Continued

Later

The early hours dwindle by in the dim kitchen. The Healer has been gone for hours now, barely stopping to congratulate us before hurrying on. To be honest, my mood has lifted with her gone. And I think Baby's has too.

Joanie has been discussing names; but we can't quite make a decision. We managed to boil it down to something with the letter A. I suggested armadillo, anaesthetic and Antonia. All three were turned down, especially Antonia.

My last idea is Adelaide. It just sounds very pretty, if a bit old-fashioned. She could be Adela for short.

"Adelaide, Joan. " I said. "I think she should be Adelaide."

"Yes. She looks like one doesn't she? Like Adelaide."

Adelaide. Yes. That has the right ring to it. Adelaide Lucile Stanley; a curious blend of names for a girl from the strangest of backgrounds, and one from both sides of the magical spectrum. I would love to see her grow up, to see what she will become.

Adelaide is asleep in her cot, and an exhausted Joanie, pink-cheeked with her love takes a well-deserved break; and sips blackcurrant tea. I dip digestives into my own mug when she isn't looking.

I gaze up at the clock. Ten minutes to midnight, and as the weary hand takes its toll, so do my eyes take their cue and start to droop. I rest my head on my folded arms propped up by a comforting table. I never really appreciate the smoothness of my kitchen table until I tire of the day and am glad of its place in the kitchen.

I wonder what it would be like to be a piece of wood in a table. Would it be a communal union; or an imprisoning crush? What would be the reception of polish? Would it be welcome? A comforting embrace, calming or soothing? Or a suffocating, stifling, baffling bond?

That is when I collapse. It comes faster than I can scream its arrival; I stiffen at its chilling rattle and fall off my chair, pathetic as a china doll. The last things I hear and see is Joan gasp and drop her teaspoon, before darkness clouds my vision, though my eyes remain defiantly open.

It's the same vision; the one I have had for the past two years. It strikes nightly, or has done. Adelaide's arrival has halted its march through sleeping and waking.

Midnight of ignorance, not a star of truth lightens the sky. A grave opens and wakes its sleeper, though I beg it not to. I am powerless in this dream. A skeleton rises, torn from rest at peace in the ground, decay disturbed on its thin, aged bones. Its gaping, rotting jaw opens in a scream- not unlike my own. If it could, it would- talk to us of its torment. But it can't, and I soon discover why. A thick, hissing snake rises up and through the dead man's jaw, stifling his scream, muffling the cry. I feel a tightness in my own throat, trapping me, forcing me to watch.

Finally the snake is freed, but the danger is far from over. It advances upon me, getting closer and closer. Then it is gone and I watch images, fast moving and melting as quickly as they came. Clouds darkened, thunder rumbled and lightning pierced my vision, leaving dazzling white spots. A stream of tears trickled into a river, running thick with blood. There were the howls of a wolf pack at the dispersions of the hunters.

A chess board of intrigue, no way of knowing black from white, ebony from ivory. A queen's gambit- and a clock. Shifting the balance, the pressure from side to the next. The endless ticking, relentless.

And finally, what I have never seen before; which haunts me more than the rest. A pendulum, swinging and swinging rhythmically. And the ticking, louder than before. Counting down; counting down to the inevitable.

I'm a ghost, witnessing my own demise.

And then it fades; and glad am I to see Joanie. She is not sad, not worried. Without a word she lifts my arm and feels for my pulse. Of course, there is none. As a Seer, I flip into a trance between life and death. I breathe; and keep my consciousness, but my eyes are open and unseeing, unfeeling to anything other than their own visions.

I am cold, and gingerly I reach for my tea, bending to get up.

But I continue to watch Joanie, who looks back at me.

"My unlucky sister," she says, "My lemon and ice-cream sister. What shall I do with her?"

I stay with Joanie that night, sleeping in the crib at the end of her bed, as young and vulnerable as Adelaide again. I look up at the ceiling, illuminated by lights from passing cars. I always close my curtains at night, but Joan always forgets. Driving me nuts (literally) because there is too much light!

I toss and turn, unrested. I stroke the dark blue flowers, the tiny things and listen to Joan's snuffling- not snoring, snuffling. Joanie and Tom always snuffle when they're asleep. It's cute when it's not annoying.

Another light catches my eye, out from the corner. It's not from outside- too long and powerful to be anything Muggle- but from the corridor. That's another thing about Joanie. She doesn't shut her bedroom door.

And now that light is becoming familiar. I rise, ignoring the unfamiliar cold. I follow it obediently, for it will do me no harm. It can't. It's from Dumbledore.

It is only when we both, glistening in the moonlight, face each other, Patronus and client. I kneel so that it looks me in the eye, and I know that this is not ordinary message. Somewhere, Dumbledore is looking straight back at me.

And then it's over. My work, dreams- as washed away as footprints in sand, as though they never existed. I may as well be a breath of wind, passing over field after field, not an ounce of control in all of it.

My sacrifices, my future, my worth and purposes- all gone and swept away before I can raise a hand to halt its unyielding progress.

Voldemort is back. He has returned, more terrifying in death than he ever was in life. So pathetic, isn't it- get rid of one Dark Lord and another comes to fill its place.

Already my mind is at peril. There is so much at risk- Voldemort will free my father, he will find me. My sister and I will surely be killed, there is neither mercy, nor pity or scruples in our father's heart. My niece is three hours old. She is still in our care for two months before we give her to Minty and Benny. Two months of danger; two months of worry. A moment of failure and a lifetime of guilt, an eternity of grief.

My father will hunt me down like a fox butchers a henhouse. The Ministry can offer me no protection, if nothing else I shall be tortured and killed. If my Occlumency slips, if any of the secrets Dumbledore himself has confided in me are spilled I can never forgive myself. Knowledge is to priceless to give. I have studied the First War, in all the excruciating details Dumbledore did not spare me from. I know that we shall be facing worse than before. It is only a matter of time before the nightmares of foreshadowing begin again.

As I walk back to Joan's room, I catch myself in the long mirror. I am short, as I always have been- and thin, thinner than I ever thought. My nightdress hangs loosely- too loosely. I am pale, and sad. My hair, the lemon strands that taper down to almost my shoulders are flecked with black. I'm not blonde until I dye it.

I'm not even much of a person any more. I'm a shadow, a reflection of humanity- a ghost girl. The pendulum comes back to mind and I quickly hide from the mirror's blank honesty. I return to my crib and dreamless sleep.

25th June 1995

11:03

Joan has sent an owl to Minty, and another comes back now.

It would have been so difficult to explain everything, especially when the world's problems are multiplied at eight o'clock in the morning, with bed head, bags and toast just asking to get burned.

Joanie has made it much easier though, in fact part of me though that she knew already. Joanie is the kind of person that just gets what you mean. She doesn't hesitate to do what she must.

Minty says Benny has protected the house with a Fidelius Charm and that our Adela's cot is staying firmly in their room. She is also adamant that we choose "a sensible name; that I can actually say in public without a straitjacket". It is so nice to know that in these times of trial and tribulations, Minty Stafford keeps her sense of humour.

Up above, Adelaide sleeps on. As I have discovered after Dumbledore's message became misty air and little more, Adela snuffles in her sleep too. She is very peaceful, asleep. No trials or dark clouds descending. My vision stays as painful as ever.

I've never had iron conviction like this before (though I had similar feelings over Fudge's stupid lime bowler hat: "No, just plain no.") and I know that Voldemort has returned. I trust Albus' judgement (though I don't always agree with it) and my vision is testimony: no vision of mine has ever been false, or inaccurate, though I would have given much for them to be so. And also because Harry can't lie to me. It just doesn't work.

Last night's orders were simple: he wants to see me to fully explain what has happened. He says to be prepared, it will be hard. He also has a proposal for me and Joan. I will pass on the message, as galloping marshmallows won't stop Joanie leaving Adela's side.

So lots of big meetings, confrontation. No hiding skeletons in wardrobes. Too much room for a start. The world has been turned upside down; it is time to pick up the pieces, no matter how sharp.

Joanie gives me a much welcome hug. I breathe Joanie smell: lavender and tones of honey. Joanie is better than any Sleeping Potion (never been good at taking them). To clear my mind of last night's horrors, I imagine a scrubbing brush wiping my mind clean.

I have to leave in ten minutes; bag, check. It's a very serious day today, so dark colours; purple gilet, dark jumper, navy scarf. Shoes clean hair back.

A wish to them for a nice day; and then the bubble bursts and the world is open. It took gargantuan energy to just move from my crib- why does everything takes so much effort when you are sad?

My house is bright and colourful; and today in my uniform of depression I don't slot in. It's a house of happier times, of gables and priest holes, oubliettes and a roof that's perfect for reading on. If the book is particularly bad, there are functioning chimneys placed conveniently by. I get complaints from grandparents in the neighbourhood; their little bundles of joy think its "Santa" crashing down the chimney and it's not, it's a half price paperback that has more worth in a recycling centre.

I miss Tom. This was very much his house; he certainly didn't mind me on the roof. Sometimes he would join me. He was my brother-in-law; Joanie's husband.

I'm reminded of him everywhere, even though he died almost a year ago. His dressing gown hangs next to Joan's, his watch (still going) is on her wrist. His medicine in the first aid cabinet. I don't like to look at it. I'm more afraid of opening it than of being ill. The little bottles remind me of how he died.

I'm nervous now; if it takes an hour just to eat breakfast (normally I'm out of the house in twenty minutes flat) how am I supposed to Apparate? It used to be so easy. Destination, Determination, Deliberation. That b****y inspector didn't just say it, he hammered it into my soul. I had to retake my test, because he annoyed me so much I lost my temper and deliberately Apparated on top of him. The Weasley twins were laughing for weeks.

As I head off down the road; I see Therese. I like Therese, my dear old Muggle neighbour. (There are lots of Muggles in Tetreton. Arthur had a field day when I invited him to visit. )

Therese is a good sport, despite near culture clashes. We were eating afternoon tea at her house, and she was about to wash the dishes when she told me "to be a dear, and put Countdown on."

I then had a panic attack because I had no idea what she meant. I assumed she meant the television box thing, (Muggles in Tetreton like their televisions, they talk about it all the time at the market) but then I had no idea how to set it up for her. I found on the side table a big thick plastic wand with buttons on it. I waved it, twirled it, but nothing happened. In the end I hid it behind the television box thing and pretended I couldn't find it. She ended up doing it herself; and I felt pretty rotten. Thankfully she hasn't asked me to "turn it on" since.

Dumbledore and I vary a lot in terms of timing. A meeting doesn't usually last less than an hour, but can be up to six hours. Despite the urgency of the situation, it feels better to be meeting him.

Here goes one long day.

Hogsmeade hasn't aged a day, it never does. The Scottish countryside is timeless in its age and grace, wild beauty I never lose. The guard of Dumbledore's study is imposing, until the magic words are spoken: mini chocolate éclairs. That's the password, though mini chocolate éclairs are magic in all cultures and have helped me in numerous ways.

I am awaiting the arrival of tragedy, and an unfortunate knowledge. This is where we go on.