That was Then, This is Now

"You used to smile all the time. Why don't you smile anymore? What's changed?"

I stare at the little girl sitting across the table and try to force a smile for her, but it doesn't work. She knows me too well. She just gives me that sad puppy-dog look and repeats the question.

How am I supposed to answer her without frightening her? She's five years old. She doesn't need to know what happened in the Department of Mysteries. She doesn't need to know what I've seen, what I've experienced. I feel as protective of her as though she were my little sister--which, now, she sort of is. Actually, Lexi's my cousin, but her parents died in a car accident when she was three. She lives with us now.

I know what most of the adults I know would tell her, but I can't tell her that. I promised myself I wouldn't tell her that. Everyone seems to be saying it these days, whenever someone asks what's changed or what the difference is from the past or anything like that.

There's a Muggle book of that name. I read it when I was seven. I found it in the library. Of course, as soon as I looked at the back cover I discovered that it came after another one of her books, so I had to read The Outsiders first. I'm glad I did. I never would've understood it if I hadn't read the other one first.

But this wide-eyed innocent across from me, this sweet young girl with long brown hair and big blue eyes, hasn't read either one of those yet. I hope she doesn't for a long time. I was too young to read them, too young to be exposed to that by normal standards. But I had seen more. I had lived more. I knew more. She doesn't.

My Newtbox is still playing. I try to distract her with the song--Life's a Dance, it's her absolute favourite--but she just reaches over and snaps the contraption off, then focuses her big blue eyes on me and again repeats the question.

Okay, music won't work. Maybe something else? We've been drawing all morning; I ask her which drawing is her favourite. She shows me a drawing of a boy and a girl. It breaks my heart because I know it's us. In the picture, we're holding hands and laughing. I brace myself because I know what's coming next. "It's us last year. I'd have made it this year except you don't smile anymore. What's wrong?"

I try to change the subject again. I ask her if she's getting better on her reading. I ask her if she's heard any new nursery rhymes. I ask her--and this is my big mistake--if she's still asking herself one question a day. She answers. "Yes. I am. And today my question is why you stopped smiling. You aren't the same person you were a year ago. What's the difference?"

I am trapped. Absolutely and utterly trapped now. Finally I answer her, and the words that come out of my mouth are the very words I swore to myself I'd never tell her.

"The difference is, that was then, and this is now."