beware-of-pity

[beware-of-pity]

Azor Ahai (don’t come at me i’d kill for her)

[beware-of-pity]

Émilie Lévy & Louis Français

Musée d'Orsay, Paris, 24 VIII 2023

[beware-of-pity]

Pythia Hiereia VII

Masterlist I Ao3 link I Chapter six - Chapter eight

Harry James Potter x Reader

Summary :

"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves"

Tw: Mature and Explicit/Graphic depictions of violence. Check further notes at the end of the chapter.

. Something wicked this way comes

. And as I set to face it, I'm unsure. Should I embrace it

. or should I run?

. ARCANUM VIII : THE MAGICIAN (ALEPH)

. ⚯ ͛

“Do you often dream things that happen just as you dream them?”

Cassiopea Black, a woman hardened by age, loss, and plights only she can tell the tales of, sits in a heavy wooden chair, her aged face ghostly against her black, dramatic gown. Her eyes glittered as she studied you. 

You were six when your grandmother asked you those sworn words.

“Not always” you'd responded, and it was true. You'd never know, never until you closed your eyes, what dream you'd encounter. The world of the sleeping was elusive, like a pool of water with deep depths whose bottom could not be seen, “Sometimes.” 

You studied her. She took the measure of you in turn, your stance, your stare, your smallness.

“Do you dream of things that are not real?” she asked, her slender, porcelain hands, clear of wrinkles despite her age, so unlike the ones you'd gotten from your mother, gripped her cane. She looked at you, hard but not unkind. She was cautious with you, as she had been with your grandfather, her husband, long before in days where they’d been but strangers, not daring to put too much trust in anyone with this great burden. You were young, barely out of infancy, and she was wise enough to know it was her job to teach you the limits of your power first before teaching you how far you could push it. She owed you that much.

“They may not be when I dream them” you'd said, “but they become real.”

She’d paused, her lips pursed in a hard line. It was hard to impress your grandmother, always had been; this was no exception. Sure, you were no ordinary child, but neither was she any ordinary woman. She knew you understood well the meaning of her words, their message well crossed by your little mind. She'd been wise enough, and long enough in touch with your family’s great heritage, that she knew what the powers coming from the depths of your body were about to mean.

“How so, child?” “My dreams come true” And in your own wisdom, you’d answered her question well. There was nothing your grandmother hated more than people wasting her time.  “And you are sure? Tell me of the day at the Burrow, then. Did you dream that too?” “I had. I dreamt of being in the field by the house as the sun set, and that day I stood there as I had just when I had dreamt it.” “And what of what your father told me? Is it true?” “I had a dream. I was watching the others play by the table set outside. I crossed eyes with the young Weasley boy and suddenly...the light from the sun blinded me, and everything got so bright I couldn’t see anything but the light. When I returned to my senses...I was lying in the field with Papa looming over me”

She'd stared, her gaze locked with yours. She did not doubt the words, not truly.  She was merely cautious because if there was a thing Cassiopea Black did not like messing with, it was fate.

“And you were certain in what your eyes saw? The truth of what came and passed, the same you dreamed of? Did the Weasley boy interest you so?” “No” you shook your head “The one in my dream did.” She raised a brow, intrigue dancing in her eyes. “Another boy?”  You’d shrugged, your gaze set on the carpet below your feet, avoiding your grandmother’s inquiring one. “I do not know his name. He had black hair, green eyes, round glasses and a scar on his forehead, like a thunder... no, a lightning bolt scar running down his forehead.”

She opened her mouth, a ghastly whisper of a name on the tip of her tongue. She bit it back, holding her tongue. 

“He was in a forest” you continued on “Older than the last time I saw him. A man by now.Something…..someone was standing in front of him, but I could not see who. He looked at me, but the moment he turned to his opponent, he was hit by a strong, blasting, green light. He fell to the ground, not quite dead but not so quite alive. Alas, he breathed not.” You said, “but his soul lived on.”

“His soul?” she echoed, the interest on her face growing, eyes wide at your words. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing but knew, she just knew. A young boy with a scar on his forehead, green eyes and black hair? 

It surely couldn’t be, could it?

“Of course it's him, you dimwitted Black.”

The voice coming out of your mouth was not your own. Old, manly and withered like the trees on a cold winter morning. One that haunted your grandmother's sleep. 

“Don't waste my time and that of my vessel with a show of strength to give your grief reason to live on. The reason for your husband's death lives in front of you. He was growing old and feeble, a new chosen one had to be born. No one in this family gets to choose their deaths but me.”

Cassiopea’s face drained of all colour. She sat there, frozen, a look of pure horror on her face, her ears unable to believe what sound had just left your mouth. 

“You-!” she croaked, her eyes wide and wild.

The room was silent, the only sound breaking it was your grandmother’s ragged breaths mixing with the crackling of the fire in the hearth.

“Get out of my grandchild!!!" “I go where I please” Ominis said, using your lips to answer her. They twisted in a smirk, baring your small teeth in a sinister smile. He chuckled, a grating sound, like chalk being rammed on a board. It rattled through your bones, reverberated in your ears and made your hair stand on end. “Your grandchild is the vessel I require. Her powers are beyond her years, and I require her to fulfil my purpose.” "No!" she raged,with a slam of her fists upon the arms of the chair. Her whole body trembling with white, hot, blinding hatred. “You- You’re not allowed to do this. She's a child-“ “Who has witnessed the end of the world” Ominis crooked too calmly “You know of whom she just spoke of. Don't deny it.”

Her breath hitched, voice lost as she was forced to admit the words to be true.  The boy the Order worked so hard to protect, the only one destined to defeat Lord Voldemort. And you, somehow, had seen the battle before it even happened.

“Harry Potter is the one who will lead the way to victory” Ominis reasoned “She will pave the way for him to. It's destiny.”

The finality in those words burned, like a molten brand searing them into her skin. She knew of destiny, how inescapable it was. She herself had never been one to toy heavily with it, but even she knew how powerful it could be.

“Please..." she begged, on the verge of tears “Don't take any more of them away from me. I beg you.” “I have no use for your pleas, woman. The course of fate is already set in motion. There is nothing you can do to stop it.” “What of the other one?” she asked “Why not him? He's gone. Use him. He'll do more for us to the cause than a thousand dead at the hands of the man who's taken him from us and turned him against!” “Not every choice we make bears the same weight. The one you speak of is not an option, never was. He can not bear the same burden as she can. His path is different, fated to walk his own, as she is walking hers." “He is her half!” she argued “He can do much and more before he bears any harm on us.” “He is not the one who can make the greatest sacrifice” Ominis contended “He is not the one who can turn the war in our favour. He is not the one who will change the tides. That duty, that destiny, is hers and hers alone.”

The silence deafened the ears and the mind, rendering Cassipea without a word to refute whatever truth Ominis claimed to his words.

“Can you not spare her?” she asked in a hushed whisper. “There is no mercy in destiny” Ominis assured, a freezing coldness in his tone. “This is her purpose, and she will fulfil it.”

A choked sound escaped her throat as she sank into her seat, her hand gripping at her cane for support. She could not fight the voice, and she could not fight destiny, but she could try to give you as much life as she could before the end. 

“Please, don't take her from me.” she pleaded. “You’ve taken so much from me already.” “You will have her for as long as fate wills it” a pause “Whether the time will be short or long, depends on the choices you both make. For now....I'll make sure she's in safe hands.”

Cassiopea halted, looking at you with glinting eyes. 

“Thank you” she whispered, a strained syllable of the tongue. When she once again cast her eye on you, only you stared back at her, with the simplicity of a child, wide-eyed and mouth pursed in a contemplative pout. "Grandmama" your voice, once again that of a child, eased her soul "Are you alright?” She swallowed thickly, pushing the hard lump in her throat back down. A shaky hand rose and tucked a strand of hair back behind your ear, before gently cupping your cheek, her slender fingers shook under your chin, the rings on her fingers leaving deep imprints on your skin. She was not alright — Cassiopea Black didn’t think she could ever be, but the best she could do was to not worry you.

Ah, to be young once more. Whatever happened to being a child not being a sin?

“I'm fine, dearest.” 

Because you were her dearest. 

She loved you. All of you. 

Your frame. Your flesh. All the way down to your bones. Despite the filth and the ugliness and the repulsiveness, those eyes of yours gutted her insides.  Loving your family, that’s what it is, no? To love you wholly, unconditionally, to the bone and all that comes with it. Even if that love is soft and dark like a fruit gone bad, with flies flying around it waiting for the moment to lay their fingers upon the rot to devour it all. 

Because good fruits never taste quite as good, do they?

Innocent, ruthless, bloodstained. Had you ever had the chance to be that which you were never meant to be?

A girl.

“Just an old woman, worrying over nothing.”

You only stared, because that’s all you could do, as you’d come to know, to be the only thing that your grandmere did not get uneasy about, despite the clear discomfort it still gave her. You were smart, too smart for your age, and you could tell lies from the truths. “Don't look at me like that” she’d tried to smile, but those were lines that did not reach her eyes. “You'll worry that pretty head of yours with things you have no need to worry about.”

A warm kiss that lacked warmth on your forehead before she sent you off. “Run along now. Go play with your brother.”

You ran off, rushing outside, running through the hallways of the old house, your little feet pitter-pattering against the wood of the floors. There was nothing more that Cassiopea could do but keep a watchful eye over you and to hope and pray that she'd be able to do that for years to come, as your small form disappeared from the room, leaving Cassiopea alone, to despair.

You thought of that as you stared up at Harry, feet still deep into the water, as he smiled at you.

The same boy you'd told your grandmother about years ago.

Older, his features more defined, stronger, more hardened, escaping his boyhood. But his eyes were the same, the ones you'd known since your very first dream.

This time they did not gleam with boyish mischief, and they did not show the innocence of childhood. This time, a certain wariness and weariness to them was held in those eyes of his, the heavy weight of the world heavy on his soul. Vibrating, enchanting, the embers of your earth, dark with specks of fire which you’d dreamt of thousands of times before you’d ever met him.

Your favourite sight to seek in a dream.

You drank him in, you could not help but marvel at his presence, for he was a wonder even more magnificent in the waking world than in the dreamland. This is what you had always waited for, and now, finally, you were getting to meet face to face with the one you had been dreaming about since your earliest memories.

You smiled in turn. You felt like he gave you no other choice. His smile was always warm, like a balm on a wound. You liked how he looked at you, like you were the only one that existed, like everything else was merely an afterthought compared to you.

You part ways with the unspoken promise that everything that transpired at the lake would remain the knowledge of only your tongues. There was much still left unsaid, but you and Harry both believed there was enough time in the world to stall the inevitable. Every conversation, every new little bit of information, came with a knowledge, a perception, a liability you weren't sure you wished to impose on an already tormented soul. Despite words coming easy to you, there was much you, too, were reluctant and unsure of. It pained to admit, it stung your very core, that Ominis was right in saying your abilities were limited and those of a child compared to his or those that came before you. You'd trained, put your mind and powers to the strains of their abilities, and yet it seemed it was never enough. All the suffering they came with, and you could not make the most of them?  Ominis was right, you had no right to dictate the usage of what you were born with if you were not worthy of exploiting it as it should be.

Just what were you missing?

What is it you were not seeing? That was not shown to you? Why did the eyes that'd been blessed by solemn stardust upon your birth deceive you now so? 

You've existed in dreams only, the reality of the world you live in being sometimes too much to bear. Betrayal runs deep when done by hands whose only touch you've come to know as gentle. The feelings of not properly knowing the world your bare feet touched, walked, sunk into did not come as a surprise, as it perhaps should have.  You'd never found much interest in it either way.  It's a dark, dark world, the one you live in. You thought no joy could be found in it. The peace of your paradise was all you needed. Your sanctum. But despite how you wished to leave the mortal remains of your body, you could never escape your nature. 

You do exist, don't you? Despite how it often feels as if you're not there, you are. You fill in a space that's been there for you even before you'd been there to fill it. 

The world has made it so. It wants it so. You're not a casualty, an error, a mistake. No, you're a creature of design. Of long-planned, calculated breeding. You're no longer a fragment of a dream, of a thread of fate that had once been but the flick of one man's imagination.  You exist in all that you live and what came before you. You wear the faces of your own mother and father, of their own, and of those before them. Of women and men whose faces you've never known, whose lives are by now lost to time. In the reflection of your mirror, staring at you, there are thousands of you. Thousands of different lives met by the same fate. 

Death.

But which of your feelings are real? Which of the you's is you? 

No matter how deep you search, it seems as if the real you has never shown. But how could you believe in yourself when you don't even know yourself?  Which part of you is supposed to be the real you? The reserved, quiet, withdrawn, tired and impassive girl you've always been known to be or the ravenous, impulsive, angry one? Or perhaps it's neither.  You thought of yourself to be quite a simple person.

You like books of all sorts, from fiction to encyclopedias, everything the library has to offer will be read, with no exception.  That muggle author, Jane Austen, was among your favourites. You thought she wrote terrific romance novels despite never having married herself. Your father had gifted you a collection of all her works for your eighth birthday and had become a dearly beloved possession. You especially liked running your fingers through the illustrations, occasionally popping in between a chapter or two. Ribbons, of all colours and fabrics. You thought an outfit was never complete without a touch of colour from the silky strings falling like waterfalls through your hair.

The piano, which you’d been taught to play in a duet with your brother’s violin. Your father wished for you both to be gifted in at least a instrument and while Leyton had trouble remembering a note or two on the piano, and you’d nicked yourself on the strings of the violin too many a times to count, both found a perfect suit in the other’s orginial choice of instrument. Flowers of all kinds, especially the wisteria that grew all over the walls of the house when it was its season, though baby’s breath always went along well with every bouquet and flower crowns you’d make for everyone in the house, servants included. 

Angel’s trumpets, lily of the valley, and lilies being among your favourites. Swimming by the ponds as the sun glistened over the surface of the clear water, in the garden where fishes and turtles fed off the stale bread you threw at them. And despite sometimes the lines of your pencil falling in the wrong direction and place, you enjoyed a little bit of drawing as well.  Your pick for muses? The birds by your windowsill on a cold spring morning, the fish in the pond. Your brother, as he played the violin in the drawing room while your father read the daily issue of the Daily Prophet, sat in the green leather chair he preferred above the rest. As of recently, a certain green-eyed boy had been at the unfortunate hands of your most scrawny sketches. 

You like clothes of linen and embroidered cottons and threads of cold colours adorning the silks of your chemises. 

But you seriously don't understand the girl Harry is turning you into. This calm, smiling girl, who is somewhat meek under the pretence of this gentle touch of his.

You don't like that you like this, that he makes you feel this. You don't like how every little touch seems so deliberate, so carelessly thought out. And you definitely don't like the way his eyes roam over you like he'll never have enough of you. He drives you mad in the very best way, his very touch making you feel the kind of things you weren't sure you were capable of feeling at all. He's breaking you, he's making you feel. And it's scary, scary how much you let him do it, how much you welcome it.

It's a conflict of interest. 

You were supposed to approach him only to prepare him for the future that awaits him. Those were the instructions.  Maybe that's why you were the way you were — why you found it difficult to connect on such an intimate level with anything or anyone. That you'd come into the world predisposed, a sentiment being, with a set of instructions flowing in your veins. How to live, how to conduct yourself. And yet those same instructions lacked the fundamental basis on how to be a human being. Feeling always came with such a nerve-shattering sensation that it overwhelmed you to the point of nausea. 

Despite so, you loved your family. How could you not when they loved you this much?  The love of a father, whose hands and love crafted you alongside those of your mother. The love of a brother, whose protection and love have kept you safe on many occasions. A friend you can replace, but no one can grow you a new brother and father when you would not replace the ones you have with anyone else. A love so pure, so innocent and warm. Nothing could compare to it.

Despite the hole of emptiness that has formed inside you, urging you, telling you, insisting that there’s a missing piece of this love and family you’re yet to know.

But what was it to love deep within the soul another being whose blood you did not share? To belong, wholly, every part, every bit of body and soul to someone that felt as deeply for you as you felt for them? The girls in your year are but girls. Children, really, you thought. They are silly little girls, even your cousins. They've never seen a battle, they've never seen a man die, they know nothing. None of the horrors you’d been borne witness to. Their dreams were full of songs and stories, the way yours had been in your childhood. 

You pitied them. You envied them. 

But Harry, he almost made you feel like them. A girl, whose only worry was to check if her hair was pinned in place, no frizz or unruly strands falling in the wrong direction. And that the balm on her lips still moistened the soft skin just in case…. 

He unbalanced you. He threw at you, anything and everything. But when push came to shove, he tended to you with all of his loving, simple self. He can make you feel like the most beautiful thing in the world, then turn around and make you feel like you're the only one that exists. 

He's driving you mad, but he's also setting you free.

You cannot seem to contort yourself back into the shape of a dutiful child. You're becoming unravelled, undone, willing to defy orders given to you before your very own conception to follow the path you thought fit to take.  Maybe that's just what it means...to be human — irresponsible, impulsive and sometimes hardheaded by your pride and beliefs. You're made up of so many little oddities, so many pieces and parts of yourself that do not quite fit together but still hold onto one another to form that which you are, shaping you, making you, creating you in all that you are and in that which you exist. You cannot disown, disallow, tear from your flesh, what you are. To deny your nature is first to deny how you've come to exist, and your very existence holds its significance in this world. 

'We all have our parts to play,' you often told Harry, but have you been playing yours well enough to retain your place in the play starring your lives into the endless theatre that is the world?

You are not good, you are not virtuous, sympathetic, gentle, generous, evil, angry, bereft of sense.

You are simply you, with all your imperfections, all your differences. A person of infinite feelings, who experiences everything and yet nothing at all, because it is better not to than to burn in the fire that their passions scorn. It's easier, is it not? To feel nothing than to feel everything. To watch from the sidelines and observe, to refrain from getting involved. To simply watch the world turn and time pass. To conceal oneself behind an illusion of nothingness to avoid the very real pain that comes with feeling. But it also means not knowing love, not experiencing the simple happiness that arises from having someone to share your thoughts and heart with. 

Because how can you love someone else if you do not allow yourself to feel love, first?

Each time, each year, with the passing of time, every moment, every second that Harry ever got in trouble, those past six years that you've been watching since you were a child. Trailing after him like a constant shadow, hidden to his knowledge, doing nothing had always held a scion to your good sense of will. 

"It doesn't feel right, with what we can do, to do nothing when he faces danger.”

You were only a child then, when you made the inquiry to your great-great-grandfather, who'd been looking after you and your dreams since you could remember. But at eleven years old, in your first year at Hogwarts, you already knew the danger that Professor Raptor posed and were ordered not to do anything about it, for it was neither of your or his concern. 

"To do nothing is the hardest job of all", Ominis had said "You have to be impartial in these matters. If he cannot make his own way into the world and face trivial dangers, how is he supposed to one day be the saviour of the wizarding world? We must allow this to run its course.”

His wisdom was always so clear, so precise and proven true each time.  He had been right, after all. Harry had managed to overcome Professor Raptor all by himself, even though it pained you to see him struggle and be in danger. It always went against your nature to do nothing and just sit and watch. To do nothing was to do as you were told. To hold true to your duty and keep yourself away from the inevitable. You'd accepted the words, as you'd accepted words the wise always spoke, at the time. Now, older and perhaps less naive than you’d been as a mere child, you look back on the years past, you feel a sting in your chest.  How different would things have been had you not just stood by and watched as everything fell apart around the young boy?  You could have done something — maybe not much, but something. At least he would not have gone at it alone.

Your biggest regret came in the form of Cedric Diggory. There'd been no need for the poor boy to die had you been more capable in your prowess. Your fourth year at Hogwarts had been anything but predictable, and with your less-than-conscious mind left in a somewhat comatose state empty of thought all together as the result of a panicked reading you made after Harry’s name was pulled from the goblet of fire, the second coming of the dark lord had slipped each reading you made for the remainer of the year or the one that followed. 

Your fifth year was spent being mostly either bedridden or lying in one of the beds of the hospital wing as Madam Pomfrey watched after you, unable to do much with this mysterious condition of yours. Nothing was wrong with you, per se. Cedric’s death riddled you with guilt. You took no fondness in sweets, books and the forest as you used to. Hogwarts had dulled. The childlike view you had of the castle had shattered alongside your first taste of what your role in the world meant. Each new sight, glimpse, speck into the future had your body to its strain. A toll on your health that only deepened as a result of more frequent and frenzied readings fueled by your frustration over your own limitations and capabilities.

And while you recovered, you allowed Harry to play at being the leader of men he had to grow into. There was not much you could do about Dumbledore’s army while lying in a hospital bed, could you?

Oh, but there was one person who had not been so unaware of such thing. 

You'd all but raged at Ominis for his obscurity, for his secrecy, for his unwillingness to use the power of the oracle to do good and stop this before it got too out of hand, too hard to control. He'd used his sibilistic serpentongue to command you quiet and ordered you to never cross him in such way again.

You hated him for it. You hated him. 

He could have done something, anything! To prevent the death of a boy, a child who did not deserve to die. You hated how Ominis knew better, and you hated yourself for letting him order you into complicity, for being so powerless, even though you were gifted with the ability of prophecy, because despite the knowledge that your dreams contained, none of it mattered if it wasn't acted upon.

Once Harry figures it all out he'll be mad at you. He’ll be so angry he could possibly come to hate you and you had done a good damn job at squelching the squeamishness he held over your family name and the blood that ran in your veins, connecting you to the most hated wizard of all. You had to sacrifice the secrecy of your mind palace to show him you were no fraud, no seer pretending the impossible, because you were very much the impossible made possible through magic that people could only dream of.

And, despite your own fears and doubts, you found that you were prepared for his anger. You would stand there, tall and firm, and watch him face you, and take all the anger that he had to offer in his young, angry heart. You were ready to answer his every question. Despite you wishing so dearly, he never did. But you did not care if he hated you. You did not care if he thought you to be a freak, a liar, an abomination and a monster.  Even if he came to hate you — even if he came to despise you and the way you were born — then at least you would have done all that was in your power to save him. Because you came to treasure his life more than your own, more than anything in this world.

That's the price people pay for love, no?

Love is the death of duty, and duty is the death of love. 

But he had destroyed your duty. He was your one purpose. You knew that your job was to prepare him for the future, to keep him alive long enough for him to fulfil his destiny. He was your duty, but he was also your love. He is your duty, as is your love, and you’ll be his death.

But you've no choice in the matter. Love is not a choice one makes, no more than duty is. He's chosen you, and you've chosen him right back, whether you like it or not. There is nothing you can do but love him, just as there is nothing he can do but love you as well. 

You are the inevitable, the certainty of the outcome. It’s not a matter of if, but when.

He had ruined everything the way you had known it, but you could not bring yourself to care. He'd made you feel, made you feel things you had never thought possible, and despite what the future may hold, you knew that it was more important to you that he would be there and that he was alive, rather than him fulfilling his destiny and dying against Voldemort. He was more important than the prophecy, he was more important than anything. 

He was more important than the wizarding world.

But there are those who do not understand it, still. Your brother among them. 

He viewed Harry as something akin to a reckoning, a danger you all should stay away from, and you understood why. People standing by Harry's cause were not known for living long or lasting in their resolution.  After the events leading to the battle in the Ministry of Mysteries, Leyton had all but grown paranoid of Harry's presence, if not outright existence. He had told you, asked, if not commanded, as your brother and caretaker in the absence of your father, that he did not wish to see you a mere breath away from the boy. 

But you had always been ordered around too much to listen to him, not when higher orders to do the opposite were given by Ominis himself. You were loyal to Ominis first, even above your brother. Not now that your views finally aligned with the stars. Despite your differences, Ominis had always treated you with such respect, even though he had the power to force your obedience. You supposed that was his way of love. 

But Leyton - sweet, old Leyton. Oh, how your heart ached for him and sang sweet songs of your love for your brother that could make women weep and men fall to their knees. You knew your brother was more concerned about your safety than anything. He’d always been, even when you were still young children, he was the one to look after you, to protect you. He'd been father, mother and brother all at once, and you owed him your life for it. But you could not tuck your tail between your legs, turn your way, and head to another call than the one you were given.

Duty is the death of love. You did not want to choose between the love for your brother, your love for Harry, and your loyalty to Ominis. You wanted to have it all. 

In times of doubt, those lost often look for a reliable, wise figure to guide them through the darkness of the forest they find themselves in. Your crone takes the figure of the wise, old Dumbledore. The only man you can confide your worries about the nature of the world you inhabit with.

It feels good to tell the old man your feelings. Dumbledore is a good listener, and his wisdom feels like the calm before the storm. He understands your predicament, your struggles, but you think he knows more than he lets you know he does, that the words he speaks hide a whole world of knowledge away from you, but that is something you'd expect from a man as old as he. 

“Why did you tell him to come to me about the oracle?” you asked “I thought you would tell him everything. Yet you didn’t. Why?”

Dumbledore’s eyes were kind, a small smile on his lips.

“I am an old man. In what way would I possibly be able to help, when my time is near passing anyway? I think, perhaps...it is not my place to interfere. I thought it best it'd be you telling him all. I've learned it is quite rude to speak of those who cannot speak for themselves. I did not wish to take that from you. A white lie necessary for the greater good.” “That is most thoughtful, professor.” You said, “But I do wonder what Harry would think about being deceived into quests he may not be willing to embark on.”

Something in his eyes turned solemn, as if the weight of the world had suddenly come to sit on his shoulders. 

“Young men often think it is their duty to do as such,” he said, his voice carrying the exhaustion of his age, “and while I may not agree with their actions, I will always appreciate their good-natured heart, and the will they hold to fight. Sometimes, things are destined to be, and the decisions we make can have no other outcome, despite our efforts to steer the river a different way. I like to believe that I did not lie to him, but merely, simply, didn’t tell the whole truth so that he would seek it himself.” “On your orders” you finalised “I knew the moment he asked me that you were behind his words.”

Dumbledore chuckled, the sound low and deep. But he nodded his head.

"I knew you'd have figured that out yourself. But I wanted to test something...about the boy.” “I don't suppose that might be his loyalty. He's proven that plenty.” “No, my boy is loyal. That is not it. There is something else about him that I've come to suspect. Rather, his trust. Not in me or my words, but rather in others. In you." "He has his doubts, as anyone would. As you and many others have. The stain of a lineage is hard to get rid of. His scepticism is welcome, I do admit. Anyone who doubts is intelligent enough to overcome their confidence in the unknown to doubt the known.” “I suppose so. A great mind is a curious beast to carry.” His eyes turned thoughtful. “How he perceives the world...and people, I believe, is what will save him and those he loves.”

“He’s...stalwart, " you struggled to put your words together, “....a kind...soul, deprived of every kindness he's been lacking since the loss of his parents. He seeks it in those he can see them in, without even knowing what he's seeking.” “I am afraid so,” Dumbledore said. “He has been lonely, alone. His life has not been the most fortunate. But it is his burden to carry and to fight through. You, too, know of how heavy one's own burden can be.”

“The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity,” you conjured. “He has neither. His mind is simple. I just do not think he knows that yet with that much that he ails in it.” “Is that such a bad thing?” He asked. “There are many times one's heart may be a burden, and their mind a blessing.” “Both are necessary, aren't they? Heart and mind. The mind is the rational, the functional, the right. While the heart...is the human, the sensitive, the vulnerable. But at the same time, one cannot exist without the other — rationality without empathy, care without the understanding, the living without the feeling...is just…nothing.” “The mind rules the heart,” Dumbledore took on your thought and words “as the heart can rule the mind.” “It's the relative human balance.”

You both smiled at the other.

“Deadly weapons against those that live without one of either”, he said “make good use of them.” “I will” you said, “as I will make sure Harry does, too.”

He looked at you curiously, cocking his head to the side.

“I see you've...grown to care for the boy” he mused “I can't seem to ignore that you speak of him…most fondly, indeed.”

Unsure of what to say, you had let a straightforward "He’s become important to me, I will not deny it.It goes against...what you'd advise of me...but he makes it hard.”

He gave you an almost knowing smile.

“It seems...the heart does win over the mind, after all.” The irony cut like glass through the air. “It's not like that” you shook your head “it's just that...there's much of him I see.” you said “that others do not. It is a hard thing to ignore.” “Do you not think you see what you wish to see, perhaps?” “Maybe so,” you suggest, “But maybe that's what makes people who they are, and sometimes they need someone to see what they wish to see in them.”

A shadow cast itself over his face, a strange look loomed over his hardened features, as if your words had struck much closer to home than he'd expected. He contemplated and contemplated, thinking deeply — and yet, just as you were about to delve into their thoughts, he spoke.

"We will never be able to understand who we truly are" he said, "There will always be questions left for the future and answers for the past. One day you will come to understand, and you shall no longer be afraid of what you do not fully comprehend.”

A nagging curiosity gnawed at your mind. What more will there be to understand? you thought.

“Should I take that as a warning?” You broke a small smile. “I like to think of it as a promise,” he said, returning your smile. “A promise is something that's made to be kept” you said, thoughtfully “I shall hold you to it then.” “You might have to” he chuckled “but I might have to ask for another from you, if I may.” “What kind?” you asked, dabbing the blackened skin of his hand with a damp, warm cloth. “Don't let love get in the way of doing what is right.” He said, his words leaving a strange pit in your stomach, and a bitter taste in the back of your mouth you could not gulp down.

Too late, you had to resist the urge to say.

“What is right and what is wrong often differs from person to person” you murmured, your words betraying nothing of the things stirring at your insides and wretching at your organs. “You are very much right” he sighed against the feel of the gentle caress of the cloth “But you do see the world through a very unique pair of eyes. I trust you, my dear, with everything you'll have to face. You'll find strength and wisdom in places you don't even expect.”

Your lips curled upward in a small smile.

“I suppose I should hold you to that too, then…professor”, you teased. “You should” he said, reaching out to grasp your hand that wasn't tending to his. “Trust me, darling girl.”

A wave of affection washed over you, as he held your hand in his, a certain comfort in the feeling— a soft, warm thing. 

Lying in your bed is all you can do that night, even as the other seven filled beds are lounged quietly by their inhabitants, your roommates. Your bedsheet offers little to no comfort for the cold that is sipped deep within your bones. When your feet touch the carpet surrounding your bed, you realise you'll get little to no sleep that night. Your feet padded around the castle, in all its quietness and emptiness. If anyone were to find you, you're in line for a good reprimanding, but you're stealthy to the point you know it won't happen. After all, this was not the first time you would not be found in your bed. 

The Ravenclaw Tower may be an infinite maze to the untrained eye, but to those with an eye keen enough to figure their way around it, it is fast to become their place of respite.

The balcony by the topside is the quietest and emptiest part of the tower, and where you take it to perform your darkest of…activities.

This night was no exception, and your feet soon carried your body to the balcony, closing the door softly behind you. Moonlight streamed through the cold night, the stars shining bright through the clouds in the sky. You take a seat on the railing, your legs dangling over the edge, your eyes watching the ground below. The air was quiet, but in no way peaceful, for in silence, you can do nothing but think. Your eyes trailed to the dark sky above you, from star to star, tracing along the constellations of your favourite ones There are many who find comfort into looking at the celestial bodies, but to you, it was always a way for the sky to whisper into your ears the things your body failed to understand.

You'd let your hand hang in the air, the soft autumn breeze fanning your face, brushing through your locks. In many ways, it was peaceful. There was little sound except the whispers of the wind, rustling through the old trees of the Forbidden Forest, the gentle rush of the Black Lake, and the occasional screech of a creature, you knew, was flying over the grounds. You were in no way alone, despite the absence of people, but that was not what you were looking for. You merely sought some space, space to breathe, space to think and space to exist, just as you were. For there were few that let you be who you truly were.

“Do you believe it to be true?” you asked the air “Your dream. The Eclipse of the Eternal Night. You told me it was our duty to hold our family united against our common foe” You let the silence fall “I'm not sure I can do that any more. I'm not sure I ever could.”

You felt guilty for even speaking these words. It was the very first time that that thought had crossed your mind, and the fact that you had not told anyone, let alone vocalised it, made it all the more of a burden. What kind of person would that have made you?

A traitor, perhaps.

“It's-...It's not that i'm not able, and it's not that i do not believe in our dream. It's just” you gulped down a hard knot “....what If I'm not the one?”

The thought alone feels as if a cold hand had plunged into the pit of your stomach and squeezed every organ in a vice-like grip. To have come so far and to fail at the very goal you had been given from birth, simply the thought of it was painful.

 How could you fail?

“I....I'm tired. I'm always tired” you whispered “If I'm not the one, if this is not my place to be, then what am I supposed to do? I'm scared.More now than ever before. I'm lonely," you said, your eyes trailing to the stars, “And I'm lost.”

“Just give me a sign.”

You waited...and waited. But nothing came. There was no rumble of thunder, no crack in the sky. No voice echoed through your head, no feeling filled your senses. No one to give you the answer you so desperately sought for.

Until it came. And when it did, it happened all too fast for you to realise what was happening. In a moment, the moon's bright light burned at your irises, rendering you blind to everything but its light as you tried to shield yourself from it before your limbs fell limp, your body crashing to the hard, stone floor of the tower. The pain that filled your head was the point of no return.

Darkness consumed your vision, a deep, endless darkness you'd experienced time to time before. You knew what was now to come, and you welcomed the sleep it brought you.

Your breath escapes you as you slam backwards, your heart thumping loudly in your ribs, a sudden coldness gripping you like ice. Your head spins, the world spinning around you uncontrollably, and for a good few moments, you’re sure you’ll throw up, and then it stops, just as fast as it came. You shielded yourself from the blinding light before you're engulfed by it, whole. The sequence before you played out like a movie on the big screen. It went by so fast, that were it not for your memory of steel taking in every single moment by bit as if it were its own, everything would have gone by and be forgotten, like every old memory that posed no importance to the present....      

The voices around you were loud, but filled your ears with a beautiful melody despite the continuous and growing ringing that only fed into the itching at the back of your head. 

The hospital wing before you is empty except for one bed, filled by the presence of a person whose face you cannot see, hidden beyond the white curtain drawn around the privacy the ill deserved. The light coming from the window, and the white snow raining down outside, rendered the scene before you almost sterile, sanitised in the worst ways.  The fire that you see in the distance, at the outskirts, brightens the dark night sky, its light joining that of the stars and the moon, allowing the eye to behold the disaster. The soft bluegrass and dry hay leaves rustle along the cold, biting, winter wind as you stare up at it with wide eyes before you're pulled violently into another scene before you could identify the house. 

Hagrid's hut is not a place you're entirely familiar with, but is one you'll get to know soon seeing as you're sitting by the fireplace as you petting gently Hagrid's dog, Fang, as Harry speaks to a Slughorn looking too defeated by life, staring at Harry with a face that told much of unspoken regret. You don't get to hear about what they're talking about before the windows burst open, the same air that flutters up the top of the astronomy tower, pulls you away from the warmth your cheek had flared from the warmth of the fire, the rosy skin cooled and forgotten.

Professor Dumbledore looked defeated, the sun setting behind him as a backdrop to the seriousness crossing his face. The words falling from his lips are meant for you, and Harry, you two standing solemnly in front of him. Words that get blurred along the lines of the real and the eventful, and what you're not yet supposed to know. The warmth of Harry's body against yours is one you almost feel against your own unmade body as he cries into your shoulder, like a baby deer, lost and helpless, as you gently caressed his hair while you both sat on his bed, in a room empty of life other than your own two.

Everything was happening too fast and too slow at the same time. Your head spun with all the images flashing past your closed eyes.  It made you feel nauseous, but you kept looking, kept watching, kept taking in whatever you could. There was something you were missing, something important, something to focus on...but it slipped away every time you reached for it, like trying to grab sand with an open palm.

You smelled salt and heard rushing waves, but could not see a body of water if not for the bank of the great black lake that circled the rock you stood upon, so vast that you could not make out its beginning or end and without a wand to lit the cavern with light with, you were made to strain your eyes to the best of their abilities to make out where to put your feet and where not in order not to tumble into the almost still water.

Your mouth grew parched the more you lingered on the scene.  No one was here, there’d been nothing to see, and yet you supposed you needed to be there.

You were meant to be there. Expect, perhaps you didn’t. 

The ambience rejected you, and the longer your mind rejected moving to another vision, the longer the cavern expressed its displeasure with your presence.  Sweat clung to your milky, cotton nightgown, your skin glistening in the light reflecting on the stone of the rock. Your breath heaved, small puffs of hot breath leaving your mouth as its cravices grew drier and drier of moisture.  You’d wet your lips, trying to hydrate the dried skin, resulting in leaving you with less on your tongue.  You stumbled down the rocky platform, your form unsteady and feet trembling, your hands coming to aid you in your endeavour as you made for the water, desperate for a sip of it. 

Your hands were trembling and shaking as you reached for it, your dry throat screaming at you to drink, to get something down, to do something, anything to feel more alive. But the surface of the water reflected nothing but darkness, even though the water itself was perfectly clear, as if it wasn't water at all, but something else entirely. You leaned down, dipping your fingers into the crystal clear surface, feeling its smoothness around your fingers before lifting it to your lips with tremor. 

The water was cool, and its taste refreshed your every sense.

It did little to settle the raging fire that had erupted inside you, but its coolness did calm the painful ache dulling inside of you as if a bucket of ice-cold water had been thrown over you on a hot summer afternoon.  But no matter how much you drank, you never felt like you'd had enough.  There was an itch under your skin, like your very soul was trying to rip your body apart. Something was missing, and it left you feeling empty and incomplete. The shadows whispered around your head, swirling and moving, and you wanted to grab for them desperately, to pull them close, to hold them in your hands like one would hold a precious jewel.

They chanted, but you could not make out what as your ears drummed horribly. Their voices rang in your head like a bad screwing.

"Shut up" you murmured harshly. ”Shut up!”

 Your voice reverberated around the cavern, its booming almost making the stones around vibrate by the impact.

It did nothing to soothe the shadows and stop their whispers. They continued, growing ever so faintly louder and louder, their presence filling you and weighing on your shoulders. They slithered under your skin, danced over your eyes and slithered into your ears.   You could've sworn you heard them speak, words that slipped in and out of focus, too faint to really understand. It made you want to scream. 

Shut up shut up shut up.

"Silence!" you bellowed out, slamming your hand into the water, splashing it in the air all around you.

The water rippled where your hand had hit it, a ring of circles growing and growing as they creased the water's surface. But the shadows didn’t listen, their whispers getting louder, filling your ears, your head, your thoughts, and for a second, you almost gave in.

Almost.

Just when the water had settled once more, a bubble blossomed on the surface, floating languidly. You stared at the small bubble for a few seconds, mesmerised at the way it stayed still, even as the water rippled around it. For a moment, it floated, not moving an inch, and you were about to look away, write it off as a strange quirk of nature and the way the water moved.  If not for another bubble, followed by another, joining each other.

You froze, your eyes going wide. Watching as more bubbles swarm upshore, merging together into larger ones, until all your eyes could see was a blanket of countless bubbles.

“No” you whispered, moving away from the surface “No, no!” You stumbled away from the water, your legs struggling to stay upright. The sound of your own breathing was too loud to your ears, the room suddenly feeling too small, too cramped, too silent. But too late; whatever was floating down the water had surfaced to take you down the depths with them.

You fought hard to get out of its grasp, to get back, but the more you struggled, the harder their hands closed around your ankle. Your legs kicked the thin air, and one of your hands came up to try and loosen the hold around your throat. Nothing worked, and your mind started to grow hazy, your fight weakening. Your lips, once as pink as the softest of poppies, paled white, and your kicks, which were once as fast and fast as a snake, started to slow.

The fingers felt cold and bony against the soft skin of your throat, like death's icy grasp. You felt every one of them, like they were digging into your flesh, tearing into your skin as they dragged you towards the water, dunking you in as water choked the last remains of air out of you. You struggled against such grip, hands clawing away at the skin of those wishing to kill you. They were strong and sure in their grasp, stronger than you'd ever be, and you could barely struggle against them, your fingers scratching at the cold flesh in vain.  It was like a nightmare. Trapped, unable to move, unable to fight back, unable to escape. The voices around you grew louder and louder, chanting over and over again, a musical nonsense as air slowly gave away from your lungs. Faster and faster the visions came, one after the other, until it seemed as if the very air had come alive. But you understood none of them. Shadows whirled and danced, boneless and terrible, a woman's screams hollowed your insides.

“Child of three. Slayer of lies," the chants echoed in your head “Daughter of death. Revenge is yours.”

Darkness seeped into your vision like black ink, filling your line of sight till it was all you could see. You were losing consciousness fast, the edges of your mind turning dark, dark, and darker until you were falling further into the water. But just before it all went black, you felt something tug at your scapula. A touch hard but soft at once, and in a moment, you were sucked out of yourself, into another body, another life that should've been yours.

A light from beyond the surface blinded what remained of your senses, the darkness of the water brightening beneath it.  The whispers, screams and screeches all overcome by a soothing, young voice.

“I did find you. I had promised I would.” The voice rang “from one womb we came and from each other's hands we'll die”

Out of your body, your mind went. The eyes you used were not your own as you stared at your own reflection in the mirror before you. Young, lean and beautiful. With long hair. A masculine copy of your own face surveyed your own wild stare.

“So, this is the story you made up about who you are” the boy standing before you said in an almost amused tilt of his psyche “It's a nice one. Too bad it isn't true.”

Your mind spun, struggling to understand what was transpiring before you. The scene in the mirror was almost bizarre, and you felt as though you were floating somewhere between consciousness and hallucination, between life and death. The boy looked oddly familiar, but the image was warped, a distortion of what must be the truth.

“What…?” You managed to croak through the tightness in your throat, your eyes unable to focus on anything but your reflection. “It's all a lie” the boy said, his voice carrying a hint of smugness, as if the thought amused him “Who you are, what you think you are - all of it. A beautiful lie, but still a lie nonetheless.” “You know not what you speak of” you spat “You’re dead.” “Maybe so” he said, his face growing dark, “But dead doesn't mean gone. You never mourned me. It is hard to die unmourned.” His words hit you like a blow to the gut.  They were true, and they hurt more than you would have ever believed.  You have never mourned him, for you had not known him in life, and yet... yet his words held more truth than they should have. “I...I'm sorry” you said, your voice small and quiet, “But I...I don't know who-“

He looked at you with what seemed like pity, like the way one would look at a lost child. His eyes, his face, were so familiar, but you were certain you'd never seen them before. “You can lie to the world” his voice echoed like drumrolls in your ears “But you should never lie to yourself.”

You swallowed hard, your body shaking as you stared at the boy in the mirror. Your throat felt dry, and your stomach was twisted in knots of guilt and grief. "Who are you?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“That doesn't matter, does it?” he smiled “What matters is who you are, right?” “I thought I did” you admitted “but...but now I'm not sure.” “You don't know?” he asked, “Or you do know, but you're too scared to admit it to yourself?I know who you are. Do you? Or perhaps I should ask. Do you know who I am?” “I-“ you began, but you swallowed hard, your throat feeling like sandpaper. “You-“ you tried again, but the words died in your throat, leaving you with nothing but a feeling of uncertainty and fear. “I know what’s been bothering you.” He said “What’s my locket made of?”

"What?" you asked, honestly dumbfounded by the sudden change of questioning, not paying too much mind to what he's asked you.

As so, you answered as if not weighing the thought too much.

"Brass?....copper?"

When he didn't answer, but only continued to stare back at you, you grew fidgety. It wasn't often that the other entity in your head 'fought' back by gaining consciousness and defying their roles in your visions.

You grew agitated when he furrowed his brows.

"A light bronze?" a thought came to your head "rose gold?"

"You're close" he only shot back, but not quite satisfied by your indifference to the matter, "but too far yet. Look at it."

Your eyes trailed down to the locket for the first time that night, its chain glittering, resting against his breastbone. The locket ticks at the attention, trembling -- over-so-slightly, quivering in the air.

"Looks like silver.....gold? a mix of both-"

“Answer me”. The boy snapped, his words sharp and biting as his face began to melt off, like molten lava, as if something or rather, someone, had taken over him, his voice growing distorted. “What is it made of?!”

“Gold-“

But before you could get the word out, his neck snapped, like a twig under the pressure of a foot. He was gone as quickly as he'd appeared, his body morphing into a mist of shadowy black before evaporating completely before your eyes, leaving nothing but a faint sense of his presence.

And as if you were thrown out of the water you've been made to drown in, you gasped for breath as you awoke once more. You screamed, a guttural, angry sound, just as your heart gave out on its last beat, heading into the shadows that held you down and in a moment, there you were again, awake and yourself again. The sweat clung to your cold skin, the nightgown sticking to your body like a second skin. Every part of you trembled, your heart hammering in your chest almost as hard as your head was hurting, like a thousand drums were playing at once, loud and thundering and overwhelming your mind. The night was deathly silent as you lay on the floor where you’d previously dropped, save for the sounds of your deep, ragged breaths, ragged like the sound of a hunted, wounded animal.  The darkness of the night was complete in the room, your eyes struggled to make out shapes in the shadows drifting. It was if you were in a world with no light, nothing to guide you, nothing to save you from whatever danger you were in. It surrounded you, and you were stuck in the darkness, alone.

The ghost of a long-haired woman drifted serenely past, unbothered by the scene.

“You look pekish”  she commented softly “and you're perspiring. Whatever happened to you,child?”

You felt your heart skip a beat as the woman appeared, her pale face lit by the faint moonlight streaming from the windows. The air was still, and her voice echoed oddly around the room, like the sound of a dying wind.

“I had a vision.” you managed. “Oh, dear. Another?” she asked "The last one nearly killed you, if my memory does not fail me” “That was my own fault.” You sighed as you struggled your way from the floor. Her gaze was sharp, despite the soft smile on her face. Her pale skin glowed like white moonlight, illuminating her delicate features, her high cheekbones, and the strange beauty of her dark gaze. "Strange creature you are.So stubborn, too. You just don't seem to know when to give up.” “I can hardly give up. Can I?” you asked “When my destiny is what it is.”

She gave an understanding smile, as if she too felt your inner turmoil as her own.

“Are you scared?” she inquired, with a tilt of her head. “Destiny is not the only thing you have going for you. You have a choice, you know. Even for the likes of you, there are possibilities.”

“But what happens if I go against my destiny?" you could not help but say. “If I try to fight it and fail? What will happen?” You felt as if you were begging, but you couldn't seem to care. Your heart pounded in your chest, the reality of the situation bearing down on you.

“You make your own" she said "Like I did. Like many did. You're afraid of uncertainty, of the same unknown you tell others not to be afraid of. What are you without your powers? You rely on them too much” “My powers are meant to be used!" you protested “They're meant to do good, to fight the evil within. I can't just stand by as the world caves in on itself.”

“You're right. You do have them for a reason. But you cannot let your powers consume you, and you cannot let the duties bestowed on you by your very birth define you.” She moved towards you, her feet light, as if floating across the floor, her hands coming to rest on your shoulder. You could feel her touch, surprisingly solid and comforting against your skin.

“That's not fair” Your voice was soft now, like a lost child's “I can't just... stop everything, not when I have the power to do something, to change something. What would you have me do?”

She gave you a sad smile, motherly in its disposition. Yet there was something in her gaze, something that said she, too had been in your position before. 

“There are better choices, you just need to find them. You need to choose life, not duty. Before it's too late. But for now, I would have you go to bed. The sun will rise soon, and you need all the sleep you can get.”

“Sleep is a luxury I’m not used to much.”

“Then get used to it” she chastised “I do not wish to see you lying on the floor of the tower any time soon, again, for your little endeavours.” “I’ll try my best.”

“See that you do, dear. Now go on, to sleep with you.”

At the end, you know that when you reach the end of your path, none of this, all of this, will matter. When all of this is done, all your particles will disband, disperse, and you'll become, just like all those before you part of the pulse of another Gaunt that will come after you. If fate will be so lucky, may that pulse belong to your own child.

When that time comes, you'll make way for them until the day that they come. Until then, perhaps, the most you could do is make sure that your name will be remembered as the one Gaunt that restored your family's name and brought peace into the wizarding world. Because after all, you are the new past. You are the new future. 

You are the answer this world has been looking for.

. Author's note :

I know, I know. I've been gone for more than a month, and I'm sorry for that. But outlining a story when you come up with all sorts of ideas is a difficult thing, and I hope you can all understand that. A lot has happened since I last updated this story, and I wish to premise this one thing again. I do not support Jk Rowling. I cannot stand that woman or her ideologies, and I'm not that much interested in Harry Potter and the franchise. I'm writing this for a friend of mine and she has wished for me to publish this online for others to enjoy and appreciate as much as she does. Therefore, those who do support her, please have the decency not to continue reading this story because we are proud haters who do not support a bigot in her multimillion euro campaign against a marginalised minority. That said, I've taken the liberty to do with the source material as I like, which means the story will heavily diverge from what's canon and not, changing the story as I like and please to do with it as I want. Yes, I'm doing it out of spite, and I don't care. Thank you very much. Anyways, for those that are still here because you share our views and opinions, I hope you do enjoy this really long chapter. I, as well as my friend, have decided to change the title since going forth this story will only continue to get darker and darker with heavier themes, and we did not feel like 'Cinnamon Girl' was an appropriate title to represent the story we decided upon. Stay tuned for future updates :) Also, viewer's discretion is advised for this chapter, it is quite disturbing, not to mention slightly graphic.

Btw reuploaded this cause i changed a scene from this chapter

Taglist: @dovellici @thehufflepuffwife @llunarpotter @xxxyukitoxx @stvrlavs @b4tm4nn @sisiididjxjd

The taglist is always open to those who wish to join it.

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bro your whimsy. you forgot your fucking whimsy. your solemn and somber attitude is scaring the hoes

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pookieful

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By now, you all must have seen the news that Gaza had officially run out of food, as one of the main aid suppliers in Gaza, World Food Program, had announced that their stock has been completely depleted, leaving just a few days for community kitchens to function.

This comes after more than 50 days (and counting) of Israel's complete closure of the borders, preventing food and medicine, among other life essentials, from entering Gaza. There are children crying out of hunger with trucks loaded with over 100,000 tons of food mere minutes away from them, which Israel continues to prevent from entering besieged Gaza.

This also comes after Israel had deliberately destroyed swaths of farmlands in Gaza, specifically targeting them with bombs and chemical weapons that destroy the chance of growing crops. Israel also made sure bakeries are destroyed as well as water sources.

Diabolical is an understatement when it comes to the Zionist entity.

There are still things you can do. On top of raising awareness and protesting when possible, independent organisations like APN are working directly with farmers in Gaza to rehabilitate the agricultural sector and restore local food systems to combat famine, counter the blockade and build food sovereignty. You can donate to their Revive Gaza's Farmlands initiative here.

Additionally, keep in mind that this means whatever food supplies remain available in Gaza now cost astronomical amounts of money, so keep sharing and donating to individual fundraising campaigns. Gazafunds is a good source if you're not sure where to start. Remember that your donations and shares are often the only source of hope for these families.

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Trail cam catching a deer fawn with the zoomies

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🦋 calico critters - willow deer family 🌷

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Pythia Hiereia - VI

Masterlist I Ao3 link I Chapter five - Chapter seven

Harry James Potter x Reader

Summary :

The night has a thousand eyes, and the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies with the dying of the sun.

Chapter VI: Oh beautiful poison tree (Let your power grow in me, Let your sorrow flow in me)

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The morning begins like any other, in a frenzy. The halls are packed with students coming and going in all directions. The egg and toast he devoured at breakfast sit heavily in his stomach the whole way to Herbology. Thankfully, he has Ron talking his ear off to distract him from his feelings. It’s easy to simply listen to him rant about Quidditch now that Harry has finally decided to hold tryouts on Thursday, two days from now, and tune out what he’s saying, letting it pass by. He nods occasionally, letting out huffs of acknowledgement to show that he’s listening.

The greenhouse glistened under the rays of the sun. The wind felt like a gentle mist compared to the cold, harsh weekend that had just passed, but the fog from the mountains lingered still. He takes his post at the long table, by the end of it, where a plant sits before him. Its long leaves move like the serpents on Medusa's head. It is calm, but Harry knows otherwise as he dons the protective goggles next to it. Professor Sprout greets everyone and begins the lesson by introducing the little devil to the class. However, he hears none of it. He’s too focused on how the leaves intertwine and twist in all sorts of directions. 

It looks like a big bush of entanglements. Nothing too peculiar. Until he diverts his attention, paying the plant no mind. All of a sudden, one of the vines wrapped around his finger, trapping it and tugging harshly.  Harry frowned, pulling at the plant, which only seems to grow erratic in behaviour. It wraps another vine on the finger next to the one its squeezing like a sausage.  He cursed silently under his breath. Ron is none the wiser next to him, his attention lost between Sprout’s words and eyeing Hermione beside him. Professor Sprout took no notice of his situation as she continued to lecture her students on the properties of the plant.

Trying to free himself only ends in worsening his predicament. He tugs fiercely, but the vine only tightens its grip around his fingers, coiling itself tighter.

“You have to be gentle.”

The words cut through the air like a hot knife on a stick of butter. Melting his once-hardened exterior and leaving him a pool of buttermilk. He’d know that voice anywhere. His head snaps up to look. Sure enough, there you are, peering over his shoulder at the mess he’s made of himself. Your expression is neutral, but there is a hint of concern in your eyes. Those goggles are too big for you, he ends up thinking.

“Gentle” he huffs, as he tries to tug free again “I don’t think it knows what ‘gentle’ means.” “Neither do you” You laughed softly, which makes Harry’s stomach twist. He laughed, too, his skin heating up ever so slightly as the sound intertwined with his. “Maybe no…” You take a seat next to him and pull off your protective gloves. He watches as you stick one of your bare hands into the plant, gently rubbing the leaves between your fingers. "There, there,” you coo at the plant so gently "You're so pretty, aren't you? No need to ruffle yourself for this rude boy.”

It stops its struggle within seconds, almost melting at your touch. The vines loosen their grip and slowly unfurl around his fingers like silk ribbons. Like the ones securing the two fat braids, you’ve styled your hair into today. Green, the same as the leaves of the plant.

Once the plant has finally disentangled from every part of him, you remove your hand from the pot and reach out towards him. “Hold out your hand,” you say. Your voice leaves no room for argument. He obeys without a second thought. His heart picked its pace as you held his hand in yours, turning and examining the thin red marks the vines had left behind. Your touch is gentle like a ghost, softly brushing over his skin.

The contrast of your hands is evident. Your skin is smooth and rid of imperfections. Your nails are filed and round-shaped while his hand is rough, with little cuts riddling up his skin and nails cut off up to the white free edge. Your fingers linger and trace them. You brought the flesh to your lips to kiss, your soft lips meeting the reddened, abrasive skin.

As they do, his heart stops. 

This was new…and sweet. It didn’t fail to make his cheeks burn, and his heart beat ever so faster. He would have heart attacks before the age of thirty at this pace. He watches, mesmerised, as you slowly kiss every red mark on his fingers. Your lips soft but purposeful.

“There" you smiled "Muggles believe that kissing their injuries will make them heal faster, no? Then they will. But, to make sure, I'll ask Madam Pomfrey for an ointment later.”

Harry could only stare as he tried desperately to calm the rapid beating of his heart. There’s something different about you today. Something that makes him want to sit and watch you all day...and yet he’s scared the spell will break if he does. There’s something incredibly sweet about you taking care of him so intently. So lovingly. It made him feel a little weak, and he thought his legs could give way if he lost the momentum. Like the ground beneath him would cave in and swallow him up whole. 

“Then, I’ll be waiting for the cream,” he said, his voice breathless. “I’ll send my cat to fetch you.” “Your cat?” He asked with an amused smile. “Yes. Selene, my most trusted companion.” Harry chuckled, his smile growing wider. The memory of your cat in the library suddenly pops back into his mind. Surely, it was the fluffy thing always sitting beside you or on your lap. He’d seen it just yesterday, curled in the library window, blissfully napping even without you beside it.  “Is that the one that naps all day in the library window?” “That’s the one,” you say, the smallest of laughs coming from your mouth. Your eyes are soft, and the smallest of smiles played on the corner of your lips again. Harry’s heart stuttered a bit at the sight. “She likes naps and chasing mouses when she gets too bored.” “Not too pampered for that?” “Only sometimes, when she can be bothered. She’s a very free kitty.” “I shall see for it myself.”

The fact that he so eagerly volunteers to be her friend warms your heart. That something so dear to you could be appreciated by someone else makes you happy in your own way.

“Good luck with that; she picks and chooses her friends rather carefully" “I can be persuading. I’ll let you know that.” "Is that so?" You raise your eyebrow, sceptical of his boasting. He’s rather cheeky today, and you would lie in saying you’re not quite fond of it.

You missed this. Whatever this was. This nameless situation between you two. "I'm a rather convincing person”, he continues with a big smile, his green eyes flashing mischievously, "if you just give me a chance.” You’ve never really seen him like this before. So blatantly bold with his words. You find it endearing — adorable even — as it tugs at that part of your heart that you had locked up tightly in a little box. You look at the messy state his hair is in, and you have to stop yourself from reaching up and brushing it out of his face. 

Thank god the both of you are at the back of the greenhouse.

You look at him as if entranced by his words, lips slightly parted and cheeks lightly flushed. He is somewhat taken aback by the returning look. With your mouth ever so slightly parted and your cheeks dusted pink, you look unbelievably pretty.

“She likes getting her belly scratched and just about her tail.” “That sounds like good news for me then" he murmured. You're still caressing the two fingers gripped by the plant, sending his mind into an agitative turmoil. "You need to be more careful, Harry. How many times must I come to your rescue?” "As many as it takes, I’m afraid" he chuckled.  You hummed, giving him an all-knowing look, before returning to the plant that had settled, almost bristling in all its glory at the praises you'd previously given it. Your eyes are soft as you stroke the plant, and Harry can practically feel your care fill the air around you two as you murmur words of adoration to the plant.

“Sometimes, all someone or anything needs is a gentle touch,” you said. “It can go a long way.”

The leaves twist and fold, like silk, to reveal green buds coming forth, and as if the season had come, open, gushing forth little white and pink flowers, coming to life for its true self and what once was an unassuming bush of any other slowly blossoms into a beautiful little garden.

"Everything needs a touch of love every now and again.It’s…just not used to being treated well. It doesn’t know better; therefore, it acts out to protect itself.”

He doesn’t question what hides between your words because something in your tone tells him there’s no need; it’s his time to listen.

"Oh, well done, Mr. Potter! Just perfect, I would say." Professor Sprout’s exclaimed praises break the air around you two as she watches in utter delight the blossoming plant "Good, good. Ten points to Gryffindor.”  He swallowed both words and thoughts. He smiled up at the professor.  "Thank you, Professor,” She smiles in that sprouty way of hers before moving on to check other students.  ”You did splendid work" he murmured, his eyes roaming over your face, "but why didn't you tell her you did it?" “What you cannot do, let others do for you, Harry.”

He thinks of those words for the rest of the morning after you two part ways. Lunch is a lighter affair than those of the previous weeks. The warm carrot soup served today warmed his insides and settled far more easily than the toast this morning. But while he was blissfully enjoying himself like a star-struck fool, Ron kept on complaining to Hermione about how the plant had nearly pulled his pinky off.

"How'd you do it anyway?" Ron asked Harry "Professor Sprout was most delighted.” Harry shrugged, his eyes still roaming the room, looking for you. "I don't know, I'm just a natural, I guess.” "Or perhaps you just got lucky" said Hermione, but there was no malice behind her words. If not, a hint of annoyance at Harry’s sudden rise as a top model student into another subject apart from Potion. "Lucky, me? No. I simply have a gift," he smirked, his eyes still searching the room. Ron huffs out a laugh as Hermione sends him a rather annoyed look. "Oh, yes, the chosen one is gifted, alright,” she said, her voice filled with sarcasm. "And so very humble, too. Anyway, we have a double free period after lunch. Library?” "Please," said Ron, "I need time to recover from that stupid plant" he let out a pained moan, massaging his wrist where the plant had grasped him. "Honestly, Ron. It was a couple of vines; that’s all. You act as if they were snakes the size of elephants the way you complain.”

Harry lets them have it out. This is out of his hands now. With one last bite of bread, he's done with his lunch, and one little surprise awaiting at his feet seemed all the more happy for it.

A sudden soft 'meep' from under the table startles him. Purs so loud he could feel their vibration scurry the cat’s body. She looked up at him with green eyes, dashing with bits of yellow, her tail swishing back and forth on the floor, thumping softly against the ground. A tuxedo with a coat so big it almost swallowed her. She rubs her little head against his leg and meows softly. He chuckles, his hand lowering gently to brush her fur. “Hello, Selene.” He greets her with a smile. It’s almost as if he’s flipped a switch inside the cat. The purrs only grew louder, the sound like the engine of a car, as she rubbed her head back against the palm of his hand.  "Aren’t you a sweet thing?" he murmured, and he couldn’t help but smile as she closed her eyes ever so slightly at his touch. "Right," he said to the two as they stopped their banter to look at him "I'll see you too later. I got...someone to meet," he said, gathering his stuff as he hurried on his feet. Ron and Hermione both raise a curious eyebrow, but before they can ask more, Harry turns on his heel and heads out of the hall. “We’ll be in the library!” Hermione calls out. “Right!” He only called out to let her know he’d heard her.

It sounds stupid. Following a cat as she led him around. But she seemed to be stealthy and resolute in her missions. He follows her with some curiosity. She moved with grace and ease. Her head held high as she navigated through the many halls. Her tail swished back and forth as she walked in front of him, looking back every once in a while to make sure he was following. 

Eventually, they’re outside. Little gusts of sunshine blew, strangely bright, and lit up the celandine at the hill’s edge. Under the hazel rods, they spangled out bright and yellow. They would soon wither with the upcoming winter. The grass was still, stiller, but yet gusty with the crossing sun. All the green covering the ground seemed pale with the pallor of endless little anemones sprinkling the shaken floor. Cold breaths of wind came and overhead as he walked down to the banks of the river of the Black Lake. He furrows his brow but doesn't ask the cat, the suspicions growing in his head since..well...she cannot answer him. The sun is still warm, its reflection glistening in the clear water, and the air is crisp as they reach the shores.  There you are, feet deep, low in the water, your socks and shoes left abandoned beside your bag and cloak by the weeping willow tree whose leaves hung and rippled like shed tears, and some dipped in the water. Your back is to him, and your hands are on your front as if something’s in your hands. The sun creates a halo on your hair, now free of its previous confines, blowing along the breeze of the wind, your head tilted downwards as you’re fiddling with something, completely unaware of his presence.

“Come forward.” You broke him of his reverie “I don’t bite, as I’m sure you know.” He swallows, his throat parched and his skin perspiring.  “I’ll never know. You’re unpredictable.”

You turned to face him, your feet undulating in the water. Your hands hold out what’s in them. A frog, as green as spring grass. It lets out a soft croaking sound as it rests in your hands, looking wide-eyed at you two as it moves along your hand.

He raised a brow, amused.

His eyes roamed from the creature to the water from the lake drowning your naked skin. He swallows once more, something stirring inside of him.

“What are you doing with a frog?” he asked, his voice strained as he looked at the creature in your hands. It’s as small as your palm, its small legs stuck to your skin as it moved around. Its beady eyes looked at you both.  “I’m showing him the world,” you said, a small smile playing on your lips. “He’s never seen it from this height before, so I’m showing it to him, all the beauty it holds.” “You think he’ll appreciate that?” “I hope so" You looked down at the frog "He’s a rather quiet companion. But he’s sweet. He’s curious, too. Wouldn’t you be too if you’ve only known darkness, soil and water?” You brushed your fingers over the frog's slimy back as if to pet it, the little creature relaxing in your hands. "I suppose I would be," he said, sounding almost resigned. A stray strand of hair fell forward, and while you did not seem to mind it, Harry's hand twitched involuntarily as he took and pulled it behind your ear. You paused as nimble fingers brushed over your cold skin. For a brief moment, you forgot how to breathe. His hand was gentle, almost reverent. You stared at him impassively. "I suppose Selene guided you well," you said "Seems like she likes you"  Your little lady who had settled on your robe rested her head on your bag, snoozing off.

He managed to divert his eyes to look at the sleeping feline. His fingers trailed over the smooth skin of your neck, just above where a heart pendant hung from a black velvet choker. Little bolts of electricity coursed under his skin as he did.  "Seems so," he murmured. “Madame Pomfrey gave me a cream for your fingers.” He hummed, his fingers still tracing the soft skin of your neck lightly, like a ghost. He did not seem to want to stop, although he knew he should have. "That's good.”

He had to ask, and he had to do it now. Otherwise, he didn’t know when he’d find the ease that would tip him over and draw him closer. He has to ask; he has to know. The words were at the tip of his tongue. 

"I have to ask you, and you know we have to talk about it too. But...Dumbledore has told me everything," he sighed "Why you did...what you did. And I…owe you an apology for how I've acted towards you and some of the thoughts I've been pondering about.”

You only stared at him, your eyes wandering over every inch of his face. From where his glasses sat on the bridge of his nose to his long, thick lashes that framed those beautiful eyes of his, so striking and so very much like his mother's. You pursed your lips before whispering a broken plea of understanding.

”Do I look like him?”

He swallowed thickly, his heart thudding in his chest. He knows exactly who you’re talking about, and the notion hurts him to the core. He shook his head, his eyes locked on your face.

 "No, you don’t," his voice soft, gentle, reassuring, but most of all, sincere.

"But it scares you, doesn't it?" you asked, "that I might.”

He closed his eyes briefly, feeling his heart clench in pain when he heard your words. He nodded, not having the strength to deny it. 

"Yes," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion.”It does.” But before your heart could break more than it had been broken already, he said, "But I see you. I know you. And I know that you’re nothing like him.”

Your heart fluttered wildly in your chest. A strange feeling rushed through you. He looked at you, his eyes mimicking you almost. He’d picked up on a few perks of yours over the time he’d known you. Not that he’d noticed, but your influence had been rubbing on him. His attentiveness over Draco’s movements is as serpentine as yours have been over him. His eyes roamed over your face, and for some strange reason, you couldn’t decide whether it was full of pain or fondness. 

"You make me feel like a fool most of the time," he said, shaking his head.  “And here I thought you’d begun to like it" you mustered "I certainly do.” “And why is that exactly?” He smiled his way through a snort. “You're more like yourself”, you smiled in turn “, like your true, unadulterated self. Fragile, vulnerable. What you don't allow yourself to be.”

He swallowed. Heart in his troath.

“Is that really a good thing?”  “I like to think it is” Your eyes lingered on his wounded fingers “Sometimes allowing ourselves to be weak is exactly what we need — regardless of what we think.” “Weakness is often taken advantage of.”  “If you need to break your opponents into their weaknesses, that only means that you’re not strong enough to oppose them at their strengths. But you…I’ve always wondered what your greatest fear would be, and last year has shown me. I've seen it; It's not that no one will hear you. It's that they'll hear you...just won't care. And he knew that and drew weakness from that.”

It sickened him. All of it. Being unravelled like this. It was an ugly feeling. He bit the inside of his cheek, his teeth digging into the gummy skin of the inside of his mouth. How dare you look inside him and then tell him what you’ve seen? How dare you so clearly see his innermost thoughts?

"He's a plague. The kind of dirt that sticks under your fingers. That enters crevices of your body even you are unaware of, and that is hard to wash away. He penetrates you in all the most painful ways so you'll feel the pain to its core. You have your right over your doubts, I do not begrudge you of it," you argued "All my life, I've endeavoured to serve my house and my family" A rogue anger simmers under your skin ", and somehow none of it matters. We're asked aside....or hated....because of the likes of him. He ruined our lives and expects us to be well with that.”

Your words echoed in his heart, each one slicing through the pain. A deep, burning, righteous anger that had been sat deep-seated within him for what felt like an eternity stirred and boiled once again. He could see the anger, the desperation in your eyes, the bitterness your words were laced with. He’d never seen you so fired, and his body ached to soothe the tension radiating off you.  “You have helped me,” he reassured, “More than you know. And I do trust you.” “Then you truly are a fool, Harry Potter” you smiled bitterly “and I'm a bigger fool than you.” “I find that hard to believe.”

The words made you laugh. A genuine laugh that fluttered his insides with a strange, wonderful feeling of warmth.

You smiled in that cat-like, Cheshire way of yours. The same way the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland did when Harry would catch a glimpse of the movie being broadcasted on the TV whenever it was Dudley’s time to spend hours upon hours just sitting in front of the device. “I suppose you have many questions left unanswered by what you were shown last night.” You said, “What is it you want to ask me?”

Oh, there are so many. Harry didn’t know where to begin, even as he sorted them out in the present moment. But push comes to show, and the one that asks for precedence is the one Dumbledore has asked him to inquire about. And so he must.

“I have to ask,” he swallowed “How do you do it?” “Which?” You asked, “The dreams or the knowing things?” “Both" his voice sounded rougher than he expected, more breathless.

You don't answer, not immediately, at least. It's like you're searching for the answer yourself, looking in the deepest parts inside of you for where you'd locked all your secrets away. You moved, the water surrounding your tendons rippling as you did so. You take a few steps, letting the stones and little fishes move alongside you from under it.

"It comes like a dream, but I am awake. I see things that have not yet happened, but I don't see them. I'm told, but it's not spoken. They're not clear, they're hidden. Meanings, words, significances.”

The birds chirped, and the leaves rode along the wind. It's as if you and he were becoming one with the surroundings of the scene before his eyes.

"Nonsense until the blood is spilt, and then they remember my words. They are not normal dreams, like the brain and the subconscious. It's like... a millipede...always moving, always crawling forward. I speak, but no one listens. They only hear when it is too late. Time is a river, but I do not walk along its banks like the rest. I stand in its depths as the current swells around me. The past, the present, the future. They're all the same water...touching me at once.”

You thread through the water like a siren swimming along the water of the lakes. The water splashed around your ankles. Your legs moved gracefully through the shallow waters. Water surrounded you like a cloak, like a mother welcoming her child. Each word washed over him. Although he barely understood what most of what you were telling him meant, he hung onto your every word. The sound of your voice soothed like a gentle caress upon his skin.

Suddenly, the brown leaves at his feet are swept by the wind — but it is no gentle caress. It blew, strong and heaved as it picked its pace. You turned to him, the strong gush sweeping your hair harshly away from your face as your features turned hard and serious.

"I've been watching you. All of you. All of your lives, your pasts, presents and futures. However unclear they may be. With the thousand eyes and one.”

He had to shield his face from his hair picking at his eyes. What's in front of him is the true horror of the body. Your eyes have turned to the back of your head. White pupils stared at him. In between your forehead, a four-pointed star glowed in the same colour. Little pointy triangles litter the outline of your eyes. They map your soft skin as if a constellation of stars weaved itself on it. The leaves pick along the wind, creating a tornado of anything but violence in nature. 

"My ancestor did this to us. It is a curse we chosen must carry from birth. Every time a blessed one dies, a new one is born. It is the greed of men to seek greater things that the human body is not designed for. I call it weakness!” you spat “What is the power of magic next to the power of prophecy?”

Harry doesn’t know. He’d wondered why that prophecy was so important that Voldemort had need of it. How could mere words spoken by a woman as mad as March Hare truly be taken for anything but words spoken in a mental frenzy? Sybill Trelawney did not have the reputation of being a reasonable woman. But you….you never forfeited the opportunity to show him that you spoke truth, never deceiving the words you spoke of. 

You held your hand out for him to take “Come.”

Every bone in him screamed for him not to do so. This was different; you weren’t merely asking, you were commanding. And it wasn’t the girl that he was speaking to merely seconds ago doing so. But it’s as if a spell has been cast on him. His body obeyed immediately at your command, against his better judgment. His hand reached out, his skin tingling and almost burning as his fingers brushed across your skin, soft and warm under his touch. Lines as white as snow weaved through your interlocked arms, sealing what he’d just allowed himself into.

He's falling. It's slow, his descent in the water of the lake with you was feather-light. When he’d hit the water, instead of his lungs filling with it, it was air that greeted him. When he opened his eyes, it was not water that graced and burned at his irises. No, it's darkness. He was falling, but it was not a painful descent. His head was empty, the air around him clear and light, the waters gently carried him through. He tried to look around but could not see anything but darkness. Even so, he was strangely calm. It washed over him when he grabbed your hand, gripping at the smaller flesh. His body was strangely heavy as he floated, his limbs soft and sluggish.

It’s dark, eerily dark. The inky blackness that surrounded him was the only thing he could see. He’s unable to understand where he was or where he was been standing. All around him was devoided, a dark and endless void. He took a few steps, treading slowly as he looked around, standing in absolute nothingness. He tried to move, but it was slow and difficult as if he moved through something thick and viscous — making him grow nauseous. His heart beat against his chest, the sound loud and prominent in his ears. His breathing grew heavy. For a moment, he just floated in the darkness. But the moment he looked back at you, you two were no longer in the nothingness of everything and nothing.  He's in a cave or rather a cavern, he thought. The great place that opened on the abyss was as black as pitch, black as tar, blacker than the feathers of a crow. The moon shone down upon the great hole in the ceiling, a black hole in the sky. Tree roots grew all around his feet. White and of all shapes and forms as they twisted and waved through his feet. The moon was fat and full. Stars wheeled across a black sky. Rain fell and froze, and tree limbs snapped from the weight of the ice. Down here, no wind, no snow, no ice, no dead things reach out or exist - only dreams and rushlight and the kisses of the ravens. And the whispers in the darkness.  

"Steady" he felt you slither your hand into his, locking your fingers together "and breath." His hand gripped your own in a deathly grip. It’s hard to do so, as you say, but your presence reassured him that things would be well because you were there with him. His hand trembled in yours, but he tried to steady it, holding onto you like a lifeline. His eyes dilated wide as he took in every detail around him, trying to comprehend what was happening. The place was odd. He was not meant to be here. The wrongness of the whole thing crawled under his skin and made him uncomfortable.

“There is someone I wish you to meet,” you whispered in his ear. “Show no fear. He does not like it.”

It’s hard not to — fear whatever you want him to face. He knows better than to not listen to your words. You smiled when you noticed the slight slump of his shoulders, the tension in him coming down. He knew there’d be no use in showing any weakness, and whatever you wished him to face, he would — as long as you’d be there with him. Standing tall before you two is a dead willow tree, its branches have withered, no leaves hanging from them. A throne of limbs sat at the centre, and upon it rested a man lounging about it. His hair was white, a wispy thing, full in some parts and as fine as a line in others. The cloak dropped over his form and almost made him broader than he was, for the skinny and scrawny by the age he hid under his clothes. His eyes were an empty white, like those yours turned to just moments ago. The same star scarred the skin between his brows, printed on by a hot brand.

No mark could be left in that way otherwise. It was raw, red, blotchy and dripped blood. The star did not glow the way yours did. He was old and wrinkling with age. He regarded Harry with chill disregard. The man was unearthly in a way he had Harry doubting whether he was of flesh and blood and not made of the same bark as the tree he sat before. His eyes held a cold glint in them.

"Defiance in the eyes. Like his father.” he made a ghastly sound that might have been a chuckle. He spoke in parseltongue, a husk, serpentine slick of the tongue. His grip on your hand tightened. 

No fear, you said. No fear. 

"Do not speak of my father.” "So much arrogance in the face of something so much larger than you.” the voice reverbed about the cavern. It echoed off the walls, bouncing around him like a trapped chamber. Each word hit him like a wave, washing over him and making his skin crawl. He wanted to turn away, to cover his ears and block out the sound of the man's voice. But he stands firm, his gaze locked on the stranger, refusing to show any signs of weakness. "Foolishness" the man hissed, his white eyes fixed on Harry. "Bravery without wisdom is foolishness. How can you stand there, so sure of yourself, when you are no more than a child, lost in the darkness?” “It is courage" you spoke against the accusation "An endurance that shows his prowess.” 

Your parseltongue was an individual melody combined into a multivocal harmony shared by their voices. No fear laced your words, holding strength as the tongue of snakes rolled off your lips like it was meant to do so.

Harry’s grip tightened around your hand. His heart pounded in his chest, and his breathing was heavy, but he refused to let go. The nameless man turned his gaze on you, his pale face and white eyes set on studying you with an air of curiosity. 

“He is not one of us.” he said “This place is for the blessed ones.” “He will soon be worthy,” you said, chin raised “This place belongs to those worthy to enter.” “He is no Gaunt!” the man bristled. “No blood of mine flows in him. This is our paradise! Where the blessed children of Gaunt prosper. No one else shall be let in.” “I am your blood. This is my paradise too. I shall let in who I wish, grandsire.” “That you are, girl. You’re part of me, true. But you speak of treachery! Allowing outsiders in this place. Here, we are safe. This is our sanctuary. No one else is allowed in. This is but too dangerous to reveal our secret. Everyone else understood that. You and your pride thought you could prepare him for what’s to come.” “Was I wrong?” You challenged the man, walking past Harry, your hand leaving his, as does your presence at his side, as you approach the man and the wooden throne of rotten limbs. “He is the chosen one, after all. He holds to him a cause never seen before, and for him to succeed, we must convert the nonbelievers one by one. We shall start with the one that does not believe in himself the most.”

The man considers your words as he returns to regard Harry.

“The chosen one.” he spat the words as if the taste was bitter on his tongue. “As fated by the prophecy: Harry Potter.” he chanted his name. “The chosen one. You don’t look chosen to me.” “I didn’t ask to be chosen,” said Harry. “We don’t choose our destiny. It chooses us,” the man lectured “We don’t ask to be chosen, we just are.”

This nameless man held the same wisdom as you did. The same calm and quiet understanding. But he was different. He was a snake, and Harry felt weary of him.

“But I understand the will to escape the unwanted. I chose my own destiny. Drawn by my own hands, from the ashes from which I was reborn.” “And what are you, exactly?”  “Why, I am but the thousand eyes and one”, he said. “The gift I blessed my family with.” A scrawny finger lifted from the armrest of the throne, using it to point at his bleeding scar of flesh. The movement looked almost painful, and you, who’d come to stand beside his throne, reached out almost as if to help him. “Did they brand you with that mark?” “They branded me once I was finally able to open my eyes,” he said, sounding tired. “And I was worthy of finally seeing. Of being given that which I was deprived. My sight.” “Your sight?” “I was blind” he gestured vacantly with his finger in the air “By birth. My mother…used to tell me I was cursed. She tried everything, but it was never enough. She hated me. I was the imperfect one. The defective one in the sea of healthy sons she’s had.” Harry gulped heavily, heart in his troath. “You’re Ominis Gaunt.” “I wore many names when I was quick, but even I once had a mother, and the name she gave me at her breast was Ominis, true.” “H-How are you still alive?” “He has lived beyond his mortal span, and yet he lingers. For us, for you, for the realms of men. Only a little strength remains in his flesh. He has a thousand eyes and one, but there is much to watch. One day, you will know.” You answered for the man.

Harry looked your way, his eyes moving frantically. But you only stared at his smallness from where you now stand, eyes as white as the milky trail of the stars, the stars under your eyes shining as brightly. You nodded at him as if to confirm the words of the man.

“You must have realised now what is happening.” Ominis said, “This is but another dream, Harry Potter. We stand now in between time and space. Where everything is true if we will it. The subconscious is the innermost part of our brain that connects to the hidden eye. It is a blessing that I’ve bestowed upon my bloodline. Our paradise. Our sanctuary of wisdom.” He must speak true. The undeniability of the very fact he stood here gave the man all the cards to hold. A weird feeling settled in his bones. “But the girl spoke true. You must be converted.” He said “So many men, the risk so little. They spend their lives avoiding danger. Then they die. I risked everything…to get what I wanted. Would you? Would you sacrifice everything to have what you wish for? Are you strong enough to leave foolish mortal fantasies about having it all when the dark comes knocking at your door?”

His spine shivered. Ominis’ words rang with truth, and he weighed heavily on how to answer him. A simple affirmation will not convince this ancient being. He let the words hang in the air, a heavy weight pushed against his shoulder like a great burden. He understood all too well what was being asked of him.

“Being chosen is one thing.” Ominis reprimanded, “Abiding by the role is another. Harry Potter, will you be able to vanquish the darkness of the Dark Lord?”

He took a shuddering breath, looking from you to Ominis, only to be met by the same pair of eyes wherever he looked. It turned him insane. His heart ached at the heavy, almost forewarned words. But he’s made it this far, and to give up now, felt wrong. “I will.” His voice was steady, and his words held certainty even if his conviction was wary. “A man’s vows are but words. Easily spoken, easily broken” Ominis tapped his fingers on the wood of the throne as if pensively “Men forget. Only the wind remembers as it carries their words at the far end of the world.” He swallowed “They will be kept.” “As I said, endurance” you smiled “He does not lack in determination.” Pride blossomed in his chest, your words only strengthening his predisposition. It made him want to do better. To prove you right in your words. To become someone worthy of being called the Chosen One. “You can’t make up for what you lack with determination.” Dismissed Ominis “He who you’re destined to fight grows stronger while you grow weaker. How will you make for that on your own? That Old man of yours won’t live forever. Flesh and bones, frail and weak. He is only one man, child. Even the strongest man can be felled by a single dagger.”

Again, he spoke true. Sure, he was harsh, but the harsh reality of the time he was living in is something that Harry had to face. He’d been mulling on it for a while now, but the blackened skin on Dumbledore’s hand did raise in him all the alarm bells and his sixth instinct telling him something was gravely bad. Ominis’ words only confirmed what his heart already whispered at him.

“I have to try. If I don’t, then what have I been fighting for?” “We all have our battles to fight. Some not of our choosing. But it’s how we decide to fight them that’s most important.”

How he chooses to fight will decide wether he defeats the Dark Lord or not. He had to be wiser this time.

“You can’t do it alone” instructed Ominis “You need people. Strong people. Convincing people. With the hearts of lions and wills of steel to stand by your side even as the hours grow dark and the end seems far. Even when you’ll have to choose to sacrifice yourself for others.”

In front of his very eyes, the past seemed to flash before them. The faces of the people he trusted most, of those he thought most nobly of, appeared before himself. Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, Lupin, Tonks, Moody, the Weasleys, members of the Order and Dumbledore’s army. They all believed in him, put their trust in him, and supported him. People that loved him and that he loved in return. People who had stood beside him every step of the way. People that he considered family.

“There are more people willing to help you out there than you believe, Harry.” Your voice reassured in its reassurance, “You just have to let yourself be helped.” He couldn’t win the war alone. That kind of burden was not meant to be carried by one pair of shoulders. You were one of those people, he thought.“Always optimistic, aren’t you?” Ominis scoffed at you. You definitely were, but Harry knew you had your reasons to be. It warmed his heart to see how much you saw the world through rose-coloured glasses. He looks to you, his heart suddenly full. “He needs optimism.” You prided on your words, “In this world of darkness, let him be the light.” “Optimism will not help him when in danger.” Ominis said, “Security in the path he’s taking will.”

Optimism couldn’t be enough to keep him safe from danger during the difficult time ahead. Security is what he needs. But he craved the encouragement your optimism gave him. A real morale boost.

Ominis turns to you, and you nod. 

“My granddaughter here speaks greatly of you, and she does believe you can heed into the danger that forfeits your life. I don’t know whether I should call it juvenile naivety or she has seen something which has evaded me. Which impossible. She’s not as strong as she believes herself to be. She can trick the mind but cannot predict it.”

You turn your cheek to the man, head tilted to the moon in wounded pride. A sore spot the man perhaps touched too much.

“We’re not seers. We don’t make-believe the future. We are the future. We don’t make false readings. We speak what the gods give us to believe.” The man chuckled weakly “I will tell you a funny story if you’re willing to listen to an old man like me.” “Please,” Harry said quietly, eager to hear him speak. “I was a boy like you once. A student. Never did my professors look down on me for my inability to see. But I knew. I could feel that they worried about the way my blindness would affect my future. Hogwarts was like my home, but the world outside wasn’t. When I graduated, I wanted everything but to return home. To my family. To my parents, that would torture muggles for the fun of it. I disappeared and travelled to the hidden corners of the same world that I couldn’t see. I paid passage with a stolen necklace of my mother, and the ship I sailed on took me to Greece. I had heard many stories of the place my aunt Noctua was most fond of. She, too, took to the same aversion for our family’s perversions. She was like me. An outsider. Despised and a despiser in turn. She took to travelling. Under false pretences, of course. She told me stories of the friends she made along her journeys and said that one day, they would welcome me just as they had her. And so I sought them out. Thought they would help me find my place in the world. In the end, I received more than I bargained for. My aunt’s friends lived near the mountains. I was stubborn and decided to hike there on my own, the same as the villagers on their mules did. But I never reached the peak. I fell down a hole and went in and went out of consciousness for days. Until someone found me.”

The picture that painted Harry’s mind was not a kind one to the eye. The idea of hiking the mountains without the ability to see settled a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. The idea of the dangers that Ominis had put himself up to and must have exposed himself by travelling alone and on foot was so immense that Harry thought of never considering doing something like this at any time in his life.

“But what found me was no villager or paesant. No, it was a woman. Old as I am now before you. She nursed me back to health, right where I’d fallen, and once I’d recovered, she took me to the others.” He said, “They were no ordinary humans, but not quite wizards either. They of a magic so ancient, older than the one I was taught, worshipped destiny. Living the fate of everything. They told me they knew of a way that would make me see. To gain the sight no eye could possess. Tribulations and trials, hard on the body, mind and soul, broke the boy who fell into the cave and turned me into a man. The hands of the gods became my witness, and I turned into the voice from the outer world. The thousand eyes and one.” Ominis smiled. Madness bordering insanity. “Where no one could stand against me. The one that would lead my blood into paradise!”

Ominis made the power sound so glorious. But the insanity which he spoke with hung in the air like a dead rat. Rotting the air and blackening the lungs.

“Women, men, children have long suffered too much under that spawn that comes from my brother’s blood. Tom Riddle! Fear the moment, Harry Potter, but we will not lay our wands for a man who thinks he can have it all until we have liberated the people of the world from the evil within which he fills with!” Ominis raged, “Will you break the chain with me?”

Despite the fear the man provoked in him, the anger he emitted was one he shared. It radiated off him, and the passion with which he spoke was almost infectious. Voldermort’s true name was spoken with no fear and with such disdain, such hatred, that he too felt it come alight inside him. The idea of a world free was an appealing one.

“Never fear the darkness, Harry Potter.” Ominis’ words were accompanied by a faint rustling of wood and leafs “The strongest trees are rooted in the darkest places of the earth. Darkness will be your cloak, your shield, your mother’s milk. Darkness will make you strong. We will help you with that. Kill the boy, Harry Potter, and let the man be born.”

Darkness. Such a constant in his life. Something that had hung over him since his parents died. But the way Ominis spoke of it gave him a new perspective.

‘Maybe it’s not a curse,’ he thought, ‘maybe it’s a blessing.’ And when you smile, he does so too. Darkness. A cloak and a shield. The milk of his mother would nurse him through life and death. Darkness - he knew it better than anyone; the feeling of it enveloped him. But you, you smiled at him, a sight to his weary soul that only determined him more.

With another gush of wind, you two are nigh returned to the shore of the Black Lake. Your hands are interlaced as they were before you were transported into the cavern. Your feet had grown pruney under the water, lounging still in it — but now so are his too. His shoes were wet, outside and inside, the soles were filled with water, and he knew two days best for them to try completely. The hem of his trousers stuck to his socks underneath, but he doesn’t care; he’s too busy staring at you. Your eyes, those beautiful, striking eyes, stared back at him. The star between your brow and those sticking under your eyes are gone for good. He never wished to see a sight like that again. It frightened him too much. You smiled at him still “Do you see now?” He nods, now certain and at peace with his mind. He felt dazed but so alive. So unfocused but so in the moment. As if he could go against Voldemort ahead now and puke at the same time.

It’s the same feeling as when he’s woken from your dreams. He felt bizarre but good, nonetheless. “Yes” his voice is no more than a whisper.  “Allow your fears to pass you and through you. What remains will be your strength, and only you will stand again in the end.” You said. He let out a shuddering breath. He took another before squaring his shoulders, slowly letting it out. He repeated the mantra in his head. 

“Open your eyes to what you’ve been blinded, and you will finally see that you’re stronger than he wasn’t you to believe you are.” His heart thrummed against his chest, wanting to escape its confines and the enclosure of its cage. The words seep into him, and like a sponge, dry and deserted, he engorged them all, thirsty for more. He felt them in his bones. He was stronger than Voldemort would like him to think. He was stronger than he himself believed. 

He stood there in the water, determination washing over him in the same way the water of the lake washed over the shore. He is strong. He can see that now. ‘Through the ashes, I was reborn’. Ominis had said and Harry felt the same.

He’d been reborn.

. ⚯ ͛

Taglist: @dovellici @thehufflepuffwife @llunarpotter @xxxyukitoxx @stvrlavs @b4tm4nn 

[beware-of-pity]

I look inside myself and see my heart is black I see my red door and I must have it painted black

[beware-of-pity]

[beware-of-pity]

i’m going to hold your hands when i say this and i am only going to be kind about it once: ai does not belong in fandom spaces, ever. not in writing, not in art, not in video, not at all. it does not matter how bad you want to see your favourite characters kiss, or how much you need a bit of help finishing a chapter, or whatever.

make friends with artists. commission somebody. learn to draw yourself. ask for a beta read. try a writing partnership. fandom spaces are communities, so engage with them! it is about the journey and the fact that we all love something enough to create and build together about that thing.

spending 30 seconds to kill a tree and get an AI to push out some soulless empty piece of “content” is antithetical to the entire point of being engaged with fandom, and if you’ve taken to doing this you should really reconsider if you belong in these spaces with the rest of us.

[beware-of-pity]

Native New Yorkers - I

Masterlist I Ao3 link I - Chapter two

Elliot Stabler x Reader

Summary :

A year into joining the squad, you find yourself embroiled in the murder of four women whose lives resemble too closely your own. Amidst your growing relationship with a certain detective, will you survive unscathed or fall at the hands of that which wants to hurt you?

AN: I just want to premise that I'm only at season four of the show, and am not too cultured on how Elliot's divorce truly goes down in the show. To fit it within this story, I had to slightly mess up the timeline. I would say that this takes place either between season four or by the end of it and that the divorce began around season three, episode 16, and their quarrel about Elliot's action and character towards his family is the breakthrough for the falling of their relationship.

Chapter I: Where did all those yesterdays go (When you still believed love could really be like a Broadway show)

In the criminal justice system, sexually based offences are considered especially heinous. The city is riddled with them. Never goes a day without a sexually related crime being reported. In New York City, the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as The Special Victims Unit. The four walls of the floor dedicated to the unit have seen enough horror that if they could speak, one would turn pale at their words. Yet, the detectives assigned or joining the unit know that what they face on a daily basis are horrors someone must face in order to bring justice to those who can no longer fight for their own. Any squeamishness, any queasiness has to be thrown out the window if anyone wants to work in this field.

Which is why so little do.

A grey sedan pulls into the parking lot of the station. Elliot Stabler’s behind the wheel.

Late thirties. Good looking — still has that vigour in him, but more than that, aware looking even if anyone were to look at him, they would be sure of the fact he’d not gotten the good night's sleep anyone of your profession could. Times have been rough. With the divorce settling and the long hours of work, Elliot’s life has been an ever-changing tornado, constantly shifting direction in the most unexpected ways. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been tested by life in such a way. It’s been hard navigating it all, if not at all. He’s a good christian. He prays and follows the values of the faith, so he knows that even if he hits rock bottom, he’s never stepping the line that would end his life. He’s gotten closer to it, but each time, something has always pulled him away from it, and he always has to thank god for it.

Perhaps those were his ways to remind him of the preciousness of his life.

Life is indeed as fragile as he feels it. He sees it every day being taken to other people in ways obscene to the teaching of god’s way of life. Strangled, manhandled, murdered, raped, all the ways someone’s integrity and wholeness can be broken.

Whenever he thinks of his own life, the weight of his wedding band, now hanging by a necklace around his neck, is always there to pull him back from his turbulent mind. His children are his everything, even if he has neglected his dues towards them. He wasn’t always present. He knew that. They knew that. Kathy knew that. And yet, somehow, no one ever talked about it until the air grew hot and words were spat at the other’s face. He always regrets it and yet he also always relied on the belief that they would understand. That they’d understand why he was working so much and for so long. The obligations his work as a detective demanded.The lives he was saving and those that he brought to justice.

Perhaps they could understand that, but they would never understand the prioritisation of his job over being present in their lives.

He loves them, but love in this case is not enough.

Kathy loved him. Still, she does, but her love for him is not enough to salvage that which was already damaged. So, she does what’s best for her. Leave, and he understands but does not want the divorce.

But what is best? Let those you love lose and be happy, or keep them in a loop, a cycle that will never end.

He cared enough about them to let them have the happiness they were not having with him. His love for them prevailed over his heart and mind, and now only he remained to stand behind it. But life goes on, and so he must push forth. Life is an unexpected adventure; every day, a new one is brought into the wooden top of his desk. The air outside bites at his skin. The trench coat he has draped over his suit is not enough to shield him from it.

With him, he has two cups of coffee and a latte to go, but only one accompanies the paper bag that holds a warm doughnut inside, still piping hot from the oven it was baked in at the dinner where he got everything. It’s early morning, but the office is already in a frenzy. As it always is. People go and come; some settle at their posts, while others go on to do their jobs as per the routine of the day demands. His desk awaits him. Olivia, sitting at the one in front of him, gives him a passing ‘good morning’ as she flips through the pages of the open file in front of her. He puts one of the cups down in front of her.

Next, he sets his eyes on his next target.

You.

The sight before him is candy-eyeing, sweet and roots his insides. You’re a sweet young thing, almost thirty, all smiles and plump rosy cheeks. Ten years younger than him, at the least — that both tempted and scared him.

You and your partner, Daniel, joined the squad not too long ago. A year, in only a few weeks, if the calendar did not lie. Just around the time he separated from Kathy. While he and Daniel have their own sets of issues to hang laundry about, especially when the temperature rose and the tempers clashed, you and he took well to one another. He believed you made a good addition to the squad, often being the one to catch clues and details he and the others were quick to brush. He could not say the same for Daniel. Partners work in duos. Therefore, he was sent alongside you since everyone in the squad already had theirs. It is a pity they sent the pick of the litter. Daniel complains, follows but never takes the initiative and comes along only to look bored while you work. His only redeeming quality? His strength. He has stopped many runaways before they could even get a step in their run or has tackled so many offenders that were it not up to him, you would have a scar or two to deal with. He can be useful when he wants to be. Which is why he’s still on the team.

That doesn’t mean he has to like him. You, though? You he likes.

Witty, charming, and sociable, you were like a balm that could soothe one's soul. A younger presence in the office did more than lift the spirit and shine a light in this dark and grimy world that he’d long forgotten could exist outside the four walls of the station. And if that wasn’t enough, you had the same fondness for children as he did.

Perhaps because you were a mother.

Single, your three-year-old is your whole world. A little baby boy came as a result of passions that ran too high and reasons that ran too low. That father of his still had to run you up on his first payment for child support — that was enough to describe him as a person. But you had no use of him. All you needed was your little boy. That was enough for you. It was why you tried to keep the world clean of people who could hurt him and why you worked so much as to be able to afford to give him a life worth living. You want to send him to college one day, if God's willing. You loved him so much that you’ll keep him from the world you entered when you step inside this building.

Being a detective and one for the special victims unit is no easy task. It means long hours and no guarantee of when you’ll be home for your son. It’s a busy job, which is why you envy Much for having no strings that hold him back in the field. No children to worry about, no current wife to smother with affection to keep her anger from his behaviour — or lack thereof. Your son mostly stays with your mother after he gets picked up from daycare, and since you live with your mother, cause hell forbids you’ll get called in the middle of the night to investigate a case, there was no chance you could leave your son alone or have to drive him up to your mother for him to be taken care of. Plus, it’s the cheap alternative to renting an apartment when your mother owed hers after years of paying the mortgage.

If it weren’t for the photo you keep on your desk, none at the unit would have found out about Oliver. Except for Captain Cragen, who’d read all about him in your file. Elliot has met little Oliver on a few occasions, mostly when your mother passes by during lunch breaks with your son in hand. The boy is your very image, ruby-cheeked and with a pout on his lips until his mommy is in sight — then he’s all smiles and open mouth. He’s a delight, and when he gets to sit on the swivel chair by your desk, he becomes a menaceful delight.

Elliot doesn’t know how many times he’s had to handle a pencil or two being stolen from his desk by the little rascal. He always has to win them back by negotiating with the kid. Usually, a candy or two being mommy’s back does the trick. A mama’s boy, though he remains, and he is always reluctant about doing something behind his mommy’s back.

What your little boy doesn’t know is how you smile at Elliot each time your boy runs off with candy in hand.

‘Lottie’ is what Oliver calls him, and it makes his chest flatter in the same way it did when his little girls were the same age. In turn, he calls him ‘Olive’. Ever since you entered his life, nothing has been easy, not that it was any different before. He’s loyal to a fault, and yet he cannot lie and say that the pretty, young new coworker of his does not alight something he had not felt in a long time in him. He would never betray his wife, especially not now that they’re both transcending a difficult period that’s about to end as smoothly as it can, but the sight of you is enough to make a grown man fall to their knees.

Not him, though; he still has enough strength in him to withstand this spell you pull on men.

What he couldn’t understand was how much of an idiot the father of your son was. He didn’t know the story that told the whole picture, but knowing he left you two and has not even deemed to pay up his fare?

Were it up to him, he would teach him a lesson or two…

But he’s not in a place to teach anyone a lesson. If anyone should be teaching anyone lessons, it’s in him to be taught. He knows about boundaries, but the thin line between right and wrong is sometimes too appealing not to cross. He’d do it a thousand times over, even though he knows it. He’s a hypocrite, no better than the men he puts behind bars. In fact, he might very well be one of the worst ones he ever encountered.

Up there, leaning into Much’s desk, telling you probably about the latest with his ex-wife, you smile at the man as if he were your father telling you all about his veteran days. The moment you catch Elliot walking your way, your face brightens in a way it did not with Munch.

“Good morning”, you chirp, leaving Munch behind. “Morning.” he hands you the latte and bag. “Oh, you didn’t have to” you pouted as you took the items. “How many times-“ “I told you. I just want you to feel welcomed.” “Will you do this even in five years as a way to welcome me still?” “At least you get something. Man here has never brought me anything. I’d consider myself lucky if I were you,” said Munch. “I don’t suppose it’s the senior that’s supposed to make the junior feel welcome, huh?” Asked Elliot, to which Much only scoffed. “Still warm,” you noted after opening the paper bag “Still, thank you, Elliot.” You said, leaning on your toes to plant a kiss on his cheek.

The kiss is an innocent gesture, but the burn of your lips’ touch on his skin makes his mind flash images that are more than innocent. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he struggles to get a grip. It’s a brief, barely-there kiss, but it’s enough to make his imagination go into overdrive. It’s just a friendly gesture. That’s all you’re offering, and he has no right to ask for more. He tries to push those thoughts to the back of his head, his heart thumping as he turns to look at you.

“Don’t mention it,” he mumbles softly, his cheeks tinted a light shade of pink as you turn to walk to your desk. “She’s good for you,” Munch said, amused. Elliot doesn’t appreciate it. “Got you good.” “Can it, Munch. Don’t start with me…” “Oh, you should see yourself when you look at her. I haven’t seen that expression on your face in a long while. Just saying that you could do something about it. Might make you feel a hell of a lot better.” “I’m not about to betray my wife. She’s a nice girl, but I’m not going to do anything…” “Are you not about to become a single man?”

He rubs his hands across his face, letting out an exasperated sigh.

“I am… but divorce doesn’t mean I’m free to look around, Munch.” “You mean pounce around.” “Oh, you’re so nasty” Elliot shakes his head. “Just practical” shrugs Munch "Practical, my ass", Elliot retorts, but can't help a small chuckle. Damn Munch for reading him so easily.

The morning proved to be slow. No active cases. No calls for any situation that requires the unit to take over. Just a woman complaining about her boyfriend being sent by the wrong officer to the wrong unit. Despite the report being mostly about their fights and domestic quarrels, the woman came in the station with a baby in hand, and with the case she was making of her man, you decided to have her sit by your desk while you wrote down everything she was spilling out in order to make sure the child was in a safe environment and that no violence befell either.

In the end, she left enraged by you merely asking if he’d ever turned his anger on her in any way other than the walls or the doors to their apartment. In the end, you didn’t throw the notes you wrote in case she turned up again to complain further.

Lunchtime rolls around. Elliot watched you pack up your stuff.

“You going on a break?” he finds himself asking before the words can even pass his mind. It’s an idiotic question because he knows that’s exactly what it is, but he asks it nonetheless, desperate to keep you for as long as he can. You look at him and nod, slinging your bag over your shoulder. 
“My mom is bringing me Ollie. Just got out of daycare.” "That's nice. You must miss him like hell," he says, standing up from his desk and grabbing his jacket. "Not enough time on my hands to spend with him," you sighed "wanna come? he's asked me when he gets to see you again.” That made him smile. The idea of your son asking about him sent a warm, fuzzy feeling through him. "Sure," he said gruffly, trying to play it cool. "Lead the way.”

The diner by the station is your usual place. Your mom doesn't have to find a parking spot in the hell pit that is the one in the back of the station, and you don't have to walk a mile for food. Plus, the place is nice and clean, and the food is decently good. The walk to the diner together is an amicable silence. Elliot's coat billows in the wind while yours hugs your body. The bell above the door chimes, announcing your arrival as you step inside, instantly enveloped by the familiar smell of food and the sound of chatter. Inside, you spot your mother sitting at a booth, already holding a squiggling Oliver in her arms.

“Mommy!” Your son yells as he wriggles out of your mother’s grasp, coming to hug your leg. “My love” you chuckled, picking him up "Missed me?” “Missed you lot, mommy” The boy looks over your shoulder, noticing Elliot. “Lottie!Lottie’s here.” He steps forward, reaching out to ruffle Oliver's hair playfully. "Hey there, little man," he says with a smile. "Been missing me, huh?” He nods eagerly before turning to you “Is Lottie having lunch with us?” “He is, honey,” you said “Mom, I’m sure you know Detective Stabler.” Your mother, a gentle woman with kind eyes, smiles warmly at him “Heard lots about you, Detective. A pleasure to finally formally get to know you.” “Pleasure all mine, ma’am” he returns the smile despite feeling the pressure of your mother’s scrutinizing eyes. “Please, Angela is fine!” She exclaims, “Take a seat, both of you. Lunch is on me today.” “Oh, mom. You really shouldn’t.” “Let me treat you once in a while. Besides, we have a guest with us.”

You grumble, sitting in the seat in front of her, adjusting Oliver on your lap as Elliot slides beside you.

Oliver reaches for the menu, flipping through it until he lands on the kids' section. “I’m hungry.” He said, “I want my Dino nuggies.” “Nuggets?” You furrowed your brows “You had them last night, hon. How about some….er…some peas and smash, mhm? Yummy.” “Yuck!” He fakes, hurls, “I don’t like peas; I want my nuggies” he pouts. “You need your greens, my love,” you said, “God knows I indulge you too much.” You murmured under your breath.

Oliver's pout deepens, but he knows not to argue with you when you use that tone.

"Fine," he huffs, still sulking a little. "But I want extra ketchup!” “Do you have children, detective?” Asked your mother. "Yes, ma'am, I do", Elliot replied, smiling warmly "I have four beautiful children. Three girls, one boy. A set of twins.”

She raised her brows

"Oh my, you must have your hands full with four kids," she said. "The girls must keep you on your toes.” Elliot chuckled, thinking of the chaos his daughters brought to the household. "Oh, you have no idea", he said, a fond smile playing on his lips. "They definitely keep me busy, but they're worth every second of it.” "I can imagine. Must be hard with your job, being around. I rarely see my girl," she said "It has its challenges," Elliot agreed, his tone growing serious. "This job can consume you if you let it. It takes a toll on relationships and makes it hard to be present when you're always worrying about the next case. But, my children are mostly grown and…mhm…I'm separated.”

Your mother’s expression softened an empathy in her eyes. "I'm sorry to hear that," she said earnestly. "Divorce is never easy.” "I'm getting through it", he said "Me and my wife, we've been running it as smoothly as we can for the children. And we are still as amicable as people going through such proceedings can be.” "That's good to hear. Maintaining a healthy co-parenting relationship is crucial for your children's well-being. I wish the father of my grandson knew a thing or two about it," she huffed. “He’s been making things hard?” He asked, concern furrowing his brows as he looked to you. You bit your lip before looking down on your boy. “How about we listen to some music, mhm?” You said, taking a pair of earphones from your bag, placing each bud in his ear and an old mp3 player for him to play around with. With each bud in his little ears, you let the first song on the list play, just as the waitress serves you all your food.

You break your silence after your first bite.

"I've been trying to get in contact for him to sign over his rights as a parent. He's barely around. Thought he wouldn't mind. His name is not even on the birth certificate, and my mother is more of a parent to Ollie than he's ever been. But he's been ignoring me, and I fear he might think of fighting me over this. Though I don’t suppose he has the means unless his mother indulges him.” "Has he been showing up for visitation at least?” “Only when it suits him” you sighed “Only when the time is right for him.” “He’s shown signs of being dangerous towards you or Olive?” "God, no. I would have reported him if he did. But I know he's got himself in trouble. He might be dealing or something. Last time I saw him, he was loopy, but I couldn't smell anything on him." You said, "More reasons to pursue him on his right over my son.” “Sounds like a real piece of work” he mutters in disgust. “How’d you get involved in the first place?” "He was in his right mind at the time," you said "Finance. Good job, a career. And…it's not like we were serious or something.”

Elliot's jaw clenched, a twinge of annoyance and maybe…jealousy? creeping into him.

”Then what happened?" "Lost his job at the same time I found out about Ollie. Lost his mind. Told me to get rid of it. That he couldn't handle this on top of everything else. I told him I would keep it, and I’ll stay out of his life. Two months after Ollie is born, he comes around. Says he was wrong and that he wants to be part of the baby’s life. Then he goes disappearing again. He's been coming and going since then. I can't deal with him.” "Sounds like he's been putting you through hell," he said gruffly. “Even hell would not be this inconsistent.” There was a certain bitterness to your voice, and it made Elliot's heart ache. He knew all too well the pain of disappointing a child because other interests took precedence.

"You'd be surprised at what hell is” “I’m living it now.”

Your mother, sensing the heavy conversation, tried to lighten the mood. "Well, at least little Olive here is getting all the love and attention he needs. He's growing up to be quite the handsome, sweet boy." She said, leaning over to pinch Oliver's cheek. Oliver giggled and squirmed, but he didn't protest against the affection. He loves his grandmother after all.

"He takes after his mother. You have always been a sweet child…so kind and considerate of others. I thank God every day there’s no signs of that scum in him.”

You smile at her, and a pang of guilt for letting her see you, heartbroken and exhausted, hits you. She had been your rock through it all, the one person who stood by your side without reservation. You were grateful but also felt a sense of responsibility to shield her from the burden of your struggles. Your boy struggled in your arms as if he could sense the unease from you, eventually finding his way into Elliot’s lap, mp3 in hand. Elliot chuckled, his small hands grasping at his shirt. He instinctively wrapped an arm around him, holding him securely. “Hey there.” The tension leaves his bones with the weight of the little boy in his arms. But Oliver only returns to play with the mp3.

“Does he do that often?” “Do what?” You asked “Not respond.” "Oh, he does sometimes," you said. "It happens when he's really focused on something that interests him. I've…been taking him to a therapist to deal…with the absence of his father. She says that sometimes he just stops talking. I've been worried about it for a while.”

You took one of your son's hands and kissed the palm. He looked up from the mp3 and smiled at you.

"I should have never allowed him in his life." You shook your head "It would have been all better had he never entered it. Just leave a hole there for me to fill myself.” "Don't say that. You did what you thought was right. You gave him a chance.” "I should have known better.” You wet your lip "I knew he was up to no good. Even then, he did look out of sorts. But…he was such a nice man when I met him. No secrets, no indiscrations. Just honesty. Then he gets screwed by life and then all of that is just gone.” "People can be good at hiding their demons. You couldn't have known what he would turn into. No one could.” "I could have helped him" you said "He was in a rough time and chose to protect himself above all. Self-preservation. I had a bigger fish to fry, but I could have been there for him.” “He was always a lost cause. When in his right state of mind, he had a temper still.” Your mother insisted.

Elliot's head snapped towards your mother.

"He was violent?" He asked. "Once," she said, not going into specifics. "Nothing happened", you sighed, knowing why your mother brought it up "He came to see me when I was due. Pushed me, and I fell. Nothing else happened. The moment I was on my bum, he turns pale and makes a run for it.” "He pushed you when you were pregnant?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous "Just once,", you said, putting a hand over his arm "He was…he was out of it. Probably drunk or something. He didn't hurt me.” "It doesn't matter" he said "he had no right to put his hands on you. Even drunk, even high.” "Try telling him that.” "I just might" he growls.

He was fuming. The idea of your ex-boyfriend putting his hands on you when you were carrying your child made his blood boil. "Mommy, can I have ice cream now?" your son asked, as he showed you his clean plate. ”You ate all your food?" you asked, a smile spreading on your face as you looked at his empty plate.”Good job, darling.” “Can I have chocolate ice cream now?” “Of course, of course” you said, but were cut off from calling the waitress by Elliot’s phone ringing. “Stabler” he answered.

You noticed the change in his face, his expression hardening, indicating that something serious was unfolding. Oliver, in his innocent curiosity, asked, "Daddy work?” You both shared a look of surprise

“Oh no, honey", you said, "Remember, this is Uncle Lottie, not Daddy.”

Oliver, still blissfully unaware of the weight of the situation, nodded and went back to playing with his toy. Meanwhile, Elliot picked the phone back up, listening to whoever was on the other line. "We have to go. New case. Since Liv's out for that impending trial, you're my partner for this." You nodded, understanding the situation. "Alright", you responded, starting to gather your belongings. Sensing the sudden shift in mood, Oliver looked up from his toy, his little face confused.

"Ollie, my love. Mommy has to go back to work. Now, you'll go back home with Grandma, and Mommy'll see you tonight at dinner, alright?” "Okay," he said, clinging to you as you picked him up. You gave him a tight hug and a few kisses, whispering softly in his ear to "be good for grandma". He nodded and let go of you, turning to hold his grandmother's hand as you and Elliot left the diner. “Call me if anything happens,” you said to your mother.

"Don't worry about a thing" your mom replied, giving you a reassuring smile. "Now go on, and stay safe”

[beware-of-pity]

Pythia Hiereia - V

Masterlist I Ao3 link I Chapter Four - Next

Harry James Potter x Reader

Tw: Mature and Explicit/Graphic depictions of violence.

Summary :

In my enemy, I find the lover.

Chapter V: You're starrin' in my dreams, in magazines (You're lookin' right at me)

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It took Harry a long time to fall asleep that night. He hadn’t even bothered to change from his uniform to his sleepwear as he’d let himself fall flat on his bed. He stared at the gleaming night sky outside his window as if the stars could give him all the answers to the questions his mind rambled with.  Like Professor Trewlaney often said “The stars are the window to the truth”, and now more than ever, he wished to seek the truth above all else. The moon shined bright, bathing the castle grounds in a soft silvery light. The sounds of the night soothed his soul, calming the whirlwind of thoughts in his head. He closed his eyes as they dropped and grew heavier, just as his breath did, and soon, he was lulled into a deep, sound sleep. 

And with it, came no dreams — just as Dumbledore had predicted. The stars his only witness.

A sense of utter relief washed over Harry’s unconscious mind. No dreams, no nightmares, nothing to see. He was just asleep, and he could forget all the worries that the night’s revelations and doubts had brought him. But that also meant no you. 

And strangely enough, it was your absence that seemed to ache the most.

Sleep did not bring him any comfort, and the revelation of the night before plagued his every thought, even the morning after. Dumbledore had reassured him that there was nothing to doubt about you or your family despite your blood ties to the man who was the cause of his life's eternal pain.

The more he dismissed a thought, a hundred more seemed to pop into his head. But there was one he dreaded the most — that of seeing you. Facing you after he'd seen what the house bearing your name descended from made him feel all the more anxious. The pensive was not something one could simply forget, but what would you think of him when he looked at you now? What should he think?

Every time you looked at him, every time you smiled in that breath taking way, helped him, spoke with him, was it only so you could use it against him in some big aid to Voldemort? How could Dumbledore be so sure that Voldemort's remaining family was not in any way something he should worry about?

Were your hearts never truly one?

Rethinking a month's worth of interaction was no easy thing. His dreams and all those big words of danger you spoke of — Could it be that you were only doing so as to mislead him in the same way he’d been by Voldemort? If you were, and he had trusted you because of false pretences and the false sense of comfort you ignited in him, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself.   He trusted you. In a way, in his way, however he could, after it had been broken many times, he did. He believed he did. And he doesn’t know how he’ll deal with the aftermath of a broken heart were you to reveal yourself as his enemy all along, using him to further the dark lord’s plans. The thought of it made his stomach churn. He didn't want to believe it; he didn't want to think of you as anyone other than the girl he'd come to know. He didn't want to think of you as a liar, as someone who would betray him.

He may have been pessimistic, if not delusional, in his assessment. He still lacked the knowledge of many things to make such heavy accusations against you, and you, for your part, had proved to have been nothing but honest in your conduct.  His brain and heart were at war. On one side, he believed you, the person capable of gaining a sense of trust from him. On the other, the rational part of his brain was warning him to be cautious and that things did not always make sense the way they were supposed to.

But, if you had truly been nothing but devious in your intents, why then would you have warned him against the danger Voldemort posed on him and the entire world? About the role he’ll have to play in bringing his downfall?

A person with the wrong intentions would not have done such a thing. Harry could not deny that. Dumbledore had also told him that he, the man himself, trusted you and your family. He wanted to trust you. But he also could not dismiss his scepticism. He might have to wait to see what Dumbledore told him the next evening.

The next morning at the breakfast table, he's unable to meet your eyes as you stare at him across the room from the Ravenclaw table you’re sitting at. Usually, he's good at holding your gaze. But he would rather die than admit that it is not just your eyes that have always captivated him — it's the way they choose to see him.

The weight of your gaze is obvious. He feels it, knowing just how intently you're looking at him. He knows that if he were to meet your eyes, he would probably fall apart. His resolution would crumble, and he would have no impetus to ignore you.  He had to guard himself until he was sure, he told himself. As simple as that. Just one day. One whole day. He surely could go without meeting your eye, could he not?

He could because he had to. All sense of reason in him told him that he should. If he met your eye, you would immediately know something was wrong — but then again, you would too if he was turning a blind eye to your very presence.  His heart ached just at the thought of it. It was torture, and he wouldn’t even try and deny it. But if he wanted his heart and mind to be clear, he had to do it, no matter how cruel it felt towards himself.

His doubts still lingered in the back of his mind, but now that he'd regained his energies from the night of sleep, he almost felt like chastising himself. 

What right had he to villanise you for the blood you shared with Voldemort? It was something so out of your hands, so out of your control. And yet his mind had immediately jumped to the conclusion that your ties to the man that threatened the fragility of the world hung by a thread with was someone you familiarised with —it  made him think of you in the same light as Voldemort. 

A wave of shame washed over him, and he knew that he wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he continued to think of the situation this way. Yet, that didn’t change his decision. If not to protect himself from you, the you from him and his thoughts. Unless he’d asked you some rather rask and quite honestly offensive to your persona.

He found avoiding you to be an easier thing to do than saying. He should have realised yesterday after Potion ended, that you two didn't share most classes. Upon looking at the schedule, he wrote in a separate entry his observations, concluding that you two only share the N.E.W.T classes for Potion, Herbology and Charms — or if you were taking any other, you were not attending the lessons, which was most likely not the case. Even if you did look like someone who would grow bored of the lecture and not show up the next time…

It was a bit of a relief, but only a little. Your absence made him a little sad, no denying that — you were a pretty sight to look at after all, and he’d discovered he had a certain taste for spying on people unwittingly. Like he had been with Draco, whom he grew more suspicious of as the days passed.

He could only hope that you would understand his distance. You were understanding, he knew that much. 

But if you did, you were not showing it well.

He felt them, how could he not? Your eyes follow him around In the halls. Whenever he was walking, turning a corner, eating lunch or studying in the library, it just felt as if your very presence was haunting him.  He was starting to feel like an animal being stalked by a predator. The urge to look over his shoulder was often getting the better of him, but he remained strong.

To his dismay though, Dumbledore did not call on him as he had promised the night before. Their ‘lessons’ took a hit on the usualness they’d been promised which sent Harry into a frenzy.  For how much longer was he supposed to be kept in the dark? He hoped it would be a momentary lapse and that things would go back to normal soon. But they hadn’t. 

Where was Dumbledore, and what was he doing?  Harry caught sight of the headmaster only twice over the next few weeks, and each time he tried to approach the man, he would seemingly just disappear out of thin air by the turn of a corner. You were much the same. If avoiding you was what he’d been hoping for you, you made the whole thing a lot easier. 

Easier in practice, not easier to tolerate. 

If there was one thing you shared in mind and soul, it was the pull and push the two of you resorted to when words would do little to appease the tension.  If he was hoping to catch your eyes, they were just nowhere for him to meet. He would ask around if there was cause for success, but he knew it would be a failed effort. He didn’t know your friends or if you had any. Luna was too often interested in other things than to help in his hide-and-seek cruise, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready to approach Choo to talk with her, although the amicability of their romantic feeling had been left to after the shenanigans of last year. 

If he was the one who did not wish to meet your eyes, then it would be your turn to follow him around. Whenever he went, you followed.  The library was your sanctum; it wasn’t your fault you preferred the company of books to people and that it was also the place he used to complete his studies. If anything, he should blame himself for choosing the seating closest to you or the one that gave him the best view of where you were sitting. 

You were the cat, and he was the mouse. A willing mouse that wanted to be caught so badly. Mouses were supposed to be stealthy in order to escape the maws of predatory cats like you. Instead, he felt like a succulent meal being drolled over.

He supposes this was all the more amusing to you.

There were times he could see the bored cheeriness cross your face. He was all the merrier to be the cause of your hilarity, but he could also see you were growing bored of his pulling away.  You wondered just when he would come to face his suspicions of you and perhaps confront you with them in seeking the answer he’d been left hanging with. 

But alas he never did. He was a stubborn git, you had to give it to him.

You two weren’t children and he was too close to his own adulthood to be acting like a frightened child by you. 

Lessons were excruciating, you must admit for yourself too. His indifference was not a sight you were unfamiliar with people regarding you but when it came from him, who you thought was making progress with it made the skin just above where your heart rested under ache in a way it never had before. 

‘Y/N is weird. Stay away from her.’ was something you mostly heard people say about you. ‘She makes things happen. Bad things. She’s an abomination.’

But It wasn’t your fault heaven gives its favourites early deaths.

The familiarity that had grown between you two had somehow made you believe that there could be the foundation for something akin to a friendship — if not somehow a partnership, that you’d been requested to form by the big man who had left Harry high on information and dry for answers. 

What were the two of you, if not confused children, following the example of the adults?

Dumbledore rarely appeared at meals anymore, and Harry was sure Hermione was right in thinking that he was leaving the school for days at a time like she’d theorised once over lunch.  Had he forgotten the promises he’d made him?  Dumbledore had said that the lessons were leading to something to do with the prophecy. Harry had felt bolstered, then comforted, and now abandoned. 

Just as the second week without news or notice, Harry had wondered whether Dumbledore would return from wherever he had been in time for Monday night's lesson, but having had no word to the contrary, he decided to pay the professor a visit to his office at the time their meetings were agreed to would not hurt to do. 

It was just around eight o’clock; the sun had been drawing to a close these days earlier by each day that went. Autumn was growing near, so was October, and he had yet to hold the Quidditch tryout, where demands for them were growing frantic. He had to do so by the end of this week before Professor McGonagall came strutting through the doors of his room demanding so of him. 

He’d just been having so much on his mind lately that he could truly not concentrate on anything at all. His mind drew to gloomy thoughts and he honestly could not find it himself to make up what required his priority the most. 

Maybe, perhaps, he should start with the person following him right now. 

The air around him is heavy and tense, like a rope ready to be snapped. His ears perked alive.  His own feet draw to a slow, placing each foot in front of the other more carefully, quieting with each step. As he did, so did those behind him. If he stopped, they stopped. If he fastened the join in his steps, so did you — because he knew it was you.  The sound of your footsteps filled him with both fear and relief at the same time. You were scaring him badly, more than you ever had before, and there’d been many instances where you had. His heart sped to a mile, and he felt his fingers tremble from the nerves.

You were everywhere and nowhere, present but absent, a ghost that haunted him at every turn.

Luna was right; you always find your way around. And at that moment, he cursed you for that.  He was struggling against the need to just look over his shoulder and check if you were indeed there, following, trailing, stalking him as you often did these days — and as did he.

He’s had enough of this back-and-forth you two have been playing up for weeks on end. So he gathers his courage, and in a swift turn, he’s facing you. 

“Alright, listen-“

But you’re not there. 

He feels the blood drain from his face as no one stands before him. No trace of you, your presence, or that of anyone else's, as if he’d just been imagining everything all along. All the adrenaline left his body, and his heartbeat slowed.

He turns once more to continue his journey to the office. That would have been the plan, were he not scared out of his wits by you standing before him, smiling in your small, wicked way. 

"Hi, Harry.”

He’s not even surprised anymore. At this point, he’s more used to you simply appearing in front of him in the most unexpected ways. The fright that had just filled him moments before was replaced with a strange kind of relief and comfortableness. Even after what he’d been thinking and feeling for two weeks, he found a kind of comfort from you just simply being there in front of him.

He stumbled back in fright still, almost tripping. 

“You —” he sputtered, his heart again thundering in his chest. “You scared me. What’d you do that for?” A small chuckle escapes your lips at his fright, an empty sound despite the slight hint of delight crossing your face.  A sound that almost made butterflies erupt in his stomach.  “I couldn't help it. You looked so scared when you looked over your shoulder.” “That’s because I was.” he argues “Where’d you come from anyways?” "Dumbledore's office. He’s asked me to come fetch you.” you said "He's waiting for you. You should not keep him waiting unless you wish to put a rest to your doubts.”

His mouth opens as if to say something but nothing comes out of it. His eyes widen, if only slightly, and his heart beats against the confines of his chest. He should stop asking himself how you know these things. He could never hope to hide something from you, could he?

He doesn't speak, still feeling a bit shaken by the fright you put him through. You smile at his silence, finding it somewhat endearing, but decide to give him the small mercy of walking with him to Dumbledore's office.

You take his hand in yours.

“Come. I’ll take you there. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. That won't do. I wouldn't want you to pass from the scare I've given you.” “Whose fault would that be?” He rolls his eyes but smiles nonetheless.

Your hand is cold, the kind of cold that seeps into the bones and kills, like the wind biting outside the castle. Yet, the flesh is strangely warm against his. He tightens his grip on it, almost afraid to let go, even as it makes his whole body shiver against his own warmth—but he relishes your touch as if it were something he’d been denied for a long time. It’s crazy how your mere presence is enough to soothe him, even after the fear you instilled in him just moments ago.

You walk by his side, the same way you did when you helped him to the school gate, the silence a comfortable sound between you two. The tension in his body slowly leaves him, dissolving away like his fears of what's to come. Despite everything, he's glad you're accompanying him all the way to Dumbledore's office, especially after what felt like the hundredth day you've spent apart.  Even as doubts still swirl in his mind — as it screams at the furious beating of his heart — and the distance he's tried to keep, he's gladdened immensely by your presence. 

The whole day was torture, avoiding you and trying to ignore your existence. He steals a glance in your direction. You look straight ahead, stoicism back on your face. Your eyes are focused on the path ahead. He wishes you would look at him. He misses having your eyes on him, the way you’d always look at him a little longer than necessary, your eyes lingering.

The gargoyle guarding the headmaster’s office is the same as ever, and the air around you two grows resolute with the knowledge you’ll have to part ways.  

“Well, time for you to go,” you say calmly, a small smile playing at your lips. "and if what you seek tonight will not be given...I'll come paying you a visit.” “How can you be so sure that Dumbledore will not give me the answers I’m looking for?” "Because he doesn't know the whole story" your voice is ominous "and there are things which only I can tell you.”

The words are a knife twisting ruthlessly at his heart. Again, he is reminded of the secrets you hold, of the secrets and knowledge you keep from him.

“Do you even think I’m ready to know?” He says it with more spite than he’d intended, his emotions getting the best of him. "You wouldn't be here if you weren't, wouldn't you? You’ve had enough time to think of it.”

He knows he can’t apologise aloud; he can’t admit that he had spent the entire time missing you— in a way. He was afraid of even telling you that as it would only make the distance between you two even harder to bear, if not impossible. He looks down at you, your chin tilted up at him, your eyes boring into him intensely. He’d missed those eyes.

"It is human nature for the mind to be fearful of that which it does not understand," you said, voice quieter than usual "As people, we control so little of our destiny. Fate does. Fate, alas, chooses us, not the other way around. The unknown brings uncertainty and risks that sometimes we can’t bargain for. It scares us, and that fear shakes us. It can either motivate us to face it or paralyse us to the point we’d rather choose to run from it than be courageous. We live in strange times, and we are strange people.”

Always so wise, aren’t you?

His heart pounds in his chest, almost to the point of bursting out. How is it that your words could put him at ease and instil so much fear in him? There’s so much more there than what meets the eye. Why did you have to be so vague? Why couldn’t you be honest with him about everything you’ve been hiding underneath? 

“Why can’t you just tell me everything?” His voice holds a desperation he’d never shown before. “Because it wouldn’t change anything.” You whisper, and your breath fans his face. ”The future is already set. It predates our very actions. What we do now is only so it can lead us into it. Nothing you can do can change that." “Then, what is the point of trying?” his voice sounds bitter “If we can’t do anything to change what’s to come?” “Who said it’s all in vain?”

Silence befalls you two for a moment. 

"There are older things in this world than you or I, or living memory," you said "I told you before, haven't I? You are not the player but a piece on the board. As am I for that matter. We all have our part to play.”

He sighs and shakes his head. He's tired and still has a whole evening to get through. He lets your hand fall from him, despite the skin of his palm tingling from the loss of contact as he makes for the gargoyle.  It moves aside to reveal the spiralling staircase that leads to the headmaster’s office. He looks back again, but you’ve already disappeared, gone like a dream against the sun glaring through his window as he wakes in the morning. He sighs, turning to the steps, his heart still fluttering and thudding in his chest.

And in a moment he’s in front of the office’s doors, ready to learn the truth. 

“You will remember, I am sure, that we left the tale of Lord Voldemort's beginnings at the point where the handsome Muggle, Tom Riddle, had abandoned his witch wife, Merope, and returned to his family home in Little Hangleton. Merope was left alone in London, expecting the baby who would one day become Lord Voldemort." 

Dumbledore looks tired, more than usual. He carries his age for all to see, but Harry is sure it’s not that which tires him. His hand was as black and burned as ever, but he smiled in that reassuring way of his.

“I don’t remember you saying she was in London, Sir.”  “I didn’t? Well, now you know. And it’s all because of the evidence of one Caractacus Burke," said Dumbledore, "who, by an odd coincidence, helped found the very shop whence came the necklace we have just been discussing." 

Harry gulps. The golden chain Merope was dragged by the neck by her father.

The memory in the pensive tells Harry as much. 

“Yes, we acquired it in curious circumstances. It was brought in by a young witch just before Christmas, oh, many years ago now. She said she needed the gold badly, well, that much was obvious. Covered in rags and pretty far along . . . Going to have a baby, see. She said the locket had been Slytherin's. Well, we hear that sort of story all the time, 'Oh, this was Merlin's, this was, his favorite teapot,' but when I looked at it, it had his mark all right, and a few simple spells were enough to tell me the truth. Of course, that made it near enough priceless. She didn't seem to have any idea how much it was worth. Happy to get ten Galleons for it. Best bargain we ever made!" 

The man’s rumbling is what pulls him back to the office once more. 

“He scammed her for her ignorance” his indignation is clear as the water of the pensive now that the memory is restored to its vial.

"Caractacus Burke was not famed for his generosity,” Dumbledore seems indifferent to it. "Near the end of her pregnancy, Merope was alone in London and in desperate need of gold, desperate enough to sell her one and only valuable possession, the locket that was one of Marvolo's treasured family heirlooms."  “But… couldn’t she use her magic?” “It is my belief — and of course it is but a guess — that she stopped using it altogether after her husband abandoned her. I do not think that she wanted to be a witch any longer. The despair of her life might have seeped the will out of her, it brought only misery after all, just as her powers; that can happen. For, in fact, Merope refused to raise her wand even to save her own life." 

Harry didn’t know whether to argue about that. Merope was a mother. And from his own knowledge of mothers, it wasn’t possible in his mind that Merope could just decide to die in spite of a son who needed her. Especially since that son was the last piece she had of the man she stepped over a line she shouldn’t have crossed to have him.

The memory falling into the pensive this time is dark in colour, bringing upon its omen with itself.  He leans into the iridescent liquid, his face breaking the surface.

A horse-drawn milk cart rattles across a rain-swept, old-fashioned London street. In front of him stands a Dumbledore, much younger than the one he’s used to. His beard is shorter, and so is his hair. He dresses in a suit of brown cadence but in plum velvet. He walks down the road to a grim building surrounded by iron gates. Upon its pikes, the letters above them read ‘W O O L’ S O R P H A N A G E’, despite some letters falling apart. 

A skinny, sharp-featured woman, surely the patron of the place, leads Dumbledore down a drab corridor, as children’s voices carry from an unseen courtyard outside, splashing and shrieking, in the midst of some game.

“I must confess to a bit of confusion upon receiving your letter, Mr. Dumbledore. In all the years Tom’s been here, he’s never once had a family visitor. Frankly, I was stunned to find that someone knew of his existence.” “I am not family. But his name has been known to me since birth, and I’m acquainted with his remaining family.“ 

A lie, for sure. Dumbledore, in fact, would not know of Tom’s remaining family for many years after that. “I see…”

But she doesn’t really. She stops frowning, placing a hand on his arm so as to not direct her voice but to him in the middle of the hall. 

“I think I should tell you. He’s a funny boy — Tom. Odd. There have been incidents with the other children. Nasty things.” “Perhaps you could give me an example”

She goes to speak but shakes her head and bites her tongue, moving off.

“He was born here, wasn’t he?” “Yes, Sir.” She said, caution in her voice. “New Year's Eve and bitter cold, snowing, you know. Nasty night. And this girl, not much older than I was myself at the time, came staggering up the front steps. Well, she wasn't the first. We took her in, and she had the baby within the hour. And she was dead in another."  “Did she say anything of importance?” “Nothing other than she’s hoped for the boy to look like his father and his name, of course. She named him.”

A small room, grim and shadowy, is where the resident resides. Small, but so is the boy. Tom Riddle, no older than eleven, sits atop a bed, hands in lap.  There was no trace of the Gaunts in Tom Riddle's face. None of his mother, uncle, or grandfather. None of you either, which eased Harry’s breath — but he could trace a faint resemblance to your brother, eerily.  Merope had got her dying wish: He was his handsome father in miniature, tall for eleven years old, dark-haired, and pale. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Dumbledore's eccentric appearance. There was a moment's silence. 

The walls with the reflections of the rain outside oozed like oil down a grimy window.

“Tom, you have a visitor.”

 As Dumbledore makes to follow through the open door, his eyes happen upon a photograph on the wall, old and yellowing, its sides ripped as if chewed by rats, depicting a seaside scene of a sharp rock outcropping and a cave.

“How’d you do, Tom?” The boy eyes Dumbledore briefly, before looking away. “Well, I’ll leave you two to yourselves.”

Mrs. Cole exits, closing the door. Dumbledore studies the boy before he begins to tour the room. Carefully placed on a low shelf are some odd souvenirs — a grouping of seven stones, a book containing seven matches, seven brass keys,… A tall cabinet stands on the side of the room, in front of the bed. Dumbledore traces his fingers on its surface as if the wood’s grain were braille. As if somehow “seeing” what lies within.

He pauses, his hand reaching for the handle. 

“Don’t.”

Dumbledore stops and turns, finding the boy’s level gaze on him.

“As you wish.”

Tom looks away, and Dumbledore, for the first time, notices his hands, which are splayed, utterly still, and interlaced with a silky web a spider knits back and forth.

“You’re the doctor, aren’t you?” “No. I am a Professor.”  “I don’t believe you. I hear Mrs. Cole talking. She and the rest of the staff. They want me looked at. They think I’m…different.” “Perhaps they’re right.” “I’m not mad.” 

He spoke the last three words with a ringing force that was almost shocking. It was a command, and it sounded as though he had given it many times before. His eyes had widened and he was glaring at Dumbledore, who made no response except to continue smiling pleasantly. He stops glaring at the lack of reaction, though he looked, if anything, warier still. 

“I never said you were."

Tom’s reaction is most surprising. He cocks his head ever-so-slightly.

“Hogwarts is not a place for mad people. It’s a school…of magic. I told you, I’m a professor, I teach there. I’ve come to offer you a place at my school — your new school if you would like to come..." 

“You can’t kid me! It’s the asylum, isn’t it?-“ “You can do things, can’t you, Tom? Things the other children can’t.”

Tom’s rage subdues, and he falls silent, as he eyes Dumbledore intensely, unblinking. And that’s when Harry sees you. The same eyes, the same intensity, the same drowning pools he liked in you but despised in this boy. Whatever rages into Tom's eyes is something he'd never seen in you. Harry knows they're probably not capable of such…hatred. A malevolence that’s hard to hide. “Yes.” “Tell me some of the things you can do, Tom.” “I can make things move — without touching them. I can make animals do what I want without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who are mean to me. I can make them hurt... if I want.”  A flush of excitement rose up his neck into his hollow cheeks; he looked fevered. “Is it magic, what I can do?” The boy looks up from the spider in his hands.“Who are you?” “I’m like you, Tom. I’m different.” “Prove it.”

It is not a request. Harry was sure that Dumbledore was going to refuse, that he would tell Riddle there would be plenty of time for practical demonstrations at Hogwarts, that they were currently in a building full of Muggles and must therefore be cautious. Without breaking his gaze, Dumbledore’s eyes narrow ever-so-slightly. The cabinet, or rather, wardrobe bursts into flames.  Tom turns, as does Harry, who’d been standing beside it watching the two. The boy smiles — the same way you do, no real amusement behind it —  slowly as Dumbledore studies him. 

But then, the cabinet shakes and the boy is no longer amused as he loses his smile.

“I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe, Tom. Open it. Open. It.”

Tom is terrified, not something Harry could have ever thought of, as he steps for the burning wardrobe, standing just in front of Harry, throwing open the door. On the topmost shelf, above a rail of threadbare clothes, a small box shakes violently. “Take it out”

He stands on his tippy toes to get the box and even then his fingers barely trace it before he takes it into them. The flames engulfing the wardrobe vanish, but the box continues to shake, the only sound in the now-silent room, even as it is placed on the bed. 

“Is there anything in that box you ought not to have?”

The boy eyes Dumbledore maliciously, with the poutiness of a petulant child caught with something he shouldn’t have, a trifle fearfully this time. He spills the box onto the bed: a YO-YO, a silver thimble, and a tarnished mouth organ.

“Why did you want these things, Tom?” Asked Dumbledore, eyeing the objects lying on the bed curiously. “I like having things that belong to other people. It makes me feel ... close to them.” “At Hogwarts, you will be taught not only how to use magic but to control it. There, thievery is neither allowed nor tolerated. Understood? You will return them to their owners with your apologies. I shall know whether it has been done.” Tom did not look remotely abashed; he was still staring coldly and appraisingly at Dumbledore, but he nodded, and Dumbledore took that as his sign that they were done for today.  “Yes, Sir.” “I’ll be going now, Tom. Leave your window open tonight. An owl will bring you a message. Read it carefully.”

Harry follows Dumbledore as he’s about to exit the room before they’re both stopped in their tracks by what leaves little Tom’s mouth. 

“I can speak to snakes too. They find me. Whisper things. Is that normal? For someone like me?” "It is unusual," said Dumbledore, after a moment's hesitation, "but not unheard of."  His tone was casual but his eyes moved curiously over Riddle's face. They stood for a moment, man and boy, staring at each other. 

Then the moment was broken. With a gesture of his hand, lamps blaze to life once more. “Did you know, Sir? Then?” “Did I know that I had just met the most dangerous Dark Wizard of all time? No. Had I…”

Dumbledore falters, his expression troubled. Harry looks up from the Pensieve, where young Tom Riddle’s fragmented face floats on the surface. 

“I had no idea that he was to grow to be what he is. However, I was certainly intrigued by him. I returned to Hogwarts intending to keep an eye upon him, something I should have done in any case, given that he was alone and friendless, but which, already, I felt I ought to do for others' sake as much as his. His powers were surprisingly well-developed for such a young wizard, and he had already discovered that he had some measure of control over them and begun to use them consciously. They were, to say, not the random experiments typical of young wizards. He was using magic against other people, to frighten, to punish, to control. 'I can make them hurt if I want to. . . .'" 

The idea of a child so young, so capable of such things already at that age was frightening to imagine.

“He was a Parselmouth,” said Harry. “Yes, indeed, he was. Just as you are, as is Miss Gaunt, her brother and father. The whole of her family.” “They are?” "A rare ability, and one supposedly connected with the Dark Arts, although as we know, there are Parselmouths among the great and the good too. In fact, his ability to speak to serpents did not make me nearly as uneasy as his obvious instincts for cruelty, secrecy, and domination," said Dumbledore "Members of the House of Gaunt communicated with each other almost exclusively in Parseltongue. The ability is hereditary as I understand it.”

You'd never mentioned that you or your brother could speak parseltongue but perhaps the right time for you to tell him so had never come. He was learning of your family’s history was anyone but you, after all. The news of the entire Gaunt family being parseltongues, made something unpleasant settle in the pit of his stomach.

He gulped the acid that burned at his troath. "You said you would tell me about Denyse Gaunt.”

Dumbledore smiled at Harry’s request and smiled. “And I shall. If before I had to rely on the claims I made on the basis of guessing when it came to Merope's story. I won't have to do the same with Denyse. I had the luck to know the woman, in a way.” He said.

“Denyse Gaunt was Marvolo’s firstborn and eldest daughter. She was born around 1899, if memory serves me right, and just like her siblings, she wasn’t allowed to attend Hogwarts by her father, despite the several letters sent to their homes. Unlike Merope, though, who you’ve seen lack taste for magic, it is my personal belief that Denyse could have made for a brilliant witch had she just gotten the proper education from the right people. To her luck, she was spared her sister’s dreary future. It seemed her brother was causing trouble way before the event we previously witnessed involving Ogden. When Denyse was sixteen, knocking at her father’s house, a minister and his assistant wanted to inquire about an accident involving her brother. The rest is history. Denyse took sight of the handsome assistant and decided she would have none of the squalid life she was made to suffer with. The case was dismissed as just a child causing mischief. Morfin, of course, listened to none of the cautionary words given to him that day. The assistant, Gunthor Fawley, was well off and carried the wealth of his house to show all —I suppose that’s what also made Denyse more convinced of the idea he would be her saviour. And he was. The boy was head over heels for the girl, who had none of her sister’s unappealing looks. One could say she bewitched him in a far more natural way than her sister did her husband. They corresponded by letter, secretly by an owl sent by him and that she received by the shore of the village and a year into their secret exploits, Denyse convinced Gunthor to take her away from her family. One night, she escaped from her window and never returned.”

He listened silently, not really knowing what to ask or add to the story of your ancestor and what she went through. He can’t begin to imagine how difficult her life must have been back then — Stuck in that house with such a family.

“After learning of her indecencies and elopement without his consent, Marvolo disowned his daughter, prohibiting anyone, especially his remaining children, to speak of her.” Said Dumbledore “It was how that branch of the family disappeared from records and how even I was unaware of their existence for so long until recently. Denyse’s children took her husband’s surname. Until her daughter, Alerie, married a certain Uthor by the surname Gaunt. Alerie and Uthor's son, Gerold, was the first Gaunt to attend Hogwarts in many a year, and I can only thank the odds he did so only after Tom Riddle had already finished his term as a student,”

Had Gerold attended earlier, if he had been born earlier, he would’ve been in the same year as Tom Riddle. Harry had no doubts that he would’ve been a part of Slytherin house, which, to Harry’s ignorance he was, and he couldn’t imagine how Voldemort would have familiarised himself with someone that was his family if by blood alone. 

“I tried to keep the Gaunts' existence a secret from Tom. It was easy enough when he believed his father to have been the wizard and not his mother, the witch. His search must have been for another Riddle, not a Gaunt. It’s unlikely he would have found much about them from a book in the library. They were largely anonymous by the time he attended Hogwarts, and those that remained shut themselves away from the world. Even if he had found something, it would have been that his mother's family were penniless outcasts with no ancient honour to their name. That was, of course, until Tom went to the Gaunts' shack one summer, two years before he graduated, to learn more about his family. I know little of the details of how he came to know of Morfin's existence, who had taken to living in squalid conditions in the house he'd inherited after his father's passing. But I know that there, as he let the boy in, Morfin had said something about Tom's mother being as 'vile as her sister Denyse' for abandoning him.”

It’s understandable that Tom wanted to know more about his parents and his past, especially given that he grew up with no one. Perhaps if Voldemort had been raised by his remaining family, or even his mother, had she survived and been blessed by something akin to love, then maybe history could have been different. And maybe Harry would not be standing here listening to all of this, scarred in both soul and body by the very men they were discussing.

“The tale of what befell Morfin that summer is one for another time, what happened to Denyse is one for tonight. By the end of the 50s, her old age had made her weary of the city. She left her family and moved far into the countryside, as I understand, to live a quiet life until she was ready to return home. I was but a professor then, and I taught Gerold personally, so imagine my surprise when Gerold and his brother Lymond mentioned that his grandmother had passed in some unknown, strange circumstances. When I visited Denyse’s residence in Scotland for some traces or signs of magic, in fear the predicament might have been far greater than I’d expected, the locals there told me that there'd been a boy who'd grown close to her, helping her around in her old age. Can you guess who?"

His heart sinks as he hears Dumbledore speak of this mysterious death. Dying alone in the countryside, with no one by her side. It sounded lonely. As he tries to process that information, he thinks harder about the boy who was close to her, helping her in her old age. Then, realisation hit him like a bludger to the gut.

"Tom," he muttered, eyes wide as he turned to look at Dumbledore. It was all coming together now.  "Correct," nodded Dumbledore. "The locals said the boy had a ‘disarming charm’ and an almost uncanny ability to make the old woman talk. He was there only briefly, but somehow, Tom managed to convince her that he was but a disarming young man wanting to help those in need of an aiding hand. He deceived her by claiming to be a boy by the name of Arthur Wallace. This happened during a period when Tom disappeared for more than ten years, the reasons as to why I’ll have to tell another time. ”

Of course, Tom was not just a disarming young man wanting to help those in need, but a boy bent on revenge—a boy determined to get rid of the woman he thought abandoned him. 

“But...why? Why would he have been seeking vengeance from her?" “Why don’t I show you?” Said Dumbledore as he walked once more to the pensive. 

The memory falling in the pensive was of the same colour as that of the last, and Harry waited only until Dumbledore reassured him that everything would be alright before dunkin' his head in the murky waters. Harry closes his eyes just as before. He feels the cold water wash over him, surrounding him like an ocean of memories. The scene around him comes to life.

He's in a room, polished and ornamented, riches clamouring around it, in a posh London house. There sits in a leather chair, Dumbledore, as young as the previous memory, if not slightly older. Before him, in a velvety chair, sits a woman just his age dressed up in clothes that seemed to fit a woman of upper class. Even she seemed uncomfortable to be there and a little unnerved -- even if the memory dwells in what Harry can only suppose to be her house.

Denyse. She looks much like you, Harry thinks, but older, refined by age, and wearier of life.

From the table dividing the two, Dumbledore grabs a cup of tea and hands it over to her. They sit in silence for a moment before Dumbledore takes something from his pocket and hands it to her: a black-and-white classroom photo bent in some places.

“Which one is it?” The woman asks. “The taller one, standing by the left,”

Harry leans over to look down, watching the photo, letting his eyes wander through the rows of students until they land on Tom. The photo is old, even for the memory Harry is watching. The students move, some smile while some sit still so as for the photographer to get their best side. He’s about fourteen, grown taller since the last memory in the orphanage. The woman takes the picture and for a moment, he notices her expression turned grim. “So, it's him" The woman's voice is cold, anger lingers in the words she speaks "The boy that ripped my sister apart.” “I'm afraid so,” he says, his voice deep but soft.

The woman’s face betrays her anger, a frown upon her lips and her forehead creased. The way she sits, with her shoulders slightly squared, shows how rigid she is from her emotions. Her hands are clenched into fists around the paper. 

“Is this what you wished to talk about?" she asked "Why? What has he done? I suppose he took after that muggle father of his, hasn’t he?” “I just wished for you to become aware of his existence" said Dumbledore "He's graduated Hogwarts for a while now and has found a job in Diagon Alley, I'm told.”

The woman’s expression turns dark, but even though a frown creases her forehead, he can sense her curiosity. 

“And what do you want me to do about it? Seek him out?” "Only if you wish," he said "Madame Fawley, he's grown his entire life alone and he does not bide well with his peers. I fear he may be heading down a dark path. Having a family by his side could do him some good."

The woman does not look convinced, her eyes trained on Tom’s figure in the photo “From what you’ve said,” she mutters, “he’s far from the innocent man you’re claiming him to be.” “I wouldn’t call him innocent either,” Dumbledore agrees. “I’ve never made him sound like anything he’s not. But do you think it’s fair to leave a child alone with so much hate inside him? I believe he can change. He’s been deprived by a family, by love.”

The woman tenses, shifting her weight from one side to the other. She looks somewhat conflicted by Dumbledore’s words, but her face remains hard. 

“What do you expect me to do?” she asks, her voice slightly less cold but still holding a hint of bitterness. “I have children, grandsons, and husband to take care of. I can’t take him in. My husband would not bide well with him. You wish for me to visit him?” “That’s the choice only you can make,” he replies. “All I ask is that you understand that the path he is currently walking on has no good end in sight. For him, and for the people around him. I’ve been suspecting as much for a while.”

A tense silence falls upon the room, the only sound coming from children playing in a room not far away. The woman takes a breath as if she’s trying to calm herself. 

“Have you told him of me?” “No, and I do not plan to,” Dumbledore answers “He does not even know that I’ve found you.” “You merely asked around.” Dumbledore’s smile grows just slightly. “A little lie to get to you. And anyway, you’ve been on my radar since your grandsons’ names have been listened to as future students.” She huffs, returning to look at the scene before her “….I'll need time...to think about it." “Take as much time as you need, but be warned," there is a slight tinge of hesitation in his voice. "Tom will likely seek you out soon enough. He’s smart and wants to make a mark on the world, I’m sure. It won’t be long before he finds out about you. The whole of you.” The woman’s face falls, a hint of worry crossing her features. “Why would he?” she says, almost afraid to know the answer. Dumbledore says nothing, the look on his face serious and heavy as if the answer to what she asked is something that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud. she widens her eyes, if slightly.

"I never meant to abandon my family" Her voice grows strong and hardened "My father was a stubborn git. I sent letters all the time, even when my husband called it a cause lost, and no one ever answered them. I tried to visit, but he would never allow me. How was I supposed to know they would fall apart in such a way? That Merope would have it in her to bewitch a man and have his child? That she would have died, birthing said baby? That he’d survived?”

Dumbledore does not say a word, simply listening to the woman speak. He can sense the sense of regret in her voice, an almost hint of shame.

“I never wanted to abandon any of them; you have to believe me. Despite all, I loved them.” she continues, her shoulders slumping a little. She looks at Dumbledore, desperation in her eyes. “But you saw my family. I had to get away; I had to escape.” “And I do not fault you for it. You were young and you wanted to escape a life that did not offer you the freedom you so wished for.”

The woman goes quiet, avoiding Dumbledore’s eyes. After a moment, she lifts her gaze again, returning her eyes to the playground outside, where Tom still stands, leaning against the tree and staring at an empty space.

"If there’s one thing I’ve learned from life,” says Dumbledore “it is that the past, no matter how much it might pain us, cannot be changed. We can only make the most of it, and prepare ourselves for the consequences of our past actions.”

The woman snorts faintly, almost amused, but there is no humour in her tone. But Denyse does not reply, as she still watches the boy in the photo as he turns to meet her eye through the paper.

She shakes her head “I-….I'll think about it”

It is then the memory ends.

Harry’s head emerges from the pensive. There is a sense of unease that washes over him. The memory lingers in his mind as he looks at Dumbledore, who is looking back, a contemplative look in his eyes.

"That was her. Wasn't It? Denyse?" he asks  “Yes,” Dumbledore replies, his voice soft. “That was Denyse Fawley, née Gaunt.” "What happened after?" Harry asks, "Did she…go? Visit him?” Dumbledore lets out a small sigh, his fingers rubbing on the pensive’s rim. “No, she didn’t….” he says, his voice soft. “At least, I don’t think she did. I tried to reach out to her a few more times and even sent her grandchildren to convince her, but she refused to see her nephew. That was the last time I saw her.”

The silence is not like the one you and Harry shared. It lingers, sticks to his skin and unfocuses his senses. This is really causing him a huge headache.

"I know I must have left you with some doubts after our last lesson. Perhaps you've grown distrustful of Miss Y/N. I want you to know I'm not here trying to humanise the myth of Tom Riddle before who he became. You'll see in time, there was never an innocent boy but only ever a festering evil. We’re here to see if there can be found a way to stop him. Miss Y/N and the last Gaunts should not have to pay for the sins of their ancestors. Their wrongs are not there for them to bear." said Dumbledore

Harry’s chest eases a little, but not completely. He knows Dumbledore’s right, and he knows that there’s no excuse for what Tom has become. Yet, it doesn’t make him think less of you. He can’t help but look at you differently now, knowing your blood is tied to such a creature…but it doesn’t disgust him, nor does it scare him. No, it doesn’t.

"I know these thoughts are hard to ease or remove altogether so I will speak of something I've kept from you."

Harry’s eyes narrow, as a sense of curiosity rushes over him. He turns his gaze to Dumbledore, expectantly.

"Over the summer I know that Voldemort has tried little of entering your mind and that you were relieved of his presence in your mind. Is that correct?" asks Dumbledore Harry’s heart sinks, the question bringing to the surface memories he didn’t want to recall. He nods his head, a small “yes” coming out of his lips.

“And that you were instead the host of another guest.”

He straightens the muscle of his face so as to not let anything cross it. He wasn’t sure how much Dumbledore knew and that if he had suspicions or heard even a whisper of what you two had been up to without knowledge, permission or consent he would not throw you out to take the blame. What if it was wrong? What if had somehow involved a type of magic you weren’t supposed to use?

Dumbledore seems to think otherwise as he smiles down at him.

"We both know who that is, no need to protect Miss Y/N, Harry. It is no secret to me what you've been conjured to after I left you to the Weasleys." smiled Dumbledore "You could say I'm in part to blame for it." 

Of course. Why would Dumbledore bring something like this up if he wasn't somehow involved? 

“Always one step ahead. Aren’t you, Sir?” “Alway” chuckled Dumbledore. Harry lets out a huff, shaking his head, and hiding a smile.  "And how, might I ask, are you exactly involved in this?” "Well, you see, after I left you off at the Weasleys, I visited a cottage hidden away in the city of Little Haven, Wales," he said "There, I asked the kind girl who opened the door if I could borrow five minutes of her time. I had the most elusive conversation I've ever had in my entire life, and I've had many.”

There’s a fodness in which Dumbledore uses that he understands. You are elusive, and when wanting to speak plainly. It’s like it is hard for you to converse as everyone else does. Not that he minds. Harry thinks it’s…cute. Even the image his mind conjures, of Dumbledore listening to you over a cup of tea as you possibly speak his ear off cracks the tension of the evening in him. 

“I’ve learned so too, Sir,” Harry said 

"I've kept Miss Y/N under my watchful eye ever since she began attending Hogwarts. Perhaps the same, if not more, that I did with Tom. I want you to know Harry that, what I asked of her that night, the favour she promised me, was only so we could keep you safe from the dark lord.” Dumbledore confessed, his words strangely pleading for him to understand "Now that we know that Voldemort has returned, you don’t think I would have allowed him to try and enter your mind as he pleased? To drive you to believe the visions of falsehood that he showed you? You're already fragile as it is, shaken by losses year by year. I was afraid he would take this to his advantage once more. I had to make sure that you were in safe hands and I could not find better ones than hers.”

Dumbledore’s words held a mix of conviction and utter belief in the decision he had made, and Harry could understand the depth of what he spoke of. Dumbledore had admittedly not made the decision with an easy mind. He’d stepped on the porch of the cottage camouflaged as a rundown little spot for the youngsters of the city to hang around still in doubt about what he was doing.

But the old man must admit, you were convincing — and determined despite the late hour he visited your family and with the way your eyes were dropping through the conversation.  They were mistaken, the professor had come to the conclusion. You were not mad nor insane, as most accounts tell. You just… dwell within a realm of reality where he has no jurisdiction or understanding, but one that Voldemort has assimilated himself with.

Dumbledore sighs deeply.  "Please, I ask it of you. Do not begrudge her for the circumstances which I put you through, I asked it of you. If you need someone to be angry at, let it be me, for I asked it all of her.”

Harry looks at Dumbledore, his lips curled in a small smile. He knows that Dumbledore did what he did to protect him, to keep him safe from the pain and suffering that comes with being the enemy of Voldemort. The thought of having you watch over him, to help protect him, is both comfortable and frightening.

“I don’t blame her for what she’s done, Sir.” he said "But, if I may ask, how does she...do it? What sort of magic is this?” “The girl is a mystery, even to me. She is young, and yet, she is wise beyond her years. She is strong and determined, and yet, there is a kind fragility in her heart. But know this, Harry. She is a pained creature, a broken soul that carries within her powers unknown even to an old soul like me. I can, I fear, only theorize it's an art derived from legimency, but then again, as you've seen for yourself and have been subjected to it, you have noticed it's none of the sorts. A gentler, kinder art on its recipient.”

It’s easy to see how broken you are, to know that you carry within yourself a story of pain that would shake even the strongest soul to its very core. He feels a pang of pity, a sense of pain for the girl who has been hurt so much that she can’t be whole anymore, but he had a feeling you would hate being pitied. You did not look like someone who had the conscience for not rising above such a thing. 

"For as to how she's able to perform them. Well, I have another theory for that. You must remember me saying that Denyse's daughter, Alerie, married a certain Uthor Gaunt, do you?" He has to think of it for a moment, but then it comes to him “Yes, Sir.” "Well, if he's no son of Marvolo and no brother of Denyse then how come Uthor shares the same surname as them? Don't you think it rather odd? From what I could only find, and I also have to do a little guessing here, Uthor's father seems to be a certain Ominis Gaunt, who attended Hogwarts around 1886. Records vary but it seemed that Ominis was blind from birth, and no spell was able to reverse that.”

Well, that’s not something you see every day. A blid wizard. Sure, he may not have been the first and will surely not be the last, but it’s not like Harry knew one himself so as to not be even slightly surprised by the revelation, if not even more interested.

“Blind? You think that’s the connection?” "I will not dare put judgment on Mr Ominis' name or character but as I understand it, his parents were the sort that only dark wizards belong to. As we've seen with the Gaunts, the apple does not fall far from the tree" muses Dumbledore "Mr Ominis graduated from Hogwarts in 1891, or so the school's records suggest. After that? Well, I don't know. We lose Ominis to the tracks of time and no records of him being seen last are left behind. I fear...he may have tried his hand into something, not of his... equilibrium and took into his matters to change that which he was looked down upon for — his sight or lack therefore and found another way to see." “You think he found some…spell? To be able to see without his eyesight?” asked Harry "If not a spell...he may have found something else. Something darker which belongs to another world. And if not darker, certainly ancient. Occlumency is one thing, what dear Miss Y/N is capable of reaches beyond the thread legimency opens to the eye.” sighs Dumbledore "I have been deprived of asking Miss Y/N. I’ve already asked much more with her to keep an eye on you and help you strengthen your minds against foreign invaders. But if she has inherited this art of hers in dark ways, I'll have to draw some records on it." Dumbledore's words suggest a hidden meaning, which Harry catches upon.

Harry’s heartbeat picks up as he picks up on the hidden meaning beneath Dumbledore’s words. He knows what he’s hinting at, but he still can’t believe it is possible that you could be… “You don’t actually believe she’s…” he doesn’t finish his thought, but he knows Dumbledore understands what he’s trying to say. “Not even in my most wicked fantasies do I think Miss Y/N is one”, Dumbledore shakes his head “I have my reasons to be positive of it, ones I will reveal to you soon but I have to be sure of this one thing. I need to know more about this talent of hers if indeed it's a gift or the result of a terrible curse.”

The relief he feels is immense as Dumbledore shoots down the idea of you being… that. It’s a silly thought, he knows, you’re nothing like Voldemort, but the fact that the thought had crossed his mind at all unsettled him. Again, he’s shaken by the idea as it resurfaces in his mind. But he’s reassured by that which had driven him from you to be confirmed false by a man that has never done him wrong.

“But how will you find out more? Is there anything about her past that will show you how she came to have this…talent of hers?” Dumbledore smiles “Well, why don’t you go and ask her? I know she would much appreciate it if the question came from someone she’s quite fond of. As you are of her, I’m sure.”

Harry’s cheeks redden slightly as he tries to hide the fact that, yes, quite fond is an understatement, and that hearing Dumbledore say so out loud makes him a little bit shy.  “I-I…” he stutters, trying to regain composure “What would I even ask her?” “Anything will do", Dumbledore said "You don't need to get a confession tomorrow, no. You’re no priest, and you’re not asking her to enter a confession. That’ll take time, but I have a strange feeling that Miss Y/N will be more than happy to speak with you after you've given her the cold shoulder for two weeks.”

Harry scratches the back of his head “I suppose I should apologise…” "While I'm sure she doesn't think she may need an apology, I do think that's a good point from where to begin a conversation.”

If you are as fond of him as Dumbledore said you were, you would’ve likely already forgiven him for being so stubborn and childish, “I will…do that,” he mutters, his mind already working on how he would go about it.  "Good. There's another memory I would have wished to show you but the hour has grown late and I would not have you slurring your words to that pretty girl if you're to make an impression.”

Harry smiles, his cheeks still tinted a bit red at the thought of making an impression on you, but he’s also curious about the memory that Dumbledore didn’t get to show him. He lets out a small sigh, both out of curiosity and disappointment. Would this one involve you or would he be shown Tom again? He wasn’t sure if he wanted to see Tom more than he had to tonight. “Another time, I assume?” “Another time” reassured Dumbledore. Harry stands from the chair, his limbs a little sore from sitting there for so long. He feels heavy, having received so much information in such a short amount of time. He gives Dumbledore a small, tired smile. “Thank you, Professor,” before he makes his way to the door. "And Harry...if I may" Dumbledore's voice stops him suddenly, as his hand is on the doorknob. He turns back to the professor, his eyebrows furrowed in question.

"Never lose that which you are, Harry" The man’s eyes are soft and warm, but there is so much meaning behind the words. They make Harry’s heart swell as the words wash over him. He gives Dumbledore a small nod 

“Yes, Sir” is all he can muster, knowing that Dumbledore has just given him more to think about on his journey back to the common room.

. ⚯ ͛

Taglist: @dovellici

[beware-of-pity]

Pythia Hiereia - IV

Masterlist I Ao3 link I Chapter Three - Next

Harry James Potter x Reader

Tw: Mature and Explicit/Graphic depictions of violence.

Summary :

Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle.

Chapter IV: This is a happy house (We're happy here, in the happy house)

. ⚯ ͛

The change of robes had been a hasty affair.

He did not wish to be reprimanded for entering the hall in his ‘muggle’ clothes.

When he reunited with you and Luna just at the steps of the door, his nose was still pouring out blood, even if less than before.

The handkerchief you’d given him was soaked red. The white cotton was sure to be left stained no matter how much washed it would be.

He felt bad.

It was a pretty thing with embroideries on the sides. He could spy the protruding needlework mark songbirds and roses, once blue and now a crusty deep red.

Blue. The same colour as the tie, stripes and crest of your uniform, the same as Luna’s beside you.

Ravenclaw.

Of course, you are. He thought. Fitting, he supposed. Great minds think alike, after all.

Therefore, it must have been you; he could only assume — the roommate Luna was talking about on the train.

Everywhere and nowhere at once, Luna was right. If until a month ago he didn’t know of your existence, it was as if you had entangled yourself in every way his life went.

The Great Hall was already brimming with students when the three of you walked in. Several students looked up from their meals, their gazes lingering on his blood-stained handkerchief and nose. In the light of the hall, Harry’s blood-spattered face is quite the sight.

Hermione spins, watching the three of you approach, concern etched on her face.

He leaves you and Luna to take his seat at the Gryffindor table, Ginny beside him, while you, hand in hand with Luna, walk towards the seats Choo had left you two.

His eye spies with his hand the way your cloak sways in the air and your hair bounces behind you, your perfume lingering up his nose still.

“Where’ve you been, Harry? And what happened to your face?” Hermione urges in great worry.

“Later” he dismisses “What I’ve missed?”

“Sorting Hat urged us all to be brave and strong in these troubled times -- easy for it to say -- it’s a hat, isn’t it? First Years seemed to enjoy it, though. Wankers.” Ron shrugs as he continues stuffing his pace with the gelatine in his golden plate.

Harry steals a spoonful of it, gulping the only bit of dinner he’ll get tonight.

He hadn’t noticed Ginny and Hermione’s eyes eying the handkerchief with curiosity.

“Where’d you get this from?” Asked Ginny, taking it from him and offering a damp napkin which to clean himself with.

Harry took the napkin, trying to clean the blood from his nose, which had now stopped leaking. "from a friend," he muttered. The vagueness of the response was not lost on his friends.

The indistinction of his answer leaves Hermione and Ginny in an exchange of bewilderment, but they don't press on further, which he is grateful for.

He was in no mood to discuss exactly how he had gotten the handkerchief at all.

“Like the one you came in with? Who was that beside Luna?” Asks Ron in great amusement.

Tease. Frowns Harry. He was sure Ron knew who you were, to a degree, and was just asking for the thrill of the game. He shoots him a warning glare.

"A friend," he repeats, more conviction in his words again, more emphasis on the word.

Before Ron can continue his prodding, the light in the Hall dims gently, and all eyes turn to Dumbledore, standing at the top of the Hall, ashen hand raised to the enchanted ceiling, where clouds respond to his gestures and shroud a gleaming full moon.

Dumbledore always knew how to gain the attention of his students, and it was no different this time.

“What happened to his hand?” Hermione whispers in horror at the sight of the darkened flesh of the professor.

“It was like this the last I saw of him, too,” he tells her, his eyes too stuck on the raised hand.

“The very best of evenings to you! New and old. First off, please join me in welcoming the newest member of our staff, Horace Slughorn.”

Slughorn raises from his seat, plump cheeked from the feast, a few buttons of his big waistcoated loose to let his stomach breathe from his indulgence. He smiles at the future arrays of students and possibilities laid before him.

“Professor Slughorn, I’m happy to say, has agreed to resume his old post of Potions master. Meanwhile, the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts will be assumed by Professor Snape.”

The news is met with stunned silence. Harry groans in his head, and were it not for the bang he took to the head earlier, he might have let his bump on the table right now.

“Now, as you know, each and every one of you was searched upon your arrival tonight. You have a right to know why.” A beat, then “Once there was a young man who, like you, sat in this very Hall. Walked this castle’s corridors. Slept beneath its roof. He seemed, to all the world, a student like any other. His name? Tom Riddle.”

The silence is deafening as the name of the darkest wizard of all is uttered so casually, too. It had become easy enough to speak of Voldemort as Voldemort and not as ‘You-Know-Who’. But Tom Riddle? Harry wasn’t sure he was ready to humanise him in such a way as a figure.

“Today, of course, the world knows him by another name. Which is why, as I stand looking out upon you all tonight, I am reminded of a sobering fact. Each day, every hour, this very minute perhaps, dark forces attempt to penetrate this castle. But in the end, their greatest weapon remains… you.”

He knows Dumbledore enough to know his eyes are not just wandering the sea of students for nothing. When his eyes stop, Harry finds that they’ve landed on you.

Dread rises up his troath and washes over him.

Harry turns his eye to watch on you. As unbothered as ever, you hold the gaze of the professor. An understanding is shared between you two.

Dumbledore smiles before his eyes flick to the Slytherin table, where they stare intently at a boy older than he and you —Harry’s do so, too.

He forces his eye to transcend past your figure to watch over him as well.

Tall and lean-faced, he has the cheekbones of a sphynx.

The likeness does not bypass him. When their eyes met, he was taken aback by the same striking eyes you stare at him with.

The same but not in colour.

Whereas yours are alive despite your disposition, his are dull, empty of the life yours alight with.

For a moment, he thinks, Sirius is staring at him again. A younger version of his godfather comes alive once more in this man.

His eyes are adorned with sunk dark caverns that highlight the light colour of his eyes. White, almost, if not grey. His by nature or not, Harry could not decide, but as they narrow in silent fury, he snaps his away from them to land on the seat beside his. On his white-haired companion — Draco.

He slouched low, lazily levitating a fork with his wand as if Dumbledore were unworthy of attention.

He can’t resist the urge to sneer lowly at the blatant show of disregard. Draco's arrogance and lack of respect knew no bounds. No matter the circumstances, the boy never fails to irk him, and Harry has not forgotten their earlier altercation.

This back-and-forth of eyes moving around the room seems to last an eternity, but in reality, it is but a moment lost in time before Dumbledore returns to end his speech.

“Just something to keep in mind. Now, off to bed. Pip pip!”

As Dumbledore dismissed the hall, a collective sigh of relief echoed through the students. Exhaustion washes over Harry and sets deep in his bones.

The day had started with the excitement of seeing Hogwarts again and had ended with the prospect of dark forces trying to penetrate Hogwarts.

His head was hurting just by thinking about it.

"That was cheerful" comments Ron with a small scoff as they rise from the table.

"Yeah," he said dryly, "A real morale booster.”

The heavy atmosphere lingers in the air and sets deep inside of him. The younger students are none the wiser to the implications of tonight’s speech as their chatter fills the air like a song of many voices, eager to be escorted to their common room for the first time in many to come.

Ginny taps his shoulder as they walk, returning him the bloodied handkerchief and it is then, just as he turns to regard her, that he catches the sight of you and that boy talking together.

He freezes just as he is about to put the handkerchief in his pocket, his eyes fixated on you two. There is something in the way you two conversed together that sets him on edge — the closeness, the familiarity, the hand that grips at your arm, protectively and angrily.

Two sides of the same coin and It is only as he sees the two of you side by side, just at the steps of the grand staircase he’d climbed halfway through, that it dawns on him that this boy is the brother Slughorn was insistent about earlier on the train.

It’s uncanny, he thinks. The theatrics of personalities coming alive. You were quiet, calm, almost demure, while from the short and brief interaction, he’s had with him, your brother seemed arrogant, cold, and proud. A true Slytherin, as green as spring grass, the same colour as his robes.

He couldn’t call it a proper ‘interaction’, for it would not be fair, and Harry was a fair person.

They’ve barely met the other's eye, and he was sure that to your brother, he might have come off as a pipping creep for staring at him from where he sat three tables over.

He can see that your brother is in a frenzy about what he’s inquiring about. Harry wishes he were closer so he could hear whatever it was clearly, but alas, he can only slow his steps to delay his departure from the scene any further. Ron, Ginny and Hermione don’t notice his slacking in climbing the steps as they advance forward in order to catch the stair in time, while his feet move to a slow drag as snippets of your brother’s low voice reach his ear.

"Where were you? I was looking for you everywhere, and then in you come, with Potter of all people. Haven’t I told you to stay away from him?”

It is one thing to hear Malfoy’s drawl; it’s another when he hears it from others. He frowned in confusion at the discontent your brother’s voice laced with when speaking his name and the insistence in which he urged you to not engage with him.

"Haven't I told you to be careful? Hasn't Father warned you enough? It's dangerous out there, Y/N! You can't go waltzing around as you please anymore.”

“I can take care of myself.” You neither flinched nor reacted to your brother’s harsh tone.

You knew him better than he did. He didn’t suppose you would shout in his face the few choices of words that came into his mind as he would.

“You think you'll be able to fend yourself against death eaters were they to come knocking at our door? Do you think this is a game you can play the way you do? You can't!” your brother heaved “Why do you wish to let me know what it is to come close to losing you?”

The pain in your brother’s voice was as clear as the night sky outside. He cared for you deeply, and Harry could hear the concern behind his harsh words. He could understand his fear for your safety, even if he didn’t agree with the way he expressed it.

He couldn't help but stare from his shoulder in fascination as you rose on your toes to place a kiss on your brother's cheek. It was a gesture of comfort, a wordless act of reassurance, and despite all, it seemed to come effortlessly from you. He wondered if that's what it was like to have a sibling — someone who would care for you and worry about you like that.

Your brother sighed as you did so. The harsh lines on his face softened slightly at your affectionate gesture.

Harry felt a pang of envy in his chest. It was a tender moment between a brother and a sister, it wasn't meant for his eyes. He felt like an intruder, a witness in something so private and intimate.

He slips away before he can hear what you say to your brother.

“My brother.My dearest brother.” You whisper to him tenderly, “You are not prepared for what is to come, and it will hurt you. But don’t worry, I’m with you, Leyton. I love you.”

Your brother is pained, he shows as much. His eyes are weary and wet as he places a hand on your cheek.

"I just want to protect you," he mutters.

You place a hand on his and give him a gentle squeeze, a silent reassurance.

"I know.”

He knows that he cannot protect you forever, but for a moment, he can cling to that hope as he draws a shaky breath and kisses your forehead.

That night, Harry finds no sleep, even back in the comforts of the warm bed with red and yellow beddings. But neither does Ron, apparently.

The two talk for hours on end before they truly grow tired.

Ron asks about Harry’s nose, and Harry is lucky enough that Ron has known him for so long that he doesn’t laugh at the tale. In turn, Harry tells him what he heard before the altercation. 

“Come on, Harry, he was just showing off for Parkinson. What kind of mission would You-Know-Who have given him?”

“How d'you know Voldemort doesn't need someone at Hogwarts?” Argues Harry.

“Whatever for would he?” Shrugs Ron.

Harry shakes his head, knowing it's a losing battle. He knows his suspicions are not unfounded, but perhaps a part of him understands why Ron didn't believe him. Ron is a logical person, even if he is a bit dense at times.

"You're not taking Care of Magical Creatures this year, are you?" Ron shook his head.

"And you're not either, are you?" Harry shook his head, too. "And Hermione," said Ron, "she's not, is she?"

“I think not. I’m also not taking Divination.”

Ron snorts but tries to hide behind a sneeze. Harry knows better.

“What’s so funny, huh?”

"Oh, nothing" Ron mutters, trying to maintain a straight face.

“Come on, Ron, I heard you already. Spill it," said Harry

"It's nothing, just-" Ron tries, but he bites his lip to muffle a chuckle "That girl. Abelar's daughter. She's like the best in our class in divination. Wouldn't have thought you would drop out now that you've got a friend such as her to help you out.”

The emphasis on the word “friend” was not lost on Harry.

“We know each other," he said dryly.

"Since when?" Ron is confused, and perhaps he’s right to be. "Have you actually ever met her before tonight? You didn't even know of her existence until what? a few hours ago?”

"I know her well enough.”

But he doesn't. Sure, you two have this thing where for an entire month of his summer, you've done nothing but enter his head, make him see dreams you wished for him to dream, whisper some intelligible words he's supposed to pass as prophetic and warn him against the danger coming by the result of Voldemort's return. But apart from that, what was there he knew? That you were fond of walking? That you smell of vanilla and warm cotton sheets? That you like ribbons?

Harry sighs.

"She seems nice” The words feel wrong as they come out of his mouth.

Nice isn't enough to define you at all. You are captivating, fascinating, bewitching, and strange… but "nice" feels almost offensive… to you. You’ve been more than nice. You’d saved his skin a few hours prior when you had no obligation to. Not everyone would do that.

“Sure she is” murmured Ron “She’s weird.”

“That’s rude, Ron”, argues Harry, and all of a sudden, he’s ready to defend your honour as if it meant the death of him.

"You don't know the whole of it, Harry. She used to come visit the burrow with her lot of the family. Mom’s relatives, distant and all. One time, there was an accident. I was eight or something. She'd been murmuring and muttering things all day to herself, attached to her father’s hip. Then, he leaves a moment, you turn your back, and next thing you know, she's on the floor, convulsing as her eyes roll back, and she’s choking on her tongue while she turns blue. I had nightmares for days on end.”

"That's terrible", Harry mutters, feeling sympathy for you. "But she was a child too, Ron. Whatever it was, can you fault it on her?" "No, I suppose not" he responded quietly after a few moments.

"Then, it's hardly fair to call her weird, is it?”

"I guess not" he concedes with a reluctant sigh."Just…be careful, alright? There’s something about her…”

The ceiling of the Great Hall was serenely blue and streaked with frail, wispy clouds, just like the squares of the sky visible through the high-mullioned windows as they tucked into porridge and eggs and bacon the morning after.

The distribution of class schedules was more complicated than usual this year, for Professor McGonagall needed first to confirm that everybody had achieved the necessary O.W.L. grades to continue with their chosen N.E.W.T.s.

Turns out that spending his free period watching the parade of confused first-years wandering around trying to find their way was more entertaining than he thought, especially when it got Professor McGonagall in a frenzy.

Until it wasn’t, and in a moment, he’s beckoned forward by her with a disapproving shake of her head as he ‘swarm upstream’.

“Enjoying ourselves, are we?”

“I’ve had a free period this morning, professor—“

“So I’ve noticed” McGonagall chastised. “I would think you’d want to fill it with Potions. Or is it no longer your ambition to become an Auror?”

“W-Well” he stutters “It was but I was told I had to get an Outstanding in my O.W.L. —“

“And so you did when Professor Snape was teaching Potions. However, Professor Slughorn is perfectly happy to accept N.E.W.T. students with ‘Exceeds Expectations.’” She smiled, oh so happily.

“Really? Well… brilliant. I’ll head there straight away”

“Good. And take Weasley with you. He looks far too happy over there.”

He does, and Ron has not stopped complaining about it still, arguing he had to practice for the Quidditch tryouts.

The class is packed, and the both of them look like two deers out of the headlight as everyone turns to stare at them the moment they enter. But they’re not embarrassed enough not to wrestle for the newer copy of the textbook in the abandoned cupboard. In the end, Ron stands triumphant as he goes off grinning, while Harry is left to stand defeated with the old, shabby and soiled copy.

As they settle in place among the crowd watching Hermione explaining the functions of Amortetia, Harry’s eyes settle on the little vial held in a ladle.

“You haven’t told us what’s in that one?” Ketie Bell asks.

“Ah, yes!” Slughorn smiles “What you see before you, ladies and gentlemen, is a curious little potion known as Felix Felicis. But it is more commonly referred to as —“

Before even Hermione can but in, a voice in the back calls for the name.

“Liquid Luck.”

A buzz runs through the class. Even Malfoy perks up. The crowd parts, their heads turning in the direction of the sound, even Harry’s.

Your eyes and his meet in a locked battle of who can withstand the longest the sight of the other.

Today, you seem light. Your hair is not loose but up into a loose updo. He can spy the lilac strings holding it together.

It gives you an almost juvenile look. It makes you look younger, and the fact that your eyes were not as sunken as they usually were may be the result of a good night's sleep. Which you much need, you must admit.

You smile his way, in that heavenly but soulless way that carries a thousand agonies.

But while he held the sight with no problem, those beside you look as if they have seen a ghost. Some back away, if slightly, in startled surprise from you.

"Yes, Miss Gaunt.Correct!" grins Slughorn. You were really proving his words on the train yesterday right, and it was just the first day of classes.

"Ten points to Ravenclaw. Now, this potion is desperately tricky to make. Disastrous should you get it wrong. One sip and you will find that all your endeavours succeed… at least until the effects wear off.”

Harry watches Hermione’s shoulders sag at being preceded for the answer, and he smiles at her reassuringly.

"But be warned!” Slughorn adds in a solemn voice “Taken in excess, it may cause overconfidence and recklessness. So. This is what I offer each of you today. One tiny vial of liquid luck to the student who, in the hour that remains, manages to brew an acceptable Draught of Living Death, the recipe for which can be found on page ten of your book.”

Excitement seizes the class, and Slughorn smiles knowingly.

“You should know that in all the years of my previous tenure at Hogwarts, not once did a student brew a potion of sufficient quality to claim this prize. In any event — good luck! Let the brewing commence.”

The four Slytherins took a table together, as did the four Ravenclaws, including you. To his luck, his table and yours were not far from each other. That meant he could blissfully gaze whenever he wanted from across Hermione’s shoulder and there you would be, working on your own potion.

He tries not to think about it too much, as he finally opens the used book, only to find something else to worry about. The margins of the page before him are black with the tight scribblings of a previous owner. As he turns on the following, rows of graffiti, or rather notes, fill the pages going forth through the book.

Shaking his head, Harry runs his finger under the first printed instruction for one cauldron of Draught of Living Death.

“Cut up one Sopophorous bean.”

That had not proved to be the most useless of instructions, for the whole potion was wriggling with imperfections and misleading him in all ways. His silver dagger had not made a dent on the bean he was supposed to cut open. He had to instead duck from Ron’s bean, who shot across the room to bounce off Katie’s head.

Upon further inspection, Harry finds that everyone is struggling, not just to cut the resistant legume. He considers the instruction again. He notices an arrow has been drawn from the word “Cut” to the margin, where a modification has been written in the tight scrawl:

“Crush with blade -- releases juice better.”

Harry considers the dagger in his hand, then places the flat of the blade against the bean and presses. Instantly, the protective parchment covering the desk runs red with juice.

Despite his progress, Hermione is insistent that whatever he’s doing is wrong, even as doubt begins to gum at her when her potion goes awry midway through the process. But as he proceeded on, he and his mind were as calm as the gentle draft from the mountain on the horizon outside the window.

His eyes are divided between his cauldron, the book and you, who had sat on one of the stools, reading your textbook intently, your cauldron long forgotten. You do so without a care in the world, even as Slughorn comes to eye down on it and frowns at your lack of activity.

“Not working on your potion, Miss Gaunt?” Slughorn asks, his frown of disapproval making him look more like a bearded bulldog.

You look up from your book, unbothered by his words, as you smile at him in that way that makes the professor bristle.

“This potion's all wrong, Professor.” You affirm, leaving him in speechless confusion.

He can't help but snicker, if only under his breath. Hermione, beside him, is staring at you, too, wide-eyed, mouth agape at the blunt way in which you had chosen to answer the professor.

But Slughorn, as he often does in these situations, laughs it off.

“I suppose you need not worry about failing, now, do you?”

“I know I won’t, Sir”

Slughorn chuckled again as he patted your slumped form on the shoulder.

“Of course you won’t.” He mutters, before moving on as if to look over Malfoy’s progress, cut had just cut himself, cursing.

Harry, cool as a cucumber, adds one last ingredient, steps back, done…

Hermione, hair like Medea now, glowers at him.

Slughorn drops a rose petal in his cauldron, the two, or rather four, well five if he counts you as well, of them at the table, watch as it drops on the pearly sheer bubbling liquid.

“Merlin’s Beard! It is perfect. So perfect I daresay one drop would kill us all! Your mother was a dab hand at potions, but this… My, my, what can’t you do, m’boy? Perhaps you will save us all in the end…”

But his success is not met with the same enthusiasm by the exhausted crowd that stands before him as he’s handed the vial signifying his success.

“Here you are then, as promised. One bottle of Felix Felicis. Use it well.”

One clap, another reluctant follows until they’re all clapping.

But not you.

No, you just stare at him with that knowing look of yours as your eyes skim his face to land on the hand behind his back that holds the book to him secretly.

Harry knows you know about the book, he can feel it. And he can’t help but feel like a hypocrite under your stare. A fraud, almost, for how he had come to achieve such a success.

But he doesn’t dwell on it as much as he would like to. Because as his gaze locks with yours once more, the look of boredom on your face is gone, replaced by an almost…pride. He has no words for it.

Harry slipped the tiny bottle of golden liquid into his inner pocket, feeling an odd combination of delight at the furious looks on the Slytherins' faces and guilt at the disappointed expression on Hermione's. Ron looked simply dumbfounded.

The rest of the day was spent flying between lessons to lessons, but alas, to his dismay he didn’t see the likes of you until the evening. And in the most unexpected way.

Dumbledore has called for him to his office, through a letter given to him by Jack Sloper, one of the Beaters on last year's Gryffindor Quidditch team, who was more interested in asking him when he would hold the tryouts than why he was delivering a letter from the headmaster to him.

It was late at night and for all rights, he should not be out of his bed, room, or common room altogether, but with the special permission he held between his hands, he was free to roam his way to the office as he pleased, taking as long as he liked.

He reached the spot in the seventh-floor corridor where a single gargoyle stood against the wall.

"Acid Pops," was the word he’d been given instructions to use, and the gargoyle leapt aside; the wall behind it slid apart, and a moving spiral stone staircase was revealed, onto which Harry stepped so that he was carried in smooth circles up to the door with the brass knocker that led to Dumbledore's Office.

He stopped just a few paces short of the office's door as he heard two voices coming from inside of it. His ears perked, and he paused, his hand hovering over the handle, listening curiously.

"Say, my dear. Have you made any progress with him?”

that was Dumbledore's voice, he was sure, but who was he speaking with?

"I think so, Sir" the voice responded "He's troubled. His mind is dark. Filled with the darkest of times, memories, and visions. He's plagued, but he remains strong and valiant…The road ahead is uncertain, but the end is clear. I can see it.”

You took a deep breath, one that filled your lungs and made your chest burn like fire.

“When the dark dims, and the sun sets, his presence in him shall end.”

It’s you. He knows it's you. He's grown accustomed to the way you speak. But there’s something in you. Something he can only recall to the night in the forest. Your voice, soft, feminine and as breathy as always holds the same authority as Dumbledore’s. A sureness as firm and calm as a sea on a moonless night.

"His presence…" Dumbledore echoed, his voice solemn as if the very words haunted him.

"That sounds rather poetic, my dear," he hears a hint of a smile in the man’s voice. "I suppose we should trust your judgment on the matter. I know better than to question your judgment by now. But say. You are sure of this?" He asks

"As sure as I can be" you affirmed "As sure as the oracles are.”

“The oracles have been wrong before, you know?”

“But I’ve never been.”

“That remains to be seen”, he mused “But your confidence is admirable, to say the least. Very well, my dear. You've done as I've asked, and for that, you have my graciousness, but i'm afraid that we must end our conversation short, for we are not alone anymore.”

The door flows open before Harry, surely by the flick of magic, revealing his form before he can hide. Dumbledore smiled at him from where he sat at his desk, and before it stood you, who tilted your head in that captivating way of yours.

He stiffens under the watchful eyes. Dumbledore smiled a benevolent smile at his discomfort.

“Ah, there you are, Harry. I trust you had little trouble finding your way here?”

"Yes, Sir" his voice is as weary as his form as he steps into the office. He eyes the open pensive on the side. "You wanted to see me?”

“Quite right” Dumbledore regards you with a warm smile “Thank you, Y/N. We will finish this conversation another time.”

You nod, giving him one last look before leaving the office and closing the door behind you. His nose catches the scent of puff pastry lingering among all the others he’s become familiar with. He waits until the sound of your steps fades before turning back to Dumbledore.

“How are you?”

The question is simple but it makes Harry smile.

“I’m fine, Sir.”

“Enjoying your classes? Professor Slughorn for one is most impressed by you.”

“I think he overestimates my abilities, sir.” He chuckled sheepishly.

“Do you?”

“Definitely”

Dumbledore smiles affectionately, a twinkle in his eye, and nods.

“That young lady doesn’t.”

Harry feels his face warm ever so slightly. The twinkle in the old man’s eye is almost as if he could read Harry’s mind.

“She tells me lots about you" the man comments offhandedly "It's no wonder, I presume, after the time you two have spent together.”

The twinkle in Dumbledore’s eye has turned sharper, observant almost, and Harry can’t but feel like Dumbledore is trying to read all the thoughts in his head.

It’s almost like the man had known about your little…dream encounters.

"Quite pretty she is, no?”

That snaps him out of his thoughts. "What?" he asked, his voice a bit too quick.

Dumbledore chuckled, a knowing smile on his face.

"I said, she's quite pretty, isn't she?" he repeated his tone light.

"Um…yeah," Harry replied, a bit unsure of where this conversation was going.

"Very bright too," said Dumbledore "Though, I do suppose she does not play the part well"

Harry raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” He asked, feeling as if he was purposely being played at. You did that often enough.

"Unfortunately for our dear Y/N, her sight got the better of her when she was born," said Dumbledore "Some may perceive her as rather…odd. Different, no? But, as I used to say, it is what's beneath the surface that shows the true iron beneath. But on the contrary to what people might think, that one is a very bright and reasonably good witch at that. That and much more she is," he smiled "I'm sure in time, you will see what she's able to do as well.”

He took every single word in, absorbing it as if he were a dry sponge. He mulled the words, taking care not to put his own bias in them. He was silent for a moment, thinking, before finally speaking up again. Sight? he would have to ask about that later.

"How do you know so much about her, Professor?”

"I know much and more. Harry" Dumbledore said, before standing from his chair "but why don't I show it to you?"

The look on Harry’s face is one of confusion and curiosity as Dumbledore stepped around from his desk and made his way to the pensive. He swings open a cabinet where dozens upon dozens of glittering vials stand like tiny glimmering soldiers.

"You said, at the end of last term, you were going to tell me everything," said Harry. It was hard to keep a note of accusation from his voice. "Sir," he added.

"And so I did," said Dumbledore placidly. "I told you everything I know. From this point forth, we shall be leaving the firm foundation of fact and journeying together through the murky marshes of memory into thickets of wildest guesswork. From here on in, Harry, I may be as woefully wrong as Humphrey Belcher, who believed the time was ripe for a cheese cauldron."

"But you think you're right?" said Harry.

"Naturally I do, but as I have already proven to you, I make mistakes like the next man. Being — forgive me — rather cleverer than most men, my mistakes tend to be correspondingly huger. Mine own mind does not stand the test of time, and  time fades like a memory, which is why sometimes we must rely on murky methods to remember.”

Harry looked at the pensive then between Dumbledore and the basin, his curiosity slowly growing with every word out of Dumbledore's mouth, only to be followed with more and more questions as Dumbledore spoke.

"You look worried."

Harry had indeed been eyeing the Pensieve with some apprehension. His previous experiences with the odd device that stored and revealed thoughts

and memories, though highly instructive, had also been uncomfortable. The last time he had disturbed its contents, he had seen much more than he would have wished. But Dumbledore was smiling.

“I’m just…confused. I feel..like a pawn in some bigger game I’m not playing at,” said Harry, voice quiet.

Dumbledore gave him a sympathetic and perhaps a bit guilty look as he placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

"I am sorry, Harry," he said, sincerely "I know you have been burdened with so much. So much has been left on your shoulders, and it is far too unfair. But it is a necessary burden. I have confidence, in you, in your courage and in your strength. There is a long journey ahead, Harry, but I have every faith in you. You will not carry it alone.”

He gave the man a bitter smile. Who would choose this path willingly? All those who wished to be the ‘Chosen One’, how much would they still wish for the same if they were standing here right now?

The memory falls in the waters of the pensive as it swims along its current. He pushed his face in, and in a moment, he was no longer in the comforts of Dumbledore’s office, where the warmth of the fireplace seeped in him, and the dim light almost made him sleepy.

He’s in a country lane, bordered by high, tangled hedgerows, beneath a summer sky as bright and blue as a forget-me-not. Some ten feet in front of him stands a short, plump man wearing enormously thick glasses that reduced his eyes to molelike specks.

He follows after him as the man sets off on a frisky walk. Nothing on the horizon graces this short way, with nothing to see but the hedgerows, the wide blue sky overhead and the swishing, frock-coated figure ahead.

Harry could see a village, undoubtedly Little Hangleton from what Dumbledore had told him, nestled between two steep hills, its church and graveyard clearly visible.

Across the valley, set on the opposite hillside, was a handsome manor house surrounded by a wide expanse of velvety green lawns.

He follows him onto a narrow dirt track bordered by higher and wilder hedgerows than those they had left behind. The path was crooked, rocky, and potholed, sloping downhill like the last one, and it seemed to be heading for a patch of dark trees a little below them.

Despite the cloudless sky, the old trees ahead cast deep, dark, cool shadows, and it took Harry's eyes the beat of a moment before they could discern the building half-hidden amongst the tangle of trunks.

Harry knows it’s there the man is heading.

Its walls were mossy, and so many tiles had fallen off the roof that the rafters were visible in places. Nettles grew all around it, their tips reaching the windows, which were tiny and thick with grime. It looks inhabited, and it should be by its condition, but there are signs of life all around it if one has a keen eye to spy on it.

Like, the dead snake some had nailed by the front door.

The place in front of him leaves him a furry of thoughts, all snapped away by the sound of a rustle and a crack, and the show of a man in rags dropping from the nearest tree.

“You’re not welcome.” He hisses, but the man before him does not seem to understand the boy.

The boy — or man?—  had thick hair so matted with dirt it could have been any colour. Several of his teeth were missing. His eyes were small and dark and stared in opposite directions, almost serpentinely. He might have looked comical, but he did not. He was frightening, and Harry could not blame the man for backing away several more paces, as he did, as well as if he might be affected by the memory himself before he spoke.

“Good morning. I'm from the Ministry of Magic —" "You're not welcome."

"Er — I'm sorry — I don't understand you,” the man said, nervously.

But Harry does. He understands well.

Parseltongue. A sibilistic sound.

The boy in rags was now advancing on the man, knife in one hand, wand in the other. Until a bang and the man was on the ground, clutching his nose in pain.

”Morfin!" said a loud voice, angry, raging from the cottage, where an elderly man came hurrying out of, banging the door behind him so that the dead snake swung pathetically.

This one is even shorter than the first and oddly proportioned. With shoulders broad and arms too long and grown. His bright brown eyes, short scrubby hair, and wrinkled face gave him the look of a powerful, aged, distorted monkey. He came to a halt beside the boy with the knife, who was now cackling with laughter at the sight of Ogden on the ground.

"Ministry, is it?" said the older man, looking down at Ogden.

"Correct!" The one on the ground shouts angrily, dabbing his face. "And you, I take it, are Mr. Gaunt?"

Gaunt. The name leaves Harry’s troath dry and his lungs without breath. This is your family, your blood. And the scene before him suddenly makes much more sense.

"Should've made your presence known, shouldn't you?" said Gaunt aggressively. "This is private property. Can't just walk in here and not expect my son to defend himself."

“From what?!”

“Busybodies and Intruders like you! Muggles and filth." Mr Gaunt spoke out of the corner of his mouth to Morfin. "Get in the house. Don't argue."

Morfin looks over at him with a resentful look, before disappearing inside the house, the door banging shut behind him.

"It's your son I'm here to see, Mr. Gaunt!” argues the man, as he mops after himself "That was Morfin, wasn't it?"

“What’d you want from him?”

“We sent an owl —"

“I've no use for owls," said Gaunt. "I don't open letters."

"Then you can hardly complain that you get no warning of visitors," said Ogden tartly. "I am here following a serious breach of Wizarding law, which occurred here in the early hours of this morning —"

“Alright, alright. Just get in the bleeding house!!”

The house is tiny, and so are its rooms. It’s cramped, maybe just like the cupboard he used to sleep in. Two doors led off the main room, used both as a kitchen and living room combined. Morfin is off to the side, sitting in a filthy armchair beside the smoking fire, twisting a live adder between his thick fingers and crooning softly at it in Parseltongue.

A scuffling noise in the corner beside the open window takes on Harry’s attention as he realises there is somebody else in the room with them.

A girl wearing a ragged grey dress the exact colour of the dirty stone wall behind her. She was standing beside a steaming pot on a grimy black stove, her hair a lanky and dull brown and a plain, pale, rather heavy face set in a frown. Her eyes, like her brother's, stared in opposite directions. She looked a little cleaner than the two men, but Harry thought he had never seen a more defeated-looking person.

"M'daughter, Merope," said Gaunt grudgingly as Ogden looked inquiringly toward her.

“That’s two. May I inquire about your eldest? Denyse Gau-“

“Do not speak that blasted name in my house!” howls Gaunt “That bitch is dead to me! To all of us! She chose her new ‘family’ over us! I will not have her be spoken of in my presence or in this house! I’ll be dead before that happens!"

At the raging, the girl looks up, fear evident on her face.

“Ssh!” she muttered, casting a horrified look at her father “Do you want Morfin to hear you -?”

"I don’t care!” snarled Gaunt, his face purpling with rage again. “Let him hear it anyway! He knows too what your sister has chosen! Money, riches over her own blood!”

The girl seemed more frightened than ever at her father’s words. She muttered something inaudible as she went back to her work by the stove.

The man in the coat seems almost as nervous as the girl, his eyes flickering towards Morfin, who is still sitting in the armchair with the snake in his hands.

“Mr. Gaunt," said the man with caution, “I’m not here for your family’s quarrels. I have reason to believe that your son, Morfin, performed magic in front of a Muggle late last night.”

There was a deafening clang. Merope had dropped one of the pots.

"Pick it up!" Gaunt bellowed at her. "That's it, grub on the floor like some filthy Muggle. What’s your wand for, you useless sack of muck?"

"Mr. Gaunt," Ogden began again, "as I've said: the reason for my visit —"

"I heard you the first time!" snapped Gaunt. "And so what? Morfin gave a Muggle a bit of what was coming to him. What about it, then?"

“Morfin has broken Wizarding law,” said Ogden, clenching his hands inside his pockets “The Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery.”

He pulled from an inside pocket a small scroll of parchment and unrolled it.

"What's that, then, his sentence?" said Gaunt, his voice rising angrily.

"It is a summons to the Ministry for a hearing —"

"Summons! Summons? Who do you think you are, summoning my son anywhere?"

"I'm Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad," argues Ogden.

"And you think we're scum, do you?" screamed Gaunt, advancing on the man with a dirty yellow-nailed finger pointing at his chest. "Scum, who'll come running when the Ministry tells 'em to? Do you know who you're talking to, you filthy little Mudblood, do you?"

The fear is clear as day on Ogden's face at Gaunt's outburst. But his voice remains strong as he replies.

"I was under the impression that I was talking to Mr. Gaunt. And I seem to have a memory of the conversation turning to your son Morfin rather than yourself.”

“You are speaking to him!” Roared Gaunt.

For a moment, Harry thought Gaunt was making an obscene hand gesture, but then realized that he was showing Ogden the ugly, black-stoned ring he was wearing on his middle finger, waving it before the man’s eyes with great pride.

"See this? See this? Know what it is? Know where it came from? Centuries it's been in our family, that's how far back we go, and pure-blood all the way! Know how much I've been offered for this, with the Peverell coat of arms engraved on the stone?"

The man tries to dismiss Gaunt’s flaunting, but with a howl of rage, Gaunt runs toward his daughter. Harry’s heartbeat to a mile as he thought he was going to throttle her as his hand flew to her throat. His feet move ever slightly as if he could help the girl in any way, but the next moment, Gaunt is dragging her toward Ogden by a gold chain around her neck.

"See this?" he shakes a heavy gold locket at him, while Merope spluttered and gasped for breath.

"I see it, I see it!" said Ogden hastily.

"Slytherins!" yelled Gaunt. "Salazar Slytherin's! We're his last living descendants, what do you say to that, eh?"

"Mr. Gaunt, your daughter!!" said Ogden in alarm, but Gaunt had already released Merope, who staggered away from him falling on her knees, back to her corner, massaging her neck and gulping for air.

The show horrifies Harry.

"So!" said Gaunt triumphantly, as though he had just proved a complicated point beyond all possible dispute. "Don't you go talking to us as if we're dirt on your shoes! Generations of purebloods, wizards all — more than you can say, I don't doubt!"

“Quite so,” said Ogden loudly, "but you seem to have been present on the night that Morfin performed a jinx that rendered a Muggle completely mad, so you will understand that the Ministry had to act.”

Morfin giggled quietly.

“Quiet!” The boy falls silent again.

"Morfin will attend a hearing on the fourteenth of September to answer the charges of using magic in front of a Muggle and causing harm and distress to that same Mugg —"

Ogden breaks off his commentary, as does Harry, when he catches the jingling, clopping sounds of horses and loud, laughing voices drifting in through the open window by Merope, who raises her head, a starkly white.

"My God, what an eyesore!" rang out a girl's voice, as clear as though she were in the room beside theirs "Couldn't your father have that hovel cleared away, Tom?"

"It's not ours," said a young man's voice. "Everything on the other side of the valley belongs to us, but that cottage belongs to an old tramp called Gaunt, and his children. The son's quite mad, you should hear some of the stories they tell in the village —"

The girl laughed, a girlish sound. Morfin made to get out of his armchair, a mad look in his eyes.

"Keep your seat," said his father warningly, in Parseltongue.

"Tom," said the girl's voice again, now so close they were right beside the house, "I might be wrong — but has somebody nailed a snake to that door?"

"Good lord, you're right!" said the man's voice. "That'll be the son, I told you he's not right in the head. Don't look at it, Cecilia, darling.”

The jingling and clopping sounds were now growing faint again.

"'Darling,'" whispered Morfin in Parseltongue, looking at his sister. "'Darling, he called her. So he wouldn't have you anyway."

Merope was so white Harry felt sure she was going to faint as she looked back at her brother.

“What did you say, Morfin?" Gaunt's voice is dangerously low and for a moment they all forget about the minister, even Harry.

"Nothing," muttered Morfin, turning back to the fire. "'Darling,' he called her," he spat again quietly. “She likes looking at that Muggle. Always in the garden when he passes, peering through the hedge at him, isn't she? And last night — "

Morfin stares at his sister with a vicious look on his face, who now looks terrified as her father inches on her.

"Is it true?" said Gaunt in a deadly voice, advancing a step or two toward the terrified girl. "My daughter—pure-blooded descendant of Salazar Slytherin — hankering after a filthy, dirt-veined Muggle?"

Merope shook her head frantically, pressing herself into the wall, apparently unable to speak.

"But I got him, Father!" cackled Morfin. "I got him as he went by and he didn't look so pretty with hives all over him. Did he, Merope?

Harry’s eyes widen as Gaunt goes for his daughter’s troath. He shouts but the sound is muffled through the sound barrier between the world of the living and that of memories. Ogden raised his wand and cried for him "Relaskio!"

But he’s off. The moment he blasted Gaunt, he was chased by Morfin, wielding a bloody knife as his weapon. But the memory does not stop, so he goes after them.

The man runs for his life. Merope’s screams haunt the scene before him even as they grow distant, and it is only then the memory ends — as he watches Ogden leap and fall into a chestnut horse ridden by the handsome, dark-haired young man whom it has been revealed Merope had the fancy for, as his companions beside him ring in laughter — that he can finally breathe again.

What a mess of a family.

He leaps his face out of the pensive with eyes wide and mind blank at what he’s just witnessed.

His stomach feels all over the place, and the chicken he’s had for dinner threatens to make its way out of his stomach, as well as the bonbons he indulged in for dessert.

"What was that, Sir?" he whispers in great agitation.

“The Gaunts,” said Dumbledore, raising Harry a glass of water for him to take “the beginning of a very long story, that I fear we won’t finish tonight.”

"Were those….?" he leaves his question hanging, but Dumbledore understands what he's asking. Your ancestors.

“Yes,” Dumbledore answers, “Y/N's family. Her ancestors.” he sighs deeply "Though the ones she descends from are not part of this memory, apart from Marvolo, of course.”

"Marvolo?" Harry repeated wonderingly. “As in?”

"That's right," said Dumbledore, smiling in approval. “Voldemort's grandfather, yes. Marvolo, his son, Morfin, and his daughter, Merope. The last of the Gaunts, or so it was believed for a very long time. A very ancient Wizarding family noted for a vein of instability and violence that flourished through the generations due to their habit of marrying their own cousins. Lack of sense, coupled with a great liking for grandeur, meant that the family gold was squandered several generations before Marvolo was born. He, as you saw, was left in squalor and poverty, with a very nasty temper, a fantastic amount of arrogance and pride, and a couple of family heirlooms that he treasured just as much as his son, and rather more than his daughter."

You and Voldemort. It strikes fear into his heart. What if he's been commuting with the enemy all along?

Harry wants to ask more, so many questions, but Dumbledore holds a hand up.

“Have patience, all will be explained”

"What happened to those in this memory?" he all but asks “Did any of them survive? The girl, Merope, did she..?”

“You might wish you’d never asked. Survived she did, indeed, that and much more. That man, the minister, Ogden apparated back to the Ministry and returned with reinforcements within fifteen minutes. Morfin and his father attempted to fight, but both were overpowered, removed from the cottage, and subsequently convicted by the Wizengamot. Morfin was sentenced to three years in Azkaban. Marvolo received six months."

"So Merope," he’s star-struck. If the things coming together in his brain are right then that would mean ”She was…Voldemort's mother?"

“She was,” his sense is proven right. "And it so happens that we also had a glimpse of Voldemort's father. I wonder whether you noticed?"

“The man the brother attacked,” he concludes.

“Tom Riddle senior. The handsome Muggle who used to go riding past the Gaunt cottage and for whom Merope Gaunt cherished a secret, burning passion."

His brows furrow. But in the memory, Tom looked happily in love with that woman — what was it? Cecilia? Cecily?— so when did the two get together? Dumbledore watches the confusion etch into Harry’s face.

“You’re forgetting who Merope was” he instructs Harry, helping him solve the puzzle “A witch,despite all. I do not believe that her abilities appeared to their best advantage when she was being terrorised by her father. Once Marvolo and Morfin were safely in Azkaban, once she was alone and free for the first time in her life, then, I am sure, she was able to give full rein to her abilities and plot her escape from the desperate life she had led for eighteen years. Can you guess how?”

“The Imperius curse?” Or better, he recalled what Hermine’d been tested on just this morning. “Or love potion…”

“I’m inclined to the latter. Seems more romantic for a girl in such pessimistic circumstances, no? Shines a bright light upon her dreary outlook. In any case, within a few months of the scene, we have just witnessed, the village of Little Hangleton enjoyed a tremendous scandal. You can imagine the gossip it caused when the squire's son ran off with the tramp's daughter, Merope. But no one was more shocked than Marvolo himself, for when he returned, the shack was empty of his daughter’s presence, and only a note had been left behind. He never mentioned her name or existence from that time forth. The shock of her desertion may have contributed to his early death — or perhaps he had simply never learned to feed himself. Azkaban had greatly weakened Marvolo, and he did not live to see Morfin return to the cottage."

He did the same with his daughter as he’d done to the other one.

“There was another mentioned…” Harry trails off, trying to remember the name. “D-…Denyse?”

"Oh, yes. Denyse. Now that's another story," said Dumbledore. But I fear I've kept you up too late. Perhaps we can discuss it tomorrow?”

“Right,” Harry said as he stood to leave. “I’d like that. But as for Merope. Did she die? She did, didn't she? Wasn't Voldemort brought up in an orphanage?”

"Indeed, she did. But as for the tale of how it happened, I must do a little guessing. Within a few months of their runaway marriage, Tom Riddle reappeared at the manor house in Little Hangleton without his wife. The rumour was that he was talking of being 'hoodwinked' and 'taken in.' What he meant, I am sure, is that he had been under an enchantment now lifted. But, of course, people come up to their own conclusions, and the villagers may have guessed that Merope had lied to Tom Riddle, pretending that she was going to have his baby and that he had married her for this reason."

"But she did have his baby."

"But not until a year after they were married. Tom Riddle left her while she was still pregnant."

“Why did the love potion stop working?" Harry asked as he himself thought of the reason as to why.

"I believe that Merope, deeply in love with her husband, could not bear to continue enslaving him by magical means. She may have chosen to stop giving him the potion. Perhaps, besotted as she was, she had convinced herself that he would by now have fallen in love with her in return. Perhaps she thought he would stay for the baby's sake. If so, she was wrong on both counts. He left her, never saw her again, and never troubled to discover what became of his son."

The sky outside was inky black, and the lamps in Dumbledore's office seemed to glow more brightly than before, indicating the rather late hour.

"I think that will do for tonight, Harry," said Dumbledore after a moment or two.

He got to his feet but did not leave.

Harry had to ask, even though there was something in him that didn’t want to know.

”Professor.” He began before taking a deep breath. “Why have you allowed familiarisation with the Gaunt siblings and for them to remain at Hogwarts despite being…Voldemort’s family?”

Dumbledore smiled faintly at the question, an almost mischievous twinkle in his eye. "I was waiting for you to ask," he confessed pleasantly.

“You know what they say. Keep your friends close…”

“And your enemies closer.” Finished Harry, voice above a breathy whisper. “But, Y/N—“

“Y/N is very valuable. Keep that in mind. An ally of mine” he looks at Harry, eyes serious “and yours. Remember that. As is the whole of her family.” He smiles in that knowing way “I’m sure you know what I mean.”

Harry looked back at Dumbledore, a look of understanding passing between the two. He nodded, a realization washing over him.

"Thank you, Professor," he said, heading to the door.

“Oh, and Harry?” Dumbledore calls after him.

Harry paused, standing in the doorway, ready to leave.

"You may find that a good night's sleep does very well for the nerves" Again that smile, but this time it takes an amusing edge. "a dreamless empty sleep.”

It takes a moment for it to click, and when it does, Harry can feel a hint of a red tinge over his cheeks, flushing to his ears, which feel as if they might explode.

Despite the bewildered he feels, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth before saying, “I'll try. Good night.”

Who knew the old man could pull some jokes like that?

I was thinking that this story has grown its own following by now. Would anyone be interested in a taglist?