At this early hour in the morning, the headquarters of the Heliodore publishing house were already very lively. In eight years it had become one of the most prolific in the UK. The books it published could be found in Hogwarts shelves as well as in Muggles' houses. Its founder was pacing up and down the corridors as usual, heading towards the "department of the new talents" as she liked to call it. It was also the most narrow department. There were piles of books, sent by budding writers, heaping up to a point that they were almost reaching the ceiling. Owls were flying out and inside, carrying packages that contained new novels and somewhere in between the spinning pieces of parchment, there was the desk of Emily, her assistant.

"Anything new this morning, Emily?" She asked

It was her favourite moment of the day, when she was about to sail for a new trip.

"Hello, Hermione. Let me see...there are six new volumes of poetry, two plays, nine thrillers...six historical novels and a botanical study."

"Great! And in that pile, over there ?" She asked, pointing out at the envelopes that had been left out.

"Nothing very interesting I'm afraid...there is a study about ancient runes that is full of mistakes according to Jenny and a memoir."

Memoirs had been very popular after the war. Many wizards and witches had written about what they had endured during these months of terror. Sales had skyrocketed and then significantly diminished. Their world needed a breath of fresh air to start over. The time for grief had come to an end and this type of autobiography didn't attract anybody anymore. The most famous ones were now textbooks for Hogwarts students while the others had just faded to oblivion.

"Who wrote it?" She asked, wondering if she knew the author.

Neville had told her the other day that he was thinking about writing his memoirs, maybe it was from him.

Emily checked the register, she pouted and grabbed the manuscript.

"There's no name on it." She replied holding it out to Hermione.

She examined the cover page. The majority of these writings clearly indicated the name of the author who was trying to leave his mark on history. Most of the titles began with : "The war according to... / the memoirs of... / the story of...", but the title of this one was rather unusual.

- "Under my skin" she read outloud.

There was nothing else. No name, no date, no location. The mystery pushed her into reading the first lines :

"I am not a war hero. If truth be told, you won't think of me as a nice person and that's fine with me. Neither do I want to make history nor do I want to stop feeling guilty about a muddled past full of fears and prejudices. I only want to write the truth, and it begins like this : not all of us have been fighters or defenders of the greater good (does such a thing really exist?). Not all of us have been heroes facing off against criminal disciples nor criminals facing off against heroes.

Some of us have found ourselves torn between two sides, and are now given tarnished reputations with a variety of titles such as : murderer, traitor, monster or supremacist.

I am one of them.

My disgrace lies in three words : family, terror and loyalty. Others would rather say : cowardice, partisanship and hatred.

And now, a rational question crossing your mind is probably about my existence and my whereabouts. Am I a convict who's rotting in Azkaban or someone who's on the run, probably towards the East (or the South... use your imagination) and wants to clear his name?

The answer is no. I told you, I don't want to free myself of guilt or anything, I just want to tell the unknown story, the other slope of the mountain, the slippery slope that you don't like to take because you don't know what you're going to find down there."

"Something that caught your attention?" Emily interrupted

"Indeed. It is rather...unexpected" She replied before diving back into her reading.

"I guess you've made your choice, then? Can I remove it from the list of refusals?"

She nodded and continued to read while walking towards her office.

"Every story begins with a humble main character, a naive one who is going to discover his so-called hidden abilities. I was born amongst more gold, silky fabrics and rubies than you will ever dream to have. I was already a conqueror, I was handsome, clever, ready to reign over my world and I knew it all too well.

Don't try to identify yourself with me, I am unique.

So I guess I have to arouse your sympathy to encourage you to read further on. Let me see. In this case, I must tell you about my flaws. There was only one : fear. Not the one that makes you hide under your sheets at night or step backwards on seeing a spider. I'm talking about real fear, the one that is gut-wrenching, that makes you drift away towards the heart of darkness, the fear that prevents you from moving on and being yourself. Of course, you don't realize it. Not now. And all the choices it will encourage you to make, sneakily, under different names, it will all be its doing.

The first of these choices had a mask called Pride. It is also the one that stained my flesh with a dark, indelible mark and encouraged me to become a Death Eater."

So she was reading the memoirs of a former Death Eater ? Who could have written this...she wondered. Most of them were six feet under, the others were imprisoned in Azkaban. Had it been written just before one of them was sent to prison ? The handwriting was thin and meticulous. Nothing seemed to indicate that it had been written in a rush, while awaiting for a verdict that could have possibly affected the author's life forever...

She continued her reading, more and more intrigued.

" I was proud of my name, of my physical and intellectual abilities, but above all, I wanted to make my father proud. It was my ultimate goal, from my early childhood until the end of my adolescence. All those years, I was but his imperfect reflection, defined by his ambitions and his way of thinking. I was truly born the day I broke the mirror. A gesture that was as frightening as liberating to me. How could I make my own choices when, for sixteen years, I had done little more than following the path that had been drawn for me by an amazing architect, a man who was as eloquent as brilliant ? I was the only son, the heir of an ancestral wealth and glory. I had to prove myself worthy of belonging to this family which was considered as exceptional.

I was fascinated by the portrait gallery which extended for several meters in both directions. There were artworks made by the greatest masters throughout the centuries. They inspired such greatness and power that it intimidated me when I walked around at four or five years old, and that I had to stand on my tiptoes to be able to read the small plates where their names were engraved.

I was trying to memorize their faces as if it was a sacred duty. I noticed with a smile that I already looked a lot like them : the lunar fairness of my hair, this determined and self-confident look that was depicted on their faces, the paleness of my complexion."

The veil had been lifted and she was sure to know the identity of the author now. She hesitated before going on but her curiosity won and page after page, she had the impression of discovering new facets of his personality. She stopped, thoughtful, after reading this sentence :

"Do we have to condemn the choices we make out of love ? Would you have left your family in the hands of a tyrant, knowing that he would have killed them in retaliation for your betrayal ?"

Time had passed by at a surprising pace when she finally read the last lines :

"I am now convinced that there's a purpose for pain. It teaches you more than any other feeling. It makes you more mature and helps you in moving on".

This sentence found an echo somewhere inside of her, she understood what it meant. All the ordeals she had overcome had allowed her to accomplish everything she had now.

She turned the last page of the manuscript, feeling quite overwhelmed and wondering what she would do with it...

*** 𝕋ℍ𝔸ℕ𝕂𝕊 𝔽𝕆ℝ ℝ𝔼𝔸𝔻𝕀ℕ𝔾

𝓒𝓸𝓶𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽, 𝓼𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓮....

                                                         ɪ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ! :) ***

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