And the aftermath, in which we get to see Anya acting a bit like Harry. I have to thank my beta, as always: lil'hawkeye3, and the Weasleys.
The Aurors were too late. Actually, they had arrived earlier – but beyond the anti-apparation spells where the fight had taken place. When the battle was finally ended, the teachers and the Aurors had walked through the spells only to find half of the village burnt, walls of fire protecting people from the surviving inferi. With the help of the Headmaster and his Deputy the Aurors had burnt the remaining inferi and isolated the cursed fire a second year had created and lost her hold upon.
Anya had watched as her basilisk of fiendfyre was diminished into a grass snake and imprisoned in a water jail with unfocused eyes. It was her fault, she knew – she should have aided Fanni, she should have controlled her spell…she was supposed to foresee events like that.
They hadn't won. Few wizards were captured, and those had killed themselves quickly enough to leave only one information – they were Grindelwald's men, members of the Heilig Paladine.
Thirty-one students had lost their lives on the raid. Seventeen from Durmstrang, mostly children of eleven or twelve; fourteen students from Hogwarts. Another thirty-eight residents and seven aurors had been murdered, mothers had lost their sons, husbands would never see their wifes, brothers and sisters had to mourn their siblings.
Seventy-six corpses.
Among those, a Stefánia Mordor, who had been following Anya's orders. Someone she had left behind because she was supposedly safe. Someone she was supposed to save. Someone who had saved her, and she had turned her back to – because she had judged unnecessary.
People were talking. They didn't talk about her errors that day though. Nobody had mentioned the Hungarian witch's name to her, nobody had inquired how she had cast such a dark curse as fiendfyre. They were thanking her, praising her for her for being proactive. At the second page of the Evening Prophet, a photography of her sitting on a fountain in the main place of the village, together with the other survivors, had been published. At the headline of the article were the words:
The Girl-Who-Protected.
They were calling her Hestia, in honour of the goddess of the hearth and protector of homes. Just because she had burnt everything and kept people inside buildings.
When Tom had heard that his partner had been in the raid of Hogsemeade, he had almost recreated a version of the raid himself. He had refused to speak with her; the reckless tomboy who had injured herself to save some useless people – the witch who worked at the Post Office had explained it all to the reporters. How an emerald-eyed girl had selflessly endangered herself to save people, how she had first entered in the office accompanied by a boy, who wasn't with her in the second entrance. A boy! Anya had gone to Hogsmeade with a boy!
Tom had spent the dinner seething, he had ignored most of the headmasters' speeches as well. But Dorea had convinced him that he ought to visit his fiancée in the Hospital Wing. Because of her annoying pestering, he was there now.
Anya had been isolated. Her state, according to the healer apprentice, was physically healthy and her injuries weren't deep – but her mind was frozen and unresponsive. He slid the door open, looking beyond the entrance to bed in which she was sat. Her hair had been burnt in its tips, her eyes were vague and her skin, pale. He could understand why Pomfrey had defined her as unresponsive – her eyes followed his movements around the room, but there was no sign of recognition in her expression. She looked as if she was barely existing.
She looked fragile there – her tiny body lost in the middle of the soft, silky sheets of the bed, wearing only a simple but elegant nightgown. The bruise on her jaw highlighted the porcelain-colour of her skin, and a scar cut her lip in a half. She still had to allow the matron to heal it. It was a pitiful sight that made something tighten on his chest. His Anya wasn't that weak…she was powerful…his equal.
"Anya." He called.
Blink.
Blink.
Her eyes stared his; her face still frozen. Well, that couldn't be. He refused to accept a weak doll back; her expression wasn't even refined like this. In no way he would lose her to a damned raid. She wasn't weak, and neither was he!
Tom slapped her face. Hard.
Blink.
She looked at him, again – no sign outrage, shock or even pain.
Blink.
"Well, that's it then? You sneak outside the castle to meet a boy, like some common goblin, a damned whore, and then you forget your whole life over a raid? That's it?!" He shrieked.
Blink.
She continued to eye him, nothing written on her beautiful orbs.
Blink.
Tom lifted her chin, holding it with a crushing strength that was far from gentle. Their faces were close, her warmth breath caressing his skin. Their eyes met again, those lashes of her entangling themselves.
Blink. No response.
"You are pathetic." He growled between gritted teeth, freeing her chin. Her head sagged lifelessly on her shoulders, as if she was only a rag-doll. Tom stood up, he wouldn't stick around to watch that spectacle. The witch in front of him didn't have any power, she wasn't the girl he knew. His Anya was uncaring, harsh, fierce and cold-hearted; she wasn't that Hufflepuffish thing in front of him, mourning for some deaths of people she barely knew.
Blink.
"Answer me!" He demanded, jumping on her body again – holding her against the headboard by her neck. "Dammit!" He pressed more, knowing that he would have his reaction there. Sometimes, Anya could be slow, but she never gave up – she would never allow herself to be killed by choking. She would never allow him to kill someone, much less around so many people.
Their eyes met again, and her lids flicked ephemerally. Another blink. She didn't try to worm her way out, she didn't move – even though he could see the colour leaving her face and her lips parted in an attempt to capture some air. He released her, banging her head against the mattress and stumbling backwards.
That kind of behaviour was unforgiveable. They needed to train – now more than ever, since his partner's face was going to be splayed across every wizarding newspaper (which would happen, he was almost sure; they had even nicknamed her in the few hours they had). The act was both welcome and unwelcomed, as it was a nice propaganda for them, and it would improve their reputation…but also meant that they had declared their side in the war. It was improbable that they would be affected much by it – they were second-years, in the name of Merlin, but if they found themselves in cross-fire, it was obvious what the combatants would think.
The authorities had no idea how Grindelwald had managed to organise a raid on Scotland, when he had kept his attacks to locations nearer Germany until then. They didn't know his motives either, but it was an obvious statement – he had enough power to attack them. He had brought up an army of dead upon them.
And Tom needed Anya to snap out her daze and get her shit together. Dream Manipulation would be perfect to induce her thinking into something more workable, however, he wasn't sure how it would affect her visions – and he definitely didn't want to take so long. Remembering the plain black book he had been using in his research over free-will domination at the beginning of the term, Tom summoned his schoolbag and went through it.
He hadn't developed more research on the matter, being a bit more interested in other curses and rituals – and in his ancestors. His search into the latter had proven to be infertile, but he was still trying. There was something about the Heirs of Slytherin and a hidden chamber in the school which sounded promising. If his ancestors had studied there and found said chamber – maybe they had left registers behind?
Frustrated, he dropped his bag on the ground. His book was nowhere. Great. There was something very unsettling in the thought of somebody finding such book. Anya had told him before that the Hufflepuffs knew the location of the kitchens, where the house-elves could be usually found – and that they were also those who cleaned their rooms. He considered himself capable of charming, or blackmailing, a badger in order to reveal their secrets. Maybe he could use those abilities...
Unless the house-elves reported to the headmaster, or even teachers in general. Books on the dark arts wouldn't make a good-impression on adults. Tom sighed. There were the ghosts, of course, but they were the worst seekers in the world – completely unanchored to the material world as they were, most proved to be unable to even find their corpses or graves to haunt. Hence, the ghost villages and castles – to where all lost ghosts went for several reasons.
The Library's doors were closed, yet unlocked. It wasn't surprising to find it empty – nobody had left the Great Hall, except to visit some in the hospital wing. Mourning was apparently an activity to be done together. Tom saw no reason in it. Yes, the loss of magical blood could be sad, however it was far from life-changing.
They had called four muggle couples to the school, for goodness's sake! Only because their dear Mudblood children had been finally ridden off. Annoying, indeed. Those moping ugly adults in a show of repressible behaviour.
Tom wondered how would have his parents would have behaved if they had raised him. Well, there would be no need to come, as he was fairly sure he would have done well in a battle like that – and wouldn't leave his well-being as another's responsibility.
He had a permission note to check out books from the Restricted Section since his first days in the Slug Club, an achievement easily gained when he got in his Head of House's good-graces. Nevertheless, he was always very careful when sneaking inside that area, as constant visits there would raise suspicions. That night, however, he didn't bother with these worries; nobody was there – he was pretty sure of it.
"Noceo." A voice echoed through the library. Tom stiffened, recognising the injuring curse. Something screeched, in an inhuman voice. He took his wand out of its holster, approaching the source of the sound.
"Noceo."
"Protego horribilis." Tom whispered, but the spell had never targeted him, and a rat screeched among the corpses of its brothers, dying quickly. The caster of the curse turned around to see his discoverer, a malicious grin at his face.
Tom raised his eyebrows at him. The boy was tall, but he still could recognise him as a first-year Slytherin. His skin was an unhealthy pale complexion, and his hair was white blonde – eyes charcoal stared his indigo ones, gaunt features strange at the soft light of a candle. Then, Tom noticed the leather notebook at the younger wizard's hands. "Archie Pyrites. The notebook is mine."
"Tom Riddle. It's Argo, actually."
"Like the ship and it's sailors." Tom commented, holding his hand up to retrieve his belonging.
"Indeed. How can I be sure this is yours?"
"You can't. But I can assure people I saw you practicing the injuring curse. Brutus Burke was sentenced five years in Azkaban for using it on muggles. I don't really think any blood-traitor would go out of their way to defend some damned rats; but I'm not sure Dippet will think the other students are safe around some torturer. Even more one foolish enough to practice in the library."
Pyrites handed the notebook in an obvious picture of resignation. "Where should I practice, then?"
"There is tower here characterised by its abundance of rodents. Most students know it as the Dark Tower…"
[][][][][][][][]
The sound of a pencil brushing against paper was all Anya could hear as she left her slumber. The witch opened her emerald-eyes to see an olive-skinned girl crouched over a sketching notebook. The short-haired looked over her work and widened her eyes when she noticed the bed-ridden girl wakefulness.
"Laws." She called, her voice nothing more than a soft sigh. "How are Euphemia and Lawrence?"
"Poppy healed Euphie quickly the night before. Lawie will have a scar for the rest of his life, but he will be alright." The Ravenclaw said, putting her notebook aside, revealing the drawing of a lady floating in a pond. "How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine." She said noticing that the lady on the sketch had her features. "'And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, that suck'd the honey of his music vows, now see that noble and most sovereign reason.'" Anya quoted. "Oh, how well you know me, Laws. Lovesick with fire, reaper of death, opheliac, apparently."
Laws blushed. "Oh, I didn't mean you were Ophelia! It's just that most artists are supposed to portray Ophelia once in their lives; and you looked so beautiful there."
"Perhaps it's that you have done it unconsciously, but you can see the similarities. I feel as if I'm delving into madness, Laws." The Ravenclaw moved to deny her, but Anya didn't allow her. "No. I have set on fire a whole quarter! I let people die following my orders! And I'm trying to justify my acts by saying that they shouldn't have followed orders of a twelve years old girl. It's disgusting. Even more because when I first saw them following my lead, I was satisfied!" She felt tears of disgust wetting her cheeks now, but she didn't bother to wipe them.
"No, Nastya, you are not like these! You are a good person, you are friendly and unprejudiced – you care." Laws told her. "It's normal to have those thoughts; it only means you are human. But that's alright, you did your best to save people there. Euphie told me what happened there." Laws grabbed her hands in a gentle manner. "If you had done better, I would think you were a goddess."
Anya gave the other girl a scornful laughter. "You are blind to my wrongdoings, Laws. Love is blind, and you are unable to see because of our friendship, dear." The emerald-eyed witch dropped her hands besides her hips, glancing around the room, the walls preventing her from seeing the other students in the Hospital Wing.
If she had looked over at her friend, she would have seen a frown marring the expressions of Laws, instead, her eyes locked on the enamelled vase at the nightstand, which supported a bouquet of irises, chrysanthemums, bell of Ireland and white heather, fairy wings – beautiful magical flowers which expelled the sweetest aromas, which healing properties. "Flowers?"
"Harfang just left." Laws explained coldly. Anya nodded, easily, and the time stretched slowly, some minutes of silence where both of them kept doing nothing – checking their nails or whatever. Anya caressed the scorched ends of her hair. It used to be so long – reaching under her arse in a silky way. She supposed she could grow it again with her will; she had always been able to modify her hair and nails. Or perhaps she should cut the tips and be done with it, a hair reaching her waist was far from being short.
"Are you really that idiotic?" Her Ravenclaw companion's voice interrupted her musings, and Anya identified the angry tone in the other's voice. "I'm not some foolish, easy-to-manipulate girl. I have honour, and I would never turn a blind eye to immoral actions. I'm not worthless, Anastasia, and I wouldn't be your friend if you were."
"I am not saying you are, Laws. But you want to see my best side, because the other is too disturbing. I may have the good things you see in me, but they aren't my only traits." Anya argued back.
"Do not insult me with condescension!" The Cadogan witch yelled. "I'm better than that, and you are better than this self-criticising persona unable to forgive herself for things she isn't to be blamed." Anya opened her mouth to object, but she was harshly cut by her friend. "You know what? I'm leaving. I'll tell Poppy you are awake, but only come down the lunch when you get to your senses again."
And with those words as farewell, she grabbed her sketchbook and left, leaving the snake witch in a room filled by flowers, chocoballs and chocolate wands (her favourites), and a senet game which, she was pretty sure, was property of Dorea.
Grabbing her wand at the nightstand, Anya conjured a pair of scissors out of thin air.
[][][][][][][][]
When Harfang Longbottom had heard the news of the attack on Hogsmeade the day before, he had panicked for a brief moment. You see, he considered four the number of most important women in his life. His mother, Edessa Longbottom née Strougler; his baby half-sister, Enid; his fiancée, Callidora Black; and his best female friend, Anastasia Donbyre. His mother was long dead, and his sister was obviously safe in the Longbottom Manor, in Cardiff. And Nastya was, as first-year, safe inside the castle walls. His reason of worry was his fiancée, who took great liking in roaming around the village near the school.
But this worry on lasted for few minutes, as he quickly found her together with her cousins Lucretia Black and Igraine Yaxley – crushing their hands in a deathly grip because Cedrella were in a date with Caesar Malfoy at Hogsmeade. Harfang had enough empathy to worry over her sister as well, although his friendship with her twin was strained long ago.
However, such preoccupation was soon substituted by a much more truthful when Dorea Black banged the doors of the Great Hall open and announced that Nastya wasn't at the school – she had just been informed by the professors. Following her was a very irate Tom Riddle, who had snapped at everybody who dared to approach him while the battle didn't end.
Harfang, however, shared the same stance of him at those moments. Their friendship was short, as they have met only the year before, but since the moment he had seen her, the Gryffindor had known they shared a rather similar soul. She was his soulmate, his twin sister in everything but blood. It didn't matter to him if they never each other again, as long as she lived and was happy, they would be connected.
When Anya had been carried inside the castle, Harfang had hugged her fiercely, but her arms had hung loosely around him. Her eyes were empty, and her clothes and hair burnt. Later, tales of what she had done in the village would travel the castle and reach the evening newspaper.
He had seen her only once since that, in the morning, before Callidora carried him away to fuss over her sister. She had been sleeping soundly, a graceful picture that couldn't be compared to the girl he had seen the day before.
Now at the lunch, he saw her again. The doors were opened a bit, allowing a witch with jaw-length bobbed raven hair to walk in. Her left hand held a chocoball, or the remnants of one, while her tongue licked strawberry mousse and clotted cream of her hands. She wore pine green velvet robes with bishop sleeves and cowl neckline. The eyes of the whole crestfallen student body followed her figure with something akin to admiration.
Her eyes were very similar to the eyes of the night before, the heir of Longbottom noted. Not that her stance could reveal anything about it. The way she licked her hands could be classified as coquetry – and with her shorter hair, most would find difficulty in classifying her as a twelve years old girl. Oh, she still had a small stature, and her body was far from being curvy or well-developed. But her posture was so stiff, her expression so mature. She looked as if she had aged more years since the morning of the day before than she had aged since he had first met her.
Burdened. Anya looked burdened.
Harfang frowned.
Dorea gestured to Anya sit at her side, and the girl promptly did, resting her head on her friend's shoulder and hugging the girl's torso with an arm. The hazel eyed witch reached for the other's hair, entangling her fingers on the short locks. In front of her, Brianna offered her a cup of hibiscus tea with a spoon of honey to her.
"Did you know you are famous now, Nastya?" Brianna commented as the girl took a sip of the tea.
Dorea raised her eyebrows to the blond girl. Really? Half of the Great Hall was mourning, and even if no one on their house had been killed – mostly because they were cowards which ran away at the first signal of danger and partially because they were the house in which the older-years stopped frequenting the village except for some occasions more – there was some kind of code which dictated you weren't supposed to chirp and gush in a day of mourning. "Brianna!" She chided.
"Yes, I know, Brianna." Anya asserted. Her eyes roamed around the chamber and she sighed. "The Great Hall is so empty." She observed. "Where is Arawn? And the rest of the boys?" Aside Rosier and Avery, all boys of their year weren't there. And neither were Nott, Mulciber and Rowle of the third-year, or Pyrites, Alphie and Nott of the first-year.
"They haven't appeared still." Clemency Rowle reported to her, eyeing the spot beside Dorea, where Mab-Anne sat, jealously. "Brother was saying something about a ritual of initiation at breakfast, though." The blond girl revealed.
"I hope Tom and Ax don't drag Alphie to some sort of perverse practice. Morgana knows that my nephew won't survive it." Dorea ranted. "And we had enough deaths yesterday."
"They are Slytherins, Dora. Poisonous toadstools don't change their spots." Anya intoned, burring her head on the others shoulder.
"Why did Madam Pamsely allowed you to leave the Hospital Wing? You are exhausted, Nastya." Dorea alleged. "I will have a talk with her. Or better, with her apprentice. It was her who let you out, wasn't it? I can guess."
"Hold your hippogriffs, Dora. Poppy is even stricter than Madam Pamsely. I'm fine, I took a Pepper-Up Potion. I'm just dejected about yesterday." Anya dismissed the other's inquires. "Can you pass me the sachertorte?"
"There an explanation to your sudden sweet-tooth?" Brianna questioned. Suddenly, the doors opened again, allowing a horde of wizards in. Leading them, was Tom – flanked by Ragnar and Abraxas.
"They are here." Mab-Anne stated.
The height of thirteen male bodies sitting in the Slytherin table caught the attention of many, as on that day, many were silent. Tom stared at Brianna, motioning for her to make space for him, Abraxas sitting at his side. Ragnar occupied the seat beside Anya, and an albino-boy she recalled as Pyrites sat at the other side of Tom.
Anya raised an eyebrow. It was unusual for Orion to leave his space open to another. But strangely, he was joking with Demetrius Rowle, Justus Nott and Antonin Dolohov.
"So…might I ask where have you been all this morning?" Dorea queried, looking to Abraxas. "You were absent for hours. I have no idea how you plan to explain this to the professors, when they all required we stick around the common rooms and the main halls.
"We had some firsties to welcome, it's a tradition. Father has been telling me that they started doing this since Brutus Malfoy walked around these hallways." Abraxas quipped. "That was 1643, Ragnar, if your history disability is preventing you of rationalising."
Ragnar grimaced, rubbing his neck in frustration. "Thanks, Ax." He replied, coldly. "But the idiodic one is you."
"Are you capable of talking now?" A sharp voice interrupted the conversation going around, drawing everyone's attention to the indigo-eyed wizard sitting in front of Anya, his fists clenched. "Or you will continue to be useless doll?"
The talk around them ceased; Slytherins mindful of the tense atmosphere between the two. Anya shifted her head on Dorea's shoulder to face Tom. "I won't ever be useless, Arawn." She answered. "The beautiful is as useful as the useful."
"The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely. All art is quite useless." He replied, quoting as well. Suddenly, Anya felt the air between Dorea and herself stretching, and in a moment, she was sitting straight.
The witch glared at Tom, because it was obviously his doing. And then, she let her head drop on Ragnar's shoulder with a bang. "Hold me." She muttered a command to him. He chuckled beneath her. "I'm not sure I want to be in Tom's black list, Nastya." The auburn boy whispered.
"You will survive." She mumbled, her gaze turning to the first-year in front of her. "I think we were never properly introduced. Ragnar?"
"Argo, this is Anastasia Donbyre, you are obliged to call her Nastya. Nastya, he is Argo Pyrites, and we have taken to call him Argo." He pronounced in a mocking manner.
"Like the boat and its sailors." Anya commented, making the boy chuckle.
"You and Riddle are the same." He offered as an explanation.
Anya just shrugged, stealing another slice of sachertorte. Around her, the students helped themselves to the soups, roasted meats, pies, breads, puddings, pastas, sausages, fishes, salads and potatoes.
When Anya stood up to make her way to the common room, the Head Girl, Elizabeth Brown, called her and led the girl to the Headmaster's Tower. Whispering the password "Salomé," the Hufflepuff seventh-year motioned to her walk up the staircase. "They are expecting you, I promise."
And they were – Professor Slughorn, Professor Dumbledore, Headmaster Dippet and Headmaster Troldmand, Professor Krum (which, Anya assumed, was the deputy of Durmstrang) and a dark-skinned, bald man who seemed familiar.
"Ms. Donbyre, we want to thank you for your services yesterday." The man, which now she recognised as Leonard Spencer-Moon, enunciated. She looked at him in interest. Now, the newspapers still had to announce that change in power which should have occurred that day, if one were to judge the way his minister robes didn't fit him.
"I did nothing, Minister. But I should congratulate you for your new role; Merlin knows that we need a more proactive ruling in these times." She answered, with a respectful bow in his direction. "I hope you avenge the lives lost the day before, as I couldn't."
"Oh, Ms. Donbyre, but you must recognise the greatness of your actions. If weren't for you, a number even larger of lives would have been lost." Professor Slughorn said. "My dear girl, you mustn't blame yourself for things even adults were unable to prevent."
"Perhaps, although I cannot deny that I've failed." Anya preached. "Nevertheless, I doubt I'm here for this. There is something else you would like to say, sirs?"
"Yes, Ms. Donbyre. May I assume you are aware of the ceremony taking place this evening?" Headmaster Dippet inquired.
Anya was. Dorea had informed her that Headmaster Dippet had announced in his pronunciation the day before that there would be a funeral at the end of the day, not that corpses remained to be buried. A monument to the dead would be raised at the school grounds, and another would be at the village, when it was reconstructed – which would take some time.
"Very well, then. It's our wish that you take part on the ceremony by reading their names." The minister said. "I won't demand such thing of you, even more considering the recent events in which you took part, but as it is, you stand as a pedestal of hope, Ms. Donbyre, and it's my wish that you accept this role." His green eyes pored on hers, steadily. "If I'm ought to be a symbol of justice, let yourself be a symbol of protection – as you acted upon yesterday."
The child's eyes bored into his for several instants, before her head gave a small nod. An excited yelp resounded through the office and Slughorn tottered in her direction, resting his hands on her shoulders. "That's incredible, my dear girl. I can go over the names with you later, if you wish."
"Thank you for the offer, professor, but I know their names." Anya declined gently. "The ceremony is to include all victims or just the students?" She questioned the others.
"Students and under-school-age. It's a memorial to children." Professor Dumbledore disclosed. "We wish to award you a Special Award for Services to the School, Ms. Donbyre."
"Actually, you should have been awarded an Order of Merlin by the Wizengamot, as your actions are very similar to Tilly Toke's in 1932, however you are underage. Despite this, you are to receive an International Order of Merit." Minister Spencer-Moon informed her, watching as she jumped to deny those trophies. "Accept them, Ms. Donbyre. It's the minimum you can do for the Wizarding World. Humility isn't a necessity here."
Anya faced the imposing wizard in front of her. The man was tall and strong, an imposing figure, if not a bit young. He was thirty-eight, if she remembered well, less than most Ministers for Magic had been when they were elected by Wizengamot. "I'm not an excessive humble person, minister. You are ignorant of my other faults, else you would have not this alone. Nothing is more deceitful than an appearance of humility. However, I'm mindful of the greater importance of other things in these times of war, and I don't think it's the right time to an award ceremony." She retorted, in the most defiant tone the minister should have faced since he had come in power.
"At the end of the year, if you insist. Hopefully, this war will have ended then." The man consented.
"Is that a possible predicament?"
"Of course not, Ms. Donbyre."
[][][][][][][]
The waterfall of Hogwarts was a beautiful place to build a memorial. The area was almost forgotten by the world, however it still retained an eternal appearance. A chamber had been carved into the rock long time ago, and in one of its walls, archways overlooked the clearing. The construction had been invaded by moss and vines through the centuries, and now the light of sunset illuminated students, politicians and parents.
The location had been chosen specially for the parents of the six Muggle-borns who had been murdered the day before. They couldn't see the school, but they could see the waterfall just fine. Anya pitied Dumbledore, who had been the bearer of the tragic news to the weeping parents. One of them had been a woman whose husband had recently been killed in the muggle war.
They all watched while the newly-elected Minister for Magic, the Headmasters of both schools and their deputies, and the recently named Hestia of the People performed the ceremony. Each of them read their elegies, and spoke words of lament behind the sculpture of a willow tree of silver. It's leaves held the names of the victims and prayers for their souls in several languages.
The tree was truly magical, its leaves creating a lyrical song when the wind blew amongst them. In those moments, it was almost as if Anya could forget the cries of parents and friends watching her.
The pureblood and half-bloods were more accepting of the fate which had fallen on their children. But Anya could understand how fantastically terrifying things could appear to those without magic – they had sent their children to a place which was supposedly safe, as every muggle parent in the United Kingdom had, but today, they had received the news that their children were killed by the living dead – and that it had been such a brutal death that no corpse remained.
"Adeline Abbot. Eoin Allaway. Zaharina Andonov. Howard Audley. Skender Baris. Ewald Bergfalk. Jacob Colbert. Jasper Dahlsen. Leigh Dagworth. Charlene Draper. Harri Elis. Damjan Gavrilović. Seona Gordon. Logan Hackett. Filip Holus. Johana Holus. Alfred Jelen. Edgar Lavern. Lovro Loncar. Lileas Mac Aohda. Lorcan Mahoney. Niall Mahoney. Wayne Mason-Buckley."
Deep blue eyes swam in her vision. "Nobody knows what a viola is. I like being the one to show them the magnificent sound of it. Even if they don't remember my name, they will remember my music."
"Lavina Max. Stefánia Mordon."
Light-brown hair, and a smile. "All my friends call me Fanni...I hate caramel, but I simply love food."
"Aamu Mustonen. Eleonara Mustonen. Larisa Novak. Viola Ogden. Honoria Osbert. Rionách Payne. Mihaila Pandev. Dawn Putnam. Adolph Rollins. Cadfael Sayer. Eirwen Sayer. Roderick Sangster."
Three children looked at her in relief when she saved them from the inferi. They hugged a Hungarian girl's leg when they felt they had reached safety. They were wrong.
"Charlotta Sörensson. Dagur Tómasson. Haakon Toov. Graeme Tuff. Meredith Vaughn. Edith Warren. This evening we gather in the quiet of this sanctuary to pay our last tribute of respect to these beautiful children. I knew these children, we all knew. We sat with them during meals. We smiled to them in passageways and streets. We shared classes and jokes with them.
"These children, innocent of all charges, were victims of one of the vilest and saddest crimes ever perpetrated against mankind." Anya proclaimed, her voice echoing loudly. "And yet, they died nobly. They died fighting, as warriors. These children showed that strength, that power, is even in smallest bodies, in the youngest souls. May they live forever as true heroes."
Anya breathed loudly. She could see the merpeople swimming up the waterfall, and centaurs bowing at the border of the Forbidden Forest, paying their respects to those young deaths. The witch could hear the sounds of the sad song the selkies sang. She was one of the few people there to understand its words.
/ The children of lir may fly away, from water to water, but one day they will return to us – and their story will live forever. /
Because Harry can go through sex-change, travel in time, and leave fame behind - nevertheless fame will never leave him.
If you are wondering, the children of lir is an Irish Legend about children who were turned into swans by their aunt, and forced to spend 300 years on Lough Derravaragh, 300 in the Sea of Moyle and 300 in Irrus Domnann. When they are finally turned back, they are old and die - but live happy on the otherworld. I made them part of the Mermish culture.
And I'll always appreciate reviews - give me them or I won't update (yes, this is a blackmail, and I'm not kidding...just a bit).