the last verse ; harry potter [2]

nine ; kreacher's story

Come find me.

It whispered to her like the swaying of a willow tree in the wind, softer and softer until it was only the silent hissing, reminding her. 

Come find me, the diary said. If to be perceived true, her mother might not be dead.

Come find me.

It reminded her of all of the bitter things in life. If her mother never truly died, why was Diana cast away to be exiled in a hospital? Why had her life been coated in only tragedy and emptiness, the loneliest in a world of lonely people? She knew, though, this was erroneous. The circumstances in which Vera could be hidden are entirely unknowable, possibly dangerous or impossible or horrible enough to never leave.

Maybe Tom Riddle really did make a Horcrux for his love. 

She didn't sleep that night. She read her mother's neat, cursive handwriting until the letters no longer looked like letters, but ancient, indecipherable hieroglyphs dancing across the page. The morning sun peaked through the foggy glass of the kitchen window, first orange then yellow then white, the sun illuminating the horizon blindly.

The diary in hand, she idly padded quietly up the stairs. She saw the cracked door of her room, empty except for the stripped furniture and coated with dust. It was much too quiet in a house so accustomed to noise: she had grown used to the sound of laughing streaming through the halls, the quiet pitter-patter of feet on the wooden floors, the constant bustle of people popping in an out. When she thought about, those seemed like much simpler times: she was not plagued by the worry about her mother, and she had not grown to care or love. Two years ago, her life was only ever the production of war. Now, her life had grown too intertwined with the affairs of others, and though existence was no longer as agonizing, the weight was incredibly tiring.

She saw Harry and Ron's room, and then Ginny and Hermione's room, then the room the twins stayed in. All were silent and empty, colorless and lifeless as a rotting corpse. All that was left of their times here were the bones; the scratched wood of stripped bed frames, the sheet-less mattresses exposing the sharp springs.

She climbed another flight. She hadn't been up here very often, for the doors were always closed and no one ever showed themselves up here. There were two doors facing each other, each with a scripted, gold nameplate at eye-level.

She moved to the one to her left and opened it, the brass knob chilling her palms. The door gave a deafening creak and her eyes were ambushed with the overwhelming color of green. Slytherin banners and posters hung limply against the wall, peeling with age. The bed was made perfectly, the silver sheets glinting in the morning sun. Though coated in dust, the room was meticulously organized and made, each object in its respective drawer and each pillow puffed perfectly in place against the headboard.

A drawer caught her eye, clumsily pushed closed. A sliver remained open, and she moved toward it with quiet footsteps. It opened with an irritating scrape, but inside was a small, folded piece of parchment, crinkled and faded from age.

She opened it and written inside, with fervent cursive scrawl that looked familiar, she read it:

The bitter end is not so violent if brought by familiar hands, for Death is the only god who comes when you call.

Beneath it, there was a small photo stuck on the paper. Like the usual Wizard photographs, this one moved as if it was alive. The silver and emerald Slytherin locket took up most of the frame, hanging limply against someone's neck. She could see no face or any defining features, other than a small pin of a meowing kitten to the left of the locket.