You are not sure that Black and Lupin entirely believe you - it is an entirely absurd claim, to them. But they head back down your driveway - one man, one large black dog with a man's soul - having agreed to at least help research what can be done about the matter of the soul fragment.
You will not dignify it by calling it a soul. Whatever method lies behind Voldemort's personal sundering left him with scarcely enough of one to have an identity at all. You've seen sin-eaters with more of their essential being intact.
You don mundane clothes at that point and make your way out to London once they've gone. The location is warded even against your sight - extradimensional or Fidelius, most likely, perhaps both. Black comes out of that hideaway so rarely that even you are disgusted by it, and you are a perfectly content homebody.
A few books to take with you for the term and then home, such was your intent. But upon arriving in London, your steps come to a stop before you quite realize exactly what you're seeing.
The too-white of fresh snow, just a hair to the blue. As much as others decried her decision, you thought the white robes suited her best even then. They simply reflected her interior nature.
There is scarring to that perfect white, now. Thousands of years in her transformation, the second eldest and most powerful of primals, stained her whiter still, beyond repair.
You hate her, for all that she has done. And yet you cannot help the way your feet chase after her, the way you did once so very long ago, barely more than a child, when she was only your best friend's mentor and the idea of Azem was some other long-forgotten soul. You cannot help it, because she was once your friend, and in this world you thought yourself alone.
(could there be a more fitting punishment, than to be alone with her?)
You have your dignity; you do not shout her name over the crowd. You'll catch up to her soon enough, even when her trail leads you into wizarding London, which you would rather have avoided in these clothes.
"Venat."
She is already looking at you when you say her name. She did not have soulsight before, but Hydaelyn's task no doubt required it, and it would seem some limited aspect remains. Against your will you catalogue her; her cloak is more ornate but not an unfamiliar style, with the heavy pulls at the collar. She wears no mask, but a silver one is embroidered at the collar against the heavy white wool.
She looks herself. You feel all the more foolish in a jumper and a windbreaker. She smiles as though glad to see you.
"My old friend," she says, and you aren't certain for a moment what else you would want her to call you, if the desire to be called by your title again would outweigh having it be in her mouth.
But you have a task foremost in your mind, for which she is uniquely suited. The sunderer of the world is the only one whose knowledge of the soul and its breaking might compare to yours, perhaps even exceed it.
So for the sake of a child who deserves more than the chance he was given, you say, "We need to speak somewhere privately. Now," and do your best to sound the part.
She laughs, an old world sound, but you see it in her eyes, the ages past, the lie of it. But you let her smile and take your arm as she says, "Of course. We have so much to catch up on," and leads you away.
no subject
You will not dignify it by calling it a soul. Whatever method lies behind Voldemort's personal sundering left him with scarcely enough of one to have an identity at all. You've seen sin-eaters with more of their essential being intact.
You don mundane clothes at that point and make your way out to London once they've gone. The location is warded even against your sight - extradimensional or Fidelius, most likely, perhaps both. Black comes out of that hideaway so rarely that even you are disgusted by it, and you are a perfectly content homebody.
A few books to take with you for the term and then home, such was your intent. But upon arriving in London, your steps come to a stop before you quite realize exactly what you're seeing.
The too-white of fresh snow, just a hair to the blue. As much as others decried her decision, you thought the white robes suited her best even then. They simply reflected her interior nature.
There is scarring to that perfect white, now. Thousands of years in her transformation, the second eldest and most powerful of primals, stained her whiter still, beyond repair.
You hate her, for all that she has done. And yet you cannot help the way your feet chase after her, the way you did once so very long ago, barely more than a child, when she was only your best friend's mentor and the idea of Azem was some other long-forgotten soul. You cannot help it, because she was once your friend, and in this world you thought yourself alone.
(could there be a more fitting punishment, than to be alone with her?)
You have your dignity; you do not shout her name over the crowd. You'll catch up to her soon enough, even when her trail leads you into wizarding London, which you would rather have avoided in these clothes.
"Venat."
She is already looking at you when you say her name. She did not have soulsight before, but Hydaelyn's task no doubt required it, and it would seem some limited aspect remains. Against your will you catalogue her; her cloak is more ornate but not an unfamiliar style, with the heavy pulls at the collar. She wears no mask, but a silver one is embroidered at the collar against the heavy white wool.
She looks herself. You feel all the more foolish in a jumper and a windbreaker. She smiles as though glad to see you.
"My old friend," she says, and you aren't certain for a moment what else you would want her to call you, if the desire to be called by your title again would outweigh having it be in her mouth.
But you have a task foremost in your mind, for which she is uniquely suited. The sunderer of the world is the only one whose knowledge of the soul and its breaking might compare to yours, perhaps even exceed it.
So for the sake of a child who deserves more than the chance he was given, you say, "We need to speak somewhere privately. Now," and do your best to sound the part.
She laughs, an old world sound, but you see it in her eyes, the ages past, the lie of it. But you let her smile and take your arm as she says, "Of course. We have so much to catch up on," and leads you away.