The House of Hawke has been called the traitorous, filthy and scum house the entire time that name was known to the living.
Past or future, one would accompany it with the adjective "Horrifying".
It was a matter of grief for the youngest daughter...
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Sterling, Scotland, 1977 June 17th, Warm loo
Morning bled into evening and evening into the night. I was in the mansion, at last.
And it was mayhap the first time in my entire life when I've not wanted to be here. Even when my mother was alive, even when she lived here, with me and my grandfather and Ella, I wanted to be nowhere other than here.
Now, I wanted to be gone.
I wanted to run.
It was midnight by the time the first sign of sleep invaded my senses. My eyes blurred from where I was gazing absently at a certain spot on my grey walls. My head heavied and my eyelids felt pressured.
But still, I could not sleep. It was June. In July, a month or so from now, I would no longer be in Beauxbatons.
I knew that I'd promised myself never to cry again, but I felt as if this was the closest I'd come to doing it since my mother's death.
In September, I'd be in Hogwarts. Ella still did not know of this. Her break would begin on June twentieth and she'd go to her father's, not here.
I haven't seen her in like – ever. Perhaps last year when we met for Christmas. Even then, it had been short. She'd bought her friends with her to the mansion, and I'd felt as if she'd not really wanted to. As if she wanted them anywhere but near me.
And when one of them had asked her if I was Essex's daughter, the one she'd tried to murder – if I had her psychosis, too – she'd left with them not long after.
I'd felt horrible. But not for the fact they'd practically asked if I was mental or not, but for the fact that she was . . . somewhat ashamed of me.
It was a feeling I was all too well familiar with and it bugged me. It bugged me so much, I wondered what her reaction would be when I'd waltz into the halls of Hogwarts. Her eyes would practically bulge out.
And then what? Was I a fool to think she wouldn't hate me for not telling her? A part of me traitorously believed it would only be for she would have herself convinced she could change my grandfather's mind.
But no one could change my grandfather's mind. Not even Ella whom he adored. He adored me too, of course. But our relationship was a lot different than his and Ella's.
She'd lived here while mother did, too. With me and grandfather. He'd played with her, had pushed the swing she hummed and shrieked sitting on it, basking under the sun, in the wind and had looked at her with a sort of expression he'd never looked at me with. It was affection.
With me, he was always competent. Either playing a game of chess or making me answer his riddles. There was always another sort of gleam in his eyes with me, a sort that made me think that was the only thing I'd ever be to him. A rival. Perhaps not even a rival, a plaything, a pastime.
