Light Up the Sky
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, or the X-Men. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.
Summary: After the war, Laurel Potter travels the world. In the United States, she falls under the dangerous scrutiny of discredited geneticist, Nathaniel Essex, who has no qualms with using her for his own ends. In the midst of her captivity, however, Laurel discovers her soulmate, who will stop at nothing to see them both free. They call him Gambit. Gender Bender, Soulmate AU. Laurel (fem!HP/Remy.
Rating: M for language, adult themes, violence, character death, and social issues.
Author: tlyxor-1.
Chapter One
After the war, when all that is left is to pick up the pieces of their scattered lives, Laurel Potter returns to Privet Drive. The place is empty, but surprisingly undamaged, and she's not quite sure why she is there. Nevertheless, she settles herself at the curb, folds her arms over her knees, and contemplates the future. She is tired, she is world-weary and battle-scarred, she is at a loss of what she ought to do next, but Little Whinging is familiar, and she could almost call it home.
In the wake of Voldemort's demise, Laurel - or Lori, rather - takes comfort in the familiar, suburban monotony, and reflects on what she wants from her newfound freedom. There is no more Dumbledore to govern her choices, there is no more dark lord to threaten her life, there is no more prophecy to dictate her fate. Her future is her own, and the concept is frightening in it's unfamiliarity.
In truth, Laurel had never planned a life beyond Voldemort. Despite all of her training, all of the preparation she'd received for it, the teen had had expected to die in their final confrontation, and she is left oddly bereft by her continued survival. She's glad of it, of course, but now she has adult concerns to contend with - like bills, taxes, and voting, - and Lori is way in over her head. Between the countless funeral and memorial services she's attended, Laurel has spent the last month entrenched in her N.E.W.T and A Level exams, which have kept her busy and distracted, but they're now out of the way, and the question remains: what next?
Across the street, Mrs no.5 attempts to covertly watch her from her kitchen window, and Laurel stares back, unabashed and unrepentant. She's never cared much for the petty thrills these suburban housewives and middle-management husbands relish in, but in the wake of the hellish year she'd just endured, they and their pathetic dramas have never seemed so inconsequential.
What is the worth of a new car, a promotion, a prize-winning rose garden when people have suffered - have died - in the pursuit of pure-blood supremacy?
"Lori Potter, is that you, darling?"
Nonplused by the disruption, Laurel glances up and to her left, and manages a smile upon sight of Arabella Fig, dressed sedately in a pair of jeans, a dirt-stained button down, and an old pair of loafers. She carries a couple of bags with her, filled with gardening supplies, and Laurel is pleasantly surprised.
"Mrs Fig," she greets fondly, pushes off the curb, and approaches the elderly lady, "It's good to see you. Would you like me to carry those bags?"
Mrs Fig hands them over without protest. They're heavy, and it's evident the older woman's age is catching up to her. She's always been rather spry, lively and exuberant, and forever chasing after those cats of hers, but that energy couldn't last forever. She seems somehow smaller than Laurel remembers - diminished, almost - and although Laurel's towered over the woman since she was 13 years old, it's never been quite like this.
Laurel's not sure if it's just her age, or if it's the stress of the war that's taken it's toll on Mrs Fig's health and wellbeing, but either way, it's another change she's unsure of how to deal with.
"It's good to see you too, pumpkin," Mrs Fig answers, "I've been keeping up with the Prophet, and you're all they've got to write about, but it does this old bat good to see you with her own eyes."
"I'm sorry I haven't visited," she says, chagrined. Lori hates Little Whinging, but she and Mrs Fig have grown close over the years. The neglect - unintentional or not - must sting.
"I don't blame you, girl," Mrs Fig answers, "If I could, I'd leave this place without looking back, too."
"Why don't you?"
Mrs Fig shrugs. "Where would I go?"
"I don't know," Laurel shrugs in turn, Mrs Fig clicks her tongue at the gesture, and the witch ignores her hypocrisy, "You told me once you've always liked the water. Why not sell this hell hole, and go live by the sea?"
"Too much effort for these old bones," Mrs Fig says dismissively, "And how would I move all my cats?"
Laurel sighs, but doesn't bother arguing. "If you ever change your mind, I'll be happy to help you move. If nothing else, I know a couple of house elves who'd love the work."
Mrs Fig smiles, small and fond. "You're a darling, Lori."
They reached Magnolia Crescent without incident, and Mrs Fig shepherds her inside with all the insistence of one very accustomed to getting her way.
Laurel deposits the shopping on Mrs Fig's cluttered dining table, and before she knows it, she's settled in the living room, cup of tea and biscuits in hand. Mrs Fig sits across from her, with tea and biscuits of her own, and there's a few moments of easy, companionable silence as they both get settled.
"How have you been, pumpkin?" Mrs Fig asks. She's gentle as she does so, softly coaxing as though Laurel is one of her wounded cats, and it's not something the teen is accustomed to. Not from Mrs Fig.
"I've been all right," Lori hedges, "Keeping busy. Lots of funerals to go to, you know. A lot of exams, too. They're done now, though, thank Godric."
"Have you been sleeping?"
Laurel avoids Mrs Fig's gaze. She knows enough not to lie, but… "Enough to get by."
"That's a 'no', then," mrs Fig concludes. "Nightmares, hmm? No surprise there, I suppose."
"I'm fine."
"You just fought a war," Mrs Fig counters, "If you were 'fine', I'd wonder what was wrong with you."
Laurel sighs, weary, but also a little anxious. She feels inexplicably cornered, and she's halfway tempted to make a break for the door. "I don't want to talk about it, Mrs Fig. In fact, I'd rather forget it ever happened."
"And how's that going for you, pumpkin?"
"It's a work in progress."
"Mhmm," Mrs Fig is unimpressed, but nevertheless, she doesn't push the issue. Instead, she changes the subject. "What brought you to Privet Drive?"
One of Mrs Fig's cats makes itself comfortable on Laurel's lap, a ginger striped menace dubbed 'Peaches'. Laurel pats him absentmindedly, but her thoughts are far from the purring feline.
"I needed to think, I guess."
"You guess?"
"I don't want to work for the Ministry of Magic," she admits abruptly, "Everyone expects I'll become an auror, but all I can think about is how much things might have changed if Cornelius Fudge wasn't such an incompetent moron, and I guess it all just leaves a rather unpleasant taste in my mouth."
There is, also, the entire debacle with Hagrid in 1993, Sirius' illegal incarceration, and the cover-up Fudge had facilitated after Voldemort's resurrection to consider. In all, those incidents don't particularly inspire faith in the Ministry of Magic, and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, in particular.
"I don't blame you. What do you want to do?"
Laurel shrugs again. Mrs Fig scowls. Her guest pretends not to notice. "I don't know. I haven't really thought about it."
Mrs Fig contemplates her tea. "Have you ever considered travelling?"
Laurel hums thoughtfully. With the influence of Mrs Fig throughout her childhood in Little Whinging, she's obtained fluency in a number of languages, and as a child, she'd only ever dreamed of visiting the countries those same languages originated from. It had been a far off fantasy, one out of her reach and likely to stay that way if Vernon and Petunia - and later Albus Dumbledore - had anything to say about it.
These days, though, she is not reliant on Vernon or Petunia, or on anyone else, either. She is financially independent, she has completed her education, and Voldemort is dead. Therefore, there is no reason why she can't.
"It'd be nice to get away," she admits, "I feel like I'm living in a fish bowl."
Mrs Fig doesn't comment. She sips her tea instead, and Laurel follows suit. Peaches yowls his protest, disgruntled by the lack of attention.
"World tours used to be a rite of passage," Mrs Fig says conversationally, "Something of a respite before adulthood, if you will. Some treated it as an extended holiday, others as a opportunity to learn new skills. They've fallen out of favour due to the warfare in recent years, but no one with sense would begrudge you a break. It's the least you deserve for all you've done for Britain's magical community."
Laurel is doubtful that there wouldn't be a backlash were she to leave. Her experience at Hogwarts - and with the greater magical community - has left her with very low expectations of the general public, and she doubts they'd be considerate enough to keep their (unwanted) opinions to themselves. Not when it regards the 'Witch Who Won' in any case.
"I'll definitely think about it," she says, "It's an appealing idea."
Mrs Fig nods her acknowledgement. "Be sure to send me postcards."
Laurel smiles. She thinks, briefly, that she ought to be irritated by Mrs Fig's presumptuousness, but she can't muster up the energy to be angry, and life is too short to sweat the small stuff, besides. Moreover, there are few people in the world who know Laurel as well as Arabella Fig, and perhaps the woman is onto something.
"I'll keep that in mind, Mrs Fig."
By the time she leaves Magnolia Crescent that evening, Laurel's already made up her mind. Not only would a world tour get her away from all of the public scrutiny in Britain, but it would also give her the time and space to figure out what she wants to do when she grows up. She'd also like to see more of what the world has to offer - beyond England, Scotland, and Wales, anyway, and a year (or more) abroad seems a pleasant way to do it.
Thus resolved, Laurel returns to Grimmauld Place with a smile. It's fairly quiet inside, but she's not particularly surprised by the absence of two of her three housemates. Neville's out and about with his other half, and Luna's visiting with her father in St. Mungo's, but Hermione's there, curled up on a couch in the refurbished drawing room. She's reading, predictably, but it's actually a novel - 'Jane Eyre' by Charlotte Bronte - and Hermione is riveted by the story.
"Some pleasure reading there, Hermione?" Laurel greets.
"I needed a break," Hermione shrugs, "Anymore reference books, and my brain might just melt out of my ears."
Laurel commiserates. The last month of NEWT and A Level exams has been a gruelling stretch of frantic, desperate revision, sleepless nights, and emotionally draining funerals. As a result, Laurel's not sure she's ever been so tired in her life. Not even after what has been dubbed the 'Battle of Hogwarts', which was a hell of an entirely different sort.
"I hear you," she acknowledges, flops gracelessly across one of the chaise lounges, and stares absently at the fire. It gives off no heat, mercifully, but the flames dance merrily in the hearth, and Laurel looses herself in the sight.
Until Hermione pulls her from her reverie, that is.
"Where were you?"
"Little Whinging," Laurel answers, "Did someone get in touch with Vance and Diggle yet? The Dursleys haven't returned to Privet Drive. Anyway, I spent the afternoon with Mrs Fig. It was nice."
"How is she?"
"She's good. Getting old, but, you know, sharp as a tac. Her cats are a menace, of course."
"You look happy," Hermione observes, "Or happier, anyway. Did something happen?"
"I've decided what I want to do for the foreseeable future."
Properly intrigued now, Hermione sets aside her novel, sits up, and looks expectantly at Laurel. There's a scar down the length of her face, from her hairline to the hinge of her jaw, and in the firelight, it's stark against her skin. Rather than feel ashamed by it, however, the brunette wears it like a badge of honour. Hermione's fierce like that.
"Don't leave me in suspense, then. What did you decide?"
"I'm going to travel. See the world, you know? Maybe learn something new."
Hermione smiles, pleased. "I'm glad."
Laurel huffs a laugh. "You would be, wouldn't you?"
Hermione's had no qualms about expressing her opinion that Laurel has done enough for their community. As far as she is concerned, the rest of it - the reconstruction (where necessary), the government overhaul, the judicial process - ought to be left to the adults who'd left if to a 17 year old to kill Voldemort. They owe her that much.
Hermione shrugs, unrepentant. "You deserve to do what you want for once in your life."
Laurel smiles softly. "Thanks, Hermione."
They sit in an easy, companionable silence, and Hermione returns to her novel. Laurel produces a puzzle book and a pen from her bag, content to entertain herself with a crossword. It's a pleasant way to pass the time, and before Laurel knows it, it's late, and the lure of sleep is one she cannot resist.
Laurel knows it's a futile hope, but nevertheless, she prays that in slumber, her dreams are sweet. Alas, once again, she is disappointed.