Real Rotten Luck

“Get up.”

Holly woke slowly. Warm and a little confused-- she wasn't sure where she was. Her dreams and memories melded together with her waking reality--she stirred from beneath the plush and comfortable blankets in Gryffindor Tower, smushing her face further into the pillows and about to plead with Ron for just five more minutes when she abruptly realized Ron would have no way of entering the girls dormitory.

“C’mon. I ain’t got all day.”

And sounded nothing like that.

She shot up--beginning to panic, barely restraining the anxious warmth building in her chest, strange magic buzzing down her arms while she struggled to reorient herself. The details of the past day were foggy, still trickling back--but Hank’s warning rang clear in the forefront of her thoughts. She was just able to clamp down on the fire rising in her blood with her nerves, wrangling it back and exhaling slowly (momentarily shocked when she sees her breath coming out in clouds like on a cold day. She faked a cough to try and hide it.)

You gotta be more careful.

“...Wha-?” She rubbed her palms hard over her eyes, letting the sunspots that blossomed there ground her. It still felt a little like her blood was bubbling under her skin so she grit her teeth and balled her hands into fists over her eyes, digging her nails deep into her palms. She saw more than felt the sparks forming under her nails; little shocks of lightning zinging painlessly against her skin and flashing red between the cracks in her fingers like two fireflies caught fluttering in the palm of her hands. Holly quickly hid them under the blanket.

An irritated huff regained her attention.

It was Moros; unshaven and scowling. He lingered in the doorway with one hand still on the knob and flicked his eyes away when she finally raised hers to meet them, sneering faintly.

“Food’ll be ready in ten.”

He slipped out of sight after that, leaving the door open halfway and Holly tangled in unfamiliar sheets, exposed to the rest of the house.

Holly scrambled up, feeling vulnerable, and rushed over quickly to close it. She pressed her back against the wood, breathing heavily in the sudden quiet of the room. Her heart was pounding in her ears. The doorknob was getting warm under her hand. She quickly let it go and stepped away, shaking her head to try and clear the anxious fog that had formed there. She first focused blearily on the pale yellow wallpaper, it was peeling at the top right corner. There were stacks of medical supplies organized neatly across the dresser and vanity. A clipboard and inventory hanging on a nail. The campers cot she had slept on was pushed up against the far wall--blankets all tangled on the floor next to it.

Then there was Sophia--impossible to miss, though Holly kept her eyes diverted, guilt like an anchor tied around her neck, head bowing under the weight of it.

She was too pale, what was visible of her face mostly obscured by bandages that would soon have to be changed. The bed was large and she was small enough to almost be swallowed by it completely. The comforter was dotted with stitched roses and thorns.

Holly took it all in, counting off each inhale-exhale one by one (just like Wood had coached her before her first Quidditch match when she had frozen up in the changing room, unable to catch her breath). In through the nose, hold....two...three... and out through the mouth. Repeat. Holly did so for several long minutes until she could take a breath without it shaking.

She was okay, everything was fine. She just-she hadn't heard him come in.

She hadn't even woken up.

Holly gulped and diverted her eyes to the floor. It made sense, really. She was exhausted yesterday. Not to mention magically depleted. When she finally did lie down she’d passed out immediately. Sleeping hard and deep, and late into the day judging by the low hanging sun she could see from the window. It should not unnerve her this much, but it did. Usually she was an incredibly light sleeper, all her years at the Dursleys had taught her the value of resting with one eye open, one ear turned up towards the stairs--straining even as she dozed for the sound of Vernon's labored breathing or the careful creeping steps in the hall outside her cupboard (and later the second smallest bedroom). He’d always linger there, listening suspiciously for the sound of her doing anything he deemed worthy of punishment. At Hogwarts, she jolted awake several times a night to the sound of Lavender's quiet whistling snores or Hermione's tendency to mutter the odd line of academic word salad. She'd basically sleepwalked through her first few weeks of school until a kindly fourth year noticed the exhausted first year pinching herself awake and swaying on the spot in the common room, and offered to teach Holly how to silence the curtains around her bed. Even then, she still rose with the sun and slept lightly. She suspected she always would.

Since starting school it only really happened when she exhausted her magic completely, after each sort-of-murder-attempt or Quidditch mishap-- when she had overdone it and her magic had needed to recover. She’d learned from her various trips to the infirmary that her magic had played a large part in protecting her through the years, absorbing the worst of the blows, mending any broken bones and bruises in a matter of hours or days--when it would take a muggle child weeks. It was like a muscle she had unknowingly developed in her youth, each time getting a little stronger, a little more capable of righting the wrongs.

It just took a lot out of her. (Subconscious or not.)

It was ultimately something she was grateful for, but that lack of awareness could be really scary. The first time it happened at Hogwarts she’d woken in a blind panic before they’d been able to explain where she was. But at least then she had always felt some degree of safety, even that first time blinking back to consciousness in the Hospital Wing; weak and trying to hide how afraid she felt, a part of her had known, even subconsciously, that she was on the grounds of Hogwarts somewhere. The heavy press of the wards never lifted while she remained at school, it had become a familiar and comforting presence in her daily life--an invisible breeze that tugged on her sleeves and ruffled her hair like an overactive child looking for attention. When she’d spoken to Hermione about it in passing, the other girl had been fascinated--but only had the vaguest understanding of what she was referring to.

After a very intense and thorough interrogation Holly clumsily likened it to a sort of charge. Like when static would cling to your clothes after you rubbed your socks vigorously back and forth across a fluffy carpet. (As she and Dudley had done once when they were four, giggling happily to each other while they delivered little electric shocks with their fingertips. At least until Petunia put a decisive end to their budding familiarity, flying into the room screeching. She slapped Holly so hard across the face that she fell to the ground. Shocked into silence and tears. It was the first time they had hit her. She and Dudley never played again after that.)

It sort similar to that. Ever present, playful and mischievous. Lingering in the air like the laughter in the corridors between classes. Centuries of accumulated magic soaked deep into the stone, rippling in gentle waves throughout the castle.

While at Hogwarts, even asleep, she was never truly alone.

But here, in this unfamiliar place (once again painfully aware of just how far she was from home) there was only the stale empty air and her own strained breathing.

////

Holly puttered around the room for a while (not searching for weapons… just noticing that there were none available and feeling a bit sick afterwards) before she finally braved opening the door to scurry down the hall.

She made a quick game of counting every window and door she passed as she crept along the wall to calm her nerves, (it did not help) and out of habit she kept a wary eye on the few hanging paintings, watching them for movement before feeling stupid.

There were five other rooms on this floor, two hallways curving out of sight in different directions and a staircase that led to another floor above and one below. There was a window on the landing that took up an entire wall and looked out over the front grounds. Holly could see armed men shifting the shadows of the trees. She scurried down the stairs, ducking out of sight and then paused at their base, trepidation crawling up her spine.

Holly did not have to strain her ears to hear the commotion coming from the parlor, it drifted down from the open doorway and bounced off the coffee colored walls. A collection of deep voices with rough accents, and the familiar clinking of cutlery scraping across plates. From two doors down she could smell something cooking.

Her stomach grumbled and she begrudgingly went towards it.

/////

By the time Holly had a plate in her hand she agreed with Hank’s earlier assessment.

This lady wasn’t all there.

Mrs. Whitley hummed manically while she puttered about the space. Her hair and makeup and outfit were as perfect as the day before but her smile was plastic, something in it fragile and fractured. She floated around the kitchen like she was in a dream, her hands a constant flutter of motion, just repeatedly wiping down already spotless surfaces and refolding the same embroidered hand towel no less than eleven separate times. She wrung her hands while she stared out the windows at the stationed sentry's with unseeing eyes. When she spoke she sounded like a woman on a stage reciting a well rehearsed script and her inane comments about the lack of electricity/cable/wireless felt a lot more unnerving after some sleep.

Holly still blushed when she called her ‘Sugar’ in passing.

She also met her daughter while in there; Angelica. She looked like a sicklier version of her mother. If Mrs. Whitley was a vacant flower in full bloom then her daughter was like a dried out weed about to blow away into dust. Pale and wilted and visibly crumbling. She spared Holly a frantic distrustful look and continued to cling to the arm of Moros, who was leant against the counter beside her and who eyed Holly with a far more clear eyed suspicion.

As soon as she got her food she was gone--creeping past the assembled voices and slinking back towards Sophia’s room. (Immediately laying two fingers against her inner wrist like Hermione had shown her when Ron fell from the marble knight. Checking her pulse for life. Keeping her hand there to remind herself of it.)

No one in the kitchen had noticed her nicking a small knife.

/ / / /

After she’d eaten she felt a bit sharper, but unfortunately with that came a keen awareness that their packs and everything they owned had not been returned. Holly bit her lip, glancing at the door and then to the girl in the bed.

Tonight… she would go looking tonight if she had too. (If only she had packed her cloak. Stupid.)

Holly sat against the wall near the head of the bed-- her knees to her chest and one arm wrapped around them, periodically rapping her knuckles against her skull when the guilt became too unbearable. With the other hand she twisted the stolen knife with nervous fidgety fingers and she stared hard at the closed door directly in front of her.

Sophia lay silent and still in the fading light.

/////

The hours passed slowly. No one approached the door, except for the medic who entered the room three times to check on Sophia. Holly was careful to tuck the knife away each time and watch her closely. She had brown hair, brown eyes, and a strained smile that Holly did not return. She said her name was Tanya.

Tanya was a liar.

She was pretty good all things considered, but Holly could tell. She knew it by the way she held her eye contact for too long each time she reassured Holly that Sophia would be just fine. That she could still wake over the next few days. Then she would not look at Holly again. She did not believe her own words.

The next time she came back Holly remained stubborn and quiet while she checked over Sophia, unable to stomach the empty platitudes, watching her movements like a hawk. Except for when she unwrapped the final layer of bandages then she averted back to watching the door. (In her pointedly trying not to think about what she had done she missed the woman's startled pause, the way she poked at the burnt cracked bone where the brain had previously been exposed just hours before with astonishment and no small degree of shock.)The whole process didn’t take long. Tanya tried a few more times to start a conversation, inquiring stiffly into the girl's history before running into their people but Holly glowered and chose to ignore her.

When she finally asked about their stuff she got a hesitant smile and the assurance that they would take care of everything, did she need something? Holly was not deterred. The woman sighed and blew her bangs aways from her face. “Look, Dalton will talk to you about it. He got back just this morning, but he’ll be coming in to meet you later, alright?”

Holly scowled at her back when she left and pictured setting her on fire.

(The heat stubbornly refused to rise to the surface this time.)

/////

Dalton Whitley was a tall broad shouldered man in his late twenties with blonde hair cropped close to his skull. He stood stiff with his arms crossed and took up most of the doorway. Holly eyed him with mistrust from her crouched spot on the floor.

After introducing himself they stared off for a long moment, sizing each other up until he broke the silence.

“When’d you lose ‘em?”

Holly was a bit thrown off, her dark suspicious scowl melting briefly into a look of childish confusion. “Huh?”

“The people you were with.” He clarified quietly, head cocked like he was thinking it over. “Couldn’t’ve been very long. You both look alright, considerin’.”

Holly scowled when she realized what he meant and was too offended by the implication that she couldn't take care of herself to contemplate lying. “We weren’t with anyone.”

“Liar.” He returned lightly. Holly's mouth fell open, indignation rising sudenly. “C’mon, if you got a group somewhere you can tell me. We’ll get you back to ‘em.”

“We weren’twithanyone,” she stressed, hunching over her knees a bit to glare at him a little closer, “I was alone. I found Sophia when she was alone. Then we were alone together.” He leant against the doorframe, muscles rippling under shirt and snorted. “Sure you were.”

Holly grit her teeth, little lightning bugs flickering in her balled fists, “I’m not a liar,” she snapped. Dalton considered her for a moment longer, the muscles in his cheek twitching.

“Where’d you come from then?”

“Uh, south.”

“South where.”

“South of here.”

“Hm. You don’t sound like it.”

“Nope.”

“And where were you headin’?”

“...Nowhere.”

“That right?”

“Where’s there to go?” She said (like a liar). “Hm,” He looked at her sternly and she avoided his eyes. Eventually he sighed and shifted his weight to rest more solidly against the frame, blocking the entrance with his bulk.

“Wade talked to me,” He finally said, “He’s sorry for grabbing you.”

Holly scuffed a shoe against the floor, frowning down at her blood crusted laces. “Okay?”

“It’s not.” He returned, “He knows better. I’ll make sure he makes it right.”

Holly scrunched her nose, unsure of what to make of him, and after a moments consideration, sucked on her teeth and asked, “... so can I get my stuff back?”

He suppressed a smile.

“Gimme the paring knife back and we’ll talk about it.”

/////

The short answer was: No.

The slightly longer answer was: Yes, but not yet, and not all of it at once.

Dalton had no problem returning the pack itself (though he would only do so after she met the rest of his company, forcing her to stand twitchily before the assembled adults and introduce herself while they blinked on in bemusement, and chorused their own greeting back. She immediately fled afterwards) but it was nothing more than an useless purple sack holding a change of clothes, a off-white bloodstained baseball cap and her little box of treasures she had pilfered from Dan’s-Pier-Stand at the beginning of her journey (since then she’d added a brass oval coin stamped with the image of a carousel and one half of a pair of earrings; a solitary loop of cheap metal that twinkled gold when she held it to the sun) but no knife, no pick-axe, no lighter. Her seed packets were notably absent (to her great displeasure). Not even her books on wildlife had been spared--she had no means of escape, or survival if she did, and nothing to occupy herself with in the meantime that would allow her to remain away from the others (nothing to keep her mind off the girl sleeping silently in the room with her). Dalton was almost forcing her hand to leave the room and interact with them without actually forcing her.

Holly was pissed. Largely because it was an annoyingly effective strategy.

/////

Her first few days at the Whitley Ranch was divided between sneaking quietly around the main house or back garden while doing her best to avoid the curious military personnel (Tanya and Hank were particularly persistent in seeking her out, the former with vague hesitant questions that made no sense to Holly, the latter often baring small sweets and unwanted company)--ducking away from each voice or approaching footsteps like they were no different than the dead--hiding away by Sophia’s unresponsive side for hours, drowning out the sounds of unfamiliar life with guilt. Obsessively noting each bit of pink that came back slowly into her cheeks, she was looking slightly better than a corpse after three days, which seemed to utterly baffle Tanya despite her doing her best to hide it.

(Holly, while not stupid and often very intuitive for her age, was not perfect. And was only twelve years old. And decidedly not in Ravenclaw. She did not see the rather obvious connection, and so therefore, remained largely unconcerned for the state of her secret.)

She was also getting rather sick of having her hard-earned stolen weapons confiscated. Since reluctantly the knife over to Dalton she’d been relieved of a fire poker, two long nails she’d pried up from the floorboards under Sophia’s bed, a jagged shard of ceramic that came from a shingle from the roof that came off with a little magical nudge (which purpled the previously red tile a bit, not that Holly took any note. Two adults certainly did, and unfortunately neither of those men were Hank) and a 16G needle that made Tanya blanch when she handed it over.

The adults found her undaunted attempts to arm herself against them equally concerning and endearing. Which was infuriating to the basilisk-slaying-dark-lord-defeating-literally-magical-preteen. Who had still walked herself halfway up the American coast without her wand. Who had a terrifying uncontrolled fire in her very skin.

She was very dangerous. (She was also very short, but Holly did not see how that was at all relevant.)

They should be far more apprehensive. Instead most were gentle, sympathetic even. Treating her like a spooked horse rather than a potential threat. Everyone except for Hank (who knew her secret), Moros (who she feared may suspect it) and Angelica Whitley: the daughter, who seemed frightened of everything, and who occasionally could be found pressed into a corner with Moros’ hand round her waist and whispering quietly into her ear. She had taken to clutching at a silver chain around her neck whenever Holly was in the room with her, muttering incomprehensible bible babble under her breath.

The breaking point, turned out, was the handgun.

She’d gotten it from Charlie (he had freckles and a long nose and she didn’t mind quite as much as the others, for whatever reason) who tended to leave his gun out of his holster on the railing beside him . She distracted him with a few tentative questions about how they’d assembled the perimeter fence to secure it from rotter's, snagged it while his back was turned and then made a hasty (and rather obvious) retreat.

Hank had come stomping up to her in a manner of minutes with a sheepish Charlie and an amused Lt. Whitley trailing behind.

In the end, this was probably the catalyst for all that came after.

/////

It was Moros’ idea technically.

“If the toddler wants to hold a gun you oughta teach her how.” He and Wade and a few others had laughed while Mrs. Whitley tutted and changed the subject. Holly’s cheeks flushed with embarrassed anger so she missed the contemplative gleam in Dalton’s eye.

The next day he collected her early from her room, rifle slung over his shoulder and a pistol on his belt, and ushered her into one of the military trucks while the sky was still dark. Urging her to stay quiet and checking over his shoulder like he was smuggling out something illegal

/////

“-make sure you're grippin’ the handle enough…. Nah, that's too tight. Loosen up a bit.” Holly adjusted her grip, firm but light, the way she’d hold her broomstick midair if she wanted to go fast and not fall off. So far, that was the only similarity between the two activities.

“Better.” Moros grunted as he circled her, checking her form and kicking her feet as he did, “Feet shoulder width apart. Bend your knees and remember to breathe.” He was clearly annoyed he had to even tell her this. Holly bit her tongue and did as instructed, peering down the sight.

/////

Wade had been waiting in the truck for them already, Moros grumbling in the front seat with his muddy boots on the dash. Holly wondered why he had been brought along. Wade she understood within a few minutes of watching him shoot, he clearly needed the practice, but Dalton didn't seem to like Moros anymore than her.

“He's our best shot,” Dalton explained on the drive over. “He taught his brothers how before they were in high-school, figured he'd have no trouble with you.”

“You have brothers?” Holly asked unthinkingly, bouncing in the seat a bit as they rolled over some bodies lying in the street.

“Had.” Moros replied stiffly.

It was a quiet ride the final few minutes. When Moros and Dalton got out to open the gate, and Wade stood in the back holding a rifle like he'd never done so before in his life, Holly was momentarily distracted reading the metal sign work directly over them.

Oxford Town Cemetery

////

“Now squeeze the trigger…. Slowly.”

Holly held her breath. Her finger twitched. The bang made her flinch, hard, the sound rattled through her bones up her arms and into her teeth. She missed and the casing hit Wade in the crotch. He crumpled to the ground. Moros roared with laughter while Dalton winced and moved to help his step-brother. Holly bent over Wade, who was moaning on his stomach with watery eyes, apologizing repeatedly.

////

They spent the morning trying fruitlessly to make Holly into anything resembling a decent shot, to no avail. Any bottles lined up on the various tombstones remained stubbornly unbroken unless the pistol was being handled by either Moros or Dalton. Despite her lack of natural talent with them, Holly liked the rush of pulling the trigger. The giddy surge of adrenaline filled laughter that bubbled up in her after doing so.

After about an hour, they started to attract some attention. A small group of the dead that had gathered at border fence were able to knock down a section somewhere and they started to get through. They all fell back to the truck, Wade ran to open the gate while the older two men held them off with their knives. Holly stood in the back of the bed and fired clumsily from the opposite side at anything that came too close.

She only hit her target once. When the guys had all clambered back in and were about to speed off, a thin woman whose bottom lip had a large chunk bitten out of it refused to let go of the truck. They dragged her a block before Moros shouted at her to "get to it!"

She lined the barrel up between its eyes.

/////

Holly liked the smell of gunpowder.

////

Slowly, Holly started to let her guard down. She didn't know when it happened, but on her twelveth evening at the Whitley Ranch while sat with a bunch of gruff older men gleefully teaching her Texas-Hold-'Em (because she had no poker face, apparently, and so they kept taking all her plastic chips) she suddenly realized that she felt comfortable here.

It shocked her out of her smile.

How long had she been doing that?

/////

The next two days she did not leave Sophia's side and rebuffed all efforts to coax her from it.

And so Holly was there when she woke up.