Saudade Solo Completed

Saudade - noun - A feeling of longing, melancholy, or nostalgia, often in an indescribable state.

March 29th, 2020 - Hogwarts Library, 16:00.

Books had always been an escape.

Sometimes they were true- Non-Fiction with the purpose to steer the eyes towards information, towards understanding- towards truth and knowledge. Sometimes they were false- Fictitious. Sprouting from the root of imagination with the function to entertain or push the boundaries of one's own mind.
Emerson had said before, "The mind, once stretched by a new idea, never returns to its original dimensions." Reading, and consuming literature, had all but been Charlie's escape for years it seemed.
When he was younger than he could possibly remember, literature came in the forms of colourful little cardboard books with turtles and hares- no more than a sentence per thick, waxy page, which his mother read to him while he (in many cases futile) babbled along. As he grew, the pages thinned- and the dialogue thickened, and he dared to pick up books larger than his head, as soon as he had the strength for it.
Lest he forgets to think of his mother, a charming woman standing at five feet two inches, with about as much wit as her husband could handle. She is a teacher, at the small local public school- which was connected to the county library in the tiny home town where Charlie had the honour to be raised in. If she had it her way- which if her vibrant personality would not already suggest she did- Charlie would have had his nose to the books as soon as he could, which he did. That is to say- were it not for her, Charlie would not be in the situation he was presently in.

The current situation, yes, should be addressed.

On the bright Sunday afternoon, the young boy found himself settling down into one of the harsh wooden seats which lined the library's impressive collections. He'd been having somewhat of a difficult time as of late- between the complications of the recent matches, and the new friends he'd been trying to find amidst his social woes.
There were just simply times when sitting alone and reading would be the most pleasurable of options.
Spring had come, and the weather was certainly warmer than it had been, his heart had told him to go on one of his usual walks- to bask in the fresh, humid air of Scotland- but his other escapades through the grounds and trails had been... less than relieving. While he did want to go climb a tree or run through the fields- maybe even settle for the pitch and practice after his fumbles at the game- well, delving into a book might've been all the more therapeutic for him.

There were plenty of books to choose from, all of which he had no real bias towards or against- given he didn't know anything about the '101 Uses for Flobberworm Saliva' or 'The History of Histories in Ancient Mesopotamia' (although that one sounded rather appealing) He let his hands graze along the spines, feeling the leathery textures beneath his fingers, and among all the fantastical books in the entire library, there wasn't one that seemed to strike out fully against the others.
He considered reading up on Quidditch, given he still (despite being on the house team) had really no clue over in the slightest- he could figure out just what a 'Holyhead Harpy' was, or just what exactly powered a bludger. He could read up on past Chasers too, and figure out just what he was.

He'd be lying if there wasn't some part of him that wasn't sure what he was. Not just on the team, but-- as a whole.

He found a book he assumed to be applicable, 'A history of Quidditch in the Four Houses,' which he gingerly set down at one of the desks. He was impressed that the school itself had aged well into requiring its own history books, and the book had prefaces dating all the way back to the 1200s, with names of every team and award- every possible thing you'd need to know.
The pages were thinner than the usual, turning with the slightest movement of his tips against the edges of the tome- the text thin and nearly shimmering, enchanted. He was impressed with the detail that had gone into every year's page, sectioned off for each house, with all the strings and players- its own record which he assumed had been charmed to keep date.
Out of curiosity, he flipped to near the back, where the more recent years had been held, some of the pages were still blank. He found the team for the 2019-2020 season, and written in small, fine print was his name. [/font]

[font=Clarendon Condensed] Charles A. Woodward - First String Chaser - Gryffindor - Second Year[/font]

[font=Times New Roman] Over and over again. He read it with a nearly fervent pattern until his eyes strained slightly. He read it until he felt some odd, unintelligible urge, burning behind his eyes and making him blink rapidly before setting the book back down against the dark wood.
Something felt wrong when he read his name like that.

Something missing.

Books had always been an escape.

So why did it feel like he had cornered himself into something? A rut that began to dig its claws into the pit of his stomach and churn until all that was left was something that left him nearly breathless from anxious pulls and pushes- swaying him.
What had began as simply an escape from a less than favoured game of Quidditch and a few social bumps and bruises caused by his issues with interaction was now beginning to unveil itself as much more.
He stared at the page again. His name. Charles Woodward- prefered Charlie- middle name Atticus. First string chaser for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Second-year.
What was wrong with that sentence? He repeated the line in his head, over and over again until he felt the burning again, daring him to tear up at nothing more than his own name. There was nothing wrong with his name, as far as he had ever been concerned. Charles was a little formal, but it had always been Charles. Charles Atticus Woodward.
He took a deep breath and flipped the page back, he couldn't answer the question he didn't know. There was an issue, but to what? He couldn't tell, no matter how much he focused, it just led to the same deep-rooted frustrations he was quickly becoming familiar with.

1993, H. Potter. That was a name he could pick out from his general magical history books. 1971, M.G. McGonagall, another name he could vaguely pick out. 1965, J. Fawley. 1961, H. McLaughlin. He was reading up and down the lists as if it would help him at all.

Until his stomach dropped tremendously.[/font]

[font=Clarendon Condensed] Sven A. Woodward - First String Chaser - Captain - Ravenclaw - Sixth Year[/font]

[font=Times New Roman]Woodward. That was the issue in Charlie's mind.
It had always been Woodward, and for as long as he could remember, there had always been one question digging into his brain, from the moment he was babbling along with his mother to the tune of the single, short-lived sentences against cardboard which dared to teach him.

His mother, the brilliant scholar she was, was named Naomi Porter. She was five feet and two inches tall, which was to say, she was short. She had long, silky dark brown hair and deep amber eyes, and she had pale, porcelain skin without so much as a blemish.
His father, the warm-hearted and adventurous man he was was named Harvey Porter. He stood at five feet ten inches tall and had hair just lighter than his wife's. He had blue eyes, which resembled a jay in the spring, and he had tanned skin.

The question which burned, and he supposed could now face without the indignant failure he'd just experienced, was of all things why on Earth was his name Woodward?
There were two answers to this question, and he'd known the first for a very long time. His parents had never hidden to him that he wasn't theirs in the way many children were theirs to their parents. He'd been gently told from the moment he could understand that to Naomi and Harvey Porter, he was a miracle and a blessing. He was a happenstance by the foster care system, and the love that came with it was just as true as his real parents could have ever produced. He'd always known he was adopted, and that didn't change anything about the way he saw his parents or his love for them. They'd always been honest and true to him.
The easy answer was that his parents had chosen to maintain his biological name, and instead had given him a second middle name. Charles Atticus Porter Woodward.

So what was the more difficult answer, of the two?

He let his eyes fall back on the name. Sven A. Woodward. The chances that, in some incredible twist of fate, this Sven was somehow related to him were low. Next to nothing. As far as he was aware, there were no wizards in his family- but the named wasn't exactly common either. Sven A. Woodward. 1940. Captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch House Team. Sixth and Seventh year.
He pursed his lips and traced the lines as if it somehow would suddenly spring to life and give him all the answered he'd ever need- but the silence kept his breath holding, just at the edge of his lips.

The difficult answer to just how he felt was more complicated than a few words, or even a well strung-together paragraph. He loved his family dearly, but there had always been a part of him that yearned for some sort of answer to just who he was. Maybe not by nurture, or by his personalty and being, but his roots. Who's legacy was he carrying? What was he?

By any means, he was sure, there could be records- the library was massive in scale and the fact that it had Quidditch records was bound to mean something. Perhaps student records, or families? He'd read from one book about certain pureblood families, so he was sure the world was keener to keeping track of wizard's blood than not- but he wasn't all too sure of if he was anything more than muggle-born or not.
The record of one Sven Woodward might've been the one thing to start all of this- and the chances of this Ravenclaw from nearly 80 years ago proving to be somehow related to him were scarce- but he had the whole afternoon to himself in what was to be a rather empty library.
He put the Quidditch book back on the shelf with some care before poking his head out into the aisle, plaques of different subjects directing him up and down the hall as he searched. He was sure that records and family history weren't favourable subjects, so he wasn't all but too surprised when he found the section tucked away where nearly no one would be able to find it.
'History of Hogwarts' no, 'History of Potion Cauldrons' again, no. 'Wizarding Families of the 20th Century.' sounded more his speed. 'A brief encounter with Magical Families of Europe' was about twice the size of his head, but he hoped it was in alphabetical order- this one felt covered in charms which he assumed were similar to the Quidditch Book, always updating with the viable information.
He collected the books into his arms and piled them onto the table, opening each one and flipping through. Starting with the Wizarding Families of the 20th Century, he started from the back and carded his way through, Wrington, Wright, Wratsworth, Woodward.

He let out a soft exhale as he read the small excerpt- there wasn't much in ways of information in the book by means of names, but it provided brief overviews of blood statuses and extant up to 2000. It was enough to keep in from going to the next book.[/font]

[font=Clarendon Condensed] First named in the 13th century with sources in both the British Isles and France, Woodward is one of the older pureblood magical families in the wizarding world. Common for Hufflepuff Mediwizards and Ravenclaw scholars, Woodwards have been a staple in the pureblood community up until the mid-40s. The Woodward line is extant, however not commonly found in Europe. The last noted pureblood Woodward as of 2000 (Last Publication Date.) is Elliot Woodward.[/font]

[font=Times New Roman]He pursed his lips. Elliot Woodward. Extant, meaning the Woodwards are alive, technically. His eyes flicked from the passage over to the far thicker, more daunting book. It was nearly enough to kill a first-year just but accidentally dropping it onto them. Covered in charms and all the magic you'd possibly need to keep wizarding families up-to-date.
He'd heard of the family trees before, from his wizard-born friends who described them as magical sources of family pride- but this was like a condensed version of that- and the sheer size of it proved that it had to be at least somewhat updated.

He opened it, and dear Merlin was it a mess to look at. Shifting images, twisting trees, portraits and names flying around in a visual cacophony he found difficult to place in proper shapes or styles. A lot of the pureblood families seemed to be connected, by the unfortunate looks of things.
He flipped through it, letting the faces of countless generations of wizards pass him by as he made the onerous attempt to find a single Woodward in the mass of it all.
A few caught his attention as he flipped, but they were all French- or married into French families- none of them directly related to the Woodward tree he was quite possibly searching for. Elliot Woodward, or Sven Woodward- one of those two, he'd hoped to find.

Arriving near the back, there was a much calmer state of things. Some of the families were far smaller and easier to contain in the pages- and far less troublesome to navigate. There were Weimers and Wellsboroughs, then finally, there was a page which swirled with nearly all Woodwards.
Plenty of French and Anglo Saxon names from the dark ages which he couldn't pronounce, many names waving away to different trees as they were married off. He let his eyes fall further down the page to the more recent Woodwards, and sure enough- Sven A. Woodward stared back at him, a small, retro image of him with his name and the simple word 'Pureblood' just below, connected by elegant vines to a woman Hailee G. Woodward (nee. Fawley.) with the same pureblood tag under her. Below them were two children, Elliot V. Woodward who looked rather smart, and a kinder face by the name of Uriel K. Woodward. The portraits of the deceased members of the tree were greyed and slightly withered with time, including Elliot's photo- but Uriel's still shone with a brilliant flow of magical ink. She was pale and had strawberry blonde hair which framed her face.
Charlie felt a lump in his throat start to form.
His attention fell back to Elliot, who was connected to another woman which was greyed out, Geneva O. Woodward (nee. Otavio.) [Pureblood] and just below them were two more portraits. One grey, the other coloured.
Tulia B. Woodward, a young pureblood just like her parents with big eyes and poofy, curly hair which seemed to be a light colour, judging by the faded image, was their older daughter. Charlie stared at the image next to Tulia without register for what seemed like three infinities, and a lifetime.

Books had always been an escape.

Right now, this escape wasn't what he'd ever wanted or even expected to find himself in. He was breathless, and so oddly full of emotion he just simply couldn't explain in any conceivable manner. He didn't want to escape into an unregistered infinity of what he was currently in. Books had always given him the answers he needed, always taken him on fantastic journeys and taught him all about the universe- both magically and empirically.

And now it was giving him the hard answer.

Charles A.P. Woodward, [Pureblood]

His eyes glossed over with a sheet of saltwater, but he held himself from letting any tears escape yet- staring back at him was a colourful image of himself, shifting slowly through the page. His portrait looked lonely, surrounded by the grey, withering images around him- but it was him. That was him. His... Aunt- the same coloured hair, same tanned skin, same green eyes. He... looked like his aunt- moreso than he'd ever had the capacity to relate his looks to anyone. What had he jsut found? What had magic allowed him to discover?

He was alone, without parents or siblings- (in the biological sense, as not to confuse his loneliness with discrediting his adoptive parents) and he was a Pureblood. He had an aunt who was alive and he was apart of a real wizarding family. According to the other books, he had history at Hogwarts. Sven, his Grandfather was a Quidditch Captain for Merlin's sake! He couldn't fathom what he was coming to fruition with.

He wasn't just... some Texan who accidentally ended up at Hogwarts. That's what he'd always been under the assumption of. No, there was a reason he'd been applied here. His family went here.
He'd heard his friends talk about their family histories, about what houses their families had been in- he'd just always accepted that wasn't apart of his reality.
But apparently it was.
They were Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs- and Quidditch Captains and Scholars, and some French, too, apparently.

He had... an Aunt.

He shut the book with a slight slam, not out of frustration- but from carelessness. He was numb. There was so much running through his head. So much digging into his skull and eating at him now, he came into the library looking for a distraction from his problems, his loneliness- from his issues with social conversation and his Quidditch failures- but now he felt lonelier than ever.
What was he? Who was he now, with this sudden information racking his brain until he couldn't feel the steps he was taking. He was moving on his own. He'd been so lonely- even now that he was making the attempt at friendship, he was so awkward. He felt ostracized, poked and prodded at, he felt like a failure already given his Quidditch issues, and now he felt more alone.

More alone than he'd ever been.

His adoptive parents were on the other side of the world, and he wasn't really able to contact them during school. He didn't have but perhaps one real friend. What was he doing?

He tucked the books away. He didn't know what else to do. In a weak attempt, he looked at his hands, taking a deep breath.

Books weren't helping him at all this time, they just made him feel more Saudade.

[font=Times New Roman] TL;DR: Charlie begins to open new doors as he questions his own place amongst the students of Hogwarts. Feeling like an outlier for more than one reason- he finds himself in the library to read. What begins as a simple afternoon of him attempting to brush up on Quidditch knowledge, leads to a shocking discovery about himself- and his family origins as a Woodward. Where he'd assumed before that he was muggle-born, he now discovers himself to be a pureblood wizard, with an extensive history of family at Hogwarts and Beauxbatons- answering one question: of his feelings of Saudade solitude, but also opening more than a dozen new doors, as his identity comes into question.

Reducio

This is my first solo and I'm sure it shows! I hope you all like it, and I understand that plot-wise it's rather tricky, and very happenstance, but I hope my intentions with this come through!