Disjointed

by Dustbunnyprophet

What is a memory, but a shadow of a life once lived? When the past coils around you and the knowledge of what is to come drowns you in your own helplessness, when the choice is taken from you, what is there to be done, but survive? My name was Mary MacDonald and I am lost. A story of time and memory, of guilt and silence, of friendship and love.

Prologue

-In Ink-

Thetford, 27th July 1999

The 27th of July, a date I would remember for the rest of my life. A date that has thrice marked my life. So it is only befitting, I suppose, that I start on this perilous task on the same date.

The 27th-s of July changed my life. Thrice has everything I have known and loved been ripped away from me on a warm and sunny 27th of July. Thrice have I been forced to open my unwilling eyes and learn to breathe again.

Breathing. Your chest raises and air enters your lungs. So simple it seems, and yet so hard. When the feeble walls of your sanity start to collapse and your throat closes from the sheer amount of unshed tears, well then, even breathing becomes an impossible task. But I have breathed again, always somehow I have breathed again. And patched those crumbling walls, praying whichever deity is out there for us, to lend me that one more ounce of strength to keep moving forward.

At the very same time I forever felt and still feel the pull of those memories and I stumble now like I stumbled before. Those accursed memories. The most beloved of my memories. It would be so easy to lose myself in them, to simply replay them over and over in my mind. But I will not become my mother, lost in her own mind. I cannot become my mother. While too often throughout the years have I forfeited the fight when I was to struggle, this is one battle I cannot lose. I will not desecrate the bitter-sweet memory of those I have lost by spending the rest of my days perched on a simple wooden chair by a window, watching the grey empty street underneath like her. My beautiful mother. Broken.

After all these years I have known the truth, I still feel that same scorching anger when I remind myself it was Them who have done it to her. They, in they pride and cecity have shattered her sanity. Had they not been dead already, I sometimes feel I could kill them myself. It would not be the first blood on my hand. Even if the memory of that one life I have taken is hardly a burden. It is the events that have preceded his gruesome demise that plague me far more.

So much loss. I understand my mother. It has been a long time since she had been lucid enough to speak to me, but even in her absence she is my anchor. It takes one single look at her vacant hazel eyes to remind me why I must not surrender. No matter how taxing it is to ponder on every single of my actions, emotions or memory. Never losing control. Never overlooking even the tiniest little habit I develop, for fear it may sway the precarious balance I have created. My life is blissful and empty routine, but it is the only way I can live it now.

It used to be different, it did. And it is for the recounting of those memories that I have taken hold of my quill today. Mine. And theirs, their memories so painstakingly collected. My hand shakes as I ready myself to truly begin this tale. It is a very dangerous path I'm treading. Penning these burdensome recollections could become the undoing of everything I'm trying to preserve. And yet there is a recklessness in me that has never left me, and it urges me to dip this quill in the ink again, for the slim chance it will be a tad easier to breathe when the loud silence of my mind is broken and the memories grow flesh in the parchment and ink. Perhaps then the gnawing emptiness in my chest will ease.

*
The old longcase clock in the back of the parlour ticked tiredly. Mary was standing quietly near the hearth with her shoulders hunched. She gazed dejectedly at the rugged floor beneath her feet, shuffling them nervously every now and then. From behind her dark fringe she could see her Grandmother's unmoving shadow cast on the pale carpet. She lifted her head and pushed her hair away from her face. It was silly to feel so dejected, but she could not help it. To her left, stiffly, stood Grandmother Florence. She was eyeing Mary with her thin lips pursed while she waited patiently for her Portkey to activate. Every once in a while she would cast an imperceptible glance to the clock behind Mary.

The girl looked closely at her Grandmother, trying to commit every detail to memory. She wouldn't see her for the next month and a half, and that was a veritably long time, especially during the summer. She scanned her face, trying to remember every line, every shade. Her fingers already itched to transfer what she was seeing in parchment. She could already picture her Grandmother's features drawn in dark charcoal.

Mary loved sketching. It was her favourite pastime. It was also her way of coping with loneliness. Throughout the years she had filled notebooks and notebooks with portraits. Her mother, her late Grandfather, her friends. She looked at her Grandmother. She had always been the easiest to draw, what with her straight edges and neat features. Everything about her spoke of propriety and order, from the straightness of her back to her perfectly combed hair. There wasn't a single tendril escaping the tight bun. Her cheekbones were high and while there were many wrinkles on her face, they were arrayed in an impossible symmetry. However, there was something charcoal could not relay, something that, to Mary's dismay, was the most defining attribute: her eyes. A light shade of blue, icy and piercing, dusted with grey. In every twitch of the irises they reflected who Florence Avery was. Those eyes that had the power to make anyone, feel lessened under their sharp gaze. Those eyes that seemed to cut through flesh and bone, withering all on their path.

A light cough drew her attention back and she blinked twice. Her Grandmother stood stiffly, eyeing her with pursed lips. Mary looked sheepishly at the tall witch, discomfort seeping through every pore. Grandmother Florence's cold eyes fastened on hers and Mary bit the inside of her cheek again, bowing her head. She took a deep breath.

"Mary, I trust you know what must be done." she said rigidly. Mary swallowed. She knew what she had to do, to say, but doing it would truly make it real. For a brief moment she wished she could run to her room and bury herself in her pillows, while her Grandmother departed. But, as always, Grandmother Florence expected her to behave properly. She nodded.

"Yes, Grandmother." she replied. There was no escaping her duty, she had to act like any decent Pureblood witch would. Only Mary was no Pureblood. She grimaced slightly recalling how often she was reminded of that particular condition. She sighed dejectedly. In spite of - or perhaps precisely because of the filthiness of Mary's blood her Grandmother believed she had to be nothing but utmostly well-behaved. So for the twelve and a half years Mary had been living with her Grandparents, Florence Avery had imparted her Half-blood granddaughter lessons on manners, poise, propriety and whatnot. And Mary had repeated, over and over, the right motions, the right words, but always failed to please her Grandmother. No matter how hard she tried, it was not in her nature and her Grandmother knew as much. She could never be like her Mother had been, beautiful and Pureblooded. Mary felt her hands grow wet with moisture as nervousness overtook her completely. She was never, and never would be, good enough.

The elderly witch watched her sternly, her light blue eyes lingering on Mary's yellow blouse. It was wrinkled, she knew it, she had not been careful enough when pulling it on. Self-consciously she tried to smooth the wrinkles with her hands, only succeeding in crumpling it more. Finally she dared to meet her Grandmother's gaze, but the witch had already turned her attention elsewhere, looking at the clock behind Mary.

Removing an invisible speck of dust from her elegant grey robes she extracted a golden charm from her pocket and spoke in a clear voice

"Mary, it is time."

She took a deep breath, trying not to think of the fact her Grandmother was leaving her alone for the whole summer with no one but the House-Elves in Avery House. Mary straightened her back, mimicking her Grandmother's composure and nodded simply.

"I wish You a safe trip, Grandmother. Please give my regards to the Letueur family. If you would also be so kind to congratulate cousin Antoinette for her betrothal, I would be most grateful. I shall await Your return on August 30th." she recited the rehearsed farewell, happy her voice didn't quiver.

"Farewell, Mary."

A heartbeat later the Portkey activated and all of a sudden Mary was left alone. She slouched her shoulders and sat heavily on the sofa, grabbing a burgundy cushion and hugging it tightly. She would not cry, she told herself, Grandmother never approved of it. But Grandmother was not around, a voice in her head reminded her, she left for France. Left her alone. Mary felt her throat constrict and swallowed hardly. She was gone for two months and Mary had to stay at home. Because Mary was unfit to visit their French relatives. Nor any other for the most part. She was the odd relative. The filthy Half-blood, some called her. She knew they did. She knew she was one.

A tear escaped from the corner of her eye and she wiped it angrily. She should be grateful to her Grandmother, she scolded herself. After her Muggle father had died and her Mother had gotten ill it had been her Grandparents who had raised her. She felt more tears threaten to fall, but she was determined not to cry. Blinking them back she released her vice-like grip on the puffy red cushion and pushed herself on her feet. She had duties to attend to. No time like the present, she thought, after all there was a whole summer to fill.

*

The silence of her home was deafening. She could hear the intake and outtake of her own breaths as she paced aimlessly down the empty corridors of the manor. The faces of her ancestors in the portraits lining the walls had not uttered a single word since her Grandmother's departure. Mary could see them set their mouths in thin lines of disapproval whenever she would turn her bespectacled glance at them. She had long stopped caring about it, their disdain being her constant companion from the very first moment she had set foot in Avery House. However, in the endlessly stretching days of solitude, she longed for them to say anything. Even a scathing remark on her unfitness would be better than the the deafening silence that suffocated her. Mary wished so badly to hear another person's voice, something, anything. But the only reply to her plea were the muffled sounds of her footsteps on the carpeted floor.

The first week of July had dragged on with a snail's pace. It had taken Mary the full amount of five days to finish all her homework and one whole day to write the letters to the owners of the Diagon Alley shops to place her orders for the books and school supplies she needed for her 5th year at Hogwarts. Then she had spent one more day reading the Fifi LaFolle novel Charlotte, her dorm-mate, had gotten her for the past Christmas. She had even found enough time to write and send said schoolmate a letter in which, amongst other things, she asked the good-natured Gryffindor girlnot to gift her with any more fluffy novels of the sorts. She had, in fact managed to fill her days so fully she had been almost able to pretend this summer could pass quickly enough and no sooner she would be boarding the Hogwarts Express. The nervousness and the knotting of her stomach had disappeared and she had gone through her daily motions with an unprecedented serenity.

But by noon of the 8th of July it had all come crashing down, as the most dreaded thing had come to pass. Mary had felt bored, and utterly so. She had felt the grisly cold fingers of desperation grip her neck as she had realised with horror she had nothing to do for the next seven and a half weeks, nothing at all.

So she was strolling numbly through the corridors of Avery House, idly watching the beautiful portraits that hung on the walls. Reaching the first and widest landing on the staircase she started to follow the seemingly endless trail of family portraits, from the oldest ancestors clad in tunics and chain mail, through the ones in wide frilly gowns and wigs, all the way towards the most recent late members of her family, her great-grandparents and Grandfather Gilbert. Predictably, as always, they stood silent while she passed them by, erupting in low murmurs the second she went out of their line of sight.

After a while Mary reached the Western Wing. Her heart lurched slightly. She loved this corridor. Hanging on the light stone walls were countless of marvellously painted landscapes which depicted places possible only in one's dreams. Impossible skies above lands unbefitting plain wizards and endless seas pushing over the brim of the world. Their strokes were so lifelike Mary would, sometimes, feel the imaginary wind that rustled the leaves of the mythical trees and the calls of creatures impossible for even magic to conceive. She wished her hand were that talented. While her schoolmates praised her sketches, Mary knew there was no life to them. They were lifelike perhaps, but still crude and lacking.

The light filtered through the curtained window at the end of the corridor setting aflame the dust that clung in the air. She frowned. Taking a closer look to the frame of the painting before her she noticed there was a layer of fine grime on it. She spun around herself taking in the general state of abandonment the corridor was in. The flowers in the great porcelain vase were dead, the rug was filthy. She didn't understand. Why weren't the House-Elves cleaning this corridor?

Then - like the lighting that sometimes creased the sky in the Hyperuranium painting that hung further down the corridor, shattering the shapeless shapes into smithereens - realisation struck her. This was the corridor leading to her Grandfather's study. Mary inhaled sharply. Ever since he had passed away in Autumn, Mary's Grandmother had banned anyone from setting foot in it.

She stood petrified for a moment, fear creeping down her spine. She was not supposed to be there. If her Grandmother were to find out she had trespassed into that corridor she would be most severe in her punishment. Mary was frantically looking around herself trying to assess whether she had left any visible trace when she stopped in her tracks once again. A nervous laugh escaped her lips. Wide-eyed, she realised no one would know she had been here, since no one would come there in the first place!

Then an idea formed in her mind, quickly becoming a foolish urge that overtook her. It was reckless she knew, but, why not? Casting a glance behind her shoulder to make sure there were no House-Elves at the far end of the corridor, she took a tentative step towards the dark wooden door of Grandfather's study. She shouldn't be doing this, it was forbidden. Mary felt a mixture of fear and elation as her hand grabbed the brass doorknob. She was about to break the greatest of rules in her household, but she knew this was a unique chance to satiate her decade-long curiosity. She felt her heart beat faster. Mary had never been allowed in Grandfather's chamber, no one but himself had ever been, not even Uncle Philip. She knew well the consequences of her actions would be most dire if she were caught, but the Sorting Hat had placed her in Gryffindor for a reason...

The loud click of the door opening echoed in the empty corridor. It wasn't locked. Her Grandmother was so certain of her discipline she hadn't needed seal the room. Mary's hands started sweating. Pushing the heavy door open, she stepped in. The large room was dimly lit, the scarce sunlight blocked by heavy brocade curtains hanging stiffly before the windows on the far wall. To her left was a large fireplace, flanked by two massive wooden bookcases, brimming with large tomes. Across the room stood a large desk, cluttered with objects and in middle, facing the hearth were a pair of armchairs with a small table in between. Taking another step inside the study, she turned and gingerly closed the door behind her. There was a slight chill in the room and she pulled down the sleeves of her blouse, hugging her body. She felt a mixture of excitement and fear wash over her. She was in her Grandfather's study.

Mary's footsteps were muffled by a dark thick rug as she advanced further in the room, drinking in her surroundings. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of the stale air and without thinking she strode to the windows and pulling back a heavy curtain, she opened one. The warm summer air hit her and for a long moment she stood with her eyes closed, bathing in the sunlight. Opening her eyes she turned around. And gaped.

It was magnificent! All the furniture was carved out of the same polished mahogany wood, while the rug and curtains were a deep midnight blue lined with silver. It was all so dark and yet so homely. She fell in love with that room on that very moment, with the worn spots of the rug, where feet had paced it over and over, with the jagged edge of the windowsill, with every single little detail her eyes could take in. She loved the sense of intimacy it gave her. This room spoke to her of a life lived. It was, unlike every other room in Avery House, the reflection of someone's personality, rather than a statement of wealth.

Like her Grandfather, his study was dark and forbidding, yet comfortable. No painting lined the walls. In their stead, framed on the walls were maps and lineage trees and above the hearth an old engraving of their family crest. It was carved in stone and its lower half was completely covered by a row of small leather tomes that were lined on the mantelpiece. In their middle was a small glass case containing a single black stone. Curious, she stepped closer to the fireplace. The small books had a battered air to them and her interest piqued further. It was uncanny for any book belonging to Grandfather to be anything other than perfectly preserved. He had always been very careful with his books, often treating them with greater respect than he paid to other wizards. She lightly trailed her index finger on the ridges of the books, randomly pulling one out. It was light brown tome, without any inscription on its worn leather covers. The edges of the yellowing pages were ragged and she noticed an ink smudge on one of the corners. Unable to resist her curiosity she opened the covers.

The first page was an empty expanse of parchment broken only by a tiny inscription in faded ink. Her heart skipped a beat as she recognised her Grandfather's neat calligraphy: "1964-66, Gilbert J. Avery". She flipped the next page and started to read:

"January 1st, 1964. Another year has begun. Florence and I were invited to Mortimer Mansion for a New Year ball and I must admit I feel quite pleased with the event. Adalbert knows how to entertain. I had even considered bringing Annette with us, the forging of the right acquaintances being paramount at her age. She is nine years old already.
Florence, however, disagreed with me feeling she would only be a nuisance. I fail to understand my wife's logic, Abraxas brought his son who is only a year older than Annette is..."

She sat on one of the armchairs as she continued reading, enraptured by her Grandfather's memories. A small part of her tried to remind herself she was reading his journal, probably the most forbidden item amongst all that was forbidden in that room.

"March 15th, 1964. Summons were held last night. It was in perfect harmony with our accustomed routine, despite the increase in numbers. Five more faithful joined us..."

*

Mary had read throughout the day and most of the evening, until her eyes had gotten sore and she had needed to remove her glasses. Rubbing her eyes she had gotten to bed that night feeling eager to continue reading. And she had. First thing in the morning she had resumed her reading and for days to no end she had kept devouring page after yellowed page of journal entries, going through tomes of leather-bound journals. She had to admit there were many things she did not understand, but it was fascinating nonetheless.

It was someone's life, Mary pondered as she sipped her cup of afternoon tea on the balcony ten days later, trying to draw a portrait of her Grandfather. The journals were close to having someone's soul poured on parchment and shaped in ink. It was a silent voice, talking to her through the worn parchment. It was her Grandfather. Mary smiled. She looked at the discarded piece of charcoal on the table near her sketch. She grimaced slightly. It wasn't good enough. It was so difficult to draw someone from memory, especially when it had been almost a year since she had last seen him. The only thing she was happy about so far was his expression. Somehow she had managed to convey it. It was all undefined lines and smudged shadows. His eyebrows slightly furrowed in a thoughtful expression, framing a pair of dark eyes that seemed to understand more than they let out.

Grandfather Gilbert had always been a distant figure in Mary's life. He had been stern and imposing. He had been a person that inspired fear and respect. But, as family, Mary had never truly known him.

It was difficult to catch someone's soul with charcoal when they had hid themselves so well. She sighed. At least, until this summer she had thought she had known who he had been and what he had done. But as she read, she began to realise she had never even known anythingabout him. And suddenly drawing him became more difficult than it had been in the past. Who was Gilbert Avery?

Putting the delicate china cup down on its saucer she opened the 1975 journal she had started reading that morning. It was a darker one, she recalled, filled with things she didn't understand. That was why she had interrupted her reading to draw. She had needed to put things into perspective. In some moments, while she read, it had seemed to Mary what she was reading implied things, things she wasn't sure how to define. It was preposterous she knew, but the thought lingered. So she had tried sketching, but that, however, had not helped. Quite the contrary, it had confused Mary all the more. Not being able to grasp his face, made him even more volatile. Who was her Grandfather, she wondered for the umpteenth time?

Mary was almost certain the half-formed ideas she got from her reading, were due to her her wrong perception. But there was a gnawing doubt. A doubt she tried once again to banish, cursing herself for even considering such silly ideas. Still, some facts were undeniable. Like the things her Grandfather had written about her mother, which were really worrisome. Mary flipped back a few pages until she found the passage that had bothered her all afternoon:

"3rd of April 1975. [...]Annette is missing. I have tried to find her by means of magic, but so far no results..."

What did it mean? Her mother had gone missing? It was strange. Mary decided to keep reading on. She was seriously tempted to skip all the entries that recounted various social gatherings, in order to get to those entries that talked about the mysterious disappearance, since it piqued her interest more than anything she had read so far.

If her Grandfather was a mystery to her, her mother was a total stranger. Mary had been nigh three years old when her father had died and with him had also gone her mother's sanity. Annette MacDonald did not even recognize her when she came to visit. Her Grandparents had always been very tight-lipped about her. Since she had done the unforgivable decision of marrying a Muggle, her mother was a topic to be avoided at all cost. Thus Mary was left with barely any knowledge at all about her parents. Reading Grandfather Gilbert's diaries had at least allowed her to collect tidbits about her mother and she considered them precious. And now she found out Annette had gone missing in 1975, three years before Mary was born.

She cast a look on her unfinished drawing. It was tempting to focus only on her mother. But it would also be very selfish. And unfair. She had wanted to understand her Grandfather, wasn't that the reason she had so boldly violated his privacy in the first place? Mary was certain he had never intended for those diaries to be read by anyone but himself. She had intruded into something that was meant to be left in peace. She felt she owed it to his memory to respect the order in which he had written them. If he had recounted something, he must have considered it important, after all. Her mother was just an added bonus.

Besides, she mused while observing a squirrel run up a branch of the elder tree planted in front of the balcony, so far she had truly read each and every entry, even those so enigmatic she hadn't been able to understand the meaning of what she had read. Like the entries that spoke ofsummons and the Knights of Walpurgis, whatever that meant. It wouldn't be right to start skipping through the pages.

Three hours later she was yawning over a meticulous recounting of the Christmas Eve Feast the Mulcibers had held in 1975. It was, in all honesty, just a detailed list of names and statuses, records of tidbits of gossip. Things that must have meant a lot to her Grandfather, but meant nothing to her. And there had been no mention whatsoever of her mother in the span of a whole year. Where had she been? It was frustrating.

*

She awoke the next day feeling exhausted. It had been almost a fortnight since she had entered her Grandfather's study and started reading his journals. She sluggishly peeled herself out of her canopied bed and stretched her arms. Her eyes were strained from all the reading and her whole body ached to move. Mary decided she needed a pause. Today she was going to do something different.

As she ate her breakfast she pondered what could she do. Glancing outside the window she considered taking a stroll in the gardens, but on second thought she decided it was too hot outside. Perhaps later. She sipped her tea and tried to figure some way to entertain herself that did not involve reading her Grandfather's journals, but it was difficult. It was already the 22nd of July and her Grandmother was going to return in little over a month. And that meant she had very little time to finish reading the journals. And to explore his study, she mused. She stood up from her chair and strode purposefully towards the West Wing. Since the first moment she had stepped in that room she had focused solely on his journals, disregarding all the other things that lay scattered in the room.

Cautiously she entered the study. She stopped for a moment, wondering where to begin. Then, she walked towards his desk and decided to seat herself. She felt so small on the large padded chair. It was meant for someone bigger than her, like her Grandfather had been. Nevertheless it offered her a unique view of the whole room. It almost felt as if she was sitting in the middle of a small universe. All the maps and lineage trees lining the walls were perfectly visible, all the books, all the decorations. There was a a crystal orb on the desk to her left, and in the same line of sight, behind it, near the door was a large porcelain urn decorated with old runes. She got up from the chair and inspected the blue china. It was beautiful. Above it, on the wall was a old map of Wizarding Britain, marvellously drawn to show all the important places, with tiny notes describing them. A bit farther on the wall, in the corners were a pair of chandeliers, filled with a dozen enchanted candles waited for darkness to light themselves.

Turning around herself, Mary realised the room was filled with marvellous objects. Scatterd around the various surfaces of the room where a Remembrall, several Foe-Glasses, a Sneakoscope, a withered looking hand she remembered Prof. Lupin telling them in a lesson it was called Hand of Glory, a Lunascope and many others. And beneath the family tree on the wall, perched on a narrow table was a small Pensieve. The basin was dull in its emptiness. Mary smiled to herself. Her grandfather seemed to prefer journals. Instinctively she turned her gaze to the mantelpiece where they laid, flanking that odd stone she didn't recognize.

It was placed in a glass case, a single small black stone, rough, almost like a piece of coal. It seemed so common it was uncanny. Mary took a step closer and reached with her fingers, touching the glass. She was certain it was no ordinary stone. There was something about the object itself, something she could quite put a finger on.
She wondered what it was. There were no tags, nor had her Grandfather so far mentioned in his entries anything that fit that description. And it was encased, unlike any other object in the room. It was puzzling. Her hands moved on their own accord, reaching for the glass. The stone was so small, it would fit in her fist. Mary wondered what would happen if she took it out of its case.

She took hold of the glass and began to lift it, only to stop dead in her tracks. Are you completely daft?! she scolded herself. Touching an unknown magical object without knowing what it did was something not even a First year did! She shook her head, feeling her eyes widen and took a step back. Four years of Defence Against the Dark Arts should have thought her better! What had she been thinking?

It was a stupid idea, yet there was something inside her telling her it was the right thing to do, to take that stone out. She shook her head, banishing the thought with force. She didn't know what it was, it could be something dangerous. But the curiosity was gnawing at her. She was sure that if the touched it, she would understand it... She blinked several times. No.

Trying with all her might not to think about it, she turned on her heel and left the room.

*

Three days later Mary was laying on the soft duvet that covered her bed, staring into nothingness. Her fingers were picking idly at the small golden strings that adorned the decorative cushions tossed beside her. She was musing on what she had read. There was a deep unease settled in her stomach, a creeping sense of foreboding she was unable to banish

She had read all her way through year 1976, carefully combing through all the entries. There hadn't been a single one concerning her Mother or her Father, even though she was fairly certain in wouldn't be long before their wedding had to take place. No, there had been only descriptions of events she was not able to understand.

With each page she had read there had been more and more strange entries. Mary thought there was something almost ominous in them, something uncomfortably dark. It had been veiled at first, but as she had neared the end of the tome it had gotten more and more obvious, almost ad if her Grandfather had begun throwing caution to the wind.

She turned on her back placing a cushion under her head and stared at the small flowers that were embroidered on the canopy of her bed. There had been pages and pages filled with narrations of those mysterious gatherings that she had already read about in the previous journals. But now those "summons" had seemed to expand, as odd rituals were added to them, she recalled frowning. And while before they had taken place in parlours and gardens, now they had taken on a ghastlier choice of settings. Settings her Grandfather's descriptions made very vivid in her mind and which sent shivers down Mary's back. There was also something else, she thought deepening her frown. That slight changes in his choice of words. That was perhaps the most puzzling and worrisome at the same time.

While Grandfather Gilbert had always been biased towards anyone who was not a Pureblood, which was something Mary knew too well, he had never openly used disdainful terms to speak about people like her or, even worse, wizards and witches who had exclusively Muggle parentage. But now, instead of his accustomed mild disgust, there was open contempt, even something that could be easily mistaken for plain hatred. Mary frowned. Lifting herself from the bed she began pacing her room.

Instead of understanding him better, the more she read, the more confused she grew about him. She was unable to explain what she had read, but at the same time there was an explanation. It was a simple one, but she couldn't entertain the thought. She leaned on the windowsill. The implications... No, she stopped herself. Her Grandfather had been a good man. Despite her lacking lineage her Grandparents had taken her in when there had been no one else, she had to be nothing but grateful to them both. And prejudicing her Grandfather was veritably not a way to show gratitude.

She watched her reflection in the window. Her hair was all askew and her blue eyes looked haunted. It was easy to decide it, but the doubt still lingered. She needed to know more.

*

Several hours later Gilbert's study was in semi-darkness. A few enchanted candles had lit themselves when dusk had drained all light from the room, but there was no fire in the hearth. Mary sat in one of the armchairs, her legs knotted together and her hands holding a journal in a vice-like grip. She found it hard to breath.

"9th of April, 1977. I am tired, exhausted even, but I must pen these memories whilst still fresh in my mind. Tonight I led the raid at the Grey's House. As hoped both the blood-traitors, Jonathan and Hera, were home with their daughters as well. I killed Jonathan first "

Mary sat petrified. Her eyes were wide in horror, but she could not stop the words from forming sentences and burning themselves in he mind. "and made the blood-traitor bitch watch as the Lestrange boy cast the Cruciatus on the younger of her daughters, Calliope. She tried to close her eyes but I charmed them open. Those large hazel eyes, full of fear..."

She wanted to close her own eyes, but if she did she was sure she would see their faces. "The delight is beyond description." Mary wanted to retch, but instead she kept reading.

"...but what elicited the greatest joy in me, as well as the greatest wrath in that moment, was when the older daughter, Ariadne, tried to curse me with her late mother's wand. The little imp had the cheek of casting a Stunner in my direction. Naturally I disarmed her. I grabbed her by the collar and, ignoring Lestrange's pleas for giving her to him, I indulged..." She couldn't... "...until the young blood-traitor wench begged me to kill her. And I, ever the gentleman, complied with the lady's wish..."

Her hands shaking, Mary dropped the journal. Her breathing was laboured. She couldn't even form the proper questions in her mind. This was beyond her ability to comprehend. This, did it mean... She shook her head.It could not be true, right? It was her Grandfather after all... She, she had to read more! She had to find out! This could not be true... She looked for the journal, but it was nowhere to be found. Mary began to panic. Where is it? Dropping to her knees she found it on the floor, near the armchair. Sitting on the rug, she frantically turned the pages until she reached the one she had been reading. She needed to understand. She needed to! There had to be an explanation. Her Grandfather was no murderer... He couldn't be!

*

There was no explanation. Mary sat on the same spot she had started reading hours prior. It was almost dawn, but sleep eluded her completely. There was no excuse. There were no circumstances that would change the perspective on the events. No loopholes, no misunderstandings. There were none. She had read all the way through that year, and the following and halfway down 1979 until she had found that one sentence that stated plainly what she refused to think. And everything fell suddenly into place.

"16th of July ,1979. My son received the Dark Mark. He became one of us. I have never been so proud of Philip..."

Despite the warm air that came from the still open window, Mary felt cold. She listened to the sound of her own breathing with an odd detachment. The reality of it all was too enormous for her to be able to bear it. She was numb in shock. Her Grandfather and her Uncle were Death Eaters. They had killed innocent people. People who were not Pureblooded. People like her.

Slowly she lifted her body in an upright position and walked to the window. They killed people. They enjoyed killing people. She started to recall every memory she had of her Grandfather and her Uncle. All the birthdays, all the Christmases. They killed people. Uncle Philip had been the one who had played with her when she was little. He would let her ride his back and tickle her until she begged him to stop. Who knows how manybegged him to stop? The thought was overwhelming. They tortured and killed people. Her Uncle, her Grandfather. Death Eaters.

Every single entry she had read so far began to have a different meaning. All the odd gathering, were Death Eater gatherings. All the traitors were innocent people. All the unworthy were Muggles. The Greys were truly dead, tortured and killed by her Grandfather, like dead were all the people who disappeared. Everyone except Mother. Yes, her Mother. Her poor Mother who had lost her mind.

Mary inhaled sharply. Her Mother. Had she known? Despite her disgust, her wish to Obliviate herself, she still hadn't found out about her parents. She felt a cold dread settle in the pit of her stomach. She could not abandon her reading. She had yet to find out what had happened to them. It was important. She shut her eyes closed, pressing her fingers to her temples. It was the only way to know.

She strode to the mantelpiece, determined, but she could not force her hand to grab the next tome. She could not force herself to read another year of murder and torture. And gloating. Her stomach turned. Her Grandfather gloated over each life he took. He rejoiced every scream he took from his victims. He had stated as much. Mary's body began to shake. It was an abomination.

She stood there, unmoving, for the longest of time. The sun started to filter shyly through the curtains. She forced her hand forward and reached for the next journal, but she couldn't. She was unable to even look at it. It was something filthy, something painful. She averted her eyes and her gaze fell on the next object. She had almost forgotten about that odd stone in the past days. She looked at it, in all its plainness. It piqued her interest to no end. She wanted nothing but to take it out of its case and find out what it was. Find out how it felt to hold it in her hand. The idea felt so right... But its dangerous, the rational part of her mind reminded her. She didn't know what it was.

And what she really needed to do, was to read the journals, she reminded herself. She needed to find out about her family. She needed to pull out that last ounce of Gryyfindor courage and face the horrors she was certain to find in the next tome. But she couldn't move. And the stone stood there, dull black behind the glass. It would only take a little effort. Her hand trembled between the case and the tome. It would be so easy. She closed her eyes for a moment and focused on her breathing. She had a task to accomplish. This artifact was no concern of hers. She had to read.

Steadying herself, Mary breathed deeply. She had a task to do. Determined, she opened her eyes and gaped. In the short span of time her eyes had been closed her hand had unconsciously lifted the glass case and grabbed the stone. She widened her eyes. How was it possible? She began trembling. What is this? What is happening to me? She felt a wave of panic rise from the bottom of her chest. She was no longer in control of her own body? Her breathing became more laboured. She swallowed hardly, willing her muscles to move. It was all too overwhelming. She had to get out of there. She had to get out of that room. Breathing heavily, Mary extended her other hand and grabbed the next few tomes. Then, swallowing again, she set her feet in motion and strode out of the study.

The corridors were scarcely lit and most of the portraits slept. Her fast pace became a run. Her passage was muffled by the thick rug that covered the corridors and the stairs. One turn. She needed air. Two turns. Down, down, down, the flight of stairs. Still running she entered the parlour and went through the open balcony doors. She only stopped when her chest collided with the stone railing of the terrace. A sob escaped her mouth.

The sun's early rays filtered through the elder branches, playing shadows on her skin. She leaned on the railing, struggling to find air. Another sob broke the silence of the garden. She began trembling and slowly fell on her knees. It was too much.

*

She had woken up around tea-time on the 26th of July, feeling groggy and stiff, but filled with a cold determination. Before her Grandmother returned form France she was going to untangle the web of lies she had been raised in. She was going to know the truth about her family.

She sat herself on the sofa in the parlour and took the green leather-bound tome that had a small 1980 engraved in the upper corner and encrusted in gold. She spent the rest of the evening devouring it. She read meticulously every single line, committing to memory each name, Death Eater or victim, each place, each curse, but detaching herself from it all. It was like reading a History of Magic textbook. She was meeting her family for the first time and this time she was going to spare herself the delusions.

She knew now they were not good people. Sure, they had taken her in when she had been in need, but they were not good people. Good people did not enjoy casting the Cruciatus curse on helpless Muggles. Good people did not inflict the ordeals she read about on anyone. And enjoy doing it. Good people did not take innocent lives.

All the while, ever since she had left her Grandfather's study early in the morning, Mary's hand was gripped tightly around that black stone. She hadn't even though about it since she had woken up. She had noticed it was still there only when her grip on it had gotten so strong it began to dent the palm of her hand. But it felt good to grip something, anything. It was steadying. And Mary knew she was walking on the thinnest of strings.

*
She had collapsed around midnight on the sofa and was awoken several hours later by an alarmed House-Elf.

"Is mistress ill?" the Elf shrieked, worried. "Does Mistress require anything from Bulby?"

Mary looked at him still half-asleep. The small rounded creature clad in an old curtain tiptoed around her with worry etched on its wrinkly face. Unlike those at Hogwarts, the Elves of Avery House were unaccustomed to people randomly falling asleep in the parlour. It stood there eagerly waiting for her reply. Mary sighed, feeling the beginning of a headache.

"I'm fine." she said in a tired voice, hoping he would leave her alone. The creature, however, continued fussing around her, straightening the cushions, conjuring a blanket. "Really, I don't need anything." she said and it stopped

"Is Mistress certain she doesn't wish for a meal?" he squeaked. Mary shook her head but creature was still not vanishing. It stood there, one willowy hand holding the other, uncomfortable and Mary felt almost sorry for it. Bulby wasn't bad at all, but it was annoyingly proper. She sighed.

"Fine, bring me breakfast" she told it and it opened its mouth, but she added fast "The usual, Bulby."

Giving her a crooked smile, the House Elf disappeared and in his wake a tray appeared in front of her and she took a sip of black tea. Still groggy she massaged her temples and reached for the 1981 tome she had been reading the previous night. Mary was tired, but she was a witch on a mission.

She grimaced. That was something Charlotte, her dorm-mate would say. She idly pushed away her fringe from her eyes, wondering were had that thought come from. It had been weeks since she had last thought about her friend, about school. She felt a twinge of guilt. Ever since she had started reading these journals it seemed all her life revolved around the past. She hadn't even read the letter Charlotte had sent her in reply to hers. It still laid there on her desk, waiting for her. She was being a rather lousy friend, she supposed. But somehow it felt far more important to untangle the secrets of her family's than to focus on such mundane things. Charlotte would never understand the things she faced in those yellowed pages. It, it was more important.

Setting her shoulders straight she grabbed the the journal from beneath one the red cushions and opened it on her lap. There were things far more important than school-mates. With determination she began flipping the pages until she reached the 13th of April 1981.

*

Hours later the longcase clock chimed ten o'clock. Its sound reverberated ominously in the silent parlour. Mary was sitting motionless on the sofa, her body a picture of perfect stillness, but for the rising and falling of her chest. Her head was slightly bent over the journal laying in her lap. Behind the dark fringe her gaze was fixed on it. She stood there, unblinkingly observing a page near the middle of the tome, her mind devoid of any coherent thought.

The thick parchment was slightly yellowed, stark in contrast with the dark ink. It was all neatly written, like any other entry. The letters were perfectly shaped in black ink, and thickly placed themselves one next to the other. Each row of words bound into sentences stood perfectly parallel with the ones above and beneath. There had been no trembling of her Grandfather's hand, no ink-stains to mark hesitation. It was all neatly written, like any other entry.

"27th of July, 1981. I have found my blood-traitor daughter and her abomination of a child."

The 27th of July, exactly thirteen years ago. Mary felt oddly detached from her body, from her eyes, which were unable to peel themselves from that page. From that long sentence right at the middle of it, followed by two shorter ones. They were almost inconspicuous in the detailed account of inconsequential things that preceded and followed them.

"If it weren't for the pure Avery blood that runs in the brat's veins, I would kill her like I killed the Muggle who had dared lay a finger on my daughter, that twerp who had dared marry her and sire a Half-blooded abomination. He died like the unworthy beast he is. His filthy blood almost sodded my shoes..."

She read and reread that passage until she knew the words by heart. Until they were branded upon her mind. She couldn't even begin to comprehend the magnitude of it all. The importance of this knowledge. The unveiling of the mystery she had been plagued by for weeks. All she could think was that she had been there, a nearly three years old child. She had been there, only she hadn't been old enough.

She curled her fists into balls, pressing her nails in the soft flesh of her palms, clutching the stone she had never dropped since taking hold of it. The world was spinning around her, while her mind circled ever faster around that one simple notion. She had been there, but she had not been old enough. Her Grandfather's and her Uncle's deeds, the scorn, the disgust, the heartless way in which they had disposed of her Father. Her Mother's mind which had crumbled from the uncountable amount of pain that was inflicted upon her. The wrongness of her family's fate. The wrongness of the world she was born in. The wrongness of her lineage. The wrongness of her. All of it, all the pain, the doubt, the crushing desperation, all sublimated in one simple thought, one sentence that suddenly became all of her.I wish I had been old enough.

Clutching the stone like a lifeline, she lost herself in that one simple, unfulfillable wish.I wish I had been old enough. There was no answer to her questions, to her pleas, no redeeming explanation that could ease the burden this knowledge was. There was no return, no universe in which she could live her life unaltered. There was nothing, nothing for her. She could no longer think of herself disjointed from that fruitless wish.I wish I had been old enough. She closed her eyes, repeating over and over, that sentence until darkness swallowed her. The clock chimed eleven.