A Narrative
Chapter One: Prelude and Preparation
The one thing I've never done is hold pretensions of normalcy. I've tried many times, without much marked success, to determine the tipping point, the exact moment when I jumped over the chasm that separates those who are sane and those who, well, aren't. I've decided to place the blame on the conditions I was born into. Which, honestly, I had no control over, so you can't really blame me for how I've turned out. When it comes down to it, it's really my parents who are responsible. I mean, if you gave your daughter the name Nymphadora you wouldn't expect her to turn out normal, would you? If you wanted a normal daughter you'd name her something like Peggy-Sue or Mary-Anne. But I'm digressing. The point is my parents themselves were never really what you'd call run-of-the-mill.
The one thing they had in common was that they were sort of the black sheep of their respective families. My mom was the middle sister, one of three products of a meticulously pure blood clan. They always say the middle children are the weird ones. I don't have much evidence to the contrary. My mom sort of, well actually completely, hated her family. She never got caught up in the pure-blood mania that engulfed her parents and sisters. In fact, rebellious soul that she was, she married the first muggleborn she could get her hands on. Yep, she and my dear old dad got married the day after they graduated Hogwarts. My father was from a family of coal-miners. He had seven brother and sisters. Yeah, seven. As number four he probably would have been largely ignored (I mean, they didn't even bother giving him an original name… Ted for Merlin's sake!) if it hadn't been for his "special condition" as his parents deemed it. He had never really fit in with his siblings and fully ensconced himself in the wizarding world the second he got there. You can't really blame his family for forgetting about the child who was a away at some boarding school, whose purpose they only understood in the vaguest terms, for most of the year.
So there you have it. Like I said, Andromeda Black became Andromeda Tonks the day after she got her Hogwarts diploma and nine months later, voila! I, Nymphadora Tonks, entered the world. Objectively, it wasn't a particularly good time to be born. Voldemort had started his ascent and you couldn't be sure about anything from one day to the next. From what I've heard, people reacted to this situation one of two ways: They either put their lives on hold or they insisted on repopulating as fast as possible. You can tell which path my parents took…
Well, the truth is they sort of opted for the best of both worlds. They obviously got struck by that lovin' feeling, but after having me they sort of panicked and became isolationists. They bought a cottage in the most sparsely populated area of the English countryside and refused to leave. They were both pretty decent at Potions so they cooked stuff up for the ministry. That brought in a steady flow of galleons and we were, overall, fairly comfortable. I don't remember too much about my childhood. Pretty boring I'd imagine. I do distinctly remember being told to stay inside quite often. One of my few sources of amusement was my metamorphosing which, in and of itself, defeated any possibility of associating with any of the neighboring Muggle children. Don't really blame my parents for this one. I mean imagine trying to explain to a three-year-old and her parents why her playmate had just turned her hair aquamarine. Yeah, I was much better off in the thoroughly magical confines of our cabin.
But don't go on thinking this seclusion was entirely salutary. I mean, I never really learned how to interact with people my own age. It was usually just me and my parents. Well, there was an Uncle Alphard who my mother was rather fond of, but he died when I was five or so. And then Sirius and some of his friends would stop by occasionally. He was, after all, only five years younger than my parents and had run away from 12 Grimmauld Place before my memory started functioning properly. It's funny, who would've thought that his subdued, bookish companion would go on to play such a pivotal role in my life. But I'll have to get to that later… Anyway, these visits stopped when I was around eight, the slight hindrance presented by his newfound residence in Azkaban.
For the most part, my parents refused to admit there was a world outside our cozy little abode. They mixed which ever potion the ministry sent an order in for. Usually I watched them and they coached me on the intricacies of the subject. I don't think they turned off our Wizard's Wireless a single time in the eleven years I lived there (my dad confessed to having an affinity (I say obsession) for music that traced back to his Muggle beginings) but I don't remember receiving The Daily Prophet once. My parents refused to acknowledge the war that was being fought outside our walls. They much preferred to hole themselves up inside, brewing their potions, humming along to their favorite tunes, keeping me safe from some vague threat they never cared to fully investigate.
So there I was, poised for my entry into the greater wizarding world, already deeply rooted in my neurotic ways. I could converse freely with people twice my age, change my physical features at will, determine the identity of almost any potion you set in front of me (and probably manage to trip over it as well), and name nearly any tune that came in over the Wizarding Wireless Network. I did not, however, have any experience in relating with this foreign species known as eleven-year-olds. Then a letter came in post, explaining that I was going to spend the next seven years in a castle with them.
Author's Note: Hope you liked it. Feed back requested. You know, R-and-R doesn't just stand for Rest-and-Relaxation... I'm just saying... there's a button up there that's begging to be clicked on...