One week later.
The familiar scent of lemon wax and house furniture finally replaced the sterile smell of the hospital.
The Smith apartment felt alive again, though a new, rhythmic silence had settled in—the kind that only exists when a newborn is finally sleeping soundly in his crib.
Julie sat on the sofa, looking weary but radiant, her colour having returned after the harrowing ordeal that she—according to her altered memory—simply remembered as a sudden, terrifying complication while she was mourning the death of Alina with her family.
While Robert however, was hovering around since the homecoming, adjusting a pillow behind her back for the tenth time.
"Robert, I'm fine," she laughed softly, swatting his hand away. "Go help John with the bags."
John walked in from the hallway, carrying the last of the baby supplies from a nearby mart. He looked at his mother, then at the sleeping small bundle of joy in the bassinet.
The guilt still simmered in the back of his mind, a cold reminder of the night he had run, but seeing them here, safe,kept him sane and calm. He had realised this world is not the world of rainbow and sunshine but that of death and corruption.
He has been preparing both mentally and physically for the letter, May has already arrived and the letter would be coming any week now. However with that came a meeting with professor McGonagall , he wasn't sure he wanted to meet with her.
Since she was the one who assured Alina will be safe to her family and she hadn't even shown up to apologise instead sending aurors or whatever those wizards were here….
While John was lost in his thoughts he was being noticed by both his parents. Thinking he was still shocked by the news of the death of his sister like best friend and also the scare of Julie with the whole hospital dilemma.
He is scared so much that he doesn't even touch his brother afraid he will harm him. Though he tries to hide it, but fails spectacularly.
Seeing their son like this, a look of understanding seemed to pass between the eyes of his parents. Robert rose from his seat beside Julie by the side of coffee table and said to no one in particular
"We still haven't settled on a name,"
"I was thinking... What about Adam? It's a strong, classic name. It feels right, doesn't it?"
John stiffened almost imperceptibly, breaking him out of his thoughts.
"No," John said, his voice firmer than he intended. He softened it quickly. "Not Adam. That's such a lame name, his name should be special."
Julie looked at her son, sensing the depth of his conviction. "You're right, John. He's such a survivor. He deserves a name that means something."
John walked over to the bassinet and looked down at the tiny, sleeping face. He thought of the storm that had nearly swept his family away, and the vow he had made in the ICU. He thought of the hope that had kept him from breaking entirely during these long weeks of recovery.
"Noah," John whispered. "We should call him Noah."
Robert and Julie exchanged a look of sudden, quiet realization. "Noah," Julie repeated, a smile touching her lips. "Rest. Comfort. A new start after the flood."
"I like it," Robert agreed, reaching out to squeeze Julie's hand. "Noah Smith."
John watched his parents, a sense of profound peace passed through him. Noah meant hope, but most importantly he is my little brother and that's all it matters.
****
The funeral was held a day later, on a Tuesday, as if the Petrovas were eager to put the tragedy behind them. It was held at a small, unassuming church near the neighborhood.
The morning was cold and grey, mirroring the mood inside Smith's car. Julie stayed home with Noah, the doctor having advised against taking the premature infant out. This left Robert and John alone in the suffocating silence of the black sedan as Robert drove them toward the church.
John sat rigid in his suit, staring out the window at the passing streets, his jaw clenched. He wasn't mourning the Alina of the suicide story; he was mourning the real Alina he saw battered and broken on the floor.
Robert reached across the console and gently squeezed John's shoulder.
"It's okay, son," Robert said, his voice thick with a confusing mix of sorrow and hazy paternal concern. "It's alright to cry. She was like a sister to you."
John shook his head, keeping his gaze fixed outside. "I won't cry, Dad. Crying won't bring her back."
Robert sighed, pulling up to the church curb. "I know, but you need to let it out, John. The Petrovas… they're hurting so much. Mrs. Petrova keeps asking me if she should have seen the signs, if the pressure from that fancy Scottish school was too much. It's hard to watch."
John only nodded, the lie echoing in his year. Suicide from academic pressure. The lie was the second murder, he remembered a quote something along the lines, "You don't die when you are killed, it's when you are forgotten." (one piece I know)
But these fucking bastard took away the real memory of death from her family. I will not forget her and I will definitely not forgive the one who is responsible for this.
The church was nearly empty. Only the Smiths, the Petrovas, and a handful of distant relatives were present. Mr. Petrova looked gaunt, moving stiffly as if the grief were a physical weight tightening around his chest.
Mrs. Petrova, however, was quiet, occasionally letting out a dry, rattling sob that sounded more confused than heartbroken.
The Obliviation had left their grief stunted, a vague, undirected pain focused solely on the false premise of their daughter's mental breakdown.
When they brought the black, closed casket to the front, John felt the air leave his lungs. It was the same casket those wizards had conjured. Inside lay the girl he loved, the girl he failed.
Then it was time for the eulogy.
Mr. Petrova was the first to speak. He stood beside the casket, clutching a crumpled photograph. His voice wavered, tinged with a self-recrimination that John knew was manufactured.
"Alina… my intelligent, beautiful girl," he choked out. "We didn't see it. We thought… we thought the boarding school would be beneficial for her, that she would find herself in Scotland. I am sorry that you had to face through so many things alone that we weren't there for you, I am sorry for pushing you too hard, I am sorry you felt like you couldn't trust us but wherever you are , always know that dadda still loves you…and….and I am sorry my baby. If only I had been a better parent. I am sorry Alina I failed you. I love you"
He sat down, collapsing back into the pew, his entire body convulsing with guilt he didn't deserve to feel.
Next came Mrs Petrova…barely capable of not collapsing. She tried to speak.
Mrs. Petrova merely managed a few hollow words. "She was so excited to go away. Why… Why did she leave us? It wasn't supposed to happen this way."
Many came to speak good words about her and just like that it was his turn now.
Honestly he didn't know what to say but still he stood up. He walked to the podium, his legs heavy. He looked at the casket and then at the few faces watching him. He knew he couldn't break the truth or that no one would believe him. He still had to honor her while speaking his truth.
"Alina was my best friend," John began, his voice cracking a little, his hands gripping the podium edge so hard his knuckles turned white.
"She wasn't weak."John's voice trembled slightly.
"She smiled too easily. She got excited over stupid little things… argued over movies… and kept trying to help people even when she was hurting herself."
A faint, painful smile crossed his face.
"Most of all…. She was excited about life. About trying new things. About making new friends. That's why she left home and went all the way to Scotland."
His fingers slowly clenched.
"Whatever happened to her… I know she fought until the end."
He looked toward the grieving Petrovas.
"And things that happened I am sure, wasn't her or your fault"
"I think… Alina was another victim of the world that gave up on her, but even then I am sure she kept trying, kept fighting…. before her…..eventual demise."
"And I don't want the world to reduce her to just… another tragedy."
"So I will remember her....carrying all our short and memorable memories too . And I will keep fighting too... just like her." Tears struck down his cheeks before he wiped it away and smiled bitterly.
"I am gonna miss you buddy, we all will and I promise you that whatever happens from this day forward, I will always try and do better."
John held their gaze for a long moment before looking at the closed casket and quietly stepping away from the podium.
***
The cemetery had mostly emptied by the time John finally approached the grave. Cold wind brushed past his black coat as he stopped in front of the fresh mound of earth, the dark soil an ugly contrast against the dull green grass.
The sky above remained overcast, the kind of gray that made the entire world feel lifeless. His eyes slowly settled on the headstone: Alina Olivera(1979–1994). Fourteen years. A life reduced to…..a name.
Her vibrant, chaotic existence summarized so neatly. As if the girl who lived could be contained by a symbol and a date. This was the true injustice.His jaw tightened.
He was nine, helping Alina tame a stray orange cat using a can of cat food because she whined about being some "Magical Cat girl."
He remembered the scratches, Mrs. Petrova's panic, and Alina's wild, unrestrained laughter afterward. Another memory came: summer evening on the roof of their apartment building, eating his melted ice cream that had become "friends bonding" after she dropped hers. She spent twenty minutes detailing why pigeons were just dumb birds and why ravens were better.
God. They felt so alive when the world was still full of optimism. He could almost hear her rolling her eyes. But when he blinked, there was only the silence, the cold air, and the dirt. His chest constricted, a physical, painful tightening. She was just... Alina. His best friend. The girl across the hall who was supposed to come back home.
His breathing fractured. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not in the empty hallway of the castle. 'She must have been scared and alone.'
Not while he, the "special" one with the "borrowed knowledge," had stood safely in the shade of his parent's love, playing the protagonist.
All those years of training, the fantasies of becoming powerful, prepared, special—they amounted to nothing. When reality came for Alina, for the Petrovas, for his own parents, he had failed completely. He didn't save her. He didn't stop them. He didn't even understand what was happening until he had done the most pathetic, reflexive thing: he ran.
The self-hate was now a constant friend.
A broken laugh escaped him. "Yeah…..I am never recovering from this...haha."
The flash of him helplessly watching….. the sight of his father flying back, of his pregnant mother falling, the spreading crimson stain on her dress, the corpse of Alina, those scratches, torn clothes, bit marks, bruises—it all flashed behind his eyes. "Those bastards," he cried.
What could he even have done? He didn't know…did he. He had an inkling that he hadn't hogwarts starting at 14, that mysterious wizard near the ministry ready to even attack a small kid like him.
Even with all of Adam's knowledge, he should have expected it? Sometimes it feels Adam would have done it better than him, better than a coward who ran away anyway.
Adam would have fought. Adam would have known what to do. The thought tasted like ash.
"No…..," the word was a raw whisper. He was tired of hiding behind Adam Robinson's dead
memories. Adam was dead, and John Smith—the coward who Apparated away—stood helpless at another grave.
'How many more will die.....while you continue to run John', seemed to say the ghostly whisper.
A sudden, violent sob tore out of his chest, cracking the stillness of the cemetery. His knees nearly buckled. Years of pressure, fear, arrogance, isolation, and grief collapsed into a single, crushing weight. He covered his face with one hand, shoulders shaking with ugly, humiliating sobs that burned his throat.
"I'm sorry…" he choked out, his voice hoarse. "I'm so sorry."
Rain began to fall harder, cold drops mixing with his tears and snot. He barely noticed. For the first time since the night in the hall, John truly understood his powerlessness. It hurt more than losing her.
He sank onto the wet ground. Beneath the searing guilt, beneath the shame of running, something cold and resolute began to take root. He looked down at the earth that held Alina, and then his mind instinctively reached for the memory of the ICU, the tiny, premature face of his brother, Noah.
He had failed Alina, but he had vowed that night, staring at his brother in the incubator, that he would not let his family be hurt again. The grief was still there, but now it was fused with a cold, quiet hatred—the kind that stayed and built. For Noah, for his mother, and for the girl buried beneath the dirt, John Smith would not stay powerless.