IMPORTANT, PLEASE READ: Firstly, please go and check out the Authors note at the bottom, it has some important information and a big change to this fic. So… I may have gone and broken my own rule. I know, poor taste lol. However, this two-part chapter is going to be the only Haraella P.O.V in this fic. I've done this so we can get some grounding in what's going on inside of her head, get a feel of her properly, and because with the way this chapter went, it was best to tell it from her P.O.V. It just felt more authentic. Furthermore, I know this was supposed to be the WESTEROS chapter, and I know a lot of you are looking forward to that chapter, but, having written the two up, this one works so much better going before it. This chapter did get away with me, it became a huge 15k word count, so I had to split this into two parts. This is part one, and the next part, part 2, will be posted tomorrow or Friday (Likely the latter), as it's already been written up and polished! After that, hopefully around Monday-Wednesday next week, I'll be posting the next chapter, where we finally get a glimpse of Westeros, the Baratheon's, Dorne, and everybody's favourite… The Starks! (I am also hoping this makes up for the monstrous wait I have put you guys through!) That being said, read on and enjoy!


Chapter Mix-tape:

Beth Crowley: Monster

Fallout Boy: Just One Yesterday

Jaymes Young: I'll Be Good


Haraella's P.O.V

It was odd, this place. Haraella didn't know how she had came to be here, neither could she tell you how long she had been there, only that she was, somehow… Here? There? In a… Place, and she didn't know whether she was dreaming or not. Did it have to be either? Perhaps it was both. Dreams could be real, in a sense. And this felt real. That had to count for something, right? She was poignantly aware of her heartbeat hammering against her ribs, like a war drum thrumming. She could feel the sweat trickling down her back, making her tunic sticky, tight, restrictive. She felt the hot blow of breath seizing her chest, fast, in and out, jagged like a broken sword. She felt heavy and solid, muscles tense and joints locking, and there was a tickling numbness in her fingers, as if her left hand had been dunked in a bucket of ice for twenty minutes. Flicking her tongue across the back of her bottom teeth, she could still feel the fleshy mandrake leaf she had placed under her tongue a month past. Good. Yes. She felt very much real, but the world around her reeked of magic and dreams.

She was back in those Merlin-forsaken woods. The ones she always felt enclosing her in, creeping like vines, wrapping around her, strangling her. In truth, she didn't think she had ever left these woods. Not really. Her body may have walked away, but her mind? Her soul? They had never left. Ensnared in bark and sap, preserved and entombed in cracked amber. It was dark here, wedged in night, as it always was when she remembered this place. She saw these murky woods when she closed her eyes, praying for rest and slumber, only to see these grim giant trees baring down shadows, so thick they were like oil spills, that threatened to eat her whole in one sweeping bite. Sometimes the shadows had voices. Sometimes, they wailed and screamed and shouted. Sometimes, they sounded like her mother, her father, James, Sirius, Dobby, Remus. Worst of all, sometimes the shadows sounded like her, desperate and howling, begging for it all to end, to let her rest. It still smelled of moss and dew, but with a slight note of rot dancing in the air, sweet and stomach churning.

She had died here once upon a midnight dreary. Right on the very spot she was standing. Exactly as she was standing now. Limp. Resolved. She had been alone, scared, and yet, peaceful. It was the end. She could rest. The fight was over. And with a taunt from him, a flash of emerald, Merlin had put a full stop to her sad little tale. She remembered the last thing she saw, as her body fell to the ground at Voldemort's feet. She remembered the raven, high in a branch, its caw as it took flight on onyx wings, autumn leaves falling to the grass from the beat of air. She remembered thinking, wondering, if it was taking her soul with it, off to the great beyond, and then she thought no more, felt no more, saw no more. Some bastard must have shot the poor bird down, because, evidently, her soul stayed right here, in these fuckin' woods. Bloody god, if such a being existed, didn't let her rest. No, the big man from upstairs had decided she needed a sequel, and pop she came back, another Times best seller on their book list from a beloved author.

Some days, if she was ever going to be completely truthful, she really did wish she had died and stayed dead. That was the natural order of things. That's how life went. You were born, you lived, you died. That's what made life special. There were no second chances. When something ended, it ended. Yet, here she was, still breathing, still hurting, and she couldn't help but feel like she no long fit into the usual order of things. She was no longer natural. She really did wish that raven had taken her soul into the sky. She really did wish, for once, she could have rested. She wouldn't call it suicidal, not outrightly, she was only tired. Tired and unnatural and trapped. Bone achingly, eye stingingly exhausted. The wind, something that didn't feel neither hot nor chilly, breezed through the small clearing of her grave-site and with it, he came.

"You're dead."

Her voice was something else, high and wining, like a kicked mutt. It was an accusation. It was a threat. It was a plea given by a small child. A child she swore she no longer was, a child she never would be again. It was every beg and grief and still, only a statement. Haraella never knew two words could take so many faces until then. Fear. Sorrow. Anger. Joy. Heartbreak. Disdain. In that moment, she wore them all.

Tom Riddle only smiled at her, a slick thing of sheen, shards and shattered things. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his pressed suit trousers, he studied her coolly, shrewdly, distantly. He looked human this time, devastatingly, stunningly human. That was the foulest thing about Tom. His absolute beauty, for there were no other word to describe him, all others ill fitting, hid the putrefaction and toxic and vulgar things inside. You know what they say, the best gifts come in shiny wrappings… But so does poison.

"I never die."

But his voice was exactly as she remembered from this forest, right as he shouted the killing curse. Compelling, coiled, hissing like a viper's venom. Victorious. His eyes never left her, they never did. He was dead and still, his emotionless, red eyes still found her. They would always find her. She knew that now. Wherever she was, Tom would see her. Haraella's hands clenched at her side, and she refused, absolutely refused, to admit that they were shaking. Violently. She thought she heard her mother's voice in the back of her mind… These violent delights have violent ends. Or was it Hermione? No, Luna? Parvati? It didn't matter, not when she was faced with Tom's ruby gaze. She couldn't lose face, not in front of this creature. You could never give Tom any room, not even an inch. He would take it, use it, invade like a virus, press in and conquer and rape and take and take and take-

"I-… I was there. I saw you. Your body hit the floor, eyes staring to the sky. You died like a human. Not magic. Not a god. No matter what you claimed to be, what you thought you were, you were just like the rest of us in the end. A frigid, bloating corpse. Human. You died and you can't be here and-"

Her words rambled and bled together like a bubbling brook. Tom did what he did best. He seized.

"But I am. I always will be."

I'll always be with you. That was what he meant. Something broke within her, cresting out of her chest like a cracked whimper. It sounded like a ship beaching itself, careening onto rock and cliff, smashing. Facing Tom, hearing her own worst fears spoken, back under his damned, abhorrent eyes, she was a child again. The child who was always scared. The child who hid in her cupboard like a good pet. The child who had no family. No love. Weak and alone. Abused and loathed. Forgotten.

"No, no, no, no…"

He couldn't be here. He was dead. She killed him. Yet, here he was, and she was nothing but a skinny, knobbly kneed kid with nothing to lose and nothing to gain again. The frail child with purple bruises on her neck and arms, cowering from Vernon's red face and Dudley's insults. The little kid scurrying around the house, in the dead of night, eating the half rancid leftovers from the bottom of the kitchen bin because her aunt forgot to feed her, or she had been left forgotten in her cupboard for time uncountable to such a young mind, and her stomach would knot itself into tight balls of squirming pain. The terrified child standing on the staircase with the philosophers stone cutting into her palm, staring down at the thing that had taken her parents, taken everything from her before it was ever really hers. Starving. She had always been starving as a child. For praise. Affection. Food. Love. Touch that wasn't shaped into fists. Maybe she was still starving. She was trembling now, like a violin string bowed too long, vibrating. Then Tom was in front of her within a blink, assaulting, pressing, taking. This close, he smelled of glass, cold and smooth, with something bitter at the edges like burnt coffee. It stung just as much as aunt Petunia's bleach baths.

"Because you live."

The string snapped.

"No! You can't be here! I killed-… I…I…"

He slunk closer, face inching towards her, circling, winding, around and around as he slithered about her, step by menacing step. The wind blew and she thought she heard voices, thousands of voices, murmuring, tittering, lapping over one another until it sounded like a crash of a wave on a craggy rock shore. Maybe it could join her wrecked ship. Perhaps they could all build a graveyard, right here, in her own mausoleum of moss, oak wood and amber leaves.

"I'm inside you Haraella. I always will be. I'm your shadow. I lurk in your memories. I'm the face of your nightmares. I'm your shaking hand and quaking breaths hidden by night. You can't drown me out any longer."

Lies. She had gotten rid of him. Purged him from her system like draining a wound, lancing and letting the puss dribble out. It had been painful, raw, and she had been lost to delirium as she had done it, but she bloody well did. Like an infection, she had burned his god-damned Horcrux right out of her with sheer will and fever. She was no longer his Horcrux. There wasn't anything remotely his left inside her. No. She wasn't a Horcrux. She wasn't. She wasn't… He stopped behind her, icy breath ghosting along the back of her neck as his arm looped around, frosty hand coming to a rest on her chest, right over her stuttering heart that felt like it was minutes from giving out. She couldn't even move.

"As long as your heart beats, I live in you. In your memories. In your dreams. In your fears. I. Live. In. You. Right here, where it matters most, and I always will."

Haraella's eyes scrunched shut forcefully, so tight she was beginning to see white spots. A solar system of fear and anguish, all for only her to see. Her face crunched, imploded, like a dying star going super-nova, and her shoulders quaked as she fought not to sob. He was right… He was right. No matter what she did, no matter where she went, no matter how hard she tried, he was and always would be there, in the back of her mind, in the stutter of her heart, in the jolt of breath when she awoke from a nightmare. Haunting, waiting, salivating. He used to be a part of her after all, a bit of his soul was fused into her, for so long, so very long, that even now, with that bit chipped away and gone, its stain would forever blacken her own soul.

"Please… No… Stop…"

Tom's hand dropped and he tutted as if she was a toddler caught with her hand in the bread bin.

"Don't beg now. I wouldn't."

Haraella violently shook her head.

"I am not you."

She wasn't. Really, she wasn't. No, she wasn't… Was she? Really, where did Tom end and where did she begin? He had been there with her for her entire life, in some form or another. In Vernon's fists. In peoples taunts. In death. In her dreams. In a sick, very fuckin' sick way, she had needed him. Breathed him. Lived him. He was her and she was him, two faces of the same coin. Yin and yang. Sky and earth. Fire and water. What did you have when one was taken away? No yang. No earth. No water. No life. Tom chuckled and it was a dead noise, the sound of rattling bones and dry leaves. Was the raven going to make the journey this time?

"But you are. Don't you see? You fought so hard and long, so scared, so terrified of death. You resurrected yourself just as I had. You killed me so you could live. And here you are, worlds away from home, running. Always running."

Her throat clamped and an errant tear dropped from her lashes as her eyes finally opened, blinking rapidly to try and stop the world around her from spinning off its axis. Perhaps it already had.

"I-…I-…"

Tom began circling again, swift and lithe. Prowling.

"It was easy, wasn't it? Getting on that dragon's back and taking to the sky? You turned your back on everyone and everything. Hermione. Ron. Luna. Neville. You never even said goodbye. You couldn't, could you? How could you look them in the eye again when every time you looked in the mirror, it was my face staring back? You hate them, don't you? Just a little? They forced you to fight. They let you die."

Did she hate them? Maybe a little bit. Perhaps she did just as twilight settled or dawn broke, or when she was just about to run, or sleep, when she crossed through a doorway, halfway before sitting, just before her feet left the ground, between the beats of her heart or intake of a breath. It was always in the little moments before something, trapped in a place of in-between-ness. Neither here nor there. It was gone before it was ever really there. Like Tom. Like her. But it was there. Sometimes, in those moments, she wished it was Hermione's parents who were murdered. Sometimes, she wished it was Ron's godfather slain. Sometimes she wished it was Neville who had to take that long, winding walk to his own death with his head held high because, well, what else was there to do but die?

Sometimes, she wanted them all to burn, like she had burned for them. Sometimes, she wanted the whole of wizarding Britain cindering to ash. And sometimes… Sometimes… Sometimes she wanted Tom back because Tom made sense, Tom knew her, Tom understood like no one else could or ever would, because he was her and she was him, and she was bloody fucked in the head and sick and despicable, just as he was, in those moments for even a second wanting such a thing. But it never stopped her wanting it in those snaps of in-between-ness.

"Do you remember? How cold it all was? The darkness? Numb. Floating and nothing. Caught and hooked. Not quite here, not quite there. Less than alive. Less than dead. Less than human. You can't escape that feeling of death. You feel it breathing down your neck. Close, so close… It's coming, Targaryen. It's going to reap all you hold dear."

Tears flowed freely now, gliding to the song of half corked sobs. She remembered telling her friends the story of the white station, the pleasant toot of the Hogwarts express, sitting on a bench, talking to Dumbledore. But that's all she did, tell a story. It was a pretty tale, an afterlife of pureness and innocence, glistening cleanly, untouched by life's dirt. They gobbled it up and never questioned. Not once. The truth of it was left to fester in the pit of Haraella's stomach, never to see the light of day.

There had been nothing.

Having picked up the resurrection stone, having seen her godfather, Remus, her parents, she had thought she would see them again on the other side. Just a quick shot and she could be with everyone she loved. It had given her comfort and strength, enough courage to go and walk to her death. But then she had died and there had been nothing. No station. No family. No Dumbledore. Just an empty, vast void. There was no up or down there. No light or darkness. No feeling. No emotion. Just existing, there but not there, just gloom and frost. That was her truth. The thing that haunted her. There was nothing. Everything was for nothing. All you did, all you said, all you fought for meant nothing because when the end came, as endings always did, there was only nothing. Tom stopped in front of her again, head cocking to the side.

"Even here, you are still running. You thirst for the fight just so you won't have to feel that emptiness again. You've killed again. Beheaded and exiled. You plan to go to war. Do you really think your doing this for family? For love? Don't make me laugh, Targaryen. You pick a war with this Baratheon just as I picked a war with the mudbloods, to keep that emptiness at bay because fighting, war, is the only thing that stops your blood from freezing in your veins."

A piercing intake of breath and she remembered. Daenerys. Viserys. Aegon. The Baratheon. How could she forget? Where were they? Hadn't she been with them? When? In this place, like the void, it was all muddled and jumbled, like she was a shaken, upside down snow globe, and, really, it was hard to hold on to anything. But hold she did. She pictured Viserys, standing by the balcony of his chambers, Essos sun melting his hair to mercury. Silver had never shined as dazzlingly as it had then, and the glint of it, the memory of the glint, cleared her eyes and mind better than any splash of cold water. She remembered how he had glanced over his shoulder, the proud and strong curve of his chin and cheek, having felt her walking towards him. She remembered that half-smile, not fully formed, Viserys never really smiled, and she held it there, in her mind, on her eyes, in her heart and she held on for dear life. She was half petrified she would somehow forget again.

"They're my family. I'm protecting them. I have to fight to-"

"You can't lie to me like you lie to yourself. The little girl who's always running. Running from your cupboard. Running from the beatings. Running from the taunts and bruises. Running from death. Running from Britain to escape the torment and memories. Aren't you tired of running?"

She remembered the little corner upturn, the slightest hint of a dimple right by Viserys top lip, the way the sun made his violet eyes look like dusk, her favourite time of day.

"My family needs me-"

Tom almost seemed hectic then as he cut her off again, frantic, as if he was losing power. No. Control. He was losing control of her. She held tighter to the memory, wrapping it around her, breathing it in, feeling it... Living it.

"But you run from them too! You keep them away, lock them in rooms, paint a mask on so they won't see under your broken, shattered visage! Do they know about your nightmares? The dank, dark ghosts that nip at your heels every time you close your eyes? Do they know you haven't slept in a week? No. You can't tell them. They won't understand. You don't want them as tainted and decrepit as you. So, you hide. You run. If you get them to focus on the Baratheon, they won't see the demon they have clutched in their nest wearing a human face. They won't see what you know deep down inside…"

She remembered how that small slither of a smile had grew when Viserys saw it was her, stretching like a lazy, fat cat perched on a kitchen window sill, over and up like the rising sun after a long, dark, cold night. That was the first time she had ever saw him smile truly, wholly, unrestrainedly. And by Merlin, he had such a beautiful smile. It softened his face, just a bit, made his eyes sparkle, his teeth flash and he looked so alive and free. She loved that smile. Now it was Tom's turn to break as his control crumbled in the shine of Viserys's smile.

"That you're less! Less than alive! Less than dead! Less than human… Me! You're my legacy! My shadow! You are me! Look at me! Look at me!"

She loved Viserys's smile. Loved. This wasn't Tom Riddle. It wasn't even his ghost. This… Thing, was her fear, brought to flesh in the only face she would ever give her fear. Tom. Yes, she feared she hated her friends, and perhaps she did a little, but never enough to wish them harm, not really. Yes, every god-damned-day she was terrified that she was exactly like Tom, that all it would take was one little push and he would be back but wearing her skin like a wolf in wool. She was scared that sometimes, just some, that she missed him. Only because with Tom, things made sense, it was a battle of survival, there were rules there she understood. But there was one reason, just one, why she would never, ever, become Tom. She loved Viserys's smile.

She Loved.

"That's where you're wrong Tom."

Tom could never love. It wasn't in him. But she did. She feared that void and nothingness so because she loved what was here, in life. She loved Ron and Hermione. She loved dusk. She loved peppermint tea and cookies that had gone half stale, so they were soft. She loved how it felt to fly, the feeling of a dragon's wings beating between her thighs, the wind in her white hair, blowing it around her face until it looked like she was in a snow storm. She loved Vaenora and her ill-temperament, so much so, Haraella had turned her back on everything she knew so Vaenora might live. She loved Daenerys's big tender eyes, never guarded, never hardened. She loved the moments she could get Viserys to let go, to smile, to live in the here and now and simply be happy. Dammit, she loved the way Aegon, even thrown into a tower by her own hand, had never given up or backed down. She loved it all.

"I'm nothing like you."

Tom shook his head and snarled.

"I've never been anything like you. For one simple reason. Love. I see that now."

It was if she had given him a blow as he stumbled back, away, recoiling from the very word.

"Pathetic lies-"

Haraella advanced on a quickly retreating Tom.

"When I died and got back up, it wasn't because I was scared to face death, to run from that nothingness. I've faced it all my life. I started out as nothing. Just a thing kept in a cupboard, locked away. I wasn't even thought of as human back then. Barely even a creature. I got back up because I loved my friends enough to heave my corpse off the floor and make one last stand. For them. I sacrificed myself not in fear of the war continuing and I wanted an out, but because I loved the world hard enough that, even if I was not there to see it, I wished for it to shine on without me. I didn't run away, I left because I loved Vaenora enough to leave everything I knew behind, just so she may see one more sunrise with the wind beneath her wings. I fought and bled not in fear of survival, cutting off bits of myself so the majority could live, but because life…"

And for the first time in a long, long, long time, just like her memory of Viserys's smile, Haraella smiled brightly, truly, unrestrainedly.

"Life is beautiful. It's the sunbeam that gently wakes and warms you up after a long nights rest. It's the feeling of putting your feet up after hours of walking. It's the soft catching snowflakes that melt on eyelashes. It's the fast beat of your heart when the fight is reaching its climax and it's a flip of a coin on who's going to win. It's the rush of breath when you fall. It's Daenerys gentle hand on my shoulder, so light and pure, never wanting anything in return. It's Viserys's smile, the curve of his lips that hardly ever get to come out because life has beaten him down. It's the innocent glint in Aegon's eye, bright and vivacious, untouched by war or hardship. Its… Love."

Her fear began to twist, Tom's face melting away, blurring, quivering as the thing fell to its knees. The woods around them began to lighten, as if dawn was breaking, the sun barely kissing the horizon hello. There were no more wailing shadows. No more imposing trees. No more dead leaves. In the distance, she heard a caw and saw the raven take flight. This time, he rose into the sky, he made it into the puff of clouds, free and, with it, she was too. These woods were no longer her gravestone. They were just woods.

"Love has always been my power, like it was my mothers. You're dirty, vile soul couldn't take that from me then, and my fear won't take it away from me now."

One step closer.

"When you look and see, you hate. You hate everything so much that you wished to destroy all you touched. When I look and see, I wonder and love. You fought to destroy and burn. I fight to protect and create. As long as that stays true, I will never be anything like Tom. I'll fight this Baratheon because Daenerys deserves a safe home, off the streets, away from things that will break her gentle nature because the world needs gentleness and forgiveness. It needs people Daenerys, not me or you. I will fight the whole of fuckin' Westeros for Aegon because it's in him, his innocence, his optimism for this naive, wondrous world he envisions that we might find a better future. I want the world to be what he already thinks it is, true and blameless and untainted. And I will fight and claw and fuckin' burn this world to the ground for Viserys! If only, for once, the world would be what he thinks it isn't. So he may smile freely, just once. So he won't expect a dagger at his back every Merlin damned day. So he can stop running. And I will find this other Targaryen, I swear by every god ever conceived by a human mind, because no one, no one, deserves to be in this world alone! That is who I am!"

The thing wailed and squirmed on the floor, leaking and bubbling black oil with no shine. Haraella crouched next to it, almost sorry.

"I think I may have forgotten who I was. I lost myself to Tom's memory. To my fear. But I know now…"

Haraella stood once more and turned her gaze to the lightening sky. She could still hear the whispers, the thousand voices hushed but still there, mimicking the wind, and she knew, deep down, the thing writhing in front of her wasn't the enemy. No. This was her fear brought to face her, trap her, scare her. Something, or someone, had wrought it out, invaded her mind, took her deepest secrets and created… This thing. Instead, they had only made her stronger.

"I am Haraella Targaryen! You can't scare me! I was birthed from the love my mother had as she threw herself in front of me to take Voldemort's killing blow! I was forged by the fire of my father, and his and his before his, burning hot and bright! I am James's legacy; his hope of a better future lives on through my heartbeat! No one can take that away from me! Especially something too scared to come out and face me!"

The thing at her feet gave one last lurch towards her before it popped like a bloody, fleshy balloon. The woods shrank back, vanishing and soon, Haraella found herself in a small chamber. It was a dank room, lofty, made of grey brick and circular. Around the curving wall were doors, heavy and stout looking, four, five, six, seven, around and around. Haraella snarled.

"You think you can hide? Kidnap me and magic my fears to life to stop me? What do you want? Come out and face me! I fuckin' dare you!"

The whispers died to deafening silence.

"Oh… Oh, that's it, is it? This is the game you're playing? Fine! I'll come and find you then!"

Haraella stormed to the closest door, wrapped her hand around the iron handle and gave an almighty yank. Blinding blistering light swamped her.


Haraella's P.O.V

It was odd, this place. Haraella didn't know how she came to be here, neither could she tell you how long she had been there, only that she was, somehow… Here? There? In a… Place, and she didn't know whether she was dreaming or not. Did it have to be either? Perhaps it was both. Dreams could be real, in a sense. And this felt real. That had to count for something, right? She was poignantly aware of her heartbeat hammering against her ribs, like a war drum thrumming. She could feel the sweat trickling down her back, making her tunic sticky, tight, restrictive. She felt the hot blow of breath seizing her chest, fast, in and out, jagged like a broken sword. She felt heavy and solid, muscles tense and joints locking, and there was a stinging in her hand, as if her left hand had been shoved into a barrel of needles. Flicking her tongue across the back of her bottom teeth, she could still feel the fleshy mandrake leaf she had placed under her tongue a month past. Good. Yes. She felt very much real, but the world around her reeked of magic and dreams.

Yet, it sure looked like Grimmauld place. The large stairs from the foyer running up to the landing upstairs were still polished mahogany, glistening darkly. The trail of paintings lining the wall were pictures she had seen a thousand times, encased in golden gilded frames. The smell of age, damp and dust still assaulted her nose, but there was something… Wrong. Some of the paintings were empty, or simply brushes of colours, as if they were struggling to take form, still moving, besieged to life. Paintings she had never bothered to memorize. She was also sure there should have been a vase somewhere, it was Sirius's favourite, but as she could never remember exactly where it went in the hall, it was completely missing here. Worst of all, there was a cacophony of whispers fluttering around her, too low and deep to make out, coming from the paintings? Upstairs? An open window allowing the wind in? Still, her unease at the slightly wrong environment, the whispers that could be wind, a missing rug or a misplaced step, was quickly overlooked when she heard steps come thudding down the staircase, when she saw shiny dragon scale boots, wrinkled trousers and a silk and velvet waistcoat.

He came to the bottom foyer with a swagger in his step and a tumbler of fire-whiskey in his hand. Her heart stopped completely when his silver eyes locked onto hers, securing her, pinning her and fuck, she nearly fell to her knees when, upon seeing her, that devil-may-care smile bloomed to life on his thin handsome face.

"About time! Come on little komodo, or we're going to be late to Molly's Christmas dinner and I am not in the mood to be chewed out twice in one day. Remus's is already being a moody bugger over the mess we made in the potions lab last night."

Sirius Black was before her. Right there. In front of her. Exactly as she remembered him. Oh, Merlin, there was his stubbled cheek from a night out, when he couldn't be bothered to shave due to the hangover pinching at his temples. There was his signet ring, right where it belonged, on his right hands thumb, not threaded through a cord and fastened to her neck, where she kept it on her always. There was his top right fang, a touch pointier than his left. And that was his voice, sunny, breezy, a tad husky from recently hiding in a cupboard to puff off his pipe. Blimey, how Remus had hated him smoking! She would find Sirius sometimes, half leaning out a window, pipe perched between grinning lips, winking at her as she promised not to tell Remus. He would dash the ash out his pipe, close the window with a muted thud, and jostle her hair with a warm hand. He had always been so warm. Boiling nearly. She had adored that about him. Her godfather, the only real parental figure, sans Remus, she had ever had. Like his name-sake, he had been as warm as a shining star.

Out of her control, she ran. She ran and she threw herself at him, and he caught her with a chuckled grunt as she knocked the wind right out of him, and she clawed and scrambled and locked and pressed him to her so tightly, she half thought he might sink into her, become a part of her, never to leave again. Mind foggy, Haraella couldn't rightly remember how he had gone, or where he had gone, or even how long Sirius had been gone for, but she knew he had been gone, and she knew how much, how deeply, how fuckin' irreversibly that had hurt. Not again. Never again. Idly, she realised the high noise in the air, sounding like a bark, was her, laughing, crying, somewhere between. Both. Never again.

"Are you real?"

It was a stupid question, something that had popped forth without her meaning it to. Of course he was real. He was here, wasn't he? Why wouldn't he be real and here? Something nibbled in her intestines, something tugged at her heart, but she stubbornly pushed it down and away. No. Doubt had no place here. Sirius was real. He was here. Nothing else mattered. Sirius laughed too, more shocked than anything, as he balanced the glass of whiskey on the banister of the stairs, and wrapped his arms around her, squeezing back.

"I feel real. I sure do bloody have a hangover like a real boy. Does that count? Go on, touch… Isn't that enough?"

He smelled exactly as she remembered. Like spiced tobacco, motor oil and leather. God, she wanted to soak in that smell for days, weeks, forever. She had missed it as almost as much as she had missed him. It was funny, really, because she couldn't stand the smell, it irritated her, made her sneeze repeatedly, but by Merlin, she loved it because she loved Sirius and it reminder her of him, of home. Because, right down at the core, that was the truth. Sirius was her home. Not Grimmauld place. Not Privet Drive. Not Godric's Hollow. Not Hogwarts. Just Sirius. Wherever he was, if she was with him, she was home. Why did that hurt so much? Why was her gut sinking? No. Everything was fine. Everything was great! Sirius was here. She was home.

"See, I'm real, I'm right here. I've always been here. Isn't this what you wanted?"

More than anything. She would trade anything, anything at all, just to have Sirius. Even for one day, she would give all her tomorrows. Money, food, dammit, she would never fly again if only she could have Sirius by her side. They could have her magic, have Britain, have all she had, her mind, her memories, but just let her have Sirius. They could take her tears, take her laughter, take her joy, just… Please, let her keep him there, right there, with her. Don't let him leave again. They could take the war, take the throne, have Daenerys-…

No. No they couldn't have it all. Viserys. Daenerys. Aegon. They needed her. They were in danger. Grave fuckin' danger. If she was here, the Baratheon could get to them, hurt them, kill them, all the while she was standing her smiling like a bloody coward. More upsettingly, if she was here, caught… Were they too? Had whatever taken her taken them as well? Were they being hurt, tortured, right now, as she stood here, doing nothing? Suddenly, she wrenched herself away from Sirius, but kept her hand on his arm, strong, insistent. Never again. She began tugging him, yanking him, wordlessly begging him to follow her back through Grimmauld place's front door. If she got him through that door, everything would be okay. She knew it would be. It had to be. Sirius refused to move.

"My family… Daenerys, Viserys, Aegon, they're in danger. I have to get to them. Oh, Sirius, you're going to love them! You'll adore Daenerys, she's the best of people all wrapped in one. You'll like Aegon, he puts his foot in his mouth all the time, speaks before he thinks, that one, just like you. And you can drink whiskey with Viserys, play chess next to the fireplace like we did all the time, he's a great player and… Sirius, are you listening? I have family! Real family! Blood! Out there, but they're in trouble. We need to go. Sirius? Sirius! Please, come with me? Just follow me. Come on. Sirius, move! Come on, move! Please! Please!"

She had him, right here, in her hand! She couldn't let him slip through her fingers again. She had failed him once, and in some jumbled way, her mind so incredibly foggy, she knew it had been her fault he had left, was gone, she couldn't go through that again. She couldn't! No, she could… She could make him leave this room… Yes… Yes, he could leave here, with her… He could be with her again, together… It wouldn't be her fault he was gone if he came back… She could make it right… He could smile again, laugh again, hide and smoke his pipe again and ruffle her hair and… Sirius heaved his arm free from her straining, desperate grasp, and waved his hand, as if he caught a bad smell under his aristocratic nose.

"They'll be fine. Leave them to it."

He threw it out so carelessly, mindlessly, as if speaking about putting the rubbish bins out. Haraella's Sirius was carefree, even after years of Azkaban, not uncaring. Her hand flopped to her side, swinging like a pendulum, tick, tock, tick. The clock died and time froze. She remembered Tom now. She remembered everything. She remembered her fear and here, right there, her heart broke into a million shards of glass, embedding and cutting deep into her sternum, her soul. She remembered…

Sirius was dead.

He was gone because he was dead. He hadn't slipped out of her fingers in the metaphorical sense, but literally, right through them as she dashed for him, fingertip brushing fingertip before the Veil enfolded around him and carried him off. He hadn't been in this room, waiting for her… He had been dead.

"My Sirius would have never said that."

Sirius picked up his tumbler from the banister, took a hearty swig and winked at her.

"No, you're Sirius would tell you there's no way I can escape this room, because this version of me only exists in this room. He would tell you I am only a memory made real, and not even that. He would tell you to run. Get out of here as fast as you can. He would tell you, right now, to look down."

Ensnared between Sirius and the door backward, Haraella frowned. Sluggishly, she lifted her left hand, the one that was stinging and bit into the soft flesh of her cheek. Her hand was blackening, cracking, skin grey and lifeless, cold, threads of dead veins withering up her fingers like a spiders web.

"They're… The wind… The voices… They're…"

Sirius raised his glass and toasted her before downing the last drops of amber liquid. Her hope emptied with the glass.

"Draining you? Eating your magic? Devouring your essence bit by bit? Oh yes, and they haven't had such a delightful meal in such a long time. You're making them stronger than they could ever be. Allowing them to do things they could only dream of before. Clocks are ticking my little komodo dragon. Get out while you still can, before it's too late."

She couldn't take looking at her hand anymore as she shoved it down at her side.

"But your made from their magic, their spell, why are you helping me?"

Neither could she take looking at this Sirius who wasn't Sirius, as she let her gaze fall to the stairs behind his head, unfocused.

"Ah, but they've never met me, have they? No. They only have your memories as a base."

Whatever had taken her was using her mind against her. Ruffling through her memories, conjuring things to keep her here, stall her, while slowly, gradually, they sucked the very life from her marrow and grew stronger as she weakened. Her magic was her, in every cell and hair and fingernail. She couldn't survive without her magic, as a muggle couldn't survive without their heart. Tom had been her fear, fear she had overcome in love for her family, fear that hadn't frozen her, so here Sirius was, the embodiment of her guilt, her regrets, her fuckin' remorse. However, those bastards, the things doing this, hadn't equated Sirius into the equation. Even in her memories, even as something made from herself and her remorse, he was still looking out for her, guarding her, protecting her.

"You're not Sirius. You're not even his ghost. Your just what I perceived him to be, what I remember him to be. My own pain reflected back from a dirty mirror."

She looked at him then, really looked, and she wasn't sure she could turn her back on him, leave him here, in this room. Magic or not. She would take any version of Sirius, any, even that made from her own guilt, because even having just a shadow of him at her side was better than living and breathing in a world where he didn't. Sirius smirked and ran a hand through his hair.

"But I do make a devilishly handsome memory, don't I?"

Here it was. The problem. There were only two endings to this. Either she stayed, lost in her memories, trapped in her past, and she had Sirius and Remus and Tonks and all those she had lost, or she found the door, turned her back on Sirius, and go to her family, those still breathing and living and waiting for her in the real world. Either way, her heart was going to break. Even as she knew she should try and leave, she knew it, oh she knew it, to move away, she couldn't… She couldn't…

"I'm so sorry Sirius. I'm sorry I fell for Tom's trick. I'm sorry I wasn't fast enough… I tried to reach… I tried…"

When she couldn't move, she could barely breathe right, her voice cracking and breaking, Sirius came to her, as he always did. Sirius had always come to her when she needed him. He stopped before her, close enough that she could smell him all over again and rested his hand on the curve of her cheek. His hand was cold and stiff and dead… Like he.

"Oh, dear girl, nonsense. Haraella, look at me. Look at me, Haraella."

She did unhurriedly, reservedly. When would she get to look at his face again? When would he be this close? Never. He was gone. Away. A thousand dreams lamented, and a thousand more to go.

"Let me go. You have to let me go. I'm gone. Don't make my memory haunt you. I don't want to cause you pain. Never pain. Look back on the good ol' days once in a while, years apart, and when you think of me, smile. Don't cry. I never wanted you to cry for me. You have to move on. Clinging to ghosts and memories will devour you as much as these things are. Please, let me go. Let the guilt go. None of this was your fault. You hear me? None of it. I don't belong in this world anymore, and you don't belong in mine. And, if I have anything to say in the matter, we won't see each other for a very long time."

Her lips tasted of bitter salt water as she bit them between keen teeth, trying mercilessly to even her breathing, dry her eyes, to keep her chin up and proud. That's what Sirius would have done. Her warm, dead star.

"In Valhalla then?"

Haraella croaked. Heaven was no place for a man like Sirius. Merlin's court was too stuffy. He would have found Nirvana boring. No, when she thought of him, when she imagined where he was now, Sirius's soul, if it was to be anywhere in rest, she always thought of Valhalla. Just like she, he had found freedom denied to him by life on the wings of a raven. Tragically poetic. His thumb fondly swiped at the peak of her cheekbone.

"I'll save you a drink."

Then he stepped away, off to the side and there, behind him, stood the next door, the stairs long gone and lost.

"Now go. And remember, you have your mother's love, you have your dads soul, but that heart that beats in your chest? That's all James. He was just as much your father. Don't forget that. Especially here and now."

Sirius was trying to tell her something, or perhaps, seen as this Sirius was made from her own mind, she was trying to tell herself something. Either way, Haraella couldn't quite grasp what it was. She reached for the handle, palmed the cool metal, and still she stalled. Just as she was about to turn back around, stay, she thought of Daenerys. Daenerys had lost her father, mother, brother. Still, she strode forward. She carried on. She didn't hold back. Haraella's aunt was stronger than any of them, stronger than Viserys, stronger than Aegon, stronger than Haraella because she lost and she still managed to not let that loss hold her back, entrap her, cage her, numb and hurt her. Haraella's hand tightened on the handle.

She chose her family over memories.

With a twist, the room was flooded with blazing white light, Sirius's laughter drifting away with the hall of Grimmauld place.

That's my girl, give them hell!


IN PART 2 : Haraella faces some real uncomfortable truths, owns up to some hidden desires (a tiny… TINY bit of lemony goodness for a taste of what is to come later), the secret of the mandrake leaf is revealed, and the house of the undying realizes you really shouldn't piss off, or try to drain, a dragon…

IMPORTANT: Right, I'll get straight to the point. I am considering messing around with the pairings (just a bit!). I want to do this for multiple reasons, adjustments I've made to the over-all arching plot, how the characters have developed, and because, some shit just fits better than others. That being said, I thought the leaving of the final decision to you guys would be the best course of action! So, here are the options:

Viserys/Haraella/Aegon and Jon/Daenerys- This is what we already have in place.

OR

Viserys/Haraella/Jon Snow and Aegon/Daenerys- The new choice.

Basically, I'm thinking of swapping out Aegon for Jon Snow. Why? The way I'm writing Aegon, how he's sort of taken on a life of his own (Griffy boy basically writes himself lol), I feel, fits better with Daenerys. On the other hand, how Haraella is fleshing out, I think, may fit better with Jon. Viserys stays because, well, him and Haraella are already 'connected' in a way, and it was Viserys who got me going with this fic. They both understand the stress of survival, war, being hunted and are emotionally resonant with one another. With Jon, I feel him and Haraella would connect on an experience level. They both grew up in homes where they felt like outsiders. They both struggled to find who and what they are and discovering where they came from. They both faced abuse because of what others perceived them to be, their names and attributes of birth. I don't know, I just think they would click a bit better, but I still haven't fully given up on Griffy boy XD. So, the choice is yours!

Please vote. I'll be creating a poll on my homepage you can pop in and enter. PM me if you wish too, and a review with the vote is always welcome! However, this is time sensitive, because next chapter shit goes down and the pairings become concrete, so I need to know by either Thursday or Friday. At the end, I'll gather all votes from PM's, the Poll and Reviews, put 'em together and see who wins and tell you guys in the Authors note next chapter! Happy voting!


UPDATES, SCHEDULES AND THE LONG HIATUS!: I'm going to be as honest with you guys as possible. I know I haven't been uploading lately, and when I have it's been sparse and jumpy, but there's been good reason. As you likely know, I suffer from epilepsy. A few months back, things became quite bad and my medicine stopped working. As a result, I was put forward for Resective surgery. It's basically where they go into the brain and cut a bit of your temporal lobe out (The part that's causing the seizures), and then bandage your poor skull up. I'll be frank, I was piss scared, lol! Still, I had it done, and yes, I think it was the most terrifying moment of my life being put under right before the operation, but the recovery period is quite long. You have to take it easy for three-four months, meaning I had to take time off from University and well, my head really wasn't in the right place (Pun intended). Plus, it messed with my memory a little bit while I've been recovering.

I would sit down and write something, and a few hours later, come back and not recognize what the hell I'd written, why I'd written it or where I was going with it. Sometimes, I'd even forget what fics I had or didn't have up. That was even if I remembered to write anything at all XD. My memory's a lot better now, but still a bit shaky. So, I'm trying to gently slide back into writing. My updates may not be fast coming for a while, but I'm getting there, and I am trying. Plus, coming back to writing is helping me feel like my old self again, which is always pleasant. Still, I wanted to clear all this up because you lovely people have been so patient, and a lot of you have been wondering if I've dropped of the map or if I was alright (Thank you so much to all those who asked!), and it didn't feel right leaving you in the dark.

So, in short, I had brain surgery that made me a little spacey and forget-y. I'm slowly coming back, and as a result, I can't promise a schedule or quick updates, but I am trying. I hope that clears things up, and please, enjoy what is to come!

As ever and always, Thank you to all those who followed, favourited and reviewed! They all really brightened up my days and I found myself re-going through them a lot and smiling! If you have a spare moment, drop a little review, and if your up to it, don't forget to vote! Until next time, stay beautiful! ~AlwaysEatTheRude21