PART ONE

- "we must all face the choice between what is right and what is easy."-

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00 | the letter

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1994 was supposed to be different.

Camellia Evans repeated that phrase in her head over and over until the words seemed meaningless; until it no longer sounded comprehensible. All the phrase was now, she thought, was noise - something absent from the quiet life that she had led over the last fifteen years.

Camellia sat staring at her pale daffodil walls, wondering for a long while what anything other than this felt like. What would it be to truly feel different? Camellia tried to remember the sensation of calm as she had felt it when she was too young to appreciate it. Did those words have the same meaning as before? Calm and different were one thing, but Camellia didn't dare utter the word normal in connection to her own circumstances. In Camellia's thirty-two years of life, never had she been so lucky as to have anything be normal.

Here Camellia sat with a letter clutched in trembling hands, a tangible link to her past. She stared at the familiar scrawl that appeared to have been hurriedly etched over nearly two pages. And as she did so, a terrible sense of foreboding fell over her that made her very bones quiver. The world Camellia had once known had become a prison. She had finally escaped, but now the things Camellia had fled might as well have shown up on her doorstep. It was everything she could do to remain sitting – to keep herself from frantically packing up her belongings and disappearing into the night.

The disappearing act had worked well enough the first time. Camellia had had no choice. She had followed orders to the best of her ability and had kept herself safe, waiting for the right time to resurface.

Despite the overwhelming feeling of unreality, this moment had always been coming for Camellia. Maybe some part of her had thought it would never catch up to her. But here it was, and this time it was inescapable. Camellia took a deep breath that didn't quite fill her lungs, and read the ominous words again.

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Camellia,

Though I am no longer a captive in body, my heart and my spirit lay ever with your nephew Harry. It is because of this that I write to you now. This world of ours that you so wisely chose to leave will soon be set ablaze, and I fear very greatly that Lord Voldemort is making his return at last.

The only proof to be found is in the word of Harry himself and in this clipping that I enclose – the depiction of something I well know you will not thank me for recalling to your mind. Camellia, try as we might to forget, now is the time to remember.

Now is the time to prepare.

The school has been selected to host the Triwizard Tournament in a handful of days. My scant resources tell me that Igor Karkaroff will be in attendance, leading the competitors from Durmstrang. Karkaroff may pose no threat to your nephew. However, you well know that if Voldemort is indeed rising, there is no place in this world that is safe for Harry.

I urge you, my friend, to write to the Headmaster. Write to him and make my suspicions your own. If he is the man I well remember, he will extend to you an invitation without hesitation. And if indeed I know him as I think I do, I can say with assurance that your invitation is on its way even as you read this missive. His timing has always been extraordinarily uncanny.

Know also, Camellia, that Peter Pettigrew is alive. And if my fears are correct and Harry's dreams are not dreams at all, but visions, I know that Peter will be a main player in the deadly game that is yet ahead of us. I wish now I had ended his life when given the chance, but Harry elected to spare him. The reasons the boy gave for his actions are those I have not the wisdom of character to exhibit myself. It is not often we are afforded the option of exhibiting such morality when our world is in such a state as it was. Camellia, those times are again upon us.

When at last you meet the boy, you will be proud. Of this I am certain. I am confident also, Camellia, that your return to our world will be celebrated by those who knew you so many years ago - even by Harry, though he does not yet know your face.

Be brave, Camellia. For the sake of your life, be aware. May good fortune find you.

All my well wishes and truest affection,

Padfoot

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Camellia stared at the signature with unseeing eyes. Padfoot. Sirius Black. Harry's godfather and her longtime friend. So much information lay within such a short letter that Camellia could hardly process Sirius' urgent words. Voldemort was returning. Peter Pettigrew was alive.

And her nephew was in grave danger.

Camellia gathered the courage to finally turn the letter over so as to examine the enclosed clipping. In the momentary respite between the front of the page and the back, Camellia felt a small prickle of hope bloom in her.

Maybe it wouldn't be there. Maybe she was allowing her imagination get away from her. Sirius could be making something out of nothing at all. And then, her hope vanished. There it was. Something akin to terror twisted Camellia's stomach and she felt she would be profoundly sick. This letter was the physical manifestation of all the nightmares that had run rampant through her mind for so many long years. Camellia closed her eyes, trying to ward off the nausea that threatened to consume her, and swallowed her terror as best as she could despite her cotton mouth.

Be brave, Sirius had written. If Sirius only knew the coward she had become, Camellia was certain he would be ashamed of her. Living in fear was something she now did well – it was routine. It was familiar. Stepping out of her house, leaving her street, going home, those things felt foreign, impossible. Knowing that an "invitation" was probably on its way to her doorstep as her mind reeled was enough to send her into a panic.

Camellia took one last look at the pages in her hands and stood on legs that she couldn't quite feel. She walked unsteadily to the fireplace. Camellia listened as the ravenous flames consumed the wood, causing it to crack and shrivel until it turned to ash. And then . . . she tossed the letter into the fire. There was something satisfying about the way the paper smoked and curled. The flames, licking first blue and then orange, devoured the words that threatened to send her world crashing about her ears.

Camellia wished desperately to give her fear over to the fire and have it too reduced to ash. But scars such as the ones that she bore were not so easily cast aside. They were etched on her skin as dark as the ink on the pages she had burned. One mark in particular, she thought, was the darkest of them all.

She closed her eyes.

She counted to ten.

And then there was a noise – the sound of flame being extinguished in a matter of seconds. Ash and soot exploded from inside the fireplace onto the rug in front of it. Camellia knew what came next. It was what always came next. A rather large barn owl swooped deftly down her chimney and into the room. With a muffled hoot, the magnificent creature dropped the envelope he carried in his beak into Camellia's hands. His mission accomplished, the owl landed on her coffee table as though it were any other day and this was just some letter.

But it wasn't just another day, not to Camellia. And it wasn't just an ordinary letter. This was the letter. A violent shiver snaked its way down her spine as Camellia gazed at the large red wax seal bearing the name of the place that she both missed and was loathe to return to - Hogwarts.

Camellia braced herself and flipped the letter over, thinking that perhaps a mistake had been made. But once she clapped eyes on her name, she knew this wasn't a mistake; this was reality.

Camellia sucked in another ragged breath that again helped nothing much at all and tore open the envelope before her courage fled. She was surprised by what she found, since indeed she had been expecting a lengthy letter. The brevity of the missive was stunning. Inside was a single cut of parchment with four words written on it with much care.

The time is now.

Camellia looked from the letter to the owl that was now watching her with curious eyes, seeming to be wondering what decision she would come to, much as she was. Would she stand and fight, as she once wanted to? Or would she ignore what was right, forsake her nephew, and run?

Camellia slid the parchment back into the envelope hesitantly before glancing toward the semi-empty suitcase that she had taken to keeping by the door. She turned away from it before the idea of packing it could appeal to her beyond reason. Camellia made the slow walk down the hallway before turning left at the end and entering her bedroom. It was a small, modest affair with splashes of green and silver here and there. After all, Camellia's school pride had never quite gone to its grave. She made her way past the unmade bed and across the room where the closet door was always slightly ajar in silent invitation.

Camellia grasped the door handle and pulled, ignoring the way the ominously creaking hinges echoed the doubts in her mind. She turned on the light and reached up toward the shelf that she swore she would never again acknowledge. Her fingers brushed blindly along the wood until, finally, they came into contact with an elongated box. Camellia grasped it and pulled it down from its perch with careful, precise movements. She swept the dust away that seemed to coat the box in layers. The burgundy color of the box peered through the dust and grime almost shyly, as if surprised by the fresh air. Camellia deftly turned the box on its side and pried it open.

And there, still oddly unchanged by the many years of neglect, lay her wand. Cypress, she recalled dimly, with a core of dragon heartstring. Twelve inches, slightly springy. If Camellia were to close her eyes, she could still remember the atmosphere of the shop where she first held that wand. Ollivander's.

But Camellia had no time for sentiment. She recalled something Dumbledore had once said to her right after Lily and James had been put to rest.

"It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live."

Camellia reached out and gently plucked the wand out of its box. She had been so consumed by the loss of her sister that she had forgotten how to live, but the moment that her fingers curled around her wand, she realized that she wanted desperately to remember. She wanted to be in Harry's life. The magic that Camellia had held at bay for so long awakened, sparking in her skin and binding her to the wand in her hand like the moon to the pull of the tides. It was a strange sensation, like being reunited with an old friend. And the longer she allowed herself to hold it, the more Camellia entertained thoughts that did not involve running away. With a sigh of resignation, she knew what it was that she had to do.

She had to go back.