I want to tell you my story. After years of secluding myself from the outside world, I think it is time for me to share my tale. A tale of happiness, a tale of excitement: a tale that I wish to be preserved. However, this cannot happen without it being told, passed through the generations: so here I am after years of waiting. 

My mother was a witch. Just a normal kind of witch who worked for a Muggle company as Head Secretary, ever since they realized she got through paperwork ten times faster than anyone else. Mother never had much regard for the Ministry: she abided by their laws, but was never interested in the power crazed career path that it offered. In all respects, she stuck to the Muggle way of doing things; her wand was only ever summoned for the simple housework spells and to get through any excess work brought home from the company. She never shied away from telling me the stories of the wizarding world; I was brought up knowing extensively about Hogsmeade, Hogwarts and Diagon Alley, but she did not encourage our family to embrace the ancestry of magic that flowed in my veins. 

My father was a Muggle, a self-respecting, laid back construction worker, who enjoyed the comfortable life he led with my mother and his only daughter. He had taken the news of the witchcraft within his wife with little bother, but was glad magic only played a small part in our day to day lives. However, it was always known, always without doubt that when I became of age I would attend Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft And Wizardry.

I went to the school, a young witch with no extensive knowledge of spells and charms, worried about how I would take to the new world. Time passed without incident as I embraced the magical world with open arms, learnt Herbology, Transfiguration and Astrology. It was in my sixth year, by which I had become confident and efficient at spell casting, that I met the Marauders, and my life was never to be the same again.
It was for this reason that I sat nervously by the wireless years later, waiting for news of them: waiting for news of He Who Must Not Be Named. It was there, by the old squeaking machine, where I learnt of James' death, heard of Peter's betrayal, listened as Sirius died in the Ministry itself at the hand of Bellatrix Lestrange, and heard the report that Remus had died fighting in the last battle. It was there I heard that James' son, Harry Potter, had defeated the darkest wizard of all time, Voldemort. 

It is why I sit here now, the Pensieve in front of me, waiting to delve into my thoughts. A lifetime of memories flashed before me, the faces that had haunted me for many years, the knowledge that I had to recall the past one final time. I had to pluck up the courage to relive memories of my schooldays, to remember their laughing faces, to watch their antics with a smile, to walk again with the Marauders.

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