Memoirs of a Muggleborn

I have an unfortunate habit of going through life with half-lidded eyes. My eyelids fall until my eyes seem only half-open. My parents used to think that I had eye problems, that I was squinting so I could see better. The eye doctor said otherwise. Most teachers think I'm asleep when this happens, and snap at me constantly because of it.

They do not seem to realize that when my eyes close halfway, I am hyper-aware of my surroundings. I suppose it has something to do with the way there are less distractions when I turn on my blinders to the world, but I have always found my half-lidded state useful. People underestimate me, as well as ignore me.

The first time I saw Diagon Alley, my eyes went wide for a split second before they reflexively soared back into their half-lidded state, my senses multiplying tenfold to take in my surroundings. Whereas before, I had always gone through the world happily, I had never fully realized how alive the world could be until that day I entered Diagon Alley. The place was suffused with life, magic, and a spice that the Muggle World sadly lacked. Unfortunately, there was also something missing from it, something that wasn't as prominent, wasn't as aware, wasn't as there.

Later, I learned that the magical world lacked in certain traits that were purely Muggle (and belonged to those brought up Muggle) such as imagination, creativity, and logic.

I think my Companion (the witch assigned to acquaint me with my Muggle world and help me get my school things) was a bit disgruntled by my lack of reaction, not realizing that at the time, I was absorbing the entire scene into my memories, willing myself to remember every detail of it in days to come.

It was at Diagon Alley that I purchased my first wand, bought my first books, fitted my first pair of school robes, roamed through the Apothecary for the first time, bought my darling kitten Bubbles, and learned that the wizarding world was not much better than the Muggle one. It was saturated with just as much prejudice, just as much violence, just as much crime, just as much incompetence, and just as much stupidity.

I could go on, of course, but this memoir is not of Diagon Alley.

I arrived at Hogwarts, of course, fully armed with knowledge, determination, and faith. I was Sorted, and I soon fit in with my House. I excelled in Charms, though my Potions and Herbology work was mediocre at best. When Third Year came around, I signed up for Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. I found the two subjects to my liking, and received an above average number of O.W.L.s come Fifth Year. I was made Prefect in Fifth Year, and again in Sixth Year, but failed to do so in Seventh, when my perilously balanced grades took a nosedive and I barely scraped through enough N.E.W.T.s to graduate from Hogwarts.

After graduating, I applied for the Aurors' Academy, and was accepted immediately. I completed the curriculum in less than a year and was sent into the field to battle the Death Eaters that were then terrorising the world. Being an Auror gave me many opportunities, and I was determined to fight for my fellow Muggles and Muggleborns.

The months preceding the Fall of Voldemort, I was stationed at Hogwarts and I, as well as many other notable Aurors, did my best to increase the security at Hogwarts. Then came the Battle of Hogwarts, commonly called the Fall of Hogwarts, as well as the Victory of Hogwarts. It depends, of course, entirely on your train of thought. Some people believe the Death Eater won the battle that day for they lost less people. Others think that the victory for Hogwarts, for the Death Eaters, after all, were driven back.

Hundreds, almost thousands fell. Children were massacred. Aurors were executed. Death Eaters were killed. Civilians from Hogsmeade came and proudly fought to their last breath to protect their beloved school. Many died that day. Dumbledore fell, as well as McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout, and Snape. The Heads of Houses as well as the Headmaster. Seventh Years died trying to evacuate the First Years, and First Years died trying to escape the Dementors that had begun plaguing the school grounds just a week before.

I, along with many other Aurors at Hogwarts, was captured and tortured, but I let no secrets out despite great pain inflicted upon me. I like to think that I did it because I had mental willpower, but part of it was because I was a lowly Auror, and did not know many secrets but my orders, our victories, and our defeats. I usually found out about things after they happened. The Death Eaters were relentless, though.

And despite all, I kept my dignity.

A month into my capture, Harry Potter defeated Voldemort, the Death Eaters disbanded, and most were caught (though some slipped through the legal web). I was taken to St. Mungo's where they did the best they could to repair me.

After six months spent in therapy, I emerged with half of my left leg missing, and much the worse for wear. I accepted a simple, untiring job as Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

I spent the rest of my years watching young children grow up and learn what the world was like. I taught them how to survive, yet they scorned what I taught. I heard what they said in the halls.

"Defense Against the Dark Arts? Who needs that?"

And each time, I closed my eyes, and swore that I would teach one person, one child what it was like during the world, if nothing else.

I grew old, and I retired; and the school hired another less competent teacher to replace me. I spent the last of my years doddering around an old shack painfully, with barely enough energy to conjure up food. My family was dead, as were my friends, and I knew none would be left to mourn me.

I am close to death now. I can feel it in my blood. But I wished for these memories to be written down, so that someone in the world would know, at the very least, what has happened in the past, and could easily be repeated in the future. The wizarding world has many faults, and it has just as many recompensations. Still, these are and shall remain ...

... the memoirs of a Muggleborn.