My Potter Sue
My great-great grandmother fled Ireland with nothing but the family rosary, a loaf of black bread and a half-sidhe baby riding badly in her womb.
She settled in Boston, and my great-grandmother studied at the Salem School. She met my quarter-Shoshone great-grandfather while they were assigned to the midwest, breaking curses on Indian burial grounds.
My grandmother went to the Ozark College, and specialized in herbalism and hedge-magic. She and my muggle-born grandfather (a descendant of the notorious pirate, Capt. Jack Sparrow) were in Nebraska when Mom was born--in the middle of a blizzard so fierce grandfather had to take the tractor to get the doctor (my family has never been shy about muggle technology), and the wolves came and lay round the kitchen fire like tame pups--so Mom was put down for the Black Hills Study Circle. She went there while the rest of the family moved back to Missouri.
She specialized as a mediwitch, and alas, fell for my muggle father. She married him over parental objection, but he dumped her when he found out it was St. Dymphna's for the Terminally Magicked and not Research Hospital. I was their only child, born after my father's desertion, and given both surnames. They should have suspected something when I was born at midnight under a full moon.
I discovered my father was not the muggle we thought when my wings sprouted during my first year at the Ozark College. Mixing half-incubus and sidhe produced a child when--when puberty hit--could stun any mortal in 20 feet with pheremones. Veelas? Amatuers. But I was incompatible with the sensible earthy magic of the Ozarks, and was transferred to the New Orleans Finishing School for Witches. I mastered both juju and gris-gris, but it was the mojo that drew me.
In my fifth year, I was selected to go to Hogwarts as part of the exchange student program. They figured the "no sex please, we're English" stiff upper lips would protect the students and faculty, unlike the hotblooded Creoles and Cajuns who had taught me more than any 16 year old should know. But I taught them too.
So here I stand, on Platform 9 3/4, in my sensible black boots, black jeans, peasant shirt (cut special for the wings, I made it myself) and luggage. I'm just marveling at the sheer Englishness of it, and that I, Clarissa Topaz Wolfdancer Sparrow Moss should be so lucky as to have a go. I'm just worried about the Sorting thing, and the Hogwarts anthem. I can't sing for anything. Maybe I should crochet up a scarf in black, white and grey, my school colors.
At least seven points in the above story are true family history. Guess which.
She settled in Boston, and my great-grandmother studied at the Salem School. She met my quarter-Shoshone great-grandfather while they were assigned to the midwest, breaking curses on Indian burial grounds.
My grandmother went to the Ozark College, and specialized in herbalism and hedge-magic. She and my muggle-born grandfather (a descendant of the notorious pirate, Capt. Jack Sparrow) were in Nebraska when Mom was born--in the middle of a blizzard so fierce grandfather had to take the tractor to get the doctor (my family has never been shy about muggle technology), and the wolves came and lay round the kitchen fire like tame pups--so Mom was put down for the Black Hills Study Circle. She went there while the rest of the family moved back to Missouri.
She specialized as a mediwitch, and alas, fell for my muggle father. She married him over parental objection, but he dumped her when he found out it was St. Dymphna's for the Terminally Magicked and not Research Hospital. I was their only child, born after my father's desertion, and given both surnames. They should have suspected something when I was born at midnight under a full moon.
I discovered my father was not the muggle we thought when my wings sprouted during my first year at the Ozark College. Mixing half-incubus and sidhe produced a child when--when puberty hit--could stun any mortal in 20 feet with pheremones. Veelas? Amatuers. But I was incompatible with the sensible earthy magic of the Ozarks, and was transferred to the New Orleans Finishing School for Witches. I mastered both juju and gris-gris, but it was the mojo that drew me.
In my fifth year, I was selected to go to Hogwarts as part of the exchange student program. They figured the "no sex please, we're English" stiff upper lips would protect the students and faculty, unlike the hotblooded Creoles and Cajuns who had taught me more than any 16 year old should know. But I taught them too.
So here I stand, on Platform 9 3/4, in my sensible black boots, black jeans, peasant shirt (cut special for the wings, I made it myself) and luggage. I'm just marveling at the sheer Englishness of it, and that I, Clarissa Topaz Wolfdancer Sparrow Moss should be so lucky as to have a go. I'm just worried about the Sorting thing, and the Hogwarts anthem. I can't sing for anything. Maybe I should crochet up a scarf in black, white and grey, my school colors.
At least seven points in the above story are true family history. Guess which.