51 – Destiny
A standard, size two, iron cauldron bubbled gently over a medium-low flame as double pinky-purple wisps floated upward toward the heavily-beamed, stone ceiling. The room was small and dark with only the glow of the wall sconces and brewing flames giving light. I sat on a tall stool at the cramped, battle-scarred work counter, flipping through the notes of my latest experiment. Supplies from the Italian Ministry had started this project, and the delicate, pale pink Dianthus that had been gathered earlier in the week would add the final touch. The now-dry petals of the wild flower sat in a palm-sized porcelain bowl, near the ingredients cupboard at the far left of the table, waiting to be used. I surmised that the crystallized nectar should take the bitterness from the Tridask Thoren casing, leaving the potion with a more palatable taste. Always in search of a pleasantly ingestible remedy, I sought out specific additives to brew into the mix. The Dianthus had a light taste of sweet cloves and was also known to be a mild anti-inflammatory. It reacted well with the other ingredients, enhancing but not overpowering the Magpie mushrooms.
Upon my return from Italy, I had visited St. Mungo's and noticed that patients who had been part of the Magpie study a year ago had shown little improvement. The study was still deadlocked by the British Ministry's stagnant concept of progress. Thankfully, the Italian Ministry had completed the study, and during my final month, we produced a potion that was successful. Its introduction to the staff at St. Mungo's was met with enthusiasm, and I spent several weeks showing a team of researchers the brewing method. By the end of May, patients were finally administered the potion, and the results, although slow in manifesting, were noticeable. However, it was noted that spell damage in some patients was not as serious as in others and had simply caused particular neural pathways to swell, therefore blocking the messages being sent to and from the brain. It was not the dramatic shut down that we had been focusing on. Wizard Healers were often baffled by the intricate functions of the brain, and therefore, frequently overlooked the simplicity of the cause.
The potion I was presently working on would shrink the swelling in lieu of a counter-curse, and as some individuals reacted aggressively to the thought of being cast upon again, it was a valid alternative. I stretched my back and sat straight, sliding from the stool and moving gradually toward the cauldron. It should be ready for the next step soon. I smiled. Leisurely adding the dry Dianthus petals to the brew, I watched the concoction bubble and hiss, turning a perfect shade of fuchsia.
May had passed quietly and a light rain fell for the third day in a row, soaking the grounds and making work in the tiny, cellar laboratory a joy. It felt good to be productive again.
The simple, double-paned windows of the sitting room were drawn open allowing the warm June breeze to drift in, rustling the thick, dark blue curtains. I had spent the day at St. Mungo's testing the new potion on a few volunteer patients. So far, the results were positive, but the Healer on duty was instructed to keep notes should anything out of the ordinary arise. I promised to return in the morning.
Presently, I was taking the night off, curled up in one of the twin armchairs reading a novel for a change; a romance, of all things, where the hero fights for good and struggles to be with the woman he loves. I was about two thirds through and was anxious to know the ending when an overpowering sensation of anxiety, fear, panic, and pure terror struck me. It froze me in my spot. Something was horribly wrong. My head popped up from the book, and I guardedly glanced around the room. There was nothing there. Setting the book down, I apprehensively walked across the sitting room and peered out the window. I could barely make out the few sheep that stood in the meadow on the far hill. The sun had set nearly an hour ago, and the darkness demanded that the lamps be lit, hindering my sight beyond the glow and reflection. Trying to shake off the feeling of dread, I sat back down to continue the story, glancing up every now and again with concern. About an hour later, just as the hero was about to come to the heroine's rescue, I was struck by an even stronger, more powerful sensation. This, however, had a duality, a combination of absolute anger and hate, fury beyond compare, mixed with excruciating pain and a pitiful plea. It was physical as well as emotional. My chest constricted, and I gasped, trying to breathe. Then, as suddenly as it began, the twofold impression was reduced to one of absolute agony and emotional turmoil. There was no doubt; it was obviously from Severus. What had happened? Rising to my feet, I tossed the book onto the chair, and headed to the bedroom. Torn as to what to do, I stopped and paced the narrow hallway between the bedroom and the kitchen. Should I go? I'd never received such powerful signals before. We were still linked, and I could Apparate directly to his vicinity. Should I wait to be called? No, there was something horribly wrong. I had to go. Striding into the bedroom and hauling the wardrobe open, I determinedly pulled a thin, black jumper over my t-shirt and tied my hair back. Heading down the hall and into the kitchen, Pinky blocked my path at the back door.
"Mistress must stay," she ordered, her thin hand held in front of her to stop me.
"Something is happening, Pinky. Something bad. You have to get out of my way. I have to go," I explained, trying to move past the elf.
"No!" Her hand rose again, her elf power striking me in the chest, pushing me away from the door. I stumbled backward, confused. "Mistress is to stay. Pinky is to keep Mistress safe. She is not going to the castle. Headmaster's orders."
"Orders?" I angrily shot. "Since when do you take orders from the Headmaster? There's trouble. They need help. Pinky, GET OUT OF MY WAY!" I furiously tried to push past the elf.
"NO!" Pinky fought to keep me in place, her power pushing me back once more. "Pinky is sorry to go against Mistress. It hurts Pinky to disobey Mistress, but Mistress must stay safe. Headmaster says you would feel the pain and want to help. He says Pinky must not let Mistress go. Pinky is keeping Mistress here." The little elf was firm, and there was no moving her, but I could see the distress in her eyes at defying me.
I let out an angry roar that shook the candle chandelier above the kitchen table. Balling my fists in frustration, I ranted to the extent that Pinky had never seen or heard, an anger brewing from deep within at the inability to do anything. Large tears rolled down Pinky's cheeks as she held her ground. Turning my back on the elf, I moved to try the other exits, even the windows, and found that they were all blocked. I was being held here. There was nothing I could do but wait.
Damn that old man!
A couple of hours later, as I impatiently paced the worn carpet of the sitting room, Stark arrived, zooming through the open window, flustered and soaring through the air as if he didn't know where to land or what to do. When he finally did find a place to light, his wings fluttered and twitched with exhaustion. Pinky joined us when she heard the crashing as Stark frantically ran into things.
I came as fast as I could, the raven sputtered. I could feel his distress; his little heart beat madly. It's horrible. Horrible. He flapped his wings again. The castle was attacked. Men in masks. Spellfire everywhere. The Headmaster is dead. The boy was supposed to do it but couldn't. The Dark One did it. Master did it. He was so angry.
I was unable to speak, unable to think clearly. It was all jumbled. Albus was dead? Is that what I had felt earlier? The attack? The confrontation between Severus and Albus? Had Severus carried out the orders that he had tried so hard to get out of? If so, if it was as Stark had said, he was now thrust into the depths of the Dark side that he had never ventured into before. He would have the Dark Lord's ear more than he had ever had. But, at what cost? The life of his mentor, his friend…his puppeteer. I shook my head trying to regain my mental faculties.
"Who witnessed this besides the boy?" I suddenly asked, my mind snapping into focus, hoping maybe that it wasn't true but knowing in my heart that it was.
I followed the old man and a dark-haired boy from the village to a tall tower at the castle. They had been away on brooms. There was an ugly mark in the sky. I landed on a ledge and watched. The old man ordered the dark-haired boy away, but the blonde boy arrived before he reached the door, and the dark-haired boy disappeared somehow. The old man talked to the blonde boy. He was very weak, and he looked hurt, and the boy was putting his wand down, but then, three others in masks arrived, and then the Dark One arrived and pushed the blonde boy out of the way. The old man called the Dark One's name, and they were silent for a moment, then the Dark One raised his wand and killed the old man. It was horrible…horrible. Stark began to flutter again. The faith and trust he had built in the Dark One was terribly shaken.
Pinky stood to the side shaking her head and howling into her hands. "Not Master. Not Master," she repeated through the sobs, her elf sensitivities hearing Stark's words.
I sank into the armchair, a heavy feeling weighing on my chest. I hadn't seen Albus since my return to Britain. He kept putting me off. We never had a chance to talk. I had a feeling that he was pursuing another clue, but he wouldn't confide in me, keeping his movements secret from everyone, except those who needed to know. It seemed that this time, he chose to take the Potter boy instead of me on this particular task. I knew that he planned to do it at some point, but why now? What had happened? I shook my head. Why hadn't he confided in me?
Bright sunshine glistened off the smooth surface of the lake. Hundreds had gathered to pay their last respects to the gifted patriarch of Hogwarts. I recognized a few. A sea of red hair stood out; the Weasleys were in attendance. I spied Alastor Moody sitting close to them, his magical eyes swivelling madly in its socket. Remus was there with a young witch whom I recognized. Her hair was different now, no longer a mousy brown but a vibrant pink. I couldn't see well from where I was positioned, but it looked like they were holding hands. Remus leaned close a couple of times, whispering what appeared to be gentle words of comfort to his teary companion. There were Ministry officials and reporters from various newspapers from around the Wizard world. Master Castwell was there with a few others from the Society of Potions Masters, and an elderly man and woman sat in the very front row, dabbing their eyes, a couple I recognized from my childhood – Grandmaman and Grandpa Tom. It had been so many years. My throat constricted at seeing them again.
Rows upon rows of chairs lined the cropped, green expanse, and those in attendance fell to a hush as the giant of a groundskeeper solemnly carried the cloaked body of my grandfather to the white marble table on a platform by the lake. Mermaids sang their tribute and watched from the water's edge. Even the Centaurs couldn't resist paying their respects and stood silently at the perimeter of the forest. When the speaker finally ended his homage, and the table burst into flames leaving a pure white tomb, their arrows flew through the air landing safely on the opposite side of the crowd, and they retreated into their domain.
I silently sat with my knees drawn to my chest, my arms wrapped around them, on the grassy knoll to the right of the service, away from the guests, and overlooking the lake: my hill, I had once called it. My modified Disillusionment Charm was fully engaged. Even in this moment of sorrow, even with so many others present, I couldn't risk being associated with Albus Dumbledore, my grandfather. It was too dangerous. So, I sat quietly watching the proceedings from a distance. It was obvious that he was a well-respected leader; much loved, and would be missed by many. But, I could also feel the questioning senses of some in the crowd, those who may have doubted his motives or methods. He had secrets that even they recognized.
It wasn't until late that night when I was tucked under the cozy confines of the down-filled comforter in the soft bed of the isolated Cumberland safe house that the events of the week fully sank in. Albus was dead. Severus was rising in Voldmort's camp, and I would probably not have contact with him for a very long time. Remus had found a mate. And, I was alone. Again.
The common definition of "destiny" is that the inner purpose of life is preordained. It is an inevitable series of events that predetermines someone's future. We all have roles to play, things to do; some we choose, some we don't. There are some things in life that we can control, and then, there are things that life leads us to do – our destiny. Years ago, I learned exactly what I was destined to do. Conceived on Samhain with the blessings of the Goddess and God, raised to be independently-minded, my unique set of powers were expertly honed, my life directed by the need to provide service for others, to fight and protect. Although I lived separately from those I served and played a role of my own choosing, my life was never truly my own, always having a duality, keeping my true purpose in life, my destiny, in the shadows.
Pinky silently approached as I sat lifelessly in the large, winged armchair in the sitting room staring into oblivion. We hadn't spoken much since the tower incident, and I could feel her pain at disobeying me, knowing what had transpired, and that she had prevented me from becoming involved in it. She had an old shoebox clutched in her hands and presented it with a deep bow, her bottom lip trembling.
"Headmaster asked Pinky to give this to Mistress when he is gone," Pinky choked as she released the box and backed away.
I peered at her intently through tired eyes, croaking a "thank you" with a disused voice. Taking the box and placing it on my lap, I raised the lid and looked inside. It was like opening someone's junk drawer, filled with odd devices, some old photographs, and a folded parchment fastened with Albus' signature seal. I broke the seal and examined the scratchy script.
My dear Daniella,
If you are receiving this, I have passed from this life to Summerland. Do not mourn my passing. I chose the path of my life many years ago, however, in doing so, regretfully, created paths for many others to follow. You once stated that you were not born to this world but bred for the purpose to fight, your existence planned, your destiny designed. You were right. We, I, needed someone with a unique, undetectable collection of powers based in ancient magick, someone who would have a deep connection with the deities and the Guardians. Your grandmother did, as did your mother, but you were the strongest of the line. It was a risk, but seemed, at the time, to be the only way to defeat the nemesis. Your parents were in agreement and understood what needed to be done, volunteering for the task to create such an exceptional individual. This does not diminish their love for you. They cherished you very much and regretted the times spent apart from you. However, you needed to be raised with a detachment from people, to learn to focus your skills without distraction. Hence, the reason that you were and are, more often than not, isolated. When you met Severus, I saw a bond growing that had a future use. I encouraged the relationship but again knew that it could be a distraction. I have meddled in things that I had no right to meddle in and for that I am truly sorry. You are brilliant in all that you put your hand to and deserve better than I allowed you to have.
However, although I may be gone, the task remains. Harry Potter must find the remaining horcruxes. They must be destroyed, and he must face Voldemort. As you know, the diary and ring have already been taken care of. The others must be located. It is your task to do this and clear his path. Although he will be working with his closest friends, help him seek what he requires. Lead him to his destiny, and if you can do this without being detected, your life will be yours, your destiny fulfilled.
The contents of this box are an assortment of things that may assist you. Use them well.
Albus Dumbledore
PS. If you ever have the need to talk, you can find me hanging around in various places throughout the Wizard community.
My lips twitched upward at the last part and a slight chuckle emerged. He was so right. There were numerous of portraits of him in various institutes throughout the Wizard world. Still smiling faintly, I put the letter on the side table and peered into the cardboard box. There appeared to be nothing of value in there: an old lunar chart from the year before I was born, a stone pendulum (Granted, the stone was interesting. I'd have to find out what kind it was), some old photographs; one was of my parents, and I suppose, the baby was me. I recognized the outcrop of rock as one I used to play on in Crotone when I was a child. My parents were smiling and waving in the picture. There was another one of him and my grandmother. There was a scrap of parchment with what appeared to be a list of items – cup, locket, sword, snake, Grey Lady, and at the very bottom of the box, buried under what appeared to be nothing but trinkets, was a wad of soft, crimson cloth. Removing it and carefully unfolding the fabric, a pendant slipped into my hand. It was a silver bird with its wings wrapped around a half-ounce, glass vial, a black silk cord hooked through a small loop above the stopper. I examined the contents of the vial in the lamplight. It appeared to be a pearly, white substance, semi-viscous, like half-solidified gelatine. A torn slip of parchment was wrapped with it: "For emergencies only", it read. Holding the pendant up again, the silver and glass sparkled. Draping the cord around my neck, the pendant nestled in my cleavage. I had an odd feeling that this needed to be kept close. Closing the box, I placed it on the side table and sat back to re-read the letter.
