August 6, 1992
The Flourish and Boots, Diagon Alley
Flourish and Blotts thrummed with a restless energy that made my stomach twist as Gilderoy Lockhart, dazzling in robes of shimmering peacock blue, glided into the tiny bookshop for a grand signing of his memoir, Magical Me. The air was heavy with the sharp scent of fresh ink and the excited chatter of his fans—mostly middle-aged witches clutching their books, their eyes sparkling with adoration for the man who claimed to be a hero. I stood on my tiptoes, my patched robes brushing against the crowd, watching as Lockhart’s golden curls bounced with every dramatic wave of his hand, his dazzling smile lighting up the room as he signed copies with a flourish, soaking in every ounce of attention. My heart raced; I’d read about him in Mum’s magazines, but seeing him in person felt like stepping into a fairy tale. Then the crowd shifted, whispers rippling through the shop like a spell, and I saw him—Harry Potter, a skinny twelve-year-old with messy black hair and round glasses, stepping in with my family, his presence pulling every gaze like a magnet. I felt my cheeks flush just looking at him, the Boy Who Lived, the boy I’d dreamed of meeting properly for years. Lockhart’s eyes gleamed with a hungry sort of joy, and he boomed, “Harry Potter!” before I could blink, grabbing Harry’s arm and yanking him to the front. Cameras flashed, bright and blinding, as Lockhart slung an arm around Harry’s shoulders, grinning for the Daily Prophet photographer with teeth so perfect they seemed to glow. Harry’s face turned red, his green eyes wide and searching for a way out as Lockhart crowed, “Together, we’ll make the front page!” The crowd sighed in delight, but I could see Harry squirming, trapped in the spotlight he so clearly hated. Lockhart, oblivious, thrust a towering stack of his books into Harry’s arms, declaring it a gift “from one legend to another.” The books looked heavy, but I knew the real weight was in Harry’s discomfort—he despised Lockhart’s flashy affection, and I couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for him, even as my own nerves buzzed with the thrill of being so close to him.
Harry quietly handed the books to me, his movements soft and deliberate, as though he couldn’t bear to hold them a moment longer. My freckled face lit up with gratitude, a flicker of warmth breaking through the storm of nerves that had gripped me all morning. Those books—Gilderoy Lockhart’s entire set, gleaming with their embossed covers—were a treasure I couldn’t have dreamed of owning, not with our family’s patched robes and second-hand everything. But Harry, with his quiet generosity, gave them to me because he could afford his own, and because he wanted no reminder of Lockhart’s cloying grip, the humiliating spectacle that had left him feeling like a trophy on display.
I clutched the books to my chest, my fingers trembling slightly as I looked up at him. Harry’s green eyes were clouded with discomfort, his jaw tight, and I felt a pang of sympathy. I knew how much he hated the attention, the way everyone stared at him like he was a prize to be won. But before I could say thank you, Lockhart’s voice boomed across the shop, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd like a spell.
“That must be your girlfriend!” he declared, his voice dripping with theatrical delight as he flashed his best smile for the Daily Prophet’s camera. “Come here, my love!”
My heart stopped. I couldn’t believe it—Gilderoy Lockhart, the Gilderoy Lockhart, was calling me forward, in front of everyone, claiming I was Harry Potter’s girlfriend. My dream, the one I’d harbored in secret for years, to be the Boy Who Lived’s lover, was suddenly being thrust into the open, and I was momentarily stunned. The shop seemed to tilt, the shelves of books blurring as every eye turned to me. My feet felt glued to the floor, my breath caught in my throat. Gilderoy Lockhart was going to meet me in front of a camera—I was stunned, completely frozen, unable to process the whirlwind of emotions crashing over me.
“Don’t you want a photo?” Lockhart’s voice jolted me, his tone a mix of impatience and charm, as if he couldn’t fathom why I’d hesitate.
I shook myself out of my trance, my cheeks burning as I stumbled forward to his side, my patched robes suddenly feeling shabbier than ever. The crowd parted, their whispers a dull roar in my ears, and I stood beside Lockhart, the flash of the camera blinding me. He turned to me with his characteristic pomp, his golden curls bouncing as he swished his wand in a dramatic arc. “Who are you, and what do you want to be?” he asked, his voice carrying over the hum of the crowd.
I forced a smile for the camera, my lips trembling as I tried to steady my voice. “I am Ginny Weasley,” I said, my words barely audible over the shutter clicks, “and I want to be an… Auror.”
Lockhart swirled his hair with a flourish, his smile widening as if he’d just uncovered a hidden gem. “A famous model, that’s what she’ll be!” he announced, his tone so assured that I blinked in surprise. My breath caught—did he really think so much of me? I made no attempt to restrain the stupid smile that spread across my face, my heart fluttering with a mix of disbelief and flattery. A model? Me? I’d never considered it, but the idea sparkled like a Galleon in my mind, a dream I hadn’t dared to dream until now.
Lockhart, ever the showman, wasn’t done. He leaned closer, his voice dropping into a dramatic whisper that somehow carried to every corner of the shop. “What is your heart’s desire?” he asked, his eyes glinting with anticipation.
I didn’t think—I couldn’t think. The words I’d whispered to myself for years, the secret wish I’d held since I first heard of Harry Potter, tumbled out without hesitation. “To be with Harry,” I said, my voice small but clear, echoing in the sudden hush that followed.
Lockhart’s face lit up with a massive, simpering smile, his eyes darting to the crowd as if he’d orchestrated the perfect moment. But before he could speak, a shout pierced the air, raw and furious. “NO!”
Harry’s voice cut through the shop like a curse, and I turned, my blood running cold as I saw him standing at the back, his face flushed with anger. “We are not in love, nor do we know each other!” he shouted, his words sharp and final, slicing through the fragile bubble of my fantasy.
A hush fell over the crowd, the air thick with tension. Several girls in the front, their faces twisted with jealousy, turned to glare at me, their eyes like daggers. My heart plummeted; the warmth of Lockhart’s flattery replaced by a chilling dread. Harry’s rejection stung, a public humiliation that left me rooted to the spot, my smile frozen on my face even as my mind reeled. We did know each other—at least, we’d met, hadn’t we? I’d seen him at the Burrow, shared shy glances over breakfast, felt the spark of something I thought was real. But now, in front of everyone, he’d denied it, denied me.
Lockhart made a strange face, his smile faltering for a moment before he recovered, launching into another round of questions. “Well, Miss Weasley, tell us more about your dreams!” he boomed, but I couldn’t hear him over the roaring in my ears. The camera flashes continued, each one a stab of light that burned my shame into memory. I was in a trance of rejection, my smile a mask as the reality crashed over me. Harry didn’t want me, didn’t even know me, and I’d just bared my heart to the world.
Tears welled in my eyes, spilling over as I stood there, unable to move, unable to think. I vaguely heard my mother’s voice, sharp and protective, as she pushed through the crowd to my side. “Leave her alone—she didn’t know what was going on!” she snapped, her arm wrapping around me as she escorted me out. Her stern glance silenced the whispers, but I didn’t hear the venom in Lucius Malfoy’s voice as he muttered, “She’s throwing herself at Potter,” nor did I see the thrashing he might have received if he weren’t magical. My sobs echoed through Flourish and Blotts, raw and unfiltered, as the weight of my humiliation bore down on me, the books in my arms a bitter reminder of a moment I longed to forget.
The Leaky Cauldron’s dim interior wrapped around me like a heavy cloak, its smoky air tinged with the scent of roasted meat and stale ale, a stark contrast to the bright chaos of Diagon Alley we’d just fled. I sat slumped in one of the Muggle-styled chairs, its cracked leather creaking beneath me, my eyes still stinging with the tears I couldn’t stop. Mum sat across from me, her face a mix of concern and exasperation, her hands folded tightly in her lap as she tried to reach me through my haze of shame. “Ginny, we cannot have everything in life,” she said, her voice gentle but firm, cutting through the low hum of the pub’s patrons. “Dissatisfaction is part of life, and we cannot run away from it. Stop crying and use your brain—think about what you did, what it led to.”
I didn’t answer, my gaze dropping to the plate of food in front of me—a sandwich I couldn’t bring myself to eat, my fingers pushing the crusts around in aimless circles. Mum didn’t expect a reply, her words continuing like a steady stream. “Lockhart was telling the store’s assistant manager whether he could include your father’s fight with Lucius Malfoy for publicity,” she said, her tone heavy with disapproval. “No doubt he expects your spectacle, which sparked the fight, to generate coverage.”
My stomach twisted, the memory of Flourish and Blotts flashing through my mind—Lockhart’s booming declaration, my blurted confession about Harry, and Harry’s sharp rejection in front of everyone. I could feel the glances of other patrons in the Leaky Cauldron, their curious stares prickling my skin, and I sank lower in my seat, morose and small. Mum’s voice softened, well-intentioned but piercing. “Why do you let others take advantage of you, Ginny? How can you behave so naively? What made you say you want Harry—do you even know him?”
I looked up, my voice trembling with sadness as I met her eyes, the weight of those glances making my chest ache. “But surely I would have gained something from appearing on camera,” I said, my tone heavy with a desperate hope. In my mind, a voice shouted that I still had a chance—I could still achieve my heart’s desire by getting along with Harry, by proving myself to him.
Mum’s expression softened further, her voice taking on a kind, almost pitying tone that stung more than her earlier sharpness. “Ginny, only the very best can do that, and you’re not that,” she explained, her words like a cold splash of water. “You have to accept you’re…” She trailed off, distracted, her eyes flickering with a moment of doubt, as if she wondered if I could ever be the best, if I could make Harry fall for me.
Her words cut deep, but they also sparked something in me—a need to stop her, to make her quiet, to prove I could be more. I straightened in my chair, my voice rising with a sudden, desperate resolve. “Well, Mother, you’re right,” I said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “From now on, I accept my weakness. I will not pretend to be stronger than I really am, and I’ll accept that I’m too small for big things.”
Mum blinked, stunned into silence, her mouth opening and closing before she nodded slowly, as if unsure how to respond to my outburst. She stood, brushing her hands on her apron, and said, “Finish your sandwich, Ginny, and come along. We need to buy the rest of the books for your brothers.” With that, she turned and left the pub, her footsteps fading into the murmur of the crowd.
I sat there, the sandwich untouched, my mind racing. Mum’s words had hurt, but they’d also lit a fire in me. I did have something in me—I could feel it, a spark of potential waiting to be unleashed. If I could convince others it was true, I could rise through any organization’s ranks, reinvent myself into someone greater. But what was necessary? My mind whispered an answer: I needed to transform, to secure my life through observation, to become someone who saw everything and missed nothing.
I began to observe, my eyes scanning the Leaky Cauldron with new purpose. The first thing I noticed was a small, black diary nestled in my cauldron, its leather cover worn but pristine, an oddity among my school supplies. My heart sank—no doubt it had been slipped in by Fred and George to mock me, another of their cruel pranks to laugh at my expense. But I wouldn’t let them win this time. I decided to behave like a greater being, to rise above their childish games. With a steady hand, I pulled the diary from my cauldron and left it on the table, its pages untouched. Let someone else pick it up, I thought—let the twins lose their precious diary to a stranger. I stood, my sandwich abandoned, and walked out of the Leaky Cauldron, a quiet determination settling in my chest as I stepped into the unknown.
The Leaky Cauldron’s smoky haze greeted me as I stepped through its weathered door, the air thick with the tang of spilled ale and the murmur of lives overlapping in quiet chaos. My boots scuffed against the uneven floorboards, each step echoing with purpose, as my dark eyes—sharp and unyielding behind my spectacles—swept the room. Table number eight caught my gaze, a lonely island amid the bustle, where a small, black diary lay abandoned, its leather cover glinting faintly in the dim light. My pulse quickened; who would discard such a thing? 'It must be enchanted,' I thought, the certainty blooming in my chest like a spark in dry tinder. I’d spent years yearning for a tool like this, a window into the mind’s depths, but such wonders were locked away for wealthy purebloods, their gold securing what my squib blood could never claim. The sting of those rigid laws—rules I refused to call 'Dark Magic,' rejecting the Ministry’s sanctimonious labels—prickled beneath my skin, urging me forward.
I slid into the chair, the wood groaning under my weight, and lifted the diary with a reverence that bordered on hunger. Its surface was smooth, cool against my fingertips, whispering promises of power I couldn’t wield through a wand. With a steady hand, I drew my ballpoint pen—a Muggle trinket I wielded like a wand of my own—and inscribed, “I am Erasmus Blackwood: a squib with a great mind enough to transform the world.” The ink sank into the page, vanishing as if devoured, and I held my breath, watching the blankness shift. Then, words emerged: 'Ten galleons for your thoughts.' A grin tugged at my lips; this was no mere book, but a mind eager to spar.
“Well,” I wrote, my pen scratching softly, “I do not have power to change the physical world, but I can change the mental realm of anyone I wish to.” The waiter shuffled over, his apron stained with the day’s labor, and I muttered “the usual,” my focus unbroken. The diary’s reply came swift and sharp: 'Well, theoretically, anyone can behave in any way to change everyone’s thoughts in some way, but we have to have an art to our manipulation. Or we just can’t do it on anyone.' Its elegance stirred me, a challenge wrapped in wit, and I leaned back, the chair creaking as I pondered a tale worthy of its scrutiny.
My mind drifted to a memory, vivid and triumphant, and I began to write: “I never believed in bowing to the powerful, scraping for their leavings while I diminished myself. Once, a foolish classmate confessed her infatuation with Ludo Bagman, her voice dripping with starry-eyed nonsense. I followed her to his promotional event, where he signed souvenirs with that insufferable swagger. Amid the crowd’s clamor—the rustle of parchment, the stench of cheap ink—I raised my voice, questioning her taste in men. She bristled, defending him with a fervor that amused me, her cheeks flushing as Bagman turned his attention her way. He asked her about himself, and she gushed, oblivious to my design. When he pressed why she admired his cockiness, I interjected, ‘You can never be as perfectly cocky as Bagman,’ my tone laced with just enough mockery to sting. His eyes flashed with anger, but she, flustered, chimed in, ‘You are just as cocky as it suits you,’ and I watched them stumble into my trap, blind to the strings I pulled.
I left with Bagman’s glare burning into my back and her silence ringing in my ears, but after their first date, both thanked me, their gratitude a sweet reward. I’d matched them perfectly, guiding her love life even as we sat through tedious classes together. Later, Bagman, dazzled by my cunning, secured me a Ministry job to fund my magical Ph.D., calling me ‘strangely gifted’ when Fudge demanded an explanation for hiring a man with no ambition for bureaucracy. Now, I manage his tasks, my influence spreading like ink on parchment. This is manipulation’s truest form—wielding chaos as a cloak, bending others to my will while they thank me for it.”
I set the pen down, the diary’s pages still beneath my gaze, and felt a quiet thrill. The air around me buzzed with possibility, the din of the pub fading as I savored the taste of my own triumph—a squib carving his mark on a world that had tried to erase him.
The diary fell silent, its pages blank and unyielding, and a flicker of doubt crept into my mind like a shadow across a sunlit street. Was it thinking, weighing my words with a mind of its own, or had its enchantment faded, leaving it as hollow as the promises of the Ministry’s laws? I wondered if that was why it had been discarded, left to gather dust on a table in this grimy pub—a relic of magic too weak to serve its purpose. My fingers hovered over the page, the air around me thick with the scent of roasted meat and the low hum of the Leaky Cauldron’s patrons, their voices a distant murmur against the storm of my thoughts. Then, the diary stirred, ink blooming across the page like a flower unfurling in the dawn: “Very charming you are, Mr. Blackwood. You have a peculiar way of looking at things. Can you tell me more about yourself? What is your magical thesis on, and where are you getting it published?”
My heart quickened, a thrill coursing through me at the prospect of continuing this dance of words, but the clatter of a plate on the table snapped me back to the present. The waiter, his apron stained with the day’s labor, set down a steaming bread omelet, its golden edges glistening with butter, the scent of warm dough and egg pulling me from my reverie. Reality pressed in, heavy and unyielding—I had to get to the Ministry, to serve Bagman and secure the funds for my Ph.D. fees at Ilvermorny, not to mention the correspondent fees that kept my research alive. I sighed, the weight of duty settling on my shoulders, and quickly devoured the omelet, each bite a hurried necessity rather than a pleasure. With a final glance at the diary, I tucked it into my bag, its leather cover cool against my fingers, and retrieved the special Portkey for my boss’s office—a small, rune-etched stone that hummed with latent magic. I stood, the chair creaking in protest, and left the Leaky Cauldron behind, the Portkey’s pull whisking me away as the pub’s smoky haze faded into memory.
Whitechapel, East London
The diary lingered in my thoughts all day, a persistent shadow as I navigated the sterile corridors of the Ministry. Its presence was a riddle wrapped in leather, and I couldn’t shake the question of how it had come into my possession. Was it a gift, a trap, or a mere coincidence? As I plotted ways to unravel the mysteries of the magical interface in the human mind, the diary seemed to whisper promises of answers. A nagging doubt crept in—could this be a ploy by some shadowy figure to pilfer my research? I had no way of knowing, and caution seemed prudent. Perhaps I should refrain from writing in it, lest I expose my thoughts to prying eyes. Yet, in this cruel world where Legilimency could strip one’s mind bare, the diary might simply be a lost object, innocent of malice. To test its intentions, I resolved to declare my fear of plagiarism and see how it responded.
Settling onto the couch in my brightly lit London flat, the scent of lavender clinging to my skin after a refreshing bath, I opened the diary. My hand hovered over the page, then I wrote, “Well, you have not said anything about where you came from, diary. Are you here to plagiarize my research?” I asked bluntly, emboldened by the fact that it was not a real person. The response that bloomed across the page sent a jolt through me, a mix of shock, excitement, and trepidation. “I am Lucius Malfoy’s diary; his father made me to better understand his thoughts, give him clarity in his ambition, and provide him with ideas. When Abraxas Malfoy’s old personal assistant, Amora Lovegood, lay dying, she infused her thoughts and memories into this diary using Grindelwald’s technique of psychological enchanting. I was created through mind arts lost to time.” I blinked, momentarily stunned, my gaze drifting to the flickering candle on the table. Could this be true? It seemed too fantastical. “How am I to believe any of this?” I wrote, my skepticism seeping into the ink. “You could well be spinning tales. Amora Lovegood sacrificing her soul for Abraxas—that sounds outlandish.”
The diary paused, as if considering my challenge, and I dismissed the notion of a ruse—the information was too specific, too direct. Then, words appeared: “You have quite the sharp mind, and you are quite knowledgeable about magic. Were you born a squib, or did you become one due to a magical disease?” A nostalgic smile tugged at my lips as I wrote a simple “yes,” leaving the diary to interpret. It seemed taken aback by my casual admission, and its next words were even more perplexing: “I can help you overcome your magical illness if, and only if, it is a core malfunction. There is a way, but I must know you are not of weak mind or inept brain, which would render the cure useless. You must be capable enough to brew it using potions, as most squibs can, but your mind must withstand the cure’s insanity-inducing properties.” And then, again, “Prove yourself to me.” A chill ran through me, hope and fear intertwining like vines around my heart. Could I dare to believe? Could I be a wizard again, a respected member of society, not a cripple? Was the diary telling the truth? Would I once more be the boy everyone thought talented at eleven, before the dull ache of loss settled in my chest? I remembered the day I lost my magic, expelled from my house, shunned by friends, reduced to scraps in an abandoned outhouse. Could I use my talent to change the wizarding world?
The flicker of the candle on my table cast a trembling light across my London flat, its wax pooling like tears I refused to shed. For over fifteen minutes, I stood frozen, rooted in space and time, the diary’s words clawing at the edges of my mind. The air hung heavy with the scent of lavender from my earlier bath, a futile attempt to wash away the day’s weight—the endless corridors of the Ministry, the murmured disdain of colleagues, the gnawing ache of a squib’s life. My dark eyes, sharp behind spectacles, traced the diary’s leather cover, its presence a silent taunt. Could it truly hold the key to reclaiming my magic, or was it another illusion, shimmering just beyond my grasp? Hope warred with dread, a storm brewing in my chest. I remembered the day my magic slipped away at eleven—a core malfunction, they called it—leaving me expelled from my family’s graces, relegated to scraps in an abandoned outhouse. The diary had promised a cure, but only if I proved my mind’s strength. I’d assumed it meant reasoning, the honed edge of my intellect, but now, as my gaze settled on the page, new ink gleamed in the dimness, unnoticed until this moment: “There is no way you would be able to withstand the potion’s mind-altering properties without Occlumency shields developed the muggle way.” And below, “Introduce yourself to me.”
Occlumency? The word struck me like a cold wind through an open window. My brow furrowed, confusion curling in my gut. Occlumency was a wizard’s art, a shield against mental invasion—how could I, a squib, wield it? Yet the phrase “the muggle way” lingered, a riddle wrapped in possibility. My heart thudded, a mix of skepticism and yearning. If there was a path, even one carved through sheer will rather than magic, I needed to know. My hand trembled as I lifted my pen—a Muggle tool I’d claimed as my own—and pressed it to the page. “How can I learn Occlumency as a squib?” I wrote, the ink dark and deliberate. “What is this ‘muggle way’ you speak of?”
The diary responded as if alive, its script flowing like a river across the parchment: “Occlumency is not merely magic—it is mastery of the mind. Wizards weave it with spells, but its essence lies in discipline, focus, and resilience, traits Muggles can nurture. The ‘muggle way’ demands mental exercises: meditation to still your thoughts, visualization to build walls, and control to temper emotion. It is a labor of will, not wand. Master this, and you may endure the cure’s madness.” I leaned back, the chair creaking beneath me, the words sinking in like rain on parched earth. Meditation? Visualization? These were not unfamiliar—my studies had grazed such concepts—but to forge them into a shield against insanity? The task loomed vast and shadowed, yet the diary’s certainty kindled a flicker of resolve. I steadied my breath, the lavender scent grounding me, and wrote again. “I am Erasmus Blackwood, a squib not by birth but by fate. At eleven, my magic faltered, a core malfunction that cast me out—family, friends, all gone. Now, I chase a Ph.D. at Ilvermorny, researching how the psyche shapes magical performance, a theory that defies the old belief in primal instincts alone.”
The diary’s ink swirled, alive with curiosity: “Fascinating. Tell me, Erasmus, what are your views on Grindelwald and dark magic? How do they weave into your work?”
I paused, the question stirring memories of late nights poring over forbidden texts, the thrill of ideas too bold for Britain’s rigid laws. “Grindelwald was no mere tyrant,” I wrote, my pen scratching with fervor. “He saw magic’s potential unbound by guilt or fear—technology fused with power, wizards rising above Muggle limits. Unlike Voldemort, crippled by his own darkness, Grindelwald wielded will like a blade. I believe our perception of him, of history, molds our psyche, and thus our magic. Dark magic thrives on clarity, not dread; fear weakens it, guilt fractures it. My research at Ilvermorny seeks to prove this—that the mind can be nurtured to enhance performance, even in dark arts.”
The diary’s response came swift: “A daring claim. You think a wizard’s view of Grindelwald could alter their dark magic?”
“Yes,” I replied, my thoughts racing. “Just as fear fuels a brighter Lumos, perception can sharpen a curse—or dull it. It’s why I study in America, where dark magic is frowned upon but not outlawed. Britain would jail me for this.”
Another pause, then: “Your theory rings true, Erasmus. I’ve seen it—belief shapes power. But you’re at Ilvermorny, yes? They hide this work from MACUSA, don’t they?”
I nodded to the empty room, the candle’s flame steadying as if listening. “Ilvermorny dares to innovate,” I wrote. “They’ve chosen candidates like me to prove the psyche’s role, to shake the foundations of magical education. But it’s quiet—MACUSA’s lifted the dark magic ban, yet they shy from upheaval. My research stays shadowed, lest it draw their gaze.”
The diary’s ink danced with purpose: “Then you’ve a greater task than proof. Your theory is sound—I’d wager it’s fact. To succeed, you must sway not just your peers, but all of wizarding America. Educational reform demands a tide of belief. I’ll guide you, Erasmus. Convince them, and you’ll change everything.”
A smile tugged at my lips, small but fierce, as I set the pen down. The flat seemed brighter, the lavender sharper, the candle’s glow a beacon. “Will you help me learn Occlumency, then?” I wrote. “To withstand the cure, to reclaim my magic, to prove my worth?”
“I will,” came the reply, swift and sure. “Begin with the exercises I’ll share. Your mind is your wand now—wield it well. We’ll reshape the world together.”
I closed the diary, my fingers lingering on its cover, the leather cool against my skin. The path ahead was steep—Occlumency without magic, a cure that risked madness, a fight to sway a nation—but for the first time since I was eleven, I felt whole. The boy who’d lost everything stood on the edge of reclaiming it all, not just for himself, but for a world too afraid to see its own potential. The candle burned steady, and I let the hope in, fragile but growing, a flame to carry into the darkness of this world.