EXIT

2. CAULDRON BLACK

2. CAULDRON BLACK

Lying on the bed in my cell, I stare at the ceiling and try to distract myself from my swirling thoughts by being bored. Dismal failure is bound to occur.

I sigh and roll onto my side, then fiddle with a loose thread on the pillowcase and gaze through the magical window diagonally above me. All I can see from this angle is a blue sky flecked with some far too perfect cotton-wool clouds. Always gorgeous weather out there. Oddly enough, the cheerful sight spoils my mood.

What the outcome of the conversation with Potter and Weasley was? Their curiosity, accompanied by a sudden tinge of willingness to compromise. Even Weasley eventually calmed down. Apparently, thanks to my revelations, his birdbrain realized that my intelligence could be crucial to their perpetually failing endeavor. He is obsessed with this war, but he, too, wants it to be over at some point. Preferably, of course, with the death of the Dark Lord.

Tom, as they call him now. As if he were a real person and not the splintered eighth part of a thoroughly black soul.

They left the room to confer (once again without casting a Silencing Charm, naive as they are) and despite their whispering I heard a few scraps of conversation.

"I never thought Tom—" was one of them.

Merlin help me. To me, it sounds beyond wrong, but who am I to judge? I can't help but wonder what other surprises the rebel quarters have in store for me. Anyway, I will never call him Tom, that's for sure.

My thoughts wander to my father, who in a careless moment fell victim to the Killing Curse from a Resistance fighter's wand. He was probably drunk that day, which makes the whole thing kind of inglorious. It happened during one of the first clashes after the Battle of Hogwarts and I wasn't in attendance. At that time, I was still unblemished and therefore relatively unusable. It took them a while to get me to the point where I could actively participate in the fighting.

From then on, the way up was easy. However, it was not as easy to ascertain who was responsible for the curse that finished off my father. I guess I'm lucky I don't know. One less problem to deal with now that I'm here. Say what one will about my father, but I'd probably have high blood pressure problems similar to Weasley's if I knew I was sleeping beneath the same roof as his murderer. (Or rather, in the same bunker, if my suspicions should turn out to be correct.)

What I told Potter about the Battle of Hogwarts itself is virtually ever-present in my mind, although I've carefully locked away the associated emotions like almost any other. Indeed, I've vowed to myself never to use Occlumency again, but I'll do whatever it takes to keep the feelings I've previously pushed away where they are. I'm safe as long as they're corked up. It's easier to live when they don't painfully knot my heart and brain all the time.

I just take a quick trip down memory lane, like I've done so many times before. I remember how Hagrid carried Potter out of the Forbidden Forest. How Potter (surprise) rose from the dead. How the Dark Lord issued the order for the massacre. And how incredibly successful the Death Eaters were at obeying him.

I can still hear their screams. And then I also see in my mind's eye how wildly they scattered back then. Longbottom, the unsung hero, somehow managed to kill that disgusting snake, but at the time I didn't realize the significance of the act. I've only known about the Horcruxes for about two years. Let's just say it was a leap of faith that I successfully abused.

Panting, I swing my legs out of bed and jump up. I must not get too bogged down in these thoughts or the urge to close my mind will become overwhelming. Instead, I remind myself of what those memories actually are: very far away.