Written for: QLFC Round 6

Team: Kenmare Kestrels

Position: Chaser 2

Prompts:

"Filius Flitwick"

(word) estranged

(word) barbarian

(object) Sickle

Word-count (excluding notes and title): 1,161

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goblin gold

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"A boy," says the Healer, but the words are not joyous; and they are not loud; and they do not resonate with triumph or pride.

"Let me see," she breathes, sweat heavy on her brow.

"I do not think that would be best," the Healer says gravely.

She rallies her strength and sneers, "I did not ask what you thought would be best."

The Healer quietens and hands her a bundle of fabric and squalling babe. "Your son."

Her son. Her son does not look normal. His skin is waxy, and crinkled more than her sister's child was. Her son is small, but wide. She stares.

"Ten fingers," adds the Healer, "and ten toes."

But those ten fingers and those ten toes are too long.

"What has happened?" she breathes, even as she tugs her child closer to her breast. He nuzzles her, seeking milk; he finally latches, and begins to feed.

The Healer shifts, fidgeting with their blue robes. "I believe you had a goblin ancestor. Is this not so?"

She is distracted by her son yet again. He is an ugly thing — this is not blind to her. But he is suckling from her so sweetly, and his skin is baby-soft, and she has carried him for nine months and two days. This is her son.

"Yes," she hears herself say faintly. "Udyë, a merchant. Not many know."

The Healer visibly softens. Draws their breath. Pauses. "There are" — a gentle cough — "methods at your disposal, Madam. Resources, too. I am the only one that has seen … him … so far … Births are stressful, terrible things. A stillbirth would not be implausible," they add delicately. "A child such as yours can leave one estranged from family and friends alike."

She raises her head. There is steel in her gaze, just as strong and fierce as the goblin blood lying dormant in her veins. "This is my son, Healer. I have named him. I have branded him. Do you know what I've named him?"

"No," says the Healer, abashed.

"His name is Filius." Her voice is strong and sure. "Do you know what that means?"

"No," says the Healer.

"You do not know many things," she says coldly. "It is Latin for son. That is what he is. He is my son."

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Filius is five. He does not understand the world yet.

"Mama," he cries, tugging at her skirt. "Mama."

She turns and kneels. "What is it, child?"

His lip trembles slightly, revealing overly large teeth. "They called me somefink," he confides.

"Something," she corrects. "What did they say?"

"Bar-bar-ian," he says slowly and oh-so-carefully, and something inside her coils painfully. A five-year-old child should not be able to perfectly pronounce so complex a word.

"What's it mean?" he entreats her.

She does not even correct his language — instead, she sighs and sits on the floor. "Come here," she says, and pats her knee. He scrambles onto her lap. "It is a word," she begins.

"I know that," he says mulishly.

"Be quiet," she commands sharply.

Filius falls silent.

"It is a word," she repeats. "It is made up of letters. Nine, to be exact. It is borne into the world through ink and parchment, or voice and cruelty. This word is just that — a word. If you isolate it from origin and context, it is only a word. But what you ask is this: what do those children want it to mean?" She draws her breath and struggles internally. "They want it to hurt you. They want it to degrade you. They want it to break you."

"But what's it mean?" he says, and he sounds on the verge of a tantrum.

"You are so clever," she breathes. "What do you think it means?"

Her son — her clever Filius — pauses. "Ugly. Stupid. Nasty," he says finally. His face is scowling — all the harsh wrinkles and folds deepen.

"Ah," she says. She aches for him. Her face betrays nothing. "Yes. But now … and this is important … what do you want it to mean for you?"

Again, he thinks. She brushes her hand through his sparse hair. He tangles his long fingers into her robes.

"I don't know," he complains.

She purses her lips and dips her hand into her robe pocket. From it, she withdraws her money pouch. She quickly counts out seventeen Sickles, and one Galleon. "This is money," she says simply, and hands him the Galleon. She keeps the Sickles pooled in her palms. The pouch is left by her foot, fast forgotten. "There are precisely seventeen Sickles for every Galleon. That's seventeen to one. Do you understand so far?"

He nods.

"Good," she approves. "What you are holding" — she indicates the Galleon — "is worth the same as what I am holding. Your Galleon is gold, and my Sickles are silver, but you do not have more or less money than I do. It is the same amount."

Filius looks slightly confused.

She sighs. "We can both buy two sweets each," she tries instead. "I cannot buy more sweets than you. We have the same amount. They're equal."

She sees the moment he tenderly grasps what she's saying. "Okay," he offers.

"Those boys called you a barbarian. They're rude little bastards," she says offhandedly, and Filius cracks a small smile. "Those boys are Sickles. You are a Galleon. You are not worth less, but you are rarer. Sickles are more common. So I ask you again, child: what do you want barbarian to mean to you?"

He looks down, intently studying the Galleon clasped in his skeletal hands. "Different … ?" he offers at last.

She stares him down. Her eyes are a soulless black, just like his. "Different," she agrees. And Galleons are far more precious.

He reluctantly offers her the Galleon back.

She suppresses a smile. "Keep it. For when you debt your worth, Filius, my son."

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Professor Flitwick pulls open his desk drawer. There is a single Galleon inside, shrouded in protective spells. He pulls it out and rubs his thumb over the face of it. The gold gleams brightly. He is older than five years old, now. Far, far older. Old enough to understand that his mother estranged herself from her family for him; old enough to understand that people will always call him a barbarian; and old enough to understand that although seventeen Sickles are equal to one Galleon, the Galleon is valued more. This is not because it is gold — it is because it is rare.

But he does not care about this overly so.

He cares about his friends, and his work, and his students. And he cares about Mama. She looks human ("normal," many would say), but her eyes and her willpower denotes something supernatural ("unnatural," many would say).

He is her son. Her Filius.

But she? She is his mother. He knows her worth (just as he knows his).

The two of them are goblin gold.