0100 hours. Ira Almasy's manor, East London.


Ira Almasy was an absence of colour in her black pyjamas, dark against the ivory silk of her duvet cover. The bedroom was dimly lit and most of its marble white space lost to shadows sunk deep underneath the golden glow of crystal lights. Great french windows to her left gave on to the balcony outside - where a chilly winter's gale whistled in the dark night and treetops rustled like soothed cats. The witch crossed her long legs and flipped a page in the book she had been reading.

One of the perplexingly unorthodox adventures of the Rosier boy.

She reclined against her pillows comfortably and sunk back into their goose feather softness while skimming a particularly purple description of a rainforest at dusk, though her mind drifted further away from the bedroom, towards the neck of its entrance.

"Aunt Ira?" her niece came in barefoot, looking out of place in jeans and a blouse. Day clothes.

Ira lowered her book, placing it face down on the nightstand to smile wearily at Raine. "Reinka. What's the matter?" she spoke in Russian and with a gentler accent than her Moscow forbearers would prefer. "Come here, darling. You look exhausted." This was hardly a stretch of the truth.

The younger Almasy had been wretched and waspish ever since Aurors had come to interview them over the disappearance of Zel Trumble. She had to be made to finish her meals - or she would never eat - and she spent most of her time outside the house in whatever it was Muggle London had to offer a young witch with a temper. Victims, one hoped.

Raine approached the large bed and climbed on to it, clambering next to Ira's side where she promptly flopped on to her back and stared blankly at the ceiling.

"My poor girl." Ira shifted on to her side, looking at her niece and brushing a red curl from the freckled face that so vehemently hated giving anything away. "You must sleep. There's nothing you can do if you don't get rest," she tucked the curl behind Raine's ear before smiling softly. Raine glanced at her with the  slightest of frowns across her fair brow.

How odd that one of her own blood might be so unnaturally... attached, to a Werewolf.

"May I sleep here? I'd rather not..." Raine trailed off, likely reluctant to justify the request. Ira took her hand and she inched nearer, so that the two witches were close enough to lean against one another.

The fiery head resting on her shoulder reminded Ira of her own youth - the precious value of company. It was a lonely thing to be kept from your friends but sometimes a necessary evil as well. Only in loneliness do people understand that they will die alone, that in all truth they are always alone and none can penetrate the innermost sphere of being. Not even dead sisters, not even best friends.

Ira made a gesture and the lights in the room began to fade away. Her niece moved closer, wrapping lithe arms around her stomach and pressing her face deeper into her shoulder. The room's natural fragrance of lavender and perfume was softened by Raine's own scent. Peach oil.

"Sleep. Christmas tomorrow." Ira continued to stroke the soft red curls that coiled down their shoulders. "It will all make sense. It will all be better." And it would, she knew, although better did not mean that everything would be the same.


Raine did not much care for what was being uttered, only for the restful voice in which it was being said. This was home now.