Post by Deleted on Feb 22, 2022 14:29:24 GMT -7
TW/CW: Child abuse, PTSD
August 31, 2026
It was the night before she was due to leave for Beauxbatons. She would be going to France, just as her sister had once she became an adult. At sixteen, she had only a few months before she would be considered an adult in magical Britain, and then she would never have to go back to Russia again.
In her sleep, though, she was back in Russia and much younger. The hovel of an apartment in which she had lived was a relic of a bygone era, but Dasha could still see it with absolute clarity. It made winter her least favorite season. Between the heavy snowfall that left her clothes damp and the lack of insulation in the building in which she lived with her father and her two older siblings, she was always left wondering what it must have been like to live in a wealthier part of Moscow, where children must not have had to huddle together for warmth. Sleeping pressed up against her older sister came habitually, especially because it also provided both of them with some protection. At only five, Dasha could tell the difference between Dmitri's footsteps and their father's, yet it was impossible to tell just how angry he would be with them on any given day.
Even if the summertime was hot, they had more opportunities to stay away from home until their father expected them back. In the winter, he was angry more often, thought Dasha. He smelled like vodka more. He wanted them to bring in more money so that he could buy more of it. Dasha knew that she was lucky that she could wear the clothes that her siblings had grown too big to wear themselves. She'd seen how enraged their father had become upon seeing her sister with a new coat once, even though all three of the children knew that they had picked it out of the trash behind a non-magical store. It wasn't even the right size; it was meant for a grown woman and not a teenage girl, but that didn't matter.
Frequently, Dasha heard their father calling her siblings names that she didn't understand. She sometimes remembered to ask them about it later. When she did, their answers varied. She knew that their father didn't like that her sister couldn't do magic, and Dasha had worried that she might end up like her. She had done magic, though—or at least her siblings had told her she had. It hadn't been with a wand yet, but their father didn't always use one, either.
The best times were when it was just the three of them and they had had luck on their side. If they worked hard enough, then they could get some hot food and spend some time somewhere where nobody would question the presence of three children without adult supervision. That meant that their ability to go where the rich people were was limited, but she had heard enough stories about how people with lots and lots of money lived. It was fun to pretend what she would do if she could live like they did, and she and her siblings played pretend a lot.
Pretending to be asleep was a good one, though it didn't always work. She had found that out the hard way, and sometimes their father didn't care that she actually had been asleep. Tired or not, his anger mattered more. If it happened to be really bad, then Dasha knew that she wouldn't be able to sleep at all—either out of fear or because of her injuries.
She woke up with a start after what must have been a slap across her face. In her shock, Dasha took a moment to recognize that she was still in bed in England and that there was no one standing over her; she must have imagined it.
In her sleep, though, she was back in Russia and much younger. The hovel of an apartment in which she had lived was a relic of a bygone era, but Dasha could still see it with absolute clarity. It made winter her least favorite season. Between the heavy snowfall that left her clothes damp and the lack of insulation in the building in which she lived with her father and her two older siblings, she was always left wondering what it must have been like to live in a wealthier part of Moscow, where children must not have had to huddle together for warmth. Sleeping pressed up against her older sister came habitually, especially because it also provided both of them with some protection. At only five, Dasha could tell the difference between Dmitri's footsteps and their father's, yet it was impossible to tell just how angry he would be with them on any given day.
Even if the summertime was hot, they had more opportunities to stay away from home until their father expected them back. In the winter, he was angry more often, thought Dasha. He smelled like vodka more. He wanted them to bring in more money so that he could buy more of it. Dasha knew that she was lucky that she could wear the clothes that her siblings had grown too big to wear themselves. She'd seen how enraged their father had become upon seeing her sister with a new coat once, even though all three of the children knew that they had picked it out of the trash behind a non-magical store. It wasn't even the right size; it was meant for a grown woman and not a teenage girl, but that didn't matter.
Frequently, Dasha heard their father calling her siblings names that she didn't understand. She sometimes remembered to ask them about it later. When she did, their answers varied. She knew that their father didn't like that her sister couldn't do magic, and Dasha had worried that she might end up like her. She had done magic, though—or at least her siblings had told her she had. It hadn't been with a wand yet, but their father didn't always use one, either.
The best times were when it was just the three of them and they had had luck on their side. If they worked hard enough, then they could get some hot food and spend some time somewhere where nobody would question the presence of three children without adult supervision. That meant that their ability to go where the rich people were was limited, but she had heard enough stories about how people with lots and lots of money lived. It was fun to pretend what she would do if she could live like they did, and she and her siblings played pretend a lot.
Pretending to be asleep was a good one, though it didn't always work. She had found that out the hard way, and sometimes their father didn't care that she actually had been asleep. Tired or not, his anger mattered more. If it happened to be really bad, then Dasha knew that she wouldn't be able to sleep at all—either out of fear or because of her injuries.
She woke up with a start after what must have been a slap across her face. In her shock, Dasha took a moment to recognize that she was still in bed in England and that there was no one standing over her; she must have imagined it.
