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FOUR FAMILIAR TONGUE

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     SHE IS BY BIRTH an American, and her family is one of the most distinguished of the tiny Californian town she lives her. Her ancestors had been for many years professors and doctors, and her father has filled the role of mayor with honour and reputation. He is respected by all who knew him for his integrity and indefatigable attention to public business, from the funds raised from the summer carnival to the way to improve the pink-painted hospital in town. He passed his younger days perpetually occupied by the affairs of his country; a variety of circumstances had prevented his marrying early, nor was it until the decline of life that he became a husband and the father of a family.

     As the circumstances of her surname's reputation illustrate the reason for her character change, she cannot refrain from relating them. Susannah Mary Adams, the third and final child of Alfonse and Catherine Adams, is nothing like her family, with the exception of the light blonde hair. It's been a year since her wishes for something more than the cookie-cutter nuclear family led her towards her group of friends — her true family — and since then the difference between her and her relatives has gone from just thoughts to appearances.

     Susannah doesn't wear any rouge on her lips. Maybe some mascara or eyeliner, but she sees no point in this. Over the summer she had an argument with her parents, and ended up spending a fortnight — this is what Holly calls "two weeks" — with the friends she made at the end of the last school year. Sophomore year. Holly calls this, "fifth year."

     Her friends have this sick house a little while out from town, and the legend goes that the leader of their pack, the better Alphonse, got the house off of his mother, an old Hollywood starlet that had to escape from the hustle and bustle of "the industry." Sometimes he'd talk about his mom around the campfire, the makeshift one made next to the once-pool now-pond, ever since the chlorine stopped working and algae moved in. She doesn't know if he likes his mom.

     They all detest the image that the sixties gives out — the bright colours, the excitement, the idea of something better being just beyond the corner. The only good thing that the sixties hacked up in it's vomit is The Beatles. (Holly likes their stuff a little, but her dad's obsessed. Like. In love. Infatuated. Obsessed.) But a minor hiccup in their group's life — thanks, Derek, what a dick — means that Susannah's back home with her dad the mayor and her mom the school principal. Back to the bright colours and the excitement and the idea of something better being just beyond the corner.

     What's the point in optimism? Keep your head in the present. Only losers bored of their lives want to dream of the future, of making their millions or living at DisneyLand. She thinks that's why her family and her old friends were so drunk with optimism, because what else can they look forward to? A decent(—ish) job with a decent(—ish) salary with a decent(—ish) husband and decent(—ish) kids, called something like Vera, Chuck, or Dave.

     Summer's still got two weeks left before its expiration date and Susannah cannot wait for it to be over. School's terrible but it's better than being at home all of the time, feeling like shit and wanting to go back to her friends. But she can't. One idiot got mad at them all and tried to report their home to the sheriff's office, but, to their luck, Susannah's dad was there and heard what was going on. So her home is still alive and running, she's just been plucked out.

      It's back to prim and proper. Susannah hates it. She's learnt, over her time at her home, that possessions are selfish and the idea of keeping yourself reserved was an act of self-hatred. It's better to share clothes and possessions, and to not worry about things like split-ends and sunburn.

     But it's been the same with clothes. Her mom threw the ones she had been wearing in the trash, and she's back to these awful ones she used to wear. Well. It's not really "used to wear," is it? She's wearing them now, the denim shorts and bubblegum-pink t-shirt. She hates it. Not to mention these sandals are giving her blisters.

     She spends the afternoon using the last of her money — "Buy some new clothes, honey, let's treat this as a fresh start." — in one of the stores that sits a little away from the happy-go-lucky places that sell toys and birthday cards. Instead, she picks up as much black and dark-wash denim as possible, and as she makes her way back to the bus stop, she spots the movie theatre.

     Some cowboy movie's playing later. Susannah makes a note to return and watch. May as well keep with the times, right? She can talk about it when she does back to her friends, where she belongs. They can make fun of it.

     Or, better yet... A light-bulb goes off in her head. She knows where her friends are. It takes less than the duration of a movie to get there, so, if she uses that as an excuse, then she can get back to them.

     A grin spreads across her face, and there's a pass in time. She has dinner with her mom and her dad, and they talk about their mind-numbingly boring jobs, and then she asks her dad to drive her to the movies and he says, "Oh, actually, sweetie, I'd like to see that movie, too. We can go together." And Susannah nods and smiles because he'll pay for the ticket and the popcorn so she's technically saving herself some money, before she sneaks out the exit to find a cab.

     They arrive at the movies a few minutes before it starts. Someone in the line's talking about Alphonse and the rest of Susannah's friends from the group. They call the whole group lunatics and Susannah snaps back at them before her dad can stop her from doing so. Like he would. He's pathetic, if you ask her. And his moustache? He needs to stop grooming it.

     Susannah's about to go into the movie when she tells her dad that she'll find him in there, because she needs to use the restroom. Her father's a big enough idiot to fall for that, when in actual fact she's going to slip out of the fire exit. He'll forget for a few minutes, and she'll have around ten to twenty minutes to get the hell out of there.

     So she does.

     Susannah goes through the fire exit door. It's just about to slam behind her when she's followed out by a group of teenagers, the same ones calling her friends lunatics. Calling Alphonse — a higher power — a lunatic. They're the lunatics, not acknowledging the fact that he was sewn to the Divine, a branch of the same celestial being.

     "Hey," says one of them. Susannah's about to ignore them and leave, but she can't help it. She turns back around. She isn't letting them going around, spreading this stuff about him, about her friends, her new family. "You're the one defending the baby-killers?"

     "I'm defending people that were protecting this world's higher power," says Susannah. One of them sniggers. "You know, you're all just jealous, you're too scared by the amount of control you deserve, you live by these bullshit rules when they don't mean anything!"

     One of them moves forwards, and pushes her. "I've got a nephew, you know, the same age as the youngest one killed," he says. "Anyone that would kill someone his age is a monster. Just like anyone that stands up for them."

     "Oh, wah-wah," says Susannah. She rolls her eyes. "You'll get your comeuppance, you'll see, just wait until you die and you see him, and you realise that the thing you called a monster was the complete opposite."

     A lot more this continues. Susannah remembers that she repeats the same stuff over and over; not because she can't think of anything else, but because they're all too narrow-minded to fully get just one statement, let alone twenty.

     The next part happens suddenly. One minute, she's defending her friends, and the next, there's a bang. Susannah stumbles back just as time slows down. The group of teenagers run straight out of the alleyway, and her fingers move along the blood pooling out of her chest.

     She feels herself slam into the concrete in the alleyway, just as she dissolves back into this shit-hole of a school. The castle walls surround her, all dark-grey and grisly. Holly's sitting in one of the classrooms, where jars around the room hold bones of magical creatures. The chalkboard at the front of the classroom stands behind the teacher, a strange man with a magical glass eye. Moody, she thinks?

     Holly had been holding to her necklace when she walked into the classroom, but not that's she seated beside Harlow, trying to put her textbook back in her schoolbag, like everyone else that had taken theirs out in preparation for the lesson. "Right then," says Moody. "I've had a letter from Professor Lupin about this class. Seems you've had a pretty thorough grounding in tackling Dark creatures — you've covered boggarts, Red Caps, hinkypunks, grindylows, Kappas, and werewolves, is that right?"

     A couple people across the classroom — including Harlow — make a sign of agreement, either nodding or mumbling, yes. Holly knows that she's learnt more, especially in this subject, because when she used to have this lesson, it was more on the intricacies of the Dark Arts, not defence against it. The idea of learning how to prevent tragedies is a new idea for Holly — and she likes it, seeing as these lessons will hopefully have the right sort of bias, the one teaching students that, hey, killing people? That isn't good. Don't do it.

     Moody nods, and steps backwards, as he continues. "But you're behind — very behind — on dealing with curses," he tells them. Susannah laughs like the Hollywood version of witches, the ones with green skin and crooked noses. Makes sense. They both know why. "So I'm here to bring you up to scratch on what wizards can do to each other. I've got one year to teach you how to deal with Dark—"

     "What, aren't you staying?"

     The class was dead silent. Holly's still, and her memories of Durmstrang flood back. One time in her school career there, did someone shout out in an lesson. It did not end well.

     "You'll be Arthur Weasley's son, eh?" says Moody. He smiles. He smiles? What is this place? "Your father got me out of a very tight corner a few days ago... Yeah, I'm staying just the one year. Special favour to Dumbledore... One year, and then back to my quiet retirement." He then laughs. Holly feels creeped out. And confused. And surprised.

     "So — straight into it. Curses. They come in many strengths and forms."

     Doesn't she know it. The ones whispered towards the students yet to learn that you've got to stick together at a school like Durmstrang, the ones still bullying others like children, completely ignorant of the cold truth that Durmstrang requires safety in numbers. You cannot survive a school like that without loyalty, without people standing up for themselves or for those that cannot, without the older years attacking those that bully the younger years.

     "Now, according to the Ministry of Magic, I'm supposed to teach you counter-curses and leave it at that. I'm not supposed to show you what illegal Dark curses look like until you're in the sixth year. You're not supposed to be old enough to deal with it till then. But Professor Dumbledore's got a higher opinion of your nerves, he reckons you can cope—"

     Doesn't she know it. Being forced to practice curses made for evil souls, exercising stoicism and showing no weakness, no discomfort at what is happening. Being regarded as smart by her teachers and told to practice curses and charms and hexes more and more, any chance they got to enlist the help of students. It'll do you good, to practice, they'd say. It doesn't on students, Holly and the others would say afterwards, whispers too quiet to hear unless you've gotten used to the volume. Holly has.

     "—and I say, the sooner you know what you're up against, the better. How are you supposed to defend yourself against something you've never seen? A wizard who's about to put an illegal curse on you isn't going to tell you what he's about to do. He's not going to do it nice and polite to your face. You need to be prepared. You need to be alert and watchful. You need to put that away, Miss Brown, when I'm talking."

     One of the girls in Gryffindor jumps, cheeks going bright red. She shoves something into her bag, the patterned one sitting under the table. Holly sees something she thinks is a zodiac sign. She isn't too sure. It looks similar, though.

     "So... do any of you know which curses are most heavily punished by wizarding law?"

     A number of hands slowly move into the air. Holly raises her hand, but she lacks the hesitation. She knows which ones are the worst. They were part of the cement that kept Durmstrang's castle walls together. The grim castle bricks were laced with Unforgiveable Curses, written in languages, ancient and dead, alive and screaming.

     "Er," says one of Harry Potter's friends. The one called Weasley. "My dad told me about one... Is it called the Imperius Curse, or something?"

     "The Imperius Curse," she remembers her old Dark Arts teacher say a couple years back. They had spiders taken from the woods nearby, all lined up on their desks, some ancient charm keeping them from proving. She remembers how the teacher explained to them to do it, how the teacher shouted at those incapable to think of something that made them angry, something from their past. Holly remembers hoping that any form of emotion was enough, and was scared enough that it happened quickly for her. The spider danced around on the table. Holly felt sick.

     Moody nods. "Ah, yes," he says. "Your father would know that one. Gave the Ministry a lot of trouble at one time, the Imperius Curse."

     He trudges along to his desk, where he takes out a glass jar. Holly can make out three black spiders, and she wants to vomit at the recollection. The countless lessons practicing and perfecting, the teachers taking it in turns at lunchtimes to ensure the students knew their curses, who cares if they taught about muggles or the history of magic, it was every teacher's duty to make sure their school's students could be the best of the best.

     Swimming in an ice-cold lake, shouting at students for complaining, encouraging them to be cunning and secretly whisper a spell to keep them warm, to help them see and breathe underwater for ten minutes, at the least. Quidditch practices that weren't just fly on a broomstick, hit the ball — team captains figuring out how to beat each team, how to get their players to be on their toes every second of the game. Blink for a second, think about homework, and you've lost the match for the whole team.

     Duelling club. Teachers shouted at you, made sure you had the vigilance and reaction speed of a wild cat in the Sahara. Stay on your toes, know your opponent. One trick for all is not how you win. The only trick up your sleeve should be the ability to know everyone around you, in case you end up duelling them. You'll know them to remember that they're a little heavy on their feet, or that their girlfriend broke up with them, their emotions are getting the best of them. "Never let that happen," she remembers being told by the teacher that ran the duelling club, telling her and a select few to stay behind.

     She was a good student at Durmstrang. They valued skill of any kind, from swimming to cursing, and Holly, being metamorphic, knew the easiest way to get through school was to be the best at everything. Susannah quickly agreed to the idea of spying on others to find how Holly could beat them at duelling or Quidditch, knowing that it caused someone's misery at the end. The only reason she isn't there anymore is because it became too much — it doesn't last forever, the ability to ignore the darkness. But it was there, lingering amongst the castle bricks. Dark magic didn't start the school but it certainly helped it breathe nowadays.

     "Imperio," says Moody. The spider begins to move on their teacher's accord, swinging backwards and forwards on a silvery thread. Holly watches it. Everyone around her is cackling with laughter, rolling in their chairs, clutching their stomachs because it hurts to laugh, as the spider begins to dance. It isn't funny to her. It brings memories of scary teachers and her, aged eleven, desperately wanting her dad to come and reassure her that everything was fine, she was doing okay, it's fine that she didn't grow up with witchcraft, she can still excel.

     "Think it's funny, do you?" he says. "You'd like it, would you, if I did it to you?"

     The silence is back. It's deafening. The only thing to focus on is the scene in front — the poor little spider who's fighting against their own body, screaming to choose to move their limbs whenever they want. Holly knows that she'd experience this lesson again, and she knows that a spider is better than a student, but still. She's seen this scene play out enough times for the hilarity of a tap-dancing spider to wear out. Now she sees an unhappy little creature that doesn't deserve this.

     "Years back, there were a lot of witches and wizards being controlled by the Imperius Curse," says Moody. In the corner of her eye, she can see Harlow stiffen in his chair. Holly glances around slightly, trying not to make it obvious that she was looking at her friends, who had gone very still, and were looking away from others. The Gryffindors don't have this reaction. "Some job for the Ministry, trying to sort out who was being forced to act, and who was acting of their own free will."

     Most of what she knows about Voldemort comes from her friends at Durmstrang. She had a friend on her old Quidditch team that had a hatred towards Grindelwald, and through that, he knew about what happened with Voldemort. He was a couple years older than her, so he some recollection of being a toddler and the world being nothing but grey.

     Then, over weekends, Holly would get the archived newspapers from the school library and flick through them, piece together what happened. The massacre of the McKinnons, the plethora of ex-Death Eaters claiming to have been under the Imperius Curse, the death of James and Lily Potter. The events from back then feel more alive here, mostly because here, the school is aware and actively dispels the idea of students following the unrighteous path, whilst her old school didn't mention it. They disliked Grindelwald to an extent. His spell-work was good. He's still liked for that. They just try to be against the rest of it, the way that he paved the way for Voldemort.

     "The Imperius Curse can be fought, and I'll be teaching you how, but it takes real strength of character, and not everyone's got it. Better avoid being hit with it if you can. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"

     Holly raises an eyebrow. She sees a couple people jump.

     "Anyone else know one? Another illegal curse?"

     She puts her hand up again. She sees the other friend of Harry Potter, the one with the bushy brown hair, raise her hand too. Another Gryffindor had his hand up, a boy with short brown hair. She thinks he's the one that her cousin mentioned, mocking him for his knowledge of Herbology.

     "Yes?"

     "There's one," says the boy. "The Cruciatus Curse."

     Holly's breathing hitches. She hates that one. Detentions were opportunities for the smartest students to further practice their abilities, to raise their wands and point them at someone who forgot their homework, and to watch them writhe in pain in front of them. Teachers sometimes enjoyed giving out detentions, knowing that it'll improve the talents of the better students. There was a general consensus amongst the students, that if you were told to hang back after a lesson, you would either get a detention, or you would help out at one. Teachers would keep their careful eye on the students excelling in the subject, and quietly tell them to stay behind, and their beady eyes would glisten with excitement as they said, "How would you like to help at detention tonight?"

     And you would have to. No one knows what the punishment is for not agreeing, and in that moment, you feel like you have one option, and that is to nod and ask when it starts. And the teacher's face would crack with the worst sort of smile — the kind that feeds on pain — as they advised you to get an early dinner, to even go straight to the house-elves, they'll be nice to you, they're told to obey the students that succeed.

     "Your name's Longbottom?" says Moody. The boy nods, and she watches Moody move to address the rest of the class. Holly feels as though she's getting paler by the second. "The Cruciatus Curse... Needs to be a bit bigger for you to get the idea. Engorgio!"

     The spider grows in size. Holly wants to look away but part of her is still living in the world of Durmstrang, where that sort of weakness is stamped out like flies near a barbecue.

     "Crucio!"

     Holly watches the spider twitch in agony. She bites onto her tongue, to stop her from showing any sign of discomfort. Her old Dark Arts teacher used to give detentions to those that looked away when they were demonstrated curses like this. The voice of the monster still rings around in her head, from the first thing said to her — "Do you not have the stomach for this, Miss Lippincott?" — to the last, the same question said in her first lesson in her first year, where the sight of someone being hurt made her skin crawl and her stomach churn. Only the last time, it hadn't been a smug remark, it had been more of disappointment, as if they knew she had hid under the façade of a strong, icy witch. Well, she had, but it was still a little annoying, how she had gotten so good at spells and potions and yet, on her last day of school, she glanced away when someone used Crucio, and she was back to that. Do you not have the stomach for this, Miss Lippincott?

     "Stop it!"

     The girl that's friends with Harry Potter has a sense of urgency in her voice; the boy called Longbottom looked upset over the curse, which makes complete sense. Holly hates it too — oh. She knows why. These students are the children of those affected by the war. She's used to people that knew of it, but had no relatives involved. Everyone here has a tale about the war.

     "Reducio," says Moody. The spider stops writhing in pain, and shrinks back to their normal size. "Pain. You don't need thumbscrews or knives to torture someone if you can perform the Cruciatus Curse..."

     Susannah snorts. "Way to take the fun out of it."

     "That one was very popular once, too," says Moody. The room has a creepy feel to it now, Holly's noticed. Everyone is dead quiet. Worried, maybe. Thinking, perhaps. She's surrounded by people who's parents casted these spells, or got hit by them. "Right... anyone know any others?"

     Holly raises her hand. She sees the other girl do the same, only her hand is shaking. She feels bad for the other girl, the one with the bushy hair, and the friend of Harry Potter. Sometimes Holly forgets that fourteen year-olds aren't supposed to be used to that sort of scene.

     Moody looks at Holly. "Yes?"

     "The Killing Curse," says Holly.

     A few people around the room fidget in their seats. Holly does not.

     "Ah," says Moody. There's a small smile on his face. It isn't the nice kind. It makes Holly wish she hadn't said anything, because it's a creepy smile. "Yes, the last and the worst. Avada Kedavra... the Killing Curse."

     He catches the last spider, his fingers making a prison for the poor creature. Holly stares on. Susannah keeps on plummeting to the ground, shooting back into the end right before she slams against the castle floor. She's never touched the ground in the time Holly's known her.

     "Avada Kedavra!"

     A green light shoots from out of his wand. The spider immediately falls over, dead. She hears a couple people let out cries. Holly keeps on looking ahead. Do you not have the stomach for this, Miss Lippincott?

     "Not nice," he says. "Not pleasant. And there's no counter-curse. There's no blocking it. Only one known person has ever survived it, and he's sitting right in front of me."

     It's Holly's turn to glance and look at him. She sees Harry Potter's face go red, and at that, she chooses to glance away. She'll be kind. Even if her friends say he is not.

     "Avada Kedavra's a curse that needs a powerful bit of magic behind it — you could all get your wands out now and point them at me and say the words, and I doubt I'd get so much as a nosebleed. But that doesn't matter. I'm not here to teach you how to do it."

     Holly tries to stifle a sigh of relief. Thank Merlin. She remembers being taught how to do it, how to summon the power within yourself to successfully cast the curse. The thing that scares her is if anyone notices, how the three curses feel familiar on her tongue. If she says them, you can tell she has a history. Because she knows how to use them best, how best to hold her wand, what to think of, how to summon the courage. She doesn't want people to know that. It's shameful.

     "Now, if there's no counter-curse, why am I showing you? Because you've got to know. You've got to appreciate what the worst is. You don't want to find yourself in a situation where you're facing it. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"

     "Now... those three curses — Avada Kedavra, Imperius, and Cruciatus — are known as the Unforgivable Curses. The use of any one of them on a fellow human being is enough to earn a life sentence in Azkaban." Not at Durmstrang. "That's what you're up against. That's what I've got to teach you to fight. You need preparing. You need arming. But most of all, you need to practice constant, never-ceasing vigilance. Get out your quills... Copy this down..."

     The lesson continues with them writing down notes, and as it ends, everyone hurries out of the classroom. The awed expressions used to talk about the curses make Holly feels sick to her stomach. None of them look like they understood how terrible theses curses how. How part of your soul feels tainted, every time you have to use one, every time you're told you have to help out at detention, to improve your skills.

     Harlow nudges her arm as they walk out. "That was grim, wasn't it?" he says. Holly nods in agreement, pulling a face of discomfort. She's glad she's not the only one that didn't enjoy that. Everyone else seems to have forgotten how those curses kill and destroy. "I was going to go to the Owlery before dinner... Wanna come?"

     "May as well," says Holly. They start to ascend up a staircase away from the others, moving towards what she thought was the fourth floor corridor. She isn't too sure where she's going, but she supposes if she goes and learns the way, that's another place she knows where to get to. "I'm not sure if my dad's sent me anything, though..."

     "Oh, yeah, Malfoy was saying the other day," say Harlow. Holly raises an eyebrow. Why were they taking about her dad? "Isn't he super high in the ranks at MACUSA, in America? Apparently that's what your mum told his parents."

     Holly is in disbelief. Her mother lied about her dad? Was she that concerned about someone finding about that she had a child with a muggle, that she lied about him?

     She decides to go along with it. Maybe she'll tell him when they're better friends, but for now, surely her mother had a reason to lie like that? Her mother isn't all bad, she can't be, surely, she was probably just terrified about what to do, and the easiest option is often lying, Holly can agree with that...

     "Yeah," says Holly, nodding. She already feels bad, for lying straight to his face. She wanted all of this to be over — all of the make-believe, the covering up, the changing tales to suit her. "Super high up. But the government there is like, really secretive about a lot of things. So I don't really know what he does as his job."

     "That's really cool," says Harlow. They start to walk some stairs. A couple students in Hufflepuff (that's the yellow one, right?) pass by them. One of them's talking about the Tournament, a grin on his face, and his friend assures him that of course he's going to become the champion. Holly frowns. "You know, it would be wicked if a Slytherin became our champion."

     Holly nods. "People don't like us, do they?"

     "Not really," he says. "A lot of us — our parents were Death Eaters. You know about Malfoy's dad, right? He was big in their ranks, but claimed he was under Imperius... But a load of them were the ones with relatives that were killed, or just hate the Death Eaters... That's one of the reasons, why they don't like us. They think we're like them."

     "But we're not," says Holly.

     Harlow laughs. "I know that."

     "Then why can't they see through what some parents did?" she asks. She has an extra spring her step, the one caused by heightened emotion. She feels annoyed. "My dad always used to tell me, old ways won't open new doors. How can we get better, if they still think we're evil?"

     "Some still think like that, though," says Harlow. "Did you hear about the old Defence teacher? Snape told us he was a werewolf, and it wasn't just Slytherin students that had their parents complaining. Everyone still has something against someone. I don't know if a tournament could change that, it would just be nice..."

     "It's a place to start!" says Holly. She pats his arm for a second, before jumping a couple extra steps, reaching the top of the tower, where the Owlery lies. "Imagine, right. We have a champion, they're this amazing student, they're not a jack of all trades, but a master of a few, and they exercise the traits they say we have! They're cunning, they're ambitious, but they're not prejudiced — they're against it, and they encourage others to be the same, to learn about the people they think they hate. Because most of the time, people say they hate groups, but they don't, they just don't understand the world around them—"

     "You should enter," he remarks.

     "I'm too young," says Holly. "And anyway, I've just gotten here."

      "You're better than Montague, though," he says. "Merlin, you said you used to play Quidditch, right? That must mean you're good! And then that duelling club you talked about—" Harlow lets out a sigh, once he notices the confused expression on Holly's face. She can't enter. Does she even want to? "I don't know. It would just be nice, for us to not be seen as evil beasts."

     Holly scoffs. "Yeah, if I was champion, they'd see us as evil pixies, or something," she remarks. "I'm too short to be a beast."

     "Famous last words," says Susannah. Holly forgets for a second that she hasn't told Harlow about the ghost that haunts her, and she almost questions exactly how that could be someone's last words. But whatever.

     Maybe this friendship will last.

     Maybe she'll fill him in on the secret.

     Maybe she'll tell him about Durmstrang.

     Maybe.

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