Chapter One


Briar York was, to say it in the simplest terms, a consistent complexity –the essence of befuddlement and inquiry, and she herself was the representation of self-contradiction in way which only seemed sensible to herself and no other. This was the cause of endless evaluation, which in turn, lead to little discovery.
In the year which came after the great Second Wizarding War was full of turmoil, anguish, and a stuttering shiver of constant fear which lingered long after the fires had gone out and the dust had settled. The fight to regain the Ministry had been enduring –sorting out the lingering evil and tearing them out from their roots took time, but in that time there were growing glimpses of a better future. Hope –which had been restored the morning in which Voldemort had fallen to the shattered marble of the Hogwarts' Great Hall. Granted, the peace which settled was fragile, and as it seemed, Briar had grown fragile. She woke often in the dead of night from the smallest of sounds, whether it be the groan of the ancient house's foundation or the soft sound of feet padding about the house –a sound which still seemed foreign –and when Briar woke, she woke gasping, thrashing and grappling for her wand, her clever eyes wide with terror and fogged by the determination to struggle and survive no matter the means. Once, she had struck out –sending a blistering, mauve-tainted spell shattering above –missing George's head by a hair's inch.
Briar glanced to her side where he lay, her fingers absently fluttering through the nest of sleep-flattened red hair. His face was burrowed amidst fluffy pillows which only partially muffled his booming snores. –He hadn't believed her when she had moaned about his snoring, as far as he was concerned the only person among the Weasley's that snored to the proximity she claimed was Ronald. Briar smiled fondly –her mouth twitching downward in a second as her fingers grazed the short, blackened stubbly hairs above his remaining ear, a result of the spell which she had thrown. She had been fortunate to have not blown off his remaining ear –even in the blind, white terror which fogged her vision, Briar's aim was impeccable.

Briar's fingers stilled, retracting from his hair as she turned her gaze to the precious stone which embezzled her finger. An ill feeling clenched her insides and her brain throbbed with the burden she felt –surging with panic, she hastily worked the ring off of her finger and dropped it onto the bedside table with a small clatter, her heart in her throat. To her left, George muttered incoherently, turning absently in his sleep towards her before resuming his obnoxious thundering.
Briar's insides twisted further –the feeling of being sick prevailed and Briar hurried from their bed as noiselessly as an ill person may.

She had only managed to reach the sink before she retched, keeling over it and clutching the basin –her supper burning her throat with an untamed ferocity. She retched several times before nothing remained and she hobbled to an unsteady stand. Rinsing both the sink and her mouth, Briar used the heel of her palm to smear away the budding wetness in her eyes. She met her own reflection with a sour grimace –stress coupled with sleepless nights for the past five months had aged her. Her pale curls had been rumpled by the tossing and turning she endured that evening, leaving her hair lank in its drooping ponytail. Yesterday she had found a silver hair –panicked, she pulled the strand with much more ferocity than needed and subsequently incinerated it. She was twenty-one.
Briar scrubbed at her face with her hands ignoring the oncoming furrow set between her brows. Pinching colour into her pallid cheeks, she forced herself to smile at her reflection, attempting to maintain the glimmer that all was well. –It was only after a glimmer of red in her reflection did she realise one thing –the snoring had stopped.