Since I was 4, my Dad's been so proud of me. When I was four, I remember him carrying me around on his shoulders. He would take me to his meetings, show me off to his friends, boasting that I never cried. They would all nod their heads in approval, impressed with a 4 year old girl that never cried.
But things weren't always that way.
When I was about 3 years old, I remember asking my mom in my two year old speech, "Mommy, why don't daddy luv me?"
Smoothing back my bouncy black curls, my mother sighed. "He does love you, he just wanted a boy, and well, you're a girl." Then she tucked me into bed, and left me to ponder how I could become a boy, so my dad would love me.
The next day, I asked a boy in my nursery how boys acted.
"First," He responded, puffing out his chest. "Ya gotta neva eva cry. Ya gots ta love dirt and neva wear dresses."
So from that day on, I never cried. Not when the kid next to me stole my crayon, not when I didn't get the stuffed animal I wanted for Christmas, not when I got punished, not even when my grandmother died. And after a year of not crying, not wearing dresses, and loving dirt, my dad started to notice. And he started to love me.
He would play Quidditch with me in the back yard, making me dive into the mud, which I had grown to love, or at least tolerate. He taught me a Muggle sport, football, in which we both got incredibly dirty.
Never would I wear a dress. Whenever my mom wanted me to, my dad always told her that I didn't need to wear a dress, I could just wear dress robes instead. Usually the dress was prettier than the dress robe, and I longed to wear the dress and pretty shoes and have pretty bows in my hair, the way other girls did. But I would never admit that, because it would make my father think I was too girly to play with him, and I didn't want that.
So I grew to make changes in my life to please my father. I didn't take ballet lessons like all the other girls, because it was too girly. I couldn't learn to play the piano, because it was also too girly. After three years of not being able to go to tea parties, sleep overs, and ballet lessons, my friends decided that I wasn't their friend after all. The boys wouldn't hang out with me, because even though I acted like a boy, I was still a girls, and I was considered "icky" by their standards. But did it matter? Of course not. My father loved me, and that was more than enough. I never cried. I never cried.
For 7 years I haven't cried. Which is why I was so shocked and angry at myself when a single tear rolled down my cheek. I brushed it away quickly as my mother called me.
"Come on! Time to go!"
I ran out my room and down the hall into the living room. I felt weird. For the first time in 7 years, I wasn't wearing a dress robes. I was wearing a dress. And pretty black shoes. I even had my hair in pretty boys, for my mother had insisted upon it, and my father wasn't here to rescue me.
I looked at the jar in my mother's hands. It was sky blue with fluffy white clouds painted on it. It showed a scene that I had always loved. The calmness of the sky.
My mother's hand reached into the jar and withdrew a handful of powder, which she threw into the fireplace, whose fire warmed my outside, but failed to warm my soul.
"Go first." My mother ordered me.
I obeyed. "The Azkaban Sentencing Court House, London." I commanded the fire. I was shocked to hear my voice so steady. Suddenly, I was whirling, spinning, faster, faster, faster. Elbows pinned to my sides, digging into my ribs.
Then, it stopped. I was there. I stepped out of the fireplace and looked around. To my left, the gray dismal hall stretched farther that I could see in the gloom. There were no windows. To my right, it wasn't as dark, but still had the same gray cold walls and floor. A few wizards and witches moved in and out of doors silently. So quiet. It was deafening.
I had no more time to look around, however, because then my mother stepped out of the fire, and wordlessly set off to the right, with me trailing behind.
She led me to a room I guessed to be the court room. In the center there was a large, stuffed armchair, behind a desk, which was for the judge. To the left of the judge's desk, there was a high backed wooden chair with handcuffs and shackles attached to the chair, which was bolted to the floor. To the right of the judge's desk and turned slightly, facing the wooden chair, were 14 wooden chairs with cushions, that didn't look as comfortable as the judge's chair, but a hell of a lot more comfortable than the other wooden chair.
We took seats in the 8th row on the left side, facing the evil looking chair. The 1st through 7th rows were reserved for the Wizards' Justice Council of Horrendous Crimes members. Those were the wizards who asked questions of the accused wizard or witch, trying to make them seem either guilty or innocent. The 9th row was reserved for people who were presenting evidence. All rows beyond that were reserved for the press, if they were allowed in. I fiercely hoped they weren't, because I didn't think I could stand it if they were.
We sat there for a few moments, tense. My mother kept fiddling with her purse, her necklace, her watch, and her wedding ring. I payed close attention to the people coming in to divert my attention.
First, the members of the Council came in and took their seats. I noticed that most of them were wearing navy blue, with the exception of one, who was wearing navy blue with silver stars. The wizard in the front of the line was around fifty, with thin glasses that looked ready to fall off his scrunched-in nose.
After the Council was seated, the judge came in, wearing black dress robes that hung loose on his thin frame. His thin mouth was turned down in a frown.
Fourteen people followed the judge and took their seats. They all wore black robes and solemn expressions.
Then, I felt a chill going up my spine. All of a sudden, all the bad things, all the memories I never wanted to remember, came rushing back to me; the boys teasing me, calling me names, saying I had "cooties"; getting spanked and send to my room by my father; my grandmother dying; finding out I had to come here.
I turned to the door and my blood ran cold. Two hooded things were leading a man on a rope which was attached to his neck and both of his wrists.. All I could see of the hooded things were their bony hands, pulling the rope.
My eyes followed the rope, leading me to a pale, unshaven man. His shirt was torn and hung loosely on his boney frame. He looked up, and his hollow brown eyes met mine. Slowly, I realized this man was my father.
I stared, in shock, as the robed figures led him to the high backed wooden chair and forced him to sit down. They fastened the handcuffs firmly around his wrists and buckled the shackles to his ankles. Then they dropped the ropes and took their posts by the door.
I tried to make eye contact with my father, but to no avail. His eyes stayed glued to the floor, with a blank expression on his face.
The judge rose from his chair and spoke, "You, the Council, are here to present you case to the Jury. The Jury will either find Timothy MacAurthur guilty or not guilty of charges that he was aiding...Voldemort," several people, including the judge, flinched. The judge cleared his throat and then continued. "on his quest for power, using one or all of the Unforgivable Curses, aiding and participating in countless murders, those of both Muggles and Wizards and Witches all around the world, and serving as a Death Eater."
My eyes widened in disbelief. My father? A Death Eater? No. He couldn't be. Only a few weeks ago we had played Quidditch together. He was laughing, I was laughing. He couldn't possibly be a Death Eater. And certainly not a murder! I shook my head trying to wake myself from this nightmare, but that didn't help. This was real. This was my life.
"It will be all right. They'll find there was some mistake. The jury will find him not guilty, and we'll all go home. Things will be normal." I told myself.
I sat with in denial, not really hearing anything that was being said. Nothing sunk in, nothing was real. But when my father spoke, I forced my self to listen, even though I wanted nothing more than to run from the room, and hide. Hide from this nightmare.
"I have never voluntarily used any of the Unforgivable Curses, killed anyone, or aided....Voldemort." He whispered the last word, as if he, too, was afraid to say it.
"Are you saying you were forced to do those things you have been accused of?" Asked one wizard.
"Yes." My father did not look at the jury, nor the Council, but at the door, where the robed demons stood. He shuddered, then turned his eyes back to the floor.
"How?" Demanded a witch.
"By force, or an Unforgivable Curse?" Added another Council member.
"He threatened my family." My father looked at my mother, causing her to gasp quietly, and a tear to fall from her eye. I didn't comfort her, for that would have meant crying, and I knew if I started crying, I would never be able to stop. "Many times."
"What exactly did you do for....You-Know-Who?"
"I can't remember. Muggle villages. Burned them. Killed them." He spoke in a robotic voice.
"NO!" I wanted to scream. My father, a murderer? He killed entire Muggle villages? This couldn't be right, he must be under some curse, some spell.....
"So you admit to that!" A witch said, almost triumphiantly.
"Only because he threatened my family!" He raised his eyes, and his steel grey ones, met her shining green ones.
"Any more questions?" The judge asked wearily.
The Council shook their heads.
"Then it is time for the jury to make their decision. Please vote."
The jury scribbled on parchment and placed the parchment in a box, then gave the box to the judge, who spoke. "Jury, did you, based on the evidence presented by the Wizard's Justice Council of Horrendous Crimes, vote on the innocence or guilt of Timothy MacAurthur, accused of aiding....Voldemort on his quest for power, using one of all of the Unforgivable Curses, aiding and participating in countless murders, and serving as a Death Eater?"
The members of the jury nodded.
"Did you, the jury, vote without discrimination, and based solely on the evidence presented here, in this court room today?"
The jury nodded again.
"Then I shall count the votes of the jury."
I held my breath while he counted, waiting, praying.
"I ask the court to stand."
Everyone but my father stood.
"The jury, on a vote of 11 to 3, finds Timothy MacAurthur, guilty, and therefore sentenced to life in Azkaban. The court thanks the jury and the Council members. Court is adjourned."
I sat, numb with shock. My mother wept.
The Dementors were moving toward my father, to lead him away. I made my way through the crowd of people, indifferent to the fact that they had just convicted a man to Azkaban, where he would be stripped of his soul, where his soul would waste away, but he would never be physically dead.
As I reached my father the Dememtors were about to lead him away, but the judge, seeing me, stopped them.
"Wait." He said to them, and they stood silently by, so I could have a chance to tell my father goodbye.
"Goodbye, my little girl." He chocked.
"It's not goodbye, Daddy. I'll visit you." I promised, fighting with all my strength not to cry.
"You don't have to." He whispered, a single tear escaping from his eye. He made no move to brush it away, and it was followed by more silent tears.
"I love you." I whispered hoarsely.
"I love you, too, Princess. You'll always be my little girl."
The Dementors, growing impatient, pulled at the ropes, signaling they were taking my father.
As my father disappeared from the room, my mother came behind me and swept me into a tight embrace. She held me, and we cried.
We cried.