The Black Library was grandiose. Nothing near Hogwarts's, of course, but exquisite nevertheless. When they had arrived on the 20th, Dorea had assured them they had the freedom to make full use of it – although Anya was sure nobody had expected it to be visited in the middle of dawn. Like the remaining of the townhouse, it had dark wooden wall panels and floor. A large chandelier hang from the ceiling, and between the bookcases, scones fixed to the walls held candles. At the centre of the chamber, an imperial purple tapestry was stepped by loveseats and armchairs, around which candles floated.
One of these candles followed Anya through the library as she selected her reading materials. She was unsettled by what she constantly saw in Morpheus's realm, and it was increasingly difficult to differentiate her dreams from reality. They seemed to follow a sequence by now, or to be more specific, they were regressing.
A cupboard that confined her world. The few times she managed to leave this place, she was being followed. Her steps were always from front to back, and despair sunk those as she moved. She wasn't ready for the night before, however. She had seen a green light flashing.
A man in a cloak being hit by one of those green spells, the killing curse. The baby hadn't been hit, but it was staring to a corpse of a woman on the floor. The corpse had been alive seconds before, just as the man who had killed her.
"Uoy sevol amam." Mama loves you; her brain had provided her in the same instant.
Was she remembering how she had ended up in the orphanage? But that didn't make sense, the baby she saw there had the same green-eyes of her, the same hair, same nose and lips, but it was much older than the age she supposedly had when she arrived at the orphanage. And she would never remember anything at such young age. Was that a vision? The baby could be her child.
Was she seeing her death?
No, the corpse had red hair. Well, it had her eyes however. Maybe she had painted her hair? No, she didn't think she would grow up to look like that. Perhaps, that had happened in a distant past. Or would happen in a distant future. Perhaps, the baby looking like her was just a coincidence. She couldn't presume she would die at young age just because a vision. Despite those assurances, she couldn't stop herself from shaking.
She needed to see more.
The Blacks, not surprisingly, had a huge collection of books on divination. Astronomy, the field they were specialised in, had a close-bond with astrology, a field of divination. In fact, according to the diary of Antares Black, the stars and planets should be observed during a Black woman's pregnancy in order to predict the baby's future. It was from there that the tradition of naming Black's after celestial objects was born – the one that shined the brightest, or were nearest, at the day of the child's birth usually was chosen.
She doubted astrology would help her to control her dreams, but she should be able to find books in other fields of divination as well, even if they were lacking in number. She found some in Xylomancy and others in Ovomancy, but she had no use for those either. What Blood Tells Us she had selected as a reading, it was the first time she had come across a book on Aímamancy. The Lucid Dream was the next title she had selected, a guide one how to control one's dreams, which was promising, even though the author enunciated the practice of oneroimancy was impossible when the control was attained.
Just as she reached for the light-coloured spine of a book, whose title she could not make out in the dim light, the sound of books falling reached her ears and Anya stopped dead on her feet. It wasn't as if she wasn't allowed to be there, but she didn't want to be found there regardless of this. It was an odd behaviour, and she had no need to be categorised as freakish in the wizarding world as well.
She blew out the candle that was following her, leaving the library no less illuminated – but less closely illuminated than before. Something grasped her shoulder and she yelped, jumping on her feet to see who had caught her.
Her finder was an unknown woman – possibly the most beautiful woman she had seen in life. Intense blue eyes stared at her as if searching for something, while crimson lips babbled nonsensical things. The hair was a mess, tousled no doubt, and ink black curls fell to the floor. She had a masculine figure, her face sipping into perfect androgyny. She wore a loose nightgown, and deep gashes on her arms soaked the clothing of the sleeves.
That hand, still resting on her shoulders, suddenly sank nails on the flesh. Anya hissed in pain, grabbing the offensive grip and forcing it out of her body. Her eyes caught the sight of those hands. Her hands were disgusting as her face was gorgeous. Curved claw-like nails dirtied by dry and fresh blood, thousands of cuts created a patchwork of skin and pus.
The woman smiled at her, perfect teeth in bliss of happiness that seemed to ignore the mutilations on her body. "Pretty girl…pretty lost." She whispered. "Aren't you very rather out of here?"
Anya dropped the hand she was still holding when blood began to roll into her own hand. Her blood, she noticed, while she felt the clothing over her shoulder being drenched by it. She stepped backwards. The woman giggled. Insanity.
"Who are you?" She asked, her shoulder trembled in pain. Merlin, that bitch had a hard grip.
"Me is me. You are you?" She cackled.
The woman was obviously a Black, but Anya didn't think Dorea had ever spoken of this relative to her. "Obviously." She spat while the other giggled, taking her wand of the holster. The woman trembled, her head shaking.
"Don't."
"I am going to heal myself." She explained, forgetting her anger at the woman at the frightened look in her eyes. She transfigured a book in a mirror, and made it float to reflect the wound. She lighted the candle, pushing it with her wand in order to make it hover over her shoulder. She contained her urge to swear. It was a deep wound. No wonder, with those claws as nails. "Tergeo." She said, vanishing the blood. "Sanetur." She commanded, knitting the tissues back. She swung her arms back and forth, testing the results, satisfied with it, she transfigured the book back and allowed the candle to wander.
"Aunt Lycoris." A voice called out, and both witches turned to see Dorea at the entrance of the aisle, her body as tense as her voice. "Ria-ria." The woman babbled.
"Nastya, are you alright?"
"I just made me." She assured the girl, whose eyes locked with the wand she still had out. Anya faltered a bit – pointing one's wand to a member of the family who was hosting her wasn't exactly educated. But Dorea didn't seem to be angry, no, she was…surprised, shocked even.
"She didn't react to the wand?"
"She protested a bit, but I had to heal myself." Anya informed her friend.
"Did she try to take your wand?"
"No." Dorea was obviously shocked by her answer.
"Could you...try to heal her?" The younger Black was ashamed by her request, but nevertheless, she looked hopeful. Anya could only agree, after all, what kind of friend denied such simple request?
Carefully approaching Lycoris with her wand in hands, Anya began to whisper cleaning spells, ignoring the woman's refuses, as they were muttered softly. The woman trembled when the first bout of magic walked through her skin, but she kept still. Anya looked at her friend and, taking advantage of the hazel-eyed witch encouragement, she started to mutter healing spells. The wounds all seemed recent, which could only mean that the woman had go through a recent torture, that her descent to madness was recent, or that some kind of paste was applied daily to heal – pastes had slow-effects, and would have vanished only older wounds, the newer would be only in the process of disappearing.
When only the claw-like remained as a characteristic of the woman's ugliness, Anya put her wand back in place. Lycoris looked truly beautiful now, and Dorea instructed a house-elf to guide the woman back to her room.
"She is my cousin, even though I call her aunt." Dorea explained as they both watched the black-haired beauty walk out of the library. "My true cousin, not thrice-removed or whatever. Thirty-six years old, she used to take care of me when I was little. She was not that insane, mind you."
"What happened?"
"I don't know exactly, I was seven and nobody told me at the time. Everybody refuses to talk about it now. She had an accident with a spell – that I know." She smiled sadly. "I looked up to her. She was very powerful, beautiful and friendly. The kind of girl that was friends with everyone, you know, much like you. Exactly like you. She was like the sister I wish I had had."
"Don't experiment too much with magic, Nastya. Promise me that." She said, eyeing the books Anya had selected. "You have many dreams, don't you? I see you, sometimes, waking up."
"They are not dreams like that." Anya defended poorly.
Dorea sniggered. "Right, and that's why you have a notebook in which you write each one of them."
"I won't go mad, Dora." She assured her friend, her hands closing around those of the other girl. "I promise this."
Dorea shook her head, hugging Anya loosely. "Maybe we are all mad here, and Lycoris is the sane one. Thank you." For healing her. For your promise. For understanding. "How are you feeling?"
"I am alright, nothing that a few spells couldn't heal." She repeated.
"Not about that. I couldn't ask early, I am sorry, Cygnus just ran into your direction – he was very excited to meet you." They both chuckled. "But seriously, how are you feeling?"
"I am alright, Dora. We weren't that close, to me they have always felt like relatives – caring, loving relatives, but distant nevertheless. Tom is my family."
"And how is Tom's father taking it?"
"Father is a passionate man, and more stubborn than most. He will deal with the loose, or he won't – but that will be purely his decision." Tom voice suddeny warned them that they had company. "My father is not a very sociable man, perhaps I have already mentioned."
"You did." The girl nodded finally satisfied with their words. "But seriously, it's like 6 o'clock and this library has never been so crowded. Only you two." She shook her head in amusement. "We all can see Nastya was reading about divinantion, but what about you, Tom?"
"I was researching family trees. I had to find a name – Apollaros Akakios, perhaps you know of him."
"Never heard about." Dorea commented.
"Well, no surprise there – he was an alchemist that lived three thousand years ago in Greece."
"I am not going to ask how you came across this name – I don't want to know. Unbelievable, you both." Dorea continued her exasperation, while Anya and Tom traded meaningful looks. Anya was completely aware that Tom had no interest in an ancient alchemist. He was searching about his family.
And he had found something.
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Pas d'échec.
Ragnar Lestrange read his family motto, a pensieve frown in his persona. The Lestrange family had three of those, actually. The Latin one, Fortuna est nostra, which meant Fortune is ours. The words his ancestor had spoken when he had left France: Nous reviendrons translated as We will be back. But it was the words signed down in every family crest that interested him the most.
No failure.
His father was the embodiment of failure however, and Ragnar loathed him for that. The Lestranges weren't a family whose history could be traced back to the tenth century, despite having bought the title of Most Ancient House with their money. All prestige they had was due their riches. It was a known fact in the wizarding society, and a taboo as well. They were the wealthiest family of Great Britain, after all, and even the Malfoys couldn't deny that. When Arnaud Lestrange had left France, less than two hundred years ago, he had been a common pure-blood politician, chased out the country by his enemies. In a century, they had become the third richest family of Europe and now his father promised to be their ruin.
Ragnar glanced at the end of the stairway in which he stood. He could see the figures of his father and his many friends, all interested in taking a bit of the Lestrange money to home that day. Vultures, all of them. His mother wasn't there thankfully, but soon Reimond Lestrange would have lost five hundred galleons, and Ragnar would be unable to keep the house-elves of warning her. And then she would arrive, seducing the man to an agreement.
It disgusted him – how is father would bend to sex, and sex only. It also irked him – because Ragnar was a product of this marriage, and his mind was perverted as the man and the woman who had given birth to him. He felt dirty because of them.
His annoyance grew when his father's laughter reached his ears, inebriated by the cognac in his glass. "Have you heard about the Esident's dismiss? The Dark Lord tortured them into madness, and after transforming their corpses into inferi, he burnt the whole state. Oh, the glorious house of Esident burnt into ashes – a joyful day to the Lestranges, indeed." The sickening voice of Caligula Carrow whispered in his father's ears.
Reimond Lestrange laughed. "I drink to that, finally, my family's debt is settled." At least, the man could recognise his family's past. The Esidents had been the ones to expulse the Lestranges out of the country, after all.
"You still have to attend one of Marat's balls, Reimond. You owe the Dark Lord a thank you gift, my friend. I assure you will never regret when we free the world of the impure blood that taints it; only the best shall endure. Only with the Dark Lord the filth shall perish."
His father's response held a mocking tone. "The Dark Lord cleaning the world? Is he a hou-"
Ragnar swiftly appeared in their vision's space, walking down the stairway in a graceful pace. "Mr. Carrow, Mr. Crabbe and my, my, Iohan Prince, what an honour." He interrupted the Lord of his family, before he dug their family in a deeper grave the monetary one. "Slugus Eructo." H hit his father with the lovely curse, and the man was vomiting slugs in a moment. "It seems my father is rather unwell. "Perhaps you should leave, so I can treat him into health and then catch a train. Can you believe it, Iohan? In two years your niece will be catching the same train I am required to catch today, you must be excited."
The man ignored the jab, looking at the slugs climbing through Lord Lestrange's throat and gathering his part in the earnings of the night before, and this morning. Carrow and Crabbee soon followed the other's led, the former leaving one lone galleon in table – his father's earnings. Ragnar had seen his father's money the night before, and in comparison to today, some hundreds were lacking.
"I would take care of it well, Mr. Lestrange." Caligula Carrow said, pocketing the galleons back. "Or you might end up losing it."
Ragnar was not sure if the man had spoken of his father or of more money. If the former, Ragnar would gladly let it go. If the latter, he had only one answer to that.
We will be back.
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It was the 24th day of August, Anya remembered very well. So far, muggle Londoners had often heard local gunfire, or seen vapour trails of dogfights in the sky, or heard about the war and the bombings. Witches and wizards had heard about inferi raiding villages, families of muggles, muggle-borns and blood-traitors being beheaded. Anya was different. She had fought – she had won, and she had experienced mass-death. She had experienced the cruelty of Grindelwald – of wizardkind.
She wasn't ready for the ruthlessness of the muggles, though.
The day had been a complicated war day – the muggles had heard about it on radio. Wizards and witches had not. It was late in the night when the first aircrafts came, raiding through the sky. Some of those had appeared earlier that day, but they had been faraway, and at the time, they had been easily classified as birds or whatever.
Anya had been reading at her bed, nightgown drapped over her body and scrying mirrors around her. The script in her hands was used to help her to reach the superconscious – a practice she had taken up to perform every night, before sleeping. It gave her more control over her dreams, and she had seen the street where the house in which the murder she had seen happened. She hadn't written about that specific dream in the notebook, not feeling ready to share what could be the vision of her own death with Tom.
Tom. That brought her thoughts to the things Tom had discovered. No, she couldn't lose focus now, no wandering thoughts in that direction.
At the end of the bed, a card deck laid forgotten. Even though she held some affection for those beautiful cards, cartomancy wasn't an art that provided specific results.
She heard the cries before she thought about the planes. And she felt the impact before she opened the door of her suite. Dorea was at her doorway in the same moment. "What was that?" The girl asked, her skin white as sheet.
"A bomb. The muggles are bombing London."
"What is a bom?"
"A bomb." Anya corrected. "It causes an explosion." She explained, off-handily. She grabbed her friend's arms and pulled her into the corridor. Tom was walking out of his own rooms, his face frozen in terror. "Do you know where it was dropped?"
"I would say some streets down here." Tom guessed. "The house has wards, doesn't it?"
"I don't know how a bomb works, but it has the common set." Dorea informed. Anya contained her urge to swear. The common set of wards was basically anti-apparation, anti-muggle and anti-thievery. Nothing that would contain a bomb. "At least no nazi will invade this house when they take over England." She hissed under her breath.
"I don't think any wizard has already tested how effective wards are against bombs." Anya noted. "Where are the others?"
"The filthy muggles are attacking us? They dare!" Walburga shrieked, Alphard closely following her, his hands linked to his little brother's, Cygnus. Despite her whims, it was clear she was frightened by the impact. "What do we do?" Alphard questioned, seeking their eyes in guidance.
"We kill the muggles, of course!" Walburga, again. The house trembled and a baby wailed somewhere. It wasn't the only one.
"You will gather your things." Pollux Black rushed. "Dora, floo everyone to Blackthorn safely. Irma and I will erect some wards and follow you. Go."
Anya stepped into her rooms back again, summoning her belongings to her trunk. For some moments, robes and books danced wildly in the air, floating madly. Her windows were slammed open and she watched as something whistled heavily, falling from the skies. The world was burning.
The aircrafts roamed across the sky in heavy thunders, and suddenly one of those planes had thrown a bomb in the house in front of them. Anya stared at it, frozen in her place, her wand forgotten by her side.
She was going to die. All those nights wasted to see her death, when she could have allowed her dreams to show this attack. To prevent everyone's death. It was Hogsmeade all again.
"Protego!" A voice shouted by her side. A shield stopped the pieces of wooden and rock of hitting her, debris scattered around her feet when the shield was dropped. Hands grabbed her arm and pulled her through the corridor to a fireplace.
Anya glanced at Tom, who had been the one who had saved her. He was keeping a shield around them – Walburga, Alphard, Dorea, Cygnus, Anya and himself – Lord and Lady Black nowhere to be seen. Dorea triggered the floo connection, and handed a vessel with powder to her youngest nephew.
"Blackthorn State, Gus." Dorea reminded him, and an instant after the boy had disappeared in the flames. Alphard was the next one, and he walked into the flames with practiced ease, his elder sister soon following him.
Irma Black ran into the room, her cousin-in-law Lycoris screaming madly, her body jerking in movements that were just wrong. Pollux followed her, casting wards here and there.
"I will stay behind with Black and cast some wards of my own." Tom told her in parseltongue. "You know you have to go, the crazy shrew won't go without you."
Anya nodded and took Lycoris Black by her hand. Grabbing the Floo powder, she threw it at the flames and pronounced her destination. A moment later, she was stepping into an airy chamber, the scent of wet grass a drastic change from the smell of ash and smoke.
Callidora smiled quietly at her, as she helped Anya to free herself from her cousin, whose nails hand once again found their place deeply in the green-eyed witch's flesh. Cedrella took a hold of her cousin, and Anya stared at the kind gunmetal blue orbs that were the eyes of the older twin.
"Shh, it's alright now."
Anya couldn't utter any word, but she flung her arms around the brunette witch, and cried in her arms. Callidora could only caress her back as she calmly soothed the nerves of the younger girl.