Author's Note: So new story, woo! I'm putting the rating as T for now, but I might bump it to M for language. I mean the language I'm using is language I usually use, but I'm 19 so it's hard for me to gage what is appropriate. xD Words like prat, tosser, bollocks, etc I don't consider that rude but I'm not sure where certain profanity goes on the rating scale. Ah well, I guess we'll wait and see.
Harry Potter fanfiction
MADHEADS ARE FROM MERCURY
PROLOGUE
DESDEMONA
Streaks of rose and sunshine yellow highlight the violet sky with sapphire and aquamarine gems splattered here and there. Colours swirl together into a mismatch landscape that makes Monet grin in his grave. Mahogany tables unfold and walls bubble up around me, glittering gold and succulent snacks dancing through the air like waltzing wisps. I snatch at them but the drifters evade my wriggling fingers, flitting to other patrons. I curse and frown, itching to lob a Chinese throwing star at those little teases.
"Welcome one and all to another year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Now I'd like you all to give your full attention to your new Headmaster!"
I ignore the disembodied voice as I try to stab at the floating food with my fork. I won't be beaten by seemingly possessed poultry. I grab a knife and narrow my eyes, silently hoping a death stare will paralyse the cuisine. Failing that, I strike fast. The knife plunges into a plate, the roasted chicken squealing with demonic deliciousness. If I wasn't so hungry, I might just cry. Or scream back.
"Now, now young lady, have you no respect for your new headmaster?" Someone new booms, a shadow looming over me as my food evaporates.
"But sir, I'm just so hungry, I haven't eaten in hours," I sob.
The man-sized badger standing before me snorts, wrinkling his snout. One swipe of his mighty paw and a nearby plate is grounded. My eyes swell with tears as sweet aromas lift from the body, darting up my nose like anxious smoke.
"T-t-thank you," I blubber as I devour the food like the wolf devouring Grandma.
"Oh what a joyous occasion!" Headmaster Badger shouts, clapping his paws together once I've shovelled in the last mouthful. "I always hoped you'd accept my proposal and rule this school as my queen,"
"Excuse me?" I splutter, gulping down the meaty mush in my mouth. "This was a proposal? I thought it was just no strings attached food, you lied to me!"
"In the culture of my people, the offer of food is a marriage proposal. And you just accepted it, my beloved wife-to-be,"
"But I already promised to marry the bunny! Don't you understand what this means?" I frantically clap my hands to my reddened cheeks. "He will be so heartbroken! What will I do now? Who will save Easter? Who?!"
A beat starts to drum far off, growing to reverberate beneath my feet as guitars soon follow, strumming hastily. The sounds merge into melody, pounding furiously to the gravelly singing of a punk rock variety.
"Oh I love this song!" I grin like the Cheshire Cat. "Can we play it at our wedding? Pretty, pretty please?"
I turn as my furry fiancé melts, the castle building around me crumbling down. The impressionist scene peels away. Blackness stains the untouched corners, reaching its shadowy hands inwards, cold, lonely, dark. Only the thumping music is left, growing into a crashing crescendo. And as the climax sounds, my eyes snap open, flooding me with light. Reality seeps back in as I blink away my slightly worrying dream. If my mum didn't always tell me I'm special, I might just think I've gone bonkers over night.
Four familiar walls surround me, plastered in posters and framed family portraits with moustaches sketched onto the glass. Wardrobes in the far corner, bookcases in the opposite, door to en suite bathroom left askew, knickknacks scattered here there and everywhere: I am definitely back in my room. I crane my head to the side, blowing stray auburn strands out of my eyes as I spot the speakers humming beside me. I grin and drag my body upright. A squeak comes from the foot of my bed. There lies a ginger tuft, a head and four paws tucked somewhere in the mesh of fur.
"Good morning to you too, Cheddar," I beam, tickling my fingers along his plump belly. Purring harmonises with the music. "Enjoy these late starts while you can little man, back to school soon."
Creeping passed the ticking time bomb that is my chubby tabby cat; I manoeuvre out of bed, bare feet meeting the shaggy carpet. Quick wiggle of my toes before the track switches, a new tempo drumming over me. Upbeat, rapid and energetic–now I really love this song. With a few flicks of my fingers against the buttons the volume swells several decibels, the music resonating right through me.
I twirl across the floor, limbs jolting as I sing, matching every word– although most likely off-key. I pluck an outfit from drawers in time with the guitarist on his cords. I tear off my jimjams when the drummer slams down on the cymbals. Squirming, twisting, thrashing; I whip around the room and stumble into clothes. The music builds. I snatch up a brush and dive onto centre stage–otherwise known to the innocent bystander as my bed–as Cheddar slouches off. I belt out note after note at the top of my lungs, hairbrush at my lips. And then the guitars chant as I leap like the five little monkeys jumping on the bed. My heart is pounding. I bound, I chant. I ruffle my hair. Then I turn away from my unenthused feline, preparing to wow my audience with the trademark conclusion to all my performances.
"Only you could reach this level of ridiculousness,"
Suddenly my footing vanishes, startled away by the nosy intruder and my composure shatters. My legs crumble, my arms flail out. The floor races towards me, that bloody carpet my greatest foe. My arm hooks around the bedpost, dragging me back as my face is saved from impending doom. I struggle to my feet.
"Don't try to kill me whilst I'm performing," I say through my panting, heart pounding like an inmate against his prison bars. "You'll traumatise poor Cheddar."
Cheddar peeps before curling back up on my bed, the fat little blighter. My brother just sniggers in the doorway, a hyena laughing his head off at the clumsy antelope. He dabs a hand through his shaggy chestnut mop, struggling to control his chortling. He catches his breath; grin spread across his face like a coat hanger has pried his mouth open.
"You are an endless source of amusement, Dessie," he teases as I just poke my tongue out at him, finally finding my balance again. "And you should probably cover up that before Mum sees it. Then again, her reaction will be fucking hilarious."
I glance down at my stomach, shirt riding up to reveal the silver threaded through my belly button. I quickly readjust and stretch the hem down to my hips. Mum would probably faint if she saw it and Dad would pop a blood vessel. An Eton and Hogwarts educated wizard isn't going to like piercings on anyone, let alone his little Desdemona. Toby once again snickers at me. Scurrying to him, I tug back his hair to reveal the hoop pierced into his ear: my trump card.
"Don't act like you don't have anything to cover up," he slaps my hand away.
"I only have this because you did it to me," he grimaces, the silver hoop disappearing back under his thick hair. What a bloody baby, it's just a piercing. "So you'd take the heat for it too."
"Hey, that was a life lesson,"
"Yeah, never trust you with a needle,"
"Or never bet against your little sister for she has many talents and one is always being right,"
"Too bad singing isn't one of them," he mutters when I brush passed him into the hallway. I smirk.
"Careful or I'll also tell Mum and Dad about your tattoo," I retract my earlier statement, this is my trump card.
"My what? I don't have a tattoo, don't be such a twat," denial, always the first stage.
"Then it must be another brother who has the dragon tattooed onto his back. I think it was a Hebridean Black," and here comes anger.
"How do you know that? Have-have you been spying on me? Fucking hell, what is wrong with you?" He hisses. See, I'm always right.
"No spying, you just suck at keeping secrets. Let's hope I'm better at it,"
"Please don't tell, I get enough of a bollocking from them already," begging, typical stage three. And now onto acceptance.
"I won't tell if you don't tell,"
"Seems fair," he relaxes, wide smile returning. "Thanks."
"So why'd you get it done?" I grin, giddy like a gossipy thirteen-year-old. "Did you lose another bet? Or trying to impress a girl? Were you drunk? Or under the Imperius Curse? Did someone pay you? Do James, Liam and Aidan have matching ones? I could see James with a Hungarian Horntail; I wonder what Liam would get–"
"Do you ever act your age?" Toby interrupts with a roll of his eyes.
"Says he who flooded the whole first floor after blowing up the girls' loo last year," he gasps with mock offence, clutching his chest.
"I am hurt, hurt and offended that you would think I did such a thing!" he lowers his voice into an exaggerated whisper. "And I'll have you know that it was all James' idea. Besides I was acting my age then, the spells we used were sixth year material–"
Oh yes, it clearly takes a very talented wizard to burst a couple water pipes. Or a very bored muggle with a few fireworks. My brother truly is the pinnacle of wizarding evolution. I'd best bow down to his superior might. Future generations will tell tales and sing songs of his bog conquests. It'll be a great honour. Back in the present, Toby has been rambling on for a good five minutes now. I should probably start listening instead of entertaining myself with my great wit.
"–So you are definitely the more immature one here, nothing I do can compete with all the singing and dancing,"
I interject. "Say what you will about muggles, but their music is bloody brilliant."
"That is all you took from my whole speech?"
"In my defence, I wasn't really listening. But think about it, we have a pathetic music industry. We do have the odd band that is just pants off wicked, like the Weird Sisters from a couple decades back or Boggart Bypass," my heart flutters at just the mention of my favourite wizard band. The bassist is, as my friend Mads puts it, shagtastic. "But mostly it's pretty naff."
"Right..." Toby does this thing where he extends syllables until he is out of breath; it's his substitute for sarcasm sometimes. And this would be one of those times. It drives me up the wall. "Well as interesting as that was, the 'rents want to talk to you downstairs."
"Their wish is my command," I cross my arms over my chest and bow.
"Tosser," he rolls his eyes as he shoves me out of my genie stance.
I stumble and grin, catching my balance just in time. Dusting off my clothes, I march after my brother. You wouldn't think it looking at Toby and I–both sporting torn jeans and scruffy shirts right now–but our house is actually quite impressive. It has been in the family–by which I mean my father's muggle family–for generations, home to many aristocrats and nobles according to my Nan. The ceilings are high, decent couple of feet above my brother's 6' height. The walls are finely painted and decorated like something out of a Jane Austin novel, Victorian paintings and mirrors hung up all about. Thankfully Dad inherited his mother's decorating skills whereas Mum is useless. This beautiful Victorian family home would look more like a Picasso without my dad.
I jump down the sweeping staircase, skipping every other step and listening to my footsteps echoing. Mum and Dad sit in the lounge rimming the stairs. Dad–known to others as Justin Finch-Fletchley–seems far more relaxed than Mum, slouching into the cushions with his arms stretched out on the sofa's back. He's your average dad; cheerful, friendly, talkative and spends a little too much time teasing his kids. The years in a comfortable family and quality schools have been kind to him though, he looks better than most his age. A slender and always aging figure–complete with a bad back, thinning curly hair, cheerful brown eyes with crow's feet and smile lines. Although being a muggle-born during the Second Wizarding War must've added a few wrinkles, the poor sod.
Mum, or Demelza Finch-Fletchley née Robins–what a mouthful– is quite a bit stranger. She's the one my brother and I can thank for names like Tobias and Desdemona. Maybe it's because she didn't come from a prim and proper family like Dad or maybe it's because she's just bloody barmy. With a wild reddish-brown mane, big hazel eyes and the grace of a watermelon, Mum looks about as odd as she behaves. Overdramatic, exaggerated and a crazed Quidditch fan, she is not a force to be reckoned with. Once I tripped in town and Mum nearly scared the skins off of muggle children for laughing at me. After meeting our mother, people finally understand why Toby and I came out bonkers.
Toby plops down into an armchair when I reach the bottom of the stairs. "I found your rabid child,"
"Tobias," Mum scolds, his lips immediately snapping shut under her deathly glare. "Please sit with us, Desdemona."
Dad nods along before adding his two pence in. "We really need to speak with you."
A pit forms in my stomach. You know things are serious when your parents start referring to themselves as'us' and 'we'. It's a united front like when first formers rally against that weird kid who eats everyone's paste. Oh what good memories. I could always leg it. I can outrun a middle-aged couple easily. If I make it to town, they won't be able to use magic either thanks to all the muggles. Then again what will I do without Cheddar? I can't just abandon the bugger. Thinking of him, I slide onto a nearby sofa carefully as if it's rigged to explode. I actually wouldn't put that passed Toby, considering his penchant for blowing up furniture.
"Well, I'm not really sure where to start this," Mum's usually strong voice falters when Dad takes her hand, squeezing it as she continues. "I-I don't know why we've waited so long to tell you this. Sometimes I think you already know; you're such a brilliant young witch. Maybe that's why we've waited; we wanted your brother and you to be old enough to understand and you're both so grown up now–"
"Mum, you're rambling," I interrupt with a half-smile. As crazy as she may be, seeing her so nervous, so insecure is scaring me a little bit. Mum is never like this.
She gets back on track, still clinging tightly to my dad's hand. "Right, sorry. I guess we should start with this," Dad leans over to the coffee table to unravel the cloak on top of it. There are a few bits and pieces wrapped up in it, nothing that makes any sense whatsoever though.
"And what is this?" I ask, leaning over as well to get a good look at everything.
The cloak seems old, the edges frayed and the fabric scuffed up. It isn't the most appealing thing I've ever been given. Then again my granddad did give me a potato for Christmas once. Everything else is just scattered across it, most things torn and burnt beyond recognition. The only thing distinguishable is a wallet-sized photo of a young woman, the edges disfigured. The portrait moves suddenly, revealing itself to be magical. The woman starts to sway, her lips spreading into a grin as she bounces a baby in her arms. She shakes out her strawberry blonde hair and looks to her right where the edge is torn, speaking to an unseen figure. She's beautiful and refined like a 1950s pinup.
"This is yours," Mum whimpers, sniffling as she watches me examine everything. Before I know it, lavender floods my nose and she's sitting next to me, slipping an arm around my shoulders. "You see when your father and I first got married; we couldn't wait to have children. We loved our families and just wanted to start our own. And when we had Tobias we thought we couldn't get any happier. But then you came along. You were so beautiful even back then, sparkling grey eyes and a head of hair like red wine. And we loved you so much,"
Mum chokes as she tucks a few stray tangles around my ear, eyes glistening with fresh tears. I just stay still. I think I know what's coming. I've always wondered about it. But I thought it was just me being silly, being a hormonal teenager. Our family just seems so right. How could anything like that be true?
"We've never stopped loving you and that's why we couldn't tell you. We never wanted you to think you weren't an amazing and loved girl because you always have been. But you should know the truth, that you are... you are..." she takes a deep breath, smothering a sob as she clutches me, scared I'll fade away like the evening light when darkness sets in. "Oh my perfect little girl, you were just so small when we found you out there, wrapped up in these old robes. We couldn't believe someone had just left you in the cold, barely a few months old. But you didn't make a single sound, not even a little cry; you just smiled at us and held Justin's hand so tight. You never wanted to let go. And we never wanted to let you go."
"What are you saying?" Toby speaks up, watching dumbfounded as Mum holds me bawling and Dad stares at his hands fondly.
"We're saying that your sister is, that Desdemona is, she is–"
"–Adopted," I finish for Mum as she weeps before collapsing into her embrace. I bury my face in her shoulder overwhelmed by her sweet smell, the smell that would comfort me after every bad dream, after every school day away from home, after every scrape and bump. She envelops me tightly in her arms, stroking my hair and rocking gently, soothing me. "I'm adopted."
