Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling.
i'It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.' Anne Sexton/i
It's funny, I'm sixteen, but I still watch and wait for my father to come home like I did when I was small. However, now I don't run to greet him. It's 11.30pm and he just walked through the fire. I'm pissed, but I have every right to be. It's my last night before school starts up again and he promised that he would be home. It's funny how I still try to believe him.
Right now, though, I want to make him pay; but, like always, he will be gone by the time I get up in the morning. If I'm lucky I'll get a owl when I get to school saying the he will make it up to me, mmm, nice thought.
My step-mum is downstairs waiting for him – at least she will say something. I have to say I never really felt much about her. I don't hate her, but I don't particularly like her. I guess she met me at a time of my life where I just didn't care. Anyway, she'll be gone soon – just like the rest.
I have to give her marks; she's pissed at him, too. Not so much for herself, either, but for me. She knew – like most of my dad's girlfriends and wives – that I wanted him here. Still, when she asks me about how I feel, I brush it off like I don't care. He is my father, the only blood family I have.
"What time do you call this? 6:30? 7:00?" she asks, frustrated.
"Jane, I'm sorry. Some jerk thought he would be funny and play magic jokes on some muggles and they needed me," my father replies. He has a reason, of course – he always has a reason; and it's always a good one. Only, when you've heard them over and over for your entire life, it kind of wears thin.
"And of course you didn't say 'no, can you find someone else?'" Her tone is growing sharper and I can imagine her eyes narrowing, like they always do when he comes home late.
"I said I was sorry," he interrupts. Yeah, that wears thin, too, after a while. You can only be sorry so many times.
"Not to me, to Ject." And she doesn't even know I can hear her. I really should try harder to like her, but what's the point? By the time I do, she won't be here anymore. It'll be someone else.
He says something under his breath, but I don't catch it. His voice is slightly clipped as he asks out loud, "Where is she?"
"Where do you think she is? It's 11:30; most likely asleep."
He doesn't answer; but then I hear his footsteps, so I quietly slid back into my room and pretend to be asleep.
He opens the door.
He's watching me, pissing me off. I want to have a go at him. I HATE IT when a parent stands there while you're trying to fake sleep: it makes you feel like you're doing something wrong.
He closes the door.
I also hate it when you want to have a go at someone, but you don't.
OK, before I go on I guess I should tell you about me. I'm sixteen years old, 5'8 with long red hair and green eyes. I'm told I get these from my grandmother, but I wouldn't know. I have glasses, but I live in the new age: contact lenses, thankyou! I'm about to start my 6th year at Hogwarts, and – not to sound too big for my shoes – I'm pretty well known. I guess, though, that's because of my father: Quidditch star; the boy who lived and then killed the dark lord Voldemort; famous Auror. To top it off, he helps out the ministry. People think he's great. They don't know him like I do. Sometimes I really hate the famous HARRY POTTER. And, if he can't be home on time for one stupid dinner, why did he have the wonderful and great Jessica Lily Potter? Actually, that's a funny story. My mum left me on his doorstep when I was a baby. That would have been fun for him: 'oh, I might just go outside and get some milk—Oh my god – a baby!' I guess he now knows what it felt like for his Aunt Petunia.
It's funny how life can bite you on the ass some times.