The Hogwarts Delegation

The next day Sigrid retrieved her schedule from Slytherin’s Head Girl during breakfast. With toast in one hand and the scroll in another, she judged her lineup of classes as she rushed through the halls. It had been a long and trying morning and she was cutting it close as breakfast was winding down.  

The scroll confirmed that she was taking five NEWT level courses and one regular class. Charms was a sore subject for her and it was what she was starting her day with. With a swallowed groan, she marched to the classroom, striding through the halls to snatch an ideal place to hide. Her desk was as far away from Professor Fleur Delacour as possible. The French woman was a talented witch and teacher, to be sure, but Sigrid could not stand to be around her.  

It wasn’t the weakened thrall that did her in like most of her classmates. How could she feel attracted to someone whose presence hurt her very being? The casual collision of gazes would render her mind and body inert. It was the folly of an ancestor that brought her this weakness.  

Sigrid possessed an array of inherited traits that cursed her body with intolerance towards veelas, along with a host of other misfortunes, some of which had plagued her that morning and almost made her late.   

Tests taken in class, whether written or spell performances, went terribly awry when she was in the presence of the veela. It made passing almost impossible, with Sigrid having to rely on writing perfect essays to combat her performance issues.  

Her seat in the back of the class, alas, did not provide her with much shelter. The part-veela greeted students as they sat. It was inevitable that she made her way to the witch in the back.  

Sigrid disposed of her trained manners and slouched over her desk, head bowed in feigned distraction. Her strategy was short-lived. She felt the moment that the French witch narrowed her attention on her.  

"Miss Mourning, how are you," she asked, her French accent still prominent after so many years teaching.   

"Fine," Sigrid muttered, still stooped over her desk. Razor-legged bugs scrambled across her body at the proximity of the Professor. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears.  

"I heard your pronouncement on the tournament and your participation. May I suggest that this opportunity will be more valuable than the gold a champion wins, or the glory they bring to their school. Doors will be opened to you for simply competing. Think about this. I know you’re a very talented witch."  

With that little  talk , the woman turned around, greeting other students. Sigrid stewed at her desk, the distance not far enough to bring comfort. She was a talented witch? She barely passed this class. Did the professors talk about her behind her back? She discarded the notion. Of course they did. McGonagall must have told them to keep an eye on her after she transferred. Her eyes narrowed at the encouragement to try for the delegation being sent to Ilvermorny. Surely the professor knew better.   

The veela’s voice was nails on a chalkboard for the rest of the class. Concentration was a pain, and it was only with a hidden digital recorder that she was able to hope to benefit from the lecture later.  

She did make out, however, the veelas announcement that her students would have to compete for her signature on their delegation applications. The strategy was clever. That way the committee or whoever was choosing the group would have to go through less applications.   

Indeed, it appeared that the rest of the teachers had the same idea, all creating competitions for their signatures of approval. The consensus of the students she heard muttering such news in the hall was that the idea was "shit."    

Domination in competition was a motivator for Sigrid in days past. Now the thought only made her slump to her next class.  

Advanced Muggle Studies went quickly with Sigrid barely paying attention. She’d been raised in America where having no-maj friends or connections wasn’t weird. In fact, her best friend had been no-maj-born. Emphasis on  had.  Sigrid clenched her jaw at her thoughts.  

That was the downside of her Muggle Studies class. Everything reminded her of Cass. Sigrid exited to lunch when the class period ended with only sharp black slashes for notes.  

Lunch was spent on the lawn near the forbidden forest. She transcribed notes from the lecture she had recorded, twinging at the mere sound of her professor’s voice. She took frequent breaks, staring at the sky and scolding her mind when it wandered into unauthorized territory.   

The sky was clear though it had rained last night. Chalky smears of clouds faintly adorned the azure sky. The temperature was perfect too. It reminded her of Ilvermorny and the weather magic that guaranteed a perfect first day on top of the mountain. She tsked at her thoughts and considered corporeal punishment as a censure. Turning back to her notes, she stared at the digital recorder. Cass had sent one over when Sigrid had complained about her veela teacher. (As far as Sigrid knew, Cass was the only person outside the Mourning’s that knew about her...condition).  

Sigrid let out a sigh and finished up her notes, the presence of the recorder unignorable. If Cass wouldn’t write her, couldn’t she stop ambushing in her memories?  

When lunch ended, she didn't have to travel far. Her Care of Magical Creatures class met at the game keepers shack near to where she had sat herself.   

She stared at the ramshackle hut and the grey smoke that trailed lazily from the chimney. She almost slipped on the muddy ground but refused to look around to see if anyone else had noticed. Her class soon joined, and she tried to ignore the obnoxiousness of her classmates as they waited for their professor to appear. Several students she recognized by voice, but she didn't turn around. She hoped they didn't--  

"Hey Mourning, I heard you're too chicken to try for the delegation," a voice said from behind her. The tall witch slowly turned around to face Liam Poole, a tall boy with shaggy hair and a loose Gryffindor tie. She blinked.  

"Sounds like Slytherin to me. Never brave enough to take a chance," Gregory Hundle said from behind Poole's shoulder, his mushroom top fade frizzy from the humidity. Sigrid blinked again. That was unfathomably false. Slytherins took chances all the time. That is, after they had weighed the decisions and were reasonably certain of their success.  

She knew that they were egging her on, but perhaps because of the numbness of her body from the pain potion she had taken that morning, she wouldn't ignore the comments. Her blood brought her more pain and suffering than these boys' words or spells could. She felt the humidity on the back of her neck and the warmth of her palms in her closed fists.  

She took a step forward. "I take it you're putting your names forward," she said. Their other classmates had shut up to watch the exchange. Some looked surprised at her response. She wasn't one to be tempted by taunting.  

Hundle looked confused that she had replied, though Poole remained cool-faced. She could respect that. "That's right," Hundle responded for the both of them, slapping a hand on Poole's too-wide shoulders. "You're looking at two of the top picks for the Hogwarts Delegation. McGonagall knows that Gryffindor has the spirit to win this competition."  

Sigrid nodded and took another step closer. Poole's brows pushed together. Hundle seemed unaware she was stalking closer. "Perhaps you'll be chosen," she mused, slipping her hands into her pockets. She traced the bumpy wood of her charred-black pine wand. "And perhaps you'll be returning home in a casket. Merlin knows Gryffindors don't know when to quit. I think there's a statue in the ministry dedicated to that fact."   

Gasps went through the crowd. Poole's face swelled red. "How dare you talk about that you slimy—" his wand began waving but he wasn't quick enough. Sigrid's wand was out, a clipped expelliarmus sending the wood flying from his hand and toward the hut. Sigrid sent it with a murmured levitation charm into the chimney of the shack.  

Poole was wild eyed and wide-stanced like a scared cat without his main means of physical force. Sigrid was soon distracted by Hundle who fumbled for his  wand. She almost smirked. She'd think he'd be prepared to duel after antagonizing a Slytherin. The hex he sent toward her bounced off her spell shield before she returned another  expelliarmus . This time she caught his wand when it went flying. Her internal celebration was interrupted when she heard the creak of the shack door. Turning to face it, she met Professor Fremeric Wetgold’s hooded eyes just as she was sucker punched from behind.  

The shot knocked her off balance and straight into the mud, a collective "ooooh" going out through the class. Sigrid slowly stood up and turned to the teacher and the boy that had thrown the punch. Mud stained her clothes like a mark of shame. Poole was wide-eyed with panic and anger. Sigrid's eyes twitched between the teacher and the boy. He’d sucker punched her!  

"Well, get on with it," Wetgold muttered to them from where he stood from the top of the stairs that led to the door. Sigrid wiped some dirt off her face and glared at him. Blood pooled in her mouth, though she felt no pain, courtesy of her potion that morning. "You’ll be getting detention. Might as well get it out of your system."  

The man’s condescension made Sigrid clench her fists. He’d been watching the fight the whole time, hadn’t he? Her thoughts were interrupted by the jeer of a Gryffindor in the crowd. "Get her, Poole!" Poole didn’t need any more encouragement to make a move.  

He rushed forward, telegraphing his next punch clearly. Sigrid stepped out of the way and kicked his knee with all her might. She heard a crack as the boy screamed and collapsed to the ground. Her roundhouse to his face knocked him completely into the mud. She glared down at him and then looked up at the teacher. He was watching her with calculating eyes.  

What was he thinking? She didn't like any of this. The crowds all around were watching with interest, their eyes gleaming at the violence. She sucked the blood out of her teeth, jaw clenched. Was this all entertainment to them? A few gladiators in the arena spilling each other’s blood for the amusement of the crowd? It was them, the audience, that decided when the line was drawn. The entertainers weren't allowed to decide when enough blood had been spilt. She stepped out of the "ring."  

The mud sucked at her dress shoes, and she slipped as she withdrew from the fight. Hundle went sailing past her with a grunt. The punch he had silently thrown drove him forward into the mud. He peddled his arms like a cartoon fool and collapsed, but he wasn’t done. Sigrid didn’t give him the chance to get his feet under him as she pushed him back into the dirt.  

But Sigrid’s own force unbalanced her. She saved some face by landing on her knees but by this point she was covered in mud. Her face flushed, the muscles in her jaw creaking.  

She’d let someone get a punch in. If her parents were here, they’d surely be ashamed. She grit her teeth at the automatic thought. They weren’t around anyways.  

Swallowing the blood in her mouth as she got to her feet, she readied herself for another attack, the two wands in her hands held as taunts. She wouldn't be caught unawares again.  

"Alright, that looks like enough," Wetgold proclaimed, walking heavily down the steps, his thick boots splattering mud as he stood between them. He levitated Poole to his feet and slapped a hand on Hundle’s shoulder. "How about you take your friend to the infirmary. And Mourning, you’ll be taking yourself straight to the Headmistress’s office and explaining what happened. Fighting between potential delegates will not be tolerated." He said the last words to the rest of the class and then shooed Sigrid and the two Gryffindors away, ordering Sigrid to give Hundle back his wand.  

Sigrid walked ahead of them, wanting to avoid any more confrontation. Merlin knew those Gryffindors were dumber than most. With a spell, she rid herself of the evidence of her shame.   

She marched to McGonagall’s office prepared to argue. She hadn’t started the fight, though she had let herself be provoked. She gritted her teeth. Usually it wasn’t so easy to rile her up, at least not in recent years. She had acted like she was still at Ilvermorny when her surname had meant something. 

When she reached McGonagall’s office, she found the entrance open, stairs winding up. The old witch had been expecting her then. At least she would be the first to tell the story. She could skew the narrative in her favor if she played this perfectly.  

"Ah Miss Mourning, please do sit down," the old witch said from her desk. A long quill waggled in her hand as she scrawled quickly on a piece of parchment before flicking her wand to roll it up and hover it to a bird by the window. The magnificent, winged creature took the scroll and to the skies without waiting a beat. Sigrid sat down.  

"Misters Poole and Hundle have made it to the infirmary. Now that I’m seeing you, it appears you’ll need to stop for a visit later as well." The witch let the statement hang in the air, blue eyes boring into Sigrid’s black ones. The young witch refused to flinch away though a tightness built in her chest. She remembered her comments on the war memorial and bit down her grimace. This was going to be a shitstorm, wasn’t it?  

It also didn’t help that she’d got in a fight with two Gryffindors. Despite what some claimed, Sigrid was sure that McGonagall held a bias toward her own house.  

The older witched sighed, bowing her head a moment before she stood from her desk and walked to the window to close it. She watered a plant on the sill with the end of her wand. "How was your summer, Miss Mourning?"  

Sigrid blinked at the question. "Fine," she lied. Lonely was the word that came to mind automatically.  Productive  her mind corrected, shoving aside the weakness like it was a child racing with adults.  

"Did you vacation out of country," the woman asked, turning from her plant. She stared at Sigrid. For a moment as the older witch was framed by the window, white sky behind her, Sigrid remembered her bedroom. And the person that had turned to meet her, only silhouetted.  

"I stayed in the UK," the black-haired girl said, looking away. The portrait behind the desk depicting the previous Headmaster winked at her. She moved her gaze to the mantle.  

"You haven’t returned to America since you began attending here," McGonagall asked, walking slowly to the desk and looking down at the seated seventeen-year-old. Why was she asking about that? She replied semi-honestly. "No. My parents have a flat in London."  

McGonagall’s dark blue eyes bored into her own, like they were searching for a lie. Sigrid stared back and then looked away toward the portrait of Dumbledore again. His face was serious as he considered her.  

"Why are you asking," Mourning finally said, her voice lowered in the stillness of the room.  

"Oh, I like to know where my students spend their time. Our students are ambassadors of Hogwarts, though they may not wish it. You represent this institution when you attend and when you are abroad, though you are American. I hope you know this." Her tone was pointed, like she knew something.  

But she can’t know something. No one knows what happened at the estate. Right?  Sigrid nodded her head once.  

"That is why fighting in this school is unacceptable. We do not teach you to harm others, we teach you the solutions to the problems you will face in the world."  

"You also teach us defense," Sigrid shot back, her tone unchecked.  

The Headmistress rounded her desk and steepled her hands on the surface. "Is that what happened?"  

"I don’t start things, Ma’am." The implied  I finish them  lingered in the air between them.  

The woman’s face softened, and she took a seat. "I know, Miss Mourning. That is why I was surprised to find that you had gotten into a fight. From what I can tell, you are usually...unflappable."  

The unasked  why  loomed over Sigrid. She didn’t bother answering it. She had been to court before, been interrogated by magical police. She knew now to shut up.  

"Well, you must understand that I will be speaking to Misters Poole and Hundle about this. To get their side of the story." The woman’s tone was dismissive. Their brief meeting was over.  

"Already decided that I’m in the wrong, haven’t you." Sigrid widened her eyes at the words. How the fuck had  that  slipped out?  

"I beg your pardon," McGonagall asked.  

Sigrid swallowed. "All you’ve done is ask me about my summer. I haven’t given my side of the story at all."  

"Miss Mourning, I have not made any accusations! I have—"  

"You haven’t asked me about what happened. Are you letting Wetgold’s statement speak for me? Can I not speak for myself?"  

She couldn’t get herself to shut the fuck up.  

The older witch frowned at her, sending a disappointed stare like she couldn’t believe Sigrid thought she held Gryffindor in favor to all the other houses. "Then what do you have to say for yourself? I was going to say that you did not  start   the argument, but you certainly did escalate it, what with your—unsavory remarks."  

Sigrid burned at the statement. The War Memorial demanded respect. She knew that and she'd known how Poole would respond. But still, it wasn’t for McGonagall to make up her mind on. Afterall, she hadn’t been there.  

She opened her mouth to say as such but was cut off. "And all of that because of a few comments about your choice to opt out of competing for a spot on the delegation. Is that decision not your own, or are you really that insecure about not being represented amongst our best and brightest?"  

How could she call Sigrid insecure? And they weren't just comments. The Gryffindors had called her a coward!   Sigrid kept her mouth shut. Staying silent after someone had said their worst was a great way to lighten the blow. It made them think they’d won, and that you’d been mollified and then they’d back off.  

"Where did that choice come from, Miss Mourning? And so soon after the announcement?"  

Sigrid paused at the question. What was she really asking?  

"I hardly think I’d be welcomed by our hosts, Headmistress." She enunciated the title, the "s’s" trailing like a snake hiss. She was a serpent, through and through.  

McGonagall pursed her lips and nodded her head once, like she understood. But she’d only seen the court documents. She didn’t truly  know   what had happened. Only the family knew the truth, and they had locked it up and thrown away the key. And sent the perpetrator away to a new school.  

"I hear that everyone has made a full recovery. I’m sure you were relieved when you heard the news."  

"Is that all, Headmistress, or may I leave with my punishment?" Sigrid interrupted. She wouldn’t be responding to that .  

The older witch sighed.  

S S-M

Sigrid slouched into the hollow of a tree, exhaling loudly as she stared up at the canopy. Everywhere else had been filled with students. The forbidden forest was silent in comparison.  

With a deep breath, she pushed open the door to the shack she had built in the woods. It wasn't much. A ten-by-ten-foot room with a squat roof. She had planted her "garden" at the beginning of her sixth year. She grew the ingredients she didn't have access to at the school. That is, those of a more illicit quality.   

She surveyed the state of them. Many plants were dead, strangled by the stronger of the species that had conquered the room. She cracked her back and snipped at leaves, pruning the unruliest of her plants and ripping out the dead corpses that laid strangled or starved. She went through the motions, dirt digging under her nails as she made room for new growth. Memories stole into the silence, nudging her toward nostalgia, toward Cass and the garden that had been theirs in the Shambling Tower. A sentimental infection had her planting tobacco like she'd grown and smoked at Ilvermorny, best friend by her side.  

It was nighttime, Sigrid reasoned as her heart ached. Couldn’t she be weak in the nighttime?  

By the time she finished pruning her garden, planting new species, and dividing the shack into more appropriate sections, the moon had risen in the sky, almost full. Wasn’t it silly, she thought, that the mundane sight of the moon could remind her of a person? She stood with her thoughts and then left them in that shack. Whether they took root or were strangled wasn’t up to her.  

She didn’t want more detention for being caught out late, so she traversed back through the forest, making sure to keep quiet and cover up her tracks.  

She approached the castle. Something called out from above. She paused a moment on the sloping lawn, the stars and the torches near the entrance to the castle the only light. She listened again for the sound. Was that a bird? She could have sworn it sounded like—  

A raven swooped from the sky with a caw, flapping in front of her like a bad omen. Wings batted in her face and she naturally flinched back, drawing her wand. The creature let out another caw, the sound familiar, before it landed on her shoulder. Black talons curled into the cloth of her robes as the raven pecked at her boyish hair. Sigrid jerked her head away from the curious beak and stared at the avian fellow. She swallowed when he stared back.  

She recognized this bird. Her eyes dropped like stones to the bird's feet. There, tied to his leg, was a scroll. She took it, the bird again nipping at her hair like it was looking for material to build its nest. Too friendly for a bird she hadn’t seen in years.  

She swatted the bird off her shoulder. It let out a squawk in response, ascending into the sky, almost invisible against the shadow of night. It perched in a windowpane and stared down at her.   

Sigrid’s gaze dropped to the clutched scroll, crinkling from her grip. What did she want now? Nothing good, surely. She unrolled the scroll, the familiar handwriting banishing her hopes for a peaceful school year.