By the time I reached my fifteenth birthday, I was the exact image of my mother with obvious mistakes. I had her hands, her nose, her lips, her ears, and her teeth. But I also had a smattering of freckles across my nose, dark blue eyes, and red hair. The hair, however, didn't always stay the same. I told myself it was red, but I knew it had turned brown as I got older, and it was only bushy on some days.
I was maybe an inch taller than her, and when I smiled she said it was like looking in a mirror. Even my freckles were sometimes framed by the slight tan we both harbored when I went outside. I liked that I looked like her. She didn't even have any wrinkles, only creases in her brow, and that long, awful scar on her cheek.
As I'd grown older, the things that differentiated us had disappeared until it was to the point when someone glancing at us would double back and take that second look, just to make sure their eyesight wasn't failing them.
There hadn't been a single day in my life where I couldn't remember seeing her. We'd been together every second of my life, or nearly every second. She thought she knew everything about me, but she didn't. And I didn't know as much about her as I thought I did. That is, perhaps, the reason for the explosion.
I call it the explosion, for that's what it was. At the time of its occurrence, I regretted it with every fiber of my being, but today I think I can live with it. I'm positive everyone appreciates it now as well.
Every month of the year was exactly the same, except for August. August was the month in which I was born, and the month stands out to me against all the others. My birthday is August 19, to be exact. Each August on my birthday, something extraordinary would happen. On my sixth birthday, I stole a bottle of ink straight from an Advisor's desk in the heart of the village and was never caught. On my ninth I somehow managed to make all the doorknobs on every door in the village melt into the doorframe, locking every person inside for hours before it could be corrected; Mum said it was my magic coming through. When I turned eleven the Commander Advisor in charge of our section mysteriously disappeared, leaving us in the charge of a much less stricter Advisor. Whether he was arrested or murdered or kidnapped or simply died or ran away, we were never really sure. But security was loosened, it wasn't a crime any longer to step outside, and the darkness of the first years of living in the village seemed to almost disappear. That was the best birthday by far.
As my ability to recognize these happy feats that marked a year to my age, and my handwriting grew steadily more legible, I took to writing these happy memories down. I never wrote these things on the wall, or on Mum's books. She would've seen them and I wanted these to be private in the sense that my mother never read them. Instead I addressed each letter to only man I could ever think to correspond with: Ronald Weasley. I told him all about my birthdays, all about Mum, all about me on the back of the photos my mother had given me as a child with the stolen ink and quill. In an almost sad way, it was my way of telling someone my secrets but never having them leaked.
By noon on August 19, 2015, I was sitting outside on the front step, the pile of pictures in my hands and the precious ink and quill at my side. I flipped through picture after picture, looking for the perfect one to write on for my yearly tradition. As Mum always told me, tradition is what keeps us constant.
The stack was thick and worn from so many years of rifling through them. It was always a pleasant experience to find things I'd written in my youth. I found a picture of Molly and Arthur Weasley in front of their house and flipped it over to see my scribbles of a past birthday.
August 19, 2009
Dear Ron,
It's my birthday again. When I woke up this morning hundreds of flowers had grown overnight outside. Mum told me I did it all on my own, with my own magic of course. She said it wouldn’t be the last time this ever happens. I picked a bunch before the Advisors got rid of them, and now they're hanging upside-down in our house so we can have them all winter long.
Love from,
Tessa
I'd drawn spindly little flowers all along the border in a childish fashion. The flowers we'd saved were crinkled and dry now, preserved in one of Mum's books. She'd said it was a moment she didn't want to forget. It proved I really was a witch, and I didn't belong in the village. But then again, no one else really belonged there either.
A cloud drifted out of the sky and for a moment the sun skated over my face. Leaning back, I shivered as the sunlight warmed my bones, waiting for something, anything to happen.
Almost as quickly as the sun had come out, it disappeared. I squinted up at the silhouette of a shadowy figure above me and opened my mouth in a perfect O.
"Hello," a light but deep male voice said to me.
I stood up clumsily and shoved the pictures into my pocket while simultaneously kicking the ink the ink off the steps where it thumped almost noiselessly in a clump of weeds.
The man was speaking again, but my ears were ringing and my eyes had blacked out from standing too quickly. I waited dizzily for sight to return, and when it did, my heart lurched.
A long line of young men was walking before me, stretching all the way down the dirt road and out of sight. Each one of them carried identical short wands and wore robes of pale gray, fashioned like those of the Advisors. They all had the same haircut and straight posture with their hands folded behind their backs, and their eyes rolled around curiously as they took in the new place. They all stared politely at me and the other women drawn outside by the quiet yet strange noise of their boots against the dirt road.
The one in front of me smiled; apparently, from the shiny badge on his chest, he had some sort of seniority that allowed him to break ranks. I didn't return the friendly gesture. I didn't trust men one bit.
He sensed my discomfort and said politely, "You've led a quiet life here, have you not?"
"Yes," I answered, only because it didn't seem wise to not say anything.
"Things are about to change." He winked at me. My heart lurched again and my stomach plummeted.
"Can we help you?"
I wheeled around.
Mum stood in the doorway of our house, her hair a little mussed, her arms crossed over her chest. Her scar glinted in the sunlight as another cloud drifted away. She clumped down the steps and stood next to me, her arm touching mine.
The man's clear grayish-blue eyes followed her the whole time. I decided he couldn't be more than sixteen years old.
"I believe your friends are moving on without you," said Mum loftily.
He suddenly stood up straighter. His eyes clouded over as quickly as the sky above us.
"Hold old are you anyway?" asked Mum. She seemed to enjoy the fact that she was so much older than him.
"Sixteen," he said scathingly.
Mum's face paled. "And you're already in a point of authority?"
He stood up taller. I had the feeling that he wasn't supposed to be talking so casually with us, but he liked showing off. "Yes, of course. The New Generation Youth "
His words sparked something in Mum. I racked my brains for the reference she’d recognized. "How old are the others?" she whispered.
"Sorry?"
"How old are the others?"
"That depends. Some are eighteen some are fifteen. Most of them are fifteen."
"Fifteen?"
"That's right," he said, and sensing my mother's change of heart in her interrogation, he said, "Is that a problem with you?"
Mum's voice was shaking as she replied, "Only that a boy of sixteen has suddenly assumed the job of a commander. Who gave you your position, You-Know-Who himself?"
He didn't answer her question. He gave me one last look and I felt his eyes burn into me. "I'll be watching you," he said coolly. "Both of you."
He turned around and marched back into step with the other newcomers. The long line of men disappeared into the center of the village. My heart was still pounding. I felt like his eyes were still burning into mine.
"Tessa," Mum said sternly. "Come inside now." She pulled me inside and I didn't fight her. I blindly dropped onto our bed and sat there while she shut the door. The lock clicked, the curtains swished as she pulled them further shut, and the shanty we'd been in for the past fifteen years was doused in gray light.
The bed creaked as she sank down beside me. I swallowed the lump in my throat. It took me only a minute to find my voice.
"What are they doing here?" I asked.
She sprang up, her hair flying around and her fists clenched.
"They're here to keep an eye on us," she said through a grimace. I could tell she wanted to yell and scream, but her vow of silence when the area was so heavily guarded prevented her. "To train for combat, take advantage of us -- there are a million things those boys could be here for, and none of them are good for us!"
"What do they want with us?" I questioned further.
"I don't know, but it can't be good," she repeated, wringing her hands. "After the Commander turned over I thought we'd be all right here -- but now --"
She struggled to speak.
"Oh God," she sighed, falling onto the bed on her back and covering her face with her hands once more.
"Mum?" I said quietly. I lay down on the bed next to her and stared at the cracks in the ceiling. But she didn't answer me.
"Tessa," she began. She faltered again. "Tessa, it's sick, it's disgusting, that those young boys are being paraded around the way they just were. Give them a wand and they think they have power. A wand is nothing unless you have the right mind to use it. They're only fifteen, they must've been training since birth..." She stopped speaking and the room fell silent.
I'd decided long ago that there were six sides to my mother. The first was Hermione Granger, the girl from Hogwarts. The second was Hermione Weasley, the woman married to Ron Weasley. The third was Hermione Granger again, the young, fiery woman who had tried every possible way to escape from the village before, and after, I was born. The fourth was Mum, the mother who had held me when I was little and kept me warm all through the long winter nights and sang me lullabies even when she didn't have a voice. The fifth was Mum still, but stricter and sterner, the lady who had taught me to read at a young age because she didn't want my mind to waste, the woman who had made up a million rules. And the sixth side of Hermione Granger Weasley was a mystery. She would cry in the night, for what, or for who, I never knew, and she'd speak as if I wasn't there, and verbally think to herself, but never explain what she was going on about to me.
Right now, she was on her sixth side. I closed my eyes and tried to wait it out, knowing she probably forgot I was lying beside her.
I thought about the long line of men marching into the village. I thought about their matching robes and wands, and the way they looked hardened and unhappy. I thought about the youth who had advanced upon me, who had probably watched me while it looked like I was sleeping. I thought about the way he winked at me.
My memory zoomed into overdrive and an instance where another man winked at me filled my brain.
August 19, 2008. The first day I ever saw magic, real magic, bad magic. The Advisors had patrolled the village the day before, so Mum and I were sure they wouldn't come around again so soon. We sat out on the front steps to our shanty, our sleeves rolled up to soak in the warmth of the sun. We both gradually grew tan, myself spotting a few new freckles.
"See how it's so nice out here, with no Advisors to make us go back inside?" Mum said, smoothing down my hair. "This is your special day. Nothing can touch you."
I just smiled at her. I was the center of her world, and she was the center of mine.
We sat out there for hours. That was the first mistake. I wouldn't realize until much later that day, that if you could be seen, you would be watched.
The second mistake was worse. She began to hum a song, one she had sung to me when I was younger. I hummed along with her. Our eyes locked; silently, I questioned her with my eyes whether this was allowed, where the Advisors could easily see and hear us. She arched her eyebrows: What do you think?
She'd never been this daring before; it just wasn't in her nature to go against the rules like this. Maybe she was tired of our oppressed life and wanted to rebel in some small way. Maybe the heat was getting to her. Or maybe she really did believe the day was special, and nothing could touch us. But we were wrapping ourselves in a sense of false security that was soon going to be broken.
The hum turned into a song with words. The words were a whisper at first, like the hiss of a snake, before her voice became loud enough to understand the words she sang. I giggled, she laughed.
"Look!" I said, pointing to a bright speck or color on the bleak dirt landscape. "What are they?"
She let out a soft "Ooh!" and lifted me to my feet. "They're flowers. The seeds must've blown in on the wind. I'm surprised they managed to grow. You can pick them right out of the ground."
I didn't need telling twice. I was loving this new daring, carefree mother, and I was forgetting the strong defense that was always necessary.
The petals were soft and yellow, the stems a pale green I'd never seen before. I pulled them out of the ground with ease and stood back to admire my prize.
"Beautiful," Mum exclaimed once I'd crawled back into her lap. She began to rock me gently in her arms, singing softly, "Golden slumbers fill your eyes..."
"Smiles await you when you rise," I sang along with the memory.
A siren slowly went off, building into a higher and louder register. I looked around. Mum was sitting up now, looking anguished but composed. Back to that cross between the fourth and fifth sides of Hermione Granger. She turned her brown eyes onto mine.
"We might as well go now, right? No point wasting time," she said, helping me to my feet.
As we dropped down the steps outside and joined the curious women walking to the center of the village, the sirens filled my mind with their loud buzzing. How stupid of me, to wish for just anything to happen on my birthday. It had to be this, this harshly foreboding thing. I should've known better; on August 19th, my wishes tend to come true. It wasn't until we reached the center of the village and stood in the large, open area that I realized Mum had been gripping my hand in hers the whole walk over, her eyes scanning the crowd, for who, I didn't know.
"As you may know, Section Six has been in operation for nearly sixteen years," the Advisor in Command, Rowland Riggs, read off of a long sheet of parchment.
"Of course we know how long it's been, we've all been counting," an older lady next to Mum and I muttered.
Riggs went on, "The first generation of the new generation under He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has been stationed here for the next week. Abiding to their laws and judging of our ways is our top priority." Riggs smiled wryly, and I could tell he did not like this new, younger group telling him what to do.
"The youth group will also be selecting ten of our residents for questioning, study, and potential use of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. This is not an optional move and it is crucial for those accepted by the new generation to leave without a fight."
Mum's grip on my hand turned vice like. There was a murmur of fear among the women: What did the regime want with us mudbloods who had been tucked away in the country so as to be forgotten? Who would be chosen to leave?
The murmuring among the crowds grew louder. Some women began to cry, others shouted in indignation.
"It's indecent!"
"It's inhumane!"
"They can't do this!"
"Silence!" Riggs jerked his wand and silence fell over the crowds; though I hadn't been speaking, my throat constricted and my voice was silenced. He rolled up the parchment and shouted, "Return to your quarters."
It wasn't until we were halfway home that I found I could speak again. "Where will they stay while they're here?"
"I don't know," my mother said, her hand still on mine. Her eyes took in everything around us, as if she were afraid someone would come down and claim me. Which was actually possible now. She started talking to herself, mumbling words like "years ago" and "happening again" and "can't go through it." Thunder sounded above us and it had begun to drizzle by the time we were locked inside our shanty.
I didn't move while Mum paced the floor once more. She cut up bread and placed it in front of me. I automatically began to eat, as I'd been trained to do when she made me food. Even if it didn't taste good, if it was placed in front of me, the rule was to eat it. I put a hand inside my pocket and played with the red string I used to tie up my pictures.
Mum looked sadly out the rainy window, and I knew what she was going to say before she even opened her mouth.
"We're not safe here anymore."
I tugged at the red ribbon in my hands, hardly daring to breathe. Silently, and without seeming to realize what she was doing, she touched the long scar resting on her face. I shivered. If I was correct in my thinking, this birthday was bound to be on the list of the worst days of my life.
"We're not going to go outside during the day anymore," she said after a few moments. "If we need water, I'll get it. You won't answer the door, not even to pick up our rations. Curtains will stay closed, windows shut."
"What about you? They could take you too, you know."
"No, Tessa," said Mum, rounding on me. "They don't want a thirty-four-year-old woman, they'll want someone young, someone like you."
"I'll be fine --"
"No, I don't want to take any chances with you."
"All right," I said, breaking the crust into tiny pieces. "I promise I won't go out."
She gave me a painful smile and turned back to the rainy day outside. Then she pushed the curtains open a little more.
"It's your birthday," she said softly. "We ought to enjoy what sunlight we have left while we can."
We smiled at each other, genuine smiles.
"It doesn't look like it's going to be very nice outside today," I said, gesturing towards the steady thunder that filled the shanty every few minutes and the growing thickness of the rain.
"No, it doesn't," she sighed, sitting down next to me in the only other chair we owned. She picked up my abandoned bread crusts and chewed absentmindedly. "How's your fifteenth going so far for you? It seems to be a bit unpleasant; I thought it would've been nice, it was so beautiful out today."
"It's been fine," I lied. It was actually looking pretty dark from where I was sitting. I'd wanted something good to happen so badly that it felt like I'd almost asked for the new generation to come. I could see Mum was still uneasy, the way she rubbed her temples and breathed slowly.
I pulled the ribbon out from my pocket and twirled it, the faded red burning into my mind.
In one sharp motion, her voice stopped and her eyes widened. Her hand gripped mine and she laid one palm on my cheek. I stopped singing and stared up at her. Through her smile, I heard her hiss, "Time to go inside."
She lifted me up in her arms -- I was small and skinny for my age -- but when she turned the knob to open the door, it wouldn't budge: I watched the sweat break out on her brow and my grip on her neck tightened.
"Good afternoon, Ms. Granger."
"Please let us inside," said Mum, straining her voice.
He spoke from behind us. I watched him poke his wand into my mother's side, and fear like an electric shock flew through my body.
"Your boy has been causing a lot of trouble lately," he said, his voice thick and oily. It was the Advisor in Command.
He looked terrible. He hadn't shaved, his robes were a mess, and he breathed as though he'd just run ten miles.
"And you know who's been getting the blame for it?" he continued nastily.
Boy? At the time, I wondered why he kept referring to me as a boy. I was a little offended, but at the same time terrified. Did he know I'd stolen from him? Was he only getting me back now?
"You deserve it," spat Mum, still shielding me from his face. "You deserve everything you're getting -- ow!"
"Desertion from the new youth is punishable by death!" he growled, forcing the wand further into her side. I wanted her to scream and lash out at him, but with me in her arms, all she could do was keep me safe. "It's all over the news, fourteen youths have run away! And you know who one of those youths are?"
"He beat your system then," Mum persisted. "He beat your corrupt and foul system!"
I started to cry into my mother's shoulder. What on Earth were they talking about?
"That's one down of your brood down," he growled. "Your antics have had my establishment scrutinized by the Dark Lord himself! If that mudblood shows up here, I swear to Merlin -- you'll be gone before you can even pack your things. And that girl of yours, her blood will belong to the Dark Lord."
"Your establishment?" Mum scoffed, anger filling her voice. "Your -- no! Stop! STOP!"
The wand was burning straight through her clothes. She let out a scream and pushed the Advisor over the edge of the stoop. He lay sprawled on the ground, confused for a moment before he lifted his wand once more and jabbed it in our direction.
Mum dropped me onto the ground -- no, she threw me. I rolled over in the dirt as blood blossomed on my arms and legs, vivid red that imprinted onto my eyes as I widened them in horror.
"Tessa, go -- run!"
I wasn't aware of anything else except my mother: Her shout to me, the terror on her face as the Advisor pushed her up against the wall, growling incomprehensible words.
I turned on my heel and ran.
Overhead thunder rumbled and the candles lighting our home flickered, bringing me back to the present. Mum was sleeping already, her slow breathing filling the room. She’d been sleeping so much lately.
I pulled out the pictures from my pockets and flipped through them, just for something to do while my mind sped on.
The New Generation Youth. How strange it was, that those words etched themselves into my mind all those years ago, and now here I was, my future pending on what this supposed youth thought about me. What could You-Know-Who want with ten Muggle-borns? And who had Mum and the head Advisor, now long forgotten, been talking about.
With a jolt that had nothing to do with what I was currently thinking, I realized I hadn’t filled out the back of a picture yet. I glanced over at my mother’s sleeping form; I’d left my ink outside, and if she saw me stepping out, there’d be hell to pay. I slipped from my chair and stuffed the pictures back in my pocket, easing the door open as quietly as possible. I’d only be gone a second. She didn’t even stir as I gently closed the door and stepped out into the rain.
I’ll only be a second, I repeated to myself. But of course, it only takes half of that time to make a mistake.
A half a second was all it took for someone to grab my shoulders, clap a hand over my mouth, and pull me to the ground.