A FACE FROM THE PAST
I slipped into the little black dress I had picked out for tonight, admiring myself in the mirror. My messy brown hair tumbled down my back in a curtain, uncut since… since Then. I shook my head, watching it float around me, mesmerised, before slicking on mascara, eyeliner and as much foundation as was humanely possible. Squeezing my feet into my blood red heels, I grabbed my purse, containing fake ID and cash, and tottered my way downstairs. That was where Aunt Monica met me.
After what happened Then, I moved in with my aunt. I couldn't stand being in the same house as my parents any more, my parents who had so willingly let Hermione go – I couldn't stand sleeping in the same room we had once shared, eating from the same table, working at the same desk. So I left.
"Just where do you think you're going dressed like that?" Monica asked me, pursing her lips disapprovingly. I groaned.
"It's my last day of freedom!" I moaned. "I turn eighteen tomorrow! At least let me do something illegal before I have to be responsible!" Monica shook her head, her eyes narrowing in disapproval.
"So invite some friends over! You can even drink, if you're so desperate to. You can go to Harvey's tomorrow," she told me firmly. Harvey's was the local nightclub. Strictly eighteen plus. I rolled my eyes.
"But-"
"No buts! Go and get changed, now!" I sighed resignedly, making my way back upstairs and slamming my bedroom door behind me, clattering around my bedroom, not really doing anything. After thirty seconds or so, I decided the coast was clear, slid open the window and glanced down.
Leaning over my room was a large oak, and one of the branches had grown temptingly close to my window. I dropped my purse and shoes down to the ground, waiting to see if Aunt Monica would notice, before swing from my window and onto the branch, walking along it, and shimmying down the tree. I quickly scrambled to find my shoes and purse, straightened my hair with a hand and strutted off down the road. Stay in, my arse, I thought, as I rounded the corner at the end of my street where my friends had agreed to wait for me. Strangely though, there was no sign of Susan's Porche, and after waiting around for several more minutes, I was forced to accept they had abandoned me. I sat on the nearest garden wall, weighing up my options. I could go home meekly and accept a telling off from Aunt Monica. Or, I could continue on to the nightclub alone. The only reason we had been planning to drive was because none of us were stupid enough to trust the streets at night. I, however, hadn't been convinced. 'The adventurous one', I was known as – more like the downright stupid one, Anna had once corrected. I started walking. No way was I backing out of this. We had agreed to go to the nightclub tonight, and even if they had chickened out, I wasn't planning on it.
I shivered; the night was cold, and I hadn't brought anything to cover myself with; assuming, of course, that going to and from the nightclub would be in a warm car with my three best friends. Although it was only early September and a little before eight, the sky was so dark I could see the stars beyond the spluttering orange street lamps. I wrapped my arms around myself, huddling over against the bitter weather as the crescent moon glinted overhead. I turned right, into a dark alleyway, unlit by street lamps. My heels could no longer be heard clicking against the pavement with every step, as the path was covered in dirt and rotting leaves. It was known as Dead Man's Alley to the locals, due to an incident three years ago when a missing teenager's body was found, rotting, propped against the wall. Since then, most people avoided the alley. I did too, usually; but it was by far quicker to go down the alley than around the housing estate I lived on. I shivered again, feeling my heart thud against my chest. The alley was only a few hundred meters long. I would be out soon.
A loud crack sounded nearby, and I stumbled in my heels, twisting my ankle. I groaned in pain. Just what I need, I thought, annoyed, turning back and beginning to limp back home. There was no way I was going to make it to Harvey's in this state. That was when I heard the voices – faintly a first, but quickly becoming louder. I counted at least four or five, all male, and the stench of alcohol reached me a few seconds later. It was only then that it struck me what a stupid idea this had been. I sped up, but the end of the alley didn't seem to be coming closer, while the voices got louder and louder. I let out a grunt of pain as I slipped, hurting my ankle again.
"Who's there?" a male voice slurred, as I scrambled backwards. A black robed figure appeared out of the darkness, stumbling, obviously drunk.
"'ey, look 'ere! It's that girl from the Prophet!" another voice intoned, as the rest of the men came into my field of vision. This was really not a very good idea, I decided firmly, glancing behind myself. I was still at least fifty meters from the end of the alley. There was no way I was going to make it with my bad ankle. Definitely a bad idea. I stood up, wincing as I did so.
"W-who are you?" I stuttered, wishing my voice didn't sound so pathetically weak and innocent. "Leave me alone!" One of the men, the shortest, made to grab my arm. I stumbled out of his reach, my breath coming in short gasps. Please no, please God no…
"You wanna play, do ya?" he asked, the foul stench of some kind of strong whiskey on his breath. I shook my head, still backing away, terror in my eyes. Never had I come this close to danger before.
"Hey boys! She wants ta play!" the man hollered, gaining mocking laughter from the others. I stumbled, and almost fell, risking a glance backwards. Only a few meters to go –
Another figure appeared in the entrance of the alley, closing me in.
"Please-" I begged, pushing myself into the wall, "please, no-" One of them reached for my arm, and I tripped backwards, into the arms of the figure behind me, who grasped my shoulders tightly. I screamed.
"Oi, shut 'er up, would ya?" the man holding me captive asked, pulling me back against his body.
"Silencio!" another shouted, and a flash of light blinded me, making me cry out – but no sound emanated from my lips. I opened my mouth again, but once again, only air came out. Another cloaked man grabbed my left arm too, and together they dragged me, silently sobbing and writhing, back down the alley. I had never been more terrified in my life as they pushed me up against the wall, and started tugging at my dress. I batted their hands away, tears streaming from my eyes as another flash of light left me paralysed, and I fell, in slow motion, to the floor.
"Who want ta see if she really is magical?" the short one hollered, to shouts of agreement from the rest. I wished I could squeeze my eyes up, curl into a ball and hide, but whatever they had done to me had robbed me of my ability to move.
"Obliviate," I heard one of the men whisper, and a cold wave washed over me as I slipped into darkness.
A hand stroked my hair softly. A cool cloth lay on my forehead. My eyelids fluttered and opened.
I was lying on my bed. The soft blue covers cradled my body, protecting me. I sat up with a groan.
"Lucy, are you all right?" a concerned voice asked me. I looked to the side. It was Aunt Monica. Worry lined her eyes like charcoal.
"Fine, I-I think," I replied, pressing the heel of my hand into my forehead to attempt to soothe my pounding headache. I lay back down again, tired. "What happened?"
A flash of surprise crossed Aunt Monica's face. "I was hoping you could tell me," she said uncertainly, pressing her own hand to my head. "Are you sure you are ok?" I nodded, and tried to recall the previous night's events, and was shocked to find that I couldn't remember anything past when I walked down the alley.
"I guess I had a lot to drink last night," I supposed. It would explain my pounding headache. Aunt Monica looked scared, and I felt confused. I'd had a lot to drink; yes, she had told me not to go out, but what was the issue?
"Lucy," she began, "You never made it to the club. The police found you, collapsed in Dead Man's Alley." I shook my head in denial.
"No, that can't be true!" I shouted, tears creeping into the corners of my eyes. The room blurred around me and faded in and out of focus, like a camera screen. I felt horrible, violated. I would never go down Dead Man's Alley, unless... "This is all your fault!" I screeched, throwing my blankets at Aunt Monica in fury. "If you had just let me go I wouldn't have done it! I hate you! I hate you!" With those words, I ran out of the room, sobbing hysterically, leaving Aunt Monica still kneeling by my bed, confused.
Where my feet were taking me, I didn't know; my mind was reeling from the shock of recent events. I, Lucy Margaret Granger, had collapsed in Dead Man's Alley. The only reason for that I could think of was if I had run into someone; but my brain refused to work, to think, to remember the happenings of the previous night. Why? Why did it happen to me? Me, of all people? Maybe I wasn't the most sensible person, but things like this, its stuff you hear about on the news, not what you ever experience in real life. I shook my head, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. Of course it would be me, and it was my fault, too. I knew it was. There was no way to deny it, as I sat down on the sofa in front of me. Apparently I hadn't gone too far.
Was it selfish of me to blame my aunt? Yes, I knew so; but would I have the strength to say sorry and apologise? This wasn't an event I could easily forget. Groaning, I threw my head in my hands, supported by my thin, bony arms, the recovering subjects of mild anorexia, wallowing in my despair.
Suddenly, I became aware of another presence behind me, and I knew it was my aunt. I felt a second wave of guilt rush over me. I had been so horrible to her, the woman who had offered me everything I had ever wanted or needed. Of course, I couldn't know for sure it was her – except I did, due to a strange gift, a sixth sense that gifted me with the ability of being able to locate and recognise those closest to me without looking. Magic, my instincts told me, but I ignored the thought. Magic was something for children, and I was not a child. Besides, the word brought up painful memories that I had buried so deep in my mind they were almost untouchable.
Almost.
Resigning myself to fate, I pulled my head up, and looked behind me at my Aunt Monica.
She was a tall, strong and beautiful woman, with the straight blonde hair, now streaked with grey, which was so similar to my own. Her slim figure, hidden behind boot cut jeans and a purple top. Our deep blue eyes met each other, and I raised my lips into a watery smile.
"Sorry, Monica," I whispered, hanging my head, ashamed. I loved her dearly, and it hurt me to upset her. Creased eyelids fluttered as she returned my small gesture of affection, giving it one hundred times more meaning than I ever could as she glided around the sofa and sat down next to me, holding me close. We remained like that for several minutes, unspoken words floating away in the wind as emotion poured out through the embrace. Slowly, I pulled away.
"Happy birthday, Lucy," Monica smiled, reaching behind the sofa and pulling out a small box wrapped in festive paper, which I ripped through eagerly. Inside was a necklace; a tiny golden chain, adorned with a large sapphire flower in the centre, and several diamond bead-shaped stones on either side. I was speechless, the joyful tears in my eyes telling Monica how much it meant to me. She gently took the necklace from my hands, and fastened it around my neck, where it nestled against me, warm to the touch although made of metal and stone.
"It matches your eyes," she said softly, brushing my long hair over my shoulder fondly. My voice robbed of me; I threw my arms around my aunt, unable to express my gratitude.
"Thank you," I whispered, my voice mildly muffled by the fact I was speaking into her shoulder. Monica patted my back softly.
"Happy eighteenth birthday, Lucy," she repeated, and I smiled, the previous events forgotten in that moment of pure happiness.
-III-
Hesitantly, I reached under my bed, my hands grasping at a dusty box hidden there so long ago. Anna and Susan had long gone – my birthday celebrations had been fantastic, in spite of the constant overhanging of last night. Last night…
No. I had to forget about that, or I wouldn't have the strength for what I was about to do; what I should've done years ago.
I pulled the box into the light of day for the first time in more than six years.
Dust covered the surface, at least a centimetre thick. I wiped it away softly, coughing as it splayed into the air around me, the tips of my fingers tracing the engraving on the lid. 'For Lucy'.
It was well past ten at night, and Monica had work tomorrow, so she had already gone to bed. A tear rolled down my cheek.
"Come on, Lucy, you can do this," I muttered to myself, fitting the key in the lock I had put there six years ago, untouched in all that time. A faint click, and my trembling hands pulled it off and placed it aside.
I have to do this.
Slowly, I pushed up the lid.
There she was – my sister, Hermione, exactly as I remembered her, preserved forever in a series of photographs I would never throw away. Her bushy brown hair, and vacant smile, the warm brown eyes so similar to my own. Does she still look the same? I wondered, holding the photograph up to the light. Or has she changed, like me? I smiled as I replaced the photograph, stroking it softly before sliding the box away.
It wasn't just my eighteenth birthday today. It was Hermione's too. I owed it to her.
"Happy birthday, Hermie," I whispered, staring outside into the black of night.
Winter is coming, I thought, and it was clearly visible in nature – the days were getting shorter, the tree outside my window's leaves had begun to turn brown and fall, the same as it was every year on our birthday.
"Mum, where's the cake?" I whined. She never let me or Hermie see it before the party. Mum smiled secretively, tapping the side of her nose.
"You'll see," was all she gave me. Annoyed, my seven year old self ran to the window and looked out. The horse-chestnut tree in our front garden had already begun to turn its leaves, and spiny green conkers lay scattered around the base. Each year, Hermie and I had a conker fight when the first leaf fell. And so I stared into the tangled branches, wishing, willing just one tiny leaf to touch the ground.
I turned away, disappointed – but not before I spotted the single auburn star, floating in an ethereal dance to the receding grass below.
"Hermione!" I screamed, tumbling upstairs to the dresser, where I had carefully packaged my stringed conker. "Conker fight!" Hermione glanced up, her face breaking into an excited grin that mirrored my own ecstatic happiness.
Smiling, I turned to the window, and screamed.
The tree outside my window was bare. All the leaves lay, still green, on the grass below. I reeled backwards, breathing quickly. It must have been some sort of freak accident; a strong wind that had ripped them all away, I convinced myself. But the fact remained that my tree was the only one I could see to have even begun to lose its leaves. Perhaps the darkness was concealing the truth, but still…
I had known since that day six years ago that Hermione had some kind of magic. My parents had tried to explain it to me – the sobbing eleven year old, about to say goodbye to her sister for eternity, or so it felt. I hadn't listened. Why should I? All I knew was that this ability had taken her away, chosen her over me, even though we had shared the same womb. Apparently, that was not enough. We weren't the same.
And never will be, I thought savagely, shoving the box away from myself and tumbling onto the bed, still fully clothed.
Sleep did not come easily that night.
-III-
"Lucy, you've got post!" I glanced up from my cereal in surprise.
"Who from? I asked curiously, hurrying out to the front door where Monica was staring vacantly at a large brown envelope, addressed in messy handwriting to "Granger's sister". A lump rose in my throat, and I looked away.
Someone knew who I was.
And more importantly, where I lived.
As I glanced back at the envelope, I noticed something else. There was no address or stamp. Trembling, I gently tugged the letter away from my aunt, and sank into the armchair nearby, my fingers slowly ripping open the top of the envelope. I reached inside, groping for the letter, and feeling something, I pulled it out, dropping its paper case to the floor.
It was a newspaper cutting, and I settled back to read it, confused.
THE-BOY-WHO-LIVES NO MORE
Harry Potter, the Chosen One, is dead.
On 18th September, at 10:32 at night, muggles reported strange flashes of red and green light to the police at Grimmauld Place.
By the time the police arrived at the scene, the spells had stopped, leaving behind the body of the Chosen One.
Witnesses insist that a young man and woman were also at the scene, believed to be Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger. No word has yet been given on whether they survived the duel, and it is expected for their bodies to be found within the next few hours.
Harry Potter, the Boy who Lived, was commonly known as the Chosen One, in reference to a prophecy made about the Dark Lord's downfall, and he was believed by many to be the one to kill him, before the boy's long awaited death.
It is currently unknown if the attack was random or planned, and the Ministry is appealing for witnesses.
"Of course, the Ministry is happy that the renegade Potter is finally dead," Pius Thicknesse, Minister of Magic, told the Prophet in an exclusive interview last night. "We can only hope this will finally put an end to the rebellious movement known as the Order of the Phoenix."
Death Eater, Bellatrix Lestrange, confesses she wishes she had been the one to carry out the deed.
Although the Order of the Phoenix was unavailable for comment, a violent response is anticipated in the near future, due to the 'tragic' loss of their poster boy.
The article dropped from my hands, floating slowly towards the floor, from side to side until finally coming to a rest on top of the cursed brown container it had arrived in.
Two sentences. Two sentences, and Hermione was dead. Two sentences to dismiss my sister, as if she has never really mattered in the first place.
"it's a lie, it can't be real," I whispered to myself again and again, a mantra to keep me going. "There's no way she's dead. It's just a stupid joke, that's all," but no matter how much I told myself this, I could not stay my shaking shoulders, or the tears that dripped onto the cutting through my fingers.
I don't know how long I sat there; seconds, minutes, hours, but eventually, I felt a familiar cool hand on my shoulder, comforting me. I looked up at my erratic aunt, who had taken the article off the floor and was concealing it behind her back, tears in both our eyes.
"It can't be true," I whispered, staring back down at the floor.
"Darling-"
"Don't, Monica. Please." My voice stumbled as I tried not to cry. Hermione didn't deserve this, she didn't deserve my tears, after all she'd done to me; she didn't deserve this, to die on the eve of her 18th birthday, never even seeing adulthood-
I put my head in my hands, and cried.