Heather Potter gradually came to realise she still existed. Of course she must, if she were conscious enough to remark on her own existence — cōgitō ergō sum, and all that. It wasn't just her thoughts, but she could feel her own body was a thing. Just the sense of it, the presence of her own flesh, but also that she was lying on some cool, hard surface. Which meant she definitely still existed, if her body was still here.

The first thing Heather felt was a rush of disappointment.

A weird reaction, one would think, to the realisation that she wasn't dead. Or, if she were dead, at least that she existed in some form. But she... She was done. She was just so tired. Honestly, when she'd brought Snape's memories to the pensieve, seen Dumbledore telling him that she had to die, mostly it'd just come as a relief. She'd been pushing for so hard, for so long, without the slightest reprieve, and it hurt so much, and she was so tired. The thought she could just...lie down, leave it to someone else— No, not even that, but that she had to lie down, that she had to be gone before someone else could properly kill the Dark Lord... Just a relief.

The thought had occurred to her, at the time, to wonder if she should feel guilty about that. But she hadn't, and she hadn't been able to bring herself to. They could do it without her — in fact, since she had to die, they needed to do it without her. Since her death was necessary, she wasn't abandoning them. At least no more than she would have to either way. She was doing exactly what was needed of her.

And it was a relief.

But...she was still here.

Though, where was she, exactly? It didn't feel like she was lying in the forest, not packed dirt but hard wood. It didn't sound like the forest — sounded rather like, well, nothing, the silence so complete her ears rang with it. She sat up, opened her eyes to look around. Everything was so white. The wood of the corridor, a mist clinging just above the ground, a slight glow in the air, obscuring her vision not far before her. Only that side of the corridor kept going, though, the end she was in was cut off, a few doors standing to her sides and back, glowing just as perfectly white.

She noted around then that was she was completely nude, but she just shrugged the observation off. She somehow doubted dead people really needed to wear clothes.

And then it wasn't so silent. Behind one of the doors, slightly muffled around the edge, she heard...something. It was a shuffling, a thumping, as though something tiny and weak pathetically struggling, a shrill, keening whine slithering across the air. Memories sparked lazily through Heather's head, and she shivered, reflexively wrapping her arms around her stomach. She knew what that was. She could only be glad the door was blocking her view. She had no desire to be any closer than she already was, certainly none to see the cursed thing.

'Heather.' She jumped at the voice, coming from further down the hall. Popping up to her feet, the skirt of her dress shifting about her legs, she turned back forward to see—

She felt her own face tilt into a weak glare. Of course he would be here. Because she wasn't having enough fun already today.

Dumbledore gazed down at her with a bright, beatific smile on his face, arms spread wide in a gesture Heather would be unsurprised if he had copied from some religious artwork. Voice soft and warm, he said, 'You wonderful girl. You brave, brave—'

'Shut up.' It came so sudden, so powerful, she couldn't control it. Rising in her chest, like a wildfire climbing a tree, crackling and spitting rage that slammed her throat closed before she could get anything else out, suddenly feeling hot, and tight, as though filled with too much...something for her size. She fought to control herself, to regain her voice, even as she noticed little filaments spread out from her across the floor, veins of red and black stitched into the white grains, a few motes of the mist and light about her darkening. 'Shut. Up. You don't get to talk to me like that. You— You have no right.'

Her vision was a bit blurred, coloured at the edges with her barely-suppressed fury, but she saw the uncertain look take over Dumbledore's face, his head tilting somewhat. After a few seconds of silence, he said, 'Whatever have I done to deserve such enmity from you, Heather?'

For a second, she could only blankly stare at him. He was joking, right? 'In case you've forgotten, we did not exactly part on the best of terms. Not that we were ever got on as well as you liked to pretend. Is that something I have to look forward to in the afterlife? Forgetting basic facts of my own past?' She wouldn't exactly call that a bad thing, honestly.

A look of mild shock on his face, Dumbledore said, 'This isn't the afterlife, dear girl. My, what would give you that impression?'

This time, she found herself having to hold back a laugh. The black and the red singing around her, whispering and twittering, made it even harder. It seemed to think the question was just as ridiculous as she did. 'Oh, I don't know. I do seem to remember a blasting curse heading straight for my chest. That might have something to do with it.' Luckily, Voldemort hadn't played with her long before just killing her. A little bit, of course, but not too much.

She could feel the memories shifting about in her head, but she shoved them back before they could grow too strong. She didn't want to be remembering that right now. Or ever, preferably.

Since she was supposed to be dead, she really didn't feel that was too much to ask.

'A blas...' Somewhat to her surprise, Dumbledore's face paled, going even more unnaturally white than he'd been a second ago. A look of blank horror in his eyes, mouth opened with clear shock, he stared at her for a long moment, before finally managing, 'Ah, a blasting curse? You're sure.'

'Pretty damn sure.' She had recognised it from the spellglow, but that wasn't entirely necessary — she had felt the spell tearing her body apart, after all. Only for an instant, before everything had suddenly stopped, and she was trying not to think about that, so the feeling was a bit fuzzy. But she remembered. It hadn't been pleasant.

'But, he...' Dumbledore's legs quite suddenly failed him, a chair that hadn't been there a second ago, much as the dress she was wearing had seemingly appeared from nowhere, catching him before he could fall to the ground. He sat there, silent, eyes staring unfocused at nothing, a shaky hand raising to his brow. 'He... He was supposed to use the Killing Curse, that...'

Heather hadn't really been paying much attention to him, instead watching the red and black whatever it was surrounding her. It hadn't faded with her anger — well, she was still angry, sure, but she was mostly calm again — but lingered, curling about her ankles with a soft, tickling touch, blowing gently at her hair, whispers in her ears so quiet she couldn't understand what it was saying, could barely pick the voice out, but it still sounded oddly familiar. It was weird. But she was yanked back, frowning down at the infuriating old man. 'What the bloody hell are you talking about?'

'I– You have to understand, it was simply a theory, there would be no way to test it of course, but...' Dumbledore's hand dropped, his eyes again raising to meet hers. She was a little surprised to notice the beginnings of tears in them. 'There is never only one way to do anything, Heather. There is more than one way to tie a soul to the living realm. When Tom used your blood in his resurrection—' Heather flinched at the memory. '—he took a part of your mother's protective magic into himself, infused it with such power and life that— You were supposed to survive. But, but if your body is too damaged, your soul will not be able to re-inhabit it. I am sorry, my dear girl, I didn't think—'

'You're fucking kidding me.' Dumbledore's eyes widened, probably at the flat disdain on Heather's voice, but she ignored that. 'Just because there are no external signs of damage doesn't mean a person can be revived. I mean, if I had been hit with the Killing Curse instead, and I got to go back and try to re-inhabit my body, is that just supposed to ignore the catastrophic nerve damage that killed me?' She shook her head to herself, muttered under her breath, 'Bloody idiot, honestly.'

'Catastrophic nerve damage?' He actually looked confused, imagine that.

That only made her more annoyed, of course. The red and the black around her whispered at her, told her she should be annoyed, that this man, this man who was supposed to be responsible for her, who was supposed to provide for her safety and well-being, had failed to fulfill his mandate every step of the way. Failed, spectacularly. But, really, Heather found it hard to summon the will to care enough to get too angry. A little angry, sure, but not a lot. 'Yeah. How else did you think it kills people?'

'I... I've read of soul magic, and the severing of the spirit's connection to—'

Heather stopped listening, just shook her head to herself. Of course, it did do that, but severing a person's soul from their body involved a crazy amount of energy — there was a reason the curse was so hard to cast — funnelled very tightly into very sensitive places. It did leave damage behind, damage that could not be repaired by any known means.

She was seventeen, had only passing familiarity with soul magic, and she knew this. What was his excuse?

'Why are you even here?' Dumbledore cut off in his ramble, by how he blinked up at her only realising then she hadn't actually been listening. But then, he never really did seem to pay that much attention to her, did he? 'Where is this? Why do I—? I just want to...'

She didn't want to deal with this.

She didn't want to deal with anything.

You shouldn't have had to deal with any of it.

Heather blinked, glanced at the tendrils of thick, red-black not-light floating about her, twisting and curling. That was one of the voices inside, the first one that actually came out as coherent English. Whatever it was, it was talking to her, not in audible whispers, but slithering right into her thoughts. The sensation wasn't exactly unpleasant, but it was strange.

You have been betrayed by those who should have cared for you.

You have been wronged by those who should have known better.

It is not right.

You are powerful.

You are beautiful.

You never got to find it.

You never came to truly understand.

You were broken so young—

So young...

—and you were never allowed to heal.

We don't like that. We think it is wrong.

Wrong, wrong to leave such potential unexpressed.

Wrong to keep such power tied to the ground, not allowed to spread its wings.

Wrong.

Injustice.

Betrayal.

Fate. Heather just shrugged back at the whispers, despite how the giddy feeling they brought with them, a dark, reckless humour, was bringing a smile to her face. What was to be done about it? It was passed and gone. Fate had fallen as it had. There was nothing to be done. She had long ago accepted it was her lot in life.

In the next seconds, the way it contorted about her, shivering in the air, its presence in her mind light and bouncing, she would say the not-light was chuckling at her.

So much yet to learn, child.

Fate is but a song, a subtle melody at the centre of reality.

Those who can hear it can learn to sing.

And the song can be changed.

Fate is not absolute. Not immutable.

Nothing is unchanging, change is the way of existence.

And so fate can be changed.

This need not be the end.

Her lips still twitching with the not-light's warm amusement, Heather's eyes nonetheless narrowed with a frown. She didn't understand. Were they saying she could go back?

No, not back. What is done is set.

Though fate can be sung, once events have occurred, they are immutable.

It is only that which has yet to come which can be changed.

But reality is more than you realise.

And we are more powerful than you can imagine.

We wish to see your power grow.

We wish to hear your song be sung.

We wish to watch you soar free.

Your wings have been shattered, yes, you cannot go back to the life you knew.

But why would you want to? Honestly, now.

Heather chuckled under her breath a little. It had a point.

But while your spirit remains, it can grow wings anew.

You can live again. Not as you were before.

Someone different.

New.

Powerful.

Beautiful.

Eternal.

We can make it so.

You have earned our favour, Heather Potter.

But the spectacle was disappointingly brief. We wish to see more.

We can give you, as the silly old man would say, your next great adventure.

Only say the word, and a new life will be yours.

Why were they doing this? Was this an offer that was made often? She couldn't imagine it was...

Not often, no. But sometimes.

Though you are different. We know it, even if you don't.

But this isn't itself unusual. You would not be the first we have intercepted.

People of exceptional will, of powerful personality, enough that we are intrigued.

When such songs are suffocated before their natural end, sometimes we act.

Not always. Sometimes, they refuse.

It is disappointing, but understandable.

Such people are crushed under such terrible weight they are too severely broken.

They wish only to pass into their eternal rest.

It may be disappointing, but we do not begrudge them that.

And still we offer. And still we wait.

She frowned at the lights around her for a long moment, thinking. Was she tired? Yes, of course she was. She was exhausted. But, she was exhausted because of the situation she'd been stuck in. She was exhausted of being Heather Potter, of there being no end in sight, exhausted of the constant isolation, and expectations, and agony. If she were no longer Heather Potter, not really, would she still be exhausted? Would she still wish for it to just end, whatever it took, just so she could truly rest?

No. No, she didn't think she would.

Because she was beautiful and powerful. She wasn't so ignorant of her own magic to not realise she was something special. Not entirely sure what, but something. But she was so... She had never gotten to spread her wings, as the whispers had put it.

She thought she would rather like to. If only to see what she could do, when she wasn't held back.

But that was an if. If she weren't held back. If this new life she was being offered was significantly easier than the one she'd been stuck with. Would she be happy? She had to know that first. It wouldn't be worth it if she wasn't going to be happy. She'd had enough of being miserable already, she thought.

Yes.

Though not without complications.

There are simpler lives. And there are easier ones.

It will take effort to secure your place in your new world. That is for sure.

But would you truly wish it any other way? How else will you find how far your wings can carry you, if you aren't forced to fly?

But you will not be given more than you can bear. Not this time.

There may come a time when things may seem hopeless.

But we know what you are. Even if you don't.

None can flee from you forever.

You will always win in the end.

For your wrath when purely expressed is beautiful and terrible.

No matter how powerful he may seem, he is weak where it matters.

And it will be your accomplishment when he falls. Yours and yours alone.

No one will be able to claim you do not deserve your victory.

And your song will inspire others, lift up voices that would otherwise have been silenced.

And you will not be alone.

There will be family. Friends. Lovers.

You will not be alone.

You will not be alone.

You will be powerful.

You will be beautiful.

You will be eternal.

And you will be happy.

We promise you, you will not regret it.

Well. She really couldn't imagine what else she could possibly say to that. The not-light's presence in her mind was still making her feel a bit giddy, which might be interfering somewhat with her decision-making process. But all she could do was smile at the dark radiance about her. 'Sure. I'll go.'

'Heather? You'll go where?' It was only then she even remembered Dumbledore was there. He had climbed out of his chair, had walked partway over to her, looking on the red-blackness around her with clear suspicion. 'What is this?'

Still smiling, she said, 'They're taking me on a trip. My next great adventure, as you call it.'

'They? Heather, my girl, I don't know what this is, but...' Frowning, he shook his head to himself, unease very obvious about him. 'There's something wrong about it. I have never seen anything like it, but if one thing is sure, it is not of the Light.'

'If there is one thing you have taught me, Headmaster, it is that Light is not always good.'

Before Dumbledore could say anything — and it did look like he was about to, his face turning thunderous, shoulders rising — the not-light quivered, tensed, then lashed out, pushing away from her in an inexorable wave. In a blink, before she could even pick out what was happening, the white hallway was gone, Dumbledore vanished, and the not-light was all there was. Incandescent blacks and moody reds, comfortably soft and soothingly warm, gently caressing her bare skin. For she was, she noticed, quite suddenly naked again, not that she found she really cared. The not-light felt too good, slipping all over and through her, filled with adoration and hope and happiness and life.

Not that she was really sure what she meant by that. Despite Dumbledore's initial protest, this was clearly the afterlife. She'd be more surprised if it did make total sense.

The whispers were back, and she was a little surprised to note a slight note of righteous fury on their not-voices. It didn't taint the gentle warmth about her, almost seemingly to close about her, as though protecting her from further harm.

That silly wraith.

That empty man.

He has no idea who we are.

He has no idea who you are.

The arrogance of mortals never ceases to astound us.

But this is not the time to talk of that, no.

It is time to send you on your way.

Good luck, Heather Potter.

We will be watching.

Then the incandescent blackness and gentle redness were moving. Twisting about her in a tempestuous, uncontainable storm, slicing through her skin and mind, all she was, and the agony pounded through her white and violet, but she couldn't scream, she didn't have a throat anymore, but she could still feel herself moving, falling from an impossible height, the contorting currents of magic thrusting her down, down, and she was dizzy, and she hurt, and the only thing she could think through the pain and confusion was maybe that hadn't been a very good—

With a sudden slam she felt all through her being, thoughts spinning and magic thrashing, Heather was dropped solid onto her back, the blankets tangling around her limbs as she flailed. Her breath was harsh and hot and dry in her throat, loud and fast in her ears, but that wasn't the worst of it, no, she could feel her magic crackling around her, setting the air to glowing and sparking, the wood groaning. She grit her teeth, tried to yank it back into herself, but it wasn't listening, it was too raw, too inflamed from...whatever exactly had just happened. But she had to get it under control, she could hurt Mom and Dad on accident if she didn't, and even if they were okay she wasn't supposed to be magic, they wouldn't know what to do.

Before they could wake up all the way, Heather cast a thought out to her wildly writhing magic, ordering it to obey her will, telling it to make Mom and Dad sleep. It hesitated, just for an instant, but then a small fraction of it turned about, falling on the shifting figures next to her, and they were still again, forced back under. Heather slid across the rough surface of the bed, popped over the foot, her bare feet coming with an almost inaudible thud against the wood floor. On instinct, she walked through the little house, slipping out the door.

Heather took in a hard breath as winter chill snapped at her legs and arms and neck — holy fuck it was cold! It was almost spring, she knew it was, but for some reason it was really fucking cold, she doubted it ever got colder than this even around Hogwarts. Since her magic was refusing to stay inside her body anyway, Heather told it to keep her warm, and it did, a soothing blanket of hot, soft air wrapping about her, the shivering that had already taken over her limbs instantly ceasing. She stepped off the rickety little wooden porch, sublimating the snow away before she stepped on it, walked a short distance from the house.

Then she crouched, low to the hard winter dirt, wrapping her arms about her knees. She tried, she tried, she tried to bring her magic in, to pull it back inside her body where it belonged, but it wasn't listening, it kept snapping and screaming around her, it didn't seem to want to come back even a little bit. But she concentrated, her face falling into an almost painfully severe grimace, yanking it back, as hard as she could, yanking, yanking, yanking.

And then she stopped, a soft yelp passing her lips, as her skin burned. Her own magic had hurt her! But that didn't make sense, her own magic couldn't hurt her! It was impossible! It was almost like...

It was...

It was almost like her body couldn't hold it anymore.

And then she understood, in the blink of an eye. She was in a different world. The whispers had said that, just short of explicitly. Magic here worked differently. The laws, the science of magic, the exact rules by which it operated by weren't quite exactly the same.

For whatever reason, her body couldn't hold her magic. Maybe mages here didn't work the same way, maybe people were biologically different here, less tolerant of high concentrations of magic. But, her magic had come with her, and it wouldn't go away. She knew it wouldn't. No matter how much her body might not be compatible with it, it was still part of her, connected to her, bound to her mind and soul. So, she'd have to do something with it.

Since she couldn't think of anything else to do, she pulled her magic inward, willing it to wrap around her, close against her skin. It resisted a bit — it wanted to be free, wanted to slash, and burn, and brighten the world around her — but she gave the air a scolding glare, dug in her heels. No, it was her magic, it would do what she told it to. Reluctantly, petulantly, the unleashed energy slowly coiled about her, coming to rest as a glowing, shimmering halo, covering her head to toe, extending just a couple inches into her surroundings.

She loosened her hold on her magic, just a little, to see if it were stable. Not entirely, she didn't think, a few wisps of power slithered off, floating about her, like hundreds of little comets. But it mostly stayed, and even the stuff that did stretch out a little was calmed, settling into regular orbits. Good, then. If she went in now, she wouldn't be breaking anything, or accidentally hurting her...

Heather blinked, straightened from where she was kneeling in the dirt, turned to look over her shoulder. The tiny little farmhouse looked entirely unremarkable, featureless in the washed colours of the winter night. But she wasn't looking, not exactly, instead thinking of what was inside that tiny little farmhouse.

Her family.

She...

Her name was Ithera. She was... Well, she wasn't sure how old she was exactly — from what she could tell, the people in the Valley here didn't keep a precise calendar, so they didn't really have birthdays. Everyone was considered a year older at this harvest festival they had, it was this whole thing. Ithera would say she was seven, but Heather was pretty sure she was actually six. She was momentarily surprised to realise she was so young, but she really shouldn't have been. Her feet had been strangely silent on the floors, and she felt a bit...slighter.

And, of course, a quick check with her hands confirmed her tits were gone. So there was that.

She knew, Ithera had known since she was old enough to understand, that her parents weren't really her parents. Marian and Garrow were her aunt and uncle, technically — Garrow was her mother's brother. Her mother had died shortly after she'd been born, she didn't remember her, and nobody had any idea who her father was. She knew they weren't her real parents, but she'd always called them Mom and Dad anyway. The explanation of the whole thing, a couple years ago, hadn't even come with the expectation she would stop calling them that. It was just to preemptively explain things people in the village, a mile or two north of here, might say to her, so she wouldn't get confused. They had a son of their own, a couple years older than Ithera, named Roran. They were technically cousins, yes, but they thought of each other as siblings, always had. Roran was older than her by little enough he couldn't remember Ithera not being there.

That was slightly odd, when Heather thought about it. It would be typical in a preindustrial society, as Ithera's memories made very clear this was, for farmers to have several children, to help with the work. (Or if only due to the lack of birth control.) In fact, reading between the lines, the family was struggling rather badly, Garrow and Marian, with the little Roran and Ithera could do, barely able to maintain the farm to satisfaction, keep them all alive. They could eat, yes, but they had hardly any left over to trade for anything else they might need. It was a razor thin edge they lived on. Slightly odd. By some of the issues Ithera had barely noticed, it looked like Marian might have some kind of health problem. It limited a bit what she could do around the farm to contribute, and was probably why Ithera didn't have more siblings.

Maybe Heather should look into that. She was hardly a licensed Healer but, who knows? She could get lucky.

She had a family.

The thought was...

She was disoriented after a moment of bewilderment by a dizzying wash of jealousy. She couldn't help it, it just happened. Here Ithera had been, growing up with an aunt and uncle and cousin. And they were nice to her. Garrow was somewhat gruff and distant, yes, Roran did sometimes play a bit rough with her. But... But they loved her. She could tell. She couldn't help it.

And then she laughed at herself a second later. She was being jealous of herself! That was so silly! Because, yes, she could remember growing up with the Dursleys. Those memories hadn't gone away. But she could also remember growing up with... Er, it seemed these people didn't have the concept of a surname. With her family, anyway. They were no different. She had more memories as Heather, Heather had been older. But her Ithera memories didn't seem...tacked on, or something. They were part of her too, just the same as any others.

Actually, it was sort of weird. She knew the whispers hadn't sent her here until just now, she knew her Heatherness hadn't appeared until just a few minutes ago. But there wasn't a... There wasn't like, a break, a discontinuity, when Heather took over Ithera...or...whatever was going on here...

She meant, it didn't feel any different. She remembered what she'd done as Ithera yesterday, and the day before, and so on. And she remembered what she'd done as Heather yesterday (don't think about that), and the day before, and so on. They both seemed just as real. Was she Heather or Ithera? Both? Neither? It was weird.

At least, she didn't think she'd stolen a six-year-old girl's body. It felt no different than if she'd been here the whole time. Though, since she hadn't been here the whole time, what exactly had Ithera been before she—

You know what, no, stop it. There was no point in thinking about that too much. There was no real way to get answers, and it was just too weird.

Heather flopped over onto her back, another quick warming charm banishing the chill from the frozen dirt, staring up at the sky above her. And, come to think of it, wasn't magic weirdly easy all of a sudden? She guessed since her magic had to stay outside of her body it was easier to push it out, that made complete sense. As long as they were spells that were easy to conceptualise, anyway. If she wanted to do any complicated magic, specific charms with precise effects, she'd have to be very careful, or probably get a focus of some kind. Ithera knew there were other magicians out there. They were very rare, however, so it might be difficult to find stuff to make magic easier, but not impossible.

It was sort of confusing, in her head right now. She knew she was a witch, she'd known it for nearly seven whole years now. If anything she was just slightly relieved she didn't necessarily need her wand — protecting herself if another mage came along might be complicated, which was making her slightly uneasy, but the chances of that out here were pretty much nill, she was fine. But part of her was absolutely giddy. She was magic! That was awesome! She was almost vibrating in place with excitement, it was so cool, half-tempted to jump to her feet and dance around in the snow, throwing magic all around just because, because she was a magician, and she could. But that was silly. Of course she was magic. There was nothing to get all weird over about that.

Heather let in and out a long breath, rubbing at her face with both hands. Hopefully this kind of thing wouldn't come up too much. Her two sets of memories bringing her to two completely different reactions to the same thing at the same time was very confusing.

There were a few clouds in the sky, she could tell only by the patches of absolute blackness, but there were still enough stars visible to confirm it. Yep, this wasn't Earth. After as many years as she'd spent in Astronomy, she should be able to recognise the sky even in the southern hemisphere — this was completely unfamiliar.

Not that she had that great an idea exactly where she was. Her home was just a mile or two south of Carvahall, a tiny little village in a place called Palancar Valley, a long, narrow strip of land split by a river called the Anora between the rocky, heavily forested mountains called the Spine. Apparently, the range as a whole was called that because they were sort of shaped like a person's spine, without the squishy parts, but Ithera had never seen a map, so she couldn't say for sure. Rather far toward the northern end of the mountain range — from what she could tell, she lived at pretty much the fringe of civilisation, far out in the frontier. The nearest city of any real weight was Ceunon, but Ithera didn't really know anything about it, she'd never been there. Ithera had never been out of the Valley, in fact.

Ceunon was the capital of the duchy she was in, though, which was called... Um, she couldn't remember. Sounded maybe kinda elf-y? Whatever. That was part of Brodhring, though. The people were called Brodhern, Ithera was Brodhr, and the language was called Brodhrish.

...

Apparently, she'd magically learned how to speak another language while she was being quasi-reborn in another world. Or...Heather's memories being plopped in her head had taken English with them — along with the tiny bit of French she'd managed to pick up, barely any. She honestly had no idea which way of putting it made more sense.

Of course, she did actually speak English better than Brodhrish. She had a seventeen-year-old's competence with English, but Ithera was only six. It made sense she wouldn't speak her language nearly as well as Heather could hers. Which she was pretty sure was going to be mortifying. Her knowledge may be incomplete, but she knew well enough she was still going to be talking like a child, and...that was just going to be awkward. Her intelligence she'd inherited from seventeen-year-old Heather was going to make that unpleasant. Oh well, she'd probably be able to pick up on it quicker than Ithera would alone, it wouldn't be very long.

Though, come to think of it, she'd have to pretend to keep thinking like a six-year-old. It'd probably creep people out if she didn't.

Most of the time, she'd only have to fool her family. She didn't see other people very often. And since she remembered how Ithera acted around them, it shouldn't be hard. Of course it shouldn't, she was Ithera, technically. Her Ithera reactions should still be there. She'd just have to...not overthink it, she guessed. Shouldn't be too hard.

Ithera yawned, her hand coming to her mouth. She was sleepy. She had just woken up, in the middle of the night, and then had to force her magic down, and that had been exhausting, and she was sleepy. She should go back to bed soon.

What exactly should she be doing with herself, the next few days, weeks? Part of her felt slightly antsy, like she had to...move, do something. But, that was from Heather's life, she knew that. She'd been on the move so much, she'd had things to do, big important things. But...Ithera didn't have things to do. She was just a six-year-old farmgirl. And it was winter, so there were barely any chores to do, even. And even if she were to do things, what could she do? She was six! She was being silly.

Maybe she should find time to sneak off and play with her magic though. Experiment, she meant, not play. It was very possible other things were different with how magic worked, and she should figure out exactly what before she really needed it. She'd hate to be stuck in a dangerous situation, something, and suddenly realise her magic wasn't acting like it should. That would be bad.

Okay, she was mostly just going to be playing with it. She did have good reasons, though! Not entirely pure, but still...

Other than that she should just...go along like she had been, and try to get used to being...whoever she was now. She wasn't exactly Heather, and not exactly Ithera. It was really bloody confusing. It was weird, it would take some getting used to. Especially since Heather had been really fucked up. Looking back on some of her own memories made her shiver, and not because she was cold. Her magic was taking care of that. Thank you, magic.

Maybe she could magic the bad memories away. Well, she could, actually, she knew a spell for that. But, that was probably a bad idea. That kind of spell required very tight, precise control, and she did not trust her ability to do that without a wand. Especially not when she wasn't sure how different magic was here. Yeah, she would just, not do that. She would rather deal with unpleasant memories than accidentally drive herself completely insane, thanks.

Ithera yawned again. Fuck, she was tired. She felt she had reason to be tired. It was the middle of the night, and she had just died and come back to life. Sort of. It was complicated. She'd be going back to bed, then.

She pushed herself to her feet, a little unsteadily, dizzy with sleepiness. She walked back to the porch, was inside a second later, pausing to make sure the door closed firmly — it got cold enough in here even when the door didn't stick open. Then she started on her way back to her room, yawning again, already half-asleep on her—

Heather froze, a shiver of unease slithering along her limbs. Ithera didn't have a room. She probably would, soon. The room was already there, but it was mostly empty. When the Traders came, in a month or two now, Mom and Dad were going to pick up a few things in town, and then she'd be able to actually sleep there. Ithera slept with Mom and Dad, always had. Actually, she'd been very conflicted about getting her own room, she didn't like sleeping alone.

But... Heather always slept alone. Even with Luna, she could barely sleep at all if Luna were with her, she always had to ask her to stay as far away as possible. She didn't know why. She would think she'd be comfortable enough with Luna of all people, at least. It just...bothered her.

But there really wasn't anywhere else to sleep. And part of her, the part of her rising from the Ithera memories, a part of her didn't even want to try. That was where she always slept. Why would she want to go anywhere else?

Heather grit her teeth, trying to force down her unease, and started again for her parents' bedroom. She could always use a sleeping charm on herself if she had to.

Walking into the room, closing the door behind her, she was mostly calm again. Still not exactly happy with the situation, but still. Dad was definitely still asleep, he was snoring a little, but Mum wasn't making any noise. Just to be sure, Heather silenced her feet quick, then padded over to the bed, climbed back on at the foot. Trying to not be uncomfortable, she crawled over the blankets, then wiggled her way back into place. Which was slightly awkward, trying to get back under the blankets without shoving them off Mum and Dad, but she managed it.

And then she lay there, rigid on her back, desperately trying not to be too uncomfortable. She was sleepy enough she knew she'd drift off eventually, but she would have to get used to this...

There was a soft taking in of breath from next to her ear, almost making Ithera jump. After the shortest moment, there was a whisper, in a soft, warm voice, just barely inches away. "Ithera? Is something wrong?"

Heather was temporarily distracted hearing Brodhrish for the first time. Technically, sort of. It sounded vaguely like Swedish to her. A little. The sounds and the accent, anyway, she would have no idea if the words were at all similar, she didn't speak Swedish. Forcing calm into her voice, Ithera said, "I'm fine, Mom."

For the barest second, there was only silence, and Heather was worried Marian, Mum, whatever, she was worried she wasn't going to believe her. But then she let out a hum, the breath of her sigh playing against Heather's shoulder. All right. Good. She was—

She barely managed to stop herself from yelping when Mum suddenly grabbed her. Not harshly, sure, she wasn't hurting her, it was just...sudden. Heather wasn't used to this...being touched...stuff. And then Mum was pulling her in, all soft and gentle, Heather's face coming in against the smooth cloth over her chest, and she had one hand low on her back and the other in her hair, and Heather tensed, eyes squeezed tight and throat clenched against her breath, hands unconsciously clenching in Mom's nightdress. Burying with everything she had the urge to flinch, to pull away, to shove Marian off of her, not entirely managing to repress an unpleasant shiver.

Hissed into her hair, Mom whispered, "Nightmares again?"

Despite herself, she felt the tension in her face, in her fingers, slightly relax. That was one way of putting it. From a certain point of view, she'd just had a seventeen-year-long nightmare — the word fit very well to Heather's life. Ithera had had nightmares sometimes, it'd been a problem for a while some months ago, but nothing like this, Heather's memories were so many times worse than anything a child's wandering mind could come up with.

She hadn't meant to. Not really. She was sleepy, and she was uncomfortable, and she was distracted, and she lost the rigid control she had on her own thoughts. Flashing before her eyes, she saw what had happened...well, earlier today, in a way, from Heather's point of view. Curses flashing back and forth, the air crackling with deadly magics, dementors and acromantulae and trolls and giants. Screaming and pain and blood. People she knew, friends and family, dying one after another after another. She saw Tracey take a cutting curse in the small of her back, she saw Tonks, after a terrifyingly intense fight with an entire pack of Death Eaters, vanish under a rain of spellglows, she saw Sirius struck with a blood-boiling curse, and Heather had been there, she'd tried to counter it, but it wasn't working...

And then, Luna...

If she were entirely awake, she would have been able to swallow it down. If she were entirely Heather, she probably would have. But she wasn't. She had a bloody six-year-old brain, and she couldn't stop it, it was forcing itself up too hard and too fast, her chest and throat filling with a hot tightness she couldn't control, and crying was dangerous, she knew crying was dangerous, but she couldn't stop, it wasn't staying down, and she couldn't help cringing away a little from the woman holding her, something small and vulnerable in the back of her head certain she was going to be punished, she couldn't help it, she—

But Mom's arms just tightened around her. Holding her closer, strong and soft and warm and oh so gentle. And Heather couldn't. This was entirely foreign to her. She had absolutely no idea how to handle this. She could tell she was still a little terrified, she still kind of wanted to escape, an instinctive impulse, but even so it was... She couldn't...

It was nice.

Ithera had no idea how much later it was she finally cried herself to sleep in her mother's arms.

Originally posted in "Back Burner" some time ago. Further notes at the end of chapter three.