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aesopsharpmybeloved · 10 months

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Echoes of Yuletide

A look into the life of Aesop Sharp, his family, friends, and the Christmas he spent with and without them. And, of course the love that brought back his ✨spark✨.

I would be desperately lost without my consultant, partner in crime, and brilliant friend @tea-withjamandbread

Yay, I managed to finish the Christmas fic before actual Christmas!

Echoes of Yuletide (10k words)

tw: parent death, best friend death, mourning/grief, child loss (implied), sexual content (mentioned), past alcohol abuse, teacher-student relationship (reader is an adult)

Aesop Sharp loved Christmas.

That is, he was absolutely crazy about them as a small child. It was never just about the presents (though those were a big plus), but it seemed that time in December was filled with nothing but happiness and cheer. Willow Creek, where he and his parents lived, was normally never as bright as it was during this time. It was a small village, and life there was slow. Nobody was ever in a rush to get anywhere, and there was always time to spare to to chat up the neighbours, as his dad and mum were so fond of doing, there was always time to go check out what the local greengrocer had on stock, ad there was always time to take a walk through the village green, to sit and just watch as life around happened, leisurely and calmly.

During the time of Yuletide, however, the whole village lit up in a flurry of colours and cheer, and everybody was rushing. Rushing to see as many people, to sing carols at as many houses as possible. It was a pleasant kind of rush. People decorated not only their homes, but the entire hamlet as well, and once the sun had set in the afternoon, Aesop always marvelled at the brilliant sight. There were candles and oil lamps burning with coloured flames upon every house, a wreath on every door, and some people even had fairies suspended around garlands for their ethereal multicoloured glow.

“Are they charmed? To stay where they are, I mean.” Aesop would ask his mother, as he didn’t think he himself would be too thrilled about the prospect of just standing or fluttering around, stuck in one place outside in the cold of winter. “No, dear,” Magdala Sharp would answer, “fairies are very vain little creatures, they enjoy being used as decorations, as they get to be looked at and admired.”

Aesop soon decided the fairies indeed were quite full of themselves, as when he offered one of them a crumb from his gingerbread man, the fairy did eat it, but then proceeded to stick its tongue out at him and blow him a raspberry.

The Sharp household was always much jollier than usual too. That is, it was always jolly - his father’s little jokes never failed to leave him giggling, and even his mum, who always rolled eyes at her husband good-naturedly, offered a chuckle from time to time at the puns Theodore Sharp said. During Christmas, however, his father was the most cheerful Aesop had seen him, and his enthusiasm was more than a little contagious. His mum wore beautiful dresses and jumpers every day, and made Aesop hot cocoa whenever he asked for it. His dad would show him how to sneakily pinch the freshly baked Christmas biscuits, and how to quickly dodge the spatula if caught in the act. His parents would dance around the living room together to the rhythm of whatever carol Theodore sang.

“Easy on the mead and eggnog, dear, we wouldn’t want you to take down the tree because you were a bit too frivolous in spinning me!” Aesop’s mum would warn, but the Muggle always only laughed harder and spun her faster.

It seemed like normal life actually stopped during this time - there was only the smell of vanilla and cinnamon, combined with the earthy scent of their Christmas tree, beautifully decorated by his parents and him without magic. There were slow evenings spent by the fire in their living room, where he’d roast apples or chestnuts to snack on, while his parents lay curled up together on the sofa, talking among themselves so softly, Aesop barely heard them.

And then, when he’d wake up on Christmas morning, it was still a little dark outside as the excitement wouldn’t let him sleep a minute longer than necessary. He’d run down the stairs to find a neat pile of presents wrapped in colourful paper and bound with strings and ribbons left under the tree. He’d return up the stairs, and quietly enter his parents bedroom to crawl between their sleeping forms on the bed. “Mummy,” he’d whisper in his high little voice barely able to contain his joy, “Daddy! Wake up, Father Christmas was here!”

His mum would wake up quicker than his father, but both would eventually indulge him and go downstairs to see what they’ve been given, but not before taking turns tickling the child for having woken them up so early. And as Aesop cheerfully played with his new toys, he was faintly aware of his parents watching him with content smiles on their faces, huddled together on dad’s large armchair, drinking their morning tea and trying not to succumb to the seductive pull of slumber.

If he knew it would be the last Christmas they spent like this, Aesop wouldn't have woken them when he came into their room. No, he’d cuddle up to his dad, and he would just hold him while he slept, because eight months later, his father was stabbed while at work by a robber trying to escape, and left for dead.

Hearing his mother’s anguished cries when she was told the news would haunt him for the rest of his life.

And yet, after that first night, which he too spent sobbing uncontrollably into his pillow, he never saw his mother cry for dad again. That is, he knew she cried at the Funeral, but she made little to no sound, and her tears weren’t visible behind the black weil she wore over her face.

Aesop cried a lot, and he cried often, and Magdala would hold him close to her, shush him, and comfort him, but she wouldn’t tear up. And even then, Aesop understood that it wasn’t because she wasn’t sad about losing dad, but rather because she didn’t want her son to be even sadder than he already was. Aesop knew she was suffering like he - she lost weight and grew pale, and she’d sigh more than he ever heard her sigh, and wistfully look at the places her husband would sit, as well as the unfinished tree house he began building for Aesop. Aesop would often come into his parents bedroom at night to sleep next to his mother, and breathe in his father’s smell that lingered upon the pillows and the blankets. He even snuck a few of father’s shirts into his room.

The bedroom next to his own used to have a crib and a rocking chair in it, and he used to see mum going there quite often before dad passed. Shortly after the funeral, the room became empty, and Aesop never saw his mother come near it anymore.

Aesop Sharp, once a happy, cheerful, delightfully mischievous young child now spent the majority of his days silent under the crushing weight of his father’s death.

He knew justice was served in the end, but it offered him little comfort.

“Sweetheart?” Magala said one day. Aesop didn’t answer, but looked up at his mother from the book he was practising his reading on, “The man who hurt your daddy confessed to what he did. And he was punished for it.” He didn’t say anything. In a way, he was glad the man would be punished, but in the end, no punishment would ever bring his father back.

It was the first time he regretted his father wasn’t a wizard - his mother would always say that it didn’t matter whether a person was a wizard or a muggle, because all that mattered was if they were a good one, and his dad was the best man Aesop ever knew. But if he had been a wizard, he surely wouldn't have died, Aesop was sure of it.

For the first time in his life, Aesop wasn’t looking forward to the colourful lights, nor the jolly wreaths, not even the rude but pretty fairies. They had no tree, Magdala baked no biscuits, nobody sang carols. He didn’t even want cocoa. He still found a few presents in their living room after he woke up on the 25th, but instead of playing with the soft stuffed Niffler, or the new set of Gobstones, he just took the new throw blanket he recognised as his mum’s knitting project, and once again curled up in dad’s spot on his parents’ bed to sleep some more.

The one gift he wanted he knew he could never have.

—

The young boy was grateful for the change of scenery that summer. The coolness of Gwydir forest calmed him, its utter peace helping quiet down the storm inside his heart. For the first time, he wasn’t looking forward to their neighbour’s children coming back from Hogwarts in hopes they’d play with him, despite being quite older than him. He mostly just wanted to be alone.

But then he met Ashley.

One sunny July day, Apollonia Chadwick, whom he called ‘aunt Chaddy’ even though she wasn’t a sister of either of his parents, came back from the small village nearby followed by a girl, who looked to be the same age as Aesop. She had straw coloured hair and azure eyes that seemed to be sparkling a little bit. She and Aesop shook hands awkwardly, and she offered to show him around, share with him the secret adventuring spots she discovered in the woods.

And Aesop was sad to go home when summer ended, as he didn’t want to leave the girl who became his best friend over the two months.

Ashley lost her mum a year ago, mum and a baby sister, and the two children bonded over their shared grief in losing someone so vital in their lives. They spent the summer running through the woods together and having their own little adventures. Aesop found a true friend in her, found himself gravitating to the young girl who, even under the weight of her sorrow, was one of the most brilliant, and contagiously energetic people he ever met.

“At least the bad man was punished, isn’t that good?” she’d ask one afternoon as they sat in his aunt’s little garden, snacking on fresh strawberries Magdala brought them earlier. “I suppose…” Aesop would reply, not really knowing whether it was good or bad.

“I think people should be punished when they’re bad… aren’t you punished after you’ve been bad?”

“I am. Mum sits me down and asks me to think about why what I did was wrong.” “And bad people should be too. They especially.” “That’s what dad did, you know,” Aesop confessed. He didn’t truly speak about his father that often, not even with mum. It was just too painful a topic. It was a little easier with Ashley. He actually felt a little better, talking about it. “He’d catch bad people so that they’d be punished, and he’d protect the good.” “I want to do that too when I grow up,” she grinned at him proudly, standing up to further prove her point. “You want to be a policewoman?”

“A poli-what? Oh, right, that’s the Muggle job!” Ashley said, and Aesop flushed. He forgot Ashley was from an entirely wizard family. “No, I want to be an Auror. So yes, pol-... pole-... whatever you said, but with magic. Don’t you?” “D-don’t I what?”

“Don’t you want to be an Auror? Catch bad people and help the good. Like your dad, except using spells.” “I-... I don’t know. Maybe?” Aesop thought. It never once occurred to him. He was too little, he’d have to wait and grow up before he could become an Auror. Would he want to become an Auror? He admired his father, and thought the world of him for trying to make the world a safer place. Would he be proud of Aesop, if he decided to follow in his footsteps, though in magical settings? Aesop liked helping people, it wouldn’t be exactly a bad thing to have helping and protecting people as his job.

“You have to be really tough to be an Auror though, I don’t know if you have what it takes…” “Of course I have what it takes to be an Auror!” Aesop looked at her offendedly, finding the girl’s eyes sparkling more than he ever saw them. He didn’t even know why he was so offended, seeing as he only just now found out that he could one day do what his pa did, but he didn’t like the tone of Ashley’s voice, like she didn't believe that Aesop was tough enough to be able to be a wizarding world policeman.

“Oh, really?” she asked with a wild grin, her voice still awfully smug and teasing. The lad puffed out his chest: “I have what it takes to be a brilliant Auror. Just wait, you’ll see!”

—

He and Ashley would write each other letters throughout the entire year, with the help from their respective parents of course. The art of masterfully wielding a quill still escaped Aesop somewhat, but his reading was getting better and better. And when possible, Ahsley’s father would bring her round to spend the weekend over at Sharps’.

“This place is huge!” she’d say the first time she visited, eyes as big as saucers. Aesop was giving her a tour while his mum and Mr Montgomery talked in the dining room over a cup of tea. “ I mean, our house isn’t small, but this place is really something else, like you could live here with your grandparents and there’d still be enough room. Do you really live here with your mum alone?” Aesop only shrugged. He didn’t have grandparents. That is, he knew his mum did have a mum and a dad of her own, but they never visited or spoke much. Mum said her parents didn’t agree on her marrying a Muggle as a pure-blood witch. Dad didn’t talk about his parents much as they both passed before Aesop was born. He only told the young lad that Grandma Sharp was kind, and knew how to make the perfect risotto, and that Grandpa Sharp used to be a gamekeeper, but that was about it. It was a large house, but only now Aesop realised just how large it truly was. And how empty.

“Yes. I was supposed to have a baby brother or sister, though.”

Ashley thought for a little bit.

“I was supposed to have a little sister too, I told you that. I was looking forward to her too, even though I didn’t know if it would be a boy or girl back then, dad only told me after… I was just happy someone would play with me,,” Aesop wanted to hug his friend. He knew she was very strong, but whenever she spoke about her family, the light in her eyes would dim. He hated seeing it. “Maybe we could pretend that you’re my brother and I’m your sister,” she offered, a sparkle returning to those eyes momentarily, and her voice was slightly hopeful.

Aesop didn’t understand how that’d be possible, considering they lived hundreds of miles away from each other, and his mother and her dad weren’t particularly close. But as he watched his friend’s growingly excited expression, saw the gleam in her pretty eyes, he found himself smiling back at her: “Alright. I’ll be your brother.”

“Then it’s a deal!”

—

Aesop was surprised to find a colourful garland adorning his windowsill one morning in December. Snow descended softly upon the prickly fir needles and the elegant, silky red ribbons. Soon, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon filled his nostrils and he sighed. In a way, he was happy, he missed the lovely smell and the pretty colours, but deep within his chest a dull ache remained. In just his nightshirt, he made his way to the kitchen, where his mother was only just pulling out a tray of gingerbread men out of the oven.

“Hello, my sweet,” she’d chirp at him with a small smile, quickly followed by a good-natured click of her tongue. “Go get changed, Aesop, it’s quite chilly here. We wouldn’t want you catching a cold and spending Christmas troubled by fever, would we? You can have a few of these after they've cooled down a little.”

And so the young boy changed into his warm clothes, and once more joined his mother downstairs. They shared a breakfast of hot chocolate and the slightly cooled down biscuits. “Mr Pruitt was so nice to bring a Christmas tree for us. It’s outside in the garden, we can bring it in and decorate it later,” Magdala spoke between sips. Aesop knew her cheerful voice was not entirely real, knew that she was hurting just like him.

But she was trying so hard for him. It was only fair that he tried for her too.

So he smiled at her softly: “Alright, mum.”

The Christmas they had wasn’t the same as it was when dad was there. There was no dancing, and he and mum sang their carols quietly. Aunt Chaddy came around, bringing Ashley with her for a few days. The house smelled heavenly, and Magdala made hot cocoa for Aesop and Ashley whenever they asked for it. The two children helped her and Chaddy bake more cookies, cook meals and even offered to cut some wood for the hearth. Unsurprisingly however, his mother wasn’t too keen on letting six year olds swing around with an axe. Still, in a way, it was a nice time. They walked around the village, admired the lights, and Aesop fed some more gingerbread crumbs to the fairies, though only one of them gave him a smile instead of sticking its tongue out at him or making a rude face.

He and Ashley played every day she was there, and Aesop was actually excited to show her his own adventuring spots. She’d call Aesop her brother when nobody could hear, like it was some big secret nobody could ever find out about. It amused him greatly, but he had to admit that he truly loved Ashley as if she was a part of his family, as if she really was his sister.

Chaddy stayed with them the entire holidays, and Aesop was actually glad to hear her and mum talking late into the night all the way from his bedroom. It’s not that he wasn’t happy to be with just his mum, but ever since Ashley pointed out just how large the house truly was, Aesop was unable to ignore it. The sound of his mum’s and aunt’s muted laughter was infinitely better than the complete silence.

And on Christmas morning he’d descend the stairs to find a pile of presents under their pretty fir tree. He patiently waited for his mother and aunt to wake and come downstairs as well before opening them, though, save for a single one he recognised as a gift from Ashley. The girl sent him a very obviously self-made Auror badge (which actually spelled AUЯOЯ), but it brought a huge grin to Aesop’s face anyway. Having talked more about it, the lad decided that he really did want to become one, so that he could protect people and catch the bad guys. Like his dad.

He showed it to his mother after she finally joined him in the living room, but the dark-eyed woman didn’t comment on it, only smiled at him a little sadly.

The next Christmases were quite similar, except they’d go to his aunt’s house to celebrate them, so that Aesop and Ashley could play more. His mother was more than happy to do so, as taking care of the two young troublemakers left her with nearly no time to think about Theodore. The house wasn’t quiet when the little rascals were around and she was glad for it. As years flew by, the children’s adventures became more daring, and they owled another every other day they weren’t together, and would openly address each other as brother and sister in their letters, now written solely by them.

Aesop helped his mother as best as he could, he aided in decorating the tree, and he tried his best to wrap the few small presents he had for his family and friends as nicely as he could.

And even though their Christmases were lovely, filled with delicious food and drinks, illuminated by bright, colourful lights, and full of the sounds of jingle bells and faintly sung carols, there was just something missing. The ‘spark’ that the holidays once held was gone. The memory of a world bathed in golden light, sparkling in its brilliance served as a constant reminder to Aesop that he’ll never again hear the sound of his father’s laughter as he spins his mother around the living room and kitchen, or tells another horrible joke.

And as he and Ashley began attending Hogwarts, he made peace with the fact that Christmas will never again be his happiest time of the year. He was still fond of it, though, and he always looked forward to going home for the break, to enjoy his mother’s delectable turkey and sugary Christmas pudding. The thought of staying at the castle for Christmas he didn’t even dare to entertain, as much as he loved Hogwarts in winter, draped in its elegant snowy coat.

—

And then, only a few years after he finished his education and set out to finally begin his career as an Auror along with Ashley, his present for Christmas left him gaping at his mother.

“W-what do you mean you ‘wrote the house on me’?” the Auror in training stuttered. “I meant what I said, child. I have grown rather tired of the two of you sneaking about like I don’t know Dinah comes by to spend the night,” Magdala Sharp replied, calmly sipping on her tea. Dinah Hecat wasn’t one to blush easily, but even she wasn’t completely resistant to the Sharp matron’s unabashed words. The two of them had been seeing each other romantically for several years now, their relationship having begun when both of them were still at school. Dinah was his match in both wit and power, and Aesop was absolutely mad for her.

“I have simply decided that it’s time to get myself something a little smaller, and leave the house in your care. I was sure you’d jump at the prospect of more privacy…” “Well, yes, but not by kicking you out of your own home!” “Nobody is kicking me out, dear,” His mother let out a long-suffering sigh, as if Aesop was the one who was behaving foolishly now. He wasn’t, was he? His mother just told him she’d be leaving the house where she spent half of her life, and leaving him there. “I am going on my own… I know you were looking into flats and houses for rent, I understand you want to become independent, and I wish you well in the endeavour. But this house truly is too big for one person, especially an ageing person like myself.” Aesop however heard what his mother didn’t say. She didn’t want to stay all alone in the house, husband dead and son someplace far. The emptiness would eat her alive. Aesop, however, could live here with Dinah. “This house holds many happy old memories,” she said then, as if reading his thoughts, “It’s time for it to get some new ones too, I think. Besides, it’s not like I’ll be at the other end of the world, the flat I bought is quite a short way from here.”

Aesop blinked. “You already BOUGHT a flat? How- When-”

“Oh dear, you really should grow more observant, you won’t be a very good Auror like this…”

—

The next several years were possibly the happiest in Aesop's life since his father passed. He became a fully fledged Auror, and he was making a name for himself as one of the most capable ones too. He was ecstatic to find that Ashley would be his partner - they did it. They made their childhood dream too. Ashley actually completed the recruitment programme before Aesop, and never failed to find an opportunity to tease him about it. And while everyone else saw her laughing at his morose face after she poked at his pride some more, nobody saw her embracing him with the words ‘Congratulations, brother.’

Dinah meanwhile was climbing the ministry ladder with all the elegance and ease of a cat. She truly did move in with him shortly after the house fully became Aesop’s own, and they were rather successful in learning to run their little household. The couple grew fairly proficient in balancing their jobs, their home life and their social life. Aesop met up with his buddies and colleagues at a pub every now and then, and Dinah would occasionally spend an evening out with her friends. Ashley would come around often for a free dinner. That is, she'd pay for the dinner by checking up on the plants the couple had in their garden - neither Dinah nor Aesop have ever been overly proficient in Herbology.

And during Christmas time, the house was lively as Aesop never saw it. Friends gathered over to spend the holidays with the young couple, his mother and her family would come for lunch on the 26th, and they’d go out to visit people as well. And then, when the two of them were finally left to their own devices, Dinah would convince her sweetheart to leave the mess and dirty dishes the way they were, and follow her to bed - he still had a present to unwrap, after all.

For a few years, Aesop felt like the ‘spark’ was back. He looked forward to Christmas. He looked forward to taking some time away from work, to taking his sweetheart shopping in London, to eating out in fine restaurants when they didn't want to cook. He looked forward to seeing her when he woke up, and he looked forward to seeing her when he came home from work.

Life was good.

—

And then it wasn't.

Aesop had been worried Dinah was going to give him the boot for some time now, but when she finally did… He found himself torn. He still loved her a lot, and he was feeling utterly miserable after she told him that she didn’t want to be his sweetheart anymore. However, a part of him deep down knew that she was right.

They barely had any time for each other these days… No, that was a lie. They both worked as much as they worked two years ago, maybe even less, actually. The problem was that they stopped making time for the two of them. Dinah didn’t indicate that she’d like him to ask for her hand in marriage, and Aesop never did so. Instead of going home after work, Aesop would pop into a pub with a colleague or two, and Di would spend long extra hours in her job doing extra research nobody asked her for. When one of them came home, the other was usually long asleep. They still kissed and they made love, and that was lovely, but other than that… other than that it felt like they were roommates, rather than a couple. The picnic basket they readied on the kitchen counter in May still stood there in September, because there simply ‘wasn’t the time’.

Both of them cried the evening they decided to separate, and they were both nearly ready to take it all back after that first night. The Auror had no idea how the pair of them managed to resist the want to just go back to how things were. It seemed so much better than the anxiety of the unknown. He himself didn’t know what adult life was like without Dinah, and it scared him.

Yet, Aesop insisted on being a gentleman and let the young woman have the bed while he slept on the couch until she found a new place to live. He actually even offered to vacate the house entirely, but Dinah insisted she was not going to throw him out of his own home.

Several nights in the row, the Auror was woken by his now former lover in the middle of the night to find her unsure and doubtful. Both of them knew that they craved the comfort of one another’s arms, but at the same time realised that stepping onto the sinking ship would mean to drown.

It got a little easier after she finally found her own flat.

He made her keep the key - she was still one of his closest friends, his home was hers whenever she needed it. It was the longest time they hadn’t seen each other. Ashley was there for Aesop during the entire time, offering kind glances and comforting touches, but also horrible jokes that made her partner roll his eyes. The few times he met Dinah during this time, be it passing one another at the Ministry, or accidentally bumping into each other at Diagon Alley, were a little awkward, but the pair always gave each other a smile and a soft greeting, and that was that. It wasn’t until the Christmas ball of the Ministry of Magic did they truly talk to one another again, but surrounded by so many other people, some friends included, things got less and less awkward, and they started meeting up more after that, this time only as friends.

Aesop spent the holidays on his own that year. There was no large feast, no turkey nor Christmas pudding, but it was alright. Aesop had himself a light, solitary dinner at his undecorated home, followed by a few drinks, and he was asleep before midnight. He stopped by his mum’s flat the next day, and also Ashley’s home. It was the first year she and her girlfriend spent the holidays together, and Aesop had the rare opportunity to tease his best friend about being a sappy, sentimental sod. When Christina wasn’t looking, Ash gave him the two finger salute, making him snort with amusement.

Aesop actually felt quite alright to spend some time on his own, his previous relationship having left him quite unwilling to give his heart to somebody else so soon. However, that didn’t mean his bed was always empty. After all, he was young and not entirely bad looking, and an Auror on top of that. There was always a pretty young lady wanting to make his acquaintance a bit more intimately, and who was he to say no to that. Ashley didn’t really comment on his short, little affairs, only occasionally inquiring whether he didn’t think to give at least one of those girls more of a chance to get to know him.

“The ginger one, with the wide-set hips, she seemed nice.” “She was very nice.” “Will you meet her again?” “Possibly. London is not that big, it’d be strange if I never saw her in my life again.”

Ashley rolled her eyes and huffed.

—

The young Auror was called into St Mungo’s one day to find a woman he almost didn’t recognise at first. But as he looked into her brown eyes, took in her hairstyle and the features of her wrinkled face, there was no doubt.

“What the bloody hell happened, Di?” he breathed out, sinking to sit on the bed at her feet. The beautiful brunette, a year his junior, looked like an older lady of at least 60 years, her once chestnut hair dark grey, her once smooth cheeks riddled by lines, her hands, once so soft and youthful, were ones of an old woman.

He held his past lover to him as she cried her poor eyes out, and when the time came for her to be dismissed from the wizarding hospital, there was absolutely no doubt as to where Dinah would be staying for the foreseeable future. Aesop just took it as a done thing, and she didn’t argue. She refused to let him stay home with her the whole day, however.

“I am old, Aesop, not an invalid. I can take care of myself for a few hours.” “I don’t want you to be alone…” Dinah would be quiet for the longest time.

“Did you… did you tell your mother?”

“I did.” “Then I doubt I’ll be alone for long…” She was right of course. Magdala Sharp arrived mere minutes before he left for the office, to be there for her former potential daughter-in-law. The two of them always got on like a house on fire, and were a little too willing to poke fun at him together. Today, however, Aesop was happy about it, as his mother’s words finally brought a genuine smile to the Unspeakable’s face.

“He’s coddling you and refuses to leave you alone, isn’t he. As you can see, dear, we’re two grown up ladies here, you may be on your merry way.”

He knew his mother was long gone when he came back, despite the fact that he left work earlier than he had in months. Dinah was curled up on the sofa, reading one of his silly Muggle detective books, an empty teacup on the little table. Noiselessly, Aesop kneeled next to the sofa and laid a hand upon her knee, just holding it there. Neither of them spoke for a long time, but then.

“You know you can stay here, right? Stay with me, I’d take care of you. I’d marry you too, gladly. It doesn’t matter what you look like, I still think you’re beautiful,” Aesop said quietly, bringing his friend’s hand to his lips for emphasis. Dinah merely clicked her tongue at him: “Stop being an idiot, Aesop. Just because you haven’t been seriously seeing anyone for a while doesn’t matter that your dreams changed. I know you want someone to start a family with, have children… I didn’t want them before, but now I most likely can’t even have them. I don’t want you to tie yourself to me out of pity, or, Merlin forbid, because you feel like you have to. I am not your responsibility and you don’t owe me anything - I knew all sorts of things could happen when I took the job, and it was a risk I took..”

“I want to help you. Not out of pity, but because I love you.” “And I love you, dear. But there’s nothing you can do. I am grateful to you for letting me stay. I am not going to lie and insult your intelligence by saying I’m not glad not to have to bear this on my own, but do you know me as someone who wouldn’t get back up after having been put down?”

“No…” Aesop sighed, “no, not you.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll get used to it. And you - you will find a lovely girl and make her your wife. And I’ll be there to poke fun at you in front of her and the children you’ll have with her.”

“Sounds… sounds great.”

—

Dinah stayed with him for a few weeks, and Aesop was amazed how well they still worked together, though they were no longer lovers. Aesop conjured up a large, comfortable bed for her in one of the empty rooms upstairs, he cooked for the two of them, or just brought home some sandwiches from this and that bakehouse he currently frequented, while Dinah stayed home and made sure he only ever walked around in clean clothes, and that the house was tidy. They’d spend their evenings in the living room, reading and sharing a few glasses of something strong, before retiring to their own rooms to sleep.

Aesop was quite sad to see her go, but the former Unspeakable insisted that despite her ailment, she just wasn’t able to stop working and enjoy the ministry pension just yet. Once more, Aesop was alone in the large house. Dinah still visited, and so did Ashley and her now fiancée, as well as some other friends, not to mention his mother, but at night Aesop was all alone, falling asleep to the empty house settling.

—

And then he met Mary.

She started out as one of his one-night acquaintances, but soon it became obvious she was not going to let the Auror go so easily. After a few more meetings and a few more nights spent with her, Aesop decided that she was a pretty alright woman, and he supposed that it wasn’t exactly a punishment to be with her. He didn’t really court her the way he courted Dinah, he wasn’t being terribly romantic. He did take her out to eat, and he got her the occasional flower, and that was enough for her. She warmed his bed proficiently, if not his heart, and he didn’t mind letting her tag along with him whenever he attended some sort of formal gathering.

It was quite an on-and-off relationship, though. There were some evenings Aesop wanted to spend by himself and she was rather quick to take offence. He never tried to stop her from walking out on him, but found himself sending a box of chocolates or a bouquet of flowers to her work the very next week, which was enough to placate her and get her back into his arms.

He didn’t want to spend Christmas with her either, which was something she took rather harshly every year. It was nothing against her, really, she was pleasant enough, but after the several beautiful years he spent with Dinah, he knew he’d be comparing the two ladies, and neither of them deserved that. It wasn't even like he was doing anything special either. He sent a few presents to friends and colleagues, a bottle of some strong liquor to his boss, and several cards. Like the past few years, he spent Christmas Eve by himself, eating a simple dinner and drinking a glass (or four) of Firewhisky, turned in early, then visited his mum and friends on Christmas day. And then, on the 27th, he’d send Mary some lovely present, a piece of jewellery or a smart accessory, something nice that’d convince her to forgive him, and spend New Years’ with him.

It wasn’t love, but it was alright.

—

And then his entire life changed.

On a cold, dreary day in January, he and Ashley found themselves in a harbour in Scarborough, and neither of them knew that they wouldn't be leaving. Not on their own at least.

Aesop cried rivers at the funeral, his throat sore from all the uncontrollable sobbing he’d done in the previous days. He wasn’t even able to stand and honour the girl who had been his best friend for almost twenty five fucking years. His sister. He wasn’t able to look her wife and son in the eye. Christina touched his shoulder, she tried to embrace him, tried telling him that she doesn’t hold it against him. That she knew he did his best.

But he had not.

He left Ashley there by herself, chasing after their suspect when he should’ve stayed glued to her bloody side. He should’ve protected her. He should’ve saved her. It was so unfair, if anything, he should’ve been the one to die. Ashley had a wife, and she had a child, she should’ve lived, she should’ve remained around to be there for her family. And because of Aesop, she was lying in her coffin, looking like a lot of things, but definitely not asleep. She looked dead. Her cheeks sunk in, and her skin was ashen. Her eyes were closed. She was dead, and Aesop knew it was his fault.

It served him right to be in so much physical pain he couldn’t even sleep.

They wheeled him straight back to St Mungo’s after the funeral.

People came by to see him. His mother. Dinah. Abraham Ronen too, whom Aesop hasnt seen for a few years at that point. A few colleagues, and even his boss. Mary. She cried, sitting by his side. She wasn’t the only one who cried as they sat next to him. Mother alone cried harder than he ever really saw her. She cried harder than she cried at dad’s funeral, that he knew. Mary’s crying had been the most uncomfortable one, though. He asked the healers not to let her in again.

And when she’d show up at his house after they released him weak and limping, seeing him off with a ‘We apologise, Mr Sharp, but we cannot heal your leg, not at the moment at least’, Aesop didn’t open the door for her. She pleaded, and cried, and begged, and threatened, and Aesop didn’t even wheel himself to that bloody front door. He actually thought he was doing her a service. What would she even do with him? He was in so much pain, he couldn’t even… One of the reasons he liked having her in his life was that he liked having her in his bed, and he was pretty fucking certain that was something he was unable to do now, maybe not ever again.

After some time, she stopped coming.

And he started drinking.

It didn’t matter what it was, as long as it packed a punch. He’d drink until he passed out, actually preferring the godawful hangover the next day, as it distracted him from the pain in his leg, in his face… In his broken fucking heart. He was filthy, drunk and half mad when he made an attempt at his life. Dinah’s wrath at his actions descended upon him, and while she screamed at him, furious and fuming and worried to death, in Aesop’s eyes she was an angel on Earth.

He quit drinking, and he finally started using his two bloody feet to get around. It wasn’t easy, his leg still hurt like hell, but Aesop decided to take it as a challenge. Ashley would kick his sorry arse if he never even made an attempt to walk again. Ashley would give him verbal thrashing he’d remember until his dying moment. What would she think if she met looking like he did before Dinah made the decision to pester him until he got better. She wouldn’t even want to be his friend, and definitely not his sister.

Every day he worked so that he could at least pretend that he was someone Ash would waste her time with.

Christina wrote him a card and Aesop considered throwing it out without even reading it, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was ashamed of it, but he was happy Christina and the lad would be leaving to stay with her family in America. He did not celebrate Christmas that year. He actually wanted to drink himself under the table and forget there even was something like Christmas. Dinah was watching him like a hawk though, and actually convinced Abraham and his mother to babysit him whenever she didn’t have time to do it herself, and he was never allowed more than two glasses. He complained about being treated like a child, and while Abraham appeared genuinely apologetic, mum and Dinah would bicker back that he truly was acting like an irresponsible teenager.

However, Aesop was glad in a way. They cared. Despite all that happened, they didn’t give up on him. Aesop wouldn’t have blamed them if they did. But no, one of them was always there with him, willingly listening to his grumpy comments and his self-deprecating tirades. Even though Dinah had her own worries, her own pains, she was absolutely ready to apparate to his house every single day if it meant saving him from drowning himself in booze. So he promised to be good. Abraham was worse, on some days he actually made him laugh. The first time it happened, the sound felt almost unknown to Aesop’s ears. It was most curious…

He asked to be left alone for the holidays, but to no avail. His mother had him stay at her flat. She didn’t decorate, there was no tree, nor Christmas cookies. No turkey and no carols. Aesop felt both glad and sad. Glad not to have been reminded that only a year prior, he was over at Ahsley’s and watched her son open the gift he brought him. However, he was also sad because he knew his mum liked Christmas a lot, and chose not to indulge in them this year on his behalf. Unlike him, she was able to move on. She found her ‘spark’ again. Aesop envied her.

He didn’t even buy her a present. He didn’t buy presents for anybody. And yet he got one from her and from his friends as well. He didn’t open them until next year’s Christmas.

—

It was 1882, and he was the new potions professor at Hogwarts. He walked using his cane, but there were days he felt stable enough to leave it in his rooms. He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but there being dozens of trouble-stirring teenagers around him at nearly all times actually helped him. He didn’t have time to think about Ashley, not to mention her family, when he was busy making sure the students didn't accidentally off themselves inside or outside his class. He suddenly understood why his mother was always so happy to have Ashley there with him. He was kept busy, and he was glad. And whenever he had some time to spare, he spent it deep in the library books, trying to come up with the cure for his leg. His childhood friend would want him to be healthy, Aesop knew that now. Before he realised it, the first snowflakes began falling outside the castle’s windows, and Christmas decorations started appearing throughout the halls.

Has Hogwarts been this festive when he was a student? He could hardly remember. It was difficult to be bitter when the entire school seemed to be sparkling, when the house elves were seemingly intent on making him not fit into his trousers and shirts before the year was done, and when his colleagues were actually being rather brilliant. Well, the Herbology teacher was quite sour. And he decided fairly early on that Headmaster Black was an utter tosser, an opinion that seemed to be shared by the majority of staff. Come to think of it, he was already a tosser when Aesop attended Hogwarts. Di confirmed it for him.

He was glad Dinah was there. And he felt like she was glad he was there too.

The deputy headmistress, he actually reckoned he met at the ministry once, and he absolutely remembered Binns from when he was a student himself, but otherwise it was an entirely new group of people for the former Auror. He got on with Bai Howin quite well, and Chiyo Kogawa, while a little over-obsessed with Quidditch proved to be a quite good conversation partner as well. The magical theory teacher, Eleazar Fig, actually surprised him with his knowledge of the inner goings at the ministry, even offered some information Aesop himself didn’t know, and they’d occasionally share a pint together at the Three Broomsticks.

The holidays were alright. Aesop wasn’t as jolly as he used to be before, but he was able to enjoy himself. He opened his presents from the previous year, and actually sent out his own, only to the few friends he had left. And mother, obviously. When a few colleagues invited him out to the Three Broomsticks, he politely turned them down though. His Christmas Eve was spent in Dinah’s company and the warmth of Firewhiskey. Dinah let him have three glasses now. He’d sometimes indulge more on his own, but she didn’t need to know that. However, as Aesop knew her, she absolutely knew it.

“A little peaky aren’t we today? I certainly hope you’re not coming down with something, dear,” she’d comment on the mornings when it was clearly visible he’d had more than three glasses the previous evening. Otherwise, though, she let him off the hook. He didn’t teach while drunk, and he didn’t cause any further scenes. He also didn’t drink every single day.

The next year, Aesop began exercising more. Despite the many many stairs in the castle, there was a bit more meat on him than he was used to. He discussed with the nurse some exercises safe for him, and was glad to see his metabolism hadn’t turned to complete bollocks over the past few years. He wasn’t as chiselled as he used to be as an Auror, more sinewy and slim now, but he felt strong enough. Despite his bad leg, he felt quite content in his body. He kept himself busy, and more or less healthy, and that was enough of a win for him And it got even better when Abraham joined them.

Aesop found a strange sort of mundane, everyday peace. He’d still have nightmares often during the night, and some days were just plain fucking bad. His leg still hurt like hell, and especially so when he was cold. But he had a routine now, and it kept him functional.

He stopped rejecting his colleagues when they invited him out to the pub, and found the private room there truly wasn’t a bad place to spend an evening in. Especially in his friends’ company.

Most teachers met there on Christmas Eve, talking quietly among themselves, sharing a little toast and wishes for an even better next year. Abraham and Eleazar would depart from them first, both men eager to go home to their wives, then more and more people would retire to either go back to Hogwarts, or apparate to wherever they lived. Moon and Howin would be there the longest, and Moon seldom left on his own two legs. In the end, it’d be just Aesop and Dinah. They’d exchange one last ‘Happy Christmas’ and tip back their drinks, before leaning against one another in pursuit of the nearest Floo flame. It reminded Aesop how it used to be before all this, when both of them were young, when they were healthy.

In his mind, the image of two young, giggling, drunk people formed. They used to be so carefree, so easy to smile and laugh. They’d snog each other senseless, uncaring that they were barely able to keep standing without losing their balance. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Before they’d depart for their own chambers, Aesop would give Dinah a quick, platonic peck on the lips, and she never commented on it.

His hangover the next day forced him to not even go to the Great Hall to eat, and not even Wiggenweld seemed able to fix the damage. He’d only ever emerge to use the loo, and he wouldn’t even bother changing out of his sleeping clothes. The potions master unwrapped his gifts, and hoped the ones he got for his friends and mother would be liked. Like everything else, Christmas became a routine. It wasn’t bad, and there were definitely bright moments, but the one thing missing, that ‘spark’ the holiday held for him when he was a small boy was gone. And Aesop was convinced that it would stay that way. He didn’t mind all that much. Life was alright.

—

Another change happened though…

The change came in the form of a young woman, a Ravenclaw that started her education in Hogwarts as a Fifth-year. Most unusual. But then again, the entire year turned out to be most unusual.

If Aesop never had to attend another funeral, it would be too soon.

He knew this thought was silly. Everyone dies at some point. A thought that both frightened and strangely comforted Aesop. Eleazar hadn’t been a young man, and Aesop knew the teacher had been heart-broken over his wife’s death, understandably so. And yet, as he stood there in his dark robes and watched his colleague being lowered into the ground in a coffin, he allowed himself a few tears. Eleazar Fig was a good man, and while Aesop only just began uncovering what truly transpired between him and the Ravenclaw and whole-heartedly disagreed on several choices Fig made, the truth was that he was still far better than many people Aesop ever met.

Fig’s protege definitely seemed to think so, as she quietly sobbed her poor eyes out. It occurred to Aesop that she maybe felt like he felt when his father died. Which was a feeling he wouldn’t wish on anyone, truly.

He never expected how close the two of them would grow when he reached out to her.

And close they grew.

—

The very next year, the teacher was frankly surprised to find an extra present for him at the foot of his bed. He was once again miserably hungover and deeply regretting the amount of drinks he had the previous night. It was even worse than last year. Maybe he was just getting old. Next to the little parcels he recognised were from his mum, from Abe, and from Di, stood another one. It was wrapped in simple brown paper, tied up with strings, and decorated with a small twig from a pine tree and a few holly berries. Aesop had a suspicion as to who was the sender, but he struggled to believe it.

Students didn’t often send gifts to their teachers, not even the popular ones like Mirabel or Abraham himself. And yet, it would seem Aesop was a recipient of one this year. How curious. It was only fair, he supposed, given the fact that he sent her a present as well… He still didn’t know just why he did so… except he kind of did.

She was the first person in many years to whom he opened up, actually opened up. His colleagues knew him to a certain degree, but he was never comfortable discussing something too deep with them. He’d be careful about difficult subjects even with Dinah. And yet, here came this young woman, and he felt comfortable telling her things he hadn’t spoken of out loud for years. Or was it a decade already? Aesop didn't know. The Ravenclaw was… she was his friend. She was kind and brilliant. And she understood. She didn’t judge him, and she never once walked out on him. And he in turn supported her. He’d be there whenever he knew she felt troubled, and he was certain he was also the one she opened up to the most. It felt nice.

He grinned when he unveiled his gift.

It was a set of inks of various colours, inks meant for drawing. Aesop showed her his little workshop, and she seemed genuinely fascinated with his interest in art. She commented on many of his pieces, and the teacher honestly felt proud to be a recipient of her praise. It was a thoughtful gift and he was grateful. He only hoped she would like the journal he bought for her. A warm emotion spread within his core, and his heart sped up a little bit, as if fearful to admit it was even there. He didn’t allow himself to dwell on the feeling too much, as it was scary and it was new. Not entirely new. But Aesop hadn’t felt it in so long, it might as well have been the first ever time.

He didn’t stay in his chambers the whole day like he usually would.

Strengthened by a couple of Wiggenwelds and a long shower to wash the stench of booze away, he managed to make himself presentable and actually made it to the Great Hall for lunch. He still felt like shit, and he stumbled slightly more than normally, but it was worth it for him in the end.

The moment she saw him, the Ravenclaw beamed, stood up and approached him.

“Hello, sir. Happy Christmas,” she extended her right hand for him to take, and Aesop did so with a smile, shaking it softly, yet with a firm grip. “Happy Christmas, Miss. I hope my present didn’t make you uncomfortable.” She shook her head vehemently: “Of course not, sir. It's very lovely and thoughtful, and I adore the drawing you did. It’s one of my most favourite places in the castle.”

“I remember you mentioning so. I’m glad you like it. I am very grateful for the set of inks, I’ll certainly use them often. Although I implore you not to waste so much money on your potions master.”

“It’s not money wasted in my opinion, sir. If the gift made you happy, it’s money I was glad to spend…” she got quiet for a little while and so did Aesop. They looked at each other quietly for a few moments, and the professor didn’t notice his heart beating slightly faster. She finally cleared her throat: “I’m sorry, sir, I mustn’t keep you from your lunch, you are surely hungry.” She’d give him a small wave and a smile, and go back to her seat while he made his way over to the High table.

Dinah would be sitting there, definitely quite peaky. He’d give her a teasing grin, one that she wouldn’t return.

“Look at you. One would think you had a glass too many last night, Di,” he teased.

“I feel better about how I look, now that I see you,” she bit back, making Aesop chuckle genuinely.

“Happy Christmas, Dinah.” “Happy Christmas, dear.”

—

Aesop Sharp, a former Auror and a potions master known for his quick wit, that was as sharp as his name, sat in his chair gaping like a stuffed squirrel. The young woman with whom he grew so close over the last two years looked at him nervously.

She just confessed her love for him.

Aesop’s been in love with her for months, he felt he was slowly going mad from how much he longed for her, how much he yearned to close his arms around her and kiss her silly, but he never once allowed himself to hope that she’d ever return his feelings. And yet here she was, saying those three words he was desperate to hear from her lips for so long. It felt surreal. It was Christmas Eve of 1893, and Aesop was considering pinching himself, fully expecting to wake up in his bed, alone.

He looked deep into her eyes, searching for any hint that she wasn’t being truthful, but he found none. He stood up swiftly, startling the poor girl. His heart beat hard and fast, and he was aware of his cheeks warming up under the weight of her revelation, but he felt determined not to keep her waiting for her answer.

“Aesop,” he blurted out instead.

“I’m sorry?” “I-I should have asked you to call me Aesop ages ago,” he admitted, his hand moving to her soft cheek on its own accord.

“Darling girl…”

A sound made him look up. Above the two of them, a few twigs of mistletoe swirled into existence.

“There is nothing more I’d wish than to have you by my side,” he said truthfully as he gathered the young woman into his embrace. And then she kissed him, and Aesop’s brain gave out. There was nothing but her at that moment. Nothing but the feeling of her slight body against his own, nothing but her intoxicating scent, nothing but the sweetness of wine upon her lips, and underneath that was the taste of her, and Aesop knew at that moment that he was desperately addicted to it.

And then, the world exploded into a flurry of lights and colours. Life lit up behind Aesop's eyelids, brighter than any Christmas lights he ever saw, and at that exact moment he felt it. He finally felt the spark that he felt was lost forever. It was right there, within his tender hold, and it shone, and sparkled, and it burned, warming his entire body up.

He moaned quietly into her mouth and pulled her even closer.

Her hands were in his hair and her body trembled in his hold under the weight of their emotions, and the culmination of their hidden longing.

A tear rolled out of his closed eye and ran down his weathered cheek, and Aesop Sharp succumbed fully to the happiness that seemed to be bursting through his veins, filling him up entirely. He was home, exactly where he was supposed to be.

Aesop Sharp loved Christmas.

Hello, and thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this little story, and if you did, I'll be very grateful for your feedback. You can also check this story and all of my other stories over at my AO3 ❤

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faustinio27 · 1 year

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Eagles don't belong in cage (HL fic)

Summary: Orphaned since birth, Faustine escapes her dull everyday life with fantasy books. As she dreams of magic, her wish may be granted, for better… and for worse.

Warnings: child abuse, violence

MC is my character, Faustine Daemon. You can find more info about her here. This fic is her backstory and takes place before she joined Hogwarts

A BIG thanks to @alsopartgekkos who has been my beta reader (and moral support) from start to finish 🫶

“I see at intervals the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close set bars of a cage : a vivid, restless, resolute captive is there ; were it but free, it would soar cloud-high.” -Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte

Faustine no longer believed in God.

Hands clasped, head bowed, body bent on a bench in silent prayer to a crucifix.

A quick glance while everyone is busy: same people, same poses, same eyes closed in reverence. Some murmuring prayers. Others are so bent double that knees touch faces.

She wasn’t the only one without faith, was she?

A question burned inside her mouth: Faustine tried to find the answer in someone else's face so many times. Tried to decipher every furrowed brow and wrinkle, every movement of the lips. Maybe it’s just her, really. Maybe she should not blame others for choosing otherwise. To get through life, some people clung to God.

Faustine, on the other hand, preferred imagination.

Her gaze shifted to the high ceiling and followed familiar gothic arches, descending into pillars. Her favorite stained glass windows depicting the flight of a white dove reflected the rays of the morning sun in a harmonising blend of blue, red and yellow. A splash of colour in the dull reality of an orphanage. But it’s only a moment before suffocation, when her eyes linger on Christ's pain-stricken face depicted on each mosaic.

No one has to know she lost faith now.

Or maybe it's already happened long ago. Maybe she lulled herself in promises of a wonder, but the years went by without a miracle. They say you always have to believe in Him. A question dances on the tip of her tongue like a sin.

Did He ever believe in her?

Her mind sought to wander beyond the walls, leaving the confines of the church for the little paths of the garden, the busy city. In her daydream, Faustine passed a shop window: her reflection dressed in one of these luxurious gowns, dazzled with beauty a little more with each step, so light that she seemed to fly, moved like a ballet dancer on an imaginary stage. She reached Big Ben, overlooking London in all its splendor and a pair of black wings materialized on her back, feathers twirling. Effortlessly, Faustine flew up to admire the city: passers-by not bigger than little ants, staring at her with amazement and admiration. She smiled, before soaring even higher into the sky, caressing the fluffy clouds, waving to the thousand-colored birds. Pure air entered her nostrils, allowing to breathe deeper. Her numb limbs waited to expand, again and again, until she reached the night sky. The moon was right in front of her, huge and softly shining white.The scene unfolding before Faustine resembled a play in which she was the lead actress, only the stars weren't made of cardboard but actually stood before her eyes. They began to dance around her, leaving a trail of light behind, reflecting off her skin, which now seemed to contain a galaxy of its own. They twirled in chorus towards the full benevolent moon. Faustine raised her hand in its direction, to-

"Can I, please, get through?"

A voice ripped Faustine back to her senses, back to Earth and the hustle of morning prayer. Her eyes darted to see other people rising in turn: the mass was over and she happened to be the one too engrossed in daydreaming to notice.

Girl’s face scrunched, gaze brushing Faustine in mixture of christian pity and disapproval.

Right.

Dreams weren’t allowed at St Maria-the-Bow.

As soon as they left the prayer room, the young residents followed one after the other, silent under the stern eyes of the nuns. Once they reached the main hall, the anthill was divided: each group of children going about their own tasks. Some headed for the kitchen to help prepare meals, while others went to the storeroom to arm themselves with brooms. For her part, Faustine climbed the stairs to the bedrooms, closely followed by a flock of girls slightly younger than herself. After passing through several dull corridors, they finally arrived at the baby room. A dozen cribs stood there, each containing a toddler to be cared for: some asleep, others screaming more or less loudly, awakened by the light streaming in from the just-opened door. The girls already rushed into the room, past Faustine, who remained standing at the landing. Some gave her questioning looks, others frowned at her motionless stance, but no one remarked. She kept staring at the babies, heart in her throat.

Although no memory of it remained, Faustine had once been in one of those cradles, years before. That some other girls, who came before, had to change her diapers, gave her a bottle. What had become of those girls? What would become of me?

"Miss Daemon, what are you waiting for?"

Faustine raised her eyes to glare at a nun towering behind her, hands clasped behind and small brown eyes squinted in judgment.

"Don’t think you can escape your duties by standing there in the hallway. If you don't want to do chores until midnight, hurry up and get to work."

"Sorry, Sister Kezia."

Head bowed, Faustine entered the room. She approached the first crib and observed the chubby baby, who had just woken up. No sooner had their eyes met than he started screaming at the top of his voice.

It was going to be a long day.

The sun finally set, and the babies, changed and fed, fell asleep again in their cribs, and even if they didn't sleep, it was no longer Faustine's problem. The children dined in religious silence before going to their own rooms. After washing up, they all prayed to God and thanked him for the day - Faustine didn't really pray - before going back to their beds.

Faustine shared a bedroom with five other girls: white, musty , three bunk beds facing each other, wooden bindings threatening to give way at any moment. A single chest of drawers was enough to store the residents' meager belongings. The nuns claimed owning little was a sign of virtue, but in reality the orphanage was too poor to garnish the room with anything more. Still, a crucifix remained on the blank wall, as if it followed Faustine wherever she went.

One by one, the residents slipped under their comforters without a word. Faustine followed, lying down on the bottom bunk. A quarter of an hour later, a nun opened their door to check if they were asleep. Half an hour later, the children's breathing became more regular.

Except for her.

Faustine jumped out of bed as discreetly as possible. She crouched down and reached under the bed, grabbing a slightly raised wooden plank before pushing it off. Her hand groped around in the hiding place, until it touched the object she was interested in: out popped a thick book. Faustine dusted off her blanket, smiling broadly, before snuggling back under the sheets.

Since no candles were allowed, Faustine benefited from the moonlight streaming through the window onto her bed. The young girl set the book in front of the glass. As soon as she opened it, the inky black words seemed to dance. Faustine immediately lost herself in a world filled with wizards, dragons and magic. Although books were not forbidden at the orphanage, there were certain…recommendations. Witchcraft was associated with the Devil, and had no place in a religious establishment. However, after reading the entire library available to the residents, from textbooks to children's stories, Faustine's overflowing imagination couldn't stop there. May God forgive her, for it was to these cursed stories that she preferred to take refuge in.

The next day was a repeat. Up, prayers, breakfast, lessons, lunch, until it was time for chores.

As Faustine headed for the stairs, Sister Kezia intercepted her.

"The director wants you to go to town on errands."

The orphan prevented the smile from forming on her face to not tempt the sister to change her plans. So Faustine simply nodded.

"Go into the kitchen, so Sister Judy can give you what you need," ordered the nun.

Faustine obeyed, forcing herself to walk at a measured pace, her legs itching to run. The cold corridors of the orphanage suddenly seemed more colorful than ever.

As she entered the kitchen, a group of girls stopped chatting, staring as one in her direction, and their piercing eyes unsettled the joy felt only moments before. They look like vultures. Faustine tried to pass them with an indifferent expression, but when one of them whispered in her neighbor's ear, eyes glued to the newcomer, she gritted her teeth to avoid making a scene.

"Did you see the smug look on her face?"

"She keeps thinking she's better than us."

"Is she going to bother us again with her magic stories?"

"That crazy girl should be locked up in a hospital."

All those phrases she already before swirled in her mind, poisoning the mood.

"Ah, there you are."

Sister Judy was a tall, overweight woman. She stood over a large copper pot of steaming soup, the preparation of which Faustine suspected contained more water than any other ingredient. The sister grabbed a basket and threw it into Faustine’s arms, handing a piece of paper with a bunch of words scrawled on it.

"The list."

Just as Faustine was about to take it, the nun raised her arm sharply.

"Don't dawdle, you've got to get back before nightfall. No detours."

"Of course."

The woman then held out the piece of paper, followed by a small wad of crumpled bills. Faustine felt the burning gaze of the orphans behind her, as she took them to stow away in her pocket.

"Ask a sister to give you the keys to the gate. Chop-chop!"

Faustine left the kitchen without further ado. Arriving at the gate in a long cloak to ward off the winter chill, Faustine watched the gates rise into the sky. She called out to a busy nun clearing snow to make a path from the gate to the front door.

"Mrs. Robertson asked me to go shopping. May I have the keys to the gate?"

The little woman judged her up and down before taking out the bunch of keys without a word and let it fall into Faustine’s hands. However foolish it was to entrust an orphan with the exit from her prison, no one was going against the director. They needed extra hands to fetch the groceries, and Faustine was the oldest resident, so it made sense for her to go.

When she put the key in the lock and it made that satisfying little click, Faustine took a deep breath and stepped outside.

If London seems like a gray city to you, try looking at it through the eyes of an orphan who'd lived cooped up all her life.

Sure, her clothes were rags, she didn't have wings growing out of her back, and the sun shone brighter than the moon. But Big Ben still towered high in the sky.

Every detail became a source of comfort: footsteps crunching in the burnished snow, the smell of pastries coming out of the corner bakery, the constant hubbub of passers-by who could range from shouting to laughter. If no one was paying her any attention, all her senses were on the alert to rediscover every little insignificant detail of this city.

The route she took was always the same: the bakery, the grocery, the fishmonger, the butcher. Each brimmed with the little secrets she loved so much. The sound of crusty bread in her arms, the countless rows of cans and bottles of different sizes and colors, the fish with strange faces that seemed to come straight from the unknown depths of the sea, and the smell of red meat so enormous it seemed to come from a legendary animal. Faustine examined each of these stores with a particular interest, which displeased some. Vendors would give her indiscreet glances for fear that this louse might steal something from them. But she always ended up with enough to pay, offering them her few bills with a broad smile.

The sun was beginning to set as she exited the last store and her basket was overflowing with supplies. She readjusted her jacket to keep warm, as Londoners began to head home to warm up in front of their open fires. But her afternoon wasn't over yet, and the best part of the day was just beginning.

The snow was starting to fall as she pulled up in front of a picturesque building. The crooked edifice made of aged red bricks and a wooden storefront that seemed to struggle to hold it up. Flower boxes brightened up the windows, overcoming the cold by some miracle. An "open" sign, written in curvilinear script inviting the curious inside, hung on a door engraved with pretty symbols and a hand-shaped knocker. It was the most beautiful building Faustine had ever seen.

A bell announced her arrival and immediately the smell of books enveloped her. The warmth quickly dispelled the icy cold from outside, as if she'd come home to a roaring fire. The walls of the store were narrow, but the high ceiling allowed hundreds of books to pile up to the top. The owner, Mr.Callan, was busy at the till with a couple. Faustine greeted him with a nod, which he caught, and responded with a large smile.

Books were everywhere. On the floor, on the staircase leading to Mr.Callan's private apartments, on the shelves, on the cash register. She walked carefully to avoid tripping over a detective novel, and weaved her way between two stacks of books taller than her, all the while ogling the titles on the shelves. To find what she was looking for, Faustine didn't have to be afraid to rummage from cover to cover. Not that she minded.

She let her finger wander along the edges, bending her head to read titles. A color, a name, a particular design could be enough to catch her eye and make her pick one up. She chose a substantial book wedged between an insect encyclopedia and an Austrian dictionary. The title was "Around the World in Seventy-Two Days" and featured a woman with a suitcase in hand, looking confident and determined. Faustine opened the book and flipped through a few pages. Thus, she found herself plunged into the heart of Japan, heard the sound of a steam train arriving at the station, greeted a fish through the porthole of a submarine and smelled fresh croissants in a Parisian bakery. Closing the book with a firm hand, she could still hear the foreign laughter of French sitting around a table. She placed it back on top of a pile carefully before moving on.

Faustine barely moved away from a young reader slumped on the floor in a corner, so engrossed in his story that nothing seemed to disturb him. She tiptoed to the top of a shelf and grabbed a blue book with beautiful golden arabesques, only to open it without even reading the title. The sound of a seagull and the salty smell of the sea propelled her onto the pontoon of a pirate ship. She listened to the captain spouting orders to his crew and felt the frenzy of everyone going about their respective tasks. She would have stayed to see them dock with a royal ship, but once again, she closed the book and put it back in its place.

She began again and again. With each book Faustine found herself in a new universe. She could ride a horse through a haunted forest, fly alongside a Phoenix, swim among mermaids, lose herself in infinite space... Each book had its own smell, its own texture, its own story that took her on a journey. She loved to run her fingers over the paper as she passed each page. She could spend her days here, if no obligation held her back. Never had freedom seemed so close as in these words printed in black ink.

With a thud, she closed the last book in her hand. By staying here, she was losing all notion of time. She didn't want to be reprimanded - again - for getting home after dark. Faustine clutched the fantasy novel she'd just leafed through. It was a forest green cover with a majestic dragon on it, promising a tale to take her far away from her monotonous life. She gritted her teeth, fighting an internal battle between want and responsibility.

Finally, she reached into her pocket for the remaining change. She rotated the coins in the palm of her hand, undecided. Faustine didn't like stealing and that money didn't belong to her. She had been trusted to run errands, which she had to take back to the orphanage. The money left over would be used for future purchases, which would go to all the children's possessions. But another part of her whispered that the director didn't need to know she'd given too much money. She deserved to be paid for the dirty work she had to do, didn’t she? This book wasn't too much to pay for all that was asked of her. It would be her reward for being the daily errand girl. And, above all, it wasn't the first time she'd done it. It was her treasures hidden under her bed that kept her going another day.

She watched people walk past the bookshop window, busy with their own lives. Inevitably more hectic, more interesting than that of a poor invisible orphan. She watched the ladies bundle up in their long, warm coats, the men clinging to their gloves and top hats. They all exuded a standard of living she would never attain. A child lingered in the window, pointing at a storybook. His mother looked at him tenderly, murmuring an answer that only they could hear, before kissing him on the head and leading him away. Faustine's eyes drooped, the hole in her heart making itself felt more than usual. But once mother and son were gone, they revealed a person sitting across the street. An old man, dressed in rags and sitting on a wooden crate, was warming himself as best he could by rubbing his hands against his arms. No one looked at him. Faustine's heart sank at the sight. She took another look at the book she was holding, before putting it down and leaving the store.

She looked left and right before crossing the street. When she reached him, the old man didn't notice her, too tired and cold for that. Faustine bent down to place a few coins in the bowl in front of him. Their clicking finally woke him up, to meet the newcomer's blue gaze.

"I hope this is enough to buy you a hot meal," she murmured.

The homeless man smiled at her from beneath his white beard, without a word. The girl returned his smile, before continuing on her way. She had given him the few pennies she could’ve bought a book for. But in a way, she didn't care. If it meant the old man could warm up with a stew or a soup, that was enough. And so much for the money she should have given back to the director. She bit her lower lip, feeling guilty for complaining about her life, while others suffered more than she did. She was lucky to have a roof over her head, a semblance of an education, and meals every day - albeit meager.

The return journey was less spirited: the colors gradually turned gray again, as Faustine dragged her feet to the gate, which she locked. A prisoner who has to immure herself in her cell. Ironic, right?

Once inside, the cold didn't seem to have left her. Faustine took the shopping basket to one of the kitchen tables. No one seemed to have noticed her, while the nuns and children ran about, the former barking orders, the latter shivering as they carried them out, a sign that dinnertime was approaching. At least she'd made it back just in time.

Emerging from the frenzy of the kitchen, Sister Kezia was waiting for her.

"Miss Robertson wants to speak to you in her office."

Faustine swallowed at the news. It was never a good sign when the director specifically wanted to see someone. She skirted the walls as she climbed the stairs with a step intended to be composed. She didn't want to attract any more attention by looking hurried and worried, but from the glances and murmurs of passing children, the news had already made rounds. Perhaps even before she got home. Faustine maintained a neutral, confident expression, but her throat was drying up and she couldn't do anything about it.

Arriving at the heavy wooden door, Faustine breathed for a moment to calm her racing heart, before knocking.

When the director’s voice ordered her to enter, the teenager felt as if she'd arrived in hell.

The room was large, yet felt more oppressive. The crackling fire in the fireplace didn't help. The walls were drab, a sole bookshelf stood proudly against the left-hand wall, filled with perfectly organized books and photos of the orphanage and its residents over the years. Faustine knew she had to be present for the last fifteen. In the center of the room, Miss Robertson sat at her wooden desk, writing with a steady hand on a sheet of paper she seemed to take a malicious pleasure in torturing. In front of her stood two chairs that looked as comfortable as sea urchins, these were set to welcome visitors. Those who had come to collect a child, and those who had come to drop one off. Faustine wondered if her parents had sat there, with her as an infant in their arms, to ask the orphanage to accept her. The director had always told her that she'd been abandoned on the doorstep, but she could just as easily be lying. Just to make her suffer, preaching that Faustine’s parents hadn't even bothered to put her down in a warm place, but in front of the gates at the mercy of anyone.

Faustine was relieved when the director didn't ask her to sit down. She'd probably be the Ice Queen if she'd come from one of her fantasy books, with white hair pulled back in a high bun and an unsympathetic look behind small glasses, so much everything about her exuded coldness.

"Do you know why I brought you here?"

A sign that she was allowed to speak.

"No, ma’am."

Faustine clasped her hands behind to hide their trembling and stood straight, her gaze fixed on an imaginary point so as not to meet the director's gaze. Despite disgust for this woman, she couldn't help wanting to please her - more out of fear than affection.

The director crossed her hands in front of her and finally decided to turn her attention to the newcomer.

"Did you bring the groceries to the kitchen?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Did you manage to buy everything on the list?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You're always late. Did you make a detour for this?"

Faustine knew how to arrange the truth. Technically, the bookshop was on her way home. If she got home late, it was because she stopped to go there, but she didn't make a detour.

"No, ma'am."

She squinted her wrinkled little eyes at the remark, before sighing. She bent down to grab something from the floor, before tossing it onto her desk. Faustine's heart sank.

All her books were stacked in a neat pile. She recognized each one by edge, size or color. Eyebrows raised and eyes wide, she betrayed her surprise and stress to the director, who remained as impassive as possible.

"I got this from your room. A child who was doing the housework wanted to sweep under your bed. That's when she saw a wooden slat askew. Pushing it aside, she discovered these books, which she promptly brought back to me, as they're normally kept in the library.”

With a lump in her throat, Faustine didn't reply and remained fixated on her wonders.

"Can you tell me where they came from?"

An answer was required of her, but she'd be doomed either way. And the director knew it.

"Did you steal those books?”

"No."

"Did anyone give them to you?"

"No."

"Did you use the money I gave you to go shopping to buy them?"

Faustine swallowed.

"Only what was left over. I made sure to do all the shopping beforehand, and if there were a few coins left over, I'd put them aside to buy myself a book. I would never-

"So, you used the money from the orphanage to buy yourself presents?"

Faustines’s clammy hands began to shake again, as she tried to avoid the director's gaze.

"Y-yes... But it was only a very small amount, and I thought-"

"-So in addition to being a liar, you're a thief. And have been for a long time, if I judge this pile of books. I knew you were a selfish child, Faustine, but not to this degree."

The words felt like a punch in the face. She'd always disappointed the director, but it was something else to hear her say it.

The old woman grabbed the book at the top of the pile and adjusted her glasses in disgust as she read the cover.

"And… for what? For such... nonsense?"

Faustine bristled as she saw the hooked fingers leafing through her precious book. She bit her tongue to keep from yelling.

"Dragons, fairies, magic. Where did you get the idea to fill your head with such ludicrousy? You've always had your head in the clouds, but I was hoping you'd at least think about your future, not... this."

"But I need it!"

"No, you don’t, young lady!" the director shouted, rising from the chair, unable to bear being contradicted. "What you need is a strict, firm education. You've got to stop fantasizing about imaginary worlds and start living in reality! The only life you have is the one our Lord has granted you. Can't you see I'm trying to help you survive a life outside these walls? What good are your dreams, when you're out on the street with nothing but your body to sell?"

The violence of these words cut Faustine off at the seams. Her muscles twitched. She would have liked to retort, but the director wasn't entirely wrong; part of Faustine's reason for reading was to escape this monotonous life. She would rather lose herself in these worlds than have to face reality. Miss Robertson realized that she had touched a nerve, and continued to plunge in.

"Would you like me to remind you of the future that awaits you on the other side of our gates? Here, you're fed, you have a roof over your head, but outside, you'll have to fend for yourself if you don't want to sleep under a bridge. You'll have to work, if anyone is willing to take you on. Which won't happen if you keep daydreaming and wasting your time."

She finally picked up the stack of books and moved dangerously close to the fireplace. Faustine's eyes widened, but she had no time to react.

"You're a smart girl, Faustine. You know I'm right. And if I have to go that far to make you come to your senses, so be it."

The director tossed the books into the fire. Faustine stifled a frightened scream and raised a desperate arm towards the quickly blackening paper. She was ready to burn her hands to retrieve it, but the old woman turned sharply and unfolded her hooked fingers towards her.

"Give me the book you bought today."

A flash of memory made Faustine flinch, propelling her down the snowy street, only to be brought back by the stifling heat of the flames decomposing her treasure.

"I don't have any," she replied, her throat dry.

"Then give me back the money you had left over from the errand. I'm sure you didn't spend it all."

"I don’t either-"

A vein in the director's temple threatened to explode in anger as she cut Faustine off from her explanation by violently grabbing her wrist. The teenager's blue eyes widened in horror at the sight of her raised hand, which immediately lowered to her cheek with a sonorous clap.

"A thief... a liar..." growled the director between her teeth. "A beating, that's all you deserve."

Faustine's mind clouded with shock. In addition to the pain, it was the violence of the act that left her dazed. She blinked several times to come to her senses, and the first thing she saw was her precious books charred in the fireplace. She wanted to scream at her tormentor. To tell her that she couldn't be satisfied with a life like this. That she didn't owe her or God for her current situation. That she wanted more. That she needed more.

But when the old woman raised her hand again to strike, fear took control of her body. Faustine managed to break free from the steely grip and ran.

The director’s shrill cries ordered her to return, but she did not. She ran towards the exit and violently pushed open the doors. The cold winter wind assaulted her face, but she didn't care.

Arriving at the high gate, Faustine slowed down, her heart racing. Howling sounded behind her. Panicking, she shoved her hands into her pockets and sighed as they touched a small metal object. The gates couldn't resist the key she'd kept from her afternoon outing. Once again, Faustine stepped through the gate like a penitentiary that had seen the light of day after years of confinement. She surrendered to her footsteps, which guided her to who knew where.

As long as it was far from the orphanage, she’d be alright.

Faustine didn't know how long she'd been running. Step after step in the snow, arms crossed over her body for warmth, Faustine tried to tell herself that she'd been right to run away, even if it didn't seem like it. With each doubt that crossed her mind, she recalled the slap on her face and her books burning. The thought of that fire overwhelmed and made her shiver. What would she give for a little warmth? The moon shone high in the sky, although the stars were hidden by the light pollution of the street lamps. How many times had she admired the white moon from her bedroom? If her situation wasn't so desperate, she'd savor this moment of silence she'd missed so much at the orphanage. London seemed to have frozen into a resplendent tableau. Her eyes moved from the sky to the lighted windows in the houses. If she listened carefully, she could hear children laughing.

She took a step in the direction of one of the houses, before changing her mind, caught up in her doubts. She looked around, searching for a familiar building in vain. When she was allowed out of the orphanage, she always took the same route. The stores, then the bookshop. She had never strayed from this path, as she preferred to burn her time among the pages rather than in the real world. Determined to find a purpose, she set out to find her favorite store. With any luck, Mr. Callan would be able to help her. Running her tongue over her chapped lips, she strove to take another step forward, motivated by the idea of being able to reach her sanctuary.

After about ten minutes, she finally stood in front of the building.

The store was closed. Looking up at the windows above, Faustine put her frozen hands around her mouth to echo.

"Hello? Anybody home, please?"

No light came on. Faustine waited a few minutes, calling again. She knocked on the door with the knocker, but no soul intervened.

Faustine slid down the door. Her skirt came into contact with the snow, but she didn't shiver. I'm only taking a break, she thought to herself, before setting off again. But go back where? She could retrace her steps back to the orphanage, but a shiver crept up her spine at the very thought. She could always wait here till dawn, wait to see more clearly, to see people, and... what? Beg? Ask for help? Who'd want to help a bum orphan? It wouldn't be long before the police brought her back. The director was right: she was fed and housed there. She thought of that old beggar she gave her coins to. Was he alright and fed tonight?

Curled up against herself to fight off the cold and her thoughts in anxious disarray, Faustine felt her eyelids close on their own, before a movement caught her attention. In a narrow passageway between two buildings, two men appeared literally from nowhere, before their feet touched the ground. Faustine stood up, unsure of what she had just witnessed. The strangers glanced around, but failed to spot the teenager at the other end of the street. They moved deeper into the dark alley, as if nothing had happened.

Intrigued, Faustine decided to follow them.

She ran down the alley, the sound of her footsteps muffled by the snow. Keeping a good distance between her and the two men, she nevertheless observed them in more detail. Both wore long trench coats, the one on the left was taller, slimmer and with a distinguished top hat. The shorter one was stocky and bald, but also sounded older somehow. Without shouting, snatches of their conversation reached Faustine.

"... Ready... Good time...?"

"... Don't worry... Important merchandise…"

"... If ever... magic..."

Faustine almost stopped at the word.

Wide-eyed, she wanted to learn more, before realizing that she had to slow down: she had been mechanically speeding up. She stood still for a moment, only to see the men turn between two buildings and disappear from sight. Panicking, she hurried to join them. Around the corner, she saw them take a high iron door. As it closed heavily behind them, its features began to fade, as if someone was erasing them. Without thinking, Faustine ran towards it, grabbed the still visible handle and stepped inside. The entrance vanished at once. Her amazed eyes remained fixed on the now smooth wall. A problem for later.

Turning around, she discovered a small open-air courtyard, surrounded by tall buildings with faded facades. A long corridor led at the end to a brick wall, where one would expect to find a door. A tall cylindrical tower overlooked the apartments, with small square windows opening onto a staircase. The smell of carrion wrinkled her nose.

The two strange men faced a new stranger. His clothes matched: a luxurious black suit under a long brown coat. He wore graying sideburns and small, round glasses. His features wrinkled as the two men approached, revealing a growing anxiety. Faustine hid behind a wooden barrel, serving as a table with bottles of alcohol on its lid. In this position, she couldn't see the men, but their voices came through loud and clear.

"Mr. Thompson, what a pleasure to see you again," declared the smaller man. "Are you satisfied with our boiling teapot?"

"Y-yes. My mother-in-law has been in the hospital ever since I gave it to her. I didn't see with my own eyes the miracles you promised, but the result was there."

Faustine tilted her head a little more towards them, ears wide open.

"Apparently, her house was turned upside down, there was tea everywhere. Her face was burned -but she'll get over it. The authorities blamed it on an argument between neighbors."

"I'm delighted," continued the older man. "Will you be interested in our latest merchandise?"

"Invisibility potion," croaked the young man in a squeaky voice that made her wince.

Faustine peeked out a bit.

He twirled a vial with his long fingertips, like charming a snake with his flute. The man with the sideburns seemed mesmerized, before coughing his way out of the daydream.

"Perhaps I could have a... glimpse of its effectiveness?"

The bald man placed his hands on his hips.

"The teapot worked fine, didn't it?"

"Just a precaution."

The two sellers exchanged brief glances, eyebrows furrowed and backs straightened. The younger directed his hand beneath his coat, before the other raised his arms in submission.

"You heard him. The gentleman wants to check the quality of our products."

The younger man grunted. He caught the cork in his teeth before spitting it on the floor, then lifted the unfamiliar liquid to his lips. In three gulps, the vial was empty. Faustine's breathing came to a halt as she watched the man's contours gradually disappear, like the door a few moments ago. First his feet, then his hips, back, arms and finally his head. If a slight reflection still allowed a glimpse of a shape, the illusion was almost perfect. A long smile spread across her cold-rosy face. She had never witnessed anything so extraordinary.

The invisible figure spun around, as evidenced by the footprints in the snow. Then, a few seconds later, he reappeared. Faustine’s heart pounded in her chest.

The magician pulled another bottle from his coat, while the other held out a greedy hand.

"As for the price... You'll understand that we're the only ones to sell these items to the Muggle world. You'll never find them anywhere else. As for its effectiveness, there's nothing better. You're free to do what you like with it."

Muggle world? Now they were talking in strange words that filled her ears like a sweet melody. The sight made her forget the biting cold that froze her limbs from crouching behind that barrel. Until her foot landed on a sharp texture that made a screeching sound. Shards of broken glass are crushed under her sole.

"Damn," she muttered.

The three men immediately stared at her with big, round eyes. Faustine remained motionless, naively hoping they wouldn't see her. But in her eagerness to hear a little more of their conversation, she had moved far too close, the barrel no longer hiding her. Suddenly, a terrible tension filled every bone in her body, the magic of one moment turning into the dread of another.

Faustine took a step back, her hands raised in submission, well aware that she shouldn't be here.

"Listen, I won't say anything. I didn't see anything."

A big fat lie.

The taller dealer was the first to walk up to her, while casting a questioning glance at the second, who shook his head briefly. Faustine stepped back.

"I swear to you. No one will know an-"

A bolt of red lightning struck. Faustine quickly crouched down with a scream, clasping her hands over her head. The young man clutched a distorted wooden wand in his hand, a scarlet glow emanating from it. Glancing back, Faustine saw a smoldering black mark on the wall where the door had previously appeared.

"What are you waiting for?" spat the eldest.

His arm rose. Sparks flew from the end of the wood. The girl didn't wait for the rest. She leapt up, and another bolt of lightning struck the spot where she had been a second before. The snow melted there with an icy crackle. Not asking for more, Faustine ran to the tower. She passed the customer, who just stood there, helpless. As the girl reached the gate, her hands struck the cold metal as she gripped it with all her might. Miraculously, it opened under her weight.

"Confrigo!"

A searing explosion melted the metal centimeters from her fingers. Wide-eyed, the orphan rushed up the spiral staircase.

The two men set off after her. Their every step echoed in the narrow tower. Spells kept coming, but the circular architecture meant they could never aim right. A brick exploded just above her. Each explosion vibrated in her chest, as if her heart would stop at the next one.

With wobbly legs, Faustine shoved the exit door open. She found herself on the rooftops. London was sleeping just below. Breathing heavily, she would have stopped to admire the scenery, if two wizards - were they wizards? - weren't trying to kill her.

"Come back here!"

The shout snapped her out of stupor. Faustine placed a shaky foot on the first snow-covered roof. Her legs hesitated between running and walking. The void pitched at less than a meter. The cold wind swept through her blond hair and unbalanced every limb. But she kept going, one slippery step after another. Don't look down. Don't look down...

A shout snapped her out of her stream of thought.

"Bombarda!"

Immediately, the roof jumped under her feet. Tiles smashed into her forearms as she shielded her face. A cry escaped her lips as she desperately reached out, clawing at the void to grab hold of something. Her right hand caught a hanging store sign, a stabbing pain shot through her shoulder. A gag turned her stomach. All her limbs would have shattered if she hadn't caught herself. Her left hand joined the first on the board, transfixed by the touch of icy metal and snow. But her fingers slipped inexorably.

"No, no, no…” she mumbled through clenched teeth.

Until she let go.

Her buttocks landed first, the snow taking part of the fall. But that didn't stop her legs from hitting the sidewalk hard. Her body begged to lie still. To not move. Blood pounded in her temples, while an icy breath crossed her chapped lips. How good it would be to close her eyes and feel nothing. But the voice of her pursuers immediately put her back on her bruised legs.

"You're going to wake up the whole neighborhood!"

Windows in the surrounding buildings lit up with candles, alerted by the noise. Some shutters opened. But most remained closed, as if the inhabitants were trying to escape the danger from outside.

"Help!"

Her words bounced into the void. The wizards came closer and closer. Which way did they come down? No time to think, no time to wait for help. Her feet had to start running again, despite the pain. Unfortunately, she didn't know this part of London: every street seemed a labyrinth.

Faustine slipped on a patch of black ice, which made her turn at a crossroads. She caught herself in extremis so as not to fall, just as another bolt of red lightning streaked across the sky to burn a lock of her hair. Out of breath, she straightened up and rushed into the new alleyway. Her feet pounded the ground, shaky but holding firm. A groan caught in her throat as she spotted a wooden palisade standing in her way. The footsteps of her enemies reached her ears. Turning back was impossible. She took a short breath before jumping. She slid down the fence, but her hands caught painfully on the edge of the wooden planks. Her right shoulder shot with pain again. Without paying any attention, Faustine pulled herself up as fast as she could, before landing crouched on the other side. She winced as she felt a snap in her leg. Get back on your feet, get back, get back!

But the palisade exploded right behind her, dragging the girl along in its blast. She screamed in surprise, thrown forward. Her face crashed into the snow. Her trembling hands immediately tried to pull her to her feet. Stand up.

"We've got you at last.”

Faustine turned towards the pursuers, still lying down, crawling away.

"Please..."

Her back jerked as she hit a wall. Her face sank: a dead-end.

"I won't say anything," she begged once more, "I have nothing to say to anyone, I'm nobody."

Her suffocating respiration was the only thing she held on to. A breath.

Both wizards raised their wands.

"Please..."

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

They pointed in her direction.

"Please..."

Inhale. Exhale.

"Avada kedavra!"

Inhale.

Faustine's body instinctively folded in on itself, ready to receive the blow.

A crackle. A bang.

Everything went black.

Rays of sunlight seeped through the windows to caress her face. The scent of plants hung softly in the air. Gradually, ambient noises reached her: rapid footsteps on the wooden floor, muffled speech, the rustle of leaves. Faustine opened one eye.

The first thing she saw was a white ceiling. She turned her head back onto the pillow she was resting against. To the right, a half-closed shutter on a high window let in the sun. To the left, a few peonies slumbered in a vase, surrounded by medicine-scented bottles. A small basin of water stood on the wooden bedside table, along with linen and bandages. In the corner of the room, a lonely wooden chair lay.

The girl winced as she tried to sit up. Her whole body ached. As she tried to move her right arm, she realized that it was wrapped in a scarf, which passed behind her neck. Abandoning the idea of using it, her second hand palpated her face. Faustine ran her fingertips over her forehead, down her left eye, then down her cheek to her neck. Her heart began to palpitate. Bandages.

The basin suddenly began to shake, startling her, then stopped. Faustine remained motionless for a few seconds, staring at the copper bowl that seemed to tell her she'd just been dreaming. Hesitantly, she raised a hand timidly towards her bedside table. The object remained in its place. What did you expect?

Until it moved in her direction. It was so slight that she couldn't believe her eyes. Her mouth half-opened astonished. Then a pain in the back of her head jolted her to life.

Suddenly, the door to her room opened, and a young woman in a gray dress with a white apron appeared. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a tight bun, while a white hat sat delicately on her head. A few strands of hair fell over her softly pale face. A gentle smile widened on her pink lips.

"Are you awake?"

She swiftly turned and tapped a nurse passing in the corridor behind her.

"Tell Doctor Harding to come and see the patient in room 32."

Finally, she approached the bed, her arms laden with linen and bandages. Faustine couldn't help but recoil at her approach. The nurse stopped dead in her tracks.

"It's all right, you're safe here.”

She placed her belongings on the sheets.

"I'll have to change your bandages."

Her voice was gentle, but firm. It wasn't a question. Docile, Faustine relented. The young woman then set about removing the pins holding the bandages around her head. One by one, she gently unwound them. Unlike the new ones, these were yellowed and spotted with red marks. As soon as the bandages covering her left eye were removed, she could see fully again. Her blond hair slipped in contact with her mutilated skin, making her shudder.

"Can I... can I see myself?" she asked in a hoarse voice.

The nurse frowned, not in annoyance, but in concern.

"I don't know if it's advisable to... The doctor will come..."

"Please."

Faustine held the end of her sheets tightly, trembling. The young woman withstood her pleading looks for a few seconds, before giving in. She placed the basin on the Faustines lap. The girl’s gaze dipped into the reflection.

The scar began on her forehead, before reaching her left eyelid. Then from dark circles came two lines, one running down to her chin and ending in a curl. The second scribbled three arcs, crossing her entire cheek, descending a little further towards her ear, before zigzagging across her neck, divided into multiple strokes before ending.

Faustine sat still, staring again and again at the scar. Her eyes kept gliding over the loop, uncovering something new with each pass. Half her face was disfigured. Above the reflection of her head, she noticed a crucifix towering over her, hanging on the wall.

"What happened to me?"

"... We thought you might be able to shed some light on the matter."

The door opened again as the young woman finished pinning the last bandage. An older man, with brown hair plastered to his head and a beardless chin, stood upright in the doorway. A leather-bound notebook, aged by time, stood in his steady hand. The nurse immediately stood up.

"I've finished, Doctor. I'll leave you with her."

"Thank you."

Faustine didn't have time to thank the nurse in turn before she had already left, closing the door. The doctor approached swiftly.

"My name is Dr. Harding. I'm the one who took care of you during your convalescence. Glad to see you awake."

He pulled out the wooden chair calmly to sit opposite the bed. Faustine sure wasn't used to such benevolence, especially in the space of fifteen minutes.

The doctor's voice was warm, deep and well timed as he spoke again. Faustine found herself thinking that he would have made a good singer.

"Your situation has been stabilized. You have a sprain in your arm, which should recover in a few weeks with rest. Your pelvis and legs are riddled with superficial wounds, requiring only a few days' immobility for a full recovery. Your facial wound came very close to blind your eyeball, but thank goodness your left eye was spared."

Faustine assimilated this information without flinching. The doctor then opened his notebook and took a pen from his jacket.

"I'm now going to ask you a few questions."

The girl swallowed, her voice still hoarse.

"Name?"

"Faustine. Faustine Daemon."

Fortunately, no remark was made about her too un-Catholic name.

"Age?"

“Fifteen."

"Place of residence?"

Her throat went dry.

"St. Maria-the-Bow Orphanage."

The pen didn't stop tracing black lines on the yellowed pages.

"What is the last thing you remember?"

Faustine narrowed her eyes, trying to put her memories together like puzzle pieces.

"I left the orphanage... and wandered the streets. I found myself... er... in a park. No, in front of Mr. Callan's bookshop. And I..."

The burning books. The slap. Her legs tumbling down the stairs. The cold biting her skin. The moon shining in the night. From there, her memories cracked more and more, until they ended in little pieces.

"... I don't know."

The pen stopped dead on the page. Doctor Harding raised his head, scratching his chin.

"Don't blame yourself for this. You've had a shock and a concussion. I wanted to find out how far back your memory went, but it seems that some of it has escaped you.”

"Will I regain my memories?"

"Only time will tell."

The notebook closed with a snap. The doctor leaned forward, as if about to confide something.

"Neighbors found you unconscious, alone in the street, in the middle of the night. Apparently, they were alerted by screams. You were found in a pitiful state, but fortunately you were quickly taken to our hospital. We suspect an assault with a knife, from the look of the wound on your face."

Faustine digested this new information, trying to paste it back together with her memories, in vain. She shivered as her fingertips touched the bandages. What happened to me?

"I've prescribed two weeks' rest, we'll see how you recover. You're malnourished, which may lengthen the time of your recovery. You'll have to take medicine morning and night, and eat well to regain your strength. The police may come to question you, and an investigation should be opened."

"The police?"

"Don't worry, they’re here to help you. Just answer what you know."

The man rose from the chair, before grabbing the door handle.

"Right, I'll let the director of your orphanage know you're here."

The next day, the police did indeed come : Faustine told them everything she knew about the attack, which wasn't much. Even the neighbors had gathered more information. Those who had found her unconscious had heard her cry for help. Two silhouettes of men had been identified, but everyone was too far away to describe them. Faustine wasn't much help at this point.

From the look on the police officers' faces, the case would be dropped. No one wants to waste time investigating an orphan and two vanished thugs.

As soon as they had left, Faustine's throat was dry from all the talking, she wanted to help herself to the glass of water on the table. But no sooner had she thought of this than it came right up to the rim, threatening to fall to the ground.

This sort of thing started happening more and more every day. Whenever she was alone, objects began to move. The shutters opened in the morning to let in the soft glow of the sun, the sheets covered her up to her shoulders when she shivered with fever, the chair turned towards her as if to watch over her when she felt lonely. Only the crucifix above her head remained peaceful.

No plausible explanation came to mind for all this. Except that she was really going mad.

The days passed slowly. Faustine's legs almost fully recovered, and her arm was on the mend. Her scar had not become infected, the wound now stabilized. The nurses removed the bandages for good, judging that they were no longer needed. However, the doctor confirmed that she would remain scarred for life.

On the morning of the tenth day, the bedroom door slammed against the wall as it suddenly opened. Instead of a nurse or the smiling face of Dr. Harding, viper's eyes hidden behind rectangular glasses darted in the direction of the patient's scar. Miss Robertson's wrinkled face immediately grimaced with disgust.

"This time, for sure. No one will want you anymore."

An invisible punch struck Faustine's chest.

The director inspected the small room around her, sniffing. The empty chair invited her to sit down, but she deliberately ignored it.

"I suppose the Lord has punished you enough for your insolence. Nevertheless, don't think that everything will be forgotten when you return to the orphanage. You'll have so many tasks to complete that you won't even think of running away."

Faustine wanted to cover her ears. Every word exuded nothing but contempt. Worse, reality had really caught up with her: the director was right. She was nothing outside the bars of the orphanage. A single night out had landed her in a hospital, disfigured. If there had been any hope of adoption, it was now gone. No one would want a crazy, mutilated thief.

"The doctor said you'll be home in two days."

With that, she turned on her heel and left.

Two days.

Two days before returning to the routine of the orphanage.

Two days before returning to the low masses, the chores, the punishments, the hopeless prayers. Her books now ashes, she'd never set foot outside again until she came of age, and then - and then what?

Magic didn't exist, nothing could save her from this fateful destiny, all because her parents hadn't wanted her.

No one will want you.

Her head bowed and her fingers clutched at the sheets, Faustine bit her lips and fought a sob in her throat. Objects around her began to shake, subtly at first, before threatening to fall. The glass on the bedside table cracked, the shutters slammed, the flowers lost their petals, the chair crunched to the floor. Faustine felt Christ's gaze burn her back. She turned sharply to unhook him from the wall and raised her arm, ready to throw him. Red-eyed, holding back tears, her body trembled like the whole room, like a heart in unison. Her skin broke as she clutched the cross so tightly in her hands. Breathing hard, she was about to throw away the sacred object, before finally changing her mind. The room stopped shaking. She turned it over in her hands to observe Christ's wounded expression, bleeding on his cross. A tear rolled down her wounded cheek before falling onto his face. With her back bent and her shoulders slumped, Faustine could no longer stop tears from flowing.

"I'm sorry." she murmured between hiccups.

She didn't know to whom she was apologizing.

There was only one day left. Faustine rested, head buried in the pillow. All she wanted was to enjoy these last few hours of calm. The sun's rays caressed her skin. Her sleep was constantly disturbed by nightmares, a mixture of screams, blows and green lightning. It all seemed far too real. Even her imagination had decided to abandon her.

Someone knocked on the door, causing her to open her eyes.

"You have a visitor." announced a nurse.

A man of advanced years, dressed in a strange blue and brown jacket, stepped into the doorway. He wore a blue scarf studded with arabesques and stars. His gray hair and wrinkled face made him look wise, but not hard, unlike Miss Robertson. Unlike her, his gaze glanced distractedly at the orphan without seeming to see her. The nurse left them alone.

"Sorry for my lateness," he muttered. "Professor Weasley asked me to come and welcome you, but I've been caught up with business at the Ministry and haven't seen the time. All for the sake of trivialities, once again..."

He stopped short in his tirade as Faustine stared at him with two big round eyes. She had never seen this man before. It was the first time she'd seen anyone dressed like that, even in London.

Her gaze moved from his jacket to his brown vest, leather sleeves and beautifully patterned scarf. When he spoke again, she feared she'd been rude to spy on him like that.

"Anyway, none of this is important, and I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Professor Eleazar Fig, I teach magical theory at Hogwarts. You must be Faustine Daemon?"

A familiar feeling, coming from she didn't know where, made her shudder as she assimilated so much information at once, all missing a little more meaning. She wished she could have paused the conversation to try and understand these terms. Hogwarts? Magic theory? And where did he know her name from? This name, pronounced with no hatred in his voice.

As if reading her mind, said professor grabbed a letter from inside of his jacket, before handing it to her.

"This should be able to enlighten you."

Hesitantly, Faustine reached for the envelope with a limp hand, her right arm having almost recovered. Her hand folded in on itself, as if she feared burning herself as she reached for the paper, before taking it with her fingertips under the old man's warm smile. The wax seal showed an "H", surely for the name of the school. She gently broke it to open the contents.

Her eyes roamed the black lines, her heart beating faster and faster with each word.

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as a fifth-year student.

Term begins on 1 September.

Preliminary supplies have been collected for you and will accompany you on your journey to the castle.

As you may be aware, the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery prohibits the use of magic by those under the age of seventeen outside the school. However, due to your unique circumstances, the Ministry has graciously agreed to allow Professor Eleazar Fig to help you hone your spell-casting before escorting you from London to the castle for the start-of-term feast and the Sorting Ceremony.

Yours sincerely,

Professor Weasley

Deputy Headmistress

The emblem at the top of the letter depicted a lion, a snake, a badger and an eagle, surrounding the letter H. Faustine's fingers were gripping the paper so tightly they were turning white. The professor was about to speak again, but she was quicker:

"Is this a joke?"

The old man's gray eyebrows furrowed.

"I beg your pardon? Why would it be?"

The orphan's whole body began to tremble. The letter crumpled under her clammy hands.

"Please," she begged, "if it's a bad joke, say so now. If... if this is false hope…"

These last words ended with a sob. Why was this happening now? Why, after resigning to dream of a better life, after having been told all these years that she wasn't good enough for anything, was she being told that she was a student at a magic school? The very thought would earn her at least fifteen strokes at the orphanage.

Professor Fig glanced at the closed door.

"Perhaps an example is more telling."

A slightly twisted wooden wand appeared in his age-stained hand. With the other, he picked up the empty glass beside the bed. He twirled the tip of the wand just once in the air, and a jet of water plunged from it into the container. It all happened so fast that Faustine thought she was daydreaming. He reached for the glass, but before she could grab it, he dropped it. When it should have spilled onto the sheets, it just hung there. She stared at it, not daring to touch it for fear of breaking the spell. Nevertheless, she passed a hand over and under the glass, to check that no threads were hanging from it.

"So... it's true?" she murmured. "But... Why isn't anyone talking about it? Why does everyone seem to fear just the mention of magic?"

The professor coughed in embarrassment.

"The Wizarding world and the Muggle world - the world of non-magical beings - are two very distinct things. We live in hiding, because we're... well... not very well received."

Faustine thought back to the orphanage, the prayers, the witchcraft associated with the Devil and all the torments of Earth. Yet here, in front of her, magic had never seemed so benevolent.

"Ever since I've been in the hospital, I've been seeing objects move around me. I... I thought I was crazy."

"Not at all, my child. They're just fragments of the magic inside you. A far greater power awaits you, with a little practice."

My child. Her eyes moistened at the mention.

"But why now?"

"According to your doctor, you seem to have experienced a, uh... assault," he continued carefully, lest he hurt her feelings. "This traumatic event may have awakened your dormant powers. Your name appeared in the Book of Admittance on the night of the event. By the way..."

His gaze fell for the first time on her scar. But no disgust contorted his features.

"... Sure you were told it was a knife assault, however, the shape of your wound hints of its magical nature. I'm afraid you've met some dark wizards."

At these words, images of green and blue lightning battled in her mind, causing a sudden migraine. It was all too blurred to make any sense of it, but that might explain her nightmares.

"Let me reassure you," the professor added, "that you won't have to deal with those kinds of individuals at Hogwarts. The school is protected by powerful spells that prevent anyone with malicious intent from attacking our students. Not to mention our teachers, each more powerful than the last, will defend you.”

"And Miss Robertson? The director of my orphanage?"

He winced at the mention.

"I met this charming lady before coming to see you. As she's your legal guardian, I had to inform her about the magical world and your nature as a witch. She looked like she was going to chase me off with a crucifix. But she can't interfere with wizarding law. She's the only one who knows this secret, and knows the consequences of revealing it to anyone.”

"Does this mean I won't be living in the orphanage anymore?" she asked, hopeful.

"Only during summer vacations though, and until you come of age. But during the school year, you'll be living at Hogwarts, in the house to which you'll be sorted."

Faustine lowered her head at this announcement. While she was delighted to be able to escape the nuns for more than half the year, she would still have to go back. But it was a good start. She'd never expected so much.

As she wanted to ask more, so many questions rising in her head at once, but Professor Fig spoke to her calmly again:

"If it suits well with you, I'll be your mentor for the next few months between now and the start of the new school year. I'll teach you the basic spells, provide you with history books on the wizarding world, everything you need to catch up to your peers and start the fifth year in peace."

If that suits me? Why wouldn't it suit me? All her life, she'd hoped such a moment would come. While she waited for parents to free her from the burden of orphanhood, here she was, thrust back into her beloved fantasy books. She would be able to live in a castle, meet magical creatures, surrounded by students who were just like her. Wizards.

Her voice trembled with excitement, eyes brimming with tears.

"It does."

She believed in magic again.

Thank you so much for reading this far. I sincerely hope you enjoyed it 🫶 it was a great adventure, and I'm happy with the result 🥹Thanks again to @alsopartgekkos for your precious help ✨ I'd love to know what you think, so please don't hesitate to leave a comment 💙

PS: english isn't my first language, sorry for the mistakes!

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