Beta: Cloudy

(≖‿‿≖)ノ⌒●~*

Rosie, age 8

I wish Harry's story hadn't told us such a bias perspective against Fenrir Greyback. It was understandable, but regrettable, as it made me second guess a lot of interactions with Fenrir in the beginning.

Fenrir Greyback was an interesting penpal to say the least. The more we wrote, the better his handwriting got, and so the longer his letters became. He started to divulge little truths about himself that both surprised and humbled me.

There was not much information on Fenrir Greyback in the fandom. He was a werewolf that targeted families who were malicious enough to actively work against werewolves. His thought process was simple: if there's a werewolf in that family, the politicians wouldn't be so against us.

Cruel, most certainly, but I could see how an uneducated, desperate man would make that conclusion. In some cases he was correct, and in other cases he was wrong. Certain families would rather kill, or cast out their cursed child, than change their viewpoints.

Fenrir, as I understood from his letters, had a very large pack that he struggled to consistently find food and shelter for. To my surprise, only a couple were those he had turned, and whose families consequentially abandoned them. Most of his pack were simply random stragglers that were cast out. Fenrir wasn't the only werewolf in Great Britain, and contrary to fandom belief he was not the largest spreader of the lycanthrope curse. He was simply the only werewolf who showed his face and gave the public a name to hate.

Most alarming of all, he took credit for others' accidents.

It made sense in hindsight. His face was well known. If he was spotted in an area people were sure to be on guard, yet on certain full moons there was a new accident? And somehow all of those accidents were tied back to Fenrir, even if they happened in multiple places at the same time?

Most of the conversions were done by abandoned children who didn't understand what to do. The children tended to run into Muggle homes to hide from the aurors and when the full moon rose... well. Mass conversion, which would lead to more children running away until the next full moon and rinse and repeat.

He could find them on the full moon because werewolves could hear each other's howls. He had enough wits about him on the full moon to get the bitten families out of there when he found them. Then he'd leave enough trace of himself around to take credit for the attack, even though it was not his blame.

Do it often enough for a few years and even attacks on the opposite side of the country were blamed by him. Not that he did anything to correct it.

Infamy was still publicity, still awareness.

Forgetting werewolves was considered much worse by his standards.

His described "penchant" for children was another fandom myth. Children simply survived obtaining the curse better than adults... most adults died. Children also didn't have anywhere else to go, whereas an adult could try to make a living. So Fenrir ended up with an absurdly large amount of children following him around. In another world it might have been cute. In this world it was just... sad.

There wasn't exactly an orphanage to drop them off at (yet).

I didn't understand why the children survived the curse more often than adults yet. I had every intention of studying the lycanthrope curse. Hopefully my past life's knowledge as a medical student could be of some use. At the very least it was better than doing nothing.

Fenrir's words were childish and short in his letters. He admitted he had never attended school and he was self-taught. He never had a house, never had a consistent meal, never had any kind of stability in his life.

It did not—it did not make what he did okay. Abusive childhood did not justify abusing others. Murder was still murder. Reasons would not excuse that. A life taken was a life taken.

It's so easy to hate the man instead of the cause. It's so tempting to blindly hate instead of looking past that and fixing the core issue.

Society makes the monster.

The more I interacted with Fenrir, the more I felt assured by that. Ever since I started reaching out to him he had not attacked anyone.

Not once. There had been an attack in Germany that one of the Britain wizards made a cruel remark about, but Fenrir did nothing.

I was listening to him. I was paying attention to him and the werewolves and that was all he ever wanted. His pack had consistent meals, clean clothes, and warm blankets in the winter. It was more than anyone—even Voldemort—had given them.

In between the words of his letters, I got the feeling of relief from Fenrir.

Like someone else had taken a burden off his shoulders.

It was odd, and conflicting. It felt like I was validating his wrong actions by giving him what he wanted, but I couldn't stop. Condemning an entire race for one man's terrible actions did not sit well with me.

What could I do though? Sit around and wait a couple of decades before I legitimately rose to power? That felt so much worse. How many more werewolves had to freeze in winter, and starve to death because I was scared of a man whose story I had only ever heard about from his enemies?

I wanted to help the werewolves. I had the wits and knowledge to do it, what reasons could I rationalize not to?

If I wanted any chance of building a safe environment for werewolves to live in, I needed Fenrir on my side. I needed someone to be there in that community and vouching for it. I needed someone I could trust to work in the best interest of the werewolves while I attended Hogwarts.

At the end of the day, Fenrir was the one who took in the abandoned werewolves. Fenrir was the one they turned to. Fenrir would do whatever it took for equality for werewolves. He would do anything if it meant they didn't have to suffer another year of extreme prejudice and poverty.

I knew that like I knew the back of my hand. If I needed him to do something for the sanctuary, no matter what, he would do it.

If I needed him to kill again, he would. If I needed him to be patient and passive, he would.

That kind of commitment coupled with this already established connections and fame in the werewolf community made Fenrir invaluable for that goal. Even more so than my dear uncle, Remus.

Remus was a good man. A better man than Fenrir.

But he resented werewolves, and considered them a genuine danger even though he was one himself. And, worst of all, he was one of Fenrir's true victims. If I used Remus then Fenrir's entire pack would be impossible to bring in and Fenrir had the largest pack of werewolves.

Remus had a home. He had a guaranteed meal every night. He had us. He did not need the sanctuary like they did.

I could think loops around my logic to reach out to Fenrir. I had as many reasons to give him a chance as I did not to.

But in the end, I was glad I did.

Because the more I got to learn about Fenrir, the more I realized that if given chance, some men would rather be the heroes than the villains.

I was going to give him that chance.

Fenrir Greyback was not a good man.

But maybe one day that would change.

(≖‿‿≖)ノ⌒●~*

With Hogwarts only growing closer it was time to to tackle the next section of my list.

Occlumency was a high priority. Kreacher had long since brought over the books on them that were stored at the Black library. The only thing that had prevented me from diving into them right away was my lack of free time. With the sanctuary secured—dubbed Lunar Orchid since I planned on turning it into a mass producing greenhouse, so they could make their own wolfsbane potions and sell enough to pay for their own other essentials—and an impressive fortune left over (only because I routinely stole from museums and the absurdly wealthy) my time could be spent learning the art.

I already had a good idea on what to do. Or at least an assumption on what to do. There really was no way to learn if it would work without having someone try to invade my mind.

Something I'd guess I'd experience the first time I properly met Dumbledore—since Harry and I were too young to officially have memories of him, I wouldn't count our time at Hogwarts.

Before that could happen I had to do everything I could to prepare.

Standard occlumency practiced the art of deflection—becoming a shallow pool that only revealed what the defender wanted to show.

But if fanfiction and Sherlock Holmes had taught me anything, it's that the mind is a powerful thing and there should be more than one way to defend it.

The books Kreacher brought didn't provide any reason my idea wouldn't work, so...

I began nightly meditations where I would guide my magic in my mind to erect a proper mind palace. Yes, I was absolutely ripping off Sherlock Holmes because his mind palace seemed super cool. If there was even a chance to recreate it for myself, I was going to.

If only it was simple.

(≖‿‿≖)ノ⌒●~*

The actual constructing of the palace was fine. After eight years of dedicated training I had enough control over my magic that pulling it into my mind was as easy as breathing. Organizing, constructing, and creating my mind palace was a genuine delight. From my castle I added a moat, a village surrounding it, a forest, and then I surrounded it by a black sea that reflected the night sky above it. Over time the details only became more refined and I started to add traps as I saw fit.

The ocean around my palace would act as my standard shallow pool, but if someone got through...

The palace was not only designed with defense in mind. There was something else I was curious about that I hoped to confirm in my second year at Hogwarts.

While making my mind palace I found something... odd.

Concerning, really.

I honestly had no idea how it could possibly even be there. I had no scar from the night of Voldemort's attack, nor did I sense anything odd about my magic since then.

Yet somehow during my construction, I found something black, charred, and so definitely not my magic. It looked like a smoldering egg that had been burnt to heck and back, but it pulsed with a heartbeat.

It was quickly stored away in the dungeons of my palace.

I really hope that isn't what I think it is.

(≖‿‿≖)ノ⌒●~*

"Rosie," Harry called out to me, tugging on my gray cardigan. "Will you please read to me again?"

"Mm-hmm," I responded, sitting up properly on my bed. Harry had come into my bedroom without knocking—something I was used to—and carried a classic fantasy book Remus had bought him. I had read to Harry too many times to count previously. He was capable of reading on his own, however, he loved it when I read to him.

Harry, like canonically, was a quiet and well-behaved boy. He was pretty shy around new people, but once he was around them long enough he would start to relax. He was slow to make friends—he didn't have proper friends at our martial arts class, only people he liked to talk with.

All of that changed when he was on a broom. Playing mock Quidditch with Sirius brought out an aggressive, gleeful, and smidgen arrogant side of my brother. He had a talent for flying and boy did he relish in it. He was a right menace on a broom.

About the only way to get him to have a tantrum would be to try and pry him away from his beloved broom.

He was a good boy. A very good boy.

Our relationship was nice.

I certainly wouldn't call it a sibling relationship. Not in a traditional sense. I was mentally an adult and when our parents had passed Harry needed a more maternal role in his life. Sirius was a wonderful godfather, but the man was still heavily grieving when he took us in and there were some things he simply didn't know how to do.

It was I who tucked him in, who soothed his nightmares, who read to him before bed, who got him up in the morning and dressed, and so on. We didn't bicker with each other like siblings normally did. He did not view me as a peer, but as a maternal figure (even if he wouldn't verbally admit it).

I was his caretaker, much like Sirius.

I supposed I should count my blessings that no one in our little family knew my behavior and maturity was not normal. Sirius and Remus did not grow up in healthy, loving, and normal childhoods, so they had no reference. Harry obviously wouldn't know better.

Doing all those little things meant nothing to the adults—no one commented on it.

To them, it was normal that I had rapidly matured due to trauma and taken a maternal role for my brother.

Harry crawled into my bed. He handed me the book he had chosen for me to read. It was The Hobbit. Harry had become fond of Tolkien's writings, he especially enjoyed the voices I gave them.

I opened up to the chapter he had bookmarked—the forest with spiders—and began to read. With experienced ease I made my voice match with the scene and carefully retold the classic tale for the—honestly I had no idea how many times I had read The Hobbit to Harry by that point. It wasn't a very long tale. The only thing that prevented me from finishing it to him every week was that making all the voices left me parched and raspy.

When my voice began to give out again—the heroes had reached the mountain—I coughed and placed the bookmark in. "S-orry."

Harry shook his head, smiling with sweetness. "Mm-mm. Thanks, Rosie."

I leaned forward and kissed his forehead. "Yo-u're we-elcome, dear."

A glance at my cat-shaped clock told me that it was near dinner time. I was about to ask Harry if he was ready to eat, but a thought occurred to me.

That thing I found inside my head...

My gaze drifted to Harry's scar.

"Ha-arry? Ha-ave you... ta-talked to a... sna-ake?"

Harry's face screwed up in thought. He was quiet for a minute as he seriously pondered my question then said, "In my dreams, I think!"

"Kreacher?" I tentatively called out.

Without hesitation the house elf popped up on my bed, ears flopping as he nodded to me. "Yes, mistress?"

"Do we-e have any... sna-akes?"

"Kreacher saw some in the garden. Should Kreacher bring one to the mistress?"

"Ye-es, please."

He was gone for barely thirty seconds before he reappeared and held out a little grass snake. It flicked out its tongue several times as it squirmed in Kreacher's hands. I asked Harry, "C-Can you sa-ay hi to it for me?"

"Hi," Harry told it.

That didn't sound like Parseltongue, I thought uneasily. From what the books made it seem like it was instinctive. Was he too young, or...?"

"Hi," I nervously told the snake. I didn't sound any different from how I normally sounded, either, but the snake stilled. Kreacher let out a gasp of surprise which instantly made my stomach drop.

"Whoa!" Harry said. "You speak snake?"

"Ssspeaker?" the snake hissed out, its voice small and hard to hear.

"Mistress is a parselmouth!" Kreacher exclaimed, his tone elated as he hobbled on the bed closer to me. "A proper witch, yes, a proper witch!"

"Y-Yes..." I drawled out with a wince.

What the hell does this mean?

Harry definitely had the horcrux scar. But he didn't have the parselmouth ability? I did, though, which meant—

Am I a horcrux, too?

I couldn't discount that possibility. Given the circumstances when Voldemort blew himself up it wasn't terribly far-fetched that his shattered soul latched on to any and all living creatures within the vicinity. But, given how weak and tiny his soul was upon "death" the splinters didn't have enough substance to grant us equal horcrux rights.

I chewed on the inside of my cheeks in thought. Harry definitely had the scar, and I vividly remembered Dumbledore referring to him as the prophesied child while we were at Hogwarts. Harry had to have a fraction of Voldewhore's soul—I simply would not believe differently.

But—

Was it possible I somehow took a fraction of that fraction?

Twin magic was such an unexplained thing. There really was no way to get around the fact that the Wizarding Community had no explanation for things that magical twins could do. Some could share a mind. Some could share abilities. Some would lose their magic if the other died. Some would absorb the other's magic.

It was illogical and random. With the lack of research put into learning about it, the only thing people could say when discussing twin magic was:

Meh. Just magic, I guess.

So now—

I've split the canon horcrux in two?

That was the only logical conclusion I could draw. The pathetic little worm inside my mind palace was too weak to do much else but wither. My eyes narrowed in thought.

With the horcrux being weakened in Harry there was a good chance that Lily's protection wouldn't cause him pain when being near Voldewhore.

At that revelation I needed to reconsider how the heck to safely remove the horcrux without either of us dying. There was a solid chance that we could receive a fatal blow and kick the horcrux out in our place, but I was reluctant to leave such a thing to chance.

Or, more likely, that kind of chance was only given to the prophesied one.

I sure as heck wasn't in any kind of prophecy.

Ha. Unless one conveniently happened after we had left Hogwarts so I'd have no way of knowing about it. How silly.

"Okay," I said out loud as I ended my thought process. "Di-inner time."

And I guess I better tell Sirius and Remus I'm a parselmouth. Then when I tell them I'm planning on going to Slytherin it won't hurt as bad.

(≖‿‿≖)ノ⌒●~*

I was wrong.

For Sirius, me being a parselmouth was a snort and shrug.

Me declaring I planned on going to Slytherin, though?

"ABSOLUTELY NOT!" Sirius boldly declared at the dinner table. I had chosen to wait to break the news until after I had eaten my fill so I could flee if I needed to. The very second I brought it up, Sirius had dramatically paled and he clutched at his chest as if he had a heart attack.

"Paddy," I whined.

"Nope. No goddaughter of mine will be a snake."

"But I have to," I protested. "Someone has to domin—I mean take control—I mean guide that house."

That elicited a raised eyebrow. "Come again?"

"Harry's obviously going to Gryffindor," I said—to which Sirius firmly nodded—then I gestured to myself. "I need to go to Slytherin to keep them in check."

"I don't want to be in separate houses," Harry protested. "Why can't you come to Gryffindor? You're super brave."

Sirius was nodding again at Harry, his expression dark. "That house is filled with evil wizards and witches, Rosie. You shouldn't be anywhere near it."

"All the more reason to be in it! I can handle them."

"How?" Sirius snorted dubiously.

"I'm a Marauder's daughter, aren't I?" I challenged him. "Are you saying that you can't prepare me to unleash absolute hell on any Slytherin who wants to hurt me? That you can't set me up for success when I enter the enemy territory?"

Sirius wagged a finger at me. "I know what you're doing, missy. You're trying to bait me. You think challenging my ego will make me give in?"

"Yes."

"Well, you're right. Weekend flying lessons are on hold for you, Missy—" I let out a sigh of relief. "—you're going to have to focus on surviving the focused attention of Padfoot. Avoid my traps for a year and dish it back. Not only will I give my blessing, I'll even buy you a stupid Slytherin scarf."

I grinned and held out my hand across the dinner table. "Deal!"

Oh, God, did I regret that deal.

(≖‿‿≖)ノ⌒●~*

Five months later

I was hiding in the attic from Sirius one Saturday morning. He already got me with a sneak attack at one in the morning and my hair was turned into an ugly shade of sickly carrot. I knew he would eventually find me in the attic, but I had to take the opportunity to regroup and plan my own counter attack at lunch.

Kreacher had helped me prepare a hidden clove in the far back corner of the attic. There was enough light coming out of the single window that I could properly see, but the way the shadows were stretched out would make it hard for anyone to find a crouched child.

"Mistress?" Kreacher popped up in front of me. "Kreacher found a familiar for mistress."

Whoa, really?

Since revealing my parseltongue ability I had expressed the desire to have a snake familiar. It made the most sense. Who wouldn't want to be able to properly communicate with their own familiar?

Of course Sirius wrinkled his nose up in disdain at the very thought, but Kreacher was over the moon. It took a solid month of buttering up Sirius and laying on the I love you sooooo much (which I did) before he threw up his hands and said, "Fine! Do whatever! If it bites you, I'm feeding it to the stove!"

With that blessing I instructed Kreacher to, "Find me a familiar befitting a budding dark witch."

And apparently he did.

I shifted in my hiding spot to peer at the teeny-weeny snake in Kreacher's cupped hands. I let out a gasp of surprise when I noticed it had wings and—

"A baby dragonair," I whispered in awe, gently picking up the tiny little serpent. "Little one, are you okay?"

The little winged serpent raised its head to me, its scales changing colors with the way the light reflected off them. Its scales were iridescent—primarily white, but shifted to blue, purple, or pink depending on how the light reflected off it. Its wings were a pristine snow-white, and its eyes a pretty shade of blue.

Like my own.

I was Harry Potter's twin, but we did not look identical. He had James' wild dark hair and Lily's eyes, but I had Lily's dark crimson hair color with James' curls. My own eyes were blue like James, and unlike Harry, I did not wear glasses. Contacts only since I had to be ready for a brawl at any moment.

Harry was a black-haired green-eyed cutie, and I was an auburn-haired blue-eyed thief. The only thing we had in common were our curls.

The baby occamy flicked out an adorable black tongue. "Momma?"

My heart melted.

"I will be your momma," I whispered. "My little Iris."

And that was how I got an occamy for a familiar.

She was adorable.

I loved her.

"Thank you so much, Kreacher," I gushed, reaching over and pulling the House Elf into a big hug. "She's perfect."

Kreacher squirmed in my arms, but after a minute of hugging he carefully patted my back.

(≖‿‿≖)ノ⌒●~*

Bucket List Completed:

8. Learn occlumency (likely books at Black House Kreacher can get. Can't think of a reason why they wouldn't have them)

11. Get a familiar

ƪ(˘⌣˘)ʃ

Surprise early chapter! Next chapter will be posted tomorrow at a regular time.

Fenrir Greyback is interesting to write. There's a lot up for interpretation since we've only ever seen his story told through the perspective of his enemies.

Answer: Occamy & kneazel are tied.

Question: Favorite HP/Crossover?

Reviews are love!