Take The Money And Run
They got the money, hey, you know they got away
They headed down South and they’re still running today, singin’
Go on, take the money and run
Go on, take the money and run
20th August 1976
Ara had spent much of her time confined to the library, shrouded by borrowed jeans from Reg and a jumper from James. She’d felt like Hermione again. And it was so very odd.
Despite having traded her curls for a shaggy straight cut, she still tied her hair up with a twist and hair clip. And the same strands still fell free to block her vision, just differently. It was so very peculiar, to be so utterly aware again that she was reliving an entirely opposite life in the past. She was still Ara Black. She had been for sixteen years, and she had accepted it wholeheartedly, years before she had forgotten her previous life. But she was Hermione too. The lingers of a stubborn, Muggleborn girl that just wanted to protect her brother in all but blood and have her best chance at life in a foreign world.
It was… well, she hardly felt like Hermione Granger. And yet the girl’s memories suffocated her every time she glanced to her family. How long did Dorea and Charlus have before they were but bones in a grave? Before James was without his parents, her brothers ripped apart and without each other’s arms to hold themselves up? How long before she herself was no more than an ugly memory - just another tarnish on the Black family tree?
Flint had marked her. Not only with the taint of his touch, but the carving of his cruelty. The spell he had once used to try and control her branded upon her chest. For the rest of her life, that mark would stain her.
He had used a cursed blade, after all.
Still, it was no worse than the itch of Voldemort’s Dark Mark. That was perhaps her worst mistake. Still, she could not find the energy to truly hate herself for it. Not when… not when taking it had saved her brothers from a worse fate. Now they were off-limits to all interested parties.
It was odd to be relieved to only grieve yourself. Ara was left off-kilter by it, always aware that her future was forfeit to save those of her brothers. Regulus would never be marked, never forced to that cave… he would not die still a boy, trying to right a wrong without any allies. And Sirius would not be alone. He would always have a brother with him, always know that when push came to shove, his brother chose his side.
But Ara would always be doomed. Born already dead and to a family that loathed her from the start. A firstborn daughter that broke through the bounds of time, forcing her presence into a society that detested anyone who dared to not comply.
How many times had her compliance cost her freedom? Her sanity? Was ‘Ara Hermione Black’ merely a martyr slotted to replace another?
That… it was enough to drive anyone to madness. Unfortunately for Ara, she’d been mad long before it.
Hermione Granger had been a mad girl, too. Driven to insanity by wartime torture and months carrying a Horcrux around her neck while living on wild mushrooms and stolen supplies. By the end of the war, she had been half-feral. Fighting with bared teeth - muggle violence amongst spellfire.
Really, she’d been doomed from the start. Cursed with knowledge, cursed to lose it, and cursed to unlock it anew by dying again.
At least Death had been kind to her.
As Ara had locked herself away to silently contemplate… well everything, Sirius had taken it upon himself to break the news of Ara’s revelation their brother. Neither twin particularly wanted to leave their brother out of the know.
Though Regulus hadn’t spoken about it with Ara, she had noticed how careful he was with her in the aftermath. He hovered at the sidelines, just… watching her with this frankly eerie gaze. Innocent and knowing, dreading and relieved all at once. He started sleeping every night in the same room as the twins - three siblings curled in different corners of Sirius’s bed.
The one consolation, was that Sirius had not told James or the Potters. Ara did not think she would be able to cope if James learned of how she had failed his son. Of the Harry that could one day be, the boy cursed from birth to die alone in a fucking forest.
She did not dwell long on the thought of Harry Potter. It made her too angry to grieve the Boy Who Lived. Ara couldn’t even bear to think of Ron, of the boy she’d loved in another life. Not when every time she did, she felt the ghost of a bloodied kiss on her lips.
It was odd to be the only survivor of a future conflict. Ara was the last thread of a battle fought decades ahead. All she owned were memories of people that had not yet been born, stories of children that may not ever exist. Not only the wretched child of a cursed bloodline, but the echo of a muggleborn that was once known as ‘The Brightest Witch of her Age’.
That was… it was the thing that hurt the most. Hermione Granger had been the embodiment of Light, of goodness. But Ara Black… what was she if not an on-the-nose inverse? Brandished with a surname to mock the girl she had once been.
She almost wished she hadn’t remembered. Ignorance, however fraught and bewildering, was far better. When her theories were just notions, guesses at the dreams that riddled her nights. Ara had called her dreams memories and still chosen to ignore them. To write it all as the junk of divination instead of acknowledging just how much she knew of what lay ahead.
And there came the final question.
What the bloody hell was she supposed to do? How could one witch halt the terror that was soon to come?
Ara had not expected her answer to come as soon as it did. Exactly a week after she woke from her ‘little coma’ (as she liked to call it, though her brothers and the Potters seemed disapproving of), there was a knock on the library door.
“Come in.” She called from her armchair.
Slithering through the doorway, was Albus Dumbledore. He was dressed in the usual purple and red robed finery - his white beard styled with a knot at the base. But his eyes… those spoke of a sorrowful severity that suggested he was quite aware of the Black siblings’ latest predicament. His flicker towards Ara’s covered arm… well, Dumbledore had never been the best at hiding his intentions from Ara Black. Not when she knew him so well from Hermione’s memories.
“Miss Black.” Dumbledore nodded, gesturing to the seat opposite her. “May I?”
“Why not?” She shrugged, folding her book shut - a ribbon tucked to mark her place. “You spoken to the boys?”
“Indeed.” He stepped across the room, perching on the armchair as though it belonged to him. All suave and overconfident. “Hogwarts was made quite aware of your shift in guardianship.”
Ara snorted at that phrasing.
“If by that you mean that your little Auror spies told you about how the Blacks spent their summer, then sure.” She tutted. “I’m not gullible, Headmaster. And you have quite the tell whenever you’re fibbing.”
“Fair enough, Miss Black.” Dumbledore sighed. “But as your headmaster, it is my duty to make sure all my students are safe.”
“You’ve said that before.” She shook her head at him. “Did it help soothe your ego? Because it certainly didn’t help any of us.”
“I know. I meant what I said, Miss Black. I did intend to introduce you to the Order of the Phoenix.”
“I suppose so.” Ara shrugged. “Not planning on changing your mind, are you?”
“No. Not at all.” His eyes glistened behind those stupid half-moon frames. “But I would not be doing my duty if I did not ask… why do you look at me like a ghost?”
Ara blinked.
The part of Hermione that seemed always coiled behind her thoughts…she let out the faintest gasp. A scrape of horror against the dread - reminded so terribly of the man she had once followed. Of the months in a tent, holding a translated children’s book as another hand tore at her hair.
In a hopeless future, Hermione Granger followed Albus Dumbledore like a good little soldier. Though she respected his position, she had only ever obeyed out of some rotten instinct of subservience. Always calling her teachers ‘Professor’, never daring to disobey their orders. She’d bled for Dumbledore’s ridiculous plots, time and time again.
Harry had idolised him. A great wizard making difficult choices in a brutal civil war. Hermione saw him for the power-hungry twat he was. And still, she’d followed his orders.
It had gotten her killed. Hell, Dumbledore got everybody killed in one way or another.
“I’ve seen you die.” She admitted, voice soft and worn. “Pointlessly and stupidly, and all for your rotten pride.”
“Why?” He tilted his head, appraising her with his usual hidden severity. “What thing of the future makes you trust me so little?”
“Alright.” She whispered, finally too tired to hold it in. “I’ll tell you about Harry. I’ll tell you about The Boy Who Lived. But… I want something in return.”
And though she hated to do it, Albus Dumbledore became the third person to know the truth of Hermione’s life. Not all of it - not his death, nor Sirius’s imprisonment - but enough for the man to understand the gravity of his actions. Dead boys at inter-school events, children fighting a Dark Lord in the basement of his school. Enough for Albus Dumbledore’s carefully constructed facade to falter. Not enough to break it, but to reveal a flash of guilt.
“You didn’t just create child soldiers, you used us as bait. Children to play at war while you shuffled us like chess pieces.” Ara growled. “And even in this life, even as I’ve begged to be seen as a girl and not some ‘Chosen One’, you still can’t do it. You can’t see me as anything more than another pawn on the board.”
“You are no pawn, Miss Black.” Dumbledore frowned. “You are the white Queen, the most crucial of all.”
“Your war would continue even when I die, don’t be glib.” She scowled. “You can flatter and you can make promises, but you can’t keep me hidden away with hope I might survive the game. You’ve lived a life of making sacrifices, don’t pretend that you don’t intend to continue it.”
“By your words, my meddling ruined the world.”
“Just England and Scotland.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re still doing it, thinking yourself as some make-or-break catalyst. But Sir, you are a wizard, not God. Stop letting your ego dictate your moves.”
“Alright.” He nodded. “Is that your demand in this exchange?”
“Well, I’d hoped you do that anyways. Considering, you know, you got our country destroyed by being a meddling arse.” Ara scowled deeper, shooting the ageing wizard a truly scathing glare. “I want you to introduce me to the Order, and I want you to tell them what I know. I want them to know exactly who they’re following.”
“It would be incredibly dangerous.” He warned, lips pulling flat. “That kind of information, the specifics of who you once were and where you came from… it would be very dangerous if it got into the wrong hands.”
“Do you not trust your ranks?”
“Not after the information you’ve shared.” He admitted.
“I s’pose it’s a good thing then, that I’ve already got a perfect alibi for the memories.”
“Do go on.”
“My best friend is a Seer. Who’s to say I’m not too?” Her eyes glinted wickedly. “You once thought I was one, after all.”
“Hide it, right under people’s noses, disguised as a traditional gift.” He pondered for a moment. “You do understand that if this information leaves the Order, you’ll be a target.”
“Am I not, already?” She shot back, uncovering her Marked arm bitterly.
“I suggest you keep that hidden, during the meeting.” Was his only remark.
“I wasn’t planning on parading it around.” Ara spat, glaring back at the old coot. Upon his kind look back, her anger faltered. “I may be a child, but I am no fool. I know how the Light sees me, how they see my family. I know because it’s how you see us too.”
“And how is that?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself.” She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Just… don’t. It’s time. You need to tell me the prophecy. I need to know what Pandora’s mum said, what you’re keeping hidden in the Department of Mysteries.”
“Child-”
“Don’t.” She warned. “It’s about me! Why shouldn’t I know my own destiny?”
“I do not want to cloud your mind, considering the events you have just endured.”
“It’s already pretty fucking cloudy. I need to know.” She implored. “He Marked me. He tried to make me marry him.”
“He what?” She had never heard the man sound so very angry.
“He wants a legacy. He wants an heir. And he’s picked me. Or, more aptly, he’s picked the Black family and its most volatile member.”
“I swear that I will not let that man close to you, ever again.” Dumbledore implored.
“I think I actually believe you.” She let out a faint laugh. “But I still need to know the truth. Harry was subject to prophecy that left him as the Boy-Who-Lived. I’m just the Girl-Who-Died.”
“Alright.” He nodded. “But we do it properly.”
She cocked a brow.
“It’s time to induct you into the Order of the Phoenix.”
——
It was odd to see Alastor Moody in reality, not only nightmare and memory. To see a man she had known well in her former life - a man that had never quite liked her, but had always respected her savvy. Though he still skirted the room with suspicious eyes, Ara noted how both were his own. Moody was a snapshot of the pre-war. He had not been maimed by the battle, not yet anyways.
He scanned her like a practiced pro - clocking exactly which sleeve her wand was tucked within, the scar that tugged slightly above her neckline. Only Charlus’s hand on her shoulder had dissuaded the Auror from approaching her, as Charlus whispered that he’d trained Moody himself when the man first joined the force.
It was like dancing amongst ghosts. Worse, walking amongst those photographs she had once held. People that would not live to see the second wave of war, stories that were whispered amongst tumblers of whiskey and muggle cigarettes.
There were far too many faces she knew from Hogwarts. Too many recent graduates - barely two years past their NEWTs. At least the recent Seventh years were absent. Ara wasn’t sure how she’d cope if the Prewett boys walked by.
It took five Death Eaters to bring them down. That fact she remembered from Mad Eye’s ramblings.
Marlene’s parents walked past, their eyes pausing on Ara with a furrow of confusion, then a soft nod of greeting. Kind smiles from other parents of her school friends, even if tainted by a sliver of a frown at Ara’s presence beside her guardians.
Finally, she caught view of Unspeakable Weasley and his wife. Or, as she’d known them in another life: Arthur and Molly Weasley. Ara’s mind spun with questions - why had he given up his role to work for the Misuse of Magical Artefacts division? Hermione had never once heard of Arthur having been an Unspeakable, and the only reason she could think of for his resignation was the war they faced. Had he given it up to protect his family?
No wonder he’d always been so interested in Muggle items. Always fiddling with circuits and messing with odd electronics in his shed. It was as close to mystery as a sheltered Pureblood could reach.
Before anyone had entered, Dumbledore had made them sign parchment. A spelled piece, of course, with the same stylings of the DA sign up sheet from Hermione’s life. A subtle jinx that would mark a traitor with bright purple skin. That particular choice had been the Headmaster’s - the man smiling as he explained his love of the colour. The added jinx that would rip the tongue from a betrayer’s mouth… now that was all Ara.
“Can I have everyone’s attention?” Albus Dumbledore spoke, silencing the room with his booming voice. “Shall we get started?” His eyes flickered to Ara first, then to Alastor Moody - nodding to the man as the rest of the room took their seats.
“Aye,” Moody stood - eyes scanning the room warningly, “Scrimgeour managed to get the Wizengamot to vote his side, after what happened to the Black kids. Aurors are permitted to use Unforgivables now.”
The room seemed to split down the middle; half cheering this as a success, the others screaming of the dangers. A few faces glanced Ara’s way, though as the room dissected her summer none asked for her opinion.
“Enough.” Dumbledore spoke loudly. “We have more pressing matters.”
The room stilled, almost spellbound.
“We have been given a goldmine of information.” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled as they roamed the room. “An understanding of the worst outcome of this war. There is a child, one with prophecy spoken that she might be Voldemort’s undoing.”
His eyes turned to Ara and the whole room seemed to take a breath as they regarded her. She could imagine what they saw. A too-skinny witch without any of the classic makings of lightness. Dyed purple hair and scarred across her face, she did not fit in with the sleek skinned and poised people surrounding her.
“I know you all know who I am.” Ara began, her hand finding Dorea’s and holding on tightly. “But I was not always Ara Black. In another life, I was called Hermione Granger. And I died fighting this war that we wage currently. I died because of mistakes made in this time, and I will not let those mistakes happen again.” Dumbledore blinked in alarm, taken aback by her honesty with the group. Dorea’s grip grew tighter.
The room was silent; attention completely focused on the girl. No one dared speak over her.
“Tom Riddle, or Lord Voldemort as we know him, created Horcruxes.” Gasps were heard scattered around the room. Dorea - her hand shaking as she covered her mouth with horror. Andromeda clutching Ted’s arm as she looked around the room with a terrified gaze. A couple of Order members that Ara recognised vaguely seeming to understand. “And Dumbledore didn’t tell us. Didn’t tell anyone, He sent me and two other children out into the world with no understanding of what we were hunting. We tried our best to destroy them, but we were crippled by our lack of knowledge. We fought against a prophecy we did not know until too late, one that seems to be repeated in this timeline.” Her eyes met her Headmaster’s, a dangerous glint glowing in them as he looked to her with sorrow. “I will not let that happen again.”
An outcry of outrage sounded in the room as all adults tried to handle this new load of information from their leader. Screams of disappointment, questions of Ara’s legitimacy. And she held her breath as she watched the chaos unfold. Her eyes scanned the room, spying the distrust on Molly Weasley’s face as she regarded the teen witch, how the Prewett’s were her loudest advocates.
But the indignation was silenced by the loud sob that sounded from beside Ara.
“Albus, what did you do?” Dorea cried out, emotion leaking into her words as she clutched her child to her chest - as though she could save Ara from her previous life simply by holding her. And Merlin did Ara wish she could.
“I did what I believed was necessary.” He sighed. “And in another life, I failed those children.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” Charlus spat with disgust, shaking his head at a man he had once thought to be the wisest in the world - his hand clung over the back of Ara’s chair. “You have always kept secrets, but this is too far. You cannot become this.”
“I know.”
“Well, what are you going to do now? Will you continue to fight for your ‘greater good’,” he spoke the words mockingly, “or will you be a better man? You cannot hoard secrets as though you are the only force able to defeat great evil. We joined this cause to fight a megalomaniac, not to support another.”
“He wanted me to keep the truth from you all.” Ara spoke, her eyes focused on her surrogate parents. “He wanted me to lie that I was a Seer. But he is not his future counterpart. And this time, I think we can solve this together.”
Further outrage was heard.
“Albus, we cannot continue this way.” McGonagall shook her head, disgustedly. “I cannot stand by your side if what she says is true.”
“How do we even know it is?” A voice called from the back of the room. “She’s a Black, they can’t be trusted!”
“You dare to insult my wife and my child?” Charlus boomed, standing to scan the room with eyes crackling like flame. “Which coward said that?”
“I stand by it! For all we know, she’s working for You-Know-Who.”
“There is no one in this room that loathes Voldemort as much as me.” Ara spat - power behind each word. Even as those fighting the Dark wizard, few had spoken his title; out of fear or cowardice, they could not say. But not Ara Black. No. She had spoken the Dark Lord’s moniker as if she’d named him herself. As though he were some petulant child that was throwing some elaborate tantrum. “That man tried to force me to join him, to sign my life away as his betrothed.”
“Another reason not to trust her!” Molly Weasley declared. “If… if You-Know-Who wants her that bad, she must be a dark witch.”
“Molly!” Mrs Prewett snapped, glaring at her child from across the room. The witch had the decency to look chided. “That is no way to speak of your cousin, foolish girl.”
“We expect better of you.” Mr Prewett nodded, his eyes darting to look at each member in the room. His voice was sharp, utterly commanding. “For an organisation built upon trying to restore balance, you all fail to consider the consequences. Is the point of this Order not to stop Voldemort? Are we not here to protect our children and those children born under those he commands? They are children! You do not get to bully and accuse children of their parents faults, not when they are fighting so very hard to free themselves.”
“Where have we been for these children?” Mrs Prewett chimed in, voice scathing as she looked at each Auror in turn. “Is your job not to protect magical children from harm? As I see it, you have failed in that task so miserably that it is frankly embarrassing. You have decided that the sins of the father must affect the child, and I will not stand for it. Not when… you would be judging so many of your number were they not old enough to have proved their worth to you.”
At least they had the decency to look ashamed. Downcast eyes, averted gazes, as each member silenced at the Prewett tirade.
“You are a coward wearing the face of a revolutionary.” Charlus spat, glaring deeply at Dumbledore. “Now either tell us the prophecy, or I will go to the Ministry myself and find it.”
With a heavy look, Albus Dumbledore pulled a glowing orb from his robes - placing it on the table before him.
“Please understand, everything I have done, I did believing it was the correct choice. It was for the greater good.”
“I know you believe that, Albus.” Minerva sighed. “And while you may be the most powerful wizard we have seen in quite some time; you are still a man.”
“And men are fallible.” Dorea tacked on, disapprovingly; her hand still tightly gripping Ara’s.
It was with a heavy sigh - wearied and regretful - that Albus Dumbledore recited the words of a prophecy that few had heard in full. He spoke every word as it had once been uttered, as though from years of practice. Days spent mulling the words in his mind, trying to decipher first the subject and then how in Merlin’s name could a witch of a Dark House was the subject. The room stilled, silent save for the commanding voice of the wizard.
‘The tides of fate and future bleed together,
Destiny shakes her head twice at Death,
With fate of fire does Death tether
Old hope born anew, a single breath,
To shift destiny from Darkness,
Marked as his equal in all ways
He is not, she will fight to bless
The magic that set her in blaze,
Born as the eleventh month rises,
With power of two unique lives,
The one with the power to defeat
The Dark Lord from ashes, revives;
Either must fall at the hand of the other,
For neither can live while the other survives.’
The room was utterly silent. It was as though the air itself had stilled under the weight of Dumbledore’s words. There were no whispers of disbelief, no mutters of ridicule. Not when the Chief Warlock himself had spoken words that might offer salvation, even if at the expense of a teenage witch.
“Miss Black does not speak any untruths. I have confirmed her story myself, and I have been working with her to piece her memories for… well, for years.” Dumbledore sighed. “And though I truly wish it weren’t the case, it seems Magic herself has placed Miss Black in a dangerous place.”
“What did Tom hear of it?” Dorea demanded.
“Only the first six lines.”
“He didn’t hear that she’s his equal in all ways he isn’t?” Charlus frowned - his hand gripping Ara’s as though she might fade away.
“Only that she is.”
“Why not sacrifice her for the rest of us?” A voice called amongst the group, clearly keeping purposefully hidden.
“She’s a child!” Mrs Prewett gasped.
“Children die.” Moody growled. “All the time.”
Ara had heard enough. Wordlessly, she shot Charlus an apologetic glance. As the Order members debated the value of her life; Ara slipped into the shadows, using them to sneak out the back door nearly unnoticed.
She fumbled through her pocket for her pack of cigarettes, shouldering the door open. The coolness of the summer evening hit her as she stumbled down the steps.
As she inhaled smoke, she could remember the times she’d told off Sirius for his habit, back when she was Hermione Granger. It was funny how much this life had changed her. How all that bottled rage from Hermione’s life - trapped beetle animagi and hexed sign-up sheets - had fizzled over as she became Ara.
Because that was the pitiful, painful truth to Hermione Granger. She had been so very angry her entire life. Born odd in a family that valued normalcy, too ‘muggle’ for wizardingkind, too abrasive and too stubborn and always… always too much for anyone. She had died feeling that way and it hadn’t stopped since.
What was Ara Black if not too much for her family? For the world itself, really.
“You’re a bit young for such a habit.”
Ara spun on the spot, fumbling for her wand. She relaxed only slightly at the sight of the grumpier Dumbledore; a man she only knew through spying around Hogsmeade. He looked a little younger than his brother; though his hair was a stark whitish shade, there were thin trembles of silver and black that edge his temples and chin - an unkempt but short beard upon his face.
“But if I start young, then I’ll be bored and tired with it all by the time I’m your age.” She nodded to his pipe pointedly. Aberforth let out a faint chuckle, clearly more amused than anything else.
“Come. I’ll show you the goats.”
Perhaps it was her knowledge of how Aberforth had sheltered Hermione, trust born of old memories, that made Ara follow him. In her other life, he’d been equally as gruff and grumbling, but he had always been a decent man. And so, she let him lead her down the little path, past the overgrown grass and weeds, until they arrived at a gated enclosure.
Inside were three goats, all bleating merrily as they spied Aberforth approaching. They were rather sweet looking, with gentle faces - clean and lively. As soon as they saw her, the trio were quick to stalk her way, sniffing as they inspected the newcomer.
“I’ve always liked goats.” Ara spoke fondly, her fingers running over the nearest goat’s ears - scratching at the backs.
“I’ve kept them for years.” Aberforth grunted as he finally reached the pen, watching on curiously. “Since I was a kid myself.” He quipped, prompting a surprised laugh from the girl.
“You’re missing all the fun, you know.” Ara giggled, jerking a thumb towards the pub. “I’m sure they’re all dissecting my story inside, still.”
“I don’t care for gossip.” Aberforth shrugged - the gesture oddly creaky, like an old statue turned to flesh. “You said all you needed. I’ll trust that over bloody Alastor’s misgivings.”
“It’s his job to be paranoid.” Ara shrugged back.
“Not about a child, it isn’t.” The man merely replied, tilting his face away from her as he went to fetch a bag of grain that rested against the fence. “Besides, he’ll come around. Don’t flinch at his inquisition and he’ll quickly see you’re not to be messed with.”
“Thank you?” She half-giggled, shaking her head in amusement.
“As much as they all want to help fight this battle, they’re caught in their own prejudices.” He grunted. “They view Lightness as a birthright, as a marital condition. They forget about those that have to fight for it, even without some husband or wife to inspire them.”
They stood in silence for a moment, just letting his words wash over them. It was… oddly pleasant company. Though he was a grumbling, grumpy fellow, Aberforth Dumbledore had a heart that shone through the layer of dry wit. He was a decent man, kind enough that he had taken himself out of the mess of yelling to check on the girl that inspired it.
And that… well, a gesture like that deserved kindness in kind. For there was a story that he reminded Ara of, one he deserved to hear - even though she didn’t know why.
“I had this long dream once, about this girl. A long time ago. We sat in this garden, under a red oak tree and she had this little blue picnic blanket set out. Red mugs. We drank fake tea and she gossiped about her brothers.” She smiled in memory, missing the bug-eyed expression on Aberforth’s face.
The dream had occurred after The Cruciatus Incident, as her mind mended itself in her short coma. Or maybe she’d dreamt her before, but the girl had been polite enough to pretend when Ara forgot her.
Either way, it had been a salvation. It helped her to keep her sanity. Maybe not her memory, but her brothers had never minded that she’d had to relearn their names. Or their favourite food and books. After all, they’d been so fucking young. Too young to treat that heinous event with anything but childish naivety and simplicity.
“What was she like?” Aberforth asked after a moment, voice softer than she’d ever heard it before and totally distracting her thoughts. She turned to look at him; seeing the normally stone-faced man looking at her like some kind of miracle. A man drowning in a dessert that’s found water; praying it is not a mirage.
“She was exactly who I needed when I met her.” Ara gnawed her lower lip, uncertainty building. Still, she continued. “She liked the meadows behind her house. Said she could sit there for hours, making crowns. And she knew so many puns that I nearly got a stitch laughing. Her brother taught them to her, she told me it was the only useful thing he ever did.”
“How many brothers did she have?” He looked almost nervous.
“Same as me.” She blinked, bemused. “She hated her eldest brother, the one that taught her the puns. He had mean friends.”
“What about the other one?” The words escaped him, hoarse.
“Oh, she loved him so very much.” A tear escaped her as she blinked - sliding gently down her cheek towards her chin. “He used to sit with her for hours when she was sick, and she loved to hear him read. He did the voices and no one else would.” Aberforth let out a wet laugh, motioning for her to continue. “She told me that when he went to Hogwarts, she was so frightened to be alone. Because she loved him so very much, and worried he’d forget about her with all the friends he was sure to make. But he wrote twice a week and came home at Christmas with a list of things about the castle that she should know for when she joined. It made her so happy. Happier than feeding goats, she told me.”
A foreboding filled her.
“So, you came to see what all the fuss is about.” Aberforth’s voice was softer - the gruff tone hanging on the ends of his words.
“I suppose.” She smiled.
“Well, this here is Daphne.” He sniffled, placing back on his stoic face. “She can be quite rude. I’m surprised she’s taken to you so quick.”
“She can smell the animagus on me.” Ara confessed, knowing this man wouldn’t rat her out.
“Ah. What sort?”
“The unregistered kind.” She grinned up at him.
“Don’t worry, I’m not saying a word to speccy over there.” He jerked a thumb towards the pub, and she knew he could only be referring to his brother. “Impressive, though.”
“Cheers.” She grinned, leaning in a little. “I’m a cat.”
“Really? Would not have pegged that for you. I would have figured a lioness.”
“Because I’m a true Gryffindor?” He nodded. “Nah. That’d be too predictable. Besides, my twin is a dog. His ego couldn’t take it if I were a bigger animal.”
“Takes after his namesake.” She grinned as she nodded.
“Technically, he’s a Grim.”
“A black cat and a grim?” Aberforth cocked an eyebrow. “Had any meetings with Death?”
Her eyes widened before she nodded.
“She was very nice.”
“She often is.” Aberforth mused, running a hand through his short beard. “Death has to be, if she wants us to go with her.”
“I s’pose so.” Ara shrugged, vanishing the butt of her cigarette - filter still clutched between two fingers, long dead. “I… I ought to head back before Dorea has a conniption.” She offered Aberforth a half-hearted smile.
“Right you are.” He nodded. “S’pose I’ll be seeing you around in the school year.”
Her lips tugged more genuine.
“I s’pose so.” Ara smiled, nodding to the gruff man.
She almost made it back to the door, before a cough turned her path back to Aberforth. A faintly furrowed brow upon the pair as the man opened his mouth, then shut it, then opened it again.
“Did… did she say if she ever forgave him? Her brother.”
“Which one?” Ara frowned.
“Either. Both.”
“She never forgave him for what he did.” He nodded grimly at her answer, lips pulling to a frown as he spoke again.
“And the other?”
“There was nothing he had done needing forgiveness. Not when he had always been kind.” He nodded in reply, all willpower going to keeping his gruff facade.
“Thank you.”
“Aberforth?” He looked back at her. “I think… she must be so very happy that you still have goats.”
He did not utter a rely. Only smiling with utter sorrow, tipping his head in a nod as she finally went inside. But even with the evening chill, he felt warmed.