A/N: I felt like writing a story that was parallel to my life, and how I view the world…I know it doesn't sound like the most terrific idea, but I think this is how I'm going to get back into the habit of writing, so I'm starting with what I know best=). I'm not asking you to love it, just read it? And review perhaps? Please??
I'm relating this to Harry Potter, because once I thought about it, I realized this would make a cool AU fic…hopefully. And to be perfectly honest, I'm not creative enough to come up with characters of my own…So anything you recognize as Harry Potter, is obviously J.K. Rowling's, and not mine.
I never considered myself special, or out of the ordinary. I was perfectly ordinary, and was mildly content with how my life was going. The truth was, I was a plain, un-magical, imperfect, melodramatic fifteen year old who, just as the name of my grade stated, was extremely sophomoric. No one could convince me that I was still immature, and had a long way to go before I reached a level of complete maturity, and I didn't have enough sense to realize that I should've been basking in my years of youth and adolescence, instead of denying how young and naïve I truly was.
I walked around my ordinary high school with my head held high, and my ego inflated. No one could talk any sense into me, not even my parents. That is, until they died.
I can still remember that day clearly. I was a bit of a day-dreamer, you see, and worried that every time the phone rang at a random time during the school day, that it was to call me down to the office, or the nurse, to tell me my parents had passed and I was doomed to whatever they left behind for me. Of course, by the time I reached high school, I learned to ignore those stupid day-dreams…or more like day-mares…
Anyway, I was sitting in the middle of my favorite class of the whole day, Art. I excelled in this class, and had an excellent relationship with the teacher, whom I had had for two years already. He was one of the few adults that really gave me some sort of clue as to how young I actually was at this time, my parents' right there with him. As soon as he called my name to go down and see the principal, I realized something was horrible wrong. Just the way he looked at me, like he might never seem me again, and had no idea what awaited me outside of his door, scared me to death.
The look my principal gave me wasn't much better. This one was one of pity, which I detested earnestly. I've never wanted to be pitied, no matter how pitiful my situation was, or how much I even pitied myself. I can't exactly remember how he phrased the information he gave me; all I know is that he didn't even bother asking me to follow him to his office, he let me know my parents were dead right there amongst the teachers' mailboxes, and the secretaries typing away. I realized that if my mom were still alive, and I told her that he was careless enough as to tell me something this important and this private in front of a number of people, that she would be very angry. However, my train of thought didn't have time to dwell on that; I was too preoccupied jumping to conclusions. Conclusions like, how they died, and who I would be living with…I had no relatives in this country, and no siblings to even look after. I was all alone, and I immediately felt angry that they could both abandon me like this, how could they just leave me like this? It wasn't right, and with a jolt, I realized how selfish that thought was. They couldn't do anything about their deaths, unless they committed suicide, obviously.
It was only sixth period when I found out; the very middle of my day. If everything went as a normal Tuesday should have gone, I would've went from art to AP European History, to English. And after school, I had swim practice, and maybe I'd get lucky and see Matt at the pool (I'll explain later). But instead, I was whisked away to the house I'd previously shared with my parents, escorted by my guidance counselor. How odd, I was told to get my things and say my final goodbyes to the only home I'd ever had. All in front of an authority figure, whom I'd never in my wildest dreams, be able to place in my house.
Nonetheless, I managed to walk through my front door, and even made it past the living room before breaking down. I lost it, however, when I saw for about the millionth time, a frame holding three pictures depicting my parents and I in each one. The first was from my best friend's bat mitzvah. My mom, embarrassing both my father and myself, had gotten up in the middle of the father-daughter dance just to take the picture. In it, we were both beaming, busting at the sides with laughter…at how ridiculous the situation was. Neither of us was ever very sentimental, or touchy-feely. The first and last thing we had in common. The second, I took while on vacation one summer. It was of my mother and father, sitting on a bench at the beach, and the lighting was absolutely beautiful. We had gone down to the bay to watch the sunset, and with the orangey-pink light to my back, I had turned to face my parents and take a snapshot of the two. They smiled serenely back at me as I stood, shaking from grief, in the middle of our hallway. And lastly, the most recent picture was a picture from Christmas. We had hosted a huge party for my whole family; cousins and aunts and uncles came from both my mother and father's side (luckily they were all very close…my parents had grown up together). They came from far and wide, all from countries other than ours, to spend the holidays. I don't know how we did it, but we managed to all gather before the tree, sparkling and adorned with ornaments from my childhood, and the beautiful stylish ones my mother bought from a local department store. Every single person in the picture was pink-cheeked and absolutely radiant, enjoying the happy time spent together. I would give anything to go back to that day; because right then, I had no other happy memory to hold onto except for that one, and it was the only thing giving me comfort at that moment.
With my guidance counselor watching, I set out to pack a few bags of the most valuable belongings to bring along with me. I dumped all of my books out of my backpack, and took a duffel bag I used during the lacrosse season to pack everything that I needed. I began to feel frantic, as I surveyed my room, and started to consider what I wanted to take along with me, where ever I was to go. In my mind, family photos and legal documents were at the very top of my list, and luckily my mother was a very organized person. I nearly jogged around my house, first to the desk in my parents' bedroom where I gathered documents such as my birth certificate, working papers, etc. Then, I headed to our basement, where I swiftly located a huge cardboard box full of family photos. This was where I was most concerned about time. I couldn't take them all with me, and I had no idea if I was ever able to come back. I obviously wanted to keep the photographs that I left behind safe, so I also dumped out a box of old Barbie dolls that was plastic and air-tight, and fit the cardboard box easily inside. I carried both back to my bedroom, where I double-checked that the lid was on nice and snug, and put it into the back of my closet. I already knew the photos I wanted to take with me.
Turning away from my closet, I went into the hallway once again and took the frame with the three precious family photos in it, took off the back and put the pictures into a little photo album I kept in my room. It already had some of my favorite pictures depicting happy family, and friends in various stages of life. I had even managed to hoard away a few old pictures of my parents as teenagers, as well as my grandparents. I left my room and headed to the living room, my album in hand. Quickly, I took all the pictures my mother had framed neatly on our mantelpiece, and put them in that stupid purple album of mine. There were a few pictures from when I was little, which I didn't care too much about, but also my parents' wedding photo, a picture of the three of us the day I came home from the hospital, and a couple from various birthdays with relatives all currently living far away.
Walking back into my room, feeling a bit relieved that I had already gotten the two things I thought I needed the most; I decided to add clothing to those bags. I opened the drawers in my dresser with a second thought, and pulled out two pairs of favorite jeans, a couple of comfortable band t-shirts, socks, underwear, and from my closet, I threw in a sweatshirt, grabbed a dress, and a pair of pants and shirt that I would consider wearing to a funeral. With a bit of anxiety, I wondered whether I was even going to be able to attend my parents' funeral, or if they were going to have one? Who was supposed to organize all that mess, and who was going to tell the rest of our family? At this point, I still wasn't sure how they'd died, either. Without any parents in my life, I was already lost, and it had only been about an hour or so since they'd been completely absent from it.
I started going through a checklist in my head. Birth certificate: check, passport: check, pictures: check, clothes: check. What else would I need in the unknown and dismal future ahead of me? I decided to throw in a few of my favorite books, I had enough. So into my backpack, I put all of Jane Austen's works that I owned, a few of Charles Dickens' books, Black Beauty, and The Secret Garden. Oh, and as an afterthought, Jane Eyre as well as Wuthering Heights. Next, I shoved my diary into my half-empty backpack, and a huge binder I wrote various poems and stories in. I had never considered myself an outstanding writer, but I was getting better at it. Luckily, as I put that binder into my backpack, I remembered my memory box. I kept old pictures as well as movie ticket stubs, play bills, old tests, awards, and anything else random that brought back memories for me. That went into my backpack, and I sat on my bed afterwards, at a loss as to what else to bring. My duffel bag wasn't nearing full, and my backpack definitely was now.
"What else, what else," I was muttering to myself, as my guidance counselor appeared awkwardly in my doorway.
"Let's hurry up; we have a limited amount of time here." I almost laughed out loud, thinking that if someone else, possibly Gandalf had said that, it would seem much more ominous than if Mrs. Rosert had. I wrote a mental note to myself to consider writing about that in my diary later. If I had the chance later, gosh I hated not knowing what was going to happen to me within the next week, let alone the next hour.
I looked down to the end of my bed, and stuffed a beloved teddy bear into the duffel bag, and noticed that there was still room. I was already wearing my sneakers, so I was set with shoes; if I had worn my ballet flats to school that day, I definitely would've changed into my converse, just because I had a suspicion that I would be walking, or possibly even running, a bit. With a frantic glance at Mrs. Rosert's neck, I remembered my mother's jewelry. That was something I definitely wanted to keep near to me, and I ran into her room once more, and thanked her that she kept everything so neat! All of her jewelry was contained in the same box, which would easily fit into my duffel bag. Passing through my doorway, I knocked my sketchpad off of its shelf. Man, how odd that things were practically throwing themselves at me, just begging to be taken along. I packed the sketch pad along with a box of charcoals, pencils, and oil pastels into my now bulging backpack, and the jewelry box went into the duffel bag. I spun around my room one last time, grabbed my bags, and shot a longing look at my lacrosse stick. Who knew where I was going, and how long it would be until I was able to play again. I would buy a new one if I had to, and that's when I remembered my savings box. So I dashed to my dresser once again, and shoved all the money I'd saved for the last couple of years into the front pocket of my backpack. On the back of my door on the way out, was a still wet bathing suit. I shot a guilty glance its way, as I realized that it would probably be quite awhile until I swam again as well.
"Let's go, Miss Toal." I wanted to start crying once again, only from frustration this time.
"But where? Where must we be off to?" Okay, so that was a little formal, and I felt a little stupid after saying it, but I didn't care. I wanted information, and I wanted it now.
"Back to school, of course, we have to return your textbooks." I really wanted to scream at something, maybe even get violent. And I wasn't a violent person, but I guess you'll have to take my word on that one.
"Why 'of course'? And where am I going after that?" My question wasn't answered of course, because Mrs. Rosert's phone rang just then.
"That was the principal. He wants us back to the school right now." So I followed her, grudgingly, down the hall and into the entryway. At that moment, I felt like a prisoner, because no one would tell me what happened, and I wasn't getting any information as to where I was going. Of course, that led me to think about my 'one phone call'. Because if I really was a prisoner, I wanted to let someone know what was happening, hopefully so they could help me. I'm not even sure if my guidance counselor realized that I deftly opened the drawer in a bureau we had just before the front door and took out our phone book or not, but if she did, then she definitely didn't realize what I meant to do with it. One way or another, I was going to get out of this unfortunate circumstance; I was going to have some say in what happened to me.
A/N: Okay so it's not too obvious what's happening here, but I just want you guys to know that very very soon, this will all be linked to Harry Potter…but beyond that, I have no clue where this story is going. However, I do not intend to bring it all the way to the end of the story, where Lily and James are killed, because I don't want to write about something everyone already thoroughly knows about. That ending is always implied whenever a story about the marauder's time is written, anyway. I hope you like it!! Please review, I want some feedback!!!!