The Light in the Darkness

1. Loyalties

"Yaxley, Snape," a high, clear voice said from the head a long, ornate table. "You are very nearly late."

The drawing room was full of people, sat around the exquisite dining table. The usual furniture had been removed for the evening, to accommodate for the new addition. The only light came from the roaring fire beneath a marble mantlepiece and gilded mirror. Snape and Yaxley allowed their eyes to adjust to the darkness, seeing a floating figure hanging upside down over the table.

It was human, reflected in the mirror and the polished surface of the table beneath it, and unconscious. No one was sparing the figure a glance.

The figure at the head of the table was directly in front of the fireplace. At first, it was difficult for the new arrivals to make out more than a silhouette. As they drew nearer, however, his face shone through the gloom, revealing the hairless, snake-like man with gleaming red eyes.

"Severus, here," Voldemort instructed, indicating the seat on his immediate right. "Yaxley – beside Dolohov."

The two men did not hesitate in taking their assigned seats; it took all of Snape's willpower to not look at the young woman – too young – seated on the Dark lord's immediate left. Most eyes, except for hers, followed Snape and it was to him that Voldemort spoke first.

"So?"

"My Lord, the Order of the Phoenix intends to move Harry Potter from his current place of safety on Saturday next, at nightfall."

Everyone showed interest in the topic at hand, with some of the people stiffening, others fidgeting. The young woman – her red hair glowing in the firelight, flowing down her back in curls and pinned away from her face – turned her head towards the two men, showing her attention to the conversation.

"Saturday … at nightfall," Voldemort repeated. His red eyes were intent and harsh upon Snape's black orbs. Many around the table were uncomfortable witnessing the ferocity of the stare off and turned away. The young woman and her blonde-haired male companion by her side did not. Voldemort's lips curved into a smile. "Good. Very good. And this information comes -"

"From the source we discussed."

"My Lord." Yaxley leaned forward, staring down at the table at Voldemort and Snape. Everyone turned to face him. "My Lord, I have heard differently." Waiting a moment, Yaxley continued when the Dark Lord did not speak. "Dawlish, the Auror, let slip that that Potter will not be moved until the thirtieth, the night before the boy turns seventeen."

Snape smiled. "My source told me that there are plans to lay a false trail; this must be it. No doubt a Confundus Charm has been placed upon Dawlish. It would not be the first time – he is known to be susceptible."

"I assure you, My Lord, Dawlish seemed quite certain," Yaxley insisted.

"If he has been Confunded, naturally he is certain," Snape scorned him. "I assure you, Yawley, the Auror Office will play no further part in the protection of Harry Potter. The Order believes we have infiltrated the Ministry."

"The Order's got one thing right, then, eh?" a squat man said, who sat a short distance from Yaxley. The wheezed laugh he gave was echoed by only three other people.

Voldemort did not laugh. He seemed lost in thought as he gazed at the revolving body overhead.

"My Lord," Yaxley continued, "Dawlish believes an entire party of Aurors will be used to transfer the boy -"

Voldemort held up his hand, silencing Yaxley, who watch in resentment as the Dark Lord turned back to face Snape.

"Where are they going to hide the boy next?"

"At the home of one of the Order," Snape informed him. "The place, according to the source, has been given every protection that the Order and Ministry together could provide. I think that there is little chance of taking him once he is there, my Lord. Unless, of course, the Ministry has fallen before next Saturday, which might give us the opportunity to discover and undo enough of the enchantments to break through the rest."

"Well, Yaxley?" Voldemort called down the table, his eyes glinting ominously in the light. "Will the Ministry have fallen by next Saturday?"

Yaxley squared his shoulder as all heads turned to face him once again. "My Lord, I have good news on that score. I have – with difficulty, and after great effort – succeeded in placing an Imperius Curse upon Pius Thicknesse."

Many of those sitting around Yaxley were impressed. Dolohov, next to him, clapped him on the back.

"It is a start," Voldemort said, "but Thicknesse is only one man. Scrimgeour must be surrounded by our people before I act. One failed attempt on the Minister's life will set me back a long way."

"Yes, my Lord, that is true – but you know, as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Thicknesse has regular contact not only with the Minister himself, but also with the Heads of all other Ministry departments. It will, I think, be easy now that we have such a high-ranking official under our control, to subjugate the others and then they can all work together to bring Scrimgeour down."

"As long as our friend, Thicknesse, is not discovered before he has converted the rest," Voldemort said. "At any rate, it remains unlikely that the Ministry will be mine before next Saturday. If we cannot touch the boy at his destination, then it must be done while he travels."

"We are at an advantage there, my Lord," Yaxley said, believing this would help him most of all. "We now have several people planted within the Department of Magical Transport. If Potter Apparates or uses the Floo Network, we show know immediately."

"He will do neither," Snape interrupted. "The Order is eschewing any form of transport that is controlled or regulated by the Ministry; they mistrust everything to do with the place."

"All the better. He will have to move in the open. Easier to take, by far." Voldemort, once more, glanced up at the revolving body. "I shall attend to the boy in person. There have been too many mistakes where Harry Potter is concerned. Some of them have been my own. That Potter lives is due more to my errors, than to his triumphs."

Most of the company around the table were watching Voldemort with apprehension, afraid that they might be blamed for Harry Potter's continued existence. However, Voldemort was speaking more to himself than to any of them, as he continued to address the unconscious body above them all.

"I have been careless, and so have been thwarted by luck and chance, those wreckers of all but the best laid plans. But I know better now. I understand those things that I did not understand before. I must be the one to kill Harry Potter, and I shall be."

As if in response to these words, a sudden wail pierced the air: terrible and drawn-out in misery and pain. Some of the group were startled and glanced down, for the scream had come from beneath their feet.

"Wormtail," Voldemort said, with no change to his thoughtful tone and without glancing away from the object of his fascination, "have I not spoken to you about keeping our prisoner quiet?"

"Yes, m – my Lord," a small man gasped, halfway down the table. He had been sitting low in his chair, not having wanted any attention and successfully being overlooked until then. Scrambling up, he scurried quickly from the room.

"As I was saying," Voldemort continued, returning his attention to the faces of his followers, "I understand better now. I shall need, for instance, to borrow a wand from one of you before I go to kill Potter."

All of the faces around him displayed their shock; it was as if he had announced his intention to borrow one of their arms. Only one hand began raising, which the Dark Lord was quick to prevent. His hand reached across and laid atop the feminine hand to his left: the young, beautiful redhead who had remained silent and attentive. Red eyes meeting blue briefly, Voldemort minutely shook his head and returned to his previous siting position.

Inwardly, he was revelling at her dejected expression. Her loyalty was true and unwavering, unlike many he could name. He would be sure to reward her – he recalled her birthday would be in a few weeks. Next to the female, the young blonde-haired male grasped her other hand in his, comforting her. She gripped his hand, pleased for the support.

"No volunteers?" Voldemort asked, ignoring the previous interaction. Few had witnessed it, as the majority had looked down in hopes to be ignored. "Let's see … Lucius, I see no reason for you to have a wand anymore."

Lucius Malfoy looked up. His skin was yellowish and waxy in the firelight, his eyes sunken and shadowed. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and almost a whisper. "My Lord?"

"Your wand, Lucius. I require your wand."

"I …"

Malfoy glanced sideways at his wife. She was staring straight ahead, as pale as he was. Her blonde hair was hanging down her back, kept in pristine condition. Beneath the table, her slim fingers closed briefly around her husband's wrist and spurred him to action. Putting his hand into his robes, he withdrew a wand and passed it along to Voldemort.

Holding it up in front of his eyes, Voldemort examined the wand closely. "What is it?"

"Elm, my Lord," Malfoy whispered.

"And the core?"

"Dragon – dragon heartstring." He stumbled over the words.

"Good." Voldemort drew out his own wand and compared their lengths.

In that moment, Lucius Malfoy made a quick and involuntary movement. For a fraction of a second, it seemed to be as if he expected to receive Voldemort's wand in exchange. It was not missed by the Dark Lord and his eyes widened, glinting maliciously.

"Give you my wand, Lucius? My wand?"

Some of their audience sniggered.

"I have given you your liberty, Lucius, is that not enough for you? But I noticed that you and your wife seem less than happy of late … what is it about my presence in your home that displeases you, Lucius?"

"Nothing – nothing, my Lord!"

"Such lies, Lucius …"

The hiss continued, even as Voldemort finished speaking. Growing louder by the second, they could all hear something heavy sliding across the floor beneath the table. Climbing slowly up Voldemort's chair, the huge snake's rise seemed to be endless and came to rest across Voldemort's shoulders: thick in stature and unblinking. Voldemort stroked the creature with his long fingers absently, still looking at Lucius.

"Why do you look so unhappy with your lot, Lucius? Your son, Draco, newly married to a young, fertile wife who is already pregnant with their first child." Voldemort's eyes gleamed as the shock of this news sent waves down the table, for he knew what they would be waiting to hear next. "Young Guinevere has proven her loyalty more in these last, difficult years, than you have."

The young redhead – Guinevere – shared a glance with her husband, their hands remaining clasped together. The pregnancy had been a recent revelation when her monthly courses had not arrived at their usual time, for they had always been regular. A midwife had been summoned and confirmed the happy news. It was early days and the announcement had been planned for next month, or even the one after, in fear of an unsuccessful pregnancy.

They should have realized the Dark Lord would have other plans.

"Indeed, Guinevere and Draco's loyalty to the cause is so great," Voldemort continued, "they are succeeding where others have failed." Everyone was eager, as they took in his words with rapt attention. "For, in fact, our mother-to-be is pregnant with twins."

Guinevere did not squirm under the attention she was given, her eyes only for the Dark Lord.

"My Loyal Death Eaters, we must rejoice in this joyous occasion for Guinevere does not continue the Malfoy line alone. It brings me the greatest of pleasure to assure you that my heir also grows within her womb." There was a great round of applause with this announcement. Many of them had been sceptical of Guinevere when she had first been brought into the fold. "Half siblings they may be; the future of our cause is certain in their shared blood."

Voldemort faced Draco. "May we both enjoy the fruits of this alliance for many years to come."

Draco nodded, solemnly, saying nothing. He caught the subtle threat. If Guinevere miscarried, or delivered a stillborn, as many of the others had done before her then their lives would be forfeit. The only successful birth had been when the Dark Lord was young and, even then, the child had lived for but a few hours: sickly and gasping for breath. Having to share his wife, even with his Lord, had wounded his pride; but neither of them were foolish enough to deny him. He had made the announcement to show them how much he still controlled their lives, even with them having risen so high in his esteem.

"And so, Lucius," Voldemort addressed the family patriarch once again, causing him to startle, "to ask you again: is this not everything you desired? Is the continuation of your family line not happy news? Is my return, my rise to ever new heights of power, not the very thing you and your wife professed to desire for so many years?"

"Of course, my Lord," Lucius Malfoy assured him. "We did desire it – we do."

To his left, his wife, Narcissa, gave a stiff nod. Her eyes met her son's and was quick to look away. She had known of the pregnancy, having been there when the midwife arrived, and had also hoped to make the announcement when the child had laid down true roots in the womb.

"My Lord," a dark-haired woman, halfway down the table, said. Her voice was thick with emotion. "It is an honour to have you here, in our family's house, and to have been blessed by these new additions to our family line. There can be no higher pleasure."

Bellatrix sat beside her sister, leaping on the chance to appease the Dark Lord. She was opposite to her sister in looks, with dark hair and heavily lidded eyes.

"No higher pleasure," Voldemort repeated, his head tilted a little to one side as he considered Bellatrix. "That means a great deal, Bellatrix, from you."

Her face flooded with colour and her eyes welled with tears of delight. Bellatrix had been one of the women to fail in delivering the Dark lord his desired heir, having given birth to a stillborn daughter shortly before Halloween in 1981. Voldemort's displeasure had been immense and final. Her punishment had been the loss of her fertility, both through the difficult labour and the Cruciatus Curse when the Dark Lord had learned of the failure. Upon her release from Azkaban, it had been her idea to bring Guinevere and her fertility into the fold in truth after hearing about her closeness with Draco. If she could not deliver the Dark Lord's child, then she would find the one who would. Such was her loyalty.

"My Lord knows I speak nothing but the truth!"

"No higher pleasure … even compared with the happy event that, I hear, has taken place in your family this week?"

Bellatrix was confused, her lips parted as she stared at him.

"I don't know what you mean, my Lord."

"I'm talking about your niece, Bellatrix. And yours, Lucius and Narcissa. She has just married the werewolf, Remus Lupin. You must be so proud."

Jeering laughter erupted around the table. Many leaned forward to exchange gleeful looks and a few thumped the table with their fists. Bellatrix's face, having been flushed with happiness, turned an ugly, blotchy red in humiliation. The snake around the Dark Lord's shoulder disliked the noise and hissed angrily, but none of the jubilant crowd heard it.

"She is no niece of our, my Lord," Bellatrix cried out over the laughter. "We – Narcissa and I – have not set eyes on our sister since she married the Mudblood. This brat has nothing to do with either of us, nor any beast she marries."

"What say you, Narcissa?" Voldemort asked, his quiet voice carrying through the noise. "Will you babysit the cubs?"

The hilarity mounted; Narcissa sat rigid and shook her head, sharply. Her comfort and strength remained in her son and daughter-in-law, not participating in the abject humiliation she was suffering.

"Enough," Voldemort said, stroking the angry snake. "Enough."

The laughter died at once.

"Many of our oldest family trees become a little diseased over time," Voldemort told them all, as Bellatrix gazed at him, breathless and imploring. "You must prune yours, must you not, to keep it healthy? Cut away those parts that threaten the health of the rest."

"Yes, my Lord," Bellatrix whispered, her eyes swimming with tears of gratitude once again. "At the first chance!"

"You shall have it," Voldemort said. "And in your family, so in the world … we shall cut away the cancer that infects us until only those of true blood remain …"

Voldemort raised Lucius' wand and pointed it at the floating figure, giving it a tiny flick. The figure came to life with a groan and struggled against the invisible bonds in desperation.

"Do you recognize our guest, Severus?" Voldemort asked.

Severus raised his eyes to the upside-down face. Having received unspoken confirmation to show curiosity, the rest of the table were looking upon the captive in anticipation. As she revolved to face the firelight, the woman called out in a cracked and terrified voice.

"Severus! Help me!"

"Ah, yes," Snape admitted, as she turned away from him once again.

"And yourselves, Draco, Guinevere?" Voldemort asked. Although Draco shook his head, Guinevere gave a simple nod.

"I saw her sharing tea with Professor Sprout once, my Lord; though I do not know her name."

"But you would not have taken her classes," Voldemort said, giving a small nod in recognition. "For those of you who do not know, we are joined here tonight by Charity Burbage who, until recently, taught at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

A broad, hunched woman with pointed teeth cackled, as others made small noises of comprehension.

"Yes … Professor Burbage taught the children of witches and wizards all about Muggles … how they are not so different from us …"

One of the Death Eaters spat on the floor. Charity Burbage faced Snape once again.

"Severus … please … please …"

"Silence," Voldemort said and with another twitch of Malfoy's wand, Charity fell silent as if gagged. "Not content with corrupting and polluting the minds of wizarding children, last week Professor Burbage wrote an impassioned defence of Mudbloods in the Daily Prophet. Wizards, she says, must accept these thieves of their knowledge and magic. The dwindling of the purebloods is, says Professor Burbage, a most desirable circumstance … she would have us all mate with Muggles … or, no doubt, werewolves …"

Nobody laughed now, as there was no mistaking the anger and contempt in Voldemort's voice. For the third time, Charity Burbage face Snape; tears running from her eyes and into her hair. Snape looked back at her, quite impassive, as she turned away from him once again.

"Avada Kedavra."

The flash of green light illuminated every corner of the room. Charity fell upon the table with a resounding crash, like a marionette with its strings cut. Several of the Death Eaters leapt back and sent their chairs crashing to the floor. Draco and Guinevere were the only ones besides Snape to show no reaction, even with Charity's blank eyes staring at them both in desperation and fear.

"Dinner, Nagini," Voldemort said, softly, and the great snake swayed and slithered from his shoulders onto the polished wood.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Stood in the Dark Lord's study, Guinevere showed no discomfort at only being in her thin nightgown and robe, to preserve her modesty in the presence of a man who was not her husband. Voldemort sat behind the desk, his quill scratching away at the parchment before him and ignoring her for the time being.

After a long moment, he set the quill down and leaned back in his chair, settling his gaze upon the young woman in front of him. "You have done well these last weeks, Guinevere."

"Thank you, my Lord," she replied.

"Have any of your family tried to contact you?" he asked, his tone calm.

Guinevere shook her head. "Not to my knowledge, my Lord. I cut all ties the day I followed Draco."

"Yes, I recall," he admitted. "It is a shame we lost such a valuable insider with the Order, even though your necessity here is far more pressing in its need. It is good you managed to escape from the castle after Dumbledore's death, as I had instructed of you. It would have been a shame to delay this joyous occasion any longer than necessary."

Guinevere said nothing. Since Draco had taken the Dark Mark, she had known of the danger he faced. Voldemort had threatened to kill her if Draco failed in his task, which had caused him to cling to her in a way she hadn't expected. With her love and support, he had thrived and succeeded, even with Snape attempting to steal his glory in the end.

"It is my understanding that your brother, William, is to marry the French veela, Fleur Delacour," Voldemort continued, softly. "What is your opinion of this event?"

Guinevere's face twisted with fury. "He is no brother of mine. If I did not have more important matters to occupy my time, I would cut him down myself, before I allowed such a trespass to occur."

"Why did you not take the opportunity when they were staying with you last year?" Voldemort asked, his eyes almost glittering in their intensity.

"I have always been watched at childhood home, my Lord," Guinevere admitted. "Since my sorting into Slytherin, my family treated me differently. The Granger Mudblood was even allowed to infest our bedroom when she stayed over upon Ronald's invitation. My sorting allowed the wool to be pulled from my eyes and my parents grew worried when I began listening more to my housemates. They believed – correctly – that I would realize the truth. I would have taken the opportunity after Greyback attacked him, but I had believed the job done."

Voldemort knew of what she was speaking. Upon her arrival, the two of them had had a long, private conversation. Guinevere had revealed the neglect she had suffered for being different and how, slowly, even her own siblings had been turned against her. The happy family façade they portrayed to the public had been just that – a façade.

The Order of the Phoenix had attempted to use her as a spy within Slytherin House and she had played her part magnificently, reporting to Draco anything and everything she knew of the Order. Even Severus had not suspected her true loyalties until the night Dumbledore died.

Voldemort's only regret was that he was not able see the look on Potter's face when he realized one of his closest friends had betrayed him.

"I am no longer a Weasley, my Lord," Guinevere continued. "Like the snake I am, I have shed any falsehoods and am proud to reveal the truth beneath. I am Guinevere Malfoy and I shall never go back."

If anyone else had said such a thing to him, he would have been sceptical. However, he knew Guinevere well. Until recently, he did not realize how he had been grooming her since her first year. Lucius' greatest mistake had turned out to be his, Voldemort's, greatest triumph. When his diary had fallen into the hands of the youngest Weasley twins, it was Guinevere who had recovered it and written into its pages.

The diary was useless now, though it had still held remnants of the magic it had once contained. With those remnants – which he alone had been able to access – came the memories of what his younger self had done: of how he had groomed the youngest Weasley into the model pureblood she had become. His younger self had made the girl so reliant upon him that, when the diary was destroyed, all the black magic within had found a new home within the Weasley girl.

To his eternal regret, the connection had not been strong enough to save the soul piece, but it was no longer needed as he had other safeguards. Guinevere's magical core was now as black as his own. The memories of his soul piece were ingrained into his own mind. It was why he had chosen her to carry his heir. Her age was a cause for concern but, with his final triumph so near, it could not wait.

His seed had been too much for the other women to handle. Guinevere, with his influence and magical interference, would succeed where the others had failed.

"Go back to your husband for the evening," Voldemort instructed. "Your primary concern for the ensuing months is to be for the children you carry. I will take over your education, as you shall not be allowed to return to Hogwarts whilst you hold two such precious treasures."

"Thank you, my Lord," Guinevere said, "for the honour of your tutelage."

Voldemort waved a hand, dismissing her. She curtsied and left without another word.

The Dark Lord perused his documents again. Once he had control of the Ministry, he would make sure the appropriate announcement was made of the marriage and of Guinevere's pregnancy. Let the Light despair of the loss of one of their daughters and let the Weasley's realize they had forever lost something precious.

-x-x-x-x-x-

In Ottery St. Catchpole, a darkened kitchen showed fluttering's of movement, as Molly Weasley made herself an evening drink of tea. Picking out a few of the cinnamon biscuits, she blinked back the tears as she realized these were the last of the batch she had made together with her youngest children, carefully preserved with charms. She would save some for Ginny.

As she sat as the table, she allowed a few tears to escape her eyes. The loss of her youngest daughter had destroyed her more than anything had ever done so before.

Guinevere had been her miracle. Molly remembered how, with thirteen weeks left in her final pregnancy, none of the scans had picked up any signs of life from the second twin. She hadn't dared go to Saint Mungo's during her pregnancy, due to the threat of the war around every corner. She had already lost one child in between Charlie and Percy due to an early attack on Saint Mungo's and hadn't risked it again as the war escalated, always bringing the Order's midwife in for her ensuing pregnancies.

Sweet Hannah had died in a Death Eater attack after Ron's birth and Molly hadn't trusted anyone else.

The thought she had lost another one of her precious children had sent Molly into a spiral of depression in the last weeks of her pregnancy. She had been bedridden, to prevent the loss of the other child and had fretted the whole time that she would kill the second twin in her grief.

Arthur and Molly had been relieved when Ginny had come out kicking and screaming, much as her brothers had done before her. Holding her daughter for a brief minute, Molly steeled herself for the inevitable delivery of her stillborn child. The ensuing half an hour had been the worst of her life, as she had cried and begged all of those around her not to make her do it; not make her deliver a dead child.

When Guinevere had come out, her cries had been the most beautiful and terrifying sound in world to hear.

Guinevere Hannah Weasley.

Her beautiful baby girl.

Taking a sip of her tea, Molly wiped away the tears sliding down her cheeks. Guinevere had always been different; quieter, less prone to impulsiveness. Molly and Arthur had long speculated over her placement in Slytherin and had always encouraged her to be herself. It didn't matter to them whether she was in Slytherin, or if she turned out to be a squib, because she was their daughter and they loved her with all their hearts.

As she walked up the stairs to her bedroom, mug of tea clutched in her hand, Molly peaked into her twin girls' bedroom. Ginny was asleep in her bed, with her red sheets all crumpled and in desperate need of some care. Glancing to the other side of the room, Molly felt her breath catch to see Guinevere's bed and dresser. Her green sheets were neat and well cared for, with the dresser hand painted green and silver.

She hadn't changed it at all.

Molly had written to Ginny during their first year, requesting permission for the change. Ginny had given it enthusiastically, wanting to please Guinevere and show their acceptance of her. Molly and Arthur had spent hours painting the walls half red and half green, for their Gryffindor and Slytherin daughters. Arthur had sanded down Guinevere's old dresser and redone it all according to the new colour scheme.

They had saved as much as they could and managed to buy new bedsheets in green and silver.

After Guinevere's disaster of a first year and arriving home to see her new bedroom space, she had broken down in tears, hugged them and thanked them profusely. It was just what she had needed after everything that had happened. The trip to Egypt had solidified this new acceptance and they had become closer as a family for it.

When You-Know-Who had returned, Molly had feared for Guinevere most of all. She had formed good, strong relationships in her house and Molly knew better than to blame any of the children for the crimes of their parents; but her worry had festered.

When Guinevere confirmed their worst suspicions – that Slytherin was becoming a recruiting ground for Death Eaters – Molly had wanted her daughter moved out of the dorms immediately. Instead, Guinevere had stayed and reported the actions going on away from Dumbledore's – and even Snape's – prying eyes.

Molly wanted to hate Albus for pushing her daughter in deeper, but she knew the futility of it. Guinevere had made her own choices. She had fallen in with the children of their enemies – had fallen in love with a Malfoy – and had been forced to make impossible decisions. Molly would never pretend to know what her daughter had been going through and despaired over the lack of help she was able to provide.

Leaving the twins room, Molly continued to her own bed and made herself comfortable. Arthur was on an Order assignment tonight and wouldn't be home. She knew he was searching for any trace of their youngest, hoping against all hope that they hadn't failed as parents and they weren't too late to save her from her fate.

They had received no word from her. They didn't know if she was alive or dead. They didn't know if they would ever see her again.

The only thing Molly had left was a promise Guinevere had made her before leaving to follow Draco Malfoy against all protests.

"I promise you, mom; I'll come back. When this is all over, we'll be a family again and we'll be stronger than ever. I promise."

She wept for the possibility this would be the last thing she would ever hear her daughter say.

-x-x-x-x-x-

End of Chapter One

-x-x-x-x-x-

Next Chapter: (Guinevere, Aged 11)

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Author's Note:-

This is an idea I briefly worked on a while ago. I'm unsure about it, as I have two big stories to complete and didn't want this to interrupt them, but I decided to post this and see how you all like it. If it's well received, maybe I'll continue it, but my other stories will take precedence.

I know that the name Guinevere has been used quite a few times in stories and that Ginevra is basically another form of it, but I found it was the only name that fit. I was already referring to her as Guinevere before I'd decided on a name.

So, what do you think of Guinevere? And of Molly's thoughts? What do you think is going on?

Please, leave a review. I would love to know what you think.