This is the first story in a series I may or may not be writing. Each
story deals with a basic human emotion (i.e.: love, hate, joy etc.). This
story contains OOTP spoilers. It's set in the Trio's sixth year from
Hermione's point-of-view.
NOTE: I am either not J. K. Rowling, or I got hit by an excellent Memory charm and do not remember I am J. K. Take your pick.
Fear
I have not been a morning person since the beginning of our sixth year. I used to be. I'd bound out of bed early, get dressed, go to the library, and meet Harry and Ron for a cheerful breakfast. A good start to a good day.
I have no good days anymore. My days have been on a steady decline since the summer after our fourth year. I've seen my parents twice since then. In total, I've spent a week with them in two years. I don't even know where they live anymore.
Two weeks after I got home on the Hogwarts Express, the summer before fifth year, Headmaster Dumbledore apparated to my house. He explained to my shell-shocked family that as Harry's friend and muggleborns I ranked fairly high on Lord Voldemort's People to Kill list. He told my parents I had to go to a secret hideout and they would have to move.
You know the rest of that story. I spent the summer with the Order of the Phoenix. After fifth year, I didn't even get to see my parents at all. Our letters have to go through the mail in such a roundabout manner; letters are received at least two weeks later.
These aren't the letters I worry about. We need to be so vague when we write; it's hard to learn anything from them. What keeps me up half the night, every night, are the Ministry letters. They come at least once every two weeks. They always come in the morning. New owls deliver them. The owls are pitch black.
One came in yesterday. Everyone watches, even the Slytherins. They are not exempt. Aurors killed Blaise Zambini's mother a month ago. Hannah Abbot thought it was headed to her and fainted. She was in the Hospital Wing till lunch. The letter wasn't for her, though. No one's seen Dennis and Colin Creevey since yesterday. I only met their mother once, when I got off the Hogwarts Express. Their dad went last term. They'll spend their summer with an aunt.
Every time one of those owls comes in, the only the thought in my head is, "Please, not me. Not yet." The Great Hall used to ring with laughter. Now all you hear are hushed murmurs, sobs, or a scream.
No one smiles in class either. Even Professor Snape has lost interest in insulting the students. He even refrained from commenting when Neville knocked over his cauldron while rereading the letter about his gran. The stone floor is still pitted. Everywhere you look you see fear so strong you could bottle it. The only time you see signs of life is in Defense Against the Dark Arts, taught by Dumbledore. No one misses that class. We all look alike, wearing the same looks of grim determination. Maybe one more spell will keep the letter away.
Everyone knows what the letter says, even though its contents are not discussed.
Dear ______,
We at the Ministry regretfully inform you that your mother/father/sibling/other relation, _____ __________, passed away on _/_/__. The cause of death has not yet been determined. We are sorry for your loss.
Amelia Bones
Images of the owl always interrupt what little sleep I snatch. It stoops down and drops the letter. No matter what I do: rip it, burn it, ignore it. It follows me, and opens, but instead of the form letter, I see them fall and scream. Malfoy's father stands above, laughing. Then he turns his wand on me. A jet of green light, bright enough to scorch your eyes, arcs toward me and I wake screaming.
I'm no longer a morning person, merely a mourning person, one among hundreds.
NOTE: I am either not J. K. Rowling, or I got hit by an excellent Memory charm and do not remember I am J. K. Take your pick.
Fear
I have not been a morning person since the beginning of our sixth year. I used to be. I'd bound out of bed early, get dressed, go to the library, and meet Harry and Ron for a cheerful breakfast. A good start to a good day.
I have no good days anymore. My days have been on a steady decline since the summer after our fourth year. I've seen my parents twice since then. In total, I've spent a week with them in two years. I don't even know where they live anymore.
Two weeks after I got home on the Hogwarts Express, the summer before fifth year, Headmaster Dumbledore apparated to my house. He explained to my shell-shocked family that as Harry's friend and muggleborns I ranked fairly high on Lord Voldemort's People to Kill list. He told my parents I had to go to a secret hideout and they would have to move.
You know the rest of that story. I spent the summer with the Order of the Phoenix. After fifth year, I didn't even get to see my parents at all. Our letters have to go through the mail in such a roundabout manner; letters are received at least two weeks later.
These aren't the letters I worry about. We need to be so vague when we write; it's hard to learn anything from them. What keeps me up half the night, every night, are the Ministry letters. They come at least once every two weeks. They always come in the morning. New owls deliver them. The owls are pitch black.
One came in yesterday. Everyone watches, even the Slytherins. They are not exempt. Aurors killed Blaise Zambini's mother a month ago. Hannah Abbot thought it was headed to her and fainted. She was in the Hospital Wing till lunch. The letter wasn't for her, though. No one's seen Dennis and Colin Creevey since yesterday. I only met their mother once, when I got off the Hogwarts Express. Their dad went last term. They'll spend their summer with an aunt.
Every time one of those owls comes in, the only the thought in my head is, "Please, not me. Not yet." The Great Hall used to ring with laughter. Now all you hear are hushed murmurs, sobs, or a scream.
No one smiles in class either. Even Professor Snape has lost interest in insulting the students. He even refrained from commenting when Neville knocked over his cauldron while rereading the letter about his gran. The stone floor is still pitted. Everywhere you look you see fear so strong you could bottle it. The only time you see signs of life is in Defense Against the Dark Arts, taught by Dumbledore. No one misses that class. We all look alike, wearing the same looks of grim determination. Maybe one more spell will keep the letter away.
Everyone knows what the letter says, even though its contents are not discussed.
Dear ______,
We at the Ministry regretfully inform you that your mother/father/sibling/other relation, _____ __________, passed away on _/_/__. The cause of death has not yet been determined. We are sorry for your loss.
Amelia Bones
Images of the owl always interrupt what little sleep I snatch. It stoops down and drops the letter. No matter what I do: rip it, burn it, ignore it. It follows me, and opens, but instead of the form letter, I see them fall and scream. Malfoy's father stands above, laughing. Then he turns his wand on me. A jet of green light, bright enough to scorch your eyes, arcs toward me and I wake screaming.
I'm no longer a morning person, merely a mourning person, one among hundreds.
