Blood is Thicker than Water

Blood is Thicker Than Water

My name is Adriana Lestrange. If that name does not cause a reaction of any kind, then you are one of three things - a) a Muggle, b) a social recluse or c) extremely stupid. But of course, it does provoke a reaction, usually a gasp of horror. Why? Because I said Lestrange. L-E-S-T-R-A-N-G-E. You can't ignore it, or not notice, unless of course you are in one of the three categories.

Of course, I don't call myself Adriana Lestrange, for fear of the above-mentioned gasps. I am actually Adriana Benson, which is the name of my proper family, the one that discovered me on their doorstep. Adriana, in case anyone's interested, means dark or rich. I'm not dark in the supports-Voldemort sort of way (though I am dark haired), but I'm very, very rich. Most definitely - but it's bloodstained Galleons, every one. Ill-gotten gains. My wealth is paid for by god-knows-what crimes my father and particularly my mother revelled in. I don't spend it. I couldn't, for the guilt.

I live at no. 29, Magnolia Crescent, Little Whinging. I'm told that the famous Harry Potter lives around here, but I've never seen him. We haven't lived here for long. It's quite ironic, really, his living nearby, especially with recent events. The Daily Prophet has suddenly changed tack with the whole Voldemort-coming-back thing (I buy it faithfully- it's my only decent contact with the wizarding world). Now they're vying to get Fudge out of office - or better, strung up on a pole outside the ministry and paraded as the idiot he seems to be. They are keeping up a steady stream of "Fudges' fudges" (so original), and the latest was - "Harry Potter's Godfather - The true story". It turns out Sirius Black is innocent, an Animagus, and Harry Potter's only true father figure and guardian. And he's dead. Killed by (now you get why I told you all that) My Mother. Oh, and another thing. He was my second cousin.

This bizarrely affected me a lot. I never knew him, he wasn't aware of my existence, I didn't know I was related to him, and I barely even gave him thought when I went through the Prophet's archives. But I couldn't help dwelling on his death.

How awful must it have been in Azkaban, knowing he was innocent? The pictures of Black before and after azkaban were horrible - he looked vampire-like, eaten away, hollow. I couldn't imagine spending twelve years in pure misery.

Then there was the fact I never met him. A man who, apparently, fought determinedly against the dark arts, was a true, loyal, haunted figure, (poetic language for the Prophet), brave, reckless, (said reverentially), and full of energy. A troublemaker at school, handsome and tragically blamed for his best friend's death. I felt an ache to know him- my only relative I know was not on His side. I would have loved to meet him. He was family. I felt sick for him; my mother, my mother - his own cousin - had taken his life. She was evil, and I share her blood. I felt like crying at the ridiculous unfairness of it; the truth was never found out in time, he was never freed, hiding from the world, imprisoned even while on the run. I did cry in fact, silent tears over him, and my guilty hunger for my blood family.

My mother (the one who cares) picked up the Prophet and half-squealed - she had believed Black to be a brother. Of mine, that is; apparently I have Black family looks, judging by Sirius and my mother- we're close to identical, minus the whole vampireness and mad expression. I hope.

My real mum and dad understood how I felt. I keep them informed about everything in the wizarding world - it could affect us too, my mother or even Voldemort could turn up in Little Whinging (it's possible, with Harry Potter around). I hate my blood, I really do. I Despise the phrase 'blood is thicker than water,' because that means I would rampage and torture and murder with my parents. Blood seems to feature a lot in the wizarding world - it's like racism. It's so hideously sick, not to mention totally ridiculous.

Now, you may be wondering why I have never seen Harry Potter. I am his age, I'm not a Squib, and I should be the same year as he is in school. But my parents always took my education seriously, and they were thinking of sending me to a variety of extremely good private schools until I got my Hogwarts letter. They were a bit miffed that there wasn't much choice, school-wise, so they dragged me to Diagon Alley to look up other wizarding academies. So I go to Beauxbatons Academy of Magic (I speak French - I learnt it a long time ago from long holidays in Normandy and one of those "teach your kids a foreign language" videos. They work!). They seemed to think that going to a foreign school would be a useful experience, and it would prevent some of the awkward stares about my name. Not that they wanted to hide anything from me, they've always been very open about my family, and helped me find out more about my parents. My blood parents, that is. Blood only. Blood is not thicker than water. And I share more than water with my real family. I love them.

*

After writing this silly little summary of my life, I went outside to read the Daily Prophet again. I sat on the wall at the foot of the front garden, thinking and watching the Muggle children playing football on the street. Then the kids stopped playing abruptly, and a scruffy, dark-haired boy with glasses walked across the road. I waved enthusiastically, shouting "Hey! Harry Potter!"

He looked at me with an extremely shocked - and horrified - expression. I stopped waving, horrified too. I must have reminded him of my mother and his godfather in one, and I couldn't imagine how that would feel- to be haunted by images of them. It was the sort of stuff you read in horror books, the things that send people over the edge. I went inside, angry at the injustice of having a name, a face people feared, angry at causing that obvious pain. I felt awful. What I wouldn't do to be Adriana Benson.

Sometimes, blood is so thick it's drowning me.