Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters, nor its plot or anything of the sort. I do, however, own Gwen Paulius, Jackal, Shyne Balthalzar, and Simone Brackett, the plot of this fanfiction, and any other characters/scenarios that may be encountered that are not within the books. And there-fore, I advise you do not bitch nor steal. Enjoy the read! :D
The house was on fire again. This particular building that seemed to be so insignificant to her, the same building that kept showing up so vividly in her dreams. There was nothing special about it in the least, white with a black roof, black shutters. Two story building, horizontally it was longer, giving it an odd shape. There was a small garage, a single car of deep red parked outside. Every night she had this dream she mused how the only real color she ever could focus on was that one vehicle, only because it reminded her of blood. It accompanied the screams so brilliantly, to the point it was ironic, really. Faintly the shadows of people passed by the windows, flames both inside and outside of the house eating away at the structure and its occupants. There was nothing special about this house. It was boring even by just glancing at it. Not even worth a second glance, really. And honestly, if anyone knew its occupants they would of agreed to that. There wasn't even a garden to be burned away, no flowers to wither against the heat of the flames. The lawn was green before, sure, taken care with little effort. These people couldn't be bothered with it, not in the least. Why? The property wasn't special to them, the little girl in the dream knew that.
She knew that. So what did she do? She watched the property burn. And why did she watch the property burn? Because it wasn't special. Even if she knew how to stop the flames she wouldn't. So instead she stood on the sidewalk outside of the home, a backpack at her feet, the top handle tightly in her grasp. The girl's head was dipped downwards, eyes of gold reflecting the flames even through the thick dark chocolate bangs. Hair that reached her collarbone, straight as can be on its own. She watched as the building burned, she watched and listened as the people within it burned. It was all because this place wasn't special. Why wasn't this place special? Shouldn't it be, though. Considering she was their only child, the only child that lived within that house. Wasn't she supposed to be their pride and joy like the television spoke. No. She was the child they neglected, she wasn't special. She was never going to be special, not for them or anyone else. So she stood, watching the house that was never special to her parents, watching as they became her first experiment at the young age of nine. It looked like it was a success, and slowly the dream girl smiled. It was slow, bordering sinful. She had preformed alchemy. That same smile mocked, taunted the dying bloodline of hers, she wasn't as forgettable as they made her. She wasn't as invisible. It was all thanks to the book she held within her hands.
Prequel.
She was sixteen when she opened the old box, dust had seeped in some of the cracks and holes of the cardboard. But the teenager seemed to care little, just focused upon the belongings of her past, the items that still held some sort of connection. They were items she had not seen in a long while, mainly because the doctor claimed it would stir up unwanted memories she was not ready for. But that was then, and this was now. So far she had successfully found a still tied bow, a plain black tie from the funeral, some pennies and a quarter, childhood books, worn out teddy, and a book that stood out among others. Pulling out the last of the items from the bottom of the box she examined its features carefully, fingertips brushing across the cover. It was tattered, worn beyond belief, she couldn't make out the cover properly. The only thing that stood out clearly enough was the title, one that seemed to sarcastically jump out at her.
Alchemy. The Book.
She snorted quietly at the ridiculous name. Really, was that alluring any consumers? Sitting back against some old boxes in the attic she flipped open the cover idly, an eyebrow raising at the first page.
Only existing copy.
The words nearly seemed to speak to her in the plainest of voices, printed perfectly in the line of sight. That was interesting, eyebrow raising worthy. She had the only copy, why hadn't she remembered that? Speaking of which... How the hell did she even get her hands upon the book? Wrinkling her nose slightly she flipped to the index, examining the chapters briefly before grabbing a handful of pages and slowly flipping through them. Easily she noticed not a page was without written text, notes scribbled all over. She stopped flipping through abruptly, her eyes catching two words. Revival and immortality. It wasn't the text, it was the notes. When she looked over the page she noticed what it was of, the Philospher's Stone. The legendary object that was said to possess unimaginable power. Reviving, healing, making a being immortal... Flickering her gaze over the way too neat handwriting she read how this person obviously had some belief of it to be real. Their notes were short but detailed, it was an organized mess, to say the least. Who ever had done this put their heart into the work, she had to say she was impressed.
From a young age she had never been one to believe in fairy tales, skeptical considering her childhood. A childhood she barely remembered now. Fairies, unicorns, flying ponies, witches, and what ever else. She would like to say she could believe, but how could she when everything in her life ever pointed to one thing. Reality was not bent on magic nor luck, just hard work and suffering. A term her father used often. But even at the young age, when being told such things, she had to cling to something. Some type of hope. And here it was in her hands, the exact book that led her to it. Alchemy. It was as if humans were trying to preform magic. It was science, it was math, all being used to form something spiritual, something magical. And that was what she as a child could cling to, because it wasn't about fairies or pretty ponies, it was logic.
Here she was now though, sixteen, and not thinking logically in the least. The only real thing she had ever known was in her hands, the book she used to set her old home on fire. The book that made her regret nothing. Her lips formed a faint smile. She was glad at that at least.
What she wasn't pleased about was how this book though seemed to still be claimed as this person's. She wanted to leave her print, to let it be known her value to this. From here, when it was starting once more, to when it would end. Flipping to the front of the book she stopped at where the book informed her of it being the only copy. Grabbing her childhood bag -that she still used- she grabbed a pen, clicking it open she pulled her knees up closer to her chest and hunched over.
"May 21st, I have opened the box and found you once more, book. I'm sixteen, sane as can be once more, considering that afternoon. I'm done with stalling or being stalled, it's been seven years. You taught me a lot when I was nine, book, I'm determined you can still teach me more. So hello, book, my name is Gwen Paulius, it's good to see you again."
She smiled as she lifted her pen, examining the small print which wasn't perfectly neat but still capable of being read. With some affection she traced her fingers down the corner of the cover. That was when the attic filled with an uneasy vibe, a sensation she had never felt before. Trouble, she felt trouble. Her instincts were telling her to put away her things and return to the foster home below but she didn't move, no. She stayed, her eyes turning downwards to find her words fading away. Her golden gaze widened as the ink was completely gone, and from it, in nearly the same spot, rose a new black font. One that was not her own, one that mimicked the neatly written style of the scribbled notes.
Hello Gwen, my name is Tom Marvolo Riddle.
It was then her smile faded just as quickly as the ink upon the paper did. What she had in her hands was a book, a very special book. A book that would live up to its name as the only one of its kind.