A/n; All usual disclaimers apply. Please do not copy any portion of this work without first messaging me. I promise, I will always grant permission, but would like the courtesy of being informed before hand. ~BEG
When I was a small child, I would ask my mother, what the 'S' on her back stood for, and every time she answered me, I was told it was in honor of my own name. When others would ask her, it was her own last initial. Only when he asked, did she say that it was for her House that she as in at school. Never once, ever, even in her own thoughts I think, did she ever say it was for Him. While I know my mother to not be that sentimental, part of me believes that it is so - that the word, the name, that she repeated as the ink was being Incaustumed into her skin was not hers, her House's, or even my own, but His.
She was a woman of many stories, these tattoos being but small glimpses of all she had seen, all that had been in her strange and varied life. Oh, the delight she would take in these tellings, all circuitous, outrageous and so vivid, as if I had been there to watch the events unfold with no Occlumency needed. These epics always started with the same old question from my young, inquisitive mind; 'Nezzee, tell me about when . . .' Never once did she tell me to stop being so nosy, and if ever I found a story she did not wish to relate, she would promise to tell me about it some other time. I understand now, that most parents use such defections, however, I always believed her implicitly. Her life, at least to me, was an open book. Only some chapters were saved for their proper place and time
When I was a small child, I always expected that she would have that 'happily ever after', just like in the story books I would read. That all would be well with the world for her. As I grew, I came to realize, that the neatly tidied away existence of 'happily ever after' would have been tantamount to an Unforgivable Curse to her. Life had offered her the perfect ending multiple times over, and she had rejected it always. Instead she chose the derelict looking house on a cobbled street, in some muggle town. No Castles. No neat little houses. She was Anezka Nimue Myrriddan Sova, and she deserved no less than those. But she had long since made up her mind on what she wanted and when she had done that, no force of nature, magic or will would make her change her mind. The reasons she chose such only became evident to me, as I pieced together her myriad of sensationalist, sometimes even sordid tales.
Her Name was Nezza Sova, and her tale could have started at any stage of her life, but the true adventure, began on a train, when she was soon to be 17 . . .