I was having that dream again. I had it just about every night at this point. It was awful. I was at our hold house. The one in Bristol, England. The one with the big yard and tons of friendly neighbors. I thought I was normal. I was in third grade. I had a crush. I had friends. I had a little brother… my little brother. He went missing that night when I was in third grade. I watched him disappear under the moonlight… the pale moonlight. When we lived in our house in Bristol, England. Gorgeous black curls, our mother’s blue eyes, our father’s pale skin. He was beautiful.

My mother told me the world likes to take away beautiful things. Maybe that’s why it took him. She told me I was normal. That we were normal. That there was nothing wrong with us. Even when I saw that black that ghastly black thing through my window. It was like a skeleton with no legs cloaked in shadows with black smoke. It had begun to unlatch my window but then there was a voice and a bright flash of light and it was gone.

It’s her fault. Every time I have that awful dream; the one where I watch my brother disappear in the pouring rain again, I blame her. I blame my mother. For not telling me. For not telling us. For hiding the fact… the fact that we are no muggles. Humans. We are not normal. We are wizards.