Chapter Text
“Look what the mudbloods brought. The mute!”
Laughter echoed in the closed-off walls of the dungeons. A group of Sixth Year Slytherins rounded the corner to face the incoming Fifth Year teen. Angelica tried to ignore the group and continue on her way to the dorm, yet their objective was obviously the pariah of the Slytherin House, so they would not let her go so easily.
“What’s up, Potter? Kneazle got your tongue?” One of the girls approached Angelica and shoved her. Although the younger teen stood her ground and avoided falling to the floor, she still lowered her head and tried to walk around the wall of students.
“What was that, Potter? Got anything to say? You better speak up; we can’t hear you.” A boy blocked the way and towered over her, leaning his ear towards the younger teen. The others laughed.
“Don’t be such a stranger, Potter.” Another boy closed off Angelica’s retreat by pulling her robe. She only curled on herself.
“Why, Potter, we’d love to hear your opinion!” The other girl yanked her braid and pushed her towards the wall. Angelica’s bag fell. The first girl kicked it away, spilling some of its contents out.
“Come on, speak to us, Potter. Don’t be shy.”
Surrounded, Angelica thought that was it. She was once again going to be beaten. It would not be the first time. It had become some sort of a sick sport in the Slytherin House: to bully the mute and not allow her to get inside the dorm. Since the whole House discovered she was given a special way to enter the dorm, they made it a task to bar her entry. They had actually taken their sweet time this year in targeting her. Maybe because the upper Years, the ones who bullied her more, were busy pandering to the new DADA teacher.
However, her luck finally ran out. She still prayed they would not perform any dark magic on her; often casting unnoticeable but painful spells that would not get any of the teacher’s attention. Except for, maybe, Professor Snape. Nonetheless, she did not want to bother the man more than she already did with her brother’s antics. Stupid Harry and his penchant to get in trouble.
One of the male teens punched her in the stomach, leaving her breathless and weak in the knees. As she fell to the floor, the guys kicked and spat on her, taunting her to get up. By the side, the girls were readying their spellcasting.
One of the girls threw a curse that flashed a sickening purple at Angelica. Soon, the Fifth Year felt her heart painfully throb, as if she was having a heart-attack. Her body spasmed with each throbbing. Angelica could only grit her teeth and stand the pain, hoping it did not reach the point of seizures. The last time she was left in that state, she could not attend classes for a fortnight.
McGonagall took off many points from her for skipping class. Apparently, being bedridden was not an excuse for students to skip classes without the school Healer’s authorization. Which she did once – going to Madam Pomfrey – and earned her an even worse beating. The only option was for their Head of House to take care of her. Sadly, the word of the Head of the Slytherin House did not count as a permit.
As Angelica’s mind drifted to past events, heat assaulted her innards. It started slow, like a hot flash, then the heat increased until she was squirming on the floor, her nails painfully digging in her skin to stop the boiling sensation. It was futile against the obvious Blood-Boiling Curse.
She heard their mocking laughter at her state. More than ever, she felt the impotence of her lost voice.
If only she could speak…
She would not bother with puny curses and spells, she would directly cast Bone Removing Spells, or a well-aimed cutting spell to their necks. She once even dreamed of casting Fiendfyre in the whole common room. So, what if she could be expelled? A broken wand and an Obliviate would be more generous than her trying to cast spells when she could not speak.
Even Azkaban sounded like paradise.
As her mind drifted more and more, this time from a tongue swelling hex, rendering her unable to breathe, she wondered why.
Why did it have to be her?
When Voldemort attacked them, James and Lily Potter died, Harry Potter survived unscathed except for a scar on his forehead; meanwhile, she suffered the most from the magical backlash of that last murder attempt.
She should have died that night. The jagged cut on her throat was deadly enough to kill her. Yet, her magic decided it was not her time. That she had to live past that tragedy. It healed her as much as it could until it almost depleted. Until someone arrived to save them. In the end, she managed to come out alive… in exchange of her voice.
Ten years later, when the two entered the Magical community, her brother was lauded as the Boy-Who-Lived, a hero, while she was just The Mute, the wastrel. The burden. The mistake. The inconvenience. The one failing. The one always picked on.
Why did her magic save her?
She could have been a martyr. Like their parents.
Just one more casualty.
Why…?
As her sight darkened and her consciousness left her, she suddenly felt her wand in her hand. It jolted her mind. Her Magic was once again telling her not to give up. With one last effort, a rare act of retaliation from her part, she slashed her wand in the group’s direction. It managed to make them take a step back due to the sudden move, and stop the curse.
As she deeply inhaled vital air into her lungs, she heard them descend into another wave of laughter seeing her miserable state. Their laughter died off when their clothes fell to the floor in shreds though. Before they could react, Angelica flicked her wand towards her things, which packed themselves into her bag, summoning it to her body, and ran away.
The sounds of shrieks and yells, plus her running footsteps filled the hallways.
She did not look back. She just ran out of the dungeons, down hallways, up a few sets of stairs, down some ramps, across bridges until she stopped. Until she made sure no one would find her or link her with what happened to those Sixth Years.
Winded, exhausted and on the verge of unconsciousness, she fell to her knees. She gasped for more air, her throat and lungs hurting at the abuse they were exposed to. Yet what she hated more at that moment was that even after such torture and her urge for air, her voice refused to come out. Her sight blurred. Drops fell on the floor. Her body was wracked by sobs, yet her voice still…
“Miss Potter?”
Angelica jolted and jumped to her feet, swaying a bit, but she nonchalantly brushed away any evidence of her break down and picked up her bag before facing the person who called her out. She could not pretend she did not hear after all.
“Is everything alright, Miss Potter?”
Professor Whitlock stood a few steps away. His wide brimmed hat shaded half of his face, showing only his sharp jaw, pale pink lips and bright tawny eyes that eerily looked at her from the shadows. He was wearing the same robes most teachers wore, billowy and heavy, and a pair of boots, but she somehow failed to hear him approach.
It was… unnatural.
Professor Whitlock seemed to flinch at her thought. Angelica lowered her head in apology.
She learned about Legilimency from Professor Snape. Something he did on her on her First Year when she could not use the spell that wrote words in the air, and when he had not picked up a few phrases in BSL to comunicate with her. Although the Potions Master refused to teach her about the mind arts, she read more about it in the Forbidden Section of the library, where she had unlimited access – after all, what could a mute do with spells she could not pronounce?
That was how she knew that people could actually project their thoughts, and those who practiced Legilimency could easily pick them up. She also knew that some people were natural mind readers, and others had the bad habit of reading unsuspecting and unprotected minds.
She must have projected that thought too loudly.
Or Professor Whitlock read her unprotected mind.
“You’re past curfew.” The man tried again, not approaching her.
Only then, Angelica felt ashamed. He was trying to be kind, and there she was, thinking negatively about him. She took out her wand, threw a few spells around, then started writing. ‘I know’.
“Is there a reason why you’re not hurrying to your dorm?” For some reason, Angelica felt his voice was very soothing, as if all her worries were a thing of the past, nonexistent.
She frowned. That was strange. Some of her anxiety returned, but somewhat muted. Looking up at the History of Magic professor, she found he had taken off his hat and was leaning on the sill of a tall window that adorned that hallway. His honey blonde hair shone to the light from the rising full moon.
It was quite a sight, making her understand why her classmates were infatuated with the man. His countenance, though, reminded her of another man. Kinder, taller, older, tired.
‘I hexed some 6 years. I dont think theyll welcome me’, she wrote in reply to his question. She wondered if they were waiting for her in the common room for revenge. Ah, she must have ruined their expensive robes. Her mouth twitched, yet she was able to stop the smirk that threatened to appear.
He slowly nodded. “Where were you planning to spend the night, then?” He asked, somehow easily accepting her tale.
Instead of displaying his concern with those words, they served to spike Angelica’s guard to high levels.
She never thought herself beautiful. Vanity was a foreign concept to her. If she wanted to be charitable, then she thought she was easy to look at. Besides, none of her male housemates, or even guys from the other houses mentioned anything about her physical appearance. Her lost voice apparently overshadowed any other good quality she might have had in their eyes.
Not that she wanted them to pay attention to her in that way. She had enough with male muggles. Most were leering men who asked and said awkward things to her, uncaring if their words made her uncomfortable.
Where you going, beautiful? Want me to take you somewhere? You live nearby?
And there was that time with the creepy police officer this past summer who tried to touch her at every opportunity he had while asking her where her parents were. She did not want to explain that she had run away from the Dursleys because she could no longer stand the way Vernon looked at her.
Harry was too busy drowning in his pity party about being used as a ritual ingredient to resurrect the Dark Lord. He cared too much about the death of some Cedric Diggory he barely knew, that he ignored her every time she mentioned how uncomfortable their uncle made her feel.
Since no one cared, no one listened, then she escaped. She escaped from that house, and from that police officer. That was her only option.
After so many instances where men tried to pry about her night agenda while she became a runaway, she became conditioned to bolt out at the mere mention of certain words.
“I apologize.” Professor Whitlock’s voice jolted her out of her rising panic, foreign calm invading her.
[Stop] she hurriedly signed. She was not sure it was him, but she had to do something! Anything!
He intently stared at her, searching, unnerving. More alarm bells rang in her mind. “Are you sure?” He slowly asked, indirectly confessing he was indeed doing something to her.
She nodded, taking a step back, preparing herself for whatever the man would do. She did not make it far though. Her body locked itself, her breath shortened, her head felt light, her heart thundered in her chest, she was trembling, and chills and hot flushes attacked her body. At some point, she even felt herself float.
What did he do…?