Characters: Sirius Black, Female Harry Potter; Frances, Jet, Sally and Gillian Owens
Genre: Fantasy, family fic
Word Count: 993
Warnings: genderbent and weird crossovers, canon fuckery
Author’s Note: I’m not sorry.
Synopsis: Lily’s mother was an Owens, and Owens women take care of each other.
Jet Owens woke to the sound of the ancient family clock chiming. Ten, eleven, twelve.
She rose from her bed and left her bedroom. As she headed towards Sally’s room, Jet passed the now silent clock, whose hands had not moved in over a century and had never, in her memory, been wound.
After checking on Sally, tucked safely in her bed, she found her sister, Frances, leaving Gillian’s bedroom. Neither said a word, moving down the staircase with purpose.
Frances took her hand and squeezed.
It was the work of moments to retrieve the grimoire and supplies. Candles were lit, their fragrance wafting through the air. Salt gathered from the nearby sea was mixed with sage, witch hazel and frankincense and set to smolder.
“By the power in our shared blood,
We cast a spell this moonless night;
Ease the passing of those we’ve lost,
And protect our kin with all our might.”
Though they’d only been asleep for a few hours, neither sister returned to their beds. They stayed awake all night, watchful, waiting and grieving for their lost family.
Sirius Apparated to Privet Drive, trapped somewhere between rage and heartbreak. He’d been halfway across the Brecon Beacons when the compulsion spells had snapped abruptly, nearly making him splinch himself, and he’d spent a half hour trying to vomit and weep at the same time. Then he’d cleaned himself up and followed the locating spells placed on his motorcycle, not quite sure if he wanted to kill Albus Dumbledore, or torture him and then kill him.
Three hours and one overheard conversation later, and he was absolutely certain that even if it took Dumbledore a year to die, it would be too easy.
Not even Minerva seemed to realize that she’d been set to observe the Dursley’s — who Sirius could tell anyone who would listen were not fit to raise his sweet goddaughter — a full day before anything happened to James and Lily.
In fact, Sirius was certain he couldn’t feel more, in terms of anger and grief, than he did at this moment, knowing James and Lily were dead and betrayed twice over — until Dumbledore placed Ianthe on the step of Number 4 and walked away.
Self-preservation was the only thing that prevented him from letting loose his magic until all three wixen left; the air around him grew chill and frosted as the infamous Black rage burned cold within him. He turned the air blue with curses, damning Dumbledore to the depths of every hell he could name and condemning ten generations of his line; neither Minerva nor Hagrid were spared from his vitriol, either.
Then he stalked towards the house, and retrieved his goddaughter, already planning his next steps, and his revenge.
At dawn, Jet stirred from her light doze at the sound of a knock on the kitchen door. Frances rose first, snatching up a heavy wooden ladle from the cauldron and holding it like a weapon as she headed for the door.
Jet huffed a little and picked up a more useful weapon — though Frances did have a nasty overhead swing — following her sister with a rough-hewn wand of oak in hand.
The man at the door was beautiful, young, full of grief and anger, and radiating magic. In his arms was a small child, sleeping sweetly, touched by ill will and wrapped in a woman’s magic. Familiar, Owens family magic.
“Well,” Frances said calmly, “I’ve had worse visitors come to the door. Uglier ones, too.”
The boy, and he was barely more than that, managed a wane smile even as his eyes grew damp. “This is Ianthe — she’s Lily’s daughter.”
Jet reached out and drew him inside. “Don’t let the cold in, for heaven’s sake; Frances, put the tea on; were you raised in barn?”
Always game to bicker with her, Frances returned fire as she tapped the kettle to set it boil, and they argued and scolded each other while letting Sirius explain and cry and rage, and the littlest Owens witch slept peacefully.
Nine years later, Dumbledore would realize that Ianthe Potter had never set foot inside Number 4; that Sirius Black had harvested the wardstone meant to anchor Lily’s blood wards and used it as the foundation of a powerful set of wards around the Owens house. Even as he searched frantically for his pawn, reordering his plans to account for a Girl-Who-Lived who had not been worn down by hate, Ianthe attended her first classes at Salem Academy as a day student.
While the Order was recalled, and the Daily Prophet worked itself into a frothing rage, Sirius and Ianthe went flying and attended Quidditch games and took her little cousins out for ice cream. She learned her family history and studied magic and fought with her elder cousins about the family curse. They ate brownies for dinner and danced skyclad under the solstice moon while the Ministry lost their collective minds and the public demanded an account of what had happened. And on the same day the at Wizengamot called Dumbledore to the floor and slapped an honesty hex on him, the Owens women broke their centuries-old curse with magic neither Dumbledore nor Voldemort would ever understand: love.
When she was thirteen years old, sprawled out on the lawn with a pile of books and a pair of kittens, doing her homework while watching her younger cousins chase each other around with colour-changing bubbles, a pair of oddly-dressed wixen came to gate and tried to pass through. The wards stopped them, of course, and Ianthe rose to her feet, wand in hand, and told them, “It’s rude not to knock, you know,” even as her godfather and aunts left the house. The aunts looked amused; Sirius was armed and ten kinds of pissed off.
“Crouch, you cocksucking son of a dragon, what are you doing here?”
The conversation went downhill from there.