I only own Alice Pomona, Matthew Wood, Frank Neville Longbottom, Eleanor Susan Longbottom, and any other people with unfamiliar names.
Chapter One: The Way My Childhood Was Affected
I was born August 16th, 2005, in the maternity ward of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. My parents were young twenty-five-year-olds, merely trying to both find a job and be able to raise their child properly. From the time of when I was a little girl, I had always been fascinated by the tale of how I earned my name. Hermione Weasley, nee Granger, was present when this occurred, and found it bemusing how I always begged her to retell me of it.
My mother, weak and tired from child labor, was practically falling asleep when a Healer asked her for the name of her daughter, having been told to get it for the birth certificate. Mum had groaned when the Healer started bugging her. "Get off, man…" Mum had said in a slurred voice. "…Never annoy a woman after labor…"
As she drifted off to slumber land, Dad didn't even look up from the innocent baby in his arms. I was led to believe that from when I first burped minutes after my birth, Dad became engrossed in me. With a distant look in his eyes, he said to the Healer, "Alice. Her name is Alice Pomona. I know Hannah will be all right with our little girl's name."
And so I became Alice Pomona.
My earliest memory was from my fourth birthday, when James Potter had teasingly dubbed me Al, as my initials were A.L. It was then when I flew to my father in hot tears, thrusting hate upon my name. "Daddy, my name is horrible! It's the kind of name for an old lady who does nothing but knit! Daddy, why do I have to have such an awful name?"
At this point, I didn't know of the sentimental value my name held for my father. My paternal grandparents both having died when I was an infant, I was never told of their names until the next year, their true stories also remaining a mystery until that year. As I did my best to wipe away tears, Dad placed aside the Mandrake he was experimenting with, sat down on his favorite armchair, and pulled me onto his lap. "Alice, I'm sorry you think that way of your name. But have I ever told you about who was also named Alice?"
"No, Daddy."
"Well, remember when I took you to the cemetery awhile ago, to put flowers on two of the tombstones?"
I nodded. "I remember. You acted sad and didn't talk much."
Dad must have felt a guilty ping inside of him when I said that. "Alice, the sadness wasn't an act. I was sad. Those graves belonged to your grandparents – my mother and father."
"Daddy," I said impatiently, "I don't see how that tells me about my name."
I remember my father hesitating then, and I could recall him shaking his head at me. "Alice, dear, let's save this story for another time, all right? Perhaps when you're older…just remember for now that your name is very special, and you'll soon find out why."
And with that, Dad lifted me off of his leg and placed me back on the ground. He rose from his chair and left the room, leaving me alone until Mum bustled in to get me dressed for my birthday party.
Throughout the festivities that day, I couldn't even keep my mind on the party. My mind kept drifting away to my name's true meaning, and why my father refused to tell me the truth.
Little did I know, more than a year later, I'd uncover exactly what I wished to know. The September after my fifth birthday was when a war memorial opened at Hogwarts, consisting of names of lost and terminally injured wizards who fought in both the First and Second Wars against Voldemort. I accompanied my parents to the revealing ceremony, but once we arrived at the school and were out on the grounds where the memorial was, I was soon left out of my parents' mingling with old friends. I thought that they would at least put my little brother Frank and I under the care of a student, so they wouldn't have to worry about us. But no – Mum was lugging Frankie around like a doll, while I was given the option of either wandering around or staying put until my parents decided to take my brother and I home.
Clearly bored with the whole aspect of the event, I roamed over to the marble walls that were the memorial. My mother had been teaching me to read at the time, and I could now properly recognize not only my own name, but my family members' names as well. My eyes eager for information I could absorb, I scanned the walls for a familiar name or two. Two names screamed out to me immediately – Alice Longbottom…Frank Longbottom…
Now, you must remember that I was only a mere five-year-old at the time, and had not been told a thing about my paternal grandparents until then. So, naturally, when I spotted my name and my brother's, I was beyond confusion. Why on earth were our names on the memorial? We hadn't been born during the time of the Wars…I thought of the Muggle faerie tales my mother read to me at bedtime. They had stories of reincarnations and clones in them – perhaps Frankie and I had lived during the Wartime and had been reincarnated or doubled. But no…that was impossible…
I remembered running madly back towards my father, calling out to him at the top of my lungs. "Daddy! Daddy, why is my name on the wall? Frankie's is there too! It just doesn't make sense, Daddy!"
The following that occurred was when my whole childhood drastically changed. My father had paused with a stiff look in his eyes, but then put down his plate of cakes and cookies to take my hand in his. Silently, he led me away from the crowd over to a deserted spot by the lake. He sat me down…looked me square in the eye…and explained everything as simply and gently as he could. I was told of the original Order of the Phoenix, and how well known and brave my grandparents were – the grandparents named Alice and Frank.
Dad talked about the Prophecy, and how he could have been the Boy Who Lived. Before I knew it, he reached the end of his tale – which concluded with the torturing of my grandparents.
I don't exactly recall that had happened after that. But many years later, when I was a curious and rather nosy ten-year-old, I asked my father of what I had done after he finished telling me everything. He said in a soft, choking voice, "Well, at first, you looked…like you were about to cry, and I was worried that I made a mistake of telling you about…all that happened. But then, you just hugged me and said, 'don't worry, Daddy. I think Grandpa and Grandma Longbottom were the bravest people in the world.'"
Soon after the memorial ceremony, my father bestowed upon me a photograph of my grandparents at their wedding. The times I stared at this photo were uncountable. Every time I took it out from my night table drawer, I found something new to fantasize over. There was Grandpa Frank's round, but careworn face, and his enchanting smile. His hair laid parted to the left, threads of silver detectable in the dominant chestnut brown color. His arm was wrapped around Grandma Alice, whose youthful face outshone everyone in the photo. Her light brown hair was cut shorter than any of the women in her bridal party – it ended just above her ears. Dad claimed that Grandma was a bit of a tomboy like me, hence her short haircut.
I often traced the outline of my namesake's face at night, when I couldn't sleep. As I grew older, I uncovered more and more about how being told Grandma and Grandpa's true story affected my fleeting childhood. At an early age, I was told of the horrors of war and fighting, and how it hurt and broke apart not only strangers, but also my family. This caused me to feel a little left out later in life among my school peers – the war stories caused me to act more mature at times than my classmates. Very few girls accepted me, leading to me hanging out mostly with James Potter and Matthew Wood. But that is another story, in another time…
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