Never Let Go

I often wonder what life would have been like had my mother lived.

I often wonder what she was like . . .

They say she was a loving woman, a woman that saw the good in those around her and never turned her back on anyone in need. They say that her beauty rivaled that of a Veela, that her voice, so soft and pure, could soothe even the most savage beasts.

They say that she was brave and cunning, that her heart was pure as gold and that she loved me more than anything. They say she loved me so much that she sacrificed herself in order to give my dad enough time to flea the house with me when Voldemort arrived for us on that fateful day in July.

I wish I remembered her.

I wish I remembered the feel of her embrace, the smell of her hair, the sound of her laugh. I wish I could remember the woman that made the ultimate sacrifice, but must of all I wish that that monster hadn’t ruined our lives.

Because that’s what he did when he killed my mother.

He ruined everything.

My father, who had never touched a drink in his life, was sent spiraling into the world of alcoholism. He lost himself in the drink, numbing his pain with whatever liquor he could get his hands on and in the process of numbing his pain, he forgot me.

He completely forgot that he had a one year old that he was responsible for.

The only times that he remembered that I existed were the times that I wailed for attention at the top of my lungs. And there were times when he ignored my cries; there were days when he was so drunk that he couldn’t pick himself off the floor to see if I was alright.

We lived that way for five long months.

We lived that way until my grandparents found us living in the small shack that my father had bought in Northern Scotland after my mother was killed. They were appalled by the conditions we were living in, outraged by how much our respective health’s had deteriorated.

So they did the only thing they could think of, they took us in.

Convincing my father of moving in with them wasn’t the easiest of tasks but when they threatened to sue for custody of me, he gave in, because even though he didn’t take care of me, just having me around made him feel better, it made feel like she wasn’t completely gone.

The cottage where we moved in was located on the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole in Devon, England. The cottage was massive, consisting of six bedrooms and four bathrooms, along with two large living rooms, a den, a library, and a kitchen.

There had once been a time when every bedroom had been occupied, but when my grandparent’s eleven children grew up, their cottage was abandoned and they were left to inhabit the massive property on their own.

I guess that having us live there did my grandparents as much good, as it did us.

They weren’t alone anymore.

They had people that were in dire need of their love and care, my Nana always tells me that I was her little miracle. That I got her out of her own depression that had come about when the last of her children had left the nest.

Sadly, I couldn’t get my dad out of his depression.

With each passing day he sunk further and further, nothing could stop him from his downward spiral. The will to live had left him, it had left the moment that my mother had died and five years and twenty seven days after her death, he joined her.

And I truly wish he hadn’t.

I wish that I would have been enough for him to live for, but apparently the pain in his heart was too much to endure, he needed to have her, he needed to be with her, even if it meant abandoning me.

After his death, I went mute.

No words were uttered, no sounds made; I was in mourning.

He had not been a good father, he had only thought of himself of his own needs, but still I loved him, still I mourned him because deep in my six year old heart, I knew that he had loved me.

I knew that even though he hadn’t shown it, I had been important to him.

And so I would mourn in silence for two years.

During those two years, everyone in the family worked very hard to get me to talk. They took me to amusement parks, they bought me toys. They threw parties that they thought would get a smile on my face and a giggle, their efforts were in vain.

I was determined not to speak, determined to spend the rest of my life in silence but then one day, when I was taking my afternoon stroll through the country with my Nana Rose, everything changed.

We were making our way passed a house that we had passed a hundred times before. It was an oddly shaped house that was always very noisy. We had never walked into the house, well, I had never walked in; I wasn’t fond of strangers.

People I didn’t know made me uncomfortable, so I avoided situations in which I’d be forced to be among strangers but on that fateful afternoon my Nana – quite literally – dragged me inside.

The moment the door opened, my Nana was engulfed into a seemingly warm embrace by a fiery haired woman. When the embrace ended the woman turned her attention to me and uttered something along the lines of, I was beginning to think you didn’t exist.

My only response was a strained smile that must have surely been an eye sore.

The woman, whose name I later learned was Molly Weasley, didn’t seem to mind my pathetic excuse for a smile. In fact, she complimented it, saying that it was adorable. Was that a lie? Perhaps, but it was a lie that alleviated my anxiety.

At least it did until her children showed up.

There were nine of them, nine strangers that filled my eight year old heart with terror. Thinking back on it, I shouldn’t have been scared, they welcomed me with kind smiles, they radiated happiness, but the fact that they were strangers terrified me.

My grandmother noticed how uncomfortable I had grown but instead of taking me home as I wanted her to, she told me to go play with the kids. I almost spoke to protest, but the anger I was feeling kept the words from escaping so I opted to glare at her before I followed the Weasley children to the backyard.

They tried getting me to play for ten minutes but when they grew tired of my silence, almost all of them left, the only one that stayed by side was the youngest boy, his name was Ron and I’ll never forget the first words he ever said to me.

I like your hair, it’s like a lions. I like lions. Do you like lions?

I didn’t respond, but that didn’t seem to bother him. He kept talking about lions, about how he was going to own one when he was older. We were both so engrossed with him talking about lions that we failed to notice that his brothers had transfigured his teddy bear into a giant spider.

I for one wasn’t scared of spiders nor was I terrified when I saw the giant creature standing before us, but when I saw the look of sheer terror etched across Ron’s face, I did something that I never thought I would do again.

I spoke.

I yelled my Nana’s name at the top of my lungs.

Mere minutes after I called for her, she arrived at my side and I begged her to get rid of the spider because it scared Ron, she was shocked that I was talking again but she did as I asked and on that day I made my first friend.

After that Ron and I were inseparable.

Wherever he went, I went. Wherever I went, he went.

Being around the Weasley’s had a very positive impact on my person. They took me out of my shell, but most importantly they taught me that there were people outside my family that I could trust in.

I was no longer weary of strangers. I no longer felt that they were going to kill me or my family, their kindness had taught me to have faith in humanity, a lesson that I would forever hold close to my heart.

As I grew older I began to look forward to attending Hogwarts.

Ron and I began planning adventures that we would go on, but three months before school began, my grandfather was appointed Britain’s ambassador to the American Ministry of Magic.

The news was a blow to both of us, our plans had been ruined but we planned to say friends even though I would be living in America until my grandfather’s appointment expired.

That of course, did not happen.

We were both to busy leading different lives.

Ron was doing his thing at Hogwarts and I had reinvented myself in America.

I was no longer the shy little girl that smiled awkwardly. I completely forced myself out of my shell; I was sociable, charming, and jovial. I became the student that others sought out when they were having a bad day and that . . . that made me happy because when I made others smile, I felt like my mom and dad were smiling down from heaven.

For the following five years, I lived and studied in America.

I became American.

But then, the summer before I started my 6th year, the British Ministry was taken over by the man whom had ruined my family. Needless to say, my grandfather was removed from his post as Ambassador.

Our family was unsure of what to do next.

We didn’t know whether to return to Britain or stay in America.

In the end, they left it up to me.

They asked if I was comfortable with returning.

No, was what I wanted to stay.

I wasn’t comfortable with returning to a country where the bastard that had murdered my mother and led to the ruin of my father, was fighting to gain absolute control.

But even though I wasn’t comfortable with returning, I knew that I had to return because being the dreamer that I am, I came to the conclusion that I was going to somehow kill Voldemort, that I would avenge my parent’s deaths.

It was that thought that drove me to return to England.

It was that thought that I clung to.