Well, here it is! My last final is tomorrow, and then I just have a week full of half-days left. This means lots more updates!

This chapter was originally going to be together with the next one, but I split them up because it'd take too long to write.


Chapter Three: Separation

After the move to London, life grew both better and worse at the same time. Whilst I soon grew used to the dank and dark atmosphere of the Leaky Cauldron and its guests, I was away from my true home of Godric's Hollow, and my true friends, the Potter family. The Potters made a tradition of visiting us every New Year's Day, but it was still only one chance to see them per year.

By our third month of living in London, I was already sorely missing the fresh, clean air of Godric's Hollow as opposed to the smoky air of London. I ached to play along in another prank of James', perhaps one meant to steal the Marauder's Map back from Harry Potter. I even missed Dad nagging me to help him water the plants in our greenhouse. All of our plants had been donated to the Hogwarts greenhouses before we left home, Professor Pomona Sprout delighted to have donations from a former student of hers.

It was on our first Christmas in London when I felt empty inside. Christmas just wasn't…Christmas when we were at the Leaky Cauldron. Christmas at Godric's Hollow was never a dull event. There was always a strong, cinnamon scent coming from our kitchen, Mum loving to bake brightly colored, sweet Christmas cookies. Dad would breed poinsettias for some time before Christmas, in order for them to have gone through full growth by the time December 25th rolled around. Then there would be the caroling events several neighborhood mothers would get all the children involved in, my siblings, the Potter children, and I having participated in one of these when I was six.

Christmas was quieter among our family in London, but certainly not quieter among the Londoners. Several magical folk would come spilling in from Diagon Alley, either in a merry, drunken mood or coming to the pub to get into a merry, drunken mood. Luckily, Mum, also serving as a bartender, would allow only a certain amount of drinks per customer. "I have three children, Bert," I overheard her saying to one customer that winter season. "And they are not going to see any intoxicated wizards in my pub. The world is scary enough, why do they have to see more terror?"

At the time, I had no idea what Mum meant by a scary world. The world was scary when Voldemort was in power, not now, when the Wizardry world was as peaceful as ever…

It was on Christmas Eve, 2013, when I had a memorable flashback of last Christmas, when the Potters came over to our cottage for a holiday feast. James and I had been toasting peanuts in our roaring fireplace until Dad forced us to stop, but that just caused us to venture outdoors to have a snowball fight. How furious the adults had been with us when we came inside sopping wet!

The flashback only made me more eager for New Year's Day. I was counting down the hours, minutes, and seconds until January 1st, 2014. It was on December 31st when my parents gave me the opportunity to attend the New Year's Eve celebrations in Diagon Alley with them. That meant being giving the rare treat of staying up past 8:30 p.m. – my usual bedtime at that age - but I wanted to have a proper good night's sleep before the Potters' visit on New Year's Day. Knowing James, I would be pranking and laughing all day long, and I knew I'd need energy for that.

But as dawn of New Year's Day arrived, I woke with a twisted knot in my stomach. Assuming it was just excited jitters about today, I helped myself to a large, helping breakfast, gobbling it down in one big swipe. By the time we heard a big thud from the fireplace on the main floor, we knew that our guests had arrived (by Floo powder), and it was then when my bacon and eggs were practically leaping in my stomach.

My family and I stumbled down the many staircases, having gone from the sixth floor to the main floor in a matter of minutes. And there were the Potter five, brushing soot off of their robes and rubbing their temples, apparently having bumped their heads upon landing in the pub's fireplace. Mum and Dad brushed past us children to heartily greet Harry and Ginny, while Lily and Eleanor – being a year apart in age – immediately paired off to play 'dress-up' upstairs. As James and Albus silently mounted their toy broomsticks – planning to ride in the cleared off pub area – I bounced over to them, beaming widely.

"Hello, James, Al!" If I were any happier, my face would crack. "Can I join you? I'll get my broom from upstairs!"

Albus Potter rarely spoke to me in our younger days; he was a shy little chap. But the days in Godric's Hollow when James ignored me were scarce – even when we were babies and couldn't talk, we communicated using the common infant gibberish. When James didn't answer me after I asked about the broomstick riding, I repeated myself, "James? Can I ride with you and Albus?"

James had rolled his eyes. "No way! You're just a girl, Alice – girls don't ride brooms." He then turned to Frankie, who was five at the time and had standing by himself in the dark corner, and said, "Frank, do you want to ride with us?"

My brother's entire face lit up. "Yeah, sure!"

As Frankie dashed upstairs to get his toy broom, I stared back at James, with a puzzled and hurt look. Finally, I left the main floor in a run and hurried back upstairs to the flat. Locking myself in the girls' bedroom – telling my mother that my stomachache had gotten worse- I plopped down upon the bed, once again letting out tears. During my absence back home, James had become aware of the 'cooties' girls contained. He had turned into a sexist pig at the age of eight. Did he not know of how his mother had been a famous Quidditch player before giving birth?

I was allowed to stay in my bedroom for the rest of the visit, discovering that I was quite good at faking sick. Ginny Potter poked her head into the room before she left with her family, wishing me a quick recovery. Ginny was a sweet, youthful soul, and her bidding me good tidings almost made me forgive James for acting so rude. I still felt as if I was slapped in the face by his comment, for now, I was no more than a whiny, frilly-dressed girl to him.

I realized that this was what the knot in my stomach was about – it was a signal that today my life would fall apart once again. How was I supposed to know I'd lose my best friend after so long? Throughout the first few months of living in London, James and I had exchanged as many letters as an eight-year-old could pen. But soon, we both had grown busy with the business of our homes, and stopped writing. It was if our friendship never grew – at least, in James's eyes, it was seen that way. That night, I couldn't help but shed yet another batch of tears after the Potters departed – crying was now my way to resolve problems these days…


The separation from James hit me hard. It was odd replaying the pub scene in my head, when James had called me "just a girl". Sure, he had teased me plenty of times when we were living in Godric's Hollow. But he never insulted me in a way that hurt so much. We were only eight years old, and at that age, nothing but sticks and stones truly hurt. But although I loathed this new separateness with all of my heart, I quickly learned how to keep my mind off of the Potter boy and focus on my new duties at the Leaky Cauldron.

Mum taught me how to man the bar as well as an eight-year-old could, and after almost a year of living in Diagon Alley, my parents granted me permission to roam around it by myself. The shopkeepers soon grew familiar with my name, and would sneak me free merchandise from their stores. Having been given a copy of the revised edition of Hogwarts, A History from Flourish & Blotts, I dove into this heavily, reading it whenever I could, and highlighting the words I found incomprehensible. I would later ask Dad about the words' meanings. On sunny days, I would lug the book to the ice cream parlor, and read it at a table outside the shop, while digging my way through banana splits or fudge sundaes. For most of the spring in which I was eight, I could be seen with my eyes glued to the pages of that beloved book. Visual images of Hogwarts soon appeared in my head – I dreamt of mouthwatering meals in the Great Hall, deep slumbers in the cozy dormitories, and a crystal blue lake being visible from a classroom window.

The more I read, the more I wished to turn eleven years old and attend Hogwarts. Whenever I spoke of this longing to my parents, their faces turned dark and grim. I realized many years later that when I talked to them about their old school, the only memories that flew back to them were the events of their fourth year and beyond, when numerous deaths started to occur, and the Wizardry world entered wartime. But I never let their past at Hogwarts affect my future there. Voldemort had been dead for nearly twenty years, and our world was at peace with each other. No other magical villain would be as threatening as Voldemort, not one.

Although more affected by this war – having entered his true manhood because of it – my father apparently wasn't afraid or delicate when recalling the memories. Mum would become frail and usually cry upon thinking of the War, as she lost her mother during it – if she couldn't hold back the tears, though, Mum was sure to go into a vacant and deserted room, away from us children. But Dad was different. He was eager to return to the school, to say that he witnessed Hogwarts before, during, and after Voldemort's rise of power. When he received the news of Pomona Sprout's retirement after nearly fifty years of teaching Herbology, Dad knew that it was his time to see the post-War Hogwarts.

He had been in line for the position ever since graduating school, and had impatiently waited two decades for the time of his teaching. During this duration of waiting, Dad had written and self-published two books – his autobiography, and the other, a how-to guide on raising proper magical plants. In both books, he mentioned how he was eagerly awaiting the teaching position of Herbology. Mum laughed at his obsession with the teaching post, but I understood his love of the subject. I was the one who assisted him in the caring of his plants back in Godric's Hollow, and I had seen his loving and determined eyes upon watering the leaves or observing their growth. I knew how much he wanted this.

…And yet, it never applied to me the fact of him possibly relocating to Hogwarts to teach. I was all smiles when he received a letter of acceptance from the Hogwarts staff. I had assumed it would mean our family would merely uproot themselves once again and live at Hogwarts. I was bubbling with eagerness upon thinking of this new possibility, wanting to be at Hogwarts more than anything. Neither of my parents knew that I thought this until about two weeks before my ninth birthday, and when my father would leave for the castle. I questioned at dinner one night, "So, when do we start packing for Hogwarts?"

Dad nearly choked on his shepherd's pie. "Excuse me?"

"You're going to be the Herbology teacher, Daddy. Aren't we moving to Hogwarts so you can teach there?" I spoke with a superior and knowing tone, acting older than my age.

My parents exchanged glances, and turned back to me with uneasy faces. Dad cleared his throat. "Frankie, Eleanor, why don't you two go downstairs and see if Mr. Gordon has arrived for his nightly drink, eh?"

My siblings had been playing with my Quidditch player action figures underneath the table, and had barely noticed when Dad asked them to leave. Finally, Mum rose from her seat and guided them downstairs herself, staying there with them. Dad then went into his lecture mode. "Alice, wherever did you get the idea that we'd all move to Hogwarts?"

I guiltily swallowed the food I was chewing. "Well…when Mummy got a new job, we all had to move here…and now you're getting a job…shouldn't we be moving to the school?"

Dad shook his head. "Ally, you misunderstood. There's no room at Hogwarts for all of us. You're staying here with your mother and Frankie and Eleanor. I thought you knew that."

Recognition flew towards me, and tears emerged in my eyes. "I…I have to stay here?"

My father nodded, and stroked my cheek gently. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I didn't know that you thought this…" He seemed at loss for words. Dad always felt miserable when he had to crush my heart in some way. "…But it'll be all right! I'll come home for Christmas and Easter, and there are the summer holidays! And it's not that long until you start attending school…"

I broke away from his eyes, and stared blankly down at my half-empty plate. It seemed that either I would leave my loved ones, or they would love me. First, I had to leave Godric's Hollow and the Potters. Now my father – beloved Daddy – was going away to teach at his alma mater, which I would not attend for another three years. What was my childhood coming to?

He left three days after my ninth birthday. As a present, he had given me a set of Muggle children's series that he purchased at Flourish & Blotts. Still cross with me about having to stay in London, I had moodily thanked him. When the morning of his departure arrived, I stayed in bed in my pajamas, with my quilt still pulled over me. Dad entered the bedroom silently, having already said good-bye to the others in the den. I shut my eyes when I heard his footsteps approach, and pretended to still be asleep. I could smell his coffee-scented breath above me, and I knew that he was just taking in my slumbering, innocent image. Then he bent down and kissed my forehead, stroked my hair, and left, closing the door behind him.

At the sound of the door closing, I leapt up from bed and dashed to the window, which overlooked the streets of Muggle London. I watched as Dad stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron and turned around to take one final look at the pub. He then went off in the direction of Kings' Cross Station, dragging his luggage along with him.

For the rest of the day, I stayed in my room, curled up in a ball on my bed, letting the tears take over my face.


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