Author's Note: This story is AU, as Moody & Snape survive, and, instead of going to Hogwarts 19 years later, the next generation [Rose, Albus, etc.] goes 13 years after the war. Also, I do not own anything except for my original characters. Copyright goes to J. K. Rowling.
"She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes."
— Lord Byron
Chapter One
She speaks to me.
The final embers of the War are being blown out by the skirting wind, and the bodies littered across the courtyard and bridge are cooling… but still she speaks to me.
I sit on one of the oak benches pushed up against the wall, watching the sick as they're ushered past; some nursed are right there on the floor, while others are carried in a sling of arms up to the infirmary, necks limp and faces ashen. Professor Trelawney and a Patil drag in a Gryffindor with a round face and messed brown hair – Brown, her name was – and her throat is caked in blood, eyes faraway, and I know that Fenrir Greyback tried to take her, that if she comes to, she'll wish she hadn't. Even my throat constricts at this.
The sun is setting now and, like a teabag dropped in scalding water, it casts out warm browns and reds across the sky. The colors steep through the Great Hall's arched windows, but even in their light, I feel a suffocating cold.
Mother drifts amongst the injured and I know she wants nothing more than to sit with me, but cannot – she is struggling to redeem herself, to find wanting hands that will receive hers. Father, on the other hand, is nowhere to be seen.
I watch the Weasley family clutch around the body of one of the twins, and, on the other side of the Hall, my aunt cradles a lifeless, waxen body.
A thestral glides by on leathery, umbrella-like wings, its body skeletal and eyes a terrible, wild white, and I start with the rest, even though I've been seeing them for almost a year. I suppose she saw and that's why she sits beside me now, knees pulled together and eyes wide.
"They're called thestrals," she says.
"I know."
Her hair is a striking blonde and her eyes float over the room, a wand sticking at an odd trend from behind her ear and bizarre glasses perched atop her head, "Everyone here can see them now."
The way she speaks is meant to be matter-of-fact, but each word sounds like a surprise.
"I suppose."
"We've that in common."
When I don't answer, she rises and begins to drift towards Longbottom, who is surrounded by withered looking witches and wizards in dated dress.
"Wait," I say, and she returns.
"Yes?"
I realize I have nothing to say "Do you… have you seen my father?"
"No. I've been a bit distracted by the wrackspurts, honestly," she puts her glasses over her eyes and stares up at the ceiling.
I have things to retort with, wicked, snarky things, but nothing seems funny anymore.
"I hadn't noticed any."
"Well of course not, you've haven't any glasses."
She sits back beside me and offers me hers; through them world is blue and red and dizzy, and I prefer it – the colors obscure the faces that scowl and veer from me.
"You're right," I lie. "There's trillions."
She smells distantly of flower petals and her hair rustles when she pushes it over her shoulder, "It's quite amazing, really. You know, most people won't even try on the glasses."
I'm sure I look like a fool, "No? They're quite useful, I imagine."
We sit that way for quite some time. She thumbs through The Quibbler, and we each do our best to escape the scene that seethes around us, until Potter returns from some unknown place and his congregation flocks to him.
As she leaves she turns briefly and says, "If you ever need a free Quibbler, Daddy always gives me the first copy."
It is only two weeks before I write her.