A/N: This is a story I started fifteen years ago, between the release of HBP and DH. My passion for it fizzled out slowly and I eventually gave up on it and removed it from all platforms. Within the past year or so, it's sparked again with an overpowering need to finish it. So whether anyone reads this or not, I've decided to do just that, for my own peace of mind. However, I do hope someone out there finds enjoyment in it.

For anyone who could possibly stumble upon this that read it years ago, please know there have been name changes and rewrites (some extensive) to alleviated the excessive cringe I felt when rereading through some of these chapters. Also be aware that I have altered some timelines, but nothing that relates or affects any of Harry's story we all love so much.

Please feel free to leave reviews letting me know what you like or dislike, what you think I could do better, or with any questions you may have.

At the present time, this story is unbetaed as I'm currently on hunt for one. Please ignore any glaring mistakes you may stumble across.

No storyteller has ever been able to dream up anything as fantastically unlikely as what really does happen in this mad Universe.

-Robert A. Heinlein, Lazarus Long

Memory is the way we keep telling ourselves our stories - and telling other people a somewhat different version of our stories.

-Alice Munro

The ideal, it seems to me, is to show things happening and allow the reader to decide what they mean.

-John M. Ford

Prologue

December 23

"Gram," calls Ivy as she walks to the small room next to the snow covered garden, where her grandmother can often be found on days such as this.

"I'm here, dear, just watching the snow," answers Gram as Ivy enters the room. Gram is staring out the frosted windows, watching the soft winter sunlight reflecting off the snow, a warm fire crackling softly across from her. Gram sighs in contentment. "I do love how the snow settles over everything in sight." She hadn't always felt this way. In her younger days, she'd simply dreaded this time of year, the biting cold and harsh winds irritating and intrusive. Yet she'd learned, from someone wiser than herself in so many ways, the joys it can bring. Now, so many years later, with her hair more white than brown, she can still see those joys.

"I don't see why," says Ivy as she seats herself on the floor in front of her gram's slowly rocking chair. "It's cold and bright and absolutely no good for going outside, unless you fancy turning into a frozen mound yourself."

"Magical things can happen when it snows, Ivy. An old friend taught me that."

"Gram, of course magical things can happen. They happen all the time. We're magical. It's a common occurrence," says Ivy, her young voice heavy with exasperation and a world weariness that makes Gram smile, secretly.

Gram chuckles as she gazes down upon her sixteen year old granddaughter. So young and innocent, she thinks. You have no idea what this life has in store for you.

"My little darling, there are so many types of magic in this world that you can't yet even begin to comprehend," murmurs Gram, staring at Ivy with piercing eyes. "Triumph, love, misery, friendship; all mighty and wonderful and beautiful in a way that is fathomless and can't be explained."

Ivy watches Gram as she gazes out the window toward the falling snow. She has that far-away look in her eyes and Ivy knows, from sixteen years of experience, that Gram is remembering. She's remembering the things she has never wished to tell Ivy; the mysterious events from her life which only a small, select group of individuals know so well.

Ivy had asked her mother, Gram's daughter, once a few years back if she knew what her grandmother thought about in these moments. Her mother had sighed, shadowed eyes turning on Ivy as she'd said vaguely, "She's remembering the things that she sometimes wishes she couldn't." Ivy had huffed in frustration at being shut out yet again, insistent on learning all these deeply guarded secrets. Her mother's eyes had softened, reaching out to run a hand over her daughter's hair. "Be patient, duck. She'll tell you when she's ready."

"You're so young, Ivy," Gram is saying now. "There's so much you haven't seen and have yet to learn. A lot in which I hope you never have to, but still, the point stands. It's easy to question things you don't understand completely. Trust me on this. I spent most of my youth searching for the answers to things and in all the wrong places. Most of the important things I know today, I learned the hard way. But then, there were the select few who learned in an even harder way. And I was there through it all; I watched and I learned. Every day, there's a part of me that wishes I hadn't. That knowledge is there to stay, and I have shaped my life around those memories. I like to think I'm a better person for it, but who truly knows?"

"Tell me what you're thinking about, Gram," bursts out Ivy suddenly. "I'd like to know what you've seen."

Gram stops her rocking and stares into Ivy's eyes intensely. It unnerves her slightly, but she stands her ground and doesn't shift her gaze. She wants to know. Even if it's difficult to hear, she's ready.

Gram finally nods almost imperceptibly and starts rocking again, slower than before.

"It's not an easy story to hear, Ivy, let alone tell. It's full of powerful, frightful things. I fear you won't be the same after I finish. You'll see things in a different light; make choices based on what you learn. Parts of it will haunt you, and I worry you'll look at me differently." Gram pauses, studying her granddaughter gravely. "It's a dangerous road to go down, but I seem to travel it every day of my life. Memories are like that, you know. Dangerous, explorative."

She looks at Ivy one last time before continuing.

"I suppose the best place to start is at the beginning of summer holiday just after sixth year…"