Truth to be told, this is the interlude/postscript that never ought to have been written (much less published). But it now exists, so it can't be helped.
However, I can now speak with a fair amount of certainty that this will not be expanded upon further. It's over; I'm done.
Regardless, for better or for worse, here we have it, Curing Ignorance and what followed from the perspective of OC Raven Blake herself.
-o0o-
I know well the price of ignorance, and the years that it has taken to cure it.
Then again, with me being the muggle-raised orphan that I was, perhaps I had been at an irreversible disadvantage all along.
On the other hand, nowadays I suppose that it might be just as fair to assume the opposite, namely that my near-complete ignorance of the wizarding world and all that it entailed have instead granted me the advantage, seeing it did allow me to observe their world with the eyes of an outsider.
In addition to this, the manner in which I was raised allowed me to enter the world of magic with a critical disposition acquired from years upon years of disappointments; of learning things the hard way.
In short, the occasionally less than stellar treatment that I once suffered at the hands of some – of adults as well as my peers – had ensured that I would not simply take things at face value, because obviously, people lie and some – myself included – learn to live their lives by keeping up appearances, all in order to ensure their respective survivals. Truth to be told though, I had never really given much thought to others before I came to Hogwarts, but as far as my own case was concerned, I had already developed ways of assessing and coping with most things that some higher cosmic power sent spiralling towards me.
Even so, the existence of a secret magical society had come as somewhat of a surprise to me, when the news of its existence swooped down upon me in the shape of the owl delivering my Hogwarts letter as I had been making my way back from the local library.
Admittedly, it had come as a bit of a shock and I had been fairly prepared to dismiss the letter thing as an elaborate prank. However, partially due to the fact that I – after a bit of rational thought – could not come up with anyone in my general surroundings that would possess both the brains and the drive to come up with such a thing, I opted to consider the validity of the letter a possibility; albeit a somewhat outlandish one. Besides, making the thing would have taken a fair amount of money and a fair degree of effort, neither of which was generally wasted upon me if it could be avoided.
Still, faced with new and unfamiliar prospects and challenges to come as I was, I did what I usually did; I kept my head down and prepared for the worst, albeit discreetly. In my case, keeping my head down entailed not sharing any knowledge of either the letter's general content or its sheer existence with anyone, for obvious reasons.
Discreetly preparing for the worst entailed more hours at the library; I used to spend a great deal of time in the company of books, saturating my still impressionable mind with knowledge.
Linguistically, I got a whole lot of stimuli; socially, I was reserved and – if I may say so myself – rather antisocial. Still, I gradually constructed and perfected a presentable façade – an outer persona, if you will – to shield what was probably my true colours seeing that I was already at a young age made aware of the fact that they would not be well-received.
Then again, referring to them as my true colours might just be a tad presumptuous, because I certainly wasn't born a brilliant mastermind with sociopathic tendencies. I was – or at least so I presume that I was – just as normal or as abnormal as your average kid with a then still mostly undiscovered affinity for magic.
In the end, it was hardly my blood that made me turn out the way that I eventually did – though the matter of blood might have played some part in it, I suppose. If anything, then my squib-descended mother's untimely death was what had set things in motion and what had ultimately torn me from a life that would probably have been happy – well, happier than the one that I was left to live with after my grieving muggle father found himself unable to cope and thus dumped my then three-year-old self at the steps of the orphanage before leaving the country.
Back then, I was – as I would imagine almost any child would have been – scared due to the sudden change and the ensuing uncertainty and at the company of strangers; of allegedly concerned adults and government officials.
However, as one may figure, fear and sadness at having been abandoned soon gave way to fury, though I somehow managed to keep the latter fairly well hidden. After all, I had already then known better than to lash out at people, be it physically or orally; the intermediate time between the death of my mother and the moment that I was left behind had taught me as much, wherein my bereaved father had lashed out at me and my untrained magic in turn had lashed out at him in order to protect me from the perceived threat.
Upon entering the wizarding world and reading up on a few of those laws and customs that could possibly hold any sort of relevance to me, I did wonder why there had been no interference. Then again, had there been any direct interference from their side then I would probably have been whisked away to be raised in a different type of ignorance altogether. However, to the extent of my knowledge, no one ever did anything – not for me directly or to otherwise help my situation.
Learning this, I suppose that there was a bitter aftertaste in my mouth, knowing that there had been a system out there that could have spared both me and my bereaved father from so much grief. Then again, in case those folks would have actually taken the time to interview him, then they might not have learned about my mother's status and her ancestry. Then again, seeing that she descended from a disinherited squib that had been born into a family that would suffer the company of none but those in possession of both pure blood and magical prowess, I sincerely doubt that there would have been anyone particularly willing to take me in unless they got anything out of the bargain for themselves besides the questionable pleasure of my company.
Left to fend for myself in a world of strangers as I was, I naturally grew quite resentful of the one who had left me there. This feeling of resentment gradually came to be directed towards most of the people that frequented my surroundings, or whose opinions and resulting decisions had a distinctively negative impact upon my life.
I was never a modern female version of Oliver Twist, bred into a sad state of ignorance. I might have come closer to being a modern take on a young Jane Eyre, whose righteous indignation and rebellion against being ill-treated only resulted in her becoming an inmate of a school that started out as a prisonlike building saturated in fear, cold and filth before becoming a safe haven; a place where knowledge could be pursued and bonds kindled.
I am by no means going to pretend that I have personally suffered in the way that she did; the food over at the orphanage was by no means stellar but by all means edible, and the other conditions weren't exactly deplorable either. The stern attempts to instil a sense of discipline and supposedly proper Christian values and the punishments that resulted from one stepping out of line were certainly there.
In the end, I did adopt the sense of discipline but discarded the values for those of sheer rationality though I was hardly forthcoming with this standpoint of mine. After all, had I ever drawn any greater amount of attention to myself as anything but a reserved but admittedly diligent student, then there was no guarantee that I would not be placed under closer scrutiny and that some truths about my persona would come to light under such circumstances.
Like Jane Eyre, I had an inherent urge to rebel – to ask questions and to scrutinise their answers, weighing them against my own sense of rationality. I had a definite and occasionally quite desperate urge to lash out and to make a bid for taking a greater deal of control over my life, but experience had taught me better than that.
After all, my urge to rebel against the constraints surrounding me clashed with my rules of survival, which included not making any unnecessary enemies and knowing when to keep one's head down. Thus, I made an effort to combine the two, which in turn resulted in that I rebelled in silence and kept my thoughts to myself, putting a great deal of genuine effort into keeping my emotions level through strengthening reason's hold of them with knowledge.
I rebelled with my absence; with my nonparticipation. Few noticed. Even fewer called me out on it.
Even so, when an emissary of the wizarding world – one greasy-haired sallow-skinned and utterly displeased-looking specimen – finally decided to show up on my figurative doorstep, none of the people at the orphanage looked particularly saddened by the news that I would be leaving for school; if anything, some – a few of my peers especially – seemed relieved whilst others – among those the supervisor – frowned for one reason or the other.
Among the first things that I asked my guide – Professor Severus Snape, a most severe man indeed – was whether or not I had to go back there again or if other accommodations could be arranged, to which I received a disdainful sneer which indicated a negative. Truth to be told, I had already expected as much seeing that I was – to the extent of my own knowledge at any rate – a charity case; I had little or no money of my own and would be attending a private boarding school on a scholarship, so I strongly suspected that the aforementioned scholarship was the extent of the money that those people would be willing to waste on me, and that I would presumably also be forced to fight for further down the path.
The professor was by no means inclined towards small talk and neither was I. Disregarding his sneers and obvious disdain over having been tasked with taking me shopping for school supplies, he answered my questions and was as thus the one to provide my first knowledge and impressions of the wizarding world.
Truth to be told, I do believe that this particular afternoon in Diagon Alley and the company in which I spent it actually taught me the most about the hidden society that I would then be made a part of. I asked, observed, deduced, and after I had managed to secure all that needed to be secured from my magical grocery list, the ill-humoured professor left me a ticket, instructions and just enough money to pay the bus fare back to the orphanage before the man himself left, disappearing into thin air with a pop.
With my mind abuzz with all that I had learned, I got on the bus and got back to the orphanage, carrying my shrunken secret in my pocket because obviously, I had known better to assume that it would be perfectly safe to bring a sizeable trunk containing books on magic among other things into a place within which walls little true privacy was actually allowed, as far as material possessions was concerned at any rate.
Astonishingly, the professor had agreed to humour this proposition of mine and had performed the spells required despite the fact that the man obviously held no love for me, as a fellow human being or as a prospective student. Then again, my request had been perfectly sensible – very sensible as a matter of fact, making me wonder just what the general policy of dealing with people in a situation that was at least somewhat similar to mine. Perhaps telling the supervisor? If so, then I was indeed glad that the professor seemed to comprehend that such an act would never bring about a favourable outcome as those in charge of the orphanage were very conservative, conservative enough to make my life difficult for me though perhaps not conservative enough to see me burned at the stake.
On September 1st, I made my way to the platform and ahead of time at that, an act which allowed me to pick out an empty compartment for myself with relative ease.
I spent the train ride with my course books, skimming through the first couple of chapters of every book to ensure that I had at least a rudimentary grasp of things before I had time to remedy my own ignorance more thoroughly.
Even so, I exited the train with the feeble belief that I might actually be able to turn my luck around now; that I had been given opportunities that must not be squandered and that I was to make the best of them; that I would excel; that I would no longer be abnormal but rather one of many and whatnot.
The Sorting Hat pronounced me a Slytherin.
The House of Slytherin pronounced me a mudblood and shunned me.
The rest of the school pronounced me a lost cause and followed suit.
I quietly pronounced them all unworthy of my attention and killed off what little remained of the inner child who would have lashed out at the indignation; at the discrimination; at the impassiveness; at the cowardice; at the-…
Well, I suppose it would suffice to say that I took a firm hold of the inner child who had at the time been more than ready to unleash her fury upon the world and drowned her within my own depths, holding her down long enough to ensure that all struggles and twitching had ceased; that she would sink rather than float, and that she would disappear into the depths of my subconscious to allow my more rationally inclined self more room to operate.
I instilled a minor degree of uncertainty of my actual blood status in my claim that I was an orphan; killing off my estranged father in my mind just as he had washed his hands of me. It was highly gratifying, I tell you.
Having never seen much point in associating with those who despise me, I generally avoided them, and once I had managed to prove myself at least somewhat valuable in the sense that I could earn the House a fair deal of points, most left me alone. Others didn't, but I did not rise to the bait and had managed to circumvent most of their plots. After all, their supposedly prized cunning aside, there had been a whole lot of them who could have done just as well in Gryffindor, pack mentality and all.
Obviously though, my studious habits and cunning could not ward off all of the attempts that my fellow housemates made both with the intent of attacking my heritage and with attacking me as a person.
Once, a bunch of my year mates ganged up upon me – something or other about me being a know-it-all mudblood tainting their precious House; tainting the very air that they were breathing even. As much as I might have inwardly laughed at their antics and often Gryffindor-ish tendencies, I have to admit that once – and only once, because the error stemming from a faulty sense of judgement was never again repeated – they managed to outwit me.
After all, I had expected something like a nasty hex or even a curse being flung my way; what I hadn't expected was to be tripped up whilst navigating the maze of staircases in the castle, but truth to be told, I only had moments to come to the realisation of what was to come before it hit me, literally.
I took a rather nasty fall, got a serious concussion and spent the next three days in the hospital wing, magical boarding school or not. Once Madam Pomfrey finally deemed me fit to leave, I headed to the Slytherin Common Room and beyond to confirm what I had already suspected, namely that quite a few of my belongings – among those a half-finished essay on Charms – had been vandalised.
I didn't feel the need to alert my Head of House, or anyone else for that matter. And as for the culprits, I had a general idea but little wish to pursue the matter any further as little good would come of it. The presumed 'tripping accident' had been a warning, and its message had been clearly received. Received, yes, I had reasoned as I pulled out my wand to restore my things to something closer to their original state. Comprehended, yes. Well-received? By no means, I can assure you.
I summarily added those confirmed as perpetrators to a mental list of people whose graves I fully intended to dance upon should I ever be provided with such an opportunity. Somewhat half-heartedly, I did consider assisting in putting them there too if I could. Later on, I earnestly considered the option before dismissing it altogether, knowing it would do me no favours to have attempted murdering a pureblood should I decide to have a career in their society.
Then again, from what I had experienced of their society already, the scales steadily began tipping in the favour of the muggle world, though I also toyed with the thought of living as a magical hermit in the latter; in a self-imposed exile if you will, largely detached from either world if such a thing would be possible.
At the end of the school year, I headed back to my other confinement for what ought to have been three months of utter tediousness. However, seeing that I already had some type of inkling as to where my fate was headed, I opted to make a conscious effort to get some money just in case I found myself on the curb. It wasn't easy, seeing that legitimate businesses are generally not in the habit of employing twelve-year-olds.
I did manage to land myself a job though, and was paid under the table for it. All in all, I probably got paid way less than I deserved. However, for an otherwise broke twelve-year-old, any money – however dirty or illegally acquired – was better than no money at all. After all, it wasn't as though I had lost anything in particular from doing what I did; if I had ever felt the need to sell something of myself, then I had only needed to start selling my body, because I had quickly learned that there are plenty of parties interested in buying the bodies of children or young teenagers.
But alas for them, I found such work beneath even me and also felt disinclined to it because of the risk that it would no doubt have posed to me, physically as well as mentally. Then again, I did soon find my temporary source of income cut short as some bobbies of some unit dealing with the local drug trade apparently caught wind of my less than savoury association with the ring that they had apparently been seeking to flush out and thus opted to pick me off of the street.
I really cannot say that I enjoyed what followed very much, but all in all, the adults in my general surroundings were far more appalled than I was, and my youth and pretended ignorance was enough to ensure that I was let off the hook with a sharp warning, being a first-time offender and everything.
Obviously, the latter only meant that I was released back into the custody of the adults at the orphanage who in turn confined me to the room that I shared with another girl my age. I suppose that it would be fair to call it house arrest on my part, and all in all – seeing that my income opportunity had abruptly been cut short and that the greater part of my earnings were gone with it – I hardly desired to set foot outside.
Thus, I spent the rest of the summer indoors, primarily in my room reading and rereading my course books, and especially once my roommate decided to request being moved to another room, since apparently, she had grown too unnerved by my continuous presence.
By this time, I knew well that my constructed façade had cracked, and truth to be told, I can hardly say that I put a whole lot of work into patching it up now that I was already under the suspicion of being of questionable morals; an associate of highly questionable individuals.
Momentarily, I had toyed with the thought of telling them more about the highly questionable individuals – or about a whole questionable hidden society for that matter – but swiftly dismissed the thought, knowing that it would have done me no good whatsoever. Instead, I endured, and once the end of the summer came, I left once more.
Little of consequence took place during my second year at school, and before long, I found myself back again, enduring more months, keeping the company of books both magical and not so magical, even daring to make a visit to Diagon Alley.
At the end of that summer, as usual, I made it to the platform on time and found an empty compartment. I took a seat and returned to my reading up until the point when the latter was interrupted as the door was opened to admit a small raven-haired boy in glasses, though the latter evidently hesitated upon having laid eyes upon me. "May I sit here?" he asked.
I levelled my eyes upon him, scrutinising him momentarily before returning them once more to the thick tome balanced in my hands. Somehow, it occurred to me that there was something distinctly familiar about the kid; that I ought to know him, by appearance at any rate. "What's stopping you?" I finally asked as the kid kept on hesitating, likely due to my own lack of response.
He apologised; I didn't spare him another glance. "What are you apologising for? Sit down or leave."
With all due honesty, I had expected him to leave, but as he instead took a seat, I spared him another glance, taking in the dishevelled look, the mildly crooked round glasses held together by tape and shielding a pair of surprisingly vividly green eyes, and finally, the oversized clothes that hung around his thin frame. "Muggle-born?" I finally asked, turning the page anew.
He startled slightly. "Pardon?"
However brief, his response along with his general appearance had proved very informative, so as far as I myself was concerned, there would hardly be much a need to pursue the matter any further. However, I must admit that my curiosity had been piqued since the other did seem awfully familiar for one reason or the other. Similarly, I must admit that ignorance – be it in myself or in others – tended to irritate me a great deal back in the day.
"Are you a muggle-born?" I clarified, studying him more intently before clarifying myself even further. "Were your parents wizard folk?"
"Yes." He shifted awkwardly. "But I've been living with my aunt and her family…"
I returned my eyes to the page, offering him my condolences before once again being forced to clarify. "Judging from the tone of your voice, they're dead, are they not – Your parents?" I asked, rhetorically as far as I myself was concerned.
Again, he hesitated before confirming it.
"So are mine," I offered neutrally in return, because they were dead as far as I was concerned, just as I was presumably dead to my father as far as he was concerned.
"How did they die?" the boy asked, though looked as though he was regretting the question already and was preparing to apologise or-… "Sorry, I shouldn't have-…"
For whichever reason, I took no actual offence over the question; his persistent apologies on the other hand were starting to get on my nerves. Nevertheless, I answered him rather truthfully, and he – hearing of how I had ended up at the orphanage – once again apologised. "Stop apologising," I snorted. "It's annoying."
He went quiet, and had I been any other person, then I would probably have felt a tad bad for it. However, I did not, because I had merely laid down the first ground rule in case we were to continue this conversation. "So," I began instead, taking the initiative since he probably wouldn't. "Starting Hogwarts this year, are you?"
He looked up. "Yes."
I turned another page. "Where are you headed?"
Again, I was forced to clarify ("To which House?") and again, his relative silence and the rather awkward shift that accompanied it spoke volumes. I arched an eyebrow, genuinely surprised despite everything. "You haven't been told about the Sorting?"
"The Sorting?"
My eyebrow climbed even higher. I considered him momentarily, weighing my options before finally coming to a decision. "On your first night, you get sorted into one of four Houses." I looked at him, seeking confirmation. "You've heard of those at least, haven't you?"
He squirmed. "Ehm… Gryffindor, Hufflepuff… Slytherin…"
I frowned. "Would you mind if I ask just who the Hell was in charge of your introduction into the magical society?" I asked, already dreading the answer.
"Mr. Hagrid."
Hagrid? The groundskeeper?
"They sent the school's gamekeeper to introduce you to magic?" I snorted, putting the book aside. "They normally send teachers to do that…"
He looked at me then, and it occurred to me that I had just brought up a very interesting point. Little did I know, in the explanations that followed, that this scrawny-looking kid would prove as much trouble – and surprisingly also as much of an asset – as he eventually did.
For whichever reason – be it because of my dry explanation on the Houses or because of something else – I seemed to have inspired the poor – as in poorly educated and not in any way related to matters of finance – boy by the name of Harry Potter into thinking for himself rather than just passively adopting dogmas spoon-fed to him by others. I felt gleeful and also a tad proud of myself when I managed to prove to him that he had already been deceived.
All dark wizards came from that House, eh? Hah. Good going Fumbledore; had it not been for me, then you would probably have managed to instil that thought in his young impressionable little mind…
Truth to be told though, at this point in time, I had yet to develop a complete state of antipathy towards the esteemed headmaster. Even so, I did have at least one very good reason to be vindictive towards the man, though I really did not have this in mind at the time that I had – quite unintentionally – wrecked his secret master plan.
In young Harry Potter, I saw a scrawny kid starved for affection; for positive attention; for knowledge. I sincerely doubted my ability to provide the first two, but I could definitely assist in the third, providing him with what was probably the most neutral angle of the whole issue with Houses and the Dark Lord Voldemort and all. I also recall having touched upon the issue of blood purity, even going as far as to reveal my own status as far as that went.
From what I could tell, he had listened very attentively, clinging to my every word almost as one would cling to those of a preacher, had one been even remotely religious, particularly as I told him that ignorance was a disease that could only be cured by knowledge, and again pointed to the subjective nature of knowledge, attained from one's own senses or otherwise.
As such, I suppose that I really shouldn't have been surprised when the kid had been sorted into Ravenclaw. I should have been even less surprised when he sought me out in the library, requesting my help in curing his ignorance. Against better judgement, I obliged and soon found myself with additional tagalongs of similar stubborn disposition.
A year or two prior to that, I would probably have relished at the prospect of some human contact outside of class that was not solely abusive or reprimanding. At that point however, I saw them as a slight inconvenience at best, and only because they did have a few redeeming qualities to my eyes.
For one thing, they all sought knowledge, though some a bit more trustingly than others.
As for other redeeming qualities, Harry Potter had actually done the Slytherin thing and bribed me with an offer to pay for me to act as his unofficial mentor. Just as I had observed him, he had obviously observed me in return and consequently concluded that I – being there on a scholarship as I was – could always use more money than I had at hand, and since he had only just recently discovered himself the heir to a quite wealthy pureblood family, I presume that he had yet to develop all that much of an attachment to that money anyway. Besides, a ridiculous title or not, he was the Boy-Who-Lived and could if nothing else resort to cashing in on his fame if it really came down to it. Then again, with the other presumably being the saviour of the wizarding world and everything, I imagine that it would have been a sign of courtesy to subsidise his schooling at the very least. I mean, saving their world and whatnot ought to have some type of reward, yes?
Then again, this was the wizarding world, and logic has never been very commonplace over there if I may say so myself. But I digress…
On Halloween – or Samhain, depending on one's disposition – I had left the library and was nearly at the entrance for the Slytherin common room when I encountered a troll, cornering one utterly mind-numbingly terrified frizzy-haired first-year Gryffindor. I too was surprised at finding the troll down there, but spent little time on pondering how it had managed to get into the castle in the first place and more time on dealing with the matter at hand.
Thankfully, the odds had been largely in my favour. For one thing, I had the element of surprise on my side. Secondly, I was armed. Thirdly, I was not beside myself in terror, and finally, I knew how to improvise.
Aware as I was that trolls are quite thick-skinned creatures and as such quite magic-resistant, I cast a levitation charm on its club, raising it above the troll's head before dropping the thing right on top of it, knocking it out. Back then as well as in hindsight, it felt ridiculously easy; I had managed to beat the bloody thing with a first-year spell for goodness sake, and with another spell – an Incarcerous – I satisfied my paranoia temporarily, making sure that I had the thing restrained at least for a little bit in case it wasn't completely out cold before I lowered my wand and surveyed the scene with exasperation. Then, I turned around to continue on my endeavour to get back to the common room, at which point I was suddenly tackled from behind by the frizzy-haired girl who now owed me a life debt before the latter latched onto my robes and proceeded to have a minor breakdown as I – decidedly awkward – patted her on the head as most would do to a dog, quite eager to get her to let go of me, preferably imminently.
However, before the latter could occur, the cavalry arrived – belatedly, in my own opinion, but just in time for me to still be there, seeing that the Gryffindor first-year still hadn't let go of my robes. Naturally, faced with what I would imagine to be a quite peculiar scene of a knocked-out troll and a Gryffindor clinging for dear life to a Slytherin of all things as the cavalry was, I did feel mildly obliged to clear things up before someone opted to misunderstand it all.
"I was in the library," I began, weighing my words carefully. "And when I headed back to the common room, I happened upon a little-…"
A sniffle from the first-year made me cut myself short and to put a great deal of effort into not grimacing, seeing that there now ought to be at least some snot on the front of my robes.
The vice headmistress – Minerva McGonagall – looked at me sternly; sceptically, as though the sheer thought that any Slytherin would ever place themselves in harm's way and in harm's way for a Gryffindor of all things was simply inconceivable. Really, I could hardly believe it myself.
"Is this true?" the headmistress and Head of the Gryffindor asked as she approached them whilst the rest of the belated cavalry headed for the troll. "Miss Granger?"
Miss Granger finally seemed to become aware of how she had been clutching and crying and whatnot into the robes of a third-year Slytherin and swiftly pulled away, colouring but otherwise regaining her composure surprisingly quickly, considering the emotional wreck that she had seemed to have been mere moments prior. "Yes, professor," she immediately responded, pulling out a handkerchief. "It had cornered me, and then-…"
"Why were you not at the feast?" the professor pressed instead, all whilst my own Head of House made his way over.
For whichever reason, Granger lowered her gaze, looking like she was about to cry again. Funnily enough, as talkative as she turned out to be, this time only, words seemed to fail her and even more so as the professor's gaze sharpened, as though not bringing out any proper explanation would somehow make one if not the both of us eligible for punishment although neither was to blame for anything whatsoever.
Having spelled my robes clean, I nodded towards my Head of House as he had now made his way over and looked me up and down with ever present disdain. "I was on my way back from the library," I laid out, my expression neutral. "And I turned the corner just in time to see the troll enter this place, following which I heard a scream, which told me that someone was in here, which in turn prompted me to pull out my wand and to head over here in order to make sure that no one was killed…"
"Upon entering, I found her-…" I paused momentarily, pointing. "…Seemingly petrified by fear and with the troll closing in on her, and I made swift use of the fact that its attention was directed elsewhere as I proceeded to use its club as a means to temporarily incapacitate it. I was then accosted by Miss Granger, and thus unable to leave in order to inform the teaching staff of what had taken place."
"In addition," I proceeded. "I am obliged to inform you that I have played no part in invoking Miss Granger's emotional state; she was crying way before I entered the picture, leaving me to presume that she had sought shelter in this place for its privacy so that she would be able to have her emotional outburst undisturbed, though the latter proved a grave miscalculation because it did not take into account that there was – that there is – a bloody troll in the dungeon."
"That having been said and the situation seemingly being under control and all," I finished. "May I take my leave, sirs, madam?"
I knew well that I had been laying it on a bit thick, but then again, cool courtesy generally worked better against authority than enraged denial. Besides, it accomplished its intended purpose, though I did have to weasel myself out of having them announce my heroic antics to the school; I made it clear that I had little against points being given to my House, but that I had little wish to advertise my own part in any of that which had taken place. Obviously. I mean, I honestly did not give a single rip about blood or House, but if my housemates found that I had inadvertently saved a Gryffindor and a mudblood to the like, I definitely would not get an encouraging pat on the back but rather something far less pleasant. No good deed goes by unpunished, you know?
As such, I did manage to keep things moderately discreet. Moderately, yes, but by no means completely, and especially not once Granger – made aware of the fact that she now owed me her life – joined forces with Potter in pestering me in the library, even though I had shown myself perfectly willing to absolve her from the thing if she just offered me some monetary and/or confectionary compensation. Then, when neither of those were to her liking, I opted to have her pay it off little by little, through her proof-reading my essays; not so much because of my faulty spelling or grammar mind you – though that might be what I had told Potter – but rather to find and to point out things such as run-on sentences and illegible passages, seeing that I had a penchant for the former and a tendency for the latter, due to my prevailing difficulty in handling a quill.
In either case, I ended up tutoring them on occasion, to my lovely housemates' ever increasing ire.
Around Christmas, I put a stop to what would otherwise probably have ended up as a reckless plan to protect the Philosopher's Stone – that someone, presumably Dumbledore, had thought it brilliant to hide in a school full of children – from an unknown foe who was presumably none other than my esteemed Head of House. I did so through forcing my impromptu tagalongs to actually think things through, and in doing so, we unravelled the whole issue and swiftly put an end to it without putting ourselves into harm's way.
After that affair had been dealt with, I gained yet another tagalong, though the latter – one Neville Longbottom – thankfully seemed far more attached to his peers than to me; I was quite positive that he even feared me, whether it was because of my general attitude or because of my House.
At the end of the year, when we all stepped off the train and onto the platform, I reluctantly admitted to myself that I had actually enjoyed myself to some degree this year around, even though a few of my peers – dear housemates of mine – had promised to inflict unspeakable horrors upon my person as well as upon my personal belongings, should I dare to show my face at Hogwarts ever again.
In a way, their threats left me almost invigorated, making me nearly eager to rise to the challenge, regardless of the consequences.
I wavered then, between the wizarding world and the mundane one – the muggle one – before I entered the latter, still undecided in regards to which would come to claim the greater part of me in the end.
Sometime later though, I found my studious solitude at my quarters in the orphanage disrupted by the arrival of a familiar snowy owl – Hedwig, I recall – that would by no means leave me be unless I made contact with her master.
It did not take long until I reached the point when I could either wring its neck or do its bidding; the former would no doubt have pleased me, but I have never been prone to resent or seek to harm anyone besides other humans, whether in possession of magic or not.
I finally caved, setting to work with the dreadful ball of feathers overlooking me for some part of it. Sometime during the year, I did recall having heard – overheard rather than intentionally listened to – Potter dropping a few lines about his home life. Hints, I should probably call them, seeing that he did not advertise the abuse and neglect that he had obviously suffered at the hands of his relations.
It was from there – from his relatives – that I began my search, having deduced that I probably would not be finding anything if I looked for Potter himself, be it through muggle or through magical means. I recalled that they were called the Dursleys, and that they ought to be living in Surrey or in its general vicinity. From there on, I tracked them down swiftly enough, and opted to do some further investigation before involving myself any further.
I headed over to Surrey, and wore my street clothes as I wandered the neighbourhood surrounding Privet Drive and Magnolia Road. Twice I passed the house that supposedly housed he whose messenger persisted in disturbing my peace, and that was enough to both spot and to confirm the existence of bars on one of the upstairs windows.
I hardly needed to possess the mental facilities of Sherlock Holmes himself to determine just whose room had been transformed into such a prison, and I concluded that my hardened exterior and cool interior aside, I could not with good conscience disregard the situation, even if I had to sacrifice a few galleons in order to provide interference.
I obtained a vial of Polyjuice potion along with the hair of a woman that suited my needs; stern-looking and professional. Wearing this guise, I stepped up to the door and proceeded to – however discreetly – force my way into the house after the lady – though I hesitate to refer to her as such – of the house attempted to slam the door in my face. Thus, at wand-point, I instead had her backing up against the wall whilst I eyed her intently, smiling coolly as I enquired the whereabouts of young Mister Potter, as well as to the whereabouts of said person's belongings.
Soon thereafter, Mrs. Dursley dashed off up the stairs and thus, I was swiftly presented with the somewhat dishevelled and mildly confused-looking form of the supposed saviour of the wizarding world as I myself had finished liberating his things from the cupboard beneath the stairs.
"Hello, Harry," I greeted him neutrally, as though I – wearing the face of a stranger – had not just forced my way into his relatives' abode and taken one of them hostage. I did not extend my hand towards him; he was not a child after all – well, not a small one at any rate – and I was hardly the type to engage in such behaviour. Instead, I thrust a cap onto his head and nodded in direction of the door, picking up his trunk. "Shall we?"
He followed suit quickly, carrying the empty bird cage.
We took the bus, and he thanked me for coming for him. "Where to next, Potter?" I asked instead. "I don't rescue people for free you know, so how about heading to the bank or something?"
He did not respond immediately, enquiring about my appearance instead, and I in turn answered, informing him about the Polyjuice.
"Ah," he began. "The ingredients must've cost you a minor fortune."
"No shit, Sherlock," I snorted.
"I'll pay you back," he immediately offered. "With interest."
"You better."
He then proceeded to talk about his own circumstances, and about just how he had ended up locked in a room with barred windows. Apparently, a house elf had intruded with a warning and had used magic to land him in trouble with the Ministry.
We talked for a bit, discussing the future; his future more than my own, though he decided to include me for some reason, initially at least. We got a room at the Leaky Cauldron, and sent a letter to Longbottom to explain the situation. At this point – with the last vestige of Polyjuice spent and expired – I collapsed onto the room's only bed, spent both mentally and physically.
"How much do I owe you?" Potter asked, hovering about a bit anxiously. "For the Polyjuice, as well as for coming to get me."
I remained where I was. "You owe me a decent fake ID and a trip abroad," I muttered. "I've had enough; I'm skipping town and leaving the country, preferably imminently."
He asked me why.
I did not venture into much detail in regards to why; not until he pressed me about the matter.
I told him that there was nothing for me there in England; that I would pursue my education and income elsewhere from thereon. My happiness too, I privately supposed.
I told him of my half-hearted intent to earn my income harvesting rare potion ingredients, and I told him of my father, what he did to me and my feelings for him – my father that is, and none other.
"I'm going to miss you," Harry readily admitted, without the least of shame. "I've learnt a lot thanks to you."
I snorted, expressing my doubt over the former whilst expressing my certainty of the latter, adding that "You're still pretty ignorant though, but you've got a brain and you know how to use it, so you'll probably manage well even without my input".
He sighed, got up and returned with a pouch – prepared beforehand, no doubt – and handed it over, urging me to take care. I was not surprised; not for long at any rate. I accepted the token for what it was; just payments for my efforts, both pasts and those still to come. "If you need some advice from someone reasonably sensible, send me a note," I finally granted, reaching out to squeeze his hand slightly before letting it go. "That blasted owl of yours will no doubt be able to find me, regardless of how far I run."
He took those words to heart; of that I have no doubt, seeing that he made good use of this vocal allowance time and time again. Before long, I grew tired of being harassed by his owl; I used the very last of my earnings to procure a pair of magical mirrors, mailing him one. Writing letters had never been my forte; I fancied reading and greatly preferred thinking above writing.
In hindsight, I did regret sending him the mirror, seeing that it did allow him to annoy me far more often than otherwise. He – and his friends too – needed advice, and often at the odd hours. For the record, I did not appreciate being woken up in the middle of the night or in the early hours of the morning to insistent calls for my attendance. An emergency? The Chamber of Secrets? Hah.
Apparently, there was some heir of Slytherin roaming about, accompanied by a monster of some sort which petrified the living, whilst Potter was a Parseltongue and kept hearing voices in the walls from which spiders fled. Truly, I was surprised that Granger hadn't figured things out sooner.
Then again, without me adding much to it, she suddenly did manage to identify the beast as a basilisk as Potter filled in on how the victims had been petrified rather than killed by its gaze, which involved cameras, mirrors and reflections in water from overflowing lavatories. In turn, this led them to figuring it all out, at which point I put the mirror away anew and discarded my thoughts of them all the same.
For long, there was no contact until someone – namely Potter – once again required my assistance after having blown up his aunt – like a balloon; not as a bomb. "I'm in trouble," he told me. "I accidentally blew someone up. Like a balloon. I think I've managed to get myself expelled," he explained.
He had awoken me during the ungodly hours. Again. I was not delighted.
"I think I'm expelled already. They're going to snap my wand," he rambled on as I was on my way to gain some semblance of clarity. "My wand is going to be snapped, and I am currently on the run. Got any advice to spare?"
I believe that I did give him a lecture of my own, though it was on the relative lack of necessity of having a wand in the first place and not on him disturbing my rest, before he interrupted me, calling attention to himself and his situation then present. "Help me out here," he insisted.
"How?" I enquired. "I'm kind of in Russia right now."
"Give me a few basic escape routes," he demanded.
I asked whether or not he would be leaving his country. "Not necessarily, but I'd like to keep my options open," he responded. "Though I could use a few pointers."
I did what I could for him as an advisor, and the next time we initiated contract, I found him in the company of an escaped convict of a godfather, one Sirius Black who had apparently been sent to Azkaban without a trial for betraying the Potters and killing some people. The aforementioned denied this of course, and instead directed the blame onto one Peter Pettigrew.
Personally, I deemed that this Mister Black ought to be alright, all things considered, mostly because I did not have a very high opinion of either the judicial system of the wizarding world or of the amount of common sense prevalent in the aforementioned world's inhabitants. Besides, I did manage to verify his story – partially, at the very least – and from what I have heard since, he took good care of his godson.
It was then that I had seen it fit to thrust the responsibility of being Harry's confidante onto another, sending my snowy owl Lumi with a parcel containing a mirror as well as my sentiments.
For years, that was the end of it. For years, I assumed that I would have little more to do with it. Then, war broke out in Britain between followers of the Dark Lord and those few courageous or merely thick-headed enough to stand against them.
Personally, I would have left the British Isles to their fate.
Personally I would have deemed it mildly unfortunate and moved on with my life, but I had a nasty feeling that I might end up haunted by ghosts unless I helped out to some degree, which I did through procuring a bunch of weapons – amongst them an Автомат Калашникова, better known as an AK-47, to which I brought round upon round of ammunition into which I had painstakingly carved runes in order to heighten their efficiency. This ‒ along with instructions ‒ I had sent over along with one of my business associates who was handy with enchanted weapons and who owed me a huge favour.
One might claim that my extended stay in Russia as well as in its relative vicinity – from the westernmost coast of Norway to the vast Siberian tundra – had turned me ruthless. Personally, I would not so surely attribute my decadence of character to environmental factors only; living on my own on the very fringes of society – regular and magical – have taught me a lot of things, just as my various encounters with different people – again, magical or not – have certainly broadened my horizons and in effect opened up my mind to other possibilities, one of which included calling in a favour from magical mercenaries.
All in all though, I would say that my own part in the war was fairly insignificant, even if I did turn up in person eventually. However, I was not primarily fighter but rather an enabler, and most of what I did do are things that I would by no means admit and take credit for, seeing that I have no desire to be brought to court should the public opinion of the British wizarding public change abruptly in an unfavourable direction.
After the defeat of the Dark Lord, I left the country with every intention of fading even deeper into obscurity, which I did up until the point that a much older but still very much persistent snowy owl arrived, carrying a demand that I'd take the assigned portkey to attend Potter's wedding unless I wished to be named the godmother to all his children.
Dreading such dire prospects, I obviously had to make an appearance, learning only on site that he was marrying a girl from the Weasley family. This did surprise me somewhat; for a moment, I had ventured a guess that he would be marrying Granger, who in turn turned out to be engaged to some Quidditch player named Krum.
Soon thereafter, I also got engaged.
To whom, you may ask?
No one that you would know; of this I am relatively certain. Besides, it was an engagement of mutual convenience for the both of us, for him to silence the demands from his relatives and for me because it was convenient, financially speaking. Then again, we had started out as business associates, so this engagement of ours was more of a deepening continuation of our business relationship.
Love, you ask? Don't be daft. Human affection I can manage – barely – but I sincerely doubt that I will ever love anyone or anything besides money and the freedom that it can buy me.
Since the end of the war, I have yet to set foot in the UK, and all in all, I reason that it might be for the best that I do not. I may have played some part in the war, but I don't feel like I am a part of the future that they are going to create now that their silly little society has been rattled once more. Even nowadays, I continue to watch it from a distance, even though I know that I am unlikely to ever return; even if Harry Potter has threatened that he would name his firstborn daughter after me.
I never bothered to respond to this feeble blackmail of his.
It took years before I was informed of the fact that he had indeed gone through with it.
James Sirius Raven Potter.
Albus Severus (really?) Raven Potter.
Lily Luna Raven Potter.
Seriously; he tagged on my given name onto all of the poor Potter spawns, giving them so many names that they nearly give the now deceased Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore a run for his money. To think that the blasted half-blood had the gall to do that; I'm honestly starting to believe that he is indeed inhabited by a streak of rebelliousness similar to that of my own.
Regardless, most would probably have felt honoured by the fact that the saviour of Britain opted to name his children after you. I however am not like most people. None would have been better; one would have been enough or too much even; three on the other hand… ugh.
Obviously, it did not help that my name got to share the company of loads of dead people – one pair of dead parents, one deceased godfather (a pity, that one) and two deceased former headmasters – and some Luna person (whoever she is). However, even if there is nothing wrong with either this Luna person or the late Sirius Black, I am now the namesake of someone named Albus Severus (Raven) Potter. Even in death, the lot continue to torment me.
All in all, I seriously considered returning the favour if I ever got pregnant, but opted not to since no child deserved such a cruel fate. Or rather, avoiding bringing such an existence into the world had been my intention for a very long time. But, as you should all know, accidents do happen, and they seldom come alone.
The one who shared half the responsibility named my first accident.
The second, that followed minutes later, I named myself.
The third, that came along eventually, we took joint responsibility for naming.
Lacking in the ability to mother others as I believe myself to be, it was natural to be concerned in regards to just how much I would screw them up as people. However, though I evidently lacked quite a bit in the department of good experiences, I did happen to know a thing or two about that which ought to be avoided. Besides, I…
On second thought, never mind.
Long story short, I had a plan. Then I had another plan, and then there were complications. Truth to be told, things didn't exactly go according to plan, though in one sense, I suppose that they did; some of them at any rate.
I set out to cure my own ignorance; I ended up squandering more than one intricate master plan whilst I was at it, setting off a whole series of events.
Now, only one question remains…
Do I regret the fact that I – that day on the train, enlightening Harry Potter to his own ignorance?
Hardly.
After all, accidents do happen.