"Make the most of your regrets; never smother your sorrow, but tend and cherish it till it comes to separate and integral interests. To regret deeply is to live afresh."

Henry David Thoreau

The woman stared waiting outside until the boy came with the Headmaster. An aged wizard, tall and thin with twinkling blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles and a long hair and beard, and a young student, also thin with startling emerald-green eyes also behind spectacles- this time round- and with dismayingly untidy black hair. She could smile at not only the contrast but the similarities.

But this was no doubt, the Boy who Lived. The son of Lily and James.

She owed him this.

Wearily, she closed her eyes until she was sure they were in the room. She stood to greet them.

Harry started. The woman in front was astounding in many ways. The first thing he noticed was her beauty. She was very pale, her skin the colour of finest white milk, and equally smooth, which was a stark contrast to her hair- a lustrous deep black, like a river of polished obsidian, and it even looked like liquid, with a headpiece of white beads woven in. She was also richly dressed; in a black coat with a thick cloak made of black feathers- hundreds of them- and strawberry-red boots with silver embroidery.

Harry was puzzled. What was the reason for Dumbledore taking him here? And who was this woman.

"Ah, Lady Athelinda," Dumbledore greeted warmly. "I was beginning to think you'd lost your way."

"Hardly," the lady replied. Her eyes fixed on Harry; a black like shining jet. Her features were exquisitely delicate and reminded Harry of a snowflake. He felt suddenly shabby and untidy next to this witch and wished at least that he'd followed Hermione's example and used Sleekeazy's Hair Potion.

The lady walked over slowly, not once taking her eyes off Harry. He felt even more uneasy, not knowing what this woman wanted from him.

"This is the boy?" she asked softly. "No, please don't answer that. I don't need to see the scar to find out and I trust that you won't bring me anyone using Polyjuice Potion, although that Death Eater was particularly successful in fooling everyone."

"Yes," Dumbledore said heavily. He did not deny it.

The woman- Athelinda, kept her eyes on Harry once again, before turning. "Please," she gestured with a delicate white hand to the comfortable-looking sofa. Harry felt relieved. After nearly an hour walking in the cold after apparition (Dumbledore had refused to use magic to transport them directly to here), he was happy to sit and see a roaring fire.

Two crystal goblets floated towards Harry and Dumbledore and immediately filled with honey-coloured liquid. "Mead," Athelinda murmured, without even looking at them. "Oak-matured, Madam Rosmerta's. I hope you'll enjoy." She sat down.

Harry took the glass and felt the sweet rush of liquid filling his mouth as well as the rush of warmth that came after.

"Now," she said after they had drunk their fill. "To business, then Dumbledore?"

Dumbledore smiled. "You know yourself, what you have volunteered."

She closed her eyes. "I know," she said heavily. "But please believe me when I say, that after more than fifty years of keeping silent, it is still far from easy to speak it all."

Harry was startled. Fifty years? This woman couldn't have been more than thirty.

Dumbledore sighed. "Well then, may I suggest that you start at the beginning? It's a good place as any."

"I'm sorry," Harry said. "Er-professor, you didn't exactly-"

"Oh," Dumbledore momentarily looked startled then amused. "My dear boy, surely you must know what the pattern of this particular lesson would be, based on all the previous lessons you've gleaned?"

Harry was confounded. "Well… I thought sir, that…"

Dumbledore shook his head, blue eyes twinkling with amusement. But then he grew serious.

"Perhaps it would be better for the lady Athelinda to be the one to tell you."

"First things first," the lady said. Her black eyes sharpened. "Tell me what happened that night."

Harry recoiled. He knew what she was talking about. She shook her head.

"I know what it is that makes you wish to forget it," she said. "But the things that I am about to tell you are no less painful and traumatic for me. Your bear shame for Cedric Diggory, and you were not even to blame. I bear shame for many things- and although he never branded me, I shall never escape the danger, the guilt, the shame and the pain that I shall always carry with me to the grave."

"What are you talking about?" Harry demanded. "Professor- what's going on?"

"Calm, Harry please," Dumbledore sighed. "This is going to be much more difficult than any sane being can imagine."

Harry was about to say something, but closed his mouth again. In front of them, the lady, Athelinda regarded them quietly, her eyes filled with an emotion which seemed haunted.

"Your pain for mine, Harry Potter," she whispered. "And then I shall reveal the secrets not even Death Eaters know."

Startled Harry looked at Dumbledore. The look he received

Bracing himself, Harry began to tell the story of the Third Task, the death of Cedric Diggory and Voldemort's revival.

All the while she watched, emotionless, save for a single tear that rolled from her eye.

"So he really is back," she whispered, putting her head in her hands.

"Did you doubt me in the least?" Dumbledore asked.

She gave a harsh laugh. "No, but…" she pressed her lips together. "Only he would have come up with magic as twisted and foul as this."

Harry felt a chill down his spine. "You know him?"

"I thought I knew him," Athelinda looked up. "And then I woke up with a slap to the face and got to know the monster behind the man."

Harry couldn't move. "Does this mean…" he remembered something she said. "You knew him," he stated. "Fifty years ago."

"Fifty-four years ago, that was when I met him," she corrected. "I was in Hogwarts with him."

Harry couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He could sense himself getting excited.

She took a deep breath and sighed. "Yes," she said softly. "Pain for pain. I only ask- no, I beg for one thing."

"What?" Harry asked, momentarily distracted and alarmed.

"That before you judge me, listen and hear my story," she whispered. "As I've said, I have more reason to be ashamed, then you. I may not have been branded with that sign, but Tom Riddle has left his mark in my heart and soul."

Harry didn't know what to say.

"Now hear my story."