Astor
Magic was real. Some would call this shocking or astounding, but to me… it was just dull. Predictable. Like someone saying that two plus two equaled four: utterly and completely inane.
The exact opposite seemed true of Bryony. The wonder in her eyes as we stood at the entrance of Diagon Alley – located, somewhat suspiciously, behind a rather worn and dingy pub – and then this big smile spread across her face, and she was darting forwards, looking at anything and everything, peering through shop windows at cauldrons and strange silvery instruments, gawking at the strangely dressed crowds of people.
Behind me, McGonagall chuckled. "Do you remember when you were that young…"
Severus Snape scowled and swept forwards without a word, chasing after Bryony and eventually drawing her back in thrall.
Hesitating a moment – those instruments in that shop were interesting – I eventually chose to chase after my errant sister. We were surrounded by strangers, and how could I know whether Snape and McGonagall were trustworthy?
McGonagall, of course, trailed after me, and we caught up with the errant girl and sour-faced professor before a shop selling barrels of disgusting looking things. My nose wrinkled, and I turned away, but Bryony seemed awed even at that.
"Astor!" Bryony seized my hands and drew me to a window. "Look! Flying broomsticks! Isn't that amazing!"
"Positively gravity defying," I muttered, and Snape glanced at me, the corners of his lips just turning upwards, as if he'd somehow heard me, even over all the noise of the alley.
Bryony, of course, heard no such thing, and, bouncing on her toes, said, "What do you think it'll be like? We can actually fly!"
"You will learn soon enough," McGonagall interjected, smiling with amusement, "Hogwarts has flying lessons."
My stomach rolled. Flying… in the air… high above the ground… "I presume they're mandatory?"
"They are."
"It'll be fine," Bryony assured me quietly, but all I could think of was falling, falling, and a crack, and boys laughing…
I wanted to throw up.
Snape stepped forwards, black robes swirling on the edge of my vision. "Perhaps we should resume our trip. I would prefer not to linger."
McGonagall glanced at him, then nodded. "Of course, Severus. This way, girls."
She shooed us along, staying closely behind us, and preventing Bryony from rushing off again, to my twin's disappointment. Soon, we stood before a glimmering white bank declaring Gringotts in elaborate gold cursive, the stone sparkling faintly in the light as if someone had dumped glitter on the entire building.
Standing beside the burnished bronze doors was a creature. That was the only way to describe it: a creature, shorter than even Bryony and I – the shortest in our class – with strangely elongated feet and hands and odd, pointed ears, life an elf's.
"Goblins," Snape informed us quietly, "it is best not to anger them."
And, as if to reaffirm that, we came to a second pair of doors, silver this time, with words engraved in them:
Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed,
For those who take, but do not earn,
Must pay most dearly in their turn,
So if you seek beneath our floors
A treasure that was never yours,
Thief, you have been warned, beware
Of finding more than treasure there
"Creepy," Bryony murmured, and I nodded.
Silently, we moved across the gleaming marble hall, to one of the many tellers – all goblins – that were scribbling in massive ledgers as large as them, examining precious stones through eyeglasses, weighing coins on brass scales. This one seemed to have no other task before him, now that a family was peeling away from him, off through one of the many sets of doors around the hall, but he still scowled as we stopped before him.
"We've come to take money out of the Potter twins' trust vaults," Snape – not McGonagall – said briskly.
He peered first at Snape, then at the pair of us. "Blood tests are required for the issuing of the keys, and proof of identity."
Snape nodded as if that was expected, but Bryony and I exchanged a look. Blood test? What, exactly, did that involve?
The goblin snapped his fingers, and a slim silver dagger and roll of parchment appeared on the counter. Without further ado, Snape picked up the knife and pricked his finger, allowing a few drops to fall from the blade before wiping it off. Words appeared on the parchment, written in gleaming red, like fresh blood… which is exactly what it was. Words, no, names, written in his own blood, a family tree, and I leaned forwards–
The goblin swept away the parchment, examining it for a moment before nodding, then focusing on Bryony. Blood tests, he'd said, plural.
I stepped in front of her and picked up the knife. "So we just have to bleed on the parchment?"
The goblin scowled at me. "Three drops on the parchment."
I picked my finger and did as he said. Like with Snape, words appeared on the parchment, words and lines, my family tree…
Astor Eleanor Potter
And above that:
James Henry Potter – Lily Jane Evans
It continued to spread out, more names appearing, first familiar ones: Petunia Eleanor Evans, Vernon L. Dursley, Dudley Albert Dursley. Then, unfamiliar ones: Daisy Winters and Thomas Evans, Fleamont Potter and Euphemia Fawley, Rose Parkinson and Benjamin Winters, Henry Potter and…
The goblin ripped the parchment away, and I almost stepped forwards, almost reached for it again, to see it, proof, that I was real, that my family existed, people who had, at one point, loved me, however dead they were now. But I stopped myself, with only the twitch of my fingers to reveal my urge.
When the goblin finished examining it, he passed me an intricate gold key and told me to bleed on it, one drop this time. A drop that was absorbed into the metal, the key sparkling just a little brighter than before.
The process repeated with Bryony, though I was the one to slice her finger – Bryony had always been cowardly when it came to pain.
The goblin, still scowling, waved his hand, calling, "Griphook!" and another goblin appeared. This one led us off through one of the doors… all of us that is, except Professor McGonagall. I paused, glancing back at her, but Snape barked, "Hurry up," not stopping, and I realized the group were already moving through the door and down a corridor, and I hurried after them.
It was a narrow stone passage, lit with flaming torches, sloping downwards to a set of railway tracks. The goblin whistled, and a small cart hurtled up the tracks towards us.
We climbed in, Snape still sour faced, Bryony still eager. I had hardly sat when the cart took off with a sharp jerk, sending me toppling forwards, and I caught hold of the side of the cart to keep from falling.
We hurtled through a maze of twisting passages, going right, left, left, right… It was impossible to keep track, and my eyes stung from trying. Without the goblin, there was no way we'd find our way back out again. It… I didn't like it. The lack of control. The helplessness.
Bryony laughed as we plunged down suddenly, my stomach rolling, and she was insane. How could anyone enjoy this?
Finally, though, we came to a stop before a circular platform, several intricately carved doors set into the stone walls. My legs shook as I stood, and I leaned against the wall as subtly as I could manage.
When the world stopped rolling, I straightened, and looked around. There were five doors, each black, with vines carved across them, and at the very center the same crest: a pair of ravens, a wand, and three stones.
Griphook unlocked the leftmost door. A soft hiss, and green smoke came billowing out, dispelling in the cool air.
"What's that?" Bryony asked.
"Curse residue," the goblin replied, and Bryony looked at him blankly. The goblin scowled. "From the wards. Dark energy frequently builds up over time–"
He cut off then, with a glance at Snape, then focused on Bryony. "This vault is yours, Miss Potter."
She nodded, and drifted forwards. Piles and piles of coins, many glittering gold, but even more small silver ones and even smaller bronze ones.
"What are the different coins?" I asked, peering over my sister's shoulder.
"Knuts, sickles, and galleons," Snape said. "There are 29 knuts – the bronze ones – to a silver sickle, and 17 sickles to a gold galleon."
Those were odd numbers. Why 29 or 17? They could hardly be easy to multiply, add, divide.
"How much do I need?" Bryony asked.
"40 galleons."
She nodded, and went to it. Somehow, the other girl had found a small blue bag, and was carefully counting out money – taking only a few galleons, then adding several dozen sickles, and finally just adding a few fistfuls of knuts.
Then, the door closed, and Griphook moved to the next door, unlocking it, but this time, there was no wave of green smoke.
I glanced at the goblin, and he sneered at me. "Your vault, Heiress Potter."
I blinked.
"Heiress?" Bryony repeated.
But the goblin ignored me, glancing at Snape again. Why? What didn't he want to say before the professor?
Biting back a frown, I stepped inside the vault.
It was larger than Bryony's, and, unlike the other girl's, there was more than just coins. Oh, certainly, a rather sizable amount had been amassed to one side, but there were also a couple chests and several shelves, holding worn books, spines cracked, bound in leather, many titleless or with only a crest stamped on – the same crest on the door to the vaults – and small artifacts, jewelry and blown glass figurines and strange looking silver contraptions much like those in the shops far above.
"Yours is bigger than mine," Bryony said, stepping up beside me. The magic… it hissed, somehow, registering her presence.
I took her hand, squeezed it, and said quietly, "They loved you just as much."
She glanced at me, nodded… and stepped back outside the vault. As if she, too, could feel the magic uneasy with her presence.
Swallowing, I drifted forwards, exploring alongside the shelves. All of this… it was somehow, impossibly mine. If the Dursleys had known about it, they'd have stolen it right out from under me. From both of us.
But, here and there, a gap between books, a curiously blank space on the neat, carefully organized shelves… And the green smoke… Someone had come into my vault, taken things…
"Miss Potter," Snape interrupted. "We have other business to attend to."
Miss Potter, not heiress like the goblin. Why the change? What did this mean?
"Coming, ma'am."
On one shelf sat a small blue bag, a string of delicate pearls for a strap, and I snatched that, piling coins inside. But, curiously enough, the bag didn't grow any heavier, and, when I placed my hand inside, I didn't feel the bottom. I reached deeper… and deeper… and deeper, until half my arm was inside, and still hadn't touched the bottom.
Bloody hell.
My gaze met Bryony's, her eyes wide with the same incredulity I felt. But, Snape was right, we had other things to do, and so I quickly piled in several more hazardous handfuls of coins, before hopping out of the vault.
I met Snape's eyes, and smiled widely.
One, final wild cart ride later, we stood back outside, blinking in the sunlight. The street had filled up more as the day wore on, a steady stream of people darting up the gleaming steps into the bank, a thick throng rushing in and out of shops.
But there was no sign of McGonagall. Snape said nothing of her absence, heading down the road without even a word to us, and leaving us with a choice: stay where we were, alone and lost, or chase after him.
Of course, we did the latter.
We caught up to him before a shop filled with clothes, the sign reading Madame Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.
I nudged Bryony, glancing at the professor, and she asked, "Where's Professor McGonagall?"
"She had to return to the school," he replied, scowling, as he opened the door. A bell chimed happily.
"How do you know that?" she asked innocently.
His scowl deepened, but the owner emerged from further in the shop before he could reply.
She was a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve. She took in Snape, something flickering in her eyes before she addressed us.
"Hogwarts, dears?" she asked lightly. "Got the lot here, though I'm afraid one of you will have to wait – two others are being fitted up just now."
Bryony had drifted over to the wall, perusing the strangely shaped clothing and odd fabrics, so I smiled up at the woman and followed her to the back.
Sure enough, two children stood on platforms. Clothing and measuring tape and pins moved on their own, the long black fabric adjusting itself as the tape measured them. In the corner, two piles of shirts and pants or skirts folded up and laid themselves into a bag.
The girl was pale, like a ghost, her face pointed and her hair this odd, silvery white, braided and falling over her shoulder. The boy was pale, too, but more porcelain, with a flush of color to his cheeks, and his hair as black as the raven's feather Bryony kept in her box of trinkets.
Both looked oddly alike, in fact, with pale, delicate features like that of a doll's, lean, willowy bodies several inches taller than Bryony and I for all that we must be the same age, and grey eyes – one set dark and violet as storm clouds, the other a pale silver. They mirrored each other, almost, like seeing dark and light side by side.
"... new Nimbus 2000," the pale girl was saying without a care, not acknowledging my presence, "it'll be spectacular, don't you think, Castor–"
It was the boy who noticed me first, steel gray eyes looking me over, hard and cold as iron, and my breath caught.
"I still don't see why first years can't have their own…" The girl finally noticed that her brother? cousin? wasn't paying attention. "Eros? Eros?" She followed the dark boy's gaze, and her eyes darkened. "Hullo. Hogwarts, too?"
"Yes," I said, stepping onto the third platform. Madame Malkin waved her wand, and a third measuring tape swooped out of a small chest and began measuring me.
"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands." She had a bored, drawling voice. "Utterly pointless, of course, everyone knows the wand chooses the wizard–"
I nodded dutifully as she prattled on, looking at the boy. Our gazes met, and he rolled his eyes, as annoyed with the blathering as I.
The pale girl paused for a breath, and I took advantage to ask the other one, "What about your parents?"
The pale girl jerked, hissing as a needle pricked her. The blood was shockingly vivid against her ghostly skin.
"They're… indisposed," the dark one replied blandly.
I nodded. Indisposed. It sounded like a nice euphemism. Perhaps I should come up with my own for my dearly departed parents.
"What if yours?" the babbling boy asked.
"They're dead."
A pause. A long beat. A frigid moment of silence.
"Oh, I'm sorry," the pale girl said, not sounding sorry at all. "Did they die in the war?"
War? What war? "They were killed by a very dark wizard, Miss Potter," McGonagall had told us, and refused to say more. Had that been what she meant? "Mm-hmm."
"Ah." A pause. "What side were they fighting for?"
"Polaris," the dark boy hissed, and wasn't that a funny name? As strange as Eros or Minerva, certainly… or even Astor and Bryony. Perhaps all wizards had funny names? "You're being tactless again."
She puffed up. "I am not!"
"What would Aunt Narcissa say if she'd heard you?"
She glowered a bit at the boy, who just raised a slim eyebrow. "Sorry," she bit out.
"That's alright," I said, glancing between the two. Tension simmered between them, thick with something unsaid and hidden. Aunt Narcissa. So they were cousins, perhaps? Were the dark boy's parents dead, as well?
"All done, Miss Malfoy," Madame Malkin said, and the pale girl was shooed out. "I'll be back to finish you up in a moment, Mr. Lestrange."
He nodded boredly.
The two disappeared back beyond the curtain to the front of the shop.
"What house are you hoping for?" he asked suddenly.
House? "I'm not sure."
"Hmm." He nodded. "I'll probably be a Slytherin, or perhaps Ravenclaw. Most of my family has been in one or the other. Although Great Aunt Parmenia was a Hufflepuff."
"Ah."
"There's four of them," he added. "Houses, I mean. Ravenclaw, for the clever. Gryffindor, for the brave. Slytherin, for the ambitious. And Hufflepuff… well, nobody's entirely certain what they stand for. 'All the rest', apparently, but they're supposed to be really hardworking and kind."
"That's probably where my sister'll go," I said softly. Bryony… kind and hardworking, and so, so soft. Like a flower, easily bruised. "I don't know about myself though."
Madame Malkin returned, then, Bryony trailing after her. She shooed the other boy – Mr. Lestrange, Eros – out and waved her wand, setting the tape to measuring Bryony and a heavy black robe falling over my head, earning a jolt from me. Then, she swept out after the boy.
Neither of us spoke through the rest of the fittings and soon enough we were leaving with several parcels stuffed into our – apparently extension charmed, whatever that meant – purses.
The shopping passed quickly after that, with us collecting the standard brewer's kit, a pewter – "Pewter, Potter," Snape snapped when Bryony gawked over a solid gold one, while I plugged my nose against the strong stench wafting from several large barrels, rotten eggs and spoiled cabbage mixing together – cauldron, and set of scales from Slug & Jiggers; bottles of ink, several cheap quills – three knuts a piece – and dozens of rolls of parchment from Scribbulus Writing Instruments; two telescopes at Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment; and finally stepped into Flourish and Blotts.
Shelves and shelves of books towered up to the ceiling, so high that rolling ladders stood at intervals. Several small stables were interspersed throughout the vast room, little placards exclaiming: best seller! or household goods! or quick and easy reads! The books themselves were odd, too, bound in leather or silk, books as large as paving stones or tiny as postage stamps, books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing in them at all. Even Dudley, who never read anything, would have been gobsmacked.
Snape scowled viciously whenever we dawdled over an interesting title – Ancient Runes Made Easy, filled with strange symbols and complicated translations, or Unfogging the Future – and when he caught me looking at a tome on jinxes and countercurses and dueling, he bit out, "Dueling is not permitted outside the classroom, Potter," in the kind of voice that suggested he'd be pleased to see me try and punish me for it.
Still, though, I wanted to try to get him not to hate me before I'd even stepped foot into his classroom. "I understand, sir. I was merely curious. I'm sure there are a lot of ways wizards can hurt us."
Something flickered across his eyes, there and gone in a blink. "That book is too advanced." He plucked another from the shelf. "Begin with this one."
I stared up at him. He… what?
"Many will claim that Hogwarts is the safest place in Britain," he told me, "but outside its walls, you will be alone and undefended."
"Safer than Gringotts?" Bryony asked, looking away from a book she'd picked up somewhere, by some man named Newt Scamander. "I heard a boy say that there were dragons guarding the vaults!"
When had she heard that? I hadn't heard anyone else talking about dragons, of all the impossible things. Or, well, maybe not so impossible.
Snape's scowl returned. "Dragons are Class XXXX creatures, Miss Potter. Only a fool would believe the Ministry would permit that."
Her brow wrinkled, and I could see the question rising: Class XXXX?
"We should get our school books," I cut in before they could continue down that road of inquiry, "it's getting late."
She nodded, and we headed towards the back of the shop – but she didn't put the book back.
After several more stops, and several other books grabbed – including, Hogwarts, A History, and Modern Wizarding History, though that one earned a dirty look from Snape – we finally collected the schools books conveniently located at the very back of the store and purchased them after waiting in a long, long line.
We checked the list again after that.
"A wand," I said, peering over Bryony's shoulder at the list. "Where would we get that, professor?"
"Ollivander," he replied briskly, "Many claim he's the best wandmaker in Europe."
"You disagree?"
Snape looked me over. "My second wand is of Ollivander's design, but it works much the same as the original."
I nodded absently, my mind on those words. My second wand… but why would he need to get a new wand? Did he break it? Lose it? Wands seemed very important to wizards, with how everyone carried one and every book I'd skimmed mentioned them, and he hardly seemed the careless sort.
"However, wand making is a highly subjective craft, one I know little about, Miss Potter. I honestly couldn't say."
I nodded. Perhaps I should pick up a book on it.
Ollivanders turned out to be rather narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.
We stepped inside, a tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the dusty shop. It was a tiny place, or maybe that was all the clutter; rows and rows of tight, narrow shelves cut all the way to the ceiling, filled with little boxes. A thick layer of silence hung over the place, much like a library or some other forgotten, sacred place, as if even daring to breathe was a desecration.
"Good afternoon."
I jumped.
An old man had appeared from the gloom, hair white as snow, and his wide, pale eyes glowed like moons in the murkiness.
"Hello," Bryony said, and I tried to emulate her, but the words choked and died in my throat.
"'Ah yes," said the man. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon, Misses Potter."
How did he know our names?
"You look like your mother." He tilted his head, examining Bryony closely, utterly ignoring me. My grip tightened around her wrist. "Although the hair… it's darker than her own, more wild. Like all the Potters, I suppose."
Bryony stared up at him, eyes wide.
"It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow–"
"I doubt," Snape interrupted in a cool, sharp tone, "that a history lesson is required to sell them wands, Mr. Ollivander."
He blinked, then looked at the man. No. Looked was too shallow. It was as if he was peeling apart every lair of what made Snape Snape, piercing straight to his soul, while the man stared back with hard, cold black eyes. "Ah, yes, of course." His eyes were too wide as they focused on Snape, unblinking. "How is your wand? Holly and dragon heartstring–"
"It is well cared for," he bit out.
"I see." He clapped his hands together, and Bryony and I jumped. "Yes, yes, down to business."
His own wand snapped into his hand, and he asked, "Which is your wand arm? Miss Potter."
The two of us exchanged a look.
"Astor Potter."
"I'm left-handed." Hopefully, that was what he meant.
He nodded. "Unusual. Well? Hold it out." I did, and with a flick of his wrist a tape measure appeared. "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."
He snapped his fingers. Bryony jolted and knocked over a stack of boxes; Ollivander ignored her, still staring at me as the measuring tape crumpled up on the floor.
"Right then." He flicked his own wanr, and a series of boxes came flying from every direction, stacking neatly on the floor. "Try this one, Miss Potter. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave."
I took the wand. Just wave it? That sounded rather silly. Bit he was giving me an encouraging look, and Bryony was watching closely, so I waved it–
Ollivander snatched it from my hand and shoved another into it.
"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try–"
I tried, and tried, and tried, feeling more and more foolish with each flick – or sometimes less than that, sometimes he immediately whipped it from my hand, and in those moments I felt… something. A flicker. A simmering, roiling mess that was not happy.
The pile of discards grew steadily harder on the spindly chair, but the more wands Mr Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the happier he seemed to become.
"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere – I wonder, now – yes, why not – unusual combination – hawthorn and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."
I tentatively took the wand… and a warmth raced through my fingers, this happy, content feeling building in my chest… utterly foreign and unwelcome, yet right.
This time, when I waved it, a stream of green and silver sparks shot from the end like fireworks, throwing dancing spots of light onto the walls.
"Ah!" Ollivander cried, beaming. "Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well… how curious… how very curious…"
That warmth was slowly fading, but… it wasn't right. Holding a simple stick – even aagicalbine – shouldn't have felt so wondrous. It had to be artificial, a trick…
Still, I only reluctantly handed the wand back to Ollivander, not liking the idea of parting. He put it in its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still murmuring, "curious… curious…"
"What's curious?" I asked, hoping to distract myself from the strangeness of my wand.
He blinked, then fixed his gaze on me – eyes too pale, too wide. "I remember every wand I've ever sold, Miss Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother – why, its brother gave you that scar."
I stared. What?
"Yes, thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember…" A chill began to creep down my spine. "I think we must expect great things from you, Miss Potter … After all, He Who Must Not Be Named did great things – terrible, yes, but great–"
"Enough," Snape cut in. He wasn't looking at Ollivander, though, but me. "The girl doesn't need to hear your dramatics."
Ollivander ignored him, and turned to Bryony. "Your turn, Miss Potter."
Bryony hesitated a moment, then strode over, offering up her right arm to measure.
Finding her wand was far more simple. Each one offered had a phoenix core, and it only took five tries for her to pick a wand… or, if Ollivander was to be believed, a wand picked out her.
"Willow and phoenix feather. Eleven and a half inches. Quite unusual."
The wand was intricately carved with vines and polished to a deep, dark brown, unlike my own pale wand. Bryony picked it up, an awed expression on her face, and waved it, and sparks shot out.
He beamed. "That wand has been sitting on my shelves since my grandfather's day. He always was one for more intricate craftsmanship than I." He looked from one of us to the other. "I see we will expect great things from you and your sister."
Regardless of how thrilled Ollivander was, Snape was quick to get us to pay and shuffled us from the shop, scowling viciously. There was no love lost between the potion's master and the wandmaker, it seemed.
As we wandered back towards the Leaky Cauldron, I considered wand woods. What did it mean, that both of ours were phoenix feather? Why had that one wand called to Bryony? Why, in fact, did mine feel so… so familiar, at home – in fact, even now, I wanted to grab it from the box and test it out?
Willow and hawthorn. How many different wand woods were there, and what did they mean?
Of course, this direction of thinking quickly reminded me of all my other questions, everything from why didn't we know about magic and how did our parents' die, to the simple, insignificant questions of what are houses and why do goblins run the wizarding bank. So much was rolling through my mind, so many questions to answer, that I barely paid any attention at all over dinner, and then Snape was offering his arm to us, time to return home, back to the Dursleys, and…
I don't want to go.
The world spun and twisted around them, this sickening, unpleasant sensation much like being crushed and sucked through a very thin straw, and then they stood on Privet Drive again, the sun setting.
He led us back to the house, my stomach twisting all the while. What would we find there? How much crueler would they be?
He knocked on the door, and only seconds passed before the door flung open, Uncle Vernon standing there, face red. He opened his mouth tspeak… and then stopped, choking, eyes wide with terror.
"Girls," Snape said, and there was something dark, simmering in the air around him, like a wicked vengeful angel, "you may return to your room. I will see you on September 1st."
I grabbed Bryony's hand and dragged her past Vernon's bulk and up the stairs. And if I saw the wand jabbed into Vernon's stomach, almost hidden by Snape's black robes, and realized what Snape was about to do, then nobody would ever know.
Severus
Mrs. Figg lived directly across from the Dursleys, in a house that was an exact mirror to their own, though somehow her home itself couldn't be more different.
Rather than a few neat flower beds, the roses seemingly aware that if they misbehaved they'd be sniped away, her garden was a slightly overgrown mess of irises, tulips, and lilies that appeared here and there as if planted by some drunken god. The interior was just as disorderly, little cat figurines clustered over every surface, end tables and couches left at odd angles that saw one running into something or another however he or she tried, bright colors glaring from every direction, and through this all a dozen or more cats that weaved around visitor's legs or watched from the shadows like they were waiting for the right moment to attack.
It was only with great reluctance that Severus settled on the green and pink monstrosity disguised as a couch, forcing a bland look on his face. Really, if he had to spend more than an hour here, he'd go mad.
"Would you like some tea? Or coffee, that is what you prefer, I've heard?" Mrs. Figg asked.
"No, thank you." He wouldn't eat or drink anything here. "I merely came to ask after the Potter girls."
She blinked. "Oh, that. Yes, well, there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with them…"
"If you would report anything you remember?" he inquired.
"Well, the Dursleys seem ever so kind sorts," she said, eyes going distant. "Petunia comes to visit me, you know? Nobody else bothers these days…"
Petunia, pleasant? The girl had been a terror even when she was ten. "How unfortunate."
"Yes… well, the girls really are quite young. No signs of accidental magic or anything yet, and I haven't seen anything suspicious. The screams are rather distracting, though…"
His heart missed a beat. "Screams?"
She blinked at him, eyes too wide, glimmering like a particularly dense owl's. "Oh, yes, but they are so young? It isn't anything to worry about, all babies do it, though Astor has some great lungs on her…"
Mrs. Figg continued to speak, about how adorable babies they were, with Lily's eyes and all, and the more she rambled, the further Severus's heart sank. The woman was mad, skipping from thinking the girls were so young, to working rigorously in the gardens and the odd shouts and perhaps Albus should be notified, to the moment Bryony fell from a tree without a mark on her and wasn't that wonderful?
Finally, she jolted, then blinked up at him. "Who are you? What're you doing in my house?"
Dementia. The word sank into his mind, and he had to force his expression blank. "Severus Snape, potion's master at Hogwarts."
She frowned. "Oh, so old Sluggy finally decided to retire?"
Merlin and Morgana. "Yes, ma'am."
She nodded. "Good for him." She jolted. "Oh, I've been so rude… Would you like some tea?"
"No, thank you, ma'am." He rose. "I was just leaving."
It took several more minutes to extract herself, and by the end of it she told him to say hello to Professor Beery, who'd died years ago. He stalked out of the house, his stomach twisting unpleasantly.
Dementia. Severus may have thoroughly enmeshed himself in wizarding life, may have utterly abandoned his mundane Muggle existence, but he was still familiar enough with the concept. Wizards suffered from it as well, if not so frequently as Muggles. And Mrs. Figg was rather old, for a squib. But still…
Nobody had checked.
Not once.
Not a single instance where it had occurred to them – to Albus, to Minerva, especially not himself, to check on the girls themselves. They had contented themselves with her reports and the security of the wards. For Minerva and Albus, there were excuses, Albus had a dozen tasks and functions to attend to each day, split as he was between the school, Wizengamot, the Confederation, and his own plotting, and Minerva could hardly be expected to watch over them outside her duty as a teacher. But Severus?
"Do you, Severus Snape," Lily said, staring at him with an eerie intentness, her usually brilliantly bright eyes a dark, deep green, "promise to watch over and protect my second born daughter, Bryony Jane Potter?"
This was what he'd felt, each day, the bond between them straining with each beating, each curt word, each punishment unfairly inflicted upon the girl. Distantly, he wondered if the mutt had felt the same.
It had been his duty to watch out for her, but he couldn't even think of her without feeling this awful, crushing pain. He had been weak, too weak to perform his duty, fulfill his promise.
He should've been watching. He should've checked on her numerous times over the years. He should've been there if needed.
But he hadn't.
He knew who Petunia was, but never had he dared to come and see for himself. And so he'd failed her, just like–
No. Don't think about that.
He'd failed her.
And so, as he Apparated away, to inform Albus what he'd learned, he swore: He would not fail her again.