Chapter Text
There’s a fire burning, and I’m learning to be
So much more than my tiredness
So much more than that Old Witch Sleep wishes
She kisses my eyelids
And I b r e a t h e
01: hawthorn makes the heart burn
The new student has been at Hogwarts for only one week, and already you cannot stand him.
It’s got nothing to do with the fact that he is a Slytherin. You have never been a fan of the sorting system, because even if it is partly at fault for sticking kids into boxes and teaching them to think in categories, the students surely don’t make it better living by these stereotypes. Not all Slytherins are bad people; not all Gryffindors are brave. Not every Ravenclaw is a genius, and not every Hufflepuff is a saint, exempli gratia: You.
“You’re joking! Three Sickles and fifteen Knuts for a Pocket Sneakscope? That’s way too expensive!”
Lifting your eyes from the list of gadgets you need to buy on your next trip to Hogsmeade, you raise an eyebrow at the second-year Ravenclaw boy. He’s taller than most of his fellow housemates, shows signs of a long, hawkish nose and has pimples scattered on his cheeks like a Leaping Toadstool Cap. You can’t really remember his name. Freddy or Fred or August, maybe.
This early in the morning before classes start, the air is especially thick with the smell of late-summer: sweet buddleia in full bloom, the rich green leaves of trees as they sway gently in the wind. Mist hangs low in the valley and over the Great Lake, a milky curtain hiding its resident gently poking long tentacles into the warm sun. The castle is only slowly waking up after a short night—the last grace of long summer days approaching their end as October draws closer.
A beautiful landscape you can hardly enjoy with the second-year’s whiny voice buzzing around your head like an annoying mosquito.
“Look, you wanted a Pocket Sneakscope, I got it for you,” you say and unhitch yourself from the cool stone pillar, one of many holding up the roof of the Viaduct Courtyard’s passageway. “It’s not my fault the underground path is infested with spider.”
Damned Weasley could have warned you though. You have been using the secret passage under the humpbacked, one-eyed witch leading to the cellar of Honeydukes since your second year when you spied Garreth Weasley sneaking through it. Since then you both agreed on staying out of each other’s way as long as nobody rats out the secret passageway to the faculty. He gets to obtain whatever he needs for his weird concoctions, and you get to continue your little business of providing first and second years whatever they want from Hogsmeade since they can’t go themselves yet—all for a certain price. It makes trips to Hogsmeade easier when you can’t use your broom, though the occasional acid spit launched your way is less favourable than the breathtaking view of Hogwarts towering majestically as the sun sets, throwing the whole castle in stark, black contrast against the warm, orange sky.
“Unless you want someone else to get you stuff from Hogsmeade,” you continue with a shrug. “Good luck finding them though.” You move to put the Sneakscope back into your pocket, barely managing to keep on a neutral expression when Freddy or Fred or August, maybe, gasps as though you have reached into the Ravenclaw’s House points hourglass, grabbed a handful sapphires and chucked them at the Headmaster.
“It’s just—it’s just a whole Sickle more than I can spend this month!” he protests, but judging by the quiver of his voice he’ll eat out of your hand in no time.
You give your brightest smile. “Sounds like your problem, not mine.”
The Ravenclaw-boy fumes, but when you hold out your hand, he slaps the coins into your open palm, his pale face blotched red with fury.
“Pleasure doing business with you.” You hand over his Pocket Sneakscope and watch him stamp off towards the double doors leading inside the entrance hall. He stops with a small, pale hand on the bronze doorknob, turns around as by his touch alone the doors squeal open with the magic that recognises students entering. “You are the worst Hufflepuff at this school!” he yells, and quickly dashes inside.
You don’t know why he felt the need to point it out. It’s not as though people don’t know who you are: the Hufflepuff who burnt down the left greenhouse in her second year when trying Incendio after agreeing to a bet; the Hufflepuff who broke a Ravenclaw’s nose because said Ravenclaw accused her of cheating in Defence Against the Dark Arts; the Hufflepuff who smoked Silverweed in a corner under the Great Staircase in her third year to see if it would yield any relaxing effects; the Hufflepuff who actually cheated on her very first exam in History of Magic—all in all the Hufflepuff who really should have been sorted into Slytherin on her first day, according to everybody else. Except the Slytherins have no love left for you because you wear yellow.
It is a wonder you have not been expelled yet, surely to do with the fact that despite it all, one student outshines your delinquent record. Your grades are passable, neither at the very top nor bottom, though you do have a knack for quickly learning spells and charms. What keeps you in somewhat good grace is being the Beater for the Hufflepuff Quidditch team—and what a Beater you are: ruthless and quick, inexorable in attack. Maybe not as fast as Slytherin’s Captain on a broom, but you feel comfortable enough up in the air. All your problems seem so much smaller when you soar through the sky. Speaking of Quidditch, a Gryffindor second-year asked you to get a fake Snitch to practice for the team’s try-outs. Hopefully the Spintwitches Sporting Needs opens within in the next week; you’re in need of a new broomstick servicing kit, preferably before practice starts.
You move towards the Great Hall before they clear out breakfast. You did ask Javi to save up some Pumpkin Pastries for you, but he’s been in a foul mood since yesterday because Peeves destroyed a bust in the Astronomy Tower and he had to take the brunt of it. But while you’re crossing the courtyard, you notice a shadow standing under a wide archway, tall and sinewy, though body shapes are usually hard to guess under the loose, floaty school robes. Yet you know that despite looking lanky, this boy is nimble and quick, and his presence is utterly unappreciated—that is how the circle closes; the reason why you can’t stand him.
Even from this distance, you can make out Callum St. Jude’s pale grey eyes—they stand stark against his unruly map of ink-black hair. Paired with skin pale as moonlight, he looks like one of Hogwarts’s residual ghosts.
You feel your face turn into a scowl. It seems that no matter where you are these days, he is lurking nearby. At first you thought he was spying on you to check out the competition for tonight’s Crossing Wands finals. But when you had confronted him about it, catching him on his way down to the Slytherin dungeons in the Grand Staircase after your shared Charms class, he had considered you with a blank expression. “Who are you?” he’d asked, looking down at you from a few steps above.
Behind him, trailing him like a shadow since day one, Sebastian Sallow had sniggered. “Seems like you already have admirers,” he’d said with his insufferable haughty voice. “Though that Hufflepuff is more trouble than she’s worth.”
You were about to show him trouble, face hot with shame, when Javi hauled you up, hands under your armpits, and carried you away as if you were a sack of potatoes. “You can’t get detention now, it’s still the first week,” Javi had said mildly.
At least it would have been worth it. It would have been so satisfying to blast that cocky grin off Sallow’s face, to silence St. Jude’s little mocking huff. You firmly believe St. Jude is suffering from the worst ailment to date: Main Character Syndrome.
The symptoms have been evident since his first day: joining Hogwarts as a fifth-year, arriving late to the Sorting Ceremony due to a dragon attack, besting Sallow on his first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson (though you can hardly criticise him knocking Sallow down a peg) and mastering every new spell and charm as though it is as easy as breathing. Just last week, he fought off a grown troll and defended Hogsmeade, and now the whole school doesn’t shut up about it.
It is with eager anticipation that you await tonight’s Crossed Wands’s finals. Your fingers practically itch to draw your wand and Flipendo him to juggle him around a little and wipe that blank expression off his face. He is beautiful, you hate to admit, feeling a sour taste in the back of your throat, but he’s using that face in all the wrong ways. He has the sort of face they’d probably frame in a museum, the kind that’s unbelievably pretty, but unattainable.
“Preying upon second years this early in the morning?” St. Jude tuts. “It seems there really is no rest for the wicked.”
“Punishment has befallen me already,” you grumble. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have to deal with you.”
St. Jude cocks his head to the side, looking thoughtful. “Interesting way to talk to someone you fancy.”
“I do not,” you press out between gritted teeth, shouldering past him as he steps into the entrance hall first, “fancy you.” You hope the Thunderbrew potion will be the first you’ll learn in Potions class. Watching St. Jude getting struck by lightning would lighten your mood considerably.
“For someone who pretends not to be interested in me,” he continues, “I see you around an awful lot.”
You consider tripping him as you two ascend the stairs. “Yes, that seems to be the very problem.”
“Won’t make me take it easy on you tonight though.” Since he is nowhere near a gentleman, he doesn’t hold the door open for you and it almost slams in your face. “I always duel to win.”
“I hope you don’t mind spending the next couple of days in the hospital wing.” You bump into his shoulder, hard, when you finally enter the Great Hall and immediately aim for the Hufflepuff table to the far right of the hall without another glance at him.
The hall is buzzing with students, the air filled with the tasty smell of crispy bacon, grilled leak, slightly burnt toast with melting butter on top. It isn’t as crowded as at lunch or dinner time—most students tend to skip breakfast to either sleep in after a long study night or use the hour before classes to finish assignments and homework.
The ceiling shows a clear blue sky with thin clouds drifting past lazily. You slide in the free seat next to your fellow Beater near the front of the table. Javier García is shoving scrambled eggs into his mouth, his bright brown eyes fixed on the Daily Prophet. In your first year, you didn’t pay much attention to him. If you look up Hufflepuff Student in any dictionary, it will show Javi’s face—a hard-working, loyal individual that always reminds you of a golden retriever until he steps on the field and turns into a pit bull from a fighting ring. Every summer he returns to his muggle family where he helps tending to the crops and fields, evident in his arms the size of tree trunks used to heavy lifting. Perfect for hitting Bludgers at opponents and slamming them off their brooms.
You pour yourself coffee and begin spooning slabs of apple-cinnamon-oatmeal into a bowl.
“Ranrok’s Loyalists have put up more camps around the Hogwarts highlands,” Javi says, mouth half-full. “It looks like they’re moving closer towards Hogwarts.”
“Why would they come to Hogwarts? There’s nothing here.”
“The castle has tons of secrets still uncovered. Why wouldn’t they try and get inside?”
“As if they’d manage to get through the defences. Hogwarts is impenetrable.” You take a long sip from your cup, hoping the caffeine kicks in fast. “No one’s going to get inside. Forget about the goblins. Did you see the Quidditch board? Our first game this season is against Gryffindor.”
Javi groans. “I hate their Seeker. Too small and quick to hit with a Bludger. We might as well throw in the towel.”
“Don’t let Captain hear that or she’ll turn you into a fox and wear your pelt as a collar.” The Hufflepuff’s Quidditch Captain, Mary J. Lockwood, is sweet in pretty much every aspect except when it comes to Quidditch, and she never hesitates to deal out punishment where it is due. You’ve stopped counting how often she’d condemned you to run laps around the field for talking back or disrupting practice.
You finish breakfast and quickly drop by the common room to get your parchments and books for Divination class, hoping time will pass quickly until evening. But while staring for roughly an hour into the lazily swirling fog inside a crystal ball without an answer to how this year’s Quidditch season will end, time seemed to move slower than a snail. After dozing off twice and woken up by Adeleide Oakes’s pointy elbow to your ribs before Professor Onai could notice, the class finally ends.
Next up is Herbology and after that you’ve got two free periods until lunch and then end the day with double Potions. It’s a slow day for a Wednesday, and you can’t wait until practice starts in October to give you some change of pace. There is not much excitement in sitting for hours in the library and going through dusty old tomes, or watch the first and second-years getting roped up into playing Gobstones in the common room by the older students, filling it with the putrid smell of its foul liquid. You enjoy being outdoors more. Which is why Herbology is somewhat fun, even if you and Javi prefer to pass time by betting on who can stick their finger closest to a Chinese Chomping Cabbage, earning a scornful side glance from Leander Prewett.
You promised Samantha Dale and Nellie Oggspire to work on the assigned group project for the essay on Ghouls for DADA during your free period, but when you’re about to set out to the Great Hall to grab a few snacks before going through the list of books you’ll need from the library, Professor Garlick appears before you suddenly as though sprouting from the ground like a flower.
“Oh, delightful, my dear, there you are!” she beams. Small brown parcels flutter around her head like butterflies. “Here is the delivery for Mr. Ollivander, if you’d be so kind and bring them to him now.”
Just in case, you look behind you. Nobody there on the stairs leading up to the Central Hall. Even Javi has made himself scarce already. She really is talking to you.
“Why me, Professor?” Someone must have hit you with Obliviate. You can’t remember having agreed to do any favour for her.
“Oh? Frederick Gustave told me you would offer! Quite an attentive, nice boy! He will grow into a splendid Ravenclaw one day!” Frederick Gustave? In Ravenclaw? You don’t know anyone called Frederick or Gustave or—the thought strikes you like lightning. Freddy, Fred or August. “All you need to do is bring these little parcels to Mr. Ollivander in Hogsmeade. These are magically nourished woods he has requested, and I am quite eager to see the results for myself.”
With a flick of her wand the parcels change course and begin to circle around your head before you can even begin to explain that this is a huge misunderstanding. She pats your cheek affectionately and twirls around, descending the stairs back to her flowery domain.
Javi is waiting for you at the top of the stairs, ignoring your scowl as he whistles the tune of The School of Jolly Dogs. His face lights up. “Since you’re heading to Hogsmeade, can you bring me some white Chocolate Frogs? Mine hopped out of the window last night because Arty forgot to close it.”
You answer with a rude hand gesture and stomp out of the hall, heading for where you keep your brooms stashed in the Hufflepuff locker room.
~ ⋆｡°✩ ~
The flight to Hogsmeade takes longer than usual. Every time you move too fast, the parcels begin to cry and whine like little abandoned ducklings until they catch up to you. Other than that, it is a beautiful morning as the sun keeps dipping in and out between wispy smears of clouds on the wide blue canvas. The tiny, homey village is alive with witches and wizards scurrying around to get their errands done. The novelty and excitement from visiting Hogsmeade in your third-year has worn off after two years, but it’s still a nice change from the dark school corridors and unending spiralling staircases.
You leave your broom leaning against the wall next to the entrance of Mr. Ollivander’s shop. This shouldn’t take more than five minutes, darting in and out; you’re pretty sure you’ll be quicker than a Niffler digging through a pile of Galleons.
The door swings open easily. It has been five years since you last set foot into the small, cramped shop, yet nothing has changed and suddenly you feel as though you’re eleven again, entering for the first time. It smells of polished wood and something burnt underneath like a misplaced Incendio. Nearly every wall is stacked high with countless wands up to the ceiling, waiting to choose their witch or wizard. Back then you felt very small as a first year, anxious and excited to finally attend Hogwarts and get your own wand—the very first object that truly belonged to you and was not one of your older sisters’s hand-me-downs.
From the back of the shop you hear heavy knocks and a shrill screeching sound that makes you want to put your hands to your ears. Just like five years ago, you reach for the bronze bell on the counter but before your fingers can touch it, it lifts on its own and jingles beautifully. The knocking immediately stops, followed by a last dull clatter and then Mr. Ollivander emerges from the back room, dusting himself off.
He looks at you over the rim of his golden glasses, and a small smile spreads on his face as recognition dawns. The wide counter flap squeaks open when he swishes his wand to step through.
“Ah, the Hawthorn girl,” he says in greeting, quickly closing the space between you and taking your hands in his; you feel every wrinkle against your palm, every patch of rough skin from decades of work as he squeezes your hands. “I have hoped that I would see you soon.”
The question mark must be evident on your face, for Mr. Ollivander explains, “I remember every student and wand I paired, and you my dear, I remember the day five years ago when you came to my shop and your wand chose you. Natural, twelve inches, and a phoenix feather core. Unyielding. But what makes your wand so special is the wood it is made of. Hawthorn makes such a strange, contradictory wand, as full of paradoxes as the tree that gave it birth, whose leaves and blossoms heal, and yet whose cut branches smell of death.” He chuckles to himself, blinking as if lost in a memory; not noticing how tense you are and the way your uneasy smile curls downward. As though you could forget what the hawthorn means. But instead of allowing your mother’s voice inside your head to poison your heart, you square your shoulders and pull your hands away from Mr. Ollivander’s grasp.
“Delivery from Professor Garlick,” you say with a faux cheery voice. It seems only then does Mr. Ollivander notice the parcels still fluttering around your head.
“Ah, yes, yes! Allow me.” He points his wand at the parcels, then to his back room and they float through the shop in rank and file, all in proper order. “And here of course, for Professor Garlick.” Mr. Ollivander hurries behind the counter, and produces a heavy pouch that he hands over to you. It jangles handsomely when you take it from him.
“Well then, I wish you a nice da—”
“Tell me, dear, have you met him yet?”
Feet already pointed towards the entrance, you turn your body halfway back. “Met who, sir?”
Mr. Ollivander looks up from the account books he’s been writing in. Something glints in his eyes, but maybe it’s just the reflection on his glasses. “Why, the Blackthorn boy, of course.”
You rack your brain for anyone who’s called Blackthorn but come up empty. “I’m afraid I have not made any acquaintance like that, sir.”
The wandmaker’s eyes are calm, a sparkling blue of sunlight lancing off a stream. “I see,” he says. “Well, my part of this was fulfilled when I matched your wants with you. Everything else is up to you.” He gives you a little secret smile, then goes back to his ledger, the conversation clearly over even though you have dozens of questions swirling in your head.
Back out on Lower High Street, you have been released of the fluttering parcels and instead Mr. Ollivander’s words torment your mind. You can feel a memory hiding behind thick fog, blurry and barely visible, but its presence heavy and lurking like a ghost.
Wasn’t there something he had told you five years ago? When he had presented your wand, still resting in its narrow satin casket. You were too excited to pay him any mind—it had sounded too much like one of your mother’s stories; like an augury or worse even, a prophecy—when he had told you about a cursed kingdom, two brothers, and a hawthorn and blackthorn tree. Why listen to old fairy tales when the real adventure—Hogwarts—was waiting for you?
Besides, if by ‘Blackthorn boy’ he means someone with a blackthorn wand, finding that person would be nearly impossible. And why would you look for him in the first place? Superstitions and divinations have no place in your life. Not after how it had dictated your childhood with a cold iron fist.
The trip back to Hogwarts is significantly faster without having to look after enchanted parcels behaving like newborn Fwoopers. With what happened at Mr. Ollivander’s, you completely forgot to drop by Honeydukes for Javi, which makes him look like a kicked puppy for the rest of the day.
You manage to start your essay for the group project, although you don’t get nowhere close to where you wanted to be before the match. Lunch is a blur of tasty shepherd’s pie and grilled mushroom skewers with a small handful of students passing where you sit to wish you good luck, patting your shoulder hard enough you almost choke on your pumpkin juice. Others send you little notes with crude drawings showing St. Jude zapping you with a spell and losing tonight’s duel. The messages are charmed to head dive into your cup and plate, splattering mashed potatoes on your uniform.
Adeleide plucks a nervously flapping piece of paper out of your meal and unfolds it. “At least they’re creative,” she notices mildly.
You throw a wary glance at the note. “That doesn’t even look like me.”
“I don’t know.” Javi slurps loudly from his cup. “They got your scowl right.”
Double Potions after lunch flies by for a change. Your Wiggenweld Potion tends to be a tad bluer than Professor Sharp’s apple-green concoction bubbling at the front table for reference, but you have a hard time focusing when your mind is already occupied with how tonight’s duel might go.
You have a handful favourite spells that you’ve practised long enough they come to you as easy as breathing. But from what you have seen during the last Crossed Wands duels where St. Jude has participated, he seems to have a natural gift for duelling. You’ve heard he competed alongside Sallow in his first duel, but every fight following he’s been on his own and you’ve seen the battered and bruised leftover competitors limping out of the Clock Tower. You don’t plan to follow in their footsteps.
Finally, evening falls and the long, narrow corridors awake with dim candlelight. You follow the throng of hooded students hurrying towards the Clock Tower after dinner. The excitement ripples through the lines of people like a physical force, alive and rearing when the first students file into the Clock Tower and find a seat close to the walls and away from accidental stray spells.
You spot Lucan Brattleby surrounded by a handful Hufflepuff and Slytherin students. Javi is among them, and when you draw closer you notice the ledger in Lucan’s hand and the Sickles being passed between him and Javi.
Javi startles when you step next to him like a Mooncalf facing an oncoming card. “Hiya,” he says in the very familiar voice that sounds a lot like him hoping you won’t be mad.
You raise an eyebrow. “Placing bets?” Your eyes linger on the page as you scan the names on the chart on your side. Only a few names—Leander, who’s been especially snappy since he lost against St. Jude in the semifinals, a handful other Gryffindors, one or two Ravenclaws and the rest are students from your house. On St. Jude’s column, Lucan has started to write the names as tiny as possible to fit them all on the page. Javi’s is amongst them. He ducks away from your scrutinising gaze. “He slew a fully-grown troll last week!” he pleads his case. So much for the infamous Hufflepuff loyalty. “I’ll invite you to Honyedukes after and pay for whatever you want with the prize money.”
“Whatever.” You turn away to get ready, walking into a hard, solid body.
Callum St. Jude steadies you before you can stumble. “Easy there.” His smile slices white. “Seems like I’m already sweeping you off your feet. We haven’t even started yet.”
You shrug his hand off your arm. “The only sweeping happening today is when I wipe the floor with you, St. Jude.”
He hums thoughtfully. “We’ll see.”
You stare daggers at his back as he retreats to his side of the hall, welcomed by other Slytherin students who pat his back and ruffle his unruly jet-black hair as though he is the fifth-year’s Champion already. He doesn’t linger around them for too long, and instead retreats to a far corner where Sallow is already waiting for him.
Tugging your black robe off, you begin to stretch your limbs. For today’s occasions you’ve chosen to wear a simple shirt with ribbon uniform tucked into your plaid trousers. More mobility, less fabric flapping around. A tie or a blazer would allow too much surface for a nasty Accio. From the last duels you’ve watched, you know St. Jude is as sharp as a whip. Even though he only has a meagre arsenal of spells, he’ll do anything to win.
You’ll need to keep all your wits about you. If he, and the majority assembled under the giant swinging pendulum today, underestimate you, it will be your pleasure to remind them what vicious creatures badgers are.
When you turn, St. Jude is already standing ready, his wand raised. He’s shrugged out of his robes as well and pulled off his tie, following your example. Gone is the cocky smile he always wears, so infuriating and inviting to punch. Now he is serious, his face an impassive mask that betrays nothing, but you have seen it change within a heartbeat before knocking an opponent out with a savage blast of his wand. Like a snake, waiting and watching, until it strikes viciously and sinks its venomous fangs into your skin.
“Attention!” Lucan Brattleby hops in the centre, his arms raised. “Wizards and witches! Welcome to the fifth-year’s Crossed Wands Championship!” He lets the audience get the whistling and bellowing out of their system before he introduces both parties. “Competitors, let’s get started!”
He quickly dashes out of the way—rightly so, for St. Jude’s opening move is always a lightning-quick Levioso, just like Professor Hecat taught him. You dodge the spell and hear it disperse against the wall behind you, feeling the sparks nip your skin.
“Accio!” You whip your wand towards you, only able to catch St. Jude by the cuff of his white sleeve as he evades with a side-step. But it’s enough to unbalance him as his arm is pulled in your direction and he retaliates by using the moment to blast a few Basic Casts your way which you block by well-timed Protegos.
The crowd’s cheers disappear into background noise as you and St. Jude continue your tense dance of attack and parry; a step forward, another step back, his Incendio is answered by your Glacius; since he prefers fire you do him the pleasure of casting Confringo which forces him to dive to the side. Your spell blasts the wooden weapon rack behind him into splinters and pieces, showering the Slytherins sitting beside it with glowing embers.
“Come on, new guy, give her a proper Slytherin treatment!” one of them yells. St. Jude doesn’t allow himself get distracted, not even by the instructions of his fellow housemates or the taunts and mockery from your side of the room. His eyes are pinning you like a butterfly on a corkboard, following your every step. They are frighteningly bright, you have the feeling that no move will go past him.
From behind you, you pull a large crate from under two Gryffindors seated on it with Accio, ignoring their protests when in the last second you fling it bodily towards St. Jude with Depulso. You’ve been working on the right timing for this for a long time—people usually don’t expect to be thrown at with things instead of spells. It hurls through the hall, and to your utter astonishment St. Jude blocks it in the last second with a flying object of his own—a practice dummy.
But where was the spell? You didn’t see him cast one when he hurled that dummy through the air.
At your puzzled expression, St. Jude grins at you, his smile so sudden and jarring as a thunderclap. You narrow your eyes. There’s something growing in the pit of your stomach, rearing its ugly head and snapping sharp, volatile teeth. Basic Casts don’t feel enough, and every vicious Diffindo St. Jude parries or dodges with ease. His retaliation is a fiery Incendio after Incendio—you’d think after this time one of you would grow weaker, lose focus, but the heat flaring your way and the flames licking up your uniform feel anything but harmless or tame.
Sweat runs down your temples, along your cheeks, down your neck. Your wand feels hot in your hand, but you grip it tighter, knuckles white. Your lungs feel tight in your chest, but you breathe in stronger, eyes wide. That rage that always lives inside you rears. It is an almost physical pain, like nails against flesh; like teeth against bars. That unwanted animal is starving, it wants nothing more than to get out and you’re surprised nobody else can hear it howling.
“Not as quick or cunning as that Sallow boy, but her spells pack a mean punch,” they say about you. You couldn’t best Sallow, and now there is this new contender and you refuse, refuse to slide down to number three; always coming in last, always pushed aside. You snarl at St. Jude as though trying to wrap your teeth around the world.
The air crackles with magic. Faintly, you hear an echo Mr. Ollivander's voice all those years ago. “Do not be surprised at your wand’s ability to perceive your intentions—particularly in a moment of need.”
It seems your wand shares your taste for violence—you can feel that this is the best Expulso you have executed since you taught yourself the spell in year four. You swing your arm, wand scorching hot in your hand—vibrating even—and hurl the Blasting Spell at St. Jude.
You can see his mouth move as he speaks a spell, blue sparks fly from the tip of his wand and then crackling lightning intercepts your attack. Through the sparks and bolts you see St. Jude’s puzzled expression—now is the chance to strike. A surprised opponent is a weak opponent; you swing your arm back—your arm is stuck.
From the tip of your wand a wiry crimson light crackles across the room, connected to St. Jude’s wand. When you try pulling back again, an invisible force lurches you forward, forcing your arm up until the thin light grows stronger, redder like spilt blood. Your arm shakes with the feeling of wrongness crawling up your arm, a kernel of god-awful flavour that has you biting your bottom lip. You feel an awareness. No. More than awareness, more sentient than that. It is recognition.
The point of your wand, shining a blazing white, shakes with the effort as you try to pull back; shakes from whatever magic is transpiring between you two. On the other side, St. Jude has his other hand around his wrist, trying to lower his wand, his face as white as a wall. To no avail.
The magic spreading from your wand through your body is like curious, warm fingers touching up along your arm, curling around your shoulder, settling against your cheek. They wander lower and splay across your chest, then sink through your ribs. Close around your heart. Squeeze.
The world explodes.
The magical blast sends you flying. Your teeth clang together as you slam on your back. Pain radiates through your body. Black dots dance before your eyes and blur your vision as you struggle for air.
A hushed silence has settled inside the Clock Tower. You shake your head, your free hand rising to your chest where you still feel a sharp twinge. Gingerly, you pick yourself up, carefully feeling for injuries. The whole room is a mess as though a wild Graphorn has ravaged inside and destroyed most of the furnishings. When your eyes lock with St. Jude’s across the room, your heart beats in your throat, making it hard to breathe.
Mirroring you, one hand is pressed against his chest, the other holds his wand in a vice-grip as though his life depends on it. You see him shudder helplessly, as if it were winter and he has gone outside without gloves and caught a terrible chill. His eyes meet yours, then drop to your wand. His lips mouth a single word, and you stare at him, throat tight, the cold sweat sensation of dread spreading slowly through your limbs.
And all of a sudden, you remember very clearly one thing Mr. Ollivander had told you all those years ago.
Once your paths cross, your fates will be irrevocably connected, growing together like the roots of old trees. Your wands have come from the same seed. There is no doubt that you fill find him.
Your Blackthorn boy.