Chapter One
Author's note: Kind of just uploading this for safe-keeping. Review if you have comments! Thanks :)
When I was a child, I thought I was a superhero.
It is neither uncommon nor arrogant when little children believe these things, but you see I had good reason. I was born lucky, blessed with both wealth and talent. We had servants and I was the pet of the household, the firstborn, constantly told by guests and the maid and our old house elf that I was charming, that I would grow up to be famous. In the nursery I heard Aberforth constantly reprimanded – 'Why aren't you more like your brother?' And though I pitied him, and winced when my mother said these things, they again enforced it into my head that I was invincible.
Aberforth made a poor companion. He was three years younger than me which seemed an age. He was a baby, a dribbling little boy concerned with chewing on toys and being tickled. I was Albus, the older brother, I could count to a thousand and read entire books. We had a nurse and I used to complain to her, taking on the lofty tone of grandeur – 'It isn't that he's a bad little fellow, it's just so boring for a boy like me, to be stuck up here with him,' I sighed in the affected way of a five-year old and dug my hands into my pockets and there it was again, I presented myself as Albus, the prodigal boy, frustrated because there was nobody around to match his intellect. No wonder my brother couldn't stand me.
Ariana was perhaps three and Aberforth four and both of them tiny and adorable, fair curls, almost identical in matching duck egg gowns. I was past six and had lost the tender babyness of a toddler, I was already growing into the same bony, tall physique as my father. In the nursery we constantly had visitors, friends of my mothers, and she would proudly present her two youngest. Of course I knew she loved me best in the pockets of her heart, but her friends had no time to appreciate the measure of my intelligence and only saw me on the surface and so they ignored me. It was not their place to find the beauty within. The cooed over the two little ones and of course Albus, the Boy Wonder, wouldn't put up with this. When her friends came over, I excused myself, not content to sit quietly in the corner while the other two hogged the limelight.
It was around this time I discovered the muggles.
It wasn't uncommon in those days for wealthy wizarding households to have muggles employed in the house. The British wizarding community was not very large, and mostly well-to-do, so there was a shortage of staff. We had our house elf, to my shame I can't recall her name but it was either Reedy or Beady or something along those lines. I wish I could blame this on my old age. We had a maid who had been disowned by her family and an illiterate country cook. It is sad that out of these funny, kind, loveable group the only name that sticks to mind is the housekeeper Miss Prince and that is because she was a pureblood witch. At the time they were such integral parts of my life, members of the family, yet in my mind all their faces wash together, bland and featureless.
However, I remember the muggle.
Mr Stokes was the gardener's name and he was an elderly man. He talked in riddles and never brushed his hair, he wore odd socks and buttoned his shirt wrong and we all laughed at him, the silly muggle gardener, what fools muggles were! And yet I didn't know what the word meant, I thought he was just a crazy old man. I think a more likely explanation is that the everyday confunding and memory loss spells involved when working in a wizarding household had wiped his brain clean.
There was a great fuss when his grandson appeared at the house one day. He came to the back door and I happened to be sitting at the kitchen table, working on my letters. I don't know why I was there and not the schoolroom or the nursery, but I was there with just the cook to supervise and I remember the oppressive heat of summer enveloping me, not only the sunlight streaming through the basement windows but also the hot coals of the stove. I was about seven years old and still had long hair, the curls had grown out somewhat, and sweat ran down my neck and then there was this gust of fresh air and I looked up and standing at the door was this boy. My first thought was that he was beautiful and this was true – he was dark, tanned brown from running under the sun and a fringe cut across his forehead that fell down over his eyes. Almost instantly I corrected myself, boys could not be beautiful, boys were handsome; he was handsome.
I was so busy staring, drinking in the way the light caught on the back of his knees, the smile that came so easy and free to his face, the nervous way he kept pushing his hair out of his eyes, I didn't even listen to what he was saying. I caught the gist as soon as I tuned in – he was Bert, Mr Stokes was his grandfather, his mother was afraid the poor old man was getting senile, she wondered if Bert could keep an eye on him while he worked, help him out…
'Oh, oh,' the cook was a nervous woman, dumpy and anxious. She was a witch but her family was poor and none too clever and she had never been to Hogwarts. 'Miss Prince won't like this one bit, oh not one bit,' she said, almost to herself and then scurried off, up the basement stairs to fetch the housekeeper. I watched as the boy visibly relaxed and wondered why a harmless old woman would make him nervous.
I realized he must be a muggle, if Mr Stokes was his grandfather. I knew nothing of the world then, the scandal of half-bloods and muggle-borns had been kept from our nursery, and thought there were two categories of people – wizards and muggles and one was born to be happy and perfect and the others were there to serve and to bumble about foolishly. Yet, I saw no difference in Bert and the wizard boys I knew. He was a good deal nicer to look at than me and he had spoken rather cheekily, like clever boys in books. The naughty ones were always the clever ones in books. He was of a slight build and his cap was crooked and his accent funny, but there was no reason to laugh at him.
'What you at there then?' he nodded at the slate laid out in front of me, leaning against the frame of the door as comfortable as you please. I flushed and looked at my lap and looked up and he was still there, waiting an answer.
'Jus' some reading and writing,' I said. How had I never noticed before how stupid and babyish my voice sounded? A big boy like Bert would want nothing to do with me. I couldn't meet his eyes.
'In summer? Bad luck,' he said, just as if we were already bosom friends. 'What's your name then?'
'Al-' I stopped. Albus sounded cumbersome and posh. 'Just Al.'
'Well my name's Albert, truly, so I guess we're a pair of Als, eh?'
I grinned at him and stuck my tongue between my teeth and he did the same.
We continued talking. I loved his speech, the rhythmic lilting tone to his voice, the way he peppered his words with slang, ending each sentence with 'eh?' or 'then'. I made a mental note to pick up these habits.
The cook arrived back not with Miss Prince but my mother. My heart swelled with pride when she appeared. Let Bert see her, even with her hair casually swept into a bun, with her effortlessly elegant dress, let him know that my mother stood out among other mothers, let him realise that I had been born to such people and that I would grow up just like her. I was satisfied when he took off his hat and held it respectfully over his chest and addressed her so humbly polite, as if she were royalty. He explained the story to her with much more dramatics than the first time. I seemed to feel his pain, his mother's worry and stress over the poor, elderly Mr Stokes. I believed that all the grandson wanted to do was be good and help his dear old grandfather. And my mother, I watched the stern look soften around her eyes. 'I'll talk to my husband,' she said. 'And see if we can fix something up.'
His eyes danced and he winked at me and then he put his cap back on and said his thanks and was gone. I was sure that my father would agree and I would get to become friends with Bert and everybody would know I was just as brilliant as him.