Chapter 11. Forward into the past

A young woman was hurriedly braiding her daughter's hair. Her long, pale fingers buried themselves in a mop of raven-winged hair—the unruly curls her daughter had inherited from her father—but the color was just like hers. The woman smiled as she gently kissed the girl's forehead, and cunning sparks flashed in her big green eyes. But still, she did not immediately say what she wanted and only sternly demanded, "Now read a book and then go to bed."

She started to leave the child's room but stopped. After hesitating for a moment—her daughter didn't notice it at all—she said, "Irene, tomorrow we have a little trip and a surprise for you."

"Surprise?!" Eleven-year-old Irene gasped. She squeezed her eyes shut because of a strange tickling sensation in her stomach. It must have been her mother's words about the surprise that had excited her.

The mother left the room. Irene was left alone. She didn't feel like reading the book. She looked at the cover of "Slavic Deities and Rituals of Summoning" and flopped down on the bed. It all looked like fairy tales, of course, but it would be nice to see something with her own eyes! She opened a large black book at random and yawned lazily. All her indifference and laziness, however, faded away in a flash. The book, fortunately, opened not on a solid text with those unbearably difficult letters of the Slavic language but on a picture. Little Irene stared mesmerized at the faded page with the black-haired woman's face.

 "It's me!" Irene squeaked when she saw the undeniable resemblance.

The worn inscription in her mother's language read 'Mara'. Irene inhaled excitedly, preparing to read the whole thing in one sitting, to tell her mother—she was the one who made Irene read books in her own language—and perhaps even her grandmother. Grandmother lived somewhere far away, in some cold country, and for some reason they had never been there. But what if this surprise was a visit to this wonderful country, about which little Irene had heard only in stories and read in books? With an excited breath, she began to read on.

There was a sickle in the hand of the beautiful woman in the picture, and next to it was written that human lives were reaped with it; there was also a huge black moon and skulls.

Every morning, Mara attempted to murder the sun, but the rays of light drove her away. She personified death, winter, and night, associated with the extinction of the vital fire, negative symbols, evil, and darkness. Accompanying the transition to the world of the dead, she was also present at the rain-calling ceremony and the change of seasons leading to the withering of the living.

Irene jumped out of bed briskly and ran to the large mirror, unbraiding her hair as she went.

"It's definitely me!"

She laughed loudly, looking at herself in the mirror. Then she turned around busily, theatrically throwing her head back and spreading her arms, as if in a dance—objects around her began to float slowly. With a loud squeak, she rushed back to the bed—the objects fell to the floor with a crash, to which Irene did not react in any way but continued to read with rapt attention.

The name comes from the word " morъ". The ancient Slavs associated her appearance with the deaths of people and animals. Taking the souls of mortals, she allowed them to be reborn and appear on Earth again. The legends changed over time, and the goddess's magic began to be forgotten. But the fear of death, inherent at the level of instinct, remained.

"Ha!" Irene exclaimed belligerently. "I want to be feared the same way!" 

Mara is the wife of the Deathless.

"Who?" Irene frowned and began to fussily flip through the pages to find out who this was.

She woke up to the muffled voices of her father and mother coming from downstairs. She rubbed her eyes with her small fists to chase away the drowsiness and looked under her side, where the book lay open. Apparently, Irene hadn't noticed how she'd fallen asleep to a fascinating read. However, her agile little mind was occupied with another question: why were her parents talking so loudly? Intending to find out by all means, Irene climbed off the bed and removed her shoes and socks so that not a single step could be heard. The door creaked softly, and a grim, thin silhouette slipped into the hallway. When she reached the stairs leading down to the common living room, she froze. 

"Belinda, I have a bad feeling about this."

"Waldemar, we've made up our minds. No one will know."

"I don't like it. We won't do it. It's disgusting!"

"Darling..." Belinda sat down on the big leather sofa, sighing heavily. "There's something I have to tell you."

Waldemar froze and then sat down next to his wife. He just fell silent, but there was a pressure around that could be felt physically. Irene's father was tall and handsome. Although he had a somewhat gloomy appearance, he was eerily attractive: brown-eyed, tall, with a black mop of thick curls that contrasted so vividly with pale skin.

Belinda gently took his hands and looked into his eyes. She whispered softly, "I made an unbreakable vow."

"You did what?" Waldemar jumped up from the couch, clenching his fists. Sparks of anger flashed in his eyes. "Are you out of your mind? Belinda!"

"Waldemar," the voice turned cold, her eyes boring into her husband.

Waldemar's cheek muscles flexed.

"Merlin!" He slowly sat back down on the sofa. "When, Belinda? When!"

"Eleven years ago."

"Eleven?!" Waldemar grinned nervously, his head drooping.

"No one will know. Everything will be all right."

"How much time do we have?" 

"There are six months left. Then I'll die if I don't keep my promise. It's all good. The search was too long, but everything is fine."

Of course, trying to reassure her husband sounded a little lame. Not because Belinda lied or didn't know how to persuade; on the contrary, she had everything under control. It was just that Waldemar was a terribly inflexible and stubborn man—a hard man to get along with.

"Grindelwald can't be told," he finally said. "I have to think of a reason."

Belinda ran her hand gently over his sharp cheekbones, then spoke through a faint smile, "Irene will be pleased! Remember how she asked when she was five?" 

"I remember," Waldemar mumbled. There was only one thing on his mind: how to do it. "Belinda, how? When? I can't get my head around it!"

"I found her myself," she answered honestly.

A silver cigarette case with a beautiful engraving levitated into her fingers. Belinda deftly pulled out one thin cigarette and lit it. Irene rarely caught her mother doing this, but for some reason she always liked the graceful way her mother let the smoke out, the flame eating the end of the cigarette rapidly. Now Irene watched it, but she didn't realize that Belinda's heavy puff was just a pathetic attempt to quell the deep-seated fear that something might go wrong.

"I thought it was the right thing to do."

"It's not right." Waldemar disagreed so loudly that Irene crouched down on the floor, clutching the handrail of the stairs. "Otherwise, the surname Düster is nonsense." 

"Waldemar, what am I supposed to do now? I was pregnant with our girl, and I couldn't think straight. Do you remember how many manic phases I went through and how many delusional ideas kept popping into my head?"

"You did implement one of them," Waldemar reproached her in a completely unemotional manner.

"Two. First, I have decided to marry you."

"Oh, you don't say!" He grinned, and his black eyes looked at Belinda in a way that made her feel sick.

"Again..." she exhaled. "Again, you look at me that way." That's how she'd gone overboard for Waldemar.

"Belinda, I remember the pregnancy wasn't easy, and neither was the labor, but this is our child, our daughter. She's the continuation of our crazy passion. But all of this? I just think it's too soon." 

"I can't break this vow!" Belinda hissed, hating her husband's inflexibility with every fiber of her being at that moment. "I don't want to die either."

Waldemar didn't say anything but just leaned back on the sofa. Belinda sighed heavily, suppressing her emotions. She quietly got up from her seat and was about to leave the living room. Irene hastily, on tiptoe, hurried to her room. What were mom and dad talking about? They were obviously arguing. For some reason, Irene felt very uncomfortable. Before reaching the bed in her room, she immediately turned around and ran back into the corridor, where she bumped into her mother.

"Are you awake?" Belinda asked sternly, looking at the disheveled hair.

"I really want to go to the toilet," Irene said softly, to which she received an approving nod.

When Irene was coming back, she saw that the door to her parents' room was not completely closed. Curiosity got the better of her.

Belinda stood bent over the table, pulling some silver threads out of her head with a magic wand and then putting them in a small vial. It looked magical and beautiful! Soon, Irene would go to school and learn all these tricks and spells! Only her parents hadn't decided which one yet.

Belinda carefully wrapped the vial in a cloth and hid it somewhere on the floor. Where exactly? Irene didn't realize it was too dark. She had already turned away to leave when, suddenly, there was a quiet voice that addressed her mother by name.

Belinda flinched and turned around sharply. Irene froze and cautiously leaned against the door. She saw that across from her mother, a woman with long black hair wearing red robes had inexplicably appeared. She was standing with her back to Irene, so she couldn't see her face.

"Why did you come?" Belinda's voice faltered, even though she was trying to control herself.

"You know," the strange guest said softly.

"No." 

"You know," her voice made skin crawled with trepidation. "Everyone knows... that this is a warning."

"I have six months," Belinda replied coldly, swallowing hard.

The stranger raised her hand, and Irene saw that in the long, thin fingers there were some glowing threads, braided in a strange pattern into a thin braid. In the next moment, silence and emptiness reigned in the room.

Noiselessly, Irene reached her room and crawled under the warm blanket, unaware of her feelings and everything that had happened that evening.

Every time she drifted off to sleep, there was a hard pressure on her chest, as if someone were deliberately trying to suffocate her, but as soon as she opened her eyes, it was gone.

☽

"Gellert," the blonde witch, bowed her head in respect.

"Yes, Ms. Carrow?" Grindelwald stood at the window, looking out at the sprawling panoramic view of Paris.

"I have important news to report. May I?"

"Of course, have a seat." He turned around and pointed in a friendly manner to a chair near the table, where Carrow sat down.

"Do you remember I said that... Mrs. Düster was too suspicious?"

"Oh, Carrow! That's all nonsense. Their family is one of the most respected and important in our society."

"Please, listen to me!" The wide-open eyes were filled with pleading and awe. Receiving an approving nod, Carrow continued, "She has traveled to London to inform the British Ministry of Magic of your location, as well as to give out the coordinates and defenses of Nurmengard."

"Is Waldemar with her?"

"Gellert," the blonde witch, bowed her head in respect.

"Yes." "Let's check it out. If it is indeed true and there will be a fact of interaction with the aurors, then there will be no choice... But how did you know that?"

"You know I'm an animagus. It came out quite by accident. Last night, when I was in Germany and flying around the lands of Bavaria, I took a breather at the window of their manor... And what I heard..."

"I appreciate your loyalty, Carrow. Loyalty to the views. The right views."

Charlotte Carrow bowed her head obediently, then headed for the exit of Grindelwald's office.

"Charlotte," a stern voice made her stop, "whatever it is, don't touch the girl. We need pureblood wizards, and their blood is worth preserving."

"Yes."

Finding herself on a deserted Muggle street, Carrow stopped, leaning against a pillar. She had always been in love with Waldemar, and it seemed like he had even shown his affection until this strange girl named Belinda came along. Damn her! He liked everything about that witch, from her speaking name, which matched his surname and blood, to her sly fox eyes. Carrow couldn't get over it, still secretly lusting for and loving Waldemar Düster. He is the perfect match, but his choice fell to another.

Charlotte even befriended Belinda, and as it turned out, they were both animagi, birds. They flew together, enjoying the wind and freedom. Only Charlotte needed all of this to wait out the moment. The moment that was happening now.

There's no turning back. The first step had already been taken. Deeply breathing in the warm air of the last spring day, she apparated to London. She sent a letter to the Ministry of Magic with the important message "from a well meaner " that Grindelwald's loyal henchmen would be arriving in London tomorrow to do mischief to peaceful Muggles. 

☽

Krafft, Grimmson, and Carrow looked like the most ordinary, unremarkable people walking leisurely through the evening Muggle streets of London. Each of them was under Polyjuice Potion. According to the tracking charms, which Waldemar couldn't identify because they had been cast by the Elder Wand, the Düster family was heading toward St. Paul's Cathedral. Carrow apparated there to check on the presence of the Aurors. Like clockwork! Those were already there. With a satisfied nod of agreement, she returned to Krafft and Grimmson to report on the situation. Grindelwald's men kept their distance so as not to arouse the suspicion of any member of the Düster family.

Irene squealed with pleasure and joy.

"Mommy, is there a school here, too?"

"There is," her father answered before Belinda could open her mouth, "and you really belong there."

"Waldemar!" Belinda hissed.

Düster answered nothing, walking indifferently along the paved sidewalk, taking the little girl by the hand. The only thing that betrayed his tension was his cheekbones. The beautiful aristocratic features of his face were akin to a frozen sculpture.

It was already getting dark outside. There were hardly any Muggles, and the cathedral was visible in the distance and seemed to be just a short walk away.

"What's the gift, Mother?" Irene was still in anticipation and regarded the white-washed building visible in the distance with keen interest.

"Remember when you were younger, you wanted it very badly."

"Stop," Waldemar commanded imperiously but softly.

Belinda immediately stopped, grabbing Irene's arm and pulling toward her. There wasn't a single soul around that belonged to the Muggles.

Waldemar slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and clutched his wand tightly. His wife did the same, telling her daughter to stay close. Two of Europe's renowned aurors emerged from the cathedral. They stepped confidently toward the Düster couple.

Waldemar froze. He looked calm, but he was actually thinking about what to do and what would be best. Apparition? But their daughter was too young; they could do it without her. Going into battle? Once again, the child would be at risk. His teeth gritted from the strain. He slowly backed away toward some structure—a bridge—covering his wife and daughter.

"Waldemar." Belinda's stern voice made him turn around. Three unknown men were coming at them from the opposite side, but here were their wands...

"Grimmson," Waldemar said, "what's going on here?"

"That's for you to ask," the man said wryly as he began to take on his true form. Two more men followed him.

"It's a trap!" shouted one of the aurors, charging at them. "Open fire!"

The Düster family was trapped: on one side were professional government fighters who thought they were about to be attacked by five men, and on the other side were Grindelwald's men, who were sure that the Düsters were traitors who had colluded with the Ministry of Magic. They had one order: take out the traitors.

Everything was like a dream. After someone shouted "open fire," loud, incomprehensible spells began to sound from all sides. The bright beams and sparks flying out of the wands were blinding. Breaking through the bridge, Belinda shoved her daughter with force. There was no time to explain to her former allies that this was some sort of misunderstanding. Obviously, something had gone wrong. They need to save Irene and themselves.

"Run, Irene!"

Irene stood in one place, unable to move a single limb. Her body refused to obey. Somewhere far away, just outside the cathedral, the grim figure of a woman caught little Irene's eye.

The green flash that flew out of Carrow's wand hit Belinda right in the chest; she collapsed to the ground. The stranger at the cathedral slowly pulled back the hood that concealed her face, and a cool breeze picked up her long black hair. She looked at Irene, and her pale fingers clutched the thin thread.

Waldemar, realizing what had just happened, screamed like a wild beast. One by one, the unforgivable began to come from his mouth. One of the aurors fell to the ground. The forces were not equal.

"Irene, run!" Her father's overwhelming voice, as if he had just lost his mind, made her come to her senses. Irene flinched, as if she had been yanked painfully by her hair. There was no one outside the cathedral. She looked at the ground where her mom was lying, and for some reason she didn't get up.

"Mom..." her lips trembled. A veil of tears covered her eyes. "Mom! Get up." Irene shrieked and collapsed to the ground, clutching at Belinda's breathless body. She shook her by the sleeve, but she didn't react. "Mom, get up!"

"Irene, run!" Waldemar shouted, shoving her back down the bridge away from her mother's body with a sweep of his palm. He wouldn't last long, and neither would his defenses.

Irene ran away as fast as she could, wiping her cheeks and eyes with dirty hands on the way, but the tears kept coming. She sobbed hysterically, refusing to believe what had happened.

It's going to be okay. It's all going to be over now! Now, in a few minutes, Daddy would catch up with her, and Mommy would be with him.

 Waldemar's shield was shattered by the onslaught of spells from three powerful wizards; Irene didn't see that. She only felt the searing pain of a blow, which caused her balance to be lost and her body to collapse to the ground. Carrow managed to shout out, "Confundus." And while Irene was getting up, she had a couple seconds to cast the right spell in case Irene ran away and it took a while to find her.

"Obliviate!" Carrow shouted, erasing from little Irene's mind her parents and everything that had happened here.

She would have killed her, but Gellert had ordered her not to touch the girl, for her blood was precious. In the new world they were fighting for, every drop of pure blood, full of magic and power, was valuable.

Irene stood up, staggered, and took a couple steps forward. There was a ringing in her ears and the shout of some man repeating for her to run. His voice sounded like a command, which she obeyed without realizing what was happening. 

Waldemar Düster bought time for his daughter to escape. He bought that time at the cost of his life. He was one of the best, but he was not prepared for such a sneak attack by his own men. He would have won this battle if Gellert Grindelwald hadn't shown up when his henchmen's strength was running low. The Elder Wand was a gift and a curse. It defeated Irene's father, causing him to collapse next to his wife's body.

Little Irene ran nonstop. In the end, the legs became wadded up and simply refused to obey. It seemed that the sense of reality had left her, and in addition, her head was terribly dizzy. She was thirsty.

Exhausted, Irene clutched at some bars to keep from collapsing on the sidewalk. Her breathing was heavy.   

"Who am I?" The question popped into her head on its own. She tried to figure out where she needed to go but couldn't remember anything.

She didn't care where, as long as she just laid down. A loud, unpleasant sound made her flinch. A rasping cawk echoed through the deserted street, which was barely lit by a single streetlamp. Little Irene looked up and saw a huge black raven perched on the sign for Wool's Orphanage. 

The letter A was hanging upside down, but there was a flickering light somewhere inside the building, which meant it wasn't abandoned. Maybe she'd get some water here? Pushing the cast iron gate, she stumbled. She was saved from falling to the ground by the bars she reflexively grabbed onto. A large black bird soared upward, flapping its huge wings. Barely making it to the front doors, Irene began to knock, monotonously and insistently. Soon, they opened the door.

"Oh, a girl!" The very young orphanage worker was taken aback. "What are you doing here? You don't live here."

Irene stared wide-eyed, unable to utter a single word. 

"Come in." Martha frowned, glancing around the surroundings. There was no one else. "On the second floor, Mrs. Cole is making her rounds."

Irene followed the young girl. The stairs seemed like torture. Her legs wouldn't obey. In the second-floor corridor, they came upon Miss Blair, who began to ooze and sigh, asking Irene some questions, but she remained silent. The nannies looked at each other, put her in a chair, and went to Mrs. Cole and the third floor to prepare the room.

Irene clutched her hands to the chair she was sitting on. Her heart was pounding too hard, and she was still dizzy. The corridor was dimly lit by kerosene lamps, with a mosquito hovering near one of them.

Something creaked to the left, forcing her to turn around. Irene flinched. A tall, dark-haired boy was peering out of a room with the shabby numbers "27" on the door. His emotions were incomprehensible; he definitely did not feel any interest or any fear, it seems; he just looked indifferently.

"Hello," Irene said quietly.

"Hi," he replied coldly, giving her an appraising look.

His dark eyes stopped at her feet, which didn't reach the floor. Her white socks were muddy, and her black sandals were covered in dirt and dust. Irene became uncomfortable, from which she immediately tried to divert his attention. 

"My name is Irene." The name came to mind on its own.

"Tom."

But he kept looking. Irene could think of nothing better to do than to turn away and stare at the end of the corridor, where the stairs to the third and first floors were. The boy slammed the door shut, apparently figuring nothing interesting was going on, and Irene exhaled, leaning back in her chair. Just then, some woman named Mrs. Cole came in and took her to the third floor in a small room with the number "37". She asked questions, but Irene honestly said she didn't remember anything.

As soon as she was left alone in the room, she immediately crawled under the blanket, covering herself with her head. Sleep took over her mind. All night long, she was awakened now and then by some vague dreams that slipped away as soon as consciousness possessed her, even a little. All that remained were tears on her cheeks and a damp pillow. From what?

She couldn't remember.

☽

Irene sobbed quietly, hugging her knees. Tom stared at her indifferently for a few moments and then pitched forward.

"That's it, Irene; that's it," he whispered, settling down beside her on the bed. He scooped her up into an armful and laid down, pulling her with him and pressing her against his chest. "That's enough for today. It's all gone."

Irene didn't say anything but sighed heavily, trying to pull herself together. How stupid to show him her memories! He could get in deeper and find out more. She wouldn't be able to fight back; she was too weak, at least not right now, but if she wanted to survive, she had no other options. The gut feeling that had convinced her that next to him was the only safe place here and now had taken over the day she'd come to him with her last strength.

Tom kissed the black top of her head, giving her a sense of calm, care, and safety. Irene couldn't see his face, and she couldn't read his mind to know what was really going on in his head. And she didn't want to know. Whether it was all an illusion or true, she didn't care. What mattered was that she felt the peace of mind she'd been missing all this time.

"It's funny," Irene hummed, snuggling into his chest and smelling a scent that seemed somehow familiar.

"What exactly?" His fingers played with the black curls.

"The most disgusting place in the world... A Muggle place. But I feel safe here."

"It's safe everywhere with me," Tom said.

"Tom," Irene asked cautiously, "why are you called Lord?"

"From now on, you'll call me in a different way too."

"Why?"

"The question is not "why" but "how," Ms. Düster."

"How?" not daring to contradict someone who wanted to frame her a week ago.

"Lord Voldemort."

Irene swallowed hard at the name, which sounded so much like... Somewhere in her solar plexus, corrosive longing and bitterness ached.

"I was right."

"About what?"

"It was your mother in the drawing." 

Tom slowly got out of bed and made his way to the wardrobe. He opened the creaky doors and pulled out a small folder of yellowed sheets. Bare feet slapped against the bed, where Irene was already sitting, huddled under a warm but prickly blanket. Tom silently held out the sheet. The charcoal had not even smudged with the passage of time, and the features of the face were still as distinctly beautiful on the paper: a woman, with neatly styled hair, a slightly hooked nose, and large eyes in which sly sparks danced, was looking at Irene.

"You kept it," she whispered.

Tom answered nothing. Silently, he reached out a hand to tuck the sheet away on the table.

"You need to get some sleep."

He lay back down and hugged Irene tightly.

The weakness was really taking its toll, and Irene simply fell asleep. A steady, quiet breathing filled the room. Tom rolled over onto his back, hugging the feminine body next to him. It was quite unusual to share such a small bed with someone, which was probably why he couldn't sleep and just stared at the ceiling, breathing deeply into the familiar scent.

But if anyone had seen Tom at that moment, they would have noticed that his gaze was alien and detached. It was as if there had just been a kind friend there to support and comfort you, but suddenly, as if at the snap of a finger, that sympathetic gaze became frozen and empty.