Sincerely, The Stranger You Call Sister

Year 1: Red Flags And Rose-Tinted Glasses

Dear Little Brother,

As I've grown older, I find the memories of my Dad fading more and more. I can't remember his job, but I know it required him to frequently travel to other countries. I know he loved to learn about new and ancient cultures, collecting artifacts from varying periods across the globe, though I can't name any of them. His face blurs in my mind, but sometimes if I close my eyes I can still smell the heavy, expensively shitty cologne he overused.

One thing I haven't forgotten -something that will remain crystal clear, engraved and dug into my very soul- is a conversation I had with him when I was eight years old.

Really, it wasn't even an actual fucking conversation, and I can't recall how it started or what even prompted it, but I do know what his response had been:

"Don't be so needy, Olivia."

I can still feel the lingering pain that stitched the fucking memory in my mind, the way salty tears had sprung in my eyes after hearing that. It was only after the shock had worn off that I became angry.

Anger prickled along my skin like skittering electricity, hot and blistering as I felt the knot in chest grow to the point of squeezing my lungs.

I knew I wasn't fucking needy. I knew that the period of separation wasn't typical for a dad, job or no job. My nanny had said as much, multiple times.

But it was hard not to doubt my called 'independence' (-something that all the adults commented on, something that I took pride in because of all the praise-) after what he said. It was hard to pretend that I didn't care -that he didn't fucking rip my heart out that day-, even as the lies fell from my lips, leaving an awful aftertaste of ash.

("What's wrong, Olivia?")

("Nothing. I'm fine.")

(I never asked him to stay home longer after that.)

Alternatively, I will -also- never forget what it was like the first time I stood in a courtroom. Sitting there, the cool wooden chair against my bare thighs. My mother's sharp, turquoise nails biting into my wrist, keeping me from biting my own. The noises of multiple people standing as one, and then shortly sitting back down.

The loud, echoing bang of the judge's damn mallet.

Heavy dread had pooled in my stomach, then. My throat had constricted itself, my head swarming with the ways things could go wrong and each one worse and making me sicker than the last.

Today you made me -are fucking making me- feel a mixture of both.

Sincerely,

The Stranger You Call Sister

~xXx~

November 26th, 1938.

While Professor Slughorn isn't able to wave away the detentions, he is overly free next day in Potions class with his praise and House points towards us, enough that we're quickly able to make up the loss and then some.

Which is admittedly lucky, or else we'd have had our arses thoroughly beaten by the older students.

With the combination of Second Year Boy's event and Malfoy and I's late night adventure in the Forbidden Forest, Slytherin really isn't looking pretty right now. Another toe out of line -one more punishment that doesn't just affect us, but the entirety of Slytherin House- and I honestly feel as if they'll kill us!