Real quick to those who are new to me and The Chef. The Chef is from my Batman story, and it starts off slightly in that Universe. But rest assured this IS a Harry Potter story. Enjoy
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It all started with a defunct Boom Tube...
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Alexandera Fox, The Chef to the notorious Rogues Gallery of Gotham and adopted sister to Damien Wayne, the best Robin Batman ever had, was very confused.
One moment she was making a DnD character for a campaign Edward wanted to run when an all encompassing boom resounded in his underground hideout, the next moment she was waking up in a park, on a perfectly sunny day. Used to the shenanigans that seemed to follow her since becoming friends with the Rogues, The Chef pushed herself to her feet, and went to call for a ride. Edward had installed a tracking software in her phone after all. Except... there was no service on her phone. Accepting the fact that she was going to have to walk, The Chef began her trek. Having lived in Gotham longer than any other city, she was surprised to see a tidy, well kept suburb. Nothing like the dirty, grimy, trash filled city she was used to.
Ten minutes into her walk, she finally saw a street sign.
Privet Dr.
That was... not a street in Gotham. But a familiar name all the same. It took another forty minutes before her wanderings brought her to a convenience store. The bell to the door jingled as she walked in, the shop keep gaping at her appearance. No respectable lady would be running around with a half shaved head, hair a dark and blue as the sea. One of those new age punks, the shop keep thought to himself, keeping an eye on the ruffian in a admitted handsome maroon pea coat.
Alexandera walked up to the man eyeing her suspiciously.
"Got phone I can borrow?" The Chef scowled at the man, not bothering with pleasantries.
"Sorry, mate. Phones for paying customers... You're not from round here, are you." A strong British accent. The Chef eyed the cigarettes behind the counter, none a brand she recognized. Nor the candy sitting in a display on the counter. The Chef was many things, but not stupid. Dammit Riddler...
"Obviously. Newspaper?" The man pointed behind her, The Chef nodding as she stalked over. At the top of the newspaper stand was a paper called The Telegraph. She planned on buying it to use the phone, but the date caught her eye. April 2nd, 1991...
1991!
"What the fuck did you do, Puzzles?" Alexandera ran a hand through her hair, already feeling a headache forming. The bell to the door jingled again, as a group of rowdy boys stomped in, hooting amongst themselves. The Chef pulled her phone out again, ready to make a call, when she overheard,
"Come one Dudley, I want to get some crisps before we play with your new PlayStation!"
Eyes wide, Alexandera side eyed as surreptitiously as she could the boys perusing the aisles. A ruddy faced, overweight, haughty looking boy...
"What the fuck did you do, Puzzles!" The Chef hissed out quietly. Putting down the newspaper, she walked back to the shopkeep, who was still eyeing her. "Got any menthol smokes?"
"Preference?"
"Nope, just some smokes and a lighter." The shop keep was quick to grab the items and ring them up. Grabbing her wallet, The Chef cursed under her breathe. It was cheap, but she only had American money, to which the man behind the counter raised a brow to.
"Sorry, we only accept British Pounds."
"Look, I just flew in for a job, I got mugged on my first night, and just need a smoke and to make a call. Can you please make an exception?" A lie, but she knew how to lie very well. Saved her life a few times. The man eyed her for a few minutes, seeming to mull over her request.
"What job you fly in for?" The man eyed her apparel, and The Chef did her best not to roll her eyes.
"Musician." A seemingly reasonable lie, with her appearance.
"They steal your instrument?"
"They didn't rip my throat out, so no."
"Sing something." The Chef raised a brow, but acquiesced, thankful for her yearly side gig as a Rocky Horror actor. Singing a few bars to a Dorothy song, the man began to bop his head.
"Not bad, lass. Tell you what, go ahead and use the telephone, but I cant give you the rest."
"Fair enough." And so the Chef gave a prayer to any gods out there as she typed in the number, watching as the boys in the shop load up with a ridiculous number of snacks, when a voice picked up on the other end.
"You have the wrong number."
"Oh no I don't, you green clad idiot."
"Excuse me?!" The Chef turned away from the man, seething into the phone.
"There is no excuse for you, Edward. Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"I hate to say it, but I don't know who I'm talking to, and I don't know anyone in England."
"Fuck!" Alexandera rubbed her temple with her free hand, trying not to raise her voice. "Okay, Edward , I'm Alexandera Fox, my social security number is 123-45-6789. You're about to search that in your ridiculous computer program and see that there is no one with that number because I haven't even been born yet, and honestly I'm surprised your this old... You aged pretty well for a nerd." She could hear loud clacking on the other end.
"Thank you for the backhanded compliment. That still does not answer how you know who I am, and how you got this number."
"You give it to me in the future. We're... friends. We meet in twenty odd years, after Joker decides to make me the Rouges Chef."
"Rogues?"
"It's what Gotham calls y'all, after you and a bunch of other nerds decide fucking with Batman is your life's work. I was in your underground bunker, setting up for your stupid Dungeons and Dragons game, when an explosion happened, and I went from Gotham, 2020, to England, 1991. You own me an explanation, and you're regrettably the smartest person I know."
"While it's true I am the most intelligent person around, that doesn't prove anything."
"You got obsessed with puzzles after cheating a school assignment and you dad accused of said cheating. You decided to be the Riddler after being fired from Wayne Enterprises, tried to get revenge against Bruce Wayne and was thwarted by The Batman." The Chef thought for a moment before adding, "You're also a terrible cook."
"I'm a terrible cook?" The Chef couldn't help the twisted smile on her face.
"What temperature does an egg cook?"
"158 degrees."
"Wrong, whites start to cook between 144 and 149 degrees, the yolk between 149 and 158 degrees Fahrenheit." She could hear Edward stutter a little.
"That doesn't prove anything!"
"You keep a stache of almond chocolate in a secret compartment in your desk, underneath your keyboard."
"How... Who are you?"
"Told you, names Alexandera Fox, but I'm not even born yet, and you sent me back in time with a loud boom. You owe me. Bring me back."
"A loud boom that cause you to... I've heard tale of Superman fighting something coming from a portal that gave off a loud explosion that didn't cause damage... But I don't have anything like that at my disposal..."
"Start working on it. In the mean time, until you get me back home, you're going to set up an identity for me here in England, and a substantial bank account. I'm good for it in twenty something years." Alexandera watched as the rowdy boys in the store, arms overflowing with drinks and snacks, finally made their way to the cashier.
"I... I can't believe I actually believe you... Can you survive two days until I can get everything set up and ready for you?"
"I survived you, Jonathon Crane, Jervis Tetch, Joker, and a gunshot." The Chef held her breath, waiting.
"There's a post office not far from your location, go there in two days, and you'll have have a package waiting." The Chef let out the breath she had been holding, and in the most thankful tone she could muster said.
"Thanks, Puzzles. Tell Echo and Query hey when you finally hire them."
"How did- No. I'm going to question this for once." The line went dead, and The Chef hung up the phone. The Cashier was so caught up with the copious amount of food and the rowdiness of the boys, he never saw The Chef take the smokes and lighter.
She had the decency to leave a five dollar bill on the counter.
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The first night, Alexandera slept just past the treeline near the park she had woken up in. She was no stranger to such accommodations, back when she was a runaway. The second day, she brushed herself off as best she could, and began the long walk to the post office Edward had told her about. But she didn't make it far. There was a large, portly man with a large spruce mustache corralling his family into a car. A tall, thin, pinched face woman was fussing over the boy from the shop the day before.
"Get out here, boy! I'm not waiting any longer!" The large man called out from the porch, stomping to his car, his lips moving as if muttering under his breath. Alexandera was ready to walk away when the door cracked open.
He looked so much like Damien...
Smaller, thinner, but the jet black hair, baggy clothes too large for his body, so much like the outfit Smokebomb first arrived in...
"For god sake, Potter, close the door!" Alexandera felt that headache returning as she watched the small boy turn his back to close the door... It couldn't be...When the boy turned, he accidentally made eye contact with The Chef on the sidewalk. And Alexandera felt her stomach drop.
Behind large, round, broken glasses, were bright green eyes, so much like Damien. And a lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead.
"Fuck."
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Edward came through. An I.D. with a photo of her, wrong hair colour though, and it was grainy, as if taken from a shitty camera. Probably recreated from a surveillance camera from the shop. And a large stack of money. First order of business was coffee. Coffee and food. Further into the town was a small cafe, sliding into a booth and ordering, The Chef mulled over what was happening.
Harry fucking Potter. There was no fucking way.
What the actual fuck did Riddler do? It was a book. A story. But as The Chef ate the admittedly shitty breakfast, she couldn't help but think of the boy with the scar.
Privet Drive. Dudley. Lightning bolt scar. Asshole family. Alexandera was ready to write it completely off, and just wait to go home... but...
He looked so much like Damien. Her "little brother". Overprotective, far too mature, and saved her life. Overthinking, she cut a little too hard into the steak, and slid her knife across the plate, a loud screeching hurting her ears, and drawing the attention of a few patrons of the restaurant. She glared at anyone who was looking at her, who all quickly went back to their food.
Not her problem. Not her problem. Not her problem.
Her bad luck continued, when the objects of her angry and anxious thoughts walked in. The thin pinched face woman, chubby kid, fat man, and the Damien look-a-like walked in, taking a seat at a table not far from her booth. Menus were handed out, but the chubby kid snatched the black haired boys menu. The adults didn't even blink. Then they ordered, and when the food came out, the black haired boy only got a side of toast...
That was promptly taken by the little fat fucking child.
The Chef suddenly felt rage, when the adults didn't do anything about it. Didn't order the starved looking boy more food, told him to be grateful he even got food at home. It brought back memories of Alexandera's youth, previous foster parents she had. And when Dudley knocked over Harry's glass of water over on the poor boy, and Vernon began to berate the black haired boy so viciously, that Harry got tears in his eyes, The Chef knew she was about to do something incredibly stupid.
When did she get so soft?
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That night in the hotel room she had rented, Alexandera sipped from the liquor bottle she had bought, and thought. She couldn't do anything right now. She didn't have a job, a car, or a house, but she did have one thing. Knowledge. And with that knowledge, she began to plan. She could buy stocks in a company she knew would be successful, but that would take time. That was fine, she could get a job in the meantime. She wasn't going to press her luck with Nygma, that was already an odd situation to begin with. Did this mean Rowling was a witch and had broken the magic secret thing? The Chef took another swig from the bottle. Not gonna think about that. What about the whole, Lily love blood magic shit? Alexandera remembered something about that protecting Harry from Voldemort. The Chef sighed, flopping back on the floral print bedspread, almost spilling her whiskey.
She wanted to forget about the whole thing, but dammit! He had to look like Damien!
Okay, stocks were a good idea. Job was necessary. House, car, and...
Humans knew about magic. Well they didn't believe it, but they had stories. And stories had a grain of truth...
Stocks, job, car, house, and a trip to a bookstore.
The Chef wasn't going to let a fellow orphan suffer like she did...
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She had kept watch outside her window since the beginning of July, waiting for the owls to arrive, her final bit of proof she would need if she was going to go through with her plan. It took some time to get a job, due to her outlandish looks, the blue, half shaved hair, and permanent scowl. But someone took pity on her, and she at least had a job working at an actual record store. Edward had helped her put money on some stocks, with the promise she would give him a cut, though she knew he still had some doubts, not that she blamed him. And of course, most important, she had bought, or made orders for, a plethora of books on fairy tales, myths, legends, anything to do with magic. Hell she even bought a few Shakespeare volumes just in case The Bard knew a thing or two. So far though, her attempts at research were not successful so far.
There was more books than food in her home, and she hoped to god she wasn't crazy. When she wasn't at work, she was looking down the street, waiting.
And it didn't take long.
The owls arrived en maze. Flocking the house down the street, she watched The assholes and Harry load up into the car and disappear.
She had her proof. She had her plan. She had a year.
Alexandera Fox, The best damn chef this side of the Atlantic Ocean, wasn't going to let another kid suffer.
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Alexandera found something. Something that might work. Several lines of thinking merging into one. Magic, at least to "muggles" was about intent. Like when a mother kisses her brats scrapes and cuts promising the crotch goblins that it would take the pain away. And the idea of Blood Brothers. To share a few drops of blood with someone, and becoming family in a way.
A few drops of blood, and intent. That was all it was going to take... She hoped.
She had less than a year to think of a way to convince Petunia to do it.
Bribery? Well, The Chef was making a pretty penny in those stocks...
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The Chef, though she didn't have a diner anymore (for now), had taken to early morning walks to sneak a peak in the Dursley's front window, trying to catch a peak of that black haired boy. Alexandera couldn't remember exactly when Hogwarts ended its school year, but it had to be soon. And when she did finally see the boy, and heard Vernon belittling him, she knew what she had to do. After busting her ass, putting on her fakest smile and personality at work to get brownie points, and sinking a hefty sum of money into purchasing some clothes and furniture that would fit the brat. The Chef waited for her opportunity.
The fat fuck had kissed his wife at the door, and left for work, just as Alexandera was two houses away. She had a pocket of cash, and a plan. One way or another, she was going home with a stray. Knocking on the door, Alexandera waited. When the door opened the initial smile on the pinched face woman dropped to a frown.
"Yes? Can I help you?"
"Petunia Dursley."
"That's me, who are you?"
"I'm here with a proposition." The Chef pulled the stack of cash out, and waved it tantalizingly in the suspicious woman face.
"Wh-What is that."
"Hush money, hopefully. Let me in." Without waiting, Alexandera pushed her way in harshly, Petunia beginning to raise her voice in a shriek. "Shut up, bitch. I'm not gonna rob you, I'm here for the brat."
"What?! Who are you?! What do you want? You're not taking my Dudders, I'll call the police!" Alexandera flopped heavily onto the couch, rolling her eyes.
"I'm not here for your brat, Petunia. I'm here for Harry." That got the woman to quiet.
"Harry? Are... Are you one of them?" Petunia spat out the last word as if it was the filthiest word in existence.
"Nope." The Chef popped the p, as she put her dirty boots purposefully on the pristine couch. "But I know all about it, Petunia Dursley. Sister to Lily Potter. Abusive aunt to her nephew."
"Abusive! I am not-"
"He slept in a cupboard! He was fed your scraps! He's given all the house chores, and berated constantly!" The Chef furrowed her brow and felt her lips curl into a vicious snarl. "You were there when your parents took Lily to Platform 9 and ¾, you knew where it was and how to get in, but you left an eleven year old boy alone, in public, to flounder by himself, and left laughing with your fat fucking hell spawn and asshole husband, DO NOT SAY YOU DON'T ABUSE HIM!" Petunia's face paled, body starting to quiver slightly, as The Chef tore into her.
"I-I..." The pale woman began to water at the eyes, stuttering, to which The Chef began to mock.
"I-I-I am a garbage excuse for a human being. That's fine to admit. I'm not a fucking saint either. Sit down before you piss yourself." And so she did, Petunia sitting in the plush chair across from Alexandera.
"W-who are you?" The Chef took a deep breath, trying to calm down. She had the woman's attention, now she needed her co-operation.
"My name is Elaine Nygma." No reason for the woman to know her real name. "And I'm here to take Harry away."
"Are... are you with... that man?" Petunia looked stricken.
"Hmm? Moldytort? No, fuck that guy. I'm just a normal person." Petunia eyed the hair, the clothes, the dirty boots on her couch, and couldn't help the doubtful look on her face.
"If you're not one of those, how do you know... so much."
"Not really why I'm here, telling you all that." The Chef ran a hand through her hair, soothing her stress somewhat. "The reason Harry lives with you is because of Lily's sacrifice." The Chef had to bite the side of her cheek, when Petunia spat out the word.
"Sacrifice!"
"Because of her sacrifice, some way old magic, like I'm talking cave man old magic, happened, and because you are blood related, you carry that magic too, whether you like it or not." It shouldn't have been possible, but Petunia's face drained even more of colour.
"I have..."
"Oh, don't act so surprised." The Chef shifted from her laid back position into a sitting one, leaning her forearms onto her knees, and hold eye contact with Petunia. "What I'm getting at is, I know how to keep Harry safe with the same magic, take him off your hands. You'll have your happy little dream back. Picket fence, loving husband, precious child, and you'll never have to think about Harry or magic again." Alexandera didn't look away, watching as the woman before her thought hard, waiting. After almost five minutes, the woman spoke.
"How?" Petunia hedged warily.
"Easy. Intent, and some blood."
"WHAT?!"
"Jesus fuck, calm you fucking tits, its literally a prick of you finger." Alexandera rubbed a hand down her face, and heard a thud directly above her. "You know when your kid gets hurt, and you kiss the wound to make it feel better? That's a magic everyone has. It's all about intent. You're intending to make the wound feel better with a kiss, the kid is intending to feel better after the kiss, and it works. You've done it, no doubt. Basically, it's like a placebo effect."
"What does that have to do with anything."
"Simple. We prick our fingers, we hold them together to do a blood brother bond like kids do, and you, with all of your heart and intent, believe me to be your sister, or cousin, or aunt or whatever. Sister works best. But you have to really, really mean it."
"It's... that simple?" Alexandera really tried not to growl at how easy it seemed the woman was going to go along with this.
"That fucking simple, so long as you mean it. You have to intend to make me your family by blood. After that, I'll take Harry off your hands, and you'll be free."
"How do I know I can trust you. You could be a witch, lying to me!"
"If I was a witch, I would have taken Harry and made you forget all about him. Hell, if I was a witch, I wouldn't be working a job I hate. I'd be rolling in dough. Hell, I wouldn't have to spend so much just to keep my hair pretty." Again, silence reigned, and The Chef tried not to bounce her leg anxiously.
"All I have to do, is prick my finger?"
"Yep. Needle works, don't exactly want to be walking around a knife wound on our palms."
"You'd... you would take care of him?" The Chef was amazed to see a smidgen of worry in the pinched face of Petunia, but not enough to back down on her plan.
"Better than you." Alexandera didn't mean it harshly, she had done her best to keep her voice calm and even, yet the woman before her still flinched with some semblance of guilt.
"I... I loved my sister."
"But you'll never forgive Harry for a sin he didn't commit." Tears finally fell from the woman's eyes.
"Just a prick?"
"Yep."
And so, with a prick of a needle, a drop of blood, and a solemn swear, Alexandera Fox was blood sisters with Petunia Dursley.
Dear Wizard God, she hoped it worked.
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Alexandera made her way upstairs, as Petunia made a phone call to her husband, tears in her eyes but a smile on her face. It made her sick. She looked into the open doors in the hall, before hearing a shrill screech behind a closed door, a shushing noise following it, with a lock on the outside. Alexandera regretted telling Petunia about the needle, wishing she used the knife instead. A lock on the outside. She opened the door, the screeching happening again, as the dark haired boy desperately tried to quiet the owl.
"Hedwig, please! Aunt Petunia will-"
"Do nothing to you." The boy whipped around, green eyes, Damien's eyes, looked at her in shock.
"Who are you?"
"Your aunt, as of today."
"What?" Harry had a very confused look on his face, not unlike The Chef's a year ago waking up in that park. "Wait... I know you! You're the lady down the road."
"May I come in?" Harry, a hesitant look on his face, nodded. Alexandera checked to make sure the lock wasn't latched, and closed the door.
"I'm Alexandera."
"Harry."
Silence.
"So... you're going to live with me."
"What?"
"Look, I... I've been watching, and these asshole are awful." Harry nodded in agreement, to which The Chef had to laugh a little at. "But... I made a deal, and little magic of my own, and you can come live with me."
"I thought... Dumbledore said-"
"Your mom's love protects you, yeah that's true. And the reason you live with your aunt is because of some old magic connected to your mom's bloodline. To which I now have running through me."
"Now have?"
"Some real Ravenclaw cleverness I came up with there."
"Are... are you... like me?"
"An orphan, yeah. Magic, no. Well... Yeah, no. Muggle." Alexandera wished she could physically kick her own ass, saying the word orphan, The poor kids excitement turned to melancholy. "Look, Harry, I promise, I won't beat you, I promise to feed you, I promise you won't be locked in a cupboard, or mocked for being a wizard, or any of the other abuse you've had to go through for so long. I know what it's like." Alexandera took a deep breath and made the biggest promise she felt she would ever make.
"I promise to protect you, and love you like you were my own brat. You want me to be your aunt, or your sister, I'll be the best damn whatever you need." The Chef ran a hand through her hair, nervous, as Harry watched her with those wide green eyes. Hauntingly green eyes.
"You... you mean it?"
"Kid, I don't like making promises I can't keep, but I'll fucking shoot Voldemort with a shotgun if I have to."
"You own a gun?!" The Chef smirked.
"Not yet."
Harry gave an incredulous laugh.
Alexandera heaved a sigh of relief.
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It took one trip to get Harry's things down the street, him carrying Hedwig's cage under a sheet and a bundle of clothes in his other arm, her tugging his trunk behind her. Alexandera left the stack of cash on the couch as Petunia watched from the kitchen. Hush money. Harry stepped into her house, looking around. Her towering stack of books she had used for research, the weathered couch she bought second hand, the TV., posters on the wall of anything that made The Chef feel more at home.
"So... your room is upstairs, already got it furnished." She led the boy up, the truck bumping heavily on each step. "Here." She stepped back, and allowed the boy to open the door. She had spent more on making his room... better than hers. She had painted the walls a warm maroon. The bed, will not the four poster elegance of Hogwarts, had a red and gold-ish trimmed comforter she found at a thrift shop, a torn and resewn lion sitting on the pillow. A scuffed and slightly pitted desk with condensation rings on the top sat opposite of the bed, a dresser next to it. She had to make the bird perch herself, The Chef absently rubbing her hand against her thigh as phantom pains from the splinters throbbed. Harry stood in the middle of the room, his back to her, taking in the room slowly and silently.
"It ain't the epitome of opulence, but I think I did a decent job."
"It's..." Harry turned to her, tears falling down his cheeks, "It's perfect."
"Shit Kid, don't cry. Gonna make my black heart actually feel something." The Chef did feel a huge weight lift of her shoulders. "It's not Hogwarts, but I figured I could at least make it more... Gryffindor."
"How do you know so much about magic, about Hogwarts?"
"Kid, I'm muggle, not stupid. Come on, let your bird out, and I'll make you lunch." The Chef stopped, thinking. "Unless you wanna stay up here and unpack." She wasn't going to boss him around. He wasn't Damien. She was going to have to be a bit... nicer.
"I... I'd like to unpack first."
"'Ight, I'll be below, making food. You allergic to anything? No? Cool." The Chef would never admit she was fleeing. It was still a bit overwhelming. Wizarding World... Harry Potter...
God she traded in one black haired boy with a penchant for walking into trouble for another.
Alexandera pulled her hair back, put on her Gotham Academy hat, and busied herself with cooking. Cooking was familiar, easy, comforting. Though she had underestimated how quickly it would take for Harry to unpack his few belongings.
"What are you making?" The Chef jumped in surprise, dropping her knife on the counter.
"Fucking! Shit, Kid, ya spooked me!" Harry looked worried.
"I'm sorry!"
"No, don't apologize. I got in the zone, and wasn't paying attention." Harry still looked worried, and maybe even a little guilty. "Seriously, I'm good, you're good."
"Okay..." The Boy replied slowly, taking a seat at the small table slotted against the wall. "So, umm..."
"Nervous around a practical stranger who came and swooped you out of hell?" Harry gave a startled jump, but meekly nodded.
"Yeah..."
"Yeah, I was that way too, when I got adopted, though I set things on fire and shit." Harry looked worried.
"You... Do you still set things on fire?"
"Only evidence and grills."
"Umm..."
"Jokes, Kid, jokes." Harry gave a weak laugh. "Ask your questions, I'll answer most of them."
"Most of them?"
"Girls gotta have her secrets."
The Chef cooked while answer Harry's questions. Where was she from, what did she do for a job, did she have family, why was her hair blue, how did she know about magic, would he be safe, could he send owls to his friends, what was America like, was it really okay for Hedwig to have free reign, would he have to go back to the Dursleys, on and on and on, until he was quieted by the large plate of food.
"This is... Kid. I'm the best damn cook you'll ever meet. Can't bake to save my life, though. Well... I can make cinnamon rolls and baklava."
"Baklava?" The Chef felt her own melancholy now, but smiled through the pain.
"Kid, I'mma change you life with that one."
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That night, The Chef lay in her bed, bottle in hand, thinking. She had been doing a lot of that, lately. She was going to have to call Edward tomorrow, check in on those stocks. Harry needed new clothes, and soon supplies for his next year at Hogwarts. She wondered if the owls would know where to go, she really didn't want to deal with the Dursleys again. Dumbledore would come, she was sure of it. That was going to be fun. Fun and dangerous. She didn't trust him. Alexandera, back home, would take the Pottermore test every year, firm in her belief that people change, and house change... Admittedly she'd been a Slytherin for... several years now, but the fact, or rather her opinion, remained. People and Houses change. And Dumbledore was a prime example.
From her window, The Chef saw a blur of white swoop by. Hedwig was enjoying her new freedom, hunting the mice and other small creatures in the yard. The Chef lay in bed, planning and stressing, listening to the hoots and occasional squeaks from outside, when she suddenly shot up, an idea forming. Rolling out of bed hastily, she grabbed a pen and paper, and began to write. It was a bad idea. A crazy idea. But as The Joker had once told her long ago, she was crazy, too, and her idea was just crazy enough to, maybe, work.
Alexandera opened her window, and gently called for Hedwig, who fluttered up silently.
"Fly as high as you can, I know the house elf has been thiefing Harry's letters. Take this to him, and only him."
Dumbledore wasn't the only one who changed.
Some people, though, needed a push.
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It had been a long day, preparing for the year, and he was ready to finally relax, and sleep, when a tapping on his window drew his gaze. A snowy owl sat by the window. He opened the window, accepting the letter, and giving the owl a treat as was custom for owl deliveries. An envelope with his name in messy script, inside, not parchment, but neatly lined paper he recognized as muggle.
Got Lily's son away from that cunt Petunia. He has her eyes. Need your help. Don't tell Dumbledore. I know about your doe. I know it's been Always. 20 Privet Drive. One week from now.
Chef
Severus Snape saw the letter shake in his hands.
It seemed he had an appointment.
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Y'all wanted it, and honestly it's been stuck in my head for weeks
I'm not going to stop writing Order!, that's next, I just needed to get this out there.
Let me know what Y'all think.
The world would be bleaker without you.
s742