My mum used to tell me stories all of the time. Not just any stories, of course. As she worked in a bookstore, it was usually mythology tales that she was weaving. She knew them all by heart, and I knew her by heart.
I saw that every time my mother would start a story, her face would light up. She would sag back into her chair and would look far away, just over my shoulder, and retell the legend. That look in her eye showed that she was reaching, grasping, finding any bit of her muggle heritage that she could so that she could tell me. So that I would remember, and teach my children not to hate.
I thank her for that, too. Even though near the end of every story I would grow tired and weary of the same fallible gods doing the same immoral things. Mum said that it was always important to know your weakness, and with that statement, she usually let me go off with my sister or Susan.
It is for this reason that I don't know the end of her stories. Some of them I've heard over the years. They've been retold by different people and have been tweaked ever so slightly. However, I've never heard the conclusion of a few lone ones.
When I was pulled out of class that day, I will never forget that the first thought that flickered through my mind was 'I won't be able to hear the endings. Not of those beautiful stories'. This was before my heart stopped in my chest and I broke into sobs, leaning into the messenger.
Right after, I went through the library at Hogwarts. I went through all of the possible books to try and find the endings. Some of them just don't exist outside of my mother's mouth, outside of my mother's heart. I suspect that my mother made them up. Wove them from air and love and fairy dust just for me.
I am Hannah Abbot. I can't weave a story for you, except for my own. I was born half-muggle, I am half-muggle, and I will always be half-muggle. Ernie once called me graceful, and nearly two years ago, I cursed a group of awful Slytherins. I didn't believe Harry Potter at first, and I don't recall why. I can't finish what I've started, and I never have been able to.
It's up to me now. To finish those stories, that is. Some are already written, like the ones about poor Prometheus and besieged Sisyphus. Even tortured Hercules had his day after he killed his family and sought redemption.
But there are others. The story of the Wood Nymphs whose lovely branches were stolen, and the celestial storyteller who was placed in the sky by adoring gods. The story of Hannah Abbot, who was once called graceful, and isn't courageous or brave or strong. These are of the few that don't have endings. My mother started them, and now I seek to finish them.
It's my job to finish them. If only so that they will be remembered, and retold. Maybe even one day if I am lucky, after I am courageous and brave and strong, I can weave these stories for my children out of air and love and fairy dust. Or else someone else can.