Chapter 1
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Six-year-old Azalea Potter swiped beads of sweat from her forehead with a thin wrist as she sat back on her heels. She’d been weeding Aunt Petunia’s garden—both as a punishment for suspected ‘freaky business’, and as a poor attempt to prevent it, as the Dursleys assumed that a hard-working girl wouldn’t have time for it—for quite some time when she heard a small voice drifting up from the base of one of the rose bushes. She paused, then leaned forward on her hands and knees to part the leaves. A small grass snake coiled around the main body of the plant. Completely unafraid, Azalea stared down at the little creature. She knew that Aunt Petunia had a deathly fear of any and all snakes, and would be quick to try to separate its head from its body, even if the snake were clearly of the non-venomous variety. She’d have to be careful to make sure her aunt didn’t find the little fellow in her yard. “I’ll take you to the park later, issa,” she whispered to herself as she stared down at its dark eyes and shining scales—or so she thought, anyway.
Until, of course, the small snake raised its head and spoke in a delighted tone. “Oh, a speaker!”
Azalea blinked in stunned silence. “You can talk, issa,” she noted aloud, finally reacting. She somehow instantly judged the snake as female from its spoken words, though how she knew she couldn’t say. Nothing in its voice or appearance told her otherwise.
The snake’s tongue flickered out as she gave what Azalea thought had to be a confused expression, for a snake. “Of course I do. We all speak it. Why do you speak it, two-leg hatchling?”
Even at her young age, she could decipher the strange terms as meaning a human child. Azalea shrugged, just as thrown. “I didn’t know that I did, issa.”
The snake raised more of her body in open curiosity. “How does someone not know they can speak?”
Azalea frowned softly. “It’s not that I didn’t know I could speak. I didn’t know I could speak snake language, issa.”
The snake’s tongue flicked in amusement and interest. “Now you do, hatchling.”
Azalea blinked. “I’m called Azalea, issa. What are you called?”
The snake wriggled her body in a slow dance. “I have not been with others of my kind since my hatcher and my hatch-mates. They called me Little Scale, because I was the smallest, but you can call me whatever you wish.”
The little snake seemed to want to shed its original name the way its species shed skin. Azalea could understand that, wanting to shed the awful things the Dursleys called her—combinations of Freak and Girl and Little Bitch and FreakyOdd—herself. It didn’t take her very long to settle on a name for the small snake as she scooped her up and softly urged her to twine around her waist underneath her shirt, thankful for once that she only received hideous oversized hand-me-downs from Dudley, as they would help to conceal her new friend. Finally, she suggested tentatively, “Issa! If it’s alright with you, I’d like to call you Kaaza.” The name combined the word for friend with the ending that denoted something was small. Somehow, despite not being aware of speaking the language previously, the grammar rules came easily once she thought about it.
The newly dubbed Kaaza preened, her scales tickling Azalea’s tummy as she momentarily squeezed her to express her approval. “It is a good name. More, a speaker gave it to me. I will be the envy of many.”
Bemused but not willing to argue, Azalea murmured something about needing to finish her chores and for Kaaza to stay hidden and as quiet as possible unless they were alone. She finished weeding and pruning the garden before stumbling inside out of the summer heat to drink some cool water from the tap. If not for Dudley, the water likely wouldn’t be filtered, but given how picky her cousin was, her aunt had relented on getting one rather easily. She drank almost greedily from the only cup she was allowed to use, a few drops of water dripping down her chin and onto her shirt. She carefully put her cup away afterward, then checked for other undone chores to avoid being yelled at: any miscellaneous dirty dishes, any laundry she could wash, any areas that needed vacuuming or dusting. Once she spotted any obvious areas of cleanup, she swept the hall, too, all without being prompted.
Her Aunt Petunia was, for once, not hanging directly over her and criticizing any and everything she did, but was sitting in the other room completely engrossed with watching a few of her soap operas on the telly while she crocheted the ugliest pot holder Azalea had ever had the misfortune of seeing. She glared at Azalea coldly, blue eyes glittering with malice, as soon as the girl entered the room and stood hesitantly at the threshold. She made a conscious shift back to English. “Okay, ya, I’ve finished with my chores for today, Aunt Petunia.”
Aunt Petunia’s eyes snapped onto her, her face twisting into an ugly scowl. “Finished, is that right?” She sat there for a moment, clearly trying to think of something else she could have the poor girl do. Eventually realizing that she couldn’t, at the moment, find another task for her, she jerked her head in dismissal. “Fine, then, girl. Go over to Mrs. Figg’s and stay out of trouble. Be someone else’s problem for a few hours—but bathe first. You look and smell dreadful.”
Azalea tried not to grin at being released for the day. If she seemed too happy about it, her Aunt might change her mind. She bowed her head. “Okay, ya, Aunt Petunia.”
She trudged from the room, forcing herself not to run, not to rush away as if in relief. The further away she got from the bony, horse-faced woman, the more she allowed herself to smile, though she still controlled her movements. She stayed at that almost defeated pace as she ascended the stairs, rather than bounding up them with glee. Azalea managed to pick it back up a short time later as she exited the house and walked down the driveway. Only when she left Privet Drive did she allow herself to skip, a giggle slipping free. Sure, Mrs. Figg was weird, boring, always smelled like cabbage and possessed far too many doilies and cats for any sane person, but she was generally nice to Azalea. She arrived at Wisteria Walk without any trouble, approaching the faded bricks and overgrown garden of number eleven without an ounce of trepidation. Mrs. Figg would likely regale her with kitten photos of her favorite cats or else offer to trade a meal for her doing a small favor—brushing one of the hellbeasts, perhaps, or helping her make lunch. She never asked much of her, unlike her own odious relatives, and she always gave something in return. She’d helped Azalea learn to read and write when she was three, something Azalea found strange, as it was oddly helpful. The woman also tended to address her in kind, soft tones and spoke to her in what she called Gaeilge . Azalea had picked up the language, both reading and writing, incredibly well when first introduced to it.
As Azalea pulled out the key from around her neck that Mrs. Figg had given her to unlock the front door, one of the many resident felines, Muffin by the looks of it, approached her. The fat old tom usually rubbed against her ankles to scent mark her, but when he drew close today, he paused, sniffing at the air, then stared at her middle fixedly. He hissed, arching his back, and Azalea flinched away from him, hurriedly turning the key in the lock. She fled inside to the sound of angry growls from Muffin. She didn’t realize, until she slid down to the floor and sat with her back against it, that Kaaza had tightened her grip considerably. Frowning down at her waist, she hissed, “What’s wrong, issa?”
Kaaza nestled more firmly into her skin, pressing her head against her side. “My scent makes them nervous.”
Oh. Right.
Azalea shrugged. “They’ll just have to get over it, issa! We’re friends now, issa issa!”
Kaaza gave her another ‘hug’ by gently squeezing her as she had done before when receiving her name from Azalea. “You are both a speaker and a friend.”
Azalea smiles softly down at her midsection. Before she could reply, though, she heard movement in the other room. She quickly straightened up and locked the door behind her before going toward the sound, calling out in Gaeilge, “Abair, It’s Azalea, Mrs. Figg. How are you today?”
They spoke almost exclusively in Mrs. Figg’s language most days, which was just fine with her. The Dursleys never said a kind word in English to her, nor did anyone else in the neighborhood.
“Could be worse,” Figg replied. “My knees are bothering me.”
Azalea entered the kitchen as the old woman sat at the table taking tea and reading the paper. In the middle of the table lay a platter of scones. Figg gestured at her without glancing upward. “Petunia called me earlier to say you were coming. I baked too many of these and I can’t finish all of them on my own. I’ll just have to throw them out if someone else doesn’t eat them.”
Azalea sat down gingerly, able to read between the lines. “Abair, I can help you.”
Mrs. Figg smiled gently at her. “Helpful girl. Go ahead and get started then. After that, I may need your help today with something. I’m having Shepherd's Pie for lunch.”
Mrs. Figg was probably the closest thing Azalea had to a friend, besides the snake now clinging to her middle. “Abair, of course Mrs. Figg. I love helping you.”
The woman reached over and squeezed her hand just then, and Azalea, though six, still knew without knowing that Mrs. Figg did her best to care for her, to make sure she got regular food and kindness. “There’s milk in the fridge.”
She got up to pour herself a glass at the clear invitation, then tried not to look as starved as she felt when she reached for the scones and polished off not one, but four, along with a second glass of milk. Aunt Petunia hadn’t given her dinner last night or breakfast that morning. Some days the only times she got to eat were at Mrs. Figg’s. She tried to ignore the sharp, concerned gaze directed her way as she ate. As soon as Azalea finished, she sprang up to wash her dishes and set them in the wrack to dry.
Mrs. Figg, meanwhile, hadn’t said another word yet, though she watched her carefully. “Today I think I’m just going to watch some of my stories.” That’s what she called the soap operas she watched. It also meant Azalea would get time to read. For some children it might sound like a punishment, but for Azalea it was a rare moment of freedom. Mrs. Figg trusted her to sit quietly and read while she watched a few shows, which she would likely fall asleep doing. On one hand, the Dursleys never gave her that much freedom, let alone to read or be unsupervised. They didn’t want her learning anything before Dudley. On another, it meant no work for the rest of the day.
Azalea nodded. “Okay, abair.”
She helped Mrs. Figg clear the table, then carefully selected a book from the old woman’s bookshelf to read as she set the telly to the right channel. Azalea sat in the recliner, cracking open a book—one on world mythology—while Mrs. Figg settled into the sofa with some of her knitting. One of her cats, Cupcake, jumped onto the seat next to her. He immediately cut his eyes at Azalea and hissed at her. She flinched, eyes going wide, but Mrs. Figg merely shooed him away. “Get out of here, you old grump. Leave the child alone.”
Azalea relaxed minutely, getting engrossed in tales about the exploits of various gods and heroes. She glanced up every so often, observing Mrs. Figg. The woman knitted steadily, wrinkled hands twisting and needles flashing as she worked. Over the course of her programs, Azalea felt herself getting thirsty. Azalea closed her book, sliding in a marker somewhere in a section on Brighid. “Abair, Mrs. Figg, could I have some water?”
Mrs. Figg didn’t spare her a glance. “Sure dear. Have a snack too while you’re in there. You know where everything is.”
She quietly excused herself, battling the urge to smile. As she padded down the hall back to the kitchen, she nearly tripped over another cat, Tufty. He glared at her before pushing his way out of a small room with the door slightly ajar. Azalea moved to close it when a sound of fluttering wings got her attention. Curious, she pushed it open a bit further and peaked inside. She was not prepared for the sight of a barn owl resting on a perch grooming itself. It paused when it noticed her, lowering its outstretched wing to stare at her with beady eyes. Azalea, ever curious, quietly slipped into the room and soundlessly closed the door behind her. Without really thinking, she turned the lock out of habit from living with the Dursleys, who had no concept of privacy and would barge in on her at any given moment without the bathroom door locked.
The lush carpet swallowed her footsteps as she crept over to it. It cooed at her, then took off out of the open window. Azalea sighed in disappointment, turning to leave when she caught sight of a small writing desk nearby. She could readily admit that curiosity—and nosiness—ran in the family. It was one of the few things she shared with Petunia Dursley, a burning desire to simply know and see . Petunia’s often ended in gossip and rumors and spying on the neighbors, but Azalea’s thrill of discovery tilted toward learning and exploration.
The small redhead found herself staring down at the papers strewn about the top with unbridled interest. For one, a newspaper lay neatly folded. What caught her attention about it, however, was the moving pictures. Hesitantly, she picked it up and unfolded it, staring in wonder. She skimmed the front page article, her eyebrows moving further and further up her forehead as she did. She had no idea who You-Know-Who was, despite what the name implied, but apparently some of his followers had recently been captured. There was something in there about a war, but what really took the cake was the mention of wizards, and, more importantly, her name, along with a photo of a man and woman who both shared a fair number of features with her, holding a small baby that could only be her younger self. Also in the photo were an older couple who her mother favored. They could only be her mother’s parents.
...inside information suggests that the Death Eaters were looking for none other than Azalea Nanami Uzumaki Potter, Vanquisher of You-Know-Who, known as the Girl-Who-Lived and only child of the late James Fleamont Potter and Yuri Uzumaki Potter née Uzumaki Evans (aka Lily Potter), when captured. The sole survivor of the fateful attack on her family at Godric's Hollow three years ago that left her an orphan and her parents and grandparents (a child of a squib, Marlow Evans, and a muggle, Namika Uzumaki Evans) murdered, and to date the only known person to have ever survived the Killing Curse, the young child’s whereabouts have yet to be revealed to the wizarding public. Sources tell us that the young witch is living quite happily with parties unknown, perhaps receiving special training from none other than Albus Dumbledore. Expected to attend Hogwarts in six years’ time, the Potter heiress will undoubtedly remain heavily guarded until such time that she can safely traverse the streets of London without worrying about Death Eaters prowling our streets…
Azalea stared blankly down at the paper for several long seconds, her mind suddenly flooded with memories of screaming, of a high, terrible laugh, of the green flashing light about which she still had nightmares. Then she reread the article again, eyes continually going back and hungrily staring at her younger self nestled between her parents and grandparents. From the times she’d seen herself in the bathroom mirror, she knew she had heavily inherited her mother’s features. She couldn’t tell from the black and white photograph who had given her her eyes and hair, but from her face alone she could discern her relation to the men and women in the photograph with her.
Her parents, Yuri Uzumaki Potter and James Fleamont Potter. Her grandparents, Namika Uzumaki Evans and Marlow Evans. Murdered. Killing Curse. Sole Survivor.
She’d never seen them before, not once. Her aunt and uncle had never shown her a single photograph, though she doubted they even had one. They’d told her that her parents and grandparents died in a car crash, that her father was a drunk and that her mother was a disgrace. What she gathered from the article, and the one on a later page that detailed the attack on her family, was that her parents and grandparents were warriors, brave war heroes who died fighting an evil man who nearly pulled their world—the Wizarding World—into darkness. Not only that, but she had survived the same attack that killed them, coming out of it with only a scar—a scar she had seen countless times when washing her face and brushing her teeth. That, and she was, apparently, a witch, which explained so much, including the so called ‘freaky business’ the Dursleys always went on about, and the unexplainable events of the morning wherein she’d discovered she could talk to snakes.
Azalea realized she’d been standing there for a few minutes going over the paper and not checked the rest of the desk. Laying the newspaper to the side, she sifted through what she saw upon closer inspection were letters, most on a type of thick, textured, yellowish paper she’d never seen before. Some were addressed to Mrs. Figg from various relatives, and those she ignored. However, quite a few were addressed to her from someone named Dumbledore, a name she realized she saw in the article. She paused on the most recent one, her stomach turning oddly. It was dated about a week ago, and it looked as if Mrs. Figg had only just started penning a response.
While your concern for the child is admirable, Arabella, living with her relatives is currently the best thing for her. Living in the Wizarding World is far too dangerous for her. Some would use her to obtain more power or standing for their family or House, while others might have far more sinister intentions for her. We have to keep her amongst the Muggles, both to keep her hidden from those who would seek to do her harm, and to keep her from being overwhelmed by the position she now holds. One as young as her is not equipped to handle such fame and power as she has, and we must not let her enter into Magical society before she is ready. For the time being it is imperative that we maintain her ignorance of her family’s world. This of course means not informing her of her true nature as a witch, her status as a hero in our world, or the circumstances under which she came to be the Girl-Who-Lived….
Azalea set the letter down, nearly trembling. She expected her aunt and uncle to lie to her, but not this. She scooped the letter back up, along with the newspaper, and folded them neatly so that she could tuck them into the enormous pockets of Dudley’s pants, held up only by sheer force of will and a thin belt. She glanced around the room, only just spotting a small bookshelf laden with tomes of varying sizes. She wandered over to it half in a daze, spotting one titled The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, and another with Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century, and picked each of them up idly. She thumbed through the first book to the table of contents, eyes widening as she saw a section dedicated solely to her and the mysterious ‘You-Know-Who’, who, she discovered, they also called ‘He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’ and ‘The Dark Lord’. Checking the second book, she saw that it, too, had a section dedicated solely to herself and the so-called ‘Dark Lord’. She turned to those sections one at a time with shaking fingers, knowing that each contained details of the attack on her family. At the last moment, she decided to simply take the books with her, as she knew she’d been inside of the room for far too long.
Making a snap decision, she tucked both books into her waistband, undoing her belt to readjust it so that it held them tightly to her body. It forced Kaaza to move higher, but her friend did so without complaint. Letting Dudley’s mammoth shirt fall back into place, she tiptoed to the door, carefully unlocking and opening it to peer into the hallway. She could still hear the telly in the other room as she silently made her way to the kitchen to grab a snack and a drink as originally directed. The reward for trusting her instincts came not three minutes later as Mrs. Figg appeared in the kitchen. By that time, she had hurriedly gotten halfway through her banana and glass of water, giving the appearance that she’d been sitting there all along. Mrs. Figg gifted her with a genuine smile that almost made her feel guilty for the books pressing into her ribs.
Almost.