Dear Harry,
I'm to teach you about tears in this letter. This is my story.
Think I don't know what it's like, Harry Potter, to lose someone you love? I know much better than you'd think. I know what it's like.
I'm a proud woman, I'll admit. Tears are for the weak to shed, not for a strong, powerful, wise woman like myself. No, I'm the one who was always forced to be strong- as a child, as a mother, as a grandmother.
Don't cry, Augusta, don't cry. It was the only advice anyone ever gave me, even though I was only eleven years old when they first said it. It would be better not to cry.
It doesn't matter that your brother is dead.
It doesn't matter that he was killed in the vicious argument between your parents- the vicious argument you tried and failed to stop.
It doesn't matter that you don't know which of them killed him, or if the same will happen to you.
It doesn't matter- just don't cry.
Carrying that burden to school was not easy. People knew my brother, he'd just finished second year before he was killed, but the only thing they knew was that he was killed in a 'freak accident.' That wasn't enough for my curious peers, but I never spoke of the incident to anyone. I was the only one who knew the truth, besides my parents, neither of whom even seemed to care.
Somehow I survived school- I even survived the wicked Charms, where I was taught the spells that, when combined, had ultimately caused my brother's death. Call me stupid for failing that class, but I simply could not bear to perform the charms on someone else.
Adulthood brought me some of the happiness that had been robbed from me as a child. I married, had a son, settled in a little wizarding village. But tragedy struck again, and again, I was told the same words: don't cry, Augusta, don't cry.
It doesn't matter that your father is a follower of the legendary Grindelwald.
It doesn't matter that his reputation- and thus your own- is ruined.
It doesn't matter that he will likely be in Azkaban for the rest of his life.
It doesn't matter- just don't cry.
I poured myself into my son, Frank. I gave him everything he could have ever wanted. I made sure Frank didn't know what it would be like to hear his parents screaming at each other every night. I wanted his little life to be absolutely perfect.
And so when I saw my husband slowly deteriorating, succumbing to dragon pox, before my very eyes, I struggled to keep the news from Frank. I sought potion after potion to keep my husband alive, if not for myself, at least for my son.
Finally, Frank came home one summer holiday, perhaps in his sixth or seventh year at Hogwarts, and told me, it's alright mum. Let him go. My son knew better than I that it was time for us to say goodbye, but even still, he took it so hard. Friends offered little advice.
Don't cry, Augusta, don't cry.
It doesn't matter that your husband died of a long battle with dragon pox.
It doesn't matter that you'll likely live with the guilt of forcing him to remain alive with potions and brews, causing him to suffer much longer than he should have.
It doesn't matter that your son gave up the chance to take Auror tests early because of his father's death.
It doesn't matter- just don't cry.
Years later, Frank finally did take those Auror tests, and passed with flying colors. He married an adorable young girl. He gave me a grandson, little Neville, who lit up the lives of everyone who knew him.
I thought that maybe, there wasn't going to ever be a reason to cry. Frank's life was good. My life was good.
Then....then came the night I'll never forget. The memories play over and over, without end.
We'd visit Frank and Alice, Neville and I. He didn't understand what was happening just yet. But he'd sit, and play with a toy, and Frank and Alice would watch him. A Healer would sit in the room with us, a pretty young girl with the most caring disposition. One day, she put a soft hand on my shoulder and told me something I'll never forget.
"You know..." she said, somewhat timidly. "It's ok to cry when you're sad."
And at her words, I did. I cried for my brother. I cried for my mother. I cried for my father and son and daughter-in-law and I cried for my grandson. Once the tears came, they were difficult to control. But after that day, I never cried again. I didn't need to. When the day was over, I finally began to heal.
Harry, cry when you are sad. Cry when you are hurting. Don't be ashamed of showing your feelings. Because when you do, you'll find that it is often the best way to heal.
~Augusta
***
Ta-daaaaa!
Get ready, boys and girls, because yes- I am BACK!
After a long (long!) hiatus, I've decided to start pouring myself back into this little project. I know, it should've happened a while ago. But hey, it's here now, so let's all do a happy dance :)