From The Beginning
Lightning illuminated the midnight black skies above Little Whinging as a terrible rain storm raged on, the heavy bulleted raindrops hailing down on the rooftops of the neat little houses. All of them were identical, down to the paint color and the layout of the gardens. Everything was perfect, pristine in appearance. Even mother nature couldn't bother that. But inside the house of Number Four Privet Drive, you would find a very different story. The telly was roaring at a deafening level, as the evening news blared on about the damage that the ongoing storm was causing to the neighboring areas, with three people sitting in front of it, two of which were watching with rapt attention, while their child sat on the floor playing with his toys. Two adults and a child, all looking decidedly.... normal.
There was a gaunt woman, tall and thin, with a drawn face, sitting next to who one could assume to be her husband, who looked to be a whale of a man. His trousers looked like they were bulging on him, as if it would burst from the seams if he dared to breathe. In between the two of them on the floor was a child, much too obese to be healthy, sulking. He wanted a second pudding but his mummy told him not tonight. It was rare that his mother, Petunia Dursley, denied her son anything but his pediatrician had warned her that she might cut down on his sweets occasionally. So far it was not going over very well. You would think that they would be the only occupants of the perfect little house. You would be wrong.
Behind the scenes, back in the kitchen, a much smaller, too thin to be good for her child was struggling to walk properly the weight of the heavy dishes that were abandoned on the dining table from the recently finished dinner. She was carrying plates and a meat platter, from a meal she cooked, from a meal she didn't get to eat any of. They turned out to be more than a little too heavy and as she had just barely made it to the kitchen sink to begin washing the messed dishes, and the poor girl dropped one of the plates. It fell to the floor, with a loud piercing shatter, that alerted the other people to her mistake. She held her breath in, trying her hardest not to make a single noise, tears streaming down her face at the danger she knew was coming. The television turned off with a deafening click in the silent room, and heavy thudding steps stormed into the adjoining kitchen where the clatter had come from.
"YOU STUPID FREAK! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, GONE AND BREAKING OUR GOOD PLATES THAT WE GRACIOUSLY ALLOW YOU TO WASH! YOU UNGRATEFUL WHELP!" The whale of a man bellowed at the small girl, his walrus of a mustache flapping as he screamed, spittle flying everywhere. He reared his hand back and slapped the girl across the face, hard enough to whip her head to the side, an instant bruise the size of her entire face blooming almost instantly as she jerked back. The two other people in the house ignored the commotion, as if a fully grown adult man beating a child was the normal in that household. The woman and her child were very much too used to the man's heavy handed mannerisms with the girl.
The girl was in excruciating pain. She hadn't eaten in four days, and she was very tired and weak. She had bruises from when her uncle had decided that verbal punishment and being locked in her cupboard under the stairs for a few days wasn't enough punishment. She was so distraught, she didn't know what she had done to deserve this awful life. He continued to berate her, and unbeknownst to her, the cabinet doors began to rattle, as if all the doors and windows of the house had been forcibly opened and the rolling wind of the rainstorm outside had come into the house, into the kitchen itself.
"Uncle I-"
He cut her off, grabbing a fist full of her raven black hair, and began to haul the sobbing, whimpering child toward the backdoor. The poor child began sobbing harder, but she didn't fight back, knowing it would only be worse for her if she did so. She just hoped and prayed that the raging storm outside would subside soon. The man unlatched the door and slammed it open, uncaring as the metal door hit upon the prestige counters. He shoved her violently, causing her to fall down the two slippery wet stone steps into the backyard, where she landed painfully, falling back on her arm into the pouring rain. He slammed the door shut, locking it again so that she wouldn't be able to come back inside to the safety of the warm house. No, she was to lye outside in the cold pouring rain of an october evening. It was late, almost eight p.m. and she knew she didn't have anywhere to shelter through the storm. The girl huddled the best she could against the side of the metal shed in the backyard, wishing she was smaller so that she might fit underneath the underhang.
"Please. Please God, just please take me away from here. Take me somewhere safe and warm, where I won't ever get hurt." She kept repeating frantically, pleading to an unknown deity that she didn't know if she even believed in. Around her, the bushes and plants rushed, the rapid wind getting unseemingly faster, as if something was driving it. The streetlights around her dimmed, as if being snuffed out like a dying candle, and lightning struck rapidly and repeatedly, cracking across the sky hard. It was as if the storm that surrounded her was reacting to her violent emotions, picking up on her utter disparity. And then suddenly it was as if she was being squeezed, a sharp pulling focused on her navel. She squeezed her eyes shut tight in terror, completely unsure of what was happening to herself.
Abruptly, everything stopped. The storm, its roaring wind and sharply cutting cold rain was gone, along with the cracking thunder that terrified her with every echo. Everything was calm and quiet for a split second, almost peaceful, before sound got back to her. The sound of many people talking, a boisterous noise that alerted the small girl that she was somewhere else entirely from her small backyard at number four Privet drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. She peeked through her shut eyes for a split second, just long enough to take in the scene of strangers dressed in odd garb, on a cobblestone street, lined with shops. People were rushing about, shouting about strange things that she had never heard of in her six years.
The little girl cried harder, bawling her eyes out at her new surroundings. This was even worse than being in the backyard, in the cold pouring rain. She had absolutely no clue where she was, or how to get back to her... her home. She started to walk, stumbling into the strange people, not knowing where she was going or even where she was. She eventually bumped into a tall woman who was very pretty looking, knocking herself to the ground.
Cassiopeia Black had gone to Diagon Alley on a whim. She was brainstorming an experimental potion to bring out recessive magical abilities and had needed to refresh her ingredients supply. Of course, she only picked the ones that were the freshest. The sniveling young shop boy had tried to pass off three week old armadillo bile. The vial was a sickly brown color, completely the wrong shade of what it should have been. No, she had finessed her way, as a Black could, and had gotten the very latest shipment, one that had come in that morning. She had just exited the apothecary door, the clinging of the bell sounding off above her head and hadn't even quite managed to take five steps away before she was bumped into very hard, abruptly knocking whoever had walked into her onto the uneven ground below. She looked down and realized it was a small child, a young girl who couldn't have been older than three, maybe four at the oldest. It was unheard of to leave such a small child alone in the alley, especially at such a late time of night. She studied the crying child closely, trying to figure out what family she belonged to.
The girl hiccuped, as she was very upset. Cassiopeia noted that she had very messy pitch black hair, chin length, that looked like it was hacked off with kitchen shears, with pale skin. That alone could have marked her as quite a few families' child but the ones she could think of off the top of her head wouldn't have a three year old daughter, at least not that she knew of. She moved to help the little girl up, placing her manicured hand on the little child's shoulder to get her attention and froze, first at the very distinctly shaped bruise that stretched across the entirety of the left side of her face, and then again at the very iconic lightning bolt scar that stood out on the child's forehead. No. It couldn't be Azalea Potter. Surely this must be some kind of mistake, another child with the same shape of scar in the same location. This poor girl eas so small, and so thin. It was as if she was starved for days at a time. And for another matter, who had left that disgusting bruise on her cheek. The small girl looked up at the gesture and locked her killing curse green eyes with Cassiopeia and she knew then and there that it was in fact Azalea Potter in front of her. She had to do something. Clearly wherever this poor girl had been staying was not taking any quality of care of her. Quite the opposite really. She crouched down to the girls general height, doing her best not to be intimidating to the scared child.
"Would you like to come with me? I can get all that uncomfortable mud off of you and heal up your face in a pinch." She said in a soft tone, almost treating the child as if she would react like a wounded animal.
"Heal?" The crying girl hiccuped out, shuffling back unconsciously.
"Yes dear child. I can heal you, with magic of course." Cassiopeia said patiently. She was trying her best to stay warm and inviting to the girl, a soft motherly sort of persona coming over her with more ease than she had thought possible.
*M-magic isn't real. Uncle said so." The poor girl stuttered out in confusion.
Cassiopeia ran through the short list of people that Azalea Potter could have called uncle and none of them would have done such an awful thing as to hit a child. Children were to be cherished and celebrated, magical children especially. The wizarding population was dying, with less and less people having large families, and too much inbreeding. The ancient magics were dying out.
"Silly child, magic is real. If it wasn't, how could I do this?" Cassiopeia asked as she drew out her sleek dogwood wand out of its hidden holster in the sleeve of her robe, and cast a wordless patronus, a feat that not many could accomplish. From the end of her wand drew out a brilliantly bright light that the little girl had to shield her eyes from at first, but as she adjusted to the bright light, she gasped at the beautiful sight in front of her. A magnificent bird, white as the driven snow. It was tall and stark, a demonstration of the pure grace of what nature could achieve. The child was shocked still. How could this be possible unless... Unless, was magic really real? Had Uncle... Had he lied to her about everything she could do? He always called her a freak of nature; he called her an abomination.
"It's... It's real? Can I do magic?" The child asked so quietly that Cassiopeia almost didn't hear her. She smiled down at the girl, who was so nervous and shy that it was almost endearing, if it wasn't so worrying. This was James and Lily's child. James was... He was bold and brash and daring, and Lily was such a head strong determined girl and it only got stronger as she became a teen and then a young adult.
"Yes my child, magic is real. I have magic flowing through my veins, and so do you. You are a witch, just like me, and one day you will go to a special school just to learn how to use your magic, just like your parents did. Would you like to come home with me? I can heal you up and tell you all about them if you would like. Diagon Alley isn't a place for such a young girl to be alone, especially at this time of night. Are you hungry? I could feed you while we look for your family. They must be worried something fierce.." Cassiopeia offered in a smooth sweet tone. She had a hunch that they would in fact not be looking for her too hard, for the child to be in such a condition, all alone. She studied the child as Azalea shifted from foot to foot, clearly having an internal debate, before the child slowly nodded. Cassiopeia held out her hand to the young girl, who slowly made the connection.
"Okay little one, hold on tight and close your eyes. Do not let go. We'll be aparating, so you'll feel a tight squeezing sensation in your navel, and you might feel a bit queasy. Don't worry, you'll be ok." Cassiopeia apparted the child with her to her home in the Scottish Highlands, where a new life would begin.