Chapter Text
Godric's Hollow, 1981 AD
There is a house in the village which does not exist, save for those who know its secret.
The woman has known the secret for three thousand years. The man has never known it. But he stands with her all the same, as she watches the hooded figure gliding up the path. Both of them stay hidden in the shadows, just another couple dressed up to watch their children run around the streets.
She can see the flashes of sickly green light that had once haunted her dreams. She can hear the young woman begging for her daughter's life. She can hear the high cold laughter.
They both see the explosion that obliterates the secret, and the ruin that it makes of the pretty little cottage. They both hear the wails of the child alone in the ashes of her home, her forehead cut open, her parents not responding to her cries.
The woman takes in a deep, unnecessary breath, flinching a little as the scent of the child's sweet blood sets a burn in her throat. "So. The date is set."
The man offers her his arm, and they begin to walk away from the wreck of the little cottage. Around them people begin to notice the destruction that has just appeared. Screams and shouts reach their ears. The wounded howl of a dog makes the woman flinch.
"How long?" The man asks softly, in the tone of one who knows the answer as intimately as their own skin.
The woman is silent for a long time as they walk, until even they cannot hear the child's cries anymore. "Too long." Her fingers twitch a little. "And no time at all."
The man raises his free hand to rest on the hand she has threaded through his arm. "You cannot help her. Not yet."
"I know, I know, but I can wish. All those years-"
"You have waited this long, my darling," the man says softly, "surely you can wait a bare score of years more. For her sake."
The woman sighs, her hand tightening on his arm until it creaks ominously. "I can't help wishing." Her head tilts sideways to rest upon his shoulder as they walk. He twists to press a kiss to her temple.
"You would not be yourself if you did not, my love. Patience."
Her breath hitches a little. "I wish I could cry." She says in a small voice, sounding as young as the child in that ruined house.
The man stops walking and pulls his arm out of her grasp. "Oh, clever girl." And he wraps her in both of his arms, pulling her to rest against him, tucking her beneath his chin against his silent heart. "Pretend you can, my heart."
She curls against him, smaller and frailer than any of their silent watchers could have believed. And she cries, the heaving, retching sort of dry sobs that take you when there are no tears to cry.
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Privet Drive, 1989 AD
"Hurry up!" Aunt Petunia snaps. "Diddykins will be back from the Polkiss house soon and you still haven't weeded the garden."
She turns back to her crocheting project, stabbing her hook through the wool viciously. Sally could have told her that it would just make her more likely to make mistakes, but that would be useless.
She fills the watering can on her way out of the house and starts to water the flower beds in the front garden. The weeds will be easier to pull up out of wet, muddy soil. That's something she worked out for herself, and she's proud of it. Aunt Petunia says she's slow and ditzy, but she can garden better than most adults and that's something.
"Hello." Says a beautiful voice, so beautiful it doesn't sound real. It makes her think of church bells and flutes rather than a voice.
Sally looks up. The woman who owns the voice is as beautiful as her voice. She towers up above Sally, kneeling as she is in the muddy flower bed. Her eyes are big and round, and the funniest shade of bright purple - maybe she wears contact lenses like Aunt Petunia does. She has hair as black as Sally's, twisted back at the back of her head into a sleek roll, and skin whiter than any model's, so white it looks like paper. She doesn't look real.
"Hi." She says, feeling very small
"What is your name, darling?" The woman with the beautiful voice asks.
"Sulpicia Lily Potter." Sally tells her. "But everyone just calls me Sally." She doesn't finish her sentence with Aunt Petunia's usual spiel about how ridiculous her name is.
The woman's strange eyes darken a little, as if she'd heard the words Sally hadn't said. "Well that is a pity. I happen to think Sulpicia is a lovely name."
Sally looks up at the woman suspiciously. Pretty or not, no one ever likes Sally very much, so when they do it's usually because they're making fun of her. "Really?"
"Well of course." She says, smiling so beautifully at Sally that she feels a little dizzy. "It is my name as well, you know."
Sally gapes at her.
The woman hesitates, and then reaches one pale hand across the fence. "I have to go now, I'm afraid darling." She says, and cups Sally's face with that pale, elegant hand. It is so cold and hard that Sally wonders if it's a pros-thet-ic like soldiers have sometimes - though it moves too smoothly for that. "You have a hard road ahead of you, but it will be worth it. Good luck, sweetheart."
And she leans over to press a kiss to Sally's forehead. Her lips are as cold and hard as her hand, but it is more affection than Sally can ever remember being given. She leans into the funny, cold kiss, until suddenly it and the hand cradling her face are gone.
When she looks up, the woman is gone as if she was never there at all. But her face is cold when her fingers creep up to touch it.
A tapping on the window startles her, and she spins to see Aunt Petunia glaring out at her and motioning for her to keep working.
She grabs the trowel and sets to work on a particularly stubborn dandelion. Well, at least Aunt Petunia didn't see the lady.
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Hogwarts, 1993 AD
"Good morning." Professor Lupin says. "I hope you all enjoyed your Christmas holidays. Today, we are starting a new topic. Can anyone tell me what they think it might be?"
"Dragons!"
"Hinkypunks."
"Erklings."
Sulpia looks at the dog-eared copy of Dracula just visible in the professor's half-open bag and the twinkle in his eye. She raises her hand. "Vampires?"
"3 points to Gryffindor." Professor Lupin says cheerfully.
Hermione shoots her a reproachful look as she turns to the appropriate page in her textbook - pre-marked and colour-coded, just like every other one of the four hundred and three sections. Sometimes that girl is such a worry.
"Now, vampires are a delicate topic." The Professor begins. "They are beings, rather than beasts, so keep that in mind should you ever meet one. As a general rule, vampires fall victim to none of the defenses presented in Muggle literature, which is unfortunate for us. They do not require permission to enter a place, they do not burst into flame in the sun, garlic, holy water and crosses do not affect them, and while I am sure there is a vampire out there who can turn into a bat I have not personally heard of it. Most vampires will avoid wizards as a matter of course, even when hunting. Should you have the misfortune to be targeted by one, however, you should use a Fire Charm. Incendio will usually suffice, provided you cast it strongly enough. Sufficiently powerful wizards have sometimes turned to spells which can reduce the vampire in question to little more than harmless dust. You are all students for now, so I think it is safe to say that you should avoid such spells until your cores have matured some more."
Sulpia takes diligent notes as he goes into more detail on the ways to fight a vampire. She likes the sound of spells that can turn someone to dust. If she's fought Voldemort, she can probably use a spell like that even if she is a little young.
Then the professor tells them they'll have a practical lesson next week, and moves on to vampiric social structure. Her notes on the triarchical ruling coven are half-hearted to say the least. Though her doodles of the three evil vampire overlords (one bored, one crazy, one angry) garners an enthusiastic thumbs up from Ron when he spots it over her shoulder - and an exaspersted sigh from Hermione.
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Department of Mysteries, 1995 AD
They are hidden in the shadows of the amphitheatre about the veil, have been for hours. Time passes strangely when one is as ancient as all of them have become through the slow passing of the years. Even the youngest is closer to a millennium of life than to a mere century. They are old, old and strong.
All of them wait upon the woman's signal, even the man upon who's arm she rests. They watch as the six teenagers come tumbling in through the door, all in various states of injury and disarray.
They watch as the teenagers are surrounded by the Death Eaters chasing them, and as they catch their fifth wind, fighting back against overwhelming odds.
They watch as the Order of the Phoenix arrive, as the Death Eaters are beaten back. As Sirius Black and his estranged cousin exchange a rapid series of curses so Dark some of them flinch.
The woman's burning eyes are fixed upon the fighting pair, hardly noticing the stray curses being deflected by the figure crouching at the man's side. Every part of her is intent upon the duellers.
Her lips part slightly as Sirius Black slips, his Shield coming a moment too late for the curse being cast at him. His eyes widen and then set, his chin lifting stubbornly as he stares down his approaching doom.
But then someone screams, the guttural, wordless cry of a person who has lost too much already. A slight figure dives in front of him and catches the curse full force.
She is propelled backwards, hard, as Sirius Black howls like the animal he has almost become, throwing himself towards her just a moment too late.
Sulpicia Potter flies through the veil instead of her godfather, bleeding from a terrible wound across her chest.
"Here we go." Says the woman, her voice so soft that even they must strain to hear it.