Chapter 1:
Mother was yelling at me again. I sat on my bed with my arms firmly crossed staring determinedly at the peeling wall. Blocking out her ranting and stubbornly ignoring her every insult. Who knows what it was about this time?
My mother was a brutal woman. My muggle (that is to say non-magical) father left her as soon as he found out that she was a witch. Not in the sense that she is wicked or cruel but in the sense that she can do real magic. Of course, mother was heartbroken and never has she shown any sign of love or compassion since.
I was staring too fiercely at the wall and realised much too late the potency of my power. With a jolt that shook the fragile floor boards, the wall in front of me blew apart and showered me with splintered wood. I felt glass from the dusty window graze the side of my face and wood chippings drew blood on my arms and legs.
My mother burst through the door having heard the commotion and pulled me up by the collar of my sickly green smock.
"What have you done!?" she screeched, gaping at the demolished wall. She beat me hard across the face and threw me to the floor. "What are the neighbours going to think? You useless little boy! Aren't you lucky that I can repair it? Huh?" She stalked from the room and returned seconds later with her thin black wand, the source of her power. I cowered in the corner peering out from behind my greasy curtain of black hair.
She waved her wand. Nothing happened. She waved it again more vigorously this time and shouted "Repairo!" Nothing happened. She shook her head and a strand of greying hair fell into her face. Once again she strode out of the room but this time she did not return. I knew she couldn't face the shame of not being able to fix an everyday hazard of magical households. Young wizards can't control their magic at this age. I felt a surge of pleasure at this thought, but then I realised that I now had a large, permanent window in my wall that couldn't be closed and I had to sleep there.
With a sigh, I picked myself up off of the floor and examined the damage I had done. It was rather extensive but on the bright side, this window wouldn't become dusty, and I now had a great view of the park.
There's this girl who comes here every day with her sister and plays on the swing. She is desperately pretty, with a long wave of shocking red hair that ripples in the wind as she flies from the swing and lands gracefully (much too gracefully) on the dry, cracking dirt of the playground.
Her sister is shorter and has an extremely long neck. Her hair is short and blonde and from my eaves-dropping I gathered that her name was Petunia or "Tuney" for short. She did not resemble her sister in the slightest.
The cute, red-headed girl and the prospect of going off to Hogwarts in two years was what got me through the frequent outbursts from my mother and drove me to persevere through every day. I don't remember a time when I wasn't forever hoping that tomorrow would be better.