A/N: I know it's been a while, please forgive me. I'm going to try to have another chapter up by the end of the week! Here's a little back story (emphasis on the little. Again, sorry.)

As always, the wizarding world and all of its characters, inventions, and magic belong to JK Rowling.

It happened when I was four, not even old enough to go to school. My parents and I had gone to the park just outside of our neighborhood for a barbeque with our muggle neighbors. It had been a lovely evening, everyone was enjoying themselves. Our neighbors—the Jacobsons—didn't have kids, so I had entertained myself by pushing my dolls down the slide and dancing around in the grass.

Around dusk, I wandered off into the woods. The adults were distracted by something and didn't notice me stumbling my way between the trees, where it was already growing dark. I was fairly deep into the forest when I fell. I remember the scrape on my knee and the tears in the skin on my palms and the snapping twig behind me. I remember the grunt belonging to a person I would never see and never know and trying to pull myself off of the ground. There was a flash of light and then…nothing. I woke up two weeks later at St. Wenceslas's', the East-coast wizarding hospital.

My parents have filled in this part of my memory. I was in so much pain and so disoriented and, honestly, just so young that I can't remember much of what happened next. The healers had determined that nothing had happened to me physically. Aside from the scratches, which I'd later tell them had been my own doing, I hadn't been outwardly hurt. They ran every kind of test they could think of; a four-year-old who won't wake up and is exhibiting extreme fever is nothing to fool around with. In the end, the healers deemed my case impossible diagnosable and sent it to some of the best wizarding scholars at the Salem Witches Institute. It would be years until they figured out what was wrong with me, during which time things only became worse.

I didn't go to school. I stayed home and was taught by private tutors brought in by my parents. This worked well for the first few years. I took frequent naps and ran a fever almost constantly, but for the most part I was capable of having a semi-normal life.

Then, sometime in my ninth year, things took a turn for the worst. I was in our backyard, on the swing set, and I blacked out. My parents found me in a crumpled heap on the ground, my arm broken. Healers were baffled by their inability to heal it but set it and allowed it to heal the muggle way, which still took twice as long as it should have. I started having higher fevers, passing out at odd moments, throwing up almost everything I ate. I stopped eating then, because I didn't have an appetite anymore. I would sleep for sixteen hours and then still have to lay down and take naps during the eight I was awake. Any scratch, bruise, or scrape, which I was getting much easier and more frequently, took ages to heal. My mom would later describe me as being made of paper and glass.

Private healers were hired and more tests were conducted. Still, there were no results. We hadn't heard from the scholars in a year or so. I continued this existence of sleeping late, drinking blended nutrients rather than eating, and being too weak to even walk for three years.

The summer I turned eleven, I received two letters. One was from The Murdoch Academy for Young Wizards and Witches in Chicago and the other from Hogwarts. In my Hogwarts letter, there was a note from Professor Dumbledore, noting my Irish decent, family potential, and my illness. I hadn't ever thought I'd get to study my magic. It just didn't seem possible anymore. Professor Dumbledore however thought that I was just fine, perfect for studying, even if it meant by correspondence. It was one of the few times I can remember during that decade of sickness when I felt truly happy. Hogwarts wanted me. I'd been accepted into arguably the greatest wizarding school in the world. I'd have been a fool to turn it down. A meeting was held, a system established, and I was enrolled.

Studying helped. I still didn't stay awake for very long, but at least I had something to wake up for now. I worked as earnestly as I possibly could, my bony hands clutching my wand, my weak muscles working to cast a spell, make a potion, or write an essay. I did it, though. I became a rather decent student and nearly all of my professors were very encouraging.

Potions quickly became my favorite subject. I'd realized during my years of tests and observations that potions could heal people. I longed so greatly for a cure for my problems that I decided that I would have to discover one of my own. I worked harder with my ingredients and my cauldron than any other magical tools. Each year, my potions text was riddled with scribblings and notes and the pages were so well worn that they frayed at the edges. Professor Snape would give me high marks, though he was never very enthusiastic about my work. I was determined that I would someday find a way to fix myself. I never did.

When I was thirteen, things still as bad as they would ever be, we finally heard again from the Salem Witches Institute. They were certain they'd figured things out, finally. They knew what was wrong with me. Along with a group of healers, they called me in for an examination.

Once again sitting on a cold bed in a medical ward, I was poked and prodded by people I didn't know. I hated the process of examination more and more each time one was conducted. I'd become so frustrated by the lack of progress of my healers that I'd stopped interacting with them any more than necessary about a year before. Today I threw up on one of them as he was poking around my stomach for inflammation. I wasn't sorry.

One of the men, who I would come to know as Antoni Harrow, didn't touch me. He stood in the corner, watching and taking notes. Later, he came to talk to me and my parents.

"I was right," he told us later that day in the sitting room off the medical ward. I was sinking into the giant couch I was laying on. My parents sat on either side of me, Mom held my hand, Dad occasionally patted my foot. "Your curse, my dear," he said, directly to me, something I was not at all used to in these situations, "is very ancient. It took us years to find and translate the correct text to understand it. It's ridiculous that anyone in this day and time would know the incantation at all. We're working on translating the counter curse right now, but it could take a few months. We hope it will work."

"And if it doesn't?" my father asked, calm and cool as always.

Antoni blanched. Even I, barely conscious at this point, could tell that he didn't want to tell us. "I doubt that we need to worry about—"

"What if the counter curse doesn't work?" My mother persisted.

"I really don't think—"

"Mr. Harrow," my mother interrupted, "we have spent nine years dealing with the nightmare that is this curse. Our daughter was robbed of a normal childhood. We've spent years in the dark, not knowing what was going on, having no word from you and your prodigious team. Now you tell us that you have it figured out and you owe it to us to tell us. What is going to happen if the counter curse doesn't work?"

She held his nervous gaze in her own, challenging him. After a moment, he sighed. "If it doesn't work, your daughter will die."

"When." It wasn't a question.

"We don't know. But we know that the counter curse should work. The chances of it failing are—" This is when I stopped listening. I turned my gaze to the ceiling. I tried, at the age of thirteen, to come to terms with the fact that my life was over. I was going to die. I fell asleep on that couch, not listening to my parents arguing with Antoni, contemplating death and how I would leave my parents.

It worked. I don't remember the counter curse being put into effect. I suppose that I was too weak to have normal brain function and memory at that point. It worked though, and I got stronger and stronger. My parents rejoiced, I adjusted to eating solid foods again. I started to do better in my school work, was able to stay awake for longer stretches of time, could feel myself growing stronger with every passing day.

That year, inside of my Hogwarts letter, behind my list of books and materials, there was a note from Professor Dumbledore.

Dear Miss Doro,

It has been brought to our attention that, thanks to the tireless efforts of the Salem Institute, you've been growing in strength and health. It is my wish, and that of the rest of our staff, that you should attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in a physical sense this term. This invitation is, of course, subject only to the permission of your parents and your personal consent as well. We hope to see your face in our corridors and to finally meet you in person.

Yours sincerely,

Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Order of Merlin (first class), Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot

Plans were made, healers were consulted, Antoni's directions were given, trunks were packed, flights to Britain booked, and, come September first, I was on the Hogwarts Express, en route to the school of my dreams, healthy, and shaking out of my robes, not quite ready for what was in store.

A/N: Again, sorry for the shortness of this chapter, but I figured it was about time Ruth's story and curse were actually explained...let me know what you think!