Sanguinis et Omnium Fractorum//Sebastian Sallow

Of Magic and Pain

Monday, 19th September 1892

Was there a sound the world made when the glass castle fell? When the turrets fragmented and the foundations crumbled. When the truth she'd clung to for any solace of redemption came crashing to ruin and left her spiraling into freefall.

If there was, Clara couldn't hear it over the steady thrum in her ears. The rush of blood that pounded that steady drumbeat against her veins. Though, even that could not stifle the feeling of the eyes that bore into her skin-watched and waited for her fall. And it was only when she felt the sting and hot trickle of blood against her skin that she realized she'd marked scarlet crescents into her palms.

She made no excuse when she left the classroom. Professor Ronen had asked if she wanted a break, and she supposed that was reason enough-not that it would have mattered.

Clara didn't wait to hear if anyone called out to stop her.

She didn't look back to see if anyone had followed.

If there was anyone left to care when she sliced her feet on the shards of her fantasy and left crimson through the wreckage.

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There was nothing gentle in how she threw the Map Chamber door open-nothing comforting in the crash of metal on stone.

There'd been a time she'd held reverence for this place. When she'd brushed footsteps through the mist and gazed through stardust at the world, they had shown her. A time it had caressed the edges of her daydreams and spoke of a purpose beyond the shambles of her destruction. An answer to the question of who she was and reason to the unexplained bursts of energy that had not once shown her a Hogwarts letter, until that day when she'd been fifteen, and those men had cornered her in an alley.

There'd been a time she'd thought she'd found her place in this room.

When the waning glimpses of her naivety had pushed past the demands of the Keepers, the Ministry, her Mentors, everyone. It had wrapped the lies in pretty paper and whispered that people were more apt to help her than use her.

But whatever naivety she'd still clung to-the smallest of threads held between fingers tight enough to feel the fractures in her bones and bruise the places she refused to let go-had snapped with the revelation of their deception.

The portraits were empty. They had been since the end of Fifth year. When Ranrock had been defeated, and Sebastian had gone. She'd rushed down, determined to renew her training, to reassure herself that it hadn't all been for naught, only to find herself abandoned again.

She'd called out to them all of Sixth year. Beat her fists against the empty frames until the skin on her knuckles cracked and bled. Until the stardust lost its luster, and the map became no more than a reminder of the crimson stains she'd left over the highlands.

"PERCIVAL!" Not Professor, not even Rakham. She was done offering them the respect that came with the title.

It wasn't a shout,

It wasn't even a scream.

More inhuman than anything.

So often, it had been her fear that called the ancient magic to her. Fear that had seen the magic use her body as a conduit for its power until the threat was deemed neutralized and Clara was left weak and shaking. She'd collapsed more than once when it came to their trials. Woken after her battles with the guardians, cracked heavy eyes through the layers of dust and swallowed the sour that lingered on her tongue to stumble through the wreckage and claim the memory she'd given so much of herself to obtain. Fear had called the magic over and over until she'd tried to fight past the verge of collapse in the repository. When it had taken too much from her and, consciousness had fled to the depths of her mind for weeks to escape the onslaught.