I didn't write home.
I didn't think she would find my letters in the piles she already had.
Might toss them behind the desk like the others.
Why did I need to write when the School sent plenty.
Piles of letters.
Heaps and hoards of them.
All addressed to Mr and Mrs Weasley.
Not that Mum would have shown Dad.
Always the same polite, looping script asking them to consider sending me to a specialist. A healer. Someone who would know what to do with the Dragon laying eggs in my belly. And the pain, the pain that was always there, right behind the spells.
I memorized the phrases the teachers used, the nice ways they tried to guilt Mum into getting me the help I needed. I tried to use them myself.
Mum always waved it away.
Ignorance is bliss—a spell of its own kind.
I tried to tell her, "This is proof!" that something was wrong.
But I heard the same speech, time and time again.
We are not made of money.
I had the same problems.
There is no issue.
You think something is wrong.
There is a war going on. You are selfish for thinking healers need to focus on you.
Why do you always do this?
Why can't you just be silent?
I suffered in silence, under the burden of propriety spells used by Pureblood Families for hundreds of years. I suffered because it made Mum happy, somehow, to know—
I am not sure. Actually. I was never sure. I was never sure why she refused to do anything about it.