After Draco’s death, everything changed. I changed, Harry changed, and Sophie Amelia changed. If only all of the changes had been for the better.

As my husband and I sat in the fateful Audio/Visual room, tears streaming down my face, all I could seem to think is, “How had it gone so wrong?” It had started out well enough, snogging in hallways, secret meetings in the Room of Requirement, you know the sort. But after a while, it started to mean something. Not just any something though, a love something. We fell in love. Neither of us quite knew how. As the tension of the war affected everything around us, it affected us too. Draco was being pressured into joining the Death Eater ranks, and I the Order. We were handling it though: then Harry came into the picture. At first, Harry was an annoyance, and then he was a gift. Draco and I began fighting, often, and it seemed that Harry was always there to comfort me in my distress, even though I would never tell him what was wrong. For the first time, I had a chance at public affection. It drove Draco and me apart.

I think, for as much as he hated it, Draco had always understood me. We once had this long, meaningful discussion about purposes and what our lives were worth. He had told me that he was born to make me happy; that it was his only purpose in life. He said it with such certainty that the conversation ended there. I always knew that he loved and needed me more than I him. I saddened me. Whenever I was with him, I felt intensely guilty from then on. With Harry I never felt nearly as guilty as when I was with Draco. With Harry I could forget, but while I was with Draco it was all that I could think about. I was, and still am, torn.

Naming Sophie Amelia with his chosen name was my way of apologizing to him and forgiving myself all in one go. She had his sense of humor and pure Slytherinish ways. I don’t think that he ever knew that she was a Slytherin. It tore Harry apart. He knew where her name came from, and he blamed her house placement on it. We didn’t speak to each other for a week after she told us via owl. It almost drove us to a divorce.

Still, Harry and I got past it, and watched our little girl quickly rise through the ranks and grades of Hogwarts to become a perfect and we had received her letter telling her of her head girl placement the day before Draco died. We took the recording home to her and had her listen to it. That was yesterday. I don’t think that it’s quite sunk in yet to me that Draco’s dead. I fear that Harry is going to file for a divorce. My family will be devastated.

It’s been a month. Harry has asked that I move out. I’m packing up now. Sophie has asked to be taken to the manor. I’ll take her today. She seems scared of what she might find there. I hope that she doesn’t hate me for my mistakes. Draco was right: she should have been his. I think that she knows this. She is a sight to see: a raven haired beauty with the eyes and freckles of a Weasley and the cunning personality of a Malfoy. A Potter, Weasley, and a Malfoy all rolled into one. She’s beautiful in every single way. Draco would have loved her. No, love isn’t strong enough. He would have worshiped her, his redemption, he would have called her. The one thing he had done right in his life. I knew. She was his in every way that mattered.

It’s been called Witch’s Hope, and it’s been called a Witch’s Curse. I choose the first name. You see, certain pureblood families pass on the ability to their female heirs, and I am the Prewett and Weasley female heir. The body of the witch’s first child would look like the parents, but the mind and personality would be the mother’s and her true loves. Sophie’s mind was a combination of Draco and me. Not Harry, it had never been Harry. It was only too late when I figured this out.

Too late for anything to be done about it.

She is angry at me. She has read the letters, and hates me for what went wrong. Oh, she waves to me from the train, and smiles a forced smile, acting like everything is fine, but she is angry. She has moved her stuff from my flat above Diagon Alley and lived the last week of her summer in the Manor. I picked her up from there to take her to Platform 9 ¾. She has Draco’s silent rage.

I am writing this all down, for I know that when I die, she will want to know. I will not live to a ripe old age, and I shall not live even another ten years. Harry suspected, what with all of my secret visits to St. Mungo’s, but I never told him. I’ve even started going to a muggle hospital. The doctors there are putting me through something called chemo therapy.

Alone, in my flat, I woke up yesterday without my hair. I collected every piece and put it in the box of little pieces of my life. The box will be left to Sophie. It was the last thing that Draco gave to me when we were still together. He knew of my sickness. He used to lie in bed with me all day when I was too weak to get up. Back then, the doctors thought that they had cured me, but I knew that it would return. It has returned three times in my life. Every time that we banish it, it only comes back stronger. The last time I had it, Draco was there, and I told him that when it came back, I wouldn’t fight it if the chemo didn’t work.

“And that’s it! You’re just going to roll over and die?!?” he had screamed at me through his tears.

“No,” I had replied, “I’m going to live. Just not as long as you.”

Isn’t ironic that he died first? It’s almost as if it was all to spite me, or give me a way to live longer than a healthy person. I have denied a continuation of treatment. The doctors think that I am crazy, but I am ready to die. I’ve been ready for a long time. It’s my time to go.

I’m ready for that sweet oblivion called death.

Draco, my love, you were wrong: I never got over you. I will always love you. No matter how hard I tried, I could never seem to forget you. You were my one redeeming quality, my one right action in my life. You fixed every thing, you brought me to Sophie. I love you.

I’m ready to be reunited with you. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At precisely 8:30 on a Monday morning, Sophie Amelia Potter received an ornately carved wooden box. Everyone huddled around her to see what was inside. She opened it and there, on a piece of parchment in her mother’s flowing script, were three words: I love you. Underneath were various mementos from her mother’s life, and a ponytail of her mother’s hair. Underneath it all was a photo of her mother and a man she had never seen in real life. It was the happiest she had ever seen her mother. The photo was of her mother at about the age Sophie was now, she was in the snow, laughing and wrestling with a platinum blond boy, who was tickling her and every few seconds, they would stop and kiss as though there was no one else in the world. They were in love. With the photo, was a letter addressed to her.

If you are reading this, my dear Sophie, then my time has come…