AN: This was written for the QFL for the Seeker's prompt for the Falmouth Falcons.
Prompt: Elladora Black, and the pairing is Elladora Black/Angus Buchanan
Wordcount: 1,040
Content Warnings: Blood purity discussions and the usual bigoted (and unapproved of by the author) language and ideology that ensues.
Elladora Black drew up her hood, even though in some ways it made her even more conspicuous than she already was. Most muggle women wore bonnets out of doors, but witches hardly wore such a thing—no, it was either her finest pointed hat, as one of the daughters of the Sacred Twenty-Eight would be expected to be seen in out in public, or a hood that would hide her visage from prying eyes.
After all, no one could know that she was here, at a rugby match of all places! She barely understood the muggle sport, or indeed the muggles at all. They lived such small, restricted lives, unable to access the great power that ran through Elladora's veins, and sang in the blood of much of her kind. Especially the muggle women. If the muggle working men had few options, muggle women had nearly none, at the beck and call of their fathers.
Of course, Elladora's own father would have her hide if he discovered she was here. But that was the power of being a witch, Elladora supposed. She would always have the power in her hands that would allow her defy any rule, including those of gravity and nature. No one could stop a true witch in her destiny, that was what Elladora's mother had always told her and her twin sister, Callidora.
She used a Confunding Charm to get past the man who was selling tickets to the exchange. She had no muggle money and had no interest in leaving a trail via exchanges at Gringotts that her father could find, that would lead to her defiance. Besides, it was just more time to waste—and her time was valuable, even if Callidora seemed to think otherwise, given how often she put her duties for her social circles and clubs onto Elladora's shoulders.
It was a mildly cloudy afternoon, and there were rickety wooden stands erected from which they could sit and watch the game. Elladora did not bother with such things, instead leaning against them and watching as the rugby players entered the field.
One, a brawny man with wide shoulders, dark curls close to his face, and kindly brown eyes, looked her way, giving her a smile, a nod of recognition. Despite what Elladora wanted, she felt a heat rise in her cheeks, the sensation of butterflies in her stomach, never mind that she hadn't been hexed with such a thing.
She nodded in his direction, and his smile brightened before he returned his attention to the field.
She knew that he didn't recognize her, not exactly. More, he recognized her as one of the many from the magical world that had turned up to watch Angus Buchanan play rugby.
He was a sensation in the newly-developing muggle sport—at least, that was what the Daily Prophet had said, right between the results for Puddlemere United and the article debating broomstick regulations in the official Quidditch League. Her father had scoffed at such a thing, sneering that the Prophet dared to print about a Squib. Even though Buchanan came from pureblood stock—not Sacred Twenty-Eight status, mind you, but enough to count as pureblood to most, like the Potters did—he had not received the gift. That meant that there was something wrong with him, or the bloodline, her mother whispered. That it had been corrupted somehow.
Everyone had been talking about it, in the magical world—partially because of the spectacle he had made three years before Elladora would attend Hogwarts for her first year. Everyone remembered and pitied Angus Buchanan for what had happened, and when his name and face resurfaced once more because of his sports success, everyone couldn't help but talk about it. And many editorials and letters to the editor in the Prophet wondered if perhaps their world had been too harsh on the Squibs, after all.
What pain would it be, Elladora wondered as she tracked Angus's movement across the field, to know you were supposed to be heir to such a great gift, but for some reason, fate would not give you the gift blood owed? How awful would it be, to know of the greater world that those with magic were a part of, and then have the door shut on them?
That, she told herself, was the reason she had come, the reason she collected every muggle and wizarding newspaper discussing Angus Buchanan. She'd told Callidora so, when she'd found them in Elladora's dresser drawer. It had nothing to do with his fine form, the kindly look in his eyes, the beautiful color of his hair.
When he caught her eye again, Elladora could feel her cheeks turning pink, so she gave a little flirtatious wave, the kind sixth-year Slytherin girls used at Hogwarts when they saw a wizard boy they liked.
Perhaps there was more to it, than just an academic appreciation for what the man had become, a morbid intrigue based on where he had the misfortune to not turn out like her.
She glanced down the rows of people. He did not have a wife, or any sweetheart—the tabloids of both worlds would surely talk if he had! And his eyes kept drifting towards her, surely enough.
Maybe she would do it. Break every rule about who she was to marry, what sort of life she was to read, and then she would finally seize her own destiny.
Elladora fantasized, thinking of what she would say when the game was over, when the Angus Buchanan would come up to her, when she felt a tap on the shoulder.
Elladora jumped, whirling around to see a woman with her face—her twin sister, Callidora.
"Sister," Callidora hissed. "What are you doing here? Father would kill you, if he saw you—this is obscene!"
Elladora opened her mouth to protest when Callidora drew her wand, gesturing for Elladora to be quiet.
"We'd better go," Callidora said. "Come on, we can't Apparate with all of this filth around."
Elladora looked bak once, as Callidora ushered her away, catching Angus's eye once more. That was when she finally understood—it was never meant to be.
Perhaps despite being a witch, Elladora would never be free.