Chapter 3
\|/
Azalea sprang up in bed— much to the chagrin of the three snakes wrapped around her, if the disgruntled muttering was anything to go by—when the noise that woke her came again. “Hop to it you lazy little bint,” Aunt Petunia snarled from the other side of her door, smacking it again for good measure.
“Okay, ya, coming, Aunt Petunia,” Azalea mumbled, rubbing at her eyes. Apparently satisfied, her aunt’s footsteps faded away.
Azalea huffed, her hands dropping into her lap. A flash of silver caught her attention. Looking down, she noticed a silvery crescent moon on each of her palms, almost like birthmarks in appearance. The young witch only had a few bleary moments to blink down at the the newly appeared marks standing out starkly against her skin before her brain caught up with her. She didn’t quite understand why they’d appeared, only that they weren’t there before last night. She glanced at the yawning basilisks and put two and two together. Somehow, the babes were connected to her new ‘birthmarks’, though what it meant she had no idea. With a sigh and a decision to figure it out later, she went about changing out of the ratty pajamas inherited from Dudley. Really his atrocious castoffs did her a favor, the clothes often so baggy that they practically hung off of her as if she were a skeleton drowning in drapery meant to cover a small elephant. She tightened her belt as far as it would go, then pulled on two of his baggy shirts, the inner one long-sleeved, in case the basilisks wanted to ride around on her arms. She knew she couldn’t do this forever, that they’d get bigger, but it was the best short-term solution. “Be quiet and stay still, isss issa.”
She unstuck her door and slipped out of the cupboard, going to the kitchen and starting breakfast without prompting. As she turned the bacon, Aunt Petunia hovered just behind and to the right of her as if she still didn’t trust her to do it right after all those years laboring away in the kitchen and the rest of the house like a slave. When she moved on to cook the eggs, Vernon spoke up from the table. “Have you told the freak yet, Pet?”
Azalea tried not to stiffen with all of their attention on her, praying to every god she’d read about in that world mythology book that the snakes wouldn’t move, that the baby basilisks wouldn’t call out for her, their hatcher, their mother for all intents and purposes. The Dursleys couldn’t see. They couldn’t know. She had to protect them, now that she’d brought them into the world.
“No, I haven’t.” And here her aunt sounded like she was gifted with performing the singularly most pleasurable task in the world, saying with relish: “We’re going on vacation to Rome for the remainder of Diddykins’ summer holidays. You’re not coming, obviously. Freaks don’t get vacations. Mrs. Figg has graciously agreed to take you on in the time being despite your freakishness and deficiencies. Pack what you need. She’ll be coming to collect you today.” She paused, and Azalea could hear the nastiness in her voice, could just picture the malicious curl of her lips. “She said she’d be making that dreadful boiled cabbage dish for you.”
Azalea actually enjoyed that dish, but of course she didn’t share that.
“Okay, ya, Aunt Petunia.” She didn’t break stride or let her despaired facade slip as she finished breakfast, quietly rejoicing inside. She’d be free of the Dursleys not just for the rest of the summer holidays, but also for her birthday in a fortnight’s time.
To her immense relief, breakfast ended uneventfully. She washed and put away all the dishes, wiped down the counter, and cleaned the stove before retreating to her cupboard to pack what little belongings she had into the yellow duffel bag the Dursleys afforded her, one Dudley had disliked in favor of a red one, another instance where they bought a second one and gave her the rejected one. In went her toiletries, the cheap soap and shampoo that the Dursleys gave her. She knew better than to remove the Shadow-Sticky Do-Not-Look feeling from the Wizarding book. She decided to place it onto the jar and hatching debris too, just in case, and tucked the former deep into her bundle of clothing and harmless, non-magical books the Dursleys allowed her to read that Dudley discarded. There was also an old stuffed raccoon that used to be Dudley’s when they were younger. He’d discarded it long ago. At times, it was her only comfort. Azalea added it in too, then zipped up the bag and hefted it onto her shoulders and back in a way that wouldn’t bang into the snakes coiled about her body.
Her aunt had her do a few meaningless chores while she waited for Mrs. Figg, the usual sweeping and dusting and picking up after Dudley, nothing too involved. Petunia Dursley didn’t want Azalea to have a moment of free time to lounge around, but also didn’t want her to get into anything so extensive that it would prevent her from leaving at a moment's notice. She didn’t, after all, want her to be delayed in her departure. As soon as Mrs. Fig knocked at the door and called out to Azalea—very pointedly in English, as Gaeilge was their secret—Azalea put away the duster and broom. She suppressed her excitement and forced herself to trudge to the door as if the impending vacation of the Dursleys and her imminent stay with Mrs. Figg deeply troubled her. She even managed not to smile at the kindly old woman when Petunia opened the door, instead staring fixedly at the floor. Soon enough her aunt ushered her outside and closed the door behind her, and then she and Mrs. Figg were walking away from Number Four. Mrs. Figg, Azalea knew, had a vehicle and license, but must have ldecided to walk over. It was only two streets, after all, and quite a nice day.
Mrs. Figg didn’t speak to her until they left Privet Drive behind and were halfway down Orchard Lane. Even then, she did it quietly. “I’m sorry that they don’t care for you,” she told Azalea in Gaeilge. “You won’t be nearly as miserable as they think you will, I hope.”
Azalea had nothing much to say to that. “Abair. I actually had something I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Figg gave her a curious look, eyebrows raised.
Azalea shook her head. “When we get back to your house, abair. Not here.”
Mrs. Figg nodded as if she understood completely and they fell silent until they reached her street. As they started up her driveway, a small group of her kneazles, Tibbles, Snowy, Mr Paws, Muffin, Cupcake, Boots, and Tufty turned to stare at them, their bodies tensing. Their backs arched and their tails stood ramrod straight, deep growls emerging from their chests as they hissed. Their reaction completely took Mrs. Figg aback. “Darlings?”
One of them let loose a long, drawn out yowl, which started the others up as well. A group of six cats giving their best imitation of a warrior’s battle cry while leveling death glares did not make a friendly reception. They seemed as if they teetered on the verge of attack. Azalea decided there was nothing for it. She gathered those two energies about her, shaped them with her will, then let the whip fly as she spoke, power thrumming underneath every syllable. “Abair, you will let us pass.”
Azalea has no idea if the words came out in English or Gaeilge or the snake language. All she knew was that a whirl of that intangible yet tangible force, the one she could pluck at and push out of her to make things happen, lashed out from her toward the felines, who felt it and instantly turned tail, all fight leaving them instantly. She could feel Mrs. Figg beside her staring at her with wide eyes, one hand pressed to her lips and one to her chest over her heart. She turned to the woman resolutely, her shoulders straightened and posture stiff as if expecting a reprimand. “Abair,” she started simply, consciously choosing their shared language of Gaeilge. “Why don’t we go inside now?”
She forced herself not to shift uncomfortably under the look Mrs. Figg gave her. A searching, knowing look. “You know, don’t you?”
Azalea blinked slowly at her. “Abair, I know what, Mrs. Figg? What do you think I know?” Despite her words dancing around the truth, her face, voice, and body language denied nothing.
She took the final few steps inside, where Mrs. Figg sighed and seemed to come to a decision as she closed her front door. “You know about yourself, what you are.”
That was apparently as close as they’d get. Mrs. Figg still couldn’t admit it out loud to her, the simple fact they both knew. Not without making absolutely certain that Azalea herself knew. That man Dumbledore had been keeping her to her word that she would uphold his charade, the illusion that Azalea wasn’t magical. Mrs. Figg obviously hadn’t intended to cross him by going against his wishes.
Azalea shrugged, which seemed to be answer enough, but then she added, chin jutting and arms crossed: “Abair, I know I can make animals do things I want without teaching them, that I can make people ignore something even if it’s in front of them.” Mrs. Figg seemed almost to sag in relief, until she continued. “Abair, I know what it means to be Azalea Nanami Uzumaki Potter. I know I’m an he—heiress, abair, and a witch, and that my mum and dad were James Fleamont Potter and Yuri Uzumaki Potter, and my grandmum and grandad were Marlow Evans and Namika Uzumaki. I know there are bad people after me, followers of that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, abair.” She paused, watched Mrs. Figg sag for a different reason, leaning her back against her front door as if for support. “I know that he killed my parents, and I know Dumbledore told you not to tell me anything, abair. That he wanted me to think I was like them—like you. But, abair, I’m not! I can do the things I told you, and I can make light in my hand. I can make doors stick so someone can’t open them. I can talk to snakes.”
Mrs. Figg had looked like she might crumple in resignation before, but at the very last declaration she actually paled in shock. “You can...you can do what?”
Azalea observed Mrs. Figg shrewdly, far more shrewdly than most five, almost six, year olds would. “Abair, you didn’t expect that last part. You expected that I could do magic, abair, but not that, not talking to snakes. Why?”
Mrs. Figg flinched. “Yuri always insisted it wasn’t an evil trait. She said that her father’s mother always told her that her mother could do it, that it was a family trait and that her father’s mother was like me, a squib, someone born without magic, or without enough magic, to witches and wizards. Her father would have been the son of a squib. She mentioned it once at an Order meeting when someone said it was evil. She was...quite upset, actually.” Her lips pursed. “There’s rumor that her father could understand snakes and that she was a Parselmouth herself, but those were never confirmed. If she was, she never used Parseltongue in front of us. She never kept snakes at all.”
Azalea pursed her lips, then looked Mrs. Figg in the eye. “Abair, I’m not evil, I promise. The language of snakes is called Parseltongue?”
Mrs. Figg hummed. “It is,” she confirmed. “Speakers of Parseltongue are called Parselmouths.” Her face twisted in thought as she eyed Azalea. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Azalea nodded. “I know, abair. I saw the letter.”
Mrs. Figg straightened up at that. “You went into that room, didn’t you?”
Azalea nodded again. “Tufty almost tripped me coming out of it, abair, and he left the door open. I heard some noises and when I looked inside there was an owl…” Azalea’s face twisted with confusion. “Abair, I’m not sure why there was an owl, but I saw a newspaper with moving pictures and some article about Death Eaters trying to find me and getting caught. There was an article in the back about what happened to us, to my family and me, abair. And then I saw the letter.”
Mrs. Figg sighed again, this one sounded far more tired than her previous one. “I told Albus this was a terrible idea from the beginning, that we shouldn’t hide your own world and heritage from you, that it was cruel. He insisted it was for your safety, that people would try to use you for their own ends or harm you, or that you’d be overwhelmed.”
Azalea lifted one shoulder in careless dismissal. “It’s a little hard to deal with, abair, but I’m okay. Mostly I’ve just used my magic to make the Dursleys ignore me or to read at night or lock my cupboard door from the inside, abair.”
Mrs. Figg displayed the most interesting expression, one of confusion, realization, shock, and horror all rolled into one. “Your cupboard? You don’t mean to tell me they lock you in a cupboard on a regular basis?”
Azalea felt a bit like a bobble head toy at this point. “Abair, I don’t have a room of my own. They make me sleep in the cupboard under the stairs.”
Mrs. Figg’s horror only grew, with a quiet, steady anger replacing the other previous emotions. “This is completely unacceptable.”
Azalea, for what felt like the fiftieth time, shrugged. “Abair, it’s just how they are. They have me do all their chores and housework, they only give me their leftovers and scraps for food, almost everything I have is second-hand from Dudley, and they keep me in the cupboard.” And then she was rambling, spilling the ugly truth for Mrs. Figg to hear in mounting displeasure and distress. “Abair, probably the worst part is that I don’t get presents. I don’t have toys, or new clothes. No one hugs me or kisses me or says they love me. Abair, they don’t care about me, I’m just a freak to them. When Dudley and his bully friends would hurt me, abair, no one would protect me. Abair, the only reason they don’t try beating me anymore is because my magic would hurt them back—I just didn’t know what it was then, abair. I guess they did though.”
At her simple, honest, declaration—one that quickly turned into a confession as the secrets kept tumbling out, Mrs. Figg’s appalled expression only deepened, as did her anger, now rapidly developing into the ire and indignation only rivaled by wrathful gods. Azalea had never heard her voice be so flat. “The cupboard was bad enough,” she hissed, sounding like one of her many cats, or like a chilly midwinter wind rattling over a grave, “but he let them abuse you. I told him my worries and he knew, he must have known, damn him! This would be disgustingly gross negligence to allow this kind of treatment for any child, but especially a magical one, especially one of your status….After what happened to his sister, he knows what happens when a magica child is abused and their magic left unchecked and unexercised. He could have crippled your ability to use it, or made you a danger to others and yourself. If the rest of the wizarding world found out, they’d be out for his blood, from the muggleborns like your mother to the pureblood elites.” Her nostrils flared as she spat dangerously, “As they should be.”
Mrs. Figg came to a decision then. “Come with me.” And she marched past Azalea further into the house, clearly expecting her to follow along. Curious as always, she did, if only to see what would happen next. Mrs. Figg led her upstairs, toward the bedroom at the far end of the hall.
Azalea hesitated behind her in the hallway. “Wait. Abair, isn’t this…?”
Mrs. Figg didn’t stop as she turned the knob and stepped into the room. “This was Alannah’s room growing up, and she still stays here when she comes by for visits—her and her children.”
Azalea hovered by the threshold, watching the older woman shuffle through bureau drawers until she came upon one filled with silky scarves. “You never see that girl—well, woman now—without a scarf.” She carefully lifted out the one on top, a nondescript slate gray one, then opened another drawer and pulled out, to Azalea’s surprise, a child’s clothing in her size. “We’re going to Diagon Alley, Albus be damned. But you can’t go looking like that. You can wear some of my granddaughter Aislinn’s clothing in the meantime.” She stopped talking for a moment, stared at Azalea as if really seeing her for the first time. “Later I can run to the store with you and get new clothes. You can bathe first, if you’d like. I’m going to call Alannah.”
She jerked her head resolutely as if that settled everything. Azalea gave her a frail smile. “Abair, thank you, I would like that.”
The hard expression Mrs. Figg had been wearing melted away. “Of course dear. Albus may have done our world a service defeating Grindelwald, and he’s certainly gathered a lot of power and respect since then, but he’s in the wrong here. You should have never been placed with them, let alone left there after some of the letters I sent, and I didn’t even know the rest of it. I’ll help you in any way I can.”
Azalea felt as if she were missing some deeply integral information, but let it go for the moment. In a soft voice she told her, “You’re the only one who’s ever noticed—or at least, abair, you’re the only one who’s ever cared.”
If everything she told Mrs. Figg earlier had brought her into a righteous fury, this simple statement had broken her heart. “Oh, Azalea.” And there were tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry that no one’s ever fought for you. That’s going to change.”
As Mrs. Figg embraced her, fully and truly embraced her, cradling her body close to her chest and rubbing her back in a soothing, comforting manner, Azalea herself almost felt close to tears.