the last verse ; harry potter [2]

eighteen ; potterwatch

Hope was such a fickle thing. She had felt the effects of hopelessness throughout her life, being who she was. She had often felt like she was in a never-ending tunnel of darkness.

Never in her life had she ever expected hope to take the form of Narcissa Malfoy.

The next morning after their night in Godric's Hollow, she awoke with stiff knees and throbbing ache in her head. She shoved on her boots and slung her bag over her shoulder and padded her way to the small dining table where Hermione and Harry were sitting.

The picture she had stolen from Bathilda Bagshot's house burned at her side, a constant reminder. She could still see it even when it was out of sight. The shining white of Narcissa's hair. Her mother's radiance.

"I found something," she said, announcing her presence. They looked over and their eyes dwelled on her bag, wondering where she was going. "I found a lead I think, a lead on my mother. I don't know if it's solid, but I think I need to check it out."

They furrowed their eyebrows and frowned.

"How long will you be gone?" asked Harry.

She noticed how worried he looked. She found it endearing.

"Not long," she replied. "A few days I'd expect. I have to stake it out first before I proceed."

"Are you sure?" asked Hermione hesitantly. "I mean, after what happened last night. . . what if he's expecting you to go?"

Diana shook her head. "Broceliande was safe, remember? I'll be careful. I always am."

And they said goodbye, gave the round of hugs, and she was off into the forest and past their boundary before Disapparating in the crisp morning wind.

+

Malfoy Manor sat predominantly lonesome in the countryside, far from neighbors or villages of any sorts. The nearest town was a handful of miles away, a small, quaint Wizarding town that reminded her fondly of Hogsmeade. Unlike her usual memories of Hogsmeade, this little town was deserted and dark, almost abandoned, and the only sound came from the few brave wizards and the lively pub near the end of the street, where most people seemed comfortable and safe enough while they were tucked inside.

The pub had a few rooms above that they rented out as a small inn, so she made her way inside to the warm hearth and maneuvered her way through the rosy-cheeked guests. She rented a room for a few nights and quickly bustled upstairs. Her room was small and simple, and she sat on the bed and pulled out her mother's diary.

The leather nearly hummed beneath her fingers. She didn't know whether it was her imagination or real, but it nearly felt alive as she held it, her fingers gripping it as if she was truly holding her mother. After all, the diary was the closest thing she had to Vera.

She showered, for she couldn't quite remember the last time she had access to warm water. For a moment, she imagined she was in a river, letting the current wash over her until she was buried beneath the surface. She wasn't very worried about drowning. The rest of the day, she spent her time reorganizing her bag and even decided to rest for a few hours. It was so simple, but it felt like a luxury. That night, long after the sun had gone down, she padded down the steps to get a butterbeer.

The bar was empty, which she found surprising. Only the middle-aged bartender was there, cleaning the glasses with a rag and listening to something on the radio.

He heard her come down the stairs and gave a friendly smile. "Can I get you anything?"

She asked for a butterbeer and sat at the bar as he poured her some.