Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Harry Potter.
A/N: A very special shout-out to deitarionSSokolow for the wonderful pieces of advice and criticisms I have received on my writing.
P.S. This is to any writers out there which are reading this: my writing speed has slowed down significantly and I have no clue why (I always know what I'm going to write next, but for some reason it's just as if my fingers are now covered in sticky honey). Any tips or pieces of advice on that particular issue is very much welcome!
That all being said, I hope you enjoy what's to come!
Chapter 24
"I could literally spend my entire life here," a young girl loudly announced to no one in particular, absolute in her assertion as she finished reading through her fifth book of the day, its gilded cover housing fragile old pages that threatened to crumble like delicate snowflakes under the touch of her hand.
The Potter Library was indeed as magnificent as young Ariana had imagined so many times, its Victorian-esque appearance – far from austere Georgian and homespun Edwardian vogues – was almost a microcosm of its time.
Orderliness and ornamentation were the hallmarks that defined this grand room. Intricately carved mahogany, pine and oak were the foundations that the books themselves sat on, thousands upon thousands stacked neatly in rows, all orderly arranged and aligned back-to-back where the insides could not be judged by their covers.
The brightly lit room lay in constant illumination from a multitude of ever-burning candles that waltzed lazily in the air, their gentle but firm glow ensuring that diseases like mildew and its ilk would not cast their afflictions upon the seemingly countless works of research and literature.
Ariana eagerly grabbed another dust-lined book from a stacked pile beside her and pushed the previous one aside, its knowledge already safely stored in her brain as she easily conquered a master-level journal that attempted to describe how the protean nature of magic broke down one of the four fundamental forces in nature – electricity.
This phenomenon is perhaps the main reason why the wizarding world would be forever trapped in the Dark Ages, a world before the great minds such as Michael Faraday and James Clerk Maxwell would come along and forever define electromagnetism to create the entire basis for the modern world which Muggles now live in.
It seemed almost unbelievable to Ariana that this very room housed the product of a lifetime of research and ground-breaking discoveries across hundreds of cultures and generations, accrued from thousands of years of ideas that all started in the mind's eye and finished lovingly on a piece of paper.
As the whiff of old parchment filled her sense of smell, a musty essence that breathed forth a near palpable effusion of diligence, wisdom and creativity, she gave a quiet laugh.
Why am I getting so emotional over books?
Shaking her head in bemusement, she flipped open the next waiting book and was not at all phased in the slightest when she was greeted a large garbled text that vaguely resembled ancient Sanskrit, a lingua franca that once spanned across the entirety of ancient Asia. Tapping the inside of the tome lightly with her wand, the letters slowly rearranged themselves before her eyes into someone something more readable.
"I guess it wants me to read it in Latin," she murmured after realizing the words refused to translate after a certain point, glad that she was a half-accomplished polyglot.
"Let's see… in English, the title Flammis Acribus Addictis would roughly translate to… Consigned to the Flames of Woe."
She paused before the side of her lips quirked upwards in amusement from the peculiar title, "Not ominous at all," she murmured sarcastically as she skipped ahead to read the first chapter.
Dear friend or foe, if you are reading this, it means that I am dead, and in due time – you shall be as well.
"A cursed book?" Ariana gasped in slight panic as she pushed the tome back hurriedly and gave it a critical look with her unique eyes. After seeing no strands of dark magic or sorcery discharge from fibres after a pregnant second, she leaned forward hesitantly to continue reading, her burning curiosities only heightened from the dramatic start.
Before you obliterate this journal in an irrational fear of the unknown, I was merely referring to the natural expiry of your lifeforce, nary the curses that often befoul books of antiquity.
"You could have mentioned that beforehand," Ariana huffed in annoyance as she settled back down comfortably into her chair.
With that premise, I shall now pose a succinct question that would turn many an erudite away in disinterest after its utterance.
Do you believe in Fate?
The young girl reading the book threw her head back and laughed loudly – a pleasant sound that covered a spectrum of emotions – before calming herself down and turning back to the book, her attention now doubled.
If you have made it this far, it means you are a Thinker, a person capable of widening the door of their mind to pursue a branch of thought that seeks to transcend and explore the physical limits of mankind. Where a person sees boundaries, you instead see opportunities; where a person sees probabilities, you instead see possibilities.
Since the dawn of proper Thinking, ancient philosophers have long posited the existence of a Fire in the world beyond, once which never dies, forever burning. Resting in a place where waters howl and hiss, boiling in endless wrath as screams of restless ecstasy and sonnets of unending agony echo in the lowest depths of its abode.
If so, is it possible for us mortals to reach its bowels and return whole, with our skin of our back intact, and the bone of our teeth attached?
In the beginning, I stated that I was dead. In absolute truth, that may not be the case, as I, Herpo the Foul, will soon take my own life in a dangerous experiment that would gamble upon the very whims of Fate itself. This journal describes my voyage into the unknown, my endeavours to create an object – the first of its kind perhaps – to shake the very foundations of this world.
This entity, I will christen a Horcrux.
Ariana's eyes widened comically, staring at the open book as if it had suddenly produced a Hippogriff from its page, her eyes and mouth frozen wide open in an expression of extreme shock.
"…what?" she finally gasped, her eyes refusing to tear themselves away from the pages as she continued reading against her will.
Orators of high standing from all over the world often purport that Man is born equal – a fallacious and poisonous adage birthed from the womb of Man's hubris. In truth, we are all only equal in death.
Relinquishing ourselves from this mortal coil are of importance to none other than ourselves. The black plumes will be stripped off our hearses; tears will dry; hurt hearts will close again; our graves will grow level with the church-yard, and although we are away, the world carries on. It does not miss us; and those who are near us, when the first strangeness of vacancy wears off, will not miss us much either. For when the bell tolls for the last time and chants its doleful hymn, guiding your soul and body to an everlasting rest, only then, is Man equal.
Yet, in the face of all these dogmatic claims the world has coughed up and spat at me, I choose to defy them.
My candle burns at both ends into the night as I write this journal, for my quest for immortality begins at the crack of dawn; the cry of a rooster my herald; the morning sun my coat-of-arms.
Now, before we formally begin, I shall unbosom a spell that is often used as a precursor to the majority of my rituals – the Blood-Draining Curse. I shall use a live example as to demonstrate its effects as of this writing for additional clarity. Now, follow my instructions carefully step-by-step.
First, take a healthy three-year-old by the ankle and…
James stomped purposefully up a flight of grandiose marble steps, ascending story after story towards a certain location in his mansion, a place where one of his guests had been holed up and tucked away for the past few days without care or concern for anything else.
Enough was enough, it was time for a much-needed change.
"Miss Peverell, could you kindly save all this madness for when we get back to school," he called out loudly after flinging open the doors to the esteemed Potter Library, making sure his voice reached the far corners of the long room, "It's about time you got some fresh air."
The said girl was quietly occupying a rather sturdy-looking table as columns of books upon books surrounded her seated figure, almost blocking her from his view. She did not even register the presence of another person as she, unbeknownst to him, was morbidly ensorcelled by a grisly odyssey of flesh and bone, told fastidiously through the humble usage of parchment and ink.
James shook his head in exasperation when he noticed that his young charge – still lost in her own world – did not react from his voice. Marching over, his footsteps echoing louder with each passing step, only then caused Ariana to look up from the approaching sequence of sounds.
With a panicked squeak, she quickly closed the book in front of her with a loud thud and shoved it under a pile of worn parchment that that lay next to her in what seemed like extreme agitation before he could get a chance to get a good look at what she was reading.
An all-knowing smirk grew on James' face from the suspicious action, the scene all-too familiar to him. In a dorm with such a large number of adolescent and maturing teenage boys, it was only a matter of time before one stumbled across their schoolmate in the middle of it.
"Well, well, well, which one was it? Witches Weekly Extreme Edition – Volume 8?" James teased when he finally within talking distance.
A wistful smile took over his face as his voice then filled with shameless nostalgia, "You know, I used to have to have the entire collection until Remus-"
His eyes suddenly widened as he clamped his mouth shut mid-sentence, remembering just who he was talking to. He felt his face heat up in embracement as he gave an awkward cough, mortified at what he had just uttered without thinking.
Daring to look at her, he was all but greeted with a blank look that held large, questioning eyes. He gave a large sigh of internal relief as he mistook her disorientation for innocence, and thanked Merlin that he had saved himself from explaining a particularly sensitive topic, one especially for a growing girl.
"A-As I was saying, today's weather perfect for Quidditch," he recovered smoothly, acting as if his previous event never happened, "Sirius is all geared up and ready to go… you in?"
Now, this got a response. The light that made their way into Ariana's green eyes could only be described as longing, an unfulfillable longing that presented themselves to him with two glowing irises, a captivating sight from which he struggled to tear his vision away from.
Without her even replying, he knew she was game. With a beckoning toss of his head, he wrenched his eyes away from hers and whirled on the spot, making for the door, "Let's get changed first," he called over his shoulder, "I still have my old sports outfit for you if you need one. It can magically shrink to your size so don't fret about fitting issues."
The muffled pitter-patter of socked feet quickly caught up with a languid gait that was purposefully slowed so she could catch up. Noticing that she was still acting oddly – well, odder than usual – from the erratic movements and nervous side-glances, he gave an educated guess as to what she was still thinking about.
"Your books won't go anywhere," he pointed out reassuringly as they walked down the stairs, "You have my word on it."
That seemed to do the trick, as Ariana's tensed body unconsciously relaxed from the sound of his mellow voice. She still remained silent however, only until they reached within a few feet of Sirius' guest room.
"How many Snitches do you have?" she asked out of the blue as she looked up at him, all traces of her previous mood absent.
"A rather healthy amount," James replied after a short pause before he gave a suspicious look, "Why, what gives?"
"Just bring as many as you to the pitch, I've got something special in mind."
They then barged into the room and was promptly greeted with a rather spirited Sirius – donned with a rather bizarre red and gold tartan outfit – that jumped from up from a bed that he was previously lounging in.
"Hey folks, I just realized the Quidditch World Cup is just around the corner, any bets on who will win this year?" he started excitedly, giving James a subtle and approving nod for being able to finally drag their third member out of her hidey-hole.
"Puddlemere United, without a shadow of a doubt," James instantly replied, radiating confidence, "Their new chasers will certainly make clean sweeps of the rest of the teams," he paused before a cheeky smile sprouted on his face, "If you pardon the pun."
Sirius gave a pained groan, "Seriously, Prongs? This is the fifth time this month you've referenced the new broomsticks that they'll be using."
"The Kenmare Kestrels," a voice suddenly blurted out, interrupting the chattering duo, "They'll win against Puddlemere United one-hundred-and-sixty to ninety in the Grand Finals."
Sirius turned towards the source of the voice, "I can't believe you're supporting the Kestrels," he spluttered incredulously, "Kid, they haven't won a single tournament in five whole seasons."
"Yes, well…"
James broke away from the conversation and narrowed his eyes at the chattering young girl, opting to stay silent while quietly scrutinizing her as she argued with Sirius over which team would win.
There it is again. He thought, mentally filling away this moment in his mind.
Biding his time, he waited patiently for a lull in the conversation. Noticing an opportunity soon arise, he immediately decided on his course of action.
It's now or never.
"Ariana," he started softly to attract her attention, "When you said the Kestrels will win, everything about your manner stated it as if it were an absolute fact… not just mere speculation."
Ariana froze for a millisecond before laughing lightly, "Don't be silly, James. It's not like someone could see the future, right?"
"Seers can," James replied slowly, deeply enunciating the two words.
Ariana put her hands on her hips, tilting her head sideways as she struck a pose, "Do I look like a Seer to you?" she asked seriously, the action causing a swath of silky black on hair to fall to her side, its soft lustre tempting James to reach out with one hand and run his fingers through it.
Ever since they had met, James had always this nagging feeling that something wasn't quite right. So many things regarding her simply did not add up in his highly perceptive mind. The way she spoke; the way she looked at people, at things; the way she would often stare blissfully out the window as if to escape this world and reside in another, were only a few items on the list that were driving him crazy. She truly was a riddle wrapped in a mystery wrapped inside an enigma.
He exhaled softly as he ran a hand over his face.
Why does this even matter?
"Nope, you definitely don't look like a Seer," he finally replied to the waiting girl, a half-smile lifting up the right side of his face.
He all of a sudden remembered the original reason why he had come to this room and pivoted on the spot, marching over purposefully towards a dusk-blue wardrobe, flinging open its doors to reveal its sartorial contents. After much rummaging, he finally pulled out a large jumbled of pile of fabric and turned back to the young witch.
"Here, catch."
Ariana's arms flailed wildly as a large bundled object was lobbed in her general direction. Upon catching it, she calmed down immediately however, as she soon realized that the material was extremely soft against her palms. Her face then morphed into a look of satisfaction when the fabric started shrinking down to nearly half its size, the magic interlaced within the threads activating the moment it contacted with her bare skin.
She shook the gear vigorously to smoothen out the obvious wrinkles before looking up in slight confusion at the two teenage boys with a question at the tip of her tongue.
"Do we really need to wear protective gear?" she asked quizzically, not recalling a single time when she needed to don special attires while she was riding on broomsticks at the Burrow, "Why can't we play Quidditch in our normal clothes?"
James and Sirius looked at each other for a split second before a matching pair of mad grins stretched across their faces, their arms slinging themselves of each other's shoulders as they turned back to her.
"Oh, trust us… you'll need it," they both chorused mysteriously in unison, causing Ariana to suppress a giggle at the bizarre display.
James then detached from Sirius and gave an authoritative thump of his fist onto a nearby desk, "Enough talking folks, let's get changed and get this party started," he exclaimed excitedly, eager to test out some new aerial manoeuvres he had stumbled across in a recent magazine to explode in popularity, Quidditch Quarterly.
All seemed normal when he bent down and tugged out his own set of Quidditch gear from underneath Sirius' bed before starting to pull his loose grey shirt over his head in the act of changing. Halfway in the motions, he suddenly heard Sirius give a loud yelp of panic through the translucency of his shirt, causing his heart to speed up as he struggled to get yank the ever-constricting fabric past his neck.
"What's wrong?" he cried out with a muffled voice, a strange of sense overprotectiveness rearing up within him.
When he finally got the offending article through his head and off his body, he then saw what had startled Sirius so much.
He gave a weary sigh, feeling some energy drain away from his muscles as he gazed upon a scene that associated itself with him far too often that he had liked.
There she was again, caught like a deer in the headlights.
"Blimey, Ariana… what is it you think you are doing?" Sirius spluttered, quickly turning his startled face away from her.
Ariana blinked a couple of times owlishly, stunned from the loud outburst, "Err… changing?" she answered in confusion, her shirt already off and hung over a chair.
James pinched the top of his brow ridge and squeezed his eyes shut in exasperation, "Ana, please think, what have I told you time and time again about this sort of thing?" he intoned.
Ariana only looked more bewildered as her eyebrows knitted together, "But it's only you guys. What's wrong?"
"Ariana, listen," Sirius started, "I don't know exactly what you mean by that, but girls and boys have bodies that are quite… different when growing up," he continued, his face starting to redden in embarrassment as his tongue refused to say more.
"Of course, I know that," Ariana replied slowly, looking at Sirius as if his head had just sprouted feathers, "B-but it's just you guys."
Something then dawned in Ariana's eyes as she suddenly raised her hands in a placating manner, "Oh – yeah, fine… I understand. I'll get dressed in the other room."
"So, I don't want to change with girls… and I can't change with guys," she grumbled to herself, not realizing that she was still within hearing distance.
James heard her give a large sigh as she picked up her apparel and made for the door, faintly uttering one final line before she slipped completely through the doorway.
"Where do I belong then?"
Sirius leaned over to James after she was gone and started talking in a low tone.
"Prongs, mate. She needs to be sorted out before we get back to Hogwarts," he murmured, "Imagine what the lads in second-year will try to do with a lamb like that."
"Over my bloody corpse they'll try anything," James growled.
Sirius was about to make a sarcastic quip but stopped halfway as he realized he strangely felt the same way as well, "How very curious," he muttered under his breath, wondering just what was it that drew him to protect this girl so much.
James' eyes then lit up from an epiphany and he whirled to face his close friend, "I know – I'll ask Mum for help," he announced confidently, realizing that there could be no one more perfect for the job.
Sirius clapped a hand on his friend's back approvingly, glad that the burden would be shifted to a more apposite individual for the task.
"Brilliant as always Prongs, absolutely brilliant."
"…you're telling me my boy hasn't won a single round of Quidditch today?"
Dorea gave an unfeminine snort of laughter despite a stream of protests as a bright-eyed young girl finished regaling her a rather entertaining string of escapades, ones which had recently occurred over the past couple of hours.
"Mum, what the heck," James whined loudly, "You're supposed to be on my side."
A wood-fire blazed cheerily in an ample fireplace, its glowing, bright golden flame sending its warmth and light far out into the room while a red base shimmered across the wood like a dawn upon a summer morning. The hearth certainly looked inviting, its recess housing a dancing fire that licked and spit at the curved ceiling of its stony confinements and burning logs that slowly cemented their residue into the crevices of auburn bricks.
The musical accompaniment of glasses clinking, cutleries grinding, mirthful tittering, relaxed sighs, and occasional rumbles of satisfaction, all harmoniously blended together to signify the occurrence of a rather cosy dinner in heart of Godric's Hollow.
"…and how many times was it again that you snatched the snitch right from his face, dear?"
"Eight times in a row," Ariana proudly announced as she grinned unapologetically at the said teenager, glad that her skill of riding a broomstick had not dulled much from lack of practice.
James gave a pout as he put down his fork and crossed his arms, "It was still two-versus-one," he sulkily muttered in a show of mock offense, opting not to reveal the fact that he had subtly downplayed his abilities.
Sirius reached forward gave him a pitying pat on his shoulder, "It's alright mate, not all of us can be winners," his voice full of dramatic sympathy, eliciting a roar of laughter from Charlus.
The conversation naturally carried itself on before the it settled back down into quiescence, leaving only the basal enjoyment of warm, homemade food that took the form of shepherd's pie. Lady Potter, despite being born with a silver spoon in her mouth from the Black household, was a rather accomplished chef when she wanted to be.
As dinner was on the verge of ending, Dorea suddenly turned towards her son as something leapt to the top of her mind.
"James, before you forget, your birthday celebration will span for a duration of two days in our Summer Mansion," she reminded firmly, "Starting a week from now."
The addressed teenager gave a loud gasp as he put his hands on the sides of his head, "I had completely forgotten about that," he moaned loudly in realization, already shifting plans around in his head for the summer holidays.
Charlus raised a bushy eyebrow, "Son, did you just invite Mr Black and Miss Peverell here without informing them of the special occasion?"
James adopted a guilty look, "Possibly… maybe… perhaps? I mean, there's no real need for this big event is there?" he said desperately, "Aren't I too old for birthday parties?"
"The invitations have gone out," Dorea instantly replied, carrying a firm tone that booked no rebuttals, "You're turning eighteen. We still follow the traditional Pure-blood customs."
James lowered his eyes as he realized that this argument against his mother was unwinnable, her rigid views of Pure-blood social gatherings – ingrained from her upbringing in the Black family – were overriding her every other thought.
"Yes, Mother," he acquiesced with a defeated sigh.
Ariana suddenly felt a chill run down her spine after James had finished talking. She shuffled nervously and looked around for the source of her discomfort. She then felt a gaze settle upon her, unnerving her, as she had sometimes sensed it a couple of times directed towards her, the one most prominent memory was when Madam Malkin laid eyes upon her the first time she entered her clothing shop.
It was from Lady Potter.
"Sweetheart," Dorea started with an innocent smile, looking straight at her, "Do you have your formal garments with you?"
"Formal… garments?"
"Yes, you know – your dresses, gowns and other sundries."
"Dresses?" Ariana squeaked in a high-pitched voice.
She was right of this moment clad in a simple combination of a pair of jeans and shirt. It was all she wore really. Apart from the time when she had just arrived and had absolutely no choice in wearing one of the spare sundresses that were lying around in one of Madam Pomfrey's cupboards, she felt absolutely unwilling otherwise getting into one again. The Hogwarts's female uniform barely counted, as its snug and modest outfit showed nothing and felt strikingly similar to the boy's one.
"Sorry, I don't have any dresses or gowns," she confessed, nervous as to where this conversation would take her.
Dorea's eyebrows furrowed as she squinted her eyes to inspect the girl beside her, "What about your basic accessories?"
Ariana shuffled nervously, "Err… basic accessories?"
"Yeah, make-up, earrings, and so forth."
"S-Sorry," Ariana hesitatingly repeated after a slight pause, "I don't have any of those as well."
Dorea Potter née Black, a highly gregarious woman by nature, raised upon the pillars of social interactions and ever-shifting public images, was flabbergasted. She quickly collected herself however, wondering if the young witch opposite her had lost her possessions somehow or was suffering through a financial crisis.
"Don't fret, dear," she reassured kindly, "I have many spare attires and kits that I'm sure would be to your liking to use for James' party."
Ariana widened her eyes slightly as the realized what her grandmother's intention was.
No. Way. I am not getting into a dress again.
"Thank you for your kindness," she replied with as much courtesy as she could muster, a polite smile gracing her face, "But I wouldn't want to impose."
Charlus waved a dismissive hand in the air, "Nonsense, Miss Peverell," he boomed with authority, his moustache wobbling as he spoke, "You are welcome to wear any apparel in this household you deem acceptable."
Ariana squirmed on the inside but kept a straight face, knowing that there was no way out of this one from the strangely eager looks on everyone's faces, "With my magic as a witness, your goodwill will not be forgotten," she said with a bowed head, remembering an old Pure-blood custom she had once read about in a rather dusty-looking book.
Charlus' voice took on a more mellow tone, "Come now, there's no need to be so formal Miss Peverell, we are family after all."
Ariana's blood froze in her veins as she jerked her head up, a small bubble of fear coursing through her veins as her heart began to start hammering. Her emotions did not show on her facial muscles or skin as her hands clasped themselves tightly together underneath the table before forcing herself to speak.
"F-Family?" she managed to choke out.
Charlus gave a nod, "Extremely loosely, of course. Your ancestor, Iolanthe Peverell, married into the Potter bloodline many of centuries ago," he grinned cheekily, his words causing the young witch to instantly breathe an internal sigh of relief from the misinterpretation.
"If you want to go back that far," Sirius energetically cut in, "Aren't the vast majority of Pure-bloods related then?"
"Well, yes," Charlus coughed, his face colouring slightly, "There is certainly quite a lot of… selective breeding when it comes to maintaining the pedigree of patricians in the wizarding community."
Sirius' scrunched up his face as if he had bitten straight into a sour lemon, "I had almost forgotten about the inbreeding," he grunted before giving dramatic shudder, "Thank Merlin that I'm no longer part of the Black family. Almost everyone I knew were somehow related – although cousin Bellatrix was lucky enough to get married outside of the family to a Lestrange."
Dorea mimicked the same action that Sirius had just displayed in response, her distorted visage marring her beautiful features, "Bellatrix," she grimaced, spitting that word out as if ash was coating her tongue, "That hellhound is still alive and kicking then?"
Sirius rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a few seconds, "I'm not too sure," he said slowly after the slight pause, "I've heard next to nothing about her in the past year."
Ariana visibly blanched and immediately turned her vision downward, causing silky black hair to tumble down and hide her face from view. Her eyes then glazed over as she tried her hardest to push back unwanted memories that threatened to rise to the surface of her mind from the utterance of the eldest of the Black sisters.
A healthy minute passed before a voice called out to her, interrupting her internal struggle as well as causing her to jump slightly.
"Pardon me for asking young lady, but how old did you say you were again?"
Ariana lifted her head and looked blankly at the speaker, temporarily not recognizing the one addressing her as her mind hastily struggled to push all her negative thoughts to one side.
"I'm…" Ariana started to say, but snapped her mouth mid-sentence as she realized something.
Does my old date of birth apply to my female self? When even is my birthday? Was it when I was conceived right after hurtling through space and time and shoehorned into this unfamiliar body? Or am I…
"…twelve?" she finished faintly, her lilting voice morphing into more of a questioning tone as the word rolled across her tongue.
Sirius was the first to respond to the odd reply. "Don't worry kid," he grinned confidently as he gave her two thumbs up, "Peter also struggled with remembering the calendar right up to his second-year – before Remus couldn't take it any longer of course, and thoroughly pounded it into his head one fine afternoon."
Dorea shook her head in exasperation as she marvelled as Sirius' ability to be ever so encouraging yet discouraging at the same time. She then decided to take over the reins as she turned towards a young girl that had a highly bemused expression glued to her face.
"Dear, when's your birthday?"
There was a pause.
"I… I'm not sure."
Dorea gave a quiet hum, wondering what in Merlin's name was meant by that before trying anther route, "How did you celebrate your birthdays at home?" she followed up with a motherly tone, "Surely, you had cakes, decorations and presents."
Ariana clenched her teeth in anger as sudden and unwanted images of the Dursleys perfused and clouded her senses. Her very first instinct was to flat out lie to the concerned face that was talking to her. However, even though she was struggling with all her might, she simply couldn't bring herself to lie to the precious people sitting around her.
"There were never any celebrations," she said in a small voice, her shoulders now slumped and her eyes now downcast.
"Goodness me, no celebrations?" Dorea replied in astonishment, drawing back with slight surprise. A confident look then took over her face, "Ah – your family must have been following the Hellenistic Pure-blood way to celebrate events then," she continued, "It's a rather outdated practice I'll admit, but I know of some ancient families which still abide by it."
The light in Ariana's green orbs slowly faded out of existence, leaving behind a blank gaze that held large glassy eyes which swam in their sockets, the spark of life, extinguished. If one could peer deep enough into her irises, a multitude of miserable memories could be seen flashing past those eyes in an instant.
"There were never any celebrations," she repeated in a dead voice.
Dorea opened her mouth to reply but snapped her mouth shut at the last second, her pupils dilating and her throat seizing up and she finally realized what the expressionless young witch was trying to tell her.
"Oh, sweetheart," she cried out loudly as she got up from her seat and rushed over to the other side of the table to give the limp witch a tight hug.
James sat in silence, witnessing the scene as he leaned over to his father discreetly, "Mum never acts like this," he whispered in slight confusion, not fully understanding what was happening, "What's up with her recently?"
"Well…" Charlus whispered back hesitantly, as if reluctant to finish his sentence, "Your mother had always fond of the idea of having a daughter…"
"Blimey Dad," James gasped softly in a faux hurt tone, dramatically putting one hand on his heart, "Laying it on a little thick, aren't you?"
Charlus gave a low chuckle at the antics of his only and irreplaceable son before his voice lost all traces of humour, "All we can do now is offer our support in the tragic case that is Miss Peverell," he murmured, "She gazes fearlessly into the abyss, but knows not of the horrors which lie beyond. Her pure heart is the only thing which sustains her, a single light… shining alone in the darkness."
"Verbatim from your eccentric Headmaster, of course," he added, seeing his son's face twist with bewilderment at the odd choice of words.
Their low conversation was then interrupted down the line as Lady Potter cleared her throat loudly to garner the attention of the room, "Excuse us gentlemen, but Miss Peverell wishes to retire to her room," she announced, her hands lightly resting on the shoulders of the said girl, "I trust that you boys can clear up after yourselves whilst I escort her to her room."
A wave of earnest nods that circulated around the table lifted her heart as she then gently steered the adolescent witch off her chair and out of the dining room, closing the door behind her after exiting.
Sirius was the first one to speak up.
"From the bits and bobs of what I overheard, it sounds like she had a particularly rough upbringing," he revealed, a worried look then crossing his face, "But why the heir of such an ancient family be treated like that?"
"I suppose that would explain why her behaviour is often so… unique," James put forward, carrying a voice that was not unkindly.
Charlus gave a fully-body stretch as he got up from his chair, patting his belly contentedly after, "As I said before, it is our unspoken duty to shield her – and others like her – as much as we can from the coming storm."
Sirius froze for a millisecond before a lifeless smile forced itself on his face, "What do you mean by that?"
"You know exactly what I mean, Mr Black," Charlus replied gravelly, staring straight at into the steely eyes of the young lad.
Sirius turned his head away to hide a angry look that flickered briefly across his face, "I'm a Black no longer, Mr Potter," he mumbled softly, "You know that."
"Not officially," Charlus boomed, the sudden increase in volume causing the other two wizards to jump slightly, "House Black would not dare sully their reputation and lose whatever political power they hold in such trying times by publicly denouncing its heir."
The respective teenager gave a scoff as he leaned heavily on the back of his chair, "Reputation and power," he sneered derisively as he looked upwards, "That's the only thing those wankers care about."
He then sat forward and clasps his hands on the table as he brought back the previous topic, "As to your assumption Mr Potter, the answer is… yes. I do know who the mastermind behind all these attacks, I do know exactly who his followers are, and I do know his name…"
He unconsciously shuddered, goosebumps erupting all over his body as he recalled the rare times the monster himself had visited his house.
"…the Dark Lord, Voldemort."
A handsome young wizard whipped fiercely his head to his right as he heard his name being faintly called, his eyes narrowing to slits as his dark irises scanned the murky recesses in the dimly lit chamber.
"My Lord?" came a soft call from his side.
He temporarily ignored the speaker as his eyes favoured to continuously skirt across the room, in search for what caught his attention. His dark orbs flickered past wall-mounted looking glasses that were encircled by frames of threadlike silver, interlaced together in a mock-liana arrangement; mirrors, that seemingly stretched upwards for meters on end; and reflective surfaces, which showed only fractal snapshots of the disorientating surroundings.
"Antonin, leave me," Voldemort finally commanded as he turned back to the only other person in the room, his instincts screaming at him that something was amiss, "We will finish this discussion later tonight."
"As you wish, my Lord," came the reply, nothing but undiluted reverence in its tone as its owner collected up numerous pieces of parchment that were lined up perfectly beside each other on the wooden table before them, its visuals akin to a row of ripe corn in the zenith of a summer's harvest.
Exactly thirteen seconds passed by in Voldemort's mind before his loyal follower left the room and left him alone with his growing suspicions in this strange room, one of the many mysteries left untold in the history of Malfoy Manor.
Cold, damp air wrapped around Voldemort like a heavy coat of chain mail as he stood up and walked aimlessly amongst the sea of mirrors that were housed within the large chamber, his steady footsteps kicking up clouds of dust that had been undisturbed for decades. In the absence of flaming torches, the dimness gave the impression of twilight despite the heat and brilliance of the late afternoon sun.
"You can come out now," he called out loudly into the thick silence, nonchalantly inspecting mirrors as random as he moved, his gait now fluid and dangerous.
Feeling the faint presence of powerfully concealed magic shimmer into existence behind him, he stopped walking and slowly reached towards the interior of his robes as his bones tingled with anticipation.
This intruder not only slipped past my personal wards, but also avoided my detection up to the very last second.
Just who are you, trespasser?
Deciding it was safer to strike first and interrogate later, he tensed his body for a split second, his toes curling in his shoes and his fingers squeezing hard onto the wood of his wand, before whirling around and exploding in violent action.
The display of magic that was emitted neither carried the majestic power that Dumbledore wielded, nor had the skilful and elegant finesse that Filius Flitwick – the current Duelling Champion in England – possessed. No, this streak of red magic that thickly spat out of his wand could only be described as raw, powerful, and primordial.
The sanguine hued spell accelerated with terrifying speed across the room, its incandescent properties causing a dazzling lightshow that almost blinded him as it whizzed past countless mirrors through the air.
Voldemort smirked in victory as he saw the accurate beam of light close into an unmoving outline in the shadows, arrogantly presuming that the intruder has no time to react to his rapid non-verbal spell.
Mere feet away from striking the dark figure, his spell suddenly vanished.
He gave a gasp of shock as he recognized the faint presence of Old Magic, a type of forgotten magic that carried dimorphic properties – allowing it to be used either as the sharpest weapon or as the sturdiest shield in the hands of a skilled user.
A cloaked figure then stepped into the light, seemingly absent of disguises as it carried no tell-tale hints of Glamour Charms, Transfigurations, or even the pungent whiffs of a Polyjuice Potion. The figure then raised its arms to its head and pulled the back the cloth that covered him as it continued to move forward, displaying no signs of hostility even thought it had just been attacked.
Voldemort widened his eyes as he recognized the distinctive visage that was revealed, emotions on his face then switching rapidly from surprise, to relief, to confusion, to then finally, to anger.
"Betrayer," he hissed as he started to shake with unfeigned fury, his magic flaring up and shattering the mirrors near him.
"YOU SHOULD NEVER HAVE COME HERE."
