Words do spread fast, faster than light, through hollows of one's brain to the depths of another's soul. Life is unique for its undefined fates, for its never ending challenges also for its limitless love.
13th June 1959
Strong gusts of wind danced around the lawn of the Gaunts, to the chords of shrivelled leaves rustling through the sideways. A mid aged man rested on a creaky chair, with his baggy eyes still wandering its fate. Numbed through his body he sat with an anticipation, for a hope in his hopeless life.
Sweat drenched nurse rushed her way out of the house, stumbled her feets for a halt where the man was stationed. With a glimmer in her eyes and a subtle redness on her cheeks she cheerfully said,
"A daughter! Yes sir, you are bestowed with a daughter! Your grace."
And so she was born in a family, royal to its history yet baned to its present self. House of Gaunt, located on the outskirts of Little Hangleton, a small village in northern England. A house driven to poverty and inbreed instability, though privileged for being the direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin.
Grace Gaunt. She was named by the man known for his immense hatred towards the muggles and for being a strong believer of pure-blood supremacy, her father, Morfin Gaunt.
13th June 1971
In contrast to her family's spine chilling past, our protagonist, Grace Gaunt, was rather grown into an ethical and alluring girl. Unrequited by her father's love, her life was as darkful as the earth looks when the sun sets it's way.
Tom Riddle Jr. altered Morfin's memory so that he believed he was the murderer of the Riddle family and that he was proud of it. For these charges Morfin was imprisoned in azkaban for the rest of his life.
She was a little girl, with jet black curls running their way down till her small waist. The bright, warm rays of the sun made her deep blue eyes sparkle with hope, hope that her father left.
Grace was her mother's everything. Her only reason for survival. Still the day came by when she turned eleven. And its not every day that a child turns eleven.
It was a warm, sunny day, her nominal but sweet dream was broken by her mother's loud cry. Half waken Grace stumbled her way towards their front door. There stood her beautiful mother stunned with tears rolling down her long pale face.
Clearing her vision, she saw that her mother was holding something rather very preciously. A letter. It was there, her very first letter and it read,
"Ms. Grace Morfin Gaunt,
Little Hangleton, England."