Idly, Lydia flicked her fingers at a bothersome fly. It buzzed off, only to return again, flying around the vicinity of her ear. She brushed it away impatiently to return her concentration to her book:
The gnome is a common garden pest found throughout northern Europe and North America. It may reach a foot in height, with a disproportionately large head and hard, bony feet. The gnome can be expelled from the garden by swinging it in circles until dizzy and then dropping it over the garden wall. Alternatively a Jarvey may be used, though many wizards nowadays find this method of gnome-control too brutal.
With a sigh, she marked another line on a piece of paper already filled with rows of crossed lines. "Five, ten..." she counted. "Forty, forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine." She exhaled in exasperation, then started again.
The gnome is a common garden pest found throughout northern Europe and North America...
Finally she crossed her fiftieth line and stood from the chair she'd been sitting in. Wincing and rubbing her rear, she walked into her kitchen.
"Mom, I'm done now," she said.
Her mother turned. "Fifty times, are you sure?" she asked.
"Yes! I'm sure!" Lydia glared at her mother. Marie Weasley avoided her glare and, looking over Lydia's head, said, "Hello, Ron!"
Lydia turned and was greeted by the sight of her father, bending his head slightly to fit through the doorway. His red hair-covered head was uncommonly high off the ground, since Ron Weasley was well over six feet tall. Marie was tall for a woman at five foot eleven, and Lydia had inherited their height. At age fourteen and already five foot eight, she was several inches taller than most girls her age, and many boys as well. She blamed it on her parents and wished fervently (and very often) that she were shorter.
"Hello, dear," he said, approaching and kissing Marie. Lydia looked away, disgusted.
"Mom made me read the stuff about gnomes fifty times just because I didn't de-gnome the garden," Lydia said accusingly.
"That's very nice," her father said, distracted by an owl that had just zoomed in through the window. He took the letter clutched between the owl's claws and sent the creature off again. Reading the letter, he tossed it on the counter.
"A greeting from Harry," he said, meaning Harry Potter, the famous man who happened to be Lydia's godfather.
"Ron...the letter came today," Marie told him, casting a meaningful glance at Lydia.
"What?" Lydia demanded immediately.
Her father looked slightly solemn. "Lydia," he said, "we have some news for you."
"News? What kind of news? Did somebody die? Is Grandpa Arthur okay?"
"He's fine, sweetie," her mother assured her. "Well, you know how Daddy came to America from England?"
"Yeah?" Lydia asked suspiciously.
"I went to a very good school there," Ron said. "It closed down for a while after...after what went on in the wizarding world..."
Lydia knew he meant the second Dark Age, when Voldemort, an evil wizard her father spoke of with a little fear still in his voice, had come back to power after her godfather, known as The Boy Who Lived, had, by a miracle, caused Voldemort to lose his powers. When he came back, he was more powerful and terrible than before. Many lives were taken, including that of some of her father's friends.
"You've talked about Pigzits before."
"Hogwarts," her mother corrected her.
Her father nodded. "Er...well, I'm sure I told you they re-opened with a new headmaster" –he grimaced—"and this fall, we'd like to enroll you in it. They raised the age so the youngest you can be is thirteen instead of eleven, and you'll only be a year behind..."
"Hang on, hang on," Lydia said. "I don't know any magic. I'm a skid, remember?"
"Squib," her mother corrected her again. "And, no you aren't."
"What do you mean?" Lydia demanded while trying not to show that she did, in fact, know what they meant. For the last few months, she'd discovered a touch of magical ability in her. Once, she got mad at her friend Ashley, and Ashley's face had turned red. That wasn't the uncommon part. It stayed red for the next week. Another time she got mad at a boy and told him to piss off, and the next moment, his pants were wet. Really wet. He'd shot her the dirtiest look her could muster while trying to preserve his dignity (which was quite difficult, considering his pants were rapidly getting wetter and wetter). He stayed clear of her from then on. All her friends kept saying, "What a coincidence—right when you said, 'Piss off...'" Then, at one of her classes (she was homeschooled, and took various classes like art, karate, etc.) she had become so frustrated with the glass she was supposed to be drawing that suddenly, it broke. It wasn't like a regular glass explosion; the glass was split flawlessly in two. Her flustered teacher had ushered her out of the class and told her to take the rest of the class off to calm her nerves. She had jammed her hands into her pockets and left sulkily.
"Your art teacher gave us a call and told us what happened. Honey, why didn't you tell us?" Marie asked.
"Because I don't want to be a witch! I want to be a normal kid and have friends and a boyfriend and have nothing to do with magic!" she yelled.
Her parents exchanged looks. "I think you're a little young for a boyfriend, dear, but we'd like you to go. For your sake."
Lydia bellowed, "I DON'T WANT—wait, isn't the school in England?"
"Yes..." Her father shifted.
Lydia stared, outraged, at her parents. "You mean," she said in a voice barely more than a whisper, "we're moving?"
"Yes," her dad said, "and it's final."
"No way. No way! I am NOT moving! You can't make me!"
"Oh yes we can," Ron said grimly. "We move next week."
Lydia gaped, her mouth flapping open and closed like a helpless fish. "We can't move next week!" she insisted hotly. "What about my friends and everything? What about MY LIFE?"
"Your life is moving too," her mother said. "You can keep in contact with your friends by email and phone."
The girl struggled for words. Finding them, she said in a low, fierce tone, "I hate you." With that, she bounded up the stairs and slammed her door with a resounding boom. Then she flopped on her bed and started to cry.
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The next morning, Lydia woke up to remember the unpleasant reality that crashed down on her. Anger renewed, she slipped out of bed and stomped downstairs, wordlessly sitting down hard on a chair at the table (and feeling her tailbone hit the wood, knowing she'd have a bruise there the next day). Her dad had left for work, and Marie was making breakfast. Her mom walked into the room and silently served Lydia her favorite waffles with strawberry sauce.
After a few uncomfortable minutes (and many more uncomfortable bites, accompanied by chewing), Lydia burst out, "What letter came yesterday?"
Marie handed her an envelope. Lydia snatched it, glaring at her mother for ignoring her, and took out the paper.
Dear Ms. Weasley,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardly. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1. We await your owl no later than July 31.
Yours sincerely,
Severus Snape
Headmaster
Lydia stared at the letter. "God, they sound demented." Then, re-reading the letter: "Today's August first," she said aloud with a huge amount of sudden relief. "They wanted an owl by the thirty-first! You can't send me!"
"We sent it yesterday," was the first sentence from her mother behind the newspaper she was reading.
"You sent it without telling me I was going first?" Lydia asked loudly. "Geez, what kind of a family do I live in?"
"A good one that wants to take care of you," her mom said, lowering the newspaper momentarily to fix a stern eye on her daughter.
"Yeah right—a good one, eh? One that sends their daughter to a school she's never heard of and doesn't want to go to and has to move to another country to go to?!"
Her mother sighed and went to refill her cup of coffee while Lydia stared stupidly at her waffle.
"Waffle, waffle, on my plate—tell me, these my parents ain't," she muttered, knowing it was improper grammar but not finding anything else to rhyme with.
"Lyddie, Lyddie, in her chair, why've you got a sour stare?" her mother countered, returning from the kitchen.
"Stupid, stupid, mom o'er there, I hate you, that's why I've got this stare," she said rudely, rising from her chair and grabbing her now soggy waffle as her mom cried, "Lydia! That's enough of this attitude you're putting on. It's not that bad!"
"You're not the one who has to go to a stupid new school. Who the hell cares what damned school I go to?"
"Lydia! Language!"
"Who the hell cares?" she yelled, then ran up to her room again, thinking she could change her parents' minds. How little she knew.
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Well, I hope you liked that. I'd highly appreciate reviews -points to the button- See, over there, at the bottom-left of your screen? Press the 'go' button and tell me what you think (and if you want more!)! Thankies!! -bows-