The Healer carefully examines me, listening to my breathing and asking me questions.

"Any night sweats?"

"Sometimes." Sometimes coming to mean most nights.

"Loss of appetite?"

"Constantly."

"Feeling feverish?" My hospital robes cling to me and I begin to shake.

"As- as we speak." He frowns at something on his clipboard and flips over a page. "I understand that your family has a history of mental instability, most likely stemming from when your ancestor Agamemnon Rowle procreated with- his sister." He is a trained and professional Healer, but he cannot hide his disturbance.

"Yep. Usually we go for cousins, but he didn't have any old enough and duty called in the form of continuing the blood line and the family name so basically he did."

"You have been accused of showing minor signs of sociopathy."

I shrug. "Occasionally."

"Your Patronus has changed form several times?"

I shuffle slightly in my seat. "Yes. What of it?"

"It's a common sign of instability."

Despite having stumbled over my words earlier in this uncomfortable conversation, I am determined in one aspect: "I'm not mad."

"Didn't say you were. But if I am to make to a full diagnosis of your condition I must examine all relevant areas, mental health included. Will you allow me to proceed?"

The interrogation drags on into hours. Every aspect of my lifestyle has been scrutinised, I have to describe every detail of every Seeing I have ever had, which is noted down with the date of its occurrence and the date it refers to in my defiant attempts to prove to the cynical Healer that they are not mere hallucinations, which he finally is forced to see.

He leaves me waiting yet longer, with only anxiety for company, sitting on the side in my flimsy hospital robes, kicking my bare feet together in the dim light. In this lonely spartan appointment room I await my fate, while just down the corridor Healers are discussing and debating my condition, voices confidentially lowered. Not for the first time is my fate out of my hands, my future beyond my reach. I can only wait here alone and wait for them to tell me what they have to say, me imagining all the scenarios that could be.

The Healer returns after three hours of the unknown, holding his medical report with tense fingers.

"Marion," he begins. "I'm afraid it's not good news."

Kingsley's head is bowed over his desk as I enter his office, working intently.

"How did it go?" He asks without taking his gaze off his work.

"I'm dying," I tell him flatly. His quill stops abruptly, as if he has forgotten what he wanted to write.

"Ah," he says slowly. "I'm sorry to hear it."

Gingerly, as if I were walking on a rope, I walk one small step at a time over to the chair opposite his desk and collapse into it. I clench my teeth, holding back sobs. I will not break down, not in front of Kingsley and certainly not loud enough for people in the corridor to hear or know.

"I'm told it's called the Red Death," I say as conversationally as I can. "Because victims choke- choke to death on their own blood." I begin to shake, tears springing to my ears once again at the thought of such a horrible way to die.

"It is certain that there is no way to cure you?"

"None at all," I reply bitterly. "Usually these things can be cured by our fine medical establishment in a matter of hours but of course that requires immediate diagnosis and appeal to said establishment, ever so slightly impossible when you've been banned from even going near a doctor on pain of imprisonment!"

"The cough that didn't go away," he remembers.

Terrified that he will see me broken, I bury my head in my hands, fingers finding hold in my hair to stop them from visibly trembling.

"I could have had a hundred years." I gulp down a rising sob. "I could have outlived even you."

"Often in the shadow of death is the will to live the keenest." He observes. He does not come near me- not for fear of infection, that risk is going as my body gives up on trying to fight itself. He knows that a hug, even a pat on the back will just aggravate me further, reminding me of what I'm losing, what I never can have.

"I want to live," I give way and cry, long wailing, gargling sobs. "I want every one of those hundred years. But I can't have them. I can't even live to see one more birthday. It's slipping away! Before I can even try to call it back. I'm- I'm broken!"

Kingsley remains silent.

"Who killed you, Marion?"

Confusion quickly replaces despair, anger following not far behind.

"What are you talking about?" I snatch a handkerchief and blow my nose. "I told you, if you bothered to listen. I got ill last year, thought it would go away and ignored it when it didn't. Then it got worse because I'm too pathetic and weak to get rid of it myself and it did so much damage that I'm beyond- repair. Got it?" I snap nastily.

"I didn't ask what," he explains, patiently ignoring my rudeness. "I asked who."

"How the bloody hell should I know?"

"Marion, you have lived your life on the battlefield, many different ones. Some inside your own head, some with those who have sought your death. But have you ever questioned what you were fighting?" I begin to answer but he cuts me off.

"No, I do not mean that in the sense of doubt. You have fought, just as I have, against oppression, hypocrisy, discrimination, corruption, hatred and evil. We have defeated them side by side, for now at least. But the victory is hollow for you. You have been ever on the watch for the evils that held hold of your enemies, but you were so concerned with watching your back that you did not look to the side, around you. In the end, you will not die the death of an Auror, riddled with curses in a back alleyway or in the destruction that battle entails."

I slowly begin to understand what he refers to. "War doesn't end with a ceasefire," I tell him.

"It wasn't a curse, that could be blocked. Your killer did not even need to raise a wand. All they had to do was sign a paper and cut you off from safety. They did not kill you outright, but they condemned you to death. You fought evils by my side, but it was not oppression, hypocrisy, discrimination, corruption, hatred or evil that killed you. It was something just as dangerous and often overlooked."

"Then what exactly was it?"

"Neglect."

Draco

I have not always been to you what I promised I would be, but however I have displeased you, however I have failed, I have never intended to cause you lasting harm. My misdeeds, of which there have been many, were committed solely by myself. You know, as everyone does, the plans of Snape and Dumbledore during the war, bless their souls and you know, even if the world doesn't, my part in it. But the two of them didn't do the things I did to you, so even if you cannot absolve me, forgive them.

I do not know much of what you yourself did as a Death Eater, what use they put you to, but at least you can know that you need never do it again. Never again will your Mark burn, never again will you be chained to his side. Your life is now completely your own and I pray you will put it to a good use. I do not ask you necessarily to be a nice person, simply a good one. Because an ex-school bully has a lot more in them than you would think. I of all people should know.

I remain as always your well-wisher and should you wish it, your friend

Marion

Please understand if I am unable to reply to you.

At the Ministry, my illness receives little comment. Every day, people look into my watery eyes, red from crying but they do not blink at me. They talk to me but do not hear the thinness of my voice or my rasping breathing. My face is sunken and hollow, but they still smile down the same smile at it. They shake my hand but do not flinch at the swelling in my fingers. Either they have subconsciously ignored it or they don't want to know. My illness, fatal to me is of embarrassingly little danger to them. At the first sign of sickness they can head for St Mungo's. It wasn't that way with me.

This goes on for just a few days as my panic as to the amount of time I have left (which the Healers estimated as less than six months) spurs me to leave the Ministry. The news is not well known, my absence will most likely go unnoticed. Perhaps those who passed me by or even said hello to me will not learn of my illness until whatever obituary I will have comes out. I don't talk to anyone about it, or even say goodbye, though when I leave the Auror Office for the last time, I pass Dawlish and I give him a big smile and a wave.

My last hour in the building that has changed my life so much is spent with Kingsley. He is the one person who could really help me through this. The people I trust and would have turned to for advice or help: Tom, Joanie, Albus, Tonks, Lupin, Moody, Emmeline, Sirius, Scrimgeour, Severus, Dobby- all of them are dead. Fred Weasley may not have been an immediate option, but at least he would have been able to make me laugh. I'm really fond of the Staffords, but I don't want to worry them and I think I might if I showed distress in front of them. So Kingsley is the one I turn to.

"Thank you for your assistance over the years, Marion. You have done good work and-" This is usually the point where most employers would say "I wish you all the best for the future" but those would be mocking words. He knows I have no future now. "and I hope you do not suffer any more pain."

Even now, when I am dying, I am still uncertain of asking a large favour of him.

"There is one more thing I would ask of you, as a friend who can help me"

"Tell me."

"I have a wish- to see Hogwarts Lake one last time. You say that the best death a person can have is at home. I know that it is a school, but it is the home of much of my happiness. I do not want to die alone, so far away from it. This is a ridiculous favour, I feel, a large inconvenience and I should not hope that you will grant it. But I want to die in my home- my true home. I want to die at Hogwarts, whether the school is open or not."

He thinks carefully and does not show any signs of agreeing or disagreeing. "I could only be able to let you stay there for a fortnight at best."

"Then I shall stay for a fortnight; and it shall be the best."

He stands and walks over to me to say goodbye, flickers of sadness showing whenever I look closely. "Is there anything more you want from me? Out of all the world, what does a dying girl like you want?"

"A little bit of courage."

24th June

Three years ago today, I began this diary on the same day my niece was born. I should not like to end it now, on a note of sorrow. I shall find a point of happiness and end it then.

Tonight is my last night with the Staffords before I leave for Hogwarts and they have been taking good care of me. Benny made a really nice birthday cake and my hot water bottle barely turns lukewarm before it is reheated by a comfort-conscious Minty.

For all her observance, Adelaide makes no comment on my appearance. She sits by me at the table, or on my knee when we sit on the sofa watching a Muggle children's film called Sleeping Beauty (the neighbours are on holiday and have lent us the use of their television: I have been determined that Adelaide should grow up with a full understanding of Muggle culture and the best way to do this is to observe their art. This determination has not been deterred even when it took six hours to figure out how to work it and we put all of the plugs into all of the right sockets at last only to discover that the screen on which the film's pictures are shown was facing the wall and we had to start all over again).

At no point in the day does she let go of my hand for more than a moment.

I am lying on a bed in their spare room, virtually hanging out of the window, desperate for any passing breeze to catch on my feverish face when Adelaide comes in alone, holding something in her hand. She comes over to me, picks up my hand again and nuzzles in next to me.

"You are sad," she says with childish matter-of-factness.

"Yes," I tell her. "Sometimes I have felt very sad."

"Stories make you happy," she says. "So I bring a story." She holds out what she was carrying: a few sheets of paper, slightly crumpled from her tight little fist. Written on them in blocked printing are words that make a very short, very basic story.

"Thank you." I stroke her soft hair, which is longer than I remember and darker. I get up off the bed and slowly stagger over to my trunk, where at the bottom my first diary sits. I bring out the notebook and hand it to her.

"In return, I have a story for you."

She fumbles over the ribbon that holds it shut and then she opens it, her finger running over the Welsh words that are for now alien to her.

"What does it mean?" she asks.

"All that I am" I tell her as I gather her in my arms and embrace her for a few moments that couldn't feel long enough.

"Marion," says Minty softly. "It's time to go. They'll expect you at Hogwarts soon."

I kiss Adelaide goodbye and leave her sitting on my bed, still holding my diary in her hands. One day, she will read it and I hope she will understand.

I wind my arms around Minty's waist as we take off on her broom. I look down at the house as we climb higher, the lights blurring in my tired eyes. I keep looking down for it even as cloud obscures it from view, tear tracks freezing on my face.

I will never see her again.

We stop several times along the journey, to give me a chance to clean my handkerchief and rest. Minty says goodbye once we have reached the castle, stopping only for her to have a cup of tea. I watch her leave with regret. I have not always appreciated what a capable woman she is, I should not have underestimated her.

I am assisted by house elves in the days which follow, some of whom knew me through Dobby, some remember me from the Battle of Hogwarts. They are the best carers. I am not seen as a burden by them. On the contrary, the final stages of my illness produces quite a lot of mess which they seem more than happy to clean up. They walk with me through the grounds when I want some fresh air and listen with patience to my semi-delirious ramblings.

One day when they are serving me afternoon tea, I ask them to pour some for my sister, who will be joining me shortly. They say nothing, pour a cup for her and discreetly Vanish it when it is not drunk.

I spend much of my time at Hogwarts with ghosts. Not the Grey Lady or the Bloody Baron, but old friends. Joan plans my day with me over breakfast. My mother walks with me in the grounds. Tom tells me jokes over lunch. I read with Branwell, sew with Jaina, paint with Alysha. I hear Sirius laughing as I sip my tea, I catch Fred smiling as I pass a mirror and every night, as I tuck myself into bed, Albus reads to me in his gentle, steady voice.

7th July

The sun rising is a beautiful sight in this part of the castle, peeping through the ruins. This is the one part of the castle which has not been rebuilt. It has been left as a reminder of the conflict it suffered, left to heal over time, the ruined walls accompanied by the easing blue of forget-me-nots.

Forget me. Forget me not.

It seems so strange, to be dying surrounded by so much new life. That I am breaking apart while they grow afresh. That my tears of my sorrow is the water with which they grow.

The light is still early as I open the door of an empty classroom. There are no people here, no lessons, not yet. But the learning still goes on.

Slowly, not quite sure what I am doing, I pick up a piece of chalk. Even more slowly, on the blackboard, I chalk an A. Then a B; and finally a C.

ABC. I stand back, replace the chalk and sit down one of the desks to observe my work.

ABC. Someone somewhere once decided that there should be an A, a B and a C. Who could have thought it would come to mean so much? Who would have imagined that three symbols would have so much power? The Deathly Hallows make a wizard master of death, but it is ABC which makes a wizard master of his destiny. In times of strife, times of despair and terror, it is not to the Hallows we turn. We go back to basics. We turn to ABC. In ABC we shall find the answers. The Hallows halt the end, but ABC marks the beginning. The beginning when we open a book and read the first page, when we put the tales of the past aside and make our future in the pages of our destiny.

I fought for those three letters. I was willing to die for them. When I die, I shall remember them. For if we forsake our A, B and C we shall truly be lost.

Today no ghosts visit me, no old friends with jokes or plans or stories. I do not eat, I do not drink and I rarely sit. I wander through the corridors, lonely as a dream, lost in what has been. I stop when I remember a memory for the place: the corridor where I upbraided Draco, the place where Voldemort's dead body lay.

I stop outside Dumbledore's old study but do not enter. I don't want him to see me like this, a sharp end to a brief life he had so much hope for.

I do not register the passing of the hours aside from the changing of the light. Finally, the light the forget-me-nots brought me slips away and I feel something in me slip away too. I climb the stairs to my room to begin to die.

At the landing I cough until my lungs burn with pain. But slowly, the pain fades leaving only exhaustion. Whatever happens to me in my sleep, I welcome my bed. I brush my hair and plait it, tying it with a white ribbon on a whim. My nightdress is soft and cool and does not stick with the sweat of the day. I open the curtains to my window, allowing the moon to beam over the tapestry I made which hangs on the wall opposite my bed. It shows Hogwarts, ruined but triumphant, silhouetted against the sunset. It shows my treasure and my triumph. A fine sight for a dying girl.

I ease myself into bed, feeling the comforting heaviness of the sheets, stroking the smooth quilt. I have been reading many poems over the past two weeks, speaking to me in a way they had not done before. Poetry is music that needs no instrument, the song from the heart.

I recite the words which speak my heart:

And the bluebird sang

From above the tree

It sang for you

And it sang for me

It sang for the happy

It sang for the free

It sang for the hope

It so wanted to be

My head feels very heavy as I set it down upon the pillow and my eyes close. I know this is a sleep from which I shall not be waking up. They tell me that tomorrow I shall go home. That is true. Tomorrow, they shall find me. I shall have gone home.

Curious things, people. We can be them our whole lives and still not understand them. They intrigue us, baffle us and challenge us. One preconception whipped away in a momentary action. Each one different, but in many ways the same. They can be loveable; they can be despicable. Capable of actions that are phenomenally clever, innovative, futile- or maybe some actions that can only be described as phenomenally stupid. Sometimes I could not tell the difference.

And this is how my diary ends; revelling in all the strange beauties of human nature, my place in it whatever I wanted to be. Glad of heart, to know it.

He stands there, blue eyes twinkling still with life. I run to him, not urgency in my step but joy. Then it is not him I see, but myself. Sitting by my riverbank, my book open, my mind open, my quill ready. Ready to tell another story.

And I know, even as I drift into sleep, that though my story is over, there are many more still to tell.

MARION'S DIARY ENDS HERE