Disclaimer: I don't own this.

Prologue

Legend says our line first began with a man named Godric, a human raised by hawks. He learned the sweet trill of birdsong and was gifted with their form.

It is a pretty tale, I admit, but hardly anyone believes it. There are no records dating so far back.

No record apart from the feathers in every Gryffindor's hair, even while we otherwise appear human, and the wings I can grow when I desire – and of course the beautiful golden hawk's form that is as natural to me as the legs and arms I wear normally.

We hear many stories about our kind during childhood. This legend is one of them, but nothing in it explains reality or the hard lessons we are taught later.

Before we are taught to fly, we learn to hate. We learn of war. We learn of the race that calls itself the Slytherin. We learn that they are deceitful, that they are liars and faithful to no one. We learn to dread the crimson eyes of their royal family even though we will almost certainly never see them.

And we never learn how the fighting began. There is no reason for centuries of slaughter and bloodshed; no reason for the horrors that every parent has learnt to fear; no reason for mindless bloodshed; and no reason why I am the last of the royal line. No, that has been lost. Instead we learn that they have butchered our family and loved ones. We learn that these enemies are evil, that their sin knows no bounds, and that they would kill us if they could.

That is all we learn.

That is all I have learnt.

Days and weeks and years, and all I know is the terrible screams of my sister as she was torn apart; and the empty look in her eyes as she lay upon the ground broken and bleeding. And I see the satisfaction in their eyes, as they watched her suffering.

I hum the songs my mother once sung to me and wish for the peace they promise. Peace I have never known, nor my mother, nor her mother before her.

How many more? How many of our soldiers fallen? How many more innocent children thrown into the graves of the dead because it is easier to die than live on?

Meaningless hatred; the hatred of an enemy with no face. No one knows why we fight; they only know that we will continue to fight until we win a war it is too late to win, until we have avenged too many dead to avenge, until no one can remember peace anymore, even in songs. And they will listen to stories of times long past in wonder, because they have known only hate.

Days and weeks and years.

My brother never returned home last night.

Days and weeks and years.

How long until I am found?

Author's notes:

Well. This is based on Hawksong, by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes, another one of my favourite books. Just so you know, I won't be updating 'The Seer and The Sword' for another month or so. Sorry.

Please review!

Oh, and a little note: Chapters one to five will be borrowing HEAVILY from Hawksong. Just thought I'd warn you... :)