Through the Veil

He's sleeping now. It's good that he's sleeping, he doesn't rest nearly enough. He doesn't eat enough either. So thin... I know why, of course. His body is secondary to his mind, taking care of it a waste of time that could be better spent in other pursuits. Saving wizard-kind, for example. He hasn't changed in that respect.

I know I shouldn't be here. I am the Grey Lady, Ravenclaw's ghost, and so Ravenclaw should be my only concern. None of the other Houses should take up this much of my time. Take it up with the Sorting Hat, he's the one that threw my lover into another House. Someday he and I are going to have a long talk about his perverse sense of humor. He should have been in Ravenclaw, with a mind like that, as should have Hermione Granger. But both were to be pioneers, a blending of the boundaries. I sincerely wish it won't warp Hermione as it warped him.

Perhaps warped is too kind a word. Broke is more to the point. He holds up well, for a broken man. Any other man would have been shattered, would be in no condition to fight the rising Darkness, would not be such an avatar of hope.

Ahh. He stirs. He rolls over, flinging an arm up, fist resting on his forehead. Then turns again, curling around his pillow like a child to a favorite toy. His face is calm, at peace. The lines that frame both eyes and mouth fade, lifting the burden of years heavy with tragedy. The corner of his mouth twitches in response to his dream.

I wonder, in his dreams, does he remember? When awake, all he remembers is subconscious. A way of holding a spoon, a bit of phrase, a song he sings that he never heard. He remembers other things that mystify him, spells, the grip of a sword, how to throw a knife, block a punch, how to play a harp... how to fight evil, how to do one's duty first and foremost.

They say that when a soul passes into the Veil at death, all things are forgotten. Some rare souls, though, if they survive the soul- devouring creatures that inhabit the Netherworld to be reborn, if they were tied to their last life deeply enough, will remember. That is, if their current life permits such memory. His has not.

I remember when we first met, he a brilliant student fresh off the Hogwarts boats. He was old even then, I think. I introduced myself as is my custom to new students, and knew who he was instantly for he looks just the same. He knew he could trust me, knew he'd met me before, but nothing else.

So I remember, and I watch him sleep, watch him eat, teach, ride a broom, read books, do research, all the myriad things that fill his day. If I feel particularly naughty, I watch him bathe or dress.

He moves again, his pillow slipping to the floor, his long braided hair winding like a snake behind him. He settles again, full mouth twisting into a smile. His closed eyes crinkle at the corners.

My name isn't the Grey Lady, it is merely what I wish to be called now. My name was Drianne Carter, I lived in 1100s England. He was Edward Lioncourt, knight of kingdom, Baron of the now-gone Avonshire. He was Knight and wizard both, as I was witch and maiden both. We met then when I ran into him carrying a basket of eggs, which shattered on his fine clothes. The Baron was very kind about it, easing my peasant fears of violent retribution.

He was obviously quite stricken with me, for he remembered me when I obtained a position as a lady's maid for his sister. The rest is obvious. He was a minor noble, and well able to manage marrying a mapmaker's daughter. We were deeply in love, well suited in every way.

Then came Robert Riddle. He was a Dark wizard who wormed his way into the king's confidence and stirred up the Crusades to keep the Muggles distracted. While the Muggles were busy trekking to Jerusalem, Robert began to gather his Dark army, called Doom Devourers, made of wizards not content with quiet existence and filled with bigoted hatred. His plan was obvious - to rule the world, to dominate the Muggles as the magic folk had been dominated.

My husband realized the threat immediately, though he wasn't believed until the Terror began. Half-Muggles and Muggleborns started being terrorized and killed, then the Robert began attacking Muggles. It was chaos. No one knew where to run, where to turn. Muggle priests said the skull-and-stars mark burned onto each tortured corpse was the Devil's mark. The wizards knew better, but were just as panicked.

Among them all, only Edward and his friend Steven's voices were strong and without fear. The English wizards flocked to Edward, begging him to lead him where before they'd laughed. Duty overcame wounded pride, the battle against evil triumphing over vengeance. He led them, fighting against the Doom Devourers in a secret battle that was momentous. The Muggles never knew what happened.

The war was long, hard and heinous, Robert an evil genius who's name many refused to speak. Near the end it looked like we would loose, our army of Light reduced to a mere fraction of what it had been. Even I believed we would not see another year. We ran away, fleeing to Hogwarts in Scotland, but the Doom Devourers cut us off.

It was, perhaps, the greatest wizarding battle that had ever been. Lights and spells filled the night air, echoed by the screams of the dying. They were too strong for us, the odds were three on one. I saw my comrades drop around me, all their deaths painful. I saw Robert laughing, laughing as if it were all prime entertainment, which I guess it was for him. It was Edward that made his laughter stop.

Edward hurled himself at the Dark Lord like a bloody arrow made of flesh. He struck with knife and sword, and died on Robert's wand. Edward died giving me a chance. It took a single spell, that was all. One spell, spoken while Robert Riddle tried to heal the Muggle wounds my husband had dealt. In my red haze of grief, I didn't hesitate. It was the Deathnacht spell, a spell that destroyed the body and imprisoned the soul for nine hundred years. The cost was my own body, and eternal life as a shade.

It was worth the price.

Because I knew if I lived, in any form, I would see Edward again. And so I have, so I am. Edward attacked not only with steel that rainy day so long ago. He spoke his own spell, tying his soul to Robert's. When the Dark Lord was reborn, he would be reborn as well. Reborn to fight him, to drive away the Darkness as was his duty. The spell worked. Robert is alive in Voldemort, and Edward is alive now to fight him.

He does not remember the details. He could, had his life not been so hard. If his parents had loved him instead of hating him, if he had been liked by his peers instead of shunned. Perhaps if his brilliance had not aroused such jealousy, if his darkened soul wasn't looked upon by prejudiced eyes, he would remember his name, or mine. But none of those things happened.

So there he lays, young only when he sleeps, far older than even his closest friend when awake. Hateful, suspicious looks follow him wherever he goes, spiteful words make their way to his ears from mouths that should spout only praise, and he tries to convince himself he doesn't care. Some days he succeeds, but most he falls asleep with unshed tears beneath his lids. Tears only my eyes see.

Dawn is coming, I can feel it. Time to return to Ravenclaw tower, to those who should be the focus of my attention. But they aren't and never can be. So I say goodbye to my reborn husband, Voldemort's oldest and truest enemy, and brush a dark lock aside with a transparent hand.

"See you at breakfast, Severus."
~*~

Done! Finally my muse told me what to do for this one! Do you think it's too off-base? And do you like it?

DragonLady
Scarred of blue scales and black claws, dragon animagi guardian of the Khushrenada Estate