Chapter One
It was a beautiful day outside. An undeniably delicious day. The sun was exceptionally bright, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky, which was very unusual in London. It was a wonderful day, but also an odd day: there were meteor showers, shooting stars, and owls flying around in day time. Weird people lined the streets, whispering in groups, dressed in bright coloured robes. The news stations were beyond themselves to explain any of it. That would make sense though, for they had no clue that today was the day that Harry Potter had survived an attack by Lord Voldemort, causing the spell to rebound back on Voldemort himself. All the witches and wizards were celebrating, for they were free, finally free! The little Potter boy had faced the wrath of the most powerful dark wizard of all time, and would live to tell about it! That is, as soon as he could talk. At the moment, he was only one year old.
At St. Anne's Foster Centre, the atmosphere was as excited as it was normally around Christmas Eve. Only, it was the middle of the summer, and no one was getting any presents. But the disappearance of the dark lord was more than enough to celebrate. The children ran around, shouting and playing happily. For once, the caretakers did not seem to mind, for they were thinking about the freedom that they finally had, after years of captivity. They were all talking about the poor Potter child, toasting him with their drinks. The festivity was contagious, and the children ran outside to shout and play some more. All the children were running and having fun, their worries and troubles forgotten for now.
All the children but one. One child was not celebrating; one child was sitting in her room staring out the window, sadly. The girl was only around three or four, even though she looked much older than she really was. She had vibrant blue-green eyes that sparkled like the ocean, and a cascade of platinum-blonde hair. Her skin was fair white, her lips a soft red. She was an exceptionally tall girl, but not too skinny like most girls her age and height. She was by far one of the most beautiful girls in St. Anne's. Rumors were circulating in the caretakers' lounges that she was part veela, but, since her parents were dead and the girl had apparently no idea what they looked like, there was no proof in the rumours. In those intense eyes was something unexpected on such an exciting, happy day: tears. Not of joy, but of disappointment. The pretty girl looked at a golden mirror hanging in her otherwise dingy room. "Why? Why did this happen," she asked the mirror. "Why did a little one year old boy have to kill Lord Voldemort?"
The mirror sighed and thought for a moment. "Estelle," it said softly. "Estelle, my daughter. 'Why' is not the right question here. It is how a little one year old boy killed Voldemort that we should ask. And as for either of those questions, they are beyond my ability to answer. But do not cry. Instead celebrate, because for now the dark lord is gone!"
Estelle wiped the tears from her eyes. 'No crying, none at all, what so ever.' She remembered her mother drilling that phrase into her, shortly before her own death. And her mother did not cry at her death. Stella would not cry at Voldemort's. Instead, she turned towards the window again, and said quietly to the mirror, "My only regret today is that I did not get a chance to hurt Voldemort first, hurt him before he died. I did not avenge my mother's death."
And for once the outspoken mirror did not respond.
It was a beautiful day outside. An undeniably delicious day. The sun was exceptionally bright, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky, which was very unusual in London. It was a wonderful day, but also an odd day: there were meteor showers, shooting stars, and owls flying around in day time. Weird people lined the streets, whispering in groups, dressed in bright coloured robes. The news stations were beyond themselves to explain any of it. That would make sense though, for they had no clue that today was the day that Harry Potter had survived an attack by Lord Voldemort, causing the spell to rebound back on Voldemort himself. All the witches and wizards were celebrating, for they were free, finally free! The little Potter boy had faced the wrath of the most powerful dark wizard of all time, and would live to tell about it! That is, as soon as he could talk. At the moment, he was only one year old.
At St. Anne's Foster Centre, the atmosphere was as excited as it was normally around Christmas Eve. Only, it was the middle of the summer, and no one was getting any presents. But the disappearance of the dark lord was more than enough to celebrate. The children ran around, shouting and playing happily. For once, the caretakers did not seem to mind, for they were thinking about the freedom that they finally had, after years of captivity. They were all talking about the poor Potter child, toasting him with their drinks. The festivity was contagious, and the children ran outside to shout and play some more. All the children were running and having fun, their worries and troubles forgotten for now.
All the children but one. One child was not celebrating; one child was sitting in her room staring out the window, sadly. The girl was only around three or four, even though she looked much older than she really was. She had vibrant blue-green eyes that sparkled like the ocean, and a cascade of platinum-blonde hair. Her skin was fair white, her lips a soft red. She was an exceptionally tall girl, but not too skinny like most girls her age and height. She was by far one of the most beautiful girls in St. Anne's. Rumors were circulating in the caretakers' lounges that she was part veela, but, since her parents were dead and the girl had apparently no idea what they looked like, there was no proof in the rumours. In those intense eyes was something unexpected on such an exciting, happy day: tears. Not of joy, but of disappointment. The pretty girl looked at a golden mirror hanging in her otherwise dingy room. "Why? Why did this happen," she asked the mirror. "Why did a little one year old boy have to kill Lord Voldemort?"
The mirror sighed and thought for a moment. "Estelle," it said softly. "Estelle, my daughter. 'Why' is not the right question here. It is how a little one year old boy killed Voldemort that we should ask. And as for either of those questions, they are beyond my ability to answer. But do not cry. Instead celebrate, because for now the dark lord is gone!"
Estelle wiped the tears from her eyes. 'No crying, none at all, what so ever.' She remembered her mother drilling that phrase into her, shortly before her own death. And her mother did not cry at her death. Stella would not cry at Voldemort's. Instead, she turned towards the window again, and said quietly to the mirror, "My only regret today is that I did not get a chance to hurt Voldemort first, hurt him before he died. I did not avenge my mother's death."
And for once the outspoken mirror did not respond.
