Prefer I Be solo fin

This is part of Aly's Cast the Bronze storyline. You can find other portions here: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19

Engrave that I gave my consent

Saturday mornings at Hogwarts brimmed with possibility. Would you go for a swim in the Great Lake, risking detention and squid tentacles for a dip in the icy cool? Would you catch up on unfinished homework from the week in the library, giggling and gossiping with your friends over opened tomes? Would you practice spellcasting in the duelling area or Quidditch out on the pitch, letting off a bit of steam? Aly Salinger could have chosen any of these things and more to do on this bright dawn of the weekend, as the sun sparkled sparse rays through the thick cloud cover down onto the glimmering surface of the lake, but instead, she found herself winding out the Hogwarts entrance doors, turning right to cut through the courtyard, and then quickly low-stepping down lots and lots of twisty, turny, and very steep stairs, with the thick dark sheet of water below rushing up to greet her as she came closer and closer to her final destination... the boathouse.

Sparsely populated by students this time of year, the on-the-water ramped shack that housed the canoes that first-years used to cross the lake back in September was not the most popular destination for students any day of the week, but especially on the weekends when there were so many more interesting things to do than hang out in a dark, wet, musty house that leaned just a little bit to one side if you squinted at it hard enough. Perhaps it had seemed more grandiose to her as a first-year, but in truth, Aly hadn't been down here to the boathouse probably since she had come across the lake as a baby firstie in the fall of 2019, all those years ago. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, so full of life and with her curls yet untamed. She wondered, sometimes, what had come of the boy she had met in the boat; it had been years since Aly had seen him. What had his name been again? Renee, or something. Anyway, he certainly wasn't here, nor was anyone else on this fine Saturday morning with a slight chill in the air; as Aly crept into the ivy-covered structure, she heard no laughter or chatter, saw no other faces.

Good; right now, she didn't want to talk. Thinking took a lot out of her these days.

Sitting on the edge of the dock with her boot-clad feet dangling over the ledge, just inches from the still surface of the dark lakewater, Aly heaved a heavy sigh and dug one hand into the pocket of her black skirt. It was there that she had stuck the photograph, the one she had received just yesterday from her grandmother's surprise meeting at Madam Puddifoot's - an image of a bronze bust of her head, carved in elegance and austerity, positioned at the end of a very long line of similar sculptures of skulls in silver. The head was moving back and forth, its eyes rolling, its mouth opening and closing, but no sound came out, and for that Aly was glad. She had never asked for the head and for all that it symbolised: a permanent place in the Livingston family, as well as having been made by the Angoulême dynasty, another lineage of which Aly wanted no part (especially not the potential marriage her grandmother seemed to be cooking up). Darcy Livingston had clearly wanted it to be a gift, an olive branch, a token of her appreciation and an extended hand asking Aly to be her heiress - and it was only now, faced with the grim reality of a divergence in her path, that Aly was understanding the importance of her choice.

If she accepted the place amongst the Livingstons that Darcy had offered her, towards which Hesper and Lady Prudence and Caelum and everyone else had worked with such fervor, that would be that - for the rest of her life. Aly would need to give consent to be anyone that anyone wanted her to be, anything anyone preferred her to be, for all eternity. It would be nonstop balls and parties and modelling shoots, interviews and curtsies, extending hands for a kiss instead of a firm shake. Her entire existence would devolve into nothing but making herself up to be a gorgeous figurehead, with maybe the occasional task of choosing hors d'oeuvres for the upcoming soirée, and of course the ever-arching shadow of needing to look the other way when something went against the framework that kept the purebloods pure. Ignoring the servants. Looking down on the house-elves. Becca... where had Becca gone? Aly hadn't spent a week since last summer not wondering about the house-elf who had practically raised her, yet had been so cruelly and instantly dismissed by Darcy's powerful hand after only a few minutes of having known her. Would the heiress herself be expected to treat creatures in such a way, if she were to take the crown of pearls? Could she even live with herself if she didn't?

Then, there came the other path: turning it all down. There would be no in-between, this Aly knew; she could not simply request to remain privy to the Livingston fortune, to her family related by blood, but not do the things that they wanted of her. To say that she did not want to be the kind of person who stepped over unconscious bodies rather than helping them up meant giving up the pretty fashions, the strings of pearls, but more importantly, giving up the only remaining blood relatives she had left in the world. On Aly's father's side, Benjamin was dead, and so were his parents, her paternal grandparents; there was a great-aunt out there, somewhere, but Aly had no idea if she was alive or dead, much less how to find her. The Livingstons constituted her entire maternal family, and despite it all, Aly had come to love each and every one of them in their own way: the wise head for business on Darcy, and Caelum's insistence upon dancing with her at every party. Cassiopeia's kind eyes, and the sweet tooth and quiet laughter that she and Keithen so often shared. Even Lady Prudence had grown on her, after the once-strict tutor had helped her following the disastrous New Year's Eve ball fake-out. And, of course, Aly knew one thing most of all.

If I leave, it will break Mum's heart to have to choose between them and me.

Hesper Livingston-Salinger had once been in an eerily similar position: with her husband gone, a teenage daughter to care for, and an entire lineage of family who considered her to be dead, even though they knew full well she wasn't. The difference was that, when faced with the fear of losing everyone, Hesper had gone back to them - had changed her entire life just to re-curry her lost favour. And now, a year later, Aly was considering giving up everything her mother had worked so hard to regain.

Guilt rose in her chest like bile, and she tamped it down with a sigh.

The honest truth was that Hesper would probably choose the Livingstons again, and Aly knew it, even if she didn't want to admit such a thing to herself. But the Ravenclaw daughter had seen how much her mother lit up around the hallowed halls of the family manor, as if she had been born to be there. It wasn't that Hesper wasn't a good person, and as she grew older, this realisation was something Aly was coming to understand full well. Her mother was strict, but she was not cruel. She was just sad, and lonely, and wanted to be loved and accepted, and would do nearly anything to make those dreams come true.

Aly, though, had other dreams.

These thoughts muddled their way through her head, each fighting its own war, until finally, Aly stowed the photograph back in her pocket and pulled her legs up to tuck them under her body. The decision, she knew, was clear, and here on a bright cold day in March, the Salinger girl began to concoct the perfect plan as to how it would be carried out. Something that would cause a clean cut, even though it would bleed. A way to leave without breaking too many hearts and burning too many bridges.

As if that would work.

to be anything that anyone prefer I be...

The Boathouse | March 14^th, 2026 | outfit, hair 1, hair 2 | #C47DDB