A/N: Hello! This is Ever and I will be your author! Yep, I'm strange. Anyways, this is a story you have just clicked on to read. It has 1,421 words without this author's note. I wrote this on a two hour plane ride, please read and review and enjoy!
Disclaimers: are really annoying because you all know I own nothing of the Harry Potter series.
Enjoy!
XOXO
/Ever/
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Money, money, money
Must be funny
In a rich man's world
Money, money, money
Always sunny
In a rich man's world
-Money, Money, Money by ABBA
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Money kills. Literally.
I've been a first hand witness to terrible things. Torture, death, misery, sorrow, wealth, power crazed people, selfishness.
Maybe you don't already know, but power and money drives people to the brink of insanity. A cent more will push them over, and it becomes a place of no return.
I've lost everything to this epidemic. My parents. Grandparents. Aunts. Uncles. Cousins. Great aunts. Great uncles. Friends.
And now I'm losing myself. Not in the same way, though. I'm being sold as a trophy, and all I am to everyone is a piece of gold. A vault in a bank. A statue.
A trophy.
But I don't want to be a trinket. I never wanted to be. And my mother's cousin- I liked to think of him as an uncle- saved me, for a bit. Until he fell, too.
It seems it's only fate that I became one of them, drowning in a sea of gold. I was so terrified of what they became that I had no choice but to join them.
I wish I could say I knew a way out, but I don't. I can't get out and I am so horrified. I am stuck and I cannot get out.
Just like the others.
I have lost myself.
It is my turn.
My turn to become gold, my turn to die.
My turn.
Should I have tried harder? Yes. Should I continue to try harder? Totally. Do I? No.
I have no will anymore. I cannot go on.
I am Sagittaria. This is this story of how King Midas added me to his collection.
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Another day at Hogwarts. Another day slaving away. Another day fading to gold. Another day.
I rolled over when Fiona shouted at me to awaken.
I stared at the velvet curtain for a few seconds, just like every morning for the past three years.
And following that pattern, Fiona ripped the curtain away.
"Up! Now! Move, Sagittaria!"
Insert groan.
"Moving," I mumbled, easing myself up and out of bed. My feet shuffled until they hit my trunk with a dull thunk.
Just like every other morning.
I went about just as I did every other morning, shoving my body into my uniform and stuffing my feet into the killer black high heels my grandparents bought me and my girl friends force me to wear most mornings.
I sluggishly wobbled over to my dresser on the opposite wall. The other three girls were poised on stools and meticulously brushing colours onto their cheeks and painting a perfect face.
I copied them.
We all used expensive creams and perfect colours and designer brushes, applying thick coats of our makeup to cover the blemishes nobody could ever find out existed.
Sixty minutes later, at six forty five, we were all dolled up.
We gracefully descended the steps in two groups- Millicent, Daphne, and Pansy, then Fiona and I.
Perfect.
We immersed ourselves meaningless conversations, gossiping about who is dating who, who is disowning who, who called who what, and other topics.
Perfect.
We navigated the corridors and made it to the Great Hall the same time as the giant clock chimed seven.
Perfect.
We held our heads high as people glared and mocked, flourishing in the negative attention. It was what we wanted, after all.
Perfect.
We were the third year Slytherin girls, the perfect pure bloods, the bullies, the cliques, the masked.
We were the gold.
We chatted in our practised voices as we sat down in our unofficial-but-still-official seats. Every Slytherin had one. On the left side, closest to the wall, sat the boys. Across sat the girls.
Then went year. Seventh years sat closest to the Head Table. Firsties went at the end, by the door.
And last came rank, family name, blood purity, wealth, anything like such. The highest in your year and gender sat closest to the front of your year, closest to the older students.
This was the seating that matter most.
Third years were close to the middle, but not yet there. We were just a year too young.
In our year, there was the normal inequality: one more guy than the girls. We had four girls and five guys.
You want the seating chart? Here:
Girls-
Closest to HT- Sagittaria {Me}
Next- Fiona
Third- Pansy
Fourth- Daphne
Last- Millicent
Boys-
Closest to HT- Draco
Next- Vincent
Next- Gregory
Next- Theodore
Last- Blaise
That's it. The stupid chart. Who's gold, silver, or bronze.
Draco, my cousin, and I were so close up because we had a perfect family. Sure, there had been two disownings in the family in our parents' generation- an aunt of ours and a cousin of theirs- but that mattered not in these rankings. The Ancient and Noble House of Black was pure.
Fiona had a Squib great-great-great-great-great aunt, so that put her down a bit. Then, Pansy's mother had had a muggle great-great uncle.
Worst was Daphne. Her parents had been neutral in the First War- and that had cost them their status.
Sometimes the seating chart would coincide with our arranged marriages. And yes, those still happen for most of the pure blood marriages. I am a product of one, after all.
For example, Fiona and Vincent are to be married once Vincent turns twenty one. Gregory and Pansy are arranged for two months later, when Gregory turns twenty one. Even Millicent is 'engaged' to Theodore for his twentieth year.
Out of us girls, both Daphne I am across from someone I will not marry. I am across from my cousin, and that is far too close in the family line to be married. Third cousin happens every once in a while, but any closer relations is considered disgusting and desperate.
No, I an to be married at the young age of eighteen when Cassius Warrington, a fifth year, becomes twenty. Draco has Astoria Greengrass, a second year, for when he turns nineteen.
Even Blaise is arranged for Emily Ollaria, a second year two down from him. Daphne, the older sister to Astoria, is arranged for Fergus Cowley.
The saddest part of this is that as soon as my mother found out she was pregnant with a girl, there was a form of auction for me to be arranged. I was born with my future husband in the room.
A sad concept.
We ate our perfectly balanced meal for Thursday mornings. Scrambled egg whites with a dash of salt and just a smudge more pepper, with three small strawberries and a piece of plain, whole wheat toast.
A sad breakfast.
In exactly fifteen minutes, we were done.
Another ten minutes of empty conversation later, we made it to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. I saw no point in the class. If we really hated the Dark Arts, they would only exist in foreign countries.
A sad truth.
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The lesson went on as Professor Lupin droned on about boggarts and how to defeat them. I pretended to participate, but my worst fear often caused me to hyperventilate, so I dared not try.
We lined up in from of the wardrobe. I got stuck in from of Weasel. I mean, Weasley.
Quicker than I could blink, Fiona was facing her fear of water, making it evaporate.
My turn.
The boggart shifted form, taking on a shiny gold hue and splitting apart to form hundreds of galleons on the floor.
People around me gasped, confused. My grip tightened on my wand, my palms sweating. My breathing was quickening and I couldn't slow it down.
"Ridik-," I began, my voice faltering as the gold took shape into the familiar body of my uncle, his curly black hair added on top of the gold body.
"Ridikulous!" I attempted, trying to imagine him melting.
It wasn't working.
Uncle Pads stepped close, reaching out a hand to touch my hair, and I froze. It seemed so real. I could see him there.
"Sage, I'm sorry. I have to go, I'll be back, hon, I promise. I just gotta go deal with Tails for scaring you like that. I love you, Sage."
Professor Lupin rushed forward, but not before I could collapse from oxygen deprivation.
Stupid hyperventilation.
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