Eva Potter's P.O.V
They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Eva Potter was inclined to agree, if only she could add that they also spawned a thousand and one more questions. At sixteen, barely healed from the greatest war to wreak bloodshed on her kind, she was, against the odds, alive. Alive and grieving. Now that it was over, now that Voldemort was gone and dead and dust, just as the rubble was settling and Eva thought, perhaps naively, that she could begin to rebuild, move on, perhaps create a life for herself outside of the night of the 31st October all those years ago, she found a photo.
Just a photo.
She had not meant to find it. She had not searched for it. She had not known it had even existed. One moment, she was blissfully unaware of its existence and the next, in what felt like a blink, it was in her hand and her whole life had shifted right from under her feet. Moving into Godric's Hollow after the war, though the house needed a bit of tender love and care, and more than a pinch of renovation, Eva had thought she was creating a home. Something she had never had before.
And it had felt right. This was where her story began. This was where everything went wrong. This was one of the only things she had left of her mother and father, Lily and James Potter, and, seeing it rundown, dilapidated, cast to ruin, Voldemort's memory still lingering, Eva thought it would be right to see the house turned home once more. In a way, she knew, it was her way of saying goodbye to the war. Goodbye to her mother and father. Goodbye to the pain of scars, mental and physical, beginning to knot in gnarled flesh.
Not forgotten. Never forgotten. But laid to rest.
And then she found the safety box stashed in the very back of her mother's dresser, and it was locked, and, well, Eva had never been one to leave a mystery untouched. Eva Potter, sixteen, war hero, The Girl Who Lived, orphan- lie. All of it. Lies. And it was all because of that fucking photo. She should have just thrown the dresser out. She should have burnt Godric's Hollow to the ground. She should have never opened that box and-…
But she did. Eva opened the safety box with a few spells, her mother had been good at warding, and she found a photo. It was a small. Four by six. Glossy paper. Curled in the corners. Nothing special. Just a photo. A picture speaks a thousand words. And, Eva thought, unlike words, they couldn't lie.
Her mother, Lily, stared at her from the fading coloured ink. More than once, Eva found herself running her thumb gently over her face, back and forth, over and over, almost as if she wanted to wipe her from existence or imprint her very face on the pad of her finger. She looked tired. Haggard. Laying on a hospital bed. Her red hair was ratty, tangled, as if she had been tossing and turning. There were dark circles underneath her green eyes, blackened bruises that spoke of sleepless nights and exhaustion. Her lips were swollen, bitten red from clenched teeth trying to hold back shouts and grunts. Her green eyes were tinged red from tears, tears Eva could still see leaving a pale track down her soft cheeks.
Eva had never seen her look so happy.
Lily was smiling. Joyful. Sunbeams radiating from her skin. Cheeks and nose flushed hotly. Teeth white and proud between her rosy lips. Freckles looking stark and playful against her pale skin. Merlin, she looked so fucking happy, so alive, that looking at her face twisted something awful in Eva's heart. And by her side was a man.
A man Eva had never seen before.
He was tall. Dark. He looked to be the type of man mama's warn their little girls about. He was dressed like a warning, like a mamba with their sleek black scales, heralding danger, in a leather jacket of some kind, arms missing… A biker's kutte. Yes. A big, mean looking biker and little red riding hood. A modern day fairy-tale. Yet, he, this strange man, was smiling up at her from paper too, just as brightly, and there's a warmth there, right there in the curl of lip, flash of toothy grin surround by tanned skin and scruffy beard that overshadows the sheer bite of his presence. And, in his arms, wrapped in a thin pink cotton blanket, red faced and squealing, is Eva. Fresh, new-born Eva.
Eva had his colouring. All part from the eyes. Those were her mothers.
The three of them, in this tiny photo, were huddled on the hospital bed, staring right at the camera, pressed in tightly, and Eve felt, staring down with shaking hands, that her world was a snow globe which some over enthusiastic toddler had taken into their grubby hands and violently shook. Why?
Because that was her olive skin. That was her unruly black hair. Those were her dimples. Those were her cheekbones. And that man… That wasn't James Potter. On the back, in blue biro, splotchy in patches where the pen was obviously drying out, bleached pale with age, was a simple note, scrawled in her mother's hand.
Familia, donde la vida comienza y el amor nunca termina.
Padre, madre, hija.
Que todos seamos felices, amados y llenos de risas.
Santo Padre, California, Estados Unidos.
31 de julio de 2001.
It took Eva a week to translate it. In fact, it took her a week to look at the photo again after she had hurriedly crammed it back into the safety box, locked the bloody thing, and hurled it back into the dresser. Back into the dark. Back and away. Nevertheless, as the days passed, as Eva tried to busy her hands and mind with work around the house, retiling the kitchen, fitting the pipes for the shower, sanding the floorboards, she had that word drifting in and out her mind. Again and again. Around and around. Water sifting through a drain. The tap of a raindrop.
Padre. Padre. Padre.
Eva doesn't speak Spanish, and funnily enough, she never thought her mother spoke it either, and yet… Terribly, she thinks she knows what that word means. Shit, everybody knows what fucking padre means. And it haunts her. Lurking, always, right over her shoulder. She couldn't shake it off.
She couldn't forget. She couldn't dream it off, or work it from her system, or run from it. It was there now, leaching, stuck. Words, Eva found, were a lot like ticks. They hid in innocuous places, long grasses of mundane conversation, but they could latch on to your feelings, get bloated, heavy, swollen and fat, draining you for all your worth, and the only way to stop the bleed out was to face the fucking thing head on, to pinch the word by it's tiny head and yank it off.
After the third night of no sleep at the tail end of the week, Eva did just that. She broke and found the little tin box in the dead of the night, opened it, pulled out the photo, and with a swish of her wand, began to translate it. In truth, halfway through, she wavered, stopped. She was not used to that. This caution. This hesitancy. Eva's sure. She's bull-headed. Stubborn. A Gryffindor through and through.
Yet, this little photo, five small lines of hastily scribbled text from her long dead mother, and she was back to being that bruised, hungry, scared little girl locked in a damp cupboard. That Eva didn't ask questions in fear she would be hit. That Eva didn't look up in fear of a being locked away. That Eva didn't question her place in fear of going another day without a meal. And she hated it. Loathed it. She wasn't that little girl anymore, that orphan with no power, no voice, and a photo, one word, shouldn't scare her.
But it does.
Still, she carried on, she translated it. She bit the bullet and with a final sweep of her wand, the truth was right there, staring at her dead on, bright and whistling like a freight train heading right at her.
Family, where life begins and love never ends.
Father, mother, daughter.
May we all be happy, loved and full of laughter.
Santo Padre, California, America.
July 31st 2001.
And the snow globe shattered and nothing, nothing, would ever be the same again. That was her birthday. That was her mother, alright. Her handwriting too. That was Eva, no doubt about it, fresh and new to the world. That man, however, was not James Potter. It was a stranger. A dark, leather clad, stranger who looked too much like her and padre-
She trashed the safety box. Desperate. Needy. Confused. She raided it, looking for more… Answers? Questions? Photos? Eva didn't know what she had been looking for, a denial or consolidation, she didn't know, but she had been looking for something. She found nothing in the safety box. Some bills. A tatty ribbon. An empty envelope. Nothing.
That is, of course, until Eva, as she was prone to do, lost her grip on her straining temper and pitched the damned box across the room, watching with satisfaction as it smashed into the wall, denting, the bottom panel slipping out, opening up to a hidden compartment at the bottom. Then, and only then, did Eva find the treasure trove. Or pit. Something deep and dark and full of secret things she went tumbling headfirst into.
The first thing she found was a birth certificate, published a whole two months before the very same one in the folder downstairs. Her birth certificate. Yet, like the photo, it was wrong. Lily's name was there, signed away crisply at the bottom strip with a fancy flourish. Yet, that's where the similarities stopped. She was Eva Potter. The Girl Who Lived. Undesirable N.1. She was not this Eva Losa. She was not born in Santo Padre. And there, right there, next to her mother's signature, right where the father should sign was a man she had never heard of before.
It only got worse. There were more photo's. More trinkets. Lily pregnant, smiling, the mans hand on her swollen stomach as he hugged her from behind. The man stripped off from his jacket, painting a wall a bright cheery yellow. A nursery. Lily sleeping on his shoulder. The man's back to the camera as he barbecued. James was in a few, smiling. Sirius and Remus too. Friendly. There were badges with his name on, this Obispo Losa, medals, military, one from Iraq and one from Pelican Bay. There was a baby hat, old, never worn, an odd almost Aztec face to it, a white patch with the word Mayan embroidered across the brow.
There was an adoption certificate right at the bottom of the pile. Short. Prim. The paper was old. Crinkled. There was a strange water stain over the corner and, with a lump in her throat, Eva thought they looked like tear drops. And there it was, that's where she founds James Potter's signature, not on her birth certificate, not where it should be on the father's dotted fucking line, but here, across the paternal adoption section. Adopted. And there it was, the name she is used to, Eva Losa now Eva Potter and it's this, this tiny piece of paper, clinical, cold, that broke her in a way Eva never thought she could be broken.
Her life had been a lie.
That night she drank three bottles of Firewhiskey, smoked her way through a twenty pack of cigarettes, binged on three family size cheesecakes and, evidently, vomited all over the kitchen sink and passed out in the bathtub, fully clothed and stinking of booze, smoke and caramel. Given, it was not her proudest moment, nor one she could fully remember, but given the circumstances, Eva thought her dramatics could be forgiven. It was, after all, not everyday you discover you are not who you had always thought you had been, and those you had cared about, loved, who were long gone and buried, who could not answer a damned thing, had known all along.
The next morning, hungover like an Irishman after Saint Patricks day, Eva did what she did best. She pretended nothing had changed. Adopted or not, James Potter was her dad. It was his name she carried. He had loved her. He had died for her. This… Obispo Losa was nothing more than a sperm donor. A father-shaped shadow looming over her history. He was nothing.
At least, that was what she adamantly told herself when his shadow would blacken her mind. Nevertheless, he was not nothing, was he? He was her fath-… Fuck, there was so many questions and no answers, everybody was bloody dead, and all over again, Eva felt like that pathetic, skinny, knobbly kneed kid in a cupboard begging for her parents. Aching. Alone. Still, she told no one. She didn't think she could. The prophecy, the war, everything, it all depended on her being a Potter and, well, here she stood decidedly not.
Eva felt like she had tricked them all. Lied. She felt the blood on her hands, sticky and warm, so much blood, innocents who had died following a Potter, a real Potter, not a two-bit fraud, and she clammed up. She distanced herself. She smiled and nodded and played her part, but slowly but surely, she locked herself away. Of course, by the two-month mark of her self-imposed exile, Hermione was done dealing with her reclusive shit.
Hermione hounded her, despite how many floo calls Eva repeatedly doused. Letter after letter drifted in with the flutter of owl wings into Eva's kitchen, and she burnt them all without a second glance. The Howlers came quickly after that, as swiftly incinerated as the letters. Then, after four days of peace, when Eva thought it was all finally over, her best friend turned up at her doorstep, scowling, bushy-haired and spitting like a pissed alley cat. She refused to leave, no matter what excuse Eva gave her, she stayed, as she had always done, and Eva hated her for it.
Eva loved her for it.
Eva forgot how the argument started exactly, who began it, who shouted first, but argue they did. Loud. Violent almost. It felt good, in a horrid way, to let the rage out. And Eva felt shittier for it. Hermione had not deserved it, her anger, but she couldn't stop herself. Hermione was worried, Eva could see it in the dark hook of her brows that night, the taught creases of her mouth, and when she worried, Hermione, like some old dog with a lamb bone, wouldn't let it go.
Still, that was all Eva wanted to do. Let it go. Forget. If she spoke about it, if she said anything, if someone other than her knew, somehow, some way, it would make it real and she couldn't… She couldn't. What would they all think? What did she think? She was hurt, and angry, so angry, and confused and… Nothing made sense. But Hermione had looked her dead in the eye, flushed, and asked her what her mother would think about her distancing herself and Eva broke. She broke brutally.
Guilt, fury, confusion, hurt, uncertainty, it all came pouring out of her in a tidal wave of pain and Hermione, her best friend, was there to catch it all. Eva remembered she was crying by the end, bawling really, ugly sobs where breath hitched, and chest squeezed, and eyes swelled, and Hermione was there for it all. She listened, silently. When all was said, when Eva eventually calmed down, Hermione had only quietly taken her hand, apparated, and took her to Andromeda's place.
Still Hermione said nothing. She only took her to Teddy, asked for Eva to have some time with the small boy, and, with a knowing look, left to have a cup of tea with the elder Black. As always, Teddy was happy to see her, just her, Eva, not Potter, not The Girl Who Lived, just Eva. Most importantly, she realised she had something Teddy, her beloved Teddy, would never get.
And, fuck it all, she was a Gryffindor. They lived for gambles, and stakes and risk. It was in their blood. It was in Eva's. It's how she bloody well won the war. Merlin knew who this man was. He could be dead. It was seventeen years ago. He could want nothing to do with her. He could have moved. There were a hundred different reasons not to go, to search. Yet, there, shining in Teddy's eyes, eyes that would never see Remus or Tonks for themselves, Eva saw herself and suddenly, the choice wasn't so much of a choice anymore.
After hastily putting off her Auror training for the following year, with the poor excuse of going on some bullshit 'self-discovery' trip around the world, Eva packed up her small belongings, prepped Sirius's bike, pulled her money from Gringotts, and, with a farewell to Hermione and a promise to keep in touch, a tiny photo hidden safely in the inner pocket of her leather jacket, she was off to America.
Off to find her father.
A.N: So, I finally got around to watching Mayans MC and I've fallen down the ditch and can't get back out lol. I love every single character. So, imagine my surprise when I went to check out some fanfiction and saw how little there was. This is my small contribution to the growing fandom, and I hope you guys liked it!
Obviously, this is going to have some major changes to Potter canon, so if fics that mess with canon aren't your thing, this is a heads up. The main pairing will be Nestor/Fem!Harry, with slight hints of Angel/Fem!Harry along the way, and, as always when it comes to me, expect slow burn. It's going to be a long, bumpy ride.
As for triggers, if you need the warning, this fic will contain drugs, alcohol, gore, murder, age-gap between main pairing, eventual (can't stress that eventual enough) smut, swearing, organised crime and, I am sure, there will be more along the same vein as already stated, so if these turn you off, make you feel queezy, or just aren't your things, thank you for reading but I would turn back if I was you lol.
For those sticking along for the ride, thank you so much for reading. I hope you all enjoyed this little prologue, expect longer chapters as we go on, and, as always, let me know what you think!
If you have a moment and wish to see more, drop a review and I will be hopefully seeing you soon! Until then, stay beautiful! ~AlwaysEatTheRude21