Hidden Thorns

HIDDEN THORNS

Tom got off the bus and took a moment to collect his thoughts. Unfortunately, the bus speeding away and exhaust curling around his face prevented him from coming to any conclusions. His lips tightened in annoyance and he picked up his pack and walked down the street. The neon glow of a McDonalds sign and the setting sun made it difficult to read the street signs, and he was irritated by the way he had to squint at them to see past the glaring reflection of the sun. He continued on his way, took turns occasionally until the commercial blocks started to fade into residential and he found himself in the suburbs.

He was starting to have second thoughts, coming here; all the way over to America, using what little money he had to jump on a cheap flight. And now here he was, almost to his destination and he was getting cold feet. There's no point in backing out now, he thought to himself. You're already here, the money's gone, and soon you will have answers so stop being afraid. No fear. No weakness. Fear leads to frailty. Weakness leads to pity. We must show no fear. We must have no weakness! He took a deep breath, let his personal mantra ease the tension within him. Either way, it would be over soon. For good or ill it would soon be done.

Finally, as the sun touched the ground, he found himself in front of his destination. The house was green, and an actual white picket fence surrounded the yard. Roses grew against the fence and white lilies next to the house. It was much more...quaint, than he had thought it would be. But he supposed she probably had to blend in. His kind were always forced to, in the muggle world. How they always had to bend to the wills of the muggles. Filthy muggles, he thought to himself. If he had a mirror in front of him he would have seen a frightening visage with white lips and fierce eyes. Filthy muggles, ruling the goddamned world all out of our charity. One day... But he broke off his thoughts here. All of his inklings, all of his thoughts were so radical that he was afraid to even speak them to himself, afraid that if he said them in his own mind, they would lead him down a path that he wasn't prepared for. No fear. No weakness. But that's why he was here, wasn't it? To get answers, to become prepared.

He pushed aside the tiny gate, noted how it squeaked. A path led up to the front door and he followed, looking around to take his mind off the task ahead of him.

The yard was immaculate; the flowers almost glowed with life. He wondered, briefly, if it was magic that made them so perfect, or just her own skills as a gardener. He would have pondered this longer, except that a sudden obstacle in his path caused him to lose his footing and stumble. He turned to find what had caused him the indignity of awkwardness and discovered a gray cat looking up at him in a knowing manner. It stared for a moment longer before it gave one quiet and very sweet sounding meow and walked off, as if its whole purpose in the world had been to trip him, and now, having that complete, was going to take a nap in the setting sunlight.

Tom continued on his path and arrived at the door. He reached for the knocker but paused when he noticed that it was in the shape of a snake. It was subtle, most people would never notice it, but he did. It was as obvious to him as a crow in the midst of doves. He traced his finger along it, felt slight scales under his nail, before he grasped it and let it fall against the wood with a thud. Two more knocks and he waited for an answer. No fear. No weakness.

He didn't have to wait long. A woman came to the door and opened it, peering outside. Two things took Tom aback. First, this woman was old. A blue scarf covered her wispy white hair and she had a gray crocheted shawl wrapped around her shoulders. But the second thing that caught him off guard was her milky pale eyes. She was blind; he had gotten the wrong house.

"Yes?" she asked. He didn't notice her British lilt, so focused was he on his mistake. She turned her head from side to side as if her ruined eyes could still pick out a trace of someone there. "Can I help you with something?"

"I'm sorry," he managed to mumble, his voice sounded deep and awkward after the lighter tune of hers. "I am at the wrong residence, I didn't mean to disturb you."

"Ahh..." she said, her eyes brightening. "I've been waiting for you." She held the door open for him to enter.

"I'm...sorry?" Tom asked, confused. Did she think he was someone? A son perhaps?

"Well are you going to come in or not? I suspect it's been a long flight for you, filled with the dreadful muggle effects we must put up with. Or..." she paused here, turned her blank eyes to his face. "Or am I wrong in making assumptions about you..."

"No," he answered quickly. Now that he knew this was the right woman he was afraid of being turned away. "No, you are correct. It was a long flight."

"Come then. I have tea ready." She turned and let him follow her in.

The house on the inside was much like the outside. There was white carpet, and shelves lined with knick-knacks. The walls were covered in paintings of songbirds, but no portraits or photos of family members. Also, no more snakes. It seemed that her subtle knocker was the only thing she was willing to risk.

"Come now come," she said from the kitchen. "Have a seat where we can talk." Tom found himself in a very tiny kitchen with an equally small circular table. He left his pack in the living room before he pulled out a chair at the table and sat. She placed a cup and saucer in front of him and poured him some steaming tea, which he was immensely grateful for. She took a seat across from him and sipped from her own cup.

"Now tell me," she spoke to him, after a moment of not-uncomfortable silence. "Tell me about our world. What have I been missing?"

"I'm sorry?" Tom asked, a little surprised by the question.

"Come now come. Fill me in."

"You are Amelia Hazel right?" he asked her. She leaned back in her chair and paused before answering.

"I was, once. Now I am Emily Handle, and I will be until my death I suppose. Though I don't suppose anything; I know. But my first name was much better, a nicer ring to it. And you have nothing to tell me about our world? Well not that I expected anything. How could you understand what it's like, living here among the muggles, as a muggle..."

"But I can," Tom said suddenly, putting down his cup. Flashes of the orphanage, times he spent begging Professor Dippet to let him stay at Hogwarts over the summer, and other similar instances flickered through his head, and he thought about telling her about his life as a half-blood. But he realized he had already said too much, and he pursed his lips before he said anything else. Amelia "looked" at him with a sly face, but he was silent.

"Fine then, say no more, it's of no business of mine. And speaking of which, shall we get down to business? It's why you're here isn't it? I can't imagine a young, bright boy like you coming all the way here just to chat me up. By the way, how did you find me?"

He thought about not telling her, thought about making up a lie. But he realized that it didn't matter. It would give her no power.

"I found a book, in the restricted area of the library at Hogwarts. After that, I tracked you down using phone books and the public library computer." He tried not to let the shame he was feeling creep into his voice, but he couldn't help it. He hadn't wanted her to know that he could pass as a muggle, hated the fact that he was a half blood. How will you ever be anything, if you can't even be pure blood? he thought to himself.

"We are all who we are meant to be, lad," Amelia said to him suddenly, and he wondered if she could read his mind. "No more, no less. But I'm pleased to know that my name isn't completely gone from our world. Glad to know there's still one book that mentions me, inaccessible though it is. Speaking of names, why don't you give me yours, hmm?" she asked, all innocence now.

But Tom was wary. She was a sly one, this Amelia Hazel. He had known she would be, but still hadn't been prepared. Now he was on his guard, and wouldn't offer up anything more than necessary. "It's Tom," he said.

She paused and waited for him to continue, but when it was apparent he had nothing more to add, she leaned back in her chair and eyed him with her dead sight. "No more, eh?" she asked. Tom said nothing. "Riddles then. Marvelous Riddles for us to play with."

Tom tried not to move, tried not to show any sort of reaction she might sense, but her grasping of his full name shocked him to the core. Who was this witch, who could know so much? Was she truly this powerful?

"Now, why don't we stop with the games," she continued as if she had said nothing remotely worth examining. "Be a dear and fetch me my ball. It's in the cupboard there," she said, pointing to door next to the sink.

Tom got out of his chair and opened the cupboard, amazed to find a crystal ball sitting in plain sight, almost as if it were a normal thing for all old ladies to have crystal balls next to their sinks. He brought it carefully to the table, and set it in the center. She reached for it almost immediately and her fingers brushed against his hands. Her skin felt like petals, the petals from her roses outside, and he briefly wondered where she hid her thorns.

"Death..." she said to him as she turned the crystal ball to face a certain way."

"What?" he asked.

"Your name. The new one you will take. It will carry death with it. No Marvelous Riddles, just death."

How could she know that?! How could she know what it was he called himself, in secret, in his mind? Only a few of his closest friends knew the name. How could she know these things with no scrying, with nothing but her dead eyes?

He thought about leaving again. Knew he was in deeper than was safe, but before he could deliberate, she grabbed his hands. It startled him, her uncanny ability to move like she could see, and as she placed his hands against her crystal ball he stared at her pale eyes, searched for a sign of sight within them; he found none. No fear, he thought to himself. Fear leads to frailty. We must show no fear.

"Are you frightened my dear Riddled Death?" she asked him as she placed her own hands on the ball across from his.

"No," he answered, and found it to be true.

She frowned, briefly, but he couldn't tell if it was because of what he had said, or because she was concentrating on the ball. "As you can see," she said as she adjusted her hands, "I do things a little unconventionally. I must, you know, since I can no longer see the mists."

"What happened to your eyes?" he asked her.

She titled her head and paused, and Tom thought she was going to answer when she changed the subject again. "Slytherin house are you? Prefect and everything...aren't you a Marvel."

"I'm here for you to look into my future, not my past. I know what I am, what I have done. I'm here to know who I will be."

"That's the Riddle isn't it?" she chuckled.

He was getting tired of her word games, but let her continue to scry.

"You saw my knocker I see," she continued. "Just a reminder of what it is I've lost. I so enjoyed school you know. You may not believe me now, but when I was young girl I was quite fetching, with long black hair and pale skin. I was every bit the image of a perfect Slytherin girl. But now it's gone, isn't it? Everything is gone. But I knew it would leave."

"You can see your own future?" he asked, a little surprised. As far as he knew it was rare for someone with true divination powers to be able to see their own paths. But then again she was rumored to be the most powerful seer in the wizarding world, so who was he to doubt her power?

"Sometimes..." she smiled slyly. "Sometimes the mists part and I get a glimpse. I knew to come here, to this place, and that if I did they would not be able to find me. I knew my powers would grow after Hogwarts if only I was willing to take the next step. And I've seen my death."

"You've seen your death," Tom stated. It wasn't a question because he didn't believe her. No one saw their death and meekly sat by to take it.

"Yes..." she said, glancing up at him with her white eyes.

Her look pierced through Tom, and disturbed him enough that he averted his gaze. She breaks you with those dead eyes, he snapped to himself. If you let a blind old woman break you, then you are truly weak...

"My death comes soon," she continued, looking back to her crystal ball. "And I am ready for it. Only after that darkest dementor comes for my soul will I truly be able to see what is beyond those mists I try desperately to peer past. Only then, will I truly know my path - and yours."

Tom was impatient now, tired of her word games and mind tricks. "Are we here to talk about me or you?" he asked, and she cackled.

"Oh testy aren't we? I do enjoy spunk. But you are right. So you want to know your future do you? Not many do, you know. And those that think they do are often wrong. Many go mad, trying to live up to what I can tell them, and many go the other way, too. They end up fulfilling my truths while spending their lives trying to prevent them. Are you sure you want to know what's in store for you?"

"Is it for certain?" he asked. No weakness...Weakness brings pity.

"Nothing is for certain," she snapped. "Not even stone lasts forever. I can only tell you what I see. It is up to you to decide what you want to do with it."

"Then tell me," he said, stronger in his conviction. "I have no fear."

"No...you do not. But anger and hatred you do have," she said as she began her divination. "And strength...yes, much strength. And it will bring you to great heights. People will follow you, people will love you, and you will bring power and terror and death. You, who will carry death in your name and a snake in your skull, they will fear to speak it... they will fear to speak your name. They will fear to live, but mostly they will fear to die...and so many of them will." She paused here and turned her head as if she were listening to the silver mist in her crystal ball. It was hard, following her riddled divination, but he knew without uncertainty she spoke the truth, that she saw past the mists of time and into what could, what would be. And he was eager.

"You will have many allies," she continued. "Yes, many will come to your aid. Those who tower over us will come. And the dark ones too...you know of whom I speak, those who kiss the soul and feed off life and memory. And of course many of our own kind... and they will wear your sign branded in their flesh, ready to serve you until their demise." She paused again, and this time the length of silence was so great for a moment Tom thought she was done. But just as he was about to pull his hands away, she spoke again.

"Betrayal..." she whispered, so quietly that Tom had to lean forward to hear her words, careful not to move his hands from the crystal ball. "Yes, betrayal," she whispered again, and then seemed to switch topics.

"A stag and a dog. A wolf and a rat. These beasts will know you and will mark your scent and you will not be safe. But they do not have the strength you have. They will not carry death in their names. Yes, betrayal. Betrayal against you, and betrayal against them. But you have strength, and your betrayal will be as a grain of sand upon the shore. But theirs...theirs will hurt them, theirs will break them and burn them until only fingers are left and prisoners are kept."

Another pause. Finally Tom spoke.

"Is that all?" he whispered, afraid to break any trance she may have slipped into. "Is that everything?"

"Would you like me to go on?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered without hesitation.

"A fawn," she said simply. "A fawn with the bolt across his brow. He will bring you defeat, and your power will fail and your allies flee until you are nothing more than a whisper among the hearts and words of the world."

"I will die?"

"We all die, boy," she snapped at him. "We all die at one time or another. But not you, not yet. You will have unicorns and venom, blood and rebirth. And the doe's love will no longer burn and once again you will bring power and terror and death." She stopped and, after a moment, took her hands off the ball.

"Is that all?" he asked, noticing how stiff his arms were from keeping them against the crystal.

"It is all I am willing to see," she answered.

Tom sat back in his chair and thought about what she had told him. Much of it made no sense; it was cryptic and so full of riddles that he didn't think he would ever unravel them. But now he knew...now he knew he walked the right path.

"How much are you willing to give?" she asked, staring directly at him, her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders.

"What?"

"Years ago. Years before they drove me away, before I was forced to flee and hide or spend life in Azkaban I had made a pledge to myself. I would give it away, if only I could gain it again."

"What?" Tom repeated. She had dropped back into riddles again, and he no longer had patience for them now that she wasn't scrying. "What are you talking about?"

"My sight. I gave it away, if only I could then see through all the mists, even those that had been previously denied me. It's all about sacrifice, my dear Riddle. It's all about sacrifices. What are you willing to give, to gain the power? What are you willing to sacrifice to one day wear your name of Death?"

Tom stood up and let the chair slide back against the floor. "What am I willing to give?" he asked her, his eyes flashing. "You ask me what I am willing to sacrifice?" he hissed and leaned down so his face was directly in front of hers. "I...am willing to sacrifice everything..." he hissed, "And like you said...no one will be able to stop me."

She stared back at him, undaunted by his closeness, by his sudden change in demeanor. "Even your soul?"

"If it needs be." He stood up.

"You will be weak," she replied, and laughed.

It caught him so unprepared that he took a step back. But she kept laughing; her cackles filled the tiny house until Tom was sure the whole world could hear them. And she did not stop. Finally, Tom exited the kitchen, grabbed his pack, and left the house. On the front lawn, he could still hear her laughter and he stood and tried to work up the courage in his heart.

She said you would be strong. She said it! Do it! You know you must! No fear! Fear brings frailty! We must show no fear! WE MUST HAVE NO WEAKNESS! He reached into his pack and pulled out his wand. With a quick flick of his wrist, the rosebushes were on fire. And with another, the lilies crackled with flame. Finally the very walls of the house burned.

He put his wand away and walked quickly from the firelight that slowly filled the night.

"I have no weakness," he said to the world. And left her to burn in the dark.