Fate Rides on Black Wings

They were perhaps the two most singularly unpleasant scowls in Diagon Alley, and on faces of a pair that very nearly could have been father and daughter, although they were not related.

Even though she was the littlest slip of a girl you would ever hope to see, and he was looming over her like a black cloud looms over a rock, she appeared fully unintimidated by his stature and his stare.

Folding her arms over her tiny chest, she spat, "Why didn't they send me somebody NICE?"

"Perhaps," he mused in a voice dangerous as velvet-cloaked razorblades, brimming with a menace few would show to a child, "They thought somebody NICE would be disembowelled by a nasty mite such as yourself, and the only one they considered wary enough to escape such a fate was my fortunate self."

Quite obviously, the word 'fortunate' was not intended in its usual definition.

"Why don't you get on with it, then?" she bit off coldly. Too coldly for a girl so young.

As they walked along the narrow streets, he cursed her with, "You'll be a Gryffindor, just like your mother. I can smell it on you."

She frowned. "I don't even know what that is, but I bet I won't. Especially not if it's what YOU are."

His revolted, bitter laughter caused her to stare, wondering what she'd said that was so funny.

"No..." An odd expression twitched on his unattractive face. He had even worse hair than she did... dark, but greasy and limp. Hers was a rat's nest, but at least it was curly and half-clean. "Certainly not."

A space of silence. Relative silence, for there was plenty of conversation amongst the others calling back and forth across the street and clattering along with their things, and her cart made noise as she pushed it.

That cart had a large silver box on it. There were things of her mother's inside that had been locked up in Gringott's. One of them was a large, exotic black wand--ebony, a core of three hairs, 13 1/4 inches. Tiny as she was, she'd lifted that wand and, miraculously, blue and silver sparks rushed from the tip in acceptance of the child... well, one less thing to shop for, thankfully.

The expression on her face came back to him. He had tried not to notice, and sought to brush the remembrance aside, but it wouldn't flee his mind so easily... though she'd been quick to dislike him, she seemed to have forgotten it in that moment. Awe and bewilderment had slowly crept up in her face... the wonder of a first wand was a thing he'd not seen for many years, and barely recalled experiencing himself. She had smiled at him for a moment... it had made her less ugly. Then she'd gradually reminded herself he was a bastard, at last returning to the gruesome frown and wrinkled forehead that seemed far more typical of her. Well, if he had to suffer the indignity of this errand, at least he didn't have to worry that his charge would prattle on constantly or run away in abject terror. No... from the moment they'd met, he had gathered that she was disgustingly brave, taking in all of the unbelievable things he had to say with more interest than worry.

His attention was wrested from memory as she spoke again, tugging his sleeve. Irritated, he jerked it back from her, knowing that a glare would do no good--they were almost evenly matched there.

"You said my mum was a Gryffindor." It was quiet this time... a little vulnerable and curious.

He made a sort of ill-tempered grunt. "From what I recall, she was as scruffy a dwarf as you." Ignoring the hope in her eyes, he said dismissively as they walked, "I was out of school by the time she displayed signs of a personality. Rinella--a friend of your mother's in House Slytherin, for no reason that makes sense to me--gave me a bit of information to relay to you. Here. Read it." He carelessly tossed her a paper and kept walking.

She stopped in the street, promptly falling down on her bum right there and ripping the seal open with feverish excitement and--oh, Merlin, were those tears in her eyes? He pondered how much a contradiction she was; how much a mess of emotions. One moment a grumpy hag too old for her years, and the next moment a sorrowful waif huddled over parchment.

He already knew what it said, but she was drinking in every word as though it was life to her.

~Dear Morgana,

Bronwyn Valimor was someone I knew well when we were in school. I cannot prove any of what I am about to say, but I will tell you all I can. You can choose what you'd like to believe and what you would prefer not to.

To begin with the superficials, so that you can compare yourself to her... she never grew very tall. She was a pale little thing, round in the hips, round in the bust, not a dreadfully small waist, but overall grew into a decent figure. I'm sure you will, too. She kept her hair rather long; it was curly and a sort of dark brown and I'm not sure if she ever brushed it. She wasn't what you would call beautiful, except perhaps when she smiled.

In our early years, we weren't friends. She was a Gryffindor, after all, and House prejudices--foolish as they are--do tend to grip every one of us. Your mother, unlike most of her housemates, buried herself in the library, only conspicuous in that she avoided conversation in favor of books and scowled at anyone who came near her--much like Severus was at times, though he leaned more to cauldrons. She didn't come out of her shell until her fourth year, and that was when I got to know her... she started randomly blurting her way into conversations, and some of what she said was rather interesting. I'm not sure why, but the only people she ended up shunning were those who were most bound their Houses--including quite a few in her own. This alienated her from plenty of possible friends, but not from me. I gave her a chance, and I've never been sorry. She was one of those people one never forgets, even when life takes you in very different directions. She was never Head Girl or a prefect, but she was a character, and that tends to stick in one's mind.

I suppose what marked her most of all was her disgust over the way the older students would persecute the younger ones of other Houses. It was a widespread problem, but during her last years at Hogwarts, she rallied a few of us into making things better. It brought us multiple detentions for hexing troublemakers in the halls, not to mention spotted reputations, but she was unrepentant. Largely, so am I.

After Hogwarts, we kept in touch for years. Bronwyn told me a little about the Valimors... they were a family which died out near the 18th century, thought to have all been slaughtered... but she claimed that one had escaped, and she was their descendant, who had somehow awakened to their memories. I didn't believe her until she took me inside the Valimor manor, which will be your legacy when you are old enough to live on your own. Only a member of a bloodline can open their wizarding family's home, so she must have been telling the truth. She was a half-blood of sorts, but her Valimor blood couldn't have come from her father's side, because he was pureblood and knew his lineage. She told me there was some sort of spell involved; I'm not really sure what it meant.

The Valimor family had nearly been forgotten, but she spread knowledge of the name again as she carved herself a niche in history. I followed her adventures through owls we traded, and she was much like an Auror who had no ties to the Ministry... she roamed the wilds like a vigilante. Surprisingly, though I don't condone it, she used Dark Magic in some instances... not the Unforgivables, but certainly unpleasant curses. When I asked her why, she told me she thought it fair to use awful means to put down those who had used them first. She hunted illegal vampires and werewolves, if they were harming innocents, and Dark Wizards as well. The worst of villains she sought to dispatch, and she earned modest fame for her deeds. The Ministry was wary of her, but they tolerated her, because she didn't seem to violate their rules and was a help, if an... unofficial one.

I honestly did not know of your existence until now, or I would have tried to find your relatives... a shame there are none but your grandmother left, and she has been in no condition to care for you. The last I saw of your mother was at a meeting we were to have held on the edge of the woods approximately a decade ago... she was walking with a man in a dark cloak and mask, whom I believe to have been a Death Eater. I chased after, thinking I might help... but he escaped with her. She had last been talking about her plans to subdue Voldemort, and I fear they took her down before she had the chance. I am sorry. She no doubt died bravely.

My condolences on being saddled with my cousin. Hagrid was occupied with another child this year. Don't let Severus bother you--he's never been good with children, ironically. I hope you will continue your mother's traditions, but as she told me once, everyone should make their own decisions. I think she would have been most happy to see you live your own life, and shape your own future.

Sincerely,

Rinella Snape.~

After she was done--surprisingly fast--the child sat there and sniffled in the dirt, rubbing her eyes with one hand while the other clutched the letter to her chest. It was a long time, and he stood by her cart wordlessly looking down, no sympathy in his face.

At last she looked up at him. Such a woeful stare on such a small creature. Her bottom lip quivered, but her jaw tightened with vulnerable strength as her brows came down in determination.

"I'm not going to be a Gryffindor. I'm already brave." More sniffling as she grasped something. "Brave got mum killed. I'm going to be... clever."

That brought him round. The way she said it brought a faint prickling along his neck, and he found himself giving a slight start, then reassessing her.

When they'd first met today, he had not seen past the messy black hair, white skin, and green eyes. Though he knew her lineage and in his head realized there was not the faintest chance she could be a Potter, she had the coloring of one. She had also glared back at him and matched him insult for insult, though her taunts were hardly sophisticated. He could recall countless such verbal sparring sessions with other students in his day, both in and out of his own House. She spoke like an adversary, but among the serpents, that was hardly uncommon between allies. There was unmistakable intelligence behind her immaturity, and he found himself beginning to recognize that she had... potential. Perhaps with the proper mentoring, she could mature into a very useful witch... one who would nether be slain by a lack of wariness, nor make the dishonorable errors that certain others--that he--had made.

At first he had thought her a certain lion, but his assumptions may have been premature. If she was this set on being somewhere else...

Later, watching her hop upon the stool to hear her place, he actually felt a twinge like disappointment as she was sorted into Ravenclaw.

Ahh, well. It wasn't as though one could rearrange fate.