Disclaimer: The rights to the Harry Potter series go to J.K. Rowling. All original ideas present in this belong to me.

Warning: (Arguably Minor) Character Death

Chapter Sixteen | Blood Runs Red

The summer after second year follows the relatively tame mood that the end of the school year carried. A vacation to the south of France involving Montpellier, Nice, and Bordeaux. All gorgeous cities. I really don't understand why we English hate the French so much. Sure, we've had a touchy history, and they can be very… well, French about a lot of things, but wow do they have some incredible cities! The magic district in Paris alone is what really opened my eyes to how backwards my own country is.

Diagon Alley is just exactly that. An alley. The City of Lights boasts a whole bloody neighbourhood hidden away in the centre of Paris, a hop skip and a jump away from the Arc de Triomphe. A magical quarter hosting every shop and restaurant one could think of, the bustling busy square tucked next to a line of apartments. I spotted Veela, Goblins, Vampires, and even Elves in the thronging crowds rushing every which way to finish their shopping. It really makes me wonder what Beauxbatons looks like. Surely a hell of a lot more welcoming than Hogwarts I'd imagine. Really, as much as I love Hogwarts, it is a little dreary. I'd much rather live in a French palace than an English castle.

What I really want to know is how on Earth is Britain taken seriously by the ICW and the Wizarding World as a whole after seeing the political state of France. Shit. Looks like I'm going to be studying politics this year. Boring, but necessary. Eugh, not looking forward to that.

Daphne and Tracey were unsurprised to see the diversity in the crowds, so I'm assuming that they've visited Paris's magical district before. Lisa and Padma on the other hand were just as shocked as I was, muttering excitedly about how Diagon Alley is 'like, super boring.' Someone please strike me down if I ever talk like that. Please. Hermione on the other hand was absolutely ecstatic to see the show of equality that the French exhibited. Looks like S.P.E.W. is going to start early in this time line, although Hermione will probably know better when she realizes that House Elves require the bond to live.

I still haven't figured out why Tracey has been such an unrighteous bitch in every single interaction I've had with her.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, which should probably be the motto of my life. Either that or the ancient Chinese curse: may you live in interesting times. Fucking Potter luck.

Pettigrew managed to escape from Azkaban. To be honest, I am a little impressed that the rat got out, but I'm still bloody infuriated by it. Apparently, some dumbass, green, fresh from training Auror stationed on the hellish island forgot to put animagus cuffs on him. Twenty galleons say he was bribed by one of the many 'reformed' Death Eaters in the Ministry. Sometimes I really hate this bloody country.

So, it looks like I'm going to have a repeat of my past third-years visitors, the ever beautiful, friendly, and terribly lovely Dementors running around the school grounds supposedly 'protecting the students.' Yeah, if you count an influx of major depression, uncontrollable fear, and an all-round sense that life is inherently meaningless a way to keep students safe. I'm seriously surprised there were no nervous breakdowns or suicide attempts amongst any of the students last time. Well, apart from my nervous breakdown. A yearly conniption is necessary for me, as I find that it builds character – at least, that's what I tell myself.

This is why I'm sitting in my train compartment ignoring my friend's conversations, wand at the ready as I peer at the window waiting for the first sign of frost. I'm really not interested in passing out or having my soul eaten. Just a personal preference of mine.

"Helene, you with us?"

"Yeah, yeah, just being my paranoid self," I reply, smiling comfortingly at a concerned Hermione.

"Well, that explains everything," she scoffs, smacking me lightly as Astoria giggles quietly.

"You excited to start Hogwarts Astoria?" I ask my adoptive little sister, who's eyes immediately shine with unbridled anticipation.

"Absolutely! I wonder if I'm going to be in Ravenclaw or Slytherin," she babbles excitedly, eyes wide and a finger on her chin. "Either would be good, but I think I'd like to be in Ravenclaw with you, rather than Daphne," she adds, laughing as Daphne shouts her displeasure.

"Of course, chose me over Helene. What am I? Chopped liver?" She complains, forgetting for just a moment that as all big sisters do, she should pretend to be uninterested in being friends with her younger sibling. Daphne can say that she hates her sister until the world ends, but I know that she'll always dote on her.

"Wow, I didn't know people actually said that," Hermione interjects playfully.

"I do," Daphne huffs, turning back to her book.

Looking over to my left, I'm pleased to see Luna chatting happily with Tracey. Ignoring my current tension with the brunette, I'm happy to see the two of them getting along. They became close friends last year when Luna had been adopted into our little gang. It pleases me to no end that Luna won't be tormented by the 'Claws in this timeline. The girl doesn't have a mean bone in her body, and I'm pretty sure that she has some sort of empathetic abilities. Either that or she's been micro dosing every day since she was four years old. Her pupils are certainly large enough for me to think that she's on something.

The train screeches to a halt, the breaks loudly engaging as we pass over one of the many bridges on the route to Hogwarts. I roll my wand in my fingers, giving it a light spin as I prepare myself for what's to come. Looks like it's dementor time.

"Why is the train stopped?"

"What's going on?"

"Do you know what's happening?"

"Quiet," I command, hand raised to stop the girls from babbling. "Get behind me, there's dementors on the train."

"Dementors? Seriously?" Daphne curses, nearly tearing a page out of her book in her surprise. "It's not like Pettigrew is on the damned train!"

"They're bloody demons Daphne, do you expect them to pass up a free meal?" I retort.

Furious and scared, Daphne pulls the rest of the girls behind me.

"I don't think that all dementors are bad," Luna announces. "There's got to be some that are friendly, you know?"

"Now is not the time Luna."

"But when is the time? Is it not always the time? Unless you have a time turner of course, but then the time is there as well as here."

"Maybe Luna will confuse the dementors into leaving?"

"Probably," Tracey smirks half-heartedly, ignoring our current spat and hiding her underlying fear. "No hugging the dementors, alright Luna?"

"You're no fun," she pouts, cheeks puffed out angrily, completely oblivious to the panic around her. At least, I think she's oblivious. I'm of the mind that she's just constantly having us on and is just as scared as the rest of the girls.

I stop to wonder if my insanity is contagious. That would probably explain the dynamics of this group.

Frost crackles across the shuttered window pane, flecks of ice bursting over the glass in a geometric explosion. The trains walls begin to shudder and creak beneath the oppressive cold washing throughout the carriage, the wood audibly groaning its protests.

Right on queue, a scabbed gray hand peeks through a crack in the sliding door, prying it open. The hooded monstrosity peers out at us sightlessly, the patronus charm on the tip of my wand before the thing speaks.

"Greetings, Child of Death," it rattles, the voice empty and disused, gravelled like a heavy smoker.

"What the fuck," I mutter, staring at the apparition in horror. Why does shit like this always happen to me?

"What are you here for, demon? Leave before I make you leave."

"I am simply here to pay my respects, Child," it replies, inclining its head ever so slightly, its robes drifting errantly in an invisible wind. "My apologies for disturbing you. I will let the others know, so they do not earn your ire."

"Do not feast on any of the residents of the train, nor any of residents of the school once we arrive," I command, just going with the flow, because what else can you do in a situation like this? "They are off limits, and not to be devoured, do you understand me?"

"Understood," it says, the voice a sibilant whisper in my head as the monster shuts the door and drifts off, hopefully to tell its friends to get the fuck off the train.

"He- Helene… did you just talk to a dementor?" Lisa asks, voice trembling, while Astoria stares at me in wonder.

"Uh, yeah. Apparently I did," I gape, blinking at the spot the dementor just occupied. "Can you not tell anyone? I'd prefer not to get any more attention than I normally do."

"What did it say?"

"What do you mean? Did you not hear me?"

"You just sort of growled at it," Padma says, shrugging in confusion.

I feel the sudden urge to tear my hair out. "God damnit! Another bloody magical language?"

"What?"

"Oh, I'm a parselmouth," I say, waving it off casually as if it's completely and utterly normal thing for me to say.

"You- you're a parselmouth? And you're only telling us now?" Daphne shouts, actually beginning to tear her hair out.

"I didn't think it was all that important to be honest, and if it got out I'm sure half the school would have an aneurysm trying to figure out if I'm evil or not. The last time was worse enough."

"Huh? Last time?"

"Oh! Someone caught me talking to a snake in Diagon Alley the first time I visited the menagerie," I spit out awkwardly, having to think on my feet. I smack myself mentally, Me and my big bloody mouth. "Thank Christ they didn't recognize me."

"I bet," Daphne replies. "I'm not judging you for it, it's just- well, unexpected."

"Tell me about it. Probably a holdover from my Black blood."

"You're a Black?"

"My paternal Grandmother," I explain, having to stop to remember what the relation was. It's not easy with the Black family tree being so convoluted. Too much marrying of first cousins does not a healthy mind make. "Honestly, I wish I got the metamorph abilities instead, would make one hell of a party trick."

"Metamorph?" Hermione asks, eyes alight at the prospect of new and untouched knowledge.

"Someone who can change their body at will, sort of like a shapeshifter in muggle fiction. Much, much cooler than talking to snakes. Parselmagic is boring as well," I add, remembering my brief foray into the field.

Most of the spells are simply clones of regular ones, cast by incanting what the user wants, as opposed to the standard tweaking of Latin phrases. Sure, it would help in a duel if I didn't already know silent casting, but it's otherwise useless. The only thing to come out of it is that common Latin healing spells spoken in parseltongue, which is a form of mental gymnastics in itself to simply get to work, are much more effective.

Took me about five months to figure out how to incant in Latin while still speaking parsel. Fucking put my mind through the ringer.

"Isn't parselmagic really dark?"

"Not necessarily," I start, trying to figure out how to explain it. "I mean, it is dark, but that doesn't mean it's evil. Really," I pause at their confused looks. "It has more of a focus on healing than it does anything else from what I've read. That's where the Rod of Asclepius comes from," I add, looking at Hermione, as she's probably the only one who'll understand that. "The only offensive spells that I've read about are basically the same as the standard Latin ones, just harder to counter because opponents can't understand it."

"Sounds like it would come in handy," Tracey says, adding her two cents. I almost start in shock when she actually speaks directly to me, having to hide my surprise.

"…well, I haven't delved too deep into any of it and have only tried casting a few spells in parseltongue. I should look into it a bit more," I reply awkwardly, unsure of how to speak to her.

"Just don't go and get yourself jailed for it," Luna chirps dreamily. "I'd be very disappointed to have our friendship cut short."

"I'll keep that in mind Luna."

-::-

Dumbledore steepled his fingers, gazing ominously upon the rapidly filling Great Hall. His eyes were locked upon the Ravenclaw table, studying the red-headed girl who held such an iron grip over his dreams and fears.

The future of the world rested upon her shoulders, and he hadn't the foggiest idea of how to bring her back under his wing. Not that she ever was under his wing, but he liked to think otherwise.

He watched as she bickered good naturedly amongst her friends, a rag tag group of misfits if there ever was one. Sure, they may not be misfits in the sense that they are outcasts, but they wouldn't fit into any group other than her own, and it was very much her group, not theirs.

A muggleborn bookworm, hailing from a boring upper-middleclass borough of London, having grown up with a boring upper-middleclass family, and attended a boring upper-middleclass primary school. Albus cringed internally at her fervor for social issues whenever it was brought up amongst the staff. He felt no ill will towards muggleborns, but he full well knew that the deck was stacked against them. He could already imagine her horrified reaction after graduating and realizing that she would be lucky to get a job as a bellhop, let alone in the ministry.

He looked to the girl sitting beside her. One born to Indian expatriates, a family that left their home country due to the poor treatment of women. Albus grimaced at the idea of witches being forced into marriages and kept as broodmares regardless of their social stature. Savages, all of them, he thought.

His attention turned to the halfblood girl sitting much too closely to her Indian friend. Albus felt that she was too sheltered by her parents and will most likely be unprepared for the outside world after graduation. A girl who, upon seeing the demise of Professor Quirrel, spent the remainder of the year sleeping in her friend's bed, too terrified to get to sleep on her own. The only reason he knew of this was because the of a nifty ward that was added to the school a few centuries ago by a radical puritan Headmistress, allowing the Head of the School at the time to be alerted when two students were in one bed after hours.

Albus puzzled over the younger girl, the ditzy blonde from the Lovegood family. He noticed her act, the way she put on a face to avoid getting close to others, or allowing them to get close to her. He remembered her mother, Pandora. A talented woman, incredibly talented, but her brash regard to her own safety led to her demise. Evidently, it also led to her daughter being traumatized after having witnessed her mother's death. A bright girl, but a broken one.

His gaze carried past her to the Slytherin table, where the two Greengrass daughters were sat, the youngest bubbling excitedly to her older sister while their friend looked on in amusement.

The Greengrasses worried him. He knew that they weren't dark and were actually one of the few true neutral families in the Wizengamot, but that wasn't what worried him. What did, was how they got a hold of the Potter girl before he could, when he should have already had a hold on her considering his placement of the girl with the Dursleys.

That family had no idea of her importance, and no matter how many times he attempted to get into contact with Octavius, he was always rebuffed.

He studied the older girl, the perfect image of a pureblood heiress in public, yet a playful child, almost frightfully immature when on her own. The dichotomy of the two personalities she exhibited was quite typical of a pureblood child. How they rebelled when out of view of their family, removing their mask and putting on another, unable to act their true self even when only in their own company. What confused him about her was the fact that her family didn't hold traditional values in any regard, so her personality was all of her own creation.

The younger sister seemed to be a regular child. Bubbly, and excitable to a fault. As she had only been in the school for one day, he didn't exactly have a feel for her yet, and carried on to their halfblood friend.

What a poor, poor girl. Her father had been locked up in Azkaban a few years ago. He didn't know the specifics of it, but he'd heard that there was a massive fight and that he was taken away by the aurors. He did know that it was one of the few instances in which a muggle was sentenced under wizarding law, so something important must have happened. Albus shook his head sadly, his gut flipping in empathetic pain for the child. No one should live without their parents. He knew that most of all, and still felt the pain of his father's imprisonment to this day.

Turning his gaze back over to the object of his fascination, his stare didn't bely his feelings of indecision to the Girl-Who-Lived, who glanced towards him, her green eyes furrowing slightly in anger as they passed over him. He mused that her other title would come with time: The Chosen One… The-Girl-Who-Vanquished, as accorded by the prophecy.

Dumbledore wasn't sure what to make of her, the girl being so radically different from what he expected. He thought that upon her entering Hogwarts she would be somewhat cowed, like any muggleborn orphan would be when being confronted by the majesty that was the wizarding world. Instead, she was aware of magic already. He had no idea how that was, and he was still attempting to find out the answer to that very mysterious question.

No, instead the girl was bright, clever beyond all means, and incredibly suspicious of anything and everything. She did not trust easily, that was evident. He could see it in the way she now treated his Deputy Head. Where she was once friendly and eager, she was now frosty, bordering on outright antagonistic when interacting with McGonagall. She must have discovered that McGonagall was keeping tabs on her, he realized.

Dumbledore turned his unwilling attention to the sorting, clapping calmly and loudly for each and every new student, although he was a touch more reserved for the ones that made their new home with the family of silver and green. He allowed himself to forget his worries for a moment, instead happy to focus on what was in front of him, beckoning in the next generation of children and taking them under his righteous wing. He commanded the room, his presence indomitable as he stood and greeted his new charges, amazing them with his sweeping gesture, a feast materializing in front of them.

He smiled as he sat down, pleased with the new wave of students coming from far and wide for him to lead them. No one else could lead them. He was absolutely sure of that, for he was the shepherd, and they were his flock.

-::-

The first month and a bit of classes is the same old deal. Study some meaningless foundational work, write a bajillion essays of an inane length (seriously, length? The wizarding world really should use word count), practice the wand motions, and then, after all else is done, then you can actually cast the spell.

I'm of the mind that safety is for losers, but it does help that I can reattach a limb if needs be, considering my unique physique. The lack of blood in my system leads me to believe that I may be partly a magical construct, and whether or not that idea was confirmed in my ensuing experiments, I did come to realize that as long as a body part is not eviscerated it can still be put back.

How did I figure this out?

Well, I accidentally cut off my finger and decided to put it back on with a Necromantic healing spell, an old variation off of an Aramaic sewing charm. A bastardized variation for sure, but it still worked incredibly well, and would probably only work on someone like me.

I lament the fact that my life would be so much more entertaining if I still had Seamus in some of my classes. That guy has an incredible talent in which he can cause an explosion with any spell. Any spell. Levitation charm? If he throws enough magic at it, whatever he's levitating will inevitably burst. Water conjuring? Well, it doesn't explode, but he did inadvertently make heavy water, which Hermione found incredibly horrifying. I hope beyond all hopes that Seamus never becomes interested in nuclear physics.

The days go by with me roaming the halls with extreme caution. I doubt Pettigrew is going to try to break into Hogwarts the same way Sirius did, it'd be way too risky. The only thing that the rat has going for him is a keen sense of self-preservation, and he'd probably have a nervous fit coming back to the school. No, he can't be that stupid.

I kill time the same way I always kill time at this school; casting obscenely dangerous spells in the Room of Requirement. Of course, I'm back on the Necromancy train that I've been riding for the last year, and the station it's stopped at is resurrection.

Resurrection is sort of a one spell fits all deal, with the caster having to pump more power in to raise and control more, or bigger bodies. So, if I wanted to send a dragon after someone or raise my own personal army, I'd have to make sure I got a good meal in and a couple of strengthening potions beforehand. It's different from animation in the sense that I'm actually bringing that beings soul back from the dead and placing it in its body, rather than controlling it via ambient magic, which is a life source of its own.

That's apparently what that wispy stuff I see in the air is. Ambient magic. It's a non-sentient form of life and energy as far as I can tell, and the closest thing I can compare it to would be what hippies call the life of the Earth. When I animate something, which I have recently tried and found incredibly interesting in a very morbid sort of way, I infuse the bones, or body if there is any left of the being with ambient magic instead of its soul. This allows me to control it much more easily than by animation charms or transfiguration, and it also somewhat strengthens the body.

Still, I haven't actually resurrected anything. It's still too… I don't know the best word to describe it. Wrong? Yeah, that hits the mark. I just have an actual tangible sense of wrongness about the meat and bread of my powers. So… no, I haven't gone and committed any crimes against humanity, sanity, or the order of the universe quite yet. Maybe when I'm fifty I'll give it a try. That sounds like a good age for it. Announcement! The Necromancy train has stopped at resurrection, and it's staying there for the time being!

I think I'm going to focus on shadow travel. That sounds like it should be a lot more fun, and a lot less psychologically scarring.

You know, speaking of ways to kill time, I haven't spoken to Severus in a while.

Practically kicking the door down, I waltz into Severus' office like I own the place. He jumps in fear, and I grin at his hastily fashioned look of fury.

"Scared ya'?" I ask, laying myself down across his sofa.

"I have never been scared once," he demurs. Most would find his tone harsh, but I can hear the underlying playfulness in it. "Never."

"Well, I think I actually just scared the pants off you."

"Not a chance."

"I definitely did."

Huffing, Severus pulls up a chair for himself as I'm taking up the entirety of his sofa.

"So, Helene, what brings you to my office today?"

"Nothing really," I admit, resting my chin on my fist. "Just felt like saying hi. Making your life difficult. You know, the usual."

"Circe preserve me," he curses, crossing his arms. "Can I not have anything nice in my life?"

"What about me! Aren't I something nice in your life?"

"You are a curse, young Helene. A curse," he says, trying to look intimidating but failing when the side of his mouth pulls up in a smile.

"Well, there is one new thing," I confess. "It's pretty weird, just letting you know."

Severus laughs quietly at that, shaking his head in faux dismay. "Is anything ever not odd with you?"

"Not that I'm aware of," I say, scratching my chin thoughtfully. "No, pretty sure things are always odd."

"So… what new and terribly odd thing has happened in your life?"

"Er, well, you know how the dementors are here, right?"

He frowns at that, probably wondering if I've hit myself in the head. "Yes, how could I not be aware of their presence? Surely you understand that they would affect someone like me much more than the other residents of the castle?"

I scratch my head awkwardly at his snappy reply. "Sorry about that. I didn't mean to, well, you know what I mean. So… yeah- apparently I can talk to dementors."

Snape sits in his chair, hands over his face as he groans quietly. "Is anything ever normal with you?" he cries, probably pleading with some wizarding God that I've never heard of. "Anything? Why couldn't you just be like your mother? Hell! Even your father! No ancient forbidden magics, no speaking to demons, no… no any of this!"

"No, nothing can ever be normal with me," I say. I really wish things could be normal, but unfortunately that's never going to happen as long as Fate keeps having her way with my life. I should ask Death to bring her along next time he meets me so I can give her a good lashing. "Trust me, I don't like it at all. Even if I tried to go on vacation and get away from the madness in Britain I'd probably end up saving whichever godforsaken country I travel to."

"Or destroy it entirely."

"That too."

"So," I begin, lacing my fingers together, derailing the current topic of conversation. "Any news on the Pettigrew front? I'm sort of hoping he's stupid enough to come back to Hogwarts so I can nab him. I think he'd make a great Christmas present to Sirius, all wrapped up and gagged."

"I didn't know the Mutt was into that sort of thing," Severus shoots, grinning at my look of extreme distaste. Ever since Sirius apologized to him they've begun spending some time together, hesitantly at first, but I think they're beginning to find that they're actually pretty similar people.

They both wear masks. Sirius bears the grin of comedy, while Severus holds the scowl of tragedy. Case in point, their senses of humour. Severus is normally dry and witty, but every once in a while, he lets loose with something horribly raunchy and distasteful, like putting the mental image of Pettigrew bound and gagged in a more sensual manner than normal into my head.

"Oh, ew!" I grimace. That is an awful mental image.

"Joking aside, he's not been spotted anywhere. You said he helped to resurrect the Dark Lord in your fourth year, correct?"

"Yeah, bone of the father and all that good stuff. It is sort of integral that he resurrects old Tom seeing as it's impossibly hard, or just downright impossible to kill a spirit even with my particular skills. It just doesn't feel right, right?"

"I'd suppose so. It would make things quite difficult for him to be killed, truly killed, if he wasn't first resurrected," he puzzles. "The only way to get rid of him as a spirit would be through an exorcism, but you'd need a true White Mage to accomplish such a thing. I sincerely doubt that one has arisen at the same time that you have come into your powers."

"What do you mean?"

"There is a balance to magic," he states, holding his hands out like a pair of scales. "The last time there was a Necromancer, at least a documented one, was just after the time of Merlin when the balance was heavily tilted towards the light. Necromancy is the archetypal dark magic, Black Magic, and most researchers believe that a paragon of the light or dark only shows up when magic is not balanced."

He scribbles something out on a sheet of parchment, finding it easier to work out his thoughts by writing them down. "It fits into the old teachings of the Left-Hand Path and Right-Hand Path, the Left being Black Magics," he explains, pointing out a hastily drawn picture of a pentagram. He moves the quill, sketching out a trinity knot. I pause, looking at the trinity knot and noticing its incredibly close resemblance to Death's signature. "The Right is White Magics. They're not necessarily opposed to each other, but the Left-Hand has been vilified ever since the eighteenth century, when a Dark Lady killed nearly two million people with a magically engineered plague."

I shudder at that horrific statement, and the allusion Severus has made towards my magic being satanic in nature. Left-Hand Path, Pentagram… it's all a little too biblical for me. I know he's not going out of his way to make that comparison, but being brought up by the Dursleys, they tried to put the fear of God into me a little more literally than others would. "So… what would someone call a practiser of White Magic?" I ask, pushing the subject past the discussion of the esoteric occult.

Severus scratches his chin, trying to remember some errant bit of information. "I believe they would be called a Zontanomancer, if we follow the Greek etymology of nekros. If we want to use the French source of nigromancie, we would say Blancomancer. I'm more partial to the Latin use of Albumancer, to denote the use of White Magic as opposed to the emphasis on death that's used by the traditional nekros."

My head rattles slightly taking in all of that information. "You like linguistics I guess?"

"Very much so. Etymology has a lot to do with spell development, which is one of my hobbies."

I nod. It makes sense for such a studious man to have such studious pastimes. With my mind off the conversation, I notice that Severus seems to be a little better dressed than he normally is. His hair, normally limp and slightly greasy from potions fumes is looking fuller, shining healthily in the dim candlelight.

"Severus… are you going out tonight?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

He raises one in reply, but not before I can catch his mild look of surprise.

"What could you be-" I ask, before staring him in the eyes. "What are you hiding Severus?

"I don't know what you mean," he glowers.

"Honestly, I've bared my soul to you. You can't tell me one little thing?"

"Are you really going to use that card?" he replies, glaring at me.

"Hey, sorry, that was out of line," I apologize. "I was just curious about how you're dressed," I say, gesturing towards his tailored robes and surprisingly shampoo model-like hair. "You don't normally get all done up like this."

"I don't think I could ever trust you with a matter like this," he smirks, now smoothing out his expensive looking robes.

"Well, it couldn't be anything that important could it?" I state, thinking out loud. "It's not like you've got a date or anything."

Slightly flustered, Severus glances up at the clock before immediately shooing me from his office. "It's time for you to leave, little she-devil."

"What! Did I guess right?" I cry, fighting half heartedly as he shoves me out of the room. "I'm happy for you Severus!"

A non-committal grunt through the door as it's shut is my goodbye.

Hey, I really am happy for him. I think seeing someone would definitely cheer him up quite a bit. No more glowering and fussing around the students in class.

Smiling, I start making my way to the Hall for dinner. I look around curiously at the masses of students who are heading the same way. I wonder what's going on? We don't really get everyone coming to the Great Hall at the same time unless there's a-

God Damnit.

It's Halloween.

Muttering quiet obscenities under my breath I grab my usual spot next to Hermione, the rest of the group looking at me in quiet understanding. God damn I hate Halloween. What ridiculous, hare-brained scheme is going to happen today? I've already done trolls, as well as skipped the basilisk, and I doubt Sirius is going to show and slash up the Fat Lady just for fun. So, what the hell is going to happen today?

Let's run through the possibilities.

First, Pettigrew may actually be stupid enough to break into the school. Looks like I'm putting a ward net up around my bed tonight just to be safe.

Second, Dumbledore may try something. I don't know what, I don't know where, but he's often been involved in my Halloween mishaps. That, and he hasn't really talked to me since my blow up in first year. I doubt he's not keeping an eye on me, but the last time he didn't speak with me Sirius ended up falling through the bloody veil and I ended up on repeat hour.

Third, nothing happens. Doubtful, but still a possibility. I can only hope, right?

My money is on Dumbledore trying to get back into my good graces. Either that, or yet again professing me to be as dark as they come. Ironically, he's absolutely right. Hell, I'm not dark, I'm a Black Mage for all intents and purposes. Considering what Severus said earlier, I'm the harbinger of the dark side. Maybe I should change my name to Darth Potter? Hmm. Darth Helene?

Important questions in life, these are.

I ignore Dumbledore's yearly speech and praise, scoffing quietly when he mentions my past 'vanquishing' of Voldemort as a toddler. I really am sick and tired of being famous for having not died. No matter how many times I say it no one believes me; my mum obviously did all the work, I wasn't even old enough to speak at the time. I can't imagine how a toddler could somehow defeat one of the most powerful wizards to have ever lived.

I pick away at my food, what should be an incredible feast instead tasting dull and bland as I slowly chew an unidentified piece of roast meat. This is one of the times that I wish I was closer to being an adult. I'm sure if I drank enough firewhisky I'd feel something, and that'd dampen the constant impending sense of doom throughout the day. Either that, or I should have pulled a Severus and gotten out of the feast by nabbing myself a date.

Looking around at the sea of students I ponder whether it would even be worth it for me to enter into a relationship.

It'd have to be someone older. There's no way I'm going after anyone below sixth year. Eugh, that'd be beyond creepy.

Whatever. I shrug mentally. It's probably more trouble than it's worth, and it'd take away too much time from my training. Beefing myself up so I can go toe to toe with Voldemort seems a bit more important than awkwardly chasing after an older woman. I find myself distracted momentarily by an image of Amelia Bones dancing through my mind. I shake my head, startling Lisa as I try to purge my thoughts of any images of the intimidating woman. I feel slightly guilty as I sweep my gaze over Susan Bones, sending a silent and unknown apology to the back of her head. I'd be fine having a crush on someone if they weren't old enough to be my mum.

But yeah, I must be mad to thing I could juggle intensive training and dating. That, and the sheer danger that anyone I see would be in just being around me… no, not going to happen

"Helene, you alright?" Hermione asks, breaking the tense silence at the table.

"Yeah, I'm alright," I sigh, running my hands through my hair. "Just Halloween, you know? It always gets to me."

"We're here for you if you need us, yeah?" She continues, repeating my words to the three of them last year and patting me on the arm.

"Thanks a bunch Hermione, and the rest of you girls," I say, smiling weakly at Lisa, Padma, and Luna, who smile back at me.

"I know how you feel," Luna confides, sporting a rare look, one of severity. "April third is hard for me as well… that's when my mother passed."

"Hey, same thing goes to you Luna. I'm here if you need me, alright?"

"Th- Thank you Helene," she whispers shyly.

"Anytime Luna, that's what friends are for."

We continue chatting lightly as the meal goes on, the mood getting lighter thanks to Hermione and Luna's efforts. Even in a second life, Hermione still manages to drag me out of my funk. That must be a Granger thing.

The feast wraps up quickly and we make our way back to the common room, where I excuse myself to go to bed early. Hermione thankfully doesn't press it this time, understanding that I need some time alone.

I ward my bed to hell, layers and layers of protections, alarms, and assorted binding and stunning jinxes arrayed in such a way that even Moody would be teeming with pride after seeing them. I keep my wand close, wearing my wrist holster as I climb into bed as a measure of added security. Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get me.

I sink into a restless sleep, waking up occasionally throughout the night to double check my wards and make sure that Hermione is safe as well, peeking through her curtains every time I'm jostled awake by my anxious mind.

-::-

The rat sniffed at the air, familiar, yet unwelcome scents gracing its quivering snout. Its face scrunched up in a surprisingly human expression of disgust as it scampered up the flight of stairs. It poked its nose tentatively at a great wooden door, iron studs dotting its surface and a heavy knocker hanging from the middle of it in place of where one would expect a doorknob. It keened angrily when it noticed that the usual crack in the door, one that it could easily slip through, was no longer there.

Suddenly, the rat transformed. In its place stood a small man, his back hunched not from any defect of sorts, but from many years of bowing his head. He was afraid to be noticed by others, afraid to have attention, be it because he didn't want to be harassed or did not want others to notice the sadism that he kept so well hidden. So many times, he bowed, that he ended up contorting his body to reflect his own inner self, twisted and broken by his own hand.

Peter Pettigrew opened the door, almost laughing out loud when he noticed there was no locking spells on the door. He marveled at the poor security, poor security that would result in the death of one of the students.

He paced next to the bed of Ronald Weasley, muttering quietly to himself. "Just kill him, that's what I'll do, kill the little bastard. He said I was a bad rat, did he? A stupid rat? Fat rat!" He chuckled madly, having the presence of mind to have placed a silencing charm on himself long before entering the school. No sound echoed off the dormitory walls, nothing to alert the slumbering red head to his impending doom.

"Well, fat Ron, stupid Ron, jealous Ron, I bite the hand that feeds me," he growled dangerously, tearing the curtains open with one hand.

Ron slept on, unaware, so accustomed to the din of living with three other teenage boys that he could easily rest through a siege of the castle. Pettigrew grinned at the sight, waving his wand and whispering the two words that magicals across the world fear the most, "Avada Kedavra."

The acid green light struck the slumbering form of Ron, his body shuddered once, a feeble protest as his soul was torn asunder, stripped from skin, muscle and bone and sent to its final destination.

Pettigrew smiled as he quietly shut the door behind him, transforming into his true self once more and scuttling off into the darkness, off to reclaim his place of unimportance next to his slaver and master.

-::-

A steady chime from my clock wakes me up. I find myself instantly sitting up with my wand aimed at the curtains of my bed. I inspect all my wards to see if I had a visitor last night, sighing in relief when I see that there wasn't even a peep.

Relaxed, I crawl out of bed and take a quick shower, brush my teeth, and get dressed before sleepily meandering to the Great Hall for breakfast. An odd sight out of the corner of my eye catches my attention.

That's really odd.

The Gryffindor table looks to be damn near empty, only a few students munching away at their meal. I wonder what happened? Maybe they had a huge party last night? I know some of the parties tended to get a little too wild, particularly after a Quidditch win. Poor McGonagall, the lady must be pulling her hair out having to put up with a horde of hungover teenagers.

Shrugging, I make up for last nights lack of food by gorging myself on a healthy pile of bacon, eggs, toast, and fruit. The meal can't be all unhealthy. Gotta' watch my figure, ya' know?

-::-

My classes throughout the day bring up even more questions. What's happened? I'm not sure, and I'm not feeling great about it. All my courses that are shared with the Gryffindors are empty. Not one Lion shows up, and the Professors don't seem to take notice of it, obviously in the know as to what is going on.

What the hell has happened?

I push through the day in the hopes that there'll be an announcement at dinner to let the rest of the students know why a whole house seems to be absent.

As I walk into the Great Hall I begin to understand that something terrible has happened.

The regular banners above the house tables are missing, the regally posing animals that represent each house absent. In their place are banners of pure black, hanging limply.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Someone died. Someone in Gryffindor died.

Please don't let it be someone I know, please don't let it be a friend. Please.

I can feel my heart hammering angrily against my ribs, my breath shallow and quick as I try to calm down.

It's probably just a prank, right? Just a tasteless, terrible prank. Nobody died. Right?

I swallow heavily as Dumbledore waves his hands at the students, a wave of silence passing over the hall at his gesture as everyone stops their conversations, their confused mutterings and questions.

I'm too afraid to even look at the Gryffindor table.

"Good evening everyone," Dumbledore announces solemnly as he steps out in front of the staff table, a black hat held limply in his hands. "I'm afraid that tragedy has struck our halls last night."

An enormous gasp courses across the room, everyone realizing that the worst has happened.

Fuck.

Please don't be a friend. Please, please, please.

"Last night, Peter Pettigrew infiltrated the school and… killed one of our students," he continues, his voice harsh with emotion.

I feel sick, light headed, as if I'm about to pass out. I can hear my heart clearly now, feel it beating heavily in my skull, the blood pounding in my ears as I try to focus on what's being said in front of me.

"He stole from us," he whispers, magic carrying his voice so that all can still hear his terrible words.

"He stole from us, a young Ronald Weasley in the dead of night. I ask that we have a moment of silence in memory of him, a clever, steadfast Gryffindor through and through. He exemplified the values of the House of Lions. Bravery, loyalty, and a keen sense of compassion. Let us remember Ronald Weasley."

I freeze in my seat, staring dumbly at the Headmaster as he bows his head. The rest of the students follow suit, too shocked to even mutter quietly amongst themselves about what has happened, a grim silence having settled over the Hall.

He… he can't be dead. Ron? Not a chance!

He survived the chess match, the acromantula… he just can't be dead…

Numb, I ignore the meal laid out in front of me and stare ahead, my eyes looking past, looking at nothing.

I make a quiet excuse and get up to leave, stiffly walking towards the Room of Requirement.

He can't be dead.

I pace quickly, marching in as soon as the door appears, slamming it shut behind me.

He can't be dead.

I pay no attention as the Room suits itself to my needs immediately, a rough stone altar appearing in front of me, a simple boulder with a smooth flat top. I do notice when Ron's corpse appears on top of it.

I look down on him. His eyes are closed, his face peaceful. Killing Curse by the looks of it. No signs of a struggle. No torn clothes. Not a spot of damage on him.

Just dead.

I begin to register what I'm doing as I place my hands on his chest, drawing on the magic around me as I prepare to infuse his body with energy. As I prepare to bring him back.

I shut my eyes tight and bare my teeth as I begin to push, forcing the gathering magic inside his empty body, filling the mould.

I reach out with my mind, remembering that sense of wrongness that I encountered when I cast the corpse arms. The cold emptiness, the evident feeling of death itself. As soon as I feel the frigid magic I pull. Hard.

I open my eyes and gasp as I see smoky black tendrils burst from the floor, seemingly coming from nowhere. They climb rapidly over the table towards Ron, looping and twisting as they shoot up towards him. The tendrils pry his mouth open, his body shuddering grotesquely as they force their way inside, his arms flailing and his legs bucking from the surge of power.

Panting at the effort, I collapse to the floor, nearly cracking my tailbone as I strike the ground.

Taking a moment to collect myself I lie on my back, chest heaving as I greedily breathe in the cool air around me. Quiet coughing gets my attention, and I shoot up to make sure that Ron is alright.

I take careful, tentative steps towards him, afraid to see some sort of demon, a monster wearing his skin as some sort of macabre suit.

I smile widely as he squints up at me. "Wha's goin' on?"

"You… there was a terrible… shit," I mutter. How the hell do I explain this? I didn't think this far ahead. "Give me a second, alright?"

Nodding weakly, he sits up, legs dangling over the edge of the table as he takes in the room. He wipes at his eyes in confusion. "Uh, is this some sort of prank or something?" He asks, half awake as he squints at me.

"What?"

"Well, I've woken up in some sort of dark wizard's dungeon, there's knives on the bloody wall, and for some reason you're here," he says, pointing at me. "Did Fred and George put you up to this? I know you get along with those two."

"Well… not exactly," I squeak. Can I just obliviate him? Send him back to… where the hell did he come from in the first place? The Hospital Wing? Does Hogwarts have a morgue? And why is he not screaming out in evident agony? Maybe he wasn't dead long enough to be dead dead? I'm going to have to read up on this as soon as possible.

I exhale loudly, running my hands through my hair and over my face. "Okay, fuck it. You died, alright? You died, and I brought you back."

Ron stares dumbly, blinking slowly as he tries to register the absolute insanity I'm currently spitting. "Ha ha, very funny. This is a terrible prank you know?"

"This isn't a goddamn prank," I growl. I didn't think this through at all. "You died Ron. Peter fucking Pettigrew killed you, and now we have to figure out a story as to why you're still alive."

"Wait… you- you're not joking? A- are you?" he croaks, his pupils constricting to pinpoints in his shock.

I look him in the eyes, doing my best to convey how entirely and absolutely serious I am. "No, I'm not joking."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

What to do… what to do…

Oh, it couldn't be that simple could it?

Would Dumbledore fall for such a thing? Would Pomfrey? Would anyone in this school fall for it?

I pace the room, my shoes clicking steadily against the stone.

If it worked for me…

"Obliviate," I whisper, nailing Ron in the chest with the charm. He slumps over dramatically, and I run over and catch him before he can roll off the altar and bang his head against the floor. A concussion plus obliviation would not be a good combination.

"You will not remember our conversation, our meeting, or anything else that has happened since you woke up," I command. "You will wake up outside the Hospital Wing, confused, because you passed out trying to leave so that you could go to dinner."

I stun Ron before he begins to come to, heaving him over my shoulder before taking the invisibility cloak out of my pocket and throwing it over us. A quick silencing charm and I'm dashing towards the Hospital Wing.

I crack the door open, placing Ron gently outside of it in the fetal position. Looks like that's all I can do for him.

I rush to the Ravenclaw common room, a massive grin on my face as I realize that today is different. No death, no destruction.

Looks like there's a new Boy-Who-Lived.

Edited, 08/06/18.