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In which Bellatrix, Narcissa, and Andromeda have another sister, Seamus doesn't exist, and purebloods who want to be death eaters get into Gryffindor.

Here are the intros to the two characters--cookies to those who recognize them. heart



One, two, three. Four, five, six. Seven, eight…it only took nine times. Nine times back and forth with her skinny arms, the ragged sleeves pushed up to her elbows. She scooted back a tile, bringing her bucket and scrubbing brush with her, and did it again. Nine times with the brush, back and forth, and the while tile was shining. Only another two rows to go, Kamille told herself cheerfully, and then she’d be at the back door, and she could rake the yard while she waited for the carpet in the hall to dry, then she would take off her shoes and go upstairs, do all the rooms…she was almost halfway done….

She wished they’d go ahead and leave already, even though they said their friends would be over for at least an hour…they were sitting in the living room and watching television, so she couldn’t sneak something out of the fridge…if she could get them to go outside, just for a minute….

She shook herself out of her daze, renewing her scrubbing. The sooner she got it done, the sooner she’d get dinner….

She finished with the floor—so that was the kitchen done—and carefully edged toward the back door. She slipped into the garden, tugging on her small, worn shoes. Raking would be easy, she thought, picking up the rake—it was about as tall as she was and almost as clumsy—because it was summer, and the leaves didn’t fall as much. And the garden was small….The job was finished in five minutes.

She dumped the leaves into the garbage bin, gave a furtive look round the front yard, and quickly rewarded herself with a tomato from the little patch outside the door. She removed all evidence from her mouth and fingers very carefully with the garden hose before she untied the messy knots in her shoelaces, tugged them off again, and silently went back inside.

A stair creaked.

“Is that you, girl?” a deep male voice bellowed from the living room. “Where have you been, huh?”

“Just cleaning the garden, Uncle Henry,” she called back.

“Don’t you dare track in any dirt!” cried the high-pitched voice of the irritable woman beside him.

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied, dashing up the stairs.

Of course, they weren’t really her aunt and uncle, Jenny and Henry. Nor were their twins, whom Kamille still mixed up, her cousins. “Uncle” Henry was actually a cousin, or a cousin’s cousin, which made the twins…no, she just couldn’t figure it out. She was staying with them until she was eighteen, they had told her many times, because both her parents were dead. But whenever she asked how they died, (which wasn’t often, as the thought always sent a painful lump to her throat,) Uncle Henry would start muttering about what idiots they had been and the bad crowd they had gotten mixed up into, and Aunt Jenny would agree, and that would be the end of it.

Both bedrooms upstairs took very little time to clean, and she didn’t mind; this was one chore she actually liked. Because up here, when all four of the Pincelys were downstairs, she could look at all their sparkling trinkets and ornaments, play with the twin’s toys (plastic things with removable parts—the twins were only eight), touch anything she liked, and then wipe every trace away, clean everything back up, and they’d never know. She could even watch television if she turned the volume all the way down, and if she ever figured out the silver box on top of it she could watch a movie. She could bury herself in the covers and play with the cat (she was old and fat and lived under Uncle Henry’s bed, but quite sweet) and do as she pleased: once, she had even found a discarded chocolate box with three or four left inside, the coconut kind nobody liked. And the best part was, no one would ever know, because she knew exactly how to wipe her tracks, as if she was never there.

When every last robot action figure was placed neatly away, and the pillows were clean and fluffed, she looked around and found herself finished; all that was left was her room. She didn’t have to clean it, of course, but as long as she was cleaning everything else….

But then a horrible sound stopped her in her tracks.

“GIRL!”

She knew exactly who Uncle Henry was yelling for, and her legs shook as she stumbled down the stairs.

“Yes?” she said timidly, peering around the corner.

“GET IN HERE!”

She stepped around the door and into the kitchen, slipping a little on the wet tiles. Aunt Jenny was holding a bit of vine like a fire poker, looking murderous.

“What is this?” she hissed, showing her the limp green thing.

“Um…it’s a…”

“A tomato vine! With no tomato on it!”

“Um…”

“You’ve been stealing from us, haven’t you?”

“N-no, I—”

“Don’t lie to me! No wonder my tomatoes are never there the next day, you’ve been taking them!”

“N-no! A bird—”

“Enough,” Uncle Henry said coldly. “Go to your room and don’t you dare come out, tomorrow either. No meals.”

“But I’m HUNGRY!” she wailed, her heart and stomach sinking.

“Well, too bad you didn’t steal enough to fill you up,” Aunt Jenny snapped.

“But I’m always hungry,” she murmured. No one heard her.

“Go,” Uncle Henry said threateningly, and hit her hard across the head as she turned and ran up to her room.

It wasn’t fair, she thought miserably as she tripped on the stairs. It COULD have been a bird that did it, or a squirrel…it didn’t have to be her…even though it was…. All the same, the injustice of it all, combined with the throbbing of her head and stomach, forced her to tears long before she reached the sanctum of her room.

It wasn’t really a room…more of a closet. To be fair, it was a very large closet. Shelves covered the walls at one end, and a box and sleeping bag were stowed under them on the floor—her bed and her belongings. She unrolled the sleeping bag and collapsed on it, crying for a long time before she finally ran out of tears. Then, she tiredly pulled her box to her and tipped it over, looking at all the things inside.

There wasn’t much…old clothes, a broken plastic pirate toy, a picture book, a small plastic container of the kind that prizes came in at an arcade, filled with broken glass. Treasures to her, little useless things that nobody wanted…there were a few more folded in her other shirt, of the same degree of value…the Pincelys were right, she WAS a bit of a thief…but she only stole what wouldn’t be missed.

Her treasures cheered her up, helping her fall asleep at last, along with a happy thought: she would be eleven in just two weeks. Nothing would happen, of course, but she was content all the same. Birthdays only came once a year, after all.




“Evan!” his mother called up the stairs. He ignored her, stubbornly continuing to read A Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 for the dozenth time.

“EVAN BLACK! Get down here and say hello to your sister!”

Sighing in annoyance, Evan slammed the book shut, threw it unceremoniously on top of his dark green bedclothes, and prepared to storm out of his room. First, he thought, catching a sight at his reflection in the mahogany-framed mirror in his wardrobe, he would have to do something about his hair. If Lacey was home, then that meant the family was coming to say hello, and he’d have to look his best. Not for manners, but to impress upon them that he WAS still a Black, and a pureblood, and therefore just as good as the rest of them. He flattened the white-blond mess and threw black robes over his t-shirt and jeans—there. Now he looked like a wizard, even if he wasn’t one. He admired the affect against his black-and-green room, bedecked with the Slytherin colors of silver and green.

“EVAN BLACK!”

“All right, all right,” he muttered, exercising the opportunity to jerk open the door and slam it behind him. Ever since last year, it had all been the same…since September the first…it had been the worst birthday of his life the next day. His mother had already bought him a present, a beautiful ebony owl with a green-and-silver ribbon tied to the top of the cage; she had shoved it in his arms on his birthday after he had seen it and pleaded to keep it, regardless of what he was. Phedron was now his only companion here: no right-minded pureblood would ever talk to a Squib more than completely necessary.

He fumed, punishing each stair with his foot. He had magic, he knew he did! He could already do more spells than Lacey, and she had just finished third year; he had read all of her old books until he knew them by heart; he could fly better than her, too, and always beat Draco at Quidditch—didn’t he deserve a Hogwarts letter too? Hadn’t he blown his birthday candles out without touching them when he was only five, hadn’t he knocked Lacey halfway across the garden when she’d teased him? And a hundred other things....

It wasn’t fair, he muttered to himself as he traipsed through the manor, heading for the kitchen. Stupid Dumbledore, probably trying to punish Dad and Uncle Lucius and all the rest of them for being on the Dark Lord’s side when he had fallen….

They were all crowded around Lacey and, for some reason, Draco, when he arrived. The adults glanced up at him, then quickly looked back down, as if afraid of hurting their eyes. He glared at all present, flopping down at the end of the table.

“Hey, Squib,” Draco called, strutting down to him and shoving a parchment envelope in his face. “Look at what I got.”

He knew before Draco had finished speaking. His heart sank, and though he tried not to show it, he felt sick. Draco was waving a Hogwarts letter in his face.

“Got it this morning,” he boasted. “Glad we’re not related after all, huh, Squib?”

“Shut up,” he said testily, but Draco, arrogant in his triumph, ignored him.

“Why’re you all dressed up, Squib?” he said with the Black family sneer. “They won’t let you into Muggle School in that, you know—”

“SHUT UP!”

“Draco, Evan,” Uncle Lucius said lazily, but Evan had already leapt up.

“Sempi!” he snapped at the house-elf scrubbing diligently at the cupboards. “Make me a sandwich, please!”

He had only added the please for dramatic effect, acutely aware that all his family was watching him, but poor, stupid Sempi thought he was being nice to her, and bowed and grinned as she rushed to do as he asked.

“Evan,” his mother, Roloxia, called to him. “Aren’t you going to tell your sister hello?”

“No.”

“Evan!”

“Fine,” he muttered, glancing briefly at his white-blond sister, the image of his mother and of Aunt Cissy. “Hi.”

“Come give her a hug,” Roloxia admonished him.

He snorted, and Lacey, who hated him as much as he loathed her, gave their mother a dirty, disgusted look. “Please, Mother,” she said haughtily. “I don’t want that filthy Squib touching me!”

“Lacey, don’t talk about your brother that way,” Roloxia said absently, removing a bit of dust from Lacey’s robes with her wand. Lacey smirked, enjoying the attention—she had become the favorite in the family since last September.

Evan felt his anger boiling over, but then Sempi tapped him on the elbow and said happily, “Your sandwich, Master Black!”

He might have muttered something, he wasn’t sure; he took the sandwich and strode to the heavy double doors.

“Just where are you going, Evan?” Roloxia demanded. “Come congratulate your cousin, it’s not every day that a Hogwarts letter—”

But then the door slammed behind him, and he couldn’t hear her anymore. Thank God, he thought, fleeing to the drawing room. As always, his eyes were drawn to the large tapestry, a copy of the one hanging in Uncle Regulus’s house (or so he had been told; he had never been there, because Mother hadn’t wanted him near Uncle Sirius, the Gryffindor.) Normally they were drawn there because it was so big and shiny and interesting. Now, it was for a more miserable reason, just another thing adding to his depression.

He sat cross-legged on the floor—he had mastered the knack of sitting in Hogwarts robes—and stared up at the tapestry. The end was still several feet from the floor; he had seen it weave itself further a few years ago, when a distant cousin had had a baby. He was at the very bottom, in a line with Draco, Lacey, and some kid of Aunt Andromeda’s whose name was burned away. His was not burned yet—if he was a Squib forever he probably would be soon—but he noticed with another heart-wrenching feeling of disappointment that it was duller than Lacey’s bright gold, almost fading in with the dark green in the background. Evan…he could barely make it out. He stared sadly at it for a moment, and then felt tears beginning to flow; he hastily tore into his sandwich. It was delicious—Sempi’s always were, though he would never tell her that. House-elves weren’t supposed to be praised, were they?

His sandwich disappeared slowly, as he wasn’t very hungry. He sighed, whistling softly for Phedron, so the owl could finish this and he could go back to his room.

A soft rush of slick wings announced his glossy owl’s presence.

“Hey, Phedron,” he said dully, as the owl landed on his shoulder and nibbled at his ear. “Here.”

He offered the plate to the owl, who hopped off his shoulder and dove at it greedily. Evan watched for a moment, then sighed again and rose to his feet. He was thinking of storming off again when his foot trod on something and he slipped. He crashed to the floor, cursing as he rubbed his bruised shoulder.

“What the—?”

His voice failed him.

Sitting innocently on the wooden floor was a parchment envelope, addressed with green ink in his name. A small hole at the top showed where Phedron had pierced it with his sharp beak. His hands shaking, Evan picked it up and turned it over.

The Hogwarts seal.

He opened it carefully, as if this was all a dream and any sudden movement would wake him up, and took out two pieces of parchment. The letter and the supply list. He read them both, almost able to recite it by heart.

Dear Mr. Black, we are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry….

He read every word carefully three times before the truth sunk in.

He was going to Hogwarts, he wasn’t a Squib, now no one could make fun of him or ruin his name on the family tree or shove their wands in his face ever again!

He took deep breaths to calm himself down, smoothed his hair, and stalked calmly into the kitchen, resisting the urge to shout. They barely glanced up at him, but then he cleared his throat loudly.

“Yes, Evan?” his mother said wearily.

He smirked, holding his letter high.

They all stared at him.

“I got a letter,” he told them triumphantly. “I’m a wizard, I’m going to Hogwarts.”



You gotta love Evan, even if he's more arrogant than Malfoy...and Kamille just makes you love her. This is gonna be awwwweeesome! heart

^^ I looooooove Evan Black, he= heart

I've done a few more parts of Kamille's, here:


Kamille swept the living room to keep out of the way, even though she had swept it twice already this morning. Every time she drew close to the kitchen, the alluring smell of bacon and eggs and toast called to her, so she kept her distance. Her stomach had given up rumbling yesterday, during her confinement in the cupboard. Now it just sat there, empty and listless. She felt the same way.

“Girl!” Uncle Henry snapped, and she jumped, dropping the broom. “Come clean this up!”

No one ever said Uncle Henry did not like torture. Sighing, she left the broom where it was and made her careful way into the kitchen. She scraped the leftover food onto one plate and washed the others off, trying not to glance too often at the food that would normally be hers. She glanced over her shoulder; Uncle Henry was glaring at her. Resigned, she refused to look at the food as she dumped it down the sink.

The mail slot clanked, and a few letters fell to the carpet. The Pincelys ignored it, Uncle Henry reading the news while Aunt Jenny cleaned up the twins. Kamille wasn’t allowed to touch the mail, so she just stood in the corner and waited to be excused.

It wasn’t to be.

“Girl,” Uncle Henry said sternly, laying down his newspaper, “you are in serious trouble.”

“Yes, sir,” she said hollowly.

“I want you to go to your room and stay there for the rest of the day.”

“Yes, sir.”

“After you mow the lawn and water the garden.”

She winced; the lawn mower was bigger than she was. “Yes, sir.”

“The twins are having friends over this afternoon, so—”

“I don’t exist.”

“Exactly. I will figure out what to do with you later on.”

“Yes, sir.”

The twins sniggered at her, giving her the spiteful, know-it-all looks she had grown to hate. Aunt Jenny refused to look at her.

“Go.”

She left as quickly as she could without running, catching herself before she slammed the back door behind her. Before she did anything, she sat on the dew-covered lawn and had a good cry. She wasn’t going to be fed at all today, she’d just be locked up in her room until who knew when…all for a stupid tomato that wasn’t even ripe yet…. She supposed it was all her fault for not being careful enough, but it still didn’t seem right….

The garden took ages to mow, and it was hot; when she was done, she washed herself off with the garden hose, drinking some of the water as she did. It filled her up, perhaps in a different way than food, but it was something. And she was clean now—despite her old, worn clothes, she still liked to keep herself tidy, which was surprisingly difficult. After she’d dried a bit, she let herself back into the house and ran up to her room.

She sat on her sleeping bag and looked at her treasures until the twins’ friends arrived. Little berks, they were, she thought bitterly, they knew she was there and they were sure to torment her when they grew bored…and the closet only locked from the outside….

Sure enough, she heard giggling outside her door after an hour or so. She hid her treasures and waited for them, already annoyed. They opened the door and smirked at her.

“What?” she demanded.

“Daddy says you’re in trouuuuble,” one of the twins said gleefully. “They’re gonna lock you in the closet for evah an’ evah—”

“Shut up,” she snapped at him. His friends, a small girl and boy, giggled and let themselves in, tugging on her sleeping bag.

“Hey,” the girl told her excitedly, “play a game with us, we wanna play a game!”

“Yeah,” the boy agreed. “We go on th’ stairs, you jump and we catch you!”

They all started giggling uncontrollably at their joke, pulling at her arms, trying to drag her outside.

“Get out!” She pushed them off of her, kicking them away.

“I’m gonna tell Daddy you hurted me ‘less you play with us!” a twin whined.

“I can’t leave, go away!”

“Nuh-uh, we want you to play with us!” the other twin insisted. “Whatcha got?”

“Get out!” she yelled again, but they ignored her. The girl pulled her sleeping bag out from under her and started yanking the zipper up and down, while the twins and the boy explored the shelves for something of interest. She tried to win back her bed, but the girl just screamed if she took it away; when she turned back to the boys, they were digging in her box, pulling out all her treasures and crushing them, throwing them, or pocketing them.

“No, leave that alone!”

“Hey, this’s mine!” one of the twins said indignantly, holding up the pirate toy.

“No it isn’t, it’s mine!” she argued, fury and fear dancing inside her hollow stomach.

“Nuh-uh!”

“Yeah-huh!”

“Nuh-uh, I’m gonna tell Daddy you were stealing again!”

“NO!” she shouted, cold fear taking over at last. “No, you can’t!”

“Then gimme my pirate!”

“Okay, fine, take it!”

“Hey, I want something too!” the other twin complained. “Gimme your picture book!”

“No, that’s mine!” And it was hers; Aunt Jenny had bought it for her when she was three to keep her busy, long before the twins were born.

The kids giggled, making to run out the door. “I’m gonna go tell,” the empty-handed twin called back.

“NO, don’t! Okay, you can have it, here—”

She felt like crying as she shoved her book into his grubby hands. He giggled madly, running after his brother and friends.

“’M still gonna tell!”

“NO, you little—!”

She was going to run after them and make them stop somehow, in no doubt that they would do everything they threatened, but the door slammed in her face, and by the time she found the doorknob in the darkness—typical of them to turn off the light—it wouldn’t open. They had locked it and run off.

“NO, COME BACK, GIMME BACK MY BOOK!”

An echo of giggles was all the answer she received. She sank down onto her bed and started crying, surrounded by pitch-black darkness without her treasures to comfort her.

Hours later, she heard thundering footsteps on the stairs and prepared for the worst. Curling up, she hid in a corner and waited, shaking from head to foot. The door’s lock rattled and Uncle Henry jerked it open, red-faced and furious.

“GIRL!” he shouted at her. “You’ve been stealing from us again!”

“No I haven’t!” she cried desperately. “They gave it to me ages ago, honestly—”

“What did I tell you about stealing, you ungrateful—”

The rest of his tirade was drowned out by her scream: he had dragged her to her feet by her wrist and refused to let go no matter how much she struggled. He aimed a punch at her, and she winced—

But he missed.

He was just as surprised as she was, so surprised, in fact, that he let go of her. She took the opportunity to duck under his arm and run out the door and down the stairs.

“GIRL!” he shouted after her, but she refused to slow down—

And then her toe caught the carpet on the stairs and she tripped, tumbling onto the hall floor. The twins giggled wildly from where they had been watching on the landing…she hurried to push herself up, but slipped on the mail….

And then she saw it, and for a moment time stood still.

There was a thick, yellowish letter with green writing on it, writing that took on a familiar shape…she always drew this on foggy windows and in dust on the car before she cleaned it…her name, Kamille Pincely….

“I got a letter,” she said incredulously.

Uncle Henry froze in his tracks. “You what?”

“I got a letter.” Of this, she was certain. She did know how to read, very well, in fact, considering she had never been to school.

“Don’t be stupid,” Aunt Jenny said scornfully from the kitchen. “Who would send YOU a letter—?”

“It has my name on it.” She stood, still holding the letter, remarkably calm though her heart was pounding. “Miss Kamille Pincely, The Closet Upstairs, Number fifty-two Agatha Way—hey!”

Uncle Henry had snatched the letter and slit it open, his narrowed eyes scanning it carefully. His ruddy face turned an odd shade of grayish pink.

“Jenny,” he said hoarsely, and she rushed to read the letter over his forearm.

“But, Henry,” she faltered, turning her wide, frightened eyes to his, “I thought we….”

“So did I.” It sounded as if his lips were numb.

“What’s it say?” Kamille demanded. They ignored her, trailing into the kitchen so Uncle Henry could collapse into a chair, still staring at the letter. The table was set, four full plates sitting right in front of her, but this time she was not tempted.

The twins sat in silence, midway through flinging mashed potatoes at each other.

“But Henry,” Aunt Jenny stammered, “will they…they won’t just let it go, will they? We’ll have to respond…tell them….”

He shook his head. “Wouldn’t know how to tell them…might take it badly….”

“What’s it say?” Kamille demanded again, trying to read over his massive shoulder. He jerked back to reality, blinking at her as if he had forgotten she was there.

“Nothing,” he said briskly. “It was a mistake.”

“But it—NO, DON’T DO THAT!”

But too late; he had already ripped the letter into shreds and thrown them away.

“My LETTER…” she wailed.

“Go to your room,” he ordered, his finger shaking as he pointed. “Now.”

“But I’m hungry,” she heard herself say, knowing it was no good.

To her astonishment and delight, he picked up his untouched plate and handed it to her. “Just go,” he said absently. “Boys, you too….”

She heard them complain all the way up the stairs, but didn’t care—she had too much on her mind. A letter? For her? And why did it upset her aunt and uncle so much? Why didn’t they let her see it, why did they tear it up? What was so terrible about a letter?

She sat quietly on her bed and dug into the delicious food with her fingers, putting the letter out of her mind. If it had gotten her a hot meal just like that, it couldn’t have been anything sinister or bad, and she shouldn’t complain now that she had something to eat. But all the same, she could not help wondering what it said….


For some reason, the letter incident seemed to be all her fault, and after being shouted at for five minutes about nothing in particular the next day, Uncle Henry locked her in her closet without bothering to turn the lights on. She sat miserably in there for who knew how long—they let her out every so often to use the bathroom, then shoved an opened can of something at her and stuck her back in. Most of the time she just lay down on her bed and thought about her mysterious letter, what was written inside and why she could not be permitted to read it. Who would send her a letter? And why?

She wanted to know, but she could not do anything until they let her out for more than a few minutes. Sighing, she lay back and fell asleep, her mind still turning over the mysterious letter in her dreams.

They finally let her out after a while; she caught a glance at a calendar and saw that it was July, only a week before her birthday. The first thing Uncle Henry said to her was, “Get to cleaning, girl, and you won’t be fed ‘til it’s done.”

It was just like before, only the Pincelys seemed more angry with her than usual, giving her very specific orders and refusing to feed her if it wasn’t done exactly right. That day was miserable—normally she kept the house clean out of habit, but she had been gone for a few days and it had fallen behind. Aside from that, she had to clean out the entire fireplace, something she just did not know how to do. It took her hours to sweep away all the ash and scrub the black out of the stones, with a horrible feeling the entire time as she suspected what the ash was made of, seeing thick paper-like scraps here and there….

It was six o’clock by the time she started finishing up. She wiped her forehead, glad it was almost over—the twins had thought it funny to turn on the fireplace while she was inside it, nearly incinerating her and giving her cheek a nasty burn. She swept the last of the dirt out of a corner and was about to throw it away when the doorbell rang.

The twins raced each other to answer, but Uncle Henry shouted, “DON’T OPEN IT!” They froze, then trailed sadly back into the kitchen.

Kamille, curious, peered out the window: she could just see the edge of a tall someone with long white hair and odd clothes, bouncing contentedly on the balls of their feet. In their hands, they held a parchment envelope.

“A LETTER!” she shouted without thinking, and realizing her mistake, she rushed to get to the door before Uncle Henry could stop her. He grabbed her halfway down the hall and shoved her to the ground; when she got back up again she struggled to push past him, but he hit her hard and tried to drag her back into the kitchen.

Then the lock on the front door clicked, and they all froze. The doorknob turned.

Uncle Henry dropped her, and she rose shakily to her feet, staring wide-eyed at the stranger.

He was quite the strangest stranger she had ever seen: his hair and beard were white and very long, and he wore high-heeled, buckled boots, odd robe-like sort of clothes, and half-moon spectacles.

“Good evening,” he said pleasantly. “My name is Albus Dumbledore. May I come in?”

“Okay,” Kamille said before any of them could object. Albus Dumbledore smiled at her and strode into the house, looking curiously around their gleaming kitchen.

“What a wonderful home you have,” he complimented no one in particular.

“Thank you,” Kamille replied—after all, who had just cleaned the place? She was suddenly aware that her face was covered in soot, and when she went to wipe it off, she found that her lip was bleeding.

Albus Dumbledore turned and looked her straight in the eyes; his were gleaming electric blue, and seemed to look right through her into the depths of her soul. She shivered, but he smiled warmly.

“How are you, Kamille?”

“Good,” she said, her voice trembling.

“I’m afraid there has been a mistake—” Uncle Henry made an odd, triumphant noise, but Albus Dumbledore merely looked at him, and he fell silent. “You see, my school has been sending you letters repeatedly for the past week, but they have obviously not been received.”

“No, sir,” she said truthfully. “I never got to read it. You’re from a school?”

He smiled. “Yes, I am headmaster of Hogwarts School. I would be delighted if you joined us there this year, if you wish.”

“You want…me?”

Still smiling, he nodded and handed her the letter. She slit it open—there was a seal on the back, a letter H with four animals surrounding it—and read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Ms. Pincely,
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


Kamille stared at it. A thousand questions shoved past each other to spill out of her mouth, and she struggled for a moment to think of one that actually made sense. “Wizardry?” she said weakly.

“In your case, Witchcraft,” the headmaster replied cheerfully. Witches and Wizards exist, Kamille. Ordinary people sometimes find they have unusual powers, and if they wish, they can nurture those powers at Hogwarts School.”

“But I haven’t got any powers.”

“I’m sure you do. Has anything strange ever happened to you, anything you couldn’t explain?”

Why, yes there had been, now that she thought about it…weird things she attributed to luck…like Uncle Henry missing her the other day, or a twin accidentally leaving their plate on the table after bedtime when she was starving…or maybe their friends would suddenly grow bored and leave her alone, or she would find that someone had left her closet door open at night….

She nodded slowly, her eyes still fixed on the word witchcraft. Albus Dumbledore smiled.

“That is magic, Kamille. We believe you to have inherent talent, so if you wish to come you are more than welcome.”

“I wanna go,” she said sadly, “but I can’t….”

She knew she should give the letter back now, but she didn’t want to. She wanted very badly to keep it.

“Why ever not?” the headmaster inquired in a light, friendly tone. She gestured helplessly at the house.

“I…I gotta…they need me….”

“To what?”

“To…clean everything….”

“Well, I’m sure they can get along fine without you for a while,” Dumbledore said pleasantly. “Can’t you?” he added to the four Pincelys, huddled together in the corner. Uncle Henry stepped forward.

“No, we cannot. I refuse to pay for this garbage.”

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. “I assure you, it is no trouble for us to pay for her,” he said, seeming politely confused. “Nor will it be beyond us to help you cope with her absence. But I’m afraid the choice lies with her, not with you.”

He turned back to Kamille, watching her patiently with a little smile on his face. His nose was very crooked, as if it had long ago been broken.

“Of course I wanna go!” she exploded. “When…where do I…?”

“Buy your supplies?” Dumbledore said kindly. “I will be more than happy to escort you.”

“Now?”

“If now is a good time.” He glanced politely at Uncle Henry, who glared.

“It’s okay if we go now!” Kamille said excitedly. “I’ll…oh….”

She glanced down at herself: filthy, ashen, and still bleeding. Dumbledore chuckled.

“Would you like to see some magic, Kamille?”

She nodded, a little frightened, but more excited than anything. He drew a wand from his pocket.

“If you’ll keep still, Kamille….”

“What’re you—?”

“I won’t hurt you, see? Episkey.”

Her lip stopped throbbing, and she felt it stitching itself up, along with the burn on her cheek.

“Scourgify.”

Before her eyes, the dirt fell away from her body. She was as clean as she had ever been. She stared at Albus Dumbledore in complete awe. Was that how it worked, you pointed the wand and light came out and there was magic?

“Are you ready to go?” he inquired, smiling down at her. She nodded, and he beckoned; she followed him out the door and into the streets of London.


London was large and confusing, but very interesting. The two of them attracted very strange looks.

“Stay close to me, Kamille,” Dumbledore said pleasantly, apparently unaware of all the stares. “We are almost there.”

“Where’re we going?”

“The Leaky Cauldron, a pub on Charing Cross Road.” As he spoke, they turned onto Charing Cross, which looked no different than any other street. “I personally am rather fond of their firewhiskey.”

They continued down the road a little ways, then stopped in front of a shabby little building indeed. “Is that it?” Kamille blurted out, unable to stop herself.

Dumbledore smiled. “Everyone says that,” he said simply, then led the way into the pub.

It was rather dark and shabby, nothing special at all, surely not a place where someone as grand and clean and important as Dumbledore belonged. “Good evening, Tom,” he said pleasantly, and the bartender and his scattered customers waved and called, “Hello, Albus.” The bartender, who looked more like a wizened walnut than anything, added, “What can I get for you?”

“Would you like anything, Kamille?” Dumbledore asked politely. She blinked, surprised.

“Huh?”

“Are you hungry?”

She could only nod. Dumbledore turned back to Tom. “A sandwich and a butterbeer, then,” he said. “Or rather two, it has been quite some time since I last had a butterbeer….”

Tom nodded eagerly and hurried off. Dumbledore sat Kamille at a table that was relatively well-lit, returning after a moment with the food and drinks. He pointed his wand at her bottle, and its cap popped off and fell to the table. She stared at it for a moment, awed, before she remembered that it was food. She knew the second the butterbeer hit her lips that she had never tasted anything so sweet and so good. It seemed to warm her up from the inside. The sandwich was quite good, too.

“So, Kamille,” Dumbledore said after awhile, watching his own butterbeer fondly. “I assume you would like me to explain?”

She swallowed and took a sip of butterbeer. “But you did already,” she pointed out. “You said there’re people with magic in them all ‘round England—”

“The entire world, actually,” Dumbledore corrected her lightly.

“Oh, wow…and they go to your school, sir.”

“Not entirely. There are many different magic schools in the world, though only three in Europe. But yes, that is the idea. However, there is more to it, concerning you personally.”

“Me?”

“Yes, of course. You must have guessed by now that Henry and Jenny Pincely are not your mother and father.”

“’Course not, sir.” Kamille snorted. Dumbledore chuckled.

“Naturally. But they are your closest relatives, and that is why you have lived with them. Your mother and father were wizards, Kamille.”

“They WERE?”

“Yes. Rosalie and John Corrin were Aurors, Dark Wizard catchers—”

“There’re DARK wizards?”

“Of course. Wizards and witches can be bad or good, Kamille, and it depends solely on their hearts.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Rosalie and John were killed by their enemies, leaving you in your cousin’s care.”

“So…my name’s not…?”

“Your name is Kamille Corrin.”

“Wow.” She soaked that in for a moment. Of course she had known all along that her parents were dead, but not killed, and not by dark wizards…she could not help wiping her eyes on her sleeve, hoping Dumbledore would not notice.

“Did they go to Hogwarts, sir?”

“Yes, they did. Rosalie was in Hufflepuff, John in Ravenclaw.”

“What’re those?”

“Houses. When you arrive at Hogwarts, you will be Sorted into one of the four houses. There are also Gryffindor and Slytherin.”

“Why?”

“It’s a lovely story, and I believe the Sorting Hat will tell it beautifully.” Dumbledore beamed, but offered no other explanation. “If you are finished, Kamille…?”

“Oh…yeah….” She drained her butterbeer, knowing she would miss it terribly, and stood to follow Dumbledore not back into Charing Cross Road, but through the back door. No one seemed to care, or notice.

Dumbledore took out his wand again and tapped a brick near the garbage bin.

Immediately the bricks began to shift and change, condensing, leaving the middle of the wall open, and a street slowly began to appear; the bricks formed an archway and stood still. Kamille stared.

“This is Diagon Alley,” he said, “Come now, we have much to do.”

She trotted along beside him, her eyes following every movement, her ears every sound, her nose every smell. Owls screeched and hooted from one shop window, cauldrons were piled by another, and a foul smell abraded her from an apothecary. Everywhere she turned, the strangeness of it all astounded her.

“Owls?” she stammered to Dumbledore. “P-Potions?”

“Owls carry letters to and from their owners,” he explained. “And potions are extremely useful. You will learn much of this in school.”

The street winded and twisted and turned, and then she saw a huge marble building in the distance. It had GRINGOTTS on it in huge gold letters.

“This is our bank.”

“Why can’t you use an ordinary bank, sir?”

“Because we are not ordinary people,” Dumbledore replied, amused. He led her through two sets of doors and into a huge lobby. Her eyes were huge as they stared everywhere. Little, wrinkled sort of creatures sat behind the long desk, handling precious gems or gold coins. Dumbledore approached one, and it bowed.

“Professor Dumbledore, sir.”

“Good evening. We’ve come to collect some money from the Corrin’s vault.”

“I have a vault?” she whispered to him. He only smiled. The creature held out its hand, and Dumbledore handed it a small gold key.

“Very well,” said the creature, and another swiftly came and led them away.

“What are those?” Kamille whispered.

“Goblins. Very wise, clever creatures they are. You wouldn’t do well to cross them.”

The goblin leading them smirked as he opened the door into what looked like a cave with railroad tracks on the floor. Dumbledore climbed into a small cart which seemed to appear out of nowhere, and, shaking herself from her shocked daze, she did the same. The cart started to move rather quickly down the track. As it picked up speed, they saw torches, earthy passages, giant rocks, stalactites and stalagmites, and even an oily lake, zooming faster and faster and always moving downward.

“Where are we going?” she cried to Dumbledore, concerned.

“To your vault.”

She looked at him for the briefest moment, perfectly calm and serene, with his beard and hair flying everywhere, and repressed the urge to laugh; from then on, the ride exhilarated instead of frightened her.

They coasted to a stop beside a long, smooth wall, in which several small doors rested. The goblin watched as they climbed out—Dumbledore kindly helped Kamille—and led them over to the nearest door. Kamille felt rather dizzy, and also apprehensive; the door seemed very sinister to her.

The goblin turned the key and pushed the door open. “Wow,” Kamille whispered.

She could tell that by anyone else’s standards, this was not a lot at all. But all the same, seeing that huge pile of copper coins, the slender stacks of silver, and that small, glittering amount of gold completely amazed her. She had never seen so much money in one place, and she didn’t even know what kind of money it was.

“If you are very careful,” Dumbledore told her gravely, stepping forward with a small pouch, “this will last you until you leave Hogwarts.”

Dumbledore carefully counted out seven gold ones—“Galleons,” he explained—then a handful of silver Sickles, and then filled the bag with copper Knuts. It was with reluctance then that Kamille followed him out of her vault, glancing over her shoulder at her small treasure trove before the door closed and they were forced to leave.

Before Dumbledore led her out into Diagon Alley again, he handed her the tiny golden key. “Can you keep that safe?” he asked her seriously, no twinkle in his eye now. She nodded, carefully dropping the key into her pocket.

“Now, off we go,” he said solemnly, and then they emerged into the bright sunlight.

Over the next hour or so, Kamille received everything on her list, from robes—they were a bit large, so she could grow into them—to a potions kit from the smelly yet very intriguing apothecary, and a trunk to put it all in. Last of all was a wand. Kamille entered the shop alone while Dumbledore waited outside, watching the clouds placidly. What a very strange man he was. He had told her stories and jokes all during their trip, calling her attention to oddly shaped clouds and performing small spells with his wand. She thought he was very nice and funny, but not at all like a headmaster should be.

She rang a small bell on the counter, and after a moment a small, pale man emerged and introduced himself as Mr. Ollivander. She thought instantly that he was very frightening indeed, with his old, pale body and wide, staring eyes.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hello.” He smiled, a very creepy sort of gesture. “Hogwarts, m’dear?”

“Yessir.”

“Very good. What’s your name? Kamille Corrin? Ah yes, John and Rosalie’s daughter. Now, which is your wand arm?”

“Um….” She awkwardly held out her right arm. He procured a tape measure from nowhere and started measuring her in odd places, from shoulder to elbow, nose to floor, wrist to fingertip. “Your wand chooses you,” Mr. Ollivander explained. “Everything from the core to the wood to the flexibility fits your own personality. No two wands are ever the same, and no wand will work better for you than your own. The core can be made of unicorn hairs, dragon heartstrings, or phoenix feathers, to name a few.”

The tape measure was doing this itself now. How strange. “That will do,” Mr. Ollivander said to it, and it crumpled onto the floor. “Now here, try this wand….”

She waved it, and nothing happened.

“Not to worry, not to worry….”

It seemed to her that she tried out hundreds of wands—in any case, it was twilight before she stopped—but just as her arm was growing sore from staying up so long, something happened; the willow-unicorn-hair-bendy-eleven-and-a-half-inch wand shot silver sparks out of the end of it. Mr. Ollivander beamed.

“Go on, Miss Corrin,” he urged her, his eyes aglow. “Do it again.”

She flicked the wand, and a stream of silver sparks exploded from the end, hovering like a cloud above their heads, a bit like sparkling tendrils of smoke. Mr. Ollivander beamed.

“Lovely,” he said. “That one it is.”

He carefully took the wand from her, polished it with a cloth, and placed it into a small black box, which he tied with a silver ribbon and offered to her. “Make sure not to use it until you get to Hogwarts,” he warned her as he took her seven Galleons, amusement in his eyes, which followed her out the door and out of sight.

“Do you like your wand?” Dumbledore asked her kindly as they headed back towards the pub. Everywhere they looked, shops were closing, and a few stars twinkled into life above their heads.

“Yessir. It’s, um, willow and unicorn hair and it’s kinda long, I like it a lot.”

“Excellent.” He beamed. “Well, there is only one place left to go now….”

And he led her into Eeylop’s Owl Emporium, completely serene in the dark, faintly rustling shop.

“An owl, sir?”

“Certainly. I suppose you shall need an owl.”

“But who’s gonna send ME letters?”

“Oh, someone will one day. Best to prepare, hmm?”

Kamille took his word for it, glancing nervously at the owls. They seemed dark and sinister to her; she quickly moved into the light, where smaller, rather cuter owls were gathered on a perch by the desk.

“Why’re they so small?” she asked the woman behind the counter.

“Oh, some are supposed to be that way, like the Scops,” she told her, pointing to some palm-sized gray owls. “But these—” she gestured to a row of multicolored owls sitting on a lower perch, “are only babies. We breed ‘em here, you see.”

Kamille looked carefully at the baby owls, so tiny and fragile—some were as frightening as the adults, with sharp beaks and bright eyes, but others were downright cute. She held out her finger, and a tawny baby stepped onto it and hooted at her. She giggled.

“I like him,” she proclaimed, setting him on her head. During her short tour of the owl shop, he never once left her. She knew that if she was going to get an owl, it would be him. She dug into her pouch for money—there was some in there that she hadn’t noticed before—and paid for him, then went to find Dumbledore, her new owl still riding on her head. It came up to somewhere around his elbow, and he chuckled.

“Are you ready, then, Miss Corrin?”

She nodded, though she had never been less ready; why did they have to leave so soon? Couldn’t Dumbledore make time stand still with magic, so they could stay here all day?

He seemed to read her thoughts. “Even wizards have to return home sometimes,” he told her as they went up the street. “That is why Christmas and summer breaks exist at Hogwarts.”

“You mean I have to come back, sir?” She felt cheated. Here was her ticket out of here, and she had just had it ripped into shreds.

“You do not have to return home, but you cannot stay at Hogwarts over summer break. Many have asked before, Kamille.”

“But I’ve got nowhere to go but back….”

“Perhaps you’ll find somewhere by the summer break, Kamille. I don’t doubt it.” He smiled fondly at her little owl. “Friends are very important to a growing witch or wizard.”

Kamille beamed at her owl too. “I think I’ll call him Pigeon,” she said proudly.

“Pigeon?” Dumbledore chuckled. “Why Pigeon?”

“’Cause he looks like a Pigeon, you know, that duck with the white stuff on his head, see…?”

“You mean a widgeon?”

“No-o, a pigeon….”

Dumbledore smiled and shook his head, holding the door of the Leaky Cauldron open for her as they emerged into Charing Cross Road.

They rode the Underground back in silence. Neither of them said a word until Kamille was standing on her doorstep.

“Here is your ticket,” he told her, placing it into her waiting hand. “I will see you at the start of term, Miss Corrin. Best of luck to you until then.”

“Thank you,” she said, having wanted to say that all day. “For everything.”

“It was my pleasure.” He nodded to her and turned away.

“Uh…wait! Mr. Dumbledore!”

“Yes?” He turned back.

“Can I keep my letter? Please?”

“Oh, of course.” He strode back to her and gave her the heavy envelope, both letters folded neatly inside. “But I must ask you not to show it to anyone but a witch or wizard, please.”

“I won’t, sir,” she promised, tucking it away into her trunk. “’Bye.”

“Until September First, Miss Corrin.” He smiled and waved, and then he was gone, fading into the darkness like he was never there at all. And if it was not for the heavy trunk crushing her foot, or the tiny hooting owl now sitting in its cage, she would have thought that he hadn’t been. The way he had arrived so quickly, out of nowhere and then disappeared after giving her the best day of her life was simply magical.

It's a Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone fanfic, you noob.

I do like Philosopher's Stone better, but my version says frikkin Sorcerer's.

heart heart heart heart heart

Imma typing as fast as a Kirby can type. ^^

After a couple of years. Evan is in denial.

It's hilarious. :XP:

heart age. domokun

...Huh?

No. That's...I dunno.