Professor McGonagall paced nervously around her office. Harry, Hermione and Ron were due to arrive at any minute. She glanced briefly at the clock, and then continued her pacing. She had no idea that Albus' charge was so… odd. She had only met It once. And It had been unconscious. She strode over to her desk and reviewed the papers strewn over it. Minerva McGonagall was usually a strict, neat woman who prided herself on keeping her head in difficult situations, but this… this, was too much.
She had thought that It was dead. That It had never existed, a mere myth, a story that was meant to be told by the fire, with a cup of hot chocolate to keep the demons away. But the myth was real.
The myth was Victoria, Victoria Gelding.
i Flashback Minerva was grading
papers in her office when she heard a familiar sharp knock. "Albus, what a
surprise, I didn't think to see you until–Oh my god, Albus! What
is that?" she shrieked. Professor Dumbledore carried a limp body in
arms. He strode pass her and deposited It, (Minerva didn't have a
better name for whatever It was,) on the small couch by the fire. "I
have to go Minerva, Harry needs me." And without further
explanation, he ran from the room. Professor McGonagall inched
toward the unconscious form draped on her favorite chair, and peered
closely at the hood that covered Its face. Horrified, she backed
away, desperate to put some space between her and It. It reeked of
death and blood. End
Flashback /i
Yes, Victoria Gelding was strange indeed.
Minerva quickly gathered the papers and filed them neatly away in a folder to peruse later.
She straightened up her desk and prepared for her appointment with the trio. She pursed her lips; they were late. But she couldn't blame them. The three were worn to the bone. Over the course of the past three months, they had searched tirelessly for the remaining Horcruxes, recovering not only Helga Hufflepuff's cup, but also Salazar Slytherin's locket. The three had changed in one way or another, but their friendship had always shone through.
Minerva marveled at how Harry, Hermione and Ron had changed, but how their friendship had not. On the rare nights they spent at Grimmauld Place, they were always bright and encouraging, soothing worries and fears away with smiles.
Life was not all laughs and smiles, though. Voldemort had hit hard on the Wizarding community and it was beginning to crumble. Diagon Alley had shut down and Gringott's had mysteriously disappeared. Prostitutes and dealers roamed the grubby and deserted streets. Shops went bankrupt, people disappeared, sometimes just children, but often now, whole families would just vanish into thin air... No one wondered where they went. There was a subdued atmosphere in every house; no one was safe from this war. The Ministry of Magic was a joke; people worried more about survival than breaking the law. It was a dark and gloomy age.
Minerva looked up at the sound of the loud rap on the door. "Come on in, Mr. Potter, I believe we have much to talk about."
An hour later, Harry, Ron and Hermione were relaxing in front of a roaring fire in the empty Gryffindor common room. Hermione stretched out like a cat on the plush rug.
"Who do you think it is that Prof–Minerva wants us to meet?" she asked sleepily.
"I dunno," shrugged Ron, slouched in his chair. "Could be anyone."
"We'll find out soon enough, won't we Harry? Harry?" Hermione looked up from her spot on the floor. "Oh, look he's asleep already. C'mon, Ron, let's get him to bed. We'll all sleep in your old dorm room tonight."
Levitating the sleeping Harry from his chair, Ron and Hermione made their way up to the dormitory and off to sleep.
A girl was perched on a castle spire, looking out onto the deserted Hogwarts grounds. A ragged scar ran down her right eyebrow and cheek, slicing through a ghostly glass eye swirling with mist. Her left eye glittered a venomous red as she surveyed the Forbidden Forest. She was pale and wraith-like, insubstantial, and had an unhealthy look about her. Her white hair fell down to her ankles. Her thoughts were simple, animal-like, a simple need to obey and serve. She felt a need to kill, to hunt, to feed. But tonight, she must mourn. She flung herself off the tower and felt the wind envelope her. Without a second thought, she was at the table. The great table. Master's Table. But Master was gone. Master had told her to stay behind, to stay hidden. There are bad people, he had told her. Bad people who want to hurt her. She didn't like being hurt. And Master's word was law. Master taught her the ways of all her people, he taught her compassion and love. She knew that she loved Master. But after tonight, there would be no more Master. Only the servant, free at last, but she was never free. She knew what Master wanted her to do, what she i must /i do. It had been very important to Master.
Flinging herself prostrate at Master's tomb, she began to change from wraith, to wolf. She howled as she circled Master's tomb, at first slowly, than faster and faster. She felt the chains coming off, she felt herself breaking free. When the ceremony was complete, she made the change back. i Interesting, /i she thought as she surveyed herself, i very interesting. /i
She could think clearly now. Gone were the simple thoughts and needs. Gone was the slave, the animal, the servant. Here was the new power, the new knowledge, the new thirst. Temptation flooded her senses and nearly overwhelmed her. The sense of her hand on cool marble stopped her. Here lay her old Master, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Her friend, mentor, teacher and savior. She would never forget the day he saved her. He thought that he had just saved her life, but in reality, he had done so much more. All she had ever known was hate, cruelty, the thirst for power and knowledge. He had brought love, patience, kindness, and compassion into her life. He had shown her the light.
Only for her to be turned away.
She was evil. And she knew it.
To her, it was natural. To thirst for blood and power. To slay her foes and command slaves to do her bidding.
But to them, she was an abomination. A scar on the face of truth. She herself was not only ungodly, her creation was too. Her birth a new benchmark in the bowels of the Department of Mysteries. The first cauldron baby. A new type of fighting machine. Deadly and powerful, yet weakened to do their bidding. A hybrid of abomination and darkness.
But she didn't care.
To her, the world could go only like this: A good person cannot do bad things intentionally. That makes them a bad person. A bad person may do good things intentionally, but that does not make him a good person.
There was no crossing over to the light for her. But she could try to do good things.
And that's the way it had always been with Victoria Gelding.