Hogwarts Reimagined

Content warning for repeated intentional misgendering and depiction of an abusive parent-child relationship.

After the first bloodied night, the remaining four nights of the full-moon change came a little easier. Madam Pomfrey was tireless in patching Rhiannon and Dudley up, though Rhi caught a lot of whispers and grim looks from her and their other caregivers that while at first were worrying, soon became more than a little annoying.

Rhiannon supposed she did cut a pitiful figure, thin as she was and her already significant scarring only added to by that first full moon. But damnit, if she was going back to Hogwarts she didn’t want to spend that time wrapped in cotton wool. She’d go back and she’d play Quidditch and she’d pick up her mostly-friendly rivalry with Hermione over who had the best marks and she’d show them she could do anything she could have before.

Rhi didn’t get much of a chance to voice any of this frustration, because straight out of the full moon they had their trip to Diagon Alley. The inhabitants of the Lovegood house gathered around the dusty hearth on the 28^th, standing unlit now at the tail end of summer though still filled with wood and kindling. Xenophilius held a small claw-footed clay pot in his restless hands, outstretched to Rhiannon, Luna and Dudley.

“Wouldn’t risk it, but we’ve left it so late and Hagrid’s expecting us there... Risks trouble with the Ministry if we take an unregistered Portkey both ways and it’s harder to Floo with school supplies... Luna, you go first – watch zem, Dudley, Rhiannon,” Xenophilius mumbled, fiddling fretfully with the engravings on the pot. Luna took a pinch of green-goldish powder from the pot – like flecks of fools’ gold, then looked at his father expectantly. Xenophilius stared back at her, then shook himself and scrambled for his wand. Hastily he lit the fire with his wand and Luna stepped up to it, pyrite powder trickling from faer fingers into their other hand. Rhiannon stared as they then strode into the flames. Luna threw the glittering powder into the fireplace, turning the flames a brilliant green – not the dull green tinge of burning copper, real green right the way through; and clearly said “Diagon Alley!”. With that xe vanished, and the flames returned to an ordinary orange.

Xenophilius held out the clay pot to Rhiannon. “Floo powder. Make sure you speak clearly – take a minute to think about it, good, good – and make sure you get out at the right grate. Don’t fidget, keep your elbows in – wait ‘til you see Luna to get out.” he explained hurriedly. Again he held out the Floo-powder pot, shaking it urgently. “Come on, let’s try and beat the rush, grab a pinch.”

Cautiously Rhiannon reached in and took a small handful of the glittering green-gold dust, needing to do the task one-handed as unlike Luna she needed a hand free for her cane. She grimaced at the gritty sensation of the powder in her hand and ducked her head to step into the fireplace, careful not to slip on the firewood. Inside the hearth, carved into the stone, were a collection of runes. Rhi was fascinated by them, recognising only a few – a Flame Freezing charm, bound to the fireplace? Clever.

“Plan it out, but do hurry – don’t want to get caught up in the crowd.” Xenophilius urged. Rhiannon flinched and coughed, while it didn’t burn her the smoke from the fire threatened to choke her. She flung the Floo powder into the fire and averted her eyes as it flashed and turned green. “Di-d-Dia-gonalley!” Rhiannon stammered, still coughing through the tangled words.

At once, it felt as if she were being sucked down an enormous drain. Disjointed images flashed by around her and Rhiannon clapped her hands over her ears as her travel incited a great howling of magical wind. Something hard knocked against her elbow and she hastily tucked it in, hugging her cane against her chest. Rhiannon squinted through her fogged glasses, seeing a blurred stream of fireplaces through the sensation of ghostly hands slapping at her face. Her stomach churned uneasily and she squeezed her eyes closed, wishing for it to end -

The toe of Rhiannon’s boot caught in a chink between stones of a fireplace, and she was thrown face-first onto cold stone. The bridge of her glasses connected with the floor and snapped, mashing broken plastic and glass against one side of her face, her cane was crushed against her chest and bashed her in the chin.

Dizzy and bruised, covered in soot and remnants of Floo powder, Rhi got unsteadily to her feet with the aid of her cane. She coughed and wiped her hands on her skirt, straightening it as she did so. Rhiannon stowed her smashed glasses in her pocket – they were only the decoy ones anyway, so close after full moon she still had her wonky wolf-eyes.

She was quite alone, but where she was, she had no idea. All she could tell was that she stood just out of a dusty fireplace in the centre of what looked to be a large, dimly lit wizarding shop; lined with tall, cramped shelves. A glass case nearby held a withered hand ensconced on a velvet cushion, a bloodstained pack of playing cards, and a staring green-irised glass eye. An assortment of human bones cluttered the shelves, and rusty, spiked instruments hung from the ceiling. To Rhiannon’s left a filthy window looked out onto a dark, narrow street crowded with dingy, unfamiliar shops and even more unfamiliar people.

The sooner she got out of here, the better. Rhiannon leaned on the clear parts of shelves and squeezed her way silently through the shop towards the door, but before she’d got halfway there she caught sight of two people on the far side of the dingy glass – one of them the very last person Rhi wanted to meet anywhere, let alone when she was lost.

Rhiannon looked around hastily and spotted a large black cabinet to her left; she darted inside it and pulled the doors closed, leaving a small crack to peer through. Just in time – seconds later a tinny bell clanged, and Malfoy stepped in through the shop door, following a tall man who could only be his father. He had the same pointed face, the same downturned mouth, though his silver-blond hair was greying at the temples and worn long. He walked with a snake-headed cane not unlike Rhiannon’s own, though his was gleaming black accented with silver and clearly carried for show rather than for assistance.

The Malfoys crossed the shop’s dusty floor, Malfoy Senior looking lazily around at the items on display before he rang a bell on the counter and turned to his son. “Touch nothing, Draco,” he said imperiously. Unlike his son’s, Mr. Malfoy’s voice had no trace of an Irish accent – it was very correctly upper-class English and far more condescending than Draco’s half-hearted sneering ever had been.

Draco had been reaching for another glass eye, this one’s iris a sickly violet. At his father’s sharp order he snatched his hand away, scowling sullenly. “I thought you were going to get me something,” he mumbled resentfully. Rhiannon did not miss the quickly-hidden, fearful glance Draco cast his in his father’s direction at that small rebellion.

“I said,” Malfoy Senior corrected sharply, “that I would buy you a racing broom.”

Draco’s already-sour expression grew even sourer. “What’s the good o’ that if I’m not on the House team?” he griped. His father’s lips tightened and his eyes grew flinty. “I’ve told you to speak properly, Draco – none of that local slang.” he snapped. Draco flinched and his voice lost its’ regional drawl.

“Sorry, Father,” Draco replied quietly. His speech was much more clipped now, and mimicked his father’s in accent. “But, I already said there’s no good in a broom. What’s the good if I’m not on the House team? Rhi – Harry Potter got a Nimbus Two Thousand last year. Special permission from McGonagall so s-he could play for Gryffindor. S-He’s not even that good, it’s just because she’s famous... famous for what, surviving when her- his, parents didn’t?”

Draco bent down to examine a shelf of cracked skulls, muffling the rest of his words in the collar of his shirt. “... everyone thinks sh-he’s so smart, wonderful Potter with h-his scar and h-is broomstick-”

“You have told me this at least a dozen times already – and do get better about calling him what he is, I would hate to think Potter’s antics had confused even my son,” said Malfoy Senior, cutting Draco’s griping off sharply and quelling any further protests with a stern look at his son.

A stooping man stood behind the dusty store counter and coughed, unwilling to interject any more pointedly into the pointed conversation. He smoothed his greasy hair back from his face and coughed again, then bowed obsequiously to Mr. Malfoy when the father and son stopped talking. “Mr. Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you again,” the storekeeper said in an oily sort of voice. “Delighted – and young Master Malfoy too – charmed. How may I be of assistance? I must show you, just in today – and very reasonably priced -”

“I’m not buying, today, Mr. Borgin, but selling,” said Mr. Malfoy. The smile faded slightly from the shopkeeper – Mr. Borgin’s – pale face. “You have heard, of course, that the Ministry is conducting more raids.” Mr Malfoy added, taking a roll of parchment from a pocket inside his open cloak and unraveling it, then handing it to Mr. Borgin to read. “I have a few – ah – items at home that might embarrass me, if the Ministry were to call... I have brought some with me as a sample, of sorts... the rest, we will arrange a collection as usual?” Mr. Malfoy concluded.

Draco’s father cast a furtive glance out at the street window behind him, then emptied his pockets onto the store counter. Flashes of metal caught Rhiannon’s sharp gaze in the dim light, jewellery and knives and ornaments all tangled up along with artifacts less recognisable. Scraps of leather, bone, feathers and fabric – and among them, a small leather-bound book.

Mr. Borgin’s thin face brightened with avarice at the sight of that in particular, though Rhiannon could see nothing particularly special about it and would have disregarded it entirely had Mr. Malfoy not hurriedly tucked it back into his cloak pocket when Mr. Borgin noticed.

“That,” Mr. Malfoy stated firmly, “is not for sale. The list, if you please – the items marked green are gathered here.”

Mr. Borgin affixed a pair of bent wire-framed pince-nez to his slightly-crooked nose and looked down the list Mr. Malfoy had provided. “The Ministry wouldn’t presume to trouble you, sir, surely? Some of these items... will be difficult to move, hot stock to keep... surely you understand,” he said.

Malfoy Senior’s lip curled. “I have not been visited yet. The name Malfoy still commands a certain respect, yet the Ministry grows ever more meddlesome. There are rumours – rumours about a new Muggle Protection Act, about rights for werewolves and goblins and other such sub-human citizens... no doubt that flea-bitten Muggle-loving fool Arthur Weasley and his ilk are behind it -” here Rhiannon felt a surge of bitter fury “- and as you can see, certain some of these poisons might make it appear - “ Malfoy Senior continued, to be cut off by Mr. Borgin.

“I understand, sir, of course,” the obsequious shopkeeper agreed. “Let me see... yes, I can send Melvin for those this weekend... “

“Can I have that?” Draco interjected, pointing to the withered hand Rhiannon had seen when she first arrived.

“Ah, the Hand of Glory!” said Mr. Borgin, brightening and abandoning Mr. Malfoy’s list to scurry over to Draco. “Insert a candle and it gives light only to the holder – best friend of thieves and plunderers, you see. Your son has fine taste, sir,” he said, the last directed to Mr. Malfoy.

“I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or plunderer, Borgin,” said Mr. Malfoy coldly. Mr. Borgin bowed again, his sweaty hands twitching near his pockets. “No offense sir, no offense meant -” the shopkeeper stammered.

“Though if his grades don’t pick up,” added Mr. Malfoy more coldly still, “that may indeed be all he is fit for-”

Privately Rhiannon thought that unfair. Draco was a bully, but he was clever and he had a certain degree of natural talent. Snape’s favouritism certainly hindered his progress in Potions, but she had noticed his measured, methodical standard of work in the other classes they shared as well. Given Draco’s arrogance in their first year Rhi had expected his father to be spilling forth praise as Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had about Dudley in years past... though, she reasoned, her aunt and uncle’s praise for Dudley had not lasted and so perhaps the comparison to Draco’s situation was more accurate than she had meant it to be.

“It’s not my fault,” Draco shot back heatedly – evidently his father had continued that line of criticism while Rhiannon was thinking. “The teachers all have favourites, that Hermione Granger and her friends, Rhi – Harry Potter and their retard Longbottom -”

“I would have thought you’d be ashamed that a girl of no wizarding family, a freak and a dunce beat you in every exam,” snapped Mr. Malfoy, clearly losing patience. Draco flushed, looking ashamed while Rhiannon clenched her teeth at the repetition of the familiar insults.

“It’s the same all over,” said Mr. Borgin in his oily voice, a fervent gleam in his colourless eyes. “Wizard blood is counting for less everywhere - “

“Not with me,” said Mr. Malfoy, his thin nostrils flaring. “No, sir, nor with me, sir,” agreed Mr. Borgin with another nauseatingly deep bow.

“In that case, perhaps we can return to my list,” Mr. Malfoy continued shortly. “I am in something of a hurry, Borgin, I have important business elsewhere today -”

They started to haggle over the specifics. Rhiannon watched nervously as Draco lost interest and started to wander, drawing nearer and nearer to her hiding place as he examined the objects for sale. Draco paused to read the card propped on a magnificent necklace of mixed opals: Caution – Do Not Touch. Cursed – Has Claimed the Lives of Nineteen Muggle Owners to Date. He shuddered and turned away, coming to a halt before the cabinet Rhiannon hid inside. She held her breath, fearing he would find her -

“Done,” said Mr. Malfoy back at the counter. “Come, Draco,” he added imperiously. Rhiannon wiped her forehead on her sleeve and dared a breath as Draco’s shoulders slumped and he turned away to trail after his father. “Good day to you, Mr. Borgin. I’ll expect your assistant at the manor this weekend to pick up the remainder of the goods,” Mr Malfoy said in parting. The door-chime rang faintly in his wake, and the moment it did Mr. Borgin dropped his obsequious manner.

“Good day yourself, Mister Malfoy... and if the stories are true, you haven’t sold me half of what’s hidden in that manor of yours...” Mr. Borgin muttered darkly. Still grumbling to himself, he disappeared into a hidden back room.

Rhiannon waited for a minute in case he came back, then, quietly as she could, slipped out of the cabinet and out of the shop entirely. Her broken glasses crunched in her skirt pocket as Rhiannon limped out of the shop and gazed around her.

She had emerged into a dingy alleyway crowded haphazardly with shops devoted to Dark Arts. The one she had just left was the largest and cleanest, but many others lined the crooked alley and the alley itself was lined with suspicious-looking characters of all kinds. Two red-cloaked men watched Rhiannon from the shadow of a doorway, muttering quietly enough that even Rhiannon could not hear.

Feeling jumpy, Rhiannon drew her jacket closer around her and set off, her knuckles white on her cane as she hoped against all her anxieties that she’d be able to find a way out. Her gaze caught on an old wooden street sign, hanging at a crooked angle just over another advertising a shop that sold cursed and poisoned candles. The street sign told Rhi she was in Knockturn Alley. This did help some – Rhiannon vaguely remembered seeing another sign for the same alley when she had first visited Diagon Alley with Hagrid, and it wasn’t as if she had spoken the name clearly.

“Not lost are you, dear?” said a voice in Rhiannon’s ear, making her jump. An aged woman stood in front of her, holding a tray of what looked unpleasantly like entire human fingernails. She leered at Rhiannon, showing crooked teeth too white in her dirt-lined pale face. Rhi backed away uneasily, her heart catching as she ran out of room with her back to the slightly mossy brick wall of the alley. “Nn-n-no-no, I’m fff-ff-fine, thanks,” she stammered. “Iiiii-I-I’m just -”

“RHIANNON! What d’ye think ye’re doin’ down ‘ere?”

Rhiannon’s heart leapt. So did the leering woman; her tray of fingernails cascaded across the rickety cobbles and she cursed as the massive form of Rubeus Hagrid came striding towards them, beetle-black eyes narrowed over his great tangle of beard.

“Ha-a-hhhh-Hagrid!” Rhiannon croaked in relief. “I-i-i-iiiiii, I was lost- Ffff-floo? Powder?” she added on, stammering helplessly over the unfamiliar phrase.

Hagrid scowled and shouldered his way in between Rhiannon and the leering woman. He put out one arm to shelter Rhi from the now-screaming woman and escorted up the winding alleyway and out into the broad walkways and bright sunlight of Diagon Alley.

Now they were safe, Hagrid slowed his pace and Rhiannon slumped back against the front wall of a nearby shop. “Ye’re a mess!” Hagrid said gruffly, as Rhiannon brushed soot, glass fragments and other accumulated filth from her clothes. “And where’re ye glasses? Ol’ Xen, should o’ thought better than Floo travel... Knockturn Alley, of all the places ye could fetch up... Dodgy place lass, not safe for kids but least’ve all you...”

Rhiannon fished in her pocket and held up her broken glasses sheepishly. “’S-s-ss, only the dud ones,” she reassured him. “A-and yeah but, don’t be too mad, ‘s m-my fault we cou-ldn’-t go earlier so it’s all last minute,” she added on, alternately stopping and slurring her words as she recovered from her shock.

Hagrid grunted, seeming unsatisfied with that answer. “Eh, suppose. Now c’mon, they’re goin’ nuts lookin’ for you,” he replied, and with that the two of them set off up the crowded street, Hagrid setting a slow pace so as not to wear out Rhiannon who struggled to find steady footing with her cane on the cobbles.