A/N: Alright, so, you're probably curious why there isn't a year 1. The simple answer is: It's not necessary. Yes, there are some minute differences, however, overwhelmingly, the PS arc occurred almost identically here as it did in canon. If it is not outright stated to have occurred differently, then simply assume that it's the same (and, if you're wrong, whatever change happened will eventually be mentioned).

Anyway, this story was created because I was plagued by three questions: what would change if Harry were a girl, what if Voldemort was actually a clever and more terryfing threat, and what if the horcrux in Harry actually effected him? And, here, I present to you the most logical (and entertaining) answer that I could create to answer that. All the changes were made due to one of these three factors, and if you're curious about the exact reasoning for a specific change, feel free to ask.

Without further ado...

Chapter 1

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of 4 Privet Drive were perfectly ordinary, thank you very much… or, so they would insist to all who inquired, and certainly, none who knew the little family would ever doubt this reported normality. Like all their neighbors, Petunia Dursley could often be found gossiping with her fellow housewives over the latest argument between the couple in Number 11 or faking a smile at the newest ingenuity of Number 3's children, while Vernon was known to go golfing with the husbands and frequently complained over whatever atrocity the latest, of many, many secretaries, had committed, and of course, nobody could forget their respectful, if spoiled, daughter who smiled like an angel - or so said one particularly fawning teacher in primary. Some may say that perhaps they were too normal, if one thought of Petunia Dursley's obsessiveness with her garden - "Not a single weed lasts more than an hour," Robert Polkiss had once joked - or perhaps the way Vernon Dursley's face had reddened when reminded that his daughter had only ranked second in her class. Certainly, old Mrs. Rabspert down the road would loudly insist to all that would hear that there was something terribly wrong , perhaps unnatural even, with that house, however, Mrs. Rabspert had also been known to have extended conversations with the dustbins.

No, if there was any peculiarity within the Dursley household, it would be that Potter girl. Oh, certainly, she was a quiet thing, always seen with some book or another and polite whenever addressed, but there had been those rumors about the Polkiss girl a few years back and Mrs. Wendell had sworn she'd once seen the girl speaking to a serpent as if she were some sort of devil-worshipper - she had not, however, told any of her friends of the soft hissing, the sharp, sharp eyes of the snake, of how the girl had tensed, had known , somehow, that she was there and had looked at her in this strange, strange way... Many, over the long, long years since that baby had been abandoned on a doorstep, had expressed their belief in the girl's strangeness, soft whispers as if in fear of the child hearing, for she had a terrible, terrible tendency to emerge from the shadows at the odd moment, cock her head, and stare in this horrible, horrible way - speak the devil's name and he shall come - and yes, yes, it was far better to never confess aloud their true concerns regarding the girl... and yet, some, like Mr. Roberts of Number 7 or Mrs. Smythe of Number 13, sometimes thought that perhaps the girl knew anyway, somehow.

It was the eyes, they would all decide, too sharp, too bright, with this awful, clever glimmer as if she had ripped out one's heart to weigh it on scales and, more often than not, had found said heart to be wanting. The eyes are the windows to the soul, it was said, and many of those who dwelled along Privet Drive were dreadfully, horrifically certain that something wrong dwelt in little Lettie Potter's soul.

Of course, nobody had ever said any of this to Lettie, but she knew it all, as she knew that Melody Humphrey of Number 4 had been having an affair for five years now, as she knew that Edgar Jenkins, who had been in her class in St. Grogory's, delighted in stealing candy from that convenience store down the way, as she knew that Horatio Smythe was not, in fact, working late as he claimed, but rather having a pint with his friends down at the pub before he was forced to face his ever so loving wife, who he really should get around to divorcing one of these days. How could she not, when their thoughts penetrated her own mind the way that a river rushed into an ocean, an eternal, relentless stream of Paul's running late again and oh, no, I burnt the bacon and why in god's name did I agree to this that continued without rest or relief, every second of every day.

At the moment, all those clamoring thoughts had lowered to a whisper, soft and sweet as they trickled through the air, for it was very nearly midnight, and the rest of the Dursley household remained still and quiet all around her… or rather, as quiet as it ever was, with the soft creaks and groans that all houses had, and the never-ending rumble of thoughts from the other three occupants. Happy, fluffy dreams that would easily turn to nightmares if they knew precisely what she was studying so late into the night.

Somehow, she doubted that her uncle would approve of A Complex & Complete Guide to Defensive Magick, if only because Uncle Vernon did not approve of anything that involved the word "magic". The fact that she could, theoretically, use such spells against them - had, in fact, in the past used magic on her aunt and uncle - had only increased Vernon's determination to ensure that nothing at all "abnormal" was allowed out in the Dursley household. It was for that reason that, upon her and her cousin, Isla's, return from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, their trunks had been promptly hauled into the house, their wands plucked from their fingers, their school robes snatched away, and the entire scrambled mess locked into the cupboard under the stairs.

Her uncle had also taken the extra step of wearing the sole key around his neck, even in his sleep, as if afraid that they would steal it away and get up to some impossible mischief while he was sleeping, perhaps turn him into a toad or use his fingers in some potion. Whatever the reason, it had made it incredibly difficult for Lettie to study any of the books she'd acquired on magic, or, indeed, even to do her summer homework.

Difficult, but not impossible, because Lettie had learned years ago how to use magic to unlock doors, and, two days into summer break, had taken the risk of triggering the Trace in order to liberate several of her school books - it had only been after she spent a day pacing her bedroom, panicked that the Ministry would send a letter to her aunt and uncle, that she had finally realized that perhaps the Trace only tracked wanded magic. It would, after all, explain all those years of mind-controlling her relatives, of conjuring lights, of unlocking doors and duplicating food and so much more. She had never gotten into trouble simply because the Ministry didn't know.

Regardless of that frightful event, Lettie had since then taken to doing all her schoolwork and magical reading late into the night.

And as for the other reason that she was still awake… well, Lettie didn't particularly want to think about that - and, if there was one thing that her Occlumency studies had proven helpful with, it was not thinking about certain things, in a very loud and busy manner that Snape might possibly even approve of, if he would stop insulting her long enough to be bothered with actually saying something nice, that was.

Thus, Lettie now sprawled in bed, books on defensive magic and potions theory scattered across the comforter - the former, out of personal interest, the latter because the potions professor at Hogwarts, Severus Snape, had exceedingly high expectations and an even worse temperament. The pages of her book were illuminated only by the balls of light that floated above her head and could be extinguished with a mere thought. They were conjured more out of habit than anything else, given that she had a perfectly respectable and barely used lamp perched on her nightstand, but it felt somehow wrong to use it, as if violating some cardinal rule of mischief-makers and illicit bookworms everywhere to actually turn on a proper light… that, and as a blatant and possibly petty disregard to the Ministry of Magic's ridiculous Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery.

… All Dark Arts spells fall under one of three categories: jinxes, hexes, or curses. In the most simplistic of terms, a jinx is placed upon something to cause change, a hex inflicts that change upon something in an often violent manner, and a curse affects that which is unseen and ethereal–

Lettie paused, smothering a yawn, and then frowned as she finished reading the paragraph. What, precisely, did Asmodeus Pyrites mean by "unseen and ethereal"? She scanned the rest of the page, but all the author did was continue to list the properties of jinxes and hexes, citing numerous examples – useful information, certainly, but not precisely relevant to the question at hand - and even flipping to the next page, then the next, did not reveal answers. It seemed that Pyrites did not especially want to discuss the matter of curses… which was peculiar for a Defense Against the Dark Arts book.

Especially peculiar, given that it was the third book that had failed to explain the differences between a curse and a jinx or hex properly. Oh, well. It seemed she would need to look through the owl-order catalogues again for a book specializing in curses, and hope desperately that no one thought it odd that she had a sudden interest in dark magic.

Already, she could envision the newspapers. "Girl-Who-Lived Practicing Dark Magic!" the Daily Prophet would likely exclaim by the week's end, likely twisting that information into something as "scandalous" and "shameful" as her Sorting into Ravenclaw. She supposed she should be thankful that blasted Skeeter woman hadn't learned of the incident at the end of the year. Yet, anyway.

Sighing, Lettie flipped back to the original page, but now found herself distracted - the question of what curses did rattling in her brain like a maraca - and each word on jinxes and hexes were promptly forgotten. There was, of course, one person she could ask… in theory, at least, assuming he could be trusted at all after all those months of spying after that frightful incident in the Hospital Wing where he'd slipped into her mind harshly, cruelly, so much like a Bludger to the skull, and then, after, his murmured threats of the Ministry, of lists and conscription and danger to others.

No, Lettie did not trust Severus Snape to get her safely across the street; she certainly would not be owling him to ask questions about the Dark Arts–

Tap, tap.

Blinking, she looked up, and there, perched on the windowsill, sat a trio of owls. One of them tapped insistently on the glass, gleaming amber eyes looking at Lettie pointedly; Hedwig was not pleased at finding her way impeded, especially after flying all the way to Hermione's and back, and, worse, having to deal with one of those impertinent Hogwarts owls. The very clear image of biting at Lettie's ears if she didn't hurry up lingered on the owl's mind, and Lettie winced.
Hedwig had been in a horrid mood for most of the summer, ever since Uncle Vernon attempted to lock her away in her cage - something that Lettie had rapidly put a stop to, once she'd realized that no, the Ministry could not detect wandless magic and by that extension, Legilimency, but the owl had not quite forgiven her yet for the three days she'd spent stuck in a cage.

Lettie quickly opened the window; Hedwig fluttered inside with an annoyed hoot, her wing clipping the side of Lettie's head. Wincing, Lettie rubbed her ear as the owl dropped the package she carried onto the bed and fluttered over to her usual perch, still glaring at Lettie. Thankfully, the other two owls felt no such need to make their displeasure known, swooping over to the desk - though that may, perhaps, be more due to the barn owl needing to help the exhausted Errol over to the desk, the latter of whom immediately collapsed.

It was hardly particularly surprising - the Weasley family owl was well getting on in years, seeming to struggle more and more with each trip he had made to Privet Drive, and the large package currently tied to his legs likely hadn't helped. Lettie had been tempted to make a few pointed remarks about Errol needing rest, and perhaps even some assistance carrying the post for a full seven people - though Hermione, unfortunately, had felt no such compunction - but the simple truth was that the Weasley family simply couldn't afford another owl.

Though, perhaps Lettie could convince Elain to accept an owl as a birthday present? She was always complaining about how Percy and even the twins had a pet…

All this ran through Lettie's mind as she hurried over to the nearly-unconscious owl, untied the cords around his legs, removed the parcel, and then carried Errol over to Hedwig's owl perch. Errol opened one bleary eye, gave a feeble hoot of thanks, and began to gulp some water.

Curiously, she picked up the package. "Lettie" was written in that loopy, uneven script that always had Hermione sniffing - though, after three months of tedious bickering, she had finally had the sense to stop speaking about Elaine's poor handwriting - but why would Elaine send her a package?

I would think that answer would be obvious, a voice muttered in the back of her head, sounding remarkably like Professor Snape. Lettie winced. Yes, yes, it should be obvious, however… it wasn't really as if she often received birthday presents, was it?

Pain, sudden and sharp, stabbed at her hand. She cried out, jerking away, and then blinked at the perturbed barn owl who had apparently decided he was annoyed at being ignored and decided that the most prudent course of action would be to bite her hand. He was also contemplating doing it again, if only to escape this wretched house, which felt wrong somehow, flat and dull and without any of the warmth and light that Hogwarts held, and-

"Alright, alright," she muttered. "Give it over."

As the owl stuck out his leg, Hedwig gave her a smug look that clearly stated she would never be so undignified as to bite her, which, given the owl's previous acts tonight, was laughable. Snippiness, it seemed, was a requirement of post owls.

The letter that the barn owl had been violently eager to deliver turned out to be a simple, unnecessary missive:

Dear Ms. Potter,

Please note that the new school year will begin on September the first. The Hogwarts Express will leave from King's Cross Station, platform nine and three-quarters, at eleven o'clock. Your book list is enclosed.

Yours sincerely,

Professor M. McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

Professor McGonagall. It was peculiar to receive a single bit of correspondence from her, even something as benign as a standardized letter, given that she had spent the last few weeks pointedly not thinking about the woman. This likely would've shocked her only two months ago, given how comfortably they'd gotten along throughout most of her first year - she had, after all, been the one to take Lettie to Diagon Alley, and had welcomed Lettie's visits, if only to have the excuse to reminisce about her parents - however, that had changed following the incident with the Philosopher's Stone.

She had gone to McGonagall, had told her that she suspected a professor intended to steal the Stone, and she… she hadn't believed Lettie - had accused her of being a silly child making up stories, perhaps as a dare or for some ridiculous prank, even - and had sent Lettie on her way. Perhaps that was forgivable - what first year would've been believed, after all? - however, after she'd followed Quirrell through the trapdoor, after she'd very nearly died, Professor McGonagall hadn't felt the need to speak of it. Hagrid had come to apologize, Dumbledore had appeared to commend Lettie's actions, Flitwick had checked that she was alright and given her grades for the year early, and even Snape had visited, once, late at night and when she was presumably asleep. Yet, despite all this, not a single world had come from her - then - favorite teacher.

As if she'd simply been forgotten about.

Fiercely, Lettie shoved all those thoughts back into their box and stuffed them into some dark, creepy bookcase at the back of mind. It didn't matter, after all, if one Hogwarts teacher thought that she was a silly, frivolous, shallow child, did it? She'd graduate in a few years and Minerva McGonagall would be nothing but a not-so-fond memory, and she was still thinking about it. Clearly a testament to how poorly her Occlumency was going so far - which was to say, upgraded from utterly hopeless to particularly pathetic.

She flipped to the second sheet of parchment, which was really more of a note, containing only two books:

The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2, by Miranda Goshawk

The Complete Compendium of Dark Creatures, by Gilderoy Lockhart

Well. That was easy, at least.

Next, she returned her attention to Errol's package; very hesitantly, she opened it, and something within glittered, light dancing across glass. She plucked out what looked very much like a spinning top in miniature, made out of all glass that sparkled with erratic, twisting rainbows and that most certainly wasn't caused by the light in the room, but rather something within the glass shifting, an intangible and cloud-like substance reminiscent of the smoke in Neville's Remembrall. Would it, too, change color under the right circumstances?

A note lay at the bottom of the package.

Lettie,

Happy birthday! I'd say I hope you're having a great summer, but given your stuck with Isla for two straight months, I think the best I can do is remind you not to curse her - for one, I'd like to watch if you do, and second, I doubt the Ministry would be happy with you breaking the law, even if it is for a worthy cause. On the bright side, at least it isn't Malfoy. I don't think I could go a day without hexing him.

Sorry about that telephone call. I hope the Muggles didn't give you too hard a time for it. I asked Dad, and he reckons I shouldn't have shouted–

Lettie winced. The telephone call had come a week into summer break, and went about as terribly as one might expect when a young pureblooded witch attempted to use strange Muggle technology – even if her father was, dubiously, knowledgeable of such things. It perhaps might not have gone so bad if it had been anyone – even Petunia, even Isla – else who had answered the phone, but as the Fates would have it, it had been Uncle Vernon who had answered the call.

"Vernon Dursley speaking."

"HELLO?" came the response, and Lettie had frozen at the familiar voice; Uncle Vernon had jumped back and held the receiver a foot away from his ear, staring at it with an expression of mingled fury and alarm. "HELLO? CAN YOU HEAR ME? I WANT TO TALK TO LETTIE POTTER!"

"WHO IS THIS?" Uncle Vernon had roared in the direction of the mouthpiece, thinking how of course it was that ruddy Potter brat's fault, freakish thing– "WHO ARE YOU?"

"ELAINE WEASLEY!" she had bellowed back, as though he and Uncle Vernon were speaking from opposite ends of a football field. "I'M A FRIEND OF LETTIE'S FROM SCHOOL—"

Uncle Vernon's small eyes swiveled around to Lettie, who was rooted to the spot. "THERE IS NO LETTIE HERE!" he roared, now holding the receiver at arm's length, as though frightened it might explode. "I DON'T KNOW WHAT SCHOOL YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT! NEVER CONTACT ME AGAIN! DON'T YOU COME NEAR MY FAMILY!"

And he threw the receiver back onto the telephone as if dropping a poisonous spider.

That had led to a particularly horrid fight, one that Lettie found she didn't want to think upon much - not the blood, not Petunia's horrified cries, not the bubbling rage, and oh, thank Merlin that Isla hadn't been there. After, Petunia had tersely informed her and Isla that they were not to have any contact with that sort over the summer; Isla had naturally thrown a fit that had, thankfully, distracted the Dursleys from Lettie.

Thankfully, there had been no further telephone calls.

Sighing, Lettie focused again on her letter:

Anyway, about your present. It's a Pocket Sneakoscope, and it's supposed to let you know if you're around anyone untrustworthy - if it goes black, run. I'm sure Hermione will try to give you a blood book on it, but I did include instructions (see the other side of the letter). I thought it'd be a good idea to have some warning after Quirrell - Fred says that the Defense teachers tend to be dodgy, but it's Fred, so…

Oh, and we're planning to go to Diagon Alley on the seventh if you want to come (I've already invited Hermione, I promise). Mum says the letters should've arrived by then. And she's said it's okay if you want to stay for the rest of the summer after, as long as the Muggles approve (like they can say no to a witch).

See you in London,

Elaine

She eyed the spinning top - the Pocket Sneakoscope - again. It definitely would've been useful last year, although how reliable it could really be was debatable. How, exactly, did it determine if someone was untrustworthy? Perhaps she should see about getting a book on it, or maybe ask a professor - Snape would probably know, everyone said he wanted the Defense post. Although, that likely wasn't a point in his favor, considering that the position was supposedly cursed. Unless, of course, he wanted the post because it was cursed and would finally get him away from all the students he appeared to disdain…

Who would be replacing Quirrell?

Shaking those thoughts aside, Lettie set aside her present - her birthday present - and turned to the other package, brought by Hedwig. It, too, looked suspiciously large, gift-like, perhaps even book-shaped, and a letter had been tucked in with it. This time, she opened the note first.

Dear Lettie,

How's your summer going? Mine has been rather dull so far, and I must say that I care for my second cousins as much as you care for Isla. Perhaps we could trade? I'm certain that even she can't be this frustrating…

I must apologize for not writing much. My parents still refuse to allow me an owl, and I haven't been able to visit any magical locations since I sent off that first letter. I was honestly worried that I wouldn't be able to deliver your birthday present until we were on the train. Thankfully, I bought it while we were still at school, otherwise I don't think I'd have been able to get you a gift at all!

As we aren't coming back until the end of the month, I'm afraid I won't be able to meet you and Elaine in Diagon next week. I must say, though, that Elaine's letter left rather a lot to be desired. Honestly, the nerve of her! I sometimes don't understand how you can be friends with her.

However, I will write again when I can, and I promise to see you on the train.

Sincerely,

Hermione

The handwriting was sharp and harried as if rushed out in some dusty, forgotten corner of a library before her family could stumble upon her, the last paragraph severely crooked rather than in her normal precise rows as if written along some unseen line. Perhaps she'd been worried someone would see it? That seemed decidedly un-Hermione-like - the girl certainly seemed to have no compunctions about reading Lettie or Elaine's post - but perhaps she'd simply been in a bad place to write it. After all, she was Muggle born, and an owl would certainly be conspicuous.

The gift turned out to be - oh-so-shockingly - a book. Once again, it was defense themed, though in a less proactive way. A Modern History of the Dark Arts, read the title, and the table of contents listed chapters on Grindelwald and his war, on other foreign dark wizards, but the latter chapters… Chapter 13: The Rise of the Dark Lord [REDACTED].

Lettie stared at it for several long moments, her heart skittering, too fast, in her chest. Hermione must've noticed her research last year; after the other girl had mentioned reading books on Lettie, of all people, she had gone in search of those very texts and discovered a mass of alarming information that neither McGonagall nor Professor Dumbledore had elected to mention to an eleven year old orphan… and also plenty of vague facts, information removed or never recorded at all, things only known to a select few - such as Dumbledore's mysterious Order, whose membership was carefully skirted about and mere name was never fully written down. Likely, Hermione had believed she was helping, but somehow, Lettie doubted that a book that wouldn't even print Voldemort's name would be much more helpful than the dozen she'd already read.

She discarded the book on her desk and glanced over at the clock. 1:04 a.m., announced the blaring red letters. Already, she'd been twelve for a full hour without realizing it - but then, age was only a number, right? She certainly didn't feel like some twelve year old child, a little girl playing with dolls and worrying over silly school things… if anything, she felt rather worn, battered around the edges, tired as if she'd already fought one to many battles, and perhaps she had.

After all, what other eleven - now twelve - year old girl could say that they had murdered someone?

Two someones, even, if Lettie counted Voldemort, though considering the Dark Lord was not quite dead, she wasn't entirely certain that she should. Was it murder if the person came back as a disembodied spirit?

Sighing, Lettie dropped back into her bed and then, on impulse, snatched up to the pocket sneakoscope. Irrespective of whether it worked, the colors were certainly quite pretty. She lay in bed for some time, examining the swirling colors within the glass, and prayed that perhaps, just perhaps, this year would not be so terrible as the last.

Uncle Vernon was reading the morning paper. That, on its own, was not a particularly surprising feat; it had, after all, been his tradition for a good many years. No, the peculiar thing was the fact that, throughout the entirety of breakfast, Uncle Vernon had not once lowered his paper, not even to offer greetings to the other household members he actually liked - unlike Lettie - and instead had kept it up as stoutly as the Berlin Wall had once stood. He did not even seem to notice that he had dragged the pages over his plate and that egg yolk was steadily staining an article on a proposed recycling program as he - pretended to - read.

Every few moments, Aunt Petunia's gaze flickered over to him, wondering when he would finally speak with her again, but he gave no visible indication of noticing it, though of course he did every time and became only more firm in his resolve to pretend at ignorance. After all, why would he wish to speak to two abnormal witches nor the freakish woman who had brought them into his life?

That last thought was not one he had voiced aloud, but the echo of it hung there, stretched taut through the silence like the string of a kite caught in a tree that a child kept fruitlessly tugging on. It had always been there, in fact, though before McGonagall and Dumbledore, before Hogwarts and magic, it had always been directed solely at Lettie. It was perhaps a relief that the thoughts of abnormality and freakishness were not, for once, focused on her. Perhaps… save for the fact that she was instead forced to sit through long, tense meals.

Such as this one.

"Mum, please," Isla begged, ignoring her food in favor of giving her mother the most pitiful look she could manage, "just one night. Megan's dad can Apparate us back in the morning-"

Vernon twitched violently at the strange word, and Petunia, noticing with those sharp eyes that had always caught those small moments when Lettie would pause in her chores, desperately parched and gasping for breath, said, "I'm sorry, my dear, but we'd prefer to have you home for the summer. You're already been gone for so long…" Given that school of yours, she thought, but didn't say, knowing Vernon wouldn't be pleased at another mention of his daughter's "abnormality".

"But it's not fair," Isla wailed in a voice that made Lettie's ears hurt, one that was almost always guaranteed to work. Always, that was, until Hogwarts; if she behaved like that in Potions or Transfiguration, she'd have detention for a month. McGonagall would likely make some disparaging remark about her shameful attitude, and Snape…

Well, Gryffindor would probably lose all chance at the House Cup.

"You'll see your friends later today, sweetums, remember?" Petunia reminded her in that sickeningly crooning tone that she somehow thought was soothing. "We'll be in D-" A glance at Vernon, and she corrected herself, "that place in a few days, and you can talk to them about your summer all you want."

"I want to spend a weekend with my friends! Why is it that Lettie," Isla gave her a hateful look, and it was always so peculiar to have eyes nearly identical to her own look at her like that, "is allowed to run off with the Weasleys, of all people, for a month, while I'm stuck here with you Muggles!"

"I suppose you'd rather have dead parents, then?"

A terrible, terrible silence greeted Lettie's words; for a moment, all the Dursleys could do was stare at her, all thinking dreadfully tragic thoughts of the dead Potters, of freaks deserving it, of war and bloodshed and a mark hovering over a little house in Cokeworth, a skull eating a serpent, and that awful buzz in Petunia's ears when she'd found the bodies, when she'd read that letter. Several heartbeats passed before Petunia said, in a shaky voice, "You'll be staying here with us, Isla, and that's final."

"I hate you!" Isla snarled, lurching to her feet-

"Sit back down!" Petunia's voice sliced through the dining room, freezing Isla in her tracks, Vernon's paper crinkled as he slowly lowered it to peer over the top of it at Petunia, and Lettie's heart skipped a beat. Her aunt never, ever yelled. Or really looked angry or annoyed, actually, except for now, apparently, because she gave Isla a look that could've made a troll pause in its murderous tracks.

Slowly, Isla settled back into her chair.

"Now," Petunia said in a sweet tone, smoothing out a wrinkle in the tablecloth, "tonight, as you may remember, is a very important night for your father. The Masons will be coming over for dinner, and I expect you to behave, Isla." For all that she was addressing her daughter, Petunia's gaze flickered nervously to Lettie. "This deal is very important to your father. You will not ruin it with your silly fits, do you understand me?"

Isla's face twisted into a snarl as vicious as one of Aunt Marge's dogs. "Yes, Mum."

"Excellent. Vernon, is there anything you wish to say?"

Uncle Vernon stiffened at being addressed, but finally, reluctantly, folded his newspaper up and set it to the side. "Yes. Well." He cleared his throat. "I think we should run through the schedule one more time. We should all be in position at eight o'clock. Petunia, you will be–"

"In the lounge," said Aunt Petunia promptly, "waiting to welcome them graciously to our home."

"Good, good. And Isla?"'

"I'll be waiting to open the door and take their coats," Isla muttered, glowering at the tablecloth, and Aunt Petunia gave her a sharp look.

"Excellent, Isla." Uncle Vernon's fingers twitched, a half-smile, half-grimace frozen on his face for several terrible seconds, like some macabre masquerade mask, before he turned to address Lettie. "And you?"

"I'll be in my bedroom, reading."

You'd best be making no noise and pretending you don't exist, girl, or I'll wring your skinny little neck, Vernon thought very loud and very purposefully, looking her straight in the eyes. She merely smiled in response; his expression tightened, but he turned back to Petunia and Isla without another word, and she only half-listened as he went through the rest of the schedule. It was probably foolish of her to take the threats so lightly… but, honestly, it wasn't as if he could actually do anything to her. The last time he'd tried to hurt her, had thrown her against the wall, choked her, glass smashing and her palm bleeding, her desperately scrambling for the threads of his mind until he bent, like trying to carry a mountain, under her will, had struggled against her thoughts when she'd made him get up, walk outside and step right in front of a car.

That had been three years ago, now, and he hadn't touched her once since then.

Vernon concluded his lengthy lecture with the determined statement that "we'll be shopping for a holiday home in Majorca this time tomorrow", and if only he could go on holiday to Majorca permanently. Somehow, Lettie didn't think this would be terribly likely.

Finally, breakfast came to its brilliant end, and Lettie was free to escape the crippling, sterile house, slipping outside into the bright, bright sunlight and the little backyard of Number 4. It was as delightfully miserable and ordinary as the rest of Privet Drive, all green grass and one sickly looking tree scraping at the sky for life and a little garden bench perched between two bushes. A fence – white, of course, ordinary – separated the backyard from Number 6 and Number 8; only Lettie and Petunia knew of the little gaps that her Aunt would sometimes peer through to watch yet another violent screaming match between the couple in Number 6, or to peak in on the children of Number 8 doing some sort of mischief that their increasingly negligent father had yet to notice.

Lettie dropped onto the bench and stared up at the perfectly blue sky, not a cloud to be spotted, stretching endlessly on… It was the perfect sort of day – all warm, warm weather to chase away the lingering chill from the week's earlier rain and gentle breeze leaking through the fence to rustle at leaves, the sort of day where children ran about in parks or played games in the streets and young couples had delightful picnics under the sun and husbands mowed the lawns – and she hated it.

If only she could be at Hogwarts, instead, or even with the Weasleys or Grangers. But no.

"I asked, but Mum says that your family must miss you, and to stop nagging her, and that you can come later in the summer," Elaine had written to early in the summer, after her second letter begging for escape.

"Mum's dragging me off to visit some of her relatives. We'll be abroad for most of the summer," Hermione had complained in her earliest letter, before Lettie even had the chance to ask about visiting.

Lettie had considered going to the Leaky Cauldron for a few weeks, but surely wizards would gossip about that sort of thing, and she rather felt it prudent to keep Professor Dumbledore far away from her family troubles. He did not, after all, need to know that the only reason they were remotely tolerable was because Lettie regularly used forbidden mind magic on them; he seemed the sort to find such a thing offensive.

Or, worse, it could be Snape who found her, and wasn't that a horrifying thought? Certainly, it was easy to imagine the man sweeping into the inn with that horribly dramatic flourish of his robes, descending on her like a bat from hell and demanding to know precisely why she had thought it a reasonable idea to abandon her relations home; he'd likely make a few remarks about the dubious state of her famed Ravenclaw intellect while he was at it. No, she decided with a shudder, she most certainly would not be leaving the Dursleys yet.

It was likely for the best, as well, especially after the end of term – and the revelation about the mysterious blood magic that had somehow protected her when Voldemort and Quirrell tried to murder her. Magic somehow tied to her mother's death, and strengthened by living with Petunia and Isla. What, then, would happen if she left for an entire summer? For a year or more?

"Happy birthday, Lettie," she murmured to herself, and if only she had one person, one, to share the day with…

A soft rustle came from the bushes, and Lettie jerked upright, staring into the bushes… and found a pair of enormous green eyes staring back from amongst the leaves.

"Hello?" she offered, and the eyes blinked, a rustle in the leaves–

"I know what day it is!" a voice sang from across the lawn. The huge eyes blinked and vanished right as Isla stopped before her.

"What?" she asked, not looking away from the spot where the eyes had been. She hadn't heard anything, hadn't noticed the prickle of another's mind, and how was that possible?

"I know what day it is," her cousin repeated when Lettie continued to ignore her presence.

"So you've finally learned the days of the week," Lettie said. "Congratulations, Clari-bear. I knew you could do it."

Isla blinked at her, dumbfounded. "What?"

"Well," she said delicately, "I mean, it took you twelve years, but we all know you're a little slow."

Isla sucked in her breath. "I know… I've known the days of the week since I was four!"

"Oh, really? If that's what you want to pretend–"

"It's your birthday," Isla snarled. "Not that anyone else seems to have noticed. I suppose the Weasleys are too poor to even send a letter…"

Lettie smiled indulgently at the other girl – and how Isla hated that look, the sweetness, the innocence, as if Lettie Potter was not the devil incarnate. Perhaps, if she had been clever, she would've realized Lettie only looked at her that way because it annoyed her, but then, her cousin had never entirely seemed to make the connection that Lettie could read her mind. All for the better probably, given the illegality of her gift. "Actually, the letters arrived last night."

Isla flushed at the simple rebuke. "Well, what would Dad say if he knew you were still writing to those freaks?"

"Why don't you go tell him?" she asked, returning her gaze to the bush – still, the eyes had not returned.

"Why're you staring at the hedge?" she asked suspiciously.

"I'm trying to decide what would be the best spell to set it on fire," she replied, and pretended not to notice when Isla stumbled back a step, tripping on the grass in her haste. "What do you think? Incendio, right?"

"You're… you're mad!" Isla hissed, casting a panicked glance about for any neighbors peering in on them. "The Ministry… Dad… you'd be in loads of trouble if you used any magic!"

"Maybe," Lettie agreed, "or maybe not. I have a theory about that, actually."

"Listen, freak–"

"Isla!" Aunt Petunia called, hovering at the backdoor. "Come help me with dinner!"

"Coming, Mum!" she called back, before turning and giving Lettie a hateful look. "If you do anything to upset Mum and Dad, I'll tell all your friends about your freakishness. They have enough trouble with magic without you making it worse."

With that, she flounced away; Lettie sighed, and slumped back over the garden bench. This birthday seemed to only grow better and better.

Hours later, Lettie finally wandered back into the house. A loin of roast pork sizzled in the oven, the scent of meat and spices wafting through the kitchen, and her stomach rumbled. Aunt Petunia's lips pursed, and she shoved a plate into Lettie's hand, snarling, "Here! Eat this! And don't make a mess!"

Lettie just glimpsed the huge mound of whipped cream and sugared violets perched atop the fridge, a dessert she certainly would never be allowed to try, before the door slammed in her face. She had only just reached the upstairs landing when the doorbell rang and Uncle Vernon's furious face appeared at the foot of the stairs.

"One sound, girl, I'm warning you–"

She rolled her eyes and slipped into her bedroom, closing the door with a rather pointed thunk. She turned around, plate still in hand–

A creature sat on her bed, all bulging green eyes the size of tennis balls, massive bat-like ears that came to sharp points, and a ratty pillowcase hanging off its skinny, skeletal figure, so filthy that Aunt Petunia would shriek at the sight of it in her house. It blinked at her, as if it were as shocked by her sudden appearance in her own bedroom as she was by it.

A voice wafted up from the downstairs hallway: "May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?"

Lettie swallowed, and she should probably scream, should yell for her family and stumble away from the strange creature, but… "Hello?"

The creature started, then, in one smooth motion, but slipped off her bed and bowed so low its large nose almost touched the floor. "Letitia Potter!" Its voice was squeaky, high pitched like a screeching mouse; it was undoubtedly that the voice carried down the stairs. "An honor to meet you, miss… so long has Dobby wished for this chance, and to have it…"

"Thanks?" she offered, and somehow, they were staring at each other again, the silence punctuated by the murmur of voices drifting up from the living room. "Er… not to be rude, but what are you?"

"Dobby is a house-elf, miss."

A house-elf. Of course. Goblins, centaurs, and dark lords, why not elves, as well? "Right. Well. It's, uh, nice to meet you, Dobby."

"It's nice…" Dobby choked on the words, his eyes welling up. "It's nice… Oh! No witch has ever… never ever said that…" And then he burst into – very noisy – tears.

"I'm sorry!" Lettie cried as the voices downstairs seemed to falter – and oh, Merlin and Morgana, if Vernon came up here.. well, he'd probably take one look at the poor creature, and try to strangle him. Or, worse, Lettie. "I didn't mean to offend you–"

"O-offend Dobby?" he wailed, and there was definitely a pause this time.

"Look, why don't you sit down and we can talk things through reasonably?"

This, apparently, was very much the wrong thing to say, for Dobby only began to wail harder. "S-sit down! Never… Dobby has never been asked to sit down by a wizard… like an equal—"

"Then, you must not have met very many decent wizards."

Dobby gave her a teary sort of smile. "No, miss, Dobby has not–" Then, his eyes went wide with horror, and with a cry of "bad Dobby!" he leapt up and started banging his head furiously on the window.

"What are you… Dobby, stop! You'll hurt yourself!"

However, Dobby did not stop; he continued to beat his head against the glass, a sharp rapping and rattling. Hedwig stirred in her cage and gave a particularly indignant screech, loud and so shrill it hurt Lettie's ears. And still Dobby was banging his head on the window.

With a curse, Lettie grabbed at Dobby – who resisted, little fists catching her in the stomach, another shrill shriek of "Bad Dobby!" – and managed to haul him away from the window. He lunged at her lamp, though, and–

"Dobby, stop it!"

This time, her plea worked, and the little house-elf stilled in his efforts. "Dobby apologizes, miss. Dobby had to punish himself for his poor behavior."

"Dobby, I don't think–"

"Dobby spoke ill of his masters, miss." He stared up at her with large green eyes, wide and innocent, in a way that should've been impossible for a creature expected to beat himself for being bad. "A bad elf deserves to suffer."

A chill ran down her spine. Abnormal girl… don't deserve our charity… drop you off in an orphanage. "No one deserves suffering, Dobby."

The elf stared up at her, not seeming to know what to say, and if Lettie could see into his mind… if only there was a mind she could actually find. But, where his thoughts should be creeping through the air like loose threads in a breeze, there was nothing but silence.

Aunt Petunia's high, false laugh sounded from the living room, and Lettie jolted at the reminder of the dinner party below – none of whom would be particularly happy at finding a house-elf in her bedroom.

"Why are you here, Dobby?"

The house-elf started, blinking up at her with those bright eyes, large as tennis balls. "He bes here to tell you… it is difficult, miss, to begin…" His hands fluttered helplessly. "An ancient story, miss,, and Dobby… he does not know where is best…"

"I think the beginning is always the best place," Lettie said, because that sounded suitably wise and helpful – perhaps like something strange old Professor Dumbledore may say, and he was certainly the wisest person she knew.

Dobby nodded decisively. "Yes, the beginning… Yes… For many months, miss, there have been whispers of a plot, a terrible plot to make things most terrible occur at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"What terrible things?" she asked. Who's plotting them?"

Dobby made a funny choking noise and then banged his head frantically against the wall.

"All right!" cried Lettie, grabbing the elf's arm to stop him. "You can't tell me. I understand. But why are you warning me?"

Dobby choked for a moment before finally finding his voice. "Dobby has come to protect Letitia Potter–"

"Lettie," she corrected almost immediately, then flushed at the widening eyes of Dobby. "Sorry. But… protect? Dobby, is this plan… is someone trying to kill me?" Again.

"Not… you, directly."

Oh, that was a relief. "Well, if not me, then who's in danger?"

The house-elf shook his head rapidly, hand twitching towards her bedside lamp, and–

"So you can't tell me that, either? Alright, but Dobby, if I'm not the target of these plots, then why are you warning me?"

The house-elf froze. "Lettie Potter must not place herself in peril. She is far too important, far too necessary to the pattern, to be lost by such careless acts. She must listen to Dobby, and must stay safe."

"Safe?" Lettie repeated, and wasn't that different, someone telling her to lower her head, to hide away, rather than ignoring the danger or congratulating her for surviving it.

"Yes, miss." Dobby nodded eagerly. "Lettie Potter must not return to Hogwarts School. If she does, she will be in mortal danger."

Must not return. The words echoed into the silence between them – only broken by distant chink of knives and forks from downstairs and faint rumble of Uncle Vernon's voice – a sick, horrid, festering thing, like that time that Isla had forced her to swallow rotting eggs, and Lettie founding herself wanting to throw up.

"Not go back? Dobby, I have to return! Even if I didn't want to – and I do – the Ministry of Magic, Dumbledore, Snape, would never allow me to stay here! It's against the law – all underage witches and wizards are required to attend a wizarding school until they receive their OWLs to ensure basic competency with a wand."

"But Miss Lettie Potter does not need to attend Hogwarts," Dobby told her in a voice that was undeniably smug. "Lettie Potter may transfer to a different school for the year, until the danger is gone."

Somehow, Lettie doubted that would work; firstly, everyone would want to know why she'd transferred, and then she doubted that she could get Petunia to agree to pay for the fees and such, and even then there was that strange interest Professor Dumbledore seemed to have in her life, even so far as arriving personally to deliver her letter and taking her for ice cream to explain her parents murders and her own fame for it.

"Not only did you survive the unsurvivable, but you also defeated a man many had proclaimed the greatest dark lord of the century." No, Lettie knew exactly why Albus Dumbledore was so interested in her, and somehow she was certain that no matter how she fought against it, she would find herself returning to Hogwarts in September.

And that was assuming she even wanted to fight against returning.

"I don't think they'll let me do that, Dobby. There are… certain people who care a great deal about my remaining where they can see me." Not only Dumbledore, either, what would Snape do if she suddenly didn't want to return to Hogwarts?

For a moment, the elf stared at her, and perhaps he understood, perhaps he would stop insisting, and she could ask him for more information–

"They will not allow Miss to withdraw?"

Lettie nodded.

"Then Dobby will do it for her," the house-elf said firmly, and, before she could react, Dobby had darted to the bedroom door, pulled it open, and sprinted down the stairs.

What… Lettie scrambled to her feet and hurried down the stairs after him, trying desperately to stay quiet so the Dursleys wouldn't notice. From the dining room, she heard Uncle Vernon saying, "... tell Petunia that very funny story about those American plumbers, Mr. Mason. She's been dying to hear…"

She raced into the kitchen to find Dobby perched, madly enough, atop a cupboard, nose crinkled in concentration, and holding–

Her wand.

"Dobby!" she hissed. "What are you doing?"

And then she saw the pudding, Aunt Petunia's masterpiece of cream and sugared violets, floating high, high, high in the air, hovering a hairsbreadth from the ceiling. The vision of it plummeting filled her mind, and oh, Merlin, Maeve, and Morgana–

"Dobby is saving Miss Lettie Potter," he said with a firm nod, and no–

The charm holding up the pudding vanished, and it went tumbling to the floor with a crash that even old Mrs. Figg, half dead and mad as a hatter, would've struggled to ignore. Pudding exploded all across the room, cream splattering the cupboards and windows, and with a crack like a whip, Dobby vanished, smiling all the while.

There were screams from the dining room and Uncle Vernon burst into the kitchen to find Lettie, rigid with shock, covered from head to foot in Aunt Petunia's pudding.

Suddenly, wizarding curses did not seem like enough, and Lettie went with one of Elaine's favorites: "Bloody buggering hell."

A/N: For clarification, Dumbledore was the one to deliver Lettie's letter and explain about Hogwarts, her parents deaths, Voldemort, etc., while McGonagall was the one to actually take her to Diagon Alley. There was no big letter mess in this story, as Dumbledore delivered the first letter personally. I actually have the scene with Dumbledore written, if anyone wants me to put it up?