Prologue
In a far corner of the bottom drawer of a heavy mahogany wardrobe, there was a thick roll of parchment, bound with a blue ribbon and sealed with a seal consisting of an ornate 'G'. The ribbon was frayed and the parchment discoloured; despite the preserving charm the seal was brittle and broke as soon as it was touched. The various pieces of parchment dropped onto the floor and were scattered around the room. On gathering the pieces, it appeared they were all letters, with a date on top – somewhere in the sixteenth century – and addressed to 'my dearest sister'. When he thought he had collected them all again, the man noticed a scrap of Muggle paper that hadn't been there before. The paper looked as if it had been used to wrap something before it had been used to write on. It was wrinkled and torn in places. The writing was untidy, due to probably the material and surface. It seemed charcoal had been used to write it. Intrigued, the man sat down to read it.
1538, November 23rd
My dearest sister,
Words can't convey what happiness and relief I felt when I saw your owl; as much as possible in this situation, though it caused some confusion as well. I told her to stay here and managed to find a scrap of Muggle paper and charcoal. Oh, the irony. To write your last letter in charcoal when you are about to burn! But I think I am barely intelligible; dearest sister, when you have heard what situation I am in, you will understand. Lord Salvius of Snape, my husband, has accused me of being a witch. He discovered my adultery with Christopher, and he didn't take it too well. Of course, I had expected him to be angry, to throw curses at me, to hex me to the verge of death, then heal me and start over again. I had expected all that and I would barely have minded. I would have understood. I would hardly have been surprised had he poisoned me. After all, I have already given him an heir. But I had not expected this, never expected this. He turned away, silent, and after that didn't acknowledge my presence. I didn't understand, dearest sister, but I didn't complain. Three days ago, 72 long hours, I opened the door and two large Muggles took me, without a word, to York, where I am now. There has been a trial of course, which was played like a Muggle play, of which the lined no doubt were written by Lord Snape. I've been sentenced to be burned, as two other people, both Muggles. Salvius was there, with little Severus. I do not know how he dare show his face there, sitting next to his son, after his treachery to wizardkind. Imagine, the man who prides himself on the bloodline that can be traced back to ancient Rome, the man who wants to wipe all Muggles out of existence, lets his wife, as pure of blood as himself, be burned a witch, together with two obvious Muggles who have done nothing but being in the wrong place at the wrong time. My Christopher was there as well. Dearest sister, will you believe me as I say I would have born anything not to see the cold and distance in my Christopher's eyes? I would have taken every curse, every hex. Every poison.
Farewell, my dearest sister. Take care of yourself and grieve not too much, for it my own sin for which I will be punished. Do not come to my aid, the Muggles would burn you alongside me, but please, look after Severus a little. He needs a mother.
Cornelia