Wednesday. 4:30 A.M. Post-tragedy.
Pre-destiny. Mostly tea.
Seraphina Potter-Peverell had been declared a miracle.
The headlines were already forming in some grimy news office: "Cannibal Jack Strikes Again – Teen Girl Miraculously Survives" because apparently, when you survive a supernatural massacre that turns your sad little house into a splatter painting of viscera, society likes to label it domestic terrorism and toss your trauma into a narrative that sells.
She didn't correct them.
Let the world believe it was Cannibal Jack, the mythical serial killer who allegedly ate families like breakfast sausages and vanished before CCTV could blink. Let them believe some lone lunatic devoured her uncle's beer belly and Dudley's… whatever it was Dudley had. Let them think Petunia blew herself up out of patriotism, or rage, or because the microwave beeped one too many times.
It was cleaner than the truth.
Cleaner than demons.
Cleaner than what she knew now.
Because when she'd heard the voice at 3:00 AM, when she saw what was left of the bodies, when she watched her aunt step into death's mouth without flinching it all clicked. Not in her mind. In her blood.
This was how her parents died.
Not Voldemort. Not some sparkly boogeyman in a cloak with dramatic lighting. This. This thing. This hunger. This wrongness.
And Seraphina tea-stained, sleep-deprived, full of grief and sarcasm was done playing along with the fairy tale.
"You're being placed under protective custody," said one officer, gently, as if she might spontaneously combust if handled too roughly. He had kind eyes and breath that smelled like three-day-old energy drinks. "Just until they catch the guy. You'll be safe, Miss Potter."
"Potter-Peverell," she corrected automatically.
He blinked. "Right. Sorry."
"Don't be. Everyone forgets."
Except now, she wouldn't.
She asked politely, like a sane and well-adjusted orphaned teenager for a ride to the address listed on the deed Petunia left her. The officer seemed surprised but agreed. Probably figured she needed closure. Or a distraction. Or was hoping she wasn't about to go all Carrie on them mid-highway.
She sat in the back of the police car, staring out the window as the city crept past. Streetlights flickered. Coffee shops opened. One man was walking a chihuahua in what looked suspiciously like a tiny trench coat.
Seraphina felt nothing.
Not numb like sadness.
Numb like she'd been scraped hollow and filled with cold tea and unfinished screams.
The apartment was in London. Old building. Brick-faced. Slightly tilted like it resented gravity. A wrought-iron gate creaked when the officers opened it, and Seraphina had the sudden, ridiculous thought that it sounded like it was whispering "finally."
The moment she stepped in, it hit her.
Scent.
Not just any scent.
Them.
Her parents.
Lily's honeysuckle and ink. James' clove and shadow. The house smelled like them. And that after seventeen years of pretending she didn't need it shattered her.
She turned the key with shaking hands.
The door swung open with a sigh.
And right there, at the entrance, framed in soft golden light from a stained-glass window, was a photo.
The three of them.
Her mother, radiant in a robe made of dusk. Her father, laughing with his arm slung around her shoulders. And her tiny, chubby-cheeked, smiling like she didn't know what death was.
The cup dropped.
The sobs hit her before she hit the floor.
She cried.
Not pretty tears. Not dainty sniffles. She cried like the building would collapse with her grief. She cried for the parents she never got to grow up with. For the memory of her father's kiss. For the last whisper of her mother's voice. For the aunt who, despite everything, chose to burn instead of betray her. For the broken, awful family that still tried.
For Dudley, whose greatest ambition was being a sentient loaf of ham, but who hadn't deserved to die screaming.
For Vernon, whose sins were many, but who'd still thrown himself at the thing trying to devour his son.
She cried for every birthday missed. Every scar blamed on bad luck. Every ounce of power she'd buried to survive.
Then she stopped.
Sat up.
Wiped her face with a sleeve that still smelled faintly of smoke and contempt.
And made a vow.
"I will never be weak again."
Her voice didn't shake.
She stood, checked the purse Petunia had given her, and pulled out more than she expected. There was money actual cash, thick bundles wrapped in bands that said "Not from the bank." There was the deed to the apartment. A set of keys. A contact card for a goblin-run investment firm. A single chocolate frog (expired). And… emancipation papers.
Already signed.
Already approved.
Of course Petunia had planned it.
Petunia never did anything half-hearted. Not even redemption.
Seraphina stood in the living room her living room and looked around. The apartment was clean, well-kept, but old. There were small details only someone like her would notice. Charms hidden in the woodwork. Ward anchors stitched into the corners. This wasn't just a flat. It was prepared.
For her.
She would go back to Privet Drive. Not to mourn. Just to collect the few things she owned her books, her tea stash, Vespera's heating pad, the scarred bedspread that had seen more than any therapist ever could.
She would lock it up. Clean it. Leave flowers.
She'd make sure no one else ever lived in that house again.
Let it be a tomb. Let it rot.
It was the best she could offer.
At 5:15 AM, she made herself tea.
Proper tea.
A hidden stash in the apartment's cabinet revealed her mother's blend chai with blood orange and something faintly unearthly.
She curled into a chair, Vespera coiled protectively on the armrest, and watched the sky lighten through the windows.
It wasn't over.
But for the first time…
It felt like a beginning.