Exordium: Freedom
"Summer is such a lovely time, isn't it?" WARNINGS: DARK! Angst, suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, LGBT OC. Don't like, don't read.
Tenth Reading: Nine of Swords
8-8
The Nine of Swords suggests that dark thoughts and disturbing feelings are weighing you down (and keeping you up at night). You are worrying excessively about a situation, and your negative thoughts are getting the better of you, leaving you stressed and anxious. The more you associate with your fears, the more they will rule your life. As you obsess over what's not working, the more anxious you become and the more you will worry. It becomes a negative cycle where one awful thought leads to another, and another, and another until they overwhelm you. Just as the nine swords are stacked upon each other on the wall, so too are your negative thoughts.
Be careful because the fear and worry in the Nine of Swords can become a self-fulfilling prophecy. As you obsess over what may go wrong, you are more likely to manifest your worst-case scenario because you are inadvertently acting in ways that support your negative thoughts. For example, you may worry that your partner will cheat on you, even though you've found no signs of infidelity. The more you stress about this potential outcome, the more your anxiety pushes away your partner, until one day, he feels so disconnected from you that he starts a new relationship with someone else. When you are repeating negative thoughts in your mind, you run the risk of manifesting them in your life. So, the Nine of Swords asks you to break the cycle. Every time a negative emotion comes up, replace it with a positive one instead.
8-8
[Take me home]
The train ride is suffered in silence. Lucivera's done little other than stare blankly, and adding my recent nightmares of anyone, everyone, just bursting into my room possessed and ready to do unspeakable things…I've never been more grateful school is let out early, thanks to the cancelled exams.
At King's Cross, we gather our things and head out onto the platform. Mum is already waiting, but papa already let us know he had to work—any mention of a Dark Lord, especially one like Riddle, sends all of the Ministry into a frenzy, so he needs to tame that wild beast just now.
It's far too chaotic for my tastes, so I'm all too happy when mum suggests we disapparate—after making appointments with the Malfoys and Blacks, and a few others I don't even recognize.
Tizzy takes my hand, and the scene explodes into my bedroom. Honestly, what's the point of sitting on that bloody train for eight hours, if we just apparate home anyway.
I flop onto my bed, my crooked hat flopping wherever it pleases. Tizzy sets about, putting my things away for me, and Clara lets Justine and Allison know we're home, locking the door as soon as they're in my room.
"We're not letting you slip back into depression, Miss Sarah." My shoes slip off me, my socks soon follow. One article at a time, the girls strip me, and soon they have my lying naked, on my tummy, as they massage every part of me to help me to unwind after a long day.
I'm turned onto my back. "Lucivera is in good hands, Miss Sarah." Justine leans in, kissing me on the lips, soft and gentle. "Madam Black assured Lord Scribe she'd care for her."
"And you're safe here." Allison nudges my chin so I'll look at her. She kisses me just as softly. "We'll keep you safe, Miss Sarah."
8-8
[Down by the lakeshore]
The sky is a gorgeous blue, not a cloud to be seen as we loiter about. Waffle sniffs at everything in sight, her forked tail pointing straight up as she studies everything around me. Muninn stares at most everything from her perch on my shoulder. As for Jude? My snowy owl keeps circling above us, as if keeping an eye out for trouble. Or for mice—I hate those things. We've a picnic basket, though I've been forbidden to peek inside; Tizzy is most insistent on that.
Allison and Justine run about, their joyous laughter and squealed cries filling my whole world as they take turns piggybacking each other. Even as Tizzy keeps having to Scour their sundresses from all the grass stains. Deciding I've had enough, I chase after the pair of them, pouncing on them and rolling the three of us in the grass, to the sound of the three of us cackling with laughter.
We make our way down to the lake, and we set up a picnic blanket under a rowan tree—the one that should still have my old tree house. I help Muninn up onto a low-hanging branch, so she can get used to being up high again. She's doing so much better, and her feather's mostly regrown, but she seems unwilling to fly, for some reason.
The four of us sit on the blanket, overlooking the rolling lake. Dunno what it's called, never cared to ask. But there's a line of buoys demarking where we can safely swim, and a floating platform bobbing in the gentle waves. A shame we don't have swimsuits, in case we're tempted to go for a dip.
Justine hands out wooden goblets and Allison carefully pours everyone some iced tea, to help us cool off. And we just, laze about.
"I love it here," Justine says, dreamily. "Grew up in Brighton. Too crowded, and nowhere to be a witch."
"New Castle wasn't much better." Allison rolls her eyes. "Sure, there were some Wizarding pubs, but they don't let kids in." I would have hated it just for the amount of people.
We keep chatting, exchanging little titbits of our past, and sipping our ice tea as we go. "What about you, Sarah? What was it like growing up here?"
"It should have been lovely." I look out over the lake, wondering at how blurry it seems. "But I spent most of my life struggling. Trying to be myself."
"That must have been hard." Clara drapes her arm around me, her warmth comforting even in the heat of the afternoon.
"It was frustrating. And tiresome. And annoying. And depressing. And I always felt like I couldn't do anything right. I mean, even something as simple as drinking tea, I had to be so overly aware of every little thing to not come over as too girly or mum would get on my case."
"Given how girly you tend to be, that must have happened a lot." Justine lays her hand on my arm, smiling just for me.
I nod, rolling my eyes. "I think that's why I stopped talking. It just took too much energy to keep everything in mind." Waffle trots over and plops into my lap, already zoning out. Justine and Clara cup my cheeks, wiping away my tears. And Allison is quick to pour me some more ice tea, mostly to show her support best she can. I smile through the tears, gratitude welling up in me. They each sport goofy little smiles, getting a little teary themselves; no doubt sensing everything.
"I love you girls."
8-8
[Friends are always welcome]
"Air!" I fly at her the second she steps out of the floo fireplace. "I'm so glad you came."
"Glad to be 'ere." She hugs me every bit as fiercely. Another huff and her elder sister comes out. "Sorry. Mum's being a bit much, so Angelina's hoping to hide out wiv us?"
"It's quite alright." I pull back and curtsey for Angelina, who smiles and bows her head as she curtseys. "We're still doing Diagon Alley?"
"And Muggle London." Air beams, but the joy quickly drains away. "You sure it's alright? Your dad seems…protective."
I snort. "Carrie and Uncle Sirius will meet us in Diagon Alley. And knowing papa, he'll either be there himself, or he'll send an Auror or ten to keep an eye on us." The Johnson sisters share a look, wanting to be supportive but clearly aching to laugh at my expense. I roll my eyes. "Don't be surprised if the Malfoys 'happen to turn up' at some point, by the way."
"Yeah. I'm so sorry about that," Angelina says, hand to her heart and giving me a heartfelt pained expression.
8-8
[Light shopping]
We enter the store. 'Blockbusters'. Could be for demolition, but there seems to be a bunch of pictures fixed to the walls. Likely charmed, given many of them give off sounds. Angelina and Air seem quite unperturbed, so I don't pay it much mind. We loiter about, looking at some of the funny shaped still pictures—why only the larger ones move is Muggle-logic. We don't stay too long, thankfully—given Luna doesn't know how to not speak her mind.
We do the whole window-shopping thing, each of us carrying a small bag with some things we thought were cute. But mostly we're just chatting amongst ourselves, and Tonks keeps suggesting we check out some themed store. I'm mostly amused that papa sent Mad-eye Moony and his apprentice, though I'm grateful it's Tonks.
We buy some un-enchanted gold and silver rings and we get our ears pierced, so we of course buy a few dozen earrings—only thirty pounds each. I'm not sure how much thirty pounds is to a Muggle, but papa gave me like a thousand pounds to spend as I please. Clara decides we need 'playing cards', and they're dirt cheap, so let her go nuts. Luna was right, Muggle money is too odd to be real.
There's also an electronics store, but I see little value in buying anything in there just now.
After we've had our fun, we head back to Diagon Alley, where the real fun is set to begin. "But first," Tonks announces, wringing her hands the second we're passed the barrier, and her hair and face turning bright green—likely mimicking one of those funny pictures from that weird demolition shop. "We need to get some ice cream." No one has the heart to disagree.
Everyone eagerly pours into the ice cream parlour and claim a once quiet corner for ourselves. "I still can't believe your dad," Tonks complains, rolling her eyes. "I'm grateful for an easy assignment, don't get me wrong. But still."
Air elbows me, her whole face lit up with amusement. I only roll my eyes. "She's his princess. Of course he's a bit much," Air says, and the Johnson sisters share a look, rolling their eyes even as they smile—their father's no different it seems.
"Tell me about it." Carrie gives Uncle Sirius an amused look, but he shrugs it off as if it's to be expected. "Still. I'm more interested in that waffle-flavoured ice cream?"
"You—" Air looks to me and throws her head back, covering her mouth and laughing. "Of course you did!"
"Sarah?" Allison gives me a begging look.
"We need your Hogwarts letters, or Mr Ollivander won't be allowed to sell." Allison and Justine share a look, almost ready to jump out of them shoes, so excited. Air looks to me, brow furrowed. "They want to get their wands."
"I see," the man I've yet to be introduced to speaks up. He's mostly been chatting quietly with Uncle Sirius. "Are you girls going to Hogwarts as well?"
"We hope to," Justine says, smiling as she looks to me. She's hoping to get into Gryffindor, not that I'm surprised by that.
"What a coincidence. I just so happen to be the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor."
"A pleasure," Air says, nudging me with her elbow for some reason. I look to her, brow knitted. "So your dad arranged even the DADA teacher, eh?"
I spoon up some more of treat, ignoring the insinuation. Mostly because I can't exactly deny it.
"Actually. That's my doing," Uncle Sirius says. "Remus has been one of my best mates since Hogwarts. And he's Carrie's godfather."
Angelina shakes her head, covering her mouth with her hand. "And mum thought us leaving the house would be dangerous."
I blink. "Dangerous?"
"What, you didn't hear?" Air wraps her arm around my elbow. "Unhinged… Deranged? Some nutter broke out of Azkaban."
"Lestrange," the professor corrects. "Bellatrix Lestrange. She's a bit of an oddball, but she's crafty and very powerful. First to successfully escape."
8-8
[Dinner for two?]
Papa bursts into the fireplace like an explosion. He looks harried and worn, eyes drawn and lips pursed. "Come on then," I say, taking him by the elbow. I guide him straight to the dining table and clap. Tizzy apparates, setting down his plate with mashed potato, rare steak, and a leafy salad on the side. And she pours him some wine or other that no doubt compliments the meal.
Papa smiles and plops into his chair, getting right down to it as I take my seat beside him. He's only three hours later than usual, so everyone's eaten. And while I'm sure he'd not mind dining alone, I'd rather not let him.
"Girls?" My handmaidens start humming a soft, soothing rhythm, with Clara vocalizing something unintelligible. It's just the right setting to really help papa unwind. "I know you cannot speak to most of it. But if you wish to talk, I'll listen."
Papa cuts his steak, propping a bloody chunk into his eagerly awaiting mouth. Even as he chews, he mixes the blood in his plated with the rest of his meal. I'm so glad we picked those blood cherries for his salad and steak sauce; papa looks like he's walking on clouds.
While papa ravages his meal, no doubt famished from all the extra work for either that dreadful Pettigrew's misdeeds or whichever miscreants demand his undivided attention, I keep his crystal wineglass half full, the old fashion way.
Bite by bite, the worst of papa's day eases away, until at last all I see is that sated little smile as he props a blood cherry into his mouth. He washes it all down with some wine and breathes a relieved sigh.
I kiss his brow and gather his silverware and his plate, letting him enjoy his wine while I bring the things to the kitchen and wash them, dry them, and set them away. When I get back, papa's sprawled out on the couch, happily sipping his wine.
Nothing wrong with shameless cuddling. I doff my glasses, straddle his lap, and lay on him. Papa's hand idly strokes up and down my back, his heart set to a steady march as he gazes into the fire.
"Whatever did I do to deserve my princess?"
I smile. "By spoiling me rotten." Papa's chest quakes. He fiddles with my hairpins, likely wanting to comb his fingers through my hair, so I pull them out for him and loosen my braid. It's going on nine, so I don't mind him making a mess of my hair just now.
Fire's soft crackling punctuates gentle slurps. Ghouls cry out in the stillness of the night. But none of it is as soothing as papa's breathing, as the drum of his heartbeat, as the gentle smacking of wine-stained kisses pressed to my brow, as he musses my hair time and again.
8-8
[Starting on the wrong foot]
Justine, in Ollivander's, holds the maroon wand. Red oak with phoenix feather, thirteen inches, unyielding. "Brother to your wand, Ms Scribe. Together, your spells will synergize."
Allison curtseys to Madam Pomfrey, presenting her wand. "Hawthorn with dittany stalk? You mean to be a healer."
An army stands before us, lobbing globs of spells skyward, the downpour so bright it turns night to day. The stone bridge is overrun. Giants swing massive sickles. Trolls thwack everything in reach with their oversized clubs. Spiders the size of horses storm the grounds.
Clara casts a barrier, holds them at bay as Allison heals the injured. Spell buckles under the combined onslaught. Justine and I lash out with Killing Curses, and Imperius the giants to do our bidding. Black flames erupt from our wands in stereo, the tongues taking shape as dragons and swallowing my enemies whole, turning them to ash.
I jerk up, drenched in sweat, gasping for air, eyes wide and wild and eager to find myself alone. Another one?
"Sarah." Clara tugs me into her arms, lays my head on her chest. "Shh shh shh shh. It's alright, Sarah. Just a dream." Fingers comb through my hair, but comfort doesn't find me.
A loud whingeing, like a rooster being set afire. Papa's alarm. It's five-thirty. I slink out of Clara's embrace and get out of bed, wrapping my night robe around me to stay warm. I head downstairs and into the kitchen. I fill the coffee maker with water and carefully scoop up the ground java, setting it to work with the little orange light blazing bright.
Fridge door opens, a single carton of milk is taken. Eggs and flour are set beside the milk. The waffle iron, retrieved from its cupboard, finds its way onto the counter, along with a mixing bowl and a large whisk.
The shuffle of fluffy slippers. A chair drags loudly against tiles. Papa plops into his customary spot just as the coffee maker chokes on the last of the water. I grab his favoured mug, carefully pouring his cup o' magic and adding the cream and sugar just the way he likes it, and bring his good morning to him, clanking it gently between his awaiting hands.
"Morning, papa." I press a kiss to his brow and get back to making fresh waffles for him.
"Bad dream?" My hand freezes, egg almost ready to crack open. "Talk to me, princess."
I crack the egg, pouring its insides over the already measured and sifted flour. "A war." Another two eggs join the slaughter. "The battle was at Hogwarts. I was there. Clara. Justine. Allison. But I didn't recognize the other faces. Justine and I were casting Unforgivables, as well as this dreadful one with black fire that turned everything it touched to ash." With the last of the ingredients in the bowl, I whisk them all into a fluffy batter. I really should just do this by spell, but it feels better by hand.
"The curious bit," whisking pauses, "is that the dream started with Justine getting her wand, and Allison presenting herself to Madam Pomfrey to start healing training." I shrug and shake my head, whisking the batter until I'm satisfied with it. I plug in the waffle iron, letting it warm up as I fetch papa's mug and pour him his second helping. "Anyway, it's been pretty common lately. Always little bits of my day repeating, followed by some weird bits of war and Dark Arts." I spill in a bit more cream, and only two spoonfuls of sugar, stirring it before bringing it back to papa to help wake him up.
"Does it worry you?"
I blink, gently clinking the mug between his hands once again. "I. Haven't thought much on it, to be honest." Hurrying back to the waffle iron, I pour in the batter and close the funny contraption. A weird sort of magic, you put in the mixture and ambrosia comes out. "I mean. How likely is it that I'd be in a war? Let alone being there without you."
"So if I ask you to stay out of it." Cold dread shoots up my spine. My hand clutches my robe, just over my heart. "Will you?"
I swallow hard, trying to keep the bile where it belongs. The waffle iron's green light flickers on. I grab a plate and a fork, transferring the fresh waffles onto it and grab the apple syrup en route to the table.
Papa takes my hands the second I set my burden down, and he peers up at me, his eyes begging me to say yes. "Will you?"
"I'd be allowed to hide people away? Keep them safe?"
"If that's what it takes."
"How much time do I have to work with?"
Papa cups my cheeks, his tears welling up. "Please answer me."
He worries. That means these are visions, not meaningless dreams. I was at Hogwarts, in my Gryffindor robes, so still a student. Spells I don't know, cast with an ease that suggests proficiency. So I have years still. Cashel and Brennan aren't there, so that suggests my sixth or seventh year, or perhaps they simply opted out—far more likely.
I pull away, pouring more batter into the waffle iron. "I don't like the idea of fighting. But I like the idea of people dying even less."
"I'll buy you a plot of land. With a manor large enough to house any you wish. Get you more elves to grow food."
I giggle, without meaning to. "I'm just thinking out loud." Figuring it couldn't hurt, I pour myself some coffee, and join papa at the table with my waffles once they're done. I stir my coffee, righting my glasses. "Is there something I can do to delay the war?"
"Sarah. I don't want you mixed up in this. At all. Not delaying, not fighting, not peacekeeping. Scribes don't tangle themselves in Wizarding politics."
"Alright, papa." I smile, nodding solemnly. "I will not get involved."
"Good." Papa sighs, relieved. "Good."
I wedge out a slice of waffle, covered in syrup, and—
"I'm taking you to the Ministry of Magic. Today."
"Why?"
"To purchase a sizeable plot of land, of course. Tell me, did you prefer Godric's Hollow, Hogsmeade? Oh, perhaps Tinworth? Lovely view of sea and I believe the Weasleys own a house there? Or maybe you prefer Ireland? Could get a lovely stretch of land outside of Cork. Or maybe Kenmare? Much quieter out there and right by the sea, or up in the Caha Mountains if you prefer?"
"Tinworth sounds lovely." I smile, shaking my head at how over the top papa can be sometimes.
"Excellent. We'll have a look-see. And we'll scout it, of course. Maybe set up some simple enchantments. Get a vanishing cabinet so you can get there and back as you please." He takes a larger than average bite, proof he isn't really paying his breakfast any mind.
"Papa, what's this about?"
"Wha…" Papa quickly chews and swallows. "Whatever do you mean, princess?" The 'hurt innocence' doesn't suit him.
"I know you. You're up to something. If you want me to cooperate, shouldn't I know what it is?"
His shoulders shake as he grabs his coffee mug, only to frown at it, already empty. I carefully take it from him, and head over to the counter to refill him once again.
"Lestrange, Bellatrix. Née Black. Madam Malfoy's sister. And Madam Tonks's, though I doubt the two are on good terms." I pour the mug barely half-full, and add considerably more cream and barely any sugar at all, stirring carefully as I make my way back to papa. "She was, and is, Riddle's most fanatic devotee. A blood-purist of the highest calibre. And deranged to the point even I cannot predict her moves."
"And this has…what to do with me?" I ask, curious.
"You? Nothing. Mr Potter? Everything."
I narrow my eyes. Mia and Ron's best friend—and Mia's liege, to boot. Inexorable bound to House Weasley, to House Black. But… "I don't understand. How do the Scribes tie in?"
"I'm the one that proved Peter Pettigrew betrayed the Potters, the night Riddle disappeared. They wanted to take down another Order of the Phoenix member, in Sirius Black, attempted to frame him. Now, follow the breadcrumbs. Sirius Black not only didn't side with Riddle, but holds Muggleborns and Squibs in the same esteem as Purebloods.
"Add Mr Potter, who's responsible for Riddle's downfall. And Sirius reconnecting with Andromeda Tonks, who'd been disinherited and branded a blood-traitor?"
"You want the Blacks to take residence on my land."
"As do you." I nod, unwilling to disagree. "Danielle is expecting. This is exactly the wrong time to have her stressed. As is your mother."
My hands fly up, covering my nose and mouth. "I'm. Gonna be a big sister?"
"Yes. It's why I cannot invite the Blacks here. They. Never got along." I snort. "But more than that. I'd rather not take chances. So I've contacted the Grangers, the Johnsons, and the Vanes."
My hands lower, my brow furrow.
"Malik Johnson is one of my most trusted Aurors. Jerome Vane is the other. I'm stationing them to guard Sirius and Danielle, along with their wives, to keep her company." I cock an eyebrow. Papa sighs. "They arrested Lestrange and her husband. And most curiously, Lucius Malfoy accused them of stealing office supplies. They're currently under review."
"And therefore suspended?"
"Suspended and under house arrest. They are exactly where they can be predicted."
So Air's papa can be picked off. Slaughtered. Her mum as well, no doubt. Little point in leaving witnesses, and it sends for a proper message to those that would defy her master, or 'accost' her. "Find them guilty. Fire them both."
8-8
[Noble trappings]
We enter the Ministry of Magic Atrium through the floo network, the foot traffic so heavy it almost makes me itch. Clara checks her new pocket watch, tracking the exact times papa asked her to, though for the love of me, I can't figure out why. But it's the two newly acquired elves that will truly tip the scales for me.
Two dark-skinned wizards carry little boxes filled with odds and ends, coming right towards us, hope in their eyes.
"Lord Scribe, I. We. We didn't do this. You know we didn't."
"I cannot change what's been decided, Johnson," papa says, sorrow in his tone.
"I understand, Lord Scribe. But with—"
"Johnson?" I ask, curious. The man looks to me, his eyes hollow, fearful. He jerks back, looking from papa to me, no doubt seeing the similarities. "As in Ariel and Angelina Johnson?"
"My daughters, Ms Scribe." The man nods, wistful, full of regret. "Air can't seem to stop yammering on about you."
"And you're…currently out of work?"
The man looks down at the box, a collection of medals and trophies he's no doubt earned in his time here. The look in his eyes shows his heart sinking into the soles of his feet.
"I see." I tap my chin.
"Sarah. We've a schedule." The two men stare at Clara, eyes wide, jaws low.
"Quite right. Mr Johnson. I'm to purchase a home. I'll need someone I can trust as vassal and steward. Tell me, are you someone I can trust?"
Mr Johnson's eyes dart about as if tracking all the universe at once, until landing on papa. "Yes, Ms Scribe. You may ask Lord Scribe himself. I am nothing if not loyal, and I would gladly take any vow you desire." He bows low, dropping the box like it doesn't matter. "Though, I have a request?"
"Oh?"
"I would serve you unto my last breath. Provided my wife and children are taken under you mantle as well, My Lady."
"Your daughters Angelina and Ariel, in addition to any yet to be born?"
"Yes, My Lady. As well. I would need my partner, Jerome Vane, along with his wife and his children."
"Hmm. I see what you mean about loyalty." I tap my finger against my chin.
"Sarah. We're dawdling." Mr Johnson and Mr Vane share a look, desperate.
"Very well." I snap my fingers and the two elves step forward. "You will escort Malik Johnson and Jerome Vane to their homes. You will ensure they explain their wives and children the totality of the situation, and aid them in packing all they own. I expect them to join us for dinner. Do I make myself clear?"
"Of course, Madam." The two elves walk over to the men and each take a hand. They disapparate, leaving the box of no doubt broken things where it lies. Tizzy snaps and the box vanishes.
"Ronan. What's going on here?" Lord Malfoy demands, his eyes shining with fury. Ah. That's what the strict timing was about.
"Whatever do you mean?"
"Johnson and Vane were fired. Correct?"
"I would assume so," papa cocks his eyebrow ever so slightly, "given Sarah just appointed Mr Johnson to be her vassal and steward." Papa offers me his elbow. "Come, Sarah. We've an appointment."
8-8
[Consolidating power]
There's a knock at my bedroom door. I sit to the foot of my bed, knowing just what to expect. Tizzy opens. "Mr Johnson and family, and Mr Vane and family to see you, Miss Sarah."
"Let them in." Air rushes right over to me, flinging her arms around me and thanks me over and over and over again, tears tricking down our cheeks.
"Ariel." Mr Johnson clears his throat, jerking Air back. We share a special little smile, knowing he doesn't understand the world he finds himself in nearly as well as she does; she's seen how I am with Clara, after all. Still, Air heads back over to her family.
In the middle, Mr Johnson to my right and Mr Vane to my left. Both men stand in proper three-piece suits; Mr Johnson in neon blue, Mr Vane in canary yellow. Beautifully colourful, just how I like it, with both men having their hair trimmed short. Beside Mr Johnson is Mrs Johnson, no doubt, in a simple housedress and a knowing smile. Her thick, black hair is pulled back into a simple braid, hanging over her shoulder. Angelina is in jeans and a simple top, her much neck-length hair in a ponytail, like she's ready to get to work, and Air follows suit. The three Johnson women are highly amused.
Beside Mr Vane, would be Mrs Vane. Her bushy and wild black hair with a few grey stragglers is elegantly done up, as if she expects to attend a ball, and her elegant canary yellow robe matches both her husband's outfit, and her obvious insinuation this is more than it seems. Beside her is a girl in Mia's year I've seen about the way. A Gryffindor, too—Emma I believe her name was. She wears a golden yellow dress with one-inch pumps and a little handbag. She obviously inherited both her looks and her hair from her mother, along with the same bright brown eyes. The last in line is a girl a year younger than me, but with the same dress as her sister, same shoes, same bag, same hair. Only she has her father's eyes, dark and piercing and always seeming to weigh me.
"My Lady," Mr Johnson bows low, "my wife, Agitha, and my daughters Angelina and Ariel." The ladies curtsey, biting their lips to hide how badly they want to laugh.
"My Lady," Mr Vane bows low, "my wife, Zada, and my daughters Emmaline and Romilda." The ladies curtsey, bowing and tilting their heads to show proper respect.
I stand, curtsey and bow my head, tilting it to show the same respect. It's not their fault, after all. "I am Serenity Clementine Scribe, youngest daughter to Ronan and Deliah, Lord and Madam of House Scribe. Please know, you would not be here, had papa not pre-approved. As such. Relax. You're not here to entertain royalty, just meeting with family."
The Johnson sisters giggle, looking to their father with amusement; the man himself rolls his eyes and shakes his head.
"Now. I understand Mr Johnson—"
"Malik, My Lady."
"Sarah." The men smile, sharing a look as they breathe a sigh.
"Jerome."
"Malik and Jerome were Aurors. As such, it's a safe bet they are wizards. Air, Angelina, and Emma are Gryffindors, so they are without a doubt witches. What of the final three?"
"Ravenclaw." Agitha presents her wand and a rakish smile.
"Gryffindor." Zada presents her wand, bowing and tilting her head with a lopsided grin.
"I haven't gotten my letter, My La—"
"Sarah. But you expect one?"
"I do, Miss Sarah." Well, to be fair it took Clara, Justine, and Allison some time to whittle them down to 'just Sarah'.
"Good. I trust none of you buy into blood-purity claims?" They share a look. The Vanes look confused, but the Johnson ladies roll their eyes and cock an eyebrow. Malik covers his mouth with his hand, his eyes roguishly lit up.
Jerome looks to his partner and the Johnson ladies, a beaming grin overtaking him. "No, Sarah. We care little for it."
"Good. Kanky, you will assist the Johnsons. Pimsey, you will assist the Vanes." Both elves bow and assure me of a whole lot of words I'm not going to listen to just now. "I'll observe vows and forge our blood bond over the coming days. I've no patience for it now, so please don't." Air and Angelina frown, seeming more worried about me than my wording.
"Sorry. Long day. And I've a meeting with the Malfoys in the morning." All ladies give me a pained look, sympathy and understanding the order of the day. "So. Here's what we'll do. Agitha and Zada, if you two could assist mum. After dinner, I'll see to Jerome and Malik. You two will assist papa with whatever he needs. For official purposes, Malik is my vassal and Jerome is his serf. For practical purposes, I will never refer to either of you as such, nor will your families be treated as anything other than kin."
Air and Angelina come rushing over, wrapping me in their arms, both offering to come with me, to distract 'that little toad'. Emma and Romila come just the same, and they ask if there's anything they can do—Emma is quick to point out she can't stand the tosser even as she offers her condolences for the looming engagement.
8-8
[A very different impression]
We apparate onto the familiar terrace, already being greeted by the Malfoys. Lord Malfoy and Mr Malfoy bow elegantly, welcoming us. Though Mr Malfoy's eyes are slightly wider this time. It's hard to blame him, given I've Zada, Agitha, Angelina, Clara, and Emma along this time—and mum, with three of my elves along for the ride—and all of us are dressed in our best.
Mum hugs Madam Malfoy, but the rest of us curtsey and do the proper thing, showing a cold distance. With a little luck, I'll get out of this without having to say a single word. Especially since Clara pestered me until all ladies got three drops of my blood—luckily I don't need to drink any of theirs, for reasons mum and papa are being ANNOYINGLY vague about.
Sarah. Our Hogwarts letters just arrived. Romilda's, Justine's, and mine are in the pile.
As if on cue, an eagle owl flutters onto the terrace and presents Draco with his letter. Mum looks to me, and I nod. "All of them?" mum asks.
Madam Malfoy looks intrigued, no doubt realizing this isn't my full entourage. "Yes, mum."
"Cissy, I'm so sorry Ronan couldn't make it. He's swamped at work. Frankly, we'll be lucky if he gets home in time for supper." Mum does her schmoozing thing, and we make our way into a grand sitting room with cosy seating and a loft ceiling to not make us feel hemmed in. There might even be enough space for Lord and Mr Malfoy's considerable egos.
Angelina and Clara are quick to sit beside me with the other ladies all sticking close to not give anyone the impression I want to be closer to them. Mum keeps on chattering away with Madam Malfoy, and we keep chittering about school and shopping.
"Sarah? Would you mind if I continue with Quidditch?" Angelina asks.
"Not at all." Angelina beams, assuring me she'll do her best to bring Gryffindor the cup this year—indirectly needling a certain worthless Seeker. "What about you?" I turn to Emma.
"Thanks, no. I prefer the frog choir." I smile, assuring her she has my support. "I'm fairly certain Romilda will want to join the duelling club."
"Justine as well," Clara says, smiling. "Professor McGonagall will come the day after tomorrow for summer classes. So they'll get something of a head start."
We just keep going back and forth. Clara asks if we could bother Uncle Sirius about extra classes from Carrie's godfather. And Angelina comments about how she's been hoping for a proper DADA professor for years—completely forgetting I was there when she and her friends were squabbling over Lockhart's cape in that first duelling club meeting.
Mr Malfoy clears his throat, but we keep theorizing about how likely it is for us to get some extra lessons, and Zada and Agitha assure me they'd love to teach us a few tricks as well, and Zada even suggests she knows of a proper side-saddle way to fly she can teach me, since Air let slip how much I hate flying classes.
"You've been rather quiet, Ms Scribe," Lord Malfoy says, just loud enough to be noticeable above our conversation. All eyes are on him, but he barely seems to notice. "How've you been enjoying your summer?"
Ah. He means to gently nudge me into a conversation with him, so he can invite Mr Malfoy at some point. "It's been hectic."
"But productive?" I hate the man, no point in denying it. But he has an old world charm that's hard to ignore, nor is his poise to be scoffed at. He looks right at home sauntering into our conversation and dominating it, but unlike his oafish son, he does so tactfully.
"Quite."
"Please forgive her, Lucius. She's getting better, but she's been tight-lipped from birth."
"It's quite alright, Deliah, dear." Lord Malfoy's eyes smile, as if accepting me as a challenge. "Draco was most. Animated about your duel. Have you any practice in the art?"
"Mm." I nod.
"Truly remarkable. I take it your brothers taught you?" I nod, interlacing my fingers and laying my hands in my lap. "I presume you'll be training your handmaidens much the same way?"
My ladies all smile, their gazes flickering to me knowing I want them to shine as bright as midday sun.
"Yes, I suspected as much. Tell me, my dear. You strike me as astute, much like Ronan. What do you make of a plausible engagement with Draco?"
My gaze flickers to mum, who wordlessly and profusely begs for me not to make a scene.
"One who cannot earn the approval of a lady's friends, is not apt to sway her heart," I say. Better than 'I think he wants to tongue-wrestle with Potter', and mum certainly heard that's what I think.
Angelina and Clara hug my elbows, and the others make a showing of including themselves in the group Mr Malfoy will have to impress before I'll care if he slips in his own entrails and divebombs off a cliff.
"Yes, there is wisdom in that." Lord Malfoy trails his finger along his jawline and taps his sharp chin. "Is there something you'd rather he do or not do, perchance?"
"Ms Black is a dear friend. She sees Mr Potter as her brother." Mr Malfoy flinches, no doubt understanding I'll hear of any and all his missteps in that regard. But Lord Malfoy, his calculating gaze belies his seemingly relaxed posture.
There isn't a doubt in my mind he craves to have the Scribe's blood magics, and particularly our binds that we've long been revered, and dreaded, for. And especially the ease with which I seem to gather people.
"And the Weasleys…?"
"Ginny is my best friend, and Auntie Molly is my godmother." Lord Malfoy's eyes widen, so slight it's almost imperceptible; almost. The microscopic shifting of his eyes hints at how his mind races, even as he tries to mask the movement.
He no doubt understands that means he'd have to walk on eggshells with the Weasleys as well, and why Mr Malfoy is in such an abhorrent standing in my eyes. Hopefully, they'll see it makes far more sense to select a brain dead waif from Slytherin, and leave me the hells alone.
"And that ignores that both Ms Mason and Ms Granger are Muggleborn. Mr Malfoy is quite, forthright in his disapproval of them," Angelina says, well aware of the politics involved in this shitshow. I'm too much trouble, Malfoy. Just drop these pointless marriage talks.
"Not to mention Hermione's parents," Clara pipes up. "Harry wouldn't leave them out in the rain, now would he." I capture Clara's chin, inviting her to look at me. She repeats what she just said, only this time in proper address and diction. "Mr Potter is a most gracious liege, I should think. One who would provide for Ms Granger's family just as readily as his own."
"Sarah, that's quite enough."
"Oh, Deliah, she's being nothing if not respectful. Moreover, Lucius and I are grateful she's so forthcoming."
"Quite right." Lord Malfoy, nods respectfully to Clara. "Muggleborn, and yet being properly educated in etiquette and the wizarding ways. My compliments, Deliah. You've raised Sarah well."
"Noblesse oblige," I say, tilting and bowing my head respectfully. Allison. Could you write to Carrie and Luna, inviting them to do our school shopping tomorrow, please?
On it. Ginny sent word. They arrived in Cairo and she's having the time of her life, she and Lucivera. I smile, letting Allison feel the warmth in my chest—the ladies around me sport warms smiles, feeling it just the same.
Sarah, Lord Scribe wishes to discuss that with you tonight. Malik's thoughts set me at ease. If he's this aware of the chatter, then he's apt to update papa on pretty much everything. A boon if ever there was one.
Allison, please hold on the letters. We'll listen to what papa has to say before making plans.
"Speaking of." Mum looks to me, frowning. "What news of Bella?"
"Now, Li. You don't think I'd associate with an escaped convict?" Liar. If Gemima broke out of prison and came to me, desperate for a sympathetic ear, I'd never turn her away. That means she's either already been, or is currently, here.
Lord Scribe scries as we speak, but is as yet unable to locate her. He asks that you show disdain for the woman, and Riddle if you can slip it in.
"I don't blame you," I say, frowning and pushing my glasses further up my nose. "Especially one so blindly devoted to a madman."
Lord and Madam Malfoy share a look, their eyes drawn. Most curious, that they see the totality of my opposition to their blood-purity, to their Riddle, to their cause, and yet they won't shy away. Why?
"If I may be frank, Lord Malfoy?"
"Of course, Ms Scribe." I thought so. Blunt is acceptable on request, but he warns me I toe the line.
"I feel Mr Malfoy and I are. Ill-matched. Might I inquire why Lord and Lady Malfoy seem so eager for me to don the Malfoy mantel?"
"I should think it obvious." Lord Malfoy smiles. Not the polite one he usually wears, or the stark one I'd imagine him with. No, it's warm and indulgent and I might almost call it paternal. "Narcissa and I want the best for Draco. And you, my dear, are by orders of magnitude the best candidate. Your poise, your etiquette, your heritage, your skill, your being financially situated, it all assures us you won't want our son and heir for personal gains. Truly, if there's a finer choice, I cannot imagine her."
"And the reverse?" I ask, cocking my eyebrow ever so slightly. "Mum and papa want the best for me, as you no doubt appreciate. Do you feel Mr Malfoy is, by the same orders of magnitude, the best candidate to be my husband?"
"We do." Lord Malfoy's warm smile doesn't falter. He truly believes what he says, with a certainty I can scarcely imagine. "And we believe you'll come to agree with us, should you afford him the chance."
8-8
[Flying off the rails]
I walk passed a dozen brooms on display and up to the clerk, having spied him currently unengaged. "Good morning."
"Ah, Lord Scribe. Ms Scribe." The man bows low. I curtsey in kind. "How might I assist you on this fine summer's day?"
"I've come to inquire about a new broom. Though, I was wondering if you have any side-saddle models?"
"Of course. Though I feel I should warn you, one should not fly at high speeds on those. Too much wind resistance. And for that matter, it's ill-advised to fly in any sort of storm. The wind might well knock you clean off."
That sounds bad. "I see. What would you recommend then?"
"Might I presume the trouble is with wearing trousers for the occasion?" I nod. "Hmm. Yes, a less common complaint these days, though not one I'm entirely unfamiliar with."
He bids us to follow him, so our group heads further in, towards the back with the high end brooms.
"The Firebolt, Ms Scribe, is designed to be the fastest. But. It's the ergonomics and riding position you'll find most agreeable, I should think." The broom is set in on the floor, standing on its biped and twiggy base. "You see, the footrests are designed to allow for the most aerodynamic sitting position. This allows for you to ride in whatever you please, should you be careful not to fly at its highest velocity, of course."
Sounds like someone is trying to make the best sale of the day, given the golden zeroes on the tag tied to the tip of the broom.
I've little use for a Quidditch broom. "Perhaps something in the leisure range?"
"Now, Sarah." Papa wraps his arm around me, tapping my chin to look up at him. "He's adequately addressed your more pressing concerns, has he not?"
"He has." I nod. "Though really. The fastest broom in the world? Perhaps for Angelina, but for me?"
"Hmm. You feel he suggests this purely for the sale?"
"Is it not his livelihood to sell brooms?" I cock an eyebrow.
"Fair enough." Papa chuckles, his eyes lit up. "Then how about this. Do you feel this broom would be the right pick for you?"
"Really, Papa. I'm already averse to flying. Spending this much on the off chance I'll learn to love it? It makes more sense to spend the galleons on Wolfsden Manor."
Papa smiles and shakes his head. "How about this. We'll take one of them. Should you decide you dislike it, you may always gift it to Angelina." Angelina, for her part looks about ready to fall apart at the seams. "No. Make that three Firebolts. Just in case. And three with side-saddles, as a backup?"
"Papa, that isn't—" Papa scoops me up, his eyes more than a little amused. "Really, papa. Three? We looked at cheaper houses. Perhaps three Nimbus Two-Thousands?"
"Actually." Uncle Sirius sounds most amused, looking to Potter and Carrie. "We'll need two Firebolts?"
"Uncle!" Potter flies at him, his whole face lit up. "We'd definitely win the Quidditch cup with these!"
"See, princess," Papa teases, blowing a raspberry in my neck. I squeal, jerking back from his onslaught. "Getting you a few will help the house team. And I'm sure Angelina would much appreciate that."
"I just want to fly one." Angelina gushes, shivering with delight at the thought. Air, Clara, and Justine are quick to agree, giddy with prospect of it.
"Hmm." Uncle Sirius gets a mischievous glint in his eyes. "My boy, I think I've just the ticket." Potter looks almost panicked, flicking his gaze to me and back to Uncle Sirius. "Will you trust me, Harry?"
"A fair question, don't you agree, Sarah?" Papa taps my nose.
I roll my eyes. "Trusting you has never been the issue. But really? The fastest broom in the world?"
"In that case. My good man, we'll need ten Firebolts. With ebony handles." I roll my eyes, shaking my head. Papa's just showing off in front of Lord Malfoy. Still, he looks happy, and the girls are all over the moon.
"I couldn't agree more, Ronan." Uncle Sirius is obviously getting in on the fun. "We'll take ten, just the same. With ash handles."
The clerk looks like he can't decide if he should faint or break out in song and dance. He swears by all that is holy he'll get right to our orders and all but prances through the door to what I assume is the storage.
And all Mr Malfoy can do is stand there and look pretty, given Lord Malfoy doesn't look tempted to purchase so much as one of them.
8-8
[Insult to injury]
"Ah, Ms Scribe. I was wondering when to expect you." Mr Ollivander bows low. "Lord Scribe. Lord Black. Lord Malfoy."
Justine, Romilda, and Allison look just about ready to retch, so nervous. Zada, hugs her daughter, murmuring something I can't quite make out.
"Now, Ms Scribe. I've grown quite accustomed to your houses proclivities. Please. Which have you already predicted? As many details as possible, please."
My shoulders quake with laughter. So that's how papa knew to get just that wand for Ron last year. "Justine's was. Red oak. Phoenix feather, a brother to my own. Thirteen inches. And unyielding."
"I know just the wand." He nods and heads into one of the dozens of aisles of stacked wands. "Though it does take the fun out of it." He's back a moment later, presenting an opened little box. Justine looks to me and reaches into the box with trembling hand.
The warmth rips through us all as her wand announces its choice.
"Remarkable. Used to it or not, it's quite the sight. A superb pick, for a duellist whose quick wit and light of foot enough to match a Scribe duellist. And I'm sure you know that as your wands are brothers, should you work in tandem, your spells would feed off each other like you've never seen." I nod, beaming for Justine as she flies into my arms and holds me like there's no tomorrow. "Very well. Next?" He really doesn't prefer this route, it seems.
"Allison's was. Hawthorn. With dittany stalk. Though I couldn't tell much else of it."
"Hawthorn with dittany, you say." He taps his chin. "Well, that could only be…" He marches into a different aisle, coming back with another box and presenting it. Allison eagerly reaches in, the warmth rippling through us almost instantly. "I'll never truly grow inured to the Scribe's visions. Ms Barnes's wand would make her a most gifted healer. Though also one with a frightening proficiency with curses, if she's angered. Quite the duality, Ms Barnes. Do be sure to choose your path well?"
Allison beams and curtseys, before flinging herself into Justine's and my hug.
"If it helps, Mr Ollivander. I've yet to receive a vision for Romilda. Not even a hint."
He seems curiously placated by that. He takes a look at Romilda. "A Vane, eh?" He taps his chin. "Emma has…cedar with unicorn tail hair. Zada's is. Chestnut with dragon's heartstrings. Jerome's is. Fir with unicorn tail hairs. So perhaps we'll begin with…"
Wand after wand, none of them choose Romilda. But Mr Ollivander only seems more and more pleased with each failure. Until at last the room almost glows with Romilda touching the latest attempt.
"Well, well." Mr Ollivander seems most intrigued with this development. "Ms Scribe has an eye for talent. That much is certain. Cherry, with dragon's heartstrings. Eighteen inches. Unyielding. A most lethal wand, in the right hands. I hope you've the self-control and strength of mind required, Ms Vane. Or that wand could well go to your head."
Romilda curtseys and thanks him. She comes to me, pride in her eyes, in her stance. "Ms Scribe." She curtseys and bows her head with a flourish, as if presenting herself as the superior of the three.
Justine and Allison share a look, confused as they step back. I hug Romilda, showing her no less, but also no more, appreciation than my handmaidens.
8-8
[A spot of tea]
"Ms Scribe?" Mr Potter looks nervous as he makes his way into the gaggle of girls surrounding me. They're all excited, picking out a proper briefcase to travel with—to match my own. Though I suggest they all need a bracer to keep their wands handy, and a school bag as well. So, naturally, they're all excitedly comparing everything they can find and sending the poor man up a wall with a million questions at once. "I was wondering if I could have a word."
"Whatever about, Mr Potter?"
"Please. Call me Harry."
"Serenity." I curtsey, hoping he understands he isn't that close, but not purposely held at a distance either. "Girls. Do be sure to get a money pouch as well." Poor Harry can't quite make sense of things. He seems to want a private conversation, but I'm not ever going to allow Ginny to think I've any interest in her crush.
Once everyone's selected their briefcase, their schoolbag, and a cute little money pouch, we pay and head to the botanist—Noltie's Botanical Novelties. Zada and Agitha go ape, picking out every sort of plant and shrub and weed and fungi they claim Wolfsden Manor will need. They include Angelina and Clara in their on-going debate, even as they pile on everything that could possibly either grow wand wood, wand cores, or act as a potion ingredient. Including a whomping willow sprout.
Once they've had their fun, we leave a more than giddy witch still counting out the galleons she just made, and we head to get our new robes for the year. Poor Mr Malfoy just struts along, mute as he tries to not upset me with him and his family already on shaky ground and papa and Uncle Sirius making such a concerted effort to upset them at every turn—though Professor Lupin seems the most amused of them all, for some odd reason.
Either way, we get us a range of robes and outfits and nightwear—though Zada and Agitha demand the boys vamoose as we get into our unmentionables selections.
School books and parchment for the year, our potions ingredients—and getting Zada and Agitha quite the selection for whatever projects mum has them working on. Honestly, by the time we make it to Rosa Lee Teabag's, we're exhausted. Sated, spoiled rotten, and with everything on our considerable lists already handled, but exhausted all the same.
"Serenity?" Harry takes the seat beside me, looking almost desperate. "I. Need to speak with you."
The waitress serves us our tea just as Tizzy and the elves gather our things and bring them back to Scribe Manor. I'm sure Zada and Agitha will sort through everything later.
"By all means, Harry."
He blushes, unable to meet my gaze. No doubt realising he won't get me alone, he grabs a scone and bites into it. "It's about Ginny."
I fight back a knowing smile with all my might.
"Uncle Sirius and Mr Weasley have already hammered out the finer points, so Aunt Danielle wishes to announce it. But, I know how close Ginny is with you and Luna. So. I was. Hoping to get your approval beforehand?"
"I'm not sure I understand, Harry. Approval of what?"
If anything, Harry looks even more fidgety and nervous. He starts spouting about how it's tradition to announce an heir's engagement by no later than their thirteenth, and his birthday is but a week away, and he just stumbles through more and more words, slowly growing less and less intelligible.
"Ginny's to be your fiancée?" I help him out before he starts rambling on about more Quidditch stratagems I have no understanding of.
"Ah. Well, yes." He takes another bite, too large a chunk of scone now filling his mouth, that he takes almost a minute to chew and swallow. "It's just. You three. You were practically raised as sisters. Even if all the Weasleys consent, I want your approval as well. Yours and Luna's, of course."
Luna walks around the table and plops into my lap like it's the most natural thing in the world. "I wouldn't worry about us, Harry. Ginny's had the biggest crush on you for years. And we love her too much to deny either of you." I hug my adorable blonde, hiding my amusement in her hair. "Really. Sarah's too busy laughing at how she torments you. So I don't think she minds in the least."
"Luna!" I laugh, despite myself.
"It's true though." I shake my head, still giggling at Luna's usual unfiltered approach. "So, I think it's best to congratulate you on your engagement, Harry. And do be mindful going forward. Sarah's likely to be even more protective of Ginny. Especially around you."
"Especially…around me?"
"To make sure you don't get her pregnant before marriage."
"While we're on the subject?" Mr Malfoy butters his foot, ready to shove it into his own mouth. "Ms Lovegood. What's your stance on Ms Scribe and I…?"
"Sarah hates the idea."
A choking sound. The teashop grows deathly silent. Cheeks puff up, eyes lit with mischief and laughter. Until papa at last lets out a joyous cackle, soon followed by Uncle Sirius. Anyone else would die from the embarrassment alone. I fully expect the Malfoys to jump to their feet and storm off in a huff.
"But really?" Laughter slowly ebbs; everyone's more than a little curious what Luna has to say. "Sarah hates the idea of the Draco Malfoy we've come to know. It might do you good to keep showing today's Draco. Don't you agree, Harry?"
"To be honest, I've not paid him much mind."
"Too busy worrying about Ginny. Well, Sarah. You study people as a habit. Wouldn't you say this Draco's much nicer?" I nudge Luna back against me so I can see Mr Malfoy. He looks supremely smug, like he already tastes victory. I cock an eyebrow. "You know, Draco. It's exactly that attitude that makes Sarah hate you."
8-8
End Tenth Reading
8-8
A/N: Oh, dear. This could very easily get out of hand. And with Sarah's people so eager to prove themselves loyal to her...? I hope the Malfoys have good insurance.
06-MAY-2019. Making small but significant changes.