Harry Potter and the True-Blooded Heir
Chapter One- It is Time
Day 1128,
Nothing could have prepared me for the day I was just witness to.
The expansion of the sky was as velvet blue this Saturday of August in Privet Drive as it had been this entire week. The stars echoed out the hopes and accomplishments of mankind into the outer regions of the universe as tiny blinking lights in acknowledgement. They each obeyed gravitational laws, as it were, and were firmly held in place. Many have tried to reach out and touch them, but nothing really sustained in their grasps. The stars still remained in position, alive now more than ever. Some, though, still are dying, but brightly envelop the night as they always have.
Some have wondered why humans are so tainted by greed, malice, and power that they can never remain faithful to their vows. A young girl, in an attic of a box-shaped house, with uncompromising dreams, continued to ponder that thought as she poured out her heart—and as it appeared, a profusion of liquid spilling from her eyes—onto a piece of stationary superfluously decorated with reddish in hue tulips and peachy roses. Each extended stroke of her pen exemplified the strain it took for her to even write. Her long, straight, silky-black hair hid her sun-kissed face with only remnants of bright, blue eyes shown behind it.
Horror and shock cannot begin to describe the surges of blood rushing to my head and a sense of possible mental instability.
She put her pen down, grabbed an old, dust-covered Bible and blew the dust particles from its surface. The girl flipped open the Bible to a single page with only two previously highlighted verses. She then set the Bible aside and resumed writing.
All that I have been led to believe is a lie. I wonder if anyone else out there has ever gone through something like today. I wonder if any of them know what it's like being told something so impossible to comprehend your mind literally feels like it's been spliced in two.
She glared at the Bible and began copying, word for word, the verses she had turned to onto the other side of her stationary.
Luke 20:17-18—
17. Jesus looked directly at them and asked, "Then what is the meaning of which it is written: 'The stone the builders rejected is now the capstone'?" 18. Everyone who falls on the stone will be broken to pieces, but on he whom it falls, will be crushed.
She promptly put down her pen as she had done so before, closed the Bible and put it back in its place. Then, she picked up her pen and started writing once again. This time, more furiously.
These are the words that my dad always repeated to me whenever the other kids at school would poke fun at me. He reminded me that whenever anyone discards me, they've made me that much stronger, and are in turn, inviting trouble upon themselves. But who knew that I'd one day be in such a heap of a mess that would explain just how powerful I am?
It was around two in the morning when I was awoken by a buzz of alarm and frightened scowls by my dad and brother. I grabbed my bath robe and was on my way downstairs, being sure not to let my footsteps be so heavy as to make the senescent, wooden steps creak. "If we're being robbed," I then thought, "I'll be better use to my family alive." So I halted myself near the top of the stairs and crouched down low enough to see that the commotion had stopped. There was a man with some sort of a pointed hat seated on our sofa with his back turned to me. Joseph was out of sight, but I knew that he was near.
The impostor bent his head low and uttered the following words in a crisp, clear, and apologetic voice:
"Marcus Arrhenius, please forgive me."
My dad simply glowered at the man speaking to him and nodded his head. I became inquisiturient, more than worried now. My thoughts of having been robbed now dwindled into the fear of this man's visit being far worse. Interrupted were my thoughts by my dad's booming and commanding voice addressing our trespasser.
"Professor, I know why you are here. But I still stand firm with the decision I made three years ago." My dad's fingers were entwined in one another and his legs were crossed; he definitely looked uncomfortable with the man. But whatever his relationship was with him, my dad knew more than I had first assumed he did.
"I am afraid that I do not quite agree with you," the other man said, as he put down his hat onto our coffee table and revealed gray hair glistening by the fireside with only embers outlining his lanky fingers promptly rested on an arm of our sofa.
"With all due respect, Professor, I don't believe your feelings can be catered to all the time. Not when it involves something of such magnitude. I cannot tell my children what you wish of me."
"I have the letter in my hand, Marcus Arrhenius. You won't have to explain anything about Armola. She's done it herself-," the man had said it, a forbidden name in our house. I saw my dad's fists squeeze harder together, and his face turned vermilion with furor.
"We do not speak of her name in such a disregarded manner, Professor."
"I am aware of that, but neither was my comment with any disregard to her. However, I do believe that this letter, something that is said to be a written communication directed to a person, must be presented to its intended."
"Why come back now? Why now? They do not need--"
"Your love for your beloved is crowding your better judgment, Marcus."
"It is not!" My dad, in all my years, has never raised his voice at anyone. Even when his coworkers mention her birthday, or even when they speak of their anniversary, no one mentions the name of Armola Black, let alone calls her my dad's beloved.
"Calm down, Marcus. Your young ones might take whiff of this. By the way, nice charm-work on your son, Marcus. I see your favorite subject in school has still stayed with you all these years." My dad distractedly looked into the fire as the man said this, with a hint of apprehension.
"Not another word, Professor, please. Leave me out of Ministry matters."
"My dear man, this has nothing to do with the Ministry. This has everything to do with official Hogwarts business."
"So, after I've managed to keep it all hush-hush these years, you're going to spring up like this and tell them evertyth-" My dad looked to me like an unruly beast. His burnt sienna locks dangled madly in front of his eyes.
"No, you seem to misunderstand me. I'm here to inform you that YOU have to be the one to tell them. As a father, your word will be taken more seriously than mine. They need to know about Hogwarts, Marcus. You mustn't stop them."
"And if I choose to keep it a secret?"
"You and your wife were excellent Aurors, Marcus."
"Yes, and only one of us is alive to tell the tale."
"Come off it now, Marcus. Your children need to know where their abilities come from. I was watching your girl the other day at her schooling place. Another young lass- a base girl, if I may say so- came up to her and started picking on her terribly. However, your daughter repelled with a most impressive unspoken Conjunctivitus curse."
"She did that?" My father looked rather uncertain about the credibility of the man's words.
"Yes, I didn't even have to call the Ministry to have them erase that Muggle's memory." The man paused for a brief moment, observing my dad's uncertain reaction, and then continued. "Think on it. Hogwarts could teach her to hone her abilities far beyond what she can do here."
"Sounds fairly easy for you, doesn't it, Professor?"
"No, I understand the difficulty-"
"You 'understand' having seen your wife die? You 'understand' having to see remainders of him in your daughter? You 'understand', Dumbledore?" It was the first time I had heard my dad calling that man by what appeared to be a name as opposed to a title.
"Yes, believe it or not, Marcus, I do understand what you are going through. You see, I have Armola's letter with me now." My dad glanced up to look at this Dumbledore man and surveyed him with his eyes. "You won't find it by doing that, Marcus. 'Accio' is not going to work."
"Why would I want to do that?" My dad's eyes were still fixed on this man; however, he was careful not to meet him eye to eye.
"To throw it into the fire once you've taken hold of it."
What I didn't understand was how Dumbledore could've gotten hold of a letter my mother had written. I was becoming furious once more that this man was speaking in what sounded like tongues. He spoke of things and places I had never heard of before, and more importantly, he was watching me when I didn't know about it.
"And what of Joseph? What becomes of all that he's known because of this? Shalimar will be more confused than ever. It was difficult to make her even understand when it had happened."
"You'll be free of all the lies, Marcus. Your daughter will be saved-" I couldn't stand it anymore. This man knew me, yet he didn't seem to possess the courage to address me. I had to do it myself. I rushed down the stairs, ignoring the many creaks, and landed promptly in front of the man's seat. His face was rather furrowed and his eyes were bespectacled with a frame the shape of half-moons. Upon seeing my intrusion into his words, I thought that I would make out acerbity in his expression. However, what awaited me was a warm smile; I preferred to ignore it.
"You are a coward." I didn't realize, at the time, the weight of my words. They were simply uttered for the sake of my defense, and any unpleasantness upon hearing them after that, was not my responsibility.
"Shalimar!" I heard my father exclaim. I chose to treat his cry without proper respect or attentiveness.
"You speak of her as though she meant nothing on this earth; as though you knew her personally! Hogwarts! Is this some sort of place where they house misbehaved teenagers? Well, I'm not going! And what in the world are Aurors? Why have you come here so early in the morning, disturbing this family's peace? What do you want, and where's this letter from Mum you claim to have? And I didn't curse anybody. I don't even know what it does—if it does ANYTHING!"
I flooded him with so many questions; however, he was in no hurry to address each immediately. Dumbledore merely got up, picked up his hat, placed it on his head, and whipped out a green powder from his cloak—oh, yes, he was wearing a cloak. It had beams of golden-lighted stars all over it and was deep sapphire blue.
"Marcus, she is your child. I have performed my duty. And now, it your turn to do likewise. I suppose it was purported to come to this." He turned and addressed me. "Should you choose to come to us, I will have everything arranged for you by owl post." He handed my mum's letter to dad and threw the powder into the fireplace and stepped inside, saying the word, "Hogsmeade," and disappeared along with the flames. I was suddenly enveloped by darkness and didn't even realize that I was rigid in my place.
"Lumos," I heard my dad call, and a faint light surrounded the room, leaving dark shadows to remain to themselves. He then said, "Accio Joseph," and my brother burst through the kitchen doors frozen as stone and landed right next to me. I turned to my father, and he spoke again, "Momenta," and my brother had the ability to flex his fingers once again. I turned from my gaze at Joseph to my dad and saw a little, what seemed to be, wand in his left hand's grasp. I shrieked and the next thing I knew, it was 8 o'clock in the evening, and I was lying down in my bed.