From tip to toe
The elderly woman delicately arranged Lucille's hair, her skilled fingers deftly weaving it into an intricate braid. Lucille could feel the gentle touch of familiarity mixed with the tremors of fear coursing through her. Her grandmother then adorned her with festive attire—a dress of rich velvet and lace, and jewelry that gleamed with rubies: a necklace that hung gracefully around her neck, bracelets that adorned her wrists, and earrings that whispered with every movement.
As the evening descended, Lucille and Petar ventured into the heart of the village, guided by flickering lanterns that cast eerie shadows upon the rugged cobblestones. The inn stood stoic and weather-beaten, its wooden frame creaking under the weight of history and secrets. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of damp earth and musk, mingling with the raucous laughter and low murmurs of the gathered werewolves.
The inhabitants of the inn were a spectacle unto themselves—corpulent and unhinged, with weathered faces etched deeply with lines of hardship. Scars crisscrossed their skin like stories told in flesh, tattoos whispered of allegiances and victories won, and their nails were jagged and uncut, resembling claws eager for the hunt. They moved with a predatory grace, their eyes glinting in the dim light with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.
Lucille's heart pounded in her chest as she observed the scene, her senses on edge amidst the swirling chaos. Every glance felt like a weight upon her shoulders, every whisper a potential threat. Petar guided her with a firm hand, a reassuring presence amidst the uneasy tension.
As Petar strode confidently into the heart of the inn, his presence commanded attention. The festive music halted abruptly, leaving the room in a pregnant silence as all eyes turned to him. He stood tall amidst the flickering candlelight, his voice ringing clear yet tinged with a hint of reverence for the assembled crowd.
"Thank you all for joining us tonight," Petar began, his words carrying the weight of authority and camaraderie. "I bring you greetings from Greyback, who regrets he couldn't be here personally. He sends his regards and bids us to celebrate our recent triumph together."
A ripple of approval and hearty cheers erupted from the gathering. The Werewolves, with their weathered faces and rugged attire, raised their mugs and howled in agreement. The tension that had gripped Lucille's chest began to ebb as she realized Greyback would not be gracing them with his ominous presence that night.
Petar continued, his voice cutting through the boisterous clamor. "Tonight, let us revel in our strength and unity. We have triumphed in the face of adversity, and tonight is a testament to our resilience and courage. Feast well, one and all!"
With that, the inn erupted into a cacophony of laughter and jubilant chatter. The air was thick with the aroma of hearty stew and ale, the clinking of mugs and the stomping of feet to the rhythm of an unseen beat. Lucille glanced around cautiously, feeling a mix of relief and apprehension amidst the revelry, knowing that despite Greyback's absence, danger still lurked in the shadows of the werewolf sanctuary.
Petar settled into his seat beside Lucille, his voice a low murmur against the lively background of the inn. "Knew all along that Greyback wouldn't make it tonight," he admitted casually, his eyes flickering with a mixture of relief and scrutiny. "It was a test to see if you'd try to slip away."
Lucille remained silent, her gaze fixed on the assortment of dishes laid out before them. The table groaned under the weight of hearty fare: thick cuts of venison, tender strips of bear meat roasted to perfection, and an assortment of game birds. The scent of wild herbs and spices mingled in the air, conjuring images of dense forest and untamed wilderness.
Petar gestured to the spread, urging her gently, "Come now, eat.The others will notice if not." He himself filled his plate with a generous portion, a subtle smile playing on his lips as he savored the robust flavors.
Lucille hesitated only briefly before picking at her food, her hunger outweighing any reservations about the unusual setting. The atmosphere was raucous yet oddly intimate, filled with the laughter and banter of those who lived on the fringes of society, their rough manners and untrimmed nails a stark contrast to the refined halls of Hogwarts.
Despite herself, Lucille found the food surprisingly satisfying, each bite a testament to the hunters' skills and the bounty of the forest. Yet, beneath her tentative enjoyment lay a gnawing unease, a reminder of the precarious situation she found herself in.
Lucille slipped back into her home earlier than expected, her footsteps echoing softly in the hallway. Glancing at the bin, a corner of the Daily Prophet caught her eye. She reached for it, her fingers curling around the edge as she pulled it out. The headline featured a portrait of Harry Potter, his image captured with a striking allure that spoke of both heroism and hardship. His dark, windswept hair framed a face etched with determination, his emerald eyes piercing from behind the glasses. Yet, the most prominent feature was the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead, a testament to his legendary encounter with Voldemort.
Beneath the captivating image, the words "UNDESIRABLE NO. 1" blazed boldly across his chest, stark against the backdrop of his Gryffindor robes. Lucille's breath caught in her throat, her thoughts swirling with questions about the wizarding world's current state and the implications of such a declaration.
Startled, she nearly dropped the paper when the door swung open, revealing Petar. His expression softened with relief upon seeing her, though curiosity flickered in his eyes as he noticed the newspaper in her hand. "Back already?" he asked, his voice gentle yet guarded.
Lucille swallowed hard, her eyes still fixed on the portrait of Harry Potter in the Daily Prophet. Petar's gaze followed hers to the paper, a shadow of concern crossing his features. "You may not remember," he began, his voice tinged with solemnity, "but we're in the midst of a war."
His words painted a picture of a grand struggle, where dark forces clashed against the flickering hope embodied by the Boy Who Lived. "Harry Potter," Petar continued, choosing his words carefully, "is a symbol of resistance, a beacon of hope against the encroaching darkness."
Petar's question drew Lucille's attention back to him. She blinked, still processing the significance of the figure on the page. "I... I think I know him," she murmured, her voice laden with uncertainty. Memories stirred faintly within her, tales her father had once told her. "My father used to speak of him," she admitted softly. "He was always in the spotlight, even then. Remus would tell me stories, and sometimes... I was jealous."
She glanced back at the newspaper, where Harry Potter's image remained resolute against the backdrop of turmoil. "He attended Hogwarts in my year," Lucille added, the pieces slowly falling into place. "But beyond that, I can't recall much." Her brow furrowed in confusion.
Petar's revelation caught her off guard. "Wait," she said, her voice tinged with surprise, "he's the boy... the one I couldn't see in my memories?"
Petar nodded gravely. "Yes, Lucille," he affirmed, his tone carrying a weight of understanding. "Harry Potter is the missing piece you've been searching for all this time."
Lucille's brow furrowed in confusion and concern. "Why would I be obliviated because of him?" she asked, her voice edged with a mix of disbelief and curiosity.
Petar hesitated, his gaze shifting briefly to the floor before meeting Lucille's eyes again. "Since the war began," he began cautiously, "Dumbledore formed a secret alliance to defeat Voldemort. Your father, Remus, played a significant role in it." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "It's possible that you were privy to sensitive information, Lucille. In the tumult of those times, fearing that someone might extract those secrets from you, you were obliviated."
Lucille's mind raced, trying to piece together fragments of memories that might shed light on this revelation. The weight of unremembered knowledge pressed upon her, mingling with the urgency of the present. "But why Harry Potter?" she pressed, her voice tinged with a mixture of frustration and growing realization. "What does he have to do with all of this?"
Petar exhaled slowly, his expression grave. "Harry Potter became a central figure in the resistance against Voldemort," he explained. "He embodied Dumbledore's hopes, and your father's efforts were intertwined with his mission." He paused, then added softly, "You were connected to him in ways you may not fully recall."
Lucille nodded slowly, absorbing the gravity of Petar's words. The revelation opened a floodgate of questions, but amidst the confusion, a flicker of determination sparked within her. "I need to remember," she declared, her voice firm. "I need to know what I was a part of, why I was obliviated."
Petar's hesitation was palpable, his gaze momentarily avoiding Lucille's as he grappled with the weight of his confession. "There’s a reason why," he began slowly, "but it might change everything."
Lucille's brow furrowed, her eyes searching his face for clues. "Why would it change everything?" she asked, her voice tinged with both urgency and apprehension.
He took a deep breath, steeling himself for her reaction. "Because," Petar continued, "I think there's a reason why you were obliviated. And it might be better for our plan if you didn't remember." He paused, gauging her reaction before continuing. "You were very close to Potter. More than just friends. At one point, you were... lovers I think."
Lucille's eyes widened in disbelief, her mind struggling to reconcile this revelation with the fragments of memory she had been trying to piece together. "What? That can't be true," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't remember any of that."
Petar nodded solemnly, his expression tinged with regret. "I know it's hard to believe," he admitted softly. "Why would a wealthy Wizard associate with our kind. But trust me, Lucille. I've seen the way you look at him in your memories. The connection between you two was strong."
Lucille shook her head, her thoughts spinning. "I... I don't know what to say," she confessed, her voice wavering with uncertainty.
Lucille stared at Petar, a mix of disbelief and desperation etching lines across her face. The weight of his admission settled heavily between them, as if the air itself had thickened with the burden of her forgotten memories.
"You've seen my memories," she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper, yet carrying the weight of a thousand unanswered questions.
Petar nodded solemnly, his usually confident demeanor softened by remorse. "Yes," he admitted quietly. "I had to see them. It was necessary when I brewed that potion to block them."
The truth hung in the air, palpable and heavy. Lucille's mind raced, trying to reconcile the fragments of her past with the reality she faced now. "Why didn't you take care of Greyback yourself?" she asked, her voice tinged with a mix of frustration and a growing sense of urgency.
Petar's gaze fell briefly, his brow furrowing with the weight of unspoken fears. "It's far too dangerous," he explained, his words measured and careful. "Especially in the current climate. If Voldemort gains the upper hand in this war, Greyback will become even more formidable, and virtually untouchable."
Lucille's hands tightened into fists, her resolve hardening with each passing moment. "I need to remember everything," she insisted, her voice betraying a mixture of determination and vulnerability.
Petar met her gaze, seeing the fire burning behind her eyes. He understood the risks, yet he also recognized the fierce determination within Lucille. "The night isn't long enough for that," he replied softly. "But I promise you, I will do everything in my power to help you remember as much as possible."
Accepting the vial of potion from Petar, Lucille retreated to the sanctuary of her room. She settled onto her bed, the cool sheets a stark contrast to the tumultuous thoughts swirling within her. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to surrender to the potion's effects, hoping desperately that tonight, the veil over her memories would begin to lift, revealing the hidden truths of her past.
Outside, the night whispered secrets through the rustling leaves, as if nature itself held its breath in anticipation of what memories would emerge from the depths of Lucille's fractured mind.