Chapter Text
Diana Cavendish wasn’t an ordinary girl.
She knew as much, of course. It was hard to be an ordinary girl when you were known as the war ender, saviour of wizard-kind, sole heir to the greatest wizarding family in Britain, The Girl Who Lived, the list goes on, really.
But with her nose in a decades-old spellbook, penning little notes between the margins as she waves a too-large wand, struggling with the deafening charm she hasn’t quite gotten the hang of, it could almost feel that way for a bit. So long as she stayed in her book, at her desk, in her room, she could study like any ordinary witch her age and struggle to cast the basic object animation spell she could’ve sworn she’d learned by now.
“Locomotor Atra.”
She takes special care to pronounce the ‘t’ as a ‘t’ and not a ‘ch’ as she’d seen her cousins attempt to horrible affect years prior and to her relief, the pencil slowly begins to twitch, little flaps of wood branching out of it and sort of shuffling itself around on the table before she gets the hang of it. That’s when the real fun can begin and before she knows it, the pencil is twirling and dancing across the desk top, doing little spins in the air it propels itself into before landing on its side and bouncing back upright. Sure, it’s more or less just Diana pushing it around the air with her mind, but the sight is still pleasing, if not for its whimsy, then for its representation of yet another spell she can cross off of her list‒
“Mother had been hoping that you would have spent your afternoon on something useful. Clearly, she was mistaken.”
“…What is it, Merrill?”
The bubble of normalcy bursts at the turn of a key as a girl with platinum-blonde hair and frilled purple robes saunters into the room, wearing an almost smug grin as Diana’s pencil returns to its original inanimate state.
“Mother said that it’s lunchtime.”
Not particularly hungry but knowing better than to push the matter, Diana only sighs and tucks her wand into one of the deeper denim pockets sewn on the inside of her dress, gently guiding the door shut behind her as she heads down the stairs.
“You know, she really is going soft on you, she is,” Merill muses, taking long, deliberate steps in front of Diana as if she’s scared of them moving out from under her, “You’ve only made, what, a single one of our meals this week? Granted, I always preferred Anna’s cooking, of course, but you should be learning these things, I think.”
Diana idly considers the possibility of putting something foul in their food during her next tenure, but the tongue-lashing she might receive convinces her otherwise. Perhaps she could try practicing some sense-alteration magic? Anna did always go easy on the spices which, while comforting to the others, made mealtime rather dull to Diana.
“Gustus Incendio,” she whispers, twisting the tip of her wand into the table as she wills the taste of spices and just a touch of garlic into her roast chicken.
The meal remains relatively wordless, save for the idle banter of the twins as plates dwindle, leaving nothing but sparse crumbs in Diana’s case, though the twins leave almost their entire plates untouched before dashing up the stairs to do… Something.
No matter; with a flick of her wand, she lids the plates and floats them into her fridge, tapping the door shut before going about washing dishes.
“Anna? Which pots and pans did you use today?”
“Don’t worry yourself with that, Lady Cavendish. They’ve already been washed.”
There’s a silence as Diana makes a somewhat exasperated noise, turning to see a primly-postured Anna kindly smiling up at her, as poised as one can be when dressed in nothing but a potato sack.
“Anna, you don’t have to do my washing for me, okay?”
Anna’s expression falls a little, though her smile remains as she softly shakes her head.
“I had thought that you’d wanted to spend some extra time on your studies, before your trip to Diagon, my Lady.”
Diana can’t help but roll her eyes at that. Extra studies she could understand, but why prior to Diagon in particular? She was from a wizarding family, the Cavendishes at that; the idea of her needing Hogwarts assistance was laughable. Still, she couldn’t find it in her to fault Anna, always looking out for her, for wanting to help her and so, finishes washing her own plate with a light smile pulling at her lips.
“Please, remember to take time for yourself, Anna. You know how cranky Daryl gets when her breakfast isn’t made at precisely the right time.”
“Yes, of course, my Lady, whatever you say.”
There’s a feeling of discomfort, of being at a loss for words but a brief “of course” as Diana shifts up the stairways, briefly turning back to the dining room only to be met with the *CRACK* of disapparation, leaving nothing in sight save for the table, chairs, and statue of Beatrice sitting directly behind the head.
Beatrice Cavendish, founder of the Cavendish Healer’s Association. They’d set up clinics here and there throughout history, but were more focused on research, working hand-in-hand with their house elves to develop concoctions and cures of contagions and curses never thought of as conventionally craftable. Diana knew her family tree better than most historians and as far as she was aware, the Cavendishes had always prided themselves on the humane treatment of their house-elf partners.
So this sort of thing was fine, wasn’t it?
No use pondering that question too hard, though‒better to focus on her studies for now. Come September, she would go to Hogwarts like her mother, and her mother, and her mother, as had always been done. After all, with Hogwarts came Quidditch games, special ministry-sponsored events, and of course, the largest library in Britain. The spells that Diana could study while there could mean the revival of her family, or the saving of countless lives, or‒
A red-haired centaur gallops across the sky, sending waves of amazement through her core as brilliant explosions of colour line the night‒
For now, she would simply retreat to her room and study. She’d just managed to get her hands on a muggle chemistry book which Diana had found were in general, while sometimes looked down upon, quite useful in envisioning the processes with which spells operate.
Now, if only she could find it.
“Objecti Revelio”, she chants, tapping her wand against the air as if striking a cowbell, causing a faint, green dust to settle upon…
“The bathroom?”
Strange, she had not remembered taking it there. Diana was studious, yes, but to the point of bringing a muggle chemistry book into a room with a running tap? The only people she knew who might do such a thing were‒
“Maril, Merrill, what are you doing with my chemistry textbook?”
The textbook, or rather, what remained of it lay on the ground between the two of them, too many gashes in it to count. Maril flicks her wand and the book slides across the floor, bumping against Diana’s feet.
“We’ve been practicing our severing charms,” she says, dusting off the turquoise shoulder of her robes.
“Not very effectively, it would seem,” Diana replies coolly, eyeing the cuts that end about a quarter of the way through the relatively thick book.
Though that response doesn’t seem to be the correct one as, before Diana can properly react, Merrill jabs her wand at her, shouting:
“Mimblewimble! Maybe that ought to teach you to keep your mouth shut, my lady.”
Diana simply turns on her heel and walks out of the room, ignoring the discomfort of her curled-up tongue as she points her wand towards herself, mentally enunciating every syllable of ‘Finite Incantatem’ in her mind before her mouth returns to normal and a quick: “Accio textbook” sends it flying into her hand. Or, at least, some of it. Come to think of it, while little flecks of material that had come off an object usually weren’t summoned alongside the object itself when charmed, Diana wasn’t quite sure as to what would happen if a significant portion of the object had been cut off‒
A scream from the bathroom confirms Diana’s worst fears as she rushes back inside, terrified at the prospect of finding a concussion, or broken bone, or‒
“You gave me a papercut!”
…To be fair, it was a pretty nasty papercut, but Maril’s state was nothing that she couldn’t fix. Diana was even about to offer her help when several looming, deliberate footsteps sounded out from behind her.
“What happened here, girls?”
“Diana cut her hand open!”
“Why, you…”
Diana opens her mouth to contest, but before she can even get a syllable out, Daryl descends upon her like a hawk, hands practically bent into claws at her sides.
“You live under my roof, under my care, and this is how you treat my children?”
Actually, this house belongs to Diana; it’s just under Daryl’s leadership until she turns of age, but Diana knows better than to talk back. Talking back would just result in a longer lecture, or pocket money mysteriously disappearing in her sleep, or her textbooks going missing, or‒
“That does it. Give me your wand.”
Again, in all fairness, Diana hadn’t really been listening. But this is Diana’s wand; while the eight inch unicorn-cored rod of mahogany belonged to her mother, she can feel the connection she has with it, its refusal to leave her hand as Daryl outstretches hers, and Diana knows she can’t follow her aunt’s request.
“Daryl, you can’t‒”
“Give it.”
“But‒”
“Here. Now.”
Her mind is racing now, flitting between an imposing Daryl, two grinning twins, and her own wand, trying to think of something, anything to get her out, and while she wouldn’t like to hex her aunt, she can’t think of any better option, and‒
“Expelli‒”
Just as Diana’s about to cast fire at her, the doorbell rings and Daryl stops, then composes herself and the twins as Anna answers.
“Hello, and welcome to the Cavendish Manor. To whom do I owe the pleasure?”
And while Diana had heard tales of fantastical and mundane creatures large and small, from the invisible tardigrade to the gargantuan Hungarian Horntail, no amount of picture books or encyclopedias could have prepared her for this.
The more than 8-foot tall man is barely able to fit through the door frame before slipping off his shoes and striding after Anna up the stairs and right up to Daryl. The twins barely even acknowledge him, though they do reluctantly step aside for him as he looms over Daryl, several heads taller than her.
“You seem to have grown since I last saw you.”
“Couldn’ say the same for yeh, Miss Daryl.”
He speaks in a bit of a gruff voice and thick accent that unnerves Diana, but she can’t find reason to fault the man who’s just saved her from assaulting her primary caregiver.
“Um… Who might you be?”
Instantly, his demeanor brightens as he crouches down to meet Diana’s gaze (or tries to, anyway; he’s still at least a couple heads taller than her, even on one knee) before presenting her an enormous hand.
“Rubeus Hagrid, groundskeeper o’ Hogwarts. O’ course, I know all about who y’ are, Lady Cavendish.”
Diana rolls her eyes, both at the honourific and the twins’ reactions to the tonal dissonance they’ve just experienced, but she doesn’t particularly mind.
“Oh, please, just ‘Cavendish’ is fine, ‘Miss Cavendish’ if you need, sir. Really, there are some things I’d prefer not to discuss.”
“Righ’. As yeh said, Miss.”
Merrill scoffs at the use of the word ‘Sir’, but Daryl silences her, marching forward to his side as she shoots Diana a glare that scrubs any semblance of playfulness from her.
“May I ask, Rubeus, would you be able to state your business with us?”
“Official business on Dumbledore’s orders. He said I should bring Miss Cavendish here along with me.”
“And why would you be bringing along an eleven-year-old who has not yet enrolled at your school on ‘official business’?”
“Well, perhaps it’s got somethin’ to do with the fac’ tha’ ain’ no one’s seen Miss Cavendish here anywhere in Diagon. Dumbledore thought it’d be best to send some staff. Like old-times.”
The last line he says drips with accusation, though Diana hasn’t the foggiest idea what he might be referring to, though while Daryl seems to, she doesn’t yet give her silence as she takes a step back, dusting off the spot that Hagrid touched.
“Well, you may rest assured that Diana already has everything required for her to succeed at Hogwarts provided to her by her generous older cousins who have graciously donated their old supplies.”
“There’s a new curriculum this year. Yeh’d have known if yeh’d read her letter.”
“I tried to tell you,” Diana mutters as Daryl shoots her a piercing look. After being dismissed, she’d figured she could probably get by with slightly inaccurate textbooks, but apparently, that was the wrong decision.
“All right, then. How much will it cost, then?” Daryl asks, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“Miss Cavendish has more’n enough in her vaul’.”
“And could Dumbledore not have sent someone, ah, more professional to accost her?”
That seems to get Hagrid’s attention, his fingers twitching around the bright pink umbrella that Diana hadn’t even noticed until now.
“Deputy headmistress McGonagall is busy helpin’ a muggle-born witch. Right brilliant one, too. Heard she’s an animagus already. No’ even a first year yet.”
Wait, a muggle-born animagus? Who hasn’t even entered Hogwarts?! Before Diana can follow that line of inquiry, though, she hears Daryl mutter out a reluctant approval before the thundering cry of “Diagon Alley!” pierces her eardrums and Hagrid disappears through the fireplace.
“Well? Are you going to collect your supplies, or will you continue to stand there?”
Diana doesn’t need to be told twice, briskly marching off into the fireplace, yelling, “Diagon Alley!” before the manor vanishes in the flames flickering in her vision and the world turns to light.