What We Did - A Hogwarts Story

The Meadow

The thick, dusty air which hangs above the meadow makes it almost impossible to breathe. The wildflowers stand unnaturally still; no breeze swings the stems or brushes against the petals which have grown so vibrant beneath the August sun. An intense heatwave has swept over western Europe in the past days – stories have spread surrounding the droughts which have been robbing England of its water supplies, leaving the inhabitants parched. Luckily for us, nothing has quite reached that extent in rural Limousin. The fields remain a lush shade of green and domestic flowerbeds are kept bountiful by doting homeowners. Both the boulangerie and the marché de rue in the village have closed whilst the vendors flock to the south to soak up the sunshine on the coast, leaving their usual customers to bake their own loaves and feverishly attempt to revive their comatose vegetable patches. The heat has become so overpowering that the majority of the villagers have resorted to spending the long hours of daylight inside their homes, with every window open and an abundance of electric fans whirring away in order to produce some sort of cooling relief. A daring few lay atop bath towels on their patios, sporting a variety of sunhats, their bodies slick with sunblock lotion. I could be the sole resident who has ventured beyond her garden gate.

We had walked here just after lunchtime, although my siblings have long since returned home. I sit alone amongst the flower stems, staying longer with the knowledge that perhaps I will not return to this meadow again, which is painful for me to accept. As a child, I would play here. Once my brother and sister were old enough, they would plead for me to bring them with me on my adventures. Toy broomsticks in hand, we would stroll down our lane to the rusting gate, nestled amongst the unruly hedgerows, and slip into the meadow between the horizontal bars. The three of us could spend hours there, unleashing our young magic away from the prying eyes of any nearby muggles. I learnt how to play Quidditch within these hedgerows – my summer holidays were spent practising on my beloved Cleansweep, eager to retain my position on the Beauxbâtons team. I was made a batteur, or Beater, when I was twelve – a role which I managed to keep in my possession for two years. Of course, I will undoubtedly be replaced before this coming September is over, since I am not to return for my fifth year.

As the end of term approached, I received an owl from home. Almost a week had passed since the tragic events of the Triwizard Tournament: Madame Maxime and the senior students were yet to return to the Pyrenees. Those who remained within the château walls went to and from our lessons beneath a hush, consumed with shock at what had happened. We had heard stories of the Wizarding War as children, where a certain dark wizard upheld a reign of terror and destruction – it was haunting to hear that name whispered in the corridors for those final few days of term. Perhaps I had a stronger understanding of the grave nature of the circumstances than my peers did; the tales I had heard growing up were much more harrowing, more vivid. Those who relayed these stories were present whilst chaos erupted around them.

My parents attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As soon as they completed their seventh year, they become devoted members of an alliance which strived to stop that darkness in its tracks. Together, they lived in London with my mother's family in order to be closer to the headquarters – not long afterwards, I was born in Mum's childhood bedroom. It was an incredibly dangerous time to have a baby; Dad told me once that the numbers of magical births were at a record low back then. That fear never stopped them from fighting for what they stood for, though - they were so dedicated to the cause, yet it tore almost everything from them.

It was early evening when Voldemort's followers forced their way into the house, just months after my birth. Mum and Dad had been warned by their colleagues, who had heard word of the plot behind the attack, and were already making their way to the south coast to make their escape. My mother's family refused to give up their daughter's location, which lead to their slaughter. Mum never forgave herself, despite my father's attempts to convince her of her own innocence. The loss remains raw; the death of my grandparents is rarely spoken of in our house.