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— Chapter 3 —
The Truth Seeker

"THIS IS A TRUTH-SEEKER."

The object in Thorne's hand had a composition similar to that of a spinning top: two copper circles hovering at perpendicular angles with a tiny rod running through the middle.

"You balance it on the rod like this. And when you spin the outside wheel, the pressure it generates by rotating keeps the vertical axis stabilized. Pretty neat, huh?"

Thorne's house was a fairy tale cottage made corporeal. Vine and moss coated the exterior, creating a layer of green velvet so lush, the entire house seemed like a natural extension of the overgrown, English countryside. There were far too many doors and not enough windows. Above a roof covered in pink roses sat a brick chimney that furled grey steam into the dark, night sky. We were currently in the kitchen: an odd room lined with cabinets, cauldrons, and chairs far too tall for the table sat around.

Upon entering, Thorne had thrown on a garish green apron and declared she was going to make, "The best beef stew in all of England."

I wasn't sure I believed her. After watching Thorne drop a metal spoon, two socks, and a screaming cabbage into the mixture, her culinary ability seemed circumspect at best.

"Bet you wanna know what it does." Thorne bounced up and down on her chair, waiting for me to respond. "That wasn't rhetorical, silly. Go on, ask."

"Uh... how does it work?"

Thorne shrugged. "No clue. But it does. That's magic for ya!" She leaned forward, eyes wide as saucers. "Ask me something. Anything."

A glass jar sitting on the countertop caught my eye. A little creature floated inside, suspended in gelatinous, blue slime. "What's your favorite color?"

Thorne giggled. "Now, now. That's too easy. It has to be something hard to answer."

At that moment, the pot on the stove gave a great shudder. A violent gust of steam burst forth, and Thorne skipped over to lift the shivering lid. "This is turning out great!" she said, taking an appreciative sniff. "Are you excited to try?"

I nodded.

The truth-seeker stopped spinning and fell to the table with a dull thud. I stared at it, mortified. "I didn't even say anything..." I mumbled.

Thorne threw back her head and laughed. "Don't look so horrified, shortie. I knew what I was doing. For some reason that escapes me, everyone gets all nervous when they see me cook. I don't let it get me down, though. People got real antsy when they heard Mozart play for the first time too, so I'm in good company."

As she stirred the stew, I wondered if Mozart had ever dropped a whole piece of raw meat on the floor, dusted it off, and threw it into the pot anyway.

A newspaper on the table caught my attention.

THE LIBERATOR
August 1st, 1995

Below the paper's title, in big bold print, was the front page article.

YAXLEY PUMPKIN PARISH ENDANGERS ESTUARY STABILITY
Written By: Thomas Abbott

"What are you looking at?"

I glanced up. "Newspaper."

"Oh, The Liberator," said Thorne. "They're great. Better than The Prophet for sure."

"What — " I began, but Thorne interrupted.

"Bowls," she sang, and three wooden bowls flew from one of the cabinets to hover in the air in front of her.

"Stew!" she ordered, and three globs of steaming brown liquid hopped from pot to bowl like a fish wriggling above water.

"Table," she crowed, and the three bowls floated over to rest on the dining room table in front of me.

It was bloody brilliant. Was there anything magic couldn't do?

Thorne stuck her head out of the kitchen. "Hey, emo queen," she bellowed, "it's time for dinner."

I heard the soft patter of footsteps on the floor above.

"You'll like Daphne." Thorne untied her apron and sent it flying to a peg on the far wall with a flick of her wrist. "How to describe her. Uhm... well..."

Footsteps coming down the stairs.

"There's really no other way to describe her than..."

The front door opened and closed.

"Ohhhh, I'll just say it. She's an emo little drama queen. But she's my emo little drama queen. You'll see."

And see I did because a moment later, Thorne's apprentice slouched into the kitchen.

Daphne Greengrass had pale skin marred by patches of light pink. Her cheeks, her jaw, her neck, her arms... they were everywhere. Not just patches, I realized, burns. Burns so severe that even though her wounds looked many years old, new skin had not encroached yet on what still remained dead, as if something prevented it from doing so.

"What are you looking at?" Daphne snarled. Her gaunt eyes narrowed the way a starving wolf might watch a cowering rabbit. She was assessing, calculating, trying to determine if I were worthy of being caught in her crosshairs.

"Sorry," I stammered.

Daphne covered her face with both hands and whispered something too low to make out. When she looked up, the pink was gone, hidden behind unblemished skin. "Happy now?"

I shook my head, embarrassed. "No. Sorry, I didn't mean to — "

Daphne flipped her long, blond hair over her shoulder in a movement that seemed too practiced to be casual. "Whatever."

Thorne raised an eyebrow. "Did something happen today, emo queen? You're in a bit of a mood. And by that, I mean, you're being yourself."

Daphne grunted, sat down, and started shoveling food into her mouth. For all the attention she paid me, I might as well have been invisible.

"We've been together a while," said Thorne. "Since Daph was eleven, actually. That makes it... almost seven years now." Her voice rose, grand and glorious. "Yes. Seven wonderful years full of joy and laughter and puppies and good times, and — hey shortie, aren't you gonna eat?"

The interaction with Daphne had left me feeling nauseous. My stomach was in knots. I didn't want her to think... I hope she knew I didn't think less of her because... I had to try again.

"Daphne?"

She didn't look up.

"Look, I'm sorry. I really am."

She ignored me.

Thorne sighed. "Could you at least try to be a normal person emo queen?"

Daphne smiled a deceptively sweet smile. "No," she said simply and went back to eating.

"You know how teachers always say, be yourself no matter what?" Thorne paused for effect. "You could stand to do that less."

Daphne slammed her spoon down on the table and rose. "Then you" — she jabbed a finger at Thorne — "Can. Fuck. Right. Off."

"Dinner's not done yet."

The temperature in the room became frigid. Ripples appeared in my stew. The world turned black and white, flickering along the edges with static. I squeezed my eyes shut as the walls closed in around me. Intense pressure — Thorne's magic. I smelt roses, felt bark under my fingertips and —

"Harry!"

The pressure vanished. A hand on the back of my neck had me standing on the other side of the kitchen. The room came flooding back. Thorne standing, one arm outstretched. The kitchen, the stew, the cabinets. Daphne in her chair with a blank expression, a look of calm indifference on her face.

My words tumbled out, tripping over themselves. "You didn't feel that?" I asked her.

Daphne raised an eyebrow, looking sideways at Thorne. "Is he broken or something?"

"The pressure... you didn't... you didn't feel...?"

Was I going insane?

"Like tar and ash..."

Like the Dark Lord's magic.

Thorne sat back down, picked up her spoon, and ate a mouthful of stew. A sound of contentment escaped her. "Fuck me. I really outdid myself. This is good shit. You should come back over here and try some, shortie. You look like you could use a good meal."

Daphne sighed. "This tantrum is exhausting. Can I go?"

Thorne's gaze flickered to her.

"Stop talking," I whispered.

There was a long silence. "Excuse me?" asked Daphne.

"You're making her mad."

Daphne rose from her chair with a sneer. "Lesson one, idiot: Thorne doesn't get mad."

"Yes. Thorne. Does."

Daphne stared at Thorne like she'd never seen her before.

"It seems that Harry, in a feat of perception you'd do well to strive for, experienced a bit of my" — Thorne coughed delicately — "anger leakage, which must have been less than pleasant."

"However," — and here, she turned to look at me directly — "you should know that what just happened was normal. Often, when young, muggle-raised wizards first enter the magical world, they experience a period of adjustment where their brain rationalizes the unexplainable as things they know to be explainable. In other words, as you experience more, you'll grow less sensitive."

Thorne paused. "Or, maybe you won't. Who knows. All I know for sure is that if you don't come back to the table and eat your stew right now, I — as your benevolent all-knowing teacher — will forcefully feed it to you even if it takes all damn night. And you, emo queen, are going to sit here and be pleasant. Because, as I have often told you, family time is about love. And family time starts. Right. Now."

Thorne was right; the stew tasted terrific. The moment I started to eat, I realized how hungry I was.

"See?" Thorne said when I finally set my spoon down. "When it comes to stew, I'm basically Mozart."

Daphne reached across the table, grabbed my empty bowl, and walked to the sink. The faucet turned on. For the first time, I noticed the other two bowls were already gone.

Remembering my manners, I looked over at Thorne. "Thank you for dinner, miss..." I trailed off, realizing I didn't know her last name.

"Oh god," snorted Thorne. "Please don't call me miss. I'm just Thorne, and My Chemical Romance over there is just Daphne. We're family."

Yeah. As if.

"Hey, emo queen? Would you be a good little apprentice and make us some tea? Oooh! And bring out some of those chocolate-cookie-mint things."

Daphne grunted.

"Harry?"

I turned back to Thorne, who looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"This isn't the most pleasant thing in the world... but there is one thing we need to take care of tonight. Legally speaking."

Legally speaking?

Thorne grimaced. "We both need to sign a contract specifying the terms of your apprenticeship and send it off to the ministry for approval. Then, in a few months, we'll appear before an adoption committee. They'll give ya a truth potion and ask a bunch of questions about your apprenticeship experience. Wizards take Noble Adoption real serious, so it's important they're able to verify I'm treatin' you right."

During my time in the foster system, no one came to check on me. The fact the magical world did was... comforting... I guess. Seemed like they really did take adoptions seriously.

Daphne placed a cup of tea and two chocolate biscuits in front of me. The smell of honey lay heavy in her hair. It was so intoxicating I had to blink a few times to clear my head when she finally moved away. The tea tasted of licorice, and the chocolates were infused with mint.

"Then," Thorne continued, "assuming the meeting goes well and our contract is accepted, we'll file official paperwork in the records office, and if neither of us dies, that'll be that."

...huh?

"Sorry, did you just say die?"

"As I said, Wizards take Noble Adoptions seriously. If either of us lies about anything... we'll just dissolve. Poof. It's old magic of a very non-discriminatory nature. Not worth worrying about."

I nodded slowly. There was so much about magic I didn't know.

"So... you want to do that now?"

Thorne leaned back, balancing her chair on its two hind legs. "Nah, not yet. That's private — not something for emoqueen to stick her prim little nose in."

Daphne's lip curled. "As if I'd want to."

"What I wanted to do tonight," Thorne continued, ignoring her comment, "was a little introduction, I guess. You learn about us, we learn about you. Family time." She gave Daphne a flick on the forehead. "Go on, emo queen. You first. Likes, dislikes, relevant history. Be charming. With all the gentleman callers you entertain, I know you must possess some form of wile."

"Introductions..." Daphne mused thoughtfully. "Well, when I was ten, my twin brother killed my entire family in front of me. Sex is great, feelings are lame, and I definitely hate conversations like this one." She batted her eyelashes at Thorne. "Good enough?"

"You know, the greatest mistake I ever made was adopting you."

Daphne snapped her teeth together in response.

Thorne turned towards me. "It would be great if you could tell us... me... a little about yourself. How you ended up... where you did. It doesn't have to be everything, either! And if you're not comfortable, emo queen can leave."

I shook my head quickly. "No, I... I'm not precious about it. I just..." The dregs at the bottom of my teacup swirled in lazy patterns. "Talking about myself is... people don't usually ask me stuff about... it's not, um... it doesn't come up."

"Harry." Mystery Girl's voice filled me with fiery warmth. She was a curious little thing. I felt the rope in my mind jiggle as she looked around.

I took a bite of chocolate, chewing as slowly as I could. The truth-seeker spun round and round, friend and foe in equal measure. "I lived with my aunt and uncle as a kid. They told me my parents died in a car crash, but... guess that's not the case. I was never a great fit for them. We were different. I was bookish and didn't... I was just different.

"It got worse when I was six. Weird things started happening to me. I'd hear singing when no one was there. I'd close my eyes one place and open them in another. One time, I made a tree grow through my aunt and uncle's house. It was hard on them. The magic. They didn't sign up for it and, uh, didn't have room for me. So... I left."

Vernon and Petunia. My first home.

"I thought I was crazy. I mean, it all makes sense now, but back then... I didn't know what was happening to me. I ended up in the boonies, deep London, you know, with a group of kids like me. Not magical, but... on the fringe. Prolly found them when I was about seven."

My second home. That didn't end so well either.

"They were all older by, like, a ton. They'd seen more, done more. They were tired. Wanted to escape however they could. Don't think I would've called myself unhappy, but... they wanted to escape more than they wanted to eat so..." I shrugged. "Got sick, went to a hospital for a while, escaped. When I got back, I found that they'd, erm, managed to escape permanently. Time blurred a little... I wasn't counting birthdays, obviously, but I was probably... ten when I found Peverell Point."

I smiled, remembering. "It was a bed-n'-breakfast down south that included a variety show as part of the whole experience. The guy who ran it was a good dude. Hired me when he didn't have to. Room and board. Everything. I was really grateful. Money wasn't bad either. Now I realize it was a bad move, obviously. But the people watching, they didn't think anything of it. No one knew it was real. I was just some kid to them... a kid that could conjure fire. It was nice while it lasted."

I paused, trying to remember. "Went back to my aunt and uncle's after that, but they weren't there anymore. Tried foster care when I was eleven, but..." I shook my head. "It was bad. Worse than bad. I knew I had to split. So I figured I'd get myself arrested and mooch meals off the system til I was eighteen. That's how I wound up in St. Brutus's Center for Incurably Criminal Boys."

I smiled. "Oh man, it was the best. I had books, I had privacy, I had a job working in the chapel... it was the most normal I'd ever felt. Until Mister Snape showed up, I thought it was the best I'd ever be able to do because... there was nowhere else.

"I couldn't believe it when he told me. Magic? SERIOUSLY!?" I laughed, remembering that first conversation atop the roof of St. Brutus's chapel. "Everything suddenly made more sense. When Mister Snape asked, do you want to sell yourself to the highest bidder to be taught magic? I was like, sign me up! I'd done that once already to get into St. Brutus's. Whatever lay ahead... I just knew it had to be better than what I was leaving behind."

Excitement rose in me like the tide of a great wave. "And it was — it is! I met you, I met Daphne, I had beef stew for the first time! The world feels new and fantastic in a way I never thought it would. A million galleons... it's crazy. A million galleons for me? I can't believe you did that. I don't think anything's worth that much."

Thorne was staring at the ceiling as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Daphne's gaze was fixed on the truth seeker.

I coughed, suddenly feeling awkward. "So, yeah. That's me."

Still, nobody moved.

"I like reading and, uh, structure. And the quiet. So yeah."

A long silence.

"Tea!" Thorne's chair skidded across the floor. "Definitely need more tea." In a flash, she was at the sink, fiddling with the kettle.

I shouldn't have shared so much. I frowned, staring at my cup. But how could I have known Thorne only wanted the good stuff?

Words spilled out, almost of their own accord. "That's why I'm sorry about staring earlier, Daphne. I don't want you to think... I don't care or anything. I mean, you know, we all have stuff we're dealing with. So... I get it."

Daphne's eyes darkened. "Will you just" — she slammed her hands down on the table — "fuck off about it already?" She pushed her chair back and stormed from the room without another word.

I stared after her, confused. "What did I do wrong...?"

"Don't worry about it." Thorne was back, teacup in hand. "She's just... it takes her a while to warm up to new people."

I took a bite of one of the chocolate biscuits.

"They're good, right?"

I nodded enthusiastically.

Thorne chuckled. "If I were you, I'd have so many questions I wouldn't know where to start." She hesitated for a moment, before asking, "Is there anything in particular...?"

"Back at the auction, they, the wizards, I mean, they called that Dark Lord guy a... a god. Is he... are you...?"

"Are we divine?" Thorne fiddled with a ring on the fourth finger of her right hand. It was a well-worn thing: smooth, off-white in a yellowing kind of way, and inlaid with seven dark gemstones that had long since lost their luster. "It's pretty, isn't it?"

I nodded.

"It's the only thing I have left that reminds me of me before I was me. Old little thing it is, but... there you have it. To answer your question, yes and no."

Thanks, I thought, that was helpful.

"Don't go making that face," said Thorne, laughing. "I'm going to explain it. See, when wizards speak of gods, we're not referring to them in the same way muggles do."

"...muggle?" I asked.

"Oh, right, you wouldn't know. Muggles are people who can't do what we can. Normies, for lack of a better word. For them, God is magic, and magic are his miracles."

"I don't... I don't understand," I said.

Thorne nodded. "No... you don't. I suppose the real question is... what does it mean to have magic?" She reached toward the ceiling, fingers spread wide. The lighting fixture above our heads, a gas lamp covered by an enormous quilted canopy, dimmed to a mere flicker.

"Imagine... an ordinary shrub."

A nimbus of cold, grey light grew behind the canvas. The shadowy silhouette of a bush appeared. Thorne snapped her fingers — "Incendio!" — and the bush erupted in emerald-green flames.

"I often think how strange it is that so many risked so much for a spell so simplistic, an eleven-year-old could perform it."

Angry storm clouds coalesced across the dark canopy. Lightning furled across the horizon.

"Floods." The silhouette of a ship sailing through the night.

"Locusts." A furious storm of insects.

"And perhaps the greatest of all those things." The silhouette of a tree, etched in gold flames.

Thorne's eyes gleamed, her gaze grew fierce, and her fingers stretched higher as an orb of light formed in her palm. A rainbow dripped from the tree above us, running down her fingers like water. Water turned to ice as the rainbow hardened, coalescing into a polychromatic ring that circled Thorne's orb of light as if it were the neutron of a collapsing star. Even when Thorne closed her hand around it, even when blinding light splintered from between her clenched fingers, she never let go. And then, just when it seemed she could hold on no longer, Thorne threw her star skyward, and a universe exploded into being.

My mouth dropped open in wonder. A beltway of shooting stars, a storm of falling ice, a planet swirling with red and blue clouds — it was all there! A world, a universe, a galaxy. It was terrifying and beautiful and unknowable and the wonder of it all made me ache.

"What is it?" I whispered.

Thorne's eyes were closed. "Choice," she murmured. "Creation. Magic does much. Not all, but much. Creation, true creation" — she snapped her fingers and the universe folded in on itself — "remains elusive."

And just like that, we were back in her kitchen.

"For muggles, faith is important, faith in something. God, telly, science, sex... why are we here? What's the point? How can we understand? What way do we turn?" Her face fell. "With wizards, it's different. We know less. Compared to non-magicals, we're still quite... quite young."

"Why do you talk about them like they're different?" I asked.

Thorne smiled. "Curiously, we share no common ancestor with... non-magical creatures. We came from... somewhere else... something else. With the muggles, it's different. They can trace backward, see the path behind them, that sort of thing, you know. With us, though?

"We... appeared almost 4,000 years ago. We did not evolve to our maximum potential. We were created that way. The first wizards believed our magic was a gift from god. You understand what I mean by god, now, right? The ability-to-create. In the eyes of the first wizards, the only force equal to our own was... nature incarnate.

"God became nature, nature became magic, and magic became god. Therefore, the gift we had — magic — was meant to exist harmoniously with nature because it was a natural extension of it. Or, that's what they believed, at least. We were — uh — humanoid, but not quite... human, if their memories serve as any indication. The muggles called us nymphs."

"You can... I mean, they lived 4,000 years ago... so how...?"

"Good question," said Thorne with an approving nod. "A pensive is a device that allows magical people to store memories for future playback. We know much about the first wizards because they stored that information for future generations to see." Her smile became sly, as if reaching a point she'd been driving toward. "Wizards are the only magical creatures capable of using pensives. And yet, pensives aren't of our invention. Even before we arrived, they were already here waiting for us. Strange, don't you think?"

Spooky, more like.

"So how did we become — err — human?" I asked.

"There was a war between wizards and... whatever beings were here before us," Thorne explained. "One thing led to another, and it got nasty. We, wizards, were almost wiped out by the conflict. And after we eventually made peace, what did we do? We fucked like poodles in heat. Domesticated ourselves real proper. For all purebloods talk of purity, they're little more than Labradoodles in the grand scheme of things.

"That's the reason so many wizards hate non-magic folk. The more we bred with muggles, the farther away we grew from our wizarding ancestors." She rolled her eyes. "Some of them have this idea that if they keep their blood pure now, it'll reverse the damage." Thorne snorted. "As if. But that's what the Dark Lord promises them. Purity of blood. You can understand why he's so popular.

"See, folks call the Dark Lord dark because he is an implicit affirmation of the dark's identity — proof that their philosophy is the right philosophy. If he's the most powerful, then their philosophy is correct. Wizards have this expression... magic is might, and might is right. It's not a truism.

"When you meet a wizard who calls themselves dark, they're not declaring themselves a supervillain or anything. It's not moralistic, but political. When wizards call the Dark Lord a god, they're not saying he's divine. They're saying he can create the kind of society they want to live in. It's basically an honorific.

"To sum up a long and incredibly pedantic history: some of us" — Thorne pointed to herself — "believe that magic in society is meant to exist harmoniously with nature while others, of course, believe the opposite: that the role of magic is to impose its will unto nature. This is our most significant division. It encompasses every aspect of our lives as magical beings.

"Take our education. One of the reasons a British institute of magic never came to be was because Light wizards fundamentally opposed it. The standardization of education sat poorly with 'em. The more, uh, nationalized our standards became, the less wild the magic we used would have become. People would've been pushed to the center instead of being allowed to exist on the fringe. Over time, it would've lost much of its individuality.

"If you remember nothing else, always remember this. Magic is not a utility. Nor is it a tool. It has no cost, little reason, and very few rules. It poses challenging questions and offers few answers in return. For wizards, magic is our fundamental method of expression. It's... wild. It's a hurricane that levels a whole town, it's a mother fox who sacrifices her life so her cubs can live, it's a mountain that cracks in half after a million years of standing against the sea, it's us sitting here talking about it right now.

"It's creation, it's destruction, it's the wilderness. It likes people. We have magic, not because of birthright or genetic probability, but because magic wants to play with us. The reason some wizards are more powerful than others isn't that they have more magic — it's not a substance in that way — but because... magic itself finds them more interesting."

"And it…" I frowned, trying to figure out how to phrase my next question. "The magic... it likes the Dark Lord?"

Thorne nodded.

"And it likes you."

Thorne nodded again.

"So... you're a god because...?"

"Because I, as you should know by now, am a fucking queen."

"But why...? Why him... why you?"

Thorne sighed. "Remember what I told you about the first war? Our solution to end the fighting was to have... magic... choose our champion. It was more economic to pin our hopes on the most powerful than gamble the existence of our entire civilization. Thus, the first children of prophecy were created."

Something clicked in my mind. The Dark Lord's words at the auction, they finally made sense. You're meant to be my equal... the child of prophecy...

"The wizard who spoke for magic's will was a seer named Muiry. Couldn't use magic himself, but he heard it in a way others couldn't. You know how the rest of this story goes, right? He chooses the champions, they fight, the war ends. Muiry prevented us from going extinct. It was viewed as... proof he could keep us on track. So, ever since then, we've let him choose our champions."

"But how does he do that?"

"The Goblet of Fire." Thorne's voice was soft, reverent. "It's... a powerful magical object that contains the last vestiges of Muiry's will. It cannot be hoodwinked, cannot be fooled, and its location is guarded with the utmost secrecy. Its will, its prophecies, have been interpreted by seers for millennia."

Something very painful was happening in my mind. The way Thorne was talking... the way the Dark Lord had spoken to me...

"But I'm not..." I looked at Thorne imploringly. "I can't be a... can I?"

"The answer to your question is... maybe. But also, yes."

I stared at her with raised eyebrows.

"Normally, the Goblet of Fire's prophecies are kept secret to preserve the safety of those it selects. It's considered bad form to attack a child of prophecy before they reach magical maturity, but people still do" — Thorne gave me a meaningful look — "obviously. Hence, it's kept secret. So, you can imagine how surprising it was when the Daily Prophet announced you were a child of prophecy three days before you were due to be born.

"People went nuts, it was a nightmare. No one could tell if the leak was credible or not, and the seers weren't telling us anything. There was nowhere your parents could run because the Dark Lord, by that point, had absolute control over Britain. The fact they managed to elude him for a year is, honestly, astoundingly impressive. But, unfortunately, their luck ran out. Halloween came and went. Your parents vanished. You vanished. To this day, no one besides the Dark Lord knows what happened."

"But they said..." My head was spinning. "At the auction. They said it was a freak accident... and Aunt Petunia, she... she said it was a car crash."

"Only one thing is clear to me," said Thorne. "That Halloween night, the Dark Lord marked you as his equal. That scar on your forehead isn't an ordinary cut, kiddo."

Mister Snape's words on the roof. Even among our kind, you're... something of an abnormality. History repeating itself — again. My magic, always out of control. The Dark Lord's words.

A laugh bubbled out. "So it doesn't matter if I am a god or not. The Dark Lord believes I am, and that means..."

That I'll never find a place to belong in the wizarding world. I'll always be different.

"It means," said Thorne, "that the Dark Lord will never stop trying to kill you because he believes you're the only one who can kill him."

At that moment, I desperately wanted Thorne to be wrong. Thoughts of a normal life, a life of utility and usefulness, dissolved in ash around me. "What if I don't want to kill him?" I asked.

"That's not your choice to make, kiddo."

"What if... what if I run?"

"There's nowhere left you can hide."

"But... but... but they said at the trial... they said I was hidden in the muggle world for years without..."

"That," said Thorne, cutting across from me, "was an anomaly. No one knows how — "

"But aren't you good at magic? Couldn't you hide me?"

"It's not as simple as that. You — "

"Okay, but — "

Thorne's words were hard. "If you hide the Light will fall. How many died while you were hidden? How many died in the search to find you? How many more will die in the Dark Lord's quest to kill you? Are you actually a child of prophecy, Harry? Who knows. The story of your entire life seems to confirm it.

"Wandless magic at age six? Hearing nature sing to you? Making a tree grow through your relative's house? That's abnormal because it suggests you have an understanding of magic that goes beyond mere intuition. Magic isn't just some tool you possess. It's a force within you that asks — no, demands — that you use it to shape the world around you. Haven't you been listening to what I've been saying? It's literally a burden of leadership that's been placed on your shoulders."

So that's why Thorne had adopted me. That's why she had paid a million galleons. That's why... that's why I was here. It was because of the ancient wizard guy. It was because I had something to do, a task to fulfill. And even if I tried to escape, Thorne owned me. There was nothing I could do.

"I'm a god," I whispered.

A pause, a tiny exhalation, and then, "yes."

I felt numb.

"You're going to make me kill him."

A pause. "No, Harry, I'm not."

I looked up.

Thorne took a deep breath. "You have no idea — " She stopped and shook her head. After a moment, she tried again. "The Dark Lord is — " Again, she stopped. A sound frustration left her. "I don't know how to talk to you," she admitted.

I didn't know how to talk to her either — but then again, I didn't know how to talk to anyone. In many ways, I had spent so long hiding my magic from the world, I had forgotten how to be... part of it. Sometimes it felt like the more I wanted to talk — the more I wanted to not be alone — the harder it was to make the words come.

"I'm not made of glass," I said quietly. "Just say what you want to say."

Thorne nodded slowly. "Okay, look. There are dark wizards who are good, I'm not saying there aren't, but in England, most of them are..." She grimaced. "It's not just the Dark Lord, you understand. It's everyone under him. It's what they do to people. It's what he allows to happen. The magical population of England, it's devastated. Most sensible folk are gone. Talk to anyone. People are terrified. And, for all intents and purposes, you're the only one who can stop it."

Thorne laughed, a thin sound. "It's never happened this way before. The gap between you and he... children of prophecy are always born close to each other — always. It's without precedent! The Dark Lord is fifty — no, over fifty! — years older than you. And you're fifteen. Fifteen! It's almost funny. The Dark Lord, he's so strong, so skilled. I can barely... and Albus won't... and you... until yesterday, you were gone. How you were hidden is a mystery, but when I found out you were back?"

She leaned forward, hands clasped together as if she were holding something precious. "Harry... you don't understand what it meant. For the first time in I don't know how long, I thought to myself... maybe we have a chance. What he does to the people here, you have no idea..."

We sat in silence for a while.

I thought things over.

The wizarding world sure was a strange place. Prophecies, gods, chosen ones, dark lords, ancient seers... it was batty. I liked Thorne, though. She was nice even if she was really strange. I liked that, though — I could deal with strange. And it certainly seemed like Thorne wanted me around.

Maybe... I could find a place to belong here. Maybe... I wouldn't have to be alone anymore. If I had to fight a Dark Lord to make that happen, well... I was willing to pay that price.

"Do you think I can beat him?" I asked.

Thorne sighed. "...I hope so."

"And it would make you... happy... if I did?"

Thorne nodded.

If I was honest with myself, I also wanted to trust Thorne. I wanted to believe she was truthful — that she was who she seemed to be. This morning, in the span of ten minutes, the Dark Lord had almost killed me. Twice. If he wasn't going to leave me alone, if I couldn't hide any longer... I needed someone in my corner.

Not knowing what else to do, I reached over and gave Thorne a little poke.

"You didn't introduce yourself earlier."

Thorne seemed to be the happiest when she was talking. If I could get her to talk, maybe she'd cheer up.

She chuckled. "I'm Thorne. I'm a dummy. I'm insensitive. I do things without thinking. I'm not just one Thorne. I'm many. I'm confusing. I'm batty. I don't make sense. I'm a mess of contradictions in a dress. I'm... a substitute god. Here for a while, but not always. I'd tell you my life story, but... it's not very interesting. Let's... why don't we do the contract now."

Silence fell as Thorne left the room. In her wake, warmth crashed down on me. "Hello Mystery Girl," I said.

"Fleur."

"Fleur?" I asked, confused.

"My name. It's Fleur."

Oh.

"You have a pretty name."

"Harry?" Thorne was back, parchment and quill in hand. "Most families have a lawyer draw their contract up. I did it that way with Daphne, and let me tell you, it's pretty time-consuming. So, because I'm old and have no time to waste, we're gonna do it the fast way." With a flourish, she set the parchment down. "We'll take turns writing our expectations on the back of this mail order form. Only thing I had lying around. Awkward. Hope the contract office likes Bubotuber pus."

I didn't bother asking what Bubotuber pus was. It sounded... icky.

In loopy cursive, Thorne labeled the parchment:

CONTRACT OF DESTINY

I peeked over her shoulder as she finished writing her first demand.

1) HARRY POTTER will always treat THORNE like the goddess she is.

When Thorne handed the quill to me, I leaned down and wrote:

thorne will always make sure harry has food when she has the time.

Thorne shook her head. "Shortie... that's not how contractual language works." She took the quill and scratched out my line.

2) THORNE will make HARRY POTTER whatever food he wants, whenever he wants it.

Throne scribbled her next request.

3) HARRY POTTER will not enter THORNE'S bedroom under any circumstances.

Weird request, but okay.

"Trust me, I'm doing this for your sake. I've got morning breath like a you-know-what."

The truth-seeker stopped spinning and fell to the table with a klunk. For a moment, we both stared at it.

"Aha... awkward. Anyway."

Thorne passed me the quill. As fast as I could, I scribbled:

thorne will teach harry magic when she has the time.

Thorne snorted. "You really need to work on your assertiveness."

Again, she rewrote.

4) THORNE will devote her body, heart, and soul to the magical education of HARRY POTTER.

"Now that's what I call a contractual imperative," she said proudly. Humming to herself, she wrote the next line with letters so large it took up half the parchment.

5) HARRY POTTER won't lie to THORNE about anything,
ever, under any circumstance, on pain of death.

I stared dubiously at that line. For a second time, I tried to explain I wasn't a talk-shit-out kind of guy.

"Well, get ready, buddy. We're a talk-shit-out kind of family."

thorne won't lie to harry.

Thorne stared at it for a moment. "Sorry, kiddo," she said and scratched it out. Her quill paused, hovering on the parchment. "Oh, fuck it," she muttered after a moment and wrote:

6) Until he's strong enough to stand on his own, THORNE will never lie
to, discourage, or abandon HARRY POTTER in any way, shape, or form.

While I was reading, Thorne wrote her next request.

7) When THORNE asks HARRY POTTER to kill her, HARRY POTTER must obey.

I froze, hesitating. "Why?"

"When I ask you, you'll understand. Sorry kiddo, them's the rules."

Fleur's voice. "She wants to pick her killer."

"Why?" I asked, but I never heard Fleur's reply because, at that moment, Thorne gripped my chin, tilted my head down, and stared right into my eyes.

"Who's in there with you?" she asked softly.

"Um... I think... I think she's a friend?"

"Hm." Thorne tilted my head left and right, observing from all angles. "Occlumency first, then."

A new emotion came from Fleur — arrogance, smugness. "I'd like to see you try."

"Harry? There's still one point left."

Oh, right... the quill was in my hand. I stepped back to show Thorne what I'd written.

8) If, after this contract is signed, HARRY POTTER asks THORNE
why she must die, regardless of circumstance, she must answer.

Thorne whistled through her teeth. "Dangerous." Her eyes were calculating. "What's to stop you from asking tomorrow?"

I pointed at rule numbers one, two, three, four, five, six, and seven.

"This is... important to you?"

A short nod.

The contract between us burst into flames.

"We didn't sign it," I pointed out.

"We are gods." Thorne's hazel eyes bore into mine. "Only one contract binds us."

She touched my temple. "You will do it. No matter what?"

I touched a stitch in the center of her nose. "When the time comes, when you ask me to... I will kill you."

Ending Note:

[1] Beta'd by Jarizok.