This is one of the few stories where my femHP does not, in fact, have a flower name. Instead, I have given her 'Siobhan' – pronounced the same as Chevon – and it's an Irish equivalent to Joan, and means 'God is gracious'. I did concede to giving her 'Juniper' as a middle name, even though it won't be mentioned much, if ever. . . And 'Evan' – where 'Evans' is drawn from – is a Welsh name that can be an alternative to John, which also means 'God is gracious'. :3
'Kian' is also an Irish based name, meaning 'ancient' and 'enduring'. (It also sound like cayenne pepper :3 Figured I'd give someone a somewhat plant-sounding name)
This is not included in my Plunnie Farm due to that fact that this will be an interconnected drabble series.
She wasn't sure what had gotten into Aunt Petunia. "I'm only a few months off of my seventeenth!" she protested incredulously. A scowl marred her lightly freckled features as the blue-eyed woman still ushered her into the car, shoving a carryall with her uniforms and schoolbooks into the teen's arms.
"I don't care," Aunt Petunia snapped in return, then abruptly looked contrite, "My father has asked that you spend this summer with him and you will do so."
The Girl-Who-Lived sank back into the back seat of the car, feeling as though someone had punched her in the gut. "I have a grandfather?" she whispered in shock.
Aunt Petunia nodded tensely, "Kian Evans. He has Tourette Syndrome, and is a veteran of the second World War, so you better respect him."
"Tourette. . . That's where you say stuff randomly, right?" Siobhan hesitantly asked, remembering the small book of common mental disorders that Hermione had given her when she had started to 'hear voices' in her second year at Hogwarts.
The Dursley woman pursed her thin lips, nodding curtly. Thankfully, her niece fell silent for most of the trip.
"You never told me why your school closed early," Petunia muttered. Siobhan had been sent back to the Dursley residence in early January, instead of late March. Pale, leaf green eyes meet Petunia's cornflower blue ones.
"I suppose I didn't." The You never asked was left unmentioned. Petunia flinched, Why do her eyes look like Da's?
"There was an attack," Siobhan murmured, turning her eyes away from her aunt. "Dumbledore, some of our muggle-born classmates, and a few of the professors where killed. It will probably disappoint you and Uncle Vernon that I was one of the students almost killed." The teen shivered faintly, but Petunia's eyebrows were drawn together in confusion.
"Why would we be disappointed?" Please don't say what I think you mean . . .
"I didn't die. I know you both hate me and want me gone."
Petunia felt tears prick at her eyes as she opened her mouth to retort, but she stopped. What had they done to refute that, after all? They had always insisted that Siobhan was a burden, that she wasn't worth the clothes on her back. They treated her almost as badly as lepers were in the old days, even after she had saved Dudley's immortal soul.
Disgust roiled in the woman's gut, suddenly realizing what harm they had wrought upon their own blood.
When they reached the London Heathrow, Petunia emptied her purse of bills and dug out a silver necklace – the simple little cross pendant shining even after all these years.
"I'm sorry, for what it's worth," Petunia admitted quietly, "We were horrid to you when we should have been kind. The. . . The necklace was Lily's." The woman passed the teen the necklace, bills, passport, and ticket. You can't undo any of the harm you've done, she thought to herself, self-hate finding its root.
Siobhan studied her aunt, wondering if this was all a joke. But, no. . . she seemed sincere. "The attack was committed by Voldemort's people. You're a target because you're my family, so get out of Britain while you're alive." That was as much of an offer of forgiveness as any of the Dursleys would get from her.
Aunt Petunia nodded in understanding, her eyes shining oddly in a way that reminded Siobhan of Hermione or Luna when they were sad.
A Tanakh is the canonical collection of Jewish texts that are the base for a lot the Christian Old Testament. I chose that because Hebrew is a beautiful language, written and spoken.
The flight lasted longer than Siobhan had thought it would. Eventually, out of boredom, she turned to the man – the priest – next to her.
"I'm sorry to bother you, Father, but do you have a Bible I may borrow?" Siobhan needed something to read, after all, and she never did get a chance to read all of any single version of the Bible.
The priest turned to her, his dark eyes twinkling beneath the mass of white hair on his head and face. He rather reminded her of Hagrid, in that manner. "I am afraid I only possess a Tanakh, my dear child." Her face must have showed her confusion.
"A Tanakh is a Bible, but written in one of its early forms – in Hebrew," he explained quietly.
Siobhan bit her lip, brow drawn together. She didn't know Hebrew, only Latin and Gaelic, thanks to her lessons in school prior to Hogwarts, and while she picked up languages rather easily. . . She was unsure of how to ask for lessons in at least reading Hebrew from the priest.
A light touch on her forearm made Siobhan flinch away from the priest next to her, but it did catch her attention.
"Please, allow me to show you." He was holding a worn leather-bound book between them. Cautiously, Siobhan leaned forward.
"This is 'm'khashepah'. It means 'one who does evil magic'. This passage translates, roughly, to 'suffer not the witch to live'." Siobhan felt her face harden. He knows I am a witch, she thought angrily.
"Most modern translations leave out the 'evil' part, deeming it a reason to kill witches. Those who are of proper ranking in the Church do not believe so, my child, so worry not. Your magic is a God-given gift," the priest assured her quietly, placing a large, rough hand upon her shoulder, ignoring her flinch away.
My injuries. . . They don't hurt as much, Siobhan realized abruptly, turning back towards the inside of the plane, eyes searching for the kind Priest. The grey Job's Tears rosary with a bone crucifix dug into her hand.
The kind priest was nowhere to be seen. She waited, for a short while, but the plane quickly emptied with no sign of the man who had given her a precious Bible and the Rosary from around his own neck. Who was he?
A soft chiming of bells brought her attention over to her left, behind the witch. A rough cardboard sign bearing her name was held aloft by a sun-kissed man, a shorter – would it be moon-kissed, for a pale dark haired man? It should be – man with blue eyes visible even from this distance beside him, and an older man wearing large glasses looking at the crowd that had disembarked. The night and day men seemed to be arguing, not paying attention to the crowd mulling around them.
Please note that I'll attempt to do an Irish accent to the best of my ability, but it WILL NOT be perfect. 'Aingael' means angel.
The moon-kissed man noticed Siobhan first. "Are yeh Siobhan, aingael?" he asked, edging forward slightly. Her eyes flitted over him, his friend, then onto the old man.
"Kian Evans?" Siobhan asked quietly. Her voice had lost some its typical British lilt – which she usually picked up after returning to the Dursleys – due to her impromptu lessons with the Priest.
"Y-yes. I-I'm glad t'see yeh're well, Siobhan," Kian replied, a grin lifting his aged face. Her eyes once again darted to the two men, but she gave a partial shrug.
"I've been better, honestly, sir. I'm early due to an incident at my school," she admitted, her face not changing from its cautious mask.
"At Hogwarts? 'S everythin' alright?" Kian inquired, a few curses slipping out of his mouth. She ignored them – the curses, not the people.
"The school's been closed until further notice," she equivocated dully, "So. . . I can stay for longer, if you wish me to."
"A'course! I'll b-be happy t'ave yeh, my dear!" he said, almost as if he were shocked that she had to ask. Maybe he was. Aunt Petunia had seemed honestly ashamed of her behavior, and that had to have had a reason.
Or maybe he was just nicer than Aunt Petunia ever was. Time would tell.
It was as Siobhan was tucking away her under-uniforms that the night and day men finally introduced themselves as Connor and Murphy MacManus – regular patrons of the pub her grandfather owned, McGinty's.
"It's nice to meet you," she stated blandly. Living at the Dursleys had left her with little modesty – Aunt Petunia had always supervised her showers or rare baths, after all. Hogwarts' dorm-showers and restrooms, and the Quidditch locker rooms had further driven in that lack of modesty.
"How'd yeh get hurt?" the sun-kissed one – Connor – asked, his voice suspicious.
"I did say there was an incident at my school," she hedged, "I was one of the ones injured in that."
Blue-eyes – Murphy – scoffed lightly. "Jus' tell us, aingael. Ain't any use in hidin' it." He wavered under the flat stare Siobhan directed at him.
"Please stop using that petname. If you must give me one, use Shiv. It's what my –" She cut herself off, closing her eyes as she desperately tried to block out images of bloodied corpses, of unseeing eyes. She continued after a moment, her voice wavering slightly. "It's what my friends used to call me." Now, only Hermione . . .
Kian came in not long later, carrying a sandwich and glass of water, presumable from the small kitchen in the flat above McGinty's, where he – and now she – lived.
"Why don't yeh tell us what happened?" he asked – a few sputtering curses calmly ignored by Siobhan and the men.
She looked up at the ceiling, her hand finding the bone crucifix as they brought up the past. The attack.
"Very bad things happened," Siobhan said quietly, "Some people died. Can we not talk about it?"
"Are yeh hurt? Was it them?" Kian demanded urgently, stepping forward with a worried look upon his weathered face. She looked at him with a small frown.
"I did say I was one of the people hurt in the incident at school," she stated, a far too mild tone in her voice for their comfort.
"How bad were yeh hurt?" the sun-kissed man asked, stepping forward before his moon-kissed brother did.
She must have looked bewildered. "I'm not going to die from them, if that's what you're worried about," she said, feeling her face contort – unwillingly – into a confused expression.
"More worried about yeh bein' in pain," Murphy said lowly – he sounded almost. . . Siobhan looked away, trying to dismiss images of Neville. Of what he was now cursed with.
"I'm on medicine," she lied instead, "So I'll be fine. Really."
Somewhere deep inside, she wished they hadn't believed her.
Siobhan bit her lip, looking at the tattoo shop warily. It was one of the few places she thought would hire her, as she was under eighteen. The other was maybe the meat packing plant, but Connor and Murphy worked there. As much as she liked the men, it. . . It was probably best if she at least tried to stay distant.
Yes. Yes, Siobhan thought it would be best. At least for now. She didn't want to . . . replace her friends so soon after, well, since they were gone.
With a soft sigh, the teen entered the tattoo shop, glancing around for the owner or at least one of the artists. An older man was hunched over a sketchbook, his pencil moving furiously. She just stood awkwardly, waiting for him to finish.
AN: Okay. All of these were recompiled into one joint chapter at the suggestion of some reviewers. If you'd like to see the original version, it's still up. Yay nostalgia.