CenturionEon: Many thanks for your kind words! I appreciate it a lot.
Alexander couldn't speak, much less move. His body was frozen like a statue carved from ice. The Professors, Fudge and Hagrid exited the Three Broomsticks, the sound of the door swinging shut and the howling of the snow ringing in his ear. His mind had gone numb, and he was unable to formulate words. What could he say right now that would make it better, that could help?
He sat there, anticipation heavy in the air, as if the very moment held its breath, waiting for the others to speak. Yet, as the seconds ticked by, the silence grew oppressive, a weighty cloak draped over the room, punctuated only by the gentle clinking of glasses and the murmur of conversation. Even Ron's mouth was gaping.
"Harry. . ." Hermione spoke first, her whispering tone laced with concern and anxiety.
Alexander peered at Harry, who cast him a glance that weighed like a sack of stones jammed in his mouth. Harry crawled out from under the table and then stormed past, his body trembling. Alexander shared a look with Hermione. Those doe-eyes swirled with the same fear and unease that coiled in his chest like restless serpents.
"Come on," muttered Ron and strode out after him.
Worry blossomed, a surge pulsating through his veins, propelling him forward as they all chased after Harry.
"Harry!" Ron yelled. "Slow down!"
"Harry, wait for us! Please!" said Hermione as they trudged through the heavy snow.
Alexander kept silent, his breath coming out in huffs as the path grew steeper, mist escaping his nostrils. The other two kept shouting Harry's name. He spotted Harry in the distance, moving with swift determination, as though he aimed to carve a path ablaze with fury in his wake. Harry was angry, there was no doubt about that. And Alexander didn't blame him. Who wouldn't be at this moment? After finding out that most people in his life were lying to him.
"Harry, we can talk about this!" Ron yelled.
Harry came to an abrupt halt, his body tensing as he spun around, his panting coming out in ragged gasps, his chest heaving visibly. Alexander froze in his tracks, his face drained of colour, his expression mixed with fear and apprehension. Harry's features hardened, his lips pressed into a thin line, betraying the intensity of his emotions.
"Is it true?" Harry asked, his voice striking like a whiplash across his cheeks. "A-All those things they said, or was Fudge lying?"
"I—" Alexander said.
"Please, just — just tell me. Tell me it was a lie and not what I think it is. Say it! That it was all a lie!"
Harry's voice surged, echoing through the crisp, snowy air, its intensity cutting through the silence. A heavy sensation weighed down Alexander like a jagged rock, rendering him speechless. He felt like a damn coward. Confronted like this meant he couldn't even lie; his brain wasn't working fast enough.
"Harry, please. . ." whimpered Hermione in a tremulous voice.
Harry's head swung to her. "No, I need to hear it straight from Alexander. Was he spying on me, reporting my every move to Fudge? Were you passing information to your grandfather? Did you exchange secret letters, note down my lunch routines or each time I visited the common room? Is that what's been going on? Are you their glorified puppet now, is that it?" Harry's words were sharp with suspicion and disappointment. Desperation crept into his tone. "Please, Alex, don't lie to me, I can't take another lie."
Alexander's bottom lip trembled. He bit on it with his teeth. "Yes," he revealed softly but he might as well have shouted it from the way Harry's face dropped. "To — to my grandfather."
Harry's demeanour shifted, uncertainty clouding his features and causing him to resemble a lost child. He stammered, "B-But why? Is someone forcing you, Alex, or — or have they threatened you or something? You can tell us if they have, we're meant to be your friends. I — I just d-don't understand. Why?"
Alexander took a deep breath. His voice had never been quieter. "I did it on my own accord, no one forced me to. I wanted to. Needed to."
"Bloody hell, Alexander. . ."
"Alex, what—"
"Why? You still haven't said so."
Alexander swallowed the lump in his throat and steadied his gaze on Harry, resolute and unwavering, despite the tumult of emotions churning within him. "I wanted to protect you. That's all it is."
Harry gritted his teeth. "From what?"
"From everything. I — look, I don't want Black — Voldemort's right-hand man — to get a hold of you and kill you, Harry. I'd never forgive myself, not one bit. Not when I knew there was something I could have done to avoid all that. So, yeah, I kept an eye on you, but it was for a good reason."
"You think you were protecting me by spying on me? By keeping secrets from me?" Harry's voice was tinged with betrayal. "I don't need a babysitter or protection!" Harry snarled, his cheeks flushing red from anger. "I never wanted you to do this. I need honesty."
"Yes, well, tough shit!" Alexander snapped back, finding the anger spark within him. "I'm not going to see one of my best friends lying in front of me as a corpse, not when there's a very sudden possibility with Sirius Black roaming about? It won't be a pretty sight, Harry, I can tell you that much. He's already entered the castle before, or have you forgotten?"
Hermione gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, and Ron turned speechless. Harry kept glaring at Alexander, however.
"Tell me, Alexander. Did you know? Did you know that Sirius Black was my godfather and that he betrayed my parents? Did Antoine Laurent tell you that too?"
Alexander simply nodded, there was not much else he could do. Was he supposed to deny it? Alexander felt as though he had stepped into a nightmare, his senses dulled by a chilling dread that froze him in place. His feet were rooted to the ground, his insides congealing into icy knots, making him powerless against the encroaching fear.
Harry's countenance shattered, his features collapsing into a mask of vulnerability, his eyes reflecting the raw emotion churning within him. His voice, once strong, now trembled with an unspoken misery. "Why didn't you ever tell me, Alex? We — we're meant to be friends. A team. Friends don't keep secrets this big from each other, especially not when it includes my parents."
"I wanted to, Harry. . ." Alexander's voice cracked. "So much, but, if you knew. . . you might put yourself in danger and—"
Harry continued like he hadn't heard him. "If I knew — if someone told me anything to do with your grandfather or your mother, I would've told you. Any of you. Alex, I would've never done this to you."
"I'm sorry. . ."
"I just don't get it. Why are you so secretive all the time? You don't trust me or Ron or Hermione enough to tell us anything. Does he?" Harry turned to a pained Ron.
"I — I don't know. . ." Ron murmured. "Harry, maybe—"
"You see. I just — I don't really know you, Alexander. You never tell us anything."
"You do know me," Alexander retorted firmly. "Don't be stupid. I'm Alexander, your friend since first year."
"Don't call me stupid. Look, I know, Alex, you're my friend. But it's kind of hard to feel like I really know you when you keep so much hidden. We've been through so much together, with Quirrell and Riddle, but it feels like there's always a part of you that you're holding back. I just don't recognise you, not anymore."
"It's. . . it's. . . complicated," admitted Alexander, his words heavy by the complexity of the situation, leaving him at a loss for a simple explanation.
Harry scoffed loudly; Alexander stepped forward and felt Hermione's hand grasp onto his arm, but Harry took a step back.
"Complicated, huh? Well, that's a novel excuse, isn't it?"
"Harry, mate, maybe we should—" interjected Ron uncomfortably but Alexander cut him off.
"I'm sorry, okay," he said, running his hands through his hair. "I'm truly sorry. I know I should've told you about Black and your parents, but I'm not sorry for trying to protect you. Sorry to burst your bubble."
Harry's bitterness seeped through his words, his voice tinged with resentment as he spoke. "Guess you think I'm too weak to handle the truth, huh, Alex? I've had to hear it from the Professors and Fudge instead of you. You should've told me about Sirius Black at the beginning of the year."
Hermione grasped Alexander's arm as a plea. "I think we should all just calm down a bit. Harry's just upset, Alex, he's—"
Alexander wrenched his arm free and kept his gaze fixed hotly on Harry. "That's not what I think at all, Harry! I don't think you're weak, alright? Look, if I could go back in time and tell you about Black then I would. Is that what you want me to say?" His voice grew firmer, his tone carrying a hint of steel. "But I did what I had to and keep you safe as friends do, and I don't regret that for one fucking minute."
The howl of the wind pierced the silence, its mournful whistle adding an eerie backdrop to the tense exchange.
"Friends don't lie to each other."
Harry threw him one last wounded look and then stormed towards the castle. He looked less angry than at the beginning, but it felt as though Harry's every syllable had carved a crater-sized void in Alexander's chest.
Ron stared back at them. "I — I better go after him," he muttered, looking torn between going after Harry and wanting to stay and talk.
"Yeah, go on, Ron," Alexander nodded gently, the fight leaving him. He didn't know what else he could do. A headache was starting to form, and he wanted to just lie down and let the snow cover him.
Ron bounded off, his figure becoming smaller and smaller. Alexander stood still, his hands numbed by the biting chill while his cheeks burned red with embarrassment and frustration. The sharp wind cut across. He felt a soft touch on his shoulder and turned to meet Hermione's teary, worried gaze.
"Alexander. . ." she said cautiously like he was a tightly wound spring, ready to snap at any moment. "Come, let us go too. We'll freeze here otherwise."
He nodded and let her hook her arm through his and they started walking towards the castle. His mind was in turmoil, and he was still reeling. It suddenly occurred to him that her touch kept him grounded and away from spiralling.
"Does — does he hate me?" he asked quietly. "Harry, that is."
Hermione's expression appeared conflicted. Her voice was small, and she gave his arm a soft squeeze. "I don't believe that's the case, Alexander. Harry doesn't harbour hatred towards you. He's simply. . . feeling hurt and upset. I'm confident he'll come around and talk to you in due time."
"I do so hope you're right," he sighed tiredly, a wave of exhaustion coming upon him. He rubbed his temple.
"I promise, okay. . ."
She gently untangled her arm from his, and to his astonishment, extended her hand, a silent invitation for him to grasp it. Alexander was captivated by her gesture, a subtle warmth spreading through him, yet unaware of the deeper stirrings taking root within his heart. He hesitated only briefly before intertwining his fingers with hers, a sense of comfort enveloping him despite the unrest brewing as they made their way back up to the castle, their steps falling into sync as if they were already in harmony.
∞ ϟ 9¾
The heavy snowfall enveloped the castle in a silent flurry, blanketing everything in a pristine white layer. Trees bowed under its weight, and the world seemed to hush in reverence to the winter spectacle.
Despite Hermione's assurance, there was a frostiness with Harry whenever Alexander came near him the next few days. Harry was stubborn, just like him, so it's not like Alexander blamed him. He knew if the roles were reversed, he would have been seething in anger for a long time.
It was part of the reason why he decided to go home for the holidays, like most of the people in the castle. He couldn't endure the stilted conversation any longer, nor the awkward glances from Ron, or the icy stare Harry would shoot his way. He needed out.
He knew his grandfather wasn't going to be home for most of the Christmas holidays; he was working later than usual because of the upheaval in the Ministry. This whole Sirius Black business was good for one thing at least. Eliot was going to visit his parents like he did every Christmas. It would mean that he got the house to himself for a few days of peace.
Alexander thought about the books he would read and the games that he would play once he got home. Maybe he could get a takeaway or something. He could phone up that place near Westbourne Grove — they offered some delicious Mediterranean cuisine according to the flyer that was delivered through their letterbox. He was never the best cook so it's not like that was an option; he'd probably burn the house down.
The rest had chosen to stay at Hogwarts. Alexander was relieved to be sure; Harry might be giving him the silent treatment, but at least he wouldn't be alone in the vast castle and had Ron and Hermione with him in case Sirius Black decided to jump out of a tapestry or statue.
Before he left, he said his goodbyes. Ron muttered a few words back, but Harry gave a curt nod as he moved one of his pawns, which was quickly smashed to pieces by Ron's Bishop. Realising this was the most he was going to receive from Harry, Alexander shrugged and clutched his trunk.
As Alexander embraced Hermione — who'd followed him to the double doors — he found himself holding onto her a moment longer than necessary. His senses were heightened, and he couldn't help but notice the subtle fragrance of her perfume, a scent that seemed to linger in the air long after she had pulled away, a delicate blend of vanilla and sandalwood, with hints of bergamot and lavender.
"Take care of yourself, Hermione," he said softly, his voice betraying a hint of concern. His hand lingered on her shoulder for a moment before he let go. "And keep an eye on Harry, alright? With everything going on, I just have this bad feeling. . . I don't want him doing anything reckless, especially with Black on the loose."
Hermione nodded earnestly, her eyes reflecting the concern mirrored in his own. "I thought the same thing. I don't want him to do something stupid like. . ."
"Like go after Sirius Black."
"Exactly. He can't." Hermione looked nervous and panicky at the thought. Alexander gripped her arms.
"And he won't," he said firmly. "Not if you tell him that it'll be a bad idea, yeah? One of the stupidest he can do. You and Ron. He'll listen. Okay, promise me that you'll let him know."
Hermione's gaze, akin to that of a determined doe, flickered with determined resolve. "I'll let him know, Alex. Don't worry."
As Alexander turned his head to stare at her one last time before walking out of the large double doors, a peculiar sensation stirred within him. It was a subtle shift, barely perceptible, like a whisper in the back of his mind. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something about Hermione. Something out of reach. Yet, he brushed it aside, attributing it to the concern he felt for his friends.
It was a quiet holiday for Alexander, just as he wanted. In the dimly lit room of his house, the air hung heavy with the scent of familiarity. A warm, amber glow emanated from the string lights strung along the walls, casting soft shadows that danced with the rhythm of the music. He lounged comfortably on the well-worn sofa, his eyes half-lidded as Creep by Radiohead played on his Walkman.
He had the house to himself, which he took full advantage of by blasting his music at full volume, including Heart-Shaped Box by Nirvana and Mr Jones by Counting Crows, which had recently come out. Still, sometimes he did long for company. He did some light reading and hung out with some of the neighbourhood kids in the street. Their curiosities had been piqued by his whereabouts. Alexander muttered that he goes to a Boarding school in Scotland, and some of them remarked in jest that it was fitting for him because it probably was just as pretentious and fancy as he was.
It was a comfort to finally be able to watch TV. He loved Hogwarts, don't get him wrong, but sometimes he just wanted to watch a new episode of The X-Files where Mulder and Scully explored a bunch of disappearances in a small town plagued by a mysterious creature. It felt good to escape, to stop worrying about his own problems.
One day, while flicking through the TV, he even landed on the news channel to find the anchor sitting at the desk in front of a recognisable London skyline:
"Prime Minister John Major faces mounting pressure as opposition parties criticise his handling of economic policy. . ."
"Football fans rejoice as Manchester United secures a crucial victory over rival team Arsenal, solidifying their position at the top of the Premier League standings. With the title race heating up, supporters eagerly anticipate. . ."
". . . tensions continue to escalate in the Balkans . . ."
"President Bill Clinton signs into law the North American Free Trade Agreement, marking a significant milestone in trade relations between the United States, Canada, and Mexico. . ."
". . . rumours of marital discord between Prince Charles and Princess Diana continue to make headlines. Speculation about infidelity and strained relations within the monarchy fuels public intrigue. . ."
"In technology news, tech enthusiasts eagerly anticipate the release of the latest gaming console, the Sony PlayStation. With cutting-edge graphics, immersive gameplay. . ."
Alexander switched off the TV and threw his head back on the sofa. It wasn't all peaceful, however.
Often, in the dead of night, Alexander lay in his bed, shrouded in the darkness of his room. The only illumination filtered through the curtains, casting eerie shadows across the walls. He shifted uncomfortably beneath the weight of his own thoughts, the silence of the night amplifying the whispers of his imagination.
Despite his rational mind's protests, an unsettling vision haunted him relentlessly. It was Jonas, or at least a deformed version of him, looming at the edge of his bed like a spectre from a nightmare. The memory of those haunting gold-ball eyes, aglow with an otherworldly red hue, sent shivers down Alexander's spine. They bore into him, piercing through the veil of his consciousness with an intensity that bordered on the surreal.
Alexander clenched his jaw, battling against the rising tide of panic threatening to engulf him. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the hallucination to dissipate into the night. Go away, go away, go away. It was a futile endeavour; the image remained, stubbornly refusing to be banished like an unwelcome guest.
Desperate for respite, Alexander reached for the blindfold resting on his nightstand. With trembling hands, he secured it over his eyes, plunging himself into a realm of artificial darkness. It offered a semblance of relief, shielding him from the phantom gaze that tormented him night after dreary night.
Yet, even in the absence of visual stimuli, the recollection of Jonas loitered like a festering wound. Doubt gnawed at the edges of Alexander's sanity, whispering sinister insinuations into the recesses of his mind. Had he truly seen Jonas, or was it merely a trick of his fractured psyche? Hang on, was he even broken or was that another trick? A dark seed of suspicion took root — had he, in a moment of blind rage, committed the unspeakable act of taking another's life? Was Jonas alive? What if Grandfather was lying to him? After all, it's not as if it'd be the first time.
The memory of that day flooded back with startling clarity, the rush of adrenaline, the intoxicating allure of savagery coursing through his veins. It was a sensation he couldn't shake, a primal urge that lingered like a stain on his soul. Because Alexander knew it felt bloody good to strike back, to take control. Had he always been this way, consumed by the cravings for violence and bloodshed, or had he been transformed into it? Was there truly something primal and feral simmering beneath his skin? He didn't know which way was worse.
Alexander tried hard not to let the bleak thoughts stew long. When Hermione's letters came in through the window, he was eager to open them.
Dear Alexander,
I hope this letter finds you well, although I must confess, my own state is far from serene. I am writing to you with a heart heavy with indignation and frustration. I don't even know how to say this.
Hagrid lost the appeal. Just thought you'd like to know that.
I am livid, Alexander, truly livid. I can't even write this without my hand shaking. He's such a good person, a kind man, and he didn't deserve this. Buckbeak doesn't deserve it. I know we're just third-years, but I can't help feeling angry about it. Hagrid has always been there for us, and now it feels like nobody's standing up for him.
I'm just so enraged about it. It's like nobody cares about what's right anymore. How can they just take away Buckbeak like that? It's not fair at all. But fear not. I haven't given up. I'm not going to let Malfoy and his dad execute an innocent animal. I've been researching non-stop in the library. Surely there must be something that'll help overturn this ruling. I'll let you know if I find anything.
Anyway, hope you're keeping well and warm. Castle isn't the same without you.
Hope to see you soon and all my love,
Hermione
Alexander gritted his teeth, scowling as he thought about Malfoy and his ferret features. Dumb fucking prick, he grumbled bitterly. He wrote back instantly with a vow that he'd help her do some research as soon as possible. Anything that'll help in their favour. Malfoy wouldn't get away with this.
∞ ϟ 9¾
On Christmas Day, Alexander was surprised to have received a present from Harry. Having figured that he just wouldn't bother after that whole mess, Alexander didn't hold out much hope. Seeing Hedwig with a brown wrapped package put him in a good mood for the rest of the day at the fact that perhaps he hadn't messed up too badly and Harry still wanted to be friends.
Later, when he was bored, Alexander sat in his room, surrounded by the quiet of the afternoon, and found himself drawn to his mother's diary once again. With a packet of digestives held in one hand, he flipped through the pages with the other, each page filled with his mother's scrawling, cursive penmanship. His mother's handwriting was terrible, so he had to read gradually to make sense of all the words and details.
But it wasn't the entries that caught his attention this time. It was the back pages, where a cluster of doodles and scribbles lay as if his mother's thoughts had spilt out onto the paper in a chaotic dance. Amidst the tangled lines and crossed-out phrases, one thing stood out — a small, curly 'R', which was dog-marked in the corner, like a signature left behind. Curiosity well and truly piqued, Alexander's gaze drifted to a faint scribbling beneath the doodles — an address, accompanied by 'Yaz's.' His mind raced. His mother had spoken of her often, referencing her as her closest friend during those years.
As he delved deeper, he unearthed a treasure hidden within the folds, almost stuck together as if it didn't want to be found — two delicate pieces of paper holding a muggle photograph. In it, his mother smiled warmly, her arm draped around a young girl who grinned back at the camera. The affection between them was palpable, frozen in time. This must be Yaz. But what had happened to her?
And then, a thought struck him like a bolt of lightning. What harm could come from visiting the address? What if she was there? After all, it was just a short journey away by the Central Line, nestled in the heart of North London.
The next day, Alexander remarked casually over breakfast to his grandfather that he was going to go out into the city for a bit. Watch a film in the cinema with a mate or two. He watched his grandfather's expression subtly. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the scent of toast. Grandfather, engrossed in reading the Daily Prophet, briefly glanced up and nodded absentmindedly.
"Mm-hmm, sounds good, Alexander," he murmured before returning his attention to the paper. "Be back before dinner."
Alexander couldn't help but grin as he lowered his gaze to his bowl of cereal. He had expected a bit more resistance or questioning, but his grandfather's agreement took him by surprise. Well, that was easy.
∞ ϟ 9¾
This had to be it. The house's exterior seemed to echo the sense of unease in the neighbourhood. There wasn't any sign of life inside. The cramped structure appeared to be hiding secrets behind its closed curtains, and the few passersby cast suspicious glances his way as he stood there awkwardly in the middle of the road, squinting. Undeterred, Alexander offered cordial waves to those who glimpsed at him, but they hurried past, their expressions wary.
"Must not be too friendly around here," Alexander muttered to himself, his uncertainty growing as he pulled his jean jacket around him snuggly.
Doubt nibbled at him, making him question whether he had made a mistake or ended up at the wrong address. Yet, after a quick confirmation with his map, he reaffirmed that this was indeed the place he was looking for. Taking a deep breath to steel his nerves, Alexander tucked the map into his jacket pocket and strode up the path to the faded-red door. His knuckles rapped firmly against the weathered wood, breaking the silence of the desolate street. He waited, anticipation tingling in the air.
The door creaked open, revealing a short-haired woman of Indian descent. Her alert gaze swept over Alexander, suspicion evident in her eyes. She seemed to brace herself, half-expecting a teenage prank. She peered around as if waiting for a group of lads to throw eggs on her or something.
"Yes? What do you want? Look, if you're here to make trouble, I'd advise you against it," she said sharply. "I'm warning you, mister, any sign of trouble and I'm calling the police. I mean it."
"No, no, wait," Alexander replied before she could slam the door in his face, shaking his head, "I'm not here to make trouble. Please I—" He paused to rummage around in his pockets and pulled out the picture. "Are you Yaz?" he asked, holding up the image in her direction.
The woman's expression shifted, her features registering surprise and disbelief. She reached out to steady herself against the doorframe, her grip tight as she struggled to process Alexander's words.
"Where did you get that?" she stammered, her voice trembling with a mixture of shock and wariness.
"I found it. It belonged to my mother."
After a moment's hesitation, the woman stepped back, allowing him entry into the dimly lit interior of the house. "Ah. Well, you better come inside then," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
Alexander entered the house and peered into the living room located on the right-hand side. The woman gestured towards the cluttered room.
"Please, make yourself comfortable. I'll just be a moment," she said softly before disappearing into the kitchen.
Left alone in the room, Alexander's eyes wandered over the myriad of pictures and objects that adorned the walls and shelves. None of them seemed familiar to him, sparking a curiosity about the life of the woman he had come to find. Against one wall stood a wooden bookshelf, its shelves overflowing. A brass statue of a Hindu deity, intricately carved wooden figurines, and fragrant incense sticks burning in ornate holders perched on the shelf. He stared at the items and felt awkward sitting on the sofa.
The woman returned with a tray laden with tea and cakes. "Here, please take some," she murmured and placed the tray on the small table. "Sorry, this is all I can offer, I haven't been shopping recently."
"No, please, you don't have to go to too much trouble," Alexander interjected.
Her tone turned firm. "No, I insist. I don't want to be inhospitable to a guest — my mama taught me better. And please excuse the mess."
Alexander nodded and picked up a custard cream and the teacup she offered him. Steam drifted from the top of it. He took a sip and then placed it down, lifting his gaze towards her. She sat on the single armchair, resting a cup on her drawn-together knees.
"So, you must be Yaz then," he declared confidently.
The woman shook her head slowly, her expression sombre. "I — no, you are mistaken. I am Priya. Yazmin is my older sister. Or was."
Alexander's initial certainty faltered, replaced by a sense of confusion. "Oh. . . Yaz was your sister?" he repeated.
He was stumped at this unexpected turn. Why was he here then? What did he hope to find, especially when it wasn't even Yaz but her sister? He hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal. He barely knew this woman. But before he could gather his thoughts, Priya spoke again, her voice tinged with caution.
"Why are you asking about my sister? You couldn't possibly have known Yazmin. You look far too young."
"I think my mum and your sister were friends. Or knew each other at least." He pulled out the picture again. "Look, that's my mum. I just, uh, I wanted to speak to her. Do you know if she's around?"
Priya's gaze softened as she regarded Alexander, a dawning realisation crossing her features. "Oh, my god. You're one of them, aren't you? A witch, like my sister," she said quietly, visibly swallowing.
"Um. . ."
"It's okay, I know, you don't have to hide it. It wasn't a hidden secret in our family. I was only six years old when she got the letter, but I could tell my sister was special before that. I saw her move a teddy bear across the room just by looking at it." Priya chuckled nervously and then took a sip.
Alexander's heart skipped a beat at the revelation, but he nodded, acknowledging the truth of Priya's words. No point hiding it when it was clear that she already knew. "Wizard, actually."
"Sorry, wizard, yeah."
"So, is Yazmin at work or out? Will she be back soon?" he asked tentatively, glancing around the room.
Priya's hands trembled as she set down the delicate china cup, her expression turning sorrowful. "Yazmin, oh. . . she passed away years ago, dear," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "She — she was murdered."
Alexander's eyes widened in shock. He was glad the cup wasn't in his hands at that moment otherwise he would've spilt it all over his faded blue jeans. "She. . ." he trailed, losing his voice.
Priya swallowed harshly. "I was only a young girl when I knew, of course, but I could tell something bad was going to happen that day. Like that tiny pinching feeling near your gut, you know, and everything that day went horribly. I suppose being a kid I didn't really understand what it meant exactly, that she was gone, but I felt it in the aftermath. The house was so quiet," said Priya, muttering the words like she was lost in the memory. "We got the news from a funny-looking fellow in bright green robes. One of your people, I think. He spoke softly but he might as well have let a grenade go off by the looks of things."
"I. . . I'm so sorry," murmured Alexander, voice filled with sorrow, trying to grasp the reality of what he had just learnt.
"My mama was devastated. She's always been such a strong woman but that day she just seemed to collapse in on herself like her heart had given out. Papa died a year later, and Mama the following week. They just couldn't take the pain and heartache anymore. I was shipped off to my Nani in Bristol afterwards. She didn't truly speak much about any of them. Don't think she even knew if Yazmin was a witch."
Her eyes were glossy. Alexander reached out instinctively, his hand a gentle anchor in her sea of grief and his heart felt heavy.
"I'm very, very sorry for your loss, I can't imagine how difficult that must have been for you. Losing both your parents, your sister, and then being separated from your home. . . it's unimaginable."
"Yes, I try not to think about it so much nowadays. Dulls the pain somehow." Priya sniffed and wiped her face. Her expression was clearer when she looked at him. "Sorry, sorry, I've been babbling for way too long." She forced a shaky smile. "Um, was — was there a reason you wanted to meet my sister?"
Alexander rubbed his hands along his jeans. "Oh, I, uh, I wanted to know if she knew anything about my mum or any information that she would've had about her."
"I'm sorry, I don't have much information to help you. I was only a child back then. But I do believe that your mother, Amelie, she'd visit us every summer and around Christmas time. I thought it was quite. . . odd at first but I got used to her. My parents really liked her, and I did too eventually. It was hard not to, you see, she was just so cool. She didn't care what people thought about her. As a young girl, you admire that a lot."
Alexander smiled softly. Most people seemed to have the same account of his mother. Priya continued with a furrow of her brow.
"I — I think the two of them — my sister and Amelie I mean — they might have been up to something."
"Oh, how do you figure?"
"Well, firstly because a few weeks before everything they seemed so serious and, I don't know, I guess kinda. . . down. Like Amelie stopped smiling and sort of lost her spark a bit. She wasn't sad, but more. . . determined or something. Now that I'm thinking about it, I remember hearing them whispering — actually, it might've been more like arguing — but I can't recall why. Yazmin was fired up about something, and I—" She sighed in frustration. "Sorry, that's all I know."
"It's okay, don't worry."
"And then my sister died from one way or another, I don't know, nobody ever told me, and I — I never heard from Amelie ever again." Priya swallowed and then added, "I gathered she must've died too because Amelie wouldn't leave Mama and Papa like that — not when they thought of her like family." She sniffed and looked over at him. She blinked in wonderment. "Oh. . ."
"What?"
"No, I'm sorry it's just—" She took a shuddering breath "Looking at you properly, you look so much like Amelie. It's uncanny. Like looking into a mirror."
Alexander was quiet. "Do you know what my mum was up to exactly? Can you remember any details?"
"I couldn't say, I'm sorry — but I do know that whatever it was it must have been most definitely dangerous. It scared her I suppose, and she'd be distracted most of the time. Mama would ask her a question and she wouldn't hear it. Whatever it was she was dedicated to it, obsessive even. Because even in the muggle world, we sensed something was wrong. But I'm certain that whatever they were up to — it. . . it cost my sister her life."
A wave of nausea churned in Alexander's stomach as he brought the cup to his lips. The tea's warmth had long faded into tepid bitterness, a painful reminder of the cold reality of Yaz's fate, and perhaps, according to his dark suspicions, his mother's.
September 19th, 1977
You-Know-Who is getting stronger every day, just as the papers described. There's been a muggle attack occurring every week now. Father doesn't seem any different than he usually is and has some periods where he's annoyed and frustrated, but sometimes he's unusually content and joyful. I've learnt from a young age to avoid him when he gets into one of his moods.
It's. . . unnerving I'll admit, and I kind of feel afraid nowadays. It's hard not to, not when you're wondering if you're going to be the next victim of an attack. People are hushed and suspicious when they huddle into groups, and I can guess what they're whispering about. I also feel safer in the castle, at Hogwarts, than I do at home. No surprise there.
I can't shake off this feeling of unease that's been gnawing at me, ever since that conversation with Prince. His words keep echoing in my mind, haunting me with questions I don't want to ask. My father, a Death Eater? It seems ludicrous, impossible even. But why else would he be associating with known Death Eaters? It's not like he's there to have a tea party with them, right? Or there to discuss their feelings. How would that conversation even go? Hmm, gee, how do you feel about killing a bunch of muggle families all at once to eradicate the vermin? The mere thought sends shivers down my spine.
I tried to gather some courage and sneak into his office to find some answers, but it was futile. The door remained sealed shut, despite my attempts to unlock it with Alohomora. What could he be hiding in there? And what if my suspicions are true? Could my own father truly be aligned with Voldemort? The idea is sickening, terrifying even writing it down. Because he couldn't stoop that low. Did he truly hate Muggleborns that much?
The guilt weighs heavy on my conscience. Yaz is a Muggleborn, so how can I face her knowing that I suspect my father of such atrocities? Of knowing that he wants people like her to be eliminated from the wizarding world. It's enough to make bile rise in my throat.
But it's not just my father's actions that trouble me. Prince has been acting strangely too, distant and sullen as usual, but now with an added layer of avoidance. What did I do to cause this rift between us? I thought we had moved past whatever obstacles stood in our way. I thought we were friends now. And then there's Black, his disdain for his brother palpable in every word he speaks. I. . . I've never heard such vitriol escape from his mouth before, except when he talked about his mother.
Something must have happened over the summer, something terrible, and I can't help but feel that it's all connected. This need to get to the bottom of it all consumes me. I can't ignore this feeling in the pit of my stomach, urging me to uncover the truth, no matter how terrifying it may be.
Updated earlier than last time, haha. Hope this satisfied probably the one or two people still reading this.
Many thanks for your continued support, I cherish it a lot. Wish I could just write fics for a living but working under capitalism is a pain, etc.
Hope this was okay. As always let me know what you think. I think there are only a few chapters left in this book. Hope you're all having a lovely day, and Ramadan Kareem to whoever it applies to!
See you all next time.