Character: Hannah Abbott

Word Count: 1,104

Disclaimer: I am not JKR, enough said

Enjoy

I am not quite sure how to process this information now that I have it. My mother is dead - the plain, horrifying, unsheltered truth is that she's dead, and I never even got the chance to say goodbye. I didn't get to tell her how much I love her, how much she means to me, how much I will miss her.

I'm filled with an indescribable emotion. It's not sadness, not horror, not fear, not despair - no, it's emptiness. That's the only way to explain it.

I should feel more than this, shouldn't I? I should be crying on the floor, screaming about the unfairness of our world, the brutality of life, the horrors this world possesses, the evil of the Death Eaters. I should be swearing revenge on my mother's murderer.

Not standing here, staring with empty eyes into the crying, desperate face of my father, and looking into Dumbledore's brilliant blue eyes, which are missing the usual twinkle.

I should be crying about the unfairness, the pain, and the torture war brings, and the way war sucks away everything good, everything happy, every hopeful feeling, in a similar way to the Dementors. Even the strongest are left with purely the despair and naked truth of the horrors of the world, and children grow up much too quickly.

Every day, the eleven-year-olds are wandering around Hogwarts with pain in their eyes and terror in their voices. Every day, the eleven-year-olds are hearing of more deaths, more destruction, more horror, more pain. Every day, the eleven-year-olds are crying about lost loved ones, comforting their friends, or spending hours terrified that they, their family, or their friends will be next.

I think back to when I was that age. When I was that innocent little first year who knew nothing about what horrors the world can bring. Sure, I'd heard stories - I knew that in the first war it had been bad, and I knew that there had been horrors I could barely imagine, but it didn't really concern me. It was over - You-Know-Who was gone. I just didn't know it would be for so little time.

I remember when my biggest fear was that I didn't understand the Transfiguration essay, or that I would have a run in with Peeves, or that I would get caught sneaking out after curfew, or that I had to deal with a whole double lesson stuck in Binns's classroom, listening to him drone on and on about goblin wars and other things no one cares about. It was never if I would live to see the next day, if everyone I cared about would.

And now not everyone has.

I am suddenly, inexplicably pulled out of my thoughts and back into Dumbledore's office. I don't really know what to do; it still hasn't really sunk in on me yet. I look out of the window, more for somewhere else to look than anything else, and I see the Giant Squid bobbing lazily through the lake.

Something about the squid brings up the reality of my situation. I don't really know what it is; I don't think I will ever know what it is. All I know is that my mother is dead. I didn't even tell her I love her. I think back to the last time I saw her. I was at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, spiriting away with a half-wave over my shoulder because I'd almost been late for the train. Because, at that point, seeing my friends after weeks and weeks of being separated, and returning to the old castle was so much more important than giving a proper last hug to my mother. Of course I didn't know it would be my last; I thought we had years left together, that I could hug her on Christmas, on Easter. Somehow, despite hearing about the deaths through the summer, you still manage to clutch onto that last hopeful straw. "It won't happen to me."

The squid looks so happy, so peaceful - how can it be that way when my mother is dead? How can the sun still shine, the birds still sing when the world is crashing down around me? The world has ended but life goes on.

The war rages around us; people continue to die but people continue to fight, to resist, to battle the Dark forces that rage outside these walls. Life continues, despite my pain, despite my suffering, despite the agony of my heart.

I continue gazing at the squid, not even noticing the heavy sobs that leak down my face, not even noticing Dad holding me tight, squeezing my shoulders.

Something about it brings back a long forgotten memory, of another lake, of different tears, of Mum holding me tight and whispering me words of comfort.

I was three and staring glumly at the frozen lake near our house, crying because I missed out on the new toy I'd wanted for Christmas.

Mum came up behind me, kissed me gently on the top of my head, and asked me what was wrong. I sobbed about the toy - I'd wanted it so badly, and to my three-year-old self, it had been the most important thing in the world.

Mum looked at me and held my tear-streaked cheeks in her hand. She told me that yes, I didn't get the toy, but I was still incredibly lucky. I still had my family, enough money, food in my stomach, and good health.

In an attempt to explain it to me, she told me to think of the Muggle game of poker. She told me that in poker you get given a hand, which can be good or bad, and you've just got to make the most of the hand you get. It's just luck, and life is the same - you get given a hand and have to make the most of the cards you're given.

She explained that I had a very good hand - that sure, it wasn't perfect, and I didn't have four aces, but it was still pretty good, still worth a lot. My three-year-old self hadn't properly understood that at the time, but now I do. You get a hand in life, and I've had a fairly good hand.

Until now, that is. Now, my hand has decided to turn to shit.

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