A/N: I don't know how often I'll update this, but I just wanted to get it posted

I remembered. That first, fleeting glance he gave me. It was brief, but it was enough to leave me curious. And wanting.

I'd been brought up humbly. My parents were both Muggles. It was a great surprise when my magical abilities had been discovered. I'd always wondered why I could make the fruit in our basket levitate, or how I could always manage to summon a cookie before dinnertime, no matter how much mum protested. They were confused at first, of course, my parents. Then a member of the staff of Hogwarts came to speak to them, and they calmed.

I had taken to magic instantly. I devoured my text books before any of the other students, and I was ahead of even the kids who came from a pureblood family. It gave me a sense of pride that only swelled as I continued to excel far above the rest.

It was in my third year that I truly began to understand my fellow House members loathing of non-purebloods, or "Mudbloods", as they called them. I was placed in Slytherin my first year. No one had ever asked me my blood status—maybe they all just assumed both my parents were magical. I learned quickly not to speak of my "unworthy" qualities. Soon it became second nature to me to pretend to be of the purest blood line—I believed it myself most of the time. That feeling of being on top of everyone else, of bursting through that glass ceiling…it was simply intoxicating. I needed it. I threw away my Muggle heritage. I bared my summers at home, but never enjoyed them. I distanced myself from my parents, only to become closer to my Slytherin cohorts. Maybe close is not the right word; can you ever truly trust another Slytherin? My conclusion is that you cannot, but you can keep vague hope.

As soon as I graduated, I lost contact with my parents. I left the house immediately. My contacts consisted of my friends from Slytherin, those who had also longed to get ahead in life, and my neighbors. My home was a cramped, dingy, and dark apartment. It was enough for me, but it wasn't anything special. I strived for more.

The day I met him was many, many years later. I was walking in Diagon Alley, searching for the perfect set of emerald dress robes for a fancy party my friend was having. Many of the shops were boarded up, and shards of glass littered the street and glittered like tiny diamonds. Dust had settled in the windows of stores, as if they had always been inhabitants of the shopping center's streets. It sent a chill through my body. I knew well what was happening. After all, most of my friends were Death Eaters, or at the very least, supporters of Voldemort. I was torn. Technically, I was Muggle-born myself. But I had abandoned it; did that have any bearing on how I would be treated if I was found out?

Somewhere along the line, I had met a man who worked at the Ministry. Before the Ministry fell to the Death Eaters, he was able to basically erase me from the records. I technically did not exist—I was free to call myself a pureblood, if I wanted. He had also altered his records, because he felt bad things were about to happen. He was right.
There were very few shops still open, so it was a miracle that I'd stumbled upon a pair of vibrant green robes in the first shop I stopped at. They had to be taken up just an inch or so, but otherwise they were perfect. While I waited, I sifted through a sale rack, but nothing was good enough for me to add to my order. Besides, I was on a budget.

When my robes were ready, I went back out into the streets. Some time had passed, and more people were walking about. I smiled down at the bag in my hands. I'd look wonderful in the dress robes. Anne's party would be simply extravagant, and I wanted to look the part.

Snatchers were not uncommon in the shopping districts. They usually traveled in groups, ever on the look-out for dissenters and Mudbloods. Though I hung out with the highest caliber of dark wizards, I still feared they'd find out about my true blood status. My heart always quickened at the sight of them.

In the group that approached, I could recognize only one: Fenrir Greyback, the vicious werewolf. I didn't expect him to attack in broad daylight, yet chills ran down my spine. The others finished off the rag tag group. They wore mostly dirty, ripped clothing. They looked grimy. There was one, however, that stood out to me most. He had hair that was slowly turning towards dreadlocks. There was a strip of red randomly streaked in the hair. He had a handsome face and kohl lined his eyes. Though snatchers were known to be quite dim, there seemed to be a flicker of intelligence and wit in his blue eyes. His clothing was mismatched, like the character The Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland—a story my mother had read to me as a child. He had plaid pants, a suit coat jacket, and scarves. It should have been a comical sight; instead, I found it charming, even alluring. He had a confident air about him, and he sauntered over to me.

"Alright, gorgeous? Got yourself some new clothes, hm?"

"Yes." I'd answered simply and in a soft tone.

"Why don't you let me buy you a drink, love?"

My heart agreed. I abandoned all sense. A drink with a snatcher? Bad news! The others (including Greyback) left to continue their duty. When the attractive clown of a man led me into the Leaky Cauldron, there was no looking back.