This won't hurt

October 31, 1985

      Bright sunlight filtered through the thin curtains and fell on the face of the girl who was restlessly tossing around on the bed. Sometimes she muttered something indistinctly in her sleep, but no one heard her, so they could not pull her out of the clutches of the nightmare that haunted her not the first night.       With a cry, April Black sat up in bed. Her eyes, full of horror and fear, from the nightmare she had experienced, opened wide. His chest was heaving high, and his heart was beating so fast that it seemed as if everyone in the house could hear it. April had the same nightmares almost every day, each time becoming more intense and realistic, reminding her of days gone by. About the days she would like to forget.       —Damn nightmares, — April swore, trying to catch her breath, and leaned back against the pillows.       When April closed her eyes, this nightmare appeared before her again. The woman's body shivered. She was terribly tired of all this. Every day the nightmares became more and more terrible. No matter how many potions Black drank, nothing helped. She had had terrible and rather plausible dreams for years, and she was sure that now they were connected with a recent murder. Sometimes it seemed to the witch that if she hadn't killed her grandmother, it would have been much better. But this is not the case. If April hadn't done this, she herself wouldn't be alive. Having broken a promise made during an immutable vow, April Black was slowly dying and the only way out of this situation was to kill the one to whom she made a promise.        There were no regrets or sadness after the murder. Hatred of her grandmother allowed April to kill her without delay. She didn't think she could go to Azkaban after her husband. And it did not even occur to her that she could simply be killed, having decided that she was a danger to society.       None of this happened, and only the bloody knife lying in the nightstand reminded of what had happened. However, soon Walburga Black, who had been supporting her daughter-in-law in many ways for years, had to take away the last thing that reminded her of the murder.        Breathing recovered, and opening her eyes, April bothered to look out into the street. The weather was wonderful outside the window, but even this did not lift the girl's mood. She preferred rain to the sun. Sitting for hours by the window, she listened to the steady patter of the rain. And that, she had to admit, calmed her down. Remembering the date, April was flooded with dark memories. It was on this day four years ago that Lily and James Potter, as well as one of her best friends, died at the hands of Voldemort. April's husband was blamed for their deaths, and she remained with Remus Lupin to raise two children and a nephew.       A light knock on the door made the girl jump. Turning, she quietly crept up to the door and slightly opened it. Standing outside was five—year-old Harry, the son of James and Lily, who hugged April's leg with a smile. Smiling, the girl patted her nephew's hair and let him into the room.       —Aunt April, — Harry climbed onto the bed and looked expectantly at the woman. — When will we go to Mom and Dad?       My heart responded with a painful jolt. It always happened when James and Lily were mentioned. Four years have passed, and April still could not forget the moment when she saw the body of her brother, and then the body of his wife. Painful wounds appeared on her heart, and Black was sure that they would never completely heal.       —Maybe after lunch, — the girl answered vaguely, smoothing her nephew's hair.       Sometimes it was difficult for her to watch her nephew, who looked so much like her dead brother. She saw in him his habits and habits, heard his manner of voice and noticed that amazing external similarity that made her heart ache. All this mixture was diluted with eyes, exactly the same as Lily's. Shutting herself off from her nephew in the first months, the girl hurt herself, realizing that she was breaking her promise to Lily, but she couldn't do anything about it.       — Aunt Pril, tell me a story about you and Dad, — Harry said.       — I will tell you, but this is not only our story, — the girl smiled, launching into a fascinating, but difficult story for her.