~Prologue ~
Dear Cassandra,
Well, I must say, upon reading this work of yours, you have done the story justice. Though I must also admit that I squirmed quite a bit at what my colleagues will think of that...title. It just screams tabloid. And you have certainly written no tabloid. Will the publisher really not budge on it? But my uneasiness with the title pales in comparison to what I feel when I think of all those snippets (albeit delicately treated) of my most personal life being published to all of England. At least I will be across the Atlantic when the book hits store shelves.
But before I go any further, I must express just how proud I am of you. Even when you were my student, I knew you had a rare ability to take the stuff of life and turn it into a good read. It was my pleasure to share my story with you, because I believe you deserve a good scoop with which to launch your career. I unreservedly trusted you not to turn it into sentimental goop where it was not. Of course, where it was sentimental goop, I also trusted you to make it believable.
Beyond your abilities, I knew that it was necessary that the true story be told, not some gibberish thrown together by Ms. Rita Skeeter, whose main source for her latest blockbuster book seems to be a collection of bitter Death Eaters penned up in jail, supplemented by whatever she could glean from a friend of a friend of someone close to the tale, and the gaps filled in by simply made-up facts. For goodness sake. I cannot help but smile at what he would do if he knew what was being written about him. He surely knew that some personal revelations would come to light after he was gone, but for all the deception he found himself wrapped up in, he truly despised liars. It is necessary to tell the truth, if for no other reason than to honor the memory of my dear friend.
I can see you raising your eyebrow at that term. But yes, above everything else, he was my friend. He might have been other things at different times, and we will never know what we might have been, but as a whole, you, Cassandra, have captured the essence of our relationship, from the painfully awkward to the heartbreakingly sublime.
When you and I last met, you shared some concerns, which you hoped I would address in this prologue-letter: 1) there is talk that I am only interested in making money off of my proximity to the story, and 2) that people will think this book is about something that it is not.
We both know that the former is laughable – the entire proceeds of this book are going to charity. As for the latter, that is a stickier query to answer. I suppose I would respond by stating that this story is my story. Not Harry Potter's, Albus Dumbledore's, or even Severus Snape's. It is mine. I could never presume to guess what another's experience in this horrible war was like. All I can state about it is what I shared with you. What I saw. What I experienced. What I thought and felt. You have told my story, no one else's. While I am not proud of all of it, I am proud that it is all honest.
Thank you again for your patience and perfectionism. Reading my life story was difficult, but in your capable hands I found it manageable. I hope that you do not wait too long before writing another book, and that your next is a work of fiction. I'm growing weary of reality.
Sincerely,
Aileen Klien