note: I have another 2k words of this written, so at the very least I'll do another chapter. I'd like to apologize in advance if I don't go much further. That's just how I am.

The OC extras (other than the requisite SI) will more or less disappear after this chapter; they're really only here to build some context.

I was heavily inspired by Faith and the Devil by Lapsed Pacifist (go read it!) but wanted to try the even more intensely muggle angle.

If I'd known that I was going to die young, I wouldn't have put so much money into my 401k account. Eight years after my death and I was still salty. Seriously, 12.5% of my paycheck every year down the drain. I could have been drinking Starbucks lattes every day and eaten at like 10 Michelin starred restaurants. I'd been a fool, and reincarnation was garbage.

I banged my head on the table and left it there. Laina gave me an odd look but went back to her knitting. I normally didn't ruminate much, but Laina had offered me tea and brought back all sorts of feelings. Laina was my babysitter, already accepted by at least two colleges (Cambridge maybe? I still didn't understand how the British university system worked, but I had another ten years or so to go before that became my problem, anyway). A good kid, that Laina. Put up with my weirdness and everything.

"Everything all right, Candy? Hungry?" Bless you, Laina. Bless your caring heart.

I shook my head, picking up a crayon and going back to my coloring. I'd really regretted not being a better artist in the past, so I was getting in all the childhood practice I could. I was going to be a champion doodler this time. My school notes were going to be bomb.

"Let's take a break anyway," said Laina, standing up and stretching. "It's about time for your cello lessons. Up you get, Candy, let's get dressed."

Another one of my previous life's regrets: music. That and I hardly had any of my preferred diversions anymore, given that it was 1987. The gameboy color wasn't going to be released for another year, and pokemon red and blue for who knew how long. All in all, my foresight was useless; I didn't know anything about the economy except maybe to invest in Google and Facebook in 15 or so years. It was 1988. I had nothing but time. Hence, the cello. A mini cello, because I was physically only 8, but still, I would have made my original mother proud. She and I both loved the sound of the cello.

Not that my current (and just as real; this woman changed my diapers, to my intense, burning embarrassment. A real trooper) mother was any less proud. Eva Whitter nee McCauley was a young mother who worked two jobs for the first five years of my life just to keep me happy. I was an accident, so to speak, and she'd traded her carefree life for, well, me. Me and my weird quirks. I'd suffered from benign neglect in my previous life, so with the added maturity of a 20-something year old, I was a low maintenance kid. A pricey low maintenance kid who wanted both cello and dance lessons, though.

Eva married right before I turned 6, bumping me up to the nicest school in the district. Thanks dad. Michael Whitter, aka dad, was a wealthy young businessman who dabbled in real estate. Armed with a bachelor's in economics and an MBA, dad was super WASPy, especially in the religious way. It was kind of embarrassing for me, but he made mum happy and his parents were nice, if a bit reserved. They gave me birthday and Christmas presents, and gran made a mean meat pie.

Okay, if there was one thing I had a hard time dealing with, it was the food. Specifically, British food, and what they did with meat. I'd kill a man for a steak, or a gourmet burger. Not really, but I couldn't wait until I was large and old enough to be trusted in the kitchen. Baking time with mummy could only hold me over for so long; our household was constantly stocked with biscuits and quickbreads.

"Biscuit for the road!" I held my hands out. Laina tsked, smoothing wrinkles out of my winter coat and tying my scarf.

"You'll get your mittens dirty, Candy," she said, tugging said mittens on my poor, helpless hands. Farewell grabbing ability, it was nice knowing you.

I made the most piteous face in my arsenal. This was made possible by my appalling good genetics this time around. Large gray eyes, dark hair, and a decently symmetrical face made me one cute fucking kid. Sometimes strangers smiled at me, which still weirded me out. I was used to being unapproachable due to an intense case of resting bitch face. Preferred it, even. Being cute had its downsides, namely social interaction.

Laina caved instantly, because she was the best and my favorite. She retrieved the biscuit tin from its 'hiding place' on a shelf I couldn't reach and tucked two into a napkin.

"Careful with crumbs, and don't tell your mum, yeah?" Laina flashed me a conspiratorial smile, palming me the biscuits and taking my other hand in hers.

I nodded, bobbing my head madly as I stuffed my face with oatmeal raisin.

By the time mum made it home with two bags laden with Indian takeout, Laina and I were back on the sofa, her with her probably-a-hat knitting, me with my art of dubious quality. My head jerked up at the sound of the front door unlocking, poised like an eager dog.

"Mummy!" I threw my paper and crayons onto the table, scrambling to my feet. Mum set the takeout down as quickly as she could before I bowled into her.

"Staying for dinner?" She asked Laina over my excited hugging.

Laina shook her head, already cleaning up her knitting. "My brother's home for the weekend so I'm eating the good stuff tonight."

Mum nodded in understanding, sorting through the kitchen for plates and utensils. I clung like a limpet, enjoying the fact that I was still small enough to be carried around. I'd inherited mum's bone structure, so if that was any indication, I was going to be tall this time around. On one hand, yay, tall! On the other, boo, big. There was no pleasing me, really.

"Have a nice night, Mrs Whitter, Candy!" Laina gave me a jaunty wave and closed the door. Mum shook me off.

"Sit down, Candy," she said, pouring me a glass of milk. I'd discovered a new love for dairy; maybe there was some truth to the whole 'white people love cheese' thing, because I fucking loved cheese now that I was white. My spice tolerance was as shit as ever, so milk was a blessed relief when the curry got too hot.

Mum worked as a paralegal, so normally she and dad returned home equally late. Fridays tended to include dinner with the boys or whatever, so dad was hardly home those evenings. Hence the Indian takeout; dad was the better cook in our family so this arrangement was in everyone's favor.

We sat at our tiny kitchen table and tucked in. I'd always been a quiet eater when left to my own devices, but mum was chatty. We went through the usual 'how was your day' script before things got interesting.

"Your grandmother will be coming down from Manchester. We might grab some lunch?" Grandmother was mum's mum. She hated me but loved dad, and loved dad for loving me despite me being an apparent hellion. I didn't understand grandmother, but I loved listening to her shit on my birth father. She only knew him because she'd been visiting mum's broom closet London flat the morning after their steamy one night affair. Grandmother was too sharp, so when I was born it didn't take her long to do the math. By then father had vanished into the ether, and left with no one to castrate and then incinerate, grandmother had turned her leftover energy towards me. It probably didn't help that I'd constantly messed with her during my early years. I'd been frustrated with my toddler body and had no outlet for that rage other than increasing acts of mischief. Mum was working two jobs, so the misfortune of watching me had become grandmother's burden. She still hadn't forgiven me for the onion incident, which was understandable, honestly. I also hated kids who did bad things to onions.

Together we were a headache for unfortunate bystanders. If I were a bit older I might have enjoyed trading barbs with a grumpy old lady, but as it was I was still frustrated with being treated like a child. There was some irony there, because despite the maturity that came with an extra 25 years of memories, I still had the brain of an 8 year old and all the cognitive development (or lack thereof) that came with. In general I tried not to think about how weird and messed up my brain probably was; and it would have been even more disturbing if my brain wasn't messed up by this reincarnation business. See, reincarnation had no good scientific explanation, and so my rational mind liked to pretend that it didn't happen. I resolved dissonance by ignoring weird soul shit.

I nodded. Mum continued, "And Sunday morning we have mass. Please behave yourself this time." She gave me a look that said she wasn't hoping for much. On some level I felt bad, but mostly I knew I had to maximize the opportunities I had as an ignorant, innocent child to defile the Christian institution. An adult wouldn't be so easily forgiven for questioning basically everything.

As a borderline atheist, I'd never gone to church in the past. Mum was a lapsed catholic, so it wasn't until dad came into our lives that we listened to Jesus' gospel every week. Dad was a capital c Christian. I was an odd combination of conflict avoidant and a passive aggressive whiner, so dad didn't hear much of my irreverence but mum was saddled with the full package of my complaining. Church was the only aspect of life (other than being 8) that I really hated, though. I was impatient for time to pass so I could do things and the internet could be properly invented, but I had a caring family, decent friends (for an 8 year old), and was beyond clever (thanks to 20 years of extra knowledge).

I had thought, foolishly, that I could deal with this. Repetition was going to be painful, but I just had to frame it properly. Rather than being forced to redo everything, this was an opportunity to fix any mistakes I had theoretically made last time. You could even say that I was looking forward to high school.

I was wrong. So, so wrong. On the morning of my eleventh birthday, I received some of the worst news of my (so far) short life. On January 21st, 1991, Minerva McGonagall showed up on my doorstep. I'd run to answer the door, because friends! Gifts! Birthday expectations! In no way was I prepared to receive a stern woman asking to speak with my parents.

In retrospect, McGonagall really was the best choice for easing Muggle parents (aka normal people) into the Wizarding world. She was arguably both the most professional and the most professional looking of Hogwarts current roster of professors (though if my memory served me correctly, there were some minor professors that were also reasonably normal seeming. The name Aurora Sinistra came to mind.).

Well fuck me. That's Minerva fucking McGonagall, I thought. And then, She looks younger than she did in the movies.

McGonagall took my blank stare in stride and proceeded to introduce herself to my parents. I numbly shut the door. What is happening.

As McGonagall gave my parents the usual Muggleborn spiel, I sat on the floor and buried my face in my hands. How was I supposed to get into university for computer science and capitalize on the dot com bubble if I was stuck in magic school for the next seven years? I was ruined. I also had a brief freakout about being in a book, but the reincarnation shtick had been bad enough on its own and I got over that when I was six. I didn't have the emotional resources to be worrying about this too.

But. I was probably going to be sorted Slytherin (let's be real, now) and I was undoubtedly Muggleborn. Before, I'd been sheltered in the upper middle class, and now I was once again upper middle class, and white to boot. I'd never dealt with prejudice beyond the shit that all women get. I was going to die.

Eventually dad came and picked me up, setting me on the sofa. He wrapped a supportive arm over my shoulders and held his silence. I leaned into his warmth, biting my tongue and trying not to cry. I was a lot more emotional this time around; the smallest things could set me off, and I worked hard to hold the tears in. The scent of dad's cologne was soothing, probably a conditioned response, but it worked. I slowly calmed down as mum talked with McGonagall about… whatever. Probably money and legalities. Mum loved that stuff.

The couch shifted as McGonagall sat next to me a polite distance away. I gripped dad's arm and gave her the side eye. She was unphased.

"Good morning, Candace," she smiled in that stern, matronly way. I could see myself working hard to earn that smile, a sort of tacit sign of approval. "My name is Minerva McGonagall, deputy headmistress at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

But first. "Candy. My name's Candy."

It was a cold, cold day when I'd realized that a stripper name was preferable to Candace. I was going to carry this stripper name until I died, and I was okay with that. Still better than Candace.

"Miss Whitter," said McGonagall, and yeah, I should have seen that one coming. My memory of Harry Potter was hazy but I was fairly certain that professors had addressed students by last name. "Your mother tells me you've never performed accidental magic. Has anything strange ever happened to you, at home or at school? Perhaps you wanted something to happen very badly and it suddenly did?"

Nope, never. Nada, zilch. Magic? What magic. Maybe I was tragically, pathetically weak, so maybe I hadn't been able to noticeably influence the world. God knew I'd gone through some tough times; if I could have done any magic, I would have magicked myself out of church asap.

My thoughts must have shown on my face. Immediately, she continued, "It's perfectly normal that you haven't. Many Muggleborn children do not, or do not notice incidents of accidental magic. I'd rather believe it's a sign of a well rounded childhood."

My parents fairly glowed at the implicit praise.

"I'll be accompanying you and your mother to Diagon Alley in preparation for the fall term." McGonagall was brisk, all business. She turned to mum. "August 12th, noon, yes?"

Mum nodded, scribbling notes in her moleskine. "Yes, yes. What was the currency exchange rate again?"

And they were off again. I probably should have listened, because this was important information. Thankfully no one expected the 11 year old me to know much, but missing out on opportunities to gather information still rankled me. I was definitely going to be kicking myself later for not knowing the contents of this conversation.

For all that dad was bold and arrogant with work (I'd seen him with his male friends. He was so… white. Very WASP.), he was always gentle with me. I think he tried harder to connect with me and earn mum's approval, and thus understood the things I didn't say but violently wanted people to notice.

For example, he easily interpreted my somewhat sullen silence for what it was: reluctance to give up my life plans tempered with enough conflict avoidance that I was braced to suck it up and deal with it.

"You don't have to go if you don't want to," said dad. "We'll work something out."

Um, no, Candy really, really does have to go to magic school, do you have any idea how many things she's going to destroy when she goes through magic puberty, said mum, but, like, with her eyes. Mum was really scary. She could hear everything, like you thought she was reading in the other room but she definitely heard you complain about how she cooked brussels sprouts. And then cooked brussels sprouts for dinner every day for the next week to 'try out new recipes and improve' but really that was just punishment.

This was why I forgave dad for making me read the Bible. He was always, always on my side.

My face scrunched up, once again overcome with emotion. McGonagall was talking again, playing the role of reassuring authority figure. She probably did this a lot. I spaced out for the rest of the conversation, mind in overdrive trying to readjust how the next seven years would fit into my life plans.

It wasn't until I was lying in bed that night that the truth hit me. Why was I so worried about school? I already knew the basics and had more common sense than people three times my age. I'd have to fudge my university admissions a bit but it wasn't like AP physics had actually helped me succeed at school. I'd been more or less used to cramming a lot of information into my head in 3 month long semesters, and dad had suggested remedial summer school, which was basically the same thing. And I already had a much better relationship with technology than most of the population in this era. The only thing I was missing was Google; I still didn't know how people found information in the 80s. Was it the library? Word of mouth? A mystery.

I finally let myself stop worrying. Things would work out; they always did. I had a lot of power in this scenario; general foresight regarding the future of technology and, if the fuckery of the Harry Potter universe held true, a generous amount of dirt on the would be plotline. I didn't want to fuck things up or fix the story, but I was a Muggle loving Muggleborn. I wasn't looking forward to battling discrimination, and the rise of good ole snakeface was for someone like me.

Giddy excitement bubbled up my stomach, making it hard for me to stop grinning. Magic! Granted, there were a thousand other types of magic I'd rather have, ridiculous genre hopping universe breaking reincarnation implications aside. There were also a lot of reincarnation shenanigans I'd dodged, honestly. I could have been reincarnated into a story with a tragic ending, or a zombie apocalypse.