Filthy Mudblood

It does not do to dwell on dreams, and forget to live

The bounty had been set weeks before the night it all came crashing down. Even James and Lily Potter knew that the Dark Lord was after them. After a prediction from Sybil Trelawney, what more could they do than entrust their lives to their closest companions, and shield themselves from the Dark Lord until further plans could me made for their safety. This, combined with the silent help of Severus Snape, allowed Dumbledore to act as quickly as he could. However, Dumbledore did not hold sole responsibility of the Potter family. They happily chose their friends, their nearest and dearest to hold their secrets. Their friends were their lifeline. What Voldemort knew, that the Potter’s did not, was this very act of friendship was not only their greatest weakness, but his only way to confound the prophecy. Voldemort understood that their faith in others was their biggest downfall.

Would it be the rouge: the young and reckless Sirius Black? No. The astute and concerned wolf, Lupin? Not likely, too easy. Dumbledore? Easier still. Yes, it would be the rat, it was perfect: Wormtail. Voldemort would target the worm and contract him into service. He was impressionable enough, he would fall in line through fear. And Voldemort would handle the matter personally. He would see to the boy whom prophecy stated would bring upon the downfall of He Who Must Not Be Named. Severus Snape begged for the life of Lily Potter, but his cries fell on deaf ears. Voldemort, in his mission to secure his everlasting life, informed his double-agent that all the Potter’s must go – no trace must be left, no soul left untouched. They all must die. They would never see it coming, that cold October evening. And nor would their family and friends. This night would change everything the Wizarding World ever knew.

He was such a brilliant boy. In every sense of the word, Cedric was everything they had hoped for. They had tried for years for children, to no avail, and then, like a distant light through a thick mist, their gloom was lifted, and a son was granted to them. They saw Cedric as their hope; their way of knowing all their strife and efforts were worth it. Mrs. Diggory had lost children in their pursuit of happiness, thus Cedric was their destiny in a sense. He was tall, handsome like his father was in his youth, intelligent, kind and had friends all throughout Hogwarts. Amos Diggory was proud to call Cedric his boy, his only son.

For such a warm boy, Amos could only remember one thing about that night. His son was cold. He had arranged events in his mind over and over, in a bid to patch together Cedric’s last moments. The Maze…the Portkey…The Graveyard…he counted beats in his head, as if to place out some kind of rhythm to his death. Amos knew, without a shred of blame in his heart, that Harry Potter was not responsible. He had always seen a shimmer of strength in the other boy. Alas, compared to his own son, who was Harry Potter, but another friend of the Weasley family. Cedric was the true hero, he would think to himself. After he was killed however, he felt, as if by some strange act of magic, that Cedric’s strength would live on. It’s up to Harry now. He thought of the Boy Who Lived often – thought about his future, and what it would have been like if Harry had died in Cedric’s place. He could only hope now, that Harry, unlike himself – old and weary with grief, would finish what Amos had thought about so many times. Revenge upon the Dark Lord.

His light had been snuffed out. And he would never get it back.  

She was beautiful once. She remembered a time, when she gazed in the mirror, and something entirely different looked back at her. She thought about when her husband asked for her hand in marriage, and all others whom desired her hung their heads in defeat. She married because it was required of her. Rodolphus was a good man, a quiet man, in line with her thoughts of blood purity. However, there was something that made Bellatrix stop and think. She could remember the day her sister, Narcissa, had married Lucius Malfoy, and how it had been the happiest day of her life – not to mention the pride it gave her, and the renown it infused into her family. The Lestrange family roots spread through generations of wizarding history. Yet, she did not lover her husband. She doubted whether he even loved her. She said yes for one reason: to make someone else jealous. A reckless move on her behalf, she could see that only now. She gazed in the mirror and wondered if anyone, even the Dark Lord would love her after such a long time in Azkaban. Her hair was wild, her teeth darkened, her skin pale, and her eyes worn. Would anyone ever love her again? She could only mask this insecurity with anger – and take her pain out on others. Which, to her benefit, is what Voldemort loved about her most.    

She was beautiful once. She remembered a time, when she gazed in the mirror, and something entirely different looked back at her. She thought about when her husband asked for her hand in marriage, and all others whom desired her hung their heads in defeat. She married because it was required of her. Rodolphus was a good man, a quiet man, in line with her thoughts of blood purity. However, there was something that made Bellatrix stop and think. She could remember the day her sister, Narcissa, had married Lucius Malfoy, and how it had been the happiest day of her life – not to mention the pride it gave her, and the renown it infused into her family. The Lestrange family roots spread through generations of wizarding history. Yet, she did not lover her husband. She doubted whether he even loved her. She said yes for one reason: to make someone else jealous. A reckless move on her behalf, she could see that only now.

She gazed in the mirror and wondered if anyone, even the Dark Lord would love her after such a long time in Azkaban. Her hair was wild, her teeth darkened, her skin pale, and her eyes worn. Would anyone ever love her again? She could only mask this insecurity with anger – and take her pain out on others. Which, to her benefit, is what Voldemort loved about her most.    

Finally, he slid the wand between his fingers. Closing his eyes, he felt the low hum of magic fill his body, tingle every cell, and excite a slumbering, bloodthirsty creature within. He remembered the wand in the hands of Dumbledore in their battle in the Ministry of Magic. He understood now why Dumbledore had survived as long as he did. He understood more how he, the Dark Lord, was more powerful than any other wizard – for he had stood against Dumbledore and survived the power of the Elder Wand. He was magnificent, legendary. He was unbeaten then, and would be forever, with his new weapon. He felt the electrical surge through his arm, he felt the power of ancestry grip him like a tangible monster. He began to imagine all those of whom it had passed hands. He thought of the blood spilled with this Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny! He thought of the blood it would soon spill, and with every ounce of his being, each fibre filled with a unrelenting magic, he tore the sky in triumph.  

Finally, he slid the wand between his fingers. Closing his eyes, he felt the low hum of magic fill his body, tingle every cell, and excite a slumbering, bloodthirsty creature within. He remembered the wand in the hands of Dumbledore in their battle in the Ministry of Magic. He understood now why Dumbledore had survived as long as he did. He understood more how he, the Dark Lord, was more powerful than any other wizard – for he had stood against Dumbledore and survived the power of the Elder Wand. He was magnificent, legendary. He was unbeaten then, and would be forever, with his new weapon. He felt the electrical surge through his arm, he felt the power of ancestry grip him like a tangible monster. He began to imagine all those of whom it had passed hands. He thought of the blood spilled with this Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny! He thought of the blood it would soon spill, and with every ounce of his being, each fibre filled with a unrelenting magic, he tore the sky in triumph.  

He watched from a distance as Dumbledore fought his battle. It was only when Dumbledore took to the battlefield that Harry doubted himself. The magic performed by both of them was inconceivable. Harry had never performed magic like it, and to see it, first hand, up close, warming his face from the sheer strength and force of it, terrified him. He would need to train hard to take on Voldemort: magic, strength, agility, knowledge. He would need every ounce of power in his bones to perform like Dumbledore. Harry watched arcs of light and colour blast through the ministry. “There is nothing worse than death, Dumbledore!” cried Voldemort, struggling under the weight of Dumbledore’s magic. Heat scorched the floor surrounding them. Harry could see it however, the fear that flecked Dumbledore’s face like dust. He knew, another battle like this could be the end of everything they knew. Sirius was gone: killed right before his eyes. Harry saw it on the horizon, a loss, a searing thought of defeat.  

He watched from a distance as Dumbledore fought his battle. It was only when Dumbledore took to the battlefield that Harry doubted himself. The magic performed by both of them was inconceivable. Harry had never performed magic like it, and to see it, first hand, up close, warming his face from the sheer strength and force of it, terrified him. He would need to train hard to take on Voldemort: magic, strength, agility, knowledge. He would need every ounce of power in his bones to perform like Dumbledore. Harry watched arcs of light and colour blast through the ministry.

“There is nothing worse than death, Dumbledore!” cried Voldemort, struggling under the weight of Dumbledore’s magic. Heat scorched the floor surrounding them.

Harry could see it however, the fear that flecked Dumbledore’s face like dust. He knew, another battle like this could be the end of everything they knew. Sirius was gone: killed right before his eyes. Harry saw it on the horizon, a loss, a searing thought of defeat.  

The news spread like wildfire, over radio, via owl, and any form of communication that could preach the good news: the Boy Who Lived has killed the Dark Lord! Harry Potter has saved us all! Dolores Umbridge swallowed hard, when the word came to her that Voldemort was dead. She dropped teaspoon after teaspoon of pink sugar into her freshly brewed tea. “It’s true, he’s done it ma’am!” said Albert Runcorn, out of breath. “Thank you, Albert,” she said, sending him out of her office with a polite gesture. He gave a blank expression, as though he was planning on having a conversation with her, but he was being sent out before he had said another word. She sipped her sweet tea. She glanced down at the paperwork on her desk. She looked around the room quickly, for any sign of untidiness. She opened her desk draw, flicking through photo’s of Undesirables. Moody, Dumbledore, Sirius Black, they were all dead now. Then she came across the face of Harry Potter, who stared blankly back at her. She held the picture before her, blinked once, and tore it clean in half. She placed the two halves of Potter’s face back into her desk and returned to her tea. She looped her ornate locket, snatched from Mundungus Flecther, around her neck, never suspecting that it was a duplicate left by Potter himself. It would only be a matter of time: and there was no use at all in running. She’d be running for the rest of her life, otherwise. She sat, quite straight in her chair, with no intention of moving. Everything she had done, all the harm she had caused, in her mind, was perfectly acceptable. For the greater good. The knock on her door came that afternoon. Dolores Umbridge disliked Kingsley Shacklebolt’s tone, just as much as she disliked the colour of his skin. “Dolores,” he smiled at her, Arthur and Percy Weasley not far behind. “I’d like a word with you.”

The news spread like wildfire, over radio, via owl, and any form of communication that could preach the good news: the Boy Who Lived has killed the Dark Lord! Harry Potter has saved us all!

Dolores Umbridge swallowed hard, when the word came to her that Voldemort was dead. She dropped teaspoon after teaspoon of pink sugar into her freshly brewed tea.

“It’s true, he’s done it ma’am!” said Albert Runcorn, out of breath.

“Thank you, Albert,” she said, sending him out of her office with a polite gesture. He gave a blank expression, as though he was planning on having a conversation with her, but he was being sent out before he had said another word. She sipped her sweet tea. She glanced down at the paperwork on her desk. She looked around the room quickly, for any sign of untidiness. She opened her desk draw, flicking through photo’s of Undesirables. Moody, Dumbledore, Sirius Black, they were all dead now. Then she came across the face of Harry Potter, who stared blankly back at her. She held the picture before her, blinked once, and tore it clean in half. She placed the two halves of Potter’s face back into her desk and returned to her tea. She looped her ornate locket, snatched from Mundungus Flecther, around her neck, never suspecting that it was a duplicate left by Potter himself.

It would only be a matter of time: and there was no use at all in running. She’d be running for the rest of her life, otherwise. She sat, quite straight in her chair, with no intention of moving. Everything she had done, all the harm she had caused, in her mind, was perfectly acceptable. For the greater good.

The knock on her door came that afternoon. Dolores Umbridge disliked Kingsley Shacklebolt’s tone, just as much as she disliked the colour of his skin.

“Dolores,” he smiled at her, Arthur and Percy Weasley not far behind. “I’d like a word with you.”

It was not until the birth of his first son, that Harry thought back, as if looking through Dumbledore’s Pensieve, at the Second Wizarding War as one complete period of time. He had lived these events, survived the battles and lost friends and family along the way. It was not as though Harry needed reminding of such things, but it took much time before they seemed like a memory, and not his present life. Every time he walked a street with Ginny, or Ron and Hermione, people would stare, point, giggle, whisper. He was the hero after all, but Harry, ever watchful of his own strength of character, remained, as best he could, normal. He had longed for the moment since he was a teenager, waited for the click. He had waited for distance: the discreet moment, wherein he would understand the journey he had been on and everything that came with that understanding.

He closed his eyes that day, as his wife gazed up at him. After giving Harry his first son, Ginny watched as faces seemed to flit through Harry’s mind. Inescapable as ever, he thought of Voldemort first, and used all his will to press the image down through his body, as if to fly free through his limbs. Then, Dumbledore, and the warmth that came with such a memory. The others followed quickly, his own father, Sirius and Lupin, even Mad-Eye. Like always, Snape seemed to come last, perhaps because Harry only knew him as a hero for such a short space of time while he was alive. Although, that was the thing that pained Harry the most. The men that fought with courage for him were now gone. Harry knew, as he held his son for the first time, that he truly lived in an age of legends. He walked with giants. He fought with devils. He befriended heroes.

James Sirius Potter would know of them all.

The glass phials rotated in the cabinet in such a manner that Harry could not turn away. Hypnotised by these collected glass bottles, he pressed his face closer to them in a bid to read any labels that glided before his eyes. They were charmingly beautiful in one way; a golden carousel of shimmering liquid suspended in reflective glass. Although,they terrified him all the same. Before him sat the Pensieve, Dumbledore’s tool for viewing memories. He read the labels and his heart sank: before him was every memory Dumbledore could collect from every instance he had ever shared with the Dark Lord. That’s everything, Harry thought to himself, not daring to utter a word. Voldemort was dead, and the office of the newly appointed Headmistress felt strangely new to Harry. “We keep them as a testament,” MinervaMcGonagall said, when Harry visited her a year after the battle. “They are our greatest tool; everything I could find on Voldemort, and each phial is a way of understanding his great need for dominion over others. I have looked at each one, for someone must.” “Why professor? They’re pointless, don’t you think?” Harry asked, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He was so much older now, and in McGonagall’s eyes, still so young. “Oh no, Potter,” she said effortlessly, but with an odd comfortableness. “I must be ready. For if evil ever rises again, which it no doubt will, I will have studied that which has come before and I will have learned from it. I will be ready to defend this school once more.” Harry smiled at Professor McGonagall with the same smile he had done the day he defeated the greatest Dark Wizard of all time. She returned the smile and too, copying the same action Harry had done to his spectacles. He left her office that day, happy to have seen her, proud to have faith in her courage, but with a small creeping darkness in his heart; a fear that everything he had done, could be changed by a single person. I will be ready, she had said to him. After the meeting that day, just in case, and after all she had said, so would he.

The glass phials rotated in the cabinet in such a manner that Harry could not turn away. Hypnotised by these collected glass bottles, he pressed his face closer to them in a bid to read any labels that glided before his eyes. They were charmingly beautiful in one way; a golden carousel of shimmering liquid suspended in reflective glass. Although,they terrified him all the same. Before him sat the Pensieve, Dumbledore’s tool for viewing memories. He read the labels and his heart sank: before him was every memory Dumbledore could collect from every instance he had ever shared with the Dark Lord. That’s everything, Harry thought to himself, not daring to utter a word. Voldemort was dead, and the office of the newly appointed Headmistress felt strangely new to Harry.

“We keep them as a testament,” MinervaMcGonagall said, when Harry visited her a year after the battle. “They are our greatest tool; everything I could find on Voldemort, and each phial is a way of understanding his great need for dominion over others. I have looked at each one, for someone must.”

“Why professor? They’re pointless, don’t you think?” Harry asked, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He was so much older now, and in McGonagall’s eyes, still so young.

“Oh no, Potter,” she said effortlessly, but with an odd comfortableness. “I must be ready. For if evil ever rises again, which it no doubt will, I will have studied that which has come before and I will have learned from it. I will be ready to defend this school once more.”

Harry smiled at Professor McGonagall with the same smile he had done the day he defeated the greatest Dark Wizard of all time. She returned the smile and too, copying the same action Harry had done to his spectacles. He left her office that day, happy to have seen her, proud to have faith in her courage, but with a small creeping darkness in his heart; a fear that everything he had done, could be changed by a single person. I will be ready, she had said to him. After the meeting that day, just in case, and after all she had said, so would he.

She was there that day, as the battle raged and people died at her feet. She bounded through the hordes of duellers, searching, rooting, desperate for her son. She had done her part in this war: she had given the Boy Who Lived his chance. Narcissa knew that the Dark Lord was something beyond her understanding any more; all that he breathed was chaos and bloodshed. Voldemort was a killer, a power hungry mad man. She had done right by her son; he who was forced by the Dark Lord to harm others. She would save him, and set him on his path again. One she could not, however, was her sister. Narcissa knew that Bellatrix was in mind and spirit Voldemort in female form. After growing up as sisters, Narcissa thought Bellatrix was the other half of her. She was there that day, as the battle raged, and people died at her feet. She was there to see her sister struck down by justice, and the Dark Lord follow her swiftly to hell. For Narcissa knew her own sister, unlike her son, was beyond saving. She would think of her, from time to time, and only remember the darkness in her eyes. Narcissa knew, despite their blood, Bellatrix was no more than a pawn in an evil far greater than she could comprehend. Narcissa knew, one day; that same day she helped the Boy Who Lived, that Bellatrix would pay for everything she had done. She knew that there was no other way.  

She was there that day, as the battle raged and people died at her feet.

She bounded through the hordes of duellers, searching, rooting, desperate for her son. She had done her part in this war: she had given the Boy Who Lived his chance. Narcissa knew that the Dark Lord was something beyond her understanding any more; all that he breathed was chaos and bloodshed. Voldemort was a killer, a power hungry mad man. She had done right by her son; he who was forced by the Dark Lord to harm others. She would save him, and set him on his path again. One she could not, however, was her sister. Narcissa knew that Bellatrix was in mind and spirit Voldemort in female form. After growing up as sisters, Narcissa thought Bellatrix was the other half of her.

She was there that day, as the battle raged, and people died at her feet.

She was there to see her sister struck down by justice, and the Dark Lord follow her swiftly to hell. For Narcissa knew her own sister, unlike her son, was beyond saving. She would think of her, from time to time, and only remember the darkness in her eyes. Narcissa knew, despite their blood, Bellatrix was no more than a pawn in an evil far greater than she could comprehend. Narcissa knew, one day; that same day she helped the Boy Who Lived, that Bellatrix would pay for everything she had done. She knew that there was no other way.  

It was an object of evil, and it chilled Harry to the bone to think of every hand it had passed through. He had murdered its previous owner and tainted it with unspeakably dark magic. Harry stood, looking down at the thing, as though it was something from inside his enemy. Like a clockwork heart, it seemed to pulse, and radiate an insidious, invisible, and all together painful hum: give in Harry Potter…just give in… Harry half expected the locket of Salazar Slytherin to open on its hinge and gaze right back up it him. When the time came, that all seeing eye of his nightmare was there, staring blankly into his soul.

It was an object of evil, and it chilled Harry to the bone to think of every hand it had passed through. He had murdered its previous owner and tainted it with unspeakably dark magic. Harry stood, looking down at the thing, as though it was something from inside his enemy. Like a clockwork heart, it seemed to pulse, and radiate an insidious, invisible, and all together painful hum: give in Harry Potter…just give in… Harry half expected the locket of Salazar Slytherin to open on its hinge and gaze right back up it him. When the time came, that all seeing eye of his nightmare was there, staring blankly into his soul.

Both of them knew it on the inside. Both were too terrified to say it. The Dark Lord knew as well, but it was more entertaining for him to dangle them on a string; to humiliate them like the puppets they were. They were useless, but their home would do well enough for the Dark Lord. Narcissa, above Lucius, knew sooner, that what she had allowed into her home was an abomination. When the blood of innocent people stained her black marble floor, she knew that enough was enough. Narcissa Malfoy, from this moment, would give her life to get her son away from this monster. A skilled Occlumens, Narcissa could keep even the Dark Lord out of her mind. And, it was a good thing too, for behind her eyes swam a plan to deceive him, to save her family. She would not eat. She would not sleep, until she overcame the man that stood between her family and a life of freedom.    

Both of them knew it on the inside. Both were too terrified to say it. The Dark Lord knew as well, but it was more entertaining for him to dangle them on a string; to humiliate them like the puppets they were. They were useless, but their home would do well enough for the Dark Lord. Narcissa, above Lucius, knew sooner, that what she had allowed into her home was an abomination. When the blood of innocent people stained her black marble floor, she knew that enough was enough. Narcissa Malfoy, from this moment, would give her life to get her son away from this monster. A skilled Occlumens, Narcissa could keep even the Dark Lord out of her mind. And, it was a good thing too, for behind her eyes swam a plan to deceive him, to save her family. She would not eat. She would not sleep, until she overcame the man that stood between her family and a life of freedom.    

They were together the night of the battle. When Voldemort’s forces penetrated the castle, they stayed shoulder to shoulder. Before the fight, they waited, wanting only these moments to be spent with each other. Their mother and father patrolled the castle, securing the boarders while Harry searched for the Dark Lord’s final safeguards against death. Their brothers’ had duties of their own. The twins, however did not want to be anywhere else. They were where they should be, side by side, and had no idea that before the night was through, one of them would be gone forever.  

They were together the night of the battle. When Voldemort’s forces penetrated the castle, they stayed shoulder to shoulder. Before the fight, they waited, wanting only these moments to be spent with each other. Their mother and father patrolled the castle, securing the boarders while Harry searched for the Dark Lord’s final safeguards against death. Their brothers’ had duties of their own. The twins, however did not want to be anywhere else. They were where they should be, side by side, and had no idea that before the night was through, one of them would be gone forever.  

They were desperate. The man that stood before them was strong in demeanor, shoulders back and eyes like daggers. He promised them everything they wanted to hear. The Ministry is strong, he told them. He promised to be their servant, their champion. And, although his relationship to the Boy Who Lived was not one of friendship, Harry always remembered Scrimgeour as a man who did the best he could with the hand that was dealt to him. In the long run, he tried to do what was right. He remembered Scrimgeour as a man who, despite his sharp tongue, stayed silent in the face of evil, and died under the Dark Lord’s torture. He rose above answering back, and stayed silent, exactly when he should have.  

They were desperate. The man that stood before them was strong in demeanor, shoulders back and eyes like daggers. He promised them everything they wanted to hear. The Ministry is strong, he told them. He promised to be their servant, their champion. And, although his relationship to the Boy Who Lived was not one of friendship, Harry always remembered Scrimgeour as a man who did the best he could with the hand that was dealt to him. In the long run, he tried to do what was right. He remembered Scrimgeour as a man who, despite his sharp tongue, stayed silent in the face of evil, and died under the Dark Lord’s torture. He rose above answering back, and stayed silent, exactly when he should have.  

It was a throbbing; a searing, nightmarish vision that showed him his enemy at his worst. He could see it slipping, everything Voldemort had fought for, every step he had taken to maintain his murderous life. He watched, as if through a pane of frosted glass, an explosion of fury from Voldemort, like nothing he had ever seen. He watched as the goblins and workmen of Gringotts Bank were slashed with emerald green flashes of dark magic. He was uncontrollable. He was unrestrained. Above all, he was frightened. 

It was a throbbing; a searing, nightmarish vision that showed him his enemy at his worst. He could see it slipping, everything Voldemort had fought for, every step he had taken to maintain his murderous life. He watched, as if through a pane of frosted glass, an explosion of fury from Voldemort, like nothing he had ever seen. He watched as the goblins and workmen of Gringotts Bank were slashed with emerald green flashes of dark magic. He was uncontrollable. He was unrestrained. Above all, he was frightened. 

The guards did not know what to do with her. She raged, like a wild animal, held in place by the chains at her wrists and the binding magic of Azkaban prison. She burst that night, into fits of anger. No, more than anger. It was fury like none at the prison had seen. They thought she was hungry, frustrated, humiliated. That night the reports came flooding in that The Dark Lord had returned. Bellatrix clawed at her arm in feverish desperation.  It was not hunger, nor frustration. Bellatrix Lestrange had been cheated. Cheated out of her masters’ revival. Enraged that she was not the one to bring him back. 

The guards did not know what to do with her. She raged, like a wild animal, held in place by the chains at her wrists and the binding magic of Azkaban prison. She burst that night, into fits of anger. No, more than anger. It was fury like none at the prison had seen. They thought she was hungry, frustrated, humiliated. That night the reports came flooding in that The Dark Lord had returned. Bellatrix clawed at her arm in feverish desperation.  It was not hunger, nor frustration. Bellatrix Lestrange had been cheated. Cheated out of her masters’ revival. Enraged that she was not the one to bring him back.