"Buried, almost tangible secrets filled the space between them, and so, without a second to think, she closed it."
The scars of war opened more wounds than Harry Potter thought possible. As he returns to Hogwarts for his eighth and final year, he le...
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(ignore how bad this is, i'm rewriting it and it was the first chapter i wrote of this book. for the love of god ignore how bad it is please)
okay thank you carry on :)
THE NIGHT HAD FALLEN upon the tiny village, buried somewhere deep in England. Patches of wind come and go, their pattern quickening as the moon rises higher in the sky. Darkness enveloped the world around it in the cold blanket of night, dotted with dim stars. Each house seemed minuscule from so far up, almost like watching flies on the ground.
As the day grew farther and farther behind, the lights flickered off in each house gradually. When the last shining beacon had succumbed to the pitch black, something struck. Turning into a nosedive, an indescribable force descended upon the village, pure power coursing through the fields of grain and empty roads.
Lights flickered on and off, then on and off again. It could be felt like an earthquake, rattling the tin roofs and upheaving the mailboxes. The people remained oblivious in their warm houses as the force claimed their town.
Faster than a lightning bolt, the powerful surge crashed through a window of a very particular house. It swirled together, creating a denser form of black, cloudy wind as it tore through the house, upheaving furniture and shattering the ancient glass.
Snaking through the house, it finally arrived at its destination, a dark room in the attic. A penetrating silence filled the space and a shockingly cold air flowed through the long, narrow room.
It was decorated beautifully: long, white drapes and ancient paintings on every inch of the wall. There was a solitary chandelier swinging from the ceiling, thrown about from the wind blowing in from outside. Four bodies lay astray on the floor, dressed in fancy clothes and done-up hair: Two middle-aged people, their faces frozen in a final look of surprise, lay on the ground with their bodies eerily still as they clutched each other fearfully. They died together, holding each other until the end. Beside them was a young man, his features still boyish, but ravaged by deep scars and bruises. All three were dead.
Though the rest of the night was still and silent, the crib beside them held a tiny baby, screaming with all its might. She was the only truly living thing left in the room. The sound cut through the force. It materialised into something more real, tangible. A dark cloak covered its face. It matched the height of a man, but a hand protruded from the cloak was bony and almost human-like. Almost.
With something that barely resembled a hand, it spun around towards the crib.
Inside the intricate, wooden bassinet was a girl, coddled up in obnoxiously pink blankets, and must have only been about two months old. The baby's crying grew louder and wilder, fear growing in her eyes. Even in the darkness, the pale blue colour could be seen across the room.
It's hand was near the baby's neck, only inches away from touching it. The infant girl was silent. They were only seconds away from contact.
Then, with a heated, flashing charge of electricity, it's hand touched the pale skin below the baby's collarbone.
The force yelled in pain, clutching its now smoking hand, and stared at where they made contact.
A scar, blazing red and bleeding slightly, was formed. The mark took the shape of spiderwebbed, shattered glass. The red scar pulsated for a moment before it shifted, narrowing into a thin, jagged line.
It was unmistakably shaped like a lightning bolt.
The force was simply fascinated by his creation, and ached to touch the scar with its bony fingers. It drew closer, so close —
The door to the room slammed open with a banging noise, revealing an old woman staring with fear in every corner of her face.
Her gaze fell slowly down to the floor, a choking noise escaping her at the sight of the littered bodies.
"No! They can't be —" her frantic voice screamed from the door.
The cloaked man spun around, hissing as the screaming woman gawked at the couple on the floor.
"Agatha," hissed the voice in a language the woman did not seem to understand, snakelike in nature.
She had just noticed the dark figure, and instantly slammed the door open before yelling into the night.
It could not stay long. Soon, the woman would bring reinforcement, possibly even the Order. It had to leave lest it could be caught again.
With a low growl, the cloaked thing turned to the baby. "We'll meet again, young Gryffindor." It's voice was garbled, just as inhuman as the rest of it.
In an instant, it was gone, flying through the air to another home in the same neighborhood.
***
And somewhere only a few houses away, another baby cried in his own crib. Somewhere in that new, ravaged home, that baby watched his mother die before his eyes, his life forevermore changed.
Simultaneously, Harry Potter and the blue-eyed girl both entered the new day, orphaned with identical scars.
