Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, Season Nine, Round Five

Keeper, Chudley Cannons

Prompt: Cruelty (Write a character with that flaw, but not someone who shows that flaw in canon.)

Chudley Cannons Team Challenge: Include an epigraph at the beginning of your story.

W/C: 2950

Note: I was wondering whether Scottish witches and wizards travel all the day to London on September first, and then back to Scotland. According to Google, a journey by car from Scotland to King's Cross takes around 7-8 hours, which seemed a bit too much. So for the sake of this story, I made the Hogwarts Express stop at Edinburgh, and the platform at Edinburgh identical to the one at King's Cross. I hope I was able to make that clear.

Also, warning for moderate bullying and child maltreatment.

The Magic in Me

no one leaves home unless

home is the mouth of a shark

— Warsan Shire

Minerva was four years old when she started to recognise the things happening with her. The first time, it was after her father refused to let her play with the other children outside and gave her an earful instead. She was alone in her room, curled up on the bed and trying very hard not to cry. So hard, in fact, that the windows began to rattle as if there was a storm incoming. It was enough to distract her from her sulking, and Minerva spent the rest of the evening thinking what that rattling might have been.

It only increased in frequency after that: she began to blow out candles from far away when she was bored, make glasses tip over and even make the cat levitate to the topmost shelf in the kitchen. Her father, thankfully, never saw her doing any of it, and even if he noticed something was off, he probably thought nothing of it.

Minerva began to grow fearful, for one day or another, her father would think something of it, and immediately turn to her. He was known to do that — put her to blame if something went wrong. Lock her up in her tiny bedroom for days on end with only soup to eat. He had even employed a young lady called Dahlia to 'check on her' to see if she behaved when he was not home.

Minerva never knew why; he used to be so lovely and kind when her mother was around.

That is the problem, Minerva thought bitterly one night after accidentally changing the colour of her sheets. If only Mother were still around, she'd know what was up with me.

"You are a very special little girl, my love," Isobel said, holding her daughter's hands in her own. "In time you will realise just how much."

Minerva, only three years old, gaped at her mother with large eyes. Isobel laughed and kissed her forehead.

"Come on now, it's time for your dinner."

Her mother said that very often. You're very special. Either she had been wrong, or Minerva was indeed special — in that she was a raving little lunatic. She wondered if she could ask Malcolm about it, but he was much older than her, and always busy with schoolwork. And, he would start thinking she was a lunatic, too, and then Father would know, and then — Minerva shuddered, not daring to think what would happen if he ever came to know.

For now, she resorted to writing about it in her notebook. At least she had lots of those, and her books. They were all that kept her from going mad.

Maybe if she was enrolled in a school like her brother, she would have something to keep herself occupied and her mind off the things. Her eleventh birthday was coming in October, and maybe, just maybe, her father would be reasonable enough to send her to that school the neighbours' children went to. That thought brought a smile to her face — imagine going to school. It would be a dream come true.

Come true it did, for a few weeks before her birthday, her father came home in the afternoon brandishing a colourful pamphlet.

"You'll be going to school starting next month, young lady," he told her sternly. "I expect you to be in perfect conduct all the time. I will be asking your teacher every week about you. And no funny business, mind you."

Minerva's eyes widened. What did he mean, funny business? He surely didn't know, did he?

But never mind that! She was finally going to school. It was almost unbelievable.

"Don't worry, Father," she said brightly. "I'll not let you down, I promise."

School was everything she had ever thought it would be and more. She had a friend now, her teacher loved her, and Minerva could never get over how lovely it felt to raise her hand in class and answer her teacher's questions. She almost forgot that there was something wrong with her.

Almost.

Oliver, a boy in her form, would not stop making fun of her. He pulled her braids and teased her. Minerva did not think of it much; for the first time in many months, she was happy, and nothing was going to ruin that.

Until one day they were filing out of the classroom before break time, and Oliver decided to corner her.

"Look who it is," he said, grinning wickedly. "The teacher's pet. Where are your friends?"

"It's none of your business," she replied coolly.

"They must have left you alone," Oliver laughed. "Because you are an oddball and they don't like you."

Minerva rolled her eyes and went back to her book. He was not worth her attention.

"Just like your mummy."

Her eyes snapped up. She could not believe he had brought up her mother.

"Don't look at me like that," Oliver said. "You don't have a mother, do you? I bet she ran away, because she didn't like you either."

Minerva stood up.

"You're an idiot, Oliver," she said, pushing her glasses up her nose and attempting to square her shoulders. "That's why you don't have anything else to do except talk rubbish."

Oliver blinked in surprise, then recovered quickly.

"I bet your mother didn't love you," he said again. "She saw how ugly you were, with your freckles and your stupid glasses, and she ran away."

"That's not true," she whispered, her voice trembling. "My mother died, she didn't run away."

"You are ugly and stupid and good for nothing, Minerva. Your mummy died because she was so disgusted by you."

"You're the one who's stupid and ugly and mean, Oliver," she seethed, feeling her face go red. "At least I've got a brain, and you haven't even that."

Oliver began to laugh at her, and Minerva had to ball her fists to keep herself from punching Oliver. Her glasses were going foggy with her tears, and she was overcome with such a burning anger that she felt as though she was going to burst.

She did not realise she was breathing heavily until there was a blinding white light that forced her to shut her eyes. When she opened them again, Oliver was standing before her, a pair of pig's ears sprouting from his hair, and a hideous pink snout in the middle of his face, and she was tingling all over and her hair was on end.

She gasped, realising with horror what she had just done.

"This is OUTRAGEOUS!"

Minerva flinched again. Her glasses were slipping down her wet nose, and her fingers were pruney from wiping all her tears. She had been crying for hours now, starting in the playground as she watched Oliver roll in the grass in his pig form, then in the headmistress' office and now in their living room.

Her father was pacing in front of her, fistfuls of hair in his hand. He had come running from work as soon as the headmistress had called him up, cursing and shouting, and didn't waste a second in bringing her back home after he had been told of the entire incident.

"I knew this was going to happen," he said in a low, menacing voice. "It is my fault I ever sent you to school. I should have known better."

Minerva did not know what he was talking about, and she did not care. She just hoped this was all a bad dream — that her mother had never died, and she wasn't a loon, and she hadn't turned her classmate into a pig in front of dozens of other children. A bad dream she would wake up from, sweating and shivering, but relieved. And then her mother would bring her a biscuit and a glass of water, and put her back to sleep with one of her bedtime stories.

"You're just like your mother. A nutcase. Though she never told me any of it until she died. I had thought you would turn out like Malcolm, but no, you just had to be a little freak. Barely a year in school and you're already wreaking havoc."

Minerva sobbed even harder. There really was something wrong with her, then, because unkind as her father might have been, he had never told her she was a freak. She curled into the large armchair, looking even smaller than she was.

"We need to move someplace new," her father now said, sitting down with a thud in his own chair and dropping his head in his hands, "before you do something even more disastrous. That's the only thing we can do now. And as for you," he looked at her, "you'll go to your room, and stay there until I let you out. I'm going to take all your books away; the longer you have them, the worse."

She hadn't stopped crying.

She didn't know if she ever would. Her father was going to keep her in here for nobody knew how long, and then they were going to go and live in some other place where he'd lock her up once again.

Oh Mum, why'd you have to leave me alone?

The door creaked open, and Minerva's stomach swooped in fright. She rolled over and sat up quickly, then heaved the tiniest of sighs when she realised it was her brother. The dark figure looming near the door was tall and lean, and her father was a stocky little man.

He turned on the lamp and shut the door, and sat down on a chair across from her.

"Father sent you, didn't he?" Minerva asked, not bothering to wipe her cheeks.

Malcolm sighed. "No," he said. "He doesn't know I'm here. He told me what happened. With you and that boy."

"And what about it?"

"I need to tell you something. It's very important. You mustn't interrupt me while I'm speaking."

That caught her a bit off-guard. Her brother never really had anything to talk about with her. He was nineteen years old, he usually didn't have much time for her.

"D'you know that Mum was a witch?"

"A freak, you mean? Like me?"

"Don't interrupt me," Malcolm shook his head. "She was a witch. Like those ladies you read about in fairy tales — with hats and wands and all that. Now don't look at me like that! She could do magic, and she had a wand. But then she married Father, and she had to keep her real identity secret because she was scared he would leave her. You're just like her. You can do magic, too."

Minerva gaped at him as though he had grown two more heads. "You're joking."

Malcolm groaned. "I wouldn't have risked coming in here just to joke, Minerva. Listen, this is going to sound very stupid but you must hear me out. There's a school called Hogwarts for people like you. Witches and wizards. When a witch or a wizard turns eleven, they're sent to that school to learn more magic. You're supposed to receive a letter from the Headmaster any day now. And it's going to arrive by an owl. Don't ask me any questions about that."

This was all very, very stupid, Minerva thought. I've cried myself to a supreme lunacy.

"How d'you know all this?" she asked nevertheless.

Malcolm shot a sidelong glance towards the door.

"Mum left us a note explaining it when she died. Father was supposed to tell us about it; he told me, but not you. Because Mum had guessed that you were just like her, and I reckon Father didn't like that."

"Why didn't you — "

"Malcolm?"

Minerva froze, for it was her father's voice.

"Oh dear," her brother whispered. He stood, then looked at her again before leaving. It looked as though he was going to say something, but then he didn't.

Yes, right. Owls sending her letters from a magic school were just what she needed right now.

Hours passed. They turned into days. Minerva spent all her time by herself, staring at the wall, out the window, at the floor. It did not help that the more frustrated she grew, the more she started to bore holes into the walls with just her eyes and make the wardrobe doors swing madly.

Dahlia visited every now and then, leaving her lunch and dinner and sometimes, sneaking her a snack.

No letters arrived. Not that Minerva expected them, of course.

It was the night a few weeks before September was set to start, and Minerva was staring out the window because she had nothing else to do. She had slept all afternoon to feel even the least bit tired.

A dark, lumpy object appeared against the sky and snapped her out of her reverie. Minerva rubbed her eyes, because surely that object wasn't growing bigger and bigger by the second, it surely wasn't coming closer —

Thump!

The thing soared right through her window with such speed that it flew into her cupboard with an awful hollow noise. Then it went limp and slid to the floor. Minerva stood up from her bed and walked over to it.

Kneeling, she realised it was, in fact, an owl. Very big, brown and oddly shaped. Somewhat stupid, too, it seemed. Next to it lay a letter.

Maybe she hadn't slept as much as she thought she had. Or this was yet another vision her insane mind was conjuring up.

The owl was still alive, thankfully, for it let out a little hoot. Minerva picked it up gingerly and set it down on her bed. It gave another hoot and flew out the window like nothing had happened.

Frowning, Minerva turned her attention to the letter and began to read it.

A couple of hours later, she was drained, because she had just spent all her energy trying to unlock her bedroom door by staring at it. Her efforts had paid off, and she now stood in her brother's room. She opened a drawer in his table, and slipped the letter inside, hoping he would see it whenever he came home.

There were the faintest hints of pink along the horizon when the pair of siblings stood behind the house, heaving a large iron trunk into the boot of a rickety old car.

"Where'd you get this?" Minerva asked.

"It's John's," Malcolm replied, shutting the boot closed as quietly as possible.

"Tell him I said thanks."

Minerva took a deep breath, then looked back at the house. This was a very crazy idea, but at this point, what wasn't? She only hoped her Father wouldn't wake up, or Dahlia, for that matter.

She hadn't gone to Diagon Alley to get her wand, or robes, as she had been instructed in the letter. Malcolm had found her their mother's old wand, hidden away in the attic. It had taken them a whole day to scour the place. She could get the rest of the things someway or another once she reached Hogwarts.

According to the letter, the Hogwarts Express was going to stop at Edinburgh, and Minerva couldn't believe they hadn't told her a way to get to the platform. She stood near the pillar that said "Platform Nine" and hopelessly tried to think of something. After all of this, she wasn't going to have to go back.

But then she saw them — a gaggle of black-robed girls and boys, standing out from everyone else. They walked right through the pillar as though it were made of mist, and not brick.

That had to be it.

"Malcolm," she hissed, for her brother was looking the other way trying to get help. "Malcolm, I think I know what to do."

When she told him, he looked a little apprehensive. She rolled her eyes inwardly. After all, he had been the one to tell her about all this. She should be the one looking apprehensive.

"Yeah, you're right," he said, looking discreetly at another group of wizards — if that was what they were, disappear through the pillar.

She threw her arms around her brother and hugged him tightly.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

Malcolm patted her back and said, "Anything for you, little sister."

"Will you be able to go home alright?"

"Yes," he grinned. "I'll manage it. Just try not to ... come home, I guess."

Minerva sighed. "Yes. I can write to you though, can't I?"

"Of course. I'd like to see one of those owls up close, too."

She smiled and with one last glance at him, turned around.

The pillar stood in front of her, wide and imposing. Minerva shut her eyes and pushed her trolley forward, towards it.

Maybe she would hit her head on it, and then wake up back in her house realising it was all a dream.

But she didn't. When she opened her eyes again, she was standing in the middle of several other students, and she felt distinctly out of place in her colourful not-witch clothes.

Behind her, Malcolm whispered, "Wow."

There was a bright red locomotive in front of them, plumes of smoke billowing from it. Owls soared over her head, and in and out of that smoke. All around her, there was noise like she had never heard before, and she couldn't help but grin.

She felt a distinct thrill in herself. Even the magic in her seemed to sense it. She was running from home, away from the prison that was her bedroom and her father's cruel actions.

She was doing it. Maybe it wasn't a dream after all. Whatever it was, there was no going back now.

As always, thanks to my fabulous teammates, the Cannons, for beta-ing this story.