Chapter Text
That’s why I’ve transformed myself,
assumed a mortal shape, altered my looks,
So I resemble any human being.
- The bacchae, Euripides
The fates, often known as the morai in Greek, are a wicked triad. They weave their threads, creating a tapestry of time and space. Mortals catch a glimpse of only a small part of this tapestry. Never seeing the full picture, only small glimpses of things their heart desire. They curse at the fates when things don't go their way and their paths diverge from the things they love. Amused, the sisters watch, unblinking. Unconcerned with the curses thrown their way. There is one witch in particular who sits within the darkness, cursing them the loudest at her young age.
Darkness— a suffocating kind, one that slowly grips around the throat and steals the breath— wraps around Vanora within the small confines of the cupboard. It's all she has ever known. She would go as far as to say it is her only friend. She used to be afraid of it. Monsters, the worst kind, often linger within the black ink, biding their time. The first time she had been locked in the cupboard, she had been only four.
She doesn't remember much of it, or what she had done to be shoved inside.
What she remembers is the violent fear she felt. Her hammering heart. The taste of dust upon her tongue. The sound of the door slamming as the world had closed in around her. The cupboard is small and cramped. Littered around with random objects piling on top of each other on both sides. Spider webs hang above, and the spiders who call them home crawl about the space. Mold clings to the walls. No matter how many times the matron had tried to have it removed, it never budged. At the mere age of four, she had sat within the cramped space, tears pouring down her face, and her tiny fists banging at the doors. Asking, pleading, begging to be let out.
"Let me out! Please let me out!" She had cried. "I won't do it again! Please!"
Her cries had gone unheard by not only the matron but the other children as well. By the time her voice had turned into a rasp, the darkness had swallowed her whole.
Three years later, she sits within the very same cupboard. Her body, frail and weak, trembles violently. She pulls her knees up to her chest and hugs them lightly. Trying to stop the trembling. She rocks back and forth. Like when one is on the swing—
She had only been on the swing once. It had been wonderful, feeling the wind on her face, as the sky sat high above, and her hair swaying back. She had felt free. Untethered. A taste of freedom which had been quickly snatched from her fingertips when the matron had seen her. Being on the swings is a privilege. Only children who are good received the privilege, and according to the matron, Vanora is nowhere close to being good.
She feels something warm trickle down her nose. A slight coppery taste floods her mouth. Sighing, she wipes the blood away with the back of her hand. Even though the darkness hides the stain, she knows the color off by heart. Her head feels… hazy, like before she usually faints. She leans her head against the wall and closes her eyes.
Would she ever make it out of here?
She didn't think so.
Orpheus Home for troubled children— or so the brass-plated sign at the gates says—is the roof above her head. Her home— she doesn't know if it can be called that. What is a home? If it's a place where she sleeps and lives, then yes, it is her home. But, it doesn't feel like a home; the description alone tastes wrong on her tongue. In one of her books, she read, Home is supposed to be a place where you feel loved and safe. Vanora doesn't feel either of those things. It is a rather dull place, lacking colour and warmth.
The other children at the home don't like her very much. Though she doesn't know why. It's always been like this. Her first memory is of one of the girls pushing her down the stairs, and the others laughing as they watched.
She had read about the fates, the three sisters in one of her books. Clotho, the spinner. Lachesis, the alloter. Atropos, the inevitable, or death. Were they watching her now, the cold weavers of destiny? Watching as Vanora sat within the stingy cupboard, feeling the fight slip out of her. Could they hear her cursing at them? What had she done to end up in this wretched place?
Her world, her small world, consisted of herself, her books, and this cupboard. She has no friends. No family. The matron had once, in passing, mentioned how Vanora had been left in the home by her aunt and uncle. Who had had enough of her freakishness. At the time, Vanora had wanted to cry. What had been wrong with her that she had been abandoned?
In another lifetime, Orpheus isn't her home. Instead, she lives in a small village with her mum and dad. What did her mother look like? Sometimes, in her dreams, she saw a red-haired woman who would stare down at her lovingly. Vanora liked to imagine that it was her mother. The kind-faced woman. In the darkness of her mind, she conjures up the woman before her. Her smile. Her warm eyes.
The woman reaches out a hand; she can almost feel the ghost of her fingers upon her cheeks. A tear slips from her eye and trails down her face. The skin stings, but she doesn't care.
I don't want to be here, she thinks desperately. She will most likely die in this place. What a sad and horrendous death it will be. Well, the matron said she could leave at eighteen, but… Vanora doesn't think she will make it to eighteen.
It's not like she doesn't want to live. She yearns to feel the breeze of the wind and feel the warmth of happiness, which she felt once, just a few days ago. It had been a strange feeling, at the very centre of her chest, and a cocoon of warmth around her body. It didn't feel like her own. Something foreign. But, she aches to feel it again. One more time, she begs to anyone who is listening. Nothing but the silence, and the pain in her ribs is the answer she receives.
Every time she takes a breath in, her ribs and back ache. She hadn't meant to hurt him. It had just happened. One minute, he had been on top of her—
( Tears stream down her face, her body thrashes violently. Above her, Jack pins her wrist down. Opening her mouth, she spits in his face.
'You bitch!' he yells, rearing back from her, as he wipes at his face. She takes the opportunity to rear her leg up and kick him in the shins. He falls back, and Vanora scrambles back. Her shirt is torn at the top. She clutches her wrist, where pain radiates.
His beady eyes filled with hatred hone in on her, before flitting to the bucket.No.
No.
No.
Someone tugs on her arms, and before she realizes it, she is being dragged forward, closer to the bucket.
Closer.
Closer.
Closer.
Until—
She is right before it. There's no warning before there's a painful grip at the back of her head, and water floods her senses.
The world fades away… her lungs, her throat, it all hurts. She thrashes violently, trying to pull herself up. She can't breathe. She can't think. Nothing. There's nothing. Help. Help. HELP!
Then—
Something hot and fiery burns within her chest. A beast clawing at her internal walls. It appears out of nowhere, and it spreads through her body like a wildfire.
It spreads, up, up, up, until—
Above the water, a painful scream rings out through the forest air. It reaches her ears, and the grip on the back of her head disappears.
Her head surfaces back up, and Vanora falls backwards. She pushes herself as far as she can from the bucket. Strands of her hair stick to her face. She coughs, once, twice… as water trickles from her mouth. Jack stands before her, his hand twisted at an awkward angle, and his bones protruding out. Blood, it trickles from his eyes, his other hand lifts into the air—
A sickening crack follows. Then— a scream. The other children begin to yell as they scramble away from her. Jack's body collides with the ground.
Maybe she's a horrible person, but she can't help the dark satisfaction that settles into her chest. The beast that had been clawing at her soothes and falls back asleep.
It is then that she is hit with the realization of what she had done.
No. No. No.
The matron will have her head for this.
'You wicked—wicked girl! What have you done?" The matron asks, pacing towards her, her face slack with horror.
What had she done?
What he deserved, a voice, soft and dark whispers within her mind.
It doesn't matter what he deserved, because now she'll face the matron's wrath.
Fight back, the voice responds.
I can't, she thinks, as the matron grasps her arm. Pain radiates up her arm.
Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.
The matron pushes her forward onto the altar. Her knees collide with the floor, the stone scraping at her skin. Before her, the cross hangs high on the wall. The priest is an old, fat little man. He paces towards her, and grabs her jaw roughly.
'There is the mark of the devil upon you, child… You must repent for your sins,' he says.
Vanora laughs internally. If the devil walked this earth, then he is within the very walls of the wretched home. The children, who pushed and prodded at her. The matron who spat cruel words at her. The priest, the supposed servant of God, who whipped her everytime she sinned. For even at her young age, Vanora knew that people of God are supposed to be kind, caring, loving and forgiving. The people here are none of those things.
She knows what's coming before it happens— after all, the ending of this story is one she has grown rather familiar with.
The first whip stings, but it's not as bad.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Si—
There it is. The burn, as her skin rips. Warmth trickles down her back.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
She hears a trickle of her blood hit the floor in the silence of the room. She doesn't know how long she sits there, staring at the concrete, and the whip slashing across her skin.
'Ask the Lord for forgiveness, child."
The words have been drilled into her head. When she speaks, her voice is low and monotonous. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned."
I am not sorry. I don't need forgiveness. I haven't sinned.
Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.
The matron drags her through the hallways. The others watch, as they always do. She is a warning so the others don't make the same mistakes as her.
The small cupboard door slams shut, and the light fades away, until all that is left is the —
darkness.
Hello, my old friend. )
A dull ache blooms in her temples. Her back feels sticky. Her skin feels cold.
Help me. Someone—anyone help me. The thought floats around her mind until sleeps pull her under.
In her dreams, there's red. Red, red, red…
( Beyond the iron-clad gates of Orpehus home, in the darkness of the night, stands a man. No, not a man. A monster. He stands there clad in black, his hands resting in his pocket, a strand of his hair billowing along with the wind. He stares up at the stone fortress, his eyes brimming with fury. Tonight, there will be blood spilled, screams will ring out, and death will walk these halls. For the people within the walls had dared to hurt something that is his.
The cavity where his heart sits aches with a longing. Tugging at him and trying to pull him in closer.
Closer to her.
He tilts his head. His eyes fluttering close, as he reaches for her. It doesn't take long to find her. How could it?
After all, her presence is a melody that has haunted his nights for years now. Within his dead heart, she is the beat that keeps the blood flowing through his veins.
She is asleep, though he can sense her pain, her tears, her sadness…
His jaw tightens, and his eyes flicker open, brimming with determination.
The stars are hidden behind the blanket of clouds. They have turned their sights away from what is about to unfold. The night waits with a bated breath for the first scream to ring. Tomorrow morning, when the sun rises for its first breath, Orpheus will be nothing but ash and rubble.)
Her eyes flutter open in the darkness. She sees nothing but… something feels wrong. Silent. It's too silent. In the small cupboard, she could always hear the thud above as people wandered up and down the stairs. Or the loud talking of the children. Or the matron's patronising voice ringing out as she scolded the children.
Now, however—
It's quiet. So quiet. It makes the hair on the back of her neck prickle uneasily. She pushes herself straight; her neck aches at the awkward angle it had been resting at. Her back is still sore; every movement makes the muscles stretch and sting.
There would be scars left on her skin.
A loud scream pierces through the silence. It is jarring. Then, everything falls silent. Her breath falters within her chest. Thud. Thud. Thud. She can hear her heart beating loudly, as her ears strain for more sounds. Nothing. Maybe it had just been one of the children messing around—
There's another scream. Louder than the last. It rises, rises, rises… until silence descends again. Then, the dam of silence shatters, as the song of multiple screams rings out through the halls.
( Bones break beneath his fingers. Blood spills beneath his magic. It sprays onto his face. The warmth of it painted the side of his cheek. Filthy muggles. Discarded like the trash they are.
Bodies.
Dead bodies lie across the floor. Their eyes wide, staring at the ceiling. Their expressions are ones of fear. Oh, how delicious their fear tastes within the air. It's not enough. He needs more. More blood. More fear. More tears. More begging.
More.
More.)
She crawls forward, her ear pressing on the door. Someone sputters and whimpers. Screams. There are too many screams. They echo in her ears, like a churchbell.
Vanora scrambles back and pushes herself as close to the wall as she physically can. Placing her hands on her ears, she hides her face within her knees. She wants to disappear. Maybe she is just dreaming. Maybe if she remains silent, then whoever is outside won't find her. Outside the cold, damp cupboard, footsteps come closer
closer
closer…
The footsteps stop right before her cupboard. Creak. The latch of the door slides back, and the door creaks open, slowly. Inch by inch.
Silence.
One.
Two.
Three—
There's a shuffling of fabric, as if someone bends down.
She hides further. Go away, go away, go—
"Nora."
The raspy sound of her name makes her halt. Surprise. It flickers through her. Someone knows her name. No one ever calls her by that. The matron calls her 'girl.' The other children call her 'freak.' No one has ever called her Vanora, let alone Nora.
Hesitantly, she lifts her head up.
There's a man. One she has never seen before. He crouches on the threshold. His head bends down to look at her. Above his head, moonlight filters in slightly, illuminating his face. The man, whoever he is, holds out his hand to her, his palm facing up. She looks down at it, oddly. Does he want her to take it?
She shakes her head. A small, stubborn refusal. Where is he going to take her?
"I am not going to hurt you," He says it like it is a certainty. Hurt. Everyone has hurt her. But, there's something about this stranger, something tugging in her chest, that makes her want to snuggle into his arms and learn the shape of them. It's like she knows him. But, she's never met him.
"Promise?" She asks, slightly untangling herself and pushing forward.
He nods without hesitation.
She moves closer to him. This feels like a dream. Is it a dream? Please, don't let this be a dream.
"Are you the prince?" She questions.
"The prince?" He responds softly. One dark eyebrow lifting.
"The prince charming who's going to save me?"
His face splits into a small smile. When he smiles, there's a small dimple in his right cheek. It makes her heart stutter to a stop. She wants to see it again, again, again…
She asks it as a joke. No one is ever going to save her, not from this place—
"Yes." One word. Soft. Absolute. It's all he says, and it makes her blood buzz with electricity. That's all she needs. She places her small hand in his large one. The heat of his hand is startling; it makes her shiver. He draws her forward with an ease until she is folded into the dark circle of his arms. He feels warm. So warm. She likes it. She likes it very much. The warmth is strange, though. All she has ever known is the cold.
She is caged within his arms, but it is the freest she has ever felt. Like she's high above, somewhere in the sky. His chest rises against her as he releases a low breath. Her face rests on his shoulder, and slowly she wraps her own arms around his shoulders, though they barely reach. He is far too big. Far too solid, too solid to be a dream, she thinks.
( He finally has her within his grasp. Her breath, a soft caress, brushes along his mind. Her fragile weight presses into him. He closes his eyes and lets one lone thought consume him.
Mine.
Mine.
Mine.)
He gently lifts her up. He carries her through the silent halls. Where are the other children, or the matron?
Why is no one stopping him? Vanora wonders. As they pass through the entryway, she catches a glimpse—
There on the floor lies the matron, or her dead body. Her eyes are wide as they stare up at the ceiling. Blood pools from her mouth, her hands and legs twisted at awkward angles. The copper scent floods her senses. She hides her face in the man's shoulder. Blood. Blood. There's so much blood. It makes her feel dizzy.
"Shh, it's okay," The man soothes, his hand stroking down her hair and wrapping around her nape.
When he pushes through the doors, cold wind blows across her face, numbing her skin.
He pushes her head into the crook of his neck. He smells nice, like warmth… and something she wants to call home, Vanora thinks. His hand strokes down her back, softly—
She hisses. The skin burns beneath his touch. His hand retreats as she feels something burn within her chest. It's hot and all-consuming. It claws at her inner walls before consuming every nerve, every fibre, every cell. Until all she feels is rage. Just as soon as the tide of anger had risen, it fell before the tsunami could crash onto the shore. As quickly as the fury had come, it receded, leaving her hollow and trembling.
"Put your hands on your ears," He whispers softly, his breath brushes across her ear. She does without questioning. But even then, she hears the loud explosion rip through the night, as if earth itself had been split open. She feels a hot breeze cascade around her. Smoke, she can smell it. It's everywhere.
She turns her head to look back—
Only to see a large ball of flame wreaking havoc on the orphanage. The flames climb high into the black sky hungrily, devouring everything in it's path, until there is nothing left but ash and rubble.
She turns back to the stranger, who watches the flames with satisfaction. As the light flickers, it illuminates the planes of his face. He really does look like a prince.
She lifts a tentative finger, and his head inclines towards her. He watches her with a curious glint in his eye. She trails a finger down his face, starting at his jaw, then his nose, higher, higher… before she finally speaks in awe. "You're handsome… like the prince in the fairytales."
His hand gently closes around her finger, guiding it away, as he pushes her head back into the warm hollow of his neck, but she feels the ghost of his smile upon the skin of her cheek.
"What's your name?" She asks, curiously, against the roar of flames in the background. What is the name of her saviour, her prince?
"Voldemort," He replies, trailing a finger down her cheek. "But, you can call me Tom."
"Tom.." She repeats, tasting the syllables on her tongue. They sound foreign. "That's a pretty name."
A warmth flickers in her chest.
"Thank you, darling. Though it's not as pretty as yours," He replies, his hand cradling the back of her head, and his hands begin smoothing down her hair. "Let's go home, Vanora. Nagini is waiting for you."
She doesn't know who Nagini is or where home is, but she doesn't protest, as long as he is taking her away from here, she is more than happy. Her eyelids grow heavy. She snuggles closer into him, closes her eyes, and lets the exhaustion take over her body.
The lull of darkness has never tasted so sweet, she thinks as she falls asleep on his shoulder.
Home. Sweet home.