March 11th, 1893 — Visions Parlor Grand Opening, Diagon Alley, London

Divination was never a subject Rosalie was remotely interested in. Predicting the future in tea leaves and cloud shapes made even less sense to her than those who were interested in studying muggles. (While she held no ill will towards muggles, she didn't see a reason to dedicate an entire course of study to them. They were humans with no magical ability — and therefore not worth noticing.) It was guesswork and, for those without any legitimate seer abilities, interpretation of their client's bodily cues that guided most of these supposed fortune tellers. And, were it not for her friend's insistence in going, Rosalie would have never ventured into Madame Simone's Visions Parlor.

Even as she sat at the table and offered the first memory that sprung to mind — a random afternoon of playing Ezra's tile game, he looked up at her with a grin — Rosalie was still doubtful of what was to come. (Choosing her past was the easiest decision of the night, for there was nothing in the present she wished to know and the future now frightened her.) She shut her eyes in the dim light as her supposed diviner worked with her memory, held them tighter still when the air suddenly felt different. This was guesswork. This wasn't real.

And yet, when Rosalie opened her eyes, there sat a younger, semi-translucent version of the man she'd done everything possible since Halloween to forget.

She'd paid for the opportunity to talk to him, the fee considerable even with the discount. She ought to have gone into this with a list of questions to demand answers of. Only, the longer she stared at him, the less she could think of what to say. The diviner's stare was curious, forcing Rosalie into a further state of discomfort as she shifted away from the table somewhat. This wasn't real. He wasn't here. He wasn't her-

"I wish you had told me." Rosalie forced herself to say, her voice quiet in the dimly lit room.

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