The end of Christmas Holiday brought a certain sense of relief in Antlia. When some of her peers dreaded the end of the break and dragged their feet getting back to the train, she couldn't walk fast enough. It released her from the smothering presence of her father, able to stand straighter without the weight of his gaze.

The moment that she was dropped off at Kings Cross Station, a breath was exhaled, an escape in the anonymity of being in a crowd. Antlia stood by the entrance, looking out at the mass of Muggles. They scurried like ants, purpose imbuing every one of their steps.

Antlia looked at the Muggles and she saw people. She saw humans who had their futures ahead of them. She saw spouses, children, parents. She paused for a moment, trying to imagine how her father would see them.

Her father would see pests. Her father would see ants to be crushed under his boot. He would see skeletons to be stripped of flesh and used to build a throne. He would kill them without a second thought if he believed that he could get away with it.

Because that was what Antlia was descended from. She was descended from a line of killers, murder was in her blood. In her lineage there existed witches and wizards that wouldn't hesitate to kill someone that they considered inferior. She had been born with crimson already staining her hands, a product of her father and his people. She could never atone for their sins, no matter how hard she scrubbed at her skin.

Antlia shook her head, hoping to clear away her thoughts with the action. They still hung on by stubborn scarlet threads, slipping into every crevice of her mind. She could never escape it, it didn't matter how far she ran. Miles and miles, and the road would still be paved with blood.

She took her cart, checking to make sure that her trunk was securely latched with the brown twine that Teely had tied on, and plunged through the brick wall to Platform 9 3/4. Squawking emanated from a silver cage resting on top of her cart, a snowy white owl that was a Christmas present from her father. She had been surprised to come down the stairs to see the owl by the fireplace, her father sitting beside the animal. They hadn't exchanged gifts for years. When she questioned him, he said it was a reward, for meeting with the Dark Lord and working with him. Her father smiled then, and her skin crawled.

Every time she looked at Circe, Antlia felt that wrenching feeling in her stomach that came with things associated with her father. He sullied everything for her. And she hated him for it. The hatred burned deep inside, burning up any feelings of love that she might've had left.

"Shh, Circe," Antlia whispered to her owl, laying a hand on top of the cage. "I'll let you out as soon as the train starts moving." An animal couldn't help what feelings came with it. Antlia was her father's daughter, and she was many things, but she wasn't cruel. That trait hadn't manifested outwardly in her, but they didn't prevent it from lodging deep into her inner consciousness. It had been planted, watered, and fed, but it had refused to grow. It was too deep for her to root it out, a permanent reminder that didn't require a tattoo. It was there, the knowledge that she could let it flourish eating at her.

Antlia wove her way through the crowd, her heart twisting when she saw the mothers and fathers saying goodbye to their children. She would never have that. That relationship had been torn away by hate and fear, her mother dead, and her father a pillar of stone. Their interactions were stilted and formal, nothing like hugging families that surrounded her. He hasn't even come to see her off. She wasn't even worth his time. That feeling cut deeper than any of his words. And she let it fester.

Antlia made her way to an empty compartment, heaving her truck behind her. The brown wood thing had been her mother's when she was in school, and Antlia treasured it like nothing else in her life.

She pictured her mother sometimes, all those years ago when she was her age. A girl in love with her father, when his cheeks were still flushed with warmth. Trailing her hand over the cool metal, giddy with love and hope. Cassiopeia had been so young, and her life had been taken too early.

Slowly, her friends started to trickle into the compartment. It was a tradition, they all sat together on the way back from the holiday break. They all had their own ghosts that followed them from their homes, trailing after them. It took a group of friends to unpack.

Lyra sat separate from the rest of the girls, content in her own world. She was friendly with Antlia's roommates, but they weren't friends. They were tethered together by Antlia, strands stretching between them. Lives weren't as separate as people liked to think. A person could go through their life without saying a word to another, yet their actions could completely change the course of a life. The strands of fate connected every single girl in the compartment, whether they knew it or not.

They sat in a comfortable silence until the trolley witch came around, triggering a frantic pulling of money out of pockets and sweets being popped into mouths. It took courage to speak, to tell others the cause of your pain, and time to gather that essential piece of yourself.

Pandora threw her legs over Anita's, yawning. "The general consensus of break that it was terrible right?" she asked as she bit into a chocolate frog, her words slightly muffled. "I got Rowena again if anyone wants the card."

The girls all nodded, muttering phrases of affirmation. Magnolia took the card, tucking it into her bag with a grateful smile. "Sweet! She's the only founder that I haven't gotten. I had to eat like twelve to even get Dumbledore."

Cynthia rolled her eyes. "And you've got the rarest twelve in those others, so I don't know why you are complaining. You have the weirdest luck." All of the girls chimed in with their agreement. The banter was all that they needed to break the ice, to shatter the layer of glass that had been formed by their parents over the break. It was fragile and broke into pieces as laughter rocked their bodies. Even Lyra was laughing, hers quieter than the others but still there.

Laughter could be a temporary remedy, pushing away the bad and consuming their minds with good. But all too quickly, the darkness began to creep its way back into their heads, Antlia's especially. The giggles died, and their faces grew somber.

"Who wants to go first?" Navya said, her gaze directed down at her hands. No one volunteered, but they had learned (the hard way) that keeping it inside never helped. One too many blowups had lead to their current arrangement.

It was new for Antlia, to be in a space where she felt comfortable with more than two people. She craved the release of the words, pouring out of her mouth and cracked lips. But she didn't do that. She kept it locked into herself, mentally seeing the blood of her friends on her hands if she told them. She let her friends speak, spilling their guts onto the moving floor of the train.

Cynthia talked about her engagement to the newest up and coming Quidditch player, a man four years her senior and with the personality of a rat. She hated him. Navya complained about her mother, the music crushed under the stuffy dinners. Anita was engaged to Antlia's cousin, joking about being family now while her eyes cried out for help. Their struggles were all so different, yet similar at the same time. Restriction from the people who were supposed to encourage them, harm from those who were supposed to protect.

The girls who stayed quiet, they weren't any less tortured. They were inwardly dying, inwardly begging for someone to come break them out from the conspiracy of silence that they were trapped in. Silence weighed heavily on them.

Cynthia sighed, running her hand through her hair with a tired expression that aged her years. She bent down to her trunk, popped open the brown leather buckles, and pulled out a photo, her face instantly brightening. "Now that's done, have you all seen Murphy?" she said, passing the photo of a flexing man winking at the photographer around to the girls. They all made identical noises of relief, grateful for the distraction from their thoughts.

Thoughts were like weeds, they kept coming back no matter how many times that you pulled them out. You could drown them in soil, starve them of sunlight, and still, the persistent ones would crawl right back into your mind. If you stabbed them, they would stab right back at you. They peeled away the skin and wormed their way into your brain, a parasitic relationship. It was hard to escape.

"Oooh yes," Pandora said, admiring the photo. "My mother's copy of Witch Weekly this month had a full-page feature on him. I took it after dinner one day, absolutely stunning."

"I bet." Anita trailed a finger down the photo before passing it to Antlia. "Antlia, what do you think?"

Antlia hummed, rolling her eyes. "Meh, I prefer brunettes." She giggled, pulling that kernel of happiness from deep underneath the dark blankets of pain.

Her words were an opening for her dormmates, calculating occurring in their eyes. They all nodded to Cynthia, who plunged in. "Brunettes like a certain Sirius Black?" she questioned, wiggling her eyebrows.

Antlia rolled her eyes again. "No, Sirius and I are barely even friends, if you can call it that," she said. She turned away, pulling a book out of her trunk, effectively ending the conversation.

Her words were lies, but it was an essential lie. Her words were lies, but that was what she did.

Author's Note

I hope that you liked this chapter! Thank you for reading!

- Nicole