The Other Gryffindor
Author Note You might have read the speculation that there must be 10 students per year, per house. I'm playing on that. The character is the 9th member in Gryffindor, along with Harry Potter et al. This story is full of angst, and was written Christmas day, while listening to "Saddle Creek 50 (disk 1)", which is an amazing CD that everyone must listen to at least once in their lives. It partially reflects on a period of depression that I battled two years ago, luckily only partially. Please bear in mind that this was written after 17 hours of wakefullness, so it tends to go off topic quite a bit. But I think I'm just rambling now. Please review and let me know what you think. It will be greatfully appreciated. For anyone who is reading The Project, it is currently on hiatus, as I'm having trouble writing several characters. Happy New Year.
Disclaimer I own nothing. Don't you know it.
Mother. She cared. Her taunts didn't touch me. No. Not like father's. No. She never called me devil spawn. She never tried to get the pope to perform an exorcism on me (and bear in mind that I'm not even a Catholic). She didn't feel that I'd be condemned to the fiery pits of Hell. No. She didn't hit me. Try to beat the Anti-Christ from me. I still don't know why they allowed me to buy my books, year, after year, after year. No. My mother doesn't love me. She doesn't speak to me. An abomination to the family's pride. That's all I am. This is the sixth summer since my letter came. Five birthdays have passed, another is nearing. They have passed with naught a greeting, naught a look, just the birthday beats. What would they think if they discovered that in my last weeks of school I would barricade myself in an unused classroom, brewing many a healing potion. The others would never notice my absence. They never do. They don't see the limping when I arrive at King's Cross. They don't notice when I skip meal, after meal. Maybe, if I starve enough, I'll just die. I'd rather die from the ache in the hollow of my gut, than by the fists, and legs of my father.
Would anyone notice if I die? Would anyone care? I doubt my "fellow" Gryffindors would. Let alone the professors. I'm a lone student in a school of hundreds. There isn't a teacher who knows my name. No one speaks to me. I now spend my time in the area around a large oak tree, by the lake, smoking cheap cigarettes. I only drink coffee. Some would call me poetic. I would call myself pathetic. I doubt my dorm mates know I play guitar. That I write rhyming songs, filled with lust, and drugs, and depression. I doubt they know that I cry myself to sleep every night, that my wrists are carved with scars from my days as a cutter last term. That I'd use Hermione's prefect pin countless times, that I'd drag the metal across my arm, drawing the blood from my veins. That I only stopped when I ran out of arm, not deciding to try to add scars over my scars.
Would they know that I pleasure myself, to the thought of their naked bodies? I doubt they would. They don't know who I am. They wouldn't know that I'm a bisexual girl who's been abused by her father's hand since she discovered that she was a witch, since she got her Hogwarts letter. Would they know that I taught myself healing charms before I even stepped across the threshold at Hogwarts? That I constantly think of, want to, fight the urge to just go to the tallest tower and just fling myself off. No. They wouldn't. They know nothing of me. The other Gryffindors. Always overshadowed by the more glamorous members of my house, by my year. They know nothing of me.
What would they say if they found out my deep, dark secret?
"Oh, look, poor Morgan is getting the shit kicked out of her by the
same father that would dote upon her before she became the family's deepest
secret!"
Or would they just pretend to pity me, then just rub it back in my face?
Tomorrow I turn seventeen. Just wait till my dearest mother and father discover their little gift from me...
Today I am seventeen. I am now, officially an adult to the stuffed up, pompous, obtuse, idiotic Minister for Magic and his pathetic little Ministry.
Today.
Today I can perform magic at home. Today I can cause my parents the same hurt that they caused me.
I found a curse at school.
I'm actually quite talented with wand work. You'd just never guess it.
Turns out Madame Pince doesn't always put Restricted Section book in the right place. I found this nifty little curse in Almost Unforgivable: A guide to the 50 Most Dangerous Forgivable Curses. I found it with all the books telling you how to care for Flobberworms. Needless to say, mine is the exactly what you wouldn't think to find there...
So when my father comes to my room, wearing his priest's collar, before heading out for Sunday mass, I'll tell him.
I'll tell him.
"You fucking horrible excuse for a man! I have a wonderful
gift, yet you turn my life into a waking Hell. I hope you have a good time
there with all the other sorry-ass excuses for a father. You're a fucking cunt!
You'll pay.
I then swish and flick my way into Hell (and Azkaban).
First, with the Anglican priest who drove his daughter to psychosis.
Then to the mother who would sit in the sunroom, a glass of Scotch in her grasp. In a drunken stupor. Yes, she cared. Not for me. She cared for her husband who drove her to alcohol when his darling daughter found out she was a witch, a walking, talking, Lucifer...
If only he knew her little secret...