The Stars on the Staircase

The Mud Blood Club

The castle I once knew as a school begins to feel like a prison for children far too quickly. The deep dark despair that settles in is all consuming. I do my best to help where I can, but it is not enough. It is by absolute accident that I end up having an absurd amount of students frequently using my chambers as a safe place to hide. It starts slowly, I help the odd student heal a wound sustained by a Carrow here and there.

Then the use of the Cruciatus curse begins. I take these poor souls into my bedroom and help them calm down. We talk it through, then I take the memory of the pain away. I will not take the before or the after. I will only remove the memory of excruciating pain. We can't risk taking the rest of it, of them not knowing the cruelty of those around them. They need to be aware and ready for the next possible attack. Those who have been put through this are frequently prone to panic attacks. I give these children a password to my room and they hide there if they need to.

With every student I steal horrible memories from I talk about strategies for avoiding conflict, if applicable. Other times, we talk about senseless cruelty. We talk about what it means to be among those who are needlessly inhumane. How it's alright to be angry that the world has taken this turn and it's okay to be sad. We talk about how to use that energy to protect ourselves from harm. I get them to fuel their grief into the guts behind excellent shields and subtle counter curses.

One by one, a student brings another to see me. After one particularly brutal class I have five muggle born students sitting around my too small sitting room. The absurd amount of cushions on my furniture has become useful as seats on the floor when there are too many children to fit on the furniture.

By the next week there are fifteen from different years all stopping in, between classes, to support each other. I'm far enough up the base ramparts of the astronomy tower that I am out of the way. It means they shouldn't be able to pop in and yet they do. I am also out of the way of the Carrows. We have rules about using a disillusionment charm before approaching my room. I warn them all, this safe space will vanish if the wrong students see them enter or exit.

I have one very frequent visitor; Letisha Tate. She is exceptionally bright, well spoken, and carries herself with uncommon grace. There is a certain posture about her when mixed with her raven hair and long nose that would have suited a pureblood Slytherin. If she had been, she would have ruled them all. Instead, she was a muggle-born Ravenclaw that had been very outspoken about muggle born rights under Dumbledore's reign.

Now, her classmates remembered her for her well crafted speeches on the reduction of muggle born rights that the ministry of magic had been implementing. Letisha would make an excellent politician. In another time. Now, she was a punching bag for purebloods in her year to make an example of.

I had taken three of her memories so far. Her pride was difficult to break, which made them come for her again and again. She often came to see me but refused to have memories taken. Some, she said, would be important for later. I agreed. It is better not to forget who hurt you.

Letisha one day let herself into my office while I was out, and found where I had left on my desk a smattering of jewellery making supplies. She was very taken with what I used to do for a living. When I could, I would teach about my methods and she started making bracelets for everyone who visited my chambers.

They jokingly began calling themselves the mudblood club. Although it was not just muggle borns whose memories I had to steal. Letisha made simple bracelets from flat glass beads in house colours, each one could be enchanted with messages that would appear as bevelled engravings filled with gold on each bead. Every necklace had a gold keystone that signalled where the message would start. They changed when Letisha changed hers but they would only reveal their message when the student said a passphrase while holding their keystone.