Vigilante Shit ✹ theodore nott

𝟬𝟬𝟭. she was heartache from the moment you met her

Salem took the brunt of it, even if she didn't want to. Regardless, she felt like she deserved it. The butterflies of guilt in her stomach didn't stop fluttering for anyone or anything.

The atmosphere that encompassed them all was just so . . . melancholy. Salem stepped into a room and it was like all the energy had been sucked from it. A permanent Dementor scaling the walls and draining them of anything joyous that infiltrated them. Happiness was a luxury those days, and Salem doubted she'd ever feel it again.

But she didn't think she had any right to smile, or laugh or love . . . a boy had been killed. A pure, innocent boy who had only tried to be a good person, and he'd been killed because of it. Remorse squeezed the veins in her heart yet Salem couldn't quite understand why.

It was a cruel twist of fate that he had been killed. He hadn't died by her hand. Nor was it any of her own choices that led to Diggory's demise. But it might as well have been. Anything she did, anything she said, led to her standing at a mass grave in three years to come. Blood staining her face and dirt wedged beneath her nails, Salem would watch as the distinctive smell of war permeated the air and stung her nose until her eyes watered.

The begs of mercy and screams of torture would be blurred to Salem's ears. She wasn't seeing and she doubted she was breathing . . . simply loitering in the land between the living and the dead. So much death — it made her feel nauseous and she could feel her stomach tossing and turning . . . she couldn't be sick. Vulnerability wasn't a trait of hers and it certainly couldn't be then. No one valued weakness. He didn't value weakness.

Her clothes were dirty, her blonde hair was almost brunette-like, there was blood everywhere — whether it was hers or another fallen casualty, it was a mystery — and Salem's feet was glued to the ground. People were shoving past her, fleeing for safety and retribution yet Salem couldn't find it in herself to run with them and join the throng of crowds until she was just another head of hair. But Salem didn't want to run. She'd had enough it — almost a year's worth caused her great fatigue of running away from what the fates inscribed her to be.

A figure joined Salem's side. She didn't need to look at him to know his clothes were unsoiled and appeared as though he'd come from a Ministry meeting. Wordlessly, his spotless hand outstretched, an invitation. A peace treaty. A greeting, of some sorts.

A lone tear slipped down the plane of Salem's cheek as she slid her rotten hand into his, intertwining their fingers. Sealing her destining forevermore.

And there wasn't any going back.

❦

Summer was bleak and Salem was tired of it. Usually, their summers were spent in the Tropics or the islands of Greece . . . not the dull and grey country of England that could hardly spare a ray of sunshine for the months that were supposed to sweltering. She'd much prefer to be at Hogwarts, and that was saying something.

Hogwarts was supposed to be the home away from home. It was presumed to be a safe environment that parents could send their children of magic too, under the watchful eye of Albus Dumbledore. But it hadn't been safe since Salem had started. Or, more distinctly, since Harry Potter had started there.

Trouble seemed to follow the Potter everywhere he dared step, yet he evaded Death each time. Salem suspected it irked the dark, cloaked figure so much he made it his desire to encapsulate Potter into his hands as soon as he could. Salem almost found it humorous; Potter came out — not quite unscathed — of battle and still had the vigorous determination to attend classes. It was somewhat impressive.