Lonliness
Sage Violet Potter had always known loneliness. It wrapped around her like a shadow, inseparable and cold. Born with hair the color of midnight and eyes as deep and green as an ancient forest, she was a child of quiet resilience in a world determined to overlook her existence. The Dursleys, her caretakers in name only, had made sure of that.
The Dursleys’ house was a pristine display of order and normalcy—neat, suffocating, and devoid of any sign that a child might live there. For Sage, there was no room that bore her name or belongings; there was no trace of her except for the tiny cupboard under the stairs where she slept. Its walls pressed against her, a tight, stifling cage that creaked in protest whenever she shifted. Every night, she lay on her thin mattress and stared at the single cobweb that danced in the corner, listening to the distant clinks of dishes or the Dursleys’ laughter echoing from the kitchen.
School was not a part of Sage’s life. Aunt Petunia had made it clear that there was no ‘use’ in educating her. “You’ll be married off by sixteen,” Aunt Petunia would snap, her lips pinched tight. “You don’t need arithmetic or reading for that, only the skills to keep a house and serve a husband.” Sage would nod, not out of agreement but because it was safer than arguing. Lessons were forbidden; chores were expected. Days were spent scrubbing floors until her hands bled or standing on a stool to clean the kitchen cabinets, fingers trembling as they reached the topmost shelf.
Silence was Sage’s companion. The Dursleys didn’t want to hear her voice, and Sage learned to make herself small, invisible. Outside the house, she didn’t have friends to share whispered secrets with or games to play in the sun. Other children at the park would glance at her, curiosity flickering in their eyes, but Sage could only watch from the sidelines, the distance between them an uncrossable chasm. They would run and shout, their voices full of joy, and she would turn away before the ache in her chest became too sharp.
Books became her only solace. Aunt Petunia, believing Sage too ignorant to understand anything complex, had left a few discarded novels in the attic. On nights when the house settled into silence, Sage would tiptoe up the creaking stairs and bury herself in tales of distant lands and courageous heroes. The musty scent of the attic mingled with the scent of the old pages, wrapping around her like a hug she’d never known.
She devoured stories on philosophy, history, and advanced topics far beyond what an eleven-year-old should comprehend. Sage did not know she was brilliant; she only knew that reading brought a flicker of light to the dark chasm inside her. She would lose herself in the quiet roar of words until her eyes burned and the moon had climbed high above Little Whinging.
But reality always dragged her back. Aunt Petunia’s shrill voice would shatter her refuge at dawn, demanding Sage rise to begin her endless list of tasks. The cold kitchen floor bit into her knees as she scrubbed, the harsh smell of bleach making her eyes water.
“Hurry up, girl! We don’t have all day!” Uncle Vernon’s voice boomed from the dining room. He never bothered to look at her—he spoke to her as one might speak to an unremarkable object, a chair or a doormat.
Dudley, her cousin, would smirk as he walked past, sometimes nudging her with his foot if he felt particularly cruel. “Out of the way, Potter,” he would sneer, puffed up with self-importance. Sage bit her lip, swallowing her words along with the bitterness that threatened to spill out.
Mealtimes were the cruelest reminder of her place. The Dursleys would feast—piles of bacon, eggs, and buttery toast. Sage, if permitted, received scraps: a crust here, a cold potato there. The hunger gnawed at her belly like a living thing, but she would take her pitiful portion back to her cupboard and savor every crumb, more out of spite than sustenance. The quiet fury in her chest was the only warmth she had.
Sometimes, in the dead of night, Sage’s mind would drift to questions. Who were her parents? Why had they left her to this life? Did they ever love her? She would trace the faint lightning-bolt scar on her forehead, the only piece of them she had, and wonder if it was a mark of their love or the curse that had left her abandoned.
The days dragged on, the years molding Sage into a girl of iron will wrapped in silence. She learned not to flinch when Aunt Petunia’s hand lashed out, learned to choke back tears when Dudley’s friends pointed and laughed. But in the quiet moments, when the world was asleep and the moon cast its silver glow across her small face, Sage allowed herself to feel. The loneliness washed over her in waves—a relentless, aching tide that threatened to drown her.
It was on one such night that she pressed her hand to the floorboards, wishing desperately that somewhere, someone was thinking of her. In the suffocating darkness of her cupboard, Sage squeezed her eyes shut and let the tears fall—silent, raw, and unending.
But she vowed that one day, she would be more than this shadow, more than the forgotten girl of Number Four, Privet Drive. One day, she would be seen.