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FIVE WHEN THE SUN COMES UP
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A WEEK INTO TERM, Ina decides it's finally time to write a letter to her parents.
Now—and she would like to clarify this—she doesn't have a bad relationship with her parents. Not really. But, well... They've never really seen eye to eye. Not since a flurry of owls arrived on their doorstep on Ina's birthday, with impossible stories of magic that resulted in not one but two of their daughters being carted off to a mysterious boarding school somewhere in the Scottish highlands.
And the constant disagreements and arguments? They aren't from lack of Ina trying. Because really, she tries and tries and tries, but apparently, at some point—trying isn't enough. Not when (in Zera's words) their parents are stubborn and unwilling to compromise.
But Ina can't just stop trying, no matter how much her sister wishes she could.
Zera gave up on their parents long ago, but Ina knows she never will. She never can.
To her, it's simple. They are her parents, and she loves them, beyond all the sly remarks about their "rubbish magic school," and the suffocating restrictions that seem inescapable even from halfway across the country.
They are family, and you don't give up on family. Her sister thinks it's all rubbish, and with that kind of attitude Ina should have been the Gryffindor in the family.
Zera sees it differently. She says family is what you make—the people who make you feel loved instead of ashamed, the people who care for you instead of criticize you. And yeah, Ina agrees, but... That doesn't mean its the only truth.
She won't pretend to understand her parents intentions, or what it is about magic that incites such a fire in them, but she doesn't have to understand them to know she won't turn her back on them.
And yet, despite it all, as she sits down in the Hufflepuff common room with her quill poised and ready to write, she finds that words seem to fail her.
Its early (early) Friday morning, and the warm hues of the orange sunrise filter in through the circular pothole windows that line the crown of the common room.
All she has written on the faded parchment in front of her is a droopy 'Dear Mummy and Papa,' followed by the slightest ink blot that resulted from a moment of hesitation.
It takes another hour of alternating between blankly staring at the paper, and almost—almost giving up, but she finally manages to pen out an awkward yet acceptable letter.
