Chapter Text
Maggie’s palms were slick with sweat as she raised a fist to knock on the pristine door of number four, Privet Drive. She fussed with her stringy blue hair nervously and tried not to look too severe as she waited for the house’s single occupant to answer.
She’d spent most of the day in a nearby park, waiting for her wards to tell her the house was empty of everyone except the middle-aged woman. It was just after 2 o’clock when the spell pinged, and it took all her self-control not to sprint here. Instead, she practiced breathing slowly as she walked the blocks back to Privet Drive, all the while rehearsing what she would say. She kept fingering the post card in her jacket pocket – a picture of the Tower of London on one side, and nothing but her mother’s name and this address on the other, post-marked August 3rd, 1981.
She could hear someone’s footsteps, and the door opened to reveal a thin, prim woman fully a head shorter than Maggie’s gangly frame. A frown pursed her lips as she gave Maggie’s ripped jeans and nose ring a disapproving once over.
“We do not do collections in this neighbourhood…” she began sharply, before Maggie interrupted her.
“I’m not here for that! Um… sorry,” Maggie stuttered, practiced words failing her. “Are you…? Um, I mean, Is this the home of Lily Evans?”
Her heartbeat thundering in her ears, Maggie examined the woman. She was white to the lips, and frozen ramrod straight. Time stretched between them as the woman stared at Maggie’s face like she’d seen a ghost.
Maggie couldn’t tear her gaze away, but continued in desperation, “Please.”
Slowly, like the words were being pulled out against her will, the woman answered, “No. I’m… her sister.”
Maggie licked her suddenly dry lips, “C-can you tell me where I can find her?”
The woman looked as if she had a particularly nasty taste in her mouth as she glanced behind Maggie, eyes darting up and down the street. “I suppose you had better come inside.” She said, standing stiffly to one side. “Before you’re seen.”
Maggie stepped into the little entry hall just before the woman slammed the door behind her. Turning on her heel, the woman strode down the corridor and through the open door at the end, to what Maggie could see was the kitchen, and to the sink, leaning almost double over it.
Maggie cautiously followed her, taking in the neat flower wallpaper and spotlessly clean counter tops. The house smelled clean too, like detergent and fresh linens. It was hard to believe anyone lived here, with how regimented and tidy everything looked. Like a home catalogue or television set.
Having come so far, and in such a short space of time, Maggie had no idea how to continue. She felt woefully out of place in that spotless kitchen in her black clothes and heavy boots. Too big and too small all at once.
“Um…” she ventured, before the woman sharply interrupted.
“Sit down!”
Maggie sat gingerly at the dining table, as the woman busied herself making tea for the both of them. The routine seemed to calm her, such that she was almost relaxed by the time a full teapot and two little mugs were placed on the table. Her lips were still tightly pursed but that seemed habitual, judging from the lines around her mouth.
After pouring for them both, she sat and watched Maggie from across the table, searching her face like she was trying to decipher a puzzle. Maggie sipped her tea nervously and tried not to wrinkle her nose at the taste. Tea had never really grown on her.
At last, the woman spoke, “I had wondered if I would ever see you again. If you would materialise from some dark corner of the world, demanding answers.” Her gaze was a thousand miles away, still staring into Maggie’s eyes. “I guess, it was too much to hope that I would never have to deal with it after all.”
This cryptic pronouncement made Maggie, if possible, even more unsettled. “Sorry, I just… I don’t mean…” A million things she wanted say but the words kept halting against her teeth. All but the ones she had held onto all these years. “Where’s my mother?”
The woman’s eyes were flat and emotionless, “Dead. She died… ten years ago, now.”
Tears pricked Maggie’s eyes as her gut churned. Ten years… ten years meant the same year as my post card. Hands shaking, Maggie pulled the post card from her pocket and pushed it across the table. “This was sent to me. At the orphanage where I grew up. Why did she…?”
Maggie trailed off as something flickered in the other woman’s eyes - something dark and bitter – though it didn’t move the mask that was her face. She didn’t touch the card but studied it, taking in the name and address in the space meant for a message. The woman looked at her again, this time her attention in the present. “What’s your name?”
“Maggie. Margaret, I mean. I just prefer Maggie. Margaret Evans.”
“Margaret…” She repeated, looking at her eyes. “You must be, what? Fifteen?”
“Sixteen, actually. But!” Maggie hastened to add, “I’m not looking for any handouts. I have my own money and everything. I just wanted to know… well everything, I suppose. Whatever you can tell me.”
The woman’s eyes sharpened over that admission. “Are you,” her mouth twisted over the words, “a witch?”
Maggie’s frantically beating heart skipped as ice and electricity ran down her spine. “Yes,” She admitted, eyes wide. “Are you?”
Revulsion filled the other woman’s face. “No!” She hissed. “I would never, could never, be a freak!”
Maggie flinched back like she’d been slapped. “Then how do you even know…” She trailed off. That was probably obvious. A young witch couldn’t do much to hide herself, as Maggie well knew. Taking a deep breath, she continued, “I just want to know why she left me there.”
The woman gathered herself, her anger warring with some subtler emotion. “I will tell you what I know, but first you have to promise me something.”
Maggie’s eyes narrowed, “What kind of promise?”