Summary: Horatia Potter had survived war, defeated Tom and greeted death like an old friend. However, nothing is as it seems. People wear many faces, truths are taken for granted and one name can change an entire story. How will she survive political intrigue, assassinations and the decadence of sin? Well, one truth remains. Only a Borgia can love a Borgia. Cesare/Fem!Harry/Juan. Incest.


WARNINGS: This fic will contain explicit language, blood and gore, theology and religious metaphors, philosophical undercurrents, war, intrigue, political machination, nepotism and, of course, as the summary says, INCEST (More leaning towards the psychological application, ramifications and more importantly, the condition known as GSA (Genetic Sexual Attraction) rather than just incest for incest sake). If none of these things are your cup of tea, turn back now. If, like me, you don't mind exploring the more taboo aspects of the human condition, buckle up kid! We are in for a hell of a ride!

Setting: Pre-season one of The Borgia's and right at the very end of the Harry Potter book series. Some manipulation to the ages, heavy distortions to the Harry Potter plot (evidently).


Subiaco, Italy, April 1477.

Vannozza Dei Cattanei P.O.V

The sharp, piercing cry of the infant was the most blissful sound Vannozza could possibly hear. Three months into confinement, seven and a half hours in labour, and here she was, sweaty, exhausted, sprawled upon her birthing bed with midwives scuttling around her like ants, Rodrigo Borgia perched at her side, and she had never heard, nor would hear, such a pleasant sound. Before she could fully catch her breath from her last round of pushing, the babe, swaddled in thick, happily embroidered linen, was presented to her, delicately being placed upon her heaving breast.

"A girl, my lady."

A girl… A little girl. Tears came to her then, cresting upon her eye lashes as her arms came up to cradle the girl, as her fingers stroked blood streaked skin. She was a hearty little thing, plump and round and bellowing her lungs out. She was cherubic, even now, with her features, so fresh and new, scrunched in her discomforted cries, little wisps of blonde hair sprouting from her scalp like plumage of a proud bird.

"Lucrezia…"

Yes, her precious girl, the adorning jewel to her two sons' golden chain. As if looking for confirmation, or perhaps to see pride reflected from her own eyes, Vannozza turned to glance at Rodrigo, who was smiling ear from ear as he peered over to their youngest addition.

"Lucrezia Borgia, a fine name for a finer babe."

Soon her sight was pulled back to her new child, sticking, as the world moved around her, unobstructed from the beauty right before her eyes. Perhaps the world was blind if it had not stopped as she had, so utterly devoured by her child and her angelic visage. Sheets were taken, bowls of water refilled, and candles were lit as evening turned to midnight.

"Oh… Oh… Ow! Ow! Rodrigo!"

It was all she could get out as she lurched upwards and forward, curling, pushing her new babe towards her father, who readily took her with a worried frown, hands coming to clamp at her spasming stomach, still bloated as it was often for months after birth. For a lasting moment, she was so completely confused. Lucrezia was here, the after birth had been taken and dealt with, as was proper, and furthermore, it was hours after the birth, a new day in reality.

"My lady?"

Vannozza groaned heavily. Contractions. She was having contractions. Fast. Something hot and wet gushed between her thighs, flooding the bed, and even before the midwives, who had stayed in the room as was customary for the first two weeks of afterbirth confinement, rushed for her, there was a mighty cry from her lips and something, what felt like her own guts and entrails, slipped between her legs and onto the bed with a muted thud.

Her hands shook violently as they grappled for her birthing dress, wrapping knuckles into thin cloth pulled taunt at her bent knees, pulling and yanking it up so she could see the bed. That's when she saw it… No, not it, them. Another babe. A child… A girl. Twins. She had twins. The midwives swarmed her, blocking her view as they pushed her back onto the plush cushions lining the head of the bed, murmuring to each other as they bent and huddled around her bottom half. Blindly, Vannozza's hand searched for Rodrigo's, breath harsh in her lungs as panic seized her and she squeezed her lovers' hand as he pressed in close, Lucrezia safely nuzzled to his chest. There was only silence.

"My child, my babe, is she healthy? Why isn't she crying? Why is she silent? Tell me!"

A second, a minute, hours, a lifetime, time was inconsequential then when no answer greeted her straight away. But then Alessia, her most trusted servant, was turning around, facing her, smiling, something small, so small, bundled in a scrap of blue velvet, the only material close at hand, clutched to her chest and Vannozza's heart beat once more.

"She is well my lady! Well and wide eyed! Another girl! God has blessed thee justly my lady."

Then the bundle was in her arms and Vannozza was crying again, relieved, surprised, all and every emotion bouncing in her skull. She was smaller than her sister, delicate and thin boned, like a little crow hatchling. It was true, too, for the babe was wide-eyed, awake, searching with her impressively large eyes, so very, very green, like her father, Rodrigo's own stunningly vibrant eyes, but silent, almost sorrowfully resolute if such a thing could be attributed to a babe. Her hair, unlike her sisters, was full and lustrous, curling around tiny ears and smooth forehead. It too took opposition to her blonde sister, casting itself in inky darkness, onyx black spirals jutting every which way. The sun and the moon. Her two daughters. Day and night.

"Rodrigo… A girl, another child! A twin…"

Rodrigo didn't answer her, only placed Lucrezia back upon her breast as he slowly, almost hesitantly, slipped his hands around his other daughter, bringing her up and close to his chest so he could peer down upon the babe.

"Horatia. Horatia Borgia, for her timing is a most welcomed surprise. Hello there little one…"

His voice was soft, lilting, like a lullaby, and so very warm as he smiled down at the babe. Vannozza's gaze trailed to the shut window, eyeing the moon in the sky, the stars, and nodded. Mentally, she rolled the name around her mind, tasting it, flexing it, absorbing it. Horatia meant timekeeper. A new day, passed midnight, she had come just at the right moment to have her own birthday, despite being a twin.

The babe, Horatia, freed an arm from her velvet prison as her little fingers, small and stubby, latched onto her fathers' necklace. It was a family air loom, golden and proudly hung between sternum, medallion on the end depicting a field of gold on a shield, a rubied bull pouncing. The Borgia family crest. Horatia's strength was new and fragile and soon her arm was flopping back down, but not before she managed to smear a clot of blood across the face of the medallion. Rodrigo only laughed.

"Yes, you are definitely a Borgia, aren't you?"

For some reason, the sight of the necklace, the medallion streaked with blood, sat unwell in Vannozza's stomach, like curdled, sour milk. Yet, as Lucrezia nuzzled into her breast, as Rodrigo laughed and cuddled his daughter closer, as the moon shone down upon them, a maid rushing to find Cesare and Juan to meet their new siblings, Vannozza Cattanei had never felt such elation, such peace, such happiness.

It was only a shame that it wouldn't last.


Hogwarts Castle, England, May 1998.

Harry's P.O.V.

Horatia, or Harry as she was fondly called by friends, Potter, had never felt such peace before. It was quick, painless. There had been a flash of green light and then nothing but tranquillity. It was all gone. The hunger. The anger. The uncertainty. The betrayal. The pain. Gone. Only peace and warmth. She felt light, airy, fluid, unbound by flesh and sinew or meaning and reason. She simply was and that… That was enough.

The place she was in, this land, it was strange. Bright, so bright, and white and warm and slow, calming. She was standing at the edge of a winding path, cutting through a vast field of vines and grapes, barefoot, as she edged down the way, humming to herself. Something on the trodden path caught her eye.

Shrivelled, snivelling, rotten and foul, the decrepit stain of Voldemort's horcrux lay at her feet, bleating like a sheep, dying. There was no place for it in this land, no home and hearth and so, Harry stepped over the repugnant thing and carried on her way without a second glance backwards. None of that mattered now. Not with this eternal warm sun heating her frigid skin, finally. She had always felt so cold. Ice. No more. Not here. Her humming picked up in volume as her hand skittered out to brush fingertip against vines as she leisurely made her way.

She had somewhere to be. She didn't know how she knew that, she didn't know how she knew a lot of things, but know she did. There was a marbled house, a villa, at the end of this path. She knew that Villa. She knew the hallways. The kitchen. Each and every room. She knew which steps creaked on the grand staircase, which sconces were wobbly, which bookshelves were good to hide things behind. She knew it like she knew her own reflection. Instinctually. In that house, there were people there, waiting for her. They had been waiting a long time.

Just as she knew it would be, it was there, at the bottom of the path, just around an arching bend and Harry made her way to the kitchen door. As she stepped up the stone steps to the large wooden door, her dress caught her eye. It was a plain thing, linen, white and thin, nothing but a long shift, really. However, the blood on it, blossoming out from her stomach, like ink dropped in water, the stark red, did faulter her stride. Her head cocked to the side as her hand stalled on the door. There was no pain, no fear, no thundering heart. Nothing but warm sun, peace, and blood. There was no time for hesitancy. People were waiting for her.

Harry Potter pushed open the door and strode into the large villa.


Subiaco, Italy, August 1477.

Vannozza Dei Cattanei P.O.V

Her daughters really did prove to be opposites in all but blood, even at only four months old. Lucrezia proved to be a tiring baby, needing reassurance and skin contact at all hours of the day, and in full honesty, at night too. Horatia disliked being held, at all, apart from feeding. She would bawl and cry and scream until Vannozza or Rodrigo subsided and placed her back down. The only time she liked to be held close was when she was placed next to her twin to sleep in their crib, and Vannozza was only sure she allowed that because Lucrezia would wiggle and slide her way over until she felt her twin close to her side.

Lucrezia liked golden things, trinkets that sparkled and glowed, threads of silver and jewellery to fiddle with. Horatia preferred wooden things, cushions and clothes she could take apart and pull thread or stuffing from. If Horatia could get her hands on something, and if that thing just so happened to be able to be taken apart, she would dismantle it. Lucrezia was content to be held, to sleep in an embrace and nothing more, Horatia was too inquisitive for her own good, always looking, always watching. Lucrezia had come to the stage of infancy where she had taken to babbling, crowing, chirping at everything and anything that she could. Horatia, however, stayed resolutely silent. Almost eerily so. Even her cries were given from clenched gums, more puffing of flushed cheeks than wind from lungs.

Yes, so very different, day and night, sun and moon, but they were extremely close, her girls. When Lucrezia found a rather large pearl she was fond of grabbing, she would only relinquish it to her twin. When Horatia pulled a rather shiny string of golden thread from Vannozza's favoured chair, to Lucrezia it would go. While Lucrezia slept, Horatia would be wide awake, looking, almost as if she was standing guard. When it was Horatia sleeping, Lucrezia would curl herself around her smaller sister, nearly rolling on top, almost protectively. And the Lord almighty knew that Lucrezia made enough noise for the both of them. Vannozza wouldn't change either of them for the world.

"Cesare, please be careful with that."

However, she would rather like a peaceful day. Just one. Where nothing was dismantled, no jewellery stolen to be gummed upon, no fights between young boys or vases broke. Just one day. That was all she was asking for. At her reprimanding tone, echoing out from over by the stove of the kitchens, Cesare, at only seven years old, sullenly placed the vase back upon the kitchen table.

"Yes, mother."

Vannozza had been trying to cook breakfast for the last hour now, and although she had servants to do such menial tasks, she thought the effort would be well spent in having some time together with her family. Yet, the children were proving to be a handful. If Cesare wasn't trying to grab onto something he shouldn't be, six-year-old Juan was trying to climb the window or counters and if he wasn't doing so, Lucrezia was crying and if not, Horatia was tearing into a spoon or table cloth. Rodrigo, who was sat at the head of the table, lost in his letters and scrolls, thoroughly distracted, wasn't proving to be much help either. It seemed a cardinal's work was never done.

"Yes, mother. No, mother."

Juan snickered in an entirely too high-pitched voice, which earned him a rather fierce scowl from his older brother. Vannozza sighed as she stirred the pot, glancing to her side to see the twins settled in a crib. Lucrezia's face was turning red, her lip wobbling, seconds from crying and Horatia was currently trying to pull a wooden bar of the crib free to make her grand escape. Vannozza dropped the spoon and wiped her hands on the apron as she strolled over, speaking over her shoulder to a laughing Juan who was now sitting on the window sill.

"Juan, what have I told you? Get down from there and be nice. Please, boys, behave. Your sisters are causing me enough trouble."

Just as the first ear splitting cry left Lucrezia's lips, Vannozza had her up and in her arms, balanced on her hip as she began to sway side to side, hushing and cooing her to silence, which the babe quickly fell to now that she had her desired attention and affection, only punctuated by the odd sniffle here and there. A kiss on her cheek snapped her out of her half-tired daze as she glanced up, spotting Rodrigo smiling at her as he cut across the kitchen, to the stove, to take up the task she had been taken from.

"Do you need any help mother?"

Her eyes fell to the floor in front of her, seeing Cesare's dark eyes glistening up, hands clasped in front of him, awaiting any form of command or request. She smiled then, reaching out to ruffle his tight curls, pulling him over to her as she looked back at Rodrigo and then down to Lucrezia on her hip. Her boys. Her girls. Her family. She would take all the restless nights, all the broken spoons and torn cushions, all the picked apart jewellery and broken vases if it meant having her family, here, together, like this.

"No, dear one. Why don't you-"

She never got to finish her sentence as the oddest sound rang out like a church bell calling for morn mass. For a moment, she was confused to exactly what it was. Rodrigo was cooking. Cesare was standing before her. Lucrezia was dozing on her hip. And then it clicked. Laughter. A baby's laughter. High and keen and so unconditionally and purely joyful. Her eyes snapped to the crib only to find the bed empty.

Nonetheless, the laughter carried on and the sound led her to the culprit. Juan was standing by the window, holding tiny, little Horatia in his own small arms, the morning sun bathing them in a blanket of cheery yellow, as he pointed out the pane of glass to one thing or another, before turning to face the attentive babe once more and proceeded to pull faces, crossing his eyes in the middle. In return, Horatia's legs kicked and swung as her laughter picked up, bouncing off the pale walls, more cheerful and warm than any sunbeams. Soon, the giggling bled into babbling, loud and bubbly, the first Vannozza had ever heard come from Horatia, as Juan nodded as if he could understand every word.

"He does that all the time. He sneaks into the twins chambers every night to play with her, even when it's my turn."

Even when it's my turn. Her boys had been sneaking into the nursery, playing with the twins, getting Horatia to babble and laugh, even when Rodrigo and she couldn't, holding her, and Vannozza had not been any the wiser. She didn't know whether to be disappointed in herself, or happy that her sons had taken such an active role in trying to engage the normally silent and reclusive babe. Slowly, Juan, realising he was being watched, almost protectively pulled the child closer to his chest, wrapping his arms around her.

"She gets lonely."

Was Juan's only offer of explanation. Vannoza laughed as Horatia answered in an almost affirmative babble of spit, ending in another little bell-like giggle. Cesare dashed over to the pair.

"Let me hold her!"

Vannozza only smiled as Juan took a step back and shook his head, golden brown hair fluttering around his shoulders. Cesare huffed and almost stomped his foot. Rodrigo intervened before the boys could really begin to argue, as they were prone to do.

"Boys, she is not a toy to fight over. Juan can hold and play with her until after breakfast, then, if she is not sleeping, you can, Cesare. Now come, eat, while the food is still hot."

Steadily, the boys and in turn, Horatia, made it to the table. Seeing her family together, like this, warmed her heart more than words could verbalize. It was these memories she would treasure in the years to come, but also dread, for the pain they would inflict upon her very soul.


Hogwarts Castle, England, May 1998.

Harry's P.O.V.

Harry stepped into the kitchen and took a steady sweep of the room. Familiarity greeted her with open arms. There was the window she remembered looking out of, the phantom feeling of arms wrapping around her, the flash of a golden-brown lock. There was the cracked floor tile, three from the furthest wall. There was the slightly wonky kitchen table, sometimes used to dine on even though there was a dining room down the hall and to the left. There was the vase, bright blue and gracefully elongated. There was the cooking pot over a large fire, the stove, hot, the smell of meat and bread, fresh, tickling her nostrils.

A woman was standing in front of it, blue and black dress shiny, silken, old fashioned, very old, and irrevocably beautiful with its golden embroidery of swans and peacocks. She turned towards Harry, hands being brushed off by a small scrap of fabric that she discarded on the table. Her eyes landed right on Harry and the smile that took up home on her face would have put any star to shame as she swept over, long, puffed skirts skimming tile, and encased her in a warm embrace. Harry returned it immediately, nestling into the crux of her neck, snuggling into the curtain of her rose scented hair.

Harry knew this woman. She knew the slope of her nose. She knew the tight curls. She knew the small hands and thin waist and small stature. She knew the sound of her voice and the beat of her heart and the dark eyes and decadently auburn hair impeccably pinned away from her face with pearled clips. The hug, the embrace… It felt like coming home.

The woman pulled back, just a fraction, but Harry didn't let go. She didn't think she could even if she had wanted to. She wanted that feeling, that echo of home, to be forever with her. She wanted it imprinted on her heart, written on her flesh, scoured into her bones, seared into her soul. The woman's palms, gentle, soft, slightly shaking, came up to her face, cradling her cheeks, fingers pushing away curls from her eyes as her smile wilted at the corner and little drops of salty tears began to flush against her waterline.

"Look at how much you've grown… My precious baby…"

Harry found herself speaking back without meaning to, words bypassing her brain to slip right out of tooth, tongue and lip.

"Sorry I'm late mother."

Mother? Mother? Wasn't Lily?... No. Mother. Yes. Mother. She remembered now. This woman was her mother. Harry knew that. She knew this woman… Vannozza. Yes. That was her name. She knew Vannozza as deeply as she knew herself. Harry simply didn't know how she knew all that. Before she could ponder any further, Vannozza had a hand around her back, leading her through the kitchen, out of the doors, into the winding hallways.

She knew this house, these people, knew who would be waiting for her in the dining room, but everything felt a little foggy, a bit misted, just a shade of distortion. Like an old forgotten nursery rhyme, she couldn't quite remember the words, but she knew the song, the beat.

"It's about time. Everybody has been waiting for you."

They came to a pottering stop, and as if to emphasise her point, Vannozza detached herself from Harry and opened the oaken double doors besides them, once again, pushing the both of them through. Five expected faces met her head on. Oddly enough, she knew every single one.

She knew the man dressed in black, leaning against the large fireplace, leather trousers and jerkin glittering from the orange light. She knew his black hair, as dark and boisterous as her own, his hazel eyes, thin, straight nose, arching brow, tanned skin and sardonic smile. Cesare. She remembered him slipping her extra honey, her favourite, each morning. She remembered him reading to her, valiant tales of knights and destined loves. She remembered him humming the very same song she had been humming to her as she was rocked to sleep.

She knew the man in the red Jerkin, golden brown hair tussled, dancing at his shoulders, boot clad feet perched up onto the grand dining table as he reclined in his seat. She knew his stubbled cheek and lip. She knew his bright, blue eyes. She knew his laughter and smell and warm hug. Juan. She remembered laughing as he pulled faces at her. She remembered, dusted in moonlight, as he picked her up from a bed, smiling broadly, and tickled her. She remembered the games and stories and merriment.

She knew the woman by the bookshelf, gold and white dress almost blinding in the firelight. She knew the pale blonde hair, soft features, twinkling pale blue eyes. She knew the dimpled grin, the alabaster skin, the crinkle in her nose when she laughed or was disgruntled, because Harry shared the same traits. Lucrezia. She remembered the shiny ball… No, pearl, yes, a pearl. She remembered the cooing and babbling. She remembered curling up beside her. She remembered it all.

She knew the little boy sitting by Juan, his straight hair, very much the same colour as who he was sitting by, the pixie nose, the shy gaze and smile. She had no memories of him, but she knew him. Joffre. She knew the man sitting at the head of the table. She knew those red robes, that lopsided smile, the single raised brow. She knew those eyes, emerald green, keen and cunning and sharper than any knife or blade, eyes exactly like hers. Rodrigo… Father.

Cesare, Juan, her older brothers. Lucrezia, her twin. Joffre, her younger brother. Her siblings. Vannozza, her mother, Rodrigo, her father, their parents. Her family. Harry laughed almost hysterically as she grinned, earning blazing smiles in return. Home. She had come home. Rodrigo was in front of her before she could blink, plucking up her hands, putting something cool and large into her palm, but he didn't pull away to allow her to see exactly what it was.

"It's time to come home Horatia. Come home. Everybody's waiting."

Harry frowned, laughter dying in her throat.

"Home? But I am home. I'm here."

One of his hands came away from her own, coming to a soft rest upon her cheek.

"Not quite yet. Finish it and come home."

Everything was getting heavier as confusion began to thrum through her veins. He pulled away just as her vision began to blur.

"Finish what? I am home… I am…"

Harry glanced down at her clenched hand and unfurled her fingers. There, dangling from her fingers, was a golden chain, links thick and polished, medallion encircling her palm. A rearing red bull, carved from rubies, glistened up at her, a smear of blood dancing across its face.

Borgia.

She remembered now. The other place, the living world, where there was pain, there was doubt, there was betrayal and hurt and horrid indecision. Her thumb delicately ran over the medallion, following the trail of blood, fingers clenching over it once more as she breathed out a single word.

"Voldemort."

The world around her cracked like a shattered mirror and she was hurtling somewhere downwards, away from the brightness and peace, the warmth and family, spiralling. Suddenly, she was breathing once more, alive again, back at Hogwarts, everything hurting, everything painful, everything cold. In her hand, chain wrapped around her wrist, was the family medallion.

Finish it.


Subiaco, Italy, April 1478.

Vannozza Dei Cattanei P.O.V

Vannozza gently lowered Lucrezia into her crib, pushed up alongside her own personal bed, the babe finally silent, but still rosy cheeked. The young one was ill, chesty with a runny nose and for the first four days of this sudden illness, Vannozza had been so utterly worried, so consumed by it, that it was all she could really focus on. She moved Lucrezia into her own chambers, away from Horatia should she contract the same illness, kept a watchful and diligent eye, and sent as many prayers up to God as she could.

Rodrigo was at the Vatican, working, unable to get away from the intrigue and demands of being a cardinal, though he sent her letters taken by messenger each day, waiting for any word from her, either relieved or mournful. From his latest missive, he should be home in the morn and Vannozza would finally find some comfort in his reassuring presence. Juan and Cesare, who should be asleep, were likely still in the nursery, playing with Horatia.

She really couldn't keep those three apart, not now that Horatia had begun to interact, and she was hesitant to dampen any bonding time the three shared, as the babe normally slept through the day where Lucrezia soaked up her brother's attention. However, now that Lucrezia had fallen asleep, it was time for Vannozza to try and catch a few hours herself and leaving the two brothers and Horatia to the care of the servants didn't seem so shameful that night.

Nonetheless, something nipped at her mind, like a small mongrel, growling for attention, frothing at the mouth, and suddenly, sleep was the last thing on her mind. Perhaps it was the utter silence of the villa, perhaps it was just a feeling of her maternal instincts on full drive from the lack of sleep and the uncommon windy night roiling around their house, but something just felt bone chillingly wrong in that moment as she pulled away from the crib.

Making her way out of her private chambers, knowing the nursery was just down the hall, Vannozza leant on the balcony railing as she peered down the darkened hallway. The maids must have forgotten to light the candles. That wasn't like Alessia at all…

"Cesare? Juan? Answer me? Cesare?"

Only the flickering of shadows from the undrawn drapes, allowing pallid moonlight to filter in, answered her and her heart pounded as she edged down the hallway, towards the nursery. The curtains should have been closed hours ago. Where was everybody? She could feel her heart in her ribcage, pounding against her lungs, seizing her ear to play a heady beat of drums to the sound of her tapping steps. Something was wrong. She knew it. She could feel it.

When she got to the door to the nursery, she felt bile rise in her throat as the door was cracked open but no light apart from the light of the silver moon slithered out. No laughter. No babbling. Not even an argument. Nothing but silence. Swallowing down the urge to be violently sick, Vannoza pushed the door open further.

"Cesare, Juan, now is not the time for games!"

However, as the door opened, and she could peer through the darkened room, Her heart stopped completely, and the bile turned to ash on her tongue. Cesare and Juan were on the floor next to each other, crumpled, still, lifeless. Vannozza dashed over and fell to her knees, wrestling her prone little boys onto her lap, frantic but ever so relieved when she felt their chests level inhale and exhale.

"They are only sleeping."

Her eyes darted up to the figure in the corner at the sound of the foreign voice, her grip tightening on her boys, and found a man standing by Horatia's crib. He was a tall man, old, dressed in merry blue and pink robes that glided along the plush rug. His hair was white, with the odd strand of ginger hair here and there, with an equally long and impressive beard to match, his eyes a twinkling sky blue. Upon his head, so high it nearly touched the ceiling, was a pointed hat, midnight blue, with little golden stars stitched upon the velvet material, and across his nose was the oddest metal frames Vannozza had ever seen, filled with shiny circles of glass. Worst of all, he was holding her baby, her Horatia.

"What are you doing with my baby?"

He glanced down at the child and bounced her a little as she began to grumble.

"I truly am sorry, but this needs to be done."

Slowly, so fearful that any fast movements on her part would invoke the man to action, Vannozza laid the boys heads back onto the floor and stood up, holding her arms out, pleadingly, fingers splayed.

"Please… Give her back to me. I'll give you anything you want! Gold, jewels, food, horses, anything. Name it sir and it will be yours! Just leave my family be."

He shook his head.

"I can't. Not yet. She has a role to fulfil. A destiny. This is for the greater good."

Vannozza took one step forward but stopped. Something was off about this man. Something felt wrong. Inhuman. But that was her child, her little Horatia, no gut instinct could override a mother's love.

"Please, I beg you, leave my child be."

He locked eyes with her then and for a moment, Vannozza could see, truly see, that he really did not want to do this, whatever this was, and that he really was sorry. Seeing her chance, perhaps her only one, she pressed on.

"Please, kill me instead! Just not my children!"

Whatever it was that had been holding him back snapped as he straightened out, pulling free a long, knobbly stick, aiming the tip at her. Vannozza, knowing a threat when she saw one, despite the oddity of the weapon, went to open her mouth. To scream. To call for help. For anything. She didn't have a chance.

"One day, your daughter will be back. I swear to you thusly."

Then there was a flash of cold light and Vannozza knew no more. When Rodrigo came home that morn, there was only his wife and three children, Lucrezia sleeping peacefully and the rest knocked unconscious. No sign or hair of a break in, no foot prints, nothing… Horatia was simply gone. So was the family necklace.


Hogwarts Castle, England, May 1998.

Harry's P.O.V.

With a shout of Expelliarmus, Tom Riddle was gone from the world in a flutter and scream of rage. Mayhem, bedlam, absolute anarchy broke out as deatheaters either ran or tried to fight to the bitter end, even if they were outnumbered three to one now. People were falling, rushing, bodies clashing against bodies, the sky lighting up with a tirade of colours from the spells being shot. As she fired a stupefy at Antonin Dolohov, another deatheater, or somebody, there was too much movement to keep track, slammed into her. For a moment, they swayed, almost dancing, as a twisting, gnawing pain flared from her stomach. Then they were pushing away, darting off, nothing but a shadow as they slipped back into the crowd.

Harry doubled over, hand jolting to her stomach, pressing, as the world slipped off its axis. Wearily, almost in a trance, she glanced down and pulled her hand away. Blinding crimson was splashed across her hand, soaking into her shirt, coating the medallion she was still clutching. Stabbed… She had been stabbed… What kind of witch or wizard stabbed someone?

She heard Hermione, far away, or right next to her, it was hard to tell, screaming her name as her knees buckled underneath her. Her stomach rolled, her hand, the medallion, burned as if it had been heated over a hot flame, and then, just as Hermione was about to reach her, fingers just a hairsbreadth away from her shoulder, before she fell to the floor, there was a burst of white light.

Her kneecaps met soft grass. The grey skies turned blue and bright and the air around her was pleasantly warm as the world swam in and out of focus. Blearily, clutching at her stomach once more, Harry looked around. A trodden path. A vineyard grove. It was her dream…

Feeling half possessed, Harry glanced down at her stomach, the blood stain seeping in the exact spot the dream her had been bleeding, before she hobbled to her feet, hissing harshly as her wound flared in pain as she dragged herself down the path. The house… She needed to find the house…


Subiaco, Italy, April 1492.

Vannozza Dei Cattanei's P.O.V

"What was she like mother?"

Vannozza pulled away from staring into fire she was sitting beside to look over from her seat to her youngest child, Joffre. She smiled as best as she could, especially on a day such as today, as she closed the little book she had been pretending to read, just to give her a look of not being fully lost in mind and memory to any who observed her, and placed it on the arm as she stood up, taking her son by the shoulder to lead him into the dining room, ready for supper.

It had been exactly fifteen years since Horatia had been abducted, with no sign of what happened to her to be found, no matter how hard or diligently either she or Rodrigo searched. And search they had. They sent letters to every lord, every city, to any ear that would listen. No one knew or had ever met a man as such as she had described. She also knew what they said of her, the rumours, the vile whispers. She was mad. A man with a stick? Inconceivable. She was lying. She had killed her own babe after nights of no sleep. Flushed her down a well. But she knew. She knew the truth. She remembered.

Even after all these years, she would never forget that old man's face, no matter if the doctors or people around her said she conjured the memory up. The boys didn't remember that night, but her family believed her, and that was all that mattered.

Today would have been her sixteenth birthday, Lucrezia's having passed just yesterday, and as such, today had always been a hard day for Vannozza. Today was the day to remember, as painful as it was to. The rest of the year they could pretend there wasn't an extra seat at the table, that there were an extra set of chambers, that there were always extra gifts stored away each year from Christmas, collecting dust in a closet. They, Rodrigo and Vannozza, had never given up hope that one day, just one, Horatia would be found.

It was a hard day on everyone apart from Joffre, who could not remember his sister, though, they all mourned in their own, distinctive ways. Her cheerful sunbeam Lucrezia became sullen, quiet, almost tranquil as she spent most of the day looking to the sky, alone. Juan, since reaching teenagerhood, left the house from sunrise to midnight, doing god knows what, although he always looked ill-tempered when he came home and headed straight to his own chambers. Cesare, her oldest, hovered around her, always looking to ease her on this day, offering all and any aid from sorting laundry to cleaning the pantry. Rodrigo, in misplaced guilt for not being there, at home that day, would take time from work and stay close, watchful, not even doing his scrolls or letters.

He would sit by her, hold her hand for hours and simply be. Losing a child, that sort of pain… There was nothing in the world that could compare to it. Nothing. Subconsciously, her hand tightened on Joffre's shoulder.

"She loved to giggle."

Joffre grinned up at her.

"Do you think she would have liked me?"

Vannozza bit back the tears and the lump forming in her throat. Oh, what she wouldn't give to know what Horatia would like or dislike. Would she have been delicate, like Lucrezia and Joffre, or boisterous, like her boys? Would she have been brash and opinionated, like Juan, or mild but stern like Cesare? Would she have loved the arts, like Lucrezia, or games like Joffre? It hurt too much to think of and so, Vannoza bent down and looked Joffre square in the eyes.

"She would have adored you. Do not ever doubt that."

If only she had have taken Horatia into her room with Lucrezia. If she hadn't of separated them… Vannozza had to change the topic because she could not take anymore. Not today, on this day. Remembering her, her precious baby, was one thing, but to vocalize it, to birth the loss into reality by words was too much. Far too much. It made it all the more real, all the more tangible and in truth, it felt too real and sore as it was to pour salt into the wound. Time, it seemed, didn't heal all wounds.

"I heard the cooks have whipped up some fresh berries and gelato for dessert…"

The distraction worked as Joffre picked up speed to the dining room.

"Gelato! I love Gelato!"

Vannozza trailed after her son as he took off, questioning, in the back of her mind, if Horatia would have loved Gelato too.


Subiaco, Italy, April 1492.

Harry's P.O.V

Harry tumbled through the kitchens heavy set doors with shaking limbs and haggard breath. Dizzy. So dizzy. She couldn't focus correctly. Everything was fading in and out, blurring together into one undiscernible mass. Nonetheless, that drive was still in her chest, that possessed sort of want, that unignorable need. The dining room. She had to make it to the dining room.

The blood was coming quickly now, saturating the waistband of her jeans, dribbling down her left thigh. Still, she carried on. Step by step, she lurched closer to the set of doors that dream her had taken before… Was it dream? Someone had been with her, hadn't there? A woman? Mother… Remember… She had to remember and, more importantly, she needed to keep going. She made it to the doors as a disembodied voice piped up behind her.

"What are you doing? You can't go into the house you vagabond! Excuse me? Hello?"

Harry ignored the woman in the long plain dress, flour dusting her apron as she pushed on and slinked through the doorway. The woman came after her, along with two strangely dressed men, but everything was whirling, her mind racing, her heart thundering and the only thing that mattered, in that moment, was to get to the dining room. Her wand flicked out, the one holding the medallion still pressing into her stomach, and the people dropped to the floor, unconscious.

The expenditure of magic cost Harry dearly as she skidded into the hallway wall, bashing her shoulder against brick as her sight flickered to black for a heart rendering second. Using her free hand, white knuckled around her wand, she pressed it against the wall and tried to push herself upright, but her limbs would not comply. No. She couldn't give up. The room… Family… Room.

Inchingly, she balanced herself against the wall and braced herself for the pain as she stumbled forward, pressing her shoulder against brick to keep herself upright. Behind her was left a stark trail of blood, glistening on the off-white stone, punctuated by a bloody handprint. Finally, when she thought she could walk no more, she fell against an oaken door, breath jarring and coming in sporadic barbed shards, the taste of copper languishing on her tongue.

With the last bit of her strength, she pushed open the door as far as she could and fell into the room, barely managing to stay on her feet. Inside was the same table, the same fireplace, the same dinner left steaming on the table, although, this time everyone was seated. She could almost laugh. Her steps clanked on the floorboards, her left foot creaking as her leg went numb and immobile, and one by one, starting from the youngest, little Joffre, they turned to face her, eyes growing wide, mouths slack.

Harry pitched into the table, hip striking the corner, as her hands slammed into the mahogany to hold herself up. The medallion dropped to the polished table face with a clang as her fingers loosened, her wand falling to the plush rug at her feet as her eyes began to flutter. With one last word, she fell.

"Home…"


Vannozza Dei Cattanei's P.O.V

The door creaked open and Vannozza thought nothing of it, just a maid or servant going about their business, bringing in wine or bread for the evening meal. However, the ringing of the steps didn't sound right, one was dragging, the other stomping, as if the person was limping and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Joffre, who was sitting next to her, closest to the door, turn to look at the intruder. She saw his face grow pale, eyes wide and Vannozza followed his gaze and then the world stopped.

A young girl, sixteen at the most, short and elegantly dainty, was dragging her self forward and towards them, half hidden by the falling sun. Her hair, an onyx mass of curls that threatened to swallow her form entirely, fluttering at her waist, twigs, leaves and dirt trapped in its coils, hid most of her face. Her skin was stricken with streaks of ash and dried blood, almost black on her pale skin, darkened even further by the shadows she was currently moving through. Her clothes, odd things of unknown material, were bloodstained, torn and ash covered too. At her stomach, where a bloody hand was pressing in tightly, Vannozza spotted what made Joffre's face bleach to startling white. The bottom of her top covering was doused in blood, leaking down her legs in steady streams. She had been stabbed.

But then, before Vannozza could fully digest just the shock of that, the girl was falling into the table, barely hanging on with one hand as she fought to stay upright, her face came out of the shadows and into the fireplaces ambient light and Vannozza's world crumpled in on itself. She swore, by the mother and the son and the holy spirit, she heard a baby's giggle.

That was Cesare's black hair, uncontrollable and alive. That was Rodrigo's eyes, so green and bright and vivaciously burning. That was Lucrezia's porcelain skin, alabaster on marble. That was Juan's sharp cheekbones and cupid bowed lips. That was Joffre's upturned, button nose. That was her jaw and high-arching brows. The girl fell back, something dropping from her hand onto the table and the silver and gold shined in the firelight.

The Borgia crest, soaked in blood and jewels, shimmered merrily in the orange light tauntingly. The family necklace… The one lost when Horatia… Brought back…

"One day, your daughter will be back. I swear to you thusly."

"Home…"

The girl croaked out and it was an odd noise, deep and resonate like Cesare's, but lilting and playfully like Lucrezia's with the smooth pronunciation of Juan and then she was falling, and Vannozza could not think straight as she lept from her chair, grabbing her just before she hit the floor, tugging her closer, watching as her eyes rolled to the back of her skull with one last smile on her lips.

"Horatia? Horatia!"

She could hear movement from behind her, but couldn't force herself to look away, not again, afraid if she did the visage in front of her would fall to dust. So she held on, even when Rodrigo began shouting.

"Cesare find a doctor! Lucrezia, get some towels and warmed wine! Juan, help me carry her to a bed…"


So, what do we think? Would we like more, or should I burn this and never look back? XD

Pronunciation guide:

Horatia: Ho-rey-siy-aa

Cesare: Cha-se-rey

Juan: Who-ahn/ Wan

Lucrezia: Loo-kret-seeya

Vannozza: Van-noh-zah