The Raven and The Snake

Pain... utter, screaming, agony. Was this it? Was this how she was going to die? Why was it taking so long?

All the nerves in her body were on fire and she was paralyzed, completely unable to escape the flames that were hurting her, but feeling it still. The building that had collapsed on her made it impossible even to lift a hand to her face that was now covered in blood and soot and still burning.

The concrete trapping her wasn’t cool to the touch as it had been only hours ago when she’d been on the second floor, on her hands and knees, scrubbing. She’d been cleaning the old theater building for hours with a dozen other people... where were they? Had they gotten out or had they also been trapped?

Every breath was agony as a weight pressed down on her ribs, cracking them against her lungs and even the small bit of air she managed to swallow was tainted with smoke that burned her throat. The feel of her own blood bubbling around in her mouth wasn’t offering any reprieve from the sandpaper burn the flames made.

Why couldn’t she just choke to death on her own blood and be done with it? How could death be so drawn out? Life wasn’t worth living if it was this. Surely, nothing could save her now. Even if she was pulled free of the rubble and taken to a hospital, the pain would never subside now. She was too badly burned. Too badly broken.

The rubble pinning her had to be the only thing now holding her insides together. There was no way she could possibly be moved without falling apart, was there? And yet, cruelly, her phone was in tact.

Nestled safely in her pocket in its metal case she’d specifically ordered because of her tendency to drop it, the phone was still going. Unreachable, but she could hear it. The audiobook being played was what made her understand time and even under the raging inferno around her, the earbud in her left ear hadn’t been dislodged and it continued merrily playing the last chapter of the book.

Her eyelids could not block out the blaze of the flames and even closed, her eyeballs burned. No tears could staunch the burn. Her eyelashes had burned away along with all her hair. She knew her face must be a cracked mess. How long before it was dust? Hadn’t all the moisture keeping her alive disappeared yet?

Piano music sounded in her ear. How could it still play? The plastic casing had to be melted, grafted to her ear by now. A cheery woman announced the end of the audiobook, stating that it had been read by Jim Dale and that it was a production of Pottermore. It ended with a small advertisement.

A shifting above her made her want to look up, but her eyes were now sealed shut or no longer even existed inside her head. There was a crash and what little burning air was left whooshed from her lungs as her ribs splinted down into her organs. A shudder went through her, if she’d been free enough to really move, she would’ve curled inward on herself.

The pain left her then. She could no longer feel the flames licking along her face or the hot concrete pressing on her. She didn’t have a body any longer. There was nothing holding her together. She was free.

Ariadne jolted up out of bed. Her breath came in swift pants. Her hair and nightdress clung to her sweaty body. She found herself standing before she realized she was even awake. Her knees buckled the moment she found her feet. Sprawling, she gasped.

Awake. She was awake now. It had just been a dream.

She had a body. Her face was pressed against the cool wooden floor of her room, her knees cushioned from the landing by the fluffy floor runner her mother had placed there so she could comfortably climb in and out of bed.

Mother. Ariadne’s hand moved to her neck and followed the long gold chain to the heavy locket. She pulled the locket into her view and popped open the catch. Twin pictures sat in front of her face now. One the left was her father, a handsome young man with a somewhat gaunt face. He was still boyish, his features never having had a chance to mature before his untimely death at 15. He’d had well groomed, wavy, black hair that he kept tidy. His eyes were brown and serious, but there was softness in the way he held his mouth as he looked at her through the photo.

Her mother’s photo on the right was older. Though she had been a young mother, she had managed to grow to adulthood. She was beautiful with long blond hair that fell past her waist and kind, light eyes. She had a dazzling smile on her face as though she was looking at her favorite person in the world.

Ariadne stared at them for a few long minutes, her cheek still pressed to the floor. She’d never had a chance to meet her father, but her mother had often spoken of him fondly and proclaimed he had died in the bravest possible manner for a 15 year old. Her mother had died just last year when Ariadne was 10. She’d had a heart condition all her life and it had finally taken her after a small stint in the hospital. Ariadne had sat next to her mother’s sickbed, proudly reading out the one and only spell book she’d been able to procure when her mother breathed her last.

Her mother hadn’t managed to live to her 11th birthday when the letter came proclaiming her acceptance into the magic school her mother had been convinced she would be admitted into. Now she clambered to her feet and moved to the nightstand, letting the locket swing free. She picked up the letter that was on a thick piece of parchment with gorgeous purple calligraphy, headed with a coat of arms that featured a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake with the letter H. Her mother would’ve been so proud. Perhaps her father too, as her mother often said he would.

The acceptance letter had come without prompting a couple of days ago, announcing that not only had she been accepted into this most exclusive of schools, but also that a representative would be arriving to discuss the finer details. Ariadne glanced at the clock, the letter had said the representative would come today, but the hours had been about as specific at the cable company’s. Still, she really should get ready to receive a guest.

Ariadne went about the tiny room of the London flat, pulling on a t shirt and jeans. She made her way to the kitchen with her brush still in her hair to see her grandparents looking a little worse for wear. The letter, that her mother would have been so delighted to see, had wrought her grandparents with anxiety. Unlike her, they were what her mother had called “muggles”, not having a drop of magic within them.

Indeed, her grandparents were far from “magical”. They were still fairly young, only in their 50s, and had never dared to dream of magic until the birth of Ariadne. Her grandparents were a gay couple that had adopted her mother when she’d been about Ariadne’s age now. She had come to them with strange tales and little understanding of the world as they knew it. She’d been a problem child, but they had kept her because as a gay couple in the UK, they weren’t legally allowed to formally adopt a child and had begged one of their own parents to be the one to take the child in. It wouldn’t have been right to give her up after pushing so hard to adopt a child of unknown origins.

When Ariadne’s mother had announced to them that she was having a baby at the age of 14, they said they would be happy to raise the child her in her stead so she could continue school. Their chance at having a baby of their own. However, the baby soon started showing characteristics they’d previously thought was ridiculous, impossible. Ariadne’s mother had sat down with them and explained in detail of her origins, stories they’d thought were a child’s fantasies now proven true by the extraordinary toddler.

Unlike her mother, who was delighted at her child’s abilities, her grandparents... they didn’t know what to make of it. The stories of her mother’s background were horrific in their opinion, filled with monsters and evil. The idea of Ariadne being a part of that world filled them with dread.

Ariadne smiled at them, “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Grandpa Chester said over his paper, looking as though “good” was far from the descriptor he would like to use.

“Good morning, Aria,” Grandpa Lawrence said, pacing around the small kitchen, looking for something that needed cleaning. “Want some breakfast?”

Ariadne sat down next to Chester at the table. “Sure, eggs and toast?”

Grandpa Lawrence nodded and pulled the eggs from the fridge, looking grateful for something to do. He handled his anxiety by keeping busy and because of that, their flat was completely spotless. Not one speck of dirt or cobweb could be found anywhere and the smell of bleach hung in the air. He’d probably been up for hours and hours already, cleaning the already immaculate space.

After breakfast, Grandpa Chester would normally go to work, but had called in sick so he could be there when the representative arrived. He sat stiffly in the living room, watching television with the volume low so as not to miss a knock at the door. Grandpa Lawrence swept around, fluffing pillows and straightening already straight pictures.

It was 11 when the knock finally came, preceded oddly, by a loud crack in the hall. Grandpa Lawrence lunged at the door while Grandpa Chester rose from his seat, looking tense. Ariadne rolled her eyes at the pair of them. Wasn’t she supposed to be more nervous than them?

A tall, severe looking woman stood at the door wearing a ruffled black shirt and a tartan pencil skirt. She was thin, with a beaky nose, small round glasses, and her grey hair was pulled into a tight bun. She held out a hand to Grandpa Lawrence.

“Good morning,” she said in a clear voice.

A name popped into Ariadne’s head before the woman spoke it and she knew who this woman was.

“My name is McGonagall. Minerva McGonagall. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Grandpa Lawrence shook her hand tentatively and welcomed her in. Grandpa Chester moved forward to greet the woman in as well, shaking her hand when offered.

Ms. McGonagall’s eyes roved over the room, pausing when she spotted Ariadne standing near the sofa awkwardly. Ariadne moved towards her, reaching for her hand and looking into the pale blue eyes that examined her face.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. McGonagall,” Ariadne said politely, giving the hand a firm shake. “My name is Ariadne.”

“P-please have a seat.” Grandpa Lawrence stammered excitedly, rushing to the counter and bringing over some finger sandwiches to offer Ms. McGonagall. “Can I make you some tea?”

Ms. McGonagall sat down regally in the armchair turned toward the sofa. “Tea would be lovely.”

Ariadne and Grandpa Chester sat back down on the sofa, their eyes on the woman. Ariadne’s heart was pounding in her ears. She shoved her hands under her legs to keep them from trembling.

“As I’m sure you already know, I am the representative for the boarding school Hogwarts.”

Ariadne and Chester nodded.

“As the letter stated, Ariadne is a very gifted child that has been accepted to attend our school.”

Grandpa Chester looked like he was having a hard time unclenching his jaw to speak. “And this school... is for witches and wizards?”

Ms. McGonagall smiled a little. “Yes, it is a school for children with magical abilities.”

“So you’re a witch,” Said Chester quickly.

“I am,” Ms. McGonagall agreed.

Grandpa Lawrence came back from the kitchen with a tray in his shaking hands. “Can uh... can you... prove it?”

Ms. McGonagall looked at his shaking hands and very slowly withdrew a stick from her sleeve. She gave the smallest of waves and the tray lifted itself away from Lawrence’s hands, floated across the room, and placed itself neatly on the coffee table where the teapot then went to pour Ms. McGonagall tea into a cup and drift toward her.

Ariadne was shaking all over, her excitement showing on every inch of her face. Grandpa Lawrence gave a tiny squeak, staring from his hands to tray that was now on the coffee table. Grandpa Chester had all but turned to stone.

“That’s incredible,” Ariadne breathed. “And I’ll be able to learn how to do that?”

Ms. McGonagall smiled warmly, taking a small sip of tea. “That and much more.”

Grandpa Lawrence moved to sit next to Ariadne, putting a hand on her shoulder. “What... what if we don’t want her to go?”

Ariadne pursed her lips. Of course, they already knew why she had to go. Her mother had explained to them the need for wizard children to learn to hone their abilities. They knew she had to go, whether they liked it or not.

Ms. McGonagall allowed her teacup and saucer to float next to her as though they sat on an invisible table. “That would be unwise, I’m afraid. Children with magical abilities such as hers, need to learn control. If she were allowed to run amok, the results could be very dangerous for her as well as others.”

“But she already has control,” Grandpa Chester said through his teeth.

Ms. McGonagall’s eyes went to Ariadne, appraising her. “Does she?”

Ariadne blushed a little. She did have fairly decent control for a child of her age. She spent many hours meditating with Grandpa Chester to learn how to reign in her emotions. She learned to pour her energy into art projects that now littered her room, the only slightly cluttered room of the flat. She liked to keep her hands busy and her paper folding and embroidery could be considered magical. The paper animals liked to roam around her desk without help and the embroidery would change and sparkle in ways that always made Grandpa Lawrence gasp and hide them away.

However, the control wasn’t perfect. Hardly a month ago, Ariadne had caused a stir at the local playground by causing the merry go round to spin so fast that several children projectile vomited without ever touching it herself. They’d been calling her a freaky show-off for playing on the jungle gym like an acrobat.

She’d never been well liked by other children. She was pretty in a conventional sense with smooth, pale skin, long, wavy, black hair, and catlike pale green eyes, but looks weren’t enough to make her acceptable. She was mature for her age which set her apart from her peers. Older children and adults didn’t like her much either, however. She always had an answer, sometimes even before a question was asked. She needed only eye contact to see what others might be thinking. Action came easily as well. As a baby, she’d simply decide to walk and did it and her first words though a little late, made a complete sentence.

Ariadne wet her lips nervously. “My mother was a squib. She knew about magic and she wanted me to go to Hogwarts. My father went there. I want to go.”

Ms. McGonagall frowned slightly. “Who is your father, dear?”

“His name was Regulus. Regulus Black, ma’am.”