A/N: New Chapter. New Arc. Back to the regular state of affairs in Hogwarts with the student cast of characters.

I do not own Harry Potter unlike J.K.

AU Changes: Canon-Character changes.

The Tragedy of Harry Potter

By. Momento Virtuoso
Edited By: Menaka

Chapter 16

The Palimpsest

Morning After the Wizengamot Vote

A bright light pierced Verona's eyelids, illuminating her world before she emerged from the abyss of darkness that engulfed her mind. A high-pitched whine echoed in her ears, reverberating through her skull. It felt like a hummingbird thrumming its wings right beside her skull. The noise pulled her awake, but it was also distorted, as if her insides were thrown in a muggle washing machine before being placed back in her body.

"Slowly dear, that's it—slowly now, Miss Jennings. No sudden movements," a soft voice spoke above Verona. A hand gently rested on her forehead, checking her temperature. "Mother Rionach, you're burning up."

With a gentle tap of a wand, an icy chill sank into Verona, seeping into the marrow of her bones. A shiver rippled through her frame but the cooling spell was as refreshing as a cold water on blistering summer skin.

As her vision cleared, Verona found herself surrounded by white curtains. Turning her head slightly toward the voice, she found Madam Pomfrey standing over her, smiling kindly as she waved her wand in a diagnostic scan. The woman's burgundy robes were ruffled as if she had been working long hours. Besides the Matron was a cart, stacked with various potions that smoked and glowed; an odd assortment of medicine for patients.

"Welcome back, Miss Jennings. Gave us all quite the scare, you did."

The Matron's words were soft, like a soothing spell, prompting Verona to sit up. But Madam Pomfrey gently pressed her back down, sliding a hand behind her for support.

"Woah there—slowly. Let's seat you up now." The Matron supported Verona until she was upright, then flicked her wand to transfigure the mattress into a more supportive position.

As Verona sat up, her world spun wildly on its woozy witch instinctively reached out, trying to steady herself. But she quickly realized her hands were lifeless, limp, and bound to her chest. Her limbs felt weightless, almost hollow. She could sense nothing beneath her skin except the erratic firing of nerves, causing subtle, involuntary twitches in her unsupported muscles. Her limbs were weightless as if hollow. She could feel nothing beneath her appendage's skin except for the nerves firing off erratically, forcing subtle twitches of the unsupported muscles.

Thankfully, Madam Pomfrey caught Verona before she toppled over, bracing the young witch firmly against herself.

Verona stared down at herself in stunned silence. Any attempt to move brought only a chilling awareness of the voids within her. Empty spaces where her hand, right forearm, lower spine, and even a leg should have been. Her flesh seemed sunken, the contours of her body collapsed inward as if the solidity of her very bones had been stolen.

Terror coursed through her as she tried to her head, momentarily gripped by the irrational fear that her skull, too, might have vanished. Her mind raced, scrambling for answers. She had been with Harry Evans—they had dueled, hadn't they? They had walked, talked, and even joked together afterward… but then they had been attacked. Harry was stunned seemingly from nowhere and then so, was she? It was hazy.

One thought burned through the fog in her mind: What happened to my body?

Verona tried to recall what happened to her but all that she recollected was the image of a shadowy figure standing over her, an indiscernible wand, and then a pain that uncoiled itself, striking out from her memory like a viper, blossoming an agony which burned her blood as it traveled up her veins.

The memory was more than just pain; it was a searing flame, too bright and too close. Its heat blistered her mind, leaving her trembling

Verona's body convulsed violently, as if the memory itself had reawakened the Cruciatus Curse, wrapping her nerves in invisible barbed wire. It was glass underneath her fingernails but no shards ever kissed her unbroken skin. Soon Verona was overtaken once again by darkness.

Everyone in the room froze, transfixed by the violent seizure that wracked Verona's body.

"Morgana's mercy!" Madam Pomfrey gasped, her wand snapping into her hand with practiced urgency. She muttered a flurry of spells under her breath, her voice steady even as her patient convulsed violently.

After several tense moments, Verona's convulsions ceased—not from relief, but from the stasis charm Pomfrey cast, forcing her back into unconsciousness.

Feeling the gaze of her other patients, Madam Pomfrey stepped forward and snapped the curtains shut, shielding Verona from further scrutiny.

Madam Pomfrey waved her wand over Verona's pale face, her voice low as she murmured a healing incantation with the precision of long practice.

To herself, and perhaps, to the other patients in the room, the spell sounded less like magic and more like a whispered prayer.

Perhaps, in the end, healing was nothing but a simple prayer.

With her incantation complete, Madam Pomfrey forced Verona's mouth open gently to pour a potion from the cart at her side down the girl's throat. She observed closely as the liquid trickled down and down the neck of the glass until the vial was empty.

With her immediate crisis resolved, Madam Pomfrey was at a loss of what to do further. She dismissed the curious gazes of both Harry Evans and Sirius Black as she pushed the curtains aside, stepping away from Jenning's bedside.

Madam Pomfrey's gaze drifted to the sleeping form of Amelia Bones. Relief flickered through her—Amelia had not yet awakened—but unease gnawed at her. What if Verona's affliction struck the other girl as well? Deciding matters were now out of her expertise, she summoned a paper from her pocket which folded itself into a small-crafted bird, etched with a message. The enchanted bird flapped its wings and darted out of the room, disappearing into the open air..

Madam Pomfrey wiped the sweat from her brow, she wanted to rest, but her attention was grabbed by Harry Evans, who sat straight up as if metal was welded to his spine.

"Madam Pomfrey… is she, is Verona going to be okay?" Harry asked.

"Hush now, Mr. Evans. Mind, your own health! No need for you to worry about Miss Jennings. We'll have her sorted out in no time," Madam Pomfrey claimed, faking an air of confidence.

But Harry noticed the tension in Pomfrey's shoulders and the way her fingers fidgeted with her wand. Her gaze darted around the room, avoiding the curtained-off bed where Verona lay.

He flinched when Madam Pomfrey's expression hardened, her stern gaze snapping back to him as if she had read his thoughts.

"You two! Here, take your medicines and no more questions." She ordered, pushing a cart of bottles toward Harry and Sirius. She handed each of them a flask, her brisk tone leaving no room for argument. "I'll have you all checked over and out of here in two shakes of a lamb's tail.".

Obediently, the two Gryffindors downed their potions, grimacing as the bitter mixtures churned uneasily in their stomachs. They tried to focus on anything but the curtained-off bed, but their thoughts seemed so loud they might as well have been speaking aloud.

However, the attention was soon captured by a new disturbance barreling into the Hospital Wing.

An estranged-looking Bellatrix Black stormed through the doors. To both Harry and Sirius, her hair, wild and tangled like a lion's mane—or perhaps a nest of snakes—framed bloodshot eyes, the unmistakable mark of a sleepless, tearful night.

The two Gryffindors stared, stunned by the sight of the usually composed Bellatrix in such disarray, but she paid them no mind.

She couldn't bring herself to care about her appearance either, having abandoned her usual grooming rituals after her tense confrontation with Regulus. After confronting Regulus, Bellatrix had tried to sneak back into the Hospital Wing to lift the curse he'd placed on Verona's mind, only to find the room warded shut.

Unable to gain entry, Bellatrix opted to wait in her dormitory, unable to fall asleep. Exhausted and fraught, Bellatrix couldn't shake how close she'd come to the same treacherous path as Regulus, Mulciber, and Avery. She had almost cursed Regulus into oblivion before realizing her wand was in her hand; the anger of her bloodline had won out. Guilt tore at her skin—the very same skin that had turned it against her own flesh and blood. She felt mad, consumed by the weight of what she had done. She'd spent the rest of the night crying alone, waiting for the earliest hour she could return to the Hospital Wing.

Bellatrix shot a glare at Madam Pomfrey, daring the Matron to intervene. After a tense moment, Pomfrey relented with a nod of surrender. With a steady but taut hand, Bellatrix pushed the curtains concealing her friend aside.

Standing by Verona's bedside, Bellatrix's mask slipped away, bit by bit, as the fragile facade she wore began to attacks on Sirius and Verona, the torment Regulus endured and inflicted in turn—all of it warred within her. The betrayals of her cousins, her aunt's poison, and her grandfather's lessons collided within her, each vying to control her conscience and barter over her soul.

Across the room, Harry and Sirius saw a clear picture of a young girl distraught over her muggle-born friend.

Bellatrix couldn't dredge up the will to ward them off, instead she reached into the sling across her friend's chest, cradling Verona's limp hands as if to offer comfort through touch alone. She could feel the faint shapes of bones budding underneath the surface, slowly but surely growing back.

'She's okay—she has to be okay,' Bellatrix told herself again and again. She would make sure of it.

"I'm sorry, Ver… I'm so sorry," Bellatrix apologized and whispered, her words meant as much for herself as for her friend."Why weren't you worried? I warned you—you stupid, stupid, foolish witch. What he—they did to you. I should have protected you from them."

Bellatrix's lips quivered with the weight of the words she couldn't bring herself to say. She didn't want to be overheard, not by Sirius or Evans. As Sirius crossed her mind, Bellatrix looked up to see the green eyes of Harry Evans watching her.

'He was there. He should have protected her—' the thought was like burning oil slithering under her skin, but it cooled only moments later. 'He was there and he's in a hospital bed just like her.' Perhaps Evans was victimless in this.

In truth, the only people she could throw blame at was herself and Regulus. She'd already spent too much time harping upon her youngest cousin. To do so again would be of no use.

The creak of the Hospital Wing door snapped Bellatrix out of her dark eyes flicked up to see Headmaster Dumbledore striding into the room, his stern gaze fixed not on her but on Verona.

Bellatrix couldn't help but crack her knuckles as a maddening whisper took hold of her. Words which decreed it being Dumbledore's fault hovered just over her brain like a needle. The rational portion of her mind declared that perhaps Dumbledore wasn't entirely to blame but he still had turned a blind eye towards Wilkes and now so many others.

Bellatrix stood over Dumbledore, and like a hawk she observed as the Headmaster's attention passed over Verona's comatose form. Bellatrix narrowed her eyes at Dumbledore as his gaze came to rest on her instead"Ah, Miss Black. A pleasant morning to you. It's heartening to see such care for a housemate," Dumbledore said, nodding briefly as he stroked his beard. "Pardon me, my dear, but would you have happened to hear from either Mr. Mulciber or Avery last night or before? Perhaps seen either of them in the castle, by chance?"

To an untrained ear, Dumbledore's question seemed innocent, but Bellatrix had been raised in her grandfather's shadow..

Try as she might, Bellatrix couldn't stop herself from stiffening at the mention of the pair. Anger churned in her stomach, but she quickly slipped into the unreadable mask perfected through years of etiquette training under her mother and aunt.

"No, sir. Can't say I have recently. Neither have shown themselves in the Common Room for some time, why do you ask?" Bellatrix replied, feigning curiosity. In truth, she had searched for them to no avail for a while. She needed to get to them before Dumbledore or any other person of authority.

Dumbledore hummed softly in response, his gaze lingering on Bellatrix. His sharp eyes flickered between hers and her forehead before he absently tapped the sleeve of his robe.

"A pity," Dumbledore murmured, stepping from the foot of Verona's bed to stand opposite Bellatrix. "Thank you, Miss Black. I was asking because you're the only older Slytherin here. It seems Messer's Mulciber and Avery left the castle grounds last night and haven't seen fit to return."

Bellatrix couldn't help but feel as if Dumbledore had placed a chess board on top of her friend as he keenly watched her response to his revelation. Her mask did not shift under his first move.

"I'm sorry, sir. But I hope they are found," Bellatrix voiced, masking her disappointment and fury at the news.

"Quite alright, Miss Black. I have reached out to their families so hopefully, they send word soon," Dumbledore supplied back.

'A pawn for a pawn.' Bellatrix thought, her teeth clenched behind a tight-lipped smile.

As if done with her, Dumbledore turned to his faculty member, who was wringing her own hands together in her white apron. "Ah, Poppy. I came as quickly as I could with your message. Miss Jennings appears to be outwardly fine… but surely that cannot be the case? What do you think ails her so?"

"I don't know—she's fine physically but something sparked a seizure. It's magical in origin but I can't tell… do we send for Professor Renault again or immediately send word to St. Mungo's?" Madam Pomfrey fretted.

Dumbledore raised his hand to quiet the Matron and offered her a smile in comfort.

"Do not fret, Poppy. Let me run my diagnosis and if need be, we'll send for aid first thing. Are you certain it isn't the Maladied-Mind? Professor Renault did say it's difficult to detect," Dumbledore asked, drawing his wand from his sleeve.

Bellatrix tensed, as Dumbledore moved his wand over Verona to inspect her mind. She felt the Headmaster's magic prickle against her own but his attention shifted instead towards Harry Evans who was watching the man's wand as well. She felt a fury at being unconsidered due to Harry Evans.

"Interesting…" Dumbledore muttered to himself as he examined Verona. "It appears Miss Jennings is under a curse known to create false memories… painful memories at that. Sētekio-rūnir… I've never seen it in person nor cast before but I've read intensely upon its effects. Strange, not many know of this curse, and even fewer can cast it."

The hairs on the back of Bellatrix's neck stood on end as Dumbledore's gaze lingered on her before shifting to Sirius's puzzled expression.

"The case I read was from a medical report… a soldier on the Continent some decades ago had been hospitalized and they couldn't diagnose exactly what affected them… until your grandfather, Arcturus Black, examined him. The curse was cast by an acolyte of Gellert Grindelwald, a dark lord in his own right," Dumbledore said, his voice faltering briefly at the mention of the infamous name. "Only Arcturus Black would know the counter-spell… or another of his bloodline." Dumbledore added, his tone heavy with suspicion as he tucked his wand back into his sleeve. "Without the counter-spell. I'm afraid even St. Mungo's cannot help young Miss Jennings here. The curse will haunt her for the rest of her life, triggering every time she recalls the event it's tied to. She'll be forced to relive the implanted memory over and over—a truly horrid fate for someone so young."

All over the room, faces fell at Dumbledore's proclamation, except for Bellatrix's. She stared forward, across the chess board of her friend as Dumbledore watched her. Though she tried to remain passive, her reddened eyes and scowl shouted louder than any confession could. She was infuriated with Regulus before for using such a spell on Verona but more so with Dumbledore who just stood by, watching her oddly as if she was a potions experiment.

'Manipulative bastard… it's a game to him. He forced this with an audience.' Bellatrix seethed in disgust. The spell Dumbledore described came from the Black Family grimoire, a book Bellatrix knew all too well tucked neatly on a shelf in Arcturus' study. 'Damn you Regulus…' Bellatrix cursed inwardly, a flicker of envy igniting as she thought of Sirius's rebellion. For once, she saw the merit of his defiance, the freedom it brought..

As if to push her further, Dumbledore spoke once more, his head lifted as if pondering the heavens instead of just staring at a stone ceiling. "Miss Jennings is beyond ours and dare I fear anyone's help, Poppy. All we can do is send for St. Mungo's to place Miss Jennings comfortably in the Janus Thickey Ward for spell damage for the rest of her days."

Dumbledore's words sent a chill through Bellatrix's veins. She faced an impossible choice: save her friend from a life of torment, protect her cousin from incarceration, or risk everything by forging a third path.

"I—I can lift the curse. I know the counter-spell." Bellatrix blurted before she could stop herself. The words tumbled from her lips faster than she could bite them back.

Around the room, faces shifted at her admission. Pomfrey's shock was evident in her wide eyes and parted lips. Sirius was murderous. Evans's face was just questioning as if he didn't quite understand who it was before him or what was going on.

Dumbledore's however was pensive like he was actually musing over a game of chess. Bellatrix couldn't help but feel like she was surrendering a queen, herself with her admission. She had to protect Regulus—but she could still save Verona.

With a timid hand, Bellatrix unsheathed her wand. Outside she was slow and methodical with her motion, but she fought to suppress the tremor threatening to betray her resolve.

'They'll think it's me… that I've done this,' Bellatrix thought in dread. 'I have to do this. For Verona. For Regulus.' The thought of being branded a blood traitor sickened her, yet the need to protect her family burned stronger. She didn't want to fall on the sword for Regulus but there was no other way, at least not one she could comprehend at the moment.

Bellatrix wove her magic into Verona's mind, intertwining it with the foreign spell. The memories unfolded before her like a vivid cinema reel, sharp and all-encompassing. How Harry dropped seemingly from nothing and nowhere. She pressed on unblinkingly as a shadowed form of Regulus appeared from under a cloak and indiscriminately broke her bones. It was like he was aiming for superficial breaks to cause as much pain as possible for the girl, but Bellatrix now knew that he was simply choosing targets of little consequence. Bellatrix almost wanted to praise Regulus for his control and detail with the mind magic. She felt every agonizing moment as if it were her own and could even smell the cold, damp stone of the corridor, though her body remained far away. She admired how his work didn't give away any discrepancies in his retelling of events, but the act itself of him placing the memory of being crucioed over and over.

Feeling the torture itself in Verona's mind nearly sent Bellatrix back to baying for his blood.

'He did it all in case Avery and Mulciber came poking around—he needed to make evidence without actually doing it,' Bellatrix repeated to herself like a soothing thought.

It was an unfortunate side-effect that the only spell he could do such a task caused the victim to relive the moment in extreme cases of agony. Fake memories could be broken but one from this spell was impervious to anything but its own counter-curse.

As Bellatrix withdrew from Verona's mind, the strain etched itself onto her face. She clearly displayed a disturbed look in her eye, quivering her lips ever so slightly, as she began to mutter the counter-curse under her breath. With a flourish of her wand, Bellatrix completed the counter-curse, faltering only once—a single tear slipping down her cheek, a crack in her otherwise flawless facade. Her lone tear was real. She could lift the curse entirely, but she couldn't go all the way. So, Bellatrix worked on undoing the trigger of the spell instead.

Verona would be able to continue her life without the memory hammering away at her psyche, but Bellatrix dared not to remove the memory itself. Removing it would unravel Regulus's carefully laid plan, and that was a risk she couldn't take. It was a necessary evil. At least that's what she would be repeating to herself in the moments before sleep was to take her for many nights.

While Bellatrix concluded her counter-curse, everyone around her waited with bated breath as if Verona would jump up and join them in awareness. Yet, the adopted muggle-born lay in her ward bed, unmoving but appearing as if she was sleeping soundly. Unfretted by any ongoing nightmare in her head.

Sirius was the first one in the room to voice his opinion, confusion, or accusation. Perhaps a form of all three.

"How the fuck did you know that!?" Sirius snapped, his voice sharp with disbelief, a vein pulsing visibly on his temple. He glared his cousin down with fury, waiting for the confession from her lips. "That was Mind-magic! Dark magic!"

Bellatrix rolled her eyes at her cousin's outrage. She was growing tired of his vendetta against her and the rest of the family. Bellatrix ignored the dull burning hypocrisy of her anger at the wizard. "The same way you know most spells, mutt!" she hissed tensely.

Bellatrix wanted to strangle Sirius to silence him. To keep his trap shut on things that were not meant to be spoken in front of people who weren't family. It was bad enough that Dumbledore was in the know but she didn't need Sirius shouting it to everyone else.

Sirius however mistook her defensiveness. "Wha—how dare you! I don't know that bullshit!"

"I never said you did— just shut up, Sirius!" Bellatrix threatened, not wanting to overtly reveal anything to him. "You're speaking above your inheritance, Sirius," she replied, her tone cutting like a blade. "You've no right to question what you can't possibly understand."

Sirius ground his teeth, the grinding could have been mistaken for two stones of the castle scraping together. He fixed Bellatrix with a fierce stare, his jaw working furiously.

"You did it—you cast the spell. Didn't you?" Sirius snapped, voicing what was on everyone's mind. "That's how you knew the counter-curse."

Bellatrix's eyes narrowed in anger. She wanted to berate him further, but a small part of her was almost grateful—his accusation had helped secure her deception and protect Regulus. Bellatrix couldn't help but think in disgust that Sirius was only ever a good brother when he didn't know it.

"How dare—have you no shame, Sirius? You blithering blood—" Bellatrix began, but a sudden tap on her mind cut her off. She raised her Occlumency shields immediately, tossing out the intruder with practiced ease.

Bellatrix's attention turned to Dumbledore, who was looking at her sternly. She dared him to question her openly, to lay every woe in the world at her feet as Sirius so often did. Again, she felt the Headmaster's mind prickle against her defenses, but she repelled him swiftly, tearing her gaze away to deny him a stronger foothold.

"I don't know how that spell got her. I didn't do anything of the sort," Bellatrix defended herself, speaking the truth and lying in the same breath.

Bellatrix didn't dare to look back at Dumbledore or anyone else in the eye for fear she'd lose hold of her mental defenses. She could feel both Dumbledore and Harry leveled stern glares upon her.

Harry seemed to wonder if she was truly guilty, while Dumbledore appeared to suspect she had been the culprit all along. Only Sirius voiced his outrage—again.

"Bullshit! You did it, obviously! You could never help it… it's always you when someone gets hurt with magic!" Sirius spat in a fit of bitter anger. By now, no one was entirely sure what Sirius was accusing Bellatrix of. "You knew the spell—the magic! Where were you when Evans and Jennings were attacked, hmm? Hell, we all know you attacked him in the past— decided to finish the job and make a pass on the muggle-born too? Decided her blood was a bit too muddy after all, has my mum finally fashioned you into her perfect little blood supremacist—?"

Bellatrix lost her composure, unable to bear being slandered alongside those she despised most..

"DON'T SAY THAT! Don't you dare call her that—she's a pureblood—more noble and pure than you! You, you'd dare—dare to accuse me of such things? You go too far, cousin. You dare to insult me—our family in such an intolerable way? I assault Evans? As if he were worth the dust on my boot," Bellatrix retorted, causing Harry to grimace. "That I would assault Verona? Do you think I'd do this? That I wanted this?" Bellatrix gestured to the sleeping Slytherin. "What would I gain from attacking my housemate? My friend?!"

Sirius glared, unmoving, unwilling to concede anything to someone he knew practiced the Dark Arts. "You'd be finally accepted," he said as if it was a simple truth of the universe.

Bellatrix fought not to flinch at Sirius' assumption. She didn't crave acceptance from those he imagined—but he wasn't entirely wrong. She did desire acceptance, though from the very person who had been harmed. Bellatrix feared losing Verona over protecting Regulus.

In a moment of rage, Bellatrix stood to curse the arrogant Gryffindor but she was halted by Dumbledore who held out a hand for peace between them.

The same couldn't be said for Madam Pomfrey, who exploded outwards, puffing her shoulders. "I'd never—NO! I won't have spells cast in my ward. No, I won't allow it, not a single incantation do you hear me. Not a one! Sit down foolish girl before you undo all my hard work," the Matron chastised.
Bellatrix, thoroughly chastised by the Matron, returned to her seat by Verona's bedside. Sirius, however, refused to yield, keeping his glare fixed on Bellatrix.

"Cooler heads must prevail," Dumbledore said, his tone calm but firm. "I am certain a suitable explanation will reveal itself in due course. Until then, no blame shall be assigned without a proper investigation." He cast a pointed glance at Sirius before turning to Bellatrix, though she spoke before he could continue.

Bellatrix snapped. "Fuck that. I didn't do it. If I wanted to harm Verona, I could have done so at any time. We're dormmates, after all. Do you think I'd be foolish enough to attack her in a corridor? Too many risks—witnesses, and an unregulated wand on her person." In a moment of surrender she turned to Dumbledore to meet his gaze, opening her mind to show him her goings on the morning of the attack in willing surrender. She revealed enough to hopefully exonerate her to a degree but also bait the hook to entice the Headmaster into not looking elsewhere for a while.

With a nod, Dumbledore ended the connection between him and Bellatrix, shaking his head only once and then twice silently as he came to his conclusion. "Yes, your reasoning is sound, though, as I've said, a thorough investigation remains necessary. That said, I believe you have spared Miss Jennings from a graver fate. Ten points to Slytherin for your efforts."

The Headmaster's words sounded like an absolution of Bellatrix from the crime before them all, but to her it felt like merely an acknowledgment of her knowledge, an acceptance of her story for the moment.

Sirius made a noise to disclaim the awarding of house points but was silenced by Dumbledore shaking his head at the wizard's refusal.

Bellatrix felt a surge of bile rise at the Headmaster's words. House points? For what had happened to her friend? It felt like a hollow gesture, almost a bribe, and she loathed the thought of accepting it. She wanted to throw the collected emeralds resting in the House glass in Dumbledore's face. She hadn't spared her friend from anything except for being seizure-prone by a rogue memory. Verona would live every day of her life believing she was tortured. She'd live with that pain even if it never truly happened. It was a lie that Regulus crafted and Bellatrix bore it now as well.

"Thank you… sir."

In his hospital bed, Harry was at a loss as everything progressed before him. The lies, the truths and accusations. The spoken words carried weight, but the silences between them seemed even heavier. He turned his own ponderings upon Dumbledore, Sirius, and Bellatrix in turn. He wanted to believe Bellatrix, if only to affirm what Verona had confessed to him only days ago. "As for blood supremacy, I mean, she isn't a fan of them per se, yet I know there are some philosophies she agrees with." Those had been Verona's exact words— but had she been wrong? They couldn't be—Bellatrix had expressed temper at the mere accusation of harming the girl both times Sirius accused it. She had stormed out of this very room last night enraged at the sight of Verona. Harry didn't think anyone could fake the level of distraught Bellatrix had shown by Verona's bedside.

Part of Harry wanted to believe Sirius, a nagging voice of doubt whispering insidious thoughts in his mind. 'It's an act. She's just performing some role… she has been for awhile now. That's all this is'. Harry couldn't discern the direct truth of it all but he didn't need to. He knew what laid in the future for everyone in this room; especially Bellatrix. Perhaps Bellatrix wasn't as unhinged as her aunt Walburga—at least, not yet. Maybe she was more like her parents, whom Harry had never known, or Arcturus Black, a figure shrouded in whispers and half-truths.. 'He's probably in the same wing as Walburga,' Harry rationalized. He knew so little about what Sirius' family was like at this time, only Andromeda's, Regulus' and Bellatrix's later years in life were known to him and even that wasn't much.

Harry wanted to believe that Bellatrix Black wasn't the same as Bellatrix Lestrange. Yet, with every interaction, he saw more unsettling resemblances—like echoes reverberating through time. Like an actress sinking into the role of their performance, Harry couldn't tell the two Bellatrix's apart anymore. 'Was she lifting the curse to help her friend—or merely ensuring her own handiwork remained intact?'

There was no way of him truly knowing.

Harry's spiraling thoughts were interrupted by Madam Pomfrey's sharp voice cutting through yet another argument between Sirius and Bellatrix. "Enough of that noise, both of you! Mr. Black, if you're well enough to argue, you're well enough to leave. And as for you, Miss Black, I'll revoke your visitation privileges if this continues," Madam Pomfrey warned, her tone leaving no room for defiance. "Actually, I think it's best that those of you who are able, report to breakfast before it is over. You all need some nourishment if you're to attend class after all."

Bellatrix blew a curl from her face in agitation for the Matron. She briefly looked down at Verona, squeezing the budding bones in the girl's hand in goodbye before glaring at Sirius for a moment. As she walked past Harry's bed, Bellatrix couldn't help but think he was looking at her as if he didn't know who she was.

'Perhaps there's some truth to that. The boy might be clever, but by Paracelsus, he hasn't a clue.'

The Daily Prophet
"Dark Mark Strikes: Aurors and Civilians Dead Across Britain"

In a matter of hours, a wave of coordinated attacks swept across the whole of Great Britain. Groups of wizards and witches launched simultaneous assaults, looting and terrorizing Muggle population centers in cities such as York, Exeter, Newcastle-upon-Tyne, and Glasgow. Even the wizarding centre of Edinburgh was targeted. Each location was subjected to the same symbol looming in the sky over the surviving populations after the terrorists fled the scene. A skull with a snake protruding from its mouth.

The Dark Mark, a symbol rarely seen, had appeared only twice before—once last summer and once in the winter of 1961. It is suspected that the symbol is the calling card for an unknown group of terrorists, and not Irish Nationalists as many have speculated.

Bartemius Crouch Sr., Head of Magical Law Enforcement, confirmed that Aurors had been stationed across the country as a precaution following a controversial Wizengamot decision earlier that day. Many of the cities targeted were either homes to the Aurors or places where they were selected for duty that night. According to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, each strike took place simultaneously.

The coordinated attacks overwhelmed the Auror Department, leaving little time to dispatch reinforcements to teams under heavy spell fire. Out of the ten Auror teams, only four received reinforcements in time. The Department reported a total of eleven dead this morning in an official statement to the Daily Prophet.

One newly appointed Auror, Kingsley Shacklebolt, a resident of Cambridge, witnessed the death of his partner, long-time and well adored Auror, Antiochus Prewett, the son of Lord Emmanuel Prewett. When asked about the horror that occurred Auror Shacklebolt only responded with:
"We were expecting reinforcements, so we opted to take a safe approach of slowly rounding them in. The muggles were gone by this point. Neither of us were expecting them to be capable of casting such spells. I think we would have approached it differently if we had considered it. Antioch would still be alive, I'd wager."

Several Lords, including Opposition Leader Lord William Bones, were approached on the matter as it has been directly tied to the deregulation of wands with the Killing Curse being stated as the cause of death for several of the Aurors. When asked for a comment on his thoughts about the recent string of attacks—following the ratification of legislation that allowed Magical Britain to break away from the 1814 Statute concerning the production of wands capable of dark magic— Lord William Bones, Head of Magical Resources declined. The Lord stated instead, "My focus remains on addressing these attacks, not indulging in speculation or gossip."

Witches and Wizards across the country are now gripped in fear. Across the country, witches and wizards are queuing at Ministry offices to have regulation runes removed from their wands. Others are placing advanced orders with wandmakers around the country for the first products of unregulated wands to defend themselves with.

The Minister of Magic, Minchum, and Lord Abraxas Malfoy have both denied any comment but expressed their sympathies for the families of the fallen Aurors and cautioned the citizens of Britain to take care when the Daily Prophet reached out to their offices.

By. Maugham Boot
Reporter for the Daily Prophet

Turn to see. 'Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts and Chief Warlock - The Man's Blindness' cont. on Page. 2

'Abraxas Malfoy, an Honorable Man?' - An in-depth review of the controversial Wizengamot Lord cont. on Page. 3

'Sixty Dead from a Raid over Goblin Owned Warehouse: Missing witches and wizards discovered' - cont. on Page. 6

The ink of the Prophet smudged against Harry's fingers as he gripped the paper tightly, crumpling its edges in frustration. He had read the articles over and over. Even the one which had been damning Dumbledore.

The morning edition was filled with articles of impending doom, clearly rushed as the publication scrambled to get content out. Harry bit his cheek, thankful he'd decided to wait until nightfall to read the paper, having missed its morning delivery.

It was strange for Harry to see the newspaper quickly proclaim the violence gripping the country. In his time, such reports had been far more difficult to publish.

The glow of the Gryffindor Common Room fireplace danced off the walls, making the blackened ink appear to leap in time. To his eyes, the words were devils dancing in glee, celebrating their victory across the page. The news was certainly a victory for such to dance over somewhere; wherever they were hiding.

Alone in the dead of night, Harry threw the paper into the fire, feeding the hungry embers. Clenching his fists tightly, a hunger grew within him as well. He was an ember too, wanting to burn what he encountered like he was a righteous fire sent to pry repentance and deliver justice. Harry wanted to do nothing more than steal a broom and escape the grounds. Harry knew that sneaking out to play vigilante would only end with him in a ditch somewhere. Surely, even a prophecy foretelling his destined clash with a Dark Lord couldn't save him from a death brought about by stupidity.

'Is this how it all started before? He gathered his weapons, armed his forces, and crippled them right out the gate?' Harry thought in despair, If so, it was a brilliant chess move by Voldemort against the Ministry. The Aurors were now short half their department, with many dead or wounded.

It'd take months, if not a year, to replace that number, then Harry knew it would take two years for Crouch Sr. to succeed in legalizing lethal force against Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Two years of absolute tyranny until the Ministry would get their feet under them.

'He'll have absolute victory by the time I'm supposed to be born.' The thought crept through Harry's mind, sending a chill down his spine.

Harry sat still repeating the names of the fallen Aurors over and over in his head—the first casualties of the war, at least the ones he knew of. He let the feelings of disappointment and failure fester, growing hotter than the flames and the charring paper before him.

Despite the connection no longer existing, Harry delved deep into his mind, searching for it like he was apt to do in the past.

'I'm coming for you, Tom…'

Harry seared the scenes from the newspaper into his mind, watching as the smoke curled from the grate. They repeated themselves over and over with each rising wisp. Lost in his mind, Harry watched the tongues of fire flicker and consume the images of burning town squares and bodies covered in white sheets. Harry watched on as the names of all the fallen Aurors became ash as if he was attending a funeral pyre.

For the first time since his arrival in the past, Harry did not think of the future or the horrors of the Second Wizarding War. Instead, a new thought consumed him: he would witness the same demons of his past—but this time, he would witness their births.

Hidden in the Room of Requirement, Harry studied the Marauder's Map spread before him, its intricate details illuminated by the room's dim light. Beside it lay the Sayre Journal, its worn cover whispering of secrets yet to be uncovered. The names of Hogwarts' occupants shifted and flowed across the map's parchment, but Harry's attention fixated on one: Sirius Black, etched in the map's familiar calligraphic script.

'He's suspicious of me… or maybe he's following me for some other reason. But why?' Harry was stumped. He didn't know what infraction he had done to sour Sirius' towards him, but the man's demeanor had grown overt as the weeks passed since their meeting on the train. He racked his brain, searching for any moment he might have slighted Sirius or the other Marauders, but nothing came to mind.

There had been none yet Harry had noticed Black's cold demeanor in the Common Room the other night. Sirius had barely spoken a word to him, a polar opposite to his demeanor at the opening feast or when Harry was around their fellow Gryffindors. It seemed Sirius had taken to stalking him now, following him from the dormitory as he left to perform his daily ritual of studying the Sayre Journal.

Harry bit his tongue in frustration. The map was a gift, but it felt like a ticking time bomb, one glance from the wrong person, and everything could unravel. He needed to get the map concealed but usable. It had to be now. There was no more putting it off.

"You are causing more problems than you're worth," Harry growled at the enchanted piece of parchment. It offered no comeback, simply laying inert on the table provided by the Room.

Harry fiddled with his gorgon wand, not noticing that he had drawn the object of stealth on his sleeve. Suddenly looking down at the blackened white wood, Harry considered Gregorovitch's musings on the history of the wand and the supposed sentience of the craft, wondering just how wandmakers conversed with the objects of their trade.

Harry thought more about the gorgon imbued in the magical medium than the phoenix feather in his original wand stashed on his person. He never used the phoenix feather anymore. It wasn't an alluring piece like the corrupted stick.

For a brief moment, Harry considered it an insane concept. A Gorgon's nature was serpentine… so, perhaps?

"Can you hear me?" Harry sang in Parseltongue, the magical language slithering up and out his throat in a deep rhythmic reverb tinting the air with magic.

The wand did not answer him but Harry's eyes drank in a sight before him that he was not expecting.

To his shock, it wasn't the wand that responded, but the Sayre Journal. The words on its pages writhed and twisted, coiling together like a nest of serpents. Holding his breath, Harry reached out with his wand, touching it to the journal as though he were prodding a sleeping beast.

The pages, once filled with intricate graphs and magical theories Harry had studied earlier, began to unravel. Words and diagrams untangled themselves, dissolving into nothing until only a blank page remained.

"What the hell…" Harry muttered, stunned by what was happening. Had he just locked the journal? He desperately hoped it wasn't lost. He'd barely scratched the surface of its secrets. In truth, he barely knew how the book worked. There were blank spaces between many chapters as if the author had decided to skip past whole sections before continuing anew. Often, even in completed works strewn about the journal, there were still words or whole lines omitted. The gaps in the text felt like holes punched through a tapestry. The most common of which Harry could deduce was a name from the few journals he had read of her early life.

Did that bookkeeper know anything about the magical codex? The shop owner, Yesca Burke, had only made a passing mention of the Gaunts. She hadn't known the book was written by one of their long-dead ancestors. The purple-haired witch had only recognized written Parseltongue, though to Harry, the book appeared in perfect English.

Not understanding the magic behind the grimoire left Harry deeply unsettled. It felt like history repeating itself—another Half-Blood Prince, another dangerous shortcut for personal gain. The Sayre Journal was one of the strangest magical artifacts he'd ever encountered, rivaling even the Horcruxes and Hallows.

Leaning close to the aged pages, Harry sang in the snakelike language, "Can you hear me?" He hoped Parseltongue would coax the magic back, restoring what had vanished.

Nothing. The pages laid bare and the magic within the journal was inert. Just as he was about to give up, calligraphic words began to appear, layering over one a moment, he feared the words would spill off the page, covering everything in their path until the swarm ceased.

Out of the chaos, one line emerged, drawing Harry's attention like a siren's call.

"My Gift. Your Birthright, My Heir"

Every hair on Harry's body stood on end. He grabbed his wand and aimed it at the journal.

It was speaking back. The long-lost words of Mrs. Weasley rang in his ears.

"Ginvera Weasley! Haven't I taught you anything? What have I always told you? Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain!"

Harry watched the journal warily, half-expecting it to sprout fangs and lunge at him. He was tired of cursed and dangerous sentient objects catching him off guard. The Horcruxes had been enough for one lifetime; he didn't need another cursed book trying to eat him.

But the Sayre Journal didn't lash out or sprout fangs. Instead, the Journal appeared to sense his unspoken needs. The Journal's pages cleared themselves before a fresh ink began to surface. Harry watched as a series of runes formed before him, coalescing into a magical equation. More diagrams of enchantments and charms fanned out across the page.

"What the fuck…" Harry mumbled, perplexed by the magic he was witnessing. The last time a book had spoken to him, it was Tom Riddle's diary, revealing the past and Hagrid's framing for opening the Chamber of Secrets.

Harry's eyes drank in the magical formulas and their intricate results. To Harry's limited understanding, the diagrams outlined an enchantment. It would create a minor version of something called a Palimpsest. An object could conceal secrets, written over one another, like new scripture each time, powered by the overlay. Each new draft was a coded layer which needed to be decoded before traversing farther on.

'With this, someone could write for a lifetime and never need a second page,' Harry marveled.

This was how the Sayre Journal possessed so much knowledge. Inspecting further, Harry saw the chapter numbers extending into the hundreds, then thousands. He skimmed past the countless entries from Gormlaith's life, he could see the name revealed now to him, Padhraic. Harry's thoughts narrowed at the name, it was familiar. He tried to recall where he had seen it before.

His thoughts and inspection of the chapter names stopped only when he found indecipherable magic labeled with a rune he translated as 'Vision.'

It was all at his fingertips and even the sound of his voice.

Harry realized the significance of speaking to the book in Parseltongue. It was like summoning the enchantment forward, something Harry could barely comprehend magically, but it was a function he could understand. It reminded Harry of a search bar on Dudley's old computer—a mundane tool made magical.

"That's why it's written in Parseltongue—it's the code. Speak the binding language, and the enchantment finds what you need," Harry concluded.

In a rare language like Parseltongue, the enchantment was virtually uncrackable. Harry felt like he was holding the key to a jigsaw puzzle.

An idea struck Harry as his eyes darted between the Journal and the Marauder's Map. 'I can graft a minor form of the enchantment onto the Map— code it to parseltongue! Readable only to me!' Harry wasn't sure what the result would look like. Would the map appear blank to others or show indecipherable scratches while preserving the Marauder's original magic?

Harry sighed, resigning himself to the risk. Determined to solve his current dilemma, Harry began enchanting the Marauder's Map, ensuring its secrets would be visible only to him.

Outside the Room of Requirement, Sirius was crouched behind the Tapestry of Dancing Trolls, keenly watching the opposing empty wall. Sirius knew better, there was a hidden door there, one Harry Evans had slipped through.

Sirius hadn't made much note of Harry leaving the dormitory early nearly every morning. After all, he and the other Marauders were usually back in their beds before Harry even stirred, especially during the full moon. Remus' secret remained safe, for now.

Still, the nagging suspicion that Harry Evans might be a dark wizard was becoming too much for Sirius to ignore. On several occasions now, he had followed Harry from the dormitory, only to lose him in the hallways or stalk him to the kitchens. But this morning, Sirius had finally struck gold.

Sirius had watched in amazement as Harry paced before the wall, only for a door to materialize out of the stone and admit him inside.

Sirius had nearly shouted in disbelief at the sight of it. He was unable to reconcile the idea that there was a room the Marauders didn't discover or explore. Sirius had been too late to confront Harry, watching helplessly as the door vanished back into the stone. Forcing himself to sit in place for several hours, he observed the bricks slowly erode to time, as the castle itself refused to surrender the potentially dark wizard to Sirius.

'What are you up to, Evans?' Sirius thought, rubbing his eyes as exhaustion began to creep in. Who the hell woke up before dawn to wander the castle anyway? Sirius ignored the shadow falling over him at the hypocritical train of thought.

How many nights did he traverse the Forbidden Forest with his friends while transformed?

Suddenly, the hidden door creaked open, only to snap shut again in an instant. Sirius saw no one pass through its frame as its hinges creaked to and fro. He bolted from his hiding spot, colliding with the stone just as the door melted back into the castle's surface.

"No, no, no!" Sirius cried out in frustration at missing Evans once again. He lashed out with his foot, harshly kicking the mortar and stone of the wall. "Ow! Sweet Merlin…" Sirius groaned, hopping on one foot as tears pricked his eyes. He clutched his aching foot, already imagining the bruise formed beneath his boot.

"I don't— I don't understand. He was there, trapped in the room! I saw him go in! But he didn't come out?" Sirius asked the open air in disbelief. "Where the fuck could he have gone?" Sirius growled, squinting down the corridor. His vision blurred with tears, but he searched desperately for any sign of Harry sneaking away.

Fuming at not having caught his prey, Sirius departed and stomped down the corridor. Sirius muttered darkly under his breath, cursing Harry and the maddening trickery of the vanishing door. It was just one more thing that Black added to the ledger of Harry Evans.

Concealed underneath a Disillusionment charm, Harry watched in mirth as Sirius yelled in frustration at the Room of Requirement's hidden entrance, kicking the wall in his rage.

Harry stood perfectly still, his breath held, as Sirius' tear-filled eyes swept past his hidden spot in the corridor. Only after counting to thirty and watching Sirius vanish around the corner toward the Grand Staircase did Harry let the tension drain from his chest.

Pulling the map from his back pocket, Harry watched as Sirius's name edged further and further away.

The map was entirely his own now. Its structure, words, and diagram were converted over to Parseltongue. Even the Marauder's cheeky taunts, designed to ward off meddlers, now appeared in the fluid magic of Parseltongue whenever Harry tested the map.

Harry smirked, pleased with himself for not only outwitting Sirius but for claiming the Marauders' creation as entirely his own. Like the Sayre Journal had spookily declared, it was his birthright.

As Harry was about to put away the map, he couldn't help but notice the name of Bellatrix Black exiting from the Hospital Wing. The sight of her stirred memories of Sirius' accusations and the tense morning in the Hospital Wing. Given what he knew of her future, Sirius' claims seemed valid—Bellatrix was undeniably a dark witch. But Harry also thought of her behavior back on the train.

She was on the outs with many of the Slytherins Harry knew she would one day fight alongside. It was just one of many contradictions about her that weighed on his mind. Verona claimed Bellatrix wasn't what people believed but Sirius echoed thoughts Harry, himself might have voiced just months ago.

He didn't know which of the pair to believe. And then there was the matter of Bellatrix. The pain she carried on her face in both of the times Harry watched her in the Hospital Wing but there was also the very potential reality that Bellatrix had caused it all as Sirius claimed.

Harry's gut screamed at him that something was afoot with Bellatrix. Especially in light of her cryptic interactions with Dumbledore. He had gleaned from the Headmaster that she knew more than she let on. Between their encounter in Knockturn Alley and the Hogwarts Express, the witch had uncovered a surprising amount about him—despite his fabricated identity. She was an investigative sort, yet she had appeared more angered than relieved at learning of Avery and Mulciber flights from justice.

'Probably thinks they are cowards unworthy of their cause—or she doesn't care about Sirius at all.'

Harry shook his head, dismissing more thoughts about the curly-haired witch. Thinking about her too long stirred a mix of anger and relentless curiosity that gnawed at him.

He had more pressing matters than dwelling on the enigma of Bellatrix Black. Looking down once more at the Marauder's Map, Harry thought about runes and their potential. His gaze swept over the map's hidden passages as a new idea began to take shape.

The Sayre Journal
Chapter 1 - A Palimpsest

To create a proper grimoire, one must insert all they know into its pages. The sum of a whole lifetime and more. It is to be a collection of knowledge with no end… ravenous in its thirst for more that it grows with the author and then grows more even after they have passed on.

In your hands is such an item of my own creation; grafted and sewn. This is how I am able to speak to you, my dear niece — from beyond whatever threshold you underneath. Before one can create and imbue the grimoire with the spells and magic it needs, thy must prepare the Grimoire. The creation of this is as follows.

Its binding cut from the skin of a growing basilisk so that its pages are bound between the flesh of death. The thread weaved to hold the pages together was ripped from the tail of a unicorn, bound by the threads of life. The pages themselves were produced from the pluckings of fallen Leshens, found deep in the dark forests of Europe. Once you have the pages you seek, be it one or a thousand, varnish them in the blood of a demiguise. The creature's vitality will grant you the base you need to write and produce as you would. Finally, perform an alchemical blood ritual, to produce an ink of mercury imbued with your magic.

Written in ink of mercury, created in an alchemical blood ritual, the final piece for producing a grimoire is the plucked tail feather of a phoenix. Only with life can you write something that shall take a life of its own.

Support the magic with rune arrays, enchantments, and glyphs of your choosing for whatever purpose the Grimiore is to hold.

The Alchemical ink and phoenix feather are the two most important pieces of the process, my dear niece. Without them, you would not have me. I would still be dead to you. It is the magic which grants this book my insight.

Finally, to create a true Palimpsest, you must simply use the enchantment of Many-Things. Combine this spell with a runic array composed of an old Egyptian hieroglyph of Pr-Ankh. The same which in the lore of the Dynasties of Old is said to have been hand fashioned by Imotep himself to help Thoth fashion the Book of Life. If that is what their tome was, then surely mine is a herald of death.

The spell shall wipe pages clean, to begin anew despite whatever history lay upon their surface. Yet, like memories, they are not gone despite having passed on to time. The words can be fetched again, with a summoning of their recollection.

A/N: This Sayre journal chapter should have probably been front and center in the fic… I had the idea of the journal being a palimpsest at inception but I wanted to wait till Harry needed a reason for creating a new bastardized version of sorts to introduce the magic behind it.

Hope you all enjoyed this one.
~ MV