“Who would have listened to his tales of woe when his love was the flickering lamp over his own decaying tomb?”

—  Faraaz Kazi.

 

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“Practice listening to your intuition, your inner voice; ask questions; be curious; see what you see; hear what you hear; and then act upon what you know to be true. These intuitive powers were given to your soul at birth.”

curious, intuitive, methodical, optimistic, free spirited, book-loving

aloof, mischievous, disobedient, moody 

the silence of the highlands after dawn, the smell of the woods, the sounds of rain on the glass roof of her bedroom, black coffee while reading

the ocean, dark lakes, chocolate, high collars, tutoring sessions, spring

giving in to her wanderlust, sketching, creating music with her grandmother

drowning, being left behind, not being good enough

long skirts, flat shoes, cable knit sweaters, kneesocks, wide-legged pants, pastels and ruffles, comfortable jeans, simple tshirts

often to be found wandering the fields with her cat hot on her heel, vanishing into the fog like a figment of your imagination, a wisp caught in a gust of wind, Nacrissus' tail flicking as they become one with the wild

Stubborness

 

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Young love blooms like roses, despite the harsh winds of the wilderness, the cold of the sea and the salt of spindrift coating the cliffs. And as love blooms, so does death, in the chest of a woman, like the laughter on her lips. But all roses wither with the seasons changing, all petals fall and turn to dust, as did the love of Sorrel Winters. As her body was laid to rest, he fled the manor, fled their shire, stricken with grief. Wandering the darkest corners of the wizarding world, he searched for a way to bring her back - breathe life back into her brittle bones and frozen lips. What he found, was a tired smile one Sunday morning, a cup of coffee offered to him in a chipped, yellowed cup, the smell of yesterdays dinner lingering on cheap linoleum. He found no way to wrap his head around the death of his love, when in front of him, the tired waitress of a tiny bed and breakfast, looked like what muggles might have called an angel.

Never, he knew, would his parents accept a muggle wife to their pure blooded son. Never, not so soon after Rebecca's death. Not even with the child growing beneath his new love's heart. Her body swelling, as did the love he felt for her. And yet, there was no place for her in the wizarding world, even less of a place by his side. This child, product of love and mutual desire as it might be, did not belong in House Winters. Half-blood, Sorrel knew his parents would call the child. A bastard. He left, the following morning after the chipped, yellowed coffee cup had been broken in a fit of anger, disappearing into the fog as the tired waitress watched, her hands cradling her unborn child. Little did he know, that the fate of their love had severed two strings of life at once.

A child of no man, they told the waitress, was a bad omen. A bad omen, indeed, for the baby girl's father must have been something else, she heard the nurses whisper to each other. But she looks just like her mother, another said. Raven hair, almond eyes. Something else, the oldest nurse whispers back, spitting three times over her shoulder. Bad luck, a bastard child. Perhaps a fae, perhaps a changeling. Supersticious folk, the waitress thinks as she gathers her things and child, leaving the gossip behind.

It's no easy life, the cottage by the coast cold and the warmth spreading inside the single room smelling like soot and coal.

Dear Sorrel, she writes on faded paper, you have a daughter and I named her Alethi after your grandmother. You told me great stories about her, after all. She is a lovely child, cries little and sleeps a lot. She'd love to meet her father and I think you'd be smitten with her smile. I do not want much, dear Sorrel. No money, no manor, no shire. I want for this innocent baby to grow up with her father, to not be shunned by supersticious backwoodsmen. Please, I beg you, if you do not want me, at least do not leave your daughter behind.

There is no answer, although she knows he got the letter. No knock on the door, just the wind howling across the Irish coast. And the water calls her, louder at night. There is no food in the pantry, none who hires women with a bastard child. Not out here, not ever. No money on her pockets to buy a ticket into town. The water calls, louder even during the day. She follows the call as Alethi is barely old enough to walk. She goes, peacefully, into the rageful water of the ocean.

Love blooms, like heather even on the highlands, in the heart of Sorrel Winters. For a waitress with black hair and almond eyes and tired smiles. He has no choice, he thinks, as he joins her in the water. The only way to bring his love back to life, is to follow her. It has always been the only way. He leaves behind the baby in the cottage, lying silent in her crib.

Never, Coraline Winters says angrily, would I leave my grandchild behind. Hand her to me, you blabbering fool! She wraps the child in her cloak, protected from the winds and shushes her husband, who only smiles and folds his hands in his lap. Portkey's are no thing for a baby to travel with. They take the train, as her muggle mother would have done. No orphanage for Alethi Winters. No, not ever would Coraline Winters leave family behind. Foolish boy, she thinks as she watches the child grow. Grow in height and wits, a little bit more every day. He could have told her. She would have loved him none the less. She is his mother, even in death. And Alethi smiles like him, climbs a tree like him, loves the Irish hills like him. She'd make a fine Gryffindor one day, Ignasius Winters comments one evening across the dinner table and Coraline smiles wickedly into her napkin. Well, he'd think different, if only she would tell him about the way the girl talks her way out of tutoring sessions, only for her to run off into the garden to chaase around poor little garden gnomes. Cunning little beast, she calls Alethi in her min. No Gryffindor, foolish old man. A little savage, Irish witch, that Alethi Winters.