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vi. Holliday Lippincott

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SIX HOLLIDAY LIPPINCOTT

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       HOLLIDAY LIPPINCOTT.

       It is a variation of another name, one that replaces the first name with the nickname Holly. It is a name that has been thrown around frequently over the past couple months, ever since she stood in line with the first years to be sorted, at least a head taller than them, with ice-white hair and a gaze a couple notches down from piercing. Sometimes, it's mentioned with the fact that she's cousins with Draco Malfoy, or how she's already been accepted into Pansy Parkinson's gang. Other times it's whispered gossiping, about I heard she used to go to Durmstrang, and apparently her mum's one of the Death Eaters in Azkaban.

       Recently, it's been noted with another thing. She's actually really clever. Which Holliday Lippincott would like to agree with, along with the idea that she's a jack of all trades, and a master of none. Every lesson she's got her hand up, answering questions like they're an easy breeze, a walk in the park. Every lesson she impresses the teachers and surprises the other kids sitting in the classroom, because who would've thought? Some random girl from Durmstrang knows her shit.

       Holliday is after the Breakfast at Tiffany's character, her paternal grandmother's favourite book — her dad wanted to name her his mother's name, Judy, but his mother refused to allow a little baby to have the name of an old lady, and thus, he drew inspiration from the book his mother Judy always read, and now, the book Holliday Lippincott always reads. Lippincott is after her father. Thankfully, because by the time she had been born, her mother had already realised how dangerous it was to keep Baby Holliday with her, and therefore, her mother had already been in contact with her father, to tell him that he was to look after the baby. You never know, with all of the werewolves around, they might sniff out the half-blood child.

       Holliday, dearest, is the name written neatly on a light-blue envelope, the back sealed with a white wax, the crest of a family sitting neatly, guarding the letter from being opened. Holliday, dearest, is the name written inside, on the letter, which arrived on Holliday dearest's eleventh birthday, along with a key to a vault in the wizarding world. The letter explained the situation — I wish this was not the way we first spoke, my dearest daughter, but due to the events eleven years ago it is the only option we unfortunately have.

       The Wizarding World is torn apart, and I believe it still is, when you're reading this. You have muggleborns and half-bloods and purebloods, and you fall under half-blood, which I know is not a bad thing, but a lot of people in the world believe it is the most dreadful thing. A lot of witches and wizards despise muggles — those who cannot perform magic — and when I was younger I believed this, because that's what my friends thought, why wouldn't they say something false? But it is false — it does not matter who your parents are, the only thing that matters is who you are.