Book Two ― A School Divided
Chapter Thirty-Seven ― The Red Woman
Story Summary: Following the events of Third Year, Harry Potter explores the Chamber of Secrets and finds a portrait of Salazar Slytherin. Following Slytherin's advice, Harry will attempt to break out of the games set upon him and finally be free. But how? And is freedom even possible for the Boy-Who-Lived?
Book Summary: Returning to Hogwarts after spending the summer scheming politics with Daphne and furthering Muggle-born education with Hermione, Harry is forced to act prematurely to ensure the safety of the First-Years he promised to help. With Sirius in forced exile, a Tom Riddle with a different plan, a suspicious Dumbledore, and a dangerous tournament, is Harry's desired freedom even possible? Can his ambitions coexist with his desires?
Note: This chapter has been beta-ed by user Outliner.
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Although Severus Snape knew Continental Europe well from his sourcing for Potions ingredients, it did not mean that he felt comfortable traveling through it. Though he would forever struggle to feel comfortable anywhere, his little corner of the Midlands came closest to home as he'd ever felt. Cokeworth may be a shadow of ghosts past for England at large, as the country's industrial heart slowly wilted and died, but Severus was rather fond of that part of his past and found it irrevocably superior to the present, despite its own flaws.
It did not help that he was forced out of his home country by the second-leading candidate in the list of people whom he wanted to kill, nor did it help that the same person was also in the list of people whom he wanted not to die. It made living very confusing. The confusion was compounded by the fact that, for once, he could not deny the simple assertion that it had been completely his fault for acting in bad temper rather than with a sound mind.
A shameful fate for someone who mastered Occlumency as extensively as he had, but the Mind Arts could only control so big a rush of emotions, and though he had earned a reputation for emotionlessness, coolness, and having a lack of empathy, the insides of his body ran hotter than Fiendfyre in constant, boiling rage and no small amount of self-loathing.
He privately thought of himself as pathetic rather than imposing, but he allowed what remained of his pride to shine through and make him look confident. Again, the reality was more complex. He was an embittered man; hateful, provocative, and cruel, with the permanent Sisyphean punishment of being completely aware of his enormous faults yet lacking the strength of character to fix them.
By now it was too late and his long search for redemption was lost. He knew that if he ever found Lily after he died, his unprovoked attack on her son would forever mark him as her enemy. The thought hurt less than he expected, mostly because he had already figured out that the point of no return had come from the second that he succumbed to his prejudices against his father and fully turned Death Eater. He would grow to regret that decision. They would never receive him with the warmth that Lily herself had afforded him, given his status as a half-blood. His competency was what made them tolerate him.
The attack on Harry Potter may have been the last shovelful of dirt over the coffin of what was once a fruitful friendship, but that particular carcass had been dead and rotting for decades now.
However, the finality of the incident did weigh on his mind with the potential of a choice, which brought him to the other high-ranking person he wanted to kill: Voldemort.
His joining the Death Eaters had been fueled by youthful aggression and rage, which had festered and became repressed aggression and rage in his adult life. It was a private point of shame that he did not think himself immune to any manipulation that might turn him into a Death Eater again. That said, it was true that he certainly did not feel beholden to the Dark Lord, even if he had never grown out of his anger.
His return to Dumbledore had been because of Lily, not from any sort of noble ideal. He did not believe in the same things that the Headmaster believed and was often horrified by the extent of the man's web of lies. He might hate Harry Potter with a passion only reserved for his father and godfather, but submitting an orphaned baby to Petunia's care was just too cruel. And it reminded him too much of his own father.
"I and the brat are not the same," he grumbled to himself. Any parallel between the two had to be ruthlessly quashed. No compassion could exist between Snape and a born-Potter.
His mind turned to the men that had bound him ever since the beginning of the war. Without the constraints that either Lord previously held on him, he could be free. He could have no masters. It was something that he had wished for years, being able to leave Hogwarts, leave the students he so loathed, the teaching he despised, and focus solely on studying Potions. He had the money to retire, having managed to withdraw it from England before he left. After all, he had not been charged with anything yet and was well within his rights to do whatever he wished with his modest wealth.
There were some difficulties with that, of course. It wasn't as simple as it looked. He knew that rumors of his attack on Potter, as well as an attack on Greengrass ― which had not happened, but somehow angered people more ― were already circulating freely and that it was only a matter of time before the whole thing exploded. He had traveled through Europe in disguise, avoiding magical communities precisely for that reason. For all he knew, he might already be persona non grata in the magical world, even if the DMLE hadn't formally charged him yet.
"I could take a new name," he wondered quietly to himself. His voice could barely be heard over the sounds of nature, but he managed to listen to just a shadow of it, which was good enough for thinking out loud. "I was never good with glamors, but that can be remedied with some study. It would not be an unassailable challenge, by any means."
Therefore, it begged the question — why was he continuing to trek towards the gateway to the emergency meeting point for Death Eaters in Europe, and what on Earth was he going to do when he got there?
A windchill attacked his body, making him shiver and grimace in discomfort. Though he was used to the weather in Scotland, this was Germany in late November. He knew that Saxony-Anhalt was not the coldest of German states, and he had traveled enough of Eastern Europe to have known truly unimaginable climates, but it was an inadequate consolation against the cold wind.
The train trip from Hanover into Magdeburg had been comfortable, and he even allowed himself some brief respite in the Hauptbahnhof. The building was beautiful, and though his understanding of architecture was lacking, he felt an amateur's appreciation for it. The city itself was charming, but he did not wander about breezily. First, it had never been his style, even in the best of circumstances, and second, these were not the best of circumstances. Though he knew little of architecture, he knew his history well and was aware that as a consequence of the fragmentation of the Holy Roman Empire, the wizards of Germany had done the same as the Muggles of Germany themselves and spread out, forming dozens of small population centers. He ran the risk of being identified, even in Magdeburg, which was not that big a city.
So, he quickly embarked on the train to Schöneberg; the trip there was decidedly less comfortable and treacherously slow. He felt unsafe on Muggle transportation after relying strictly on Apparition and other magical methods of transportation for so long, but he feared both the ICW managing to track him down using an Apparition trail and Voldemort's reaction if it was known that he had used such methods towards their collective gateway. Such actions had been strictly forbidden precisely to avoid tracking the getaway spot down, and he did not want to deal with those consequences, whatever they may be or wherever they may come.
He endured quietly, but it was quite hard to maintain a stiff upper lip with the freezing cold of the road that would lead him to the Ringheiligtum Pömmelte. It was already a trip laced with the possibility of failure, considering how the magical wards obscuring the place had fallen, allowing the Muggles to see the sanctuary site that lay just a few miles from a medium-sized city in one of the most populous countries in the world. But archeological exploration had not begun yet, because the second layer of wards — Muggle-Repellent — had not yet faded.
Therefore, he hoped that the enchantments that would lead him to the magical dwelling where Death Eaters could run if they had an emergency still held strong. From there, he might be able to communicate with a friend. Lucius may help him in his hour of need, even if Dumbledore would likely step away permanently from Severus after the Potter incident.
As yet another breeze forced him to grit his teeth and plow on, he wondered again why he was doing this. It went against every desire he believed he held. Even so, he kept walking.
Was it because of something he believed in? His lips twitched in dry amusement at the idea. He did not know what he believed. All those years he had operated according to what Lily would have wanted him to do and now he stood aimless, but not still. The contradiction of living according to what he was and what the most perfect person he'd ever met would have done made him miserable. He had not been worthy of Lily during her life and was not worthy of following her ideals after death.
"Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Severus," he sullenly murmured to himself, uncharacteristically. Then again, maybe it was characteristic; he didn't have a way of knowing. "No one cares."
The point stood, however. He was not fully convinced of his own actions and every Occlumentic exercise he tried had failed to provide any guide to a good answer. Yet, one foot followed the other in an endless cavalcade without cause.
He didn't want to join Voldemort again. He wished for that chapter of his life to be over and the man was a monster; not only for what he did to Lily. He felt tired, used, aimless, and frustrated, and Voldemort would only exacerbate all of that.
"I don't want to kill people again," he stated to himself with slightly more confidence. Regardless of who it was, he was tired of having blood on his hands. He thought that blood would satiate his rage as a younger man, but it never did. All it did was make it burn brighter.
Finally, he reached it. He allowed his body to relax from the long walk through the wintery cold and looked at the wide external circle, more than 100m across, and the various internal circles and ditches which made up the ancient point of habitation and worship. Though he was not a religious man, he did feel fleeting respect for the generations of wizards who had worshipped here alongside Muggles in harmony.
He stepped towards the outer circle and found a way through the palisade that covered the worshipping grounds. As respectfully as his mental state and his time constraints allowed him to be, he walked briskly into its gaping entrance.
"Odd choice for an escape point, isn't it?" A masculine voice rang nearby. Snape snapped into attention, pointing his wand at the place where the stranger must have been standing, near one of the poles to the left. There was yet another person high on the list of people who Snape wanted to kill, leaning his body against a wooden post taller than both men, painted red and attached to other identical posts, forming an inverted U under which people could walk.
"Lupin," Snape snarled, pocketing his wand. For all the tenseness that he felt being near the creature that had nearly killed him as a student, he knew the wizard Lupin to be too righteous to attack him outright. Though there were still reminders that the man was not fully human, such as the speed with which he pushed himself away from the post ring and towards him. The former Potions master stood rigid and nervous as the werewolf passed right by him to instead support himself near the palisade, closing Snape's escape route off.
"A dwelling initially built on the Neolithic by the Bell Beaker culture and occupied for centuries, turned into a mixed community by the arrival of the Unetice and their wizards by the Early Bronze Age," Remus continued, letting his eyes wander almost speculatively. You could see him imagining the hundreds of lives that had begun and passed by uneventfully in the grand scheme of things as he stopped mid-sentence. Then, he continued. "Finally abandoned about 400 years after that after a cycle of decay and rebirth, only to be found by wizards and turned into a magical-only ritual circle, though no one lived here. As the magically religious were targeted by Grindelwald's rationalism, it was forgotten, except by Voldemort."
"Feeling talkative today, are we, wolf?" Snape drawled, fingering his wand through his coat, waiting to see if the werewolf would attack. He was acting oddly, more confident than his usual meekness, and he could see a circle of gold light shining outside his green eyes even from this distance. Lupin was angry — in control, but angry. This was different than he had expected, and the former Professor was regretting pocketing his wand now.
"I always wondered why Voldemort chose this place for a gateway to a safe house," Remus continued as if Snape hadn't spoken. "It seems anathema to his cause, picking a place that stood as an example of Muggle and Wizarding cooperation for centuries," the werewolf looked to the skies, resting his head on the wood of the palisade. "Then again, maybe that was the point. Eventually, it came to only be used by wizards who took over after the Muggles died off."
Snape remained silently glaring at his former colleague. When no one spoke for a few seconds, Lupin continued.
"Though that would make more sense for Grindelwald, I reckon," he argued, before lowering his head again and looking at the disgraced Professor. "Has your master ever explained it?"
"You know perfectly well that I'm a spy," Snape gritted out frustratedly, even though he was unsure of his current position.
"Yet I knew I would find you here," Lupin retorted, sweeping his right arm to signal to the entire Pömmelte complex. "Why did you come, Severus?"
"How do you even know of this place?" Snape asked, instead of answering. Remus realized the evasiveness and smirked minutely, something that immediately annoyed the Potions Master, but the werewolf obliged him.
"I may have never been able to infiltrate the Death Eaters as you have," Lupin needled him, knowing that the true story did not shine the Professor in a good light. "But I have entered through and lived among werewolf packs during the war. They talk and whisper, and so I got to know this place," he finished, patting the wood of a nearby structure softly.
"What do you want with me?" Snape asked, narrowing his eyes at the man and finally retrieving his wand, which only served to amuse the werewolf.
"Have I ever told you about my Sorting?" Remus asked instead, smiling. It was neither accommodating nor friendly, and the gold ring in his eyes thickened. Snape held his ground, studiously gazing at the man to see if he would attack. When he didn't, he retorted venomously.
"I don't care if you live or die, Lupin."
"Oh, I'm quite aware, and the feeling is now mutual, though that wasn't always the case," the man grinned sharply. "I always thought I would go into Ravenclaw, you see. I was always more studious than the other three," the nameless mention of the Marauders made Snape even tenser, and a headache began at the back of his neck. His grip on his wand strengthened, and he began growling lowly in anger. But Lupin continued. "And I was always more curious. But the Sorting Hat refused to sort me there, for two reasons."
"Lack of intelligence being one, the general wolfishness being the other?" Snape guessed sarcastically, but again Lupin remained completely idle to his comments and continued as though the Potions Master was nothing more than a ghost.
"The first, it said, was that I was not sufficiently open-minded. For the longest time, I was quite offended by that. I always thought of myself as quite a tolerant person. It took me years to realize that the Hat was speaking about my lack of self-acceptance and by then, any such attempts of reconciliation with my werewolf form was impossible," this time, Remus did look grimmer and more sinister when the reminder of his affliction came, but it passed by after a deep breath and some quiet. "The second reason was that it argued that Gryffindor would be good for me. That I already had one of the basic characteristics of that House — bravery — in spades, and that the environment there would be good to develop the others. Initially, I was quite scared. I was counting on the Ravenclaws' proclivity for abstraction to not get outed as a werewolf. All I had to do there was to not call attention to myself, and I would be fine."
"You? Brave?" Snape scoffed derisively. "You run away from everything in your life that reminds you of the fact that you howl."
This was the first insult that he threw that seemed to get a rise of the man, as he flinched and tensed for a second before he began chuckling darkly.
"You know what's funny? I agree with you," he responded, full of self-loathing. "I've always thought you were braver than I, particularly after the war was over and you helped catch a few stranded Death Eaters," he said plainly before turning uncharacteristically sarcastic. "Of course, it does not take much to be brave after the war is over, now, does it?"
"It doesn't take much to be braver than you," Snape sneered. Again, Lupin chuckled, this time more animalistically, and as he drew closer, Snape was already prepared to cast a repelling spell. Though the werewolf just casually talked instead.
"Yes, I suppose you're not wrong. But you know what being a Gryffindor for seven years taught me, Severus?" Lupin asked slowly, leaning slightly in Snape's direction. Then, showing his heightened reflexes and strength, he leaped forwards, sidestepping Snape's rushed spell and punching the other man as hard in the face as he could, sending him sprawling to the ground, his face covered in blood, with a broken nose. His wand escaped from his grasp, and Remus stood between it and the injured man, eyes full of hatred. "Doing the right thing."
At this, Snape began to chuckle manically himself, making both of them the perfect depictions of instability that they were. But for Snape, such an action was even more far-flung than the normally serene Lupin's anger, and it was enough of a distortion of reality that even the enraged half-wolf had to consciously decide to ignore it in favor of standing his ground.
"You haven't done the right thing in more than a decade, wolf," Snape finally sneered, an act that irritated his broken nose, but he was too full of pettiness to care. "What was the punch for? For the brat?"
At the insult, Remus viciously kicked Snape in the ribs, but despite the newly inflicted injury, that just made the Potions Master continue to chuckle darkly. When he finally looked up to meet the werewolf's now completely golden irises, his own eyes were wide-open and told a tale of madness and lack of control, and of anger which was suppressed and mismanaged for years.
"I have attacked Harry Potter, yes. And I would do it again, the little shit," Snape hissed furiously, but before Remus could attack again, even though he was already preparing to do so, the injured man continued. "But I have not failed him, because I owed him nothing. I failed his mother a thousandfold, but not the boy. The boy knows nothing of my commitments. But you? You have failed him. You have failed him more than anyone else has ever failed him, and it's been because of your cowardice. You have left him with Lily's sister, Petunia, a woman she hated for her cruelty and bigotry. Do you think Potter was treated nicely there?" He taunted, smirking at the anger and shame growing in the other man's eyes. "Do not preach me on doing the right thing, wolf, when you have never done it."
For a second, the werewolf was so enraged that Snape thought he was about to die, and a distant, still-aware part of his brain welcomed it. But instead, the man stepped back, picked up the wand, and threw it back at Snape. The former Professor grabbed it and immediately pointed it at Remus, who had his back turned. But the larger man had no intention of attacking again, and simply leaned back against the closest wood structure yet again, crossing his arms.
"You have made your point," Remus said softly, turning back to Snape. "One I agree with. Now, what will we do?"
"We?" Snape questioned contemptuously after healing his nose and cleaning his face using his wand. "What makes you think that I want anything to do with you, wolf?"
"I'm fully confident you don't want to do anything with me, but we stand at a crossroads together," Remus stated, looking the fallen man in the eye. "We both want to run away and be forgotten, but neither of us will."
"Don't speak for me," Snape hissed.
"Am I wrong?" Remus asked, raising an eyebrow. When Snape restrained himself to a glare, he continued. "I don't take you as a man for running, Severus. You just lack a motive, now that Lily's redemption is beyond you."
"You talk as if you're better," Snape drawled. "Do you think Potter will be happy with what you've done to his son?"
"No," Remus murmured. "We are in the same boat, but with different people. I am beyond James's forgiveness for what I've done — or better, what I have not done — with Harry. So, I'll invite you to do things for the same reason I will."
"Oh?" Snape asked, outwardly uninterested, but internally curious.
"Revenge," Remus said darkly, the gold color appearing once again in his irises.
"Does Potter know about this side of you?" Snape demanded sarcastically. "The wolfish side?"
"No, he does not," Remus responded. "But I don't have to be kind to you, Severus. So, what is it going to be?"
Before he confronted the reality he had brought upon himself, Harry gave himself a day to mourn for his choices and to wallow in regret of his attack on the dragon. From the brief amount of time during which he had been exposed on his way to the Room of Requirement, he had already seen how much hostility and admiration he had gained for himself with the First Task. Privately, he felt ashamed of his actions, though some stubborn part of his mind reminded him that he did not choose to participate in the Tournament and that he acted according to the circumstances in front of him.
He still felt some anger, even in the ocean of regret and shame through which he was currently navigating. Ron's continued silence after figuring out what would be in Harry's way had hurt him, even though he was the one who had alerted Harry to their existence via that letter. Harry might have died, and Ron had elected to remain stubbornly quiet. Now that his stress and anger had wilted away, leaving only ashes, his indifference towards the redhead had turned into annoyance and betrayal.
Though now, his anger had assumed a decidedly passive character. Every time he felt some rising annoyance, he panicked, retreating emotionally into himself to not lose control again. His perpetual prizing of freedom had extended to include himself. He would not be so beholden to his emotions, ever again. Occlumency seemed to be the way forward in developing complete self-control, so he would focus on it.
But he needed a day. Just one day. A day of catharsis, to revel in some needed solitude and feel whatever he needed to feel.
Now, in the Room of Requirement, he watched as Hedwig flew off with a letter directed to Sirius. He had missed his godfather, with whom he hadn't spoken much for fear of being intercepted by Dumbledore after the Headmaster had assured that Sirius was forced to leave England. Thinking of Sirius made him remember his first description of him, shortly after reading the Ethics books he had soon neglected, as a hedonistic man. He felt silly now, thinking better of it. If his experiences with the dragon and the Tournament had torn up his mind, what had more than a decade of Azkaban done to Sirius? Could he even feel pleasure anymore, as Harry understood it? How much of his cheerfulness around Harry was forced? He wanted to know more about his godfather, so he sent a letter and resolved to keep at it until he knew the man better, cracks and all.
He also wrote a hasty note to Daphne, telling her that he wanted to be alone for today and that he would speak with her tomorrow. The only thing that had caused him more emotional pain than his mistreatment of the First-Years was his treatment of her and Hermione, but with Daphne, it felt worse. He remembered the conversation they had shared just outside the Room and it pained him.
The Room was configured exactly like his room in the impromptu school he had established in Diagon Alley. He missed it, as well as those days in general. They felt less complicated; when he made progress instead of steering his success off course.
That was something that Harry appreciated in Salazar, and he imagined that Cygnus would have said the same. Most people ― those on his side, at least ― would sympathize with the truly remorseful student, and claim that he had made a mistake, but that he mustn't let himself feel bad about it. He imagined Hermione in this camp, and to a lesser extent, Daphne, but Salazar had admonished him extensively for losing control, and Cygnus would have done the same in regards to the political cost of his unnecessary show of force if they were closer. Harry knew he had messed up. Even if it was understandable, it did not excuse the fact that he had made a mistake.
He closed his eyes tiredly and felt another wave of shame. After riding it, he hastily threw the magically connected journal he shared with Daphne away when her handwriting appeared on it in response to his words. He did not want to deal with that right now. It may be another mistake, to perpetuate this delay instead of pouncing on it, but he did not care. He needed time.
Before his self-pity could continue, another owl appeared through the window that had been left open for Hedwig to fly through. Harry stared at the bird in surprise for the longest time, not expecting it to appear at all. So long did he gawk at it that the bird, an imperious barn owl, eventually grew irritated, dropped a letter in Harry's lap, and flew off, making sure to grip its talons painfully against his arm in the process of taking off.
Rubbing his arm with a soft frown, he broke the now-familiar Gringotts seal, unrolled the parchment, and began reading the letter. Something had fallen to the ground when he unsealed it, but before he could grab it, the signature at the bottom of the letter caught his eye.
It was from Bill. Intrigued, he paused to pick up what had fallen to the floor ― a few sticks of meditation incense ― and read the letter.
Harry,
I will not occupy myself with the business of reprimanding you, because I don't know you that well, and it is not my job. I imagine that you will be reprimanded by your friends and teachers quite a lot in the upcoming days...
Harry flinched a bit while reading this paragraph. That may come to be an understatement. People seemed to be avoiding him when he made his way to the Room of Requirement, regardless of whether or not their eyes were full of disgust or approval. He had the fortune of not crossing paths with anyone close enough to him that they would be tempted to have a conversation, so he did not know.
... and I will not be another voice in the crowd, telling you the same things. I have watched Charlie's memories of the dragon fight using a pensieve. I do not know if you know what those are, but I suppose you can guess from the context. What I will tell you, though, is something that you likely will hear from Dumbledore.
Harry frowned. Dumbledore had been absent from his life lately, to a degree that was suspicious in and of itself. He expected the Headmaster to have approached him when he began presenting symptoms of loose and misguided anger, but he had not. Harry would understand some hesitancy on part of the Headmaster, considering their last conversation had been about not letting the Snape attack be public information, and he knew that the man's affectation with stability would slow down his decision-making significantly, for fear of making a choice that further threw things into chaos.
He had to be more prudent, he decided. He felt as though Dumbledore would watch him more carefully.
Don't tell my mum this, but I know that Dumbledore can occasionally hem and haw before explaining things, and in such a verbose and long-winded way that it becomes beyond comprehension. I went through some adventures of my own in Hogwarts, and I vividly remember the confusion, trying to decipher him and failing. So I won't do the same with you.
Succinctly, you had a mental breakdown because of poorly-managed stress. In a sufficiently powerful young wizard, this will turn into their magic getting defensive and being overly protective, which can turn to aggression against any perceived slight. It happens to lots of people. It happened to me more than once, growing up with the Twins in the Burrow. But it is proportional to both the level of power and the amount of stress. You did not deal with the stress put on your shoulders well, and you let the pressure mount until you lost control of your decision-making in face of great danger. I don't blame you for being under stress, considering what you have gone through this year.
What is curious, and what I will talk to you about in person later, is the way your stress manifested itself. I am going to guess, both from the spells you used against the dragon and in the World Cup Final, that you have been learning some more ill-intentioned magic lately. I'm not going to judge you for it. I'm a Curse-Breaker. I know some shit. But I learned it very carefully, and you may want to follow my lead on this.
Speaking of it, if you remember our conversation after the World Cup Final, I tangentially noted about the Mind Arts, and ways in which meditation can help with them. One way in which people deal with stress and highly emotional situations is with Occlumency, a branch of the Mind Arts that is heavily regulated, but equally useful. I am not the best Occlumens in the country ― that would either be Snape, which, following his despicable attack on you, shows you that there are limits to what it can do to cool a man's temper; or Dumbledore himself ― but I do know a thing or two about it.
I've sent some incense so that you can meditate. I don't know if you're aware of it yet, but you should be soon, so I'm going to spoil it for you. There's going to be a Yule Ball in celebration of the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Gringotts has already been contracted to deal with some of the expenses of the ball. I have a pretty good relationship with Septima, the Arithmancy Professor, so I'll be asking her to take me to the ball.
Because Occlumency is such a restricted field of magic, I won't be getting into it by writing. But let's talk during the Yule Ball. I have some things to teach you about it so that you don't go through this again.
For now, use the incense to meditate. Maybe you'll have a breakthrough.
Regards,
Bill Weasley.
Harry felt incredibly touched by the letter and grinned slightly for the first time since leaving the Hospital Wing. He felt excited about talking with Bill about Occlumency to get a second perspective on the whole affair besides Salazar and felt lucky that the oldest Weasley had gone out of his way to aid him. As soon as Harry put it down, it burst into flames, making him startle and step away in reflex. Apparently, the restrictions on Occlumency were so fierce that Bill thought it best to make the letter self-destruct when it was read to the end.
He hadn't been planning on meditating, but it was better than the alternative of just sullenly wasting time. Feeling renewed by Bill's promise for aid, and still slightly resentful that Salazar had not tried a more active hand in teaching him different techniques to master Occlumency, he lit up the incense and allowed it to wash over him, his body relaxing as the smoke rose and consumed the room.
Harry expected to visit Death once more and was prepared for the being's capricious challenges, such as the one he faced underwater the previous time but was instead met with a field of flowers bathed in moonlight. Even his limited knowledge of Herbology was enough to tell him that those were magical flowers, as they stood almost as tall as he, with all the rainbow's beautiful colors. Two shone greater than the others: purple and red. There was no tall structure or an imposing object that loomed over him this time, just a humble, single-story wooden bungalow, which carried the same magical architecture of the Burrow despite its modest size. It was disjointed in places, with large, gaping holes that seemed to serve no purpose, a midsection that burst into intersections of wood and stone, and a roof covered in dense vegetation. There were trees vaguely positioned around the flower field, and even those who were not as tall as pine did not have leaves, only flowers, and the colors loomed so vivacious and varied that Harry felt a slight headache trying to process it all.
He walked towards the house, knowing no other possible destination. Though, unlike his previous trips down to this realm, there were only the solemn sounds of nature and the gentle rustling of the flowers as a cool breeze passed by. They made a pathway for him as he walked, large enough for a person twice his size, and then closed ranks behind him. Thinking he was being trapped, he backtracked a bit and the flowers dutifully opened a pathway once more without delay. Harry admired the flowers, even though he knew nothing about them. He liked the colors, so he focused on those, passing his fingers through their petals, which they accepted passively, emitting a soft aroma that relaxed him.
As he walked towards the house, a young woman finally appeared, sitting on a rocking chair and daintily sipping from a tall glass of lemonade. She was wearing a rather wide, circular straw hat with flowers all around it, but even with the headwear, Harry could clearly see her long, red hair, even from that distance. The woman could also see him, and cheerfully smiled and waved invitingly to him. She absently twitched her fingers and a second rocking chair appeared, sporting a yellow pillow. Harry sat down and embraced the comfort with a blissful smile.
"You did not expect me," the woman claimed with amusement. Much like Death, her voice also rang with authority, but it was something arcane instead of something deadly. There was an undercurrent of power in her posture as well, relaxed and open, but also visibly confident. Unlike the first time he saw her, he realized that her eyes were not sky-blue, but kaleidoscopic, shifting to all of the garden flowers' colors. Though, whenever she spoke, they would choose one tone, always bright and welcoming. This time, they were silvery-grey. "You expected Death."
"I did," Harry admitted, looking around. "This is much more comfortable."
"I am glad you like it so much," she smiled, her eyes turning green, like his. "I am quite partial to it as well."
"Who are you?" Harry asked, after admiring the garden for a little while longer. "Death would not tell me."
"I imagine he wouldn't," she commented amusedly, before turning to Harry with her head tilted to the side, the effect compounded by the large hat tilting with it. "The passing of time erases everything. I see no reason why my name would be preserved in time until it sought you, but it is still a tragedy. Alas, all things fade, even I. Even Death."
As if in disagreement, a hollow bell began ringing around them, rocking the garden to its core, but the Red Woman remained calmly sipping her lemonade. After a few seconds, she plucked one of her long hairs and offered it to the ground, and the song ended, serenity restored fully.
"Even Death?" Harry asked, warily.
"Can Death exist if all things living are gone?" She answered with a question and a curious expression.
"Death specifically told me not to define things by their opposites," Harry commented slowly, and a bit shyly. He had allowed the friendliness of the woman to let him forget that he was speaking with an all-encompassing entity, in a magical garden lit by moonlight so bright that it was like the sun was made of silver.
"He is very predictable," she commented with a fond smile. "He is of that belief, yes. But I am not. And when the last breath of life goes, so will he, for his job will be done."
"Will you go as well?" Harry inquired.
"In a fashion, I suppose I would," she claimed.
"Are you... Life? Fate? Destiny? Magic?" Harry asked in quick succession, trying to make tails of the entire situation. The Red Woman laughed musically, a beautiful sound of pipes and flutes. When she spoke next, her eyes were soft crimson, matching her hair and summer dress.
"No, I am not any of those things, and from what I know, those things are not real in the same way in which Death and I are," she explained patiently. "He is Death, and I am dead. I know nothing more about any other things that may be there, but I doubt they exist."
"You are... dead?" Harry asked, confused. "So, were you human, once?"
"I was living," she alleged, for the first time with some sorrow. "But I have always been half-Death."
"What does that mean?" Harry questioned, with some frustration and a somewhat whining voice. Again, the woman laughed with amusement.
"I do speak cryptically, do I not?" She closed her eyes, and when they had opened again, they were inky black. "Such is my way, young wizard, and despite my appearance, I am old, too old to change. That which is dead and magical may change, true, but only marginally, superficially, and I will not change for you," she then smiled widely. "At least, not for now."
"How can I know how to deal with that if I don't know who you are?"
"Must you deal with it?" She questioned, gesturing to the gardens. "Live, young wizard."
"Life requires that I deal with it, apparently," Harry breathed out. Then he frowned. "You are avoiding calling me by my name."
"I do not know your name," she explained, with a cocked eyebrow, in her ethereal voice. Her eyes were silver again.
"Harry Potter," he told her, confused as to how an all-encompassing entity presumably in his mind would not know his name. She silently stared at him, blinking languidly for many times before speaking more to herself than to him.
"Is that what they call it now?" She mused, then looked at him more focused, though with some lingering curiosity. Her voice sounded mournful, however. "You are all the same, those who come here. They never wish to smell the flowers, always demanding things," Harry tensed a bit to the accusation, but she chuckled, disarming him instead. "Do not worry, you are being unfailingly polite," then she frowned. "Your father was very rude, but he was rather stressed, so it's understandable."
"You knew my father?" Harry asked, excited and curious. He understood Death getting to know him, but not the Red Woman, whatever her authority was.
"I know all men and women from your family," she said matter-of-factly.
"My mum?" He demanded, desperately wanting to know more of Lily. The world remembered the saintly mother well, but not the woman. His father's infamous misdeeds allowed for more of his true personality to survive his demise.
"Only your patrilineal family," she clarified and he sagged slightly, but quickly recovered his posture and looked back at the woman, who looked understanding. Her eyes were golden. "I have known many of your line."
"Only from my family?" Harry asked, confusedly.
"No," she murmured after thinking for a few seconds. "A few others as well," her eyes then turned dark, anger entering them for the first time, their color reminiscent of the black holes he had seen in Death's irises, and Harry felt dread and fear for the first time since his arrival. "But they try to escape me."
"Escape you?" Harry urged cautiously, after the woman's anger did not abate. Luckily for him, she answered evenly, and her frustration was not directed at him.
"They believe they are escaping Death, but it is not him who they escape, it is I," she stated imperiously. "And the arrow of time does not abide by things which choose to linger when they are called to fade away. My call rang differently than all others, but I still went. Your father was called at an inopportune time, but he still went."
"Will my call be different as well?" Harry finally asked, fidgeting under the woman's continuously cold stare. Immediately after he finished the question, her appearance softened and her eyes turned silver-grey again, though the coil of fear in Harry's heart remained tight.
"It should be," she pronounced after another series of long blinks sent his way. He felt his heart sink, not knowing what his future would be in this differently shaped call of the beyond. "But who knows? I do not. I only know the present, and I am still subject to the arrow of time. Just in a different way."
"Why have you come to me now?" Harry asked instead of addressing the point. He was fearful and confused and desperately wanted to know who the woman was. He felt like she was key to understanding something about himself.
"I am here because you have accepted Death," she said lightly.
"You mean... my conversation with Salazar?" Harry questioned in a murmur and a soft frown.
"Indeed," the woman smiled back, seeming vaguely proud. "To fight for your freedom as you live, but to understand that dying as yourself instead of living as someone else is an inherent risk in that fight is very wise. It shows some understanding of the inevitability of the arrow of time but does not bend to it. I was impressed. So I came to visit."
"You talk a lot about the arrow of time," Harry murmured when nothing else came to mind; it was all too daunting to be understood.
"Time is perceived linearly and pierces through everything. It is an apt metaphor for an arrow," the Red Woman then leaned forwards, dispelling her cup of lemonade out of thin air. She spoke softly, with his green eyes. "But it is never perfectly linear. It has ridges, and for some, it may swerve in unexpected ways, in unexpected directions, for unexpected reasons. That is why I tell you to live, young wizard, for you do not know when your call will come."
"Living because I do not know when I'll die?" Harry asked, wanting for confirmation, with sinking dread.
"Who said anything about Death?" The woman smiled amusedly, knowing she was confusing him. "I told you of your call."
Then, she finished her drink, leaned forwards, and touched his forehead. He arrived back in the Room of Requirement, panting and confused.