Falling...
Fall of an Angel...
You can see the fall...
When you kiss the earth...
Falling.
In your deepest dreams...
the fall of an Angel...
The silence of the sound
And the color of the night
And the sound from the thought
And the thought from the light...
--Rain One - Cirque du Soleil
Serafina had been a beautiful woman.
Her pale skin made her black hair seem darker than the midnight shade of india ink, and in turn, her thick eyelashes seemed to accent her eyes, drawing them out and making them shine. But the greatest beauty in her slim, delicate face was her smile, for when her lips parted with happiness, something about her face shone - and she was gorgeous.
But Serafina was also frivolous. For a Slytherin, she seemed to always be at odds with herself, making herself cry every night as she pulled away from friends and tried to sidle up to longtime enemies. She passed herself about from man to man, always unhappy with the way she looked on their arms, always unsatisfied with the lot she had been cast.
She had been cast a good roll of the dice, as well - being heir to the Slytherin dynasty, owner of castles and a small fortune. Others would have been satisfied, perhaps devoting their lives to persuit of knowledge or philanthropy. Serafina claimed that she had something better in mind, in actuality it was love that made her restless, an emptiness in her heart that drove her on.
And then she met Tom.
Tom Riddle. He was a scandal in the making, a wealthy Muggle boy who lived with his parents, a snob... a snob such as herself. She should have rejected him immediately, but something about the way he twisted his words - his self - so glibly to fit... could she believe? Yes - to fit the emptiness that plauged her. He took her pain away so efficiently, and made her forget so very well... Apparently, he was entertained with her as well, and when he proposed, she said yes.
And then the war came.
Serafina remembered the window, and the stars, and watching, and waiting, and feeling pathetically hopeless. Her Tom, out there, alone - helpless, without magic to protect him. Of course... he still hadn't been told exactly why the house remained so very clean, or why his meals were so quick and delicious, but Serafina considered that her secret. Her secret. Yes. She liked secrets, she considered them an important part of life. To be honest and in the open was to be boring and listless.
And yet the secret would come back to her in the end as her Tom returned back to her, suffering, suffering... in pain. Suddenly he didn't fit the hole that he used to fill - suddenly he began to hurt her, too... She kept telling herself that it wasn't her dear husband's fault, it was shell shock, some awful, uncurable disease that crept among the trenches of war with the pounding of the bombs. She tried to bring him some pleasure - to be a good wife. And with that came the child - the news of the babe growing within her seemed to placate him for awhile. Until...
Until, until...
Serafina didn't like to think of that night. She decided, as the time drew nearer and nearer, that her secret shouldn't be kept any longer. So... she told him, calmly, carefully. But... but.
The wind had been especially cold that night, without her love, without love.
She had hoped to save the child, knowing that she herself was beyond all hope. She named him Tom as well, thinking perhaps that her husband would see himself in his son, and love him... love him as he did not love her, now.
As the first terribly wan rays of sunshine broke through the window in her filthy, Muggle hospital room, she touched her child's forhead, uttering his name for those around to hear, sunk back on her pillows, and died.
Now it was later. Much later, Serafina could tell, as the rain pattered down all around her... through her, too. She held up an erethreal hand, slowly blinking. Ah... a ghost. She was a ghost. It had been a long while... since Earth. She looked about her; up, down, over each shoulder. Yes... she knew this place. Home. She dusted that bannister... oh, so many times.
Steps lighter than air, she started to walk up the staircase, something pulling her up in that direction. Something... fate? Destiny? Maybe this, maybe that. She needed to go upstairs. That much she knew. She climbed... and it seemed to take forever, almost forever, and for eternity, she would regret that last step.
For the last step made her look up to see the scene - a boy, a black-haired boy with glasses halfway slipped down his nose, standing over... something else... a corpse. For a moment she mistook the boy as her own, but he jumped like a startled deer, and looked at her with a terrified, emeraldine gaze, and she knew that was not her Tom. And then she wondered for a split second why she had been called there before looking down...
A face only a mother could love, only a mother could recognize.
And as her voice crested and swelled like a banshee's in a cry of agony, the thunder rumbled far in the distance, echoing her cry.