Fred and George and the Toilers of Trouble (Year 1) ✔

Chapter 26:6

The world of the Pensieve fell silent.

When the room brightened, Fred and George could see Dumbledore's light blue eyes as he peered heavily over the top of his half-moon spectacles. It was the next morning. The sun was rising through the high windows, and Hagrid was bent over the cauldron, a wave of smoking orange flames licking its rounded base. He stirred it slowly with the walking stick, hunched and sobbing in wretched silence. Supplies were scattered throughout, and they saw his oversized black robe in the shadows, covering what they could only assume to be the dead hippogriff.

"I think it's done," he said exhaustedly. The boy stood back from the bubbling, black concoction, his shirt splashed with dark red blood, eyes swollen from crying.

Fred and George felt their stomachs plunge, and were suddenly grateful that their Hagrid had known to spare them from the vision where the sacrifice had taken place.

"Splendid. Make sure the stick is thoroughly coated."

Hagrid did as he was told, using his hands. He sniffed and rubbed his nose, the deep black blood swiping the ridge of his cheek.

"Bring it here."

He heaved the sopping wet stick from the cauldron and walked it across the room. Kettleburn and Parsimonae separated, and Filch took Mrs. Norris into his arms, as the large boy stood before the portrait uncertainly.

"Now..." she started, shifting into the background, "push it into the painting."

"What d'ya mean?" he asked nervously. "It'll break through."

"Trust me," she replied, her eyes dancing in the cauldron flames.

With an obedient nod, Hagrid lifted the dripping stick and pressed it against the painted surface. For a moment, it seemed that nothing would happen. The canvas dimpled and threatened to tear. But then there was a sharp intake of breath as everyone watched it penetrate the painting — not through the canvas and to the wall, but into the very portrait itself.

Hagrid was shocked to see the wet walking stick cutting into the scene, but the girl looked rapturous with delight. She reached forward and took hold of the end, her hand growing larger.

"Tightly!" she suggested, pulling herself forward.

And then, to the amazement of everyone in that room, both past and present, her bloody hand clawed out of the canvas. She gripped onto the stick for dear life, and continued pulling until her other hand was free.

The boy swallowed, his eyes wide with wonder.

"It's working, Rubeus! Pull! "

With his focus centered on the blood-coated stick, Hagrid gripped harder and tugged with all his strength, until she was abruptly torn free of the portrait, a fully formed girl. She toppled forward awkwardly and fell into his arms.

She was speechless, looking to her left and right, and then up into his eyes. Neither of them could believe it had actually worked. The group of onlookers were able to see that her freshly formed skin, which had showed the marks of a brush stroke at first, now softened until she resembled a typical first year girl at Hogwarts. When the initial shock wore off, they hugged and laughed outrageously.

"How do I look?"

He touched her face, awestruck.

"Yer beautiful," said Hagrid, nodding approvingly. "But don' take my word fer it." He gestured to the mirror. The girl spun in place, unable to stop smiling as she admired her own reflection for quite some time.

Hagrid glanced down at the potion he had mixed and then at the floor — and the motionless lump beneath his robe. His chin trembled. From appearances, it seemed that the boy knew in his heart that he had done something wrong.

"I didn' think magic were like this," he said, as a tear trickled through the stain of blood that swathed his cheek.

"It isn't. Not really," said the girl, as she turned back. "This is Bloodcraft. It's very old magic."

"How d'ya know all this?" he asked with a grimace.

"You can learn quite a bit from the inside of a portrait, if you pay attention. I hung in Slytherin House for a whole century."

"Bloodcraft, eh?"

"Yes, only the most powerful wizards can do it. You should feel proud," the girl affirmed, walking over to him. She placed a subtle hand on his arm. "You did it, Rubeus. You gave me a chance to exist...if only for three years. But we can do so much in that time!"

"Three years?"

"Yes, and then I'll have to reenter the painting," she said simply. "This magic isn't permanent, but that's for the best. I'm not truly meant to live on this side of the frame. But don't be sad, Rubeus. I'm certainly not."

"Well...it's only proper that yeh have a name." Hagrid squinted to read the brass plate that was fastened to the bottom of the frame. "Call yeh by tha', should I? Darc's an awfully strange surname."

"I don't like that name very much," she confessed readily.

"Yeh need a name, though, don' yeh?

"Then you should name me."

His eyes faltered and he looked across the room at the hippogriff. They could see from his demeanor that he had already given the beast a name.

"How's 'bout...Aruzula?"

The girl smiled brilliantly, spun to face the mirror, and grazed a finger along the ridge of her jawline.

"It's better than I could have imagined. Aruzula," she said proudly. "Perfect!"

And with that, the colors faded and the scene transformed before their eyes. The items became opaque as they whirled about hectically and vanished from the floor, but the memory remained in the same octagonal room at the top of the stairwell.