Chapter Text
chapter 1
"so you lean in real close, and you sing a strange note
i've been feeling for a while now
like your mind is gonna go
i walk into your place, full of pictures of faces
your paintings on the wall watch as you're walking out the door
trumpets sound as you're crowned
on the steps of your apartment"
The ground was hurtling up to meet her, heaven and earth colliding, and she was about to be smashed like a bug. Heather’s legs were clamped on either side of her broomstick, the smooth wood pressed painfully close to her chest, and she spun around wildly. She was falling too fast to even scream before she became an insignificant stain upon the ground, and then in an instant it was over. Heather’s shoulder hit the ground first, and she bounced thrice, skidding through the mud, dirt spraying into her mouth and eyes. She finally slid to a stop on the side of a grassy hill, twisted and contorted like a gnarled clutch of Mandrake root. Heather exhaled, shuddering, frozen with shock, and could only listen to the sound of far-off birds twittering pleasantly.
She finally untangled her limbs from one another and sat up quickly, which was a mistake - Heather’s head began to throb painfully, blood rushing back into its proper places, and she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. When it was finally tolerable to look and breathe and evaluate herself, Heather was incredulous that she hadn’t seemed to break any bones. She squinted into the distance, at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, that damned treeline which she had clipped with her broom. Stupid, stupid mistake, flying too low too soon, her mind a million miles away. She could have broken her neck. The deep trawls in the soft earth that she had made scarred the hill she had landed upon, dark earth exposed to air, and Heather could still taste its grittiness in her mouth. She leaned over to the side, her ribs aching painfully, and spat out as much of the dirt as she could, her nose scrunched up in disgust. That, also, proved to be a mistake - it seemed a thousand invisible cuts that she had gained in the fall made themselves noticeable, and Heather tasted blood.
“Shit,” she said, finally, her throat dry and hoarse. She slapped at her pockets for the stash of Wiggenweld she always kept there, and was greeted with the faint tinkling of broken glass. It would have soaked into her pants and the ground by now, so there was no point in trying to repair the vials. It was incredibly lucky that she hadn’t killed herself, or been too injured to walk - which she would have to do, considering that her broomstick was snapped in half.
“Shit,” Heather said again, her voice trembling. Tears, which she had managed to stave off thus far by breathing deeply, began to prickle at the corners of her eyes. She had practically just gotten the broomstick, and although Mr. Weeks had been very kind with his pricing, Heather wouldn’t have been offended if it was a first-time-only discount. Could she afford another? She had to, no matter the cost - despite the rookie accident, Heather practically lived on that broom.
With a shuddering sigh, Heather gingerly got to her feet. Her pants and sweater were filthy, and her cloak filthier. She winced in embarrassment. The house elves that did the laundry had never commented or complained on the state of the robes that she sometimes set aside to be cleaned, and they were always returned immaculately, but still, what must they think? The grass and mud stains weren’t mixing with blood this time, at least. Heather picked up the two halves of her broom, the splintered wood sharp to the touch and, if she held her ear close enough, fizzing slightly. “Sorry,” she whispered to it, a wave of shame rolling over her body like a cold front.
It was a long walk back to Hogwarts. Out of embarrassment, Heather avoided the main cobblestone roads that led from the north Hogwarts area back to the castle. It was harder work treading up and down the gentle hills when she was so battered, but worth it to remain unseen for as long as possible. Already, Heather’s mind was running at a mile a minute, thinking of an excuse in case she ran into Madam Kogawa in particular. After Kogawa had absolutely let her and Everett Clopton have it (Heather could still remember how red the tips of his ears had gotten) the witch had complimented Heather on her flying. Despite the guilt she felt from disappointing a teacher, it had made her heart thrum with pride. Heather had taken to broom flight instantly. It was an indescribable feeling of freedom, terrifying speed and freezing wind biting at her cheeks. She had already given Professor Weasley a fright, whipping around Hogwarts’ many spires and over and under its bridges, skidding to a stop outside the Deputy Headmistress’s window once on accident for a breather and almost crashing into the glass. It was not too much of a surprise why she was enjoying a way to get off the ground and away from most prying eyes.
There had been no shortage of those since she had gotten to Hogwarts, and Heather was constantly praying that she would stumble upon a real invisibility cloak so she didn’t have to be stared at any longer. She was very much the type of witch that preferred to be anything but the center of attention, and yet, fate had ignored that so far. Professor Fig had seemed to find most of the whole affair that had preceded Heather’s arrival here as utterly fascinating - and she couldn’t blame him, considering the passing of his wife was directly related to the mystery they were entangled in. But she had never asked to have some secret, ancient power - or even to be a witch at all. When she was younger, Heather had remembered meeting her cousin Mirabel a few times, and hearing her parents talk about her eccentricities . Mirabel lived far away from them, and was always away at boarding school, so Heather had never really gotten to know her. Heather had only known her simple, plain, beautiful life, with her group of friends that she absolutely adored, and her only worries being if the other boys in school liked her back. The person she used to be and the life she used to live seemed to be several worlds away by now. Her life had been turned upside down when she had suddenly started displaying signs of magic at fifteen, much later than everyone else. Mirabel, before Heather knew that she taught at Hogwarts, had sent her a letter congratulating her, and conveying how enthusiastic she was to welcome her here. It was a consolation that Heather held onto with all her might, the only fragment of her life now that connected her to everything she had used to be. With her mother gone and father absent, it was difficult to explain to her friends why she was suddenly leaving to go to a boarding school, and Heather constantly worried that they were upset with her when she was so clearly lying. She wanted to write, but always faltered, her quill still when she put it to parchment. Some of the professors here were more than eager to welcome her and help catch her up on everything she had missed. Others seemed more convinced that delaying her education was something she had done purposefully. Then, of course, there was the whirlwind of events that had happened on their way to Hogwarts, after spending a summer rooming in the Leaky Cauldron and trying to wrap her head around everything Professor Fig was quickly teaching her. The uncertainty of what was happening to her, what power was simmering underneath her skin, was plain to see on his face. Only his, because he had asked her to keep it a secret.
Heather had done as he had asked, even though it was difficult. It was unnatural to not share the series of events that were rapidly unfolding, and she felt guilty when the people that were so concerned for her wellbeing could not be informed of the biggest threat to it. Of course, she understood, but it also didn’t help that Professor Fig was constantly away. He had told her that she could drop by anytime, or send him an owl, but Heather hadn’t wanted to bother him. Half the time she didn’t even know what she would talk about, really, it was just more of the feeling of concealment that was so painful. Mirabel - Professor Garlick, Heather reminded herself, was the most enthusiastic of all to getting to know her and catching up on lost time. It was silly how much the two of them looked more like sisters than cousins, sporting the same round face and coppery hair. Mirabel wore hers long and Heather wore hers short, but it was clear they were cut from the same cloth, both being Hufflepuffs and having an aptitude and love for Herbology. Even if she couldn’t tell her cousin everything, it was an immense comfort to have her. Heather had felt so awful hearing about how alone Mirabel had felt during her time at Hogwarts - if she only had known she was a witch sooner, they could have related over having Muggle parents and the isolation of it all! In any case, they were together now, and Heather hoped that they would be able to grow closer even though she was keeping secrets.
Heather worried that she wouldn’t be able to grow closer to anyone. The girls that she shared her room with were kind, but couldn’t help themselves from asking if it was really true she had survived a dragon attack. Yes, Heather had said, her eyes glassy, remembering George Osric’s abrupt, cut off scream that haunted her dreams, it’s true. Others in her house were not as polite, and whispered and stared openly. News and gossip around Hogwarts spread like fiendfyre, and new students, particularly ones dropped out of the sky in fifth year, were to be observed from afar and not associated with. Of course, everyone hadn’t been like that. Heather had found companionship with Natty, who was also a transfer student. Natty understood what Heather was going through, perhaps perceiving more than Heather would like. It had felt awful, absolutely wrenching, to lie to her. Professor Weasley, kindness crinkling at the corners of her eyes, offering her a biscuit in her office. I know this is a lot to take on. If you ever want to talk about it…about what happened…
I do , Heather wanted to scream. I do, more than anything . She could not bear the look of faint worry and disappointment on the older witch’s face. But loyalty was the bloody trait of her house, after all, and she could not betray Professor Fig’s trust and wisdom that it was best to keep this all a secret. She had to suck it up and get through it - all of it, an unimaginably long list that was lengthening by the day. Classes, homework, extra assignments, fighting poachers and Ashwinders and rescuing beasts and remembering to eat and bathe and sleep and not let her potions boil over and her plants wither. She could not bear to fail, to let anything slip from her grasp. If she did not manage it all, who would? Sometimes, Heather was forced to make difficult choices. It felt like a twisting knife to disappoint a teacher and not have an essay to hand in, but how could she ignore what was going on outside the castle walls? How could she forget that she was inevitably wrapped up so tightly in a budding war that her classmates had blissfully no idea about? That animals were being caged and rounded up, children kidnapped and probably worse if she wasn’t there to stop it. And after all of that, she was cracking. She was supposed to be handling it, everyone had so much faith in her to succeed under terms they didn’t even understand, but she was cracking and failing and making stupid rookie mistakes, getting distracted, and she would probably get herself killed one day but she couldn’t stop because there was no one else to help. Merlin, she would have given anything to be normal.
Heather realized with a start that she was breathing hard and fast, her vision beginning to swim. She was nearly to Hogwarts, and could see Professor Howin’s hut in the distance ahead, soft puffs of smoke drifting from its stone chimney. Heather rested her hands on her knees and took several deep, slow breaths, willing her racing heart to calm down. Shit, not now. Not now. She could feel a bead of sweat roll down her cheek. Just hold on , Heather told herself for the millionth time that week, begging, pleading to nothing and no one in particular. Just hold on.
When she had caught her breath, Heather set off once again towards the castle, keeping her head down. She didn’t know why she was still clutching the pieces of her broom when she could have tossed it on Professor Howin’s woodpile before Madam Kogawa saw and gave her the telling-off of the century, but Heather couldn’t bear to let go of it. It was one of the last sunny days remaining before the chill of fall set upon them, and if students weren’t in class they were outside. The halls were mostly empty, and cool - Heather hadn’t realized how hot and dry she felt from walking so quickly for so long in the sun. Some of the portraits gave her curious looks as she stalked past. Heather had already decided, perhaps the moment her broom began to tip, that she would go to the Room of Requirement. Professor Weasley had given her this unimaginable gift, completely and utterly unaware of just how useful Heather would find it. Had she been a normal witch, Heather was sure she wouldn’t have minded sharing a room with her fellow Hufflepuffs, braiding each others’ hair and laughing and eating sweets, but she was not normal and did not want to go there or even the Hospital Wing. Nurse Blainey was kind, but she asked way too many questions and Heather had begun to avoid her unless she absolutely had to go. Heather had a stock of extra Wiggenweld potions in the Room that should suffice. Deek was the last hurdle to avoid, but even if he was in the Room he typically made himself scarce. Heather felt suddenly awful that she would be glad if she missed him - he was terribly nice to her, but it sometimes petrified Heather that he and Professor Weasley were such close friends.
Heather finally made it to the room, encountering only Peeves on the way, who laughed at her appearance for a good long minute and was distracted enough to sail into the stairwell without further incident. She let out a massive sigh of relief and put the two halves of her broom on a table, shrugging out of her cloak and going straight to the shelf where she kept her potions. The green liquid was slightly fizzy and tasted a little like apple. She could feel it taking effect, the cuts on her face and lip knitting together, bruises healing. Deek was out, and so Heather made her way to the vivarium in the center of the room, her hair fluttering in the gust of wind that greeted her.
This vivarium was her favorite, by far. Although she was exhausted beyond belief, Heather couldn’t help but smile. One of the Kneazles she had saved came running up to her, mewling, and she was more than happy to oblige and pick him up, rubbing her cheek in his soft fur. She had conjured this vivarium to remind her of home, transplanted trees to make a small, quiet grove next to the bubbling stream. Even though it had made sweat break out on her forehead from effort, Heather was glad for the small conjured cottage she had placed on the other side of the grove. She was spending more and more time here as of late, keeping spare robes inside the cottage and sometimes bringing her meals to eat while sitting along the river, in solitude. Heather was most grateful for the stream. Even though it was freezing cold, the absolute last thing she could think to stand was showering in the communal bathrooms. Every whisper seemed to echo and rebound, doubling in intensity, and if she could not handle stares normally it was tenfold worse when she was only clothed in a towel. Heather crouched at the banks of the stream, cupping her hands in the water, splashing her skin and scrubbing off any remaining dirt. The memory of her fall began to unwillingly replay over and over in her mind - that stomach-dropping sensation as she tumbled through open air, hurtling towards her death, exactly like it had felt before, the roar of the dragon filling her ears.
Heather sat back, her breath coming quick and fast. Her heart, drumming in her chest, felt as if it would burst at any moment. She buried her face in her hands. It was only an accident , she thought furiously, just an accident, that won’t happen again. I’m safe . Even though the thought helped to calm Heather for a moment, a sobering chill seemed to have settled in the vivarium that made her reach for her cloak, stained as it ways. It was much more difficult to take comfort in knowing she was temporarily secure with the knowledge that a threat waited around every corner, in some form, in some way, that would be unavoidable. The path ahead seemed so clouded it felt impossible to understand how she would proceed, but as Heather knew with a sort of sobering resolve, she had no other choice. There was too much at stake for her to give up, to fail.