Same As Hate
Full Summary & Disclaimer: Rowling's stuff is Rowling's stuff, my ideas are my ideas.
The stars and constellations were different here. She hated them, hated the same beauty that lied to her the way her family and house lied- we haven't changed, we're the same, this isn't any different from America and if you don't agree or aren't happy you're a picky bitch.
Same As Hate is meant to throw a different light on auspicious wizarding families such as the Malfoys, Parkinsons, and the others that have back story but obviously don't get a lot of lime-light in the Harry Potter series. The other Hogwarts students couldn't comprehend, couldn't understand what it meant to have generations of your family under Voldemort's thumb and be perfectly unable to do anything about it. Same As Hate explores what that kind of life was like through the form of flawed, human, despicable, lovable and relatable four-dimensional witches and wizards.
(This takes place during Harry's 6th year, but isn't going to be linearly perfect especially when it comes to certain characters...)
Prologue
America Comes to England: The Beaumonts Return With a Bang
the daily prophet - gossip column
Eccentric, foreign, and American are a few of the nicer words used to describe Lady Caprice Beaumont.
"Angelis married a colonist, that's what," says Augusta Longbottom, grandmother of Harry Potter's best friend, Neville Longbottom. (Certain purebloods' forgetfulness of the muggle world happenings will be excused.)
But there remains the matter that Caprice's husband Angelis is the sole Beaumont heir, and the Beaumonts are from a line ancient enough to rival the Malfoys and extinct Blacks, and there is the levitating Beaumont Castle, charmed to float a whole of three yards off the ground. (Not to make throwing imbecilic children or unwanted guests out any easier) The head groundskeeper, Patricia Stately says, "Dumbledore himself can't replicate it [the spell]."
But despite what anywitch and their house elf complains of, not a wand in the elite British wizarding society can deny Lady Caprice's ability to throw a party. (Or 'gala', as she is said to call her balls.) This specific event is to celebrate the Beaumonts' homecoming: after spending the past fourteen years in America with their three daughters, Lord and Lady Beaumont (and the levitating Beaumont family castle, of course) have returned to southern England, with Caprice in the capacity of American Ambassador to the new British Minister of Magic. And that, as Lady Caprice would say, constitutes most certainly for their upcoming gala.
Chapter One: Good Morning America
"They've been gone for fourteen years," Narcissa Malfoy reminded her husband, clenching the newspaper until it crumpled and her knuckles turned white.
"I've already replied," Lucius said. "We will be there. With Caprice as the new American Witch Ambassador, even the Minister will be there, Narcissa. We can't afford to be seen missing."
"Be seen missing," Draco snorted underneath his breath, chuckling.
"What was that?" Lucius demanded, eyeing his son.
Draco coughed out, "nothing, sir. Just caught something in my throat."
"Use a napkin, for Merlin's sake," Narcissa pleaded wearily, not even bothering to glance at her son. "What about the matter of-"
Lucius' face silenced her.
A pause. "At least Draco needn't go."
Draco's face perked up imperceptibly.
"Nonsense," Lucius dismissed coldly. "The boy's friends will be there."
"But...'Muggle Dress Optional'." Narcissa folded her lips into a severe white line, repeating part of the invitation.
Lucius shrugged, bring the spoon up to his lips. "They just returned from America."
Narcissa's jaw clenched. "I will not have my son parading around like a mudblood."
"He's my son, too," Lucius reminded her mildly, "and I had no intention of 'parading' him so. He'll wear wizarding robes, the same as us."
Narcissa nodded barely, her face still severe.
"We will welcome the Beaumonts with the graciousness befitting their stature," Lucius finalized.
Guests arriving in carriages saw a white castle with earthy-green turrets and roof, settled among the english countryside like an old, stately queen reclining on her throne. From the open windows on all floors and out into the warm summer air came twinkling lights, the sound of merry voices, and a swelling orchestra. Partiers such as the Malfoys who arrived by Floo found themselves stepping out of a roaring fireplace covering the entire wall that could easily fit several families, but emitted very little heat into the costly receiving room.
Two entire floors of Beaumont Castle were covered in guests who sprawled out onto the open, simplistically tasteful grounds. The strings were placed around the magnificent staircase without hindering the movement of the ball-goers, who came to greet the Lord and Lady situated on the bottom step with their two oldest. House elves swarmed the premises with drinks and finger food, and professional magical photographers were placed strategically throughout the location. The Daily Prophet would release another coverage the next morning announcing it as "the gala of the year."
After an hour of adult-enforced dancing, the younger purebloods could be found migrating to the basement. The dark-lit room was the entire floor and easily contained its olympic-sized pool.
Medea Beaumont situated herself at the bar and poured herself a Beaumont whiskey from a crystal jar. Bad Religion was playing, and to any astute observer, the oldest Beaumont seemed to absorb and reflect its moodiness. A peal of laughter split the atmosphere and she visibly winced.
"I love your dress." The dead voice belonged to a dark-haired, pale girl who appeared next to Medea. She had formal wizarding robes on her petite body and a blank, bored and slightly hostile look on her face. Medea stared at her for a minute, matching the interaction aura that the other had initiated.
"Pansy Parkinson," the girl said, as if Medea had asked.
"Whiskey." Medea offered her a glass and Pansy took it.
"Nice name, Beaumont."
"Family tradition, first-born thing." Medea smiled darkly at herself and tipped her glass back.
"Wonderful. Meet my friends."
Medea spent the next unwanted minutes being introduced to what she gathered was the elite kids of the elite, mostly Slytherins. She didn't bother remembering any of their names and made it clear with her short, vague answers that her only responsibility was to bartend. Besides, her younger sister Esrea was more than happy to entertain them, especially the hot boys.
But Pansy was right.
Her dress was awesome.
She tipped her glass back.
She wanted them to leave.
All of them.
It was almost four in the morning and even though it was still dark out, Medea could feel the dew in the air as she stood on the balcony. The air tasted slightly burnt from the extravagant magical fireworks display, the climax of the evening. Caprice had, as usual, out-done herself.
Few couples were still on the ballroom floor, most slow dancing. The rest of the wizards and witches were gathered around in alcoves playing chess, sipping beverages, or just simply talking. Still, the atmosphere was stifling. She could feel the presence of the people pounding against her skull, a built-up pressure that was draining any coherency left from her mind.
But it had been a success, and Caprice was sure to be happy for the next week or so.
Enough to keep her out of my fucking hair, anyway.
The metal railing Medea leaned against pressed painfully into her stomach and she shifted uncomfortably, but was too tired to stand on her own.
The first morning bird chirped and she cursed its noise internally, still shell-shocked from the display.
Medea nursed the last of her countless glasses, concentrating on the muted buzzing rattling her body. She was past the pleasant, relaxed stage and was bordering angry-drunk.
The stars and constellations were different here. She hated them, hated the same beauty that lied to her the way her family and house lied- we haven't changed, we're the same, this isn't any different from America and if you don't agree or aren't happy you're a picky bitch.
"Well fuck you," she said aloud, wincing at the sound of her own voice.
Not that she was in a state of mind to formulate her thoughts cohesively, but Medea instinctively despised the entire guest list. She had expected a bunch of elitist snobs, like in America, but with British accents, and that was exactly what they were- nothing more, nothing less. They drank her family's wine, ate the imported cuisine, danced and laughed and cow-towed to the Minister and her family and it was just like in America but inexplicably so much fucking worse.
A winged creature flew towards Medea, and just seeing her was enough to make Medea feel like she had been suddenly hugged (but by someone she actually liked).
"Morgan Morai, where in hell have you been the whole evening?"
A slender, smooth-furred black bat the size of a kitten beat the air with her wings to halt herself in front of Medea, creating a warm breeze that caressed her familiar's face.
Morgan perched on Medea's shoulder and nuzzled her jaw as an affectionate greeting, licking the corners of her mouth for the alcohol.
"Bitch," Medea thought affectionately, stroking the silky black head with her index finger. She felt slightly relaxed for the first time the whole evening.
"Medea?" Who was that? "What is that on your shoulder?"
She turned to face an albino-pale boy. Morgan hissed at him, arching her ruff aggressively.
Malfoy (that's his name, Pansy introduced him) raised his hands, smirking at the comically fierce little creature. "Woah, I didn't mean to startle it."
"It?" Medea raised her left brow, or tried to, anyway. "She can understand you. Draco Malfoy, meet my familiar, Morgan Morai."
Morgan gave him a last huff, relaxed her fur, pulled her wings back in and settled down to keep a slitted eye on Malfoy.
He looked unimpressed. "A bat."
She nodded, trying to scratch Morgan's head but just shoving her off. "Oops." Medea blinked as Morgan huffed and settled on the banister. "My dad has her mother- and his dad her grandmother, and so on, back up to the very first Beaumont, a celtic Druid. Sort of a first-born Beaumont thing."
"A bat."
She tilted her head with a half-smile but the whole world spun so she just held still. "A bat."
A bat, Morgan huffed somewhere in the recesses' of Medea's coherent mind.
"Draco!" A shrill, high voice wafted out the doors.
Medea waited for him to say goodbye, that it was nice to meet her- the usual. But instead he took a half-step forward and just stared at her intensely, gray eyes searing through black like he could read her mind.
She recognized her body freezing up but felt detached, slurred and disoriented as her heart pumped wildly. What was he going to do? Why was he here?
He turned and left without a word.
As she watched his back disappear, she remembered to be thankful that Angelis had taught her Occlumency since she was a young child, although she doubted he was skilled in Legilimens.
Weird little fucker.
Medea leaned over the railing and threw up.
A/N Updating this whole fucking thing! You really grow a ton as a writer in a year and a half, fuck. Leave your hate and your love in the comment box, if you please!
And thanks to my beta Ser Serendipity for being willing to go back over this first chapter with me!