Chapter 5

The days were starting to blur together. Sandpaper. Blood. Salt. Aching, constant aching. Muscles that twitched in the night, tearing her from dreams of ever-increasing tempo, images of dark bodies, flashes of Elle's face, of her laughter, of her screams. Jessica knew something had given. The tension had finally been too much, and something in her mind had snapped. She was nothing but a ricochet now.

It was morning, or it was night, or it was somewhere in between. Jessica awoke with a twitch in her calf, so painful she brought her fist to her mouth to quiet the moans. She tasted equal parts iron and salt. There was nothing to do but ride it out. Slowly, the knot of muscle started to loosen. Jessica removed her hand from her mouth, and massaged the throbbing skin, groaning in pain.

The worst of it was over. Now it was just a matter of waiting for her nerves to calm before sleep could take her away again. Jessica waited patiently. She saw no point in being awake anymore. She missed her dreams. She also feared them.

The sound of footsteps forced their way into her brain, and Jessica shivered. It reminded her of the last assault, the last time Amon's magic had tried to weasel its way into the folds of grey matter – he had the delicacy of an ice pick. She felt raw and bruised all over. Jessica shook her head forcefully, hoping to expel the intruder, but the footsteps kept getting louder.

Her sister walked through the tunnel, carrying the same tray of food as she always did. Jessica had not seen her much since her sister's confession, her sister often dropping food off when she slept. Jessica had to admit that that wasn't entirely Ariadna's fault – she was spending less and less time awake these days. However, she also had to admit that it was probably intentional, since Ariadna had not spoken a word to her either.

There was the sound of metal grating on porous stone, and the food was in her cell. Jessica did not leap towards it however, despite the hunger gnawing her stomach. Ariadna did not meet her eyes.

"Sister" Jessica called out. Her voice was unrecognizable – it wavered and cracked like radio static. Ariadna ignored her. "What day is it?" Jessica asked. She wasn't sure why that was the first thing that had come to mind – Jessica had long ago stopped caring about the passage of time. To her great surprise, Ariadna replied.

"It's September first" she answered. There was a hint of a sob in her voice. It took Jessica a while for her to process the words, to understand what they meant. "He's gone off. Untouchable for the year." Ariadna's shoulders tensed. Jessica, her eyes so accustomed to the dark now, noticed one of her curls had fallen out of place.

As Ariadna turned towards the passageway, Jessica noticed that her skirt was creased. Something had changed. "Please" Jessica called out. The strain of raising her voice caused her to cough, and it took her a moment to regain control of her breath. "Please" she repeated, "you must know." Ariadna turned ever so slightly, and Jessica knew that she was watching her out of the corner of her eye.

"Know what, Neus?" She asked. It was time for Jessica to make a choice. She didn't have the energy to call out again. She could only say one more thing, and she could not say something that would likely make her sister turn away. The name she insisted on using represented so many terrible, awful things. Jessica hated Neus. But Jessica and Ariadna were not sisters. Neus and Ariadna had been, once. Maybe they could be again.

"You must know that I am dying." Jessica managed to speak, her voice barely above a whisper. Ariadna's body sagged. The metal tray in her hand shook. Jessica noticed the smallest stain on her left sleeve, right above the elbow. "Please" Jessica tried to say, her voice losing itself to open air. She licked her parched lips, and her tongue found the familiar taste of blood. She tried again. "Please... Tell me about your little boy."

Isidre awoke with sweat across his brow and his lip upturned in a grimace of discomfort. He'd been having a nightmare, but the harder he tried to remember the details, the faster they slipped away. There had been shadows. That was the best he could do.

Sighing, Isidre cast aside his damp blanket. There were already rays of light peeking underneath the curtains of his small, grey room, and the trip from Mr. Pemberton's modest townhome to King's Cross was long. It was time to get up.

Mr. Pemberton was a retired auror. Despite appearances (he had had a good chunk of his cheek blown off at some point in his career, giving him a permanent sneer), the old man was very kind. He spent most of his days in the garden – he grew many magical plants, some of which Isidre had also grown, back when he had still lived with his mum. Isidre enjoyed helping him. Herbology had always been his favourite subject.

Mr. Pemberton also put some of the herbs and roots he grew to good use – the first night, he had gifted Isidre a homemade ointment for his own scar, which was still red and puckered, drawing a sickle underneath his eye. It was wonderfully cooling, and the way that Mr. Pemberton showed him how to apply it, applying pressure in zig-zags across the damaged skin, really did loosen up some of the tightness.

Despite the ointment however, Isidre's face was marred. Stepping out of the shower, he anxiously examined how it looked in the morning light, conscious of the fact that he would be going back to school today. He looked himself over critically – the scar was still hideous, but there was nothing to be done about that. At least he finally had some fine hair above his upper lip – he hoped it made him look older.

Besides, the scar was old news by now. Returning from an unexplained absence from school, following rumours of some kerfuffle at the auror's department in the ministry, with a brand new, clearly cursed scar had made Isidre the center of attention late last year. But he was hoping the with the new year, the whispers would stop, now that everyone was sure that no matter how many times they asked, he would always reply with "it's a birthmark." (That had been Albus's idea, and Isidre agreed that it was hilarious).

Isidre hadn't grown much taller this year, much to his dismay, and if he was being really honest, he barely had any hair above his lip, but he had at least managed to grow his hair out. His father had made him shave it, the night before his first day at Hogwarts. He remembered how the hair had fallen, pieces getting under the collar of his shirt, making his skin itch. He had felt shame then, though he wasn't sure why. He figured it had been the sound of his mother crying as she watched. But it was more than that.

Isidre had curls like his mother, and his father had decided that with them, he looked too similar to her. He was worried that Elle would recognize the resemblance. The first cut, Isidre had not thought too deeply about that, he had been too eager to do anything he could to win his father's favour. The second time, he had understood the shame a little bit better.

His father had always resented that his son did not look like him. He remembered his expression when he had told him about Elle that summer. He'd traced with his own eyes the contours of his father's face that Elle shared. He saw, for the first time in a long time, a hint of pleasure in his eyes. That was the first time Isidre had felt a flash of true hatred for his father.

It was the oddest mixture of pride and loathing that he felt, when he looked at his hair. Even now, despite everything that had happened between him and his father, he could not shake the feeling. He still felt the same shame he had felt as he stood, watching his brown ringlets fall in clumps to the floor. But, as he leaned in front of the foggy mirror, an unknown number of miles from his childhood home, curling strands of damp hair around his finger the way he had been taught when he was young – he also loved his hair.

Mostly, Isidre missed his mother. She should have come for him. Especially after Diagon Alley.

Isidre and Mr. Pemberton had barely walked through the Diagon Alley entrance of the Leaky Cauldron when a wide-eyed auror had pulled them aside. He remembered Mr. Pemberton pulling the man away to speak. He had rather large sideburns. Isidre had watched them bob up and down and the man talked quickly and quietly to Mr. Pemberton, who handed him a gilded letter from his interior jacket pocket. The auror had read the letter.

Isidre had watched as the man had looked up from the parchment and immediately shot a spell from his want. A dozen balls of silver had erupted, finding the ears of at least a dozen people on the crowded street outside. A moment had passed, and those people, who had looked like they were listening to something intently, sprang into action in unison. Mr Pemberton had grabbed Isidre by the arm, pulled him back into the Leaky Cauldron, and, at the earliest possible moment, disapparated. That had been that.

It didn't take a genius to figure it out, but Mr. Pemberton had still explained it to him that night, when he had apologized. Either someone from the ministry, or someone who had broken into the ministry, had sent him a letter that morning informing him that it was the day they were to go to Diagon Alley. It had previously been arranged that such a letter would arrive at some point in the summer. But the letter had been fake – it was the one day of the summer that Isidre absolutely could not to come to Diagon Alley. Because Elle was also there.

Isidre had listened quietly, playing with a lone brussel sprout on his plate. He had been so lost in thought when Mr. Pemberton ended that he hadn't realized that his host had taken his silence for anger. The old man was apologizing again when Isidre looked up. "No – it's, it's not your fault, really. Don't apologize."

There was silence again, as Isidre finally stabbed the brussel sprout and popped it in his mouth. He swallowed with difficulty, and not just because the boiled vegetable had turned cold and limp over the course of the conversation. There was a lump in his throat.

"You're an auror" Isidre said suddenly, looking up to Mr. Pemberton. "Used to be, at least, which is why I should've known –" Isidre cut him off before he could apologize a third time. "What do you think it means, that he tried to make me and Elle be in Diagon Alley on the same day?" The old man cleared his throat. "I really don't know…" he sounded uncomfortable.

Isidre stared at his empty plate. He fought the quaver in his voice. "He could have sent that letter to me any other day, and there would have been no aurors in the streets. But he took the biggest risk he could, sending me there the day Elle was also there. He doesn't want me. Not without her." Isidre could feel his cheek redden in anger, which irritated his scar. He looked up and met the eyes of the ex-auror across the table from him. The old man would not tell him the harsh truth, not outright, but he would not lie to him either, Isidre was sure of it.

"He's made his choice, hasn't he? He's chosen his heir." Mr. Pemberton's face was awash with emotion, and he had to lower his gaze from Isidre's before he answered. But, after a moment's hesitation, he haltingly nodded.

Isidre was brought out of his recollections by a sharp knocking on the door. "Coming!" he called out, hurrying to pull on the jeans that lay crumpled on the floor. He paused one last time in front of the mirror as he shrugged on his jumper. He had twisted his hair into perfect ringlets. His skin, though gradually improving, was still twisted and taught underneath the angry red scar.

He felt the oddest mixture of pride and loathing.