Would today be her last day? She would ask herself that question many times over the course of that year. That question rang and rang, echoing in her head as she walked throughout her house—it was no longer a home. Of course she had thought about that question before, it would be ridiculous to think she didn't. But rather than the occasional once a month thought, it became incessant. At every tick of the old grandfather clock—oddly enough from her actual grandfather—at every click of a shoe heel against the floorboards, at every hushed whisper or conversation, that question would flash in her head like the fireworks she saw on the one Fourth of July she was in America. Would today be her last day?
It was the summer of 1997 that her house stopped being a home. At first, she was happy; her husband had been released—or escaped from—Azkaban. It was really a matter of semantics. When he arrived home, she just hugged with all her might. Her son had to pull her away from his father.
But soon her happiness went away with the arrival of more than her loved one. Though one of them was her elder sister—or what was left of the sister she used to know—the rest were people she would rather keep her distance from. It wasn't up to her, though. Of course, what would be up to her? She was just a woman, a woman who had made no official standing with their group. And of course she was too afraid to say anything about them staying her house. Who wouldn't be?
It was after that that her home turned into a dark, cold, unforgiving place. Her home became a place where murders were committed, crimes were plotted, and prisoners were held. The place she used to decorate with the upmost detail had turned into a cobwebbed, exclusively candle-lit place. There were so many times during that summer that that question went through her head.
She could never be sure if she was just being paranoid, or if this group of people were plotting her own demise. Her husband would tell her she was just being paranoid, but she knew he was thinking the same thing. It wasn't like they were particularly well-liked or respected; they could be taken care of with just a mere nod.
But it was during that summer that her worst fear became a reality. Her son had joined them. It was even with a stipulation! If he didn't do what they wanted him to do, he and his parents would be killed. Oh how she cried that night, silently of course, because this great "honor" that had been bestowed on her family wasn't something to cry over. Over and over she thought about how she would have gladly given her own life to make sure that her son didn't have to join them. Or she would rather do her son's mission herself than bear the knowledge of what her only child, her dear son had to do. It pained her so much she cried herself to sleep almost every night—at least on the nights she could go to sleep.
It was some time the next year that that question popped up more often. It was after they failed to capture their enemies when they were right in the palms of their hands. They would be yelled at, assaulted, and hurt for their incompetence. Sometimes, she didn't even care enough to cry. She would stare vacantly at something like she was trying to go back to a different time. There were times where she felt so close to slipping away that that question would slowly stop echoing, and dull down to a faint whisper of a thought. Would today be her last day?
It was May of 1998. That was the last day that that question echoed through her head. It was a dark, foul-smelling night in the woods. She was, for some unknown reason, given the task of checking the pulse of their thought-to-be dead enemy. The dead leaves from the previous fall cracked and crinkled under her weight. She hesitated, her hands trembling in the springtime weather. She could barely hear anything over her own heavy, scared breathing. She touched his skin—their enemy's skin—expecting the cold touch of a dead body. Instead, it was warm. She felt for his heartbeat, and the fast rhythm of a heart pounded against her hand.
This was what she needed. She didn't look back to her companions. She bent down, and in the softest whisper she could manage, she asked, "Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?" The person answered back with a soft "yes." Her son was alive; her son was still alive. She could've collapsed into tears at that moment! But she kept her composure, hiding her elatedness as she sat up and announced to everyone, "He is dead!" As everyone—nearly everyone—yelled with triumph and celebration, that question went through her head again. Would today be her last day? She had lied; there was no way around it. If he could read her face, her mind, and tell that she was lying, she would be dead within a matter of moments. But he didn't; he was too busy feeling triumphant over his supposed victory over his seventeen year old adversary.
She didn't waste her time to alert her husband of her treachery. She told him everything, and an arrangement had been made there. When they returned to the burning castle, she searched the crowd of people for her son. She saw him, and all of her concerns were washed away. That's all that mattered to her: that her son was alive.
However, all of her concerns came rushing back when it was revealed that their enemy was in fact alive and that she had lied. The battle continued as she and her husband tried to defend themselves against their now enemies. They protected themselves, and they protected their former enemies, now allies, all the while moving closer to their son. They reunited in the midst of the exploding, burning castle and the raging battle. They did their best to protect themselves and whoever, but moved away to somewhere, anywhere they could find safety.
It was after the battle was finally over. It was like this dark, heavy veil was lifted off her. It was done. Everything was done. Though she mourned the loss of her sister—her once so beautiful, intelligent, and proud sister—she couldn't help but be happy that everything was over. Celebrations took place in the hall amongst the fallen. It was obvious they were out of place; it was up until the second half of the battle that they were considered the enemy. In fact, for many they were still considered the enemy.
Many considered them cowards, cowards that were better off dead. But those people didn't understand what she had gone through. The endless torture—part mental, part physical—that she went through over the course of that year. She was pureblood, yes, so she didn't deal with the trouble the half-bloods or Mudbloods did. But the excruciating pain she went through was enough for a lifetime: the threat of death with her every breath, at her every step down the hallway, with every bat of an eyelash; the banging on the door and the malnourished screams from the prisoners held in their dungeon; the countless murders that took place before her eyes; and the wasting away from depression and fear.
That question echoing through her head every, single day of that year. Would today be her last day? Or would it be tomorrow? Or the next? Or the next? Or the next? Would anyone ever understand? No, they probably wouldn't. Would anyone care to understand? No, they probably wouldn't. Would anyone care to look passed her high-nosed, pale skin, pale hair, pureblooded façade, and see the real, hurt soul underneath? No, probably not. But one thing is for sure: that question was never going to echo through her head again.