The Orphan's Story

At its most crowded, there had been over one hundred children at Post-War Orphanage (as the orphanage had been depressingly named) and, crowded or not, I had been among the oldest there.

Although this had perks it was also a pain.

On the up side, the little kids would leave me alone when I didn't want to be bothered as they had other children their own age with which to play.

But, as one of the oldest I was expected to help care for and look out for the younger children. I hated this because the little kids were my rivals, my enemies. But no one seemed to realize this, not even that old crone Caretaker Shuttmann who I would later liken to a prison guard as the orphanage felt very much like that – a prison that I believed I would have no chance of ever escaping.

Being one of the oldest also meant I was unlikely to ever be adopted. Who would want me when they could have a baby? Even at age five, when I was first brought to the orphanage, I was far too old for anyone to want to adopt, but I still held out hope.

A hope that all but vanished by the time I was eight years old.

I had been living in the orphanage for three years by that point and had seen far too many times people coming into the orphanage, looking to adopt, and leaving soon after with one of the babies.

At the time, my young mind could not process the implications that it was not normal procedure for people looking to adopt to come into the orphanage and leave the same day with the child of their choice. (I would not learn until later that the adoption processes directly after the war had been a lot more relaxed as there were a lot of children were orphaned during the war and directly after.)

But, what my brain could process at the time was that the people's "choice" was a baby.

All I could think was: Where did that leave me? I wanted parents, too. What was so great about babies?

Living those three years at the orphanage surrounded by babies – and forced to help take care of them – taught me a few things about them.

For one thing, they cried too much, especially at night, when I was trying to sleep.

But, the worst thing about them had to have been that they did not go to the restroom like I did – in the loo – they went in nappies instead – which the caretakers would then have to change – as I outright refused to help them.

Seriously.

I would throw tantrums to keep from helping and, although I would then be forced to go to bed without dinner, I would lie in bed – my stomaching rumbling uncomfortably – and smile a small smile of satisfaction that I at least had some power in a world in which I felt almost totally powerless.

For a while, I entertained the idea that this was why the caretakers pushed for baby adoptions – because it was too much work caring of them, and less work taking care of me, because, in a lot of ways I was self-sufficient – I could bathe, clothe, and feed myself. The babies on the other hand had to be constantly supervised.

But, this illusion only lasted a short time.

The real reason people preferred babies was because they were cuter and because people liked to have children who couldn't remember their first parents – which meant less competition for the new parents.

I know this for a fact because I heard one of the parents discussing the very issue with Caretaker Shuttmann, who agreed wholeheartedly and began to show them pictures of each of the babies – explaining to the perspective parents the reason why each of the babies had been brought to the orphanage. Just like me, these reasons often included a sad story about how their parents had been killed by Death Eaters during the war or, like in my case, had been killed during the Death Eater attacks that plagued the world after Voldemort and most of his followers had been defeated.

The day I listened in on this private discussion I was so angry and frustrated I broke a doll that one of the caretakers had given to the babies. Sure it was mean and I felt bad about breaking the stupid doll, especially when the baby who had been playing with it started to cry. But, I felt like crying too, even if I did remember my biological parents, I needed "new" parents just as much as any of the other orphans did - even the baby ones.

One day, just inside the foyer of the orphanage, as I was dressing a baby (who incidentally was going to be taken to her new home by her new parents that very day) I looked up at the sound of the door chiming, signaling someone's entrance. I hurried dressing the baby, expecting it to be her new parents, but when I looked up at the young couple who had just entered I gasped in shock and dropped the baby bootie I had been trying to stick on the squirming baby's foot.

The man was tall, with red hair. The woman next to him, who was smiling kindly at me, had wavy brown hair that looked really big. The glare from the window near the door had made it hard for me to see their faces clearly, but they had looked so much like what I remembered my parents to look like that before I could stop myself, I had leapt up and was hugging the man, my skinny arms wrapping around his waist.

My happiness was short lived though and I remember jerking away in embarrassment when I looked up at him and was able to see his face clearly. Because, at that point, it became painfully obvious that he was not my father, nor was the woman blinking back tears beside him - my mother.

A moment later, Caretaker Shuttman had come in, shooed me away, and led the couple toward her office. Before she shut the door behind them I had been able to hear them asking who I was – as well as hearing the caretaker's reply that my name was Sarah Westane, but, in the same breath, that the orphanage had several babies that were in need of adoption.

I blinked back my own tears, rubbing my sleeve across my cheek as some stubborn tears slipped from my eyes anyway.

Turning around, I picked the baby up and carried her to one of the bedrooms where I began grabbing up her things and shoving them into the bag that the adoptive parents would take with them when they picked her up.

The rest of that day, I spent much of my time (as I usually had) wandering around the orphanage, trying to avoid the caretakers so that they would not demand that I help them with something.

Unlike usual, however, that day I spent a lot of time walking slowly by Caretaker Shuttmann's office – a place I normally avoided – trying to hear what she and the couple were talking about.

I knew that it was pointless, they were probably, right now, signing the papers to adopt one of the smelly little babies with their fat baby cheeks and drooling mouths. Aside from looking similar to my dead parents, the couple was no different then the countless other people who had come here, they wouldn't want to adopt me...would they?

I groaned at my wishful thinking. Of course they would not I repeated over and over to myself.

Soon after, I was making my way to the room I shared with twenty other children, choosing to ignore the door to Caretaker Shuttmann's office, which began to open as I walked by.

I was in mid-stride when I heard the Caretaker's call for me to stop.

I turned around, not daring to look at the couple who were standing behind her. I had embarrassed myself enough earlier when I met them and, truthfully, I did not want to see their pitying gaze.

I remember that I responded sarcastically, saying something along the lines of - "Which baby do they want?"

After all, the Caretaker had probably only stopped me to so that I could bring the couple's new baby to them.

I remember almost falling over in shock when Caretaker Shuttmann replied that they had chosen to adopt me.

I remember not believing her at first, thinking that I was in my room, in bed, and that this was a dream.

I recall that I pinched myself to be sure, and, that sometime during the ensuring slight pain that resulted from the pinch, I had realized that it was not a dream. They really wanted to adopt me.

After Caretaker Shuttmann told me to go pack my stuff I turned quickly, ran into my room, started shoving the few things I possessed into a bag and hurried back out into the hallway to meet up with the couple – praying all the while that they would not leave without me because they had decided that I was too much of a bother.

Miraculously, they were still there and waiting for me patiently when I came back out.

I left the orphanage that day, hanging on the woman's arm as she and her husband apparated back to their new home.

My first impression of their house was that it was nice, much better than the orphanage – even though, while I was living in the orphanage I thought that anything would be preferable.

This initial thought changed when an older couple and a boy who was my age came through the door.

I cautiously stood behind the brown haired woman, overtly staring at the new people.

After the very nice older couple – who were, from what I could gather at the time, the parents of the red haired man – was introduced to me and I to them, they said that they had a busy day tomorrow and had to leave. (The next day I found out their "busy day" included planning a party for me so that I could meet the rest of the huge family of which I was now a part.)

The boy, however, stayed in the room, staring unblinkingly at me.

So, to keep from seeming nervous – which I was – I stared back at him. He had red hair, like his father, but had the same eyes has his mother – brown.

He and I were introduced to each other at that moment, and it was dislike at first sight.

He was annoying. He had an uppity attitude and acted like he was so smart and I was so stupid.

But, I was smart thank you very much.

For awhile, he would pick on me, although not cruelly, and right from the beginning I was shocked but happy to see that his parents would reprimand him when he made fun of me.

For a long while, I would do very little to stand up for myself – which was against my nature – but, regardless of how nice my adoptive parents were to me, I was afraid that one wrong move and I would be taken back to the orphanage.

One day, however, I had had enough. The boy – who was sixteen now – and I, were at Hogwarts – in the same year – and, like always, he was bugging me: This time because I wanted to try out for the Gryffindor Quidditch Team.

"That is it!" I had yelled, pouncing on him and knocking him to the ground.

When I started to wrap my hands around his neck, ready to strangle the life out of my adoptive parent's oldest son, he did something unexpected. He kissed me.

I remember that my whole body tensed as he wrapped one arm around my waist, thrusting the fingers of his other hand into my hair, crushing me harder against him.

For several minutes, I relaxed and allowed him to give me my first kiss, but, when my brain started to work again, I remembered my fears. I pushed on his chest, signaling for him to let me go.

He did as I silently requested.

I had left him there, running from the Quidditch Pitch, up to Gryffindor Tower, and up to the girl's dorms.

I stayed in my room for as long as possible until, my stomach growling for food, I went downstairs the next evening.

He was waiting in the common room for me.

I had tried to ignore him and walk past, but his hand gripping my arm lightly held me back.

I turned and looked silently into his eyes.

He leaned in and brushed his lips against mine; I jerked away.

"No."

"Why?"

"I don't see you that way." We both knew it was a lie.

"The truth?" he had asked, boldly calling me on my lie.

"I don't want to go back to the orphanage." My voice sounded miserable and scared in my own ears.

He laughed.

I reacted angrily.

I slapped him and started to walk away, but, again he grasped my arm in his hand.

This time he was not laughing.

"They wouldn't get rid of you. You mean too much to us."

"I do?"

"You know it's true," He whispered against my ear and pulled me to him again, brushing his lips against mine. This time I didn't pull away from him.

After that incident, we snuck around for a while. We were both afraid of what other people would say. It wasn't incest – we weren't really blood related – but we still feared the ignorance of others.

Although, I didn't tell him, I was also afraid of the news of our new relationship would get back to our parents (we did have a lot of relatives going to school with us) and that he was wrong and they really would get rid of me.

But, I think he knew my fear anyway, because, months later, when we finally decided to tell them we were together, he promised to do all the talking.

I hid behind him when he told them, aside from being afraid I would be taken back to the orphanage they had saved me from, a part of me was afraid that they would be disgusted that two children they saw and treated as their own were romantically in love with each other.

But, when he told them, I had proof that my fear was misplaced, and my wonderful adoptiveparents showed once again how much they loved me. Dad grinned and Mum cried – saying something about how we were just like them when they were younger and soon they were embracing us in tight hugs. (Although, as I recall, as accepting as they were of our relationship, they still set up spells at our bedroom doors to make sure no "midnight wanderings" to each other's rooms would take place.)

……

I snapped out of my silent reminiscing when Matthew comes through the door, carrying a small blue bundle in his arms.

I am only mildly conscious of the silly grin spreading across my face as I reach out, signaling for my husband to give the baby - our newborn son - to me.

"Mum and Dad will be here soon," Matthew says sitting carefully down beside me and laying the baby into my waiting arms.

I nod leaning against his chest as I look down at the baby and adjust the blanket his great-grandparents, Molly and Arthur Weasley, had got for him.

His clear, sapphire blue eyes stare up at me in wonder and I smile, brushing one of my hands over the small shock of red hair on his head, the red hair that signifies him as a Weasley - which he was, courtesy of my husband, Matthew Weasley, eldest son of Ron and Hermione Weasley, two of the three saviors of the world - wizarding and muggle (whether the muggles realized it or not) and, courtesy of me, Sarah Westane-Weasley, adopted daughter - no, I corrected myself, smiling at my Mum and Dad, who had just arrived and were rushing eagerly toward me, Sarah Weasley, daughter of Ron and Hermione Weasley.

The daughter who now understands what is so great about babies, but is - and always will be - glad that when my parents stepped into that orphanage eleven years ago, they chose me.