A/N The first few chapters of this story were posted before under the same name, but the text has undergone almost a complete change because, as the content of this story might suggest, it's written during the more difficult moments (so if I don't update for several weeks, that's a good thing!) and so the writing was always tidy. Hopefully it's all sorted now. Reviews make a writer happy, and they make Aoife more open with James (maybe.. probably not.. that would be odd).

Chapter One

November 28th found me in the kitchens, surrounded by helpful little house elves, stirring a small copper pot filled with hand-made chicken soup. I wasn't technically allowed in the kitchens, and I definitely wasn't allowed to be out of my Slytherin rooms at so late an hour, but the professors would understand, should I run into any. I had to cook if I wanted to be happy.

Mama always cooked when she was happy. She'd line up a dozen bowls of flour and egg and all kinds of spices, and we'd spend an hour just choosing which way we'd bread or batter our chicken. By the time I was seven, it was my sole responsibility to give the chicken a good whack with the spatula until the poor piece of meat was flat enough. She'd help me wash my hands under the tap, using her wand to levitate me just slightly so that I could reach the stream of water. And she'd always, always, let me shape the pasta exactly how I wanted.

When she was down, though, her wand took care of everything for her. Honestly, I did try to lend a hand whenever I was around, but this more often than not pushed her further into her despair and guilt. So we learnt to compromise: when she needed me most, we'd settle in front of her Muggle television and watch whatever she wanted, drinking cheap Coca-Cola from wine glasses, pretending we were fancy. Sometimes, just sometimes, I could make her smile. A genuine smile, I mean. She always put one on for show for me.

Those false smiles still haunt me; they make me wonder if there was anything more I could have done to help her.

I would worry for her whenever I had to go away for school, but she'd order me to live my life as any other person should at Hogwarts. Mama's ex-boyfriend – my estranged father – dropped by every so often to check up on her, but he had a busy job and a life of his own to live. He cared, just sometimes that seemed the worst possible thing he could do, and mama used to say too much of his Gryffindor must have rubbed off on her to make her give him up.

I was sixteen when she committed suicide.

If I were honest with myself, I'd always anticipated it, always knew it was the inevitable outcome, always been a little bit proud of her for lasting as long as she did. Is that wrong? She'd just never been truly happy, not by normal standards; there had been plenty of 'low' periods to prove it.

That didn't mean it didn't crush me to hear she was gone. She'd been my mama, my best friend, and I'd loved her. She'd loved me back just as much, and I've never let myself think otherwise – I was her 'baby Aoife'. But there still wasn't a day I didn't think of her and wish things had been different.

Why did I have to be the one with the mentally ill mama? Why couldn't the responsibility and the pain have fallen to someone else, someone stronger? I've never been 'strong'; I was never in touch with my emotions, nor with anyone else's', for that matter. It just always struck me as unfair that mental illness should even exist. On my darkest days of grieving, I resented my mama for ever having me. But that wasn't fair. She'd needed me, and I had meant something. I'll always miss the feeling of importance and necessity I had around her. Without me, without her child, she had less. She used to tell me that without children, her life meant very little. That always scared me to know.

Mama had died on November 28th, just a few months into my sixth year at Hogwarts. She'd thought it all through, intelligent and loving and just simply a mother until the end. Her owl, Pecan, had delivered me a special ribbon-bound note the following morning, explaining everything except how she'd actually done it. The coroners hadn't told me that part either, and I think for that I'm thankful. Aged sixteen, it had been hard enough just wrapping my head around the idea that my beloved mama had finally given up.

I was never alone though. Mama had made sure there were support systems in place for me, people who would gladly take me in over the holidays and would love me like a daughter. She hadn't been a good friend of many people, but there were enough. Mr Malfoy had always held a soft spot for me – and it wasn't only out of pity. He'd named me 'the true spawn of Satan' after an episode, when I was maybe six or seven, involving his son, Scorpius, some clever thinking on my part, and Cissa's stinging plants. She'd had them placed sporadically at the forefront of the flower beds at the time, I think to stop us young ones touching the more exotic plants hidden behind.

I'd been stung just that afternoon and was feeling… petulant, to say the least. Scorpius' frequent bouts of accidental magic had come in very useful in disposing of the plants in the most violent of ways. Mama had been furious that I'd used a boy a year my junior to dispose of one of Cissa's plants, but she could never stay mad at me for too long, and the Malfoy's always appreciate a show of the Slytherin nature.

So it had felt right, okay, that the Malfoys should have extended an invitation to stay as long as I required, though I all but forced them to allow me not to take advantage of them. I was tasked with tutoring darling Scorpius during the holidays, to protect him during term-time (we never told him about this), and to baby-sit Auriana (their adorable little daughter, ten years younger than myself) when the adults attended functions.

And when I returned to Hogwarts for my final year of schooling, it was with a small portion of the money left to me by mama that I purchased all of my school supplies. She would have been so proud of me, made prefect in my final year, maybe even prouder than she had been when we'd received my OWL results.

Mama had been a bright student back in the day, and was still incredibly perceptive and quick until the very end. Yet I had struggled, during first and second year, to find the right balance between my friends, my learning, and my fretting over what might be happening at home.

During the summer before third year, Mama and I had worked through my textbooks near on every day. Even during her down moments, she was determined we would get it right. She had a patience with me the teachers have rarely ever managed.

My grades have risen steadily ever since, and I achieved Es and Os in all my subjects in fifth year. Mama definitely went overboard in celebrating my results: I've kept the new dress-robes she bought in a Goblin-made wardrobe at Malfoy Manor, and I remember clearly her taking us both out to the most expensive restaurant in Diagon Alley, Le Chaudron D'or.

I'd made her happy; who was I to complain that I was being spoilt silly.

And I was happy too, I promise.

Just, when that happiness needed a slight push to start up, I retreated to the castle kitchens and I cooked.

So there I was, on the 28th November, remembering my mama and bending over a bubbling pot to take in the scent of home. Even the house elves at the Malfoy's had never been able to produce something that smelt as delicious as mama's home-made soup recipe. I think they used too much pepper, personally.

I was so lost in remembering my mama, I didn't notice until too late a pair of strong arms wrapping themselves around my waist. One day, I thought, I'd manage to not get into needless trouble.

A/N Thank you for reading to the end! I'm not above begging - please leave some feedback. Or read onto the next chapter!