Being a muggle: how to cope

Mikayla Coulombe

The rage inside my soul surfaced so quickly that for a second I believed Lord Voldemort possessed me. With eyes closed I took in a deep breath, inhaling both the intensity and oxygen hanging in the air. This newfound adrenaline coursed through my body faster than an underfed stampede of blast-ended skrewts. I could not prevent the words from bursting forth from my mouth.

“Why did you have to be muggles?” I paused for dramatic effect, letting my eyes bear into those disgracefully magic-deprived pupils of my so-called parents. I lingered just long enough to see the guilt start to contort their innocent faces before storming off to my four poster bed, half expecting to find Dobby strangling himself within its covers.

Overcome with defeat, I collapsed carelessly onto my pillow. I envy those whose greatest problems in life are next week’s science test and conjugating the preterite form of ser and estar. What a bunch of rubbish.

My letter was not coming. After sixteen long years of rummaging through my fireplace and enticing neighborhood owls with interpretive dances to “Hedwig’s Theme,” I’d finally lost all hope. A pain quite like the shattered and tormented heart of Severus Snape crept through every pore of my body, leaving it in an insensible stupor. Dumbledore spoke no truer words than when he said, “Numbing the pain for a while will only make it worse when you finally feel it.”

I watched helplessly as all of my aspirations in life slipped away. Never would I feel the glorious warmth of butterbeer as it slid down my parched throat on a cold winter afternoon. Never would I share a hearty laugh with Peeves as he dropped buckets of pumpkin juice onto my egotistical blond-haired enemy from Slytherin. Never would I pelt a bludger into Professor Umbridge’s face. Never would Fred Weasely confess his love for me. Never…

A single tear rolled gently down my cheek as my headache from hurtling into the wall between platforms nine and ten started to revitalize. I reached into my drawer and pulled out my custom-made Olivander’s wand (10” willow, phoenix feather), carefully caressing its flawless ridges and long wooden body. An undeniable urge to give one last goodbye to my magical aspirations suddenly overtook me, and I waved my wand in a final salute.