The next time Sirius came by, he carried armfuls of books. I wasn't able to see the titles, but James and Lily became engrossed in them for three days.
Upon emerging from their readings, they both looked immensely relieved.
My next nightmare of Peter betraying them, and they had me drink an odd white potion that bubbled down my throat.
Again, and again it happened. They never mentioned thinking for an instant that they believed in my dreams. As time went on, I got a bit more elaborate in my dreams, describing Peter as best as I could, but they never faltered.
(Later on, I would learn they would discover that children affected by Death's Kiss were plagued by worst-case-scenario nightmares. They picked up on the worst possible outcome that could occur every night and for many years they would dream about it. It happened less than one percent of the time, but given that I was already in the five percent margin for surviving Death's Kiss without being turned squib, they figured I was in the one percent, too. Plus, you know, the power of Potter Plot is strong. So no matter what I said, what I described, they would only ever view it as a dream and force-feed me a dreamless draught.)
I was fearful of what was to come. I wished Dumbledore would come by, but he never did. I even tried to drop hints that I needed to see him (I dreamed about him coming by, and that it made me "very happy"), but nothing worked.
Short of telling them the absolute truth, I was running out of ideas.
As we neared our one-year birthday, my mind was becoming more, and more flustered. My magic lashed out accordingly, and Lily and James were forced to put me to sleep frequently, so I didn't accidentally hurt myself or Harry.
I feared I wouldn't be able to save them.
But, I had to keep trying.
(≖‿‿≖)ノ⌒●~*
On our one-year-old birthday, Harry woke up first with an excited squeal. He was levitating in his bed, slowly drifting up to the ceiling from a burst of accidental magic.
It brought a smile on my face to see my brother so happy in the morning. He didn't have a lot of accidents with magic, unlike me, but when he did it usually revolved around levitating or summoning items to him.
My bursts had died down the couple of weeks leading up to the birthday, as I was able to get a very vague hold on them. Thankfully, I could sense my magic a lot easier after months of practice, but it was far from perfect. I still couldn't command it to do as I wished, but that was to be expected. Apparently, witches and wizards developed their magic up until the age of ten rapidly. Their magic would steadily grow, along with spurts of significant growth spurts that caused the magic to lash out. It was why children did not attend magical school until ten, because their magic would be unreliable until it leveled out in its growth. There were instances where people had bursts throughout puberty, as well, but nowhere near as common as childhood.
Magic during childhood was unreliable. It struggled to fit inside the growing body and fought to stay calm. At times, it really seemed like it had a mind of its own. The only thing in tune with its and my desire was to keep the physical body safe and healthy.
But, I was stubborn.
If I wanted to do the things I wanted to do, I would need a hold on my magic sooner than ten years old.
So, every night after Lily and James tucked me in and fed me a dreamless potion, I laid in bed and tried to call forth my magic.
I tried to bring it towards my hand and push enough of it out of my body to see it. It took nearly an hour every night (sometimes two, if unlucky), but I had faith that dedicated practice would fruit success.
James was the first to enter our bedroom, laughing at seeing his son floating in the air.
Harry clapped his hands. "Papa!"
James reached up and plucked Harry from the air. "Morning, Harry. Happy birthday!"
"Happy birthday, Harry," I chirped.
James waved his right hand at me and I felt the tug of his magic. I floated out of my crib and into James's right arm. Harry, in his left, reached towards me and hugged me. I kissed his cheek.
"Happy birthday, Rosie," James told me.
"Happy birthday," I echoed, patting Harry's cheek. "Cake?"
"Later," James promised me. "How about we head downstairs? Paddy is here!"
"Paddy!" I squealed with delight.
James carried us downstairs, and we found the living room to be lovingly decorated with banners, posters, pictures, and presents. A shaggy black dog laid on the carpet in the middle, his belly up in the air. I screamed with joy, squirming to play with Sirius in his animagus form. James laughed and sat me down on the living room floor, and then headed to the kitchen with Harry to work on our birthday cake.
My tiny toddler legs moved as quickly as I could to the happy dog who playfully growled at me. I leapt onto his belly, hearing the soft umph from him before Sirius rolled over and grabbed the back of my shirt before tossing me up into the air. I felt his magic coil around me, levitating me in the air before gently lowering me down. I fell onto the soft carpet onto my bum before scrambling to stand back up and proceed to chase Sirius around the carpet.
He would playfully catch me again, and again, tossing me into the air and then levitating me down.
It was an absolute delight, and I relished it.
(≖‿‿≖)ノ⌒●~*
Now I'm sure...
I'm sure you would think that by the time that awful night came to be I would have had a solution prepared, right?
I had literally over a year to find one.
But I didn't.
Every maneuver, or plot I cooked up was batted away. My control over magic was barely good enough to levitate paper, let alone fortify my home against the Tom Riddle, all grown up and hopped up on dark magic.
The only card I hadn't pulled was being blatantly honest, and my gut was screaming at me that it would result in a worst-case scenario.
Such as being taken away from my parents and handed off to Unspeakables to be experimented on.
Not that Lily and James were malicious people, but think about it from their perspective: An adult is in the body of their child and has been pretending to be their baby for over a year.
Creepy would be an understatement.
(I'm a little creeped out myself when I think about it like that.)
When... when that night came it was... it was horrible.
I had seen people die before, seen them die from slowly devouring diseases, seen them bleed out on an operating table, seen them begged to be saved right before their heart stops working.
Death was not something one could ignore as a medical student.
I learned very early on, due to my mother, how to compartmentalize and "cope" with the stress of being a doctor—of inevitably losing patients.
But sweet mercy that did not help me that night.
What do you want me to say?
Do you want me to tell you the step by step gruesome detail of a kind man and woman who were murdered before me?
(It was heart wrenching)
Do you want me to tell you how fucking handsome that murderer was that killed them?
(Side note: he was. Very unfairly. Dark arts bastard.)
Do you want me to tell you how we screamed in our crib? How we cried, with every fiber of our being as Lily fell forward dead?
Do you want those details?
No.
No, you don't.
Or rather, I won't give them.
That night was literal hell.
And it forever tilted my viewpoint on death.
On what line I was willing to cross.
Because I decided, as I stared over their corpses, and held Harry's hand, that I could not restrict myself to morality or legality.
Playing by the rules was not an option when my family's life was in danger.
(≖‿‿≖)ノ⌒●~*
And so
A checklist—
No.
The Bucket List—
—was made.
ƪ(˘⌣˘)ʃ
Question: What would be the first item on your Harry Potter Bucket List?
Special Question: Re-readers, do you have a favorite year?
Reviews are love!
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