Rewritten: 4/5/2020

Prologue

The last things I remembered were the blinding headlights of a car, the screeching of tires as it attempted to halt, then finally, a moment of excruciating pain.

People say that you reminisce in your final moments of life. I found that to be untrue, but then again, I didn't have the luxury of time to do so. I had no issues with that, after all, I had always believed that a swift death was the best way to die. It was a slightly morbid thought to have, but I think I had long grown bored of living—living this life of relentless repetition where everyone seemed programmed to do the same sort of thing: do well in school, go to college, get a job, earn money, settle down and start a family.

Life was dull, dull enough to contemplate about the twisted game called "life" where hard work meant nothing in the face of true genius and where some people's efforts were rewarded while others' efforts were ignored.

Life is not fair.

It wasn't. My friend who had studied much harder than I did failed at an exam that I had passed with relatively little studying. Then again, there were always those one or two students who excelled without needing to crack open their textbooks during their whole college life—a feat that I could never dream of accomplishing.

Intelligence, success, good relationships, and a happy family. One would say that I should want for nothing more.

But I did.

The intelligence that had paved a road for a successful future, friends who would lend a helping hand whenever I was in difficulty, a family that always stood by me… I had them all, but still, I do not think I could say that I was happy.

So, perhaps Life in its own twisted way was fair.

The basic sympathy I lacked was the one thing that I found to be of great importance as I went through life. Humans were social creatures, and sympathy was something that connected individuals together. It was normal to care, and while I could imitate that normality— never act coldly to others, a comforting touch on the arm at times of distress, a hug, a gentle pat on the back when the person was sad—I could never feel a single thing towards another person.

I didn't care about anyone.

Suffice to say, the issue with a lack of sympathy is that it isolates you. Not physically. But emotionally. I think I could have owned the world, and still, I would not have been happy. There was only so much joy that material objects could give to me; without sympathy, I could form no bonds with others—I simply had no attachment to the world.

And so I went on with my life. Days turned to years as they blurred together, and somewhere along the line, I realized that while I existed, I had stopped living. The days started and ended like clockwork and life became a dull, tedious game I was forced to partake in. I never thought of ending it, but I did question the reason of my existence.

So, I can honestly say that it was with great relief when I felt darkness settle into my vision as I relaxed and prepared myself for the embrace of death.

That embrace never came.

Chapter 1: The Game Called Life

The sounds of a nearby trickling stream and the soft melodic trills of birds could be heard. The gentle breeze rustling through the woods and the morning rays which created pools of light on the leaves-covered ground gave an ephemeral air to the forest. Many villagers who lived near the forest had always claimed that there was something magical about it—and they were not wrong, for there was indeed magic at play.

However, on this seemingly peaceful summer day, the beauty of the forest was marred by the broken form of what should have been a fair-skinned child. The child's body was mottled with bruises and her raven-coloured hair, filthy and disheveled, hid her face.

More important was that she had been dead, at least until a few moments ago.

Suddenly, the child's chest lifted. A sharp rasping gasp echoed in the silence of the forest.

o - o - o - o - o

Once, once upon a time she remembered the warm fuzzy feelings, the cold bitter pangs; the vibrant colours that emotions painted…

Cyrna Raine had always known that there was something a bit… off about her. Her lack of reaction to certain situations scared even herself. The word callous echoed strikingly in her mind since the day she had stared blandly at her weeping cousin. The death of her aunt, someone practically like a second mother to her, should have shocked her into tears, at the very least. Her cousin stared at her with a hint of disgust at the hospital, eyes red and puffed from the crying before she screamed that word at her in anger.

But Cyrna hadn't been trying to be cold. She hadn't been trying to not feel anything—in fact, never before had she wanted to feel something, but like all the other times in the past, she just simply didn't.

The steady throbbing in her temple worsened as she tried to open her eyes, and a feverish chill seemed to settle in her body, making her feel hot and cold at the same time.

Cyrna knew she wasn't a terribly good human, but she honestly thought that she had done nothing to deserve this torment that she was currently experiencing. After all, weren't actions supposed to speak louder than words, or in her case, thoughts? What did it matter if she hadn't cared a single bit about the multitude of people she had helped? She had still been kind and helpful despite her insincerity.

The death of her aunt had been a catalyst of sort in her awareness that the little piece of humanity she was missing was of larger importance than she'd initially realized. At that very moment, as they watched the body being lowered into the ground, split-second decision had formed in her mind: she would go to medical school. For where better to learn sympathy than an occupation that taught and required you to help and care for others?

A sharp throb raced across her mind leaving behind a trail of blinding pain. Despite this, she grasped desperately at consciousness, forcing her eyes open. She saw blurs of green above her, some patches reaching down to the muddy brown that seemed to stretch on forever. The scent of dampened soil just after rain… her fingers twitched, and she felt the moistened dirt cake under her fingernails.

Where the hell was she?

Her jaw gritted as she pursed her lips in an attempt to keep quiet, not knowing if there was danger. A turbulent emotion started to build in her chest; her breaths felt shallow as her heart drummed quicker and quicker.

She had been walking back to her apartment after a late night at the college library… then…

She remembered the sharp crack as her head hit the ground moments after something heavy had barrelled straight towards her. Right. She had been crossing at the traffic lights—

—How could she be alive?

In the unlikely case that she had survived, shouldn't she be in a clean, sterile hospital room? Or even on the asphalt ground if she had been left for dead? Where the hell was she?

"Laufeia…"

Cyrna was shaken from her thoughts at the sound of a voice. It echoed eerily across her mind in a light caress, and she could not be sure if she had begun to hallucinate. Her vision faded in and out as pain continued to build, her head pounding as if someone was repeatedly smacking her temple with a metal rod. Her fists tightened, refusing to scream.

Then suddenly, the pain doubled, sharp and piercing.

Nonsensical images and emotions began to flash through her mind: a circle of elders whose faces stared severely down at her. Dim-lit room. Walls that trapped her in solitude — Why?

Cyrna grasped blindly at these images as they appeared, but the moment she did so, the scene faded away like the wisps of cigarette smoke, a new one taking its place:

One of the most beautiful women she had ever seen if not for the absolute look of disgust on her face.

Mother? a quiet voice which did not belong to her cried out.

The image of the woman flashed away, in its place was a sneering raven-haired man.

Father?

A strangled sound escaped without her permission as memories upon memories flooded her mind. The joy, the curiosity, the fear, the sorrow and desolation. She felt it all as if it was her own. The whine that had been building in her throat poured out into the still of the forest. The keening sound was piercing as she clutched her head, biting her lips in an effort to silent herself as an indescribable pain built in her chest.

Then, she screamed.

And the guttural cry that ripped from her own mouth was filled with an intensity that frightened even her.

In the creeping darkness of her vision, she could hear a faint "pop"—a pop that was awfully reminiscent of the times she played with bubbles as a child. Cyrna smiled, wondering if this was all just one mad dream she was having before her death.

o - o - o - o – o

"Nicolas! Did you see the state she was in!?" a woman shrieked in a hushed manner.

She was no longer in pain nor was she lying on the dampened soil of the forest, that much she knew the moment she had drifted back to consciousness. Cyrna was also very aware that she was surrounded by strangers. Carefully, she cracked open her eyes, and once she did, there was little she could do to keep her mouth from falling open in a mix of wonder and confusion.

A stone-cobbled fireplace with a hearty fire, dusty bookshelves that stored not only books but also jars filled with strange colourful things and—

—Eyeballs. The round shapes bobbed up and down in the liquid suspension. Even from this distance, she could make out the iris and pupil of the eyes. The optic nerve, still attached, trailed after the eyeball as it floated around. The way it was stored sent shivers tingling up her spine. It deviated so much from the standard procedures of preservation that Cyrna was fairly certain it had no medical uses anymore.

In the other corner of the room sat a cauldron. It was a big iron thing that looked terrifyingly similar to the ones in a children's storybook where creepy looking witches huddled around to make their magic. The cauldron was actually pretty clean compared to the many other pieces of furniture that decorated this room, but the sickly green glow and quiet bubbles that came from it did nothing to calm her quickly fraying nerves.

However, all those things—those issues—they all seemed rather mundane before her last worry: the floating candles. They weren't those pretty decorations that hung by thin strings, nor were they projections made by some sort of advanced technology. They were, god's honest truth, floating candles in the most literal way.

"Not normal… black hair…"

A breeze blew in from a nearby window, stirring the candles as they bobbed gently along with the wind. Their flames flickered steadily, and squint as she might, Cyrna could see no strings.

"I'm not sending her back!" the woman said more insistently.

Cyrna took a deep breath as she remembered snatches of what she had seen before she had died? Fainted? Where am I? Her throat tightened again as she swallowed back a tiny seedling of panic. She stared at the couple who continued bickering as if she was not here. They did not disappear when she pinched herself, nor did the scene blur and morph into something else.

Of course it couldn't be a dream.

"Excuse me," Cyrna said. While she didn't trust strangers as a rule of thumb, she knew that they had helped her rather than harmed her. The lady seemed to be the one who had wanted to help her, while the man seemed rather like he wanted no part in this any longer. She didn't think she was in any immediate danger.

At her voice, the couple ceased their arguments immediately and she shrunk into herself when their sharp gazes turned to her. "Could someone tell me where I am?" she asked.

"You're with the Flamels in one of our cottages," the male said in a clipped tone.

Flamels?

"You were injured in the Elven Forest, so we brought you back with us, my dear," said the woman softly in a gentle tone. "Though I have no idea of how you got into the for—"

"Yes, how did you get into the Forest?" the man asked. His expression was dark, eyes flashing with steel as he stood up and strode over to her bed. "The elves do not allow humans or witches like you to enter."

Witches?

"I - I'm not sure," Cyrna stammered.

"Of course you aren't."

"Nicolas!" the woman exclaimed with a hint of displeasure.

Cyrna studied the man standing by her bed. He looked ancient with his hunched back. His countenance was not kind, though she wouldn't say that it was cruel. His gaze narrowed suspiciously at her as she continued her observations. Her eyes fell to his hands and she noted that his fingers seemed to have been stained permanently.

"It's suspicious, Perenelle," the man said. "You know that only creatures live there, and you know how the elves are with their secrets."

The woman looked kind. She looked like someone you would be tempted to trust. Her forehead was creased with wrinkles as she stared at Cyrna with a hint of concern. Her gaze was warm, and her smile was soft.

Perenelle made a noise of assent. "But perhaps—"

"No! There's absolutely no way she could be one. Look at how black her hair is for Merlin's sake."

Merlin's sake?

The familiarity of that phrase stirred up some childhood memories. However, that was not the reason she was frowning. They had said black hair? She might not know what was going on, and maybe she was even a bit delusional, but she wasn't so far gone to forget that she was a brunette.

A brunette… she suddenly recalled the small raven-haired child that she had seen in the strange flashes of memories. Quickly, she scrambled out of bed to the nearest window. Black hair which framed a childish face was paired with wide blue eyes that seemed to peer mockingly back at her.

Cyrna stumbled back, her mind rapidly assembling a plausible story together. Only a few pieces were missing, but she doubted they would be game-changing. This story was impossible. Yet, here she was.

Life had always been a game where people were never dealt equal hands. It was a pathetic game, one that she had grudgingly suffered through once. To think that she had to play it again.

Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel. She knew of them. How could she not? They were written about in history books and they made occasional appearances in fiction. Then there was the idea of magic.

She glanced at the floating candles and jumped up to grab one. The wax felt warm in her hand, and after waving it around, she released it back into the air and watched with a morbid sense of wonder as it floated back up to join its peers. No strings at all.

A twisted smile insistently tugged on her lips. Put Flamel and magic together…

"We should obliviate her and just get this over with," Nicolas said, eyeing her with suspicion.

Perenelle frowned disapprovingly at her husband.

Obliviate?

A bitter laugh escaped.

"Right so, has Dumbledore, sorry, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, contacted you yet?" Cyrna could barely ask the question out without laughing again.

"No, my dear." Perenelle stared with no little concern as a glossy sheen settled on the child's eyes. Terror and panic leaked of from the magic the child was subconsciously releasing. "Is there a reason we should hear from him?" she asked in a gentle tone, wanting to calm the child.

Cyrna had never viewed Life as a friend. And now, she had to wonder what trespasses she had committed against it. She thought back to the books. Dumbledore had not been the Headmaster during Riddle's childhood and the Flamels were still alive…

So I could be in any time between the end of Voldemort's time at Hogwarts to the start of the Hogwarts Era.

She cursed brilliantly in her mind. It didn't ultimately matter which part of the timeline she was in. Even if it was the moment of peace before Harry Potter's life, it didn't change one simple fact—

—Voldemort was still alive.

She was going to be stuck in the middle of a war.

It felt like her heart had stopped beating; she held her breath and stared blankly with a hint of twisted amusement at the faces of the couple who didn't even know they would soon be dead. It was ridiculous. This was supposed to be a story.

She supposed she could leave Britain and head to America, but she couldn't. Not for a long time at least. She had no money and was probably—unless the minimum age to work had somehow changed significantly, too young to earn any. So she was trapped. Trapped in this blasted place until she got enough money.

Trapped in another game Life had decided to play.

The safety… her stability—family, friends, her career, success—everything that she had painstakingly cultivated… she watched it wither away, amounting to nothing now in this new and strange world.

This was so stupid.

Her breaths quickened and became more and more pronounced before she lost herself.

Time seemed irrelevant as she laughed.

Laughed.

And laughed.

Tears dribbled down her cheeks as the body she was now wearing shook uncontrollably with bitter laughter. She failed to notice as the room filled with magic, despite the magic being almost palpable. She failed to notice the screaming for her to calm down; failed to notice the crackling sounds of glass as the windows shattered.

But what was impossible to notice, even when she was so stuck in her head, was the thundering boom as the house was torn apart.

She halted mid-laughter, bitterness overwhelmed by the shock of what had just happened: The house was completely leveled.

Her mouth slowly began to pull up, twitching into something that resembled a smile. Cyrna surveyed the broken glass and the debris that surrounded her. Her smile widened.

How could she forget?

She was in a world of magic, meaning that there had been a possibility that she could do magic as well.

…did I just do that?

She surveyed the remains of the house; the rubble, the splintered wood…

Was that me?

She stared at Nicolas and Perenelle who were both inside a translucent shield. They stared at her in a mix of shock and horror. She stared back, not even bothering to hide the unadulterated excitement that coursed through her veins. Her heart thumped faster, and for the first time, she felt and heard the whistling of the wind that whipped around her body.

The smile turned into a large grin.

It was me. I did it.

I did magic.

Giddy with excitement, she missed the softly spoken words of stupefy and the red light heading her way.