Lightning Amongst the Stars
Chapter Four – Family Bonds, Brother Wands
A/N: Part of this chapter has borrowed text directly lifted from 'Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone'. I would also like to raise a trigger warning for a scene involving mild PTSD within this chapter. You have been warned.
The dancing lights of the fireplace cast long shadows on the silver and purple wallpaper of Bellatrix Black's room in the Rooksmead Place, the ancestral Black country house. Lost in the intricate diagrams of a hefty volume titled 'Advanced Charms and Their Practical Applications'. Bellatrix seemed almost to blend into the dark ambience of the room with her thick hair and heavily-lidded grey eyes, her mind focused on mastering the complex incantations written on the pages before her.
She absently pushed her dark hair from her face, tucking stray curls behind her ear as she read on about the intricacies of non-verbal spell-casting, her brow creased in concentration. Seventh year at Hogwarts was going to be brutal. Even Bellatrix, with all her natural talent and ambition, felt the pressure. She needed good NEWTs if she was going to get a good apprenticeship and a good apprenticeship was the first step towards achieving her goals.
Proving herself to her family was not the only factor. Bellatrix had always chafed against the stifling expectations of her pure-blood lineage, the constant pressure to uphold the Black family name and its proud traditions. She craved recognition for her own merits, not just for the accident of her birth.
A sudden, sharp knock on the door jolted her from her concentration. "Mistress Bellatrix," squeaked Timsy, the Rooksmead's house elf. "Dinner is serveds in the main dining hall. Master Black is requesting your presence, Mistress."
Bellatrix slowly closed her eyes. Father wanted her at the meal table. Not unusual, but the way Timsy was wringing her hands across her tea-cosy made Bellatrix slightly nervous. The elf must be picking up on her father's emotions. She closed the book with a sigh, the intricate diagrams blurring before her tired eyes. Bellatrix stood and straightened her robes. She checked her black, curly hair in her mantelpiece mirror, before glancing at Timsy through it.
"I heard you," Bellatrix drawled haughtily. "I shall be down in a moment."
Seemingly satisfied with this, Timsy left. Bellatrix gave another sigh as she checked her appearance once more. She was not accustomed to being interrupted, especially not during her study time. Her face settled into a frown as she made her way through the dim corridors to the dining hall.
The family dining room was meticulously set for dinner. A pristine white tablecloth, starched to perfection, adorned the long, mahogany table, its surface gleaming under the soft glow of the chandelier that hung overhead. Upon the tablecloth rested an array of gleaming silverware, each piece engraved with the Black family crest, and delicate china plates, their edges trimmed with gold. The centrepiece, a crystal vase filled with fragrant white lilies, added a touch of elegance to the scene.
Cygnus Black sat at the head of the table, his posture ramrod straight, his face as expressive as the silver cutlery that lay before him. His silver hair, slicked back with not a strand out of place, framed a face etched with lines of disapproval and a lifetime of ingrained prejudice. His grey eyes scanned the room, missing nothing.
His wife, Druella, sat beside him, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her long, black dress draped gracefully around her slender frame. Her hands, adorned with rings bearing the family crests, were folded neatly in her lap, her fingers tapping a silent rhythm of impatience. Her lips were pursed in a perpetual frown, her gaze fixed on the empty chair that was for Bellatrix, her disapproval radiating like a physical force. Narcissa, the picture of poise and refinement, occupied the seat across from her parents, her gaze lowered demurely. Her blonde hair cascaded down her back in perfect waves, her delicate features framed by a simple black dress.
Her mother sniffed as Bellatrix walked in. "Finally, she appears."
Bellatrix resisted the urge to roll her eyes, her jaw clenching as she moved to her seat beside Narcissa. She could feel her mother's critical gaze burning into her. She sat, her full lips set in a firm line, her back straight, her chin held high.
The meal progressed in relative silence, punctuated only by the polite clinking of cutlery against porcelain. Each family member ate with practised decorum, their movements precise and controlled. The only other sounds that dared to disrupt the tranquillity was the occasional clearing of a throat or the soft rustle of a napkin.
As the final course was served, a delicate fruit tart with a lattice crust, Bellatrix placed her napkin beside her plate. She glanced at her father. He had maintained a stern face throughout the meal. There was something that set Bellatrix on edge. The moment the house elves cleared the dessert plates, her father beckoned her to follow him.
Bellatrix's heart pounded against her ribs. She rose from her seat, her movements stiff and measured, and followed her father out of the dining room, the heavy door closing behind them with a resounding thud that echoed the rising dread in her. He led her to his study, a dimly lit room. The scent of old leather, lingering cigar smoke, and the faintest whiff of firewhisky filled the air, a familiar cocktail of aromas that transported Bellatrix back to her childhood. She had spent countless hours in this room, curled up in a worn armchair while her father worked at his imposing desk, his quill scratching across parchment, his brow furrowed in concentration. Shadows clung to the antique furniture like layers of dust. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering light across the room, but it did little to dispel the gloom that seemed to permeate every corner.
Cygnus sat behind his large, ornate desk cluttered with various papers and artefacts. Bellatrix followed him in, her head held high, a facade of nonchalance masking the unease that churned in her stomach.
"Close the door," Cygnus instructed.
Bellatrix closed the door behind her, and stood for a half a heartbeat, waiting.
"Sit, Bellatrix," he commanded. As always, her father's presence was imposing, his voice demanding immediate respect. He gestured towards a chair facing the desk, its dark wood and worn leather a stark contrast to the opulence of the dining room. Bellatrix sat, her back rigid, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her gaze fixed on the rug beneath her feet. She dared not meet her father's eyes, fearing what she might see there.
"What is it, Father?" asked Bellatrix, her tone devoid of warmth as she sat.
Cygnus regarded his daughter with a mixture of pride and calculation.
"It's about your future," he declared in a tone that brooked no argument. "I assume you're aware of the recent developments?"
Bellatrix raised an eyebrow, feigning ignorance. "Developments, Father?"
"Don't play coy with me, girl," Cygnus snapped, his patience thin. "The Blacks and the Lestranges have reached another agreement. A betrothal has been arranged."
The blood drained from Bellatrix's face, leaving her feeling hollow. The word 'betrothal' echoed in her ears like a death knell. Of course she was to be married off. She was just another pawn moved across the chessboard of pure-blood politics.
"A betrothal?" she repeated.
"Yes. An agreement has been reached. A union between you and Rodolphus Lestrange has been proposed, to be fulfilled at the end of your school year."
A strange sort of cold seeped into Bellatrix's bones as her father uttered the name Rodolphus Lestrange. That arrogant, pompous fool, with his greasy hair and his condescending smirk? A few years older than her and in the same year as her sister Andromeda, he had been a persistent, awful nightmare in Hogwarts. The very thought of being shackled to him for life, of bearing his children, of becoming a trophy wife in the Lestrange family, filled her with revulsion. Her fingers clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms, the pain grounding her in the face of the storm of emotions brewing inside her.
This could not be happening. Surely, her father was jesting. But as she glanced at him, she knew this was no cruel joke. Fury ignited within her; her blood roared in her ears. She wanted to scream. Years of ingrained etiquette and the fear of her father's wrath held her back.
"No," she breathed, her voice shaking with a suppressed rage. "I won't."
Cygnus's lips thinned, his eyes hardening. "You will do as you are told, Bellatrix," he said. "This is not a request; it is an order."
"This is an outrage," spat Bellatrix. "You're marrying me off to Lestrange? He's a simpleton, and just about better than a Muggle! He's disgusting!"
Cygnus steepled his fingers before him, his expression as cold and unyielding as the stone walls of their ancestral home. "Watch your tone, Bellatrix," he warned, his voice low and measured. "Lestrange is a pure-blood of impeccable lineage and considerable wealth and from the Sacred Twenty-Eight. This union will benefit everyone involved."
"But-" Bellatrix began, but her father cut her off.
Cygnus rose to his feet, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the room. "You will do as you are told," he repeated. "This is not a matter of want. It is a matter of duty and tradition. You will fulfil your obligations to this family, as your sister should have done before you or like her, you will be disowned and cast out. Is that what you want? To be a pariah, shunned by your own family?"
Bellatrix's next words died in her throat. She knew her father was not bluffing. He was a ruthless man, capable of carrying out his threats, of severing ties with his own flesh and blood without a second thought. The Black family was everything to him. Their legacy, their bloodline, their unwavering adherence to pure-blood traditions; Bellatrix knew it all meant more to him than she did.
"You cannot force me to love him."
Cygnus's eyes narrowed. "You do not have to love him, daughter. Love is irrelevant," he said disdainfully. "Duty, loyalty, those are the qualities that matter. And you will learn to embrace them, or you will face the consequences."
Bellatrix flinched, her defiance momentarily faltering under the weight of her father's words. "Father-" she pleaded.
Cygnus cut her off with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Enough, Bellatrix. You have one week to consider. And if you cannot, then I have no choice but to inform Rodolphus of your unwillingness. Perhaps he could tame you and succeed where your mother and I appear to have failed."
Bellatrix recoiled as if struck. "You wouldn't dare."
"Wouldn't I?" challenged Cygnus. "I could arrange for you to spend a week at the Lestranges, under the watchful eye of Rodolphus and his family. I'm sure they will teach you the meaning of obedience."
Bellatrix's blood froze. The rumours of Lestranges' depravity and sadism were strife. The thought of being subjected to them and whatever Rodolphus' whims were sickened her to her core.
"You monster," hissed Bellatrix, trembling with rage. "You would condemn your own blood to such a fate as Lestrange?"
Cygnus merely shrugged. "It is for your own good, Bellatrix," he said. "A little discipline might mould you into a proper wife, unlike your blood traitor sister, running off with that Mudblood scum and bringing shame to the family name. You will not be like her – you will be the proud and proper pure-blood that we raised you to be."
Bellatrix stared at her father, the man who had once been a figure of awe and admiration. Tears of rage welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her weakness. "You disgust me. I hate you," she hissed, her voice raw with emotion. "I hate you for this."
Cygnus's face hardened, his features contorted with fury. "How dare you speak to me like that, you ungrateful wretch!" he roared. "I have given you everything, and this is how you repay me? With insolence and disobedience? You will do as you are told!"
He lunged forward, his hand raising his wand as he pointed it in her direction. Bellatrix flinched, but she did not cower. At the last moment, Cygnus halted, his wand hovering inches from her face. His chest heaved with suppressed rage, his nostrils flaring.
"Get out of my sight," he growled. "Get out, before I do something we both regret."
Bellatrix did not need to be told twice. She turned and fled the room, her heart pounding in her chest. As she ran through the darkened corridors of the ancestral home, tears streamed down her face, hot and bitter. But even as defiance burned within her, dread settled in her stomach. She knew her father well enough to know his word was law. Unless she did something soon, she would not escape from Lestrange's clutches. The thought of being forced into a loveless marriage with Rodolphus, a man she despised with every fibre of her being, filled her with a revulsion that bordered on nausea. She imagined his smug grin, his condescending tone, his clammy hands reaching for her, and she shuddered.
But what could she do? Where could she go? Her family was her world; to defy them meant exile and a life on the fringes of a society that valued blood purity and obedience above all else.
She reached her bedroom, a haven that now felt more like a prison cell. Bellatrix slammed the door shut. She leaned against the cool wood, her chest heaving with emotion as she processed what happened. A sob escaped her as she realised that she was alone; there was nothing she could do. Bellatrix slid down the door, her legs collapsing beneath her, until she was huddled on the floor, her knees drawn to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She buried her face in her hands, her tears soaking through her fingers, hot and bitter against her skin.
There was no one to turn to, no one to confide in, no one to offer comfort or guidance. Her friends were bound by the same traditions, their loyalty to their families outweighing any personal allegiance. She was trapped, a prisoner of her own lineage, her own name, her own blood.
Bellatrix rose from the floor, her movements stiff and mechanical. She approached her vanity. Her reflection in the mirror showed her distress. Her eyes were red and swollen. Her cheeks were flushed. Her dark hair was a wild mane framing her face. With a gesture, she unpinned her hair, letting it fall down her back in a torrent of unruly curls. She ran her fingers through the thick strands, before reaching for her comb and tending to it. Fury simmered within her. Her father's words echoed in her mind, each syllable a fresh insult and betrayal.
It was not that she disagreed with the principle of blood purity. Bellatrix was a Black, through and through. The superiority of pure-blood wizards was an undeniable truth. She had been raised on the tenets of blood purity, the importance of lineage, the responsibility to preserve the strength of their magical heritage. Mudbloods and blood traitors were a threat to the delicate balance of power that had maintained their society for centuries. The dilution of magical bloodlines was a threat to the Wizarding world.
No, the concept of an arranged marriage within a powerful pure-blood family was not the issue. The problem was Rodolphus Lestrange. He was weak-willed, easily influenced and lacked drive. He possessed none of the fire, the ambition, the sheer power that Bellatrix sought in a partner. Lestrange basked in the glory of his family name, too content to coast on the coat-tails of his ancestors, his ambition limited to social climbing and petty displays of superiority rather than forging his own path to greatness.
Bellatrix craved power, not just for herself, but for the elevation of their kind and her own personal satisfaction. She envisioned a world where magic reigned supreme, where those with pure bloodlines ruled, guiding the Wizarding world to a glorious future. She saw herself as a leader, a witch to be loved, feared and respected. But how could she achieve such ambitions chained to a man like Rodolphus? He would stifle her potential and use her merely as a means to produce heirs, diluting the strength of her bloodline with his mediocrity. With Lestrange, she would be trapped, her wings clipped, her fire extinguished. She would not be a broodmare for him. Bellatrix would not sacrifice her dreams, for the sake of outdated tradition and a loveless union.
Bellatrix set her brush down and walked over to her bed, a simple four-poster with a luxurious silk canopy. The mattress sank as she climbed in and slipped between the sheets, her body trembling with exhaustion and the comedown of an adrenaline rush. She closed her eyes; she needed sleep. She would handle everything tomorrow.
And with that thought lingering in her mind, Bellatrix finally succumbed to sleep.
Sunlight cast long, dusty rays across Bellatrix's room. She stirred beneath the silken sheets, her sleep-creased face a picture of youthful innocence. A frown marred her brow as the remnants of last night's confrontation with her father resurfaced, the sting of his words still fresh in her mind.
With a groan, she pushed herself up, the mattress feeling like a lover who was reluctant to let her leave their warm embrace. She sat on the edge of the bed, her bare feet sinking into the thick carpet. The events of the previous night played out in her mind like a disturbing Pensieve memory: the stifling dinner, the conversation with her father. A wave of anger, hot and fierce, surged through her, chasing away the lingering drowsiness. She rose to her feet, her movements purposeful and defiant. She would not let them break her.
Bellatrix crossed the room to the window, gazing out at the sprawling grounds of Rooksmead Place. The vast expanse of manicured lawns and ancient trees was bathed in the golden light of the early morning sun, but the picturesque scenery offered little solace. She took a deep breath and crisp air filled her lungs. Bellatrix had to talk to someone about this. She left, instinctively going to the room of the one person she could confide in, the one person who could help with the turmoil within her.
She reached Narcissa's door, its polished wood gleaming in the dim light of the hallway. After a knock, she waited. The door swung open, revealing Narcissa's elegantly appointed bedroom. The ornate mirror in Narcissa's bedroom reflected Bellatrix's dishevelled state. Her raven hair, usually immaculate, now hung in tangled strands around her face, and her eyes blazed with a feverish intensity, red-rimmed with tiredness and unshed tears. Narcissa, seated at her vanity, turned to face her sister, a delicate hand pausing mid-stroke of her hairbrush.
"Bella," began Narcissa in a soft, concerned melody. "What happened? You look as if you've tangled with a Dementor."
Bellatrix let out a harsh laugh, the sound devoid of any mirth. "Worse," she said, crossing the room to collapse onto a plush chaise lounge. "I had a delightful chat with our dear father last night."
Narcissa's brow furrowed with worry as she reached for the cup of tea on her vanity. "What happened? What did he say?
"Cissy," she began, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and despair, "Father has- he's-" She faltered, the words catching in her throat.
Narcissa placed her teacup back down and rose from her seat, her concern evident. She approached her sister, her hand reaching out to gently touch Bellatrix's arm. "Bella, what is it?" she asked, her voice filled with genuine affection. "Tell me."
"He's betrothed me. A deal has been brokered between the Black and Lestrange families; they have agreed for me to marry Rodolphus Lestrange," Bellatrix choked out, tears welling up in her eyes.
Narcissa gasped. "Rodolphus? But he's a dullard!"
Bellatrix nodded in agreement, wiping her eyes. "I know! He's everything I despise as a wizard. Father sees the buffoon as a way to strengthen the family's position."
Narcissa bit her lip, her delicate features etched with worry. "Father – surely, he wouldn't force you into this?"
"Oh, he would," said Bellatrix. "He threatened to disown me if I refused."
Narcissa gasped, a hand flying to her chest. "Disown you? But that's- that's unthinkable. Not after Andromeda."
Bellatrix shrugged, a bitter twist to her lips. "No, it's not. He cares more about his precious pure-blood traditions than his own daughter's happiness, even if it means disowning her. What's another one gone?"
Narcissa's face paled. The memory of their sister's banishing hung heavy in the air, an unpleasant reminder of the consequences of not adhering to their family's expectations.
"You're not Andi, Bella," Narcissa said firmly. "You're stronger. But you can't do what Andi did – Rodolphus can't be all bad. Isn't there a way to compromise?"
Bellatrix looked at her sister sceptically and no small measure of disgust. "Compromise? And marry someone like Rodolphus? I think I'd rather die a Squib." She let out a short, humourless laugh.
A heavy silence settled between the sisters, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire in the grate. Narcissa studied her sister's face, her own expression a mask of sympathy and concern.
"Bella," she began hesitantly, "perhaps you should reconsider. Rodolphus may not be your ideal husband and he can be a brute, but he is a respected member of our society. He could provide you with a comfortable life, a secure future-"
Bellatrix's laughter cut through the air like a whip. "A comfortable life? A secure future? Is that all you aspire to, Cissy? A gilded cage, where you can live out your days in blissful ignorance of the world outside?"
Narcissa flinched as if struck. "That's not fair, Bella," she protested. "I simply want what's best for you. I don't want to see you cast out, alone and vulnerable."
Bellatrix grimaced at the reaction her harsh words caused. She softened, reaching out to take her sister's hand. "I know, Cissy," she said, "and I appreciate your concern. But I cannot sacrifice my life for this. I would rather live in poverty than be chained to a man I loathe. You've seen what Rodolphus is like. I can't marry him."
Bellatrix watched her sister's face; something was lurking behind the pale, blue eyes. "What is it?"
Narcissa went to answer, but a sharp rap on the door interrupted her. The sisters turned to see their mother, Druella Black, standing in the doorway, her expression stern and unyielding.
"Girls," she announced, her voice crisp and authoritative, "we are leaving for Diagon Alley in one hour. Be ready."
Bellatrix and Narcissa exchanged a glance, a silent agreement passing between them. They would continue this conversation later. For now, they had a shopping trip to prepare for. As Narcissa turned back to her vanity, her fingers resuming their rhythmic brushing of her long blonde hair, Bellatrix sank back into the chaise lounge, her mind racing, as she realised that she did not have a lot of option. She had hoped for support from her younger sister. But Narcissa's reaction, though sympathetic, had been tinged with an acceptance of what had been put in motion, her closest confidante seeming to think that a marriage to Rodolphus was not a bad thing, despite the brute's lack of brain cells and his reputation for sadistic tendencies.
Bellatrix rose and walked to the door. Narcissa watched her with concern, her brow furrowed, her lips parted as if to offer words of comfort. Bellatrix cut her off with a dismissive wave of her hand.
"It's no use, Cissy," she said, her voice filled with a bitter resignation. "You wouldn't understand."
Narcissa's eyes widened in hurt, but before she could protest, Bellatrix turned and walked towards the door. Narcissa watched Bellatrix as she left the room and as the door closed softly behind her.
Bellatrix went back to her bedroom. She needed to ensure her appearance was impeccable, her hair styled and her robes pressed to perfection. With a swift flick of her wand, she summoned her mirror, her reflection gazing back at her with an intensity that matched her own. She scrutinised her appearance, adjusting her hair and applying some makeup. Another flick dressed her in black robes, before she cast a spell to clean and tidy her room. Satisfied, she locked her door and made her way back to Narcissa's room.
Her sister was there, waiting. They linked arms and continued to their mother. Narcissa looked at her sister with uncertainty as they made their way to the bottom of the stairs. As they reached the bottom, Druella was waiting for them, her arms crossed and her expression impatient. "Well, are you two ready?" she asked sharply.
"As ready as we'll ever be, Mother," Bellatrix replied with a curtsy. Narcissa echoed her sister's gesture, though her curtsy was more demure.
Druella appraised her daughters with a critical eye, her gaze lingering on Bellatrix's slightly dishevelled appearance. "You look like you've been rolling in the dirt," she remarked with a disapproving frown. "Tidy yourself up, Bellatrix. We cannot be seen in Diagon Alley looking like ragamuffins. You are a Black and you will act and look like one."
Bellatrix caught the hidden meaning and suppressed a sigh. Despite there being nothing wrong with how she looked, she did not want to be on the receiving end of one of her mother's curses today. "Yes, Mother," she replied, making a show of straightening her robes and smoothing her hair.
With a final, disdainful sniff, Druella turned and led the way out of the manor, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. Bellatrix and Narcissa followed, their footsteps echoing in the cavernous hallway.
"Remember, girls," Druella instructed as they approached the Apparition point, "stay close and do not wander off. We have much to do today."
Bellatrix nodded, as her mother took Narcissa's arm and Apparated, whirling from existence. With a swirling sensation, Bellatrix Apparated too, appearing in the heart of Diagon Alley with a soft pop on the cobblestone street. Bellatrix took a deep breath, savouring the familiar sights and sounds of the Wizarding quarter.
"Now follow me, girls," Druella instructed, leading them in the direction of Knockturn Alley. Bellatrix glared at the back of her mother's head. She would not be signed away like cattle to the highest bidder. For now, she would play along but she would be in Azkaban before she married Lestrange. With a sigh, she dutifully followed.
As they stepped back into the bustling alley, the sensory overload of Diagon Alley washed over Harry. The cacophony of sounds – the chatter of witches and wizards, the clatter of passing broomsticks, the cries of vendors hawking their wares – were overwhelming. The smells of exotic spices, bubbling potions, and sweet treats mingled in the air, creating a heady aroma that was both alluring and slightly nauseating.
Harry stumbled and fell against a wall. It was a punch to the gut. The crowds; the noise; the sheer normalcy of it all was suffocating. Everywhere Harry looked, families laughed, kids argued over broomsticks, witches gossiped. He screwed his eyes shut, trying to block out the sounds that were coming from all direction and wouldn't stop, too loud, too much-
Someone was screaming.
Harry's eyes flew open, his heart pounding like a trapped bird. Diagon Alley had melted away, replaced by a nightmarish vision. The cheerful shop fronts were twisted and distorted. Shattered glass decorated the blood-soaked cobblestones, glittering like tiny gems in the sea of viscous crimson. Small fires burned, signs hung askew. Screams of terror and the cries of the injured vied with the jeers of Death Eaters. The ghosts of Harry's past, the horrors of the war he had barely survived, rose up to haunt him.
He stumbled through the street, tears falling freely from his eyes and creating clear tracks through his dirt-marred face. His lungs burned from the smoke. Harry saw the pale faces of fallen friends, their lifeless eyes staring accusingly at him. He heard the Death Eaters, their voices echoing in his ears, taunting him with his failures.
Harry slumped again. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling with a terror he couldn't control. He tried to focus, to ground himself in the present, but the visions would not fade. He was trapped in a nightmare of the darkest days of his life, and there was no escape. He stumbled; the memories of the war, the trauma he had buried deep within, rising to the surface like a tidal wave. He saw flashes of green light, heard screams echoing in his ears, felt the cold grip of regret that had haunted him for years.
A high, cold voice called to him. "Harry."
"No…" moaned Harry. Not him, not now. He scrambled back, his hands scraping against the rough stone wall, desperate to escape the horrifying scene that played out before him. But there was no escape.
"Harry."
A hand touched his shoulder, Harry flinched. Answering was something beyond him; he was trapped in a whirlwind of panic, his past and present colliding in a terrifying kaleidoscope of fear and confusion.
"Harry? Harry, are you alright?"
The same voice cut through the fog of his panic. Warm and concerned, Harry focused on it. He blinked, his vision slowly clearing, the nightmarish scene fading, replaced by the worried face of Riddle.
"Riddle?" Harry croaked, his body still trembling.
Riddle frowned, his brow furrowed with concern. "You look awful," he said, his voice gentle. "What happened?"
Harry shook his head, unable to speak, the words caught in his throat. No amount of explanation could articulate the horrors that had just flooded his mind.
Riddle sensed his inability to explain and gently guided him towards a nearby bench. "Sit down," he said. "Take a deep breath."
Harry obeyed, sinking onto the bench, still shaking. He closed his eyes, trying to calm his racing heart.
"It's alright," said Riddle. "You're safe. What happened, Harry?"
Harry swallowed, his throat dry. "I- I don't know," he stammered, his voice hoarse. "I just- I felt-" He trailed off, unable to find the words.
Riddle nodded, his gaze understanding. "It's the trauma," he said softly. "It leaves scars, Harry. Scars that run deeper than any curse."
Harry bowed his head.
"I saw things," Harry confessed. "Things that aren't really there. Memories... nightmares..."
Riddle's expression softened. "It's alright, Harry," Riddle reassured him. "It's normal. It takes time to heal, to overcome the trauma. But you're not alone. I'm here for you."
Riddle offered him a hand, helping him up. "Let's get you back on your feet."
Harry hesitated for a moment before he reached out and grasped Riddle's hand. Riddle pulled him to his feet, his grip surprisingly strong. Harry swayed slightly, his legs still shaky, but Riddle's presence beside him offered a strange sense of stability.
"There you go," said Riddle, his voice encouraging. "Just take it slow. One step at a time."
"Thank you," Harry mumbled. He avoided Riddle's gaze, shame burning in his cheeks. He, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was reduced to a trembling mess in the middle of Diagon Alley.
"Come," said Riddle, "let's get you out of here. The hustle and bustle is clearly not helping." Riddle smoothly parted the crowds, his presence alone seeming to command a path. Harry hurried to keep up, his legs still shaky, his senses still reeling. He was acutely aware of the eyes that followed them, the whispers and curious stares that made him want to disappear.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"Somewhere important, to get something you need," said Riddle. He gave Harry a pointed look, before motioning Harry towards a familiar store. The gold lettering above the door read simply, "Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC."
Harry's heart skipped a beat. Ollivanders. He needed a wand. Without it, he was an empty shell, a wizard stripped of his identity. The memories of his first and last time here flooded back – the dusty shelves stacked high with wand boxes, the musty scent of old wood and magic, the eerie quiet that descended upon the shop. The bell above the door chimed as they entered, the sound echoing through the dimly lit shop. A moment later, Ollivander himself appeared, his silver hair a stark contrast to his dark robes. His pale eyes held a strange look as his gaze swept over Harry, before he turned to Riddle.
"Ah, Headmaster Riddle," Ollivander greeted, bowing slightly. "Yew, phoenix feather and thirteen-and-a-half inches long, firm and unyielding. I trust it serves you well, for I recall it chose you with great enthusiasm."
Riddle's smile widened, a touch of pride colouring his expression. "Indeed, Mr. Ollivander."
Ollivander chuckled, a dry, rustling sound like dead leaves skittering across the floor, before turning to Harry. "And who is this young gentleman?"
"This is a relative of mine, Harry Sayre," Riddle replied. "He's new to Hogwarts and in need of a wand."
Ollivander's eyes, sharp and perceptive, studied Harry with an intensity that made him squirm. "A Sayre, you say?" he murmured, a thoughtful expression on his face. Ollivander moved closer to Harry. Harry wished he would blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy. "Interesting. Very interesting. What happened to the old wand?"
Harry felt the tips of his ears burn red. "I lost it when I fled from my parents' murderer."
Ollivander stared at Harry, his gaze now alight with a spark of sympathy. "My condolences. Well then, Mr. Sayre, let's see what we can find for you." He pulled a large tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"
"Er – well, I'm right-handed," said Harry.
"Hold out your arm. That's it." Ollivander measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. As he measured, he said, "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful substance, Mr. Sayre. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."
Harry suddenly realised that the tape measure, which was measuring between his nostrils, was doing this on its own. Ollivander was flitting around the shelves with surprising agility for a man of his age, disappearing behind a towering stack of wand boxes. He emerged moments later, a long, slender wand clutched in his bony hand. "Try this one," he instructed, extending the wand towards Harry. "Ten inches, vine wood, dragon heartstring core. Quite flexible, good for charm work."
Harry took the wand, feeling a tingle of something in his fingers. He gave it a tentative flick, but nothing happened. A wisp of smoke curled from the tip, followed by a sputtering sound that echoed through the shop.
Ollivander tutted, snatching the wand back with a disappointed sigh. "No, no, not that one. Let's try another."
For the next hour, Harry tried wand after wand, each one resulting in a similar lacklustre performance. Some produced a few weak sparks, others emitted a pitiful whimper, while a few simply refused to respond at all. With each failed attempt, Ollivander's brow furrowed deeper, his frustration growing palpable. Harry glanced at Riddle, who watched the proceedings with a patient, almost amused expression.
"Don't worry, Mr. Sayre," said Ollivander. "The wand chooses the wizard, remember. We'll find the right one for you, I assure you."
He disappeared once more into the labyrinthine depths of his shop, emerging a few moments later with a box. He opened it, taking the wand within his long, spindly fingers, before turning to Harry.
"I wonder, now – yes, why not – unusual combination-"
A familiar wand was held before him. Ollivander handed the wand to Harry, the wood warm against his skin. A surge of energy pulsed through him, a connection so profound it made his breath catch in his throat. Almost immediately, a rush of sudden warmth travelled up his arm and settled in his stomach, a fuzzy feeling akin to the purring of a content cat. A jolt of electricity shot up his arm as wand recognised master and it emitted a soft, melodic hum. Harry felt his heart soar.
"Hello, old friend," he whispered, not loud enough for Riddle or Ollivander to hear.
Harry raised the wand, feeling a surge of power flow through him. He flicked his wrist, and a jet of silvery light erupted from the tip, soaring towards the ceiling and exploding into a shower of shimmering sparks. Both Ollivander and Riddle clapped.
"Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well… how curious… how very curious…"
He put Harry's wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper.
"Curious… curious…" Ollivander murmured, his eyes wide with surprise. "Very curious indeed."
"Sorry, sir," said Harry. "But what's curious?"
A sense-memory of yesteryear washed over Harry, this very conversation playing out in his mind. He looked up at Ollivander, who was watching him with those pale, misty eyes. He peered closely at the wand, then at Harry, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Holly wood," he said, "is rare and often associated with powerful magic. And a phoenix feather core too – most unusual."
Riddle raised an eyebrow. "Oh? How so?"
Ollivander turned to Riddle. "Your wands, Mr. Sayre, Mr Riddle; they share a core. A phoenix feather, each taken from the same bird. Your wands are brothers."
Harry caught Riddle's eyes and something passed between them. Whilst he knew that he shared a connection and brother wands with Voldemort from his time, he had hoped it wouldn't be the case here. But it appeared Fate had other plans for him. He watched as Riddle drew that familiar looking pale wand from his robes and held it out to Ollivander for examination.
"Fascinating," said Ollivander, examining both wands with a reverent touch. "Truly fascinating."
Moments passed as Ollivander continued before he cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "The bond between brother wands is a rare and powerful one," he explained. "Two sides of the same coin, crafted with a feather from the same phoenix and their destinies linked."
Ollivander stared intently at Harry. "The wand chooses the wizard, but it is the wizard who chooses how to use his wand. I sense great and terrible things for you, Mr. Sayre. Terrible, yes – but great."
"Great things," Harry repeated, the words tasting like ashes in his mouth. He knew the things he was capable of – the war had proven that.
Riddle nodded, his eyes fixed on Harry, who stood transfixed, the wand clutched tightly in his hand. "I believe you're right, Mr. Ollivander," he said with a tinge of faint amusement that surprised Harry. "Thank you for your assistance."
Ollivander bowed deeply. "It has been my pleasure, Headmaster. May this wand serve young Mr Sayre well."
They paid and left Ollivander's, Harry still clutching his new wand, the sensation of warmth still tingling in his fingertips. As they walked, the weight of recent events settled upon Harry. He had a new name, a new identity, and his old wand. Harry glanced at Riddle, who walked beside him with that air of quiet confidence, his gaze sweeping over the bustling crowds of Diagon Alley with a detached observation.
Harry looked at Riddle, unsure how to feel or what exactly to say. "What happens now?" he settled for asking.
Riddle placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Now, Harry," he said. "You begin your new life at Hogwarts. You learn, you grow, you adapt. For now, enjoy Diagon Alley. I believe you have supplies to get. And don't hesitate to indulge yourself."
Riddle reached into his pockets, handing Harry a small thimble and a pouch that clinked. "There will be sufficient funds there for you to make your purchases. Once you've finished, hold the thimble and say 'Salazar' whilst giving it a tap of your wand. It will take you to just outside Hogwarts' grounds."
Riddle fixed Harry with a nod, before Disapparating with a small pop.
Harry shook his head and continued on his way. He started with Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, stepping into the familiarly quaint shop. Not much had changed in his own time and Madam Malkin herself was the same, only a little less grey. After some measuring and choosing, he purchased his new robes. The Slytherin crest emblazoned across the chest still took a little getting used to, but he shoved the thought to the back of his mind.
Like it had been in his own time, Diagon Alley was heaving with people busy with their plans and lives. It was a familiar sight, yet utterly alien at the same time. As he passed the shops, he saw that some were the same and others bore unfamiliar names, their windows displaying strange and wondrous wares. He turned as he moved, an oddity catching his eyes, causing him to accidentally bump into someone.
"Mind where you're going, you clumsy oaf!" A sharp voice cut through the noise, jolting Harry from his musings.
Harry turned to find a boy, perhaps a year or two younger than him, glaring up with narrowed eyes. He was dressed impeccably in robes of high quality, his posture rigid with an air of practised arrogance. There was something about the boy's face and bearing that was familiar, yet Harry could not remember ever meeting him.
"Sorry," Harry mumbled, a reflexive apology forming on his lips before he remembered who he was supposed to be. He was Harry Sayre now, a supposed distant cousin of Riddle's, and he had the impression that Sayres didn't apologise for minor collisions in a crowded alleyway.
"Watch where you're going next time," the boy retorted, his voice a sneer.
"It was clearly an accident," Harry countered, forcing his tone to remain calm as his lip curled. This boy was obviously inflated with a sense of self-importance. "These crowds can be a bit overwhelming." He gestured vaguely around them, hoping to defuse the situation.
The boy's eyes narrowed further, his gaze sweeping over Harry's altered features. "I don't recognise you," he said, a hint of suspicion in his voice. "New to Hogwarts, are you? You're wearing Slytherin robes."
"Yes," said Harry. "Just arrived from abroad, as a transfer. Circumstances meant I was Sorted when I arrived. I'm Harry Sayre." The name was feeling increasingly natural with each repetition.
The boy's mouth twisted into a smirk. "Regulus Black. Sayre, you said? Never heard of your family before. Are you a pure-blood?"
Regulus Black. The familiarity made sense now. Harry looked upon the teenager before him, who in another life would go on to defy Lord Voldemort. Regulus bore a striking resemblance to his older brother. He had the same dark hair and aristocratic features, including high cheekbones and a sharp jawline. However, where Sirius was tall and lean, Regulus was shorter and of a slighter build. His eyes were a cool grey, and his expression often held a hint of the arrogance typical of the Black family.
Harry met his gaze, a spark of defiance flashing in his eyes. "We tend to keep to ourselves," he shot back, ignoring the question on blood status. Apparently Regulus was as much a bigot as Sirius had said his family were. "Perhaps you should try it sometime."
A flicker of surprise crossed Regulus' face, followed by a grudging sort of amusement. "I mean no disrespect," Regulus smiled, extending a hand. "I'm not always this prickly. It's been a funny sort of morning for me."
Harry accepted the handshake, surprised by the warmth in the boy's grip. "Not a problem," he replied. "We all have bad days."
"Indeed. So, an ice cream, then?" Regulus asked. He gestured towards Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, the sweet scent of sugar and vanilla wafting towards them. "To make up for my initial rudeness."
"It's not necessary," Harry protested.
"Nonsense," Regulus insisted, leading the way towards the ice cream parlour. "Consider it a welcome to the Wizarding world of Britain, Mr. Sayre."
Regulus bought Harry his ice cream of choice, before also getting on his own. Harry thanked him as they left the ice cream parlour. Regulus turned to Harry, his expression thoughtful. "You're quite new here, aren't you?" he asked. "You have that look about you."
Harry nodded. "Yes. I've spent a lot of time in Europe."
"Europe?" said Regulus, his eyebrows rising in surprise. "That's quite a change. What brought you to Hogwarts then?"
"A family situation," said Harry vaguely. "I needed a fresh start."
Regulus nodded, seemingly accepting his explanation. "Well, Britain is a good place for that," he said. "It's different. But in a good way."
"I'm already starting to see that."
They walked in comfortable silence for a moment, their footsteps loud on the cobblestone street. Harry savoured the cool air and the relative quiet of this side street. He glanced at Regulus, who was walking with his gaze fixed on the ground, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow.
"Something on your mind?" Harry asked, breaking the silence. It couldn't be because of Voldemort's Horcruxes – they didn't exist here if Riddle was a changed man.
Regulus looked up, startled, as if he'd forgotten Harry was there. "Oh! Uh – no, nothing really," he mumbled, a faint blush creeping up his neck.
Harry raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "You sure? You seem a bit preoccupied."
Regulus hesitated, then sighed. "It's just – stuff," he said vaguely.
Harry saw he seemed nervous and decided not to push the issue. He nodded. "Yeah, I get that," said Harry, thinking of his own complicated family history, the burden of expectations and the weight of a legacy he never asked for.
Regulus looked at him, surprised. "You do?"
Harry shrugged. "Everyone has stuff, I suppose," he said, downplaying his own experiences. He couldn't exactly tell Regulus about being the Boy Who Lived or the war that hadn't yet ripped apart the Wizarding world.
"I suppose you're right," Regulus agreed, a thoughtful expression dawning on his face. "It's just... sometimes it feels like there's no right answer. Like no matter what you choose, someone will get hurt."
Harry looked at the boy again and opened his mouth as if to say something, but Regulus beat him to it.
"Anyhow – I must be going. Things to do and all that rot."
Harry nodded slowly. "Yes, I suppose so. Thank you again for the ice cream."
"It's nothing," said Regulus, offering a hand again, which Harry readily grasped. "Good luck at Hogwarts, Sayre. May you find your place there."
He shook Harry's hand and left. Harry watched as Regulus disappeared into the crowds. He took a deep breath, the crisp autumn air filling his lungs, the scents of wood-smoke and pumpkin pasties swirling around him. He had a list of errands to run, and no time to waste.
He skipped going to Flourish and Blotts; Riddle had taken the liberty of collecting all the books Harry would need for his seventh year at Hogwarts and gifting them to him. Moving deeper into the Alley, he made his way past throngs of wizards, witches and others going about their business.
He stopped outside Eeylops Owl Emporium with its strong scents of owl pellets and musty feathers. The shop was a cacophony of hoots, screeches, and the rustling of wings. Rows upon rows of outposts lined the walls, each housing a feathered creature of varying size and temperament, peering down at Harry from their perches. Snowy owls hooted up high, barn owls swooped through the air, and a grumpy-looking eagle owl glared down from a gnarled branch it had claimed as its own.
Harry wandered the aisles, his eyes scanning the owls, searching for one that resonated with him. He paused before a cage holding a sleek tawny owl with intelligent amber eyes that held an intelligent glint. The owl tilted its head, studying Harry with an intensity that reminded him of his own beloved Hedwig.
"I'll take this one," he told the shopkeeper, a wizened old wizard with a shock of white hair and a twinkle in his eye.
As the shopkeeper prepared the owl for its new home, Harry couldn't help but smile. He named her Elara, after a sorceress from Ancient Greece. Whilst she would never replace Hedwig, the snowy owl who had been his faithful companion for so many years, Harry felt a wave of comfort spread through him as Elara perched on his arm, her amber eyes meeting his. He gently stroked her feathers, marvelling at their softness and the subtle variations in their shades of brown and gold. He paid the shopkeeper as Elara hopped up his arm until she reached his shoulder. The owl nestled onto his neck, her soft feathers brushing against his cheek.
As he stepped back out onto the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley, the noise and crowds momentarily overwhelming after the quiet intimacy of the Emporium, Elara hooted softly. Ensuring she was perched securely, Harry moved on. He mentally checked his list and noted he had done everything he needed to do. He stopped and reached for an owl treat in his pocket. Harry clicked his tongue and Elara alerted, focusing on her treat.
"Here, girl," Harry murmured as Elara gently took the treat with her beak. He watched as she ate, slowly stroking her plumage. "I'll see you at Hogwarts. Enjoy your flight up there."
Elara hooted softly, bobbing her head. She hopped down Harry's arm, and with a final look at her new master, took off. Harry watched her go with a small smile.
Maybe things wouldn't be so bad after all.
Bellatrix was captivated by a particularly macabre knife, its sharp edge glinting ominously in the meagre sunlight filtering through the grimy windows of Borgin and Burkes. The intricate carvings on the bone handle fascinated her. Her mother and Narcissa were occupied with Mr. Borgin at the counter, their hushed voices a mere murmur in the background. Bellatrix had wandered off, a mixture of annoyance with her mother's attitude and an insatiable curiosity about the various bits of Dark Arts paraphernalia that surrounded her.
She traced a finger along the blade's edge. Lost in her thoughts, Bellatrix barely registered the clink of coins and the rustle of wrapping paper as her mother completed her purchase. She only noticed when they were leaving that Druella had tucked a small, ornate box into her handbag. The question asked of what it was had been met with a brusque answer to mind her own business.
As they stepped back onto the street, Bellatrix couldn't shake the feeling of unease at whatever it was her mother had purchased. They made their way through the shadowy labyrinth of cobbled streets, and Bellatrix pushed it to the back of her mind.
Back in Diagon Alley, they moved through the crowds. Many parted to make way for the Black matriarch and her daughters, unwilling to incur their ire or attention. Soon enough, Flourish and Blotts loomed into view, its windows displaying stacks of new arrivals and rare volumes. Inside, they found Regulus Black, Bellatrix's cousin, perusing a thick tome on magical lineage and history.
He looked up as they approached, his expression brightening at the sight of his family. "Aunt Druella; Bellatrix; Narcissa," he greeted each in turn, nodding respectfully. "I didn't expect to see you here."
Druella smiled, a rare display of warmth. "Regulus, darling. What brings you here?"
"I was looking for a book on ancient magical families," he said, showing them the book. "I had an interesting encounter today with a transfer to Hogwarts, a seventh year Slytherin no less. He bumped into me in the alley, quite clumsily, I might add."
Bellatrix raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued A new Slytherin in her year? Interesting indeed. "Oh? Do tell."
Before anyone could say anything, Regulus' mother Walburga Black arrived. Walburga was a woman who embodied the cold, austere elegance of the ancient House of Black. Tall and thin, she carried herself with a regal bearing that commanded respect and instilled fear in equal measure. Her face, framed by raven hair that had only recently begun to show streaks of silver, was a mask of haughty disdain. Her high cheekbones and sharp jawline spoke of generations of pure-blood breeding, while her thin lips, perpetually set in a frown, hinted at a cruel and unforgiving nature.
Her eyes, however, were her most striking feature. Deep-set and dark as night, they burned with a fanatic intensity, reflecting her unwavering devotion to the ideals of blood purity and her disdain for those she deemed unworthy. Those eyes had witnessed countless acts of cruelty and prejudice, and they showed no remorse, only a cold devotion in upholding the traditions of her ancestors.
"Sister," she greeted Druella, "and darling Narcissa."
Walburga gave Narcissa a smile before it died as she flicked her eyes to Bellatrix. "Ah, yes. Bellatrix."
Bellatrix stared back at her aunt, matching her intense gaze before Walburga broke it first by turning back to Druella. "Still insolent. Reminds me too much of Sirius."
Druella sighed. "Cygnus is doing what he can-"
Walburga interrupted her with a cold laugh. "He can do more. If I know my brother half as well as I think I do, then she should be no trouble at all."
Bellatrix bit her lip to stop her retort at being referred to as if she wasn't there. She caught Regulus' wide eyes as he watched the exchange and felt her cheeks heat up slightly with embarrassment.
"Now then," Walburga continued. "Tell us about this sudden transfer to Hogwarts. It is most strange that there is a transfer – I cannot recall there being one for many years. And Sorted before the year starts too!"
"Indeed," said Druella. "Who was it? Anyone we know?"
Regulus shook his head, his fingers drumming lightly on the cover of the book as he closed it. "His name is Sayre. Harry Sayre. He said he's been abroad and only recently arrived in Britain."
"Sayre," Walburga repeated slowly. "No one in Britain has that name anymore."
Bellatrix thought hard. She had always prided herself on her knowledge of pure-blood families, and the name Sayre was unfamiliar.
Orion Black, Walburga's husband and Bellatrix's uncle, appeared from behind a bookshelf, drawn by the sound of their voices. His keen eyes swept the group. He was a powerfully built man, with a neat, trimmed goatee and short, black-grey hair with a severe side parting. "What's this about a Sayre?"
Walburga turned to him, her voice low. "Regulus met someone by the name of Harry Sayre."
Regulus explained his encounter with Harry, recounting the brief conversation and the shared ice cream. When he mentioned the name "Sayre," Orion's face lit up with sudden recognition. "Ah, he must be American. The Sayres are an old magical family, connected to Ilvermorny. They founded the school, if I recall correctly. They are distantly related to the Gaunts."
Bellatrix's interest sharpened further. The Gaunts were descendants of Salazar Slytherin, and any connection to Slytherin was worth noting. Her mother must have thought similarly, for she said: "Related to the Gaunts, you say? Fascinating."
"Yes," Orion nodded with a frown. "The Gaunts were a notoriously unstable family, prone to madness and violence."
Bellatrix scoffed. "Madness is merely a different form of brilliance, Uncle Orion. And as for violence, well, that is simply a means to an end."
"As are marriages arranged in the best interests of the family, though it would appear that there are certain members who refuse to see the greater good of them," Orion said. He fixed his niece with a hard stare, enough that Bellatrix's cheeks started to heat up again. She was about to open her mouth to protest when she thought better of it. Apparently her father had informed the rest of the family of her outburst.
Turning back to Regulus, Walburga demanded, "Where did this Sayre boy go? Did he say anything else of importance?"
Regulus shook his head. "I'm not sure, Mother. He disappeared before I could follow him. But he was odd, if I'm perfectly honest. He seemed to know his way around, though."
Bellatrix listened as her relatives interrogated Regulus regarding Sayre. Once they finished, Orion dismissed the matter with a curt nod, and then he, Walburga and Regulus left. Druella informed her daughters to meet her in a half hour to go home, as she had business as Gringotts. Narcissa elected to go with their mother which left Bellatrix alone.
Bellatrix, however, was not satisfied. The mention of the Sayres and their connection to the Gaunts had her curious. Resolve grabbed her and she wandered aimlessly down Diagon Alley, heading in the direction of Eeylops Owl Emporium. As she approached, she saw a messy haired young man leave, with an owl on his shoulders. With a jolt, she realised that he matched the description given by Regulus.
She ducked around a corner, studying him. He had dark hair, with a slight curl to it. A strong jawline complimented the thin lips and his eyes, which were behind a pair of glasses. He was handsome, Bellatrix mused, surprising herself.
Sayre reached into a pocket and offered the bird a treat. The owl hooted softly, accepting the treat from his outstretched hand. He lingered a moment longer, fingers gently stroking the sleek plumage, a fond smile gracing his lips before he raised his arm in farewell. With a thrust of its wings, the owl soared into the darkening sky, disappearing into the vast expanse above.
Bellatrix seized the opportunity, abandoning her post and weaving through the crowd. Indignant murmurs rose in her wake as she jostled past, her focus unwavering. Sayre had rounded a corner, his silhouette disappearing. Bellatrix quickened her pace, anticipation thrumming in her veins. But as she turned the bend, her pursuit was met with emptiness.
Disappointment crashed over her. She would have to wait until Hogwarts to meet Harry Sayre. With a heavy heart, she trudged towards Gringotts, her thoughts already on the journey home with her mother and sister.
Harry had always found solace in the halls of Hogwarts. The castle, with its living portraits and staircases that seemed to think before shifting, offered an escape. This evening, as the shadows lengthened upon the stone walls, Harry's feet carried him aimlessly. Descending the main staircase, Harry caught a glimpse of the grounds bathed in the fading golden sunlight, and impulsively decided to step outside. The brisk air was refreshing and smelled faintly of smoke and pine.
The Forbidden Forest loomed; a wall of thorns, trees and gnarled branches under the amber glow of the setting sun. Harry was drawn there by a restlessness he could not shake. He expected the towering oaks and the tangle of undergrowth to feel familiar, after years of making frequent trips there. Out in the cool air, Harry's feet took him onwards, drawn by a peculiar desire to walk its shadowed paths.
"Who ventures here?"
The deep voice startled Harry. He spun around, hand instinctively reaching for the wand tucked into his robes. He glanced around, half-expecting Riddle or McGonagall to emerge from the shadows, ready to reprimand him for venturing out alone to the Forest.
However, as the figure moved out of the shadows cast by trees, Harry recognised him.
"Firenze," said Harry, approaching the centaur with caution. Whilst the centaur of his time was a pleasant companion, this Firenze could be just as wild and unpredictable as the rest of his brethren.
"I am," replied Firenze, a knowing glint in his eyes. "And you are Harry Sayre, I presume?"
Harry's stiff nod and body language must have shown his slight discomfort at Firenze identifying him so readily, as the centaur gave a small chuckle.
"Relax, child," said Firenze, his voice deep and smooth. "I mean you no ill will. I am, however, curious, for I do not believe we have met before."
Harry could have kicked himself. Of course Firenze didn't know him. Thinking quickly, he supplied a lie.
"Professor Riddle told me about the centaurs, and said you were a reasonable one."
The lie felt flat, and it must have shown, for Firenze said: "Did he now? Peculiar…"
A short silence followed as man and beast stared at each other. Firenze stood before him, his chestnut coat gleaming in the dappled sunlight, his eyes – deep pools of wisdom – fixed upon him with unnerving intensity, before he spoke again.
"You are here because you seek answers, young one?"
Harry nodded, his heart pounding in his chest. "I suppose I am, in a way."
"Your arrival was foreseen," continued Firenze. "The stars foretold a convergence of paths, a turning of the tide."
Harry frowned, unsure of what to make of the centaur's cryptic words. "I don't understand – do you mean war?"
Firenze's gaze intensified, his eyes seemingly piercing through Harry. "Your arrival at this time is no accident," he said. "You are a catalyst that will spark a great change."
Harry's breath caught in his throat. "Change? What kind of change?"
Firenze turned towards the dark silhouette of Hogwarts castle looming in the distance. "A shadow hangs over this place," he said, his voice grave. "There is a darkness here that has festered, unseen, for far too long."
Harry thought of Riddle, who had welcomed him with open arms. Was Riddle the darkness Firenze spoke of?
"But what can I possibly do?" said Harry.
Firenze's expression remained stoic, but his voice softened. "You underestimate yourself, child. You have faced trials that would break most men. Yet, here you remain, still standing."
He paused, his eyes filled with a wisdom that transcended human understanding. "The path ahead is uncertain, Harry Sayre," he said. "But you are not alone. The stars guide you towards your destiny and the path will reveal itself, young one, as sure as the river finds its way to the sea. Listen, learn, be ready."
Firenze placed a hand gently on Harry's shoulder – an oddly human gesture for a centaur. Before Harry could voice his questions, Firenze turned and walked back into the shadows of the forest, his final words echoing in the fading light, "Remember, Harry Potter, the darkness is not always where you expect it to be. Be vigilant, be wary, and trust in the light that resides within you."
A shiver ran down his spine, not from the chill of the approaching night, but from the realisation that Firenze had called him Harry Potter. He went to call the centaur, but when he turned, Firenze was already gone. It seemed that Fate spun an ever-trickier web and Harry was once again caught up in the middle against a powerful enemy.
"Thank you, Firenze," said Harry to empty air. He began a slow walk back to the castle. As he got closer, rounding near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, a twig snapped behind him, the sharp sound cutting through the eerie silence. Harry whirled around, his hand instinctively reaching for the wand tucked into his robes.
"Well, well," a gruff voice rasped, "what have we here? A student wandering the grounds after curfew? Surely not Mr. Harry Sayre?"
Standing before him was a man smoking a Muggle cigarette. He had a compact, wiry build, and a handsome face, with thin lips and a strong nose. His piercing blue eyes were sharp and intelligent, constantly scanning, like a hawk sizing up its prey. The man exuded an aura of danger, a raw, untamed power that reminded Harry of the hardened Aurors he'd encountered in his own time – Mad-Eye Moody, Kingsley Shacklebolt – men who had seen the true face of evil and lived to tell the tale. This was no bumbling impostor or Ministry flunky. Every line of his no-nonsense demeanour telegraphed real experience. Seconds passed as he stood there, his wand out and held between his fingers. Harry had the impression of a pacing jungle cat, too big for the cage it was kept in. Harry noted he wore a leather jacket over a turtleneck jumper, before it struck him this man was wearing distinctly Muggle clothing. A battered wand holster hung at his hip, a silent testament to this man's fighting appearance. This was a man who had stared at Death with both eyes and not blinked.
"Who are you?" asked Harry, his hand beginning to draw his wand.
"Bodie, your Defence Against the Dark Arts professor," the man drawled. "And I'd holster that wand, boy, unless you'd like to be relieved of your hand."
"Professor Bodie," Harry greeted, his voice carefully modulated to hide the tremor of nerves of being startled. Bodie was clearly a force to be reckoned with, based on how he held himself. "How do you know me?"
Bodie gave Harry a look that clearly said he thought Harry was stupid. "I was made aware of your arrival by Professor McGonagall. Headmaster Riddle filled me in on the details later."
Harry swallowed. "Oh."
"Out for a stroll, are we, Mr. Sayre? A bit late for a leisurely walk, wouldn't you say?"
Harry hesitated. "I couldn't sleep, sir," he said. "I thought some fresh air might help."
Bodie chuckled, a dry, humourless sound that echoed in the gathering twilight. "Fresh air? In the Forbidden Forest, after dark? Hardly a wise decision for a young wizard, especially one so new to Hogwarts."
Harry shrugged instead of replying. Bodie gave another laugh.
"No matter. Care to join me for a cup of tea, Mr. Sayre?" asked Bodie, gesturing towards a small clearing where a battered kettle was suspended precariously over a makeshift fire, with two chairs. Harry hesitated, a sense of unease gnawing at his gut. He nodded silently, before following Bodie to the clearing and sitting on one of the chairs.
"So," Bodie began, handing Harry a mug of tea. Harry nodded his head when Bodie gestured to the sugar cubes he had. "What brings you here to England?"
"Professor Riddle," Harry said whilst he spooned sugar, "brought me here. I found myself unable to stay where I was and he offered to have me stay here at Hogwarts and finish my education."
"Interesting," said Bodie, as he idly stirred sugar into his own mug. Harry took a sip as Bodie continued. "Professor Riddle said you transferred from Durmstrang. Did you complete all your education there?"
Harry nodded again, flowing with the story that he and Riddle had come up with together to explain his appearance. "We were mainly on the continent, before I ended up there for my exams. It wasn't overly formal, if I'm honest. I moved around a fair bit as a child and my parents never stayed in one place for too long."
"He said as much," said Bodie. Harry hoped the lie would hold up. He took a sip as Bodie continued. "That would explain why you still sound British. So, Durmstrang, eh? Interesting choice. A very different sort of school from Hogwarts."
"It was," Harry admitted cautiously. "Very focused on the practical aspects of magic, and quite competitive."
"I can imagine. Not exactly known for its warmth and fuzziness, are they? But they do produce some very powerful witches and wizards. And there's far more emphasis on learning the Dark Arts than defence against them, I'd wager," said Bodie, his gaze fixed on Harry.
Harry felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple. Bodie's words were probing and making Harry uncomfortable. While Harry hadn't experienced Durmstrang firsthand, he knew that the school had a reputation for encouraging a darker approach to the curriculum.
"There was certainly a focus on offensive magic," Harry conceded, choosing his words carefully. "But I preferred to focus on defensive techniques. My parents were very careful about the kind of magic I was taught."
Bodie studied him for a moment, his gaze unwavering. Harry felt like a specimen under a microscope.
"Your parents, eh?" Bodie finally said. "Professor Riddle told me what happened to them too. My condolences. They sound like they were good people."
Harry nodded, a wave of genuine grief washing over him. "They were," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
"Was it Grindelwald?"
Harry looked up at Bodie. "I'm sorry?"
"Grindelwald – was it he who killed your parents?"
Grindelwald. Harry knew that name. In his timeline, Dumbledore had defeated Grindelwald, ending his reign of terror and imprisoning him in Nurmengard. Considered by many to be the greatest Dark wizard of all time, second only to Voldemort, here apparently he was alive and ran free. Riddle had briefly explained the situation, on how Grindelwald waged war on the entire continent, his charismatic speeches and promises of magical supremacy seducing countless witches and wizards to his cause.
"I don't know," said Harry. "I wasn't there when they were murdered."
"You don't seem to be much bothered by him being mentioned. Odd, given your time spent in Europe," Bodie said casually.
"Oh?" Harry asked, trying to gauge Bodie's reaction.
Bodie nodded slowly. "Yes. Grindelwald is Durmstrang's most infamous student after all," he said, his eyes never leaving Harry's face. "Expelled, of course, for his unconventional experiments and misdeeds against fellow students. But the seeds of his ambitions were sown there, in those very halls. I'm surprised you do not know that, for someone who was at Durmstrang."
Harry realised he was going to get caught out in a lie and scrambled for an answer. "I wasn't at Durmstrang for long," he said hastily., "Mainly to prepare for my NEWTs. And my parents didn't really stay in one place for too long."
Bodie seemed to consider this for a moment, his eyes unwavering. "I see," he said finally, though a hint of scepticism lingered in his voice. "Still, I would have thought you had heard more about him. He was their Dumbledore, I suppose. They say he was even more gifted, but that didn't stop old Dumbledore from hurting him."
Harry sat straighter at the mention of Dumbledore. "Dumbledore hurt him? I thought he killed Dumbledore."
Bodie nodded slowly. He took another sip of his tea, then set the mug down with a sigh. "He did, by all accounts. But whatever Dumbledore did, it forced Grindelwald to hide for a long time. Most believe he died, but I and many others think he's still out there, somewhere. His fanatics have been causing major issues again. A lot of them were caught by Aurors when their leader fled."
"Did you fight him?" asked Harry.
"Yes. Wasn't much more than a fresh-faced recruit when I started, barely out of Auror training. It was a different time," said Bodie, his voice taking on a distant quality, as if reliving those memories. "It was like the world was on fire, tearing it apart. Grindelwald… Well, he was a force of nature. Seduced half the continent with his visions."
Harry sat as Bodie stared into the fire, memories playing behind his eyes.
"It was a bloody mess," sighed Bodie. "We barely won, if you can call it that, but it was at a terrible cost. And even now, years later, the scars remain."
Bodie took another gulp of tea and turned his eyes skyward, his face stoic.
"There's something brewing on the horizon, something which appears to have been a long time in coming," said Bodie, smacking his teeth. "Anyway, I believe it's getting late. You don't need to hear the stories of an old cynic like me."
Harry caught the hint and he rose to his feet. "Thank you for the tea, Professor. I'll head back to the castle now."
Bodie nodded, fishing another cigarette from his pockets before dangling it precariously from his lips. "Indeed," he said. "Mind that you don't wander the grounds alone after dark in future, Mr. Sayre. Especially not in these times. Off with you now."
Harry turned and walked away. He made his way back towards the castle, eyes heavy with a need to sleep and his head spinning from too many thoughts.
A/N: And some Bellatrix, finally. You'll see more of her quite soon and as this fic goes on. Hopefully, you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing and editing it. As always, thank you for the reviews! Feel free to leave more!
On the note of editing, some of you may have noticed that Hollenheist is no longer credited as a beta writer. Due to personal circumstances out of their control, they were no longer able to complete any more editing. Which means I am searching for another. If any of you are interested in being a beta writer for this fic, please DM me and let me know.
As always, thank you for reading.