It occurred to me then, in that very moment surrounded by excitable faces, that I couldn’t recall one single happy memory. I couldn’t tell if I was over thinking it as I worried over my bottom lip, wand clasped in my hand. The more I tasted my own flesh and unexpectedly the iron taste of blood, the more I stressed over the definition of happy. What exactly was happiness? Was being content with your lot in life considered happiness or merely an act of settling? I hummed contemplatively although that sound soon turned into an almost woeful groan.

“You look constipated,” whispered Preposterous Potter.

I laughed half-heartedly. Although his humor had not failed to reach me and I normally wasn’t beyond being self-deprecating I couldn’t shake the gloominess off my shoulders. It weighed me down with thoughts about my family and amongst the gloom the young face of my little brother blossomed. That was it, wasn’t it? Reggie, the brother I had taught how to ride a racing broom at the tender age of five which had led to a broken bone and lots of wailing.

“Expecto Patronum!” I chanted as an unrecognizable blue shape came out from my wand.