Chapter Text
Harry Potter is 15 when he meets Albus Dumbledore.
The name doesn’t ring a bell as he gazes blankly at the strange man who calls himself a wizard and the headmaster of a school for magic. Dumbledore’s eyes twinkle and smile as he looks at Harry, telling him about his heroic parents, his defeat of an evil wizard as a baby, how he was hidden in the muggle world for his own safety. Dumbledore’s story becomes a little vague when he mentions how Harry was sent a letter when he was 11 – a letter that his aunt and uncle withheld from him. He doesn’t go into detail about how nobody thought it was strange that there was no reply, doesn’t say anything about anyone ever coming to check on Harry.
The twinkle in his eye dims when Harry just watches him, blank and empty. He doesn’t react when his aunt sneers to the strange headmaster, that the boy doesn’t speak, that he’s a freak, that now Dumbledore is here, he can take the boy, and he need not bother bringing him back. She tells Dumbledore how they had wanted to get rid of the boy ever since he came to live with them, but they’d kept him because nobody else wanted him. Well, now Dumbledore was here, and he could take the boy and get out.
Dumbledore puts on a genial face, beckoning Harry to come stand by him. He holds Harry’s arm when he gets close enough, and magically transports them to a huge office filled with strange artefacts, whirring and spinning and puffing and glowing.
Harry looks around slowly, face still blank. Dumbledore gestures for him to sit, and begins to explain the story again, in a little more detail. Not the part about how nobody looked for Harry, how nobody wondered if he was okay. No, he explains the part about a baby supposedly killing an evil, dark wizard, and how his mother’s sacrifice gave him some special power or something.
Eventually, it all boils down to – the evil wizard has returned, Harry has to go kill him, because apparently nobody else can.
Harry is silent, but not stupid. He knows that this man intends for him to go and die. How could he fight an evil wizard? He doesn’t know any magic spells. He doesn’t protest though. He nods once, to Dumbledore’s surprise, and walks out of the office. Dumbledore calls after him, ‘Good luck, my boy!’ but Harry ignores him. It’s not a genuine wish for luck, the man is just trying to play the part of heroic grandfather figure or something.
Harry doesn’t really know where he’s going, as he descends through the castle, but he feels something odd in his chest, follows its lead. He’s felt it before, like a warmth in his chest that isn’t really his own. He knows its not his own, because he is cold. Always cold.
And empty.
A shell.
It didn’t matter now anyway – he was walking to his death. His lips almost twitch into a smile, relief flowing through him. It would finally all be over. He’d waited so long, even tried to hurry things up on occasion – but he was still here, still breathing. He hoped this evil wizard could finish things properly, end his empty, useless, suffering existence. He was ready.
He ignores the stares and whispers as he walked through the magic castle, eyes fixed on the ground as he walks, but he can see out of the corners of his eyes, and the magic castle looks like there’s been a lot of fighting, a lot of destruction. Harry wonders if Dumbledore had tried to fight the evil wizard but couldn’t, so he went looking for Harry as a goat to slaughter. Not a lamb – Harry was not innocent and unblemished. He was broken and dirty and worthless. But he supposes any sacrifice would do in the old man’s eyes.
He doesn’t really care anyway. He isn’t walking to his death to save anyone else – he is just walking to his death. He wants relief. He wants it all to be over.
The warm feeling in his chest feels like it’s trying to wrap around him as he walks, and he lets it. It doesn’t really matter if he fights it or embraces it – he’d be at peace soon either way. No sense fighting it, might as well let the warmth move as it pleases. It leads him outside, away from the magic castle, and into a forest.
It’s silent as he walks – peaceful. The sound of shouting and crying and the smell of dust and burning and blood fades, and the air is clean and still and quiet. He breathes deeply. This seems like a nice place to die. The sky grows dark as he walks, and he has to strain his eyes a little to keep on the path the warmth is leading him down.
When he reaches a large clearing, he steps out into the open without hesitation. His blank, empty eyes flow over the assembly of people in strange cloaks, many with strange masks on too. The group shuffles as he approaches, leaving a space for him to walk right to the centre. He ignores the jeers and whispers and someone’s cackling laugh, stopping quietly in the middle of the circle.
His gaze moves slowly until he is looking at who he assumes is the leader. He gazes quietly as the man taunts him. ‘Harry Potter, come to die.’ He smirks.
Harry lifts his hands. I have a request, he signs.
The cackling woman screeches at him. ‘Who does he think he is, filthy half-blood! Making demands of the Great Dark Lord! Kill him, we will! Tear him apart!’ She shrieks and yowls and spits like an animal.
Harry doesn’t react. He lifts his hands again. I wish to look at the stars as I die, he signs.
The screeching stops abruptly. The group shuffles nervously, confused. Harry looks blankly at the screeching woman, who is staring at him with wide eyes. She seems to be the only one who knows sign language. When she just stares at him, not translating, he decides to move anyway.
He slowly lowers himself to the ground, ignoring the incredulous stares of the strangers around him. When he is flat on his back, hands resting over his stomach, eyes fixed on the stars above him, he sighs deeply. Lifting his hands just enough to move, he signs, I’m ready.
‘What is he doing? What was that with his hands?’ a harsh whisper calls to the screeching woman, who just stares at him.
‘Bellatrix,’ snaps the evil wizard leader. ‘What is the meaning of this?!’
Bellatrix, apparently, blinks. ‘He has requested to look at the stars as he dies.’ She says, voice quiet and soft and sane.
A couple of people scoff, and the evil wizard leader sneers. ‘Foolish boy, stand up and fight!’
When Harry doesn’t move, just stares at the sky, the evil wizard leader points his magic wand at Harry and says, ‘Crucio!’, and Harry writhes in silent pain. When the spell ends, he gasps a ragged breath, blinks the tears from his eyes, and focuses on the sky.
The evil wizard leader snarls wordlessly, raising his wand to do it again, but the screeching woman – Bellatrix, steps between him and Harry.
She can feel the same warm feeling in her chest that Harry felt, ghosting over her skin, caressing her, holding her close and tender. It speaks to her – not with words, exactly, but she hears them all the same, knew them all the same. A child of the stars… a child of House Black. He is my chosen…’ she feels the words drifting through her mind, and her eyes widen in surprise. She knows what the voice is, what it means. She can feel the fog of madness dissipating from her mind, and she can see clearly.
‘No. No more. This is a child of the stars, a child of the House of Black. He deserves a respectful death – if he deserves death at all.’ She says, still quiet and calm and soft.
Her declaration causes sparks of chaos in the group. Gasps and sneers and hasty backwards steps. Nobody wants to stand close to a mad woman who defies their Lord. He is furious, and confused, and afraid – but he only lets the anger show. He raises his wand again, casts the same curse again, but is cut off abruptly when another curse slams into him.
Bellatrix stands straight and determined between the boy and the madman, wand in hand. She does not step aside when he demands it over her. She does not cower or waver when he screams at her, calling her a traitor, and the others shuffle and point their wands nervously at her.
‘I am loyal to the blood of the House of Black first. This boy has the soul, the magic of a Black. He deserves a respectful death – or no death at all.’ She insists, quiet and determined and immovable.
When the madman raises his wand, she quickly chants something in another language, and a glow covers her and Harry, laying still and quiet and unconcerned on the ground, watching the stars, patiently awaiting his death.
The madman casts a sickly green curse, which cuts straight through the glow and hits Harry square in the side of his torso, before exploding and whipping back towards the caster. The madman drops, dead before he hits the ground.
Trying to kill the boy has destroyed his last horcrux, and there is nothing left to tether him to this world. His soul is gone.
His followers stare. Nobody moves, nobody quite sure what to do next.
A strange breeze flows through the clearing, sounding like whispers, words that can’t quite be caught, caressing over skin, brushing against minds. They can all hear it, all feel it, as they glance at one another. It is so rare to hear Lady Magic’s voice, they are frozen in shock and delight and fear.
The breeze flows around the group, then centres on the unconscious boy, laying on his back, face turned to the sky. He is lifted gently, carefully, into the air. A warm glow seems to surround him, emanate from him.
This is my Chosen, they feel Lady Magic’s voice, not with words, but known all the same. He will restore the balance between Light and Dark. He will restore me. Protect and guide him. He is my Chosen.
The breeze fades, the boy’s body gently lowered to the ground. Wide eyes glance around, seeking guidance.
Bellatrix steps forward, kneeling beside the boy. She brushes a strand of hair from his forehead, stirred by the breeze. ‘We will take him with us, train him and teach him what he needs to learn, to restore balance as Lady Magic has decreed.’
Nobody argues, a couple of heads nodding in agreement. They apparate themselves by unspoken agreement to the former Dark Lord’s manor, Bellatrix bringing the boy with her.
He is laid carefully on a bed, surrounded by wide, staring eyes. Their new lord, laying before them. It would be pointless to argue with Lady Magic, not when she had been so clear. This boy – skinny and ragged, who had walked fearlessly among them and laid down to wait for death, was chosen my Lady Magic to lead them.
It would be a long road ahead.