Everything Has a Price

University: Hey. Take a seat, the lecture's starting soon. Are you new? You look so nervous. Don't worry, if you've charged your phone you're allowed to record for notes. Don't forget to check Moodle, that's where they're posting the assignments...you did already know that, didn't you?

Me: (hides under bed, whining in stress) Meeep...

University: Well, you aren't here all day. When you've done some work, try writing something. It may soothe your nerves.

Me: (grabs computer) (opens it) (is tackled by a plot bunny, knocking me onto the floor) Okay! Okay! Whatever calms my nerves...

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Prologue: The Golem

"When night came...I quitted my retreat and wandered in the wood; and now, no longer restrained by a fear of discovery, I gave vent to my anguish in fearful howlings..."

The little girl brushed her fingers over the pages, careful not to press on the tear stains from the first time she had read this passage. "Why couldn't you love him, Victor?" She asked sadly. "You knew when you stitched him together from bloody bits and pieces that he wasn't going to be pretty. All he wanted was your love. Why was that so hard to give? Why did you hate something you fashioned with your own hands, created from your heart?"

Delicately she closed the book – it was old, and worn, and a gift from the school librarian. It was the only true gift she'd ever received in the eight years of her life, and she treated it with as much care, if not more, than she showed herself.

Some might find it remarkable that such a young child could read and absorb a text as old and heavy as Frankenstein. But this was Privet Drive, a horribly ordinary, boring little hamlet where anything extraordinary was quickly shunned in favour of the status quo. That which was not destroyed was ignored, because those who lived there did not want to acknowledge the inadequacy of their lives or how little value their 'hard earned' livelihoods truly possessed. The Dream, the white picket fence with a family and a dog, so strived for that some people sold their souls for the image but not the happiness that it invoked, leaving them jealous of all those who possessed something of value.

She was a brilliant girl, her mind incredibly sharp – she had been reading non-picture books at four and now she devoured old texts with happiness and enthusiasm; perhaps it was equal parts eagerness and hope that, if she filled herself up with knowledge the void where the lack of love in her life would no longer exist. Or failing that, it would no longer cause her pain, because she had solace in knowing things that no one else did.

Frankenstein was the text she loved, not merely as a repository of knowledge, but a story. It was such a sad, sad story, but she had known much of sadness, so she felt an intimate connection to it. Many times in her sleep she would converse with Victor and his Creation – it felt so mean spirited that even the text referred to it as a monster, for surely it had not become a monster until that moniker had been forced upon it? - to the point where she felt as if they were her true friends, her only friends in this world.

Of course, she told no one of these 'conversations', or of her precious book. Her aunt and uncle, as much as they could be called that when they forced her to sleep in the boot cupboard under the stairwell, already found her to be an aberration, her existence a crime against them. To know how wise she was, even as they stifled her and refused to give her contact with the outside world, would only increase her unnatural nature in their eyes and the eyes of their stagnant community. So her curiosity was not welcomed, her desires hidden and silent. She knew that no one would find joy in her capabilities or what she may be capable of in time.

But the Creature understood her, sat with her in her sleep, shared his sorrow with hers. So she took their cruelty and their exclusion with sorrowful acceptance, not knowing that in other places she would be looked upon with awe, glorified and admired for what she was rather than shunned and feared.

Yes, there was fear, like the fear of the Creature. Her aunt thought she didn't know. But she was a wise girl, wise, and she saw it in her eyes when the pots floated through the air to the sink, when her hair grew back in seconds after being held down while it was shorn to her scalp. She was odd and powerful and created by something the woman and her husband did not understand, so she might as well have been stitched up from body parts herself.

Sometimes she wondered if her parents had created her to be wise; the parents that had died when she was so little. Died in the room, in the light of the Green. Oh? No, she did not believe the story her aunt and uncle had trotted out the first time she had gathered the courage to ask them what had become of her parents. She had seen it...the Green, and the Man in Black.

Her mother's Blood allowed her to see, to understand...

Chrissy...

The memory would start that way; a beautiful older woman whispering her name. She giggled, reaching up for her mother. The woman smiled, a terrible, pained smile, and smeared a hot liquid across her forehead and across her chest near her heart. She could remember the smell...drying blood had a very distinct smell.

Chrissy,listen...mommy loves you...daddy loves you...Chrissy be safe...be strong...

Chrissy. That was her name, not girl or freak or Monster. Christina Lily Potter. Sometimes that was hard to remember...after all...

"GIRL!" A massive thudding, like a tree limb smacking the building in a storm, struck against the door of the cupboard. She jumped, quickly hiding her treasure in the dark crevice that had protected it so many times before. "GIRL, GET UP!"

...It wasn't as if anyone else here called her by that name.

"Yes uncle. I'm coming, uncle. What do you want for breakfast today?" She asked, pulling her fingers through her red hair hoping to pull out as many knots as she could. Her aunt hated it when she didn't look as neat as possible, never mind that she wasn't allowed a hairbrush or new clothes. No, she had to look presentable.

"Bacon and eggs, girl. It's Monday! What blasted else do we eat?" Her uncle fumbled with the lock as he spoke, opening it moments later. She got to her knees, preparing to go out; he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her, causing her to fall to the floor before regaining her sense of balance.

"Yes, of course uncle."

He always talked to her as if she were stupid. But if she didn't ask, he would shout at her for assuming, and if she'd actually started the meal before he arbitrarily decided he wanted something else, he'd smack her for 'wasting good food'. Perhaps he believed that if he kept talking that way, she would eventually believe she was stupid.

Well, Christina would never believe she was dumber than someone who didn't know how to read Frankenstein.

Breakfast was typical; Christina learned that if she made more food than Dudley would eat (which was a mean feat to do without getting noticed, given that Dudley was a bottomless pit who ate half his body weight whenever possible), she would be able to eat enough scraps afterwards to feel full. Aunt Petunia would occasionally shriek at her either not to burn anything or to step up the pace, ignoring that those were often contradictory. She always said, "Yes ma'am.", while continuing her work.

Her aunt preferred 'ma'am'. It made her feel important.

There were a lot of little tricks Christina had learned, to smooth or soften her family whenever they started to gear up at her. Flattery was the best, for both the giraffe woman and for her uncle. The more inflated his ego was, the more he tolerated her – when he felt big enough that it didn't matter he was saddled with an unnatural freak of a niece since her irresponsible parents died in a drinking and driving accident.

She did not allow the lie to bother her anymore. It did once, when she realized it first, but she wasn't allowed to hold on to indignation in this house. She knew the truth, if not the proper context for it, so the words of the ignorant had no meaning.

Dudley was...less easy to handle than his parents. Usually, if he got what he wanted he'd go away. However, often what he wanted was some physical torment to inflict on Christina – whether it was chasing and beating her with his friends, or pulling/cutting her hair, taking her food, leaving her behind when he went to the park or on the amusement rides. Thus, Christina was forced to pick and choose what would be the least painful way of partially satisfying him. After all, if Dudley got hurt, she'd be lucky if she could leave the cupboard in weeks...

She had guessed the dosage right, again. Dudley wolfed through five strips but left the last one and the last scrambled egg untouched; he shoved his plate at her and ran off towards the door – Piers and his other horrid friends often came to his house before they went to school. That way they could chase Christina on the way there – less likely to get caught by the teachers that way. Christina took the plate to the sink, quickly eating the remaining food as she went.

Christina always went to school only for the second half of the day; her aunt had blamed this on a 'sickness' of some sort. Really, it was so people had as little exposure to her as possible. Her aunt didn't want anyone to know about the things that happened.

She had no other word for them – yet. The strange things, the inexplicable things, all that happened around her. A teleported car. The hair that grew back immediately. Flying to the school rooftop. Doors unlocking on their own.

Oh, how she wished she knew anything about it! Then maybe she could control it, do things with it, create things with it...

"GIRL! Are you deaf? The weeding! Get to it!"

And she was daydreaming. Daydreaming was bad, especially when she had chores to do. "Yes ma'am!" She abandoned the dishes to drip dry, pulling the plug as she hurried into the back yard. The chores were the other reason she was only in school half time.

She didn't mind the weeding, or tending to the garden in general. She loved helping things grow; it was fascinating to watch vines wind around the back of the house, roses grow despite the cold, and above all she liked helping them grow. It felt like she was their mother, and she had a sense that they appreciated everything she did for them. She created the arrangements in the back yard...

...just like she would fish Dudley's crumbled up, failed exams out of the recycling bin, tear them into strips, and fold them into origami and other such designs. Or she would draw, with broken crayons carefully stolen from Dudley's second bedroom. She had so many beautiful, sprawling designs in her tiny bedroom, little cats and birds in folded figures, hidden in crevices or in shadows or below the tiny, lumpy cot she called her bed.

The desire for creation was strong...so strong. If only she had clay. Or stone. Or metal, steel and iron and bronze. Or, or, or...more. More anything.

It drove her to madness, how little she had to forge with. That was the one thing she truly resented. She hated how she was deprived, confined, suppressed. She wanted to forge, to create...she wanted to learn more, then create new knowledge for others to find! She knew she could do it if they would only let her...but to allow such things would allow others to see, to know the abnormal, unnatural girl who created them...

She wanted to be Victor, she wanted to bring her origami to life. She wanted a car that would speak to her (sometimes she could watch bits and pieces of a movie over Dudley's shoulder from her cupboard), she wanted to raise blood red roses and daisies from the pages she painted them on. She wanted to create a friend, a friend of stone and steel who could break Dudley's cruel hands just by standing and letting the stupid chit strike him, a friend that would protect her from anything, a friend who would worship her and never leave her side.

It would not be one sided! She would love her creations, what she shaped and formed with her hands and her heart. She would not flee from them as Victor had, for was she not herself an aberration? She would give them all the love that she had that no one else had wanted...

**~Time Skip~**

Stolen...Dudley had stolen her painting and passed it off as his! Even shearing off her hair had not caused her to hate him so. It felt like a violation. She had worked so hard on it, put a little bit of herself into the paint and the soft edges of the lilies she had drawn, and he had taken it from her and claimed that he had made it...he wasn't capable, he couldn't even draw convincing stick figures, the teachers knew that from the suspicious looks they gave him yet not one of them properly called him out. It made her so furiously angry.

The window that exploded had been blamed on punks from the alleyways; the glass shards all hit Dudley leaving him bloody and crying and they had to take him to the hospital to get stitches because his hands were so messed up.

Her aunt and uncle blamed her of course, but she didn't care, didn't care about the familiar darkness and cramped space of the cupboard as long as Dudley never made the catastrophic mistake of trying to claim something of hers again. Hours later, she still seethed on the injustice, the indignity – how dare he? He had so much, things that were given to him none of which he had built with his own hands, but no he was never ever satisfied, so he took from her who had almost nothing because of him? And not merely some decorative thing someone else had made that she had bought, but something she had made, something she had given birth to? That insufferable, unforgivable little monster!

No, no, not just a monster, the Creature had been sympathetic, had been worthy of pity, and she mouthed a silent apology to him for using the name he had been given for Dudley, who didn't deserve the association. Being a monster implied that Dudley actually put effort into it, actually tried to mould himself into something, rather than just doing it because he could and it was easy...to avoid creating anything of his own!

Useless, useless, useless cousin. Were you jealous? Could you not stand for people to see that I had made something beautiful while you couldn't be arsed to lift your fingers for long enough to make something similar?

The thought was an amazing epiphany. It was so hard to imagine Dudley being jealous of her, when he was so happy in his worthless, petty mediocrity. He could have created something himself but no he didn't want to bother, didn't want to add anything. How could somebody be so empty? So devoid of any purpose?

The teachers would have been bewildered by how deeply furious this had made Christina.

I will never, ever forgive him, she thought darkly, squeezing one of her crayons until it broke. Instantly she felt bad, and placed the broken pieces on the floor while holding her hand over them. There was a soft glow and the shattered fragments glued themselves back together. Christina gave a tiny smile at her success, wishing once again that she knew anything concrete about these powers she possessed. She was certain her aunt knew something, it was always her aunt who reacted first when something inexplicable happened. It made her uncle angry sure but it made her aunt angry most of all.

Christina wasn't just intelligent, she was also wise – some people didn't realize those things didn't go hand in hand. Being smart did not make one wise; all the books in the world could not allow one to predict how people thought and reacted. But Christina could, eerily, it was just one more thing that made this little neighbourhood afraid of her; she could look at them and see all their darkest secrets. They shunned her so she would not expose them; the gambling, the cheating, the thefts, she knew all about them...and they knew she knew, because her emerald green eyes were hard and piercing and tore through all the deceptions to reach the heart.

She knew her aunt resented her because she did not have the special ability that she did. That her aunt had always both wished for and resented said special ability. She just did not know why, she was not quite old enough or worldly enough to be able to put all the pieces together. She had the pieces themselves, though, and she could guess that her mother had once possessed these abilities as well. Perhaps her grandparents, who died before she was born, had favoured her mother because of them, leaving her aunt behind? Perhaps her aunt blamed the abilities for what had befallen their family, including the loss of her parents? She could not know until she forced the knowledge from the woman herself, but the punishments that would probably await her for such a line of questioning kept her tongue quiet and contemplative.

It's alright, she silently told the painted lilies, which was silly since they were all the way at school – hung proudly in a cabinet by the impressed teachers, who would know very soon who's it really was. Dudley was such an imbecile for thinking his weak deception would last... I have not abandoned you. I will sign my name on you tomorrow when I get there, and I will always impart a little bit of me in you so you are not alone. You are MINE and I will never forsake you.

Christina shook her head, she was six days into her month long 'punishment' (she was only allowed out of the cupboard to use the washroom, the Dursleys didn't want the house to stink after all, or to go to school because they didn't want the teachers to ask questions) and her skin was pale as a corpse for lack of sunlight. It hurt to go outside sometimes, but such was the life of a creator; they were always shut up in their labs so perhaps she should thank her family for preparing her for that?

She didn't really want to, she knew she was not learning nearly as much as she could shut up in this tiny place. She knew they were keeping her from knowledge and that enraged her. She wished that someday they would be punished for treating her this way, for stifling her, for keeping the one thing she ever wanted out of her grasp.

Along with love. But Christina believed that love was created, not intrinsic, not a virtue - so she associated it not with people, but with her craft.

She took one of her last papers – she would have to get more from school tomorrow, there was always leftover coloured craft paper in the art room – and began to fold it with practised hands. However, she was so distracted by her angry thoughts that she gave herself a deep paper cut. Wincing, she pulled away, but not before leaving a few drops of blood on the half finished origami bird.

Sucking on her finger, Christina willed a spark of magic through it to clean and heal the wound (her family never treated her unless it was serious). The blood droplets sank down into the 'heart' of the half completed bird, seemingly glowing in the low light of the pathetic light bulb that lit her abode. She was about to give her work up, thinking it damaged, but something stopped her, an instinct. Instead she continued on her folding until it was done, fixing the beak and staring at it.

She felt a gentle pulse from her magic...and the bird shivered and flapped its wings, a light red pulse spreading from its' 'heart'. She gasped in ecstatic awe, barely remembering to slap a hand over her mouth to muffle her jubilation; it was late at night and her family hated being disturbed not that any of that mattered in that moment. The bird rose from her hand, completely animated, and began to fly in circles around the small enclosure, the soft red light continuing to emanate from it.

She wanted to laugh; tears streamed down her face. Good tears, warm tears, tears she welcomed. Her one wish had come true, the inexplicable had given it to her. She watched the bird fly around her, and when she held out a trembling hand it came to alight there after a few moments. She smiled tenderly at it, the first real full smile she had worn in years as it bent its head and nuzzled her thumb.

It was an origami, so its movement was limited, it could not properly curl up in her hands or make a nest due to its lack of feet. But it was alive, alive, she could hear it chirp softly at her. She imagined it was calling her mother. She was so caught up in her happiness that she hardly noticed how exhausted she felt; she had used a very particular kind of magic very young and since she had no wand and was sequestered away in her cupboard, none of the trackers and eyes that had been sent to watch her knew of the magic she had committed.

No surveillance was perfect; it had been assumed that since she was in an ignorant muggle neighbourhood she would have no access to such tomes, indeed the Old Man who placed her there had intended to control her education so she would never come across such ancient, occult abilities because he believed they were dangerous. It didn't matter that all magic was dangerous, that life was dangerous, no he believed that if he could control 'dangerous' knowledge then nothing bad would happen and no one would ever stray from the "Light" has he thought of it. It was such an old fashioned notion; if he knew that someone's character was what drove them to do what jumped into their minds, he did not acknowledge it, the simplistic way he viewed people and magic would not allow for such complications even after Riddle.

Christina lay down on her pathetic bed, eyes locked on to her baby bird until they finally closed with sleep, she felt bad that she hadn't given it feet or a wider tail, she apologized, saying that she would improve on her creations. The bird merely chirped and nestled into her hair as best it could once she had fallen into the depths of sleep.

Up in the attic, a trunk rattled and rumbled. There were books inside that were lighting up in response to what they had been 'programmed', so to speak, to sense, by their previous owner. They were a fail-safe, of sorts, a collection of books saved from the pyre. They were meant for the prodigy in the cupboard, had the aunt not sealed them away.

A feeble gesture, only staving off the inevitable. In fact, perhaps if they had been provided, the incident would not have happened...

**~Time Skip~**

Christina panted, looking down at the pocket knife, stained with her blood. Carefully she held it over the large tiger she had painstakingly folded, allowing it to drip down into the 'heart'. She pressed her injured hand against her chest in familiar process now, waiting for the magic to heal it. She didn't care about the pain; there was so much pain in her life that she barely noticed the pricks and the white hot lines that she drew in circles on her palm. Yes, even her hand was becoming a delicate work of art; there were little, star-like pin pricks and white lines inflicted all across it, forming an almost ocean like design – clear water, stones rolling in the waves. At some point she'd transfer to her other hand, but she didn't want to stress out her dominant fingers.

She pulsed her magic, again. The tiger shivered, looked like it was going to topple over – and then growled, and leaned to stretch out its limbs. Christina grinned, and the bird in her hair (she called it Neph) trilled at the new companion.

Since her first success had largely been an accident, it had been painful trial and error as she tried to figure out the concepts without any guides. She believed that the inexplicable, the magic, was in both her blood and her spirit; and with magic her blood was life. So when she animated Neph, it was because Neph had her life force inside her. (she imagined Neph as a girl, though obviously the origami had no way of speaking.) However there were words, words and intentions that had taken several attempts to fully grasp and implement during the process, so she had several motionless and bloody artifacts that had not 'caught', not that she particularly cared.

Her aunt and uncle hadn't noticed the reckless scars on her hands. Why would they?

Of course, the more friends she created the harder it was to hide them...this tiger in particular, Christina realized with a jolt of worry, was too big to be content in this tiny enclosure, she would have to move him somewhere else, somewhere safe from both the animals of the outside world and the animals that lived in this house...it would amuse Dudley to destroy Neph, and her aunt and uncle would be horrified at this great display of her abnormal power.

"I know it's small," she said to the tiger when he finished pacing around her to look inquisitive. "Don't worry, I'll move you to the attic when I get the chance. I'm the only one who goes up there."

The tiger growled.

"I'm sorry," Christina said patiently, "but you're made of paper, and Dudley likes ripping things. I don't want to endanger you."

The tiger whined in protest.

"I didn't have anything stronger," Christina apologized, knowing that a proud tiger would rather be made of iron or stone. "It's so hard to get anything here. Someday I'll move you to something better, okay, Fred?"

Her tiger growled and grumbled, but acquiesced. After all, mother knows best...Christina delicately brushed her hand against him before herding him into the corner and covering it with her pillow, hiding him from Vernon's prying eyes. She quickly donned her coat and nodded for Neph to enter her usual pocket. Moments later, her aunt was banging on the door again, demanding breakfast as usual. That hadn't changed in a year.

Christina agreed sunnily and skipped into the kitchen; her aunt eyed her warily not entirely used to or pleased to see her niece so unbothered and cheerful. Something in the girl had changed; she tried to hide it but she seemed possessed by some sort of maniac excitement. It made Petunia truly uneasy; it reminded her of when her precious sister would come back from school, eagerly prattling on about having turned toads into teacups or some other occult horror she'd learned to do there.

Petunia focused on the anger, on the bitterness, because then she wouldn't remember the fact that her sister had terrified her. Lily had been a cheerful girl, friendly and kind in spite of her fearsome temper, but that hadn't meant much before she went to that school. Then she'd learned something...

Petunia had a vivid memory of going to Lily's room during a summer evening to bring her down for dinner, to find her sister cutting her arm with a knife and letting it drip onto a mat with nonsense images scrawled all over it...okay, they looked a little like letters, but not from any language Petunia was aware of...White smoke had risen from the mat, and started to take the form of some thing with shredded, bony. That was as much as she had seen before Petunia slammed the door shut and bolted down the stairs, screaming in terror.

Sweet, precious Lily had of course protested that the thing she had spoken to was not dangerous to them, and her besotted parents had bought that without batting an eyelash, had accused her of slandering her sister.

She had never learned exactly what her sister had been doing, probably summoning some demon...yes, perhaps that explained how freakishly smart and unchildlike her niece was. The Potter freak hadn't sired her, it had been some monster her sister had summoned from god knew where. She would have told Vernon but she was afraid that saying it would bring the creature to their door, Speak of the Devil and such...of course that old bat, Dumble something, had sworn that the 'familial protection' would safeguard them from any harm (like her parents, dead because of the Freak war), but how safe could she be if she had a half demon freak in the house itself?

Christina began humming along with the radio as she worked; some Elvis tune was on rerun and the girl liked him. It was probably the only thing about her that was natural.

Let that be what she's so infernally happy about, Petunia thought. Don't let it be because she's somehow learning the things I've been keeping from her.

"Ma'am? Is something wrong?" The girl's voice broke her revere. She had turned away from the meal and was looking at her with a slightly furrowed brow. Those green eyes, Lily's eyes, stabbed into her chest like accusing knives.

"What? What do you mean?" Petunia barked. "Keep those eyes on the pancakes!"

Christina obediently averted her gaze, instead pouring batter into the pan as she said, "Well, you're just looking...well, like you're thinking really hard on some memories. You don't often look at me like that. I was just wondering."

"You wonder too bloody much – don't you get tired of overthinking everything?" Petunia snapped, clenching a fist, hoping in vain that the creepy brat took that at face value.

She didn't want Christina to look at her with those contemplative, knowing eyes, hated her encroaching stare that felt like being x-rayed. She felt like the girl was toying with her, that she already knew what Petunia was holding back and thought her small minded, childish, pathetic. That was an infuriating vibe to get from any child, much less a freak's, much less Lily's. It felt like Lily's pity, the sad way her sister would look at her when she professed her hatred of her unnatural, demonic abilities. It was like her damned sister was still haunting her years after she died.

It didn't help that Christina looked so bloody like her, it was like she was a clone instead of a child; she couldn't see any trace of James Potter in her except for the shape of her jaw and the messy nature of her bright red hair.

Dudley came thundering down the stairs a minute later, Vernon behind him since he had gone out to get the paper for once. "We're gonna go to the park today!" Dudley yelled, throwing himself into his chair causing it to creak loudly. Christina was honestly impressed that it could support his weight, Dudley had more in common with a baby whale than a boy sometimes (though a whale would be gentler, more innocent, than he had ever been). "No math!"

Christina's lip twitched. She didn't understand why Dudley hated math so much; it was by far the easiest course to understand and master. There was always only one correct answer once you knew what to do. Luckily her back was to them, handling the pancakes, so none of them noticed her heretical expression.

"I'm glad you'll be having fun, Dudders," Petunia simpered. Neph shuddered in Christina's pocket, out of disgust maybe...or perhaps she, from Petunia's tone, was expected her to regurgitate food for everyone to eat. The thought caused her to snort.

"Something funny, girl?" Vernon asked sharply.

"No uncle, of course not, I was just finishing up that's all." Christina responded promptly, her voice carefully deferential. It was easier now, that she had this personal epiphany about her power. She had it, they couldn't take it from her – you couldn't remove knowledge once it existed. You couldn't beat an idea to death, couldn't lock it up, couldn't silence it, couldn't cut it out. It was hers, now and forever. She turned and placed the pancakes on their respective plates, content to ignore the massive frown Dudley was shooting her way.

"The park should be nice," she said softly. "It'll do us all good to get some fresh air,"

Vernon grunted and turned the page on the newspaper. "You parroting that from your teacher again? They've got you well trained."

Christina didn't bat an eye. She knew what she knew, though inside the accusation rankled. How dare he imply she hadn't earned what she had learned, stored and created? Did he think her incapable of possessing her own opinions?

Whatever. The thoughts of someone stupider than her meant nothing. And she was pretty sure the Dursley family had five brain cells between the three of them.

**~Line Break~**

So she went to school on time for once; the expedition meant that if she'd gone later, Vernon or Petunia would have had to drive them out herself. Christina arrived in a grey overcoat that had a hood she kept up all the time, to help the image that she was 'sick' and 'fragile'. It was an older area, often closed off from the general public; she wondered how the teachers had gotten permission to bring them here. Supposedly they were on a nature hunt, though Christina knew that at least half the class wouldn't bother with it, instead spending their time roughhousing.

Splitting off from the other children – the teachers had to put her in a group, no one would pick her, and the girls while nice were plainly unnerved by her so she kept her distance as usual. Christina left them to look for butterflies, wandering through the tall trees and thick grass, enjoying the breeze on her face. The sky was clear and the sun was shining, for once it warmed her skin instead of hurting her. Christina felt the gentle hum of magic in the world all around her, in every living thing – pulsing through it like lifeblood.

She ran her hands through her hair, contently whistling as she walked enjoying the light of day. Even the fact that Dudley had preemptively stolen her minuscule lunch didn't bother her. The world seemed...different. She wanted to take it in.

As she wandered, Christina came to a large clearing. It was oddly shaped, signalling that it had once been a human encampment of sorts, but had been lost to time. In the middle of the camp was a large stone that looked almost like a head.

Curious, she walked up to it and ran her hands over its surface, brushing away the leaves and vines. Her fingers brushed along long, slender veins cut into the stone in elegant lines; sparks left her nails as they found the grooves.

This is important, the magic seemed to say. All you need is a key.

But what was it?

Christina eyed the stone, walking in a circle around it. The carved lines lead across the stone and into the dirt. Perhaps more of it was buried beneath? Glancing over her shoulder to see if she had been followed, she knelt on the ground and began to dig, trawling up dirt and stubborn roots as she went. It took a lot of time, since she didn't have a shovel or any such thing, but she was so intent on her project that she took no notice of it. She did not perceive her group returning to the general area; and by consequence, her teachers sending someone to come look for her...

It took so long. She dug a trench around the stone until her fingers ached and bled, and eventually they struck stone further down, within the earth itself. Massive, carved stone, made by human hands and nothing natural...she got up off her knees and took several steps back. The stone was shaped like a head, she realized – a human head with wide and sharp, animalistic angles, particularly near the mouth. The lines weren't just waves, they were shapes, almost like letters though they were no language that she had seen before – and she knew a handful of Russian and Japanese words and phrases, from the many books she had read.

It was a statue? No, that didn't seem quite right. Why would a statue be buried in a park near Little Whining?

Christina knelt again, right at the edge of the trench she had dug, reaching down and brushing her hand against the neck/upper chest area that she had managed to uncover. One set of lines, just under the eyes and the mouth, was a simple circle with a key shape in the middle. Her bloody fingernails brushed along it...and her magic sparked, more suddenly and violently than it ever had before.

The lines and images on the stone began to glow. Softly, at first – a quick pulse of red and white light, so quick she thought she had imagined it. Then, a few seconds later, it pulsed again – much brighter. Gasping, she stumbled backwards as the ground rumbled, like a train running below her feet...the stone pulsed again, the lines bright as a floodlight and red as her blood.

The ground exploded as a giant mass moved upwards – Christina jumped and crawled away as a massive stone hand erupted from the earth, slamming its palm on the ground a few metres away from her. The statue's 'eyes', glowing red, seemed almost to narrow the other arm pulled itself loose, taking a massive tree root with it – it was wrapped around the shoulder joint. The giant heaved and stepped out of the earth to Christina's right, towering over her and blocking out the sun. Christina hadn't ever seen anything so big; it was twenty five feet tall. It was bulky and built like a tank, massive feet and hands big enough to hold Christina at the waist and cover half of her body. The red circle and key were just above the chest plate, where the neck met the shoulders...there were more of those strange letters, bigger, five written in a pentagon shape on the middle of the chest area, six in a circle on its back. Aside from the letters, there were lines – these ones long lines, looping and thin – that ran all over the body, along the legs and arms, up the neck, across the chest and back, and around the head as she had already seen. The lines hummed with energy. Magic. The red glow had softened to a faint but steady pulse as the giant regained its full height.

Christina stared, her limbs locked with frozen awe. The giant moved again, stone grinding as it turned its head towards her. The eyes, unlike the rest of the body, glowed not red but white. It reminded her of the glow of the robot eyes from a movie the school had shown them a while back; robots programmed and created to serve man, but threatening to destroy them instead. Perhaps she should run...

However, whatever terrible fate the giant might have inflicted on her – her young mind was hazy on the details, she just knew it was bad – did not come to pass. Instead it knelt on one large knee, rattling the ground as it did so, and slid one hand underneath her. Lifting her off the ground, it raised her to its shoulder, where it stopped moving. She understood. She left his hand and settled next to its head, balancing herself there as the giant slowly stood, and became still.

Christina traced the nearest embedded line, feeling the magic drumming under her fingers like blood in a vein, and couldn't help the laughter that escaped her lips. Neph buzzed in her pocket; she let her out on an impulse; the origami bird fluttered onto the top of the giant's head and alit there.

Christina had a strong sense that she was breaking some unspoken rule.

Not that she cared. She had never felt magic so keenly ever before – and before, it had always been her own magic, reminding her of how alone she was, aside from Neph and her other Creations. But the magic she sensed within the giant was different, foreign, it did not come just from herself. Oh, there was part of her in there now. But the original, the creator of this giant...their magic was embedded in the stone just as the physical carvings. It was old, worn, and perhaps whoever had granted it had died a long time ago...but the feeling of kinship, knowing there was someone else with these same abilities that were shunned in Christina by her neighbours and family...This giant...the Golem, she realized suddenly, that was the name of a stone creature animated by magic...it was a creation of magic. And she had reawakened it, brought it back to life.

She wanted to make one of her own.

"HEY! FREAK!"

She was so startled – alarmed, really – to hear his voice that she nearly toppled from her perch. Dudley and a group of his friends had stomped into the clearing. She had forgotten that she wasn't alone...

"What is THAT?" Piers yelped, freezing and staring at the faintly-glowing Golem. The stone monolith was sitting very still, and briefly Christina wondered whether or not her non magical school mates could tell that it was awake and perceiving them. To what extent could it 'see' Dudley and his friends?

"I found it," She said with a faint shrug, kicking her heels against its armoured shoulder. "Isn't it cool?"

"Whoa," One of the other boys said. "Look at the size of it!"

Dudley snorted. "You always find the weird stuff, freak." He muttered. She scowled. He never respected anything unless it had a screen. Hopeless. "There something on my face?" He snapped, glaring. He bitterly resented how she made him feel inferior and stupid.

"No," she said with a shrug. Well, she thought that his expression made him look like an inverted pub face, and while she didn't say it the thought was written in her tone. His gang members gawked at her and Dudley clenched his fists.

"Come down, freak," He growled, "The teacher's calling."

She clung to the head. "How do I know that?" She challenged. "Or do you just want to beat me up like usual? It's not like you're good for much else."

Dudley turned purple. "Say that again?!"

"You're a foul, stupid liar," Christina articulated very slowly, like she was speaking to a baby. Dudley turned a shade of purple that highlighted his resemblance to Vernon. "And I don't trust you. I'm staying up here."

Dudley snarled and rushed forward, intending to climb the golem and drag her down to hit her. Christina sat back. Dudley is too fat to climb, she thought, he'll grumble, never reach me, and storm off. Sure enough, with the position the golem was sitting in, the chest was too vertical for Dudley to get any footholds in. He and his friends all struggled; Malcolm managed to climb up a bit but ultimately lost his footing and slid back to the grass. She smiled brightly, feeling safe for once.

"I'm gonna kill you, freak!" Dudley yelled, red faced and furious.

Before Christina could retort, the red lines on the golem flared again. Piers, Dennis and the other two boys screamed as the golem suddenly moved, raising one hand and swinging it directly at Dudley, who had a few seconds of wide-eyed panic before it happened...

There was an awful, loud crack upon the impact, the crunch of bones; then Dudley went flying across the clearing. The other four boys scattered, screaming and running in every direction. Dudley slammed into a tree with a wet crunch and fell to the ground in a boneless heap.

Christina froze so still she herself may have become a statue. She stared in disbelief at her cousin's body, as the golem returned to its sitting position and the runes died down again. Dudley lay still, limbs on awkward angles, and he wasn't moving – wasn't moving -

She scrambled down the golem and onto the ground – woofing as her feet hit the stone, though she barely noticed – and hurried over to her cousin's body. Up close, his limbs were at obscene angles, and blood was pooling in the grass he lay face down in.

Christina made a huge mistake. She turned him on to his side, hoping to rouse him, or see how badly he was hurt...and saw his smashed-in face. The impact of the golem's hand had fractured his skull, shattered his nose and cheekbones, and dislodged most of his teeth.

Nausea swept over her in a dizzying wave; the world tilted and then went black.

**~Line Break~**

She woke in the middle of the night, in a hospital bed in a room next to Dudley.

She didn't come here often – only for annual checkups that would be strange to miss. The white walls unnerved her with how plain and barren they were, like they'd suck her soul away if she died. She could hear sobbing. It sounded like her aunt...and her uncle. Fear gripped her stomach. She tilted her head towards the room next to her, trying to listen.

"...mostly shock. She's also quite famished, not eating nearly enough, that probably contributed. Has she not been eating proper meals?"

"She has." Vernon said, his voice lacking its usual brusqueness. Instead it sounded like he was trying to keep it steady. "She just doesn't...doesn't seem to retain it." That was a weak excuse, but he didn't let anyone dwell on it. "What about Dudley?"

"It's...not good, Mr Dursley."

"Tell me!" Petunia shrieked. "Tell me, tell me, what happened to my baby..."

"He got hit by something...I'd say it was a semi truck judging by these injuries..." The doctor took a break. "His skull is fractured in three places; his nose is basically gone as are all but two of his teeth. He'll need extensive surgery to reconstruct his face..." He paused. "Five of his ribs are broken, one of his lungs collapsed, and his stomach hemorrhaged last night before being stabilized. I'm sorry, but his position is extremely precarious. Frankly I'm amazed he's still alive."

Petunia howled, like some sort of wounded animal, and collapsed on her husband.

Christina felt sick. All she'd wanted was for Dudley to be unable to hurt her. She hadn't wanted him to die...

She thought back to when he tried to steal her painting. Or...or...or maybe she had wished it once. But she hadn't meant it! She hadn't thought about what that really meant...this was bad...this was really, really bad!

"You can't mean that! He's my son! He's my son, my only son, you can't tell me he'll die..." Petunia ceased to make sense and started making blubbering noise.

"He'll only die if you don't do your ruddy jobs!" Vernon bellowed, but it didn't have the impact he wanted it to because his voice cracked right in the middle of it.

Christina pulled her hands towards her chest. Neph twitched; she could almost feel concern from the little paper bird.

She had to fix this. She had no idea how she'd do it, but if she had magic, there had to be something she could do...it didn't matter if Dudley would never do the same in her position, all that mattered was that this was her fault...she'd fix this. There had to be something.

Back in the attic of the house, the trunk rumbled loudly, then smashed through the door and landed in the living room.

**~Line Break~**

Christina stalled and stared at the trunk.

She was surprised when Vernon and Petunia took her home, only to practically push her through the doors and shut her in, telling her to watch the house while they stayed with Dudley. Granted this wasn't the first time they'd done something like this – Petunia was a hysterical woman who flew into a panic if her precious Dudders so much as skinned his knee, after all – but given the state Dudley was in, he wasn't leaving the hospital any time soon. It was unlike Vernon to be willing to leave her alone in the house, where she might 'steal' stuff or burn it down or whatever.

However, the trunk hadn't been there when she left the house this morning. They were old, and still had some dust on them despite their rapid exodus from the attic. There were three carved letters on the silver clasp keeping it closed. LCE.

Neph burst out of Christina's pocket and flew over to the trunk, alighting on it and tapping her beak against it. Christina eyed it warily, before walking to the back door and looking into the basement to see if anyone had broken in. She saw no sign of any intrusion. Cautiously she returned to the room and examined the trunk again. Neph tapped insistently.

Christina ran her fingers over the clasp...which automatically snapped open, causing her to shriek with surprise. When nothing lunged out of the trunk to eat her, she slowly opened it...which revealed, not a bunch of dusty books and blankets as she expected, but a stairwell that lead down into a darker area. That didn't make any...sense...

Her breath quickening, Christina went to the kitchen and got a flashlight. She turned it on and pointed it into the trunk...illuminating a simple wooden floor at the foot of the ladder. There was also part of a bookshelf that she could see from here. Curiosity overwhelmed all the feelings that had been rattling around her head since yesterday, Christina looped the flashlight's handle around her wrist and climbed into the trunk, down the ladder to the bottom. Once her feet hit the floor, she found that she was at the front of a hallway lined by two bookshelves on either side. The walls were wooden and lined with torches, which spontaneously lit with a blue flame when she straightened up. The hallway lead to a doorway with a room on the other side.

Neph flew down and sat on Christina's shoulder. Blinking, the girl slowly walked down the hall, panning her flashlight over the shelves. There were lots of books there, but many of them weren't in English...in fact...her heart quickened. Some of them had the same sorts of images/letters on them that were inscribed on the golem that had hurt Dudley...that she had activated...

She hurried through the doorway to find herself in a living room, large and spacious – in fact, it was possibly bigger than the Dursley living room upstairs! - modestly but lovingly furnished. There was a blue carpet covering most of the floor, a comfy couch pushed against one wall with an older model TV sitting across from it. The walls were pained a dark gold with some silver sparkles like stars patterned across it. A ceiling fan hummed to life on a low setting upon her entrance. There were more shelves with more books, but there were also buckets, papers, paints, and brushes neatly lined up on another table across from the first one. Hanging on the southern wall was a broomstick with a sterling silver plaque under it. Walking over to it, Christina read the words Nimbus 1947. It wasn't the only thing on the wall – there was also a Japanese Oni mask and a broadsword that probably weighed more than Christina herself did, both hanging from hooks on the eastern wall.

Christina looked around and saw that the living room had two adjacent rooms – a kitchen and a bedroom. Feeling hungry – she hadn't eaten since leaving the hospital – she walked into it, the torchlight brightening as she stepped onto the white tiled floor. There was a table that would sit four comfortably, a sink, several cabinets and a fridge. The fridge had those odd letters scrawled over it too...Christina opened it and was surprised to see perfectly preserved food inside it (everything smelled like it was freshly picked/processed!), including a carton of milk, a bowel of grapes, a few apples, bagels, tomato sauce, and some other sorts that she didn't recognize and might have come from overseas. Grabbing a handful of grapes and one bagel, Christina placed them on the table and opened the freezer, almost hoping for ice cream. However, it was (and it was almost as large as the fridge) packed to the brim solely with different kinds of meat, some of which Christina, again, didn't recognize. Feeling slightly put off by this, she closed it and began rooting through the cupboards. She found plates and glasses along with packages of crackers and trial mix. No weird letters there, at least, though she had an odd feeling that particular area of the house didn't need them.

Grabbing one box of graham crackers and some jam, Christina turned to the table and made herself a meal, eating as much as she wanted for the first time she could remember. Once she was done, she walked over to the sink...and nearly dropped the plate when she saw it also had weird letters carved into its surface despite its' muggle composition.

This was starting to scare her. Could anything in this strange house come alive?

Very tentatively, Christina placed the plate in the sink. When nothing happened, she let out a sigh and brushed her finger across the letter just below the water faucet. To her pleasant surprise, water jetted out of it, and soap from the dispenser automatically fell in. The plates would...wash themselves?

Why hadn't she known about that before now?

Curious and deeply hungry for an explanation, Christina left the kitchen and went to the last room she hadn't investigated yet – which turned out to be the bedroom.

Christina instantly felt warm when she stepped inside. The very air seemed infused with...something. It was a feeling, vaguely familiar, it brought back memories of a crib in a small cottage just before the Man in Black broke in...there was a single-person bed with a thick, fluffy white comforter covering it and a hand made quilt folded at the foot. There was a painting of a swan hanging from the wall, a writing desk sitting to the side across from the bed, and a nightstand next to it that had a lamp and a book that looked like a journal.

There was also a picture there...a moving picture? Yeah, the characters were moving...

Walking over, she picked the frame up and held it in her hands.

It depicted a man and a woman who looked just like her, dressed in winter wear and laughing over something. The woman was holding a baby in her arms; while the photo was black and white she had no doubt that she had red hair and green eyes...the same that she saw in the mirror every day...the man had a similar face to her...was she the baby...? these were...her parents...

Christina reached out and gently touched the images with her fingers. The inhabitants mimed as if to high five her, and suddenly the room blurred over and she fell to her knees clutching the frame against her chest, great, heaving sobs leaving her throat. The noises barely sounded human. It took a long time for her to stop crying.

Sniffling, her throat raw, Christina rubbed her face on her sleeve before gently replacing the frame on the night stand. Then her eyes fell on the journal. Written on the cover were a familiar set of initials, L.C.P. Written beneath it, however, was C.L.P.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Christina took another shaking breath and opened the cover of the book.

This journal is the property of Lily Ceclica Potter (nee Evans), bequeathed to one Christina Lily Potter.

She sniffed, smiled, her head spinning and her heart worn with an ache she could not describe. It was not a wholly bad ache, like what she felt at the hospital as the doctor described Dudley's injuries, or the ache of loneliness she felt when she slept in the cupboard before she created Neph and the others. It was a good ache, a complicated feeling, and she welcomed it with a tearful hug. She turned her attention to the first page.

If you are reading this, I can only imagine what you must think of me. To be frank, however, if you are thinking of tracking me down and giving me a lecture on 'dark based magic' and how it shouldn't be used, I suggest you familiarize yourself with the left-hand evacuation procedure.

Christina giggled. She could almost imagine her mother standing with her arms across her chest, staring at a point past the would be lecturer's head, pretending to listen while tuning them out entirely.

Frankly, I'd be most insulted by the implication that I haven't given my work and research any thought before pursuing any of it. I have. I've given it a lot, to be honest – you simply do not start poking the things I have without proper planning.

I am not an idiot, nor am I some arrogant traditionalist who either blindly accepts or rejects certain things because I'm supposed to. I am a stranger in this world, and I believe that some things are worth preserving while others should be left on the way side and forgotten. I question the hypocrisy of a world that condemns summoning while still carrying contracts that enslave a woman to a man for all her life. I reject the arrogance of a world that claims I know nothing of its history, then shames and threatens me when I try to uncover and unlock something from its ancient days. It's no bloody wonder there's so much unrest, when this world is determined to live solely in extremes. You cannot have light without dark, and dark without light, nor are they mutually exclusive.

I have uncovered a lot of things the common subconsciousness has attributed to legend and dreams. I know the Hallows are real, though I am not foolish enough to search for them. I know there is another realm in Avalon, though you must be careful when entering it. I know that if I brought half of this to the Ministry, short of the Department of Mysteries, I would be laughed out or have a bounty set on my head by short sighted fools. I hope against hope that my application to the Department is accepted, though with the rising racial tensions (I have no other word for it, though it seems not entirely appropriate. It is distant ancestry that separates us, not skin tone) I fear that I will be drafted into a militia before they have time to file a response.

I am a muggle born witch. Perhaps, someday, my children will be pure blood. When they look back at what I've done, I hope they respect and admire it and brag about their humble roots, instead of being self aggrandizing, but hopelessly sheltered chits like a certain James Potter!

As Christina read, she felt a smile creeping across her face. Her mother sounding like, well, her!

She was a witch! She had magic. There were other magic users out there, a whole society of them! They had their own legends, ancient powers – Avalon was real! Her heart was hammering with excitement. This validated all the time she'd spent alone, wondering if she truly was a freak. Her mother was a witch and was just like her.

Though why was she calling her father a self aggrandizing, sheltered chit? That puzzled Christina immensely. Oh sure, she was familiar with the concept of belligerent sexual tension (as a concept, at least – again, she did a lot of reading. There wasn't much else to do in the cupboard.) but it struck her as odd nonetheless. Perhaps this was before she really got to know her father? She turned back to the rest of the paragraph.

Since this world is so obsessed with legacy, I leave this trunk – my home away from home, away from home (heh) – to whatever children/nieces/nephews I might have, their grandchildren, great-grandchildren, et cetera. Perhaps you will have some fancy baron or viscount title, or perhaps you will be born of muggles or squibs or a combination of the above. Whatever it may be, though I may not get to meet you, I love you, and I hope these tomes I have written and recovered serve you well.

Christina rubbed at her eyes. She was crying again. Was it because she had nearly nine years of tears to shed? Was it because Petunia had attributed foolishness and apathy to the lack of her mother's presence in her life, having said it so many times that part of her started to believe it even with the nightmares of her mother's death?

She began to turn through the pages. She saw more of the odd letters written out, but this time she had her mother's words to guide her.

If you are going to Hogwarts – or any magical school, I suppose, but there's really only Hogwarts for major education (aside from homeschooling) in the general Magical Britian Area, so if you're still native that's probably where you're headed – you'll notice an elective course called Ancient Runes. I recommend you take it, if only for a year so you can easily understand and access half of what makes this trunk tick.

However, know this ahead of time – Ancient Runes isn't just a language, it is the language of the precursor of all magic – Avalon. And so much of it was lost when that kingdom vanished into the mist. Since it faded into myth, it's regarded largely as a mere curiosity – when I spoke to the Professor of the course in my second year, he didn't even know that! But there is a reason for this, and not the one you think. A lot of the old language was suppressed.

Because it wasn't deemed 'acceptable'.

For a world so obsessed with its cultural identity it is hostile to any new blood that enters it – to the extent that wars have been fought and may be fought in the future – I find it morbidly hilarious that they are censoring the most powerful and ancient part of their history. The originals.

Christina bit her lip. Censorship. What was it about the runes that scared people? Her mind flashed back to Dudley's mangled body.

If you are uncertain, take this bit of wisdom – life is dangerous, little love. Your wand can kill in a hundred different ways with spells that are taught in the very first year. What matters is the precaution, the intention, the fetters you give yourself. You must know what is and isn't acceptable. If you cannot draw distinct lines that cannot be crossed, do not touch the Runes or Blood Magic. It will not end well for you, or anyone.

But I didn't know, I didn't know, I didn't have the knowledge...

So that's what the runes on the golem and around the trunk were for. They were an old language – a language of invocation and sealing, clearly. That would explain why the golem could be activated by her blood, why it reacted in a certain way when Dudley threatened to kill her. It was effectively programmed to do so, with basic runes that allowed it only one sort of response to a given situation. So it didn't recognize that Dudley was in no position to carry out his threat...if only the programming had been more sophisticated, if the creator had thought the possibilities through more...

Perhaps her mother had some notes on that? With the shelves of tomes in the hallway, it seemed Lily was a collector of this sort of thing.

Christina skipped past several diary entries, which seemed to be following her mother's school years. This didn't seem to be one of her mother's 'work' or 'experiment' journals, instead chronicling her current thoughts, rants and various bits of information she thought were prudent to maintain.

"It's all dark magic". Of all the ridiculous things...I get it, calling something dark when you're dealing with impressionable eleven year olds who are essentially being handed weapons of mass destruction is the sensible thing to do. Putting the fear of god in them so you don't have little kids in the infirmary who need limbs reattached. But I'm a bloody fifth year, and they're still treating me like the world is black and white and good and bad as if there is nothing in between, no compromises, no bridge between the concepts when life simply does not work that way even when we want it to! (make that especially when we want it to.) Do the highest powers in this land really cling to such childish simplicity in their way of life?

How could the language of the literal beginning of magic be 'dark?' It was there before 'dark' magic even became a sub-genre of existence! I can't believe I'm having trouble convincing a school not to burn or ban books. This should be a house of learning! If they don't learn it here, what if they learn it on their own not knowing how to do so safely?!

I've saved a number of books from the restricted section before it was emptied; not nearly enough. I should start looking into other places, listening, learning, to find other tomes before they are lost to simple minded ignorance...

Christina smiled. Her mother was pretty cool, for how put upon she sounded. A lot of people would find taking on such a venture intimidating, but Lily went after it as a matter of course. She had a pretty cool mother...

She turned a few more pages and let out a small noise of surprise. A letter had fallen out from between the pages, onto the floor. She picked it up and turned it over. Her name was written across it. It was date marked a week before her birthday.

Taking a deep breath, Christina turned back to the journal and flipped ahead to the page the letter had been kept between. There were some dried teardrops on the page, and the writing seemed shakier than the rest.

I pray to God this is enough...

I was afraid it wouldn't work. I had never summoned a Higher Spirit before; especially not one as powerful as Anubis. Christina gasped. James would be horrified if he knew (all the better that he doesn't. We never fully agreed on these things). But the prophecy...ugh, the f—king prophecy. I hate divination. I really do. Perceiving the nature of fate only leaves this profound sense of powerlessness...and fear.

I do not know if I will live or die. We have been given the Fieldus Charm and I'm afraid it's not enough. One of James's most trusted friends is keeping the only key to our discovery, and I do not trust him to keep it. Why him instead of Dumbledore, or Remus? Peter...he has so much potential, but he's nervous, and he cowes easily...he's shown great bravery since the start of the war, incredible bravery...But if it fails, if he fails, if Voldemort somehow procures the secret anyway (I think I still have not seen the full extent of his magical ability), my baby...

I can't. I cannot allow my daughter's fate to be uncertain.

Anubis says that only death can pay for life. He helped me do the blood sealing. My life is now my daughter's. My love is her shield, her guard against whatever Voldemort might create. Should he kill me, then attempt to kill her, his magic will fail. Even the fabled killing curse will be thrown back in his face. As long as she is in need of it, Christina has my blood.

Christina whimpered. She raised her fingers and brushed them across the lightning shaped scar on her forehead. So that was the Man in Black. Voldemort.

Chrissy, I hope you're reading this. I hope that we are sitting side by side, laughing over my unneeded worries. If I'm not here, I hope you're sitting between Sirius and Remus, and they're taking care of you.

Christina cocked her head. Sirius? Remus? Who were they?

However, if the worst decision has been made (if our will has been lost, replaced or outright fabricated – we're at war, and this world has a long history of line theft or attempts at it) you might be reading this while avoiding my sister Petunia. If that's the case, there's a manila envelope on the upper shelf of my writing desk. When you get your Hogwarts acceptance letter and go to Diagon Alley and Gringotts, give it to your account manager and say you have evidence of line theft. I'll write this elsewhere to remind you, because it's important.

Line theft. Huh. Baron, Viscount...so the magical world was fashioned like an old kingdom? That sounded exciting!

There's another envelope under that, that will describe the basics of your position to you. You're in a somewhat precrious position, as it will explain. Aside from that...

There were some teardrops on the pages. She had a feeling that her mother was thinking very hard on how to pose her comments.

Chrissy, everything in this trunk is now yours. My books on Ancient Runes – both the Summoning and Blood Magic specializations. I want you to understand this before you read or attempt to do anything-

They are dangerous.

You cannot use any of them lightly. Do not invoke anything unless you have properly prepared. Never, ever assume you can cheat a spirit or short change a blood ritual. I cannot emphasize this enough, my little princess. Foolish use of these powers can inflict fates worse than death.

Christina's mouth felt dry. Worse...how could anything be worse than dying?

I believe you are a very smart girl. I've had precious little time with you, but I believe that. And I believe this knowledge will see you through all the trials that life has to offer you.

I love you, Chrissy.

That was the final entry.

Christina hugged the notebook against her chest, taking deep, shaky breaths. She didn't know how long she sat there, absorbing her mother's last words into her heart. There were still things she didn't understand – like who Sirius and Remus were. She would have thought that Petunia would have been happy to hand her off to other relatives. She glanced towards the writing desk, brow furrowed. Walking over and opening it, she found the envelopes sitting right where the note said they'd be. There were also a number of other journals there; these she believed were some of her mother's work and research diaries...how did she have time for all this?

There was a closed and locked drawer in the desk. She ruffled through the draws and came up with a silver key that hummed with magic. Wondering why her mother had locked something in her own magic trunk, Christina unlocked it.

The drawer held a small grey string bag. Upon opening it, a small, enchanted hourglass fell into Christina's hand. She twisted it between her fingers, brow furrowed, before recalling (never use something you don't understand) the warning and putting it away again.

It must be special, she thought, to be extra hidden. She locked it again, so as not to be tempted to mess with it.

Gently putting her mother's journal on the desk, she returned to the living room. She stared down at the carpet for several seconds...before kneeling down and pulling it back, pulling it to the side of the room. She sucked in a sharp breath.

A pentagram of Runes. This was where her mother had summoned Anubis. There were still bloodstains on the old letters.

Christina took a look around this eerie laboratory...and then she smiled.

End Prologue

Welcome to my WIP on ancient runes and blood magic. I've been excited on the concept for a while, it's very underutilized in canon. So this is where we begin, the start of a grey fem!Harry. She won't be the only person who's using this variant of magic...I felt it was odd that so many of the wizards relied on their wands. Especially Riddle's men.

Read and Review please!