What We Did - A Hogwarts Story

The Path to Dover

By midmorning, the backend of the Cavalier has begun to sit close to the ground, sagging beneath the weight of our belongings within the dark pit of the car boot. Isabella ducks beneath the open hatch and pushes her sealed box of belongings into the far corner of the trunk. She holds a limp stuffed rabbit, its fur greying with the dirt of childhood antics and an ear missing from a magic-related mishap. I watch my sister as she shoves the toy into the chest pocket of her dungarees – its drooping form folding over the material in such a way that it appears to look to the ground, almost with melancholia. Izzy, however, couldn't be sprightlier – she almost bounces back to our mother inside the house, humming away to herself. I long to achieve her level of gaiety.

Marcus has already settled himself in the backend of the car. His feet perch on the headrest of the passenger seat, yet another book in hand – this time The Standard Book of Spells. He squints at the pages from behind his glasses, occasionally pushing them back up the bridge of his nose before they slip too far downwards. Despite the hurrying and quiet chaos buzzing around him, my brother's dark eyes never seem to move away from the words before him. It's rather fascinating to watch him become so captivated, so absorbed by the information within the leather binding. He presses his index finger to his tongue before turning the page, craning his neck further towards the book as he continues his reading.

The hinges of the front door moan as it is pushed open by my sister, now clutching her soft toy in her hands. She is followed closely by our parents, both gripping their wands in their dominant hands. Mum has a handbag slung over her shoulder, which she soon hands to her youngest child, quietly requesting that it be taken to the car. Her cheeks are shining with the remanence of her tears; she dabs at her skin with the sleeve of her robe whilst remaining close beside her husband, fingers resting atop his shoulder. A key glints in the sunlight it is drawn from my father's pocket. He holds it in his left palm, slipping his wand into the space where the key once lay. Tentatively, he pulls the yellow door closed, slotting the key into the gap beneath the handle. I flinch at the click produced as the door is locked for the final time, pressing a hand to my abdomen as if I felt pain there. My mother seems to reflect my sentiments, pushing her full lips together in an effort not to weep as she starts towards the car. Dad strolls a few paces behind her, meeting my gaze shortly before he exits the shadow cast by the house at his back. His eyes too are swimming, although it would be unlike him to allow the tears to trickle from his eyes. No words are exchanged, I simply walk into his embrace and allow my own tears to form a dark patch on his shirt. He holds me close to his chest for a moment; I hear his heart thudding beneath the material of his robe. Upon letting me go, Dad gently pushes me in the small of my back, encouraging me to move towards the car.

"Come on, Anna." He says gently. "It's time for us to go now."

Isabella squeezes into the centre of the back seats, with Marcus to her right and myself to her left. The inside of the car is so cramped that even her small frame is squashed against those of her siblings. Despite the expansion charm, both boxes and rogue items of furniture are piled high behind the headrests of our seats, threatening to tumble onto us sitting silently below. I stare out of the window, looking at the house in which I was raised. The curtains are closed over the windows; the corridors and once-cosy rooms within the walls have been left dark, derelict and cold – a mere shell of the family haven it once was. The mustard door appears duller than ever as it sits in the shadows: only now do I notice a substantial area of paint missing, exposing the ugly, greyish wood lying beneath the vibrant tone I'd always loved. Even the lavender shrubs slumped against the front wall seem pale and pasty without the sun's flattering light. The cottage resembles something which lost its zest for living long ago, ensnared by our sadness at leaving it behind, as if bereaved.

At the turn of a key, the car chugs to life, spluttering out a cloud of thick, black exhaust fumes from its rear. As the wheels begin to roll beneath us, pulling the car away from the house, more tears escape my eyes. They create warm pools on my skin as they drip from my chin onto my hands, resting atop one another in my lap. I watch the house grow smaller as we travel further, eventually reaching the woodland track which leads towards the lane. As the trees close in around us, the cottage becomes increasingly less visible amongst the branches. The quietest of sobs escapes my mother's lips as the car pulls away into the road, leaving the little house concealed by the greenery, as if it was never there in the first place. I crane my neck to look back, but I'm unable to find the opening to the track amongst the thick vegetation. Without knowing where to look, not a soul would know that Number 14 lay beyond the trees.