What We Did - A Hogwarts Story

The Cottage

The corridor beyond the front door has become drenched in the orange glow of dusk, spilling across the floorboards through the open door. I linger close beside the doorway, watching the owl soar away over the trees. The voice of my father can be heard from within the living room; he is speaking to my mother. Through the window I can see his tall form towering above the head of gleaming, black hair which belongs to my Mum. Clutched in her small hand is her wand – something which I have always admired greatly. It's a handsome object, crafted from red oak and it appears to gleam in the light. The carvings around its handle are beautiful, not differing to the appearance of its owner.

Their voices grow in volume as I edge my way into the hallway, pushing the yellow door shut behind me. The conversation lulls for a moment, descending into a sequence of footsteps as Dad begins to pace across the floorboards (he paces fairly often, which leads me to believe that this is the case). I loiter in silence; my feet are yet to leave the doormat. My eyes trace the length of the walls before me – they are painted lilac and dark rectangles are dotted in clusters where photographs once hung in their frames. Those same pictures sit stacked in a cardboard box, nestled beneath the hat stand beside the door in preparation for our imminent departure. One lies face-up: I watch my younger self beaming with excitement behind the glass of the frame, her gloved hand waving at an impressive rate. My blue cloak is draped over my shoulders and a domed hat sits proudly atop my crown – I was anxiously awaiting the arrival of the ornate carriage, coming to whisk me away to my first year at Beauxbâtons. I feel myself smiling back at the young girl in the picture frame, relishing in her anticipation.

That photograph used to sit on the wall parallel the staircase, which has become quite the spectacle over the years. Each step is painted a different colour of the rainbow – a flowering vine twists its way around the bannister, pulsating every once in a while, as if taking a breath. On the first step lies a pile of discarded shoes, jackets and rogue toys which are yet to be returned to their homes. Propped against the first bannister post is my Cleansweep, still fresh and shiny from its last polish. I have owned that broomstick since I was a second year yet, by sheer luck, it remains in wonderful flying condition despite the battering I would endure during matches.

"It isn't fair on the children, Jem," My mother's voice cuts through my reminiscing. She has taken on a tone of deep concern, heavy with frustration, clearly sharing in my father's unexplained sentiment. I creep closer to the living room entrance, eager to listen in. "We can't just expect them to pack up and run out the door at our command. I don't think that they've come to terms with us leaving at all – it's unfair to bring the move forward so soon!"

"I know, Ferne, but this isn't our decision anymore." Dad's footsteps come to a halt as he begins to speak again. "We're needed there now – it sounds as if there's a lot more going on than we thought- "

"Was it ever a decision, though, Jem?" Mum interjects. She continues without waiting for an answer. "Surely there is enough members involved now that they don't need us quite yet? I'd have thought that Dumbledore would have stepped in by now for an issue of that nature."

"He has, by the sound of it, but Remus sent us that owl with good reason, darling." Dad tells her, his voice becoming increasingly gentle and soft. I press my ear to the bare wall, desperately yearning to learn more. "They need us to be there with them now, standing with them, especially now that the ministry is launching some sort of smear campaign against that poor lad. That attack is too convenient, considering what happened back in June."

They fall into a pause for a moment. I know that they speak of Harry Potter – no other young wizard would be on their lips. The Boy Who Lived, as many refer to him, is known by wizards everywhere. According to Dad, he witnessed the return of Voldemort, although the British magical media have discredited him entirely. Potter is, in many ways, protected by the alliance in which my parents will soon retake their positions. This is the first that I have heard about an attack, though.