Half-Truths

Half an hour later, we were a burglar short. After Mister Baggins had recovered from his fainting fit and had been presented with a steaming mug of tea, he had hastily explained that he couldn't be expected to go running off into the blue and that we'd got the wrong hobbit for the job. He had then retreated to the safety of his bedroom, where he would no doubt remain until we had all disappeared the following morning.

The news was met with different degrees of resignation amongst the dwarves, who had all wandered off in bands of twos and threes once the meeting was done. Some felt a little miffed to be abandoned by the hobbit, whilst others expressed relief that he had chosen to stay behind. I couldn't blame them. The road ahead was going to be dangerous enough as it was without having to constantly check how Bilbo was holding up.

Which reminded me that I had a big problem on my hands: Thorin had accepted me into the company under the assumption that I could fight, and as soon as he found out that wasn't true, he would be the first to kick my ass back to Bag End. I had never held a muggle weapon in my life, and it was just now dawning on me that I had embarked on a quest to kill a dragon without my wand. Without any way to defend myself.

Holy shit, what the hell was I thinking?

The other thing that was bugging me was the king's none-too-subtle aversion to witches. If female magic practitioners were regarded as suspiciously in this world as they had been during the middle-ages back on Earth, then I had to find something other than spells and curses to defend myself with.

Of course, I thought bitterly, that won't be too much of a problem seeing as you can't cast either at the moment. But in a situation where I was either forced to reveal my magic for all to see or roll over and die, I'd rather be able to cast at least a minor spell. A stunner perhaps, maybe even a disarming spell. I knew that technically, it was possible for a very advanced wizard to perform wandless magic; Professor Dumbledore himself had been famous for it. But I was nowhere near as experienced as he was.

What about young children who hadn't yet received their letters from Hogwarts yet? They performed wandless magic all the time.

Yes, but in their cases it was often accidental, influenced by emotions such as rage, terror or surprise.

My first burst of power had manifested itself when I was eight years old. My muggle neighbor, Derek Campbell, had successfully trapped me in a corner of the park with a band of other kids. In a moment of blind panic I had shoved him in the chest and sent him flying twenty feet backwards, almost snapping his neck in the process. I can still recall my mother praising me, patting me on the head and telling me how proud she was, never once expressing concern for the muggle boy I'd almost killed. Of course, I hadn't been aware of what had happened at the time, and the enemies I would be facing on this quest were going to be far deadlier than playground bullies. I needed my magic to be stable, reliable. And for that to happen, I needed practice.

Excusing myself, I left Ori in the kitchen and went in search of an empty room. It wasn't too long before I found what I was looking for, and I barricaded myself inside.

"Alrighty then," I muttered, cracking my knuckles, "Let's get this show on the road."

I cannot begin to explain just how frustrating the next hour and a half was. At first I tried closing my eyes and casting non-verbally. When it became clear that it wasn't working, I switched to muttering the incantations under my breath, miming the wand movements with my empty hands. Nothing. I twitched and twirled my fingers, the gestures getting harsher and harsher as my patience thinned. Not even a spark. At last I threw my arms up in defeat and went to see if I could find someone to lend me a weapon. At least I wouldn't be completely defenseless, not if I could help it.

The first people I stumbled across were two younger looking dwarves sitting cross legged in the hall. They glanced up as I approached. One was blond and had a braided mustache (seriously, what was the deal with dwarves and their wacky braids?) and I immediately recognized him as the dwarf who had made that obvious statement about the existence of a back door into the mountain at the table earlier. The other had a dark mane and had no facial hair. They shared a few common traits however, so I assumed that they must be related.

"Hi," I said. "Sorry, but I didn't catch your names earlier."

The blond dwarf grinned. "That's quite all right, Miss." He pointed to himself. "I'm Fili."

"And I'm his brother Kili," the black-haired dwarf finished.

"At your service," they said in union, tipping their heads.

My frustration was starting to ebb away. "Nice to meet you both. And please just call me Cassie. Or Cass. I don't really care." I plopped down on the floor beside them. "Sorry to bust in on you like this, but do you have any extra knives or something that I could borrow for our journey? I...forgot mine at home." I tried to look sheepish.

Fili raised his eyebrows. "You came all this way unarmed?"

I shrugged. "What can I say? I love to be reckless. Live dangerously; that's my motto."

Kili laughed. "I can sympathize with that." He grinned at his brother. "Uncle nearly had a fit when we told him that we wanted to join the quest to reclaim Erebor. He's quite protective when it comes to the family" He jumped swiftly to his feet. "I think I must have an extra dagger or two lying around. I'll go see if I can find them." He walked away, leaving me with his brother. There was an awkward silence.

I cleared my throat. "So. Who's your uncle? Is he part of the company?"

Fili looked amused. "He's the leader of the company."

I blinked, letting it sink in. "Wait, Thorin's your uncle?" I tried to imagine the sullen king expressing concern for his beloved nephews. It wasn't easy. "Hang on a minute; doesn't that make you royalty or something?"

He nodded. "I am next in line to the throne. Uncle has no progenies of his own." I was spared from further embarrassment when Kili returned, holding a long object in his hand.

"Here," the dark-haired dwarf said as he handed me the dagger. "Will this serve?"

I accepted the knife with murmured thanks and pulled it from its sheath. It was longer than I'd anticipated, more like a short sword, simple-looking and sharpened on both sides. This was the first time I'd held any other blade besides the usual appliances used in potion making, and I couldn't prevent a little shiver of nervousness from creeping down my spine as I envisioned stabbing something with it.

Kili was watching me closely, obviously waiting for me to say something.

I swallowed. "Yep, this'll do. It's good, um… steel," I stammered, trying not to appear a complete novice at this. I ran my thumb down the side of the blade and winced when I cut my self. Idiot. "Nice and sharp," I concluded flashing the brothers a grin. "Thanks again."

"You're welcome." Kili hesitated, and then asked, "Have you done much fighting?" The two dwarves looked at me curiously. Oops. Here come the awkward questions.

"Yeah, I have." I fidgeted, wondering how much I could give away whilst still appearing credible. I struggled to remember the maps Bilbo had given me. "You know how Gandalf said I was from the north?" They nodded. "Well, I come from an island over the sea. It's called England. Have you heard of it?"

I waited for them to shake their heads before continuing. "That doesn't surprise me; not many people have. That's why our customs are a little different from yours; we don't get many visitors." I gestured down at my ripped jeans, illustrating my point. "Anyway, we had a…civil war a couple of months back. Some bastard raised an army and took over the island. I was part of the resistance, so…yeah, lots of fighting."

Fili looked skeptical. "I have not heard of this war. What is the name of this man?"

"You-know-who," I replied automatically, and then mentally cursed my foolishness. The brothers raised their eyebrows quizzically.

"We don't say his name," I explained. "He scared the living daylight out of a lot of people and it's considered bad luck. Pretty pathetic, I know, but," I shrugged, "old habits die hard."

I changed the subject: "What about you? Done much fighting lately?"

This was obviously the right question to ask. The brothers launched into battle stories of their own and I was able to relax, leaning against the wall, content in just listening. They spoke of names and places that I'd never heard of, describing with enthusiasm the different conflicts in which they had taken part. There were many of them. These dwarves were clearly seasoned fighters. From time to time they would mention a name I recognized (another dwarf from the company) and I would ask them to stop and to explain exactly who was who. That was how I learnt that Balin and Dwalin were brothers, as were Oin and Gloin. Dori, Nori and Ori were also siblings, and the same went for Bombur and Bofur (Bifur was their cousin). By the time they were done enumerating all the names and family ties, my head was spinning.

Eventually, the conversation turned back to the quest. "What kind of dragon is Smaug?" I wanted to know.

"A timorous beast. He is considered to be the chiefest calamity of our age and-"

I cut across Fili, waving my hand. "I know that. I meant what breed is he? Is he a Horntail?" God, I hoped not. Those things were nasty. "An Ironbelly? He likes the mountains, right? Is he a Short-Snout, or…?" I trailed off when I noticed that the brothers were trading bewildered looks. "What?" What had I said now?

Kili snorted, still looking bemused. "I must say, you are one of the oddest women I have ever met. 'What breed is he?' He's a dragon! What more do you need to know?" He grinned at his brother, obviously chalking my fumble up to the fact that I was a foreigner. Fili did not look as convinced and he gazed at me suspiciously.

Thankfully, Ori chose that moment to appear. "Come on," he whispered, waving at us to follow. He waited until we had risen to our feet and hurried away down the corridor. We followed. I grasped my short sword nervously, wondering what was going on.

As we emerged into what I assumed was the living room, a faint humming reached my ears. Someone had lit a fire and it was crackling merrily in the hearth, throwing ominous shadows across the floor. The dwarves had all assembled and were dispatched throughout the room, watching their leader as he stared into the flames. Fili and Kili went to sit besides Dwalin, but I remained in retreat by the door, observing the scene. Everyone seemed to be waiting for something to happen. Suddenly, Thorin began to sing:

Far over the Misty Mountains cold

To dungeons deep and caverns old

We must away ere break of day

To find our long forgotten gold

One by one the dwarves stood, joining their voices to the king's. Soon, they were all singing, their faces a mask of longing. The song sent a pang of sadness in trough my heart and suddenly, I felt exposed. I knew that look of yearning carved on each of their faces. I had seen it on so many others, so many Muggle-borns huddled in the darkness, desperate for only one thing: To go home.

As the song took on a more melancholy note, I slowly backed away, feeling like an intruder. This moment wasn't meant for me and I had no right to witness their shared sorrow. I suddenly realized that it didn't matter how much I tried to fit in, I could never share that kind of bond with them. The dwarves had fought, lost and grieved their home together. A signed slip of paper couldn't make me a part their comradeship, just a useful associate. I didn't belong here, just as I hadn't belonged with the muggle-borns during the war.

The pines were roaring on the height,

The winds were moaning in the night.

The fire was red, it flaming spread;

The trees like torches blazed with light.

The song ended and I paused. Thorin's gaze was still lost in the flames, probably reliving the dragon's attack. Smaug had taken everything from the dwarves and they longed for vengeance. I could relate to that.

Suddenly, the king looked up from the hearth and our eyes met. I don't know what he saw in my expression - maybe a reflection of his own anger - but in that instant he saw me. My loss, my pain, my longing. I quickly tore my gaze away, abruptly self-conscious.

And all of a sudden, the spell was broken. The dwarves seemed to shake themselves from their stupor, and one by one they left to prepare for tomorrow's departure.

I fled from the room.

That night when everyone was asleep, I lay tossing and turning in my make-shift bed of blankets in the living room. The dwarves were scattered around on similar beds, snoring loudly, all except for Thorin who had been given the guestroom. The hobbit-hole didn't have any beds big enough to support my weight so I'd had to make do, although I probably shouldn't have bothered because try as I might, sleep refused to come. Now that there was nothing left to keep me busy, I couldn't stop my thoughts from straying home.

How long would it take for someone to realize that I had disappeared without a trace? Who would be the first to notice? Aside from my coworkers I hadn't gone out of my way to make friends. Mr. Mulpepper would certainly notice my absence tomorrow morning when I failed to show up for work, but would that be enough to start a search party? What about my mother? Would she grieve her missing daughter?

I smiled bitterly to myself. No. Elaine Morgan had made it very clear that she wanted nothing more to do with her blood-traitor daughter shortly before I turned seventeen. Things had been tense between us for a while and I'm pretty sure I would have left the house on my own accord if my mother hadn't thrown me out. It had been fourteen months since we last spoke.

It wasn't always this way. I remember a time when my mother and I used to be very close, when she was my whole world. I was a single child and my father died shortly ofter my birth which meant that Elaine raised me by herself. Growing up, she would tell me bedtime stories about my dad, the hero who had battled alongside a great and powerful wizard. She told me that my father had sacrificed everything to aid this wizard in his mission to free us from the tyranny of primitive muggles - dirty, ignorant creatures who couldn't perform magic. They had forced us into hiding long ago, but my father had valiantly fought against this injustice, and it had cost him his life.

"It was a necessary sacrifice, darling," she would say as she stoked my hair. "He died trying to make the world a better place for you. Promise me that one day you will do him proud."

I would always nod and answer, "Yes, mummy." And why wouldn't I? At such a young age children don't question their parent's ideals. We trust them to always tell us the truth. I sincerely believed that my father was a hero, to the point where he became my role model and everything I ever aspired to be.

When I turned eleven and received my Hogwarts letter Elaine had hugged me close and whispered, "I knew you had it in you, Cassiopeia. You truly are your father's daughter." I had basked in the compliment, convinced that my mother could offer me no higher praise.

The train ride to Hogwarts was a happy blur. Then came the sorting ceremony, and Professor McGonagall, the deputy headmistress, had called me forwards to sit on the four-legged stool. The old hat was placed on my head, falling in front of my eyes, obscuring my vision of the Great Hall.

"Well, well," a small voice whispered in my ear. "What have we here? Another Morgan, eh? Now, what to do with you?" I gripped the edges of the stool apprehensively and waited for the hat to make its decision. I already knew what it would be.

I knew where I belonged.

"Is that so?" the small voice asked. "Let me see… Intelligent and resourceful. You have a practical mind, yes – and ambitious to top it off, now that's interesting. How will you turn out, I wonder?"

The seconds ticked by and I started to feel nervous. Why was this taking so long?

"Patience," the hat murmured, "In a hurry are we? Or do you think this is just a formality?"

I'm my father's daughter, I thought, echoing my mother's words. I belong in his house.

"Well, in that case," the voice drawled, "I would hate to disappoint – better be…SLYTHERIN!" The last word was shouted out loud for the whole school to hear.

The table on the right erupted into cheers and the hat was pulled away from my eyes. I got up shakily and walked towards the Slytherin table, collapsing next to a blond haired boy who very formally introduced himself as Draco Malfoy.

My first year at Hogwarts passed smoothly enough. I was immediately accepted into Draco's group of friends as soon as they learnt my last name. It turned out that my father and Draco's had been very well acquainted before his death.

By the end of my last term I was surfing on a happy cloud, convinced that everything was as it should be.

And then came that fateful day at the library before my final exams.

Taking advantage of Professor Sprout's absence, I had decided that it couldn't hurt to do a few last minute revisions for my potions exam the following day and I'd left for the library early that morning. I was so absorbed in my thoughts that I didn't noticed the sandy-haired Gryffindor boy carrying a large stack of books until we smacked into each other, knocking his books all over the floor.

"Hey, watch where you're going!" The boy – I remember his name being Seamus Finnigan – shouted indignantly.

We argued for a few minutes, being careful to keep our voices down in case the librarian came to see what all the fuss was about. It wasn't until the boy made a scornful remark about my 'good-for-nothing' father that I started to see red.

"My father was a great man," I exclaimed hotly.

Finnigan sneered. "Your father was a murdering Death Eater," he spat, and with that he turned on his heel, stepped over the pile of discarded books on the floor and marched away.

I stared at his retreating figure, clutching my schoolbag tightly against my chest like a life ring, his words echoing in my head. Murderer. The library spun around me and I felt winded, as if Finnigan had punched me in the gut.

It has to be a lie, I told myself desperately. My dad isn't a killer. It's just a filthy lie.

But try as I might I couldn't chase the doubt from my mind, and before long I was back in the library, this time in search of old copies of the Daily Prophet that might help clear up the subject.

What I found shattered all illusion of my father being an honest man.

It was there, in the dusty corner of the archives that I discovered the true meaning of the word Death Eater.

And from that point on, everything changed.

A loud snort from one of the dwarves jerked me back to the present. I rolled onto my side in a futile attempt to find a more comfortable position.

Am I dead?

I honestly didn't know the answer to that question. I hoped not. I didn't feel dead.

Tomorrow, I would be leaving with thirteen dwarves and a wizard on a quest to reclaim their homeland from a dragon. I probably should have felt more afraid, but in truth I was relieved to finally have a purpose again, a goal towards which I could strive. Yes, it was suicidal but at least it made me feel alive. That had to count for something.

Sighing, I lifted my fist and focused on my hand, trying to channel my magic into my palm. "Lumos," I muttered, willing for something to happen. Nothing. Not even the slightest twinge of power. I let my hand fall to my side and closed my eyes, smiling wrily. Of course it wasn't going to be that easy.

But no matter. I would try again tomorrow.

Sorry if this story isn't moving along as quickly as you'd like, but I wanted to give you all a little of Cassie's backstory. Thanks to all those who left me reviews, they really made my day! Also, if you're wondering, Cassiopeia is Cassie's real name. Seeing that she's a pureblood and they all seem to have a tendency of naming their kids after constellations, I figured I'd just do the same ;)

Please review!