It was never meant to be this way...
Dad tells me that it was an inescapable accident. When Mum died, the way she died, her magic needed somewhere to go. And the only place it could find was...me, cowering in the corner of the room, tears streaming down my face as I watched my own mother explode. It's quite a traumatic scenario, so no one realised for ages. By the time anyone did, well, it was too late, wasn't it?
Her magic is intertwined with mine, vivid, blazing yellow against translucent blue. It's quite pretty to watch and sometimes I do, trailing my wand across the darkness of my bedroom to watch it play out. No one else can see it (I found that out the hard way when I tried to show Padma Patil, and she claimed I was insane), but at least I can. I think of my mum, and when I'm all alone, sometimes I cry.
I don't cry in front of other people, I know better. Tears are weaknesses, and weaknesses are ways for people to hurt you. I learned that soon enough. Being called barmy, nutters, insane. "Loony" Lovegood, they taunt. They hide my shoes in the rafters and my books in the flower pots. I try to confront them, but when I do, they only laugh and tell me perhaps a Nargle took them. It's hard not to let my magic have free rein with them, yellow and blue swirling together. Did you know when they're perfectly combined, they're Avada Kedavra green? I try not to dwell on that thought. My magic has a mind of its own, you see, and I can't let another accident happen again.
It was before Hogwarts, when I was still having lessons in old Mrs. Kettlebroom's house down the road with the other neighbourhood children. Iris Plimsoll wouldn't stop teasing me about how I'd gone barefoot yet again, and she brought my mum into it. Told me that my mum would think I was a disgrace but then again, maybe not, because my mum was just as crazy as I was when she was alive. And before I could do anything, vivid green flames enveloped her and she disappeared for ages. When they found her, she was down by the brook, burnt nearly unrecognisable.
At least no one ever said anything bad about my mum again.
Until I came to Hogwarts, that is, but I can't let my magic escape here. They won't believe that it's an accident. That I can't help it. They'll think I'm the dangerous kind of mad, I'll be locked up in St. Mungo's, prodded and poked until they figure out what happened. Why I'm "different."
Of all the people in Hogwarts, I think Harry understands me the best. He doesn't know he does. Not yet. He doesn't know he's got a piece of You Know Who locked up in his head. But I can see it. His magic is deep, vivid blue, like a starry night, but his scar pulses dark, poisonous green. What else could it be? I talk to him sometimes, offer up pieces of my soul for his inspection. He's unwittingly kind, although he doesn't understand me. That's all right. I nod and smile, my expression vague, as I offer him a periwinkle for his thoughts, or a thistle blossom for his nightmares. Granger always scowls at me, telling Harry in hissing whispers I'm loony, don't listen to me, and I have to keep the thoughts away. Of Avada Kedavra green encircling her, too, wrapping her up in an emerald shroud.
It would disappoint Harry, you see, and I don't want to disappoint him ever. I want to keep him safe.
Even if it's from me.