September 6th, 1974

By Friday, the end of the first week of school, Marcella felt the telltale signs of anxiety creeping up on her.

She hadn't managed to open Lucius' assigned reading to her yet. Damn her, she'd been avoiding it and the more she did so, the more guilty and paranoid she felt. Whenever her eyes passed over her school trunk in the dorms, knowing that those books were hidden under a trove of clothes... well frankly, every time she thought of Lucius' gifts, butterflies spun in her stomach, clogging her throat, choking her to the point of surreal mind-body paralysis.

The worst part was that Evans noticed something was up. And now Lily was more protective and clingy than ever before. If Marcella was a boy, she'd call the behavior emasculating. But as it was, it was just kind of bizarre.

After dinner and a long house-wide Gryffindor meeting, Marcella and her roommates stumbled back up to their dormitory. Mary MacDonald and Francine Glass immediately called first showers, and as she had other more important things to do, Marcella decided to screw it and bathe in the morning.

She stripped and folded her day clothes in a neat pile in her laundry basket for the elves to retrieve later (they laundered sheets and requested clothes daily). Then she opened her leather hammered school chest and browsed her fingers through the various hangers until she happened upon a comfortable set of pajamas. She put the pajamas under an arm and then leaned over further to pry under a stack of clothes where she knew the books lay.

She slipped the chosen books close to her chest, careful to position her folded pajamas to cover the rest entirely. Fully naked, she sprung back to her bed to hide the two books under her duvet before she changed into her night clothes.

When Glass popped out of the bath area to retrieve something, she must've noticed something off because she glanced at Marcella strangely before turning away and minding her business.

Marcy flopped down on her bed and winced in pain; her back landed awkwardly on the edge of a book cover. No matter, she thought, as she muttered the words to activate the curtains around her bed. Now she'd have privacy.

She slipped under sleek cotton (garish) maroon sheets and scooched around her pillows until her reading posture was just right. Then she pulled out the first two of Lucius' books.

Their fabric bindings were so old they were peeling, revealing aged yellowed paper underneath. She could immediately tell both books were quite fragile.

She read both titles, nose scrunched in thought, before deciding on the more interesting read. This prompt decision was easily made due to the color of the book appealing to her more. Marcy discarded the other book in a safe place, stuffed under her mattress, before picking up her choice.

"Igi Ḫu("To Look With Envy", Old Babylonian) and Meditations Against Psychic Malediction," was the faded gold leaf stamped title of the tome. Marcy sighed and braced herself for tedium.

Almost on cue, the foreword was a magniloquent auto-biography from the author, a man born in 1683 who had been part of a small group of young men groomed to be advisors to various royal and noble lineages. He described the arcane society of his youth, then lengthily discussed his coming into his majority and then his adoption into Padishah Al-Sultan Al-Azam Farrukhsiyar's court.

The author, named Mridul, talked about finding a dear friend in Padishah (King) Farrukhsiyar before bemoaning the court's snakes, the Sayyid Brothers. Men, who'd risen to extreme prominence and choked the kingship, a tragedy ending in the conspirators blinding, deposing, and killing Mridul's dearest friend.

The next 3 years of the author Mridul's life was spent on the run from the Sayyid's regime. He survived vicious encounters with mercenaries, bounty hunters as well as sorcerers and notably escaped the grasp of the most powerful necromancer, the immortal Seva.

In 1922, the last of the Sayyid's presence was gone and the Padishah was back in power, but Mridul had cut ties with the school that raised him and the Mughal Empire.

Marcella read the flowery script apathetically as Mridul passionately stated he had only become revered and strong in his sorcery after his dearest king was murdered. He spent the next ninety years of his life in a self-made scholastic hermitage in the Himalayas, before (a disciple posthumously issuing this addendum) dying at the gray and sagacious age of 126, in the year 1809 AD.

Mridul had written many books (to which a modern, perhaps, Malfoy pen had noted over 4/5th were lost of exceedingly few and unknown copies) and the sage had had exactly fourteen multidisciplinary students who succeeded him.

Eh.

The biography was littered with long, tedious annotations filled with context of Mughal history/culture and the people popping in and out of Mridul's life. Sinan Shafiq would no doubt know of many of these figures, Marcella concluded, remembering the drawn-out stories of South Asia that the Shafiq's enjoyed bestowing on their listeners. Father and son could sometimes be too alike in that way.

Her mind wandered back to the hapless author's one-sided romance with his short-reigned king, dearly hoping that the contents of the book veered more in the dramatics of this man's life over the esoteric practices the book's title promised.

By the time she had finished the foreword, an hour and a half had already passed. And while she was an admittedly slow reader, it just came to show how long the book was. While the mass of pages wasn't thicker than the material Sylvius went through in a single day, the sheer density of the language was rather alarming.

Gods, it seemed every half sentence she was having to question the meaning of a word, and thus derive the rough intended meaning of the sentence. Thankfully, the whole text was a dutiful translation from the original Mideast language into English. Still, many of the words were as archaic or as scholarly as dust, and this was coming from a girl whose parents had forced an impeccable early education on.

She was reading, but it felt like she was small again and learning with her tutor to count the alphabet backwards. A difficult task, but not an entirely impossible feat. God, but it was slow, so slow, that she put the book down and audibly groaned.

She eyed the smelly binding of parchment which smelled like all ancient books did: of wood, lingering earth, and rotting vanilla. Many of the books in her family home smelled musty, damp, because of the cold humidity.

Marceau, her father, her dear late father had never been one for books, just like his daughter, so he never amassed much of a collection nor spent the energy to ward them from the elements (her mother's dead family library of French heirlooms were all shelved in a dark Gringott vault). Long before Marcella and Syl were born, their father had torched his ancestral manor and the whole Salvage family library (which reportedly hosted an impressive collection of various now-gone artifacts). He'd burned everything, save for Grandfather Gualter Salvage's private office, building the new, current manor around that last remaining room.

Long story short, no one in her family, besides her dear brother, read or appreciated books much.

The author's early life before retirement into hermitage seemed interesting enough. She braced herself to start the first chapter and picked up the book again, turning the page.

Chapter 1 read, "Metaphysical Malevolence: The Mundane and the Wantonly Malignant".

Purportedly, the author stated that people make social encounters, often a dozen or more times daily, and every time a random person is going about in society, their laziness, judging, enviousness— these minor irritations would cloud the atmosphere, and by happenstance, these thoughts would often manifest into minor curses or spells flung onto other fellow citizens.

Mitral explained that so-called non-magicals are not wholly devoid of magic and possess a small (to his limitations, large "pea-size") amount of magic that fuels their waking consciousness. How else would a being live so vividly, dream so wildly, and wage violence so cruel if they were wholly without magic?

Curiously, Marcella continued reading.

Mitral listed non-magical creatures as fish and small reptilians but argued that snakes and birds possessed innate traits that he deemed strong signals of possessing magic. All non-magical substances such as plants, rocks, and rain had no innate magic but were rather affected and driven by the existence of atmospheric and earthen magical sources.

As she read this, she wondered why specifically certain living things were said to be non-magical, even though they clearly grew and had unique life cycles among other things, but Mitral would not elucidate his reasoning much further, his writing rather categorizing and generalizing and moving on. He was quite the philosopher as old wizards went.

Still, his claim that muggle-folk were capable of creating low-grade spells, and that they did it regularly was interesting. She swore she'd heard something of the sort somewhere, but nothing like so direct as here.

Then, Mitral went on to say that magic-born folk also regularly, wordlessly, unaided by any channeling instrument (such as a staff, wand, infused stone, or token) projected curses upon each other. To which, he said, one can only abate, after learning of the existence of these invisible curses, and taking steps to deflect and cleanse them from one's person.

That was a thought; that'd people could unconsciously perform malevolent spells. It seemed absurd. Quite outlandish, really.

But then, what were ghosts if not apparitions of intense emotional attachment to the world of the living?

She knew that feelings fueled magic, that life energy was magic.

She'd been there firsthand at her father's funeral when Syl had slit his wrist, as his blood (the blood of a firstborn son) had seeped into the earth and sealed Father's tomb in a cacophony of light.

She looked at her hands, the creamy skin resting upon blue-green veins. Marcella tensed her left palm and squeezed just a bit, nails biting into the delicate yellow paper of the book. The veins on the back of her hand pulsed, jumping for air before she released and let them settle.

Her blood was alive. She was alive.

She continued reading until it was deep in the night. The author was more than a little full of himself, but his claims were amusing enough to keep her awake. Though slowly, her head drooped, lulling to the side, falling closer and closer until her cheek was nestled atop her squishy, soft pillow, and her arms let the book creak closed slowly until her eyes no longer could see the text. She fell asleep with her night light still lit, the harmless flame casting dancing shadows across the bed's canopy.

Marcella woke up with Mridul's "To Look With Envy" tucked between her chin and throat. And as she pushed away from her face her fingers caught on the slick of drool on its ancient, golden cover. She touched her mouth absently and traced the line of drool from the corner of her mouth in its crusted, drooly glory down her face.

Sorry Lucius, she sighed. Such much for a one-of-one copy.

She rolled to a seated position, stretched both arms over her head, and yawned. She scrubbed her bedhead and wiped the wet drool from her chin onto her pajama sleeve.

She unsheathed her wand from its pocket in the canopy of drapey closed around her bed. "Trahere Aulaea! (draw the curtains!)", she ordered, the curtains swishing open to her command and delivering her into the real world, just like Aphrodite's birth from her clamshell.

Today was unusual, she noted, observing the rest of her roommates still asleep. Typically it was she who was the last one out of the group to head to breakfast. But today was different: maybe it was because she read that book last night, but whatever it was, Marcella was having the first shower.

She tucked "To Look With Envy" under her mattress and then it was off to the races.

She pointed her wand to the shower stall and disinfected the tile with a cursory "Scourify (cleansing spell)". Then she summoned her soaps and bath oils, levitating them at the ready.

She smiled at the hovering bottles. "Stay." She said, stabbing her wand like a bulletin pin before stepping away and resting her wand on the communal sink.

She tiptoed back to the shower, closed the privacy curtains and turned the hot water on with one hand, and blindly fished her other hand in the air to reach one of her hovering bottles (the shampoo).

To feel warm, safe, and clean was the best feeling. After a good ten minutes of soaking in the hot water and the comforting perfumes of bath oils, she could hear the tentative sounds of her roommates waking.

She tuned them out and instead focused on the happy trill of the overhead bathroom pipes pumping their very damnedest to deliver her the hottest, cleanest water in Scotland.

Someone groaned very loudly. Marcella hummed and turned the water to its highest setting. Weren't mornings so incredible?


"Marcy! Marcy! Over here!"

Marcella looked over towards Lily Evan's voice. The girl was waving rigorously, making a scene in the hallway to the Great Hall.

She slowed down her pace, allowing Lily to make her way through the horde of Gryffindor girls to her.

Marcella offered the other girl a small, tight smile. "Hello."

"Marcy!" Lily Evans beamed.

Marcella allowed her expression to drop half mast, calm like a boat in the eye of a storm. Her hands, hidden beneath her robe, were twitching, playing frenetically within her pockets. "How are you this morning?" She asked out of polite habit.

Lily tilted her head towards her. "How are you?" She replied. "You look… you're not usually up until halfway through breakfast."

Back was the polite smile stretching Marcella's face; her index finger clipping the skin off her thumb.

"You woke up early," Lily spoke through the slog. Marcella nodded once. "It's nice to have someone to walk with to breakfast for once," Lily added.

Marcella's gaze was far off, head tilted towards the Ravenclaw table. Lily followed her line of sight towards the mannerly profile of a fawn-headed boy Lily had never spoken to in her life; Lily recognized him as Sylvius Salvage, Marcella's elusive twin brother. He didn't look their way.

"Yeah," Marcella said noncommittally, glancing back at her. "Yeah, sure- uh-huh. Yeah… so, about that study group- with Lupin? When were you thinking of hosting that?"

"Oh!" Lily couldn't help but smile, "I'm glad you reconsidered and decided you wanted to join us."

"I thought I was invited." Marcella muttered.

"You are invited!" Lily asserted. "I was just giving you room to decide for yourself. I didn't want to assume and pressure you."

Marcella hummed and separated from the other girl to join the breakfast buffet line opposite to her friend. Marcella scooped dainty servings of mushy potatoes, peas, and gravy, and situated a healthy assortment of fruit on the side.

When Lily rejoined her, they walked to the emptiest Gryffindor table to sit together. They must've made quite the pair, the two red-head girls, personae non gratae of their different circumstances.

Maybe a year ago, Marcella would've cowed to the anxiety of knowing how she was being perceived and judged— hell maybe the girl who got on the Train a few days ago would've. But now, it was like she couldn't care less.

They were just two girls, alone, sitting far apart from the rest of the breakfast rush. They probably stuck out. Maybe somebody particularly cruel in Slytherin, hell maybe even Marcella's own Gryffindor housemates were talking shit about them behind their backs.

But none of that touched her anymore, none of that extraneous crap mattered. She was utterly distracted, in the best way possible.

"You look good. Well, you always look nice, but you look, and smell especially nice today." Lily pointed out as they ate.

Marcella paused, holding her half-eaten orange slice in mid-air. "Excuse me?"

"Did you sleep well?" Lily continued.

Marcella thought about it. She spent the whole night pouring over and trying to decipher Lucius' dusty old scrolls. She recalled passing out and waking up in a puddle of drool that was seeping disturbingly close to worn pages of the priceless text. She wouldn't exactly categorize last night as the best night of restful sleep, but that was neither here nor there— Lily Evans did not need to know of anything that would arouse suspicion.

She shrugged and fibbed. "I guess so. I passed out. Didn't even need to take my sleeping potions, I was out like a light."

Lily gasped. "That's great!"

Marcella brushed Lily's enthusiasm by the wayside. Marcella attributed her unusual energy that morning to her apprehension of storing and studying a dozen very illegal books on the Dark Arts in her dormitory. Lily Evans' hang-ups about Marcella's addictions were sweet but ultimately ill-sighted. Minor addictions were additives when forces outside of the school were mounting. While Marcella had to act like everything was fine, the pressure was on. From now on, everything was Mach 7.


In class, she thought about the author Mridul's theory of magic, and about how everything possessed it. Magic was like a living creature, in a way, going through its own cycle of life, moving to and from different domains.

The wood of the desk she sat at contained sequestered magic. If she pointed her wand and cast her magic in a form of a blasting charm (Deprimo (spell to blast holes downwards))- theoretically, her external force would act upon the latent magic of the table wood, her magic would interact with and then overwhelm and command whatever was within the wood to gouge itself into bits and pieces.

Perhaps that was why she was so weak at casting spells. Even when examining this simple table, with its grooves and wobbly legs, its utter ordinariness, she didn't know if she could command and will it to destroy itself. The very concept of such brutality felt foreign.

As she was, if she tried, even with the correct wording and form, non-rudimentary spells typically only worked fifty-fifty percent of the time for her. And that was only for low-powered spells.

She eyed the chalkboard and glanced around the hall, looking to see if her History of Magic teacher was still droning on. He was.

She sighed, Professor Binns had such a boring class. Most of it was for the Muggleborns anyways.

She wondered if she could muster enough will to curse Professor Binns. Him being a ghost would be hard to curse, but she bet there was some niche Ghost Banishment encyclopedia out there with the answer to all her problems. Now, all she would have to do would be for her spell to be powered with enough raw force to totally overwhelm his spectral body.

The force/breath of her magic would have to be undeniable and hit one hundred percent true. How could she pull something like that off?

She took a deep inhale, and exhaled slowly, looking up to the ceiling for answers.

And then, her mind happened upon Sirius. Sirius, Siri, her troublesome childhood friend. She pivoted her chin and rested her eyes on his head of dark curls. He and his whole family commanded magic like water. Anyone did, compared to her, but especially him. Sirius had been defying the laws of magic since they were kids, performing extraordinary feats of wandless, even spell-less magic.

Hell, somehow back in the Labyrinth, he'd even managed to tie his soul to hers while possessed by fae-kin. She'd drawn ruins on his skin in blood, sure, but since then she'd learned that all she'd done was give him a map for his soul to use. He had somehow subconsciously taken those simple runes, had taken her free-given blood, and bastardized both. The very moment he escaped from the Fae's mental prison, he'd trapped the edges of both of their souls in his very own Labyrinth.

After months of fruitless investigation, when the Healer had finally identified and explained to her over the summer that Sirius' accidental magic had been the maker of the autoimmune condition Marcella had been suffering from ever since, it had made more sense than it should've.

Sirius was able to just do things that others, like Marcella, could not.

And now, as she considered the "how", she came across one inkling of a thought.

That perhaps… someone like Sirius did not think; he demanded and took. Marcella bit her lower lip. It made some amount of sense. Perhaps, she cared too much and spent too much time on the "what if's". Maybe her natural born insecurity and cautiousness were the keys to what had been holding her back.

Twins, even fraternal ones as Marcella and Syl were, should be alike in stature and power. Yet, Syl was faster, smarter, ten times the wizard that Marcella was.

Here, Syl was sly and self-serving in a way that often ousted his sister as naïve and laggard in his wake. Syl focused on studying, networking, and building upwards and outwards. Marcella was buried by guilt and memories of the past.

People were getting up, gathering their book bags and briefcases, a sign class had since been dismissed. Clubs and extracurriculars would start in a quarter hour, which was great for Marcy, as she had the rest of the afternoon before dinner, free.

She pressed her lips together before pursuing them and letting out a little sigh through her nose.

Lily, her now ever-present seatmate, turned towards her. "You okay?"

Marcella looked up with glimmering eyes. "Never been better." She smiled, a wan expression on her face.

Lily noticed but made no move to comment on her new friend's moods. Instead, Lily Evans patiently waited for her friend to put away her blank classwork and grab her bag.

"We're going to meet Remus in the Library, remember?" Lily reminded her as they walked out of the History of Magic classroom.

Marcella nodded absently, lost somewhere in that big head of hers.

"I think I'm going to hit the showers," Marcella said.

Lily chided her to be timely with it but knew her words were of little use. Marcella would join her and Remus when she found her way out of whatever lengthy shower she was about to take.

They parted ways by the dorms. While Marcella promised again that she'd be quick, Lily knew Marcella would take her sweet time. Lily had other things on her mind, though, mainly homework and finishing up the last touches on her internship applications. She was glad they were meeting with Remus, as she and him, both being from Muggle-born backgrounds, were in a similar boat in terms of looking for summer research and work opportunities.