There's nothing like waking up in the morning to your mothers screams, rain pounding on the roof, and your father cursing the boy who lived is there? Welcome to the war age, where no one is to be trusted, and there's danger around every corner.
For the first few seconds after the noises crash-bang into my ears, I lay there, in my bed, damp with sweat, breathing heavily. I reached over to my shiny bedside cabinet for my asthma inhaler. Who ever thought of an asthmatic witch exactly? Mother said she won't cure it until I'm sixteen, because it's dangerous. I think she just wants to see me suffer some more. After sitting up and regaining control of my respiratory system, I tuned myself in to the noises around me. It's not like this was unusual occurence. Had we not had a reputation to uphold, I was fairly sure that the two would have divorced long ago. When I was younger, I used to sit on my bed, head on knees, hands covering my ears, sobbing, until long after they stopped fighting. When I was nine, I left that job to my brother, and instead, the emptyness fought its way inside of me, rendering me numb and useless, and it stayed. Now that I'm fourteen, and have long since grown used to my mothers screams, and my fathers filthy language unfit for the ears of a minor, I just block it out. Switch on the wireless, do some work, write letters and send them with Mia, my snowy owl. Whatever. Today, I simply burrow under the covers ad take myself away to my happy place. That's what the healers at St. Mungos said to do when I felt one of my fits coming on. I suppose I inherit those from my father, the fits of rage. Not that I inherit much else from them. Sometimes I like to daydream that I'm adopted. I once said that to my mother, and she hit me. That's the only time she's ever touched me. I still have nightmares about it.
"Mary," I spoke into the darkness, hoping for the familiar, if sniffly, presence of our house elf.
"Mistress?" There was a loud crack and I peeked out from underneath the covers to see the tiny, pathetic elf sniffing on the carpet, her large eyes watering, as they often do.
"Why are they fighting?" I asked.
"Mistress Lyra is angry. Master Perseus has been doing secret business. Mary did not hear much, Mistress Ginevra, Mary is sorry," Mary quivered a little.
"That's alright, Mary. Would you mind bringing me some breakfast? Toast would be nice," I managed a weak smile.
So father had been doing 'secret business' again. That would be the third night that fortnight. I know what my mother thought, and if I am honest, I couldn't help thinking that too. We are Malfoys. We are expected to serve the dark Lord. And with his return, all of his old followers have been called upon again. Which means my father. Even though my mother made him promise not to ever go back to that life.
"My brother and I have a duty, Lyra!" I could hear snippets of their rapidly escalating shouting match. "Lucius... duty... will not divulge private information... Ginevra..." hearing my name bought me crashing back down to earth. They had never discussed me before, at least, not loudly.
I stood up, decidig they were probably arguing over who would get custody of me if there was a divorce or something. The huge mirror with the golden edge shone directly in front of me, reflecting my huge room. I stepped into its view, and studied my form. My hair was long and auburn, but lacked shine, turned brittle through lack of sunlight.
My skin was paper pale, and looked almost trasparent, so that if someone looked closely enough, and for a long enough time, they would be able to see through my skin, and watch my heart beating. My eyes; blue, and flecked with sea and sky and cornflower and midnight. My lips; crimson and chapped through lack of moisture and too much nibbling. I was skinny, as there were days when my mother said I didn't need food because I was too ill, although I felt fine. As I dressed, I prodded my ribs, which were rather too prominent for my liking, showing up against my white skin. I frowned, pulling on a white blouse and black pleated skirt. As I was brushing my hair, Mary appeared back, with a silver tray and four slices of toast, a silver knife, and silver bowls filled with two kinds of jam, and two kinds of marmalade. On the side was a tall glass of orange juice. I thanked Mary, and she cracked away to tidy our too big, too empty house, and I sighed, settling down at my cherry wood desk to eat.
Once I had eaten all four slices of toast, but left the crusts, I settled down to do some potions worl sheets. My father was against practical work, so I did all my work through theory. I had to work even when everyone else had a summer holiday, or a Christmas. I have never been to school.
"Ginevra?" My mother knocked at the door around eleven a.m. Normally she would send Mary to fetch me, or occasionally Nelly, the cook house elf.
"Come in," I looked up, wondering what she wanted.
"Ginevra," She entered the room, her eyes pink and damp, her dark hair ruffled but still quite neat. How curious, I thought, not for the first time, that a man with platinum blonde hair, and a woman with chocolate brown hair should create a child with hair like fire. "Your father and I have had a discussion." I raised my eyebrows at this.
"Concerning what?" I asked.
"Many things," my mother could not meet my eyes. "But," she took a deep breath, straightening my bed clothes absent mindedly, "in light of recent events," like the dark lord coming back, I thought silently, "I have decided that it's too dangerous to remain here, Ginevra." Too dangerous? I thought my father was on the dark side, so where was the danger?
"Where are we going then?" I asked, confused.
"I am staying here," finally she met my eyes, "you, however, will be attending school."
"School?" I burst out.
"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The headmaster has agreed to take you on as a fourth year. You will leave next month."