Grace of the Devil
Part Fourteen:
Grace was happy at school. She enjoyed most of her classes (except Potions with the sneering Professor Snape, but who really enjoyed that?), and had plenty of friends. She was close to the three girls that she shared a dormitory with, but her closest friend, from the first day, was Micheal Weasley. As he predicted, he'd been placed in Gryfindor. Since they were in different houses, Grace and Micheal met in the back of the library on evenings to play quiet games of Wizard's Chess and avoid the ever-watchful, disapproving eyes of Madam Pince, the strict librarian.
But sometimes, Grace would notice something: as she walked down the hall, some kids would look at her curiously. And the Slytherins weren't very nice to her...not that they were nice to anyone but their own. But they seemed to go out of their way to pick on her. She bore it well, raising her head and squaring her shoulders. But she secretly wondered what problem they had with her.
Her fellow Ravenclaws didn't act strangly around her, but she sometimes got a feeling that, when she walked into a room, eyes would be on her. I must be paranoid, she would think as she sat with her inviting friends. But the suspcion never left her.
One evening, Grace was getting her chess pieces from her dormitory to take to the library and play with Micheal. Since she'd retrieved her own pieces again, she'd been good competition for her previously cocky opponent. Their games were fairly evenly matched, and in the past year, Grace had even been beating him more often. She'd played the game a lot with her father over the last summer holiday, and was practically an expert.
As Grace headed down the stairs, she could hear the voices of her fellow Ravenclaws in the commonroom. She thought she heard the voice of her best girl friend, fellow second year Trista Vertelli, by the stairwell, and Grace decided to stop by and say hello before heading to the library.
But what she heard made her stop and listen.
"You shouldn't say such things about her!" Trista was protesting. "She's so sweet, you just have to get to know her."
"Oh, she SEEMS sweet enough, on the outside," the voice of a third year, Winny Barthrow, cut in. "That's just part of the family charm."
"They can always sweet-talk the people they want to use," another third year whom Grace didn't know said.
"Don't say that!" Trista protested again. "She hasn't a wicked bone in her whole body!"
Grace heard Winny snort. "Please, Trista. Everyone knows the truth. She practically the spawn of the devil himself."
Grace felt her blood boil with rage. She burst out of the stairwall and stood before the shocked group of girls. "Actually, he's more of a surragate father to me," she said as cooly as she could manage.
The group stared at her in shocked silence. Then Trista stood up. "Grace, we weren't talking about you, of course not!" She tried to put her hand on her arm, but Grace shook her away.
"Yeah, right." Not sure what eles to say, she burst out of the common room and hurried to the library. She found Micheal sitting at the small table in the corner, their usual spot, with his chess pieces already arranged.
"You're late," he said, not looking up. Grace sat down heavily, and Micheal looked at her at last. "What's the matter."
"I...I just heard...something horrible."
"Grace, what is it?"
She fought back tears of rage as she spoke. "They...the girls...they were saying horrible things. That my father is the devil. Why would they say that? They've never met him!"
Micheal looked uncomfortable, and he played with his chess pieces a little before speaking. "There are some rumors going around. But I know the truth."
"Why would they say that, Micheal? Tell me!"
Micheal put a finger to his lips. "You wanna get that old bat over here?" he demanded in a loud whisper. He sighed heavily. "I probably shouldn't be telling you this. You should ask your father."
"He wouldn't tell me! Oh, you MUST, Micheal! You're my best friend!"
Micheal put a finger to his lips again, but he looked pleased that he'd been dubbed as Grace's best friend. "Okay, but you can't get mad at me. I'm only telling you what I know."
"Okay. Go on."
Micheal sighed. "You've heard of Voldemort, haven't you?"
"You mean, You-Know-Who?" Grace asked, flinching slightly at the sound of the name. "Yes, I have."
"Well...your father, you see...he was a big supporter of him. In the inner circle and everything."
"What?" Grace couldn't believe it. "You...must be mistaken. Daddy would never..."
"Look, do you want to know, or not?" Micheal demanded impatiently. Grace nodded, still shocked at what she'd just heard, and Micheal continued. "He's been to Azkaban, twice: once, probably before we were born, but he escaped. Lack of dementors, you see. The second time, we would've been about...three? Do your remember?"
Grace thought back, and gasped slightly. She DID remember a time when her father was gone, but...he'd been traveling! That's what the letters that Nurse Europa had read to her said. She still had them in her bedroom! But she dared not protest with her friend, and he continued: "The second time, he got out by paying off the Minister and swearing his loyalty to the Ministry. And, he named names."
"Huh?"
"He sold out his fellow Death Eaters. Many of them are dads or uncles or relatives of the kids in Slytherin."
Grace's eyes got wide with relization. THAT'S why the Slytherin kids were so mean to her!
"There's more," Micheal said softly. He put his hand over Grace's. "They're saying that he's not really your father."
Grace nodded. "I know he isn't. A Muggle in Greece is."
Micheal nodded, too. "It's a big joke to all the snobby purebreed families. 'A Mudblood with the Malfoy name', they say. Basturds," he muttered bitterly.
Grace burst into tears, hardly believing any of it. Her father had been a DEATH EATER! He'd killed and tortured people, for an evil wizard. Gods, she thought. How could he? And everyone was talking about her behind her back, calling her a Mudblood. Big joke. Haha.
"Grace, don't cry!" Micheal exclaimed. He reached over and wrapped his friend in a tight hug. Grace sobbed onto his shoulder, thinking of how nice his robes smelled. Like orange serbet. How? she wondered slightly. But she put her head off his shoulder and looked at him
"I'm not gonna cry anymore," she whispered fiercely. "I...have to go on, like before. Like I don't know any of it."
"Are you sure?"
Grace nodded. "I just have to pretend that people aren't talking about me. That's I'm not some joke to everyone."
"Not to EVERYONE!" Micheal exclaimed quickly. "Just the Slytherins!"
Grace shook her head. "No, the girls in my house were talking about me, too. Who eles has, eh? The whole Gryfindor common room?"
"No," Micheal said icily. "And I'd never let them. After all," he said with a smile, "you ARE my best friend."
Grace smiled, laughed a little, and hugged Micheal again.
During Christmas holiday that year, Grace woke up late one night. She'd been akward around her father, after learning the truth. Whenever he asked her what was wrong, she'd give him her patented smile and say, "Nothing, Daddy. I'm just tired."
She went to the desk, and opened the bottom drawer. There were the pile of letters that her father had sent her when he was in Azkaban, all 53 of them. All of them full of comforting lies. Grace picked them up and went to her fireplace, where a fire was burning and warming the room all night. She opened up the wire gate and knelt down before the burning embers.
One by one, she burned every single letter, watching the blackened paper curl as tears filled her eyes.
Part Fourteen:
Grace was happy at school. She enjoyed most of her classes (except Potions with the sneering Professor Snape, but who really enjoyed that?), and had plenty of friends. She was close to the three girls that she shared a dormitory with, but her closest friend, from the first day, was Micheal Weasley. As he predicted, he'd been placed in Gryfindor. Since they were in different houses, Grace and Micheal met in the back of the library on evenings to play quiet games of Wizard's Chess and avoid the ever-watchful, disapproving eyes of Madam Pince, the strict librarian.
But sometimes, Grace would notice something: as she walked down the hall, some kids would look at her curiously. And the Slytherins weren't very nice to her...not that they were nice to anyone but their own. But they seemed to go out of their way to pick on her. She bore it well, raising her head and squaring her shoulders. But she secretly wondered what problem they had with her.
Her fellow Ravenclaws didn't act strangly around her, but she sometimes got a feeling that, when she walked into a room, eyes would be on her. I must be paranoid, she would think as she sat with her inviting friends. But the suspcion never left her.
One evening, Grace was getting her chess pieces from her dormitory to take to the library and play with Micheal. Since she'd retrieved her own pieces again, she'd been good competition for her previously cocky opponent. Their games were fairly evenly matched, and in the past year, Grace had even been beating him more often. She'd played the game a lot with her father over the last summer holiday, and was practically an expert.
As Grace headed down the stairs, she could hear the voices of her fellow Ravenclaws in the commonroom. She thought she heard the voice of her best girl friend, fellow second year Trista Vertelli, by the stairwell, and Grace decided to stop by and say hello before heading to the library.
But what she heard made her stop and listen.
"You shouldn't say such things about her!" Trista was protesting. "She's so sweet, you just have to get to know her."
"Oh, she SEEMS sweet enough, on the outside," the voice of a third year, Winny Barthrow, cut in. "That's just part of the family charm."
"They can always sweet-talk the people they want to use," another third year whom Grace didn't know said.
"Don't say that!" Trista protested again. "She hasn't a wicked bone in her whole body!"
Grace heard Winny snort. "Please, Trista. Everyone knows the truth. She practically the spawn of the devil himself."
Grace felt her blood boil with rage. She burst out of the stairwall and stood before the shocked group of girls. "Actually, he's more of a surragate father to me," she said as cooly as she could manage.
The group stared at her in shocked silence. Then Trista stood up. "Grace, we weren't talking about you, of course not!" She tried to put her hand on her arm, but Grace shook her away.
"Yeah, right." Not sure what eles to say, she burst out of the common room and hurried to the library. She found Micheal sitting at the small table in the corner, their usual spot, with his chess pieces already arranged.
"You're late," he said, not looking up. Grace sat down heavily, and Micheal looked at her at last. "What's the matter."
"I...I just heard...something horrible."
"Grace, what is it?"
She fought back tears of rage as she spoke. "They...the girls...they were saying horrible things. That my father is the devil. Why would they say that? They've never met him!"
Micheal looked uncomfortable, and he played with his chess pieces a little before speaking. "There are some rumors going around. But I know the truth."
"Why would they say that, Micheal? Tell me!"
Micheal put a finger to his lips. "You wanna get that old bat over here?" he demanded in a loud whisper. He sighed heavily. "I probably shouldn't be telling you this. You should ask your father."
"He wouldn't tell me! Oh, you MUST, Micheal! You're my best friend!"
Micheal put a finger to his lips again, but he looked pleased that he'd been dubbed as Grace's best friend. "Okay, but you can't get mad at me. I'm only telling you what I know."
"Okay. Go on."
Micheal sighed. "You've heard of Voldemort, haven't you?"
"You mean, You-Know-Who?" Grace asked, flinching slightly at the sound of the name. "Yes, I have."
"Well...your father, you see...he was a big supporter of him. In the inner circle and everything."
"What?" Grace couldn't believe it. "You...must be mistaken. Daddy would never..."
"Look, do you want to know, or not?" Micheal demanded impatiently. Grace nodded, still shocked at what she'd just heard, and Micheal continued. "He's been to Azkaban, twice: once, probably before we were born, but he escaped. Lack of dementors, you see. The second time, we would've been about...three? Do your remember?"
Grace thought back, and gasped slightly. She DID remember a time when her father was gone, but...he'd been traveling! That's what the letters that Nurse Europa had read to her said. She still had them in her bedroom! But she dared not protest with her friend, and he continued: "The second time, he got out by paying off the Minister and swearing his loyalty to the Ministry. And, he named names."
"Huh?"
"He sold out his fellow Death Eaters. Many of them are dads or uncles or relatives of the kids in Slytherin."
Grace's eyes got wide with relization. THAT'S why the Slytherin kids were so mean to her!
"There's more," Micheal said softly. He put his hand over Grace's. "They're saying that he's not really your father."
Grace nodded. "I know he isn't. A Muggle in Greece is."
Micheal nodded, too. "It's a big joke to all the snobby purebreed families. 'A Mudblood with the Malfoy name', they say. Basturds," he muttered bitterly.
Grace burst into tears, hardly believing any of it. Her father had been a DEATH EATER! He'd killed and tortured people, for an evil wizard. Gods, she thought. How could he? And everyone was talking about her behind her back, calling her a Mudblood. Big joke. Haha.
"Grace, don't cry!" Micheal exclaimed. He reached over and wrapped his friend in a tight hug. Grace sobbed onto his shoulder, thinking of how nice his robes smelled. Like orange serbet. How? she wondered slightly. But she put her head off his shoulder and looked at him
"I'm not gonna cry anymore," she whispered fiercely. "I...have to go on, like before. Like I don't know any of it."
"Are you sure?"
Grace nodded. "I just have to pretend that people aren't talking about me. That's I'm not some joke to everyone."
"Not to EVERYONE!" Micheal exclaimed quickly. "Just the Slytherins!"
Grace shook her head. "No, the girls in my house were talking about me, too. Who eles has, eh? The whole Gryfindor common room?"
"No," Micheal said icily. "And I'd never let them. After all," he said with a smile, "you ARE my best friend."
Grace smiled, laughed a little, and hugged Micheal again.
During Christmas holiday that year, Grace woke up late one night. She'd been akward around her father, after learning the truth. Whenever he asked her what was wrong, she'd give him her patented smile and say, "Nothing, Daddy. I'm just tired."
She went to the desk, and opened the bottom drawer. There were the pile of letters that her father had sent her when he was in Azkaban, all 53 of them. All of them full of comforting lies. Grace picked them up and went to her fireplace, where a fire was burning and warming the room all night. She opened up the wire gate and knelt down before the burning embers.
One by one, she burned every single letter, watching the blackened paper curl as tears filled her eyes.