Chapter 6 — Blood of My Blood
It had been a few days since we'd seen the Potters for the last time — Lily and James Potter.
The visit to that silent, cold place lingered in my mind like a half-remembered dream — one that refused to fade with daylight.
Mum and Dad hadn't talked much after we came home. Dudley had cried a bit, though he tried not to let me see. And Harry…
Harry didn't cry at all. He didn't need to. His silence said more than any wail could.
The house had fallen into a strange kind of quiet since then. Not gloomy, exactly — just aware. The sort of quiet that made you notice every clock tick, every breath, every sigh of the wind. Sometimes I'd catch Mum standing by Harry's door, staring in at the cot, her expression soft but uncertain, as though she were still deciding what to feel.
We had followed Snape's advice and stayed away from the public funeral. It wasn't for us. It was for the world to celebrate its victory. Ours was a quieter kind of mourning — private, honest, and familial.
No one else knew we had gone. Snape had arranged it all in that quiet, deliberate way of his. We hadn't met a soul on the way, hadn't been seen by anyone. The gates opened, the wards parted, and the world itself seemed to step aside just for us. How he managed it, I couldn't say — and I didn't intend to ask. Some knowledge was best left to those who dealt in shadows.
I'd made one small request before we left that night:
"This should remain with us. No one else. Not even Dumbledore."
Snape inclined his head in that curt, wordless way that meant agreement.
It wasn't that I disliked Dumbledore. I didn't see him as the manipulative old man some fans had made him out to be in my previous life. I'd had those same suspicions a few times myself at that time. Especially after learning of his famous line, which later became a motto in the first wizarding war "For the Greater Good". But mostly, I thought of him as a complex old man carrying too many burdens for too long.
Still — a wise man does not show all his cards to a wizard who always seems to have a few extra tucked up his sleeve. Especially when that wizard is hailed as the greatest wizard alive.
So we went, we saw, and no one else knew.
When we had stood before Lily and James, something had stirred in the air around us, something had connected. It was as if some threads ran through all of us. I saw it.
A thread of gold connected Lily to Harry and Petunia. From Petunia it went to me and Dudley. Then, all at once, the threads rearranged — looping, twisting, weaving — until each of us was connected to everyone.
Lily, Harry, Mum, Dudley, and me.
Threads of blood and love, alive and warm, humming with a magic and power far older than spell.
For a moment, the world shimmered with soft light — not blinding, but gentle, like sunlight caught in dust. I felt it rushing through me, wrapping around us all. It was love, distilled into something tangible. It coursed through me, settled deep in my chest, and changed something fundamental in the air between us.
And in that strange, awed wonder, a scene surfaced in my mind, and my mouth, being occasionally quicker than my better judgment, decided to blurt it out:
"Blood of my Blood."
Mum and Dad had given me a look.
I smiled awkwardly, pretending it was something I'd read in a book. It wasn't a complete lie — just the wrong universe. Dothraki, not Dumbledore.
Still, the phrase was fitting. It felt right. The bond between Lily and Petunia was of family, blood, old and potent. And perhaps somewhere up that family tree, past the crisp hedgerows and stiff-collared aunts, there had been a squib, a flicker of magic that skipped a few branches before lighting again in Lily.
Blood remembers. It always does.
That glow had done more than comfort us. In that instant, I could feel the foulness in Harry's scar recoil — shrinking, hissing, withdrawing like a shadow chased by dawn. Whatever darkness had nested there found no welcome in that circle of love and kin. It wasn't gone, but it had weakened.
Since then, I'd felt something new inside me — a quiet certainty.
My soul felt expanded, aware. If I focused, I could sense people near me without sight or sound like faint warmth pressing against the edge of perception. My awareness stretched beyond skin and breath. I could feel emotions brush against me, unspoken yet clear — fear, affection, worry — all whispering in colours my eyes could not see.
My mind sharpened, as if fog had lifted after years of sleep. Thoughts came quicker, cleaner. Words arranged themselves neatly. When I met someone's gaze, I could almost taste the shape of their thoughts — hints of what they intended before they spoke. Not reading minds exactly, but reading presence, the surface ripples of intent.
And my body — it obeyed perfectly. Every movement was measured, deliberate. There was strength humming in every muscle — quiet, coiled, waiting. The change was subtle, but it was there. My hair caught the light differently; my skin seemed clearer; my eyes sharper. I suspected even the colour would shift, in time. Magic had a way of making its mark.
Yet it wasn't wild or frightening. It was calm. Natural. As if the world itself had taken a breath and decided to cooperate.
Dudley, too, seemed a little gentler these days. He hadn't yet found what stirred within him, but something was waiting. The resonance had touched him. It would take time for his spark to wake, but it was there.
That night, long after dinner, I sat by my window. The street outside was still and faintly silver under the lamplight. Everyone else was asleep.
I thought of blood and bonds, of the line that tied one soul to another. Lily's sacrifice had done more than protect Harry from death. It had bound him — and us — together. Her love had woven a living thread through blood, through soul, through generations. And I could feel it thrumming quietly beneath everything we were.
Magic wasn't in wands or words. It was in blood and soul.
The Potters, the Evans sisters, even the Dursleys now. Blood of my Blood, all of us.
Something in me whispered that it was time to try. I turned my eyes to the pencil lying on my desk — a simple, unassuming thing. But I could feel it: its weight in the air, its outline in my mind.
I reached out, not with my hand, but with that same calm certainty that had been building for days.
"Move," I whispered — not aloud, but inside.
The air shifted. Just slightly. Enough that the pencil quivered.
It trembled. Once. Then again.
A slow smile spread across my face.
End of Chapter 6 — Blood of My Blood