Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, Fred would be alive.
This story is cross-posted on both Wattpad and ArchiveOfOurOwn under the same username.
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She wished her mind had an off button. Maybe then it would be easier; maybe then it would be almost bearable.
But it didn't. Here, it was just Alora and her mind. Alora and the scarlet-stained stone walls, roughly chipped floor, and the scratched metal frames of a poor attempt at a bed.
She rested with her arms and legs limp, staring up out the window, feet refusing to carry her to the thinly sagged mattress. The biting cold stone underneath her back would have likely made anyone, but her, shiver.
Even something as simple as the bottom was unique to her. Clear as the window's glass was the fact she was there — rock-hard bottom. But the only way out was not up: not when she's trapped under a metal block woven in torment, isolated in a cell where she can't help but be weak. Up was the rare dream, filtered through nightmares. Her hands slipped, and her feet slid: there was no place to securely place them, no stair or ladder to climb — her bottom would last the rest of her life.
Her ocean green eyes dimmed as the last stream of sunlight vanished away from sight. Shadows engulfed her cell once more — maybe she should be grateful that at least the darkness outside her was not ever-present, but she wasn't.
It was in these moments in which it was worst. Waiting for her eyes to adjust to the night, there were few distractions.
She couldn't count the cracks in the wall. Couldn't imagine shapes and figures from the dents on the floor.
This was when her mind liked to remind her she had been abandoned. Betrayed. She remembered that to them, she was just the runner-up to the favourite one — unworthy of growing up with their love.
To Lily and James Potter, she could never be the Chosen twin. She would never be that son they actually raised, the child who grew up on a toy broomstick, awed by pretty lights flying out of wands.
She was instead the sacrifice, the loss — the one who grew up in a neighbourhood lined with identical houses, weeding gardens and washing dishes.
The only magic she had known was the recess bell ringing, eating a warm chocolate pastry before someone else saw it, staying home alone, or even just the occasional fantasy element from a library book. Privet Drive was not a place for nonsense.
All her life, she thought she had been a normal girl. Nothing weird had ever happened around her. She had just been a normal girl who went to a perfectly regular school, lived with a perfectly ideal hard-working husband, housewife, sporty son ... and she was Alora. Just Alora — the well-mannered and appreciative niece.
That impression had shattered nine years ago. It had been a seemingly plain day — a slight summer breeze running through the park, sun shining down on the backs of the children playing within. But of course, the weather hadn't known what would occur. No one did.
This moment had replayed in her head so many times she could copy word for word the conversation she had. It had been nothing special, nothing more than everyday small talk between classmates. It hadn't even been interesting enough to make her shut the book she had open on her lap.
A slight ruckus had come from across the swing-set. Alora's eyes had snapped up, and she had leapt to her feet the moment she saw what had been happening.
She had started out slowly, but as she had watched as the pages were torn out of the young boy's notebook, as a sheet coated in writing was ripped into unrecognizable pieces, she had broken into a run.
Upon reaching the boy, she had stepped in front of him and faced the four older boys. Her voice had come out weaker than she had wanted. Quieter and unsure. She had wished for the boys to back off — he had only been minding his own business.
But the moment she asked for them to leave him alone, a smile with no warmth had spread across their faces. Although no one touched her for fear of Dudley's gang at the elementary school, Smeltings students were far out of reach for them.
Their attention turned from the boy to her, and they approached like lions scouting their prey. The emotions she never showed rose like bile in her throat. She wished to hide: to shrink into an ant and take cover beneath the wood chips, but a different desire overshadowed it. Why couldn't they find something else to do?
Leave him alone. Leave Alora alone...never bother anyone again.
Their hands stretched out, reaching for the book dangling open from her hand. They came closer and closer, squeezing the space between them away. Fingers. Fear. Cruel Smiles. Anger. Outstretched arms, closing in. Outrage.
Something snapped. There was no sound, for it had snapped inside her. Not just her patience, not only her control but something tangible.
She had felt it only for a few moments: sheer power radiating from within. Uncontrollable, untameable, fierce and unforgiving. It had been almost … magical.
Dust had come into her eyes, and she had quickly blinked it away, but then they had widened in disbelief — a wood-chip hurricane swarmed around the park. It ripped apart metal and human flesh alike. She had stood in the eye of the storm, desperate. Wind whipping at her hair and fragments of what had been a playground scratching at her skin were the last things she had felt before succumbing to the dark.
Newspaper clippings had told her the outcome. Crowds whispered and shouted as she had been marched to the prison. Of the eight children found lying on the ground, her chest had been the only one that had continued to rise and fall.
While everyone who heard called her a murderer, while even the Durselys believed she was nothing but a cold-hearted killer, having pretended all those years, she couldn't blame herself. She hadn't known, hadn't had control.
Surrounded by stone, deprived of fresh air and human interaction, she had searched for someone to blame. She had wanted-no, needed, a chance to learn her power. To make sure it didn't lash out again, to show them she wasn't who they thought she was. Once she had built up the courage, she had tried to feel for it again — but it was gone like it had never been, and her head fell into her hands. She had tried to reason.
People didn't just cause hurricanes; people didn't just randomly get and lose power. Something or someone had to be behind this, and she would find out who.
What had started out as curious wonderings turned into hate-filled plans and promises for revenge. Days and nights blurred together while seconds and minutes stretched for miles.
At some point, her already imaginative mind had taken it one giant leap forwards. The answers finally had come to her, in visions, flashes of another world. They were delicately tied in strings — trying to best convey a story, some spaced apart through time, some roped together tightly.
She had even been lucky enough to occasionally catch the hidden dates and calculate the days since she had breathed fresh air. On Day 1095, three years since the incident, her visions had started with a foggy crystal ball and a raspy voice. When her world had been reduced to a cold prison cell, the other world was an escape. It was a world of magic — amazing, fascinating magic, might she add — yes, but it was no fairytale.
A few visions had been relatively neutral or happy: wizengamot meetings, families, friends … but it had mainly been pain, especially after the first few years. Those visions were of war and destruction. A snake-like man with blood-red eyes and an old man with a long silver beard dominated. The one the prophecy spoke about was the only one who could bring about a stop — a happy ending. For her, it was enough to hope, to imagine, what sort of person that saviour of the wizarding world would be like.
Even the shock of the existence of magic hadn't compared to when she first saw her family happily living in the spotlight with just her twin brother.
Never had she been told the reason for her abandonment, the reason why she couldn't have her family, but anything she had guessed to fill the gaps in her knowledge nowhere compared to this — the answer that had come in just two visions.
DAY 1199
Tonight, joy punctuated the regular calm of the village. It was an ongoing battle of a single question: how much candy could a child collect before their lids started to droop? Underneath the cover cast by his hood, he sneered at the filthy muggle traditions and the even filthier children.
Cheerful laughs rang around the village, coming from the children dressed as vampires, ghosts, celebrities, and everything in between. They didn't notice anything out of the ordinary, didn't feel the tender pull of anticipation, and only smiled as he glided down the street.
"Cool costume, sir," an idiotic voice said. Dull blue eyes met lust-filled blood-red, and the child scurried away, likely on pure instinct. His wand hand twitched as he glared into the back of the child's head — but he was on a mission.
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches...
When he finished, perhaps he could indulge, capture a few and celebrate his victory before gifting them to Bella.
Yes, he was sure that Bella would have her fun. Ever since he had begun to fuel the natural desires from her ancestry, that woman had made a formidable follower. Just a little bit more, and her bloodlust would rival her skill — oh, how he had enjoyed tearing apart the Black family. It was likely the only family that could have ever been a threat.
Perhaps it was time to take care of the new Black heir and even finish his Gryffindor father — after he watched the murder of his son, bearing the fact he had failed to protect the one his lover died for...
But all that could wait. This was the night of the event he had known would occur since the start of this year. He picked up his pace. At the end of the street, a pair of slightly older children walked down the steps of a house, leaving a trail of laughter.
He walked up those same steps, ignoring the laughter by basking in the glory that they had little time left to live. There were a few lights on inside as his view through the small window showed. He raised his wand to blast through the door but changed his mind last minute and rang the doorbell with his finger covered in his robe, mindful not to touch what the muggle children had just moments ago.
Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies...
Footsteps sounded, and he stepped to the side, out of the view from the window. The door swung open, and the man inside rummaged around, presumably grabbing some sweets. He had yet to look up — he'd never even consider his dear old Pettigrew betraying him.
"Trick or treat?" James asked, with a tone of … casually revolting kindness. The tips of a few muggle sweets became visible, and his hazel eyes finally turned to him.
"How about … treat?" And he finally said the curse that had been resting at the tip of his tongue all night, "Crucio!" The piercing screams of the Potter idiot tugged his lips, and even more so when a woman's frantic screeching came from inside. He dropped the curse, and right as James was about to let out a warning, Voldemort blasted him back, his head colliding hard, leaving a blood-filled dent in the wooden wall. He stepped through and quickened his pace; he wished to find her before she alerted the pesky Order.
Lucky for him, she was just bounding up the stairs, no doubt running to her children. He fired a lazy red light, and she collapsed halfway up. Stepping over her body, he noted she didn't even carry her wand — his Death Eaters were never caught like this, not his Inner Circle, at least.
And the Dark Lord will mark them as his equal,
The door at the top already stood open, providing a view of the two cribs inside. Voldemort stepped through and gazed at both children. They both soundly slept, oblivious to what had occurred outside the range of the silencing charm. He gripped his wand even harder and leaned over the cribs.
But they will have power the Dark Lord knows not...
Children did not yet have control over their magic, so it took only a powerful wizard to sense it. His magic reached out, feeling each of the children. The boy's magic — Jaxon, per the name on the crib, was actually rather powerful, and he almost decided it was him before he felt the girl.
Her magic was pure like no other, rivalling or even passing the Light fool; equal to his own. There was no doubt in his mind — Alora was the child of the prophecy.
And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...
He blasted the fatal green light, but instead of his long-awaited victory, it met only a shattering scream resonating from his own chest. In the agony of his soul being unnaturally ripped, he thought only one thing: when he came back to continue his terror-run campaign, the Potters would pay.
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies...
DAY 1200
Exhaustion openly reflected on the hard lines of his face. That he could tell from the wary glances, shot from his fellow members when they thought he wasn't looking. They were all aware, but none quite like him — the Order's situation was grim like never before.
There was only one solution: the prophecy. To pin the fate of the world on a child just barely a year old was hardly ideal, but fate had already deemed it so. He didn't believe that any of the children gone into hiding would be able to defeat Tom — but it was true. It was dangerous and something he had to deal with carefully.
The sound of the alarm he had placed on the Potter's wards sliced through the silence in his office, and worry joined exhaustion. He was too late, he thought as he entered the house, seeing James's corpse. But upon further inspection, he found him only knocked out and immediately alerted the Order. Lily was only stunned, but he didn't slow to revive her; he had to get there first.
The room's furniture had been blown to pieces, the wall ripped apart, and moonlight filled every splinter-coated surface. Both children lay unconscious — but alive. A set of familiar robes laid strewn amidst the rubble. This could only mean one thing: Voldemort had attacked but had been temporarily defeated by the child of the prophecy.
Relief bubbled within, but he paid no mind. There was still something left to do. The very thing that had been the cause of countless sleepless nights, long hours of pondering, and lemon drop overdoses. His magic reached out, and he sensed both children. He drew immediately to the girl. The darkest magic, unforgivably so, laced around her like a tight blanket, the remnants of what could only be the Killing curse.
He had made his decision months ago, and so he forced himself to continue without rethinking and doubting himself again. It was all for the Greater Good — he repeated in his head, over and over again, drowning out the thoughts that begged to differ. A spell he had designed himself, completely untraceable, left his throat, and a bright dome-shaped light leapt from his wand and entered the girl. Her magic seeped back inside, and he knew it had worked — and it would continue to work until it loosened the slightest bit just before her eleventh birthday.
A sour taste dominated his mouth, and his limbs felt too heavy to move, his hand impossible to lift. But he pushed through and refocused his wand. He moved to the boy and placed it on his wrist. A much simpler incantation carved a v-shape into his skin, a slow trickle of blood fell, but it could not be healed by any light spell. Even if Voldemort remembered which had been his target, the rest could be easily convinced.
He stepped back and tried to blink away the heat in his eyes, tried to steady the spinning in his head. But it didn't matter what he thought; it didn't matter how wrong he knew it was. He had to.
Hours later, the wizarding world rejoiced, erupting fireworks, excited whispers, and exclamations of gratitude — all but two certain groups. One was the Dark Lord's followers, who were currently bribing, fleeing, or being captured. The other was the Potters and their friends.
While the Potters held Jaxon with the great pride that he had vanquished Lord Voldemort, allowing propaganda to circumvent the news, they grieved in the quiet of their bedroom.
For on that same night, Alora Potter had been made squib, and after a long discussion with their trusted leader Dumbledore, they had sent her to live with Lily's sister Petunia — the worst sort of muggles, as McGonagall put it.
For the promise of safety for the dearly loved girl and her famous twin brother, they sacrificed her knowledge of her family and the magical world. They could only hope they hadn't taken her happiness too.
Blood rushed in her ears like background noise, and she was only barely aware of the sting from where her fingernails dug into her skin.
Dumbledore and Voldemort.
The one who locked her magic — later entirely destroying it, when it proved a failure and the one who murdered countless.
Dumbledore and Voldemort.
The one who wished her squib and the one who wished her dead.
Dumbledore and Voldemort.
The more she chanted those words, the more the words seemed to twist in her mind until she was chanting Justice and Revenge. The iron-barred door paid no regard, and time continued to slither by, visions swelling every year.
Her Gryffindor brother sailed through his Hogwarts years, littered with foolish adventures with the help of a lanky redhead and a bushy-haired girl.
But Barty Crouch was one cunning man, and the Tournament ended with Jaxon's hand grasping the cup, victory gleaming in its wake … till He rose again and the green light hit — it appeared her twin was enemy enough for Him — Day 2555.
War crawled in every corner, ate away at the flickering lights — and the year Jaxon would have graduated, Day 3600, it came thundering down, destroyed the one place considered safe, and wrenched the life of the only one He ever feared.
And the war continued to pound even in the world she grew up in — muggles and mudbloods all dead …
So on Day 3650, when a blood-thirsty crackle filled her ears, she knew she was listening to war again — this time in her own prison cell. Crashing stone and rocks drowned it out, and the last thing her ocean-green eyes saw was a puff of black smoke shooting into the sky.
She had lived through just seventeen summers, only eight of those underneath the sun — this was the only way out for her — she was freed only when her chest ceased its rhythmic movement like the seven heartbeats she had stolen on Day 1.