The Scars to Prove It

Farren watched from the door as Mrs. Weasley disapparated with a pop from their backyard. When she was gone, Farren leaned heavily against the door frame. She really didn’t want to go back inside. She closed her eyes and thought about how the last ten minutes had irrevocably changed her life.



After being roused in the middle of the night by a frantic letter from her dad, Farren was in a right state. If Carina hadn’t been there, she probably wouldn’t have moved from the spot. Luckily, Carina had been there. Her questions motivated Farren into collecting her things, albeit in a rather catatonic sort of way, and out the door in minutes.

Mrs. Weasley was waiting for her downstairs and they marched to the yard without a word. In a second, they were standing at the end of her street. Farren broke into a sprint with Mrs. Weasley tottering behind her. She hopped the front gate and nearly tripped in her haste to reach the door. She plunged her hand into the flower pot on the porch and dug out a key. In seconds she was in her living room.

At first, Farren almost didn’t see anything wrong. Her mum looked fine: Jocelyn Zabell was staring at the television set without really seeing the program, just like she always did when her daughter and her husband watched their crime shows on Friday nights during the summer. Her dad was sitting next to her on the couch, holding her hand. Everything looked normal.

But then Jocelyn looked up. She smiled politely and said, “You must be a friend of David’s.”

The words hit her with the force of a train. She staggered back, bumping into Mrs. Weasley in the doorway.

Rationally, Farren knew her mother was dying, and that whatever disease Jocelyn had was affecting her memory, but she hadn’t expected the memory loss to be so complete.

Since the moment she read the letter, Farren had been mentally preparing for what she thought she would see: a weaker, more forgetful version of her mother. She had expected to be questioned about friends and school. She had been ready for birthdays to be forgotten and trains of thought to be lost.

She hadn’t anticipated her mother completely forgetting her. There wasn’t a trace of recognition in her eyes. It was as if Farren had never even been born.

Farren vaguely noticed as her dad moved to greet Mrs. Weasley; she registered the hand he put on her shoulder as he walked by, guiding their guest into the kitchen.

As her mum’s attention was diverted back to the program, Farren turned and followed Mrs. Weasley and her father into the kitchen. She paused outside the door to listen.

“Thank you for bringing her home, Molly. I know it’s late.”

“It wasn’t any trouble, David.” Mrs. Weasley paused before continuing. “Can anything be done?”

“Nothing. It’s irreversible, by both magical and muggle means.”

Farren let out shaky breath and then entered the kitchen. She gave a small, sad smile before sidling up to her dad and burying her face in his chest, taking comfort in the smell of tobacco. He hugged her and then released her.

“Would you show Mrs. Weasley out into the backyard? I’m sure she wants to get home.”

Farren nodded and led her outside. Mrs. Weasley looked at her for a moment before taking Farren into her arms.

“I’m so sorry, my dear.” She whispered before pulling back. “Do you need anything from your luggage? If not, I’ll just have the boys bring it back for you.”

“Yeah,” said Farren softly, too softly. “That’s fine.”



Now as she studied the faintly brightening sky, Farren wished she had thought to bring her broom with her. Flying had always helped her clear her thoughts, and she loved being closer to the sky: it gave her a sense of calmness. And it would have been a great excuse to not go back inside her house, at least for a bit.

But alas, she didn’t have her broom, and she couldn’t very well just sit outside all night, so Farren turned and forced herself back into the house.

He dad was still in the kitchen, leaning over the stove where a kettle was coming to boil. Farren almost smiled at the familiar sight and went to the cupboard to get two mugs. She set them on the table and as her father poured the steaming water, she rummaged in the pantry for two tea bags. They dropped into the water soundlessly.

As the tea steeped, Farren’s father pulled out the milk and sugar, setting it on the table between them.

Father and daughter sat across from each other silently, each lost in their own thoughts. David knew that Farren was listening at the door, because it’s what he would have done. There was no need to explain the situation. Farren knew that her dad would let her leave, let her go back to the Weasley’s to spend the rest of her holiday if she wanted to. She also knew that he wanted her here, so she would stay.

When the steam had abated slightly and the water was a honeyed brown, Farren removed the tea bags and added sugar: three cubes for her, one for her dad. David poured milk into each mug, more into his than into his daughter’s.

The silence, accompanied by the low buzz of voices from the television, reigned as they drank their tea. When her father finished with his, he rose and broke the hush.

“I’m going to go check on your mother now,” he informed as he placed his glass in the sink.

“Wha-oh. Yes,” Farren said, startled. She rose from her seat, mug clutched in her hands. “I’ll be upstairs.”

The words if you need me hung in the air between them, unspoken but understood.

Farren made her way to her bedroom, trying to be as silent as possible, remembering that the eighth stair creaked and stepping over it.

She smiled as she entered the room, letting the light purple walls calm her. She set her tea on the desk next to her sketchpad and pencils and rummaged through her wardrobe for a moment, dragging out and putting on some warmer layers: a jumper, coat, hat and scarf. Then she walked to her window and wrenched it open, enjoying the gust of cold air that ghosted across her face. Grabbing her mug and drawing materials, she maneuvered out of the window and placed them on the roof above her room. It required some contortion, and could have been accomplished quicker and easier with magic, but she relished the effort it took, doing things the muggle way. It was an appreciation gleaned from living with her mother, doing things the hard way for a better result.

Once her things were up, Farren followed, allowing her weight to hang from the edge for an instant before hoisting herself skyward onto the snow covered roof, savoring the strain in her muscles.

Farren did this from time to time, when it wasn’t dark enough to fly, when she needed clarity. When she needed to think.

She sat cross legged on the roof of her house, alternating between staring at the stars and her sketchpad, wishing her mother would come upstairs and shout at her and tell her to “get inside right this instant before you fall to your death, young lady!”

When she studied her finished sketch, she began to cry. She had unconsciously drawn her favorite family moment, copied from a picture at her bedside. It was an image of her small family, all of them laughing and smiling at something only they could see. The sight was followed by a grim realization that there would never be another moment like that.

Farren allowed her tears to fall onto the paper, not noticing the cold, dampness seeping into her skin.

When she finished her tea, she climbed back into her room and crawled under her covers, wet clothes and all. She fell into a restless sleep just as the sun rose on the horizon, not even realizing that it was Christmas day.