He Who Must Not Be Named
The prophecy called a most curious riddle once in his hands, and curiouser even Cricket sir continued repeating the words inside his head, a mantra, a prayer, a riddle and a memory, a strange one indeed, as he had never been so tall, nor had he ever met the man of midnight hair, whose face he could barely make out from beneath a white mask, a memory inside a memory like a scream underwater.
“The one with the power to bring peace to the races approaches....
born to those who have thrice defied the False Lord...
he will be marked as his equal yielding the power the False Lord knows not...
For neither shall remain while the other stands...
and all who is magical shall stand beside him then...
the one with the power to bring peace to the races approaches...
born as the seventh month dies…”
He felt his chest compress in what he could only guess was asphyxiation. He liked to believe himself a rather smart boy, as he was most often hidden, not seen or heard or thought about, he found himself quite fond of the company of books. “Oh, my poor little brain,” he lamented, “I would have hoped that after all the many words I have read, and all the many books I have loved, a riddle as this should not trouble me so greatly”. Even as the meaning of the words were not unknown to him, the riddle kept its secrets like a puzzle with a missing piece.
He was standing still at the home of all prophecies, partly wondering over the meaning of the riddle Sir Cricket seemed to muse over, white noise inside his head, and partly on why it had mattered at all; his name had not been mentioned, as false lord and the one were not names. He was very fond of names, you see, so he knew plenty of them. He had memorized every name he had ever read, heard or imagined. He had no name still, and as luck had divined, he had not been seen or heard by any. He was a smart boy; he could tell what it meant.
Perhaps in solemn mourning for his strange adventure and his most curious nature, the room had begun a melancholic song. A wailing not quite human struck his ears with the intensity of a tsunami, he wondered of the author of such song, perhaps as well of its recipients, “I may be no critic, but I must admit this is a sound I would find myself quite bewildered to hear on, well, any occasion truly.” He thought quietly to himself, too concerned about the feelings of the prophecies to say out loud.
The prophecies, for their part, seemed to enjoy themselves at the rippling waves of sound, lighting up in bright reds in blinking patterns.
After a time, he caught at the corner of his eye the very same cat that had led him out in the first place, now transparent in a blue hazing light.
“Hadrian? Hadrian Potter? If this message has reached you, please know your godfather is looking for you. He has not forgotten you, and he will sooner die than abandon the notion of your existence. Stay strong, you will be reunited soon.” The cat spoke. Which was rather odd, as they weren’t known to do such things, but he supposed they weren’t known to be blue or translucent either, so he was working on a skewed circumstance to begin with.
“Hadrian!” He called, in hopes of relaying the message. It did seem rather important.
Cricket sir’s gently murmuring came to a halt at the sound of his voice in what he could only interpret as astonishment. His voice was no good after all the years it had gone unused, hoarse and rough on every edge like a pebbled river (Aunt Petunia was very fond of aquatic white noise at night).
His thoughts, now uninterrupted by Sir Cricket, who had seemingly retired back to wherever space inside his mind he was most often found, he wondered about the cat again. Besides the, still loud, song of the prophecies there didn’t seem to be any being keeping him company inside the room but the prophecies. And as none of them responded to names (he had tried, on the off chance it was the answer, “Arthur”, “Miriam”, “Hadrian!” he had accused the orbs to no avail), he was inclined to question back the message itself.
It had been him who had seen the cat originally, and back then it had seemed interested in him as well. The cat had also, attempted to guide him some place, back in the snowy forest. “Could it be then,” he wondered out loud, “that the Hadrian Potter the cat had looked for, had been me?”.
“I am Hadrian Potter” he declared, just to try it. The prophecy rolled back and flew into his hand and started the riddle again.
“Hadrian James Potter, Lord Voldemort.
The one with the power to bring peace to the races approaches....
born to those who have thrice defied the False Lord...
he will be marked as his equal yielding the power the False Lord knows not...
For neither shall remain while the other stands...
and all who is magical shall stand beside him then...
the one with the power to bring peace to the races approaches...
born as the seventh month dies…”
Just as he began to react at the meaning of those words, a loud banging of the door opening startled him into action. Moving on muscle memory he made himself one with his surroundings, three individuals, whose names he did not know, entered the room. He scurried right past them as quietly as possible. He had gotten away with his retreat as well, if it had not been for the shortest of them, who pointed him out just as he reached the door.
They must be three of the strangest people Hadrian had ever seen. They followed after him, screaming nonsensical words and shooting sparkles off sticks. A man so tall Hadrian could only imagine his face, of dark skin and heavy steps, side by side by a woman so thin Hadrian worried the wind they were perturbing with their runs might just make her fly away, and by her side a younger man, shorter and paler than them both, with big round eyes that took half the space of his face. All three of them paraded around a garment he hadn’t known could be used outside, antique wool robes with a golden insignia on the lapel and the silliest little hats he had ever seen, they looked as if they had escaped a play of sorts, yet they didn’t perform at all, they just chased. They chased him.
Down he went, through halls and stairs, no route in mind as he had never been in this place before. And down they went as well, screaming and shooting, falling over themselves to reach him.
“How I wish I hadn’t been cursed so curious!” he lamented, and in his tiredness, it was unclear to him whether he did so out loud or in thoughts, “I shall be punished for it now, I suppose! That must have been the intention of the cat, to warn me!”
So distracted he had been by his lamenting that, just as he turned one last corner leading to the open room of the golden statue he had first arrived from, that he went on to smack himself against a most pompous figure.
A man, the comically shaped moustache seemed to point to. Round cheeks and a squirmy behaviour, the man looked remarkably like a mouse.
“Young man! You must make sure to watch your step!” The man said, a deep and ornamental voice, like an antique grandfather clock.
“My apologies sir.” He responded, hopeful his pronunciation had been accurate. Apologies wasn’t a word said much around him, so he worried he had assumed wrong its sound.
The man grimaced a little (confirming his suspicions!), before speaking once more.
“Worry not, child. Please, allow me to help find your parents.”
“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, sir.” He answered, light sorrow in his voice.
“Whyever not? What is your name, boy?”
“My parents are dead, sir. And as for a name, I can’t be sure, but my suspicion is Hadrian. Hadrian Potter, sir.”
At this, the room went silent for a merely a second, before exploding with sound once more.
“Should that be true, you must have the scar to show for it, mustn’t you?” Accused the man.
“The scar?”
“A lightning bolt shaped scar, just above the right eye. It is the most known mark of Harry Potter, made by the hand of You-Know-Who himself!” Explained the man.
“Oh, I have no such thing, good sir,” he admitted, “I do, however, have a mark of the storm!”. And as he said so, he lifted his overgrown bangs to reveal his most memorable feature, a lighting strike of a scar from below his right eyebrow, expanding like a spiderweb all the way up to his hairline. “I know nothing of its author, but I have always thought it rather looked as if I had been struck by thunder.”
The room had gone silent at the reveal once more. He wondered for their great interest in his conversation but given that the very strange people of this very strange place often chased innocent young children around he rather preferred the audience. He was being seen and heard by so many, perhaps more people than ever before in his life.
“Harry Potter! It is Harry Potter! Child! How could you keep this information from me!” Exclaimed the man, excitement pumping up his veins like his blood was just as exited to meet him.
“It is my name then?”
“Of course it is, child! Harry Potter in the flesh!” Continued ranting the man, barely following their conversation anymore, eyes lost on the audience.
“What of Hadrian Potter then? Is that someone else’s name? I have a really important message for him.” He urged.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Harry, every witch and wizard in Europe knows your name! Hadrian James Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived! I am Minister Fudge, first year in office, it is an honour to meet you!” Said the man, reaching his hand for him to shake, a jovial tone to his voice.
“Pleasure’s all mine, Sir Minister Fudge sir” He responded in kind. At the back of the crowd, Hadrian was able to make out the silhouette of the three people who had chased him here, shame in their faces. He waved at them in what he hoped was a friendly fashion.
Cameras flashed as the conversation went on, every word out of the Minister’ s mouth stranger than the word before. “Why I have been waiting years to be able to thank you personally for having rid us of You-Know-Who all those years ago, his reign of terror is but a sombre memory now, but I had been young when he—no matter, all is well now that he is gone! And we have no one to thank for it than you!”
“Mm, my apologies who?” Answered Hadrian, hiding as best he could his growing shortness of breath.
“You know, You-Know-Who”. Explained helpfully Minister Fudge, using the flawless logic adults sometimes used of simply repeating themselves when one needs an explanation.
“Why I assure you, Minister Fudge, I know not!” Hadrian said.
“He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named” The minister explained, hunching over himself like he was telling a secret. At Hadrian’s confusion he tried again. “The Dark Lord” he whispered.
Why he couldn’t mean— “Voldemort?” Hadrian asked. The room erupted in gasps.
“A name that dreadful must not be uttered, Harry! No matter the speaker! He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has caused too much suffering to call his likeness in polite company, young Harry.” Explained the Minister.
“If so, we shall not speak of him anymore.” Decided Hadrian, for he would rather avoid the conversation completely than to deny someone of their name, having only found his on this very day.
“I agree! And nonetheless I must thank you, I shan’t help myself. The tragedy of the Potters shall go down in history as the greatest act of bravery any witch and wizard have performed before. Your parents will forever be known as heroes to the Ministry of Magic!”
“Whatever for?” Hadrian asked, in no aim of judgment, only understanding.
“For having given their lives to protect you, our saviour, from such evilness, of course!”
“Protecting me? Why, you must be confused, Minister. My parents died on a car crash, awful thing truly, death machines those cars!” Hadrian clarified, as his Aunt Petunia had said to all their perfectly normal neighbours.
“I shall curse myself whoever told you such lie! Lily and James Potter were murdered by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, not six years ago now.” Said the Minister, illiterate to any and all rooms.
And all at once Hadrian felt his breath stop. Pressure like an air-cooker inside his ears, he was bound to explode. Shaking and heaving, he found the storm was inside, and all around him. He would suffocate soon. It would be over then.