Tori Wenlock

Backstory

I think it’s only since coming to Hogwarts that I realize how lonely I must have been before -- but that sounds a bit melodramatic. My childhood wasn’t particularly unhappy, just… remote.

I grew up in northern Michigan, in the United States. My father was a Muggle and a tree farmer.

Wait, that sounds a bit morbid. My father is a Muggle and was a tree farmer. The winter before I received my letter, he was the victim of a rather serious timber accident. While he is essentially recovered, his back still gives him trouble, and he’ll probably never be able to perform such a physically demanding job again. A few months after the accident, when the limitations of recovery were realized and accepted, he took a position in London as an import specialist of high-end wood crafted items.

He didn’t sell the farm, though, so I know he hasn’t given up hope completely.

Growing up in such a sparsely populated area, I didn’t have much interaction with… anyone, let alone kids my own age. I went to school, but since I lived 30 miles away from mine, I never had time to stick around after, let alone participate in clubs or other extracurricular activities. Besides, I was often needed at home.

Dad did hire grown help during busy seasons, but even then, I was one pair of -- free! -- extra hands. During slow seasons, I was all he had.

Dad was… not much of a talker. I mean, this is a man who decided his life’s calling drew him far away from most people to live surrounded by silence and trees. He provided more than adequately for my physical needs and was never unkind to me, which I take to mean he likes me well enough and possibly even loves me. However, he was never one to show that with, like, words or physical gestures of affection.

He did give me a gift once. I mean, he gave me gifts for birthdays and Christmases, but they were mostly practical, awkward gifts like waterproof boots or fingerless gloves or touks. But for my tenth Christmas, he gave me a pair of bookends he’d made himself. They were simply carved, but they were from Douglas fir we’d grown on the property.

Let’s see, what else might you want to know?

My mom. Everyone new wants to know. Left when I was little. Not sure if she left Dad or me or both. Dad doesn’t talk about it, so I don’t ask.

Magic. How we knew I could do it. I would say the trees, and maybe Dad would too, but it mostly started with school. Teachers basically liked me since I studied sufficiently and seemed to want to do well. The majority of students were courteous, though they were certainly my classmates and not my friends.

For some, however, I was just… too quiet, I guess. Or something. A small group of students my age and older would irregularly taunt me, conjecturing the statements they presumed my silence to have said.

It wasn’t kind.

As I grew older and their statements nettled me more, the group ringleaders would start to find themselves without voice. Their lips were moving in real words, but no sound came out. At first, I didn’t realize I was doing it. And I never really had conscious control. But there was a point when I realized -- if someone really got under my skin, it would happen.

At first, the move to London was almost as jarring as moving into the Wizarding world. There was just so much stuff in both. In fact, I am currently so enamored with magical stuff that I am seriously considering a career in magical creation, whether as a Potioneer, a wandmaker, or something else.

Dad? He’s still busy with his work. He sends letters once in a while, and so do I. But in some ways, nothing between us has really changed.