Work Text:
Petunia Dursley—September 1996
All the downstairs lights were on in Number 4 Privet Drive. Petunia Dursley was the only one awake in the house, listening to Vernon’s snores shaking the house while she stood at the sink scrubbing away at the dishes that had been dirtied over the course of their latest dinner party.
She wondered idly when the lights had started making that annoying buzzing sound and how many days it would be before her next letter from Dudley came in the mail. She hoped it wouldn’t be another of his forgetful terms, that he’d remember to send over even one letter a month. She wondered how often Harry wrote that redheaded family he spent his holidays with. (She wondered if maybe he’d send her letters if she’d been kinder to him.)
She shook her head; it was nearing morning and Vernon expected to wake up to a clean house as well as a fresh breakfast. There was no time to ponder letters and what-ifs.
The next morning, she waved to her husband as he backed out of the drive and pushed the thought of green eyed possibilities from her mind.
Sybill Trelawney & Severus Snape—Christmas 1982
It was miserable and cold beyond the castle walls, and a draft blew through Sybill’s living quarters every few minutes, but other than that, the whole place was wonderfully warm. The Christmas Eve feast had wrapped up some hours before and it had been beautiful and bright.
It hadn’t matched Severus’ nor Sybill’s mood that night.
No, those two unlikely friends were drowning their sorrows in alcohol. Severus’ heart still ached with the loss of Lily Potter barely a year earlier and Sybill—well, she felt that loss through him and her part in it drove her to seek kinder visions at the bottom of the bottle.
Sybill remembered that damned interview; she’d been hoping to secure employment, and a home (a warm and welcoming place for herself) by giving Dumbledore vital information. And Severus didn’t blame her.
She sat across from him, watching him sob and shake and drink as he mourned and she could do nothing to help despite the weight of guilt lodged in her chest.
Gellert Grindlewald—July 1997
Gellert had never anticipated outliving Albus, not when they were young men and certainly not after his fall from grace.
So, he felt far beyond his depth when he rolled over in his cot in his dreary little cell to read the paper provided to him (some weeks out of date) and read that Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore had died. He didn’t know what to do with himself in a world where he woke up and Albus didn’t.
So, he raged.
He raged and raged and raged.
His magic flared and died and flared and died over and over again, sending cracks spreading through the stone walls holding him.
His guards didn’t know what to do with him, this man—this monster—who grieved his best friend turned mortal enemy turned nothing at all.
But they didn’t need to do anything with him, not really. If he was a younger man, a healthier man, then perhaps he could’ve made an attempt to escape, but as it stood, he was old and tired and full of complicated grief.
And there was really no point of escaping into a world where he existed and Albus didn’t. So, when the fire of his rage at Albus’ death died down into despair, he collapsed into his cot once more and fell into a deep fitful sleep.
Remus Lupin—November 1st 1981
When the sun set on November 1st, 1981, Remus Lupin found himself alone. Peter was dead. Lily and James were dead. Sirius was in Azkaban. And Harry—he didn’t even know where Harry was. Dumbledore had declared that not even Remus was allowed to know of his location save that wherever he was, he was safe.
It had been a long war and a longer day and Remus was so very tired.
He sat in a worn chair by the window in the shabby little apartment that Sirius had paid the lease on for nearly fifty years. He’d wanted Remus to have a roof over his head and a pillow under it no matter what happened to him. He’d said that it was uncertain times and anything could happen.
Remus threw back a glass of overpriced scotch and tried (and failed) not to remember that it tasted like Sirius’ lips when they’d fallen into bed after they’d finished moving Remus into the apartment.
He tried not to cry, not to sob—Sirius had always said he was an ugly crier, even as he’d kissed the tears away.
He thought of a little boy with no parents, no uncles Wormtail, Moony, or Padfoot. And he failed to hold back his tears.
Tom Marvolo Riddle—1950
Tom Riddle was gripped a sudden horrible fear.
He was closing up shop at Borgin and Burke after a long day spent dealing with idiotic, asinine customers and for a horrible moment a thought had bounced around inside his skull.
What if this doesn’t work?
He wished that he could’ve dismissed the thought like so many insignificant things before it, but he feared. What if he should fail in his pursuit of power and immortality? What then?
He’d dedicated nearly his whole life to that pursuit. He’d tortured and schemed and killed for it. He’d torn apart his soul for it, and yet, the possibility remained that he might fail. Perhaps he had peaked in Hogwarts, as the King of Slytherin.
Perhaps he would spend the rest of his days as nothing more than a shop clerk (maybe he’d enter the ministry and achieve some modicum of success, but what if it was just that?).
These were futures that Tom Riddle dare not consider beyond the most superficial levels even as their possibility haunted him.
No, he decided. He had to finish his work. His labors would bear fruit. He would make it so no matter the cost because he was Tom Riddle and Tom Riddle did not fail.
He would see to it that Tom Riddle would not fester in mediocrity, remembered only as a waste of all that potential he’d exhibited from youth.
So, Tom combed his hair back and locked up the shop, new plans—better plans—already taking shape.
Harry Potter—May 3rd 1998
Harry woke up sore in his bed in the Gryffindor boys’ dormitory; the sun was low and fat in the sky, hovering over the Forbidden Forest like a dragon hunched over its hoard. It had been a long day, a long year . . . a long life and he’d overslept.
He stared out the window at the setting sun until all that remained of it was the burnt orange of the sky that faded into dark blue and black. And then he went down steps that echoed from the emptiness of the castle usually full to bursting with life.
He walked his way out into the courtyard where he’d faced Voldemort.
And he cried, deep heaving sobs that had him on his knees in the dirt in seconds. He cried for everyone that had gone before him and everyone left behind.
He cried until he felt like no one at all.