Chapter Five

I think I must have been unable to move for about five minutes- or longer. I did not faint or something- I just stared, and slowly, slowly I started to get convinced that indeed it was her. I thought it impossible at first- preposterous, even, what would she be doing in my dreams, but it all fitted too well- way too well.

Not only was the face in the portrait almost identical in every single way to the woman I knew so well, everything- just fitted. The things she thought, the name- Mark- she had mentioned, the fact that she was locked up. I had heard her name before, of course- it was and still is quite impossible to grow up in Britain, or in Europe, for that matter, without ever hearing her name- but somehow I had never linked that famous woman with the person I saw at night.

I knew she was a witch, of course. It was common knowledge, and I, who had even at my young age always been rather fond of history, had known it ever since I was six or so. Actually, now I think of it, it is very strange that I never saw a portrait of her before my arrival at Hogwarts- but then again lots of the books in my father's library were muggle books, rather old and thus non-illustrated.

This one, though, was no doubt a wizarding book- and as the woman-in-grey herself winked and waved at me, I could not but close the book. I must have looked very strange, I think, for even Madam MacInroe, the strict librarian, asked whether I was feeling okay when I practically ran out of the room. I did not answer her- or anyone, for that matter.

All I remember is me running, as quick as my still rather short legs could bear me, back to my dormitory, where I banged the door shut behind my back and fell down on my bed. I remember I was crying, and even back then that was a rather unusual thing for me to do. Whenever I was in some sort of trouble, I'd analyze and ponder, but never cry. It was not that I regarded crying as a sort of weakness- that came later- it was just that I very well knew that crying did not help anyway.

This time I did cry, though- even though in fact my feelings were very two-fold. In a way, I was surprised and rather upset- because I could not think of one reason she would appear in my dreams, and it frightened me. But in a way, I was very glad as well. Finally, finally, after about eight years of passive or active searching, I had found her.

It was almost as if finding a long lost sister back- and yet it was something different. I knew, after all, that she could never be my sister- but still I felt closer to her than to many people I really knew. It was perhaps logical, since I had "known" her face and thoughts for so very long, but still it was strange.

I was not frightened of her, though, like I had been at three years of age. I was more frightened of the mystery that, even though I knew her name and background now, still surrounded the woman. And well of course I was still curious! But what could I do? I had always just looked for an identity, convinced that everything would become clear as long as I had a name- but deep down I must have always known that I was just deceiving myself. For that I was- or at least, that I had been.

I had realized as soon as I saw her face, that it had brought me more questions than answers into the end.

I had realized that as soon as I read her name.

Anne Boleyn.