Magnolia Crescent — Evans Residence
8 August 1971 — Late Morning
The dining room table had been transformed into what looked like a battlefield of parchment, quills, and textbooks—if battlefields were color-coded and organized with military precision. Natalia sat at one end with her copper hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail that somehow managed to look effortlessly perfect despite the August heat. Her green eyes, sharp and calculating, moved between her meticulously organized notes with the intensity of a general surveying battle plans. Laika lay curled beneath her chair like a russet sentinel, occasionally opening one amber eye to monitor the room before returning to her strategic nap.
"The key principle behind animation charms," Natalia was explaining in that crisp, authoritative voice that could make even the most complex magical theory sound like simple common sense, "is that you're not actually bringing the object to life. You're creating a temporary magical construct that mimics life-like behavior patterns."
She gestured to her notes with the kind of precise movement that suggested she'd practiced this explanation in the mirror. "It's essentially magical programming—you're writing behavioral code into an inanimate matrix."
Lily occupied the middle section of the table, her red curls escaping from their braids in wild spirals that seemed to have a mind of their own. Where Natalia's notes were organized like a military operation, Lily's showed flashes of brilliant insight scribbled in margins and connected by arrows that traced the chaotic paths of her thinking. Her warm brown eyes lit up with understanding as she looked up from her Transfiguration theory text.
"So when McGonagall animated those tea cups during her demonstration," Lily said, her voice carrying that particular excitement she got when puzzle pieces started clicking together, "she wasn't making them alive? She was just... programming them to act alive?"
"Precisely." Severus finally glanced up from the far end of the table, his dark eyes carrying that rare gleam of enthusiasm he got when discussing magical theory. Despite the casual setting, his secondhand robes were immaculately clean and pressed—a matter of fierce pride for a boy who had so little else to take pride in. His thin face was framed by black hair that hung like curtains, and when he spoke, his voice carried the careful precision of someone who'd learned that being right was often his only defense.
"The cups weren't thinking or feeling," he continued, his pale hands gesturing with unexpected grace. "They were following predetermined behavioral patterns that created the illusion of independent thought and movement. True animation—actual life—is beyond the scope of conventional transfiguration."
"But how do you program behavior into an inanimate object?" Lily asked, leaning forward with genuine curiosity. "I mean, tea cups don't have brains, do they? They don't have anywhere to put the programming."
Natalia consulted her notes again, her manicured finger tracing the relevant passage. "The magical matrix created by the spell acts as a temporary cognitive framework. Think of it like... imagine drawing a map of how something should behave, then using magic to make that map temporarily real."
"A behavioral blueprint," Severus added approvingly, and for a moment his guarded expression softened with something that might have been fondness. "Exactly. The more complex the desired behavior, the more sophisticated the magical matrix needs to be. Which is why long-term animation charms are so difficult—maintaining complex behavioral patterns requires enormous amounts of sustained magical energy."
From the kitchen came the sound of Petunia moving around with the kind of deliberate noise that suggested she was making a point. Pots clanged, cabinet doors closed with unnecessary force, and there was an unmistakable edge to every movement that spoke of carefully controlled frustration.
"She's been doing that all morning," Lily whispered, glancing toward the kitchen with worried eyes. "Making extra noise whenever we start talking about magic. I think she's trying to remind us that she's still here and still... you know. Not magical."
"Passive-aggressive territory marking," Natalia observed with the dry wit that could cut glass when she was in the mood. She made a note in the margin of her Transfiguration text with the kind of precise handwriting that looked like it belonged in a calligraphy manual. "Very human behavior, actually. When you can't control your environment, you try to control how much space your displeasure takes up in it."
"Textbook psychological response," Severus agreed, though his voice carried a note of bitter understanding. "At least she's not throwing things. My father tends to throw things when he feels ignored. Usually whatever's closest to hand. Last week it was a bottle of gin. The week before, a shoe."
The casual way he mentioned this made both girls glance at him with concern, but Severus had already returned to his Potions notes with the kind of focused intensity that clearly indicated the subject was closed for discussion.
"Severus," Lily began gently, but he cut her off with a sharp shake of his head.
"It's fine," he said shortly, his pale fingers gripping his quill with white-knuckled intensity. "Some families express displeasure differently. At least your sister limits herself to aggressive pot management."
Before anyone could pursue this uncomfortable topic further, there was a sharp tapping at the window that made all three students look up. A large barn owl sat on the windowsill, its amber eyes bright with intelligence, a rolled parchment tied to its leg with what looked suspiciously like expensive silk ribbon.
"Now that's interesting," Natalia said, rising from her chair with the kind of fluid grace that made everything she did look choreographed. "That's not a school owl."
She moved to the window with careful precision, her green eyes taking in every detail of the magnificent bird. The owl hooted once in acknowledgment and extended its leg regally, waiting while she untied the letter with the kind of respectful care one showed to unfamiliar magical creatures.
"The address..." Lily peered over her sister's shoulder, her wild curls tickling Natalia's cheek. "It's addressed to Mum and Dad. Not us."
"Expensive parchment," Severus noted from across the table, his dark eyes sharp with observation. "Heavy stock, watermarked. Look at the quality of that ribbon. That's not casual correspondence—that's formal communication from someone with money."
"Or someone who wants to make an impression," Natalia added, examining the letter with the thoroughness of someone who'd learned to read between the lines from an early age.
Before any of them could speculate further, Alex Evans appeared in the doorway, drawn by the sound of unfamiliar owl hoots. His graying hair was mussed from his Saturday morning battle with the garden weeds, and there was dirt under his fingernails that spoke of honest work and small victories against nature. His warm brown eyes—the same eyes Lily had inherited—carried the slightly bewildered expression that had become his default when confronted with magical oddities.
"What's all this then?" he asked, though his tone was more curious than concerned. After weeks of magical owls treating his house like a postal depot, he was getting used to their feathered visitors.
"Letter for you and Mum," Natalia said, holding out the parchment with the kind of formal presentation that suggested she understood its importance. "Looks quite official."
Alex wiped his hands on his gardening shirt before taking the letter, examining the address with the careful attention of someone who'd learned to treat magical correspondence with the same seriousness he'd once reserved for important business documents.
"Potter," he read aloud, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. "From... Charlus Potter?" He glanced at his daughters with growing interest. "Isn't that the name you mentioned, Natalia? The boy with the brother wand to yours?"
"His father, presumably," Natalia replied, settling back into her chair but keeping her attention focused on her father rather than her notes. "Hadrian Potter is the one with the brother wand. Though I suppose it could be another Potter entirely—it's not exactly an uncommon name in the wizarding world."
"According to 'Notable Magical Families of Britain,' there are at least twelve Potter family lines currently active," Severus added with the casual precision of someone who'd memorized genealogical texts for fun. "Though the main line—the one that would have a son starting Hogwarts this year—would be descended from the Potters of Godric's Hollow."
"Show-off," Lily said fondly, grinning at Severus with the kind of affection that made his pale cheeks flush slightly pink.
"Only one way to find out which Potter this is," Alex said, carefully breaking the wax seal with the kind of respect that expensive stationery seemed to demand.
As he read, his expression shifted from curiosity to surprise to something that might have been pleased bewilderment mixed with parental pride. Melanie appeared in the doorway, drawn by the unusual quiet that had fallen over the dining room. She still wore her gardening gloves and carried the slightly harried expression of someone who'd been engaged in mortal combat with prize roses and wasn't entirely sure who was winning.
"What is it, love?" she asked, noting her husband's expression with the kind of wifely intuition that came from fifteen years of marriage and three daughters who specialized in surprising their parents.
"We've been invited to dinner," Alex said slowly, still staring at the letter as if he couldn't quite believe what he was reading. "At Potter Manor. Tomorrow evening."
The silence that followed was broken only by the soft sound of Petunia's aggressive pot-banging from the kitchen, which had taken on an almost rhythmic quality that suggested she was working out her frustrations through musical percussion involving cookware.
"Dinner?" Lily repeated, her voice climbing with excitement that made her sound even younger than her eleven years. "With the Potters? As in, the family with the boy who has Natalia's brother wand?"
"Wait, wait, wait," Natalia said, holding up one perfectly manicured hand. "Back up. What exactly does the letter say? Don't paraphrase—I want specifics."
Alex cleared his throat and began reading in his most official voice. "According to this, Professor McGonagall—who apparently is Hadrian Potter's godmother—spoke to Charlus and his wife Dorea about some of the most promising students starting Hogwarts this year."
He glanced up at his daughters and Severus with an expression that mixed pride with parental bewilderment. "She specifically mentioned you three as being exceptionally intelligent and thought it would be beneficial for you to meet some of your yearmates before school begins."
"She mentioned me?" Severus asked quietly, his voice carrying a note of surprise that he tried to hide but didn't quite manage. "By name?"
His pale hands had stilled on his parchment, and there was something vulnerable in his dark eyes that made both girls want to reach out and hug him.
Alex consulted the letter again, his voice warm with pride. "Severus Snape, described as having 'remarkable potential in advanced magical theory and potion-making.' According to this, McGonagall was quite impressed with all three of you during her visit."
For a moment, Severus looked like he wasn't sure whether to be pleased or suspicious of this unexpected recognition. In his experience, attention from adults was more often negative than positive, and praise usually came with strings attached.
"That's brilliant, Severus!" Lily exclaimed, bouncing slightly in her chair with excitement. "She thinks you're remarkable!"
"We all think you're remarkable," Natalia added with the kind of matter-of-fact certainty that made her statements sound like universal truths. "It's about time the rest of the world caught up."
Severus's cheeks flushed pink again, and he ducked his head to hide behind his curtain of black hair. "It's just theoretical knowledge," he muttered, but there was something pleased in his voice that hadn't been there before.
"There will be other first-year students there as well," Alex continued reading, clearly enjoying the positive reaction his news was generating. "Including Hadrian's cousin James Potter, and several other children from... what does this say... 'established magical families who value academic excellence and proper preparation for Hogwarts education.'"
"Ooh, that sounds properly intimidating," Lily said with a grin that suggested she found the prospect more exciting than scary. "Academic excellence and proper preparation. We'll fit right in."
"Speak for yourself," Severus muttered. "I'm going to stick out like a sore thumb. Look at me—secondhand robes, no money, no connections. I'll probably eat with the wrong fork or something equally mortifying."
"First of all," Natalia said with the kind of crisp authority that could cut through self-doubt like a sword through paper, "there's nothing wrong with secondhand robes. Some of the most powerful wizards in history wore secondhand everything. Second, you have the most brilliant magical mind of anyone our age, which is worth more than all the money and connections in the world."
"And third," Lily added with a warm smile, "we'll be there with you. If you eat with the wrong fork, we'll eat with the wrong fork too. Solidarity in social disasters."
"It sounds lovely," Melanie said, pulling off her gardening gloves and moving to read over her husband's shoulder. Her dark hair was escaping from its usual elegant arrangement, and there were rose thorns caught in her sleeve, but her eyes were bright with interest. "Though I have to admit, I'm a bit nervous about meeting these established magical families. What if we say something wrong? What if we don't understand the proper etiquette?"
"Mum," Natalia said with the kind of patient tone usually reserved for anxious relatives, "you have a doctorate in literature and can discuss medieval poetry with university professors. I think you can handle dinner conversation with wizards."
"That's different," Melanie protested, running a hand through her hair and making it even more disheveled. "Medieval poetry doesn't involve magic. Medieval poetry doesn't have customs I've never heard of or social rules I might accidentally break."
"I don't think proper etiquette involves anything more complicated than basic politeness," Natalia said thoughtfully. "From what I've read, most wizarding families are quite welcoming to Muggle-born witches and wizards. The prejudiced ones tend to be a vocal minority."
"Most wizarding families," Severus agreed quietly, though his tone suggested he was thinking of specific exceptions to this rule. "The Potters have an excellent reputation. Old family, but progressive. They were active in the resistance against Grindelwald—fought on the right side of that war."
From the kitchen came the sound of a pot being set down with unnecessary force, followed by what sounded suspiciously like muttered commentary about "established magical families" and "proper preparation" and possibly something unflattering about people who thought they were better than everyone else.
"Oh," Alex said, continuing to read with growing excitement, "and they're offering to escort us there personally. Charlus and his older brother Fleamont—that would be James's father—will come to collect us tomorrow afternoon. Apparently Potter Manor has strong Muggle-repelling charms, so they want to make sure we can find it without difficulty."
"Muggle-repelling charms?" Melanie asked, her voice climbing slightly with what might have been anxiety or fascination. "What exactly does that mean?"
"Think of it like magical camouflage," Natalia explained with the patience of someone who'd become the family's unofficial expert on magical society. "The charms make Muggles unconsciously avoid the area. If a Muggle tried to find Potter Manor, they'd suddenly remember urgent business elsewhere, or get distracted by something that took them in the opposite direction."
"It's actually quite considerate," Severus added. "Prevents accidental magical exposure while allowing wizarding families to live in traditional family seats without having to hide in remote locations."
"How thoughtful of them to escort us," Melanie said, though her voice carried a note of nervousness that suggested she was already mentally cataloging everything that could go wrong. "I suppose I should start thinking about what to wear to dinner at a magical manor house. Do you think my blue dress would be appropriate? Or is there some sort of wizarding formal wear I should know about?"
"I'm sure whatever you choose will be lovely, Mum," Lily said warmly, reaching over to squeeze her mother's hand. "They invited us because they want to meet us, not because they want to judge our fashion choices."
"Easy for you to say," Melanie replied with a slightly shaky laugh. "You're not the one who has to make conversation with magical aristocracy while hoping you don't accidentally commit some terrible social faux pas."
"They're not aristocracy," Natalia corrected gently, her green eyes sharp with the kind of precision that couldn't let factual errors slide. "Well, not in the traditional sense. Wizarding society has a different class structure than Muggle society. The Potters are what you might call 'old magical money'—wealthy and well-connected, but not necessarily titled or formal in the way Muggle aristocracy tends to be."
"How do you know all this?" Alex asked, looking at his daughter with the mixture of pride and bewilderment that had become his default expression when confronted with her seemingly endless knowledge of magical society.
"I've been reading," Natalia replied with the kind of casual shrug that suggested memorizing entire sociological texts was just something she did for fun. "History of Magic, Wizarding Society and Culture, Notable Magical Families of Britain, that sort of thing. I wanted to understand the world we're about to become part of."
"Of course you did," Lily said with fond exasperation. "Leave it to you to research our new society like you're writing a dissertation."
"Knowledge is power," Natalia replied with the kind of serene confidence that made her sound far older than eleven. "The more we understand about wizarding culture, the better equipped we'll be to navigate it successfully."
From the kitchen came what sounded suspiciously like a snort of derision, followed by more aggressive pot management and what might have been the sound of someone muttering unflattering things about people who thought they needed to research how to be normal.
"Should I..." Melanie began, glancing toward the kitchen with worried eyes that reflected the complicated guilt of a mother trying to balance multiple children's needs. "Should I ask Petunia if she'd like to come? I know she's been feeling left out, and perhaps..."
"No." The word came from all three students simultaneously, though it was Severus who continued with characteristic bluntness and the kind of brutal honesty that came from experience with family disasters.
"That would be a catastrophe for everyone involved," he said flatly. "She would be miserable, the hosts would be uncomfortable trying to navigate around her obvious resentment, and the entire evening would be ruined by the elephant in the room that nobody could acknowledge."
"Severus is right," Natalia added more gently, though her voice carried the same certainty. "This is specifically a gathering for incoming Hogwarts students and their families. Petunia would be the only non-magical person there besides you and Dad, and unlike you, she's not there as supportive family. She'd be there as... well, as someone who deeply resents everything the gathering represents."
"It would be cruel to everyone," Lily agreed quietly, her warm eyes reflecting the pain of having to exclude her sister. "To her, because she'd be surrounded by everything she can't have and can't be part of. To the other families, who would have to navigate around her obvious hostility. And to us, because we'd spend the entire evening trying to manage her mood instead of actually meeting our future classmates."
Alex and Melanie exchanged one of those parental looks that conveyed an entire conversation about difficult family dynamics, impossible situations, and the kind of choices that had no good answers.
"You're right, of course," Melanie said finally, though her voice carried the weight of maternal guilt that came from having to choose between her children's needs. "It's just... it feels wrong, somehow. Leaving her out of yet another magical thing."
"Some exclusions are necessary," Natalia said with the kind of wisdom that seemed too old for her eleven years. "Not because we want to hurt her, but because including her would hurt everyone more. Sometimes the kindest thing you can do is acknowledge that not every situation is appropriate for every person."
As if summoned by their discussion—or more likely, having been listening from the kitchen the entire time—Petunia appeared in the doorway. At thirteen, she was caught in that awkward space between child and teenager, but she carried herself with the rigid dignity of someone who'd been practicing wounded pride in front of the mirror. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a perfect ponytail that somehow made her look older than her years, and her blue eyes were bright with the kind of brittle cheerfulness that made everyone in the room tense.
She had a tea towel slung over her shoulder with military precision, and there was flour in her hair that suggested she'd been engaged in aggressive baking as a form of emotional outlet.
"Don't mind me," she said with that particular tone of fake sweetness that could strip paint from walls. "I was just wondering if anyone wanted sandwiches for lunch. But I can see you're all busy discussing much more important things than food."
Her voice carried the kind of sharp edge that suggested she'd been listening to far more of their conversation than anyone was comfortable acknowledging.
"Petunia..." Alex began, his voice carrying the careful tone of a father who recognized dangerous emotional territory when he saw it.
"Oh no, don't let me interrupt," she continued, her voice climbing higher with each word and taking on that particular pitch that meant trouble was coming. "I'm sure your dinner invitation from the magical manor house is much more fascinating than anything I might have to contribute to the conversation."
"Tuney," Lily said quietly, her voice carrying a note of pleading that made her sound younger than her eleven years. "We weren't trying to exclude you. We were just—"
"Just discussing how awful it would be to have me there," Petunia finished with the kind of sweet precision that could cut through steel. "How I would ruin everything with my obvious resentment and hostility. How cruel it would be to subject all those lovely magical families to my thoroughly non-magical presence."
The silence that followed was excruciating. Even Severus, who was usually immune to family drama that didn't involve his own spectacularly dysfunctional household, looked distinctly uncomfortable and was studying his hands with the intensity of someone who desperately wanted to be anywhere else.
"That's not what we meant," Melanie said desperately, reaching out toward her eldest daughter with the kind of maternal gesture that suggested she wanted to fix everything but didn't know how. "Sweetheart, we were just thinking about what would make you most comfortable—"
"Comfortable?" Petunia's laugh was sharp enough to cut glass and twice as dangerous. "You think any of this makes me comfortable? You think there's any part of this magical paradise you've all discovered that makes me feel anything other than completely and utterly superfluous?"
She looked around the room, taking in the scattered magical textbooks, the expensive owl still perched patiently on the windowsill, the careful way everyone was avoiding her eyes as if direct contact might trigger an explosion.
"But please," she continued with that same brittle brightness that suggested she was one wrong word away from either tears or violence, "don't let my feelings interfere with your exciting new social opportunities. I'll just be here, being ordinarily normal and completely forgettable, while you all go off to make friends with magical aristocracy."
"They're not aristocracy," Natalia said quietly, apparently unable to let the factual error stand even in the middle of a family crisis and potential emotional apocalypse.
Petunia turned to her with a smile that was all teeth and no warmth, the kind of expression that belonged on predators right before they struck.
"Of course they're not, dear sister," she said with the kind of poisonous sweetness that could kill houseplants. "How silly of me to suggest that wealthy, well-connected families who live in manor houses and have godmothers who are Hogwarts professors might be anything like aristocracy. Clearly, I don't understand the subtle distinctions that make magical elitism completely different from regular elitism."
"Petunia, that's enough," Alex said firmly, his voice carrying the kind of parental authority that had worked when she was younger but seemed increasingly ineffective as she grew older and angrier. "I understand you're upset, but taking it out on your sisters isn't helping anyone."
"Isn't it?" Petunia asked with mock curiosity, tilting her head like a bird of prey considering its options. "Because it seems to me that taking it out on my sisters is the only thing that gets anyone in this family to pay attention to how I feel anymore."
She adjusted the tea towel on her shoulder with deliberate precision, every movement radiating wounded dignity and carefully controlled fury.
"I'll be in the kitchen," she announced with the kind of regal dismissal that would have made actual royalty proud, "making sandwiches for anyone who wants them. But don't worry—I won't expect any of you to interrupt your important magical discussions to eat them. Heaven knows I wouldn't want to interfere with such elevated conversation."
With that, she swept from the room with all the dramatic flair of someone who'd been practicing her exits in the mirror and had finally found an audience worthy of her performance.
The dining room fell into uncomfortable silence, broken only by the soft rustle of pages as a slight breeze from the open window disturbed their scattered notes and made the barn owl ruffle its feathers.
"Well," Severus said finally, his voice carrying the kind of dry observation that came from extensive experience with family drama, "that went about as well as expected."
"She's hurting," Lily said quietly, staring at the doorway where Petunia had disappeared with the kind of wounded expression that suggested she felt personally responsible for her sister's pain. "She's been hurting for months, and we keep making it worse just by existing."
"You can't help existing," Natalia pointed out with practical precision, though her voice was gentler than usual. "And you can't help being magical. The fundamental problem isn't anything we've done—it's something we are. And that's not something we can change, even if we wanted to."
"But maybe we could try harder to include her in other things," Lily suggested, her voice small and uncertain. "Maybe if we made more effort to do normal sister things with her..."
"You could try," Severus said quietly, his dark eyes reflecting knowledge that came from his own complicated family situation. "But it might not help. Sometimes resentment runs too deep to be fixed by good intentions and sisterly bonding activities. Sometimes the wound is the thing they want to keep, because letting it heal would mean admitting they were wrong to hold onto it for so long."
"Should I go after her?" Melanie asked, looking torn between maternal instinct and the knowledge that pursuing the conversation would likely only make things worse.
"Give her some time," Alex suggested, running a hand through his graying hair in a gesture that had become increasingly frequent as his daughters grew older and more complicated. "Let her calm down first. Then maybe we can have a more productive conversation about... about how to manage all this."
"In the meantime," Natalia said, consulting the letter that Alex still held, "we should probably send a reply to the Potters. The owl is still waiting, and it's been remarkably patient considering we've just treated it to a front-row seat at the Evans family drama spectacular."
Indeed, the barn owl was still perched on the windowsill, watching the family crisis with the kind of patient intelligence that suggested it had seen similar scenes play out in other households and was prepared to wait as long as necessary for a response.
"Right," Alex said, grateful for something practical to focus on that didn't involve navigating the emotional minefield of his family dynamics. "We should accept, shouldn't we? It sounds like a wonderful opportunity for you all to meet your future classmates."
"Definitely," Lily said, her earlier excitement returning despite the emotional turmoil of the last few minutes. "And it'll be fascinating to meet the boy with the brother wand to Natalia's. Maybe we can figure out why Ollivander thought it was worth mentioning."
"Brother wands often indicate some sort of deeper connection," Severus observed, his scholarly interest overriding his usual social reticence. "Not necessarily friendship, but... significant interaction, at least. The wand chooses the wizard, and when two wands share core material from the same magical creature, it usually means their owners' magical signatures are somehow compatible or complementary."
"Or completely opposed," Natalia added thoughtfully, her green eyes taking on that analytical gleam she got when confronted with an interesting puzzle. "Complementary doesn't always mean harmonious. Sometimes it means equal and opposite forces that create interesting interactions when they meet."
"Like matter and antimatter?" Lily asked with genuine curiosity.
"More like... two sides of the same coin," Natalia replied. "Different aspects of the same fundamental force. It could mean they're destined to be allies, or rivals, or something more complicated than either."
"Well," Alex said, settling at the table to compose their reply, "I suppose we'll find out tomorrow evening which kind of connection it is."
As he began to write, the sounds from the kitchen gradually settled into the more normal rhythm of sandwich preparation, though there was still an edge of aggressive efficiency to Petunia's movements that suggested her feelings hadn't been resolved, merely temporarily contained like a dangerous substance in a fragile container.
Outside, the August sun continued its lazy arc across the suburban sky, and the barn owl waited with the eternal patience of its kind, ready to carry their acceptance back to Potter Manor and set in motion whatever consequences might follow from the meeting of brother wands and their wielders.
In the dining room, three eleven-year-olds returned to their magical studies with the kind of focused intensity that came from having something concrete to concentrate on instead of the messy complexities of family dynamics and emotional landmines.
But underneath their scholarly discussion of animation charms and potion theory, they were all thinking about tomorrow evening and the mysterious boy named Hadrian Potter, whose wand shared thestral hair with Natalia's and whose family had extended an invitation that felt somehow more significant than a simple dinner party.
Some meetings, after all, were destined to change everything.
---
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