Valkyrie

April 1979

There are two things Emmeline Vance does when she’s anxious: fly and play the piano.

Right now, she can’t do either one, because she’s pressed up against her boyfriend in a sweaty muggle bar, listening to shitty music and watching her boyfriend flirt with pretty muggle girls with blonde hair and bright bellbottoms who giggle drunkenly at his stupid pickup lines.

Emmeline thinks about hexing his balls off, but that would be too noticeable here.

She nudges past him, her vision blurry and crooked, pushing past dancing girls, trying to ignore the pounding music causing pounding in her brain. It’s only once she explodes out onto the street, among the smokers, that she can finally gasp a lungful of clean air.

Resting her head on the brick wall, Emmeline considers the consequences of just up and leaving Tiberius here. Would he notice, even? Lately, he has told her she’s “just not that interesting to him anymore”. What does that even mean? Usually, she’d probably cry about it, but she feels sort of worn out, like an old blanket. She hates muggle bars, and she hates dancing and alcohol, and she hates how Tiberius makes her feel sometimes.

Emmeline kind of wants to apparate to Hogwarts to see Jude and Casey, even just for a night, to know they’re okay. Mom and Dad are probably asleep – merlin, it’s late – and Emmeline just feels small and alone and has a really, really bad headache.

Glancing back at the bar, she sighs and starts trudging away in her stupid heels that Tiberius made her get, heading off to a dark alleyway to apparate home.

Van got back a few days ago from a botched mission. Apparently, she and Alice Longbottom had taken off together and finally made their way back home out of some supposedly magic-proof forests, while there hasn’t been any news about Marlene and Dorcas Meadowes. Emma’s been a little shaken, admittedly, and so the boys have been sleeping over at the apartment ever since.

Predictably, when Emmeline turns the keys in the lock, it’s Benjy sitting out on the couch, reading a book.

“Huh, didn’t know you could read.” Emmeline says, whistling playfully. Benjy rolls his eyes at her, but hesitates, eyes flicking up and down her strange outfit, the stupid heels in her hand.

“Where’s Tiberius? What are you wearing?”

“Muggle clubbing.” Emmeline sets the heels down on the small table, runs a hand through her hair as though to rid herself of the bar. “Not my scene.”

“Hm. Well, I could have told you that, saved you the trouble.”

“Can’t save somebody from themselves, Benj.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Benjy watches her quietly as she pours herself a glass of water, pressing the cool surface to her forehead with a sigh. “I think you should break up with him, Em.”

Emmeline’s eyes snap open, fixing on Benjy’s earnest expression. “I know,” is what she settles on saying, instead of all the obvious things: if I let him go, how can I even know somebody else will choose me, how do I know anyone else could love me? Yes, he treats me badly, but shouldn’t I be lucky he even notices me?

“Come sit.” Benjy pats the cushion next to him, and Emmeline obeys, pressing up against his shoulder. Up close, he smells like pine, and his presence is warm and comforting. She thinks suddenly of Tiberius in the club, sweaty and hot, and shivers, shoulders shaking.

“You can’t save somebody from themselves, Em.”

Emmeline reaches to run her hand soothingly across the yarn of his sweater, feeling it beneath the pads of her fingers, trying to slow the stuttering of her breath. “Yeah.”

“You deserve a lot better. You know that, and I know that. Can you hear me?”

Her fingers twitch and dance across his arm. “Yeah.”

Benjy sighs softly. “You’re not fully here right now, are you?”

Emmeline shakes her head, trying to focus on the strands beneath her hand, the fuzz of the fraying yarn.

“Okay. That’s okay. We’ll just sit for a while.”

The arm shifts under her grasp; Benjy offering her his palm. She traces the lines, feels the roughness of his calluses. She knows his hands, has spent years familiarizing herself with them in these moments, where her vision narrows into one point and her body starts to shake and every thought in her brain starts racing at once, and the only thing she can do is focus on something physical and tangible.

Slowly, the darkness starts to recede from the world, bleeding out until she can see the colours around her again. Her hand flexes, joints popping, and she lifts her head forward again.

“Welcome back.”

“Thanks, Benj.” Emmeline whispers, leaning to nestle her head into the crook of his shoulder. His hand reaches up, absently stroking her hair.

“I mean it, though. You put yourself first this time, okay?”

“I can do that.”

“Good.”

“Where’s Caradoc?”

Benjy’s voice softens, like it does whenever Caradoc comes up. “He went home for the evening. Made dinner, though, there’s a plate for you in the fridge.”

“Is he okay?”

“You know how he is. He needs his space.”

Emmeline smiles to herself. “I can’t believe I was ever jealous of him back at school.”

“Don’t tell him you said that. He’ll be insufferable.”

“I won’t, trust me.”

Benjy’s body tenses suddenly, and he leans over to kiss her hair. “You should go to bed, Em. I’ll be out here.”

Emmeline straightens up, investigates his face, strained suddenly with the effort of holding back a vision. “You’re a good man, Benjy Fenwick."

A smile flickers across his lips, but freezes as a glossy look crosses his eyes, pulling him away from the world of now. She never watches him in these moments; it feels too personal.

Instead, she pads down the hall, pausing to peek into both Hestia and Van’s rooms. Once she sees that they’re both asleep, it gives her the ability to go into her bed and finally let go for the night.

~*~

There is a black hole in Emmeline’s chest. Something missing, something stolen, something irretrievable. What it is, she doesn’t know, but she feels the lack, a piece of her removed and gone forever.

The world becomes something of a blur. Memories grow fuzzy, inaccessible, lingering just outside her reach. Sometimes, there is the shadow of a moment, a silhouette of who she must have been, but it vanishes before she can get to it. Emmeline exists in a void, where all she knows is the current moment, who she is now. The rest is lost to time.

The last two years, Emmeline stopped existing. That’s the only way to explain the fog that has lifted over her eyes, obscuring everything from view. She doesn’t remember that last train ride to Hogwarts, her final year there. Maybe it’s the war, keeping everything at the periphery of her vision. It is alarming, to feel so incomplete.

What’s worse is that Emmeline should remember. She remembers everything she’s ever read, certainly. An eidetic memory, she is told. Her father had beamed with pride: my daughter, the genius. She can recite wizard and muggle texts alike: Beedle the Bard to Geoffrey Chaucer. It is her own life that constantly eludes her.

How alarming is it to think that the one thing she should be able to rely on continually fails her these days? That waking up and not remembering the days before has become normal, that the mist over the world started once and never quite stopped?

Emmeline has to get used to a lot of things.

~*~

It is easy to be stable for her family.

Emmeline learned a long time ago that anxiety does little to solve problems. It is second nature to shove the feelings down, bury them in a box, so she can hold up the people she loves. Jude and Casey and Caradoc and Benjy and Van and Hestia and her parents, balancing on Emmeline’s narrow shoulders. If she slips, they slip too. She can’t let that happen, ever.

Benjy knows, and Hestia too. They’re the only ones who can really slow her down, take her trembling hands into their own and let her rest for a moment. But they don’t understand the panic, the way a pause or a look can send her into a frenzy. Do you love me? Do you want me around?

Maybe it would be better to point at an event in her life, to say “here, that’s why I’m so messed up, here’s why people don’t stick around for me”. That isn’t true, though. There is something flawed in Emmeline’s body, and she must constantly work to make sure it doesn’t show.

~*~

There are a number of people Emmeline has had crushes on.

Benjy Fenwick, that first train ride, when he came into her empty compartment, threw himself down on the seat and began peppering her with questions. What was it, the sense of recognition when she looked at him? Maybe the dimples, the crease between his eyebrows when he squinted to read because he refused to concede and get glasses. Maybe the way he just seemed so comfortable with her all at once, arm around her shoulders, offering his hand to ground her, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Emmeline, eleven, never thought her heart could beat faster in her chest.

It could never be Benjy, though. Not in the face of Caradoc Dearborn; stoic, dark, tall. Benjy and Caradoc, sewn together from the same fabric, one person in two bodies. Benjy loved her, certainly, but he could never be in love with her, not so long as Caradoc existed. And that was fine. There’s no protesting when two people are simply so right for each other.

Hestia Jones, sitting next to her in Potions third year, eyes like liquid honey and a gentle smile. There is no better person in this world than Hestia Jones. Emmeline doesn’t understand how everybody is not in love with Hestia Jones, at least just a little bit, on a fundamental level. How could the tinkling of Hestia’s laugh not inspire such butterflies in their stomachs?

It couldn’t be Hestia, either. Emmeline knew this at thirteen, head in Hestia’s lap as she braided Emmeline’s hair. She could never ruin this, and what they had was special and perfect enough as is. Emmeline doesn’t need Hestia to be her lover; being Hestia’s friend is forever enough to part the skies and let the sun beam down on everything, like being loved by an angel.

Emma Vanity, stepping off the Quidditch pitch in fifth year, tossing her hair loose. Strong, beautiful, powerful. Emmeline can never understate the way her cheeks flush when Emma, sweaty and grinning, comes back from a jog. Emma could kill her, and Emmeline would thank her for even being noticed.

Emma neither, locked away in her own battle, the eternal struggle between goodness and love. Emmeline contents herself with being a part of the simple domesticity of Emma’s life here: napping on the couch, making supper together, Emma bumping her shoulder with affection.

Emmeline thinks it’s important to be just a little in love with your friends. It makes the thread binding them together a little stronger. It is a reminder that she can love, and people can love her, and choose for her to stick around.

There’s Tiberius, now, shaggy hair plastered to his face as he dances. Emmeline holds this moment in her hand, lest it slip away, and turns it one way and another. Tiberius, blinding grin, strong grip. Maybe she liked him once, too, but that has steadily melted away. Emmeline isn’t really used to letting people go that she once loved.

And then… the one Emmeline doesn’t remember. A face, hazy in smoke, hovering above her when she’s laying down, a soft voice whispering secrets she can’t quite hear. Emmeline captured a butterfly in the pit of her stomach, bottled it up and observed it from within. Who do you belong to, she asked? The butterfly never answered, just beat its wings with frustration. Remember, Emmeline. You need to remember.

Sometimes, she’ll wake up in a cold sweat, seconds away from catching a glimpse at the face, pressing kisses to her neck and lips. She feels as though she has lost something important, that empty feeling filling her chest until it is too much to bear. It hurts constantly, and it is Emmeline’s pain alone to bear. Nobody can know, nobody can know.

~*~

Kate has never really been “Katherine”.

Her sisters call her Kit, everyone else calls her Kate. Whatever she is, it doesn’t really matter. Her name is irrelevant in the face of her family name, what rather than who she is.

Little Kate Vanity, the youngest of the Vanity clan. An afterthought, unneeded and overlooked. It is an expectation that she will do great things; not because anyone believes she can, but because to fail would tarnish her family’s legacy.

Julia was the failure. Julia ran away and left them all. She left them all with the burden of continuing on, becoming something the family could be proud of. She left them all disoriented and stumbling, reaching for the building block no longer there. Julia, the center of their worlds, gone without so much as a goodbye. It’s easiest to write her off as a failure than to confront the hurt.

It’s sort of an expectation within pureblood circles to be greater than your forebearers. Of course, personal pride always gets in the way, but to be successful and powerful is to win the game of life.

The Vanitys are pureblood, through and through. Kate knows this, knows the weight on her shoulders cannot be mitigated. It doesn’t matter that her parents are kind, that they don’t hate muggles, that they don’t want to rule the entire world: it runs through their blood, all of them, tying them forever to a web they can’t escape from. Maybe the desire for success is the spider, and each of them must wait their turn to be devoured once it becomes clear no act is enough.

Needless to say, Kate Vanity thinks a lot about this sort of thing. She has nothing but time to think about it. One could argue that she has never really been young, regardless of what people think. Kate has been twelve years old for many, many years, it seems. There is nothing but time ahead of her and behind her, and Kate exists slowly within it.

None of the Vanity sisters can really live slowly. Each one of them is burning, brimming with fire. It’s desperate, fervent, their need to exist, to act, to live. Kate watches them, watches with a removed fascination, because she is alone in her experience.

Perhaps that’s because nobody really wants anything from her. Kate can step back, watch as the spark in her sisters fizzle out and die. Kate is unique: unwanted and thus free, in a sense. She’ll never be truly free, not so long as she is Katherine Vanity, but free from the shackles of her sisters. A moderately successful life is enough to sustain her image, but everything else is her own.

The fire of life burns if you get too close, she has learned. The need to live too fast can kill quickly. Tell Nora, alone in the store on Diagon Alley, finishing her last potion before slitting her wrists on the floor. Does she know how the entire promise of a great future charred her skin, leaving her unrecognizable and barely human to everyone else?

Nora, a bright and shining star, maybe the best of them all, just dead. She was twenty-one, and Kate was ten, already two sisters down long before she ever should have been, and what was the point of it all? Nora, ultimately, was nothing, a footnote in history. A notch through her name, a sigh and a declaration that the other Vanity sisters must be better to make up for their missing piece. All the pain about Julia, gone, replaced instead by mourning the golden child.

What now, then? Kate is twelve and nobody really sees her. She knows how to navigate a room, to negotiate – that comes with having five older sisters – but functionally she is useless. There is nothing great about her, nothing special. She is not talented or gifted, she is just a girl. Self-awareness keeps her from some of the pain, but it keeps her from ever achieving greatness. And Kate, despite it all, feels the pounding in her blood, the instinctual need to be great.

If anyone could understand, it would be Audrey. But Audrey is far away, nestled back home in their childhood home in Brocburrow, awaiting the birth of her child and writing constantly about history that nobody can remember anymore. Audrey is almost inaccessible, the eldest sister by default now, and she deserves to live her own life, unburdened by the worries of her kid sister. Kate cannot approach her with any of this, even though she would be so kind, because it’s simply not fair. Part of her fears she may be waiting for Audrey to vanish too, and that is an awful thought.

What is success? Emma becomes the next great hope. She could be anything she wants to be: a Quidditch star, a professor, an alchemist. This is nothing without a world to live in, and so Emma fights. Kate can’t blame her for feeling the pull: it’s the Vanity curse. Live too hard and you’ll be burned by the fire that gives you life. She wishes she could say any of this in her letters, to beg Emma to step back. Emma, please, I can’t lose another sister. Emma, please, come home.

Emma didn’t come back from Sweden when Nora died. She barely seemed to acknowledge it. While Audrey huddled Claire and Kate close, their mother and father stood protectively around them, there was a space left for Emma that she would never fill. Emma was never quite like the rest of them, separated behind a wall, snappish and mean at times. Nobody wants to talk about it, because that would mean acknowledging that they are yet another sister down. Six turned to three.

Audrey blames Wilhelm Wilkes – Juliette Wilkes, as perhaps she is known now – but Kate barely remembers her. All there is in her memory is a flash of blonde hair, a crooked smile. Claire says Emma loved her more than any of them. Audrey thinks she’s dangerous, but Claire says she always looked very delicate. She grew up with them, supposedly, spending the summers side by side in Britain when not home in Hungary, pulling Emma away to have all for herself. For all of Kate’s short life (but long existence), Emma was not theirs at all.

Perhaps that’s why Kate wants Emma most of all. She wants to know Emma before she goes away again. She wants Emma to slow down and come back, to be a Vanity again, but she won’t. if the Vanity curse is real, Emma will be the next target.

It is as though she is watching the lives of her sisters from afar, removed completely. When she hears of Claire’s talent in Herbology, all Kate can feel is dread. Once you show talent, a proficiency, you are marked, and there is no escaping the consequences. Do not be great, do not be special.

Does she even know Claire when they pass each other in the halls? Does Claire recognize her baby sister, three years younger, and feel the tug of kinship? Is it against the rules for the fifth year Slytherin to fraternize with her first year Hufflepuff sister, to exchange even just a smile or a wink?

No, Claire left her long ago. Sister bonds may exist back home, but here, they are different, they are strangers. As much as it hurts, can Kate really blame her? Who else but Claire was the most wounded when Julia left, when Nora died? Claire, the bleeding heart of the family, simply may not be able to open her arms to another sister, another sister who may leave as well.

Not Audrey, Emma, or Claire, then. Maybe the only one who truly gets it is Julia: beautiful Julia, who never amounted to anything. Who was she, when she was home? Just a girl, never quite proving herself worthy of any praise, any real success. It doesn’t matter how much your sisters love you in this world; it’s never enough.

Kate was only seven when Julia left, leaving behind a letter on her pillow scented with her perfume. She was the only one who didn’t cry, scream, go silent. Kate was the one who saved the letter from the trash bin when Emma threw it away, who reread those vague words over and over until all she could really remember of Julia was those words. Even now, she can’t see her face anymore, and the letter has long since lost the scent of her perfume.

Maybe Julia ran away to be free. Maybe she was able to step back and see what her life would be, and she chose not to live and die as quickly as success guaranteed. Maybe she was a lot more like Kate than anyone else, but still, Julia did have high hopes on her shoulders. Julia was the progeny upon whom all dreams were placed, and Kate had nothing. Really, it doesn’t matter in the end how similar or different they really are: Julia isn’t here, and Kate doesn’t know her anymore.

No, Kate is alone. Kate is nothing more than “Little Kate”, and nobody really cares what more she can be. It would be nice to be a person, one day. Even to her sisters, to be more than just the youngest one, to be real and tangible and alive.

Again, that push and pull. Live and burn or escape and be forgotten? Kate feels it inside her skin constantly. She wishes somebody else were here with her, but internal wars are easily overlooked. Kate knows what it’s like to be overlooked.

She wishes somebody could just look her in the eyes and see her, Katherine, flesh and blood. That will never happen, though. Living in shadows your whole life doesn’t make it especially easy to adapt to the light.

~*~

“Are you doing okay?”

From the floor of the Shrieking Shack, Remus glares up at her. There are no teeth to his expression, though, all bark and no bite. He is exhausted, blood weeping from his wounds, and he looks skinny and afraid, holding a rotted blanket to cover his lower body.

Hestia kneels down by his side, wiggling her fingers a little to draw his gaze. Once he finally nods, she reaches to prod gingerly at his ribs, pulling back immediately when he winces and tries to turn away.

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“’s fine.” Remus hisses through clenched teeth. “Had broken ribs before.”

“Still.” Hestia moves her attention to the oozing tear across his shoulder, the blood black and oily looking. “This is going to hurt.”

Remus nods stiffly and closes his eyes. Hestia, as carefully and gently as she can, presses a clean rag down on the wound, making Remus draw a staggering breath, knuckles on his left side squeezing white.

Pomfrey showed her how to deal with these kinds of injuries, but Hestia is still always worried something will go wrong. Keeping the pressure consistent with one hand, she reaches with the other to grab the gauze and healing ointment Lily Evans cooked up a while back that Pomfrey seems to swear by. Slowly peeling the rag away and keeping her eyes laser focused as to not freak out by the gore, she swipes the ointment with two fingers and moves to bandage it up as efficiently as she can. She can feel Remus watching her, eyes dark and wary, but she doesn’t pause until it’s finished.

“Okay, now for your ribs.”

The charm is quick and easy, thankfully. Unlike the flesh wounds, caused by Dark magic and thus unable to be healed so quickly, repairing the ribs is a simple procedure, one Hestia learned even in her first lesson with Pomfrey years ago.

“Anything else?”

Remus rolls his neck gingerly, his eyes scanning the room as though looking at a diagram of his body in front of him and shakes his head. “Just the regular stuff.”

“Okay.” Hestia hesitates. “Do you, uh, want to get changed? I brought some food; Pomfrey says you should eat after a transformation. Good for healing.”

Remus blinks at her. “Yeah, I’d like to get changed.”

Hestia stares at him, blushes furiously, and puts his clothes next to him, turning her back to open up the bag of food she brought. She can hear him shuffling behind her, moving slowly, and she gives him a while before turning back around, just to be safe.

“A few sandwiches… sorry, I didn’t know what you liked, so I made a couple different kinds.”

“You made these?” Remus’ voice is scratchy, and he’s looking at her as though she’s a mystery to be figured out. Hestia squares her shoulders and smiles.

“Yeah. I, uh, I like to cook for people. Something my dad instilled in me; I suppose. There’s also some fruit from the market, still fresh.” He’s still just staring at her, so she points to the sandwich stack with her chin. “Please eat, I think Pomfrey might kill me if I don’t feed you.”

This, finally, cracks the mask on his face, and the corner of his lips twitch up for just a second as he reaches for a turkey sandwich. Hestia takes the beef one, and they eat together in silence.

“Hey, Remus?”

“Hm?”

“Will you, um, tell me if I’m not doing a good job? Taking care of you like this, I mean. I want to make sure you’re not in any pain, well, additional pain, and I know Pomfrey has been helping you for years, so I just want to make sure the quality of your care is—”

“Hestia.” Remus arches an eyebrow at her. “It’s fine. You’re fine.”

Hestia falters a little, eyes scanning his (thankfully, clothed) chest for any tightness, any injuries: “Are you still in pain now?”

His jaw tightens, and his eyes dart back down to the half-eaten sandwich in his hand. “Yeah.” It’s as though he is pulling the admission out from deep in his chest. When Hestia starts, he holds up a hand. “Don’t bother. It’s chronic. You’re not going to solve it.”

Her hands fall slack in her lap, the weight of his words settling on her chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.”

Hestia glances at his face, at the strange earnestness in his eyes, and nods slowly.

Remus tucks back into his sandwich, glancing at her here and there. His voice hesitates a little, as though unsure how to proceed. “You said your dad taught you to cook for people?”

Hestia splays her fingers on her knee, smiling to herself. “Yeah. His philosophy was always to feed people first, ask questions later. He took care of a lot of people that way, back home and here.”

“Where’s he from?” Remus sounds genuinely curious, almost human in a way she doesn’t quite expect from him. Usually, he is all bared teeth and distance, but in the growing light from the dawn sneaking in, his eyes are more amber than yellow.

“Ontario, in Canada. My dad’s Ojibwe, from the Mississauga First Nation. He went to Ilvermorny, and later came to Britain after he met my mum. He worked as a history professor for a while, but I think he should have been a chef. Nobody can cook like he did.”

“Did?”

Hestia knots her fingers in her lap, staring down at the crook of her pinkie. “He died about a year and a half ago. Inoperable brain tumour, you know? Not much any of us could do about it.”

Remus swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. There’s a sober look on his face, especially with the shadow carving his features into marble. Finally, he says, in a low voice, “My mum died of breast cancer when I was sixteen.”

Hestia feels it, the pain in her chest, flaring up and beating alongside her heart. She presses her open palm over it, hoping the pressure might stop the bleeding, like Remus’ shoulder. “I’m sorry.” Her voice is a whisper.

Remus, running a hand over his face, suddenly seems a lot older than he is. “Me too.”

They let it sit for a moment, the air heavy between them. Hestia, quiet: “What was she like?”

Remus’ eyes crinkle a little at the corners, and he glances away. Hestia doesn’t pry, doesn’t interrupt. She just waits until he is ready.

“Kind. Patient, too. She never really got upset with us—me.” His face contorts for a moment, as though he’s in physical pain, but he continues: “She grew up on a farm, in Wales, and she was used to hard work. Everybody liked her, nobody ever said an unkind word about her. Despite everything, she never hated me.” His eyebrows furrow. “Maybe she should have.” Eyes flicking to her, as though to see if she caught it. Quickly, then, to cover it up: “I remember her laugh, really bright and cheery. Even when she was sick, she never stopped trying to make us smile. I think it made her feel a little better.”

“She sounds lovely.”

Hestia watches his face ease slightly, pain and sadness replaced by something gentler, a lightness reserved only for the people you love most. “She was.”

Reaching slowly to touch his knee, careful not to spook him, she hopes the contact can communicate everything she can’t say out loud: thank you for telling me, for opening up your chest and letting me take a peek. It’s not easy, trust me, I know.

His eyes settle on the tip of her nose for a beat, and then up at the tiny window, where sunlight begins to bleed through. “We should probably head back.”

There’s still time, it’s still early enough in the morning, but Hestia follows his lead. She clambers to her feet, extending a hand to help him up. Together, they make their way out of the Shack, the string tying them together a little stronger than before.