#riddleschallenge

We are more than our monsters.

THE HAGRID MEN

Dr. Jeremy Hagrid was a scholar, an anthropologist and a professor of the same field of study at the prestigious and ancient University of Oxford. On an expedition in the Forest of Dean (after hearing of potential sightings of evidence of tribal living), Dr. Hagrid met the young giantess Fridwulfa, and after a passionate night, impregnated her. Fridwulfa’s father, the chief of their tribe, forced Dr. Hagrid into marrying his daughter, who would later move to mainland England with the professor.

Jeremy and Fridwulfa tried their best to love one another, and in many ways they did. Unfortunately for Jeremy and their son Rubeus, Fridwulfa’s instinctual need to return to her tribe got the best of her. When Hagrid was three years old, she finally left, leaving her “small” baby behind with his father.

Rubeus Gabriel Hagrid was homeschooled and raised through years of strange looks and fear from passersby. He was treated as different because of his mixed heritage (even though the Muggle community was left unaware of his mother’s true nature). His father did his best to integrate wizarding culture, though the man never learned much himself, and his son was raised with confusion and insecurities about the world around him. Soon enough, he learned to clear his mind through the act of caring for animals and pets.

After entering Hogwarts, young Rubeus was faced with the same strange looks he grew up with. This time, the looks were a bit more hostile. He was pick on for his “unnatural” height and his early signs of facial hair. Still, Rubeus did his best to keep his head up and show strength and courage, just as his father had taught him to.

That is, until Rubeus’s father passed away from an unknown illness, possibly of magical nature.

Xeno Cocktail

Ingredients: 

A third of pineapple juice A third of sugarcane juice  Two thirds pink lemonade Snapple A dash of gin A third of Captain Morgan’s Spiced Gold rum A sprinkle of coconut shavings A dash of goosegrass A handful of sour gummy worms, optional A slice of dirigible plum (for the rim)

You’re nine years old, walking into some party, tiny cold hand in your mother’s. Princesa, she calls you still. She will stop soon. You’re so bored, and restless, you want to run and slide across the marble floors. But you don’t. You are a good girl, and you stand up straight and you smile politely and you try not to poke your cousin no matter how irritating he is. You don’t notice the pained look your mother has when your father isn’t looking. You don’t notice how he talks to the other men in the room who glance at you, already planning to sell you to the highest bidder.

It’s the summer before you start school when you first wake up screaming. The house is too large and no one can hear you. The nightmares don’t make sense to you, a blur of colors and sounds but crippling fear. They won’t shift into anything substantial until a few years later. You know exactly when it began, when your father realized he had a beautiful little daughter who was burning a bit too brightly. You don’t want to be snuffed out, but you’re afraid. You sit curled up in your big bed, ears straining and you pray to anything that will listen you don’t hear heavy footsteps in the hall.

“You have a beautiful daughter.” They say and his hand grips your shoulder possessively. Its your twelfth birthday party and also your betrothal. They found you a boy who would be the man who will own you once your father is done with you. You are dressed in white, like a tiny perfect bride. None of your school friends are here, they were not invited. Your future husband holds your hand and huffs, eager to get back to his friends. You still want to run and play, but you are afraid. You smile because you have learned to like the attention, the positive looks when you do something good or look pretty. You smile because it is what is expected.

You’re fourteen and you’re yelling. You don’t understand how you’re expected to deal with this infuriating boy for the rest of your life. Suddenly his hands pull your face to his and you’re kissing him like you’ve never kissed anyone before. He pulls you to his bed and makes you his own. When he looks at you and asks, asks you if he may, you say yes even though you are afraid. He’s gentle and sweet, far kinder then you thought he was capable of. He holds you to him afterward and tells you you’re beautiful despite your fearful wide eyes and cold shaking hands. For the first time, you feel beautiful.

You never thought you would have friends like this. At fifteen you’re much more broken than they are, but they help more then they know. Your laughter is loud and actions are reckless. You don’t wake up screaming anymore. You feel loved and wanted and free. Sometime you let yourself think you can stay this way forever. But then the summer comes and you’re on your own with only your betrothed to distract you. Each year you go back as autumn comes is another year closer to the end. You think you might love him, that boy with fiery hair to match your fiery soul. You know you love her, a girl with more spark but her own kind of darkness. You tell her things you've never said. You share your secret pain and your fear. You let yourself get too close, let down your guard even though you know it will hurt. The break is clean, from the outside. And you smile and say it was inevitable, you say that you’re fine. You’re always fine.

Your white wedding feels rushed, uneasy tension between you and your new husband. You see it later on his arm. The black mark that binds him to power and violence and ever looming war. The black mark that binds you both. You play on your honeymoon, trying to be young and carefree and enjoy your time before the real world sets in.

Then you fall. You fall hard and fast. There is no coming back from it, the rush of rage and violence that causes you to destroy he who tried so hard to destroy you. You’ve won. You’re free. You feel it in the emptiness that overwhelms you as he comes crashing to the ground. 

You’ve slain your dragon, so why don’t you feel like a hero?

You’re happy now, or you try to be. You smile and laugh, you captivate everyone with your beauty and your liveliness. You still feel trapped sometimes. Lonely nights while you wait for him to come home. Hands clenched into fists to stop the shaking. Red crescent moons forming on your palms, hidden by the red of your dress. But your cage is big and beautiful, the shackle on your finger sparkles in the sun. You might even love your captor. With his beautiful eyes and strong hands. How he makes you switch from rage to passion in a second. He always comes home to you, and he keeps the nightmares at bay for you. He might even love you.

So when they ask you, ‘Seraphina how are you?’ You smile that easy smile, toss your hair over your shoulder and say,

It was so quiet in Malfoy Manor. She hated this. It hadn’t been like this when they first married. Before he’d joined the Dark Lord. Of course they supported him, they had to. But Narcissa Malfoy missed having her husband to warm her bed because he was out doing heavens only knew what.

Ever since the night she’d discovered he joined, Narcissa had taken to waiting up for him. In case he came home in need of her. Or worse, in case he didn’t come home. Those were the nights she dreaded the most. Tonight though, she was certain she had heard him - or at least someone - come in, and from the sounds of it they had darted into the bathroom down the hall. Which made her curious enough to venture out of bed. Why wouldn’t he just come into the bedroom, at least to let her know he was safe.

She tip-toed down the hall, and pushed the door open. Narcissa scanned the room before her eyes lit on him in front of the mirror, not even having glanced up at her arrival. “Lucius,” she rushed over to him. A ghastly sight. His hands appeared to be covered in blood - unless she was very much mistaken. And that made her stomach turn slightly. Why was he coming back all bloody? “Lucius, are you hurt?” she asked, reaching out a shaking hand but not touching him. “Are you alright, talk to me?” 

She had intended on grabbing his hands but stopped when she saw they did indeed have blood on them. Her voice took on a more firm quality as she looked up into his face, noticing for the first time that had flecks of blood on it too. “Lucius, whose blood is this? Say something, darling, please.”

He was scaring her with his silence, more than he probably knew, but Narcissa could almost guess what had happened. Some Death Eater mission or plot. He always seemed to come back shaken, and if she didn’t think it was for the greater good, for their safety, she’d ask him to stop. It actually hurts to see him like this. Almost too much. She could never bear to see him hurting. Forsaking the blood on his hands, she took one and pressed it to her lips anyway. “Darling... please, what happened?”

There were dark days.  Days when the Prophet’s front page was just a large image of the latest thing Voldemort and his supporters had destroyed, or a new list of names-muggle and wizard alike- that had lost their lives.  But those days were few and far between.  Most of them were filled with laughter, pulling pranks on other students and teachers with his best mates at his side.  They were filled with Hogsmeade weekends where James and Lily would break off from their group of friends in an attempt to spend some time together that didn’t force them to worry about their duties as Head Boy and Girl.  They were filled with long nights, completing homework assingments at the last minute and frantic studying for their NEWTs.  There were Quidditch matches, and early morning practices that forced James to half-carry his best mate out of bed and down to the pitch to participate in them.  There were long nights, running around with a werewolf, a dog and a rat, and the promise that they’d all sleep through their first class the next morning.

Sometimes after a transformation, he got lost in thought. Trying with all his might to remember the details of the night prior, it was sometimes like a mystery game; piecing what he could find and coming to a conclusion. Other times, if he stayed awake through the night, when he would transform back, he would have a memory or two. Sometimes he could remember voices, screams, and even the sweet taste of a nightly kill. In his true form, it tasted different, and the flavors and sweetness differed in his human form, the flavor becoming lost in a differ of senses. Still sometimes it lasted, like now.

He ran his thumb through the blood on his hands, its darkening crimson color seemed the reflect the sun rising in the distance, making it dance in his mind. He could smell it's iron, its sweet nectar he knew tasted even better the night prior. He ran his tongue over his lips in memory, still finding the flavor present ever so slightly. To him it tasted of the finest wine,a nectar all its own, each flavored by it's originator. Perhaps, it was all in his mind, but that didn't make it less real. He brought his hand to his mouth and licked at the blood, wishing to remember how much better it had tasted. His musings were lost as he heard breathing, gasping really. A body lay in the distance, a mangled carcass of a once leaving women, blood and bone were bare, her clothes no longer blue and pink but now purple and crimson. What remained of their blonde hair was a brilliant red and pink as the gashes of her face stained it. Fenrir approached slowly, never were the ever any survivors if he got there hands on them, perhaps she was a younger member of the packs kill. He looked down at her face, rapidly moving dark eyes looked up at him, pain, fear, and pleading filled them. Pleading for what; help, death? He couldn't figure which, something in him felt pity, not remorse, but pity.

Lucinda was in Diagon Alley, shopping around for a present for her mother’s birthday.  It was a Saturday, so of course the streets were crowded.  Even with everything that was going on, parents still needed some way to amuse their children, and Diagon Alley was still a good (safe) place for that. Weaving her way through the crowds (careful this time to watch her step, she didn’t want a repeat of last time with her falling on her ass), she looked in various store windows. 

Though her mother had lived with two magical beings for years, the little things still delighted her.  Something simple and elegant was what Lucinda was looking for. Or something she could charm herself.  That would mean more. More effort, yes, but when it was for someone she loved, Lucinda was willing to expend the extra energy. 

She was casually looking at the stores across the street when her eyes drifted over a dark haired man.  Instantly, her eyes snapped back to him. She froze.  She had heard that the Auror and his wife had been rescued, and had thanked her lucky stars, both for their sakes, and that she hadn’t been the one on guard duty at the time. She had hardly been able to stand there when nothing was going on. She had hated every moment in that awful place. But she had been there. She had been forced to tease and punish once or twice and she had done so; to do any less would mean torture for her, if not death. That was how she rationalized it to herself lying in bed at night, tossing at turning with guilt.  Putting it in the frame of reference of ‘her’ or ‘them’ helped though. It calmed her. Until she was faced with him again.

He looked pale. Lucinda’s eyes ran over him unwillingly, and then darted away as she looked for an escape route. She had to escape, had to get out of here. He had never seen her, never heard her voice, but the stink of her guilt had to be all over her. Her Death Eaters robes and mask had hidden every discernible feature from him, and she had been careful not to speak, but she still didn’t want him looking at her. 

She wanted to run and yet--yet he looked so unwell....

Guilt and a hint of concern made her stay rooted to the spot, waiting, but for what, she didn’t know.