I was barely three when I first understood the concept of evil. It was late and I should have been sleeping in the bed next to Fred’s, but I’d been awoken by the thunderstorm outside. To this day, the flashes of light and booming claps still send shockwaves of instinctual fear through my body, but I’m quite sure no one knows of this. Well, except for maybe Fred, but I digress.

It was towards the end of the first war. I should have been too young to remember any of it. Fred never seems to. Even Percy says it’s all so blurry in his memories. But I’ll never forget it. Any of it.

I was creeping down the stairs to sneak a glass of milk when I heard it. It was a strange noise, like the muffled whimpers of a dying dog. I peeked my head around the corner and was baffled to see not a suffering animal, but my dad crumpled in a heap on the floor. My mum hovered over him, whispering things I could not hear but no doubt were meant to comfort.

She wiped what I discerned to be blood from his face and body and I watched with all the horror and dismay that one might expect. They conversed softly about Death Eaters, Unforgivables, and plans gone awry. At the time, I didn’t know what to make of it. Despite the war raging around us, my parents had been quite adamant that the evil of it all would never touch our home. I’m sure Bill and Charlie were conscious of what was happening, but most of us lived in blissful ignorance.

“Something’s changed,” Dad wheezed, despite Mum’s attempts to shush him. “Sybill, she’s had a vision.”

“I know,” my mum murmured absently, “about the one who can end this. But we mustn’t speak of that here, Arth--”

“No! She’s had another one, Molly. It’s changed. Everything’s changed.”

He passed into unconsciousness and Mum gasped, producing a strange, white substance from her wand that disappeared before I could get a good glimpse of it. And then there was a loud POP! and a woman I’d never seen before Apparated into the kitchen. I scrambled back upstairs as quietly as I could, my fear of getting caught outweighing the curiosity.

I never spoke to anyone of what I saw that night. What would be the point? My parents would only worry and my siblings could never truly understand. Still, every night I crept downstairs and would listen to my parents, their voices full of dread, speak of a second prophecy (though I’d no clue what the first had been).

“Tell me again, Arthur, what were her exact words?”

“Molly,” Dad sighed, running a shaky hand through his thinning hair, “Dumbledore can’t make heads or tails of it. What makes you think we’ll have better luck?”

Mum, bless her stubborn soul, pursed her lips together and stared hard at my dad until he shook his head and, like always, gave into her demands. “Two of blue come anon to unravel that which will soon be won. One born into power, the other born of it, neither complete unless consumed by fire. Beware, the heirs of forgotten past shall thrust us back to the beginning. Two of blue come anon to unravel that which will soon be won.”

It was a warning, one far too clouded by allusions and metaphors to be of any good until it was too late.

Infant Harry Potter defeated You-Know-Who and ended the war, becoming the stuff of legends. The Boy Who Lived.

Only to die ten years later at the hands of two new Dark Lords. Two boys – no, heirs – born from perfectly pure lineages. One descended from Merlin himself and the other from Morgan Le Fay. Blue blood, as it were.

In a united front, they killed Harry Potter and divided the power You-Know-Who infused him with between themselves. They called the Death Eaters to action and ravaged the country, throwing Muggle-borns and Half-bloods alike into internment camps and killing all who resisted. Wielding dark magicks thought to be lost for centuries, the heirs took the whole of England in less than a fortnight.

All was lost. Dumbledore dead, the Ministry gone, and my family only spared because our blood was too pure to waste.

But something went amiss – what, no one knows – and the heirs turned on each other. They waged a private battle for years, but neither could gain the upper hand and so a truce was met. They divided the land and built their separate kingdoms.

A strange sort of peace now reigns. There’s no more bloodshed (if you can overlook the slaughtering of those who attempt to fight for justice), but it’s just a farce. No one says so much out loud, but I can feel it. And I know that, if one of the heirs could gain the upper hand, the battle would begin again.

My family was once at the forefront of the resistance. Until Charlie was captured. They hold him hostage now, as insurance that we will cooperate with the new regime. And what choice do we have? So long as his hand on the clock points at prison, we know he’s alive and none of us are willing to risk his life to fight for a lost cause. Cowardly? Perhaps. But, with all that’s happened, I don’t have it in me to care.

And so, six years after the fall of Harry Potter, life – if you can call it that – goes on. Scotland and all things north of Essex are ruled by Merlin’s heir, the Dark Lord Blaise Zabini.

Ireland and all that’s south is controlled by the son of Le Fay, the Prince of Darkness.

Draco Malfoy.