Apples and Snakes

Nostalgia

So, what happened the night of the maze?" I asked, now that I was sitting at the kitchen table, with a glass of water I'd downed greedily.

"About an hour later, a girl who looked like you came back. The problem was, that we caught her trying to assassinate Harry, and we knew that it wasn't you," Mum said. "An hour after that, we found out that it was Peter Pettigrew in disguise. He was turned over to the Ministry, as was Mad-Eye Moody, who turned out to be Barty Crouch's kid in disguise. We knew that Voldemort was back, but the Ministry doesn't believe it, probably because it disturbs the peace we've had for thirteen years."

I nodded. "How many days has it been?"

"Honey, it's the eighth of August," Mum answered.

"So, I'm fifteen," I realized.

"We'll do something for your birthday, I promise," Mum said. "We thought You-Know-Who had killed you. What happened, Alice?"

"He used my blood to resurrect himself. He'd decided that I was really powerful, and tried to train me as his apprentice, and another kid at Hogwarts. Then, two days ago, he asked me to attack a press conference and kill Harry. I escaped, and here we are," I explained.

"His apprentice?" Dad asked.

"I think he's trying to get a stronger army," I said quietly. "Influencing a person's worst emotions, so that he can use them for missions, more powerful than any of the Death Eaters. Trust me, I found out a couple times."

"What did he do to you?" Dad asked, horrified.

"He trained me," I said simply.

"Oh my God," Mum said. "Alice-"

"And before you go on a rant about how I'll become evil, I won't. My being here should prove that to you."

"Oh, Alice!" Mum hugged me.

What the heck is going on?

"I wasn't going to say that at all," Mum said, as she started rocking me in her arms. "I was going to say that I'm sorry."

She pulled away, and I could see her red eyes and wet cheeks. "I'm sorry, for how I've treated you. I know it wasn't fair. I shouldn't have treated you like that, prophecy or not, Dumbledore be damned!"

"Mum, it's okay," I said. "I'm going to be honest. I'm not ready to forgive yet. But someday I will. Just give me some time."

"Of course," she sobbed, before hugging me again. "Take all the time in the world. I haven't forgiven myself yet."

My hand rested on the doorhandle. It had been so long since I'd been in my room. Almost a year. The knob was cool to the touch, and except for the pink and black sign with a skull and crossbones warning intruders to keep out, nothing really showed of the rebellious girl that used to live inside.

I opened it, and a sense of nostalgia flooded in. Murals painted the walls and the ceilings, beautiful murals of some faraway places or heroes I'd admired. My desk was full of drawing pencils and paints and papers, all with a fine layer of dust on them from months and months of being away.

My bedding was a total mess of tie-dyed sheets and blankets, and my pillows were all slightly stained from one painting mishap or another, and stickers were all over the bedframe, from characters I adored in my youth.

Paint splatters decorated the floors, and awry sketches and crumpled pieces papered the floor. On the built-in bookshelf, stacks and stacks of sketchbooks awaited, full of memories from the past. One sketchbook sat on my desk, though.

I walked over to it. My Scrapbook, it read in flowery stickers, as if placed by six-year-old hands. I opened it. Childish scribbled adorned the little moving photographs. Some were of me as a baby, with Harry, a quite a few before we ever got our scars.