A child can't be expected to know why their life can go from seemingly perfect to literal ruins overnight.
In all likelihood, or reality, the plot had been in the works for some time. But I didn't know any better. I was only six years old at the time.
Hang on, let me start over.
I was the youngest of five children. Our father had four daughters with his first wife, who died giving birth it the youngest of my half-sisters. All four of my half-sisters are pure-blood witches, all taught respect to all magical people.
Those last two facts are important, considering my own mother was a Muggle.
My parents were well respected in both the magical and Muggle communities, until anti-magic fear spread throughout the country.
People still aren't sure who started the fire, I've heard. Wizards and Muggles alike have been blaming the other side for years.
I may've been young at the time it happened, but... As the years have gone by, I've started to wonder if it was some witch or wizard who did it, and then blamed a Muggle. A Muggle may not've known that wizards don't normally die in fires.
I was asleep one night when I heard shouts and a struggle down the hall. I hid under the bed until I heard the sounds coming closer. I thought I started to smell smoke. At that point, I crawled towards my fireplace and opened a hidden passage. As I slipped into the passage and slip the secret door closed, I heard someone enter my room, swearing because they'd just missed me.
I was lucky to escape the massacre of my family.