Chapter 2 - Choices
"Sirius..." the headmaster began wearily.
"I know," the other man said.
"That was perhaps not the wisest—"
"I know," he repeated. "I lost my temper. I'll go after him."
Sirius took a deep breath, then whirled to face Dumbledore. "And don't you think I'm through with you yet. We will be talking about this later."
Iris was still mostly in a daze from what had just happened, yet she still wanted to talk to this man, who had apparently been wrongfully imprisoned for eleven years when he should have been there for them, but also wanting to talk to Lupin, but mostly... mostly she wanted to do what she came here to do.
With one breath, she took a step into the room, just in time to notice the fireplace flare once again, and with another shout of "The Leaky Cauldron," their supposed godfather was gone.
Dumbledore slowly turned back from the fireplace to look her way, looking every bit his age, and only now did she realize that of course, he had known she had been here the entire time.
Slowly, she approached his desk, neither of them saying a word until she sat down.
"It is sometimes our best qualities which cause the most harm in those we care about."
Iris was staring back at the old man, unsure what to reply to that.
"I presume you have come here in search of your brother?"
Well, in a way, she had. Iris swallowed, and nodded. She had to know.
"To my shame I have to admit that we have yet to find any further clues to his whereabouts. Minerva has been restlessly searching the castle ever since he disappeared, and Remus only aborted his search because I asked him to do a very particular task that only he could do. I, myself, have been in search of any additional means of locating him, but to my deepest regret, I have yet to succeed in finding anything substantial..."
Yeah, she hadn't really expected anything else. The only other person who had known anything more was well on his way to becoming a Lethifold, and probably already long gone.
"...But you have," Dumbledore said, his voice trembling with a desperate intensity that Iris had never seen before. "Did you remember something? You must tell me! It is of utmost importance! More than you could ever possibly imagine rests on finding him!"
What was she even supposed to say to that?
Iris kept staring into the wide blue eyes behind his half-moon glasses for what felt like ages and didn't manage a single word.
Nor had she needed to. With every second, the expression on her face told deeper tales than any words ever could. In front of her very eyes, Dumbledore seemed to visibly age far beyond his deathbed. The bright and intense spark that had filled his eyes moments before was visibly fleeting, fading into a dull grey, until it was gone for good. Finally, the old man sagged back down onto his chair.
"Are you sure?" his voice came—a desperate plea, barely a whisper in the air—but judging from the tone, they both already were on the same page.
The silence kept stretching, only pierced by the soft whirling, ticking and bubbling of the countless tiny magical contraptions scattered throughout the room.
"No, I... I thought..." he finally whispered.
Then his eyes widened. "It was... But it wasn't your brother he has been possessing..." It had not been a question.
"I suspected it could be him when Severus told me about what he assumed lay beneath your memory charm, but... if you are correct... if he really..."
Neither of them could say it, not wanting to make it real.
"How?" Dumbledore finally asked in a whisper.
Iris swallowed, words unwilling to come forward, but finally, she replied, "It was a diary."
More clicking, more whirling.
"His diary. Except it had the soul of Myrtle Warren bound to it. A soul that contained a part of himself. A part that was in control."
Iris' gaze fell to her feet, as Dumbledore took a sharp breath.
"Harry destroyed it. He destroyed it with the same basilisk venom that in the end—"
Iris broke off again, the words unwilling to leave her lips. She just stood there, staring, as the old man seemed to fall apart in front of her very eyes. Yet, even if only through her Mindlight, something about what he had just said didn't add up.
"How... how did you know? That it was him?" There was no question which him he had been talking about. Not that he would have been able to say the Name, had she asked. But how did he conclude that it had to be him, just from the fact that Harry was—
"I suppose now that it has run its course, there is no more point to it..." muttered Dumbledore, his mind clearly someplace else.
Iris kept staring at him, waiting for an elaboration.
"Before you were born... a Prophecy was made," Dumbledore said.
Okay, that wasn't what she had been expecting.
"A Prophecy that could have applied to either of you," he continued, every word bearing an intangible weight on its shoulders.
"What did it say?" Iris asked, unsure if she wanted to know the answer.
Dumbledore raised his gaze to finally meet hers, and somehow, his expression fractured even further. "I cannot tell you."
Iris narrowed her eyes, and whispered, her voice gaining a faint edge, "Why not?"
Yet the answer was so simple that it took the wind right out of her sails. "Because it contains his Name."
Oh. Well...
"And words of Prophecy are fated to be misinterpreted unless they are heard in their entirety."
"That won't be an issue," Iris finally said.
Slowly, Dumbledore's eyebrows began to raise. "You... broke the charm. You broke it in its entirety."
She just kept staring back blankly. The angry red moon was still alive and pulsing in the back of her mind, only pushed back by her constant repeated efforts.
"How did you survive the Name, while knowing nothing of Occlumency?"
"I didn't," Iris replied slowly. "Know nothing of Occlumency, that is."
In explanation, she raised a hand and produced a fist sized orb of pure Mind aspect. The dark shimmer of Indigo reflected back in the headmaster's glasses, and the expression beneath slowly fell into yet deeper sadness.
"Do you realize what it is you have done to yourself?" he said.
"What does it even matter anymore?" Iris replied.
Dumbledore closed his eyes, but didn't say anything.
Iris turned towards the fireplace, then asked, "He's not coming back, is he?" Slowly, she balled her still glowing hand into a fist. Iris cut out her light, and turned back to look at Dumbledore.
"Are you sure about this? I would very much advise you to not underestimate his Name."
"I can handle it," Iris said. "Show me. You owe me that much."
Dumbledore hesitated, as if considering. Finally, he closed his eyes again, and a moment later, he rose from his desk and approached a cupboard behind it, which seemed to contain a Pensieve. He retrieved a small glass bottle from one of the drawers, uncorked it, and wordlessly began pouring it into the silvery bowl. The surface shifted, and resolved into the face of a woman with unruly hair and large rounded glasses which she had sometimes seen sitting at the staff table.
The woman took a deep and raspy breath, until she started to speak in an echoing, unnatural voice.
"The One with the power to vanquish Voldemort approaches."
The words seemed to hold power, but one did so first and foremost among all the rest. The niggling feeling in the back of her mind grew, as she felt the red moon begin to attempt to claw its way back out of its tomb.
"Born to those who thrice defied him; born as the seventh month dies."
Iris pushed back hard, and managed to once more seal the Name well enough to no longer hear its echo.
"And V̶̛̪o̸̰̍l̶͇͂d̶̘̓ȩ̸͋m̵̝͊o̶̱̒ŗ̵̇ţ̶̈́ will mark him as his equal, but he will have power that V̸͍͉͕̯̌͊̈́ọ̷̡̅l̷̤͗d̶͍̭̳͍̙͋̈̌̔͝ẹ̴̭̥̰͋̒́̀͠m̵͎̞̱̾ỏ̴̩r̵̮͊t̶̰̙́̿̇̋ knows not."
Each mention of the word slamming through her mind like a battering ram, undoing all the work she had just done, and causing the letters to strike out with ferocity. V̸̩̰̩̆̉̓̄̕͝ơ̷̡̨̢̛͔̠͖̜̄́̿̂͘͜l̷̻͈̹̲̟̯̈́̑̉̀̄̕͠d̶̨̬̫͙̓̀̈̐̍̒ę̴̤̪̘̥͕͙̏̎́͐m̷͍̤̖̑̈o̵̼͒̆r̷̼̘͚̣̥̂t̴̫̩͓̟̓̌͐̄͘.
"And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives."
Iris barely registered the next line of the Prophecy, as the Name began echoing louder and louder.
V̷̬̮̘͎̝̻̗͕͛̀͐̂̓o̴̜̹̖̤̣͚̩̓́͑̃̿l̵͎͖̣͎̈d̴̖̂̈́͆ḙ̸̢̹̥̟̣̔̍̑͐̽͆m̷̦̳͇͓͎̬͓̅̀̇̅̿͌̉̿͠͝ờ̷͙̭̯͍̰̋r̷̡̯̩͉͚͐͌̔͌̓̕t̸͕̫̟͚̆̈͗̐͗͂̃̔͛͘.
Flaring her Mindlight as brightly as it would go, she forced every little bit of power she had left to bring the Name down. This was her mind, she wouldn't have someone else's name run roughshod all over it.
"The One with the power to vanquish V̵̳́͂ȏ̸̺͙͖̔ͅl̸̗͆̔ḓ̸̤̉͝ḙ̵̛͎̯̊m̸̨͎̓ȏ̵͚͇̊͊r̴̙͋̕ť̸̡̧͗̇ will be born as the seventh month dies."
Yet the final nail in the coffin proved to be too much. V̷̺̦̓͗o̸͍͎͔̳̐͒͑̿̀͂̆̃͑͘ľ̸̛͙̼͖̰͖̬̩̘̲̖̙̺̦̦͎̃̽͋̎͊̋̈́̔̉͑̃͂͐͝d̵̪̝̫̯̒̉̒̈̈͗̅̿̚͜é̷̢̩̰̝͓̬̘̘̭̩͔̹͜ͅm̶̠̬͔̺͋̓̑̀̋̋̇̀̒̊̇͒̑͝o̷̱̜̪̙̙̪͊͌̋̅͋̍̅̄̈́̔̓͌̉͋ͅͅȑ̶̙̫̲͉͔̟̌́t̸̨͚̲̬̎̿̽͘.
The Name began echoing louder and louder, and she found herself flung back to the time when Greengrass had accidentally broken the seal on her mind. The red moon had completely torn through the ground, and the walls, and was now projecting its angry glow across the sky. The only thing that seemed to be able to stand up to it was the other moon. She hadn't even thought about the green moon much, it had kind of always been there, even before the red one.
V̸̢̛̛̠͕̹̰̣͖̙̰̗͍͇̥͇̞͖̣̠̲͕̟̾͗̏͗̑̈́͑͛́̂̽̓͒̕̚͘͜͝ͅơ̶̢̰̖̙̳̭͎̿̈̈́̈́̃͐̀̽̀͂́̿́͐̃́͊̇͑̋̏̚̕͠͝͝ͅͅl̴̡̢̨̜̬̫̲̙̯̘̰͍̟͔̣͙͖̠͚̮̭̤̯̖̺͚̖͔͕͚͕̥̬̤̳̖̊̊̒͂̃̇́͗͒͑͂̋͆̋͂͋͒͘̚̕̚̚͜͠ͅd̸̛̛̞̮̘̩͕̠̰̖̩͚̝̪̳͕͉̙̩̻͉͎̓̾̀̔̎̈͐̓́̓͌̈̓̅̈́̐̐̆͂͂͒̚͘͘̚͜͜͝͠͠͝è̴̢̝̳͚̠̲̱̠̲̰̫̭͍͓̣͆̈́̈̍͒̒͌̇m̶̨̹̹͉̹͍͑̐ơ̸̢̠̩̯̤̙͖͔̞̫̯̝̳̹̳̫͓̠̗̲̠̓́̓̌̀̑̉͐́̈́̇̄̈̅͐͆͘̕͜͜͝͝͝r̵̢̢̛͉̥͎̬̭̻̗̟̜̫̞̦̰̟̤͉͉͚̟̼͎͚̫̘̗̱̞̓̄͌̈́̃̊́͗̀̍̊̃̐͌͛̅͗̊̀̀͛̾͊̍̄̇̅̓̿̐̋͘ͅt̶̬̪̲͓͕̠̮͇͍̥̭̹̽̏̓͋̐͐̄̊̈́̓͘͝!
An old man was in front of her, shouting something, but she couldn't make out his words in the deafening silence.
V̸̢̢̛̺͔̪̜͔̙͚̘͔͍̝̩̬͇̭̽͑̐͒̓͋̋͊͌̌̆̆͑̈́͝͝͝ͅO̴̡̨̱͍̱̤͉̮̘͓͔̣̪̺̒͜L̸̺̪̲̝͍̭̼͍̝̳̭̪̬̺̯̳̻̫̙̀̿́̔̐̉̌̂͆̐̓͘͜͝͠͠͠Ḏ̶̙̗̬̎͐̀́̈́̽̄̏̓̅̔̽͆Ȩ̴̬͇̳̖͚͍͇̪͎̟̒̓̍̅̂͝M̴̢̙̠͔̟̹̖̙̲͈͍͚̝̗̗̰̱̰̎̈́̉̀̏͋͊̂̚̚͝ͅO̴̡̨̤͉̭̩̘͈̒̏̋͂̆̔̅̈́̈́́̈͆̒͑̈́̔̈́̎̚̕̚͠R̴̢̛̭͙̘̫̗̜̹̦̯̺̖̪̈́̊͌̾̓̒̄̀̐̑́̾̂͛͒͐͑́͘̕͝ͅT̴̛̮̭̿̆̾̈́̓̃̈̓͂͑̀̉̐̀͝!
"IRIS LILY POTTER!" he yelled, the words somehow piercing the haze of her mind, and suddenly, the green moon flared to life.
That's right. That was her Name.
She reached out a finger, rested it on the red sphere, and pushed.
Kicking and screaming the angry red was dragged back underground, further and further, buried beneath meters of stone, until it once more rested dormant in the darkest corner of her mind.
Still standing frozen, with her eyes closed, she forced the first clear thought through her mind and out of her mouth. "The power he knows not... what's that?"
There was a short pause. "I have spent countless hours pondering this exact question," Dumbledore said. "But in the end, the only answer I ended up with was the poetic one. The same power that brought him down the first time around, a power that could destroy even the likes of one as terrible as him."
Iris slowly opened her eyes to meet the reluctant gaze of the wizened headmaster right in front of her, still clutching her shoulders in worry.
"Love," he finally said.
Iris kept staring into his eyes blankly, trying to find an answer to that. No. If anything, it was Love that had been Harry's downfall.
She firmed her expression, and finally said, "I'm going down to the Chamber. I have to see what happened for myself."
There was no reply, and there was no need. She turned, and he followed. He would be coming along, and there was no point arguing that fact.
~V~
Having made her way down towards the second-floor girls' bathroom, she spent some time utilizing her Mindlight to recall the exact memory she had gained from Myrtle when she had opened the Chamber in this very spot, and after several attempts, managed to produce the exact hissing noise required in order to unlock the entrance.
They had made their way down into the bowels of the castle, through tunnels, stepping across molten skeletons, led down the dark by her floating orb of light—neither of them saying a single word the whole way.
Some part of her still held that tiny spark of hope, that she'd find something else, anything else, or maybe just even nothing at all. Maybe it really all had been fabricated. But she didn't really believe that.
A few more hissing attempts finally opened the large round iron door as well, and with one final exchanged apprehensive glance, they stepped through into the Chamber.
It was just the way she remembered it. Large, gloomy, lit in a greenish hue, tall serpentine statues lining the walls, and deformed, vaguely humanoid skeletons littering the floor. The very same skeletons she had dismissed every time she had seen them before.
Slowly, Iris broke into a run for the center, that one place right in front of the statue of the old man who was apparently the founder of her Hogwarts House. Right where she had woken up.
There. On the ground, looking exactly like the others, even if slightly smaller, another partially molten skeleton.
Except it lay in exactly the same place that she remembered Harry had collapsed in, before her memory had ended.
"H-Harry?" Iris whispered, unwilling to believe it, unwilling to make it real.
Iris fell to her knees, looking, desperately looking for any hint, any proof that it wasn't true. There were no clothes, no wand, no friendship bracelet. Nothing had survived the acrid venom.
Dumbledore had come to a stop next to her, but he wasn't saying anything. Maybe there'd be something left of his scar? She reached for the head trying to turn it, yet hesitated as she was about to touch the skull. This felt all kinds of wrong. Was it true? Was it all fake? How could she be sure?
A glint in the faint glow of her own floating orb of iridescent light. There was something, right underneath the skull, and—
Finally, she reached out, feeling a shiver as she touched it, and gently nudged the bone to the side.
And her own heart froze in her chest.
What stared back was a set of glasses that was so familiar she could have drawn it from memory. The inorganic material had survived the venom; the only thing left of him that had remained intact.
Reaching a shaking hand, she gripped the metal frame in her fingers and pulled it free. There was dried blood clinging to the dark metal, and the left glass was cracked in three.
There was no questioning what she was seeing. But what if he just dropped his glasses during his fall? Maybe if she kept looking—
Her eyes drifted over to the old man who had stopped in front of Harry, and knelt down over a small pile of ash resting on the ground. He drew a large and ornate wand and held it above the pile. The wand began to glow in a faint green.
Iris watched as he just knelt there, hunched over the small grey pile, his eyes closed, and his lips silently moving as if in a prayer. Slowly, the pile of ashes began to emit a faint wisp of smoke. Small orange specks of embers lit up, dotted the pile all over, more and more, and a faint sound of a softly crackling fireplace, until all of a sudden, the pile lit up in a brilliant orange flame.
Iris gasped. The flame just kept burning, brighter and brighter, almost engulfing Dumbledore's hand, and Iris kept staring. She had no idea what exactly was happening, but it was the prettiest thing she had ever seen.
Dumbledore collapsed onto the ground, falling to the side, breathing deeply, and in an instant, the flame winked out. Her eyes turned back to the small pile of ash. What had that accomplished?
Then, a sudden shiver, a sudden motion. The pile crumbled slightly, its top moved. And from the ashes emerged a tiny, ugly, crumpled baby phoenix. Iris just stared at the tiny Immortal, as it gave a weak little chirp, and Dumbledore slowly reached out a hand to it.
Finally, her gaze slowly drifted back over to the other side, where Harry's skeleton lay.
No. This was real. She hated it. She wished that it wasn't. But it was.
No matter how much they kept looking, they would find nothing.
Because Harry was dead.
He was dead, and it was her fault.
Iris clutched his glasses in a death grip, as she forced her thoughts into order. Another glance wandered across to the newly reborn phoenix, then down to the glasses in her hands.
Harry was dead, and he wouldn't be coming back.
That was, unless she had anything to say about it.
Unless she did what she'd always do, and found a way to fix it.
~V~
Lucius Malfoy was gripping his cane like a vice as he stared down the table at his assorted so-called friends. The wide table in the main hall of the manor—his manor—which was currently playing host to not just all of his inner circle, but the Dark Lord himself.
And therein lay the problem. He had been on parchment-thin ice ever since his blunder, ever since he had returned, and immediately discovered his betrayal. That Lucius had violated the highest order he had ever given him, had given away the one thing he had sworn to protect above all else.
He seemed to have been granted some sense of leniency, based on the fact that while he hadn't been able to recover it, the diary had obviously still been active, and if it could achieve his plan, it would have worked out in the end, and he still had a chance to recover it after all. But ever since that day, he had basically been a prisoner in his own house. Except nobody but his wife knew.
Narcissa.
With a throbbing feeling in his throat, he shot a glance at the most beautiful woman to ever walk the earth sitting at the corner of the table, projecting the perfect image of calmness, when they both knew that she was anything but.
He had failed her. He had failed both of them.
And he could only hope that he would be able to pay the price for his failure, lest they had to pay it for him.
If he were anyone else, he was sure that he would be long dead and buried already. But he was, after all, the wealthiest man in Magical Britain. The silver tongue behind the Minister's ear. The pride of his son Draco.
Except none of that mattered in face of the man sitting across from him at the table, in the very spot he should be sitting in.
The man he had once placed his faith in, along with most of his allies. The man he had long since realized had anything but their best interests at heart. The man who had been firmly on the path beyond humanity, comprehension and sheer insanity long before he had ever returned from the dead. Not a man. A monster.
Not that anyone would dare to say that to his face.
The newcomer sitting on the other side was speaking again in a deep voice.
"It is as you suspected. The disappearance of Harry Potter was indeed related to the Chamber of Secrets."
His face was obscured by a cowl. He didn't know his identity, and he didn't need to. Whoever he was, he seemed to hold the Dark Lord's trust. And that was enough for everyone here.
"Indeed?" Spoke the voice, incomprehensibly sweet and yet horrifying. He couldn't even really pin down its pitch anymore.
"However, it would seem that that's not all there is to it, Master."
The Dark Lord waved a pale hand, allowing the man to continue.
"It would seem that what you seek has been in possession of the boy's sister. And that it was destroyed, this time, for good."
Lucius could practically feel every single cell in his body plunge in temperature at the words.
Across from him, the utterly alien yet somehow human being barely did so much as grip his cup a little tighter. But every single one of them could feel that he was far from calm right now. At least, everyone bearing the mark.
"But that was not all that was destroyed that night," the deep voice continued, seemingly unbothered by the oppressive presence in the room.
The pendulum clock at the end of the room finally dared to utter another tick.
"Continue," he whispered.
"The same venom that was responsible for its destruction also took the life of the one wielding it in the same breath."
Several sharp intakes of air across the table as people began to parse that statement.
But the figure spared them the musings, and uttered his final words. "Harry Potter is dead."
~V~
Finally having been dismissed, he got up, trying to make his way back to his 'cell'. He still couldn't believe it. His blunder had not only ended in the worst way possible with the Diary actually being destroyed, but he had cost him the chance to kill Harry Potter himself.
He saw Narcissa leave through the side entrance leading to their sleeping quarters, and quickly made to follow her. He wasn't sure he would get another chance to—
Lucius pulled the door shut behind him, and the moment he heard a click, he realized that he was not alone. In the space right in front of him, where one blink of the eye before there had only been the empty room, there now stood the man.
"Lucius," he said cordially.
He faintly noticed his wife at the end of the room, approaching the door, trying to open it, and finding it locked.
Looking the other way, there sat his son Draco in a comfy armchair, raising his head with an annoyed expression, then freezing as he realized who was in the room with them.
"My Lord," was the only reply his lips could form.
"You see, I have been thinking..." began the voice, somehow way too high, and yet sounding utterly perfect.
In the next blink, he found himself sitting on the leather chair couch next to his son, with Narcissa sitting in the other chair.
"Your decision, your... betrayal... You see," the voice came from somewhere behind his ear, yet he found himself unable to turn around.
"You took something of mine that was very... special..."
He could feel the words, as if they were fingers running along his cheek.
"I have been... lenient... so far, but I think, yes... I think this requires... an example..."
In a blink, the face was right in front of him again, and he was standing in the middle between his gathered family.
"You need to learn... your lesson... after all," the voice purred, as he ran a finger along his own chin, as if pondering.
The two armchairs standing next to each other, the man was suddenly standing behind them, one hand resting on each.
"Very few things you hold dear in life, Lucius. Very few. Much like myself."
"You took something I hold dear," he said, his voice dipping an octave too low.
"But, I shall be lenient," he continued, rubbing his hands along the top of the armchairs.
"So, I will let you choose."
Lucius had known exactly what he was going to say, before he had even said it.
Leniency.
The love of his life, his all and everything, the only woman he could ever see like that stared back at him, her impenetrable mask firmly cracked, pure terror written across her features.
And in the other chair, his son. His pride and joy. The only thing he had ever done right. His eyes staring back, staring... in anger.
"If you do not choose... I'm more than happy to do it for you..."
He seemed to glide forward, until he was right up in his face again, and Lucius felt his pale hand on his cheek.
"One must die. Your wife, or your son... which will it be?"
A barely contained sob from Narcissa shattered through his heart, and he knew. He knew what she wanted him to do.
And for once, he agreed. There was no point in even offering his own life in exchange. The Dark Lord's words had been clear. He was giving him a chance to spare one of them. He met her eyes for one final time, a single moment that seemed to stretch into eternity as unspoken words of love passed between them.
He never thought this was a decision he would ever have to make; that he would ever be able to make. Yet in this very moment, he didn't even have to think about it.
Narcissa nodded, and he nodded back. Swallowing, summoning every last bit of courage, he finally whispered.
"My wife."
"No!" came a yell. "You can't!"
His son had stood up, and was now yelling, eyes stained by tears. "I won't let you!"
The man tilted his head across his shoulder, somehow bending a little too far, and he raised his finger to his lips in a shushing motion. His son's voice died down in a second, yet Lucius could tell it was not a silencing charm, nor had he stopped shouting.
Dead set on doing what was necessary to protect his son, even at the greatest of all prices, he steeled himself for one final time, and said, "I have decided. Do it."
Nothing else mattered.
Slowly, the head turned back around, until the blazing red eyes met his own, and he felt a prickling sensation run down his spine.
"Oh, no, you misunderstand..."
Lucius breath caught in his throat, his eyes entrapped by the infernal angry red.
"I'm not going to do anything to them."
Dare he hope? Did... did he pass some sort of test?
His hand reached out, he pulled up Lucius' own arm, and suddenly, he found his own wand, resting in his sweaty palm. The Dark Lord gently forced Lucius' fingers to enclose around the dark wood, then held his hand for long seconds, as his mouth twisted into a small smile.
"That honor belongs to you."
~V~
Iris hadn't managed to stick around after that, unable to stare the inevitable reality into its empty sockets any longer. She had thought having proof would change things. That she'd be angry, shocked, that she'd finally be able to cry, but now that she had, she only felt numb. Nothing had changed. She had known all along. In a way, she had known ever since she had woken up in the hospital wing. It had felt like a part of her had been missing since that day, the bracelet on her own hand remaining cold and inert ever since.
But instead, something kept niggling at the back of her mind. An idea, seeping like a poison, and for the lack of any other thoughts in opposition, it began to spread. A terrible infection of the mind, giving her the one thing that could break down even the last vestiges of reason.
A fleeting spark of hope.
Her magic-addled mind was at work all on its own, with her being forced to helplessly watch, as it tried to come up with plans on how to do what she knew was categorically impossible.
In an attempt to distract herself from the intrusive thoughts, Iris began parsing through the words of Prophecy she had learned, replaying them carefully through the use of her Mindlight. Would that mean that the Prophecy was fulfilled? Harry definitely was the one who was marked as his equal. And if Myrtle had just been doing Voldemort's bidding, then that would certainly count as having died by his hand...
She wondered what that would mean. If Magic required that either must die at the hand of the other, would that mean that only they could kill each other? Was it now possible for someone else to kill him, now that the Prophecy had come to pass? Was there only one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord? Could the prophecy now apply to her instead, even though she hadn't been marked as his equal? Did her shattered Magic count as a mark? Did his Name? Or had the Prophecy run its course already?
Whatever it would mean, she wasn't sure that it would be up to interpretation. Magic had a mind of its own, and it would make up its mind without anyone else getting a say. Just like it did when a ritual concluded.
Iris followed the aged headmaster all the way back up into his office, who seemed to be just as unable to find any words to say.
Why exactly couldn't she?
She knew it was impossible, hell, she had tried it before. But she had also done the impossible several times already. Iris knew she was deluding herself again, her mind desperately coming up with new ways of denying what had happened.
But under the influence of her Mindlight, her own thoughts read like her science book.
She wasn't denying what had happened, not anymore. She was just denying the outcome. Which was the one thing that even Magic would insist upon. Not even Lockhart had been able to change the outcome, he had only been able to alter the story, the chain of events that had led there.
But then again, it's possible that this was because it only worked if people believed his books were true, and they wouldn't believe it if the outcome they could see contradicted what was written in the book.
Also, it wasn't like Magic was enforcing this outcome either, she realized. The phoenix had taken the Killing Curse for him. Magic didn't want him dead, Fate did.
No matter how badly things had gone wrong, she had always managed to fix it. Except that one time. But with Draco, Magic had already made up its mind. Not that she had really tried, she realized.
Why should Magic be allowed to get the final say, anyway?
But the truth was still freshly seared into her mind. It had been exactly this fallacy that had led to Harry's demise in the first place. Thinking that things would always work out for her, that she could achieve anything she set her mind to, and that the impossible was merely another stepping stone. That she had to do it all by herself, because she wouldn't make the same mistakes that others would.
Yet right now, what she wanted to do, what she had to do, it was not only impossible, but it would require her to do it all by herself yet again.
Across from her, Dumbledore seemed to be speaking in a low and tired voice, but the words simply whizzed past her in a blur.
The ritual she had tried to bring back Salem. It had both worked and also not. It had gone incredibly right, and still incredibly wrong. Maybe, it had been the Thing who had been at fault. Maybe it had been the fact that the sacrifice had only been adequate to bring back a body, but not a soul. Maybe, it simply was impossible.
But that was something she refused to accept.
If anything, she had learned that with Magic, the limits were your imagination and creativity. Not all things were immediately possible, but so many things were, that in combination, you could achieve pretty much anything.
Voldemort had done it. Dumbledore had too. So why couldn't she?
Louder and louder the thoughts grew, taking up everything, making noise, making a mess, and worst of all, making sense.
STOP IT! SHUT UP! HE'S DEAD, ALRIGHT? LEAVE ME ALONE!
She forced her Mindlight as bright as it would go, pulsing it in a deep indigo glow, tearing her from the headmaster's office and thrusting her onto that all-too-familiar dark and rainy mountain road, illuminated by the ever-present green moon. Looking around in apprehension, she hesitantly followed it. On and on, along the road, all the way down to the mountain's base. This time, instead of the warning sign, she encountered a crossroads.
What her Magic was trying to tell her could not have been clearer.
Straight ahead, the trail followed a river. On this path, she would rebuild what had been destroyed, attempt to save what is left, and live the life she should have had. It was the path Harry would have wanted her to take—he had sacrificed his life for it. Down this path awaited her friends, her future, everything she had ever wanted. Everything except Harry. This route, however, was shadowed by the ominous glow of the red moon burning unchallenged in the night sky.
To her left, a steep, arduous climb back up the mountain awaited, step by painstaking step. This was the path of duty, where she would take up Harry's torch, attempt to fulfill the prophecy in his stead. It was fraught with danger and potential loss, but it promised vengeance against the one who had orchestrated Harry's downfall, even if she was ultimately to blame.
But to her right, a third path plunged further down, into depths unknown. On this route, she would willingly forsake the lessons learned to delve deeper, explore every facet of magic, and leave no stone unturned. She did not know where it would lead, or what it might cost. But she knew, that even if it led to nothing else, it was the one path that might—just might—bring him back.
A/N: Surprise Halloween chapter!
Also, if you'd like to discuss the story, theories, plot, magic or anything else really, I started a Discord server which you can join with this link: discord . gg / UMcjjfegUN