Surface Illusions

Surface Illusions
by Eilan

"It requires more courage to suffer than to die"
Napoleon Bonaparte

He shouted at you, and you were afraid. You are sitting in your room now, and you are shaking like a leaf with fear.

You hear her shouting back and you know what that means: The beginning of the end. Again.

You listen to them. You don´t want to, but you do.

"You´ve been drinking again, haven´t you?"

"That´s not your business, woman!"

You want to stop them, just raise your wand and make it go away. You wish you had some spell to make them shut up and go away, to leave you in peace. But that´s not how it is; and you can only sit here and wish they would stop.

Your golden chain with the small cross is tied around your neck. It is hidden under your shirt. They don´t like you wearing it, so you hide it whenever you are at home. Your grandmother gave it to you when you were a young girl of nine.

You always thought the cross was beautiful, and when you told your grandmother, she smiled.

"Of course it´s my business!"

She smiled and three days later, she was dead. You miss her terribly, even now, four years on. But you´d never tell anyone. Just one more thing that you don´t really want to remember. She was your only shelter in this world of confusion and hatred. Now she´s gone and left you with them. Sometimes you hate her for it. Sometimes you hate yourself for hating her. After all, she didn´t choose to die, did she?

"Get out of my sight, woman!"

The cross is cold to the touch and that calms you. It shouldn´t be cold; you can feel that your body temperature is higher than it should be. Still, the cold is comforting. But it´s not enough to slow down your breathing or make you stop trembling or make you stop shaking or make you stop crying.

You are crying. Again.

"Oh, you bet I will."

A door bangs and you hold your breath. Will he come upstairs? For one moment you are confident he won´t. The illusion is shattered when you hear his heavy footsteps on the wooden stairs.

There are fourteen small steps and you can hear him climb every one of them, slowly, almost calmly. Your heart seems to pound in the rhythm of his steps.

One. Two. Three.

You hide the cross under your shirt again. You won´t let him break it.

Four. Five. Six. Seven.

You huddle up in the corner of the small, dark room. Your family is poor and they can´t even really afford this small cabin in the woods. The furniture in the room consists merely of a bed and a small desk. You attend Hogwarts on scholarship and are ashamed of it.

Eight. Nine.

Maybe you can lock the door with a spell?

But you are only thirteen and you are not allowed to perform magic in the summer holidays.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

You would never wish this on anyone. You would do anything to keep other people from experiences like this. Your biggest dream is to become a teacher.

Thirteen.

You wince and put your arms around your knees.

Fourteen.

He´s here.

The door flies open and you look at him. You don´t want to, but you can´t help it. He´s huge and so much stronger than you.

You can smell that he´s been drinking.

"Come here."

You are paralysed. You want to shake your head; you want to say no, you want to force him to leave you alone. You can´t.

"I said come here, Minerva!"

He´s shouting now and you can´t help but stand up. You stare at the floor and make yourself look smaller than you are. Gryffindor bravery? Not here, not at home.

You disgust yourself in moments like this.

One step; you don´t have the courage for more.

"Nearer!"

One more step. Your knees are weak and you wish they could support your weight a bit more. He won´t see you fall down. He will see you crying and shaking and trembling, but he won´t ever see you fall down.

You can pinpoint the exact moment in which his fist makes contact with your cheek. Blood tastes salty; you knew that before. It´s kind of him to reassure you of this, isn´t it?

The only light comes from the open door behind him. His massive frame keeps out most of it.

It´s dark outside. It doesn´t matter. The room has no windows.

He grabs your shoulders and shakes you.

The door is cracked on the bottom. The crack is black, long and thin. The handle of the door is also wooden.

"Look at me when I talk to you."

You wonder when your mother will come back. You hope she won´t leave you alone with him. Another side of you tells you this is a selfish wish and not worth a true Gryffindor, who you so desperately want to be. She´d be better off without him.

You look up at him. He´s got brown eyes and black hair, just like you and your mother. His hair, of course is shorter than yours. You try to imagine him with long hair. It would be funny. You don´t laugh.

"You are such a mistake."

You note that he isn´t screaming. You don´t want to hear what he says, but you do. It creeps into your brain and takes it over, it whispers inside your head. A small voice, but you can hear it without problems.

Mistake.

No, you think, you are not. You are a witch, you are a powerful witch.

Mudblood.

You are a witch. And you want to be a teacher. You want to help people.

Scum.

"Say it."

You know what he means. Better get it behind you, maybe he will go downstairs then, and fall asleep on the couch until tomorrow.

"Say it."

He let go of your shoulders and grabs a fistful of your hair. He still smells of alcohol and smoke and dirtiness and... poverty.

"I´m... I´m a mistake," you whisper. He can hear it, you know that.

"Louder."

"I´m a mistake." Something inside of you broke the first time you repeated his words, long ago. Now, it´s like it´s not really you who´s saying them. Someone else does, someone beside you. There is nothing that can break inside of you.

He seems satisfied. He turns and leaves the room, closing the door. Darkness surrounds you like a thick, black carpet and you welcome it.

This time, he descends the stair.

One. Two.

When he´s at number ten, you allow yourself to breath again. When he´s at number thirteen, you allow yourself to sob.

Mistake. Mudblood. Scum.

You´ve heard all of them, several times, over and over and over.

Witch. Genius. Child.

You´ve also heard them. That´s what you cling onto, as you are lying there on the floor, surrounded by darkness, clutching your knees and sobbing.

You clutch the golden cross on the golden chain around your neck, as you wish for time to pass. You wish and pray for the day you can leave again; to be at the place where you are called a genius, a witch and a child. And a Mudblood and scum. But you are ready to take the good and the bad.

And you promise yourself that you will never let anyone end like this, beaten and bruised and defeated.

No, you will stand tall and defend them.

You are Minerva McGonagall and you are brave.

END