Chapter One
I was three years of age and asleep.
My bed was a large, richly decorated cot, made of the most beautiful, dark mahogany wood, engraved with little roses and leaves. My father always was a great lover of nature and, needless to say, he was rich as well. The McGonagall estate, which he had inherited at nineteen, when his father, my grandfather, had passed away, did not only contain of that wonderful house where most of my childhood was spent, but also of the most wonderful lawns and gardens I have, truly, ever seen in my life. The Castle of Hogwarts has been my home for many years now, and though its rooms, walls and halls never cease to amaze me, I cannot but think the lawns not so far superior of those of the spot where I was born- just like I never could forget the room I occupied up till my eleventh year, and occasionally afterwards as well.
It was a pretty, light room, decorated and constructed specially for me, on orders of my father. It was much lighter and looked much merrier than the rest of the beautiful, yet undoubtedly ancient house- and needless to say I was fond of it, fond of it with the fondness which most probably everybody feels for the earliest room they ever occupied.
And so I lay there, in my cot- three years old and asleep. I cannot exactly tell what I looked like in my sleep for, naturally, I was asleep at the time- but I do imagine there must have been some tossing and turning involved. My hair had most probably come loose from the neat braid my mother always insisted on- and I can imagine I was crying.
The dream I was having was the same I had many times afterwards- and perhaps I'd even had it before, that I don't know.
The black-haired woman stretched her legs under the heavy, grey petticoat she was wearing- and her dark greenish eyes shone with tears and half-suppressed anger, as she threw back her head. The tiles on the ceiling were grey- grey like her frock, grey like the- to her- invisible skies above the city of London- and once more she did a weak attempt on counting them, so as not to go mad.
Madness was her greatest fear- not death. She could live with death, after all- a bad pun indeed, but true. The thought of dying in itself was not scary to her- she was not easily frightened, after all, and she had known what she had started on the moment she had started it. That was not her problem- though she could feel her heart beating harshly against the insides of her mind as she thought about how she would leave life behind.
What bothered her was the fact that in leaving life, she was leaving someone else as well. Someone who needed her- and it was not the man she loved. Mark, or so she believed, would be able to save himself and, if he couldn't, they would at least die together the way they had- though in secret- lived together. It was not for him that she feared- even though she knew she'd do everything to save him.
But if she, she who united them, she who had to live, was ever harmed, she'd never forgive herself.
And the woman started to cry, dark head now rested against her crossed arms in despair- and once more she yelled.
And somewhere in her cot in Scotland, a small girl woke up.