Of Constellations → 𝘥. 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘧𝘰𝘺

xxvii. a different hogwarts

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chapter twenty seven

a different hogwarts

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Sixth Year

Before that summer, I had only seen my mother cry once. It was at her father's funeral when I was eight and she had done her best to hide her tears. After the service, when the family lined up in the foyer so others could give their condolences, Mum had hidden in a storage room.

So, it was disorienting like nothing else to hear her crying to my father some mornings while they were in the kitchen. She didn't want me to go back to Hogwarts, but attendance had been made compulsory this year. Besides, I wouldn't have stayed home even if it was optional.

The Ministry had recently fallen. Rufus Scrimgeour was killed in early August, and Voldemort gained control. With the newly established Muggle-Born Registration Commission, Muggle-borns would no longer be welcomed at Hogwarts. If they could not prove their magical parentage upon arrival, they would be arrested and sentenced to Azkaban for the crime of having 'stolen' magic.

A mere day after the story about the Registration Commission, Dean Apparated to my house in the morning. Dad and I answered the door, and my heart pushed into my esophagus when I got a look at him—he was dazed, his face drained of blood, and his eyes unnaturally wide. He was dressed in Muggle clothing and was holding a Muggle backpack by his side.

"Come on in, Dean," said Dad, trying to sound untroubled, but the tremor in his hands gave away the nerves.

"Good morning, dear, would you like me to fix you some tea? Or, no wait, you prefer coffee, don't you?" asked Mum, who was working in the kitchen, preparing her notes for her lectures at the university. She too was trying to feign normalcy, though her attempts were far more successful than Dad's. If I hadn't known her well, I wouldn't have noticed that her voice was slightly higher than usual or the way she was nearly poking a hole through her papers with her pen.

For about a month and a few weeks following our return from Hogwarts, Dean and I got to pretend as though nothing unusual was happening. At the backs of our minds, we knew that we were enjoying borrowed time, but it was easy to forget that as we explored London (where he lived) or Oxford.

I got to meet his younger half-siblings and even accompanied them to the zoo for his sister Elena's twelfth birthday. It felt almost surreal, surrounded by Muggle children that went to Elena's secondary school, but in a good way—they had no idea anything was wrong, and they had no idea their friend's older brother may soon be in grave danger.

I'd asked Dean how much his mother and siblings knew of Voldemort's return. His mother knew most of it—his siblings knew very little.

That's why it felt a lot different when Seamus came to visit us from Ireland. Dean took us to his favorite places, like the National Gallery where we both learned that Dean knew a lot about art history. 

The three of us knew what was ahead of us, but while we were talking and exploring amongst the Muggles, it was easily pushed away. However, in the silent interstices, I was sure it all flooded back. When we paused our conversation as we quietly read placards at the museums, I was sure the silence pressed against all of our chests.

Especially when we said goodbye for the day and went back to our own homes with our own families, none of them pureblood, the reality became clear once again.