EDITED: July 10th, 2020

19 — Unresolved Matters

Natasha Rosenberg waited until the year's final feast ended before entering the Great Hall. Despite the darkness, she was able to make her way down the tables, her feet leading her to the one spot her friends used to sit at.

She closed her eyes, trying to ignore the whispers of the past. But the moment she took her place, she was surrounded by ghosts.

A young man in glasses grinning at her crookedly. A red-haired girl glaring at him before dedicating a smile at Natasha. The twins (and oh, how her heart ached) scheming together, sitting close as they whispered in the language only they were privy to.

And him.

"Oh, Alec," she whispered. The ghost of Alec Barton grinned at her kindly, his eyes crinkling. Natasha used to joke he looked old for his age because of the wrinkles surrounding his eyes and his mouth. Laughter lines, she learned later. Much later. She regretted every joke at his expense, but considering how Alec would always remain at the top of her regrets' list, it wasn't something she dwelled on for long.

If the dead could the dead speak, would he yell at her? His wife certainly would. Anyone with common sense would do worse than shun her. Sometimes, when the visions of the past worsened, Natasha fooled herself believing Cassiopeia would understand her. That Alec would forgive her. Family had meant everything to them, after all; shaped their beginning and their end... specially their end.

Forgiveness was part of their essence, too. But as the doors creaked open and the man (friend? Traitor? Pitiful) walked down the aisle toward her seat, her eyes hardened. The resentment that had piled up throughout the years was easy to ignore nowadays, yet Severus Snape made that come to the surface easily.

"You have not gone to see the girl." An accusation. The bloody hypocrite.

"As if you care." Natasha toyed with her pendant. It had to be replaced, but she was fond of the garish jewellery. "When she wakes up... I'm not likely to be the first person she wants to see."

"The words of a coward," Snape sneered, sitting across from her.

Natasha arched a brow. "Takes one to know one. I'm still going to talk with her, if you're wondering."

"You believe she has found out the truth."

"One of many," Natasha agreed. "But that's not what I am afraid of. Harry Potter told me everything that happened this year is my fault – and he was right. If I'd been honest, less selfish, this could've been prevented. All of it.

"Unfortunately," her voice dropped, "it was also necessary."

"You're beginning to sound like the old man," Snape said.

"I'm beginning to understand the old man, yeah. I had a lot of time to reflect, to theorize... and to understand. But humans are not puzzles waiting to be solved; they are unpredictable. No wonder Dumbledore sees the world like a giant chessboard. It is truly a big sandbox."

She could see Severus was growing wary of her, so she changed the subject – slightly.

"I don't see the appeal," she said, gesturing grandly at the room. "I get it Hogwarts tend to be the best time of our lives, but that didn't apply much to you. Why are you a teacher? I mean, I know why you're here, but why as a teacher? You've never liked people, let alone children." She wrinkled her nose. Natasha wasn't too fond of them herself, but the ones she knew so far acted far more maturely than any grown up.

Certainly more mature than the man sitting in front of her, anyways.

"There was no other post," he said surly.

Again, Natasha's eyebrow rose. "Dumbledore is the Headmaster. If that didn't work, I'm pretty sure his other titles could have helped him create one especially for you."

Like a child, Severus avoided her gaze, his faintly twitching. Natasha had no doubt he was swallowing a rude comment or something of the likes. He still respects what we had back then, she thought. Or perhaps he still remembered Alec.

Alec. It would always come back to him, wouldn't it? She hoped his ghost haunted Severus as well, as much as Lily's did.

She told him so, and Severus' face tightened with hatred.

"Do you think I am here because I wanted to? I am not – these children do not understand what we went through and never will. They do not appreciate our sacrifices, let alone the ones made by Lily and Alec."

Natasha sighed. "That is exactly why they made them. And you aren't giving Anya and Harry enough credit... young as they are, they do understand. Sometimes I think they do better than you and I do."

"Oh yes," he drawled, "let's miss the people who abandoned us."

She forced herself to keep looking at him, even as shame hit her hard. "Get your facts right. It was us that drove them away. We did it so many times... no wonder they gave up."

"Really?" Snape sneered. "Is that why Potter took pity on you? He must have thought you were a sufficient replacement. Maybe that's the reason Black finally paid you any attention."

Natasha's eyebrow rose. "Look at you," she said coolly. "Here I thought Anya was bluffing when she said you were a nasty jerk... But like any common person, I chose to remember you through rose-tinted glasses. How unfortunate I retained that aspect."

Proving her further right, Snape stood with a kick to the table.

"Is it wise to criticize me, when you are no different than I? Allowing some phantom take your place..."

Natasha didn't look up at him. She considered the room around her, nostalgia filling her.

"There is a difference. You had the choice to leave them behind. I never did. It shouldn't have been me who reached her out. Nor it should've been me who gave her a chance at life. Your pride has blinded you to the fact my mistakes exist to cover up yours."

Harry woke up pretty late the morning after the feast, though he wasn't the only one. Ron and Seamus were still dead to the world when he rose from his bed while Neville's and Dean's beds were already made and empty.

The silence assured him discretion, but Harry made sure to close the curtains around his bed before pulling out the piece of paper that had been hiding inside Riddle's diary.

Lucius Malfoy's appearance at Dumbledore's office had not surprised him; on the other hand, Dobby's had. The elf had gestured wildly at his owner until Harry understood the message. If he'd been angry at Natasha Rosenberg, it did not compare to the hatred he felt against Malfoy. Professor Dumbledore's words only confirmed it, and Harry could hardly believe Riddle's diary ending in Anya's possession had been a political move.

When Ron had told him Anya's stand in the magical world, he'd been inclined to dismiss it. It now occurred to Harry that Anya would have as well; probably laughed at such rubbish, even when it wasn't funny. Both had been so sheltered from magic (and people, for that matter) they truly did not care about history or politics, not like Malfoy did. The man didn't have the guts to admit he'd given Anya the diary, and he'd certainly backed off once Dumbledore serenely threatened him with Mr. Weasley's possible visit and Natasha Rosenberg's probable retribution. Harry couldn't imagine anything better than Draco Malfoy forcibly silenced after his father lost his place in the Hogwarts Board of Governors, but Ron promised him it could be worse – if Anya didn't wake up, that was.

Harry sighed. He'd told Dumbledore and Ms. Rosenberg everything that happened from now on was Anya's choice, but he couldn't quite decide if reading the folded parchment fell into that category. What if it was another of Riddle's tricks? What if it was something Anya herself wrote and didn't want anyone else to know?

It wasn't curiosity that won, per say. Wariness – and a great deal of desperation – prompted him into trying to decipher the paper's message through the light. All he caught was the shadows of two words.

•••◘◘◘•••

Harry hadn't questioned Marie's presence the day before. Amidst the Weasleys' hysteria over their daughter and the teachers' questioning, he hadn't thought about her at all; in fact, he was sure she'd faded into the background on purpose so she could keep checking Anya.

It was hard to ignore her now, the way she threw herself at him the moment he passed over the hospital wing's threshold. His back hit the door solidly, closing it, as her face was suddenly too close to his.

She was glaring at him. "What happened down there?"

Harry thought about lying, but her eyes were too red for him to ignore. So he told her everything from the moment he entered the chamber to the second Riddle vanished permanently. To his relief, Marie didn't cry.

When he finished, both were too strung up to keep up with formalities. Marie dropped onto a chair at the foot of Anya's bed while Harry dragged a new one next to her head. It was then he noticed the old-fashioned clock on her bedside.

"What's this for?" Clocks, unless bought or fixed at Diagon Alley, couldn't work at Hogwarts.

"Madam Pomfrey said St. Mungo's lent it to her for the time being," Marie said in a low voice. "See how it looks like a small grandfather clock? That's because its size is supposed to represent a human body. If there's any trouble within, a part of the clock should be glowing brown."

Harry leaned closer. Two parts of the clock glowed: the top and one of the weights inside the glass. The former shone a faint whit while the later pulsed with nothing but blackness.

"Are their meanings the same like a mood ring?"

"Like a what?" Marie repeated blankly. "Both colours got a lot of meanings, but white means that it's well on healing. Anytime now, it's going to turn green." She hesitated. "Black, in this case, could mean emptiness and... mourning."

"What does it usually mean?"

She shot him a look. "Can't you guess?"

Considering Anya was sleeping on the same bed as last term's incident, Harry had a good idea. He refused to acknowledge it by focusing on the book he'd brought.

As thankful as he was that someone had looked after Anya for a whole night, Harry didn't want Marie to be around when Anya woke up. He didn't have anything against the girl, but he'd hoped Ron or Hermione had come with him, at least as support.

Neither had been ready to face their friend.

"I didn't peg you as the reading type," said Marie. The frown on her face, so similar to Anya's, made him smile slightly.

"I'm not," he said, and left it at that.

The sun woke me up. Warmth spread from my head and down to the rest of my body at first, but a few minutes later, I could feel my scalp burning up.

I wasn't surprised to see a white ceiling. My dreams had been mercifully blank, so it was sort of following the theme. Finding Harry slumped on the chair next to mine was a different matter altogether, though.

Harry slept like the dead. His chest barely rose and his limbs looked... well, limp. I never caught him falling asleep, but he probably gave in when his body had enough. I evened my breathing, not wishing to wake him up and got up.

Or tried to. My legs didn't work. Neither did my arms. Or my head.

Oh, God. It was either punishment for laughing at Harry or –

No. No. Certainly not.

But what if he had? What if she had?

My gaze blurred for a second. I blinked the tears away, gritting my teeth, and tried again.

By the time I gave up, Harry was waking up. The book that had been on his lap slid down to the floor and he jumped to retrieve it, losing his glasses. Scowling, he put the book next to my hand – and it was a great relief that I could feel its weight – and leaned down to pick them up.

When he got up, he looked directly at my face. Relief flashed through his eyes, before settling into wariness.

I tried speaking. "Harry... I..." I'm sorry.

The words didn't get out though. Frowning, I tried again. All I got out was a so... and said it three times.

I burst into tears. My body and my voice. All I had left now was my sanity.

God, I should've just died.

•••◘◘◘•••

The following days were a haze, mostly because I spent all the time dosed up with the wizarding equivalent of an anaesthetic. I would've raised hell, if the loss of awareness wasn't blissful.

That didn't mean I wasn't aware of what was happening. I knew who came and who didn't, as well as what they did while I was half-conscious.

My three visitors came with varying degrees of guilt. Ginny, who visited fleetingly (still more times than Ron or Hermione), made sure to bring my Charms homework. I wasn't sure if Flitwick had asked her or if she had, but everything she brought was from the Charms Club: she had become a honorary member, if I understood correctly, and she tried to explain the most complicated spells whilst also trying to understand them herself. The fact she had taken my place had angered me at first, but it extinguished after she excitedly told me about the first time someone invited her to play Gobstones.

My second visitor was Marie. She told me she was a witch and that her last name was Harlaown. After that, everything she said was related to St. Louise's and every titbit of history from the wizarding world she could remember. If she knew who Natasha was to me, she didn't say; she didn't mention the redhead at all, actually, and I was thankful.

Against all odds, my third visitor was Harry. Like Marie, he made sure to be there all the time. Unlike Marie, he didn't tell me anything; he read. Aloud. Sometimes I wondered if this was his way of not wanting to see me, because all he managed was to lull me back to sleep. If it was, I couldn't blame him; the fact he came at all was... indescribable. Sometimes, it outshone Ron's and Hermione's absence.

When I was alone, I exercised. I was determined to get out of the hospital wing before the Hogwarts Express arrived from London. Or before the Healers from St. Mungo's came.

I was no expert at medical jargon, but it was perfectly clear Riddle's meddling with my head had done some damage. I could move around and think clearly, but I couldn't finish my sentences: I didn't stutter – my head just didn't allow me to finish the task itself. Madam Pomfrey theorized Marcus Flint's spell had something to do with it. And with me practically possessed...

It was a lonely month. Boring, even. But boring was good. Sometimes, loneliness was even better. If I weren't alone, if I didn't have time for myself, I wouldn't have gotten my body back to moving. Yes, I still fell flat on my face when I didn't support myself, but I could move and I needed that. I couldn't imagine a life where I couldn't walk, where I couldn't run and run –

It would be a weakness. I couldn't afford one, let alone in this place where people judged you for your blood and not your skill.

•••◘◘◘•••

Harry was smart, but I couldn't have guessed just how smart.

Or perhaps stupid. He was really stupid. Any logical person would've figured out I didn't want to see anyone. It was heavily implied in my semi-permanent state of unconsciousness and my refusal to leave the hospital wing; Madam Pomfrey, Marie, and Ginny had figured it out and left me alone, coming only to sate their own greed.

I forgot how different Harry was from other people. How much they underestimated his silence. And I fell in the same trap, too.

Every night without fail I got up and walked around the hospital wing, grasping the beds' foot bars. It was a fairly open circle, allowing me to stretch all my muscles. Most of the time I ended sore, but it was the type of soreness that equalled satisfaction.

Harry knew. By luck or heavy pondering, I wasn't sure. But the very night before our last day at the castle, he appeared quite suddenly at the corner of my eye, one hand holding his Invisibility Cloak while the other clutched a book to his chest.

We stared. I could only imagine what he was thinking; if I had trouble deciphering him before, the ability to do so was completely gone now. Another thing Tom had taken from me – my sureness in my friends.

Harry looked away first. He sat on one of the beds, placing the book next to him. Very carefully, he folded the cloak and waited.

Resigned, I made my way to the bed across from his' and fell with a grunt. He finished his work quickly.

"I didn't think I was right," he said carefully. At my raised eyebrows, he continued, "I overheard Madam Pomfrey saying you'd leave on our own, so," he shrugged, "I took a wild guess."

What else was I expecting? Harry had survived so far from sheer luck and downright stubbornness.

"You can't still talk can you? Or maybe you don't want to talk with me?" I shot him a glare. "Okay, you can't talk. That's fine, that's..." He sighed. "I wanted to do this before. Much earlier, actually, but..." He pulled the book toward him, swallowing visibly.

I leaned forward. I hoped my expression was warm enough to encourage him to continue.

"I know you made a deal with Riddle." My stomach dropped. "And I wanted to say that I don't blame you for that. If it had been me in your place, I think I would've done the same. I mean – someone promising me to help me find out more about my parents?" He smiled crookedly. "I would have jumped at the chance. Ron and Hermione don't blame you for that, either." He laughed at my incredulous snort. "I'm serious! Hermione's been panicking about exams, even though they were cancelled, and Ron's been trying to keep the rumours off our backs.

"I'm not saying they don't feel uncomfortable for what happened. They do. But like I said, they know it's not your fault. Much."

The smile that came at that was genuine. It got Harry to carry on.

"I also know how the diary got into your hands. Do you want me to tell you?"

I thought about a minute before shaking my head. No. I didn't want to know. In light of what happened, I didn't think it would explain Tom Riddle. I also didn't believe it would do me any good to know. At least not right now.

"Okay." Harry looked down. He was playing with the book again, turning it over and over. I couldn't see the interest in it; not when its cover was blank. He sighed. "The diary is now in Dumbledore's possession. But before I gave it, I found this." He pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was heavily creased. "It's for you... from him. Tom Riddle. I know I didn't have a right, but I needed to know he wasn't making a final play on you. I checked and... it wasn't."

He stood and walked tentatively toward me. When I didn't move, he sat on my bed, leaving a space between us. With a swift movement, he put the book there.

He didn't look at me when I took it and ignored my puzzled gaze. He didn't look at me when I took the piece of parchment and read it. He didn't look at me when I frantically ruffled through the pages, searching for the right page.

Harry looked at me when I tried to speak.

"Al... Al... Alex... Xander Ree...Ree..."

I closed my eyes in frustration.

"'I," said Harry softly, "'Alexander Thomas Riddle, being sound of mind and body, accept Cassiopeia Vega Black as my legitimate wife and swear my loyalty to her as both a friend and an ally. I promise to lift her sorrows, to be her shield... to be her everything, until death do us apart.'"

He continued. "'I, Cassiopeia Vega Black, being sound of mind and body, renounce my rights as a member of the House of Black as well as forfeiting my name. From this day forward, I shall be Cassie Barton, Alexander Barton's promised bride; his loyal confidant. His steadfast ally. I promise to stay by his side to the very end, until death do us apart.'"

I looked at him and saw for the first time the dark circles under his eyes. He'd been carrying this around since Tom's departure, known what it would mean to me – and to him. Because I was – because my father was – we were –

I didn't know how. It should be impossible. Unlikely. But fate could be cruel, and the two of us were proof of that.

In that moment, I decided my death would've left out a lot of unresolved matters. And I would be the one to unravel every little lie my family was hiding – if only to be at peace with myself.