Harry Potter series © J.K. Rowling

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–

Hidden by the shadows that shroud the alleyway I'm hiding in, I watch them: the Muggle mother and son pair that had been in the store for quite awhile.

The boy is such a menace I feel like drawing my wand—no, his wand, this wand still cleaves to its first and last owner, forever loyal but because I am who I am, the wand is obliged to obey me—and end his life there and then. But I suppress the murderous rage—as I had done so often in these past nineteen years—because times have changed and I'm a wanted fugitive.

Causing so much scene in the country where I'm one of the most Undesirables is not a smart thing to do. Not especially when I have an important purpose here.

(It's that fateful day again, so full of bitterness)

Still, I watch them, trying to ignore the burn in my chest.

The mother smiles rather awkwardly and I can hazard a guess why she smiles so. I see, by their simple and worn clothes, that they are not rich. It is easy to guess that the mother does not have the required amount of money to buy what he wants.

My son is never like this. He never demands, even when we're on the run, when he's still just a young baby, he never cries or demand much, as if he knows that I'm troubled by him enough already.

(My love for you is forever, all you want I'll do)

I remember Rasalas clearly, the last time I saw him. And he's just eighteen. Forever eighteen, always eighteen, never old enough to cross into manhood. My son is beautiful at age eighteen, he reminds me of me: his pale skin and that dark hair of mine that flows from his crown. But perhaps his eyes are the most memorable—only when those blazing blue eyes blink from Rasalas' shy lashes do I truly admire Rodolphus' eyes. Looking into Rasalas' eyes, I can forget that I want red, catlike-pupils to stare back at me.

Unfavorable memories of my son, mostly from when before he's born and he's just cells growing in my womb, are here in my head too. I remember the distaste and disdain I have when I hear that I'm pregnant with him. Detestable! How am I to serve the Dark Lord properly if I'm so heavily weighed down?

But the Dark Lord is understanding; he tells me to rest, to stay safe (oh my Lord) enough to give birth to my son who will no doubt serve him as loyally as I did.

Once he's born, there's this odd, twisting sensation in my chest. I can't describe it very well, but I think it's love. something I didn't realize until now, when he's no longer in my arms and he's outgrown my embraces. Maternal instincts, motherly love.

For Rasalas, the brilliant star.

My brilliant son.

I still have a hard time believing it, even after nineteen years, that he is actually different from all of us. At first, I thought he was a Diviner—one who is greater than Seers and with him on our side, we will be indestructible, we will win—but he's not that special, he's another brand of special. A unique difference.

Someone who's from another world.

His memories are my most prized possession. Kept in a fragile glass that I fortified with every Charm possible to protect it from shattering. I also keep a Pensieve, so that, when I miss him the most, I will immerse myself in his memories, I will live as him.

I will see the years of his life that I'd missed.

Like all stories go, his story started with a once upon a time.

–

Once upon a time, there lived a child. Like all children, she believed in magic and was an impressionable kid, she grew up and magic was long forgotten. However, like all children will eventually, she died.

Actually, she was unsure if she died or not. Or maybe she had just been dreaming for a very, very long time. A baby's nine months time in the mother's womb equivalent to her nineteen years of life.

Well, if she truly had been asleep—

–

If I'm asleep, then this would have to be the worst damned nightmare of my entire life.

Cold, cold air found its way down my windpipe, rattling my small lungs as I take in as many breaths as I could; I was gasping for breath. Not unusual as I'd been drowning minutes earlier. At least, that was the impression the constricting darkness had given me, it had been so hard to breathe there and air kept escaping plus, there was water everywhere.

I was crying before I knew it. I was so damned confused that I wanted to let it all out, to let everyone know how I felt so I can get some answers and—

help me

—someone cradled me, strong and warm, moving me. My world swirled in a blur of darkness as I felt myself lifted from wherever I had been laid to rest not a moment ago.

Another pair of arms, accompanied by a tired voice ("What do we call him?"), accepted me, caging me in their embrace, cradling me to their bosom. This was a woman holding me.

Which made it even more weird since I was too big and heavy to be fitted into someone's arms.

Confused, I squirmed, trying to swing my fist to dislodge the attacker. Let go!

"Rasalas," said a woman's voice. "His name will be Rasalas. Then we can nickname him Sal—similar to our Slytherin founder. How wonderful..." I couldn't see but I think she was smiling.

"Rasalas Lestrange," The name was tasted on a man's tongue; he rolled the name, caressed the syllables before he delivered his opinion of it: "Yes, I'd like that."

A hand on my head stopped my struggles. Rough, callused palms. Protective, gentle.

"Rest, little Sal, we have so much in store for you."

I closed my eyes.

–

Edited – 22 August 2015 – by GaleSynch

R&R