An Excerpt from The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, Seventh Edition (200BCE-1990AD)
Of the innumerable and justly disavowed dark wixen that have darkened our shores, none has done more to disgrace our heritage than the self-stylised Lord Voldemort (henceforth referred to as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, or simply Him).
The true identity of the Dark Lord has never been revealed. Certainly, none of his captured followers and lieutenants have ever spoken word of it — though this could be the byproduct of their slave brand, the stylized and bastardised Protean charm known as the Dark Mark. High ranking Death Eaters, such as the infamous Bellatrix Lestrange (nee Black) and Augustus Rookwood (formerly of the Department of Mysteries), have indeed shown signs of Obliviation and even the telltale locked tongue of an Unbreakable Vow. Certainly, this suggests that His true name is such a highly guarded secret that it may never come to light.
On the subject of the Dark Mark — from various eyewitness accounts, it is notable as a symbolic spell whose incantation is unknown. Recognisable from its unique colouration, the same shade of acid green as the Killing Curse, it takes the form of a fanged skull eating a serpent. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and His followers used the Dark Mark as a calling card during their reign of terror. Dozens of witnesses, whose names are not noted in this work, have testified to arriving home after work or a meeting to find the Mark hanging above their home. Aurors testified to arriving on scene to crimes more gruesome than I find comfortable revealing in this text.
This calling card signified death, in no uncertain terms.
As well, the term Dark Mark applies to the enhanced Protean charm He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named placed upon his Death Eaters. On their left arm, a brand was cast onto their bare skin. The same symbol, the snake-eating skull, would be tattooed there. It is, as of the current date, impossible to remove. From the testimonies of captured Death Eaters, under the influence of Veritaserum, we have learned that with merely a thought, He could summon His followers to him, cause them unimaginable pain for their failures, and even track them down. This particular piece of magic is, while reprehensible in its use, utterly brilliant. There can be no argument there — He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was indeed a quite gifted wizard.
By all accounts, He came to Britain during the late 1960s and swiftly began amassing a dedicated following. As well, His recruits were not merely wizards and witches, but all manner of Dark creatures: werewolves, vampires, giants, trolls, and even the Dementors, erstwhile guards of Azkaban prison. By the year 1970, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had grown such a fighting force as Britain had never seen before, and has not seen hence. His attacks were swift, tactical, inhumane, and absolutely lethal. An estimated 23% of all Muggle deaths reported in the isles between the years 1960-1980 are attributed to Him and His movement, as well as a near-complete decimation of the British magical population. His targets were primarily Muggles and Muggleborn witches and wizards, though their victims typically strayed to those who opposed Him openly. This included pureblood scions and family heads.
Under Minister Bagnold's 'leadership,' if one can indeed call it that, Aurors were finally given authorisation to perform lethal curses in conjunction with their edict to take the Death Eaters down at all costs. This measure was passed early in 1975, far too late to make up for the numerous deaths and disappearances nationwide. At-time Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Bartemius Crouch, Sr., has stated multiple times in the following years that, if Aurors had been given the go-ahead to take advantage of their full repertoire of spells, many deaths might have been avoided. This, of course, is pure speculation, but in this instance I find myself in complete, if reluctant, agreement.
Countless families were utterly destroyed, thousands of accumulated years of heritage and service to our nation eradicated without thought of the consequence. Some of these are the McKinnons, slaughtered to the last babe, and the Blacks, one of Britain's oldest magical families. At the current date of publishing, only four original members of the Black family live today — Bellatrix Lestrange, Narcissa Malfoy, Andromeda Tonks, and, by far the most infamous, Sirius Black, whose betrayal of the Potter family and subsequent murders of both Peter Pettigrew and twelve unnamed Muggles landed him in Azkaban prison under the highest security.
This, of course, leads us directly to the ending of the war. None can say in fact why He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named began targeting the Potter family. James Potter, son of Charlus and Dorea, and Lily Potter (nee Evans), while indeed gifted and staunchly opposed to His ideals, were not of the same scale of influence as the Bones or the Prewetts. However, there are accounts of the couple directly defying the Dark Lord during the conflict; this defiance might have served as motivation for Him to target their family. Again, this is speculation. Many of the details of the tail end of the war are lost to us, in no small part due to the utter lack of reliable (or living) witnesses.
What cannot be discounted, however, is that on the eve of 31 October, 1981, the Dark Lord at last found his quarry. At the ancestral Potter home in Godric's Hollow (for further information on the House of Potter, see ch. 42 — Of The Olde Potterers), He engaged in brief combat with James Potter and killed him in cold blood. Lily Potter shared her husband's fate that night. Observations made by the Department of Mysteries confirmed that both husband and wife were killed by means of the Killing Curse. It is the Dark Lord's following action that changed the course of our history as we know it.
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the most dangerous Dark Wizard our world has seen since the days of Gellert Grindelwald and his Acolytes, turned his wand onto the young Potter scion, Morgan. Of course, many are aware of this young witch in our world today, as she is the first and only recorded wix to survive the Killing Curse. As the only witness to the event was an infant at the time, there is no way of knowing how this miracle was performed. Many theorists have spoken their hypotheses, from rituals to an early and advanced case of accidental magic. Of course, we may never know the truth.
This, in my learned opinion, is immaterial. How Morgan Potter survived her ordeal when her parents did not does not matter. The relevant facts are this: on that night, our society was saved. On that fateful eve, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was vanquished, his body utterly rent asunder, his very essence thrown to the void. And from that very moment, the end of the war began.
Within a matter of days, numerous arrests were made by auror forces, though not without casualties. Without the brave sacrifice of noted and celebrated auror Francis Longbottom and his wife Alice, the infamous Lestrange brothers, and summarily worse, Bellatrix Lestrange, His right hand, might still be walking our streets. Without Alastor Moody's selfless charge into danger, which cost him most of his greater health and vitality, Augustus Rookwood might still be funnelling confidential information to darker means. And without James and Lily Potter, and their daughter, He might still live, eager and able to prey on us all.
Morgan met a grim just after her tenth birthday.
She'd been living with Andi and Ted for around nine months, safe and quiet in their home on the Thames. The neighbouring village was a fifteen minute's walk away, and Morgan found herself making the trip often. Andromeda worked as a medi-witch at St. Mungo's during the day, while Ted was preparing for the upcoming trial. Strangely, they trusted Morgan to not get into any trouble, and she had no desire to abuse that trust.
So, most mornings she would wake up early, eat a spot of breakfast if she felt hungry, and spend her days outside. She walked along the riverbanks, watching as fish swam about, glittering scales just beneath the surface. She made friends with the nesting crows that made the surrounding forest area their home. She chased squirrels to the trees, she ran from an angry badger she'd accidentally disturbed as it rested, and she did her best to move on from her time at the Dursleys.
But, though the village drew her interest, what with the kind-hearted people and the slow, easy lives they seemed to live, Morgan found her attention and body often drawn to the graveyard situated just on the outskirts.
It was a small area, hardly the width of Andi's home, a long strip of land built on a natural slope. It was haphazardly littered with old, broken headstones and unmarked graves, and old, bent willow trees blocked out most of the sun. At the top of the hill sat a lonely old yew tree, its spindly limbs stretched like outreached arms.
The attached chapel was tiny in comparison to most of the buildings in the village proper, an old, worn outcropping of grey stone and stained glass. The church was abandoned, the grounds unkept and overgrown. Morgan liked to crawl through the exposed outer wall and into the empty chapel, speaking to herself and listening to the echoes as they carried. And every time she saw the sun beginning to set, she heard the whispers calling out to her as she left, begging her to stay.
And always, she would smile at the faint wisps, the fading ghosts of the departed who called this graveyard home, and promise to return the next day.
The villagers were all muggles, or so Andi said, but they seemed to know that something was different about Morgan. But unlike the Dursleys, they didn't treat her meanly when she visited, offering pennies for a pastry or enquiring about the miller's wife or the village's history. Often, Morgan would poke around for clues to the ghosts' identities — were they family members? Old soldiers who'd died in wars long past? The gravestones were worn and faded with time and a lack of care. Their names were lost in death and a lack of remembrance, and it saddened her.
Late in the summer of 1990, Morgan strode past the village entry and toward the cemetery, a hand-wrapped croissant in one hand and a basket of gardening tools in the other. She'd decided to take the role of groundskeeper for herself. Andi didn't mind, though she'd given Morgan a queer look when told about it. Ted had simply smiled and patted her head, encouraging her to enjoy her day.
Her deathfield visits were old hat to Dora now, and the metamorphmagus had simply rolled her eyes and taken another bite of shepherd's pie.
Morgan was still growing used to the idea of a family that wanted her around. Andi was firm and sometimes quite harsh, but she never laid a finger on her. Ted was so kind it made her cry at night. The pair of them, and their daughter, had opened their home up to Morgan willingly — eagerly, if Andi was to be believed. It would take a long time for it to become normal.
As always, Morgan greeted the wailing spirits as she entered the graveyard. They followed her, reaching for her as she passed, their whispers invading her thoughts. She waved them away, even as some grabbed hold of her coat and tugged on the hem.
"That's not nice," said Morgan, and took a bite of her croissant. She tried her best to channel Andromeda's imperious tone. "Be patient, all of you, or I won't clean the weeds and dirt off your headstones."
This seemed to mollify them somewhat, and that pleased Morgan mightily. She'd begun reading all about the magical world from the moment Ted and Andi allowed her into their library, and she'd learned quite a lot. For one, the fact that ghosts, spirits, fae, and demons all truly existed was a lot to take in. Of course, the hard proof that existed here made disbelief difficult, if not impossible.
Her reading on ghosts hadn't told her much aside from the fact that they were incorporeal spirits of the restless dead. They could become visible or invisible at will, but could not interact with the living world in any meaningful way. They could not open doors or touch people, and most active interference with the living world attributed to ghosts was actually committed by poltergeists — a completely separate category of spirit.
As well, she'd read some of Dora's old textbooks while she was away at Hogwarts. Her foster sister was…a lot. Very loud, very friendly, and very unwilling to allow Morgan her peace and quiet. She'd grown fond of her metamorphmagus cousin, and quite envious of her ability to change her appearance at will, but it'd taken time and no small amount of constant pestering.
Today, though, Dora had slept in, and Morgan had taken the opportunity to escape.
So, she spent the early morning weed-whacking and pulling the foremost headstones, sprucing up the area as much as possible and raking the fallen leaves in. The dry summer had killed most of the surrounding grass, but Morgan knew that the rainy season would bring it all back to life eventually. It was a cycle, she thought. Things lived, things died, and then they came back in one way or another.
It was just after she'd wiped the last of the muck and grime from an old stone cross that she saw the shadow in the trees watching her.
At first, she assumed it was merely another stray. The village was home to a few, mostly old mutts whose owners had died or given them up. Morgan would feed them scraps from her breakfast and pet their fur, and in return they would circle around her protectively as she walked alone. But this dog was rather larger than all the others, so large it stood at eye level with her, and its fur was long, coarse and healthy, tinged a black so deep and dark he blended in with the shade. The exception, of course, was his eyes — glowing emeralds in a familiar shade, silently on guard underneath the yew tree.
Morgan felt her fingers tremble in sudden fear and clenched her hands into fists. The hair on her nape rose, a faint trickle of old magic pebbling her skin. She knew then that this creature was magical, somehow. Refusing to show her fear, she held out a downturned palm to the great black dog.
"Hello," she said calmly, smiling. The dog tilted its head curiously, and she copied the gesture. It tilted its head the other way, and she followed. And then it sat on its haunches and huffed, just once. Her smile widened.
"I'm just cleaning off the headstones," she told the dog keenly. On some baser instinct, she knew it could understand her. "The ghosts here have all been forgotten, and it makes them sad. I hoped that if I can make the cemetery beautiful again, some of the villagers might visit their ancestors again. What do you think?"
Again, the dog huffed, but now it stood and walked over to her. Its stride was long and loping, head held lower to the ground. Its bushy black tail wagged slightly to the right in short waves, and it made no sound whatsoever. Eventually, and as a shock to her nerves, it came within inches of her, face-to-face, and took a seat once more.
Morgan and the black dog watched each other for a long time, neither moving, neither making a sound, until eventually — so, so slowly — she lifted a trembling hand to pat its fur. Its eyes, the same eerie shade of green as hers, stared holes into her. When it made no move to stop her, she regained a bit of confidence, and her hand sank into the ruff of its neck.
"Oh," Morgan breathed, eyes blown wide and awed. From the moment she touched its fur, she felt a deep, soulful connection to the beast. He was a watcher, a guardian of the grave. He protected the souls entombed here, ensuring that no evil magick could be cast on their corpses. He was their friend, a constant companion to the revenants who called this resting place home. He was a guide to them, keeping the path from this world to the next. While she touched him, she could see those pathways, a faint, translucent overlay of the world she saw. Will-o'-the-wisps floated around her, suspended in time and movement, the everlasting shards of souls touched by the aether.
His brothers and sisters, of which there were hundreds of thousands across the world, were born of the same primordial, eternal darkness that predated creation itself. They were older than time, older than the chaotic void. And he was bound to her, somehow, just as she was bound to him.
It was an old magic that Morgan had no understanding of whatsoever. She hadn't even known she was a witch for a full year yet, discounting whatever esoteric, ancient forgotten secrets there were to be discovered. Once upon a time, perhaps she might have been uneasy about sharing a bond with such a grim creature, about what that might mean for her and her magic. But after seeing how beautiful the pathways between life and death could be, she only felt thankful. There was proof that life continued on beyond the grave, and Morgan offered up a silent prayer to her mum and dad.
The connection snapped suddenly, and Morgan found herself alone in the cemetery once more.
An hour's time found Morgan walking through the front door of Andi and Ted's home. Hearing nothing, she called out: "Dora! I'm home!"
A weak, pitiful groan met her ears. Somewhere nearby, her foster sister had once again lost the battle between herself and gravity's sweet embrace. Morgan giggled quietly and searched. Sure enough, she found Dora lying face down at the foot of the stairs.
"Are you alright?" asked Morgan, stifling her laughter. She moved to help the older witch up.
Dora groaned again, with more feeling this time, and raised herself up on her elbows. She had a few scrapes and a growing bruise on her left cheek, but otherwise looked no worse for wear. "'M fine, 'm fine. Help me up?" she heaved out a breath as she rose, grinning widely. "So, how was your walk? Ghosts still giving you trouble?"
Morgan had only told Dora about the cemetery ghosts after the older girl had witnessed some invisible force pulling at Morgan's hair and clothes as she left one early evening. The look of pure terror on her face had sent Morgan into hysterical, hiccuping laughter that lasted the entire walk home. And then she'd described what she saw there, how the ghosts and spirits interacted with her. She didn't have an answer for Morgan, but she kept the secret, and that meant more to her than information.
Gushing about the experience with the dog and eager to get into it, Morgan nodded her head wildly and threw her hands up. "There was a dog! It was — It was huge! At first I thought it was a bear, which is ridiculous of course, because there are no bears in Britain, but it was huge and black and it had the same eyes as me! And it was magic!" she hissed.
She hardly noticed how Dora paled. But then the girl asked: "Did it hurt you?"
"Of course, not!" she laughed.
"You might need to stay home for a few days," Dora said firmly, and Morgan deflated from the older girl's lack of excitement. "I have to ask mum, but I think you saw a grim."
It was an apt name, Morgan thought. "And that's…bad?"
"They're harbingers of death," replied Dora. "The legends say that if you see one, you're doomed to die. They're considered bad omens. Charlie told me one of his uncles saw one and died the next day."
"He was just a dog," Morgan argued, but secretly she knew that Dora was right. That connection she'd felt, the rush of old magic coursing through her veins… That was real. The pathways between this world and the afterlife were real, too, but hell would freeze over before she spoke a word about that to anyone. Forcing a wan smile to her face, she grabbed Dora's hand and dragged her to the kitchen. "Come on, let's get some ice for your face."
Dora hummed and hawed about it, but eventually she let Morgan help her. And all the while, the Girl-Who-Lived's mind was fixed on the cemetery, the spirits who beckoned for her, and the spectre of death who'd treated her as one of its own.
She never spoke a word of it to Andi or Ted.
Andromeda blinked, and suddenly it was Morgan's thirteenth birthday. The time had passed so swiftly it truly felt like yesterday that Ted had carried the poor girl through the threshold. If not for how Morgan had changed in that time, she wouldn't have believed it. Gone was the timid creature who flinched at every loud noise or raised voice. In her place stood a young woman with growing confidence, an unquenchable desire to learn, and a willingness to uphold her family's legacy.
Hence, their current task. In the four years since she'd adopted Morgan into the family, they had yet to visit any meaningful area of the magical world. Their society knew, courtesy of The Daily Prophet, that Andromeda had taken Morgan Potter in. Nymphadora, now a Hogwarts graduate and auror hopeful, was asked about the girl daily at training. But they had not seen her in that time, and given that Albus Dumbledore's trial was soon to come, Andromeda had decided that it was finally time for the Girl-Who-Lived to re-enter the world. The very idea of it shot her nerves, but Morgan was a strong girl, and Andi knew she would rise to the occasion.
Stood on a corner of muggle London near the Leaky Cauldron, Andi fixed her skirt and glanced at her foster daughter.
A steady diet and nutritional potions had cured the heavy burden of malnutrition, plenty of exercise and time spent outdoors had given Morgan's skin a healthy glow, and she'd finally shown her Potter genes in the form of her height. To anyone who had known her before, Morgan Potter was nearly unrecognisable.
Dressed in a high-waisted pair of tweed slacks, a white blouse, and a pair of Dora's old dragonhide boots, Morgan rather looked the part of an heir more than an heiress. She and Andi had rowed over her choice of clothes more than once, with the elder witch claiming her predisposition to pants over skirts to be uncouth, while Morgan would simply roll her eyes and invite Andi to join the twentieth century in her own time. The only saving grace was her hair, which Morgan had never and would never allow anyone to touch other than Andi or herself. Billowing, silky black curls tumbled down the girl's back, and the light summer coat folded across her arm was a thin velvet, coloured a deep, oceanic blue.
Despite their differences of opinion, Andi felt relief beyond measure for Morgan. She'd done the work herself, speaking with mind healers and muggle therapists about her home life before. She'd engrossed herself within their library, more and more eager to learn whatever theory she could before starting school. She'd even requested a family register from the Ministry and displayed it proudly in her room, names and dates of ancestors long past named on both sides. And more than once had told Andromeda that she wanted to make her proud.
She didn't need to know that Andi already felt that pride in spades.
"Are you ready?" she asked, checking her watch. Their appointment at Gringotts was in seventeen minutes, and the goblins would not suffer tardiness.
Morgan finished lacing up her boot and stood tall, still smiling softly at the sights of London proper. Andi had promised they would explore a bit after seeing the goblins, more than sufficient motivation to get through the day. "As I'll ever be." She offered Andi an arm, which she took. "Shall we?"
If the streets of London were loud, then the Leaky Cauldron was an utter madhouse. Morgan opened the door for her, and the barrage of sight, smell, and sound assaulted Andi like the sounds of battle. The bar was full to bursting even on a Saturday morning, and the faint haze of alcohol fumes and smoke made her head spin.
They wasted no time in passing through, and before long found themselves facing the dirty brick wall that housed the real entrance to Diagon. Four quick taps of Andi's wand revealed the gateway, and they stepped through.
Diagon Alley was still just as whimsically astounding the hundredth time as it was the first, Andi thought. Misshapen, cobbled streets sprawled out in this liminal space like a maze. Each building had been built by hand and reinforced by magic, reshaped by the user's personal signature and changing rapidly over time as ownership changed hands or was inherited. The result was a hodgepodge of interlocking, somehow perfectly balanced storefronts that defied both gravity and belief. Every glance revealed an explosion of colour and sound. Music provided from some unknown source played at a perfect background volume, somehow both excitable and calming.
Owls flew overhead, carrying packages and post. Wixen of all ages lined up outside apothecaries, clothing boutiques, camp stores, and sporting goods shoppes. Scents of food and incense and spellfire hit her nose, and Andi could not contain the content sigh that escaped her lips.
"It's beautiful," she heard from her side. Chancing a look, she watched her daughter fall in love with this world. Morgan's eyes blazed with interest and glee, flickering all about as they took in what this world had on offer. A raucous murder of ravens nested just outside The Magical Menagerie fell silent as they strode past, intelligent, dark eyes tracing Morgan's path forward. Morgan watched the current of people pass by with a small, content grin.
Andi smiled. "It's a madhouse. Come, we've an appointment. You'll get your chance to shop around after."
Thankfully, as busy as it was, no one had recognised Morgan yet. Or if they had, perhaps Andromeda's presence had deterred them from making unwanted introductions. Still, she knew it was only a matter of time. Some poor sod would double-take after catching a glimpse of her scar, and then the mobs would descend upon them.
Quickly they braved the crowds, sifting between queues and shouldering through rowdy groups, their target large and ostentatious at the far end of the main thoroughfare. The goblins had purchased the finest real estate in the alley with blood after one of their many failed rebellions a few centuries ago, and it stood as a bastion even now.
"How does it stay standing?" asked Morgan, gaping at the yawning, ever-tilted facade of the wixen bank. Her keen emerald eyes captured every detail, shrewd and calculating. "It's solid marble. The entire building is cut from a single slab. That…" the girl chuckled in disbelief. "That isn't possible."
Andi smirked as they entered the building, nodding shortly to the guards. She leaned in close and whispered to Morgan. "The goblins have their own magic, just as lost to us as ours is to them. Be respectful but firm, and don't let them fleece you."
Morgan nodded once, and they entered the queue.
"Next!" the teller yelled ten minutes later. They stepped forward. Silently, Morgan pressed a thick, golden skeleton key emblazoned with two duelling griffons onto the table. The goblin stared at Morgan for a moment before swiping up the key. He peered at it, small, shrewd eyes inspecting the metal, before handing it off to a smaller, slightly younger goblin stood nearby. "Griphook will take you down to the vault. Good day."
Watching Morgan glance between the two goblins with an incredulous expression would mark the highlight of her day. Ted and Nymphadora had spent hours instructing the girl on how to properly speak to the goblins, about their culture and pride, and it was clear she couldn't square the disparity in her mind. She grabbed hold of the girl's arm and pulled her toward the cart stand ahead. "Expecting something else?"
"I thought, well," Morgan whispered furiously, "Dora told me — and, and Ted! They were going on about wishing them the blood of their enemies and stuff."
Andi snorted, covering the action up with a hand over her mouth. They took seats in the cart and watched as Griphook began their descent. "Did you really think the goblins would share their true customs and culture with us? Those lessons were a joke. This is a bank, Morgan. They only care about business and profit."
"It's true," Griphook agreed from his post behind them.
Realising that she'd been swindled, Morgan huffed and crossed her arms. She pouted for the entire trip down.
At least, until they reached Vault 687. Andromeda had never seen the Potter vault before, but given that it was on the same level as the Black family coffers, she assumed the contents within would be extensive. She was proven right moments later, as Griphook opened the door. Mountains of gold, silver, and bronze littered the stone floor, surrounded on all sides by shelves filled with books, scrolls, and odd knick-knacks left here for safekeeping. An armoire filled out a far corner, likely full of clothes and jewellery. Not desiring to spend the entire day pilfering through old Potter heirlooms, Andi instructed Morgan to fill a pouch with seventy-five of each coin before leaving.
She did note the wistful look in the girl's eyes, and took pity. "If you'd like, we can come back in a few weeks to sort through everything. We're on a tight schedule as it is."
"Thank you," said Morgan quietly. She remained silent for the rest of their visit to Gringotts.
The mood at home was joyful tonight for a number of reasons. Dora had passed her NEWT examinations with overwhelmingly positive marks and had been scouted by Alastor Moody to begin training as an auror; Andromeda had just been promoted to Senior Medi-Witch in the Spell Damage ward of St. Mungo's; Ted had gotten word that week that he was to be made senior partner at his solicitation firm, as well as the news that the Wizengamot would be allowing Ms. Arabella Figg to testify at Dumbledore's trial; and finally, Morgan had received her Hogwarts letter, finished her first trip to Diagon, and had gotten her supplies.
Watching as Andromeda finished preparing dinner, Morgan sat at the table and rolled her new wand in her fingers. Garrick Ollivander was a sociopathic old coot and had made her quite uncomfortable, but she had to admit that the man was a genius. The way he spoke about wandlore, the time and effort and passion required, made Morgan quite envious. She wanted to find something that encapsulated everything she desired and loved about magic in such a way, and drive her full focus into it.
The wand in her hand was a beautiful creation — a smooth cut of aspen wood, stained a deep, reddish brown, thirteen inches, unyielding, with a core of a phoenix feather. Ollivander had admitted that he'd thought to bind the core with a similar cut of holly wood several years past, but for some reason had decided against it. When she'd gripped it in her hand for the first time, a cool, pleasant rush of energy had sent thrills down her spine. A perfect match, Ollivander had said.
Thoughts of all she could accomplish in the future filled her mind. Potential futures as an enchantress, or perhaps a ritualist, or even a true, bonafide sorceress fought for priority in her dreams at night. People might whisper her name alongside Circe and Hecate one day in the distant future. The possibilities were endless, if only she reached out for them. Maybe she would find a group of like-minded witches and form a coven, the first in England's history since the dark ages, and perform feats of magic unheard of.
But, Morgan thought with a morbid wince, she would need friends for that.
Warm, rough hands on her shoulders drew her from rumination, and she looked up to see her foster father grinning down at her. The sheer joy on his face was contagious. He leaned down and placed a kiss on her forehead.
"Happy birthday, love."
Morgan had grown quite used to celebrations during her time at the Tonks residence. Ted was obsessed with holidays, especially the ones where gift-giving was compulsory, and so the family took to Christmas, Yule, birthdays, and more with unparalleled enthusiasm. That excitement was no better encompassed than tonight — it was Morgan's thirteenth birthday party.
"It's a special age," said Ted as he sipped a margarita from a large, circular glass. A glossy purple party had sat lopsided on his dark curls. Taking a seat next to her, he wrapped an arm around Morgan's shoulders and smiled widely. "You start school this year. The entire world is open to you now. I can't wait to hear all about it."
Morgan chuckled, but her heart wasn't quite in it. She fidgeted with the hem of her shirt before speaking. "I'm a bit nervous."
"I'd be surprised if you weren't," he replied.
"People are going to treat me differently," she continued.
Ted hummed. "Comes with the territory, I'm afraid. But you're a smart girl, Morgie —"
"Don't call me that."
"— and I think you'll be just fine. We've known this day was coming for a while, you and me. All those kids who stare at your forehead and whisper; they're all just as nervous as you. All of them have expectations set on them, from friends or family or whoever, and it's a lot of pressure to put on a kid. Just…don't worry yourself over something not worth worrying about."
Morgan's lip twitched, her eyes glued to the party hat. "Very wise, master."
"Oh, go on," Ted groaned, shoving her away lightly. Her delighted laughter drew a smile on his face, and when she wrapped her arms around his middle and squeezed, he returned the embrace. "You'll blow them away, Morgan, I know it. I'm proud of you."
With her face buried in his chest, she could hide her embarrassment. But even so, she had to say: "You're a good dad."
When she let go and looked at him again, his dark eyes were glassy and wet. Morgan sniffled once, wiping her own tears with shaky laughter. It amused her to no end how Ted was the emotional sob story and Andromeda was the stoic, stalwart powerhouse. Of course, Andi had her own way of showing her softer side and employed it often when dealing with Morgan and Dora. But Ted was an open book. She loved it, and she loved him.
Grinning madly, he wrapped his arm around her again and frogmarched her back to the den, where Andi and Dora were waiting. "It's time for food!"
The rest of the night consisted of a large, filling dinner of roast duck and dauphinoise, a few glasses of wine, platters of cheese and olives, and quality time spent with people she loved. Gratefully, she opened the first gift from Ted — and it was perfect.
"Now you can show us how your year goes," he said, showing her how to operate the wizarding camera. The film was treated with a potion before being inserted, and once the photographer had used it up, they could develop it instantaneously using a spell. Morgan wasted no time in taking several family photos, and promised Ted to use it at Hogwarts when she left in September.
From Dora she received an assortment of books — Self-Defense for Witches: a Guide for Proving 'No' Means 'No', a first-edition copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (stolen from the Black family library), and The Auror Recruit's Handguide, which was apparently a comprehensive set of offensive, defensive, stealth, and duelling spells and practises meant for department hopefuls. Morgan didn't ask how Dora had managed to get it, as it was meant to be a Ministry-only book, and Dora didn't offer details.
Without speaking, Andromeda handed her a long, thin, green velvet jewellery box. Inside was a set of brilliant silver chains inlaid with runes and infinitesimal shards of polished obsidian and cat's eye. It was beautiful, truly, and Morgan gasped aloud. Though, she had no idea what it was meant to be. Her confusion must have shown, because Andromeda leaned in to explain.
"These are hair chains," she said quietly. Ted and Dora had gone silent as well. "Passed down from mother to daughter in our family for generations. They're enchanted to weave into your hair each morning, and they'll protect you from poisons and mental manipulation. My mother gave them to me before my first year at Hogwarts, and now I'm giving them to you."
"I can't take this," Morgan argued hotly, glancing between Andromeda and Dora. She focused on her sister. "This should be yours, not mine! Why aren't you mad?"
Dora, for her part, merely shrugged. "I can't wear 'em even if I wanted to. My abilities nullify most enchantments, and I keep my hair short most of the time anyway. Mum offered them to me when I was your age."
"Look at me," Andromeda ordered. When Morgan turned, she cupped her face in her hand and smiled softly. "You're just as much my daughter as Nymphadora. I want you to have these."
Well, she couldn't quite say no to that level of emotional manipulation, could she? And, to be honest, she did quite love how the chains looked. They'd be gorgeous in her dark curls, the glints of amber offsetting all the black. And, paranoid she may not be, but Morgan couldn't overlook how useful that kind of protection could be. Eventually, with little more fanfare, she accepted the chains excitedly and asked Andi to help her put them in the next morning.
There were only a few more gifts left; parcels from family friends and such, mostly quills and parchment and supplies for school. A few packages of wixen sweets and sugar quills. Books and scrolls enough to make her wonder how she would fit it all in her school trunk. Until finally…
"Who's this from?" she asked, holding up the final package. The wrapping paper was a plain, thin brown with no embellishment, and the only writing on it was her name in a thin, spindly script.
Ted shrugged nonchalantly, well into his cups. "I tested all of them for tampering. It was clean. No idea who sent it, though."
Morgan hummed thoughtfully and began to untie the laces. Three items were held within: a long, shimmering sheaf of fabric softer than any silk she'd ever handled, an old, threadbare book, and a note. Growing ever more curious, she read the note first.
Morgan,
Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you. Take very special care. It is, as they say, one of a kind. The book is my own childhood copy, and I think you might find page 57 most illuminating.
A very happy birthday to you
"Odd," she murmured, handing the note to Andi. The book was very old, she realised. The copyright date for manufacture was from the end of the nineteenth century, and the pages were earmarked and annotated. Whoever had sent it must have deeply cared for it for a very long time. On the front cover, paneled in peeling bronze embossing, read The Tales of Beedle the Bard. She remembered the recommended page, but decided to wait until she was alone. There was something thrumming beneath her skin, a familiar magic she hadn't felt for years now…
…and it was coming from that fabric.
Blind to everything and everyone around her, Morgan stood, letting the shimmering cloth drape down to the floor. It was a strange colour, almost black, but it seemed to flicker and wane like sunlight on the sea. It almost felt like trying to hold smoke in her bare hands, as if it was simultaneously there and somehow not, blinking between being and unbeing. As she held it out, she realised that it was a cloak, with two long sleeves and a deep hood.
A cold shiver tingled her skin. She fought for the memory of its familiarity. Where had she felt this sensation before? Was it in Gringotts, surrounded by the unknowable sorcery of the goblins? Was it like that unease she'd felt in Ollivander's, that sense of being known so wholly and thoroughly?
No, Morgan thought as it came to her. No, this was a distant memory, of a young girl playing in a graveyard and the omen of death that befriended her. It was so obvious now in hindsight. This cloak had the same feeling as the grim's fur, the same deep, inherent connection to death. Something so alien to all others, but to her, it was a lover's embrace, warm and welcoming. Oh, this feeling was more than pleasure, more than relief, it was... divine. Morgan had to bite back a sigh.
And then, throwing all caution to the wind, she whirled it around and draped it over her body.
She disappeared from reality.
Dumbledore Declared Guilty of Charges of Child Abuse, Endangerment of Girl-Who-Lived!
By Rita Skeeter
Dear readers, it is an historic time in our society. After four years of proceedings, the Wizengamot nearly unanimously declared Albus Dumbledore, the defeater of dark wizard Gellert Grindelwald and headmaster of Hogwarts, guilty on charges of child abuse and endangerment today. The former Chief Warlock pled guilty on all counts at last month's opening remarks, to the shock of many, and throughout the deliberation was admittedly open and cooperative to the authorities.
The prosecution was difficult and time-consuming. According to sources close to the Ministry, our illustrious court nearly splintered into several factions several times over the course of what might be the longest criminal trial in magical Britain's history.
For those unaware or simply catching up, Albus Dumbledore, in his capacity as Chief Warlock, made an agreement with former Minister Millicent Bagnold and former DMLE head Bartemius Crouch, awarding himself primary custody of Morgan Potter, the Girl-Who-Lived, following the tragic attack on Halloween 1981. From there, evidence provided by prosecutor Edward Tonks (see pg. 14), senior partner at Graves, Thatcher, & Volgenstein, proved that not only did Dumbledore disregard the Potters' will, which indicated that Morgan Potter be raised by her nearest blood relatives on the magical side, but that over the eight years of her life there, she was subjected to emotional, verbal, and physical abuse. Mr. Dumbledore acted as his own legal counsel, as was his right.
Of course, this abuse culminated in the dark events of 16 June 1988, where, after being assaulted, Morgan Potter unleashed a powerful burst of accidental magic that resulted in the death of her maternal aunt, Petunia Dursley. As well, the Girl-Who-Lived went missing that same night, only to be found wandering the streets of Glasgow months later. Ms. Potter's actions were declared just self-defense by the Wizengamot, and her appearance in the trial and sentencing was not noted.
When first informed of this, readers, I was appalled. But then, I stopped to ask the hard questions:
Did Dumbledore know? And if he didn't, what possessed him to never once check on Morgan Potter's welfare? The Girl-Who-Lived was forced into tantamount slavery by her aunt and uncle, and we as a society were none the wiser? I could not believe it. And so, in that firmness of conviction, I investigated.
It took time and no small amount of effort, but I was able to find sufficient proof that Dumbledore was in fact aware of Morgan Potter's mistreatment at the hands of her relatives. A squib named Arabella Figg was requested by Dumbledore to relocate from her family home in Aberdeen to Surrey in order to keep an eye on Morgan Potter. When asked if she'd performed her duty, she had this to say:
"Of course I told him!" Here, Ms. Figg appeared visibly distraught. For reader information, Ms. Figg acted as a sitter for the Dursleys often over the years, and spent much time nursing the young Potters' wounds. "Must have been dozens of times over the years. And what did he say? 'It is the safest place for her, Arabella.' Safe from who, that's what I ask you. That poor girl… I just hope she's better off wherever she is now."
This sentiment has been repeated often in the last several years. Madam Amelia Bones of the DMLE, in the light of the horrid particulars of Morgan Potter's case, spearheaded a common sense, plain language bill in the Wizengamot back in August of 1989 that, among other protocols, allowed and encouraged aurors, operators, and any wixen member of our society to report signs of child abuse and neglect in the case of magical children (for more, see Pg. 32). This measure, however, has met its fair share of opponents, from Thaddeus Nott of the traditionalist sect, to Elphias Doge, rumoured close friend of the Dumbledore family.
This is a dark day in our nation's history. If the figureheads, the magical titans that we as citizens trust to guard our safety, cannot be trusted, who can we trust? Who watches the watchers? Also called into question is the integrity of the institution meant to represent us: the Ministry itself. Former Minister Bagnold had no comment when asked to answer for her involvement, and the office of Bartemius Crouch has been off-limits to journalists since his sentencing of his own son, Bartemius Crouch, Jr., to Azkaban in December 1981.
However, it is also a day of remembrance. A day of witnessing justice served.
Albus Dumbledore, due to his long-standing service to Britain in his roles as Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wixen, and the Headmaster of Hogwarts School, was not sentenced to any term of imprisonment to Azkaban prison. Instead, he was summarily stripped of his role as an educator by the Hogwarts board of governors and Griselda Marchbanks, governess of the Wixen Examination Authority, and voluntarily resigned his term as Chief Warlock — the office is now temporarily held by Tiberius Ogden. Some have called for less leniency, with a source close to the Minister stating: "If we allow infirmity of justice into these hallowed halls at the expense of our children, it will only spur others to mistreat their own issue in the future." No official statements have yet been made concerning the lenient sentence. ICW press secretary Monique Childs confirmed that their council has been in session, discussing the upcoming vote to fill Mr. Dumbledore's vacant seat.
In his final address to the court, Mr. Dumbledore professed his regret and horror at the consequences his decisions wrought.
"After the defeat of [...] that fateful night, I was left with few options. The Death Eaters were primarily still at large, and as many of you will attest, it was impossible to know who to trust. I remembered Petunia Evans as a young girl who's greatest wish was to become a witch like her sister, and believed that she could care for her niece. I was wrong. Morgan Potter's life was in my hands, and due to my decisions was cursed to a long, dark seven years. I cannot express how deeply sorry I am."
Questions are still being asked at the Ministry: on what authority was Dumbledore allowed to act so unilaterally? If he allowed this miscarriage of justice, what else might have slipped through the cracks.
A full audit is being performed by all departments of the Ministry of Magic. Records from decades past are being re-evaluated, trial transcripts are being updated with relevant information, and all legislation put forth by Dumbledore, Bagnold, and Crouch is currently under review. Minister Cornelius Fudge expressed his pride in the Wizengamot for their dedication to seeing justice prevail, stating that "no one man should be above the law, even one as seemingly above reproach as Dumbledore."
Coincidentally, the Girl-Who-Lived is scheduled to begin her first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry this upcoming fall term. After years of silence following her adoption, Morgan Potter was finally spotted in Diagon Alley just a few weeks ago on the arm of Madam Andromeda Tonks, former daughter of the House of Black. This further appears to confirm the adoption of Ms. Potter into the Tonks family, though Ministry records revealed no proof one way or another. Ms. Potter, in a formal letter to Britain, has requested that we respect her privacy in this difficult time.
Morgan Potter did not comment on Albus Dumbledore's trial or his sentencing.