Chapter Text
June 1996
Somewhere, behind the mountain, in the cosmos, a star imploded.
The dynamic that captivated Harry the most was not the lingering clouds of dust that were left behind after its downfall, nor the extensive furrows strewn across its path. But rather, the poetic essence of her vanishing act. He wished he were a star who would blow up the day he died.
The tone of silence sounded delicious in his ears. Or, at least, as silent as a June night could be.
Sitting on the roof tiles of the high tower that housed the Gryffindor dormitories, Harry pulled his thick blanket tighter over his shoulders and rubbed his feet together in the vain hope of warming them. Not far away, a cat huddled against the casements of a closed window. It stared at him from the blackish slits that served as its pupils.
He settled into his makeshift seat, aiming the gadget skyward once more. It was a magical telescope, modified by his best friend as a birthday gift. In the birthday card, she named it The Phase Slicer, now resting between his desk and bedside table. “A small invention,” she remarked. But to Harry, it was nothing short of incredible.
He stretched out one arm to the sky, encompassing those luminous flakes between his fingers. As if all he had to do was close his fist to capture them all in the palm of his hand. But he did not attempt to enclose them, preferring to leave them where they were. Suspended in the void.
Those little lights tearing through the shadows of the night...
Sirius.
He found himself deeply shaken by the memory.
Every time he closed his eyes, the same scene would play under his eyelids.
When he tried to forget and baffle away from the cruel parts of his mind, smells came back to him—moments, colours, or even objects.
Memories of times that were gone flooded back. As he pondered, the man’s thoughts fixated on the wreath adorning the door to his room at Grimmauld's place. It was a pretty wreath of holly intertwined with golden tinsel that he'd made with Sirius, who wouldn’t dare admit that he liked family traditions to be respected, even if only for the Christmas season.
A simple wreath of holly, a plate of rice cakes, wishes written on paper streamers—all these elements characterised this time of the year. In his eyes, it all vanished, as if a huge wall of ice had swallowed up all of his happiness without mercy.
He was afraid to make even the slightest gesture, which might have pushed his fragile state into one of his depressive phases again. Harry couldn't help but think that nothing would ever be the same again. The future did not look promising, and he was in no hurry to face it. He eventually turned his back on the memory of the ornament.
A small creak to his right interrupted his thoughts, and his eyes scanned the space. Though it appeared to be a calm night, he noticed an obsidian-coated raven and was captivated by its appearance. Without further ado, he went back to work, being careful not to leave any ink stains on the parchment he was using to take notes.
A gust of wind twirled his hair.
Overwhelmed by the kaleidoscope of feelings that he went through. Harry readjusted himself, wrapped his arms around his folded legs, keeping them close to his chest, and nestled his head in the hollow they formed. The boy began to repeatedly tighten and relax his fingers around the quill he held in his fist. The tunes played by nature's deep sleep swirled in his ears. A familiar numbness almost overtook him, but the melancholy he felt wasn't enough for him to go into hopeless despair. After a while, he decided to occupy his night with more... pleasant activities.
Suddenly, Harry slammed the tip of his quill against a glass frame, straightened up, and scrambled onto the roof to reach the open window of his bedroom. Dying of hypothermia after more than an hour of careful stargazing in his pyjamas wasn't exactly the best idea. He knew that slipping on a tile and smashing his skull metres below would be downright stupid.
He landed softly in his already cool bedroom, the frosty air already occupying his sheets and the crumpled clothes lying on his desk chair.
Neville, Dean, Seamus, and Ron snored heavily, immune to noises and the faint breeze of fresh air. Engulfed in sleep, the mists of lucidity had been swept away by the curtains of their canopies. Thus, Harry had carefully bewitched himself to prevent any unwelcome awakening. The insomnia that punctuated each of his nights had quickly become a handicap in a dormitory shared with others. He was willing to use shady methods to ensure moments of total solitude while avoiding disturbing his companions’ sleep.
He put on his jacket and then straddled his broom in front of the open bedroom window. He perched a little above the floor and left the tower with a sharp whistle. The shadow he left behind blended into the half-light of night that dominated Hogwarts.
Sometimes he was just like that, buzzing with energy, letting his magic rush freely around him, pushing his body to its limits, just flying.
Sometimes he was in a state of constant agitation, more visible at times.
Scottish nights were cool and damp. Amidst the mist, his silhouette took a deep and invigorating breath, infusing it with a sense of liberation and escape that he had been yearning for. The plains loomed in the distance, their shapes blurring with the half-light that seemed to play on his senses. Harry loved this sensation; he lived for it. The one that sliced through all his limits with sabres, that hindered his fear, allowed him to blow away his impossible dreams and helped him hold this reality at arm's length and embrace it in the vilest of ways. Invigorating and transcendent.
He flew over the lifeless streets of Hogsmeade, slaloming between the tall brick chimneys that stood in his path, seized by a frivolity peculiar to his moments of solitude that belonged to him only.
He cut short his high flight and landed on the rocky surface of a mountain. How far had he gone from Hogwarts?
Harry finally identified the red rock on which he had landed. Antoppe Mountain, recognisable by the red grooves that transcended the stone of its valleys, an old legend claimed that they were the remnants of the blood that had flowed here centuries before, gushing from the amputated bodies of the Harpies, a species now extinct, vanquished by the Dryads nymphs of the forest, who had sought to defend their territories from these vile creatures. Some even said that Rowena Ravenclaw had taken part in the fighting, defending the Dryads' lands, only to betray them and steal the forbidden forest to build the magic school.
Harry had found a real passion for the myths and legends of the magical world since... since Sirius.
The legends told from generation to generation among the Blacks and recounted by Sirius awakened in him an insatiable hunger for the fairy tales of the wizarding world.
Hermione said it was a trivial passion, secretly thinking that since it had no academic aims, it was futile. She remained silent, yet Harry knew she thought it was ridiculous; however, she didn't want to hurt his feelings by telling him it didn't appeal to her.
He contemplated the painting of nature coming to life before his eyes. A dimension of colours hidden by night. The undisputed mistress and queen of a black and silver universe celebrates the silvery nuptials of dust and wind, aided by the dreams of bodies that roam the cosmos, plunging blithely into it at every twilight.
He sat on the ground, his broom lying beside him, his lungs filled with a life-saving breath.
Here, the earth seemed to rumble ceaselessly, punctuated by the whispering of plants and the plundering of the wind.
He was just visualising all the possibilities that lay in store for him in this world depopulated by souls like his, as alive as the first cries of a newborn baby when a strange splash echoed in his head. He was almost able to visualise the drop of water that had just fallen on a puddle. Disturbed, Harry ceased all movement, cutting off his breath and letting his eyes roam the half-light.
Until the steady, uninterrupted chirping of insects suddenly stopped.
He had been spending part of his nights on the Montagne d'Antoppe for more than a month now. The melody of crickets and cicadas had never stopped. Like the thump of a pickaxe against stone, the snoring breaths of insects hitting the damp earth and finding their way to his ears were an integral part of this world he now knew by heart.
He found himself lost under the thousands of lights watching him with their impertinent quantities. Harry tried to silence the impression they whispered as they covered him with all their grandeur.
High up, standing on a hard rock whose stone crunched under his soles, thrown into the heart of the darkness sliced by the diaphanous rays of the stars and the penetrating roundness of the lunar star suspended above his insignificant existence, he was blown by the honeyed breeze that seemed to bask against his epidermis, Harry let out an amazed sigh, his green eyes lost on the almost fairy-like landscape the liquorish night offered him. Intoxicating, night.
He ignored the breathtaking spectacle in front of him to concentrate on the noise. Or rather, the absence of noise.
He let his ears wander, and indeed, not the slightest sound was exhaled by nature.
To his ears, it sounded like a man dying in a bear pit.
Harry moved forward cautiously, stepping into the pitch-black darkness one careful step at a time. He gradually moved away from his broom, the only sound echoing the crunch of stone beneath his shoes.
Once alert to the dangers that could arise from anywhere, the teenager forced himself to control his breathing as much as possible, aware that he could provoke an undesirable situation if the wrong person spotted him. He didn't know by whom, although he had never come across a living soul in the vicinity since his nocturnal escapades began. But he was sure he wasn't alone.
With his magic restricted and his whole body moving forward without any superfluous movement, he should have had total ascendancy over it. Still, his breath caught when he saw the thing .
Harry thought it was a dress at first.
The long feathers that trailed against the cold ground shimmered with the moon's silver reflections, like a trail of dagger-like pearls, topped by long arms covered in the same trail that lazily littered the ground. The long, naked legs were outlined in a precise pattern, all grace and curve, like a statue created by a meticulous architect. The whole thing was topped by a shaggy head of hair, a mussed brown tuft that stretched from the skull, where it took root, to the level of the equally undressed buttocks, revealing a rump full of flesh and white as marble.
Harry could only guess that the endless sea of feathers was no garment of any kind. The figure with its back to him seemed to take a deep breath and twitched imperceptibly, seeming to gorge itself on the soft half-light that now enveloped them. The shape cut roughly across the mother moon's rays, casting a blackish projection of shadow and dust over the teenager.
Silence reigned supreme, with only the hooting of the wind disturbing the deceptive stillness of the moment. As for Harry, the erratic beating of his heart should have sent him scurrying like a rabbit. Unfortunately, the stupid courage coursing through his veins since his earliest childhood made the ‘ flee’ option unthinkable.
A squeaky, unpleasant rattle echoed in his gut.
“You've finally emerged.”
She inhaled a second gulp of air and resumed; however, Harry wasn't sure if she was speaking to him.
“Your perfume sends me back to the time when the Dryads and my sisters...”
The creature didn't finish her sentence. It swallowed, mumbled something, and pivoted, presenting itself abruptly to him. She offered him an angular face with sharp features. A perfect porcelain-covered steel statue. Thin lips, crinkled eyes, a straight nose, and high cheekbones —this woman sported the face of what most resembled eternity. A face so devoid of imperfections as to be terrifying.
Terrifying, knowing, and destructive.
Certain angles formed by her joints took on strange, unnatural shapes, making her appear like a disjointed puppet. Her right ankle rested entirely against the ground, her shoulder seemed dislocated, and her trunk was a little too far out of line with the position of her hip. But it was the look on her face that sent a shiver down his spine.
Her eyes haggard and mouth half-open over sharp teeth, she didn't seem to realise what she was saying.
“What are you made of, Harry Potter?”
She spread her arms wide as if she wanted to hug him to her bare chest, and then he realised that she didn't have arms but long, beautiful wings.
“Your gift…”
His perfect features cracked, and his face twisted into a nightmarish grimace.
“Your curse.”
Suddenly, her mouth opened wide into impossible dimensions, and a long, thin tongue protruded from it, suspending itself in the void. A black, viscous liquid poured from it, splashing onto the floor and the bare feet of the entity facing him.
He froze in place as she continued to vomit gallons and gallons.
“Go away," he articulated, stumbling over the words.
It didn't stop. Puddles of charcoal-black liquid continued to accumulate on the floor.
"Stop!"
Harry's order fell on deaf ears.
"I command you, stop!" he demanded more harshly.
She stopped moving.
“Go away," Harry demanded more firmly, looking for a way out alive.
Suddenly, she spread her wings wide and flew away, letting the night swallow her whole.
The boy toppled onto his buttocks.
Harry took a deep breath, unable to move as he stood there, frozen, motionless, and completely tetanized.
After a while, he collapsed against the cold stone, and his mind gave way to fatigue without his body yielding to it. He lay in the middle of the mountain, his mind in disarray and unable to keep pace with his racing thoughts.
Piercing the twilight silence, a raven flew into the dark sky with a mighty flutter and disappeared into the leafy tops of the branches of a tree below. Its distant cawing sounded like the tearing of a soul in agony.
A knell.
And then silence.
One of those special silences that last only an instant and are only experienced at certain moments in life, true treasures of nature, intangible and priceless. Powerful, profound, and vibrant. At once rational and devoid of meaning, it is located where the laws erected by men can no longer build the slightest boundary.
No more obstacles, no more questioning, no more logic, no more space, no more control—nothing.
Just this silence. A faceless messenger, he split the sky and stood somewhere between the air and the subdued light of dawn. And Harry listened, intimidated by his presence. Completely overwhelmed.
What had just happened?
Slowly, almost timidly, the first glimmer of light traced in the clouds passed the distant wall of the horizon; soon, the giant fireball rose majestically over the landscape to set them all ablaze with its incandescent rays.
Birds chirped below.
The sun was rising over Scotland, and Harry felt as if he were drowning where everyone was emerging from the combes of sleep.
Through the morning mist, the shimmering surface of a stream's water reflected the fires of the blaze that climbed gently over the valleys, donning a cloak as sparkling and peaceful as he imagined the ocean to be. The noise was already spreading around him, synonymous with life.
Harry, however, continued to stare at the last stars fading away in the daylight.
Without him noticing, Morpheus’ arms began to embrace him. Harry plunged gently into a quietude close to sleep. The scenery appeared through his vision, blurred by sleepy tears.
As he finally closed his eyes, he hoped that tomorrow would offer him a better life than the one he was trapped in.
***
Fata viam invenient
“What are we made of?”
The dark silhouette cut through the whitish horizon. It looked like a shower of dust on a porcelain glass. His voice echoed as if they were both trapped in an inescapable teapot.
"Have you ever asked yourself that question? Are we just a mass of protein, flesh, blood, and bone? No. We're much more complex. Far more contrasting, far more colourful too. To pretend otherwise would be to ignore the soul, the spirit, the heart, and the feelings that make us up.
“What are you made of? What have you built yourself on? What codes, what thoughts, in what environment, and with what education? With what memories, what trials, what after-effects, what past?"
Harry took a step back and turned his head to the left, wanting to escape these questions.
"In that sense, I think you're on the wrong track.”
No, he didn't want to hear the rest.
“Because we are not reduced to dust dressed in ashes…”
He began to run. A race with a taste of wandering, of those who know neither destinations nor departures, who know only the frenzy of flight. Everything was blurred; there was only white everywhere.
“...Because we are stars."
What was he running from?
He could feel it—the fear—his fear.
So whoever that voice was must have felt that fear too. The fear emanated from him. He could see it in his cornered animal reflexes; he could see it in the screaming in his glazed eyes.
You're going to miss it, Harry. Silly, isn't it? What are you going to do next? Crawl into a hole and cry until they come for you. When will you be allowed to say, "I'm strong"?
He was bullied for all of his childhood, a common mop in a world of bullies, and now what? What was he? Has he changed? Or was he still the same? The one who dreamt of a mother whose sleep eluded him, the one who lulled himself for hours in the illusion of love and kisses placed on his raw wounds?
Harry knew that no matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise, the frightened child that Dudley relentlessly pursued remained. Buried beneath a thick shell of pretence. Dumbledore wanted to exploit him, just as he had exploited his late mother and father, and Voldemort had stolen his family from him. His entire life had been taken from him.
He turned away from his endless race and turned towards the void.
“Yes, however, stars are nothing, but inert masses of molten gas!” he shouted at the figure. “Believe me, I want to believe it. I want to believe it so much that it's hitting me! But I can't! It's like trying to catch a bird in flight.”
"Don't you have any wings?”
“Wings—no, I can’t ! Don’t act like it’s easy!”
“So let me, dear child, draw them for you.”
Harry began to run again.
“Would you let me?”
“No!”
“Are you sure?”
Breathless, he whispered in a silken voice, “Please leave me alone—I just want to rest. I need to rest, please.”
“You will,” the voice replied, a trace of a pleasing tone hardly discernible to Harry.
It was then that his faith was sealed.
***
June 1942
He stretched out his whole body and turned his neck. The inaudible sounds of the students in the classroom caressed his ears with a gentle, soothing hubbub. Gossip was, as usual, rife.
Orion Black relaxed and settled back in his chair. His shoulder-length cropped hair caressed the curve of his neck, his singular fingers resting on the smooth wooden table, untouched by any trace of any accidental spell.
The school year was drawing to a close; in two months, he and his friends would be starting their sixth year at Hogwarts. The air was heavy and humid, and he moistened his dry lips with his tongue and took a deep breath.
His eyes suddenly fell on the cloudy sky. Light broke through the layers. His pupils glowed...like a rainbow.
He jumped to his feet and stormed out of the room.
Orion raced through the corridors at breakneck speed. He had to find them quickly and tell them everything. He jumped onto the staircase railing and slid down it. Upon his arrival, he made a masterful landing that surprised many in the huge entrance hall. He quickly scanned the assembly of students present but didn't see Tom. In his pocket, his lacrimal vibrated. He prayed that his Lord would be the sender of this message.
He was disappointed to see that it was only Nott who wanted help with homework.
"Orion, finally, you’re here. I was looking for you; could you please give me a hand with the Runes essay? I’m–oh."
He just turned around abruptly and almost jumped for joy when he saw Norio in front of him. He smiled slightly.
"A prediction?" he asked.
"How did you guess?" marvelled the Black heir.
"In case you hadn't noticed, you're all scruffy and out of breath. And you only run when you want to share your predictions with us," he smiles again. "So? What is it this time?"
Orion beamed even more and plunged his gaze into his before reciting:
"The three meteors will come through the door of our prejudices. When the ancient demons finally kill each other, the sacred bows will come to save the lost souls. The ship will complete itself; the reflective, undulating wave will complete the constellation, under the gentle melancholy of the jade sun."
He completed his prediction, admiring the delicate course of the clouds.
"The last star is coming, our missing piece, the sweet melancholy of the jade sun."