Chapter Text
Number Four, Privet Drive, was silent now. A terrible, sudden silence; of the kind that came only after rapid shouting and horrible screaming. The occupants of Privet Drive had not been exactly blind to the strange occurrences over the past week. Owls at every time of day and night, despite Privet Drive being in the middle of residential Surrey. The husband, Vernon, scurrying around the house like an overgrown, terrified rat on a sinking ship, boarding up the windows and doors as though he feared a foreign military might be invading their quiet little street. The insanity being displayed by an ordinarily solid, dependable man, was a cause for concern among the neighbourhood watch; and so, when the shouting at Number Four Privet Drive ceased, many feared the worst.
Standing in the centre of the lounge room, ten-year-old Hazel Potter clenched her fists into tiny balls of absolute fury. It had been an accident; but she was just so angry and confused by everything around her that it had been everything she could do to not throw herself bodily at her Uncle and Aunt and demand answers while hitting them repeatedly with her little fists. Instead, a hot wave of something had rushed through her veins and bubbled like magma in her chest until she was bombarded with everything.
Every thought that her Aunt was viciously thinking as she had screamed at her niece had ripped through Hazel’s mind; and the ten year old girl had screamed in agony. It was the kind of wail that abused puppies and tortured kittens made as they were burned alive. Hazel had clapped her hands to her head and cried deep heaving sobs that had shaken her tiny frame. Her Aunt had clapped a hand to her forehead in pain, but not even Petunia was so heartless as to leave her niece in agony while she might be able to do something about it.
Unfortunately, it was far too late, the damage had already been done.
Like a wave of ice through her mind, what Hazel now knew to be her magic, the burning fire of her Aunt’s thoughts were assembled and assimilated into categories within Hazel’s mind. Hazel was ten years old and she was a witch. Anguished green eyes lifted to meet the muddy brown of Petunia’s, and Hazel gave out a sobbing groan as she backed away, trying to reconcile her new, terrible knowledge with every single horrible day that she had spent trying to make her aunt love her, to make her uncle see her, to make Dudley like her enough to play with her. It had never been enough.
And now she knew why.
Hazel Potter was a witch and that would always count against her, even if she should save every person in the world from sure destruction. The Dursley’s would never love her, they would never appreciate her; all because she had magic. Something she had no choice in and was a legacy of her long departed parents.
“You knew,” Hazel rasped, her voice hoarse from the scream that had ripped through her throat not minutes before. “You knew, and you never told me!”
Betrayal scorched through her veins and tears stung her eyes. She wasn’t enough, she never would be. Something deep within her broke and drifted away. With a distressed wail, Hazel spun on her toes and fled the room, throwing herself into the cupboard under the stairs and burying herself beneath the thin, ratty blankets that, she would pretend on days when she needed the comfort, made up her nest.
Outside the cupboard, Petunia stayed in her confused half-crouch, wondering just where she had gone wrong. Hazel was usually responsive to any and all comfort that Petunia provided her, however reluctant that might be. Dismissing the child as hysterical, Petunia made her way into the kitchen and began to prep for dinner. Leave it to a girl to be ridiculous, Petunia was never so glad that she’d birthed a boy.
Inside her safe haven, Hazel was swiftly coming to the realisation that she could not stay in this house. It was toxic and the Dursley’s hated her anyway. Determination thrummed through her and Hazel waited patiently as Petunia cooked dinner and then called the men of the household to dinner. For the first time, Hazel was glad that she was never invited to the table, because it gave her the chance to slip from her cupboard and upstairs to her aunt and uncles room.
Vernon had a very structured way of living. Every morning at six am, he would wake up to a loud blaring alarm and stumble into the bathroom to have a shower. Once showered, Vernon would dress in one of his many bland, grey suits and choose a particularly boring tie to match with his invariably white shirt. Then, like clockwork, Vernon would secure his silver watch around his fat wrist and slip his wallet and keys, which were always stored beside Petunia’s third jewellery box, into his right pocket.
Hazel slipped into her aunt and uncles room, curling her lip at the sight of the tan bedspread that was patterned an ugly, dark brown floral mosaic. Hazel turned from the bed to the vanity-cum-dresser and picked up her uncles wallet and flipped through his various cards until she located his Barclay’s credit card, which had a ten thousand dollar maximum on it. The card was also rarely used outside of purchasing new furniture and the occasional bakery delight by her uncle at work, and the accumulated fees were always paid off each month like clockwork.
From there, Hazel made her light-fingered way through her aunts’ many jewellery boxes, taking perverse delight in nicking Petunia’s only string of pearls and her diamond earrings. Satisfied with her thieving, Hazel then crept into Dudley’s room and slipped her small bony feet into a pair of long wooden socks, bright red sneakers, and Dudley’s softest, warmest hoodie.
Tugging Dudley’s smallest backpack onto her right shoulder, Hazel made quick work of shimmying out of his back window and down the drainpipe into the backyard. Hazel paused in the gathering darkness, peeping through the window to watch Petunia collect the plates and scrape off the scraps onto another, smaller plate that would have been hers had she stayed. As Hazel watched all this, she wondered how she could ever have missed their disinterest and negligence of her. It was quite the sorrowing sight to reconcile.
Now even more determined than before, Hazel set to jogging down the footpath towards the only bus stop in three kilometres. Once, long, long ago, back when she had been eight years old and a lot more hopeful, Hazel had made a weekly trek down to the bus stop to watch people come and go off the huge, shiny, red, double-decker bus that serviced all of Surrey. It had lit a little hopeful fire in her chest to watch the different people disembark, wondering if one mightn't recognise her and declare, “Hazel! Oh my goodness! Look how you’ve grown! I’m your mother/father/uncle/aunt/sister/brother/cousin, and I’ve come to take you away from those horrid Dursley’s!”
But no one ever had; and Hazel had lost hope.
Pulling the black hood of her new jumper up and over her short, messy, black hair, Hazel adjusted her wire-framed glasses and huddled deeper into the fleeced lining of her hoodie. The bus only ever came on the hour, and would often be anywhere from ten to thirty minutes late the further away from rush hour it got. Hazel sat on that cold metal seat for close to two hours before the sight of the big red bus made its shuddering way around the corner of Willow Close and came to a screeching halt in front of her.
Hazel jumped up and made her shivering way towards the front of the bus and carefully climbed aboard. The bus driver took the five quid it cost for a one way ticket to Stratford, and dismissively waved her towards the back of the bus. Hazel huddled down in between the glass of the buses side and the back of the chair she was perched on, and tried to ignore the loud teenagers behind her that were jeering and heckling each other on their way to the movies.
By the time the bus pulled into Stratford, the last of summers light had long since disappeared and night had truly fallen. Despite not having eaten in twelve hours, Hazel was feeling more energised than she had in years, and she felt a wide smile split her face.
London was very different from everywhere else she had been and there was a kind of magnetic energy that thrummed through the large city and drew her forever onwards through the tangled streets and gloomy, dark parks. By the time Hazel had found a semi-covered place to rest her weary feet, she was a long way away from Stratford and deep within the concert jungle that was London’s east end. Curled up beneath a low-hanging bush, Hazel drifted off to sleep with a small smile on her features.