I was born with a rage I could not place. It was quiet; bubbling just beneath the surface. It whispered to me, sickly sweet and persistent with its promises of revenge. Only, I didn't know for sure how that seed sprouted throughout my stomach. It's roots twisted around my limbs, weaved in the spaces between my ribs, until it burrowed into the underside of my tongue. When I spoke I breathed fire, spit poison, and cut through my adversaries with the precision of a swordsman.
If it weren't perfectly clear, I live a life of solitude. Orphaned at eleven years old, I was forced to do whatever necessary to survive in the small wood hidden just beyond London that I called my home. My mother always said our little cottage sat on the borderline between worlds; urging me to find the beauty in both the magical and the mundane. As a child, I struggled deeply with the burning within my core. It threatened to level our home on numerous occasions, pull apart every fiber of my body, and worst of all, expose us to the muggles that roamed the wood.
Mother was the only one to see me for what I was – what I am. "Extraordinarily gifted beyond measure," she'd mutter softly into my hair as I wept from fear. I didn't understand it, but she did. She understood it perfectly until one day...she didn't. The look of horror on her face as the flames encased my body will forever be etched into my mind. I was no longer gifted. I was no longer a great witch. I was a monster; a monster fearsome enough that she left with haste in the middle of an unseasonably cold August night.
There was no goodbye. No warning. No letter. I woke up that morning after the dawn had just peeked over the horizon to an uneasy silence. The birds had no songs left to sing. The trees no longer reached out to embrace each other. It was as if they were too scared to move – to speak. At once, I ran through the cottage in a frenzy – calling out for mother, for help, for anyone. It wasn't until my bare feet touched the dewy grass that I noticed it.
The air was electrified with dark magic. Magic like mine. Beneath me, the soil was tainted with a deep, black rot which infected the surrounding plant and wildlife. I knew that rot. That rot which mimicked mine each time my mother would mention how much I reminded her of my father, a man she absolutely despised. Who was he? I haven't a clue; but, he was terrible enough to make mother flee from everyone she knew and loved.
A cold breeze swept through my dark brown hair and forced violent shivers throughout my body. With a heavy sigh and tears streaming down my face, I headed back into the cottage. I spent all day rummaging through my mother's belongings, searching for any hint of where she might have gone to. By dusk, I had all but given up and resigned to the possibility that she abandoned me out of disgust or fear. It wasn't until I spotted a hastily wrapped present beneath her bed that my heart swelled with hope. In it was an awful knit, blue sweater that had the letter "D" stitched into the center of it. Despite its unfortunate appearance, I quickly threw it on and ripped open the enveloped attached to the wrappings.
Catherine,
You cannot keep her stowed away for the rest of her life.
She needs guidance and Dumbledore can help her.
For Merlin's sake, she's eleven! She ought to
be starting Hogwarts with Ron this year. Please know
that the Order will protect her. You don't have
to do this on your own. Come here, to The Burrow
and we'll sort this out.
Tell Deianira Happy Birthday for me, will you?
Best Wishes,
Molly