Preston Pomfrey - A Harry Potter Fanfic

1. Lost in Translation

Authors note. This is just something I wanted to write to help me through a tough time. I hope you can enjoy the book as I vent my emotions through Preston.

If you enjoy, please vote. Encourages more written and makes it more visible for others to read. Thank you

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I envied city life. The people, the shops and atmosphere. It was quick, it was easy. A wish was a door down and a friendly chat was a trip over your feet.

I had always wondered why my mother wanted to live so far away from city life.

Our house was modest, only having a garden to boast about. The rest of the house was rather quaint and compact, mother and I had to breath in and press into the sides if we wanted to pass each other in the kitchen. My least favourite part was always having to go through my mothers room if I needed the bathroom or shower.

I hated to admit it, but I was easily frustrated. I had lost track of the amount of times I had yelled at my mother for taking too long in the shower, a fair few times meaning I had turned the garden into a bathroom. Unfortunately, Ms Sandleworth saw a bit more than she bargained for if she came to trim her hedge at the wrong moment.

Saying that, it's not like my mother didn't give me an earful back when I had messed up. Passing her the wrong ingredients when making potions, not cleaning up after myself or asking questions she'd rather not answer.

Preston Pomfrey.

That last name sure is something to live up to.

Mother, the matron of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Poppy Pomfrey. She had raised that last name up to one of respect in the wizarding world. When we on a rare occasion go out, wizards everywhere recognised and greeted her.

I received less of a fanfare. I wasn't the type of person to go and socialise with lots of people. I enjoyed the company of a few close people, dressed humbly, polite and respectful (unless given reasons not to be). My likes were very simple: nature and animals always fascinated me.

Whilst living in the countryside, I learned to appreciate the serene beauty in the simple things. Admire the details of a flower, how it protects itself until optimal conditions to show its full flower. A calm pale sky with passive clouds sliding across. The way water ripples as the wind blows across its surface. Admittedly, it's the best way I could find to relax.

I remember the day my letter came vaguely. It was an overcast sky, mother was reading some book which look more used than the tube and I was listening to old music that always sat in a cabinet.

I checked the mail and it was just there. A thick paper envelope with a wax stamp sporting the Hogwarts logo. The address written in emerald green ink and cursive writing.

It spoke of details I already knew of. A magical school and stuff I need. I was excited to get the letter, but at first wished it had given me more information.

The curious thing happened once I had finished reading the page. The letters rearranged themselves to a private message, I assumed it was enchanted for my eyes only. The text changed from green ink to blue, and letters became far more slanted than originally written. It was from Albus Dumbledore himself, I struggled for breath. I knew this wasn't customary.

He had written to me privately as he knew 'Poppy' would reject what he was offering. However, it was customary for children of staff to gain a special bursary for supplies at Hogwarts. I needed to head to Gringotts and say my name and I'll be taken to the vault. What a generous offer, I know many people struggled to afford these supplies. I was wondering how we would, considering our housing situation.

The letter continued further, saying something about special potential for opportunities. Something else about help always being given? Now he had really lost me.

Yet my mother always said, "Preston Pomfrey, things at Hogwarts are never always how they seem. Beneath every stone holds a secrets and behind the doors hold wonders that only those daring enough may discover".

The letter soon returned back to normal cursive text, safe to pass back to mother.

She briefly gazed up from her book after cleared my throat in front of her. She cracked a small smile before going back to her stern expression.

"About time I say," Madam Pomfrey says looking back at her book, "should have been here the beginning of the week. I wonder what took them so long."

"Mother?" I asked.

She hummed lightly looking at her book, clearly disinterested in our conversation already.

"Do we have a way to afford all those supplies?"

Her toe tapped irritatedly on the cracked stone floor beneath her. "Your father left you plenty in the bank at Gringotts, give them the key tied around your neck and you'll be given access."

"What about the other stuff?" I begged my mother.

She slammed her book shut, "Preston! Don't you ask me questions like that!" She raised her voice at me, "you know it upsets me, we will not be discussing anything to do with your father, you understand?"

Agitated, I turn out of the house and into the garden. I sit under the tree slightly cold from the breeze on my skin but burning on the inside.

Breathe. Control.