Miracle in a Bottle

The first rule of Privet Drive is thus :

Keep up the appearances.

There used to be a time when the ‘appearance’ Annie had to keep was ‘as non-existent as possible.’ A time where she would lay on her cot, lips moving silently along with the neiborhood’s housewives as they gossiped over tea and cucumber sandwiches, making faces in the dark. Then, when she was alone in the house, locked in her cupboard with the omnipresent silence, she’d recall their words and speak with their voices, exagerating everything for an audience of spiders and broken toy soldiers. Just to chase away the chilling loneliness that haunted her.

Now, Annie spends Aunt Petunia’s tea parties with a pleasant expression on her face, her hair painfully pulled into two tight braids to try and wrestle it into order, wearing a dress that itched and ordered to sit still and quietly until she was needed.

She could be at her father’s side, reading her magical textbooks to learn a way to heal him, but there are appearances to be kept and Aunt Petunia needs her to be well-behaved and sweet-faced. It’s better than being forgotten in her cupboard, bored out of her mind and always on the verge of tears. The Freak Under the Stairs was a burden on the Dursley family, unwanted and disliked, only taken out of the darkness for chores that were too dirty for Aunt Petunia, like weeding the garden or washing dishes. The Freak Under the Stairs was like the broom taken out once a day to sweep the dust dragged in from the day’s comings and goings, while Annie is more like the ugly vase Aunt Petunia hates but still keeps on display because it costs a lot of money and it impresses Uncle Vernon’s guests whenever they see it.

The shift happened without much trouble, funnilly enough. Mrs Number Fifteen’s daughter had played the flute for a school event when Annie was five, and all of the neighborhood had been treated by the woman’s gloating over it for weeks afterward. Then Mrs Number Seven’s son started playing the violin, and Aunt Petunia had described the music she’d been forced to listen to at their little tea party as horrible, but she had still insisted on trying to get Dudley to learn some music because of course her son would be naturally talented at anything.

After much bribery and convincing, Uncle Vernon had the old piano in the living room, which had until then been a fancy display case for Aunt Petunia’s crocheted doilies, tuned and then paid for a teacher to come over. Only, Dudley hadn’t wanted to learn piano that day. He had wanted to go play at Piers’ house. And the teacher had seen Annie in the garden, and had offered to teach her instead, since she had already been paid.

Dudley hadn’t wanted to attend his piano lesson the next time either, nor the one after that. So Annie still sat on the piano and soaked up the praises Miss Smith gave her – the first praises she could remember. And of course the Dursleys wouldn’t let her practice on her own time, but it didn’t matter, because she remembered everything and let her fingers dance over her pillow instead, recreating some of the best memories she had, sometimes even singing the notes when there was no one in the house.

By the time Miss Smith’s contract came close to its end, Aunt Petunia had come to the decision that Annie could keep learning, as long as she stayed the best musician of the neighborhood. Annie’s aunt was never satisfied, but the praises and envy from her circle kept her content enough. She even pulled out Annie’s trophies and lined them up on the piano to show them off to guests.

So Annie now has itchy but fitting clothes to wear, isn’t locked in her cupboard when the Dursleys go out to their bi-weekly dinners so that she could practice ‘without hurting their ears’ and could eat the occasionnal candy the neighbors slipped her as long as she behaved properly and didn’t tell Dudley.

Suddenly knowing she was a witch didn’t change the deal. It just means she has something else to hide.

“She was invited to a private school in Scotland, you know,” Petunia is saying as soon as Annie finishes her last piece and returns to her chair, smiling at the polite applause as she must. “Very private, it’s invitation-only, you see, and she’ll be gone for most of the year – but that’s what you would expect from such a school. You can’t grow into excellence if you don’t put the work into it, and sometimes that means working through Christmas.”

The other ladies hums and awws, until Mrs Number Fifteen asks, “Oh, and what is the name? I haven’t heard of such schools recruiting in the area. I’m sure my daughter would have been scouted if they were.”

“They’re very private,” Aunt Petunia repeats, tittering as she lifts her cup of tea to her mouth. “You should have seen the woman they sent over – very excentric, thinking I was below her because she’s a working woman. I would tell you the name of the school, but it’s some kind of obsolete English – if not some Scottish word that no one other than them can pronounce. I couldn’t wrap my mind around it, and there are so many unspoken letters in its written form that I’d probably forget some if I wrote it down!”

The other ladies all titter, easily distracted by the opportunity to badmouth others.

No one thinks to ask Annie. They never do. She’s here for entertainment and decoration, nothing else.

The conversation around her moves from mocking everyone who isn’t a purebred British with British sensibilities to the other schools that these women’s children would attend in the fall. Annie doesn’t allow herself to zone out, even though she’s bored out of her mind, because Mrs Dustin from Number 12 is a bitter, sharp-tongue woman who takes every opportunity to bring people down. She had driven Annie to tears a few times when she first started attending Aunt Petunia’s tea parties, callously calling her overly sensitive and bemoaning how she was only trying to be helpful and how no one was ever thankful for her assistance. Zoning out with her nearby is just asking for her to make a scene.

Mrs Dustin was the terror of Privet Drive. Annie isn’t surprised her son left for boarding school at eleven and never came back. She wouldn’t want to live with her either, and Aunt Petunia would even take a moment to warn Annie when the woman came around for tea. She was that awful.

Thankfully, tea never lasts longer than two hours. These perfectly normal and respectable housewives had snacks to prepare for their children once they returned from playing with their friends and hearty meals to cook for their hardworking husbands. It means that all these ladies file out of the door after the first exclamation of ‘oh my, would you look at the time!’ and all reassure each others that they would be meeting at Mrs Number 7’s the next week.

Aunt Petunia’s smile falls the moment the door closes behind their last neighbor and her eyes fall on Annie. “Well, what are you waiting for? Clean this up!”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” Annie says, voice just gentle enough to avoid comments about having an attitude and just loud enough not to be mistaken for mumbled mockeries or the likes. That tone is the result of years of practice, and it works on the two older Dursleys just as well as every other teacher.

Food is put away, cold tea emptied down the drain, and then the delicate china is carefully cleaned, dried and put away in their cabinet, the tiny cups on their tiny saucers with the handle to the left, all evenly spaced and perfectly aligned.

Annie manages to put everything away before Dudley gets back, which at least means he won’t try to break something to get her in trouble. She slips up the stairs and into her room while Aunt Petunia is distracted cooing over Dudley and piling him with snacks, heading straight for the textbooks that she probably should keep in her trunk in case she forgot them, but instead left on the scratched desk under the window and under her pillow.

She’s already halfway through Magical Theory, by Adalbert Waffling, her page saved with a pamflet about Dragon Pox, which Healer Lorraine had given her after inquiring about Annie’s potions history – which had then been followed by strict instructions to go talk to the Hogwarts Matron about it as soon as she could. There are about four other books in similar states, the only one she hadn’t touched so far being History of Magic. She’d do that once she gets to the school. It’s not as important as actual magic. Magic that could help her fix her dad.

And she’s tired, her butt hurts from sitting for too long, but Annie flops into her bed, lying on her stomach and using the faint sunlight to read through the potion textbook she has. She already knows from the book on herbs and fungi that magical plants can have effects on people, and some potions use them for similar effects. It’s really interesting, and Annie knows her dad probably isn’t suffering from hic-ups and the Hic-Up-Be-Gone Potion probably won’t help him, but she finds herself reading the receipe anyway.

She wakes up the next day with her cheek squished all over the Colour Chaging Potion.

Annie greets the bus driver with a smile, the man returning it with a nod, before heading off to her usual seat. She leans against the window, closes her eyes and falls into a light doze.

It’s about an hour of travel between Little Whinghing and King’s Cross, where her stop is, and the crowd is regular enough that no one is asking her why she’s alone anymore. She also managed to always get the same bus driver, who hadn’t asked her about her daily trips since she said she was visiting her father at the hospital. He certainly hadn’t started asking her for money, as though she’s still ten years old and allowed to travel freely.

At least she didn’t have to lie to Uncle Vernon when he suspiciously asked how she could afford daily trips. She doesn’t want to tell any of the Dursleys about the money she has in Gringotts – she wouldn’t put it past them to ask for it all, as ‘reparation’ for taking her in for all of these years.

It’s raining by the time she steps out of the bus, lightly enough that she’s damp but not soaked by the time she tells the mannequin of her name and purpose. A step through the front and then she’s in the hospital lobby, nearly getting deafened by a wizard whose voice seems to have been permanently stuck to screaming levels.

“Miss Potter!” a voice calls, and Annie turns to see Healer Cameron walking toward her. “You’re all wet, dearie! Come to the side, I’ll dry you up.”

“Good morning!” Annie greets, and follows after the Healer. “How are you doing today?”

“Just the usual, darling, thank you for asking,” Healer Cameron says, flicking her wand above Annie’s head. “Sicco! There you go.”

“Thank you,” Annie says, earning a tired smile.

“You’re quite welcome, dearie,” Healer Cameron assures her, before pulling something out of her pocket. “Here, I thought you might find it interesting.”

Annie blinks, but accepts the book handed to her.

“I heard you’ve been asking around about healing spells and potions,” the witch says. “I don’t know if you’re interested in becoming a healer, but I asked Rosario – Rosario Derwent, he’s the Director of the Potion and Plant Poisoning Floor – and he gave me a copy of the information booklets we keep around. Now, this isn’t a licence to go around and diagnose people, but I thought you might find it useful. Especially since you’re going to Hogwarts – Merlin knows you won’t learn much with that Potion Professor.”

“Thank you,” Annie breathes, clutching the nameless book to her chest. “I’ll make sure to read it.”

Healer Cameron smiles at her. “I’m sure you will. Now, if you will excuse me, my break is almost over. Have a good day, dearie!”

“You too, Healer Cameron!”

The Healer waves one last time before disappearing behind a door. She’s nice, Healer Cameron – then again, most of St-Mungo’s staff were nice to Annie. She’s not unaware of the reasons why, not when their whispers aren’t particularly quiet.

It’s so horrible, they say when they think she can’t hear them. That poor girl, she was raised by muggles and they never let her visit her father. It’s not until Professor McGonagall intervened that they had to let her come.

Of course, Annie hadn’t made it any better in those first few days, barely leaving her father’s side even to go to the bathroom, and she had gotten a team of Mediwitches and Healers clucking their tongue at her for missing lunch so many days in a row, you’re already so thin dearie, here, have a pumpkin pasty. Even now that she remembers to bring galleons for the cantina, she still has people slipping snacks or, like Healer Cameron, gifts, because they pity James Potter’s poor little daughter, all alone in the world but for muggles who clearly didn’t know the first thing about raising children.

It's uncomfortable, in a way, and Annie is constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for their gossip to turn bitter and mocking, for their tone to turn condescending or cloyingly sweet.

It doesn’t happen.

Instead, Annie is given gifts and food, healers greeting her in the hallways, recognizing her on sight. When she reaches her father’s room, she sits on the chair that had appeared one day, which is just the right height for her to prop her book on her dad’s bed or lay down her head on her crossed arms. She doesn’t know who to thank for the chair, had asked a few of the staff about it, only to get secretive smiles and soft I’ll be sure to convey your gratitude, Miss Potter.

“Hi, Dad,” she whispers, reaching out with one hand to catch his. “I’m back.”

Her father’s heartbeat is strong against her own, shaving off the anxiety that had built up since her last visit. James Potter always feels like home to her, and it tears something out of her chest whenever she has to leave.

“Aunt Petunia had a tea party yesterday,” she says, even though her father can’t hear her. “She told all of the ladies that I was invited to some special private musical school in Scotland. It’s really funny, you know. Aunt Petunia hates that I’m good at anything, but she’s always telling everyone that I’m the best musician of the neighbourhood. She puts my trophies all around the house whenever there are guests just so that she can boast her charity case niece is better than their kids, but she’s never been to any of my competitions. I’m just a show dog Aunt Petunia puts away when she doesn’t need it.”

James’s heartbeat accelerates, and Annie likes to think that he’s heard her, that he’s angry for her. But she’s asked the Healers about it before, and her father’s heart rate has had many fluctuations over the years. It doesn’t mean anything.

“She already told everyone that the school kept the students during the winter holidays, for some extra training,” Annie adds, and her voice does a weird thing. Almost like a scoff, but it’s stuck in her throat. “So I guess I’m not invited to Christmas. S’not like I want to go back, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to come to see you. I don’t think you can leave school if you stay for the holidays.”

Her father doesn’t speak. Doesn’t tell her that it’s alright, that he’ll miss her but that he understands.

“I’ll miss you,” she confesses, even though he doesn’t even know that she’s there, that she’s his daughter and that she’s talking to him.

But she can’t not go to Hogwarts. She needs to go and learn magic to heal her dad. So that he can know that she’s there and his daughter and that she’s talking to him. So that he can talk back.

But he can’t right now, so Annie slowly lets go of his hand and cracks open the book Healer Cameron had given her.

Accidental poisonings are a common part of a wizard’s life, the book starts. Whether you forgot a stain at the bottom of your cauldron and inhaled the fumes, or mixed up your morning tea with your nightshade brew, worry not! This guide can help you narrow down your symptoms and help your Healer help YOU! However, if your symptoms are worsening quickly, please immediately contact—