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( do not cry. do not hope. do not cry. )
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❛ all i did was bleed as i tried to be the bravest soldier ❜
SALEM STERLING WAS A WOLF IN SHEEP'S clothing. A snake amongst a herd of lions. A stain of iniquity. A disgrace to the lineage of Sterlings that were bred and born before her.
But she loved it.
It was boring to be like everyone else — to be a repeat of yet another Sterling placed in Gryffindor; the home of courage and bravery and everything else they stood for. Salem, however, opted for a different path. One of cunningness and deceit and ambition.
Or, the more common view, wickedness.
It was unexpected to say the least — a mere, eleven year old who'd been embellished with crimson accents from her meek age and adorned with the emblem of Godric Gryffindor. Her father had been a proud Gryffindor, her mother too, and Marlow Sterling had — of course — been sorted into the house of chivalry two years prior. It was an expectation of Salem and she ( stunningly enough ) had failed. The Sorting Hat's mouth split into two and announced the latest sorting of another Sterling child: Slytherin.
And from then on, Salem's ostracisation only blossomed more tragically so.
Not from her house, per se, but more from those she'd deemed close to her. Slytherin had opened Salem with open arms — another Pureblood witch to grace their prestigious house, and Salem slipped in perfectly — like a hand into a glove. Right down to the emerald garnishing on her robes and the hint of artfulness in the azure irises of her's that seemed to grow with every, waking moment.
