I take my usual seat at the old oak table.
I can still smell the burn on the wood from when Hugo and I were arguing. I was eight and he was six. He'd hid my toy broom from me and refused to tell me where he was keeping it. I got so angry that I lit the tablecloth on fire, and even though I was due for an ear chewing, my father and mother nearly danced with joy. My first show of magic, and they were there to see it.
It's almost sad to think of how much time has passed in this house and how little time I spend in it. When I was little I would spend all day on the porch swing, imagining my own world or reading what I couldn't think up for myself.
Now, I hardly go on it anymore.
"Mum, there's a warming spell cast on the porch, right?"
She stops rummaging through the drawers for a moment and cranes her head past the doorframe.
"Yeah, why?"
"Is it alright if I eat on the swing?"
"Well... I don't see any reason why not. Be careful not to spill any juice on the wood, you know how blackberries stain."
"You're such a neat freak," I say, as I open the door to the porch. "Sound like a housewife."
She laughs, follows me outside, and takes a seat next to me on the swing.
"Rosie, when you live with your father, you have no other choice. It's like taking a second job. He's given me more trouble with messes as an adult than Hugo did as a toddler."
"Speaking of which," I say, pausing to spoon myself some oatmeal, "when is Hugo coming home? He never owled me back."
"Today, actually. Durmstrang students floo home. Absolutely ridiculous. Floo powder can be terribly dangerous, especially for students who aren't used to traveling in such a way. Trains are far safer, and yet the headmaster is too stingy to use them."
"But Hugo has traveled by floo," I point out, my mouth half full.
"Yes, but things can go wrong. I would just feel so much better if he returned to Hogwarts with you. How much of a chance do you think I have of getting him to go back early?"
"About as likely as it is for dad to be on time for anything," I say wryly.
Mum sighs and drops her spoon into her yogurt. She stares out at the yard, where two brooms and a few wards are strewn along the dying grass.
"What are you thinking about?" I ask, pulling one of her curls. She smiles that familiar motherly smile and pulls a strand of my hair in return.
"You. You remind me so much of myself at Hogwarts, but when I really think about it... you're nothing like I was. You're relaxed and easy to talk to and you understand."
"Understand what?"
"Things!" she says vaguely. Upon seeing the confused look I give her, she elaborates. "People, for instance. You see past what others judge. You are such a kind girl, Rosie. I wish I had what you have now."
"Mum, you're being stupid. You've never judged anyone in your life."
"Definitely not true. When I first met Luna, I was convinced she was nothing more than a barmy, talentless scatterbrain with nothing to show for herself but some silly jewelry and a handful of crazy theories."
I spill a little juice in surprise, which earns me a surly glare from Mum.
"But I thought you, Luna, and Ginny were best friends. I haven't seen any of you be anything other than completely, genuinely nice to one another."
"Oh, we are... now. I had to do a little growing up before I realized my word wasn't the final word," she muses lightly.
"If you don't mind my asking," I say, pushing the swing with my foot, "what brought all this on?"
She gives me a small, thoughtful smile and her attention returns to the yard. It strikes me how young she looks. While Dad and Harry look quite different from their teenage years, Mum's face looks very much like the picture of her graduating from her wizarding university.
"I was just remembering the first time you came home from Hogwarts, your first year. Remember?"
Almost instantly, my intrigue sours. I do remember. Though I don't care to.
She continues, "If I remember correctly, it was a day or two after Christmas and you were begging to have a friend come over. We were shocked, once we said yes, that it was Scorpius Malfoy who appeared in our fireplace. Your father, of course, was bordering on having conniptions. But… that entire time, all I could think about was your ability to think for yourself."
I grunt, still frowning.
"Maybe I should have listened to what other people were saying."
"I'm glad you didn't. You probably made his life at school much easier, considering his family's reputation."
"Yeah, well, I'm not," I grumble. "I should have believed what Dad said about the Malfoys being stupid, cowardly traitors."
In a quick stir of movement, Mum rips my empty glass and bowl from my hands and stomps into the kitchen without another word. A clash and clang are heard from the kitchen as she drops my dishes into the sink; her mouth is pulled taut into a thin, annoyed line.
"What did I do?"
"You sound like an ignorant fool. You may have been offended by his abandonment, and you may be angry with him, but I refuse to listen to you make generalizations."
"You don't know the whole story!" I shout, crossing my arms over my chest.
"Well, I hope it explains your less than exemplary attitude."
"What the hell! This isn't fair! You can't be so pissy when you only know half of what happened!"
"Well, go on."
"What?"
"Explain. I want to know why you think you have the right to judge others," Mum challenges, looking at me with a livid, fixed stare.
I hear a door close behind me. I turn, the irritation still on my face. And then it lifts as I see my father walk through the door.
He sets down his bags and bounds into the kitchen, his booming clumsy footsteps familiar and comforting. Before I can even say a hello, he picks me up in an uncomfortable hug, not letting go until my back cracks.
"Heavier than you were last year. O.W.L.'s getting to you, eh?"
I scowl playfully.
"Mum says that you ate like a pig when you were my age."
"That's just because she was too busy with her spew thing to pick up a fork."
"Ronald," mum growls warningly, her eyes flashing.
"—And that's why she's so thin and beautiful," dad continued, kissing mum a little bit longer than what I think is necessary. "Lighten up, 'Mione."
Mum's frown softens slightly. She and Dad fight a lot. More than most families, I'd be willing to bet. But I've never been worried about them splitting or hurting each other because of how they are when they're calm. They seem happy. And that's the only word I know that can describe it.
"Can you please tell her that it is horrid for her to say that all Malfoys are terrible because she's upset at one?"
"Oh, yeah. I heard the junior ferret was back at Hogwarts. Thought you were finally shot of the little git."
Throwing her arms up in frustration, Mum stalks out of the kitchen and into the living room, the look of irritation still on her face. I look back at Dad and he's watching her, a look of amused adoration on his face.
It's then that I realize that I'm very proud to have inherited his freckles.
Christmas Eve is a Weasley-Potter tradition. Considering the size of the dining room and the fact that there are over twenty of us, this custom is not without its complications or stresses. The older children and adults (save for Mum and Ginny, who couldn't cook an egg) occupy the rather small kitchen, each person fussing over a different dish, murmuring frantically about how it isn't bubbling fast enough or refuses to thicken. The younger ones usually watch some muggle television or play exploding snap. When we're all gathered, we eat immediately. There is no known Weasley gene for patience when it comes to food. And Mum, who has always preached that love, trust, and kindness are the best methods of childrearing, rapidly descends into a fuming imitation of a Boggart. On Christmas Eve, love, trust, and kindness are promptly shoved onto the backburner.
Those values are quickly fading for me as well, waiting for Dad to help me with dessert. He left the kitchen quite a while ago and has yet to return.
"Ro, does this taste right?" Uncle Harry asks, holding up a spoon of gravy. Blowing away the steam, I take a sip, still whipping the sweet cream with a distracted hand.
"More salt," I say. "Should I add some rosewater to the cream or not?"
"Rosewater," says Harry instantly. "Always. Your rosewater cream is your aunt's favorite— AH!"
With a crack, Uncle George appears on Harry's shoulders, resting his elbows on top of Harry's already messy haired head.
"'Lo, Rosie. Heard you have a beau," George says casually, twisting a lock of dark hair between two fingers.
"Does Dad know?" I call over my shoulder, searching for the rosewater. I'm suddenly very glad that he isn't in the kitchen.
"Since when does he ever realize something short of six months late? Harry, has ickle Ronniekins ever been quick on the uptake?"
"Er, George, not that I don't enjoy your company, but you need to get off my shoulders."
As George (slowly) lowers himself onto the floor, Luna Lovegood glides towards us, smiling airily. Her butterbeer cap necklace jingles with every step and glitter falls from her long hair.
"You should consider getting back on his shoulders, George. None of these rooms are equipped with Flumsnuffer wards."
"Oh?" asks George, looking rather intrigued.
"Yes, yes. Didn't I warn you about the danger they pose to an unwarded body last year? Backwards elbows and all? You Weasleys have very patchy memories. The floor could be crawling with them, you know. Shocker, especially with Albus as your son."
"Apologies, Luna," Harry grins, salting the gravy. "Must have slipped my mind. I'd be quite grateful if you made a few for my home in the Hollow."
"Of course, I don't want your children at risk," Luna says earnestly. "Shall I make some for your shop, George?"
"I'd be insulted if you didn't," he says, winking. "Good year, Luna?"
"No," she smiles cheerfully. "Rolf and I didn't have an easy divorce. Was your divorce enjoyable, George? I sincerely hope so."
I grin inwardly. Had anyone besides Luna asked that question, it would have either sounded rude or idiotic, surely. But it was Luna who asked it, and in result it came off as nothing but genuine. And had it been anyone else, Uncle George would have sunk into one of his moods. His split from Angelina has been very rough indeed. Losing custody sent him into a year-long drinking binge, and he's only been sober for the last year.
But instead of frowning, he laughs.
"I'm sure Angie had much more fun than me. But I've reclaimed visitation rights, so cheers to that."
"Rose," Luna says abruptly, turning so quickly that her hair hits Harry in the face, "would you mind if I gave you your present early?"
"Only if you try the sweet cream."
She raises the whisk to her lips and licks the frothy cream off.
After a few seconds of what seems like a very pensive silence, her already large eyes widen and she exclaims, "Wonderful! The best it's ever been!" She then shoves an artfully wrapped box into my hand and watches intently as I tear away the paper. Under is a brass box containing a pair of silver forks. I know better than to question her, but I still shoot her a bewildered glance.
"They're Gindlefly lures."
"You've never told me about Gindleflies," I say, ready for another seemingly farfetched story that she would likely prove true in a few months. "I've never heard of them before."
"Really?" Luna grabs me close, an apologetic frown pulling on her mouth. "Rose, I'm terribly sorry! They're closer to beetles than flies, actually. But they're wondrous, boosting courage and limiting inhibition wherever they go! Amazing…"
"I don't get any?" George says, crossing his arms. "Miss Lovegood, I'm very hurt!"
"Oh, George, I didn't think you needed any courage! I had no idea! I must make up for this folly. When I come and set up the wards, I will make sure that you have at least three lures for your pocket. Please forgive me."
"One extra lure, and you've good as redeemed yourself."
I mask my smile and lean towards Uncle Harry.
"Doesn't seem like he needs much courage at all."
Harry shakes his head, giving me the impression that he too was trying to hide his amusement. "About time he was interested in someone. Not too bad a choice either."
"Yeah, they suit each other."
"Now. You have a boyfriend. Should I— ARGH!"
Teddy's apparition is unusually loud. Harry's never gotten used to it. After he calms down, he continues to ask me about Shawn. I refuse to tell him anything, even though he's persistent and determined. Harry and dad like to get drunk together when their spouses are away, and a drunk Harry has very loose lips.
Eventually, after dad comes downstairs and Ginny arrives and the Delacour-Weasleys walk lazily into the room, we all sit down at a table too big for the room. The turkey is larger than usual, which is good, since Hugo seems to have increased (probably due to the growth spurt of three inches (this makes me sad)). Victoire sits on one side of me and Hugo sits on the other. Luna, while holding Lysander in her arms, hardly looks invested in her food and animatedly gestures in different directions, most likely telling George (who is sitting diagonal to her) about her latest discovery. He nods along with the story, seeming every bit as interested in her tale as my father is with his plate.
I can tell that Teddy and Victoire are eager to leave the table, and the thought of what might be on their minds doesn't embarrass me as much as I thought it might. Victoire and I exchange smiles. I've been meaning to talk to her about Scorpius, but I always forget. She's the only one who knows about the kiss.
It's strange, I realize. This is the first time I've thought about the kiss without that sour feeling in my stomach; it's never been a fleeting sort of thought.
This isn't right, is it?
BANG
Something, or someone, rolls out of the fireplace in a burst of flames, hitting the table with a painful sounding clunk. A few people cry out in surprise; Dominique shrieks and jumps onto her chair, knocking over Luce's glass in the process. Luna quickly pulls her wand from the half-bun in her hair and joins the other adults across the room, all the while cradling a crying Lysander in her arms.
The figure stands, and as a familiar head and back become visible, I storm over to her, angrily grab her arm, and spin her to face me. The enigma is easy to recognize.
"Gilda, what the h-"
But I fall short of words as I see her face. Large, purple bruises warp her cheeks and eyes; several cuts on her shoulder are brown with caked blood, crisscrossing over more bruises. I don't want to imagine what else there might be, so I just swallow, my stomach clenching in horror, and all that comes from my mouth is a quiet breath.
"Please, Rose. I don't have anywhere else to be."
Gran Molly stands and carefully approaches us. She puts on a careful, warm smile, but it hardly masks the serious worry under it.
"Rose… why don't you— don't you help her clean up while 'Mione and I set a plate for her? …Would you like that, …dear?"
It takes a while for her to answer, but in time she nods her head, the wounded skin of her neck stretching and wrinkling as it moves.
"Then go. Rosie, get her some of Ginny's old clothes. They're in the hamper left-"
"No," I say quickly, even though I know where the clothes are. "She can have some of mine."
I lead Gilda up to the bathroom, telling her with short sentences to look out for weak stairs. Even as she unsteadily walks up the crooked stairs of the Burrow, I can't bring myself to look at her.
"Here," I say, opening the door to the washroom, "sit on the tub ledge. I'll get some washcloths. So just... wait. Okay?"
I open the cupboard in the hall and sort through the assorted towels and soaps, looking for anything that isn't caked or melted or reeking of mildew. At last, I settle on a pink washcloth and a bar of soap that, ironically, smells like rosewater.
"Here," I say as I turn the tap over the tub. The water gushes out of the faucet and I recoil. Way too hot. I spend a few minutes finding the right temperature, counting down the seconds I have left until I have to look at Gilda in the eye.
Finally, the water feels right. So I dip the cloth and soap in and bring it to a lather.
"You're going to have to take off your shirt."
She shakes her head and presses her arms tighter to her sides.
"I've seen you change hundreds of times. I know your boobs."
"No," she says firmly.
"...There's more under… isn't there?"
"Don't be a busybody. I said no, so stop."
I drop the towel and it lands with a wet shlop on the tiled floor. Ready for another fight, my legs tuck in and bring me to eye level. Concern takes irritation's place.
"You're the one who came here. You can be as stubborn you want, but as long as you are here, you're going to accept the help you asked for. Now, are you going to take off the shirt," I croak, exhaling and palming the washcloth, "or am I going to have to knock you out first?"
And then, to my utter surprise, Gilda gives a small nod and a small smile, then, pulls her shirt and bra over her head, exposing her breasts. More scratches, more bruises, though not quite as bad as the ones on her face. I press the soapy washcloth to her chest.
It should feel awkward, shouldn't it? But, in a way, it makes me feel better about the situation. Even though this puts me too close to a reality that terrifies me... it's as if I'm cleaning my up own mistakes as well as her injuries.
Rosewater fills the room as I continue to wipe away the caked blood. Occasionally, a cut will begin to bleed again and I'll have to bandage it. But she doesn't wince. Not once.
I wish she would.
So I can know that she feels something.
So I can still think of myself as the strong one.
"Can I ask you questions?"
"What questions?" Gilda mutters.
"About what happened."
Waiting for her to answer feels like a lie, since I've already resolved to find out...one way or another.
But eventually–
"Yeah. You can ask."
"Was it your father? Did h–"
"Brother," she hisses, "mother. But not my dad. Not my dad."
"…They were angry?"
Gilda's head rises and turns to stare out the window. Warped and drafty with age, the window hardly keeps out the cold. Just like with the rest of the Burrow, everything is sealed, warmed, and held steady by years upon years of spells and enchantments. She runs her hand along the edge of the old-fashioned tub.
"Yes," she says, face stoic. But her hands still reach, and touch, and wring around themselves. "We, me, my mother, and my brother, were getting ready for tomorrow. We celebrate on Christmas day."
After a thick pause, I move toward her arms, scrubbing away the ash and dirt of the fireplace. Gilda picks at her nails until they're jagged and down to the nub.
Her focus persistently on her hands, she continues. "He asked me to use magic to help set up. Since they can't; they're both squibs. But when I told my brother that it would get me into trouble, he just… exploded. It just escalated." She groans slightly as the hot water washes over one of the larger scrapes. "They got a little carried away."
My hand falls limply unto the edge of the tub and I stare at all the marks on her body.
The bruises cover her like some sort of cruel pattern.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask, more of a plea than a question.
"Oh. That's a comfortable conversation to start up. And it wasn't quite easy to talk to you, with the peach you were being."
"Hey! You were being a right git as well! Don't place all the blame on me."
She snarls under her breath and her nostrils flare, "I wasn't the one who bought every word that stupid bitch fed you."
"What?"
"Lindley!" she barks, shrugging her shoulder out from under my hand.
"It… it wasn't true?" I mumble, hesitant, not quite wanting an answer.
The window slams shut against the wind, rattling the shelves, the bottles set upon them tink-tinking and scraping against one another. Gilda's magic feels different from my own, more extreme. I haven't seen wandless magic in a long time. It's startling.
"Of course it wasn't true," she says, nearly hissing. "Do you really think that I'm that horrible? That I'd tell my entire house? The joke was stupid, but I never said anything. Whatever she found out, it didn't come from me."
"But she said that everyone knew about it."
"Because she's the one spreading it, then."
"...But she has no reason-"
"She doesn't need one! She's Lindley! She doesn't need a reason! There's no reason for her to dangle my ex in my face, but she does. Bitch probably tortures children without any reason."
We finally laugh. Not a chortle to lessen the discomfort of a silence, nor a nervous one to fill the gaps between awkward sentences. And of course not a deafening laugh that shakes us from out feet to our hair, but it doesn't matter. It's involuntary and real.
And sort of heartbreaking, so I hug her tight to me, shirtless and all, and bite my lips hard as we cry together.
"I'm sorry," I sputter. Her clavicle digs into my forehead. "I stopped being mad a long time ago. People just… were nice to me and I made friends, so I listened to them when they told me not to forgive you."
"But Rose-"
"I know," I say hastily, interrupting her before another argument can start, "I'm not justifying. Never. Just explaining. It was immature. I'm sorry."
She nods, and her chin hits the top of my head, hard.
Again, a shared laugh. But this one, mixed with the tears, sounds more like a strangled cough.
"I'm sorry too," she says, still giggling lightly, "I should have apologized properly. And that joke was unfair. And… I guess… that I could stand… to have a little less… pride… oh Merlin, can we please talk about something else?"
"Did that sting?"
"More than you know."
Quiet falls for the third time in the washroom. But it's better now. It gives me time to deescalate and allows the adrenaline left over to ebb away. And unexpectedly, things start to feel sort of… normal. In the last hour Gilda has burst in, covered in bruises, and suddenly everything settles. Like it's okay to just… talk.
Which, surprisingly, feels right.
I flip the toilet lid down and sit on it, staring at my friend. She changes into the clothes I gathered for her, and though it's a bit tight in the chest area, she seems comfortable.
"How's the thing with Malfoy?"
My head snaps up and I knot my fingers together.
"What thing?"
"Albus told me why you hate him…" she says with a guilty sort of frown.
"When?"
"That day in potions, when we first-" she begins, but then pauses and looks away. "Albus was angry that I forced you into working with Scorpius. He explained. Said that you never really got over it."
"…I was beginning to. Had he come next year… ah, I'd probably be the same. But things were getting normal, and then he comes back in acting as if nothing ever… as if he…fuck."
Touching my fingers to my temples, I try to find the words I need.
"A few weeks ago, I was sure that I hated him. Or mostly sure, at least. Now… I don't even know. Like, I almost want things to go back, but I know they can't and I hate him, but don't, and, damn, it's so confusing…"
Gilda shrugs and carefully slides backwards into the tub, resting her feet on the ledge.
"Look, Rose, I know you're super smart and top of your class and good at every other fucking thing you try, and I mean this in the best of ways, but aren't you being a little stupid? Talk to him. And I don't mean yell," she says, smirking, "or being snarky towards him-"
"I am not snarky towards-"
"No?" she laughs. "Unless you feel indebted to him, which you should, by the way, you're ready with ten insults. Tell him that you miss him and tell himthat you're angry at him."
"You don't get it," I say.
"I don't. But Scorpius does. And the only way he'll listen and change is if he knows what you want from him."
"All I want from him is to be left alone."
But that isn't true, is it?
I want him to still be afraid of flying. Whenever I sat alone in the library, my eyes would constantly flit over to the table we always sat at, where we used to sit with the intention of studying but always ended up laughing instead. Work and duties and relationships would pile up around me, but no matter how hard I'd focus, my thoughts would always drift back to him, wondering if he kept my room in the Covelly house or how his mother has been.
Truth be told, I want more things from him than I can readily list.
"It's okay, Ro. Just talk to him. It won't be easy. …But I can promise that it will feel better than this. We can figure things out. One thing at a time. You protect me, I protect you.
"Now," she says, smirking and resting a coy hand on her knee, "reckon we should go down? It's been quite a while."
I guide her again through the labyrinth of stairs, pointing out the places that leave splinters in feet. I'm so used to The Burrow, so accustomed to the wooden fortress' gaps and holes, I would be able to find my way to each room while stepping around each pitfall. It takes so long to get her down to the dining room, I'm surprised that there are still people at the table.
But there are. They all are.
And a place is set for Gilda, right between Victoire and me. Her plate is piled high with mashed potatoes and gravy, turkey, peas, bread, and ham.
Gilda looks around the room uncomfortably, as if unsure whether taking a seat would be appropriate. But, with every Weasley and Potter eye on her, she pulls out her chair and takes a seat, blushing slightly.
Everyone must be thinking what I thought when she first tumbled out of the fireplace. As if anyone human could think of anything else! But I'm glad that they carry on as if nothing had happened; Gran Molly offers her some more gravy.
"I slept with Shawn," I say suddenly.
We'd blown out the candles a while ago. We had gotten into bed not much after. But neither of us have fallen asleep. There's been too much to think about, especially with all that's happened within the last month. With a single chime, the clock on the wall reminds us of how long we've been lying awake.
"What?" Gilda says after a long time.
I shrug, forgetting that she probably can't see it in the dark.
"Wait, are you—… you're serious?"
"No, just imagined it. Yes, I think I know when I've had sex."
"But Shawn's super-Christian," she says.
"Well… he still did it," I say.
I turn over to face her and I can see her grinning.
"How?"
"Sort of pressured him into it," I say, chuckling guiltily.
"Really?"
"Yeah. Yelled at him, tried to convince him it wasn't a sin. Should I feel bad?"
Shawn had avoided me the rest of the week, going as far as to skip a day of practice. I probably should feel horrible.
"Should I?" I ask again.
"No! Not at all. Sex is natural, right?"
"I s'pose…"
"And it was good, right?"
"Er… it was alright... Thought it would hurt more, so… sort of okay, yeah."
Gilda sits up sharply, grinning harder, looking like she's trying to hold in hysterical laughter. For some reason, her black eye makes her eyes look happier.
"You're the worst girlfriend in all history."
"Am not," I say, rather incredulous. Even so, I too bite my lips in laughter.
She grins, "You had your way with your boyfriend. You raped him."
"Gilda!"
"Criminal." She flicks her wand and the candles glow at once. After my eyes stop stinging from the sudden light, everything comes into focus. Gilda is leaning against the headboard of the handmade bed I use whenever I stay at the Burrow. Every time she shifts, I worry that she'll scrape her shoulder on one of the knots. She strains to reach a bag on the nightstand and grabs a licorice wand. "You're going to Azkaban, you dirty witch."
I bury my face in the pillow.
"Eewustewintsayes," I say, muffled, through the pillow.
"Sorry?"
"He was the one to say yes," I say, after a gulp of air.
"Must love you, that boy must."
"Probably."
Clicking her tongue, Gilda looks away.
"What?" I ask, suspicious.
"I don't… oh, never mind."
"No, it's okay," I bring my knees up to my chest and wait, hugging my legs.
She sighs and looks back, shockingly serious. Her scars and bruises, though fainter after being healed by mum, make her expressions more extreme and it's honestly scary.
"It's just that," she begins, tapping a finger on the windowsill, "well, I don't really get why you're still with Shawn. I mean, other than he's gorgeous. But…?"
Nodding slowly, I look out at where her stare had been before. A fox sneaks through the tall grass, sniffing along the fence, probably trying to find a way to the chickens.
I look back. "It's really easy. Predictable, safe… there are so many people I have to keep track of, and they all think of me differently and confuse me and surprise me. So it's just… nice to have someone simple who I can really, really count on to not change or think of me differently if I make a mistake." The fox continues to poke his nose through the wire fence; the chickens almost tease him as they waddle past, their fluffy tail feathers twitching near the tempted fox's snout.
"I care about him. He's very sweet to me, and I have no reason not to be with someone so good."
"Yet you're still not happy," she points out.
"Yes I am!" I say, pouting indignantly.
But at the same exact time, something in me is very confused as to whether it's even near the truth. I have happy days. There are days where I catch the snitch in front of hundreds of screaming Gryffindors, or laugh until my stomach hurts with Leah or Torrie or Paridhi. Plenty of those days, every month.
Despite all that, it's hard to argue that what Gilda says isn't true. How long has it been since I was a truly happy person?
'Three years,' a voice whispers sneakily.
Who am I to doubt my own good fortune? Of course I'm happy. Everything is great. How could I not be anything but delighted? So I should be, and so I am. Satisfied with everything. Completely.
I lie back down and wave my wand, dimming the candles.
Gilda follows suit.
Before I fall asleep, she mutters one last thing:
"Azkaban."
