They tell me I'll fly again. I feel like hexing them.
I'll be fine, and I'll fly if I feel like it. I'll find a way, if it's that big a deal. Believing this is easy; it's the hearing it all the time that's hard.
I attend a few gatherings, fewer than many friends. Fred's is the hardest. I knew him as a teammate, a friend, even an enterprising wizard. It's Fred Weasley the family member, the fighter, the dead, that I never knew.
And I'm a reminder, it's clear, even sitting in the back and wishing I'd blend in. I'm a reminder that, despite cremating Fred (he'd have wanted a flying exit, spread everywhere), we will always miss him. We can't draw a bright line between war and peace, saying that we live in "happily ever after" since we're after. Remembering Fred and missing him will be evidence. And glancing at me is evidence.
They pity me, and still they resent me. I resent myself. I wish I was invisible—if Angelina smiled, acted girlishly again, if Katie celebrated, I'd be fine. Instead, they talk with me, saying a little yet still aggravating me.
I can't stand my parents' well-meaning friends talking in their silly way..."She's a brave girl! I can't believe she'd fight in that war! Wasn't it yesterday she had her first Cleansweep Seven?"
I appreciate silence. I appreciate the letter sent by a man that—selfishly, yet sensibly—is living, spending little time grieving. I appreciate being treated as a peer, distant yet respected, again.
Yet I can't explain this. Explaining what he did right (that is, what they didn't) merely tells them that I am weak, that talking with me can't be easy. Instead, I smile; if I seem satisfied, maybe this baby talk will end.
This strategy isn't a winner.
It isn't like my career has finished. I never had skill like wizards that play as their career. This is still the case. It isn't like anything's changed, that way.
I was an apprentice with Cleansweep, and that's where I'll head back, as early as I can. My arms are intact; I can craft a handle as well as any witch. I practice magic spells, staying in shape that way. The war interfered with the craft-sell-craft-sell rhythm, certainly, yet Cleansweep still exists. I'm financially independent, and in a few weeks, I can earn a living again.
They tell me there's a special team. "The Magpies are inviting players." "Try it!" "She was a brilliant Chaser, I bet she'd make it!"
Was, they say, as if I can't hear. (That's the remaining twin's scar. It isn't mine.) As if I'm dead as well.
They can't find as many wizards like me as we'd need in a real game. This war's finished, it isn't as if there will be many careers ended by Dark Magic. I'm essentially by myself, in this manner. And it's better like this.
I tell them a special team is a silly idea if it lacks rivals. What am I? Merely a display, a reminder? They'd have me fly a lap, then wave me away.
They tell me I'll fly again. I'm finished talking back.
After all, I can still feel where my legs were.