a/n: so, this is my FIRST EVER Harry Potter fanfiction, ha. I started this waaaaaaaaay back when, and decided to pick it up again and see where it goes. Well this story is post-DH, but FAR. Voldemort is dead, Harry and company have left Hogwarts, and a new generation of heroes have arrived. R&R please!

Disclaimer: I do NOT own Harry Potter. Sadly...


Prologue

I stared at my grotesque reflection in the mirror. The plum-colored half-circles under my eyes brightened the jade of the irises. My eyes had so much behind them. Everything I had encountered had been seen with these eyes. They were now dark, showing the lifeless obscurity that had replaced my happy memories. I was truly happy once, but that felt like centuries ago. Now, I was in the bathroom of a worn-out train station in London, England. The speakers grumbled something incoherent, beckoning me to the hidden platform. I let out a shaky breath and went to follow suit.

An older man helped me on to the train, as I was having trouble lugging my owl about.

"Thank you." I whispered, taking it back and heading through the doorway. I peered into the third cabin. A man was sitting at one of the window seats. He was reading The Daily Prophet and didn't seem too interested in his surroundings.

I shuffled in and put my purse on the seat, bumping his arm; he looked up at me warmly.

"Sorry." I muttered, sliding my bigger bag in the wired shelf overhead.

"Don't worry about it." he shrugged looking out the window and muttering something into the parchment. I picked my purse up and sat down in the seat next to him. An old woman came by muttering about candy; he waved her off.

"Awful." he shook his head. "If they only knew…"

I tried my best to ignore him. I didn't need any distractions at the moment, but I couldn't shake the note. "Pardon me, sir. What don't they know?"

He eyed me curiously; my guess, that he was contemplating what to say. "How dreadful those pastries are for you children," he waved his hand.

I raised an eyebrow. "And what do you do, might I ask?"

"I am a Doctor at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries," he raised his eyebrows. "I am serving a term here for community service. A load of rubbish I say."

"What did you do, if you mind me asking, that got you into trouble?"

He chuckled, "I refused to work on a patient."

"Who?"

He went rigid. "That's doctor-patient confidentiality."

I frowned.

"I can tell you that he was once a death eater. I don't associate myself with former worshipers of the Dark Lord."

I grimaced. He had no idea; "Did you treat Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom?"

He eyes narrowed, "Why do you ask?"

"Curiosity." I shrugged, picking up his Daily Prophet to exam the front page. "Just curiosity."

"Cu-ri-o-si-ty?" he singled out each syllable. I could tell he was getting frustrated with me.

I chuckled to myself. If I was wrong, he would mistake me for a loon and call it a day.

A smug grin spread across his face, and his arms folded. "Do you have an interest in the Cruciatus Curse?"

What an open assumption... I put the paper down and turned to look at him. "Like I said, sir. Curiosity."

He scratched his chin and didn't speak to me the rest of the ride. Of course, I don't blame him. If people knew I was once a Death Eater, I don't think anyone would.