Thunder Beneath the Skin
The storm raged outside the walls of the Red Keep, thunder rumbling like the growl of some ancient beast. Rain lashed against the windows in heavy sheets, each drop a sharp tap against the glass. The cold air seeped in through the cracks in the stone, carrying the faint, distant scent of salt from the sea.
Celeste was dreaming.
Her breaths came fast, shallow. Her chest rose and fell as her body twitched beneath the blankets. Her eyes moved rapidly behind closed lids.
She could almost feel it. The cold night air whipping through the open stone archways of the Astronomy Tower, biting against Celeste’s skin like a thousand tiny knives. Her school uniform a thin barrier against the chill in the wind. The sky was dark that night, not a star to be seen, as if the heavens themselves had turned away from what was about to happen.
Her breath came in slow, shallow puffs of air, every exhale clouding before her like smoke. Her eyes stayed locked on the scene in front of her.
Draco stood in front of Dumbledore.
His wand was raised, his hand trembling. She could see it from where she stood in the shadows. His fingers twitched against the handle of his wand, his breathing fast and uneven.
He was shaking.
Her heart twisted painfully in her chest, but she didn’t move. Not yet.
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, her nails pressing into her palms. She felt the weight of the Mark on her arm, hidden beneath her sleeve. It burned tonight. It always burned when He was watching.
“We don’t want your help.” Draco cried, his face screwed up in pain. She stepped forward, revealing herself to Dumbledore, though she had a feeling he knew she was there. He always knew. “Don’t you understand? I have to do this. I have to kill you.”
Celeste’s hand slips into Draco’s, a movement she can’t control. In the back of her mind, she knows this is a memory, but she hopes that maybe this time, she will be brave enough to stop it all. To change the course of history.
“He’ll kill us.” Celeste hears the words come from her mouth. “You know he won’t hesitate.”
She hears Bellatrix, but her head won’t swivel round to look at the woman she detested. The memory will only show what she witnessed, and Celeste had refused to move her eyes from Dumbledore, the man who she thought she owed so much to. How naïve.
“Well. Look what we have here.” She had sneered, the memory of her voice causing a shiver to run through Celeste’s body. “Well done Draco.”
Celeste stepped away, unwilling to be closer to Bellatrix than needs be.
“Good evening, Bellatrix.” Dumbledore greeted, calm as ever. “I think introductions are in order, don’t you?”
Bellatrix turned her nose up at Dumbledore. “Love to Albus. But I’m afraid we’re on a bit of a tight schedule.”
Panic rose in Celeste’s chest. She had done this. She had helped fix the vanishing cabinet. Dumbledore would die because she was too much of a coward to stand up to Voldemort.
“Do it.” Bellatrix hissed at Draco, her arm wrapping around Celeste’s shoulders, a maniacal grin on her face.
Celeste could hear the taunts of the other Death Eaters behind her and her face darkened. Her hand flexed, her wand preparing itself for her next move.
“Go on Draco, now!” Bellatrix drawled out, bouncing in glee. Draco’s arm shook violently and Celeste gripped her wand tighter, ready to aim.
“No.” A bored voice drawled. Snape stepped out of the shadows.
Dumbledore looked down and Celeste saw his eyes change. She looked between the floorboards. Harry.
“Severus. Please.” Dumbledore sounded almost… pleading.
Bellatrix gripped her shoulder tighter, painfully and Celeste snapped. She stepped forward, her wand outstretched, throwing Bellatrix’s arm away from her. Her eyes were lit with fury as she stared into Dumbledore’s.
“I’m sorry.” She muttered. Dumbledore didn’t speak. His gaze was soft. Kind. Pitying.
Don’t look at me like that, old man. Her jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Don’t look at me like I’m some lost cause.
Her heart beat slowly. Once. Twice. Her fingers gripped the wand tighter.
Her lips parted.
"Avada Kedavra."
The words left her lips so softly, so steadily, that it didn’t feel like her voice at all. The flash of green light was blinding. Sharp. Final.
She sits bold upright, the green from her nightmare, no, memory, subsiding as she takes in the dark of her room. But something isn’t right.
Her eyes snap to the door, a shadowed figure standing there, shape illuminated by the flash of lightning which illuminated the room in a harsh, white glow.
Her heart stopped.
Her breath stilled.
“Who’s there?” she gasped, her voice rough with sleep and panic. Her fingers scrambled for her wand beneath her pillow, her breath sharp and uneven. “Show yourself!”
Lightning flashed again, and she saw him.
Aemond.
He stood there, still as stone, his face half-lit by the glow of the storm. His silver hair hung loose over his shoulders, curled slightly and damp from the rain. His one eye was sharp but filled with something else. Something she hadn’t seen before.
Guilt.
Her heart slowed just a bit. Her fingers eased away from the wand beneath her pillow. Her breath steadied.
“Prince Aemond,” she breathed, her voice still rough. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing here?”
He didn’t answer immediately. His eye stayed fixed on hers, sharp and bright, but filled with something she hadn’t seen before. Fear. Guilt. Pain.
“I shouldn’t have come,” he muttered finally, his voice low and raw. He turned slightly, as if to leave, but his steps faltered.
“Aemond,” Celeste said again, her voice firmer this time. “What’s wrong?”
Her eyes searched his face, and she saw the way his jaw clenched, the way his hands tightened into fists at his sides. Something was tearing him apart from the inside.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said softly, her voice steady despite her racing heart. “But you are, so tell me what’s happened.”
He hesitated, his body rigid, his shoulders tense. The storm outside roared louder, lightning flashing through the window once more and illuminating the anguish etched into his face. His lips pressed into a thin line.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said finally, his voice trembling just slightly. “I didn’t mean—”
He cut himself off, his breath sharp and uneven. His hands trembled for just a moment before he forced them still.
Celeste swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet touching the cold stone floor. She rose slowly, carefully, her gaze locked on his. Her heart ached at the sight of him—this man who always seemed so composed, so unshakable, now unravelling before her.
“What wasn’t supposed to happen?” she asked softly, taking a slow step closer. “What didn’t you mean to do?”
Aemond’s eye flicked to her, sharp and desperate, his lips parting as if to speak. But the words caught in his throat. His chest heaved as he struggled to form them.
“Lucerys,” he said finally, his voice breaking on the name. “I didn’t mean to kill him.”
The air left Celeste’s lungs.
Her breath stilled as the weight of his words settled over her like a crushing tide. The storm outside felt quieter now, the rain muffled by the sound of her heart pounding in her ears.
Aemond took a step forward, his hands trembling now, his eye burning with something raw and unfiltered. “It was an accident,” he said sharply, as if trying to convince himself more than her. “I didn’t mean for him to fall. I didn’t mean for him to—”
He choked on the words, his jaw tightening as his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Celeste’s heart twisted painfully. She could see the guilt tearing him apart. The Aemond she knew—proud, sharp, and unyielding—was crumbling before her.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the storm raging inside her. “I know it wasn’t.”
His eye snapped to hers, sharp and filled with disbelief. “How can you say that?” he demanded, his voice raw. “You don’t know what I—what I did.”
“I know you, Aemond,” Celeste said firmly, taking another step closer. “You didn’t mean for this to happen. I can see it in your face.” Her silver-grey eyes softened, her voice quieter now. “You wouldn’t have come here if you didn’t regret it.”
He stared at her, his chest heaving, his lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, he looked as though he might argue. But then his shoulders slumped, his eye dropping to the floor.
“I lost control,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I lost control, and he paid for it.”
Celeste’s breath hitched, her chest aching with the weight of his pain. She took another step closer, her hands reaching out slowly, carefully.
“You’re here now,” she said softly, her voice steady and warm. “That means something. You didn’t want this, Aemond. That’s what matters.”
He glanced up at her, his eye searching her face for something—for forgiveness, for understanding.
And he found it.
Slowly, tentatively, he took a step closer. Then another. His tall frame seemed to shrink as he drew nearer, the weight of his guilt pressing him down.
When he was close enough, Celeste reached out, her hands brushing his arms lightly. He didn’t pull away.
“It’s not your fault,” she said again, her voice firmer this time.
The words broke something in him.
His chest heaved as his breath caught, and without warning, he collapsed into her, his head resting against her shoulder. His arms wrapped around her hesitantly, as though afraid to touch her, but she held him firmly, her hands steady against his back.
For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak. His breath was sharp and uneven, but he didn’t pull away.
“You’re not a monster, Aemond,” Celeste whispered, her voice quiet but certain. “You’re not what you think you are.”
He didn’t respond, but she felt the faintest tremble in his shoulders, the weight of his pain pressing against her.
He let himself depend on her.
His hands clutched the back of her night dress, his breathing sharp and uneven, his jaw clenched hard enough to crack. But he didn’t let go.
Celeste pressed her cheek against his head, her fingers running slowly through his damp silver hair. Her heart ached in her chest, steady but heavy.
“You’re alright,” she whispered, her breath warm against his ear. “You’re alright, Aemond.”
Her arms stayed wrapped around him, her fingers still stroking through his hair. He didn’t say anything.
The storm outside raged on, but inside, there was a quiet calm. A fragile peace.
And for the first time, Aemond let his mask fall.