Prologue
Seven bloody, turmoil filled years have past. The war is finally over.
It all started that fateful Christmas. Voldemort managed to attack the Hogwarts express just as it pulled into the station. Hundreds were killed outright, hundreds more were wounded.
One woman blamed herself for not speaking loud enough. For giving in when she could have stopped this. She worked tirelessly for seven years, attempting to atone for her sin. To try to erase the blood she knew was on her hands. People fell around her, but she never gave up, she couldn't give up. The demons in her soul would not let her. Over and over she asked for and took the most dangerous assignments, knowing she would face Him eventually. She knew she could not die until she could.
She had to know why. Why He had chosen to tell her that day and not someone who would be heard.
Perhaps He knew no one would listen. Perhaps He knew The Boy Who Lived was not having visions or feelings of danger. Perhaps He knew that they would think it a dirty trick, a trick worthy of a Slytherin. In any case, He knew that they would not listen and that her cries would go unheeded.
She hated him for it. Hated Him for the blood He had poured so liberally on her hands. Hated him for the blood that had splashed back onto His self. His mother went quickly, she was weak and an easy target. Many believed Voldemort had done it, but He knew the truth.
She knew because He wrote her again to tell her. He was angry, the handwriting was harsh and He had ripped through the paper. His father had destroyed His mother, used her as a tool and then disposed of her. He wanted revenge, but it was too soon and He would be suspect. So He waited. For years, He waited while the bloody war waged around Him and her. He always wrote her, she knew she had become His sanity.
The letters were never regular, never expected, and never more helpful than as an expression of the blackness He had fallen into and the tarnish that had grown upon His soul. He knew His life was forfeit the second it was known. Still, He wrote to her, trying to save His soul.
She hated Him for it.
But then it was over. She had hoped to die. At the end, she thought she no longer cared if she saw Him. She was tired and had given up hope of ever seeing Him, the only piece of her that was still sane.
The last battle was something best left forgotten, transcribed into the histories and never spoken of again. The death toll was mind-numbing. She was almost completely alone in the world. The Boy Who Lived no longer lived, but neither did his rival. They had destroyed each other and the square around them and all the people in it. Death Eaters and Aurors alike fell in the final blast.
She had not been there.
Neither had He.
She hated herself for it. Hated Him because He had been the one to call her away. He asked to meet her, to explain.
He had saved her life again and she hated Him with every part of her body.
But she loved Him even more.
