#aghprompt15

“Chasers need more speed!” The words reverberated in his head as Hunter pushed his brand-new broom up towards the miniature goal his father had positioned high in the air. Down on the ground he knew he was being clocked, his every movement watched, but it only spurred him on. 

This was what his father had been training him for since the moment he could walk. Be the best. Be the very best. Don’t do anything that isn’t exceptional and do whatever it takes to carry on the legacy. Not do his best, which made the pressure almost unbearable at times but if there was one thing Hunter knew best it was how to thrive under pressure.

It took almost two hours of flying around and avoiding Bludgers that his father kept tossing his way before he finally made the ten goals required of him before he was allowed to go read. When he landed back down on the ground it was with sweaty hair pushed back haphazardly and with the biggest smile he possessed. “Father! I did it!” Hunter ran over towards him, broom tumbling behind him as he focused on his destination.

“You took twelve minutes longer than you did when we practiced.” Those were the words that he was greeted with and his shoulders slumped in defeat. Of course his performance wasn’t good enough to please the older man. With barely a look thrown his way the elder Clarington was scooping up the broom and striding back towards the house. “We’ll practice again first thing in the morning. You won’t let me down.”

Hunter took a deep breath and reminded himself that Claringtons didn’t get upset over losses. They pushed themselves even harder next time. When they absolutely could not hide their outbursts they did them only in private and even that was considered unacceptable. “Yes sir. I’ll come down after breakfast.”

The rain kept her footsteps from ringing out over the pavement. Marley liked the rain, she thought it made things clean and made the next day bright and there was something to be said for it. Everyone loved curling up in bed with a cup of cocoa and a book and listening to the gentle drum of rain, didn't they? She had been in it for hours today, outside of restaurants and she found shelter in a tunnel for a bit, but she hadn't much wanted to stop moving and the school thought she was with her Mum and her Mum thought she was still at school, and she knew her book bag was soaked through and she would have to dry the pages of her textbooks until they sat flat again. It wouldn't be a fun night.

She fished out her key and opened the front door a fraction, just enough to slip through and try to disappear to her room, perhaps dry off and find a hairstyle that would cover half of her face in a subtle, not trying too hard, sort of way. She managed to make it two steps to the stairs before her mother emerged from the kitchen, her expression unreadable. “Marley.”

Marley was acutely aware of how much light the single bulb in the doorway gave, the way it illuminated her pale skin and not even the tendrils of wet hair plastered across her face could hide the dark bruise that closed one eye and peppered down her cheek to the jaw before stopping. Her mother fixed her with a dark look, it was as angry as Marley could remember seeing her, and she jerked her head to the stairs, “Go. Change. Then back in the kitchen. Five minutes.”

Marley fled up the stairs, pulling at drenched sweaters and soaking socks before she had even managed to pass the door. Millie Rose rarely got angry, but when she did Marley knew better than to test her. She had no way to dry her hair in time so she wrapped a towel around it as she flew back down, leaving the wet cloth just outside of eyesight and passing into the kitchen.

She knew she was in trouble, but the warmth of the kitchen and the smell of hot things bubbling away took away some of the weight stretched over her shoulders. She pulled her arms behind her and bowed her head slightly, waiting for her mum to tell her what to do and she didn't have to wait long. “Sit.”

She scrambled to a stool, leaning her elbows on the kitchen island, still keeping her eyes lowered.

“Do you know what call I got today, Marley Marie?” Marley opened her mouth to reply but her Mum continued, her tone undecipherable. Anger? Frustration? Sadness? It all seemed to mix together but none were winning and Marley wasn't sure what to do. “Your school, calling me to ask me to pick you up, 'Marley has been in a fight. She's received some injuries and we advise you to come and collect your daughter. We will discuss the situation further one on one.” and then, twenty minutes later, calling to let me know that as they had not gotten a chance to talk to me in person when I came to get you, that they recommended I take you in to a doctor to make sure that you were not concussed and that your face had not, in fact received any fractures. Of course, I told them that I had not picked you up. That I had assumed that you were still safely on their property and then, for another five hours I waited to hear word of what had happened to my beautiful daughter, because you certainly did not feel the need to let me know.”

Marley clenched her jaw hard. It made her face throb and her head ache but she wasn't sure what else to do. When the words finally came in the long silence after her mother spoke, she knew immediately that they were wrong. “I wasn't in a fight. I was fought. I was attacked. I didn't start it.”

She glanced up at her Mum, her face a bit strange looking out of only one eye. Millie raised her eyebrows. “So I suppose the other girl cut her elbow all by herself?”

“She came at me and then there was a rock in her hand and I panicked and I shoved her... and then she said something rude... and then I shoved her again. And then she fell. It barely bled.”

She could tell the answer didn't please her mum who reached forward to cup her chin firmly and carefully brush her hair out of her face. Millie exhaled with the disapproving click of her tongue. “Then why did you leave, Marl?”

Nicknames were good. Marley knew she was almost out of the woods, but she didn't know how to make her next answer sound good. “Because you had to work and I knew you wouldn't be able to come get me, and I didn't want to stay there. They looked at me like I deserved it. Like they pittied me and my shoes and my dress, but like I had started it all, like I had earned that rock and now I had to sit there and take my punishment and I hate them.” She felt pressure behind the swollen eye, but the other let her cry and it felt good to do so. Their stares and disapproval had been the worst part of the whole disaster. Marley thought adults were supposed to understand but they said that she had been in the fight too, when anyone could have told them who started it. How was it fair to punish her as well?

Millie and Marley ate in silence, chewing hurt and before long Marley asked to be excused. Her mother shook her head, and then, in a move Marley had never seen before, left both of their dirty plates on the table and the kitchen a mess and pulled her daughter to the living room and onto the couch, wrapping her arms around the tiny girl. Millie's voice was husky and lovely. Once, she might have been a singer if life has been a little kinder. For the first time that day, Marley relaxed, snuggling closer to her mum.

“Hush, my dear one, Sleep serenely, Now, my lovely Slumber deep.

Mother rocks you, Humming lowly, Close your eyes now Go to sleep. Angels hover, Ever nearer, Looking on your Smiling face. I will hold you, Close enfold you Close your eyes now Go to sleep. Lovely darling, I will guard you Keep you from all Woe and harm. Slowly, gently, I will rock you, Resting sweetly, On my arm. May you slumber, E'er so softly, Dream of visions Wondrous fair. I will hold you,  Close enfold you. Close your eyes now Go to sleep. May you slumber,  E'er so softly, Dream of visions Wondrous fair. I will hold you, Close enfold you. Close your eyes now, Go to sleep.”

Marley woke the next morning to a pounding headache, a plate of pancakes and a note. 

“Good Morning, my Love. At work, thought you could use a day off.  

Love,

   Mum

“Elliott?” The wizard looked up at the sound of their sister’s voice, smiling a little at Julia, when she peered into the room. “Can I come in?”

“Course you can, Jules.” Elliott pat the spot on the bed next to them, offering Julia a warm smile. “What’s going on.”

“I dunno,” She frowned a little, looking up at Elliott as she sat. “You’ve been....Restless? I hear you pacing, at night. I know you’re not sleeping, and you’re keeping me up.”

“i’m sorry, I-” 

“Don’t be sorry,” Julia insisted, “Just....What’s going on, Elli? Are you okay?”

Elliott wanted to tell Julia that no, they weren’t okay. To speak, and say everything that they’d told Kurt when they’d visited his grave. To say everything that had gone unsaid, and had been kept a secret. That no, they weren’t okay and they never would be again. They were terrified, and they didn’t know what to do.

The words, however, stuck in their throat. They couldn’t burden their little sister, they couldn’t cave after months of lying to her. They had to keep everything locked down, and to keep their emotions to themself.

Fear was no longer an option.

So Elliott smiled at their sister, squeezing her shoulder a little. “It’s just school, Jules. I promise, it’s just exams and stuff. There’s nothing to be worried about.”

He was a wizard.

He was a wizard and it was his first day of term. His belongings had all been packed up, put into a trunk of all things. His wand was on top of it, he had robes and Elliott Gilbert would be well on his way to Hogwarts, come that afternoon.

His life would be changing, after today. His life had already changed and that wasn’t going to stop any time soon. He was a wizard he could do magic and the thought of how things were going to change in the coming days and weeks was terrifying.

Could he do this?

The thoughts had been plaguing Elliott for days but now, in the hours before he was to get on the train, they were harder to avoid. He’d woken up far too early, at four in the morning, and he’d been restless since, trying not to pace.

Instead he was at the kitchen table, a mug of cocoa between his hands. He was ready for this, he thought. Or maybe he was? How was he supposed to know? Would he ever really know?

“Son?” Elliott looked up at the sound of his father’s voice, smiling tiredly up at his dad. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Elliott said softly, biting at his lower lip. “I’m fine, Dad, don’t worry.” Edward Gilbert began making his way around the kitchen, and Elliott had woken up while his dad got ready for work enough times to know he wanted his cup of coffee.

“No you’re not,” The words made Elliott flush, ducking his head and running a hand nervously through his newly dyed hair. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Elliott insisted softly, twisting in his chair to look at his father and offer what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Nothing’s wrong, really. I’m fine.”

“Elliott,” The word was one of warning- a reminder that Elliott’s father had always known him well enough to tell when he was lying. “Please, don’t shut me out right before you leave?”

“It’s nothing. It’s…It’s silly.” Elliott laughed, sheepish now. “I’m scared. What if…What if no one at the school likes me? What if they think I’m weird, or they don’t like the fact I’m a Muggle, or-“

“Elliott,” Edward set a warm, reassuring hand on his son’s shoulder, smiling a little at him. “I don’t know what they’ll think of you, I’ll give you that. But you aren’t a- you aren’t like us, Elliott. No matter what anyone says, you belong there.”

“What if, when I come back I don’t belong here?” Elliott asked softly, looking up to his dad. “What if when I come back, the girls don’t like me, or things have changed, or I’ve changed, and I don’t fit in and I don’t know how to act? I don’t want to lose you guys.”

“You’re never going to lose us,” Edward promised softly, squeezing Elliott’s shoulder lightly. “And you’ll always have a home here, I promise you that.”

Elliott wanted to protest, to tell his father that he didn’t know that, that he couldn’t promise anything but for the moment, he bit his tongue. Maybe Edward couldn’t guarantee anything, but pretending that he could would make Elliott feel better, and he could appreciate that.

“Okay,” He said softly, “Okay, I’ll believe you. I’m just being silly, I know.” Elliott smiled a little at his father. “Thank you, dad.”

It was Hanukkah. The holidays had begun days ago, and Elliott was finally on the train back home, back to London after a half a year away at Hogwarts. He was just eleven and terrified. The holidays were at hand, and Elliott had changed into Muggle clothes with just five minutes between them and meeting their family for the first time since September.

He hadn’t seen his family in months. He could do magic now. He could transform things, and cast charms, he could make potions. He’d made friends in the wizarding world, and he knew things they might never understand, and he was happy.

But he didn’t know what his family would thing. He didn’t know if they’d really missed him, if he’d still fit with them. He didn’t know anything.

He was so afraid that he thought he might be sick.

But Elliott managed not to pace in the train compartment, and he managed to keep still. It as an effort, but a successful one at least, to make his way onto the platform when the train came to a stop, and headed out to Muggle London, where he knew his family would be waiting for him.

Would they still love him? Would they be okay?

The thoughts fell away at the sound of a scream, as he stepped onto the platform, and Elliott found himself nearly barreled over by Julia, tackling him for a hug. Without thinking, Elliott just hugged her back, even as Amy joined the group, clinging to them both.

Their fears had been unfounded. They were home.

Second year had been calm so far- mostly. It had been an interesting time, though, with Elliott locking themself in the library and online, spending time talking with both Thor and Professor Darkholme just to try and figure things out.

They really hadn’t come out yet. Not completely. It was weird, sorting through everything. The days they felt like the Elliott everyone saw. They were a boy, they were firm on that those days, even if they wore nail polish, or a bit of makeup.

The other days weren’t as easy. Those were the days when Elliott felt off. Some days could hardly breathe through the sense of being off. The days when Elliott was not what everyone saw or thought, when it was better to just curl up in bed with Mercury and hide because no one understood. No one knew what it was like, or what Elliott was going through.

And how did Elliott put it into words? That they felt like they weren’t static, like who they were wasn’t set like it was for James, or Kurt. They didn’t have a word for it, but they were looking and they were going home for the holiday. How were they supposed to actually figure this out though? There was no one like them, as far as Elliott was aware. Thor didn’t know. Professor Darkholme didn’t know. Elliott couldn’t bring themselves too tell James or Kurt or Quinn just yet. How could they possibly tell their parents?

The thoughts had plagued Elliott the entire train ride home, the entire ride from the station home, and now, that they were locked away in their room, carefully pulling out all the makeup that they’d borrowed from their mother. The stash had been running low for months all Elliott had left was a little nail polish, and they couldn’t help but hope that maybe they’d be able to get some money together and stock up soon.

But first they had to get through this. First, they had to figure out how to survive the holiday spent trying to hide everything that they hadn’t yet figured out.

Somehow, they had to do this without going crazy.

Elliott was so caught up in their own thoughts that the day passed in a blur, their first day back a haze of worry and nerves and near panic that they’d be asked to explain what was going on in their head, that they were hardly aware of it when night fell. They knew they were worrying their parents. They knew the girls were too happy to see them that they wouldn’t worry, but they wouldn’t be for long.

They were still trying to focus as they got ready for bed, lost to distraction when they saw it. Next to the tv were three bottles of nail polish: one scarlet, one gold, and one black. Two containers of eye shadow, a tube of lip gloss, concealer. They hadn’t been opened in the slightest, Elliott realized, and they knew that these things their mother wore often, let alone that she’d buy all at once.

But she was the only one who’d buy it.

Elliott didn’t think any longer, without a moment’s hesitation, they grabbed the makeup and moved up the stairs as quickly as possible, to go hide it away.

Maybe she’d bought it for herself, but Elliott knew in their heart that she hadn’t. She’d been doing it for years, after all, turning a blind eye to what they did. Even if had never been quite like this.

But Elliott wouldn’t question anything. They were already afraid of saying things they couldn’t define. The last thing they needed was to start a conversation they weren’t ready for. 

That could come another day, when the fear of speaking didn’t have them paralyzed..

It came with the Easter holiday, it came with passover. They’d found the words they needed in a book, downloaded illegally online and read in the darkness of the night. They’d discovered themself as Brendon Chase did, testing out the words for themself.

Genderqueer. No, the word was wrong, it didn’t fit Elliott the way they thought it was supposed to.

Genderfluid. Fluidity, changing like water. Never stagnant, never still. Elliott had struggled with it for so long, and the words felt like coming home.

Being a boy wasn’t wrong all the time. It just wasn’t right, either. But they were figuring it out, they were figuring themself out. And finally, they’d told their family. The girls were accepting, but confused. Elliott knew they’d have to explain more to them, later, once they had time to process. Their parents had asked questions, they were confused, but they were trying.

And then, Edward had insisted that they go out, if Elliott was comfortable with it. He’d insisted that if they wanted to show who they really were, that he would help them. He’d stood guard, and he’d offered advice as Elliott shopped, picking their way through clothes, makeup and accessories. He’d stood by as Elliott rambled on about jewelry and bracelets, about wanting to get their ears pierced, and wondering how they’d look in a proper dress.

It only dawned on Elliott on the way home, that for the first time they weren’t afraid. They'd been terrified, when they’d left the house. They’d been nervous that someone would call them out, or stop them. That something, somewhere would go wrong.

But now, all they knew was that their father was here, and he would help them. That alone, eased the crippling fear and the panic. 

At the end of it all, not much else mattered.

“Morning, Dad,” Elliott grinned a little at their father, making their way into the kitchen. Four am, and they had hardly slept, too busy reading books, looking for answers, for something they could do to keep their family safe, in the coming war. There had to be an answer, right?

There was none that Elliott could see. Nothing they could do, and it scared them as much as they didn’t want to admit it.

Fear could not be an option. They couldn’t afford to be afraid.

So instead they were savoring what they could. The old, time honored tradition of breakfast with their father on every day possible. Most days, he’d leave for work at five. Most days, Elliott would have to drag themself out of bed, just for the chance to see him. 

He’d taken off the day, but Elliott found that they didn’t care. They found that, when it came down to it, old habits died hard. 

“Elliott?” Edward’s voice was soft, as he looked up at the wizard, blue eyes full of concern. “Is everything okay? Since....Since Kurt. Is everything okay?”

It would never be okay, Elliott knew, as they contemplated the question. Nothing was ever going to be okay when it came to things like Kurt again. When it came to the war, nothing would ever be okay.

But if there was one thing that Elliott had come to terms with, it was that it was their turn to protect their family. It was their turn, to do what was right. To do right by their family, even if it meant shutting down all that they felt. For so long, Elliott’s family had been the source of their fear, and their salvation.

And now Elliott would protect them, for all that they could. Now, Elliott would make them proud, and would fight for them fearlessly, in the way that they so truly deserved.

Returning home to the McCarthy Manor was a much needed break for Madison, whom had found herself studying more than she had intended to that previous few months. While Madison and Mason’s parents were suprisingly home for the Easter Holidays, Madison hadn’t been as excited to be meeting with them again. The break from the stress that Hogwarts caused her? Much appreciated. Meeting with her father? Something Madison could do without.

Her relationship with her father had always been slightly strained and she was never really sure as to why that was. Madison was never what he wanted her to be, never good enough. She was the disappointment in his eyes and although around Mason and her mother, he acted loving and well...Normal, tended to simply stare right through her when alone. She didn’t exist in his brown glassy eyes and unreadable expression.

Settling out several plates on the table in the kitchen, Madison hummed to herself as she skipped around the table when she heard the kitchen door open and footsteps sound from behind her. They sounded sharper, louder than Mason’s or her mother, and she refrained herself from rolling her eyes. She was a McCarthy, she was strong.

Turning on her heels, Madison surpressed a false grin on her cherry coated lips as she stared straight ahead at her father; continuing to work, “Hello!” She greeted, the fake optimism returning almost as if she was talking to someone completely different. Her facade and hope that one day he’ll treat her like he treats everyone else was still there, regardless of how she knew she’d never actually be accepted.

His expression unchanged, he mumbled something under his breath that sounded almost like a ‘What do you want, Madison’ before pulling out a chair; the scrape from the wooden legs dragging out across the kitchen floor. Silence overwhelmed Madison and she swallowed, placing down the final set of cutlery. “As it’s evident you don’t want me here, I’ll leave.” She snapped suddenly, placing the last spoon down on the table with a crash and looking across at her ‘father’.

One of the things that Louis really liked when he was a child, was Teddy's visitings to Shell Cottage. He didnt really know the reason, but the thing that he knew was, Teddy made him happy. Maybe it was because whenever Teddy visited Shell Cottage, he brought him presents. Or maybe it was because Teddy made him laugh with his jokes. Every child, once admired a person, choosing him or her as their hero. And like other kids, Louis also chose Teddy as him hero, idol. He really did admired him, but kind of exaggrated it, talking about Teddy all the time, saying that he loves him. But he was a child so it wasnt a weird thing to happen.  He had learned the 'love' notion from Victoire long time ago, as Victoire told him, love was likely to happen when you want to hug someone all the time and trust him/her. Louis was feeling these about Teddy. And 'This is love' he thought. Victoire, on the other hand, was very annoyed by the fact that, she couldnt be alone with Teddy, because Louis was following them everywhere. Fleur and Bill, didn't really made a big deal of it for a time. But things turned out to be more serious than they thought -because Teddy was beginning to feel annoyed too- Fleur and Bill decided to teach their little son what real love is. ''He is gay. I know it. I went to a seer when he was born and the only thing she told me was ''That boy is gonna be so clever, but also will like boys.'' Since the clever part really happened I believe that he is totally gay.'' ''Are you kidding me Fleur? Don't believe everything seers say. I'm sure our boy will like girls and since he has veela blood, he will be surrounded by girls all the time.'' ''Ew, I don't want this to happen.’' ''Why not?'' ''Imagine that Victoire and Dominique is surrounded by boys.'' ''Ew, stop!'' ''See! And he is gay. '' ''He is not. '' ''Lets make a deal.'' ''Alright, You are saying that he will be sorted into Ravenclaw and I say that he will be sorted into Gryffindor. If he get sorted into Ravenclaw, I'll accept the fact that he is gay. And if he gets sorted into Gryffindor, you will accept that he is not a gay.'' ''Deal!''

“Mum..? Mummy!” Lysander peeped his head into the entrance of the kitchen. Lorcan squealed almost excitedly behind him, tiny hands clutching at their new prized possession and at each other’s clothing. The sound of two pairs of feet pittering and pattering across a tiled floor echoed through the house as they reached their mother. The two boys were covered in dirt and mud, their pockets filled with pretty pebbles, stones, flowers, and weeds picked and torn from the fields around their home. 

Tucked beneath Lorcan’s arm was a large toad whom seemed quite content with his nestled spot. In Lysander’s back pockets, he stored the seeds of fruits and nuts from the trees. One hand gripped at a bundle of flowers that he had yet to identify, but was eager to press into the book that he had gotten from his grandfather. “Look at all the treasure we found a wanderin’ in the fields today! We battled dragonflies with nuts and fed the tiny folks that live in the weeds and help put the dew on the grass,” Lysander babbled, tossing the flowers on to the counter for their mother to see. 

Lysander watched Lorcan wander to the other side of the kitchen with his new companion, then back up to Luna. Luna smiled with ease, plucking the flowers from the counter top with delicate fingers. Her pink lips moved and breathed out sweet sighs, not only because of the joy she felt that her boys were already so prone to the world around them, but because she’d have the clean the mud tracks from little toes. 

“Why, I think these are Verbena Bonariensis, my little salamander. We’ll press them into your book when your father gets home. Is that all right?” Luna out stretched a hand, scratching away the dirt caked on his nose. She opened her palm to him and then brushed her hand through his hair. Instinctively, Lysander touched his nose. Behind it, he replaced the dirt with a fresh mark. His mother sighed again and breathed an airy laugh. 

Eventually, Rolf reached home to his family. Lysander and Lorcan had received their baths long before and Lysander was first to descend down the stairs with his book of pressed plants tucked beneath his arm. He positively gleamed at the sight of the arrival. “Dad, can you help me?” the blond inquired as he pushed the book against his father’s waist. Lysander was already prone to demanding rather than merely asking -- but he remained polite. 

Rolf scooped Lysander up into his arms and tossed him on to the sofa with the book. “Let me get the quill and ink,” he smiled, pinching the boy right on the nose. Lysander blew out a raspberry in response and snapped his teeth towards his dad’s fingers. A sharp churn of laughter hit the air. Silencing himself, Lysander departed the couch and snatched the plants his mother left on the counter. 

Another lapse of time went by and it was well past dark -- the duo was still hovered over the book. Rolf murmured strains of information about plants and told Lysander stories of his childhood. He made sure to quiz him on the anatomy of plants and asked him where he thought each of the plants came from. There were times where Lysander would get flustered and holler for Lorcan for moral support. Eventually, Lorcan fell asleep with his forehead pressed to the coffee table and Rolf left Lysander alone with his book. 

Tiny fingers traced and prodded at the pages. He licked his fingers and thumbed through the contents -- careful to not break the plants or move them out of place. Lysander pressed his shoulder against his brother’s sleeping form, mumbling the words on the pages. He pronounced most of the scientific names poorly and smeared a few words that his dad scribbled down in fresh ink.

“Lorcan,” Lysander urged, looping his arm in with his brother’s. “Lorcan, when we’re older, let’s travel the world together. We can fill books and books with plants and flowers and feathers and whiskers of all sorts. Whenever people talk about us, your name will always come first because you’re the most important. Lorcan and Lysander -- ” 

And Lorcan slept on, leaving Lysander in the soft banter of his imagination. 

Piers put all his weight on a chair in the manor’s living room, getting out his Arithmancy book and a parchment to start his homework.

“I told you before that’s not how you properly sit, Piers.” He heard the voice of his grandmother coming behind him.

“I know. Pardon me, Madame.” He replied in a monotone, sighing at the end of the sentence. He had been in the manor for only three days and he already had enough of it. Spending two whole months waiting for Hogwarts would be complete torture. Even though his grandmother wasn’t giving him the grief she used to, after he decided to join the group that had been perpetrating the attacks, his grandmother had softened. She was still cold and harsh, but at least she didn’t lock him in the room and leave him without food like she used to.

“I don’t appreciate your behavior, boy.” Cerys said in a manner that seemed like a slap in Piers’s face.

“Sorry, Madame. It won’t happen again.” He bowed his head down to the book on his lap. This time, he contained the sigh that threatened to escape from his lips.

“What have I told you about being sarcastic to me?”

Piers turned around to face Cerys, he didn’t like the course the conversation was taking. “That I’m just asking to be punished.”

“Precisely.” She nodded slowly, a cold glint in her grey eyes.

Piers stood in silence, waiting for her next move. It was all too well since he arrived. Not once had Cerys struck him, or used blood quills. His luck would eventually run out. He could feel a cold drop of sweat making its way down his spine.

“Relax, boy. I shan’t give you what you deserve. Not tonight. It disappoints me that you think I’m so illogical, Piers. I’m not a monster.” Cerys shook her head as if she were truly hurt. Clearly Piers and she had different ideas of what constituted monsters.

“With all due respect, Madame, it doesn’t seem like it.” Piers was surprised to hear his own voice coming out of his mouth. He didn’t usually stood up to her. “I seem to remember you using hexes on me, when I was still a child. And when you tried to make me kill Cliodna, even though she was nothing but a little bird.”

“You forget too easily, boy.” Cerys laughed, a sharp, humorless laugh. “It wasn’t always like that.”

Piers’s head was exploding. Or so he thought. He could hear the blood pumping on his ears, and he felt like he had been ran over by the Hogwarts Express.

He slowly tried to open his eyes, which caused another wave of unbearable pain to run through his head. He looked around. The high ceiling of Hogwarts was still above him. But on his side, there was a line of white sheet beds, clean and empty. This wasn’t the Slytherin boys’ dorm. Soon enough, he recognized he was in the Hospital Wing. Piers tried to remember what happened, but thinking made his head hurt even more.

A confusion of voices down the hall drew his attention to that direction, and soon enough he saw Madame Prince coming towards him, a worried look on her face. And behind her – Piers had to blink a few times to make sure he was seeing right – came his grandmother. A mild look on her face, and he could see she was mad. Probably because she had to come all the way down from the manor.

“Here he is, the poor thing.” Prince showed her with a grimace. She seemed to be incredibly sorry for Piers. “I’ll leave you two alone. You have ten minutes. Dolohov has to rest.” She smiled softly at him, but her words were stern. Prince walked out, leaving only Cerys and he.

“Such petulance this nurse has. I will stay as long as I want to.” Cerys spat out. Piers could do nothing but swallow.

“M-Madame.” He started, his voice hoarse, his throat incredibly dry. Even the echo of his voice made his head throb. “What happened to me?”

“You don’t remember?” His grandmother asked, a small tint of surprise coloring her tone. “Well, it wouldn’t surprise me, after what the nurse told me. It’s still surprising you even remember who I am.”

She sat down in a chair by Piers’s bed.

“The account of what happened was told by the school’s poltergeist. He was the one who found you,” Cerys began, unimpressed. “You were unconscious, in an empty classroom. Given your state, he knew better than to make fun of you. Especially when he knows who you are, I believe. Are you sure you don’t remember anything, boy?”

Piers thought hard. He remembered he was going back to the empty classroom in the dungeons he used to study in, looking to recover his book. After that, he only remembered pieces of what happened. Blurry pieces. He remembered a group of about five Gryffindor boys, probably seventh years, started to pick on him. Until he heard a big pop that seemed to come from inside his own head, and he fell to the ground.

“There were… Some boys.” He tried to retain more information. “They were older. Much older. Gryffindors, I think. Seventh years.”

His grandmother clicked her tongue, unsurprised. “I should’ve guessed.” She rummaged her purse and pulled a mirror from inside it. “Take a look at yourself.”

Piers lifted his hand and picked the mirror from Cerys’s hand. The movement required a lot of effort. His shaky hand put the mirror above his face.

His mouth fell open when he caught sight of his reflection.

His face had all sorts of bruises. Cuts on his lips, brow, cheeks. His right eye was swollen and his nose had a smudge of dried blood coming out of it.

“That’s not all. You had four broken ribs, a broken leg, and innumerous bruises on your body. They stepped on your fingers until breaking them. The left hand.” She added when Piers wiggled the fingers holding the mirror. When he looked down to his other hand, he could see it was also heavily bruised, with bandages covering it.

“Why?” It was all he could manage to ask. His hand was running a thousand miles per hour. His whole body hurt, but his heart hurt worse. Why had they done such a thing to him? He couldn’t understand. They were a bunch of big, muscly seven years, and he was just a scrawny first year. He couldn’t stand a chance against them. He knew what his family had done was bad. But he was just a kid. He didn’t kill anyone. He hadn’t even hurt anyone. Piers kept to himself. Why would they do such a thing? He was just a boy.

“People are cruel, Piers.” His grandmother told him, her voice strangely naked from judgement. “They will hurt you and hunt you down when you’re better than them. And you are better than them. They are going to break you in a million ways, because they want to feel good about themselves. They will call you names, and they will try to make you apologize for who you are. And regret being born being who you are. Do not let them.” Cerys looked at him intently, her eyes zeroing into Piers’s. “Don’t ever apologize. They are the ones who should be apologizing. And if they don’t, you’ll make them regret it. Am I clear?”

“Y-Yes.”

“I’ll teach you how to make them regret. And you’ll never be a punching bag ever again. You will fight back.” She hissed. “Repeat.”

“I will fight back.” Piers said, his voice strangely serious for a twelve year old.

I'm not that much for brilliant conversation If it's talk you want, I'm not the one to call I never thought I had that much to offer I'd rather be a flower on the wall

Roderick sat in one of the hard-backed chairs in the school’s head office with his headphones over his ears and tried consciously to fall away from reality, away from what had just happened, and into the song.

He’d had some practice at that.  He was, as all his teachers agreed when they bothered to think of him, a good and obedient boy, bright enough, but with an unfortunate tendency to tune out of reality. Even without his headphones he often seemed to lose himself in deep and quiet thought. In fact, Roderick was not as lost as they supposed him to be, but he was homely and painfully shy and empty of that spark of charisma that makes cheeky, noisy children seem precocious and adorable. His teachers tended to expect very little of him.

With his eyes closed, he did not notice his mother’s arrival.

Mara Meeks was a flurry of heightened sensitivity, a big American woman with an expressive face and anxious hands that often betrayed her best attempts at no-nonsense. Now they clenched at her dress at the sight of her only child. She hurried to him. “Ricky.”

He slipped off his headphones. “Hi, Mum,” said Roderick, quietly, and hugged her.

This was hardly the first time she’d picked him up after an incident, and Mara knew him well enough by now not to expect tears. He was seven, almost eight, but what his teachers saw as a spaced-out quality Mara saw as the quiet wisdom of someone far, far older. Roderick didn’t run around playing pretend games like other kids, he didn’t like video games or noisy movies. He liked books and quiet conversations about the substance of the world. He was, Mara joked to her brother over long-distance calls to Australia, a forty-five-year-old man in the body of a second-grader. Roderick wouldn’t let her see him cry because he knew it would make her cry.

“Finish your song,” she told him, “I’m just going to talk to the headmaster real quick.”

Roderick nodded and put his headphones back on.

A corner dark and quiet where you found me A most unlikely hero, that's for sure You found a song within me burning brightly And a voice I never knew I had before...

He didn’t need to hear the muffled conversation to know his mother was demanding the headmaster put a stop to all this, trying to be angry and struggling not to break into tears. Or that the headmaster was calmly, condescendingly trying to tell her that they were doing all they could, but they couldn’t watch the children at every possible second and boys would be boys, teasing would happen, no doubt thinking to himself that this Yank woman was hysterical and couldn’t she see her boy just needed to toughen up a little? Roderick didn’t want to hear it.  It was always the same and there was nothing he could do about it.

She’d composed herself by the time she got back. That was the game they played – they both tried to be okay for one another. “C’mon, Ricky, let’s go.”

He turned off his ipod and got out of his seat. “What about the rest of the school day?”

“I have a better idea,” said Mara.

They got into the car and Mara turned on the radio. There would be no need to talk about what had happened; she knew he preferred not to. The slightly fuzzy strains of Marvin Gaye’s Heard It Through the Grapevine filled the car.

Within minutes, Mara was harmonizing with the backup girls while Roderick wailed on the solo, comfortable in Gaye’s high tenor. His voice was scratchy, raspy almost. For a while Mara had been worried he had asthma, but he’d proved his lungs were more than powerful.

“Listen to the organ,” said Mara, “you see what he’s doing there? He’s really pulling on the beat. He’s allllmost late, but not quite. Just a bit of a pull. You can always tell the white guys at that time, ‘cause they rush the beat. The tempo’s usually slower, but they rush.”

“Like Pat Boone?”

“We don’t talk about Pat Boone, hon.”

He laughed. Mara, born in Chicago, had absorbed the blues/soul scene of the previous generation. She had strong opinions on the Marvelettes, waxed poetic about Motown Records’ studio band, ranted about what had been done to Big Mama Thornton. Roderick Senior was a folk musician, and sometimes in her slightly desperate way Mara would tell the story of the night they met, how she sang Saint Louis Woman in a smoky Chicago bar and Roderick’s father approached her and said she reminded him of Aretha Franklin, and told her how he was trying to mix American blues into his quintessentially British sound and having trouble understanding that elusive quality that was ‘soul’.

He was long gone now, of course. Probably still in America, but who knew?

They stopped and got takeaway burgers and fries and milkshakes like usual, eating in the car so they could keep the music going. He’d figured they would go home after, but Mara deliberately took a turn she didn’t normally take.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” She was smiling. “It’s a surprise.”

Roderick nodded  hoped faintly that it was ice cream, but she took another turn he’d never seen her take, and then another. Finally they pulled up at a little brick building with a shop front that read Parker & Tomlin Music. He made a little involuntary noise of joy. The shop window was full of guitars.

Mara led him inside, quietly amused at the sight of her shy son alternately hiding behind her legs and creeping out to peer around him in complete transfixed fascination. There was a grand piano in one corner, and a massive antique double bass, a row of cellos, a wall of brass instruments in various states of assembly, flutes and oboes in glass cases, a drum kit –

The owner approached them. He was a slim, energetic man in his mid-fifties. He did not smile, but his eyes were kind.

“Can I help you folks?”

“I want to get him an instrument,” said Mara. “And lessons.”

Roderick peered out from behind her. His heart was pounding. The owner crouched down on his haunches to look him in the eye. “You fancy that, young sir?”

He had no words in his mouth, so he just nodded, fervently, his brown eyes the size of dinner plates.

The owner laughed. “Well, take a look around.”

Roderick took his time. He looked at the saxophones with all their complicated valves; he looked at the cello and violin bows; he stared at the drum kit and tapped the hi-hat until it shimmered with vibrations. But he kept coming back to the guitars. “One of these please,” he said, pointing to the wall of acoustics. He was more comfortable now, at least enough to speak aloud. Remaining shy seemed impossible in a room full of music. “I don’t know what would be good to start.”

The owner took a long look at him, then seemed to think of something. “How about this? Slimline electro – a very nice little guitar.” He took a small black-bodied acoustic down from the wall and let Roderick loop the strap around his neck. “Not too big, and the thinner body means she’ll sit closer to you. Good for if you’re built a little stocky. She won’t play quite as loud as a big, deep guitar, but you can patch her in no problem if you want to use an amp, then she’ll be plenty loud.”

Roderick touched the strings, hooking his right thumb on the neck the way he’d seen people do when they played.

“That’s it. Can you read sheet music? Chords?”

“No, not yet,” said Mara, biting her lip, embarrassed that she’d failed him in that.

“Yes I can,” said Roderick, quietly.

“What?”

“I can.”

“Honey, how?”

“I found your old music books?” He wasn’t sure if he was in trouble or not. “They explained about the notes…”

The owner started to laugh, and reached out to tousle Roderick’s hair. It was the first time a grown-up had ever seemed to really like him, right from the first moment and better than other kids.  “Taught himself, fancy that… You’d best keep an eye on this one, I think we can expect big things from him. Alright, lad, say we’re playing in G, what notes are sharp?”

“Just F.”

“And what’s your basic G major chord look like?”

“G – B – D – G?

Mara was staring at him. Roderick was a little worried she’d start crying. But she just watched as the owner showed him how to place his hands to play a G, and was surprised when his pudgy little hands had enough strength to play the chord true on new steel strings. They did a C and an E and a G minor. When they’d gone through those four the owner told him to play them back on his own, and Roderick obediently went through the motions he’d been shown, plucking out simple but pure chords.

Mara paid for the guitar and took him home. All that evening the sound of plucked strings came from his toom. After a while, when he seemed to have the I-V-vi-IV progression down, she heard his voice, a sweet little rasp above the slightly clumsy chords. This time she did cry, silent happy tears that she couldn’t quite explain.