Poisoned Youth | ✓

1- Before

When I was a little girl, my mother would read me fairytales about princesses who find their princes and knights who save the damsel. I never wanted to be a damsel in distress; "I can save myself, Mum. I'd love to be a princess, but I can be a knight, too," I'd stupidly say to her.

But watching the love of my life lie there, in his arms, dead as a door nail, I felt my heart break into a million pieces and my life flashed before my eyes. I swore I could save myself, be a knight to save others, but I didn't. Nothing I could do would bring him back to me. He was gone.

There's no point in trying to live and fight, I told myself, if our only hope in a good world died... and I wasn't there to save him.

Harry Potter was dead and I wasn't able to save him.

~±~

1991:

The summer light shined over the top of the houses as the sun came up. It was nearly seven in the morning and I felt exhausted as I couldn't stay asleep on the drive home. Pulling my bag from the back of the car, I eagerly made my way up to the door. It had been two weeks since I'd been home as my parents and I had gone away for the beginning of holiday summer.

"Mum, can you open the door already? I'm tired," I whined, standing in the cool morning breeze.

"Iverson, you can wait a few moments while your father and I get our things," my mother scolded me.

Sighing, I thought it best to help them with the rest of our things instead of complaining on the landing with only bag over my shoulder. Once I grabbed two more suitcases, the door was finally unlocked and I was allowed to go inside. It felt good to be home.

The warm home greeted me as the air unit had been turned off in our sted. Dropping my parents' bags on the beige sofas, I bent over to pick up the overflow of mail. Most of them were bills, but what stood out to me was the odd yellowish letter; it was much larger than the others and had a red seal on it.

"What is it, dear?" My dad asked, peering over my shoulder.

"It's a weird looking letter," I said, turning it around. My eyes almost bulged out of my head, "It's addressed to me. Miss I. Kemper, number Twenty-three Capecod Circle, Hampstead, London."

I broke open the red wax seal, pulled out the letter, and read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Miss. Kemper,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall,

Deputy Headmistress

Looking up at my parents, I don't think I've ever seen them look more confused in my life. We shared the same perplexed look. Reading over the letter a couple more times, I had deduced I had gone mad from sleep deprivation and went to bed, only to be woken up a few hours later.

"Ivy," my mum shook me awake, "there's a woman who would like to talk to us— you specifically. McGonagall, she calls herself."

At the mental connection of the woman's name, I shot up and quickly got out of bed, flattening out my curly blond hair. Running down the steps, I found a stern-looking woman in a weird green dress, sitting next to my father, in our sitting room.