twice twined, once forged

by InkwardSpots

There aren't many things that Ianthe doesn't wonder about. She wonders why her parents died without her, she wonders why Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon need to be so cruel, and she wonders why Dudley needs a racing bike for his birthday, but most of all, she wonders what the word Voldemort means and why it's written on her chest . Then the letters arrive.

5. Chapter 5

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Chapter 5 - madam malkins, ollivanders and soulmates -- burning, burning, how much more can she take?

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Ianthe was quick to realize that Professor Quirrell was a quick walker, someone who didn't have time for dilly-dallying, it seemed. He took not a second to slow down, and instead the path cleared for him, some wavering between crossing across him but deciding not to because of some reason beyond themselves.

Ianthe hurried behind him, like a duckling after its mother; unlike Hagrid, however, Professor Quirrell didn't seem inclined to wait for her, often leaving Ianthe behind. In the past ten minutes they'd been walking, Ianthe had been toppled over by some adult at least three times and had had to push and shove against the tidal waves of people in order to find Professor Quirrell who didn't even seem to notice that Ianthe wasn't trailing behind him anymore and was instead looking ahead intently, a barely noticeable play of the lips telling Ianthe that he had the reason to believe that she was still there.

He stopped in front of a shop displaying a moving mannequin that seemed to twirl every now and then, showcasing a soft blue robe as well as another mannequin that held a purple robe covered in sequins.

Ianthe finally caught up, face hot as she panted over her knees,"...understand, Miss. Potter?"

He turned around to her, eyes inquiring yet still cold, cold,cold.

"Yes," she breathed out, heart skipping a beat as she tried to catch her breath. Quirell's eyes narrowed,"Do not lie to me; It will be of no use. Now tell me, did you even listen, Potter?" Ianthe's eyes started to glow a fraction, her temper rising despite her need to contain it, "No." she bit out, teeth clenched, "You were walking too fast, so I couldn't keep up."

"Was that so hard?" he smiled, but it was all teeth, it didn't belong on his face, no matter how much he tried to fake it, "Come, we'll get your uniform Miss. Potter. We should get you some new clothes as well; I wonder why on Earth you would wear those rags."

Ianthe flushed at that, a clench of the jaw as he opened the door and walked in, glancing over his shoulder to make sure she had followed him in, like waiting for a disobedient pet. He knows nothing, said the voice, and he will learn nothing, but control your temper, fool.

The door cluttered shut as she walked in, assaulted by light snip-snaps and the quiet murmur of both staff and customers. A woman rushed forward, a smiling squat witch with streaks of auburn in her mostly-grey hair, a pair of glasses perched upon her nose and dressed in mauve.

Quirrell looked around the shop, an air of disinterest but eyes sharpening when he spotted a man dressed in black robes with silky platinum locks in the corner. He ignored the both of them, eyes still intent upon the man as Ianthe started to speak, "Hogwarts uniform, please. Oh, and do you provide normal daywear?"

The woman tutted, "'Course," she cast a glance at the Professor who only waved her away, "Do choose something decent, Potter." he said, eyes narrowed at her skinny form, all bones and odd limbs, messy hair and acidic eyes, a suspicion forming.

"We've got the uniforms, we all do, even old Twilfitt and Tattings." she wrinkled her nose at the name as she walked Ianthe towards an empty stall beside a pale-faced boy, "Bunch of price-risers. The question is, would you like muggle wear or Wixen wear, dearie?" Ianthe bit her lip, soft and supple under her teeth, "How about both?"

The woman nodded - a kind smile on her lips, a stark contrast from Quirrell's sharp one. "Right you are, we'll sort that out after your uniform. Got another lad being fitted up right now, as a matter of fact." She led Ianthe to a footstool next to a pale, pointy-faced boy with grey eyes and alabaster hair being decked up in a long, draping piece of cloth - the Hogwarts uniform probably; she could make out the pale crest on the side, without any emblem decoration.

Ianthe stepped up onto the school, the woman –- Madam Guinevere, Ianthe belatedly realised, from her name tag - slipped a matching robe over her head as Madam Guinevere set about pinning it the right length.

"Hullo," said the boy, a keen look in his eyes and something else - excitement and - nervousness?

"Hogwarts too?"

"Yes," said Ianthe.

"My mother's out collecting books, and father's in the shop somewhere, he must've wandered off." The boy had a bored drawling voice, "After that, we're getting my wand from Ollivanders. I still don't know why Gregovitch can't just come over from Germany."

So Ollivander's a wandmaker, and Gregovitch too, by the sounds of it, Ianthe thought.

"Maybe because he's got better things to do with his time?"

The boy's eyes narrowed, "He'd be honoured to provide a wand for a Malfoy, why on Hekate's name wouldn't he?"

"Hold on, Malfoy?"

The boy smirked, "I see my reputation precedes me,"

"Not in the way you might think." Ianthe grinned, "I met someone today, she said that you were boasting about" - act like you don't know her -- "Potter being in our year,"

Malfoy turned pale with dread, "It was Kalypso wasn't it? She heard!" He flushed in embarrassment, two red splotches against his cheeks as Ianthe watched, the two women still snipping away, seemingly ignoring their conversation.

"How do you know her?" Ianthe asked, sending a glance around the room to find Professor Quirrell was but was only minutely surprised when she couldn't find him.

"She and my father are business associates, they're also related - first cousins, I think." He jutted his chin out, "She says she works for the Ministry Archives, but I think she's an Unspeakable." He had a conspiratorial look on his face, as if he was divulging a great secret.

"Unspeakable?"

Malfoy smirked a little, "They work in the Department of Mysteries - researching about experimental potions and such, deciphering forbidden texts, learning about Soulmate Magic, even if most say that it's impossible to truly understand it."

He looked as if he had been struck by a thought, he seemed more enthused than the boy from earlier who had spoken with a cold drawl but now with a voice tinged with excitement. She had spoken with him for a few minutes, carried out a proper conversation, and for the girl with so few friends her age, it was invigorating. She should probably get his name though; calling him Malfoy in her head didn't seem very polite.

"Say, have you met your soulmate yet?"

"Soulmate?"

"Yes. Of course, I haven't met mine yet, but I'd hate for them to be a mudblood wouldn't you?"

Ianthe hummed, and wondered, Soulmate?

Madam Guinevere tutted, eyes piercing, "No use of that word in this establishment, lad. Best mind your tongue; never know what trouble it'll get you into." She returned to her work as the boy turned his head away from her with a "Humph!"

Another word to learn about, mudblood and soulmate. I wonder why Madam Guinevere told Malfoy not to use it?

They lapsed into a short lull of silence. "What house do you think you'll be in?" he carried on without waiting for an answer, "Of course, no one really knows what house they'll be in, but I'm sure I'll be in Slytherin, the best of the best, the most pure of the lot; every Malfoy has gone there, though we've had the occasional Ravenclaw." he said importantly as Ianthe watched on as he puffed his chest out, like a peacock. "Imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave - but Gryffindor would be worse, don't you?"

"The thing is, Malfoy, I'm not sure what house I'll be in. If houses run in the family, I might go to my parents' house, but I'm not even sure what house they were in."

"Not sure? By the sound of it, your parents must have been of our kind,wix, you know, how can you not know their house? I mean -"

"They're dead. I was raised by muggle-relatives; I only got my letter today. "

"Oh, sorry." he said, he didn't seem very sorry, but to be fair, he hadn't even know them. The only connection he had to them was their daughter in the robes shop that was raised by muggles that he seemed to be having a chat with. "But having to live with muggles, how awful! How beastly." Beastly was the right word for Uncle Vernon that was for sure, Ianthe thought vindictively. "Who brought you here then? Don't tell me the muggles came here!" he swerved his head around, as if trying to spot the supposed-muggles.

Ianthe looked the blonde oddly, "'Course not, Malfoy. Don't be daft," she turned away from the boy, looking for the purple-turbaned man as she watched the boy flush in embarrassment from the corner of her eye.

"He's over there," she gestured with her head towards a collection of seats where Quirrell lounged, one leg crossed over the other by the looks of it, as if a king even when sitting in a squashy armchair, conversing with a man with the same pale locks as Malfoy, the older Malfoy by the looks of it irate and surprised, judging by the quizzical look on his face as he talked with Quirrell.

"That's Professor Quirrell, he brought me here. He teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts, Hagrid said he taught Muggle Studies before though. Hagrid said he doesn't believe he'll last, something about a curse on the position?"

"Yes," he said slowly, "Muggle Studies though!" he said outraged, "What is a Muggle Studies Professor going to teach us about Defence? It would've been best if he stayed with that wishy-washy subject; like we need another class on top of that Muggle Culture class. Tch!" he scoffed, turning his head.

"All done dearie," Madam Guinevere chirped at last, cutting a final spare piece of thread. Ianthe hopped off, Malfoy done too by the looks of it. They slipped the uniforms off, the assistant taking them and scurrying away - probably to wrap them up and check them over.

Ianthe looked around for Quirrell, spotting him still in conversation with Malfoy Snr. Quirrell seemed extremely amused though, not that the elder Malfoy noticed as he carried on blasé, waving his hand about as he stood with Quirrell after he seemed to spot that his son had finished. The scar on Ianthe collar tingled once more, an odd feeling of amusement spreading even though Ianthe found nothing to be funny at the moment. Something was definitely wrong with it, but she didn't feel comfortable checking right now.

The two made their way forward. Malfoy the younger straightened, the excitement spilling over into a grin. "Father," he greeted with a small dip of the head as he addressed the older man, Quirrell coming up to stand behind Ianthe, "I've finished up with my uniform. The assistant should be bringing it soon."

The older man nodded, "Good, Draco. I've just been conversing with Professor Quirrell, he'll be your Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor." He sneered. It could either be at the subject name or even the Professor teaching it. "I'm sure he'll report to me if you are anything less than satisfactory, yes?" with a small turn of the head and nod to his son, a shoulder coming to rest on the boy's shoulder. Lucius turned to the Professor, an inquiring look, as if he expected to be followed without question.

The funny thing was, it seemed quite the opposite, as if instead, he was the one being played, by Professor Quirrell no less! And yet, when Professor Quirrell spoke, he had reverted back to his stuttering, "O-Of c-c-c-course, M-m-mister Malfoy."

The man - Lucius Malfoy. Slippery bloke, tha' man. - curled his lip, "Lord Malfoy, Quirrell." Quirrell's eyes flashed dangerously, something Malfoy - excuse her, Draco, seemed to notice, as well.

Something was going to happen, because for whatever reason, Quirrell didn't seem at all happy to have to call Malfoy Snr. Lord.

He shouldn't have to call that imbecile a Lord at all, he can't even recognize his own Master, the voice said, He'll be dead by the evening, what on Earth did Abraxas teach his child?

Ianthe not-so-smoothly interrupted, "If you're done with your grandstanding," - What are you doing!- was it the voice or her? Maybe both of them - "I'm sure you have some business to attend to, your wife must be waiting."

Lucius sent her a quizzical eye, an already perfected sneer making edging its way "And who might your new friend be, Draco?" Draco stood next to her, "This is - is…'' he trailed off, only realising now that he had neglected to ask for the girl's name. Ianthe smirked, extending her hand outward towards the elder man as Quirrell moved closer behind her, his robes brushing against the back of Ianthe's ankles, her foot lifting to step on something. "Potter, Mr. Malfoy. Ianthe Lily Potter." His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched as Draco let out a short, sharp gasp, his pale cheeks flushing as he stared at the girl, the girl who had been informed by Kalypso of his boasting of being in her year, which she had grinned about not even a few minutes ago.

"Is that true?" The Malfoy Lord looked down upon her (literally) before extending his hand in turn, "Pleasure, Miss. Potter," He took his hand back, somewhat surprised from the skinny girl who held such a strong grip, "I must be on my way, but I am sure we will meet again soon, Miss Potter," Not a hope, but a fact. "Come Draco, your mother must be waiting." He strode out the door, heeled-boots clicking firmly against the wood floor as Draco followed behind, the younger blond casting a final glance behind as his father waved his wand, collecting the proffered bag of uniform that the shop assistant had been about to offer.

Both Quirrell and Ianthe watched them leave, one wondering and the other calculating, yet both knowing that this meeting would set a precedent for many more.

They stared after them for a scant thirty seconds, watching as the two pale-haired males met an equally pale-haired woman, this one with high aristocratic cheekbones and the same grey eyes as Draco, she turned her head, staring right at them through the window as Madam Guinevere came nearer, before Malfoy's wife turned back her gaze, a hand wrapping itself around her husband's arm as another came to stroke her son's hair, her husband's hand resting upon his son's shoulder as he led them away, happy and content.

(my darling, mama loves you, i will always be with you, you understand? mama loves you, papa loves you, you are so loved, never forget we love you, darling… protect her, Lady Hekate.)

A forlorn feeling, deep within, a hope within, saying someday, we will have that. someday.

"Miss. Potter," a smooth, gravelled voice spoke from behind her, "Just how long exactly do you plan on stepping on my foot?"

Ianthe whipped around, panic filling her lungs as she stumbled backwards, tripping over the Professor's robes as she tumbled onto the floor, eyes blown wide. From the floor, she looked up to the man, who only stared back with eyes glinting red in the sun and an unimpressed and impassive look on his face.

"Tch," he scoffed as Madam Guinevere hurried forward, helping her up with a muttered, "Poor dear," evidently not overhearing her pronouncement of her name a few minutes earlier. "Come," she tutted, "Let's get you out of those rags and into the dressing room, I'm sure we'll have something for you to wear… you'll obviously want a full wardrobe, daywear and nightwear, a few formal pieces, how about winter wear? Autumn wear as well, maybe…? Those eyes - powerful magic deserves only a powerful wardrobe, maybe Witch's Night fabric, or even Vocem Persephone…how about Arsenic Meadow?"

She dragged Ianthe along by the bony wrist, unknowing or maybe undaunted by the fierce and deadly glowering sent from the green-eyed girl. The Professor let a quirk of the lips - maybe all I need to defeat her is a persistent seamstress? - amused despite not wanting to, calling out a barb to the short-heighted and skinny girl - too short, too skinny, too malnourished - you suspect, don't you? -"Be sure to dress decently, won't you, Potter? I'd hate to see you as a laughing stock on the first day."

Ianthe turned her head, eyes blazing an equally cutting barb on her tongue, "You can count on it, Professor, I'd hate to disappoint my favourite Professor, after all." she finished sweetly, hair voluminous and untameable as it trailed behind her, a quick glowing of the eyes sent as Quirrell's own lighted with interest, red and wild, wondering if those tell-tale eyes had been a trick of the light or not, wondering if the phantom jolt he had been sent when he had brushed her collar had been part of the prophecy's connection or not.

Wondering, wondering, and undoubtedly soon knowing.

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After being manhandled by Madam Guinevere, after being pinched and prodded, being encompassed with measuring tapes and spare needles put in somewhere or the other, with her scar tingling and tingling all the while, she had been shoved in a dressing room with the orders to wear those muggle robes and wixen ones, will you dearie? we'll use those as a basis for the formal wear ones, that'll take a while longer but we'll owl them over, darling.

After being accosted by the - frankly - too-judgemental mirror (Look at that hair! All split ends and much too ragged, you'll want to pay a visit to the salon, dear, unless it's Potter hair, nothing you can do about Potter hair, dear, even my enchanter knew that, and he was a daft fellow, I tell you - But those eyes, have you tried Knightley's Eyeliner? Eye liner could really make those pop, you know…) Ianthe had slid her ragged t-shirt over her head, her off-colour vest peeking through, the muggle clothes (when had normal clothes become muggle clothes?) set to one side, consisting of a few pairs of jeans, baggy pants, a few dresses, some tee shirts - some short-sleeved, others long and a few elbow-length - and a few pairs of shoes.

Her Wixen robes on the other hand, were standard cut she had been told - perfect for a day about and casual wear, she had chosen to have a robe made of Witch's Night, opting for embroidered designs in the hem, lilies, in honour of her mother. Witch's Night had been a colour Madam Guinevere had told set off her already striking eyes, but she had also chosen other robes - it seemed the Wixen population preferred eye-catching bright colours. From electric blue to neon green, Madam Guinevere had also informed her that colours could be changed on request, thanks to a nifty little spell, but the fabric quality would deteriorate if the fabric had magical properties and was especially resistant.

In the end, she had decided on a daring shade of fabric called Vocem Persephone, a deadly green with darker undertones that wrapped around her form. She had also tried an olive green robe, which had set against her skin tone nicely along with a light purple one with metallic, gold buttons down the front, reminiscent of some of Miss. Nirmala's more traditional clothing from India, a salwar kameez, she had once called it, but those would take longer to make and would be sent along later. She had chosen all her robes, had been given input from Madam Guinevere that she didn't look completely hideous, and had gone to check herself in the mirror to see if her muggle clothes fit, but that didn't explain her wide-eyed stare into the mirror at all;

No, in fact, the reason she stared into the mirror was because of her collarbone, more specifically, the scar on her collarbone, the one that had only ever been a small zigzag ranging to only five centimetres long, but now seemed to have grown, travelling slightly down her back and across her collarbone.

She blanched.

It had grown? Was that why it had been tingling all morning? She brought a finger up, tracing the now-extended lightning bolt scar. How? It wasn't possible, a scar wasn't meant to grow! It was a mark, a layer of not completely healed tissue. It had been with her all her life, like the name Voldemort - the name that even now stayed a not-quite blood red, that stayed and persisted - the name which had been whispered in a dark cupboard and under heavy stairs. But the scar, she had traced this scar, reassured in its continuity, but now her life had evolved, she had been introduced to magic, had been forced to change… and so too, it seemed, had her scar. Was that it? Had the magic, this exhilarating feeling, affected her scar? Or had it always had the ability to grow, and only just now decided to implement it?

She didn't know, but it was a mystery for a later time as Madam Guinevere took that moment to knock upon the door, "Dearie, are you alright?"

"I'm fine!" Ianthe called out, pulling on an a olive-green t-shirt with short sleeves that brushed past her hips to mid thighs, a boat neckline that showed the pointed tip of her scar, and pulled on a grey hoodie as she added a pair of leggings to the ensemble and some flat shoes, a light crème with a black buckle. "I'll be out in a moment, Madam!"

Ianthe emerged from the dressing room, clenching onto the ends of her shirt, the other clothes folded nicely in her hands as she stood nervously. Madam Guinevere tutted, "Yes," she muttered, one of the shop girls taking the spare clothes from Ianthe, glancing both unabashedly and curiously at the tip of Ianthe's scar, but was scared off with a pointed glare from the young girl herself.

Madam Guinevere cast a last glance at Ianthe's form, casting a final spell to make the neckline smaller, effectively making the scar disappear from sight, "Right you are, Miss. Potter," she smiled at Ianthe's taut form at Miss. Potter,"We'll send your robes along later, those'll take a little longer of course, but you'll get them soon enough." She gestured to the bags on a cushioned seat, "Your uniform, dear, plus winter cloak and that God-awful hat that Dumbledore always - always! - insists on putting on the list." she mumbled under her breath for a bit, something about tradition my arse! "Anyhow, we'll use those measurements with the fabric we picked earlier. Oh, and the nightwear will be sent later as well, of course, it'll be a surprise from us, so don't worry Miss. Potter, you're in safe hands." she smiled again, tapping her wand against the bags, the lot of them shrinking as Ianthe watched amazed, a whimsical smile emerging.

"Once you get your wand, just tap it against the side and it'll enlarge, dear, got that? Come now, that Professor of yours must be waiting." Ianthe grew indignant, "He's not my Professor!" Madam Guinevere laid a hand on Ianthe shoulder as she handed the green-eyed girl the shrunken bags, leading her towards Quirrell who seemed to be staring out the shop window, lounging on the chair like a king "Didn't you say Quirinus was your favourite Professor?"

"As an act, yes, certainly not in seriousness, Madam."

Madam Guinevere hummed behind the counter as Ianthe drew out the necessary Galleons (32) and Sickles (73), "I see, Miss. Potter," she said, collecting the Galleons with a flick of her wand and a Wingardium Leviosa,"I had not expected Quirinus to act as he did, you see, dear. He seems much more cold, he was never like this during that brief stint as one of our shop assistants."

Ianthe might have snorted a bit at the cold-eyed and sharp-toothed Professor as a clothes assistant, but no one but her needed to know. Madam Guinevere finished putting the money away, handing Ianthe her change, before handing her a brochure for postal service deliveries for Madam Malkins. Ianthe had a burning question though, "Madam, how did you know it was me? I mean, I was Ianthe Potter? I don't think you heard my brief stint with the Malfoys."

"Dear, did you not know? Your magical signature practically screams differently than others, more powerful than the average wix. You would need to be after all, for what you did," - what have i done, tell me! - "but I've only met a few others who have a more powerful magical signature than others. Mind you, not everyone has this ability," she tutted, casting a glance towards the purple-robed man who seemed to be getting impatient,"Quirinus never had much of a powerful aura, more into books, but he seems to have gained more raw magic than before, he seems to be repressing it though. I hope he hasn't got into trouble, dear…"

Ianthe grew hungry for more knowledge at the words of magical signatures, "Can anyone learn to read magic signatures?"

Madam Guinevere smiled fondly at Ianthe's curiosity, "No, not anyone. The ability is passed genetically; it sometimes skips a generation or two. I remember someone - who? Oh yes! - Dorea Black, she was a mentor for some of the other children with magical signatures, she taught me a few times as well, she was exceptional at reading different people's auras, the Aurors and Unspeakables simply begged her to join their departments." Madam Guinevere remembered fondly, "She married your great-grandfather I believe, Charlus Potter - caused quite a stir in the Wizengamot when he married Dorea. The Potter's have always had a latent ability, it boosted the ability when they married and produced Fleamont, your grandfather, he never had an active ability but it was enough to get him into the course at Hogwarts. Terrible that he died of Dragon Pox, you know? But I'm getting away with myself," she laughed jovially, "come along, dear; we mustn't keep Quirinus waiting too long, such an eager and impatient Ravenclaw, after all."

In that conversation, Ianthe had learnt more about her family - her father's family - than ever before. She had held her mother and Severus close, her father as well, but now she knew of others; Dorea Potter née Black, her great-grandmother, an exceptional magical signature reader, Charlus Potter, her great-grandfather, and Fleamont Potter, her grandfather - her dad's dad! - who had been enough of a magical signature reader to get into this course at Hogwarts, this magical signature reading at Hogwarts. She wondered if she would have this ability as well.

And Ravenclaw, why had she heard that name before, not from Draco, but somewhere else?

Madam Guinevere stood a little ways off from Professor Quirrell, wary as she waved Ianthe off. Ianthe walks towards the man, who stared out the window, "Are you done, Miss. Potter?" he said, still staring out the window, eyes trailing over the passing figures.

"Yes, Professor." He turned to her, casting a glance over her form, "It will do," he said at last, lingering on her collarbone, phantom tingles travelling through him as he drew his gloved fingers together. He stood, "At least you don't look like a street urchin anymore." Ianthe bristled, teeth clenching and glaring outright as he turned around, probably not oblivious but very much amused, "Come, we must be off." he cast a glance back at her as he opened the door, assessing her skinny form once more.

She stepped out the door, eyes immediately drawn to the parlour, specifically, Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. She stared at it for a moment, before dragging her eyes away reluctantly.

You suspect, and yet you don't grant her this? How many times have we gone hungry, how many times were we exorcised, how many were we called demon, devil-?!

...I thought I'd stamped you out, all those years ago, the damned remains of my conscience?

Obviously not, but look at her! Tell me you do not feel; tell me that what happened to us - to you - was not real. Look, look her in the eye - you must.

Look at her?

Why, it was the only thing he could do at the moment. He looked, the vestiges of the Dark Lord Voldemort's soul, and he looked; looked at the child of the prophecy, whose very touch sent a jolt through him (the connection or something else?), he looked at the girl destined to bring his downfall, at the last remains of his loyal servant's foolish mudblood love (but who was he to talk? he had not ever felt something as pure, as weak, as love.). he looked at her glowing eyes (pure power, pure might;"... only power and those too weak to seek it, my Knights! It is because of this, we will reign!"),he looked at her skinny form (lashings, the Priest had said, pulling the rope tighter and tighter, tying him against the chair, are men's punishment against men. This, he got closer, inching closer, saliva flying against the young boy's face, Holy Water doused on him - the sixth exorcism, after all - sending him spluttering, is God's punishment against Satan. - Odd, Tom thought faintly, four years old and too young, I thought it was your punishment against me, for being different? - With the Lord's blessing, we will cure you, and so the chants began.), he looked at her thin frame and unruly hair, at the destined enemy; Remember all you have wilfully forgotten and thrown away, and you will sympathise.

Please... have mercy... have mercy... Not Ianthe, not my darling girl! Please, not her!

(...disgusting.)

He looked, and his eyes hardened, "Let's…snack somewhere, Potter." He strode forward, leaving her trailing behind, "You'll complain all the while, otherwise."

He pulled up a chair for her, a flick of his trusty wand, "Well?"

She smiled, bounding forward, plopping herself down as she brang the menu closer.

Well done.

(Weak - weak to your conscience, weak to the girl! What next,Tom?)

He looked at her, thin smiles and thin bones, too brittle and too weak, and he cursed; why do I stare at a reflection of myself?

{We mock and mock and mock, yet those eyes, burning and burning, haunt us forever-}

Ianthe looked around, eyes wide as she looked around, noticing how Quirrell watched her with narrowed eyes as they waited for ice cream (she had been shocked when Quirrell had ordered a vanilla and blueberry with chocolate sauce to contrast her own raspberry and chocolate with chopped nuts). Nonetheless, Ianthe still noticed the many people with festive bandanas and colourful bracelets, or still too the people with words, with phrases and names scrawled anywhere and everywhere - their wrists, straight across their cheeks and even some large ones on their arms, wrapped around like a bracelet.

A gangly sort of boy, pimples across his face with fair hair and dressed in a mangled-with-ice-cream apron presented their ice creams in rather large glasses, each perfected and sure to be tasting heavenly by the looks of it. Accompanied with the glass, was a small plastic spoon. Ianthe popped the treat into her mouth, watching as Quirrell did the same, an appreciative look sent at the dish by the older man, despite Ianthe's incredulous thoughts at him enjoying ice cream. Sometimes, in the moments of tinted red eyes, it seemed as if he was otherworldly, as if he was to be feared, and yet Ianthe wouldn't let herself cower - she had done too much of that already in her life.

Fake it till you make it, as they say.

Looking at the Professor again, it seemed like he was in a good enough mood - so maybe Ianthe should make her move? Might as well, she thought.

"Professor," she started, bringing her spoon down from her mouth, ignoring his burning glance, "These people," she looked at the passing crowds and then at him, "why do they have those pieces of cloth - bandanas and bandages? Why do they have those bracelets? Why so some words against their skin? What do they mean?"

The purple-turbaned man stopped still, the spoon halting at the brim of his lips, "It seems I must have The Talk with you." he murmured eyes heavy and disbelieving at the thought of explaining the concepts of soulmates to his arch nemesis.

He lay his spoon down, fingers coming to rest upon his lap, "Miss Potter," he began, reminiscing of that horrible moment years ago when that blasted man had told him about soulmates, had told him that at their first touch (the touch of a lonely orphan boy and his destined) those words would appear, yet his had never did (he had wished and wished, yet Hekate had not blessed him, and so he had turned his back on the notion of soulmates (of love)

"There is something I must explain to you," - don't let it be what i think, don't let it be what i think -"It is something that most will have learned at an early age, but evidently you have been neglected,"- don't! -"I will have to tell you about soulmates,"- phew! wait - soulmates? -"seeing as Hagrid," he sneered again,utterly incompetent, he thought, "didn't see fit to tell you, I will fill you in."

"Soulmates," he began, a hard look in his eye, "are, in the simplest form, your destined partner. Be they platonic or romantic or other, you have one. They will be with you always, they will haunt you, if we must put it that way, some say that Lady Hekate - more commonly known as Mother Magic," - an echo in the depths, protect her, Lady Hekate - "made it so that each Wix had a soulmate; someone to complete each other with, more commonly in the form of romantic or platonic soulmates. You'll find the odd sibling or parent-child marks, even mentée and mentor. It all depends, and some forms have never been found out and are yet to be discovered; Soulmate Magick is a deep and complex thing, Potter." he intoned, peering at her.

"The marks are more commonly drawn upon the skin at birth; they can vary from single words to phrases and even more rarely, names. You'll find some that are in foreign languages as well or even dead languages," he said, twirling his wand together with deft fingers, in his element ('e was fine studyin' outta books / more into books). Yet those hands that twirled the wand, upon closer look, they didn't only hold the calluses of pens (or was it quills? She had spotted a shop showcasing a few earlier,), or just the nicks of paper cuts; they seemed more experienced, more agile, more fluid, than a typical person's hands would be.

"The marks," he continued, "Are normally seen at birth, true, but some others will reveal themselves at other times; accidental magic," - Lily, Lily! Did you see? Our baby girl, she summoned them! Her toys! She's brilliant, she's marvellous! She'll be a pranking asset - imagine Sirius's face! Summoning spells! / James Potter! Our daughter is brilliant, I agree, but you will not use her to one up Sirius on those pranks - James! Don't you dare throw the food with Ianthe! No -" a loud giggle and even louder groans "Oh, why do I even bother with you two?" a fond smile and kiss to her husband's lips and her daughter's forehead, "Like father, like daughter; troublemakers, the both of you. "But you love us?" "Was there even a need to ask? Of course I love the both of you; Till my dying breath, my sweet hellions." - "a soulmate's first touch," - waiting, waiting, waiting, forever waiting / mocking, mocking, mocking, forever mocking - " or a magical catalyst." - not my baby girl! - Avada Kedavra! - a flash of green light - asleep and bundled, unknowing but her collar, burning, burning, burning.

"Sometimes, people go on their whole lives without meeting their soulmates," - where are you? why do your eyes (demonic green with a ringlet of gold) haunt me? you left me alone before i even knew of you - (i was always alone, wasn't i? you had left me to be burnt / Gaunt or Riddle - mother or father / she died in childbirth, boy, and she was no beauty. An ugly dying woman who birthed an even more tarnished and devilish son! - devil, demon! you are no son of mine! / but instead, i will burn brighter than your foolish eyes can handle and i will burn your worlds down. burn, burn, burn!) - "whilst some fall in love with others, following the more unconventional approach of choosing your soulmate, regardless of your true destined one." - was that it? you've fallen for someone else? you've left me, for someone who is not your own? fine! i have lived and thrived alone and i will gain glory alone! - but in the night, in the blanket of darkness: don't leave. please.

"Regardless," forget, forget, forget, "those marks can be placed anywhere upon the body." bury, bury, bury, "it is considered taboo to display or talk of your soulmark if you have not found them, so many choose to cover theirs with coverings; bandanas, bandages, bracelets, magical glamour's." burn, burn, burn, "while those who do not simply have their own marks in places where they can be covered by normal clothing." we need no one. (we lie.)

The mark upon her collar: Voldemort.

It was - it was a soulmate mark.

A name or a phrase? A foreign language or a dead language?

vol gratuit, as we say - flight for the free, in angláis, i believe, ms. smith?

Vol – flight

…the french preposition de is generally defined as the three: of, from, or about.

De – from

An inkling, a memory - children, after me: la vie for life and mort without the 't' for death. well done!

Mort - death.

Vol-de-mort.

Voldemort - otherwise known as flight from death.

A phrase that was taken as a name.

Ianthe wondered what it meant, her mind tried to connect the pieces, scrambling and scrambling, but something was missing, some vital piece. What was it?

And yet, even then, Ianthe couldn't hold back her elation. A soulmate.

Someone just for her, someone to take hold of and someone who would cherish and hold her close, be that in whatever way; as a friend, as a mentor or even as someone to love (and someone who would love her in turn.) Her heart, it sped up, beating, beating, beating; warm and alive, so that she could meet this person, her person, so that she could look them in the eye and say i am yours and you are mine, remember and never doubt.

Nonetheless, despite her unbridled joy, she could savour over these moments later, by herself (and maybe tell Dudley).

She had another question though, "Thank you Professor," Quirrell hummed, "But what are Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, Gryffindor and Slytherin? Malfoy mentioned them when we were talking earlier, something about houses as well." Quirrell hummed again, "Yes, I expect he would. Tell me, did he go on that Slytherin spiel again? Best of the best and most pure of the lot?" he mimicked, in an absurdly Malfoy-esque voice.

"Yes," Ianthe said slowly, "he did."

Quirrell leant back, "Slytherin and Gryffindor, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, those are all school houses. Upon entry into the school, you are sorted into one of the four; it is tradition to not tell how, so don't bother asking - it's also quite amusing, watching the lot of you scared witless." he smirked, "Now come," he said coldly, previous traces of amusement gone, "We have some shopping to do, I believe."

He walked away to pay and Ianthe leant back into her chair and glared mutinously at his back, "Gosh," she grouched, "It's not as if it's the whole point of this bloody trip now, is it?"

---

They bought Ianthe's school books in a shop called Flourish and Blotts. The shelves were stacked to the ceiling with different books; some as large as paving stones covered in dark leather, books the size of postage stamps that were covered in silver silk and books that had only peculiar symbols written on the lot of them. Dudley had never even read a book, and yet Ianthe was sure he would love to get his hands on some of these (Prank Your Friends and Befuddle Your Enemies - A Wix's Guide to Revenge: Hair Loss, Jelly Legs, Tongue-Tying and much, much more!).

They got all the required books, yes, but then Professor Quirrell got all the additional books as well and dumped them in her arms, sending her toppling over onto the floor. As she muttered apologies and proceeded to pick up the books on the floor and dump them in her trolley, but then Quirrell swatted her hand and told her "Gently!" (Who knew he got as worked up on setting his books down gently as Aunt Petunia did on her china - "Girl, don't thrash them down like a hellion! Honestly, how many times? Gently!")

He turned his back and continued on, "Miss Potter, if you even want to be a somewhat decent student, I suggest reading those books before term starts. It will aid you in the long run, your Potions Professor will not hold back -" he turned back to the sight of Ianthe doing something with her hands, like a sock puppet, continuing to flap them about but abruptly pulling the offending hand behind her back. He blinked owlishly, his eyes narrowed, "Were you mocking me?" he grabbed the nearest book, a thin book titled Potions: How Not To Be A Complete Dunderhead by Nero Anfri and batted Ianthe round the head with it, sending her a narrowed smile and glowing red eyes, "None of that now, Miss Potter," before dropping the book on her head once more, striding forward and trying to not to murder Potter in this possessed body due to her sheer audacity of mocking the Dark Lord!

A red-headed girl in the next aisle - looking to be about nine grinned and her - presumably - older brothers (both twins) watched gobsmacked, jaws hanging, as Ianthe sheepishly rubbed the back of her head (Bastard) and waved to the small girl who waved back, before deciding to follow Quirrell again. She picked up the fallen book, and deciding it would be useful, tried to find Quirrell as he seemed to have taken the trolley with him (register your wand and the trolley'll follow you, luv.)

Nonetheless, on her search, she picked up some interesting books, Soulmates: The Mystery, The Lore and The Fact by Niko Azaralon, Runes: A Beginner's Guide by Bathsheda Babbling and Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald: Rise, Fight and Fall co-authored by Bathilda Bagshot and Diane Orallius.

In the end, she found him browsing the more dubious sections of Flourish and Blotts. "Professor?"

"Miss Potter," he dipped his head, "Have you selected your books?" -- How dare he, acting as if he didn't whack me on the head! - "Yes,"

He smiled that cold smile, "Let us be off then,"

---

Ianthe cast a look at the shop, urged by the hisses from it, ignorant of Quirrell's narrowed gaze at her hungry look. "Can we go in there?" she asked, gesturing towards the Magical Menagerie.

"Very well," he acquiesced.

They entered the shop and were immediately assaulted by a repugnant smell. They turned to each other and wrinkled their noses, trying to dull the smell - Quirrell with the end on his turban and Ianthe with her sleeve. A harried looking man, stringy in height and impossibly thin, smiled at them,"Welcome to The Magical Menagerie, don't mind the smell - we just got a shipment of Horklumps, they've been stinking up the shop for days! Been an absolute terror." he panted from behind his facemask, "Air refresher charm on these, might wanna grab one. Two sickles each."

They paid their due, and breathed in relief - well, Ianthe did. Quirrell only looked less repulsed. "Any who," said the stringy man, "What can I do for you? We have domestics - owls, cats, rats, even the odd crup, - or we can do the wild - kappa's, kelpies, moke's, how about a demiguise? Name it and we'll do our best to provide it - maybe not a dragon," he winced, "bit tricky those, but anything else and we're fine!" he said cheerfully, bringing his knees up and stamping it into a suspicious brown gloop, "Fertiliser, don't worry." He waved his wand about, much too theatrical and far to be of any use, and ever so slowly, a mop came to clean up the - fertiliser (that was a sure lie.).

"Charming," Quirrell muttered from behind his mask, "Potter," he said, leaning forward into her ear as the foolish man set along cleaning after the mop had fallen and bonked him on the head. "Choose your absurd pet and get outside, I'll be waiting." he walked out without another word, leaving Ianthe by herself with the disaster of the employee.

He had finished mopping and turned to her, "Where too, girlie?" she retched in her mind - Girlie! The voice said, outraged. "Reptiles, please." she asked. "Follow me then," he walked forward, nattering on all the while, something that Ianthe tuned out of. She cast an eye around, skipping rats, two cats and a litter dozing - not cats, Halfblood Kneazles, the sign read. There was a little dog - Crup - with a forked tail feeding from its mother and a little fluff ball in a glass cage squeaking about - Puffskeins, the information card said, are the perfect pet for young ones.

They happened upon the reptile section, where lizards - some the size of her forefinger and others the size of her forearm - roamed. The others that dominated here were snakes, hissing and spitting viciously whilst others lounged about, lying on their rocks and hissing for the others to "sssssshut up…"

"Right," the employee said nervously, " - err, you wouldn't mind if I pop off, would you?" he gulped, flashing green as one of the snakes - a two-toned green, the top darker while the lower lighter, a thin strip of black between the two as they merged together - stared avidly at them - at Ianthe.

"...of course not." Ianthe said at last, glad to have the bothersome shop assistant gone.

"Greetingssss…." she said, watching as the others - the ones who spat venom and curses, the ones who slept on, unbothered by the banalities of time - grew eager at once, watching her hypnotically, as if she were the essence of magic itself. "I have come," she began, "to choossssse one of you asssss my own."

They hissed in synchronicity, the one who had stared at her the longest, the bearer of envious eyes and vicious fangs from the other serpents. "Patience, my sssweetsss…." in this grip, in the tongue of the deadly and the vicious, she sang sweetened words of poison and vengeance, "but firsssst, entertain me." she demanded, eyes glowing as a sacred ritual - it was sacred, she knew, deep in the roots of her bones - took place.

"Let me, let me!" some chanted, whilst others instead said, "Sssssspeaker, sssssspeaker, choosssse me, pick me!"

They all tried to impress, some hissed at her sweet lullabies, trying to coax her ear; others swayed methodically, musically, trying to enchant her with their beauty, with their skill. The only one who did not try, who did not even deign to show any lavish or extravagant skill was the two-toned snake from earlier.

It only stared at her, undaunted but challenging, showing her dominance - showing how she would not kneel to impress a speaker, but would instead stand strong and meet them head on. Maybe it was this quality, maybe the heady look in the serpents eye, maybe it's undaunted spirit and venomous eyes (demonic, abnormal), or maybe all of these qualities that prompted Ianthe to approach the lone snake, ignoring the prickling stares of the others, "Greetingssss," the snake said, tongue sliding out to meet the air as it spoke from the other side of the glass, eyes a demonic green - much like the eyes of the girl on the other side of the glass. "You have the ssssscent."

"The sssssscent of home. Your blood sssssingssss, your magic ssssingsss; it isss...delicioussss." the snake admitted, moving closer to the glass to raise its head to the girl. Ianthe felt enchanted, felt encompassed by this beauty of a snake. She wondered if this was what Nagini must feel for her Master, this connection born of nothing but a shared language and magic.

"Your home? Where do you hail from?" Ianthe asked, sibilant hisses slipping and sliding easily. "India," the snake replied easily, rubbing her head against her coils, "The land of kingssss and queenssss, maharaja'ssss and rani'sss, of gold and power;" it hissed, "Your blood is home, too, to all of thossssse, to me. The blood is refresssshing, for two of the sssssame home - the sssssame land, the ssssssame ssssssoil, revitalize each other."

"I had been hunting, been hunting for my darlingssss, for my hatchlingsss," it hissed mournfully, tearfully - not my baby girl! - "They caught my mate first. He tried to attack them and they killed him, with their mage wandssss and that flash of green light. I tried to fight back, for my babiessss, for my hatchling," a low mournful hiss - a searing pain, a high cold laugh, a pleading scream and a flash of green light "but they took me, and from that moment, I knew I would never ssssee my hatchlingsssss again. But now," she looked straight at the girl, "The blood flowsss, the blood of a rani, and I will not let this chance esssscape! Take me, sssspeaker!" she demanded, "Take me, and together, we will revitalize each other! I know of you, hatchling." sibilant hisses from the others, warnings, "You, who were taken from the armssss of mother and father, of the king and queen, of the maharaj and rani, too early. You who defeated the last of the native sssspeakersss; we have both losssst, sssso we will become each other's family, yessss?"

Ianthe looked at the serpent who had lost so much, who had lost her family to a faceless and nameless killer, "What isss your title?"

The snake hissed once again, "Aathmika."

---

"Sir," Ianthe stood at the counter with a highly venomous and deadly snake wrapped around her neck and seeming as if she was on holiday, "I'd like to purchase this snake, if that's all right."

He leant forward and said very seriously, "I don't get paid enough for this shit." before fainting on top of the counter.

---

When she emerged from the shop, Mika (Aathmika isss ssssimply too long, she had hissed, call me Mika) secured around her neck and hissing observation like "The sssskinny one sssshould be fed more." and "I will bite anyone who triessss to hurt you, Mistresssss. Promisssse." with Ianthe carrying the shrunken pet necessities in her pocket (one tap of the wand, kid. And keep an eye on that one will you? Dumbledore's gonna have a field day, trying to keep all the kiddies safe from a massive ass snake, huh?) Quirrell simply looked bored when he spotted the snake wrapped around her shoulders, but he did sigh.

"Potter, Potter, Potter," he muttered, "Surely you must realise that you need to gain permission from our esteemed Headmaster to allow that into the school?"

Ianthe didn't look up from looking at the window displays, but did muse aloud, "If someone hates the Headmaster as I think they do, I wonder what lengths they would take to plague his mind with worry about a fairly large snake in the castle?"

On one hand, it was tempting, Quirrell thought, to add even a midget more of worry to Dumbledore's life by providing access to the castle with a snake (excluding the basilisk), but on the other hand, he'd be aiding the girl destined to kill him, wouldn't he?

It was simply too easy: "I'll see what I can do, Potter."

Ianthe grinned and happily swung her arms about as Mika swung her tail about and hissed in delight to her Mistress' delight; "Deliciousssss," the serpent said, peaking the Dark Lord's interest, "Mistresses magic issss sssssimply delicioussss."

Delicious? Such an odd choice of word, he thought as they turned another corner, the odd word choice put on a back burner for later.

---

In the end, Quirrell forced Ianthe to put Mika in her portable snake enclosure (But why?! She's perfectly harmless! - In case you haven't noticed Potter, your snake's scaring half of Diagon Alley! Now be reasonable and put her in there!) and they got two pewter cauldrons (In case one melts Potter, do catch up.) and a slightly more pricey version for the standard scales needed for weighing potions ingredients (higher quality means longer durability, Potter.) as well as a collapsible brass telescope (how about that one? - too many lenses. - that one? - too little lenses. - this one? - too large and impractical. - and that one? - too gaudy. My, you have terrible taste in design, Potter…) but he wouldn't let Ianthe buy a gold cauldron, for whatever reason (you said higher quality means longer durability! - that's different from excessive and unneeded spending, you'll turn into a malfoy! - …are they really all that snooty, Professor? - ...it goes back generations, if you must know.)

At the apothecary, while Professor Quirrell asked the man behind the counter for a supply of a basic potions kit (i'll add another one, shall i? the youngin's gonna be exhausted by the end of the first potions lesson, 'ccording to my niece.), Ianthe examined some silver unicorn horns at twenty-one Galleons each, golden thunderbird claws at sixty-seven Galleons and glittery, black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop) and at the trunk shop, Quirrell had seemed particularly vexed (just choose one! – but there all so useful! ooh, how about a family crest one – hekate!)

They had finished all their shopping with one last thing - a wand. "Ollivanders," Quirrell intoned, leading the way, "Is Britain's major wand supplier. The best of wands come from there, but you will find independent establishments that are just as worthwhile if less well-known. Do not rule out the seedier establishments either, if you want a deadly and more customised wand."

They stopped outside a narrow and shabby looking shop, the front window covered to the ceiling in dust and a single wand lay on a purple cushion. The sign, written in peeling gold, read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.

As they stepped inside, a bell tinkled lightly. It was a tiny place, cramped and squashed but filled to the brim with rows upon rows of thin boxes, lined in a seemingly hazardous favour; Ianthe felt strangely as if she had entered a very strict library - or a cathedral. A cathedral filled to the brim with holy pictures and sacred relics that seemed to judge you at every turn; how terrifying.

Ianthe had to swallow down a lot of new questions, feeling as if the very shelves, as if the very dust and silence hummed with some type of secret magic. She chanced a glance back at Professor Quirrell; he had taken a seat on the spindly chair, a distasteful expression on his face as it squeaked loudly, Mika hissing beside him in her snake tank, the man glaring as Ianthe grinned at him.

"Good morning," said a soft, whispery voice. Ianthe jumped at that, Quirrell not so much. In fact, the man only smiled easily, leaning backwards and folding his arms over each other.

A man stood opposite her, not particularly tall but neither particularly short - in other words, average; but, there was a large but, he looked - he felt anything but. He had wide pale eyes, like two luminescent moons in the gloom of the shop - those eyes; they were familiar, for she too had those to unnerving, too all-knowing eyes as the man opposite her. He looked at her intently, curiously, wondrously, as if he wished to see into her very soul.

"Hello," Ianthe said awkwardly, feeling oddly exposed under his blank gaze.

"Ah yes," said the silver-eyed man, "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon, Ianthe Lily Potter." It wasn't a question. He stared and stared, as if waiting for something extraordinary to happen. "The Girl-Who-Lived..." The Girl-Who-Lived? "The last child of The Potter's family…and, the girl to be marked and marked and marked, until…" he swallowed, "your final comeuppance passes."

Quirrell leaned forward, eyes burning. Her comeuppance?

Mr. Ollivander leant forward, eyes penetrating, "You have your mother's eye, yes, it is not like I could forget those eyes," he muttered mirthfully, "It seemed only like yesterday that she was in here herself with young Severus by her side," Sev! "buying their first wands. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow for your mother. Nice wand for charm work."

Mr Ollivander stared back at her as Ianthe maintained eye contact, knowing that this - this luminescent silver against demonic green was important, was vital. "Your father on the other hand, favoured a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Meant for the best of mischief, and I do believe that your father favoured it - it's really the wand that chooses the wix, of course."

His eye trailed to Ianthe's collar, a lone finger coming to press against the fabric, directly where it zagged upwards, "And there…" he said softly, "is where the mark lays - it has evolved, changed - how terrible. I'm sorry to say that it was I who sold the wand that did It." he said mournfully, "Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… Well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into the world to do…Lady Hekate has a funny way of showing her love."

He shook his head, and just like that, the moment was broken, and to Ianthe's relief, he spotted Professor Quirrell, "Quirinus! Quirinus Quirrell! How nice to see you again… you seem different however, maybe we need to get your wand adjusted? Alder, nine inches - springy, as I recall. Curious, that one. I hear Albus has convinced you to take the Defense position. How was your sabbatical, by the way?"

Quirrell twitched, "I-i-it w-was…" he paused, "e-e-enlightening."

Ollivander sent a piercing look at the purple-robed man, "It would be, wouldn't it?" but Ianthe wondered why he had resorted back to the stuttering, for he never even bothered in her presence.

"Now Miss Potter," he pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket, "Which is your wand arm?"

"Oh - well I'm right-handed."

He nodded, "Hold out your arm. That's it." he came closer and started to measure - from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round her head, like a crown. As he measured he spoke, "Every Ollivander wand has a core of powerful magical substance, Miss Potter. We use unicorn horns, phoenix feathers and the heartstrings of dragons." he tapped her elbow joint before bringing up her fingers and flexing them intently, "No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you'll never get such good results with another wix's wand."

At some point, he had moved off and the measuring tape had moved around at its own accord. Mr Ollivander now flitted about near the shelves, like a moth, pulling multiple boxes down.

"That will do," he said, placing a stack of boxes on narrow boxes on the counter, and then tapping the tape measure, allowing it to crumple gracefully to the floor. "Right then, Miss Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Go on, just give it a wave."

Ianthe took the wand and, feeling Quirrell's very palpable amusement, gave it a mighty wave like she was brandishing a sword. Ollivander snatched the wand almost at once, "Certainly not." he muttered, "Poor thing. Miss Potter," he reprimanded, "Please do not swing my wands as if they were swords, you'll have terrible wandform otherwise."

"But here, try this. Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches, quite whippy. Try-" Ianthe had barely given it a flick before Mr. Ollivander snatched it away once more.

"No, no - here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out."

Ianthe tried and tried and tried. She either felt repulsed by the touch, felt mildly queasy with the result or felt nothing at all. The pile of wands climbed higher and higher, nearly toppling off the counter. The more Ianthe tried, the more excited Mr Ollivander seemed to get, pulling box after box at record speed.

"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere - I wonder, now - yes, why not - unusual combination - holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple. Go on," he urged.

Ianthe took hold of the wand, and almost at once, she felt tingling warmth extending from her fingertips to the tips of her toes, and yet, whilst it felt right, it didn't feel enough. Soon, the tingling warmth turned to a scalding, burning heat. The wand quite literally caught on fire, in her hands, burning and burning.

"Aguamenti!"

A sudden burst of clear, cold water poured onto Ianthe's hands, prominent burn marks still evident despite the water. On the floor, surrounded by ash and charred wood, lay a single red and orange feather that seemed to simply shine, already dry from the water.

"Oh," Ollivander said at last.

"Oh, indeed, Ollivander!" scathed Professor Quirrell, "Come here, Potter," he barked, pulling her hands to himself and flicking his wand, the burns turning cool and slowly disappearing. Ianthe pulled her hands free, marvelling at the smooth skin, before bending down to pick up the softly glowing feather that seemed to calm in her hands, returning to its red and orange hue.

(why did you heal her?)

Professor Quirrell glared furiously at the elderly man, "What was that? Tell us!" he demanded. Mr Ollivander only glanced back before taking the feather from Ianthe's now-healed hands. "It seems Miss Potter," he said, gently stroking the feather, "that the core simply desired you far too much. It was due to that intent that the wood burned up."

"It also means that the wood is still very compatible with both yourself and the core, the phoenix feather was simply too eager, I'm afraid. The wood bursting into flames is very auspicious though, it symbolises a prosperous and strong relationship with your wand," he sniffed, sending a pointed glance at Quirrell who refused to stop glaring.

He handed the feather back to Ianthe. "Come Miss Potter, it seems that we must convene to my workshop. We'll have to test some different wand woods, maybe combinations? Yes…" he flicked his wand and opened the latch, disappearing between the shelves as Ianthe stayed behind.

She turned to Professor Quirrel, "Are you not joining Professor?"

He looked at her calculatingly, "Certainly not, Potter. It is bad character to know someone else's wand details if they have not explicitly told you. And besides," he said, "it is more probable than not that Ollivander has something he wishes to tell you."

"How do you know?"

"Why, do you think you are the only one whose visited that workshop of his?" arsenic eyes in your dreams and a wand of yew? my, you're very interesting, Mr. Riddle. "Now hurry along, he'll be waiting."

---

From behind many shelves of narrow boxes, Ianthe could just make out the silver wispy strands of Ollivander's hair. The boxes had golden lettering on the sides, twisting and turning and weaving;

As she neared the back, she happened upon many wood shavings on the floor, a cork board covered in newspaper cuttings. Cuttings of a man, strikingly similar to Mr Ollivander, smiling at the camera with an arm wrapped around a small boy (Lord Gervaise Ollivander presents Heir Garrick Ollivander and Plans to Commence His Wandlore Training) another image of a teenage boy, with silver eyes and pale hair - with a joyous smile, most of all - as he held a young woman close with the girl pressing a kiss to his cheek before grinning at the camera (the same soft smile, the same tender look in their eye) and another newspaper cutting with a shot of the front of the shop, the gold lettering still peeling but somewhat intact (Ollivanders Faces Ridicule For Introduction of Phoenix Feather, Unicorn Hair and Dragon Heartstring Wandcores). A red string connected that to another cutting, this one with Mr Ollivander, older and looking to be in his early thirties, and another man, this one with a square sort of face and bushy beard scowled out the paper before slamming his shop door (Ollivanders Proves Superior! What of Gregorovitch?)

Her eye drew to another section, the square-jawed man grinning at the camera as he showcased a wand to the camera (Gregorovitch Boasts Of An Incomparable Wand; Seeks to Replicate the Effect) this one connected by a purple line to a piece of parchment, (The Elder Wand: Folklore or Fact?) that one to another (The Deathstick: Did It Really Belong To Death?) and to another (Gregorovitch Break In!) before it stretched to a final one (The Tale of the Three Brothers - Was It All True? Grindelwald Seems To Believe So!) but then, there was another, a small cutting but connected nonetheless (The Deathly Hallows and Foe Marks: A Conspiracy or Not?)

"Miss Potter?" Mr Ollivander called from a shelf away, coming to her side, "I see you've found my board."

"Board?"

"I've recorded all of my personal accomplishments, it is something of an Ollivander tradition; and then, of course, some personal research," his eyes lingered on the mention of the Elder Wand and The Deathly Hallows.

"What is the Elder Wand? And these Deathly Hallows or - or the Foe Marks?"

"Ah, I'm surprised you don't know the story; most know the story as a child's bedtime story, but the Potter's hold it quite close." He led her to a wooden chair, continuing as she sat down, "The Deathly Hallows originates from a child's bedtime story, The Tale of the Three Brothers. As the story goes, three brothers, thought to be based off of the Peverell brothers, travelled down a winding and twisting road at twilight. They happened upon a fast flowing river that took many under, but being as they were wizards, they simply conjured a bridge for the lot of them with their wands," he smiled at Ianthe's captivated expression, reminiscing of another child that had been captivated by this tale, long ago. "Halfway across, they met the enraged spirit of Death. Many had fallen to their peril at the river, and he was enraged at being cheated out of his due. Instead, he cunningly congratulated them on outsmarting him and offered to award them gifts of their own choosing," he said, lining up a variety of different wand woods.

"The eldest brother, a combative man and excellent dueller, asked for a wand that was more powerful than any other in existence. Death granted his wish by fashioning a wand, dubbed the Elder Wand, from the branch of a nearby elder tree standing on the banks of the river.

The second brother, an arrogant and entitled man, wished to humiliate Death even further. He asked for the power to recall the deceased from the depths of the grave; Death, acquiescing, granted his wish by picking a stone from the river bank and gifting it to him, this became the Resurrection Stone. " Mr Ollivander said, brushing up the wood shavings still on the table.

"The last brother, the youngest and the wisest and most humble, did not trust Death and wished to travel forth without having to worry about Death on his tail. Death, most unwilling and reluctant, handed over part of his own invisibility cloak; it was thought to never wear and tear and was thus dubbed The Cloak of Invisibility."

"How creative," Ianthe muttered, earning a soft glance from Ollivander, "Yes," he said, "Quite creative, in fact."

"But, there was more. The three brothers soon took hold of their prizes and parted ways, as family is prone to do." he said with a tinged voice, adjusting an instrument on his work table, "The eldest brother travelled to nearby village where a wizard with whom he quarrelled lived. He sought a duel and fought using his new wand and won, leaving the dead wizard's body upon the floor, the dead man's family weeping at their loss. Emboldened by his success, and taken by his conscience and lust of the Elder Wand's power, he travelled to an inn not far from the duelling site, and taken by the wine on his tongue, boasted of the wand gifted by Death and his own invincibility. That very night, Death turned to a fellow wizard and told him of the Elder Wand's magical prowess. The man, determined to gain ownership of the wand, decided that he would steal from the eldest brother to gain the Elder Wand. Stealing into the inn, the murderous wizard watched as the eldest brother slept, drunk from the wine, and stole the wand, slitting the wizard's throat for good measure. And so, Death took the first brother.

The second brother returned to his home where he lived alone. Turning the stone thrice in his palm, he summoned the spirit of the girl he had wished to marry before her untimely death. She appeared, much to his delight, but was sad and distant, so unlike the girl he had fallen in love with for her vivacious spirit and love for life. Though she had returned, she did not truly belong; she was separated by a veil, the divide between the living and the dead. She suffered, and so, the second brother - driven by hopeless longing for his love - committed suicide by hanging himself from the balcony of his house so as to truly join her. That was the moment Death took the second brother into his kingdom.

As for the final brother, Death continued to look for him for many years, but he never caught sight of him. It was only when the final brother had reached a great age; he took off the Cloak of Invisibility and passed it to his son. Greeting Death as an old friend, greeting him warmly, they departed this life as equals, as friends." Ollivander finished, turning to the girl.

"The Elder Wand is revered by wandmakers all over the world, and you will find many who believe in its existence, including myself. Not many have claimed to have it, but those who have, have shortly after declaring it met a gruesome and violent demise. Many seek it, but most do not realise it is an omen of death and its owners often meet a bloody end - it is because of this that it has also claimed the title of Deathstick. The Stone of Resurrection has been heralded as a silly tale, something to add sorrow and tragedy to the story, as it even beyond the lengths of Lady Hekate and her gift to bring people back from the dead. The Cloak of Invisibility is believed impossible as invisibility cloaks are made of Demiguise hair, but after a time, they begin to wear and tear and lose their potency. The story is just that, a story," he turned around to collect some more woods, betraying his interest, "but interesting nonetheless."

"Now," he said sternly, "down to business, Miss Potter. I would like you to stand here," Ianthe stood and walked over to where he stood, "And tell me which one feels the most eager to bond with you; it is different for everyone, so do not worry if they do not feel secure at first."

Ianthe inched closer to the table, reaching out to feel that familiar warmth; she picked up the first, and while it tingled, it did not feel like home (like Miss Nirmala and the warm feeling she had when she looked at the photograph of Sev and Mum, like that blossoming feeling when she and Dudley had bonded over the letter - over magic.) The second repulsed her, causing her to put it harshly on the table, disoriented by touch of the wood - Elm, was what it had been. She continued on for some time, happening upon Holly - the wood that had burned up. She still felt the warmth, dulled - true - without the phoenix feather, but it still carried that familiar warmth but she felt - she knew, that for her wand, she required something else.

Holding it close to her chest, she felt out for the next wood her wand would need. Penetrating eyes zeroed on a single wood at the end of the line Mr Ollivander had spread out. The wood, a pale white and fine, seemed to stick out from the others, warmed in her hand, practically vibrating once she had joined all three of them - the phoenix feather, the white wood and the holly - together.

She brought them in front of Mr Ollivander who had turned pale, "Elder," he muttered, "Holly and phoenix feather; the brother, the brother and the material usurper and the spiritual protector. How curious, how positively, unimaginably curious!"

"Sorry, but what's curious?" Ianthe asked, only at once to be met with a pale-eyed stare.

"Miss Potter, I remember every single wand I've ever sold. Every single one. It just so happens, that the phoenix tail feather that rests in your wand - why, it gave only one other feather. Just one, to the man who gave you your mark, your scar." My scar? "It is curious you should be destined for this wand when, why, when it's brother gave you that scar; Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. The wand chooses the wix, and yet, it is curious how these things work. He -Who - Must - Not - Be -Named did great things - terrible, but great nonetheless; Brother Wands, such a tricky thing," he murmured, "And the elder wood, such a tenacious wood. The Elder Wand is, of course, infamous, but to gift an elder wood is equally trying - it is gifted to those of special destiny," he looked pointedly at her, "but it is also known as a material usurper, for many would kill - have killed- for the first wand of elder, for the Elder Wand; but what makes it so curious is not only that, but the fact that is has been paired with holly. Holly wood is seen as a spiritual protector, as many who have been paired with it have completed great quests - but to be paired with a phoenix feather when they repel each other so forcefully and elder, of which it has a hard time connecting with - for material and spiritual, they are at opposite end of the spectrum, after all, it is hard to believe they would ever bond together. And then, there is the issue of soul marks."

"What do soul marks have to do with it?" Ianthe nibbled her lip, hoping, wishing, for some reassurance, for something normal.

"Wands have a close connection with soul marks. They are both similar in many ways, both vital to the parts that make wix wix. When soulmates find each other, their wands will - almost at once - bond with each other. They can still turn against each other, but that would require a lot of magical force. Though many do not believe in this, you will find soulmate marks who oppose each other. It goes against any recorded mention, of course," he placed the phoenix feather and wand woods on the work table, "it is not in any public record, but the few who do believe, wand makers and those who study soulmate magick call them Foe Marks. You have your usual marks, the romantic, the platonic, and the rest - but these marks," his knife that had been carving away as he spoke, stilled, a soft glow emanate from the elder as the carving knife worked its magic, "They are marks of mortal peril."

He swallowed, carving and carving and carving, entwining the holly (spiritual protector - burn and burn - protect her, Lady Hekate?) with the elder (material usurper - deeply unlucky and death in its wake - Avada Kedavra!), gently grabbing hold of the phoenix feather (brother and brother - burning and protection and rebirth - connection) , its eternal warmth strong, and using an odd silver instrument - shaped a bit like an apple core remover - he inserted the feather in, watching with bated breath as he watched them bonding together, "There are stories, tales and myths, passed from parent to child, from wandmaker to wandmaker, tales of old, that…that in the beginning, that - that Lady Eris, a deity of Chaos but at great rivals with Lady Hekate, grew raged by the peace wix found by reuniting with their soulmates and cursed them with her mark - with her Foe Marks. Not many believe, even more deny,"

He pierced his eyes intently at the young girl, "Not many hold wandlore important, and not many care to understand soulmate magick, Miss Potter, but your wand... I believe you will accomplish great things Miss Potter, for better or worse, you will make change - it is all written in the wood," he held out the carefully bonded wood, urging her to take it, "it is written in the very depths of your soul."

Ianthe took hold of the wand, feeling a warmth run from her toes to her fingertips, she caressed the wood, swishing it through the dusty air as a great stream of red and gold sparks shot through the end like a firework, lighting the workshop up like a rocket, quickly morphing into a shape - an animal?

Legs sprouted, elegant as the sparks rose up, extending up into a pair of large red and gold wings, burning in their glory as a silhouette of a feathered head could be made out before a single soulful, mournful, cry filled the workshop before dispersing in a flurry of sparks.

(burning, burning, but finally rising.)

"Exquisite," Mr Ollivander breathed, Ianthe grinned, revelling in the breathless feeling she had gotten, pulling the wand close and cradling it to her heart. She turned to him, a delighted smile lighting up her features, and still spurred on by the phoenix song - by that wonderful, breathless feeling that had filled her up and refused to leave her, she rushed forward and hugged him - barely five seconds long - yet it was a hug nonetheless.

A clear ringing sound behind them sounded as Ianthe let go, the breath returning to her as she cradled her wand close, unseeing to the way Mr Ollivander gently touched his stomach a wistful type of smile on his face. But separate from this, Ianthe felt as if hours had passed by, and yet, when she passed her way back past the board, past the stacked shelves and the littered wood curls on the floor, once she passed her way to the front desk, passed that warm hum and took her first step, it seemed as it had only just struck half noon.

Instead of Professor Quirrell as she expected, instead stood Hagrid, Mika hissing and wrapped around his rather large arm, the giant man only grinning in delight. "Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid, how nice to - By Merlin, put that snake away!" Mr Ollivander practically spat out, hurrying to behind his counter and climbing onto a stool, a blind sort of panic on his face. Hagrid stopped grinning, "Er, of course, sir." he lowered his hand and settled Mika in her cage, giving an apologetic look to the snake who only hissed "Sssstupid humanssss…How sssssily to think I would harm an elder one." before curling up on herself, feeding on the dead mouse Professor Quirrell had most probably left for her.

With Mika safely in her cage, Mr Ollivander warily got down from the stool and came round, clearing his throat awkwardly; Ianthe got the feeling that he didn't usually let his customers see anything beyond his creepy blank-eyed stare, but then that begged the question of why he had entertained her by telling her the Tale of the Three Brothers and Foe Marks, even if one was a child's story and the other a conspiracy.

She touched the fabric concealing her own soulmark, she smiled slightly, romantic, platonic or other, she's sure she and soulmate would be fine. After all, even Ollivander said it was a myth, an old tale passed down from person to person. There was no way, and so she put the notion to the back of her mind.

"...but you don't use it, do you?"

"Oh no, sir," Hagrid said, shuffling his feet as an innocent smile gripped his features. Ianthe noticed his umbrella a tad too tightly.

"Hmm." Mr Ollivander hummed, he turned to Ianthe, "Your wand, please, Miss Potter." Ianthe took a step back, clutching her wand tightly. Ollivander zeroed in on her tight hold, "Such a tight bond already…" his eyes softened, recalling his own bond with his wand, "Don't worry Miss Potter, I wish only to put your wand in an appropriate box; delicate, as they are."

He tenderly took the wand, enclosing it in a narrow box with a purple velvet cushion before covering it with the lid, the gentle humming it radiated put at rest. "The total amount for your wand is seventeen Galleons, Miss Potter, but I would recommend purchasing a wand holster at your earliest convenience. They are especially helpful; if you have any queries, just owl Ollivanders."

Ianthe placed the required amount of Galleons on the counter, and a beat passed when she asked tentatively, Hagrid watching their interaction with a soft smile, "And if I simply wish to talk to you, as a potential friend?" Another beat passed in which Ollivander stared even more blank-eyed than he usually was, "That would be -" he swallowed, a gentle and slow smile lighting his face, "That would be delightful; more than, actually."

"Then await my owl, Mr Ollivander!"

(i'll send an owl as soon as i can, baba!)

---

The midday sun hung low, the rush now more lazy as more people headed home to escape the settling heat. Though Ianthe had her shrunken clothes, many packages that she had acquired through the trip had to be boxed away in bags as they simply couldn't be shrunk.

After Mr Ollivander had bowed them out the shop, a spectacle that had left Ianthe embarrassed and Mika amused, judging by her hisses of "Yessss, bow to the Rani," Hagrid led her down the alley, down to Eeylops Owl Emporium, opening the door for her as the both of them walked in, met by an onslaught of screeching and cawing owls.

"What are we here for?" Ianthe had asked, eyes reaching straight for a beady-eyed snowy owl that looked at her from high above. Hagrid turned to her, "Yer birthday present, 'course! Yeh'll need yer own owl if yer gonna be owling Mister Ollivander, aren't ya?" Ianthe reddened, a quick protest ready to rise, "You don't have to -"

Hagrid shushed her, winking, "Nah, let me. Bee' wonderin' what to get yer for yer birthday anyway; don' reckon yer gotta a lot of presents from those Dursley's anyway, maybe from yer cousin - what was 'is name? Dugley? Duggy?"

"Dudley," Ianthe supplied, "And anyway, that's a recent development. He's only been better after the arrival of the letter, I reckon after the excitement about magic has been flushed out of his system he'll be back to his old ways,"

Hagrid side-eyed her, "Muggles and magic don' always mix Ianthe," he said, "Magic and different don't mix, mos' o' the time, bu' there are exceptions. Remember tha'," he nudged her side, grinning down at her, "Now come on, pick one o' these beauties Jus' look at tha' one…"

Twenty minutes later, Ianthe emerged with Mika in one arm - safely enclosed in her cage - and the amber-eyed snowy owl from earlier, who had been staring down at her. It seemed as if she had a thing for beautiful but deadly. Mika and the snowy owl - she'd have to look up a name later - seemed to be trying to maim each other with their eyes, but Ianthe hoped that they wouldn't pester each other – she also hoped the Dursley's wouldn't kill Ianthe for bringing back both a deadly and venomous magical breed of snake and a highly sassy owl.

One could hope, after all.

They made their way passed the apothecary, and pulling down Ianthe through an airy alley, they emerged in an equally bustling place. While most had escaped Diagon Alley, they now grouped here, "Crescent Lane," Hagrid said, pulling her across and down the lane, "the perfe't place fo' a spo' o' lunch. I'mma knackered; heard you 'ad some ice cream wit' Prof'ssor Quirrell, but you'll need somethin' more fillin'."

They came to a stop outside a café (Cecilia's Creature Café) covered in all manners of magical beasts, a crimson red dragon stood guard on the wall, and occasionally blowing puffs of smoke as it waved its tail. Hagrid stepped in, Ianthe trailing behind him as her breath caught in her throat. The place seemed bigger on the inside for one thing, expanding further and further, boasting leather booths and tables with painted clawed legs and posters of dragons to what seemed a white type of ape crossbreed between a sloth, huge brown eyes blinking and turning blue then disappearing before reappearing. At the bottom of the poster, in neat gold lettering, lay the words Demiguise - peaceful herbivores that can tell the future and turn invisible - Magical Classification: XXXX

As they waited in line, Ianthe noticed that it seemed a slow day, a quiet sort of hum that made it seem as if it was a lazy day. A girl with bright bubble pink hair entered, eyes glittering as she exclaimed, "Hagrid!"

She rushed forward, tripping on the way and falling on the floor, bumping into another employee and spilling the drinks they'd been carrying on the pink-haired girl's shirt. The older woman, whose drinks had been spilt, sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, "Again, Dora…?"

The girl, Dora, sheepishly smiled and pulled herself up. She picked up her wand, slender with a diamond tipped base, and glued her eyes shut in concentration, the spill cleaning off. She opened her eyes and let out a whoop, glancing at the pinch-lipped older woman, "See Liv, no harm no foul!" 'Liv' harrumphed, snatching the wand from 'Dora's' hand, ignoring her cry of alarm, "No harm, no foul, indeed! You'll tell that to the customers who have to wait another half hour - and to your mother!" Dora released a whine reminiscent of a dying goat "Honestly, when will you learn to slow down?" she tutted, disappearing behind a beaded curtain.

Dora looked her go with quite a funny expression, something between dread and horror, her hair suddenly turning a yellow-green. She sighed before turning to Hagrid and Ianthe, hands taking place on her waist, "Wotcher Hagrid, how ya doin'?"

Hagrid grinned, "Righ' as rain, Tonks. 'ow 'bout you?" Tonks grinned, hair turning bright blue, "Maybe not as right as rain but best as can be in customer service." she pouted, turning back to Hagrid, "Mum's still tryna convince me to get an office job, pshh. Like a summer café job is gonna change my mind and - Oi! Hold on, who's your friend Hagrid?"

Ianthe pushed her way forward, Hedwig on her cage and secure while Mika hissed her aversion to being caged; "I'm on a first year escort trip, Tonks." Hagrid cheerily said, nudging Ianthe forward. "We're jus' poppin' in fer a bi' o' lunch."

Ianthe watched green eyes as Tonks - or was it Dora? - extended her hand, "Wotcher, kid! My name's Tonks - Nymphadora Tonks. Only, I'd prefer if you call me Tonks - Dora is fine too, but none of that Nymphadora business." She wrinkled her nose, her hair turning a putrid green as Ianthe watched fascinated, "Your hair…"

"Right you are," her hair turned back to a curly bubble-gum pink as she led Hagrid and Ianthe to a booth, the one next to the ape-like Demiguise, "I'm a metamorphmagus. It means that I can change my physical appearance at will," she squeezed her eyes shut and in a flurry, she sported a duck's beak, sending Ianthe into a giggles as well as a pair of younger kids who appeared to be eating with their parents. Tonks grinned, reverting her nose back to normal; Ianthe grinned up at her and decided that she quite liked Tonks, "How do you do it, Tonks?" Tonks winked, a cheery grin pulling at her face, "Born with it; not a lot of metamorphmagus in the world, really rare ability, but that shouldn't take the fun out of it!" She changed her hair to women's buzz cut, bubble-gum pink hair hanging on the left side of her face and covering her eye.

As Hagrid manoeuvred himself into the booth, the Demiguise watched with blinking eyes, "So, how was your trip with Hagrid been today?"

"Hmm? Oh, no, Tonks. Hagrid just came to pick me up from Ollivanders, I spent most of the time shopping with Professor Quirrell." Tonks blinked, hair flashing orange, "The Muggle Studies Professor? Odd, I'd thought McGonagall or Sprout would be more likely to take a muggleborn student, seeing as their Heads of Houses. Say, if you were with him, is the rumour true? 'bout him being the new DADA Professor?"

Ianthe nodded, a twist of the lips pulling, "Yep. I don't think he'll be too bad, if you can get past the occasional stuttering," -- never any stuttering with her though. why? -- "and the barbs. He's the one who let me keep Mika," she gestured to the moody snake, "and Hagrid got me her," she gestured to the snowy owl, who sent her a piercing glare at being referred to as her.

"Blimey," Tonks said, "I'll have to take your word for it. Let's see if he's any good, wonder what assignments I'll have?" she mused, hair turning a steamy blue. Ianthe however, was surprised, for though Tonks had a youthful appearance, she looked as if she's already passed the age of schooling. "Hold on, you're still in Hogwarts?"

Tonks grinned, "Sure. Don't know how you do it in the muggle world, but in Hogwarts there are seven years; start at eleven and end at seventeen. I'm going to be starting my seventh year, and after that, I'll be heading to the Aurors, no matter what mum says!" Tonks said brightly, "I expect I'll see you at the sorting, huh?"

Ianthe smiled as she set down both Mika and Hedwig's cage. She sidled in opposite Hagrid as Tonks collected Hagrid's order that he had picked while they were chatting, "And you?" Tonks asked an easy grin on her face. Ianthe had mulled over the decision but decided on a serving of Bangers and Mash. Tonks smiled, "Right you are - hold on!" her hair popped yellow, like popcorn, "I didn't get your name, kiddo!"

Ianthe replied, "Ianthe. Ianthe Potter." Though her name brought hordes of shaking hands, hushed whispers and penetrating stares, she wouldn't shed the connection to her family for anything. Tonks, quite funnily, popped her mouth open in an 'o' as her hair lengthened, turning into a jungle and turned a mixture bright yellow and pink, her cheeks flushing in surprise.

"Sure know how to throw a surprise, don't you, Ianthe?" Tonks said weakly, hair turning to a mousy brown - her natural hair colour, Ianthe assumed. Tonks smiled, "I'll be back in a mo', Hagrid," she nodded to the giant man, "Ianthe," she smiled as she walked past, ruffling Ianthe's hair like something - like something Ianthe imagined a big sister would do.

While Hagrid and Ianthe chatted, Ianthe zoning out as Hagrid went onto a tirade about something called a flobberworm, Ianthe wondered about her scar and who He - Who - Must - Not - Be - Named was, the man that Mr Ollivander said did terrible things - terrible, but great nonetheless; he had said.

"...an' a terribly kin' thin' yer did wit' ol' Ollivander." Ianthe drew her attention back to Hagrid, "Don' reckon he gets ou' much, always cooped up in 'is sho'; like yer mother, too. Always tryna help people, whether they were hurt with bumps and bruises or eve'n feelin' lonely and an' outcast. 'Ow's yer wand by the wa'?"

"Brilliant," Ianthe breathed, remembering that warm feeling that she had felt course through her, "But there was something that Mr Ollivander said that I've been wondering about, Hagrid." she said, just as a waitress - not Tonks, how disappointing - came and set down Hagrid's dish, a large bowl of some sort of chicken broth and Ianthe's bangers and mash. "Wha's tha' then?" he asked, taking a sip of his broth. "Mr Ollivander, you, Draco," Draco? Hagrid quietly muttered, "You all talked about something I did. And Kalypso said Draco was boasting about meeting me. And Mr Ollivander…" Hagrid brought the spoon up to his lip, tipping the liquid down," he mentioned someone -- He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. " Hagrid spluttered on his broth, "Who is he?"

Hagrid took a napkin, wiping the spilled broth, "Ianthe," he said heavily, "It's not somethin' yer wanna talk abou' o'ver lunch, I promise ya," Ianthe stared, not backing down as Mika hissed, nudging the top of her enclosure, and by some miracle, was able to free it, slithering out and wrapping around Ianthe's waist as the snowy owl watched, beady-eyed.

"It's…" Hagrid stilled, watching as the determined expression on the green-eyed girl's face changed from determination to something more, something steely that Lily had gotten when she had overheard both the Slytherins and Ravenclaws mocking Hagrid (would you look at him, regulus, blustering oaf! i hear his mother was a giantess who ran off! no surprise there, barbarians, the lot of them! i mean, look at him! - i heard he was expelled, wonder why dumbledore let him stay; better off without him, aren't we, marie?) And the same look James had gotten when he spotted the snitch, exhilaration and adrenaline travelling through his veins (did you see me, hagrid? i was brilliant, wasn't i? in your face, sirius - oi, where's siri- aargh, my hair! sirius!) "There's no stoppin' you, is ther'?" he asked, a fond but wry grin lighting him up despite himself. Ianthe answered in turn "You'll have to tell me sooner or later, but the answer is no; there is no stopping me, Hagrid."

Hagrid sighed, "Right yer are, Ianthe." he cast a glance at her plate, "I'd recommend' eating' up before I tell ya, min'," he went back to eating his broth, and Ianthe went back to her gravy covered mash, feeding herself as Mika decided to travel down and start to roam, hissing at the snowy owl. Mika slithered past as Hagrid finished up, pushing his plate to side as Ianthe watched him with eager eyes.

How quickly that would change.

Hagrid sighed heavily, averting his eyes from the demonic eyes, from the eyes of a dead woman that had spent afternoons with him in his hut with the hook nosed boy that was now a professor, from the eyes that he had watched alight with laughter with her husband, James.

"Well," he started, "I'll tell yer as much as I ca', but min' - I can't tell yeh everythin', 'tsa grea' myst'ry, par's o' it." He clenched his hands, eyes furrowed concentration. "It begins, I suppose, with - with a person called - but it's incredible yeh don' know 'is name, ev'ryone in our world knows."

"Who?" Ianthe urged a kind look in her eye. It must be difficult for him, Ianthe mused, to talk about who this person was, Ianthe supposed.

"Well - I don' like sayin' his name. No one does, in fac'. Ev'ryone avoids it, if they can. Ev'ryone does avoid it. Yeh'll see no one sayin' the name, 'cept maybe Dumbledore."

"Why?" Ianthe asked, an innocent wonder, and Hagrid, for the millionth time, wondered how he could tell this girl the story - the story of her parents murder, the reason for her fame and worse, the name of who had killed them and how it would always haunt her?

Hagrid clenched his palms again, staring back at the girl, "Guplin' gargoyles, Ianthe, people are still scared! Blimey, thi' is difficult..." Hagrid muttered under his breath, "Anway, there was a wix - a wizard. He went...bad. As bad as you could go. Worse than worse, he toppled any expectations of bad. Reckon I shoul' tell ya, his name…his name was…"

Hagrid gulped, a tremulous look entering his now-haunted beetle eyes. Ianthe frowned, "Could you write it down?" Ianthe asked kindly, a frown marring her doll-like features. Hagrid huffed a breath, a disbelieving smile as he looked at the young girl, "Nah - can' spell i'. All righ' - 'ere goes, and on'ly once, all righ'?"

Ianthe nodded, hands coming to rest on her seat as she leaned forward in anticipation; Hagrid looked at her once more, "'is name…'is name was Voldemort," Hagrid shuddered as Ianthe's heart dropped, down, down, down. That was the name of her soulmate: Voldemort. "Don' make me say i' again, Ianthe. Anyway, this - this wizard, abou' twenty years ago now, started to collec' followers." It was supposed to be her and him. "Some were 'fraid an' some jus' wanted a bi' o' 'is power, 'cause 'e was gettin' power, all righ'." he did great things - terrible but great. "Dark days, Ianthe. Didn' 'now who ter trus'; didn' dare an' get friendly with strange wix - didn' dare an' get friendly with anyone yer didn't know already, full stop, bu' then again, even the people yer already knew could be on the opposite side o' yers anyway." two children, hands held tight with soft smiles and even softer hands. "Terrible thin's were happenin' all round; 'course they were," he scoffed, "'e was takin' over ev'rywhere. Some stood up to 'im," his eyes the misty in remembrance, "bu' 'e killed 'em. 'Orribly, too. One o' the on'ly safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon the on'ly one You-Know-Who feared was Dumbledore 'imself. Didn' dare an' try take the school, no' then, anyway." Hagrid shook his head, bushy beard shaking with him as Ianthe's heart dropped further and further.

"And then?" She asked in a quiet, in a weak voice, hands trembling as she clenched her trembling hands together painfully.

"An' then? Well, I suppose it came to yer parents, ter Lily and James," - Mum and Dad? voldemort, what did you do? -- terrible but great, nonetheless --"Yer parents were powerful. They were 'ead Boy an' Girl in their day, bu' Lily was smartes' o' the batch, was gonna start a Charms Mastery aft'r the war, an' James was well-off too, tha' careless intelligence that drove others mad an' handy with duellin' too," he chuckled with fond remembrance, "...Suppose the myst'ry is why 'e never tried to get them on 'is side before. Probably knew they were too close wit' Dumbledore ter wan' anythin' ter do with the Dark Side."

Hagrid looked at Ianthe, saw how her lips trembled and how she squeezed her hands just a tad too tight - he swallowed, "Maybe 'e thought 'e coul'd persuade 'em…" Hagrid snorted, "Never, not if it cost you, Ianthe…or maybe 'e jus' wanted 'em outta the way; All anyone knows is tha' 'e came to get 'ouse in the village yer all were livin', Godric's 'ollow, on Hallow's Eve, no less, ten years ago. You was jus' a year ol'. 'E came to yer 'ouse an' - an'"

Hagrid reached deep inside his pocket and pulled out a dirty, spotted handkerchief, blowing his nose to rather rude looks from the other patrons. "S-sorry," he said, tears springing in his eyes, "Knew yer mum an' dad - couldn' fin' nicer people anywhere - anyway," he took a deep breath, blinking back his tears, "'e came to yer 'ouse an' e - e'... You- Know- Who killed 'em. 'e killed Lily an' James," Hagrid choked out, tears running down his face, slowly, gently, (my soulmate killed my parents…? i- no! it can't - but - if you did - why, why did you do it?) "An' then - an' this is the real myst'ry o' the issue, 'e tried to kill you too" (he tried to kill me? but we were for each other, remember?) "wanted ter make a clean job of it, I suppose, or maybe he jus' liked killin' by then. Bu' 'e couldn't do it. You've saw it in the Leaky, 'ow ev'ryone flocked to ya, its cause o' the curse. When a curse, a dark curse 'its ya, when a spell tha' should've taken yer life an' you survive, magic feels it. Evr'yone's magic feels it, Ianthe." a tear slipped past, and a hope broke, deep inside, "bu' tha' spell, the spell tha' took yer life when i' was cast - it didn't work on you, Ianthe. It took care of yer parents," mama? dada? "took care of yer house too," the small pitter patter of feet, joyful laughs - cherub giggles, adoring laughs and deeper ones - they had lived in that house, "bu' it didn' work on ya, Ianthe. Once You-Know-Who decided to kill ya, no one survived. 'e took out some o' the greatest wix o' the age - the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts - an' you were on'ly a baby, bu' you lived. Took yeh from the ruin's o' the house meself..."

(mama loves you, dada loves you, - protect her, Lady Hekate? – lily, run! – james! – not my daughter, you monster. – pathetic and without a wand - move aside, you silly girl! - not my baby! not my darling girl! - a high, cold, cruel laugh - avada kedavra! - a flash of green light - a heart wrenching scream - and, a phoenix cry, tearful, soulful, why?)

Hagrid watched her sadly, watched as tears rolled by on her bronze cheeks, watched as Mika returned to her mistress and hissed, unknowing, "Misssstress? Rani? What'ssss wrong? Ssssshall I bite it for you? Missssstressss, ansssswer me, I worry. Missssstresss!", watched as the snowy owl let out concerned hoots and Tonks stilled at the sight of Ianthe's tears in the doorway, dropping the milkshake she'd been about to bring, being Ianthe's birthday and all.

Ianthe swallowed, throat suddenly parched and eyes red rimmed, tears still flowing, "And Voldemort? What happened to him?" what happened to my soulmate -- can i call him that? -- the man who killed my parents?

Hagrid swallowed, feeling no warmth, "Good question, Ianthe. Brigh' min' with even brighte' questions already," he tried to chuckle, but it came out hollow, "e -- 'e disappeared, the same nigh' 'e tried to kill ya. Makes yeh ev'n more famous. 'e was gettin' stronger an' stronger -- why'd 'e vanish?"

He looked at her again, "Some say 'e died. Codswallop, in my 'pinion. Don' think there was eno'gh 'uman in 'im to die. Others say e's out there, bidin' is time, bu' I don' believe it. People who were on 'is side came back to ours; people who were in sorta trances came out o' them. Don' reckon they could've come ou' o' them if 'e was comin' back." He cleared his throat, suddenly parched, and took a hearty swig of water, "Mos' o' u reckon e's still out there, too weak to carry on bu' bidin' 'is time. Cause somethin' tha' nigh, Ianthe - somethin' abou' you finished 'im alrigh'. There was somethin' tha' night tha' 'e 'adn't counted on - I dunno what it was, no one does - but somethin' stumped him tha' night, an' it's the reason yer so famous, Ianthe."

Hagrid smiled at her, a warm admiration in his eyes despite the tale, and Ianthe - despite the happiness she should feel for defeating this man, defeating the man who had terrorised the British Wixen World - Ianthe only felt a cold dread, a heartbreaking sorrow, and hot heartfelt and angry tears welling up in her demonic eyes (in the eyes that she inherited from her dead mother) and a hand in the curly crow's nest of a hair (hair from her even deader father), feeling as her head tilted up and she met Tonks' worried stare, "Ianthe, are you alright?"

(my love, are you alright?)

Something bubbled in her throat, bubbled up and up, and she tried to spew some reassurance, she tried, but all that she said was -- "He murdered them." (it was foolish to think she could be loved.) before pushing Tonks aside and rushing to the bathroom stall to cry and compose.

(to fall and to rise - to die and to be reborn)

---

They stood on the train platform, Ianthe's ticket in her pocket, and an assortment of odd packages and an owl and snake. Hagrid, who had kept sending worried looks her way, drew an envelope out of his pocket -- aged parchment with a crest -- and handed it to her. "Yer ticket for Hogwarts." Hagrid said, brows pulled in worry, "Firs' o' September -- Kings Cross -- it's all on yer ticket. Any problems with the Dursleys, sen' me a letter with your owl, she'll know where to find me."

Ianthe nodded, carrying the snowy owl and Mika onto the train while Hagrid brought the other packages. She sat down, the owl in her cage on the floor and Mika on her lap, surrounded by packages like she was the queen and the others her subjects.

Hagrid opened his mouth, "Are you sure yeh don' wan' me ter tag along, Ianthe?" Ianthe gave him a kind smile, a tired smile; the same smile, Hagrid realised, that Lily had given him when Severus had broken her heart. "I'll be fine, Hagrid."(the same reply.) Hagrid nodded, patting her shoulder, "Righ'," he said, "I'll see yeh at Hogwarts, Ianthe." He would, wouldn't he?

He stepped off the train, watching as Ianthe smiled through the glass, kind smile and tired eyes (hard scowl and tired eyes -- kind smile and bright eyes) waving to him, and as the train sped off; Hagrid watched Ianthe leave, hands clenched and a heavy pit in his stomach.

---

She stood outside Number 4, packages strewn around her, Mika out of her cage and owl on one of her packages, a green-eyed girl collapsed on the floor, an empty look in her eye. Evening began to set, air turning colder as the street lights flickered to life. The door opened; yellow light flooded in front of her, Dudley looking at her with worried eyes, Uncle Vernon with a puffed chest and Aunt Petunia with crossed arms and a painful look in her eyes (empty eyes and blank form, look at her).

"You found out, did you?" she said, long legs moving.

And for the first time in her life, Aunt Petunia hugged Ianthe, bony arms and all. Ianthe tried to repress them, she did, but in the end, the tears spilled and Aunt Petunia hugged her, like a mother --her mother -- would've done.

Like Lily would've done.

(Hush now, my love, all will be well.)

(Hush now…)

---

A/N:This chapter was already on AO3 for a while! I hope you enjoyed reading -- the next chapter should be up tomorrow, so heads up!