Anything that you recognize (including setting and characters) is owned by J.K Rowling
Leaves on the trees of the forest shook in the cool breeze that gusted through them as the woman appeared out of nowhere on the hilltop. The night was cold and although the moon was full the darkness seemed impenetrable. A dark night for dark business, thought the woman as she glided swiftly through the trees. She had a cold and regal beauty about her, like stone. Her silver hair hung in sheets of ice down her back, and her golden cat eyes glowed dangerously. There was a baby in her arms, and although wrapped from head to toe in black cloth it was easy to see that it was no more than six months old. There were leaves on the soft ground old and crunchy, but the woman made no sound as she walked, nor did she leave behind any footprints.
The dark trees seemed only to get closer together as the woman ventured into the forest, but she navigated her way to a small clearing with a still pond. Sh walked to the edge and paused to look around for other signs of life. She did not seem to see anyone for she began a stare at the dark water, almost like she was waiting for something. Her lips moved rapidly, murmuring quietly in a foreign tongue.
The woman kept as still as the pond for an hour, before she seemed to make up her mind about something. She adjusted the hem of her white tunic carelessly and then her pale mask never changing, stretched out her arms so that the child in her arms was suspended over the lake. The child, who up until now had been silent began to cry, as if it somehow sensed impending doom. Her arms began to dump the child out of her grasp when there came crashing through the trees a figure.
"Wait!" he cried. The woman quickly snatched the child back into her arms, although she did not look pleased about having to do so.
"What do you want?" she asked, her voice cold as snow.
"You cannot kill that child." The man said, drawing closer. He was tall and dark haired, with the drawn and pinched look of someone who had not slept or eaten well for days.
"And why not?" she asked, drawing herself up impressively.
"Because I said so. " Whatever else he was, the man was clearly confident, for it was not many who would stand up to this woman.
"You're vote does not count in this matter. I have my orders. I came to the still pool at the full moon. I spoke in the ancient tongue of my people. I waited for a sign from above that the child should not die. No sign came. The child's life is forfeit."
"I am your sign."
"Are you?" she sounded doubtful.
"Yes. Please. You have to trust me. Do not kill that child. It has a great fate. I have made it to be so."
"What is its fate?" she asked skeptically.
"Nothing that has to do with you." he gave her a look, and many words passed unsaid between them. She regarded him frostily, eyes narrowed. When she spoke, her tone was warning.
"The child has no place in our world or in yours. It would be of two worlds, not quite belonging in either."
"Is it a squib?"
"No."
"Then it will only be a blessing." He seems sure, the woman thought, but he is a dead man, and the dead ones have a reckless nature about them only a drunk could match.
"Fine. Take the child, what should I care. But hear me when I say that only ill will come of this. I do not know how your world will receive it, but I know ours will have nothing to offer it." She thrust the child toward the man, who took it awkwardly in his arms. Then cradling it tight against his body, he made to touch the woman on the cheek, but she recoiled.
"Do not touch me. I was fooled once by you, and I will not be again." A memory flitted through the man's eyes, and he seemed to contemplate smiling, but didn't. He withdrew his hand, tucking it back under the baby.
"Goodbye then."
"Goodbye." she said, and vanished in a swirl or snow. The man waited for a second longer, before turning on his heel. With a loud crack he disappeared from the pond side and reappeared on a dimly lit street many miles away. It was a familiar street to him, one that he remembered fondly, and it saddened him to think that this would be the last time that his boots would click softly on the cobbles.
The street lights flickered as the man walked up the street to a junction between two houses, still holding the child in his arms. Which house to choose, he deliberated. The choice had to be made, for he would not live long enough to be of any use to the child. He considered his options. Number eleven had two children less than a year, much like this one, although vastly different. The parents had respectable jobs and respectable incomes.
Number thirteen was home to one of the starving artists types, a wiry twenty year old convinced he would change the world with his art. As the man sat thinking, it became clear that his choice was not about who would love the baby the most, but about who would not dump it in the orphanage as soon as they found the child. And it was there where the choice became obvious.
He must rely on motherly instincts, such as they were, to take in the child and raise it as one of her own. Although no mother he had happened on had exactly the kind of warmth he had read about in the stories—indeed, his own mother was strict and distant, but he knew that he would have to place all his hope on the woman of number eleven's shoulders.
He walked stealthily, even though he knew that no one would be awake this time of night. At number eleven's doorstep he knelt and kissed the child's forehead. Then he placed it carefully on the steps, and balanced a letter on top of it. The child made a small upset noise, and a caring expression came into the man's dark eyes
"Oh don't worry, baby." The man cooed, a gentleness in his voice. "You'll understand one day. You will do great things and one day, you will thank me." He smiled a genuine smile at the thought, before adding: "I'm sorry."
And then he turned his heel and vanished once more.