Happy Holidays to all! I hope you enjoy this new chapter.

EDITED: December 25th, 2020.

06 - Forward

I'd die before admitting it to anyone, but Harry was indispensable to me.

I also hated him though. I hated that he was stubborn as a mule, hated that he didn't leave me alone when I wanted, hated that all he needed was to take one good look at me and know I wasn't okay.

I hated him for caring. I hated him for not realizing the magnitude of what we're going through. But let's be honest—this was me hating myself the most. I despised that my words were not my own anymore. That whenever I spoke or thought, I second-guessed myself because I couldn't tell if it was something I would say or if it was Tom's voice coming through. Was this because of his influence? The possession? Or was it simply all genes at work, inevitability itself?

Was I, Anya Barton, destined to become like Tom Riddle? Like Voldemort? Would anyone be able to tell?

Harry wouldn't. He definitely wouldn't. And this—this is what bothered me. That he didn't take it seriously enough; like he hadn't been the one to tell me I'm related to the wizarding version of the devil. Wasn't there a protocol that forbade the hero from mixing with the villain's kin?

But—and there was a big but—I found his irrational behaviour comforting too. I didn't know what I would do if Harry decided I wasn't worth his time. If he decided I wasn't trustful enough (as Hermione does, she doesn't believe me, she can never know). The first time he skipped coming, I almost burned the curtains of one of the orphanage's classrooms.

It was obvious this dependence on him had to stop. So I decided to start working on other things, like getting my hands back to their original state. Hand stretches only got me so far; it was time I started with my wand movements and my writing. But I focused mostly on the latter. I wrote to Ron and Ginny, who often complained about sand and their twin brothers; and to Hermione, who simply replied with in-depth descriptions of Paris. When Harry was around (and I am not in a mood), I used him as an excuse to get out, even if that was the last thing I wanted to do. I had to remind myself that I was sorted into Gryffindor for a reason, being the House of the brave and all.

Was it healthy? Not really. Dr. Carver made it her purpose to point that out in our sessions but it was progress. Yes, we both agreed that me not locking myself in The Attic was a huge breakthrough, but you can't be a conformist about this, Anya, you need to go further than that, conformity must never be an option.

Further, she says. Further would be forgetting this whole thing so the nightmares would stay away. Further would be me not screaming myself awake anymore—for me to not go through mornings with a hoarse throat and aching jaw (further would be Marie not hiding under her blankets, obviously not breathing as she waits for the episode to end, further would be her not flinching when my magic acts out, further would be her not thanking some useless dead wizard when my best friend appears).

My reality is this: Harry comes by, regardless of my anger; Marie slips into my bed and whispers to me discourses about the Wizarding World, things she knows I will never learn in Hogwarts; Ron writes to me as if I was still that girl who got into arguments with him in our first year; Ginny tells me of her nightmares, and never forgets to write sorry; and Hermione speaks to me through monuments, with the recent ones possessing some uplifting history.

If there is a further to this, I'd like to know what it is. I'd like someone to explain it can get better than this without an uncomfortable air.

Mostly, I'd love for someone to dare and tell me this wasn't a forward.

•••◘◘◘•••

Dear Ms. Barton,

Please note that the new school year will begin on September the first. The Hogwarts Express will leave from King's Cross station, platform nine and three-quarters, at eleven o'clock.

Third years are permitted to visit the village of Hogsmeade on certain weekends. Please give the enclosed permission form to your parent or guardian to sign. A list of books for next year is enclosed.

Yours sincerely,
Professor M. McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

Biting the side of my cheek, I took a deep breath and shoved the piece of parchment inside the pocket of my hot pink apron. What if she told me no? What if she laughed at me—or worse? What if Darcy made me do something I didn't want to? All because I just wanted my permission signed?

I slapped my cheeks. Focus. I was overthinking about this. When had Mrs. Darcy ever been cruel to me? The least she could say would be a simple no, and that was it. Why was I thinking she'd look for something in exchange?

Because that's what Tom did. He asked when I asked and never let me forget the weight of our promise.

"Mrs. Darcy!"

I cringed. The Head Administrator turned from her pleasant conversation with Henry Lanster, one of the major benefactors of St. Louise's. I flushed when his green eyes landed on me; I melted when he grinned. He was a very handsome man, but it was the first time I felt flustered by the attention.

I stopped playing with the broom's handle once I realized I was doing it.

"Excuse me," I heard Darcy mutter to her companion, who just smiled at her and looked through the window where more girls played in the garden. "What?" she hissed down at me, her black eyes shining mutinously.

"I need you to sign something for me," I said. Darcy raised her eyebrows, clearly not impressed.

"And what's that?"

"In my school, the third years are allowed to go to the nearest village. I need you to sign this permission for me."

Mrs. Darcy remained quiet. She crossed her arms across her chest, making her little burgundy jacket stretch ominously; either the clothing had shrunk or Mrs. Darcy had put on some weight.

I kept quiet, of course.

"What if I refuse? You interrupted me when you could've waited. Rule number fifteen –"

"'It's rude to interrupt a conversation if you are not part of it'," I chorused with her. "I know, I'm sorry. Really. But I need your signature before I go—don't forget I'm going away in just a few days."

Mrs. Darcy looked down at me impassively. I planted my feet firmly on the floor, resisting the urge to fidget.

"Very well. Where is the paper?"

I pulled it out of my apron and handed it to her. I also was carrying a normal pen with me, but I didn't bother to hand it over; Darcy already was pulling out her favorite ink pen. Once, when I was nine, I'd dared to use it in a book. That alone had earned me a three-month punishment.

With a sour look, she made to give me the parchment, but at the last moment moved it out of my reach.

"Miss Anya, it seems rather unnecessary to play dirty tricks on you, but if I must, then I must. If you break the rules, you will forget about seeing that boy the whole summer."

What?

"You can't do that," I argued. "You said you'd let him come over—you swore on it!"

"I did not," said Mrs. Darcy swiftly. "The approbation of your request had everything to do with your circumstances. But you must never forget to be grateful for your opportunities, and that is by being respectful."

"Rule number ten," I said numbly. Always be grateful for what you have and do not wish for what you don't need.

"It is not a punishment yet. I am simply asking that you not forget St. Louise's teachings."

I looked down. "I don't forget. If anything, they're the things that have gotten me through… everything."

Mrs. Darcy did not smile, but her gaze was gentle as she finally handed me my permission slip.

•••◘◘◘•••

The truth was that, as much as I tried to make it a secret, me leaving St. Louise's before summer's end was the topic of gossip between the older girls. They were jealous—this was the third time I left the orphanage with permission from the owner herself. Like if the place were a revolving door.

Two years ago, I would've been like them. But as the person who got to leave… it wasn't exciting anymore.

No, that's a lie. Hogwarts would always be exciting. But the thing that made it incredible had left a dark stain in my memory. The bad outweighed the good. And this made my decision to leave St. Louise's all the harder.

These girls, no matter how much they complained, did not leave because they knew—just like I did—that the orphanage would be forever open for us. If we ever felt like we couldn't strive in society, we could return. And the proof lay in the workers themselves, all women who greeted each other with years of knowledge behind their eyes and the tiny hint of warmth.

I didn't want to leave. But I also didn't want to not know. Because Natasha had dropped so many tantalizing hints of the past… her own and of my parents. That last day at school, her second visit to the hospital wing had been so illuminating and awful.

The sound of clicking heels preceded her. Click, clack. Click, clack.

That goddamned sound. I didn't think I would get to hear it again.

"Huh," said Natasha, coming to a stop at the foot of my bed. "Do my eyes deceive me? Anya Barton is smiling? Didn't think you'd be happy to see me; your friend Harry, on the other hand..."

"Ha ha." I frowned. "I was just thinking." Slowly, I sat in a butterfly position and faced her.

She frowned at my inspection. "What?"

"Dunno. I expected a few wrinkles."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "It hasn't been that long since we saw each other."

"No, just nine months. Not that long, is it? But I still expected wrinkles."

"Blasphemy," said the redhead dryly. She leaned forward, grasping the metal bar before her. "How are you feeling? The truth."

It was the perfect opening for a spiteful truth. How dare she demand the truth? Had Harry not been clear enough? All of this was her fault: if she'd been honest—

"Not that good," I gritted out. "Turn around."

To my surprise, she did.

My heartbeat slowed down. My face cooled slightly.

"An aftereffect?"

I squeezed my eyes shut. "You could say that."

I thought I wouldn't be angry in light of everything. I was wrong. I wasn't sure what the truth was anymore, but all I could think was that, if she'd been honest from the start, I wouldn't be here.

Or maybe I would. Maybe Tom would have found me because he hated my grandmother and fate had ensured she and I remain connected in some way. I could understand why I didn't have his name but I'd also bet my parents had never foreseen the problems that came with the Barton name.

Except Natasha had.

"You knew who I was. From the very beginning." Natasha's shoulders tensed. "And you never told me. I know why. I… I understand why. What I don't… is that you left me there, thinking no one cared. You let me think I was alone in all of this."

"So many things could've been avoided," said Natasha lowly. "So many things would've been different."

Could she read minds? Whatever. If she did, I wished her head would burst then.

"You had your chance." I snorted. "I can't believe myself – I would have forgiven you. If you had just told me in time, I would have. Instead, I got to hear it from Harry. Harry, whose parents Tom killed. And he—he doesn't hate me. He doesn't hate me but Ron and Hermione do, and they don't even know the truth!

"And I bet," I continued, "that you also do."

The silence was deafening.

Natasha turned around. "I don't hate you." Her expression was carefully blank as she said it.

"But it was the reason I grew up in an orphanage."

"Yes."

I covered my face to stop myself from speaking. Or to hide the tears.

"Are you even sorry?"

"I regret it," Natasha said. "But it was the right thing to do. I wasn't on my right mind back then." She searched the bed next to mine with her hand; she patted the mattress a few times before sitting down. Her hair bounced lightly, shining gold in the sunlight. "Between my rehabilitation and taking care of a child, I would've probably fucked us both. I chose the option that kept us alive."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Was she for real?

"I died. The papers got that right. I'm here, breathing—but Thea Rosenberg died one night in February, burnt like a witch on trial."

"Oh, now? You want to tell me everything now?" I was tired. I was angry at the fucking world. All I wanted was to return to St. Louise's and hide in my Attic.

"As if. There are things a child your age should never know, and you've still got a long way to reach a point where my decisions make some sense." She patted down her coat until the wrinkles disappeared, an oddly feminine quirk. "But you're right—you deserve to hear it from me. At least a version close to the truth.

"Where do I start?" She looked at the wall pensively. "Your father and I came to this country as some sort of ambassadors representing the MACUSA. Angelique Barton was the image of our people back then, and they wanted a guarantee of success. Your father was sent to Hogwarts first, and I followed two years later.

"We had to follow a lot of rules, but the most important one was this – we couldn't reveal our names. Our full names, the ones that were on our birth certificates. Neither the government nor your grandmother thought it through though, and Alec and I simply registered our nicknames. Hiding in plain sight, as it were."

"If my father's name was Alexander Thomas Riddle," I murmured, "what was yours?"

"Natasha Ariadne Collins. My mother was a descendant of the original Rosenberg." There was a hint of pride there. "And despite everything, I considered Alec a brother. His mother, on the other hand… well, I can't really complain. Angelique was more my mother than my own, who took one look at me and decided I was an awful reminder of her 'true love''s abandonment.

"But that's not what I want to talk about," Natasha inhaled sharply. "Let's see… I can't tell you the exact date—you'll have to look in the papers for that—but it happened in February of 1979. Thea Rosenberg, age nineteen, was on top of the world: she'd been officially hired as a Healer in St. Mungo's Hospital after only one year as an apprentice; she had a side-job as a potioneer, and her results in her cure for the transformation of a werewolf had caught the interest of an important man; she had a wonderful family, people that loved her… perhaps too much.

"Marlene McKinnon was my best friend. Nobody thought our friendship would last long. A Slytherin and a Gryffindor put together has always been a recipe for a disaster, but she was my match in every way. If Alec was my brother, she was my sister—the one person I could trust above everyone else.

"She came to know too much."

"You told her about Dad." The way she talked about her implied that Marlene McKinnon had probably known every dirty secret behind the Bartons… the ones Natasha discovered on her own, of course.

"It didn't help that she was part of the Order that was working against Voldemort. On the day I was supposed to die, I was visiting Marlene and her family. The McKinnons were usually gladder to have me around than Angelique, and with her ghost haunting me—she was already dead by then—they were very welcoming.

"It was their love for me that got them killed. We were preparing for dinner when the Death Eaters ambushed us. Now, Marlene's family was full of Aurors and Quidditch players, both active and retired; the Death Eaters knew this and did what cowards always do—they took us out, one by one. And for the icing, they decided to burn down the manor.

"I'll spare you the details. Everyone died, burned alive. But I knew something they didn't and I got overconfident. I thought I could save us both." Her head bowed.

I didn't realize I was trembling until I shifted. I grasped the bed linens as I stared hard at Natasha's red curls.

Crimson as blood, right? That was what I always said, half-envious and half-awed. I couldn't muster an ounce of that awe right now. Apprehension maybe.

"What did you do?" I asked quietly.

"A spell. Again, I'll spare you the details but it was derived from the Gemini Theory. Complex in all its sense, from the approach to the spells. According to my investigation, I was so close to perfecting it… circumstances forced me to perform before testing. I am the result of that."

Natasha stood and turned slowly, the glint in her eyes so reminiscent of Tom's that I recoiled.

But then I remembered that fucking son of a bitch was dead and Natasha was no one to scare me, and I leaned forward with a challenging glare.

"Now, I'm going to ask once: if I were to tell you this truth, do you think you will be able to keep it?"

Natasha had lost my trust but not disinterest. Aware, she came up with a proposition shortly after. It wasn't one I would refuse.

"There is a woman from your mother's side of the family. She was a distant cousin, I think, and became alienated from the Blacks upon her graduation."

I was already wary. "Why?"

"The Blacks are very much like the Malfoys, Anya. Bigotted and die-hard fanatics of dark magic. Growing up in that kind of environment hardly beats nature, but every once in a while, a white sheep pops up. Andromeda—that's the woman I'm talking about—fell in love with a Muggleborn wizard. Then, by her own volition, she left the family and was disowned."

"Was my mother disowned?"

Natasha's mouth was twisted. "No."

It didn't deter me, despite the feeling that I was breaking Marie's rule to not get into any Black business. I still wanted to know who Cassiopeia Black had been. More so now that my father was taboo for Natasha and me.

"Andromeda Tonks née Black is open to meeting up," said Natasha, all the while ignoring the elephant in the room. As if she hadn't had the answers to my questions all along. As if she weren't treating me like a stranger or an enemy.

It took a few days for Andromeda Tonks to reply. Then, when the date was set, Mrs. Darcy was promptly informed that I would leave at my earliest convenience.

I told Harry through a letter about this. He didn't visit me for the next few days.

•••◘◘◘•••

It was proving to be the rainiest summer in all the history of Little Whinging. I took the blame for every downpour that occurred in July but the storms that followed were not of my doing.

Each time, I could see Marie struggle to not accuse me. The girl had been very quiet as of late. Sure, we still bickered, but ever since Mrs. Darcy had given her her own list of chores, Marie and I didn't spend as much time as we used to.

So I didn't complain when she took Otto's cage and accompanied me all the way out to the other side of the old playground. We waved goodbye to Mrs. Darcy at the orphanage's gate and set off for a brisk walk. My trunk wheeled loudly as it encountered large patches of water.

"How old did you say this owl was?" Marie asked suddenly.

"I don't know—as old as Natasha, I suppose. Why?"

"Because it looks like it's about to keel over any time now."

I stopped abruptly. "Hey, that's –"

She used both hands to shove the cage up to my face. My nose got stuck between the bars, but I had a good view of Otto.

I saw what she meant then. There was little change from the time I first met Otto: big as a backpack, brown feathers flicked with white spots—an owl's version of white hairs—and yellow eyes that seemed to peer straight into your soul. But looking at him now, there was a tiredness in his body that spoke of age and… (death).

Natasha was thirty-four years old. Marie's comment hit the nail on the head.

"Diagon Alley has a shop that sells pets. I'll take him there tomorrow—they've got to have their version of a vet, right?"

"Right," she echoed doubtfully.

There were no lights as we walked across the playground, making it much difficult to see where I stepped. It had been difficult for Mrs. Darcy to let us go at this time but, as always, Natasha intervened.

I was on Mrs. Darcy's side this time. Either I had regressed, or people thought it was fun to leave rocks everywhere. Then, just because the night was shaping up to be wonderful, I stumbled into the seesaws.

"Did you walk us into the playground?" I yelled at Marie, who was a few steps ahead.

"It's a shortcut and you know it!"

"It's a terrible one at night!"

"Maybe you just need some glasses. I've been perfectly fine so far."

She was so far ahead she didn't feel me stop, didn't see me pull out my wand and twirl dramatically, the tip pointing straight at—

A stray dog?

"What?" I said—then jumped with a shout as the dog began to bark. Like an on switch, you could hear different barks all over Magnolia Street. Some lights turned on and a few people came out to shut their dogs up. But no one looked in our way or came out to investigate.

Marie ran back, jostling Otto.

"Snuffles!" she cried excitedly.

I couldn't believe my ears. "Snuffles?"

Encouraged by Marie's reception, the dog stepped forward, its tongue wagging and tail flicking up and down happily.

Dear God. It was the biggest dog I'd ever seen in this neighborhood. If it weren't for Fluffy, Hagrid's three-headed pet, I would dare say it was the biggest I'd ever seen in my entire life. It came up to my waist, but I suspected all the dark fur added some height to it. Its eyes, I noticed, were pale and so human-looking that I felt a shiver run down my back.

Snuffles sat down and looked up at me, pleased.

"Good God, Marie, tell me this isn't the reason you've been stealing from the kitchens."

Marie jerked around, gaping. "You knew?"

I scoffed. "Of course I knew." I shifted as the dog's eyes narrowed. "But I thought it was for Harry."

"Ehh… well, he's been on it for a while..."

I closed my eyes. "Don't tell me. The less I know, the better." That didn't mean Harry wasn't going to get an earful. I mean—how could they hide this gigantic dog? And from me? Marie, for all her brilliance and knowledge, was terrible at subtlety. And Harry was an impulsive little shit who asked how high before ignoring all answers and jumping into the fray.

"Where did you find him anyway?"

Marie shrugged. "It was just roaming the streets." Her shoulders hunched. "It was hungry, Anya."

I couldn't say anything against that. "Fine! But don't let it stay in our Attic or I swear I will send you a Stinking Pellet as your Christmas present." I turned on my heel and pulled at my trunk harder.

But then a strange sound filled the night. Similar to a car's horn but intertwined with that of a trumpet, it grew closer and closer, until the sound of dragging chains also joined—

An explosion of light happened a block away. When the spots in my eyes faded, I finally glimpsed the triple-decker purple bus in the dark.

"Anya, look! It's the Knight Bus?"

Oh, I wasn't imagining it? Good to know.