atlas didn't crumble; neither will you.

dorcas aristomache meadowes is one of three -- no, scratch that, two -- babies born to kevin and aisha meadowes in the summer of 1960. her father, a muggle, and her mother, a quidditch player for the newly formed all womens’ holyhead harpies -- they would go on to extend their family even more, arms outstretched, and hearts open while their grief never truly subsides.

you see, dorcas and elijah were never meant to be just twins -- they were triplets. but their brother, the weakest, had died at birth. he was never meant to survive. never meant to take little more than a single breath. 

it was a devastating affair that nearly led to the suicide of her mother, a woman who had spent her life flying high above everyone’s heads suddenly brought so suddenly to the ground, by much more than her pregnancy with triplets, which had put her on bedrest for months.

it was a loss many thought they could never recover from, but they did. they adopted zacharias bellweather from holyhead orphanage -- magical, of course, even though kevin meadowes had no clue that the silver lining of holyhead orphanage was that all the kids were magic -- on his third birthday. it had been a long time coming. he’d been given to them as an interim foster family when he was only a few days old. they had three babies. their family, although hodge-podge and not quite like any other, was suddenly complete.

she is a happy child, if a little subdued -- although beloved by her parents, and known as her father’s little princess, her childhood is much spent in quiet adoration of the world around her. of course, this is littered with injuries -- many by her own doing, not many the fault of anyone else, other than that time she was shoved off the tree house in the backgarden and tripped over her feet when she landed (she should’ve stuck it, on elijah’s account).

her father is always there -- the everpresent parental figure, always kind, a little bit foolish but wholeheartedly good. he teaches them all about the muggle world, preaches kindness and acceptance, and sings them to sleep in choppy welsh. their mother, her mother, is never strictly not around -- but she’s busy. she sweeps them up with her love, with her grace, but she is a quidditch player, and they spend many, many days on the pitch with her, just wee children.

strange things were commonplace with the meadowes family, magical occurrences they explain away with magic tricks and silly ploys born from the mind of children. that’s always what it is. nobody ever flew their broom in the backgarden, oh, no, that’d be foolish, no, it was just a silly game, to see how long they could keep themselves upright with the broom tied securely to the washing line.

dorcas perpetuates that idea with as much gusto as she can manage -- even though everybody sees the broom drop when she tumbles off it sideways. she hates that she has to -- their community, one of near entire catholicism, a small hot spot where anglicanism was the norm: they don’t speak of the strangeness of the meadowes family. they only speak of their compassion, their love, for animals, and people, and the rest of their world. 

they turn a blind eye to the owls they see mid-morning, the ones they see swoop down and drop three letters on the doorstep. of course, there’s rapid fire discussion on the part of the local hairdressers, but nobody concerns themselves with the vapid ladies of the local. 

hogwarts is home, carved out of stone. it’s a remarkably new place, full of new experiences, for all three of them. her, slightly more anxious than the other two, elijah, endlessly curious, and zacharias, full of relentless passion. she’s a shoe-in for gryffindor, even if she doesn’t realise it. the stories they’d told her made it seem like she’d be a hufflepuff, but she’s not. her anxiety fades, and she is strong. not resilient, but strong. they are two quite different things. 

she finds, at hogwarts, kindred spirits: her lily, her marlene, her mary. her brothers are sorted into ravenclaw and hufflepuff, and they mean the world to her, but it’s an entirely different world at hogwarts. it’s an entirely different world in gryffindor, an entirely different world when she’s surrounded by her girls, loud and proud and unafraid.

she learns a thing or two from them, she knows. they make her a better person. infinitely. they make their own family -- a little broken, sometimes, rough around the edges, screaming down hallways, running full pelt, being no-good teenagers whenever they get the chance. but they’re good, and strong, and her views are unchanging. 

she believes wholeheartedly in her right to exist. she doesn’t care when they call her mother a blood traitor, even when her blood boils because they address her, they address her friends, they hurt mary, and lily, and that’s something she cannot stand for. that is something she will not stand for. she’s so casual wiping away the words, wiping away the words, the chinks in her armour. 

she loses her mind when she finds out that the teachers can do nothing until something is actually done. words are just words, miss. meadowes, echoes around her mind for years before she decides that just because she is kind, and just because she doesn’t explode at people the way that lily has done, it doesn’t mean she is lesser. it doesn’t mean she is any less of a gryffindor, any less of a power house, a force.

she covers her bruises -- they are only scars, nothing big, nothing warranting much attention. she joins the quidditch team. she’s a keeper, the same as her mother. she makes her proud for five years, even when they say she only got on the team because she threatened to expose them all as blood purists. such a dirty phrase, but one so lacking in any fire. 

she doesn’t know what she wants to do for a career -- she’s the quieter sort of gryffindor, the one that seems entirely unremarkable to the eye, but she takes on so many subjects and keeps her chin up, eyes on the people around her. she sticks up for her younger half-bloods, for the ones that she knows are being targetted, she makes friends with so-called blood traitors -- yes, that includes sirius (boy wonder). 

she eventually decides that being a hit witch is one of her only choices. she doesn’t care much for the ministry, but the hit witch programme is one of the best in the world, and the risks are worth it, for her. 

TW DEATH, TW FIRE: the fire happens in seventh year. it destroys everything. her entire life, all the clothes left at home, all the momentos. gone. it destroys her parents, too, turns them to ash and dust and it burns so hot that it’s impossible and all she has left is her friends. they keep her on the straight and narrow, remind her to keep functioning, as she picks up the pieces of her shattered familial relationships. elijah, dorcas and zacharias are never the same, but they are so much closer.

nobody wants to say anything, but she relies so heavily on marlene, lily and mary that it’s a real surprise she manages to function without them. she graduates with them at her side, with all o’s, and somehow manages to stay alive through the first few months of hit witch training until she’s qualified.