Searching for Private Potter

Searching for Private Potter

by: Flip Flop Babe

July, 2002

Chapter One:

“Rock-a-bye Gilly, on the tree top. When the wind blows, the cradle will rock. When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, and down will come Gilly, cradle and all.” The woman whose lap I was sitting in was singing the lullaby softly, her melodic voice tinkling like chimes. Her hand was softly caressing my face, brushing wild brown curls out of my eyes. In turn, I was gently petting the shining coat of a black kitten, who was purring out of pure contentment. Although the scene unfolding before my eyes was peaceful, I felt everything but peaceful. The reigning emotion was loneliness, despite the fact that the woman was treating me with nothing but love and tenderness, and even though a man was seated in a chair to the right of me, watching the TV.

I looked up at the woman with wide green eyes threatening to brim over with salty tears. “Where's Daddy?” I asked quietly. “And Mummy?”

A look of melancholy passed over the woman's pretty, albeit aged, features, but disappeared just as quickly as it came. She said nothing, just began singing again. “Rock-a-bye Gilly on the tree top. When the wind blows, the cradle will rock...”

The man sat in utter stillness in his chair, not saying a word. He seemed oblivious to the world around him, oblivious that two other humans were in the room as well. It seemed as though he were only interested in the comedy being shone on the TV, not my cries or the woman's singing. Again I asked, “Where's Daddy and Mummy?” Again I was answered by the words of the lullaby, accompanied by a hoot of laughter from the man this time.

I woke up with a start, cold beads of sweat covering my body. My legs were tangled in my white cotton sheets and my long brown curls were spilling over my shoulders in quite a disarray. My breath was coming out in heavy, deliberate gasps. It took me a few moments to realize that I was in my room, in my bed, in my house and not a room belonging to two strangers. That dream had felt so real, so real that I could almost smell the musty odour of the room the two people and I had been occupying. I could almost feel the woman's fingertips grazing my face gently and playing with my hair as she sang. And I could almost understand the loneliness and fear of the little girl... the young me.

That dream scared me. Not because it was a frightening, horrific dream, so to speak, but because I felt as if I had been through a similar scene and because it had been recurring for almost all of the summer holidays. I hated the dream with a passion and all the strange feelings and emotions that came with it. I hated that feeling of loneliness. I hated not knowing where I was and whose house I was in. Most of all, I loathed the fact that the woman never answered my desperate question of where my parents were, but sang that blasted lullaby instead!

Allow me to introduce myself now that I've carried on with my ranting and raving. I'm Gillian Potter and I'm fourteen -- or soon to be fourteen, anyway. I'm an average, boring girl (at least as average as you can be while being a witch and living in a world full of witchcraft and wizardry) and I live in an average, boring household with my mum, younger brother, and stepfather, who basically poses as my real father.

A stepfather who poses as my real father? You see, my biological father died in the Final War against Voldemort -- He-Who-Still-Must-Not-Be-Named, as he's now known -- when I was only three years old. (At that time, Andy -- my younger brother -- was one.) I hardly remember anything about Harry Potter, save for his looks, which are still vaguely documented in my mind. (Raven-coloured hair, bright green eyes, which I inherited from him, a muscular yet lean build.) You must be thinking that I have to have at least one picture of him, but I don't. I guess his death was too hard on Mum, because she put all the photos of him away and asked Andy and me (and Jonathan, my stepfather) to never bring them out again. Sadly, we complied.

I don't remember much about my childhood. Maybe I tried to block out all the foul memories, but I honestly don't remember a whole lot. My earliest memory seems to be when I was seven, and that was the memory of sitting out in the backyard with Mum (who was getting all teary-eyed), watching Jonathan and five-year-old Andy try to toss a soccer ball back and forth. (That wasn't successful and Andy took to flying around on a kiddie broom, chasing a toy Snitch around the yard when he was seven. Mum also got teary-eyed when he did this. Jonathan said it's because Dad was a great Seeker during his Hogwarts days. I replied that it was a shame I had to learn about my father from my stepfather instead of my mother, who should've been telling Andy and me all she knew. He got mad and sent me to my room for the rest of the evening.)

Mum tries unbelievably hard to try and make up for Andy and me not having our real father around to do things with us, but I always assure her that it's fine that I got stuck with Jonathan Tucker. That makes her chuckle, but I still see the overwhelming sadness in her eyes. It's eleven years later and she's still not over the death of Dad, but who can blame her? You can imagine the awful feeling of dread she must've had when she was told of his death and was suddenly hit with the responsibility of raising two little toddlers on her own!

I've always been a shy girl and my three years at Hogwarts haven't done much to change that. I'm much more comfortable in small groups, so in elementary school, I shied away from the “popular” and rambunctious kids and had my own tiny circle of friends, which unfortunately included Andy, whom I spent a lot of time with. (We were very close when we were younger, and I'm glad to say we still talk although we're not as close.) However, I'm proud to say that, in my first year of Hogwarts, I was the one who approached my three current best friends and proposed the friendship. That will always be my shining moment... unless, of course, I somehow manage to single-handedly win the House Cup for Ravenclaw sometime in my Hogwarts career, which isn't very likely.

Jonathan didn't enter my life until I was six... sure, I wasn't very old then, but I had grown out of my “young and impressionable” stage at a very young age. Mum tells me that I was a vivacious little girl, despite my shyness, and had my own ideas formulated and refused to change them to please others. Aside from being shy, I was also stubborn, and still am a bit.

There are times that I wonder if I would be less shy, less insecure if I'd grown up having my father around. After all, he was the famous Harry Potter. Other than having knowledge of his looks, and that he was a very good Seeker on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and that he was part of the trio who defeated Voldemort, I don't know a thing about him. I used to ask Mum questions, but I stopped when I found out that it pained her to talk about him and reverted to asking Jonathan questions. He could only tell me a little, though, because he had limited knowledge about my father since he hadn't attended the same school. (Most of what he knew came from books.) Ron Weasley, my godfather, is a person I don't see very often and therefore can't ask him about my dad. (Dad, Ron, and Mum were very close friends during their school years, but after Dad's death, Mum and Ron only owled one another rarely, eventually losing contact. She still converses with my godmother, Ginny, frequently since they work within a five mile radius of each other, in Diagon Alley.) I know this, though: Mum and Dad were very much in love.

I yawned and rubbed the blurriness from my eyes to check the digital clock on my bedside table; it was six thirty, late enough to wake up and get dressed for the day. In another thirty minutes, Jonathan would be up, getting ready for another long day at the Muggle law firm he worked at; Mum would wake up at about seven fifteen and go downstairs to discover eggs (sunny side up) and toast (slathered with non-fat butter) with a tall mug of coffee (de-caf, two sugars, one cream), all being kept warm with a simple heating charm. It was the same every morning, but she'd still act surprised and give Jonathan a nice, big kiss the second he walked in the door later that day. (She says she likes to show her appreciation, but I think she just likes having an excuse to snog him.)

As I pulled on a pair of jeans and a powder blue halter top (Mum hates it, but I love it because it was the seldom-received Christmas gift from Ron last year), I thought about my upcoming birthday. It's about this time of the month that Jonathan and Mum ask me what I want, but I don't have a clue as of yet. I continued pondering what to ask for as I slicked back my hair in an immaculate ponytail, something else Mum hates, and then slipped my feet into my white canvas tennis shoes. I could hear Jonathan banging around with pots and pans downstairs, obviously fixing the traditional breakfast for Mum, so I opened my door and crept out of my room.

“Morning, Jonathan,” I greeted the tall, auburn-haired man.

Jonathan turned to smile at me. “You're up early, Gilly,” he replied, turning back and cracking an egg. “Do you want some breakfast?”

“I had a dream,” I explained, “and couldn't get back to sleep. And I think I'll just eat some cereal.”

Jonathan nodded and went back to cooking. I'd already told him about my dream, the first time I'd had it, and he hadn't had much to say about it, although a look flashed across his face. Jonathan's not much of an analytical person.

While Jonathan finished Mum's breakfast, I walked across the room to the cupboard and pulled out a box of my favourite cereal, Sugar Snaps. It's as sugary as it sounds and neither Mum nor Jonathan approve of me eating it, but they buy it for me anyway. I'm not normally a person who gorges herself with sweets and sugary things, save for the occasional trip to Hogsmeade (where I'd much rather shop at Batyerlashes and Smooch and Gladrags than waste my time in the crowded shop of Honeydukes or sit in the Three Broomsticks) and holidays, so I suppose that's why they allow me to eat something so unhealthy.

I had just finished munching on my cereal when Jonathan put the plate of eggs and toast as well at the coffee mug at the placemat beside of me. “I've got to get to work. Give your mother my love,” he said, kissing the top of my head. He pulled on his Muggle jacket, picked up his briefcase, which was sitting by the stove, and walked out the kitchen door, leaving me to rinse the leftover milk out of my bowl. I sighed.

When I was younger, Mum had been an Auror. Even though the Dark Lord had finally been defeated, some Dark wizards (mostly Death Eaters who found themselves without a leader) were still trying their hardest to create another Dark following. But it wasn't long before she quit her job as an Auror and began working a managerial job at Flourish and Blott's. She pretends to be happy working that part-time job, but I know she's not. Mum has always been one for adventure and excitement, and being a manager of a bookstore does not offer many opportunities for either. I guess she thinks her job is “safe” and that she won't have to worry about being tore away from her family like Dad was.

I turned to walk out of the kitchen and ran straight into Mum, who was walking in. Her usually wild brown hair that I had inherited from her was tied up into a tight bun and she was wearing robes of charcoal gray. A golden watch was on her right wrist and she had two small, golden hoops in her pierced ears. The ensemble gave her the appearance of a stern headmistress. She'd obviously learned from none other than Hogwarts headmistress, Minerva McGonagall, for I'd often seen the exact same hairstyle on the older woman.

“You're up early,” said Mum, surprised. “What's the occasion?” Her chocolate brown eyes had lost their twinkle when I was younger, after she'd quit her first job.

“I had a dream and couldn't get back to sleep,” I said, repeating what I'd told Jonathan earlier. “Jonathan just left for work. He said he loves you.”

A smile passed across her face and she nodded her head, making her earrings move but her hair stayed in place. It was obviously the work of some sort of super-hold charm or potion. She continued on her way into the kitchen and discovered the plate of food. As usual, she gasped and covered her mouth, causing me to roll my eyes, and then sat down and began to eat. “I'm famished,” she announced.

“I'd say so. You didn't eat dinner last night.”

“I had some paperwork to do.” Mum gobbled down her breakfast and practically inhaled her coffee before wiping her mouth with a napkin and addressing me again. “You got your supplies list the other day and I'm going to pick up some of your school things during lunch today. Is there anything special you'd like?”

I thought for a moment before shaking my head at her. “No.”

“Okay, then.” Mum stood up and straightened her robes and checked her watch. “I'd better go, sweetheart. Love you, and tell Andy I said I love him.” Mum finally got a good look at me and pulled a disgusted face. “Must you wear that, Gilly?” she asked.

“I love this,” I replied, holding the bottom of my shirt away from my stomach.

Mum sighed. “Well, bye, Gilly.” She disappeared with a distinctive “pop”. Since she doesn't work at a Muggle job, she can Apparate unlike Jonathan. I could just see the looks on his co-workers' faces if Jonathan suddenly appeared in the middle of the room, holding a wand in his hand.

When Mum was gone, I sighed and wandered into the living room, where I promptly collapsed in my favourite oversized chair, a red velvet cushy one that Mum and Dad had taken (yes! Taken!) from the Gryffindor common room the last day of their seventh year. (Mum told me that story often when I was little. She and Dad had ventured into the common room after the Farewell Feast and, finding it empty, had proceeded to use a Shrinking spell. Dad had then slipped it in his robes pocket and when everybody began wondering where it was, Mum and Dad acted completely innocent, pretending they had no idea. After they got married and found a house, they'd enlarged it and put it in the living room. It's one of the only things Mum's kept out in plain sight that reminds her of Dad.)

I began thinking about dream again, wondering about where the visions of those older people had come from. I'd never seen either of them before, yet I had this odd feeling that I'd met them somewhere. I couldn't shake it. That feeling in itself was enough to change the apparently pleasant dream into a full-fledged nightmare.

As I contemplated my dream, I allowed my head to fall back against the arm of the chair. Twenty minutes later, I still hadn't come up with anything that made sense to me. When Andy came down the stairs still in his pyjamas and asked for breakfast, I had to abandon my thinking. It seemed the dream was going to be haunting me for awhile longer.

~~~~~

“Guess what, Gilly! Guess what, Gilly! Guess what!” whined Andy impatiently, flying into my room on his broom that was hovering a few inches above the ground. His brown eyes were wide and sparkling with excitement.

I tore my eyes away from my Muggle book, To Kill a Mockingbird, to glare at my younger brother. Wanting to get him out of my room as quickly as possibly, I raised my eyebrows in an inquisitive manner and asked, “What's so wonderful that you had to interrupt my reading?”

“Mum finally agreed to let me try out for Quidditch this year!” he exclaimed happily. “Jonathan convinced her to let me!”

Oh. That would explain the broom, which was a gift from Jonathan to Andy when Andy turned ten, and why he was flying around the house. It was obviously very exciting news for him because Mum had plainly stated the first day of his first year that he would not be playing Quidditch on the House team, even when he came of age. He'd owled her over the course of the year many times, begging and begging to be allowed to play during his second year, but she did not budge in her decision, saying Quidditch was too dangerous a sport for a little boy to play. (I suppose she's who I got my streak of stubbornness from.) Jonathan, who had also played on his Quidditch team at his small private school in Ireland, was constantly and incessantly trying to convince her to let Andy play, and it had obviously finally paid off.

“That's nice,” I told him. Quidditch basically means the world to my brother; when he learned that our father was on the Quidditch team for Gryffindor and was a very excellent Seeker, Andy went crazy. He jumped at the opportunity to have a chance to be just like Dad. “I'm sure you'll make the team.” I didn't get a reply from him, for he'd already flew back out of the room, probably to fly next door and tell his immature friend, Marshall Maguire, about his newfound freedom. I sure hoped that Mum didn't blow a gasket when she discovered him gliding around the house, since she's imposed a very strict “no flying in the house” rule, similar to a Muggle “no skating in the house” one.

When I glanced back to my book, I couldn't concentrate, even though To Kill a Mockingbird is my favourite. (Sure, it may be quite an old book, but it's still my favourite. Mum introduced it to me when I was twelve, saying it was a classic and I should give it a chance. I did, and now people often see me re-reading it even though I could probably recite the entire thing from front to back if somebody were to ask.) Thoughts about my upcoming fourth year filled my head. I thought about my three best friends (Diantha Monroe, Bonnie Massengill, and Margaret McAllister) and classes and grades. So many different things were flitting through my mind that they all ran together so badly that I couldn't decipher exactly what I was thinking about anymore. When I get like that, the only thing that can fix it is a big, tall glass of orange juice, so I stood up and walked downstairs to the kitchen.

When I walked in, Mum was seated at the kitchen table, biting her nails. Jonathan, who was sitting across from her, was saying something. It was probably about the recent decision to allow Andy to try out for Quidditch. Mum is such a worry wart; I guess it's a good thing she married Jonathan, because he's the polar opposite of her and he's the only one that can calm her down when she gets too wound up.

“He'll get hurt,” Mum was saying as I poured some orange juice into a clean cup, proving that my assumptions had been right. “You've no idea how many injuries Harry came into the common room with day after day after day and how many trips to the infirmary he made.”

So. Mum was actually talking about my father. To Jonathan, no less. Don't you think that she should've been telling Andy and me about our father's Quidditch escapades rather that Jonathan? Well, I certainly thought so. It seemed so wrong that she could actually keep everything she knew about Dad from us, especially when neither Andy nor I knew next to nothing about him. It... it... made me so mad that she could do that!

So mad, in fact, that when I swung my body around to confront her about it, my flailing arm hit my orange juice glass, causing it to fall off the counter and hit the hardwood floor with a crash, shattering into small pieces and drenching my stockinged feet in orange liquid. Mum let out a small shriek, letting me in on the fact that she hadn't noticed me come into the room, and jumped from her chair to whirl around and look at me with narrowed eyes. Jonathan sighed, stood, and exited the room, probably to fetch his wand in order to clean up the mess I'd made.

“Gilly.” She didn't sound angry when she said my name, not in the least little bit. She sounded tired, and I knew then that Andy had probably badgered her and Jonathan about Quidditch so much that she caved in and let him have his way. Andy doesn't understand that Mum's job is strenuous. He just sees it as working in a stupid bookshop.

“I'm sorry, Mum!” I apologised quickly. “I wasn't paying attention to what I was doing. I know I should've been, but I was distracted --”

Mum placed a hand on my shoulder. “Sweetheart, it's okay. It's just a little orange juice, nothing that can't be cleaned up.”

By that time, Jonathan had returned to the kitchen, brandishing his wand like a sword. He pushed past me to the mess, muttered something under his breath, and the liquid vanished. Another spell was said (“Reparo,” no doubt) and the shards of glass came together once more. Jonathan twirled his wand between his thumb and forefinger and leaned back against the counter. The wand came to a stop and he blew on the tip, then held up his hand and snapped his fingers for Mum. She and I both rolled our eyes but decided to play along with him.

“My hero!” we cried in unison, running toward Jonathan and enveloping him in a bone-crunching hug. With a laugh, he hugged us back.