Chapter 1: A Winding Path
There's not much to think about, or maybe there's too much to think about. Regardless, Irene has chosen to simply ignore it. If she's clinically insane, her delusions won't be able to keep up with reality anyway, but now—walking around the barren streets of magical London—she's almost ninety percent certain that she doesn't have the vivid imagination capable of picturing something the scope of this.
Buildings of crooked and strange proportions line the cobblestone streets, some painted garish shades while others hold steadfast tradition. The windows of various shops and eateries showcase their most magical and obscure findings. Irene's passed a few moving picture books, flying broomsticks, and magical creatures.
As her shoes clack against stone, hags in rags cup their hands for spare change as the few patrons of the alley—wizards and witches wearing the most peculiar pointy hats and robes—shuffle hurriedly to their destinations. Frankly, everyone looks a tad nervous. Irene's certain there's something she's missing from the picture, but for now, she has some personal matters to handle. She pats out her skirt's pleats, ignoring the blatant differences between her clothes and the other patrons and moves forward.
Flecks of golden dance across the marble steps to Gringotts Bank reflecting the early morning sun. The pristinely white building towers and looms ahead of her, its columns thick, oppressive, and, well, slanted. It's a bit crooked. Irene wonders if structural integrity simply doesn't apply to magical folk as she stands and takes a deep breath. Her hands are clutching her wooden box that represents the paltry savings she has left. With one last hesitant look at the intimidatingly dressed goblins at either side, she pushes past the bronze doors.
It's a nervously long wait to step up to the counter, made only so by Irene's unnecessary dawdling. She feels small like a child—she is a child, something she fears she forgets at times—in front of these impossibly tall counters.
"Hello, I'd like to see your banking plans if that would be possible. I am looking to set up a vault here," Irene says.
The goblin shuffles through his desk drawer and floats parchment with various details of the different vault plans between them. However, before she can read through the first plan he asks, "identification please," and extends a wrinkly sharp nailed hand to her.
She swallows and looks through her bag, handing him her muggle identification card when she's finished with her search.
The goblin takes it, eyes narrowing, and shifts his half-moon glasses. He frowns, handing it back to her. "Magical identification, Miss Hill."
And that's kind of the problem. She doesn't have magical identification. The Harry Potter books never really covered that from her memories. Her eyes timidly scan her surroundings—she doesn't want to hold up the line—and she opens her mouth. "Thing is…I don't have any."
The goblin instantly floats the papers back onto his desk in a neat pile. His scrutinizing gaze seems to size her up after her confession. "I see." He turns and gestures to another goblin who rises from his desk and steps over. "We are unable to prepare a vault until identification is given. However, Garnaff will discuss vault plans with you in a private room and set another date for you to come in with the proper paperwork."
"This way please," Garnaff gestures to his left past the counter.
"Thank you." Irene quickly exits the line and follows Garnaff. The books had said that goblins were shrewd and unfriendly to wizards and witches, but they seem perfectly cordial aside from the spine shuddering growls they sometimes make.
Taken into a private room, Irene seats herself in the chair opposite the desk. Her legs are tightly pressed together, her back straight, and posture rigid while her savings sit posed atop her lap. Garnaff in contrast ignores her clearly nervous display and places information regarding vault plans on the desk.
"Miss Hill, as Ulragg stated, until you register with the Ministry's Immigration Department, we will be unable to procure a vault for you," Garnaff says.
She furrows her brows. "The Immigration Department? I'm British."
He smiles with too many teeth. "Yes, that much is very clear. However, what else is clear is your lack of control over your magic." He huffs something under his breath and Irene's certain he hissed the word "witches" like a curse. "You're a late-bloomer we gather. Therefore, you'll have to take up your situation with the Department of Immigration to settle the matter. Now onto business…."
That's all the warning she gets before Garnaff begins to shove the wide variety of plans down her throat. It's like he's waterboarding her with information. Irene's too shy to tell him to slow down, and too embarrassed to admit his technical terms are far above her education. Words like APR, IRA, close-end loans are causing her head to spin. She smiles and, at the end, selects the basic plan, not truly understanding any of the more intense investment options.
"Very well." Garnaff's eyes are sharp and judging. Irene knows that he knows she has no idea what's going on, but she keeps smiling anyway. He sighs, sounding much too disappointed with her. She's only fifteen for Christ's sake. "I will schedule an appointment for a fortnight from today at noon?"
Irene nods, and Garnaff records the meeting date in his schedule before giving her an appointment card. She leaves in a flurry with Garnaff all smiles and sharp teeth. As a last piece of advice, he suggests she get inoculated before visiting the Ministry as magical diseases are more severe than muggle ones. She gets the address of St. Mungo's and leaves to drop off her belongings before heading there.
On her way to the hospital, she can't help but wonder what the hell he meant by "late-bloomer"?
"No dear, you won't have to pay." The short-statured nurse smiles up at Irene from his counter while she takes in her information. "There aren't many magical children, and we protect our own. St. Mungo's does not discriminate based on blood-status regardless of our sponsors."
Irene mirrors the warm expression automatically. "Thank you, sir. I wasn't sure if I'd be able to afford the list you've given me." She swallows when she thinks about the ten-inch parchment of various missed inoculations.
"No worries, Miss Hill. A healer will be with you shortly to give a physical and handle your inoculations."
Irene takes her seat and waits. She glances at the various decorations. The moving portraits are particularly distracting; however, she can't help but stare at the bubbling potions on a medical cart. She really is within the Harry Potter universe.
Ironically, it seems she will be unable to meet the protagonist for another fifty years. Strange to think that she could irrevocably change something before the story even starts, but then again, she's not a particularly interesting person so it's more likely nothing will change at all.
She swings her legs as they dangle from her chair. Maybe the healers will know what a late-bloomer is.
"Miss Hill?" a tall, spindly woman calls. Her hair is pulled in a severe bun.
Irene stands and is escorted to a sectioned off area with a small cot. She lays and sits, stands and turns throughout the examination whilst various spells are muttered by the healer. She's quite curt yet Irene doesn't mind. However, she can't seem to find the right moment to ask what a late-bloomer is. Despite this, when the appointment seems to be wrapping up—a tray of inoculations outspread on a cart, Irene speaks up.
"Madam Beaudet? I was wondering if you could tell me what a 'late-bloomer' is. I heard it from the goblins. Does that just mean my magic was late to develop? The way they said it made me think it was something more," she says.
Madam Beaudet freezes and flicks her wand at Irene. She glows a bright blue then white. Beaudet looks particularly concerned before she says, "I believe Head Healer Margarite will need to see you to answer your questions." The quill to her side begins writing on a new section of parchment and the healer mumbles a spell at it. It folds into a small rabbit before hopping off the cart and into the ward's halls. "For now, let's get you inoculated."
She's sick of needles by the time it's over. It's a marvel that her shoulder isn't Swiss cheese by now. Irene massages the tender and swollen skin of her arm. The doctor-er, healer, had chosen her unmarked arm to push the inoculations through and had informed Irene that her burn marks were removeable but unfortunately only through an expensive beauty potion that the hospital children's program did not cover. So, she'd have to deal with it for now.
The curtain opens and an elderly woman steps through. She's quite plump, with a wrinkled but rosy face. "Is this Miss Hill?" She smiles and turns to Healer Beaudet.
"Yes. Madam Margarite." Beaudet bows. "A late-bloomer, age fifteen. She came in for her inoculations."
"Oh, must be recent then. Well, I'll take care of Miss Hill now. Please attend to the other patients Beaudet."
Something passes between the two healers as they lock their gazes in silent conversation. When it breaks, Healer Beaudet lowers her head in another bow before exiting the room. A shimmer of silvery light shines as she departs through the curtain.
A privacy spell? Irene tilts her head.
"Now then, young miss. All of this must be quite confusing for you. You're a muggle-born—a child from non-magical parents—correct?" Madam Margarite takes a seat in a folding chair beside Irene's cot.
Irene nods. "Is there something wrong with me?"
"Oh no, dear child. However, your particular circumstance is concerning. Do you know what a Late-bloomer is?"
She shakes her head. "Is it…dangerous?"
"Perhaps in a sense. You see most magical children show their skills at a young age. Eight is the average and ten is typically the latest. Those that develop their cores past age eleven are considered 'Late-bloomers,' which is what you are, Miss Hill." She smiles, though it appears to be pained. "They usually exhibit particular abilities unlike other children. Ancient Magic they call it. The goblins sent you to us knowing this very fact."
"Why?" Her brows furrow.
"Users of Ancient Magic are few and far between. So, it was to ensure their investment, I believe. Their folk can be quite meticulous. Young witches and wizards such as yourself have cores that are under accelerated growth. It makes you susceptible to developing magical disorders like an Obscurial—it's the result of repressing and resisting your magic." With pause, Madam Margarite sighs and takes a deep breath. "You can imagine such rare abilities are highly sought after. In my lifetime working at St. Mungo's, I have only seen one other Late-bloomer."
Irene frowns, taking in the information. Ancient Magic? She can't think of any examples other than Lily Potter's sacrifice and she wasn't a Late-bloomer from what the books mentioned. Her fingers tap across her thigh in soft trills.
"I can help set you up with some emergency potions for magic bursts and an exercise routine that will act as physical therapy for your magic. You'll need to get into the habit of regularly releasing it." A quill floats from her pocket and begins writing information down on the blank parchment on the cart. When it stops Madam Margarite uses a severing charm to cut off the piece of paper with various instructions. She hands it to Irene and stands. "This should guide you through your exercises, but please, if you have any concerns come back to St. Mungo's and ask for me. When you get to the front desk, they should have your potions ready to take home."
Irene nods and stands up before Madam Margarite can leave. "Um, I know you are a healer, but do you have any advice on how to register at the Ministry? I was told I will have to go but I'm not quite sure about my inoculations' effectiveness, the procedure for Immigration, or really anything at all."
"If you aren't registered, how did you acquire a vault at Gringotts?"
"I didn't. I haven't, at least not yet. My appointment is scheduled in two weeks."
Margarite turns round and looks consideringly at Irene, her face is pinched with worry and something else. "This is very important, so please do remember this. You can stop by the Ministry at any point as the inoculations are already in effect; however, when you arrive you must ask for Unspeakable Flavian Fontius. Do not tell anyone aside from Sir Fontius that you are a Late-bloomer." The elderly woman twirls her wand in a Tempus to check the time. "If you are planning on going directly after this, please speak with my secretary in my office at the end of the ward. You can take my floo. Now, if you excuse me, I must go."
"Wait, why shouldn't I tell anyone?" Irene asks.
"Late-bloomers have a short life expectancy. Not because of their health, but the greed of others, Miss Hill. I am sorry that I cannot assist you through this, but Flavian is a trustworthy man." On that final word Madam Margarite rushes out of the space, the privacy ward popping upon her exit.
Irene's spat out insultingly on the polished wooden floor of the Ministry Atrium, courtesy of Madam Margarite's kind offer to give her access to her private floo.
A sea of wizards and witches impatiently step over and around her in a hurry to attend to their business. Grumbling, she rubs her hip and stands up. The sight is overwhelming as the noticeboard above her head catches her eyes first. It reads a schedule of events for the day including a list of trials and hearings at the Wizengamot. The golden letters cycle and shine with each change displayed over the blue ceiling tiles as shoulders press and push past her.
Getting the hint, she ushers forward through the mass of robe-wearing officials. Her muggle clothes feel particularly out of place here as she walks past the fountain and to the security desk. Not a single person is in muggle fashion, not in the pinnacle of magical society. With each muffled clack of her heels, her heart drums in anxious beats. In her head, Madam Margarite's words are an ominous prophecy.
"Late-bloomers have a short life expectancy. Not because of their health, but the greed of others, Miss Hill."
She represses a shiver. Isn't that just wonderful? God. She went from undesirable to hot commodity in the span of twenty-four hours in the worse way possible. She approaches the Security Desk trying hard not to think of her distinctive clothing or her particular predicament.
"I'm looking for Unspeakable Flavian Fontius," Irene says.
"Identification, please," the security guard, a wizard in black robes, asks before even looking up.
"I'm afraid I've lost mine. Do you accept muggle identification cards?" She pulls her card from her bag and offers it.
This garners a look up. He glances at the information card in her hand and doesn't make any move to inspect it. Instead, the guard regards her with a disdainful look. "Miss Hill, unfortunately unless Unspeakable Fontius has a meeting with you, we cannot accept your request."
"Madam Margarite from St. Mungo's referred me to him. If you could at least send a message that would be appreciated." She flashes her best smile.
He pointedly looks up and down at her clothes, distaste apparent over his features. "And could I know what this message would entail?"
The guard clearly has an issue with her appearance. Either it's the poverty or the muggle-ness of her whole outfit. Both seem equally as unpleasant as the other. She struggles to keep a straight face, and by the way his hand flexes she's done a poor job of it. "Tell him Madam Margarite referred me to him."
"Regarding?" he presses.
"That's private," she clips—short and brisk, a sharp smile on her face.
His lips pull taught. He's quite rude considering he's a part of the welcoming committee in the Atrium. Irene doesn't bother to hide her frown this time and simply waits.
Then, changing his tune, he stands up and smiles at her. "Come with me."
She follows, expecting a trip to the Unspeakable's department or an escort to the nearest waiting area, instead she ends up in the Department of Magical Enforcement which she realizes belatedly. Her brows furrow. The department name is written at the top of a form that sits on the counter.
Irene's stomach drops. She shouldn't have followed the man without question. The guard's hushed conversation with the woman at the desk comes to an end just as Irene is backing away. But it's too late. Suddenly two aurors descend upon her. Kicking up a fuss, she's manhandled into a series of halls and magically bound to a chair in a secure room.
Well, bugger.
"As I said. I'm just here to speak with Unspeakable Flavian Fontius on Madam Margarite's advice. Why am I still here? If it's that much of a problem, I can just go back to St. Mungo's and ask the Madam to send an owl to Sir Fontius," Irene says.
When she leans into the cold metal of the interrogation room's table, she feels the call of sleep and just knows it must be late into the evening. She's forgone dinner for this farce. And despite the offer of tea and biscuits, she's refused. The chance of the food being spiked with some potion is low, but not low enough for her to risk it. If Late-bloomers are like extinct creatures, she's going to do a hell of a lot to keep herself from exposure.
Her stomach growls loudly anyway.
"Here's the problem Miss Hill." The auror, Walter Emerson, crosses his legs casually in his chair. "We can't seem to find your information anywhere in the magical registry. And if Guard Parkinson's memories are accurate, you're supposed to be one of ours."
"My parents were very overprotective." She scoffs.
"Maybe I could believe that a few decades ago but right now we are at war—"
She rolls her eyes. Yeah, yeah. Irene knows. The whole damn WWII will end in opportunistic terror at the hands of the Americans.
"—and Grindelwald is no simple matter," Emerson's voice is sharp, cutting.
She chokes on her own spit. "Grindelwald?"
"Yes." He leans in towards Irene. "Tell me, a magically powerful fifteen-year-old stops in to speak with the Head Unspeakable with no information on record, is that not cause for investigation?"
Bugger. How could she forget the whole dark wizard Grindelwald incident? The great equal to Professor Dumbledore, predecessor to the Dark Lord Voldemort in the books? It's not just WWII, currently there's also the nightmare of an entirely separate war being raged within the wizarding community.
"Well," she starts meekly, "when you put it like that it sounds a bit suspicious." Irene grimaces.
"Yes, quite. So why don't you start again from the top, Miss Hill?"
There's self-preservation and then there's naïve hope. Irene's turned into quite the cynic over the past years but underneath the grime, before all the callous, uncaring truths of life she'd always been an optimist. So, without hesitation, she opens her mouth.
"I'm really not involved with anything related to Grindelwald. I only came here after I was told by the goblins to register myself if I wanted a vault at one of their establishments." She frowns. "You see during my meeting with the Garnaff, he—"
The door bursts open.