The next few days were spent in bed with a cool, wet cloth pressed to my forehead as I whined in pain with my eyes shut, sweating intensely and shaking. Fred and George sat on either side of me, George holding one of my hands as Fred kept the cloth on my forehead, Terry and Harry anxiously watching from the end of my bed. 

The enchantment that Riddle had placed on me to keep my scar from aching had worn off, and so I was feeling every second of his wrath. So far, I'd been through his burning anger as he tortured Floppy, his wild triumph as he remembered that I would never be able to take off the wedding ring while he was still alive, the sudden swooping fear as he realised that I would die if I didn't love him every day, then the resulting smugness when he discovered that I was not yet dead. The dumbass genuinely believed that I was still, at least, a little bit in love with him. 

And I wasn't. I wasn't, not at all, but the memories of our sunlit honeymoon kept floating back into my head, and I wondered if that was Riddle's doing... 

But most of his emotions were centralised around rage; pure, unfiltered, terrifying rage that I was gone, had escaped from his grasp. It was what was confining me to the bed, making me writhe and twist in pain, whimpering and shivering and sweating and making me want to rip my scar from my skin. 

"Daze, please, you have to learn how to shut him out!" Harry pleaded with me as I shuddered, panting. "If I can do it, so can you. He's not even affecting me right now!" 

"Easy for you to say, Harry!" I shot back, my voice high and pained. "You've never been in love with him -" 

Immediately, the twins and Harry stiffened. Terry glanced back and forth between us. 

"What Softpaw means to say is - is that you and Riddle don't have the same - er - CONNECTION, Harry." Terry said hesitantly. "So it's harder for her to shut him out than for you." 

George's hand tightened around mine as Fred pressed down harder on my forehead with the cloth. I looked up; the twins were exchanging a long, meaningful glance, and a moment later they both lowered their lips, pressing a kiss to either side of my face. 

Entirely against my will, my cheeks flushed. It would be fine if it was just Fred, but I probably shouldn't be feeling like this about his brother, and - 

Pain cleaved my head like a sword stroke. 

I was standing in a dimly lit room, one that was painfully familiar, a semicircle of wizards facing me, and on the floor at my feet knelt a small, quaking figure in Slytherin robes.

"What did you say to me?" My voice was high and cold, but fury and fear burned inside me. The one thing that I had dreaded - but it could not be true, I could not see how... I had known that the cup was gone, that it had vanished from the quarters, but she could have taken it because it was a pretty object, not because she felt she needed it to destroy it... but nothing was confirmed until this useless little creature showed me exactly what he saw... 

The student was trembling, unable to meet the red eyes high above his.

"Say it again!" I murmured. "Say it again!"

"M-my Lord," the student stammered, his blue eyes wide with terror, "m-my Lord... I s-saw them on that b-broom, reaching in a-a-and taking it, and f-flying off..." 

I looked deep into the student's eyes, saw that what he was saying was true... Daisy Potter and Terry Boot on a broom, Potter reaching into the window, slicing open her arm to grab the small golden cup, yanking it out with a triumphant flourish, flying off towards Hogsmeade with it underneath her arm... clearly it meant a lot to her to make sure to take the cup with her... 

The scream of rage, of denial left me as if it were a stranger's. I was crazed, frenzied, it could not be true, it was impossible, nobody had known. How was it possible that the girl could have discovered my secret?

My wand slashed through the air and green light erupted through the room; the kneeling student rolled over dead; the watching wizards scattered before me, terrified. The demon Malfoy and the Carrows threw others behind them in their race for the door, and again and again my wand fell, and those who were left were slain, all of them, for bringing me this news, for hearing about the golden cup - alone amongst the dead I stomped up and down, and they passed before me in vision: my treasures, my safeguards, my anchors to immortality - the diary was destroyed and the cup was stolen. What if, what if, the girl knew about the others? Could she know, had she already acted, had she traced more of them? 

But surely if the girl had destroyed any of my Horcruxes, I, Lord Voldemort, would have known, would have felt it? I, the greatest wizard of them all; I, the most powerful; I, the killer of Dumbledore and of how many other worthless, nameless men. How could Lord Voldemort not have known, if I, myself, most important and precious, had been attacked, mutilated?

True, I had not felt it when the diary had been destroyed, but I had thought that was because I had no body to fell, being less than ghost... No, surely, the rest were safe... The other Horcruxes must be intact...

I paced the room, kicking aside the student's corpse as I passed, and the pictures blurred and burned in my boiling brain: the lake, the shack, and the very castle I was in now - 

A modicum of calm cooled my rage now. How could the girl know that I had hidden the ring in the Gaunt shack? No one had ever known me to be related to the Gaunts, I had hidden the connection, the killings had never been traced to me. The ring, surely, was safe.

And how could the girl, or anybody else, know about the cave or penetrate its protection? The idea of the locket being stolen was absurd...

As for the school: I knew that that Horcrux was safe, as I had bestowed it upon my bride on our wedding day, and it remained atop the shelf above our bed... I will relocate it to a safer, more deeply secret location in the school for safeguarding, to make sure... 

And there was still Nagini, under my protection... no. Everything was fine. 

I looked down at my silver ring. Maybe I should have made Daisy a Horcrux. Maybe next time she is under me, I will do just that... 

I resurfaced, panting and coughing. I sat up, shaking, aware of the sweat that was trickling down the back of my neck. 

"What is it, princess?" George said, squeezing my damp hand in his, before wincing and rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. Fred shot a glare at him. 

I ignored the pet name and turned to Harry and Terry. "Riddle's pissed off and killed a bunch of people because he found out that we stole the cup." 

"That took a while." Terry commented. 

"It's probably because the poor guy was too scared to come forward about what he saw." I said. "Riddle wanted it confirmed that I didn't just take it because I thought it was pretty, and, well... let's just say that guy's fears were correct. Anyway, he was thinking about his other Horcruxes, and he mentioned one at Hogwarts, that I apparently was given on my wedding day..." 

Fred pressed the cloth hard into my forehead again, and I flapped at him with my hands impatiently. 

"Wait a minute..." Terry said slowly. "Hang on... you said that Riddle liked his Hogwarts House merch, right?" 

Harry and I nodded. 

"Well... Jesus Christ, that was easy." Terry said. 

Harry and I cocked our heads at him. 

"Your tiara, Softpaw!" My best friend said excitedly. "The one that held your veil up! It was a diadem!" 

"Okay. And?" I said, and Terry made an impatient noise. 

"C'mon, the Lost Diadem of Ravenclaw?" He glanced around, and was met with blank expressions. Terry rolled his eyes. "Okay, whatever, I don't know what I expected from a bunch of Gryffindors. It's basically a historical object from Ravenclaw that's been lost for centuries. Until now, I guess, because what was on your head that day was that diadem, Softpaw, I'm sure of it! And so are all the other Ravenclaws; we were gossiping about it the whole night." 

"Well, it's still at Hogwarts." I shivered, gesturing for Fred to bring the vomit bucket closer. "And he's planning on moving it somewhere better in the castle. But at least we know where - where -" 

I bent over the bucket, retching. Fred rubbed circles onto my back comfortingly as George held my hair back. 

"That's a familiar sight." Terry nodded at us, and I glared at him as I sat back up, trembling weakly. 

"What's that mean?" Harry asked suspiciously, and the twins, Terry, and I all exchanged a glance. For fuck sake, Terry, my brother doesn't need to know about our wild nights out in Hogsmeade. 

"Softpaw, d'you know why Riddle didn't call you Mrs Riddle?" Terry swiftly changed the subject. "I only ever heard him call you Miss Potter when he was referring to you formally, even after you were married... I thought he would've loved shoving it in everyone's faces." 

I sighed, pushing a lock of limp, slightly damp hair behind my ear. "I think after the war was won by him, he would've. He loved to use my real last name... he loved 'Potter,' it was a reminder to the opposition that their poster girl was his now. But I think his possessiveness would've gotten the better of him eventually, he'd've started calling me Mrs Tom Riddle by the end of the year, probs." 

"Daisy Riddle." Terry shuddered. "Horrible." 

I shoved the thought that it didn't sound quite so horrible out of my mind. I don't need thoughts like that right now... 

"Yeah, no thanks." George said. "I prefer your initials. DP. Do you know what that stands for, Softpaw?" 

I could tell by his cheeky grin that there was a dirty joke coming. I stared back at him, forcing my face to remain emotionless. 

"Double penetration." George smirked. 

I stared back. My lips twitched the tiniest bit, but I don't think he saw. Fred and Terry sniggered as George raised an eyebrow slowly at me, his smirk widening. 

"You four are so immature." Harry got up, stalking out of the room. 

"Hey, what the fuck?" I called after him. "I wasn't even doing anything!" 

~~~ 

The day before Christmas Eve, the Insurgents were all sitting cross-legged on my bed as I trembled under the covers, my skin pale and clammy. We were excitedly discussing that the sword of Gryffindor might be in Godric's Hollow, as Dumbledore would have expected me and Harry to travel there. Terry was reading from 'A History of Magic' by Bathilda Bagshot. 

"'Upon the signature of the International Statute of Secrecy in 1689, wizards went into hiding for good. It was natural, perhaps, that they formed their own small communities within a community. Many small villages and hamlets attracted several magical families, who banded together for mutual support and protection. The villages of Tinworsh in Cornwall, Upper Flagley in Yorkshire, and Ottery St Catchpole on the south coast of England were notable homes to knots of Wizarding families who lived alongside tolerant and sometimes Confunded Muggles. Most celebrated of these half-magical dwelling places is, perhaps, Godric's Hollow, the West Country village where the great wizard Godric Gryffindor was born, and where Bowman Wright, Wizarding smith, forged the first Golden Snitch. The graveyard is full of the names of ancient magical families, and this accounts, no doubt, for the stories of hauntings that have dogged the little church beside it for many centuries.' 

"You and your parents aren't mentioned," Terry said, closing the book, "because Batty Bagshot doesn't cover anything later than the end of the nineteenth century. But you see? Godric's Hollow, Godric Gryffindor, Gryffindor's sword; don't you think Dumbledore would have expected you to make the connection?"

"I guess." 

I didn't want to admit that I hadn't been thinking about the sword at all when I suggested we go to Godric's Hollow. For me, the allure of the village lay in my parents' graves and the house where my twin brother and I had narrowly escaped death. 

I was about to go home, about to return to the place where I had had a family. It was in Godric's Hollow that, but for Riddle, I would have grown up and spent every school holiday. I could have invited my friends to that house... I might even have had more brothers, or sisters... It would have been my mother who had made mine and Harry's seventeenth birthday cake. The life I had lost had hardly ever seemed so real to me as at this moment, when I knew I was about to see the place where it had been taken from me. 

After the boys had gone to bed that night, I quietly extracted my rucksack from Terry's bottomless bag, and from inside it, the photograph album Hagrid had given me and Harry so long ago. For the first time in months, I perused the old pictures of my parents, smiling and waving up at me from the images, which were all I had left of them now.

And so, the next night, with my heart beating in my throat, I opened my eyes after clutching Fred and George's hands tight. We were standing hand in hand in a snowy lane under a dark blue sky, in which the night's first stars were already glimmering feebly. Cottages stood on either side of the narrow road, Christmas decorations twinkling in their windows. A short way ahead of us, a glow of golden streetlights indicated the centre of the village.

The icy air stung our faces as Harry, Terry, Fred, George, and I passed more cottages. Any one of them might have been the one in which James and Lily had once lived or where that Bathilda Bagshot woman lived now. I gazed at the front doors, their snow-burdened roofs, and their front porches, wondering whether I remembered any of them, knowing deep inside that it was impossible, that I had been little more than a year old when I had left this place forever. I wasn't even sure whether I would be able to see the cottage at all; I didn't know what happened when the subjects of a Fidelius Charm died. Then the little lane along which we were walking curved to the left and the heart of the village, a small square, was revealed to us.

Strung all around with coloured lights, there was what looked like a war memorial in the middle, partly obscured by a windblown Christmas tree. There were several shops, a post office, a pub, and a little church whose stained-glass windows were glowing jewel-bright across the square.

The snow here had become impacted: it was hard and slippery where people had trodden on it all day. Villagers were crisscrossing in front of us, their figures briefly illuminated by streetlamps. We heard a snatch of laughter and pop music as the pub door opened and closed; then we heard a carol start up inside the little church.

"They... they'll be in there, won't they?" Fred said quietly, his eyes on the church. "Your mum and dad? I can see the graveyard behind it."

I felt a thrill of something that was beyond excitement, more like fear. Now that I was so near, I wondered whether I wanted to see after all. Perhaps Fred knew how I was feeling, because he reached for my hand and took the lead, pulling me forward. Halfway across the square, however, he stopped dead.

"Guys, look!"

He was pointing at the war memorial. As we had passed it, it had transformed. Instead of an obelisk covered in names, there was a statue of four people: a man with untidy hair and glasses, a woman with long hair and a kind, pretty face, and two babies sitting in their parents' arms. Snow lay upon all their heads, like fluffy white caps.

I drew closer, gazing up into my parents' faces. How strange it was to see myself represented in stone, a happy baby without a scar on my forehead... 

"C'mon." Harry said, after several long moments of us staring up at the statue, and we turned again toward the church. As we crossed the road, I glanced over my shoulder; the statue had turned back into the war memorial.

Behind the church, row upon row of snowy tombstones protruded from a blanket of pale blue that was flecked with dazzling red, gold, and green wherever the reflections from the stained glass hit the snow. And in what seemed like no time at all, Harry and I had found it. 

It was made of white marble and this made it easy to read, as it seemed to shine in the dark. I didn't need to kneel or even approach very close to it to make out the words engraved upon it.

JAMES POTTER          LILY POTTER 

BORN 27 MARCH 1960          BORN 30 JANUARY 1960 

DIED 31 OCTOBER 1981          DIED 31 OCTOBER 1981 

'The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.'

I read the words slowly, as though I would have only one chance to take in their meaning, and I read the last of them aloud.

"'The last enemy that shall be defeated is death'..." A horrible thought came to me, and with a kind of panic. "Um, guys? Isn't that a Death Eater idea?" 

"I don't think it means defeating death in the way the Death Eaters mean it, Softpaw." Terry said, his voice gentle. "It means... like... living beyond death. Living after death."

But they weren't living. They were gone. The empty words couldn't disguise the fact that my parents' mouldering remains lay beneath snow and stone, indifferent, unknowing. And tears came before I could stop them, boiling hot then instantly freezing on my face, and what was the point in wiping them off or pretending? I let them fall, my lips pressed hard together, looking down at the thick snow hiding from my eyes the place where the last of Lily and James lay, bones now, surely, or dust, not knowing that their living daughter stood so near, my heart still beating, alive because of their sacrifice and close to wishing, at this moment, that I was sleeping under the snow with them.

Harry had taken my hand and was gripping it tightly. I couldn't look at him, but returned the pressure, now taking deep, sharp gulps of the night air, trying to steady myself, trying to regain control. I should have brought something to give them, and I hadn't thought of it, and every plant in the graveyard was leafless and frozen. But Terry raised his wand, moved it in a circle through the air, and a wreath of Christmas roses blossomed before us. I caught it and laid it on my parents' grave.

We glanced back repeatedly as we made our way out of the graveyard. The pub was fuller than before. Many voices inside it were now singing the carol that we had heard as we approached the church. For a moment, I considered suggesting we take refuge inside it, but before I could say anything Terry murmured, "Let's go this way." and pulled us down the dark street leading out of the village in the opposite direction from which we had entered. I could make out the point where the cottages ended and the lane turned into open country again. We walked as quickly as we dared, past more windows sparkling with multicoloured lights, the outlines of Christmas trees dark through the curtains.

Then I could see it; the Fidelius Charm must have died with James and Lily. The hedge had grown wild in the sixteen years since Hagrid had taken me and Harry from the rubble that lay scattered amongst the waist-high grass. Most of the cottage was still standing, though entirely covered in the dark ivy and snow, but the right side of the top floor had been blown apart; that, I was sure, was where the curse had backfired. My friends and I stood at the gate, gazing up at the wreck of what must once have been a cottage just like those that flanked it.

"I wonder why nobody's ever rebuilt it?" George whispered.

"Maybe you can't." Terry replied. "Maybe it's like the injuries from Dark Magic, you can't repair the damage?" 

I grasped the snowy and thickly rusted gate, not wishing to open it, but simply so I could hold some part of the house.

"Oh, Softpaw, Harry, look!"

My touch on the gate seemed to have done it. A sign had risen out of the ground in front of us, up through the tangles of nettles and weeds, like some bizarre, fast-growing flower, and in golden letters upon the wood it said:

'On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981, Lily and James Potter lost their lives. Their daughter, Daisy, and son, Harry, remain the only witch and wizard ever to have survived the Killing Curse. This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters and as a reminder of the violence that tore apart their family.' 

And all around these neatly lettered words, scribbles had been added by other witches and wizards who had come to see the place where the Girl and Boy Who Lived had escaped. Some had merely signed their names in Everlasting Ink; others had carved their initials into the wood, others had left messages. The most recent of these, shining brightly over sixteen years' worth of magical graffiti, all said similar things.

'Good luck, Daisy, wherever you are.' 

'If you read this, Daisy, we're all behind you!' 

'Long live Daisy Potter.'

"It's brilliant..." I beamed at Harry. My shivers and sweats seemed to melt away in favour of a warm glow within me. "I'm glad they..." 

I broke off. A heavily muffled figure was hobbling up the lane toward us, silhouetted by the bright lights in the distant square. I thought, though it was hard to judge, that the figure was a woman. She was moving slowly, possibly frightened of slipping on the snowy ground. Her stoop, her stoutness, her shuffling gait all gave an impression of extreme age. We watched in silence as she drew nearer. I was waiting to see whether she would turn into any of the cottages she was passing, but I knew instinctively that she would not. At last she came to a halt a few yards from us and simply stood there in the middle of the frozen road, facing us. And then she raised a gloved hand and beckoned.

Having deduced that this was Bathilda Bagshot, our group followed her into her house nearby, where she stood silently in her living room, not responding to any of our questions. 

"What are we even doing here if the old bat won't tell us anything?" Fred threw his hands up in frustration. 

Giving no sign that she had heard Fred, Bathilda now shuffled a few steps closer to me. With a little jerk of her head she looked back into the hall.

"You want us to leave?" I asked indignantly. "But we just got here! And YOU invited US, remember?" 

She repeated the gesture, this time pointing firstly at me, then at herself, then at the ceiling.

"Oh, right... guys, I think she wants me to go upstairs with her."

"Whatever." Fred said. "Let's go then." 

But when Fred moved, Bathilda shook her head with surprising vigour, once more pointing first at me, then to herself.

"She wants me to go with her, alone, apparently."

"Why?" Fred asked, and his voice rang out sharp and clear in the candlelit room. The old lady shook her head a little at the loud noise.

"Maybe Dumbledore told her to give the sword to me, and only to me?" I shrugged. 

"Do you really think she knows who you are?" George said. 

"Yeah." I said, looking down into the milky eyes fixed upon my own. "I think she does."

"Well, okay then, but be quick, Softpaw." Fred folded his arms, glaring at Bathilda. 

"We'll be right down here if you need us." Terry added. Harry's narrowed eyes slid between Bathilda and me, clearly suspicious that he wasn't invited. 

"Lead the way." I told her.

She seemed to understand, because she shuffled around me toward the door. I glanced back at the boys with a reassuring grin, but they didn't look very comforted. 

The stairs were steep and narrow; I was half tempted to place my hands on stout Bathilda's backside to ensure that she did not topple over backward on top of me, which seemed only too likely. Slowly, wheezing a little, she climbed to the upper landing, turned immediately right, and led me into a low-ceilinged bedroom.

It was pitch-black and smelled horrible: I had just made out a chamber pot protruding from under the bed before Bathilda closed the door and even that was swallowed by the darkness.

"Lumos." I said, and my wand ignited. I gave a start: Bathilda had moved close to me in those few seconds of darkness, and I hadn't heard her approach.

"You are Potter?" She whispered.

"I guess." 

She nodded slowly, solemnly. 

"Have you got anything for me?" I asked, but she seemed distracted by my lit wand-tip. "Bathilda Matilda, mate, I -" 

Then she closed her eyes and several things happened at once: my scar prickled painfully; the dark, fetid room dissolved momentarily. I felt a leap of joy and spoke in a high, cold voice: Hold her! 

I swayed where I stood: the dark, foul-smelling room seemed to close around me again; I didn't know what had just happened.

"Mate, have you got anything for me?" I asked for a second time, much louder.

"Over here." She whispered, pointing to the corner. I raised my wand and saw the outline of a cluttered dressing table beneath the curtained window.

This time she didn't lead me. I edged between her and the unmade bed, my wand raised. I didn't want to look away from her.

"What is it?" I asked as I reached the dressing table, which was heaped high with what looked and smelled like dirty laundry.

"There." She said, pointing at the shapeless mass.

"Er, nah." I said, my common sense kicking in, and I turned. But horror paralysed me as Bathilda made a sudden, weird movement, and I saw the old body collapsing and a great snake pouring from the place where her neck had been.

The snake struck as I raised my wand: the force of the bite to my forearm sent the wand spinning up toward the ceiling; its light swung dizzyingly around the room and was extinguished; then a powerful blow from the tail to my midriff knocked the breath out of me: I fell backward onto the dressing table, into the mound of filthy clothing - 

I rolled sideways, narrowly avoiding the snake's tail, which thrashed down upon the table where I had been a second earlier. Fragments of the glass surface rained upon me as I hit the floor. From below I heard four voices call, "Softpaw?" and "Daisy?" 

I couldn't get enough breath into my lungs to call back: then a heavy smooth mass smashed me to the floor and I felt it slide over me, powerful, muscular - 

"No!" I gasped, pinned to the floor.

"Yes." The voice whispered. "Yesss... hold you... hold you..."

"Accio... Accio wand..."

But nothing happened and I needed my Grace to try to force the snake from me as it coiled itself around my torso, squeezing the air from me, a glowing light starting to shine weakly from my hands, and my brain was flooding with cold, white light, all thought obliterated, my own breath drowned, distant footsteps, everything going...

My Grace had been weakened somehow, I couldn't react the same, and now I was flying, flying with triumph in my heart, without need of broomstick or Thestral...

I was abruptly awake in the sour-smelling darkness; Nagini had released me. I scrambled up and saw the snake outlined against the landing light: it struck, and Terry dived aside with a shriek; his deflected curse hit the curtained window, which shattered. Frozen air filled the room as I ducked to avoid another shower of broken glass and my foot slipped on a pencil-like something - my wand - 

I bent and snatched it up, but now the room was full of the snake, its tail thrashing; the boys were nowhere to be seen and for a moment I thought the worst, but then there was a loud bang and a flash of red light, and the snake flew into the air, coil after heavy coil rising up to the ceiling. I raised my wand, but as I did so, my scar seared more painfully, more powerfully...

"He's coming! Guys, he's coming!"

As I yelled the snake fell, hissing wildly. Everything was chaos: it smashed shelves from the wall, and splintered china flew everywhere as I jumped over the bed and seized George - 

He shrieked with pain as I pulled him across the bed: the snake reared again, but I knew that worse than the snake was coming, was perhaps already at the gate, my head was going to split open with the pain from my scar - 

The snake lunged as I took a running leap, dragging George with me, who was in turn tugging along someone else; as it struck, Fred yelled, "Confringo!" and his spell flew around the room, exploding the wardrobe mirror and ricocheting back at us, bouncing from floor to ceiling; I felt the heat of it sear the back of my hand. Glass cut my cheek as, pulling George with me, I leapt from bed to broken dressing table and then straight out of the smashed window into nothingness, my scream reverberating through the night as we all twisted in midair...

And then my scar burst open and I was Riddle and I was running across the fetid bedroom, my long white hands clutching at the windowsill as I glimpsed the two tall ginger boys, the curly-haired boy, the boy with the glasses, and the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen twist and vanish, and I screamed with rage, a scream that mingled with the girl's, that echoed across the dark gardens over the church bells ringing in Christmas Day...

And his scream was my scream, his pain was my pain... that it could happen here, where it had happened before... here, within sight of that house where I had come so close to knowing what it was to die... to die... the pain was so terrible... ripped from my body... But if I had no body, why did my head hurt so badly; if I was dead, how could I feel so unbearably, didn't pain cease with death, didn't it go...

*

The night wet and windy, two children dressed as pumpkins waddling across the square and the shop windows covered in paper spiders, all the tawdry Muggle trappings of a world in which they did not believe... And I was gliding along, that sense of purpose and power and rightness in me that I always knew on these occasions... Not anger... that was for weaker souls than me... but triumph, yes... I had waited for this, I had hoped for it...

"Nice costume, mister!"

I saw the small boy's smile falter as he ran near enough to see beneath the hood of the cloak, saw the fear cloud his face; then the child turned and ran away... Beneath the robe I fingered the handle of my wand... One simple movement and the child would never reach his mother... but unnecessary, quite unnecessary...

And along a new and darker street I moved, and now my destination was in sight at last, the Fidelius Charm broken, though they did not know it yet... And I made less noise than the dead leaves slithering along the pavement as I drew level with the dark hedge, and stared over it...

They had not drawn the curtains; I saw them quite clearly in their little sitting room, the tall black-haired man in his glasses, making puffs of coloured smoke erupt from his wand for the amusement of the small black-haired babies in their blue pyjamas. The children were laughing and trying to catch the smoke, to grab it in their small fists...

A door opened and the mother entered, saying words I could not hear, her long dark-red hair falling over her face. Now the father scooped up the children and handed them to the mother. He threw his wand down upon the sofa and stretched, yawning...

The gate creaked a little as I pushed it open, but James Potter did not hear. My white hand pulled out the wand beneath my cloak and pointed it at the door, which burst open...

I was over the threshold as James came sprinting into the hall. It was easy, too easy, he had not even picked up his wand...

"Lily, take Daisy and Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off!"

Hold me off, without a wand in his hand...! I laughed before casting the curse...

"Avada Kedavra!"

The green light filled the cramped hallway, it lit the double pram pushed against the wall, it made the banisters glow like lightning rods, and James Potter fell like a marionette whose strings were cut...

I could hear her screaming from the upper floor, trapped, but as long as she was sensible, she, at least, had nothing to fear... I climbed the steps, listening with faint amusement to her attempts to barricade herself in... She had no wand upon her either... How stupid they were, and how trusting, thinking that their safety lay in friends, that weapons could be discarded even for moments...

I forced the door open, cast aside the chair and boxes hastily piled against it with one lazy wave of my wand... and there she stood, the children in her arms. At the sight of me, she dropped her children into the crib behind her and threw her arms wide, as if this would help, as if in shielding them from sight she hoped to be chosen instead...

"Not the twins, not the twins, please not the twins!"

"Stand aside, you silly girl... stand aside, now."

"Not Daisy and Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead -" 

"This is my last warning -"

"Not Daisy! Please... have mercy... have mercy... Not Harry! Not Daisy! Please - I'll do anything..."

"Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!"

I could have forced her away from the crib, but it seemed more prudent to finish them all...

The green light flashed around the room and she dropped like her husband. The two children had not cried all this time. They could stand, clutching the bars of what looked like the daughter's crib, and they both looked up into the intruder's face with a kind of bright interest, perhaps thinking that it was their father who hid beneath the cloak, making more pretty lights, and their mother would pop up any moment, laughing - 

I pointed the wand very carefully into the babies' faces; I wanted to see it happen, the destruction of this one, inexplicable danger. The boy began to cry; he had seen that I was not James. I did not like it crying, I had never been able to stomach the small ones whining in the orphanage. But the girl stared up at me, her green eyes round and wide, so innocent, but with a whole millennia of memories deep behind them. Fear crept across my skin; the girl began to laugh, and I straightened up, unnerved. 

"Avada Kedavra!"

And then I broke. I was nothing, nothing but pain and terror, and I must hide myself, not here in the rubble of the ruined house, where the children were trapped screaming, but far away... far away...

* 

"No." I moaned.

The snake rustled on the filthy, cluttered floor, and I had killed the girl, and yet I was the girl...

"No..."

And now I stood at the broken window of Bathilda's house, immersed in memories of my greatest loss, and at my feet the great snake slithered over broken china and glass... I looked down and saw something... something incredible...

"No..."

"Baby, it's alright, you're alright!"

I stooped down and picked up the wand. Dogwood... a mischievous wood... and most likely with a Phoenix feather inside... 

"No... I dropped it... I dropped it..."

"Softpaw, it's okay, wake up, wake up!"

I was Daisy... Daisy, not Riddle... I opened my eyes.

"Baby..." Fred whispered. "Do you feel al-alright, my darling?"

"Yeah." I lied.

I was in the bedroom at Grimmauld Place, on my bed beneath a heap of blankets. I was drenched in sweat again; I could feel it on the sheets and blankets.

"We got away."

"Yeah." Terry said. "Fred carried you. Sirius has been beside himself, Emily's calming him down downstairs, said we shouldn't have went without them." 

"You've been..." Harry hesitated, looking at the others. 

"Well, you haven't been quite..." George attempted to finish, but trailed off too. 

There were dark shadows under their eyes and I noticed a small sponge in Fred's hand: he had been wiping my face.

"You've been ill." Fred finished. "Quite ill."

"How long ago did we leave?"

"Hours ago. It's nearly morning." Harry said. 

"And I've been... what, unconscious?"

"Not exactly." Terry said uncomfortably. "You've been shouting and moaning and... things." He added in a tone that made me feel uneasy. What had I done? Screamed curses like Riddle, cried like the baby in the crib, laughed like the other one? 

"Softpaw... she was a snake?" George asked tentatively. 

"Yeah." I looked down into my lap. "It wasn't supposed to kill me, just keep me there 'til Riddle came. And he nearly got me..." 

If I had only managed to kill the snake, it would have been worth it, all of it... but instead Riddle nearly got his hands on me again. And I hated myself for the thoughts I was having. 

Like... maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing. 

Maybe I was in love with him. 

That last day, I did fully consent to him... 

I did let him fuck me... 

And I kept thinking of him laying beside me on those pillows, gazing into my eyes fondly... staring back at his crimson red eyes, the same colour as the blood I let him spill from my chest... 

The queasiness rose up inside me, and I leaned to the side, familiar to where the vomit bucket was by now, and threw up.