Strangeways, Here We Come

Triskaidekaphobia…

He had never been one for Arithmancy, but lately he had been giving it more thought. Some would say too much thought, actually… Not about numerology in general, of course, because the subject honestly didn't interest him that much. No, rather it was about one specific numeral.

Thirteen held such negative connotations, and he had always thought it rather curious. From what little he knew about Muggle religions, there were thirteen diners at Jesus' last supper, and his betrayer was the thirteenth to sit down. Satan was the thirteenth angel, and the mischievous Loki was the thirteenth god in the Norse pantheon. It was one more than the "holy" number of twelve, the number of months in a year or hours on the clock.

Perhaps it didn't have the mystical properties that digits such as three or seven possessed, but it had power in its own right – perhaps even more so, judging by the great lengths many went to avoid it. He found it interesting to see how the mythos influenced people – some buildings skipped the thirteenth floor, house numbers jumped over it, and some poor souls even refused to leave their homes on Friday the thirteenth. Even though he didn't adhere to those particular superstitions, in a way he was fearful as well – thirteen was also called the moon number, with the moon moving approximately thirteen degrees a day, bringing about thirteen lunar months per year.

The moon haunted him, but he always focused on one transformation at a time – perhaps that was why a hatred of the number had never emerged? How ironic then that a seemingly joyous event, namely the birthday of one Nymphadora Tonks, had instilled that loathing in him.

He had been keeping an ear open for hints as to her birth date for some time before then, wanting to know her age but thinking it rude to ask (one never questioned a lady about her age, after all). Also, that would have been much too obvious, alluding to his entirely inappropriate feelings. Yes, he had known they were improper right from the start, but it had all seemed so much worse after counting the candles on the cake Molly had baked and realizing the total amount of years that truly lay between them.

Thirteen, to be exact.

He had never despised a number more. Now it wasn't just some silly superstition, it was an irrefutable fact. He couldn't break it down into smaller, more manageable units; it was the sum of its parts. Even worse was knowing it would never get any smaller…

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Toodles,
- ish -