It sounds crazy but I did it. I finished university. All I've got to do now is paperwork and then it's over. Time really flies quickly.

In a different note, I edited the previous chapters. Chapter 2 has an aditional scene that marks the turn of Harry's and Anya's friendship.

Reviews are completely welcome, and enjoy!

03 - Vivo Per Te

July 1st, 1993. St. Louise's Orphanage for Girls. Surrey.

None of my friends knew when my birthday was. Then again, it wasn't something we'd cared to ask for. Ron's twin brothers had announced it one day, seemingly out of nowhere, and then proceeded to take advantage of the occasion to raid the castle's kitchens. In Hermione's case, she had a breakdown two weeks after our Sorting and admitted to feeling homesick as the date approached. Harry's everyone knew of – the Boy Who Lived's beginning was plastered in every recent edition of the Wizarding World's books of history.

Mine went largely unnoticed. At the castle at least, because Mrs. Darcy never forgot a date. Never.

At St. Louise's, everyone's birthdays were remembered. It didn't matter who you were, where you came from – there was a board at the entrance hall announcing important events, and birthdays happened to be some of them. Those of us who lived here since forever didn't need to glance at the board – one celebration was enough to remember for the rest of our lives.

Or maybe that was just me. I was the last of my generation. Suzie Franco had been the other girl to remember all the names and dates, but I hadn't seen hair nor hide of her throughout the week. Adopted, perhaps. At last.

It was just me left. And one person wasn't worth bringing back our silly games.

Except Mrs. Darcy called me to her office today, and asked, "What is your request this year, Miss Anya?"

She waited patiently for my answer. I was… surprised. Speechless. And partly pissed that what was supposed to be a secret had not been one at all.

It's true that I have no friends at the orphanage. That didn't mean I couldn't bond with others and back then, we'd been seven girls who'd arrived here as toddlers and grew up believing we'd been abandoned. Comfort came from sharing that pain, in knowing that we weren't alone.

Like a secret club, Jenna Owens had said excitedly. And clubs have traditions, don't they? Things that no one knows but them.

Comfort equalled certainty. And the truth was that we could make of it whatever we wanted.

When it came to birthdays, we did this thing in which we asked for whatever we wanted; the rule was everyone had to comply. If someone asked for cake, the group had to get the money to ask one of the older girls to bake it. If it was clothes, we had to give our best pieces to the birthday girl. Once, though I can't quite recall how it went after, a girl asked for no judgement and told us she didn't like being girl and that she hated that she couldn't be other than that.

Things changed. One by one, they left. Last year, it had been just Suzie and I, and she'd asked for a good luck kiss. Obviously, she took all the luck with her.

"Well?" said Mrs. Darcy.

There wasn't anything I wanted that would come true. I wanted Ron and Hermione to write me back. I wanted to lose last year's memories. I wanted the nightmares to stop, for my magic to either calm down or just go away.

However, there was something that she could do for me.

June 17th, 1980. Unknown Location.

The cold woke her up. It started like a whisper over her neck until it spread all over and left her shivering. It was when her teeth began to rattle that she became aware of her surroundings.

Cassiopeia stifled a sigh. A ratty barn in the middle of nowhere. At least the Death Eaters had disparaged at her state and allowed her to rest in a bed of hay.

The first thing she did was to check her stomach. The bulge did not look any different, but Cassiopeia was no healer. Members of the House of Black had never really cared for healing spells, but the ones they did teach had been what saved Cassiopeia in the first place.

A Bombarda to the chest, a twisting jinx to the wand hand and leg – Sirius would've been proud. Her first major fight and she'd almost beaten her captors.

If only Snape hadn't taken her off guard, she'd now be at her home, taking advantage of her brother's hen mothering. The young man had been as startled as her, and it was that second of time that allowed his companions to knock her out.

She touched around her stomach: above her pelvis, her hips, and the point where her chest and her bulge met. Then, at last, she touched the skin over her belly button.

The little kick that followed brought tears to her eyes. Alive. Her child was alive. But for how long? She was not stupid – she knew what happened to those who were taken. Edgar Bones and his family had lasted three days before they were murdered. No one knew what the torture exactly entailed, except that it left no mark on the body.

And would it be him? Would he do it, despite knowing of her relationship with Alec? Wasn't there some code that prohibited murdering your in-laws?

But what if it wasn't him? What if it was some other sick person, someone who didn't know about Alec and the Dark Lord?

The barn's doors snapped open, revealing grey skies silhouetting a feminine shape… with very curly hair.

Merlin, have mercy.

"Hello cousin."

July 28th, 1993. Ernie's Diner. Little Whinging, Surrey.

Dear Anya,

Egypt turned to be exactly as you predicted. The sand has turned my head too many times that I almost broke my nose for not thinking the pyramid was real. My brothers are being annoying, except Bill. Bill is cool.

I'll send you a dissected scarab. It's the prettiest thing I've found so far. And sand. I'll send you that too.

Love,

Ginny.

The postcard had a moving picture of the Weasleys standing in the middle of nowhere, with a few camels behind them. Most of them had donned light-coloured clothes, though Percy looked like a less-than-impressive version of Indiana Jones and Ginny herself was dressed similarly to a gypsy.

It was the first time I saw her smile genuinely since last term. I hoped it would last the rest of the summer; I hoped she never remembered what she did and keep on thinking I was the one who almost got her killed. Seeing her smile, even if it was for a millisecond, was something that cheered me in turn. Then again, she was the sort of person that falls seven times and stands up eight; I never expected less of her.

"Who's the boyfriend?" said Melody. She was the oldest waitress at Ernie's, both in age and seniority.

"No one."

Her eyebrow rose. "Girlfriend?"

I rolled my eyes and turned over the postcard. I accepted the menu.

"Why do you bother looking at it? You're gonna order the same thing, anyways."

It helped me concentrate. It helped me avoid people's stares, the ones you met in public establishments like this one. Mostly, I did it to avoid nosy Melody.

She nodded at my face. "Rough dream, hun'?"

My hands twitched. I bit my tongue. Hard. Then regretted it when I tasted copper. I quickly swallowed: had I been in another place, I would've spat it, but I was in a restaurant. It would be unbecoming of a lady – Mrs. Darcy had taught me so.

"Eat jelly babies," said Melody, waving her notepad in a motherly fashion. "They give you sweet dreams."

"Jelly babies taste sour," I said flatly. "And eating sweets gives you nightmares, don't they?"

"Those who have nightmares are the ones who have something to feel guilty about," she stated bluntly.

My hands spasmed again.

"I will take a glass of lemonade and a serving of chips," I said forcefully.

She hummed disapprovingly. "You're going to give yourself a heart attack if you keep eating like this."

I didn't deign to answer her this time. I was the least likely to develop an eating disorder. And yet, an eating disorder seemed to be the lesser of two evils: compared to the dreams I've had for the last weeks, I'd welcome some health problems.

I waited until she returned with my order, and even then, I kept mute. Feeling her eyes boring tiny holes through my head, I viciously attacked my chips. I waited until she stopped staring to take out the blank postcard I'd brought. The front was equally blank, and it was this part which I decided to focus on.

One line turned into six lines. These lines took shape, and when the figure was ready, I began to develop it.

When the scarab took form, I stopped briefly to admire it. It wasn't pretty. I could've done better. But my hands were steady this time, so I considered it a win.

Marie was going to have an aneurism once she noticed I was gone. Not my fault. I didn't ask her to be my watchdog. I wanted my space; having her breathing down my neck for every little thing I did was bothersome.

At least she wasn't like Harry.

I faltered. There I went again. I should be thankful they cared enough; the adults didn't seem to.

Mrs. Darcy does. Natasha too… she did exactly as you asked.

Again. I did it again. Did I complain before? Not about this, I think. My problems were simpler before, when all I had to worry about was Carol or being adopted.

I didn't want to be adopted anymore. Could I be, now that Natasha was back in the picture?

I turned the postcard. The tip of my biro touched the paper but stayed still.

Outside Ernie's, I could see a few people mingling as they waited for the train to London to arrive. It was a wonder people came at all – this railway station was farther from Little Whinging's outskirts.

And yet, here I was. I'd run from one corner of the town to another. All to get away from a girl whose caring pissed me off.

I wrote:

My name is Anya Barton. If I were given the choice, I would erase the past ten months of my life. But I can't. I can't forget. I have to live with that.

The red umbrella on the table jumped. I glanced at it dismissively, not even pausing when I saw the shadow of a person sitting across from me.

It had to be Mels. Or Ernie. They were the only ones who bothered to talk to me when I dressed normally. I tended to blend so well with the background that no one ever bothered to look twice in my way.

That wasn't the case today.

"You still have them."

I slowed.

A glance at his clothes told me who he was but I still needed to peer at his face to make sure I wasn't seeing things.

It was Harry Potter. My friend. One of the few I had. The boy who had broken Tom's control over me and saved Ginny's life.

Harry Potter was the most stubborn person I'd met and that was saying something, considering I was probably the most stubborn girl at St. Louise's. He was fortunate I'd given up on avoiding him after the first week; it was most fortunate the shame had lessened by now.

"I have what?"

Harry was not looking at me, but at the small pouch of pencil colours next to the umbrella. The pouch was the result of my first try at sewing – a total failure at first. But Marie had salvaged it and turned it into something that she disdainfully labelled as retro.

I loved it. But not as much as I loved these pencil colours. A gift from Harry our first year at Hogwarts.

"They are dead useful."

I held my breath as Harry took one of them and examined it.

Did they look all right? I often polished and sharpened them so they would last. I wasn't lying when I said they were useful: they were the only kind of pencil colours that could blend nicely in paper.

Meanwhile, I took the opportunity to analyse Harry. He looked good. He looked beyond good, though he was skinnier than I'd imagined him. And taller. He'd finally reached my height. His cheekbones looked sharper; if I touched one, I'd probably get cut.

I didn't want to admit it, but it was this development that made me want to see him less.

I looked away when he finally paid me attention. His next words surprise me.

"So… Ron called me."

I frowned. "What did he say?"

"Well, he didn't really say much to me because Uncle Vernon was the one who picked up the phone."

I laughed shortly. "He called? As in, he phoned you? What did your uncle do?"

"What he always does," Harry shrugged. "He yelled back, then yelled at me."

"Wow. I would've paid to have seen that."

"You can." Harry scratched his neck. "I was wondering if…" My stomach dropped. "If I could use your phone. I mean, your place's telephone."

"Ron doesn't have a phone."

He raised an eyebrow. "Hermione does."

"And you have her number because…?" I let out a short breath. "Okay. I see what this is. Make the call at my place, but I won't talk to her."

"Anya –"

I cut him off. "If she wanted to talk to me, she would've written me back by now."

He threw his arm to stop me. "Wait. You wrote to her?"

I stopped walking. "Yes Harry, I did." I showed him Ginny's postcard; he took it with surprise. "I sent her and Ron and Ginny letter, and she was the only one to not write back."

"What did Ron say?" Harry asked.

"It was just a short paragraph at the end of Ginny's letter." I smiled a little. "He complained about the Tornados winning against the Cannons." That was when I knew he'd forgiven me. "And something about a raffle his Dad entered. Mrs. Weasley wasn't happy he spent money on that."

"Guess it paid off," he commented happily.

"It just arrived today. A letter usually takes longer."

Harry tucked his hands in his pockets. "Hermione hasn't sent me anything either," he offered.

"That just means she's ignoring you by association."

"Anya."

"What do you want me to say?" I snapped. A few patrons glanced in our way. I bit my cheek. Ran a hand down my face. Anything to avoid looking at him, at everyone.

This was exactly why I didn't want to see Harry nowadays. The first days of the summer had been hard because I couldn't do anything right: my temper went off at the worst of times, breaking things randomly or bringing storms; my hands couldn't hold things properly, rendering me basically useless. And yet, his presence alone had made things easier; his stubbornness and comebacks held me in check.

It was only Hermione where we couldn't agree on.

"Harry," I lowered my voice, "if Hermione doesn't want anything to do with me that's all right."

"It wasn't your fault," he argued.

"Wasn't it? Look, whether it is my fault or not, the thing that hurt Hermione the most was that I couldn't trust her. That I chose to talk to some inanimate object over her. And maybe because I made her feel stupid too." Harry frowned. "I was doing all these things right under her nose – I mean, she figured it out near the end, but still."

Harry opened his mouth – probably to keep justifying her – but I shook my head.

"Drop it. Sit there all day arguing if you have to but drop it. Please."

Harry stared at me. You'd think he would leave; he usually did. But he just sighed and leaned back comfortably.

The table jumped. We snapped out of our silence. Melody stood before us, her hand on the table.

"A lemonade and a serving of chips!"

I stared at her suspiciously. Melody never did anything without reason. This sudden attitude of hers was new and odd and out of character.

She was watching Harry.

"Thanks," I said. Then, just to spite her, I gave her a tip. Like any former member of St. Louise's, she took it in stride and left us alone.

I pushed the chips in Harry's way.

"Eat."

His lower lip jutted out as he scowled. "No."

There it was. "You haven't eaten. If you don't, I'll tell Maggie." Maggie, one of the older girls who cooked, had a soft spot for Harry; like Mrs. Weasley, she tended to overfeed him.

I brought out the pack of postcards. As I drew, he finally gave in and picked at the food. With each drawing, I wrote a new message.

His name, I started fiercely, was Tom Riddle. He hurt my friends. He hurt me. He wanted to kill me.

He is my grandfather. My dad is his son. He used me because he had a vendetta against my grandmother.

He is a manipulative bastard. He used Ginny when I failed him.

He was my friend.

He is Voldemort.

He killed Harry's parents. He killed my mum.

He betrayed me.

Tom Riddle had been special. He'd been so special that no one ever figured out the thing he would become. No one suspected the atrocities he would commit for his ideals to live. Fifty years ago, when he first boarded the Hogwarts train, no one ever looked at him and predicted he would become Voldemort.

It's this that infuriated me the most. That I couldn't see it. That the signs had been there all along and I'd ignored them, so eager to have someone confide in me, believe in me. I thought he was honest, and it was honesty that I craved the most. Tom made me feel like an equal, and in a way, I was.

Then Halloween came and a cat was petrified. My classmates were petrified. My best friend was petrified.

My role, you ask? I was his puppet, and in turn, I was the Basilisk's puppeteer. Through it, I petrified four students, a ghost, and a cat.

Then Harry saved me. Harry stopped me. I could barely look him in the eye without feeling dirty.

Harry silently took all the postcards and pocketed them inside his jacket. His hair was wilder, spikier than ever. It was then that I noticed the dampness in his clothes.

"You look like a drowned rat." Then, suspicious, "How did you know where to find me?"

Harry put his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his palm. His glasses were askew.

"And you look like a hipster," he said, lips twitching. "Has your dressing sense always been this horrible?"

I scowled. I was close to punching that pretty face of his. "They are vintage." I frowned. "What's a hips-tah, anyway – no. Stop distracting me and answer the question."

"It means vintage," said he, grinning. I slapped his forearm, flushing when his startled laugh echoed around us and drew pedestrians' attention. Behind the counter, Mels was staring at us bemusedly.

"I can't take you anywhere without making a fuss, can I? It was Marie, wasn't it? She told you! God, the two of you will be the death of me by mortification!"

"Come on, Anya. It's not like we live to make your life difficult."

Yes, they did. And I knew I wouldn't change it. Harry just didn't have to know that.

June 24th, 1980. Unknown Location.

There was something wrong with her. Spots danced in her eyes and her stomach kept throbbing at alarming intervals. No matter how well-fed she was, Cassiopeia's condition worsened.

How many days had passed since the last person was dropped in the barn? How many hours were left before they were killed? Because Cassiopeia knew her cousin would follow her promise. Tell me Alec Barton's weakness, little Pea, or every day you will carry a death on your head. It didn't matter that they were taken away an hour before midnight, never to be seen again – Bellatrix was vicious enough to carry out the deed herself.

And this was how she counted the days. Seven corpses had passed since her first night at the barn. A week, or perhaps more. Seven names to remember; seven names that wouldn't be on her mind but on her husband's when she told him. And she would; Cassiopeia was a coward through and through, but it was more cowardly that no one acknowledged these people's lost lives.

She didn't want that to be her case.

July 30th, 1993. Azkaban.

When Cornelius Fudge, of all people, appeared outside his cell, Sirius Black thought he finally had cracked.

Oh, he was mad. He certainly was. There was no logic that could explain how his friends – his dead friends – appeared before him and spoke to him, normal as you please. Sometimes, it would be James reminiscing of their days at Hogwarts, when the Marauders were yet to be the Marauders. On his bad days, it was Cassiopeia and Reg who visited him, the former apologizing for not being enough, the latter accusing him of abandoning them both.

But Sirius knew he was still alive, still… useful. If he weren't, Remus would've made an appearance by now. Moony, whom he'd accused of being the traitor, whom he had hated because Thea had trusted him too much on her last days. It'd been so easy to think he was the spy…just as easy as Remus and the rest of the order believed him and Cassiopeia to be Death Eaters.

I haven't cracked yet. I'm not gone. I have… I have purpose. I must pay for my mistakes; I must pay for killing James and Lily and Cassie. Oh, Cassie – I have to live until your daughter dies, until Harry dies. Only then can I be at peace. Only then.

"You're welcome to step inside, Junior Minister," Sirius said. His voice came out surprisingly smooth. "But I'm afraid there's no place for you to sit."

Junior Minister Fudged gaped at him before noisily clearing his throat.

"I'm – I'm not Junior Minister anymore."

"Tough break. I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" he repeated. "Oh no! What I meant is that I am the Minister of Magic. I've been since the last… twelve years."

"Really? Belated congratulations are in order then." Sirius eyed him up and down. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Fudge fidgeted. "It came to my attention that, while I've been routinely checking the prisoners' cells… it seems I've been missing yours." Not so subtly, he eyed the end of the corridor. Tristan Gallagher was probably watching the show, no doubt finding it amusing in his dreadful schedule.

"Ah. That the Prophet in your hands, Minister?"

"Yes, yes… yesterday's copy. I've been meaning to read it but…" Fudge made a face at Auror Gallagher, then turned back to say stiffly, "But I suppose it won't hurt you if you read it, eh? Perhaps the news will jog your memories…."

Sirius stared back in silence. Twelve years had gone, and Fudge still thought his memories of that night were skewed. And twelve years later, Sirius still couldn't believe it was the kindest thing someone had believed of him since Alec's last visit.

"I'd be grateful. It's been a while since I did the crosswords. My sister and I so love doing those."

White as chalk, Fudge leaned down and threw the newspaper through the bars with shaking hands. The pages fluttered at Sirius' feet, and with his back groaning, he stooped to pick it up.

"The last time I did these I asked my girlfriend to marry me," he commented offhandedly, flipping page after page absently.

"Thea Rosenberg, you mean?" said Fudge in the oddest of tones.

Sirius hummed in agreement.

The Minister turned abruptly to Auror Gallagher. "He doesn't know?" he hissed. Sirius ignored him, as he was too busy reading an article about a family – the Weasleys.

He recognized Molly in the photograph. Her face had lost its sharpness of youth, but her eyes were still as fierce. Her children, he saw, looked nothing like her or her husband. The twins made him stare longer; give them a couple of inches and they'd be replicas of Gideon and Fabian Prewett.

"Er, Black. Sirius."

Gideon used to smuggle Firewhiskey into Gryffindor Tower for a fee. Fabian, he recalled, also had a small business by checking essays; the man had eventually gone into work with the Daily Prophet, around the same time as Cassie in fact.

"There's something you should know. I'm… I feel it is my duty to… to tell you."

Molly's youngest were at the centre of the picture. They waved enthusiastically at their public, leaning heavily on each other. The boy's turban flew into his face and laughing, his sister moved it away.

"Last summer, there was an article about a scuffle at Flourish and Blotts. One of the involved was… Thea Rosenberg."

Sirius barely heard him over the roar in his head. Thea, at Flourish and Blotts?

That would be insane. As insane as believing that he knew the rat that rested on young Weasley's shoulder.

Then again, he was a mass murderer. Mass murderers were supposed to be insane, weren't they? Out of their heads.

"Black? Can you hear me?"

Sirius looked at the man, and saw, for the first time during his stay, the sun rising in the horizon.

Or perhaps that was just his head. He was mad, after all.

June 26th, 1993. Unknown Location.

Her feet hurt. Her body hurt. Everything hurt.

But she had to go on. She had to.

The road seemed to go on and on, the woods stretching on either side of her ominously. It'd been hours since she saw a flicker of life. Hours since Severus had given into her demands and caused a distraction.

Cassiopeia fiercely wished he was struck down in the process. That way she wouldn't have to justify why Lily Potter didn't receive the potion that would "save" her.

Lights bloomed behind her, the shadows at her feet growing. At the same time, the roar of an engine neared.

Tires screeched as the car came to halt next to her. The man at the wheel was old, not good-looking. He was also obviously Muggle, and Cassiopeia felt her spirits rise slightly.

"Ma'am, are you okay? Are you hurt?"

"Could you tell me where this is, sir?" she asked politely.

"Well," the man said awkwardly. "That's the Forest of Dean." He pointed at the trees behind her.

"Oh… that's close to London. Say, could you take me to the nearest hospital? I think my water broke about an hour ago."

NOTES:

Vivo per te roughly translates as "I live for you." Again, from Italian.

The term hipster in the 1930s was for people knowledgeable in jazz. It is speculated that hippieoriginated from this. In other words, Harry knew something Anya didn't.