Memories were funny things.
Eileen usually hated them, maybe because there were too few of them she could enjoy, but they couldn’t be stopped. The smallest provocation was all they needed to burst forth. She would wince automatically, and Tobias would ask her what was wrong. When she didn’t reply, he’d either fly into a rage or sulk.
But how could Eileen share her memories with him? They were bound to annoy him; he laboured under the conclusion that no matter what, anything from her past was not to be trusted. He grew up playing cricket, not Gobstones. His favourite birthday gift from his parents was a bike; the only equivalent she could think of was the toy-broom that she crashed into the shed. Every time her mouth opened to say something that happened in her life before 1959, he would, therefore, frown. If she made the mistake of blundering on to the rest of the story, he’d start yelling. If she continued, he’d throw something.
So, she normally remained shut up, preferring the precious peace and quiet. But when the memories overwhelm her without so much as a tiny warning, it was hard to mask herself.
That day, it had been the baby-sitter. Or rather, the lack of one.
Tobias had to go to town for a week, and Eileen wanted to sell some wares at Diagon Alley. But who would take care of Severus? The only option left was to take him along, but he was so young. He was only six, and very unsocial and easily provoked. He wouldn’t get any love from the people in the market. So, she had wondered if there might be a baby-sitter available, although she was doubtful. Spinner’s End wasn’t a friendly area. People minded their own business and cared for nothing else. She was the same, too.
When she had been a young girl, she’d often baby-sat. She’d been good at it too, in spite of her parents’ constant complaint about her tendency to look morose. Children loved her, and she loved them back. And, among all of her clients, there was one who’d always remain her favourite.
He was only five years younger than herself, a strange kid who never talked much. When he did open his mouth, it was to utter the oddest things. He once argued with her that Kneazle hair was responsible for all the sneezing in the world. To prove it, he showed her a jar containing a tremendous amount of silver hair, all of which belonged to his family cat, Amazonia, a Kneazle. –And ever since I started collecting them,†he told her proudly, –my mum has stopped sneezing.â€
She had laughed. When she stopped, however, she had to start all over again, because he said, –I love you, Eileen. I will marry you one day.â€
He must be twenty years old now. For a few seconds, she allowed herself to imagine him as a young man, a happy man, a wizard who thought magic was just as normal as the earth going round the sun. Then, she wiped her eyes on her sleeve and went to dress Severus up for the Diagon Alley trip.