7 years old. Walking up Diagon Alley with Mummy, hand in hand, arms swinging. On your way to buy a new owl, discussing names. "How about Harold?" you say, "or Humphrey?", both giggling now. "I like Halley, a comet, a star, like you, Leo, Daddy and me." Mummy says. "Halley Malfoy, the most beautiful owl around!" You laugh. She laughs. Then those fateful words. A flash of green light. A scream. Mummy's hand goes cold. She falls. You fall. And Lily Luna Malfoy is dead.
Ten years old now. Leo's gone back, to Hogwarts this time, and with him he's taken laughter and hope, comfort and hugs. Just like Mummy took happiness and dancing and Daddy. Now, Daddy's slumped over the table, surrounded by bottles. You know it's bad. You know there's no work, no money. You know Granddad's coming round at two o'clock. So you grab him around the waist and with all your might you drag him up one stair. Two. And then there's a knock on the door. You're too late. It opens. You're found.
Eleven now. The sorting hat has just called "Slytherin!" and you're sitting on the stool watching Leo. He's not even looking. He's laughing with friends and flirting with girls. He doesn't care. Gingerly, you step off the stool and walk towards the Slytherin table and smile at the other girls. Friends.
Or not. Still Eleven. They call you a FREAK and say that you scream and cry in your sleep. That you shout out and call for your Mummy. Like a baby. Soon, everyone knows. You hide away.
You're fourteen now, and over the summer you've become pretty. Beautiful. And, suddenly, boys like you; they want to be your friend.
You've drank too much firewhiskey. HE's kissing you. Too hard. Too heavy. You want him to stop. But this time you can't get away. It's done.
You scrub and scrub at your skin, so hard that it's raw and red and bleeding. But you can't get IT off. HIM. What he's done to you. It's too late.
You're fifteen when you first see him. Grey eyes, caramel skin, scar. He understands you. He's troubled too. Gangs. Knife crime. Guns. His Daddy is (a drunk) too. You talk and talk. He kisses you and, for the first time ever, he kisses away your troubles.
But sometimes, just sometimes, you argue. And sometimes, just sometimes, he harms you, hurts you. But he's not a bad boy, just a sad boy. Sad, like you.
But, sixteen now, and he's gone too far. Your head aches- bleeds. Your body aches- bleeds. But he's right. You are wrong, dirty, talking to another boy. So you go to wash that dirt away. And that's when you see it. Blood. Lots of blood. Your baby. And, finally, you cry. You cry and cry and cry. The last thing you see is a pair of worried brown eyes. Then, you black out. You're found.
