We all had our own lives. Lives filled with fighting in all of its forms. From the battlefield to the desk, from the healthy to the ill, those with our blood had always fought. At times we fought against chains, at other times we fought against judgement. Our actions in life left a mark in history, some of us being heralded as heroes of our time. But words can be burned and whispers can fade, and just like that the world forgot us. They forgot our names and then our deeds, they forgot what we had done to bring them to where they are now. Those with our blood never forget, for we are always there, the curling of their magic, the snarls of their hair, and the bright spark in their eyes. Our name changed, but never our spirit.
You were born as Harry James Potter, and you will die as a hero.
It was us who breathed the flame into your body, letting the magic sweep through you, giving you that distinctive bright eyes. We had you and your father to watch over, to protect and to give power those with our blood had was the blood of the restless, the angry, the just. All of us lived and died in an unjust world, where we struggled and let our blood soak the earth, nurturing a new generation. Our duties pushed forth by each new wave of blood, fresh and intermingled, changing ever oh so slightly. You, Harry James Potter, burned bright like a blazing inferno, never to be stomped out.
You were too young to understand, too young to truly appreciate our presence. To you we were always there, a constant presence you never noticed. How could you have known? How could you have known that you would have lost your birthright? The storm came stealing the flames of your father and the metal clicking of your mother. It stole us away too.
When the dark presence fled and we returned, you were lost to us. A pile of ashes when it was once a raging bonfire. You were all that was left of our blood. Each time we approached your sleeping body we were driven away by an endless void. We circled around you, rattling the windows and shaking the lamps. The leaves skittered away from our agitated state. No parents, no home, no us. Your incessant calls for our presence went unanswered for each attempt to return to you was pointless as the next. You called out to your family — to us. And we could only watch.
The separation was painful for we longed to whisper the tales of your ancestors to you at night, to give back what was rightfully yours, but we could only settle for leaving each tale in the raindrops that fell upon your head. Instead of being the humming power in your veins we were the shaking stairs above your head. Instead of being there for you we just watched from the sidelines. We are the roaring flames that has swallowed countless of lives, seared through history, but we cannot even protect a single child.
That was when we screamed for you to stand up. For the blood that runs through your veins has been hardened by war, tempered by hardships. We will stand tall together. We become the wind beneath your feet, the heat of the stove burning your aunt, the terrible storm that broke your uncle's car. We snatch for you, our grip sliding off again and again. We hold our ground and fight.
We are the flutter of the curtain, the shattering of pottery, the flames that licked at the metal pans in your small hands. (Stand up.)
We are the bird song in the wind, loud, clear, incessant. (Heed us.)
We are the shiny penny on the road, glinting bright and burning your eyes. (Watch us.)
We are the hisses of the snakes and the spiders spinning in your cupboard. (Avenge us.)
We are the fury in your veins, pushing, pushing for you to stand up. Stand up and fight, to not take anything lying down. But it didn't matter, for you never felt the heat of our anger. Your caretakers stamp down any flickering flame left over, day by day by day.
We pushed and pulled at you, howling at you to break the glass, let it shatter and sink into your cousin's flesh. You vanished the glass. We did not do that. We would not have accepted something so unnoticeable, something so small when we could do so much more. It must have been your mother, not us.
After that we noticed the embers that smothered underneath your layer of soot. Waiting. Watching. Longing for that perfect wind that would send it blazing through you once more. This was what saved you in the end, your mother.
Don't you dare forget of how we aided you, how we sent the wind to carry you up high, how your hair remains free and wild. Your mother may have aided you with smaller tricks, blue hair and shrinking that hideous piece of cloth into nothingness, but we are where real power lies. Do not forsake us.
We are the souls of your ancestors, the torch passing from generation to generation. Your father may not be around to pass our legends down to you, but that hardly matters. For your ignorance will be what drives you, your loneliness will cut at you and make you smolder. Hatred will be purged from you when you let us loose, and we... we will be the all the power you need.
Time has passed and the barrier between us are weaker now, they give easier, your call is weak, but there. Soon you will harness our power. Not when your wand accepts you, not when you first set foot in school. It will be when you learn of what has been taken from you, what you have lost, for each of us has suffered. Understand what could have been your and our rage, our passion will be yours. Learn of what this world has robbed you of.
Only then you can burn bright.