"She was eighteen when she died." Ron tells his son sitting on his lap.
"Was she nice?" The lad asks staring at the picture of the smiling witch.
"Nicest person I have ever known, strong, brave, fair and could hold her own in any fight. Myself and your uncles gave her quite a time I must admit." Ron chuckles softly at the memories.
"How did she die dad?"
"I rather tell you happy stories, I have to keep the memories happy." He clenches his eyes close trying to erase the image of his baby sister's body bloodied, broken and bruised.