Chapter Text
Anne
**
1899
“I don’t want to die…”
The words had fallen in a strangled whisper from Anne’s lips as she stared at the face of her Head of House and current potions professor, Aesop Sharpe. She was sitting, breathless in one of the many rooms of St. Mungo’s—a choice she had made following the funeral of her uncle, Solomon Sallow. It had been a rush decision with no other viable choices left—she didn’t want to burden Caroline and the rest of the Rookwood family while they were grieving the loss of her father. The Gaunts, from Ominis’ stories of them, were sordidly out of the question. And their little cabin surrounded by gossiping townsfolk was not how she wanted to spend the last of her days.
St. Mungo’s had been the only option and one she initially thought would be good given her condition. The bouts of pain in her stomach had not lessened throughout the year and she could feel the weariness settle in her bones as she reached for another vial of Dreamless Sleep Potion. Because sleep was the only cure for the pain she carried. Pain from the curse, pain at the loss of her uncle, and pain at losing her only brother, Sebastian.
She had been at St. Mungo’s for a month and a half—the stark beige walls, beige floors, beige sheets, beige uniforms, and even the beige ticking clock were enough to drive her mad. It was a touch warmer than stark white but its prevalence and mix with the herbal scent of potions and sounds of anguish made her hate the color. Combined with the persistent view of overcast days, the sound of rolling thunder and pouring rain, everything painted her a grim future. And though she thought she would acclimate to her surroundings Anne could only feel a terror through her at the whispers in the corridors.
‘Room fourteen passed away in his sleep last night.’
‘Mrs. Jenkins in room twenty-six? Poor dear hasn’t had a visit in over ten years.’
‘That poor boy was barely ten. Died suddenly yesterday morning in his sleep, he did.’
At the age of sixteen, and the cusp of what should have been her sixth year, Anne found herself surrounded by those waiting for Death—and she was one of them. It terrified her to no end despite having months to come to terms that there was no cure. In the months that followed, the healers could only repeat the same answer over and over—there is nothing we can do.
It had been hard to watch her uncle try and fail to learn more about her sickness. And even harder to watch Sebastian go down a dark path to try and save her. And all the months of sitting, trying to remain strong till the bitter end, only succeeded in the loss of her uncle and the severance of her bond with Sebastian himself.
But it wasn’t knowing Death was coming for her that terrified her as she sat atop one of the many beds at the hospital—it was the unknown that each second could be her last breath.
She should have been making summer plans with friends like Caroline, Imelda and Nerida. She should have been worrying about choosing a career after receiving her OWLs. She should have been home with Sebastian and Ominis, trying to convince Caroline to go swimming in the ocean at sunrise.
Should haves—it left a bitter taste in her mouth.
It was a surprise to see Professor Sharpe arrive one morning, dressed in a crisp brown suit, brown trousers, brown vest, and brown tie, carrying several parcels and letters—a letter from the Ministry, a letter from Ominis, a large package of goods from Caroline, and one letter from Sebastian. She had set all but the Ministry letter aside as her potions professor and head of house sat in a chair beside her bed. She had been expecting a letter from the Ministry—they were informing her as one of her uncle’s last of kin and the ‘inheritance’ they would receive upon his passing. Her lips pursed at the thought, brows furrowing as she skimmed the letter.
“Ms. Sallow,” Professor Sharpe gently called to her, her eyes snapping up as she gripped the letter in hand—please don’t let them find out the truth—she thought, swallowing thickly, “I understand your condition has been difficult in the last year. And though we know that your uncle has done much to assist, please know that Hogwarts is still open to you should you need help.”
‘Why? What was the point?’ she thought as she stared blankly at him.
Professor Sharpe sighed, leaning back in his chair with his hands crossed over his chest, “I myself have been using the resources at Hogwarts to aid me in finding a cure for my own shortcomings.” She nodded silently—it was not a secret that the now potions master had been cursed in his former days as an Auror. “Perhaps—”
“I don’t want to die…” the words had fallen from Anne’s lips before she could stay them. Not here. Not now.
Professor Sharpe remained silent as he sat, staring with a calm and impassive face.
“I want to go back to classes, I do. But…” she sniffled.
“And you can, Ms. Sallow. Accommodations can be made—”
“No!” the determination in her voice shocked even her as she sat, clutching at the sheets, looking anywhere else but Professor Sharpe’s face, “Not Hogwarts. Not there…”
Because Sebastian was there… and she wasn’t ready to accept all that happened.
**
It was another week before Professor Sharpe returned to St. Mungo’s, bringing with him three letters—two of which were recommendations signed and sealed by Headmaster Black and Deputy Headmistress, Professor Weasley. The other? She sat, gaping at the crisp, crimson envelope, bearing a sage green ribbon and a brown seal looking out of place against the beige color of her bed.
“…Durmstrang?” she asked, afraid to touch the envelope.
“Professor Weasley had hoped to obtain an invite for you at Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. But… upon hearing from our illustrious Headmaster, the Headmistress of the Academy took offense to his words.”
Pity… she had heard the fabled stories of the Flamel Fountain, wondering if they held any truth and a possible cure.
“Durmstrang is not for the faint of heart,” she nodded at his words. The school had a reputation—one steeped in the Dark Arts. Magic—she thought—that was the cause of all her troubles, “Think what you will of Durmstrang, Ms. Sallow—it is certainly one of the best schools in the world. But entering through its doors requires an open mind.”
She pursed her lips at the thought—at her hesitance. Anne Sallow was anything but prejudiced, at least she was before this curse took hold of her. She remembered the countless days she spent planning her next prank, and the many weekends in detention paying for them. She remembered the excitement, the anticipation, the rush of adrenaline as she raced down the corridors under the illusion of darkness—past sleeping portraits, past locked doors begging to be opened, and sneaking past the ghostly terror that was Peeves.
Little Anne did not fear the unknown. But this Anne? This plain, mousy, bed ridden young woman? She was weak willed, unsure of herself, and terrified of each new day.
She hated what she had become.
The sound of the evening thunder and rain began to fall as she reached for the envelope, her fingers slipping slowly between the sealed wax to draw out an acceptance letter. It was short, simple, quick, and blunt in offering her a place at the Institute. Just like that.
Her mouth was drawn in a thin line, because unlike Beauxbatons, Durmstrang was a school said to house the darkest of curses, it’s curriculum and students shrouded in mystery, and its only requirement? To be pure blooded. The latter thought sickened her as she remembered Ominis’ once passing comment that if not for his family’s legacy at Hogwarts, he would have been sent there. The acceptance sat in her hands, burning amidst the cold of the Hospital Wing—it would be easier to wait, perhaps see if Beauxbatons could be persuaded to change their minds.
And yet—the sound of an agonizing scream down the hall clutched at her heart, the cloudy skies casting shadows creeping across the room as rain pelted the window pane louder and louder—the drip of water, the ticking of the clock, the pounding of her heartbeat in her eyes—the walls, oh the walls of beige, the sheets lined by the drab color, devoid of any real warmth, the shadows snaking up the threads—only to stop at the corner of the red envelope.
The red envelope… glaring, an unknown, enticing in its lithe form. Just like the dark arts—Anne thought bitterly. But… it was something. And something was better than being here waiting for the clock to stop ticking.
“I’ll do it.”
**
Mornings…Anne was never a morning person—sharing the sentiment and hatred of such a time with Ominis. They grumbled together at the Great Hall, being plied with earl grey by Sebastian before classes. If it were up to her, she would have asked to meet closer to noon but as it stood—as she stood— in the unsettling quiet of the world still asleep before her, she could only be slightly grateful for the change of scenery. It was a contrast—the dark hues of the of the North Ford Bog, gray and blackened trees, darkened green peat and moss, and shadows abound.
Anne shivered as she stood outside in the appointed spot—waiting for the Durmstrang representatives to collect her. It didn’t help that the night air and sky held a sense of foreboding. If the Isles was normally mired in mist and fog, the North Ford Bog thrived in such weather. Everything was darker, drearier, and damn near impossible to feel warm in. The coat and robes she wore did little to keep the clawing cold out—and the scarf draped over her shoulders did not give her the comfort she sought. The moon hardly peered out behind the clouds and the cloying silence, save for the sound of hooves of the Thestrals, made her skin prickle with unease.
“Miss… Anne Sallow?”
She turned, coming face to face with a handsome young man, pale, lithe, high cheek bones, sandy blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a charismatically friendly smile painted on his face, “Erm… yes?”
“Oh! Good!” the young man turned, his wand rising slightly to send out sparks of red and green, “I’ve found her!”
Anne tugged the scarf tightly around her neck as they were joined by a frowning young woman with a dark brown complexion and long, dark red curls and another young man, dark hair, stocky and pale with a friendly smile.
“Hello,” Anne did her best to not shift, smiling as she gave a small wave.
“You?” The young woman with dark red curls raked her eyes judgingly across her form, “You’re the special student? There isn’t anything special about you.”
“Now, now, Eloise—”
“Don’t!” Eloise shot a glare at the blonde young man before rounding on Anne, “We travelled here? For you? A little thing that looks like it’s about to die?”
“Eloise…” the young man warned as Anne watched her step closer, “You know what the Headmistress said.”
The young woman, Eloise, grumbled, stomping off with a flip of her hair.
“Don’t mind her—the ah, I’ve heard the Rookwoods don’t normally have a sunny disposition,” Anne quirked a brow, biting her cheek as she stared at the woman in the far distance. Rookwood? Odd, she would have to ask Caroline if she knew this branch of her family.
“That’s Aleksander Krum,” The young man with sandy blonde hair gestured to their dark-haired companion who nodded to her in return, shooting her a disarming smile before giving a bow, “And I? I’m Gellert. Gellert Grindewald.”
**