Redemption.

Conall Roper

Stiorra's POV.

Stiorra was having the strangest dream. She had always dreamt about the day her parents had died, but it never felt nor did it ever look so clear in her mind. It felt so strange.

She was sitting by the fire, curled up under a plaid in a wide armchair that was way too big for her. She could hear the fire crackling, and she could hear the pages of a newspaper being folded up.
She looked down at her own hands, but something felt off. She had tiny fingers and to be honest she had the smallest of hands.

"Stiorra, honey," a warm voice said.

She couldn't put a name on the voice, but a grip tightened around her stomach. She gulped down and tilted her head on the side as she spun around on the armchair, but she was alone. She looked up, and there she was. The most beautiful woman she had ever known.

"Mother."

There was a lump in her throat and tears rolling down her cheeks. She gulped down, and she could feel her lips quiver. Her hands were shaking.
Her mother was standing there, and Stiorra could finally see her face clearly for the first time. The photographs she had of her mother didn't do her justice, to be fair.

"It's time for your bath," her mother said softly.

Stiorra felt herself nodding, and she saw herself getting to her feet and starting down the end of the room. The details of the place she was in were a blur, but as a whole it looked rather familiar.
She followed her mother up the stairs and stepped in a bathroom where there was a long bathtub, and the tiles on the floor were black.
She was about to bend over the bath that was filled with water and bubbles when someone cleared out his throat behind her. She turned around only to see a boy standing in the doorway.
The boy was much older than Stiorra. If anything she would've have thought he was an adult, but teenager was closer in terms of appearances.

"Hello, Stiorra," the boy said, "remember me?"

The lights in the room flickered, and the more Stiorra looked at the boy's face, the older it got. And suddenly, he was gone, and all had turned dark around her.

She opened her eyes to a dark and dilapidated room. It had high-ceilings, and there were wooden boards at the windows. The moonlight filtered through the holes in between the boards, and there was but a single light lit up on a countertop.
She was sitting on a chair with her ankles tied up to its feet and her hands tied up in her back.
Where was Draco? There was no one around and she couldn't see much.
There were shapes in the dark, and as far as she could tell it was only a few pieces of furniture covered with white sheets. All of them but one. The tall and wide armchair from her dream was there, uncovered. A man was sitting on it with a leg propped up above the other.

"Hello, Stiorra," the man croaked, "remember me?"

She had to squint to see. Still, his face was in the dark. The man chuckled and put both of his feet down onto the floor as he bent over.
Stiorra could feel something strange stirring in her. Was it fear? Was it relief? Or was it proper confusion?
He fished something out of his boot and a bright cold light appeared, revealing a wand and the coldest and brightest green eyes she had ever seen.

"Conall?"

His name fell out of her mouth. This was the only thing she could remember. She wouldn't have been able to tell if his face was familiar, if it weren't for the pictures she had.
The man nodded. Stiorra gulped down. She didn't know how she felt. There were so many things she wanted to ask him.

"You remember me," Conall said.

"Where are we?"

"Home."