TW: Violence, blood etc.
January 07th, 1866 — Castle grounds, Hogwarts
The underbrush of the forbidden forest gripped his legs and Samuel stumbled, tried to keep his balance, but fell and rolled between the roots of a massive tree. He got on his feet, holding on to the tree, trying to suppress the urge to cough and retch, listening into the winter night. There were voices, but far away.
McMullen and the Gryffindor boys got him in the dark by the boat shed at the lake. Samuel was out alone, walking, like he often did in the evenings when he got restless, and suddenly they came running around the shed and descended on him like a pack of pit dogs. Reymund got to him first, and immobilized his arms with a spell and held him up in the air and he could smell whiskey and biting sweat and then McMullen was in front of him with a beater's bat and he hit him square in the face, three times. Three times. The world turned roaring black and red and the next thing he remembered was curling on the sandy ground by the lake and vomiting. The world came back then and the puking scared the boys, because there was blood in it from his nose and split lip. "That was too much," he heard one boy say. "Shite. We're in trouble," said another. The spell around his arms eased up and the second he felt that, Samuel got on his feet and bolted. He could hear them come after him, laughing and shouting. Relieved that their fun had not turned too serious for their enjoyment.
Now in the cover of the forbidden forest, Samuel bent over, so that the blood might run out of his nose instead of down his throat, where it made him sick to his stomach. Oh, they would pay for this. The hatred and lust for violence he felt at this moment would befit a psychotic Roman emperor, the sort that quartered people for lunchtime entertainment. The part of him that was a boy of fourteen years, and a child seemingly just yesterday, must be to blame for the tears of pain and humiliation and abandonment that ran hot down his bruised face. They were seven, he was alone. Not a single person in this school would stick up for him. To hell with that. "Episkey," he whispered and pointed his wand at his face. His split lip healed and his nose stopped leaking red like a fountain. His head was still not right, but that was above his abilities. That was a problem for later.
With his wand in hand, he snuck back towards the lake. The boys of the quidditch team were back to drinking by the boat shed. The only one looking in his direction was McMullen.
"Oh settle down. The rat is back in the castle by now. He won't snitch, sit down." Reymund's voice. "You don't know that, Daniel. I'm watching the forest until he comes out."
Laughter. "Didn't you see him?" Someone started out in a reenactment, to the groups great amusement.
Samuel went through his repertoire of spells in his head, trying to decide what would be most devastating to the greatest number of enemies, consequences be damned. Then he saw a tall and willowy figure approach from the greenhouses. He held his breath and withdrew into the shrubbery, crouching low to the ground. It was Lyra, and she had already discovered the group by the shed.
Oh well. He could not wait to see this unfold.
McMullen and the Gryffindor boys got him in the dark by the boat shed at the lake. Samuel was out alone, walking, like he often did in the evenings when he got restless, and suddenly they came running around the shed and descended on him like a pack of pit dogs. Reymund got to him first, and immobilized his arms with a spell and held him up in the air and he could smell whiskey and biting sweat and then McMullen was in front of him with a beater's bat and he hit him square in the face, three times. Three times. The world turned roaring black and red and the next thing he remembered was curling on the sandy ground by the lake and vomiting. The world came back then and the puking scared the boys, because there was blood in it from his nose and split lip. "That was too much," he heard one boy say. "Shite. We're in trouble," said another. The spell around his arms eased up and the second he felt that, Samuel got on his feet and bolted. He could hear them come after him, laughing and shouting. Relieved that their fun had not turned too serious for their enjoyment.
Now in the cover of the forbidden forest, Samuel bent over, so that the blood might run out of his nose instead of down his throat, where it made him sick to his stomach. Oh, they would pay for this. The hatred and lust for violence he felt at this moment would befit a psychotic Roman emperor, the sort that quartered people for lunchtime entertainment. The part of him that was a boy of fourteen years, and a child seemingly just yesterday, must be to blame for the tears of pain and humiliation and abandonment that ran hot down his bruised face. They were seven, he was alone. Not a single person in this school would stick up for him. To hell with that. "Episkey," he whispered and pointed his wand at his face. His split lip healed and his nose stopped leaking red like a fountain. His head was still not right, but that was above his abilities. That was a problem for later.
With his wand in hand, he snuck back towards the lake. The boys of the quidditch team were back to drinking by the boat shed. The only one looking in his direction was McMullen.
"Oh settle down. The rat is back in the castle by now. He won't snitch, sit down." Reymund's voice. "You don't know that, Daniel. I'm watching the forest until he comes out."
Laughter. "Didn't you see him?" Someone started out in a reenactment, to the groups great amusement.
Samuel went through his repertoire of spells in his head, trying to decide what would be most devastating to the greatest number of enemies, consequences be damned. Then he saw a tall and willowy figure approach from the greenhouses. He held his breath and withdrew into the shrubbery, crouching low to the ground. It was Lyra, and she had already discovered the group by the shed.
Oh well. He could not wait to see this unfold.
![[Image: Bka0H0x.jpeg]](https://i.imgur.com/Bka0H0x.jpeg)