~Chapter 3~

It wasn't a boggart – not on the eve of Molly's eleventh birthday – not now, on the day of James Potter's death. It was a curse – a gnome curse – but a curse nonetheless.

She was having lunch at the Burrow – just like any other normal day in her whole entire, peaceful life so far up to her eleventh birthday. Since it was her birthday, the meal was spectacular. Her mother had rustled up every single old cookbook passed down by her mother and grandmother and her ancestors before THAT. The stacks and stacks and STACKS of leather-bounding cookbooks had filled the kitchen up (and the dust too, actually.)

Her mother had squeezed her arm, smiling heartily. "It's all for you, Molly." She and Molly watched the pots and pans working and working, making the cakes and the brownies and the biscuits – all delicate and fairy – like. "This is the year where you become a witch. Well, at least start your training to become a witch. And a mighty good one you'll be – kind, warm, motherly, and probably amazing at magic – just like the other Weasleys are."

All she wanted, at that moment – was to become a witch like her mother – kind, warm, motherly, and amazing at magic – nothing more. It was pure magic – magic beyond anything she had ever seen before in that one moment.

And then that moment shattered. Shattered like a knife by a gnome – a gnome that caused so much damage.

Behind the counter, a little gnome peeked out. His bald head was covered by a little wool cap, and his eyes were wide and innocent. "Ifaj shalem goodshie! Ifaj shalem goodshie!"

Her mother screamed. Her rocking chair tipped backward – in momentum. She screamed a second time – the sound was of pure glass breaking. And of Molly's heart breaking in despair. "Mum! Mum! Please – no!" Molly had forgotten – to chase the gnomes who hung around the kitchen looking for scraps away. She had forgotten – how cruel was she! She had forgotten – her mother's fear – and this wasn't just a fear. It was a pathological fear.

Her mother told this story only a few times – only when she was feeling particularly melancholy. The day when she was eleven – she had discovered her pathological fear of gnomes. Without knowing what she was doing – her mother had grabbed a kitchen knife and killed the gnome on sight. Horrified later of what she had committed – she made an Unbreakable Vow with the King of Gnomes to never harm a living creature again – especially a gnome.

Molly's head was spinning with a million voices' warnings. Angels. They tormented her – asking her why she was so neglectful, why she didn't care for her mother – the one who had cared for her for eleven years? She couldn't respond – she couldn't.

Her mother croaked, "Bind me to the chair, Molly." Molly gasped. "No, Mum!"

"Bind me!" she sobbed. "But – but you always said you valued your freedom more than your life. You said without freedom – there means there is no meaning for life. And without meaning, life is worthless."

"Come here, Molly," her mother held out her arms and closed her eyes tightly. "You're right. You're right, of course you are. I can't believe how you've grown – how you've matured to be such a beautiful young lady. I'm so glad I taught you well. And I'm so sorry I can't watch you go to Hogwarts – but you are right – life is worthless without laughter, freedom, and meaning. Good-bye, Molly."

"No! Please – please – please…" Then sucking in her tears, "Good-bye, Mother Esmeralda. Fare thee well." It was an old-fashioned saying, but quite appropriate. The gnome was definitely not moving – no matter how Molly yelled at it to GO AWAY, it stayed firm on the ground, smiling, like it had been plastered by glue.

Esmeralda opened her eyes. With one final scream she groped at a kitchen knife. She swung it. All was still, except the blood trickling onto the kitchen floor.

"Ashdelf? Ashdelf?" The mother gnome, smelling the blood, drifted into the kitchen.
"My gnome! My baby!" she narrowed her eyes at Molly. "You. What did you do to my gnome?" Her voice was deadly silent.

"I-I- My mother is deathly frightened of gnomes." Molly retold the story over and over again, each time hoping that the mother gnome would understand. Each time, the mother gnome's eyes grew into narrow slits. "Lies," she hissed. "All lies."

"No. I promise, they're not! Please, I'm not lying – my mother has a pathological fear!" Molly said, by now hysterically afraid.

"REVENGE shall be mine. Murderers should not exist on this Earth!" She raised her green finger as if to kill Molly, but then lowered it.

"She is but a child," the mother gnome mused. "She has plenty of life to have torture and pain torment her."

"On this day, the 30th of October, in the year, 1959, the child of Lady Prewett shall be cursed! Cursed forevermore – that she will foretell the future in her dreams – but no one shall believe her, like the Princess Cassandra of Troy!" the mother gnome shouted, and the windowsills all blew open with the sheer power of her voice. She disappeared – in a whirlwind of voices.

"What have I done?" Molly groaned.