Chapter 29
It would have been easier, Isidre reflected, if he had had a miserable life. If Isidre had been raised with hate and cruelty. But it wasn't true. Isidre had known love. He had known an abundance of love, actually. Isidre had known the feelings of his parent's arms wrapped around his chest, he had known the feeling of a hand brushing hair off his forehead in the middle of the night. Isidre had known laughter, he'd known the feeling of bouncing on his father's knee, he'd had birthday cakes and Christmas gifts, and second helpings of dessert. Yes, Isidre had known love.
And then he'd known of love withheld.
Isidre remembered the exact day it had all changed. He'd been ten, newly ten, and dreaming of the next birthday when he'd get his very first wand. His father had started talking about tutoring. This had been the 'best years', as he'd categorized them in his head. His grandfather had died by then – the only cloud in his young life. The only fear.
A visitor had called on them that day, Isidre remembered. It was not often that his father had guests. They had spoken for a long time, locked away in the study. Isidre had always hated that room. It had been his grandfather's study. It was dark in there, it smelled of book mold and mildew, and every time he entered it, he shivered. Later, Isidre would wonder if it had been a type of premonition. His father had always boasted that his family carried the sight.
He wondered if it had been a premonition, because after the stranger had left the study his life was changed forever. His father had morphed into a cruel and unpredictable man. There were no more evenings spent together by the fire, there was no more ice cream after dinner. At night, he started to hear his mother crying.
His mother had always been his very best friend. There were no other children – he had never even met one until his first day at Hogwarts. But he was getting ahead of himself, eager to skip over the year before he turned 11. The year of love withheld.
The change was slow, at first. His father looked at him differently. It was something in the eyes that had changed. As if he no longer recognized his son. His mother spent more and more time locked up in the study with his father. He could hear the pleading tone of her voice when he pressed his ear against the door.
Then, the dislike grew faster. His father started to completely ignore him. His grandmother started to openly insult him. And his mother, his mother would not answer his questions. She would just sit on the edge of the bed and offer to read him a story. He had been sick with worry and confusion. Every day had felt like a nightmare.
No answers were given until a fortnight before September first. His father had called him into his study, the first time he had used his name in months. "Isidre" he had snapped. Isidre had stumbled on the rug, in his rush to fall at his father's side. "You will be going to Hogwarts. The school." Isidre had nodded slowly. All his life, he had been taught that that school was awful. He had heard his grandfather rant about the fall of the wizarding race – about mudbloods and scumsuckers and the devastating loss of the wizarding war. But Isidre had not protested, he had simply nodded. He had nodded, because he wanted his father to love him again, and he thought that maybe he would, after tonight.
"While you're at this… 'school'" his father continued, his lip upturning at the verbiage, "you will be looking for someone. For a girl. You should recognize her instantly – she will be in Slytherin, like you will be. And she will be an orphan. She may… Find her and write when you have done so. You are dismissed." Isidre had left the room silently, a thousand questions on his tongue that he dared not speak aloud.
It was his mother who whispered to him the truth at last, the night before he left. She came to him in the middle of the night, her hair wild, her eyes large and darting. She had explained to him that she loved him, but she could not tell him everything until tonight. His father was an extremely skilled legilimens. It was too dangerous.
She had told him that she had a sister, and that her sister had a child. She had explained that his father was looking for that child, and that he thought she would be attending the school. It was all Isidre had to do.
And Isidre had tried. He had boarded the train, even though he was so anxious he thought he might be sick. He had hidden in the toilets the entire ride, too afraid to sit in a carriage with other children. But he had been determined, despite the fear. He had hoped, desperately hoped, that maybe this would be all it took to be loved again.
Everything had started going wrong that night. He had been sorted into the wrong house. His father had been very angry, he was sure. He had tried desperately, for the following three months, to find the girl his father had instructed him to find – but it was not the simple task that his father had made it out to be. There were dozens of first year girls, and none of the girls in Slytherin had announced themselves as orphans. Not that he would've have known, either way. He was so afraid to speak.
Instead of speaking, Isidre listened. He listened to classes avidly. He studied diligently. And, Isidre began to learn. Slowly, the 'best years' he had known started to crumble in his memories. The war – his father had supported the wrong side of it. The word mudblood was cause for detention or suspension or expulsion. Nothing he had known had been the truth. His regard for his father became further complicated. He found the thestrals. He'd spent many hours in the woods, thinking about his family.
Isidre had not been invited home for Christmas. It had been a punishment, for failing his task. His mother had written him the letter. There had been teardrops staining the ink.
And then Isidre had met Elle. For months, Isidre had agonized over how to make a friend. He had read books on gobstones strategy, but never plucked up the courage to join a game. He had tried, dozens of times, to speak to his partner in his cohort. She had never paid him any mind. In the end, making a friend was very, very easy. All it had taken was one good snowfall.
There had been joy, raucous joy. And then, he had seen the rune. He had recognized the rune for what it was immediately, he had seen it everywhere growing up. It was funny – he had not noticed the family resemblance until he'd seen the rune. After it had clicked, it seemed like the most obvious thing in the world. He'd known then that Elle was his sister. And he knew he had to make a choice.
He chose family. He chose love. He chose his sister.
He watched silently as Elle discovered the family secret, discovered they had no name. It was unplottable, that much Isidre knew. His father had given him a pseudonym for Hogwarts. He never explained why his family was so secretive. Isidre had been too afraid to ask.
Isidre had been guilty, knowing that Elle was suffering for her mother. But he knew that Isidre's father really wanted Elle. He knew that as long as Elle was safe, so was her mother. So, he had stayed silent. If Elle had known, she would have tried to face him, to try and get her mother back. And Isidre could not let Elle do that. He could not lose his friend.
The summer had come. There had been no letters, no words from his friends. Isidre's resolution faded. He began to give in to the muttered insults of his grandmother, the disgusted silence of his father. He began to believe that they were right to think the worst of him, to think him unlovable. A few weeks before September, he confessed.
He had been punished. This time he would not apologize for glossing over the hard parts of the story. The plot had been hatched and he had slipped the letter in the trunk. And then he had realized, too late, that he had made a terrible mistake. He had refused to help his father the rest of the term. But then, Isidre had to confess, he had been weak.
Elle had gone off with the Weasleys, and Isidre had been jealous. His father had smelled the jealousy, had twisted it in his mind, warped his thinking again. He was a very gifted legilimens. By the end of the break, Isidre had been convinced to plant another letter. He'd found out his mother was a twin, when the plan for the fireplace meeting was revealed. His mother no longer met him at night, to whisper secrets in his ear. She was shrunken. That was the only way Isidre could think to describe it.
It only took two weeks at Hogwarts for his head to clear. He had regretted so deeply he felt sick. He watched his friends plot over Goyle, hoping desperately that it would somehow stop them from attending the meeting. And when that had partially worked, Isidre took it upon himself to ensure Elle never got to speak to the fire. He had set off the sparks, pretending to peek over a corner that Sam was blind to. He knew the boy would run, would grab Elle. She had been saved. He thought then that she was safe.
The final letter, Isidre knew nothing about. He had refused his father's owls and he did not care for the anger it caused. He had never felt panic like he did when he ran to meet Elle. When it came to the field, he hadn't known what was going to happen. It was never in the plan that he would be there, when Elle was finally lured out of Hogwarts. The duelling, the chaos – everything had been just as confusing for Isidre as it had been for Elle. "The only thing I could think" Isidre sobbed, coming to the end of his story, "was how if anything happened to you, it would all be my fault." Isidre wiped a stray tear from his eye and winced as it brushed the fresh scar that traced a sickle shape down his left cheek. He turned to face away from Elle. He could not meet her gaze.
"I'm sorry" Isidre said hoarsely, his throat constricted, "I know you hate me now. But you deserve the truth, I owe you that."
Isidre heard the soft scrape of Elle's chair, as she shifted her weight forward. A soft hand met his own. Hope tugged Isidre's gaze back towards Elle.
"How did you not recognize me, for so long" Elle said, a thin vein of humour fighting valiantly to surface in her choked voice. "I look exactly like him." Isidre shook his head seriously. "You're less like him than you think. Your eyes – they're your own, you know. His are green." Elle lowered her eyes, swallowed and nodded once. "Thank you" she said.
Isidre heard another chair shift, and Harry Potter stood up from his seat. Isidre could not read his expression, as he excused himself to go confer with the aurors outside. "I'll only be gone a moment" Harry said, "and Teddy will be standing outside the door the whole time." Elle looked up to Harry and nodded once. Something was different, in the way Elle looked at Harry now, and the way she used to speak about him before. The anger was put out. Maybe not extinguished completely, but the flames had died a little. There was an understanding, somewhere between them, hanging in the stagnant air of the hospital room.
When Harry left, the room started to feel unnaturally quiet again, the way it had felt when he'd first woken up, alone and afraid. Elle removed her hand from his, and Isidre's stomach dropped. Maybe she had been putting on a show, for Harry, maybe she really did hate- Isidre's thoughts were cut short with a hiss of pain as Elle lightly traced the shape of the scar cut across his cheek. It was painful, but Isidre didn't turn away.
Elle was quiet for a moment. "Will it be okay?" she asked. "No" Isidre replied "curses always leave scars, the healer said." Elle nodded softly. "Mum?" she asked quietly, "will she be okay?" Isidre shook his head. Elle sighed. "I owe you the truth" Isidre said, "I can't betray you again."
When Harry returned (he was gone for far longer than the moment he'd promised) he found Elle and Isidre side by side, sleeping in the hospital bed. The moonlight was streaming in the window, and in the darkness of the night, when the harshness of features was blurred away, when the range in pigments were all converted to shades of grey and blue – yes, in the darkness of the night, Harry thought they looked extraordinarily alike.