Trigger warning: child abuse

Micah grabbed a handful of Harriet's hair, dragging her from hiding place. The girl screamed, clawing and kicking out, but he only laughed as her feet bounced ineffectually off his leather-clad shins. Her glasses slid off as she clutched his wrist with her hands, nails seeking purchase on his arm, but she couldn't dig in through the thick fabric of his robe.

"Watch it, Missy!" he exclaimed, dodging a kick aimed at his groin. "Oi, can't we knock her out?"

"No stunners," said the woman, evidently the leader here. "I was told hostile magic on her body might provoke the parasite, even with the Pacifier absorbing her magic."

"I figured. Thought I'd ask anyway," he sighed. "No stunners."

Without warning, he reared back and punched Harriet in the gut.

"Gagh—?!"

Bile rose in her oesophagus, and her breakfast spewed out. Micah darted back just in time, avoiding the mess as he dropped her to the floor, where she lay, shuddering and clutching her stomach.

"Merlin!" shouted the attacker closest to Harriet. "What'd you go and do that for?! The girl's an Obscurus! What if it got angry?!"

"It's fine, it's fine, she's got that Pacifier," reassured Micah. "'Sides, I really needed that. Also, she's an Obscurial if you wanna get technical about it. The 'scurus is what's in her, see?"

"Like I give a shit! I'm not planning on dying because of your stupidity!"

Harriet made choking noises as she struggled to gulp in a breath. Micah, with a third as much mass as Uncle Vernon, hit every bit as hard.

"You know what it's like to play chess with a kid for two days?" exclaimed the trainee. "I thought I'd go insane in that fucking office! Hey, do me a favour and make me forget that when you Obliviate me, okay?"

"Enough," said the woman. "Bind the girl. Micah, no more unsanctioned bullshit."

"Yeah, yeah," he drawled, sticking his hands into the pockets of his robe.

Still gagging and wheezing, Harriet tried to crawl away, but she couldn't summon the strength. As she struggled, her hand fell on a small wooden object. Reflexively, her fingers tightened around it. It was too small to use as a weapon, but the girl wasn't in her right mind to consider that.

"Magic bindings are fine, right?" the unknown wizard asked the woman.

"So long as they're conjurations."

"Got it."

He pointed his wand, and coils of thin, greenish ivy sprung forth, wrapping around her arms and legs with a painful tightness. Her hands were pinned, constricted at her waist, trapping the object she'd grabbed in her fist.

And then she was captured. In pain, face-down in her own sick.

'No. No no no. Not trapped. Not trapped. Move. Move.'

The wizard flipped her over and stuffed a rag into her mouth. She tried to bite him, but he deftly jerked his hand away. He looked as if he was debating kicking her but thought better of it.

Her already laboured breathing now stifled with the fabric, she soon began to feel lightheaded. Fighting against the rising waves of panic, she forced herself to remain calm and take deep breaths in through her nose.

Her vision grew spotty, and she knew from experience with being choked out by Dudley that she was about to pass out. She tried to control her breathing.

'In, out. In, out.'

Let me out.

The Obscurus was distant, weak, its voice barely a whisper in her subconscious.

The cloaked witch knelt, placing down a briefcase and unlatching it. She then stuck her hand inside and came out with a large black sack, which she tossed over to the wizard binding her.

"Check that the device is on her," ordered the woman.

"Yeah," grumbled the man, who clumsily felt around Harriet's pockets for a moment before emerging with the glass orb of the Pacifier. "Here it is."

The woman tossed him a chain, also from the case. "Attach it to that and have her wear it. The Pacifier has to touch skin for it to drain her magic."

"Got it," said the man, who did as was asked and then stuffed the Pacifier down the collar of Harriet's robes.

The tiny voice of the Obscurus faded away as the forceful calming sensation of the artifact took effect.

Forcefully calmed, she was no longer at risk of passing out, but that only meant she was free to understand everything that was happening to her.

The sack came over her head, plunging her into darkness. She was picked up and manhandled as the abductors started to place her into some sort of cramped box. The fear she'd been struggling against this entire time finally overtook her, and she started thrashing against her bonds, letting out muffled screams as she did so.

She didn't want to go in a box. She didn't want to go back!

"Miff Ada! Miff Ada, whah ah you!? Hepp! Hepp!" she shouted around the gag.

"She's fighting! You, get over here and help. We can't get her in the case like this."

Hands clamped around her head and feet like vises, and despite exerting all her strength, Harriet was easily shoved into the box that only later would she realize was the woman's magically expanded briefcase. It hadn't been enchanted to expand much, forcing the girl into a huddled position.

The lid slammed shut, plunging her world into a twofold torment of darkness and silence.

Snot and tears and the burning sensation of acid in her throat was all that accompanied Harriet as she was carted away to who-knows-where. That and the cold, hard sensation of the Pacifier pressing into her sternum, along with the unknown object digging into the palm of her hand.

The next two hours were the most hellish Harriet ever experienced.

Not in terms of pain. Injuries and discomfort she could handle. It was the fear, uncertainty, and claustrophobia that she struggled with. Even in her cupboard, she could change positions, sitting up when she needed to. Here, she might has well have been buried alive. She miraculously didn't run out of breathable air, so there must have been a vent somewhere on the case, but she couldn't hear a single thing or feel any movement at all—as though she were in another space entirely.

She had time to think. She did so with the desperation of a girl distracting herself from wondering if she was about to die.

'Micah. Why did Micah do this? Has he been fooling Miss Ada all this time?'

A chill of horror raced up her spine.

'Is he one of… those? A Death Eater? Did he support You-Know-Who in the war?'

Ada had told her about the Death Eaters. Supposedly, some of them were still around and they hated Harriet, maybe enough to try and kill her. If that was the case, then they were probably taking her somewhere to kill her.

'No. No, don't think like that. They could have just killed me back there, but I'm still alive. I'm alive, and I've got to trust Miss Ada. She'll find me. She's a detective.'

So went her thoughts, spinning in circles as she grew increasingly cramped and desperate for freedom, for space, for a glimpse of the blue sky and fresh air. She tried to remember Diagon Alley, eating ice cream with Ada. Being the middle of November, it was cold, but warming charms nearby would keep her seat nice and toasty as she tasted flavours like Orange Marmalade or Sticky Toffee and read that silly adventure novel about Godric Gryffindor that the Auror bought her.

After what seemed like hours of increasingly desperate thoughts, the case opened again, and she was roughly pulled out.

She immediately started struggling, making one of the people swear.

"Fuck! She's awake! Don't those cloaked bastards know how to dose a mark?"

"Bloody hell. Don't see how they could forget, what with 'er kicking so damn much."

Both their voices were unfamiliar. 'They're not the same wizards from the Ministry.'

"Better now than never," said the first one.

The sack opened long enough for Harriet to discover that she was in a cramped room with two large men looming over her. The ground was tilting back and forth ever so slightly, as if they were on a boat. Then, she noticed the ceiling was lit with electric lights, not magic.

The man who opened the bag stood back while the other grabbed her hair and held a rag to her face. She reflexively held her breath.

"Take a whiff, kid. There you go," he muttered.

Lungs burning, she was forced to suck in a breath. When she did, the first thing she noticed was the oddly sweet scent. Her eyes grew watery, and she dizzily slumped back into the sack as the world faded away.

"Hold on," said one, voice growing distant. "How'd they fit 'er in this little case?"

—up—

Harriet furrowed her brows.

—ke up—

She groaned, trying to ignore the voice. She didn't want to get out of bed.

WAKE UP.

Her eyes shot open, heart hammering in her chest like she'd been given a shot of adrenaline.

'What the—who was—where am I?!'

The last few hours came back in a rush, and Harriet went very still. She was still bound in ropes of magical ivy, and was still in the bloody sack. But she was no longer stuffed in a briefcase. She seemed to be laid out on a hard surface, like stone or wood. She had room to adjust herself and stretch, though her hands and feet were still bound. She was also still gagged, the rag grown matted and slimy. Everything around her stank of stale vomit.

Then, she heard a voice.

"These readings are phenomenal."

The voice, coming from a fair distance away, was deep and ancient-sounding, and as raspy as parchment sliding over parchment. Something about it sent a shiver up her spine, as though it didn't quite belong to a human.

Another person spoke. "Indeed. I almost thought it a trick of the eyes. Even the much-lauded Gryffindor scion doesn't come close."

'That's Lord Black! That's his voice!'

She recognized the second speaker easily. They'd talked in Ada's office earlier that day. She couldn't forget him—not the man who'd loaned her the Pacifier, who had been kind enough to help her in their two previous meetings. At first, the realization that he was here gave her hope, and she considered causing a commotion to get his attention.

But as the last vestiges of the drug slid from her system, that hope turned to ice in her veins. Why would Lord Black be in the same place the kidnappers had taken her?

Cygnus continued, unaware of the third party listening in. "This degree of magic is something you'd expect of a witch with a solidified core, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years of age—not nine. Not with her magic still fluid. Could the readings be wrong? After those idiot muggles drugged her with their chemical solution, it could have skewed the results."

It's him,' she realized. 'He's the one who did this. He hired those attackers. He—and Micah—' a sob worked its way up her throat, but she stifled it, terrified of drawing attention to her.

Captain Moody had been right to be suspicious. She wished with all her heart that she'd listened to the Auror when he'd given his warnings.

"Doubtful," replied the ancient voice, "Though I could enquire of them what the solution was if you think it likely. Not now, however. They're currently… indisposed."

Cygnus sighed. "I did ask that you leave them be, at least until the girl awoke."

"Their ignorance offended me, Cygnus. You know how I am about ignorance. But never mind that. I think any skew from their drug unlikely. No mundane poison could affect a witch's magic. It's a notoriously difficult task to get an accurate reading on a child's aqueous magic with only a surface scan."

"What's our deviation?"

"Not more than a third off."

"Even half this reading would be an exceptional result," said Cygnus.

"Hmph, and if you'd been born with half that much magic, perhaps our family wouldn't be in its current state."

Cygnus sighed. "Not this again. I do well enough for myself."

"Only thanks to my tireless efforts to augment your capabilities. Ah, well. Not everyone can be a prodigy."

"You shouldn't compare everyone to yourself, Father."

'That man is his father?!' thought Harriet.

She knew Cygnus wasn't too old, but he was so withered and frail-looking that she struggled to envision someone even more wilted, and found herself coming up short.

"Certainly not," said the elder Black. "Just imagine the crippling self-esteem issues that would arise amongst the youth of this nation were I the standard of wizarding prowess!"

"…Can we perhaps return to the subject at hand?"

"Ahem," the raspy wizard coughed. "Yes. I think it's clear that the girl, at least, is a prodigy. She survived the Obscurus' birthing, after all. Either the creature was born weak, her core developed sooner, or her soul was stronger than most. Judging by the magical readings, I'm inclined to believe one of the latter two."

"When she matures…"

"The entity will be a monster," completed Cygnus' ancient father. "Precisely what we need to pierce the Schema."

"I doubt we are within the original parameters any longer."

"That is my concern. And I am not concerned."

They weren't talking about her anymore, Harriet realized. She were speaking about her Obscurus.

'That's why they want me. Not because I'm an heiress or some Girl-Who-Lived, but for this freaky thing inside me.'

She was a thing, not a person. It felt like she was straight back to square one. Even in the magical world, she was only a freak. She should have known better than to believe that anything Cygnus or Ada said suggested otherwise.

"I understand, Father. Still, I have my reservations. Is there not another way? During the war, Lord Grindelwald was able to control—"

"An exception," the voice interrupted. "Lord Grindelwald is a titan among wizardkind."

She recognized some of the same tone of authority in his father that she'd seen in the younger Black. But what were they talking about? Harriet thought she recognized the name Grindelwald—Cygnus had spoken of him briefly the first time they met. Hadn't that been the name of the wizard who "manufactured" Obscurials during the war?

"The girl is yet young," Cygnus persuaded. "We could bring her into the fold, teach her. The plan could just as easily be carried out in five years' time, rather than in five months. We have decades of research regarding the taming of Obscuri—you wrote the hypothesis yourself! Forget the Schema. Think of what else could be accomplished with that power under our control."

"All hypotheticals, though it pains me to admit. Even if the truth of Obscuri lines up with my theories, a single misstep could foil any attempts to tame it and bring everything crumbling down. No, I require a better reason than sentimentality to convince me to abandon the plan at this stage. We waited nearly fifty years for this, Cygnus. The final piece has just been acquired, and you speak of waiting longer?"

Cygnus pressed, "It's wasteful. Think of the potential. You speak of the resurrection of the House of Black, but when a weapon is presented, you don't seek to use it? Listen, father. We are without an heir. If we took in the girl, had her marry from a suitable pick…"

"We have plenty of branches to choose among if an heir is what you seek. What is your brother Alphard's branch for, if not this exact matter?"

"You will forgive me for saying that I find my brother's daughters unsuitable to carry on the main line. The eldest was poisoned by her mother's ambition and deprived of her intelligence, while the youngest is just as driven as her father… which is to say, not in the slightest."

His father chuckled. "I hope you don't say such things in earshot of your nieces."

"Father," Cygnus continued to argue, "What better choice than a prodigy—and one who is already one-quarter Black—to help carry on the line? We've sought the blood of powerful witches and wizards for over two thousand years. The girl qualifies. More than qualifies."

"I would agree with you on any other occasion; but the plan is too important to risk in this manner. So many things could go wrong in the process of raising the child—we cannot place her under the Blood Sanction without an adoption, and any blood adoption would be fraught with risk due to the Obscurus."

"Yes, but—"

"Cygnus, you omit the most vital point: we will never die. What need have we for an heir?"

There was no response to that.

'What does he mean? What are they talking about? Blood adoption? Sanction? They'll never die?' thought Harriet fearfully. Much of what they said went over her head, but the girl recognized the crux of the argument:

Cygnus spoke of adopting her, but his father disagreed.

'If they don't adopt me, what are they going to do to me?'

Images of a dark cupboard flashed before her, of endless chores and little food and constant fear. She was unable to imagine anything worse than her life up until this point, and it made her feel sick wondering if things were about to get even worse.

The father continued, "You must learn to look past the normal ambition of lesser Houses, Cygnus. You must always strive for greater things, be ever greedy, but most importantly, you must be careful. Our Lord failed on this final point, but we will learn from his mistake and grow. So that his ideals will be carried on."

"I understand," Cygnus said, resigned.

"Good. The plan remains in effect. The girl will stay imprisoned until the Pacifier is at capacity, and then we will euthanize her and harvest the Obscurus. For the Greater Good."

It felt like someone stabbed an icicle into Harriet's chest.

'Oh.'

The ancient voice continued. "What need have we for some messy, multifaceted plan when we can accomplish our goals so simply?"

"Yes, Father."

'Euthanize,' she thought dazedly. 'He said euthanize. That's what they do to dogs and cats. Not people.'

The two men continued speaking, but she was no longer listening.

The words Cygnus' spoke to her back during the Dursleys trial echoed in her head like a cruel mockery of her naivety.

"I can save you, Heiress Potter. This, I promise you, from one Head of House to another."

"There's no need to concern yourself with muggles any longer. You're one of us now, Heiress Potter."

"Rest assured, I will never abandon a noble child in need."

She wanted to laugh. It was all rubbish. They didn't see her as some noble heiress, or a wizarding saviour. They didn't see her as a witch. They didn't even see her as a freak. In their eyes, she was no better than a muggle.

An anger so sudden and blindingly hot assaulted her that she flinched from its heat. She felt the Pacifier on her chest drawing the rage away in a constant stream, but she there was so much of it filling her up that it seemed the well would never run dry.

Let me out.

It had remained quiet save a brief whisper earlier, but Harriet had never been happier to hear her Obscurus.

'Yes. Come out. Come out now!' she desperately begged, letting her defences drop for the first time since the incident in the park. For a brief instant, she didn't even care if this killed her. She just wanted to hurt someone, to scream her defiance against the world at least once before eternity claimed her.

But the Obscurus didn't come out. The orb resting against her chest seemed to grow colder, like a lump of ice, but no monstrous parasite emerged from Harriet to wreak its havoc.

Fear settled in her gut, tempering her anger.

It was unfair.

The world had finally opened up to her after nine years of hell, and the curtains were already drawing shut.

It was wrong.

'They can't do this to me. Not now. Not when I just learned about magic. Not after Miss Ada told me I was a witch.'

A lump formed in her throat. What could she do without her Obscurus? What else—

Then, Harriet remembered the centipedes.

She remembered the time she found herself on the roof of the school with no idea how she'd gotten there.

She remembered, as a six-year-old, being ordered to clean under the couch. Unable to move it with her own strength and with a growing fear of what Aunt Petunia would do to her, something happened. The couch grew four legs and trotted out the door.

A miraculous act—not that the Dursleys saw it that way.

She didn't think of the punishments that followed these events. She didn't think of the connotations of her growing freakishness after each instance of magic.

Harriet thought of the miracles themselves, of the sheer amazement they'd inspired in her before they were tainted by the fear of Uncle Vernon.

Fine. If the Obscurus wouldn't come out, she'd call upon her other reserves. Her own magic. She'd prove to them that she deserved to live in this world.

Harriet started to concentrate like she'd never concentrated before.

After a minute, she felt it. She pulled at the magic, but it didn't respond like she hoped. It was there; she could feel it. But it felt amorphous—chaotic, without any sort of direction.

She changed tactics, pushing it outward instead. That didn't work either.

In a fit of imagination, she crushed it, like she was trapping a ball of cotton in her hands and squeezing it into a hard bead. She forced it down with all her willpower, and finally received a tiny reaction—a pulse of magic snapped one of the vines wrapped around her legs.

It wasn't enough. She needed more.

She tasted copper on her tongue and began to feel light-headed, but she didn't stop. She willed herself to crush every inch of her magic, every bit of the freakishness that the Dursleys had been so terrified of, and make it do something.

Her hair crackled like she'd stuck a finger in an electrical socket. Somewhere nearby, glass shattered, and the voices abruptly stopped. Vibrations on the ground spoke of furniture rattling against stone floors. Her magic had come, and Harriet grimaced with the abruptly painful effort of containing it. Somehow, now that it was nearly loose, it was more difficult to control than it had been to summon.

She needed to let it go now. Releasing her hold, she sent it with two thoughts:

'Set me free. Hurt them.'

Like a dam bursting, her freakishness poured out of her. The ivy rope which bound her practically evaporated, transforming into an explosion of thorns that shot out in every direction, shredding the bag to pieces. She heard the deafening grinding of stone against stone echo from all around. Small, dark shapes charged across the room. Movement nearby showed that a vortex had picked up, lifting the scraps of fabric and whipping them around her in a fury.

She found her footing on the stone bench and tore off the gag. She spat out the filthy rag, then raised her head, fire in her eyes. Without her glasses, the world seemed a confusing blur of colours, but she could vaguely make out the shapes of two people halfway across the large, windowless room.

It was towards these two men that she directed her rage.

"I'm not a muggle!" she screamed as the storm picked up speed, howling with her fury. "You told me that!"

Her voice emanated from every direction, both carried and amplified by the violent winds.

"I'M A WITCH!"

Then she hurled it at them.

All Cygnus' father needed to do was lift a hand.

Lightning shot out from his finger, branching innumerable times and striking each of the animated constructs of stone that had sprung to life from the chairs and tables around the room. The golems shattered, rubble skidding to a halt inches from their feet. Then, his father flicked his wrist and summoned a gust of wind that sent Cygnus's robe flapping violently enough to tear at the seams, though the man himself remained steadfast. The wind met with the girl's own cyclone and neutralized it neatly. Scraps of cloth and pieces of debris rained to the floor as the tempest calmed.

Wandless, wordless magic. Pollux Black was a master of the art.

'A master of many things,' Cygnus reminded himself. It had been a long time since he was shown a display like this, however.

Using his thumb, Cygnus popped each of the fingers on his right hand back into place. Then, he stooped over, picking up his discarded cane with a sigh. He hadn't needed to do anything, of course, but he'd prepared just in case something slipped through Pollux's guard.

He turned to observe the source of the commotion. The girl stood on the table in the corner, filthy and bedraggled, anger cooling in her eyes as confusion replaced it.

He shook his head, though internally he was shocked at the degree of power the girl just exhibited. The Potter Heiress had forcibly summoned accidental magic strong enough to kill a grown wizard—and all that with the Pacifier still around her neck. Though his father had ended it simply enough, the showing was still impressive. Almost as impressive as the fact that pulling forth that tremendous display hadn't instantly killed the idiot child. Perhaps her soul was stronger than a normal wizard's, and that somehow made it more resilient—he'd never heard of such a thing, but his father would know.

Still, she was certainly due a punishment now.

'And with only five-odd months to live on top of that. I pray Father won't be too cruel to her.'

But the figure standing at his left did not move an inch. He remained stock-still, staring at the child who even now glanced around, clenching her fists as if attempting to bring the magic forth again. Her vibrant green eyes brimmed with frustrated tears.

"I'm a witch," she said in a small voice. To Cygnus, it sounded as if she were trying to convince herself.

He waited for his father to move, to do something.

But Pollux did not take the action that his son expected. Instead, he spoke, and the word that came out of his mouth was the last one Cygnus thought he'd hear. It was a word that would change the girl's future, the trajectory of the House of Black—and possibly the future of the entire world—in incalculable ways in the years to come.

"Dorea…?" he whispered.

Cygnus couldn't help himself. He started to laugh.