[July 17, 1996; Number 12, Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, England]

An immeasurable moment passes. The talons release me with a quick burst of pain, (MY SWEATSHIRT. GODAMMIT.), and I fall most ungracefully forward onto my face. I catch myself just barely with the non-mangled arm. One of the knees of my jeans rips, the worn-thin fabric finally giving away as land.

I feel the air behind me change. With a sound like a trumpet player inhaling through their instrument, my hair ruffles away from my face, and I'm sure this means that the portal is gone.

Wherever I am is warm, with a roaring fire to my right. I'm kneeling on what appears to be a worn-thin red and purple oriental carpet laid over what can only be a concrete floor.

My combat-situational instincts begin to wash over me, and I calm. I'm no idiot, I trust my senses. Whatever just happened to me was no fever dream, and enough has gone down over the last two years for me to trust that I'm not crazy.

Whether or not that trust is misplaced remains to be seen.

Granted, this is new. Space-bending portals is new. But if I don't think too hard about it, I'll be ok.

A few seconds has passed, and I have not yet lifted my head or raised my eyes. There are other people in this room, I can feel them shifting around, almost nervously.

Good, they should fucking be nervous. Anger begins to prickle the back of my neck.

A quick glance up reveals I'm correct, there are four other people here with me. I lift myself until I'm kneeling, still on the floor. The strangers are in shadow, close to the walls, so I decide looking real scared is probably the way to go for now. The room I'm in is paneled in dark wood. All of the built-in bookshelves are empty, and there is no furniture. There are dusty brass sconces lit with candles on either side of the door, and lining the wall opposite of the fireplace. But overall the room is dim. Everything has a dingy, unused air, as though no one has been in here for ages. Cobwebs dominate literally every corner and every fixture.

"Albus, this must be a mistake. She is so young! And she looks utterly terrified."

The jarringly Scottish voice comes from a woman: the tall, thin figure standing next to the fireplace. She sounds incredibly uneasy.

Another of the figures walks towards me slowly from their position closest to the door. As he nears, I get a good look at him by the light of the fire. He is very tall, slender, and wears what appears to be a floor-length purple muumuu with green swirls embroidered in different sizes all over it. But my heart stops when I look up at his face: his long nose is bespectacled with half-moon eyeglasses, and his hair is long and grey, falling almost to his waist along with his beard.

My breathing begins to shorten as my heart races.

Al….Albus. ALBUS?

He is, in fact, looking me over most critically. I can feel long-ass tendrils of hair have escaped my bun and are probably adding to the current dusty-football-fan-hobo mystique I'm sure I'm rocking. He responds to Mrs. Braveheart, with a voice that's kind, but firm, "Fawkes would not make a mistake with this. But it is most interesting that this muggle is the one destined to aid us with our cause."

Oh fuck. Fuck this. Fuck whatever is happening here.

There is indistinct murmuring among the other occupants in the room. I begin to rethink what I said earlier about not being crazy. I could definitely be crazy, in all reality. Shit finally got to me. I finally broke.

I'm not in Harry Fucking Potter, get a goddamn grip, Finnie.

The bearded man interrupts my short circuiting reverie, finally addressing me directly, "It would appear she does recognize us." He smiles, "Hello, miss. I'm very sorry that your trip to us was so violent. If we had other means, I assure you, we would have used them." His gaze turns expectant.

Irritation licks around my collar. "Yeah, I suppose it would be rude to suggest flying lessons to a fucking bird, but there you have it."

The woman by the fireplace gasps. One of the others left against the far wall loudly mutters, "Och- a muggle and a bloody American as well." He's a real bear of a man, that one. Probably my height, but every inch of skin I can see in the, admittedly shadow-filled, room is covered in scar tissue. His ginger hair looks ruffled, as if he was shaken by my uncouth arrival method. But he otherwise sounds gruff and sure, and a moment's pause on his facial features reveals that one of his sockets appears to be set outside his eye, almost like a really massive eyepatch. I can see an eyeball within that socket lighly glowing, and never leaving my profile. My stomach turns over.

Albus – hoo boy, I need new meds – smiles at me again but says, "I'm afraid I have no place to request you curb your language, even as your elder, but I will anyway for the sake of poor Professor McGonagall, who's heart, I'm sure you agree, may not take the strain."

His calm demeanor only continues to infuriate me. I feel my fists clench against my thighs and grind my teeth in an attempt to cool my reactions.

He seems to have read my mind, however, "You do understand, do you not? You recognize who I am and what it means that you are here?"

The tension in the room ratchets up another notch. I seethe at my continued confusion and circumstances. All the other occupants have inched just slightly away from the wall, leaning in towards Dumbledore and me, as if to absorb this ridiculous conversation to the fullest.

He narrows his eyes a little at my failure to respond, and continues, "You have surmised, have you not, that the stories you read and enjoyed as a child are, in fact, based on real people, places, and events? That I am, in fact, Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, and that I am a wizard who performs magic, and that Minerva here is a witch who also performs magic?"

Aw, fuck.

Rather than respond in the affirmative, that I had sussed this information and was currently processing it despite my better judgement, I stayed silent.

Could it be true? I suppose the level of detail in the Harry Potter books has always left the most die-hard fans salivating for this exact possibility. Like a child who believes in Santa, there have always been people who hope and wish with all their plums and stars that J.K. Rowling was simply the messenger, or biographer of sorts, revealing a world that truly exists along with our own. The thought makes my heart race even faster, and a flush reaches my cheeks while my stomach warms at the thought.

Fuck, I had loved those books.

I had never really fantasized about this, though. I always thought that if there truly was a wizarding world, it wouldn't really matter because I was most definitely a muggle. A university-attending, hopscotch-playing, microwave-cooking muggle. It always brought to mind a fabulous treehouse whose stepladder was pulled up out of reach so that a sign could be hung from the window reading, "No Mugglez Alowd." Pretty sure spelling was not a Hogwarts class, is all I'm saying.

The reality though, looking at these flesh and blood people- the realness of their faces- chased away the warmth I had been feeling just seconds before. With every wrinkle, pockmark, and bitten-down fingernail, the Christmas-morning feeling melted away as I inspected them.

I identify the other occupants as Mad-Eye Moody and Kingsley Shacklebolt. Kingsley reminds me of an incredibly somber Michael Clarke Duncan. He is dressed in robes of black, but the insides of his sleeves are a vibrant orange and red design that vaguely reminds me of the armchair in my father's hospital room. I glance again at McGonagall and see that she does, in fact, look a lot like Maggie Smith.

Well done, casting.

It's then I realize that I have totally bought it. Call me shit-holed, blame my parents, but I decide to believe in this moment that Harry Potter is real. And after that happens, I develop a ton of questions.

The first and foremost is for Dumbledore, but I can't really figure out how to politely ask –'How are you not dead?'

My eyes end their scan of the space and return to Dumbledore's. His shrewd baby blues have never left my face, and as though he can read my mind yet again, he speaks, "I'm very pleased that your acceptance of these circumstances was so painless." He does, really, seem pleased. Maybe they had prepared for a moderate to severe muggle tantrum. Before I can tell him 'you're welcome' he continues, "But I must confess to you, you were not chosen necessarily by me, but by fate itself – who worked through Fawkes here."

As his chin lifts in that direction, I glance behind me and notice that the lovely, arm-maiming phoenix was still in the room.

Douchebag bird.

Dumbledore speaks again, this time more gently, "You were chosen most precisely from your time in the future to join us here in, to be specific, July of the year 1996, in order to assist us with our crucial mission of ending the reign of Lord Voldemort and his terrible ideals."

My hands grow clammy as I process yet another fucking doozy.

I've been dragged to the past? To help them? Wait, when in the books is this? 1996…Harry was born in 1980, so he's 16? They never dragged any fucking muggles back in time in the 6th book. This is bullshit.

And while my knowledge of Harry Potter brings forth all of these questions, my personal self is beginning to panic about everything that has nothing to do with these witches and wizards and their goddamn genocidal problems.

I have a secret. It's a pretty big secret, and it's caused a lot of trouble in the last two years. I don't enjoy reviewing it, even to myself, because it leads to confrontations. Situations where people and the entities they represent would like to use me. Their ever-important goals require my cooperation and compliance, occasionally with the threat of force. Their missions are expected to become my missions, all because I'm "special."

Special is putting it lightly.

I don't want Dumbledore to figure this out, because I know he may treat me just as others have. His mission is critical to him and to his loved ones, but I have my own loved ones to worry about. He will want to use me just like every other special task force team has wanted to use me.

Send me back to my family.

My mood has deteriorated. This is no longer a fairy tale, this is just another version of the hell I deal with back home, but in this version I can't be with my family.

Nope. This isn't going to work.

I realize that Moody and Shacklebolt have moved closer and are now flanking Dumbledore only a couple feet from where I still kneel on the floor. They're murmuring urgently between one another, their faces masks that shift between indecision, disbelief, and determination. McGonagall is still by the fireplace, but she's quiet. She's watching with an inscrutable expression, and I wonder what her opinion of me is thus far.

I clear my throat, and all eyes move to me.

Realizing that I feel rather vulnerable on the floor, I rise. As I stand fully, I make eye contact with each of them in turn, and begin saying what I need to say in the most polite voice I can manage.

"Right, so, you know I know your story, right? So I understand that what you're dealing with is really big, and like, stressful. Voldemort is a huge deal, I definitely get it. But the bottom line is I'm not a part of your story. I have my own story, in my own time, which needs me there. I'm very sorry if that is not what you expected to hear, but it's the truth. So, you know, I need you to magic me back."

They're all silent. Still looking at me.

Um. Ok.

Moody grunts after a moment, and his magical eye peruses me from top to bottom. After a few beats his regular eye moves to Dumbledore and he mutters softly, "She's no ordinary muggle."

Fuck.

"What do you mean?" McGonagall squeaks from her post, her eyes widening, "Does she have magic?"

Moody takes a step closer to me, and I resist the urge to step back. "S' not magic," he responds, "I don' know what it is. Never seen the like."

The tension in the room returns with a vengeance. I can feel my arm hairs standing underneath my sweatshirt sleeves. I am not enjoying Mad-Eye Moody scanning my vibes or whatever the fuck he's doing. I get he's a valuable member of the Order, and smart and brave and shit, but he is also creepy.

Dumbledore joins Moody in invading my personal space. He stoops a little as he looks into my eyes, a gesture I'm sure he hopes will relax me, and says, "My dear, I understand you feel unease at being pulled from your time and responsibilities, but if the fates chose you, we must believe them."

Oh, like hell.

Anger, hot and quick, floods my chest at his presumptuousness. Before I can think twice I blurt, "I don't give two shits about 'fate,'" using air quotes in an ultimate demonstration of my maturity, "You guys are acting like assholes."

McGonagall gasps again. Dumbledore's face crumples only slightly, but the effect is monumental. Where before he was attempting to calm me with kindness and reassurance, his demeanor has now shifted to a resolve that gives the clear impression that my feelings will no longer be considered. Almost scowling, he draws himself up to his full height, and I wonder if I have just fucked up.

I then decide I don't care. These are supposed to be the good guys, the firm protagonists of the Harry Potter saga. They shouldn't be holding me against my will, and I, too, straighten my shoulders.

I try to keep my voice even as I share with them, "I have family who are very ill. I used to be sick too, but I fought it and now I'm not, so they use my blood and stuff to keep alive the ones who can't fight it while they try different medicines." McGonagall's face becomes shocked. I suppose blood transfusions may seem barbaric if you're not accustomed to the concept.

Encouraged, I continue, "I cannot stay here. I have people who need me, and if you are who I thought you were when I read your stories, then you'll take me back."

They're all silent. No one looks excessively sympathetic, and my stomach sinks. Mad Eye's magical eye is still inspecting me way too closely. Kingsley is looking at the floor, his chin in his hand, and Dumbledore has not relaxed his expression even a little.

Fuck.

I try something else. "Please," I whisper, letting my eyes fill with tears that weren't too difficult to manage, given the turmoil of the morning, "Please don't keep me here while my family dies decades away from me."

Kingsley finally breaks, his eyes rising to Dumbledore, "Albus, this is senseless. She is a muggle, she cannot possibly help us. Let her go home to her family."

My heart swells.

Thank god, thank god, thank GOD.

But Dumbledore's hardened face has not moved an inch. "She's lying," he says softly, "She is more than she claims. She knows she can help us."

My temper flares again, "This is fucking bullshit," I hiss. Likely not the wisest course of action, but I'm so frustrated and I keep going, "This never went down in the books, you don't need me! What is the point?" I just barely resist the urge to stomp my foot like a child.

The air begins to crackle with what I now recognize as signs of magic. Moody has his wand out, but at his side. McGonagall looks shocked but saddened by my continued outbursts. Belatedly I realize that all four of these fuckers could probably kill me if they wanted.

But I'm not completely helpless. It would be a fight.

Despite my resolve, I'm completely unprepared for Dumbledore's wand to be suddenly pointed between my eyes, held in his hand from beneath his purple sleeve.

"Legilimens!"

His eyes have trapped mine and I'm rooted in place. I can feel the Headmaster enter my mind and begin searching ruthlessly for what he's looking for.

-CRACK-

I'm sitting in a hospital bed, the sheets are scratchy beneath my bare ass in this ridiculous gown. My throat hurts like a bitch from days of puking, and I can taste blood. My brothers are standing behind my mom. They all look stricken with fear, and I realize that there's blood dripping from my lower lip, and from the tissue I just coughed into.

-CRACK-

I'm outside my mother's house, beating an aluminum bat against the trees in her yard. I'm weeping; Sam has just been confirmed with his diagnoses and I'm on an absolute fucking rampage.

-CRACK-

My boss approaches my desk. He looks especially solemn as he says, "Some guys from the 8th floor are here to see you. You don't have to talk to them, I'll send them away if you want."

He's a good boss, I've liked him, but he knows I volunteered for this. If it works – IF IT WORKS – it could work for the rest of my family. I smile serenely and wink at him, "Thanks for the offer Ralph, but I've got it from here."

I rise from my desk and begin to walk towards the lobby where I'm sure the lab guys are waiting. From the corner of my eye I see Ralph shaking his head a little sadly.

-CRACK-

So, so much pain.

I can't move. I can't breathe. I hope I die soon.

Oh my damn, this was such a bad idea. No wonder no one else has survived.

I should never have done this. I should have said goodbye to my family.

Fucking pain.

It's in my bones, in my joints. I feel as though my flesh is trying to peel itself away layer by layer.

I scream and scream, but I'm restrained to a cot soaked with my own sweat and piss.

I've been here for days. No one is coming to help me. No one will just end it.

I try desperately to scratch my own skin and force myself to bleed. To bleed out. To die.

Nothing works and I scream.

-CRACK-

I'm in a pitch black cell. The floor is freezing and damp, and I'm wearing what amounts to some underwear and a tank top. They haven't given me new clothes since the injection, so I'm absolutely fucking filthy. This portion of the process wasn't part of our agreement, it wasn't discussed or detailed to me. I'm nothing short of a prisoner.

I hear a door open, and the light emitted is dim, but enough to make my poor, sensory-deprived eyes water. I'm feeling a fury that I've never experienced before in my life. I feel completely and utterly betrayed, by my country, by my office. Everything I thought I trusted has now turned the tables on me and I want to fuck them all up so badly.

Five massive men make their way into my cell. They're wearing prison swag – matching jackets and sweatpants. They look like pretty not so fun guys. I realize they're all leering at me and one of them has his hand in his pants and is stroking himself.

Ha, jokes on them. I'm disgusting.

From the doorway an unseen guard tosses a baton-bat into the cell and it rolls to my feet. They say in a voice I can't discern as male or female, "Do what you gotta do, girl."

I immediately grab the bat and hold it firm in my hand, but dangling at my side. One of the uninvited gentlemen removes his shirt and says softly, "Gonna use this to gag you, sweetheart. Don't want your screaming to ruin the mood."

Two of the others laugh softly and begin to compliment my body with phrases such as "really fuckable mouth" and "wonder if anyone's been in that ass yet."

Hand-in-his-pants guy finally gets impatient and makes the first move towards me. I allow my newfound instincts to take over, and unbeknownst to me at that time my eyes glaze over, turning black. An insane kind of power floods my senses, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes I feel energized and capable of anything. My heart rate begins to slow while my thoughts begin to speed up. Every muscle tightens with anticipation, and even my fingernails seem to lengthen slightly with excitement. By his second step I've moved lightning-fast towards him and cracked the baton upwards in a simple swing which snaps his neck. I then pirouette behind the next man and lift my baton against his neck while applying pressure and twisting until I hear his head detach from his spine.

I'm beginning to smile through my rage. My next victim tries in vain to grab my hair but I drop to the floor quickly and sweep his feet out from under him, and he falls hard. With a dainty turn, I target the man beside him's nether regions, hammering them hard enough that he immediately blacks out.

The fifth assailant wasn't smart enough to assess his brethren's fates and back off, but instead runs screaming at me body and soul. Still crouched, I pivot so that he flails past me, but into a fallen comrade. I stand fully in time to bring my baton down once on the back of his neck, and hear the bones break.

One assailant begins to rouse, so I turn back toward him. Standing over his body I bring my bat down against his face with all my strength once, twice, thrice, and he's unrecognizable.

The would-be guests have only been in my cell for about 20 seconds. Some of my anger has finally worked its way out, and I feel better.

-CRACK-