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Everything Breaks Eventually

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The next thing she knew, Iris was running through the corridors of Hogwarts towards Dumbledore's office with Professor McGonagall, Harry, and Ron, and in a few minutes, they had reached the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance.

"Fizzing Whizbee," said Professor McGonagall.

The gargoyle sprang to life and leapt aside; the wall behind it split in two to reveal a stone staircase that was moving continuously upward like a spiral escalator. The four of them stepped onto the moving stairs; the wall closed behind them with a thud, and they were moving upward in tight circles until they reached the highly polished oak door with the brass knocker shaped like a gryphon.

Though it was now well past midnight, there were voices coming from inside the room, a positive babble of them. It sounded as though Dumbledore was entertaining at least a dozen people, though Iris could only sense one present mind through the door.

Professor McGonagall rapped three times with the gryphon knocker, and the voices ceased abruptly as though someone had switched them all off. The door opened of its own accord and Professor McGonagall led Iris, Harry, and Ron inside.

The room was in half-darkness; the strange silver instruments standing on tables were silent and still rather than whirring and emitting puffs of smoke as they usually did. The portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses covering the walls were all snoozing in their frames. Behind the door, a magnificent red-and-gold bird the size of a swan dozed on its perch with its head under its wing.

"Oh, it's you, Professor McGonagall... and... ah."

Dumbledore was sitting in a high-backed chair behind his desk; he leaned forward into the pool of candlelight illuminating the papers laid out before him. He was wearing a magnificently embroidered purple-and-gold dressing gown over a snowy-white nightshirt, but seemed wide awake, his penetrating light-blue eyes fixed intently upon Professor McGonagall.

"Professor Dumbledore, Potter has had a... well, a nightmare," said Professor McGonagall. "He says..."

"It wasn't a nightmare," said Harry quickly.

Professor McGonagall looked around at Harry, frowning slightly. "Very well, then, Potter, you tell the headmaster about it."

"I... well, I was asleep..." said Harry and Iris could tell that even in his terror and his desperation to make Dumbledore understand, her brother felt was getting irritated that the headmaster was not looking at him, but instead examining his own interlocked fingers. "But it wasn't an ordinary dream... it was real... I saw it happen..." He took a deep breath, "Ron's dad— Mr Weasley— has been attacked by a giant snake."

The words seemed to reverberate in the air after he had said them, slightly ridiculous, even comic. There was a pause in which Dumbledore leaned back and stared meditatively at the ceiling. Ron looked from Harry to Dumbledore, white-faced and shocked.

"How did you see this?" Dumbledore asked quietly, still not looking at Harry, "...in the dream, were you standing beside the victim, or looking down on the scene?"

"Neither. It was like I... I..."

When he couldn't finish, the headmaster looked to Iris, an understanding passing between them. Iris' eyes were sparkling with tears as she nodded her head only enough for the old wizard to realise that their biggest fear had come to fruition.

Dumbledore closed his eyes in pained comprehension.

Harry was still breathing heavily, confusion clouding his gaze as he pleaded, "Professor... please... just tell me—"

Harry moved into his eye-line but Dumbledore subtly countered, turning his back to the panicked boy.

Nobody else spoke for a moment, then Dumbledore, now looking at Ron, who was still whey-faced, said in a new and sharper voice, "Is Arthur seriously injured?"

"Yes," said Harry emphatically.

Without hesitation, Dumbledore turned to one of the hanging portraits and spoke, "Everard."

A sallow-faced wizard opened his eyes.

Dumbledore said urgently, "Arthur was on Guard Duty tonight..." Harry's eyes grew in realisation, "Make sure he is found by the right people."

The portrait nodded and moved sideways out of his frame, but instead of emerging in a neighbouring picture (as usually happened at Hogwarts), he did not reappear; the frame now contained nothing but the backdrop of a dark curtain. Iris noticed that many of the other headmasters and mistresses on the walls, though snoring and drooling most convincingly, kept sneaking peeks at Harry under their eyelids, and she suddenly understood who had been talking when they had knocked.

"Sir—?"

Harry tried at Dumbledore's attention again. Her twin flinched and Iris could tell he was clearly still in pain. Dumbledore once more turned away from Harry, towards a different portrait this time.

Dumbledore spoke more calmly to this one, "Phineas— I need you to go to your portrait at Grimmauld Place. Tell them that Arthur Weasley has been gravely injured and that his wife and children will be arriving shortly by portkey—" Dumbledore then turned to Professor McGonagall, "Minerva, I need you to go and wake the other Weasley children."

"Of course—" Professor McGonagall got up and moved swiftly to the door; Iris cast a sideways glance at Ron, who was now looking terrified.

Phineas reluctantly nodded, looking as though he would rather do anything else than go speak to Sirius, but nevertheless he exited his painting to deliver the message.

Iris slipped her hand into Harry's, squeezing it comfortingly. His green eyes still bore into Dumbledore though, who yet refused to return the eye contact. Iris could practically feel his temper rising. She thought it was silly of Dumbledore to continue his attempts at distancing himself from Harry, especially with the current situation. Iris would expect Mr Weasley to take priority over the chance that engaging with Harry would enflame his connection with Voldemort when the events that just occurred proved that he's already in her brother's head whether he realised it or not. Harry opened his mouth to say something else just as Everard returned, out of breath.

"They've got him, Albus. It was close but they think he'll make it; they're taking him to St. Mungo's now."

Everyone in the room sighed in relief and Dumbledore said, "Thank heavens. Now. Next, we must—"

"LOOK AT ME—" Harry finally erupted, sick of being ignored.

Total silence filled the room. Dumbledore's blue eyes locked onto Harry for the first time in forever, watching in surprise— and fear. For an instant, Harry's eyes were ablaze with rage so deeply out of character for him. Iris inhaled cautiously, her grip on his hand remaining, as her gaze flickered between her twin and Dumbledore.

Harry faltered; suddenly looking bewildered and terrified.

"What's happening to me..." he asked fearfully, begging for answers.

Dumbledore turned away in anguish.

Just then, Dumbledore's office door was opened and Fred, George, and Ginny were ushered inside by Professor McGonagall, all three of them looking dishevelled and shocked, still in their night things.

"Harry— what's going on?" asked Ginny, who looked frightened. "Professor McGonagall says you saw Dad hurt—"

"Your father has been injured in the course of his work for the Order of the Phoenix," said Dumbledore before Harry could speak. "He has been taken to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. I am sending you back to Sirius's house, which is much more convenient for the hospital than the Burrow. You will meet your mother there."

"How're we going?" asked Fred, looking shaken. "Floo powder?"

"No," said Dumbledore, "Floo powder is not safe at the moment, the Network is being watched. You will be taking a Portkey."

Dumbledore was now rummaging in a cupboard behind his desk. He emerged from it carrying a blackened old kettle, which he placed carefully upon his desk. He raised his wand and murmured "Portus"; for a moment the kettle trembled, glowing with an odd blue light, then it quivered to rest, as solidly black as ever.

"He says he'll be delighted," said a bored voice behind Dumbledore; the wizard called Phineas had reappeared in front of his Slytherin banner. "My great-great-grandson has always had odd taste in houseguests..."

"Come here, then," Dumbledore said to Iris, Harry, and the Weasleys. "And quickly, before anyone else joins us..."

Harry and the others gathered around Dumbledore's desk, each reaching out to touch some part of the blackened kettle.

Before Iris could take hold as well, Dumbledore grabbed her wrist and pulled her slightly aside.

The headmaster looked at her pointedly, saying lowly, "You know what you must do now?"

Iris stared into his eyes, asking frightfully, "But what if I can't?"

"You must," he whispered resolutely.

He then quickly urged her to grab the portkey and said loudly to everyone, "Good. On the count of three then... one... two..."

In the infinitesimal pause before Dumbledore said "three," Iris looked up at him— they were very close together— and Dumbledore's clear blue gaze moved from the Portkey to Iris' face, leaving her with the final image of a solemn nod.

"...three."

She felt a powerful jerk behind her navel, the ground vanished from beneath her feet, her hand was glued to the kettle; she was banging into the others as all sped forward in a swirl of colours and a rush of wind, the kettle pulling them onward and then—

Her feet hit the ground so hard that her knees buckled, the kettle clattered to the ground and somewhere close at hand a voice said, "Back again, the blood traitor brats, is it true their father's dying...?"

"OUT!" roared a second voice.

Iris scrambled to her feet and looked around; they had arrived in the gloomy basement kitchen of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. The only sources of light were the fire and one guttering candle, which illuminated the remains of a solitary supper. Kreacher was disappearing through the door to the hall, looking back at them malevolently as he hitched up his loincloth; Sirius was hurrying toward them all, looking anxious. He was unshaven and still in his day clothes; there was also a slightly Mundungus-like whiff of stale drink about him.

"What's going on?" he said, stretching out a hand to help Ginny up. "Phineas Nigellus said Arthur's been badly injured—"

"Ask Harry," said Fred.

"Yeah, I want to hear this for myself," said George.

The twins and Ginny were staring at him. Kreacher's footsteps had stopped on the stairs outside.

"It was—" Harry began, clearly uncomfortable with the odd animosity in the room, "I had a— a kind of— vision..."

Iris had no desire to relive the experience, already grimacing at the thought. As Harry began retelling the story, she took the opportunity to leave the room. Iris walked down the empty hallway, a dull feeling settling over her as the pit in her stomach grew. She had gotten Harry out of the dream, but not fast enough. The rational part of her tried to offer that if he hadn't been in Voldemort's head, Mr Weasley might be dead, but all Iris could think about was how she had been too late. Her only job was to protect Harry and she nearly failed.

Iris wandered up the creaking steps, getting lost in her frustration and growing anger. Her feet naturally took her to the guest bedroom she had been staying in over the Summer, and Iris found herself slamming the door behind her. She wasn't entirely sure where this sudden rage inside her had come from, but the circumstances of the night left her boiling.

The young girl picked up the closest thing to her— a small but terribly ugly vase that usually would have been holding flowers had the room not been unoccupied for months— and she launched it as hard as she could at the opposing wall. Iris paused in surprise at her own actions, and the briefest feeling of liberation flickered inside her. Something took over her body after that, wanting to feel that release of rage again.

Iris seized a delicate silver magical instrument from the spindle-legged table beside her and flung it across the room. It shattered into a hundred tiny pieces against the wall. She snatched up a lunascope and threw it at the bathroom door. Iris then seized the table on which the silver instrument had stood and threw that too. It broke apart on the floor and the legs rolled in different directions.

Next, she grabbed the bed sheets and pulled them from their neatly tucked places, throwing them across the floor haphazardly and knocking one of the bedside lamps over in the process. Iris took one of the pillows and shoved her face into it, letting out a scream that was muffled by the filling inside.

All she wanted to do was scream. She wanted to start and never stop.

Iris wished people would stop dying— stop getting hurt— stop leaving her wondering. She also wished she would stop pushing people away... Iris didn't mean to cause strife with the people she cared about— it only made it easier to cope. Distancing herself from Harry over the Summer, and then Kai and the other Shielded, it wasn't intentional, but Iris couldn't handle another loss. Sirius ignored her for months of his own accord, and it hurt Iris, but she was glad at the same time because at least then he would be safe— sure he would drink his days away while hiding in Grimmauld Place, but that was better than him leaving just to come to visit her and getting caught in the process.

Iris was at the end of her rope with frustration and anger. It had been building up for too long with Umbridge, Sirius, Kai, and of course, Voldemort. Dumbledore had been warning her for months that the Dark Lord's connection with Harry was dangerous. It was her job to keep them apart and to keep Voldemort from entering Harry's thoughts. There were too many close calls— Harry dreamed of the Ministry door almost every night now, but this time Iris let it get too far, too close.

She then tore the silver chain from her neck harshly, pulling the locket that had been gifted to her by Sirius for Christmas her third year from the place it hardly ever left. Inside, but rarely seeing the light of day anymore were two photographs: the first was of her parents which had been inside when she got it, the other had been added later, just before the end of her fourth year. It was a moving picture of her and Cedric, smiling and waving at the camera. Iris hadn't been able to get herself to open the locket since he died... everything inside was a reminder of what she had lost in her life.

As she threw the silver heart to the wooden floor, something happened that Iris couldn't explain— the girl let out a close-mouthed scream of vexation and at the same moment something exploded from within her. A wave of red hot magic shot out across the room, sending nearly anything that remained intact flying in pieces. She didn't have time to react to what had just happened before there was a knock on the door.

Whoever it was hesitated before speaking, "If you're going to break things, at least let me help... I hate this house more than you do."

She grabbed a glass paperweight off of the writing desk beside her and hurled it at the door in response.

Sirius sighed from behind the wood as he flinched upon the shattering sound. He stood up straight, bracing himself before he daringly twisted the doorknob and stuck his head in the room.

Iris didn't make a move to throw anything else in his direction so he took that as a good sign and entered the rest of the way, carefully shutting the door behind himself.

"White flag, okay?" Sirius said cautiously, inspecting his goddaughter for hostility.

Her caramel coloured hair was dishevelled and out of place, her fringe messy so he could see the scar on her forehead just peeking through. Her face around her glassy hazel eyes was red and puffy, telling him that she was holding back more tears, and the love that she usually held in her gaze was gone, replaced with only anger. She was still dressed in her sleep clothes: one of Dudley's old shirts and an old pair of plaid trousers, both very baggy on her small frame that was a result of being nearly starved for the first decade of her life. She looked miserable.

"Go away," Iris said harshly.

Sirius shuffled uncomfortably, "Look—"

"You haven't spoken to me in TWO MONTHS." Iris glared.

Her godfather grimaced, looking around the room at the huge mess she had made. He couldn't honestly blame her.

"You hide when I come to meetings, you don't respond to the letters I leave, and you ignore me when I try to get you to come out of your room, but now you want to talk?" the girl listed his offences with a flaming temper.

Sirius' mouth opened a closed a few times as he tried to find the right words to say.

"Please leave," Iris said sharply when he failed to come up with a response, "I have a few more things to break."

"I messed up," Sirius finally said. When Iris only glared he continued, "I know that, and I've been trying to figure out how to fix it but honestly communication is not my strong suit... I went twelve years without anyone, and now I have my best mate's daughter who's my responsibility— and I know nothing about having a kid." Sirius was frowning heavily, "I know you don't need me anymore, but I am sorry, and I'm doing my best to fix my mistakes."

Iris stared at him for a moment before she looked away with a frown pulling at her lips as she muttered, "I do need you."

They both looked up at the same time and Iris noticed her godfather's eyes were glistening.

Iris quickly wiped under her own eyes, "You and Harry are all I have left... and I can't even tell my own twin brother how big of a freak I am."

"You're not a freak," Sirius said immediately, "Don't say that."

"I am," Iris said quietly.

To her, there was no other word to describe it. She read people's thoughts without trying— for Iris it was as simple as opening a book and reading any sentence, but it was always the right page and the exact words she wanted to read. She could move things with her mind and create paper-thin walls of red light even the strongest spells couldn't break. Iris certainly felt like a freak.

Sirius took a few steps toward her carefully, hesitating in case she felt like lashing out again. When she didn't, he got close enough to tentatively envelop his arms around her, folding Iris into his hold gently. His arms crossed around her shoulders and Iris felt him release a heavy breath, grateful to have her back after so long. Iris didn't return the gesture for a few moments before she reluctantly wrapped her arms around Sirius' torso, reciprocating his embrace.

She didn't want to forgive him so easily, but Iris missed her godfather much more than she wanted to admit, even to herself.

"It's not fair how cruel life has been to you." Where Iris' head rested against Sirius' chest, his voice reverberated through her ear as he spoke, "But I promise, one day, after all of this is over, I'm going to make it up to you."

Sirius didn't test his limits after the exchange and left quite soon after with one last troubled look at the tornado-swept looking room.

Iris spent the next few hours stewing in her anger all alone. After the first hour of laying on the bare mattress, Iris finally decided to clean up the mess she had made. The witch set to work doing a mass reparo charm on the destroyed room. Once she had fixed everything to the best of her ability, Iris resumed her position on the bed, staring up at the ceiling in mental anguish.

And then, at ten past five in the morning according to the old grandfather clock in the corner, the bedroom door swung open and Mrs Weasley entered Iris' room. She was extremely pale, but when Iris turned to look at her, half-rising from her reclined state, she gave a wan smile.

"He's going to be all right," she said, her voice weak with tiredness. "He's sleeping. We can all go and see him later."

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i'm very excited for the next chapter 🤫

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