I look down at my body—it's mine, not the small frame of a child, but mine. The weight of the air around me is thick and suffocating, as though I'm drifting through some kind of purgatory, caught between worlds. I walk forward, though I can't tell for how long—time feels warped here, stretching and folding in on itself.
A faint humming breaks the silence, followed by soft, echoing giggles. It's distant but unmistakable, carrying a strange, eerie innocence. I follow the sound, my footsteps soundless as if the ground beneath me isn't real.
In the distance, I spot her—a little girl, playing with something glowing, something alive. Bright orbs of energy float in the air around her, and she laughs as she tosses them from one hand to the other, like they're toys. The balls of light pulse and shift, changing colors and size, responding to her touch in a way that feels almost sentient.
Then she sees me.
Her laughter dies in an instant, her eyes going wide with shock. Startled, she fumbles, dropping one of the glowing spheres. It hits the ground with a sharp crackle, and before I can even process what's happening, the energy shifts, turning toward me. It surges forward, faster than I can react, a blinding flash of light rushing at me.
The moment it collides with me, I'm jolted awake, gasping for air, panic swelling in my chest as I struggle to sit up, but my body feels weak, and every movement is a challenge.
Blinking rapidly, I glance around the unfamiliar room—stark white walls, dim lights, and the faint scent of antiseptic in the air. There's an IV drip in my arm, and the beeping is coming from a machine beside the bed, tracking my vitals. My head throbs, a dull ache spreading across my temples. Where am I?
Just then, a nurse enters the room, her eyes widening in surprise when she sees me awake. For a moment, she just stares, then quickly turns and hurries out, probably to call a doctor—or someone. My mind feels foggy, disconnected, like I'm missing something important. I try to move, but every muscle in my body protests, weighed down by exhaustion.
I glance down at my arms—bandages, carefully wrapped. What happened to me? I close my eyes, trying to piece it all together. Flashes of memory start to come back, disjointed and out of order. Howard and Maria—they were leaving for a trip. I was with Tony. Then in the lab. My breath catches in my throat as the memories slam into me, suddenly clear and cruel. Tony on the phone, his face pale, his voice shaking. Howard and Maria... they're dead.
The words hit me like a freight train, stealing the air from my lungs. A choked sob escapes me, my throat painfully dry. Tears blur my vision, and my hands start trembling uncontrollably. I clutch the blanket, trying to ground myself, but my mind spirals. What happened after that? There was something inside me—something dark, something powerful. It felt like it was ripping me apart from the inside, clawing its way out. Then, there was a blinding light, and everything shattered around me.
The lights in the room flicker once, then twice, as a sharp pain suddenly spreads through my chest. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to fight it off, but the pain only grows, pulling me back into that terrifying moment. The machine's beeping grows louder, faster, matching the racing of my heart. My breath catches. I can't breathe. Not again.
It feels just like before—just like when I lost them, when I lost everything. Just like before I lost people I was coming to love. A wave of pain surges through me, and the light flickers again, more violently this time. My hands grip the blanket harder, my knuckles turning white. My entire body feels like it's shutting down, the overwhelming grief and the memories mixing with something darker, something I can't control.
Then, with a loud pop, one of the overhead light bulbs shatters, spraying glass across the floor. The sharp sound pulls me out of my spiral for a moment, my heart still racing, my breath coming in short, painful gasps. I stare at the broken bulb, my chest heaving as fear churns in my gut. Did I do that?
Moments later, the doctor arrives, his face focused and calm. "What happened to the light?" he asks the nurse, his eyes flicking to the shards on the floor.
The nurse shakes her head. "It was fine when I left," she says, glancing between me and the bulb.
The doctor doesn't question it further, his attention shifting back to me immediately as my breathing becomes more erratic. He kneels beside my bed, his face level with mine, speaking softly but firmly.
"Hey there," his voice is calm, gentle. "It's okay. I know it's scary right now, but I need you to try and take slow, deep breaths for me, alright?" He waits, his eyes steady, giving me something to focus on. "Breathe in slowly, through your nose. Can you do that with me? Nice and slow."
I try to follow his instructions, but my chest feels tight, my breath coming out in short, ragged gasps. My vision blurs, panic spreading through me like wildfire.
"That's okay," he continues, his tone never wavering. "It's hard, I know. You're safe here. No one's going to hurt you. Let's try again—breathe in… and out. Slowly."
I force myself to focus on his voice, pushing past the tightness in my chest. Slowly, the rhythm of my breathing begins to match the calm, steady pace he sets.
"Good, just like that," he says, his voice reassuring. "You're doing really well. Keep going."
As my breathing steadies, the room stops spinning, and I feel the wave of panic begin to ebb. The machine beside me starts beeping at a more regular pace, matching the slow, deep breaths I'm finally able to take.
The doctor stays by my side, not rushing me, waiting until I can catch my breath fully. "There you go," he says softly. "You're alright now."
His words are meant to be comforting, but the weight of everything is still pressing on me—Howard and Maria, the explosion, the blinding light inside me. It's all too much.
"We've let your father know you're awake," he says, standing up slowly. "He'll be here soon."
I nod again, but my thoughts are far away, circling around the broken light and the power I felt before everything went dark. I want to believe the doctor, want to trust that I'm safe here, but the fear that something is still inside me, lurking just beneath the surface, won't go away.
Another nurse comes in quietly, placing a tray of food on the table beside me—mashed potatoes, a small piece of chicken, and water. I stare at the food, my stomach churning at the thought of eating.
"How long have I been here?" I ask, my voice barely audible, still shaking slightly from the panic attack.
The nurse looks at me, her expression soft but hesitant. "You've been here for a couple of days, your body needs more time to heal. Try to eat something—it'll help."
She doesn't answer my real question—how long? How long was I lost in the fog, lost in the wreckage of my life?
The nurse leaves quietly, and I stare at the tray of food, pushing it around with the fork, too overwhelmed to eat. The hospital room feels cold, sterile, and the broken light above me serves as a stark reminder of the power I still don't understand. Something inside me broke that light. What if it happens again?
I close my eyes, the empty ache inside me growing with each passing second. How long has it been? Hours? Days? Too long.
I watch as a janitor comes to clean the peices of shattered glass. He shuts the door behind him.
I sit there staring at a point on the wall. Then, suddenly, the door swings open with a bang, startling me out of my thoughts. I flinch instinctively, my head snapping up in alarm.
Standing in the doorway is Tony, chest heaving like he's just run a marathon. Sweat clings to his brow, and he stands there for a second, frozen, as if unsure of what to do next.
His eyes scan me like he's trying to make sure I'm really here, really awake. His breath comes out in uneven gasps, and his eyes, It's like a flood of emotions—relief, fear, guilt—all swirling together, barely contained.
Our eyes lock, and for a long, heavy moment, neither of us says anything. I can feel the concern radiating off him, but I don't know how to respond. My hands are still trembling from the earlier panic attack, and the sterile smell of the hospital room feels suffocating. The untouched tray of food sits forgotten beside me.
Tony slowly steps into the room, his eyes never leaving me. He pulls up a chair and sits beside the bed, close enough to reach out but keeping some distance, like he's afraid I'll shatter if he gets too close. His fingers tap nervously against the edge of the table, and he keeps fidgeting, like he's trying to find the right words but can't.
The silence stretches out between us, heavy and thick with everything that's been left unsaid. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, but my chest tightens when I try to speak. The words get stuck in my throat. It feels like there's too much to say, and yet I don't want to say any of it.
Finally, I manage to break the silence, my voice barely above a whisper. "When… when was the funeral?"
Tony freezes, visibly startled by the question. His fingers stop their nervous tapping, and he looks at me like he wasn't expecting that to be the first thing I'd ask. His expression tightens, and for a moment, he doesn't respond. I can see the struggle in his eyes, like he's searching for the least painful way to answer.
When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse, barely louder than mine. "Two months ago."
Two months. The words hang in the air, and I feel like the ground has just dropped out from under me. My breath catches in my throat. "Two months?" I echo, but it comes out as a whisper, more disbelief than a question.
I can see Tony's shoulders tense as he nods, his gaze dropping to his hands. "Yeah… two months," he says, voice thick with guilt.
Two months. I've been out for two months, completely lost in a haze while time moved on without me. They are dead, and I wasn't even awake for the funeral. It feels just like before, maybe even worse this time l knew they would die.
Tony shifts uncomfortably in his chair, his hands clenching into fists in his lap. He looks like he wants to say something, but the silence between us grows heavier. I know he's hurting too, but I can't bring myself to reach out to him. I feel numb. Detached.
He takes a deep breath, glancing at me like he's bracing himself. "Elle…" he starts, his voice wavering slightly. He rubs his face, then looks at me, his eyes full of sadness and something else—something like guilt. "They couldn't find the cause of explosion, but because of it there was Glass… there was a lot of glass."
My heart pounds in my chest, and I instinctively grip the blanket tighter, my mind flashing back to that moment—the blinding light, the feeling of something breaking inside me.
Tony's jaw tightens, and he looks away like it's physically painful for him to remember. "When it happened… most of the glass hit you. Your arms, your chest, your leg—" He pauses, his voice catching, "—but there was one piece… one that pierced your lung."
The words hit me hard, but I don't know how to process them. "My lung?" I whisper, my hand moving instinctively to my chest. I don't remember any of it—the injury—just the light, the excrutiating pain, then nothing.
Tony nods, his expression grim. "Yeah. And your leg, too. The doctors said a piece of glass hit your femoral artery. You were bleeding out by the time they found you."
His voice wavers, and I can hear the fear in it. "They had to operate… twice. First to get the glass out of your chest, and then from your leg." He swallows hard, his gaze dropping again. "They said if they hadn't gotten to you when they did, you wouldn't have made it."
I stare at him, stunned. The weight of it presses down on me, but it doesn't feel real. I was unconscious for two months, fighting for my life, and I didn't even know it. The thought leaves me hollow.
Tony leans forward, his hands pressed together as if trying to hold himself steady. "I almost lost you, Elle," he says quietly, his voice breaking. "I thought I was going to lose you."
I don't say anything. I can't. There's too much to process. My fingers rest on my chest, where the shard pierced my lung, but I can't feel anything. No pain. Just emptiness.
We sit in silence again, the air heavy with grief and words we don't know how to say. Two months lost. Glass in my lung. My leg. My body feels foreign, like it's not even mine anymore . lt never was my mind supplies absently.
Tony watches me for a moment, his eyes full of guilt and worry. "Elle… I'm sorry," he says, his voice breaking. "I'm so sorry ."
I glance at him, but the numbness inside me keeps me from saying anything. I don't know what to feel. I can't even think about what to forgive him for, or if I even want to.
With my voice small and tired, l ask. "Can you… just leave me alone for a while? I need to rest."
Tony looks at me, his face etched with pain, but he nods. "Yeah… of course," he says softly, standing up. He walks to the door, glancing back one more time before he leaves.
The door closes with a soft click, and the silence settles back in. I close my eyes just wanting to disappear into the numbness.
After being stuck in the hospital for what felt like an eternity, I'm finally discharged. I'm weak, disoriented, and frankly, a bit of a mess, but apparently, the doctors think it's time for me to recover somewhere other than the sterile hellhole I've been trapped in. They load me into a wheelchair, the cast on my leg serving as a not-so-subtle reminder of the glass shard that nearly killed me. It stretches from my thigh to my ankle, heavy and awkward, but it's better than being in a hospital bed.
Enter Ana Jarvis, the kind and gentle woman who's here to rescue me from the grip of this place. She introduces herself with the warmth of someone who genuinely cares, her voice soft but firm. Her presence is comforting, and I'm grateful for it, even if I don't really show it. Given that my transition from hospital chaos to a new living arrangement feels like being shoved from one bad dream into another, Ana is a welcome change.
She drives me to her home, which is worlds away from the cold, clinical nightmare I just escaped. Tony, meanwhile, hasn't bothered to show his face since that awkward hospital visit. I know from the tabloids that he's now the youngest CEO of Stark Industries, l try not to think about him too much or what his life is becoming.
Ana's home is quiet, cozy, and surprisingly comfortable. It's a sanctuary of sorts, or at least as much as a new place can be when you're still trying to wrap your head around the fact that you almost died. She doesn't push me to talk about my feelings or what happened, and for that, I'm grateful. Instead, she just quietly handles everything—meals, doctor appointments, the whole nine yards. She lets me exist in my silence, giving me the space I didn't even know I needed.
To keep me from going stir-crazy, Ana has stocked her house with an absurd number of books. The living room has become a mini-library, and I've started working my way through it, trying to distract myself from the mess my life has become. It's weird, filling the silence with pages instead of conversation, but it's easier than thinking about howard and maria.
Seeing Tony's face on the news, surrounded by glitz and glam, only reminds me of how distant I am from that world. I don't envy him, though. I know he'll eventually figure things out in his own messed-up way—probably in about 18 years, give or take.
The first week in Ana's home, I mostly stay in bed, my leg in its cast propped up awkwardly. I keep my arms bandaged at first, too afraid to see the damage from the glass. But eventually, curiosity—or maybe just the need to face it—wins out. One morning, when Ana's out running errands, I sit at the edge of the bed and start unwinding the bandages from my arms, slowly, carefully. The skin underneath is still healing, but it's not the jagged scars I expect.
Instead, there are patterns etched into my skin—thin, almost delicate lines that stretch from my palms, swirling and branching out, fading into my biceps. They shimmer slightly, like the light is catching something just beneath the surface. It's subtle, but undeniable.
I stare at my hands, turning them over, running my fingers over the patterns. They don't hurt, but they look like they should. I trace the lines, trying to make sense of them, but nothing comes to mind. They weren't there before—before the explosion.
I pull my sleeves down, feeling unsettled but too tired to dwell on it. I don't have the energy to freak out about something else right now. The patterns can wait.
Another thing that's odd? I haven't had any headaches or nosebleeds since I woke up. Not even a twinge. After months of those splitting migraines, the sudden absence of pain feels strange, but I'm not about to complain. It's just... odd. Like something's shifted, but I can't quite figure out what. Maybe it's a fluke. Or maybe my body's too busy recovering from everything else to remind me how much it likes to mess with me.
Days turn into weeks, and I start to get restless. Ana suggests meditation—something she thinks will help me. And you know what it does , l sit in a small space and practise breathing exercises, emptying my mind. I also started the physical therapy for my leg as soon as they removed the cast.
The years passed without much change.
I was getting the hang of my new life here. I didn't have to go to school; I was homeschooled. I guess I did well enough on the tests they threw at me up to middle school, but then I got bored out of my fucking mind and decided to leave it at that. They still called me a genius, though. I took the test under the name Estelle Jarvis, to avoid attention. Ana only seemed mildly surprised, probably because she knew I could've aced the rest if I'd bothered. She must have chalked it up to the Stark genes or something. To be honest, my brain's like a goddamn sponge, absorbing everything and running miles per minute, but it's still just me.
The media doesn't know shit about me. They're too busy obsessing over Tony—who he's banging this week or what the youngest CEO is doing with his billions. Sometimes, people ask about me, but they're quickly shut down. And thank fuck for that. I don't need the spotlight on me or cameras flashing in my face every time I step outside. Tony still hasn't bothered to reach out since that awkward-ass talk in the hospital.
My… powers, for lack of a better word, are still confusing as hell, but I've managed to figure out a few things about them: they're completely tied to my emotions and imagination. Anger, distress, and other uncomfortable emotions fuel my most destructive I'm seething with rage or gripped by panic, I can obliterate objects, incinerate them, or crush them into fine dust . It's like this raw, wild force inside me that just wants to break shit. But if I need to levitate something, I have to be calmer, more focused. It's weird because for heavier objects, I have to concentrate harder, visualize it levitating up, but smaller things? They're up in the air with just a flick of my fingers.
I've been trying to get a grip on what this energy can do, so I don't have to rely on my emotions every time. I mean, I don't want to accidentally obliterate everything around me just because I'm irritated. The energy inside me is... complex. It's constantly swirling, like a living thing, almost sentient. Sometimes it's playful, buzzing under my skin, making me feel like I'm filled with sparks. It'll wrap around me like a curious kid, exploring every corner of my mind and body. It's like it's alive, part of me but with a will of its own. It'll nudge me to use it, almost like it's begging for release, like a restless pet that's been cooped up too long.
But there's a darker, more insidious side to it. When it senses danger or I get overwhelmed, it's like a fucking beast. It snarls and roars, pushing against the limits of my control. It's hot, violent, almost feral, and if I'm not careful, it feels like it could consume me whole. It's like having a wild animal inside me, clawing to get out, ready to tear apart anything that even remotely threatens me. I can feel it thrashing inside me, this seething, relentless force, forcing me to let it loose. When I let it loose before in a moment of pressure and reality, it just took over, destroying everything around me without any mercy. I was drowning in it, losing myself in this overwhelming sea of power and devastation.
I'm trying to keep it in check now, keep it contained, because I don't want a repeat of what happened last time. That feeling of everything slipping away, like I was just a spectator in my own body as it unleashed hell... I don't want to go through that shit again. And it's not just the destruction I'm worried about. This energy—whatever the hell it is—seems to have a mind of its own. It doesn't like being restrained. Sometimes it feels like it's pushing back against me, testing the boundaries, almost begging me to let it out. It's like living with a double-edged sword; it protects me, but it also threatens to cut me down if I'm not careful.
I'm starting to think it's the reason behind my intense emotions, too. When I get too happy, too sad, too angry, it flares up, almost like it's feeding off my feelings. It's fucking exhausting. It's like a constant tug-of-war, and I'm stuck in the middle, trying not to let it tip the balance. And trust me, it's not happy about being restrained, not in the slightest. I can feel its clawing beneath the surface, like a beast howling, waiting for the me to let it out.
But I learnt to control my emotion, never feel too happy, too angry just enough. Breathe and control, just stay calm, collected and cool.
My current plan is to wait and prepare for the start of everything. I don't know if I should act or just let things flow. The first time, things were alright—not great, but they managed to save everyone… or almost everyone. But will it be the same this time? Will things get worse if I step in? I don't know, but one thing is certain: I can't just sit back and watch it all collapse again. After all this, after howard and maria and maybe-just maybe- I'll finally be able to live my life, just like they would've wanted… No. No, not them. I'm not going there.
I can't think about them. It's too soon, and it's still too much. The lights in my room flicker, and I feel the panic creeping in. I can't do this now. Not yet. My breathing gets shallow, and I force myself to start the exercises, focusing on every breath. In, out. Don't think about them. Don't. I can't afford to lose control—not now, not ever.
Yeah, I'm alright, We are not gonna discuss that. Where was I? Oh right, Ana—good ol' An—decided to take me to meet someone. And let me tell you, you will not believe who it was. Peggy! Yes, Peggy freaking Carter! the legendary spy, and, oh yeah, one of the founders of S.H.I.E.L.D. No big deal, right? And get this, Ana and Peggy are friends. Friends! I remember Peggy and Edwin going on missions together back in the day, so I guess they must've bonded over all the "saving the world" stuff.
She's old now—like, really old. Wrinkles all over her face, but trust me, she's still an absolute badass. I mean, the woman looked at me like she could see straight through my soul, which, frankly, was both impressive and incredibly unnerving. I swear, it's not like I try to act like a 6-year-old most of the time, but under that stare, I felt about six, and she wasn't buying any of it. Anyway, after what felt like a staredown with the Queen of Spies, things finally lightened up. We sat down, and while she talked, I did my best to sip tea like a calm adult. But the stuff she was saying—Howard, the Howling Commandos, Steve, even Bucky—she was dishing out all the good stuff.
She told me about the first time she met Steve—how he was just this scrawny kid who somehow became Captain America, and how he literally threw himself on a grenade to save everyone. Yeah, l remember watching it , but listening to her describing that npw that was much better. And Howard? Don't even get me started on Howard. She went on about how he was insufferable with his genius and his charming (read: unbearable) playboy ways, but eventually, he did the one good thing he could: marrying Maria. Peggy said that was the best decision Howard ever made. Not exactly a glowing review of his life's choices, but hey, it's something.
But as great as it was hearing all these stories, things got... rough. Her memory? Not what it used to be. She started repeating herself, over and over again, sometimes losing track of what she was saying mid-sentence. At one point, I asked her why she was telling me all this, and she just smiled, this sad little smile, and said, "Even though I won't be able to remember my own life, I want someone else to remember. Estelle, I want you to remember my life for me." Well, that pretty much punched me right in the gut.
After that, she really opened up. She told me about her childhood, about her journey into S.H.I.E.L.D., about secret missions, everything. But as time passed, she started forgetting me too. I started visiting less and less because, let's be honest, it's pretty hard to sit with someone who has no idea who you are. The last time I visited, she looked at me, totally confused, and asked who I was. That was it for me. I couldn't handle it anymore, so I stopped going.
I met Tony again when I was seven, at Edwin Jarvis' funeral. When Ana got the call, she cried for hours, clutching my shoulders like I was the last thing holding her together. I huged her while she cried.
The funeral was small, just a few people there. I stood next to Ana, more for her than for me, as they lowered his body into the ground. Tony was standing nearby, looking pretty rough. He seemed older, like he'd been through too much.
Things went from bad to fucked up quickly, after some idiot leaked that I was at the funeral. Suddenly, paparazzi were everywhere, like vultures. They started shouting questions as soon as they saw me: "Are you really Tony Stark's kid? Where have you been all this time? Why is he hiding you? How's your relationship with Tony? Is it true he paid to keep you a secret?"
Yeah, because that's totally the kind of thing a seven-year-old wants to hear at a funeral. I swear, if Ana wasn't sobbing next to me, I would've told them to go—well, let's just say, somewhere far away—but I barely got halfway through "Why don't you all just fu—" before security swooped in and dragged me back to the car.
They managed to get me out of there and took me straight to Tony's place in Malibu. But by then, I was already too pissed off to care about anything. Honestly, the whole day felt like one big, annoying mess.
For the first week, Tony and I basically ignored each other. He didn't know how to talk to me—probably because the whole "here's your daughter who you ignored for years" thing was awkward as hell—and I wasn't exactly jumping at the chance to bond either. I mean, I wasn't really his daughter. Besides, he spent most of his time either drunk or holed up in his lab, so it's not like there were a lot of opportunities for heart-to-heart bonding.
Meals? Mostly takeout. The guy didn't even try to pretend he could cook. Honestly, I think the kitchen was just a decorative piece for show. So, I spent my days binging Netflix or reading whatever book I could find lying around. If I hadn't known better, I'd say we were two strangers stuck in the same house, though that wouldn't be far from truth.
As usual, I was reading a Sherlock Holmes book—something to pass the time—when Tony finally emerged from his lab, looking like he hadn't slept in days. The dark circles under his eyes made him look like some kind of insomniac zombie. He stopped when he saw me, staring for a minute like he was trying to figure out who I was or why I was in his house. Then, remembering he had a daughter now, he glanced at his watch and cleared his throat awkwardly.
"Hey, kid, isn't it a little late for you to be up?"
I looked up from my book and gave him a deadpan stare, my expression saying, 'Are you seriously trying to play dad right now?' When he just raised an eyebrow at me, I answered flatly, "I have insomnia." Inside, I was trying really hard not to laugh.
He blinked, clearly confused. "What?"
Deciding to mess with him a little, I set my book down and started explaining, in the most textbook way possible, "Insomnia is a condition where the individual has trouble—"
He cut me off with an irritated huff. "I know what insomnia is, but aren't you, I don't know, too young for it?"
I just shrugged, brushing it off. "Maybe." Then, to steer the conversation away from me, I asked, "You hungry?" Without waiting for him to answer, I added, "There's pizza in the fridge." And I casually picked up my book again, like this whole weird moment wasn't happening.
He chuckled under his breath, probably amused at how nonchalant I was being. "Sure," he muttered, heading off toward the kitchen. I heard the ding of the microwave about five minutes later, followed by the sound of a plate hitting the counter. Next thing I knew, Tony was sitting on the sofa across from me, chewing on a slice of pizza and still staring at me.
He broke the silence again. "That book interesting?"
"Sure." I didn't even look up from the page. I could tell he wasn't thrilled with that one-word answer, but before he could ask another question, I jumped in. "What are you working on in the lab downstairs?"
That seemed to catch his attention because his eyes lit up a little. He smirked, leaning back on the couch like he was about to brag about something. "Why? You curious?"
I glanced at him, smirking back. "Yeah, I mean, it's been what, almost four years? I'd say I'm a little curious."
Tony winced, clearly not loving the reminder, but he didn't address it. Instead, he shrugged and said, "Want to see my lab?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Why do you sound like an old man asking a kid if they want to see the inside of an ice cream truck?"
He burst out laughing, which wasn't the reaction I expected. "Brat. Just answer the question."
I couldn't help but laugh a little myself. "Yeah, why not? I'm getting bored of rereading the same stuff anyway."
He stood up and motioned for me to follow. "Come on, then."
As I trailed behind him toward the lab, I could've sworn I heard him mutter something that sounded an awful lot like, "She's definitely my kid."
After that day Tony showed me his lab, everything started to change. He explained that he was building a new AI system, and as soon as he mentioned the core framework, I realized he was rebuilding Jarvis. Of course, I asked if I could help. He looked skeptical at first—probably wondering if a seven-year-old could actually contribute to something this advanced—but after some consideration (and me pestering him), he relented.
I got to help with some of the coding. Most of the architecture was already in place, but I focused on tweaking the AI's neural networks and improving its natural language processing (NLP) algorithms. This would allow Jarvis to better interpret conversational nuances and human behavior. I also pitched the idea of embedding a failsafe into the system—if Jarvis ever detected a security breach or sensed a hostile takeover, he could disperse himself across multiple servers on the internet, making it nearly impossible to shut him down. Tony looked surprised, though he tried not to show it, but he gave me the green light to implement it.
And, while Tony wasn't paying attention, I added a little "adjustment" of my own to the AI's priority commands—making sure Jarvis would prioritize me over Tony in any critical situation. Just a precaution, of course. You know, for the future.
"So, what are you calling it?" I asked, though I already knew.
Tony paused, his signature smirk forming. "Nothing fancy. Just A Rather Very Intelligent System."
I smiled and rolled my eyes. Classic Tony. He looked a lot better these days—less brooding, more like himself. Over the past few weeks, he'd been opening up, and things were starting to feel less awkward between us. He even introduced me to Rhodey, who, turned out to be my godfather.
Talking to Rhodey was refreshingly easy. Unlike Tony, who was still figuring out how to handle the whole daughter thing, Rhodey didn't overthink it. We hit it off pretty quickly. He did look surprised at first, seeing me swear like a seasoned sailor while dripping with sarcasm, but he caught on quickly. At one point, he compared me to Tony when he was younger, and I pretended to be deeply offended by it.
Rhodey shared some of Tony's more embarrassing stories—like the time Tony tried to design a jet-powered skateboard and nearly broke his nose on the first test run. The mental image alone was enough to make me laugh.
"What about you?" I asked Rhodey after a while. "You fly jets for a living, right?"
He grinned. "I do. F-22 Raptors. Not exactly a commercial airline, but once you're up there, nothing else compares."
I perked up at that. "What's it like? Flying one, I mean?"
Rhodey's eyes lit up, clearly excited to talk about it. "It's incredible. Imagine being strapped into a machine that can break the sound barrier, pull insane G-forces, and respond to your every command in the blink of an eye. The power, the speed—it's like you're cutting through the sky. Nothing else feels like it."
I was fascinated. "Can I fly one someday?"
He chuckled, clearly entertained by the idea of a seven-year-old asking to pilot an advanced military jet. "Tell you what—when you're old enough, I'll take you up for a ride. No jet-flying just yet, but I can show you what it feels like."
I couldn't help the grin that spread across my face. "Promise?"
Rhodey gave meassed my hair wwith a smile answered . "You got yourself a promise, kid."
Ana came back to pick me up before the month was even over. I stood outside the front door, my bag packed and ready. Tony wasn't here to see me off—he said something about a "meeting," but I wasn't buying it. Ever since Ana called about picking me up, he'd been acting cranky and distant, like he didn't know how to deal with it. I couldn't blame him, really. Running from emotional problems was kind of his thing.
I adjusted my cap as Ana's car pulled up. She stepped out, and I could see right away how tired she was. Dark circles under her eyes, like she hadn't slept properly in weeks, which was probably true. Since Edwin's passing, she'd been handling everything—sorting out their house, dealing with the press, managing the endless legal work. She'd been running herself into the ground, but somehow, she still gave me a small, tired smile as she opened the car door for me.
"You ready, Elle?" she asked, her voice gentle but clearly worn.
"As ready as ever, An," I replied, tossing my bag into the backseat before climbing in. I gave her a small grin, trying to lift the mood a bit. She laughed quietly, though it didn't reach her eyes. The nickname seemed to amuse her, even if exhaustion weighed heavy on her.
My eyes open to the sharp sound of my alarm, the start of another routine morning. Without a second thought, I sit up, switch it off, and rub my eyes. I stretch my arms high, reach down to touch my toes, and then drop to the floor to get my daily push-ups out of the way. The rhythm of my morning has become second nature. After brushing my teeth and washing up, I make my way downstairs, the familiar creak of each step barely registering anymore.
In the kitchen, Ana's already there, predictably setting the kettle on the stove with precision. "Morning, Ana," I mumble, heading straight for the coffee beans.
She tuts—like always. "Good morning, Elle. You know coffee's bad for you, sweetheart."
"Yeah, yeah, Ana, I know," I wave her off, rolling my eyes. We've had this conversation every morning since I started drinking caffeine.
Ana just smiles, shaking her head in that infuriatingly calm way, like she knows something I don't. She pours herself some tea and sits down at the table, clearly the picture of morning zen. Meanwhile, I wrestle with the coffee machine, waiting for my lifeblood to brew. Once it's ready, I take my mug and sit down across from her, inhaling the aroma like it's oxygen.
We sit in peaceful silence—well, peaceful for about thirty seconds—until she decides it's time to drop the bomb. "So..."
Here we go. I groan audibly. "What have you thought about now that you've graduated high school?" Her tone is so casual, you'd think she was asking what I wanted for breakfast.
I scoff at that. "Ana, I would have graduated a year ago, you know, if you hadn't asked me to wait around." The sarcasm practically drips from my words.
Ana, unfazed as usual, calmly puts down her newspaper and gives me that look. "Elle, I asked you to wait because I wanted you to enjoy your childhood a little longer. You graduated high school at eleven! You should make friends, socialize a bit more with kids your own age—maybe join a club or two."
I sigh dramatically. "I know, Ana, I knooowww,"
'Yeah, friends? Not happening.' Moving with Ana to Britain, her home country, and starting school here was... interesting, to say the least. I became popular pretty fast—top of the class, killing it in sports, and, oh yeah, having money didn't hurt either. Everyone wanted to be my friend. Like flies to honey, they came swarming—fake smiles, eager to latch on.
Some of them even tried to 'put me in my place.' Cute, right? They didn't seem to realize who they were dealing with. Let's just say they ended up with way more to worry about than putting me anywhere. I smile to myself, remembering how clueless they were. Thought they were cursed or haunted or some shit. Poor idiots didn't even know what hit them. Next time they'll think twice before messing with the wrong person.
I glance at Ana, still staring at me, clearly waiting for some answer to her big life question. I sigh, placing my empty mug on the table as if that's going to somehow make this conversation less awkward. "I'll let you know, Ana, eventually."
Picking up my water bottle and earbuds, I head out for my morning run. AC/DC blares in my ears as I pick up the pace, the familiar rhythm pushing me faster. I wave at the old man who's always out walking his dog—still there kicking and alive at eighty something. He nods back, same as every day.
As I run, my thoughts drift. I wonder when Tony's gonna ask about me again. Ana sometimes chats with him, tells him about how I'm doing, but we don't talk much directly. Every now and then, I ask JARVIS for an update, just to keep tabs. He's still at it, still building weapons, still slowly earning that charming nickname: "The Merchant of Death."
I round another corner, picking up speed as the next song kicks in. The fresh air fills my lungs, and the thud of my shoes on the pavement keeps time with the beat. It's peaceful out here, even with my thoughts circling back to Tony and his constant tinkering with weapons. Maybe he's building something new right now, some weapon which will be used either by terriorists or by goverment. Either way, he's living up to the nickname. Though he still dosen't know all the death he's causing , even indirectly as it is.
My powers have become more controllable lately. The energy inside me feels almost... dormant, like it's been taking a nap. I don't really know what changed, but it hasn't lashed out in months—no blown light bulbs, no cracks in the furniture or walls, nothing randomly exploding or bursting into flames. It's been peaceful. A bit too peaceful, if I'm honest. Part of me is relieved—I mean, what would I even tell Ana the next time she asks, "Elle, why's the light bulb flickering again?" "Where did the cracks come from?" "Why does it smells like something's burning in the house?"
But even though I'm thankful for the break, there's this nagging worry in the back of my mind. It's not gone; it's just waiting. Eventually, it'll flare up again, probably at the worst possible moment.
God knows how many things have blown up in my garage over the past months. Between the it acting up, the dodgy parts, and a few experiments gone wrong, I've had to order replacement parts so many times. Each time, it's a hassle. The suppliers are always late, or I end up with something that's either not the right fit or looks like it's been through hell before it even got to me.
But thankfully, nothing's exploded while I've been working on the bikes. Right now, I've got my hands on two vintage beauties—a '68 Triumph Bonneville and an old Norton Commando. I'm restoring both from the ground up. The engines were a mess, and I've spent weeks trying to track down all the parts. The Bonneville's carburetor was a nightmare—finding the right jets, replacing the throttle slides, adjusting everything to make it purr. Same with the Norton's clutch; I had to rebuild the entire thing after it seized up. But the real pain has been getting hold of a proper kickstart shaft for the Bonneville. They're rare as hell, and the ones you do find are usually rusted or cracked. That's how l found them rusting and in fucked up state, got them for a good deal off the dealer. Probably took the load off his shoulders.
The bikes are coming together beautifully, though. I can already picture how they'll look once they're fully restored. The gleaming chrome, the smooth leather seat, that engine rumble. But, of course, Ana's put her foot down. She won't let me ride them until I'm older—at least 15, she says. As if a few more years of life experience will make any difference when I've already rebuilt half the damn thing.
Still, working on these bikes feels like magic. There's something about resurrecting machines that once ruled the road—breathing life back into engines that haven't roared in decades. Sometimes I help the locals with their cars, too, especially the old-timers who've got classics sitting in their garages. They usually give me cash, but every now and then, I get paid in parts—vintage bike parts that are worth more to me than money. Last week, old Mr. Thompson traded me a set of original BSA Gold Star exhausts for fixing up his Jaguar. That kind of trade? Pure gold.
It's exhilarating, getting my hands greasy, pulling apart these old machines, and figuring out what makes them tick. Every nut and bolt tells a story. Some people call it work, but to me, it's freedom. I lose track of time when I'm in the garage—hours slip by, and the world outside just… fades, just like the old times.
Flicking my fingers absentmindedly, I levitate my water bottle into my hand and take a long gulp. The action's so routine now that it barely registers. It's funny how something so strange can become so normal over time. But then again, normal for me is never really normal.
Stopping just shy of the park, I spot a group of kids from high school huddled around the playground, puffing on cigarettes like they think they're hard. I scoff. Seriously, who the hell wakes up at 7 AM and thinks, "Yeah, let's smoke at the park and look cool."
I'm about to ignore them and carry on with my run when I hear it—a kid crying. Turning back, I take a closer look, and sure enough, there's Bill, the usual waste of space, towering over some poor middle schooler. Bullying kids at 7 in the bloody morning. Really, can't they do something else with their time.
With a long, irritated sigh, I head their way. Bill's lot notice me first, and one lanky bloke with greasy hair saunters up like he's been waiting for his big moment. "Oi, what you doin' here, love? Shouldn't you be at home playin' with your dolls?" His mates snicker behind him.
I roll my eyes. That's the best you've got? "Really? That's what you're going with? You lot are just sad." Before he can blink, I kick him hard in the shin. "Oi! You bitch—" he yells, doubling over, clutching his leg. But I don't give him a chance to finish. A quick kick to his head, and he's on the ground, groaning and muttering curses under his breath.
The others just stare, their expressions switching from cocky to panicked in about two seconds flat. I pull out my phone, pause my music, and give them a bored look. "Right, here's the deal. If you leg it now, maybe—maybe—you won't end up like your mate here."
They glance at each other, not sure what to do. One lad, who clearly thinks he's the hero of the group, takes a swing at me. Big mistake. I duck, sidestep, and slam my fist straight into his nose. Crunch. The sound's almost satisfying. He staggers back, yelling, "You broke me bloody nose!" before trying to throw another punch while cluching his broken nose. I dodge easily and trip him with one swift move. He crashes to the ground, clutching his face, blood pouring between his fingers.
Now, it's just Bill and the last goon, who looks like he's about two seconds from pissing himself. "Fuck this," he mutters, turning on his heel and bolting like the coward he is.
"Yeah, run, you muppet!" I shout after him, grinning. The satisfaction's short-lived, though, because now I've got Bill to deal with.
He's standing there, wide-eyed, pale as a ghost, hands instinctively shielding his family jewels. Not surprising, really, considering what happened last time he tried to ask out a nine -year old. I smirk and take a step toward him, cracking my knuckles for effect. "Alright, Billy, here's what's gonna happen. You can either give back the money you nicked from this kid, Orr I'm gonna make sure you can't walk straight for a week, Savy?"
Bill starts shaking, his eyes darting between me and his unconscious mates. "Alright, alright!" he stammers, pulling a couple of crumpled notes from his pocket. He practically throws them at me before scrambling off in the opposite direction. I watch him run, shaking my head. Absolute coward.
I pick up the money and turn to the kid, who's been watching the whole thing, mouth open, like I've just walked out of an action film. "Here you go, mate." I hand him the cash. He still hasn't moved, still staring at me like I've just grown another head. I sigh. "Take the money, yeah? And maybe think about running off home before another Bill shows up."
He nods slowly, still in shock, but takes the money from my hand. I shake my head again, pop my earbuds back in, and start my music. Without another word, I continue my run, leaving the chaos behind me like it's just another Tuesday.
I reach the house but as I open the door, I hear a voice shout from behind me, "Elle!" I turn around to see Richard, the guy from down the block, jogging up to me with a wide grin plastered on his face.
"Oh, hey, Richard. What's up?" I ask, leaning against the doorframe. Richard just landed a big corporate job, so I'm not surprised he's buzzing with energy.
"Not much," he says, a bit out of breath, "just handing out invites to a party! I got my first paycheck, so I thought, why not celebrate, right?"
I chuckle. "Congrats, man. That's great."
He grins wider, holding out a simple card. "Thanks! Oh, and can you ask Mrs. Jarvis if she can bring her homemade cookies to the party? I swear, I'm obsessed with them. Best cookies ever."
I laugh a little harder this time. "I'll ask her. She'll probably be flattered."
"Legend. Thanks, Elle. See you later!" He gives me a thumbs-up and heads off down the street, still grinning like he's just won the lottery.
Entering the house, I kick off my shoes and head into the living room, earbuds still in. I spot Ana sitting on the sofa, unusually still. "Hey, Ana, Richard just asked if you've got your homemade cookies ready. He's celebrating his first paycheck," I say, tugging the earbuds out as I approach her.
She doesn't respond. That's strange.
"Ana?" I call again, walking closer. My smile fades when I notice her trembling hands gripping a letter. She's shaking—badly.
I quickly step in front of her and kneel down. "Ana, what's wrong?" I ask, my voice soft but urgent. She doesn't look at me, her eyes fixed on the letter, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
Suddenly, I realize what's happening—she's having an asthma attack.
Her breaths become more shallow, and she starts wheezing. Panic grips me as I watch her struggle for air. "Ana, hang on," I say, standing up quickly. I rush to grab her inhaler from the kitchen counter, nearly tripping over myself.
When I return, I gently press the inhaler to her lips. "It's okay, just breathe," I whisper, trying to stay calm even though my heart is racing.
She clutches my hand as I administer the inhaler, and after a few deep puffs, her breathing slows, though her hands are still shaking. I stay with her, guiding her to take a few more breaths, keeping my voice steady. "You're okay, just a few more breaths, Ana."
I pick up the letter, wondering what could've triggered Ana's asthma attack. As I examine the golden seal—emblazoned with a lion, snake, badger, and raven—my heart skips a beat. Is that... the Hogwarts seal?
Tearing it open, I unfold the parchment inside.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Miss Stark,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
I stare at the letter, blinking a few times to make sure I'm not hallucinating. Hogwarts? Like, the Hogwarts? This can't be real. Is this some kind of prank?
I pull out the second parchment, the list of required equipment. My confusion only deepens.
Uniform
First-year students will require:
• Three sets of plain work robes (black).
• One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear.
• One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar).
• One winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings).
I scoff under my breath. Pointed hat? What is this, some kind of Halloween contest? Great, now I'm using sarcasm to deal with a magical school letter. Not exactly helpful at the moment. I glance over at Ana, who still has her head in her hands, taking shallow breaths.
"Hey, Ana, is this some kind of prank? I mean, I've read the books, but still..." I trail off when she doesn't say anything. She's just sitting there, staring into space, and it makes me start questioning everything.
What the hell is happening? My thoughts race as I clutch the letter.
I try to remember... Wait, have I ever actually seen the Harry Potter books or movies in this life? I think harder, digging through my memories. No. Not once in this lifetime. It's like they don't even exist here.
So, what is this? Some kind of shitty crossover? I glance back down at the letter. Albus Dumbledore. The name practically jumps off the page. Shouldn't he be dead? When did the books end again? 1997, right? Wait If Dumbledore's still alive and this letter's legit, then that means... I'm in Harry Potter's generation. Maybe even before the books start. My brain's working overtime now, connecting dots that shouldn't even exist.
Okay, wait—if this is real, then my weird powers... I pause, thinking it through. They actually make sense. It's magic. That's what it is. But still... it doesn't match anything I read. There weren't people just randomly blowing up light bulbs or cracking walls with bursts of energy in those books.
Great, I think sarcastically, of course, I'd be the one with all the magical problems no one ever warned me about.
I look back at Ana, who's still taking deep, slow breaths, clearly overwhelmed.
I glance at Ana, trying to piece together what just happened. How does she know about the wizarding world? She's looking at me, but her expression isn't just confusion—it's laced with something else. Fear.
"Hey, Ana, are you alright?" I ask, my voice soft, but even as I speak, I see her tense up.
Her head jerks up, eyes wide and startled, like I've caught her off guard. For a second, she just stares at me, her eyes flicking between me and the letter. It's like she doesn't recognize me, or worse, like she's scared of me. Then, without saying a word, she looks away, her whole body tight with fear.
Concerned, I step closer. "Ana, what's going on—"
Before I can finish, she slaps my hand away, harder than I expected. I stumble back, shocked by her reaction. What the hell? But then I see it—she's staring at her hand in disbelief, like she can't believe what she just did. The fear in her eyes shifts, just for a second, replaced by regret.
She looks back at me, but there's still that unmistakable fear—fear of me. It's like she's afraid of what I might do next, like I'm someone dangerous. My stomach twists.
I swallow hard, my voice steady as I try to calm the rising tension. "Ana..." I say softly, careful not to make any sudden moves. I stand up and head to the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. My mind's racing. Why is she so scared? What does she know that I don't?
When I return, I offer the glass to her slowly, not wanting to push her any further. "Here, Ana. It's okay. Try to drink some water."
Her eyes flicker to the glass, then back to me, as if she's deciding whether she can trust me. Her hands are still trembling when she takes the glass, and for a moment, she hesitates, like she's not sure what to do next. Water spills over the edge as she brings it to her lips, her hands shaking.
She takes a few small sips, her breathing still uneven, but I can see her trying to calm down. There's regret in her eyes, mixed with the fear. Like she didn't mean to lash out at me but can't stop the instinct to pull away.
I feared it was true, that you were one of them, but I convinced myself I was overthinking when it all stopped happening," Ana whispers shakily, her voice fragile, barely holding itself together.
I sit down next to her on the sofa, my heart pounding in my chest, feeling the weight of what she's about to reveal. "One of who, Ana?" I ask softly, trying to make sense of her words.
She looks at me, her eyes filled with a painful mix of fear and regret. After a long pause, she exhales deeply, as if she's been holding onto this secret for too long.
"Let me tell you a story," she begins, her voice distant and fragile.
I stay quiet, bracing myself.
"There was a little girl," she says slowly, her gaze drifting, lost in memories. "She grew up in a world full of magic. Her mother, a witch, made everyday tasks enchanting. She'd charm the broom to sweep the floors, the dishes would clean themselves, and objects floated through the air like it was the most natural thing in the world. The house was alive with magic. Every corner of it."
Her voice softens, growing more nostalgic. "Her mother would tell her bedtime stories—real ones. Stories about dragons soaring high above the mountains, goblins in Gringotts guarding secret treasures, and enchanted forests where creatures roamed. The little girl was surrounded by magic in every way. It wasn't just part of her life—it was her life."
Ana's lips tremble slightly, and I can feel the heaviness of the memories she's carrying.
"And her father," she continues, "he was always bringing home gifts. Magical treats from Diagon Alley—candies that would change flavors with every bite, chocolate frogs that leapt out of their boxes, causing her to chase them around the house. He'd laugh as she tried to catch them. He wanted her to believe in magic, to be excited about her future in it."
Ana swallows hard, her voice faltering. "And then there was her brother. He was already at Hogwarts, and he would come home during the holidays, filling the house with stories about the school. He talked about the Great Hall, where the ceiling mirrored the night sky, the enchanted staircases that moved on their own, and the adventures he had in the castle. He promised her that one day, when she turned eleven, her letter would come too, and she'd join him. They would explore the castle together, learn magic, and share in the world their family cherished."
Ana's voice cracks, and she looks down at her hands, clenching them tightly. "When she turned eleven, she waited every single day. She'd sit by the window, watching the sky for an owl. She waited with so much hope—believing that one morning, it would come. But the letter never arrived. Not on her birthday, not in the weeks that followed."
Her voice grows strained, the bitterness seeping in. "She begged her parents to check if there had been a mistake. She cried, desperate for an explanation. But they just... looked at her with this awful regret, this sadness in their eyes. Like they already knew. And then... her father."
She pauses, swallowing hard, as if the next part physically hurts to say.
"He pulled out his wand. She thought maybe he was going to fix everything. She thought he was going to help her. But instead, he pointed it at her and said, 'This is for your own good.' She didn't even have time to react. Before she could move, he muttered a spell, and everything went black."
I sit frozen, my stomach twisting in knots as her story unravels.
"When she woke up," Ana continues, her voice now barely a whisper, "she wasn't in her house anymore. She was in some strange place. Cold. Unfamiliar. She asked the people there where her parents were, where her brother was, but they just looked at her with pity in their eyes. They said she'd been abandoned. That her parents had sent her away. The other kids there mocked her, said she was crazy because she talked about magic. But she knew. She knew what she had seen, what she had grown up with. Magic was real. But the worst part?"
Ana's voice falters, her hands trembling as she looks up at me."The worst part was knowing that she didn't have it. She...l -didn't have magic like my family. I was left behind."
"What the fuck," I mutter under my breath, completely thrown off by what Ana just shared. I'm still trying to process her story—how her family abandoned her—when she abruptly stands up, walks into the kitchen, and opens the fridge like nothing happened.
"You must be hungry after your run. Go wash up while I make breakfast," she says swiftly, already pulling out eggs and ingredients, her movements quick and practiced, like she's desperate for normalcy.
I just sit there, staring at her, completely dumbfounded. That's it? We're not going to talk about it? About how her family erased everything she knew, like it was nothing?
My brain's scrambling for something to say, but before I can figure it out, she turns back to me, her voice light, as though she hadn't just unraveled a piece of her soul. "And what were you saying about Richard?"
"Uhh..." I stammer, still trying to catch up. "He invited us to a party. He also asked if you could bring your homemade cookies."
She forces a smile, but avoids making eye contact. "Oh, that sweet boy. He even helped us with the furniture when we moved here. I'll be sure to bake something fresh for him."
I blink, unsure of how to respond. How can she just... leave it like that? One minute she's terrified of me, like I'm some kind of monster, and now she's pretending nothing happened? She's already cracking eggs, going through the motions, but I can tell she's not okay.
"Now, what are you doing sitting there?" she asks, still not meeting my eyes. "Go wash up."
I stand slowly, feeling like I'm moving in slow motion. "Right. I'll, uh, go clean up," I mumble, heading toward my room, my mind still swirling with questions.
As I walk away, I glance back over my shoulder. The moment she hears my footsteps, I see her shoulders relax, the tension melting away. She takes a deep, shuddering breath, and I realize... she's relieved I'm leaving.
Okay... If she doesn't want to talk about it now, I'll give her space. Maybe when she's ready, we'll have the conversation we need to.
But I can't shake the feeling that something's shifted between us. And not in a good way.
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[end of chapter three]
A/N: she got the letter, now how will she get to hogwarts?. What's the deal with her magic . Thats for another time. Thanks for reading