Cecille Gaunt
The quiet creak of the wooden floorboards was Cecile’s only warning as her father stormed into the dimly lit room. She shrank back instinctively, the fraying edges of her quilt pulled tight around her small frame. At just seven years old, Cecile Gaunt had already learned that silence was both a shield and a weapon. Her world was narrow and dark, punctuated by the cold whispers of the Gaunt family home—a crumbling shack that reeked of damp stone and bitter resentment.
Marvolo Gaunt’s heavy steps echoed in the silence, each one sending vibrations through Cecile’s chest. His eyes, wild with an anger she had come to expect, flicked over her without a shred of warmth. “Merope!” he bellowed, voice reverberating off the warped walls. “Where’s that useless wench?”
Cecile’s sister, Merope, appeared moments later, her head bowed, hair limp and tangled. “I—I’m here,” Merope stammered, clutching a cracked ceramic bowl to her chest as though it might shield her from their father’s wrath.
Marvolo’s hand struck out, knocking the bowl to the floor. Cecile flinched at the sharp crash, her small hands tightening into fists beneath her quilt. The black veins in her inner elbows itched, but she didn’t dare scratch them.
"Useless," Marvolo spat, his lip curling as his hand hovered menacingly in the air. "Both of you… nothing but weak, pathetic burdens. You’re Gaunts! Heirs to Salazar Slytherin! And yet you—"
He turned his venomous gaze to Cecile. The girl’s small body tensed, though she refused to meet his eyes. "And you," he sneered. "Not even pure."
The words landed like a physical blow. Cecile didn’t fully understand them, but she knew their weight.
Her mother’s absence had been a ghost in her life, rarely mentioned but always felt. The only detail Cecile had overheard—a drunken slip of her father’s tongue—was that her mother’s bloodline was cursed. “Maledictus,” he had hissed, like it was a foul taste in his mouth. Cecile had repeated the word quietly to herself in the dark, not understanding but memorizing it. Cecile had long wondered why her father’s fury toward her sister was mirrored by cold indifference toward her. Marvolo’s rage was sharp and violent, but his apathy stung in its own way. He barely acknowledged her existence, save for the occasional cutting remark about her “weakness” or “impurity.”
The truth of her curse was not yet clear to her. She didn’t understand why her veins sometimes darkened, why her joints ached on humid days, or why she sometimes felt an unnatural pull toward the shadows in the woods beyond their home. All she knew was that she was different, and in the Gaunt household, different was dangerous.
Merope was her only solace. Though timid and broken in her own ways, her sister would stroke Cecile’s dark hair and whisper stories of a world beyond their crumbling walls.
“You’re special, Cecile,” Merope said one night, her voice soft as she traced the faint black lines that had begun to appear at the crook of Cecile’s elbow. “Don’t let him make you feel otherwise."
But Cecile couldn’t reconcile her sister’s words with the shame that burned inside her whenever her father’s eyes landed on her. She felt like an intruder in her own home, a piece of someone else’s story that didn’t fit. The night it all fell apart was like any other. The air in the house was thick with tension, and the distant hoot of an owl provided the only sound as Cecile sat curled in the corner of the kitchen, tracing patterns on the dusty floor with her finger. Outside, the wind howled through the gnarled trees that surrounded their home, the skeletal branches clawing at the windows.
Marvolo was in one of his moods, his anger a palpable force that filled the room. He paced back and forth, muttering about bloodlines and traitors. Merope sat at the table, her hands trembling as she tried to stitch a tear in her dress.
“You’ve disgraced this family long enough,” Marvolo growled, turning on her. “You’re lucky I haven’t cast you out with the rest of the filth.”
Merope flinched but said nothing. Cecile wanted to speak up, to say something—anything—but her voice felt trapped in her throat. She watched helplessly as Marvolo leaned closer to Merope, his hand raised threateningly. The black veins on Cecile’s arms began to pulse faintly, a tingling sensation spreading through her limbs.
When Marvolo grabbed Merope’s wrist, dragging her to her feet, Cecile’s body moved before her mind could catch up. “Stop it!” she cried, her voice shrill and shaking.
Marvolo froze, his head snapping toward her. For a moment, the room was silent, save for the crackling of the fire. Then, with a snarl, he crossed the room in two strides and grabbed Cecile by the arm. His grip was like iron, and she felt the sharp sting of his nails digging into her skin.
“You dare raise your voice to me?” he hissed, his face inches from hers.
Before Cecile could answer, the front door burst open, and a group of Ministry officials spilled into the room, wands drawn. The chaos that followed was a blur—shouted orders, flashes of light, and the shattering of glass as Marvolo lashed out in fury. Cecile’s arm was wrenched free in the commotion, and she stumbled backward, her heart pounding.
As Marvolo's struggles intensified, the sound of shuffling footsteps echoed ominously outside the door. The air was thick with tension as bursts of magic crackled and the door flew open, revealing a squad of officials. Quick as a flash, they descended upon him, their wands drawn, and in that chaotic moment, Merope and Cecile exchanged fearful glances, knowing that their lives were about to change forever.
With Marvolo subdued, the officials turned their attention to the two young women, their expressions unreadable. Cecile's heart raced as she felt the weight of their scrutiny. "Come with us," one of the officials commanded, his voice low and uncompromising. Merope's grip tightened on her dress as they were herded out of the house, the night air biting at their skin.
They were led down the darkened street, the chill wrapping around them like an unwelcome shroud. The shadows stretched and twisted, flickering with the distant glow of the Ministry's lights. As they approached the imposing structure, the once-familiar surroundings faded, replaced by an aura of foreboding. It felt like stepping from one world into another, the heavy doors of the Ministry outpost looming ahead as the possibility of freedom slipped further from their grasp.
Across from them, two Ministry workers watched them carefully. One was an older wizard with graying hair and a deep frown, while the other was younger, his expression softer, more uncertain.
"You understand why you’re here, don’t you?" the older man said, his voice clipped. "Marvolo Gaunt has been arrested for assaulting a Ministry official. We need statements."
Merope swallowed hard. She glanced at Cecile, who kept her eyes on the table, barely breathing. The room felt suffocating.
"We… we knew he wasn’t a good man," Merope admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "But he was our father. We didn’t—"
"Didn’t what?" the man pressed. "Didn’t think to report his abuse? Didn’t consider seeking help?"
Merope’s knuckles turned white. "We couldn’t!" she blurted, her voice cracking. "Do you think we had a choice? He—he would have—" She stopped herself, pressing her lips together as tears welled in her eyes.
Cecile remained silent, shrinking further into herself. She was too young to understand all of it, but she knew fear. She knew the bruises on Merope’s arms, the way their father’s rage could turn even a quiet evening into a nightmare.
One of the Ministry workers shifted, looking uncomfortable. The younger man leaned forward slightly. "You’re safe now. You don’t have to be afraid anymore."
Cecile barely heard him. A dull, throbbing itch had begun to creep up her inner elbows, a slow burn that made her fingers twitch. She scratched at the fabric of her sleeves, rubbing furiously as the sensation grew stronger. Her skin felt like it was pulsing, the veins beneath it aching.
The younger Ministry worker noticed. "Are you alright?" he asked, concern in his voice. "Itching like that—it could be a rash or dry skin. We have salve if you need it."
Merope’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with panic as he reached toward Cecile. "No!" she shrieked, slapping his hand away so violently that he stumbled back. "You can’t touch her! Don’t—don’t pull up her sleeve!"
The room fell into stunned silence.
The older Ministry worker narrowed his eyes. "Why not?" he asked slowly. His gaze flickered to Cecile, who had frozen in place, her hands curled tightly into fists. The sleeve of her too-small shirt had been pulled up just slightly in the scuffle, revealing a glimpse of darkened veins creeping along the pale skin of her inner elbow.
The young Ministry worker’s eyes widened. "That’s—"
"She needs help," Merope said desperately, shaking her head. "Please, she’s just a child—"
The older man was already standing, his expression unreadable. "A Maledictus," he muttered under his breath. "The curse has already begun to take hold."
Merope reached for Cecile, pulling her close, but it was no use. Within minutes, more officials had entered the room, their expressions cold, their hands firm as they wrenched Cecile away. Merope screamed, clawing at them, but they held her back, her cries falling on deaf ears.
"Please! She’s all I have left!" Merope sobbed, struggling against them, but the Ministry had made their decision. The moment Cecile’s curse was exposed, her fate was sealed.
Cecile didn’t fight. She barely even reacted. She simply let herself be taken, her mind spinning as she was dragged away from the only person who had ever truly loved her. The last thing she saw before the heavy doors slammed shut was Merope, crumpled on the floor, screaming her name.
She never saw her sister again.
By the time the carriage came to take her away, Cecile had already stopped crying. The Ministry workers wouldn’t tell her where she was going. They wouldn’t even look at her. But as the wheels rumbled beneath her and the sky darkened overhead, she knew one thing for certain.
She was alone.