Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or True Blood.
General Warnings: Fem!Harry (Helen, in this story); time-traveling!Harry; Soul Mate/Soul Mark AU; language; potential violence; etc.
Summary: He has loved her since their first meeting when he was little more than a dying boy and she the Goddess that healed him.
Author's Notes: Daaaaamn, Delirium, back at it again with the Fem!Harry x Godric pairing...
I thought I might try my hand at writing drabbles. However, I didn't want it to be literally just one drabble (exactly one hundred words) per chapter; as much as I enjoy them, I read fast, so chapters done like that tend to be over in a blink for me. Instead, this and future chapters will be collections of drabbles; I'm going to try and aim for ten drabbles (1,000 words) for each chapter.
Helen Potter had a problem.
This wasn't a new thing for her; her life had been plagued with problems from the very start – prophecies involving murderous Dark Lords, anyone?
But this… This was a new one.
Not the time travel itself, or even that it had happened, but the way it had.
One moment, she'd been strolling along the beach and the next, she was being ushered into a village that had most certainly not been there fifteen minutes ago – and she would know considering it was located right where her bloody villa was. Was supposed to be. Would be?
Protests, she found as she was herded through the village, were useless.
The people playing well-meaning sheep dog weren't speaking any language she recognized; it certainly wasn't English, and while she wasn't as fluent in French as Hermione, she knew enough to know that whatever language they were chattering at her with wasn't it.
She wasn't even sure if a translation spell would work on a language as old as this one seemed to be.
Figuring something was better than nothing, Helen cast a quick, non-verbal translation spell while the crowd was otherwise occupied.
It wasn't perfect, but it'd do.
The mass of people around her as she was led to the largest dwelling made the village seem more crowded than it likely was; she'd say a hundred people lived here, maybe a little past that.
An eager call from one of those in front of her had a man stepping from the shelter they'd stopped before, his expression one of warring hope and disbelief.
The man who had called before spoke, a rushed explanation that she couldn't hear a word of, though the meaning was clearly hinted at given the almost reverent way he gestured to her.
Dumbledore and Tom's soul fragment hadn't been the only ones she'd seen in King's Cross.
Someone – something? – else had been there, had stood behind her as she spoke with Dumbledore, had combed Its fingers through her midnight hair, had whispered Its own explanation into her ear, Its words weaving in and out of Dumbledore's own.
And at the end of the conversation with Dumbledore, she had disappeared from his sight; but not because she had returned so quickly to life.
Death had wrapped her in Its arms, Its cloak hiding her from view.
And Death spoke.
"You are mine. Always."
Ever since she'd returned to life, Helen had been able to sense things, specifically their endings. In less polite terms: she knew when it was time for someone to die. At first, it had been maddening, the constant tingle at the edge of her mind; it had kept her in a state of anxious paranoia for weeks until she'd learnt to ignore it.
So, she knew that all things had their time; that everything must someday end.
But standing at the bedside of a little boy as he lay dying from a cold, of all things…
She couldn't accept that.
They thought her a Goddess, or perhaps a daughter of the Ocean, sent to heal the only son of the chieftain after days of prayer and pleas.
Given her appearance on the beach and how she was dressed, it wasn't all that surprising.
She was here for a reason; maybe, if she healed him, she'd return to her time?
On her knees at the boy's side, one hand smoothing back his sweat-dampened hair, she looked to his parents and smiled.
"It'll be alright."
Even if they didn't understand her words, they understood her tone. An invisible weight lifted from them.
There was something about the boy, she thought to herself later that night as she remained awake at his side. Something about him that called to her, that made her stomach drop, her heart clench, her very being balk at the thought of him dying.
She didn't know how many years lay between this time and her own –thousands? Certainly hundreds – and in this moment, didn't care; all she cared about was that he lived.
Something inside of her needed him to live, needed him to survive, as if she would be irrevocably changed if she failed this self-given task.
For three days, she stayed at his side. Running her fingers through his hair, washing away the sweat, humming until her voice grew hoarse to soothe his feverish dreams. His parents wandered in and out, but often left her to her own devices and thoughts.
The cold, nasty as it was, could have been cured by the first night if it had been on its own, nothing a good dose of Pepper-Up couldn't fix. But, on a hunch, she'd cast the diagnostic charm a second time and found the weakness in his lungs.
So, she set about fixing that too.
Five days after she had unwittingly stumbled back through time, the feeling of being watched had Helen's eyes snapping open to find a pair of stormy gray-blue staring back.
Her patient had finally woken up and judging by the intensity of his stare, he seemed just as fascinated with her as she was with him. He spoke, but by the time her sleep addled brain realized the translation charm had faded in her sleep, his parents had woken and exclaimed joyfully at seeing their son awake.
Forgotten in the flurry of words, Helen recast the translation charm and sat back.
If she'd thought the amount of gratitude she'd received for curing his cold had been overwhelming, it was nothing compared to when they realized she had also healed his lungs. Uncomfortable in the face of their awe and reverent thanks, Helen allowed the boy to pull her away from the adults.
She followed him contently, letting him lead her around and through the village as he chattered to her in a broken mix of English and his native language.
She still had no idea how she'd ended up sitting and allowing him to play with and braid her hair, though.
She woke in her own bed, arms empty of the child that had fallen asleep in them. 'That's that,' she thought, and mourned that she would never see the little boy who'd so fascinated her ever again.
Much later, she rose from her bed and stumbled to the bathroom, shucking her clothes along the way.
A bath would make everything better. As the tub filled, she reached for her brush to untangle her hair, absently glancing in the mirror as she did.
She froze, breathless.
Foreign letters, carefully formed, were inscribed in the skin above her heart.
A soul mark.
For some reason, I've been having trouble with the horizontal line/divider not showing up, so I've started including my own divider just in case anyone else has been having the same issue.
Yay, a new story! This'll be fun, don't you think? :]