Bill's Private Journal

Three years.

Three years.

Why do I remember three years that never happened? How did I end up here? What really happened with Fleur, with Percy, with...?

I have one thing I recall with striking clarity: a picture in Mad-Eye's hand of the original Order... so many lost. So many. Mum's family. James. Lily. Sirius now too. I read about it in the Prophet and I wonder why I wasn't there when it happened. I spent enough time in that house of his.

I suppose that's three things I recall with striking clarity: the photo, the Prophet article, and Grimmauld Place. I wonder if they're from some dream or other.

But I have all these other memories too: a flat, a garden in the back, a front desk job at Gringotts, tea in the study, an adoring girlfriend. These memories are happy, but they're fuzzy about the edges. Fuzzy with an aura of pain.

If I were prone to introspection I might say that my memories feel selective. But how can they be? There's nothing wrong with me. At least there's nothing wrong that a good Egyptian Tomb-Cooler or a bottle of Ogden's couldn't cure.

See? Egypt. I remember that. I remember my family. I remember school and suffering through five years of Arithmancy with dogged determination because, after all, how else can one plot the magical gridlines protecting the Great Pyramids? Why is the quality of those memories different?

I think I need Charlie.