An AN to NB (!!!!!) Due to Site Reguations, Caradoc's letters have been broken up into separate chapters instead of forming their own. That means you need to go back and read chapter 2 and 3 again or you will be totally lost. Thankyou for your patience! Love to you all!
While not a prolific writer, Dearborn wrote well and vividly. Even more compelling however, are the dramatic changes one can map out by studying his letters over the years. Clearly his relationship, not only to Minerva, but his parents, was tempestuous. His fiery nature inspired those around him, but may have contributed to his downfall also…
September 1940
Dear Dad,
Well, I'm back at Hogwarts, and ready for summer already. There are however, certain advantages to being an upperclassman, which I am beginning to appreciate. I was, of course, admitted at last to the Slytherin Brotherhood, and was pleasantly surprised at the level of luxury bequeathed to us by our predecessors. You know I can't commit anything more than that to paper, I'll tell you the real stuff at Christmas, yeh?
Thanks again for the terrific summer. I don't think we've ever really talked before. Hope the healers have managed to find a cure for your cursed leg by now. I'm sure you'll be up and about in no time, and the Wizengamot will be begging for you to come back to them!
Your loving son,
Caradoc
December 1940
Mother dear,
Are you keeping tabs on me?
I admit that I have escorted the lovely Selena Nott to Hogsmeade once or thrice, Sylvia Boot to a one Quidditch match and the admittedly exotic Indira Patil to another, but it is Persephone Prewett – possibly the most beautiful girl in Hogwarts – who accompanies me to the Yule Ball.
Your sources are prone to exaggeration, Mother. My attentions have not been so pronounced as to warrant talk of betrothal. If I may be so forward, I would like to repeat – again – that I will oversee such negotiations myself. I am aware of my obligations as the last Dearborn heir.
Your loving son,
Caradoc
February 1941
Father,
I was beginning to wonder if Patroclus had been waylaid – I sent him to you weeks ago. Her name is Sophia McKinnon, and she's definitely something. Plus, she's a Gryffindor, so I had to actually make an effort this time. I'll let you know about Easter
Your loving son,
Caradoc
May 1941
Dad,
Yes..it was about a girl.. again. Sorry you had to come into the school, but I since you did… you really should have seen the other fellow!
Your loving son,
Caradoc
May 1941
Dearest Mother,
My eye is fine, thanks for asking. Isn't that part of the maternal instinct package? I definitely don't remember anything about not letting the school nurse use magic on your son when he 'lowers himself to muggle dueling over some chit' though.
See, I do listen when you lecture.
I'm sorry. That was rude. May I reiterate that I did have a good reason for it? You raised me to be a gentleman, and my sense of chivalry demanded I defend a lady's honour.
So there.
Your loving son,
Caradoc
P. S. I'm serious mother. I couldn't let him talk about her that way. CD
May 1941
Dad,
It wasn't Persephone Prewett, Acantha Lestrange, Sophia McKinnon, Indira Patil, Sylvia Boot or Selena Nott.
So please, for the love of Salazar, stop bragging to their fathers. The lady's name shall remain unmentioned.
Your loving son,
Caradoc
June 1941
Dad,
Not telling. Seriously.
Your loving son,
Caradoc
June 1941
Dad, and Mother, since I know you will read this
I don't want to discuss it
Your loving son,
Caradoc
Christmas is an ancient tradition that has been revered as a time for family for thousands of years. As the year 1943 drew to a close, some families were reunited, others torn further apart. As the world plunged further into darkness, still others clung to each other with desperation, as if by gripping tightly enough to their flesh and blood they could shelter them from the oncoming storm through sheer force of will and ignore the fragility of the future.
Those in other Departments who specialize in the inner workings of the human mind tell me that it is memories linked to strong emotion that one remembers most clearly. Perhaps for this reason there was such an abundance of material to be harvested from the memories of the Christmas of 1943 – the first of many Christmas's to be darkened by a Wizarding War.
Verse One: Christmas Eve with the Meadows
Juliet hummed to herself, slightly ahead of the beat blaring from the wireless. Christmas jingles had filled the air for the last few days; she smiled at the festive harmony around her and tried to make it reach her eyes. Her father was still at the pub, she had barely seen him since returning home, but she could hear her mother bustling about the kitchen, hovering over the cook's shoulder nervously. Juliet herself was attempting to decorate the sprawling, scraggly Christmas tree that took up a large part of their parlour. She was aided by four of her siblings, though the youngest, Ophelia, contented herself with sucking her thumb furiously as she gazed, half curious, half fearful, at this tall blonde 'lady' so irreconcilable with the scruffy hoodlum of the past.
With a pang, Juliet realized how seldom she had been home in the past few years. Most of the year was spent at Hogwarts, most holidays alternated between Min and Amy. Was it any wonder she now felt a stranger?
An automobile screeched to a halt outside their cottage, with a raucous shriek, another blonde tumbled through the door. Portia Meadows – the first victim of Mrs. Jane Meadows' fondness for the Bard – threw herself onto a settee and surveyed her younger siblings with disdain. The beauty of the family, and the eldest now that William had immigrated to Australia, she was also their pride. The large diamond ring she sported was more than any mere milkman's daughter had a right to expect. But then, Portia was no mere anything. Her eyes, the same almond shape of Juliet's, were not a washed out blue but a deep sea green which stopped men in their tracks. Her locks had a burnished sheen absent in her straw haired siblings, her figure well formed and shown to advantage in her tailored outfit.
Juliet wondered where, exactly, the money was coming from to pay for her sisters wardrobe. The only way she could attend Hogwarts was because of the Albus Dumbledore fund for financially disadvantaged Muggleborn children, and even then, most of her things were second hand. Simply feeding and clothing his many children took up a substantial portion of Mr. Meadow's paycheck, and his time at the pub further depleted it. The glossy presents heaped under the tree were only for the children under ten, and even then, Juliet suspected they were basic necessities or bought on credit, requiring her parents to scrimp and save for the next few months. How would they pay for Portia's wedding? Was Portia sweet talking her fiancée into that, too?
Her sister caught her quizzical glance and straightened, doning a sunny smile. After seventeen years, Juliet still wasn't sure if it was genuine.
"Do you have a beau at that school of yours, sweety,?" drawled Portia, stroking her ring unconsciously.
Juliet blushed slightly as even Helena stopped squabbling with Imogen to peer at her inquisitively.
"I'm at Hogwarts," she stressed the name, knowing it irritated her conservative sister "to get an education, not find a husband'
"What good is an education if you can't get a guy though,?" fifteen year old Desdemona asked blankly.
Juliet spluttered incoherently, unable even to begin. Before she could order her thoughts, her mother bustled into the crowded room.
"Oh girls, you've done the tree beautifully," she beamed. "Now, hurry upstairs and change for dinner- off you go then! Miranda, wash off that lipstick before your father gets home! Des darling, please wear a dress that is a decent length this time…."
Juliet could still hear her from the small room she shared with Portia and Desdemona. Silently changing into a simple white shift dress, she escaped the room before the walls closed in on her and trapped her with the sisters still preening before the mirror.
There was nowhere to go.
The country town they lived in was tiny, anywhere she wandered there would be too many questions about 'that funny school'.
'Why didn't Portia get a scholarship then? Sure and she's got the twice the brains of that Juliet, and the elder, too, innit?"
Everywhere she went, she was 'Portia's sister', the trademark Meadows nose giving her away. There was no park, the village green was busy, and she missed the great rolling hills around Hogwarts with a passion.
The thin walls of the overcrowded house struggled to hold the entire Meadows family. Amy and Min – how many of her thought began that way? Amy and Min had struggled to get used to sharing a dorm, but Juliet, after the first few weeks of homesickness, had reveled in the dizzying luxury of having her own bed. She wondered for the first time if Portia had felt the same. Had that been a catalyst for her change? What had happened to the tender big sister who had whispered stories to distract her from her parents' fights, who had sung her to sleep and shown her that there was no monster under the bed? How had the sophisticated young flapper with a bob, who smoked and went to dances, who was engaged and paraded it – replaced her?
Perhaps returning here had been a mistake. When the seriousness of the war had dawned on her, when she understood Grindelwald'd purpose – why she, Juliet was so suddenly the recipient of furtive stares and the subject of whispered conversation, she had been furious. Her blazing anger was fuelled not by pride, but fear.
Mudblood.
She had rejected the safety of a Christmas at the pureblood, respectable Bones household, left Min on her own at Hogwarts to recklessly flaunt her blood status.
And she had found, instead, that she no longer belonged here. Her family did not know her, and though they might love her, they felt the distance between her and them as keenly as she could.
She was caught between worlds, one that didn't want her, and one she couldn't want.
This holiday she had had it forced upon her how much she relied on magic. She was seventeen, a meaningless number in the Muggleworld – not the sweet fresh youth of sixteen, or the responsible adulthood of eighteen – but a number that meant everything in her world. She was used to using magic to dry her hair, close doors, summon her matching socks and the slow serenity of the Muggle life no longer satisfied her.
Yet she had come, and despite her boredom and sense of alienation, she was not sorry. A clean break, they say, is best. A fresh slate and all. However much she loved her family, she understood that this place was no longer home. Even more significantly, she Knew that this would be the last time she ever returned there. She was wishing she had been born with a happier gift than a vague foresight, the ability to fly perhaps, or maybe even some singing talent when a silver gossamer form uncurled into existence before her, taking the shape of a magnificent, heavily striped tiger.
She froze. She was not taking NEWT level Defense Against the Dark Arts herself, but Min and Amy used their Patroni so much it was impossible not to recognize a Patronus when she saw one. Its creator, however, was a mystery. Amelia produced a graceful, achingly beautiful swan which glided and spread out its wings. Min had been a trifle smug after her own Patronus was revealed to be a 'lioness'. Juliet privately thought it was more like an overgrown tabby, but no one had dared point this out.
The tiger padded silently and disdainfully towards her. The voice that issued from it electrified her to the core,
"Come at once," he ordered. "Minerva needs you"
She nodded blindly, not even considering the possibility of a trap and immediately went for her coat. It was hanging in the cloakroom, and on her way to it, she passed her family congregated around the dinner table, already started without her. She paused for a moment and watched them laughing, jostling, stuffing their faces with a rare good feed. A single person noticed as she crept past, irrevocably choosing between the forks in her road, and a tear slipped down one weathered cheek. Like magic, Seeing passes down the generations. Juliet Meadows was not the only almost Seer in her family.