002. First Night
Two. First Night
𓃵
𝔇ear Sirius,
I feel sorry for you. For everything you've been through, and for everything I'm putting you through, but I can't help it, I'm so angry.
I've been angry my whole life. From when my grandmother named me heir─a five year-old girl, who couldn't even comprehend what was happening to her─to when you reappeared with a story I could barely believe. My father, who I'd thought to be a murderer, was innocent and had loved me like the sun loves the sky. I struggled to trust you but I really did try. I really tried to let you in and make that effort, only for you to shun me because you thought I was one of them. Them. The family. You resented me for adoring my uncle, you resented me for accepting the future that was thrust upon me, you resented me for clinging to my mother after she was the only parent I'd ever known. But how was I supposed to do anything else? They hated you and took me in. Is that my fault? Can you expect a child to reject open arms?
Harry is who you wish I was, I understand that. I understand that the family want me to be Enyo, and you, Harry. Camille Black is no hero or a messiah, nor is she a leader. Camille Black is a purposeless wretch. I will leave school, take my place at the head of the house, and I will do nothing different than those before me. I'm sentimental, not cruel. That's my crime, I suppose. Enyo's was being born a girl. Yours was having a heart. Regulus' is having a conscience, whether he likes it or not.
I'm angry because I don't understand why things have to be this way. Why did you choose to save your friends over your wife and child? Why did Regulus, your brother, turn a corner only to be met with horror? What is this terrible secret about Leda that makes my mother all glassy-eyed and shaken? Why was Enyo destined to be special, when I am so plain? Why did my grandmother twist the knife and choose me, when she must have known that I wouldn't want it?
You are my father. I love you, and I hate you.
Circe.
Rattling and swaying, the carriages moved in convoy up the road. In the darkness, Hogwarts Castle loomed ever closer: a towering mass of turrets, jet black against the dark sky, here and there a window blazing fiery bright above. They jingled to a halt near the stone steps leading up to the oak front doors and Circe got out of the carriage first. She turned to look for her cousin, but Enyo had already happened upon the strange, skeletal creatures standing quietly in the chill night air, their blank white eyes gleaming, with wings sprouting from each wither. Enyo, by now, was familiar with the experience of seeing something that Circe could not; it had been on her first visit to Hogwarts that she saw the thestrals, unaware that her pain-that gnawing grief-and motherlessness had granted her a privilege.
"Hello, Mummy," she whispered, reaching up to touch what for so many others was not there.
The Entrance Hall was ablaze with torches and echoing with footsteps as the students crossed the flagged stone floor for the double doors to the right, leading to the Great Hall and the start-of-term feast. The four long house tables in the Great Hall were filling up under the starless black ceiling, which was just like the sky they could glimpse through the high windows. Candles floated in midair all along the tables, illuminating the silvery ghosts who were dotted about the Hall and the faces of the students talking eagerly, exchanging summer news, shouting greetings at friends from other houses, eyeing one another's new haircuts and robes.
"Will I see you before Christmas?" asked Circe. She was, of course, referring to the fact that Enyo, despite being shunned by their grandmother, was rather well-liked among the Slytherin crowd.
Circe, on the other hand, had spent five years alone. Willingly.
"You'll see me in classes every day," said Enyo noncommittally, "and in Hogsmeade, as well. You're more than welcome to make other friends, you know."
"Friends. They only talk to me because they think I have millions of galleons tucked away somewhere."
"Don't you?"
The moment they reached the Slytherin table, she was hailed by some fellow fifth-years and drifted away to sit with them. Circe thought that her cousin was perhaps a little bitter about how things had turned out, though she didn't like to show it. It wasn't as if it was either of their faults: given the choice, Circe would happily throw herself onto a bed of hot coals so that somebody else would inherit the family throne. Enyo had been bred to rule, but her father's failures (or Walburga's iron will) meant that she would be eternally second to an ungrateful soul. Perhaps the worst punishment of all.
Circe found a seat together about halfway down the table between Ron Weasley, and Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown, the last two of whom gave her airy, overly-friendly greetings that made her quite sure they had stopped talking about her a split second before. A familiar sensation. She had more important things to worry about, however: she was looking over the students' heads to the staff table that ran along the top wall of the Hall. Dumbledore's head was inclined towards the woman sitting next to him, who was talking into his ear. She looked like somebody's maiden aunt: squat, with short, curly hair in which she had placed a pink headband that matched the fluffy pink cardigan she wore over her robes.
"It's that Umbridge woman! She was at my hearing, she works for Fudge!"
Circe leaned forwards, looking past Ron, to ask Harry, "You know her?"
"She works for Fudge," Harry repeated, frowning. "Why?"
"She's Ministry."
Harry didn't understand what she was talking about but she'd already turned away from him as Professor Dumbledore rose to his feet. There was an outbreak of applause as food appeared out of nowhere.
"What were you saying before the Sorting?" Harry asked Circe. "About the Ministry?"
"Oh," said Circe, who seemed glad of a reason to turn away from Ron, who was now eating roast potatoes with almost indecent enthusiasm. "I just meant that usually the Ministry don't interfere at Hogwarts but that woman's sitting up there with the rest of them."
"Wuz dozat mean?" said Ron. His mouth was so full it was quite an achievement for him to make any noise at all. Circe looked revolted, so he gave an enormous swallow and repeated, "What does that mean?"
"Aren't you Order now? You should be the ones telling me."
Harry looked highly affronted, but couldn't get a word in before Ron said lazily, "S'not our fault your parents didn't want you involved."
"For someone who's just spent six weeks scrubbing my floorboards, I'd expect a bit of humility," Circe shot back, a rather nasty look spreading across her pretty face.
Ron did not answer immediately. "Yeah, I meant to ask," he said, "why's it yours when Sirius got disowned?"
Hermione threw him a furious look. "That's none of our business, Ron!"
Unfortunately, Ron's mouth was packed to exploding point again and all he could manage was "Node iddum eentup sechew," which Circe, whose hands had curled into tight fists around her cutlery, did not seem to think constituted an adequate apology. She turned her back to them and began idly pushing her food around her plate.
"Well done," Hermione snapped at Ron.
"What?" he said indignantly, having managed, finally, to swallow his food. "I'm not allowed to ask a simple question?"
"Oh, forget it."
When all the students had finished eating and the noise level in the Hall was starting to creep upwards again, Dumbledore got to his feet once more. Talking ceased immediately as he introduced Professor Umbridge, the Ministry worker, as their new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. There was a round of polite but fairly unenthusiastic applause, which Circe did not take part in but instead slouched down in her seat. Umbridge was a Ministry puppet, that was obvious, but where did she know her from? Why did her mere presence fill Circe with an awful, sickly feeling? And why was she teaching them Defence Against the Dark Arts now that Voldemort had returned?
"Thank you, Headmaster," Professor Umbridge simpered, "for those kind words of welcome."
Her voice was high-pitched, breathy and little-girlish, and Circe felt a powerful rush of dislike that she could not explain; all she knew was that she loathed everything about her.
Umbridge gave another little throat-clearing cough and continued: "Well, it is lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I must say!" She smiled, revealing very pointed teeth. "The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance. The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured by careful instruction. Every headmaster and headmistress of Hogwarts has brought something new to the task of governing this historic school, and that is as it should be, for without progress there will be stagnation and decay. There again, progress for progress's sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering. A balance, then, between old and new, between permanence and change, between tradition and innovation ..."
Circe found her attentiveness ebbing, as though her brain was slipping in and out of tune. The quiet that always filled the Hall when Dumbledore was speaking was breaking up as students put their heads together, whispering and giggling. Professor Umbridge did not seem to notice the restlessness of her audience; a full-scale riot could have broken out under her nose and she would have ploughed on with her speech. The teachers, however, were still listening very attentively.
"... because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognised as errors of judgement. Meanwhile, some old habits will be retained, and rightly so, whereas others, outmoded and outworn, must be abandoned. Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited."
She sat down. Dumbledore clapped. A few students joined in, but most had been taken unaware by the end of the speech, not having listened to more than a few words of it, and before they could start applauding properly Dumbledore had stood up again and dismissed the school.
Circe made her way out of the Great Hall alone, doing everything she could to ignore the grim presence of Harry, also walking alone, right behind her. She kept her eyes fixed ahead as she wove her way through the crowd in the Entrance Hall, then she hurried up the marble staircase, took a couple of concealed short cuts and had soon left most of the crowds behind.
"Cousin, a word?"
She had been stupid not to expect this, she thought angrily as she turned to face her second favourite white-haired cousin.
"Bigot," she offered. "There's a word."
She discovered that there was an endless source of enjoyment in trifling with psychiatrists, but not nearly as much as irritating the members of her family who still hadn't grown accustomed to her ways. Ladies and gentlewomen of the jury: Draco Malfoy, her least favourite cousin and most favourite victim, who felt the pierce of her dry wit into his skin far too often. Why he deserved it, she didn't know. He'd never been particularly nasty to her; he was just an idiot and a coward, and that was the worst luck any man could have. The last time they'd seen one another, a heated argument had broken out about Harry's claim to having seen Lord Voldemort return to power, with Circe casting the Tongue-Tying Curse until he was willing to admit that Voldemort had returned.
"Manners, or I'll have to give you a detention," drawled Draco, whose sleek blond hair and pointed chin were just like his father's. "You see, I, unlike you, have been made a prefect, which means that I, unlike you, have the power to hand out punishments."
"Yeah," said Circe, "but you, unlike me, are a prick, so say what you have to say and leave me alone."
His lip curled. "Tell me, how does it feel being second-best to Potter even at home?"
It was obvious he'd put his head together with Enyo while they were holding court at the Slytherin table. Draco, it was no secret, thought that his fellow Slytherin was much more suitable as an heir than Circe was, which the latter didn't exactly disagree with: Enyo was beautiful and virtuous, while Circe was morbid and irritable. Really, she'd considered abdicating many times through her childhood and despised herself and her rotten brain for every second she did so, because she deserved to succeed, to admit defeat would be admitting that she was less worthy. Even if Enyo did take over, there would still be a mountain of other issues for Circe to wrestle with.
"I'm second-best to no one. I'd have thought you'd know this by now, considering the amount of times you've looked over our grandmother's will, trying to find a name for yourself."
"I seem to have touched a nerve."
He had. "What do you want?"
"Potter─what do you think?"
Circe pulled a face. "He's an attention-seeking idiot. Why?"
"But you still believe that the Dark Lord's returned?" asked Draco snidely.
She wasn't exactly sure what she believed, she just didn't want to be on his side. "I believe my parents. And I don't think Cedric Diggory had a heart attack."
"It'd do you well to stay away from him. For yourself, for the family."
She let out a short laugh. "And who are you to tell me about the family?"
He didn't say anything at first. He gave her a malicious look before leaning in and whispering in her ear, "Just watch yourself, Circe, because I'll be dogging your footsteps in case you step out of line."
At once she registered what Draco had said and became unnerved: Sirius had accompanied them to the train station in his animagus form. At the time, she thought it was a bit of a laugh, if not slightly reckless or downright dangerous. What if Draco had noticed the black dog and told someone? What if he had deduced that they knew where Sirius was hiding? Or had his use of the word 'dogging' merely been a coincidence?
Chewing absentmindedly at her fingernails, she wandered down the empty corridor to the Gryffindor common room and came to a halt in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady before she realised that she did not know the new password.
"Er ..." she said glumly, staring up at the Fat Lady, who smoothed the folds of her pink satin dress and looked stern.
"No password, no entrance."
"Miss Black!" Someone called behind her and she turned to see Professor McGonagall, head of Gryffindor house, marching towards her. She was a sternlooking witch who wore her hair in a tight bun; her sharp eyes were framed with square spectacles.
"There's no need to look so worried-I just want a word in my office," she said. "Come with me, please."
Once they were in her office, a small room with a large, welcoming fire, Professor McGonagall motioned Circe to sit down. She settled herself behind her desk and said abruptly, "Your mother has sent along an owl, Miss Black."
Circe wondered whether something was terribly wrong at home, then whether she was being paranoid.
"She informs me that you're familiar with the Macauley family," said Professor McGonagall.
"Should I be?"
"Stefan Macauley is your godfather, Miss Black."
Circe felt herself going red in the face. Stefan Macauley was a name she'd heard mentioned in regards to the Order from time to time, but never had she actually met the man.
"Yeah, I remember," she muttered. "But what-?"
"Your mother believes you would be the perfect candidate to shepherd our new students," said Professor McGonagall crisply. "She thinks that it will be a good distraction for you from other matters. I happen to heartily agree."
"Me-why?" Sara always commented on her daughter's standoffish nature and she could not understand, therefore, why she would recommend her for this position.
"Mr. Macauley has been offered a position in the British Ministry of Magic, therefore his children will be joining us from Durmstrang. His daughter is also a fifth-year so I am sure the two of you will have plenty to discuss."
Before Circe could give a biting response, there was a soft knock on the door and Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, came bustling in with two blonde-haired, green-eyed teenagers. The boy was rather tall and held himself with the haughty demeanour of a young, troubled soldier: reckless and morose. His sister seemed to be around the same height as Circe and was composed of all things sweet, honeysuckle, rosemary and thyme. A spring lamb among the long grass.
"Miss Black, this is Mika and Karl Macauley."
"Right," said Circe in a measured voice. "I suppose ... welcome to Hogwarts."
The siblings said nothing. Karl, she presumed, looked away and uttered something to his sister that Circe didn't quite comprehend. She resented her mother in that moment for putting her in such an awkward position: Was this how Enyo felt for the past fifteen years? Was this how it felt to be entirely alone in a room full of people, exchanging glances and words that were achingly distant? Her heart was beating rapidly. At last, she'd had that sour taste of rejection-and she hated it.
Circe got up from her chair and was about to contemptuously introduce herself, but before she could do so, Mika said, sounding both nervous and eager, "Well ... where is my dormitory?"
"Miss Macauley has been placed in Ravenclaw," Professor McGonagall explained, eyeing a piece of parchment in front of her, "so Professor Flitwick will accompany you to your common room. Miss Black, you will show Mr. Macauley to the Gryffindor common room, yes?"
Circe agreed without hesitation, feeling as though she had very little choice in the matter.
They all returned to the corridor with Professor Flitwick, who left for the Ravenclaw common room with a dreamy Mika in tow. Circe and Karl joined the last of the Gryffindors streaming up the marble staircase and, very tired now, along more corridors, up more and more stairs, to the hidden entrance to Gryffindor Tower's large portrait of a fat lady in a pink dress.
Karl whistled appreciatively, for the common room looked as welcoming as ever, a cosy circular tower room full of dilapidated squashy armchairs and rickety old tables. A fire was crackling merrily in the grate and a few people were warming their hands by it before going up to their dormitories; on the other side of the room Fred and George Weasley were pinning something up on the noticeboard. Circe, forgetting all about her new shadow, headed straight for the door to the girls' dormitories while Karl continued to follow her.
"Excuse you!" She prodded a finger into his chest. "The boys' dormitories are over there!"
"You didn't say," he said with an air of mock innocence. Just a small pouting of the lips, a narrowing of the eyes and a tilting of the head ... It was so subtle, it was even more infuriating for anyone who caught a glimpse of it. He would have a face of angel if his lips would ever break farther apart, she thought.
"Listen, I'm only showing you around so I don't get a detention. Just stay out of my way, all right?"
Karl beamed. "Keine Sorge."
Circe started up the steps to her bedroom, before a sickly sense of guilt consumed her: Sara had entrusted her daughter with the task of looking after them, likely to force a friendship upon her. She stood there stupidly for a moment, completely still, and then span back around. Karl was still watching her with a small smirk on his face.
Her hardened expression faltered and she said through gritted teeth, "Tell your sister we'll have breakfast together tomorrow. But lunch, the two of you have to survive on your own."
"Why is that?"
"I don't eat lunch."
She finally departed for the fourth-year girls' dormitory. Lavender and Parvati had reached the dormitory first and were in the process of covering the walls beside their beds with posters and photographs. They had been giggling as Circe pushed open the door but stopped abruptly the moment they saw her; she said nothing, which they were used to. She took off her robes, stuffed them into her trunk, pulled on her pyjamas, got into bed and pulled the hangings closed around her. In the dim light, she watched dust swirl front of her eyes, and savoured the thought that another day was done. Sometimes she thought she wouldn't ever feel safe until she could count her last days on one hand. Three more days to get through until she didn't have to worry about life anymore.
It was around half an hour before Hermione, who had been poring over a book, extinguished the last candle in the dormitory. Feeling her own eyelids grow heavier, Circe sank deeper against the mattress, and felt herself being lulled into sleep by the steady rhythm of her heart and the wind battering against the window pane.
Before she knew it, she was crying. She didn't know when or how it started, her neuroticism; all she knew was that there was a sharp pain in the back of her throat, then her lungs were collapsing in on themselves and tears were streaming down her cheeks. An urge to pierce her skin with something sharp filled her brain like a lovely toxic gas, overwhelming, suffocating and irresistible. Fighting pain with more pain was a twisted religion to follow. But she'd been weaned on poison. She didn't remember life without it.
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