A/N – This is mine. Unfortunately, its inspiration is not.

It was poignant at times like this, how utterly alone in the world she was. The first of September 1981 had been the worst day of her life. She had said goodbye to the last thing she had truly held dear.

Who's next of kin?
Don't bother, the address is some Soviet state
Bollocks. Emergency contacts?
Line's dead, and it's in Scotland anyway.
Shit. Really? Nobody?
We can try the neighbour that called it in?
The porky fucker? You call the bloke.
Hell no. I'll tell a nurse.

Her eyes closed on the sting of hot tears. Fingers curling into the cheap synthetic fibres of the hospital linen, she prayed fervently to a god she didn't believe in for a gift she knew she would never receive. And she hated herself. For all that she had once loved, and still did love, magic, it was a cursed gift that stole her life from her piece by piece. She had learned to live with it, once upon a time, and that beautiful muggleborn had worshipped her for being the antithesis of everything he was. Life had been beautiful then, full of laughter and companionship and warm nights and soft touches. He had taught her the intricacies of his world as she had taught him the intricacies of hers. She had complained about the oddities of mannerisms and work ethic as he had complained about the delays of bureaucracies and magical precedent. Life has been beautiful then, a strange house with inefficient tools and dancing toys and all sorts of sparks where magic and technology fought for dominance.

Magic had always won, of course. Magic always beat muggle ways. Back then she had found it funny, as small footsteps and hushed giggles had waged silent wars between an innate thrall in all things magic and a cultivated love of all things muggle. If she tried hard enough, pushing herself into the thin, hypoallergenic poly-blend pillows, she could pretend she was Home.

Not back at Privet Drive. The place wasn't anything, nothing but memories, not anymore. But Home. The same place, in a different age, where squirming feet had pushed between two bodies and giggled at the twin groans and tight embraces that followed. There had been wet kisses and sticky hugs and another story please, Mummy?

What're you doing, darling?
I'm reading, Mummy.
Darling, that's not the right page. The words you're reading are on the next page.
Oh. Oops. This page, Mummy?
Yes, darling, that one.
I'm going to leave it open, Mummy. That way I can trick Daddy.
Trick Daddy with what, love? What are you and Mummy plotting now?
Daddy! Mummy, Daddy's home!
Mmm. Yes, darling, I see.
Ewww. Daddy, Mummy, don't do the icky kisses!

It was one of a thousand thousand moments she could see as clearly as if she were reliving it. Always followed by that deep laughter that she could feel in her very soul as he'd ignore the screeching protests and kiss her again. Always followed by that heavy launch that still jarred her bones as she'd throw her small body at them and shriek again. Life had been beautiful then, bodies landing in a heap on the floor as they laughed and laughed and laughed, together. She could still see them, as though she was once more watching from the kitchen door, heads bent as they giggled over another game or another story. Light on dark, old on young, father on daughter. It had been her favourite image, clear as glass even a decade later. Life was beautiful then, before the world changed and colour faded to grey.

Her first real experience with magic, the first time she'd felt what it was she'd been born without, had been with him. It had been the unspoken kind, of skin on skin and breath on breath and soul on soul. Her second real experience with magic, the first time she'd seen what it was she'd been born without, had taken him from her. It had been the unmentionable kind, of horrid green lights and invisible signs and silent screams and nobody else could see. Except the one person who she'd have given anything to keep from seeing.

Mummy, why?
Because, darling, some people are cruel.
Did they hurt Daddy? By sending him away?
I don't know. Maybe one day someone will survive and he can tell us.
How would he survive?
Magic.
Magic made Daddy go away. Why?
Because some people think he stole magic to have it.
Stole it from you?
People like me, yes.
They're fools. You'd have given up magic a thousand times over for Daddy.
Yes, darling, I would have.
I would too.
I know.
I can still see it when I close my eyes Mummy, horrible and green and moving.
Me too. I'll miss him.
You still have me, Mummy. For now.

She had always been alarmingly intuitive. The result of his burning curiosity, most certainly. It had been one of the reasons she'd married him, that light in his eyes when he stumbled upon something new. And his baby girl had inherited it to the letter. That was when her world had begun to unravel. One month and one day later her world had ended.

Write me. Everyday.
Not everyday, Mummy. I will.
I love you. I love you so much.
I love you too, Mummy. I'll miss you.
I'll miss you too.
You do know, don't you, Mummy? I'll always love you. Always.
I know.
And don't worry, Mummy. I won't let magic kill me too.
I love you, darling.

That had been the end of it. Magic had stolen the two most important people in her life from her. One for good and the other as good as. And now, ten years later, she was completely, utterly and entirely alone. Irrevocably. And there were no cats to distract her here, in this hypoallergenic, starched emptiness. So she closed her eyes, thought of Home, and replayed memories.

There was nothing so lonely as knowing about magic and not having it.