It was nothing but a patch of ash, burnt soil and peek-a-boo weeds snaking around what was left of her childhood home but it was still precious to her. Niamh could still smell the fire, still feel the heat radiating off the blackened shell, even though the flames and embers had died — but it didn't make a difference as she placed a hand over the beams and stroked the brittle wood. The warmth she felt was something she always felt, it was the warmth of a home, and the smoke was nothing more than the memory of the fire burning in the lounge. Closing her eyes, she could hear it crackle, hear the sound of the wood splitting, and hear the sound of china touching china as her mother, sat in her usual seat, put her teacup down as she read one of her favourite books — she had no idea her youngest was about to rip her entire world apart. Gripping the wreath of forget-me-nots, the Irish wind whipped her hair around her face but Niamh paid it little mind; the weather here never changed, never disappointed her, and, as a child who lived for running across the landscape, she no longer felt the sharp bites at her bones. Hooking the ring of periwinkle flowers over a charred lump of wood she stepped back from the building and wrapped her arms around herself. Being a seer had it's perks, as all abilities did, but it was a curse as much as a blessing. Life and death were intertwined, never without the other, and she was privy to it all no matter how much she wished she wasn't or how much she needed the visions to stop. Her father's voice sounded like a ghost on the wind, haughty and with absolutely clarity — he didn't believe her intentions, scoffed at her openly, and Niamh knew why. Nobody would ever suspect Alex, not when they had a daughter like Niamh, and perhaps that was always going to be their biggest downfall. They were comfortable in the knowledge they had one fuck-up and utterly oblivious of the fact they had two. Things hadn't always been so crippled with disappointment and bitterness. There had been times she'd sat at her mother's feet as she wove jasmine in her hair and scooped it up in deft hands, times where she'd brushed pale rouge into the hollows of her daughter's cheeks, times she'd told her of Tír na nÓg Queens and mortal lovers. Aoife was a romantic and her daughter, in all her innocence and naivity, listened to tales of pureblood marriages, of families brought together, of lifelong love with her cheek pressed to her knee and her eyes glossy with wonder and adoration. Niamh's nose wrinkled, disgust and shame causing her to scowl at the thought. There was no romance in purebloods or the marriages they made; archaic roles of sexist men and their little women whose sole purpose was to bear the privileged and pompous youth of tomorrow. How disappointing it would be for her younger self to know that she would, in time, be married and widowed and bear only bastards. Noah was, of course, a product of mistakes and his stranger brother was no better; not that she resented any of her children for it but her father had. Regimental and tempestuous, he knew little of the first and shunned the second despite them being the only rightful heirs to his name; she didn't resent him either. His indignation was his own and her mother warmed to the child better than Niamh could've imagined but even her touch was weighed with sadness. They expected more from her, more from the wild child who ran through the moors bright and full of hope and unmade promises, more from a child who would eventually take the hands of demons and dance; but even the most graceful of waltzes ended with cramped hands and swollen feet if you let time get the better of you — and time, the master of all things, definitely had. Her fingers were cold inside the black kid gloves and her mourning tasted like ash on the back of her tongue; he said it was a bad idea to go there and an even worse one to have done it given her circumstances but she didn't listen. Pulling her cloak around her shoulders, she tugged the hood over her feral hair and backed away from the desolate building knowing that it would likely be the last time she trekked the Irish wasteland.  Niamh pressed her fingers to her mouth, pushing a strangled sounding sob back down her throat where it belonged,and acted completely indifferent to the stray tears rolling down her cheeks; Niamh didn't cry, she hadn't for a decade, but the loss she felt was profound and an extremely bitter pill to swallow. They didn't deserve it, regardless of what Alex said, and they certainly didn't deserve to go without mourning but they would. Nobody would miss the family living on top of the hill, nobody would miss their children running across the land and dancing in the summer breeze, nobody would grieve for lives unfulfilled.  Smoke curled up around her figure, wrapping her securely in a shadowy grip, and the pull as she apparated made her stomach lurch but everyone and their mother knew just how much she loathed using, and making, portkeys so it wasn't surprising as she disappeared from sight with nothing but a faint crack. It was sad, really, that a person could come and go with such a basic tool and not be followed but it didn't make her any less careful or lazy when it came to safe guarding her home from prying eyes eager to turn her over to the authorities. Shuffling down the path, her head slightly dipped, she slipped into the dark cottage without a sound; no more than a thief but it made sense. Once a thief, always a thief, but there were no jewels to be had, no money to be taken, just a simple life that she had no right to own and stolen time she was quickly running out of.