First Sight
I hadn't had to wait long for my Godfather to pick me up after my parents' death. They had been killed in what was assumed as a 'mugging gone wrong' after a night out for dinner. They had been found dead with a single stab mark to the throat each. I was at home, unaware.
I try to tell myself that I should be grateful that I had the luxury to hug my parents and kiss them goodbye, tell them I loved them before they left to have a night for themselves, and now have a place for me to stay with a trusted family member. Lots of people don't have that luxury. But I can't help but stay bitter all the while. I hope, at the very least, that my parents had a lovely time together before they were murdered.
I've been staying with my Godfather, Sirius Black, since Christmas break. It's not like I had anywhere else to go or could even afford to live on my own. My maternal Aunt and Uncle certainly wanted nothing to do with me and had made that very clear for years before I was even born. Racist pricks.
I like my Godfather. He's nice and what one might call 'The Cool Uncle.' He's been a family friend since my parents were in school, so we've grown quite close growing up.
But still. I didn't want to leave my village, Godric's Hallow. I didn't want to go to a different school to finish my A-levels. I didn't want to lose my parents, and Sirius didn't want to lose his friends.
But such is the way of life.
In the London Borough of Islington, a terraced house named number 12 Grimmauld Place exists under a near-constant cover of clouds, as is the standard for the UK. Most of the other attached houses have been turned into flats, but Grimmauld Place has always been a single home to Sirius. 12 Grimmauld Place was... well, a grim, old place — living up to its name. I've been here a few times in my life when we — my parents and family friends — came to visit. It was the ancestral home to the prestigious Black family, which is probably why it looks and feels so ancient. As far as I know, only Sirius remains. I learned not to ask about his family at a young age.
It was 12 Grimmauld Place that I now resided in — an action that I took with great horror. It's not that I detested Grimmauld Place, I've had some fond memories here, it's just that — as previously established — I'd rather not be here.
Sirius was ready to take me in as soon as I called him. He was actually the first and only person I called after the police showed up at my house at two in the morning, and he did the rest in informing everyone else. It's a bit hectic when you don't know how to handle a situation like this, because you think it'll never happen to you. I've always wondered what happens when someone dies — how the family sort things out with possessions and stuff. I still don't really know.
Sirius reassures me that I'm not a burden by staying with him and that he feels better knowing I'm somewhere safe and away from where the trauma happened. Although, I can't help but feel bad. He has never been the type to have kids or be a guardian to a teenager. Despite his babysitting me since I was young, he still struggles to know what to do, especially to a teen in mourning. But he tries, and I'm thankful for him and the space he gives me to adjust. I know he needs space to mourn just as much as I do, so it's not that bad when we retreat to our separate corners of the deceptively large townhouse and wallow in our depression.
My room was familiar; it had belonged to me since I was very young, as there were a few rooms to spare for guests. The dark wooden floor, the sage-green wallpaper, the yellowed lace curtains around the window, the mahogany writing desk, and even the rocking chair I asked Sirius to put in the corner of my room when I was ten — these were all a part of my childhood. The room, despite having all of my belongings, still felt dark and dreary. A fairly good place to hole myself up in and cry.
On Christmas Eve, I asked Sirius to give me a haircut. I had already been through so much change in such a short amount of time, but this was a change I had control over. I couldn't stand looking at myself in the mirror anymore, and I just wanted something different.
He cut my long, wavy, dark hair so that it reached just below my shoulders. My hair had always been an untameable mess, and it still is a mess now. But the layers cut into a shag sort of make it look like it was on purpose. I liked it.
I asked him for a tattoo on Christmas day. He's littered with them and had the experience of giving others tattoos and piercings. My ears are already pierced, so I asked for a tattoo instead. I think it upset him when I asked for stag antlers and lilies on my arm to represent my parents. Or made him happy, I'm still not sure. But with tears in his eyes and a wobbly smile, he agreed and said it was a good choice. I like my tattoo.
Christmas was shit, as to be expected. Remus — Sirius and my parents' other friend, and possibly Sirius' crush — came over. It was awkward, and none of us had a good time. But Remus was always the calm in a time of distress, the head of reason and rationality, much like my mum. His presence was not unwanted, but it still felt heavy. I think he didn't appreciate Sirius giving me a tattoo, but he never said anything about it to me. At least he liked and complimented my hair.
A few weeks passed since then. The new year was nothing to celebrate but rather grieve over a new year without my parents and the many years yet to come. The funeral at Godric's Hallow Graveyard was just after New Year's, which was a miserable affair and consisted of only close family friends.
And as the last week of Christmas break came to an end, the thought of going to school the next day was daunting, filling my aching chest with dread and despair. I didn't want to go, no one really does, but I just didn't think I could stomach it.
When I heard a car pull up outside, I thought it might be Remus since Sirius drove his motorcycle everywhere — his job being a mechanic. But when I crawled out of my cocoon of blankets, righted my crooked glasses, and staggard over to look outside my window facing the front yard — petting my white Ragdoll cat, Hedwig, perched on the windowsill — it was, in fact, Sirius who exited the dusty red truck.
I stumbled downstairs, my legs feeling weak and jelly-legged, on my way to ask Sirius if I could take another few weeks off of school, which I'm sure he would have agreed in understanding.
I slipped on my Umbro sliders — they're far too big because they used to be Dads — opened the front door, and waddled to the end of the small, gated yard. I had to squint my eyes against the bright light of the dull white sky blanketed by clouds. It wasn't actually bright outside, but compared to the darkness inside Grimmauld Place, being outside hurt my eyes.
There, parked on the pavement, was the truck. It was a faded red colour, with big, rounded fenders and a bulbous cab. It was one of those solid iron affairs that never gets damaged — the kind you see at the scene of an accident, paint unscratched, surrounded by the pieces of the foreign car it had destroyed. But, I'd rather not think about accidents.
"Hey, Harry. So, what do you think?" Sirius grunted with a pat on the truck once he saw me shuffle over.
"Of what?" I questioned, eyeing the truck and crossing my arms to fruitlessly shield myself from the winter cold.
"Your gift," Sirius stated simply. Then, he fumbled out sheepishly, "Well, James said that he'd buy you a car once you'd finished sixth form. But, obviously..." Sirius licked his lips with an awkward wave of his hand in a gesture to Dad's passing. "And Bill at work had this old thing he wanted to get rid of. He knew you'd be staying with me after what happened and offered to sell it to me to give to you," Sirius rambled on nervously, looking anywhere else but me. "And I just thought that James and Lily would want you to have this..."
My mouth opened, but I was rendered speechless. To my intense surprise, I loved it. I could see myself in it.
"I rebuilt the engine for you and put new tyres on it," Sirius sputtered out, probably misinterpreting my speechlessness as distaste.
"Siri, I love it! Thank you!" I quickly blurted out and darted forward to give him a hearty hug.
I felt him breathe out a great sigh of relief and reciprocated my tight hug, patting me on the back.
“I’m glad you like it,” he said gruffly, embarrassed.
"You didn't have to get this for me," I said once we parted.
“I don’t mind. I want you to be happy here," he shrugged. "Well," he quickly corrected, "as happy as you can be." Sirius wasn’t comfortable with expressing his emotions out loud.
I now felt as though asking to take time off of school was out of the question, and I'd feel guilty not going now that Sirius bought me my own car. At least my horrific day tomorrow would be just that much less dreadful. I wouldn’t be faced with the choice of either walking two miles in the rain to school or catching two public buses.
“That’s really nice, Siri." I gave a small smile and rested my hand on the truck bed. "Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
"You’re welcome,” he mumbled, embarrassed again by my thanks.
"But I thought you were going to get me a motorbike," I attempted to joke.
"Ho-ho," Sirius chuckled, wagging a reprimanding finger at me. "We can talk about motorbikes at a much later date."
At this, I grinned widely, the smile reaching my eyes. The first real smile in a month.
"Come, let's get inside. Too bloody cold," he grizzled, guiding me back to the house.
I helped Sirius make dinner, just something light and simple, despite the fact I wasn't really hungry and had lost my appetite over the month. Sirius never was the best cook, but I always enjoyed cooking with my dad.
I've never been that academically talented. I always got good grades, such as C's and B's in core subjects like Maths, English and Science, but I never excelled beyond that unless it were subjects such as Art or Physical Education, in which I'd get A's and A*'s. I never really knew what I wanted to be when I grew up either, so I just picked A-levels I knew I would enjoy. My parents were more than ok with this and always encouraged me to just do what I loved. It was because of this that I chose Art, Psychology, PE and Design and Technology.
Remus was actually the one who got me into pottery and carpentry (he's made me the fair share of odd-looking bowls and mugs I now have a proud collection of), as well as engineering because of Sirius, which is why I picked DT as a subject. Remus works as the DT teacher at Willow Parks Academy — the school I'll be attending tomorrow. What a coincidence. Willow Parks was also the school my parents, Sirius and Remus all attended as kids, but my parents moved away once they graduated before having me.
I've now been rethinking my career choices since my parents' death. I want to make a change. Do something good with my life instead of just wasting it away on inconsequential things.
Although I used to like cooking with my dad, I could never see myself making a career out of it. Maybe I could work with Sirius as a mechanic, I never minded helping him when I went to work with him on the odd occasion. I'm a pretty quick learner and picked up the basics early on. Sirius was content; it was something he enjoyed doing even though he was loaded with old money from rich generations past — he still stayed humble, doing honest work that I once overheard would have pissed his mother off.
But working with Sirius just didn't feel like enough for me. Not at this moment, at least.
I would say, if I wanted to make a change, that I could become a policewoman. But honestly? Fuck the police. All cops are bastards.
Maybe a firefighter? They're unproblematic, right?
I used to love PE and was quite the athlete, much like Dad was, but now the mere thought of having to get up and move about so much pained me. How could I run around and chase after balls when I can hardly even get out of bed and slump up and down staircases? And however much I wanted to get up and make a change, I couldn't fathom doing it right now. It was simply wishful thinking.
I mustered up all of my energy after dinner to take a shower and prepare myself for tomorrow. As gross as it sounds, I haven't showered in a week. Lucky are those who can function properly after a parent's brutal death twice over.
I couldn't go to school reeking of a week's worth of sweat and grime. I could even feel it clinging to my skin, which looked sallower, unhealthy. I only managed to keep my tattoo clean when necessary, and that was enough for me.
Even showering was a draining feat. It was an 'everything' shower, hoping that if I felt fresher, I would feel better. It did help somewhat, especially after dressing into new pyjamas and changing my bedsheets so that I could crawl back into my cocoon of fresh bedding. Hedwig jumped up onto the bed to snuggle with me, instantly getting all of her cat hair stuck to the fabric. Typical.
"Love you, Hedwig," I mumbled, kissing her goodnight.
And so I fell asleep to Hedwig's vibrating purrs as I petted her white fur dusted with light grey on her forehead and tail.
﹌﹌﹌
I didn’t sleep well that night, even after I was done crying. Nightmares had been an issue for me since my parents' death, and Sirius often came barging into my room to check that I wasn't dying after screaming bloody murder in my sleep. I don't remember having a nightmare tonight, though, which was a saving grace. I was just restless, waking up a few times in the night, and the constant whooshing of the rain and wind against the windowpane wouldn’t fade into the background. I pulled the faded old quilt over my head, and later added the pillow, too. But I didn't fall back asleep until four in the morning when the rain finally settled into a quieter drizzle. Thick fog was all I could see out my window in the morning.
Breakfast with Sirius was a quiet event. He wished me good luck at school. I thanked him, knowing his hope was wasted. Good luck tended to avoid me. Sirius left first, off to the garage to work. After he left, I sat at the large, old oak table, just mentally preparing myself to take on the day by sitting in silence, motionless.
I didn’t want to be too early for school, but I couldn’t stay in the house anymore, it felt foreboding with the many portraits and its darkness. I called Hedwig for breakfast after refilling her bowls (made by Remus, of course), and kissed her goodbye, to which she meowed back at me in a seeming wish of good luck. I donned my jacket — which had the feel of a biohazard suit — and headed out into the rain.
It was just drizzling still, not enough to soak me through immediately as I locked up. I couldn’t pause and admire my truck again as I wanted; I was in a hurry to get out of the misty wet that swirled around my head and clung to my hair under my hood.
Inside the truck, it was nice and dry. Sirius had obviously cleaned it up, but the tan upholstered seats still smelled faintly of tobacco, gasoline, and peppermint, which was fine by me since I liked the smell. The engine started quickly, to my relief, but loudly, roaring to life and then idling at top volume. Well, a truck this old was bound to have a flaw. The antique radio worked, a plus that I hadn’t expected. It was fiddly, but I managed to tune into Smooth Radio after wiping my glasses free of rain droplets — one of the only bearable radio stations besides Heart Radio.
Finding the school wasn’t difficult, though I’d never been there before. It was not obvious that it was a school; only the sign, which declared it to be the Willow Parks Academy, made me stop. It looked like a collection of matching houses, built with maroon-coloured bricks. There were so many trees and shrubs I couldn’t see its size at first. Where was the feel of the institution? I wondered nostalgically. Where were the chain-link fences, the ugly modern architecture with dull-coloured panelling?
I parked in front of the first building, which had a small sign over the door reading RECEPTION. No one else was parked there, but another gated car park further back had cars there, so I assumed that was for staff only, but I decided I would get directions inside instead of circling around in the rain like an idiot. I stepped unwillingly out of the toasty truck cab and walked down a little stone path lined with dark hedges. I took a deep breath before opening the door.
Inside, it was brightly lit, and warmer than I’d hoped. The office was small; a little waiting area with padded folding chairs, pale linoleum flooring, notices and awards cluttering the walls, and a big clock ticking loudly. Plants grew everywhere in large plastic pots as if to make up for the lack of greenery in town despite the lush foliage just outside. The room was cut in half by a long counter with a glass window barrier, cluttered with wire baskets full of papers and brightly coloured leaflets taped to its front. One long desk was behind the counter, which was manned by three women.
The large, grey-haired woman in the middle of the desk looked up. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Harriet Potter,” I informed her and saw the immediate awareness light her eyes. I was expected, a topic of gossip, no doubt. Goddaughter of the local mechanic whose parents were murdered. Sirius must have informed the school of my situation to be let in mid-school year.
Thankfully, one other receptionist was chatting on the phone, and the other too busy to notice me.
“Of course,” said the middle receptionist. She dug through a precariously stacked pile of documents on her desk until she found the ones she was looking for. “I have your timetable right here, and a map of the school.” She brought several sheets through the gap in the window to the counter to show me.
She went through my classes for me, highlighting the best route to each on the map, and told me assembly would be in the Great Hall at half eight, where I shall be introduced to the sixth form students. Great. She smiled at me and hoped, like Sirius, that I would like it here at Willow Parks. I smiled back as convincingly as I could.
When I went back out to my truck, others were starting to arrive, parents dropping their kids off where I was parked before driving off, so I knew I was ok to park there. It was a tiny bit embarrassing to be the only one with a rusty truck, whereas these parents had the average car. But I liked my truck, which I decided to name 'Nimbus 2000,' because it deserved a name. At home, I was a middle-class citizen who lived in one of the lower-income neighbourhoods that were included in Godric's Hallow, so I was thankful that the nicest car here was a shiny Volvo, and it stood out.
I looked at the map as I sat inside Nimbus 2000, trying to memorize it now; hopefully, I wouldn’t have to walk around with it stuck in front of my nose all day. I stuffed everything in my bag, slung the strap over my shoulder, and sucked in a huge breath. I can do this, I lied to myself feebly. No one was going to bite me. I finally exhaled and stepped out of the truck.
I kept my face pulled back into my hood as I walked to the pavement, crowded with teenagers and tiny kids in grey uniforms and black blazers, with the only colour being the ties striped with red, green, yellow and blue and the matching school emblem on the blazers breast pocket. My plain black jacket didn’t stand out, I noticed with relief.
I distantly remembered being one of those tiny kids, looking up at the older students as if they were the cool teens. I didn't feel like a cool teen now, and it felt a bit maddening to realise how short year 7's actually are.
Once I got through the front gate, I walked across the playground and around the outside benches — this was the courtyard. I spotted the grassy fields further back, where a dead, pruned willow tree waded in the wind. That must be what the school was named after.
I headed to the building on my right, where other older students in home clothes were filing through the double doors to what I presumed was the Great Hall as the students in grey uniforms played outside or hid from the light rain under the building's overhead hangings supported by pillars and arches. I felt my breathing gradually creeping toward hyperventilation as I approached the door. I tried holding my breath as I followed two unisex raincoats through the door.
"Hello! You must be Harriet Potter!" said a squeaky voice beside me, making me jump.
I looked down beside me to see a very small, mousey-haired boy holding a camera, his bright smile exposing large front teeth he hadn't grown into yet.
"Uhm, just Harry," I corrected, wondering how he knew of me.
"Harry?" he questioned with a tilt to his head.
"My nickname. I prefer being called Harry," I elaborated.
"Oh! All right then. I’m — I’m Colin Creevey,” he said breathlessly, taking a tentative step forward. "D’you think — would it be all right if — can I have a picture?” he said, raising the camera hopefully.
“A picture?” I repeated blankly.
"I work for the school newsletter, and you're the front page news!" Colin said excitedly. "I was told that a new pupil would be arriving today, and I wanted you as the feature!"
"O-oh," I sputtered, wanting to shrivel up on myself. "Please don't," I pleaded, "I'd rather not be featured at all."
Colin's shoulders slumped, and his bright smile dropped into a disheartened frown.
"Why not?" he asked with a quiver in his tone.
"I just don't want to be, Colin," I said with as much sympathy as I could. "I don't like to be talked about. You must understand."
Colin heaved a large, dejected sigh and hung his head.
"Ok," he said sadly. "I hope you have a good day."
And with that, he slumped off, all the bubbliness popped. I actually did feel bad for him, but I was firm in my resolution. So slipped in with the last of the sixth-form students through the doors, heading for the Great Hall.
Ignoring the loud chatter of the sixth form, I sat myself down on one of the front-row benches so I wouldn't have to slink my way past others and stumble up and down the stairs when called to introduce myself.
I looked over and could see Remus standing at the side of the room with the other teachers. I caught his eye, and he gave me a wink with a proud smile and I gave him one back with a subtle wave.
Beside me, a ginger boy littered with freckles turned to me.
"You're new here, right?" he asked, holding his hand out for a friendly handshake. "I'm Ron Weasley. I'm also in year 13."
Weasley? He must be related to Bill at the garage.
"Harry Potter," I greeted with a tentative smile, accepting his firm handshake. "You're Bill's brother?"
"That's right," he nodded, his smile widening.
"He works with my Godfather. If you see him, please tell him I said thank you for the truck and that I love it," I said sincerely.
"Yeah, no problem," said Ron happily.
"Hello," piped up another girl, sticking her head out from beside Ron and leaning over him to reach out for a handshake, to which Ron groaned and leaned back for space.
"I'm Hermione Granger," the girl introduced as I shook her hand. "Also in year 13. I know all about you, of course — I did some research before you came. I'm so sorry about your parents," she said very quickly, still shaking my hand.
"Oh. Thanks," I said dumbly, unsure of how else I should reply.
"Bloody hell, 'Mione," Ron grumbled, detaching Hermione's hand from me, "give the girl some room to breathe."
"I was only being polite," Hermione tsked, to which Ron rolled his eyes.
"Ignore her," he murmured to me, "She's a mad one, she is," he chuckled.
"Ronald!" Hermione hissed, whacking Ron on the arm. "Ignore him," she said to me, "He's a bit dim-witted."
"Hey!" Ron whined.
"I-it's all right," I waved off awkwardly.
Hermione was very pretty, with poofy, curly brown hair, a button nose sprinkled with fair freckles and bunny teeth. She also had a kind smile reaching her chocolatey brown eyes when she wasn't scolding Ron.
"Anyway," said Ron, turning back to me, "Our parents knew each other. They both went to this school but weren't here at the same time. They know each other through the grapevine kind of thing, y'know?"
"Oh, right," I said with surprise.
"So, what's Harry short for?" Ron asked me curiously. "Was it Harriet?"
"Yes," I nodded.
"What A-levels are you taking?" asked Hermione. "I'm in Economics, Further Maths, Phycology and Sociology."
Ah, so she's very intelligent, then.
"Oh, I'm in Psychology too," I said, watching her face light up. "And I do Art, DT and PE."
"Ah, nice! I'm in PE and DT," Ron beamed, landing a firm pat on my shoulder. "I'm also in Business and Computer Science," he finished with a snore as if it was boring, causing Hermione to roll her eyes.
"Quiet, please!" called out a tall elderly woman with glasses and a stern face, her grey hair tied in a bun.
At her call, the students quieted until their chatter died down.
"Good morning, all," she said.
"Good morning, Professor McGonagall," everyone chorused.
"I hope you all had a good Christmas," the Professor said, and I wanted to die in that moment.
Professor McGonagall began with a few school notices, and I cringed when she stated that the girls' netball would be starting again next week. I used to be in the girls' netball team in my old school, and I missed playing, but I didn't know if I could even bring myself to try to join this time. It was probably too late for me anyway.
Horror then overtook me when the Professor called me out, asking me to step forward.
With shaking legs, I rose to my feet and, for the life of me, tried not to make a fool of myself by somehow tripping over my own feet as I walked to her side.
I got there unscathed and kept my eyes downcast. I could feel the hundreds of eyes boring into me, inspecting me like a bug under a microscope, and I longed for the floor to open up and swallow me whole.
"I expect you all to greet our new year 13 student, Harriet Potter, with nothing but kindness and respect, and to do your part in honouring the school by showing Miss Potter what it means to be a Willow Parks student," she said firmly with a gentle hand on my back. "Is there anything you would like to say, Miss Potter?" she asked me quietly.
"Uhm," I swallowed thickly, looking up just a bit so that my eyesight only reached the first few rows of benches. "Please, just call me Harry," I said, inwardly wincing at my shaky voice.
"Very well," said Professor McGonagall softly. "You may sit."
Thanking the heavens, I walked back to my seat at what I hoped was a reasonable, unrushed pace and sat back down beside Ron, who gave me an encouraging smile. I tried not to make my breathing as laboured as I felt it wanted to be and waited for the Professor to finish giving out notices and reminders. The bell rang, signalling it was the end of assembly and the start of lessons.
"Don't forget to sign your name on the register on your way out! Single file, please!" the Professor yelled over the noisy chatter that erupted. "Oh, Miss Potter, could you stay behind for me, please?" she said once she spotted me.
I gulped and sat back down.
"I'll see you in DT," said Ron as he passed me, DT being our first period of the day. I smiled at him vaguely with a short nod.
When there were only a few students left signing the register, Professor McGonagall and an even older, bespectacled man with half-moon glasses, an impressive grey beard and long white hair came over to me.
"My sincerest apologies for having to put you on the spot like that, Miss Potter," Professor McGonagall apologised with regret.
"It's fine, I understand," I brushed off.
"I'm the Headmaster, Professor Albus Dumbledore," said the older man, shaking my hand gently. "This is the Deputy Head, Professor Minerva McGonagall," he gestured to the other. "Our deepest regrets and condolences to you to hear of your parents' tragic passing, Miss Potter," he said gravely, a sad glint in his eye. "I was their Headmaster here."
"I taught your parents and Godfather — incredibly bright students," McGonagall remarked with upset, her hands clasped together and fidgeting fretfully. "I am certain you will do well here, just as they before you. I do hope you can learn to be at home here."
Jesus. Did everybody know everyone here?
"If there is anything you need at all, any trouble or concerns, our offices are always open to you. Help will always be given at Willow Parks to those who ask for it," Dumbledore said in earnest, and I could see it in his eyes and the hard-set lines of his frowning face.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, blinking back the stinging in my eyes with the threat of tears escaping. I cleared my throat.
"Thank you, sir," I croaked and cleared my throat again. "I'll keep that in mind."
"We shan't keep you," said Dumbledore and looked over his shoulder to Remus waiting by the door. "Are you all right to have Professor Lupin escort you to DT?"
"Of course," I mumbled and got up, thanking them again and walking over to Remus after signing my name on the register.
He placed a grounding hand on my shoulder as we walked. "How're you doing so far?" he asked.
I heaved a shaky sigh, wiping my eyes before tears had the chance to fall.
"As well as I can, I s'pose."
"Mm," he hummed in consideration. "I know it's a lot, Harry. And it's ok to struggle. But I assure you that I, as well as other staff here, will do whatever we can to support you."
"I know," I sniffled. "Thanks again."
"For what?" he questioned in confusion.
"Just... being there," I shrugged. "Especially for Padfoot. I know he appreciates your company right now."
Remus hummed again, and I fear I struck a nerve somewhere, but his grip on my shoulder and our stride to the Arts and Design building never faltered.
"Give him a hug for me when you get home, will you?" he said with a light shake to my shoulder.
Home... at Grimmauld Place. I wanted to scoff.
"'Course, Moony," I smiled up at him instead.
We walked the rest of the way in silence. I was surprised to have managed this much walking so far.
It was a simple two-hour lesson for DT that morning, with most of it being written work and planning for our end-of-year project. Unsurprisingly, I had no idea what I wanted to make. There weren't that many students taking DT since it wasn't that popular of a subject all around, so I sat beside Ron, and we actually got on fairly well.
He was like one of those golden retriever type of guys, and I found it was quite easy to talk to him about stuff like sports and how he loved playing chess. He didn't seem all that dim-witted to me, so Hermione must have been taking the piss out of him. Ron never questioned me about my life back at Godric's Hallow — or, I suppose you could call it, my past life — and I was grateful for that. I didn't mind getting to know him better as a friend. I asked him about Hermione, and he reaffirmed that they were friends, but they just bicker a lot because Hermione was a 'smarty-pants.'
I hadn't really had any friends back at my old school. I mean, I had the odd few, but like most school friendships and relationships, they didn't last very long and had the tendency to shift with cliques, forgetting you if you didn't shift with them.
During break, I met a few more of Ron's friends, who all seemed nice enough. Neville was quite shy but sweet, while Dean and Seamus were extraverted, which was good because then I didn't have to talk so much and let them do the talking for me. I also met Ron's younger sister, Ginny, who was the youngest Weasley in the family and a year below us, with long, fiery red hair and just as freckled as her brother. I often caught her staring at me. Hermione's friends were similar to the girls in my old school. Lavender brown was bubbly and a bit squeaky. I think she was crushing on Ron a bit. The twins, Parvati and Padma Patil, were nice. I felt a bit awkward being surrounded by the lively chatter, but again, I got along with everyone decently.
It was a bit exhausting, having to go through introductions, persuade Padma to not feature me in the school newsletter since she, too, was working on it, receive condolences and ask what happened to my parents, as well as why I have a boy's name for a nickname. But I sternly shut down any talk about my parents and home life — which they were accepting of — and I powered on through the day. I longed to snuggle up to Hedwig in bed and sleep away the tiredness.
Once break was over, I inwardly sighed as I walked with Ron to our third class of the day: PE.
PE was in the Great Hall today, where the conjoined benches we sat on that morning were pushed back flat against the wall. Ms Hooch was strict in her teachings but a good coach, from what I could tell. She, mercifully, took it easy on us today, with just warm-ups and exercises for the whole hour to prepare us more for our two-hour class on Wednesday. Still, I had never felt so out of shape, and my face was flushed red with staggard breaths by the time we finished, and I felt faintly nauseated. I worried my legs would give out before the end of the day. I had no idea how I managed this far.
I made an effort to clean myself up after PE; no one ever uses manky school showers, and then headed to the cafeteria with Ron for Lunch.
It was there, sitting in the lunchroom, trying to make conversation with Ron and Hermione and their friends, that I first saw them.
They were sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, as far away from where I sat as possible in the long room. There were five of them. They weren’t talking, and they weren’t eating, though they each had a tray of untouched food in front of them. They weren’t gawking at me, unlike most of the other students, so it was safe to stare at them without fear of meeting an excessively interested pair of eyes. But it was none of these things that caught and held my attention.
They didn’t look anything alike, except for maybe two of them. Of the two boys, one was tall and muscular, his skin a deep, dark taupe with a buzzcut. I’d guess he was six-two or even more — was clearly the school’s star athlete. And the Prom King, if there was ever one in the UK. And the guy who always had dibs on whatever equipment he wanted in the weight room.
Did he not take PE? How could he not? Surely, I would have seen him earlier. He was clearly too cool for this school or any other I could imagine.
The other was a little shorter but lean, with tanned skin, sleepy but intense eyes, and hickory brown waves. They looked like they could be in university or even teachers here rather than students.
The girls were a contrast. The second-shortest, pixie-like girl was petite and wiry. Her hair was cut in a short jet-black bob, styled with loose waves sticking out and over her forehead in a thin fringe. Her features were East Asian — high cheekbones; sharp, cat-like eyes; a small, upturned nose and full lips stained a berry-red.
The shortest girl was the opposite, softer and a bit curvier. Her pale-blonde hair was so long that it reached below her waist in a waterfall of tight, messy waves and hanging over the one side of her rounded face. Her non-hooded, large eyes were tired-looking and droopy, and her narrow lips bow-shaped in a dazed smile.
The last was the tallest of the girls — her legs went on forever. Her features were straight, pointy and sharp. She had a beautiful figure, an hourglass figure with a tiny waist, the kind you saw on models on the cover of fashion magazines, the kind that made every girl around her take a hit on her self-esteem just by being in the same room. Her hair was platinum blonde, almost white, and fluffy, bouncy waves curled at her waist and fringe. She looked as if Disney's Sleeping Beauty morphed from an animation to an actual real human. She was, I think it was safe to say, the embodiment of perfection.
I felt, in that very moment, a raging bi panic — one unlike ever before.
I had known I was bisexual since I was, like, thirteen. I liked this sweet guy called Cedric Diggory in my old school, who had the face of an ancient Greek sculpture. But not long after I realised I was crushing on him, I also then realised I was crushing on his girlfriend, Cho Chang, who was just as sweet as him. Cedric was two years above me, and Cho was one year above me. Of course, I never got either of them, which I don't at all mind because I thought they were very cute together and wished their relationship nothing but the best. I don't know if they're still together, but I hope they're doing well.
I came out to my family a year later with tears after working through the confusing thoughts, and they all just laughed, saying it was all right and they didn't give a rats-ass who I fancied and comforting me with many hugs and kisses and my favourite foods. It was that year that my parents bought Hedwig for my birthday.
I didn't exactly go out of my way to tell people at school I was bisexual, I just let them figure it out, and I'd do the same here. And now, looking at these fine people, I guessed it wouldn't be that hard for people to figure out my sexuality.
The two blonde girls were the only ones I could see being related; both were chalky pale, the palest I've probably ever seen, almost translucent. The only things they all shared in common, however, was that they all had very dark eyes — from here, they looked black — despite the range in ethnicities. They also had dark shadows under those eyes — purplish, bruise-like shadows, as if they were all suffering from a sleepless night, or almost done recovering from a broken nose, although I couldn't tell from the tallest guy because of his darker complexion.
But all this is not why I couldn’t look away.
I stared because their faces, so different, so similar, were all devastatingly, inhumanly beautiful. The girls and the guys were both beautiful. They were faces you never expected to see except perhaps on the airbrushed pages of a fashion magazine. Or in a museum, painted by an old master as the face of an angel. It was hard to believe they were real.
I decided the most beautiful of all was the tallest girl with platinum-blonde hair, though I expected the female half of the student body would vote for the taller, dark-skinned guy. And I could see why. I mean, all of them were gorgeous, but the tallest girl was something more than just beautiful. She was absolutely perfect. It was an upsetting, disturbing kind of perfection. It made my stomach uneasy.
They were all looking away — away from each other, away from the other students, away from anything in particular as far as I could tell. It reminded me of models posed oh-so artistically for an ad — aesthetic ennui. As I watched, the smallest blonde girl rose with her tray — unopened pop, unbitten apple — and walked away with a quick, graceful lope that belonged on a runway. I watched, amazed at her lithe dancer’s step, till she dumped her tray and glided through the back door, faster than I would have thought possible. My eyes darted back to the others, who sat unchanging.
“Who are they?” I asked Ron.
As he looked up to see who I meant — though he could probably guess from my tone — suddenly she looked at us, the perfect one. She looked at Ron for just a fraction of a second, and then her dark eyes flickered to mine. Long fox eyes angled up at the corners and thick, pale lashes.
She looked away quickly, faster than I could, though, and in a flush of embarrassment, I dropped my eyes at once. I could feel the patches of red start to bloom on my face, and it wasn't easy for me to blush because of my brown skin. In that brief flash of a glance, her face contorted into something akin to distaste — it was like Ron had called her name, and she’d looked up in involuntary response, annoyed at having been called and wanted her name out of his mouth.
Ron laughed once, uncomfortable, looking down at the table like I did. I could see Ginny tense beside him.
“That’s Draco Malfoy, the other girl is Pansy Parkinson. The two guys are Blaise Zabini and Theo Nott. The girl who left was Loony Luna Lovegood; they all live together with Dr Snape,” he muttered under his breath.
"Loony Luna Lovegood?" I echoed with a frown.
"She's a bit weird," Ron shrugged, looking guilty. "Everyone calls her Loony Lovegood. Kind of a habit at this point."
My frown drew tighter. That didn't seem very nice, and I felt disappointed in Ron for going along with calling a girl names.
"Please don't call her that," I said, to which everyone looked away shamefully.
I glanced sideways at the perfect girl, who was looking at her tray now with deep irritation pulling at her perfect features, picking a bagel to pieces with thin, pale fingers. Her mouth was moving very quickly, her heart-shaped lips barely opening. The other three looked away, and yet I felt she was speaking quietly to them.
I hadn't failed to notice all of the unique, old-fashioned names, even the ones I was familiar with, like Sirius and Remus. Maybe that was the thing here? Small-town names?
“They are... very nice-looking.” I struggled with the conspicuous understatement.
“Yes!” Lavender agreed with a giggle, inserting herself into the conversation. “They’re all together though — Blaise and Pansy, and Theo and Luna, I mean. And they live together.” Her voice held all the shock and condemnation of the small town, I thought critically. But, if I was being honest, I had to admit that even anywhere else in the UK, it would cause gossip. And Brits loved to talk shit about everything.
I didn’t know why, but her reaction made me want to defend them. Maybe just because she sounded so judgmental. But what could I say? I didn’t know anything about them.
"They live together, but none of them are related?" I further questioned, my curiosity piqued.
“I think only Draco and Loo- Luna are related — cousins, I believe. I don't actually know if Dr Snape is related to Draco or not, but I'm pretty sure they're familial somehow," Ron tried to explain, but he, too, looked just as perplexed as everyone else trying to make sense of his words. "They’re all adopted. I don't know, it's confusing,” he waved off.
Oh. As awful as it sounded, I was sort of glad that I could relate to them.
“They look a little old for foster children.”
“They are now," said Hermione. "Blaise and Theo are both eighteen, but they’ve been with Dr Snape since they were eight, and Draco and Luna have been in his care for even longer.”
“That’s really kind of nice — for him to take care of all those kids like that and everything.”
“I guess so,” Lavender admitted reluctantly, and I got the impression that she didn’t like the doctor for some reason. With the glances she was throwing at his adopted children, I would presume the reason was jealousy. “I think that Dr Snape can’t have any kids, though, and never married,” she added as if that lessened his kindness.
"I think he's a bit creepy," commented Ginny. "He doesn't act or look very kind to me." At this, everyone seemed to agree.
It was a bit frustrating. Ron and Ginny had lots of siblings, so it irked me that they felt like they could comment on how many kids a single man could adopt. Also, hello? I'm sitting right here! My single Godfather practically adopted me, that does not make him creepy! I think it was admirable for a man to provide safe and secure homes for kids, and they looked well-off, based on their stylish clothes alone.
Throughout all this conversation, my eyes flickered again and again to the table where the strange family sat. They continued to look at the walls and not eat. If anything, the conversation just drew me further into their mysterious auras. There was something about them that almost felt bone-deep that I could relate to and sympathize with.
Of course, one should always be wary when they see something odd. But I think I would have been justified in my beliefs if nothing had been done about their odd situation after so long. That, or — God forbid — the system had failed them.
“Have they always lived here?” I asked, digging further.
“No,” said Lavender in a voice that implied it should be obvious, even to a new arrival like me. “They just moved down two years ago from somewhere in France.”
I felt a surge of pity and relief. Pity because, as beautiful as they were, they were still outsiders, clearly not accepted. Relief that I wasn’t the only newcomer here, and certainly not the most interesting by any standard.
As I examined them again, the perfect girl looked up and met my gaze with the same look of disgust from earlier. I couldn't blame her because I would probably do the same if some rando kept staring at me. But, this time — as her gaze settled on mine in a fierce staring contest I couldn't seem to break away from — obvious curiosity graced her expression. As I got myself to look away after a bit, it seemed to me that her glance held some kind of unmet expectation.
“What did you say that girl's name was? With the white-blonde hair?” I asked. I peeked at her from the corner of my eye, and she was still staring at me, but not gawking like the other students had today — she had a slightly frustrated expression. I looked down again.
“That’s Draco Malfoy. She’s hot, sure, but don’t waste your time trying to befriend her. And if you're into girls, she doesn’t go out with anyone. Apparently, no one here is good enough for her,” Seamus said sourly, then grunted. I wondered how many times she’d turned him down.
"She's into girls?" I perked up, and damn myself for being so obvious.
I glanced at her again, damming myself another time. Draco. Her face was turned away, but I thought from the shape of her cheek that she might be smiling.
"Who knows," Ginny scoffed. "She's aro/ace for all we know. Why? Are you into girls?" she asked with a gleam of hope.
I bit my lip, feeling like I was wading through murky waters here and unsure of the reception I'd receive from coming out. It kind of felt like a showdown in Western films to see who would shoot first. It was probably fine since the topic was brought up casually. And even if it wasn't ok with them, I'd be more than happy to distance myself from homophobes. I still felt cross with myself for giving myself away so quickly — in record time, at that.
"Uhm, yes. I'm bi," I mumbled.
It was fine, surely. It's not like I was actively looking to date anyone, especially not for a while.
"Me too," Ginny smiled happily. That was comforting, to know that I was not the only outed queer person here, and no one else on the table seemed to care either.
"I'd rather none of you go telling people, though," I quickly added, flicking my eyes around to everyone with slight panic. I couldn't deal with people talking about me for any reason right now. I had already been gossiped about at my old school because of my sexuality.
Pretty much everyone at the table looked up at me with confusion and concern.
"Of course. We wouldn't do that," Hermione frowned. "We promise."
"Thanks," I sighed in relief.
"Our school's not really like that," said Ginny with a reassuring smile. "It's not the end of the world if people here know you're queer or anything."
I nodded at the consolation.
Suddenly, the strange family left the table together. They all were noticeably graceful — even the tallest one. Blaise, was it? It was unsettling to watch them in motion together. Draco didn’t look at me again.
I sat at the table with Ron and Hermione and their friends longer than I would have if I’d been sitting alone. I was anxious not to be late for class on my first day. One of my new acquaintances, who considerately reminded me that his name was Neville, the shy one, had Art with me for the next two hours. We walked to class together in silence.
A friendly giant of a man was about to pass us by before he cheerily greeted Neville and introduced himself to me as Rubeus Hagrid, one of the caretakers of the school who mainly focused on gardening and outside clean-up. He also jokingly told me to steer clear of Mr Filch, another caretaker, if I ever saw him before he lumbered off to continue work.
When we entered the classroom, Neville went to sit at a paint-splattered table beside someone else. In fact, all the tables were filled but one.
Next to the centre aisle, I recognized Draco Malfoy by her luxurious hair, sitting next to that single open seat.
My heart started pounding a little faster than usual.
As I walked to the corner of the room to introduce myself to the teacher, I was watching her, trying to make it covert. I felt the fan I was standing in front of blow my hair into my face, and I quickly tried to brush the strands back to not look like a twat. Draco suddenly went rigid in her seat. Her face turned up toward mine so fast it surprised me, staring with the strangest expression — it was more than angry, it was furious, hostile. I looked away quickly, stunned, going red again.
I’d been right about the eyes. They were black — coal black.
Ms Trelawney finished her ramblings about catching up with the rest of the class with no nonsense about introductions. Just like most art teachers, she seemed a bit eccentric, but I hoped we were going to get along. Of course, she had no choice but to send me to the one open seat in the middle of the room. I kept my eyes down as I went to sit by her, confused and awkward, wondering what I could have done to earn the antagonistic glare she’d given me.
I didn’t look up as I set my sketchbook (still using the old one from my previous school) on the table and took my seat, but I saw her posture change from the corner of my eye. She was leaning away from me, hand clamped over her mouth and nose, sitting on the extreme edge of her chair and averting her face like she smelled something bad.
Horror struck me for the second time that day. Oh God, did I smell bad? Was it because I stank of BO from PE earlier? Or was it because I hadn't showered well enough the night before, and I still reeked of a weeks-worth of sweat and grime?
And, again, for the second time, I wanted to shrivel up and die.
Inconspicuously, I sniffed my hair. It smelled like cherries, the scent of my favourite shampoo. It seemed an innocent enough odour. Was I just nose-blind to my own stench? No one else had even alluded to the fact that I smelt. I practically scrubbed my skin raw with baby wipes and drenched myself in deodorant and perfume after PE.
I was sort of grateful for the fan because it was quite stuffy in the classroom, and I feared I'd break out in another sweat.
I scooted my chair to the right, giving her as much space as I could, let my hair fall over my left shoulder, making a dark curtain between us, pushed up my glasses to stop them from slipping down my nose, and tried to pay attention to the teacher. We were starting to draw up ideas for our final exam piece with the criteria of "Body" and note down our thought process.
I couldn’t stop myself from peeking occasionally through the screen of my hair at the strange girl next to me. Throughout the entire class, she never relaxed her stiff position on the edge of her chair, sitting as far from me as possible, with her hair hiding most of her face. Her hand was clenched into a fist on top of her left thigh, tendons standing out under her pale skin. This, too, she never relaxed. I wondered how she could wear a skirt with only black tights and white legwarmers in this weather. She had the sleeves of her white, lacey henley shirt pushed up to her elbows, and her forearm flexed with surprisingly hard muscle beneath her pale skin. I couldn’t help but notice how perfect that skin was. Not one freckle, not one scar. The only times she dropped her hand from her face was to quickly sketch things down until she had to stop and take a break by covering her face again.
The class seemed to drag on longer than DT. Was it because the day was finally ending, or because I was waiting for her tight fist to loosen? It never did; she continued to sit so still it looked like she wasn’t even breathing. What was wrong with her? Was this how she usually acted? I questioned my quick judgment on Seamus' bitterness at lunch today. Maybe he wasn’t just resentful.
Ms Trelawney came around to inspect everyone's sketches when the class was almost done. Upon hearing Trelawney begin her musings over Draco's art — she was clearly the teachers favourite — I took a sneak peek.
Jesus, it was pretty, and it was only a fucking sketch. Sketches aren't supposed to be brilliant, they're supposed to be messy and imperfect. She drew a half-arsed sketch of a lamb being strangled and devoured from the inside out by a snake. I drew a tangled, scribbled mess of an ugly rat king.
Trelawney also seemed quite impressed with my idea, despite it not being nearly as neat as Draco's. Hearing this, Draco flickered her dark eyes to my sketch, and I instantly felt self-conscious. The feeling only worsened when she glared up at me again, her long, black eyes full of revulsion. As I flinched away from the hate radiating from her, the phrase if looks could kill suddenly ran through my mind. She turned her head away again with a pained look as if I had just gut-punched her.
What the fuck was wrong with her?! My drawing wasn't that bad! Trelawney liked it!
At that moment, the bell rang loudly, making me jump, and Draco Malfoy was out of her seat. Fluidly she rose — she moved like a dancer, every perfect line of her slim body in harmony with all the others, her back to me, and she was out the door before anyone else was out of their seat.
I sat frozen in my seat, staring blankly after her. She was so harsh and mean. It wasn’t fair. I began gathering up my things slowly, trying to block out the confusion, anger and guilt that filled me for fear my eyes would tear up. For some reason, sometimes my temper would be so overwhelming that I'd cry when angry, a humiliating tendency that has become more frequent than I care to admit. Besides, why should I feel guilty? I hadn’t done anything wrong. How could I have? I hadn’t actually even met her. And I was almost certain I didn't smell that bad.
I quickly caught up with Neville and pulled him back into the classroom to wait for everyone else to leave.
"Do I stink?" I blurted out in my anger.
Neville gave me a funny look. "What?"
"Smell me," I demanded. "Do I smell bad to you?"
Neville looked a bit frightened aside from his shock. But he obediently leaned in to take a tentative sniff.
"Uhm... no? You smell fine to me. Normal," he shrugged, hoping it was the right answer.
"You're not lying?" I pressed. "You'd tell me if I smelt bad?"
"Well, yeah," he shrugged again. "But you don't, so it's fine."
I heaved a ragged breath, my anger rising. So Draco was just being a bitch for no reason then. Great.
"Thanks, Nev," I said before storming out of the classroom.
"N-no problem," he stuttered out in bafflement, scurrying to catch up with me. As we were leaving, ready to go home, he asked, “So, did you stab Malfoy with a pencil or what? I’ve never seen her act like that.” I winced. I guess I wasn’t the only one who had noticed. And, apparently, that wasn’t Draco Malfoy's usual behaviour. "Is that why you asked me to smell you? Because she thought you smelt bad?" Neville asked in confusion, but I could see the smirk he tried to bite back tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"I don't know why she acted like that. She didn't even talk to me once!" I growled, furious with Malfoy. "I never even said anything to her either!"
"Don't take it to heart," Neville tried to soothe. "She's very... cold as a person. It's not uncommon for her to be mean to people."
"She's mean to others too?" I asked, feeling some of my anger trickle away at the thought that it wasn't just me she hated for no reason.
"Uhm..." Neville hesitated, searching for the right words. "Well... yeah, she is a bit," he nodded sheepishly. "She's picked on me a few times, as well as others like Hermione and Ron. Called them poor and stuff."
"Really?" I gasped in surprise, halting in my rampaging tracks. "Neville," I said, stopping him and getting him to face me. He was quite a bit taller than me, all lanky limbs, so I had to look up and him look down. "If she ever picks on you or anyone else again, either tell me or a teacher, yeah?"
"Jeez, Harry," he chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his head, "I'm not a child."
"I'm serious, Nev," I warned. "I don't tolerate that shit."
"Yeah, all right," Neville nodded quickly, looking a bit frightened of me again.
Seriously, who bullies people for being poor or for literally no reason at all? I hardly know the girl, but I don't care what kind of trauma she's been through. It's not right, and I won't stand for it if I see it.
We stepped out of the building and into the open air. The rain had drifted away, but the wind was strong and colder. I zipped my jacket up, shoved my free hand into a pocket, and parted with Neville with a smile and a wave goodbye.
"Nice meeting you, Harry."
"Likewise. See you tomorrow, Nev."
When I walked into the warmth of the reception office, about to ask for a new timetable sheet because mine had gotten soaked in the rain with the printer ink dispersed, I almost turned around and walked back out.
Draco Malfoy stood at the desk in front of me. Impossible not to recognize her frustratingly glorious head of pale, lush hair. She didn’t seem to notice the sound of my entrance. I stood pressed against the back wall, waiting for the receptionist to be free.
She was arguing with her in a low, velvety voice. I quickly picked up the gist of the argument. She was trying to trade from fourth and fifth-period Art to another time — any other time.
This could not be about me. It had to be something else, something that happened before I got to the Art room. The look on her face must have been about another aggravation entirely. It was impossible that a stranger could take such a sudden, intense dislike to me.
Or... could it be because she saw me come in with Neville, and it was now known that she disliked him and therefore now disliked me? It couldn't possibly be the fact that she's racist — her adopted siblings are people of colour.
But the more I ran it through my head and argued with myself, I wasn't so sure anymore. She felt unpredictable — like she would think one thing, so you'd make the obvious assumption about her, only for her to prove you wrong the next second.
I tried to remind myself that people aren't that two-dimensional and that making assumptions about people was a flawed and unreliable way of thinking, but I just couldn't wrap my head around what her problem with me might be.
The door opened again, and the cold wind suddenly gusted through the room, rustling the papers on the desk, swirling my hair around my face. The girl who came in merely stepped to the desk, placed a note in the wire basket, and walked out again. But Draco Malfoy's back stiffened, and she turned slowly to glare at me — her face was ridiculously perfect, not even one tiny flaw to make her seem human — with piercing, hate-filled eyes. For an instant, I felt a thrill of genuine fear, raising the hair on my arms. As if she were going to pull a knife out and stab me. The look only lasted a second, but it chilled me more than the freezing wind, and I had to squeeze my eyes shut and swallow down the bile rising into my throat, scrubbing my eyes free of images I remembered only in nightmares. She turned back to the receptionist.
“Never mind, then,” she said quickly in a voice like silk and a posh accent. “I can see that it’s impossible. Thank you so much for your help.” And she turned on her heel without another look at me and disappeared out the door.
I went robotically to the desk, my face pale and drained of colour for once instead of red, and asked to have a new timetable sheet printed.
“How did your first day go, dear?” the receptionist asked maternally.
“Fine,” I lied, my voice weak. She didn’t look convinced.
When I got back to Nimbus 2000, it was almost the last car in the lot. It seemed like a haven, already the closest thing to home I had in this place. I sat inside for a while, just staring out the windshield blankly. But soon I was cold enough to need the heater, so I turned the key and the engine roared to life. I headed back to Grimmauld Place, fighting tears the whole way there.