My Father died when I was still a baby. Killed by Death Eaters in a time when no one was safe and nothing was certain. I don't remember much, obviously. I remember the Cruciatus curse, though. I was only a baby when it was cast on me, and I owe my limp to it- the one I've had for as long as I can remember. It's gotten worse; it's been years since I was able to walk without a stick. The Muggles all tease me about it, and some Wizards, too.
My Mum was a Muggle. That was why they killed Dad, because he married her. She worries about me constantly, and she's the one who forced me to get a stupid bloody therapist who won't do a damn thing to help.
I do still have nightmares. Mum and Harry know that. But it's nothing substantial- just flashes of pain and green light and screams. Nothing worth calling in a therapist for.
It's not like she's done anything to help. I know I've still got trust issues since Mum sent Harry out on her own for a year. I know I don't like Muggles, and I know I shouldn't. Making me write a blog isn't going to stop me hating Muggles. Just because I'm using their technology doesn't mean I'm suddenly going to love them.
I don't hate them because I'm a prejudiced Death Eater or something like that. I hate them because they made my life miserable, just because I'm different. I hate them because they resist any and everything they don't understand. My Mum doesn't understand Harry, so she kicked her out. An eleven-year-old girl, at the time. Harry found refuge at Hogwarts and at the end of the year Mum accepted her back with open arms. Harry forgave her. I didn't.
Harry's thirteen now, and it's my turn to get the Hogwarts letter. The best thing about it being that psychotherapists don't follow you to Hogwarts. And laptops aren't allowed within the castle grounds, so there go the hopes of me keeping a blog. Nothing ever happens to me anyway.