They say a child can heal so many wounds. And I sometimes look at my family and wonder how true that is. Surely, my birth did help, at least a little. But knowing the past, knowing the pain and anger between the sides of my family? Sometimes it makes me wonder.

My father was not a good man in his younger days. In the name of love, he promised his life to a man who's ideals were... twisted. Who believed in torture and murder and making his followers align themselves with those same beliefs. And my father did it willingly. Not because he was His, but because he was HERS. Bellatrix Black-Lestrange was his world, and he would have followed her to hell and almost did.

One day, the evil man (Voldemort. Do not let the fear of a thing guide your life) was slain by a year old child. And, in looking for him, Father, Uncle, Bellatrix and Barty Crouch Jr. decided to torture his whereabouts out of two Aurors that the knew to be a part of the inner circle of those they'd fought against. And so they did.

Frank and Alice Longbottom, the Aurors they tortured that day, are my Great-Grandparents. Their son, Neville and his wife, Luna, adopted my mother. She came from a long, hard childhood and they wanted to give her the opportunity to grow past it. And she did, with their help, and a great deal of hard work.

(More soon... I promise.)

Charlotte finished her dinner a little early, so she waved goodbye to her friends and told them she'd be in the Library studying. She also blushed prettily when one of the girls commented that she was meeting Jacob, and how she liked him. It was true, of course, but that didn't stop her from blushing.

She sat at the table, nervous energy making her bounce her leg just a little. Jacob would be here any time, and she didn't want to be a complete freak when he got there. After all, they were friends, right? No need to make things awkward.

While she waited, she started a note to her parents. She tried to write at least twice a week, but lately she'd been dropping back to once a week. That would never do. She had her head in her writing, not really paying attention when the after-dinner studiers started trickling in.