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Harry Potter and The Beauty of Magic Chapter 6 (The Boy Who Lived)
🕑 Added 2022-02-02 08:48:32 +0000 UTCThe second of May 1973 couldn't have come any sooner for the small Tonks family. Andromeda Tonks and her husband were going to have a baby. Their first child.
They had met at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Andromeda being a Slytherin, a black. The blacks were one the most pure-blooded families ever to live. Ted was in Huffelpuff and a muggle-born. This was a relationship you wouldn't have imagined. Furthermore, Andromeda was disowned by her parents and 2 sisters – Bellatrix and narcissi. However, it was worth it, Andromeda never felt like a true black, and she truly loved her husband and was about to start a real family.
Andromeda had a quick birth but was astonished to find out her daughter's hair colour was changing every few minutes.
"Ted?" she shouted at who was talking to the medi-nurse.
"Teddy?"
"Oi!"
"Oh sorry sweetie, what's the matter?" he replied, finally realizing she was shouting at him.
"What's wrong with her? What's happening to her?" she said, half crying, being scared for her daughters' sake.
Ted, who was now standing over his wife and daughter, gave a worried stare at the medi-nurse.
"Oh, nothing to worry about, she's just a metamorphous."
"A what?" Dromeda and Ted said at the same time with a scared look on their faces. They were sure they heard the name somewhere before, but when? Or why?
"A metamorphous", The Medi-nurse slowly said, "it means your daughter will be able to change her appearance at will. It's Very unique, I must say though. Within her early years it will change allot until she gets the hang of it. I must go now however, there's allot of work to do, if you want to find out more there will be many books on it." She said with a reassuring smile, and off she went.
Ted was now staring at his new daughter in his wife's arms with bewilderment. A metamorphous, his daughter! Never would he have thought.
"What about Nymphadora?" she whispered to her husband.
"A what?" he asked, wondering if his wife was acting quite normal at this moment.
She glared at her husband and gave a little laugh at him before saying, "Her name of course, we can't just keep calling her it all the time."
"Oh yeah, it's a little bit... odd? Isn't it?" he told her, staggering at finding the right words to say without insulting her.
"It's unique, like our daughter." She said as she slowly moved her eyes onto her daughter as she peacefully slept, her hair colour changing from orange to blue.
"Well, Nymphadora it is," he said after a short pause.'
Life was hard for Nymphadora. Firstly, her dad decided it would be best if she had an education before going to Hogwarts and sent her off to a muggle primary school. Andromeda wasn't very happy with this idea, but she finally came round and agreed to make her husband happy.
It took Nymphadora 4 years to get her metamorphous abilities correct, and before, she could not go out of her home unless she wore a stupid big hat covering her hair.
"Mummy?"
"Yes darling?" Andromeda replied, wondering what her daughter could possibly want at 2am.
She slowly crept closer to her mum, who was sitting in the living room reading a book and after some thought finally said "you know tomorrow, can we go to the park? Without that stupid hat on, it is summer."
"Oh Dora, you know we can't' she said as she lifted Dora onto her lap and kissed her forehead. "What do you think all the other children will think with every time you get a little bit emotional your hair changes colour, it's not normal for muggles, you know that." After seeing the sadness on the little girls face she gave a sigh and said "It won't be long now, soon you will be able to control it and we can go out all the time, without the hat on"
She then gave the little girl a warm hug and brought her back upstairs into bed.
****
It had been 4 years now since she learnt to control her metamorphing skills as best she could. Dora wanted to make sure she could do it, and Ted finally told her it was time to let her little girl go to school. It was the first chance she got to play with children her own age. She never got to see her family as her mum didn't speak to them, except Sirius, but he was locked up in Azkaban for reasons her mum wouldn't speak of.
She stayed indoors most of the time as her mum was still scared someone would find out about what she could do. It was a nice house, more in the middle of the country side then anything and surrounded by many ponds. The house was nice, not to big, not to small, and decorated with a mixture of dark and bright colours, the dark her mums and the bright her dads. It had 4 bedrooms, a living room, a play room for Dora, a kitchen, dining room, 2 bathrooms, and a large garden. This house was her dad's parents before, and they left it to him, her mums parents gave her nothing, but everything to Narcissa and Bellatrix as they married nice rich Pure-Bloods. The Tonks weren't rich, but they weren't poor as her dad had a good job in Diagon alley.
She was now 7, and her first day of school was arriving quickly. She decided blonde would be a good hair colour to keep as it was normal, but sweet at the same time, who could go wrong with blonde?
"Honey, you sure you have everything? Lunch, books, bag, coat, feet?"
"Feet? I do worry about you sometimes." He said, as he watched his wife, making sure their daughter didn't forget anything.
"Oh, leave me alone, I'm tired, took me all night to pick out an outfit for her to wear." She said, redoing Dora's hair so it was perfect again.
Once she finally pulled it into a ponytail with a red bow, she turned her around, knelt down so she was face to face with her daughter and said 'remember what we practiced, if you get scared, angry, annoyed, anything, just close your eyes and count to 10 and breath. Then, hopefully, your hair won't change colour.'
"Dromeda, honey? I think it's time she went now, look, that woman over there is waiting for us so she can put Dora in her new class." he faintly said whilst pointing to the woman who looked like she ate 5 hippos for breakfast.
xxxxxx
"Hello class, today I would like to introduce you to a new student, who will be joining us. I want you to make her welcome here, now, please give a warm welcome to Nymphadora Tonks." At these last 2 wards, everyone was staring at her with uncertainty, and after what seemed like hours of awkward silence, the whole class burst out laughing.
"Hahaha! Nymphadora! What a stupid name!" She could hear one of the boys shout.
"Oh no, don't get angry now, not now infront of everyone, what would they think if your hair just turned bright red?, now remember, 1-2-3-4-5.." she thought to herself, and by the time she reached 10, the whole class fell silent with help from Miss tulip to quieten them down.
"Tonks."
"What dear?" Miss tulip asked Nymphadora
"Tonks, just call me Tonks." She said proudly, trying to forget what just happened.
"Okay, there's a seat for you at the back over there."
xxxxxx
Later that night, Tonks had shut herself in her room, and after 2 hours of her dad asking her to come out and explain what is up to him, he gave up and decided to leave her to sulk at whatever was up.
Tonks was thinking about the horrible day she had, about how the children laughed at her name, how that horrible boy drake decided to get chewing gum stuck in her hair. How at lunch she couldn't face seeing anyone so he sat on her own, by a tree she found. How when they had to go in pairs, she had no one to go with and was left to work on her own whilst watching the others have fun with their friends. How all day, not even one person spoke to her. How she could hear the others talking about how weird she was. But even so, all day after feeling lonely, angry, sad, stupid, invisible, she controlled her emotions and her metamorphing. Tomorrow, she would go to school with her head held high and make her parents proud, tomorrow would be different, and she would make friends.
But no matter how hard she tried, no one would speak to her, no one wanted to be her friend, and she had to sit alone by that tree. And the next day was the same, and the next day, and the next, and the next. After being a month at school, she still found no friends.
However, she couldn't bring herself to tell her parents about this, instead she made up story's of friends she met and things about them, and she would be going around tea at theirs one evening.
Bet instead, she simply walked, looking at the people surrounding her, looking at how happy they were, and soon she'd be that happy, then finally, when it was time, she walked home, to tell her family of her imaginary friends.
Tonks was now aged 8, and even though she had been 2 years at school, no friends were made. She had been at school, and felt lonelier than ever. People had now started forming groups, getting best friends, even talking about boyfriends, but she was still a no-body, she might as well of been invisible.
But she didn't want her parents to know this, they had done so much to keep her happy, her mum decided to not work so she could spend time with her only daughter, whilst her dad was working hard every day at a pub called the leaky cauldron, somewhere in Diagon alley.
She heard of the Place Diagon alley, but never really went there, except when she was too young to remember. Her dad used to tell her of all the amazing things you could find there, all the shops, the people, the magic! Ohh yes, the magic, Tonks knew that her mum and dad were wizard's and witches, and her mother had told her the difference between them and muggles, and how ever much she would like to, she could never tell her friends about it.
That was if she had any friends.
She knew that she could not do magic, that she would have to be taught how, but all this information would come too her soon. She had Seen what magic could do, her mum would make the pots wash them self's up, make the knitting knit jumpers with just a wave of her wand, make fire, and many more amazing things. However, she thought of how her mum never really did any big magic, anything really noticeable, or that she never had witch friends, and how daddy had always wanted her to do this stuff, but she was scared.
Scared of what? Who knows...
The 2nd of may was coming soon, Dora's birthday and her parents wondered what she would like to do.
"Hay dora, you know your birthday is coming soon, Well me and you mum would like to know what you wanted to do? Maybe have a party with friends? Obviously they can't come here with all the magic, but we could go out?"
"Daddy? You know how you always talk about Diagon alley? And all the amazing things you can see there, well I was wondering, as it is my birthday, could we go there? As a family?"
Ted had now slowly turned around to face his wife over his shoulders and gave a weak smile, he could see she was angry; she always tried to make sure Ted didn't tell her Dora about these things before she was ready.
"Could I talk to you a minute? In private please Ted?" He could see she was angry, and when this happen she really was angry. One of the unfortunate things she got from the black family.
"Of course" he said, quite scared and without thinking walked over into the kitchen.
After about 10 minutes of some screaming, some shouting, something that sounded like a cry, and some more screaming, They came back into the living room, where their daughter was happily reading a book on metamorphous, pretending she didn't hear any of the argument her parents just had.
"Okay, we will go." Her mother was now sitting beside her and said these words, oh how happy it made Tonks to hear these words from her own mother.
"But, as you can probably tell, your mother is not sure about this, so we have decided to go, as long as we can take poly juice potion"
"Popinjubiepot, what?" Tonks asked, quite confused at what her dad said, he looked quite scared, mum must of really got angry Tonks thought to herself.
"Poly juice potion." Her mum said slowly, with a sad tone to her voice.
"It's a potion for wizards, you make the potion, or in our case I'll get some from Tom at the leaky cauldron, it's quite hard to make and that would be allot easier..." Ted had started going off the point, but after a scary glare from his wife sitting on the floor, he got back to the point quickly enough. "You get a piece of the person you want to turn into, usually a strand of hair, add it to the potion, and you will look like them for an hour. Me and your mum will get the hair of some ordinary looking muggles when they don't notice, add this to the potion and take it, while you can just change your hair and eyes to a similar colour, we will then wear wizard like clothes and go along with you to Diagon alley for your birthday." He said all this rather quite fast so he could hopefully escape from his wife soon and let her calm down.
"But why can't I take it too?" Tonks said, even though she could change most of her appearance she thought it would be quite fun to try this potion.
"You don't need to darling" her mother said quickly before her dad could say anything to make her temper worse. "People in the Wizarding world don't know what you look like, however, I would properly be mortified if I bumped into one of my family, they are quite big, and it would look a little bit strange if Ted was in Diagon alley with a different wife to the one he married, so he will have to take it as well. But there is no need for you, I don't want it too mess you up, you never know with some potions, now we will not talk about this conversation anymore unless I bring it up, is this understood?"
"Yes mum"
"Yes miss"
And quickly Ted left so he could let his wife calm down, and he'd come back later to tell her how much he loved her.
xxxxxx
On the 2nd of march, Tonks had woken up, she decided to have bubblegum pink hair today, for the bit that she was inside anyway, as it was her favourite colour.
She had opened all of her presents really quickly, there wasn't that many as there were only presents from Mum, Dad, And Dad's mum and dad.
Mum's present was another book on metaporphing and all the different style's you could try. Her grandparents had given her a big box of chocolates, not really knowing what to give a witch child as they were both muggle, and then last came her dad's present.
She slowly opened her dad's present. She didn't really know what it was; it looked a bit like a pole. She slowly opened it to find... A Comet Two Sixty broom.
"Oh Dad!" She said why leaping up and giving her dad a big hug.
"Don't just thank me! Thank your mother too, she gave me the idea, thought of you being cooped up all the time inside, and said you might like a broom."
"Yes, well your dad was the one that got it and chose which one, now you have to promise me you will keep inside the garden and don't go higher than the trees." Her mother said with a smile on her face.
"I promise. Oh thank you!" She said now hugging her mum.
Now
Nymphadora couldn't take her gaze away from young Harry, who appeared to be frail and helpless in her eyes. His face was all pudgy and cute, and he appeared to be as small as her arm. She wondered if she had ever been that small herself when she was younger, all small and cute, how she imagined herself to be.
"Sleep, sleep, little Harry, mother says you grow up while you sleep," says Nym. Tonks talked quietly to the toddler, whose face cracked a slight smile as his eyes remained closed, allowing Tonks to view teeth in the toddler's mouth.
I'm curious if he'll be a wizard, and if so, will we be able to attend Hogwarts together as siblings? She was startled when she heard the sound of footsteps inside the room, followed by the sound of the door opening slowly and barely making a sound.
Sirius Black's grey eyes met hers as she raised her head.
She hastily apologized to him but was dismissed as "no big deal." After leaving the room, she walked downstairs just in time to observe her mother prepping things.
Perhaps there is something that can assist Lord Black.
"Mum, do you think Harry will stay with us?" Innocent puppy eyes glowed on her face as she questioned, her eyes sizing her mother, who rolled her eyes at the way she was acting in response.
"We need to speak with Lord Sirius first; if he wishes, he can come and live with Harry; we owe him a debt of gratitude for destroying the Dark Lord..." Her mother paused in the middle of a sentence, a flash of rage in her eyes disappearing as quickly as it had been.
However, the front door banged, and he sprang up from his chair, ready to instruct his daughter to perhaps read her books.
As she sat at the bottom of the stairs, Nymphadora noticed her mother give her father a sideways glance before pulling out his wand. She also noticed her mother, who stood at the bottom of the staircase, near to where she was sitting.
Her father moved to open the door, but when the door opened, her eyes widened as she saw someone she hadn't expected to see for at least three more years.
"It's great to see you again, Tod. I apologize for showing up so unexpectedly, but I have to see Harry."
The elderly wizard was followed by a witch, judging by her clothes, Nym wondered if she was a professor, but her father almost gasped when he saw the third person.
"It's great to see you again, Remus."
Dumbledore - 1899
It is an acceptable day for an open casket funeral: the sky is marbled with dull blue, but the film of clouds is too thin to suggest any real threat of rain.
The ground seems uneven beneath Albus Dumbledore's feet, though he knows it to be level and predictable, as much of the village is.
Kendra Dumbledore has been laid with care within the crimped satin of the casket. Her arms are folded over her waist, the angles of her elbows measured with precision and her skirt has been arranged and starched into a stiff fan below her hips.
Albus is standing beside the casket. Behind him, the open grave along with the headstone, already inscribed with the name and dates. Before him are several rows of empty chairs arranged in a semicircle. After two frenetic days of organizing the entire affair, dealing with the funerary services and replying to the countless owls bringing condolences, not daring to rest for fear that he would be choked by his brooding thoughts, Albus finds himself idle, an hour before the burial service commences. His fingers rest on the edge of the casket, hovering above the corner of Kendra Dumbledore's elbow, and though his posture is relaxed and his manner serene, his eyes are glassed over.
There has been more than one death; he is all too conscious of this.
There is his mother, lost at last after all her efforts to keep their family intact, to preserve that which had long been wrecked. The second death is something more selfish, something to be ashamed of. Always, he is aware of it. It lingers all around him. Death, this small village with its simple inhabitants and its insufferably quaint disposition and the vastness of the outside world compressed into the periphery of this place, just beyond reach. This is the end for him.
The sound of footsteps jolts him out of his reverie; the colour in his eyes sharpens and the frown on his face disappears.
Bathilda Bagshot, prominent magical historian and archivist, author and founder of many noted academic journals in the wizarding world, as well as neighbour and family friend to the Dumbledores, is walking toward him, gripping the handle of a glossy ebony cane to support her slightly beetled back.
"Bathilda," Albus inclines his head in greeting. He gestures toward the empty chairs. "Please, have a seat."
"I came early to see if you were managing well on your own, Albus."
Despite the uncomfortable warmth of early summer, Bathilda is wearing heavy black woollen robes buttoned up from her chin and falling in thick, lustreless folds to her toes. Sitting at a slant on the old woman's grey-flecked head is a large hat with a ribbon encircling the brim, piled high with black tulips and stuffed beady-eyed crows.
"I am perfectly fine," Albus responds politely, hands clasped behind his back. His level tone does not betray the faint smudge of irritation scudding through the limpid colour of his eyes. So preoccupied had he been in his thoughts that he failed to foresee his old neighbour's early arrival. Of course she would be early. She has been fussing about their house ever since Kendra's unexpected demise, something which has bothered Albus more rather than alleviated the situation. And now his precious moment of peace has been stolen.
"Have you seen Aberforth by any chance?" he asks.
Bathilda lowers herself onto a chair in the front row, the one directly facing the casket. "He was heading toward the fields, perhaps to tend to those goats which he's so fond of."
Of course. Aberforth Dumbledore, Kendra's second son and brother of Albus, has earned himself the reputation of being the local oddity in the village: scruffy, rough, sullen and with the tendency to spend entire days in the fields with a herd of goats, their mother despaired of him when she had still been alive, that a son like Aberforth continued to draw unwanted attention to the Dumbledore family.
Albus' forehead furrows ever so lightly, but within a moment, his expression is wiped clean of any trace of bother and the muscles around his eyes wilt into that pleasant smile, which he is so well-known for in the village. Quite the striking opposite of his brother, folk would say.
"I was hoping that he would be early today, though the occasion is far from exciting."
"Oh, don't be too hard on him, Albus. He'll be here soon. Your mother's passing would have affected him hard. You're both so young, far too young."
It is early summer, but already the heat burrows beneath his clothes, soaking into his skin like a damp itch. Bathilda turns her head, scanning something in the distance.
"Your sister –," she trails off, frowning.
"As of now, she is perfectly at rest," comes the terse reply. "I've brewed her a rather potent Soothing Solution. Mother's sudden passing has left her distraught and she really shouldn't be in such an excitable state, given her frail health."
It isn't so much a Soothing Solution as it is a powerful Sleeping Draught. Kendra had been quite an extraordinary Potioneer when she was alive, endlessly brewing and inventing new recipes for draughts and calming potions and other remedies for her daughter (though no concoction could completely cure here, that much was accepted).
Now, however, Albus has assumed these duties, though his potions have been a touch stronger. He dreads administering those potions to her, his sister, Ariana, knowing how much trouble she used to give their mother. But so far, Ariana has accepted all her many medicines obediently. She drinks every drop without fuss, the liquid sliding down her throat in languid gulps, her expression unchanging, curiously unreactive to the bitter taste of the potions.
"If I may ask you something, I was wondering if, during the time Aberforth and I were away at Hogwarts, – if something happened before the accident that might have contributed to its occurrence."
"I'm sorry, my dear," the old woman wheezed, "but I'm not certain I understand you correctly."
"When Aberforth and I were away at school for the past year, Mother's letters became increasingly infrequent. It really wasn't like her at all. She stopped replying my letters as the end of the term drew near. It was a rather strange turn in her behaviour. I was wondering if this had anything to do with – with her accident."
"Do you mean to imply," Bathilda enunciates each syllable slowly, a sparse eyebrow inching up her forehead, "that the accident was not an accident at all?"
"On the contrary, I am completely convinced that it was an accident, nothing more. I'm merely curious to find out if, if at all, that there was a possibility that such an incident could have been easily averted," Albus answers, levelly.
Bathilda's expression softens. She fastens a quavering hand around Albus' arm, just above his elbow, in what he supposes must be a consoling gesture. "You mustn't think this way, Albus. It has happened, and it is nobody's fault. Such events cannot be foreseen."
"I can assure you that I do not blame myself, or Aberforth, or Ariana or anyone else." Embarrassment makes his reply curt. He glances around. No sign of Aberforth or anyone else. "I know my mother well. She took great care of Ariana; she always has been an extremely careful person."
The rumour that Albus has been circulating since Kendra's death is that the entire fault lay with the foundations of a weak wall in the house. An ordinary misaimed spell was all it took for the brickwork to disintegrate and the wall to collapse over the unfortunate woman. The lie becomes easier and more convincing with each telling, and it is a story that requires a great deal of recounting, to friends and acquaintances and to inquiring officials from the Ministry. Of course, there is no need to mention Ariana at all.
Sympathy begins to build in Bathilda's eyes, and her mouth twists in painful uncertainty; he sees her neck curve and head dip gently. He sees her looking at him and seeing a grieving child, a lost boy, too young to survive the world on his own. The old irritation rises in him. He can do without hers or any other person's pity.
"What I mean is," Albus attempts to clarify, "did anything happen to my mother in the months before the accident, something that perhaps affected her ability to take care of – of Ariana, or perhaps she has been ill and her health might have been negatively affected – "
"I'm afraid I didn't notice anything. Your mother has always been reserved; even though we were cordial to each other, she rarely confided in me."
Albus nods and looks away. "She has always disliked speaking of herself. Such was her nature."
He pretends to busy himself, straightening out the chairs, though he has spent the whole morning aligning and realigning them, pacing in between the rows, grinding on his lip until it swells in his mouth, and he can feel the tender skin on the verge of rupturing.
"There was something," Bathilda begins again and Albus stops. "There was a time, I suppose, I can't remember but your mother –," her voice tapers off.
"Bathilda?"
But the old woman's eyes become clouded, as though a dusty veil has dropped down over the clean grey of her irises. Her jaw remains open, half the sentence still stuck between her teeth, but the words are forgotten.
"You were saying?" he tries again.
She seems to jolt out of her trance, but there is a vagueness in her features that Albus has never seen before. She shakes her head.
"Oh dear, it's so hot in these robes." Her ribbed, crinkly fingers scratch at her sleeves and dig at the tight collar squeezing around her throat. "I wasn't saying anything, dear boy."
The sudden change in her makes him uneasy, but he shrugs and moves away from her, glad that her interest in conversation has waned. The attendees will begin to arrive soon. There will be many, many more condolences that he will have to accept, many more mourners towards whom he will have to feign graciousness and tolerate paltry conversation with. He drifts back toward the open coffin.
How many times he has stared down at his dead mother since his return he has lost count. There had always been something very sculpted in the way Kendra carried herself through life: her rigid posture, the taut thin rod of her neck rising above her narrow shoulders to the stilted planes of her face. Now – no, she still looks like that, Albus admits to himself, how stiff she looks, laid in the casket, almost as though she is aware and feeling awfully self-conscious about where she is. Fanciful thinking, of course. Kendra is dead. Kendra's eyelashes are like curved spikes, so dark that he wonders if someone had inked them, made them thicker. Her lips are the same colour as the surrounding flesh, and they have sunken into the rest of her face, giving her the appearance of being mouthless, a pleat of skin where the lips should be. And yet for the harshness of her appearance, his mother had been the most patient person he'd ever known, sitting for hours with Ariana, feeding her, cajoling her, and the rest of her hours were spent brewing remedies for her daughter.
Now she is gone, but Ariana remains, and so does he.
From behind comes the crackle of dried leaves and twigs being trod upon. Aberforth has arrived at last to attend their mother's funeral. In the distance, at the entrance of the cemetery, the first of the guests are beginning to totter toward the chairs, shaky from Apparition.
"What do you want me to do?" Aberforth mumbles. He is shorter than Albus, but broader, and his shoulders are pulled in close to his neck, white sleeves rolled all the way to his elbows and tacked with Ariana's clips; the two must have been together, no doubt. A vest has been carelessly thrown over his shoulder and blades of brown grass fleck his hair.
Albus regards his brother coolly. "I've seen to everything. All you need to do is sit down and stay for the duration of the service."
Aberforth scowls but says nothing, nods at Bathilda before proceeding to sit down heavily on a chair a good distance away from the old woman. She sighs. "I hope your brother will be fine."
"He will be." Albus looks down at his mother once more.
This will be the last time. Afterward, he will not glance at her during the service, not when the lid is drawn over the casket, not ever again. When he finally pulls his gaze away from his mother's still form, there is an odd silence in his chest. His mind is empty of death or grief or the future that no longer matters.
Albus Dumbledore straightens up, dusts his robes down and smiles his usual warm smile, allowing the gratitude to reach his eyes as he steps forward to greet the first of the guests, to thank them for coming to mourn with him the tragic and untimely loss of Kendra Dumbledore as well as the death of his very own life.
* * *
Ariana wakes in the middle of the night. There is nobody else in the room. This is odd; her small room, the topmost of the house, is always cluttered with people.
There is a scream sticking to the back of her throat, a gnarled sound, trying to tear itself loose and prise open her lips to waken her mother and her brothers, the whole accursed village, if need be. She peels off the blanket. It is much too hot; the back of her neck and the pits of her underarms are moist and the mildewy smell of sweat is strong in her nostrils. Just who was it who had laid an extra covering on her? It could have been anyone. She imagines Kendra, Albus and Aberforth slipping up to her, one by one, each with a blanket, trying to wrap her up like a parcel, suffocate her in a sheath of her own body heat.
Aberforth for all his strength and surliness is the gentlest. There is great care in the way he folds the blanket around her, and sometimes she can feel the prickly calluses on his palms when his hands brush against hers accidentally. It irritates Ariana, how tender he is in his roughness. Kendra on the other hand is brusque, tucking the edges of the blanket beneath Ariana's body, and always, before she walks out, she will lay a hand on Ariana's forehead. There is always a query in the pressure of her palm, as though her mother is trying to feel for some essence of Ariana that remains intact deep within the confines of her brain. And she will detect nothing because Ariana will not show her anything.
Lastly, Albus, who does everything for her because he feels it is his duty to do so. He will enter her room and stare at her for a minute or so; once, she had pretended to be asleep when he came in, hearing his footfalls come to an end at her bed. Even with her eyes shut, she felt the density of his stare bearing down on her, pinning her to the sheets, and she knew that he knew that she wasn't asleep. Albus will simply lay the blanket down and pull it right up to her chin. Nothing more, nothing less. And then he'll leave, and his departure will have subtracted some essential component from the balance of the room, so Ariana always feels hollowed out and breathless.
Ariana swings her legs off the edge of the high white mattress, one hand gripping the brass bedstead. The floor is warm beneath her soles. She pries a shutter of the window open. A draught of cool air brushes against her cheeks. So silent, so still is the village of Godric's Hollow at night with all its inhabitants shuttered in and locked away.
But the world is never still. Her thoughts are always filled with burning and every inch of her pulsates with the memory of pain and flames eating at her, slivers of the sun itself. But when she slides trembling fingers beneath her thin nightdress to feel her arms, her neck, her stomach, there are no wounds, so scars, no raw peeled flesh. Her fingertips are unfamiliar on her skin.
The memories of fire are nothing compared to the burn of magic in her living arteries. And yes, she has magic in her; it is useless to think otherwise. The magic is bitter, scalding; it tunnels deeper into her as though it is a live insidious thing, making its way to her heart. She can feel the strength of it and she is afraid. Her bones are kindling.
"Ariana?"
It is Albus, of course. She hadn't heard him coming in. Kendra and Aberforth she can hear from miles away, but Albus' movements are so soft and smooth that he fits into whatever place she finds him in. Now, he stands at the doorframe, cotton nightshirt swelling in the breeze from the open window, a wistful smile softening the lower half of his face. The upper half, untouched by that curious fluke of his lips, is severe.
"Trouble sleeping?" he says, quietly.
"Where's Mother?"
He fixes a strange, shrewd look at her. "Mother is gone, Ariana. You know this."
She doesn't answer right away. She can never speak properly with Albus scrutinizing her like this, drilling his awful blue eyes into her soul. Sometimes she thinks that he knows her with a terrible precision, every interstice of her thoughts; he sees her and is unimpressed, bored. Other times, he seems blind, staring through her as though she is a ghost.
"Mother is not here. What did I do?" She runs a hand through her hair, pulling through the knotty strands. Mother brushes her hair every night, long strokes of the comb starting from the top of her head and sweeping down to the ends of her hair grazing her shoulder blades. She misses the cold ivory bite of the comb.
Albus rests his hand on her cheek and tilts her face upward and she is forced to meet his gaze.
"I'll bring up your potion," he says. The moment breaks. There is nothing between them any longer. Albus seems unaffected. "It will help you sleep. Close the window."
She closes it. The room is still and strange. The air is unbalanced and the magic flickers uneasily in the marrow of her being. She has decided: she will not sleep tonight, potion or not.
1938
The summer of 1938 was one of anxiety and fear for the Muggles. No less so for the Wizarding World. The rise of Grindelwald coinciding with the success of the German dictator Adolf Hitler kept both worlds preoccupied. War, it was hoped generally, could perhaps still be avoided. Only a few men, Muggle and Wizards alike, knew that it was too late, decades too late for that.
Albus Dumbledore was one of these men. He had his own issues with Grindelwald and kept up with events in the Muggle world. However, first of all, he was an educator. Children kept coming to Hogwarts, the school where he held the Transfiguration position, and in the eyes of the very young he saw hope for the future, and possibilities to prevent wars yet to come.
Potential – yes, much of that. One of his most talented protégés was about to finish her second year with yet another perfect O in his subject. She combined hard work with a good dose of natural ability. Young Minerva would undoubtedly go far. In five years, he would actually fear for his own position if she kept up her current pace.
Today he was on his way to a future student of Hogwarts. Apparently Muggleborn, this boy had grown up in a Muggle orphanage – not a good place to be in these troubled times. The Wizarding World, thanks to the economic expertise of the goblins, escaped most of the depression that had hit almost ten years ago, but he visited the Muggle world often enough to see the poverty and misery many poor souls were reduced to. Orphanages, was Albus Dumbledore's experience, depending much on charity, were hit the hardest. Especially those in the big cities, such as London.
It wasn't as bad as he had feared when Headmaster Dippet asked him to go visit this child. The orphanage was at the very least, clean. Granted, there was nothing there that would generate any joy, and undoubtedly the matron – a Mrs Cole – had great trouble making ends meet.
He was after knocking, duly escorted to her by a girl barely older than his own pupils.
"Do you enjoy work here, my dear? The children not too much trouble?" he enquired on their way up.
"'Tis pleasant enough, sir," she replied, "better than many another position. A bit of a struggle with so many chicken pox patients at the moment."
"And the children?"
The girl lowered her eyes briefly. "Good enough children, but running wild too often for want of staff. There is not enough food to go around many a night. Children died as well as staff. I started work here not seven months ago – the girl before me was let go after four months, the girl before her worked her a year. That's a record. Mrs Cole is the only constant, but she does not have the daily care of them, though she has an amazing memory and can tell you about any child in an instant."
"Martha?" Mrs Cole appeared in the door opening.
"Yes, Mrs Cole. A Mr Dumbledore is here to see you."
"Show him in, please."
Mrs Cole clearly also suffered from the lack of provisions that plagues so many these days. She was thin, skinny even, and she had a constant air of worry about her. Her face was sharp, but Dumbledore did not suspect that she was ill-natured as much as she was tired of the struggle to keep the orphanage running.
"Mr Dumbledore. How may I help you?"
An expert Legilimens, he could practically hear the silent plea that this rich looking gentlemen before her was a donator instead of yet another person trying to foist off an unwanted child or even worse, demand payment for some sort of mischief the children had gotten up to.
"Mrs Cole. I am here to inquire about one of your charges, a Tom Marvolo Riddle."
"Oh dear," the woman flustered, "what has he done now?"
"Nothing, I assure you," Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, "Young Tom is the recipient of a trust that will pay for his education at a boarding school in Scotland come this September. I am here to speak to the lad and provide information. Seek it, as well, since we know little about the boy but his name."
"Oh. Oh dear. I'm afraid I am not much help there. His mother arrived here eleven years ago, on the verge of giving birth. She was weakened, and did not last long – merely long enough to name the child. Marvolo...such an odd name, don't you think? But she insisted. She passed away shortly after that, and we had to raise Tom by hand. He was a strange baby – very quiet and rarely cried. It unnerved many of the girls who took care of the infants, though he was not difficult, not then."
"And later on?" Dumbledore prodded.
"As he grew up, strange things happened around him. Other children would get hurt. Animals that lurk around the orphanage – we keep cats to control the rat and mice population, and we were very kindly given a goat by one of our patrons for milk – sometimes end up singed, or with broken bones."
"You ascribe these events to Tom?"
"The ones that get hurt are always those who got into fights with Tom," Mrs Cole sighed, "we know nothing for certain...and in many cases I don't see how it is possible for a child to cause...well."
She paused suddenly, aware that she was not painting Tom in a very favourable light and this gentleman was the one interested in taking the boy off her hands. Not that she was eager to throw out her charges, but every child was an extra mouth to feed.
"How is your orphanage getting by in these difficult times?" Dumbledore asked.
"We are not, really," the harassed-looking Matron admitted, "we cannot feed the children as adequately as we would like, not to mention provide them with new clothes and blankets. Some children have a few possessions from their former homes – toys mostly. I know it is a practice in many other places to take those items to pawn, but I couldn't bring myself..."
"Of course not," Dumbledore nodded. He fished through his pocket and took out a hundred pound note – he always carried Muggle money when venturing into that world. One could never know.
"Please accept this donation on behalf of your other charges. I will, if Tom agrees to come to our institute, take care of all his monetary affairs."
The woman gasped – a hundred pounds would go a long way in providing her charges with the necessities. It was a staggering amount of money for a single donation.
"If I could see Tom now..?" Dumbledore prompted.
"Yes, yes of course. I will take you to him – he is likely in his room."
The small room – from what Mrs Cole told him, 'problem' children were given their own rooms while the other children slept in dormitories for boys and girls, was furnished with a simple bed, a wardrobe and a hard wooden chair. This too, was impeccably clean and the children he had seen on his way overlooked reasonably well-cared for. They were a little more thin than one would like, but not terribly so. Their clothes, while threadbare, were clean and repaired with a skilled hand. Mrs Cole clearly was a good woman who did her best to fulfil her duty towards the children as well as she could.
A handsome boy of eleven looked up as they entered.
"You have a visitor, Tommy," Mrs Cole said, her eyes glittering, "do come in, Mr Dumbledore."
"A visitor?" the boy said, "no one visits me." He did not sound whiny or complaining – merely stating a fact.
"I am visiting you," Dumbledore pointed out, "may I sit?"
The boy swung his legs down to sit on the side of his bed and nodded.
"I'll leave you to it, then," Mrs Cole closed the door.
"Let me introduce myself. I am Albus Dumbledore, Professor of Transfiguration at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," Dumbledore began.
Decades of teaching children had taught him a thing or two, and Mrs Cole was correct – something WAS wrong with this boy. Very wrong indeed. His behaviour was cold and disinterested, but a strange light showed in his eyes at the mention of Hogwarts. No surprise as he often saw in Muggleborns, or disbelief.
"It is magic then, what I can do?" the boy again merely stated a face.
"What CAN you do?" Dumbledore carefully inquired.
"I can make bad things happen to people who hurt me," Tom said matter-of-factly, and without any sort of guilt, "I can talk to snakes. The others think I am crazy. I don't belong here. The other children are afraid of me," he added with something akin to satisfaction.
Dumbledore studied him carefully, considering his options. It was not the first time he had encountered a child like this. Indeed, he thought ruefully, he had BEEN a child like this.
Overpowering the boy by a display of magic would yield no results whatsoever. It would only serve to frighten Tom, and frightening the boy would give him a reason to search more power – more than he apparently already had. To control accidental magic at this age was astounding. There had been other children, over the years, from orphanages, broken homes, impoverished families. Some of them adapted well to life at Hogwarts, others remained distant, or volatile. Punishments, power struggles and the like never worked with these children. It might subdue them for a while, but in the end they would find more creative ways to gain the upper hand.
There was one thing they had in common. These children had stopped trusting adults at a very young age – indeed, had likely never trusted an adult at all. Children like Tom, who had had different caretakers almost weekly from the time he was a newborn.
"And you steal, too," Dumbledore nodded towards the wardrobe. Tom flushed.
"They stole from me first," he defended.
Ah. So there was something of a conscience left in the child.
Dumbledore smiled gently. "I understand. Survival of the fittest, hm?"
The boy seemed to dig through his memory. "Darwin," he finally pronounced.
"Clever boy. Now let me tell you why I am here." Dumbledore pulled a parchment from his robes and handed it over.
Tom read it intently. "I get to go to this school?"
"Indeed. And once you are trained up, you will be a fine wizard," Dumbledore assured him.
"I can't pay. Mrs Cole sure can't pay," Tom folded the parchment and handed it back.
"That has all been arranged," Dumbledore said, "If you wish to come, I will take you to Diagon Alley tomorrow to buy school supplies."
"There's no need. Mrs Cole doesn't mind us going out on our own. Just give me directions and I'll do it myself," Tom said.
Dumbledore frowned. "Even if I agreed with an eleven year old – however capable," he raised his hand to ward off the inevitable protest, "roaming London on his own, I would object to the idea of sending a Muggleborn like yourself, who does not know what to expect from the Wizarding World, into Diagon Alley without escort. I will pick you up at ten tomorrow morning."
Tom looked rebellious for a moment, about to protest. When he caught the Professor's stern look, however, he knew there was nothing to be done about it and nodded obediently.
"I will be ready, sir."
Now
In his office alone, he couldn't help but think about his own family and his first meeting with Tom. He wondered if he could have done anything differently to prevent what had happened to the Potters.
Grindelwald? Dumbledore spoke the name with a bitter taste in his mouth, because his sister was no longer alive, and it was too late to turn back the clock.
The door to his office swung open, revealing Minerva, who was walking towards him with a look that would make anyone tremble in fear.
Then she spoke in a stern tone, "Remus is waiting."
Dumbledore didn't say anything, but he did get up from his chair and prepare to speak with his student.
After arriving and explaining everything to Lupin, he noticed the man relaxing before asking the question.
"Where is Peter?"
Dumbledore was well aware that this question would arise at some point. Even though Lupin was a man who generally avoided conflict, being betrayed by someone you considered a friend or even a brother was a painful experience for him, it hurts more than anything else...
Before Minerva could say anything, Dumbledore said, "Peter, he betrayed the Potters, he revealed to Voldemort the location of their house." His gaze was fixed on his student, whose face had become as white as snow.
Peter's eyes twitched in response to the words he had just heard, a growl escaped his lips, almost like an animal, and he leapt from his chair, nearly breaking it as it crashed to the floor with a loud bang, his face flushed with rage and his wand in his hand.
"Where is He?" He demanded, his voice high and reverberating throughout the room as he demanded.
As a result, Minerva was taken aback; she was upset about the betrayal, but Lupin was a peaceful man, and to see him in this state...
With a commanding tone, Dumbledore addressed him "Lupin." Remus looked conflicted before putting his wand back.
Seeing his student sit back in the chair after picking it up off the ground.
In his rising to his feet, Dumbledore said, "We have no idea where he has gone; the only person who could know is Sirius."
"Do you want to come?" As he made his way to the front door, Dumbledore inquired.
Remus nodded his head in agreement.
Comments
Drinor
I’m happy you liked the story, but this story is abandoned. If you want, you can read ‘A Nundu for A Pet’ and ‘Harry Potter and The Force of Magic.’ I’m still updating them.
Ironcoil
I came across this story and found it fun and different. Delving into the far pasts is a fun change. Don’t know if this is a story that you’ll continue but I have certainly enjoyed it. Thanks!
