Toggle paper mode ----

Is there a word for a hatred more than hate? Lots of people must be thinking the same things, looking at these pictures this morning. It was stupid of the Prophet to put the pictures of the now dead Death Eater elite on the front page. But I know it is supposed to be happy news, it seemed the whole world is rejoicing. And why not?

She still looks like my sister. I had stupidly been shocked that her picture had been reprinted, right next to the sketch of him. It was the same one as when they escaped. I think about the picture they had used so long ago, after the first killings, when she had still looked beautiful and sane. I kept that picture. The baby in the room that had once been his mother's cried out, reminding me that she had stopped being my sister long ago. I reflexively call out to Ted, and flinch. My hand covers the sketch of the monster that had made it so he would never answer me again.

I pick up the small child. He looks up into my eyes and mumbles gibberish. I feel a rush of happiness, thinking of this grandson of mine's name. "Teddy," I coo back. He pushes my tear off his pristine chin. The baby's hair fades from blonde into a dark green, and I'm can only think of Dora's hair. Dora's baby chin and tiny hands and her father's eyes. As if he knew how much I needed it, he gives me his first ever smile before falling back to sleep.

I walk aimlessly through my home. Sometimes I stop, and I think about him. Riddle. And what he did to her; what he did to us all. Suddenly a thought comes, and I rush to the paper. I hadn't opened it yet. I had thought I knew who was dead. My daughter. Her husband. My sister. The Weasley twin. Riddle. But I flip urgently through the pages, looking for my Narcissa. Eight pages in there is a small article that I don't yet read. I just marvel at the tiny picture next to it. My kinder sister stands with her hand on her boy, obvious in her grief. The article says her Death Eater husband is already back in jail. I can't help but smile; I am not alone.

I put the paper down. I cannot help but think, walking back to Teddy's room, that our suffering has made a new world for him. I stroke his soft hair as he sleeps and I imagine the world his parents and my husband and my cousins and countless others have died to give him. The world my sister was afraid of. It is a better world.