Chapter 1

Black. When I opened my eyes, all I could see was black. Or rather, I couldn't see anything at all, so I assumed it was black. I couldn't see my hand in front of my face and all I could hear was my own shaky breathing. Somewhere, someone turned on a weak light, one I couldn't quite see so much as feel. Then another came on, then another, and as the lights flickered on, the breathing started. The silence was now riddled with whistles and wet, choking pants- first one, then two, then four, these disembodied sounds came. I couldn't see them, but I could finally see me.

A mirror stretched for miles in both directions in front of me. The flickering lights in the distance lit up my reflection; at least I thought they did. The girl in front of me, my reflection, was in fact a woman, and that's where our similarities stopped. This girl had skin that looked like heavy cream, a whiteness so profound that it couldn't be real. There was no rosy tone to her cheeks, no movement in her breast, although I knew she was breathing. Nothing about this reflection signaled that this girl was alive. She could've been carved out of a block of ice for all I knew. Her hair was a blonde so pale it was almost silver and it floated down past her tiny waist in subtle waves. Everything about her was delicate, fragile.

I wanted to reach out and protect the wide eyed girl from those panting things that inched ever closer. But when I looked into her big green eyes, I saw an almost feral strength. Like she was preparing for the battle of her life. The flecks of silver in her emerald eyes glittered in the weak light and she turned, I turned, to face the enemy. They crept into the light slowly. Their feet made no sounds, just their raspy breaths. They looked just like people, all around the same age, dressed in black robes. But as soon as the first one breached the light, I felt my throat constrict.

There was no fear, only shock. These people were dead. They had to be. There was no way a person could possibly survive an injury like that! Their necks all had jagged lines crisscrossing around like some sort of dark red necklace. The whistling was from their breathing trying to go past those tears, and their eyes were all black, the whole thing! No white showed at all. At first, I thought maybe they were inferi, for they bowed onto one knee and waited as if I was their master. But inferi didn't act like this. They tore at whatever they could reach. They all showed signs of decay and death, and this army had none - but their slashed throats. One in front looked up at me from beneath the shroud covering his head and reached out his hand. "Misstressss. Command usssss."

I shot up and opened my eyes, screaming and screaming. I saw the people rush into my bed chamber. Watched as they tried to quiet me, but I was still lost in his black eyes. I could still hear his throaty whistle as he confirmed my blackest fear: they were mine. I created them. And that thought is what gave me pause. I stopped screaming and realized the absurdity of this. I asked for a mirror and a wand. I grabbed the wand first and concentrated on the book at the foot of my bed. "Accio!" And nothing. Nothing moved, I felt no rush of magic like all the books said. There was nothing. I felt the tears start sliding down my face and grabbed the mirror. When I looked, I felt relief and also despair. Relief because I was myself, not her. I had my own tangled rat's nest of mousy brown hair, my own flat brown eyes, and my whole face was flushed pink from all the excitement. Despair because she could do magic. Powerful magic by the looks of it.

I was in one of the most powerful, most influential, most magical olde families of all time and I was the first squib ever to disgrace these hallowed halls. My parents did not blame me, though. They blamed themselves because, after all, it was them that made me. They must have done something wrong. And because they blamed themselves, I was miserable. I made the only people who ever loved me, who weren't disgusted at me, miserable. I knew I should just go end it. There was no point to my life. I couldn't go outside for fear of people discovering what I was. It was disgusting, I was disgusting.

Annie came in with my daily potion, a rather unpleasant smelling one if I may say so. Jeunes Magique. I had taken the potion every day since I was seven. It was designed to induce uncontrollable bursts of magic. It helped worried parents to determine whether or not they had magical children. We waited the five minutes it was supposed to take, and still there was nothing. It had happened that way for nearly eight years, and the weight of disappointment still crashed down on me. I always felt like it should've happened just after, even though I knew I didn't have it. It should've happened.

"Annie?"

"Yes, mistress?"

"Have we always used the same cauldron of the potion? What if we made it wrong or its gone bad or something?" I knew this little speck of hope would destroy me for days, just like all the others would. The doughy old elf cocked her eyebrow at me. Her pause, that little hesitation, just gave me more hope.

"Yes, mistress. I will have another made but we may have to skip a few days, mistress."

That little bit of light exploded into a full-blown ray. It warmed me up from the inside out. And then came the little shred of darkness. What if it didn't work? What if it really was just because I AM a squib? Could I handle that pain again? And then I heard my father's voice in the back of my head. Never let the fear of losing keep you from playing the game, ma petit amie.

"Annie wait! Can you not tell mother or father about this? I wouldn't want to hurt their feelings by insulting their skill in potions."

Annie paused by the door and cocked her wrinkled little head for a moment. "Of course, mistress."

And she left.