Right. I'm a bit hyped because of the upcoming game from Harry Potter universe, especially after watching the trailer and the gameplay overview. I thought it would be super cool to write something about wizards from that time period, so here we are. The story is about a squib from the old wizard family. Small warning: the plot went wild.
Special thanks to my English tutor, Ch., who helped me with polishing first few pages. English is not my native language, but I hope you'll enjoy the story despite my mistakes.
I also started a blog: the new old stories . blogspot . com
There were wizards and there were Muggles, but Brayden was neither. He needed time to realise this fact, the whole nine years of his miserable life, but one conversation helped him to grasp the idea. It was rather mundane talk, and this upset him ever since, because if something is going to change you forever, it should at least be spectacular.
He remembered lurking behind an old suit of armour and eavesdropping on his father, at the same time curious and aghast. He didn't mean to be there and listen, but he couldn't help himself when the occasion presented itself.
"My boys," said his father to a new teacher, who seemed to be less human than statues in the main hole, because they at least smiled from time to time, "are sharp as Hippogriffs' claws. However, they need discipline."
Brayden twitched and straightened his back against the wall of the corridor. Meanwhile, the teacher nodded: his head looked like an old bag of grains swinging on the end of a stick.
"All boys need it," he said. "How old are they?"
"Egerton is six and Harvey — seven."
The teacher scratched his nose.
"I was told you have three sons—"
"The oldest will not bother you," the father snapped. "He's a squib."
Brayden didn't know this word but he recognised his father's tone. The man would use the same voice to talk about Muggles or pigs.
The teacher nodded again, but the boy couldn't read anything from his blank face.
"Shall I teach him how to read and count?," the man asked.
There was a long, silent pause after his words. Eventually Brayden's father turned round and looked straight at the place where the boy was hidden.
"No," he answered, when his fingers reached for his wand.
xxx
Ancestral blood was rushing through their veins, as Brayden's mother loved to say, and for everyone in the family that meant the old magic. They had the surname that other wizards and witches envied, the castle surrounded by heaths and enough cruelty to thrive for centuries.
For them, Brayden was a cause for a shame.
He turned eleven and didn't receive a letter from Hogwarts. He stole his mother's wand, but to him it was only a piece of dead wood. His brothers were casting nasty spells at him, which they had learned from books, and nobody scolded them.
One night, when Brayden was sobbing into a pillow in his cold room, a gloomy thought sneaked into his mind.
"I want them to be dead," he whispered and then he heard:
"They want you to be dead."
Brayden sat and looked around nervously.
"Who's there?"
There was no answer.
"Are you a ghost, miss?" Brayden asked slowly, at the same time trying to light a candle. He knew there were a couple of them in the castle, but they never showed up in front of him. A weak flame brightened the room, illuminating only bare walls and a single wobbly desk.
Brayden shivered and wrapped a worn blanket around his shoulders.
"Please, don't leave me, miss," he pleaded. "Do they plan to...hurt me?"
The answer was as quiet as the breath of the dead:
"You're the eldest child."
"That means nothing. I have no magic."
"You have enough."
Brayden was trembling as he held the candle tight in his hand.
"Enough for what?"
He felt a freezing touch on his shoulders and his skin started tingling.
"They will do nothing until your grandfather dies," the voice said instead of answering, "and it will be soon."
Brayden turned his head, but he saw only his shadow.
"I don't believe you," he cried.
There was no answer to that. The boy realised he was alone. He blew out the candle, put it on the floor, and curled up under his blanket.
"They won't hurt me, they won't hurt me, they won't hurt me," he whispered into the darkness.
He was unaware that it was the night of his thirteen birthday.
xxx
Grandfather lived in the west tower where children were forbidden to enter. Brayden knew nothing about him, except that he was old and sick, which in the boy's mind meant the same. He imagined him as a more terrifying version of his father, because each time he got into trouble, he'd heard that his grandfather would have chastised him if he could have got out of bed.
So when Brayden sneaked into the room and found only a fragile old man laying on a mound of pillows, he felt both relief and disappointment.
His grandfather had a bald head and was half-blind, but he didn't put his wand away even for a second. When Brayden approached the bed, his grandfather slowly raised his head and asked:
"Who are you?"
"I'm your grandson, sir."
"Which one? Harvey? Egerton?"
It hurt.
"Brayden," he said and lowered his gaze.
The old wizard narrowed his eyes.
"Come closer to the sunlight. You've grown up, boy."
Brayden stood in front of the window and took a deep breath.
"I have a question," he said.
His grandfather put his glasses on his nose and stared at Brayden's face.
"I thought you would be taller." He leaned forward, not listening to the boy at all. "They don't feed you well, do they?"
"Ummm."
"They're so silly. They think you turned out to be a squib because something is wrong with them." A huge grin appeared on his face. "Well, they're all broken after all."
"Sir, I have a question," Brayden repeated nervously. Every second someone could come into the room. "Please."
"Ask then."
"I think I spoke to a ghost. She said I had enough magic. What does it mean? Enough for what?"
The smile vanished from the man's face. He sighed and took off his glasses.
"Ah, you met her."
Brayden was waiting in silence, looking at the floor, but his heart was beating rapidly.
"It's my castle, boy. Not your father's, yet, or his wife's; it never will be hers." The man grasped his wand tighter. "And I don't like your brothers. She said they are using curses on you. Is that true?"
"I don't know, sir. I thought they were just spells."
"Well, it's forbidden by the Ministry of Magic to use any of them at their age." The man sank into the pile of pillows and closed his eyes. "I'm so tired. Don't get old, Brayden, unless you find the philosopher's stone."
"But I still don't understand anything!"
The boy realised he had shouted, so he covered his mouth with his hands.
Grandfather grinned again.
"I'm going to give you the castle in my will. It's a bit risky, but you'll have children with magical powers eventually."
Brayden froze in pure terror.
"No! No, please, no! They'll...That can't be!"
"I've decided," said the wizard sternly. His breath got slower and his voice grew weaker: "Go now. I need rest."
xxx
The cabin trunk had been in the family for years. It was made in a small magic workshop situated in the corner of a tiny magic village in Ireland, and, for sure, it was a labour of much passion and time. Every embellishment was carved by hands and each of the spells woven into the wood and iron cast with care. It was so light that even an eleven year old child could easily move it around, but also spacious enough to include a full-size room inside.
According to tradition, the cabin trunk would be given to the eldest son, when he started Hogwarts, but, of course, Brayden could only dream about it. The precious item was handed to Harvey during the party that their parents had arranged to celebrate the start of his official education.
That night the castle was full of people, music, food and light. Harvey was taken around like a doll in an expensive robe, and almost every old witch and wizard commented loudly on how he looked and behaved. After Midnight, a woman with hair pale as hay approached the fireplace in the main hall and foretold the boy's future. She saw a lot of gold, which made Brayden's parents content.
Brayden, in theory, was obligated to sit in his own room and to cause no trouble, but in practice nobody cared what he was doing. He had stolen Harvey's normal robe and for the rest of the night pretended to be a son of some guest. As long as he stayed away from his own family, nobody could see through his act.
At around two in the morning he found the cabin trunk. The trunk was standing in the smaller room, surrounded by other gifts, most of them still unpacked. The light in this chamber was dim, so Brayden felt more confident than usual. He looked around but didn't spot anyone. After that he slowly approached the pale of gifts and reached out his arm—
"I wouldn't touch that, if I were you," he heard from behind.
Brayden jumped back and hid his hands behind his back, as he felt they were guilty of mischief rather than himself.
The fortune teller was standing in the doorway, smoking a long pipe. The end of it looked like the head of a snake. The woman exhaled smoke and it was the colour of jade.
"They're under the spell," she added.
"I didn't know."
"Sure you didn't." The woman shrugged. "But if they weren't, your brother would end up with only some ripped wrapping paper."
"I don't have a brother," said Brayden quickly. He started to imagine the worst case scenario: the woman bringing him to his father and everything that surely would happen after that.
Another puff of green smoke eddied up into the air.
"I saw you in his future. What is your stupid brother called? Harry? Harold?"
"Harvey," answered Brayden and twitched, when he realised he was caught. "Please, don't tell my parents I'm here."
"I won't." The woman tilted her head; her long hair waved like a field of grain on a windy day. "Yes, I saw you," she repeated and it sounded like she was assuring herself.
"But you didn't prophesy that," said Brayden slowly. He didn't like how she stared at him.
"I say what people want to hear," the fortune teller answered without the slightest sign of shame. "It's the easiest way to put bread on the table."
Brayden also thought he didn't like the way she was speaking. It sounded like the hiss of a snake.
"I need to go to bed," he murmured. "It's late."
The woman acted like she didn't hear him.
"And true prophecies are rare," she added. Green smoke escaped from behind her lips. "Rare as pearls in a beggar's sack."
Brayden felt like he had swallowed a hand of iron coins. This woman, even though she was alive, reminded him of that ghost. Somehow, he knew without a doubt that she would say something horrible to him.
"Please, don't tell me!"
He covered his ears with hands and closed his eyes. When he opened them, the woman was standing right before him. She grabbed his chin and forced him to raise his head.
Brayden lowered his hands with resignation written over his face. Adults always ignored his words.
"I saw him kneeling before you," the fortune teller said. After that she laughed. "Before a squib. How hilarious."
Then she left him there in the dim light, surrounded by gifts that never would be his, trembling in a stolen robe. For a long time he could smell her smoke, but eventually the scent disappeared.
Brayden stopped shaking and took a deep breath. He gazed at the cabin trunk. His face was blank.
The party ended when the sun rose.
xxx
The heathland surrounding the castle was vast and unwelcoming. Brayden knew there were no hiding spots for miles, only gentle fields blooming in purple and violet. He would be caught immediately, if he tried to leave home that way. Brooms were locked behind a solid, wood door, and they had never responded to him anyway. He could try to use the fireplace, but the jar with a Floo powder stood in Brayden's father's office—the place so forbidden that the boy didn't even think of breaking in.
There were other invisible shackles, keeping Brayden in the castle—shackles stronger than fields of heaths, locks in the office's doors or stubborn brooms. Brayden had no place to go.
His parents knew that, so they didn't bother about locking him with spells. They could do this easily, of course, but even among the old families keeping their own child as a prisoner would be considered a little barbaric, and Brayden's mother loved to think about herself as a good person. His father, on the other hand, preferred to pretend that Brayden didn't exist, until the boy needed to be taught a lesson.
…And it was always the same lesson.
Brayden thought about this, sitting quietly in Harvey's cabin trunk. He slipped inside when his brother had left his room for a moment in the middle of packing. Since then, Brayden has been waiting and thinking about how hellish his life will be when father eventually finds him here. He hid in the closet, among robes and capes, and hugged himself, trying to ease his stomach. Minutes go by. Harvey returned and ran into the cabin trunk, skipping steps in the stairs. He put some toys on the shelves and left the magic room without giving a closet even a glance. Brayden heard a slam, when his brother closed the trunk.
After that was a long moment of silence and eventually a shaking, that made Brayden's nausea even stronger.
He needed to go outside the closet in order to take a breath. Air in the cabin trunk was stale and warm. Brayden smelled his own sweat: sharp odour of fear.
Slowly, in complete darkness, the boy went to the only armchair in the room, and sat at its edge. He heard some noises from outside, voices of people, neighing of invisible horses, but the beating of his heart was louder.
He knew almost nothing about Hogwarts.
It was a school for magic children, not for him; the castle somewhere in Scotland, but not near home; and they were witches and wizards who, according to Brayden's previous experience, would despise him.
But, thought the boy, they are humans and humans love gold.
It was the truth he learned from people that didn't notice his existence, lessons he took standing in shadows, eavesdropping from behind the corners of the corridors. There were three powers in this world: magic, knowledge and money. Brayden was born without the first; the second was taken away from him; but someday he would be rich. He just needed to survive to that moment.
And I will.
He looked into the darkness—the one in the room and the one in his mind. He remembered his mother, who hugged him when she believed he was a normal child and only then; his father, who never talked to him without his wand; and eventually he thought about his brothers with their childish cruelty.
Brayden decided that one day he would make them all kneel.
xxx
It was a long journey. Brayden fell into a state, when he wasn't dreaming but at the same time he wasn't fully awake. His thoughts floated without direction. The heathland in his head turned into the purple ocean and the boy nodded to the rhythm of the imaginary waves. The sky outside the cabin trunk was cold and clear, but the boy believed that their horse cab was flying through a storm.
Finally, waving motion stopped and Brayden guessed it meant they reached Hogwarts. He had forced himself to wait a little longer, before he tried to open the barrel-top of the trunk. It was the moment when he realised Harvey locked his luggage.
Brayden panicked.
He started shouting and thumping with fist at the bottom of the lid.
"Help! Please, someone help me!"
He believed that he had no time left—he would suffocate in this trunk if he stayed inside even for a few minutes. That wasn't true, no magical craftsman would ever sell a trunk who could kill his owner, but Brayden was still a child and knew little about magic.
He cried.
"Please, please!"
The wooden top opened.
Brayden jumped out of the trunk and fell onto a cold floor. He breathed loudly, curling in the middle of the Slytherin dormitory. Eventually, he sat and looked around. The room was empty, but he felt a familiar cold in the air.
"Miss, was it you?"
As usual he got no answer. Brayden stood and took another breath. Panic slowly left his mind. He was still alive and needed to act if he wanted this to be true also tomorrow.
His robe was smelly, so he changed clothes, stealing from his brother once again, and pushed his old thobe under a random bed. Then he closed the cabin trunk and went outside, to the common room.
For any other child it would be a breathtaking moment: walking next to windows showing underwater, lake scenery. Brayden, however, could only think how similar the colour of the green lantern was to the colour of fortune teller's smoke.
A tall teenager left his dormitory just after Brayden. He stopped and scanned the boy, then frowned.
"Who are you?" he asked. "I don't know you."
Brayden turned around slowly, looked straight into his eyes and wondered if he heard his screams. Probably not, because he would have asked about them in the first place. That meant the trunk had a spell of silence on it.
The teenager seemed to be mildly irritated, not worried. He could be fifteen or sixteen.
"Well, I don't know you either. That meant nothing."
Brayden was acting like his father, when he was put in an inconvenient situation, but the boy didn't notice that.
"I'm a prefect," said the teenager haughtily.
Brayden had no idea what it meant.
"You're a bad prefect then," he said with a shrug. His heart again was beating rapidly.
He would be cursed in his home, but the teenager didn't reach for his wand. He eyed him once again and Brayden realised the lad was evaluating his clothes. He did the same.
The teenager was wearing the robe that saw better times and shoes that were hiding their age under a thick layer of conserving spells. The lad caught his gaze and made a wry face, but didn't comment.
"You should be at the welcome ceremony anyway," he said. "Come with me."
Brayden nodded without hesitation. He had no plan after getting outside his home, so he could just go to the ceremony as well.
"What is your name?" asked the prefect, when they walked through the castle. Hogwarts was bigger than Brayden's home. Looked more magical.
Brayden didn't trust magic.
"Ridley Morisson," he answered.
His mother said that Morisson's family had more kids than was appropriate.
"I know Charles. Is he your cousin?"
"I don't think so."
Lying was easy.
"You're similar." The prefect finally smiled, like someone who just solved a difficult riddle. "I bet he's your cousin."
They stopped before an enormous wooden door that looked like a gate to another dimension.
"Try not to bring attention to yourself," the teenager said. "No one should be wandering in the school during the ceremony. If we lose points because of you, I will make your life harder, Morisson."
Brayden didn't said anything stupid like: it's not fair. You also were in the dormitory. Instead, he nodded.
"I'm good at not bringing attention to myself."
They came into the Great Hall and sat quietly at the end of the table. The feast had begun and children were focused on meals and chatting. Brayden felt hunger for the first time that day. He put goose meat and potatoes on his plate and started eating. His gaze was wandering around the hall. Nowhere he saw Harvey, which meant that, probably, Harvey didn't see him either. That calmed him a bit.
He wondered how long he could play Ridley Morisson.
xxx
If someone asked any Hogwarts' teacher if it was possible to entirely miss the existence of one boy, he would say this idea was absolutely atrocious. However, Ridley Morisson was just fine.
He quickly realised that he needed to disappear in the morning hours, when other kids were attending lessons, and at night, when everyone was supposed to go to their dormitories. For the rest of the day he was only one more face behind the table or a book. Even if he didn't know how to read, he liked pretending to be a bookworm. The library was warm and cosy, and teachers didn't pay too much attention to children, who were studying there. Brayden could spend hours in this place trying to find the most interesting illustrations. He fell in love with maps, especially the really old ones, that were inhabited by dragons and sea monsters. However, he never fully lost himself in books—he always gazed at the entrance when someone new was entering the library, ready to get up and escape when Harvey came inside.
Avoiding Brayden's brother was almost the most difficult part of Ridley Morrison's life.
The other challenge was keeping himself clean. Sometimes he sneaked into the Slytherin dormitory, usually when the other children had their lessons, but always felt like he was balancing on the edge of being caught out. He managed to steal another Harvey's robe and some underwear but even with them laundry was still tedious. He needed to fill a bucket he took from a greenhouse and bring it to his secret place, and then he washed his clothes with a piece of soap, working in complete darkness.
He made his hideout in a secret tunnel that he had discovered the first night. As a child growing up in the castle he knew where to look for the hidden doors and corridors, but only one of the statues let him in. The tunnel behind had a low ceiling and was entirely made of smooth stones. At the beginning, Brayden was going through it for long before he felt safe enough—from teachers, ghosts and prefects—to sleep, but when the night got colder, he was forced to stay near the entrance. He wasn't brave enough to steal a pillow, a duvet or even a blanket, so he spent nights on the bare floor, covering himself with the second robe.
During the days he listened to others' conversations, learned about the magic world and ate better than ever before. Sometimes he talked with other pupils but never more than for a few minutes. He always avoided questions about his house or on which year he really was and made stories about Ridley's family. Morrison had a five-years old sister, who adored him, and mother, who made the best apple pie in the world. He didn't know about Charles, but he had to admit that their family was just too big to keep track of every connection. Ridley's father never hurt him.
Sometimes Brayden dreamed about them. These nights he slept with a smile on his face.
Sometimes he felt a sudden bite of cold and knew that the ghost from home was observing him.
Sometimes Brayden cried.
However, as was said, Ridley Morisson was just fine.
xxx
Brayden's father visited Hogwarts in November.
xxx
"Morisson."
The prefect from Slytherin, who, what Brayden had discovered one day, was named August, took the boy to the bathroom. The teenager closed the door, crossed his arms against his chest, and gazed at Brayden.
"Where is your wand, Morisson?"
"In my bag," answered Brayden calmly. "I think I left it in the library."
August snapped:
"Don't make a fool out of me. I never saw you with any bag."
Brayden took one step back.
"Why are you angry?"
"Maybe because your father, your real father, is making a hel in the director's office right now."
Brayden nodded slowly. He was curious why his father had waited for that long before he reached Hogwarts. Letting a squib to run away from home was a shame but having a squib as a son probably was even more embarrassing. Father needed to be desperate, if he acknowledged both of these.
Did he know about grandfather's will?
"Do you have nothing to say?" August showed his teeth like a wild hound.
"He is going to kill me," said Brayden.
The prefect smirked.
"I would too."
"No in that way." Brayden was still calm, like he was talking about someone else. At that moment, he still played—not Morrison this time, but somebody else, older, more witty and cynical. "He is going to kill me, because I'm a squib, yet, I'm also my grandfather's heir."
August stopped smiling.
Brayden turned round and came closer to the mirror. He gazed at his own face and thought he didn't look like a child anymore. No, if you paid attention to his eyes.
"You should tell that to the teachers," said August.
"They will believe my father. He's an adult. He'll say I'm ungrateful and they love me."
The prefect hesitated for a moment.
"Maybe they do."
"No," said Brayden. "You know the stories about my family."
August uncrossed his arms and came closer. His face was thoughtful, but Brayden knew he didn't feel pity. The boy heard a lot about August: his family's money faded through the last century and with them disappeared any respect this family had gained before, but the prefect was a proud person, always hungry for more power, always eager to grab any occasion.
The boy guessed he didn't tell any teacher about him because he wanted to bring him to Brayden's father by himself.
"Are you really an heir?" asked the prefect.
"Yes."
"Prove me that."
Brayden smiled without joy.
"My father is looking for me."
"Maybe he really loves you." August shook his head. "No, not a squib," he added to himself.
Brayden nodded. He took a deep breath.
"How much do you want?" he asked. "I will pay you when I get my share."
This time, it was August who stepped back.
"I won't help you, whatever you are planning to do. I don't want to exchange Hogwarts for Azkaban," he said quickly.
Brayden observed him through the mirror.
"I only need someone to write a letter for me," he said. "And send it, of course."
"To whom?"
"The fortune teller with hair as bright as hay."
August twitched in surprise.
"That Malfoy girl? Why?" he asked.
A girl wasn't a way in which Brayden would describe her.
"Because she tells people what they want to hear," he answered. Their gazes met in the mirror. "Only one letter. Do we have a deal?"
August nodded slowly and in the moment of generosity he proposed:
"I can borrow you a cloak of invisibility for a few days. But be careful. My father would kill me if anything happened to it."
xxx
One day Ridley Morisson left Hogwarts, and only house elves noticed that, but because they were as invisible as that boy, that fact didn't matter.
The fortune teller came to the school and asked about the job, but the director had nothing for her. Although, because he was a nice man and the fortune teller had a pretty face, they drank tea together and after that he paid her a few knuts for a prophecy. She looked at used tea leaves and said his dreams would be fulfilled. The director laughed. Then she went to the school gate, accompanied by a tall, nervous teenager, who returned to the castle with the invisible cloak in his pocket and the mind full of pictures that made his cheeks red.
The fortune teller took Brayden to her cottage and the boy for the first time in his life stood on the shore of the ocean.
The woman let go of his hand and went inside the tiny house; however, Brayden didn't move. He stared at the waves and thought about sea monsters and about that one painting in the main hall in his home castle that showed a shipwreck and people drowning through infinity in a water dark as ink.
Fortune teller went outside and gave him a mask. It looked like a badger.
"I have guests," she said. "Some will come to discover the future; some to escape the present. You'll wear the mask, not speak to them, and if they come at night you'll stay in your room and not watch."
"I understand," said Brayden but he was too young to understand.
"That room is small; I keep my broom and old cauldron there. But you're thin, so it shouldn't be a problem."
"It wouldn't be."
"During the day you will be cleaning and cooking. When you finish your chores, you can go and play, or do whatever you want. But if you get lost, I won't look for you."
"That sounds right. Thanks, miss Malfoy."
The fortune gazed at him. In the daylight she looked young and vulnerable. It wasn't her time.
"Don't call me that," she said.
xxx
Brayden lived in the cottage at the shore for three years. During them he turned from a child to a lad, learned how to read and write, and almost forgot about the ghost from his family's castle. The men, who visited the fortune teller, laughed and called him Sea Badger; the women gave him sweets; the girls chuckled when he entered the house.
It was a good time.
He liked mornings, when he put off mask and ate breakfast with the fortune teller, and evenings, when he went for a long walk, having only waves as companions. The woman never treated him as her child but she saw a human in him and for Brayden it was more than ever.
One day he returned from his walk and found the fortune teller dead and her pipe broken.
It was a good time for winds and the storm was coming. He took a blanket and covered her body, like she could still feel cold. Then he closed the windows and eventually got some Floo powder. He used it to call the Aurors.
They told him to show his face and asked questions. Brayden was answering quietly, looking at the broken pipe.
"I'm William O'connor, sir."
"No, I went for a walk."
"No, I heard nothing."
"No, I'm a squib."
"No, sir. Everyone loved her. She was only predicting a good future."
The auror, who was questioning him, looked at him closely.
"You look familiar," he said.
Brayden shrugged.
"I've never met my father. Mother told me he was a rotter. Maybe you know him."
The other Auror came to them.
"She had been killed by a curse, probably by someone who she knew. Her wand was in the bedroom. She didn't expect the fight."
Brayden stayed silent. He felt cold. The storm was brewing—the one outside and the one in his mind.
"Do you have a place to go, boy?" asked Auror. He closed his notebook and gazed at him with care. "The weather will be horrible for the next few days."
"I'll return to my mother," Brayden lied. "And I need to find another job."
"Right. You probably should go before her family appears." Auror sighed. "And, if you want good advice, don't go to the funeral. I know Malfoys a bit. They will not appreciate a condolence from a squib."
Brayden nodded slowly.
"I'm sorry for your loss," the Auror added. He wrote something in his notebook and tore out one page. He gave it to Brayden. "Reach me if you'll have trouble with getting a new job. I cannot promise anything, but I know some families that have no elves and a lot of work."
I'm not a house elf.
"Thank you, sir," said Brayden through his clenched teeth.
After that he packed his clothes, some books and money that the fortune teller had given him before, and left the cottage through the green fire in a fireplace.
He entered London alone.
xxx
The next months Brayden spent working in a pub on Knockturn Alley. The owner was paranoiac—he believed his employee would curse and rob him, so he decided to minimalise the risk. He gave Brayden a bed to sleep in and one meal a day, and paid two Sickles a week. He also didn't care why the lad was wearing the mask. On Knockturn Alley that wasn't anything unusual.
The job was hard and tedious, the owner's character difficult. Brayden never knew when the wizard's rage would break out. The lad used to wear shirts with long sleeves to hide the bruises.
He could write to the Auror, his name was on the page sticked in one of Braydon's books, and sometimes the boy considered that, but the pub had one advantage. He could listen to people who get there to get drunk or because they were sure nobody would hear their schemes. For these wizards and witches Brayden was invisible.
He would never get magic and he started to doubt if he really was an heir, so the knowledge was the only thing that was left.
And on the fifth of July the gigantic owl landed on the kitchen windowsill. She gave him a letter from the bank.
Brayden gazed at the gold letters. He was not smiling.
xxx
Sending two letters from the post office cost him eight Knuts and the dinner for two persons took another Sickle and three Knuts. Brayden sat next to the window and scanned August. Last year wasn't easy on him. August was skinny and hungry—this time not for power but for the meat and potatoes. He ate quickly and didn't start conversation until he cleaned his plate.
Brayden thought it was convenient.
"Thanks," said August eventually and brought the cup of tea closer to himself. "I wasn't sure if you were still alive, to be honest. I tried to ask your brother about that but he's a scum."
Brayden shrugged.
"I am."
"Yes, I see. And that fortune teller is with you…?" August looked around. His face turned red a bit.
"She was murdered," said Brayden.
August froze.
"Good Merlin. I didn't know."
"It was in November." He was silent for a long moment. "She liked that month. A good month for the poor and dead, she said."
August sighed and drank a sip of tea.
"Do you know who killed her?"
"No. I guess someone from her family. She wasn't robbed and…" he hesitated for a moment, looking for words, "...her robe was still on."
That was the first time he could tell someone about this, not including Aurors. He noticed with surprise that his hands were shaking.
August nodded.
"I'm so sorry for you," he said sincerely. "She looked like a nice person."
Brayden sighed and took his own tea. It had almost no taste.
"She wasn't nice," he said. "But she cared for me. I don't know why. I never asked. Maybe she just hated what the old families are doing and it was her way to show that." He wiped out tears from eyes and took a deep breath. "Sorry, you don't come here to listen to that."
"It's all right." August straightened and clenched his fists. "You wrote it's about our deal."
Brayden nodded and pulled the letter out of his pocket. August stared at the golden letters.
"From Gringotts Wizarding Bank," he read out loud.
"They're going to open the will today at five. I need to be there. And my family also will be," said Brayden.
August made a wry face.
"And they'll try to kill you before that," he commented. "What are you expecting from me? I'm not a guard."
"But you need my money," said Brayden. "And, just in case, I'm not eager to give them to you in my will."
August snapped:
"Good to know."
He was sitting in silence, sipping his tea.
"Eleven Sickles and eight Knuts once a week for the next four years," he said eventually.
Brayden narrowed his eyes.
"Fee for the Aurors' course?" He knew a lot.
August nodded. For some reason, he looked ashamed.
"And don't tell anyone. Ever."
"You know you could sell that cloak—"
"It's my heritage."
"Of course."
They finished their tea and went outside for a walk. It was 2 o'clock.
xxx
Gringotts Bank looked like an ultimate fortress of richness, but inside were almost no people, and goblins, who were working there, seemed to be nervous.
"People say they are preparing for a rebellion," whispered August to Brayden, when they walked through the marbled corridor. "What do you think?"
"People say a lot," he answered. "And goblins have a good hearing."
August gazed at their guide suspiciously, but added nothing.
They stopped next to a door that looked exactly the same as every other door in this bank. The guide asked them to wait and disappeared inside.
"I hate waiting," August murmured.
Brayden didn't look at him.
"Sorry, I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere," he said and went further in the corridor.
There was a man waiting for him. They had a quick conversation. The man nodded; Brayden left him.
"Who is he?" asked August nervously.
"Someone I know." Brayden laid against the wall and hid his hands in his pockets. He waited.
His family appeared soon after them: his father, mother, both brothers, some other relatives who Brayden didn't recognize.
He watched them carefully, ready to fight. His father looked at him without the slightest sign of interest and turned round. Brayden realised they didn't recognize him either.
That shouldn't hurt, yet, he felt like the nails were put in his heart.
August was intelligent enough to not comment.
Finally, a goblin opened the door and people filled the room. Brayden sat as close to the exit as he could. August was squeezing his wand under the table. His hand was sweaty; his breath—uneven.
The notary, the old goblin hiding his eyes behind the enormous glasses, greeted everyone. He said a lot about the law and a little about Brayden's grandfather. Eventually, he slowly opened the will and corrected the glasses, because they had slipped a bit.
Brayden was observing his family. His father was in a bad mood but his mother smiled. Harvey looked at everyone except the notary. Egerton tried to not yawn.
"My castle and the fields around it," readed the notary, "and the house in London, the residence in Edynburg, and my share in companies The Sea Dragon, The Cauldrons for Talented Witches, Anderson & Sons, and my books, money and other belongings I'm given to Bray—"
"He's dead," said Brayden's father.
August took a loud breath.
"In your wishes," said Brayden calmly.
He stood up and caught his father's gaze. The silence after his words was louder than screams.
"Brayden?" asked his mother eventually. She was sitting with her mouth open like a fish that was taken out of water.
Brayden shrugged and glanced at the notary.
"Please, continue. Although, I'm afraid, my grandfather had nothing more than what you just had named."
The goblin nodded.
"Yes, indeed. It's a really short will," he confirmed.
Brayden's father also stood. He was shaking, his face turned first pale, then red.
"It's preposterous!" he shouted. "That boy is a squib."
"Brayden?" asked his mother again.
Brayden ignored her.
"Yes, I have no magic. This doesn't change anything, father."
"I didn't know he had another son," said someone in the room, but it was silenced by others immediately.
Brayden looked into his father's eyes. The man was terrified. Suddenly he grinned.
"Maybe, but you're still a child," he said. "You cannot manage the assets before you turn seventeen. But we will help you, when you come home, of course."
Another nail in my heart, thought Brayden. Another coin in my stomach.
"My seventeenth birthday was two days ago," he said.
"Brayden, is that you?" asked his mother for the third time.
Brayden sighed.
"Yes, mother. I'm still alive." He raised his head more. "And because you're my family, I'll be generous. You have the whole day to leave my castle." He smirked and gazed at Harvey, who was sitting in silence, shocked. "And if you beg me on your knees, maybe I'll let you keep one of the houses."
"Brayden!" hissed August, but it was too late.
Brayden's father pulled his wands out of his robe and casted a curse. Brayden registered only a bright flare-up, and somebody's scream, and…the thin layer of shield that had been made by August.
The doors opened loudly and Aurors came in. There was the one, to whom Brayden sent the letter, but also others, whose lad didn't know.
August put his hand on Brayden's shoulder.
"Come outside," he said.
Brayden nodded. He was shaking.
xxx
"You made a fool out of me, boy," said Auror after finishing his notes. He closed the notebook and shook his head. "I knew it was something familiar in you. Good Merlin, I was staring at your portrait for years in the office."
"I'm sorry."
"You have no reason to be." The Auror scratched his nose. "That was a nasty curse today. I don't think your father will leave Azkaban in a while."
"I hope so."
"Right." The Auror eyed him. "But what about your mother and brothers?"
"They have a choice."
"It's not a choice in my opinion." The Auror narrowed his eyes. "Are you sure you want to go that way, boy?"
Brayden nodded.
"Yes, sir."
"Well, you're an adult. But if you need help, you will know how to find me."
He left him alone. Brayden slowly breathed air out of his lungs and gazed at his hands that finally stopped trembling. August was waiting for him outside the bank.
"It was total madness," he said. "You're lucky he didn't use Avada."
"Right, I'm lucky." Brayden raised his head to the sun. He let the light warm him. "Let's go."
He walked downstairs slowly.
"Where?" asked August. He was bursting with energy, like the fight still wasn't over.
"To the Knockturn Alley. I know people who will do a lot for gold. And I need to buy a wand. I saw one in the pawnshop."
"A wand?" August looked at him suspiciously. "Don't say you're not even a squib."
"I am. But I don't want people to know that."
August rolled his eyes.
"You can't make a fool out of the whole world."
"Right, I can't. But the world itself—can."
They walked in silence for a moment. London looked welcoming in a warm, summer light. Brayden felt like the cold finally left his body. Maybe not for too long, maybe only for a day, but it was such a relief.
"The stories about your family," asked August suddenly, "are they real?"
"Which ones?"
"Any…Like what you are doing with your house elves." He moved his finger horizontally on his throat. "Is that real?"
"It can be," said Brayden. "It's a good story."
August watched him for a long moment but eventually he shrugged and said:
"Not for elves."
xxx
The castle didn't change. Brayden walked slowly into the main living room and sat next to an empty fireplace. He stretched his legs and looked at the painting of the shipwreck. The waves were still black; the drowning peoples raised their hands to the moon; a sea dragon, green as jade, was slowly crushing the remains of their ship. The beast won: he was full and safe and just needed a bit more time to finish the slaughter. The sailors knew that but they were swimming anyway, trying to outrun the monster, the night, the fate.
They were people after all.
"Make fire," said Brayden.
The fireplace was lit up immediately, however, the house elves didn't show up. They were obligated to be loyal to the lad, but that didn't mean they were going to forgive what he did to the rest of the family.
Brayden didn't care about that.
He was watching the fire, resting.
After an hour or two he said:
"It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
The ghost sat in the second armchair. One half of her face was beautiful, the other half looked like it was burned.
Not by fire, thought Brayden, by ice. Ice curse, maybe?
She sat in a way that she was showing him only her beauty.
"I came to say goodbye," whispered the woman.
Brayden frowned.
"Are you leaving?"
She smiled.
"This night. I've been waiting for your grandfather, and he was waiting for you to grow up."
The cold that accompanied her weakened the fire.
"I understand. Thank you for keeping an eye on me," he said gratefully. "I wish you could stay a little longer."
She smiled again and shook her head.
Brayden lowered his eyes.
"Can I ask who you are? I've never seen any portrait of you, never heard or read a single story."
"Your family tried to forget about me." The ghost looked at the painting, not him. "A long time ago, I was your grandfather's lover."
"Before he met my grandmother?"
"No, not before."
"Ah," said Brayden. He could imagine the rest. His eyes also gazed at the painting. "I wonder how much we have forgotten." He was silent for a moment. "Will you tell me your name, miss?"
She nodded and told him—Brayden never repeated it to anyone else.
xxx
Harvey came to him eight month after he graduated Hogwarts. He knelt and begged. Brayden gave him the house in Edynburg, but not before his brother promised to never use their surname again.
Egerton had never showed up. He died sixty eight years later in a tiny village in Ireland, the same, where Harvey's cabin trunk was made. For the most of his life the man was happy. He shrugged their family's burdens off his shoulders and never looked back.
Their father tried to kill Brayden once again after leaving prison, but he was an amateur and Brayden hired professionals. Azkaban got his prisoner back.
Brayden never found out what happened to his mother.
xxx
And it was that one winter, when Brayden decided to not repeat his father's mistakes and took his oldest son, a few years old squib, to a long walk on heathland.
Brayden returned home alone.
His wife said nothing, she even didn't cry—she had no place to go—but her smile died that winter.
They had together four other children: Phineus, Sirius, Elladora and Iola; each of them bursting with magic.
Brayden's grandchildren believed that their grandfather was a powerful mage and only his kindness kept him away from using his wand.
Their children didn't care about the dead man.
The last generations, three girls growing up in the castle and two boys living in the house in London, never heard about him.
xxx
And there was one of the forgotten stories about the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
FIN
One last thing! If you read up to this point, please leave a comment. I'm really curious what do you think about Brayden and this story in general. I'll appreciate any feedback :)