Dead. Everyone.
Not one child, mother, father, adult lay untouched from the horror that was Lord Voldemort. Every single life was swept away by the green flash of light that the Dark Lord wielded with pleasure. Blood curtailing screams had filled the air that night, Crucio spells sending even the most brave into tears on the floor, the two words of Avada Kadavra finally giving them the end they asked for.
Dead. Everyone.
She had hid in the cupboard, obeying the words of her loving father, his dark blue eyes usually filled with a happy spark, worried and firm, whispering words of love and comfort as he hid her away in the dark of the little space. His kind face that was graced with the unruly dark hair and beard of a sailor, his weathered face that usually smiled at the mere sight of his little girl now sad and scared for her safety. He had placed her inside that space, taking a big silver anchor pendent off from around his neck and sliping it around hers.
"Always remember where you come from, lass. Never forget the howl of the ocean wind or the rolling waves of high tide. Remember, dear lass, that you were born in the belly of a ship, in the dark of night to the seas incredible power. You are as part of the ocean as the rest of us. Never forget, Storm."
Dead. Everyone.
The young girl had not known what it was her father was speaking of at the time, yet as she sat curled up in the cupboard with tears rolling down her face, screams echoing in her ears and her little hand clenched around the heavy iron anchor pendent, she knew one thing for certain. Her Da would not be coming back for her.
Dead. Everyone.
The worse part was when she finally heard his dying scream. He screamed her name so loud that her whole world shook. She could not help but scream back; yet as she tried to break out of her confinement, she found she could not, and could only listen as her fathers scream silenced.
Dead. Everyone.
Later, young Storm would look up with blinding tears as the cupboard opened to see quite an odd sight. A very old man would stood before her, with a snow white beard that was longer than even her Da's, and robes so odd that she wondered if she was dreaming. He would have a kind and wrinkled face that would smile at her sadly, and his hand would reach out to take hers. He would pick her up out of cupboard and hold her toddler form in his arms as he walked out of the now destroyed home that she had once lived in.
Dead. Everyone.
She would look on in horror at all her dead family, and scream out in pain when she saw the dead form of her father. She would scramble down from the old mans arms and run over to her fathers open eyes and begin to repeatedly shake him, pleading for the once jolly man to awake. For he could not be dead, no. Not her father.
Yet as she sat there screaming at the dead mans body and crying with fresh tears, the old man would carefully pick her back up and continue to carry her away, her head looking over his shoulder and reaching back out to her father.
Dead. Everyone.
Throughout the years to pass, the young toddler would grow in the care of who she now knew as the man Dumbledore. He would become like a grandfather to her, and that would be just what she would call him. As she grew, she would wander the halls of her 'Grandfathers' school, memorizing the passage ways and exploring every inch of the old castle. She would completely forget about that night, her tinny brain refusing to remember it.
She would know deep down that Dumbledore was not her Grandfather, yet she would refuse to think upon it. She would always wear the necklace, though would not know why. She would have dreams every single night about that time, yet when she would wake up, she would remember not a thing. From the time that the incident had occered and the time when she would be set to start her own classes at Hogwarts, she would completely forget about Lord Voldemort and the death of her father. She would simply not be able to cope with it all.
Dead. Everyone.
Yet throughout all these years, young Storm would talk very little. Only to answer a question if needed or to get someone's attention if nothing else worked. It would be not because she was shy, yet because she simply did not want to talk. Instead she would listen. And that would be how at the age of eleven years that she would be more bright then even the infamous Herminie, know more about the halls then the trouble making Wesley twins, and be known by every single student who had already attended Hogwarts previously.
Yet even still. Everyone she had first known was dead.
Dead.
Everyone.
But Storm MacDuff.