Sarah Gets a Leg Up
A chair creaked as Dudley shifted. Sarah glanced at him and he froze, sweat pearling on his forehead. She looked away, to Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. They were sitting next to each other on the sofa, gripping each other's hands. When they first arrived at Privet Drive, Uncle Vernon had gone back to his old habits. Yelling, threatening, grabbing Sarah and throwing her into a wall before she could draw her wand.
It occurred to Sarah, as a trembling Aunt Petunia popped her shoulder back into place, that the threat of magic only worked so long as the Dursleys did not realize getting her wand away from her left Sarah largely helpless. Which was why they were going to have a little conversation.
“Well, what is it?” demanded Uncle Vernon.
Sarah idly tapped her wand on her knee. She hadn’t worn her muggle clothes for almost a year. She was taller. Aunt Petunia’s old skirt and blouse had fit poorly before, and worse now.
“I killed someone this year,” said Sarah, her voice slightly scratchy. She had been talking more to Hedwig over the past year, so she wasn’t entirely out of practice. That, and speaking parseltongue.
Aunt Petunia went pale, her face becoming pinched, while Uncle Vernon turned a dark red.
“I will not have a murderer—” he bellowed.
Sarah pointed her wand at Dudley, who gave a piteous moan. Uncle Vernon’s mouth snapped shut.
“It was a version of the wizard who murdered my parents,” she said quietly. “Voldemort.”
She ignored the confused looks from the Dursleys. She wasn’t going to explain how a diary drained the life out of a girl to give a fifty-year-old memory a body. She hardly understood it herself.
The lights in the room flickered, and Dudley started crying.
“He killed three students, and then tried to kill me,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I fought him, and I won.”
“Why…why are you telling us this?” asked Aunt Petunia.
Sarah looked at Uncle Vernon, her wand still aimed at Dudley. It made her sore shoulder ache. “I told you what would happen if you touched me again.”
Aunt Petunia gasped.
“Now, you listen here, girl,” growled Uncle Vernon, “I will not have you threatening us!”
Sarah pulled a vial from her dress pocket and threw it as hard as she could at Dudley. He screamed as the glass shattered in his face, getting splattered head to toe in dark yellow potion, and he began to swell.
Aunt Petunia started screaming too. Uncle Vernon surged off the couch, but Sarah already had another vial flying at him. It broke against his chest, and he was doused with an acid green potion. His head shrank to the size of a doll’s, followed by other parts of his body. Aunt Petunia’s screaming ratcheted up when the chair under Dudley was crushed, his giant head cracking against the ceiling. He hadn’t been entirely covered, so he was bulging very oddly. The potion was meant to be imbibed, as external application was somewhat dangerous.
Sarah had found thin glass vials to store the Shrinking and Swelling Solutions she had brewed in class for just this reason. She couldn’t cast magic, but if the potions were already brewed she wasn’t.
“Change them back!” shrieked Aunt Petunia. “Fix them! Dudders! Vernon! No! No! What have you done?”
Sarah pointed her wand at Aunt Petunia, while Dudley toppled over, nearly crushing his partially tiny father. There was a snap as Uncle Vernon’s shrunken leg broke. He screamed from his baby-sized head.
“I don’t want to,” said Sarah, getting out of her seat and walking towards the exit. “I’m going to my room to do witch stuff.”
“Please!” begged Aunt Petunia. “Please, I’ll do… we’ll do anything. Do you want a bigger room? Dudley’s room? New clothes? I can get that cereal you like. Is it money you want?”
Sarah stood in the doorway, listening to Aunt Petunia’s offers.
“I told you what I wanted last year,” she said, straining to be heard over Uncle Vernon’s high-pitched wails and Dudley’s deep, garbled cries.
“Vernon’s sorry!” exclaimed Aunt Petunia. “He’s sorry, isn’t that right, love? It was an accident! He didn’t mean to hurt you!”
Sarah pulled out another vial. “Maybe he should spend some time thinking about it in the cupboard.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Aunt Petunia. “Anything! Please—Oh, god, Vernon! No!”
Dudley, in his panic, had slammed a giant hand into Uncle Vernon’s gut. Sarah winced at the sound of ribs breaking. She hadn’t quite been prepared for what would happen when she started throwing potions at people. Dudley was randomly giant in places, while Uncle Vernon was randomly small. The living room was a wreck, and Uncle Vernon’s baby head had started coughing blood. Dudley was grabbing his chest with a hand as big as a platter.
“Have them drink these,” said Sarah, putting vials of one orange and one blue potion on the chair she had sat in. “The orange one is for Dudley.”
“How do I know that won’t kill them?” asked Aunt Petunia, her face pale and wet with tears, standing helplessly between her tiny husband and her giant son. She looked very frail and weak to Sarah.
“You don’t,” Sarah replied, finally leaving the room. She was upset, and disturbed by her own actions. Uncle Vernon had locked her trunk in the cupboard. It sprang open as Sarah neared. She grabbed a handle using her good arm and dragged it noisily up the stairs.
Sarah had plenty of potions she could use on them. If the Dursleys were going to hurt her, she would hurt them right back.
Hedwig arrived two days after Sarah had dealt with the Dursleys. Both Uncle Vernon and Dudley were still in hospital, and she hadn’t seen Aunt Petunia the entire time. She had heard them come up with their excuses before the ambulances arrived. A fall down the stairs. Aunt Petunia had used that one for Sarah before.
As Hedwig flew towards Sarah’s window, she shat on Uncle Vernon’s new company car, splattering the pristine maroon paint. Sarah smiled, getting the impression that this was going to be a new habit for Hedwig.
Once Hedwig was settled comfortably in her cage, Sarah looked around her room. It was the smallest bedroom in the house, more the size of a nursery or a small office. The walls, which had been a steely blue the year before, were now a mottled peach color, with a carpet to match. It was ghastly. The furniture was sparse; a narrow bed, a desk, a wardrobe, a small bookshelf.
Aunt Petunia had a habit of snooping around, Uncle Vernon had a habit of storming into rooms, and Dudley had a habit of taking her things. Not that she had many things until she started at Hogwarts, but Dudley had always acted entitled to anything of Sarah’s.
Sarah wanted to make it so none of the Dursleys ever stepped foot into her room again. That they would be too afraid to.
She glanced at Hedwig, who was settling down for a nap, then sat at her desk and began making a list.
The breakfast table was silent, save for the sounds of chewing and Uncle Vernon sucking his breakfast through a straw. He avoided looking at Sarah. They all avoided looking at Sarah. While she would have preferred to have a meal by herself, she found inflicting herself on the Dursleys at regular intervals served as a reminder. She wasn’t the same little girl they could throw in a cupboard and forget about. Sarah was a witch, like her mother.
When Sarah finished her tea and muesli—an offering from Aunt Petunia—she washed her dishes and left them to dry, then silently left the room. She thought that bothered the Dursleys most of all, how much quieter she was. She had always crept around Privet Drive like a timid little mouse, fearing to call down another of Uncle Vernon’s hot rages, or Aunt Petunia’s colder ones. It used to be they did not care where Sarah was, only that she was rarely seen or heard. Now those habits terrified them. She could be anywhere. Watching. Waiting.
Smiling to herself, Sarah went back to her room. She massaged her sore shoulder, wishing she had the foresight to bring healing potions back with her. She couldn’t brew potions during the holiday, as despite Snape’s dismissal of foolish wand waving, they used their wands all the time in potions to conjure magical fires. Sarah doubted the burners on the stove were up to the task, and she didn’t want to push the Dursleys too far by playing with the various macabre ingredients in the kitchen. It was bad practice to brew potions where food was made. Aunt Petunia would have a stroke if she knew what was in the Deflating Draught that Dudley had drank.
Sarah shut her bedroom door behind her, turning the handle so the locks didn’t click shut. In the weeks since Uncle Vernon and Dudley had been hospitalized, her room had undergone a transformation. Hedwig had put in a lot of flight time, carrying orders back and forth from Diagon Alley, and Knockturn Alley based on some of the receipts. Like the previous summer holiday, Sarah trusted Hedwig to locate stores that carried the things she wanted. Hedwig could read, which never ceased to delight Sarah.
There was something to say for people who struggled with charms, transfiguration, and other spellwork. If Sarah was allowed to use magic over the holiday, she could have easily dealt with the hideous walls and carpet, move furniture, change its size, all sorts of things. But, for the less adept witch or wizard, there were loads of products for home improvement. Pots of paint with brushes enchanted to do the painting on their own, a small bag that ate up the carpet, a bar of oil soap that zipped across the newly exposed wooden floor, cleaning and staining it, shelves that stuck themselves to the walls, curtains and lamps charmed to respond to light or sound or any number of things. Magical locks that would make sure the Dursleys couldn’t get in while Sarah was away.
Sarah’s walls were now painted black, which seemed the most magical color, and the pale wood floors hidden by the ugly carpet were now a dark and glossy walnut that made Sarah think of chocolate. The gauzy curtains went directly into the bin, replaced by heavy velvet drapes. Her walls were lined with all her potions ingredients, and some additional ones Hedwig had picked up. Bat spleens and sparrow wings, rat tails and frog livers, jars of armadillo bile and vials of dragon blood, pufferfish eyes and murtlap tentacles, griffin claws and acromantula fangs; skulls and bones Sarah could not identify; bundles of lavender, mint, wolfsbane, hemlock; chunks of moonstone, obsidian, a rainbow of quartzes. All was lit intermittently by tall black tapers that burned with cold blue flames.
Hedwig even found decorations Sarah would like. A panel of stained glass that showed the current phase of the moon, a dazzling crystal disk that showed the night sky, and when flipped over projected it on her ceiling and walls. Posters depicting the effects of various gruesome curses. Disembowelment, limbs twisted around, partial transfigurations, all moving, showing the spells in action. Imagining how the Dursleys would react to seeing such a thing made Sarah giddy. Hedwig had even located a magical portable stove so Sarah could brew potions. There was now a cauldron bubbling in a corner to maximize the impact of the room.
Sarah didn’t have to do magic to have a magical room.
She sat down at her desk, which was now draped with a shimmering, deep blue cloth covered in moving gold symbols. Some were runes Sarah recognized, others were entirely foreign to her. Her old bedding was gone too, replaced by black sheets and a blanket with a design of snowy owls.
Sarah sat in the middle of the floor, on which she had painstakingly drawn a circle of runes in chalk. It was just the runic alphabet in order, but if someone looked into Sarah’s room it would seem like she was doing a ritual.
She opened her recently acquired copy of An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe. Sarah already knew about Hogwarts, as she was enrolled there. She was more interested in Durmstrang Institute and Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. The instruction at Beauxbatons was all in French, and they did their exams a year later. Durmstrang placed an emphasis on dark arts, which Sarah only minded as there was an overlap of dark arts practitioners, blood purists, and Voldemort followers.
There were other issues, of course. She was world famous. Everyone knew her name. The people at Hogwarts were mostly used to her, and she would have to endure all that again in a new place. And Beauxbatons had a pale blue uniform.
Sarah set the book down and put her head on her knees. She didn’t even know if she would be allowed to go to another school. If she tried, would the headmaster send Hagrid to bring her back?
Sarah sat in the front passenger’s seat as Aunt Petunia drove. Aunt Marge was arriving that evening, and Sarah was getting new clothes.
“You are a young woman now,” said Aunt Petunia, her eyes never leaving the road, a death grip on the steering wheel.
Sarah stared out of the window, watching Little Whinging pass by in a dismal blur.
“You need to start wearing certain things,” continued Aunt Petunia. Sarah glanced at her, watching her jaw tighten. “Brassieres.”
Sarah sighed, and leaned her head against the window. That explained why Dudley’s tantrum had not got him in the car. It was another girl thing Aunt Petunia was obligated to deal with. That it happened to be Sarah’s birthday again, and that they were having another guest over, was bad luck. She didn’t want to think her birthday was a bad luck day, like Halloween was, but things never seemed to go Sarah’s way when her birthday came around.
They had to drive to Greater Whinging for the Primark. Aunt Petunia’s sour lemon expression never faltered as she marched Sarah through the racks. Sarah had never been allowed to choose her own clothes before. It was always hand-me-downs, even her pants, which she tried her best to never think about. Now she was presented with hundreds of options, told to pick things that matched the lie the Dursleys were perpetuating. Aunt Marge had also been told she was attending St. Berlinda’s School for Incurably Shy Girls.
It was a painful experience, Aunt Petunia shoving training bras at her and ordering her into a changing room. This was another part of growing up Sarah would not get to share with her mother. Instead, she had a mean aunt who was repulsed by the existence of Sarah’s body, how it wasn’t as easy as raising a boy, the extra costs associated with it.
Aunt Petunia’s mood grew worse as Sarah picked out the brightest clothes she could find. Sarah hated how restrictive trousers were, how trapped her legs felt. She got skirts and dresses, tops and leggings, in an eclectic rainbow of colors. When Aunt Petunia unearthed a selection of bland dresses that better suited an incurably shy girl, Sarah did not object. She could always charm them later.
Sarah hauled the bags up to her room, surprised at how much money Aunt Petunia had parted with. She knew some of it was her magic, and the rest was the neighbors. Dressing her like a ragamuffin as a little kid was one thing. As a young woman, people would comment on it. If Sarah knew anything about the Dursleys, it was that they were obsessed with normality. Sarah couldn’t go around looking like a Victorian orphan anymore. That was too abnormal.
When she got everything in her room, she saw a school owl was waiting for her. An adorable tawny owl with fluffy brown feathers and big eyes. Sarah spent enough time in the Owlery to recognize the school owls, but the letter with her name in green ink was a dead giveaway. She was perplexed by the package the owl also carried, moreso when the package began shaking and making snapping sounds. The tawny owl showed no reaction to this, only ruffling his feathers once Sarah had untied the package, taking an owl treat delicately from her palm, and flying out of the window.
Sarah opened the package first, worried something living was inside. She was partially correct, as when she uncovered the book it tried to eat her.
The book snapped shut on Sarah’s hand, which stung a little but wasn’t that painful. It had a lovely green cover with scrollwork along the edges, and golden script that told her this was The Monster Book of Monsters.
Sarah loved it immediately. The book kept shutting its covers on her hand, trying to gnaw on her. She gave it a fond pat, like it was a scared cat, and to Sarah’s surprise the book left off eating her and fell open to the section on manticores. A card had come with it which Sarah picked up. There was a picture of a snowy owl on it, which made Sarah smile.
Her smile vanished when she read the message. It was her first ever birthday card, and it was from Hagrid. Was her birthday bad luck? Was it because she was thirteen? Sarah didn’t know much about numerology, but even muggles knew thirteen was an ill omen.
Sarah shuddered, her skin prickling from a sudden chill. She set the card aside. Hagrid was still trying to make nice with her. She didn’t want to get things she liked from people she disliked.
Hedwig chirped a few times. Sarah sighed, and picked up her school letter. There wasn’t much she needed to purchase. Intermediate Transfiguration. She had already bought The Essential Defense Against the Dark Arts, and had worked through the copy that the Hogwarts library during second year, rather than Lockhart’s useless books. That he had been killed by the memory of Tom Riddle while trying to run away, while the public believed he had been doing something brave, sat poorly with Sarah. She had put up a better fight.
As she had suspected, The Monster Book of Monsters was on the list. She knew Hagrid worked closely with Professor Kettleburn, so she wasn’t surprised he knew before the letters had been sent out.
One other thing came with her Hogwarts letter. Third-years were allowed to visit the nearby village, Hogsmeade. Sarah picked up the permission form and left her room.
Downstairs, Aunt Petunia was furiously cleaning, while Uncle Vernon was leaning heavily on his cane, pulling on his coat and grabbing his keys from the bowl. He glowered at Sarah as she passed him, his moustache twitching, but kept his mouth shut. Sarah kept her head up and walked to the kitchen.
“Why aren’t you dressed?” demanded Aunt Petunia. “And your plaits are coming undone!”
“I need this signed,” she said quietly, holding the permission form out to Aunt Petunia. “Then I’ll get dressed.”
“Fine,” snapped Aunt Petunia, snatching the form. She grabbed a pen from near the telephone and hastily signed.
“There,” said Aunt Petunia, shoving the paper back at Sarah. “And I hope you suddenly being so talkative doesn’t make an appearance around Marge!”
Sarah rolled her eyes, then went back up to her room to get changed.
The Dursleys lied freely about Sarah, so Sarah lied about herself too. Aunt Marge wanted to keep an eye on Sarah at all times. Sarah had grown bored of Aunt Marge’s constant complaints and criticisms, and it was equal parts tedious and infuriating. So Sarah concocted the lie that she was on the St. Berlinda’s track and field team as an excuse to get away from the house.
This was how Dudley got roped into taking Ripper for walks. That, and he was generously paid for it.
On the final evening of Aunt Marge’s visit, Sarah excused herself when her parents were brought into the conversation. She wasn’t going to sit there and listen to them be insulted. They had died for her. Her mother’s sacrifice still protected her.
Dudley had already vacated the premises to roam the streets with his friends. Sarah avoided them at all costs, as she had been doing her entire life. The boys were bigger now, and their looks more significant than when they were younger.
Sarah pulled on a pair of Dudley’s old trainers and slipped out of the door. The best time to go running was early in the morning, or in the evening, when it was dark and cool. The heat in Little Whinging was oppressive. The tarmac, the cars, the monotony, all pressed down on Sarah’s mind. She couldn’t make sense of the mundanity, not after Hogwarts, not being shuttled back to Privet Drive after fighting for her life again.
She began running. Up Privet Drive, down Wisteria Walk, around the park.
“Oi, Sarah!”
She came to a stop on the corner, and looked over her shoulder. It was Piers Polkiss who had called out. He grinned at her. She spotted Dudley, holding Ripper’s leash, surrounded by the other boys in his gang. Malcolm, Gordon, Dennis. Ripper growled as soon as he noticed her.
Sarah looked at Dudley, who had also started grinning. She knew it was only because he was with the other boys. Sarah had heard him crying in his sleep too many times to buy it. She knew how long it took for him to stop wetting the bed.
“You’re slow!” Piers called out.
Sarah shook her head, and turned away. Piers was too stupid to know the difference between sprinting and jogging.
“I think she needs some motivation,” she heard Dudley say. Sarah looked back again, and saw Dudley taking off Ripper’s leash. “Ripper, sic her!”
Dudley gave her a wide smile as Ripper charged at her, barking madly.
Sarah ran.
Ripper was old for his breed, but just as mean as he had been when he was younger. Sarah knew Aunt Marge trained him to hate her specifically, constantly rewarding him whenever he made an aggressive move towards Sarah.
She sprinted full tilt down Magnolia Crescent. It had got much darker, and it was hard to see where she was going. Sarah’s foot caught on a rock and she twisted her ankle. She landed hard on the pavement, scraping her knees and palms, her glasses flying off her face.
Ripper was on her in an instant. His powerful jaws clamped down on her leg, and Sarah screamed as he tossed his head around, tearing into her. She kicked his head with her other leg, afraid to use her hands, not wanting her fingers to be bit off. Ripper only clamped down harder, her blood rushing into his mouth, sending the grizzled fighting dog into a frenzy.
A door opened, and someone shouted in alarm. Sarah kept screaming, trying to get Ripper off of her.
There was a loud bark, a warning, and suddenly a huge black dog seized Ripper by his neck and tore him away from Sarah. Sarah could barely see what was happening without her glasses. She dragged herself away from the blur of fighting dogs, panting, tears streaming down her face, slapping around until she found her glasses. She shoved them on her face, just in time to see the black dog snap Ripper’s thick neck. Ripper gave a final whine, then went limp.
The black dog tossed Ripper’s body into the road, then took a step towards Sarah.
Sarah flinched, and raised a hand defensively. The black dog was a scrawny, mangy thing, with oddly intelligent eyes. He stared at Sarah, then lowered himself to the ground. Sarah swallowed, then looked at her leg. She nearly screamed again when she saw how mangled it was.
Sarah was dizzy. Ripper was dead. Someone was running towards her. The black dog nudged her hand with his nose, then ran off into the night.
Someone was propping her up, promising her that help was on the way. Sarah blacked out before it arrived.
Sarah stared up at the ceiling. She had been in critical condition when she arrived at the hospital. She looked down at where her leg used to be. Ripper had damaged it too much, all the way down to her bones. They had to amputate.
The police were involved. Both Dudley and Aunt Marge had been arrested. The Dursleys could not talk their way out of this one. Dudley had told Ripper to attack Sarah. Aunt Marge had trained Ripper to respond to that command. The residents of Magnolia Crescent had seen Ripper mauling Sarah’s leg, and how another dog had intervened. The pavement had been covered in Sarah’s blood.
They gave her blood transfusions. They had to amputate above the knee. The doctors had to put a catheter in her. She had an oxygen mask on, needles in her arms pumping in fluids and drugs.
Ripper was dead, but it was a poor exchange. He was going to die soon anyway. He had been old.
Sarah fell back as a doctor came in to explain what happened next. Months of rehabilitation. Crutches. Prosthetics. Aunt Petunia wasn’t there, neither was Uncle Vernon. They weren’t properly her guardians. No one had ever done the paperwork.
Hedwig appeared one night. She made no noise, only perched on a chair. Sarah put an arm over her eyes and cried.
Sarah was wheeled out of the hospital. She had spent two weeks there. Hedwig kept bringing her gifts. Flowers, dead mice, pretty rocks. Aunt Petunia visited. Aunt Marge’s other dogs had all been seized. Dudley lost his spot at Smeltings and would have to attend Stonewall High. Uncle Vernon was devastated. Criminal charges were proceeding. Sarah gave a written deposition. She would not be attending the hearings.
Sarah took the crutches handed to her and pushed herself up. She looked down at her missing leg, then hopped towards the car. Aunt Petunia held the door open for her. They didn’t say anything.
Sarah hobbled after Aunt Petunia as she pushed the trolley through the barrier. They had left as soon as Sarah had woken up that morning.
“They will be able to fix you,” said Aunt Petunia, not looking at the place where Sarah’s leg should have been.
Sarah did not respond. She didn’t know whether regrowing limbs was as possible as regrowing bones. She took out her wand and levitated her trunk into a compartment. She threw her crutches in and pulled herself up. She looked back at the platform and saw Aunt Petunia standing there, next to the compartment, looking at her.
“Dudley’s sorry,” whispered Aunt Petunia, closing her eyes as if she were the one in pain.
Sarah slammed the door shut.
Sarah wasn’t afraid to touch what was left of her leg. It hurt. The parts of her leg that didn’t exist anymore hurt. She rubbed her upper thigh as she read. She didn’t know if she would ever go back to the Dursleys. She hated them. She hated all of them. She had no idea where else she could go.
There was a series of clicks from her compartment door. Someone was trying to get in, hours before the train was scheduled to leave. Sarah dropped her book, and whipped out her wand just as the door slammed open. An exhausted-looking wizard was in the doorway, pointing his wand at her.
Expelliarmus! Sarah thought, almost swaying with relief as the wand was torn from the wizard’s hand. Sarah snatched it out of the air and kept her own wand pointed at the man.
“Sarah?” said the man in a disbelieving way.
Sarah narrowed her eyes. The wizard had shabby robes that had been neatly darned in numerous places, light brown hair with some strands of grey. He carried a briefcase that was held together by string. Sarah had never seen him before in her life. Did he not know the Mending Charm?
“I’m sorry for scaring you,” said the man, raising his hands. “Professor Dumbledore wanted me to search the train for Sirius Black. A locked compartment was rather suspicious.”
Sarah didn’t lower her wand. She had no idea who Sirius Black was.
The man smiled warmly at her. “My name is Remus Lupin. I’m the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.”
Sarah glanced at the wand in her hand, then back at him.
Lupin’s smile turned wry. “You caught me by surprise.”
Sarah knew the spell Tom Riddle had used. McGonagall had said the name of it back in her office, when Sarah had to explain her fight with Riddle. The Burning Letters Spell, flagrate. As opposed to the Searing Curse, flagrante.
Flagrate, Sarah thought, tracing her wand through the air.
PROVE IT
“That’s very smart of you,” said Lupin, still smiling. He looked like a kind person, but looks were deceiving. “How about this? I assigned The Essential Defense Against the Dark Arts, by Arsenius Jigger. I also have my correspondence with the headmaster in my briefcase.”
Sarah kept her wand trained on the man as he got out the letter offering him a job. It looked legitimate. His briefcase also said professor on it, but anyone could do that.
“Do you mind if I join you?” asked Lupin.
Sarah was tempted to tell him that she did mind, but the man looked extremely tired, and if he was a professor then it wasn’t really up to her. And she had his wand.
“I think it would be safer, in case Sirius Black does turn up,” added Lupin. He looked down. “Why is your trunk on the floor? Ah, to keep people out.”
Sarah begrudgingly levitated her trunk onto the rack so Lupin could enter the compartment. She did not give him his wand back, and was surprised when he didn’t ask. Lupin sat across from her, then gasped. Sarah frowned, then went cold when she realized what he was looking at.
“What happened?” asked Lupin, looking more alert. “I was told you are unable to speak, but I did not know…”
Sarah grimaced, then wrote, I was attacked by a dog last month.
Lupin blanched. “Was St. Mungo’s unable to regrow it?”
Sarah stared at him for a moment, then wrote, I live with muggles.
“What…” Lupin swallowed. He was starting to sweat. “What kind of dog was it?”
Bulldog, she wrote.
Lupin looked relieved for a moment, but his expression quickly turned worried. “I’m so sorry that happened to you, Sarah. I’m sure Madam Pomfrey will sort it out once we get to Hogwarts.”
Sarah shrugged, then picked up her book again.
Lupin was asleep by the time the trolley witch came by. Once the old woman saw Sarah only had one leg, she gave her a Chocolate Frog, a cauldron cake, a pumpkin pasty, and Roasted Chimera Potato Crisps, then moved on before Sarah could pay her.
Sarah had the Chocolate Frog first. She got a Dumbledore card. She set it on fire.
The weather turned as the day wore on. Sarah leaned against the window, staring out into the rain. She hoped Hedwig was doing alright. Lupin was still asleep. Her leg started to hurt more, so Sarah massaged it. It was hard to accept that her leg was gone, that it had been so badly damaged the muggle doctors had to cut it off. If that other dog hadn’t shown up, she would have been dead. And she felt stupid for panicking, for being too scared to think, to have left her wand in her room because of Aunt Marge being around, for throwing those potions and making Dudley angry and scared enough that he set Ripper on her. The Dursleys probably thought she deserved it.
The wind and rain grew stronger, a howling storm that battered the Hogwarts Express. Sarah nibbled on her pumpkin pasty as the lanterns flickered on, rubbing her thigh. The muggle doctors called it a residual limb. Aunt Petunia called it a stump. Sarah called it her leg.
The train began to slow, and Sarah blinked a few times, refocusing on the window. It was full dark, and the storm was raging even harder, battering the train with heavy pellets of rain.
The train slammed to a halt, nearly throwing Sarah from her seat. She could hear crashing and squawking and meowing and pained moans all throughout the train. Then all of the lights went out.
Sarah pressed herself against the side of the compartment, feeling very cold. She didn’t think they were at Hogsmeade Station yet.
Lumos.
Her wand lit with a soft light. Sarah glanced at Lupin, who was still asleep, then froze at a noise in the corridor. Sarah held up her wand, her breath catching in her chest. It was freezing, much colder than before. Every breath was painful. Her leg ached horribly. The door began to slide open. She hadn’t locked it, hadn’t wanted to lock herself in with Lupin.
A creature of death stood in the doorway. It was tall, too tall for the train. It hunched over, draped in a ragged black cloak that rippled despite there being no wind. It took a deep, rattling breath that sucked the life and everything good out of Sarah.
The light from her wand spluttered and died. She couldn’t see. There was a terrible rushing sound in her ears, like she was drowning. Sarah slid to the floor, shuddering violently. She was cold, so very cold, all warmth condensed into a single, bright point. Uncle Vernon was choking her again. She was in the cupboard again. Her mother was dying again. Someone was screaming. Someone was screaming, and it was something Sarah heard a long time ago. Heard in her nightmares. She couldn’t breathe. She could feel his hands again, wrapping around her throat, crushing her, slamming her against the wall again and again and again, and the screaming, the endless screaming, cut short by a vibrant green light that washed everything away. Every thought, every feeling, all of her pain, everything. Gone forever.