DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter of property of J. K. Rowling.
Warning: Rated M for a reason. Mentions of abuse.
War Masters
3.
Sumer, 2800 BC.
Tracy hated sand.
It was filthy, an ugly yellow color and it got absolutely everywhere. No matter how hard she avoided going outside the palace, how many layers she wore or how vigorously she washed afterwards – somehow, someway, sand was always on her skin nowadays.
She hated Uruk more than she hated sand, and no it wasn't because the peoples' first attempt at a city was built in the desert.
It was because there were no proper streets. No flowing water. No sewage. There weren't lights at night that didn't require a fire. Everything was built of stone, and all the stones were the exact same fucking color and for the love of wine – why? Why must it be stone, tough and crumbling, and not smooth brick or marble? Speaking of wine, the wine was terrible.
Sure, the palace was decadent enough. Mosaics decorated the floor and walls, shaped out of imported lapis lazuli and other gleaming gems. There were paintings on any bare surface, in rich blues, deep greens, vivid reds. Plants, foreign and local, were also shoved inside, to provide shade in the open-ceiling areas. There were even shallow pools, crystal clear, fresh and cold, decorated with scented petals, created only for Tracy to dip her feet inside.
In the palace and throughout Uruk, she was served on hand and foot. She was treated like a divine being descended from heaven to grace the earth. Followed everywhere by a literal troop of serving girls, slave girls and armed guards. Watched when she ate, when she walked, when she bathed, relieved herself, slept, dressed – did anything at all. Nobody dared talk to her, no one looked her in the eye. Subservient meek creatures complied with her ever whim, satisfied every desire, and dogged her better than her own shadow.
Uruk was Tracy's prison.
It started because of stupidity bred out of adolescent angst. At least, that's what Tracy thought now that she wasn't really an adolescent. The whole fiasco could be easily summarised and explained thusly: Tracy and Potter actively disobeyed Inanna, Roger and Abbott watched, the Goddess – because now Tracy knew the odd woman was a true-blue goddess – took offence and voila. Collective punishment.
The banishment to Uruk wasn't part of the experience, it was Tracy's reward for being the first to learn. The punishment was to give them exactly what they wanted.
When Tracy's mother was sixteen years old, she met Tracy's father at the Quidditch World Cup. She was pretty, spicy and irresponsible. He was twenty-four, unhappily paired off and freshly saddled with a newborn baby he didn't know what to do with. Two years later, after corresponding via letters and stealing moments in the Three Broomsticks' backroom, Tracy's father attended her mother's graduation with an oversized bouquet, a gleaming diamond ring and freshly signed divorce papers.
It wasn't out of love or anything.
He'd knocked up an eighteen-year-old witch who'd yet to graduate. A witch that didn't care he was a half-blood, treated sex like a fun pastime not to be overanalysed, liked sparkling things and didn't need his attention in any other context. She was the opposite of the needy, clingy, meek and frightened wife his parents matched him with, so the man grabbed onto her with both hands and refused to yield. Even when his ex-wife threw a very public, very embarrassing fit in the middle of Gringotts once the divorce papers were handed to her. Even when his parents told him to choose – the Davies family or the arm candy. Even when Tracy's mother scratched, kicked and screamed her protests violently throughout the whole pregnancy and delivery.
She'd wanted an abortion. He'd wanted to shackle the fun thing to his side.
Fresh out of the womb Tracy was handed to a nanny and her parents were off on a consolation trip to some overly expensive shit hole her mother had picked out.
Tracy grew up with a dotting nanny, a smug father and an uninterested, often spiteful mother. Roger was a background character for her: he spent most of his time with his mother and was only ever around for some holidays, and of course at Hogwarts. Tracy wasn't an idiot, by the time she was ten she understood exactly what her mother had done to Roger's family, knowingly or not. Intentionally or not.
"Keep your legs closed, girl," her mother told her viciously when Tracy got her first period at the ripe old age of twelve. "No matter how handsome he is, popping out brats isn't worth the cock. I'd know."
"Never marry someone desperate. Even better: don't marry at all. It'll just hold you back."
"Go bother your nanny, that's what she's paid for."
"Merlin's word, just how did a creature like you come out of me?"
"You ruined everything! Everything!"
And Tracy's father never said a word about it. He consoled her mother with expensive gifts and shooed Tracy away with warning looks and flailing hands. She was a means to an end and once the goal had been achieved, she wasn't necessary.
It hadn't always been this way. While Tracy's mother was still very young, very attractive and very playful, her father took Tracy everywhere. He dressed her up like a doll and shoved her in people's, particularly men's, faces, as if to say: look here! She birthed it for me, not you. Butt out of my wife's business. When her mother grew up and settled down, when she accepted the fact Tracy's father was it for her, when she lost interest in younger, muscled pretty boys with heads as empty as her own, Tracy's job was done. She had just turned ten, but she was perfectly aware of what it meant: Tracy could set herself on fire, and neither parent would blink an eye. They'll throw money at her medics to fix what could be fixed and then prance off to whatever new destination Ms. Davies desired.
It was never about Tracy at all, and she wished, fervently, that it was.
More than anything in the world, Tracy wished that her mother cared. So, Inanna made it happen.
London, 1995.
"Oh, honey, I can't believe this is your fourth year already!"
Tracy blinked several times in quick succession, then shook her head and tried her best not to show any signs of panic. Her mother could smell weakness and the spiteful bat would milk it out of Tracy for years to come is she sensed just how out of it her daughter was.
The last thing Tracy remembered was that strange woman who kept touching Roger waving her fingers at them in farewell. Right after Tracy said something, she couldn't quite recall what, but it must've been rude – since Abbott's embarrassment was etched quite clearly in her mind. Potter had been there, too, and he was the only one acting sane, other than Tracy herself, of course, by distrusting the absolute weirdo who claimed they were her champions, or some such nonsense.
Now though, Tracy was boarding the Hogwarts Express.
The platform was crowded and chaotic, a familiar sight. Tracy's father stood behind her mother, smug and full of himself – another familiar sight. Her mother held Tracy's hands, with tears in her pretty blue eyes, and kept fussing.
"Watch yourself at school," her mother begged. "Write me every week, alright? I want to know everything!"
"Sure," Tracy glanced at her father and the man shrugged, as if to say he didn't know what was happening either. "I need to go now, mother. The train's about to leave."
"Just one more hug!"
It ended up being a hug followed by three slobbering, loud smooches on each of Tracy's cheeks, before her mother was ready to let her go. Dazed, confused and feeling a little bit like someone who'd been assaulted by a raging bull, Tracy dragged her feet until she spotter her classmates in one compartment and joined them. The fourth year Slytherins spent the ride goofing around, playing exploding snap and flicking odd spells at each other after a long summer without active magic casting. It was a loud, carefree sort of atmosphere and Tracy quickly forgot all about her mother's uncharacteristic affection, the frightening night in the Forbidden Forest and the strange woman Inanna.
All that remained was the warmth of her mother's kisses on her skin and a stray feeling that something wasn't quite right.
Tracy was always good in retrospect.
When she was going at it 'live', when she was in the moment, she often lost track of what was happening. The cause and effect, the little things – they escaped her. Tracy cared about the big picture and didn't spare any thoughts to what it was made of.
When she was sorted into Slytherin it was because she wanted to stand out. Her mother had been a Hufflepuff, her father's family spent generations in Ravenclaw. Tracy wanted to be different, to surprise them, to make her parents notice her long enough to realise that maybe, they loved her after all. Only in retrospect did Tracy realise being sorted into Slytherin, specifically, would bring her more troubles than fortune.
Sure, her parents noticed her. Mr. Davies eyed her up with contemplation, as if he were trying to calculate just where the little traitor might strike next. Mrs. Davies took the horrid reputation of the house to heart and never failed to use it against Tracy when she was dissatisfied. Roger kept himself even further away when they were in school and most everyone didn't even know they were siblings.
Tracy wanted to stand apart from her family to gain their affection, but for her first three years at Hogwarts she stood apart – and alone.
During her fourth year, after the strange summer delusion, Mrs. Davies began to show an interest in her daughter's life for the first time. Once again Tracy didn't mind the details – she latched onto her mother's care, desperate to keep the woman engaged for as long as possible. She was entirely convinced that this sudden outburst of curiosity will disappear if she didn't maintain it, through any possible means.
She spent her fourth-year fawning, simpering and following her mother's every word, even when it made no sense to her, whatsoever. Then, to keep it interesting, Tracy spent her fifth year lashing out – she acted bitter, offended, hurt. She argued, she swore. She made a scene at the train station and she caused an even bigger one during holidays. While Mr. Davies was unimpressed and unentertained by her behaviour, Mrs. Davies melted. She ran circles around Tracy, trying to please a daughter that was putting on an act and therefore impossible to satisfy. Then, during her final years at Hogwarts, Tracy 'settled down'. She began to share all aspects of her life with her mother, wrote to her daily, reached out whenever she felt bored, or lonely or entertained. They became close and whenever they fought, their arguments reflected it. Dirty secrets were spilled, hurtful jabs were made, all aimed at the weak spots of the other in the cruelest manner.
The more Tracy yielded after each struggle, the higher did her mother's love rise. It was a constant war of tug, consisting of Tracy's desperate attempts to keep their interactions as unpredictable as possible, and her mother's enthusiastic response. Years passed by, she graduated, found a job, moved out – and still the fight continued, with no signs of ever coming to an end.
Until one Christmas, when Tracy was a solid twenty-five years old and spent the holiday at her parents' home.
"Who is Richard?!"
The shriek was loud and unexpected.
So unexpected, in fact, that Tracy very nearly fell out of her old bed. She somehow managed to prevent it and instead found herself blinking the wariness of sleep out of her eyes, as her mother stormed into the room. She was waving around an opened letter and looked to be on the verge of tears.
"Who is Richard?" Mrs. Davied demanded shrilly. "Why is he writing you for Christmas?"
"What?" Tracy frowned. "Did you – mum. Did you read my mail? What the hell?"
"Answer me!"
"It's none of your business," Tracy stood up and made to snatch the letter out of her mother's hands, but the older woman dodged. "Mother. Give it."
Richard wasn't anybody or anything. A mutual acquaintance had introduced them because the man thought Tracy was attractive, or something. She wasn't interested either way. The man kept writing her for several weeks now despite her firm rejections, but Tracy was hoping he'd tire himself out when each letter returned unopened.
'There goes that plan,' she thought darkly, as she finally wrestled the letter out of her mother's grip.
"You!" Mrs. Davies screeched. "Who is he? Are you sleeping with him? Didn't I tell you not to sleep with any man?!"
"Mother, I'm twenty-five years old," Tracy said flatly. "Whether I have sex or not isn't up to you."
"Isn't up – isn't up to me?"
At the time, Tracy hadn't seen the slap coming. In retrospect, she would've sensed it before her mother even thought to raise her right hand, adorned with glittering rings, and smack the back of it across her only daughter's face. It stung, a lot. Not so much the hit itself as the absolute shock it caused.
"You're mine!" Mrs. Davies wailed, as if she were the one who's lip had been busted open by a heavy golden band. "I pushed you out of me and I raised you! No fucking cock is ever going to take you away!"
"What's this ruckus about, so early in the morning?" Mr. Davies stumbled into the room just in time to stop Mrs. Davies from landing another hit on Tracy, who stared at her with wide, startled eyes, unaware of the blood dripping from her mouth and down her chin.
"No one!" Mrs. Davies screeched. "You think just because you spread your legs, you mean something? You're just a wet hole to pass their time! You're nothing! I'm the only one who loves you, why can't you understand? Why don't you ever listen?!"
As her mother continued to scream profanities that would've made the most uncouth beggar shrivel up and die out of humiliation, and her father tried to wrestle some control over the rapidly escalating tantrum, Tracy sat down heavily onto the too-small mattress of her old, teenaged bed, and thought – really thought, for the first time in years.
It wasn't that Tracy was daft. She was just as smart as any Ravenclaw, but she didn't prioritise learning. She had nothing to be passioned about, academically, but she was plenty capable. It was easy now, in retrospect, to see how odd her mother behaved starting with September 1st all those years ago, when Tracy began her fourth year at Hogwarts. She quite suddenly remembered Inanna: an unnaturally beautiful woman with milk-like skin, gleaming eyes and a smirk that seemed to be condescending to Tracy's teenaged eyes, but in retrospect was all-knowing. A strange woman who treated Tracy warmly, Abbott softly, Potter almost reverently and Roger - her silly older brother - like a lover.
Inanna, who'd waved her hand to send them away after –
After Tracy and Potter tried to escape. After Potter threw a knife at her and Tracy a flaming torch. Potter, whom Tracy hadn't even glimpsed once since then, not even at school. Abbott was there, too, and Tracy never saw her again either.
"Roger," Tracy said, but her parents didn't hear her. They were busy screaming at each other now, Merlin knows why, but Tracy knew how it would end. Her father would drag her mother out of the room, she'll hit him and throw things, he'll yell, and then they'll fuck – loudly and unabashedly, wherever it was their fight stopped, uncaring of the fact their daughter might see. But Tracy hardly cared – she'd not even remembered Roger until this moment, hadn't heard anything from or about him since she was fourteen and boarded the Hogwarts' Express for her fourth year.
"This isn't real," Tracy realised. "This is what I wanted, so it can't be real."
She wanted her mother to care, and Mrs. Davies' affection was always like this: not warm, but possessive. Jealous, violent, fickle. It's how she treated Mr. Davies and how she used to treat Tracy, for a brief period when she'd been a cute little toddler and was fun to toy with as a doll.
"It's not her affection I wanted," Tracy muttered. "It's the idea of it. This is how she loves, and it's disgusting. I don't need it. It's better not to have it."
After all, she was quite alright on her own, and nobody would love Tracy better than Tracy loved herself.
Ever.
She woke in Uruk after that.
'Woke' wasn't necessarily the correct term. Tracy's sight had swum, and the nausea was powerful enough to make her close her eyes and scream, but when she opened them again she was submerged in a luxuriously large bath, surrounded by fragrant oils and roses, and tended to by an army of servants.
Inanna was in the bath, too, splashing in the water across from Tracy as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Welcome, my child," Inanna said lightly. "Did you get what you desired?"
"We both know that wasn't what I wanted," Tracy said stiffly.
She was fourteen again, but she was twenty-five, too. Her body was that of a pubescent child, but her mind was grown – perhaps not fully, but quite a bit more than it used to be. Inanna's nakedness bothered her, but not enough to for Tracy to react to it, as she surely would have before.
Before the dream, or illusion, or enchantment that she'd experienced.
"It was what you thought you wanted," Inanna agreed. "Congratulations, you're the first to learn."
"Learn what, exactly?" Tracy drawled. After seven years in Slytherin, growing up with the likes of Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy, she could deck it out with the best of them, and out-bitch the absolute worst. Pretending to have the upper hand when she didn't even know the stakes was easier than breathing.
"What you needed to learn," Inanna leaned her head back and submerged her long hair into the water, so that it looked as if black clouds flowed around them. "It is different from the others, of course, but it is still something that you have learned."
"I always knew that I'm the only one who matters," Tracy bit out.
"Yes, but you longed for outside approval of the fact, no?" Inanna stood up, water gliding down her skin, and looked down at Tracy with that all-knowing smirk. It wasn't as annoying as Tracy remembered it being. She was more irritated by the perfection of the woman's curves, the impossible, inhuman standard of beauty.
"I don't anymore."
"Congratulations," Inanna repeated. "This is your prize for learning, my child. Only you matter in this place."
"What place?"
"Uruk," Inanna announced. "My city. Yours now, until your partners complete their own lessons."
"I said that I don't want other's approval or attention anymore!" Tracy yelled, outraged beyond belief because she picked up on it – the way Inanna spoke.
It was Inanna's city and Tracy were, for some reason, her child. In this city, Inanna mattered above all else. If it became Tracy's now – it was because Inanna made it so, and if Tracy was the centre of it now, it was because of her connection with this woman. She was receiving the love she so wanted only because of this.
"I don't want it! Send me home!"
Inanna disappeared without a word and Tracy was left behind in Uruk, to be worshipped as the goddess she was not, to be the only one who mattered. It would be a lie to say she didn't like it, but even the most opulent and decadent of prisons was still a prison.
Sumer, 2800 BC.
"Hurry and wake up," Tracy muttered as a servant rubbed at her back, massaging her soft, never-strained muscled.
"Have you spoken, Star of Heaven?" another servant asked.
"No," Tracy sighed and closed her eyed. "I said nothing."
She'd been at Uruk for ten years. She sorely wished for company.