❛ Potter Pure-Blood: Tradition ❜

Legal Tradition❜

Disclaimer I do not own Harry Potter' Universe, but what I do own is what you are about to see.

Genre Angst Fantasy Trauma Drama Fame

Warnings Trigger Warning. This story is not what you think. This story deals with realistic trauma, heavy cursing, and mental Illnesses such as anger issues, HOCD, and child behavioral issues. Proceed cautiously.

Author's Note This kind of Potter may surprise you. As will this story. This series will stray so far away from canon you'd hardly recognize the intended atmosphere of it. Because this story does not follow any canon character. But eventually, the characters will be connected later down the series. Even so be warned, I have no intentions of following the books. You can't write a story and add a drastic change to the original plot - say a whole character close to canon characters - and completely ignore the astronomical rules of the butterfly effect. Tired of seeing it, so here's my take.

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Chapter One

Legal Tradition

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          "Just close your eyes for me and try to take deep breaths."

          I bounced my leg anxiously. One hand was tightly gripping the arm rest of the couch and the other was a balled fist resting in my lap. My knuckles had turned white from the pressure. And as much as doing so hurt my hands, It was the only way for me to show the restraint that my foster mother had warned me to conjure from thin air. Sadly, my head was hurting today. And my patience was wearing thin.

          But Anne had begged me to behave this time.

         After all, It was only one agonizing hour a week. That's what I'd told myself to make it seem a little more tolerable than it actually was. Yet, when I walked into that room and sat on that leather black couch I felt like I'd lose my mind. I tried to note the good things about it, at least. The green apple incense in my nose and the sound of Ray Charles playing on low volume in the background was nice. But it proved to never be enough and my mind always turned to the negative sides of the positives. The incense made the room smokey and Ray Charles was a filthy muggle. In my defense, my therapist was an absolute lunatic and she made me feel this way.

I hated her.

She shook the ice in her glass and brought the cup to her ruby red lips, taking a long sip as though it had been years since she'd last drank water. I squeezed the arm rest and tried not to focus on her beady black eyes that never left me.

"Aurora," she spoke again in her posh british accent, sounding as though she were trying to keep her composure. "We won't get anywhere if you don't cooperate with me."

It was best that I'd stay silent than say what I was thinking.

"I'm only trying to help you," she continued. I scoffed softly, averting my eyes from her and instead looking at the squared patterns of the floor. "There's nothing for you to be afraid of."

"Like hell you are," I muttered bitterly, voice cracking a little. Her assumption that I was scared of her stunned me. My eyes narrowed with a bit of hurt pride. She was nothing but an ignorant muggle that was nowhere but below me. I shuttered as I imagined the other pureblood children being present to hear such a degrading comment from such filth. Nobody would ever hear the end of it. "As if I'd be scared of you. You don't have a clue of what I can do."