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A gentle crackling filled the room as Cathal lit up his pipe, reclining in his armchair whilst he stared at the wall. The sun was sinking below the horizon, bathing the room in a golden glow; Cathal loathed the sight of it. He puffed away at his pipe, watching the slow retreat of the sun’s dying rays with a furrowed brow.
Another day lost, and still he was alone. This was not from a lack of trying, but options were thin on the ground for a man like Cathal – Ireland’s magical elite did not have the same fervour for Pureblood fanaticism which existed in England, and the memory of his father’s disgrace was still too fresh in the homeland for him to find a wife there. He could have looked to the continent but Cathal was not so inclined; in his eyes, the purity of blood was determined not only by magic but also by country. Proper breeding was imperative – he would not subject himself to a second-rate wife.
Unfortunately, it would seem that there were no first-rate women willing to subject themselves to him.
Cathal’s mind turned, as it often did, to his brother, Archibald.
Oh, how he envied him – precious Archibald, sitting upon high at Grimwood Keep and espousing his nonsense about kindness and tolerance. Dear Archibald, the apple of their mother’s eye; Archie with the beautiful wife and children, all wasted on him.
It should have been Cathal.
Whoosh!
In a flurry of beating wings and rustling parchment, an owl came flying through the window – Cathal jumped out of his seat, pipe still hanging out of his mouth, and brandished his wand.
“Drop it!” he snarled, aiming his wand at the creature – it assessed him with amber eyes for a moment before letting out an offended hoot, dropping the letter to the floor and disappearing with as much noise as it had made on the way in.
“Blasted creature,” he muttered, glaring at where the owl had disappeared. He could recognise those feathers anywhere; this was Archibald’s owl. With little hesitation he bent down and snatched up the envelope, ripping it open to reveal the parchment within.
Dear Cathal,
I know we have not always seen eye to eye, brother of mine, but a situation has arisen within the family which I feel you are best equipped to deal with.
Please return to Grimwood Keep at your earliest convenience. I promise to make it worth your while.
Wishing you the best,
Archibald
Despite the formal tone of the letter, Cathal could practically smell the desperation dripping off the parchment – it hung off of every rushed stroke of the quill, where Archibald would normally have ensured perfect penmanship; even the brevity of the letter spoke of untold chaos brewing within the family seat, keeping Archibald from spiralling into his usual rambling manner.
Slow as molasses, a great smile spread across Cathal’s face. He folded the letter up into squares, setting it down upon the windowsill – for a moment he disappeared into his bedroom before emerging with an overgown, covering the shabby day clothes he had been wearing prior.
With poorly disguised glee he donned his hat, which had been resting atop of his armchair, and snatched the Floo powder tin from atop the mantlepiece.
“Grimwood Keep!” he called, flicking his wrist towards the fire – a great cloud of Floo powder issued forth, and the flames soared out of the grate. Unbothered, Cathal stepped forward.
Whoosh!
A moment later and he was standing in the antechamber of their father’s pet fortress.
Gods, he’d forgotten how much he hated this place.
“Cathal! My letter found you post-haste, I see.”
“Naturally,” Cathal said, turning to face his brother. “I’m sure your owl was working double-time to deliver it – he’s so fond of me, after all.”
Archibald offered an uneasy chuckle, scratching at the collar of his doublet. He did not look well, sporting red-rimmed eyes and a spattering of stubble which he would not have been caught dead with if out in public.
“Yes… Yes, of course. Listen, Cathal; you know that I would not summon you here lightly. If I am to be frank, I would rather you never stepped foot in these halls again – however, as things stand, I fear… I fear that there is no other choice.”
“Your flattery knows no limits, brother dearest,” Cathal snarked, rolling his eyes. “Fine, out with it – what troubles can’t be solved by the noblest of the Gaunts?”
Archibald’s lips twitched at the mockery with which Cathal uttered the word ‘noble,’ knowing that the two of them could not have more different definitions of the word, but he did not rise to the provocation. Instead, after a moment of silence, he turned to the door.
“Words fail to describe it; it would be best for you to see for yourself.”
Curiosity piqued, Cathal fell into step behind his brother as they moved through the keep. They passed the servants’ quarters and a ballroom – which, to Cathal’s knowledge, had never seen a ball hosted within it – before, with a heavy sigh, Archibald opened the door to the drawing room.
“Uncle Cathal!”
He had scarcely entered the room before he was ambushed by a blur of black, catapulting into him with all the consideration of a dog who believed itself to still be a puppy.
“Oh, Gormlaith – you’re getting much too big for this, my girl,” he complained, even as he made a valiant attempt at twirling her around as he used to do when she was little.
“Uncle, tell him- tell him he can’t do this!” Gormlaith stammered, her voice laced with the petulance of a much younger child. With a frown, Cathal set her back down on the ground and looked down to find her eyes welling with tears – very much unlike the prickly, acerbic girl he knew his niece to be.
“Archie, what is the meaning of this?” he demanded, turning to face his brother once more.
“A necessity,” Archibald replied, his tone as grave as if he were delivering a eulogy. “You know, of course, that Gormlaith does not share me and Laoise’s beliefs on the equality of blood – a divide you have done your very best to exacerbate, might I add.
“We have tried our best to correct this, but last week things… Well, I fear that things crossed the point of no return. Gormlaith attacked a Muggle-born student after hours – she used magic which we have forsworn in this house, and the boy nearly died. Sentiments being what they are in Britain, she was not expelled – in fact, our cousin Reginald wrote to tell me that he approved, and would be encouraging his fellow governors to not pursue disciplinary action,” he said, distaste heavy in his voice.
“I love my daughter, Cathal, but I do not love the woman she is becoming. What she did to that boy cannot be conscioned. Seeing that our every attempt to guide her differently has failed, me and Laoise decided – upon painful deliberation – that the only way forward is for her to live with you. I do not wish to see her in penury, but I can no longer abide her living under my roof with what she has done. Gormlaith has always admired you – more than she ever did myself or Laoise, I daresay; if there was anyone to whom I would trust her care, it would be you.”
A deafening silence descended upon the room as Archibald finished his speech. If the expression on his face was anything to go by, Archibald seemed to believe that he had just made a monumental sacrifice; the expression on Cathal’s was one of incredulity, while Gormlaith’s prior teariness seemed to have boiled over into an incandescent rage.
“You betray your blood, Daddy!” she seethed, her brown eyes bright with fury. “It’s our duty to cull the Mudbloods – just as Salazar wanted! If you weren’t such a-”
“Silence!” Archibald snapped. “That you dare speak such utter tripe under my roof-”
“Oh, shut up, Archie,” Cathal scoffed, taking both his brother and niece by surprise. “How can you live with yourself, brother? You let your bitch fill your head up with all that nonsense about compassion for all, yet you turn your back on your own daughter. How do you make sense of it?”
Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “Of course I’ll take Gormlaith in – a more darling girl I never have met, even if you’re too much a fool to see it. I do wonder, though – who will you pawn your other children off onto when they inevitably fail to measure up to His Holiness’ exacting standards?”
Unable to help himself from twisting the proverbial knife, Cathal brought Gormlaith into a one-armed hug – she clung to him as she had never clung to Archibald, knowing that Uncle Cathal came bearing praise and the freedom to wreak as much havoc as she wished, while Father had only rebuke and restrictions to offer.
Archibald sighed, rubbing tiredly at his face. With a wave of his wand he summoned a trunk which had hitherto gone unnoticed by Cathal, pushing it towards him with the weariness of a man who had lived a thousand years.
“Goodbye, Gormlaith.”
Gormlaith did not respond, and Cathal did not see the need to make her – instead he placed a hand on her back and led her from the room, levitating her trunk behind them as they went.
Alone in the antechamber, Cathal lifted his hand and brushed away an errant tear from Gormlaith’s cheek, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear.
“Do not cry, girl – rejoice! This is greatness, what has transpired today; never again will you have to fear being a true Gaunt! More’s the pity for dear Archie but you have won, Gormlaith.”
Gormlaith drew in a shaky breath, closing her eyes. When she opened them again there was an iron resolution behind the shimmer of unshed tears, and she jutted her chin forward defiantly at the fireplace.
“Yes, Uncle,” she agreed. “I won.”
“Atta girl,” he said, clapping her on the shoulder. He reached out for the Floo powder tin and took a pinch, throwing it into the fireplace and watching the verdant flames rear up high. “St. Jude’s Cottage, Coomcallee!”
He sent Gormlaith’s trunk through first before, side-by-side, the two of them stepped into the fire.
Whoosh!
Back in his cottage, Cathal removed his hat and placed it back atop his armchair. With careful consideration he picked up his pipe and relit it, before retrieving Archibald’s folded letter from the windowsill; he held it to his pipe until it caught alight, holding the smouldering letter out of the window until it was reduced to embers.
“Now,” he said, taking a puff of his pipe. “Let’s get you set up. What room would you like?”
“The one with the bookcase,” she answered without pause. Cathal guffawed at her eagerness, thumping her in the chest with the back of his hand.
“You little quill-licker,” he teased, shaking his head. “Alright – the one with the bookcase,” he agreed. With a wave of his wand Gormlaith’s trunk zipped off down the hall to the appropriate room, and she smiled wryly at the sight.
She hurried off after her trunk and Cathal sat down in his armchair, allowing her a moment to poke around in her new room on her own. He puffed once again at his pipe, feeling an unfamiliar sense of accomplishment well up in his chest.
Despite what he had told her, it was not Gormlaith who had won today; it was him.
At long last, he had toppled Archibald’s pedestal. After a lifetime of living in the enveloping shadow of his brother’s virtue and success, he had cast a great stain on his reputation.
Whenever people spoke of Archibald Gaunt they would speak of how he had abandoned his own daughter, and of how his brother Cathal had taken her in as his own.
He took another puff of his pipe, the corner of his mouth turned up in a self-satisfied smirk.
He had won.
“Uncle Cathal?”
With a grunt, he rose from his seat and made his way down the hall, peering into Gormlaith’s new room.
“What is it?” he asked, surveying her opened trunk. As far as he could tell it consisted mostly of clothes, some of which were laid out on the bed, and a few books; he would have to buy more of those to fill out that bookcase. Perhaps he should write to Cousin Reginald to see if he could pilfer some from the restricted section after the next governors’ meeting.
“I took something of Daddy’s before I left,” Gormlaith confessed, reaching into her trunk. “I thought you’d like to have it.”
Intrigued, Cathal crouched down and watched as she rooted through her clothes before her hand closed on something, and she withdrew a wand from within. Cathal’s pipe fell to the floor as his mouth opened into a perfect ‘O’, taking the wand with a disbelieving hand as Gormlaith held out the handle to him.
“Merlin’s beard,” he whispered, examining the serpentine carving of Salazar’s very own wand. “Did he ever show you how to use it?”
“No,” Gormlaith said. “I only found it because I was looking through the drawers in his study – I thought it might have been Grandfather’s.”
“Oh, no-no-no – this right here is Slytherin’s, girl. Your grandfather stole it from his father when he left England,” he explained. “Salazar enchanted it, like so: awaken.”
There was a low hum, and the wand warmed in his hand at the command. He flicked it towards Gormlaith’s trunk, and at once it began to order itself – books flew to line themselves up on the shelf, while the door to the wardrobe swung open and her clothes began to hang themselves within.
With a murmured ‘Sleep’ the wand became inert once more, and he handed it back to Gormlaith.
“Try to cast a spell,” he urged.
“Serpensortia!” she hissed – no snake was forthcoming. “Petrificus Totalus! Confringo!”
“Steady on girl,” he chuckled, taking the wand from her. “You see the use, though? You need only tell the wand to rest, and none outside the family may use it.”
Gormlaith nodded, her brown eyes calculating – sharp girl that she was, Cathal had no doubt she was imagining how she would go about charming her own wand to do something similar.
Perhaps he ought to have discouraged her by sharing the dearth of any such charms which he had encountered when attempting to replicate Salazar’s wand in his youth; instead he tucked the length of snakewood into his overgown and wrapped her in a crushing embrace.
“Darling girl,” he whispered. “Archibald does not understand what he has forsaken today – but we do. Do we not?”
“Yes, Uncle,” she whispered back, gripping at his overgown.
“We have won,” he said aloud. In his mind, though, he spoke the real truth.
I have won.