Chapter Text
One would expect me to cringe away from open flames after what happened.
Seriously, I actually think Dumbledore thought I'd make a run for it when Snape told us to light our cauldrons first year, or at least, that was the only explanation I could come up with when I had found him lingering in the hallway after.
But I didn't run, and whether he had meant for it or not, it made me come to the sudden conclusion at the ripe age of puberty that I was a horrible person for not being fazed by those red and orange ambers; for not screaming bloody murder when Seamus Finnigan accidentally set fire to the feast when Gryffindor won the house cup first year, for not having to hold back my tears when Durmstrang came in with their fancy torches and military-style choreography in forth.
Which, by the way, I still wonder if they had to practice beforehand, or if it was more a go-with-the-music type of deal.
Are they born with the innate ability to twirl torches around? Or was it a first-year class they had to take?
The questions plagued me after—when I was lying in bed that night—because in that moment I had been more focused on Dumbledore's eyes as he watched me stare in awe at the flames being thrown about, his attention towards me, once again, serving as a harsh reminder that I was supposed to feel bad about it all. The incident; as he so eloquently put it that day he came to find me.
It all started when I was eleven, and I set fire to the manor that I called my home.
It's not like I had meant to set fire to the damn place, I was fucking eleven, tired of listening to mother dearest tell me I was some incompetent excuse for a daughter.
Or something along those murky lines.
Even though there had been suspicion, no one ever asked any questions, and so I was sent to a girl’s home before they even put my mother in the ground. I still visit her grave on occasion, mostly to ease my own guilt, or because I miss feeling like a victim and decide it's time to stir the pot from beyond the land of the living. Ha. I can't even tell if I'm joking or not, so I'll just say that I am before I unlock another quirk of mine that I didn't know I had.
Because quirks usually aren't a good sign—they usually get the other girls looking at you the wrong way, or sister Ann to furrow her brow and mutter something in latin before making an effort to annunciate each syllable of your name. "Na-Tal-iA," she'd go, NataliaNataliaNatalia; "heaven, forgive your sins."
Maybe sister Ann knew where I went during the school year, and that's why she was so insistent on calling upon God, or whatever, in a language she's well aware that I'm familiar with.
Dei gratia, She'd go.
That was a good one: by the grace of God.
"Dei gratia, Natalia."
I always liked how that one sounded, how it'd roll off of her tongue, and I'd respond with: "Deus vult, sister Ann, my presence is your test."
Deus vult—Latin for God wills it. God fucking wills it sister Ann, I'd be telling her in a less vulgar way; so you can go suck a big fat cock.
But in Latin, and without that last part (usually).
Anyways, my point always remained the same as the years progressed: spoken more as a reminder to myself so I might ease the religious guilt formed from the summers I'll go onto spend in that glorified nunnery, the days that'll leave me burdened with a small voice in the back of my head telling me I'm an abomination. It was Gods will that I'm a witch, sister Ann, God who let the fire tear mom apart, God who let the flames fester, grow, until the heat rivalled the anger I held inside of me; anger that formed from the years of living in that manor, alone with her.
Dumbledore had thought that it was my anger that got me placed in Slytherin: anger that festered into self-reliance, and resourcefulness—a term that I later learn't was his way of telling me I was manipulative.
Because why else would some low born mudblood be placed in such a house? It was like that stupid hat was trying to get me to fail.
Ha. Manipulative. As if that bedazzled grey haired bundle of panache was any less manipulative than I.
He had shown up a week after the funeral all those years ago; hat and all. At first, I had thought he was an entertainer sent to cheer me up, but when he started showing me tricks that defied certain laws of physics, I started to believe him when he told me who he was.
"Did your mom tell you?"
My mom never told me anything, so it sorta made sense that the letter she had gotten when I was three had quickly been discarded.
"How peculiar," Dumbledore mused, and his small eyes had narrowed to study my juvenile features before pulling himself to his feet. I remember that bit rather clearly, as he had followed the strange gesture with a rather threatening remark: "I must add, you will be put under a watchful eye throughout your time at Hogwarts, if you so wish to attend," he said, speaking slowly with eyes that never looked away, "you would be smart to not let another incident get out of hand, we don't accept criminals here at Hogwarts."
Whether his tone was condescending or not, I had gone with him, and never really looked back. Anything was better than the girls home, and the stares that seemed to follow the girl whose house was mysteriously set aflame.
At least at Hogwarts everyone knew how it happened, no mystery involved with magic when it comes to stuff like that. It had been Theodore Nott in 2nd year, who thought it would just be hilarious to steal the Slytherin's infamous muggleborn student and snoop into her past. I guess he was expecting to find the letters loser written in big red letters or something, so it must've been a real shock to learn about the incident.
He ended up apologizing about it quite recently, actually, though I think he was more sorry about the Dark Lord returning than some juvenile rivalry that had been long since forgotten about. The bullying had only really gone on during my first two or three years at the school, when I was young, and the kids my age still believed everything their parents say without question, voicing it loud and plain for everyone else to hear.
I'm sure they all got an earful when I was sorted, at least that's what Theo, and Blair, and Blaze, and Pansy Parkinson told me a few years later, after the whole thing died down and we actually got to chatting. Most of the older ones didn't really give a shit, though at the time it felt like they did. My house prefect was a cock about the whole thing, but really, everyone else was more focused on passing their exams than some snotty first year. When I finally did realize this, I also realized that only a select few really care about the whole purity thing, and marry right more for their parents sanity than theirs. So I payed my dues, and I think a lot of them respected my decision to decline any offers to transfer, to stay in a house that had students charm the letters Mudblood to appear whenever I walked into the common room.
So by the time 5th year came to a close, and Theodore Nott was apologizing to me, I was on pretty decent terms with most of my house. Blair Zabini and Gemma Birch had been with me practically since day one, and Blairs twin brother Blaze was pretty indifferent when it came to blood purity. Parkinson still called me a Mudblood when she got drunk, but she wasn't necessarily malicious about it—simply to remind me she was better than me, even if she didn't really understand why.
It was actually a little funny sometimes, how she'd say the word all drawn out, "mudddbllooooddd," she'd exclaim with a sort of strange affection in her voice, and she'd crash on the common room couch, forcing Greengrass or someone would carry her upstairs. By forth year I was a proper Slytherin, signified when Pansy stuck up for me when Ron Weasley asked a little too loudly what Hermione Granger had meant when she called me a masochist for staying in that "horrible house."
Granger had tried to shush him, her eyes darting back to see if I had heard, but before I got a chance to respond Pansy had stepped in, "don't worry Granger, we use a safe word when we play," she hissed, licking her lips in a way that made Granger blush and look away. To explain, Pansy had been that girl in our year, the one who learnt all about the dirty bits of sex before the rest of us, making her comebacks around this time to be truly one of a kind; spectacular, one might say. "Yea, turn around you fucking—"
"—Parkinson! Class has started!" Professor Snape had interrupted, quite possibly so that he wasn't forced to give her detention.
I never thanked her for it, and she never expected me to, but after that a mutual bond of house loyalty formed between us, and most of the other girls followed suit.
The boys were slightly more... complicated. Like I said, Blaze never really gave a shit, but Theo carried a half-decent chip on his shoulder in regards to the whole thing until I found him out in the cold one night, his face battered and bruised after going home for the weekend upon receiving an urgent call from his dad.
We shared a smoke in silence, tears running down his face whenever he'd pass it back to me, the back of his neck flushed as he couldn't help but feel humiliated.
When I didn't say anything about it the next day, my blood status stopped being the butt of his jokes, and honestly? It made him much funnier—even if he'd never admit that it did.
As for Crabbe and Goyle? Eh. They probably hated me, but given that I've never seen either one string a coherent insult together, it also never bothered me.
Draco Malfoy on the other hand was a different case. He had been brutal since day one, determined to make me regret every breath I take in his presence. His dedication to the act was honestly impressive, and his ability to gaslight himself? Shit, if only I had that skill when it came to my own guilt, I bet I could've really believe myself when I'd tell sister Ann that God wills my existence.
That I was her test.
In the end, I was probably more likely the bane of her existence.
I've been trying not to hold it against myself, and listen to Andromeda when she'd tell me it wasn't my fault.
But, everyone with half a brain knows that 'probably' was being optimistic about it all, and no, I didn't set the girls home on fire as well.
No. In fact, after 5th year, I never returned, as Dumbledore had pulled me aside when I was boarding the train and told me he had other accommodations arranged for me. At the time, I didn't complain—I hated the damn place—as even though the students here got over my existence with time, the girls never did, and still liked to stare.
So, when Dumbledore said it wasn't safe for me to go back, I didn't complain.
I did, however, feel bad about the fact that the girls home was flattened by a band of death eaters within the first few weeks of summer. With no survivors. That part sucked a bit. In fact, I actually cried myself to sleep that night, wondering if what I felt was still religious guilt, or something with much more solid grounds.
But hey, at least I was still alive, right?
Ha. Dumbledore didn't even try to stop it, even though he knew what the death eaters would do, he arranged the fucking accommodations because he was so sure that he knew, and he didn't even try. I still wonder who it was that remembered the mudblood in Slytherin, I still wonder if my place of residence for the summer was another recollection, or one that was revealed more recently; deliberately.
Either way, my gallons were on Malfoy, and his audacity to open the monstrosity that is his mouth.
But, fuck Malfoy, and all of his audacities.
I still tremble just thinking about it, I can see my hand shaking now as I tried to use my quill, forcing me to put it down. I exhale, leaning back in the chair I was sitting in and passively glance around at my room, taking in the space that I've since grown accustomed to waking up in. I pursed my lips, wishing I had magic to make my bed as I notice the white linen sheets still tossed messily to the side, my pyjamas discarded somewhere amidst the mound.
Whatever. I turn away from the four poster bed, and the nightstand, where I had placed one of the books I chose to read from Ted's library. He had a bunch of first editions, which reminded me of the manor, a bitter-sweet memory of the glimmering remains of a childhood: the books I used to sift through when I'd be allowed into the library. I liked the library at the manor, and all of the pretty books filled with stories that seemed, at the time, much more interesting than my own.
We talked about the ones we've read at dinner, discuss favourite characters and whatnot. He was also a muggleborn, so I guess we share that in common as well, but I've found myself relating to Andromeda more, with her complicated relationship with Slytherin, and a ruthless mother who she's now found to have barely known. But, all in all, they were good people, and I liked living in their cottage—the one that they don't use for Order business.
It was situated off the well paved road, and looked rather elegant with old stone coating the exterior. The gardens were slightly overgrown with flowers and miscellaneous plants, which always seemed to look as though they were glowing with life; a magic trick, I'm sure. The woods which surrounded the place backed onto a body of water, which I could see if I stood on the Juliet balcony that my room had.
It was a classic rendition of the english countryside, one that gave me the homelike sense of warmth and security that I lacked from my childhood.
Andromeda told me about their other home once, explaining that it was by the sea. It sounded nice as well, but to me, I couldn't picture her living anywhere else but here.
I sighed slowly now as my thoughts start to drift, realizing that whatever hopes I had at a diary entry were long gone, and I'm forced to continue my streak of not getting around to writing in it.
Originally, the diary had been recommended to me for personal use, though I barely ever (never) picked it up. They told me it might help develop some of the thoughts I'd get in my head, and unpack some of the guilt, but I could never seem to find the right words to use, keeping whatever was in my head, stuck there. At the time, it didn't bother me so much, as I had found more success in ignoring my feels than addressing them.
Which did wonders for my health, I'm sure.
Regardless, I'm probably paying for it now, as truth be told I think I'm going crazy—hence the re-visiting of the diary.
It felt weird to admit, and simply wrong to write down, so maybe that's why I never get anywhere with my entries, but, I've also never felt like this before.
Slipping.
Unable to stop myself.
I blink numbly, and leave it be for now, as like I said: I was getting no where with it, and trying to explain it appeared to be a useless pursuit.
My room has a bathroom connected to it, which I use to splash cold water onto my face before heading downstairs.
"Did you finish the book?" Ted asked when he saw me.
"Almost," I assure him, flashing a smile, "I'll tell you my thoughts when I do."
"I'll be waiting."
Ted was a pretty easy guy to get to know, the type that can carry a conversation with ease, and an assurance that they're listening to whatever you say. He balances his wife out well in that way, who initially appeared a little colder when she introduced herself, and had me worried she'd be like my mom. But, I quickly found that she was the furthest thing from it, and helped me get settled without batting an eye. She didn't pry about my life, but I found myself telling her random bits about it from time to time, and she'd respond with something about her own childhood. We worked well in that way, talking about rather fucked up things as I'd help her with dinner, or over a cup of tea. She found my mom especially interesting, mostly because of how she tried to keep the knowledge that I was a witch from me.
"I could see mine doing that if we were muggles," she told me once, "but, then again, we'd be much different people if we were."
I tried to picture the environment Andromeda grew up in, but every time I did I'd just picture my own house, and my own mother, with the exception of that one time, where I found myself walking through an old townhouse, and a large family tree stretching across the wallpaper of one of the rooms. But, that was a little freaky, so I had pushed it from my mind.
Especially because Potter was there—staring at the wall of names that decorated the tree—and a dog, watching him from afar.
But, that night, the same room came back to me, only this time I was standing in the hallway, my thoughts compelling me to walk inside. Potter wasn't there, or at least, not from what I could tell, but the black dog was, pacing back and forth as if it were guarding the room; or perhaps it was guarding me from whatever resided inside. Though there was never any indication that there was somebody else in the house, I had this feeling in my gut that someone was waiting for inside of the room, and so I stood frozen in place, listening to my ragged breath as I tried to wake up, only doing so after what felt like an eternity of trying.
I woke to a cold sweat, and a howling wind that forced me to get up and close the window. The feeling that someone was in the room lingered, the hair on the back of my neck standing as I tried to ignore the suspicion that I was being watched, and went back to bed instead.
In the days that followed, I tossed with the feels that rose when I'd remember that they were some of the last ones I'd spend at the Tonk's cottage, and with the end of summer fast approaching I found myself sad to be leaving them. When I told them this, Andromeda had assured me that we'd keep in touch, and Ted said he'd send books for me to keep me busy, expecting a full review when I visit over the winter break.
It was on my last day that I have breakfast in the gardens, making myself comfortable as I let the morning breeze hit my face with a book in hand.
"Here you go miss," Taffy said, the house elf passing me my coffee and croissant, my breakfast that Ted always teased me for being too French. But, I liked it anyways.
"Thank you, Taffy." I smile as I watch Taffy linger in the garden, busying herself by walking through the rows a flowers and herbs, something that I learn't she loved to do during my stay here—quite early on, I might add.
I couldn't blame her, as there was something compelling about Andromedas flower mixed with the fresh morning air. To me, the flowers served as a reminder of what almost was, and what could've been if things had been different had I been Andromedas daughter instead, growing up between the rows of colourful plants, and watching her give them life.
Maybe I'd be a better person, less weighed down by the guilt that seems to consume me.
I'd have learnt to love the flowers like they seem to love whoever waters them, opening to show the pollen that feeds the bees that buzz around. Sometimes, I wondered if they had that effect on everyone, charmed to make this place feel like home, hoping that was the case, and I really wasn't so starved for affection.
Either way, I still wasn't their daughter, and I say goodbye to them at the platform wishing I could've said more, wishing I could've told them how much I needed this taste of a childhood that they gave me.
Mostly, I wished it was enough to put my grievances to rest, but as I watched them get smaller from my seat on the moving train, I still see my mom standing behind me when I catch my reflection in the window.