Chapter Text
MY FATHER WAS A DIRECT DESCENDANT FROM SALAZAR SLYTHERIN; while no forked tongue included – it was certain that he spoke the language of snakes. A sketch of a bullish man dignified with a black stoned ring to match that one wouldn’t dare to question his authority. Of course, it would so happen that I, the blind boy, would do just that.
That is a story for another time.
I was told many things; all which have been lost in translation, but the story that had gripped my throat was the one my brother had told me. A storyteller he is, favored by my father and mother. Which suits both of us just fine because a tongue like that has been defiled by curses that ought not to be uttered. His favorite curses happened to be the Cruciatus and the unwanted son. Not all curses have to be instinctual, after all, it just has to be thought of – believed in so vehemently that even words can be crushing. But like salt to wounds – the rinse and repeat, the words are lost upon me.
Lest it be known that I can still care for the opinions are pure breed torture-ists.
I am eleven when I fail my test as a gaunt. My bony fingers are grasping everywhere and then nowhere; guided by the hand on my shoulder. It’s my mother’s own. I imagine it appearing like my own; elegant and all point-y, and I believe it when she carves her nails in my flesh. I try not to wince beside my teeth dragging on my lip in a snap.
My mother hardly speaks words to me. I don’t remember when she ever has. A true lady of her generation does not speak to those of lesser worth and though, I may have come out of her womb, it means very little. As business always remains a transaction and a failed transaction, I shall always be to them.
Marvolo is cruel like fire but my mother is ice and boredom. Where Marvolo prances about like he owns the world, my mother is quick to remind me that she makes worlds and subspecies can stay on neutral territory.
“A pre-Hogwarts tradition, brother. Can’t murk this one up – though ‘course you can, but this is something in the Gaunt blood.” My brother, Marvolo, prattled on one evening once the dishes have been floated away. I heard the rocking of his chair or rather his excitement.
A pre-Hogwarts tradition? I wondered, my unseeing eyes turning to the direction of his voice. I hardly need to say words because Marvolo was always talented at speaking for two. As though, his opinion only mattered.
I feel the air shift around me; a swirl of magic in the air as though, my seat has been tugged closer beside him. It would almost look like we were brothers; identical but with the frown marring my face – we might as well be enemies forced to share the same vicinity.
“If you fail at this, brother, Father won’t be happy. All this blood – gone to shame. You must try to be good for once. It’s hardly something you can fail in. Salazar Slytherin was a creator for such traditions and we ‘ought to continue them on.” He said, but his voice sounded far away.
I’m sure the color has drained from my face and though I am proud of our ancestry – there is too much at stake. This is probably the friendliest Marvolo has been and if that’s not troubling enough, there is a burden of meeting one’s destiny to consider. Whatever this tradition means and stands for cannot be ruined, I cannot allow it to be ruined.
I clenched my fingers and looked up where I believed the clock was ticking.
If I’m to be correct, there are only seventy-two hours left before I would be at Hogwarts.
So from now until then, it is a free game for the Gaunts.
“What … am I supposed to do?” I asked my mother, hardly expecting an answer. I may as well speak to the wall.
“Be quiet, Ominis.” she whispered against my ear; strands brushing against my flesh. That’s surprising. She wasn’t supposed to give answers and though, it’s not one – it is one. Gaunts are riddles, not children’s storybooks. When requested of silence, it means pay attention. The fact that I’m addressed means something to her and that means something to me.
So, in grace, I grant her request (order, my dearest ominis, that was an order) and purse my lips thinly. I walk forward, a child marching to their death I suppose. I walk aimlessly, I only know forward forwardforward – until mother grips and turns me to the side.
There are stairs. I slide my feet over the wood and there’s only air. I hold the sigh that has been begging to be released from my throat and swallow it like a disguised potion (the one that my mother had me taken before she gave up on defective son).
I know the layout of our manor, but that does not make anything easier. Mother knows that and I imagine her watching for a moment. Her breath was aghast on my ears telling me to look back or fear Tartarus. I imagine her standing in her elegance and pins picking at my flesh, her ice-cold flesh manifesting into her stare.
One step. Two steps. It’s a surprise to me that I didn’t trip on any of them. I suppose I should pat myself on the back but I imagine it would go unappreciated with my mother’s eyes hawking me as though I am a prey, and she, predator.
There’s a screech of a chair, two steps walking toward us as though the presence would love anything more than to turn around and pretend, I didn’t exist. “What took so long?” Marvolo drawled out, striking his wand on his palm.
I wonder if he thinks he’s intimidating for it. I wonder if he’s that foolish to think so.
“Mind your tongue, Marvolo.” My father speaks and it is as sharp as it can get. He cuts the tension as any leading gaunt with authority does. Brilliantly and deadly. One wrong step and it’s a cut that will never heal. See, while Marvolo may curse – it feels like a hex if anything, his father doesn’t just curse – everything will bleed red and black if it’s at fault.
I am my father’s son but in times like these, do I wish I would remain blind.
Marvolo doesn’t have to worry about his pretty little head at least. He’s the non-defective son. He is an heir. The rightful heir so he mustn’t worry about his tongue. My father has had his fill on the defective.
My brother responds in silence. Having not dared to speak against his father.
I wonder if my father has taught him prideth cometh before the fall.
“Father.” I finally turn to address him, my unseeing eyes fixated on where I believed my father stood. It seems as though I was correct because father jabs me with his cane. Right on the shoulder where my mother’s claws dug into.
Unlike me, my father uses canes as an accessory. It is as heavy as ever and because this is my father, I flinch. I never learned to hold it back. I will do better the next time, I tell myself. My father has an authority over me and I wish to extract that from him.
Marvolo laughs. My mother doesn’t respond to it. My father hisses.
But I know in a sick way, my father is pleased. Because fear is control.
I tell myself that I will rip that from him. That there will come a day when father would not have such authority over me. That he would not fear me but learn to respect me and my wishes. Defective or not, I am a pure blood. Defective or not, I am a descendent of Salazar Slytherin, himself. Defective or not, I am a Gaunt.
“Father.” I muttered softly, my eyes sliding to the contraption on my shoulder. Are you quite finished yet? Father grasps my chin and pulls me forward, and like a puppet cut from its strings – I follow his pull. He examines me. Turning my cheek. I don’t know what he finds but it seems like he’s bored himself to right death as he tuts.
“Has your brother told you yet?” He looked at me for a long moment.
“Vaguely,” At that, my father swiftly turns his head, likely to Marvolo. Marvolo was supposed to tell me more it seems. Father is displeased. “Marvolo mentioned that –“
“Perhaps, it had been best this way. The boy doesn’t know. Anticipation isn’t always good.” My mother spoke up for the first time and it is cutting me off. I’m vaguely amused. Anticipation isn’t always good is said the same way as chocolate frogs aren’t always good before a day of school.
My lips curl up the slightest bit before falling.
My father's fingers snap (wandless magic, alohomara! I remember hearing my brother performing it in one of the vaults of the manor), and a draft of wind brushes against my hair. The urge to sweep it back is compulsive but highly undignified for the moment.
It’s crucial I pay atten- there are two foreign scents in the room.
My father is passing down his wand to me. Calloused digits poking and prodding my flesh. I’ve never held a wand on my hand but I know this isn’t right. There’s this coaxing whisper in my ear telling me to cast a spell on the foreign scents. They are infecting the Gaunt manor and need to be punished.
My fingers tremble. I don’t know whether it’s my father whispering this to me or the wand itself. It’s obedient and I’m shocked. Wands that are not made for their master reject them immediately. Perhaps, this is the wand master’s wish. Or it’s in the wooden flesh of the wand. To cast evil onto another.
“This is a spell that all Gaunts can cast. And it will be without struggles, Ominis.” This is a spell that has been cast for years and my body rings cold in realization. The Cruciatus curse.
I won’t do it.
“Father-“ I said, but there was a desperate plea in it. My father would be determined to strike it down with another jab of his cane but instead, he’s hardly paying any true focus on me.
I hear a muffled whimpered, Marvolo moving away from me. Had the muggles been gagged all this time? Does he want me to hear their wails and screams? I don’t want to hear them.
“Ominis,” My mother is a falcon – she may as well peck my other shoulder with her beak. She’s not expecting a response, she’s expecting obedience. I am a creature in her world.
“Father, he’s such a sham. A failure to the gaunt name. We may as well be rid of him.” Marvolo drawls out, bored at how long this is taking.
Have they considered that I have never casted a spell before? This is my first time holding a wand. If I ever wanted to perform this unforgiveable, would it be even successful? You have to mean it. I do not mean to hurt the muggles.
Father snatches the wand back, seeming to agree that yes, his defective son is a sham. A worthy creature of the gaunt name. I wonder if this is how my name will be ripped from the register.
“Enough, Marvolo. You forget yourself.” My mother interrupts, coldly, briskly. “Another way, it shall be. I will not have my blood be the one to soil this. Ominis, you will cast this.”
“No, I won’t.” Childish as my voice might be, they know that I will not change my mind on this.
Perhaps, that is why when they cast Crucio on me instead. And so, rinse and repeat between the gaunt family. A curse that is passed to the family. Not all curses are heard, some are prophecies. Such as this one: all gaunt sons are to cast the Cruciatus curse on a muggle before entering Hogwarts.
THE DAY OF HOGWARTS is less than thrilling. I almost dread walking inside the castle. The days leading up to Hogwarts are even worse. There are twenty-four hours left before I will be apparated to the station. I have been to Ollivander’s shop and gotten myself a wand that is the definition of pure innocence.
While my father’s wand was pure vile and evil, the wand I tuck away into my vest is angelic. It has not been tainted by dark magic. I’m surprised my family hasn’t stopped by my room and try to defile that as well. Perhaps, they have given up on the corruption.
I’m hopeful.
I haven’t left my room since then. Time is of the essence in the gaunt manor. I suppose this is the second act of defiance. A locked room. A refusal to see family before leaving for Hogwarts. Maybe this will be the first act of successful defiance.
Marvolo has long since left my side. Can’t be seen with the defective. I hardly acknowledge his farewell before settling down in one of the compartments in the back. Nobody will bother me here. Perhaps, if I imagine it well … the next few years of Hogwarts will go quietly.
“Erh! Hello! Is this compartment empty?” A boy, with a Scottish accent tinges to the side. I hardly look in the direction of the voice. Of course, I have jinxed myself too early.
“Well obviously, Sebastian, it is empty. What you should be asking if we could sit,” A more feminine voice interrupts. “I’m sorry for my brother here. Manners have been forgotten since he learned to walk. May we take a seat with you?” The boy starts coughing loudly at that. Seems to have not liked his sister’s comment. Bemusement twinges at the corner of my lips before I know it. I frown, squashing that away before waving his hand in the general direction of the seats across me.
So long to a quiet journey.
They aren’t purebloods. And no offense to them, they speak as though they are commoners. It holds relevance that a pureblood would know him and would purposefully avoid sitting with the defective. Then again, the two in front of him are powerful. He can feel it with the way the hairs on the back of his neck stand.
Perhaps, a pureblood would sit beside him. They are all children and heading to a foreign place.
“Do you not speak? Are you mute?” The boy asks after a moment of chatting with his sister and nears closer. He’s moving across the table as if he’s throwing himself on top of it.
Romance is indeed dead, I think, tapping a finger against my cheek.
Apparently, his sister seems to agree. Because I hear the boy yelp, fingers brushing fabrics and I hope the boy is marred with a bruise. Green would look fetching if I could see.
“Then, speak something worth responding to.” I spat out, before realizing that isn’t really the best way to make friends, but rather enemies. I can feel the heat crawling from my chest to my neck and I almost swear that my face spasms from sneer to scowl to sheer embarrassment.
It’s silent for a moment before the boy laughs; warm, honey-sap-like. Like he was overjoyed by the tone.
“Finally, the boy speaks,” the boy replied, and goddamn it, I can almost hear the smile in his voice. “Gobstones.” The boy finishes lamely, hands slamming down the table.
I’m reminded that he is a child, surrounded by other children and the pureblood breeding excellence won’t last him too long. And he’s not sure if he wants it too.
I am hopeful.
“Sebastian.” The girl sighed exasperatedly.