They both knew that to love would be to lose their minds.
"Even if - for some crazy reason - we aren't romantically entwined anymore, I'll still repair your broken pieces when you shatter."
The constellation that tells the love story of Harry James...
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And I still talk to you, when I'm screaming at the sky
HER swollen cheek lifts from the wooden desk, her head throbbing with pain. She looks around the unfamiliar room. She doesn't get to fully examine the room before a deep voice interjects.
"Deeply sorry," Albus Dumbledore smiles sweetly, "You were out of control, I had to stun you." He strides over to the chair on the other side of the desk, seating himself on the golden seat.
He sighs as he folds his hands on the desk, "You could be in danger here, Miss Malfoy."
"Great way to start up a conversation." She leans back in her chair. "Why am I in danger?"
"You do not yet know how to control your powers."
"What powers?"
"The Slytherdor's powers, of course."
"I didn't sign up for this."
He gives her a small smile, it makes her uneasy; maybe it wasn't the smile, but the fact that she's finally finding out what's she getting into.
"What powers do I have? What can I do? How do I control them? What the bloody hell am I?" She quickly rambles.
Without a stutter, remembering every question she's asked as if he already has her life embedded in his brain, he answers her. "There are many stories about the Slytherdor and its origin."
"Well tell me the real one."
"No one knows, Miss Malfoy. The one that I believe is that Lord Voldemort created the Slytherdor. The Slytherdor is rumored to be very powerful, potentially even more powerful than Lord Voldemort himself-"
"Why would he make a creation that's more powerful than himself?" She asks, seeing suspicion in the situation.
"Ah, right you are, Miss Malfoy — Why? Why would Lord Voldemort create the Slytherdor? Why would he create something that could destroy him-"
"Backtrack that."
There's a moment of silence as Dumbledore stares into the distance, his vision clouded with unanswered questions; or maybe, just maybe, it's questions that only he knows the answer to.
He swiftly walks away from the desk. Y/n's eyes follow as he walks to a long, rectangular table. He peers down at a thick book that lays on the wood, his hands on each side of the book.
"What're you looking at?" She asks, confusion evident in her voice.
"Give me a minute, Miss Malfoy. If I can figure this out, I'll tell you then."
She gets up from the comfortable chair, "How about you tell me now." She starts to walk up to the man.
He sighs, looking up from the book and into the distance. "Perhaps...Lord Voldemort didn't mean to make you."
