Merely Misunderstood

Chapter Forty-One

My letter came in the mail weeks later, but it didn't spark as much joy as it used to. I used to be excited to go to Hogwarts, but now I was nervous to — who knew what I'd face when I got there? Would there be rumors? Everyone had read the Daily Prophet, after all....

Mirah noticed that my reaction to my letter wasn't the same as usual, and she managed to cheer me up slightly by reminding me that Dumbledore was headmaster again, and not to mention I'd get another whole year of uninterrupted time with Draco.

Speaking of which, I hadn't heard from him since the night I left his house, and I wondered if he was doing okay. I knew his father was still in Azkaban, but that might not last long now that the Dementors had abandoned the Ministry.

I wrote to Draco a few times, asking whether he was all right, but I'd never gotten a letter back, so I stopped writing altogether. If he was ignoring me, well, two could play at that game.

Besides, it didn't hurt that he wasn't talking to me. Nothing hurt anymore. I supposed that might've had something to do with the fact that I sort of stopped caring.

Mr. Holland scraped some eggs onto my plate, even though we both knew I wouldn't eat it. I didn't eat very much nowadays.

"I decided we're gonna take a trip to Diagon Alley today. What do you think?" Mr. Holland said to the table, and while Mrs. Holland and Mirah were enthusiastic, I hardly smiled.

Mr. Holland turned to me expectantly, and his gaze was soon followed by Mrs. Holland's and Mirah's.

"Yeah, sounds great," I said as brightly as I could, which wasn't very bright, but at least I tried.

The Hollands were unconvinced.

Mr. Holland took a deep breath, pressing his lips together before saying, "Look, Bri..." he sighed, "I think maybe you should think about seeing someone about... you know...."

"Dad!" Mirah hissed angrily. "Please tell me you're not about to pull the therapist card!"

"Sorry, pumpkin, but I am. I think it might help with —"

"Thanks, Mr. Holland," I cut him off, not wanting to hear the rest of this brutal sentence, "but I'm managing fine on my own." A straight-up lie, and he knew it, but despite what he thought, there wasn't much that could help. Even time didn't heal, but then again, it had only been about a month.

I glanced up at Mr. Holland; he looked disappointed, and I realized I'd crushed the little hope he had. But he should've known what my answer would be — I hadn't been myself since the day I learned my father was dead, and they shouldn't expect that to change.

None of them had violently lost both their parents at the age of sixteen.

"I'll go get ready," I said abruptly, but before I could stand up, Mr. Holland's expression changed, and he reached out and grabbed my shoulder, pushing me back down into the chair.

"No," he said, looking angry, "not until you've eaten."

I looked up at him in shock, and his anger faded into exhaustion.

"Brianna, you're thin. You need to eat something." He looked tired and stressed, and I could see the remnants of anguish that hadn't yet faded from his sea-blue eyes.

"Please," he begged when I didn't move, and seeing him worried about me made me feel even worse — he'd become something of a father figure lately, and I think he felt like it was his duty to look after me, since Dad was his brother (or so he believed; but I'd recently learned there was no relation between them. I hadn't told anyone, though. I didn't dare.).