FULL SUMMARY: In a world where Mina Potter wasn't so much a Potter but a Bolton, the sharpness of a blade was a fear the wizarding world would quickly acquaint itself with, and Westeros would never forget. Cruelty, you see, can run in blood like ink in water, tainting all it touches, and there was nothing more brutal than a Bolton with a knife in their hand. Fem!Harry. Bolton!Harry. Incest. Strong M. Ramsay/Mina/Domeric

WARNINGS: EXTREMELY SLOW MOVING! Bolton focus. Brother sister incest. Triad pairing. Blood. Gore. Torture. Descriptions of flaying. Mind games. Dark!Harry. Fem!Harry. Bolton!Harry. Strong AU for both Game of Thrones and Harry Potter. Book!Roose Bolton. Show&Book!Ramsay Bolton. Domeric Lives. Hodgepodge of book and show. Strong R rating. Ramsay/Fem!Harry/Domeric. Ramsay is his own warning. No one fucks with House Bolton. Blood magic. Twin bonds. Domeric is just trying to be a good big brother, but his younger siblings are fucking sociopaths. Domeric isn't as saintly as he first appears, he's just better at acting.

CHALLENGE: I received a challenge by one of my delightful readers. The challenge was as follows; A Game of Thrones Crossover with a Fem!Harry as a Bolton. It needs to be in drabble form, It has to have a strong Bolton focus, with Domeric Bolton Lives included, and needs to include incest or incestual themes between Ramsay, Fem!Harry and Domeric. Now, when I first read the challenge, I blew it off completely lol. A Bolton Fem!Harry? Impossible. To keep Fem!Harry even remotely like her canon counterpart, there is no possible way to have her anyway like a Bolton, and the whole incest thing between brother and sister might be a line I shouldn't cross…

And then the muses ran wild and I thought fuck it. So here we are kiddos, in the seventh level of Dante's Hell, and I would like to invite you all on this little trip with me to Satan's pit. Should this have ever been created? Of course not! Should anybody read this and not quickly go to confession or for a hot shower afterwards to get rid of the dirt? Surely not. Should I take this and burn my bloody laptop in a pyre? Possibly! Yet, this is fiction, and I thought it might be fun to try and see if I could, even remotely, pull this off plausibly. Here's to trying new things! Even if you really shouldn't lol.

This fic will be told through 500-1500 word drabbles (Because I just can't do shorter lol).

CHAPTER ONE:

A Beautiful Child.

Mrs Huntington's P.O.V

Wilhelmina Potter was a beautiful child. Everybody said so. They gushed over her dimpled grin. Gaggled over her boisterous dark curls. Gossiped about her moonshine eyes. Small and soft and sprightly, Mina was the kind of child thought to be more nymph than toddler, sprang free from the limits of an antiquated fresco lining an Italian villa. Petite with long nimble limbs, pale and fair, with a rush of coiled dark hair and eyes the colour of clear ice, lighter than the moon with its distant cold light, equally unnerving in their lustre as their unsettling chill, she was the type of child many parents would dote and brag and blubber about.

Her tragic backstory only helped garner more sympathy and woe to her young, frail plight. Dumped on the steps of an orphanage before the blood and fluid had dried from her birth, she had been adopted by the lovely Lily and James Potter. Fifteen months later, they were being lowered into their graves and little Mina was, again, discarded on the doorstep of her aunt and uncle's moderate suburban house. From what Mrs Huntington had seen of the small family, they cared for the girl, gave her clothes and food and shelter, but were distant. Aloof. More concerned with their own son, Dudley, who Mrs Huntington had taught last year and never wished to teach again.

At first, it didn't make sense.

Mina was quick to smile, and quicker to laugh. She adored games. She was always the first child to offer something to play, and she was good at it, nearly always winning, be it in races or marbles. She danced and played and leapt about the playground with an energy and curiosity found only in pixies from old folktales. Spry footed and swift. She excelled in her numeracy lessons, even at the tender age of seven, her literacy skills were well above her age group, and Mr Hawthorne, the schools music teacher, was going to start harp lessons with her in the following week after witnessing her aptitude for the instrument in her last class. Mina has the hands for it, he told Mrs Huntington while they were on break over a steaming cup of tea. Deft, thin, long, good for getting into and between small spaces.

She took to certain things with a hunger and greed that rivaled a starved mutt. Mina adored dogs and horses, often dashing for books about the animals in her classes library time, enraptured by the illustrations printed on crinkled pages, needing repeated prompting to put the books back at the end of her allotted hour. She was clean and quick, not one who needed to be asked to tidy up after herself. Polite to the point of contention. Lyrical and light in her speech, and still, somehow imperious when she did decide to talk.

Wilhelmina Potter was a beautiful child, indeed. A child many parents should want, yes. A child any teacher, such as Mrs Huntington, should be delighted to teach, surely. Yet…

There was something terribly wrong with the girl.

Mrs Huntington didn't spot it at first. She highly doubted anyone could. Her beauty, as it did with all horrid beasts, hid the brutal cruelty within until it was too late to run. Of course the little boy who had snatched the orange crayon right out from Mina's hand, who was found dangling off the jungle gym by a broken leg, only fell. Undeniably the girl with lovely, long blonde hair, who had taken to taunting Mina about her own wild locks, accidentally had her pigtail sucked into the classroom fan, needing the plait to be cut from torn scalp to free her. Naturally, the twins who inadvertently kicked a ball that hit Mina in the chest, knocking the smaller child over, tripped and smashed their baby teeth out on the playground wall. Definitely. Clearly. Obviously.

And then the pencil sharpener went missing.

It was only a little thing. Pink. Single blade. Nothing extravagant. It was the type of sharpener you could pick up for fifty pence at the local office store. Mrs Huntington kept it on her desk, right by her pot of pens, and pupils would come up to use it over the large paper bin when their nibbled pencils got dull.

When little Cassie had asked to use it that fateful day, only to find it gone, Mrs Huntington had done nothing more than to promise to bring another tomorrow with a bashful smile, believing she had, for once, left it at home. In truth, Mrs Huntington would not have missed it at all, or gave it much more thought than she already had, if they had not found poor Luke the way they did.

Mrs Huntington would always remember the lack of blood in the bathroom stall. A bloody hand-print on the white toilet seat, where Luke had been pinned, a splash by the sink, a few drops by the door, but nothing more. She thought, perhaps, she would remember the sobbing too. The breathless kind, more wind and air than noise. Keen and high pitched. Whispers of pain so great they can't be voiced. The hand, that horrible, bent, red hand would be another nightmare Mrs Huntington would never forget. And Luke's gasping pleas? They would forever haunt her dreams.

Please! Please! I don't want to play anymore! I don't want to play! You win! You win the game! You win!

The doctor's would later tell his distraught parents little Luke would need a skin graft for his hand. The flayed hand. In the end, the limb couldn't be saved, and little Luke was a little more less. The psychiatrist he would hire later on in life, when he awoke in sweats from distorted nightmares, clutching at his prosthetic hand in weeping breaths, would inform him that day was the day he acquired his aversion for games and the word play. Mrs Huntington would tell herself, much later, sitting in her prison cell, that it was that easy spring day she had seen the devil for the first time.

It was only a shame she had not known it at the time.

Traumatic mutism was the clinical term for Luke's following silence when the police questioned the poor boy to try and discover what horrendous incidents had been undertaken in that primary school bathroom. Mrs Huntington just thought it was dread. Crippling dread. Fear did that, you see. It took your voice right from you. Stole it and never gave it back. Much like someone who had taken her pencil sharpener and took a child's hand from him.

They never did find the skin, no matter how hard they searched.

The school closed for six months while the investigation took place, the teachers at the focus of interrogation. Just six months. When no culprit was found, no weapon, all leads dry like unearthed roots, the doors were opened once more and everything went back to normal. Yet, Mrs Huntington would never forget that bathroom. A bloody hand-print on a field of white. The cries of a tortured child echoing off tiled wall.

A missing pencil sharpener that Mrs Huntington shouldn't be fixing on, but couldn't get passed, because, really, who would use a pencil sharpener to skin someone? Flay a child? The blade was small. Thin. Like Mina's fingers. Good for getting into and between small spaces. It couldn't be. It was a coincidence. Just a coincidence. The police didn't need to hear about her rambling tale of misplaced cheap stationary. She'd dropped it on the way in. It was likely down some drain, or resting pretty in a crook of her car. It was nothing. Nothing at all. She was seeing dots where there were no dots. So, she shoved the panic and worry away, and she did as all good teachers do. She got back to work.

In her first lesson back, Mrs Huntington kept it easy for the children, who were jittery and still refusing to use the school bathrooms, muttering amongst themselves of angry ghosts that ate bad children's hands. A few colouring pages distracted them from the sprouting urban legend enough. And then she made her route around the room, checking on her students work, and she saw it.

Again.

Mrs Huntington would never know why she froze right behind Wilhelmina Potter, but she did. Mina was at her desk, kicking her legs into a swing. The child was always in constant movement, tapping finger, swinging foot, fiddling. It was the one thing she got in trouble for. Mrs Huntington peeped over her shoulder and wished she never had. Mina had turned her cartoon robin over to the blank side, placed her palm squarely into the centre of the paper, fingers splayed, and had diligently traced her delicate hand on the white surface in red pencil. She coloured it in splashes of crimson, splodges and drips outside the line. Blink. Bloody hand-print on a pristine blanket of snow. Blink. The tip snapped at the wrist on one of Mina's vigorous strokes.

Mina dipped her hand into her jeans two sizes too big. Mina slid free a small pink pencil sharpener, screw loose and wonky on the blade, razor broken off and hastily attached back on. Mina paused. Felt the heat at her back. Glanced over her shoulder. Looked up, long neck craning back. Eyes the colour of the moon locked with her own. Mina smiled brightly, toothily. Mrs Huntington couldn't breathe.

"Are we going to play soon, Mrs Huntington? I'm bored."

Thoughts?