Parchment (d.m)

Chapter 14

It had been one month since the defeat of Voldemort. Penelope couldn't fathom how it had already been a month. As she finished charming the last few strands of her stick, straight hair into soft curls, she glanced over to the calendar hanging on her wall, June the second circled in crimson red. 

Maybe it was tomorrow, she thought. 

She knew this not to be true, especially since her mother was making a plethora of food this morning in celebration. Her mother began to use food as a way to get through to her since Penelope began to spend much of her time in her room, listening to muggle records Hermione had gotten her in years past for her birthday and reading the same six books over and over again. There was something comforting about knowing the ending. 

She liked her routine. Wake up, eat breakfast, go back to her room, and repeat going back to her room for every meal. She rarely left her home and when she did, it was to stop at a shop to pick up the necessities. This was her mother's way of getting Penelope out of the house for an hour.

Although Penelope couldn't find the words to express how grateful she was for her parents, she was. Without any knowledge of how to help Penelope, they did their best—talking about the happy parts of the Prophet, making her meals they knew to be her favorite, and the one they seemed to find the most important, not mentioning the wizarding war. 

Penelope rather liked not talking about the war. It was as though she had so many emotions and yet not one at all. The first week felt amazing—the defeat of Voldemort was achieved. While the fight was won, it only sunk in days later of all of the defeats—deaths. 

Colin — Lavender — Dobby — Tonks — Remus — Fred . . .

Fuck, she thought while eating breakfast. How am I supposed to face the Weasleys today?

Penelope bite hastily into her toast, ignoring the look her mother gave her. 

Hermione had sent over letters throughout the month, giving her updates on the Weasleys—George had left after a few days to travel, but Hermione hinted his travels were to discover easy women and booze; Ginny was gone most of the time visiting Harry; Ron had taken the Auror position offered to him, putting on a brave face whenever he could; Arthur held the family together; as for Molly, she tried to find happiness with each day that came. Hermione's letters were filled with optimism, more with each one that came. 

Penelope could hardly deal though. She just stared at the letters when they came and wished she could find an ounce of Hermione's optimism within her. But why couldn't she? Penelope didn't have parents who didn't remember her, she didn't lose a brother, and every parental figure in her life hadn't died. She lost friends, yes, but they all had. 

There was a whole new battle every day she woke up to fight for the strength to get out of her bed, some days better than others. Why couldn't she be as happy as they seemed? Penelope didn't lose people like her friends did. She had no siblings and her parents were alive and well. Perhaps she was selfish.

On days she traveled deep into the rabbit hole, she would find herself on her bathroom floor, sobbing into her knees, arms cradling her shins, while her hair draped down the backs of her arms. 

"Why can't I be happy?" she would ask herself as her body rocked back and forth. "Please let me be happy."

Not all days were bad. It got better with each day. 

"Butter?" her mother asked, holding up the container across their small, circular table, three chairs for each family member. "For your toast?"