Change

Change

I have never been an extraordinary girl. Being the youngest of seven siblings sort of does that to you. At home there were always standards to achieve. At school I was merely an average student, polite and pleasing, always courteous, never complaining. A adequate witch, but never a great one. Never someone who stood out in a crowd, never the cynosure of all eyes. Never at the centre, always shunted off to one side.

Yet I was content. Good friends, family; I had everything I needed. I have never wanted anything else. And I had Him. I have had Him by my side my entire life; from as far back as I can remember. I have always trusted Him, loved Him, my best friend, my closest confidant, my elder brother.

He knows me better than anybody else. In fact, there is very little about me that He does not know. Sometimes I wonder whether He might not know me better than I do myself. He probably does. He has always been there for me. He has always known what I needed even when I did not know myself. He was strong whenever I needed Him to be. He supported me in my every endeavour and helped me even when I did not ask Him to. He has always watched out for me. How can I not love Him?

Mine was not a great childhood. I had good friends, but they were few and far between. I was not popular. But He was there. He was always there. We were inseparable. That was all that mattered to me then.

Life progressed at its own moderate pace. I grew taller, the books grew fatter. I was never brilliant, but I was sincere. And when sincerity was not enough, if ever I needed help on anything, I could always go to Him. He was always patient. He would never turn me away.

Harry. Harry represented everything I ever wanted in a man. Or so I thought at ten years of age. I soon got over him, but only in my mind. Nobody else let me. To them I was always the girl in love with The Boy Who Lived. The business with Tom made everything worse. I trusted him, almost as much as Him, but he broke my trust. And I knew then that nobody deserved my trust, apart from Him.

I had passing crushes on some other guys. But they never amounted to anything. I never had the courage to admit my feelings, and they did not have the time to notice my presence.

Then one day I fell in love. We were at Hogwarts together. I was sixteen, and he was all that I have ever wanted in a man. He was sincere, honest, caring and kind. Tall and handsome. And he said that he loved me. I was ecstatic, euphoric, enraptured and within two months, jilted. My heart was broken, my hopes were shattered. I turned to Him for support. I cried into His shoulders as He held me close and I felt safe, as I have always done with Him close by. Safer than anywhere else.

I graduated. My grades were not the best, but I got into wizarding college. It was not what I had thought it would be. It was not much different from school. I kept to myself, attended my classes, always returned home on time; always the 'good girl' of the class.

I got my degree, without honours. I was not accepted for further studies.

At my parents' behest I got engaged, and later married. I did not know my husband before our wedding day. My parents had chosen him. He was very eligible, they said, very successful, rich, a good match for me. He was older, but not by too much. He was away almost all the time. Business. I rarely saw him. Within a year of our marriage, he died. We had no children. He had never touched me.

I had become a widow. I moved to the city. I live alone, as a muggle. Society prevents me from having a life, from pursuing my aspirations. A woman without a husband does not deserve happiness, does she? Who is she to have hopes? What right does she have to an ambition? I reconciled myself to what was expected of me. They were right. Who am I to dream . . .?

I have a job. It is not much, but there is food on my table.

But there are always times when it all becomes too much. Times when the loneliness sneaks up on me and the walls seem to be closing in and I look back on my life and see...nothing.

When that happens, I turn to Him. He had gotten married, right after me. His best friend from Hogwarts. He has a small job in the Ministry. His two sons are in school. They look a lot like him. He comes to my apartment from time to time. I cook for him. We talk sometimes; then again at times we do not need to.

My parents died when I was twenty five. It was a car accident. They had been coming to see me. My father had been driving and they had been arguing. Neither of them saw the truck approaching.

They had not suffered.

The funeral was at home. My father had amassed a mountain of debts. None of us had the means to settle them. We tried to save the house, but it was not enough. We had no choice. The house was auctioned off. Along with the furniture. The costs barely covered all the debts.

I returned to my life in the city. I had lost my roots.

The next year he came into my life. He was everything I needed. Such tenderness, such love! Feelings that I had never known before. Life became meaningful once more. His one look could send me into transports of delight; his very presence seemed to inspire me to become a better person. I was drunk on life, and on him. He did not care about my previous marriage or anything else. He cared only for me. He did not know about my being a witch. He was a doctor. In a month he proposed. In a moment I said yes.

He was the first person I told.

The next night I was in the kitchen when He came bursting into my apartment. His walk was steady, but His voice slurred. I greeted Him, but He did not reply.

I had never seen Him like this before. I almost did not recognize Him. He grabbed me by my arms and pushed me against the wall. He stood so close our bodies were in contact. His callused fingers touched my face, lovingly, tenderly. But in a moment, the care was replaced by fury, 'No one else can have you! No one else! Only me . . . just me. . . '

With His left arm He swept the counter clean and roughly He placed me on it. The next moment He was very close to me. I could smell the alcohol on His breath, and then I could taste it in my mouth. His hands were all over me as He whispered and moaned incoherently. I was in shock. This was Him. He was doing this to me. He was violating my every trust. It was His arm that held me down as He removed His clothes and then mine, His torso rough against me, His hands on my skin, Him who was just about to . . .

But no, I could not let this happen, never, not like this! Not Him! I struggled against Him for the very first time. His efforts intensified, the whispering grew louder. With his right arm he pinioned my left as his other hand continued to roam my body. His mouth was everywhere. My stomach clenched. He was so much stronger than me. How could I ever stop him? My right arm was flailing about hopelessly, when it suddenly came in contact with cold, hard metal. My fingers closed around the steel knife. I went still, and waited. I steeled my nerves. After a while He raised himself to look into my face and with all my strength I plunged the knife into his heart.

He looked at me as if in shock, for a moment time seemed to have stopped. Shock changed to disbelief and then to naked fear as I looked at His ashen face. He raised his left arm to his chest and held it up to see . . . blood.

He stared at it unseeingly for a second, and looked back at me, His hand shaking and the blood flowing freely from His chest. He opened his mouth as if to speak, His body spasmed, and He fell off the counter to lie on His back on the floor. I watched, still in shock as He lay there shaking and whimpering, until He breathed his very last.

I lay there on the counter, clothes torn, drenched in blood, His and my own, looking down at my brother, dead on the kitchen floor. Dead, by my hand. My dearest friend, my closest confidant.

Who can you trust?

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