Old Parchment and Green Ink

Old Parchment and Green Ink

By lelalee83

Chapter One: Shattered

"It is demonstrable," said he, "that things cannot be otherwise than as they are; for as all things have been created for some end, they must necessarily be created for the best end."

-Voltaire: Candide

*****

She was in a moonlit forest, with absolutely no idea of how she had got there. The only things she could hear were the chirping of thousands of unseen insects and the gentle rustle of the breeze through the trees. Not only could she hear it; she could feel it too, a cool, gentle teasing against her skin. But this was a dream, wasn't it?

The pale full moon looked down, as if in contemplative hesitation, illuminating everything it touched with a phosphorescent glow; under its shimmering light the shadows seemed to have a life of their own. The glitter of innumerable stars could barely be seen peeping through the trembling leaves, winking as though they knew a big secret.

Looking down at herself she was surprised to see clothing on her body that she had never laid eyes on before. A thin, grey material was wrapped around her tightly like a second skin, and over it was a black velvet cloak, its hood drawn up over her loosely flowing hair.

She walked forward of her own volition. An imposing wall of thorns, brown and barren, stopped her short. Somehow, and there was no question about it at all, she had to find a way through. There was something extraordinary waiting for her on the other side.

A few moments later she found a wide opening that resembled a doorway. Ducking her head low she entered.

Dread suddenly fell upon her, and in the silvery moonlight she sensed a familiar, hostile presence; someone was watching her-and she knew it was dangerous to turn back.

A moment later she stepped into a large, round clearing, completely encircled by the thick thorn bushes, which were now heavy with crimson, coral, and lavender coloured roses. In the middle of the clearing stood a young man, clothed in a long, ground-sweeping cloak. His back was to her, his hooded head bent as though in prayer. She watched him for a few moments, wondering if he was the extraordinary something waiting for her, and then realised that here there was no sound. It was deathly quiet. Turning around, she looked for the doorway through which she had come, only to find that it wasn't there anymore.

"It's gone," said a soft voice behind her.

She turned around. The cloaked man was facing her.

"We're stuck here together now."

She took a few steps back and felt the thorns pressing sharply through her clothing, warning her to go no further. Her heart pounded loudly in her chest. "Who are you?" she said, trying to keep her voice from trembling.

He took a few steps towards her, his face still not visible, too cast in shadow by the hood he wore. It was as though he had no face at all. "You know who I am." He moved closer, making no sound as he did so; there was no rustle of clothing or soft crush of grass underfoot.

She involuntarily moved back a step, and the thorns sliced painfully into her hands. Bringing them up to her face she watched as the tiny, red droplets of blood coalesced to run slowly down to her wrists. She looked up again. "Who are you?" This time he offered no answer at all.

Suddenly, before she could blink, he had her by the wrists. He held her hands, palms up, and showered them with kisses. When he had finished, both the blood and the tiny cuts were gone. She looked at him, trying to see past the thick shadows obscuring his face, but she couldn't.

"We're stuck here together," he repeated in a whisper, bringing his lips closer to hers. She could feel his breath upon her face, the warmth of his skin, and the length of his body pressing urgently against her own.

He reached up and pushed her hood back, before lightly caressing her cheek. "You're beautiful," he said, and then he kissed her.

Sensation after sensation bombarded her consciousness; his warm, soft lips, demanding something from her that she wasn't sure she could give, working on persuading her through the hot stroke of his tongue. His hands moving lower and lower, gliding over her back as he drew their bodies closer, his solid and delicate at the same time, and left her in no doubt as to what it was he wanted from her. The scent of the roses was intoxicating, mingling with the heady scent of him. She tried to stay strong, tried to keep her thoughts coherent, but it was like trying to stay dry in a flood.

Strange images kept rapidly flashing through her mind; rain streaming down; thin, bare tree branches stark against a darkening sky; shattered glass imbedded in mud; and someone in a black cloak walking away. She didn't understand any of it.

The stranger was still kissing her, his hands working on the clasp at her throat. It finally parted, and he gently pushed the cloak off her shoulders, letting it fall to the ground. His lips moved to her neck and nipped the soft skin lightly, eliciting several tiny gasps.

Suddenly, she was lying on the ground too, her head cushioned by the bundle of discarded cloth, and he was beside her, doing wonderful things with his hand.

*****

Icy rain fell unceasingly on the grounds of Hogwarts. Students who had been practicing on the Quidditch pitch, or making fools of themselves, had already given up, and others gambolling about had admitted defeat only a short time later, clutching umbrellas and water-resistant cloaks with numbed fingers as they slogged up the front steps of the castle.

It wasn't even noon yet, and the grounds were almost entirely deserted. Except for one figure, moving along the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

Ginny Weasley paused to wipe her dripping face on her sleeve. It did absolutely no good. She was walking beneath the bare, clawed branches of an elm tree as she began to fumble in the neck of her robes, drawing out something on a gold chain. It was a Time-Turner.

Her father worked at the Ministry of Magic, and she had accompanied him there one day during Christmas break. They had stopped to have a chat with Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt, and she had seen it lying there, forgotten amongst a stack of papers.

Struggling through the glutinous mud, she thought about why she had made this choice; she thought about why she had decided to leave warmth and all her friends behind to come out into the cold rain, and she thought about the terrifying dreams that plagued her almost nightly. They were all the same. She would be locked in Myrtle's bathroom, her hands and robes covered in red paint. The water was running in all the taps, save one, and she would try to wash the paint off. It ran down the drain, swirling around in the water, dying it red too.

And then the smell of paint was gone, and instead there was an earthy, metallic scent filling her nostrils. Her hands were no longer covered in paint, but blood. She would vigorously begin to scrub and scrub and scrub, yet it still would not come off.

Suddenly, one of the sinks would begin to move, and the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets would appear; the hole was dark and gaping, wrapping her in petrified fear. And then a voice, Tom's voice, calling to her.

Last night's dream had been different, however, though no less frightening.

Anyway, there was no turning back now, no matter how much she wanted to. She had to do this.

Ginny's deliberations with herself were interrupted when her right foot turned on a root, and she was sent sprawling into the mire.

As she lay, she could feel the broken fragments of the Time-Turner biting painfully into her hands. Her first thought was that her plans had been ruined.

*****

Ginny caught her breath, grimacing at the mud that now covered her. She used the inside of her cloak to wipe from her hands what dirt and blood she could, and then began to struggle to her feet.

A sharp pain in her ankle sent her down again.

"Ow..." She managed to sit up, and bit her lip hard against the throbbing pain.

Well, she couldn't walk. Crawling seemed doubtful, since she was so far away from the castle. It looked like she would have to sit in the mud until someone found her. Considering the wretched weather, and her luck, Ginny would not have been surprised if no one found her till morning. She could possibly spend the night in the open and catch a fever.

Suddenly, she saw a dark figure moving towards her along the edge of the trees. "Please!" she cried. "Help me!"

The figure stopped.

"Please help me, I'm hurt."

It started forward slowly. "As if that wasn't obvious." A hooded boy knelt at her side. "Hold still." He began to gently pull her boot from her injured foot, and she jerked away as hot pain raced up her leg. It felt as though thin, sharp needles were puncturing every inch of her skin. "I said hold still." He leaned over her bared ankle, and as he did so pale blond hair slipped out of his hood.

He pulled out a wand and placed it against Ginny's ankle, and she felt a sudden surge of warmth. The pain vanished.

"Hold out your hands," he said, catching site of them. She did, and a second later they were completely unscathed.

The boy rose, trembling from the cold, and turned away. Ginny caught his hand.

"Thank you," she breathed.

He pulled away, but did not turn around. "Don't mention it."

She stared, stunned. He had not said that kindly, and she suddenly realised what he meant. She got slowly to her feet. There was no pain. Her whole leg felt better than new. "You healed me," she said, amazed. Healing was very advanced magic. Only Aurors and Medi-Wizards were taught how to perform it.

He turned around, the upper half of his face still hidden in the shadow of his hood, and Ginny was reminded of the young man in her dream. She was surprised to see how pale the skin of his cheek was. It had an almost translucent quality. His blue-tinted lips turned up in a mock smile. "I could've worsened your situation, if I so chose." He turned away in silence.

In a moment, the black of his cloak was indistinguishable among the shadows of the cold, dark afternoon.

*****

The Common room was dim, lit with the warm, golden glow of a fire and a few torches. Outside, the howl of the wind and patter of rain on the window was nearly drowned out by the scattered students' chatter. Harry sat in his favourite chair before the fire. He was watching Ron and Hermione from the corner of his eye. They were smiling at each other.

An almost unbearable pain tightened Harry's chest, a slight burning, but he couldn't bring himself to look elsewhere. His jaw began to hurt, and it was only then that he realised he had been clenching his teeth together. He tried to relax, tried to think of something else, anything else, but it was like trying to ignore a searing pain in his scar.

He was jealous.

Of what exactly? He wasn't even sure himself. Perhaps he was jealous of the fact that Ron looked so happy, or maybe he was jealous because Hermione looked so happy. Maybe it was simply because they looked so happy together.

Why should I be jealous of my friends' happiness, he thought. I have no right to be, do I? Of course I don't. They're entitled to a little happiness. I'm not, because I'm the great Harry Potter, hero of the Wizarding World, defender of the defenseless.

Harry closed his eyes, but he couldn't seem to find the comfortable blackness behind his eyelids; all he found was an image of Ron and Hermione, smiling at each other, as though it had been burned there.

*****

Ginny stood, unsure of whether to go back inside or stay where she was. Who was that boy? He was tall, yes, and blonde. She bit her lip, her brow furrowed in thought. His voice had been vaguely familiar, although she couldn't seem to place it, and his skin had been so pale, like the cream her father put in his coffee.

Well, that really narrowed it down, she thought, laughing aloud. There were at least fifty tall, blonde, and pale students at Hogwarts.

He had successfully performed Healing magic. Now that narrowed it down. Healing magic was not a part of the curriculum at Hogwarts. Only witches and wizards pursuing a career in Medi-magic learned how to do it. Aurors learnt it too. Lupin had told her so, the summer before her fourth year, while healing several bruises and a sprain caused by tripping over Crookshanks and falling down the stairs.

Suddenly, a horrible ripping sound, like a cloak being torn straight down the middle, sliced through the cold air. Ginny whirled around, her eyes widening at what she saw.

The shattered fragments of the stolen Time-Turner lay imbedded in the mud, exactly where she had fallen, but something strange was happening. A jagged line, bleeding lustrous white light, had appeared over the bits of glass. And it was growing.

*****

Hogwarts, June 1945

He had finally graduated. Never again would he have to smell the stench of Mudbloods and Muggle sympathizers in the corridors, or brush against them as he passed and pretend that it didn't disgust him, or keep up with his tiresome role as a model student.

Staring up at the castle, Tom Riddle spat on the ground, only a small hint of his actual feelings for the place. In his first year, he had thought of it as his home, but as his hatred for Muggles and Mudbloods grew he couldn't love it anymore. Hogwarts was ruined. He would rather see it crumble to the ground.

If everything worked out the way he wanted it to, and he wasn't going to give up until everything did, he would rid the school of its vermin, starting with that Muggle-loving Transfiguration teacher Albus Dumbledore. Of all the teachers, Dumbledore was the only one who seemed to see right through him. It was so hard to look that man in the eye, but Tom would force himself to, even though he couldn't shake the feeling that the old fool was perusing his mind's innermost thoughts.

Only recently, Dumbledore had defeated the Dark wizard Grindelwald. Tom didn't see it as a great achievement. Grindelwald was not all that powerful. He had simply taken advantage of the Wizarding World's fear of exposure due to the Muggle war. Otherwise, he would not have posed such an overwhelming threat.

It might take him years, but when he came back he would give the Wizarding World, and the Muggle World, a new definition of fear. The name he had fashioned for himself would become synonymous with terror, torture, and death.

He began to laugh, but an ear-splitting sound, like the slow ripping of fabric, drowned him out. A jagged line, growing in length, had appeared directly in front of him. Tom stared, transfixed. What was it? He gripped his wand, ready to defend himself if anything should happen, but minutes passed and nothing did. Then he remembered.

An acquaintance of his, Mafalda Hopkirk, whose father worked in the Department of Mysteries, had told him about a new device in the works that would enable a witch or wizard to go into the past without the use of highly complicated spells and potions. Months ago he had checked out a book, from the Restricted Section, and learned as much as he could about time-travel, its uses, and its dangers. It had been very interesting. There had been one particular chapter about time portals, which were actually nothing more than rips in the fabric of time.

And now he was staring at one.

*****

As he made his way back towards the castle, Draco Malfoy couldn't seem to forget those wide, awed green eyes of the youngest Weasley. He could hear her voice in his head, over and over again like a broken Record Charm. "Thank you." No one had ever thanked him for anything. Never. Yet Ginny Weasley, a Gryffindor, and the daughter of two disgusting blood traitors, had.

For some reason he could not fathom, it felt good. Not the kind of satisfied feeling he got when ordering a house elf to slam its hand in the oven door for his amusement, but a real, genuine good feeling. Of course, if she had known just who had healed her ankle, Draco was quite sure that the words 'thank you' would be the last to fall from her lips. She wouldn't have even let him near her.

So why had he healed her?

Before Draco could answer himself, a scream pierced the cold quiet. It could only be Weasley.

He turned around and ran back towards the forest as fast as he could, the wind striking him painfully in the face and whipping his hood off. He didn't want to help, hadn't wanted to in the first place. All he had come out into the rain and cold to do was be alone and brood about what Potter had done to his father. He hadn't intended to heal Weasley's ankle at all, but to get her back for using the Bat-Bogey Hex on him the year before.

I did tell her I could've worsened her situation if I wanted to, he reminded himself.

But you didn't.

There she was, in the exact same spot he had left her. Someone else was with her. It was a boy with rain-drenched black hair, and at first, he thought it was Potter. But Weasley was obviously terrified of him, desperately trying to fight him off. Furthermore, the boy's clothes were different. He wore gray trousers, a white straight-collared shirt with a black tie, and a gray blazer, all old-fashioned looking.

"Hey!" Draco shouted. The boy paid him no attention. He was dragging Weasley towards a strange light that seemed to float in midair.

She looked up. "Malfoy!" she screamed. "Don't let him take me!" Her voice was choked, her words so frantic they were nearly unintelligible, and her eyes wide, pleading, staring at him.

Draco jerked his wand from the folds of his cloak, but his mind was a blank. He couldn't think of one single spell. What was he going to do?

"Malfoy!" she screamed again, but too late. The boy had dragged her into the light, and they both disappeared.

What do I do? What do I do? And then Draco thought of something. If I save her, people will worship me like they worship Potter. And the Weasley girl will be in my debt. She would have to do whatever I asked.

He leaped into the shrinking light after them.