The wind danced. Soft and smooth. Lifting feather and wing. Currents rushed and lazed. Fast and slow. The wind was her home. The sky so blue, an open expansion of brightness. Inviting her to join it in the air. To twist and sway with its impossible grace. Free from the boundaries of the ground and people. There was not a single puff of white to be seen for miles. She wished she could be one with the wind. To join it in its unending joy. To be as swift and honest as it was. Because the wind could not lie.

She longed to fly. To go and glide on the air with the birds. To swing and play for hours with no need to land or stay. She could fly away and then she wouldn't be contained. The world would be at her finger tips. She wished she could fly away and never turn back. Never look back. She wanted to become just a dot in the sky. Hidden in the very sky. Not seen, not heard. But felt. Against skin, skimming of the grass, playing with the leaves. Talking in a way unknown to everyone. Traveling invisible.

She wished to be as the wind was in this moment, soft and sweet, just the ruffle of a breeze. There but fleeting. Gone in the next moment. She wished she could leave. Wind couldn't be captured or chained. The air, wind and breeze were all free. To do as it wanted, as it wished, as it willed. She wished with all of her heart, all of her soul, to just go. To disappear in the wind, and never be trapped again. Never to be hurt or broken. Gone and never seen again.

Oh how she desired to be out there. In the wild and green. To live amongst animals and trees. To never be bothered or used. The wind was her home. The place she gets to breath. To relax and be as she wanted. Not like everyone expected her to be. But her, true and honestly herself. With no expectations or burdens. Not masks to keep or words she practiced every day. Nothing but the wind.

The open sky was beautiful. Gorgeous. Otherworldly with its shade and light. She raised her scarred hand high. As if to be grabbed and be whisked up to the heavens. Where flying was possible whenever she wished and she was free to walk through the clouds. Her hand cast a shadow, covering her eyes. She blocked the sun with her palm. To bursts of light glittering from behind her hand nearly blinded her. So she closed her eyes and let her conscience drift in the wind. Feeling it touch her skin. Wafting through the thick coils of hair. Bringing the smell of the trees and nearby lake to her nose. The sting of density and lighting came as well. The after math of a storm the evening before. She loved the smell of a storm. With its new wind and strong force.

Storms always brought out both sides of the wind. One side, like notes to a sad song. Slow and echoing. Melochany and sorrowful. Flowing and rising in circles and small leaf trails. Gliding though the mind like a lullaby that will never fade away. Raising through feet and soaring up to the sun. Gentle and quiet. Like Gypsies who walked streets, citys, the world. Free to roam where and when they wanted. Whispers against skin and song in the ears. It stayed in her heart and replayed in her mind. The sad song of the tender wind always stuck inside her head.

Then the other: like the fast beating of a heart, racing with adrenaline laced blood. Faster and faster. A rapid circulation of air and wind. Harsh and burning. A wave of gale so hard it felt like a physical force of destruction. Rushing over skin like a tsunami. It pushed over trees and whipped against skin. Tangling hair with jarring rushes of wind. Tearing down houses and buildings with cruelty. It spared no one and no thing. Merciless. Thoughtless. It overruled everything. Wasn't scared. Wasn't controlled. It was unconstrained, dangerous.

Two sides of one coin, gentle and harsh. Kind and vindictive. Like duel personalities in one body. One in the same. Together. Can't have one without the other. Hurricane and cyclone. Draft and drift.

She wished to be there, gliding into the ether. Going beyond the clouds. Where the air is thin, and the ground is so very very far away. The people smaller than even the tiniest ant. Breath coming in pants. She's terrified and it feels good. To be scared and not be called weak. They couldn't see her there. Couldn't judge her there. No one would dare venture as far as she had. They had no right when they would never follow her through the sky.

She wishes to fall and not be stopped before she hits the ground.

{}{}{}

Death is not soft. Death is not sharp. Death isn't anything and yet, it's all things. In everything that has life, in everything that had a beginning, there is death. There is an end to all things, no matter the amount of battles you fight. No matter the screaming you do to survive. No matter what, death came. Death didn't play games, death didn't pretend. Death didn't give chase, it wasn't a cat that hunted the mouse.

Death was simple, it wasn't there and then it was. Simple. Straight forward. Harsh. It did not try to soften it's approach. It did not wait for the right moment.

Death was just Death. When your time came, it came.

Hemlock had learned that very young. Death, no matter a thing, came. It was everywhere, everything. And she could not stop it.

Death could not be controlled.

{}{}{}

But it could be delayed.

That she learned too.

{}{}{}

She trembled. Feeling too small in the enclosing shadows, her tiny feet stumble back. And she's scared. Hurried footsteps travel to their ears, a halt, and the two men whisper to each other at the opening of the alley way. She strains her five year old ears to hear.

"Where did they..."

"...it's a dead end."

"...smells sweet...

"...down there."

She can see their long shadows reaching for them, can feel the magic radiating just a dozen feet away. She pulls Henry behind her, pushing back even more into the dirty brick corner. His small hand gripping tightly at her own. She's scared. So very terrified, and her heart is hammering itself into her rib cage. She presses her hand over her mouth, willing her body to just stop. To stop, stop, stop.

It doesn't stop, her hear, her lungs, her head. It doesn't stop. She has to protect Henry, she has to save Henry. But she doesn't know how, doesn't know anything. And then they are there, looming over them, towering in the way all adults are to five year olds. She pushes back again, trying to hide Henry behind her slightly taller body. Trying to make him disappear. She can feel his heart against her back, his nails dig in to her palm, she wants to scream. But the terror seizes her throat, grips it's icy fingers and squeezes. Her lungs burn, her eyes blur and she wants so bad to sway and fall.

But Henry is here, and it's her job to protect him. No matter what.

That's what she had been taught since she could remember. Protect Henry, no matter what. He will save us all one day. No matter what. No matter what. No matter what.

No Matter What.

Something inside of Hemlock hurts. It burns and stretches and pulls at her veins. Pain bubbles up from her core, tight sharp flares crippling her thoughts. He body shakes violently when the four eyes fall on her and Henry. She knows they can see him, his too red hair blaring against the grey stone wall and her too dark hair. His eyes must have been peaking from behind her because he gasps, sharp and horrified.

One man is unbelievably tall, taller then the other, with glowing red, red, red eyes.

Sometimes, Hemlock remembers, or she thinks she remembers, the night Peter Pettigrew was killed before their crib. When his betrayal got him killed. She remembers flashes, green and blue, and the spinningspinningspinning mobile, and tinkling song drifting from it's speakers. Whimpering screams, pooling blood and red, red, red eyes. Cold, bright green light.

But this isn't Voldemort, this wasn't the Dark Lord that didn't die but is gone. It's a Vampire. Henry cries, his hot tears dripping on her shirt and onto her skin. And she knows she can't fight these Immortals, she is helpless, and she can't protect him. She will die. And that's a heart stopping thought for a five year old. She is going to die. She feels the bond tying her and Henry together stretch, pulling at both of their hearts and souls. Something inside of her screams, clawing at her mind and bones. She is burning.

Something inside of her is fighting, fighting to live and walk away from this. Something inside of her is trying to break away. But no matter what Henry will not die.

She trembles. Glances from the red eyes to the other man. He is smaller, younger, a grin nearly splitting his face in two. His eyes are black, empty, feral. A starving Vampire. She pulls from the string tying their hearts, pulls and pulls and pulls. She excepts the pain, embraces it when her bond goes unresponsive. She pulls away from Henry, his swirling hazel eyes fill with horrified shock, his nails yank from the soft skin of her wrist, and the Vampires aren't fast enough.

Henry Potter disappears with a loud crack.

And Hemlock Potter's world goes black.

{}{}{}

No Matter What.

{}{}{}

She wakes up cold, shaking, and not alone. She can feel the raking eyes taking her in. Her heart beats like a rabbit's under her ribs. Fast and painful. It takes a a few horrifying moments for her to remember what happened. Vampires. And she is frozen, Henry. She pulls at her mind, searches and searches for that string, that bond. It takes too long, the connection too faint. Her heart feels frozen when she tries to pull at the twisting, twining rope. It isn't responding, he isn't responding. Her breath stops, thoughts completely and utterly frozen. She wants to scream.

When suddenly, like a switch had been flicked, the world bursts with light, burning at her eyes and racing up the fraying rope. His feelings, his mind, his soul surges up and up and up to her, the string begins to nott back up and all she can feel is his pain and his fear and his screams. Relief cripples her over exhausted body and mind. He's alive. The tears come then, too hot and too fast. He's alive.

She glances up, fear spiking again when the Vampire is suddenly there. Just feet away from her with his hands on the bars of the small cage she is in. His eyes are red. An almost healthy, burning crimson. He's stronger than the ones who corralled her and Henry into that abandoned alley. She could see he was older too, simply by his eyes. She knew. She wasn't going to die.

She was going to be eaten.

{}{}{}

She doesn't know how she fell asleep, she doesn't know why. But one minute she is awake, staring at that vampire and next she is waking up, strapped to a rusting bed in a hall filled with other rusting beds.

In a hall, filled with other too small, too young, children.

She screams.

{}{}{}

She refueses to eat, she refuses to drink. She refuses to obey to a single command. They force her. She losses track of time there. Can't tell when it's day or night. But she knows it's a long time. She feels the fatigue from thrashing not too long in the room. Her body not yet strong enough to do anything but feel the twin bond. She sleeps.

And when she wakes again, there are needles taped into her arms. A tall pole holding a clear bag attached to the tubes connected to the wire. She cries.

She didn't want to be kept alive.

{}{}{}

She falls in and out of consciousness after that. Only every fully focussing when a Vampire walks into the long room. The first one that comes to her bed, bites. Long, elongated fangs tearing into her too small forarm. All she knows is pain.

The world goes black.

{}{}{}

The humans there, the older ones who walk freely among them and follow every command, come after the Vampires are gone. They go from one bed to the other with three potion vials. Each too small child gets three. But before the potions are given, they slice at the bitten skin and their blood is drained into bowl. Then the vials of three different colors (red, yellow and clear) are injected into the tubes. After that, they are left there, sitting in the stifling room with no windows and only one door. Hemlock can't count that far down, only four beds down each side. Her glasses lost long before she sent Henry away. She can't tell the time, can't see that far down into the room. Can't even move.

But she can hear. She can hear every little sound that echos from each end of the room. She can hear ever little scream and whimper and cry. The older ones, they don't make noise anymore, the sit there, eyes glazed and broken. The boy next to her hasn't even moved since she got there. So, with strain that's almost painful. She hums. That one single melody she would never be able to forget. The song when Peter Pettigrew dies*.

{}{}{}

Little Hemlock Potter had always been different. She was too quiet, too still, too little of everything a five year old should be. But her brother Henry made up for that. He was always there, filling every silence she created, smiles for her when her lips didn't raise. He was always there. A constant chatter in her ears and in her head. Grabbing her hand and dragging her away when she didn't feel welcome. Henry Potter was everything to Hemlock Potter. And he had always been there, by her side with his sunshine smiles and too hot magic. He's always been there.

Until he isn't.

And she knows the distance is killing them, knows that being separated is draining them. And everything is going dull. The world turning grey as color is sacrificed to live. The last colors she sees before everything goes blank is the boy that has recently been moved to her right. The other from before is dead. With his bright burnt orange hair and crystal pale blue eyes. She cries for him, when he screams and screams and screams. Because that was her not too long ago.

And the older girl to her left, with sun spun blond hair thats too bright and golden against the room they are caged in. Her eyes are dark, brown with flecks of auburn, swirling like dark chocolate that spilled over finger tips. The girl doesn't scream, Hemlock knows she will die soon. Can feel that magic trapped under the girls skin fading. Just like the boy who had layed beside her before. Hemlock will follow soon her. The cold was beginning to set in and the pain had dulled with every Vampire.

She knows she is dying, because the world is viewed in black and white and soon her thoughts would follow too. Then she realised, as she fought to keep her eyes open, Henry was feeling the same way too. Dying.

{}{}{}

She knows what the potions do now, color may be gone but they all came in the same order. Yellow, Red and then Clear. After the knife burns her too thin skin. Yellow knits the slit skin and bites. The red replenishes their blood and the clear gives them nutrition instead of food. She watches with empty eyes as the same teenage girl walks into the room empty and light as the many times before. This girl doesn't have magic, otherwise it would have fought the allure and enchantment the Vampire's held over her. It would have killed her instead of letting the Vampires take over.

Magic was their very own self destruct button. And Hemlock Potter wonders for a long time why she just won't die. It's what she wishes for every time she opens her eyes and when she goes to close them again. To die.

But a wish means nothing in this living hell.

{}{}{}

And still she lives.

And the blond girl, who seems to have been here so long, dies.

And all Hemlock can do is watch as life after life just ends.

Gone.

{}{}{}

While she is there she learns a lot of things, innumerable amounts of broken bruising things. Things no child should learn, yet she is only one in the many who learn as well. She wonders and wonders and wonders. All she has is her head, and that tiny string that's beginning to unravel. So, she thinks alot. About everything she can remember, every memory she has stored. The last moments she spent her mother and father. With her godfather and Remus. At Peter Pettigrew's grave. Her mind is her only safe place and even then it begins to fade.

{}{}{}

The day comes where she knows. This is her end. The next time she closes her eyes to sleep, would be the last time she ever did. So, she hums. That last song, even when the Vampires come and come and come. She doesn't scream, feeling long gone from her arms and legs. The boy next to her tries to follow along, but he hasn't been there too long. Pain is strong in the beginning. It probably still is.

If her mind hadn't broke. She'd still feel it too. If all the too little bodies in this room hadn't taught themselves to not feel. The boy would learn, he would be like her, staring at the new kid. When she was gone.

Something in her, the same thing that rose in the alley that day, burned. Used razor sharp claws to tear apart her core, to try to escape. To live. Her very own self-destruct button. It purges through every thought and feeling. All that's left is the waiting. The endless patience that comes with breaking.

The day comes.

And they are finally saved.

{}{}{}

Three months, one week, four days, twelve hours, thirty-seven minutes and forty-two seconds. She had turned six 23 days before. What she thought was years, what she thought was an eternity, widdled down to 95 days. She doesn't know how to feel, because when you think about it. Three months isn't a long time. And yet all that suffering, for all those kids, for the time to be so short was...jarring.

It hurt.

She had only been there for 95 days. And yet she watched so many children die. So many too little bodies empty and gone. 95 days doesn't seem like a lot, but to her, to those other children, it was forever.

{}{}{}

She doesn't remember much of the weeks or even months after her rescue. Everything blurs into tears and blood and screams. Henry's crimson hair and white, white sheets. And scars, so many, many scars. Vampire bites never heal, the venom preserves the teeth marks into frozen skin. Always there. And every set of fangs are chilled and hard to touch. All feeling has disappeared from the bitten skin.

She cries the day she finds that out. Cries and sobs and finally, finally sleeps. Because magic couldn't fix everything.

{}{}{}

Years pass by excruciatingly slow, she has trouble falling back into the life she led before. The nightmares and flashbacks were the worst. Living again in that long room in a single night. But Henry is always there, so she pushes forward, she does everything in her power to get better, to be normal again. She needed to get stronger, to get smarter. She needed to get better.

No Matter What.

Because of her, Henry had almost died countless times. If she had died then he would have too, and she was on the brink of death for nearly four months. She would never be that weak again. She would never risk him like that again. No matter what she had to do, Henry Potter would live.

{}{}{}

Death seemed to follow her where ever she went. Tradegy struck at every opportunity. Sorrow seemed to think itself her friend. Her life, one big sob story. For the people watching to only see and not experience. Because when she is nine years old, Sirius dies. Her precious, irreplacable Godfather, Uncle in all but blood, psuedo Lord Father, is murdered.

Gone. Forever.

{}{}{}

Death came.

{}{}{}

It was a perfect day...

A bright and beautiful day, sunny and clear of any clouds, the deepest, softest blue that she had seen in a long time. The sun was shining, the wind blowing so softly it felt like a drift of hand, the smallest touch, the lingering caress. With the winds brought are laughs and chuckles on a fall day, the leaves rustle in a mockery of his laugh, the swaying of the grass simply a ruse of his voice.

The chairs lined the immaculate lawn in rows, chrysanthemums, roses and hydrangeas stationed at the ends and hanged from the rafters. The kazebo had been remodeled for this day. Black and white clashes in the shades and shadows brought by the over hanging trees, the world was revolving slowly but all she could hear was chatter, endless background conversation, all she could see was pitying eyes and broken facades, all she could feel was the whispers, the pain, and endless, falling sorrow. Henry sobs in his seat beside her. Crying his hurt to the too blue skies. Sobs surely reaching the gods who watch on.

She is silent, empty. Cold again, restraints tightening around her wrists, burning prickles travel up her arms and down her legs. Henry's fingers grip her palm, skin to skin contact strengthens the bond, she pulls at him. Trying to take every bit of sorrow and pain she could from him. To ease the agony she knows they are both feeling. It hurts but Henry finally stops crying for the first time in two days.

...for a funeral.

{}{}{}

WHOOSH!

The sound of fire rushing to meet the stars, the dark night lit with yellow and oranges, the ethereal light was brighter then the light hanging from her hand, from his wand. The heat hit her with a sharp slap. So close it nearly singed her hair and skin. It was overwhelming, but still she didn't move. Couldn't. Wouldn't. The pyre was her work, left to the heir or heiress, by the rights of their pureblood ancestory, she wouldn't leave it for a moment, she deserved to feel the pain, the feel the heat. To burn. She deserved it all, so she would endure, she would survive. She lived when he wouldn't. She continued to breath when that too bright man was simply gone.

The stars were dim, the sky filled with smoke. And she could smell them, the scorching of his skin, the blacking of his bones, his burning. Still she didn't move. Henry sat with their mother dozens of feet back. Henry couldn't bare to stand beside her and see him burn. Couldn't watch Sirius join his star and those of his ancestors. Her father, James Potter is standing beside her, hand clutching his own lit wand. Staring at the fire with unblinking eyes.

She could hear the crackling, the pops and prickles the wood and fire made. But in those flames she saw Sirius one last time. Saw him there, grinning at her through the floo when she would call after a particularly bad nightmare. Saw him twisting on the glossy floor when he started to teach her to dance. Watched one last time, as his long pale fingers drift across ancient piano keys. Hears his voice singing too loud to the radio, hears his deep bark when the walk through the woods. Listens one last time, as he reads the books to her that little girls shouldn't read.

And then he is gone.

The fire dwindles, the smell slowly drifting away as the last embers fall and the smoke disappears. A large hand holds her own, reaching down from his tall frame to cradle a too cold, too small hand. James Potter smiles through his tears at her. A silent bonding, and secret wish. She smiles that sad, sad smile at him and nods.

They walk away, hand in hand. Sirius is gone, but they are just a little less sad.

{}{}{}

A one wolf howls to an crying moon. Screams it's rage to the dying stars. Golden eyes long since dull.

A lone wolf cries.

A lone wolf dies.

{}{}{}

Remus is gone. She finds out just before The Pyre Burning. He leaves a letter for them all. He flees the memories created on England soil and joins a small italian pack just outside of Rome. He promises to write. To floo his godson when ever he can. He promises to send the souvenirs and gifts.

Not once did he promise to visit.

Hemlock understands why he had to leave. Why he had to run before he was too far gone. Loosing a chosen Mate is dangerous. Deadly and deathly. Remus's own wolf would tear him apart from the inside out in sorrow. Would kill him if the wolf lived in the same house his deceased Mate had. To see and smell the chosen family their Mate left behind. Hemlock understands. But still, she is angry because Henry cries and cries and cries. He lost his godfather to the death of his Sirius. Sleep comes painfully to Hemlock when she can hear Henry fight against his dreams through their purposely thin walls. She walks bare feet to his room and watches, and waites, and finally, when the nightmares come back, she yanks through the bond before they can start.

What's loosing a bit of sleep when her brother needs her. Needs her to be strong while he can be weak. To watch while he tries to sleep.

{}{}{}

It was a beautiful pen. An ancient and elegent thing. Light and long, with runes marking the sides and a obsidian carved rose as a top. The shine had long since fallen, the polish tarnished from use of dozens of Blacks. But still, she could feels the magic of lords and ladys long gone. Can feel the names the had been written by this pen. It's first ever feather had been crystallized so long ago, a clear middle joining the black jewel. The bottom is replaced at every Will writing. Broken, crumpled and burned so the Will's magic finality can't be removed. Sirius's last quill tip lays in a pile of black embers on the desk. The original and unsealed Will of one Sirius Orion Black collecting dust in the middle of the ancient desk. She heard the copy in a Goblin chamber hall just hours before. Sirius had named her the last living Heir, or Heiress, of the Black family line. Her, the girl who would never be normal. Left her everything besides the money and gifts bestowed on Remus, The Potter family and few other loved ones.

A small vial sits in front of her. The potion inside is transparent all except for the single drop of viridian enveloped in the middle. Blood adoption. He had asked her to be his blood daughter even though he is dead.

She cries.

{}{}{}

It hurts, drinking that potion all alone with only her echos watching. Burns in a way she hasn't before. It is adding new code to her DNA. Rewriting submissive genes and adding Sirius' own in their place. Changing bones and mind and magic. James and Lily Potter will always be her parents, but now, Sirius Black is too.

That something inside of her fights the changes, rebels against the potion and climbs through her veins, trying to pull back the new blood. Maybe it knows she could die if the blood didn't accept her. It doesn't stop, and now her new name blooms on The Black Family Tree.

Hemlock Steorra Black.

{}{}{}

Her father names her Potter Heiress when she is three years old and her magic has manifested physically. He tells her, many years later, that Henry had too much on his plate to take up the mantel of Lord Potter. She has two names now Hemlock Steorra Black joining Hemlock Iolanthe Potter. He tells her she can join them one day. When the Head of Family rings will finally grace her fingers. It's a big responsibility. The two families Magicks fall heavy on her small shoulders. But she doesn't fall. The more power she has the more Henry will be safe. The more she can and will do, the less he has to suffer and the more he can live.

No one will ever touch Henry Potter. She will always be there to ease the pain, the take the sorrow, the feel the fear. No matter what. Henry Potter will live.

{}{}{}

She watches Henry's small hands wrap the bandages around her too cold arm. She had already done her legs and he had said her would help her with her arms. He is used to doing this. Dedicated to his job of covering her scars. He had been helping her since she returned, when she would scream and scream and scream when anyone other them Henry even came close to her. When he finishes the last of the wrap he sits down next to her and asked a rare question.

"That day. When you were...- W-Why did you send me away? Why didn't you let me stay with you? Why, Hemlock?"

"To protect you. To keep you safe I sent you away. If you had stayed, unimaginable things could have happened. You would've died if we had both been...taken."

"Because I'm the Boy-Who-Lived, right?"

She can't help but laugh and he flinches away from her. She can feel the hurt shoot up their bond and she sobers.

"No, Henry. Because I love you. Boy-Who-Lived or not. Your my little brother, and it's my job to keep you safe."

"O-only by seven minutes."

"Yes, only by seven minutes. But I'm you older sister either way. And I'm going to protect you. No Matter What."

He hugs her, tight and warm and heart squeezing. He whispers at her right before he pulls away.

"I promise to keep you safe too, Hemlock. No Matter What."

Sooooo? How is it? Better? Or Worse? Please tell me. Any suggestions and feedback are welcome. Helpful and honest criticism is critical to A Writer, The Muse, and the continuity of said Story.

The* is for the song she hums. It is Hedwig's Theme.

Again, Thank you so much for your eyes, ears and that little voice in your head that reads to you. Bye!