Son of Magic

Chapter 15

And that had been the end of the memory.

Harry would never know what could have been. Death took that away from him.

He had no idea how long he'd been standing in front of the flowing stream in the freezing cold weather, wearing nothing but a thin white t-shirt and black slacks to shelter him from the harsh winter. But the sun had slowly begun to set, disappearing into a sea of orange and green leaves.

In any other circumstance, the view of orange and violet streaks painting the skyline would have been breathtaking, but now all it did was serve as a reminder of those other memories. Those other wretched memories that had been treacherously locked away from him.

Harry had arrived at his Peverell Cottage before the break of dawn to try to figure things out, but here he was, hours later, still a mess of contradicting emotions battling furiously against one another—and as unresolved as he'd been when he arrived.

Harry thought that by then he'd have managed to reach an accord with himself, or, at the very least, have calmed the raging beast inside enough to trust himself to not end the world. But rather than subsiding, the beast kept growing in strength, threatening to rip through his heart and to take hold of him.

The urge to release his enraged energy and destroy it all ached in his bones. Sheer will was the only thing that kept him from lashing out and razing the cottage and all its surroundings to the ground.

Soft blond curls threaded between his fingers.

Loving azure eyes that burned him with a shameful amount of passion.

Skin the shade of snow, beautifully luminescent in the moonlight.

Lips so luscious that he couldn't help but ravage. Those same lips that wrapped around—

No, he just couldn't go there—won't allow himself to—not ever.

How was he to move forward?

Was it even real? What if it was? Why block the memory? Why not remove it altogether if he'd gone through the trouble of making sure that...that...mistake, stays in the past?

Harry just couldn't understand how Death could betray him like that.

Where was the honesty and respect for boundaries they'd sworn to? They had rules, and mutual respect towards one another that he'd thought was unfailing.

He was furious. No, what he felt went far beyond fury. There was not one word in existence that could adequately describe exactly how furious he felt.

He'd been audaciously betrayed, manipulated, handled, and deceived—by none other than his most trusted companion.

Infuriated, enraged, incensed, livid, wrathful—how else could he possibly feel with the knife lodged so deeply into his back?

Yet, however irrational it was, that unmeasurable fury wasn't the most consuming emotion that scorched through him and the other he could name very easily—rejection. It's what spurred the few tears that managed to make their escape.

This couldn't have been revealed to him at a more inconvenient time.

Why now? Why did these memories unlodge themselves now of all times?

He knew how it happened, of course. He had Black Family Magic to thank for that. But why did it have to be now while he was in the middle of trying to change the world?

He couldn't even decide if he'd rather not have known. He had the past couple of centuries as proof that it would have definitely been easier for him if he'd never found out about any of it, but was it better not knowing? To not know how Tom had felt about him? But if Death had never changed his memories, he wouldn't have gotten to know those beautiful eyes and that angelic smile, or the gentleness of his touch.