Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter
This was in no way intended to offend anyone of any creed. I am Arab and female myself.
Only two people are race bent: Harry and Hermione.
Only Harry is gender bent.
I chose Harry's female name after looking up meaning for "Harry" (prince). Amira means "Princess". Thank you for reading!
The swing set rattled. Chains rattled, followed by a meek groaning from the wooden pole holding it together. It continued that way, Amira pumping her legs through the air. She pushed forwards, her toes pointing up until she could almost throw herself off, and then glided back down in an arc.
Each time she reached the zenith, she was tempted to let go and fly off the set. Not because she was especially lonely or upset, although she was those things, but because the last time she did that she really did soar in the air for a few moments. She glided down gracefully, her skirt ruffled at her sides, and her body unharmed. Her mouth hung open, her head titled back. Now, how had that happened?
She approached the time again, her fingers sweaty, but swooped back down before she let go. She was too afraid. Besides, it was getting late again. She reluctantly slowed down. Her black curls drifted by her face, gliding by her head and bouncing at her shoulders.
Her feet hit the ground. She sat still, drifting in restless circles. What new tortures awaited her at home? What would Aunt Petunia condemn her to do now? What gimmicks would Dudley, her ugly, oversized cousin want to practice? He had already grown past the phase of pulling her hair and beating her up when no one was looking. He would probably mock her cloths, which once upon a time were his when he was the size and shape of a normal boy.
It would be worse if she made them wait.
Amira stood up, dusting her pants off, hitching them higher up her lanky body, and tucked the excess folds of the sweatshirt, also once Dudley's, into it so it wouldn't slip off. She walked back home.
"Where have you been?"
Amira stopped. She knew that tone. She froze her features, her brown eyes glazed over with impassiveness, and tightened her stance. She knew where it was going.
Aunt Petunia stood near the doorway. Her tart lips were twisted in resentment. "If my Dudley-kins's birthday is called off because you decided to run away you'll never here the last of it."
Amira waited. She expected something far worse. It never came. Petunia was too busy preparing for her darling son's birthday. Amira's own special day had flown by unnoticed.
Sometimes on her birthdays, if she got lucky, she would get a hair tie from Petunia or a shoelace from Dudley. And, if she was even luckier, a school friend - or at least a girl who wasn't so mean to her - would drop by and give her a skirt or book or maybe some pocket money. Not that Amira's school situation was any better than the at-home one. But that's how things are, and she didn't feel like she could complain.
She went to her cupboard, spotting Uncle Vernon and Dudley watching the television. A news story came on about some attack or unrest in the world. She opened the door and felt the skin on the back of her neck prickle.
"Hey, it's your people, causing problems again!" Dudley said.
"Really?" Amira turned around, "I didn't know pigs could understand bloodlines."
It was weak but she was desperate. She shut the door to her cupboard before they could process her insult.
. . .
The Potters were really hoping for a boy, now weren't they?
Yes, they were. But she's a lovely child.
The voices echoed somewhere very far away, but each word was clear and sharp.
Do you think the scar would cause problems along the way?
Do you really think a girl's worth is based solely on her looks?
Of course not. But not everyone thinks that way.
Yes, that's true.
Two women's voices. Whose? Amira's mind moved groggily. She folded the information over in her head, but nothing matched. The jigsaw pieces didn't fit.
She has a future ahead of her.
A pause.
That's quite a big thing to hope for.
Not too big. When the time comes it will be manageable.
The closer you get to something the bigger it gets, though.
Not in terms of time.
She half expected them to cackle, with thunder blossoming against a dark backdrop. By the pricking of my thumbs/something wicked this way comes! Then a witch to break off, her lame eye cocked at the entrance. Open locks/whoever knocks That would be silly, however.
The dream was sliced in half, splitting into green lighting. And pain. The electrifying jolt crashed into Amira. She flung her eyes open, sweating, and the scar at her forehead stinging. She reached towards it, finding that she had forgotten to take her glasses off, and patted it lighting. Her fingers met damp skin and calloused flesh.
The dream's ripples rolled through her for another few minutes, until her breathing regained tempo. She pulled her glasses off and set them aside, placing her palms to her face. It happened again.
They called it PTSD when she first woke up screaming in pain at the blazing green and the flashes of red hair. She asked where she would have even seen green like that. Petunia had interfered, telling Amira that it was when her parents had passed away in a car crash. Green lights sped by, probably. She was just a baby in the backseat, unaware.
"Careless girl your mother was." Petunia would add.
Amira turned over on her bed. She pushed her hair back, finally relaxed. She reviewed the events of the night, which were already slipping away from her. She stared into the pools of water in her hands, seeing them drip away before she could catch them all.
She recalled the dialogue in her dream. But it was lodged too far back. She couldn't recall the exact words or emotions, except that it had been two women, and her family name had been brought up.
What did that mean? She thought.
Her eyes focused on the bottom of the stairs, slanting down towards her feet. The shadows caressed each plank. If moonlight was there it would have hugged frame and glistened on the cobwebs like raindrops.
Amira reached for the door, which was easy to do since she was a tall girl in a very small room. She twisted it and met a threatening clink. It was locked. Amira sighed. They didn't trust her. Not after ten years of her doing nothing to earn their distrust. Except have darker skin and hair, and have a father who changed his last name to "fit in" but still gave her an unusual first name.
She didn't hate it, no. Amira wasn't one to go into blind rage against someone she had never met. He surely had his own reasons. And, she had gone to the library and looked up the meaning of her name. It was Arabic, no surprise, and it meant "princess" or, in a way, "queen". It was grandiose, not necessarily very powerful. But it's a person that makes a name not a name a person.
During that same trip she attempted to find news articles from the car accident day. She found no obituaries to any Lily or James Potters. No news articles on accidents.
It was almost like they never even existed in the first place.
Which heightened the mystery: what exactly happened to the young couple that brought the mixed race, semi-religious girl into the hands of an uncaring aunt? Who would have brought her here in the first place? It would have been nicer to set her up in an orphanage.
She turned over and attempted to go back to sleep.
. . .
"Broke her damn leg." Vernon hissed at Petunia.
They exchanged a glance and then set their eyes on Amira, who was pretending to be preoccupied with the newspaper. She had listened to their conversation, and Dudley's tantrum before that on not receiving enough gifts, and the coos and awing that churned her stomach before that. She wanted to pinch Dudley's babyish face and drown him in the toilet. She sipped her orange juice angrily.
"You're going with us." Vernon said stiffly.
Amira looked up innocently.
I could stay home.
The words were at the end of a diving board, bending their knees and poising to jump into the waters.
She could, and play on Dudley's computer, and maybe even take a walk. It would be peaceful. She would finally have some time to herself!
Then the words got dizzy and stepped back, slowing retreating down the later. She knew how quickly Vernon's face could go from undercooked bread hue to compressed plum shade.
Instead, she gave them an apologetic look and nodded silently. As if she was very sorry. She wasn't. She would get to go to the zoo. With Dudley. But still, the zoo! Amira restrained her excitement and concocted the look of grave sorrow as she exited the house.
Before she entered the car, Vernon roughly grasped her shoulder, avoiding her hair which he usually grabbed, and pulled her off to the side. He bent down, his moustache not far from her nose, and his breath still smelling of bacon, which she never ate. His beady eyes narrow and pierced through her.
"No funny business."
She nodded. Knowing full well that she couldn't keep that promise.