Sarah Shuts Up
“Take this to the table,” said Aunt Petunia without looking at her.
Sarah said nothing as it was not required of her. She reached for the pretty porcelain teapot on the counter, knowing she had to be very, very careful. Aunt Petunia had just bought it. It was pure white, painted with delicate blue flowers, and had a thin, angular handle that looked difficult to hold. Sarah knew it was expensive, as she had heard Aunt Petunia boasting about it on the phone to a neighbor.
As she lifted the teapot from the counter, trying to keep her arms steady and all of the tea inside of the pot, there was a brief moment where Sarah believed there were no mistakes to be made. Then she realized the teapot was hot. Excruciatingly hot. She let go without thinking, terrified by the pain in her hands.
The teapot fell in slow motion. She watched in horror as the delicate spout hit the floor, the entire pot shattering into a thousand pieces, boiling hot tea spilling all over the place. Sarah reached out her hands, though it was far too late to stop the teapot from breaking. She wished desperately that it had never happened, her face tight and burning with shame and fear.
The slap sent her sprawling to the ground, splashing into the hot tea and sharp shards of porcelain.
“You stupid girl!” shrieked Aunt Petunia, grabbing Sarah by her hair and pulling her up. Aunt Petunia slapped her again, so hard it made her eyes water and her ears ring, Aunt Petunia’s nails scraping against her cheek. “I told you it was hot! I told you to use the oven glove!”
Sarah bit her tongue and squeezed her eyes shut. She wouldn’t cry.
Aunt Petunia still had hold of her hair and dragged Sarah towards the kitchen table. Sarah knew what was going to happen next. She felt boneless as she was hauled over Aunt Petunia’s lap, gritting her teeth as Aunt Petunia reached back towards the counter to grab the wooden spoon she liked to use. She brought it down again and again.
“I should have left you on the porch,” snarled Aunt Petunia. “I should have left you out there to die!”
Sarah knew she would have a hard time sitting, or walking, or doing anything at all for at least a week. Not that it mattered. When Aunt Petunia was finished, she threw Sarah into her cupboard.
Sarah laid on her thin little mattress, pulling her knees to her chest
It was better than what Uncle Vernon would have done.
Sometimes, when they were out shopping, odd people would approach Sarah. Aunt Petunia had told her to never, ever talk to strangers, or go near anyone in vans, or anyone who was offering something or asking for something. Aunt Petunia lived in perpetual fear of someone kidnapping Dudley, who rarely went on these excursions. He wanted to stay home and play video games, and Dudley always got what he wanted.
The strange people wore stranger clothing. Purple top hats and orange coats, or long, flowing garments that moved with a life of their own. They would stare at Sarah for a long time, watching her as if she was the strange one. Some would wave, or nod, or smile. Aunt Petunia always noticed, and she always grabbed Sarah and walked her quickly away.
The worst time was when an old woman with wild hair and bright green clothes hugged Sarah on the bus.
Aunt Petunia loathed the bus, but Uncle Vernon had taken his car to work and the other one was at the mechanics. She especially hated sitting next to people on the bus, and so she and Sarah often stood. Sarah was too short to reach the bars, and Aunt Petunia would not let Sarah hold on to her, so she clung to the back of a seat. Sarah was unfortunately right in front of the old woman.
The old woman stared intensely at Sarah. Sarah averted her eyes, as she disliked being stared at, but she could still feel the old woman’s gaze on her. She chanced a look, and saw the old woman seemed confused, as if trying to remember where she had seen Sarah before. Her face suddenly brightened, and she leaned forward and seized Sarah. It took Sarah a moment to realize she was being hugged. She had never been hugged before, that she could rememeber, and she hated the experience.
Sarah did what Aunt Petunia had taught her to do. She screamed at the top of her lungs. The old woman released her immediately. Everyone turned to see what was going on, Aunt Petunia fastest of all. She looked angry and scared, ready to lash out at Sarah.
Sarah turned back towards the old woman, but the old woman was no longer there. Sarah stood completely still, very frightened and confused, as Aunt Petunia gave her a mild talking to. They were in public. The worst was saved for when they were safely at home.
Aunt Petunia would not let Sarah give an explanation. Sarah was a troublemaker, and a bad girl. She had been up to no good. These remarks were punctuated by another spanking, and another week in the cupboard.
While Sarah was wary of the strangers who approached her in public, she knew, and Aunt Petunia often told her, that she was abnormal. Sarah herself saw proof of this every time she got dressed.
Her parents had died in a car accident when she was a baby. The accident had left a very large, very ugly scar all across her chest. It reminded Sarah of the broken teapot, or a cracked mirror, silvery fractures that began right above her heart, tendrils that reached up to her throat. The clothes Aunt Petunia made for her, out of Aunt Petunia’s old clothes, were all collared, hiding her disgusting scar so no one had to look at it.
Sarah did not think her scar was diagusting. Most days it was the only part of herself she liked.
However, it was not Sarah’s hidden scar that made her strange. Bizarre, inexplicable things had a tendency to happen around Sarah.
Once, Aunt Petunia attempted to cut Sarah’s hair all off. Sarah did not like people touching her hair, and she liked that it was long since she could hide behind it. Aunt Petunia decided the hair was a liability, unclean, and a waste of money, so it had to go. Sarah did not object to this, it would have done her no good, so she sat quietly as Aunt Petunia took a pair of scissors to her scalp.
Sarah cried herself to sleep, wishing her hair had never been cut. When she woke up the next morning, it had all grown back. This had scared Aunt Petunia so much that she made Sarah swear to never speak of it again.
Sometimes, when Sarah had been bad and thus made to stay in her cupboard, and she really needed to use the toilet, the latch on her cupboard would become unlocked.
When she was alone, Sarah found these peculiar occurrences fascinating and wonderful. Unfortunately, they most often happened when Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon or Dudley were around.
Sarah was dusting, one of the many chores Aunt Petunia required of her in anticipation of a visit from Aunt Marge, Uncle Vernon’s sister. Dudley walked past her to get into the kitchen, and as he often did he bumped into Sarah rather hard. The feather duster she held struck a framed portrait of Dudley, one of Aunt Petunia’s favorites, and the portrait was knocked from the mantel.
The portrait fell face down, the glass protecting the photograph shattering. Uncle Vernon, who had been watching the television, turned to shout at Sarah. Dudley was gaping at her, his eyes lit up with malevolent glee. Sarah set the duster down, and got on her knees to clean this new mess. She felt numb, like she was drifting through space. There was no escaping punishment for this latest offense.
Sarah turned over the frame, careful not to cut her fingers on any of the broken glass. To her amazement, the pieces of glass were cleaning themselves up. They rose into the air, floating to the frame to piece themselves back together. Sarah could only watch as the tear in blown-up portrait of Dudley riding his first bicycle was seamlessly repaired. When it was over, the portrait and frame looked brand new.
The living room was dead silent. Aunt Petunia had walked in from the kitchen, drawn by the noise.
There was a grunt as Uncle Vernon heaved himself out of his chair. He was scarily fast when he was angry. Sarah offered up the fixed portrait. There was only one thing it could be, and a single word fell from Sarah’s lips
“Magic,” she whispered.
The frame was torn from her hands, and Sarah found herself shoved against a wall, held up by Uncle Vernon’s hand crushing her throat. Terror rose up in Sarah like a hungry beast, desperately trying to escape its cage.
“Never say that word again!” roared Uncle Vernon, squeezing Sarah’s throat.
Her eyes inadvertently watered as she gasped for air. She tried kicking out, but this only enraged Uncle Vernon further. His fingers dug into her neck, and he began shaking her around.
“Never say that in my house! You horrible, freakish, disgusting creature! It is not real! There is no such thing!”
Sarah couldn’t speak. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t remember anything after Uncle Vernon slammed her head against the wall.
When Sarah regained consciousness, Aunt Petunina dragged her by her hair into the bathroom and made Sarah wash her mouth out with soap.
The beatings became worse. Sarah was blamed for every unusual or unexplained thing that happened. If Dudley broke a toy, if something was missing from the refrigerator, if there was less petrol in the car than anticipated, if keys were lost, if the television was on the fritz, if the lights flickered. Everything was Sarah’s fault.
She did her best to stop these things from happening. Sarah could not tell on Dudley for taking food whenever he wanted, as Aunt Petunia turned a blind eye, but she could find lost things, and sometimes even fix broken things before the Dursleys noticed. Even so, things slipped through the cracks. Uncle Vernon never strangled her again, but he did like to use his belt. It hurt more than Aunt Petunia’s spoon. He would not even grant her the meager protection of her thin and worn out clothing. He favored the end with the buckle.
Dudley’s bullying also became worse as they grew older. People looked down on boys who beat up girls, so Dudley never punched or kicked her like he would his other victims. But he and his friend Piers Polkiss had many other ways to torment Sarah. They would call her names, make fun of her messy hair, her glasses, how skinny she was, Aunt Petunia’s old fashioned hand-me-downs, how Sarah never spoke. She would get pushed, things were knocked out of her hands, Dudley would grab her glasses or yank her hair. Her notebooks and pencils would go missing, and sometimes her entire school bag would end up in a bin, or in a tree, or scattered around the school yard.
Piers Polkiss was worse than Dudley. He would try to get Sarah to do things, grown-up things, whenever he cornered her, when she was alone. Sarah was often alone. These were some of the rare times Dudley backed off, and took Piers with him. But Dudley was not always with Piers.
One day at school, Sarah could not find her homework. This was not unusual, but it was annoying.
Her homework was not in her desk, nor in her bag. She began checking other desks and cubbies, as Dudley was fond of planting evidence when he could, trying to get others in trouble. As she was searching through Piers’ desk, someone seized her from behind.
“That’s my stuff,” said Piers.
His mouth was right next to her ear, and his breath was hot and gross. He forced Sarah to turn around, pinning her arms at her sides as he continued to hold her. Sarah tried to get free, struggling against him, but this only made Piers laugh, and he tightened his grip. Sarah kept her head down, shaking with anger and fear. She hated being touched, and she especially hated being touched by someone like Piers Polkiss.
Then Piers tried to put his mouth on hers.
Sarah had never felt so furious or disgusted in her entire short life. She wanted Piers Polkiss to get away from her.
Suddenly, Piers’ arms were gone. He stumbled away, crying out in shock as he crashed into another desk. Sarah shuddered, then backed away to collapse against a wall. She watched Piers run out of the room, and could finally breathe.
There was a drawback to the incident with Piers.
Piers told Dudley, and Dudley told Aunt Petunia, that Sarah’s eyes had glowed. Sarah very much doubted her eyes had glowed, as there was nothing special about her eyes. Whenever she looked at herself in the mirror, she saw a scrawny girl with messy black hair that tangled too easily, plain glasses taped from repeated breakings, and dull hazel eyes. Sometimes her eyes were more green than brown, when the light hit them just right.
Aunt Petunia hated Sarah’s eyes. She hated everything about Sarah. Aunt Petunia detested Sarah looking her in the eyes. It was disrespectful. When Aunt Petunia was really in a foul mood, she would tell Sarah she was just like her mother.
There were new names for Sarah. Demon. Monster. Evil.
Sarah did not think she was like her mother. She would never get drunk, die in a car crash, and leave her daughter with someone like Aunt Petunia.
While the incident with Piers ended in a beating so bad Uncle Vernon dislocated her shoulder—at the hospital, Aunt Petunia claimed Sarah had fallen out of a tree, which she silently corroborated—there was an unexpected benefit. Sarah was no longer required to go on any outings where Piers Polkiss was invited. But, as Sarah was not allowed to be in the house alone, she was foisted onto Mrs. Figg, the strangest resident of Privet Drive, second only to Sarah.
Mrs. Figg had many cats, and smelled like cabbage, and treated Sarah rather poorly. She wasn’t cruel, but she made Sarah look at pictures of cats and eat food that was stale or on the verge of going bad. If she refused, it would get back to Aunt Petunia.
It was explained to Sarah, in no uncertain terms, it was either Mrs. Figg or the cupboard.
Sarah walked on eggshells whenever Aunt Marge visited.
Aunt Marge loved three things: dogs, Dudley, and discipline. Sarah, in turn, despised those three things, dogs most of all. She knew not all dogs were like Aunt Marge’s bulldogs, who were sturdy and heavy, reeked of dog-smell, and drooled constantly, but she was automatically wary of any and all dogs.
It was Dudley’s tenth birthday, a cause for celebration like none other. Dudley had counted and recounted each of his thirty-eight presents, surrounding himself with the piles of prettily wrapped gifts as Aunt Marge and Aunt Petunia cooed over him. Sarah was in the kitchen, staying silent and out of the way. She was almost ten herself, and was more confident carrying things out to the table. Aunt Petunia had her prepare a tray of tea and biscuits, which Sarah had been pulled out of her cupboard before dawn to help bake.
As Sarah carried this out to the Dursleys, she met an obstruction in the form of Ripper the Bulldog. Ripper was sprawled on the floor, drooling and breathing heavily.
Sarah accidentally stepped on Ripper’s paw.
The reaction was immediate. Ripper yelped and scrambled up, then turned around to growl at Sarah. Sarah slowly backed away towards the table, while Aunt Marge began screaming at her. She needed to set the tray down. It was heavy, and Aunt Petunia would have Uncle Vernon belt her if she broke another teapot. He might even use Aunt Marge’s cane, as Aunt Marge herself often threatened.
Sarah barely heard the shouting, as so much of it happened at the Dursleys she had developed rather selective hearing, and set the heavy tray down.
Ripper lunged at her. Sarah turned on her heel and ran for the back door. Ripper wasn’t a fast dog, given his bulky frame and advanced age, but he was still faster than most people, even faster when he was mad. And he was very mad.
Sarah sprinted through the manicured garden. She had recently trimmed the roses and cut the grass, under Aunt Petunia’s exacting guidance. There were few places to hide. Her only options were the locked shed, the locked greenhouse, or the tree. Sarah chose the tree, jumping to grab the lowest branch and pulling herself up. She slung her leg over the branch, frustrated by her skirt catching on the bark, but caring less if that tore than if Ripper tore her.
Ripper got there just as she settled onto her branch, bracing his paws against the trunk, barking, growling, snapping, drooling. Sarah knew that if Ripper bit her he would never let go. Aunt Marge talked at length about bulldogs and bull-baiting and how powerful their protruding jaws were. Sarah had seen Ripper crack thick bones. Her bones would snap like twigs.
Aunt Marge refused to call Ripper off. Sarah was in the tree all night.
Sarah knew she would not always live with the Dursleys. One day, she would go to university, get a job, and go far, far away.
It was taking a long time to get there.
Dudley had taken to chasing her around, along with Piers and a few other boys. Piers was much braver in a group, hooting and jeering, making fun of the faded old dress Sarah wore, her shoes with peeling soles, the dirt and leaves in her hair from when Dudley had pushed her into a shrub.
She could not face a group of boys on her own. She had no choice but to run.
Sarah loved running. She felt light, and free, and imagined she was free, that no one would ever stop her, that she could keep going forever and ever. Even being chased did not take away the joy she felt, it just made her run faster. They would never catch her.
Sarah was mistaken. Some of the boys had run round the other way, and Sarah found them waiting for her behind the school kitchens. She was so startled she jumped in surprise. She looked around to find another escape route, and was further surprised to find herself on the roof.
It was the most trouble Sarah had ever been in. She had done something freakish, in public, at school, in front of witnesses. The headmistress suspended her for a week. Uncle Vernon decided a caning was finally in order.
As the cane came down on Sarah’s back, in hot, agonizing strips that brought tears to her eyes, Uncle Vernon promised to stamp the dangerous nonsense out of her.
Sarah almost believed he would.
Sarah had wonderful dreams.
She spent much of her time in the cupboard dreaming, either while asleep or awake. She dreamed her parents were alive and loved her. She dreamed she knew their names, and what they looked like. She dreamed about being alone, somewhere quiet and peaceful, where no one would look at her, or shout at her, or bother her at all. She dreamed about a beautiful green light that washed over her, taking all of her pain away. She dreamed about owls. She dreamed about snakes. She dreamed about flying.
She dreamed she was happy.
These flights of fancy occupied much of Sarah’s time. Aunt Petunia would slap her if she looked too distracted as this was, like everything, a sign Sarah was up to no good. She never told anyone about her strange, lovely dreams. She never said anything unless she had to. Nothing she said had ever changed how the Dursleys treated her, or made things better at school. It only made things worse, and Sarah was scared to find out how much worse things could get.
Things could always be worse. Sarah had to believe that.
Sarah was in her cupboard thinking about a dream that had given her a strange feeling, a feeling she could not name and had never felt before. It was a dream of a flying motorbike. There was something familiar about it. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what that was, but it didn’t matter. Aunt Petunia was hammering on her cupboard door, screeching at Sarah to get up.
It was Dudley’s birthday again. Dudley was getting bigger much more quickly than Sarah. She was immensely grateful they were going to different secondary schools. Dudley was going to Smeltings, a fancy public school and Uncle Vernon’s alma mater. Sarah was going to the local comprehensive. It was a day school, so she would still be stuck in the monotony of Privet Drive, but a Privet Drive without Dudley and his gang was a vast improvement. With any luck, she would only see them during holidays.
Sarah was tall enough to no longer need a stool to reach the stove, and expertly flipped the bacon. Everything needed to be perfect on Dudley’s special day. Dudley loved to bother Sarah when she was cooking, pretending to knock pots and pans over, mimicking her, complaining that she was cooking too slow, poking her, kicking the stool she still used to reach the top shelves. It was lucky she hadn’t lost a finger, or been coated in scalding oil. It was more of her freakishness at work, she suspected.
Other than the bacon, things were not off to a great start for Dudley. He had received fewer presents than the previous year, and Mrs. Figg’s cats had attempted to murder her. At least, that was how Sarah interpreted it. It was wrong to have so many cats in one house, and inevitable that Mrs. Figg had tripped over one. That she had broken her leg was icing on the cake.
There was no time to make other plans. Sarah was forced to go with Dudley to the zoo. Piers was still somewhat uneasy around her, but it was Dudley’s birthday and he demanded a window seat so Piers was relegated to the middle. Sarah pressed herself against the door, putting as much space between her and Piers as possible. This unfortunately emboldened Piers, and he kept scooting closer and leering at her.
Sarah had no idea what to do. Threaten him? Make her eyes do something weird? Start screaming? But no, Uncle Vernon had been spitting mad when he warned Sarah. She was not to get up to any funny business.
She stared out of the window, waiting for the drive to be over.
The zoo was crowded. Sarah might have liked it if not for that. She hated crowds, as the strange people who had never gone away often hid among crowds. After years and years of the encounters, Sarah could not fathom what was behind it all. It was no use asking Aunt Petunia, though the evidence was piling up. Something was not right with Sarah, and her aunt and uncle knew exactly what it was.
As she trailed after the Dursleys, licking a lemon ice lolly, Sarah came to the realization that she did not care for zoos. She did not like seeing the animals behind bars and glass, circling the same small areas, people pointing and laughing and mocking them. She did not like how sad some of the animals looked. She read all the signs that talked about conservation, and how animals bred in captivity could not be released into the wild. It was for their own good.
Uncle Vernon said beating Sarah was for her own good.
It made the novelty of having an ice lolly less appealing, and took Sarah’s thoughts in a dark direction. She imagined tigers and elephants and ostriches breaking free, running through London, causing chaos in the streets as they became wild animals again. They might not live for long, but they would be free.
Despite how uncomfortable she was, Sarah thought the visit to the zoo was going rather well. She was being ignored, which was one of Sarah’s favorite things to be. So long as nothing too bizarre happened, there would be nothing for Uncle Vernon to stamp out.
Sarah was thus incredibly shocked when a boa constrictor spoke to her.
The last time Sarah had gone to A&E, the doctor told Aunt Petunia that dislocating her shoulder made it weaker, and more easy to dislocate. As she huddled on her thin mattress, cradling her arm, Sarah wondered if Uncle Vernon knew that too.
She had said one thing to the snake, like anyone else might have when an animal was behaving so unusually. But Sarah so rarely spoke that it stood out.
Piers had been watching her. Piers told Uncle Vernon. Uncle Vernon grabbed her arm and threw her into the cupboard. Her shoulder popped out. Sarah heard it. She felt it, the intense pain, the horrible numbness, the lingering agony that kept her up. She was afraid to move, to make it worse. She knew no one would check on her, that no one would care.
Sarah had no idea what day it was when Aunt Petunia finally opened her cupboard door. She looked at Sarah, looked at her arm hanging out of its socket, then motioned for her to follow. Sarah crawled out of her cupboard and shuffled to the kitchen. It was very late at night, and Aunt Petunia had only turned on one lamp.
“Lay on the table,” Aunt Petunia hissed.
Sarah swallowed, and did as told. Aunt Petunia grabbed Sarah’s arm, and did something incredibly painful to pop it back into place. It made Sarah sick and dizzy, and scared that Aunt Petunia had done it wrong. Aunt Petunia put her arm in a sling, made her take several paracetamols, then stuffed Sarah back in her cupboard.
She was there for two more weeks.
Sarah’s arm was still in a sling. No one said anything about it, and she was still expected to help with all of the chores. This included retrieving the post.
She narrowly avoided Dudley cracking her injured arm with his Smeltings stick and hurried to the door. If she wasn’t fast, Dudley would eat her breakfast. She hadn’t had a hot meal since the incident at the zoo, as she was locked in her cupboard and only given cheap tinned food. This, more than anything, made Sarah despise zoos with a passion.
On the doormat there was a postcard from Aunt Marge, a bill, and a letter for Sarah.
Sarah’s heart raced as she stared at her name, glittering at her in emerald ink. It was addressed to the cupboard. No one other than the Dursleys knew about the cupboard. She shoved the envelope into her sling, her mind spinning as she considered what they might do to her if the letter was discovered. She was not supposed to talk about the cupboard. If Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon thought Sarah had told someone, they might do away with her once and for all.
She returned to the table, breathing slowly through her nose. Sarah had learned years ago that any reaction she showed made things worse. She schooled her face to the same cold, distant look she always wore. She would give them nothing.
The postcard and bill were silently passed to Uncle Vernon, who grunted. Dudley kept swinging his Smeltings stick around, coming closer and closer to hitting her. Sarah fervently wished her cousin would meet an even bigger bully at Smeltings.
After breakfast and the attendant washing up, Sarah was installed in the kitchen to stir her boiling uniform. Aunt Petunia had found similar clothes at a charity shop, and was dyeing them grey. It stank to high heaven, and made Sarah woozy. She wanted to go to her cupboard and deal with the letter that could get her killed.
Once the dye was washed out, and the mismatched uniform hung to dry, Sarah was finally sent back to her cupboard. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, then opened her letter.
The situation grew out of control.
While the letter was deeply suspicious, it did explain a few things. It put Sarah in some difficulty, as she had never heard of Hogwarts. Nor did Sarah know what was meant by we await your owl, until owls began showing up around Privet Drive. The deluge of letters she received, via owls, chimneys, and in one puzzling case a carton of eggs, scared both her and the Dursleys out of their minds.
It made for a rather exciting day, driving all over the country and ending up in a shack on a rock. Sarah felt like she had been on an adventure. She had yet to confront her aunt about the letter, and about who Sarah suspected her mother was. If she was just like her mother, her mother must have been a witch too.
Had she been a wicked witch? Was that why so many bad things happened to Sarah?
As Sarah watched Dudley’s watch tick over to midnight, she closed her eyes and wished herself a happy birthday. The likelihood of this was low, but knowing she was a witch slightly made up for it.
Sarah’s private celebration was short-lived, as a giant broke into their shack.
Sarah screamed.
“Hello,” said the giant man, taking a step towards her.
Sarah scrambled across the floor, trying to get behind her aunt and uncle, who had burst out of their room at the noise. The man did not seem affected by her screaming, which only made her more scared.
The huge man walked towards her. She reeled back, not caring about the rifle Uncle Vernon was waving around, or the pain of using her injured arm. The man was bigger and scarier than Uncle Vernon. He was one of those strangers who somehow knew her, who tried to grab her and hug her and made her afraid of going outside.
Uncle Vernon panicked. He tried to shoot the man, but the man easily took the gun away and bent the barrel. Sarah’s heart was beating so hard she could barely hear. She was backed all the way up against Aunt Petunia’s legs, and was surprised she hadn’t been kicked away as some sacrifice to this terrifying intruder.
“Hello, Sarah,” said the man, smiling in a friendly way that put Sarah on edge. She knew all the stories about kidnappers and predators. They were always friendly. When the man, who called himself Rubeus Hagrid, pulled out a cake, Sarah was convinced. They always offered children sweets. That was how they lured them.
She and the Dursleys were cowed into complete silence as the man used an umbrella to start a fire. It was the most insane thing Sarah had ever seen. Dudley started crying, and Aunt Petunia had put an arm around Sarah, holding her tightly. Sarah understood she was being used as a shield.
“You’ll know all about Hogwarts of course,” said Hagrid cheerily, as if he hadn’t demonstrated monstrous strength and control over the elements.
He looked at Sarah, waiting for a response. Sarah looked back. She was not foolish enough to let such a dangerous person out of her sight.
“You don’t know?” said Hagrid when it was clear Sarah would not respond. “You must know about your mum and dad!”
Aunt Petunia’s hold became painful. Sarah remained silent.
“Don’t tell me,” said Hagrid, looking baffled, “you don’t know what you are?”
Uncle Vernon came back to life, shouting at the giant man, demanding he stop, to not tell Sarah anything.
Hagrid stood, his head nearly brushing the ceiling, a look of pure rage on his face as he shouted back.
“I want to go home,” whined Dudley, his voice quavering. Sarah agreed. She wished they had never left Privet Drive. She could have hidden in her cupboard while this was happening.
“Sarah, you’re a witch!” boomed Hagrid.
Sarah looked up at Aunt Petunia for confirmation. Aunt Petunia was ghostly pale, but she nodded. The giant man stormed over to them, shoving another letter in Sarah’s face. She had no choice but to take it, lest the giant man began shouting at her too.
“I’ll be taking you to get your things tomorrow,” said Hagrid. His voice was very loud. He looked like he was wearing animal skins. He had bent a rifle in half. He was dangerous.
Sarah shook her head. No.
Hagrid’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
Sarah shook her head again. She was not going anywhere with this person. For a moment she was worried he would simply rip her away from Aunt Petunia, but Hagrid seemed perplexed by this turn of events.
To her surprise, Aunt Petunia spoke. “My niece will not be going anywhere with the likes of you!”
“And what’s a muggle like you going to do to stop me?” said Hagrid threateningly.
Aunt Petunia bristled. Sarah had no idea what muggle meant, but suspected it was very bad.
“Tell Dumbledore,” said Aunt Petunia, sneering when she said the name, “to send a professor, like he did for my sister. The girl will not be carted off by some…some hooligan!”
To Sarah’s amazement, after some more shouting and giving Dudley a pig’s tail, the giant man left.
When they returned to Privet Drive, Sarah was mildly surprised to see a woman wearing robes and a witch’s hat waiting at the door of Number Four.
The drive home had been utterly silent, save for Dudley’s whimpering. Sarah was glad the giant man had left. If he was willing to do something like that to Dudley, who had done nothing except cry the entire time, Sarah could not conceive of what the man would do to her.
The woman, who was clearly a witch, had a grave expression as the Dursleys approached her.
“Good afternoon,” she said in a clipped voice. “I am Professor Minerva McGonagall, the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts.”
Aunt Petunia scowled as Uncle Vernon hastily unlocked the door and pushed them all inside. They sat in the living room while Aunt Petunia made tea.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Miss Potter,” said Professor McGonagall. “It is my understanding there have been some difficulties in receiving your letter of acceptance.”
Uncle Vernon, who had gradually turned an alarming shade of red, roared, “He gave my son a pig’s tail!”
This began the shouting and crying anew, which escalated when Professor McGonagall took out her wand. She seemed dismayed by the entire situation, and did something to make the Dursleys still and quiet so she could make the pig’s tail go away. Sarah was relieved to discover giving children animal tails was against the law. Sarah was coaxed into drinking an unpleasant concoction, a potion, that made her arm feel instantly better. She made sure Professor McGonagall had some first to prove it was safe.
Dudley ran to his room when it was over.
“You must have many questions,” said Professor McGonagall, sipping at her tea. Sarah had also been given a cup of tea. She had no idea what to do with it.
The silence stretched out, until once again Aunt Petunia broke it.
“The girl doesn’t speak,” she said in a strained voice.
Professor McGonagall’s eyes went wide. “I beg your pardon?”
“She does not speak,” Aunt Petunia repeated through clenched teeth. “She hasn’t for years.”
If anything, this troubled Professor McGonagall more than Dudley’s tail. She looked at Sarah. “Is this true?”
Sarah nodded. She hadn’t said a word since Uncle Vernon strangled her. Sometimes she could still taste the soap in her mouth. It should have made Piers’ claim about her talking to a snake even more ridiculous. She’d only said hello to it, but to her it hadn’t sounded much like speaking at all.
Professor McGonagall looked stunned by the information. She cleared her throat. “Nevertheless, she must attend Hogwarts. May I have a moment with Miss Potter? I believe there are some things I need to explain, if Hagrid’s story is true.”
Diagon Alley was overwhelming.
Professor McGonagall had taken one look at Sarah’s old dress, older shoes, and broken glasses, and did magic to them to make them all nicer. She called it transfiguration. What the giant man had done to Dudley was also a sort of transfiguration.
Sarah could not imagine coming to such a place herself, or with Aunt Petunia had she shown her the letter from the beginning. She felt more comfortable with Professor McGonagall, who Aunt Petunia eventually admitted to having heard of. Professor McGonagall was the Deputy Headmistress, taught Transfiguration, and was also the Head of Gryffindor House. Sarah’s parents, Lily and James Potter, had been in Gryffindor.
It was a day of discovery. Sarah received a key that unlocked a vault guarded by goblins, and it was filled with gold. Professor McGonagall was not one to dawdle, and she shielded Sarah from the crowds.
Sarah was famous. Her parents had been killed by an evil wizard named Lord Voldemort, and when he tried to kill her it hadn’t worked. That was where her scar came from. Professor McGonagall seemed to think Sarah’s scar was why she didn’t ever talk.
Her shopping trip to Diagon Alley was fairly quick, given her long list of supplies. The best part, perhaps, was when Sarah got an owl. Hedwig was a big and fierce snowy owl. Sarah planned to set her free.
The afternoon ended with ice cream, a rare treat for Sarah, and a return to the Dursleys. Professor McGonagall made the Dursleys show her the cupboard, then Dudley’s second bedroom. This all made Professor McGonagall rather upset, and she waved her wand around and made the second bedroom much nicer. All the broken toys were gone, as was the weird smell. The bed was fixed, and had a nicer duvet on it. It looked more like something Sarah could like.
It seemed Professor McGonagall was trying to cheer Sarah up, as instead of walking or driving like a normal person, when Professor McGonagall left she turned into a cat and darted away.
Sarah watched her aunt practically run through the barrier that would take her back to Kings Cross Station, then shut the blinds. The Dursleys had dropped her off hours early, which Sarah was pleased with.
She turned to the door of her compartment, which had only a flimsy latch. She had been warned about how famous she was. Everyone knew her name. Everyone knew her face. Everyone knew about her scar, the most private part of herself. She had seen pictures of herself as a baby, her scar on full display. They published it in books and newspapers.
It made her sick to her stomach.
When it had been made clear to Professor McGonagall that Sarah would not speak, and disliked being around people, there were several additions to her book collection. Wordless magic was not something Hogwarts students learned until sixth year, but Sarah was getting an early start. There were also books on silence, and security. Ways to protect herself from nosy people and prying eyes.
The past month had been the best of Sarah’s life. The Dursleys left her completely alone, pretending she didn’t exist except for meals. She read, she practiced writing with a quill, she set Hedwig free, though the owl insisted on returning every evening. She had even flown into her cage.
Sarah had also practiced magic.
She liked her wand. It was holly, and had a phoenix feather. There was some commotion about the feather, another troubling discovery for Professor McGonagall. Sarah’s wand had a feather from the same phoenix as Voldemort’s wand. Sarah doubted Hedwig would have been stupid enough to do something like that, if snowy owl feathers were used in wands.
Sarah liked the locking and unlocking charms. Getting out of locked spaces had been something of a theme throughout her life. She had spent a lot of her time silently locking and unlocking various things in her bedroom. She tested a few on her compartment door.
Colloportus, she thought. Clausum totalum. Obseraverim. Lucende. Tewewgh. Silencio.
She smiled faintly as the door gave satisfying clicks, and the growing noise of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters faded away. She next unlocked Hedwig’s cage, and pushed her trunk against the door for good measure.
Sarah took out a book to read. Professor McGonagall said that, though Sarah had a witch and a wizard for parents, she was like a muggleborn, someone with muggle parents. She still wasn’t keen on the word muggle, but it seemed everyone used it. Because she had been raised in ignorance, there were many things Sarah didn’t know, and Professor McGonagall had taken personal offense at this.
That didn’t matter to Sarah; if Professor McGonagall had cared so much, why had Sarah been left at Privet Drive? Apparently Professor McGonagall, the headmaster Albus Dumbledore, and the Keeper of the Keys Hagrid had all conspired to put Sarah there. If she and her parents were so famous, and her parents had so many friends, where were they? Didn’t they know how awful the Durlseys were?
When the train started moving, Sarah opened the blinds again and pushed the window open, just in case Hedwig wanted to leave. Hedwig was, however, content to sit in her cage. She was proving to be as stubborn as Sarah. Perhaps Hedwig had an insatiable appetite for owl treats.
Sarah shook her head, and went back to reading.
Sarah stood quietly near the back of the group of first-years, hiding her face behind her dark curtain of hair. She was, for once, glad to be short, as the other students hid her from Hagrid’s view. She clambered onto a rowboat with three other girls, who unfortunately were talking about the same thing everyone else was. Have you seen her? Did you hear? Sarah Potter’s on the train! Sarah was grateful Professor McGonagall had thought to pick out extra books. It would have been a miserable train ride listening to that the whole time.
She was slightly queasy when they disembarked, but followed the other first-years up the cliffside to a set of massive doors. Hagrid hammered on them, once again displaying frightening strength, and the doors opened to reveal Professor McGonagall.
Professor McGonagall was not fooled by Sarah’s disappearing act. She looked towards the back of the students and picked Sarah out straight away. Professor McGonagall appeared relieved that Sarah had arrived in one piece. She then addressed the first-years, explaining that the Sorting Ceremony would soon commence, and described the four different houses.
Sarah did not care which house she was in. She only hoped wherever she ended up, she would be left alone.
Ghosts streamed into the antechamber, and people began to scream. Sarah was alarmed, both by the ghosts and screaming. Screaming was for danger. Ghosts were not dangerous.
She could already feel the solitude of the past month slipping away from her as they walked into the Great Hall. There were a lot of students, far more than at her primary school. The room was packed. There were four tables, and Sarah realized she would be forced to have meals in this room. Every day. For the entire school year. She could barely tolerate sitting at a table with the Dursleys, and she knew them. Aunt Petunia was always watching her, making sure Sarah wasn’t taking too much food.
Sarah didn’t listen to the song the Sorting Hat sang, choosing instead to look at the ceiling. She knew it was enchanted, as she’d read about it in Hogwarts: A History, but it was much more impressive in person. She hoped Hedwig was alright; the voice on the train said to leave everything there, but she’d let Hedwig out the window when they arrived at Hogsmeade Station.
Her pulse quickened as names were called. It was in alphabetical order, which made the waiting worse. The people here knew about her. They knew her birthday. They knew her parents were dead. They knew about her secret scar. They knew she was somewhere among the first-years, waiting for her name to be called.
“Potter, Sarah!”
Sarah ignored the surprised looks she got when she walked forward, gritting her teeth in annoyance as people began whispering and saying her name. She sat stiffly on the stool, and Professor McGonagall dropped the Sorting Hat over her head. It was suffocating, but nice and dark, and it silenced the muttering in the Great Hall.
She waited to see what would happen.
A minute passed, and then another.
There was the sound of a deep, bone-weary sigh in her head. This is the best I can do for you.
“Hufflepuff!”
Sarah blinked in confusion as the Sorting Hat was taken from her head. Professor McGonagall gestured to a table of students who had begun to wildly applaud. Sarah was tempted to ask for the Hat again, but steeled herself and joined the other Hufflepuff first-years. She chose a seat at the very end of the table, so only one person could sit next to her. The last first-year who sorted into Hufflepuff, a boy named Zacharias Smith, took the seat.
Smith immediately stuck his hand in Sarah’s face. Sarah stood and moved to the other side of the table, next to a girl with blonde pigtails.
“Hi!” the girl chirped. “My name’s Hannah!”
A redheaded girl looked around Hannah and smiled at Sarah. “I’m Susan. Susan Bones.”
Sarah nodded to them, then turned to watch the rest of the sorting.
People were still staring and pointing and trying to talk to her. She wanted them all to shut up.
If this was how her time at Hogwarts was going to be, Sarah didn't know how she would survive.