Chapter Text
Magnolia Greenwood-Davis was 33, divorced, and an alchemist.
The alchemy part she preferred to keep quiet about. You wouldn't believe what the nutcases out there would do for the chance of finding a philosopher’s stone. In fact, that’s why her husband sought her out, and why he divorced her when she refused to show him how to make one.
She did get her daughter, Tracey, out of it, which was a mighty fine consolation prize for the whole affair.
That said, her alchemical pursuits weren’t the only thing she was quiet about.
She had always been well-mannered, her parents had made sure of that– for all the good being well-mannered had done them, as they’d been killed in the war while Maggie was on her apprenticeship in France– and simply kept up with the blandest possible lifestyle for a witch to have. Her only scandal was the divorce, but that had been eclipsed in the gossip circles by the death of Juliana Zabini’s fourth husband later that year. She maintained a blandly neutral seat in the Wizengamot, as head of the Noble house of Greenwood. She went to the ministry parties and socialized just enough that her daughter would have playdates with the right people’s children, before fading into the background with her demure, sensible robes, dull brown-blonde hair, and politely distant conversation.
She even made sure to keep a good relationship with her ex-husband Abner Davis, who was a major distributor of potions ingredients. Alchemically created supplies can be both very useful and very difficult to come across, so she occasionally worked for him on commission, and would even throw in a little extra if she was feeling generous.
Any friendliness there was not out of lingering feelings for the man, but rather to create the illusion of lingering feelings in order to secure her daughter’s position as Abner’s primary heir. Maggie wasn’t a Slytherin for nothing, you know.
All in all, she lived a rather quiet life– aside from one odd habit. She simply delighted in throwing muggle neighborhoods into chaos.
Relax, it’s not what you’re thinking. She was never the biggest fan of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s tactics, and generally abhorred violence. No, she took great pleasure in moving to cookie-cutter suburban neighborhoods and sending them into a disarray with eclectic decorating and enthusiastic bake sale contributions. It was like a game to her– the more obtuse she acted to all her own strangeness, the more irritated the local housewives would be with their own inability to ostracise her properly. Besides, muggle primary schools had better maths courses for her dear Tracey.
So it was that one ordinary day, the Greenwood-Davis pair said goodbye to their fantastically salmon ranch home on the outskirts of London and moved into an uninspiring, one and a half story, two bedroom bungalow at Number 8, Privet Drive.
They arrived perfectly ordinary-like, with a big moving truck and hand-carrying the lighter boxes into the house. By noon, they had the place at an acceptable level of organized disorder, with boxes neatly stacked in the appropriate rooms, and plastic wrapped around the furniture.
The only hint of oddity was the massive, ornate apothecary cabinet with its fine carvings and many, many shelves that dominated the far side of the living room. It contained a great many potions and their ingredients, as Maggie preferred to brew for herself rather than waste money owl-ordering what they needed. It was also charmed to appear to muggles as though it was full of pickle jars and essential oils. Just the sort of mundane strangeness that she thrived on.
It had been a gift from Fulcanelli when she completed her mastery, and she made sure to keep it in a place of honor in every place she lived.
At precisely 2:45 pm on move-in day, there was a knock on their blandly cream front door. Maggie smoothed down her shoulder-length hair into a quick, efficient bun, and cast a quick steam pressing spell on Tracey’s dress, which had gotten crumpled when they’d sat down for a quick lunch. Her daughter giggled as her dress fluttered around her, but quickly schooled her face into a passable mask of polite exhaustion.
Even though she was only nine, Tracey also enjoyed her mother’s strange, long-con pranking style. She made her own game of perverting the dry fantasies of the neighborhood children with wild tales of the Goblin Wars, which often led to a scary reputation on the playground when September rolled around. She didn’t mind that– fear can be a powerful motivator, after all.
Maggie never doubted for a minute that she was raising yet another in a long line of snakes.
Another knock, and Maggie pulled the door open to reveal a long-necked brunette and a squat blonde, with their children in tow.
“Hello,” said the blonde, “I’m Agnes Polkiss, from number 12.”
“And I’m Petunia Dursley, number 4,” added the brunette, extending her hand.
Maggie took it, smiling.
“It’s good to meet you both, I’m Maggie Greenwood-Davis, and this is my daughter Tracey.”
Tracey put on a good show of being adorable, waving shyly from behind her mother’s leg.
The women cooed, stepping inside to pinch her cheeks, which Tracey sportingly endured without complaint. Her mother resolved to give her an extra scoop of ice cream before bed as recompense.
“I’m afraid we’re not in a position to host at the moment,” Maggie fretted, putting on a slightly frazzled air, “There’s just so much to do, you see.”
“Oh of course dear,” Agnes assured her, looking around the place with greedy eyes, “We were just having tea and couldn’t help but notice the moving truck, wanted to introduce ourselves to the newest addition to our neighborhood.”
(“I’m Dudley,” the fat blond boy said, “and that’s Piers. Do you have any toys?”
“Sorry,” Tracey said, looking not very sorry at all, “I haven’t unpacked my room yet.”
The boys went out to tussle in the yard, and Tracey pretended to be busy with boxes while eavesdropping on the women.)
“That’s very kind of you,” Maggie said, fluttering her hands, “I’ll have to host a get-together so we can meet everyone properly.”
Petunia smiled a thin-lipped smile, her eyes catching on the odd cabinet in the living room before flitting away.
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary, we’re a friendly bunch,” she assured her, “I’m sure just about everyone will have introduced themselves by the end of the week.”
Maggie smiled back. Oh, she would enjoy herself here.