Constance threw her Auror manual against the wall with all her strength. Her face was puffy and red, streaked with tears, the salt in them making her skin feel tight as they dried. Kneeling on the floor in the center of her room, she stared, body tremulous, at the crumpled book where it had fallen, breathing heavily. Her hands were balled into fists and she dug them into her thighs, trying to ignore the fact that they were shaking. She could feel the trembling against her bare skin and she pressed harder, sobbing as she did so. She cried out from the pain and frustration. She screamed and looked around for something else to throw. She found nothing, and slammed her forearms against the floor. Fresh tears spilled from her eyes.

She felt so angry, so destructive. She wanted to tear apart everything that represented the life she was living right now. She hated it. She hated all of it. It was all such a struggle, and she never felt like she was getting anywhere. She had spent six years on a fruitless investigation into her family’s murder, and in those years her focus had been so fixed on that that everything else had fallen away. Her interests, her friendships, her dreams, they’d all played second fiddle to her desire for revenge. And why had it even been so important? She’d never connected to her father. Her stepmother had never taken an interest in her, and Constance had returned the sentiment. The only one who had mattered was Kevin, tiny Kevin, murdered at three years old. She’d wanted to punish the sick person who could kill a child.

But she’d made a mistake. Her choice to become an Auror, to avenge Kevin, had been a mistake. She wasn’t cut out for it. She hadn’t always been the cold, distant person she was now. She’d been quiet as a child, quiet but happy; shy, but not guarded the way she had become. She’d done it to herself. She’d been afraid of getting hurt, so she’d shut herself away. So many mistakes…but even if going back and doing it again was an option, she wouldn’t take it. She was too tired. She wouldn’t make it. She didn’t want to start over; she just wanted it to cease to exist.

She lifted her arms and slammed them against the floor again, crying out. She sat up and clutched at her chest, balling up the fabric of her t-shirt in her fists as she hugged herself forcefully. She was starting to hyperventilate; she couldn’t seem to get enough air. Her chest hurt and she squeezed tighter, rocking back and forth. She felt hollow and alone—she was alone. She sat in the center of her spartan bedroom and wept, with no one to comfort her, no arms but her own to hold her up. The last six years had been futile. She had no life left.

She was alone.