Obscured Harmony & Shattered Discord

Bits and Pieces

Tom Marvolo Riddle learnt about dying will flames in his twenties. Or, more accurately, he stumbled across the information in the mind of a passerby whilst looking into Italian variants of magical casting, and he was immediately intrigued.

What peaked his curiosity wasn't the flames themselves, but their origin and uses, and why he couldn't find any information on them whatsoever.

You see information was a vital part of his plans and plots, the wrong information could send everything he was working towards spiralling into so many unforseen directions that it was honestly terrifying, and the right little nugget given to the right (or wrong) person could send him and his ambitions straight to the top. Political aspirations were a complicated and deadly maze to navigate after all.

To learn of something that, based on the cursory information he'd cleaned from that one little legillimency probe, was something of common knowledge to certain groups was both infuriating and irritating all at once. Thus began a 3 month stretch of skimming every mind in his vicinity and the absolutely world shifting knowledge that flames were used primarily by muggle criminals.

And that he'd wasted 3 months searching for information on something he would never be able to attain.

Dying will flames, apparently, were a manifestation of the will to live. Not a difficult thing for him to comprehend, he had oceans of that.

They also came from the soul.

Something he had rather impulsively shattered a decade prior and continued to break off little pieces ever since. Diary, Ring, Locket, Cup. That now were standing in the way of learning another impressive and versatile piece of soul magic known to the Cosa Nostra, the Mafia, as Harmony.

Harmony and sky attraction was something that could have made everything he had worked for up until that moment as easy as a brush of his magic. Would have made him royalty of any organised crime syndicate.

And he had destroyed it. He had been a sky, latent as it was, and he had broken that sky as easy as breathing. And for all that a sky attracts other elements, those elements were fundamental part of the sky itself.

Thinking back on the process of making his horcruxes, each had emanated vague wisps of colour as he had broken them off of his soul.

The Diary had been Indigo, Mist as he was now learning. He had broken away his ability to create illusions so real that nobody could escape them. Perhaps, he mused, this was why the Diary remained the only perfectly sentient one of the Horcruxes.

The Ring had been Crimson Red, Storm flames. Whilst he could still destroy things with magic alone, the sheer power of the ability to disintegrate anything he touched was lost to him.

The Locket had been Electric Green, Lightning. Hardening. At first, this one didn't bother him as much, before he began thinking on shields and wards, protections for any amount of treasures. Things he could have made stronger.

And finally, the Cup, a bright Yellow. Sun flames were all about activation, self-healing being the most common use of them all. Torture was another.

Now, all that remained of his tattered soul was a mostly empty and discordant sky, the Clouds, and the Rain. He was alarmed and enraged to discover that none of them was available without at least most of his soul intact. He didn't care one iota that he would never gain 'Elements', but that loss of power, without even realising it, was staggering.

It was this that made his next decision to abandon this avenue to look for Rowena's Diadem particularly ill advised, because whilst he was no longer able to access them in any way, that did not mean that these remaining shards of his soul were not important. In particular, the tranquil rain flames that up until the very moment they left his body in the middle of a forest in Albania had been soothing the vast majority of the discord he had sowed in himself.

It was this, that meant what returned to England was the shell of a human, more instinct than man, soul aching and screaming for bonds it would never find, that all the same resonated with the madness in those he recruited to his side, politics forgotten entirely. What was left of him permenantly in a state of seething rage the Mafia inclined would recognise as cloud rage.

Lord Voldemort declared war on Magical Britain and tore through his enemies without worry or care. He was immortal after all, and this entire community would be HIS, whether they liked it or not.

Then, he was given a prophecy.

And he tracked down the child.

His Enemy. His Equal. A pure mythical Sky Child he only vaguely recalled hearing about 30 years before. Whose mere presence was turning the last of his soul in itself

He shot the killing curse at her.

His body failed.

And his remaining soul exploded.

One final horcrux settled into the tiny child in her crib, made of 3 decades of trapped, battered, and torn cloud flames that, due to their properties of propogation, had never stopped growing.

And that all-encompassing Sky? Did what all skies do.

She Harmonised.

Usually, Harmony creates a connection between two people, a home for the one entering the sky.

Her own fluffy purple portion of her soul took those kindred flames and embraced them. And because they were no longer sentient? No longer attached to the monster Voldemort had become?

They became her flames instead.

When Jasmine Potter next opened her eyes, on a doorstep in Surrey in the frigid November morning air, they were purple.