Introduction
It was war and Amita simply considered herself a casualty. There was no need to cry about her pain when she was aware it was—always would be— much worse for others.
Amita Rowle had been her parents’ miracle. They were convinced she would bring back prosperity and respect to their family name.
The Rowles, although a part of the Sacred 28, hadn’t held any kind of social power for generations, their last influential ancestor being the minister of magic responsible for creating what is now known as Azkaban. Because of their cruel views when it came to Muggles and Mudbloods—as her parents liked to call them—, they were known allies of the rising Dark Lord, yet held absolutely no influence among his ranks.
But that was before Amita turned 7.
Since early childhood, Amita had always held back from touching others. Although not uncommon in the contactless culture of pureblood heirdom, her parents were clearly aware that something was wrong.
The first time she had met her father’s sister, the woman had embraced the girl in a tight hug. Amita had screamed and thrashed into the woman’s hold.
Her mother had dragged her to her room, face betraying her building rage, before locking the door and telling her she would only let her go when she had calmed down.
It was the first time Amita Rowle had remembered one of her visions and it would remain etched in her mind until the day she died.
The flash of green light had hit her aunt’s chest, briefly surrounding her heart before squeezing it tight. And the woman had, without a fight, fell to the ground, lifeless.
Her aunt’s delicate features turned deadly white as crimson liquid poured out of her velvety red lips. Her beady eyes once filled with passion and arrogance had been wiped bare and were now an ashy black.
She could faintly remember her assailant’s appearance, but it was nothing particularly distinctive: a relatively tall, brown-haired, middle-aged man.
When her mother had finally deemed her punishment decent enough, Amita was invited to sit back at the dining table without a word. She ate her soup diligently.
She swallowed difficulty before finally uttering a tiny, “Where’s Aunt?”
Her father barely glanced over his Prophet before answering, “She went to fetch dessert, kept going on about how she felt bad about giving you a fright.”
“She’s been gone for an hour, Reynald,” her mother spoke matter-of-factly.
“She’s not coming back,” Amita absentmindedly replied between mouthfuls. “They killed her.”
A tense silence filled the room before Amita finally broke down. The room seemed to rattle under her racking sobs, contrasting the eerie stillness of her parents’ demeanour. Between painful sniffles, she simply repeated the same It’s my fault over and over again. “Had I not screamed, she wouldn’t have been ambushed.”
Surely enough, a cloaked man knocked on their home gate a few hours later.
When he was done speaking with the man, Reynald Rowle slowly turned around and closed the door soundly. He looked over at his wife and—with the liveliest eyes Amita had ever seen coming from him—spoke, “She’s dead.”
It was the first time the girl had ever been able to remember a vision long enough to share its omen. Her father, along with two frightening looking men, had come the next day to question her, trying to pry whatever detail they could out of her subconsciousness. In the end, her poor description of the assailant ended with Edgar Bones’ death.
As well as his parents’.
And wife.
And children.
Amita closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
That was war.