voices overlapping.

"It is not your fault." They sounded completely sure of themselves.

"But..." She was immediately interrupted.

"Your mother loved you, she chose you, and she made us promise to take care of you." Her father's eyes shined and she blinked, not used to the man showing this much emotion.

"Don't ever think this is your fault Maia. I know your mother, if she wanted something she was going to get it. It was the same with you, her favourite fur coat, that one job, and even me." He let out a chocked laugh. "You remind me of her a lot."

A guilty feeling crept its way into her stomach. She could remember her time in the small space perfectly. She had tried not to think about it, but she knew it had been her mother's womb. Remembering the small space, the constant drowning, and the thoughts about her death, she forced her thoughts into a different direction.

"But then how about other family?" She said looking at her grandmother first. She was throwing it all out there now.

Just because she couldn't ask about her grandfather, didn't mean she couldn't ask about great-grandparents. Her grandmother answered without even thinking about it.

"The rest of my family is dead," she huffed and it looked like she couldn't care less, "bon débarras."

There was definitely a story behind that, but she had touched enough touchy subjects for today, so she looked back at her father.

He looked at her for a moment before his eyes softened.

"I'm going to send my sister a letter." He said, his voice determined. "We will see how everyone is doing. Things in England have calmed down and you have to right to get to know your family."

Giving him a smile, she started to imagine what more family would be like. Would they be strict like her grandmother? Or more relaxed like her father? Would they like her? Would she like them?

An elated nervousness filled her body, but hope filled her eyes. She was going to enjoy everything selfishly this time and nobody was going to stand in her way.