Disclaimer: I do not own, nor do I profit off anything of the Harry Potter universe that rightfully belong and were created by the amazing J.K. Rowling.

Constantly Constance

Constantly Chaos

"What's that?" Mum asked, as I stared blankly at the letter.

The hand writing was black and thick, written by some sort of felt pen. The envelope seemed old and blotchy sealed with a red waxen stamp, different from the other plain white letters. It didn't look ordinary. I slipped my thumb through the fold, snapping the stamp to pull out an ordinary Christmas card with a vibrant picture of a Santa Claus saying 'Ho, ho, ho'. I opened the card and read:

Dear Dursleys,
Wishing you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
Yours sincerely,
The Potters

"Mum?" I piped, staring in awe at the card.

"Hmm?" She hummed, as she dried the plates with a tea towel.

"Who are the Potters?" I asked.

That's when I heard the plate smashed to the ground. I lifted my head up to find mum looking into the distance with horror, frozen like a statute. I quickly stood up to tend to her, but she had already kneeled down to pick up the jagged pieces.

"Just-, uh-, one of you fathers-, uh-, work friends," she answered skittishly, as she brushed all the pieces together.

I'd never once heard dad mention anything about the Potters during dinner. Nor do I remember them attending the annual Christmas party. It was rather odd for one of dad's work friends to be posting Christmas cards and for me having never met them.

"How come I've never met them at the Christmas party?" I asked.

"Because they never come," she answered, seemingly busy with her cleaning.

"Why's that?" I blatantly persisted.

"Constance get out of the kitchen before you step on any pieces," she instructed.

"But-," I hesitated, not wanting to leave my questions going unanswered.

"Out Constance," she repeated.

Mum obviously was in the mood that did not want to be disturbed. To my dismay, I left the kitchen to sit in the living rooom with nan and pop to watch a bit of telly. I plopped myself down next to nan who was quietly knitting near pop who rested back in his reclinable arm chair. All that could be heard was the smooth voice of the news reporter and the rhythmic beat of nan's knitting needles.

"Dow Jones seems to be up," Pop mumbled to himself.

I thought it was bizarre that pop was one of those people who kept up to date with the stocks, but never actually owned any. I hardly see how anyone could consider this a hobby. Let alone, find the infinite drone of the news reporter's voice interesting. I never knew how he could watch for so long without falling asleep, especially since he could barely keep his eyelids open during an episode of The Simpsons.

"Pop, how come you don't own any stocks?" I asked.

"What's the first rule of the stock markets?" He questioned, slightly tilting his gaze to me.

"The stock market is a gamble and gambling is an addiction," I quoted.

"That's my girl," he remarked, turning back to the telly.

A couple of moments later, pop heaved himself off the chair and headed to the bathroom. Even though my eyes were glued to the telly, mum's strange reaction to the Christmas card still questioned me. Who were these Potters? And if they weren't a big deal, then how come I've never met them? Or how come mum couldn't just tell me? Could mum's clumsiness at the time of my question on who they were purely be coincidence?

"Nan, who are the Potters?" I asked out of the blue.

The rhythmic beat of nan's knitting needles fell out of beat and instantly stopped. She stared at her knitting in a gaze familiar to the one mum had not to long ago.

"Damn, I dropped a stitch!" She cursed to herself, throwing the knitting into her lap. "What did you say?" She asked, clearing her throat.

"Who are the Potters?" I repeated.

Her face grimaced into a nasty scowl, worse then before. It looked as if her eyes were about to pop out of her head, looking as mad as mum.

"If you know what's good for you, you'll pretend we never had this conversation," Nan hissed, throwing a sharp fixated glance.

I hardly called less then five spoken sentences a conversation. Despite being taken a back with shock, I still lingered like a fly to a fluorescent light to the sensitive subject.

"But-,"

"No more!" She fizzled.

"And it's time for the weather forecast," the news reporter on the telly announced.

"Thanks Rick. People can be assured that it'll be nothing but clear skies today," the weatherman reported.

Before I could say anything more, pop dawdled into the room, plowing himself back into his spot. Nan merely continued on with her knitting whilst pop incoherently babbled on about the London Pound currency rising. Slightly annoyed, I left the stickling scene and trudged up to my room in a rather foul mood.

It was such a simple question that was left unanswered. And because it was so simple, it only irritated me more for an explanation for the odd behavior that was going on. Raising suspicions on who exactly were the Potters. And why did the names bring out the weirdness in everyone?

I spotted my sister Petunia walking out of the bathroom in her tennis uniform, tying up her hair with a racket tightly tucked underneath her armpit. Perhaps she knew more about the situation then I did, considering she socialized more during Christmas gatherings since I'd usually sit on the couch reading.

"Petunia, do you know who the Potters are?" I asked.

"Not now Constance, I have a tournament I have to get to," she lividly sighed, trying to walk past me.

I took a step in front of her, blocking her way. She frustratedly dropped her arms across her chest, tapping her foot impatiently.

"When I asked mum, she told me to leave the kitchen and then when I asked nan, she told me to keep my mouth shut," I explained.

"Good," she sneered, rolling her eyes.

She persisted to get through but I continued to stand in her way.

"I've never seen them at a Christmas party so I was thinking-,"

"Mum! Constance is trying to make me run late to my game!" She called out.

"Constance leave your sister alone!" Mum replied from downstairs.

"I'm being serious, they were actually really weird as soon as I mentioned that name. Mum said one of them work with dad," I continued to blather.

"Maybe he's just some guy at work dad doesn't fancy all that much, or maybe I just don't care," she said, pushing past to get downstairs.

Maybe it wasn't a big deal and it was completely nothing. But everyone's reactions seemed reasonably suspicious. Mum and nan's ghastly looks were relatively similar to pop's whenever I accidently mention the "m-word". I snapped out of my contemplation at the sounds of mum's voice bickering away on her mobile as she walked up the stairs.

"She saw it," mum said. "Now she's asking questions."

If I didn't know any better, I swear she was talking about me.

"Why can't she just be more like Petunia?" She exclaimed.

Definitely me.

I saw her heading up the corridor my way, but she was too engaged with her conversation on the phone to notice me. Thinking quickly, I hysterically flailed my arms around like an idiot, ducking into the closest room to hid in. Shutting the door, I pressed my ear rigidly to hear the conversation.

"Your mum even came up to me and told me that she even asked about them-, them-? You know who I'm talking about-," she came to a sudden halt. In a hushed tone she whispered, "the Potters."

I furrowed my eyebrows in a puzzled state. Why was mum so hesitant to say their names? Did they upset dad that much? Was that why everyone was so dismissive about them?

"Anyway, I'm running late to take Petunia to her tournament and I have to find Constance. I'll talk to you when you get home dear," she finished.

Knowing that she was more then likely to find me in the bathroom, I turned around to find something that would make me look like I wasn't eavesdropping and snatched the tooth paste off the counter.

"Constance!" Mum called out, opening the door.

Instantaneously taking me by surprised, I accidently jumped and squeezed the tube of tooth paste, spurting the mint scented cream all over my blouse.

"Once you clean this mess up, come down stairs," she said flippantly.

"Why?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Petunia's tournament of course," she answered.

"Do I have to?" I whined.

I hated going to her games. It was embarrassing enough that I had an over enthusiastic mother who passionately cheer Petunia on the side lines. But having to sit there for hours on end, listening to my mother constantly criticize every player on their form and technique would soon get the better of me.

"Yes now hurry up, you're making us run late," she said bitterly, shooting me a forewarning glance before slamming the door shut.

I sighed heavily, rolling my eyes. I changed into a clean t-shirt from my room and grabbed a book for idle reading. If I was going to be stuck there for three hours (probably even longer knowing mum's habit to discuss tennis to the other parents), I might as well keep myself occupied.

I lightly trailed my fingers from book to book on the shelf. The stories I had weren't the classic picture books (although I had them too from my early childhood), they were a collection of red fabric books engraved with gold writing of the title and author. These didn't have many pictures, only a few black and white images in every chapter or so. I picked my favorite and headed back down stairs.

Mum drove Petunia and I while pop and nan took their car. I merely stared out the window at the bright and sunny day, whilst mum and Petunia discussed her 'game plan'. I never even bothered to contribute to the conversation since it would be utterly pointless. I thought tennis was a life size version of a ping pong - which even then, I didn't quite grasp the concept of.

"Welcome to the annual junior tennis tournament! Games will commence in thirty minutes, so take a seat and why not grab a tasty snack from one of our food stalls?" The voice from the speaker boomed.

We took a seat on the front benches (of course) and sat lethargically waiting for the game to begin, whilst Petunia did her routinely stretches.

"That's my girl! Push yourself! Don't just stop at ten suicides, aim for twenty!" Mum bellowed as Petunia ran up and down the pitch.

Petunia began to practice with a fellow competitor whilst mum roared calls of praise and criticism. You'd think from being a tennis pro from her day, she'd remember that tennis matches were supposed to be played in silence so it wouldn't put the players off their game. But mum believed it was a good coaching tactic to test their players concentrations.

I was just grateful everyone knew she was only Petunia's mother. But I did tend to keep my head down to not draw any attention incase mum needed anything from me. I've heard other parents dub her the 'Bawling Banshee of Backcourt'.

"Mum can you stop yelling at me? You're embarrassing me!" Petunia scowled.

"How am I embarrassing you? I'm trying to help you!" Mum defended. "By the way your right swing's off."

"Mum you're making me nervous!"

Here we go, I thought to myself, nodding my head in disapproval. Nan sat quietly, as always, knitting as per usual and pop kept himself busy by flicking through the paper. I decided now would be a good time to start my reading, seeing that I wasn't to keen on watching the chaotic firework show of mum and Petunia.

"Hotdogs! Hotdogs! I got hotdogs!" A walking vender announced.

"Love, try adding a bit more power into your swing," mum suggested to Petunia.

"Mum!" she glowered. "Now I'm dehydrated, go fetch me my water."

Mum headed our way since we were minding everyone else's bags. Great, now people will know I acquainted with the Bawling Banshee of Backcourt. As mum rummaged through a back pack the vender from earlier on walked past us.

"Fancy a snack?" He asked us.

Nan remained mute and ignored is presence, and pop let out an incoherent grumble which usually meant a no. I luckily had a few coins in my pocket to spare.

"I'll have a coke," I said.

He nodded his head and before we exchanged our transaction mum interrupted, "you might want to make that a diet."

The vender bit his bottom lip cumbersomely as I rolled my eyes. You couldn't have a more blunt and straight forward mum then I did.

"I'll have the coke," I repeated, but more clearer. "Oh, and a hotdog with mustard and tomato sauce."

"Now really dear, is it a good idea to over indulge?" Mum asked.

I would hardly call a hotdog an 'indulgence'. Ignoring her, I took the snacks and exchanged money before the vender walked off.

"Why?" I snidely asked, obviously disinterested in what she was saying.

"It's not like you're gonna burn it off, besides you're already on the chubby side," she answered candidly.

Nan and pop didn't say anything. They never did. She always had a problem with my weight. Sure, it wouldn't hurt to lose a few kilos, but I just didn't care. Only she did. And it's not like I was dangerously obese. Dad said he liked my plumpness and said it was only baby fat.

"I'm getting dehydrated here!" Petunia yelled, tapping her racket impatiently against her leg.

Mum hurried back over her with the bottle of water while I sat staring at my hotdog. It wasn't the words that had hurt my feelings, it was the fact that she didn't even consider how I'd feel about her comments. Sure I wasn't the blessed golden child Petunia was, but I was still her child. At times like these, it felt like she didn't care. I took a ferocious bite out the processed meat and drowned it with fizzy drink.

Once I finished, I brushed my hands free of crumbs and continued on with my leisurely reading. Pop let out a yawn and lazily glanced at me for a quick second before returning back to the paper. He snapped his head at least two times at me and widened his eyes.

"What are you reading?" He gasped.

"Cinderella," I answered casually without taking one eye off the book.

"Eck," He spat in disgust and pulled out a section of his paper. "Read something productive."

I heavily sighed, closing my book and unwillingly accepted the paper. Of course it just so happened to be the financial news section.

"Can I at least also have the comic section too?" I asked.

"No."

I looked down at the boundless fine printed letters and numbers for so long that it began to make me dizzy. It was frustrating that no one ever seemed happy with whatever I was doing. If it wasn't mum with her diets, it was pop with his reading. They should be glad with the way I am, would they prefer if I was anorexic and illiterate?

"I think I'm going to get myself a snack, I'll be back," Pop announced and left.

I took the liberty to pick up the book I was reading earlier and hid it behind the paper so it actually looked like I was reading the paper, just like what Bart Simpson would do in The Simpsons. A few moments later pop returned with a handful of snacks, from a hotdog to crisps to chocolate biscuits, so much food you would never believe it was all for him. It was funny how no one ever bugged him about his 'diet'.

"How's MVP at the moment? I heard on the news this morning that they're up," he said as he opened the packet of crisps.

"Exceptionally good," I lied, lowering the newspaper down only to have the book I was actually reading fall.

We were both quiet, staring down at the book on the ground in front of us. I bent down to grab it, but pop's plump fingers beat me to it.

"You know what this sort of book does to you?" He posed, fiercely waving the book in front of my face.

I nodded my head no. I could tell he was trying to compose himself from bursting out into one of his fits. He hated my books and often described them as being pages of lies in a pretty little book, that evil can appear in the most simplest of forms. It was foolish of me to of even brought it.

"It turns your brain to mush! You're a smart girl, why don't read something real? Instead of that bloody rubbish," He groused.

"Mum I'm running out of electrolytes! Get me some Gatorade!" Petunia ordered.

Instantly, mum hurried back over to us, searching through the backpack once again.

"Do you know what your daughter has been reading?" Pop asked mum. "A bundle of fibs and tall tale."

I rolled my eyes and mum placed her hand on her hip in annoyance.

"You still read those silly stories? You're a big girl now, why not pick up a hobby like your sister?" Mum insisted.

My hand balled into fists in rage and melancholy. I've never been angry at my sister for my mother's persistence to turn me into her, but I was so tired of her constant badgering and disappointment. And to add to things, I had to deal with pop's barmy beliefs.

A gloomy overcast hid the beaming sun, turning the weather into a somber atmosphere. There hadn't been a cloud in site this morning, but now the sky was covered with grey clouds, darkening the location. Sudden chills ran down everyone's spines.

"This is nothing but nonense-!" Pop howled.

"-absolutely childish-!" Mum exclaimed.

"Mum!" Petunia demanded.

"This type of hogwash will ruin you-!"

"-why can't you be more like you sister?"

"MUM!"

I shut my eyes trying to block out the incessant noise and to pull myself together. It didn't work and I couldn't contain myself longer.

"I'm not Petunia and I never will be! I like reading hogwash, nonsense, rubbish - whatever you want to call it! I like reading about magic!" I yelled.

And I said it. The 'm' word.

I knew I'd painfully regret doing so. Everyone seemed taken back from my sudden out burst, even other spectators in the stands. However, pop had stood up, furious as ever.

"THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS MAGIC!" He roared.

He threw my book to the ground and began to stomp on it. I tried so hard to hold in the stinging tears and throbbing anger.

Suddenly, flashes of light appeared in the sky and rumbles of thunder erupted. Everyone's heads looked up into the sky and beads of water began to trickle from the sky. Rain drops turned into heavy downpour. An abrupt commotion of antsy people seeking cover bustled around us.

"Due to the surprising turn of weather, today's tournament is cancelled," the voice from the speakers announced.

"Quick - let's get to the car!" Mum urged.

They joined in disorderly uproar, whilst I tried to save my book from the kicks and trampling. The rain drowned the book and I picked the soggy book before heading to the car.

When we arrived back to the comfort of our home, dad to finally arrived home.

"Back so early," He said as mum, Petunia and I foiled into the cosy house.

"The game got cancelled," She explained, hanging her coat up.

"I'm kind of relieved, I was so nervous," Petunia said.

I knew if I opened my mouth that I'd probably collapse into tears. Trying to hide my sobs, I pushed past everyone and ran up to my room.

"Constance?" Dad called out.

"Don't worry about her, she's just sulking because one of books got wet," I heard Petunia say.

"There's no use crying over spilt milk," I heard mum say.

I slammed the door of my bedroom shut and sat on my bed where my tears streamed down my cheek, trickling onto mangled book. I opened the book to observe the damage that had been done and saw that the rain had smudged the ink, making it too blotchy to read.

It was unfair. The one thing I looking forward to doing everyday was ruined. Why couldn't they let me be? I never really asked for much, I never deserved this. I mourned over the destroyed book, barely noticing the door creak open.

"Constance?" Dad asked in a soft tone.

I quickly wiped my tears away with my arm sleeve.

"Yes dad?" I sniffled.

"What's wrong?" He asked concerned, taking a seat on the bed beside me.

I didn't even need to reply since I saw the shock in his eyes at the remains of my book.

"Oh dear..." He said quietly.

"Pop stamped on it because I said the m-word," I whimpered.

"And this was your favorite..."

"Why does everyone hate me?"

"Nobody hates you."

"Yes they do. Everyone wishes I was just like Petunia."

"No they don't, they love you. They're just worried because they don't... understand you."

He was the only one in the family who seemed to take notice of me. And understand me? What's there to get about me? I wasn't complicated. Or was I? Maybe it just wasn't all them. I did keep to myself quite a lot. But still, they too never made much of an effort to understand me.

"They care, they really do..." He said. "But they just have a hard time showing it."

Well they had a weird way of showing it, I thought.

"Especially since you remind them of someone," He said.

"Who?" I asked, looking up at him.

His eyes hardened and he looked back down at my book.

"Never mind, forget I mentioned it," He dismissed, nodding his head. "The fact is that they love you. I love you. And I promise to let nothing like this ever happen again."

He wrapped his arms around me and embraced me in a hug.

"Thanks," I smiled half-heartedly.

"You know I'd do anything for you," He said, kissing the top of my head.

"Dad how come everyone got angry whenever I asked who the Potters were?" I asked, withdrawing from the hug to look at him.

His eyes thickened and he appeared unsettled and disturbed.

"Dad?"

He shook his head as if he was in a daze and looked up.

"They're my cousin's family," He replied.

I was confused. If they were family, then hadn't he ever mentioned them before? And why hadn't they come to family gatherings from birthdays to Christmas parties? Did they live too far away or was everyone upset with his cousin?

"How come I've never met them?" I asked.

"Because..." He began. "They're different."

"How?"

"Constance I don't want to talk about this-,"

"But why?" I persisted.

"Constance!" He yelled frustrated.

I kept my mouth shut, a bit startled by his reaction. He was serious and it kind of frightened me.

"It's a long story, I'll tell you when you're ready," He finished.

From that day on, I never mentioned the Potters name again, despite how much it intrigued me. I was left completely curious and confused, maybe dad had meant to tell me when I was older, but I still never asked questions. But just because I never asked questions, it didn't mean I stopped searching.