𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐒𝐨 𝐈𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 |𝐃.𝐌 (re-write)

THIRTY-NINE

E L I Z A

I felt as though all the ghosts in my room had come out of the dark shadows and stood around me, watching me. The fear I felt made my blood run cold. Fear. It's got a grasp of me, holding me tight, holding me with all its might and I can't seem to escape it. My breathing has become perilous and my heartbeat is a slow, unsteady beat.

It feels like I'm trapped, unable to move and escape this dungeon of terror and disbelief as I stare at the crumpled parchment.

"It's not over," I whispered out loud, suddenly making the words seem more real.

What does it mean? But I'm not so worried about the meaning. I'm more concerned by how it got here. To my home. The place where I live and sleep.

It's from Noah, there is no doubt in my mind, and Noah who now knows where I live.

When will this end?

Will it ever?

I spent the next hour with my head in my hands, sitting on my bed wondering if it ever would.

~

"Are you alright?" my father asked when I walked into the kitchen. My mother was facing away from me, dishing up the delicious-smelling dinner but I found I had no appetite. She turned to me and smiled softly. I tried to return the smile.

"Fine," I replied, taking a seat at the table beside my father. He was looking at me, over The Daily Prophet he had been reading. I couldn't help but notice, when I glanced up at him, the moving image on the front page. A building in a Diagon Alley was in flames and wizards and witches were running, screaming with terror.

"What happened?" I asked, my voice too small, too quiet, too weak but it was the voice my father knew.

My father looked at me, seemed to swallow a lump in his throat and then put the paper down, "A group of. . . rebellious wizards attacked Diagon Alley this afternoon. Killed three innocents."

"Richard, please," my mother sounded tired.

"She's curious," my father responded to my mother and then turned to me, "Aren't you, girl?" I noticed the flash of hatred in his eyes and I flinched, "Besides she should be well-educated if she too is involved in all this."

Instantly, I frowned at his words, "How am I involved?"

"We were supposed to keep her away from all of that," my mother turned and bought over mine and my father's plates of food, placing my fathers down a little too roughly, "from your past."

My father noticed the slight aggression and turned up to look at her, grabbing her wrist as he seemed to correct, "My ancestor's past."

He let go of her delicate wrist and she swiped it away, shooting me a smile, ensuring me she was fine but she was not.

My mother is a sweet, gentle woman who is often too kind for her own good. She is beautiful and every time I get told I look like her, I smile as bright as the stars. Nothing makes me happier than being compared to my lovely mother.

"If it's your ancestor's past then you can bury it," my mother said, bringing her own plate of food and sitting opposite me, "it doesn't matter anymore. It's over. Just forget about it and that silly rock."