Gawain Robards had been on the Potter case for nearly three months before a sure, solid tip came in. Oh, sure, the DMLE had gotten daily owls, floo calls, memos, and all assortment of suspected sightings of the Girl-Who-Lived, but each and every one of them had turned out to be busts. An excitable wix would be out and about, catch a glimpse of black hair or green eyes or a child walking alone, and would call it in.

His aurors were at the ends of their ropes. His team specifically had short fuses on the best of days. These were certainly not that.

So, in mid-September, when Bones stepped into the bullpen and called him and Shacklebolt into her office, he had no reason to suspect that this particular tip-off would be anything different.

The pair of veterans took their seats across from the boss and remained silent. After a few moments, parchment was levitated to their hands. He raised a brow, said nothing, and read on.

It was good intel, he had to admit. A family of four magicals living Glasgow had repeatedly witnessed a small young girl with both dark hair and green eyes, of the right size and body shape, digging into the waste bins or nicking cash off of unsuspecting tourists near their downtown home. They hadn't called anything in because, in their words, homeless children were not that uncommon of a sight, even in less-populous cities. Glasgow was not less-populous.

The real stickler, though, was that the husband had watched as the girl wandlessly summoned a raincoat from a nearby stall without alerting the owner or any passing muggles on the street. That obvious bit of magic had catalysed them, and with the understanding that they might have been seeing the missing Morgan Potter all this time without knowing made them quickly involve the Ministry.

Thus, Gawain's current task.

"I want you two on the streets within the hour," Amelia ordered. "I have four other teams canvassing the streets, but Glasgow is a large city with a lot of people. We'll need all eyes on this."

"Yes, ma'am," answered Gawain. Kingsley merely nodded.

The boss sighed. She'd been doing that a lot lately. "I don't have to tell you how important it is that we find this girl. It's been eighty-one days since Morgan Potter was declared missing. This is the first bit of reliable information we've received, and it may be the last. Do you understand?"

Oh, Gawain understood perfectly. The pressure was coming down from above, and by the looks of it, heavily so. Amelia Bones had never looked more stressed, impatient, and downtrodden for as long as he'd known her. If they lost the Girl-Who-Lived — hell, if she was even there to find in the first place, and they missed her — there'd be hell to pay. Gawain stood.

"If she's there, we'll find her," he said with full conviction. Without waiting for a dismissal, he exited the office with Shack at his tail.

Gawain had worked with Kingsley Shacklebolt dozens of times over their shared years in the auror office. He recognised the man as a diligent worker, a skilled wizard, and deeply caring for the population they were sworn to serve. He also knew that Shacklebolt had, at one time, been Dumbledore's creature through and through. It was an open secret that several of the aurors during the war were part of the Order of the Phoenix, a vigilante group with the sole purpose of dissolving Voldemort's reign of terror.

He wondered, not for the first time, if Shacklebolt was still Dumbledore's man. If so, he'd have to make sure that Morgan Potter was protected. If the old headmaster had sent the girl to an abusive home before, he might try to do it again. And with enough support, he might just succeed.

Only after they had gathered their gear and exited the Ministry, heading to the designated portkey departure point for their trek to Scotland, did Gawain acknowledge Shacklebolt's presence. He kept it short and sweet.

"Can I rely on you?" he asked the dark-skinned man at his side. He kept his eyes on the path ahead.

A queer silence met his question. They walked further on. Finally, Shack spoke. "Meaning?"

Robards felt his lip twitch. "Meaning, if you're forced to choose between Morgan Potter and whatever remaining loyalty you have to Dumbledore, can I rely on you to make the right choice?" He stopped walking. Met Kingsley's eyes. He deserved that much respect at least. "She's just a girl. If I'm right, and those muggles were as bad as we believe they were, or worse, she'll have no idea about…about any of it. Our world, magic, her parents, Voldemort. We will be the first contact for her. If we tell her we'll help, earn her trust, and then just hand her off to Dumbledore again…" He shook his head slowly. Ever more often as this case went on, Gawain could not help but compare his own daughter to Morgan Potter.

The empathetic response was blinding in how much it hurt. The Girl-Who-Lived needed them to be on her side, even if she didn't know it.

"Gawain," said Kingsley quietly. "I've already made my decision. I did it the moment Amelia showed me the memories. You can count on me."

Robards nodded, grabbing hold of all that emotion and bundling it up tight. Just as he did every morning when he put on his robes and badge, he shoved all of it deep down beneath the barriers of his Occlumency. He'd spent long enough talking. They had a job to do.

"Come on," he said, striding head. "We'll be late. I bloody hate portkeys."

In her short time as a vagabond, Morgan Potter had learned all she needed to know about the world.

The whirling darkness she'd found herself in all those nights ago had deposited her in a dark alleyway in an unfamiliar city. Even in June, the nights were cool and damp and uncomfortable. And Morgan had felt so drained and exhausted that she'd merely collapsed in a heap and fallen unconscious. She slept for what felt like days, nightmares periodically shaking her awake, wide-eyed and trembling, before sleep found her once more.

Only after she'd rested off her exhaustion did she truly wake up, and when she did so, found herself alone in an unforgiving city. She'd taught herself to read using Dudley's old schoolbooks years ago, but even so had difficulty managing the street signs and shopfronts. The people there spoke with an odd, thick accent that she couldn't quite place. She had no money, no food, and only the clothes on her back.

It'd taken four days for Morgan to resort to theft.

She found it quite easy in retrospect. She was tiny, thin, and easily ignored. When tourists would become enamoured with the sights and sounds around them, she'd nick a wallet or two, take the cash inside, and use it for food. Only and ever food.

She was nearly caught twice. Both times were by oddly dressed folks who stared at her like she was the most obvious thing in the world, as if she had a sign on her head that read 'I WILL STEAL YOUR STUFF.'

From those people, she merely ran away.

After a month, Morgan learned that she was in Scotland, and more specifically a city called Glasgow. During the day, she would wash her face and hands in a puddle nearby, or in a public fountain, or any other source of water she could find, and then she would explore. Her new home was a huge sprawling city that made her feel like an ant, tiny and invisible, in the sight of something built for the gods. The buildings towered over her head so high that she couldn't see the tops.

And the people ! There were so many. People of all shapes and sizes and colours, some with clothes like hers that fit badly and were dirty. Some wore suits and scarves and dresses and high heels. Some were very pretty, and some were quite ugly. But they all had one thing in common: none of them seemed to know she existed at all.

At first, she'd quite enjoyed this newfound freedom. She could do whatever she liked, within reason, and not a soul would or could bother her. She played in the local playgrounds, ate what food she could buy (or steal), and on one occasion, she made friends with a rather large, fluffy black cat that slept near her alley. There were libraries to read in, stores to browse through (though she couldn't purchase a thing), and blessedly, no Vernon, Petunia, or Dudley to spoil everything like they always did.

Of course, good times can never last. The first time she saw one of the Missing Person posters, Morgan had a panic attack. It was on a notice board near Celtic Park, strung alongside dozens of other posters. Some were for work opportunities, some for bands looking for new members, or yoga instructors seeking clients. One ad was for a man in the city on the lookout for a 'love connection,' whatever that meant. But her eyes had been drawn to the sight of her own face staring blankly at her, the paper an odd, slightly beige parchment.

MISSING: Morgan Euphemia Potter, it read. Beneath the picture was a detailed description of her, from the colour of her hair to her clothes to the kind of glasses she wore. Beneath that followed, Last sighted: 16/6/1988. If you have any information about Morgan, please owl your local Ministry bureau.

Of course, the most important detail of the entire lot was—

"Euphemia?" she'd muttered at the sight of her middle name. And even more concerningly, "Owl? Ministry?"

The fear had come dark and deep then, and she'd snatched the poster away from the notice board, crumpled it up, and tossed it into the nearby bin before fleeing. Of course Vernon had reported her. Of course they'd declared her missing. If anyone saw her and called the police, she would be arrested. She'd killed Petunia, even if it was an accident. She knew the Dursleys. She knew how they lied about her to everyone, how they blamed her for everything, how they made her out to be some kind of miscreant.

She'd never get her side of the story out. And so, every time she saw one of those posters out on a walkabout, she'd rip them off and throw them away. Better to never be found than to be found by the wrong people, or so she thought.

From there, Morgan had learned the subtle art of avoiding both anyone who noticed her and the police with gusto. A city like Glasgow had a lot of coppers, and all of them seemed to realise that, if they saw her, they needed to do something about it. Kids being out on the street was something Morgan realised was common. She'd run into others during her time, and all of them had the same haunted, jaded look as her in their eyes. They left her alone, and so she did the same.

Months passed this way. Morgan would steal, eat, and sleep. She'd find some warm hideaway to escape from the cold and rain for a night, and then leave the next morning. Her bare feet grew callouses on the pads of her toes and heels, and her threadbare clothes grew ever worse in quality and cleanliness. She caught sight of herself over time, and though she'd never looked healthier in her life, that wasn't saying much.

Still, sometimes she would cut her feet on broken glass on the ground. Sometimes, she would fall over and scrape her knee or hands, or she'd bang her head on the concrete. Sometimes, she'd drop her glasses and the lenses would break. Or someone would notice her, and something in the back of her mind would scream at her to run. She always listened to that voice. And when she would sleep and wake up, her scrapes or cuts would be healed up. Her glasses always looked good as new.

Always she would return to her alley to scratch in a new day on the wall of some brick building. By the time the men found her, there were almost a hundred ticks. She'd survived that long on her own, and she was proud of that.

Morgan knew the jig was up the moment she first saw the men and women walking around Glasgow in strange red robes. It was just the sort of strangeness she'd come to expect for herself, having done what she'd done before escaping Little Whinging. She had no idea how they'd found her, but they'd done it.

The first night, she hid away in her alley. It was dark and cool there, but it was familiar, and it was hers .

Of course, it was just her luck that when she woke up the next morning, there were two men in red standing nearby, and from the way they looked at her, she knew they could see her just fine.

She had just enough time to flinch backward into the brick wall behind, before one of the men held out his hands. He knelt down.

"Easy," he said, as if that would persuade her in any way. He looked at his friend, a bald, large dark-skinned man. "We're not going to hurt you. Look." He reached a hand into his pocket, and Morgan tensed up. He noticed. Slowly, he pulled out one of the missing person posters and unfurled it. He tapped her face with a finger. "This is you, right? Morgan Potter?"

Finding her courage, Morgan scowled. "I'm not going back."

"No," the man said quickly. "No, I agree. My friend and I aren't here to take you back there, I promise."

"I-I didn't mean to," she tried to say. The terror strangled her throat. She was so afraid. "They-he wouldn't leave me alone. I asked him to leave me alone. I didn't mean to hurt anyone."

The man's eyes were sad. They were a dark gold colour, and he didn't look away. He nodded. "I know. We saw what happened. They can't hurt you anymore, Morgan."

Morgan wanted to run. She could see a path, just to the left. A connected alleyway that led to a circular maze of streets that would be so easy to lose them in. They would follow her, she knew that, but they'd never catch her if she didn't want them to. If all else failed, she could clench her eyes shut and wish to be somewhere else like she did before. It might have worked, too. But the voice in her mind said nothing. No little tingle of danger.

The golden-eyed man saw her looking at the escape route. They looked at each other again. Then, ever so slowly, he pulled out a long stick from his pocket. It was a pretty colour, Morgan thought; a deep red stain, thicker at the bottom and spiralling around to the tip. She tilted her head, reluctantly curious.

"We're like you," the man said eventually, gesturing between himself and his friend. "The things you can do — making things move without touching them, making yourself hard to notice, hard to find. It's all normal to us."

Morgan gasped, utterly disbelieving. Her eyes narrowed. "Prove it."

And then the man pointed the stick at some weeds sprouting out from the nearby buildings, and they bloomed and grew into the most beautiful golden roses she'd ever seen.

She looked on, wide-eyed and in awe. All sense of fear or trepidation was gone. These people really were like her! They could do all of the amazing things she could do, and more. And…maybe, that meant she could trust them. Just a little. Enough to not run away.

"How'd you do it?" she asked, in a tone that seemed more like a demand than a question.

The red-robed man merely smiled at her. His eyes crinkled up at the corners. She decided she quite liked him. "Magic."

Interrogation chambers were no place for a child, Amelia Bones decided. She stood behind the charmed one-way glass, staring into the room beyond. Even with the added comforts — a velvet couch in place of a table, conjured carpet in lieu of stone floors, and a plate or two of warm, fresh food — an interrogation room was still an interrogation room. And the sight of Morgan Potter sat within felt far too much like an imprisonment for her taste.

Still, the girl looked hale and healthy. Healthier, in point of fact, than she had in Dudley Dursley's memory.

"A survivor, that one," Robards had said after they'd brought her in. "Her clothes were falling apart, she had no shoes on. But when I got close she looked ready to either fight or flee. That girl, you can tell when she's plotting it all out in her head. Smart," he'd finished with a shake of his head. "Too bloody smart."

Looking at her now, Amelia had to agree. The Girl-Who-Lived had survived three months on the run, homeless, with an entire national agency of magicals on the lookout for her, and it had only been dumb luck that they'd found her. Given time, Amelia believed the girl might've just survived to adulthood out there.

The fact that a girl who'd spent so much time looked healthier after being homeless than she did whilst living with her blood relatives was not lost on her. She'd already begun the diplomatic process of charging Vernon Dursley with felony child abuse charges, as well as attempted murder.

Now, Amelia though, would be the hard part of all of this.

How to explain to an abused child that she was part — a central part, no less — of a hidden secret society of magical people, and that her parents had died in the defence of that world? How does one explain the intricacies of fame and fortune to a girl who'd grown up with less than nothing? And that was not to mention the girl's place in their society, as the last daughter of an old pureblood house.

Amelia groaned. There had to be someone else, anyone else , who could explain all of this better than her.

"Hello?"

Amelia looked up and saw the small face of Morgan Potter staring up at her through the glass. She was silent , and not just in a way that seemed quiet when all else was loud. Morgan hadn't made a single sound as she got up from the couch and strode over. As if she'd been invisible and etheric. Amelia was astounded. Just to satisfy her curiosity, she tilted her head to the left, leaning a bit to the side.

Morgan Potter's eyes followed her movement, even through charmed glass. A chill ran down Amelia Bones's spine.

Waving the nerves from her mind, she departed the observation room and made her way to the interrogation chamber. It'd only been twelve or so hours since Robards and Shacklebolt had arrived with the girl in tow, and that information was something she wanted on as tight a leash as she could make it. So, her surprise at seeing an unfamiliar wizard stood just outside the door was immense. Immediately she was on the defensive.

"Can I help you, sir?" she asked, just barely palming her wand in its holster.

The man turned, revealing an unassuming, kind face and dark, curly hair. He looked vaguely familiar. Dressed in dapper, modern robes that called to mind a muggle suit more than traditional wixen garb, the man smiled and held out a hand. "Madam Bones, Ted Tonks. My office was contacted by yours just this morning. I will be representing Ms. Potter as her primary attorney."

Amelia's effort to not allow her jaw to drop was herculean. "Tonks. As in, Andromeda's husband?"

"My finest achievement," Ted confirmed with another grin. He adjusted his grip and removed a small sheaf of parchment from his briefcase, handing it to her. "As part of James and Lily's last will and testament, my wife was to be given primary custody of Morgan if both Sirius Black and Remus Lupin were unable. Seeing as Sirius is incarcerated and Mr. Lupin hasn't been seen in Britain in seven years, Andromeda has decided to pursue custody through the Wizengamot, if necessary. As for myself — I was on retainer for the Potters before their deaths, and from Gringotts statements, I remain so even now."

Ted Tonks cleared his throat and pointed to the documents. "That's your copy, by the by. I submitted the formal, notarized originals before making my way here this morning. Now, shall we?"

And then, without authorisation or permission, he bypassed the auror guard outside and opened the door. Amelia shot a harsh, punishment-promising glare at the guard before she followed him.

Her first look at Morgan Potter in person was…intimidating. Swearing that fact to eternal silence, never to be spoken of to another living soul, she conjured another couch opposite from the one Morgan sat on, and took a seat. Ted Tonks followed shortly after. The girl, eerily enough, remained silent. Watchful. She was categorising them in her head: friend or foe? Trustworthy or otherwise?

"Good morning, Ms. Potter," said Ted Tonks, stealing her thunder. "My name is Ted Tonks, and this is Madam Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

Unsettling green eyes returned to watch her. "Law enforcement? Like the police?"

It was asked in a tone that made it very obvious what Morgan Potter's opinion on policemen was. Still, Amelia had sworn to herself just before that she would be as honest as humanly possible, even if it made her no friends here. Nodding, she said: "That's right, though in our world they're called Aurors. The men you met earlier are two of mine: Gawain Robards and Kingsley Shacklebolt."

"The man with gold eyes?" she asked.

"That's Robards, yes."

"He was nice," said Morgan, with a small, barely-there smile. "I asked him to prove that he could do the things that I do, and he turned the weeds into roses. Are all your… orrers like him?"

Amelia floundered for a moment, because the answer was a resounding no . Like any institution, there were good members of the corps and bad. There were men and women who respected the badge and what it was meant for, and those who did not. But how could she explain that to the Girl-Who-Lived without destroying what little faith she had in authority outright? Thankfully, Ted Tonks had the answer.

"Madam Bones does her best to run a tight ship," he said encouragingly. "And for several months now, her sole focus has been to find you and bring you home."

The reaction was immediate and fierce. "I don't want to go home."

"Ah," said Ted with a wince. He'd misspoken. "Not there. Your…uncle is going to go away for a long, long time. He did a lot of very bad things, and now that we know about it," he indicated himself and Amelia, "we can make sure he gets in trouble for it. You'll never have to go back there. What I meant was, our focus has been to find you and bring you back to the world you belong in."

"The magic world?" she asked.

"That's exactly right," said Amelia. "Everyone you've met here so far has been magical. It's something you're born with, something deeply personal for all of us."

"Petunia called me a freak," said Morgan, scowling faintly. "She said my mum was evil, and that my dad was a drunk. She…" The girl's eyebrows scrunched up tightly, as if she had a rather painful thought that needed to come out. Finally, in a very small, faint voice, she whispered: "She lied to me."

"Morgan."

Ted Tonks knelt down to the floor, as close as comfort would allow to the young girl. His expression was completely open, something Amelia considered uncharacteristically strange for a lawyer, magical or otherwise. He had a very solemn look on his face. "I grew up like you," he admitted. "My guardians didn't like me doing magic, and they… were very mean to me for it. It took a long time for me to realise that I hadn't done anything to deserve it. There was nothing wrong with me, there was nothing wrong with your mum and dad, and there's nothing wrong with you."

To Amelia's great and sudden horror, The Girl-Who-Lived teared up and began sobbing. After a moment, Ted slowly and carefully gathered the girl in his arms and held her gently, without spooking her, until the tears ran their course. Amelia sat silently, uncomfortable and awkward, fidgeting slightly in her seat.

Finally, after a final few sniffles, Morgan pulled away. "T-thank you," she mumbled.

"Anytime," said Ted with a smile. He retook his seat and opened a fresh notepad, muggle-style one with rings, and a ballpoint pen. As he waited for Morgan to grow comfortable once more, he met Amelia's eyes and shrugged. "I wish someone had told me that years ago," he said, just loud enough for her to hear.

The girl cleared her throat, drawing their attention.

"What happens now?" she asked.

"Well," Amelia began, "now I'm going to ask you a few questions. Most of it we already know, but I'd like to hear what happened that night — in your own words. After that, we'll meet with a healer…a doctor in our world, to see how we can get you nice and healthy again. Mr. Tonks is here to make sure you stay safe, and after we're done here he and his wife are going to take good care of you."

She seemed happy enough with that arrangement, which was a relief, though Amelia was certain that Morgan had no desire to retrace her steps from that night three months ago. But as distasteful as it was, Amelia had to follow procedure here. This case, and its outcome, were too important to bend the rules. Morgan's testimony had to be verbal, without issue, and without coercion. Veritaserum would not hold up in court, not with a minor, and memories, while admissible in Wizengamot trials, were considered circumstantial evidence.

Haltingly, and with great effort, Morgan Potter began the difficult retelling of her life with the Dursley family. From her first memories, she was forced to do hard labour around the home. Cooking and cleaning at age four, gardening by five, and forced to perform other household tasks at far too young an age. The emotional and verbal abuse were constants, whilst the physical abuse was relatively new, only beginning around age seven. Amelia documented it all, noticing peripherally that Ted's anger seemed to mount higher and higher all the while. He scribbled into his own notepad furiously, connecting dots and points here and there. No doubt he would be a viper waiting to strike during the court sessions.

After about an hour of constant talking, Morgan finally lapsed into silence. She twiddled her thumbs about, nipping at her bottom lip. "That's…that's all I can remember. He just wouldn't stop shouting at me, and then he took his belt off and I just wanted him to leave me alone , and then the room…" she trailed off.

"That's alright, Morgan," said Ted. "I think we've heard enough."

"I agree," said Amelia. She was sick to her stomach and ready to be done with the Potter case once and for all. Forcing what she hoped was a pleasant smile on her face, she turned back to the Girl-Who-Lived. "Now, let's go see if we can't find something to eat, shall we?"

Years and years later, after a storied career in the DMLE, a full term as Minister for Magic during both war- and peacetime, when Amelia was old and grey and ready to take that next great adventure, she would still gladly remember the sight of Morgan Potter smiling at her as if she were her hero.

Andromeda often looked back on her childhood with a mixture of pride, shame, and sheer terror. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black was one of the oldest in Britain, once a cornerstone of the elder pureblood families, and before the war with Voldemort, had been numerous and inexorably deadly. She'd been raised like all the Blacks before her: with the absolute certainty that her blood made her better than everyone else. Her own mother, Druella, had been a Rosier before her marriage, and though she'd grown used to the way the Black family operated, it was never the same as being born into it.

Andromeda, and her sisters and cousins, were all brought up together. Their childhoods were spent in congress with one another at all times. She, Bellatrix, Narcissa, Sirius, and Regulus were thicker than thieves, and marginally less honourable. They looked out for one another, made excuses for each other, lied and stole and threatened and bargained however they felt was necessary for the others' safety.

She taught her sisters and cousins everything she learned at Hogwarts, as she was the first to go, and even lent her wand so they could practise, safe behind Grimmauld Place's wards. Bellatrix followed soon after, and Sirius and Narcissa a few years after that.

Everything crumbled the moment Sirius was sorted into Gryffindor.

Now, as an adult, Andromeda couldn't fathom how a simple school house could have changed so much in so short a time. Her parents treated it as an act of outright defiance, and she'd heard horror stories of how Orion and Walburga had reacted once the owls began coming in. She'd hoped that Sirius would act contrite, that he'd simply keep his head down and finish school quietly. But something strange began happening instead.

As Sirius's defiance to their family's ideals grew more blatant, Andromeda found her own defiance, her own courage, being stoked by his bravery. Sirius had never fallen for the pureblood, muggle-hating tripe, and that disbelief only became more pronounced after he became friends with James Potter and Remus Lupin.

Andi, for her part, had focused that defiance on something else — or rather, someone else. Namely, Edward Tonks, a young muggleborn wizard in her year, a handsome and quiet Hufflepuff with broad shoulders and kind eyes. It'd taken years for her to look past her family's prejudiced views, ones that stated simply and outright that people like Ted did not deserve magic — that they had, in fact, stolen it — and to see the lies hidden beneath it all. Because Ted was not a thief, nor was he a freak or a danger to anyone.

He was the type of boy who would help first year students when they became lost. The type of boy to laugh along just as eagerly when poked fun at or pranked. The type of boy to offer a kind word, even to a Slytherin girl who looked at him as if he were lower than garbage. The type of man to eventually forgive that same girl, and to fall in love, risking everything in the process.

Which made it all the more heartbreaking when, after Ted came home with a tiny, fragile girl in his arms and introduced her to Andromeda as Morgan Potter, she realised that Ted's softhearted, kind parenting would not work for this girl. It had done well enough for Nymphadora, but then their daughter was so alike her father that the similarity was often uncanny.

But, as Morgan Potter stood on her own two feet and stared up at Andromeda for the first time, Andi could see it in her eyes: the wariness, the solemnity, the quiet, seething rage just under the surface.

'I'm so sorry, Lily,' she thought, and introduced herself.

"You have your mother's eyes," Andromeda said in the silence of her home. Ted had gone upstairs to shower. Morgan, wary of her and yet hopeful of comfort, sat across from her at the table. "She was a wonderful woman, and an extraordinarily talented witch. I see so much of her in you."

It was a half-truth at best. In appearance, yes, Morgan did take after her mother, aside from the dark hair and sharp cheekbones. But there was none of James's inner joy, that fragile bubble of mischief lying just beneath the surface, awaiting anyone unfortunate enough to fall victim to it. There was little of Lily's inborn kindness, though Andi was sure that it was there somewhere, only given to those deserving of it. She saw nothing of Charlus Potter at all. No, what Andi truly saw was her great-aunt Dorea: a shrewd yet caring woman who'd inspired Andromeda's aspirations to become a healer. And she saw Bellatrix there as well, the volatile temper on a hair trigger, held under control by pure effort. Narcissa's perception, Sirius' ruthlessness, Regulus' desire for peace above all, Andromeda's grace and poise. In another life, she'd laugh at how well a daughter of the House of Potter encapsulated so many of the traits the Blacks admired most.

Morgan tilted her head, waiting for the other shoe to drop. She's smart, this one .

"And yet, I see even more of my family. Your grandmother was my great-aunt. The Blacks are an old magical family — here before the Romans ever set sail to conquer the isles. For thousands of years, this has been our home. Our birthright. You are a part of that, even if you don't have the name."

"And the Potters?" Morgan asked quietly.

Andromeda shrugged. "Some say they're even older than the House of Black. Others say they were peasants who stole magic from their betters during the Roman conquest. My grandfather believed that the Peverells married into your family a few hundred years ago, though it was never proven. No one really knows."

Morgan sat silently for a little while, chewing on her lip. Andi would have to break her of that habit soon enough. But she allowed it for now. Finally, the girl sat up straight and stared Andromeda in the eyes, unafraid.

"When Ted and I came through the building, everyone stared at me. Stared at this," she pointed at the scar on her forehead. "Why? What happened to my parents?"

She was never more grateful that Ted was not here than at this moment. Sheer honesty was never something he was comfortable giving to children, especially if it was potentially harmful. But Andromeda had lived this before, knew it was survivable, and realised that lying to Morgan Potter would be a lethal mistake. So, she told the truth.

"A few decades ago," she began, "a Dark wizard calling himself Voldemort started building power. Hundreds of people joined him, swore their very lives to him. He was deadly, merciless, and terrifying. My sister, Bellatrix, was his most loyal lieutenant; she was obsessed with him. They killed so many people during the war. Our population still has yet to recover from the losses. Your parents, James and Lily, defied him. At every turn they fought him off as hard as they could. But, their luck eventually ran out.

"On Halloween 1981, just after your first birthday, the Dark Lord came after your family. No one knows exactly what happened that night, or if they do they aren't telling, but only you survived. He killed your mother and father, and then turned his wand onto you."

Wide-eyed and fearful, Morgan swallowed and asked: "Is that why I have the scar?"

Andromeda nodded. "He cast the very darkest of spells at you; no one knows why. But something happened — a ritual, a spell, something . And it rebounded on him. He was destroyed that night. And so, in our world, you are quite the celebrity. The Girl-Who-Lived , they call you. Not a soul in magical Britain is unaware of who you are."

And for a girl as obviously introverted and private as Morgan seemed to be, Andromeda knew that was the worst thing she could have been told. She wondered if the girl truly understood the consequences of that night: Morgan would never be able to have a truly private life. She would forever be in the spotlight. Every word, every action and reaction, every spell she ever fired would be newsworthy. She would be derided and desired, lambasted and lauded in equal measure, for the rest of her life.

There was something morbidly fascinating in watching a girl realise that her entire life had been a lie up until now. Her muggle relatives had done quite a lot of damage, physically and otherwise, but in no matter was it so obvious than here and now, learning that her mother and father had died to protect her. Andromeda had grown to love Lily dearly, and she'd tolerated James with grace, but again it struck her how much their daughter was totally and completely unlike them in every way.

"And what about outside of Britain?" Morgan asked.

"It'll be the same no matter where you go," Andi replied with a bored wave. "Fame is universal. You'd have to fake your death to escape it."

"She's nine, Andi."

Ted strode into the dining room in his lounging clothes, hair freshly washed and tousled. He gave the girl a roguish grin, ruffled her hair, and went to put the kettle on for tea. Andromeda rolled her eyes and offered the barest of smiles at Morgan Potter. It was not returned, but the girl seemed comfortable at least.

"She won't be forever."

Andromeda hadn't moved to immediately gain custody of Morgan Potter only to see her fall victim to the same people that had ruined her childhood to begin with. James and Lily had trusted Dumbledore, and they'd been murdered in exchange for that trust. The Ministry had abandoned their 'saviour' to eight dark, hard years, eager to move on from the war as fast as possible. The Potters were extinct, and the last of the Black sons was rotting in Azkaban, suffering a traitor's fate. The war had destroyed nearly every good thing in Andromeda's life, and she would be damned to the nine hells before she allowed that same fate to fall upon her newest daughter. She would have to raise Morgan as a Black, and that would not be accomplished by coddling the girl.

But that was the last she was able to speak openly about such things to Morgan, at least for the day. Ted took after soon afterward, learning how Morgan liked her tea, what she enjoyed doing for leisure, and teaching her about the kinds of magic she would eventually learn at Hogwarts. Andi watched silently, (forcibly) cold and calculating, and struggling frightfully with the tugging at her heartstrings that Morgan Potter brought on.

She had failed to protect Bella all those years ago. She'd let her sister fall into the Black madness, left her alone to deal with being the eldest in a family of psychopaths, and she'd suffered for it.

Perhaps, she thought, this could be a chance to redeem herself. To mould Morgan Potter into what the House of Black could have been if they'd let go of their bigotry and iron grasp on a legacy long since forgotten. She was powerful, beautiful, resourceful if her long survival on the streets could be believed, and young. They'd rescued her with several years to go until her time at Hogwarts began at thirteen, and had the time to unlearn what few bad habits she carried still. Her trauma would heal with time, and her magic would grow stronger and stronger along with that healing. If she couldn't protect Morgan Potter from their world and the people in, she could at the very least teach her to protect herself. And as a daughter of the House of Black, in name or not, that was no small thing.

Andromeda smiled into her teacup, truly excited for the years to come.