I don't know you
But I want you
All the more for that
Words fall through me
And always fool me
And I can't react
And games that never amount
To more than they're meant
Will play themselves out.
Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you have a choice
You'll make it now.
-Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova
“Good morning, Cedrella.”
“Good morning, Charis. You’re up early.”
“Of course I am, you goon. Quidditch practice.”
“Since when can you play Quidditch?”
Charis actually laughed. “Since never. How would I learn? I’m watching the Slytherin practice. Didn’t you hear Captain Nott’s announcement last week? He wants students to come and watch, to give the team encouragement. Slytherin students, of course. Mattie and I are going.”
“Well, don’t expect me to keep up with your social life. Have a good time.” Cedrella watched slightly wistfully as her sister pocketed some toast, waved, and headed out of the hall. She had no interest in Quidditch, of course, except that Slytherin won. But it would have been nice to have somewhere to go, somewhere to be. The conversation she had just had with her sister, however brief, was the most use her vocal chords had had in four days. Four days ago, she and Charis ate lunch together and wrote a letter to Callidora, and the biggest plan Cedrella had for today was to go up to the Owlery that night to post it. Admittedly, she was excited about this. But she could not help but think that her lack of interaction with human beings was a little depressing (even if she did find most human beings completely intolerable). Cedrella rose from the table, reminding herself that she wanted to be invisible, and left the Great Hall.
It was a chilly Saturday morning in October, and Cedrella was very conscious of the fact that one of her precious months at school had already come and gone.
Time passed quickly at Hogwarts, and Cedrella knew it was because there was so much to do and so little time. Thinking about this, Cedrella quickened her step as the climbed first one staircase, then another, on her way to the library.
It was completely deserted”nobody wanted to work on a Saturday morning”except for the librarian, Madam Figg, who was so old that Cedrella often worried she might simply drop dead while shelving books. Most students thought Madam Figg had completely gone round the twist, and Cedrella tended to agree with them. However, she harbored a certain fondness for the librarian, who had helped her find so many books and obscure documents, especially this year, and never asked any questions.
“Back again, Miss Black?” she warbled now.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Can I help you get anything, dear?”
“No, thank you, I’m still working on those articles from last week.”
The librarian gave a watery chuckle that sounded more like a bleat. “You certainly are dedicated, my girl. Reminds me of a student I had several years ago, name of Dumdermore”no, no it was Bumbledore… no…” She wandered off, muttering, and Cedrella settled herself at her table in the corner of the library for a productive Saturday of research.
Charis came to drag her out of the library for dinner, as she sometimes did when she didn’t forget. Cedrella sat by her sister and her sister’s friends, eating a shepherd’s pie and ignoring their inane chatter, and then took her books back to the Slytherin common room. A fair number of people were working now, especially the older students, and Cedrella got out her potions notes and started that weekend’s essay. The common room was not her favorite place to work”she had to be constantly on her guard, and the light was peculiar and green. But even in the common room, people left her alone, except for a pair of fifth years who approached her shyly and asked for help on their Arithmancy homework, and Cedrella didn’t mind helping them at all.
It was several hours before Cedrella straightened up at last from her work, working out a kink in her neck with one hand. It was very late; the greenish light that usually filtered into the common room had all but disappeared, and the only light came from a single blue lamp over the staircases and a few low burning candles belonging to her and a few other N.E.W.T students, still up and working.
Cedrella packed up her book bag neatly, looking around her carefully. Rodney Selwyn had fallen asleep on his Transfiguration book, his mouth open and snoring. She smirked slightly. He looked, for once, like the idiot he was. Over by the unlit fireplace, two sixth year boys bent over a single candle, immersed in their books. They weren’t paying any attention to her. Cedrella stretched her neck one last time, and tiptoed silently out of the door and into the dark castle.
Cedrella was not a rule breaker. She was a prefect, and a perfect daughter, Slytherin, and student. It was no secret that she prided herself on this fact. But Cedrella allowed herself one rare indulgence into the place in her thoughts she had labeled “wrong stuff,” and tonight was a night for it. Tonight she would see her friends.
It was with a strange resignation, then, that Cedrella climbed the steps to the Owlery. She knew what horrible trouble she would be in if she were found skulking about the castle at night, for even prefects had to be back in their common rooms by eleven. But no matter how well she knew it, or felt it heavy in her chest as she walked, neither could she stop and turn back. She had allowed herself the trip, now she was compelled to reach her goal. Each step was taken with equal excitement and dread. Excitement, because she had not spoken to the owls, or felt the night air on her cheeks, for two weeks. Dread, because if anyone found out… the night-time wanderings would only be half of it. If the news got out that Cedrella Black considered her closest friends to be owls, her spotless reputation would be ruined. She had never told anyone, not even Charis, about the owls. People were untrustworthy, she knew. It was just their nature.
But the birds could not tell her secret, could not be untrustworthy. The spoke only to her, in their subtle language of clicks, feathers, and large amber eyes. Besides for the camaraderie, that was what Cedrella loved most about the owls. They were safe. With them, all her secrets, all her woes, were kept with perfect confidence.
Cedrella opened the heavy wooden door at last, a rare smile gracing her porcelain face. Cold, fragrant night air met her nose, mixed with the scents of straw and feathers. She stood in the doorway, gazing around at them all. Browns, Barns, Tawnys, Eagles, Screech, and a few Snowys. Many of the perches were empty; the owls were out for nighttime hunting trips. The ones still here were alert, fluttering from perch to perch and picking at the remains of mice in the hay on the ground. Wings rustled, beaks clicked, and the owls called to one another with low hoots. Their eyes glittered in the moonlight, looking to Cedrella like precious jewels.
“Mila?” she called softly, spotting one of her favorite school owls, perched high up in the tower.
The bird replied with a low hoot, turning her head towards Cedrella. She cooed back in response, holding out an arm as an invitation. Mila’s golden wings were illuminated in a flash of moonlight streaming through the window, and Cedrella smiled. And then, as the owl’s soft weight landed on her wrist, she gasped.
There was someone sitting on the floor under the window, so immersed in shadow that she had not noticed him at first.
They stared at one another, Cedrella frantically trying to discern who he was through the dimness”not a Slytherin who had spoiled her evening, surely not a Slytherin”and then she realized with a start that he was crying, or had been. His eyes were puffy, and as he turned to look at her she saw a tear still glistening like a single diamond on his face.
Cedrella immediately felt regret mix with her alarm. This boy had not stolen her evening; she had intruded upon his. Mila, still perched on her arm, hooted inquiringly, clearly curious about Cedrella’s sudden anxiety.
“Hush,” she said as softly as she could, stroking the golden feathers. The owl called again, louder. Highly intelligent though they may be, owls weren’t keen on letting her order them around.
Cedrella still stared at the boy, and he at her. She wondered if he knew who she was. She wondered if she should just leave, now. Would he spread this odd story around the school, or would he just think the whole thing had been a strange dream? Her jaw tightened. Best not risk it. But how could she get him to keep silent?
Through her fear, Cedrella was ridiculously curious, though she knew the dangerous consequences of curiosity. Who was he? What was he doing here? And why was a grown boy, her age at least, crying alone? She felt an odd urge to comfort him, and urge she had never felt before except towards Charis. And this was a completely different situation”Charis was family, not to mention young and sensitive”whereas this was a grown boy, and a stranger, potentially dangerous.
And yet… “I’m sorry,” Cedrella murmured at last. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
The boy did not move. He kept staring at her. Then in a very hoarse voice, he managed, “No”no, not at all. Don’t worry.”
Cedrella nodded curtly. Leave! her brain screamed at her. Stay, stay, the owls seemed to call. Stay, please stay, something in the boy’s red-rimmed eyes seemed to call.
She stepped towards him.
“Are you all right?” she asked, hesitantly.
He turned his head, continuing to stare at her as walked. “Umm. Yes?”
Why was he staring at her? Was he sick? Come to think of it, at this angle with the moonlight on his face, he did look rather feverish. She did not know what made her do it, what strange influence was acting over her perfect self-control. Perhaps it was the owls”was it her imagination, or had they all stopped their various pursuits to stare at her, just like the boy, calling her closer?
Cautiously, Cedrella knelt on the cold, straw strewn stone and pressed a hand to the boy’s forehead. She’d been wrong”he wasn’t feverish, he was ice cold. She was puzzled for a moment. Why would that be? Was there an illness that lowered body temperature? Then there was a soft swoop of wings, a quiet screech, and an owl she recognized but did not know by name landed beside her, proffering a bit of parchment in his beak.
“What have you got for me, my friend?” she murmured, reaching to take the paper from the handsome tawny. But as her fingers touched it, the boy’s hand knocked it away.
“Merlin, Mathias, that’s mine,” he mumbled. His voice was raw, hardly intelligible.
The owl screech disapprovingly, then turned to look at Cedrella. She could read a plea in his yellow eyes.
Cedrella looked back at the boy. Her eyes had adjusted to the light and she could see now that his lips looked a little blue. Well, she didn’t want him to die of hypothermia or something. He obviously wasn’t thinking clearly. She drew off the heavy cloak she wore and wrapped it around his shoulders, tucking the fur hood around his head with shaking fingers.
He looked vaguely surprised. “Th-thanks,” he croaked. Then he shivered.
Cedrella frowned. “How long have you been up here?”
The boy shrugged. “Few hours.”
The owl, still nearby, gave a trilling cry. It reminded Cedrella of the shrieks of the post owls at breakfast. A greeting, she had always thought, to the sun.
She turned back to the crying boy. “Since this morning?”
He blinked confusedly. “I s-suppose…yes. How did you know?”
Cedrella didn’t know how she knew, and she didn’t want to think about it, either. “Never mind,” she said quickly. “It doesn’t matter. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I”yeah, I’m f-fine…” but more tears trickled out of his eyes as he said it. He hid his face in his hands.
Cedrella traded a look with the owl. He seemed concerned. She reached into her pocket and pressed her handkerchief into the boy’s hands, sitting down beside him on the stone floor as she did so. He dabbed roughly at his eyes with the handkerchief, but the tears only came faster. Cedrella’s heart was pounding. She ought to leave, and she ought to leave now. But she just couldn’t, she couldn’t leave him here. Not now. Her chance was already past. It’s night, she told herself sternly. Nobody will know I was ever here.
She put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t cry,” she pleaded. “You’ll be all right. It’s all right, I promise.”
He nodded, still weeping. Cedrella was the one staring now. She had never seen anyone but very small children cry like this, and certainly not a grown boy. The owl fluttered anxiously and perched on her knee. She reached up and let him nip her finger, assurance that she would not leave. For Cedrella felt suddenly reckless. She was already breaking curfew, out in the castle at night in the Owlery of all places. What was the harm in comforting a strange boy?
She continued patting his shoulder, gently, hoping her body heat and the cloak would warm him up. Up here since this morning! No wonder he was cold. He wore only a cotton shirt, and it was practically open air in the Owlery. And it was a particularly cold October, in the mountains no less. At last, the boy stopped crying.
They sat in silence for a while, and then the boy said, “thanks, Cedrella.”
Cedrella jumped. She had no idea who this boy was, and she had assumed it was mutual. This had been such a terrible idea. Why was she so reckless and stupid? He could tell any number of incriminating stories on her now. But she concealed her panic.
“I”have we met before?” she asked carefully, dreading the answer.
“No,” he said. “You probably know of me though. Everyone has heard of the Weasleys, just like everyone has heard of the Blacks.”
Cedrella stiffened. This was what curiosity got her. A Weasely! Merlin and Salazar, this was not good. Blood traitors, that what her father always said.
One look at the boy’s face melted her. Was she really going to leave now, just because she knew his name? Why did it even matter at this point? As long as he never mentioned this…
“So, Septimus then, right?” she asked at last. She knew only the seventh Weasley brother was left at Hogwarts. He nodded. The owl hooted softly, and brushed Cedrella’s hand with his wing. She clucked softly. “I told you I wasn’t going anywhere, young man.” He twittered at her. She poked him.
“Mathias seems to like you,” the boy, Septimus Weasley, observed.
Cedrella turned back to him, stiff all over again. How could she have forgotten he was right there? This was getting riskier by the minute.
But for the first time, there was a hint of a smile on his lips. He did not look alarmed or even suspicious.
“I”yes,” Cedrella said, slightly disarmed. “Yes, I like him too. He’s a very kind bird. Is he yours?” The boy nodded. “You’re lucky,” Cedrella told him. “I’ve hoped for a long time for an owl half as perceptive and intelligent as Mathias.”
He smiled bitterly. “I suppose.” It sounded like there was more he wanted to add. “Here,” he said, offering her the crumpled handkerchief. “Thanks.”
Cedrella hesitated. She didn’t really want to touch that. “You keep it,” she said. “You need it more than me.”
Septimus Weasely sighed heavily. “Yeah.”
Silence fell between them. Half of her mind, the responsible half, was wondering what the consequences of this rash encounter would be. The rest of her still burned with curiosity as to why the youngest Weasley had been sitting crying in the Owlery all day. She also wondered what he thought of her, what conclusions he was drawing as to why a Black would be sitting with him in the dark tower, talking to his owl. She couldn’t help but hope he was too miserable to think about that too much.
“You should get back to your dormitory,’ she said eventually. “Find a fireplace or something. It isn’t getting any warmer up here.”
He nodded slowly, then looked up at her. “Thanks again for the cloak. I am much warmer.”
“You’re very welcome.”
“I should get back,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Got to pack.”
“Are you running away or something?” Cedrella asked in surprise. It seemed the sort of thing for a hotheaded Weasley to do.
He made a strange sound, like he was trying to laugh. “No. I’m going home for a while. I have to… There’s a… funeral.” He swallowed. “My father died last night.”
“Oh,” Cedrella said, very softly. “I’m so sorry.” It seemed like a completely inadequate thing to say.
“Yeah,” Septimus said, his voice a whisper. “Me, too.”
Now she understood why he had been crying, and yet she did not. Aside from the fact that Black women did not cry, she could not fathom the grief that spelled itself so plainly across the Weasley’s features. He was obviously devastated, for she could see the pain that flickered across his pale face when he spoke. But Cedrella herself could not imagine a death that would leave her so raw even on the inside… let alone letting it hang out for all to see. Perhaps if it were Charis, but definitely not her father. He was old and cold and, in Cedrella’s opinion, could spend all his time in his study, counting up his wealth. As long as she was nowhere near him.
So it was an odd thing, the way this blood traitor boy’s grief seemed to pierce Cedrella in the same way as the amber eyes of the owls. It was a different kind of feeling, less joyful and more sorrowful, but it had the same quality. Acute, almost uncomfortable because it certainly wasn’t allowed, this too-poignant ache in her chest. Cedrella bit her lip as the feeling filled her up, her heart pounding strangely as she looked at the boy. They sat there, the silence stretching on, but it was not an uncomfortable silence. It was companionable, each of them immersed in their own thoughts.
It was only when a faint bluish light, fuzzy but still definite, began creeping over the windowsill that Cedrella realized how long they had been sitting there. She rose, slightly stiffly, brushing off the skirt of her robes. “It’s nearly morning,” she told the crying boy, Septimus Weasley. “We ought to go.” Unthinkingly, she offered him her hand, which he took, and pulled himself to his feet. As soon as he was standing she recoiled from the contact, shocked at herself. They stood in the half-light, staring at one another for another long minute. Cedrella felt as though she were waking up from a long, strange dream. Wordlessly, Septimus Weasley unfastened her cloak from around his neck and handed it to her. She put it on.
“Good luck at home,” she said.
“Thanks,” he replied.
Cedrella hesitated once more. She felt strange and punch-drunk; this night had completely drowned her common sense. But he mustn’t tell, he mustn’t…
“I won’t say anything,” he said hoarsely, correctly interpreting her frown.
She jumped. Was she so easy to read? She would have to work on that…
Septimus interrupted her train of thought by reaching out and brushing her hand with his for the tiniest of seconds. Then he turned and walked away.
Cedrella stood, rooted to the spot, watching his back retreat down the steps. Her hand where he had touched her burned, sending a strange feeling up here arm. After a moment she shook it firmly, jerked up her head, and marched out of the Owlery, her footsteps purposeful and measured, her face still and expressionless as if it had been carved from marble.
Soldiers by dominiqueweasley
Chapter Notes: Cedrella meets two new faces, and makes a dangerous choice.The song lyrics are from the heartbreaking and beautiful movie Once. Everything else is Jo's.