Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Astraea sat tensely in Dumbledore's office, having been sent directly after Charms. She'd been in the room a fair few times, but her mind never got used to the array of invaluable trinkets lying around. Just in front of her, an original copy of Hogwarts: A History, peered up at her. It was a wonder nothing had ever been stolen.
Her eyes studied his Phoenix for a while. She'd always found the creatures immensely interesting. They lived, and they died, and were reborn that way for millennia. Given indispensable knowledge as they rebuilt their bodies over and over, forever having the liberty of second chances. She wondered, should she have the same power, what she would do with it.
Vibrant orange feathers flaked delicately around its body, encasing its skin in a way that screamed elegance. A plume of red feathers gleamed as the light shone across Fawkes, each layered delicately and pointedly, reminding her that these were no ordinary feather. It was a pity they were used in wands. Astraea thought they much deserved a more vocal and pertinent use, rather than the swish and flick that they were no doubt used to.
A swooping sound reverberated around the room as the elderly headmaster strolled into the room. He was adorned in a familiar blue robe, and his long beard was tamed and gathered with a simple silver band.
Unlike any time she'd seen him before though, his eyes this time held a sombre note. A note she knew was explicitly directed towards her. And oh, how she wished it wasn't.
She knew the war was bad, and she'd do anything to save those fighting in it, but she hated her role as a contingency plan within it. It was abhorrently unfair. How could anyone expect the children of the Wizarding World to give up their lives in service of their community, if the ministry barely lifted a finger to help them? How could the future of Witchcraft and Wizardry rely on children?
Not once did she think they’d ever received any assistance from the Ministry of Magic. In all the times Harry had warned them about Voldemort, when had they ever heeded him? It surely wasn’t in fourth year, when he had been illegally forced into a tournament that could end in death. And one could hardly say fifth year, given the Minister had to see Voldemort to believe in his return.
She stared over at Dumbledore expectantly, now sat behind his desk unwrapping what appeared to be a sherbet lemon. She already knew what he was going to say when he began to speak, but foolishly she clung onto the small thread of hope that he wouldn't. Perhaps he might offer another, impossibly viable solution to her predestined fate.
"Astraea, there comes a time, where we all have to play a role," he clasped his hands together, gripping them as if they'd give him comfort if he squeezed hard enough.
Astraea found herself mirroring the action, finding it useless in anything but distracting her mind from the conversation which might follow. The motion felt strange coming from a man such as Dumbledore, who was always calm and composed in the face of danger, ready to face whatever odds it preferred. He did not often care the consequence of gambling with fate.
"In a performance, one role is always more important than the rest. The main protagonist," he stared at her with a slight grimace on his face. "Without them... the story ceases to exist as it should."
Her eyes settled briefly on the jar of sherbet lemons he must have been feeding from, and for once in her life, she took one from the pile, rolling it around between her fingers. If the elderly man before her noticed, he didn't comment on it.
"And you expect I'll have to play my card," she replied, her voice strained as she waited for confirmation.
"Unfortunately, yes I do," he responded delicately, a cautious glint entering his eyes, which she realised no longer held their classic twinkle. The familiar trappings of guilt dulled the shine, any joy that the war might finally end suffocated by remorse at her situation.
She realised the impending war was taking its toll on him, as it did everyone else. Whilst before, a man of joy and childish mirth ruled – albeit, not with a lot of discipline or caution - the grounds of the school, an empty shell now remained. It was clear he'd seen horrors and predicted what horrors would soon follow. His vitality had left him. Astraea swallowed grimly at the terrifying sight.
"Know this, Astraea," he started, looking her directly in the eyes, "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. If you decide to do one thing and not the other," he paused, looking away briefly, "that's entirely up to you."
But they both knew that was a blatant mistruth. No matter how selfish, risking thousands of lives for the sake of your own happiness was never the path anyone chose. Astraea knew that this wasn't her decision to make. Fate had already decided for her. She had always been, and would always be, in a seemingly never-ending battle with death. This version of herself... this mould... it would never be free.
She was a puppet, and the strings were held by death.
"It isn't." Her voice trembled as she spoke, a blank expression on her face as she stared longingly at a portrait of two middle-aged people to the right of a small window behind him. The former held a loving smile, perfectly white teeth on full show, brown hair falling in curls down her shoulders. They ended just below her collarbones, accentuated by the emerald pendant flat against her chest. The pendant that currently resided in her crypt. The latter was also smiling, his blue eyes conveying a natural ease, whilst his short blonde hair fell in unruly waves against his head. The two were holding hands, a symbol of unity.
ᴅɪᴀɴᴀ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴀᴍᴀʀ ᴇǫᴜɪɴᴏx.
"We all think we know why they're up there," Dumbledore mused, seeing where she was looking with a sorrowful expression, "But none of us ever will." Astraea nodded, water brimming her eyelids as she tried to surreptitiously blink them away.
Unlike the other portraits, this one would never move. It could not be enchanted like the rest, as a result of the curse the family was bestowed. Those of the Equinox line were never again to speak to their loved ones for fear of messing with predetermined time.
It was beautifully tragic.
She smiled sadly, "the equinox is both a blessing and a sadistic curse."
Astraea wondered whether it would ever be revealed how much the Equinox line had meddled with time. No one would ever truly know because every move they made changed aspects of the future. Her going back in time could change her entire childhood, and the only way she'd ever be able to remember doing so was by storing hundreds of memories. An impossible feat if one did not have the right tools.
Perhaps one day she'd be able to see this life again. When she felt ready to. But she wasn't sure quite where to store her memories, or whether she even could.
A small clink sounded as a thin golden band was settled in front of her. It held a princess cut diamond, surrounded by tiny emeralds. They sparkled in the light, catching what little poured through the small glass panes and diffracting them in minuscule dots all around the room.
"This was your mother's," he said, as she picked up the ring and held it carefully in her palm, watching the light dance, "I'm not sure why I have it, but I know I am meant to bestow it upon you." Her gaze fell on the ring for a moment.
"Thank you," she whispered, sliding the cool metal onto her middle finger.
-:-
Her hands trembled as they clasped the black leather settled in her palms, unsure whether this choice would be wise or just as daft as Dumbledore's self-sacrifice. There was a warmth to it which emanated from its host, comforting and yet sinister in its embrace. The same warm blanket that came with the Dark Arts as it attempted to lull you into submission to its wants. Perhaps if she did not know whose Horcrux this actually was, she'd be better equipped. She might've opened it without question, unaware of the dangers it posed. Reluctantly, she found herself opening the dried pages, her hands reaching for the inked quill as she thought about what to write. What to ask.
Tom was not stupid. He would be able to tell her lies apart from her truths in mere seconds, and he would withhold any information that could affect his meticulously planned future. It was how he survived last time. Pretend you are being pulled apart by basilisk venom, even when you are not quite dead. Harry would never know, and nobody wished to worry him with it. Someone was tasked instead to immerse it in hellfire.
Obviously, a task they had failed with. Though this was useful, for her own task.
What led you to this? To this cursed half-life?
The diary was silent for a moment, pondering – she surmised - how it could corrupt best. Astraea expected a half-truth, concealed expertly, though not the overt lie people suspected. One thing she had noticed over time was Tom Riddle's unexpected truthfulness. Perhaps out of principle, perhaps out of spite of all those who doubted him, perhaps in order to gain the trust of the Wizarding World; truly, it did not matter.
Tom Riddle didn't lie.
If you are asking me that then you must already know my motives, writer.
A chill settled in her small frame.
No, the motives for this must be stronger than the will to escape death and wreak havoc on Wizarding society.
She wasn't sure she'd get a response. If she did, she was convinced it would be angrier and more violent than the poised and calculated reply he gave.
And if they aren't? What difference would it make?
They must be. No one would pose a threat to end our society if they weren't.
You must not know my motives then, strange writer. Cruelty and violence please me. I care not about the future of weak-willed wizards who have not the strength to appease the future.
I don’t believe even you would destroy your home out of vindictive hatred.
You don't know me, writer. And you're just as naive as the rest if you believe I wouldn't go to such lengths for the sake of hatred.
-:-
"Do you ever wonder why we're expected to win this wretched war?" Harry's voice stretched across the length of space between them. His tone was soft and slightly harrowed, worn down in the midst of war and chaos. Astraea could almost hear the hurt and pain exuding out of the poor boy, and she wondered if he'd ever truly be able to get over this trauma. Or whether he'd forever be stuck in the past by the end of it all.
"Why is it down to us? We're teenagers and our lives are being stripped away. Like cattle," he finished bitterly, and Astraea nodded.
Her mind flicked back to the mission Dumbledore had given her. A wretched and unsavoury thing, and yet, never was he the one at fault. He couldn't help being a victim of such war. She could.
The next equinox was due on the 20 of March, and it had never felt like such a short time away until that humid day in July. In her heart, she knew what she was required to do.
"They don't understand how to win it themselves," she stated matter-of-factly, "All they know are prophecies. That's why."
Harry had been burdened with glorious purpose since the day he was born. To finally end the Dark Lord's reign of terror and bring peace. And yet, that had never felt like such a shaky thing till now. The prophecy never said Harry would be the one who survived. Just that one would die. In some twisted and harrowing way, Astraea could relate to him because of that. Both were born into a world of terror and pain, and both had the ability to make that pain disappear.
She fiddled with the fraying ends of her sleeves, sweatshirt once a bright blue, now faded with wear. It was a habit she'd picked up recently, and one her clothes weren't too fond of.
"It's a curse having this title," he resumed, "The chosen one. Everyone acts like it's a blessing."
"I know.”