God is Dead | James Potter

1 | THE NIGHT OF THE SPOILED PUREBLOODS

"What did you do to your hair?" Ignatius asked the next night. Arabella had yet to arrive, as it had (most likely) been a long day at the Ministry. He hardly looked up from the most recent newspaper as he stepped down the coiled, black marble staircase. Three attacks on muggle-borns. One dead.

Lovina bit the inside of her cheeks, tightly gripping the handle of her school trunk, "Tried something."

Then, Ignatius did lower the paper, a grimace on his face as he looked his daughter up and down, "You look like a circus clown. Muggle scum."

"Glad to know I captured the spirit." The words, with their inherent sarcasm left her mouth before she thought twice, and just as quickly, her father's hand slapped across her face, causing the young house elf to let out a quiet, tragic whimper, from the top of the stairs, where she secretly observed.

"You should be grateful." Blood rushed up her face, her side pulsating with the impact, but Ignatius spoke with softness, "I tell you this, I do what I do, because I know what is best for you. You understand, don't you, Lovina?"

She didn't mean to, but she flinched the moment his hand touched her now bloodshot cheek, slowly moving his fingers towards her hair, shockingly silky, for a teenage girl who'd bombarded it with chemicals just the other night (shockingly, if it hadn't been for Sleekeazy's product). Lovina expected a pull, a mind-numbing grip, but nothing. She kept waiting, certain it was going to come, at some point.

"What spell did you use on this?" He'd asked instead.

"It wasn't a spell," Answered her, suddenly afraid she'd started sounding breathless, "It was a potion."

"Potions. For something like hair. It's pathetic." Ignatius seethed at the thought of wizards creating such a thing. What had magic been reduced to? What had their abilities been left at? Something that could change the colour, form, texture of his daughter's hair. Wizardkind was beginning to resemble muggles at an alarming rate. It was revolting.

"I need to go," Lovina said. Her soul, floating just above her seconds ago seemed to have returned to her, finding herself moving away from Ignatius's cold touch. Her eyes flickered up, but, unfortunately, she'd caught no sight of Milly.

"What have you got to say?" He interrupted, before she could walk out the door, into the dark night. The perfumed smell of the potion (that went by the name of pink hair dye) lingered ever so slightly in his hand, and his eyebrows furrowed when he caught the scent.

Lovina forced herself to turn around again, head high as he looked into the man's eyes, "Thank you, father."

"Thought so." With a nod, Ignatius decided to ignore the peculiar smell, his eyes returning to the newspaper, as did the subtle smile on his face as he scanned through the main article.

The night was gentle, in spite of its solemnity, despite wearing only a pair of ripped, swabby jeans, with a short sleeved black shirt, Lovina felt no cold. The only noise were that of her own footsteps walking away from the Selwyn Manor. She looked tiny, in comparison to the monstrous house.

She thought of Milly as her own hand rubbed over her left cheek, in an attempt to ease the pain away. Maybe she could've waited a day... or two longer to set off. Her stomach twisted each time she met with the house elf after coming back from Hogwarts. It was her purpose in life to serve her family, Lovina knew that, she knew, but everytime she saw her, the elf's huge, violet eyes were glassy, her rags more worn away, new scars along her hands, arms, and legs. When she'd arrived that year for summer, her ears had also been wrapped up in bandages.

She was a house elf, Lovina knew, but her state managed to tie a knot in her throat. Was it too foolish to think that Milly was better off under her care, when she was around?

A loud honking sound made her abruptly stop on her tracks, though she should've expected it... she was the one that raised her wand hand. And soon, a ridiculously tall, purple bus was approaching, stopping just in front of where she stood, by the main gate to the Manor. It wasn't the first time Lovina saw the Knight Bus.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the standi— eh, stranded witch or wizard..." The conductor looked up from the speech he'd very clearly written on his hand, a twisted grin appearing on his face, "–or hag, in this case, isn't that so, Selwyn?"

The mention of her surname had Lovina trying to recognise who the man, no, the boy was, didn't take longer than five seconds to riddle it out... his thin, almost lanky figure, bushy eyebrows, and hair sticking to his forehead were telltale. Even underneath the conductor cap, a few unruly strands of her stuck up rebelliously.

"Did you have jester for dinner, Tartte?" Lovina asked in return, closing the gate behind her, "You sure look like one."

"You know, usually, it is courtesy for me to pull up your trunk, but... I'll let you deal with that," Maximilian Tartte said languidly, resting against the bus, tapping his foot along to an unknown rhythm, "What the hell happened to you, anyway?"

He'd seen the mark on her cheek. "What?"

"The hell's up with your hair?"

Oh. "I changed it, obviously."

"No shit. You stink of hair dye." Max rolled his eyes passionately as the girl visibly struggled to actually carry her trunk, giving in to the weaker side of him, and helping her get it up. Not that he would ever say so, but it was quite the heavy thing, "Where you off to? Visiting Sirius's plague-looking brother?"

Lovina's mind immediately went to shuffle words, creating the quickest insult of them, "No, you putrid, pea-brained muh– muggle-born."

"And yet, you're taking the bus, like any ordinary muggle would. Hypocrite." Max pointed out. God, Slytherins were insufferable as they came, "Now, where the bloody hell are we taking you, before I change my mind and leave you here?"

"Leaky Cauldron," She answered plainly, offering the eleven sickles in her hand, which he took without another word, and Lovina let herself inside, pulling on her trunk.

"Should be charged eleven galleons, the spoiled snake," Max muttered under his breath as he headed to the front of the bus, "First Sirius, now her. Purebloods are just dying to get out of their humble mansions today, I reckon."