Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

She died somewhere dirty.

This is what she knows when she reaches…it.

She died somewhere dirty with sticky needles and the crying of lost souls around the corner. She died when the sun began to scale down the sky, intent on getting a lost night's sleep. She died when the person next to her loosened his hold on the dingy mattress, the breath escaping his body with a bit of his soul.

She wouldn't tell you how she died. It was a crude thing, filled with vulgar memories and dirtied words and so she kept quiet, not wanting to raise her voice to the void and call out to something unseen, something unknown, something…that did not make quite sense.

What she could tell you though, was that dying was singlehandedly the most personal and impersonal experience at the same time. It was intense, nearly beyond comprehension, and it was the type of pressure and stress that had one doing the utmost to avoid it, to even duck it ever again.

Maybe it was foolish of her, not to speak about it. Maybe it was selfish and cruel but she did not want to talk about it. It was a dark part of her existence that she would rather forget, would rather bury under years of false smiles and ice-warm eyes. It was a place that she didn't want to go back to and explain with trembling fingers and a transparent mouth.

And she tells herself that all she knows is she died somewhere dirty.

(It isn't—she remembers the screaming, the pain, the burning of her skin, the smell of charred fingers and a burned throat—she remembers the sting of the fire and how they stood over her, pouring and pouring and pouring until she—)

At first it was peaceful.

There was no screaming or crying or moaning. There are no hushed prayers under filthy blankets and bloodied ties. There she stood or walked or slumped or sat she did not know. But there she was in the middle of the Void. The Chasm.

Until.

Until there was something in the darkness.

It was nonexistent at first, just small tugging, a little cajoling—come this way, they whispered—and then it pulled and pulled and pulled at her some more until her head was thrown back and her mouth was opening in a scream. It tugged and coiled around something inside of her—something in her stomach—and she bellowed into the chasm.

The chasm.

It is empty and yet full now.

She scrambled at something. She desperately needed to get back inside whatever it was the chasm was. She needed the peace and the quiet and the release of the dark, static blackness that overwhelmed her and held her—kept her—in a warm, still room with nothing in it.

She slammed into something—something physical and warm and screaming—and it was awful, awful, awful, awful. It was warm, like melting jello and childhood dreams and it moved. Something contracted around her and the noise became deafening.

It was an opera of different sounds, a cacophony of screams and bellowing and behind that, the slow push and pull of warm, encouraging voices that came from different women.

It smelled like blood and human feces and piss.

Her skin felt like water, like warm rippling water with the consistency of jello and it was horrible. Someone grabbed what she thought was her toe and she opened her mouth and wailed.

At the sound of cooing she nearly choked on what now was her tongue.

She had been reborn.

As a baby.

She was a baby.

As arms came around her, encircling her tiny useless form, she scrunched up her face and in earnest, began to sob and scream and fuss.

On a young spring night in May, little Vulpecula Black, the youngest of the four sisters was born.

Tell me what you think! If I should continue? This is not a fixer-upper btw. This is just my own thing that I'm doing 'cos I can.