No One's Hero
A child's cries echoed forlornly in the chamber, of stone but not yet older than the century. The starkly furnished room was gloomy and lit by a fire buried deep in an immaculate hearth, deep enough to prevent any heat from escaping. It fizzled and popped eerily, sending sparks flying from the crackling wood. Shadows cast ghostly lines upon the large, canopied bed, upon which a woman cradled a bloody infant, ignoring the stains that rubbed the virginal white of her nightgown. No love was evident in her eyes, a chilly pale vert, as she examined her offspring critically.
A light creak sounded and the elaborately carved door swung open gently of its own accord, admitting to the faux Gothic splendor, a man. He stood framed in the dark light of the chamber, imperially slim, shadowed and impeccable. "Angeline.. give me the child." Soulless eyes pooled into hers, ignoring the sanguine crumpled form of the baby, who had suddenly fallen silent. Graceful hands curved hidden in the folds of his robe; liquidly pale skin concealed from Angeline's view.
"No," Angeline said coldly, her own face bled dry of color. Even her lips, normally a deep plum red, were thinned and lamb-pink. Blond curls hung damply in tight ringlets around her head, unusually messy and soaked with sweat, but her composure was more than enough to make up for her bedraggled, girlish appearance. Hidden by the crimson bundle, her hands gripped the polished length of wood tightly, knuckles growing whiter as she stared back at the man. Edmund. Her husband.
Angeline, I have no time for jokes. Give me the child and I shall let you go." The voice of Edmund Marlowe was softy, steely, resigned. "By God, I shall let you go, but give me the child!" Baritone, upper-class accents rose with the feeling of his demand. More the fool he, noted Angeline, he had not yet reached for the wand she knew to be concealed in the sleeve of his robes. Edmund always had been too sentimental for his own good, she thought, light-headedly.
"Am I joking, Edmund? Why should I hand over my child to a filthy traitor?" The last word ripped from her mouth, spat out as though it dirtied her lips to speak it. Angeline paused, "Mm, tell me this. How faithful did you stay after the Potter incident? I think not; Guinivere will grow up in a proper home, and faithful to the memory of the Dark Lord." She noticed with some satisfaction that his dace had paled. In her arms, the baby moved fitfully. Angeline pinched the smooth, translucent arm, and it quailed.
Edmund took a step forward at this, his arm reaching out of its own volition. "I realized my mistake before the Potter boy. Angeline, if you won't give me the child, at least see the error of your ways! Leave the slavery of Voldemort, shake off your shackles—" Abruptly his face softened and the impassioned flow of words trickled to a tone no less intense, that grated upward from his throat, distorting his calm features. "I still love you."
The woman on the bed, entirely in control of the situation, turned her wan face on her husband's, the angelic smile chilling and heartbreaking in its beauty. "You are the one who should see the error, Edmund. You always were irrational." She shifted a bit, sitting up to see over the mound of her stomach, stretched now by the birth she had gone through. Another smile, this one colder than before – one could imagine icicles tracing their patterns over her lips. "Edmund, repudiating the Dark Lord will not save you. He will return. And when he does… Well. I would not want to be in your position."
"Angeline, listen to me! The darkness consumes you, it eats you up from the inside.. Do you think that Voldemort shows mercy, at all? He will kill you as soon as kill me."
"You will refer to him as the Dark Lord!" Angeline snapped, lips curling away from perfect white teeth. "I have had enough of this nonsense, Edmund! You were a fool to return here!" Her arm slipped away from where it had been snugged around the baby, who had been unnaturally silent throughout the whole affair. It tumbled to the sheets as Angeline moved, raising the wand high and intoning, "Crucio!" Edmund Marlowe crumpled to the floor as she struggled to her feet, still smiling her heart-breakingly. "I shall enjoy this."
Edmund's screams trailed into sobbing hiccups, and after a while, faded.
-----
Slim and confident once more, Angeline Marlowe stood in the airport, silent servant holding the baby carrier trailing mutely behind her. Curls were pulled into a bun, but Angeline had pulled several strands from the main mass, allowing them to hang girlishly around her face. Turning her head to the side, Angeline examined the schedule, annoyed. With all the baggage she carried, as well as the infant Guinivere, it was impossible to Apparate to her new destination. The sight of all the Muggles milling around turned her stomach.
Guinivere had made several burbling noises, and Angeline narrowed crystal-green eyes. "Sarah, if you cannot keep the child quiet, I shall make you very sorry indeed." Sarah's dull gaze grew panicked as she shook her head rapidly, indicating through signs that Guin would not cry out again. The woman had at one time been a fairly powerful witch in her own right, though Angeline had put a stop to that. Missing her vocal cords, now, Sarah was a mute, and a useful servant indeed, if a bit soft in the head. "Good," Angeline said sweetly, tapping her foot against the ground.
A Muggle in a blue and gold uniform approached her, and she thought he looked quite silly indeed. Disgusting. "Can I help you, ma'am?" he inquired politely, with a smile that faded as Angeline's silver-bell voice washed over him, melodious, euphonious, and venomous. After listening for several seconds, he gulped. "Yes'm," he said, eyes glazed over, "Right'm. Right away, m'm." The man picked up her baggage, and helped her to carry it towards the gate.
Though she despised them, Angeline had always made a point to know what Muggles saw as odd and out of place, so that when she was forced to travel among them, no one noticed the difference. What they saw was not a powerful witch, but instead a successful businesswoman with a spitfire temper, flaring up indiscriminately at whatever stood in her way. High heels clicked self-importantly as she moved towards the gate, not even bothering to check whether or not Sarah had followed. She knew that the woman would be too terrified not to.
Angeline Marlowe was leaving behind the life she had known before. Change, however, was good. She welcomed change. And how that Edmund was gone, there was no one to stop her from running a free rein. The countryside awaited, and the hereditary Marlowe manor. A passing Muggle stared momentarily at this beautiful young woman, so pure and soft, and wondered for a moment on the pure sweetness of her smile.
-----
Guinivere Marlowe's large, pale green eyes blinked back tears as she watched her mother closely. The chiming voice of Angeline echoed in her ears, but she tried not to hear the words. Her mother, the five-year-old knew, was a master at making her feel horrible, worthless; a bad girl who didn't deserve to live. While she stared at the floor, Guin sucked on her thumb, taking what little comfort she could from that. She could feel the lily-soft skin wrinkling under the saliva.
"Take your fingers out of your mouth," Angeline said, verdant eyes snapping, but face and tone cold as usual. "You look like a cockney, not a Marlowe." It was something of an irony that she still used Edmund's last name, but old habits die hard, after all.. Guin cowered for a moment, fingers still shoved between her lips. "Look at me when I speak to you, Guin." Her tone was reasonable, calm, but that made it all the worse.
Guin continued to stare at the floor, not daring to look at the china-doll features of her mother. "Mama," she said softly, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to break your spell-box." Even at the callow age she now possessed, Guin articulated her words clearly, in imitation of Angeline's ear pleasing manner. Childish sibilants softened the voice somewhat, still high-pitched enough to be a charming counterpoint against Angeline's alto.
Angeline's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. Her face, though outwardly amicable, was tinged with a red flush that suffused her cheek and betrayed the rage beneath. When she spoke, it was a blade covered in morning's dew, the thin silk of a spider's web. "Guinivere Marlowe, you will listen to me, now. You are a worthless, lazy, clumsy… Why do I even bother?" The dismissal was accompanied by a full handed slap that rocked the tiny child backwards, knocking her over in a quivering heap. "Get her out of my sight."
Sarah rushed forward to carry the toddler, silent still, out the door. The outline of a hand, shaded in brilliant crimson hues, stood out against the paleness of her cheek, the translucent infantile quality that somehow still remained there. Comforting hands, expressive and scarred, patted Guin until the tears stopped, walking from the room with her. Sarah, though dull-witted, was a loving surrogate mother, in replacement for what Angeline could never be.
It was then that Guinivere Marlowe made her descision. Whatever she did, she would never be like her mother. And later, when she was older, would come the day when she could show Angeline how wrong the woman had been her entire life. She would shine, and Angeline would love her again. Sarah watched the determined look on Guin's face, and somewhere, in the recesses of what remained of her mind, shuddered. Guin at times looked remarkably like Angeline
A child's cries echoed forlornly in the chamber, of stone but not yet older than the century. The starkly furnished room was gloomy and lit by a fire buried deep in an immaculate hearth, deep enough to prevent any heat from escaping. It fizzled and popped eerily, sending sparks flying from the crackling wood. Shadows cast ghostly lines upon the large, canopied bed, upon which a woman cradled a bloody infant, ignoring the stains that rubbed the virginal white of her nightgown. No love was evident in her eyes, a chilly pale vert, as she examined her offspring critically.
A light creak sounded and the elaborately carved door swung open gently of its own accord, admitting to the faux Gothic splendor, a man. He stood framed in the dark light of the chamber, imperially slim, shadowed and impeccable. "Angeline.. give me the child." Soulless eyes pooled into hers, ignoring the sanguine crumpled form of the baby, who had suddenly fallen silent. Graceful hands curved hidden in the folds of his robe; liquidly pale skin concealed from Angeline's view.
"No," Angeline said coldly, her own face bled dry of color. Even her lips, normally a deep plum red, were thinned and lamb-pink. Blond curls hung damply in tight ringlets around her head, unusually messy and soaked with sweat, but her composure was more than enough to make up for her bedraggled, girlish appearance. Hidden by the crimson bundle, her hands gripped the polished length of wood tightly, knuckles growing whiter as she stared back at the man. Edmund. Her husband.
Angeline, I have no time for jokes. Give me the child and I shall let you go." The voice of Edmund Marlowe was softy, steely, resigned. "By God, I shall let you go, but give me the child!" Baritone, upper-class accents rose with the feeling of his demand. More the fool he, noted Angeline, he had not yet reached for the wand she knew to be concealed in the sleeve of his robes. Edmund always had been too sentimental for his own good, she thought, light-headedly.
"Am I joking, Edmund? Why should I hand over my child to a filthy traitor?" The last word ripped from her mouth, spat out as though it dirtied her lips to speak it. Angeline paused, "Mm, tell me this. How faithful did you stay after the Potter incident? I think not; Guinivere will grow up in a proper home, and faithful to the memory of the Dark Lord." She noticed with some satisfaction that his dace had paled. In her arms, the baby moved fitfully. Angeline pinched the smooth, translucent arm, and it quailed.
Edmund took a step forward at this, his arm reaching out of its own volition. "I realized my mistake before the Potter boy. Angeline, if you won't give me the child, at least see the error of your ways! Leave the slavery of Voldemort, shake off your shackles—" Abruptly his face softened and the impassioned flow of words trickled to a tone no less intense, that grated upward from his throat, distorting his calm features. "I still love you."
The woman on the bed, entirely in control of the situation, turned her wan face on her husband's, the angelic smile chilling and heartbreaking in its beauty. "You are the one who should see the error, Edmund. You always were irrational." She shifted a bit, sitting up to see over the mound of her stomach, stretched now by the birth she had gone through. Another smile, this one colder than before – one could imagine icicles tracing their patterns over her lips. "Edmund, repudiating the Dark Lord will not save you. He will return. And when he does… Well. I would not want to be in your position."
"Angeline, listen to me! The darkness consumes you, it eats you up from the inside.. Do you think that Voldemort shows mercy, at all? He will kill you as soon as kill me."
"You will refer to him as the Dark Lord!" Angeline snapped, lips curling away from perfect white teeth. "I have had enough of this nonsense, Edmund! You were a fool to return here!" Her arm slipped away from where it had been snugged around the baby, who had been unnaturally silent throughout the whole affair. It tumbled to the sheets as Angeline moved, raising the wand high and intoning, "Crucio!" Edmund Marlowe crumpled to the floor as she struggled to her feet, still smiling her heart-breakingly. "I shall enjoy this."
Edmund's screams trailed into sobbing hiccups, and after a while, faded.
-----
Slim and confident once more, Angeline Marlowe stood in the airport, silent servant holding the baby carrier trailing mutely behind her. Curls were pulled into a bun, but Angeline had pulled several strands from the main mass, allowing them to hang girlishly around her face. Turning her head to the side, Angeline examined the schedule, annoyed. With all the baggage she carried, as well as the infant Guinivere, it was impossible to Apparate to her new destination. The sight of all the Muggles milling around turned her stomach.
Guinivere had made several burbling noises, and Angeline narrowed crystal-green eyes. "Sarah, if you cannot keep the child quiet, I shall make you very sorry indeed." Sarah's dull gaze grew panicked as she shook her head rapidly, indicating through signs that Guin would not cry out again. The woman had at one time been a fairly powerful witch in her own right, though Angeline had put a stop to that. Missing her vocal cords, now, Sarah was a mute, and a useful servant indeed, if a bit soft in the head. "Good," Angeline said sweetly, tapping her foot against the ground.
A Muggle in a blue and gold uniform approached her, and she thought he looked quite silly indeed. Disgusting. "Can I help you, ma'am?" he inquired politely, with a smile that faded as Angeline's silver-bell voice washed over him, melodious, euphonious, and venomous. After listening for several seconds, he gulped. "Yes'm," he said, eyes glazed over, "Right'm. Right away, m'm." The man picked up her baggage, and helped her to carry it towards the gate.
Though she despised them, Angeline had always made a point to know what Muggles saw as odd and out of place, so that when she was forced to travel among them, no one noticed the difference. What they saw was not a powerful witch, but instead a successful businesswoman with a spitfire temper, flaring up indiscriminately at whatever stood in her way. High heels clicked self-importantly as she moved towards the gate, not even bothering to check whether or not Sarah had followed. She knew that the woman would be too terrified not to.
Angeline Marlowe was leaving behind the life she had known before. Change, however, was good. She welcomed change. And how that Edmund was gone, there was no one to stop her from running a free rein. The countryside awaited, and the hereditary Marlowe manor. A passing Muggle stared momentarily at this beautiful young woman, so pure and soft, and wondered for a moment on the pure sweetness of her smile.
-----
Guinivere Marlowe's large, pale green eyes blinked back tears as she watched her mother closely. The chiming voice of Angeline echoed in her ears, but she tried not to hear the words. Her mother, the five-year-old knew, was a master at making her feel horrible, worthless; a bad girl who didn't deserve to live. While she stared at the floor, Guin sucked on her thumb, taking what little comfort she could from that. She could feel the lily-soft skin wrinkling under the saliva.
"Take your fingers out of your mouth," Angeline said, verdant eyes snapping, but face and tone cold as usual. "You look like a cockney, not a Marlowe." It was something of an irony that she still used Edmund's last name, but old habits die hard, after all.. Guin cowered for a moment, fingers still shoved between her lips. "Look at me when I speak to you, Guin." Her tone was reasonable, calm, but that made it all the worse.
Guin continued to stare at the floor, not daring to look at the china-doll features of her mother. "Mama," she said softly, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to break your spell-box." Even at the callow age she now possessed, Guin articulated her words clearly, in imitation of Angeline's ear pleasing manner. Childish sibilants softened the voice somewhat, still high-pitched enough to be a charming counterpoint against Angeline's alto.
Angeline's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. Her face, though outwardly amicable, was tinged with a red flush that suffused her cheek and betrayed the rage beneath. When she spoke, it was a blade covered in morning's dew, the thin silk of a spider's web. "Guinivere Marlowe, you will listen to me, now. You are a worthless, lazy, clumsy… Why do I even bother?" The dismissal was accompanied by a full handed slap that rocked the tiny child backwards, knocking her over in a quivering heap. "Get her out of my sight."
Sarah rushed forward to carry the toddler, silent still, out the door. The outline of a hand, shaded in brilliant crimson hues, stood out against the paleness of her cheek, the translucent infantile quality that somehow still remained there. Comforting hands, expressive and scarred, patted Guin until the tears stopped, walking from the room with her. Sarah, though dull-witted, was a loving surrogate mother, in replacement for what Angeline could never be.
It was then that Guinivere Marlowe made her descision. Whatever she did, she would never be like her mother. And later, when she was older, would come the day when she could show Angeline how wrong the woman had been her entire life. She would shine, and Angeline would love her again. Sarah watched the determined look on Guin's face, and somewhere, in the recesses of what remained of her mind, shuddered. Guin at times looked remarkably like Angeline