Fairy Tales in Reverse

When we are young, we dream of our fairy tale endings.

We dream of a nice house with a job we loved, replete with white picket fence and menagrie of animals to keep us company. We envision a healthy bank account, a close-knit circle of friends, a warm dinner when we came home at night, and a cosy feather bed to sink into after a good, long day at work. We imagine the warm body that would lay next to us, our hearts beating in time with this person that we loved so much. We would hold them, and smile as they have dreams of work and play, and dreams our own sugar-spun dreams of life and love.

I live in a large mansion, somewhere in Wales. It is filled with the footsteps of child-women and child-men, people caught somewhere between childhood and adulthood, burdened by the lives that they were forced to take, by the blood on their hands, the blood that stains their soul. No bed is ever empty. No bed with someone in it ever has only one occupent, because no one goes without ever having a nightmare, and waking up alone only sends them further into pain. Some beds have three, four, or five people.

Perhaps we should have been more specific. We should have asked for normalacy, as well. You can have all those things without having a normal life.

Children dream of the day when they are truly grownups, when they are free of parental authority and mundane rules. We look forward to, and cherish the day when we achieve our freedom.

The day I became an adult, I spent on the field of battle, bathed in the blood of my enemies and in my own. At midnight, I flopped into a threadbare cot, exhausted from a day of warfare. At five in the morning, I was awoken by Death Eaters invading our tents. At noon, I dragged the prone body of my best friend, Ron, into a cave to heal. At three, I mended Harry's wounds and forcefed him. At five, I put Ginny to bed, pouring Dreamless Sleeping Potion down her throat. At nine, I buried Terry Boot with my bare hands, laying a Lily on his grave. At nine fifteen, I watched Death Eaters desecrate his body. At nine twenty, five Death Eaters lay dead by my own hand. At nine thirty, I reburied what was left of Terry, wishing him farewell, and silently envying him. He didn't hurt anymore. He was a good friend. I bled, and vomited, and killed for my freedom. I watched loved ones die for my freedom. At midnight, I went back to bed.

Children dream of a world where nothing can stand in their way, where the sky is the limit, and the only obstacle to your success is yourself. Children dream of the jobs they want to have; astronaut, ballerina, famous singer, Minister of Magic, shop owner. We believe that anything is possible. We believe we can change the world, make it more beautiful.

We all work, to a degree. I am firmly ensconsed in the Department of Mysteries, with Luna. We seek the ever-elusive counterspell to the Killing Curse. Our eyes are fevered as we cast the AK on hapless ants and spiders, and my memory always drifts back to the fake Moody's DADA class. I saw the real Moody died. He went down fighting. I have his fake eye. It's in my left socket, only charmed to be normal sized and a dark brown-black, to match my good eye. Harry pushes paperwork in Magical Law Enforcement, with Ron. Neville is employed by St. Mungo's, spending his days locked away, making potions, in the Snape Ward. Yes, the Snape Ward. Who'd have thought? Ginny is the receptionist at the Ministry of Magic. Justin Finch-Fletchley is a janitor at The Hog's Head, but he doesn't mind. He likes the solitude. Theodore Nott works at the Hog's Head as well.

Children dream of parties and get-togethers that the grownups had. They play pretend that they're tall and mature, drinking champagne out of crystal flutes and eating finger food from silver platters. They imagine good times with great people in a large, airy room, where laughter hangs thick in the air.

We sit around in the main room, no one wanting to be the first one to get up. I'm between Harry and Ron. Ron has fallen asleep, his paralysed arm draped over the edge of the couch. Harry is quickly dozing off, his bad leg leaning against my scarred one. Theodore is staring into the fire, Luna sitting by his feet. Neville sits between Justin and Ginny, quietly reading a book. No sound can be heard, except our own slow, dreary breaths.

Children likes to play House; they set up kitchens and nurseries, dragging battered baby dolls around and feeding them, changing their nappies and pushing them in prams. We play dressup with our dollies, covering them in lace and satin and rough, scratchy wool. We have pretend husbands and wives who love us and only us, and have eyes only for us.

Our own children wander around our manor, the first signs of laughter this place has ever had. A boy with bushy black hair and another with thick red curls wander around; they're both mine. And yes, they have different fathers. We make no secret about it. Brian, Ron's boy, is 8 months older than Evan, Harry's boy. I nearly lost Evan; he was two months premature. I have four other children by them now; Ron and I had another boy, and Harry and I had twin boys and a girl. So now there's a Billy Weasley running around, and Degare and Brand Potter, and little Maria Potter. I put my hand on my stomach; there's another one on the way.

Having children is like having some of your soul restored; children are redemption, your chance to create something perfect and bring it into the world to make it a better place. Children are salvation. The one in my womb kicks; I smile. We three agreed that no matter what, this one shall have my surname. I even have names picked out; it will be Cordelia Lily if it's a girl, and Remus Conner if it's a boy. I remember Remus; he died protecting Pettigrew. Strange how friendship works. Pettigrew then killed Dean Thomas before Terry killed him. Relationships are strange things.

Ginny has three children; one by Neville, a little girl named Sarai, and a boy and a girl by Theodore, named Teadora and Philip. There are numerous other children, with various mothers and fathers. Harry, Ron and I are the only ones who keep our relationship between the three of us. We could whip out contraceptive potions, but we don't. We cherish the children that come into our world. Their laughter sparkles like the waves on a violent sea. I don't know if I am truly in romantic love with Harry, Ron, both or none, but I know that I love them, and they give me something that no one else ever could.

As children age, we dream about our fancy cars, the schools we want to send out children to, and the places that we want to go. We remember our first days of school, and laugh, wondering what it will be like when it's our own children that we're tearfully sending off.

We take our children directly to Hogwarts. Harry, Ron and I walk Evan and Brian to the front doors. They are nervous, and so am I. And it is because pf them that I'm nervous; they brought back emotions into my life. They hug me, and kiss my cheek, and hug their fathers, and set off, shoulder to shoulder, into Hogwarts. I do not know who the new Headmaster or Headmistress is; all the staff that was there when I was a child, walking through those doors, have long since passed away, be it from battle wounds or just old man Time. They yell back that they'll owl us every week, and that they love us, and will miss us. I know they will, but not as bad I will miss them.

When children hit adulthood, they realise that the freedoms of maturity are oftentimes far outweighed by the responsibilities of being a grownup. So they complain about taxes, moan about work, and groan about long hours ni traffic or crowded Floo lines. Magical or Muggle, the complaints sound the same. Adulthood is not all it's cracked up to be.

I watch the last of my seven children walk into Hogwarts, and a solitary tear escapes my eye. Evan and Brian have already graduated. Brian is going to be an Auror, and Evan wants to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts. Ginny's little girl, Sarai, is following in her father's footsteps, and is interning at St. Mungo's. The rest of the children are either in and will soon be attending school.

I am still young; grey has yet to frost my hair. I am still in good shape, and Ron and Harry still assure me that I am attractive, not just to them, but to others.

And I laugh, laugh until the sunlight laughs with me, because I have progressed to the point where my biggest worry is grey hairs. I still have nightmares, and I still weep. But my heart is no longer cold and bleak; today, I noticed my first wrinkle. Wrinkles are caused by smiling. I can smile again. I can smile when Evan returns home at random hours of the day and night, just to tell me that he loves me. I can smile when Brian Flooes in, bringing me a bouquet of lilies and Queen Anne's lace, just to remind me that he still cares. I can smile when Cordelia, my youngest girl, kisses me on the cheek and tells me that I am the most beautiful girl in the world.

And I do. I smile when Harry and Ron tuck me in at night, their arms wrapped around my waist. I smile when Mortimer, Luna's little boy with Justin, comes up and says, "Up!" and I pick him up and we dance.

Our childhood dreams are dashed upon the shores of reality. We are increasingly burdened by the realisation that raising children can be a burden, and that we'll never be astronauts or ballerinas or the Minister of Magic. We collapse under the pressure of just trying to keep up with our finances. Fairy tales are shattered.

Cordelia has graduated. There are a few more small wrinkles on my face, and one or two grey hairs. Ron is going grey fast, but luckily seems to have avoided the balding gene. Harry's hair is slightly frosted. But their eyes still twinkle when they kiss me, and they still pick me up and twirl me like they did the same night I found out I was pregnant. Evan and Brian are married. We have grandchildren to dangle from our knees. I have more grand nieces and nephews that Ron and Ginny have freckles.

As I lay in bed, my life reappears before my eyes. I remember Remus's howl as he was killed. I remember the feel of frozen dirt beneath my fingers as I started digging Terry's grave. I remember hot blood pouring through my fingers as I tried to staunch a nearly fatal wound on Theodore's body. I remember hearing Ginny scream as Crucio ripped through her body. I remember Ron weeping over his brother's body.

But even stronger now are the memories of two men kissing my tears away, of Justin's homemade chicken broth and Neville's fresh baked bread. I remember everyone's first report card, and the sheer glee Teodora emenated when she made Beater on the Ravenclaw Quidditch Team. I remember Luna humming softly as she fed Philip when he was sick. Memories float and clash against one another.

Ron snores gently. Harry sleeps completely quietly. Snuggled into my cocoon of bare flesh and slow, steady heartbeats, I wonder what my life would be like if things had been different. Would I have gotten my fairy tale ending of a husband, two dogs, a cat and three kids? Would I share my bed with one man instead of two? I look from side to side, at Ron's heavy grey hair and Harry's long black eyelashes. I look, and I smile.

I got my fairy tale ending.