A Family Curse

Circe Carrow spotted his head of hair across the crowd of third years hurrying back into the castle for lunch after their first Care of Magical Creatures of the new year. The chill of the mid-winter gave them shared pink cheeks while the excitement of seeing each other again after winter holidays brought happy chatter. They, a gathering of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, spotted the green of her robes before they saw her face and parted around her, lowering their gaze.

Best stay out of a Slytherin's way, regardless of who they specifically were.

And if any of them had been brave enough to look at her face, they would have scurried back with whispers too. After all, all of Hogwarts knew of Circe Carrow, the shunned Slytherin. She had a rather lovely reputation.

As such, she drew his attention without trying to – his and his three insufferable friends. She watched them grab their wands as discretely as they could – which wasn't very, as two had their wands tucked behind their ears, another had it tucked into his sock, and the final kept it in his bag. It was as though they expected her to attempt to duel all four of them at once in the middle of a crowded entrance hall.

She liked a public fight, but she didn't like it that much.

Granted, she had been cornered and forced to duel three people two years previous for a few seconds before the then DADA professor had stepped in, so by now she was more than capable of taking even the four of them on, but even she wasn't so foolish as to do something like that right now.

She might have briefly considered it when she watched them pull out their wands, but she was clever enough not to.

"There's no need for that," she told them, stepping smoothly out of the way of an older Slytherin who'd been aiming to hit her shoulder as they shoved past her. "I simply wanted to offer my congratulations to Black." They all raised their eyebrows. "As the daughter of a man blasted from his own pure-blooded family tree, I salute you, Black."

"How'd you know?"

"I am still a Slytherin." She shrugged. "Just because they don't like me doesn't mean I don't hear things." She met the gaze of Mulciber from across the hall. He looked to be apart from the rest of his Slytherin gang, but she knew they weren't far behind.

Circe recognized the look in his eyes. She'd seen it constantly over the past five years.

"I'd recommend you duck."

The four boys didn't have much time to react to her warning before she'd drawn her wand and thrown a quick spell over the crowd. Mulciber was taller than the third years, so there was thankfully no danger of the curse hitting an innocent, though the children who realized what was happening screamed and rushed to leave the hall. She was quite pleased when the curse struck him directly in the chest, the magic taking Mulciber by his ankle and pulling him upside down. It hung him there for a few seconds before landing him – quite satisfyingly – on his head. Another flick of her wand had his wand flying out through the just closing main door.

"Merlin!" one of the boys – she couldn't be bothered to tell which one it was – cursed as the two quick spells went over their heads.

Circe knew she'd pay for cursing him, but, really, she didn't care. She'd been waiting for an opportunity to curse Mulciber for months now.

As quickly as she'd drawn it, Circe's wand was back where it should be, tucked into a strap around her forearm for easy access. "As I was saying," she continued as though nothing had just happened, though Lupin – one of Black's friends and Gryffindor Prefect – was clearly attempting to decide if he should punish her for what had just happened. "Congratulations, Black. I suspect you'd be welcome at my father's table whenever you wished, though I doubt you'll be wanting to leave Potter's hearthside anytime soon." She took a step back, nodding at the four of them, who were still crouched to the ground. "See you in Potions."

Circe walked away to grab her food, parting the crowd of terrified third years and leaving four wide-eyed boys in her wake.

"Merlin's beard," Potter whispered, giving her an impressed nod – that had nothing whatsoever to do with how her arse looked because after a display like that he wasn't even going to dare to think about that – as he stood. "She can duel." It was a fact they'd all known for a while through rumors but hadn't been able to witness like this in years.

"That was Mulciber," Lupin reminded him, glancing back to see the boy pulled standing by Wilkes, another Slytherin gang member. "That's not going to be good for her."

"I've never seen a curse like that."

Lupin shoved his shoulder. "That was dueling in the corridors. It was against the rules."

"Since when do you care about rule-breaking?" Pettigrew smirked.

"I'm a Prefect!" which earned him scoffs from Potter and Black, the latter going quiet.

"He was going to curse her first."

"How could you possibly know that?" After all, all four boys hadn't even had a chance to turn to look at Mulciber before Circe had made them duck and cursed him.

Black just shrugged. "Slytherin."

Pettigrew slipped his hands into his pockets. "Don't let her hear you say that. You might get the same treatment."

Black was still looking where Circe Carrow had vanished, her ginger hair blending into the steady stream into and out of the Great Hall. "I think she agrees."

+CC+

Where a normal student would have been worried about walking late into double Potions with Slughorn, Circe Carrow approached it as she did everything else – hardened shoulders, a flip of the hair, a wand always within grasp, and a smile that terrified even some seventh years.

Especially after what had happened with Mulciber before lunch.

She tried not to make a habit of being late to her classes, but that day she'd decided it was more important to stop Mulciber or any of his gang from having the chance to claim a seat next to her. They'd done it before, not that they'd been able to do anything to a member of the Slug Club in the Slug himself's class.

A prized member, specifically. A fact proven when, upon entering late, he grinned to see her. "Circe!" The entire class, a mixture of Slytherin and Gryffindor, turned at the call. "I was wondering where you'd slithered off to."

Circe smiled easily. Made it nice and warm for her head of house. "Apologies, sir. I'm afraid I got distracted with that book you lent to me before the holidays."

He waved a hand. "No worries, my girl, no worries." She came to a stop at his desk. "And, please, take your regular seat." He gave her a hearty wink.

"Thank you, sir." She let her smile grow as she moved back to the extra table near the door that she'd long ago claimed as her own.

Slughorn had discovered quite near the beginning of her career at Hogwarts that Circe possessed 'no talent for the distinct and delicate art of potion making'. He still spent the first three years attempting to make her participate, but every potion she made ended in disaster and someone – not always her – always ended up sent to the hospital wing. The fact that disaster followed her potion making attempts made it much easier for Slughorn to admit that she just didn't have the gift.

Potions and her didn't mix.

As such, she was permitted to sit in the back of the room, alone, and do whatever she wanted during the classes. They'd agreed she'd write him a weekly essay about whatever potions the rest of the class had been concocting to ensure that she would actually pass her OWLs when the time came. He could fudge her grades all he liked when he was the only one grading the assignments, but he only had so much sway over the OWL examiners – a fact he'd admitted, privately, to her himself.

This was the main benefit of having impressed him with her dueling the first month of first year, when he'd walked in on her attempting – and nearly succeeding – to take down two Slytherin third years. All she had to do in return was attend his little Slug Club gatherings. They were tolerable enough when she was permitted to stay by his side the entire night, which she almost always was.

No Slytherin was foolish enough to try anything on her when a professor, particularly one who quite liked her, was nearby.

Granted, most Slytherins weren't foolish enough to try anything on her at any time because of her well-publicized willingness to curse literally anyone who got in her way. But it was easier when Slughorn had an arm around your shoulder.

Circe had just cast a look at one of the Gryffindor's textbooks as she passed to see what the rest of the class was working on when she felt a piece of paper hit her side and land – thanks to some spell work – in her hand. She immediately moved towards her wand – she hadn't had it ready, hadn't thought Mulciber was so foolish – but Potter's frantic head-shaking caught her eye.

This wasn't someone's attempt to incite a mid-class duel.

She waited until she was sitting at her desk and Slughorn had looked away to open the note. Thankfully, it was signed, as Circe had no idea who owned the handwriting, though she did think it was rather dreadful.

Which curse did you use on Mulciber? – Potter

Circe looked in the direction of the quartet of Gryffindors, the boy in question sitting facing her next to Pettigrew. He was doing what she supposed was his best attempt at 'puppy-dog' face and Circe was tempted to curse him just to knock it off. Instead, she settled for flipping him off, an action which earned her a sneer from two other Slytherin girls – Malfoy and Rowle – who happened to spot her.

She wondered if they'd heard what had happened to Mulciber, or if the gang had decided to keep the embarrassment secret from their fawning female counterparts.

Potter looked highly offended by her reaction, but Pettigrew mimed writing.

Since Circe had nothing better to do that class, she ripped a small piece of parchment, took out her quill, and jotted a note back.

Family secret. – Carrow

In reality, the curse had been an ill-performed version of a spell she'd caught Snape scrawling on a scrap of paper in Charms. She hadn't known what it would do but had been satisfied enough that she'd stashed it away for future perfection and use. Circe may have been a shunned Slytherin, but she appreciated the power of the dark arts.

In the right hands, those spells could do wonders. And Circe's hands were very right indeed.

After a short wait to ensure Slughorn wasn't going to paying attention to her, Circe threw the paper back to Potter, not charming it as he had. It didn't land in their potion, something even Circe knew wouldn't have been a good thing. They read it quickly – which included showing it to both Lupin and Black, whose backs were facing her – before scrawling a response and tossing it back to her.

Malfoy and Rowle looked almost murderess about the fact they were still in Slughorn's class and could thus do nothing about her passing notes. Even the Gryffindor quartet might have escaped point removal because she was involved.

She would certainly miss this special treatment once Potions stopped.

Pretty please? And Sirius says that he's never heard of a Carrow family curse.

Circe quite enjoyed waiting a few minutes to reply to their note. It forced Potter and Pettigrew to attempt to get her attention through a series of increasingly enlarging mimes whenever Slughorn wasn't paying attention and their potion didn't need tending.

Secret.

The reply had different handwriting.

The Blacks don't have a family curse.

When Circe looked up, Black had turned around in his seat so that he could see her himself.

Ask your little brother. They never taught you because you were such a failure to the family name.

Black's response was just raised eyebrows and a mouthed "and your dad wasn't?"

"Mr. Black," Slughorn said, making the boy spin back in his seat. "As wonderful as Miss Carrow is to speak to, I'd recommend you and Mr. Lupin return your focus to your potion."

Black gave Slughorn a large smile. "Apologies, sir. I just couldn't resist looking at her beautiful face. It's so entrancing." The comment earned him scoffs from general Slytherins and a blown kiss from Circe.

Here, among students of her year, it wasn't quite as necessary to remain the fierce dueler identity, though she never let it drop.

Potions progressed from there as the classes normally did, with Slughorn coming to talk with Circe whenever he'd determined the class didn't need constant supervision. There were other Slug Club members in the class – Snape, Potter, Malfoy, and Evans mainly – but, as they were all busy with potions, Circe was the only option available to entertain Slughorn.

Circe had never claimed to have a winning personality, but Slughorn seemed to like her enough.

He was one of the few.

+CC+

Circe wasn't certain how she escaped retaliation for Mulciber for the rest of the week, but she was glad it occurred. The gang of Slytherins glared at her wherever she went, but that wasn't new. Circe had long ago gotten used to every Slytherin she encountered glaring at her. A few even spat when they felt particularly disagreeable, which was most days.

She was the daughter of a blood traitor who'd made it no secret that she hated the rest of them with every bone in her body. She'd hated them all from before she'd even stepped onto the train first year.

But had that stopped her from refusing the hat when it had told her she'd do well in Slytherin?

Fuck no.

Circe had always known she'd be a Slytherin. She'd made peace with it long before Hogwarts.

She'd made peace with the fact no one would ever like her properly, even if the majority of Hogwarts didn't care she was a blood traitor. If anything, that fact might have made them love her more and accept her into their ranks despite her house. But Circe hadn't let them.

She didn't need anyone else.

Fraternity was one aspect of the Slytherin house that Circe had never connected with.

Slytherins hated her, she hated them. Hogwarts feared her, and she didn't give a fuck. Let them whisper about her. Let them flinch when she looked in their direction. Let her haunt their nightmares.

Circe knew who she was.

She had, for one year, had regular contact with a friend. Andromeda Black had only crossed Circe's time at Hogwarts for her first year, but that one year had been enough. Little eleven-year-old Circe had yet to develop her reputation, but having the middle Black sister's protection meant that no one had dared touch her while she'd learned.

Circe had nearly shunned Andromeda too, but the woman had sat her down and explained, quite simply, what she'd been planning on doing and why Circe could trust her.

Andromeda Black had been planning on marrying a Muggle-born, which meant she'd be shunned from her family just as Circe's own father had been. It meant that, really, they were on the same side and if Circe had refused her help she would have been an idiot.

Circe wasn't an idiot.

They still exchanged letters. Circe had visited Andromeda's daughter over the Christmas break. The three-year-old had turned her nose into various animals, having perfected it and wanted to show it off to "mum's friend Cece."

"Well, look who I've found here," Lestrange's voice drew Circe's attention to where he was lounging in an alcove as she passed. The boy, like the rest of the pure-blooded bastards she shared a house with, possessed an inborn confidence and elegance, charm on show even here. Of course, Circe had also inherited it, which meant that, at the moment, he was annoying, not enticing. "Circe Enyo Carrow."

She didn't bless him with a response, though she did let her wand slip into her hand as she continued to walk.

"Come now," he said, standing with a hand raised. "I just wanted to chat."

"Fuck off." They were alone in the corridor. It was a cold day and the rest of the castle was buried deep inside, huddled next to fireplaces. Circe, on the other hand, had decided to stroll in the wonderfully deserted outer corridors, far away from the Slytherin common room, to treasure some of the limited private spaces Hogwarts had to offer.

Lestrange had followed her.

She heard him start to whisper a spell – how Slytherin, cursing when your opponent's back was turned – and spun to counter it. The result was a loud bang that would have drawn attention if anyone were near enough to hear it, but both wands were left in hand and Circe transferred into an attack position.

Lestrange didn't look worried. Perhaps he thought she'd gone soft over Christmas.

As if Circe Carrow would ever go soft.

He made to cast another spell, hissing that one to the point that even she couldn't guess which curse he was going to throw. She cast her own protection spell but, honestly, defense had never been her strong suit. She was still far better than most anyone else, but sometimes a well-aimed spell could break her shield charm.

And Lestrange, to his credit, was good at aiming.

His disarming charm left her disarmed and incredibly angry.

Lestrange was quite pleased. "A lot less confident without your wand, aren't you?" he kept his wand out as he moved closer, but Circe didn't move back until he'd grabbed her shoulder and shoved her back against the wall. His wand tip went to her throat, digging to the point she knew it would bruise. "Now, what fun should I have with you?"

"Mulciber was too scared to do this himself then?" Circe kept an easy smile. She would not be afraid of him. She would not give him that fucking satisfaction.

"Oh no, I volunteered. Thought it time you learned your place."

"I don't believe you get to decide that." She made for her wand in his other hand, but Lestrange threw it down the corridor.

"Sorry, Carrow. You're not getting that back anytime soon."

"I will say, I'm impressed that you came on your own. You weren't so brave last year."

Lestrange smirked. "I don't enjoy sharing."

"Or you didn't want them to see me make you cry."

His now free hand brushed against her waist, his whole body shifting to make it clear that, as far as he was aware, she wasn't going anywhere. "I won't be crying, Carrow." His wand went deeper and, if he shifted it, she wouldn't have been able to breathe. "You know, I've never personally performed this curse on anyone else. Don't really know when to stop. You're going to be my experiment."

Circe knew what curse he had in mind. They hadn't even learned about it in DADA, but Lestrange had an older brother – currently married to Andromeda's older sister – who'd begun to make the papers together with their special talent for it.

"Crucio."

The pain was nothing like anything Circe had ever or could ever have experienced before. Her body fell away from her and all that was left was the pain, hotter than fire, hotter than possible. And it was everywhere. In every vein and every inch of skin and every small space inside of her that had been left open. It was a scream. It was white and red and loud and silent.

And then it stopped. It vanished in an instant, but the space it left took a long time for Circe to return to. Slowly, her vision cleared and her body regained enough sensation – filling her with needles and a bruise that went into her organs – for her to realize she was lying on the corridor floor. Once the cold registered, Circe embraced it, regardless of how much it felt like her chest would snap if she breathed.

"Oh, that was lovely," Lestrange hissed, the sound coming from somewhere above her. Circe was half-aware of his presence, but she hadn't opened her eyes yet. "What did you think, Carrow? Want another go?" Circe forced her eyes open enough, reflexively blinking them from the switch to bright light, that she could see her wand where it had fallen down the corridor. Lestrange, noticing or not, stepped into her line of sight and forced her to look at the bottom of his robes. "I won't do it again if you say please."

Circe said nothing, just grit her teeth and wondered how far screams traveled in empty Hogwarts halls. She didn't like wondering about salvation from others.

"I knew you were an idiot, Carrow, but really?" He crouched down, his wand hanging loosely in his hand. He was cocky. Let him. Let him think she was in too much pain to move. "Beg for relief, Circe Enyo Carrow. I'll grant it if you beg me."

He leaned closer and Circe took advantage of that.

She fought the pain – it ripped through her, every muscle and bone protesting at any movement, let alone quick movements – and grabbed his wand where it hung. She pulled. His shock was enough to get his own wand at his throat. "Beg and I won't curse your balls off."

"Now, be smart, Carrow." He was afraid. She could see the fear in his eyes. She could feel him shake. Could feel his pulse rising.

"Beg, Lestrange." She pulled herself up more, moving to kneel. That was worse, but she pretended the pain wasn't there.

He just spat in her face.

"Petrificus Totalus." Lestrange fell back with a loud bang, body frozen stiff. Circe forced herself to stand, looking down at him with an only slightly repressed smile. "Thought it time you learned your place." And then she put her full body-weight into crushing his wand-hand, relishing in the satisfying crunch of bones.

"Merlin's soggy ballsack!" Black shouted from the other end of the corridor. Circe looked up, only remembering to look at ease half-way through the action. The Gryffindor quartet that had appeared looked quite out of breath, like they'd just finished running. "What were you doing to him?"

She laughed, which nearly made her fall to her knees from the pain. It was beginning to fade, but every new action made it flare. Aftershocks of mal-performed curses were never fun. "If that's your way of telling me that you think Lestrange screams like a girl, I salute you all."

Potter frowned. "It wasn't him screaming, then?"

Circe walked forward, bending to pick up her own wand as she passed it. "No, it wasn't him." She considered Lestrange's wand as she neared them. "You know, I'm really tempted to just snap this."

"Is that..." she nodded. "I would heavily advise against it."

Circe narrowed her eyes at Lupin. "I wasn't asking for your advice." And then she, again, quite satisfyingly, snapped Lestrange's wand in half. All four boys flinched at the crack. Circe glanced at one broken end. "Unicorn hair. Not my first guess."

And then she kept walking, forcing the four boys to part around her. Let Lestrange buy a new wand. His family had enough money to buy him a new wand for every week of the rest of his hopefully short life. Besides, he was lucky she wasn't going to turn him in for using an unforgivable curse on her.

Circe didn't need anyone else's help. She wouldn't go running to anyone just because someone had cursed her.

The four boys watched her leave, ensuring she was out of sight, before looking at each other and the Slytherin half-way down the hall. "We were not here," Potter hissed.

Circe heard him. She smiled.

"That's a new smile for you." Instinctually, Circe slipped the broken wand bits up her sleeve, supporting them with her palm since her holster wasn't designed for two halves. She'd yet to decide exactly how she was going to dispose of it but knew it wasn't going to be this close to his body. When she turned to see who'd spoken, her smile tensed.

It was that year's DADA professor, though Circe didn't think he deserved the title. He was so young that Circe knew they'd crossed paths for one year at Hogwarts, though he, of course, had been a Gryffindor. Grant Renshaw. A fucking cunt.

"What's got you so pleased today?" he was just walking in from strolling the grounds, so he hadn't heard the screams – at least, she hoped. He didn't look like he had just heard someone being tortured.

"Just enjoying the day."

"Then I must never have seen you enjoying something before."

The smile tensed to the point that it hurt more than the dull ache still all over her. "Must not."

Renshaw glanced down the hall and Circe was thankful she'd turned a corner since Lestrange. Part of her did wish she could stay nearby just to watch what story Lestrange would have attempted to spin to explain why he was lying, sans wand, petrified in the middle of an abandoned corridor. "Any particular goal of today's stroll?"

"Not today."

"Mind if I join you?"

Circe did mind quite a bit. Renshaw had made it clear to the students that he didn't believe witches were as good at magic as wizards. Most of the school hated him for it and Circe had even seen a few of the professors looking as though they were considering the best ways to curse him right. No one knew how he'd fooled Dumbledore into hiring him – he wasn't even that good of a wizard!

Honestly, she could have taught the class better than he had been. It was OWL year, after all. DADA was important. The majority of her year was terrible.

Of course, Circe wasn't worried. She knew she'd beyond pass her DADA OWL – in her second year, she'd picked which five classes she would take to NEWT level in order to qualify for Auror training. After all, you couldn't be both a Slytherin and a member of the Slug Club and not have a plan for your future.

"Actually, I've just remembered something I simply must go speak with Slughorn about. Terribly sorry."

Renshaw waved a hand. "No worries. I'll see you in class."

Circe fought the temptation to transfigure his face into something suitably dunce-like and walked back the way she'd come, though she took the corridor the Gryffindor quartet had entered through instead of walking past Lestrange again.

She chucked the broken wand pieces to the side at random points as she strolled her winding path back through the corridors, picking her way through currently abandoned classrooms.

Even if it meant no more regular special treatment by Slughorn, Circe couldn't wait for the next year and only six classes – Transfiguration, Alchemy, Charms, Herbology, DADA, and, to really shove it in the face of the other Slytherins, Muggle Studies. After that, there were only two years until she could go become the greatest Auror the Ministry had ever seen.

Because Circe was going to be the one who captured Lestrange and his fucking gang. She was going to be the one who gave all those dark wizards exactly what they deserved.

A/N: Thank you for looking at this story and I hope you will continue to appreciate the adventures of Circe Enyo Carrow from fifth year and beyond.

I picture her looking similar to Emily Beecham in her chin-length hair days.