Redemption of the Black Sisters 9

By Phoenixgod2000

Authors note: I want to thank my beta Sean whom makes this story better in an infinite number of ways. I also want to thank the women who inspire my female characters, good and bad ones alike. You know who you are.

The worst nightmares are not born out of the hidden crevices of dream worlds but out of the malaise of sleeping men. The worst offenders are the deepest sleepers.

Luckily, not everyone sleeps deeply…

--The Journal of Androlphus Black

Somewhere below Rome

September 1st

There were cities, there were cities, and there was Rome. Ancient yet powerful and vigorous, Rome was great dragon of a city. It slumbered and steamed, but was could breathe fire when its ire was raised.

And like all dragons, Rome had a treasure hoard, a collection of history and knowledge, of ancient power and wisdom. It lay in the halls of the Grand Confederation of Wizards (the international body responsible for governing the wider world of wizards), in its traditions and magical schools, and in the hidden chambers of the One Hundred Families, the true lords of the Grand Confederation, the bones of whom could still be found by seekers with the power and understanding to unearth their resting places. Its hoard lay in the tombs and cathedrals of the great wizard popes of the past, their homes and final resting places beneath the Holy See, their very spirits imbedded into the stones that the oblivious tourists walked along, gods and ghosts alike hiding beneath their shadows. All manner of forgotten things – falling into the corners of an expanding world with no use for magic – could be found in the curio shops that catered to the lost, and the knowing.

But beneath the hallowed ground rested another dragon: a beast of slime and brick, withered skeletons, and fallen tombs. This dragon thrived in the dark places where the righteous feared to tread, in hidden warrens where whispered chants survived far too long, echoing across the shadows and cracks that lived in the blackest places in men's hearts. Any wizard stepping into that dark world would feel the workings of evil that had given this ground its own character, a fell, unholy personality that was forever hungry.

The worst of these veiled places was the Church of Bones. Some say it was formed by early Christian wizards, using necromancy to ward away the Centurions who had persecuted them in the time before Rome accepted Christianity. Others claim that unwholesome workings of magic, the unholy marriage of pagan rites and druidic rituals gave birth to its atmosphere. Few were those who could find it, fewer still were those willing to make a second pilgrimage.

In truth, all that was beyond doubt was that the Church lay in a vast subterranean chamber, it's domed ceiling disappearing deep into the shadows and trimmed by skeletons, hung together with sinew and bits of muscle, dangling from invisible strings. Many of them had lambent flames in their eye sockets, and to those with discerning gazes the heads of those dark decorations moved to observe all who stepped foot into the great chamber. Dominating the center of the room was an enormous pentagram, carved directly into the stone of the floor and painted dark with the lifeblood from centuries of unwilling sacrifices, many of whom served as macabre adornments for the ancient church. Dark magic hung in the air, thick like perfume, patiently waiting for those with power and influence. For the past six hundred years, the church had served as the dwelling place of the Black Circle of Judas.

For those disposed to dark humor, The Black Circle of Judas provided much amusement. The Black Circle opened its arms to all member of any faith tracing itself to Abraham and his descendants, spiritual or otherwise. Its members were preachers and teachers, cardinals and patriarchs, imams and rabbis. In its own way, it was perhaps the most egalitarian grouping of faiths in the history of the world.

12 figures in black hooded robes positioned themselves around the enormous enchanted diagram. Each member a dark lord or lady in their own right, they carried with them invisible chains to demonic servants for while they nominally served the same ends, each jockeyed for position and favor from their head, the Black Pope.

"We gather to speak of the failed attack on Lord Black and his allies." the Black Pope intoned. "We must decide how best to proceed."

The leader of the Circle was tall and lean, and wore a deep red gem set on a heavy golden chain as his only decoration other than the engraved wooden staff of polished white ash clutched in his hand. His face lay hidden behind a black cloth mask, as were all those present.

"We lost many foot soldiers in the attack, as well as Samael the Ashen and nephilim Korath. Sister Magdalene Agnes had long served our brotherhood, and her loss was detrimental to our future plans." The Black Pope said to the group. "The time has come to examine our progress."

A second figure spoke. He was portly, his deep voice colored by a Russian accent. "The Prophecies of Ash, the prophecies you yourself made long ago, speak of the coming dark age, and the one who might stop it as the Lord of Lightning. Can there be any doubt that it speaks of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and who brought the mighty Black family to heel."

A woman's voice sounded, a French lilt infecting her softly spoken words. "This is why we agreed to help Voldemort, he serves as our best check against Potter and Dumbledore. Although the old man is not mentioned by prophecy, it would be foolish indeed to discount his power. Let us not forget that he is the last wizard known to have destroyed a devil, and were he to turn his might against us he might destroy all for which we have labored."

A fourth voice entered the discussion, bearing a distinctly Persian accent. "Our Order has existed for two millennia, learning secrets at the feet of the Gnostic Apostle Judas himself. We will not be undone by a man who takes fashion advice from the Merlin – we are greater than that."

French voice rebutted. "I believe that Ibis made the same argument—right before he was destroyed by Dumbledore. The old phoenix is canny and strong, and rarely makes the same mistake more than once. A lesson my unfortunate father had to learn the hard way."

"The question before us is on how to proceed." The Black Pope interjected. "Our resources are stretched thin – between the bindings of the lesser demons and the Grand Summoning, we cannot continue this pursuit indefinitely."

A New York accent jumped into the conversation. "I spoke against the Grand Summoning to begin with. It occupies too much of our time, time which would be better served acting according to the prophecies. We do not need this Voldemort creature – he and his horcruxes are an affront to our principles. He carves his soul into pieces while we exalt ours. He should be destroyed."

"We do need him," the Russian voice replied, "at least for now. By supporting Voldemort's war against the forces of Light, we risk little and stand to gain much. I too, am wary of the Old Phoenix and the Lightning Lord. We must continue as we have, in the shadows, in secret, until the day of the prophecies is upon us."

The Black Pope replied "I above all others know the promise of the Prophecies of Ash, the fulfillment of the promise first made in the Garden of Eden. Voldemort will fight this battle for us, our proxy, as Dark Lords have warred against the Light on our behalf over the millennia. We will deliver him the troops he requires, and when he stands victorious we will hasten our efforts towards the fulfillment of the prophecies and the destruction of the Grand Seals. He will live his pathetic half-life for perhaps a century, along side his Death Eaters. They will debauch and sin and destroy themselves as fools always do. We will endure, and from the ashes of this world a new one shall rise, a world where we rule as Gods."

As one, the figures bowed to their leader. "The heir of Judas is wise, Michel de Nostredame has spoken."


September 1st

Platform of 9 ¾

Children cried and friends laughed, meeting each other anew after a long holiday break. Parent comforted young first years, and older siblings held younger in tight grips. Parents who hadn't seen each other since their own time at Hogwarts stopped to talk with old friends. It was a scene of chaos and joy, embodying the precious moments of everyday life.

A life that she thought had been lost forever when she threw her lot in with Voldemort.

Even amongst the joy she felt it, the undercurrent of fear and tension tainting this pleasant scene. Fear of death and apprehension for the safety of loved ones. She herself had helped to create this fear with her atrocities, and once she had delighted in her role as a bogeyman, a specter invoked by children to frighten their peers. She had helped to make people avoid going out in public, for fear that her wrath could be invoked at any time as punishment for the crime of daring to live freely, to live without fear. Bellatrix remembered the perverse joy she had taken in inflicting pain and torture on the helpless. Looking back on it, it sickened her. She sickened herself.

But good memories were returning to Bellatrix Black as well: if she closed her eyes she could still faintly smell her mothers perfume, feel the press of her father's strong hands as they hugged her before sending her to the train for the very first time.

Bellatrix had always been a playful child, so at odds with her grave and unemotional parents. Even these many years later she still recalled her surprise and joy at the naked emotions they had demonstrated on that long ago day. It had warmed her, the idea that her distant parents loved her and missed her.

She, Harry, and the others stood alone on the platform as children of all ages raced around them, islands of calm resolve in a crushing sea of humanity, the gulf separating her from them feeling suddenly overwhelming. She was two decades older than even the oldest students preparing to board the Hogwarts express, and she had a wealth of knowledge, power, and experience that they – in the majesty of their youth – couldn't even begin to comprehend.

Nightmares as well.

"We should get on the train." Bellatrix announced suddenly.

"We have been standing here for a while, haven't we?" Harry said with a smile.

"Well, it is rather strange." Ron agreed. "It's going to be hard to return to being a Quiddich-mad slacker after the month we've had."

"At least you can admit that you used to be a layabout." Hermione teased.

Ron glanced at the short brunette at his side. "Wasn't talking about that part. I was just thinking that Quiddich won't seem quite as exciting after swinging a sword through a demon."

"Fine then." Harry said. "You won't be my Co-captain for the Gryffindor side."

"Hey! I can become a Quiddich-mad slacker again. Just watch me!" Ron answered back hastily.

Harry clapped a hand to his friend's shoulder. "Let's just get on the train before you dig yourself deeper in with Hermione."

Ron looked at his bushy-haired friend's narrowed gaze and sighed. "Too little, too late, mate."


The world spun as her life leaked through a hole in her neck.

It took all her strength to pull away. Tearing wildly at her own throat, she pulled free of his fangs, leaving more than a little of her flesh behind. She was bleeding faster now, and she did the only thing she could think of. She retaliated, her ritual enhanced strength and agility momentarily taking her assailant off guard. Raging with her arms, hands and fingers, she beat desperately at her ancient attacker, drawing a trickle of blood which splashed across her face, changing the course of her life forever. As the tainted blood crossed the threshold of her tiny mouth, reason fled as primordial instinct took over, and she renewed her assault with a new frenzy, her fingernails and teeth tearing at her attacker before finally gaining purchase on his neck. Her dull, flat teeth tore at his corpse-cold skin, and cold blood seeped from the wound as she fixed her mouth on the hole and began to consume his essence, drawing all she could from the slow moving river of dark life. After a time, the vampire ceased his useless struggle as death claimed him, and Ginny Weasley rose to her feet, smearing blood across her cheek in a wide smudge with her battered hands.

Copper sloshed in her stomach, but she was so hungry, and no matter how much she drank that night, she never filled up…


Michael Corner lay out lazily in the car. Earlier he had dimmed the lights and locked the door with a charm. He wanted his own car this year, and felt he deserved it after putting up with Cho all summer. The Chinese girl hadn't stopped her twin pains of crying and complaining, and as beautiful as she was, even the sex had palled in the face of her constant aggravations after a while.

She wasn't as good as Ginny, anyway.

Michael smiled at nothing in the darkness. Little Ginny Weasley. She had proven to be quite a revelation at the Yule ball, and after. Neville had abandoned her and was sitting in the corner, overcome by shyness. He had swooped in to talk with the pretty, innocent redhead.

It hadn't taken long to discover that she was very much the opposite of innocent. To this day he couldn't understand how a girl like that could ever imagine herself happy with clumsy, fat Neville. She was so vivacious and alive. There was a wildness about her that lurked beneath the surface. He could see it clearly after getting to know her for a while. She could inflame a boy's lust with a shake of her head and a coquettish glance through the veil of her red hair.

She had made him scream and beg, bringing him to the heights of ecstasy and leaving marks on his skin he had couldn't easily explain to his roommates.

And then she had dumped him. No words, no complaints, just… gone.

A knock sounded at the door.

"Go 'way." He mumbled.

The door opened and he frowned and turned to see who it was that had broken through his spell. A thin, flamed haired shadow framed the doorway. The only thing he could make out in the darkness was a pair of coppery eyes.

"Gin?" he ventured, "Zat you?"

Moving into the light, the stunning girl whispered. "I'm wounded, have you forgotten me so easily?"

Michael wrinkled his brow in confusion, barely recognizing his old girlfriend. She couldn't possibly have changed so much over the few short months of summer, could she?

Her hair had darkened to the color of fresh blood and hung in thick waves down her back. Her face was sharper and more defined. One of Ginny's signature characteristics, her slim, boyish but athletic body had changed, getting riper and rounder while losing nothing of the lean muscle that made her such a skilled Chaser. High, firm breasts pushed out from beneath the fabric of her shirt, and the swell of her shapely hips strained against the edges of her trousers. She looked taller as well, her body filling the doorway without effort.

She slipped into the room soundlessly and shut the door, her fluid movements carrying her to his side in the blink of an eye.

"You're impossible to forget Gin, you just surprised me is all." Michael said. He sat up, swinging his legs around until he was facing her.

"I've gone through some… changes this summer, Michael." She said, dropping her gaze. "I was an idiot to let you go, I realize that now. There's no one else at this school who can give me what you can."

Michael sat up and squared his shoulders. "And what might that be?" He asked in his best version of a manly voice.

White teeth flashed in the dark.


Harry rubbed his eyes, staring again at the thick bundle of information. It hadn't been any easier to digest the second time through. Black intelligence operatives sent him daily reports on the movements of Death Eaters on the mainland, but ironically he received the least useful intelligence from England, Scotland, and Ireland because Sirius, Bellatrix, and Narcissa were all that remained of the local Black families.

The families were doing exactly what he had ordered, and task forces from the more battle ready members were already busy destroying enclaves of dark creatures. One of his Italian operatives reported that they had just successfully tracked an ancient roman vampire to Venice, and were laying the ground work for an attack. They expected to be done in a few days.

Other missives came from the One Hundred Families of the Grand Confederation. The One Hundred Families were the cornerstone of the international Wizarding world, ancient families from around the world who came together to suggest actions that were then ratified by the larger congress. The Blacks were one of the families, although they weren't among the oldest: there were some who could trace their bloodlines to Atlantis and Babylon. New families were only introduced when older family lines ended completely.

The last Wizarding War had seen the elevation of seven new families to the Hundred, most of them American. That country had the largest assemblage of wizards in any single country in the west, only India and China having a greater wizard population. Because of their youth, however, the Americans had possessed only one representative family until Voldemort ended several of the more ancient bloodlines. Narcissa informed him that he needed to present himself soon, and nominate someone to be his voice on the council.

Exciting.

He also needed to find someone to take over the Black estates in France. Dominique had spent so much time globe-trotting that she hadn't ever bothered to marry, or even produce a bastard or two. The estates needed to fall to another Black, and without a line of succession it fell to Harry to decide whom to bestow them on.

Harry did have the beginnings of a plan, but it was sure to raise some controversy among the families since the candidate with the best bloodlines wasn't completely human and the other families would surely look askance on a half-witch taking over the vast French estates. Still, she would remain loyal and that counted more than hurt feelings in a time of war.

He thrust the papers down next to him and stared out the window. He was alone in the car. Ron, Luna, and Hermione were at the prefects meeting, Ginny was out… somewhere, and Bellatrix and Narcissa had been overcome by nostalgia and had decided to wander the halls of the train.

"There's just too much," he muttered. He rubbed his head at the headache that was threatening to explode behind his scar.

He had no training in this, in being a Lord. He had advisors, but Hermione and Narcissa could only carry him so far and Narcissa couldn't use any of her old contacts anymore. There were dispatches from all over the world, business assessments from his holdings, pleas from his magical serfs for intercession, and the number of languages in which he could now read mudblood-loving traitor was truly impressive. It all seemed so important.

And that wasn't all of it.

Harry pulled a small box from beneath his robes and opened it. The philosopher stone sat, nestled snugly in the velvet-lined interior. The irregularly shaped red stone was the key to eternal life, limitless wealth, and a giant bull's eye on his back if anyone ever learned that he possessed one.

He tried thinking about what life might be like at one hundred, two hundred, or three hundred years of age but couldn't. All he saw were Death Eaters casting jets of killing light, and a devastated green village. He had lived many nightmares about the things he had seen, and the aftermath of the ambush. He tried not to blame himself, told himself that he and his friends had saved many lives that night, but he always returned to the image of the dead mayor… how that calm man had died saving him, and despite all the he knew he felt guilty in his heart. It was the way he was built—it was what made him quintessentially human, and not a thing like Voldemort.

But it didn't make it any easier.


The wind whipped through Bellatrix's cinnamon hair. She stood outside the train, leaning against the railing. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to feel, reveling in the remembered images of her youth, those simple times before dark magic, before the crucios, before the Dark Mark. Even with her eyes closed, she could feel her sister's approach.

"Sickle for your thoughts." Narcissa said.

"School. Life. Classes." Bellatrix replied. "It was surreal to be back n the old platform. On this train."

"I know," her sister agreed. "If I concentrate hard enough, I can still feel old Slughorn's lecherous gaze down the front of my blouse."

"Funny, I thought Slughorn's lecherous gaze was how you passed NEWT Potions with an O instead of the EE you deserved."

Her younger sister raised an imperious eyebrow. "Better than dating Severus for a term."

Bellatrix lifted her nose. "As greasy as he was, that man has a gift working with his hands." she retorted.

Both sisters laughed. "It'll be good to get back to school." Narcissa admitted. "I was happier there than I ever was afterwards."

"You were the one to press mother and father to marry Lucius."

"Yes, I suppose I did."

"This is a chance to do better the second time around." Bellatrix said. "For both of us."

"Maybe I can avoid marrying an ass this time." Narcissa said with a mixture of bitterness and humor. "Or at least upgrade to an ass who's good in bed."

"I've seen the way you look at Harry." The older sister joked. "You could always move on to him. Train him up right."

"That's not funny." Her sister said in a low tone.

Bellatrix frowned and faced her younger sister. There was something in the tone of her voice that piqued her curiosity. "You… you don't have feelings for Harry, do you?" Bellatrix asked.

Narcissa turned away from her sister and stared at the fast-moving scenery. "I'm almost three times his age." She whispered, wrapping her arms around herself to ward off a chill no one else could feel. "He's Harry-bleeding-Potter, James and Lily's son. He should be with someone younger, someone he can make all the stupid decisions of love with. Someone he can grow with."

"You didn't answer my question." Bellatrix said.

"No, I don't suppose I didn't." Narcissa admitted. "Yes, I feel something for Harry. The boy—no, that man—is in so far over his head that I don't even know how he has the strength to get up in the morning, but he does. He never complains, he just shoulders his burdens, and ours, and soldiers on. He has the prophecy… and he cares so much for people, people he doesn't even know, but caring hasn't made him weak. He has tremendous magical power, wealth, and status, and none of it has gone to his head. All this and he is sixteen years old. He's going to be magnificent; it's all there already, inside him, all that potential just waiting to come out…" The blond witch sighed. "He is the man I thought Lucius was when I begged mum and dad to agree to his offer of marriage… part of me sees this sixteen year-old face in the mirror and I think maybe…just maybe I could throw him down and make him mine. Merlin only knows what he would do if I wasn't occluding my mind against the link we have."

"So why don't you? Make him yours?" Bellatrix asked. She kept her voice light but she could not help but experience a flash of… something, not jealousy spasm through her abdomen. She remembered the feather light touch of Harry's lips on her own and squelched the feelings.

Narcissa let out an unladylike snort. "While I might occasionally forget who I once was, I don't believe for a second Harry has—or ever will. Can you imagine a world where he could ever love one of us?"


"So this year we will be focused more on security than we have been," Head Girl Cho Chang instructed to the Prefects, "Which means several things. Your duties will expand to patrolling during Hogsmead weekends, in pairs. You'll alternate weekends so that everyone gets some time off. Nathan and I will be set the schedule and we'll have that to you as soon as possible."

"Furthermore," Nathaniel Gregory continued, "You will patrol around Hogwarts on expanded rotations. The Headmaster has spent the summer strengthening the wards around Hogwarts. You all know that we're at war now." The tall blond boy glanced quickly at the three prefects sitting by the door. "Doubtless, some of you know more about it than others. There have been a lot of things in the Prophet about what Voldemort's been up to, and how Dumbledore is trying to stop him. There are rumors about his injuries in the paper and we're here to tell you that they aren't true." The blond Slytherin smiled confidently at the room. Nathaniel Gregory was the embodiment of the positive qualities of the green and silver house, and they'd been honed in a way that could only happen to a muggleborn in a class of pureblood supremacists. He radiated both strength and character in equal measure. "Dumbledore is in tip-top shape, and we have nothing to worry about."

Luna Lovegood tuned out the rest of the speech. While devoting part of her mind to absorbing the information, she worked at fine tuning her internal alchemy. Over the past two months she had become more skilled at creating potions within her own blood, manipulating her magic to wash the fatigue from her muscles. Other potions maintained her health and preserved the muscle tone she had built up over the months of summer.

It was a strange thing, she decided, the idea that she was selected as one of the Prefects. Her fellow Ravenclaws hated her. They thought she was insane. In her darkest moments she wondered if maybe they weren't right. After all, how many people had their dead mother whispering secrets to them? How many knew other peoples thoughts before they vocalized them. Her mother's voice had urged her to make friends with Harry Potter, and it was that voice that told her to use the Thestrals to reach the Ministry. It was that same voice that whispered that Ron needed her, that he was important, but he couldn't do what he needed to do if he went insane from the brain tendrils.

Her gaze drifted to Hermione. She was the only person in the room that Luna couldn't read, the only mystery. With everybody else, she knew at least something about how they were feeling, what they were thinking. She didn't know everything, but she knew that Cho was terrified, Nathaniel was attracted to her, and that Ron must have a bottomless appetite because he was so hungry, Luna thought he might be able to eat an entire cow. But Hermione… was blank.

Maybe that's why she liked her so much.

At least Hermione used to be the only one Luna couldn't read. She glanced warily at Draco Malfoy, the sixth year Slytherin prefect. He had kept his badge after the dreaded inquisitorial squad by only the narrowest of margins. Luna used to be able to read him quite easily—she knew all about his insecurities and failures, his secret desires and hidden deeds—terrible, pathetic, and noble alike.

He had changed over the summer. Always thin, he had grown positively gaunt. His hair was straw-like and brittle, and his arms were thin cords of vein and muscle. His eyes were sunken pits of burnished silver, and he watched the proceeding through heavy lids, like a torporus member of his namesake.

And as she watched, she got nothing from him. Not a sense, not a quiver of intention. He was a blank wall, a black hole of feelings. He terrified her. There was something new in him, some new strength radiating from his frail body. Pansy, who normally clung to him like particularly annoying lichen, sat far away and watched him cautiously. It took a moment for Luna to realize who Draco reminded her of.

Harry.

He had the same sort of tired strength, the same guarded gaze that challenged the few who met it, the same power—power which he carried about him like a cloak, so old and so worn that it seemed like a part of him that he didn't notice any longer.

The meeting ended a few moments later and the prefects filed out. Draco didn't glance in her direction as he left, nor did he stop to insult Ron and Hermione. He even pushed past Pansy in his effort to be the first out of the compartment. Ron narrowed his gaze and Luna saw his wand hand twitch while staring at Draco's back, and she saw Hermione instinctively drop a comforting hand on his shoulder until the redhead's tension subsided.

The pair paused at the doorway, and it took a moment for Luna to realize that she hadn't moved from her chair. She blinked and stood. Drifting, she moved toward the door.

"Luna wait."

Cho Chang stood, and with a wave she motioned off Ron and Hermione. "I need to speak with Luna alone." The head girl said quietly.

Glancing quickly at Luna, the pair nodded and left, leaving Cho alone with their blond-haired friend. With a nod to the Chinese girl, Nathan departed, dropping a companionable hand on Luna's shoulder before he left.

"I was wondering how you were adjusting to being made Prefect—especially with your lack of… popularity. I wanted to answer any questions you might have, as I would guess you were probably rather surprised by the selection." The dark haired girl said quietly.

"No, I wasn't." Luna said calmly. "I knew."

"You always do." Cho said. "That's why…"

"People say I'm a little loony." Luna rejoined with a crooked smile.

"I'm sorry." Cho whispered brokenly. "I never… I should have done something. Stopped the bullying."

"You've never done anything to me." Luna said in a bland tone while capturing Cho with her large, luminous eyes. "Why did you nominate me? I know you did." she continued

Cho shook her head. "No…

"Yes. I know it was you." Luna said again insistently. "You made the teachers pick me."

"I recommended you." Cho admitted. "You went with Harry to the Department of Mysteries. You went against Umbridge. You believed when few others did. And you just spent all summer training with Harry. You are the best female fifth-year Ravenclaw. By about a kilometer."

"Thank you." Luna said. "My father was very pleased with my new role. Mum was a Prefect in their day." She smiled. "My father said I looked just as pretty with my badge on."

Cho smiled. "I'll bet you do."

Luna walked towards the door. "I'll be a good Prefect," she said while walking. "I won't let anything happen to any of my students." She paused by the doorway and met Cho's gaze. "Either by my actions or lack of them." she whispered.


Cho flinched.

Bellatrix stood alone on the back of the train. Her sister had gone back inside and left the older girl alone to ponder her uncertain future.

She was deep in thought when she heard footsteps approaching from behind. The girl-cum-woman turned her head to see who was approaching, and saw a boy with a face that looked like it had once been round, but had lost much of its surface area rapidly. She thought that once his face settled he would be a very handsome young man, he was already tall and fairly muscular—although much of that muscle was still encased under a smooth layer of fat. Overall, he gave the impression of someone who was in transition from unfit to fit. He also looked quite surprised to see someone else standing outside.

"Oh… hullo." He blinked rapidly and turned a little red when he saw how attractive the girl in front of him was.

"Hi." Bellatrix said with a smile. No time for getting in character like the present she mused.

"I didn't know that anyone else came out here." The boy explained. "You… um… surprised me."

Bellatrix shrugged. "It's alright. I was just getting some air. It's my first time on this train." She lied easily.

"Really? Are you transfer student?"

"I'm… uhh… Marie…" Bellatrix said, stumbling over the lie. "Marie Dumbledore. My Great Uncle is the Headmaster."

For some reason while it was easy to lie to about something like the train, to lie about something more intimate than that was harder. She was unused to hiding who she was—and she was a powerful Slytherin witch, and not a young student lion.

If the boy noticed her hesitation he didn't show it "Wow."

Bellatrix looked down. "Really, it's more nerve-wracking than anything. I have a lot to live up to with this last name."

"I know how you feel." The boy said. "I've been coming here for five years, but I feel like it's my first time on the train. I lost some weight and I got a new wand. Some of my parents Auror friends have been helping me out with some training. I think this is going to be a good year for me." He blushed. "Maybe… I'll… uhh…"

"Find a girlfriend?" Bellatrix finished helpfully.

The boy looked down. "Something like that. There's a girl I've liked for a really long time and maybe I'll have a real chance with her this year."

"Good for you." Bellatrix smiled. "Look me up at school. I'm in Gryffindor. Maybe I can give you some pointers."

"Oh! Me too!" the boy said excitedly. "Things are already looking up. I've made a new friend already." He stuck out his hand. "Names Neville Longbottom, by the way."


So the three modes of correspondence are equal to the amount of…

Narcissa let her mind drift through the complex equations of Arithmancy. She wanted to polish her rusty skills so she could reach the top of her class again. Her pride was far too great to allow someone else the top spot.

It was proving harder than she remembered.

Of course, more difficult than Arithmancy was attempting to concentrate while Harry was around. It seemed that her confession to her sister had opened up a flood gate of unwanted emotions, emotions that she – as a Slytherin – was not equipped to deal with.

She could feel his presence, his essential maleness, as he sat beside her, playing three-way Exploding Snap with Ron and Bellatrix. His hard body seemed to take up more space than it should. Her legs curled beneath her, her toes digging into the side of his leg.

Hermione and Luna had their heads together, speaking in hushed tones. Narcissa could probably have heard them if she tried, but she was making an effort to be less nosy.

She continued to scratch notes into her book until the door to their compartment burst open. Reflexively, she reached for her wand, positioning herself so that it rested beneath her body, not visible to anyone entering the room.

That had been the plan, anyway.

When she saw Draco framed in the doorway she jerked upright, causing her wand to fall from the bench, rolling up against his booted foot.

Draco stared at the implement as if it were a foreign object. Slowly his silver gaze traveled from the wand to Narcissa where his eyes traced her body, starting at her feet and ending on her face. "Who are you?" he asked slowly, as if savoring each word.

Narcissa couldn't speak. She was frozen, staring at her son in shock. Distantly she heard Harry jump in as he realized she wasn't responding.

"She's Claire Dumbledore, the Headmaster's niece." Harry said flatly. "Now sod off."

He casually drew his wand and let it dangle between his fingers; daring Draco to try something, confident that his enhanced reflexes were sufficient to deal with anything Draco could throw at him.

Narcissa's mind spun. He was here. Her son was here. Here. In this compartment. Intellectually she had known that by going to school with Harry, she was going to encounter her only child, but that cold, intellectual knowledge didn't have the bite of seeing him in front of her possessed. And what a painful bite it turned out to be.

Her mind catalogued his appearance with all the ruthless detail of a mother's eye. His robes were rich and well made—reinforced with dragon hide from the looks of them. His posture was straight and proud; his eyes scanned the room with calm assurance—just as she and Lucius had taught him. Draco had his wand out, but hanging loosely at his side as he matched Harry's nonchalance.

That's where he stopped impressing her.

His eyes were burning pits of molten silver; those strange, beautiful pureblooded eyes—eyes that she had so admired in Lucius—were feverish in Draco. His skin was stretched like a drum across his face, transforming his aristocratic features into a skull-like visage. His hair was brittle and long, and hung limply around on shoulders that were far too thin.

Everything about him screamed 'man on the edge'. She had been selfish, she realized. What had she condemned her son to, in her hasty decision to live her life over again? Could she truly have been so self-absorbed? Yes, he had proven to be a disappointment, but whose fault was that? Had she even once attempted to wrest him from Lucius' influence? Had she ever shown him a different pureblood path than mindless hate for the socially inferior? She recalled some of the less charitable things she had thought and said about her son to Harry and felt physically ill. Draco was her son, and if he had let her down it was because she had let him down first.

He had deserved better from her, from his mother.

"I want a truce this year, Potter." Draco said flatly. "There is a war on, and there are larger things afoot than our schoolboy attempts at one-upmanship with each other."

"In truth," Harry said calmly, "I rarely think about you at all, Malfoy."

Draco quirked a smile. "Good, so a truce should be easy for you. We are both Lords now Potter, we have more important things to get on with."

"I agree." Harry said calmly. He leveled his green gaze on Draco and the silver eyed boy met the stare with aplomb. Harry frowned after a second and Draco smiled.

"You aren't the only one who learned something new over the summer." He said in a chilly voice. He held Harry's eyes for a second more before turning to leave the room.

"Dammit Harry." Ron yelled. "Don't tell me you trust that sodding ferret! This is Draco Bloody Malfoy we're talking about. He pledged dire revenge on you last year, remember? He wants to Kill you. Did you forget that?"

"No, I haven't forgotten Ron." Harry said in a harsh tone. He turned to face his oldest friend and the redhead was unable to meet his flinty jade gaze. "And I don't know who the bloody hell that was, but it wasn't Draco Malfoy. Until I figure out who that is, we aren't doing anything."


Hogwarts—the great hall

"--I heard he was dying--"

"Curses that can't be healed—"

"—Professor Snape is going to take over his duties—"

"—I heard McGonagall—"

"Professor Dumbledore can't die, he's the greatest wizard ever—"

"I'll never believe it—"

Words of fear and faith danced in the air around Bellatrix and the rest of the group as they sat through the sorting, but the disguised former Death Eater ignored it all. She liked the aged wizard and had a soft spot for him, as did most of the wizards and witches who had gone through Hogwarts under his tutelage. There was something serene and benevolent about him, it was difficult not to stand in awe of the silver-haired wizard, even when you disagreed with him. He was powerful, pureblooded, and ancient—everything that garnered respect in the Wizarding world, and yet time and time again he rejected positions of leadership and influence far greater than Headmaster of the wizard school. Bellatrix had liked him in her youth, and even well into her foray with dark magic. It had been the poisoned words of Voldemort that finally sounded the death knell of her affection for the wizard many called the second coming of Merlin. She had seen how old he had appeared during their first meeting at Harry's house, seen the pain and fatigue which dulled the glimmer and laughter in his eyes. It had struck her then like physical blows that she had never seen him looking so weak—so mortal.

He looked even worse now. He had lost weight during the previous month—so much that his robes hung loosely off his large frame. His beard seemed whiter, as if events had aged him more than time ever could. Worst of all, his left hand was completely wrapped in bandages, and he moved with an aching slowness Bellatrix had never seen him demonstrate before. Still, when he spoke his words were powerful, his humor shining through as strongly as ever when he announced that there would be a Valentine's Day ball this year to make up for the reduced Hogsmeade visits. He was the same Dumbledore, just one that was wearier than she had ever seen him.

At any other time she would be as sick with worry as the rest of the school, but she couldn't concentrate on her concerns over the old man. Other worries gnawed at her, cruel words spoken in innocence echoed in her thoughts.

Name'sNeville Longbottomby the way

Azkaban had stolen much of the joy from her life, joy that she was only slowly rediscovering. But it was a fragile thing—this new joy of hers—and her meeting with Neville Longbottom had reduced it to ash.

Without effort, she could call to mind images of Frank and Alice Longbottom, could still hear their cries of pain, their agony as they lay before her twitching and writhing beneath her curse. The pleasure that she taken from breaking them now sickened her. She had been so lost, the dark arts having rotted away most of her soul. All she could feel was a dull sadistic exhilaration at the way their bodies moved and twisted at her command.

She saw the scars she had left in Frank and Alice in Neville, in the unsure way he spoke, the way he couldn't meet her eyes when they talked, the way he disparaged himself. They were the hallmark of a person who had never learned his own worth, who couldn't remember the boundless love of his parents.

He worshiped Harry. She could see it in the way that Neville hung on Harry's every word. He and Harry had embraced in the Great Hall when the two had finally run into each other, and Harry had told him that he should walk with his head held high because of his accomplishments in the Department of Mysteries. The boy had blushed crimson when a few pretty girls eyed him speculatively after Harry's public declaration.

Shame was something Bellatrix was unaccustomed to. She was a pureblood, one of the most magically powerful women born to one of the most magically powerful families in the entire world. She had been taught from birth that she was above lesser wizards, and a titan compared to muggles. Voldemort had fed that ego when he personally tutored her in advanced dark arts. Even in Azkaban, the dementors had only sucked away her happiness, not her self-satisfaction, and in her cold, damp room it kept her sane for fifteen years.

After her youth was restored to her, Bellatrix had vowed to become a better person, to not fall into the habits of dark magic which had so eroded her humanity. She still believed in pureblooded superiority, but she no longer desired to bully muggles or slay them. She imagined a new life for herself, and in what now seemed like pathetic self-delusion she believed that all she needed to do was to live better in the now and her past wouldn't matter anymore.

Face-to-face with a child of her sins, she realized how wrong her naive belief had been. She could never atone for her sins. A thousand good years wouldn't make up for all the children with no parents, parents with no children, and families that she had so casually torn asunder with the power she had wielded so callously from her wand tip.

Bellatrix watched as Neville shyly smiled at her, and an irresistible urge to hurt something rose up in her.

Mostly herself.


"You wanted to see me, Headmaster?" Harry asked respectfully.

He walked into Dumbledore's cramped office and sat down before the old wizard's desk. He looked around the room, the last time he'd been in here he had been far too distracted to pay careful attention to his surroundings. The office was a testament to a life lived long, and lived well.

Shelves groaned beneath the weight of ancient books, strange objects and machines filled the corners of the room, gathering dust. A mages staff lay propped against a shelf behind Dumbledore, and exotic silver instruments whizzed and hummed quietly on the old man's desk. A crystal ball set on a claw-footed silver stand next to an old book with dusty, yellowing pages. Dumbledore quietly observed Harry.

"I fixed all that you destroyed when last we met here." The old wizard finally said.

"So I see."

Dumbledore sighed. "Still so distant, Harry? I had hoped we were moving beyond this."

"We have." Harry admitted. "It's just taking some time."

"I heard of your recent incident in France. Have you and the others recovered fully?" Dumbledore asked solicitously.

Harry nodded. "We have. Nobody besides Ron was hurt badly, and Luna was able to heal him quickly.

"She's becoming quite adept with Internal Alchemy." Dumbledore agreed. "An art that has always fascinated me."

"Ask her to teach it to you." Harry rejoined. "I'm sure she'd be flattered."

"You performed several ritual magics." Dumbledore noted. "I can see the effects of sensory and physical prowess enhancing rituals. You did not perform any power increasing rituals, did you?"

Harry shuddered. "I found copies of what they require. No, I don't think we'll be doing those. The others were fine, just expensive and I can afford the ingredients for my group."

"How are the girls? Adjusting to their new age?"

"They're also fine." Harry said frowning. "And you're stalling. Ask me the question you've summoned me here to ask, please."

Dumbledore gave a thin smile. "Very well, I shall dispense with the small talk and get to the point. You have done well for yourself. My agents in Order tell me that the Black Family has roused itself to tremendous effect. Regardless, you play a dangerous game Harry. Many great families have seen brought about their destruction in wars against Dark Lords. You risk Sirius' legacy."

Harry leaned back. He felt a gentle probe against his mind. Drawing on his training, Harry instantly erected a shield, protecting his thoughts from the old wizard. Dumbledore raised a craggy eyebrow. "You have grown stronger, my boy. Much stronger."

"Yes, I have." Harry growled. "Did you call me in here to lecture me? Because I have long since outgrown the wide-eyed boy you could dazzle with your Merlin act. You aren't all-knowing and you certainly aren't perfect."

"Neither are you, Harry." Dumbledore said strongly. "Neither are you. And I have the benefits of more than a century and a half of experience to guide my actions."

"Then help me!" Harry cried out frustratedly. "I can't do this on my own. I barely got the families to even go along with my plans. I've been flying by the seat of my broom all month. Stop lecturing and help me. Please!"

Dumbledore sat back. "When I allowed you into the Order meeting, I believed that information was all that you desired. Then I find out that you have taken the Black Family to war."

"I'm not the only one going to war." Harry said with a meaningful glance at the old wizard's bandaged hand.

"It is better for me to go to battle than for you, Harry." Dumbledore said quietly. "You are young and have a long life ahead of you. I've fought Dark Lords before, and paid terrible prices. Let me shield you with my experience—for just a little while longer."

"You can't protect me, Headmaster." Harry answered in a weary tone. "Teach me so that I can protect myself. Be the man who gave me a time turner and the trust to use it, and not the man who couldn't even look me in the eye for a year."

The old wizard nodded, looking a thousand years older. "You've always been an impressive boy, Harry." He said with a small, sad smile. "Somehow I just never realized that you've since become an impressive young man. You shall have more than my aid; I shall make you my apprentice and initiate you in the hidden mysteries of the light."


Bellatrix got her chance to hurt something a little while later.

The Great Hall rapidly emptied of students as the prefects led the first years and older students back to their respective dorms. Harry had left during the meal, having received a message that Dumbledore wished to speak with him privately. Narcissa had walked off with the other Gryffindors, leaving Bellatrix behind.

The newly young Gryffindor meandered towards the tower, in no hurry to join the other students. She sought quiet so she could think and absorb the day's events and, more importantly, master her guilt so that she didn't collapse and beg forgiveness of Neville within the first five minutes of being in the common room.

The rest of the group had disappeared, and she was navigating a moving staircase when she heard something. For unaugmented ears, it would have been too quiet to discern, but Bellatrix, who had participated in a sense-enhancing ritual only the month before, was able to hear enough to catch her attention.

"—it over, Colin—"

"Every year… my parents—"

"Stop complaining mudblood… little brother… protection—"

Bellatrix turned her head and peered down the hallway the sounds were coming from. Her eyes picked out two figures in the darkness. Taking a few steps forward, the figures resolved themselves and she could see a pair of boys in the darkness. The first was slight, and pressed against the stone wall of the passage. He was fine boned and delicate, with the sort of boyish prettiness that made girls swoon and boys mutter. His large eyes were wide with fear and he quavered against the wall as the second boy held him roughly there with one hand. The other boy was larger and slightly bulkier, although far from large. He had deeply set eyes and a prominent nose, and his dark hair was closely cropped against his skull, transforming his lean face into a frightening mien in the shadows.

Bellatrix blinked. For a second she thought she was staring at Pieter Nott, an older Death Eater who worked for Voldemort and had managed to escape Azkaban by pleading the Imperio defense. It wasn't until the Pieter clone turned to face her that she realized the person standing before her was far too young to be the dangerous criminal.

"Who are you?" he spat. "Can't you see I'm conducting business here?"

Bellatrix paused for a moment. "You're Pieter's boy, aren't you?" she said as she moved close.

"Please, you have to help me. He's taking my spending money for the year." The younger boy whimpered.

"You shut up." Turning back to Bellatrix, the boy introduced himself. "Theodore Nott. And you're one of Dumbledore's nieces aren't you. One of the twins?"

Bellatrix was amused to notice that he sounded more intrigued than bothered at being caught by her. "Something like that." She plastered a cunning smile on her face. "What are you doing?" she asked while moving still closer.

"Colin here" he said, jerking his thumb toward the captive boy "needs to pay his annual toll for being allowed in the presence of purebloods." Theodore answered back arrogantly. "The little mudblood has to learn that there is always someone bigger and badder around."

Bellatrix had closed the distance between them and smiled at Theodore. "I couldn't agree more." she purred. Bursting into a blur of action, she slammed Theodore into the wall beside the younger boy—Colin, she corrected mentally. Caught off guard by the change of events, Theodore went for his wand but Bellatrix casually slapped it away with the hand she wasn't using to hold him against the wall.

"You're right. There is always someone bigger and badder around, and in Hogwarts that's Me." she finished in a menacing growl, shaking him slightly for emphasis. "How much have you taken from him?" When the pureblood refused to answer, Bellatrix squeezed his neck. The cold of Azkaban descended over her and she stared at him with the flat, dead eyes of sociopath. "Talk, or I will kill you and feed your dead body to the thestrals." She said grimly.

"Six… sixty… maybe… seventy galleons. His pocket money for the year for past three years." Theodore wheezed. He could barely speak through the viselike grip of Bellatrix's hand.

"You are going to pay him back. Every Knut. With Interest. Are we understood?" She punctuated each sentence by squeezing tighter and shaking his neck, slamming the back of his head against the cold stone of the hallway. In the end, the formerly tough boy could only nod meekly. "And if I ever hear about you bothering any of the Gryffindors again, you will meet with an unfortunate accident—a painful, unfortunate accident—and the Nott line will end with you, you worthless little thinblood."

Theodore dropped the money and disappeared so fast Bellatrix almost thought he might have apparated. She picked up the coins and turned, handing them to Colin. "Are you okay?" she asked in a kind tone.

Colin blushed and looked away, nodding very slightly and trying to maintain his composure. "I'm fine." He answered weakly.

"What happened?"

Colin stuttered out an answer. "My… umm… little brother… Dennis? He… he got in a fight with Peter Parkinson, Pansy's little brother. Dennis got him pretty good with an embarrassing hex in public." His voice grew stronger as he told the story. "Theodore told me afterwards that Parkinson asked him to hurt Dennis, but he was willing to lay off him if he had some… incentive… was how he put it."

"How very Slytherin of him." Bellatrix noted with more than a little sarcasm.

"I tried to duel him, but he was better than me." Colin admitted with a sniffle. "So I paid him. Every year since my third I've given him money so he would leave me and my brother alone." A few tears slipped from the corner of his eyes despite a valiant effort to keep them hidden. "I fought him again last year—'cause Harry tutored us. I thought I could take him but I couldn't. Again."

"Why didn't you tell Harry?" Bellatrix asked. "He would have helped you."

"Because… because I'm stupid." Colin said angrily. "I'm the worst Gryffindor ever! Because he's Harry Potter and he has bigger things than me to worry about and I should be able to take care of my little brother." Colin slid down against the wall and dropped his head into his hands. "Because I'm a stupid mudblood and I deserve what I get." he finished softly.

"Don't call yourself that." Bellatrix snapped. "Harry would have been happy to help you. That's what he does, trust me on that." The tall girl dropped down next to Colin and leaned back against the same wall. "If he ever bothers you again, come see me right away and I'll sort him out. The same goes for your little brother, or any of the younger years. Spread the word that the Baby Lions are off limits." she said in a fierce tone.

Colin nodded.

"As for being a bad Gryffindor, don't worry about it. You'll have your moment. Trust the Sorting Hat and you'll find your bravery."

"Thanks." Colin whispered. "I don't even know your name."

"Marie Dumbledore." Bellatrix said confidently. "Your new housemate."


Somewhere in Romania

The woman was ancient.

Her face was folded and creased with age lines. A withered tongue rasped over shriveled lips and yellowed nubs that were all that remained of her teeth. A brightly patterned shawl and heavy peasant dress covered her emaciated body, and wisps of white hair like tufts of cotton poked out from beneath a faded red bandana. Knobbed hands covered in blue veins slowly shuffled a deck of cards. With the unconscious skill borne from a lifetime of practice, she spread the painted deck across the purple-veiled table. Filmy eyes sought out patterns that only a gypsy could see in the cards. With painfully slow movements the old gypsy looked upward as a figure in black robes ducked into her tent. He was right on time—as she had known he would be. The cards had been speaking to her for days.

"A tad theatrical, wouldn't you say." The black garbed figure said dryly.

"You are one to talk Voldemort." The aged gypsy wheezed with a dry cackle.

The black-robed figure pulled back his hood revealing a pallid flat nosed face with gleaming serpentine eyes of ruby. Glancing quickly around the room he took the seat in front of her small table. "Little Grandmother," he hissed, "You know why I have come."

The old woman nodded. "You seek the wisdom of the cards." she whispered. "You wish to know if you tread the path to victory or defeat."

Voldemort said nothing, patiently staring at the woman before of him. Silently, he removed a pouch from his a sleeve and laid it on the table. The sack fell open and several thumbnail-sized blood red stones tumbled free.

"Blood gems. Expensive." The old woman pushed them away with a gouty hand. "And pointless. What use is such to me? Shall I purchase a few handsome boys to keep my bed warm in my dotage, do you suppose?" she cackled. "No, there is something else I wish from you."

"Name your price, hag." Voldemort spat.

"My clan." She said in a low voice. "A war is coming. The Purrun, my clan. They must survive. I would have your wizard's oath that you and yours will leave my gypsies alone. I would have us spared and a place found in your new order, should you prove victorious."

"What ever happened to the vaunted gypsy neutrality?" Voldemort asked dryly.

She smiled, revealing a mouth filled with more gaps than teeth. "We are still neutral. If Dumbledore or Harry Potter came seeking the wisdom of the cards, I would extract the same promise from them. We, are above all else, survivors. We have endured pogroms, inquisitions, and gas chambers. We will endure this as well."

"You shall have it." Voldemort said. He drew his wand and hissed a few words in Parseltongue.

Black flame wreathed around his wrist and slithered away to coil around the old woman's arm. She calmly stared at the serpent of cold fire as it sank its fangs beneath her skin. She shuddered slightly but nodded when the rite was completed. She passed the deck of cards to him. "Shuffle." she commanded.

Voldemort gave the cards a few perfunctory shuffles with his slender fingers. The old woman took her cards back and fanned them out on her table. "Destiny follows you, Voldemort. You are a central thread in the grand tapestry. I see you standing victorious—but not yet victorious—over the body of a Lord of Light. I see the aged and infirm marching to war. Three dragons breathing madness and death. Ashes and prophecies dancing on razor wire. You seek Apotheosis. Such is within your grasp. I see a world in which you are man and god, ruling over an empire of blood and pain for ten thousand generations. I see Bacchanal, mutilated angels as dancing girls, and vast harems of Succubi and Ernyies. Statues of Basalt raised in your honor, and humanity living and dying at your slightest whim."

The gypsy moaned. "No! I see other paths! Defeat lies in your cards as well. Beings of such power exist that can destroy you descending to the Earth on wings of obsidian and alabaster. I see a great Lord of Light wielding daggers, one of silvered steel and the other black glass. They slash your flesh and spill your blood. Moonlight carries the whispers of your demise and the twin flames shall duel their very natures to find the strength to defy you. The maimed follow in your footsteps and performs a ballet on swords. I see a golden age of humanity where all people wield the twin forces of magic and science. Ills are mended all the races of the world come together in harmony to explore the multiverse. The names of those you hate shall be exalted as Gods on a hundred worlds, while you are forgotten except as a footnote in books and cautionary tales."

The crone looked up and met Voldemort's serpentine gaze. Winded from the force of the visions she continued to speak. "Your great strength and your great weakness are one and the same." She said in a paper thin voice. "You are a solitary being. You have no equals, no confidants. Your allies are enemies in the waiting. You shall betray them before they betray you. Yet you have no ties, no pathways to exploitation. You can use that against your enemies. You are a master of fear Voldemort; that is how you will obtain victory. Fear paralyzes. It strickens and weakens those who might otherwise bring you low. Even your greatest enemies know doubt and fear. Prey on that. Find that which terrifies them and use that to crush them. Success will be yours if you follow that advice."

Voldemort leaned back. The Dark Lord lowered his eyes as he considered all that the gypsy had told him. "You took me in once." he said quietly, changing the subject. "Why? Gypsies have magic enough to destroy even me."

"Do you know what Purrun means?"

Voldemort smiled. A rare moment of genuine amusement and not malevolence. "I believe it means onion."

"A common name." The old gypsy woman called Little Grandmother cackled as she explained. "And one that fits well with my people. Onions have many layers and so do we." Her voice fell to a barely audible whisper. "You are a singular creation Tom Riddle." You have gone beyond what any wizard in history has done. Neither the princes of Atlantis nor the founders of Hogwarts have dared what you have. That deserves respect. And the cards have told me that you will be catalyst for great change no matter the outcome. I have seen many things in all my years and I wish to see one more." The woman looked down and stared at her twisted hands. "I am old, but I am not yet ready to give up on life."

"The game is yet beginning."


Leave a review please. It means a lot

And no, for the record, Ginny is not a vampire and I don't want to portray her as a slut, I want to portray her as a damaged young woman reacting in a very bad way to trauma. She'll even out through the story.

Well, unless I want her to get worse. She can always get worse :)