The badger's shadow

For as long as I have existed, I have never truly understood the meaning of love. To me, the word is an abstract concept, a phantom limb I was born without. My mother is a creature of pure malice, a woman who seemingly draws breath only to witness the suffering of others. I cannot fathom why she became this hollow shell of a person, though my Aunt Summer used to whisper that she hadn't always been so cruel—that some nameless darkness shifted within her and changed her forever.

She never truly looked at me, not with the eyes of a mother. Instead, she appraised me like a flawed specimen, her only interactions being sharp, biting comments regarding my appearance. She is undeniably beautiful, a witch of terrifying power and poise: tall, with deep brown hair coiled into effortless, loose curls. Her emerald eyes are perpetually painted with a smoky shadow, and her lips are always stained a predatory red. When I was a small child, I spent my days performing desperate acts of excellence just to catch her eye, but she remained utterly indifferent. When I was eleven, the Ministry finally caught her; she was sentenced to Azkaban for the systematic torture of countless witches and wizards. I haven’t seen her since, yet like a fool, I send a letter every holiday and on her birthday. The silence that follows is the only response I have ever known.

Then there is my father, Gellert Grindelwald.

His power is a heavy, suffocating mantle that drapes over everything he touches. He was more present in my upbringing than my mother, if only to mold me into a weapon. He drilled the doctrine of blood purity into my mind until it felt like my own heartbeat: I am better than the rest; my magic is a tool for dominion, not for trifles; and the world belongs to those who have the stomach to take it. He taught me that "Muggle-bloods" are an infestation and that empathy is a rot that weakens the soul. "Never show it," he would command, "for a heart is merely a target." Yet, despite his grand visions for my future, he was rarely there, choosing his crusade over his child.

My brother, Dane, was once my only sanctuary. As children, we were inseparable, our laughter echoing through the cold halls of our home. But the shadows claimed him too. When he turned thirteen, my father took him under his wing, dragging him into the dark intricacies of his revolution. Now, we are strangers. On the rare occasions he returns home, he is a ghost—silent, hardened, and unreachable.

Aunt Summer was the only light in that oppressive gloom. She was the antithesis of the Grindelwald name—a scholar, a dreamer, and the only person who ever truly cared if I was fed or if I was lonely. She tried to plant seeds of kindness in the barren soil of my heart, but like every good thing in my life, she withered away. She perished when I was ten, leaving me entirely alone.

Following her death, I was sent to a local, suffocatingly strict wizarding academy. I had acquaintances, but never friends; my father forbade any bond that didn't serve a political purpose, dismissing companionship as a "useless distraction." I grew to hate the reflection in the mirror, the legacy of my name, and the hollow ache of my daily existence.

However, at fifteen, the trajectory of my life shifted. My old school was forced to shut its gates, and with his options exhausted, my father had no choice but to send me elsewhere. Now, the iron gates of Hogwarts are opening for me, and for the first time, I wonder if the shadows will follow me there, or if I might finally find what my mother lost so long ago.