The world blurred back into clarity, like the start of an old film. She blinked and what was once black became red. Red. So much red. She shook her head and stared down. Red, on her hands. Why were her hands red? She reached up to touch her head, which span and throbbed. Something warm and wet spread itself across her forehead. What was happening to her? She looked down. The dress she wore, a white, cotton thing, was stained. The colour was vivid and alarming, drops of it weaving their way into the lace.

She looked up, just a little, and saw where everything was coming from. A dog, a white dog, small and frail, lay in front of her tucked up knees. Its breath was short and laboured, tiny, pitiful noises coming from somewhere inside. Its eyes had rolled back in its head and they stare up at her. Blood spilled from a gash that ripped through the dog's side. It matted the fur, the substance running to the ground; a swirling, dirty mix of red, brown and white.

A rock, sharp and filthy, was beside the animal. She could not remember what she had done. She closed her eyes, shutting out the scene before her, and tried to think back. She remembered seeing the dog, running through the trees at the bottom of the garden. She remembered wanting to hold it, to have it, to love it. She remembered feeling so angry when the animal cowered and did not want to love her. And then there was nothing. And now there was a rock, a dying dog and so much red.

The dog was shaking and she felt every tremour convulse through her body. Had she hurt this creature, this poor innocent thing? She pulled it forward, hugging it to her own shivering body. Maybe she could keep it warm, maybe she could make it better. She rocked, holding it closer. The red could be washed out, she told herself, it could all be white once more.

"Alecto?"

Alecto Carrow looks up. Her big, grey eyes dart around the room. Everyone is staring at her. The room is dark, shadows paint the floorboards and cold laces the air. A long, dark wood table is in the centre and she sits at it, along with many other dark and cold and terrible people. She glances around once more. The garden is gone; it was a dream, a mere thought.

She stands and moves away from the table.

"Excuse me, my Lord." she says, her voice faint and emotionless, and she walks with quick strides out into a dark hall.

Then she runs. And she does not stop until she has reached a bathroom. She bends over the sink, gasping for air. She turns on the tap and desperately starts to wash her hands. For the garden is not a dream. It is not even a nightmare. Alecto remembers every detail from that day in her childhood. The little dog did not get better. It had died, scared and weak, in her arms. She had buried it, her hands and dress still wet from the blood.

Alecto hated herself for that day. She hated how she had hurt something that had never hurt her. She hated what she discovered was locked inside herself. She hated how she still couldn't even remember picking up the rock. But she still felt it. It felt wrong. Killing muggles, what she was doing now, was different. They were filth who had defiled and degraded her people. They deserved to die. The dog, however, was pure in a way that no human could ever be. When she killed it, her own innocence and purity died with it.

The water runs over her hands and she continues to scrub. Her hands are raw, but she knows they will never be clean. There is still blood, blood she must forget. She looks in the mirror. The woman that stands there bares no resemblance to the girl in the garden. Long, black, Death Eater robes clothe her person, sinister, unkind, and she likes it that way. Black is all she wears now. She has not, will not, can not wear white anymore.

White should be clean. It should shine. It should be pure like angels and bright like snow. But Alecto can not look at white without seeing splashes of red. She can not look without seeing the dog and the way it stared at her. She can not look at white without feeling sick and angry. And she will never forget. She does not remember and she can not forget. It will haunt her, always:

Red, rock, dog, garden, dead.

White.