Fic: From Ancient Grudge
Title: From Ancient Grudge
Author: dangerous_angel
Fandom: Harry Potter
Character(s): Montague.
Summary: Montague succumbs to the family curse.
Rating: All.
Spoilers: None.
Word Count: 1174
A/N: Title comes from Romeo and Juliet, Act 1.1. The idea for this fic came from redcandle17 who said Montague was an inherently tragic character and was therefore doomed. With a heavy last name like Montague, I had to agree.
Montague’s father died at a relatively young age, just a fortnight shy of his fifty-first birthday. His son had walked into the study to find him sprawled in front of the fireplace, choking on his own blood. The dagger was still embedded in his heart. Assessing the situation incorrectly, Montague had demanded his father tell him the name of his attacker. His father had gripped his arm and somehow managed to speak. “When she comes, it is too late,” he said. He died shortly after. His death was declared a suicide.
The wind began to whisper as it drifted through the empty corridors of the house. The curse, it said. The curse.
Montague refused to believe that his father had taken his life. He would not believe that his father had followed in the tradition of all Montague men before him. If he did then his fate was sealed.
It was a shameful burden carried by all Montagues. No male child had ever died a natural death since the late thirteenth century. There was a rumour of a curse, the beginnings of which were documented in poetry and drama. The Montague library held every edition of the half-blood Shakespeare’s telling of the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet. Two of its most prized books were the first quarto and folio edition of the play.
At the end of the tragedy the Capulets and Montagues vow to create statues of each other’s children to honour them and to signal the end of their feud. Shakespeare ends the story there, but it was only the beginning for the Montagues. According to the rumours, Old Montague, sick with angry-grief over the death of his wife and son, woke the next morning and went back on his word. He entered the square and declared he would not build Juliet’s statue. He would not reward the harlot for the wound she had inflicted on his family. The people called him mad and were gentle with him at first. When seven days had gone and he still would not give orders to the stone masons the people grew angry. The prince tried to force Old Montague but he would not relent. “You are cursed, old man,” he said during his last visit. And Old Montague was.
The Capulets kept their word and erected a statue of Romeo in their courtyard. The family prospered. Their name was soon lost, but the descendants of the family became kings, queens, ministers, and dukes. The Montagues kept their wealth, prestige, and purity of blood, but it mattered little since no Montague male would live long enough to truly enjoy the fruits of his labour. Dead by suicide, all of them, madness taking hold of them in the final days. It took only a generation for the family to become static, mostly a cluster of bereaved women, moving haplessly around their homes in mourning black.
---
You’re next, the wind howled, cackling madly, as the rain hit the windows.
Six years had gone since his father’s death. Six years in which Montague had forced himself to forget. In the time gone by not once had he entered the house’s library. It is rare that a man will want to face a death that is beyond his control.
Montague had married well. She was a woman who did not know about the curse. It was a well-kept secret among the purebloods, and she was not pure in any sense of the word. She’d seen darkness and death and had wrapped herself in them in the heat of battle. She, he thought, would not be afraid of what most certainly could not be true; and yet, he did not tell her.
Time.
A piercing shriek woke him the next night. The bedroom was silent. His ears were ringing. Next to him, his wife was sleeping soundly, a contented smile on her lips.
Remember her.
It is only in his darkest hour that a man moves from ignorance to knowledge and into his damnation.
---
She weighed him down. She was not as he expected. Her hair and eyes were dark and there was a slight tan to her skin. She was not the Anglo paragon of beauty and virtue later imaginings depicted her to be. At odd moments she looked like his wife.
Juliet. Giulietta.
She would not leave him. She was always with him, eyes reproachful, her mouth closed but always speaking. She recited the verses Romeo spoke to her and sang the songs her family had sung at her funeral. Her sorrow was raw and unhindered. With her there, he had no appetite, no care for his appearance, no time for work. He locked himself away from his wife. His magic was weak, but try as she might she could not get into his rooms.
His wife called for his mother. “Let the thing run its course. It has to be,” he heard her say on the other side of the door.
In his room, Montague was forced to remember. He recalled the months before his father’s death. How his father had become paranoid, jumping at every shadow, muttering under his breath, and calling in seers, who would always leave with grim expressions.
She broke him. He tried to reason with her, promising he would do whatever she needed, erect the statue as his ancestor had first pledged.
She shook her head. Forced actions do not fulfill a promise.
---
She watched him intently as he tested the makeshift rope hanging from the chandelier. He mother was right. The expensive curtains were worth every galleon she’d spent. The cloth was soft and wouldn’t chafe. It was strong enough to hold a dying man.
He’d come to the conclusion late one afternoon. He’d seen himself reflected in the windows and had stared at it for some time. He was pathetic. Thin, his eyes were sunken into his face, his skin sallow and his hair greasy and limp. He looked more like his old Potions professor than he did himself. This could not go on, he realized. There was only one choice.
His father, Montague realized, was not a coward. He’d done what every man feared most and took his death into his own hands. He’d taken control of a situation that was no longer his own and released himself. As he’d stripped the window, Montague smiled. He felt powerful, godlike.
She watched him as he positioned the chair, stood on it and put the noose around his neck. For the first time, she was silent. Her face was unreadable.
He closed his eyes and the fear settled in. He opened them, saw her staring back and resolved himself. He kicked the chair away.
Death was neither quick nor sweet. As consciousness began to leave him, he thought he saw something, a movement of her head from side to side. He could not comprehend it.
Even in a state of knowledge, a man is often wrong about what others want of him and what is the right thing to do.
--End--
A/N: During Shakespeare’s time, plays were recorded in quartos and folios. Quartos had pages that were made from folding a paper to form four pages. Quartos usually came first and were made for wide distribution. Today scholars use them as a mark of how popular a play was. Folios were larger and resembled the common book and were for the more affluent and refined.
Author: dangerous_angel
Fandom: Harry Potter
Character(s): Montague.
Summary: Montague succumbs to the family curse.
Rating: All.
Spoilers: None.
Word Count: 1174
A/N: Title comes from Romeo and Juliet, Act 1.1. The idea for this fic came from redcandle17 who said Montague was an inherently tragic character and was therefore doomed. With a heavy last name like Montague, I had to agree.
Montague’s father died at a relatively young age, just a fortnight shy of his fifty-first birthday. His son had walked into the study to find him sprawled in front of the fireplace, choking on his own blood. The dagger was still embedded in his heart. Assessing the situation incorrectly, Montague had demanded his father tell him the name of his attacker. His father had gripped his arm and somehow managed to speak. “When she comes, it is too late,” he said. He died shortly after. His death was declared a suicide.
The wind began to whisper as it drifted through the empty corridors of the house. The curse, it said. The curse.
Montague refused to believe that his father had taken his life. He would not believe that his father had followed in the tradition of all Montague men before him. If he did then his fate was sealed.
It was a shameful burden carried by all Montagues. No male child had ever died a natural death since the late thirteenth century. There was a rumour of a curse, the beginnings of which were documented in poetry and drama. The Montague library held every edition of the half-blood Shakespeare’s telling of the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet. Two of its most prized books were the first quarto and folio edition of the play.
At the end of the tragedy the Capulets and Montagues vow to create statues of each other’s children to honour them and to signal the end of their feud. Shakespeare ends the story there, but it was only the beginning for the Montagues. According to the rumours, Old Montague, sick with angry-grief over the death of his wife and son, woke the next morning and went back on his word. He entered the square and declared he would not build Juliet’s statue. He would not reward the harlot for the wound she had inflicted on his family. The people called him mad and were gentle with him at first. When seven days had gone and he still would not give orders to the stone masons the people grew angry. The prince tried to force Old Montague but he would not relent. “You are cursed, old man,” he said during his last visit. And Old Montague was.
The Capulets kept their word and erected a statue of Romeo in their courtyard. The family prospered. Their name was soon lost, but the descendants of the family became kings, queens, ministers, and dukes. The Montagues kept their wealth, prestige, and purity of blood, but it mattered little since no Montague male would live long enough to truly enjoy the fruits of his labour. Dead by suicide, all of them, madness taking hold of them in the final days. It took only a generation for the family to become static, mostly a cluster of bereaved women, moving haplessly around their homes in mourning black.
---
You’re next, the wind howled, cackling madly, as the rain hit the windows.
Six years had gone since his father’s death. Six years in which Montague had forced himself to forget. In the time gone by not once had he entered the house’s library. It is rare that a man will want to face a death that is beyond his control.
Montague had married well. She was a woman who did not know about the curse. It was a well-kept secret among the purebloods, and she was not pure in any sense of the word. She’d seen darkness and death and had wrapped herself in them in the heat of battle. She, he thought, would not be afraid of what most certainly could not be true; and yet, he did not tell her.
Time.
A piercing shriek woke him the next night. The bedroom was silent. His ears were ringing. Next to him, his wife was sleeping soundly, a contented smile on her lips.
Remember her.
It is only in his darkest hour that a man moves from ignorance to knowledge and into his damnation.
---
She weighed him down. She was not as he expected. Her hair and eyes were dark and there was a slight tan to her skin. She was not the Anglo paragon of beauty and virtue later imaginings depicted her to be. At odd moments she looked like his wife.
Juliet. Giulietta.
She would not leave him. She was always with him, eyes reproachful, her mouth closed but always speaking. She recited the verses Romeo spoke to her and sang the songs her family had sung at her funeral. Her sorrow was raw and unhindered. With her there, he had no appetite, no care for his appearance, no time for work. He locked himself away from his wife. His magic was weak, but try as she might she could not get into his rooms.
His wife called for his mother. “Let the thing run its course. It has to be,” he heard her say on the other side of the door.
In his room, Montague was forced to remember. He recalled the months before his father’s death. How his father had become paranoid, jumping at every shadow, muttering under his breath, and calling in seers, who would always leave with grim expressions.
She broke him. He tried to reason with her, promising he would do whatever she needed, erect the statue as his ancestor had first pledged.
She shook her head. Forced actions do not fulfill a promise.
---
She watched him intently as he tested the makeshift rope hanging from the chandelier. He mother was right. The expensive curtains were worth every galleon she’d spent. The cloth was soft and wouldn’t chafe. It was strong enough to hold a dying man.
He’d come to the conclusion late one afternoon. He’d seen himself reflected in the windows and had stared at it for some time. He was pathetic. Thin, his eyes were sunken into his face, his skin sallow and his hair greasy and limp. He looked more like his old Potions professor than he did himself. This could not go on, he realized. There was only one choice.
His father, Montague realized, was not a coward. He’d done what every man feared most and took his death into his own hands. He’d taken control of a situation that was no longer his own and released himself. As he’d stripped the window, Montague smiled. He felt powerful, godlike.
She watched him as he positioned the chair, stood on it and put the noose around his neck. For the first time, she was silent. Her face was unreadable.
He closed his eyes and the fear settled in. He opened them, saw her staring back and resolved himself. He kicked the chair away.
Death was neither quick nor sweet. As consciousness began to leave him, he thought he saw something, a movement of her head from side to side. He could not comprehend it.
Even in a state of knowledge, a man is often wrong about what others want of him and what is the right thing to do.
--End--
A/N: During Shakespeare’s time, plays were recorded in quartos and folios. Quartos had pages that were made from folding a paper to form four pages. Quartos usually came first and were made for wide distribution. Today scholars use them as a mark of how popular a play was. Folios were larger and resembled the common book and were for the more affluent and refined.