A/N: Second chapter, yet again dedicated to Michelle. But I promise on my
own grave, next few chapters you will see some real Harry Potter. And you
will be very happy to know that I have decided an ending, and have the
basic plot line figured out.
After faking her suicide following her brother's death, Michelle took her stallion to a different continent. There, the young Miss Potter learnt to suppress the pains that her Hogwarts years caused. But then she's forced back into the world of Magic, when she has been trying to live among muggles for the past twelve years, Michelle Potter returns to England to face her past, and confess to the friends who once mourned her death, the lie that she kept from them all.
Between The Heavens, a Trial of Faith: Chapter 2, Sweet Aroma of the August Months
By Michelle's fifth year at Hogwarts, her anti social persona had erected from her. She could spend a day in the courtyard writing, and she would interact only if it was required. Though she was still beautiful, she was what some boys her year dreamed of: a mystery wrapped in a riddle, dipped into the unknown, sautéed in obscurity. Michelle Danielle Potter wanted nothing to do with her fellow fifth years, but some of them wanted everything to do with her.
"Goodbye Shadow," she muttered, nuzzling his brow, "at Christmas, I promise you, we gallop further and harder than ever." She slid the reigns off his neck, and with the saddle, blanket and pad all resting on her right arm, with the girth, martin gale and bridle in the left hand, and freed him into the thick foliage where he was born.
Twenty some years later, Michelle walked through her cabin bordering Canada and the United States. She had built it years ago when they had first settled down, after four years of riding the Atlantic shore lines.
She stepped outside and whistled, just over the horizon she saw Shadow buck with his front hoofs before running towards her in a majestic trot that he always seemed to have. "The Daily Prophet" was clutched tightly in her hands; the ink was seeping into her pores slowly as the perspiration washed it off the paper. Sirius was dead. Voldemorte had returned, but none-the-less, Sirius was dead.
"Shadow," she said, turning her head to cry on his shoulder, "this is why I left Great Britain, and now I did it in vein, I still hurt Shadow, and I am still a coward."
The animal's simple emotions could not decipher why Michelle felt this way, but he knew what she felt.
"You are the only part of England I dared to bring with me, and now you are all I have left," she whispered in his ear, still shedding her tears for the late Sirius Black.
But that wasn't true, a small voice said inside her mind, that wasn't true at all, Harry was still in England, and he had yet to taste the sweet aroma of death. Voldemorte still hadn't killed everything she loved, and, Michelle thought, by God as my witness, if he so much as lays a hand on James's son, I will tear off every fucking limb off his body.
Michelle tied Shadow up in the stable right next to her cabin; yet another building she had built with her own two hands. It smelt of dead rodents, as the packs of coyotes often used it for a shelter during the winter months when Shadow was moved to a heated stable. Due to energy and power bills, however, Michelle was reluctant to use that facility for him during summer, so his home was a small shack, normally home to packs of foxes, coyotes and wolves, however, for her horse's own security, there were padlock doors shut, locked and bolted to keep any wild animals out whilst Shadow was present.
Back in her own house, Michelle sat down at her old Victorian desk, a prized possession that had once seen brighter days. In the desk's glory days, it would be introduced as Michelle's muse, and the keeper of her literature, but now her dreams of writing had long since faded, the desk was just a piece of the décor that Michelle just couldn't bring herself to part with. It sometimes served as a painful reminder of the days she had dreamed of riding across the world, and then writing about it as she went... or had it been when she finished riding? She could no longer remember these juvenile dreams.
Slowly a letter began to devise in Michelle's mind, she had not picked up a pen for over two decades, and after James had died she had been completely content to cut herself off from the written world.
Tears flooded her eyes once more as she remembered her fifth year at Hogwarts. Operating on no more than five hours of sleep a night, Michelle had kept her mind occupied by writing a series of short novels and poetry when the rest of the common room had gone to bed.
The room stood ablaze as the last person emptied. Michelle sat alone in front of the warming glow of the flames writing a poem based on a the gift to Pandora given to her by the Greek God Zeus, a small box, she had been for warned never to open it, under any circumstances. However, like all legends go, this one had neither a happy, nor sad ending, instead it explained a great mystery to humanity. As Pandora opened the box, suffering and pain were released into the world like the swirl of a tornado; it destroyed everything in its path. The Gods were furious with Pandora, but the smallest voice came from the box once more, Pandora opened it, and hope was restored.
The fifteen-year-old Michelle smiled, her eyes slightly glazed at the story. She loved Greek Mythology with an undying passion.
"What are you writing?" A voice asked behind her, it startled Michelle enough to make her jump and let out a silent scream.
"Just poetry," she murmured, not looking up from her paper, for she knew who it was, she always knew.
Sirius walked up behind her, as if to look over her shoulder and see what she was writing, but Michelle covered the paper with her forearm out of reflex. She was normally very maternal about her writing.
"It's always poetry," he said sounding slightly annoyed that she had covered it from view.
"Not always," she said, turning back towards the fire, redrafting some of the earlier verses.
"Oh?" he asked. Truth be told, Sirius rarely saw Michelle without some type of quill or parchment in hand, and it was almost always a poem, some form or another.
"No, there are journals, and novels, but poetry I write if I think that a one Mister Black is going to be sneaking up behind me and scaring me half to death. Therefore it is only appropriate that you, young Sirius, think that I only write poetry, but truth, be it as it may, I only ever write poetry around yourself, and never anything else."
"Quite," he said, not pretending to understand what she had said. "But, honestly, where does James's younger sister come off calling me 'young Sirius'?"
"Simply that," she sighed, now turning, for the first time to face him, "you are young, and just because you are young does not mean I am not."
"James wants to know why you insist on not sleeping," Sirius said, changing the subject, "to put it in his own words, there was a bit more grunting involved."
"You may tell James, that next time he wishes to speak to me, he can do so directly, or else I just might have to be forced to kill the messenger," she replied, grinning sheepishly.
"Aw, come on, Michelle Potter, younger sister of the Gryffindor seeker by two years, you honestly want to contemplate killing the very innocent, and very handsome, but very innocent messenger?"
"You leave my family tree out of this, Sirius Black, and I will return the favor," she said, her eyes glaring at him. Had they been blades, they would have killed him seven times over before he had actually died. She got up and headed out of the common room
"Have I touched a soft spot, then?" Sirius called to her as she made her way up the stairs to the girl's dormitory, "have I found a delicate surface on the alligator's hide?"
"No," she turned around and faced him, grinning still, "I'm just tired, goodnight; don't you have bad dreams now, Sirius." He turned and left, "don't you have bad dreams," Michelle whispered softly to the walls of the fortress.
After faking her suicide following her brother's death, Michelle took her stallion to a different continent. There, the young Miss Potter learnt to suppress the pains that her Hogwarts years caused. But then she's forced back into the world of Magic, when she has been trying to live among muggles for the past twelve years, Michelle Potter returns to England to face her past, and confess to the friends who once mourned her death, the lie that she kept from them all.
Between The Heavens, a Trial of Faith: Chapter 2, Sweet Aroma of the August Months
By Michelle's fifth year at Hogwarts, her anti social persona had erected from her. She could spend a day in the courtyard writing, and she would interact only if it was required. Though she was still beautiful, she was what some boys her year dreamed of: a mystery wrapped in a riddle, dipped into the unknown, sautéed in obscurity. Michelle Danielle Potter wanted nothing to do with her fellow fifth years, but some of them wanted everything to do with her.
"Goodbye Shadow," she muttered, nuzzling his brow, "at Christmas, I promise you, we gallop further and harder than ever." She slid the reigns off his neck, and with the saddle, blanket and pad all resting on her right arm, with the girth, martin gale and bridle in the left hand, and freed him into the thick foliage where he was born.
Twenty some years later, Michelle walked through her cabin bordering Canada and the United States. She had built it years ago when they had first settled down, after four years of riding the Atlantic shore lines.
She stepped outside and whistled, just over the horizon she saw Shadow buck with his front hoofs before running towards her in a majestic trot that he always seemed to have. "The Daily Prophet" was clutched tightly in her hands; the ink was seeping into her pores slowly as the perspiration washed it off the paper. Sirius was dead. Voldemorte had returned, but none-the-less, Sirius was dead.
"Shadow," she said, turning her head to cry on his shoulder, "this is why I left Great Britain, and now I did it in vein, I still hurt Shadow, and I am still a coward."
The animal's simple emotions could not decipher why Michelle felt this way, but he knew what she felt.
"You are the only part of England I dared to bring with me, and now you are all I have left," she whispered in his ear, still shedding her tears for the late Sirius Black.
But that wasn't true, a small voice said inside her mind, that wasn't true at all, Harry was still in England, and he had yet to taste the sweet aroma of death. Voldemorte still hadn't killed everything she loved, and, Michelle thought, by God as my witness, if he so much as lays a hand on James's son, I will tear off every fucking limb off his body.
Michelle tied Shadow up in the stable right next to her cabin; yet another building she had built with her own two hands. It smelt of dead rodents, as the packs of coyotes often used it for a shelter during the winter months when Shadow was moved to a heated stable. Due to energy and power bills, however, Michelle was reluctant to use that facility for him during summer, so his home was a small shack, normally home to packs of foxes, coyotes and wolves, however, for her horse's own security, there were padlock doors shut, locked and bolted to keep any wild animals out whilst Shadow was present.
Back in her own house, Michelle sat down at her old Victorian desk, a prized possession that had once seen brighter days. In the desk's glory days, it would be introduced as Michelle's muse, and the keeper of her literature, but now her dreams of writing had long since faded, the desk was just a piece of the décor that Michelle just couldn't bring herself to part with. It sometimes served as a painful reminder of the days she had dreamed of riding across the world, and then writing about it as she went... or had it been when she finished riding? She could no longer remember these juvenile dreams.
Slowly a letter began to devise in Michelle's mind, she had not picked up a pen for over two decades, and after James had died she had been completely content to cut herself off from the written world.
Tears flooded her eyes once more as she remembered her fifth year at Hogwarts. Operating on no more than five hours of sleep a night, Michelle had kept her mind occupied by writing a series of short novels and poetry when the rest of the common room had gone to bed.
The room stood ablaze as the last person emptied. Michelle sat alone in front of the warming glow of the flames writing a poem based on a the gift to Pandora given to her by the Greek God Zeus, a small box, she had been for warned never to open it, under any circumstances. However, like all legends go, this one had neither a happy, nor sad ending, instead it explained a great mystery to humanity. As Pandora opened the box, suffering and pain were released into the world like the swirl of a tornado; it destroyed everything in its path. The Gods were furious with Pandora, but the smallest voice came from the box once more, Pandora opened it, and hope was restored.
The fifteen-year-old Michelle smiled, her eyes slightly glazed at the story. She loved Greek Mythology with an undying passion.
"What are you writing?" A voice asked behind her, it startled Michelle enough to make her jump and let out a silent scream.
"Just poetry," she murmured, not looking up from her paper, for she knew who it was, she always knew.
Sirius walked up behind her, as if to look over her shoulder and see what she was writing, but Michelle covered the paper with her forearm out of reflex. She was normally very maternal about her writing.
"It's always poetry," he said sounding slightly annoyed that she had covered it from view.
"Not always," she said, turning back towards the fire, redrafting some of the earlier verses.
"Oh?" he asked. Truth be told, Sirius rarely saw Michelle without some type of quill or parchment in hand, and it was almost always a poem, some form or another.
"No, there are journals, and novels, but poetry I write if I think that a one Mister Black is going to be sneaking up behind me and scaring me half to death. Therefore it is only appropriate that you, young Sirius, think that I only write poetry, but truth, be it as it may, I only ever write poetry around yourself, and never anything else."
"Quite," he said, not pretending to understand what she had said. "But, honestly, where does James's younger sister come off calling me 'young Sirius'?"
"Simply that," she sighed, now turning, for the first time to face him, "you are young, and just because you are young does not mean I am not."
"James wants to know why you insist on not sleeping," Sirius said, changing the subject, "to put it in his own words, there was a bit more grunting involved."
"You may tell James, that next time he wishes to speak to me, he can do so directly, or else I just might have to be forced to kill the messenger," she replied, grinning sheepishly.
"Aw, come on, Michelle Potter, younger sister of the Gryffindor seeker by two years, you honestly want to contemplate killing the very innocent, and very handsome, but very innocent messenger?"
"You leave my family tree out of this, Sirius Black, and I will return the favor," she said, her eyes glaring at him. Had they been blades, they would have killed him seven times over before he had actually died. She got up and headed out of the common room
"Have I touched a soft spot, then?" Sirius called to her as she made her way up the stairs to the girl's dormitory, "have I found a delicate surface on the alligator's hide?"
"No," she turned around and faced him, grinning still, "I'm just tired, goodnight; don't you have bad dreams now, Sirius." He turned and left, "don't you have bad dreams," Michelle whispered softly to the walls of the fortress.