Right and wrong, truth and falsehood, good and evil: such subjective values lead our society, etching their laws deep in the stone of humanity. But who sets these laws? God? The prime minister? The country with the most firepower? The strong. And the strong live. The weak die. It goes without question.
Prologue: The Last Supper
"Dear God, we give thanks to you, our Holy Father, for this meal. May our lives and those of our loved ones be protected. May our days be filled with brightness, and our nights be filled with hope. We look to you with trust and love to guide us through these uncertain times. Amen."
It was our mantra. We'd recited these words, this prayer, without failure every night at supper for as long as I could remember. The one time of day when our family was truly together was at supper, as sadly was often the case in those unbalanced times. Somewhere in between the "Hi, honey, how was your day," and the, "Well, I'm off to bed," we'd fit in this little prayer. And in that instant, when we joined hands around the table and twined our pulsing voices together, we were connected.
They were uncertain times.
It began with a string of killings. Not unheard of in our world, but certainly not commonplace either. In a small suburb of London, three Muggles were found dead in the street. And that same night, Winifred Inverness, the highly esteemed assistant head of the Muggle Liaisons Office, was found dead in her home. Quite understandably, the Muggle police were baffled. How? How had this happened?
We knew better: we the wizards. The Ministry's question was not how, but why? And who? The murders increased: eight, twelve, thirty . . . . The numbers and names of the victims blurred. A hazy sort of truth was eventually pieced together. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the Dark Lord, emerged, sending an icy wave of terror and pain crashing down on wizards and Muggles alike.
It was in these times especially that we looked to God to solve that which our human flaws damaged beyond repair, to relieve of our shortcomings. Or rather, to help us to work through these things ourselves. We looked to Him to cleanse us of our sins. To love us unconditionally. To make us feel unique . . . special. We were a very Christian family, and our prayers, God guided us. But for us children, the prayers began to lose their meaning.
Just as a favourite sweet that is eaten too frequently will lose its tantalising flavour . . . just as a toy that is played with too frequently will lose its appeal . . . . We would recite our prayers monotonously; faith became a chore rather than a gift. My brother especially began to lose faith . . . . Or maybe the change was just so noticeable in him because in the beginning, he was the liveliest, the most dedicated and enthusiastic. However it happened, the seed of doubt was planted in his mind, and the resulting tree was too immense to be cleared away.
We were a family with morals, a pious family -- each of us. But when he began to lose faith, who or what was left for him to turn to? His fear devoured everything.