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She could scarcely remember the feel of his hands touching their way up her calves, as if she was an instrument he could play. He had been able to make her sing then. In those days she had not had the old biddy bun or a head of grey.

Tom had loved her hair. He would bury his face in it on nights after the sweat damp sheets had cooled around their bodies.

Minerva, I'm going to rule the world but it's you who is going to have every witch and wizard down on their knees in front of you.

His cool breath would tickle in her ear and a shiver would make it's way down to her very toes.

The silvery strands of memory swirled in a pensieve hidden in the space beneath the floorboards. Out of reach, out of mind. So she told herself when she woke on nights with his name on her lips and her hands on her breasts. They were not the firm breasts of young adulthood but the shriveled and sagging ones of an old woman.

Surely it had not been that long.