The Land Of Tears

At night, Livia could hear sobs through the ceiling, and silent tears rolled down her own cheeks, but she never let them show. No sense in upsetting Mother more.

There were happier times, though, when they went to the country house in Berkshire with the whole extended family. The Notts were one of the oldest families in England, one of the few Pureblood families that had retained their good name and their money, as well as their separation from the Muggle world. The Malfoys were richer, but tainted by much more than simple dabbling in the Dark Arts; the Mulcibers had the prestige, but a generation of money-squandering playboys had wiped out their Gringotts account; and the Zabini family, a recent Sicilian transplant with a controlling interest in Gringotts, had too much to do with Muggles for Claudius Nott’s taste. He had been dissatisfied to the extreme when his only son, Maximian, had wed Licenia Zabini, but the births of his only grandsons, Emmanuel and Eustace, had gone a long way to assuaging his anger.

Julia Rookwood was almost her old self during the long summers at the old house. The adults would sit drinking cocktails on the lawn and watch the children play as the fireflies dipped low in the shrubs.

They worried about Livia. She was such a self-contained child, happy to sit in a corner with a pile of blocks or a doll while Eustace, only a few months older, ran and jumped and scraped his knees. Behind Julia’s back, they whispered about unhealthy environments for a child to grow up in.

The summer Livia was seven, Emmanuel was ten and Eustace had just turned eight. Livia was small for her age, with long, coarse black hair, a pointed chin in a thin face, and ears that stuck out like the handles on a sugar bowl. The boys brought Cauldron Cakes and pumpkin juice and their broomsticks out to the big oak tree in front of the house and chased each other through the air, tossing a practice Quaffle. She was, they informed her, a little girl, so she couldn’t play with them. Eustace put the emphasis on "little". Emmanuel put it on "girl".

"I haven’t a broomstick anyway," she said gravely, and turned away, her disappointment barely showing in her face.

But Emmanuel sized her up. He was more than a foot taller than her, forty pounds heavier, but the family resemblance was obvious in the shape of the nose. Long, straight, and aristocratic, generations of Notts stared down identical noses in the family portraits that decorated the parlor. "All right then," he said eventually. "We can play Death Eaters. You can be the Muggle."

Her eyes narrowed and she frowned, crossing her arms across her chest. "You don’t know anything."

"What d’you mean?" her cousin demanded, glowering at her. Eustace guided his broom towards the ground and hopped off to watch.

"Your father betrayed the Dark Lord," she said, eyes narrowing farther, until she stared at her cousin through tiny slits. "Mine went to Azkaban instead of betray him, but your father’s a traitor."

He lunged at her, pushing her to the ground so hard that the breath was knocked out of her. Then he was on top of her, pushing her face into the grass, his knee digging painfully into her ribs. She fought back, kicking, scratching, forcing his hand off the back of her head and biting at his arm, but he was bigger and older, and soon had her immobile. He dug his knee farther into her back until there were tears in her eyes, tears of pain and humiliation and anger.

"Emmanuel!" Eustace exclaimed, looking horrified. "She’s a girl ! You aren’t s’posed to hit girls!"

His brother ignored him, keeping his furious stare turned on Livia. "Say you’re sorry," he hissed between clenched teeth.

"He’s a traitor," Livia continued, fighting against the pain to get the words out, "and when the Dark Lord comes back he’ll kill him and my father will help."

The knee was driven into her side again. "Say you’re sorry!"

"Your mum’s a Muggle-lover," she said, body writhing, trying to pitch him off her.

He seized her arm, twisted it up behind her back. She gasped at the searing pain in her shoulder, and squeezed her eyes tight against the tears. "Say you’re sorry!" He had lost what little self-control he had, and was shouting the words so loudly that she wondered why nobody had heard.

"I won’t."

"Emmanuel, she’s our cousin!"

The pain…

"I’ll break your arm."

Can’t say it. It hurt. But she couldn’t say it, couldn’t give in, even if it would end the pain

Her voice sounded far away even to her own ears. "Your da—" But he cut her off before she could finish her sentence, pushed her face into the dirt so it turned to mud in her mouth, twisted her arm farther until she wasn’t aware of anything but the white-hot pain.

She was right, she couldn’t say she wasn’t…

And then the world went black.

When Livia opened her eyes, she was lying on her bed. The pain in her arm was gone, replaced by a curious numbness. Her mouth tasted dry and sour. She tried to sit up, took the cup of water from the bedside table, and drained it without pausing for breath.

"You’re awake," her aunt’s voice observed. Helena Nott looked like her sister, but she had none of the fragile, ethereal quality. She was all business.

"Yes," Livia agreed.

"Emmanuel said you fell out of the tree." Helena gave a slight smile, as if this was in some way amusing.

Livia said nothing, just sat up farther in the bed and inspected her arm.

"He didn’t know how you could dislocate your shoulder, break your wrist, and get a black eye and a hand-shaped bruise on your face from falling out of a tree."

Still silence.

"Your uncle had a talk with Eustace, and he told everything. There’s something you need to understand, Livia. What your father did was brave and noble, and when the Dark Lord rises again, he will be rewarded beyond any of our wildest dreams. But what your uncle did had its purpose, too. He’s a very important man, and he had can do more if he isn’t in Azkaban. He’s not a traitor, the traitors are the ones who left the Dark Lord." She looked very sad. "Like Severus Snape. Or Abelard Bagman." She shook her head, as if to clear her thoughts. "Livia, your loyalty is a great thing, but it should be given to your uncle, as well. He’s too, you know."

"He said he was under the Imperius Curse," Livia said in a small voice. "He denied the Dark Lord."

"He did what he had to." Helena’s mouth made a thin line and she looked disapproving. Her gaze softened as she regarded Livia’s face, and she sighed. "You were stubborn this afternoon, Livia," she said softly.

"I was." There was a note of pride in the girl’s voice.

"An admirable quality…it’s too bad," her aunt said, almost to herself.

"What is?" Livia asked.

"That you were born a girl, and so late…you would have been the perfect Death Eater."

And at that moment, a hope blossomed in Livia’s heart. Great and powerful and terrible, she felt it flutter inside her ribcage like a trapped bird, and she knew, deep in her heart, that it would come true.

 

 

Flatter me, and I may not believe.
Criticize me, and I may not like you.
Ignore and me, and I may not forgive you.
Encourage me, and I may not forget you.
—William Arthur Ward