Exordium: Freedom

This is Sarah Scribe's tale as she comes to terms with who she is, with all that she is. WARNINGS: DARK! Angst, suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, LGBT OC. Don't like, don't read. Expect Olde Tyme views on nobility, on healthcare, and astoundingly progressive stances mixed in.

First Reading: (13) Death

8-8

Death does not necessarily, or even usually, indicate physical death. In fact, in general, it is considered irresponsible for readers to predict physical death, as we are creatures with free will, and such things are not written in stone. This card simply indicates transformation and change. This is definitely a time of deep transformation, likely to be both inner and outwardly in your life. Situations, things, and people that you have counted on or gotten used to may no longer be available to you in quite the same way as they once were, and this transition can be difficult for some people.

8-8


[Poor bedside manners]

There's only one world? Rubbish. Pure and utter drivel. There are so many distinct anomalies inherent to each country, each culture, each subculture…Papa has told me of his travels to Tokyo, New York, Rome, Rio de Janeiro, Sydney. and Cape Town. None of those cities are alike, even though they are all similar.

In all honesty though, I think papa likes telling me about his travels to tempt me to leave the house. I don't like leaving the house. I never did like leaving the house. Nope, I'm fine just where I am. It's…cosy?

"Sean? Why are you still in your pyjamas?" mum wonders, cementing my reason for hating the outside world. I groan, hiding under my pillow and telling her to leave me alone. "And for that matter, why are you still in bed, young man? It's almost noon and you haven't even had any breakfast! I even made waffles. You love waffles!"

As much as I wish it wasn't the case, I can still hear her just fine. I hear her footsteps edging closer and closer to my bed. And I hear her sigh as she notices the mess my closet turned into…"Why do you always make getting dressed such a battle?" she muses. I hear something, probably her whipping out her wand and 'setting things aright'. Wonderful, all is right in the world again.

"Sean, I get it, you know. I know you get lonely when your brothers are at Hogwarts, but this is getting ridiculous." Mum once again proves she really doesn't get it. "Will you at least look at me when I'm talking to you?"

I feel her tugging at my sheets, then at my pillow when that didn't work. I just don't care. I'm not in the mood. I don't want to get out of bed. I don't want to go through my worthless wardrobe. I don't want to go downstairs and hear her bragging about how well-mannered her 'son' is. I tell her once again to just go away, hoping beyond hope that she actually will this time.

"No, I will not 'go away'. Not until you tell me what's going on," she says. She's using that tone again, too. That 'to the point of tears' tone. The tone that can get me to do just about anything—from playing nice at the Weasleys', to eating those horrid muffin's aunt Fiona loves to bake.

I'm tempted to tell her—I've been tempted to tell her for years now. But I can't. She wouldn't understand. No one would understand. Well, other than Ginny—she gets it, but is sworn to secrecy so she's not much help here.

"I got your acceptance letter today?" Mum is still trying anything to get a reaction out of me—well, a positive reaction at least. I mumble something about not caring about that stupid school. Who cares about Hogwarts? Who cares about finally entering with Ginny—which we've been 'talking' about since her brother Bill entered…who cares…

"Sean?" It's funny. I've answered to that name for as long as I can remember. Yet, somehow I still cringe inside every time I hear it. "Sweetie, Ginny's probably going to start wondering where her best friend is." That's what desperation sounds like. I know it well, I've lived it.

8-8


[Ginny's suggestion]

"I don't know what to do anymore, Molly!" I can hear Mum talking with Mrs Weasley. It isn't hard to hear them, even though they're downstairs. Why? Because Mum is a bit…loud when she's upset about something—or just loud in general.

Footsteps coming up the stairs announce that one of them is coming to check on me. I sigh, wondering who'd pulled the shortest straw this time. From the soft tapping on my door, I'm going with Ginny.

"Can I come in?" I was right. Ginny sounds worried too. She's been very worried lately. I feel bad about that, horrible even. Just another thing I'm ruining; just another person's happiness tainted by my being born. The footsteps come closer to me and I feel the bed shift as she sits down.

"I know what's really bothering you. I know that's why you've been down so much lately." She doesn't mention that name, luckily. She knows how much that name bothers me. "Don't you think it's time you told her?" I know what she means, to talk to Mum about it. I can't, I just…can't.

"Sarah, nothing will change if you won't change it." I stiffen at her words. Ginny's probably the only person alive that knows that name. 'Sarah'. She came up with it, back when we were little and playing in my tree house. That was probably the only place in the world that was safe for me to play with dolls and no one else would find out about it.

I remember.

Even now with tears stinging my eyes, I remember. She'd told me that I probably didn't know how to 'act like a boy', that I was her bestest friend and that Sarah fit me a zillion times better than 'Sean' ever would. I remember well.

The sheets I've been buried under are pulled back. The cold, harsh winds of the world assault me. Then, I feel something warm cuddle up to me and the world fades away. The pillow I've shielded myself with is tilted and dropped back into place. Something warm kisses the back of my neck. Once, twice…over and over again. I think Ginny is lying behind me—she's the only one that would dare to.

"If you are going to hide from the world, then I'm coming with you,"she whispers, wrapping an arm around me. She just lies here with me. She doesn't ask me to talk. She isn't put out that I'm being a drama queen once again. She's not making fun of me—though even if she did, I know her well enough to know she's just teasing me.

"Mum's taking me to Diagon Alley tomorrow, to get my things for school." Ginny does that a lot, babbling when she knows she won't get me to talk. "Luckily the required reading hasn't changed all that much, so I'm getting most of Ron's books from last year. That's saving us a lot of money, mum says."

"Go away, Ginny. I can't do this, not today," I tell her honestly. Hearing the crackling voice bleeding out of my vocal chords only summons more tears…I don't want to think about school, meeting new people, having to deal with the stupidity, the idiocy and the constant questions. Any of it! I just…

"I can't do that." Her voice is heavy with emotions I don't care to identify. "We made a pact. So you know I can't."

We're both quiet for a long while. Though I'm grateful that she's here for me, I just don't know what to say. I mean, what could I say? If my parents—the two leading Tarotists in Britain, if not the world—can't see what's bothering me, if they can't understand…what hope is there for me?

"Sarah?" Ginny tries to get my attention. When words fail, she pokes my cheek with her nose. As stupid as it sounds, it's something we've done for years; a secret 'handshake' of sorts. I turn to her, I see for the first time how her bright brown eyes are weighed down with the same troubles I feel. "I don't know if it'll help…but maybe I can talk to your mum for you?"

8-8


[The talk, or the lack thereof]

As I sit down to the table, I can't help but wonder how much this meal is going to suck. Ginny is not the type of person to offer empty words; if she says she'd talk to Mum, she'd talk to her and she wouldn't give up until she was sure that Mum understood. I have no issue with that in and of itself…it's when Mum and Papa decide that they need 'to discuss something' away from 'the brat brigade'…

The last time my parents needed to discuss something away from our prying ears and near insatiable curiosity, I found out that my eldest sister wanted to study magic in Japan. Sure we still exchange letters every few weeks, but I haven't seen her since.

Anyway, the point is that they only discuss things in private when it's life-threatening, world-altering or going to cost more money than either is really comfortable with. So, seeing that they'd spent the last three hours 'discussing', that they'd went for a walk together to get take-out from some local restaurant and that they're both very tense…it doesn't bode well for me.

"Mum?" I hear something getting mumbled. I can tell that my sister—Gemima, who's in her final year at Hogwarts—and Mum are gossiping about something. They usually are. Or is 'gossip' not the right word? Well, they mumble so no one can hear them as they discuss something of a social nature that they feel the other should know, without letting anyone else in on their discussion…hmm, it still sounds like gossip that way.

"Sean, eat up or your dinner'll get cold," papa says at some point. I take a spoonful of whatever I have in my plate—I'm not hungry, and I can't even rightly say I know what it is I'm eating. When I'm satisfied he's no longer watching me, I go back to moving things around in my plate.

It isn't much later that we're excused from the table, all of us. My brothers run out the front door to go do whatever it is that they do. Gemima retreats to her room 'for homework', though I'm not entirely sure how truthful that is. I mean, it is summer break! She's probably up there writing another letter to her boyfriend, or something.

I'm not usually one for socializing, so I enter my room and shut the door. Looking around, I can't help but wonder why it is that no one's noticed something odd about my room. I mean, I've seen the room my brothers share; pigsties are better kept and usually smell better, too. Gemima told me once that it's fairly typical that boys keep their room that way, smell and all.

Not my room though. No, I keep my room tidy. My bookshelf, though little more than a nightstand really, is well organized and riddled with booklets on tarot, runic theory and Celtic magic theory. My twin sized bed is always made and I have the stuffed puffskein that George Weasley gave me some years ago. He'd won it at carnival, but didn't want it. Ginny didn't seem to like it much—mostly because she was annoyed at George at the time and her pride wouldn't let her accept it. So it was given to me. I suspect that it was George's way of saying that I should give it to her when she calmed down…but I enjoy cuddling with it, so…

I've three posters hanging on the wall. The biggest one of course is the Weird Sisters performing live at their last concert in Dublin. I love the energy of all the lights and how the band is so hyped up as they jump around the stage. A second is of Myron Wagtail, lead singer of the Weird Sisters. This one is a close-up of him putting on his makeup before one of their shows, though I forget which one. I'm pretty sure Ginny'll be upset if I tell her I forgot which concert that was from again—she's always been more fanatic about the band, I just love Myron.

My final poster is Cassandra Vablatsky peering into her crystal ball with two tarot decks on her table. Her focus on what she's doing is so intense that it's sometimes hard to notice that she's amused by what she sees. It amazes me that the best seers are almost always witches. Cassandra, however, is by far my favourite seer of all time. She's ambitious, yet humble. Wise, yet playful. Shrewd. And by all accounts I've ever heard, she's not one to trifle with. I respect her.

I take a deep breath to calm myself, enjoying the scent of my tomato plant on my windowsill. Originally I'd wanted something nicer, like thyme, basil, or Umbrella Flowers, though I could never quite convince mum why I'd wanted such 'girly' plants in my room. How any of them got tagged as 'girl' things is beyond me, but arguing with Mum is pretty pointless—or anyone in this family really.

I'm tempted to write in my diary, but decide against it. Nothing's happened that is worth writing about. And frankly, I'm almost becoming paranoid that Gemima is getting close to cracking the code I write with. If she cracks my code, then every private thought I'd ever written would be a mere decryption away from her curiosity.

No. Curling up in my bed is by far the best thing.

8-8


[Diagon Alley]

"Yes, yes, Molly. I'll be sure to tell you exactly how much it comes up to. No, I won't forget. Yes, I'm sure, positive even." Mum's laying it on quite thick, but knowing Mrs Weasley…she'll be so frustrated from dealing with Fred and George all day that she'll forget all about it. A fact Mum takes full advantage of from time to time, I'd wager.

I watch Mrs Weasley march the troops down the alley. Gemima's going with them, so I'm sure Mrs Weasley can handle Brennan and Cashel—my brothers—in addition to her usual troubles. Papa already gave them the money they'll need before he headed off to work—mum and papa must have discussed this well in advance.

"What say we give them a head start and we go get some ice cream first?" mum announces. Ginny's excited at least, but I don't really care.

I trudge on along with them. Ginny's too busy gawking at all the wares on display in the dozens of windows we pass, so there's no hope of distracting mum when she starts eyeing me again. She'd been doing that all day, just…gazing at me, like she's studying me.

Once we make it to the store, I plop onto an empty chair and say that I'll keep it reserved for us. I don't even hear what mum's reaction is, and I don't answer Ginny when she asks what I'd want. It's not like I'd even know what flavours they have anyway.

After I no longer hear Ginny saying something about her favourite flavour—I guess they have Macadamia or Pecan, whichever is her favourite this week—I judge it safe to plop onto the table in front of me. I rest my chin in the fold behind my elbow, seeing as it hurts less there. And I just…gaze out at the people.

Busy people. Purebloods. Muggles. Goblins. I think that one's a hag. Whatever, all people. Happy people. They all seem to know who they are, have come to accept it and proudly show it off to the world. Gits, the lot of them. Downright bloody bastards.

"Now, now, young lady! Whatever's bothering you, you mustn't make it rain!" I hear someone say. I don't really bother to understand what she means, or who she's talking to—it's rather sad that I can tell the speaker is a woman just by how she speaks. A high classed lady, might I add. Probably well educated, and quite eloquent. Sophisticated might be the better word to describe her.

"Dearie?" Someone taps my shoulder. I turn, almost lazily to see who it is and what they want with me. It turns out to be an elderly witch with kind eyes. I don't really care to see beyond her eyes, as they tell me that she's no harm to me, or anyone really. "I'm not sure what's bothering you, but you should cheer up. Me granddaughter's here for her first time, and she'll not be too happy if it rains just yet." She sounds as if she's not used to speaking with that accent, like she's dumbing it down for me to understand her—something she has some practice with, but not much. Sure enough, behind the fold of her gown, I see a little blonde girl leering at me warily—she couldn't be more than three years old.

"Sorry," I mumble, too embarrassed to say much more.

"No need fer that nue, dearie. Did'ya need to get it off yer chest? Can't be good fer sum-un as pre'y as you ta be so sed on such a lovely day." I can't really say I even understand half of what she said—and this time my lack of caring what someone said isn't responsible. Could be why she was talking in such a forced accent up until now.

"I'm fine, really," I lie easily. Lots of practice, I suppose. I even smile at her to set her at ease.

"Well a'right, if yer shore?" I can tell she isn't fooled, but she knows she's crossed enough social boundaries already to press her luck further. I mumble something about the little girl not having to worry about it raining just yet, but I'm not entirely sure how truthful I'm being. So far this week, my mood's hovered between sad and depressed, so my expectations for today are pretty low.

It isn't a minute later that Ginny comes running out bragging about which flavour she got me. I offer as much of a smile as I can manage, knowing that she's doing all she can. It takes all the energy I have to try to keep up with her usual prattling about whatever she's excited about this time.

They both enjoy their ice creams, while I try my hardest to shovel mine in. At some point mum decides we've dawdled enough and I'm 'not' dragged to wherever it is that we need to go. Even with the shopping keeping her and mum busy, Ginny can't help but bubble on about something or another. As much as I love her, she's not my favourite person to have around me right now.

8-8


[The bookstore]

"There he is!" Ginny whispers. Or, she meant to whisper, but got too excited to hold it in. "It's Harry Potter!" So?

Ginny drags me into the bookstore where some boy with dark hair and glasses was taking a picture with some light haired show-off with a practiced smile. After I'm ditched, mum ushers me in the rest of the way, saying something about getting the books we'll be needing. I don't say anything, mostly because I'm too busy wondering why Ginny thinks I haven't figured out she's got a crush on the Potter boy.

I hover around some of the booklets I'm used to picking up here, hating being in a crowd more than ever seeing as this place is so full that there's barely room left for the books. It isn't long before Ginny gets into trouble. She's holding a stack of books that I'm guessing the Potter boy just gave her, all the while staring daggers into…some blond boy. What is it with her and boys today?

"Potter, you've got yourself a girlfriend!" Ordinarily I wouldn't even bother with a scene like this—two boys fighting via words to show who's the 'bigger man', not worth the time. However, seeing Ginny suddenly shy? Seeing the embarrassment play out across her face as some aristocrat's pampered prick of a son lord over her? Hearing sling after sling about their 'standing in the wizarding world'?

I suddenly find myself in front of the blond boy, my eyes hard and my will sharp. "Name," I demand.

"What's this? Two girlfriends? I guess one just isn't—"

"When a Scribe demands your name, you give it," I cut him off. I relish in the cold lump of fear that sticks in the back of his throat. "I won't repeat myself."

"D-Draco." He manages. "Draco Malfoy." He says his family name with more pride than his given name; he's been teased for his name in the past.

"Hm. Son of a wealthy aristocrat, successor to a long line of an ancient and noble house. Your heritage ill suits you," I tell him. I'm not really reading into him, I've not be blessed with the gift, but he doesn't need to know that. "Beware, your arrogance may well cause your house to fall."

"Draco? Who have we here?" a much taller person wonders, gently shoving the blond out of the way. He looks to me, his eyes calculating something he thinks might be beneficial to him. Oh, don't worry, I'm well-versed in my family's traditions. You'll be getting nothing out of me you'll enjoy. "Ah, a young Scribe. How—"

"Lucius Malfoy. Deatheater," I interrupt him. No, I'm not reading into him either. Papa just mentions him from time to time and I can add up the odds. Seeing as a Scribe's word weighs heavily, even in courts, I doubt he'll test me further. And sure enough, he mutters something about it 'being that time already' and they are quickly leaving. Male pride, something I'll never understand.

"If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times." Mum is getting ready to have a 'talking-to'. She tends to monologue a lot when she's upset, so no one calls what she does 'a conversation'. "That's why you should always put a Scribe with a Weasley. You kids know how to find trouble, just like your father." Huh? When I get a talking-to, it's never this…to the point.

"Ah, Delia, there you are. Had fun shopping?" Mr Weasley shows up out of thin air. I'm mostly ignoring the scene now, trying to gauge Ginny's emotional state. She's mostly just checking how the Potter boy is reacting and is glad that whatever happened is over. Okay, crisis handled.

"Arthur, please, we're not even halfway there. We still haven't gotten to Ollivanders as yet, and we still need to get to Madam Malkin's. Let alone the Menagerie!" I hold back a sigh. "Come along now, we've got plenty to do!"

I'm more than happy to lunk my bag along. I really just hate crowds.

8-8


[Shopping for trouble]

"Now, I know that we're all having lots of fun," mum comments. If she's not being sarcastic, she's not being truthful—I've hated the whole trip. She leads us to a slightly more out of the way table and we sit down. A waitress comes and takes our order. Mum just orders tea for three with something to go with it—this isn't a social stop to her. "But I think now's the best time to get this out of the way." And there's the reason I've hated it.

"Mum, I—" I'm immediately silenced with a stern glare.

"Now, I've heard everything Ginny's had to say on the matter. Before I commit to anything, I need to know more." I hear her every word, but my eyes are glued to my robes. I always enjoy wearing my wizards robes more than muggle clothes, because they are (mostly) genderless—especially in 'underage' fashion. You could see a thousand different wizards and witches wearing exactly the same thing, just in different colours. I love that. I love my gender neutral, burgundy robes that give no hint whatsoever as to my gender—the very robes mum hates seeing me in.

"I need you to tell me how deep this goes. I need to understand what you want." She's doing it again. She's begging me to open up to her, to trust her. I hug myself, hoping I don't end up crying.

"There you go." The waitress places the tea on the table, but one look at me and she's suddenly in no rush to leave. She walks around and stops right next to me. "Hey. What's your name?"

I look away, hating that I let a tear slip. Hopefully my hat blocked that from the woman's view. Ginny nudges me to get some kind of response. "Her name's Sarah," she supplies (un)helpfully.

"Well, Sarah, I'll make you a deal…If you can smile, even a little for me, I've got a box of chocolates with your name on it. Mind you, it's not a very big box, but it'd be on the house." When even that gets no reaction out of me, she's quick to add. "What's your favourite flavour? We've milk, white, pure…even have some of the fancier ones. You know the ones with cherries in them? Or pralines? They're good, trust me. But those would need a REALLY big smile."

"Come on, Sarah. You know you want pralines. They're your favourite!" Ginny's all too happy to relay more information. I understand what they're doing, and I mostly appreciate it. But looking at Mum…not being able to read her, not knowing how she's taking this…it's killing me.

"It's impolite to ignore someone when they're talking to you," mum chimes in, her tone crisp and—to me at least—unreadable. I…I scarcely know what to say. I would normally enjoy any chocolate I could get my hands on, but…what's the point? The joy of chocolate only delays the harms of the world. It's fleeting, impermanent; unlike this mask I've borne these long years.

I collect myself as best I can, taking what little energy I don't have and straighten my spine enough to confront the situation I didn't want in the first place. "Thank you, no." The waitress seems unsure of herself now, almost as if the sad little girl she thought she'd seen vanished before her very eyes. I'm almost tempted to tell her how well I understand her confusion, but I haven't the will or the energy to spare.

"Sarah!" Ginny complains the moment the waitress leaves. Only, I can no longer bring myself to care.

8-8


[The plan no one needs to know about]

I can't even remember what happened yesterday, after that waitress left. I…must have blocked it out? I can't say. It's just…blank, like it never happened. I know that when I woke up this morning, I didn't want to get out of bed. And I didn't. I don't know what time it is, nor do I care.

Normally mum would have barged in by now. I can't say how I feel about that not happening, but it's obvious now that there's no way I'll ever be accepted, not as I truly am. I'll never be 'Sarah'.

Never.

That one word weighs on me, on my mind and heart. I'll never be happy. I can never be the girl I know myself to be.

And what's worse, I'll hit puberty soon. I've heard all the stories from my brothers. The hair growing everywhere—what, with our Irish ancestry and all. The deepening voice. The beard growth. Waking up every morning with…that THING announcing itself! That betrayer being up and kicking every single morning for the rest of my life? Gemima likes teasing them about it every chance she gets—calling it their 'raising the Irish flag'.

I can almost hear her teasing me the first time it happens to me, the witty comment that she'll come up with at the drop of a hat. Then there's my brothers telling me 'welcome to the club'. Papa'll ask me if I need a hand with shaving, thinking he's helping when I already know it won't help at all.

I don't want that. Any of it!

I…I want to be pretty. I want mum to sit me down when I get my first period—me being scared out of my wits and her being all calm—like Luna when she spent the weekend with Ginny. Mrs Weasley sat the three of us down and explained exactly what girls go through. I want to go shopping for my first bra, like Ginny did last month. I want to gossip with Gemima during dinner. I want…

It doesn't matter what I want. It'll never happen. Never.

Never.

Well you know what? Fine. It'll never happen. I'll never live that life. So what would I need to have a perfect day? I mean, if the perfect life is not an option, let me at least have one day. It's not too much to ask, right?

Hmm. I'd want to spend most of it with Ginny and Luna. Maybe let them give me a makeover? Luna's been begging me to let her do my nails, right? I'm sure I can ask her to put some makeup on me too? Then maybe we can go into town and get some ice cream? Yeah, but it'll have to be in Ginny or Luna's clothes. I'm not allowed to wear my robes, and I'm not wearing boy's clothes on my perfect day! I'll have to ask Luna about that—Ginny knows me well enough to automatically sniff out what I'm thinking.

I know that Luna's coming to spend the weekend by Ginny again…that's two days away. I'll just write Luna a letter about my plans—or just the parts I want her to help me with—and I just have to manage two more days. I can deal with that.

Just two more days.

8-8


[Insightful?]

"SEAN! LUNA SENT YOU A LETTER!" Gemima calls out from downstairs. Good, if Gemima checked the mail, then I won't even have to get out of bed to know what Luna wrote. "SHE SAID SHE'D LOVE TO! And hello Gemima? SEAN, YOU DIDN'T TELL HER THAT I READ YOUR MAIL DID YOU?!" I can't help but wonder why she bothers to shout, I can hear her booming voice just fine when she talks normally. It occurred to me some time ago that the only times she's quiet at all, is when she's gossiping with Mum at the table.

But good. Now I just need to get through today. Tomorrow…tomorrow's my perfect day. Tomorrow I can be happy. Tomorrow…tomorrow will be different.

Tomorrow won't be like today.

8-8


[Breakfast for two]

I hear Papa's alarm going off, like I do every morning. Normally I'd listen to him shuffling about for an hour before he leaves for work, but not today. I jump out of bed, happier than I can remember being in a long time. Today's the day, my perfect day.

I run down the hallway and merrily rush down the stairs. I kiss Papa on the cheek as I blitz past him and into the kitchen ahead of him—even though I have to jump as high as I can to reach his cheek, and even then I need to tug on his shoulder for some extra leverage. "Someone's energetic this morning," he mumbles. He's never really been a morning person, which begs the question: why does he wake up every morning at five AM? Not worth analysing. Not today.

It takes me little more than a minute to put on Papa's coffee, and not a minute more to find the ingredients I want to make my own waffles. Fresh waffles, not the pre-packaged ones Mum likes warming up and pretending she made herself.

"Wow. I don't even have to make my own coffee." Papa mumbles, plopping onto his favoured chair. A year ago, this would have been a familiar scene. I always used to wake up and make his coffee, I would even try my best to make something he'd enjoy eating for breakfast. He never once even asked why I stopped doing…No. Happy thoughts! This is my perfect day. I'm not letting mood dampeners get in the way, not today.

I open the cupboard as quietly as I can, knowing that others will get curious why Papa is willing to make something warm this early. It's kind of a well-known fact that he doesn't really wake up until well after nine—whether he's walking around before then is irrelevant. It takes me a bit longer than it otherwise would have, but I find the waffle iron I need and notice that there's a layer of grime on it—just that much more proof that Mum hasn't made real waffles in a long while.

It takes a bit of effort, but I clean the holiest of holies in no time at all, and just in time to hear the coffee machine choking on the last of its water—a sign that the coffee is pretty much done. Jumping up onto the counter, I land on my bum so that my hands are free to open one of the higher cupboards and grab Papa's favourite mug. I know he's too tired to care which mug he drinks out of, but this is the mug I've always grabbed for him.

Three spoonfuls of sugar and some cream later, I'm stirring Papa's cup o' magic as I walk towards him. "Don't worry. It's nothing a mugful can't cure." I tell him as he yawns mightily. He humphs, but doesn't disagree with me. I gently clank the mug on the table in front of him, hugging his arm and kissing his cheek on more time. It's almost enough to remind me of happier times.

"Don't worry, there's more where that came from. And I'm making us some waffles. Just don't make too much noise and no one'll even notice." I whisper.

I can hear him grab his mug – the spoon tinkles around as he takes it too his lips. One, two, three gentle slurps he takes. "That way we won't have to share?" He wonders aloud. There's a sense of nostalgia in his tone, he's remembering all those early mornings with just the two of us.

I nod, squeezing his arm one last time. Hurrying into the kitchen, I'm careful to reread the recipe for Nana's homemade waffles – it's been quite a while for me. It takes me a bit of calculation, but I once again reduce the ingredients to the lowest numbers I can. Once again, I can't help but notice that Nana always wrote down everything with the amount of ingredients for a family of fifty. But then, she'd had six boys to rear up, and if my brothers (and indeed the brothers Weasley) are any indication I can assume that my uncles and Papa were bottomless pits that needed filling at least three times a day.

"Mmm! That smells divine!" I hear Papa compliment me, or my waffles at least. I don't respond though. I'm too busy washing the dishes I no longer need – that way Mum won't have to complain about the mess I leave behind. Or…well, this mess at least.

It takes almost fifteen minutes, but I bring the first waffles on a plate to the table. I'll let Papa have this pair, so that he can still have enough time to enjoy his meal and get ready without being late. "Eat up. I've already got another batch on the way." I place the plate in front of him, offering my brightest smile – a genuine one.

He smiles at me. That smile that he reserves just for me. I can't help but be happy in this moment. This perfect moment. This moment that lets me forget about everything that's been bogging me down. "Think you can wait long enough for me to get the syrup?" I tease him. He slurps at his coffee again; the only response he'd give to questions like that. I dash for the tall cupboard, where Mum likes hiding all the sweet stuff that Papa enjoys. She likes hiding the things he likes in places with items that he doesn't like, just to make it harder for him to find.

As I reach back to the table, a bottle of apple syrup richer, I notice Papa studying me. At a glance I can tell that his mug's empty, so I trade the half-full bottle of syrup for the empty mug and make a beeline back to the counter to refill.

For reasons I'm not likely to ever understand, Papa likes his second mug of java to be less sweet than the first. With that in mind, I only put two spoonfuls of sugar and slightly more milk. When I make it back to the table this time, I see the first waffle is missing – only a few crumbs and some streaks of syrup remain to prove the waffle was there to begin with.

I smile at him again, gently clanking the mug onto its rightful place – to the right of his plate, of course. "Mm mm mmmm!" I hear him trying to compliment the chef, but he's enjoying his meal too much to waste precious time on idle banter. He slurps at his mug again, happy to wake up this early.

As I stand here, drinking in this moment, a pang of guilt wells up inside me. I shove it aside as easily as every other emotion I have no use for – successfully, but not entirely so. Ooh! I better not let the waffles burn!

8-8


[Not fond of farewells]

A half hour later, Papa is all but ready to go to work. He's dressed smartly in his suit, his overcoat poofing out in all directions. Though I dislike the drab grey he'd chosen, I always did enjoy seeing him in his suit.

We're at the fireplace and Papa's just about ready to grab some floo powder, but we both know he won't until he's given me a proper hug. Without warning – as per the norm – he spins around and grabs me, squeezing me in a bear hug. I'd always complained about how strongly he hugs me, but I'll allow this one time. So I wrap my arms around his neck and squeeze gently. Eventually, his hug loses its usual vigour, but he keeps hugging me none the less. He tries to tease a reaction out of me once again by blowing a raspberry on my neck. I giggle a little – it tickles!

"I love you, Papa." I whisper, hoping to not choke on the frog in my throat. I'd never been fond of goodbyes.

I think on some level, Papa understands what's going on. It takes him a long moment to mumble that he loves me too. His voice is thick with emotion and crackles in places, but I know without a doubt that he's being entirely truthful.

All too soon, the time arrives. Papa needs to leave, or he'll be late to work. He grabs a fistful of floo powder and intones his daily grind: "Ministry of Magic." I mouth that I love him one last time and he smiles as he tosses the powder onto the floor around him, disappearing in a blaze of bright, neon green flames. I can see an afterimage of him, still smiling at me.

I wipe away the annoying moisture spilling down my cheeks. This isn't the time for tears, this is a happy day. A perfect day. My one perfect day.

I'd better hop into the shower, or I'll be late to bug Luna and Ginny just as they're waking up.

8-8


[The makeover]

"I donno, Ginny. I think violet suits her." I have no idea what makes Luna think violet is a good colour for my eye shadow, but either girl has more experience than I with makeup. I feel something dabbed onto my eyelid, it almost hurts each time but it's bearable. "See, any purple would work well with her green eyes."

I feel the same soft dabbing on my other eyelid. I'm half tempted to open my eyes to see what's going on, but I think I'll end up getting something poked in my eye for it.

It's another ten minutes of Ginny and Luna arguing about something or other, before Ginny demands that I open my eyes and look. I guess I'd just been dragged in front of her mirror, otherwise my opening my eyes wouldn't help anyone very much.

With little reverence, I fling my eyes open. Only… "Whoa…" The girl staring back at me… "Is that really me?"

My hair is brushed to perfection – Luna's doing, judging from the part placed near my right temple. My lips are shining from the lip gloss – raspberry, not watermelon, so that's definitely Ginny's pick. I actually heard Luna picking the violet eye shadow, and she was right! Violet somehow brings out the colour of my eyes more. My eyelashes somehow seem neater, and I'll venture a guess that there's some mascara as well. I also seem to be blushing for some reason, though I can tell that I'm not really doing that at all. I'll just assume they put something on my cheeks.

I look beautiful.

"Now we just need to get you dressed, and we can go get some ice cream!" Ginny's enthusiasm…she's always been the strongest of us. "Come on! Try this on already!" She tosses something at me – one of her own jeans, I think. I know better than to argue with her when she's like this.

8-8


[Just the girls]

Sometime around two…maybe half passed two…we finally start making our way down the Weasley's dirt driveway. It's an almost fifteen minute walk to town, and probably another five minutes to the ice cream shop, but walking with my two best friends makes it much more bearable.

Luna keeps making weird comments about…nargles? Moon frogs? I forget which one. "I'm almost afraid to ask, but what exactly are nargles?" Oh yes, Ginny went there. I tune out the irrelevant answer – it'll no doubt be along the lines of some new creature she believes exists capable of doing things she believes it can do, purely because her father had once told her 'imagine any kind of creature at all, and it's out there waiting for you to discover it'.

"And wrackspurts?" Is Ginny just bored? She must be to ask for the back-story on not one, but two creatures she knows does not exist. I smile and shake my head, wondering how I ended up with these two in the first place—being born and raised in the same town or no.

When we eventually make it to the parlour, I'm still fighting to stifle the remnants of a hot blush. I've had at least six middle school boys hit on me en route, though I can't say for sure if they were just being really, REALLY nice to me.

"Well, well, well. A ginger, blond and a brunette walk in at once. What can I offer you lovely ladies?" The boy behind the counter asks. His accent makes me think he's from London. So what's he doing way out here in the middle of nowhere? I'm too unused to talking to people I don't know well, so I let Ginny do all the talking – letting Luna talk to new people is generally a bad idea.

Ginny orders something, though I'm not sure what. We split the bill evenly between us, though it takes Luna a few tries to count the muggle money—I just gave him one of the bigger coins, which was apparently more than enough. After that, we take one of the tables outside and enjoy the 'two weeks of summer'. It's England, so you know we're pretty much expecting horrid weather half the time—mostly because we're usually surprised by it the other half.

I surprise myself, and the others, by happily enjoying my treat. I'm surprised, because I've eaten more today than I have in the last two weeks. Ginny and Luna seem surprised because I'm not being reminded every other second that I should eat my ice cream before it messes up my clothes – something that has probably never happened.

Once we reapply our lip gloss, and Luna finishes explaining why she thinks muggle money is 'really just too odd to be real', we head for the shopping street. Ginny starts asking Luna what she thinks about pretty much everything we see – I get the giggles each and every time. Eventually Luna starts asking me why I'm giggling, but that just makes me laugh more.

I'm not really sure at what point we (Ginny) decided to head back, but we're almost to her driveway. So far, the day has been absolutely and irrevocably perfect down to the finest detail. I should have known it wasn't meant to last. "You seem to be enjoying yourself a little too much today. Are you sure you're not just suicidal?" Luna's tendency to say exactly what she thinks – social expectations be damned – makes a mess of things.

"Why would you even think that?" Ginny jumps to my defence, luckily not even looking at me. I'm sure that I'm sporting a 'deer in the headlights' look right about now.

"Well, I've read that people who are depressed for long periods of time don't suddenly snap out of it. Usually, if they are unexplainably happy in that situation, it's because they've already picked a day and time to die. Usually within twenty-four hours." Luna explains simply. "And judging from the guilty look on her face, I'm almost certain I'm right."

"S…S-Sarah?" Ginny's in tears. She simply doesn't have Luna's emotional detachment from things. Not giving her half a chance to ruin my perfect day, I hug her. As well as I know her, I can easily predict how this will turn out: she'll be running for her mum in less than a minute, so I have until then to say what needs saying.

"I couldn't have asked for a better or more loyal friend. Thank you, Ginevra Weasley." I whisper into her ear. She's emotional now, grabbing my blouse (well, technically her blouse) and crying with abandon. Now comes the part that needed saying last, but couldn't go unsaid. The promise we made to each other when we were barely old enough to understand why the stars would only come out at night. The promise that has bound us together in a way that even blood could not: "I'll always love you."

Ginny goes stiff in my arms. Her brain is rebooting, and slowly she's coming up with a (simple and barely thought out) plan. She knows she can't stop me by herself, but she also knows someone who can: her mum. She runs off crying, "MUM!" at the top of her lungs and clearly distressed. My heart aches for her.

I hug Luna next, knowing that time is now of the essence. "I love you too, Luna. And I know you'll stand by her side the whole time, Luna. Please, don't either of you grieve for too long."

"You don't have to do this, you know. There's always another way," Luna tries. It's almost easy to remember how overly emotional she was before her mum died—I'm not sure she ever truly got over that.

"No, there isn't." My voice crackles for the first time today; still I know she can hear the finality in my words. "You better go check on Ginny. I'll need you to not see where I'm going." I tell her plainly. My logic makes perfect sense to her and she doesn't think to question it. The moment her back is turned, I start my trek to the one place no one will think to look just yet...

8-8


[Free]

My perfect day. It wouldn't be complete without coming here, the watering hole. It's not a very imaginative name, I'm afraid... but it's what Papa calls it. It's our secret place – where he'd always take me when the world was starting to get under my skin. It's on the west side of the forest, and quite a long walk... but I manage just fine without being seen.

I take a long moment, letting myself be sentimental about all the times I've come here. All those many, many times. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't been here less than twice a month. Papa would always smell out my mood, and if he had the time and the energy he'd ask if I needed to get away from the world for a while. This is the place he'd take me.

The time Ginny and I got into a fight – I don't even remember what about. When I gave Ron a black eye for calling me a poof – so what if I'd been staring at his arse at the time? When Luna innocently opined that she didn't understand why my parents couldn't see that I was really a girl... that one was hard to explain, seeing as Papa always asked what had me so worked up.

Yes, the place I need to be right now... is the place I'd always go when the world gets under my skin. And the world has indeed gotten under my skin. I idly walk up to the edge and sit down like I've always done. My feet dangle in the free air, as I stare at the fifty foot drop before me. 'Watering hole'... there isn't a drop of water in sight for miles. It's really just an old quarry that was used before some muggle war broke out fifty years ago.

Wow. I'm really full of it. Here I am, waiting for the right moment to 'take the dive', and I'm thinking about the irony in Papa's choice of naming that place. Well, no time like the present, right?

Agreeing with my own logic, I push off from the rock I was sitting on. The wind whistles past my ears and my eyes water – if that's an emotional response, I'm not sure. What I am sure of, is that I've never quite been this free, not like I've been feeling all day.

Free to wear Ginny's clothes. Free to wear makeup. Free to ogle the boys I see on the street. Free to be like every other girl. And now, the ultimate freedom – flying.

I won't bother wasting my final moments in fear of the landing. No, it's the fearlessness of flying that occupies my whole world. If reincarnation is a thing... then I want to come back as a bird. I'd like that.

The ground is almost upon me. So I close my eyes, letting the tides of fate do with me as they will. And my final thought before the darkness claims me... 'Papa, Mum... I love you.'

8-8

End of First Reading

8-8


A/N: Let's get this out of the way quickly. Gender identity and Sexual/Romantic attraction do not go hand in hand. Not all gay males desire to be female and not all that desire to be female are attracted to males. Sorry, that had to be said.

I really wanted to write something like this for a while, but every time I decide against it, purely because of the 'politically incorrectness' of much of what this will demand I write about. Sorry, no longer care. Don't like, don't read.