beware-of-pity - Tumblr blog

beware-of-pity · 19 days ago

Text

You believe me like a god (I destroy you like I am) - VIII

Masterlist / AO3 link / Chapter seven - Chapter nine

Jacaerys Velaryon x reader

TW: Self-hatred/Implied Self Harm. Complicated family relations. Show and Book mix/Book leaning. Spoilers for Fire and Blood. The reader is a Targtower, but nothing is too specified except eye colour

. There is a dream and it sleeps in me

. (keeps me awake in the night, crying 'set me free')

The laces of this bodice were certainly tightened too tightly.

The kirtle pushed against your ribcage and the soft mound of your breasts, protruding the flesh more than you were comfortable with. The skin split from the collar, even as parts of the linen shift you wore as an undergarment ruffled around the neck and on the cuffs of your sleeves. The fabrics of the skirts were stiffened by hoops of progressively increasing circumference, worn as an undergarment to add volume. Rhaenyra had popularised the farthingale as the court’s fashion trend, which you and every noblewoman in the Red Keep must also abide by. It would sooner be that she would turn it into a sumptuary law requiring every woman to abide by what the monarch is seen wearing. Women who were eager to gather Rhaenyra’s favour, like the lickspittles they were sent by their husbands to be, already kept to such practice.

The many layers were long and full. The waists of your gowns were turned so lithe, stiff and rigid from the cascading, full fabrics that you’d once been used to, that you had to hold your breath as they fitted you into them. New shoes in velvet and soft doeskin hugged your feet like lovers. Slippers of all colours made to walk around and keep you comfortable as you announced your presence wherever you went, with the back of your heels, were presented to you to choose your best pick of. Sleeves so big and wide that the false cuffs underneath were not just for their look, but also their practicality, helping to maintain their set shapes.

All with the help of Rhaenyra’s seamstress.

Rhaenyra herself arrived with the woman at her beck and call and watched as she and her maids dressed you in new clothes. The smallclothes were all silk, but the gowns themselves ranged from various exquisite fabrics embellished with precious jewels, ribbons and lace. From ivory samite to cloth of silver, purple, gold, red and blue, nothing was left to the imagination.

It was like a dream come true.

You felt more like a doll than a person, but a pretty one at that. Like those ‘pippins’ fashion dolls your mother used to receive as courtly gifts alongside her shipments of new fabrics from the courts of the great houses to show the latest trends and fashion throughout the kingdoms, and what women were more inclined to add and wear in their wardrobes. Particularly close were her correspondences with Lady Johanna Lannister and Elenda Baratheon. Such close connections had briefly brought about your stewardship as a ward to Lady Johanna in your youth and Jaehaera’s safe passage and conduct to Storm’s End during the war.

The fabrics and laces were carefully arranged and tied, your body becoming a living canvas for their artistry, no thought spared for comfort or expenses. The servants chattered amongst each other, their voices low and reverent, as they dressed you. It was as if, staring back at you from the reflection in the mirror, was a whole new person. In such finery, you thought yourself a far cry from the simple, threadbare clothes you had worn for so long.

“You are very beautiful, your grace.” One of the maids flattered you as you donned the mockup of a gown of lilac, the same shade as the colour of your eyes.

You looked in the mirror, the lilac silks clinging to your figure, the jewels sparkling at your neckline. The dress fit perfectly, the fabric hugging your form in just the right places, accentuating your curves and making you feel like the most radiant version of yourself.

You had to agree with the maid; you did look beautiful.

You turned to Rhaenyra, giving her a show of the work her maids had done on you. She observed you from head to toe, her eyes sharp and shrewd, evaluating every small detail.

“You look lovely,” she said, her voice soft but still commanding. “Lilac suits you. But say, I thought by now you would have asked of your favoured colour."

Green.

No, you would not ask for such colour. Could not even if you wanted. Rhaenyra's mind may be diluted by constant paranoia and fear of even her closest allies turning on her, but she had not lost her mind completely. She remained sane in ways that women who’ve had to face tremendous errors and tribulations in such a short time can. She did so by doubting everything and everyone. You knew why she'd asked such a question. Everyone seldom wore green in Rhaenyra's presence unless they were their house's colours; then, she'd make an exception.

The wounds of war are hard to mend, and even then, we have the scars to remind us of the trouble that got us them. The fighting might be over, but there are still those who feel scruples of conscience over who they'd chosen to side with during the ‘dance of the dragons’, as the singers took to calling the civil infighting between members of House Targaryen.

Green was the colour of the dress your mother wore the day the rivalling factions were created. Green was the colour of your mother's party in her internal infighting and quarrels with Rhaenyra's Blacks. Green was the colour you'd been made to wear since the day you could remember, a show of loyalty to your family. Green was the colour your mother grew to despise in her last days of life. Green was the colour lacking in the array of fabrics presented to you.

It was all so glaringly obvious.

Green is the colour of your past. Rhaenyra wanted to make sure that it remained that way. Her gaze bore heavily on you like a hawk calculating its prey, waiting for your answer, as did the servants, it appears, as they stopped mingling around the room, on awaited breath.

“I’ve grown fond of silver these days, your grace.” You smiled, a strain of your lips that managed, to your relief, reach your eyes, creasing the skin under and around it, making it look as authentic as it could be “I'd like to wear a gown in the colour of the mane of my dragon.” “Silver, you say?” She raised a brow, amused. She stood and walked to the table where the fabrics were laid out. “Seems we have just the thing,” she said as her hands lifted a cut of shimmering fabric.

A maid took it in her hands, holding it to the skin of your collarbone for the Queen to see. The fabric gleamed in the light, cool to the touch, silver thread running through like a thousand little stars twinkling against the night sky.

“This one here is exquisite.” Rhaenyra mused. “It will be your finest gown yet, but perhaps that's enough for today. We’ve been at it for hours, and I, too, have grown tired. Age is not kind to the old.”

With a flick of her fingers, the maids worked to assist you out of the pins and needles, holding the many pieces of fabric together, leaving you in your shift, before you were helped in a gown of maroon and purple samite. The gold, elaborate girdle at your waist emphasised the dipping waistline of this new silhouette you were still unfamiliar with. The weight of the jewellery was a strange and foreign feeling, but one that you missed dearly. You shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, not used to your figure being clad in this new style of gown that had grown so fashionable in the Red Keep in the three years following the end of the war. It was a snug fit for a hand-me-down that belonged to Rhaenyra, modified from its original wide size just for you.

A gift. A gesture of goodwill on her part. A kind gesture…or a carefully planned one. You were wearing your sister's hand-me-down, for crying out loud. Of course, it wasn't a mere sisterly gesture. And from the way Rhaenyra's eyes twinkled in that mischievous way of hers, it seemed there was no need to hide the intention of the gesture. She was pleased, if not more than content, with the turn of events, and so were you.

Just you wait, you thought, soon there'll be nothing to smile about.

You smiled at her through the reflection of the mirror, twirling around to show her the result of the changes made to the gown. Rhaenyra clucked her tongue, a sound of approval and appreciation.

“Come” she held her hand out for you to take as you stepped down the dais. “There is another present I have for you.”

Her hand held yours in hers — a gentle touch. With a twist of fabrics, you were walking, arms linked together, through the bloody stone corridors of the Red Keep, her footsteps sure and steady, yours quiet and short. The walk to Maegor’s Holdfast was cursory and swift, although uncomfortable due to the way the bodice of your gown pressed against your sides.

It was just your luck that, by the numerous rows of rooms in the inner castle within the Red Keep, including the King and Queen’s apartments as well as their solars, you passed by Jacaerys’ as well, who, as if the gods were taunting you, walked out of his room just as you and Rhaenyra were to progress further, stopping you before you could continue into the destination of your journey.

Your breath grew stiller than the air around you as his eyes locked with yours.

He stopped in his tracks. His gaze roamed over you from head to toe with an unreadable expression on his face, if not with a hint of scandal at the neckline of your gown. The air in your lungs caught in your chest as your eyes did the same. His dark locks of silky hair framed his sharp, handsome features. How the red of his training garbs complemented the tone of his skin, and how authoritative he looked with his arms crossed behind him. The tension between you two rivalled that of the earliest days when he had just settled back into the Red Keep following the Fall of King’s Landing. Back then, you ignored each other. Neither could come to understand how to navigate the changed circumstances of your very different lives, and coming face-to-face with the boy, and he the girl, who was now yours and his enemy in turn.

When later asked about it by the now dismissed Delena Florent, the lady in waiting your mother had assigned to you when you’d returned to the Red Keep after your years as a ward were behind you, you could only master.

“The prince and I are closer than friends. We’re enemies linked together. I’m his aunt and he’s my nephew.” You’d turned to her with a dead look on your face “The same blood binds us.”

It was Helaena’s death that had brought him to you. It was a dark night when your cries had echoed through the keep after you’d found the window of Helaena’s room wide open. One look down the spikes of the dry moat below had sent you mad with grief. You’d barely recovered from the death of Maelor and Aemond before you’d suffered the loss of your beloved older sister.

He had come at the darkest hours of the night, when your wailing had grown the quietest, but so raw were your snivels and hiccups that you did not hear the sound of his steps against the carpeted floor where he found you lying, where he took you in his arms, holding you tight against him as you poured your heart out with a new fresh set of tears.

You’d buried your face into his chest, your hands had gripped the fabric of his doublet for dear life as you allowed your grief to come alive once more in a night, as his fingers threaded through the mess you’d made of your locks. You wished to bury yourself deep in him. To never leave the embrace that, even if for a while, had allowed you to forget about it all. The losses, the tragedies, the pains you were made to endure for a senseless war fought for a throne that cities were burned, dragons killed, and people slaughtered for. And he’d let you, holding you to him as if he were trying to shield you from the world, from the pain. From the unbearable pain that threatened to break you.

But life has a way of not going as we want it to.

The more the tragedies, the more that rift took a tool of what had once been a loving juvenile temptation blossomed between kin. It had taken so much effort, so much will, from both of you. You’d come so far, and it all had been thrown out the window by a mere misunderstanding. Perhaps you both were neither prepared to mend feelings that were broken and scarred by a pain that would linger in the wounds the skin of your bodies had never healed from.

Years ago, you'd been so close. Practically inseparable. Now it felt like there was a vast ocean between you, neither of you knowing how to cross it with no bridge to close the gap that had formed. It was a painful realisation, and you could see the same understanding mirrored in his eyes, the longing for what had once been, yet the unwillingness to take the first step to try to fix it. You longed for the time when Jacaerys would look at you the way he did all those years ago — like you were the most precious thing in the entire world. You missed how he used to hold you, how he used to listen to you talk about the most mundane things on your mind. But those days were long gone, and now all you could do was watch longingly the way he would turn his gaze away from you the moment you looked in his direction.

He’d grown hot-tempered, a trait you never thought of associating with his level-headedness. While you had grown reclusive, closed off from the outside world, from the years in captivity. A prisoner in your own home.

It was a cycle, an endless loop of hurt and pain, of misunderstandings and miscommunications. You'd try to fix one thing, only to break another. It was a constant battle, with both of you at the losing end. Like filling a broken vase whose cracks and wounds only leaked the more water you poured in it. But somehow, you still found yourself wanting more. Maybe it was your pride, maybe it was your stubbornness, but you just couldn't let go of the hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for the two of you.

You were determined. You had a goal, a will, a dream whose road, you hoped, led to him. Reynford was right, you did want him. You’d lost so much, could you afford to lose the one thing your heart still beat madly for?

You couldn't bear the thought of giving up on him, of losing him forever. Your heart ached at the thought of a life without him, a future without the chance to be with him. You knew it wasn't going to be easy. You knew there would be obstacles and challenges, but you were willing to face them head-on, whatever it took to have a chance at a life with him. Even if it meant having to fight for that chance.

Your great-grandmother, The Good Queen, is want to once have said of her husband, your great-grandfather, The Conciliator. “Send me to the ends of the earth and wed me to the King of Mossovy or the Lord of the Grey Waste, Silverwing will always bring me back to Jaehaerys.”

As her rider, you knew Silverwing would do the same for you were you to swear such thing on your love for Jacaerys. Just like your great-grandmother, you knew who and what your heart desired. You understood her words, the depth of her feelings, and the lengths she would go for the one she loved. And you knew, just like Silverwing, your dragon, that you would always return to Jacaerys, even if life led you far away. So long as your heart held love for him, it would direct your feet back to him, no matter where the journey took you.

Jacaerys' gaze lingered on the delicate curves of your dress, the fabric hugging your form like a second skin. The neckline of the bodice dipped a little more than was considered proper, revealing more than just a subtle swell of your breasts. As a man, well, as a boy coming into a man, he couldn’t deny the fluttering deep inside his gut at the subtle display. He cleared his throat, trying to compose himself, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the way the fabric traced the curve of your waist, the way the golden sash accentuated your hips.

He stared. Longer than he should have for his mother’s liking.

He couldn't deny the stirring feelings of a young man coming of age, but it was the right thing to try to push them down, knowing how inappropriate it was to be staring at you like this. You deserved more than to be lusted at like a whore in a brothel in flea bottom.

“Mother." “Off to training?”

It was known to all that Jacaerys, despite being one never for violence and often relying on the more diplomatic of options if it came to it, was aware of the fact that a good King had need of both a good head on his shoulders and a mastery with the sword in his hands. His stepfather, Prince Daemon, had been known back in his youth as one of the most dangerous men alive, the saying often going ‘Six men or sixty, he is still Daemon Targaryen’ and Jacaerys wished to follow in the example of the man that had been his father, if for a short while. He took no pleasure in battle, but Jacaerys would fight if it meant protecting those who could not protect themselves, and that no man could ever question his own courage or skills at arms. As the Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the throne, he had a myriad of servants, squires, blacksmiths and seven of the best swords in the kingdom to aid him in his quest for proficiency.

He took to the training ground often in the early hours of the morning. If he could not attend to it, then near midday, when the hottest hours would break him in a sweat, he would do so when he had no other time.

Despite the discomfort of the blazing sun, you would watch from the shade as he rained down his might on his opponent.

“Yes. I’ll be training with the squires this morning.” he said. His eyes flickered between his mother and you in the beat of a second “If I may ask.....why the attire?”

He glanced at your gown, then averted his gaze. There were more than enough men at the Red Keep who would ogle at you with less than honourable intentions.

“I gifted it to your aunt” she replied, her voice casual but with an undercurrent of meaning in her words. The use of the title that highlights the relationship between you and Jacaerys made both of you bristle under your skin. “New clothes for a new beginning. Don’t you think? Isn't she just fair? I'm sure many lords and landed knights will have eyes only for you, sister.” “I'm certain the lords and landed knights can keep their eyes where they belong,” he said dryly.

Rhaenyra's words had cut like a dagger to your ears, but a small, tight-lipped smirk adorned the edges of your lips at her comment, but not for the reason she might think, especially at Jacaerys's remark. She is right. The sight before him is one for the eye. Cady-eying, sweet and rots his insides. He had not seen you in weeks. Not properly, at least. Diverting and brisk glances off your figure do not do the sight before him justice. The change is, perhaps, deceiving, more so than he thought. He’d always been a grand believer that your beauty was more than enough to carry your conduct. But he could not deny that a well-sewn gown, adorned with jewels that bezzled in the light, did you but more justice.

The fairest maiden in the Seven Kingdoms, he would challenge anyone who did not agree with him on that.

You directed your eyes at him. As if sensing so, he turned, his eyes locking with your own, if for a moment. A flash of something passed through them, too quickly for you to be sure. He swallowed visibly, his throat bobbing up and down as he struggled to maintain composure before he returned with an inquiring look to his mother.

It was as if the moment had never even happened.

You smile nonetheless.

“New beginnings?” The subtle curiosity crossing his chocolate eyes, so dark they almost glimmered purple, his brows rising in question, did not escape either of you.

Whatever his mother was doing left a sour taste on his tongue.

“I did not think it worthy to discuss with the council, but I've given it a thought and came to the conclusion that your aunt would make a perfect fit among my retinue. She has bent the knee and asked for our forgiveness long enough, too long I've realised. Captivity is not what a Targaryen princess is meant for. I think it's time we let everyone see that no ill blood runs between our families, for, after all, she is my own blood and I've decided to gladly take her back into my heart.”

The words hung heavily in the air, and the silence stretched on. The tension could almost be cut with a knife.

Jacaerys stood stock still, his face stoic and unreadable. Your fingers pulled raw at each other as you awaited his reaction. Would he disapprove? You hoped not. You were not sure you could abide it coming from him.

“You did not think it worthy to discuss with the council?” he echoed her words back at her, his voice tinged with the sublteness of disbelief.

Jacaerys wasn't unfamiliar with his mother, who often made rash and headstrong decisions on her own, at times costing their factions greatly in their own small way. But he got the feeling this was not the case, that, unlike what she claimed, much thought was given to this decision as if it had been haunting her mind much longer than when it presented itself to her. He would express his doubts and place his concerns in the privacy of her quarters, knowing best not to challenge her so openly where people could hear and gossip about it later. He would never shame you to your face, it would be the most impolite thing to do, and he'd always been taught to be the most respectful of men. Besides, it was not you he objected to; it was whatever his mother was brewing you into. Though he wasn't so sure you were not taking part in concocting this recipe for chaos. Despite him often wanting to believe the best of you, he always knew you were of the same breed your mother belonged to, just as he was. It was the blood running in both of your veins, so alike and so soiled by the hatred that ran down throughout your infancies, the milk you both nursed upon by the wet nurse your father, his grandsire, hoped would strengthen the broken bonds between your families.

Milk brother and sister, just as he had been milk brother to Daeron. Perhaps, it had worked for you two, but the bitter rivalry between him and Daeron had possibly been rooted in their bodies by the seeds of their fathers long before their conceptions.

“Very well,” his tone held neutrality despite the inner struggle he fought back against.

The idea of having you at court, where he would see you every day, made his heart string around and squeeze the denial he couldn't suppress at the selfish pleasure it offered him. Your heart soared despite the lack of enthusiasm in his words, and indifference stuck on his face, which you could see he struggled to keep, along with catching a glimpse of a flicker in his eyes.

“Good.” Rhaenyra seemed more than overjoyed, on the other hand, surely just from the fact that Jacaerys had not dared oppose her so. “You see, my son, how easily problems can be resolved so as long as the efforts to do so are put forward properly, with the right words in the correct manners.”

Jacaerys's jaw tightened, the subtle mockery in her words not lost on him.

“Of course,”

It was an open secret that there was a strain in their relationship, a rift that neither of them ever dared to address head-on, always choosing to let it simmer beneath the surface. Rhaenyra did not need to rub it in his face like that.

Jacaerys would, and had, devoted his life to his mother, for that great was his love for her. That did not mean that they saw eye to eye on many things. Rhaenyra, for as loving of a parent as she was, had always had a knack for indecisiveness in the matters she knew little of but often came to think she knew best how to resolve them, knowing well that when the consequences came back to bite her, she’d let the small council bear the brunt. Jacaerys, on the other hand, was more of a practical man who preferred to be kept in the know at all times, hated having things kept from him, hands on and always willing to listen the more learned minds of those around him, understanding that with as little limited his life as a noble prince was he could never hope to fully comprehend the life those he was in office to serve lived. This, although he found a great displeasure in it, was one not worth having a verbal fight over.

Rhaenyra did not seem to mind his displeasure, too busy noticing the dance of lingering, short looks between you and him and the way you looked at one another when one thought the other was not looking at them. She’d caught him sneaking a glance at you more than once, but he would have none of that for the time being, as much as it pained him to act so, for he knew that if his mother thought the worse of ideas, she’d lash her rage at you.

“If that’s all, they’re waiting for me” Jacaerys said, hoping for dismissal. “Of course, my sweet. Be a good boy and try not to get yourself injured this time.” “I'll try not to. Not that I can make any promises,as you know.” he said with the glimmer of a smile. “Of course, the dangers of combat” mused Rhaenyra “I shall like not to lose a son over them, I hope.” “You should know better than to expect me not to engage in danger. Perhaps you will be more content if I choose to lock myself away.” “That would be most preferable.” “I’m sure It would” he echoed “If you’ll excuse me.”

Rhaenyra, in turn, pulled you to her, wishing for you two to move along from the encounter. You’d let her, not before, of course, letting the hand that lifted the panels of your skirts hand loose by your side to let it brush against the roughness of Jacaery’s own fingers. The contact, even if brief, sent sparks flying through the air, your eyes stealing a quick glance at his own, who looked on as if his own heart had stopped beating before leaving him behind, continuing on your way, a hundred words going unsaid. Jacaerys' own breath stilled, his eyes trailing from the softness of your face, darting down to where your fingers had brushed against his own rough, calloused hand from days, weeks, hours he’d spent sword in hand. His throat felt thick, the touch of your skin a sharp, electric jolt that shivered heat down his spine.

You felt his eyes bore to the back of the skin of your neck, left bare by the ringlets your hair was pulled into, adorned only by the golden chain of your seven-pointed necklace, heavy and penetrating even as you disappeared around the corner.

He stood there like the fool he felt, his mind lingering on the feel of your fingers brushing against his and the tingling lingering on his skin, coursing through him as if it had entered his own veins, becoming part of what he was, pumping through him to keep him alive. He flexed his hand to the best of its stretch, as much as it would allow, as if doing so could relieve him of that which sent his wind awol and his heart into a beating mess. The sight of you was sure to be engraved on his mind for the remainder of the day. How the gods had the audacity to put that much beauty on a girl, only they knew.

He could barely stand it.

Rhaenyra and you walked some more about the inner corridors, the words she spoke as she went on about how one of her lady maids had served her cold tea instead of piping hot that morning are not ones you truly hear, but nod along for the sake of letting her know she held your attention. That is, of course, until you both stop at the steps of one of the doors in the Holdfast.

“This will be your chambers” the guards stationed by them perked to life at Rhaenyra’s approach. No words are needed as she gestured for you to step inside.

The pair of double doors, as square in size as arched at the top, came down in the middle with engraved dragons breathing fire, bigger in some panels and smaller in others. The guards held them open for you both, and you indulged in the nod she’d given you, obliging the request, stepping forth into the space.

Despite the hour of day, the room is lit by candles scattered around the various pieces of furniture. A tea table and two benches, a fireplace with two chairs, a sumptuous bed with a bedside table on each side. There wasn’t much, the space scarce and spare in its decor, unlike much of the other rooms, but perhaps you thought it best for it to be so rather than have Rhaenyra fill it with her presence everywhere, a remainder of her in each piece. Opposite the bed, on the other side of the room, the doors that led to the balcony lay open, the sound of the city filling the space. The soft spring breeze wafted into the room, masking the slight hint of the smell of paint you would whiff a sniff of. The serving girls at your service occupied some of the space, scattered around the room, working about filling it with the rest of your belongings, as well as those of your deceased family, back in your small room in the vault. They bowed their heads at the sight of you, stopping in their tracks. You spied Nyssella, with the corner of your eye, near the bed, folding away dresses and garments, she too joining the others in the courtesy.

Rhaenyra dismissed them with a flick of her wrist, which you grew annoyed at. Yes, she was the one who had appointed them to you, and they most likely did her bidding and spied on you at her request, but they were your girls. They took care of you at your weakest and helped you at your strongest, not merely some staff that could be disregarded like nothing, which you were sure she thought of them as.

She walked further into the center of the room with a pleased look as her eyes scrutinised everything around her.

“I hope everything will be to your liking.” her voice was soft, kind in a manner of which you'd rarely hear of, but nonetheless was comforting. “I’ll accommodate soon enough.” You gulped, making the next inquiry “Jaehaera-“ “Is in good hands” she assured you, “I’ve put her under the care of Lady Beesbury, I’m sure you know of her. She will be moved to a room beside that of the other children.” “I see…”

But you didn’t.

Lady Beony Bessbury, the widowed wife of the deceased Lord Lyman Bessbury, once your father’s master of coin, the old man who had dared protest your mother’s plan to supplant Rhaenyra for Aegon and had gotten his head bashed in by Ser Criston for it. To know that his widow was the one appointed to the care of your niece made your fingers twitch with nerves, the urge for you to bring them upon your lips to bite at them strongly, which you resisted by fisting them around your skirt.

You took little comfort in the notion.

Rhaenyra, instead, took that to be the moment to clear something between you two.

“I’m not a mean woman, sister. I love children, and I know you do too. I know Beony. She’s a loyal woman who has continued forth the efforts of her long lost husband. She is a trusted woman who puts reason before feelings….and prejudices.”

If those words were meant to ease you, they did little of. You forced a smile in response, which she seemed pleased with, returning it in kind, a hand coming to caress your arm. “I’ll leave you now. Rest awhile while you can. I’ll send for you when things are ready for the investiture.”

You watched as Rhaenyra made to leave. She gave the room one last look over, her eyes falling into the corner where Helaena’s viewing screens for her insects were left by the maids. Something akin to hurt…or perhaps guilt crossed her as she made her haste for the doors, shutting them behind you, a breath escaping you, one you’d been holding without notice. Your hands played around with the fabrics of your new gown, fingers stroking the fabric as you paced across the room. For the first time since you’d entered, you took a better look around the room without Rhaenyra’s overbearing presence, your mind wandering about its emptiness.

You walked past the fireplace towards the bed, running your fingers on the bedding, letting the fabric ripple through them like fine water. The bed was finely made with silk bedsheets and a thick fur blanket at the base; the fabric smooth to the touch, the fur of the pelt soft under your hand. Rich, velvety and warm. Your knees hit the edge, hands bracing yourself as you sat upon it, your rear bouncing off the feather mattress. You'd let yourself fall, draping over the expanse.

You closed your eyes, breathing in the smell of pinecones and honey as the silk sheets ran down your figure. Slowly but surely, your mind went quiet, time slowed, as you immersed yourself in the sound of muffled voices outside walking the corridors, the chirping of birds, the people of King’s Landing, and the chiming of the bells of the Great Sept coming from outside, doing all the thinking. The silk was soft, the fabrics a familiar friend, and for the first time in a very long time, you felt something more than dread and fear.

Comfort.

You sank into the mattress, submerging yourself as one with it, small breaths leaving your lips, your chest rising and falling in a steady cadence. The soft breeze caressed your skin like a gentle touch, your hand finding a pillow to hug to your chest.

Slowly, as if still not believing much in the truth before you, you waned, and your sight grew darkened, only one word came to mind.

Home.

It was hours later that you were woken by gentle taps on your shoulder and soft, quiet calls of your name by your lady maids. With reluctance, as sleep clung to your bleary eyes, you allowed Nyssella to help you out of bed as you tried to gather yourself back from the depths of your slumber. You were stripped of your garments and helped into the bath, the water gone tepid. More water, hot and flaming from the kitchens, was brought and poured into the tub as you were scrubbed clean by the rough sea sponge and sea salts brought from Spicetown, or at least what remained of it following the Battle of the Gullet.

Oils and incense infused the room with their smell, soft rose and jasmine scents filling the air as you soaked in the water, the steam working to relax the muscles of your aching body. A cream, white, fragrant and moisturising from Lys was massaged into your dry, patted skin, its scent floral, as bloomed as their famous pleasure gardens, you were sure, leaving every bit of your skin glistening from the lotion.

And once more, twice in a day, which was more than you were used to, you were helped through the process of carefully being fitted each layer of the black, red and silver gown specifically made for this day, Rhaenyra having put utmost priority on this above all else.

The gown was much more extravagant than those you'd been making do with for the past three years.

Your handknitted silk stockings were tied into place by embroidered garters bearing the initials of your name and of your house. Above the chemise, they tied to your waist the farthingale, the cone-shaped petticoat that would drape out each layer coming after. Above it was draped a silvery, simple layer of damask silk, as light as the chemise it hid beneath. The silvery fabric was covered by a sleeveless, deep red kirtle, the silver sleeves of the garment beneath contrasting against the foundation of the gown, functioning as the structure that gave the silhouette its shape. The stiffened bodice and its full, gathered, pleated skirt were laced at your sides, the bejewelled band of pearls and rubies, decorated with silver thread bidding them together in its geomertric shapes, around the neckline peaking through the black velvet round gown draped on top, its square necklice enhancing your decolte, its opening at the front revealing the dark, bloody red garment beneath. The closure of the laced-up front was concealed by the stiffened placket of the same material pinned to the front. The long, hanging sleeves, fitted tightly in the upper arms, fan out into wide, pendulous cuffs, folded back up to the elbows and pinned in place to reveal the inner velvet of the same red colour as the petticoat and the white fur lining, the silver of your sleeves enhancing the look and matching with the leathery, silver heels your feet were snug against.

Rings were twisted at your fingers, a black, velvet string hung around your neck, a ruby broach dangled from it above the softness of your bosom. An elaborate pearl and ruby girdle was tied at your waist, and your hair was twisted in a crown of braids on your head.

You held your head high as a mirror was presented to you, your eyes scrutinising your figure from head to toe as the maids waited for whatever you might whip at them with for their work. The pleasing smile and kind nod of your head pleased them in turn.

Rhaenyra had sent her most senior of ladies and mistress of the Queen's household, Elinda Massey, to retrieve you and lead you to Rhaenyra's apartments, where the ceremony would be officiated. Your two most senior lady maids escorted you, a heel short of yours, each at your side. Awaiting you was a swarm of girls, some young, soft by the innocence of age, some old and aged by time, mere spectators in what would come, witnesses in the event you were the center of. They'd parted like the sea to let you past,falling in deep curtsies, each wearing gowns of a myriad of different colours and styles, representing the regions of the Kingdoms they hailed from.

At the center of the spectacle sat Rhaenyra, dressed in a exagerating black and red gown, rubies encrusting her bodice, the crown of the conciliator on her head, in the wooden throne she had commissioned to use when holding court in her solar, surrounded by the remaining of her six ladies in waiting, whom Elinda joined as she left your side, all dressed in the colours of their house.

Seven for the sevens, as Queen Alysanne had installed as customary. Lady companions littered around where she sat, all their eyes on you as you paid your due respects to your sister, you and your lady maids dipping in a low curtsy that had your gown pool all around you.

She scrutinised you, her eyes raking over your form, but she spoke not of the glint of approval that crossed her eye, merely motioning for Septon Elston, the new caretaker of the royal sept after Septon Eustace was dismissed from his services by Rhaenyra, to come forth, a book of the Seven Pointed Star in his hands. Two septas walked to his side to oversee the procedure, the book being passed to the one on his left, while the one on the right held a caliche of holy oils. They regarded each other with known sobriety while you fell on one knee before the man, your hands clasped together on the bent one.

“Do you, your grace, promise and swear to serve her grace, Queen Rhaenyra, first of her name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realms, faithfully, honourably and discreetly? to guard her secrets, obey her commands? That your conduct shall be modest, virtuous and good in the name of the father, the warrior, the smith, the mother, the maiden, the crone and the stranger till your services shall end by fate or design, by sickness and health, till the end of your days pass you and the heavenly gates welcome your soul?”

“I do so promise and swear.”

The oil he'd dipped his thumb in came to caress the skin of your forehead, tracing in precise manner the seven-pointed star upon it, before doing the same on the skin of your sternum.

You breathed your relief past your nostrils, finding solace in the feel of the oils gliding upon your skin before you caught a glimpse of them just as Elston's robes wind past him as he inturped in a hymn.

Standing off the side of the room, there they lingered, the group of women no one dared utter a word about.

The hostages, not that anyone would call them such. They were those whom Rhaenyra “requested” be brought to her by the ‘traitors’ to pay penance for their crimes to be forgiven. She’d taken them in her retinue, making them the lowest-ranking members of her entourage.

Cerelle and Tyshara Lannister, whom you'd served as companions to as a ward to their mother, and whose little brother you'd been briefly betrothed to, dressed in samite gold and red. You could only guess that those beside them were Cassandra and Ellyn Baratheon in their Baratheon black and yellow, and two Tyrell girls you were not familiar with, dressed in gold and pale green. They were a silent and motionless crowd, haunting the room the same way spirits did, as you caught the eye of Cerelle.

A hearty, quiet scoff left her lips as she watched a smirk tug at your lips, letting her own stretch into an amused one of her own, an entertained roll of her eyes had her whisper something to her sister.

You made small talk with Rhaenyra once the formality of the ceremony had dawned over, as she introduced to you each member of her close-knit circle of friends, all from houses who’d supported her faction during the war, each regarding you with the respect your station and as the second most senior member of the royal family in the room demanded. But you did not miss the dismissive glances and mutters of breath they shared with one another as you moved into the next.

The room quickly filled with the comfort of the soft chattering between highborn women and court members, no man in sight. Servants filled cups of wine, served honey cakes, sweet cakes, and nougats with almond and pistachio from Essos. Singers sat before Rhaenyra entertaining her with their music, filling the room with the gentle tune of strumming and plucking of instruments. Girls and women flurried about you, their hands stroking the fabrics, the fur, the velvets of your sleeves and skirts, their compliments on what a beautiful dress you wore that day.

Lickspittles, you were familiar with them.

“Dornish damasch. That’s a great choice, your grace.” A young Tully girl complimented as you showed her your silver sleeves. “My Lady of House Tully knows her fabrics as well as she does how to compliment others.” You smiled at her. “It’s unfortunate I do not know her name, if she may be so kind.” “Lucinda Tully, your grace.” She said “I’m a lady in waiting to Lady Coryanne.”“Of course. The King Consort’s daughter. Is your lady not here with us today?” “She’s out riding. She’s often want to take to the Kingswood. Hunting, hawking, racing.”

While it seemed normal enough for you, there were those who raised opposition on the matter.

“That doesn’t sound proper.” “She has the steadier hand in shooting her bow than any man I've ever met” Lucina protested, missing the hint of the mockery in the other lady’s voice “It’s the Dornish way, I’ve been told.” “The more proper pastimes are often learned here in King’s Landing” the Mallister girl beside her argued “that's the way here.” “The way of King’s Landing is that of dragons, where both men and women take to the sky on their mounts. And yet it seems more proper than Lady Coryanne’s wishes to ride her horse, how strange of a world we live in.” You smiled at them both as you chewed on a nougat. “Lady Coryanne is not a Targaryen, your grace” the Mallister girl went on “We cannot think of her the same way we do you-“ “But you should” you cut her off,but there was no bite in your words “Her father is married to our Targaryen Queen. Targaryen blood or not, title or not, she's the stepdaughter of our Queen, stepsister to Prince Jacaerys and his brothers. She's as much royalty as they come. By instilling division, we merely ask for more infighting. The Queen would not appreciate it.” “Yes, your grace” the girl gave you a remorseful look and a slow nod of her head, which you returned. “Please send my regards to your lady, she sounds a woman of character and honour. Perhaps I shall have to join her hunt one day.” “But, of course, your grace. I know my lady would take you gladly on your offer.” Lucinda smiled in her juvenile contentment. “My thanks.”

The merriment went on all afternoon into dusk. By the time you were making the journey back to your room, your feet ached as you were, more so, dragging your steps as the southern sky swirled with dim shifting colours from the windows you walked past, your lady maids following behind. But, it seemed, there was much more for you to entertain for the night before you could cast the day aside for a new one.

The first sign was the guards missing from the sides of your door. The second was the tray Nysella held in her arms as she came out of the said door.

She stopped at the sight of you, bowing her head as she fiddled with the metal in her hand. You stopped a breath short of her, eyeing her with utmost curiosity as she averted your gaze. “Who's inside?" you whispered to her. “Lord Reynford, my lady” she whispered back “I served supper for two.” You tensed, a frown coming up to furrow your brows. “Where are the guards?” “Change of shift, your grace” “Ser Rickard?” “Supping in the White Tower.” “Rightfully so” you answered more to yourself than to her, a sigh leaving your lips as you contemplated what you might just walk into. You regarded the other girls with a polite smile on your face “You're dismissed for now. I'll send for you later. Go eat.” “Thank you, your grace” they curtseyed in union before leaving the scene.

You waited until they’d both crossed the corner of the hall, the sight of them gone, before asking that which you dreaded.

“Did anyone see him come in?” “Not…that I’m aware, your grace.” Your hands wrung at your skirts, a small breath leaving your nostrils as you straightened yourself. “Don't let anyone in. Turn them away, tell them I'm indisposed.” “Of course, your grace.” “You’re dismissed now” you said “You too, go eat something.”

A silent nod of acknowledgement before she made herself scarce, the same way the other two had done. For a short moment there, you stood by the door in silence, the fire in the torches by the wall flickering in the air, as you took one, two, three breaths to steady yourself before pushing the door open and walking inside. Reynford stood with his back to the door, to you, as he sipped on a cup of wine in front of the lit fireplace. A table, heavy and intricate, boosting four chairs on each side, that wasn't there before, had been placed at the doors of the balcony, littered with various piping dishes of food for you two to discuss the events of the day over. Candles joined the fire in lighting the room to the eye, dim enough to give privacy to the scene before them.

“I thought I should pay my due diligence with a gift. A table for your new room, I thought you needed as much. Of the finest white marble, imported from The Vale-” his rasping voice trailed off as he turned to you, his words lost on his tongue as he took the sight before him. A smile, proud but tinged with mockery, if not sly in meaning, “Look at you, I can see why you were a success.”

The doors closed behind you, crossing the threshold to take to the room in short strides, your hands clutching each other at your front, the same way your mother used to. You stopped short at the table, your back straight, chin held high, your hands placed on the back of the chair for support.

“Should I feel flattered?” “You know I'm not one to give out compliments so easily” he said, almost offended by the doubt that came from his words “Well played, I say.” “This is not a game” you scoffed “It's my life that's the stake in what you call a game.” “Our lives.” he corrected “You think they won't figure out who's been advising you when they come for your head? I know one or two people who suspect as such already.” “I thought the whole point of allies is that we're allies, who protect each other and help each other in times of need. You’re the wisest of the two of us. I thought you knew that if I go down, you go down with me” “We play an ugly game,” he held a finger up “which, I see now, you've found the determination to win. But you’re too eager, too willing. You think just because you've tasted victory, you know blood? What it is to win a battle? They will count for nothing compared to those you'll have to heed to win this war for the throne.” “I have the intention of finding out. There’s no turning back now, anyway. Is there?”

Your fingers escaped the chair as you reached to pour yourself a glass of wine, filling it nearly to the top, your fingers fiddling as they held the glass.

“It's victory or defeat, and defeat comes with death. I've been pardoned enough, Rhaenyra will not forgive another slight, real or imagined.” “You've played your hand very well,” he joined you at the table “followed as I've instructed you. As you've said, there's no turning back now; therefore, we must play the hand before us with utmost care.” You watched as he took a seat at the table, hands fiddling around with the food as if he were at home “Usually, it is my thing to tell you the happenings of the castle, but tonight it is you who brings me news.” he chewed on a piece of pie before washing it down with the wine “Tell me of the ceremony. Were you truly as successful as I've been told in this charming contest of who dons herself more like a peacock?” “It seems to me that there is not much I can tell that you already don’t know. But if you must, it went as well as it could go. The rite was performed. I was officiated. I spoke and made polite talk with some of the other girls, but wasn't too forward with my socialising.” You sighed, nursing a sip from your own cup “I could feel Rhaenyra's eyes on me the whole time....waiting for a slip up or for me to say something I shouldn't have” “She's a shrewd woman to be so wary” Reynford said “though you don't blame her, do you? As you've made me known of your sympathies for her.”

“They're not sympathies" you were quick to argue “I know you know little of a woman's nature, but hate also comes with understanding. It is a foil that despite the hurt, the pain, the anger and everything that comes with it, when we, women, hate each other, we don't simply, merely, do so. We also know why, and why the other does too. There's so little in the world for us and yet it is that very little that unites us and, in a way, the experience of living through that binds us to understand why each of us does what we do.”

Reynford chewed on his food as he shook his head.

“You women are a complicated lot” he said “You have every reason in the world to despise your sister, and yet you don't. What an odd thing, no? You think she'll deem you worthy of the same?” You’d let that thought simmer like boiling water in a pot. “No, I don't. I have nothing, I am no one," you murmured, the bitterness slipping past your lips “She owns me now, whether she or I like it or not.” “You're not no one” he scoffed, stabbing the piece of meat on his plate “Were you no one in that room when everyone beside the Queen bowed at your feet?” “A princess by title does not make a princess by right.” You all but slammed the empty cup on the table, after gulping its remains dry “I must regain said right.”

He regarded you with a weary smile and a paternal softness as he set his cutlery down, wringing his hands dry with the cloth beside his plate.

“You're not a child any more. We know of life now. You should know as much as I do when I say, it's much better to be the one wearing the crown rather than be the one who does the bidding. You can't change the fact you've been given nothing, but you can work to do something with what you have.”

You took the seat opposite his, your hands resting upon the surface.

“What now?” you asked “This….What I did today is nothing compared to all the work we'll have to pull through to reach the end.” “We better not rush. Beggars can't be choosers. We must not push the limits laid before us. Tomorrow you start your services, surrounded by many other girls who dream, scheme, plan, plot as you do, whose fathers lecture them as I do you. Figure them out, seek out those you can trust and those you must be wary of, those whose loyalty has already been won elsewhere. Be cautious, speak little unless you know what to say, and stay your hands off matters you do not. And, always, remember the advantage which you have that others do not.” “And that is?” “You’re a Targaryen.A princess, daughter to a king, sister to another, and to a Queen. The rider of a mighty beast, which in time, we'll secure back.”

You pondered that thought. You'd already formed a legacy that no one before you had rivalled, if not for the exceptions, the girls, the women that came before you, who had had the misfortune of being given a life to battle for. Rhaena Targaryen, daughter of Aenys Targaryen, rider to Dreamfyre, granddaughter to the Conqueror, sister to an uncrowned claimant, wife to a usurper, sister to a king and queen, had led one hell of a life before the stranger claimed her to give her the peace she had not been given in her life. Despite all, till the end of her days, she fought her battles, her struggles, her plights.

Honour held her name, her name held history.

It was your turn now.

“A dragon has no equal” “Then be a dragon” he urged. “What of you?” You asked “What will you do now?” “I have something planned” he mused “I think it is time I, too, take the game into my hands.” You dared not ask what those words meant, just watching him gloat as he fantasised about whatever his thoughts had wandered to. “Will you tell me of it? Or must all be a mystery with you?” “If I tell you, that would ruin the fun of the surprise, and I do love a good show.” “I’m sure you do” you mused in turn.

He took the last of his wine down, his eyes set on you as he watched the way light hit your eyes and the way your lips pursed around your teeth.

“If I may advise you so, word has spread around that you were... preening around this morning with your tits out?” “I was doing no such thing” you scoffed, offended “It was merely… an ill-fitted gown laced too tightly.” “That wasn't what I've been told" he shrugged, seemingly not scandalised by the topic at hand “Apparently, you star-struck our dear prince with them, like the moons...on a full night.”

You averted your eyes, unable to stop the flush coming up your cheeks at the thought of you being able to do such a thing “People talk around too much" you murmured, “besides, even if I had, I thought you would be pleased by it, no?” “That would be the case, were people not taking you for a whore. That is a bad start to a journey we barely began if you soil your reputation in such a ridiculous way.”

Your blood ran cold at the implication. Despite so, you could feel it heating up at the insinuation that the show of a bit of skin could not differentiate you from a harlot, your hands gripping the armrests of your chair. You were a devoted follower of the seven, to think that….people thought…

“I am no such thing." you hissed between gritted teeth.

“I know that. You know that. They don’t, and you know how people like to believe what they wish to believe and what suits them best, if it brings about the end of those they wish it upon. You're the most pious maiden in the seven kingdoms, raised by a woman born in the holiest of cities in Westeros. I cannot think you preening like a mare wishing to be bred around by the first stallion she crosses paths with. You must set the example if you wish to stand out, just like your mother did. In Old Town, a new style of headwear has emerged. It's a hood with a veil attached to it, which hides the hair, the same as a Septa's whimple. I should procure a few and bring them to you to wear. When getting dressed, you'll ask your lady maids for high-collared chemises and modesty panels” He searched for your eyes “That sounds doable to you?” “I would…appreciate that”

Satisfied, he rose from his chair, walking round the table to stand before you. “A long day lies ahead of me” he said, taking in your form as you sat still, your eyes averted to the balcony “I shall take my leave now, and you go rest.” Your eyes lingered over the dark horizon, the evening taking over the night as the lights of the city began to dim and the sounds quietened.

“Of course” you murmured, not giving him the courtesy of looking at his face.

He stood there, as if contemplating whether or not he ought to say more. Instead, he only placed a hand on your shoulder, squeezing the flesh, letting the gesture do the talking before he made for the door, gone like the wind of the last spring as there you remained, alone in the quiet of your new room. In the silence of a place too cold and too big.

It wasn’t long after that, through the bell, that you called to your maids to help you undress out of the intricate gown you were wearing. Like taking a costume off, whatever confidence, pride, and will it held, so it went as soon as you remained in nothing but your shift, almost naked if not for the flimsy piece of fabric.

It was in moments like these that you remembered the nature of the girl you were beneath the facade. You were brave in the face of danger, not because you truly were, but because the fear of death overcame the fear of the moment. That did not mean that your courage lasted long thereafter. Vulnerable and alone, there you remained. No matter what you’d done that day, whatever success you’d gathered, victory won, it did little to appease the emptiness in your heart.

When the fire began blazing in the hearth once more, you thanked them curtly and ordered them out. The girls were quick to obey, as ever, but you could ignore the eyes that lingered by the table and the serving of two plates filled with the remains of the dinner you’d had minutes prior. Doubtlessly, one or two would scurry off to report to Rhaenyra, or whoever master they served behind the backs of those they thought they served.

You sat on your bed, the sheets already open to receive you, their silky texture a comfort to your cold skin. You pulled your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. One after the other, the events that had come to pass, everything that you’d endured in the years to pass, the days, the hours, came back and crashed you all at once. A lump came up your throat, which you tried to hold back from the wave of emotion waiting to crash upon you like the sea on its shore. A breath, so shaky it trembled the air around you, fell from your lips, your chin resting over your knees, eyes fixed on the fire as you tried to gather yourself.

Everything was alright, all was well. And yet it wasn’t.

Your grandfather, Otto Hightower, had always despised this thing of yours, that you were so quick to emotions. He always thought it a nuisance, a weakness, something that stood between him and whatever plan he had for you. The old cunt, always reminding you of your place and whichever was not.

“Your sister, Helaena, is destined to one day be Aegon's Queen, to accede the throne after your father is gone from his mortal remains as consort. Yours is to serve and support. I would urge you to accept your position in life and to dismiss forthwith any childish notions about rewriting as such. We all have a role to play. Helaena’s will be center stage, yours will be from the wings, watching on as you should, sacrificing, which you will, for the good of the family”

He'd said all that to you when you'd insisted too loudly about wanting to be the queen in your game of pretend. A single tear fell to your cheek, your teeth gritted still in an attempt to swallow the rest.

It's not fair you thought your eyes fixed to the fire I don't want to stay in the corners anymore. Another tear followed, and then another, and then another, until a whole line of them came as your eyes lost themselves in the flames. I want more

You sobbed.

After all that you'd done that day, after all that you'd sacrificed, for the first time, you allowed yourself to cry, to cry like a child who was wronged, whose world was taken from her hands when she least expected it.

I want to be seen. I want to be valued. I want to be known your cries rang raw as you muffled your face into your pillow. I just want to be free you wailed, your heart clenching, your head pounding from the tears spilling from your eyes, your nose running, and your cheeks burning. I just want to be loved another whimper shook your frame, your head shaking against your knees, your face drenched in tears, Like mother was. Your mother had been loved. She'd been respected and admired, her word held high and her heart treasured. And that was something you didn't have and you'd never have, not in Rhaenyra's eyes, nor the court's.

I want mother.

You could nearly hear her voice, soft and soothing, like it had always been, telling you everything would be alright, stroking your hair while she sang, humming in a language only you knew, a song only she could sing. The only place in the world where you felt safe.

Home.

But she was gone, dead and gone like the snows of the remote winters, forever in marble casket closed off to the rest of the world, buried beneath The HighTower, where she’d been born and where she would rest forever.

And so you cried.

You cried until you could not anymore, and then you slept from the pain of being unable to produce the tears you wished you could still shed, going where your mother wasn't dead, where you could find the comfort of her hands, of her voice, the love she'd taken with her to her face. Where you could escape this nightmare you'd have to wake in the morning for, knowing that as long as you slept, she'll be there forever, engraved in your dreams.

But if you thought yourself alone, you would have been totally wrong.

There was one person, in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms, who wished most to offer you, time and time again, the comfort of his arms, the feel of his skin against yours, the reassuring words, honey and sweet, he'd spoken with his tongue.

And he was standing right before your door, listening in, unable to do anything but stand there with his head resting against the door. The man whose heart had conquered yours, and you his, who found himself unable to come to face what he'd been partly at cause of.

He was a man of will, honour, so he only stood there, listening, his pride not allowing him to come tell you how he’d wronged you so.

But what is honor compared to a woman's love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms, or the memory of a brother's smile?

Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy. He could never imagine how you might be feeling in that moment, and yet he knew you were hurting. You would be the one to come to terms with your own pain, not him.

That was enough to bring a man to his knees.

AN: I did rush the ending, pls don't kill me. But after three months, I thought you all deserved at least something, even if scraps. A part of me is divided between liking it and the other thinking I could have written something better. I know it just seems out of place for the reader to suddenly get so sad by the end, but I do think that a lot of people will understand the feeling of being happy one moment, only to have the thought of something else completely ruin your day, especially if you've lost a parent, depressing you. And....she is depressed so...take it as that. Also, in case you need a visualisation of what the dresses I described look like, it's the Tudor fashion, the historically accurate one. I need my women draped in shimmering, jewelled gowns not....whatever the show gave us. Already working on the next chapter, hope I won't get stuck on another writer's block again this time.

Taglist: @esposadomd @aleemendoza2425-blog @nen-nyy @hadesnumber1daughter @salvatorecherry @h6avenlyvenly @ericasabe @numberoneprinceunknown @violentbluess @silveritydreams @rhaenyra7 @beanclaw @magnol1aaa3

The taglist is always open to those who wish to join it.

65 notes · View notes

beware-of-pity · 24 days ago

Text

Pythia Hiereia VIII

Harry James Potter x Reader

Masterlist I Ao3 link I Chapter seven - Chapter nine

Summary :

'I remember feeling your touch for the first time, so soft it turned my bones into flowers.'

. But you are the life (I needed all along)

. ARCANUM VIII : ACE OF CUPS

Your head was giving you the worst pain ever.

You didn’t know with what capacity you’d got out of bed that morning, but you had.

Not to say you did so willingly, for that you never did, but perhaps the hours you'd spent oversleeping had made it a more appeasing thing to do than usual. You'd skipped your morning potion classes, which you were sure to get a fretful inquiry from Professor Slughorn the moment he'd caught your frame walking anywhere near his presence.

You wondered if Harry would do the same.

It mattered not, for you had yet to see him. The few hours left before the morning was over, and the afternoon took over, you spent in the Astronomy tower, keeping to yourself as the October wind blew in your face, freezing the soft skin of your cheeks.

The wind scarcely eased your nerves, with the cold air chilling your body through the thin fabric of your uniform, no robe or scarf to protect you. Yet you didn't mind the cold; it cleared your mind, sharpened your thoughts, and focused your attentions solely on the present. And the present was all you needed at that moment. Your eyes set on the horizon as dark storm clouds began to gather in the sky above, the grey hue making your surroundings appear even darker as the golden light tried to filter through.

Rain was upon you.

You hoped for droplets to only begin their fall once the Quidditch tryouts for the Gryffindor team were done and over for the afternoon. You were never the most fond of flyers, the broomstick never being a friend of yours and one of your least favourite means of travel. You couldn't imagine going at the speed the players did with the harsh rain going against you.

“I'd say the tryouts might be cancelled.”

The voice breaking the quiet of the tower was one most familiar to you. Soft, warm skin, sharp, high cheekbones, wavy, black locks framing a long, elegant neck, the same colour as the raven on your robes.

Who else could it have been if not Leyton?

His scent of pines and blueberries had already reached you by the time he befell your sight, his eyes, as bright as the full moon, bore into yours. Your brother stood near the steps with that stoic look on his face.

“They've been delayed enough” you looked back at the moving clouds looming over mountains east and the lake west “One more delay and the students will revolt on Harry.” “I imagine. He's risking the entire team's wrath for keeping them on hold for so long. I wonder...just what might have held him off as such.” Your brother inquired with a looming voice. “Don’t" you begged “Don't start it with me, please.” “I'll leave it for now, then.” he promised. He leaned closer to you as he came to rest against the railing, his hand coming up to touch your chilled cheek.

“You're cold. What is it? Are you sick?” “Just tired” you said with a shake of your head. “You don't look tired. You look like death herself.” The soft pad of his thumb brushed the skin under your eye.

You closed them both, letting your exhaustion get the best of you, enjoying the feeling, if for a moment. It felt nice, more than nice, to have someone hold you like this, so gentle and tender, even though it was not the first time he'd done so. Your eyes lost themselves in the endless distance of the scenery, as if in search of something. The oceanic feeling you’d once read Freud describe as a feeling of "being one with the external world as a whole” washing over you.

“I had a dream.”

The look on his face softened ever so slightly, the tension in his jaw easing just a bit. He knew what that meant.

“Is that why you're here?” he asked “How bad?” You leaned into his hand, which beheld your cheek, taking comfort in the warmth it offered. “Awful” you whispered, your voice cracking softly.

You hated how vulnerable you were, how weak, and how much you needed his comfort then.

Weak echoed in your mind like a curse.

You hated disappointing Leyton. It was an unbearable feeling that you could not wash down, that remained stuck in your throat and choked the air out of you. It was almost worse than disappointing your father, which you did not often get the chance to do.

Leyton you thought to yourself, almost involuntarily. The thought of him, of his presence, was grounding and calming, almost enough to make you forget the throbbing pain in your head and the uneasiness in your chest.

Sweet Leyton, are you not tired of yearning to be something you're not? Don't worry. Leyton is only your father until one of you forgets he is not.

Despite so, the corners of your mouth rose into an appreciative smile.

“I'm glad you're here” you murmured. “Where else would I be?” he asked “I was looking for you all morning. I was so worried when I didn't see you at breakfast until Melissa told me that the other girls said you were still asleep.”

Melissa Fawley, your cousin, is a Ravenclaw and a year older than you.

You smiled at the thought of her.

Despite never admitting so, Leyton had always been rather fond of your blonde-haired, cherubic-cheeked cousin. Growing up together had only helped in threading, like a needle, her presence in both of your lives. You supposed she was good to him, always soothing away his anger and worries with that reassuring tone of hers, no? And he trusted her, took her words for it, allowed and welcomed her agreement into his care for you. Had the circumstances been different, so would have been this confrontation. Leyton was often want of letting his temper get to him, his emotions seemingly too big for his body to handle.

He felt much, and yet did not know how to feel.

Silence befell the scene, a comfortable foe, as it often was between you two. Silence was the mother to the lives you two were born into. It was the spirit that haunted the house you grew up in. The crone to the wisdom that did not need words between deeply bonded siblings such as you two.

Leyton liked his silence filled only by the sound of the ancient piano, in the green drawing room, which you played with nimble fingers.

His own, scrawny and long, yet agile and strong in their way, left a trail from your cheek to bury themselves in your hair, carding his fingers through your strands, as you soaked up his quiet, comforting presence.

“You're the most comely girl at school” he scolded quietly “Why do you destroy yourself?”

You deemed not answer that question.

You wouldn't know what to say either way. Was there any way you could explain to your brother, the second most important man in your life, why you were slowly chipping away parts of yourself for the good of the world?

You didn't think so.

You heeled forward, resting your head against his shoulder, soft with the fabric of his robe, as he allowed you to settle in his embrace. You could feel the hardness of his chest and the strength of his arms as he held you against him, and you let yourself sink further into him, your body relaxing as your mind quieted down.

“I'm so sorry” you whispered “I've dealt you....a great deal of pain, haven't I?”

Your voice was muffled against the heavy fabric, each inhaled deeper than the last, burying yourself into his scent.

“You have, my sweet. But I'll always forgive you. Always.”

The rise and fall which each coming breath lulled you back into silence.

Your hands came up to rest on his back, your fingers wandering through the expanse, feeling his heart beat beneath against your own, the rhythm slowly soothing your nerves, calming your racing heart and slowing your racing thoughts. You listened to the pounding of the blood in your ears, beneath the palms of your hands, the slow, steady beating of Leyton's heart, and the beating of your own as they became one with the other.

Your brother, your dearest brother. Your grandmere had once told your father that you and Leyton were 'one being half male and half female. She and he cannot be people. They have to be something more.'

You had emerged from this world for him, for him alone.

You were his sister; you shared more than just blood.

His blood whispered your name. Of the same blood, soiled and rotten, you were made, the same flesh and bone. You had come from the same mother, the same womb, and you had come into this world into the safety of one another's arms. He loved you despite all.

He carries your heart like his own.

Entering the great hall almost feels like entering a whole different world from the one you'd immersed yourself in with Leyton. The contrast is stark, the chatter buzzing from each table almost makes you wish you'd not followed Leyton along, even as your intertwined arms don't allow for much escape. You feel the eyes of a few curious beggars for gossip, casting glances at you, as if more people than you'd expected had taken notice of your morning absence.

Surely it had nothing to do with your growing closeness with 'the chosen one', no?

You’d never been so seen by people before.

Leyton, however, seemed to care not for the attention. With his chin held high, the air around him carried its usual arrogance and Slytherin pride as he led you easily through the tables. You kept your head down, knowing not to look up and meet any of the eyes gazing at you. You could do without the whispers and the curious glances, and the pitying looks.

Sat at the Ravenclaw table, amongst the other girls your year, and a few of hers, was Melissa, who seemed to soften in relief at the sight of you. She gave you a small smile, that warm, comforting smile of hers that you were always fond of, and patted the spot beside her, inviting you to settle down next to her. You flashed her a small, thankful smile, squeezing Leyton's hand before disentangling your fingers from his. He gave you a nod, sending you off before he turned to Melissa.

“Have her eat something and make sure she gets to her next class” he said “I trust again to you, Mel. If something happens, send for me.” She shook her head, her blonde hair spilling around her shoulders. “You worry too much.” she said, waving a hand dismissively, but there was a small smile on her lips. “I'll make sure she's alright. Go now.”

He gave the two of you one last lingering look, resting a little too long on Melissa's angelic face, and then he was gone, off through the crowd, leaving you you two. You watched his Slytherin robes billowing behind him until you lost sight of him.

“He so likes your fancy hair” you murmured, sitting beside her.

Melissa was a rather pretty thing, almost too pretty and sweet for her own good, like a porcelain doll come to life. Long, blonde locks framed her cherubic face, framing her fair skin and rosy cheeks. “Just my hair?” she teased. “Might have to ask him that”

She laughed. She had a habit of doing that, laugh sweetly at just about anything. “Perhaps I should” she said as her cheeks dusted pink. You shook your head then. “No. You definitely should not.”you said, with a change of mind. “Why?” she asked, feigning an innocence she knew very well you doubted. “Maybe I want to keep you all to myself” you shrugged. She smiled at you, so fondly. “You'll always be my first baby”

And it was true. There were countless photos of when you two were young, as she held you and dressed you as if you were her own baby, that told so.

“Besides, I think someone else has grown as fond of you as I am.”

You quirked an eyebrow in question. You watched as she gave a nod to the rest of the room.

“He hasn’t stopped looking at you since you entered the room. I say he’s as whipped as a mule.”

You followed the direction she was directing your gaze to, falling into the Gryffindor table, where your eyes met with a pair of familiar green eyes.

Harry, who sat with the redhead weasel and the bushy-haired know-it-all, had his eyes going as wide as lightbulbs at being caught staring — not the most romantic of things one would suppose. You thought it endearing. He choked into his drink, some of the orange juice coming out of his nose, as Hermione beside him came to the rescue with a napkin....or two…perhaps four.

Your hand twitched at your side, as if you, too, despite the distance of tables away, could help him, as your own eyes widened in alarm at his most unexpected reaction.

Melissa, beside you, chuckled to herself, hiding so with a hand coming to shield her widening lips. You grimaced, a concerned smile stretching into your face when your eyes met again, a flush coming up his neck as you mouthed to him your concern, asking him if he was alright. In reply, he held up a thumb, the embarrassment of being caught colouring his skin of all colours. Despite so, he could not but reciprocate the smile.

“Seems fine to me” Melissa said “for someone almost dying on pumpkin juice.” You shook your head at Harry, your eyes lingering on him. “He has a thing for surviving death. I'm sure choking on pumpkin juice is nothing for him.” “He always had a knack for that” “He keeps it interesting, if nothing else. Let’s just hope he'll have no more encounters with death for his sake.” you murmured. Melissa gave a nod, reaching out an arm to rub your arm. “Let’s hope not.”

You tore your gaze away from the Gryffindor’s table and turned your attention to the food in front of you. Before you had Leyton into your heel again, you had to get yourself fed.

The lunch menu was often the same, not much variety given into the thought that went into the main course and side dishes. That was often reserved for dinner, where dinner was not dinner but a feast. Your plate, before empty and shining cutlery, was now slowly getting filled.

An egg, two sausages, and some buttered bread.

Melissa helped a slice if Kidney pie on it as well. Despite your grimace at the strong smell of the pie filling your senses and attacking your nostrils, you ate at it with small nibbles, like a mouse would on a piece of cheese, not feeling up to something so heavy on a prior empty stomach. You were more keen on digging the apple compote, sprinkling some cinnamon on the top before devouring it with generous scoops.

Your body still didn't seem to have forgiven you for skipping breakfast, and even though you found yourself hungry, you ate only sparsely, your stomach twisting and turning at even the thought of the food in front of you.

In spite of Melissa's efforts to feed you, your plate remained half-empty, the food half eaten, pushing the rest away from you with a murmured "I'm full" for her benefit. She didn't seem too convinced, but you caught sight of her sneaking some pieces of sausage onto her own plate as you took a sip from your cup, washing down everything.

Melissa often did things without being asked to, taking matters into her own hands. She'd eyed you through the meal, you had an inkling as to why. When she finished her meal, she got herself working your hair out its uncombed state, tugging gently the knots away before taking two frontal pieces and braiding each.

You let her have her way without much struggle, closing your eyes as the comforting motion lulled you into a state of relaxation. Her hands were soft and gentle against your hair, and not once did she tug in agitation. You leaned towards her every now and then, like a cat demanding more pets. With such closeness you were able to smell the lemon, herbs, and red currant of her scent. The smell invaded your nostrils, the sweetness of the lemon being spiked by the sourness of the ribes, the herbs blending the two contrasts together. Once she’d tied both braids behind your head, Melissa placed a kiss on the crown of your head, leaving you putty, feeling like a well-combed doll, much like she did when you were a baby.

“There you go” her fingers lingering on your shoulder before sliding down your back “all pretty now” You blinked up at her like a kitten on the brink of sleep.

It would not be long until the quiet was broken.

The girl standing before you had honey-colored curls, not nearly as put together as Melissa's gold-blonde coat, neat and pulled back into a headband. She moved her mouth, ranting something to Melissa, but you heard none of it as you watched your little cousin Alyssa, Melissa's younger sister, a fourth-year Hufflepuff, be the ever-delightful young girl that she was.

“I just know you took them!” Alyssa raged, “Where is my stash of chocolate frogs?! I swear I won't overeat them again!” “And what makes you think I took them?” Melissa shot back, despite being clearly amused “Perhaps you just ate them all again and forgot about it” “She couldn’t have.” You butted in “Don’t you know she keeps tabs on them?” “Of course I do” Alyssa sniffed in offence “I’m not a glutton. I, too, have my limits.” “Of course, you do.” you echoed.

You reached out, taking her hands in yours, squeezing the tiny flesh.

“You and your chocolate frogs, little cousin. Are you sure you're not reaching for them in the dead of the night as you sleep?” “Muscle memory” Melissa scoffed under her breath. “I’m not a glutton!” Alyssa snapped, not pleased at the suggestion, “I do no such thing.” “You wouldn't know because you're asleep.” you retorted “now, would you?” “How would you know if I sleep or not? Maybe I don’t.” “It’s that rat of hers” murmured Melissa. “Brownie wouldn’t do that” the little girl frowned, once again taking offence to the suggestion. “He chews at your socks and once ate at my shoes. What makes you think he’ll stop at chocolate?” Melissa asked, now taking the piss of the joke. “He's a good little rodent. He only does that because he thinks I have food! He's not a thief.” “He’s a….robust thing" you pointed out "and I don't think he's getting fat on the food you feed him.”

She glowered at you.

“Brownie is not fat. He’s simply fluffy.” “More like big boned” teased Melissa. “You can admit it, you know? What brownie doesn't know won't hurt him” you coddled. “He's not here to hear us anyway.” “I'm not going to sit here and let the two of you slander his good name in his absence.” “I think he slanders himself well enough on his own” “He most certainly does not!” She protested, her little face flushing red with a pout on her lips “Your cat always chases him around!” “He tried to bite her tail once. I can't stop Selene in her venture for vengeance.” “Well, he's a rat! You can't blame him for being defensive.” “I blame him for being a fat overeater” “Whatever the case, no more chocolate frogs for you” Melissa said “Unless you recover your stash, somehow, which I doubt.”

Alyssa looked almost defeated, as if she was ready to collapse on the floor and die right then and there. Until, it seemed, an idea came to her.

“I take everything back. Please....buy me some. I can't ask mama, she'll send me a howler” she begged to you. You gave her a look, brows raised in indignation. “The Hogsmeade trip is in three weeks….save up for then.” “But that's ages from now" she whined, throwing her head back in a gesture akin to a tantrum. Her little hands flew forward, grabbing your sleeve, tugging lightly, “Please. Please, cousin.”

Taking in her pouting face, Alyssa looked up at you with her big eyes, blown wide, her bottom lip quivering. She looked so small and so pitiful,so distraught and so desperate. How was one supposed to say no to that?

“Alright, fine” you sighed “Just…let go of me.” “Promise?” She asked, excitement bubbling up in her. “Promise”

But instead of letting you go, she flung herself at your neck, her tiny arms coming around it in a tight hug. By the force of the impact, you both almost toppled from the bench, Alyssa practically lying over the table to reach you. And you would have fallen, had Melissa not come to hold you steady. Your hands wrapped around Alyssa’s waist, holding her up, always forgetting how much heavier she was than she looked, despite her being only a short, small thing. You buried your nose into the fine, curly locks of her hair, still so baby soft, custard and dry oranges stifling through. You squeezed her against you tighter, breathing her in.

“Alright, alright" you patted her back "no need for dramatics”

Alyssa giggled, making you scrunch up your face at the tickle of her warm breath against your skin. She squeezed you once more, before pulling away, a bright, wide smile on her face. She looked a sight, with her cheeks flushed and her hair dishevelled. She looked like an overgrown pixie, her rosy face framed by a messy halo of curls.

You both watched as she walked off, joining some of her Hufflepuff housemates.

“That one…" “is spoiled rotten" Melissa added, shaking her head. “She'll be a terror one day. Why she comes to me anyway? We…all have so many other cousins.” “You're far more likely to give in to her wants" she smiled at you. “I can’t imagine Alfred or Euphemia doing that. I tell her no, and she moves on to the next unfortunate soul. Plus, I think she likes you most of all us.” “For all the wrong reasons.”

Was there much to like in you, despite your benevolence, which came with indulgence?

You understand yourself because you're you, but what do the others see when they see you? How people perceive you is much different when they're not the ones with the brains and the thoughts that fill your mind, is it not? Just as our perception of others is limited by our knowledge of them, so is theirs of us. You don't even know what to make of yourself, how should others? You're all apart, each piece going off in its own direction, what would make them come back to form you again? You'd never been one to care for what other people thought of it, and yet you could not help but wonder if it was that much different from your own judgment of yourself. We all judge each other, but do we do so as much as we judge ourselves? Do we inflict the same pain we do on ourselves on others because we see parts that we dislike in ourselves in them? Do other people deserve to be hated for who they are, so similar to us, when they did not ask to share in common what we hate in ourselves?

Your eyes flickered to the high ceiling of the Great Hall, a sunny sky despite the imminent storm brewing outside. An illusion, nothing real about the sun shining down on you all. And yet, it's ever so fascinating, is it not?

Being able to fake the impossible.

We rip out so much of ourselves...we'd rather remain bone than flesh if we thought the flesh rotten. For us, rotten, for others still good enough to feast upon.

Your eyes landed on a patch of cloud, floating aimlessly, shapeless and formless.

“Therein lies the problem, I suppose” you murmured, your eyes moving along the clouds. “We try to cut ourselves into the shape we think we should be instead of accepting the one we're born as”

“What are you talking about?” You turned your gaze from the sky overhead to gaze at Melissa, a soft smile stretching the corners of your lips “Nothing, really.” You said, shrugging delicately “Just....a thought that came to me.”

Melissa stared at you with a concerned look, but you only returned to look at the ceiling.

The sky seemed too blue. It didn't feel right, somehow. Too bright, too lively. Your eyes traced the white fluffy clouds, your eyes scanning the vastness stretching out and going on for miles and miles. Then you saw it, flying among the clouds, languidly about, a....paper bird.

“A love dove?" Melissa chirped beside you “How romantic, wonder who's it for.”

Your eyes tracked the moving paper. It flew so elegantly. It's white, paper wings flapping as it fluttered in the air, even as it suddenly changed direction, slowing its trajectory, to come down to....you. You could only watch, dumbfounded, as the paper bird approached you. It circled around you a few times, flying just far from your face so you could see it, before it settled on your open palm, which you held for it to land upon.

"'Love dove' more like a carrier pigeon" you smiled slightly "Pretty bird, what do you bring me?"

You tapped its beak, watching as the paper began to unravel like a flower shedding its petals, leaving only its core, the message it was meant to bring, a piece of parchment folded upon itself hastily.

“A paper dove” Padma beamed, catching Lisa's attention beside her, who in turn caught Mandy's and Morag's, whom she'd been chatting with not far at the table from you and Melissa. You were suddenly the centre of attention, everybody looking curiously at the little paper bird sitting on your finger, a message clutched between its little feet. “Well, who sent it?” asked Sue Li. “A mystery, isn't it? Suppose I'll have to ready it” you asked, with a hint of cheekiness to your words. "Well, go on!" urged Lisa Turpin "Don't leave us hanging”

With all the girls at the table surrounding you in pure excitement, you slowly unfurled the message, meeting the words written on the scrap of parchment, in neat cursive.

“I would be more than happy to see you among the stands at today's tryouts. After all, a Captain must have his good luck charm with him,no? - H.P.”

You could not keep the smile from curving your lips as you read the note, and you looked up, scanning the Great Hall. Your eyes locked with a sharp gaze from a familiar pair of green eyes. Harry sent you a small, crooked smile and a shrug, as if embarrassed to have been caught. “Well?” asked Sue. “It’s from Harry.”

The girls surrounding you let out a chorus of gaping mouths

“Harry? Harry Potter?" asked Lisa. At once, they all turned to where Harry was seated, watching him like hawks as he ducked from their gazes. “He knows we can see him, right?” Asked Morag. “Not very subtle, is he?” Mandy smirked. “No” agreed Lisa “Not subtle at all.” “Not that a Potter ever was” added Sue.

The girls fell into a fit of giggles, making you feel like a spectacle for some reason. Harry's gaze fell once more on yours, a slightly panicked look on his face, like he wasn't sure what to do now that he had the attention of the girls. His eyes quickly found Ron in front of him, whose frame shook with suppressed laughter, while Hermione only shook her head, but had almost an expectant look as she looked towards the red head.

You felt your cheeks pinken under the heat of his stare, your eyes flickering away from his, your hands fidgeting nervously with the edges of the note. You could feel the girls’ gazes turn to you again, but you avoided them all.

You only looked at Harry.

"Since when are you and Harry Potter acquainted, cousin?" Melisa asked above a whisper in your ear. You gave her a sheepish smile, leaning over so only she could hear the words that left your mouth, “it’s…complicated.” “Well, how complicated can it be?” “You’ll never know the end.”

Harry tried — with little to no success — to get the attention of the throng of aspiring Quidditch players assembled on the pitch. He’d already felt nervous at confronting the first hurdle of his Captaincy. But with this many people under his care? He didn’t know if he could make it.

When had the team become so popular?

Half of Gryffindor House seemed to have turned up, from first years who were nervously clutching a selection of the dreadful old school brooms, to seventh years who towered over the rest, looking coolly intimidating. The latter included a large, wiry-haired boy Harry recognised immediately from the Hogwarts Express, who made Ron wither under his own skin.

McLaggen.

It was quite the sight, watching everyone and their mother come to the tryouts. But anyone could see that it wasn’t the team or the sport that had a sudden rise in popularity, but rather him. He’d never been the subject of so much interest, and he’d never been this fanciable. On that, you’d have to agree.

“All right! Queue up! Excuse me…” It seemed his popularity only extended as far as people were associated with him, not that they cared or respected him. “SHUT IT!!” Thank god he had someone like Ginny to help him out in times like these. This wasn’t the way he thought of beginning his captinancy, but it’ll have to do. He frowned at the instant silence but nodded to Ginny nevertheless. “This morning, I’ll be putting you all through a few drills to assess your strengths. But know this: Just because you made the team last year does not guarantee you a spot this year. Is that clear?”

That seemed to work all right. He’ll have to settle, he supposed.

It’ll be a rough couple of hours for sure.

But he wanted to make a good impression.

You were in the stands after all.

He looked up, his eyes searching through them as he looked for you. He knew you were there, and he wanted to see you there, to see you supporting him. He needed you there. He felt it in his bones, in his heart, in his very soul. There you sat, Luna beside you. Melissa could not come, seeing as she had Ancient Ruins with your brother, which she argued she could dearly not miss. Hermione sat not too far in her lonesome corner.

You smiled, waving at him.

And for a moment, he forgot about all the noise and the whispers around him. There was only you, sitting on that bench and smiling at him. He almost lost his footing again when he caught your gaze.

Your smile was so soft, so fond and sweet, it was almost hard to believe you were real. In a dark navy coat and matching scarf, which puffed your cheeks beyond their chubiness. He’d noticed the way your eyes lit up, how your cheeks pinked up and the way your lips tugged up on one corner. Your face was open, a rare occurrence that he would give anything to see as much as possible.

You looked so….beautiful.

Ginny’s voice brought him back to reality. He could do it. He could do anything at this moment. He could defeat the dark lord all over again.

“Right! In line, everyone!” His voice rang around the pitch.

Surprisingly, they listened. They were quiet, standing in line and waiting to be tested. A sense of determination washed over him.

He could do this.

And that’s how the spectacle began.

Ginny flew swiftly, handling the Quaffle with ease as two second years collided mid-air. After more spins and a few more passages, five students were out of selection. With every brilliant save Cormac made, Ron made a shaky one. It was not looking good for him. Hermione looked at the scene nervously.

Kate Bell snatched the Quaffle with one hand, splitting through two defenders beautifully, making a last-minute slick blind pass to Dean, who jetted in the air, letting the Quaffle roll off his fingers and right into Ginny’s hands as she raced below. Ron turned the wrong way but made the save anyway as the Quaffle caromed off the tail of his broom. Hermione looked on more nervously.

After two hours, many complaints, and several tantrums, one involving a crashed Comet Two Sixty and several broken teeth, Harry had found himself three Chasers: Katie Bell, returned to the team after an excellent trial; a new find called Demelza Robins, who was particularly good at dodging Bludgers; and Ginny Weasley, who had outflown all the competition and scored seventeen goals to boot.

Harry had also shouted himself hoarse at the many complainers and was now enduring a similar battle with the rejected Beaters.

The survivors pressed ice packs to their heads and ran tape around twisted fingers as they now sat among the stands. Only Ron, hovering at the west goal, and Cormac, hovering at the east, remain on the pitch.

Beside you, Luna, spectrespecs in place, eyed Cormac — cool, confident, clear — and then Ron — sweaty, nervous,swarming in wackspurts.

“His head is woozy” she mused “He’s all over the place.”

You hummed in agreement. It was clear that Ron was struggling. He looked almost ill, like he might just topple over his broom any moment now. There were bags under his eyes, and he barely caught any of Cormac’s shots. It was sad to look at, really.

"He'll make it" you said, casting an off glance behind you, just where Hermione was sitting — the girl too busy to notice your eye with her attention wholly concentrated on Ron, who barely got the next shot. "He just has to find it in him.”

And if not, someone just might.

You weren’t too off the hook. No one doubted Ron more than he doubted himself. He just had to find his way. But it was clear that even those around him had their doubts. His teammates at least. Even Ginny was looking concerned as she observed her brother’s struggles.

But then again. You’ve never been wrong.

Just as Ginny hooked one last deciding shoot at Ron, while Demelza rockets for Cormac, Hermione, face buried in her fingers, muttered something, just unhirable to the naked ear, but not yours…and inexplicably, Cormac, in the last moment rolled his broom to the right and the Quaffle sailed over his shoulder. Ron, zig-zagging crazily, nearly fell off, but righted himself in a panic, deflecting Ginny’s Quaffle... with his forehead. A few partisan cheers erupted from the stands.

Harry grinned but had to restrain himself. Hermione opened her eyes slowly, a smile of her own spreading on her lips, while Ginny flew to congratulate Ron.

“Isn’t he brilliant?” Lavender Brown is the only one who didn’t think there was reason to keep her composure. Hermione stared balefully at Lavender, then noticed Cormac eyeing his broom incredulously. She got up, slipping away, weaving through the strands, passing by you and Luna.

You smiled, knowing exactly why.

Such a loyal friend.

As everyone in the team assembled around Ron, clapping him on the back and congratulating him, Harry allowed himself a small smile. He’d put the whole thing together.

He’d done it.

“That was fun” chirped Luna. You turned to look at Luna. Her eyes had that dreamy expression again. You shook your head with a smile, amused at Luna’s nature. “Was it?” a male voice, once distant, flew up to where you two were sitting in the stands. “Can’t say I had much.”

Harry.

You turned around to look at him. He was drenched in sweat, his hair sticking against his forehead, his robes sticking to his skin, and his glasses were crooked on his nose.

He never looked more handsome.

You turned to him, a soft smile spreading on your lips.

He’d wanted to congratulate Ron on getting the position he’d so hardly trained for, but Hermione had beaten him to a pulp, rushing up to where Ron had landed the moment his foot had touched the ground of the field. He was greatly amused by the sight of Lavender walking off the pitch, arm in arm with Parvati, a rather grumpy expression on her face, while Ron looked extremely pleased with himself and even taller than usual as he grinned at the team and at Hermione, basking in the attention and praises he was receiving.

He needed none of Harry’s. He was already doing great.

So instead, he thought it’d be nice to put his mind at ease and give his heart what it wanted.

You.

You stood, walking down the stands to reach the railing where he had stopped in the air with his broom.

“Nicely done, Harry” you praised “I say you make for a nice captain.” He smiled, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. A light tint of pink dusted his cheeks, and he looked at you with his brilliant emerald eyes. “Thanks” he gulped “I'm still not sure about...all of this. I have a lot of expectations to live up to.”

Your gaze softened as you looked at him. He radiated nervousness from all pores. He was doubtful, that much was sure. The burden he carried weighed on him. You wished that you could just lift it off his shoulders.

“You shouldn't doubt yourself. Remember, you have to believe in yourself if you wish to succeed.” You reached over the rail and placed a hand on top of his shoulder. "Besides, I believe in you,” you murmured, your voice soft and full of confidence. “If it counts for anything.” “It does.” He echoed, gazing at you with those brilliant eyes. “It counts for everything.” The soft leather of his glove settled over your hand, the warmth of it soothing the coldness of your fingers. "I'll try" he relented with a little half smile. A soft sigh escaped his lips. It would take a little more for him to let his mind settle. He knew that much, but your presence did much to appease his worries.

"It's all someone can ask for”

He watched as, for a moment, you turned to say your goodbye to Luna, who was bidding her own as she left with another girl, where he caught sight of the red and gold ribbon that you'd exchange for the tie that had been previously holding the braided front pieces.

“New ribbon” he blurbed once your attention befell him once more “I like it…”

His eyes drew to your hair, to the ribbon that decorated your locks, that shone in the little light of the day. The contrast of the gold and red against your hair was captivating, mesmerising. It made you look beautiful, which you already were, but he thought you'd never looked more so than styled in the colours of his house.

“Thought I should look my best to support you in your first endeavour as Captain.” You smiled, “as you’ve asked. Though I don’t suppose it gave much luck, did it?”

Your words sent shivers down his spine and a shudder ran through his body. Your words shooting right at his heart. A blush bloomed on his cheeks. You were just so sweet, he thought, so kind. So lovely.

How could anyone so perfect exist?

“You look lovely” he argued.“I, for one, feel incredibly supported.” You rolled your eyes at his smugness but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corner of your lips, shaking your head. “I see that all that hyping up I've been doing is getting to your head. There might be other players who might need my praises more…” “I’m not sure I would let them have you. You see, I’ve grown rather fond of you, I don’t think I would be keen on sharing you.” He said, pushing down the embarrassment that threatened to come up his troath at the words that left him. “Have you, now?” you asked, teasing, feeling his hand grow hotter under the glove. “If that's the case, we cannot have the team go without its captain giving his best. Priorities, right?” “Oh yes. Priorities indeed. I cannot afford to be unfocused.” he murmured softly, never taking his eyes off you ”Especially when the season begins and the games start. I have to be on top of my game. The whole team relies on me, you know...It's a lot of pressure.” “What a disgrace that would be, indeed.” You chuckled with a bit of your lip.

He joined in, unwinding from the afternoon.

“A nightmare, really” he smiled “Do you play?”

You look out at the pitch, the wind blowing your loose hair into your face. The stands were still filled with students, some leaving as the tryouts were finally over. You took a moment to enjoy the silence. “I'm not too good at it. I’d rather be a spectator.” “I’m sure you can’t be that bad.” "Flying is my brother's thing; that's why he makes the team each year. I prefer swimming.”

A shudder ran down his spine. His mouth went dry as his mind conjured forbidden images of the skin of your body glistening off the water of a pond, a beautiful sight to behold. He forced the thought out of his head. He couldn't think like that. What was he, a second-rate street pervert? He grimaced at those guys at the side of the road, not join them.

Those damn hormones of his.

He cleared his throat as he tried to think of something else to say. Not his wandering thoughts that he needed to steer clear of.

"You swim?" “Some would say I’m an adept swimmer.”

He wasn't a very good swimmer; he'd never had much practice. Dudley had had lessons in his youth, but even then, he struggled. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, no doubt, hoped that Harry would drown one day, and hadn't bothered to give him any. And with the catastrophe, his last swim in the Black Lake had been during the Triwizard tournament; he wasn't sure he would take another dunk in those waters anytime soon.

“I guess you’d have to show me sometime” he caught himself saying.

He was such a shy boy. Adorable really. You just wish he could be a bit more self-assured, more in tune with his sexuality and his coming to manhood. He had no idea of the effect he had on people, perhaps even on you. He just didn't know that he was fair in his looks and a handsome lad — a word that you’ve heard a few of his classmates use to describe him, especially the girls.

“Only if you show me what that talk about you being a one-of-a-kind seeker is all about.”

Oh, that he could do.

He smiled. A wolfish, wild, broad grin.

“Why don’t I give you a private show?” he extended his hand for you to take “Get on.” “Get on? Whatever for?” Your brows raised in surprise. “I'll take you for a ride” he said simply. “Teach you the way around a broom.”

You looked at him, confusion crossing your face, he looked back at you with a smile you could never resist. His eyes were brilliant, almost too hypnotising, and for a moment, you were the one mesmerised, not him. How could you say no when they were looking at you like that? He had that certain something, that certain charm about him that made it hard to say no.

“Just trust me” he urged “I promise it'll be safe.”

Your hands were shaking, but your legs were already swinging over the solid wood of the broom. Your heart beat louder as he helped you on his broom, sitting behind him. But you were not the only nervous one.

Harry was sweating. His heart was hammering wildly in his chest, and he was all too aware of your body pressed flush against his. He took the broom by the handle of it. Your arms snaked around his waist, your hands clasped together. He could tell you were trying not to squeeze him so hard. He could feel your hands shaking against him, could feel your heart beating against where your torso was pressed up against his back.

"I'll let you know, my last attempt on a broom was mildly unpleasant” you warned, but no resistance or argument held your tone, as if you were not even trying to.

Your legs felt gelatinous, and your insides were churning as if the flight had already begun. By now, the field had cleared, the tryouts had ended after Ron won his position, and most of the people filling the stands had gone long before that, the mild wind that came from the mountains adorning the backdrop of the field. Therefore, there would be few to no people there to see you make a fool of yourself.

As if I would let something like that happen to you, he thought.

His hand squeezed one of yours to comfort you. It was a soft, but firm grip, an attempt at calming your nervousness. You took the leap, resting your head against his shoulder.

“You're alright?” “I don't...bide well with heights.” “I'll go slow.” he assured, though it didn't seem like it.

You’d let his breathing be your anchor, that soothing rhythm against your ear acting like a grounding force.

This might not be so bad.

The feeling was almost too much.

Your hands were warm, caressing his waist and your breath, soft but slightly laboured, tickled the skin of his neck. You were so close. He could even feel the slight rise and fall of your chest, brushing against his back, the warm puffs of your breath fanning against his nape. His pulse was going a hundred miles an hour, his face flushed, and his mind dizzy. He knew that if he could, he would've pulled you closer.

The wind whipped against your face, and the cold stung at your skin, your hair in the breeze, but it was a welcome distraction. You held fast as the broom took flight and soared. The wind felt cold against your skin, the air filling your lungs as you breathed in. You felt the world move, a beautiful, dizzying sensation as you flew upwards with him. You held onto his waist tightly, your hands holding him firm and tight. His body shook, which had made you fly into a panic before you realised it was from laughter.

You joined in with a weak chuckle of your own, the rumble of his laughter vibrating against your chest. Despite your blood pumping and the air leaving your body, you couldn't help the giddiness rushing through your veins. The feeling coming alive in you made you feel so young and so...alive. The rush of adrenaline was intoxicating, your brain filling with a dizzying rush of warmth. You'd let yourself drown in the feeling if it meant feeling so carefree, letting go of all your thoughts and fears behind at everything flooding every nerve in your body. The weightlessness, as if you could soar with the stars, as if you could soar with Harry — that anything could be accomplished as long as he was there. You flew around the castle three times, soaring through the skies, the clouds and the mountains before landing once again in the pitch of the Quidditch field, perhaps having found a new fondness for flying that you had before.

You were flushed, but your body never felt so alive, so light and airy. You couldn't help the smile, wide and broad, one that was surely going to be there until the next day. Harry was in no better state. His cheeks were as rosy as yours, his body shaking from laughter. He gave you a bright smile, the most beautiful you've seen on him yet. A watery sun was trying to break through the clouds now, and it had stopped drizzling at last. His stomach grumbled in great hunger, but for what Harry did not know.

You were still holding onto him, your bodies pressed into one another, the wind ruffling your hair softly against your face, the soft sounds of laughter coming from the two of you. Then he looked at you, truly looked at you, the bright smile still plastered on his face. The wind was in your hair, on your face. You were warm, and your heart was beating against your chest like a drum.

When your feet touched the ground, you stumbled to regain your touch on the soft, motley grass. You held onto the hand he reached to steady you with as you giggled like a drunken fool, him joining you into the moment of hilarious exasperation where nothing made sense but everything felt right. You collapsed next to him, laughing like never before, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he too laughed from the hilarity of the situation, as he reached over to pull you close, his arm wrapped around you as the other held steady to the broom he sat upon, his body pressed to yours in a comforting embrace. He tucked his head on the top of yours, his fingers lightly caressing strands of your hair, and a smile of content plastered on his face.

He was buzzing, full of energy and delight he had never felt before. His arm was wound around your waist, his fingers toying with your waist, and he couldn't get the smile off of his face if he tried. He felt free, in a way. As if he had forgotten what it was like to truly feel free.

Something he could only feel with you.

A shiver wracked your body, his touch on your hair and skin like a wildfire.

You rested your head on his chest, feeling the warmth of his body bleed through his clothes. You could still hear his heart beating against your ear, echoing through your body. You allowed yourself to close your eyes and focus on the sensation of him against you.

But it ended all too soon.

The sound of your name rang through the field from the wooden stands, where a group of girls were watching on, clearly in a hurry, as they waited for you both to take notice of them. Harry caught sight of them first, his vision being directly paralleled to where your name was called after. You followed second, your head lifting from his shoulder, turning to see who could be deemed so worthy of interrupting such moment, his hand lingering on the curve of your waist for a moment longer.

He heard you sigh and mutter something under your breath, your hand on his shoulder tightened the slightest.

“I have to go” you said with reluctance in your tone “Frog choir practice....thought I could evade it for longer, seems I was wrong after all.” He tried his best not to show the disappointment coursing through him, but he could see you felt bad enough already, so he only gave a small, lopsided grin spreading on his face

“That would be a first” the sound akin to a chuckle escaped him “You're never wrong.”

You quirked a brow.

“You've no faith in me” but you returned the smile “Happens to the best of us, you'll find. Perhaps I'm getting rusty, not that I'd let you know.” His heart raced, his hand lingering still on your waist, his fingers grazing the soft fabric of your coat. “Don't worry, I can keep a secret.” “Good" you murmured “or i'll haunt your dreams.” Your faces closed into each other, your noses only a few inches apart, so close you could feel his heavy breaths fanning against your face, his gaze flickering about your face.

“I have no doubt” he echoed in turn.

His heart was beating in his throat, the scent of caramel invading his senses. His eyes fell to your lips, slightly chapped from the cold and a pretty, full, pink. He swallowed down a hard knot that made it hard to breath, your eyes on his own, and without even noticing, without really meaning to, he'd made to lean closer, as if his own body was acting on its own accord, doing what the heart commanded and not what his rational mind told him, screamed at him, asked him what in the bloody hell he was doing.

But he'd never reached the end of the tunnel, or found the light that would spark in him had your lips met, because once more, in a more urgent, irritable noise, your name was called, pulling you two apart. His breath caught in his chest, his face burning with a blush he was too caught up in to feel embarrassed about. But the spell, whatever spell made him lean in further, was all gone, broken by the second call of your name, in a sound he grew not fond of in such short time.

He huffed out in a breath and leaned away, albeit reluctantly.

You fidgeted, your fingers weaving together in a nervous dance, your nerves beginning to boil over, but you dared not share your irritation at it all, other than a quick glance behind your shoulder and a wave of your hand telling them to shut it.

Instead of going, which you should have if you wished not for an earful from Flitwick as well as a round of detention, you inched closer while Harry contemplated still what he'd almost done, placing a quick, albeit fleeting, kiss upon his warm cheek.

“Bye, Harry” you breathed against the skin, giving him one last smile before walking away from the scene of the crime, a skip in your step.

He didn't react at first, still too overwhelmed by the sudden kiss to comprehend any of the events that had just gone on.

But once his mind had really wrapped around it, he couldn't help the foolish grin that started spreading on his face. He reached up and touched the spot where your lips had left their warmth on his cheek. He stood and watched you walk away from him like he was a love-struck teenager, which…he was, staring at the back of your head, the mass of hair on your head and that devilish bow that fit so well, as he held back an extremely goofy, dopey, stupid, smile.

Life was good.

Taglist : @dovellici @thehufflepuffwife @llunarpotter @xxxyukitoxx @stvrlavs @sissididjxjd @b4tm4nn

The taglist is always open to those who wish to join it.

28 notes · View notes

beware-of-pity · 28 days ago

Text

Bertha Froriep (German, 1833-1920): Sleeping Beauty (via Dorotheum)

448 notes · View notes

beware-of-pity · 28 days ago

Text

Poem of the Soul - Sunrays (Poème de l'âme 13: Rayons de soleil) by Louis Janmot (1854)

1K notes · View notes

beware-of-pity · 29 days ago

Text

Poem of the Soul - Sunrays (Poème de l'âme 13: Rayons de soleil) by Louis Janmot (1854)

1K notes · View notes

beware-of-pity · 1 month ago

Text

website

289K notes · View notes

beware-of-pity · 1 month ago

Text

I love him

422 notes · View notes

beware-of-pity · 2 months ago

Text

Azor Ahai (don’t come at me i’d kill for her)

3K notes · View notes

beware-of-pity · 2 months ago

Text

Émilie Lévy & Louis Français

Musée d'Orsay, Paris, 24 VIII 2023

4K notes · View notes

beware-of-pity · 2 months ago

Text

Pythia Hiereia VII

Masterlist I Ao3 link I Chapter six - Chapter eight

Harry James Potter x Reader

Summary :

"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves"

Tw: Mature and Explicit/Graphic depictions of violence. Check further notes at the end of the chapter.

. Something wicked this way comes

. And as I set to face it, I'm unsure. Should I embrace it

. or should I run?

. ARCANUM VII : THE MAGICIAN (ALEPH)

. ⚯ ͛

“Do you often dream things that happen just as you dream them?”

Cassiopea Black, a woman hardened by age, loss, and plights only she can tell the tales of, sits in a heavy wooden chair, her aged face ghostly against her black, dramatic gown. Her eyes glittered as she studied you.

You were six when your grandmother asked you those sworn words.

“Not always” you'd responded, and it was true. You'd never know, never until you closed your eyes, what dream you'd encounter. The world of the sleeping was elusive, like a pool of water with deep depths whose bottom could not be seen, “Sometimes.”

You studied her. She took the measure of you in turn, your stance, your stare, your smallness.

“Do you dream of things that are not real?” she asked, her slender, porcelain hands, clear of wrinkles despite her age, so unlike the ones you'd gotten from your mother, gripped her cane. She looked at you, hard but not unkind. She was cautious with you, as she had been with your grandfather, her husband, long before in days where they’d been but strangers, not daring to put too much trust in anyone with this great burden. You were young, barely out of infancy, and she was wise enough to know it was her job to teach you the limits of your power first before teaching you how far you could push it. She owed you that much.

“They may not be when I dream them” you'd said, “but they become real.”

She’d paused, her lips pursed in a hard line. It was hard to impress your grandmother, always had been; this was no exception. Sure, you were no ordinary child, but neither was she any ordinary woman. She knew you understood well the meaning of her words, their message well crossed by your little mind. She'd been wise enough, and long enough in touch with your family’s great heritage, that she knew what the powers coming from the depths of your body were about to mean.

“How so, child?” “My dreams come true” And in your own wisdom, you’d answered her question well. There was nothing your grandmother hated more than people wasting her time. “And you are sure? Tell me of the day at the Burrow, then. Did you dream that too?” “I had. I dreamt of being in the field by the house as the sun set, and that day I stood there as I had just when I had dreamt it.” “And what of what your father told me? Is it true?” “I had a dream. I was watching the others play by the table set outside. I crossed eyes with the young Weasley boy and suddenly...the light from the sun blinded me, and everything got so bright I couldn’t see anything but the light. When I returned to my senses...I was lying in the field with Papa looming over me”

She'd stared, her gaze locked with yours. She did not doubt the words, not truly. She was merely cautious because if there was a thing Cassiopea Black did not like messing with, it was fate.

“And you were certain in what your eyes saw? The truth of what came and passed, the same you dreamed of? Did the Weasley boy interest you so?” “No” you shook your head “The one in my dream did.” She raised a brow, intrigue dancing in her eyes. “Another boy?” You’d shrugged, your gaze set on the carpet below your feet, avoiding your grandmother’s inquiring one. “I do not know his name. He had black hair, green eyes, round glasses and a scar on his forehead, like a thunder... no, a lightning bolt scar running down his forehead.”

She opened her mouth, a ghastly whisper of a name on the tip of her tongue. She bit it back, holding her tongue.

“He was in a forest” you continued on “Older than the last time I saw him. A man by now.Something…..someone was standing in front of him, but I could not see who. He looked at me, but the moment he turned to his opponent, he was hit by a strong, blasting, green light. He fell to the ground, not quite dead but not so quite alive. Alas, he breathed not.” You said, “but his soul lived on.”

“His soul?” she echoed, the interest on her face growing, eyes wide at your words. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing but knew, she just knew. A young boy with a scar on his forehead, green eyes and black hair?

It surely couldn’t be, could it?

“Of course it's him, you dimwitted Black.”

The voice coming out of your mouth was not your own. Old, manly and withered like the trees on a cold winter morning. One that haunted your grandmother's sleep.

“Don't waste my time and that of my vessel with a show of strength to give your grief reason to live on. The reason for your husband's death lives in front of you. He was growing old and feeble, a new chosen one had to be born. No one in this family gets to choose their deaths but me.”

Cassiopea’s face drained of all colour. She sat there, frozen, a look of pure horror on her face, her ears unable to believe what sound had just left your mouth.

“You-!” she croaked, her eyes wide and wild.

The room was silent, the only sound breaking it was your grandmother’s ragged breaths mixing with the crackling of the fire in the hearth.

“Get out of my grandchild!!!" “I go where I please” Ominis said, using your lips to answer her. They twisted in a smirk, baring your small teeth in a sinister smile. He chuckled, a grating sound, like chalk being rammed on a board. It rattled through your bones, reverberated in your ears and made your hair stand on end. “Your grandchild is the vessel I require. Her powers are beyond her years, and I require her to fulfil my purpose.” "No!" she raged,with a slam of her fists upon the arms of the chair. Her whole body trembling with white, hot, blinding hatred. “You- You’re not allowed to do this. She's a child-“ “Who has witnessed the end of the world” Ominis crooked too calmly “You know of whom she just spoke of. Don't deny it.”

Her breath hitched, voice lost as she was forced to admit the words to be true. The boy the Order worked so hard to protect, the only one destined to defeat Lord Voldemort. And you, somehow, had seen the battle before it even happened.

“Harry Potter is the one who will lead the way to victory” Ominis reasoned “She will pave the way for him to. It's destiny.”

The finality in those words burned, like a molten brand searing them into her skin. She knew of destiny, how inescapable it was. She herself had never been one to toy heavily with it, but even she knew how powerful it could be.

“Please..." she begged, on the verge of tears “Don't take any more of them away from me. I beg you.” “I have no use for your pleas, woman. The course of fate is already set in motion. There is nothing you can do to stop it.” “What of the other one?” she asked “Why not him? He's gone. Use him. He'll do more for us to the cause than a thousand dead at the hands of the man who's taken him from us and turned him against!” “Not every choice we make bears the same weight. The one you speak of is not an option, never was. He can not bear the same burden as she can. His path is different, fated to walk his own, as she is walking hers." “He is her half!” she argued “He can do much and more before he bears any harm on us.” “He is not the one who can make the greatest sacrifice” Ominis contended “He is not the one who can turn the war in our favour. He is not the one who will change the tides. That duty, that destiny, is hers and hers alone.”

The silence deafened the ears and the mind, rendering Cassipea without a word to refute whatever truth Ominis claimed to his words.

“Can you not spare her?” she asked in a hushed whisper. “There is no mercy in destiny” Ominis assured, a freezing coldness in his tone. “This is her purpose, and she will fulfil it.”

A choked sound escaped her throat as she sank into her seat, her hand gripping at her cane for support. She could not fight the voice, and she could not fight destiny, but she could try to give you as much life as she could before the end.

“Please, don't take her from me.” she pleaded. “You’ve taken so much from me already.” “You will have her for as long as fate wills it” a pause “Whether the time will be short or long, depends on the choices you both make. For now....I'll make sure she's in safe hands.”

Cassiopea halted, looking at you with glinting eyes.

“Thank you” she whispered, a strained syllable of the tongue. When she once again cast her eye on you, only you stared back at her, with the simplicity of a child, wide-eyed and mouth pursed in a contemplative pout. "Grandmama" your voice, once again that of a child, eased her soul "Are you alright?” She swallowed thickly, pushing the hard lump in her throat back down. A shaky hand rose and tucked a strand of hair back behind your ear, before gently cupping your cheek, her slender fingers shook under your chin, the rings on her fingers leaving deep imprints on your skin. She was not alright — Cassiopea Black didn’t think she could ever be, but the best she could do was to not worry you.

Ah, to be young once more. Whatever happened to being a child not being a sin?

“I'm fine, dearest.”

Because you were her dearest.

She loved you. All of you.

Your frame. Your flesh. All the way down to your bones. Despite the filth and the ugliness and the repulsiveness, those eyes of yours gutted her insides. Loving your family, that’s what it is, no? To love you wholly, unconditionally, to the bone and all that comes with it. Even if that love is soft and dark like a fruit gone bad, with flies flying around it waiting for the moment to lay their fingers upon the rot to devour it all.

Because good fruits never taste quite as good, do they?

Innocent, ruthless, bloodstained. Had you ever had the chance to be that which you were never meant to be?

A girl.

“Just an old woman, worrying over nothing.”

You only stared, because that’s all you could do, as you’d come to know, to be the only thing that your grandmere did not get uneasy about, despite the clear discomfort it still gave her. You were smart, too smart for your age, and you could tell lies from the truths. “Don't look at me like that” she’d tried to smile, but those were lines that did not reach her eyes. “You'll worry that pretty head of yours with things you have no need to worry about.”

A warm kiss that lacked warmth on your forehead before she sent you off. “Run along now. Go play with your brother.”

You ran off, rushing outside, running through the hallways of the old house, your little feet pitter-pattering against the wood of the floors. There was nothing more that Cassiopea could do but keep a watchful eye over you and to hope and pray that she'd be able to do that for years to come, as your small form disappeared from the room, leaving Cassiopea alone, to despair.

You thought of that as you stared up at Harry, feet still deep into the water, as he smiled at you.

The same boy you'd told your grandmother about years ago.

Older, his features more defined, stronger, more hardened, escaping his boyhood. But his eyes were the same, the ones you'd known since your very first dream.

This time they did not gleam with boyish mischief, and they did not show the innocence of childhood. This time, a certain wariness and weariness to them was held in those eyes of his, the heavy weight of the world heavy on his soul. Vibrating, enchanting, the embers of your earth, dark with specks of fire which you’d dreamt of thousands of times before you’d ever met him.

Your favourite sight to seek in a dream.

You drank him in, you could not help but marvel at his presence, for he was a wonder even more magnificent in the waking world than in the dreamland. This is what you had always waited for, and now, finally, you were getting to meet face to face with the one you had been dreaming about since your earliest memories.

You smiled in turn. You felt like he gave you no other choice. His smile was always warm, like a balm on a wound. You liked how he looked at you, like you were the only one that existed, like everything else was merely an afterthought compared to you.

You part ways with the unspoken promise that everything that transpired at the lake would remain the knowledge of only your tongues. There was much still left unsaid, but you and Harry both believed there was enough time in the world to stall the inevitable. Every conversation, every new little bit of information, came with a knowledge, a perception, a liability you weren't sure you wished to impose on an already tormented soul. Despite words coming easy to you, there was much you, too, were reluctant and unsure of. It pained to admit, it stung your very core, that Ominis was right in saying your abilities were limited and those of a child compared to his or those that came before you. You'd trained, put your mind and powers to the strains of their abilities, and yet it seemed it was never enough. All the suffering they came with, and you could not make the most of them? Ominis was right, you had no right to dictate the usage of what you were born with if you were not worthy of exploiting it as it should be.

Just what were you missing?

What is it you were not seeing? That was not shown to you? Why did the eyes that'd been blessed by solemn stardust upon your birth deceive you now so?

You've existed in dreams only, the reality of the world you live in being sometimes too much to bear. Betrayal runs deep when done by hands whose only touch you've come to know as gentle. The feelings of not properly knowing the world your bare feet touched, walked, sunk into did not come as a surprise, as it perhaps should have. You'd never found much interest in it either way. It's a dark, dark world, the one you live in. You thought no joy could be found in it. The peace of your paradise was all you needed. Your sanctum. But despite how you wished to leave the mortal remains of your body, you could never escape your nature.

You do exist, don't you? Despite how it often feels as if you're not there, you are. You fill in a space that's been there for you even before you'd been there to fill it.

The world has made it so. It wants it so. You're not a casualty, an error, a mistake. No, you're a creature of design. Of long-planned, calculated breeding. You're no longer a fragment of a dream, of a thread of fate that had once been but the flick of one man's imagination. You exist in all that you live and what came before you. You wear the faces of your own mother and father, of their own, and of those before them. Of women and men whose faces you've never known, whose lives are by now lost to time. In the reflection of your mirror, staring at you, there are thousands of you. Thousands of different lives met by the same fate.

Death.

But which of your feelings are real? Which of the you's is you?

No matter how deep you search, it seems as if the real you has never shown. But how could you believe in yourself when you don't even know yourself? Which part of you is supposed to be the real you? The reserved, quiet, withdrawn, tired and impassive girl you've always been known to be or the ravenous, impulsive, angry one? Or perhaps it's neither. You thought of yourself to be quite a simple person.

You like books of all sorts, from fiction to encyclopedias, everything the library has to offer will be read, with no exception. That muggle author, Jane Austen, was among your favourites. You thought she wrote terrific romance novels despite never having married herself. Your father had gifted you a collection of all her works for your eighth birthday and had become a dearly beloved possession. You especially liked running your fingers through the illustrations, occasionally popping in between a chapter or two. Ribbons, of all colours and fabrics. You thought an outfit was never complete without a touch of colour from the silky strings falling like waterfalls through your hair.

The piano, which you’d been taught to play in a duet with your brother’s violin. Your father wished for you both to be gifted in at least a instrument and while Leyton had trouble remembering a note or two on the piano, and you’d nicked yourself on the strings of the violin too many a times to count, both found a perfect suit in the other’s orginial choice of instrument. Flowers of all kinds, especially the wisteria that grew all over the walls of the house when it was its season, though baby’s breath always went along well with every bouquet and flower crowns you’d make for everyone in the house, servants included.

Angel’s trumpets, lily of the valley, and lilies being among your favourites. Swimming by the ponds as the sun glistened over the surface of the clear water, in the garden where fishes and turtles fed off the stale bread you threw at them. And despite sometimes the lines of your pencil falling in the wrong direction and place, you enjoyed a little bit of drawing as well. Your pick for muses? The birds by your windowsill on a cold spring morning, the fish in the pond. Your brother, as he played the violin in the drawing room while your father read the daily issue of the Daily Prophet, sat in the green leather chair he preferred above the rest. As of recently, a certain green-eyed boy had been at the unfortunate hands of your most scrawny sketches.

You like clothes of linen and embroidered cottons and threads of cold colours adorning the silks of your chemises.

But you seriously don't understand the girl Harry is turning you into. This calm, smiling girl, who is somewhat meek under the pretence of this gentle touch of his.

You don't like that you like this, that he makes you feel this. You don't like how every little touch seems so deliberate, so carelessly thought out. And you definitely don't like the way his eyes roam over you like he'll never have enough of you. He drives you mad in the very best way, his very touch making you feel the kind of things you weren't sure you were capable of feeling at all. He's breaking you, he's making you feel. And it's scary, scary how much you let him do it, how much you welcome it.

It's a conflict of interest.

You were supposed to approach him only to prepare him for the future that awaits him. Those were the instructions. Maybe that's why you were the way you were — why you found it difficult to connect on such an intimate level with anything or anyone. That you'd come into the world predisposed, a sentiment being, with a set of instructions flowing in your veins. How to live, how to conduct yourself. And yet those same instructions lacked the fundamental basis on how to be a human being. Feeling always came with such a nerve-shattering sensation that it overwhelmed you to the point of nausea.

Despite so, you loved your family. How could you not when they loved you this much? The love of a father, whose hands and love crafted you alongside those of your mother. The love of a brother, whose protection and love have kept you safe on many occasions. A friend you can replace, but no one can grow you a new brother and father when you would not replace the ones you have with anyone else. A love so pure, so innocent and warm. Nothing could compare to it.

Despite the hole of emptiness that has formed inside you, urging you, telling you, insisting that there’s a missing piece of this love and family you’re yet to know.

But what was it to love deep within the soul another being whose blood you did not share? To belong, wholly, every part, every bit of body and soul to someone that felt as deeply for you as you felt for them? The girls in your year are but girls. Children, really, you thought. They are silly little girls, even your cousins. They've never seen a battle, they've never seen a man die, they know nothing. None of the horrors you’d been borne witness to. Their dreams were full of songs and stories, the way yours had been in your childhood.

You pitied them. You envied them.

But Harry, he almost made you feel like them. A girl, whose only worry was to check if her hair was pinned in place, no frizz or unruly strands falling in the wrong direction. And that the balm on her lips still moistened the soft skin just in case….

He unbalanced you. He threw at you, anything and everything. But when push came to shove, he tended to you with all of his loving, simple self. He can make you feel like the most beautiful thing in the world, then turn around and make you feel like you're the only one that exists.

He's driving you mad, but he's also setting you free.

You cannot seem to contort yourself back into the shape of a dutiful child. You're becoming unravelled, undone, willing to defy orders given to you before your very own conception to follow the path you thought fit to take. Maybe that's just what it means...to be human — irresponsible, impulsive and sometimes hardheaded by your pride and beliefs. You're made up of so many little oddities, so many pieces and parts of yourself that do not quite fit together but still hold onto one another to form that which you are, shaping you, making you, creating you in all that you are and in that which you exist. You cannot disown, disallow, tear from your flesh, what you are. To deny your nature is first to deny how you've come to exist, and your very existence holds its significance in this world.

'We all have our parts to play,' you often told Harry, but have you been playing yours well enough to retain your place in the play starring your lives into the endless theatre that is the world?

You are not good, you are not virtuous, sympathetic, gentle, generous, evil, angry, bereft of sense.

You are simply you, with all your imperfections, all your differences. A person of infinite feelings, who experiences everything and yet nothing at all, because it is better not to than to burn in the fire that their passions scorn. It's easier, is it not? To feel nothing than to feel everything. To watch from the sidelines and observe, to refrain from getting involved. To simply watch the world turn and time pass. To conceal oneself behind an illusion of nothingness to avoid the very real pain that comes with feeling. But it also means not knowing love, not experiencing the simple happiness that arises from having someone to share your thoughts and heart with.

Because how can you love someone else if you do not allow yourself to feel love, first?

Each time, each year, with the passing of time, every moment, every second that Harry ever got in trouble, those past six years that you've been watching since you were a child. Trailing after him like a constant shadow, hidden to his knowledge, doing nothing had always held a scion to your good sense of will.

"It doesn't feel right, with what we can do, to do nothing when he faces danger.”

You were only a child then, when you made the inquiry to your great-great-grandfather, who'd been looking after you and your dreams since you could remember. But at eleven years old, in your first year at Hogwarts, you already knew the danger that Professor Raptor posed and were ordered not to do anything about it, for it was neither of your or his concern.

"To do nothing is the hardest job of all", Ominis had said "You have to be impartial in these matters. If he cannot make his own way into the world and face trivial dangers, how is he supposed to one day be the saviour of the wizarding world? We must allow this to run its course.”

His wisdom was always so clear, so precise and proven true each time. He had been right, after all. Harry had managed to overcome Professor Raptor all by himself, even though it pained you to see him struggle and be in danger. It always went against your nature to do nothing and just sit and watch. To do nothing was to do as you were told. To hold true to your duty and keep yourself away from the inevitable. You'd accepted the words, as you'd accepted words the wise always spoke, at the time. Now, older and perhaps less naive than you’d been as a mere child, you look back on the years past, you feel a sting in your chest. How different would things have been had you not just stood by and watched as everything fell apart around the young boy? You could have done something — maybe not much, but something. At least he would not have gone at it alone.

Your biggest regret came in the form of Cedric Diggory. There'd been no need for the poor boy to die had you been more capable in your prowess. Your fourth year at Hogwarts had been anything but predictable, and with your less-than-conscious mind left in a somewhat comatose state empty of thought all together as the result of a panicked reading you made after Harry’s name was pulled from the goblet of fire, the second coming of the dark lord had slipped each reading you made for the remainer of the year or the one that followed.

Your fifth year was spent being mostly either bedridden or lying in one of the beds of the hospital wing as Madam Pomfrey watched after you, unable to do much with this mysterious condition of yours. Nothing was wrong with you, per se. Cedric’s death riddled you with guilt. You took no fondness in sweets, books and the forest as you used to. Hogwarts had dulled. The childlike view you had of the castle had shattered alongside your first taste of what your role in the world meant. Each new sight, glimpse, speck into the future had your body to its strain. A toll on your health that only deepened as a result of more frequent and frenzied readings fueled by your frustration over your own limitations and capabilities.

And while you recovered, you allowed Harry to play at being the leader of men he had to grow into. There was not much you could do about Dumbledore’s army while lying in a hospital bed, could you?

Oh, but there was one person who had not been so unaware of such thing.

You'd all but raged at Ominis for his obscurity, for his secrecy, for his unwillingness to use the power of the oracle to do good and stop this before it got too out of hand, too hard to control. He'd used his sibilistic serpentongue to command you quiet and ordered you to never cross him in such way again.

You hated him for it. You hated him.

He could have done something, anything! To prevent the death of a boy, a child who did not deserve to die. You hated how Ominis knew better, and you hated yourself for letting him order you into complicity, for being so powerless, even though you were gifted with the ability of prophecy, because despite the knowledge that your dreams contained, none of it mattered if it wasn't acted upon.

Once Harry figures it all out he'll be mad at you. He’ll be so angry he could possibly come to hate you and you had done a good damn job at squelching the squeamishness he held over your family name and the blood that ran in your veins, connecting you to the most hated wizard of all. You had to sacrifice the secrecy of your mind palace to show him you were no fraud, no seer pretending the impossible, because you were very much the impossible made possible through magic that people could only dream of.

And, despite your own fears and doubts, you found that you were prepared for his anger. You would stand there, tall and firm, and watch him face you, and take all the anger that he had to offer in his young, angry heart. You were ready to answer his every question. Despite you wishing so dearly, he never did. But you did not care if he hated you. You did not care if he thought you to be a freak, a liar, an abomination and a monster. Even if he came to hate you — even if he came to despise you and the way you were born — then at least you would have done all that was in your power to save him. Because you came to treasure his life more than your own, more than anything in this world.

That's the price people pay for love, no?

Love is the death of duty, and duty is the death of love.

But he had destroyed your duty. He was your one purpose. You knew that your job was to prepare him for the future, to keep him alive long enough for him to fulfil his destiny. He was your duty, but he was also your love. He is your duty, as is your love, and you’ll be his death.

But you've no choice in the matter. Love is not a choice one makes, no more than duty is. He's chosen you, and you've chosen him right back, whether you like it or not. There is nothing you can do but love him, just as there is nothing he can do but love you as well.

You are the inevitable, the certainty of the outcome. It’s not a matter of if, but when.

He had ruined everything the way you had known it, but you could not bring yourself to care. He'd made you feel, made you feel things you had never thought possible, and despite what the future may hold, you knew that it was more important to you that he would be there and that he was alive, rather than him fulfilling his destiny and dying against Voldemort. He was more important than the prophecy, he was more important than anything.

He was more important than the wizarding world.

But there are those who do not understand it, still. Your brother among them.

He viewed Harry as something akin to a reckoning, a danger you all should stay away from, and you understood why. People standing by Harry's cause were not known for living long or lasting in their resolution. After the events leading to the battle in the Ministry of Mysteries, Leyton had all but grown paranoid of Harry's presence, if not outright existence. He had told you, asked, if not commanded, as your brother and caretaker in the absence of your father, that he did not wish to see you a mere breath away from the boy.

But you had always been ordered around too much to listen to him, not when higher orders to do the opposite were given by Ominis himself. You were loyal to Ominis first, even above your brother. Not now that your views finally aligned with the stars. Despite your differences, Ominis had always treated you with such respect, even though he had the power to force your obedience. You supposed that was his way of love.

But Leyton - sweet, old Leyton. Oh, how your heart ached for him and sang sweet songs of your love for your brother that could make women weep and men fall to their knees. You knew your brother was more concerned about your safety than anything. He’d always been, even when you were still young children, he was the one to look after you, to protect you. He'd been father, mother and brother all at once, and you owed him your life for it. But you could not tuck your tail between your legs, turn your way, and head to another call than the one you were given.

Duty is the death of love. You did not want to choose between the love for your brother, your love for Harry, and your loyalty to Ominis. You wanted to have it all.

In times of doubt, those lost often look for a reliable, wise figure to guide them through the darkness of the forest they find themselves in. Your crone takes the figure of the wise, old Dumbledore. The only man you can confide your worries about the nature of the world you inhabit with.

It feels good to tell the old man your feelings. Dumbledore is a good listener, and his wisdom feels like the calm before the storm. He understands your predicament, your struggles, but you think he knows more than he lets you know he does, that the words he speaks hide a whole world of knowledge away from you, but that is something you'd expect from a man as old as he.

“Why did you tell him to come to me about the oracle?” you asked “I thought you would tell him everything. Yet you didn’t. Why?”

Dumbledore’s eyes were kind, a small smile on his lips.

“I am an old man. In what way would I possibly be able to help, when my time is near passing anyway? I think, perhaps...it is not my place to interfere. I thought it best it'd be you telling him all. I've learned it is quite rude to speak of those who cannot speak for themselves. I did not wish to take that from you. A white lie necessary for the greater good.” “That is most thoughtful, professor.” You said, “But I do wonder what Harry would think about being deceived into quests he may not be willing to embark on.”

Something in his eyes turned solemn, as if the weight of the world had suddenly come to sit on his shoulders.

“Young men often think it is their duty to do as such,” he said, his voice carrying the exhaustion of his age, “and while I may not agree with their actions, I will always appreciate their good-natured heart, and the will they hold to fight. Sometimes, things are destined to be, and the decisions we make can have no other outcome, despite our efforts to steer the river a different way. I like to believe that I did not lie to him, but merely, simply, didn’t tell the whole truth so that he would seek it himself.” “On your orders” you finalised “I knew the moment he asked me that you were behind his words.”

Dumbledore chuckled, the sound low and deep. But he nodded his head.

"I knew you'd have figured that out yourself. But I wanted to test something...about the boy.” “I don't suppose that might be his loyalty. He's proven that plenty.” “No, my boy is loyal. That is not it. There is something else about him that I've come to suspect. Rather, his trust. Not in me or my words, but rather in others. In you." "He has his doubts, as anyone would. As you and many others have. The stain of a lineage is hard to get rid of. His scepticism is welcome, I do admit. Anyone who doubts is intelligent enough to overcome their confidence in the unknown to doubt the known.” “I suppose so. A great mind is a curious beast to carry.” His eyes turned thoughtful. “How he perceives the world...and people, I believe, is what will save him and those he loves.”

“He’s...stalwart, " you struggled to put your words together, “....a kind...soul, deprived of every kindness he's been lacking since the loss of his parents. He seeks it in those he can see them in, without even knowing what he's seeking.” “I am afraid so,” Dumbledore said. “He has been lonely, alone. His life has not been the most fortunate. But it is his burden to carry and to fight through. You, too, know of how heavy one's own burden can be.”

“The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity,” you conjured. “He has neither. His mind is simple. I just do not think he knows that yet with that much that he ails in it.” “Is that such a bad thing?” He asked. “There are many times one's heart may be a burden, and their mind a blessing.” “Both are necessary, aren't they? Heart and mind. The mind is the rational, the functional, the right. While the heart...is the human, the sensitive, the vulnerable. But at the same time, one cannot exist without the other — rationality without empathy, care without the understanding, the living without the feeling...is just…nothing.” “The mind rules the heart,” Dumbledore took on your thought and words “as the heart can rule the mind.” “It's the relative human balance.”

You both smiled at the other.

“Deadly weapons against those that live without one of either”, he said “make good use of them.” “I will” you said, “as I will make sure Harry does, too.”

He looked at you curiously, cocking his head to the side.

“I see you've...grown to care for the boy” he mused “I can't seem to ignore that you speak of him…most fondly, indeed.”

Unsure of what to say, you had let a straightforward "He’s become important to me, I will not deny it.It goes against...what you'd advise of me...but he makes it hard.”

He gave you an almost knowing smile.

“It seems...the heart does win over the mind, after all.” The irony cut like glass through the air. “It's not like that” you shook your head “it's just that...there's much of him I see.” you said “that others do not. It is a hard thing to ignore.” “Do you not think you see what you wish to see, perhaps?” “Maybe so,” you suggest, “But maybe that's what makes people who they are, and sometimes they need someone to see what they wish to see in them.”

A shadow cast itself over his face, a strange look loomed over his hardened features, as if your words had struck much closer to home than he'd expected. He contemplated and contemplated, thinking deeply — and yet, just as you were about to delve into their thoughts, he spoke.

"We will never be able to understand who we truly are" he said, "There will always be questions left for the future and answers for the past. One day you will come to understand, and you shall no longer be afraid of what you do not fully comprehend.”

A nagging curiosity gnawed at your mind. What more will there be to understand? you thought.

“Should I take that as a warning?” You broke a small smile. “I like to think of it as a promise,” he said, returning your smile. “A promise is something that's made to be kept” you said, thoughtfully “I shall hold you to it then.” “You might have to” he chuckled “but I might have to ask for another from you, if I may.” “What kind?” you asked, dabbing the blackened skin of his hand with a damp, warm cloth. “Don't let love get in the way of doing what is right.” He said, his words leaving a strange pit in your stomach, and a bitter taste in the back of your mouth you could not gulp down.

Too late, you had to resist the urge to say.

“What is right and what is wrong often differs from person to person” you murmured, your words betraying nothing of the things stirring at your insides and wretching at your organs. “You are very much right” he sighed against the feel of the gentle caress of the cloth “But you do see the world through a very unique pair of eyes. I trust you, my dear, with everything you'll have to face. You'll find strength and wisdom in places you don't even expect.”

Your lips curled upward in a small smile.

“I suppose I should hold you to that too, then…professor”, you teased. “You should” he said, reaching out to grasp your hand that wasn't tending to his. “Trust me, darling girl.”

A wave of affection washed over you, as he held your hand in his, a certain comfort in the feeling— a soft, warm thing.

Lying in your bed is all you can do that night, even as the other seven filled beds are lounged quietly by their inhabitants, your roommates. Your bedsheet offers little to no comfort for the cold that is sipped deep within your bones. When your feet touch the carpet surrounding your bed, you realise you'll get little to no sleep that night. Your feet padded around the castle, in all its quietness and emptiness. If anyone were to find you, you're in line for a good reprimanding, but you're stealthy to the point you know it won't happen. After all, this was not the first time you would not be found in your bed.

The Ravenclaw Tower may be an infinite maze to the untrained eye, but to those with an eye keen enough to figure their way around it, it is fast to become their place of respite.

The balcony by the topside is the quietest and emptiest part of the tower, and where you take it to perform your darkest of…activities.

This night was no exception, and your feet soon carried your body to the balcony, closing the door softly behind you. Moonlight streamed through the cold night, the stars shining bright through the clouds in the sky. You take a seat on the railing, your legs dangling over the edge, your eyes watching the ground below. The air was quiet, but in no way peaceful, for in silence, you can do nothing but think. Your eyes trailed to the dark sky above you, from star to star, tracing along the constellations of your favourite ones There are many who find comfort into looking at the celestial bodies, but to you, it was always a way for the sky to whisper into your ears the things your body failed to understand.

You'd let your hand hang in the air, the soft autumn breeze fanning your face, brushing through your locks. In many ways, it was peaceful. There was little sound except the whispers of the wind, rustling through the old trees of the Forbidden Forest, the gentle rush of the Black Lake, and the occasional screech of a creature, you knew, was flying over the grounds. You were in no way alone, despite the absence of people, but that was not what you were looking for. You merely sought some space, space to breathe, space to think and space to exist, just as you were. For there were few that let you be who you truly were.

“Do you believe it to be true?” you asked the air “Your dream. The Eclipse of the Eternal Night. You told me it was our duty to hold our family united against our common foe” You let the silence fall “I'm not sure I can do that any more. I'm not sure I ever could.”

You felt guilty for even speaking these words. It was the very first time that that thought had crossed your mind, and the fact that you had not told anyone, let alone vocalised it, made it all the more of a burden. What kind of person would that have made you?

A traitor, perhaps.

“It's-...It's not that i'm not able, and it's not that i do not believe in our dream. It's just” you gulped down a hard knot “....what If I'm not the one?”

The thought alone feels as if a cold hand had plunged into the pit of your stomach and squeezed every organ in a vice-like grip. To have come so far and to fail at the very goal you had been given from birth, simply the thought of it was painful.

How could you fail?

“I....I'm tired. I'm always tired” you whispered “If I'm not the one, if this is not my place to be, then what am I supposed to do? I'm scared.More now than ever before. I'm lonely," you said, your eyes trailing to the stars, “And I'm lost.”

“Just give me a sign.”

You waited...and waited. But nothing came. There was no rumble of thunder, no crack in the sky. No voice echoed through your head, no feeling filled your senses. No one to give you the answer you so desperately sought for.

Until it came. And when it did, it happened all too fast for you to realise what was happening. In a moment, the moon's bright light burned at your irises, rendering you blind to everything but its light as you tried to shield yourself from it before your limbs fell limp, your body crashing to the hard, stone floor of the tower. The pain that filled your head was the point of no return.

Darkness consumed your vision, a deep, endless darkness you'd experienced time to time before. You knew what was now to come, and you welcomed the sleep it brought you.

Your breath escapes you as you slam backwards, your heart thumping loudly in your ribs, a sudden coldness gripping you like ice. Your head spins, the world spinning around you uncontrollably, and for a good few moments, you’re sure you’ll throw up, and then it stops, just as fast as it came. You shielded yourself from the blinding light before you're engulfed by it, whole. The sequence before you played out like a movie on the big screen. It went by so fast, that were it not for your memory of steel taking in every single moment by bit as if it were its own, everything would have gone by and be forgotten, like every old memory that posed no importance to the present....

The voices around you were loud, but filled your ears with a beautiful melody despite the continuous and growing ringing that only fed into the itching at the back of your head.

The hospital wing before you is empty except for one bed, filled by the presence of a person whose face you cannot see, hidden beyond the white curtain drawn around the privacy the ill deserved. The light coming from the window, and the white snow raining down outside, rendered the scene before you almost sterile, sanitised in the worst ways. The fire that you see in the distance, at the outskirts, brightens the dark night sky, its light joining that of the stars and the moon, allowing the eye to behold the disaster. The soft bluegrass and dry hay leaves rustle along the cold, biting, winter wind as you stare up at it with wide eyes before you're pulled violently into another scene before you could identify the house.

Hagrid's hut is not a place you're entirely familiar with, but is one you'll get to know soon seeing as you're sitting by the fireplace as you petting gently Hagrid's dog, Fang, as Harry speaks to a Slughorn looking too defeated by life, staring at Harry with a face that told much of unspoken regret. You don't get to hear about what they're talking about before the windows burst open, the same air that flutters up the top of the astronomy tower, pulls you away from the warmth your cheek had flared from the warmth of the fire, the rosy skin cooled and forgotten.

Professor Dumbledore looked defeated, the sun setting behind him as a backdrop to the seriousness crossing his face. The words falling from his lips are meant for you, and Harry, you two standing solemnly in front of him. Words that get blurred along the lines of the real and the eventful, and what you're not yet supposed to know. The warmth of Harry's body against yours is one you almost feel against your own unmade body as he cries into your shoulder, like a baby deer, lost and helpless, as you gently caressed his hair while you both sat on his bed, in a room empty of life other than your own two.

Everything was happening too fast and too slow at the same time. Your head spun with all the images flashing past your closed eyes. It made you feel nauseous, but you kept looking, kept watching, kept taking in whatever you could. There was something you were missing, something important, something to focus on...but it slipped away every time you reached for it, like trying to grab sand with an open palm.

You smelled salt and heard rushing waves, but could not see a body of water if not for the bank of the great black lake that circled the rock you stood upon, so vast that you could not make out its beginning or end and without a wand to lit the cavern with light with, you were made to strain your eyes to the best of their abilities to make out where to put your feet and where not in order not to tumble into the almost still water.

Your mouth grew parched the more you lingered on the scene. No one was here, there’d been nothing to see, and yet you supposed you needed to be there.

You were meant to be there. Expect, perhaps you didn’t.

The ambience rejected you, and the longer your mind rejected moving to another vision, the longer the cavern expressed its displeasure with your presence. Sweat clung to your milky, cotton nightgown, your skin glistening in the light reflecting on the stone of the rock. Your breath heaved, small puffs of hot breath leaving your mouth as its cravices grew drier and drier of moisture. You’d wet your lips, trying to hydrate the dried skin, resulting in leaving you with less on your tongue. You stumbled down the rocky platform, your form unsteady and feet trembling, your hands coming to aid you in your endeavour as you made for the water, desperate for a sip of it.

Your hands were trembling and shaking as you reached for it, your dry throat screaming at you to drink, to get something down, to do something, anything to feel more alive. But the surface of the water reflected nothing but darkness, even though the water itself was perfectly clear, as if it wasn't water at all, but something else entirely. You leaned down, dipping your fingers into the crystal clear surface, feeling its smoothness around your fingers before lifting it to your lips with tremor.

The water was cool, and its taste refreshed your every sense.

It did little to settle the raging fire that had erupted inside you, but its coolness did calm the painful ache dulling inside of you as if a bucket of ice-cold water had been thrown over you on a hot summer afternoon. But no matter how much you drank, you never felt like you'd had enough. There was an itch under your skin, like your very soul was trying to rip your body apart. Something was missing, and it left you feeling empty and incomplete. The shadows whispered around your head, swirling and moving, and you wanted to grab for them desperately, to pull them close, to hold them in your hands like one would hold a precious jewel.

They chanted, but you could not make out what as your ears drummed horribly. Their voices rang in your head like a bad screwing.

"Shut up" you murmured harshly. ”Shut up!”

Your voice reverberated around the cavern, its booming almost making the stones around vibrate by the impact.

It did nothing to soothe the shadows and stop their whispers. They continued, growing ever so faintly louder and louder, their presence filling you and weighing on your shoulders. They slithered under your skin, danced over your eyes and slithered into your ears. You could've sworn you heard them speak, words that slipped in and out of focus, too faint to really understand. It made you want to scream.

Shut up shut up shut up.

"Silence!" you bellowed out, slamming your hand into the water, splashing it in the air all around you.

The water rippled where your hand had hit it, a ring of circles growing and growing as they creased the water's surface. But the shadows didn’t listen, their whispers getting louder, filling your ears, your head, your thoughts, and for a second, you almost gave in.

Almost.

Just when the water had settled once more, a bubble blossomed on the surface, floating languidly. You stared at the small bubble for a few seconds, mesmerised at the way it stayed still, even as the water rippled around it. For a moment, it floated, not moving an inch, and you were about to look away, write it off as a strange quirk of nature and the way the water moved. If not for another bubble, followed by another, joining each other.

You froze, your eyes going wide. Watching as more bubbles swarm upshore, merging together into larger ones, until all your eyes could see was a blanket of countless bubbles.

“No” you whispered, moving away from the surface “No, no!” You stumbled away from the water, your legs struggling to stay upright. The sound of your own breathing was too loud to your ears, the room suddenly feeling too small, too cramped, too silent. But too late; whatever was floating down the water had surfaced to take you down the depths with them.

You fought hard to get out of its grasp, to get back, but the more you struggled, the harder their hands closed around your ankle. Your legs kicked the thin air, and one of your hands came up to try and loosen the hold around your throat. Nothing worked, and your mind started to grow hazy, your fight weakening. Your lips, once as pink as the softest of poppies, paled white, and your kicks, which were once as fast and fast as a snake, started to slow.

The fingers felt cold and bony against the soft skin of your throat, like death's icy grasp. You felt every one of them, like they were digging into your flesh, tearing into your skin as they dragged you towards the water, dunking you in as water choked the last remains of air out of you. You struggled against such grip, hands clawing away at the skin of those wishing to kill you. They were strong and sure in their grasp, stronger than you'd ever be, and you could barely struggle against them, your fingers scratching at the cold flesh in vain. It was like a nightmare. Trapped, unable to move, unable to fight back, unable to escape. The voices around you grew louder and louder, chanting over and over again, a musical nonsense as air slowly gave away from your lungs. Faster and faster the visions came, one after the other, until it seemed as if the very air had come alive. But you understood none of them. Shadows whirled and danced, boneless and terrible, a woman's screams hollowed your insides.

“Child of three. Slayer of lies," the chants echoed in your head “Daughter of death. Revenge is yours.”

Darkness seeped into your vision like black ink, filling your line of sight till it was all you could see. You were losing consciousness fast, the edges of your mind turning dark, dark, and darker until you were falling further into the water. But just before it all went black, you felt something tug at your scapula. A touch hard but soft at once, and in a moment, you were sucked out of yourself, into another body, another life that should've been yours.

A light from beyond the surface blinded what remained of your senses, the darkness of the water brightening beneath it. The whispers, screams and screeches all overcome by a soothing, young voice.

“I did find you. I had promised I would.” The voice rang “from one womb we came and from each other's hands we'll die”

Out of your body, your mind went. The eyes you used were not your own as you stared at your own reflection in the mirror before you. Young, lean and beautiful. With long hair. A masculine copy of your own face surveyed your own wild stare.

“So, this is the story you made up about who you are” the boy standing before you said in an almost amused tilt of his psyche “It's a nice one. Too bad it isn't true.”

Your mind spun, struggling to understand what was transpiring before you. The scene in the mirror was almost bizarre, and you felt as though you were floating somewhere between consciousness and hallucination, between life and death. The boy looked oddly familiar, but the image was warped, a distortion of what must be the truth.

“What…?” You managed to croak through the tightness in your throat, your eyes unable to focus on anything but your reflection. “It's all a lie” the boy said, his voice carrying a hint of smugness, as if the thought amused him “Who you are, what you think you are - all of it. A beautiful lie, but still a lie nonetheless.” “You know not what you speak of” you spat “You’re dead.” “Maybe so” he said, his face growing dark, “But dead doesn't mean gone. You never mourned me. It is hard to die unmourned.” His words hit you like a blow to the gut. They were true, and they hurt more than you would have ever believed. You have never mourned him, for you had not known him in life, and yet... yet his words held more truth than they should have. “I...I'm sorry” you said, your voice small and quiet, “But I...I don't know who-“

He looked at you with what seemed like pity, like the way one would look at a lost child. His eyes, his face, were so familiar, but you were certain you'd never seen them before. “You can lie to the world” his voice echoed like drumrolls in your ears “But you should never lie to yourself.”

You swallowed hard, your body shaking as you stared at the boy in the mirror. Your throat felt dry, and your stomach was twisted in knots of guilt and grief. "Who are you?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“That doesn't matter, does it?” he smiled “What matters is who you are, right?” “I thought I did” you admitted “but...but now I'm not sure.” “You don't know?” he asked, “Or you do know, but you're too scared to admit it to yourself?I know who you are. Do you? Or perhaps I should ask. Do you know who I am?” “I-“ you began, but you swallowed hard, your throat feeling like sandpaper. “You-“ you tried again, but the words died in your throat, leaving you with nothing but a feeling of uncertainty and fear. “I know what’s been bothering you.” He said “What’s my locket made of?”

"What?" you asked, honestly dumbfounded by the sudden change of questioning, not paying too much mind to what he's asked you.

As so, you answered as if not weighing the thought too much.

"Brass?....copper?"

When he didn't answer, but only continued to stare back at you, you grew fidgety. It wasn't often that the other entity in your head 'fought' back by gaining consciousness and defying their roles in your visions.

You grew agitated when he furrowed his brows.

"A light bronze?" a thought came to your head "rose gold?"

"You're close" he only shot back, but not quite satisfied by your indifference to the matter, "but too far yet. Look at it."

Your eyes trailed down to the locket for the first time that night, its chain glittering, resting against his breastbone. The locket ticks at the attention, trembling -- over-so-slightly, quivering in the air.

"Looks like silver.....gold? a mix of both-"

“Answer me”. The boy snapped, his words sharp and biting as his face began to melt off, like molten lava, as if something or rather, someone, had taken over him, his voice growing distorted. “What is it made of?!”

“Gold-“

But before you could get the word out, his neck snapped, like a twig under the pressure of a foot. He was gone as quickly as he'd appeared, his body morphing into a mist of shadowy black before evaporating completely before your eyes, leaving nothing but a faint sense of his presence.

And as if you were thrown out of the water you've been made to drown in, you gasped for breath as you awoke once more. You screamed, a guttural, angry sound, just as your heart gave out on its last beat, heading into the shadows that held you down and in a moment, there you were again, awake and yourself again. The sweat clung to your cold skin, the nightgown sticking to your body like a second skin. Every part of you trembled, your heart hammering in your chest almost as hard as your head was hurting, like a thousand drums were playing at once, loud and thundering and overwhelming your mind. The night was deathly silent as you lay on the floor where you’d previously dropped, save for the sounds of your deep, ragged breaths, ragged like the sound of a hunted, wounded animal. The darkness of the night was complete in the room, your eyes struggled to make out shapes in the shadows drifting. It was if you were in a world with no light, nothing to guide you, nothing to save you from whatever danger you were in. It surrounded you, and you were stuck in the darkness, alone.

The ghost of a long-haired woman drifted serenely past, unbothered by the scene.

“You look pekish” she commented softly “and you're perspiring. Whatever happened to you,child?”

You felt your heart skip a beat as the woman appeared, her pale face lit by the faint moonlight streaming from the windows. The air was still, and her voice echoed oddly around the room, like the sound of a dying wind.

“I had a vision.” you managed. “Oh, dear. Another?” she asked "The last one nearly killed you, if my memory does not fail me” “That was my own fault.” You sighed as you struggled your way from the floor. Her gaze was sharp, despite the soft smile on her face. Her pale skin glowed like white moonlight, illuminating her delicate features, her high cheekbones, and the strange beauty of her dark gaze. "Strange creature you are.So stubborn, too. You just don't seem to know when to give up.” “I can hardly give up. Can I?” you asked “When my destiny is what it is.”

She gave an understanding smile, as if she too felt your inner turmoil as her own.

“Are you scared?” she inquired, with a tilt of her head. “Destiny is not the only thing you have going for you. You have a choice, you know. Even for the likes of you, there are possibilities.”

“But what happens if I go against my destiny?" you could not help but say. “If I try to fight it and fail? What will happen?” You felt as if you were begging, but you couldn't seem to care. Your heart pounded in your chest, the reality of the situation bearing down on you.

“You make your own" she said "Like I did. Like many did. You're afraid of uncertainty, of the same unknown you tell others not to be afraid of. What are you without your powers? You rely on them too much” “My powers are meant to be used!" you protested “They're meant to do good, to fight the evil within. I can't just stand by as the world caves in on itself.”

“You're right. You do have them for a reason. But you cannot let your powers consume you, and you cannot let the duties bestowed on you by your very birth define you.” She moved towards you, her feet light, as if floating across the floor, her hands coming to rest on your shoulder. You could feel her touch, surprisingly solid and comforting against your skin.

“That's not fair” Your voice was soft now, like a lost child's “I can't just... stop everything, not when I have the power to do something, to change something. What would you have me do?”

She gave you a sad smile, motherly in its disposition. Yet there was something in her gaze, something that said she, too had been in your position before.

“There are better choices, you just need to find them. You need to choose life, not duty. Before it's too late. But for now, I would have you go to bed. The sun will rise soon, and you need all the sleep you can get.”

“Sleep is a luxury I’m not used to much.”

“Then get used to it” she chastised “I do not wish to see you lying on the floor of the tower any time soon, again, for your little endeavours.” “I’ll try my best.”

“See that you do, dear. Now go on, to sleep with you.”

At the end, you know that when you reach the end of your path, none of this, all of this, will matter. When all of this is done, all your particles will disband, disperse, and you'll become, just like all those before you part of the pulse of another Gaunt that will come after you. If fate will be so lucky, may that pulse belong to your own child.

When that time comes, you'll make way for them until the day that they come. Until then, perhaps, the most you could do is make sure that your name will be remembered as the one Gaunt that restored your family's name and brought peace into the wizarding world. Because after all, you are the new past. You are the new future.

You are the answer this world has been looking for.

. Author's note :

I know, I know. I've been gone for more than a month, and I'm sorry for that. But outlining a story when you come up with all sorts of ideas is a difficult thing, and I hope you can all understand that. A lot has happened since I last updated this story, and I wish to premise this one thing again. I do not support Jk Rowling. I cannot stand that woman or her ideologies, and I'm not that much interested in Harry Potter and the franchise. I'm writing this for a friend of mine and she has wished for me to publish this online for others to enjoy and appreciate as much as she does. Therefore, those who do support her, please have the decency not to continue reading this story because we are proud haters who do not support a bigot in her multimillion euro campaign against a marginalised minority. That said, I've taken the liberty to do with the source material as I like, which means the story will heavily diverge from what's canon and not, changing the story as I like and please to do with it as I want. Yes, I'm doing it out of spite, and I don't care. Thank you very much. Anyways, for those that are still here because you share our views and opinions, I hope you do enjoy this really long chapter. I, as well as my friend, have decided to change the title since going forth this story will only continue to get darker and darker with heavier themes, and we did not feel like 'Cinnamon Girl' was an appropriate title to represent the story we decided upon. Stay tuned for future updates :) Also, viewer's discretion is advised for this chapter, it is quite disturbing, not to mention slightly graphic.

Btw reuploaded this cause i changed a scene from this chapter

Taglist: @dovellici @thehufflepuffwife @llunarpotter @xxxyukitoxx @stvrlavs @b4tm4nn @sisiididjxjd

The taglist is always open to those who wish to join it.

22 notes · View notes