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Memoirs of a Redheaded Witch

By @alianazamorano

Entry 1: Bedtime Stories

Entry 1

Bedtime Stories


  “Who you are is falling over me,

who you are is falling over me

I’m hoping, I’m waiting, I’m praying,

Yea I’m hoping, I’m waiting I’m praying, 

you are the one….”

Falling Over Me, Demi Lovato

           I remember the first time I ever heard the story of the Boy Who Lived. It was Christmas time in 1986, I was five years old, and though I remember very little of that age, I remember that night in particular. Perhaps it’s because that was the night I found out what I wanted in life, what I was going to do and who I was going to be. Yes I know it sounds rather silly, all little girls think about at such a young age are dolly witches and pixies, but I was never your average witch.

           Ever since I learned to walk I was already running; my first word was broom all I wanted for birthdays and Christmas’ was to go to a Quidditch Game, get my wand and learn how to hex someone into oblivion. That was most likely due to having six older brothers, yet that didn’t seem to explain the power I showed as a child. Apparently none of my brothers had been able to destroy a whole kitchen when they had a temper tantrum.

           Anyway, that night I was so sure, when I think back on it I want to laugh, I never had a doubt in my mind what my future would hold.

           It was Christmas Eve, and the entire family was home, all my brothers home from work and school, and naturally I was being sent to bed long before I was ready. And I, being my usual hot-tempered and stubborn self, was giving hell to my eldest brother, Bill as he tried to get me to sleep. Which included being difficult as he picked out a bed time story.

           Bill wasn’t the most firm brother nor was he one to turn me in when he caught in one of my acts, of all my brother’s he was the more… adventurous. In succession, my brother Charlie was the most rebellious and danger prone; Percy was the strict and snooty; he always had his nose high. Fred and George were the clowns and pranksters getting it from mum daily if not hourly, and then there was my brother Ron. He was the most oblivious and sensitive, but loyal to the bone. And at the tender age of five, I Ginevra Molly Weasley was already portraying traits from each of my brothers.

           I told Bill I was tired of The Wizard and the Hopping Pot; sick of Babbitty Rabbitty; bored of The Tale of Three Brothers, and warned him that if he even tried to tell me again of that damned Hairy HeartI would bite him.

           “Fine then, I guess you’ll have to do without a story,” he said, frustrated, as he got up from my bed.

           “Only because my brother who thinks he’s so smart can’t even think of a proper one!” I replied, giving him my fiercest pout.

Bill had just about reached the door when he stopped.

           I didn’t know, then, what he was doing I thought he just hated the fact that his baby sister called him thick to his face. But now I know that he was debating whether to continue through the door out of the room or turn around and tell me the story he might get in trouble for.

           My siblings and I have always had a reputation for bending the rules, well maybe all except for Percy. He never fit in much anyway. It was always a sight to watch when Fred and George managed to talk their way out of punishment. They would squeeze the truth twist it and turn it until there was only a thread of it left, making their excuses think as brick. The only option my mother had was to let them off with a warning, over the years I picked up a few things.

           “Has Mum or Dad ever told you the story of Harry Potter?” Bill turned around to meet my eyes. I could never forget his face, so full of wonder, mischief, and awe.

           “Who’s Harry Potter?”

           We both ended up on my bed, I willingly, got under the covers to hear. As he told me the tale I clearly pictured in my head a sight that I still hold in my head to this day, one of a handsome young prince waving his sword, saving the world. He eventually became myprince in my head, coming to save me from the house of a million red heads. I always loved my family dearly, though it could at times be overwhelming.

           But he wasn’t just that. This boy, who I had just heard of, had no family, no mum or dad to call his own, while I had enough to last three lifetimes. Harry Potter saved the world but it was still the saddest story I had ever heard.


           “Yeah?” His voice seemed startled, he must have thought I fell asleep; I was only lying next to him staring out my window at the endless snow. Had Harry Potter ever seen snow like that? Did he have anyone to have a snow ball fight with? I had so many questions.

           But I wanted to find out the answers on my own.

           “I’m going to marry him someday.”

           Bill was silent for a moment, then laughed, “Who? Harry Potter?”

           “Mmmhh,” I nodded softly closing my eyes.

           “Gin, who says you’re ever going to meet him?”

           “I do.”

           Bill must have thought I was delirious from sleep, but he seemed curious now, “So you’re going to…meet him…and marry him?”

           “I’m going to be his family, if I have one, he should have one too.”

           I felt Bill kiss the top of my head, “You really are something Ginny Weasley, that Potter won’t know what hit him,” he laughed again.

           I was drifting off to dream about this new boy in my life but managed to say one last thing, “You’ll see Bill, a couple of years from now you’ll see you were wrong.”

           “We’ll have to wait and see then.”

           Call it a prophecy, call it destiny, fate, whatever you believe it to be, but I knew right then and there that I was going to make Harry Potter smile, and know he was loved.

           That was the first Christmas I wished for the Boy-Who-Lived.

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