fidelity

i.

the beginning of your end is this:

you realize, while sitting quietly on the couch in your living room listening to mother bemoan the state of your scraped knee she believes was caused by falling out of a tree and not a brief moment of levitation, that you do not belong. the realization is not so much as an epiphany; rather, a fact. the sky is blue. there is a stain on the carpet from the day your father left and mother had a drink in hand. you are not meant to be here, sitting with your mouth shut in a thin line because mother is tired, and you know that your now-bandaged knee was only an inconvenience and really, you should've been more careful, mother has enough to worry about without you messing up anything else – but there is a great big something that you can feel all of a sudden that presents the thought and it nestles into the back of your head, a simple truth to keep with you.

you do not belong.

ii.

the day you get your letter, you've already made dinner and cleaned the kitchen because you can tell mother is having a hard day, and she deserves a rest, and the last thing you both need is a barn owl flying through the open window.

it presents the letter to you, proud of itself, and you reach out to stroke it's head without thinking as mother snatches the letter from your hands.

you find yourself locked in your room about an hour later, huddled in the corner and digging your nails into your palm as mother screams through the door that she will not have another witch in the family – wasn't your good-for-nothing father proof enough to show that no good comes from magic? how dare you do this to me, you'll leave me just like he did, how dare you –

when september first comes around, you are at king's cross station with a tear in your stocking from tripping as you climbed out of your window, and you thank the little old witch who gave you a ride as you step onto the train.

iii.

you are sorted into hufflepuff, and you believe it to be a mistake. your father was a gryffindor, and you ran away, like he did – doesn't that make you brave?

the first friend you make is not a member of your own house, but a sixth year in slytherin with clear green eyes and hair blacker than anything you've ever seen and a smile that cuts like glass. you don't know why she shows you all the secret passages she knows, or secretly helps you in potions, or hexes the gryffindor girl who laughs when it is discovered that you brought no clothes.

you've never had an older sister before, and you think you enjoy it.

iv.

when the death eaters take over the school after dumbledore's death the end of your first year, you don't leave. you do nearly everything you can think of to punish yourself for abandoning mother – you're in hufflepuff, you're supposed to be loyal and kind and fair and not nearly as selfish as you are – but, in the end, you can't bring yourself to go back.

maybe that's punishment enough.

v.

you do not leave with the other second years when the second battle of hogwarts begins either. your slytherin friend doesn't either, but she's on the other side, the one destroying the place you both called home, the one murdering your peers and housemates and friends. you see the body of a girl your year – pretty, short blonde hair, you passed notes in history of magic – strewn across the steps as you rush back into the fray, and you don't know what happens next but you find yourself pointing your wand at a nearby death eater and suddenly he's flying backwards and hitting a column with the most awful noise you've heard and you can't get it out of your head it just repeats over and over and over and-