I remember the final 'showdown' as if it was yesterday. And yet, it has been five years. Five years since dark flames surrounded me, burned me, purified me, and I was found worthy by a magic older than life.
Five years have passed since I have last seen Voldemert's crimson eyes staring at me. But not with cruelty or malice. No, he had had the time to remember Tom again, to become Tom again. And become Tom again he did, through my own memories, the memories that had shown him love and warmth and silvery laughter, something he had never been given. Something I have abandoned, because after Grim – and how much more cowardly can I get, if I can't even bear to think his name? – died, I pushed away everyone from fear of them being hurt.
Tom saw that. That little human part, like a splinter from a holly wand, embedded in a monter's heart, made him stop. He asked me to kill him. And I did. Because in a sense, he WAS me, and the mercy of death was the least I could do for a tortured soul. I wanted to die, that day, as my mirror, my potential future did.
'Tis five years since, An end,' said I;
I'll march no further, time to die.
All's lost; no worse has heaven to give.
Worse has it given, and yet I live.
I did not die, of course. Dark sparks ignited from the magic I used, and no, it wasn't Avada Kedavra, you know? No, it would have been too easy. For me, that is. And I don't think I could hate him enough, not any more. So I took his wand from an unresponsive, limp hand, as he stood in front of me, and I whispered Incendio, because fire purifies, and I saw, and I know he could see it too, that there was redemption for him in dying the way Muggles used to kill suspected wizards during the Middle Ages. They killed because they feared magic, and oh, did they have a reason to do so, in Tom's case.
But his eyes didn't show pain, just relief, as the fire spread, and with his last breat he whispered "Thank you", and it was all the forgiveness I needed.
I shall not die to-day, no fear:
I shall live yet for many a year,
And see worse ills and worse again,
And die of age and not of pain.
Will I? Die of age, that is? Because somehow, I don't think so. The flames, the red-and-gold-Gryffindor flames that shot out of my wand after I cast the spell changed, and they were black, and green, and gold, and there was silver in the midst of colours. And what colours they were – night-black so deep that other hues seemed to be trapped within, rich, earthly green, gold as true as a griffin's eyes, and the silver of ever-falling rain.
The colours of magic and our world.
I have been chosen as a protector, to a child born of mortal parents, a little, inquisitive, Muggle girl that would never see me, until she grows up into a wonderful woman, one of the few that will still be able to find love for everything under the sun in her heart. And then her legacy will call, her magic and understanding reaching impossible levels, and she will leave.
She will leave as we all do, when duty calls.
When God would rear from earth aloof
The blue height of the hollow roof,
He sought him pillars sure and strong,
And ere he found them sought them long.
I remember her, when she was one year old. She somehow had all of her teeth by them, and learned to speak in whole sentences. She was a fast learner, and such a curious little thing. She would always point out to something she didn't know, and ask: "What's this?". And somehow, no one was ever impatient with her.
Her father left her mother when my little princess was only one and a half, and took his side of the family with him. I can't say I was disappointed maybe because it hurt Little One and her mother, because Beata and Eve deserved so much better than a self-centered, career-oriented prick. And soon after that, Paul joined the family – not officially, of course, but he was there, the father figure Betty lacked. T
he stark steel splintered from the thrust,
The basalt mountain sprang to dust,
The blazing pier of diamond flawed
In shards of rainbow all abroad.
And, of course, there are always her grandparents to think of. Her Grandmother, Kathy, coddled her absolutely without any thoughts of the future. I don't blame her, really. Knowing Bet and NOT wanting to coddle her was really… well, impossible. And Richard… he was the man that always took her to long walks, taught her the names of plants before she could really talk, always had her ditch kindergarten in favour of some good, old-fashioned tree climbing, fishing or just generally spending as much time as possible outdoors.
He was probably the person that saved her from asthma. Her 'home habitat' as they jokingly called it, was always clinically clean, and had it not been for those long days in the sun, something as prosaic as allergies would have killed her. And I wasn't allowed to heal her.That nearly broke me, until I realized that, at the tender age of 5, my princess loved classical music, Mythology and black coffee. And she laughed so freely that my endless duty was worth it.
What found he, that the heavens stand fast?
What pillar proven firm at last
Bears up so light that world-seen span?
The heart of man, the heart of man.
Epilogue: Beata's 13th year of life.
Richard died. In a hospital, after a surgery that was supposed to fucking help him, not…
I'm powerless to do anything for my little princess. After she heard the news, she went nearly catatonic, and now she looks broken, or maybe she doesn't look it, but I know her too well, and the amounts of chocolate she keeps consuming speak for themselves. And yes, she's turned into a chocolate junkie. And a bookworm. She loves fantasy and good sci-fi, and when one of her friends asked her why, she answered:
- Call it escapism and you'll be 127 right.
The friend didn't ask her to elaborate. Maybe that's because she doesn't have any close friends, not really. She loves those she is close to too much, and does not give her trust away easily. But can you really love too much? After all those years of watching her grow, I don't think so. I'm as invisible to her as to everyone else, but still, at night I sit by her bedside, in a bright room with pastel flowers on the wallpaper, and think that it doesn't suit her, not any more. I just pray. That my soul-child, my Bet would be happy.
But that's not going to happen. After all, duty always calls, be it sooner or later. And if children like her are our reward, how can we refuse?
A/N: The poem is from A. E. Housman's "Additional Poems". I love the author, and after reading this… well. You know.