My Mother's Eyes

Author's Note

Hi there! I am very excited to say that this is the first fic that I have actually published anywhere, although I've written down a few others that will hopefully be incorporated into this one! The Harry Potter series has been a huge part of life since I was nine; reading about world of magic and wonder helped me escape from a very difficult time in my life. Writing original stories has helped me develop my creative processes, and has allowed me to explore hidden aspects of my own personality. I'm excited to combine these two passions and share with you my interpretation of the wizarding world!

So, chapter one. You'll find that my chapter titles are songs, as I get many of my ideas from the music that I listen to. And, as you'll soon learn, my taste in music is wide and varied!

This chapter is mostly narration, an introduction to the characters. Things will pick up! :)

Disclaimer: Anything created by anyone other than myself, such as the incredible J.K. Rowling and in this chapter the legendary William Shakespeare, belongs to them. Anything that remains must therefore belong to me!

Enjoy!

"When I'm all alone, no one around me,

I find the future dark as can be.

Sorrows I have known, always surround me,

Then through the shadows, I always see."

- My Mother's Eyes

I have my mother's eyes.

I look like her otherwise, too. Hair long and black, curly, thick. A colourless complexion, on her masked by layers of makeup, on myself giving a permanent impression of sickness. The essence of a beautiful woman graces her face; the future of beauty predicted on mine. Black is our colour, highlighting beauty past and future, contrast to ivory skin.

But I will forever resemble my mother because of our eyes. They're the same colour as the sky over the Atlantic the night after a storm; a shade of blue so dark you would mistake it for black unless you stared deeply. No twinkle of stars, no reflection of light; pure, dark, and clear, holding the memory of a storm passed. They are eyes that mourn the lost, desire the unknown, and witness horrors unflinchingly.

Hers desire to be remembered. Remembered for her loyalty, for her power, and her sacrifice. Mine desire to be forgotten. Please, forget me. Don't remember my name, my family, what they did. Let me build my own future, and let my defintion be not written by my parents.

It may be too much to ask to be forgotten when you have the eyes of Bellatrix Lestrange.

I don't remember anything before I turned seven. Of course, I know what happened in those years. February 29, 1980, I was born. An auspicious day, on which I was born to two of the most evil people in the wizarding world. When I was about a year and a half, my parents tortured the Longbottoms.

I was sent to live in Collic's Downs, Ireland, with the Rastricks: my father's sister Rohesia, her husband Xavier, and their adopted son Cyrus. Cyrus was eight years older than I, and didn't want much to do with me. We were one of the two family's on Murphy's Crag, the Southern tip of the Downs. I would imagine I was raised well as a baby, because now at 11 I was relatively healthy if not a bit short for my age. I don't remember learning about my family or the Dark Lord or anything, but I must have, because I just knew things.

I knew the stories about the Boy Who Lived, of course I did. I knew that Harry Potter was a wonder of the magical world, destined for greatness. I knew that his survival and the Dark Lord's demise were the reasons my mother and father attacked the Longbottoms.

After Halloween 1981, the Death Eaters fled or were put in prison. Or, as in the case of Rohesia and Xavier, they were never found out to be Death Eaters. Their Dark Marks were always well hidden and they were excellent liars. They never showed me their marks and avoided my direct questions, but I knew. If I had to guess, I'd say they were in it for money; always greedy, Xavier would do anything for a few extra galleons, and Rohesia was a compulsive gambler. I knew well before I was seven what they were. I mean, why else would my parents entrust me to them?

My suspicions were confirmed in the late evening on a day in March 1987. I was outside, watching the Sun set from the top of the crag. Rohesia and Xavier didn't know that I snuck out most nights to watch the sunset. I did indeed sneak out on the night in question, but it certainly was not "most nights."

I didn't know his name. I would never ask. He argued with Xavier, arms flying, faces contorted, and all their words drowned out by the crashing waves of the Atlantic, matching their anger and intensity. Xavier never pulled out his wand, and neither did the other.

I don't remember him being pushed. I don't remember him tripping. I don't even remember him screaming. All I see is falling, down, down, down a cliff, a fall that should have killed him many times over. Flailing arms, legs kicking, and a desperate plea for help in his eyes as he plummeted to the ocean below where the waves would end his life. Nobody would know if he was drowned or crushed by the waves or killed on impact – or perhaps even dead well before the waves enveloped him – but the blood on the cliff wall would mark his ocean grave until the next rain.

That was the first and only time I saw someone die. I was confused and scared and angry, with so many questions. Why did he die? Was the reason born of pure rage, or something bigger? Did he slip, or was he pushed? I've since accepted that many of the answers are probably better left unknown. But still, I find myself wondering what his name was, and why he deserved to die so young, and why I never told anybody…

Fear is the answer to the latter. Xavier knew I knew, but never did anything about it. He would stare at me, eyes colder than ever before, and I knew that if I said anything, I would regret it.

After that day in March, I started getting the headaches. Stress probably caused them. My whole head would throb, making it hard to think; thoughts crashed like raging whitecaps in my mind, but my memories at this point become clear and distinct. I basically lived two lives. The first was at the Rastrick house, during meals.

The food was good, prepared by house elves, who I quite adored. When Cyrus was home, he talked about his schooling and Slytherin house and the muggle-lovers in Gryffindor, and my aunt and uncle engaged if not happily, then quite readily. When Cyrus was away, I responded to but never instigated coversation with them.

So I rarely spoke. It's not that they neglected me. On the contrary, for the longest time, I thought they spoke far too much to me. I disagreed with them on everything, and our constant diatribes aimed at each other led to the cessation of our dialogues by the time I was eight. The specific night I forced an armistice is a fond memory.

Cyrus had just begun his sixth year at Hogwarts, so the three of us sat alone at the table for sixteen.

I had managed to make it halfway through the second course without saying a word, and thought I had a chance to avoid any discourse for the evening. That dream came to an abrupt and ugly end.

"Dalaria, dear," Rohesia turned her head towards me but didn't look up from her plate. "What did you do today?"

I spoke more to my food than to her. "Nothing much. Cleaned my room, read a bit." I took a large bite of potatoes and swallowed before adding: "Helped Benji with his partridges."

"Dalaria," Xavier said deeply. "What did we tell you about going around with that boy and his family?" He spoke with mild contempt, although whether it was directed at myself or Benji was unclear. He made eye contact with me, but continued eating.

Politely setting down my cutlery, I replied: "Well, sir, you told me not to be going around with Benji Hudson and his family."

"Reason being?"

With reluctance, I said: "You don't want the Rastrick family to be known associates of muggles. The Rastrick blood must remain pure." Xavier nodded approvingly and his food became once again more interesting than I. Only for a moment though. "However, sir, and with all due respect, as, you know, this is a free nation and a free era, and you are entitled to your opinion and all," I paused as two sets of startled eyes fell on my face. "I disagree."

"You do." Xavier's voice was a cool whisper, distate and contempt flavouring his disyallabic phrase.

"Yes, I do. Benji is my friend. I like him." I added as an afterthought: "I like his partridges too."

Silence. When they didn't reply, I continued eating.

"You ignored my request."

I swallowed and set down my fork again, feigning exasperation and hiding terror. "Oh no, I didn't ignore your request, which, by the way, I'd consider more of a direct order. On the contrary, I gave it a lot of thought and decided that I disagreed with you. So, this wasn't done out of ignorance so much as blatant disobedience." I nodded and gave a small, proud smile.

Xavier stood, calm but furious. He was used to submission, unquestioned authority, and now a small girl of only eight sat before him admitting freely that she had disobeyed him. He spoke evenly. "We are a family of the purest blood. We pride ourselves on associating only with those of equal pureness. We have sacrificed so much to maintain the hierarchy of the wizarding world, with those filthy muggles on the bottom, and muggle-lovers a close second. If your mother knew-"

I stood at this, nearly four heads below the man. And so began my final siege in this war that had begun when I first learned to talk:

"If my mother knew? If my mother knew I was friends with a muggle, she would kill me! She's a bloody psychopath! She killed and tortured for no cause except her own! It's not about superiority but about murder and power. It has nothing to do with blood, and everything to do with blood! All your 'sacrifice?' What did it get you? The Death Eaters are dead, or in prison, or hiding like cowards. The Dark Lord is gone, and the world knows that what you did is wrong, so wrong. Your work, your passion, your purpose? All gone now, because love and respect and kindness will always prevail over evil and darkness and suffering. As for upholding the family name? You think I give a damn about the bloody Rastrick name? I am a Lestrange. I don't care how my actions tarnish your name, I care how they rebuild mine. Muggleborn, pureblood, none of it matters! We're all people, all human. Have you read William Shakespeare? The Merchant of Venice? 'If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?' " I stopped abruptly; Rohesia's pale eyes showed shock, Xavier's, rage. "That was Shylock's line."

As you can tell, I was very intelligent, even from a young age.

"You dare to talk like that in this house?" He stepped slowly around the table, as I circled backwards, aiming towards the door. "You quote that muggle filth? You don't deserve to sit at our table, to eat our meals, to–"

At that moment, I made my exit. Dashing out of the dining room arch, I heard Xavier curse me – not with a spell, mind you. I knew I had won, although perhaps it may not have seemed it to the outward observer. But Xavier never fumed as he had. As a winner he was arrogant and gloating, as a punisher, cold, cruel, and dauntingly calm. Xavier attempting physical intimidation meant he couldn't win a war of wits. It's the last to fire a shot in a war that decides the terms of the truce, and I certainly had provoked Xavier into my submission with my last artillery battering of words.

However, I still decided I might spend the night away from the Rastrick house.

And there begins the story of my second life. Everyday, I rose well before sunrise, and ran along the crag to the Hudson farm, where I spent my time between the obligatory meals with the Rastricks.

Benji Hudson was my best friend. He was born February 28, 1980, a day before me, and most years, I celebrated my "birthday" with him. I never lied to him about my family's crimes. Of course, I couldn't tell him about magic and whatnot, so I suppose I did withhold segments of truth from him.

Really, he was my only friend growing up. I was always a bit different to the children of the Downs so they mostly left me alone. But Benji was different too, in a way unlike my differences. To the other neighbours, I was the unnaturally pale child, disobedient, sarcastic, and ungrateful for my aunt and uncle's hospitality. I was too smart for my own good, and I was far too quiet, always listening, observing, thinking. Most of all, my eyes were disturbingly dark and inquisitive, with a look like they could read one's soul. I wouldn't say I was particularly positive as a young child, as I tended to see the worse in people before the good; however, I always knew that the world needed more good, and I suppose that's why I was so drawn to Benji.

Benji was a different sort of different. Not for his looks, though. He had always been tall, and not skinny but not big. His hair was dark brown, longer than most boys, with soft waves. And his eyes were clear, bright grey, twinkling like stars. The sort of boy you might not give a second glance, but you would be glad if you did.

Benji Hudson was different simply because he was kind to everyone. He never questioned why he shouldn't be polite and cordial to any person who happened to cross his path. He saw the goodness in everyone, and couldn't understand why others never did the same. Benji looked for a silver lining in every negative, and I never heard him speak ill of anyone or anything. I enjoyed his positivity, but to the neighbours, he was hopelessly optimistic, inappropriately cheery, and much too trusting.

We must have seemed an odd pair.

But we got on just fine; we told each almost everything, and I loved him like a brother and he loved me like a sister. I don't remember how we first met, but I think we must have bonded over broken families.

You see, Benjamin "Benji" Hudson the III was the son of Ben Hudson Jr., son of Benjamin Hudson Sr., the very same Benjamin Hudson Sr. who had been a well known drug dealer in 1960's Ireland, untouchable due to an unending supply of bloodied money and crooked politicians. Ben Jr. was supposed to continue the family business, but as soon as he turned 18, moved away from his home in Glasgow and settled down in the Downs, ironically, as a police officer. There, he eloped with Ellie Drearie, a girl of old money made from Irish Ale, whose parents didn't approve of the marriage for whatever reason. A few months after the secret wedding, the happy couple found themselves expecting. Tragically, when the boy was only three months old, his father was killed while in the line of duty.

The older Hudsons and Drearies approached the young mother often, with offers of money and support, both in hope of a new, young heir to continue with the family business, forcing her to choose between drugs or alcohol. Ellie, wanting nothing to do with either, repeatedly declined and raised Benji at home, keeping partridges as pets, and selling artwork out of their small home for money.

Benji could respect that I rarely wanted to discuss my family, and I could do the same for him. Ellie, I knew, struggled to make money, but she was happy; she had Benji, her partridges, and her small house with a beautiful view over the cliff. I think she kind of thought of me as her daughter, and she was a mother figure to me.

I spent my days with the Hudsons, painting with Ellie or running through the woods with Benji or watching the sun rise from their side of the crag. I would go "home" for most meals, but the muggle snacks Ellie baked were always superior to the house elf food. The night I angered Xavier and ran out of the house, I slept over at the Hudsons. The next few years, I would spend more and more nights there, as I would continue to irritate the Rastricks – although now with my actions, not my words, as we had, as I previously mentioned, agreed to a sort of truce of verbal battles. When I knew I had gone to far with my reading of muggle works, or hadn't done my chores, I would go there. If Xavier was drunk, I would go there. When we had visitors, usually other former Death Eaters, I would go there. It was the only place I felt safe in all of the Downs, safe from my family, and safe from the judgemental eye of the faraway neighbours.

We began watching the sun set as well as rise; we'd have to run through the woods to the East Crag, where the Rastrick house stood, and sneak around so as not to trigger the magical wards, or to agitate the Jolly Juniper (which would laugh uncontrollably anytime someone walked passed). Benji and I would sit on a ledge looking down on the ocean, not too far from where that man had died. We'd dangle our legs over edge, and not say a word.

The night after a storm was always the prettiest. The sky was the darkest, purest blue you could ever imagine. There's no light pollution in the Downs, so no blur or blemish damages the navy canvas. You can tell a storm has passed; it still feels heavy, like another is coming. When you look at the almost-black sky by itself, the stars are erased, and all you're left with is darkness and loneliness and fear for what will come and what has passed.

The stars after a storm twinkle still, and, when you look at them, can block out the oppressiveness of the near-black blanket shrouding the world for a few hours. But, after millions of years of shining, they always are most tired after a storm; only to the most faithful observer sees this, though, the one who watches the stars tirelessly, seeing the small changes and weaknesses no one else will. The storm has taken away the star's wonder.

Alone, the sky and the stars lose themselves when a storm ends. Up above, where most people see them, they are independent of each other, alone. They are both drained, their draw fading, and people look away and life goes on.

But where the stars and the sky dance, they come to life. The ocean reflects them in strange patterns, blurring the lights of the shining orbs with the smooth shadow of the heavens. New life, new meaning, new purpose appears in the dancing stars, which gleam and sparkle, uniquely shining for the individual viewing them. They move with the darkness; they show the world the hidden softness and serenity of the gloomy sky, and they teach the sky to be free, to dance. The sky, in return, shows its lesser known side, the cold isolation of dark night turning to warm, intimate interactions with the waves, constantly changing but ultimately retaining the confident independence that defines its identity and beauty. The watery night teaches the reflected stars to shine with such brilliance, to grow in brightness beyond the vast ocean, so that each one twinkles like it exists solely in the universe.

When the stars and the sky dance, they become one flickering surface over a vast depth, immense and shared – what lies beneath known only to them. After a storm, many will look up at a sparkling dark canvas, seeing an image that always remains the same; millions of lights, all the same, none all that impressive, speckled on a cold shadow of nothingness. But, if you look down at the water, you'll see the ballet of the stars and the sky, where every star is as bright and brilliant as ever, the darkness forgets to be lonesome, and all that matters in the moment is the perfection unfolding below.

A couple notes for this chapter:

1. I hope you enjoyed Chapter 1! More to come soon! Sorry if you don't enjoy the poetic stuff :) I do.

2. I quote from William Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice, Act III, scene i, lines 56-59.

3. Finally, this chapter is quite a bit shorter than most others will be, so if you don't enjoy long chapters, don't say I didn't warn you!