February 14, 1998

The girls were finally quiet. It was always Rowena who would start crying first, and then Sophia would follow her example, both screeching until their little faces turned red. Perhaps the tension of staying holed in the small apartment, hoping no one would come, that they'd fallen between the cracks of the Muggleborn Registration Committee, made it worse.  It was all too clear that the girls, young as they were, still had some attunement  to such feelings. As much as it dismayed her, Aisling had resorted to using silencing charms once or twice for just a fraction of peace.

But for now, they were actually asleep on their own. Blessed silence. The perfect time to curl up on the lumpy couch with a little tea and a thick book. And under a nice, warm blanket.

And with her wand kept close at hand. Even that was little comfort, not enough defense. Not when it seemed as if half her world had targeted her, and the other half merely stood aside to watch.

So many edifices, hopes erected after the slow terror of the last war. Shattered now, amid spells and words and pamphlets. Ground finer by harsh hands than what might have been brought by a thousand and more years of wear.

There was a crashing at the door.

Once again, the girls were crying.

February 17, 1998

It was all fragments, when she looked back, attempting to see. There had been a pattern, once, but now it was all shattered ruins, rebuilt, fallen again, until the original shape lost itself.

"Aisling Mary Knight?" The room was cold, black without even the swirling despair overheard.

The utter blankness of another prisoner's face. He had protested, yelled, pleaded. Until a shadow bent over him.

A spider's web in the uneven corners of her cell, dust and moisture glinting from it. Her own defenses woven out in as fine of strands of thought.

The long cracking of wood, a thread of shattered hair.

"From what witch or wizard did you take this wand?" Ollivander.

"Mother of Rowena and Sophia Knight." And she could not help but wonder how they knew their names.

Quiet, calm. Some survived, sent home with shattered wands to weep and beg. A flash of hope.

And then one sharp word of despaired black stone. "Azkaban."