The Hogwarts Delegation

This mother fucker. Sigrid jumped out of the way, her back slamming against the fence on the side of the road. The wheels of the SUV skid a few centimeters from her toes before the driver yanked the wheel. She felt the heat of the metal as it brushed close. The blare of a horn had Sigrid rushing after the car on the run. She snatched a rock and sent it careening after them. The car swerved again. She missed. "Fuck you!" The obscenity was drawn out, but the echo faded quickly.   

The car disappeared around the bend. That didn’t stop Sigrid from considering revenge. What a fucking dumbass! How hadn’t they seen her? She had half a mind to chase after them and blow out their tires with her wand.   

She turned to the fence she had collided against and retrieved her plastic grocery bag. It leaked red. Fuck. There went her wine. She snatched the bag and kept walking. A two hour journey just for the wine to go to waste.   

"Motherfucker," she whispered to herself, holding the bag an armlength away as it dripped the last of its contents on the road. "Why’d they fucking blow the horn? Merlin, they almost hit me."  

She swore to herself for the next five minutes until the adrenaline of the previous moment faded away. Her shoulders ached from her impact with the fence.   

Sheep bleated in the distance. The sun was falling, obscured by long, white clouds. Sigrid stopped at the edge of the dirt road and approached the fence she was travelling along. Long yellow grass crunched under her feet and tickled her ankles; her slacks were too short. She’d left most of her clothes in America. All she had here was formal wear.  

The sun burned red. She swung her bag and a cracked bottle crackled.   

At least there was wine at home. She’d have to be strategic about stealing it. Mother and father always made sure their vintages were intact. That had been part of the reason she’d decided to stay at the estate in Ireland. Maybe the wine would have drawn them back to her.   

Two summers with no run-ins had her questioning their love of wine. She rolled her eyes. She was so lonely she missed her parents. Fuck, what was wrong with her?  

The sound of another car coming had her twisting around to watch it. It drove past, giving her a wide berth, as it should. She scowled as the wind fluttered her curly black hair trapped under a cap. The other dumbass must’ve been texting or something. Fuck, she should've noted the make and model, maybe the license plate. School was starting tomorrow but that didn’t mean she couldn’t track them down and ruin their day still.  

Schemes of revenge carried her the rest of her journey, like a true Mourning.  

The road curved and the sun fell further. She stopped at the edge of a tunnel of trees and stared.  

The gate to the Mourning Estate was open; fresh tire tracks led inside. Sigrid approached, eyes narrowed, and brow furrowed.  

How had someone driven onto the property? No one in her whole family drove cars, they were too Pureblooded for that. But the estate only let in family so...   

The gate splayed open, stiff as a corpse when she tried pushing it closed behind her. It had always shut when she used it. Why was it still open? She walked the path to the manor, her wand twisted in her pale hands. Her eyes flickered everywhere; vigilance was paramount.  

The path curved, trees hedging both sides. The sun was almost down, and she stalked the tracks, the impressions clear in the dirt.   

Around a bend a car faced her, tucked around the final turn before the estate came into view. It was the same black as the SUV that had almost hit her with the same tinted windows. What the fuck?  

Her stomach twisted as she approached the vehicle. She looked inside. It was empty, but the keys had been left in the ignition. This looks like a getaway vehicle, she thought to herself with her head on a swivel. It was hidden so that someone could approach the house unseen and then get away without anyone noticing.  

Sigrid glanced back at where the gates were, her wand gripped tighter. A no-maj couldn’t get through, not even with a battering ram. The family blood was needed. So why was there a car? She pressed her knuckles into the metal door. It was warm. She pushed until the metal dented inward. They’d almost hit her on the road!  

Her mind sprinted ahead of her; revenge strapped to it like a backpack. Whoever this fucker was, they were family. Likely a greedy slouch that expects easy access to the vaults. Her lips curled in anger.  

Sigrid marched around the bend toward the house. As a quick thought, she sent a cutting charm back at the tires of the car. Fucking bitch, try to escape now.  

She paused behind an ornamental shrub when the manor came into view, grey stone tinged red by the setting sun. It would be too hasty to rush in, she admitted as she surveyed the house carefully. Her family wasn’t known for backing down easily or listening to reason. Umbron hadn’t listened to her pleas when she had finally found her voice to defy him, and he had been her uncle. The notion that her family would strike her down if she tried to stop them couldn’t be discarded.  

She stayed put; tension was injected into her with memories of Umbron. Don’t think about that now. Sigrid forced her mind into cooperation, yanking her attention into formulating a plan. Did she really care if this mysterious family member looted the estate? Her family already had money and resources too great to fathom, what were a few stolen heirlooms?  

Sigrid scoffed. "Stop being a fucking pussy," she said to herself, peeking around the shrub at the house. Since when was she okay with people stealing from her, even if it was family? And after the incident on the road, she had half a mind to provoke them into a duel.  

The tall witch continued forward.  

She reached the back of the house—forgoing the doors for a subtler approach—and glanced up at one of the third story windows. The vaults containing the family valuables were on the lower levels. Only empty bedrooms covered in white bed sheets were upstairs and unless thieves had come for furniture, she should be safe there for now.   

She climbed quickly, her breaths coming out even. Her fingers clenched the stone exterior, routing her path up the house. Juts and cuts in stone were her handholds, her strong fingers and practiced limbs making the ascent in less than a minute. And mother said climbing’s a useless hobby. Sigrid huffed out a breath at her thoughts. Stay focused.  

She reached a third story window and pried it open, utilizing a cutting spell in combination with a silencing charm so that she could break the glass without being heard. When a ward flared out at her, she wrenched it apart with pure willpower, her mouth scrunched together in concentration. A simple alohamora wouldn't cut it with these locks.   

Her ears thrummed with the blood in her body and the silence of the house.  

She entered near the staircase that led down to the next floors. Intent listening revealed no obvious sounds of vandalism. She withdrew her wand and looked at the carpets. The plush things tended to hold an imprint for a while. Doesn’t look like they’ve come up. That didn’t mean that they wouldn’t. She had to be prepared for anything.    

It would take a while if they were looting the manor. Someone could be screaming bloody murder in the other wing, and she wouldn’t have a clue; the house was too big.  

The sun had almost completely set the red light seeping through the windows and illuminating dust motes spinning in the air. Everything was too still.  

Glancing back toward the stairs, she pulled at the skin between her fingers. If this came to a fight, it wouldn’t be a simple duel. Things could go south quick.   

She hesitated. It’d been years since she’d seriously fought someone with magic. She stared down at her hand. The charred-black wand she grasped was so fragile looking. Thoughts of failure and embarrassment lingered. A flash of Umbron’s black eyes—so like her own—made her swallow hard. Amongst her peers she was an accomplished duelist, but they weren’t real competition anyways. Excellence was expected of all Mourning’s. It would be foolish for her to underestimate her own blood.  

She needed another weapon to balance the score.  

The witch walked to her bedroom, ascending the stairs to the top floor and the attic space of the grand and dusty manor. She kept a sword there—a trade she’d made with some creatures at Hogwarts. Surely a witch or wizard wouldn’t expect her to come swinging with a blade.

Her room was on the north side of the manor and as she opened her bedroom door, she paused when she stared at her room, dimly lit by the fading sun.  

It was as she’d left it, all except in one regard.  

Someone stood facing her, in front of the window. Their head almost touched the ceiling that slanted down with the angled roof. That let her know that they were around her height. And they were staring at her, swathed in grey shadow. She couldn’t make out the details of their face.  

The tension in their form told her they hadn’t heard her coming. The wand in their hand told her they meant business.  

It became a competition of draw speed, and Sigrid had been caught at a disadvantage. The flash of green light that marked go was barely deflected with the door she snapped shut between them. It exploded outward. The force blew her backward.  

Sigrid scrambled to her feet and threw out another spell behind her as she ran for cover. They'd tried to avada kedavra  her!  

She rushed for the stairs and footsteps followed. The hall table she had summoned to her blocked another killing spell. The table shattered, this time catapulting her down to the half landing between the third and fourth floors. Her head ached from where it had cracked against the wood paneled walls. She couldn’t stand up; her legs were jelly.  

Crawling toward the stairs that led down, she tried to get control of herself. Move bitch!  

A flash of light from the corner of her vision was all the warning she had before she dived down the stairs. She pinwheeled down as a killing curse blew a chunk out of the stairs and railing. Wood and dust rained from above.  

She crashed onto the next floor. Her head spun from rolling. With swaying vision, she staggered for the lower levels. Footsteps hurried above her, muffled on the carpet.  

She kept up the speed. Come on. Faster! When she reached the first floor, instead of rushing for the front door, she broke for the back of the house. The main fireplace and floo powder would be her escape.  

She was too harried to quiet her slapping footsteps that echoed in the vaulted ceiling of her museum-like home.  

The steps that followed her were constant. She felt their eyes on her and ducked around a corner.  

An explosion sounded behind her. Fuck, fuck, fuck.  

Sigrid ran past portraits, all observing her with features like her own. The bystanders swiveled their heads to watch her race for her life. She almost screamed at them to do something, but she couldn’t hear her pursuers footsteps anymore. Had she lost them?  

Around another corner and breaking through a heavy wood door, she entered the study. A large fireplace stood still and unlit. She snatched at the box holding floo powder on the mantle. She snatched for a handful. It was empty.  

No, come on, come on.  

In the darkness of the room, she waved her wand and whispered  accio floo powder.  A tug of magic told her that the powder was coming, but from far away. She turned to face the entrance.  

A dark silhouette appeared in the light of the doorway. They stood still and stared at her; the empty floo powder box sat upturned on the ground between them.  

Sigrid swallowed. "Please."  

This time, she heard them say the killing words, their wand moving lightning fast to whip death toward her.  

At the beginning of  kedavra  she flicked her own wand upward, no spell on her lips, no thoughts on her mind except  NO!  

The green light came toward her, her hands raised in front of her face. A mass of floo powder arrived at that moment, summoned to the end of her wand, and met the killing curse head on.  

Green light and fire exploded just in front of Sigrid.  

Her head cracked on the mantle, and she crumpled to the ground.   

Her ears rung from the crack of her head. Blood seeped from her skull, but she was stone.  

They walked across the room. They stood above her. And they stooped down to get a better look. The chaos in her head was was like trying to talk in a Hurricane: she couldn’t hear or think anything. It was instinct that made her act the possum. No breathing, no moving.  

Her body was screaming for air, but she couldn’t.   

At some point the killer stood. The vein in her throat was throbbing. Could they see it?  

The fog of unconscious pressed in; her throat burned against the suffocation. She opened her eyes a crack to survey. Dirty sneakers were slowly stalking toward the door, toward the light. It was her first clear glance of them, and it was of their back. Her brain was frenzied enough that she didn’t care that she hadn’t seen her murderer’s face. A hoodie and dark jeans and short, dark hair. Dark enough that even with light haloing their head, it remained black. Shit.  

They rounded a corner and were out of sight. She inhaled.  

It felt like drowning, keeping her breath shallow and quiet. But she wouldn’t move. She wouldn’t budge until she was sure that they were gone.  

Minutes or hours passed with her lying like that on the ground. A spell had been used to close the wound, but she spread the blood around to make it look like she’d finished bleeding out.  

The next time the killer came back to the room, they didn’t stray from the doorway. Then, after a minute of her drowning again, they left.  

When she did sit up, it was to the sound of the clock in the study singing for midnight. She stayed still until the last chime sounded, and then stood.  

Her head ached; her spell had only stopped the bleeding.  

The path to the cellar was forgotten, her awareness only coming back when she began brewing a potion for the wound.   

It was as the potion was brewing that she collapsed on a stool, feeling shattered as her cheap, wasted wine.  

She was alone in the house. She wouldn’t call the police, magical or not. Rule number one of the estate was that only family was allowed.  

She hadn’t seen her parents in a year and a half.  She paused. Was this enough for them to come back? Would attempted murder finally make them pay attention? She didn't have a way to contact them. Not until she had access to a raven again. By then, she doubted she'd want to anyway.  

If her parents investigated, they'd be doing it without the police. And the "killer" being family only complicated things further. She slouched into herself at the thought, stomach rising in her throat. What if they choose negotiation over retribution if they found them? What if they let them live, because they were family or were valuble to them?   

They were blood. And black-haired. Ignorance was supposed to be bliss. She hadn’t seen their face; that meant she hadn’t seen their eyes. If the eyes had been black...she didn’t know what she’d do. That moment, the turned back of the killer, straddled her. The memory latched onto every stir of the potion, every addition of ingredients. The night got deeper, and she did not stray from her bench. Someone had tried to kill her. They had only stopped when they thought she was dead. And here she was, refusing to call the police.  

She had no one to tell, not even her raven, still not back from when she'd sent him with a letter. She needed a reply, but by now she doubted she'd get one. All the bridges she'd built were rotting or burnt. The most recent one had toppled into itself, unable to hold up over the distance.  

Thoughts of the one on the other side of that bridge—thoughts of Cass—made her bury her fingers into her hair. She was alone, truly.   

S S-M

Sigrid stood like a lightning struck tree amid a spring forest. Her leaves were ash and would never whisper and shake like everyone else’s. The train platform was brimming with noise, with gestures so unfamiliar they seemed theatric. Parents cried real  tears, kissing their children's cheeks and clinging.  

She slipped through the crowd, toward the train. A child—probably a younger sibling—shrieked directly into her ear from where they clung to their mother’s side. She glared at the child and thanked the stars her parents had given up on children after her. They’d already flipped a coin and come up tails. Why try again?  

She pushed onto the train and into an empty compartment, silent as her summer had been until yesterday. Controlled as a lady of good breeding, she positioned herself by a window and stared at the bench across rather than the swarms of sobbing parents and eye-rolling children.  

When three wizards joined her compartment, she stared out the window with unseeing eyes, her aloof posture her shield.  Conversation was never directed toward her. The boys were Ravenclaws and Slytherins; they knew better. The up and down roll of green hills hypnotized her, and time meant nothing besides the movement of shadow.  

She fled when they arrived at Hogsmeade Station, fighting the crowds for a spot on the first thestral carriages heading to the castle. Eager third years clamored and joked on the swaying cart, dwarfed by her height. On arrival she rushed through familiar hallways. Clamor surrounded her when she arrived in the Great Hall. She took a seat near the end and kept her expression stone, like a part of the background. She would not abide conversation tonight.   

Students milled in steadily, the teachers already set at the Great Table, their Headmistress sending smiles and stern glares all around. It was eternity waiting for the meal to start. When finally, Headmistress McGonagall stood up and began introductions, Sigrid's eyes were glazed over from the sound and dull pain, the sound making her unstable as a looming gargoyle, unbalanced on the battlements. Any turned back and dark hair in the hall played back that moment on the ground as she watched the killer stroll from her limp body.  

She'd crept out the manor's front door that morning and the car had been gone, along with the tracks it had left. Gone too had been the debris from damage a killing spell had on inanimate objects. Even the shattered door to her room had been replaced. They'd left her bleeding in the study, though. They'd wanted her to be found.

Most of the Headmistress's words were tuned out. She didn't join in the applause at the Slytherin table as the new first years were sorted in her house. However, when McGonagall demanded silence with the next announcement, her ears pricked up at the witch's serious tone.   

After the hall quieted down, the woman spoke. "A new competition will begin this year. Midway through October, champions will be chosen to take place in the International Wizarding Tournament, where all eleven wizarding schools will come together to compete for a prize of 1000 galleons and the honor of making history."  

McGonagall opened her mouth to continue, but the hall began murmuring in excitement, students' eyes glittering as they imagined themselves as victors, 1000 galleons richer. Sigrid paused, mind struggling to hold the enormity of such a competition. Her mind predictably flicked across the word "international".

All eleven wizarding schools. That includes Ilvermorny.  She swallowed and a flash of Cass dressed in blue and cranberry ambushed her in her mind. She stabbed her fork deep into a crack in the table and yanked her attention back to McGonagall. Don't think about her. 

McGonagall silenced the hall—or at least dimmed the noise as she proceeded.  

"Students from year 5 onward are eligible to compete—" a loud groan went out through the hall for the underclassmen. The old witch glared at the noise and the interruption. "But that does not mean that all of you may submit your name. Afterall--" and at this part she paused dramatically, "--the competition will be held out of country. Ilvermorny will be hosting the inaugural event and each travelling school will bring a cohort of their twenty best and brightest."  

The hall became rowdy again. Sigrid swallowed the lump in her throat. She hadn't been planning on going, but now her decision was cemented. There was no way in hell that she was returning to that godforsaken school for a competition.  

"To obtain a place with the Hogwarts' Delegation, students must have satisfactory grades in all classes, permission from your guardian, and a signature from a teacher willing to vouch for your eligibility. Now--" and she paused, her gaze more serious than before, "know this: the competition will be vicious. Like the Triwizard tournament, champions will be completing challenges to prove their mastery of witchcraft and wizardry. Many of these trials will be dangerous, even deadly. This tournament is not for the faint of heart or flighty of spirit. Once you have been chosen, you may not withdraw and if you are chosen for the Hogwarts' Delegation, you must  enter your name into the drawing on arrival at Ilvermorny."  

She left the words hanging in the air. The Hall was quiet. "That is all. May the feast begin." With a wave of her hands, food appeared on the tables. Conversation sprung from gaping mouths at the assortment of mouthwatering food and the menacing pronouncement. Sigrid ate, keeping her meal light. Her stomach roiled.   

A week ago, she would have been excited by the announcement. It would have been the perfect opportunity to see Cass again after a year and a half apart. Their only communication had been through letters. To wrap her arms around the other girl sounded like bliss. Being back in Ilvermorny would present challenges—and that was putting it mildly—but with Cass by her side, she would have weathered the hate.   

But things had changed.  

She had felt their relationship weakening, it was true, but she had never expected—the black-haired witch shoved the thoughts away. Merlin! Couldn't Cass stop haunting her? Didn't her mind understand that thinking of her would only make Sigrid feel terrible?   

Sigrid finished her meal and stood with some of the early risers, heading to a Slytherin prefect with their shiny badge to ask for the password to the Dormitory.   

It was as she approached the prefect that a boy from the Ravenclaw table spotted her and shouted out, "Oi Mourning, planning on putting your name in?" Several eyes turned toward her, awaiting an answer. She clenched her jaw at the attention.   

Victor Hulmen was a talented wizard, if not a complete ass. His tremendous height and relative attractiveness had afforded him the admiration of a large, if not dim, group of girls. This fact had only stoked his ego. Last year he had been her partner for advanced potions, and he seemed to think that they were friends.  With a stony face she stared at him and replied, "1000 galleons and glory for the school isn't enough to tempt me," before turning and marching out of the Great Hall.   

She swept through the dungeons and then the Slytherin common room, coming across no others. When she opened the door to her dorm she shared with three other girls, she nodded with satisfaction at her delivered trunk. When she opened it, she found that the box of treats she had left for the elves was empty.   

At Ilvermorny the castle was run by pukwudgies which were like elves except they demanded more respect and didn't tolerate nonsense from the students. It had been common practice to thank the usually out-of-sight creatures for their services with magical gifts or treats, and she had carried the tradition on to Hogwarts after her...untimely exit.   

She had made it a point to build alliances with most of the magical creatures that existed in Hogwarts and on the grounds, including those that lived within the Forbidden Forest. Since she was a child she had held a keen interest in magical creatures and what they could do for her. Instead of adopting the predatory relationships her parents employed with them, she preferred a system of mutual respect and alliances. She wouldn't call any of the Merpeople, aromantulas, giants, or centaurs friends, but she could claim that none would kill her on sight now.   

She had even occasionally bartered with the Merpeople, bringing magical items or potions to trade for ingredients that existed deep in the Black Lake, or lost possessions dropped by students. It was with memories of her last trade that she strayed to the porthole window in her room that looked into the Lake. On occasion, when the sun was high, she could spot the Merpeople swimming by. Now the view was only black with the setting of the sun.   

Unpacking her clothes was a distraction from the inevitability of sleep. The drain in her bones left her shivering and her eyes stung from being open for so long. Nevertheless, she took her time putting things away, finishing just as her roommates drifted in. They spoke cordially to each other, avoiding her besides a simple greeting. After getting ready for sleep she pulled around the curtains to her bed and laid down, staring at the ceiling as she listened to her roommates' conversations. She relaxed in her sheets to the happy stories of vacations by the sea and the summer loves that had been left behind.   

She closed her eyes and the dark silhouette appeared in her doorway.