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Godric
Godric has known since he was a little boy that he wanted to be a hero. He was raised on stories of heroes of the old, tales of the strongest of the kings’ knights, people who’d saved countless lives with their deeds. Before bed, his parents recited the odysseys of King Arthur and his Round Table, of Charles the Courageous, and Benedict the Bold. His parents would kiss his forehead as they tucked him in, whispering, “Goodnight, Godric the Great.” Then, after they left, he would lie under the covers and just buzz with the idea that he, Godric, could become a hero.
Upon pestering his parents, Godric learned that there were many things one could do to be a hero. Feats to undertake, virtues to possess. But the most important thing was courage. It was then that Godric decided he would have to be the bravest boy in their little muggle village. His parents smiled indulgently when he would grab his wooden sword and run down the streets with his friends, yelling fearsome battle cries that made the stray cats who lingered in the alleys turn tail in an instant.
Then, when Godric was sixteen, everything changed.
It was a normal day. He was playing with his friends, sword-fighting, his wooden weapon thwacking fiercely against the other boys’. Theodore was the only one left, but Godric had forced the other boy onto the defensive, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the surrender came. He was going to win, like he always did, and then they’d go back to his parents’ house and eat bread and cheese, and his mother would cluck at him when he snuck some chocolate from the sweets cupboard.
But it didn’t go that way. Instead, Theodore suddenly stopped, his sword lowering into the dirt as his brows furrowed at some point over Godric’s head. Godric almost accidentally clobbed him, and he just barely jerked back his sword in time as it was, but Theo didn’t seem to notice.
“Godric,” he said, before Godric could snap at him. “Look.”
At first, when Godric turned, he thought that Theo was trying to distract him just so that he didn’t lose, which was a cheat move, and Godric was just about to tell him so when he saw the smoke.
He turned back to look at Theo with wide eyes. “What do you think it is?” he asked.
The other boy was grinning. “Let’s go find out.”
Godric would be lying if he said that he wasn’t excited as he and the other boys scrambled through the woods towards the black plumes rising over the trees. As they drew closer, the smell scalded their nostrils. There was something– different about this smoke. But Godric was too eager for an adventure to pay attention to the first signs that something was wrong. He forged onward even as the other boys began to slow, gripping his sword tightly in one sweaty palm.
He was concentrating so hard that it took him the longest, out of all of them, to hear the screams. At first, he could brush them off as forest noises, indecipherable sounds in the distance. But then they became awfully, distinctly human.
Godric’s gut began to squirm. The smoke was thicker here, unnaturally so.
But Godric had never doubted himself before. That wasn’t how his parents had raised him, so he wasn’t going to start now. No, he told himself, he was going to be brave. That was the whole point, wasn’t it?
Then he broke through the treeline and every muscle in his body turned to stone, halting him in his tracks.
It was a house. Although now it was more of a shell of one, scorched from the inside out by hungry orange flames. Charred.
Godric was trying to unlock his body to go and get water, or help, or something, when a figure burst out of the flames.
It was human. He couldn’t tell its gender, because it was wreathed in flames. Godric felt himself jerk a horrified step back, because this– this was agony, right here in front of his eyes. Tortured screams and desperate thrashing as the thing attempted to put out the flames. Bile crept up Godric’s throat. He needed to move. He needed to– he needed to help . He should end those screams and be brave and be a hero. It ashamed him that when he saw another figure sprinting towards the flaming person, he felt nothing but relief. The only thought in his mind was:
Thank god. They’re going to help. They’re going to help, so I don’t have to.
And then he saw the axe.
Everything went sort of fuzzy after that.
There was no help.
There was a scream from a million miles awa–
In
dis
tin
guish
able
words.
There was blood–so much blood.
The flames grew
t h i c k e r,
Higher
hungrier .
Godric’s lungs felt coated in ash–can’t b r e a t h e –
He still couldn’t mov–
It didn’t even look like a person anymore. It took far, far too long for it to stop moving, and even then, the blows didn’t stop falling
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
Hands on his shoulders.
A shout in his ear.
His head felt like it was underwater.
It was so very,
very hot.
Footsteps. Running. He was being pulled by his arm, moving so fast that his legs tangled underneath him. He was coughing hard. Soot spilling from his nose
and mouth.
He heard his mother’s voice. Choked with tears.
He collapsed to the ground at her feet and vomited until black spots bled over his eyes and the darkness swallowed everything.
Godric woke up in his bed. His throat hurt. There was a glass of water on his bedside, and he guzzled it, gratefully. He tried to take a breath to call for his mother, but what came out was a guttural cough instead. He heaved, gut churning, and rolled over to find a bowl on the ground. When he spat, what came out was black.
“Godric?” He felt a cold hand on his forehead and closed his eyes, relief crashing over him. His mum. Everything would be okay now that his mum was here.
“Mum?” he whispered, and his voice sounded wrecked, like he’d swallowed hot coals. He tried to clear his throat, but only succeeded in making the harsh ache worse and triggering another coughing fit.
His mother pulled him close and held him through it, rocking him gently back and forth in her embrace. Towards the end, he had started crying, although he didn’t know why. He couldn’t quite remember…
“What happened?” he croaked, as soon as he could manage to speak.
His mother’s eyebrows caved in over her green eyes, identical to his own. “You don’t remember?” she whispered.
“I…” He tried to think. Images flashed through his mind. Smoke the colour of tar, seeping into the sky, eating up the blue. And then something hot, something red, something…
“There was a fire,” he finally said, meeting his mother’s gaze. “On the edge of town.”
“Yes.” He didn’t want to understand the grief on her face.
“Is everyone okay?” he asked.
His mother’s expression crumpled a bit before she was able to compose herself. Slowly, she breathed in, then out, then met his gaze wearing apologies he didn’t want to see.
“What?” It was like there was a weight on his chest. Pressing down down down. Heavier by the second. “What is it?”
And then she shattered Godric’s whole world with her next words.
“Witch-hunters,” Aelis Gryffindor said, finally. “It was witch-hunters.”
Muggles with axes, pitchforks, and torches had stormed a peaceful wizarding family’s house on the outskirts of town. They’d killed all of the occupants and burned the place to the ground. Godric had been there, and he hadn’t done anything. His father assured him that he couldn’t have helped. His mother whispered that she was simply glad he was safe. In that moment, his parents, his greatest role models, didn’t look like the shining heroes he’d always seen them as. They looked small. Scared. Shaken. And Godric…
Godric had never felt so sick of himself. So disgusted. He viscerally remembered standing there, right there, as a person was beaten to death right before his eyes. Burning alive, bleeding, barely human, but if Godric had only– if he had only–
He hadn’t been able to move, frozen to the spot even as everyone else ran away. The smoke had poured down his throat until he was gagging on it, and still, he hadn’t moved. Someone had found him and dragged him away before the flames spread. He’d passed out from smoke inhalation, his parents explained. He might have a cough for a while. But to Godric, only one thing was important.
He hadn’t been brave.
All his life, it had been at the core of every decision. In his head, he’d remind himself to be brave, and then he was always able to just– do it. He’d helped so many people that way. He’d made his parents proud of him.
But then. When it really came down to it?
Godric Arthur Gryffindor was not a hero.
He was a coward.
Helga
It was always clear that Helga was different, even the Matron said so. They didn’t say what was so wrong with her, whether it was her personality, attitude, or body– they left her guessing. Trying to fix anything that could be the problem just to fit in…
She never did.
Not once in the ten years that she had lived at the orphanage had Helga ever felt accepted. Yet she kept trying.
When she was twelve, Matron told her she was a nuisance. So she started spending her days in the kitchen, helping out as much as she could with a big smile on her face.
When she was thirteen, her only friend left her because she was too “weird.” So Helga stopped spending as much time in the gardens and relinquished her days running through the trees like a princess.
When she was fourteen, the other girls told her that she was boring, so she spent her first kiss on an older boy who was only interested in the places where her body dipped and curved. After, she was let in on their gossip sessions and included in their giggles… for a week.
When she was fifteen, the boys said that she wasn’t attractive, so she cut her hair and painted on blush like the pretty girls.
And now, at sixteen, she was called fat, because of her rounded face and chubby skin. The size of her bosom that used to be appreciated was now called flabby, and the thickness of her thighs was no longer attractive. She was ugly, and no one ever let her forget it.
So as Helga sat at the table, food rested in front of her, she grabbed the bare minimum. Enough food to fill two spoonfuls, that's all she could risk. Instead Helga watched the other girls load their plates to the brim, watched as they were able to stuff their mouths with enough food to feed a horse and no one would look twice. A familiar feeling of jealousy filled Helga’s empty stomach.
“May I be excused Matron?” Helga asked quietly. She kept her eyes downward. “I’m not feeling well.” Helga could hear a couple snickers from around the table, but she couldn’t hear who they were coming from.
“This is the fourth time this week Helga!” Matron exclaimed. “Should I call for the healer?”
“My apologies Matron,” Helga fidgeted with one of the curls in her honey coloured hair, a nervous tick that had gotten her caught lying more than once. “There is no need for a healer, only some rest.”
Someone muttered something Helga couldn’t hear, arising a roar of laughter from the other people in the room. Helga’s eyes shot upward accidentally, she knew that they wanted her to react and she just had. Helga regulated her expression once again before turning back to the Matron.
“What was that Jasper?!” Matron shrieked. “I will not have you saying such things in this house!”
“Matron, I shall head back to my room to rest.” Helga took her leave, she didn’t truly care that Matron hadn’t excused her or the trouble that was unfolding behind her. She only wanted to escape to the safety of her room and get away from those people and that food. Helga’s stomach clenched painfully as she remembered those two spoonfuls of food and how the content hadn’t nearly satisfied the well of hunger pooling in her belly.
When Helga finally stepped into her familiar quarters, she calmed. One good thing about being the outcast was that no one wanted to sleep in the same room as her, so she was permitted to sleep alone until the next child came along. Then it wouldn’t be too long ‘til they left as well. Helga pushed away the familiar self pity that coursed through her, she shouldn’t be upset, there were lives far harsher than hers. In fact, Matron had gotten news of a village not too far from them, suffering from two witch hunts so far just this week! Matron didn’t believe in that sort of stuff, but a small part of Helga wanted to think that it was true. That there was some sort of magical land hidden within plain sight, yet each time her mind drifted that way she forced herself down a more logical path.
Helga shed her dress in practised movements, unlacing the corset and squeezing out of the hefty fabrics. Before long Helga stood there in her undergarments; a thick sheet which wrapped around her chest and panties. Quickly, Helga made sure that no one was watching before she revealed a mirror hidden in one of the corners of the room. A mirror was a rare find in England, and Helga’s room was the only one in the house that had one. This was not by accident…
As Helga stood in front of the mirror, she watched as her ringlets of hair cascading down her bare shoulders. Sometimes Helga wondered if she looked like her mother; with wild coils of hair, the colour of honey that's been left in the sun too long, or if they shared the big light blue doe eyes that brought kindness to her face. Helga wanted to know if she shared her father’s lips, pink fluffy lips that were bigger on the bottom than the top, or if she had retained the soft circular shape of her face from him. But she would never know, all she could do was imagine.
Helga ran her fingers gently along the sides of her stomach, hoping that there had been some magical occurrence between now and the time she had checked it last. But there was no change; her stomach was still as blocky as before. Helga felt a tear dribble down her skin before she quickly wiped it away. She knew she would never become as thin as the corset she wore made her… it was just an illusion, but something inside of her quietly hoped that maybe, just maybe, sometime it might become real. Helga regulated her face once more before donning a loose nightgown and slipping out the door to the bathrooms.
After taking precautions to avoid everyone in the house, Helga made it to the bathroom. She headed for the curtain behind which lay the chamberpot, usually abandoned at this time of night– and just how Helga liked it. What she wasn’t prepared for was to hear a slight sob coming from her usual spot.
“Hello?” Helga called out, and the sniffling immediately stopped.
“Please leave me be…” the girl responded, her voice a bit raspy from crying.
“As you wish, but you can talk to me if you’d like,” Helga replied, she didn’t know why she was offering, seeing that no one had ever accepted her help before.
“Wait…” the girl said, making Helga pause. “Is that you Helga?”
“Yes,” Helga said, a little bit shell shocked. The girl came out, quickly revealing herself to be Eloise. Eloise was a bit shy like Helga herself, yet she had managed to find her spot with the others, often standing silent next to everyone as they hurled cruel words at Helga. So Helga didn’t know why Eloise was crying.
“How do you put up with it?” Eloise sniffled, wiping snot on her sleeve. “You alway seem so unaffected when they call you… overweight .” Eloise whispered the last word.
“Did they call you that?” Helga asked hesitantly. Eloise nodded in response. “Well the way I think of it is there's nothing wrong with a little curve, it's something that catches eyes. No matter what they tell you, Eloise, curves can be beautiful too, you just need to see it.” Helga didn’t tell Eloise that she had been crying over her curves not even five minutes ago, how she had stopped eating, or that she sometimes debated taking a knife to cut out the fat. No, Helga only told Eloise that curves weren’t something to be ashamed of; instead they were something to be proud of.
“Thank you…” Eloise mumbled before hurrying out of the bathroom.
Helga took her time in the loo, hoping everyone would be in bed by the time that she left. Yet, the moment she walked outside, she knew something was wrong.
A group of girls stood, waiting for her, Eloise included. They were all cackling at sometime Eloise said, a joke maybe? Helga’s fingers found their way back to her hair, twisting gently.
“There you are Helga,” Elizabeth called out from her spot in the circle. “Finally gave up on throwing up? Or maybe you were trying to ‘use’ those curves like you told Eloise here to do.”
“I-I wha-what?” Helga stuttered, she hadn’t told Eloise that!
“The boys here say they weren’t in there, but I think someone’s lying… you little whore.” Elizabeth suddenly stepped forward, placing her hands right on Helga’s shoulders and shoving her hard. Helga stumbled backward, running straight into a solid body. “Some of the boys were curious on how you ‘use’ your whale legs. Do you flash them a bit of skin? Does that make you feel better about yourself?”
Helga’s panic flared. “N-no I would-wo never do suc-such a—” Helga didn’t finish her sentence as she felt a hand curl around her ass. “Get off of me!” She shrieked, trying to push forward but something caught her around her waist and pushed her into the wall.
“Isn’t this what you meant?” Elizabeth cackled. “Poor Eloise just wanted an example!” Betrayal pierced through Helga’s chest as she made eye contact with Eloise across the room. She watched as Eloise's mouth curved into a cruel grin, and all of the self pity she had seen in her eyes just minutes ago was gone. “So give her an example, boys!”
Helga opened her mouth to scream, but found a sweaty hand clamped over her face instead.
“Can’t have you calling for the Matron can we?” Jasper chuckled, pressing closer. Helga felt her mind go numb as his hands ran over her body. Her consciousness leaving her as if in self-defence–
She was outside in the garden again, the sun hot on her back as she laid on the ground surrounded by blooming tulips and daffodils. Everything was bright and colourful around her
A slobbery mouth pressed against hers, pushing her lips apart forcefully
The birds were singing and the cool air was refreshing as it whipped through her hair
Another laugh echoed as a palm invaded her chest
She had her journal, the one that she wrote everything in. She had spent months saving up to buy it, and when she finally had, she’d filled it with poem after poem. Helga opened her journal and wrote
She could feel cold air on her stomach as someone attempted to lift her gown over her head
Two people walked forward, hand in hand. Helga had never seen them before, yet somehow they looked familiar. As they walked closer, Helga began noticing the similarities, the hair, eyes and lips. It felt like Helga was looking at a reflection of herself. Her parents…
Her chest wrap was undone
Her mother pulled something out of her dress, something long and wooden. It almost looked like the stick that Helga used to play with in the woods. Her mother muttered something unintelligible, and suddenly the entire garden flourished even more. Something that would have happened in months, done in a second. Helga gasped in disbelief
A punch to Helga’s stomach made her double over
“Stop moving, whore,” Jasper muttered
Her parents came within hearing range; “What do you think she’ll be like?” her father asked.
Helga didn’t know who they were talking about, but from the looks on their faces it looked like they loved this person very much.
“I think she’ll be kind, and selfless,” her mother started hesitantly, deep in thought. “Someone who attracts attention, but not from appearance, rather from the look that you see in her eyes. She will be quiet but smart, someone who imputes their voice when needed and is always listened to, and she will be a saving grace for all who are around her. She will save them like she saved us…” A smile graced her mother’s lips as she stared at Helga’s father with love. “Our daughter.”
Helga felt her eyes prick as tears arose. Were they talking about her?
“Of course she will my darling, of course.”
Helga got thrown back into her body just as it seemed to erupt. Something deep in Helga’s soul broke like floodgates finally bursting free. She could feel it like a separate entity, as though she and it had coexisted all along, but now? As it showed its true face, its full potential? She had never felt so powerful, the scared girl that Helga had hid behind gone as if she had violently shed her skin. But, what scared her was how she wanted more. The feeling that rippled under her skin was intoxicating, like the sweetest of poisons, the mesmerization of flames. She needed more, and it scared her.
Helga's eyes fluttered open, but she was unprepared for the destruction around her. Bodies were flung all the way to the very edges of the room; she could tell that they were still alive, but they lay terrifyingly still.
A panicked breath escaped Helga, she did that. That was her. The daughter that her parents had thought was a saving grace was nothing better than any other villain.
Then she looked down slowly. Down at her hands, at her rumpled and disturbed gown, at the chaos around her. Distantly, she heard Matron coming, calling up at them that they better be in bed… but Helga paid her no heed. Her eyes were locked onto her hands. Her hands, that must have done this, because who else could have? What am I? She thought desperately, even as she already knew the answer.
Every day she tried to be small. And smaller. And smaller. To pack herself into her corset and be the perfect girl, so that maybe people might love her. But that could never disguise the truth.
She, Helga Helena Hufflepuff, was nothing but a monster.
Rowena
Despite wishing otherwise, Rowena knew she wouldn’t have been able to guess what was coming in a million years.
It began with an unexpected knock on the door to her quarters. Rowena frowned and rolled out of bed to answer it. She couldn’t imagine any reason someone might need her at just nine in the morning. A slight bubble of anxiety formed in her stomach as she tried to remember if she had missed something; one of those needlework meetings her mother was always dragging her to, perhaps, or a brunch. She was mentally preparing herself for a day of mind-numbing boredom when she opened the door, only to find her mother standing in the doorway, holding an ivory hairbrush.
Rowena didn’t let her shoulders slump. But she wanted to.
The thing was, Rowena had learned from a very young age that she was completely unsuitable to be a daughter. She was too much and yet she always fell short. She was too curious and asked too many questions. As her parents’ only child, they had a very specific idea of what she ought to be, but Rowena had never been very good at stuffing herself into a cheap dress and playing the part.
Her only redeeming quality was that she was pretty.
Joy.
Her hair was the thing her mother liked best about her. Sometimes, Rowena wondered if it might be the only thing her mother liked about her. It was long and perfectly straight, a dark and silky waterfall. Frankly, it was impractical, the way her mother insisted on fawning over it like some grand prize. Rowena would have much preferred being revered for her mind, accomplishments, or personality at the very least. Unfortunately, Rowena’s mind was far too sharp to fit in with the people of the quaint Scottish town she called home, she had no accomplishments to speak of, and she was fairly sure that no one she knew liked her personality at all.
Still, Rowena knew what her mother expected of her, so she turned and walked silently to the vanity tucked into the corner of her room and sat down to face her reflection in the small, dingy mirror.
The Ravenclaws were not a rich family, and everyone knew so. Oh, they put up a good front, with their nice house and pretty manners, but inside, half the rooms were dressed only in cobwebs, and most nights they didn’t have enough money to put dinner on the table.
As long as Rowena could remember, there had been doors in the house that always remained closed. Not because of valuables hidden inside, but the lack thereof. They hardly ever took guests, but those that they did take, they entertained only in the sparsely decorated foyer with their best glasses and china. And even then the facade was stretched thin enough to be see-through.
That was why, when Rowena caught sight of the dress, she knew something was wrong.
She turned her head, disturbing the hair that her mother was running the brush through, her eyes narrowing in on it. It was undoubtedly the nicest thing Rowena had ever seen in their house; a deep blue linen bodice, lined with heavy cream embroidery, and layers and layers of fabric to create a skirt to drown in. Next to it lay an old but clearly nice corset, and beside that, a pair of heeled blue slippers to match.
Rowena stood, ignoring her mother’s half-hearted protests, and reached for the garment, lifting it up against her own body. Perfect. It was perfect. So why–
“Mother,” she said, turning back. “What is going on?”
Her mother had a look on her face that spelled out guilt. She hesitated, fidgeting with the brush in her hands. Then her face cleared as she came to some sort of decision. She stood, setting the brush aside.
“Rowena, dear,” she said in a firm voice, “today is a very important day.”
Rowena resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Yes, I gathered. As I said. What is going on? And where on Earth did you get that gown? Please tell me you didn’t buy it. We don’t have the money for pleasures such as this, Mother.”
Her mother’s lips thinned, her face taking on the hard expression it always did when Rowena was being– Rowena. Too sharp. Too direct. Too much. Too little. “Don’t take that tone with me, young lady. Put on the dress.”
Rowena looked at the corset distastefully. She hated corsets. They were painful and severely limited her mobility, not to mention her breathing. But she knew that her mother would not allow her to rebel anymore, and she was a bit curious about what this all was for. So she let her mother hitch the corset up around her middle and tighten the laces until she wheezed and heave the heavy gown over her head and the dainty little shoes onto her feet. By the time it was all over, Rowena was struggling to breathe around the corset, the fabric was hitching her breasts to, frankly, alarming heights, her toes were pinched and aching fiercely in the shoes, and she was sure that if she tried to take a single step in these skirts she would topple right over.
But when she turned around, her mother was smiling. She looked so– so genuinely happy to see Rowena standing before her. For once. Happy enough, in fact, that her eyes were starting to well with tears, and Rowena had to swallow down the lump in her throat as she reminded herself that no, this wasn’t real. Her mother didn’t love her– she loved this dolled up version, this staged fakery.
Her mother seemed to have to battle to compose herself. When she finally managed it, she gestured to the stool once more, her voice only a little choked up.
“Let me do your hair.”
Rowena didn’t know where the earrings had come from, and she was afraid to ask. She knew the answer would be revealed come suppertime, anyway. But, as she tipped and wobbled her way after her mother, leading to– of course– the foyer, she couldn’t help but feel a bit uneasy. If there was someone who needed entertainment, why bring her? Her parents had stopped trying to curb her acerbic tongue years ago, and they’d given up on proprietary even earlier. For the past few years, their solution had seemed to be to simply leave her to her own devices, only acknowledging that they had a daughter when absolutely necessary.
Rowena’s unease only grew when she stepped into the foyer to find an unfamiliar man and woman standing shoulder to shoulder on their threshold. The man wore neat, tailored clothing, and the woman, an outlandish dress and deep red lipstick. Their eyes went straight to her as she entered.
Her stomach turned over as the man dragged a slow, considering look over her, examining her from head to toe, and the woman gave her a look that was just as invasive, although much more critical and detached.
“Good afternoon,” Rowena said hesitantly, almost like a question. She glanced at her parents, but her mother would no longer look at her, her chin trembling. The feeling of wrongness swelled.
The woman looked away from her, forgoing pleasantries and demanding, “This is her?”
Rowena looked sharply at her father, but he kept his gaze fixed on the woman. “Yes. The payment?”
The woman waved forward a small boy carrying a wooden chest, which he held out to her father. He cracked it open, and a jolt of shock ran up Rowena’s spine.
It was money. Coins and coins, so many that Rowena couldn’t even begin to estimate how much that chest must be worth. She felt herself draw in a breath, turn towards her parents with a radiant smile. This would solve all of their problems. It would buy dinner for the rest of their lives, decorate those empty rooms, buy her father a nice tunic that he might earn a job with, her mother all of the silly gowns and jewellery that she’d always wanted, and for Rowena, it may fill up the empty library on the second floor, the one that she’d always loved for what it might someday be.
“That will do,” her father said.
That was when it hit Rowena that she was the only one smiling.
For such a clever girl, she’d always been very blind in matters of the heart. So for Rowena, it was unthinkable to imagine the betrayal that came after, because although she’d always known, bitterly, that her parents didn’t love her very much, she’d never guessed how little.
“Well then? Say your goodbyes,” the woman said briskly.
Rowena turned, slowly. Her mother covered her mouth, and Rowena heard a faint, stifled sob.
She looked to her father. His face was grim, grim, grim.
And then she looked to the strangers in the doorway. The strangers, who were already looking at her.
For such a clever girl, it took Rowena far too long to realise what was happening.
But once it did, the only thing that came out of her mouth was “No.”
Her mother twisted away with a desperate gasp, burying her face in Rowena’s father’s chest as she shook with sobs. Her father cradled her with a tenderness he’d never spared for Rowena and stepped back. Away. Away.
Rowena stepped towards them, reaching out. “Wait,” she gasped out. “Wait, stop.” Stop. Stop everything. Stop so that she can think. Stop stop stop .
What. Is. Happening.
“Take her away,” her father wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was looking behind her. He was looking through her.
“Wait!” Rowena heard her voice lurch, crack, desperation echoing in every ragged note. “N-no, I don’t–”
But she did understand. She understood perfectly.
No food, no money, nothing but a daughter who would never be what they wanted, an extra mouth to feed.
It was the logical thing to do, wasn’t it?
Hands wrapped around her forearms, and she twisted. She knew self-defence. She could kick them and run– run as far away as she could, run until everything faded away and she could collapse and cry over this newest betrayal alone, where no one would see her break. She struck out, ready to do just that, when her ankles tipped out from under her, and her legs failed her, crumpled and useless under these stupid skirts, as she fell right at the feet of the people who’d come to take her away.
Sold like an old pair of shoes.
She tried to get back up, but her toes mashed up against the edges of the shoes, and she knew then that she wouldn’t be able to fight.
She wouldn’t be able to run.
No, Rowena could do nothing but submit.
The last thing she saw of her parents was a couple wrapped together in comfort, needing no one else. Better off by themselves. That, perhaps, hurt more than anything else– that even as she was being taken away, she was nothing more than a stain to scrub off their shoe, a mess to take care of, and when it was done there was nothing left but relief.
She was taken outside and sat in the back of a carriage, wedged between the two strangers, too close, the walls closing in. Tears slid slowly down her cheeks, but she stared straight ahead, her hands folded in her lap, her ankles blistering inside her shoes and the corset digging into her ribcage.
God, she hated this dress.
The carriage lurched and they began to clatter away, and Rowena could not stop herself. She whipped around, pressing her hands to the window and desperately trying to catch one last glimpse of her parents. Internally begging for some sort of clue that they regretted this, that they still wanted her, that she still had a home to return to. She would fight, then. She’d never stop trying to get back. She’d hold on.
Instead, all she saw was a gently closed door.
Rowena was yanked back down into her seat, hisses of reproach uttered in her ear, but she was numb. Her ears were ringing. Oh, how stupid she’d been. Thinking that her parents might someday love her as she was. She would have been better off living a lie. But instead, she was here.
Here, with less than the nothing she’d had before.
Here, with one fact becoming viciously clear.
She was not a genius, no.
Rowena Reina Ravenclaw was a fool.
Salazar
It was just past noon when the screaming began. Salazar had been tucked deep within the forest, his lean fingers ghosting over the fur of a midnight black cat. He should have known it was a bad omen, yet something had seemed to pull him forward. Maybe it was the soft rumbles from the cat's chest, or maybe it was the piercing yellow gaze that glinted with promises of what was to come. But, regardless of the reasons, when the screaming started he was too far from the house to make a difference.
Yet he had tried. Bolting from his spot, he had run as fast as his long legs could carry him. He didn’t know who the scream had belonged to, but he wouldn’t take the risk of finding his family's ashes scattered within their home hours later. It had been the third one this week, the third time that the witch-hunters had swept through Salazar’s village with pitchforks and torches, ready to kill another family of witches and wizards.
And Salazar’s family wouldn’t be the next one on their list .
Salazar pumped his legs faster, sweat licking his brow. He could already feel the familiar burn of smoke swelling in his lungs. There was a fire, no doubt, but which house the flames were dancing across would either be his savour or destruction.
A dark part of his heart pleaded for it to be his neighbours’ house. The sweet old couple that brought his family scones each week, living out their remaining days with their dogs and grandchildren. Yes, he hoped it was them, that it was their screams that echoed through the forest, their kitchen spices mixing with the smoke.
He pictured his mother and sister standing outside the house, tears streaming down their soot-smudged faces as they watched another loved one fall. His mother would meet his gaze, her big blue eyes strained with sadness as she shook her head slightly. He pictured them heartbroken– heartbroken, but safe.
He was so close to his home, the line of trees in front of him signalling the end of the forest. They towered in front of him like a wall protecting him from what was to come.
But nothing could.
Salazar broke through the trees, bracing himself as he sprinted into the meadow that now separated him from his awaiting fate.
His icy blue eyes glanced upward, and all hope turned to panic as he watched black smoke and flames writhe around the structure of his childhood home. Each wooden plank crumbling, and along with it, all the memories of Salazar’s past.
“MOTHER!” Salazar cried out, his voice cracking with desperation. He forced his legs to move even faster, willing himself not to trip over any stone or log. “SERENA!” This time he called out his sister’s name, wanting– needing – some sort of sign to let him know that they were alive. That it was just a ruse, and Serena would run toward him laughing, her little arms spread to embrace hi–
A figure pitched out of the house.
Salazar froze, his legs unwillingly paused as he watched his mother stumble out of the house like the demons the muggles thought they were.
Flames leaped and danced, catching on every exposed stretch of skin. Turning white to red to black oh so quickly. She looked magnificent and horrific, as if this was a gold framed painting hanging in the king’s chambers. Oh how Salazar wished this was a painting instead of reality.
A shriek punched through Salazar’s thoughts, he forced himself to turn back to his mother. Her mouth was gaped open now, screams echoing and rebounding through Salazar’s body. Each note was like a different part of a song. A beautiful opera piece that spread like molten fire over his fragile glass heart.
“No, no, no, no, NO!” Salazar found motion in his legs again, time seeming to freeze with every step he took.
Faster
Faster
Faster
He must be FASTER
He felt it; the moment his foot caught on a rock. He felt the moment he was launched forward. He felt the moment something dug into his temple. He felt the moment when everything went dark, but he didn’t miss the quick thought that flitted through his brain right before he blacked out:
I don’t want to wake up.
Salazar’s eyes fluttered open. He didn’t know how long he had been out, but it had been long enough that the sky had turned and the sun had been replaced by the moon.
A throbbing pain stabbed at Salazar’s skull as he sat up and looked around. But soon his eyes began to blur and the pain shifted quickly to nausea. Salazar let out a small whimper of pain as he fell back to the ground.
He forced his fingers to rise, gently touching his temple. He could feel the sticky, drying blood going from his hairline to the edge of his jaw in sluggish rivulets. A groan formed in his throat at the pain as he fought to remember how he’d gotten here, lying in the dirt outside his hou–
The red flames danced–
Screams echoed–
“SERENA!” he shouted–
Smoke stuck in his lungs–
Flesh charring–
It all came back, every last part. He could picture the hazy image of his mother in the smoke, and his sister’s screams.
A scream echoed suddenly through the meadow once again, the sound of it setting off alarm bells in Salazar’s brain.
Not again
Salazar clutched his temples, rocking back and forth, his breath rasping through his smoke-wrought throat. He ignored the sharp stabbing feeling in his temple, ignored how it felt like his brain was being ripped out through his ear. Or how the scrapes across his arms began to burn– burn like my mother, like Serena –
Another scream sounded through the meadow, this time it only took a second to realise that it had been him. In fact, both times had been him, and both times it had felt good. He let another cry of pain fill the air, then another, until he was shaking with the force of deep, wrenching sobs that came out of the pits of his stomach, jerking through his entire body in rising cries of agony.
He didn’t care if he woke the whole neighbourhood, in fact he’d rather they wake. Let the cowards hear what they could have prevented. Let them dwell on how they stood and watched as a woman, a healer for the village, was burnt to black. His sobs dissolved into screams once more, pure animal sounds tearing out of his throat as he rocked faster and faster, his head spinning.
They were gone, gone–
Salazar didn’t notice when his body began to move, how he crawled through the meadows, little plants tickling his legs. He could faintly feel bugs crawling over his skin. They were biting his arms and legs, but he didn’t brush them off, he couldn’t stop moving.
He only paused when his eyes locked on something in particular. It was a flower, he didn’t remember the name of it, even though Serena had told him over and over. It was small, petite really, he had never understood why it had been Serena’s favourite. It had five petals, an array of sunset colours painted on each, although now, they were lightly freckled with soot.
“It reminds me of the sunset, Sal!” Serena giggled, making Salazar smile. He took the small flower into his hand, studying it closely.
“I suppose I can see where you got that idea,” Salazar said thoughtfully before his lips shifted into one of his crooked smiles that his sister loved. “What’s its name again Rena?”
“Sal!” Serena pouted, pretending to be upset. But Salazar could see under her fake sulking. He’d been with her since she was a baby, watching her grow up, and discovering her tells. Now looking at her, he saw the slight glint in her hazel eyes, and the tilt of her eyebrows. He knew that she enjoyed his terrible memory, perhaps found it amusing. But she had to keep up her act, so she poked his arm and added, petulant, “I’ve told you so many times!”
“And I never remember it Rena! Spare your poor brother some mercy.”
“Not this time! Guess!” she grinned.
“What if I…” Salazar lunged, lightly tackling his sister to the ground. He was extra careful to curl his hand around the back of her head in case it hit the ground. A small yelp fell from Serena’s lips as she was pinned under her older brother. “Will you tell me now?”
“No!” Serena kicked out from under him, desperately squirming to get away. Instead of letting her loose, Salazar picked her up with both his arms to fling her over his shoulder. Serena’s shriek turned to a scream as Salazar began to spin. “PUT ME DOWN!”
“Will you tell me now?” Salazar fired back.
“No!”
“Then I won’t put you dow—”
“Salazar, put your sister down and come help me,” their mother interrupted, making Salazar sigh, he didn’t want to go in but he wouldn’t deny his mother anything. Not after his father had passed a couple years ago.
“Fine Rena, you win…” he groaned. “Next time I’ll get you.” He placed her gently on her feet. Her small frame barely came to his shoulders, since at 16, he’d already hit his growth spurt, and she was still only 10.
“Okay Sal,” Serena smiled. She stared up at him, big eyes bright with adoration.
“Okay Rena,” Salazar matched her tone, smiling back, his hand reaching out to gently muss her hair.
Salazar plucked the sunset-coloured flower from the ground, twirling it around his fingers. He smiled to himself… right before his fingers curled tightly around the flower. He could feel his nails digging into his palm, but he squeezed harder, pushing the pain away like the rest. When Salazar opened his hand, the flower lay in ruins. Its beautiful petals torn and crushed, one petal slipping from his grasp and fluttering to the ground.
It didn’t deserve life…
Not if she didn’t.
Salazar’s eyes burned again, this time tears dripped slowly down his cheeks. He didn’t notice that he had started moving again till he was on his knees in front of his burned house. Tears cascading down his face, hands buried in the ash that used to be his home. That only hours ago had held his sister and mum alive and well. If only he hadn’t gone into the forest, then he could have been there in time, then he could have done something, he could have protected them.
A wild chuckle escaped his lips, he could have protected them from the muggles that his mum loved so much. The ones that she believed to be misunderstood and scared. The ones that she had spent hours working to save each day, and how did they repay her?
Salazar raised his hands to his face, letting the soot smear his pale skin. The muggles thought that they were eliminating a threat… but instead, they had just made one. A silky sort of numb crept over his mind as he let the dark part of his consciousness fully take over. Something that he should have done years ago… yet his father had asked that he not. He’d asked on his final breath that Salazar protect his mother and sister, that Salazar take the role that the family needed. For that Salazar needed a right mind, but what use would it do now? Laughter worked its way up his throat. Salazar had failed to honour his father’s dying wish, he’d failed to protect the only thing in his life that mattered.
He had lied.
At that bedside with his dying father he must have lied, because if he hadn’t, his family would still be alive.
Salazar Henry Slytherin was a liar.