"In the dark, her madness shines like moonlight."
Unknown
-Book I-
Hadrian James Potter was inherently good, it was a known fact.
The sun rises in the east, sets in the west, and Harry Potter would do the good thing, the decent thing, the thing he believed to be right, no matter the cost to himself. It didn't matter what he lost along the way, who he lost along the way, or what horrors he was forced to endure. Neglect and abuse at the hands of his hateful Muggle relatives, slander and lies spread without consideration for what he had to say, supposedly trustworthy mentors who said one thing and did another...family, out of reach, lost to the veil of whispers and death.
It did not matter, did not change a thing.
He would sacrifice his childhood, his adolescence, his very life in which he lived, loved and breathed, if it meant putting an end to the darkness that had fallen upon Wizarding Britain under way of Lord Voldemort's reign.
And Persephone Hyacinthe Potter hated him for it.
While he lay crumpled at her feet, his head pillowed in her lap upon bloodstained jeans, his hair a tangled and sweaty mess, his face covered in ash and grime, a thin trail of blood leaking from the distinctive lightning bolt that had been carved into his forehead nearly seventeen years before; she hated him for that inherent goodness, the inability to sacrifice that trait for himself, for her.
Fingers running through sweaty locks of raven hued strands, she cursed her brother for leaving her alone in a world that had rarely been kind to them, him more than her. The girl's heart shattered when his fingers, caught in her unyielding grip —even now, her knuckles were white, a stark contrast to the ash, dirt, and crimson stains upon her hands— had begun to weaken, though the gentle smile on her face never lessened. Did not falter. Did not fail. Blood, his and hers combined, dripped from their clasped hands as he bequeathed her all he had, material and magick alike, before he let go of the mortal plane. His whispers of his love, of reassurance, of a woman with crimson hair and green eyes, a regal stag and a rambunctious dog, echoed long after through her ears in that silent courtyard as Harry Potter, her best friend, her twin brother, slipped through her fingers and out of her reach, taken by that same veil of whispers and shadows that had robbed them of all those that they loved —that loved them— and left her behind. Alone.
Still, her smile did not falter.
With her body bowed in a position that she had long since gone numb to, her forehead pressed to her brother's -a bloody lightning bolt imprinted in an upside down formation upon her pale skin- and her fingers still tangled within his own limp grip, she did not cease to smile.
Persephone laughed.
The witch laughed...and it was a horrifying sound.
Brittle and broken, choked off, as if a phantom hand was wrapped in a vice grip around her throat. Surprisingly loud, it crackled throughout the silent courtyard like a whip flicking out and snapping upon the wind. She laughed until she could hardly breathe, the tightness in her chest overwhelming, a squeezing pressure that made the sound seem strangled. She laughed until the taste of iron spread across her tongue, her throat raw. She laughed until the sound turned desperate, borderline hysterical, until what was once haunting laughter transformed into heart-wrenching, blood-chilling cries. Persephone burrowed into the cooling body that lay haphazardly across her lap in stasis, her brother's blood seeping into her clothes and smearing across her pale skin, soaking into the ends of her snow-colored locks.
Oh gods, please. Please. Don't leave me here, don't leave me behind, Harry! Please, gods, Salazar and Godric both, do not go without me. Cradle to grave, you promised! Please. Please, please, please…
Her heart screamed the words, her grief settling into the very marrow of her bones, yet they did not part from dry and cracked lips, splotched with the dulling crimson as she pressed kisses to the cold, clammy skin of her brother's forehead. Only sound escaped her, likened by some in the crowd to a banshee's heralding wail for Death, ominous and chilling, sending ripples of dread down their spines.
When the hand clamped down on her shoulder, too tightly for comfort, she hardly gave her reaction a single thought.
It was instinctive, the way her hand snapped out, the way her fingers wrapped around the cool, smooth wood of the wand, the reassuring warmth that spread across her skin as her magick writhed, waiting anxiously to be put to use. She did not question the surge of power that would have been considered unusual, tossing it aside as a result of battlefield adrenaline. She did not question the heat rippling up her arm in winding, whirling patterns; nor did she question the gasp that fell from onlookers lips as her eyes glowed, not unlike the eerie and pulsing green that had taken more than one life.'
Persephone struck, quick and sure, the glowing tip of the wand in her hand jabbed directly beneath the chin of the one that had touched her, a sharp curse already forming on her lips.
Startled, golden brown eyes peered back at her in horrified shock.
Hermione Granger's hands had lifted into the air, a position of supplication and surrender both, cracked lips pressed together in a tight line that hardly resembled the unthreatening smile she was trying to portray. She swallowed heavily, the dip and curve of her throat pressing against the still glowing tip of a wand, a pulsating, angry crimson color that shimmered in the smoky air. Battered and bruised, an exhausted Ronald Weasley had gone rigid just behind the curly-haired girl's right shoulder, fingers wrapped tightly around the wood of a borrowed wand. Blue eyes narrowed and alert, lacking the exhaustion he had previously displayed, he watched as Persephone refused to lower the wand, despite the thin rivulet of blood seeping from a sliver of split skin beneath the muggleborn's chin.
One eyebrow arched, her wand arm steady, she waited.
The brunette opened her mouth and words slipped out, but none of them registered within the snowy-haired witch's mind. They didn't make sense, didn't form themselves into a cohesive unit that could be deciphered cognitively. She stared, blankly, the glowing green of her eyes causing her friend to fidget in discomfort.
Take the body...take the body?
As if somehow, he was no longer Harry Potter? No longer The-Boy-Who-Lived turned The-Man-Who-Conquered and was simply a body. Just a body, no name, no hint of familiarity.
Revulsion turned Persephone's stomach as she peered up at her now once-upon-a-time friend; the girl who had poured over book upon book with her after Draco gifted her the Malfoy Family Library for safe keeping, after she had safe-guarded the Black Family Library from the sticky fingers of those who thought they could take what wasn't their due, after the Potter Family Library had been rescued from the dust and gloom of the neglected estate. The girl she had encouraged, the girl she had comforted, the girl she had debated magickal theory with, had baked cookies with during Christmas breaks.
The body...the body.
Hermione was still talking.
"No."
It was that simple, really. Despair and disgust roiled in her stomach, bubbling angrily as she looked around at those who were celebrating, ignoring the fact that the boy, no the man - the man who had given everything since he was a mere child- lay dying at their feet. There would be no moving of the body by anyone except for her. And on some level, she knew that she had already known that. Had already made the decision to end all decisions.
They would not take Harry away from her, ever again.
The Potter children had already given quite enough.
Persephone ignored the indignance that began to spread across the bushy-haired girl's face, the red flush creeping into and mottling soot-stained skin. They didn't know about the necklace, and there was a reason for that. One exactly like this.
One she had known the moment she had placed it around her neck.
A failsafe.
An insurance policy.
A hope for something different, something better.
Someday. One day.
With the wand in her hand, the small drawstring bag still tied off at her hip that held her entire world, and her brother's hand clasped firmly in hers -the grip hadn't broken, she hadn't let go, refused to, would not be without him- she reached up with a bloodstained hand to grab the pulsing Black Family heirloom at her throat, her magick sensing the threat she felt. The crimson fluid seeped into the purple stone, a dim glow intensifying as she tightened her hand, the edges of the stone cutting into her skin and leeching more of her lifeblood within.
Her lips had just enough time to curve into a wicked, deadly smirk before she blinked out of existence, taking all she touched with her...including the body of her brother.
And Hermione Granger felt a terrible foreboding ripple down her spine, like Death's whisper against bare skin.