𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑

the letter and the fall

“you're losing my interest,
and that's a very dangerous thing.”

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

brave, not stupid.

•

MEREDITH'S HAPPINESS DIED as soon as it had begun, for the very next day, two horrible things happened. Slughorn approached her after a very challenging Potions class and said, "I'm sorry, my dear," and she knew Dumbledore hadn't bent the first year rule for her. She knew he wouldn't, yet she hoped Slughorn would be able to, at least. But he wasn't. Dumbledore had declined the proposition without a second thought. It's all because she was a Slytherin, she believed with contempt. "That's alright, Professor," she had smiled charmingly—an art Lucius Malfoy had told her to master—"I'm sure the team is great. Been winning for twelve years straight now, haven't they? I'll be on the team first thing next year, I promise."

Slughorn had looked wary and sad but managed to give her a reassuring pat on her shoulders before he dismissed her to go for lunch. That's where the second bad thing had happened. A tawny, ruffled barn owl had stopped low before her and almost dropped a letter into her bowl of soup, which she promptly caught and turned her furious glance at the Gryffindor table. The owl had delivered another mail that day, to James Potter, along with a parcel of goodies, that he showed off happily to his new friends. He caught her eyes and a cold smirk etched on his face looking at the letter in her hands. "Go on!" He had shouted over the tables. "Open it then!"

She blew a stray lock of hair from her face before turning around to open the letter.

Meredith,

When we received James's letter, we had expected one from you too. But it hadn't arrived. James had himself informed us of your sorting into Slytherin. Disappointed doesn't even cover it. We had expected you to be able to repress your dark magic, but instead you had indulged in it, cultivated it and let it grow. You deceived us more than once and your adamancy and stubbornness led to your father succumbing to his poor drinking habits. You left a hole in the family Meredith and there's nothing that can be done to fill the gap.
However, you are my daughter just as much as James is my son, even if you broke the long standing line of pure Gryffindors. You are my daughter, no matter where you are, therefore, I shall attempt to accept this truth. This is the reality after all. It has broken my heart, as well as your father's, but I believe we expected to much from you. Sometimes we expect more from others because we're willing to do just as much for them. It was wrong of us to have believed you'd want to suppress it, for power is an ugly monster, and you believed your magic is your power.
But Meredith, you are sick. That is the truth. And you must accept that. It's not too late— of course some damage has already been done, but if you just listen, and try to conform, maybe further damages can be avoided.
Your father doesn't wish to speak to you yet.

Euphemia Potter.

Meredith had to reread the letter a few times just to ensure it was really her mother who wrote it. Her sweet, old, chubby mother who fed her just too many sweets, bought her an excess of everything, loved her just a little too much, her mother who used to brush her hair and braid them with flowers. Then she crumpled the letter and shoved it in her bag, into the deep corners where ink spilled, where her tears didn't spill.

Just Euphemia Potter. Not yours, or lovingly, or dearly. Just Euphemia Potter.

Her appetite was gone but she refused to let something as trivial as her family's prejudices get in the way of her having a lovely meal. So she ate, her fork stabbing the beef a little to angrily and her knife making an awful scratching sound against her plate.