Eyes of Rain

Walking alone in the corridors of Hogwarts after curfew was just asking for trouble…this notion was not new to Seventh Year Eleanor Rosewood. Though in all her years at the school, she had never managed to encounter much trouble, the opportunity remained, nevertheless. This night, she wasn’t even seeking anything in particular, but something about the intensity of the Triwizard Tournament left her restless and unsettled.

At times, Eleanor wondered if she was cursed in a way. Some may call it a gift how she feels magic so acutely. It is an all-encompassing sense to experience the aura of magical energy, but it often leaves her feeling drained, and at the worst of times, close proximity to magic of a more sinister intent leaves the young woman feeling quite ill.

It has been a journey to navigate this almost empathy for magic. As a young child, she was more withdrawn and troubled due to her inability to properly express that being around a lot of strong magical cores and auras would leave her feeling overwhelmed. This was particularly problematic as her parents loved hosting lavish balls throughout the year. Magic coated their manor and the sheer volume of magically strong attendants tended to overstimulate the poor girl and leave her feeling that there was no escape from the sensation.

After her mother discovered what was affecting the girl so much, private tutors were hired that specialized in controlling magical affinity. She would forever be grateful for the help of the specialist tutors because, with time, she learned to control the raw feeling she experienced with magic into a more manageable tool to feel out magical intent. If a wizard or witch’s aura felt questionably dark, often it was telling of either a dark influence on the person or a darker character within them. And Eleanor was not referring to “Dark Magics” or “Dark Arts.” Some magic is just of a darker nature and some casters have a darker affinity. The darkness she senses has more to do with what the person intends to do with the magic.

For instance, an auror casting a “darker” spell to subdue a criminal is not an act of malicious nature when the intent is to stop the criminal from harming others. A criminal using darker spells with the intent to harm people for the sake of causing pain would be a wizard with dark and sinister intent.

Because of her affinity, she also found herself more empathetic to magical creatures and people afflicted by things like lycanthropy. Werewolves may be considered to be stereotypically darker magical beings, but most have no desire to cause pain to other wizards. They function just like any other magical being all but one night out of the month, but people love to classify them as evil and dangerous, and it hurts the young woman’s heart to see wizarding society turn on its own.

As she learned to manage her ability to feel the magic around her, she decided her purpose in life would be to use it to bring peace and love to the world around her. She desired to make genuine connections with the people around her and eventually bring change to the harsh society of the wizarding world. At eleven, she was sorted into Hufflepuff and so her quest began.

Her house left her many opportunities to create honest friendships all across Hogwarts and create a rapport with her professors. The once overwhelming balls at home turned into chances to make connections with more powerful adult wizarding figures that have influence in many different factions of the Ministry. Her seventh year felt like the most promising opportunity yet to develop great relationships internationally with students of her generation. She already had plans to keep up an owl correspondence with a few girls from Beauxbatons and a handful of Durmstrang students as well.

All was going swimmingly until the actual tasks started. The entire tournament had an ominous feeling to it and the magic surrounding it was just off. She couldn’t quite put her finger on the issue but the magic left her unnerved in a way nothing else has ever done. Hence the late-night stroll through these haunted halls.

Lately, she has felt the pull of Lady Magic guiding her to something. Likely the reason behind her unease with the Tournament. And tonight, she felt that pull from Lady Magic come to a head as she found herself stopped outside the Defense classroom.

Somehow, she knew that once she opened that door, nothing would ever be the same.

After crossing the threshold of the doorway, Eleanor was assaulted with one of the darkest magical auras she had ever encountered. It was overwhelming and horrifying and left her physically ill. In her overwhelmed state, she was so taken by the raw, evil magical force that she was unprepared to block the incarcerous cast at her.

Bound on the floor of the classroom, her vision cleared enough to recognize the frantic pacing and murmuring of Professor Moody, only it wasn’t Professor Moody, was it? Ignoring her first instinct to panic, she chose to assess the situation and observe. Nothing she could do bound on the floor anyway. She must’ve dropped her wand in the action, so the best thing to do was take in the situation she’s found herself in.

As the skin of her professor started to bubble and alter, she focused on the haze of the vile magic surrounding him and determined it to be a taint on the wizard afflicted with it. Not voluntary, and certainly not belying a truly darker soul beneath the taint.

When the transformation ended, she was left to gaze upon a lanky man who looked nothing like Moody at all, but the taint didn’t disperse with the disappearance of the effect caused by what she assumed to be Polyjuice potion. If anything, the taint glared at her more strongly. She could almost see the agony this wizard’s soul must be under and her own magic felt the wounded call of his magic crying for help.

The poor man was now twitching and tugging at his ponytail as he paced. He periodically cast furtive glances at her and seemed to grow more stressed. The panicked mumblings began to sound as if he didn’t know what to do, or if he did know what to do, something was telling him not to. He spoke of screaming voices in his head at one point, and Eleanor was at a loss of what to do. Everything in her yearned to help this man, and she vowed to, if only she knew how. She wouldn’t wish the kind of torment this man was clearly experiencing on anyone else.

“Hello?” she asked.

Cue another quick glance in her direction and a pained keen from the man’s lips as he increased the intensity of his pacing. She feared if he treaded the ground any faster, he’d work a hole in it.

“…excuse me? Would you please look at me? It’s alright…please just look at me and breathe.”

The man looked just as panicked as before in his now stationary state, but at least he was making an effort to look at her. His gaze met everything but her eyes and appeared both lost and conflicted. She considered treating him like a wounded animal may prove to be most effective. As it was, his magical core is surely wounded, not to mention the state of his mind.

“There you go…hi…I’m not sure who you are, but I think I can help you. I’m Eleanor. Do you think you could remove the bindings?”

This request resulted in a pained wince from the main and a restart on the pacing. All right, Eleanor…you’re determined to help the man so best not give up now, she thought.

“Sir? Please? Please look at me. I believe Lady Magic wishes for me to help you…please let me see you.”

As the man stopped to face her yet again, he looked near tears. He finally spoke to her, and all she heard were rushed begs of “stop talking…please stop talking… too many voices…too much…please make it stop,” over and over again.

Though no longer frantically pacing, he began pulling at his face and hair, probably in an attempt to stop the voices, but she wasn’t entirely sure he was aware of the rushed tugging of his hands or the occasional swipe of his tongue out of his lips.

Suddenly, the ropes around her form loosened, but she didn’t even think that action was intentional either. She stood up and began to ever approach the man so slowly. A normal person probably would have run and gotten help in her situation, but something led Eleanor to believe the man needed more help from her than she needed protection from him. Lady Magic had yet to steer her wrong.

She was finally within touching distance of the man and with his head turned down and in his hands, he looked far more terrified than he looked like a threat to her. Up close, she could see he was trembling more than he was twitching and he jerked violently when she brought a hand to rest on one of his wrists. Distressed, his other hand fumbled for his wand, but it fell to the floor.

Distantly, Eleanor had the thought that this was how it was supposed to be. Human touch, magical touch, no need for something so separate from natural being as a wand.

The connection of her hand on his wrist, his hand still guarding his face, burned with the power of their magics colliding. The broken call of his magical core was answered by her own; her touch soothing the distraught man. Eleanor had no doubt that Lady Magic was present at that moment, fueling her power as it invaded the man and attacked the taint on his soul. She had never experienced her magic acting so fiercely all on its own, but she witnessed the pure glow of her aura go to war with the darkness staining this man’s, and slowly the inky tendrils of evil infecting this man’s magic dispersed. Cracks left in his soul were repaired by the heart of her magic.

Later on, Eleanor would learn that this man’s name was Bartemius Crouch Jr., that he had been imperiused since the First War, and that he was forced to pose as Professor Moody, but the most extraordinary thing that was brought to her attention was that her magic healed these wounds that the mind control brought upon him.

Much of what happened after their magics collided is a blur to Eleanor, but one thing she remembers vividly is the clear, lucid look in his brown eyes once he was purged of the darkness surrounding him. She was not sure how much time had passed as they were in the classroom, but at some point a professor must have come by because the next thing Eleanor knew, the man was separated from her, and she awoke in the hospital wing.

The Headmaster tells her many things upon her awakening. He tells her she experienced a magical exhaustion after the interaction with Bartemius. He tells her she did a great thing by revealing the imposter’s identity. He tells her she led to the freedom of the real Alastor Moody. He tells her the Tournament has been postponed until after the break to ensure it is conducted properly under new supervision. He praises her magical aptitude and quick thinking in an emergency, but what the Headmaster does as he is telling her these things speaks louder than any of his words.

Something Eleanor has always been wary of is a gray magical core. She finds that people in possession of these blurred natural inclinations when it comes to magic can be just as dangerous as those with dark inclinations. The only difference is that these people don’t see anything wrong with the lengths they go to nor do they realize they are capable of intentionally dark actions—people who have darker cores are aware of their intent as they act.

The Headmaster of Hogwarts is one of the greyest souls Eleanor has ever seen, and as he speaks to her in the hospital wing, she feels him in her mind. He’s violating the privacy of her memories, likely seeking her experience the previous night with the tainted man, and undoubtedly the man must assume he is discreet, but Eleanor notices the intrusion immediately and removes him from her mind. Eleanor is unsure of what exactly the man hopes to gain from witnessing her experience, but she is not one to blindly trust that he has good intentions, especially after he attempted to invade her mind without her consent and attempted the invasion when she was in a weaker state. And a small part of her wants to keep that experience to herself a little longer. She wants to take the time to explore exactly what happened.

With a suspicious but firm glare, Eleanor addresses Dumbledore with, “I believe that is all the information I need imparted upon me, Headmaster. Surely, we don’t wish to strain my mind after such intense magical exhaustion.” Her suspicious gaze is returned briefly, but the man schools his expression with the ever-present twinkle in his eyes. He replies with a simple “yes, my dear. Of course,” and swiftly exits the hospital wing.

Perhaps the Headmaster is not used to things going differently than he desires, she thinks.
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That fateful day in the defense classroom, Barty’s thoughts were a jumbled mess of:

“No. No. No no no no no, please no.” And “Make it stop…merlin, please make it stop.” And “You know what you have to do Barty…you must give the boy to the Dark Lord, Barty.” And “No. No. No no, I don’t want to harm the boy. I don’t want to be here.” And “I don’t know who I am.” And “Why is it so loud in here?” And everything else his mind wanted to war about.

The pain in his head was excruciating and if he didn’t already lack the ability, he’d day he couldn’t think straight. His soul hurt. It felt like such a juvenile way to put it, but it just hurt. All he knew these days was pain and a mind that wasn’t his own. He wished he were stronger. He didn’t want to be like this. Someone just please help him not be like this. His magic was in pain, and all he wanted was relief—even if it came in the form of the end…eternal nothingness had to be better than this torture. But something also told him that he would never be granted that relief because all he deserved was eternal damnation for his lack of strength to fight off whoever was possessing his body.

The thing about being under the imperius curse for so long is that eventually, the fog clears, and you recognize that you don’t want to do what you are compelled to do. For Barty, he was aware he was trapped inside his mind. He’d wondered if he’d gone insane, but then he’d wondered if he’d be able to tell if he had gone insane. Fifteen years is a long time and he’d been able to get very acquainted with his shortcomings and evils and faults, and he’d determined that he was the only one truly to blame for the crimes he committed and the damage he caused. What happened to the Longbottoms was one of the most horrific things he had ever witnessed, and it was by his hand. Sure, someone went and cursed him, but if he’d had the strength of mind to overcome it, he could’ve prevented everything.

Sometimes he wondered what specifically it was that made him a target. He was always such a good boy. He did well in school, even got seven NEWTS, and was on his way to becoming a successful Ministry worker. He could still remember the genuinely proud smile his father met him with when he got accepted into the ministry curse-breaking program. Was it the power his father held within his position and the trust the man had for Barty that made controlling him so appealing? Was it his potential to rise quickly within the Ministry? Did they simply think he was just an easy pawn?

Barty was never one for hatred. Some of his most successful and motivated housemates were muggleborns. He may have been of pureblood descent, but blood status was not something he valued very much. What he did value were the more sacred wizarding traditions such as Yule, and he was very invested in keeping those traditions connected to wizarding culture. He did not blame muggleborns for being unaware of the customs and simply desired that they be informed of them. Often, the issue was caused by forces like Dumbledore who are so focused on integrating muggleborns into wizarding society that they sacrifice wizarding customs and traditions to make muggleborns feel more “comfortable.”

Barty at times feared he was thinking too simply, but he did not understand why the integration of muggleborns into wizarding culture called for the removal of wizarding traditions from wizarding culture. Could they not inform muggleborns about wizarding culture, and in turn have muggleborns inform about their culture? Perhaps it was his Ravenclaw heart that governed his thinking, but why would knowledge ever be taken away to make people more comfortable? Wouldn’t they feel more comfortable if they were given the opportunity to learn what most wizards know of their culture? Regardless of if they adopt those traditions, they are at least not separated from the rest of the population by a lack of knowledge. The muggleborns he shared a house with thrived on the knowledge he could share of some of the core traditions of the wizarding world.

Suffice it to say, Barty did not participate in blood prejudice. Wizards are wizards regardless of blood status, and to him, the value of a wizard stems from their work ethic and dedication to always learning—not their heritage.

Barty had a lot of time to think about all of these things…his mind didn’t see a quiet moment for fifteen years until he met her.

Regretfully, Barty’s memory of most of that night is jumbled and foggy. In his defense, the battle within his mind was coming to a head—he never wanted to hurt innocent people, and this was just a boy. Organizing and rigging the tournament to ensure he would face the Dark Lord was a death sentence and he would use all the fight left in him to ensure it didn’t happen. He didn’t know how to stop or what would happen to him if he stopped, but he couldn’t do that to Harry Potter. He refused to squander the last bit of innocence the boy possessed.

Barty didn’t even register his casting of the incarcerous. He didn’t even notice the Polyjuice wearing off. All he really remembers is the creak of the door hinge briefly distracting him from his mental battle and wide blue eyes staring back at him, and next thing he knew there was a petite little witch on the ground and—where did she come from? And his mind was screaming again, and he forgot about the girl, and then he heard the most beautiful sound. He couldn’t stop his feet from moving but suddenly there was a third voice among the two in his mind…only this one was so much softer. It sounded so nice. Couldn’t he just listen to it for a moment? He really wanted to focus on that one. No one ever speaks to Barty so gently anymore. All he knows is pain and the angry voices in his head telling him he’s right and wrong and so broken.

He had to focus…just for a minute. The girl said please. No, Barty, get RID OF HER. But why would he want to do that? She speaks so kindly. He found that the witch was pleased when he looked at her. He couldn’t look her in the eyes again. He didn’t deserve to. He wanted to deserve to. She was so soft with him that he didn’t ever want to hurt her.

She asked him to let her go. NO, BARTY! GET RID OF HER! YOU MUST MAINTAIN YOUR POSITION! But then there was LET HER GO BARTY! BE A GOOD MAN FOR ONCE AND BE STRONG ENOUGH! And the fighting in his head started again and oh how he missed the pretty voice. It had sounded like the ocean. Barty had never seen or heard the ocean, but it must be reminiscent of something so natural. Something that flows. Barty was conflicted. Barty was always conflicted. He felt hands on his face and in his hair. He felt pain but that wasn’t new. It never was.

The voice came back. “Sir? Please? Please look at me. I believe Lady Magic wishes for me to help you…please let me see you.”

Lady Magic? Certainly not. Not for him.

Distantly, Barty recognized his control was slipping—including control of his magic.

Now she’s there in front of him. He won’t look at her, but he can sense her. He can smell her. He wonders if its disturbing to take note of her scent, but he finds he doesn’t care. She smells like life. Like things that grow. He smells roses and green grass and sunshine and life. He hasn’t known life in a long time. Is he shaking?

Then it all happened at once. A hand. A touch. Why does he need his wand…he doesn’t need his wand…and oh.

Life engulfed him. Pure light. Raw magic touched his soul and—is this what true magic is supposed to feel like? Unfiltered…a relentless force…clean.

All he knew after that were those two blue eyes. The color was so pale, but it called to him. Like the sky after a rainstorm. Or maybe there were raindrops in her eyes. Or were those tears?

It’s funny how he can feel time in excruciating detail when cursed, but when he’s free? When his soul is whole again? Time means absolutely nothing. He could’ve been staring into her eyes for a hundred years or half an hour or just two minutes, but it was eternity, and it was more than an eternity of nothingness. It was an eternity of hope.