Refraction

(Lily Potter (d.1981), October 31, 1981)

It shouldn't have been such a beautiful day.

It was unusually warm for October, and nearly cloudless, for a refreshing change. Changing leaves and a pleasant breeze and sunlight on the fields. James and I had thought of taking Harry to visit Sirius on Hallowe'en, but we'd finally decided on a quiet night at home, instead. Harry was too young to worry that we weren't doing much for the holiday, and James and I...craved those quiet times.

We had a picnic. James's idea, if I remember. We packed bread and honey, and James jumped some poor woman's fence to pick her apples. He came back laughing, triumphantly holding his spoils, and Harry threw up his hands in imitation, and giggled. I didn't have the heart to scold James. Not that day. It was too peaceful, too happy for nagging (however just such nagging might have been).

We ate, and then sat quietly, doing little, enjoying the day. James was tickling Harry's nose with perfect red-gold leaves, and Harry was laughing his burbling little baby laugh. The air was warm, the only sounds were of birds singing and falling leaves rustling, and I was with the two men I loved most in the world. I managed to forget, for a brief time, that we were in the midst of a war. It didn't seem possible. Surely such happy domesticity could not exist in wartime. There should be more misery, tenseness, cold...but we were peace in the midst of panic.

Mothers are said to have a sixth sense concerning their children. Mothers are meant to know when something awful is about to happen. Mothers are somehow warned.

I was not warned.

I spent my last day with my son happily oblivious to the possibility of horror. I made no special preparations, felt no vague fear, in no way tried to protect him. I did nothing out of the ordinary.

Perhaps it is best this way, after all, if it was impossible for me to stay. My last clear memory of my son is of his laughter.

* * *

* * *

You go on. You just go on. There's nothing more to it, and there's no trick to make it easier. You just go on.

--Lois McMaster Bujold

* * *

(Harry Potter, 1992)

Summer before second year

I've been trying to put all the things I know in order--in the order that I learned them. Not everything; just the big things. I want to--I don't know--make sense of it all. Some kind of sense.

Anyway, it's not like I have much else to do in the summer. I already finished my homework, which is pretty amazing, and anything else would mean Dursleyish attention.

So, what I know...

My parents are dead. This has always been true.

My relatives hate me. This has always been true.

I talk to snakes. This is new.

A mad ghost wants me dead. Apparently, this has always been true, but it's news to me.

The best maker of poisons at Hogwarts hates me. He hated me before I was born--or even conceived--so I guess that's always been true. It's a worry, though.

Draco Malfoy hates me. That hasn't always been true. I'm trying to decide if it's my fault...and if I care, even if it is. I mean, it's definitely mutual hatred.

The Slytherins hate me. I suspect that's Draco Malfoy's fault, or maybe Snape's, so it really goes under one of the points above.

I'm a danger to my friends. Before, I didn't have any friends--but I figure that if I had, they would've gotten hurt. I'm a bad luck magnet. Always have been.

I can kill people with my hands. That's new. Makes me a bit of a freak. More of a freak.

Ron and Hermione are never going to understand the most freakish part of me, because they did not grow up in a cupboard. That's new ... at least, my knowing it is new. But it's okay, because it's not their fault, and they're fine with me most of the time--until that last life-or-death moment. And how often do those come along, really?

So there are only a handful of people in my life who I really notice. My parents, the Dursleys, Voldemort, Snape, Malfoy, Ron, and Hermione. Dumbledore and Hagrid should be there as well. So of these...twelve people who count, two are dead (really dead), and six hate me.

Half of the most important people in my life hate me, and two of the ones who don't are dead. It doesn't take Hermione to tell me the math is ugly. So should I try to change this? Can I?

Voldemort is clearly a lost cause. Insane, and that. Also, I want him dead.

The Dursleys just aren't enough of a threat to bother winning over. Also, I hate them.

Snape? He hates my father. Maybe someone ought to point out to him that my father is dead, and that I am not my father reborn. Not entirely convinced it would help if I were the person to point it out.

And there is Malfoy. Is Malfoy my fault? Can I fix it? Do I want to? Can I afford to have one more person hating me? Should I pretend to like him, so maybe he'll stop hating me? Could I even stand to do that much? I'd have to keep him away from Ron and Hermione in any case...

I just don't know what I'm supposed to be doing.

* * *

(Severus Snape, 1991)

First year

I have always had duties. I've always known what was expected of me.

I took my Dark Mark happily enough, because it was what I was meant to do. I pretend to no virtue--I hated mudbloods and blood traitors with a blinding passion, and every one bore the face of James Potter or Sirius Black in my mind. Both purebloods, now I think on it, for all they were blood traitors. Ironic.

When I came to Albus Dumbledore some years after I was Marked, I hadn't come to apologize. I hadn't come to repent, or regret, or even admit that I might have been wrong. I came to tell him that the Dark Lord had killed my half-sister, the product of my father's rape of a muggle woman. I came to tell him that I was willing to do anything for revenge.

Revenge.

Of such beginnings...

My sister had always been a weak spot in my belief structure. Half-blood she might have been, but she was my sister. My father, by some miracle, had taken her in, and my mother (a downtrodden woman at the best of times) had always wanted a daughter. Perhaps misery loves company.

My relationship with my sister is hardly important at this late date, but suffice it to say that I loved her, and that her murder destroyed whatever of my humanity had survived my father. I have not shown proper affection to another human being since. I am either incapable or a coward, but I don't wish to examine the possibilities too closely. It's all blood over the dam now.

I wanted Albus Dumbledore to destroy the Dark Lord, and he did, after a fashion. I had my revenge, and the added benefit of Albus's good word at the Death Eater trials. He had saved my honor and my life, and he had avenged my sister--but I was not satisfied. I was not satisfied, but neither was I naïve enough to suppose this would release me from our arrangement.

I had my honor, my life, my sister's memory, freedom from the Dark Lord. Albus Dumbledore owned my soul.

Albus would never phrase it in such crude terms, of course, but polite pretenses don't change the ugly reality. I owe him for everything that has ever mattered to me, and that is a debt impossible to repay. I am doomed to attempt it until one or both of us dies, but I will never succeed.

He knows this, no matter how much he sugar-coats it. He knows, and now he is calling in his debts. I suspect I stand to lose much of what he gained for me.

And so begins Harry Potter's first year at Hogwarts. I knew I was right to dread it.

* * *

(Luna Lovegood's journal, 1992)

Second year

First day of school! Was normal enough, I suppose. Am endlessly, endlessly amused by Padma Patil. She is another Ravenclaw, one year ahead of me. Eventually she will drive me insane, but for now...

Oh, yes, I'm in Ravenclaw. This is the home of the desperately clever. Mwa-ha-ha. Indeed. To go alphabetically, the other houses are Gryffindor (home of the certifiably insane--excuse me, brave), Hufflepuff (home of the generally hopeless), and Slytherin (den of the obviously untrustworthy). So I'm all warm and fuzzy about the Ravenclawness.

Saw our local celebrity. That was exciting. Local celebrity being Harry Potter the Desperately Gryffindor. He's...wuffy. And by that I mean, you just want to pick him up and squeeze him. He didn't make it to the feast. I saw him after in the hall, looking worse for wear. Apparently he and his friend crashed a flying car into a rather vicious and moving tree. Not so bright, perhaps, our celebrity, but he entertains me already.

Padma is giving me a Funny Look. I guess that's fair enough. I plan to give her Funny Looks all year. Maybe I should flee to my room. No one from my year stares at me, because they're all too busy panicking.

I've never shared a room before. Strange.

* * *

(Draco Malfoy, 1993)

Second year

It's been a bizarre and unsettling day.

First, Crabbe completed a coherent sentence. I'm sure it was an accident, but it still rocks the foundation of my world.

Next, Pansy was polite to a Hufflepuff. A Hufflepuff. Pansy.

Teddy spoke to a stranger. Under normal circumstances, we can hardly force him to speak to those of us he's known all his life.

Blaise sat quietly in every single class. He did not glare at anyone, attack anyone, or insult anyone. At all.

Harry Potter spoke to me. He did not bring the Mudblood and the Weasel. He did not threaten me, insult me, or accuse me of anything.

I think I may have lost my mind. Either that, or the world is ending in chaos and despair.

I was on the pitch with one of those practice snitches (which are a horrible quality--I should talk to Father about getting new ones. Later. Maybe). I've been practicing ... almost continuously. It will never make up for the painful, hideous embarrassment that was losing to Potter in such a spectacularly idiotic manner, but it's something. I didn't dare go home for Christmas. I shudder to think what Father will say next time I see him. His letters haven't mentioned it, but then they wouldn't, would they? We can never look less than perfect in public, can we? No, for Malfoys are perfect, and united, and strong, and never let idiotic grudges get in the way of victory....

So I was flying. Again. I caught the snitch for the fourth time (I can't catch the snitch with bloody Potter, but I'm fine at every other time, and why is this?), and then saw Potter standing over at the edge of the pitch. I thought my heart would stop, until I realized that, for once, I hadn't been doing anything stupid in Potter's presence. I had actually caught the snitch in front of him. Maybe his heart would stop. Hope springs eternal.

I landed dangerously close to him. I actually thought I might hit him, but he didn't even flinch. Of course he didn't.

"Practicing, mudblood-lover?" I sneered at him, trying to get a reaction. "Trying to learn how to catch the snitch without breaking your arm?" It was weak. I acknowledge that it was weak. I doubt Potter noticed, though. His eyes focused on me slowly, as if he were coming from a long way away. "I came to thank you," he said. His voice was softer than I'd ever heard it. He didn't quite seem to believe what he was saying.

I certainly didn't believe what he was saying. I must have stared at him for nearly a minute without coming up with a single way to respond. "Why?" I managed, finally. I tried to snarl it, but I don't think it came off properly.

Potter wasn't looking at me; he was looking vaguely off at the other end of the pitch. "You don't think I'm the Heir of Slytherin," he said.

This was familiar ground, thank all the gods. He thought I, well, respected him or something. Easy enough to correct that notion. I sneered at him, and said, "Of course you're not--you don't have the strength, the determination, the pride--you're too much of a mudblood kisser, Potter. I didn't mean it as a compliment."

He turned back to face me. Finally. "But it is a compliment." He was speaking so softly, I had to lean in to catch the words. Then I realized that I was leaning in to listen to Potter, and I pulled back. Then I couldn't hear him. By the time I sorted myself out, I had almost missed what he was saying--almost, but not quite. Alas. "It's a compliment that you pay enough attention to know what I am...even if you hate it. You're the only one who pays that much attention."

Right.

"I don't pay attention to you!" He smirked at me. Alright, I admit it was a bit of a barefaced lie, but that's not the point. "Shut up, Potter. Anyway, what about the Mudblood and the Weasel? Don't they love you, Saint Potter? And, help us all, the Weasel twins don't think you're the Heir." That was almost comforting. Was I trying to comfort him? Was I running a fever? Am I losing my mind?

He was looking away again, no expression on his face. Usually he would have tried to kill me by now. What was this? And then he was speaking, still in that strange, quiet voice. I hated it.

"They love something...that looks like me. It's not me. I'm not as great, or as nice, not as...together...as they think I am. I'm not as bad as Snape thinks I am. You're closest, I think." He turned and smiled, honestly smiled, at me. I didn't know what to think. "You're closest," he added, "and you hate me, and probably want me and all my friends to die at the fangs of some Slytherin monster. It's a worry, isn't it?"

He walked off the pitch. Walked away humming off-key. I just stared after him for a long time. Looking gormless, I have no doubt. Finally I snapped out of it, shaking my head. "Potter, you're...pathetic," I muttered. I got back on my broom and started practicing again. For the first time in a long time, I was convinced that I understood Quidditch far better than I understood Harry Potter. I still have no idea what to make of it.

* * *

(Luna Lovegood's journal, 1993)

Second year

Maybe it would actually be less pathetic if Draco Malfoy threw himself at Harry Potter's feet and screamed, "Pay attention to me!"

Or perhaps not.

In any case, this method is pretty entertaining. For me. Though I must say it doesn't seem particularly effective. Shall I point this out to Draco Malfoy? No. I value all of my limbs.

* * *

(Ginny Weasley, 1992)

Second year

Dear Tom,

I realized something today, and it sort of seems like something you probably figured out a really long time ago, so don't make fun of me. (Just kidding. You never make fun of me. Not like my brothers!)

Do you remember the first time I talked to you? I'd cut my finger on your pages, and you asked if I was okay.

The first time I saw Harry, I had just cut my leg on Ron's trolley.

You know, births are always bloody--and you can't get pregnant before you start bleeding, can you? Well. I suppose you wouldn't be able to, anyway, being a boy...and a book...

Did it take blood to make this book? I'm almost sure it did. Your blood, Tom? I wonder who you were. Why won't you tell me?

But I realized--blood always starts things. Doesn't it? Is that a magical law?

Sometimes, deaths are bloody, too. Does that make deaths beginnings? Or just bloody deaths? I mean, it's certainly a beginning for vampires--and they're all about blood. That would make Avada Kedavra really evil, wouldn't it? Because it would be a real end, and no new beginning after.

I don't know. This probably sounds silly. I just hope I don't die quietly in bed or something. I hope I die bloody. That's really odd, isn't it? I think I might be odd, though. I'm starting to think...

Oh, Tom, something's wrong with me--strange things are happening, and, and I can't remember what I did on the night of Hallowe'en, but a cat was attacked, and I've got paint all down my front. It's not just paint, either--it's red, and I think it might have blood in it. How did it get on me, Tom? Was it blood? Has something started?

But it can't have been me, can it? I would remember--of course I would. Maybe I was sleepwalking, and I somehow ran into the paint of whoever's doing this. Maybe.

Tom. I don't sleepwalk.

What should I do, Tom? What can I do?

Please help me.

Love, Ginny

* * *

(Draco, 1993)

Second year

I'm trying to understand why I've been doing what I've been doing. Trying and failing, mind.

I was quite subdued, most of the end of second year. Second year was a bad year for me. Harry Potter had made my father look a fool.

I was accustomed, by now, to Potter making me look a fool. Father tells me I am a fool, after all, so no surprises there. But my father...

I couldn't really bring myself to think about it. I couldn't bring myself not to think about it. Was Potter the Mudblood-Lover cleverer than Father? If he was (and that hadn't really been proof--my father could just have underestimated Potter, this time. Couldn't he?), if he was, did that mean Potter was right? It couldn't mean that. Could it?

Potter said I knew him better than anyone. Said he wasn't as together as his minions thought he was. I thought he was together. Why did he tell me that? I don't know him at all. He knows I don't know him! Did he just say it so that I would pay attention to him?

I vowed it wouldn't work. Then I realized that I already paid a ridiculous amount of attention to him. How...embarrassing.

He said it was a compliment that I paid attention. Maybe that was all he meant. After all, he knows I don't know him--and, more importantly, that I don't care. About him, I mean.

So what was he thanking me for? For watching him? What?

I swore I wouldn't think about Potter anymore. I swore I wouldn't tell him that the Slytherins were going to prank him on the platform for the Hogwarts Express. I swore to myself.

Which is why I was so confused when I found myself speaking to him the day before we were to leave. He'd tripped. I just couldn't let it go. "You want to watch yourself, Potter," I said. Nastily, at least. "You're so clumsy you might fall in front of the Hogwarts Express, and then, alas, we would be graced with your presence no longer." I sneered at him. It was a very good sneer. "On second thought, Potter, trip more often." I walked away. Potter hadn't said anything. Hadn't reacted at all. Stupid Potter. I promised myself I wouldn't say anything on the platform.

And I didn't. I did well. I let him trip. They'd cast a Trip Jinx right by the edge of the track. They'd meant him to trip and fall into the train. Being an eager Gryffindor, he stepped forward early. No time to stop him. If the Granger Mudblood hadn't caught him, he would have landed on the tracks. Right in front of a very big, very heavy, moving Hogwarts Express. Apparently I'm becoming prophetic. Fantastic.

"Watch yourself, Harry!" Thank you, mudblood.

He looked at his feet for a bit. Then he looked over the crowd.

Then he looked right at me.

He seemed a little confused. Not surprising. If I had gone to the trouble to warn him, why hadn't I stopped him from walking forward? I would have let him die. He could have died.

After he had stared at me just long enough for me to start getting nervous, he nodded to me. It was as if he was saying I see. I nodded back. Good. He turned, almost reluctantly, back to the mudblood.

"Thank you, Hermione," he said, very slowly. "Where would I be without you?"

"Splattered all over the track," she said, sounding irritated. For a moment, I almost had to like her. "Let's get on."

He's right. She didn't notice. Didn't notice the Trip Jinx. Didn't notice he wasn't telling her something. Didn't notice he was looking at me. I would have noticed. I would have noticed even if I hadn't known the Slytherins meant to prank him. I really, honestly pay more attention to Potter than his friends do. Of course, it's what he deserves for picking such useless, disgusting friends, but...Potter was right.

That's torn it. I have lost my mind. I hear St. Mungo's is pleasant, at least. Ha ha.

Help.