xxxxviii.
some truths we wish we could hide
(South by Sleeping at Last)
_________
January 31, 1980
Albus Dumbledore believed he was getting too old for this.
As he strode out of the Hogwarts castle and into the quiet streets of Hogsmeade, he knew he had far better things to do today. With Voldemort still at the height of his power, horcruxes hidden inside his office, training sessions with Regulus Black, and the peculiar conundrum that was Hermione Pettigrew, the old wizard understandably had too much on his plate right now. The ministry had been wringing him raw for ideas on how to keep the Death Eaters at bay, calling meetings at ungodly hours of the day just so they could discreetly discuss tactics to strengthen the protection of Muggle and Wizard alike from the Dark Lord. The Order of the Phoenix had been tiring him too, especially with the new predicament of the members being stalked by Voldemort's minions.
All in all, Dumbledore was a very, very busy man and he wished for today to be at least a peaceful one just so he could collect his thoughts, spend time with his beloved phoenix, and browse through the various knitting magazines he'd procured from a Muggle bookshop to brush up on his knitting skills.
Regrettably, he was an educator above all, with a formidable school to oversee. The students' welfare was still one of his top priorities and Dumbledore knew he couldn't let this current problem of his slide. Not when parents had been persistently owling him for days, demanding to find an immediate replacement for the Divinations professor, Gawain Cayce, seeing that OWLs and NEWTs were fast approaching and their children needed to learn.
Hence, here was the great and almighty Albus Dumbledore, walking through the streets of Hogsmeade in hopes of hiring a decent replacement for Professor Cayce so that he could finally achieve the momentary peace he wanted for himself.
It was Professor McGonagall's usual job to fill in the teacher positions for Hogwarts, but the Deputy Headmistress was currently indisposed. He'd rather not wait for her to return a fortnight from now and endure the wrath of tenacious parents, thank you very much.
Albus kindly smiled at those who were still prowling the streets at night until he arrived at the Hog's Head. The small overhead bell made a cheery jingle when he went inside. As always, the whole place had seen better days. Cobwebs were present in every corner he could see. Some of the tables looked rickety enough to topple after a couple more uses. Most of the frequent patrons looked quite shady, nursing a dirtied glass filled with firewhiskey to the brim, already lost in their own little worlds.
A soft, exasperated sigh escaped from his lips, his eyes instantly latching on Aberforth. His younger brother had always been untidy, even as a child. He'd admittedly believed it would be disastrous for Aberforth to man a pub, much less one that was near Hogwarts, but it had been surprisingly thriving. If one was willing to overlook the fact that the Hog's Head smelled strangely of goats, the meal and drinks would be deemed passable.
His younger brother caught his eye and tipped his head in greeting. He then canted his chin towards one of the back rooms in the pub and went back to wiping the bar counter.
Albus sadly smiled at Aberforth's curt dismissal, but it was a start. At least he was already talking to him again. Aberforth still hadn't forgiven him for Ariana and he technically hadn't apologised for it either. But he was just happy they were interacting once more. He was glad that if there was one good thing Voldemort's reign of terror had brought, it was to painstakingly mend the strained relationship he had with his younger brother.
As the Headmaster continued his saunter towards the backdoor, he faltered in his steps, noticing a group of young men out of the corner of his eyes. Normally, he would have ignored them altogether and gone on with his business, but it was troublesome how a group of rich Purebloods were huddled in a group, speaking quietly amongst themselves. He was able to recognise Lucius Malfoy, whose platinum blond hair was haphazardly concealed under a dark, heavy cloak. He'd recognised the Lestrange siblings too, and Barty Crouch Jr. and Evan Rosier.
His heart painfully clenched, remembering Regulus' list of recruited Death Eaters. Loath was he to admit it, but he'd always known these Purebloods would blindly follow in Voldemort's footsteps. With their sheer bigotry and obvious glorification for anything pure, their path had been decided as soon as they'd stepped foot inside Hogwarts. He greatly regretted not intervening, but Dumbledore was powerless against the families of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. He might have won Order of Merlin First Class, snagged the position of Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, become the longest running Headmaster of Hogwarts, and accumulated various awards and prestige to last him a lifetime, but Albus Dumbledore knew that in the eyes of these bigoted wizards, he would always, always be a Muggle-loving Half-blood fool.
Admittedly, he was curious as to what they were meeting about, but Dumbledore didn't come here to rouse suspicion. He took a mental note to question Regulus about any updates on Voldemort's end, before scurrying off towards the backdoor. He might have imagined a pair of silver eyes watching his movements, but when he sent another glance at the suspicious group, they were already lost in their own conversation.
He met Aberforth's eyes prior to coming inside the backroom, a silent plea in his gaze. His brother's eyes briefly landed at the group of Death Eaters and he gave the tiniest of nods, before attending to another customer.
When Dumbledore stepped inside, the waiting witch instantly bounded onto her feet. "Headmaster Dumbledore!" she floundered, her obnoxious bangles banging noisily with her nervous greeting.
"Please, Sybill, take a seat," he said, lightly smiling at the ditzy blonde.
Albus took his time to sit on the chair opposite Sybill Trelawney and keenly observed her, knowing full well she was growing uncomfortable with his gaze.
He'd never forgotten a student he'd handled in Hogwarts. As an odd, little witch, Sybill was someone who'd stuck in his memories, fondly remembering all those times she'd burst out into random prophecies that had scared off her peers. As bizarre as she was, it was saddening to see the Ravenclaw a lonely girl. But then again, with his old age and wide generation gap, he couldn't really do something for students like her, except to silently cheer them on.
He wasn't entirely surprised that she'd immediately sent her application when Dumbledore had announced the vacancy of the Divinations position. He'd already interviewed other aspirants, some really sticking out from the others. He was actually considering hiring Calliope Dearborn as the replacement, but Professor McGonagall reckoned it would be best to interview other applicants just in case someone else caught Dumbledore's fancy.
Sybill Trelawney, truth be told, absolutely did not catch Dumbledore's fancy. Although her family was famously known for producing seers—Dumbledore had been a really good friend of her grandmother, Cassandra Trelawney—he supposed Sybill wasn't appropriate for the position. She did spout various false prophecies during her youth and Dumbledore still wanted what was best for his students after all.
"How are you, Sybill?" he calmly asked.
Her eyes widened at his question, already making them unnaturally magnified and glassy because of her huge spectacles. "Quite well, Dumbledore. Thank you," she breathily replied. She gestured at the teapot set on the table and asked, "How do you like your tea?"
"With two cubes of sugar and a dash of milk, please."
He quietly observed her as she prepared their tea, already coming up with a decent excuse to let her down easy.
The eccentric witch then pushed the tea towards Dumbledore and stared wide-eyed, waiting for him to take a sip. He realised what she was trying to do and, with an internal sigh, he knew he had no other choice but to indulge the witch.
"Tell me, Sybill," Dumbledore calmly said, placing down his half-empty teacup back on the saucer. Her disappointed look wasn't left unnoticed, but she snapped her eyes back towards the wizard. "Why do you think you would be suitable for this position?"
"Oh," she said, nervously twisting a blonde curl with her finger. "Well, you see, Headmaster, if it escaped your notice, I belong to a family of seers."
His smile was tight. "I'm very good friends with your grandmother, Sybill," he replied. "And I do believe you declared various prophecies during your youth."
Her cheeks coloured sheepishly, her eyes now landing on the tabletop. "Various prophecies, yes," she airily replied. She shot another look at his teacup, and with an exasperated sigh, Dumbledore downed the remaining lukewarm tea.
"May I?" she tentatively asked, already extending a hand. Dumbledore silently gave her the empty teacup and watched as her eyes skimmed the clumped tea leaves at the bottom of the cup. With a pale face, she looked at Dumbledore and gravely replied, "You're going to die a slow, painful death, Headmaster. I believe you should stay away from any dark artifacts lying around. They may curse you if you are not careful enough."
His lips twitched in amusement, remembering the locked horcruxes inside his office. He also remembered Hermione's serious warning for him to steer clear off the Gaunt ring, insisting he placed a lot of warding spells on the ring box housing it. Perhaps, Sybill's prophecy wasn't too farfetched. "Thank you for the warning," he replied with a kind smile. "I will keep that in mind."
The witch returned his teacup, but before he could retrieve his hand back, Sybill had desperately clung to it with both of her smaller hands. Tears welled in her eyes, making her eyes more strangely glassy. "Please, Headmaster, I truly need this job," she sobbed. "I've been aimlessly searching for an opportunity for months but have miserably failed. I am practically penniless and I-I have nowhere else to go."
His eyes softened, reaching forward to pat her hands with his other free hand. "Please, Sybill, there's no need for your tears," he comforted.
She took a loud sniff and haphazardly wiped her tears away. Sybill then took a deep, shuddering breath and tried to bite down on her bottom lip to stifle her whimpers. Dumbledore worriedly patted his robes for a handkerchief, but then, his eyes slightly widened when her eyes glazed over. Sybill convulsed for a few moments before she slumped forward, head bowed down.
Dumbledore had only witnessed a true prophecy once, breathed out by her grandmother predicting the fall of Grindelwald, and it was undeniable that Sybill was about to declare another one.
He quickly conjured an orb and placed it on top of the table. At the same time, Sybill took a sharp intake of breath and voiced out words, her voice distorted and strained.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches," she announced. Dumbledore sat ramrod straight, realising the prophecy she was spouting concerned Voldemort's downfall. "Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies..."
A flash of grey eyes and platinum blond caught Dumbledore's eyes. He immediately stood up, unable to process Sybill's full prophecy, and grimly stared at the small, open slit of the door.
"What are you doing there, boy?! Out! Out! All of you! Out!" Aberforth's gruff voice called from the other side of the room. Dumbledore didn't have to look outside to know that it was Lucius Malfoy who'd overheard the first part of the prophecy.
He heard a few scraping chairs and scrambling footsteps. A few insults were thrown at his younger brother, but knowing Aberforth, the Hog's Head owner growled back expletives with practiced ease.
Once the ruckus from outside had died down, Albus glanced back at Sybill. The seer was slumped forward, her forehead resting against the cold, hard wooden table top. Beside her, the silvery orb glowed, echoes of whispered words swirling around.
The young witch suddenly sat back up, a confused look in her eyes. Her large glasses were perched askew on the bridge of her nose as she rapidly blinked her eyes at Dumbledore. "Oh, sorry," she said, lifting a hand to fix her glasses. "What were you saying, Headmaster?"
Albus tightly smiled and slipped down onto his chair once more. "I was saying that you can start moving into Professor Cayce's vacant room next week, Sybill," he calmly said. Sybill had gone misty-eyed.
"Really?" she gasped.
She wasn't the best choice, he admitted. Calliope Dearborn was still better in all ways. But he was afraid that Sybill Trelawney's life had just become ten times more important in this war than anybody else in this world. With Lucius Malfoy overhearing the first part of the prophecy, Dumbledore didn't doubt her life was already in danger. It would be best if he kept her as close to him as possible in order to protect her from Voldemort's wrath.
"Welcome to Hogwarts, Professor Trelawney."
_________
February 4, 1980
Lily Evans-Snape believed she was too stupid for this job.
Glaring warily at the small, angel statue on the top of her desk, she couldn't, for the life of her, understand how such an innocent statue could bring such huge misfortune over a quaint town in Derbyshire. She'd been slaving over this dark artifact for weeks and yet, she still couldn't crack the mystery of this stupid, stupid statue. Her husband had already pointed out she was getting too obsessed with it, stealing all of her time away from him but sadly, Lily couldn't set the statue aside.
The exhilaration of trying to decode the mysteries of the statue pumped adrenaline through her veins, but Lily felt too tired today to tinker with its obscure magic. Glancing miserably at the plain, white paint of her cramped office, she prayed to Merlin someone would whisk her away from this exasperating project.
Lily flinched when three, curt knocks filled her office. Wide-eyed, she stared at her unpretentious ceiling again, wondering if her Unspeakable-trained mind had started conjuring the most impossible things. "Unspeakable Snape?" a soft voice called from the other side of the door, followed by three more knocks.
Lily snorted at the address, still terribly unused to being called as such. Sev told her he didn't really mind if she continued using her last name. After all, it would be such a waste if everybody started addressing her by a name she'd merely acquired through marriage. They'd finally settled on an agreement that Lily would hyphenate, but her co-workers reckoned 'Evans-Snape' was too long. Lily had come to finally accept she'd be 'Snape' to them. Truthfully, she didn't mind at all.
"Come in," she called, realising she hadn't given her answer.
The door creaked open and the Department intern, a wiry, fidgety redhead named Saul Croaker, peeked inside. "Unspeakable Snape," he greeted, fully stepping inside when Lily ushered him to come in.
"What is it, Saul?" she asked. Her eyes grew wide and pleading, prompting the younger wizard to quirk a smile at her exasperated state. "Please tell me I'm needed elsewhere. Please. I think I'm going mad trying to crack the mystery of this... this bloody angel statue!" She threw another glare at the innocent figurine, trying to restrain herself from flinging it across her office.
"You have a visitor," he answered instead. "He specifically asked for your assistance."
Lily's lips fell into a frown. "Visitor?" she echoed. Saul curtly nodded his head. "Very well. Let him in."
Saul disappeared from her office. When he came back, Albus Dumbledore was in tow. Lily's eyes widened, promptly shooting up from her swivelling chair to greet the Order leader. "Headmaster Dumbledore!" she gasped.
"Please, Albus is fine, Lily," he said with an amused smile. "You are not my student anymore."
Her cheeks coloured. "Right, sorry, Albus," she floundered. She then gestured at the empty chair in front of her desk. "Please have a seat. Would you like some tea?"
It bothered her how tightly he pursed his lips. The usual twinkle behind his half-moon spectacles was gone and Lily already had an inkling this visit wasn't merely a friendly one. "I'm afraid we have far more important things to discuss today," he gravely said.
His blue eyes held meaning and with a curt nod, she hastily dismissed a curious Saul and settled back down on her seat.
She quietly watched as Dumbledore pulled out a glowing orb from his robe pockets and placed it on top of her desk. Her eyes widened, recognising it as a prophecy, having seen multiple orbs lining the high shelves of the Prophecy Room. "I-I don't think I have the jurisdiction to look at a prophecy, Prof—Albus," she said, hastily covering up her slip. "I'm still in the first year of my training and Senior Unspeakables handle them instead. Let me—"
He cut her off with a raise of his hand. "I've already talked to Broderick, Lily," he reassured, pertaining to the Unspeakable directly handling Lily. "He has given me the permission to decipher the prophecy with you."
Her brows knitted in suspicion.
"You see, it is about Voldemort," he calmly explained, unfazed by the little gasp Lily expelled. "I think it will be best if the prophecy stayed amongst the members of the Order."
"What about Voldemort?"
Instead of answering her, Dumbledore pulled out his wand and tapped the glass orb thrice. White mist billowed out, swirling into an image until Lily recognised the eccentric Sybill Trelawney. She only remembered her as an older Ravenclaw, traipsing around Hogwarts and proclaiming ridiculous prophecies that drove the other students away from her. Her nose unwittingly wrinkled, knowing that she was a sham. But she pursed her lips and stared at Sybill's face. Her eyes were glazed, almost like in a trance state, and when she opened her lips, the voice she expelled was low and distorted.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches..." she ominously started. "Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies..." The dubious expression on Lily's face morphed into surprised curiosity. "And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have a power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."
Once the prophecy ended, the white mist swirled back into the glass orb.
Deafening silence followed Sybill's ominous declaration, and Lily took that time to mull over the words she had just heard. Her mind was already a jumbled mess from the prophecy, but there were startling snippets that stuck in her mind. 'Born to those who have thrice defied him' meant the parents of this future saviour had already been fighting against Voldemort's tyranny, refusing to join his cause. And the child... 'Born as the seventh month dies'... That one was easier to decipher and when Lily arrived at that conclusion, the curiosity on her face bled into utter horror, tears now gathering in the corner of her wide, emerald eyes.
Dumbledore was smiling sadly at her expression. "The Longbottoms' child will be born in July," he said.
"So will James and Hermione's," she croaked, the tears now steadily pouring down her pale face.
She didn't like the look on Dumbledore's face because he was always, always hopeful. The dark shadows under his dim eyes and the grim line on his face meant that this issue was burdening him greatly and Lily could not accept that. "Prophecies aren't predictions of the future," she harshly spat, speaking out one of the primary rules she'd learned in the Department of Mysteries.
"No, they're not," Dumbledore said, quirking a small, comforting smile. "Many prophecies have not come to pass."
"But you're worried," she accused. "It's written all over your face." She knew she was being rude to perhaps the greatest wizard that had ever graced this world, but fear had creeped into Lily's heart for the brunette she had come to love like a sister.
The old wizard looked wearier, aging more years right before her eyes. Dumbledore pursed his lips tightly and Lily waited for him to collect his thoughts. "Prophecies are uttered as a warning of a possible future," Dumbledore started. "They drive a monumental change of attitude to change the present, not actively predict a rigid future." His lips twitched into a sad smile, his eyes meeting her watery gaze. "There is no definite future, branched instead into infinite possibilities that will solely depend on the actions of those who are in the present. I think this simple fact is often glossed over, with individual minds already consumed by terror or anticipation of a future that would always be uncertain. I believe even Voldemort, no matter how brilliant that brain of his, would be like this too."
"What are you trying to say?"
"Tom, I'm afraid, is driven by greed and hate," Dumbledore continued. "If he ever discovers this prophecy, he'd do whatever it takes to destroy those who will possibly pave the path towards his downfall."
Lily gasped in horror. "But a baby!" she cried.
"Whatever it takes," he echoed, his stare hard and firm as Lily unabashedly started to sob.
"We have to tell them," she demanded. "We have to tell Hermione... Hermione—" Words were drowned by her terrified cries, heart painfully clenching for her best friend who'd been through a lot already. Lily still couldn't imagine how Hermione was able to survive all those years in her previous life. Ever since she'd discovered about Hermione Granger, Lily had fervently wished Hermione Pettigrew would live a happy life, devoid of the misery and pain her past life had been familiarly acquainted with for years. But now... now, with this blasted prophecy, Hermione would be subjected to such obstacles once more and Lily's heart hurt for her best friend.
"We will," Dumbledore said with a reassuring smile, fishing out a handkerchief from his pocket and extending it towards the distraught witch. "I do not want to lie and say they will be perfectly safe. But we will protect them."
Despite her swimming eyes, Lily's gaze turned resolute. Hermione might be facing another huge obstacle that may be difficult to overcome, but Lily would protect her and stay by her side, no matter what.
_________
February 9, 1980
Anya Pettigrew believed she was too lenient with her children.
Wrinkling her nose at her empty house, Anya once again believed that Hermione and Peter were hiding something from her. She had bathed them, fed them, nurtured them, and loved them endlessly after all. Even though they'd never spoken about anything suspicious when she was in the room, she'd noticed the nervous glint in their eyes and how their jaws tensed, minds too preoccupied with bothersome thoughts.
Anya truly wanted to know what was wrong. Her impatience sometimes got the better of her, wanting to snarl angry words at her children and relieve her from the misery of being left in the dark. But Anya would remind herself she wasn't that girl anymore. She wasn't the perfect Selwyn daughter, with a fiery temper that could burn down a village, and a sharp tongue that could slice a man's heart in two. She'd long since turned her back on her past and had embraced her quiet, present life, with children she loved more than life itself.
Still, her children were testing her patience. She doubted Peter was only doing Auror duties. It was especially worrisome because Hermione, her pregnant daughter, was also doing something behind her back. Anya just wished they would tell her what was wrong because as their mother, she truly wanted to help them in any way she could.
But today, with both her children away from home doing their business, Anya was glad for the solitude. A bewildering letter from someone she'd never thought of talking to, ever since she'd turned her back on her family, was sent to her yesterday, and he was begging to meet her. Anya was hesitant to agree, but he was still her brother after all, and thus relented with the condition they met at her own home, knowing completely he'd be nervous around all the Muggle things.
A polite knock from the front door roused her from her thoughts. Anya took a deep breath to calm her frazzled nerves and stood up straighter, chin a little higher, before striding towards the door and yanking it open.
Alexei Selwyn tensely stood outside her Muggle house and although his face did not betray any emotion, Anya could see that his clear, blue eyes held discomfort.
She felt her heart stuttering at the sight of the man two years older than her, with a proud brow and chiselled bones that screamed the perfect Pureblood heir of the House of Selwyn. His hair was a few shades darker than Anya's, gelled impeccably on top of his head without a single strand out of place.
For a moment, her childhood with this tense man flashed before her mind's eye, memories of chasing around the rose garden of the Selwyn Estate and terrorising their poor house-elf. Once upon a time, she'd truly loved him because he was her older brother, and he'd protected her, cared for her, and let little Anastasia get away with shenanigans she had always found herself in. But Anya hadn't spoken to him for years already, much less seen him in the flesh, and it took her a moment to realise that this man standing in front of her was already a stranger.
"May I come in?" he politely asked, his blue eyes warily glancing over her shoulders, most likely dreading all the Muggle contraptions Anya had decorated her home with.
The younger witch stepped aside and let him through. She slowly closed the door and took another deep breath to gather her composure.
When she turned around, her lips slightly twitched into a small smile, finding it ridiculous how the imposing man was standing in the middle of her living room, a completely befuddled and disgusted look painted on his aristocratic face.
"Why did you wish to see me?" she demanded, knowing that engaging this stranger in small talk would be painful and awkward.
Alexei's eyes snapped back towards Anya, a hard glint in his eyes. "Have you been well, Anastasia?" he calmly asked.
The witch snorted. "Please, I know this visit isn't to chat about the weather and all that shite, Alexei," she snapped back. "And that's Anya to you."
A small, fond smile briefly flitted on his face. "Still as feisty as ever, I see," he drawled, a tinge of amusement in his tone of voice. "I thought all those years surrounding yourself with filth may have mellowed you out, Anastasia."
Her eyes dangerously flashed. "What do you want?" she demanded. Her fingers flexed, wondering if it would be safe to grasp her wand, just in case. But she thought otherwise, believing that despite their currently different beliefs, Alexei would never hurt his little sister.
His façade of perfect indifference broke, desperation seeping through the cracks. "It isn't too late, Anya," he whispered. She was forced to look away, thickly swallowing at the emotions swirling in his blue eyes. "The Dark Lord is steadily gaining power. In a few months, he will completely take over the Wizarding World. Run back to your life... run back with me. He will spare you, I promise. If you pledge your allegiance to him and vow to forever serve him, he will spare you and your family. You were brilliant with the Dark Arts. The Dark Lord will appreciate your service and your skills."
"That isn't me anymore, Alexei," she ground out. "You know that."
His desperation morphed into unadulterated anger. "You were always the more intelligent one between us," he spat. "But when that stupid filth caught your heart, you became spineless and decided to run away! That vermin didn't love you, Anya. You were blinded by that drunkard's pointless promises when all he ever did was fucking hit you."
She recoiled as if he'd physically slapped her himself. Her blue eyes misted, but she refused to let her tears fall. "You were spying on me," she snarled. "All these years, you've been spying on me and my family." She was deeply ashamed of how she'd ended up married to a man she thought had loved her as her – magic and all. Anya knew she was partially at fault for being vague about her past to Timothy, telling him she was from an old, rich family but conveniently leaving out the fact that she was a witch. And for years, they had been truly happy. Timothy loved her very much, treated her right, and cared for her and their small family. But she knew it was only a matter of time before she needed to reveal what she truly was. When Timothy discovered one-year-old Peter could levitate his toys, Anya had no choice but to tell him the woman he'd married was a witch.
She'd truly thought he would accept her—hoped fervently, even. But Timothy couldn't accept her magical background and had grown distant, turning to his liquor for comfort. He'd grown abusive too – at first verbally, and then physically, and he'd once told her during one of his drunken states that the only reason he stayed with her was because of the children.
Anya knew the only reason why she stayed, why she endured all the abuse, was because of the children too. Looking back now, she realised staying with Timothy had been her greatest mistake. Perhaps, if she'd left, Peter wouldn't have that strange glint in his eyes every time he did something wrong, as if wondering whether he was turning into that monster. Perhaps, Hermione wouldn't have been exposed to violence at such a very young age.
But, to her knowledge, none of the Selwyns had known he'd become abusive once he discovered he'd married a witch. And to discover that they'd been spying on her family for years, without even stepping in to intervene, left a bad taste in Anya's mouth.
Alexei didn't even bother coming up with a lie. Instead, he stiffly strode towards his sister and towered over her form. The Selwyn heir was truly terrifying if he wanted to be, but Anya had been immune to his disastrous temper, having been able to match it with her equally terrifying one. "I thought you'd learnt your lesson," he snarled. "I thought after the way he'd treated you, you'd realise that you are surrounded by filth and the only way to get rid of people like him is to go back to your family and embrace the Dark Lord's beliefs. Father would have gladly welcomed you back, Anya. Mother would have been harder to sway, but she would have accepted you, if you'd promised not to turn your back on us again."
Her heart painfully clenched at the mention of her parents. They loved her, truly, because despite how the Dark Arts had corrupted their hearts, her parents still showed how much they truly cared for her by giving her everything she wanted.
Tears sprang in her eyes and she determinedly took a few steps away from her enraged brother. "If I were given the choice to go back, Alexei, I'd gladly run away again," she whispered. Perhaps, the real reason why she ran away was because of her love for Timothy. But, Anya knew in the deepest recesses of her heart that she couldn't fully embrace the Dark Arts. She'd seen how Alexei, the brother she'd looked up to, had changed when he'd started to hang out with the wrong sort of wizards. And Anya didn't want that for herself.
"Anya—"
She vigorously shook her head as tears poured out from her eyes. "I've missed you so much, Alexei. I love you because you're my brother," she whispered. "But I love my children more than anything else in this world. I cannot go back and watch as your precious Dark Lord dims the light in their eyes."
"How dare you—"
"Get out," she harshly spat, unwilling to listen to him anymore. "I've already made my choice and it is clear to me that it isn't congruent with yours."
Her brother shook and balled his hands into fists. "This is your last chance, Anastasia," he said through gritted teeth. "Otherwise, you've practically marked yourself as an enemy of the Dark Lord."
She pursed her lips and met his gaze. Despite inheriting the Selwyn eyes, Alexei's had always been a few shades lighter. Often, they were almost grey, the lightest being when her brother was at his happiest. Young Anya was admittedly jealous of his pretty eyes. But now... now, Alexei's eyes were almost icy grey, his stare cold and unforgiving. Truly, the brother she had loved was gone.
There was a hard, dangerous glint in his eyes and Anya's wand hand shook. Wild sirens inside her mind went off, crackling magic coursing through her veins and into each of her fingertips. Alexei towered over her menacingly, and before she could even pull out her wand, his was already clutched tightly in his hand.
A dark curse slipped out of his lips, hitting her squarely on the chest. Anya's eyes widened, disbelieving that her brother had resorted to this, to hurting her, just because she refused to join Voldemort's cause.
As she slumped onto the floor, with darkness steadily claiming her consciousness, the last thing Anya thought was that her brother was dead, gone forevermore.
-ooo-
James Potter believed he was too young for all of these bullshite.
He'd always lived a privilege life, properly doted on as the future heir of an old, rich Pureblood family. For most of his youth, he'd believed he could get whatever he wanted. He grew up admittedly spoiled and it was very hard for him to accept a resounding 'no'. Sometimes, he wondered how his friends had stuck by him, especially on days when he was incorrigible at best. Which was why he had been understandably flummoxed at being constantly rejected by Lily Evans because how could she? He was rich, he had above average looks, he was bloody brilliant at Transfiguration and Charms, and he'd been hailed as one of the best Chasers Hogwarts had ever seen.
Loath was he to admit it, but he knew he'd always had it easy. Among the four Marauders, he had the best life. Sirius had been born into a family who now wanted absolutely nothing to do with him. Remus had been bitten by Fenrir Greyback at a very young age and was stuck with an accursed affliction for the rest of his life. And Peter had accidentally killed his abusive father with his magic, which still constantly haunted him on days when he was at his lowest.
So perhaps, falling in love with an incorrigible witch was fate's way of shaking him out of his carefree, privileged life.
Hermione Pettigrew was still the best thing that had ever happened to him, of course. It still dumbfounded him at times how a brilliant, terrifying witch had fallen in love with him. But he wasn't prepared to discover that she was a time traveller, a hardened War Heroine where she had always been at the forefront, fighting alongside The-Boy-Who-Lived. He wasn't prepared to see how her eyes sometimes turned forlorn, gazing unseeingly into a nightmare only she was able to conjure in her mind. He wasn't prepared to accept that she'd throw herself recklessly in front of harm's way, even if it would cost her her life.
Falling in love with Hermione Pettigrew came with a lot of baggage, which she'd willingly burdened on her shoulders because that was just how she was—golden-hearted, bright-eyed, and a force to be reckoned with.
After everything she'd revealed to him, James just wanted to envelop her in his arms and hide her away from all the coiling turmoil in this bloody fucking world. The desire had especially increased now that she was carrying his child, his heir, and pushing those temptations away was a constant struggle every day. Hermione would surely lash out a well-aimed Bat-Bogey Hex his way if she realised what his thoughts were always about.
"All right, Prongs?"
He was brought back into the reality and lightly glared at his shaggy-haired best friend. Sirius' eyes widened, realising what he'd just asked. "Shite, of course you're bloody not," he said with a heavy sigh.
James looked away as his eyes misted. "I don't think I can tell her, mate," he croaked.
Sirius expelled another heavy sigh and patted his arm in comfort. "I know," he murmured. "I'll do the talking, James."
They'd finally arrived at the back garden of the Potter Manor. It was still terribly cold, but winter was slowly blossoming into spring. The garden was already starting to boast the beautiful flowers Euphemia loved so much, their blooming petals bright and stark amidst the thin blanket of snow on the ground.
Seated at one of the tables were his mother and fiancée, browsing through various catalogues for James' approaching marriage with Hermione. The younger witch was obviously uncomfortable, but Hermione had masked it behind her pretty smile and bright eyes, indulging the excited older witch.
"Oh, you're here!" Euphemia exclaimed. Hermione's eyes latched onto the newcomers, and the polite smile she was wearing turned into a full-blown smile.
James thickly swallowed, unable to match her beautiful smile, knowing full well that it would disappear as soon as they broke the news. Hermione's smile faltered, noting the grim look on his face.
"Come, James," his oblivious mother said. "Hermione and I were just trying to decide which flowers would best suit your wedding. I was thinking of lilies of the valley, but I still want to add some vibrant colour to the ceremony. Perhaps, a new set of eyes will help us decide."
His eyes never strayed to Euphemia, intently latched onto Hermione's suddenly worried gaze. In three big strides, he reached his pregnant bride-to-be and engulfed her into a tight hug.
"James?" she worriedly asked. "What's wrong?"
His hold around her merely tightened, deciding that he'd be her anchor after Sirius broke the news.
"Hermione," Sirius gravely called. He felt her stiffen in his embrace, because they both knew the smarmy bastard always made it a point to tease her with his fond nickname. She could already detect from Sirius' tone of voice and his serious address, that something was very, very wrong. "There has been an attack at your home. Your mother... she's..."
James tightened his hold around Hermione as tears sprang in his eyes.
"She's in St. Mungo's."