Moi everyone! *ducks flying tomato* I know, I know, I'm bad for starting another story, but I'm stress writing, okay? This is a ridiculous thingimagic anyway. The premise being that after the events of Lizard Brain, Hikari gets reincarnated once again, this time into the Harry Potter verse. This might contain a few typos, since, once again, this is a product of stress writing and I won't check it over before uploading it. I got some ideas for the events coming up, I'll probably write some more on it during the next few days to alleviate some of my worries. But you should probably not expect regular updates. Anyway, I hope you have fun with this!
I do not own Harry Potter.
"Interesting," says Ollivander, wrenching the polished piece of walnut out of my hands all while disregarding the absolute mess the disappearing shelf behind him made.
"That's a promising start," I note somewhat drily, reaching out to take the next offered length of wood.
"Quite, quite," the whispy haired man mumbles, before speaking up, "Try this one then! Beach and dragon heartstring, thirteen inches, quite springy. Give it a wave!"
Rolling my eyes, I make to do so, but Ollivander has already taken hold of it again, snatching it out of my lose grip.
"No, that will not do. Interesting. Try this one! Also beech, ten inches with unicorn hair. Rather stiff- No, no, no, that won't do."
And so on it goes as the wandmaker slowly works through his collection of wandwoods, pressing one into my hand before wrenching it out again with a surprising amount of force. I muster all my patience to remain calm and collected as he gets more and more into it.
The shop smells interesting, I note absently, like second-hand bookshop. During the few seconds I get to hold each wand, I also examine each one's colour and grain. He's right. They are all unique. Even if two wands might look similar in their wood, there is sureley their differing length or carving that sets them apart from each other.
"How about this? Cherry and pheonix feather, 13 and three quarter inches, rather firm, go on now!"
As I do, the wand gives me an electric shock. Recoiling, I barely manage to throw it in Ollivander's direction instead of letting it fall to the ground.
"Interesting," he poses for the sixth time.
"Yeah," I agree, "shocking."
(o_o)
It had all started off weird. This whole life cycle. Having been reincarnated with my memories intact once before, I had at least some idea of what was going on, even if I didn't appreciate being completely vulnerable and dependant on my parents again. It didn't work out great last time, so I would say it made sense for me to be weary. Though it was unnecessary for the people I was born to treated me with all the love and care one would expect from fresh parents.
But all the cooing and baby names and tickling and cuddling came to a screeching halt when I was about a year old. It was my father that told me soothing words in a hurried voice as he set me down in the closet, hidden behind the hanging coats and the folded clothes. I accepted the pacifier from his hand, understanding his unspoken need for me to be quiet.
He smiled then, full of warmth and love as it always has been. "La mia piccola bambina," he murmured, his voice calm and soothing and his dark eyes twinkling wetly, "ti voglio tanto bene." With that he stroked by head, before leaning in and kissing the top of it.
Warmth settled in my core, knowing the affection my parents held for me. Over his shoulder I can see my mother, her unfocused shape pacing up and down the small bedroom, frantic whispering and broken sobs is what I can hear from her. But then she is there also, over the shoulder of my father with tears in her eyes. She tries to speak, but no words pass her lips. Instead she reaches out to stroke my cheek, gifting me a watery smile before wrenching her gaze away again.
"Silenzio ora," he whispers and there is a tear falling from his eye as well. A last stroke over the head and then he closes the closet door. Muffled, I can hear my parents talking, there is a tiny sliver of light between the doors of the closet, but I can't see outside. It smells of freshly washed laundry.
After a moment I realize that my parents have gone quiet. Heavy footsteps can be heard through the thin walls of the apartment, somebody, no, several somebodies are coming up the hallway. With a crash that sounds like splintered wood, the door is kicked open. Frantic shouting ensues, I can hear my mother begging, screaming, my father shouting something, then there is a flash of light and only my mothers screams remain, together with one other voice, harsh and commanding. My mother falls silent as well. Heavy footsteps leave the room, the hallway, presumably the building.
I know neither my father nor my mother intended for me to see the outcome of this confrontation, nevertheless I crawl over the pile of folded clothes and laborously push open the dresser doors. My father lies in front of it, barely a metre from me. He is on his back, still twitching slightly, the blood spurting rythmically from the horribly jagged cut on his neck and shoulder is still vibrantly red, still flowing freely. It won't be for much longer, as I know, as I know from experience because in my previous life I've administered such a wound myself more than once.
Grief hits me like a freight train. I scramble out of the closet, tumble down to the floor and crawl toward the dying man. Crying, I'm crying, the loss sharp and slashing over the barely scabbed wounds of previous grief. I cradle myself between his arm and body, burying my face against his flannel shirt. Not long after, his shallow breaths stop in their entirety. I keep wake all these hours, grieving.
"I luv yu too, papa," I sob in babbled English, because I've not had the chance to learn his mother tongue.
Hours later, when the neighbour down the hall comes home, she sees the ruined door, hears a childs cry and calls the police. It was officer Baker, the first to arrive at the scene with his partner, who gently pried the newly orphaned Rosalina Russo from the dead man's body.
(o_o)
"Fir coupled with dragon heartstring, a bit short with eight inches and somewhat firm. No?" Ollivander looked over his shoulder, already halfway back to the shelves. His eyes alight on the wand and he jerkes forward to get it out of my hand again. Before he can, I wave it experimentally. Disappointingly, it doesn't react. "No, no, no." And the wand goes back into the box on the growing pile.
"The second customer this summer to give me such a challenge. What did you say your name was, dear?"
"Russo, Rosalina Russo, Mister Ollivander."
"Yes, yes, I can't seem remember your parents and I can remember every wand I ever sold. Here, try..." Pulling a long carton from the hundreds upon hundreds similar ones, he reveals a rick brown and simply carved wand, "Pine married with dragon heartstring, ten inches and rather flexible... No, give it here, we'll find something better than that."
The man handily ignores the weak sputtering of the magical wand and takes it from my hand. Without the tool it feels empty somehow.
"Your parents are from outside of England then?"
"They are most prominently dead," I inform the prying and chatty woodworker, ignoring the sting of grief the memory still gives me, "But yes, they were foreigners." I try to keep the short man in sight as he bustles around the high shelves of his shop, but it's a futile endeavour.
"I don't even know if they were wizardfolk," I add without prompting. It's been something I had been wondering myself. That flash of light coupled with the horribly lethal wound and yet I can't remember the sounds of a physical struggle, merely shouting and crying. It would make sense if my father was killed by wizards. If he was one himself is questionable, though, because no other wizards seemed to have interfered with the investigation. Maybe I hadn't noticed, but more probably there hadn't been any tampering to notice in the first place. What became of my mother to this day I don't know. It's a mystery that gnaws on me something fierce, but here had never been a chance to make my own inquiries.
At that point my train of thought is interrupted by Mister Ollivander popping back into my field of vision. He seems cheery as he approaches me. "You should heed no worry as to your blood status, I've seen many a muggleborn paired with powerful wands who went on to perform impressive feats of magic."
The elder wizard pays no mind to my sour expression as he brings up my "blood status". What a ridiculous notion it is. But then, eugenics of any form have always failed to impress me. He offers up another wand, this time of a smooth black, polished to a velvety finish.
"Ebony with dragon heartstring, eleven inches surprisingly flexible. Go on then."
With raised eyebrows, I take the proferred wand. I can feel its cool presence, not quite its own entity, but obviously there nonetheless. When I whip it in a tight arc, fire spouts from its tip, before sputtering and breaking into crackling electricity. I hold fast on the wand, but my fingers numb at the contact. I barely see Ollivander coming before he rips it out of my hand with a cry of "No!".
I sigh and look down at my tingling fingers. Tentatively, I wiggle them and am somewhat relieved when they respond as they should.
"A difficult customer indeed. I wonder if... but, no, surely not. Try this one. Ebony as well, coupled with phoenix feather, fourteen and a half inches and rather firm."
Warily, I look at the proferred length of wood, the black glossy and the handle intricately carved. "Didn't we already decide on dragon heartsting?" The last dozen options had had that core.
"Nonesense! The ebony reacted very well with you. Now try it!"
Licking my lips, I reach for the handle.
(o_o)
Growing up an orphan in 1980s Britain wasn't as bad as it could have been. There were no Oliver Twist-esque scenes of abuse or excessive child labour. Sure the children at the orphanage had their chores and if you misbehaved you could earn a good slap or firm spanking, but for somebody that had spent their last life murdering people for money, it was a small price to pay for the independance it granted.
The caretakers were usually busy with all the children seeking attention, so none would mind if the strangely mature Rosalina excused herself to walk to the playground a few blocks away. Or to the library. Or to lord knows where, because that child was harder to find than a demon in a church. But since I made sure to always be back during mealtimes and to have my chores done to a satisfying end, the caretakers didn't demand I stay within their sight.
Sometimes we orphans were taken in by foster families, given a brief taste of what it feels like to belong, to be part of a household and have parents and siblings. Some of my fellow orphans staid with the foster families for long months at a time, in some cases even years. A few were even adopted into the families. A few found parents to adopt them in the visitors that came. The older you got, the less chance was there for it to happen, though. I didn't mind. My tendency to stay well away from any and all potential adoptive parents did me well, because I didn't want replacement parents.
The only foster family I felt comfortable with was that of officer Christopher Baker, the one who had taken me in after arriving at the scene of my father's murder. His wife was a lovely, if chronically exhausted woman with three little children of her own. Whenever I stayed with them, I made sure to help her with the little rascals in return for all the commodities their family provided me during my stays. After a little discussion, officer Baker agreed to afford me the Karate lessons I craved.
As the only affordable martial art being taught in our part of London, Karate gave me a bare taste of my former prowess, but gave me a reason to take up my katas and physical training without much scrutiny.
It turned out that the Bakers would also play a permanent role in my life, because the day when a regal barn owl flutters through the open kitchen window to swoop down and drop a letter on my breakfast plate is one of those days I spend with officer Baker's family.
The three children shriek with surprised delight at the pretty animal that settles on top of the fridge to survey the gathered family. I myself am rather stunned, gaze switching from the very accurately addressed letter to the mode of delivery. A vague memory from two lifetimes ago tries to break to the surface and for a moment I am content to let it try.
"What- What was that?" Mrs Baker questions, her gaze fixed on the large bird calmly resting upon her kitchen appliance.
Mr Baker's gaze was fixed on the letter though. "Better question," he poses, "What is in that letter?"
"Should I open it?" I ask faintly, still not sure what my brain wants to tell me.
"Not in here," Mr Baker decides, reaching out to take the letter. At the same time the owl shrieks and flutters from her perch to scratch at his hand before it could touch the yellow-ish parchment.
"I think- I think only I'm allowed to open it."
"Nonsense," Mr Baker growls, switching into officer mode, "God knows what is in that letter or on the envelope. No way that I would endanger a child by exposing you to that unknown." He makes to grab for the letter again, fending the owl off with his free arm, before standing up and hastening towards the garden door. Immediately I follow, Mrs Baker scrambeling from her seat as well to corral her three little munchkins into the living room and well away from the aggressive bird.
Outside I come across a cursing Mr Baker and the owl that has settled on his shoulder with a painful looking grip. In his hands the man, her foster father, holds the successfully opened letter.
"This has got to be a prank," he states, looking unconvinced of the sincerity of the letter he is reading.
"Why? Can I see?" At my request he furrows his brows, flips the two sheets of unfolded parchment over to inspect. Then he sighs.
"I see nothing wrong with it, except for..." In a sweeping gaze, he looks over the owl, the parchment, the letter itself and the creepily detailed address, "...all of this, actually. But it doesn't appear hazardous."
With that he hands over the parchment. It only takes three lines before the memory that has been clawing its way upward truly hits me. A childrens book, no, a book series. Harry Potter, Voldemort, Hogwarts, the Weasleys. Disjointed images, impressions, ideas and concepts flash through my mind, before my eyes. Hedwig, Quirrel, Basilisk, dragons. There it stops short. There are dragons! And unicorns!
Blinking back the fog of jumbled memories I look around before settling on the barn owl. I check the letter before looking up again.
"It ... says here that they await my answer per owl. Is that why you are still here?" It feels weird talking to a bird, but not as weird as it could have been, given my experiences with intelligent animals in my last life cycle. Still I feel rather much like the collective universe is pulling my leg.
Am I damned to be reincarnated into fictional worlds?
Well, given that I am living it, this world seems very much non-fictional to me.
"Uh, that might ... take a while. Would you, uh, like to sit on my shoulder until then?" I offer the bird, which hoots agreeably and swoops to perch next to my head.
"Well then," I turn to Mr Baker, "I'm, uh, kind of surprised myself, but the owl seems uncannily intelligent."
The man snorts ungainly. "But magic? I mean seriously, a bird can be trained, but there is no such thing as magic. I'm sure this is merely a very elaborate prank."
"Weeell," I say at length, rubbing the back of my head in an embarrassed gesture, "I've kinda always felt like there's something there, you know? It's..." not chakra, volatile and hard to control? "...rather spontaneous. Like, when a few boys at school cornered me in the hall-"
Seeing Mr Bakers thunderous expression, I wave my hands in front of me, trying to play down thw incident, "No, no, not like you think. They used to make fun of me, but then they all suddenly lost their voices. Just like that." Snapping my fingers I try to convey just how serious I am.
The boys had posed no threat but they were annoying me to no end. That contempt had peaked and I had felt the swirling chakra lash out from my core in an uncontrolled burst. Or, well, my magic had lashed out. Because apparently there was no such thing as logical, easily understood and guided chakra in this world. Only nonsensical magic that defied all attempts to tame or control it.
Mr Baker still seems unconvinced, bit gestures for us to return inside. "I'm not sure I can believe in such a ludicrous thing as magic," he admits and doesn't care to elaborate further. Together we settle at the kitchen table. After a while, I start to read the letter and the attached list of necessary school supplies.
"Uh, Mr Baker?" I ask after a while, continuing when he fixes me with a steady gaze, "Do we have any stationary or such? Even if it is only a hoax, replying will hardly reveal more information whoever could use against us."
With a hum, Mr Baker stands up to gather some paper and an envelope as well as a pen to bring back to the kitchen. In the mean time, I make to clear the table of the breakfast spread. On a whim, I offer my buttered toast to the owl on my shoulder. Now that I think about it, it's actually getting pretty heavy, not to mention painful with the claws, no matter how careful the bird is in holding onto me. "Could you maybe settle by the sink? I'll give you a bowl of water and you can have, uh, a sausuge or something, to snack on."
Once again the owl hoots agreeably, way more peacable now than it was before when the privacy of correspondance was threatened and subsequently broken. The animal hops onto the counter with far more grace than should be possible for such a large bird. I go about fulfilling my promises before settling down to write a response. But what to write?
(o_o)
"Ah!" With a pained cry, I let go of the wand, once again zapped by a current. I once was very familiar with lightning and electricity, especially when used as a weapon, but now the wands turned the affinity against me. As if to punish me for forcing them to deal with it.
"Well, maybe we should try it after all," Mr Ollivander concedes in the same damned cryptic tone he had been dropping for what must be an hour now. I'm almost at the point to yell that if he could just stop playing the fucking pronoun game, that'd be great, thanks!
But somehow, I refrain from swearing at the old man. Instead I look out the shop window, where Professor McGonagall is standing outside, conversing with the overwhelmed seeming parents of another muggleborn first year. Not Hermoine Granger, but that would have been a surprise in any way. It would be nice to meet the girl in real though. She would probably be a good person to call friend, if only because it would make homework more enjoyable when you have a good reference point. And with what I remember from the books...
The clearing of his throat brings my attention back to Mr Ollivander who has procured a long and thin wooden box, not unlike the other cardboard ones the other wands were stored in, but much more pleasant to look at. A great exhale of the old wandmaker sends a plume or grey dust into the musty air of the shop, adding to the mysterious atmosphere. Quite dramatic, that. Still, I can't say I'm not interested.
"When I was still an apprentice," the old wizard begins, and how long ago must that have been? "When I was still only an apprentice to my father in this very shop, I had a friend, also a wandmaker. While I learned the proven traditions of our art, she was more interested with exploring new avenues of the craft. Many expeditions to many exotic locations, and always she came back with a new wood."
The pale eyes of the old wizard seem to shine at the memory long past. "Her choices were always interesting, producing wands of unpredictable flavour. My, I had the most trouble to place all of them into capable hands when she passed." A sad veil seems to lower onto Mr Ollivanders face, before he shakes it off. "This is the last of them, who has not found its match in all the decades I've tried."
Almost reverently, he opens the box to showcase a sinple inlay of sawdust in the middle of which sits a wand of a dark finish. Its form is quite simple, not perfectly symmetrical as Ollivanders wands had mostly been, but not quite crooked either, the handle was carved to lay comfortably in the grip of its conductor, otherwise the wood had been left to its original shape.
"Step closer, dear, and give it a try," Mr Ollivander encouraged and I followed his direction under the heavy gaze of pale eyes. Just before I touch the wand, something about it catches my eye.
"What wood is this?" I inquire absently as I ghost a finger over the dark, erratic grain. It's utterly fascinating, now that I can make out the dark lines of the grain against the slightly lighter tone of the wood. From afar it had seemed little different to-
"False Ebony," Ollivander supplied and I snap to his face in surprise. He's smiling that mysterious smile of his, giving little of his thoughts away. "From the depths of the African jungle if my information is correct. Wild and free was the tree, and so was the dragon that supplied the wand's core. It's little wonder I have had such trouble to match it. Now go on, give it a chance."
Hesitantly, I reach into the sawdust to take hold of he wand and lift it from its bed. At once, I can feel the connection to it, the kindred spirit residing in my hand. No mere tool, but a power that longs to be unleashed. My fingers tingle with the desire and I give it an experimental swing.
Red embers fall from the tip of the wand in a shower of golden sparks before the familiar green glow of elmsfire envelops the wood and then my whole hand.
The feeling of pure joy, of rightness and being finally complete after stumbeling around a cripple is so much that I waver and have to clutch Ollivanders desk for support. When I look up, the glow faded, the wizard is smiling in truth seeming genuinely pleased to have found a suitable match, whether it be a suitable match for the wizard or the wand matters little, because I can see that I would want no other after feeling what I just did.
"How-?" I croak, voice brittle and mouth dry. Hastily I clear my throat before trying again, "How much for this wand?"
Mr Ollivander considers me for a long moment. "It is worth twelve galleons, maybe more."
I swallow thickly, clutching the wand, disjointedly fearing the wizard would wrench it out of my hand again as he did so many others. "I don't have much to spare", I tell him evasively. To be honest, I have only a small fund of what money Mr Baker could spare on such short notice which had been converted to a few meagre galleons.
To my relief Mr Ollivander waves the issue away. "In truth I have invested little into the making of this wand. You may have it for the promise to take good care of it."
Swallowing down my pride that rises at the handout, I direct my mind towards something more productive. "Do you sell anything to, like, maintain wands?"
"Indeed."
And so I leave Ollivander's shop with the sure presence of my wand in my pocket as well as a care set to maintain its good state.
(o_o)
"Students are permitted to bring one pet with them to Hogwarts," McGonagall reminds at the end of the shopping trip, which has the other kid almost vibrating with excitement. The boy is one Justin Finch-Fletchley whose parents went the rather modern route of both keeping their last names in marriage. He seems to be nice enough, clearly enthusiastic about anything and everything magical our group has come across during this guided shopping trip. The same cannot be said for his parents, but they hide their apprehensive looks well enough not to squander their son's enthusiasm.
"Can I have a pet?" the boy begs from his parents, who share another of those less than thrilled looks, after which the mother turns to Professor McGonagall.
"What kind of pets are recommended for students at your ... school?"
If Professor McGonagall heard the pause in her speech, then she doesn't show it. "A cat or an owl are the usual most choices. And owl could be used as a means to communicate, since the muggle post won't find its way to the school," here McGonagall gave a very obvious significant look to the muggle parents, "but any common species of familiar is welvome to accompany your child."
"So I can bring a dog?" I chime in, honestly pretty interested. I love dogs.
"No," the deputy headmistress shoots down with a strict expression on her face.
"What about a lizard?" I immediately probe again. They did seem to have an affinity towards me, which is little wonder really...
"No, neither of those are considered common familiars. Dogs are too dependant on their master and wouldn't do well in the school environment, while lizards..." An assessing gaze is levelled on me by the strict woman, "Lizards have proven themselves very unpredictable and possibly dangerous."
At her heed our group stopped in front of a shop labelled "The Magical Menagery". "In any case, Ms Russo, I will be right here if any further question should arise."
Curiously I peer through the window and almost instantly fall on my third favourite choice. "What about rats, are they allowed?" Even before Professor McGonagall affirms it, I'm sure that they are. Something in my still rather subconscious familiarity with the wizarding world of Harry Potter.
Upon entering the magical pet shop, I immediately steer towards the little play pen, set up for a small host of young rats. They were all dark furreed with a pretty gleaming pelt, and they chittered hapoily at her attention, performing tricks and other such displays of intelligence without prompting.
"See anythin' you like?" asks a voice right behind my ear and it's all I can do not to jump in surprise. Over all the noise of the other animals, I hadn't heard the clerk approaching.
"Oh, um, yes. I like the rats. How much are they?"
"A galleon each," the young man supplies with a grin, "quite smart, the bunch of them. Though not so much that one," he waves over to another rat, snoozing somewhere outside his fellows' circle of excitement, "That one seems to be the black sheep, so to say. Sleeps and lazes around all day, I'd give him away foe half the prize." The clerk winks jokingly, but now that he pointed out the snoozing rat, pitch black fur left to become somewhat untidy unlike the gleaming pelt his fellow rats proudly display, it reminds me of a dearly missed friend.
"I want it," I decide, scooping up the juvenile rat, jostling it out of its nap along the way.
"You sure?" the clerk asks, but now I won't be swayed.
"Yeah, I want this one and no other."
"Whatever you say, girlie. I'm a man of my word, it will only be half price for such an inadequate individual." And with little more than that, I managed to buy my first pet in this life, a drwosy rat that peers up at me with interest.
"Your name will be Ben. You'll be my friend, right?" Instead of an answer, the rat merely cuddled into my palm to snooze again. Not that I needed confirmation anyway.
(o_o)
"I'm back," I call into the house as I stept through the front door and pull off my shoes.
"Welcome home!"
At the answering call, I pause. Home, well I guess a foster family is supposed to provide it. Shrugging off my coat, I leave it on the free hanger and proceed to drag my shopping bags, conveniently made to look like pervectly ordinary canvas bags, nothing to see here, towards the room I share with Michael, the eldest Baker child, who is less than half a year younger than I.
"Rosa, will you come into the kitchen, please?"
Again I pause. That was most definitely Mr Baker, the same Mr Baker that had just this morning lamented that he had a full day at work and couldn't accompany to Diagon alley. Sparing a look at the alarm on my bedside table confirms that it is still early afternoon and I feel a little of my elation sink knowing that he had lied to avoid the shopping trip.
"Coming," I yell back, dragging my feet towards the kitchen. Is this the point where they apologize and ask me to kindly get the fuck out of their house?
Along the way, I spot the three kids, all of them boys, in the living room, mesmerized by the csrtoon on the telly. At the kitchen table sit both their parents, with serious expressions on their faces and several papers strewn across the table top. Forms? Maybe for the looney bin?
"Take a seat, honey," Mrs Baker asks, a soft sympathetic voice. Distrust flares up, long forgotten instincts warning me not to take part in this obvious setup. Trap, they blare, but I purposefully ignore them, falling into a kitchen chair.
"Rosalina," Mr Baker starts and I flinch at his use of my full name. Well, this is off to a good start. He halts, clears his throat and starts again. "Rosa, Emma and I wanted to have a talk with you because, well..." he trails off and Mrs Baker rests a hand on his shoulder. Before the pause becomes too tense, she takes over for him.
"Honey, we would like to make you a more permanent part of our family."
Surprised, I suck in a breath and hold it in, as a brief joy becomes overshadowed by suspicion. Awfully convenient timing, isn't it, one part of me poses and it's painfully true.
"What? Because I'm a witch?"
The adults share a look. "No," Mr Baker decides, "because we have always enjoyed you staying with us. You've always been so mature though and we've never been sure whether we could afford another child..."
"And you do now? Have I risen in worth?"
Mrs Baker inhales sharply at the cutting words, while Mr Baker's reaction is far more controlled. "No, Rosa", he reiterates with forced patience. I can't quite place all the micro-expressions that flicker around his eyes and it makes me nervous. "We will make it work now, because with all the changes and this whole unkown situation you are so keen to throw yourself into, we want to give you stability to fall back on. A home, you can always come back to, if all this magic buisness becomes too overwhelming."
That ... takes a moment to digest. "So you want to adopt me?"
Mr Baker turns his eyes heavenwards for a moment, before catching my eye. "Who else but you? There's nobody I would rather call my daughter."
"What's the catch, though? What's in it for you?" Uncertainty wars with joyous hope, my imagination already eunning away with the possibility to be part of a family again. To have parents that cherish and protect without question, not out of guilt or a feeling of unwanted responsibility, but willingly chosen. In my last life, I had a painful childhood, never reclaimed, and although I had built my own family in the end, such a thing seems so far away now. But to become a child, the child of someone, again.
Mrs Baker smiles and reaches over the table to stroke my cheek, while her husband laughs. "You are in it, that's enough for us. We've always wanted a daughter of our own, Rosa, and you're very dear to us."
His cheerful face starts to swim as my eyes fill with tears. "Where do I sign?", I whisper. Now both of them are laughing, happy, and I realize I am as well, allbeit very wetly. They come around the table to embrace me where I'm still sitting in my chair with knees too weak to stand. I might be able to get used to this yet.
(o_o)
"Alright," I say and stare down the brick wall between the platform nine and the platform ten. It's early yet, around half past nine. This morning I had said my goodbyes to Mr Baker, no, to Christopher before he went to work. I can't quite call him father yet, even if the "mom" comes easy for me. There are too many connotations to the title, both positive and negative, and it will need some getting used to associate it with the hearty police officer.
Now, I'm here with Emma, with my new mother, a title that is gleefully free of any dark pasts for me, and Micheal, Jonathan and Nicholas whom I guess I should call my brothers. They are here to see me off, though they won't come past the barrier with me on the recommendation of Professor McGonagall. I've already hugged each of them in turn and received kisses on the cheek with varying degrees of slobber involved, now all that's to do is to make the leap of faith and run against the brick wall. Or rather, through it, if at all possible, and into a world of magic and witchcraft barring all rhyme and reason and completely devoid of common sense or logic.
I'm not sure I'm ready to leave all sense behind and dive head first into the unknown, but if the chance isn't taken now, I would forever regret it. Who deasn't want to learn how to work magic?
With a furtive glance around, I check that the train station is still filled with the hustle and bustle of commuters going to and fro. Then I take a deep breath and push against my luggage cart, sending it on its way toward the brick wall. Closer, it comes. Closer, it looms. No matter. If it is actual masonry, all that will happen is me crashing mildly into it. If it is not, then I need not worry. Still, I can't help but closie my eyes at the last moment befire I touch the maybe-magical barrier.
When nothing happens except a change in the overall noise level, I hesitantly peek at the red locomotive of the Hogwarts Express. A slow smile works itself into a grin. Magic. It is really real, isn't it? And I'll learn to wield it.
My mind readily supplies memories from the last life cycle, of me discovering chakra and of me exploring it's limits, of creating my own jutsu. Excitedly, I dodge around the other early arrivals and towards the train.
I can't wait!