The little village of Broceliande sat in a low valley, lit with dim lamplight through quaint windows and dusted in a layer of fine white powder, covering thick brambles and turning the roofs a frosting color. Diana Riddle, her eyes glinting brightly in the glittering snowfall, appeared atop one of the bordering hills, her eyes trained on the little village below.

Cottages dotted the small town, lining cobbled streets and lit by the soft light of lamps. Each of the neighborhoods of the small town surrounded the main street in the middle, lined with Christmas decorations and colored lights. In the yard of one of the houses, she noticed a crude snowman topped with a brilliant black top hat, now tainted with the soft dust of the snow.

Diana Riddle, the last heir of the Merlinian bloodline, felt her hairs bristle. Her teeth, which were previously chattering, stilled when she gazed calmly upon the town, her body pulsing with a foreign electricity, igniting even the deepest marrow buried in her bones.

To the north, the outcroppings of cottages seemed to dwindle until there was only a white meadow with a single, cobbled path. Her eyes trailed the path all the way to a large, intricate building, windows stained scarlet, standing lonesome amongst the remnants of a dead garden and a small, crumbling cemetery.

Her blood gushed in her ears the moment her eyes landed on it. As if submerged in water, her body had suddenly been warmed, her ears ignorant to the howling wind and her nose unaffected by the icy air.

Her feet began to move on their own. She stepped down the hill, carefully avoiding slippery spots and hidden rocks that could catch her feet. Though she braved against the wind, her body seemed to be encased in a warm shell, a comfortable barrier between herself and the ice. In fact, the closer she got to the valley, the warmer she felt.

Soon, she reached flat ground, idly padding her way through the snowy lanes, occasionally slowing to watch two happy children play in the snow in their yard. Once, she got honked at by an impatient driver behind her who, as soon as she cleared the street, zoomed past her with dangerous force.

Main Street was bustling with Muggles, streaming in and out of stores with bags full of Christmas presents and dipping into pubs to sit by the warm fires inside. Her eyes caught on a young, pregnant woman sitting on the sidewalk against the nearest pub, her tattered scarf tied tightly around her neck. The woman, not much older than twenty, wore torn and ancient clothing that only barely kept her warm, her eyes dull as she sadly watched happy families and couples walking up and down the street. The woman would've been quite beautiful if it wasn't for her hollow cheeks and dull eyes, her skin slightly sallow and it stretched across her bones as if she hadn't eaten a decent meal in months.

"Excuse me?" said Diana lightly as she approached the woman, her eyes soft and her demeanor calm, as if not to startle her. The woman tensed, her eyes darting to Diana quickly, and she huddled further into the wall behind her.

Diana crouched right in front of the woman until they were eye-level. She kept a small distance to avoid scaring her, but upon seeing Diana's kind eyes, she seemed to relax slightly.

Finally, Diana took notice of a purple bruise on the girl's cheekbone. Light green and yellow swirled amongst the indigo like paint, hidden partially by her dark brown hair.

"Where'd you get that bruise?" asked Diana gently, her eyes only briefly darting to the colored mark. Her body stayed loose, her eyes trained on the girl's, assuring her that she meant no harm.

The girl seemed to huddle even further into herself as well as she could with her swollen belly.

"I-I fell," she finally answered quietly. Her voice was light and broken, as if she had never quite spoken louder than a soft murmur.

Diana had never been a fool. Placed right on her cheekbone, near her hairline just enough, this was no accidental bruise: this was one caused by violence. She had been hit.

"Who hit you?" said Diana. She adjusted slightly so she had one knee balanced on the ground. She unwrapped her knitted scarf from her neck, one she had received from Mrs. Weasley, and held it in her outstretched hand.

"Here," said Diana quietly, signaling for the girl to take it. "You need it more than I do."

Hesitantly, the girl took it and slowly wrapped it around her neck. The more she moved her joints, she winced with every wide movement, her muscles slow and easy. Her face contorted in pain, though it was slightly muted as if she was hiding it.

"Do you have a place to stay?" she asked once the girl had the scarf wrapped all the way around. The fine colors of the garment seemed to unconsciously liven her face.

The girl shook her head after a moment, averting her eyes. Mindlessly, her hand moved to her large belly

"What's your name?"

The girl looked up, meeting Diana's eyes.

"Wendy," she said.

Diana smiled gently. She turned, so her back was to the girl, and quickly rummaged deep into her bag, nearly to her elbow. She procured a small pouch and turned back, unzipping it and reaching inside. With nimble fingers, Diana produced a generous-sized wad of Muggle money.

"Here," she said, holding it out for Wendy. As if she had never seen that much money before, her eyes widened. "For a place to stay for a little while."

Wendy hesitated but finally grabbed it gently, her hands molding around the ball, her eyes trained with wonder.

"I want you to use that to get away from whoever hit you," said Diana. "You don't deserve that."

Diana stood, her knees stiff from her uncomfortable position. Wendy watched her, her neck craned to look at her.

"What's your name?" asked Wendy.

She smiled. "Diana."

Without another word, she began walking down the street again, her eyes trailing down the different storefronts she passed. She passed another pub, this one decked in a wonderfully joyous blow-up reindeer. A man stumbled out of it and vomited in the small garden bed on the window ledge. She passed a pair of giggling girls, their hats each a bright pink. She passed a couple holding a small toddler, and the toddler smiled at her. She smiled back.

The end of Main Street melted into further clusters of neighborhoods, identical to the ones she had ventured through earlier. She saw the snowman she had noticed from the top of the hill, and now a little girl was making snow angels on the ground while a boy, most likely her older brother, was putting the finishing touches of a snow castle he had carved.

"Careful, Maisie!" he said when she began hopping through the snow-covered yard, creating a wake of disturbed messes in the snow.

All of a sudden, the boy's snow castle exploded. Maisie had been jumping on the other side of the yard, but she had been watching him intently as he carved his initials in it just before.

"Maisie!" he yelled, aghast at the sight of his ruined castle.

"I didn't touch it!" she said, though her eyes glinted curiously as she watched her brother pathetically try to mend it.

Diana smiled. She wondered if in five years Maisie would be roaming the halls of Hogwarts, the memory of her brother's destroyed castle long forgotten.

The houses became sparse, each further and further from the last, until she was just walking through the solitary lane through the snowy emptiness, the large church looming before her. With each step, she felt her muscles buzzing with electricity as if the building emanated an aura that she could feel. Her boot prints were the only blemish in the otherwise unmarred lane, the snow smooth and perfect as far as the eye could see.

And then she was only ten feet from the door, her neck craning slightly to examine the top of the bell tower. To her left, dead plants poked through the snow like curious rodents in a prairie, various sizes and shapes and colors but all inexplicably dead with the winter cold. It was a miserable sight now, but she could only imagine the beautiful blooms and flowers that came with the onset of springtime.

To her right, wrought-iron gates encircled a ancient-looking cemetery. The tombstones were old and nearly crumbling, tops coated with a small buildup of white and the faces stained and faded from age. There were at least a hundred, older and older the further back you looked, the newest one being at least a century old. The gates were covered in gnarled, brown vines and thickets of shriveled leaves weaving throughout.

A small, golden plaque caught her eye, bolted to one of the gates. She took a few steps forward until she could make out the inscription, and she read with curious eyes:

Here in the Temple

Thy holy brethren weep.We offer each ChildTheir own destined

Eternal sleep

The words sent an odd rush of cold down her spine, but she ignored it. With a steeling breath, she stepped the last few feet until she reached the door.

In one swift motion, the door opened with a creak, and her eyes finally set upon her mother's place of peace.