Prologue:
She stared silently out the window of her compartment, her forehead creased in thought and pressed against the cold window pane. Her silver eyes were distant—fixated on memories of a time long past—and completely devoid of emotion. A chill shrouded her small figure, matching the occasional shudder that shook her delicate form.
All around her the world rushed by, filled with vivacity and enthusiasm, but inside her small cubicle, life was only a forgotten memory.
For hours she had been slipping deeper into this state of mind as she drew further inside herself to dwell wistfully on memories of her lost life. Her silver eyes seemed dimmer, the luster of her hair fading rapidly the longer she resolved to live only in memory. Yet somewhere in the dark recesses of her mind, a small shred of life remained, lingering and occasionally sparking, sending her away from the brink of despair. With firm resolve, it gently prodded her back to her present circumstances, leaving behind the surprisingly profound knowledge that she still did have something to live for.
Gathering herself, she shook her head slightly, ridding herself of the dazed expression that had covered her face for days. Once more life flooded the cheerless compartment as a heartfelt sigh filled the small room. The girl turned away from the window and leaned back into her chair. The cloud of depression that had settled upon her fragile form for so long twisted into bitter regret. Drawing her legs up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around her knees and hugged them. Trembling, she closed her eyes and drew in a shaky breath. A single tear slipped under her stubby black lashes and trailed down her pale face. Angrily, she wiped the offending droplet off her cheek. Crying would not help her, and it certainly would not bring back what she lost.
She had convinced everyone but herself that she was over her "accident," but deep inside she still felt the torturous tremors of pain. Now the memories of before only tore further at wounds still tender. There was no cure for her pain, no hope for her salvation. The healers had tried everything, but even magic couldn't heal the damage.
The ministry tried so hard to keep her from knowing what really happened. Despite their best efforts though, she had heard the real reason for her loss; the truth mingled among the rumors as people whispered and pitied her. She was the helpless victim to them, the lone survivor of one of the worst deatheater attacks yet. They told her it happened because of severe trauma inflicted on that area of her brain—brought on by the shock, no doubt—but she knew the truth. She was no idiot, despite their efforts to turn her into one. She knew the fever that engulfed her night and day for three weeks did not cause this damage. After all, her dreams never lied.
Every time she fell asleep she heard the same cold voice. As if in slow motion, she would again see the purple and red streams of light arcing toward her. Forced every night to revisit the scene of her terror and feel over and over again the burning wave of emptiness sear through her. Even with the Dreamless Sleep potion prescribed by the Healers she could not escape her nightmares.
They told her amnesia was common after going through such a traumatizing illness. They told her she might gradually start remembering things, but not to panic if she didn't. She wished she couldn't remember, perhaps it would not hurt so much. Even if she could only remember snippets, she knew they had been lying to her.
Had they really thought she was that dumb? Were they really that afraid to tell her they had tried to wipe her memory like a muggle that they stooped so low as to blame a non-existent illness? She deserved to know, deserved for them to tell her the truth. She was tired of being lied to.
She stared out the window again, a blank expression on her face as the tears threatened to flow again. The least they could have done was to tell her the truth; about her parents, her "sickness", the attack. They switched her from her former school in America and were now sending her to Hogwarts; with the excuse that there would be too many memories of before if she stayed. Hah. Did the ministry really think she was that dense? She knew the real reason behind her transfer was the fear that Voldemort would finish what he started.
She might complete the job for him and end her miserable existence, but one thing held her back. It was same reason that kept her from succumbing to the curse and the dark days that followed. She was simply too proud to die. To kill herself was to acknowledge her cowardice. Not only was the tattered remains of her pride at stake, she also had no intention of aiding the Monster that ruined her life.. She had not survived all the agony and torture to simply give into her pain. Alone in the world, friendless and scarred, she had every reason to simply succumb to her fate and die as she should have. Instead she drifted on in empty, meaningless existence and waited. For what, she did not know, and quite frankly she did not care.
So she sat in her lonely compartment, burdened with the knowledge that she would never again watch clouds float lazily across a peaceful blue sky, or gaze at the reflection of the moon on a lake. Eaven Farraday may have escaped death, but in doing so she lost her family, her childhood and her sight. She lost everything, and because of that she had everything to live for.