AN: Let me just say that I am new to reading and writing fanfiction, but the sudden urge overcomes me after reading a bit that I liked (and some I didn't). (I'm not even sure if I'm using this "Authors Note" correctly.) I hope you enjoy this, and welcome any constructive criticism you may have.
I trembled as my parents silently read the mysterious letter that had been dropped off at my house by a rather large grey owl. Silently, maybe only to pass the time, I wondered where this owl had come from? Maybe he picked up this letter somewhere, and just landed on my doorstep? No, he couldn't have. The paper was addressed to ME, with MY address. It seemed too much to be a scary coincidence. I pondered this for some time, but my parents scanned that intricate sheet of paper for what seemed like an eternity.
Suddenly, something occurred to me; a memory so long forgotten, yet so similar to this. Last summer, I was outside riding my bike, and a large owl very similar to this one was perched on the Durseley's chimney. I took no notice of it; I was ten at the time, and oblivious to such strange occurrences. The owl left, but I could not tell you when. A few days later, however, it was back, in multitude. I watched the strange spectacle with awe, as the owls seemed to almost line up, each dropping a small letter down the chimney. I don't know what it meant; maybe it happened to everyone...
My mind went to the poor Potter boy, whom I had not seen in some time. Quite strangely, it was only after the letters had been sent that he went away. It's not that I saw him often or had a close relationship with him. It's just that their yard seemed to grow a little taller, or their bushes a little more unruly before that twiggy woman would come out and struggle to start the lawn mower or to lift the hedge clippers.
That used to be Harry's (I think that was his name.) job. It seemed more like a punishment, because it would often happen after hearing that blubbering, red-faced excuse for a man bellowing about the house how "Potter" had "done it again." I used to speculate on what it is "Potter" had done so often, but a sneaking suspicion told me that it was nothing at all.
I grew up in a loving house. My brother, Chester, was two years older than me, but even at 13, he still found time to play with Dolly and me. He would sometimes complain that he was too old to be playing silly girl games with his "little sister and her doll", but it never prevented us from having a marvelous time, particularly me. I loved my big brother, but it brought my mind back to Harry. Didn't he have any REAL family? Hadn't he someone to love him? I was struck with a pang of guilt; I felt as if I should have reached out to the boy with disheveled brown hair, and sad green eyes. Sitting there, I wondered why I hadn't, and I regretted that I would probably never get the chance now.
My father cleared his throat, and he and my mother exchanged a meaningful glance, and she nodded slightly. An enormous smile broke out on her face, and she opened her mouth to speak. "Honey, you're a witch."