For the lovely Sophie.
Word Count: 5062
Warnings: murder, kidnapping, child abuse, racism
Note on pronouns: In keeping with the era, despite Phoebe being a trans male, I still use she/her pronouns. This is because of the time period and the traditional Black family values.
i.
Outside a small medic tent in West Africa, Aloysius Flint paces, wringing his hands together. Screams fill the night air, and he can hear the Healers muttering their reassurances within the tent.
He has made an awful mistake, and now there's no way around it. An expedition to research the rumors of a new magical vine should have been easy enough, but he had been a fool. Despite having a wife at home, Aloysius had entertained what should have been nothing more than a silly little dalliance. Now, nine months later, he's paying for his mistakes.
Of course he could leave the child behind. The villager–Thema–shouldn't mean anything to him; he tries to convince himself that she doesn't. Aloysius has a wife at home. He doesn't need this.
And yet he cannot bring himself to walk away. His beloved Valeria has proven again and again to be unable to carry his children. Though this child is an ugly reminder of his infidelity, Aloysius tries to look for the silver lining.
At the end of the day, he will have his child. Valeria will eventually come to accept the child as her own, and all will be forgiven. He knows he will be able to give the child a better life in England than Thema could manage here.
…
A girl. Aloysius wants to laugh when he sees the small bundle in Thema's arms. It feels like the ultimate smack in the face, knowing he doesn't even have an heir to show for it.
Thema traces a dark finger over the baby's light brown skin, smiling down at the girl. She says something–a name for the child, perhaps–but Aloysius isn't really listening.
This child is his. Maybe she isn't what he wants, and having a daughter will bring so many burdens, but it doesn't matter. She is his.
"Moira." He doesn't know why the name occurs to him now or why it seems so perfect for the crying newborn. A smile plays at his thin lips. "My Moira."
…
Thema doesn't want to give up the girl. She begs and cries and calls Moira the wrong name again and again. Aloysius almost hesitates. This is his last chance to walk away, to pretend none of this has happened. He and Valeria can try again. Moira isn't even his heir.
But he can't. Something holds him back.
"Aloysius," Thema says, her voice breaking, "please."
He lifts his wand and points it at her. "Give me the girl," he says.
The bloody woman remains stubbornly in front of the cot, tears falling from her golden-brown eyes. Aloysius scowls. With a flick of his wand a muttered curse, the tent fills with green light. Thema falls to the ground, a silent scream frozen upon her lips in death.
Aloysius doesn't feel the slightest hint of remorse as he steps over his former lover's corpse. He reaches into the battered cot and lifts his daughter carefully. She is beautiful.
"Come, Moira," he tells her, cradling her in his arms. "Let's go home."
…
There is screaming, so much screaming. Valeria throws her wine glass, narrowly missing Aloysius' head.
"You dare bring that thing into my home?" she screeches.
"She is my child," Aloysius says. "Our child."
"It is little more than filth!" Valeria insists. "Look at it! It would be kinder to leave the thing outside. Let nature deal with it."
Aloysius holds Moira a little closer, shaking his head. He has done so much for his child. The thought of giving her up is too much.
"She isn't going anywhere," he says firmly before gesturing their house-elf closer. "There is a cot in the attic. Set up a nursery for Moira. We shall fix it properly in the morning."
The house-elf bows, squeaking with the gesture. She accepts Moira, taking extra care as she holds the girl. "Right away, Master Aloysius!"
Once he is alone with his wife, Aloysius' expression hardens. He takes a step closer, fingers curling inward and transforming his hands into fists. "Have you any idea the hell I went through to bring my daughter home?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous. "You will respect that. Is that understood?"
His wife clenches her jaw. For several moments, she doesn't speak. Her dark eyes remain fixed upon him, and there is nothing but hatred in her gaze. Finally, she huffs. "Understood."
It will have to be enough.
ii.
"Miss Moira needs her hair braided!" Dotty insists, picking up her speed.
Moira feels bad for ignoring the house-elf, but she doesn't stop. She runs, her wild curls thumping against her face. If Dotty truly wanted her to stop, she would snap her fingers and use her house-elf magic.
Her father is at the door, bags already packed. Judging by the amount of luggage, Moira guesses it will be another long trip. His last had been a month. She doesn't know how much more of this she can stand.
"Can't you take me with you, Father?" she asks, folding her slender arms over her chest. Her lips form a soft pout. She knows pouting is a nasty habit to have, but sometimes it's enough to sway her father. "It's my birthday, after all."
Her father reaches out and affectionately pats her cheek. "I know. It isn't every day your little girl turns three."
Moira rolls her eyes. "I'm nine!"
He chuckles, his hazel eyes twinkling with amusement. "You sure?" he asks. "That pout is better suited for a three-year-old."
She huffs, lips twisting into a scowl. "I want to come with you," she insists.
It isn't just that she wants to see the world. Every time her father leaves, he returns with stories and gifts from his many travels, and it's enough to drive her mad. There's more to it, though. Whenever her father is around, his wife is not so cruel. Valeria treats Moira with a detached coldness; most days, she seems content to pretend that Moira doesn't exist at all.
As soon her father leaves, however, everything changes. Each day is a reminder that Moira is a mistake, that she means nothing.
"One day," he tells her, leaning in and pressing a small kiss to her forehead. "When you're older, I promise you can come with me. Now, there's a particularly cross-looking house-elf standing in the doorway. Perhaps you should let her do her job."
"Yes sir." She throws her arms around him, hugging him tightly and breathing in his familiar scent of tobacco and mint. "I'll miss you."
"And I will miss you, my heart."
Reluctantly, Moira pulls away and allows Dotty to lead her back to her room.
…
"Look at you." Moira can smell the alcohol on Valeria's breath. It seems she can only be around Moira after she's finished a few bottles of wine. "You think you're pretty, don't you?"
Moira keeps quiet. This is a routine she knows all too well. No matter what answer she gives, it will be wrong, and her guardian will find a way to punish her for it.
Valeria moves closer, circling Moira like a hungry vulture. "I suppose you think your skin makes you exotic," she says, lips curling into an ugly sneer. She jabs a long finger roughly against Moira's chest. "But it looks so dirty."
Her cheeks burn with shame, and she can't but glance at her hands. She knows how different she is. Though her skin isn't dark, it isn't pale either. She's all too aware of the way people whisper about her whenever father takes her to Diagon Alley.
She may be a pure-blood, but that doesn't mean she isn't a half-breed.
No better than centaurs and the like.
It's easy to hold her head high and tell herself that the opinions of strangers mean nothing to her. Coming from Valeria, however, insults feel like daggers dipped in poison.
Moira drops her gaze, staring at her feet. Her eyes sting, but she refuses to let the tears fall. Crying is a sign of weakness and will earn more punishment.
Valeria grabs Moira's dark braid and jerks roughly, forcing Moira to look at her. "Too good to speak, girl?" she asks. "Haven't learned your place yet?"
Moira swallows dryly, her words failing her. She opens and closes her mouth repeatedly, but nothing comes out.
Her place. She is well aware what Valeria believes her place is. Her guardian has made it crystal clear that her father should have left her in Africa, that she is unwanted. But her father still wants her, still loves her.
She wishes he hadn't left. Valeria would never treat her this way with him at home.
Now, all Moira can do is squeak out a barely-audible apology. It isn't enough. Her words never mean anything to the wicked woman.
Valeria releases her braid, but Moira doesn't get a moment to relax. Valeria's palm crashes against Moira's cheek, leaving behind a burning, stinging mark. Moira keeps her head held high; she doesn't cry out, doesn't try to rub the pain out of her face. If she can endure this, maybe her guardian will leave her alone.
Today is going to be a bad day. The slap doesn't seem to be enough for Valeria. She strikes Moira again and again and again, until the girl finally cries out and throws her hands up to shield herself from the blows.
"Dotty!" Valeria screams.
The house-elf hurries in, sparing Moira a quick, pitying glance before turning her bulging eyes to Valeria. "Yes, Mistress? What can Dotty be doing for you?"
"Get the brat out of my sight. Seeing her sickens me."
…
The little makeshift room in the cellar is dark and musty, but Moira doesn't mind it. It's meant to be punishment. Maybe it is. After all, she has nothing in the room except a raggedy blanket, and the stone floor is hard and damp. Still, it's a way to escape; Valeria would never venture down here. This may be the only place where Moira can truly feel safe.
Dotty brings her a few things to eat. "Mistress Valeria doesn't need to be knowing," she says, offering Moira a wink.
Moira wants to throw her arms around the house-elf and hug her, but she resists. Dotty may know what it feels like to be neglected and abused, but that's where their similarities end. At the end of the day, Dotty is still a house-elf, and Moira is above her.
"Thank you, Dotty," Moira says, setting the scraps aside.
Dotty smiles brightly before bowing. "Dotty has to be going now, but Miss Moira don't need to worry. Dotty will be back."
Moira nods and watches Dotty disappear. Almost immediately, she feels the overwhelming loneliness set in. She misses her father more than ever, but there's nothing she can do about it.
Empty and miserable, she curls up on the floor and pulls the tattered blanket over her tiny body. Maybe she'll get lucky, and her father will come home early. Maybe Valeria will die a horribly painful death, and she'll finally be free.
Smiling to herself, Moira closes her eyes and drifts off into a fitful sleep.
iii.
Moira thinks she might cry when her letter arrives. Is it really possible that she could find a new safe haven? Could Hogwarts be the answer to her problems?
Her hands tremble as she opens the envelope. Her name is there. They want her to go to Hogwarts and study magic.
"Don't get your hopes up, dear one," her father says, reaching over and taking the letter from her.
Moira resists the urge to pout. Instead, she moves to the edge of her seat and keeps her pleading eyes fixed upon him. "Please, Father? I want to go so badly!"
She's heard stories of Hogwarts. Her father has told her tale after tale of that marvelous castle, and wants nothing more than to see it for herself. Her life has been so dreadfully dull. What if this is her only chance to know what freedom and adventure are?
"Young ladies don't need educations," he tells her. "You simply need some etiquette lessons, and you will be ready to find a wealthy husband."
Moira can't help it. She scowls at the thought of being nothing more than some man's future wife. It's expected of her, but that doesn't mean she has to like it. Despite the expectations forced upon her, she dreams of so much more. Why can't she be like her father and journey off to amazing, faraway lands?
"I'm sure your mother will happily find you an etiquette teacher."
Valeria inhales sharply. Moira can see the tension in her body and the resentment in her eyes at being referred to as your mother. Surprisingly, there isn't a fallout. Valeria sets her fork aside and calls for a refill of wine. "Although it would be ideal for Moira to be married off, I'm not sure how likely that is. I don't think many suitors will be lining up, hoping to have her hand." Though her voice is sweet as sugar, Moira can hear the cruelty dripping from each syllable. "She isn't particularly… marriageable."
Moira winces and drops her gaze to her half-eaten breakfast. It's true, of course. The circumstances of her birth are well known. What man would ever want someone with questionable lineage?
Maybe she cares more than she wants to admit. She doesn't want a husband, but she also doesn't want to know that no one would ever want her because of who she is.
"At least an education will give her a chance," Valeria says, leaning back in her chair.
Her father is silent for several moments. Moira squirms impatiently, eager for the answer. Finally, he sighs. "I shall send word immediately following breakfast."
Moira squeals and jumps to her feet. Breakfast no longer matters. She hurries to her father and pulls him into a hug, kissing his cheek. "Thank you, Father. Thank you! Thank you!"
…
"What do you think Hogwarts is like?" Moira asks as Dotty fixes her hair.
"Dotty does not be knowing, Miss Moira," Dotty answers.
"Father talks about it often." Moira winces when the house-elf pulls her hair a little too tightly. "Do you think I'll find friends?"
She feels stupid for asking. Friends aren't supposed to matter. Her father has emphasized the importance of alliances and acquaintances. Friends are little more than burdens, and socialization is supposed to for personal advancement.
Still, the thought of having friends makes her insides feel strange and fluttery. Moira has been alone her whole life. Only having her father and Dotty for company has taken its toll. She isn't sure how to make friends, but she wants to more than anything.
"Miss Moira will have lots of friends," Dotty tells her, smiling brightly.
The words feel a little too forced. Moira tries not to deflate in defeat. Dotty is such a loyal servant; of course she would tell Moira what she wants to hear in order to ease her anxiety.
Moira's lips twitch into a hint of a smile. Maybe it's a lie. Maybe Hogwarts will make her feel just as lonely as her home does. Still, Hogwarts will be her first great adventure, and her excitement seems to outweigh her fear.
…
Hogwarts is like nothing she could have ever imagined. Moira tries to take it all in, but it's so much. All she can do is stare in wonder.
"Amazing, isn't it?"
Moira turns, and her chest immediately begins to ache. The most beautiful girl she's ever seen stands before her. Moira bites the inside of her cheek, admiring the girl's porcelain skin, elegant black curls, and bright, crystal-blue eyes. Her words seem to fail her, and all Moira can do is nod mutely.
"I'm Phoebe Black," the other girl says.
"Moira Flint."
There's a flicker of recognition in Phoebe's eyes. Moira bites back a groan. She had been foolish to think people at Hogwarts wouldn't know who she is. They've all undoubtedly heard whispers of Aloysius Flint's half-breed, bastard child.
But no sharp or cruel words come. Phoebe just offers her a bright smile and takes her by the hand. "I'm hoping for Slytherin," she tells her, leading Moira along. "My brother Licorus is a Slytherin, of course."
"Is he your only sibling?"
Phoebe shakes her head, sending dark curls thumping against her face. "I have another brother, Eduardus, and two older sisters, Hesper and Alexia."
"Are they all Slytherins as well?" Moira asks, though she doesn't particularly care. All she can do is marvel at the fact that Phoebe has so many siblings. She imagines Phoebe must never feel lonely.
"Eduardus is," she says, though there's a strange tension when she says his name. "Hesper and Alexia weren't allowed."
Now Moira can't hide her interest. "Why were you?"
Phoebe opens her mouth to answer, but before she gets the chance, a strict-looking man appears and tells them it's time to be Sorted. The small crowd of first years follow behind. Phoebe never lets go of Moira's hand.
…
"Black, Phoebe."
Phoebe offers Moira a smile. "Wish me luck," she says before hurrying forward.
Moira watches as her new friend sits on the stool. The Sorting Hat falls over her, obscuring her face for only a few moments before yelling, "SLYTHERIN!"
As more students are called, Moira begins to notice that Slytherin seems to be the only House that doesn't have many girls. Maybe it's a weird traditional thing. Moira is glad she gets to be the exception.
"Flint, Moira."
She hears the whispers as she steps forward. Her stomach twists into knots, but she keeps her head held high. She has spent her entire childhood being put down by Valeria. Hogwarts is her new beginning, and she will not let anyone break her anymore.
The professor places the Sorting Hat on her head, and the world fades away.
Quite an interesting one, a voice whispers in her ear. There's a thirst for adventure in your heart. Gryffindor would be good for you.
But that's not quite it, is it? So much potential, so much to prove. Slytherin could teach you to harness your ambition and become something great.
"Slytherin," Moira whispers. Phoebe is in Slytherin. Her father had been a Slytherin. It just feels right.
Very well.
"SLYTHERIN!"
Grinning brightly, Moira takes the Sorting Hat off and sets it aside. Phoebe's is the first face she sees, and she's smiling and clapping as Moira makes her way over.
"Brilliant," Phoebe declares. "Knew you had to be a Slytherin."
iv.
"You're different," Phoebe says as they lay together by the Black Lake and the water ripple as the breeze blows.
Moira tenses. This is it. She's spent three years with Phoebe as her friend, and now it's going to end. Suddenly Moira is reminded of her every flaw and shortcoming.
Somehow, she manages to keep herself composed. "What do you mean?" she asks, plucking a yellow flower from the ground and tucking it in her wild curls.
She already knows, of course. Though she's tried to avoid it, she's heard all the whispers. Some just look at her with curiosity in their eyes, like Moira is some fascinating thing that can be picked apart in order to be understood. Others–particularly members of her own House–are not as kind. They stare openly, like she is some sort of freak to gawk at. They hurl cruel words and nasty slurs at her. Hogwarts, the great castle that was supposed to be a new home and great adventure, has proven to be a new hell.
"You just don't care," Phoebe answers. "I wish I could be like you."
Moira stares at her in silence, wondering if she's heard her correctly. It's almost funny. Of course she cares. She suspects that she probably cares more than anyone. She spends each day so painfully aware of the stares and laughter, and she hates it.
But she's used to it. She's learned to rise above it and pretend it doesn't kill her.
"I wouldn't say that I don't care," Moira says, shrugging. "I'm just not sure that it matters."
Phoebe moves closer. Their hands touch, and the quick, subtle contact makes Moira forget how to breathe for several moments.
"I think you're amazing," Phoebe whispers before sitting up and grabbing a stone. With a careful flick of her wrist, she sends it skipping over the dark water.
Phoebe is different too. Moira wonders if she's noticed. Though Phoebe is beautiful and delicate–the things Moira wishes she could be–she always looks like she isn't quite comfortable in her own skin, like she's trying desperately to be someone else.
Moira wonders what would happen if Phoebe let her mask fall.
"You're staring."
Moira's cheeks flush with warmth. She looks away quickly. "Sorry."
…
Moira doesn't need another reason to hate herself, but that doesn't stop her from finding one. She shouldn't look at Phoebe Black the way she does. Even if she doesn't want to marry some boring man of her father's choosing, it doesn't mean she can just go around developing romantic feelings for other women.
She has found another way to be a disappointment.
…
Moira and Phoebe sit together in their dormitory. One thing Moira likes about being in such a traditional House is that she and Phoebe are the only girls in their year, and they get to spend a lot of time together.
"Do you ever feel like you don't quite fit in?" Phoebe asks, looking up from her essay.
Moira sets her Charms textbook aside and turns her attention to her best friend. She laughs. "Me?" she asks dryly. "You mean the bastard half-breed? Never."
Phoebe shakes her head, a small smile playing at her plump lips. "I just meant…" She hesitates, as though she isn't quite sure what she meant. After several moments of silence, she shrugs and stretches out, abandoning her homework for the time being. "I don't feel like I belong."
Moira studies her curiously. She thinks back to their moment at the lake a few weeks ago, and the realization that Phoebe is different. Actually hearing it voiced, however, is bizarre. Phoebe has it all. She's beautiful, smart, funny, and she comes from one of the most influential families Britain has ever seen. How could she possibly know what it feels like not belong?
Phoebe exhales heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose. This is the most vulnerable Moira has ever seen her. It doesn't last long. Phoebe takes a deep breath before laughing, and everything seems to go back to normal again.
"Sorry," Phoebe says. "You must think I'm so silly."
"Not at all."
"Are you done studying?" Phoebe asks, sitting up again and moving her parchment and quill to the side. "I think I'm going to call it a night."
Moira nods and takes her things to her bed. With a wave of her wand, she extinguishes the candles and plunges the dormitory into darkness.
"Hey, Phoebe?" she calls.
"Hmm?"
Moira hesitates. She wishes she could be confident enough to not second guess herself about everything. Why does it feel like she's prying?
"I think you're lovely," Moira tells her. "You should do whatever you need to do in order to feel right."
Silence hangs between them. Moira scrubs her hands over her cheeks, as though she can make her blush go away. She's overstepped, and now Phoebe must think she's a fool.
"Thank you, Moira," Phoebe says, and her gentle voice is enough to chase away Moira's insecurities. "I think I will."
v.
It takes only a moment for Moira to hate her father. She stares at the man she had once considered to be her hero, unable to stop the anger from souring her stomach and turning her blood to flame.
"I'm afraid I don't understand, Father," she says softly.
"You're sixteen now," he says simply. "Perfect age for finding a husband."
"I don't want a husband."
But something tells her that her desires don't matter. As much as her father has always loved her, he has never given in to even her smallest demands. Why should he budge now, when this is such an important matter to him?
Her father shakes his head and reaches out, taking Moira gently by the hand. She wants to fight him off and pull away, but she allows him to pull her closer. It isn't fair, but it's life.
"Tybalt Lestrange is a good man from a good family," he tells her.
"But I won't love him."
Valeria laughs. Moira had almost forgotten that the woman was even there. "Silly girl," she says with a sneer. "Do you really think marriage is about love? No wonder you aren't a Ravenclaw."
Moira swallows down a heated retort and keeps her gaze fixed upon her father. She will not give Valeria the satisfaction.
"You're young and still have such an innocent view of the world," her father says, also ignoring his wife. "Marriage keeps our bloodline strong and pure. Alliances can be formed, and power can be had."
She understands, but that doesn't mean she has to like it. Still, there's no point arguing. At the end of the day, she is still an unwed woman. She should consider herself lucky to have a potential suitor.
"Thank you for this opportunity, Father," she says quietly. "I will not disappoint you."
…
When she returns to Hogwarts after winter break, she's still hurting. It feels like some part of her has shattered, and she isn't sure she'll be able to piece herself back together. She forces a smile, though. This is her duty, and she will honor it.
She makes her way to her dormitory, ready to bury herself under a mountain of blankets and pretend the world doesn't exist anymore.
"Oh!" she gasps when she opens the door.
It takes several moments to realize the person standing in her dormitory is Phoebe. Her hair is boyishly short now, and she's traded in her blouse and skirt for trousers and a button-up shirt. She's almost unrecognizable, except for the strangely bright blue eyes.
"You look handsome," Moira manages. Her cheeks burn, and she looks away quickly. "I don't understand. Girls aren't supposed to be handsome."
She's always noticed Phoebe. There's always been a part of her that did more than just admire the other girl. Now, that desire is back, and it mingles with confusion.
This is so wrong, but she doesn't care.
"I'm not a girl," Phoebe answers.
Moira considers this. It doesn't make any sense, but she decides not to question it. Maybe she doesn't understand, but it doesn't matter. If Phoebe says she isn't a girl, it isn't her place to doubt it.
"Then you're a handsome boy."
Phoebe smiles at that, and her eyes brighten. "I've been waiting for someone to call me a boy," she says.
…
They sit by the lake together. Phoebe is back in her skirts and blouses, but Moira knows it's all for the sake of appearances. Phoebe may be a boy, but the rest of the world doesn't know that.
"Can I confess something?" Phoebe asks, plucking a stone from the ground and turning it over in her hand.
"Of course."
Phoebe is quiet for several moments. She tosses the stone absently from hand to hand.
Moira watches her, entranced by the skillful movements. She's often wondered how Phoebe can carry herself which such grace.
"I rather like you," Phoebe says at last, setting the stone aside and removing her shoes. She pulls up her skirt, dipping her feet into the lake. "I would dare say I might even love you."
For a moment, the world seems to fall away. Love. Only her father has ever said that word to her. Love is supposed to be some silly word that only children care about. Love doesn't have any place in a woman's life.
It still makes her heart flutter, as though thousands of butterflies have been set free within her body. Once, so long ago, all she had wanted was to make a friend. Now, things have changed, and she's found so much more than she could ever hope for.
"I understand if you don't feel the same," Phoebe says quickly.
"I rather think that I might love you too," Moira assures her, reaching out and taking her hand.
They have to be so careful. No one else knows that Phoebe is a boy. All anyone would see is two girls getting shamefully close.
"If only I could marry you, and not Tybalt Lestrange," she sighs.
"I would much rather marry you than Henry Parkinson," Phoebe agrees.
Once again, Moira is painfully aware of how unfair the world is. She could have a future with Phoebe; they could be happy together and spend the rest of their lives falling more and more in love. Instead, they have their roles to play and duties to fulfill.
Phoebe leans in, resting her head against Moira's shoulder. "It's nice to dream."
Maybe it is, but dreaming hurts too much.
…
"We could do it, you know."
Moira yawns, still half-asleep. She blinks rapidly, trying to make sense of what Phoebe's saying. "Do what?" she asks, stretching.
Phoebe sits beside her, resting her hand on Moira's thigh. The dormitory is the only place where they can be themselves and not worry about the rest of the world seeing them. Here, hidden away from prying eyes and whispers that can destroy a family's reputation, they can love one another openly and without fear.
"Well, we can't actually get married," Phoebe continues, "but we can run away together. It isn't perfect, but if you'll have me, I'm yours."
It takes several moments for Moira to process that. She stares at Phoebe, searching for some trace of laughter in her lover's face. There is none; she's serious.
It's a mad, impossible idea. Where will they go? What will they do?
But isn't this exactly what she's always wanted? For so long, Moira has dreamt of an adventure and the rush of diving headfirst into the unknown. If she turns away now, she will never know what it feels like to truly be free.
Moira leans in, pulling Phoebe close. "In that case, you're mine," she whispers, kissing her.