Scars and Torture
Charles
Charles lay flat on his back, breathing hard as though he had been running. He had awoken from a vivid dream with his hands pressed over his face. The old scar on his forehead, which was shaped like a bolt of lightning, was burning beneath his fingers as though someone had just pressed a white-hot wire to his skin.
He sat up, one hand still on his scar, the other reaching out in the darkness for his glasses, which were on the bedside table. He put them on and his bedroom came into clearer focus, lit by a faint, misty orange light that was filtering through the curtains from the street lamp outside the window.
Charles ran his fingers over the scar again. It was still painful. He turned on the lamp beside him, scrambled out of bed, crossed the room, opened his wardrobe, and peered into the mirror on the inside of the door. A boy of fourteen looked back at him, his bright hazel-green eyes puzzled under his untidy black hair. He examined the lightning-bolt scar of his reflection more closely. It looked normal, but it was still stinging.
Charles tried to recall what he had been dreaming about before he had awoken. It had seemed so real... There had been two people he knew and one he didn’t... He concentrated hard, frowning, trying to remember...
The dim picture of a darkened room came to him...There had been a snake on a hearth rug... a tall man... and a cold, high voice... the voice of Lord Voldemort. Charles felt as though an ice cube had slipped down into his stomach at the very thought...
He closed his eyes tightly and tried to remember what Voldemort had looked like, but it was impossible... All Charles knew was that at the moment when Voldemort’s chair had swung around, and he, Charles, had seen what was sitting in it, he had felt a spasm of horror, which had awoken him... or had that been the pain in his scar?
And who had the old man been? For there had definitely been an old man; Charles had watched him fall to the ground. It was all becoming confused. He put his face into his hands, blocking out his bedroom, trying to hold on to the picture of that dimly lit room, but it was like trying to keep water in his cupped hands; the details were now trickling away as fast as he tried to hold on to them... Voldemort and Barty had been talking about someone they had killed, though Charles could not remember the name... and they had been plotting to kill someone else... him!
Charles took his face out of his hands, opened his eyes, and stared around his bedroom as though expecting to see something unusual there. A large wooden trunk stood open at the foot of his bed, revealing a cauldron, broomstick, black robes, and assorted spellbooks. On the floor beside his bed, a book lay open; Charles had been reading it before he fell asleep last night.
Charles walked over to the book, picked it up, and watched one of the wizards score a spectacular goal by putting the ball through a fifty-foot-high hoop. Then he snapped the book shut. Even Quidditch - in Charles’ opinion, the best sport in the world - couldn’t distract him at the moment. He placed Flying with the Cannons on his bedside table again.
Charles went restlessly back to the bed and sat down on it, running a finger over his scar again. It wasn’t the pain that bothered him; Charles was no stranger to pain and injury. He had lost all the bones from his right arm once and had them painfully regrown in a night. The same arm had been pierced by a venomous foot-long fang not long afterward. Only last year Charles had fallen fifty feet from an airborne broomstick. He was used to bizarre accidents and injuries; they were unavoidable if you attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and had a knack for attracting a lot of trouble.
No, the thing that was bothering Charles was that the last time his scar had hurt him, it had been because Voldemort had been close by... But Voldemort couldn’t be here, now...The idea of Voldemort lurking around was absurd, impossible...
Charles listened closely to the silence around him. Was he half-expecting to hear the creak of a stair or the swish of a cloak? He shook himself mentally; he was being stupid. There was no one in the house with him except his parents and his siblings, and they were plainly still asleep, their dreams untroubled and painless.
Charles had been a year old the night that Voldemort - the most powerful Dark wizard of a century, a wizard who had been gaining power steadily for eleven years - arrived at his house and killed his Aunt Mela, almost killing Sirius in the process. Voldemort had then turned his wand on Charles, who had been in the room with his brother Harry and cousins Jéricho and Lyra; he had performed the curse that had disposed of many full-grown witches and wizards in his steady rise to power - and, incredibly, it had not worked.
Instead of killing the small boy, the curse had rebounded upon Voldemort. Charles had survived with nothing but a lightning-shaped cut on his forehead, and Voldemort had been reduced to something barely alive. His powers gone, his life almost extinguished, Voldemort had fled; the terror in which the secret community of witches and wizards had lived for so long had lifted, Voldemort’s followers had disbanded, and Charles Potter had become famous.
There was a knock on the door and Charles jumped, startled. Then he berated himself for being a wimp; Voldemort wouldn't knock. Opening the door a little, he saw Effie and Monty standing there, grinning too brightly to be innocent. Charles sighed and opened his door wider, allowing them entry. "What is it?"
Monty smirked. "We were wondering if you could help us do something for Harry."
Charles' interest was piqued by this. "Like what? And why?"
"For starters," Effie said, "We were hoping you'd give us an idea about what. As for why... his OWL results are bound to be out soon."
Charles nodded in understanding. "How 'bout a party? Or maybe a handmade gift? Why don't we meet up to plan it sometime later?"
Effie grinned. "Thanks, Chuck, you're the best!"
Charles smiled fondly. Effie was the only one allowed to call him that, and he secretly liked it. The kids left the room, and Charles heaved a sigh before going to the bathroom.
Hermione
"No means no, Ginny Weasley."
"But mum-"
"No!"
Ron sighed. He looked extremely irritated now. In case he opened his big mouth, though, Hermione nudged him hard and sent him a glare.
She had arrived at the Burrow two days ago, and Charles had come in the morning. She would be spending half her holiday there, while staying with the Potters on occasion, because of two reasons: The World Cup and her parents' trip to Busan to meet with a few distant relatives.
They were sitting at the lunch table, and listening to the now-frequent argument between mother and daughter. Ginny had gotten an invitation to Draco Malfoy's late birthday party, and while she desperately wanted to go, Mrs. Weasley wouldn't hear of it.
Personally, Hermione and the twins stood on the same page on this (for once). While they hated Malfoy and everything, if he was a mate of Ginny's, there wasn't exactly anything they could do. She should be allowed to her friend's party. Fred and George were especially vocal about this, openly supporting and defending Ginny against their mother who, along with Ron and Percy, were against this, stating that it was Malfoy they were talking about, and that this wasn't proper or safe. Charles and Mr. Weasley stayed neutral, finding it safer.
As a life-saver, the floo roared and came out Lyra, followed by Sirius. She was still aloof with Charles, Ron, and Hermione, but at least it wasn't open disdain anymore. Sirius was grinning as always. "Hey Weasleys! Just seeing Lyra off; I'll be right outta your hair-"
"Nonsense!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, hurrying out of her seat and rushing over to hug Lyra. "Very good to see, dears. Sit down, sit down; we're just having lunch-"
"Can't, sorry, Molly," Sirius grimaced. "Work calls, I'm afraid. Curse-breakers are needed a lot now with the World Cup..."
"You left the job, though, didn't you?" Fred asked.
"Yeah, well... I'm an ex-Cure Breaker, and I volunteered to help. They need more people..."
"Of course," Mrs. Weasley sighed, "Well, I-"
"Lyra, you going to Draco's party?" Ginny interrupted, seizing her opportunity.
The girl in question nodded happily. "Yeah! He's called half the house, I think. Not Moon, of course, for obvious reasons, but Milicent's going to be there. You're invited, right?"
Ginny scowled, "I am, but mum won't let me go."
Lyra looked over at Mrs. Weasley with a frown. "Why's that?"
Mrs. Weasley sent Ginny a look. "We don't like to associate ourselves with the likes of Malfoy. It could be a ploy-"
"I assure you, it isn't," Lyra argued, seemingly unable to help herself as words tumbled out of her mouth, "Draco and Ginny are good friends, and he's invited Gin's best friends Amy and Josephine too. It wouldn't look good if she's the only one not there."
"Amy and Josephine?" Mrs. Weasley narrowed her eyes.
"Wilkes and Yarrow," Percy butted in, proud to know the answer.
"But they're-"
"Molly," Sirius suddenly said, "I'm also going to Draco's birthday with my children; he is, as you know, my nephew. I can keep an eye on Ginny for you, if you want. I think you should let her go."
Mrs. Wealsey looked torn with everyone ganging up on her, as Mr. Weasley, also nodded slowly. She sighed. "Fine, Ginny, you can go." Ginny gave a delighted whoop as she high-fived with the twins and even Hermione. "Sirius, can you come pick her up at the time?"
Sirius nodded, winking at Ginny. "Sure. I'll see you later, then."
Effie
That night, Lily made a dinner announcement that made everyone at the table groan.
"We've been invited to the Dursleys for dinner on the twenty-ninth of June."
The Durselys were their mother's side of muggle family, who were snobbish magic-haters. Sort of like muggle pure-bloods. Petunia Dursley was Lily's older sister, who hated Lily because of her magic, and, by relation, hated all of them. The feeling was mutual. Her husband Vernon was even worse than her, and while for a while Effie had thought that their son Dudley may still have some kindness in him, she had learned that he was no better than his loathing family. He was a no-good bully, who had even tried to hurt Effie, who was a girl and two years younger than him.
"You referring to your sister and that whale of a husband of his?" Sirius asked loudly.
"Not to forget, his porky son?" James added. The children snickered.
Lily scowled at Sirius. "Shut it, Black. You're coming with us."
Sirius' eyes widened impossibly. "What?! Why?! You planning on divorcing your husband, Evans?"
"No, but he's coming, and he's already married to you." Lily rebuked.
"I'm not coming!" James cried. "Last time ended in tragedy."
"And this time won't."
"Sorry to disappoint, Aunt Lily," Lyra said, "But Dad can't go; he's coming with me, Ech, and Ginny to Draco's birthday."
Sirius' eyes dawned in remembrance. "Oh, yeah, forgot about that! Sorry, Evans. Can't come."
James gasped dramatically. "How could you do this, Pads?! Leaving me alone to torture?! I thought we were supposed to be best mates!"
Sirius grinned and rolled his eyes. "Prongs, mate, I'm going to the Malfoys. I'm not leaving you to torture; I'm just going to a different one."
Lily narrowed her eyes. "Fine, then, Harry will come."
It was time for Harry's eyes to widen comically. "Why?!"
"You're the eldest, Harry," Lily shrugged. "You were about to come anyways... In fact, we'll all go."
"No!" Effie, Monty, and Charles all cried in unison. There had to be some benefits of being the youngsters, right?
"Welcome to the torture club, kiddos," James snickered.