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Saunders Napier

Second year, Slytherin

130 57

20 Dec 2024, 12:56

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March 14, '24.
Napier Manor

"...the maturity of man, that means, to have reacquired the seriousness
that one had as a child at play."
friedrich n.

It was, without a single doubt, the unhappiest day in Saunders’ life. Sitting on a dark brown armchair with an expression that betrayed his struggle to hold back tears, his feet swung back and forth without touching the floor, driven by an aimless sense of futility. His face, cupped in one hand, seemed even smaller than usual. The overwhelming despair of his world turned upside down in a single evening sought to lull his chest into numbness and open it to waves of weary sorrow.

The Napier Manor, however, was as it always was. The loyal house elf Gopher was dutifully dusting the grand, gilded, framed portrait of Aeolus Napier, one of Saunders’ late ancestors, his eyes sparkling with reverence. Gopher, an old and docile house elf, seemed to have discovered the secret of happiness in servitude. He wore his tattered clothes not as emblems of an enslaved lineage but as treasured tokens of great loyalty. “Great Master,” he murmured with admiration, “how fortunate are these poor hands of mine to dust away the dirt from your glorious visage.”

Saunders stared blankly at Gopher for a while, his gaze void of warmth. The elf had always been a part of his life since his birth, nevertheless, carried something within him that Saunders fundamentally disliked. Gopher was a creature whose goodness and obedience stemmed from an utter lack of alternative, and to Saunders, this absence of originality rendered him unbearably dull. The old house elf was more or less like a clock wound tight, devoid of surprises or deviation.

When his mother’s voice filled the air, a spark of anger ignited in Saunders. Freja’s voice, still faintly marked by traces of a Scandinavian accent, carried the same mournful undertones that seemed to drain the joy from everything he held dear. Every time Saunders heard her speak, he braced himself for yet another disappointment, another toy taken, another pleasure denied. “It was the right decision, Elijah,” she said, more to herself than to her husband. “I mean, letting our only child spend so long with someone so provincial was a mistake in the first place.”

The almond-shaped navy-blue eyes of Saunders, for a fleeting moment, glinted with fury. He wanted to open his mouth, to respond to what he considered an unbearable insult, but the manners instilled so expertly by his parents forbade it. Defeated, he retreated into himself once again, like a warrior accepting his own demise. For a moment, he realised how much in fact he resembled Gopher. In his silence, he too was a wound clock, constrained.

Elijah Napier responded to his wife’s remarks with a nod and a vague grunt, which was all Freja expected; a faint, almost imperceptible affirmation. “Yes, yes,” she continued, “imagine if Saunders ended up with a Welsh accent! We’d be the laughingstock of everyone.” As Gopher finished dusting the portrait and retreated backwards in reverent steps, Saunders felt a fleeting wave of self-loathing.

A day earlier, the Napier couple had dismissed Ffion, or to put it more politely, they had gently and seignorly informed her that her services were no longer required. This meant Saunders was now separated from his beloved nanny.

Ffion’s employment at Napier Manor had been an oddity from the start. Neither her education nor her social standing seemed fit for such a position. She was a 52-year-old Welsh witch, and becoming Saunders’ nanny was merely one of the many jobs she had applied for out of desperation. Elijah Napier, during her interview, had said, “Very good,” at least five times, though his primary objective was to conclude the process quickly, deeming anyone who applied sufficient for the role. His wife, much more selective, had immediately disliked Ffion. There was something about the middle-aged witch that reminded her of peasant women from the German borderlands.

But then Horatio Napier, the patriarch-grandfather, decided to step in, and that changed everything. Horatio believed that raising Saunders in a cocoon would do him no favours. The boy already had private tutors, and what he truly lacked was exposure to real-life knowledge and interaction with people from different walks of life. Therefore, hiring Ffion, according to Horatio, would be an excellent choice. Saunders was unaware of his grandfather’s intervention. If he had known, his affection for Horatio would have grown tenfold.

For the boy, who often felt either neglected or overwhelmed, Ffion’s presence had been nothing short of a balm. At night, the Welshwoman would regale him with often terrifying but always entertaining folktales. She didn’t talk about the physical traits of dragons or where they could be found but instead told of how wicked sorcerers enslaved them or trapped them in magical lamps. She had a habit of stroking Saunders’ hair during these stories, and Saunders, like a contented cat, would nestle into her lap.

In a way, it could be said that Saunders felt a kind of love for the woman. The love he should have directed at his mother, but which Freja’s impenetrable walls had always rebuffed, was instead funnelled toward Ffion, making him feel fulfilled. Among all the theoretical lessons, family anecdotes, and towering expectations, the time spent with Ffion was his lifeline. She was the only window in his otherwise prison-like existence within these long walls.

And now, as she had long planned, his mother had taken her away. Freja had convinced Horatio that the two years Saunders had spent with Ffion were more than sufficient. She argued there was nothing left for the boy to learn from her. Eventually, her persistence paid off. Horatio, the patron saint of Saunders’ and Ffion’s little haven, had relinquished his role, and without her protector, Ffion faced the road to unemployment once more. Saunders, meanwhile, was left with a one-way ticket back to his colourless life before Ffion.

Sometimes, the boy wondered if his mother was an enemy of his happiness. Did everything that brought him warmth and joy trouble Freja Napier? It had become a cyclical tale now. Whatever he loved, she would take away, like a capricious goddess of mischief in Saunders’ eyes. But her greatest crime to date had been stripping him of Ffion with cold, unflinching precision. “Do you even have the slightest idea of what you’ve done to me?” he thought as he gazed at his ghost-like father and his mother, who carried on speaking with unwavering confidence in the righteousness of her decision. Strangers.

He rose slightly from the armchair and began to walk toward his room. But just as he was about to leave there, he turned his head slightly and said, with a bittersweet smile, “She was better than all of you." His father, lifting his head slowly as if waking from a dream, asked, “What did you say?” Freja interjected. “He didn’t say anything, darling,” she murmured, her eyes signalling Saunders to retreat to his room, “just the usual nonsense.”

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	March 14, '24. Napier Manor "...the maturity of man, that means, to have reacquired the seriousness that one had as a child at play." friedrich n. It was, without a single doubt, the unhappiest day in Saunders’ life. Sitting on a dark brown armchair with an expression that betrayed his struggle to hold back tears, his feet swung back and forth without touching the floor, driven by an aimless sense of futility. His face, cupped in one hand, seemed even smaller than usual. The overwhelming despair of his world turned upside down in a single evening sought to lull his chest into numbness and open it to waves of weary sorrow. The Napier Manor, however, was as it always was. The loyal house elf Gopher was dutifully dusting the grand, gilded, framed portrait of Aeolus Napier, one of Saunders’ late ancestors, his eyes sparkling with reverence. Gopher, an old and docile house elf, seemed to have discovered the secret of happiness in servitude. He wore his tattered clothes not as emblems of an enslaved lineage but as treasured tokens of great loyalty. “Great Master,” he murmured with admiration, “how fortunate are these poor hands of mine to dust away the dirt from your glorious visage.” Saunders stared blankly at Gopher for a while, his gaze void of warmth. The elf had always been a part of his life since his birth, nevertheless, carried something within him that Saunders fundamentally disliked. Gopher was a creature whose goodness and obedience stemmed from an utter lack of alternative, and to Saunders, this absence of originality rendered him unbearably dull. The old house elf was more or less like a clock wound tight, devoid of surprises or deviation. When his mother’s voice filled the air, a spark of anger ignited in Saunders. Freja’s voice, still faintly marked by traces of a Scandinavian accent, carried the same mournful undertones that seemed to drain the joy from everything he held dear. Every time Saunders heard her speak, he braced himself for yet another disappointment, another toy taken, another pleasure denied. “It was the right decision, Elijah,” she said, more to herself than to her husband. “I mean, letting our only child spend so long with someone so provincial was a mistake in the first place.” The almond-shaped navy-blue eyes of Saunders, for a fleeting moment, glinted with fury. He wanted to open his mouth, to respond to what he considered an unbearable insult, but the manners instilled so expertly by his parents forbade it. Defeated, he retreated into himself once again, like a warrior accepting his own demise. For a moment, he realised how much in fact he resembled Gopher. In his silence, he too was a wound clock, constrained. Elijah Napier responded to his wife’s remarks with a nod and a vague grunt, which was all Freja expected; a faint, almost imperceptible affirmation. “Yes, yes,” she continued, “imagine if Saunders ended up with a Welsh accent! We’d be the laughingstock of everyone.” As Gopher finished dusting the portrait and retreated backwards in reverent steps, Saunders felt a fleeting wave of self-loathing. A day earlier, the Napier couple had dismissed Ffion, or to put it more politely, they had gently and seignorly informed her that her services were no longer required. This meant Saunders was now separated from his beloved nanny. Ffion’s employment at Napier Manor had been an oddity from the start. Neither her education nor her social standing seemed fit for such a position. She was a 52-year-old Welsh witch, and becoming Saunders’ nanny was merely one of the many jobs she had applied for out of desperation. Elijah Napier, during her interview, had said, “Very good,” at least five times, though his primary objective was to conclude the process quickly, deeming anyone who applied sufficient for the role. His wife, much more selective, had immediately disliked Ffion. There was something about the middle-aged witch that reminded her of peasant women from the German borderlands. But then Horatio Napier, the patriarch-grandfather, decided to step in, and that changed everything. Horatio believed that raising Saunders in a cocoon would do him no favours. The boy already had private tutors, and what he truly lacked was exposure to real-life knowledge and interaction with people from different walks of life. Therefore, hiring Ffion, according to Horatio, would be an excellent choice. Saunders was unaware of his grandfather’s intervention. If he had known, his affection for Horatio would have grown tenfold. For the boy, who often felt either neglected or overwhelmed, Ffion’s presence had been nothing short of a balm. At night, the Welshwoman would regale him with often terrifying but always entertaining folktales. She didn’t talk about the physical traits of dragons or where they could be found but instead told of how wicked sorcerers enslaved them or trapped them in magical lamps. She had a habit of stroking Saunders’ hair during these stories, and Saunders, like a contented cat, would nestle into her lap. In a way, it could be said that Saunders felt a kind of love for the woman. The love he should have directed at his mother, but which Freja’s impenetrable walls had always rebuffed, was instead funnelled toward Ffion, making him feel fulfilled. Among all the theoretical lessons, family anecdotes, and towering expectations, the time spent with Ffion was his lifeline. She was the only window in his otherwise prison-like existence within these long walls. And now, as she had long planned, his mother had taken her away. Freja had convinced Horatio that the two years Saunders had spent with Ffion were more than sufficient. She argued there was nothing left for the boy to learn from her. Eventually, her persistence paid off. Horatio, the patron saint of Saunders’ and Ffion’s little haven, had relinquished his role, and without her protector, Ffion faced the road to unemployment once more. Saunders, meanwhile, was left with a one-way ticket back to his colourless life before Ffion. Sometimes, the boy wondered if his mother was an enemy of his happiness. Did everything that brought him warmth and joy trouble Freja Napier? It had become a cyclical tale now. Whatever he loved, she would take away, like a capricious goddess of mischief in Saunders’ eyes. But her greatest crime to date had been stripping him of Ffion with cold, unflinching precision. “Do you even have the slightest idea of what you’ve done to me?” he thought as he gazed at his ghost-like father and his mother, who carried on speaking with unwavering confidence in the righteousness of her decision. Strangers. He rose slightly from the armchair and began to walk toward his room. But just as he was about to leave there, he turned his head slightly and said, with a bittersweet smile, “She was better than all of you." His father, lifting his head slowly as if waking from a dream, asked, “What did you say?” Freja interjected. “He didn’t say anything, darling,” she murmured, her eyes signalling Saunders to retreat to his room, “just the usual nonsense.”
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Shattered Solo Finished