Neither Magic nor Death were happy. This past century had generated more magical blood to be spilt than any other before. First with the Goblin Revolutionaries and then the fanatic German blight on society that swept up nearly the entirety of the Wizarding World into a fervor of prejudice and superiority which had barely settled when a little bigoted hypocrite edged on to the scene. From the moment he was born, both Magic and Death kept a wary eye, watching as how this unloved little boy tempted his fate by living in the Muggle Blitz without chance to really sample life. As war on both Muggle and Wizarding fronts raged, he experienced the beauty of Magic and how she circumvents things that would kill others of maudlin normality. They watched his descent of obsession for immortality and his arrogance rise to a flux, enabling others to spill others' blood to achieve a neverending nightmare and scourge of terror.
Magic and Death grieved for the cycle of the neverending blood purity dichotomy within the Wizarding World. It all grew to a tipping point as the world entered into the 1980s, as one after the other, Death embraced more and more into the afterlife where Magic would then fold into her dreams and nightmares. Entire covens and castes were swept into the ether, Blood Lines wiped out with one slash of a wand. The world watched on in terror as the plague in Wizarding Britain darkened and became battle scarred and broken after conflict for nigh on four decades with random truces called for a handful of years.
But on the sanctified Samhain night, the unlikeliest of events occurred. In thedarkness, the Dark Lord stole into the home of a small family, obliterating the parents and turned his wand on to the wailing infant. But in his ignorance, he overstepped his boundary, and Death intervened on behalf of his charge. The spell light rebounded, shrouding the Lord in his own green light before he stole away, bleeding and unstable. He believed he had succeeded in destroying the girl whelp, now it was for the boy. And so he took to the night again, leaving behind a home in ruins, a family gorged, and a now orphaned infant wailing from her crib. It was barely a day when she was found curled up around the cold remains of her mother, and at the same time as the horrifying scene was stumbled upon by a young black haired wizard, across the country the word that the fall of the Dark Lord at the hands of another mewling
infant was spreading like wildfire.
And so the Wizarding World breathed a sigh of relief, that total destruction had been thwarted before another epic showdown could be made, yet in the shadows of opulent parlours schemes were plotted for scapegoats and mutterings of blood purity were bandied without thought. The Saviour of the Wizarding World was laundered with praise and celebration, yet in the corners of a dark cupboard in a tidy little house a lonely orphaned little girl was kept hidden with nought but the two entities who visited her in her dreams. Dreams which would seep into reality and make her giggle quietly in delight.