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winnifreddirectiveI am opening the paper and glimpse the date.
He is 11 today.
He is 11, and I am here - pulling the week’s Prophets from the bins of an alley in Cheapside. There are few Wizarding folks in this area of town, but surely all of them must know that today he is 11.
Does the monster know? Is there time where he is? There are certainly few papers or bins.
I guess none of it matters. Because the monster is in his cage and I am in an alley and that boy is 11 without either of us.
“Thank you, Uncle Remus.”
Harry smiles politely, smoothes the cover, and sets the gift aside to reach for the next.
“A book, Moony?” Padfoot looks skeptical but the telltale twitch of his lips betrays a secret smile. Then his eyes are on Harry again.
The boy lights up. “New Quidditch gloves! And chocolate frogs, too! Oh thanks, Uncle Sirius!”
“Show off.”
“You love it.”
Maybe I do. Anyway, Harry is beaming up at his parents and gushing about his fantastic uncles. Fantastic.
At least, I think that’s how it goes. The full moon is near, so the fantasy is foggy.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Jennings.”
“You look glum, love. What’s your trouble?”
My friend’s son is having one of the most important birthdays of his life. He’s a wizard. So am I. Today that matters. But he’s also an orphan. So he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know anyone. He doesn’t know you because I shouldn’t know you either. None of us is where we belong.
“Just the moon, Mrs. Jennings. Shall I make tea?”
I can tell you it’s the moon because…well, why not? Your world is blind to magic. Is that sad?
Let’s have Earl Grey instead of feelings.
The moon is rising. I am not sure I care.
I am not normally this way. Please understand. I mind. I attend. Just not today.
But it is not a changing night. I can sit in my rented room plucking at the threads of my afghan. I can mindlessly review all of the inane things that I did today. All of the things that were not smiling at my love or ruffling my friend’s son’s hair.
Can you see the moon at all where you are? Do you count them anymore?
He is 11. And we are all at sea.
He is 11 today.
He is 11, and I am here - pulling the week’s Prophets from the bins of an alley in Cheapside. There are few Wizarding folks in this area of town, but surely all of them must know that today he is 11.
Does the monster know? Is there time where he is? There are certainly few papers or bins.
I guess none of it matters. Because the monster is in his cage and I am in an alley and that boy is 11 without either of us.
“Thank you, Uncle Remus.”
Harry smiles politely, smoothes the cover, and sets the gift aside to reach for the next.
“A book, Moony?” Padfoot looks skeptical but the telltale twitch of his lips betrays a secret smile. Then his eyes are on Harry again.
The boy lights up. “New Quidditch gloves! And chocolate frogs, too! Oh thanks, Uncle Sirius!”
“Show off.”
“You love it.”
Maybe I do. Anyway, Harry is beaming up at his parents and gushing about his fantastic uncles. Fantastic.
At least, I think that’s how it goes. The full moon is near, so the fantasy is foggy.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Jennings.”
“You look glum, love. What’s your trouble?”
My friend’s son is having one of the most important birthdays of his life. He’s a wizard. So am I. Today that matters. But he’s also an orphan. So he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know anyone. He doesn’t know you because I shouldn’t know you either. None of us is where we belong.
“Just the moon, Mrs. Jennings. Shall I make tea?”
I can tell you it’s the moon because…well, why not? Your world is blind to magic. Is that sad?
Let’s have Earl Grey instead of feelings.
The moon is rising. I am not sure I care.
I am not normally this way. Please understand. I mind. I attend. Just not today.
But it is not a changing night. I can sit in my rented room plucking at the threads of my afghan. I can mindlessly review all of the inane things that I did today. All of the things that were not smiling at my love or ruffling my friend’s son’s hair.
Can you see the moon at all where you are? Do you count them anymore?
He is 11. And we are all at sea.
