Those who have seen darkness shine in the night,
Those who know weakness don't go down without a fight,
Those whose tears sting day after day,
Those whose pain will make them pay,
They are the only ones who know:
Fortune favors the bold,
Triumph tries men's souls,
Love labors in our bones,
Wisdom lurks beneath our eyes,
Glory guilds a woman's smile,
Laughter laces through their hearts,
We lie in wait for life to start.
Some days, she remembers things she knows she's never learned. Some days, she is walking through the streets with her parents and brother, and she'll see someone she's never met, and she'll know things about them.
She starts remembering things when she's seven. It's December thirty-first, and her birthday, and she and her mother are walking through London. The cobblestone roads here are different from the ones in Orkney. They are made of round stones rather than the rectangular ones that line the streets back home. They shine like onyx against the piles of snow that have been pushed up against the pavement, and the places on the street where the snow has melted are wet, like they've been freshly rained on. The lights from the lampposts reflect onto the dark stone in pools that ripple when they're disrupted by puddles of water.
She is wearing a red coat, made of wool and buttoned up to her chin. Her gloved hand is held in her mother's, who is moving quickly through the throngs of people that line the avenue. It is New Year's Eve, and she cannot think of why there are so many people out, especially this late, when the sun has hidden itself below the horizon for hours, and the negligible amount warmth it did offer when it was still sitting high in the sky has long since been leached from the air.
"Stop dawdling, Zena," her mother tells her sharply, tugging on her hand so that she is forced to quicken her pace to keep up. "I want to get back home; your father will be wondering where we are."
"We're getting eggnog and bourbon," Zena tells her. Surely her mother knows this already. After all, she had been the one to volunteer to go out and buy it.
"I know, darling," Mummy replies. "I'm just tired. It's a bit nippy out, and it's been a long day. You know how Nan and Pops get to me."
Zena twists her neck to look up at her, and pats her hand. "I know, Mummy. Nan and Pops don't like you. But Daddy does. Daddy loves you."
Mummy breathes out a laugh. "I should be the one comforting you, darling, not the other way around. And I know Daddy loves me. He loves you, too. And Zyan." The wind catches her hair and whips it around her face; she slips her hand from Zena's and smooths it over the straight dark strands to calm them, and does the same to Zena's loose strands.
Zena offers her mother a pearly smile and reaches to take her hand again. A tall man in a dark trench coat, wearing thick-soled boots, gloves, a warm-looking hat, and a silver and green scarf walks briskly past them. He misjudges the distance between himself and Zena, and bumps into her.
He has already turned around to help steady her when she stumbles. His face (she remembers when his sandy hair was all unruly curls, when his jawline was not so sharp, when his brown eyes were laughing at Percy and Oliver from across the Great Hall) is a study of apologetic concern. There are more lines written there than she remembers (he is just as handsome as he's been since the day they met in Flourish and Blotts), and he looks like he's as old as her mother is. "M- God," he says, though she knows he was going to say Merlin, "I'm so sorry, really. I wasn't watching where I was going. Are you alright, kid?"
"I'm fine, Cassius," she tells him, because of course she is. She can handle being walked into, even if he is taller and broader than she remembers him being.
He looks at her strangely. "How did you…?" he trails off, shaking his head. "Good. I'm glad you're okay. Have a good night." He lifts his hand in a brief farewell, turns around, and continues walking.
"How did you know that man, Zena?" Mummy asks, staring after him.
"What do you mean, Mummy? I've known Cassius for five years. We met in Flourish and Blotts before my first year, and we've been friends since then," Zena tells her matter-of-factly.
"But you can't have been!" Mummy tells her.
Zena looks at her curiously. "Why not?"
"Zena, darling, you were only two five years ago. He's at least my age, and I've never seen him in my life!"
Zena frowns. "But… we have been friends for five years. I know him. I know him, Mummy."
Mummy shakes her head. "But he doesn't know you, darling."
She looks away. "It's not safe to stand in the middle of the street, Mummy."
Mummy sighs and takes hold of her hand again. They reach the other side of the street and make their way back to Nan and Pops' house.
Mummy turns the knob of the front door, and it swings open. The inside of the house is warm and cozy; it smells like woodsmoke and cinnamon, and the carpet beneath Zena's socked feet is so plush that she sinks down into it every time she takes a step. She stuffs her gloves into her pockets, unbuttons her coat and gives it to Mummy to hang up, puts her wet boots on the mat to dry, and plods into the sitting room, where Daddy has Zyan lying sleepily against his chest. He sits in the recliner across from the chaise that Nan and Pops have settled into.
They are chatting quietly amongst themselves; Daddy is stroking Zyan's fuzzy head, Pops has his cigar balanced delicately between his fingers, smoke curling lazily off of it. Nan's got her curlers settled neatly into her silver-streaked red hair, and she's swirling a fragile-looking glass of red anti-clockwise, the movements so steady that it's no surprise that not even a single drop has found its way to the cream-coloured carpeting.
Zena wanders into the room, making sure that she doesn't bump into the table holding Nan's prized vase. Besides the vase, there is no color in Nan and Pops' sitting room; it is all cream-hued fabrics and dark woods. Even the wall-paneling is only a shade or two darker than the carpet, and the crackling fireplace is lined with equally pale stones. She settles onto the ottoman between the recliner and the chaise and fiddles with her dark hair until Mummy enters, carrying an ornate silver tray in her hands.
On the tray are five mugs, all of them with steaming eggnog inside. Next to the mugs is a shapley glass bottle filled with amber liquid. Mummy hands the mugs out; one each for Nan - who has finished her wine - and Pops and Daddy, one for Zena, and one for herself. She unscrews the bottle and offers it to the adults, who all nod. A tiny splash of the bourbon goes into each of their mugs. She does not offer any to Zena, who is used to such exclusion, and takes a sip of her eggnog.
It is warm and creamy and sweet, and though it tastes nothing at all like butterbeer, it still reminds her of it; perhaps it is the way a single sip warms her down to her toes. She shivers pleasantly, and takes another sip.
It doesn't take long for her to finish her mug, and when she does, she feels warm and heavy. She yawns. "G'night, Mummy. Night, Daddy." She hugs Nan and Pops goodnight, because they would rather have the physical reminder over the verbal one, and heads up to bed.
It is as she is drifting off to sleep that she remembers. "Happy birthday, Tom," she tells the darkness, quite certain that Tom won't appreciate her words in the slightest.
She does not realise until the next morning that she's never met anyone named Tom.