When I was growing up, Hogwarts was a very interesting place. Harry Potter had just finished attending the school in 1998 so, as you can imagine, there was quite a bit of interest in Gryffindor. That was all my wizarding friends could talk about. Gryffindor this and Gryffindor that and everybody wanted to be in Gryffindor, including me. Red and gold were the colours. We hoarded second-hand memorabilia, like old scarves and drew our own crests with our cute designs. I'm sure I drew something with a cute little dragon on it. Ugh.
To be honest I'd rather skip over the part where I talk about the Harry Potter memorabilia including full sized moving posters in my room, let's just forget about that part. I honestly don't think I want to relive the embarrassment.
Anyways, the Boy Who Lived was a legend, a story read to children at bed-time, and retold to me more times than I can recall. The papers were filled with him. I wasn't really into politics or newspapers but my father would follow The Daily Prophet, The Pidwidgon, The Butterbeer Chronicles and you name-it. Maybe I'm not remembering some of those names and just made them up, but what have you, I'm pretty sure the Pidwidgeon is right.
Whenever he read those papers he would glance up at me with his big bushy eyebrows in a knot and his messy hair flowing about his head like mass of sheep's wool and say something like, "would you believe it Bally? I think the war is truly over" or "we'd better be careful these days, there seems to be something brewing outside, remember not to talk to strangers." The look on his face was sometimes one of jovial amusement or curiosity, but other times there was something deep and dark and painful behind his eyes that I worried I had caused. I would hug him in those moments and he'd look at me in surprised and say "Aw, I love you too, pumpkin."
The only time I really remember being absolutely frightened by the war was when I was only 6 or maybe 7 years old and we had to go stay with some relatives of ours in Canada. Memories from this time are fuzzy or inarticulate. There are small lingering flashes, like the sickeningly sweet smell of peppermint and their really dirty bathtub that I was always attempting to avoid. Mostly I just remember the fear. Children are remarkable at picking up the feeling of fear or terror and I was no different. The feeling permeated my existence and I felt it chilling my spine like that feeling you get when you've spent too much time in the cold and you come inside and it's warm but, for some reason, you just keep shivering.
My parents were furtive. They would have conversations behind closed doors with my aunt and uncle. Bit and pieces would escape through the half-closed doorways, crawling their way down the hallway and slithering into my ears. I remember the slimy, cold feeling of them. Things like "murder," "war," "hiding," or even dreaded sentences; "maybe we should leave her here and go back, they need us."
I was very emotional during these times. I remember my younger cousin playing absentmindedly then she just stopped and looked at me with big eyes. I remember saying, "don't worry. I'll figure something out. We'll be fine. I'll protect all of us." Having no clue what 'figuring something out' would look like or what 'protecting all of us' would mean, but it was probably reminiscent of my love for Harry Potter and Gryffindor and my desire to keep my family safe.
A strange idealism filled me with the desire to protect others. These ideas must have stemmed from my feeling that I was a very strong person and that I could help others by taking the weight off their shoulders. From a young age I felt that I had the world on my shoulders. This may have had a lot to do with my mother.
Perhaps we can talk about her later as that topic is quite a difficult one and quite filled with regret and pain. But let's leave it at, I had to take care of her much of the time and my father often confided his feelings in me and thus I became, in many ways, a second parent to my little sister due to my mother's inability and my father's full-time job.
My little sister's name was Rowen. Yes, after Rowena Ravenclaw. She was quite a shy girl and very opinionated, but she looked up to me like I was a hero and I loved her for that. I felt like a hero when I was with her.
But, let's move on from my family, and get onto the interesting stuff, shall we?