Prologue

I used to sit around in my room making my own newspapers. I'd color little ads and design layouts with my fat crayons from Christmas. I would write hard-cut articles about the cat that had gone missing in my neighborhood and pressing reviews of my grandmother's stellar cooking. And unlike what you might expect from a six-year-old, my newspapers were fabulous and to my parents, pure genius. My mother would line our walls with each one of them, and my father would spend each evening praising my work. So, it wasn't until I reached fourth grade that I received my first negative review.

Ms. Henson was by far the youngest teacher I'd ever had. Straight out of college with nothing to keep her job but a few teacher recommendations, I was not very impressed. I would sit in my little desk, firmly in the front left of the room, and scrutinize her teaching. She would stutter when she said the word "comma" and during literature, her speech was so littered with "um"s and "uh"s that anything she was saying that might (keyword: might) have been useful was completely incomprehensible. So, you'll understand why I didn't hold her opinion in much esteem when she said she had some "helpful tidbits" to share concerning my writing.

I had gone to her that morning to display my "above-level" writing skills and receive the praise that I was so accustomed to receiving, but instead she took one look at my first sentence and shook her head.

"Too easy."

I've always thought that that moment in time was my turning point: the small event that triggered my 9-year-old self to change my ways. In fact, I attribute nearly all of my success in life to one, Ms. Georgina P. Henson. So when I ran into her at the grocery store that friday, some thirteen years later, I couldn't help but take it as a sign.

I first saw her in the canned goods aisle, her shopping cart holding more cans of tomato soup than seemed possible to fit on the shelf where she was promptly grabbing yet another can. I do admit that I stood there staring at her for a few seconds as more and more cans were loaded into her cart. There was something different about her. She must have been in her mid-thirties. Her plain brown hair was much shorter than I remembered- must have been the "mom cut." I wondered if she was indeed a mother. She had gained weight since she was a young woman, newly freed from college. I debated approaching her. She would likely not even remember me, but something inside compelled me to tell her how much of a difference she made in my life.

"Excuse me." I cleared my throat. "Ms. Henson, my name is Lily Potter, but I think you might know me as Lily Evans. You were my fourth grade English teacher?" I hated the way my voice sounded when I approached this woman, the woman who I had deemed inferior at the young age of nine. The question in it, the lack of authority- the very things I've been trying to stop my entire life.

She narrowed her squinty eyes at me, clearly losing focus as she entered her middle-aged years. There was a pause, and I could almost hear her mind working.

"Lily! Hi!" She said enthusiastically, trying helplessly to make up for the fact that she didn't remember me at all, "Why look at you! You're all grown up now: a woman!"

I gritted my teeth, putting on my best smile. Why it hurt me so much to be considered non memorable to this insignificant teacher I do not know, but it did. I just always wanted and hoped that I touched people's lives, that I was not just another girl in the crowd.

"Yes, I'm married now. I just wanted you to know how much your class pushed me to make something of myself." And despite the fact that this woman did not remember me, I still felt strangely like a little girl meeting her hero. I wanted to prove myself to Ms. Henson, wanted to show her the difference she'd made in my life. "I'm actually an Auror."

Her eyes grew wide as if she were once again talking to a nine-year-old girl to whom everything must be exaggerated. "Wow! And to think that you were once a little girl in my classroom! How nice for you, dear." And at that moment I realized that not only did she not remember me, but like the world, she didn't care.