Valkyrie

Early November 1978

“You’re not a bad person, Maria-Gabrielle.”

The world comes rushing back to her, suddenly and vividly. She picks at a loose thread in the carpet.

“Do you hear me?”

“I hear you.”

~*~

walking home, feeling numb. Hair whipping into her face, raindrops hitting her forehead.

You’re not a bad person.

What is a bad person, then, if not her?

~*~

“I want to live… I think.”

“Do you?”

“I’m not sure.”

~*~

Maria-Gabrielle tries to kill herself when she’s thirteen.

It all becomes too loud, too dark.

She chases sensations, the feeling of it all. She likes the rush, makes her feel alive.

The same approach makes her feel dead.

There is little she remembers, but she is awake the next morning.

And life goes on.

~*~

Nobody really knows who she is.

Sirius Black tries to kiss her when he is thirteen. She rebukes him, but likes the attention.

She wins an award her first year on the Quidditch team. She flies hard and fast, as though she has something to prove.

People know her, but she has no friends.

She’s never been able to tell what loneliness feels like, perhaps because she’s never known anything else.

Nobody knows what to make of her. She is beautiful from afar but a mess of sinew and bone marrow up close.

~*~

She’s a drummer in a band.

The rhythm of it is soothing, the tap of a heartbeat against her ribs.

Her music is booming and harsh to the ears, it is beautiful.

Perhaps this is part of why she likes the Marauders, those young Gryffindor boys: they appreciate sound.

The sensory experience is unmatched. Even without her drumsticks, she is searching for it everywhere.

~*~

Dumbledore approaches her in seventh year.

He makes a request.

She complies.

Maria-Gabrielle, contrary to popular belief, makes a good soldier.

She can be rude and headstrong, but she takes orders. She can’t lead herself.

But she can kill.

~*~

Somewhere, someday, her mind fractured.

Shards of mirror cascading through the sky, revealing only a glimmer of her reflection.

Life comes to her only through these glimpses, the rest lost to time.

All she knows is fragmented beyond belief.

~*~

The smear of blood on her upper lip.

Alice tosses a chomping cabbage out onto the field, screams echoing around them.

Hiding behind the barrier, hands over her ears.

Dorcas shouts something over her exploding charm.

Her nose is broken and streaming crimson. She likes how it hurts.

Wood goes flying past, splinters soaring through the air like bullets.

Here, in the fight, her mind comes together to mend, the world sharpening back to focus.

Alive. Alive. Alive.

~*~

Alice Fortescue has kind eyes. She likes Alice.

Dorcas Meadowes is strong. She likes Dorcas, too.

She likes a lot of people, whatever “like” means.

To her, it means she sees them in the flashes most.

Alice, mending her leg on the battlefield.

Dorcas, leaping to her defense.

They make a good team.

~*~

“She shouldn’t be fighting.”

“I’m worried about her, Minerva.”

Jabbing the point of her wand into her inner arm until it reaches the bone.

“I thought for a while there that we’d bring her home limp.”

“She’s impulsive and reckless.”

“I don’t think she’s all there, truth be told.”

Blood springs to the forefront. Blood, vivid like sharpness and explosions and all-consuming fury.

“Can you pull her from the lines?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

~*~

Elsie is afraid, she is told.

Gentle sister, little lamb.

In her dreams, the little lamb is covered in blood.

All she sees is blood, everywhere. Dripping, staining, corrupting.

Little lamb, bright future, why do you cry?

The wolf will not hurt you if you do not hurt it.

~*~

“You wanna join, MG?”

“Here, MG, I saved you a spot.”

“C’mere, I’ll do your hair.”

“I’ll show you how to do that maneuver, sure.”

“You’re a good kid, MG. I don’t think we tell you that enough.”

“I’m proud of you.”

Love: a strange feeling she’ll never quite get used to.

Alice and Dorcas: friends.

Unused word, tender as a peach and bringer of sunrise.

~*~

Dad cannot read her mind.

It frustrates him; her unknowability.

She wishes he could tell her what she was thinking, what she felt, if only to put the puzzle together.

There are no pieces, though. There was never a puzzle.

Humpty-Dumpty fell off a wall, but they could never put him back together again.

When did she crack?

~*~

The girls clean her wounds. She does not remember their names.

Inwardly, she has taken to calling them Flower and Angel.

Flower murmurs while she works. It is soothing. Angel works in silence, but is kind.

They try to scrub the blood off her hands.

It is everywhere, seeped into her pores. There is no removing it.

She is made of blood, forever impure.

~*~

Auntie tries to hug her.

Every nerve in her body rejects it immediately.

Auntie does not usually hug. It is wrong, all wrong.

“Are you worried about me?”

“I always am.”

It is strange to know that someone cares about you. Vulnerability, like an exposed nerve.

Her Achilles heel is always love.

~*~

Knives slip into her hands with ease.

The thrill of the kill is more satisfying with a blade.

The wand has never really enticed her.

The squelch of the blood, the groan of the skin, that is the sensation she seeks.

~*~

She doesn’t see Alice much anymore, or Dorcas.

That’s a shame. She likes their company.

They start appearing in her dreams too, when she slits their throats.

~*~

“Maria—what? What are you doing?”

“Can you lock me in this room?”

“Why are your wrists bound?”

“It has no windows.”

“Who did this?”

“No sharp objects, please.”

“What did you do?”

“Not yet, but soon.”

“Come with me. I’m getting Dumbledore.”

“I don’t want to do it.”

“This is unacceptable. He has to understand that.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

“Sorry.”

~*~

Baby girl in the snow, cold air and shaking hands.

Snow is white and searing, sharp and cruel.

Do not plunge into the frozen lake.

It can never be taken back.

Little lamb, do not cry.

I am protecting you.

~*~

“Maria-Gabrielle, can you look at me?”

“…”

“Is it St. Mungo’s, is that where we have to take her?”

“I hope not. Maria?”

Hands squeezing her own. Bright light peels her right to the core.

~*~

James Potter shakes her hand.

Quidditch captain, lovely boy, heart of gold.

Safe with him, the great protector.

He and his men lead like King Arthur, royal heir, Excalibur in hand.

Fighters are good.

They understand the sacrifice.

~*~

Brown skinned hands weaving dandelions.

Warm, pulsating, inevitable sun.

Girl hiding from war, too gentle to fight but too angry to run.

“I’m almost done. It’ll be yours, then.”

No blood, no flesh, no guts. Soft hands, peaceful hands, dangerous hands.

“There we go. Your crown.”

Yellow dust makes it all real and alive.

“My crown?”

“Yeah. You’re a princess, MG. Don’t forget that.”

“Princess.”

~*~

A princess never killed anyone, never held aloft a still beating heart.

Princess weeping salt and red paint.

Trembling, shaking, quavering, shivering.

~*~

Dandelion girl asleep.

Crown makes her glow and dance.

Princess, safe in her castle.

~*~

Alice and Dorcas have no eyes. They do not see her.

Ghostly, invisible, unreal.

Have they ever even existed?

~*~

Fangs dripping the elixir of life.

Soul taker, heart stopper, death purveyor.

~*~

No guilt for the dead. No guilt for the living.

~*~

“I love you, do you know that?”

Little lamb, you have no head. How can you speak?

~*~

Battle makes the mind ring clear as a bell.

Alive, alive, alive.

~*~

Loyal knight, defending her kingdom.

Protect the princess, Angel and Flower. Protect auntie and friends. Protect baby lamb, keep her safe.

Be a good person.

~*~

Fight.

~*~

Dying is the ultimate sensation.

Blood everywhere.

Holding the shard of glass to her face.

Catch a glimpse before it is over.

At the end, her mind comes together for one final second.

I did what I could.

~*~

Forgive me.