A/N: Yet another attempt at a Female!Harry fic, as you can see. I feel as though I start with the middle of an idea, which tends to go well for about three chapters before I stupidly write myself into a corner.

Anyway, here's a different approach... sort of. More of an intelligent, independent, sensible, creative, older Female!Harry (a Female!Harry who may have been conveniently conceived while her parents were still attending Hogwarts; a conception in somewhat unusual circumstances with a name to match.)

Also features a more mature Severus. (More movie version than book... or perhaps more book than movie... no one really knows... for argument's sake, shall we just say he may be a little OOC at certain points, insofar as considering the Severus we know... maybe?)

Chapter I
Ribbons

The gentle rattle of glass bottles faded into the distance, as a child in a cupboard was roused from sleep.

It might seem strange to some, of course, that any child should sleep in a cupboard, but what the majority didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

She hadn't always lived there, though she could hardly say she'd ever known any different. Her dreams, she supposed, should have been proof enough that she had started off in a more normal situation with her own bedroom, her own bed and her own toys. But what was a cupboard in comparison to a bedroom?

How could she consider the prospect of her own bed when her only real memories were of the cold, spider-infested floor?

What sort of toys did she really have? These days, she had been lucky to have her cousin, Dudley's, cast-offs; the ones he'd broken. That thought alone surprised her, for what were toys without the imagination to play? She knew her relatives were not very accepting of imagination, except perhaps when it came to their son, the aforementioned Dudley, though his idea of it was perhaps questionable to outsiders.

Regardless of her status (or lack thereof) she was at least glad she could call the cupboard 'Home.' After all, things could be so much worse. She did have a roof over her head; she wasn't left to freeze in the frigid snow or fry in the heat of the Sun (at least not as a general rule.)

Searching in the darkened cupboard, lit only by the natural sunlight streaming down the carpeted hallway and seeping through the vent in the door, which was fortunately open, she fumbled around for the nearest book.

Books were something else, of course. Were it not for the fact that Dudley hated reading (and, unfortunately, wasn't a particularly good reader for that matter) then his cousin doubted very much she'd ever have the opportunity to read inside the house at all.

Squinting in the painfully-dim light, she leaned up against the door, thrusting the open book into her face, desperately tempting to comprehend the words written there. It wouldn't be so bad, of course, if she could have an eye test, but why should her relatives waste money on something so positively ridiculous as eye tests or dental check-ups for their niece when she was little more than a burden?

They had never wanted her; resented her since birth and her conception was an uncomfortable subject for the adults currently living at Number Four. Both somewhat old-fashioned, her societal status was worthy of little more than pure, unadulterated loathing.

It may be questioned why Mr. and Mrs. Dursley had been so keen to take their niece in considering the level of contempt they felt for her, but, as the fact remained, they were the only living relatives she had, and so she had been thrust upon them following the death of her parents.

For several years she had wondered how they died. She liked to have dreamt that they died in her place, but from the way it had been told to her by her Aunt it wasn't nearly so romantic or admirable — that her parents were 'alcoholics who were stupid enough to get themselves killed when her drunken father sped off the cliffs of Dover.' (She'd never questioned, herself, how she could have survived such a catastrophe while her parents had perished, for she had been so upset by the tale of her orphaned status. Never mind the fact that she had been three-years-old at the time, she should surely have remembered that; yet she had no memories of the event.) To this day, the truth was difficult to comprehend, let alone for a nine-year-old to understand.

A nine-year-old. 'Oh, no,' she thought. It was her cousin's birthday. He was nine today. Regrettably, she knew what that meant. There was sure to be a tantrum or two if he didn't get what he wanted.

Fortunately for Rapunzel (for that was the name her parents bestowed on her) she would, at least, miss a good twelve hours of it, for today was a Friday, and as her Aunt and Uncle took their son out for his birthday (of course, Aunt Petunia would phone the school and use the age-old excuse that he was unwell so he didn't have to go — it was a wonder the teachers at Dudley's school hadn't cottoned on that this would be the fourth year in a row where he wasn't in attendance on his birthday) Rapunzel would be going to school.

School without Dudley was a nice thought for the girl, who had since given up trying to read what she couldn't see. She supposed it might be peaceful for once. There would be no hair-pulling or being chased or hit during playtimes, no throwing of food at her head at lunch. She'd hoped, of course, that he might have grown out of that habit by now anyway, but she'd yet to have any such luck.

The name-calling and taunts would continue, of course, but she'd learned over the years to not let silly cries of "Rapunzel! Rapunzel! Let down your hair!" to bother her. In a way, she had learned to be happy about it; particularly since the Headteacher, Mr. Lowe, had given her a storybook with that particular tale in it when he'd found her lonely and crying in a far corner of the playground. Having since read that tale she had learned, in loving the princess, to love her name.

"Up!" came a shrill voice, as the girl heard the lock click open. Before she had time to react, however, the door was flung open and Rapunzel tumbled out. "Enough loitering, lazy lump! Get in the kitchen!"

She didn't need to be told twice, as she clumsily scrambled to her feet and bolted.

Before long, the birthday boy had bounded down the stairs, the thumping sound more than enough to give Rapunzel a migraine, and ran excitedly through the house, slamming every open door, to greet his parents who were waiting with open arms and birthday wishes, before immediately breaking away to begin messing up the living room with torn wrapping paper, instantly demolishing Pressie Mountain (or so Rapunzel had taken to calling it over the years; each year gaining more and more height.)

Fortunately, there hadn't been too much in the way of temper tantrums that morning, though Dudley had done more than a little complaining over having received books for his birthday. Perhaps if Rapunzel behaved herself, she could be blessed with more new books to try and read with her poor eyesight in complete darkness.

As the Dursley trio all sat waiting for their breakfast, knowing full well Rapunzel was likely to be late for school, the girl in question ran around the kitchen like a maniac in an attempt to get everything done: from cooking the breakfast, to cleaning the counters, to washing the dishes, to mopping Dudley's muddy footprints off the floor. He never wiped his feet and Rapunzel was surprised Petunia never went ballistic at him, for she was what some might have called a 'neat freak.'

Sometimes Rapunzel felt more like Cinderella.

Hastily, she dashed to the kitchen table, staring in utter panic at the clock, as she rapidly placed plates and cutlery on the table before them.

"I want my breakfast, bastard!" Dudley screamed.

It wouldn't be long now before he really did throw a tantrum; the way he threw around that epithet he'd heard his parents use so often. Neither Aunt Petunia nor Uncle Vernon admonished him.

She tried not to let that particular name get to her, but even she — the girl believed by the three currently seated in the dining room to have no feelings whatsoever — had her limits.

"Please, Aunt Petunia, I'm gonna be late," she begged, from her place at the stove, as sausage fat spat up at her, burning her cheek.

"Get that lot on the table first," Vernon demanded. "You think we're gonna starve for you?"

She did as she was told, and, shaking like a leaf, carried the sizzling frying pan to the kitchen table, never expecting her cousin to stick his foot out.

The contents of the pan went flying, only some of it landing where it was supposed to; the remainder on Uncle Vernon's face.

Rapunzel was lucky to get away from Number Four Privet Drive for the day (when she was permitted to leave, of course.)

Her indiscretion had cost her; that much was certain.

Several lashings to her back and, indeed, backside, with her Uncle's belt seemed to please him; at least until he decided that locking her in the cupboard for a while was also a good idea.

Satisfied at the morning's punishment, the Dursleys decided she was free to leave (and Rapunzel did not hesitate for one second) for school — perhaps the only source of relief she would get that day… two hours late.

Her venture to the Year Six classroom with Miss Fellowes didn't go very well. It wasn't the best of ideas to burst into a classroom, interrupting whichever individual child happened to be reading aloud at the time.

Before she had time to utter the slightest apology, Miss Fellowes, leaving the teaching assistant in charge, marched Rapunzel to the Head's office.

"Come in, Miss Fellowes," came the distant voice, as Miss Fellowes opened the door and ushered the child inside. Not once did he look up from his book.

Rapunzel often wondered how he did it; how he always knew which member of staff was on the other side. Then again, perhaps he worked there long enough to detect which knock belonged to whom.

"Mr. Lowe," she sighed, "Rapunzel Potter has just entered my classroom two hours late. This is the fifth time this month. It has to stop. I can't have children continually disrupting my classes." (Use of the word 'children,' of course, referred only to the child in question.)

"I understand, Miss Fellowes. You may leave," he said, placing the book face-down on his desk.

The teacher left with an exasperated sigh, leaving the door wide open.

Rolling his eyes at his ill-tempered colleague, he turned kindly to the child. "Rapunzel, would you shut the door, please?"

Having done so, she stayed as far away from him as possible while still remaining within the confines of his office. Suddenly, she felt quite claustrophobic, which was strange considering the girl lived in a cupboard.

"Would you like to take a seat?" he asked.

'Not really,' she thought. Her backside was still throbbing and she wondered if she'd be able to sit down much for the rest of the week.

Fully aware of her reluctance, though not particularly sure of the reason (he could assume it was anxiety) he spoke. "I can't make you. If you're comfortable standing; that's fine."

She wasn't comfortable, of course.

"Are you ill, Rapunzel?" he asked. Though there was nothing accusatory in his tone, the child was reluctant to answer his questions. "I've noticed myself it happens a lot. Have you spoken to your family about it?"

Rapunzel simply shook her head. If she spoke, she'd only end up telling the truth and she dreaded the can of worms that would open.

Rising from his seat, he began to approach Rapunzel. He'd noticed long ago that she didn't look very well cared for. Her long hair was a tangled mass of black curls. She wore clothes that on the best days looked like thirds from charity shops and her male cousin's hand-me-downs on bad days. She was certainly underweight, but most kids were skinny, so he hadn't given it a great deal of thought until that day. In that moment, the utterly defeated look on her face told him everything he needed to know. There wasn't much light in her eyes, the dark rings plaguing her face making her look more like a panda than a ten-year-old.

Mr. Lowe had remembered the day he'd given her that book of fairytales, and of the moment she'd told him she'd read Rapunzel. He remembered how much her eyes lit up talking about it, as though he was the first person she was able to tell anything to — a vivid, emerald green capable of piercing into his soul; so different to the lifeless ones he saw now.

Rapunzel shrank further away from him, as though hoping the door or wall would somehow swallow her whole.

A somewhat puzzled look overcame the Head's features. "I'm not going to hurt you, Rapunzel," he said. "In fact, despite your absences, I'm still quite impressed with you."

His deliberate change of topic prompted her to relax a little more, though how any teacher could be impressed by a frequently-truant student was more than a little baffling.

"Miss Fellowes brought me the history homework you handed in on Monday."

Oh, she remembered that. She had actually found it rather fun, even if she struggled to see while doing it.

"Yes, Rapunzel, your interpretation of Anglo Saxon Chronicle was quite interesting. Beautifully-illustrated too. The drop-cap was a nice addition; certainly sent a message to Miss Fellowes, if I might say. I think you'll make a good writer one day," he smiled.

It wasn't something she'd really given much thought to. Where other children might have dreamt of becoming firefighters, teachers or vets, she just assumed she'd be serving the Dursleys all her life, with books as her only escape from their harsh attitudes. Now that Mr. Lowe mentioned it, however, she began to see herself as a writer of the future; a storyteller or a historian or an astronomer. She could be anything she wanted if she set her mind to it.

What was perhaps the most surprising, however — not least of all Mr. Lowe's thoughts of her set work — was her teacher's view of her homework, for Miss Fellowes was something of an impatient teacher. Compared to her colleagues, she was still quite young and had some maturing to do, but that would come with age. Still, Rapunzel supposed perhaps Miss Fellowes did like her in her own way, even if she hadn't previously regarded her with much favour.

"Thank you, sir," Rapunzel said, quietly.

"I particularly liked your use of the Saxon alphabet and Runes. That's something your peers hadn't done. What made you think to use Runes, Rapunzel?" he asked, with a smile.

In all honesty, she didn't really know. "Well," she began, pausing in search of an answer. "Well, sir, I thought they made a good border for the article."

"They did indeed," he said. "Rapunzel, did you know that each Rune has its own meaning? In fact, they have multiple meanings. It's quite interesting." Stepping back, Mr. Lowe surveyed his student before speaking once more. "Tell me, Rapunzel, have you received your letter yet?"

This seemed to confuse her. For one, his question came out of nowhere, and she also didn't get letters.

Slowly, she shook her head.

"You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?" he smiled, to which she shook her head again. "I've seen you, Rapunzel. I've seen you doing magic."

The look of horror that overcame her face might almost have been enough to disable Mr. Lowe, as he returned to his seat, pondering her expression.

"Shouldn't talk about magic," she said, as though she'd been telling herself that for years. "Magic isn't real. Magic does horrible things; freakish things. Magic's dangerous. It isn't real; it's only in storybooks. Shouldn't talk about magic."

No longer looking at him, she was now wringing her hands, rocking from one foot to the other and muttering the same phrases, repeatedly contradicting herself, as though torn between reiterating the beliefs of others and wanting to express her own.

"Rapunzel?" he called, gently, though she didn't respond. "Rapunzel?" he tried again. Nothing. Sliding the wooden ruler off the end of his desk, he whacked it against the table with a loud SNAP. "Who told you those things, Rapunzel?"

At the sound, the child ceased her habits, though upon seeing the ruler in his hand she fumbled around for the door handle; the door handle she couldn't find.

"Let me out; please let me out," she panicked.

Leaving his seat once more, Mr. Lowe approached the girl, and knelt at eye-level, placing a comforting hand on her arm, as she still attempted to leave. "Rapunzel," he soothed, in a soft, low voice. "Calm down. I'm not going to hurt you. It isn't true, Rapunzel. Magic does what a person wills it to. Usually people use it for good or for fun… or perhaps if they're feeling especially lazy, but we don't like to talk about those people," he said, attempting his hand at a joke. "It's only dangerous when the one who uses it makes a bad choice. It's a matter of conscience. Magic by itself is only as dangerous as a single member of your family."

That didn't offer much comfort for Rapunzel. Her family members weren't nice people at all. She may have gone so far in her own mind as to call them dangerous (or, at least Uncle Vernon's belt was.) Yes, there were three of them and they were awful as a group, but it was difficult to imagine them separated; to see how they behaved as individuals — though, when she thought of Uncle Vernon's sister, Marge, they probably wouldn't be much better solo.

No, Aunt Petunia was right: magic was dangerous. If Uncle Vernon could cause such pain with something as simple as his belt, then she didn't dare think what magic was capable of.

Rapunzel had stilled, both hands on the door, head down. "I don't believe—" she whispered, eyes shining with tears she couldn't allow to fall.

"Well, I can't make you believe anymore than I can make you sit down," he said. Sighing, he looked around his somewhat-bare office. He'd never been too appreciative of clutter; rather meticulous in his decorative habits. There must surely have been something in there to convince her, aside from the obvious.

Leaving his student's side, he approached the small bookcase under the windowsill, scrutinising the contents. Stopping under 'H,' he seized two, thick, leather-bound books, one of a subtle slate grey; the other a bold scarlet. Seating himself at his desk, he summoned the child. "Rapunzel, could you come here please?"

Rapunzel didn't know how long she had sat there reading and talking to Mr. Lowe. More than anything, she was a bit surprised that he hadn't sent her back to the classroom, but with the knowledge of the book the class was studying, he thought it best not to. He had a few suspicions now and he'd just as soon not subject such a child to a state of upset.

"They're lovely stories, Mr. Lowe," she said, "but how can they be real?"

"They're very real, Rapunzel," he smiled. "They aren't stories. Neither are they myths or legends. They're facts. Hogwarts is a real place and with your ability you'll soon see it for yourself. As I said earlier, magic by itself isn't bad. Wands aren't dangerous; the people who wield them are." Noting her expression — her attempts to comprehend what was fact and what was fiction, what was truth and what were lies — he slowly slid the top drawer of his desk open and lifted out a long, thin stick. "This is my wand, Rapunzel. I got it when I turned eleven, just as you will get yours."

"It's a stick," she said, somewhat bluntly.

"A decorative stick, but a stick nonetheless," he chuckled. Sensing she'd have to see to believe, he aimed his wand at the Venetian blinds and, with a flick of the wrist, they dropped, slats tipping like dominoes, knocking off the small plant pot on the window sill. "Oh dear," he said, in a rather deliberately-sarcastic tone. "Never mind. Reparo. Wingardium leviosa."

With two very different wand movements, Rapunzel stared wide-eyed, as the broken pot returned to its former glory and then rose four feet, before settling back into it's original location. She hardly noticed his utterance of "Evanesco," as the remainder of spilt soil vanished into thin air.

"Magic doesn't have to be dangerous," he reiterated once more. He didn't know how long (or, indeed, how often) she'd been told terrible things about magic, but he had to make her understand somehow.

"Did you just—?" she trailed off, unsure of what she'd just seen.

"I did," he smiled, as he rose, approached her from behind and offered his wand, handle-first, for her to take. "Hold it, Rapunzel. Feel the magic."

Hesitantly, she took it and felt a rush of something course through her veins. She didn't know quite what it was, but if what she'd just witnessed was real magic, then she supposed that was what it must have been.

"You'll be able to do that soon — repair things, levitate them, clean. Wands are surprisingly useful; I don't know where I'd be without mine — fighting with wires, glue and explosive machinery, no doubt. I'll let you into a secret, Rapunzel: I've never got on with vacuum cleaners."

She'd heard Mr. Lowe's words only faintly, rather mesmerised by the stick in her hand and the feel of unfamiliar power flowing within her.

"Wave it," he whispered, placing his hand over hers, as he guided her arm through the air, while a steady stream of coloured ribbons glided around the office before returning to swirl around her and disappear into silent fireworks.

"I just performed magic," Rapunzel said, the realisation hitting that her Headteacher hadn't been lying.

Mr. Lowe stepped into the corner of his office, quiet as a mouse. He'd seen her perform magic before now; accidentally, in the playground — usually a defence to get as far away from her tormentors as possible. She'd not be penalised for that, of course, for she was just a child and unable to control it. There was no way she could have just conjured those ribbons and not be punished by the Ministry of Magic for it — she'd surely be expelled from Hogwarts before she even started.

Folding his arms, he leaned against the wall, brown eyes glinting with joy. No, he'd let her treasure this moment; let her live with the belief she'd done it all by herself.