Prompt: Immortality

A series of Drabbles daily until the end of winter break. Each one can't be less than a thousand words, and I've got to use a prompt for each one.

Warnings: Obvious mentions of suicide attempts are obvious.

Slitting my wrists, unfortunately, did a whole lot of nothing except for bleed everywhere and leave two faint scars on the appendages.

I look down at the list in front of me and scribble out that idea, scanning the other options. Gun? Nothing but a killer headache. Jumping off a building? Joint aches for hours afterword while my body cracked everything back into place. Drowning was just terrifying and had me coughing up water. Hanging was just painful.

"Shit." I grumble to myself. I could try again, maybe get hit by a car, but it's become clear to me that hitting something hard only sucks.

Looking to the side, I glare at an open note also lays out on the table. Mocking me.

'You're amusing, and I'm sending you somewhere with a few gifts. Don't worry about dying! Have fun.'

I suppress the urge to tear the paper to tiny shreds and toss it into the waste disposal, just so.

I've been thrown into a previously fictional world, with two folks calling me their daughter and not very well hidden folks who carry magic sticks.

I write down Avada Kedavra down, absent mindedly, as another option.

I'm also now a much smaller version of myself at that. Eleven. That's a downgrade from before I can assure you.

It's almost June. I don't really want to see if a woman with a severe bun and emerald robes shows up at my new doorstep. I really don't want to think about what I'll do if she doesn't.

I rub the uplifted skin on my right wrist with a scowl, thinking, attempting to figure out what to do.

"Alana? Darling? Hurry down! It's time for supper!" A British woman named Martha yells, and I turn and peer at my closed bedroom door.

I'll figure it out. Probably.

-linebreak-

I hold my breath while I walk, only feeling my chest burn while I idly want to scream. My brown hair is pulled up in a lazy bun at the back of my head while I scope out London, Martha's hand in my own while she chats about the wonderful ice cream place she swears is somewhere near here.

She's not bad. Hell, she's pleasant to be around and is a outright lovely woman.

She isn't my mom though. I worry for what might happen to her and Thomas should I be made a Deatheater target in a few years. It'd be hellish to convince the two of them to leave the U.K. for a year, maybe longer if a certain chosen one isn't up to standard.

I take a deep breath, hold it, exhale, and offer the woman a smile and nod at all the right moments. Might as well enjoy.

My eyes catch sight of a dingy looking pub that everyone else doesn't even glance at, and I memorize the street name.

-linebreak-

Thomas Howard is a banker. He happily does math in a way that makes me mildly disgusted, but when he sees his wife and I, the sheer adoration makes up for it. Martha Howard is a preschool teacher. She is bursting with kindness and love that makes me worry about someone taking advantage of her benefit of the doubt mentality. But when she glances at the tiny scars that've showed up on my equally tiny wrists she pulls me up in a hug and rambles about this and that in such a comforting way.

I suppose you could do worse, when handed a different set of parents. I'll give whatever put me here that.

I don't appreciate Minerva McGonagall intruding upon the weird normalacy I've created, but whatever.

"You must be Miss. Howard. It's good to meet you, young lady," The professor says with a small smile, and I hold out a hand for her to shake. She takes it with mild surprise. Martha looks contemplative over having a real magic user in her living room. Thomas might be a step away from shock, though.

"It's nice to meet you as well, Professor. This is about the magic, right?" I ask, and McGonagall nods, already adapting to the maturity. "That is correct, young lady. You've experienced strange happenings then?"

I almost want to look at my wrists in deadpan, but I suppose that doesn't count as magic. Just bullshit.

"Indeed. Mum will have no problem telling you about how I once sneezed and made a plushy burst to flames when I was, like, eight?" I hum, looking over at Martha. She happily jumps in with more information, taking control of the conversation while I gently sit Thomas down on the couch. He's looking worryingly pale and I'd rather not see what he'd look like passed out. Or throwing up. He's a bit of a mess right now, muttering about '-queen and country it's starting to make sense-'.

I pat his back gently from my seat next to him, and watch how Martha seems to be talking about my apparent mishaps with fires and tasteful blue hair. I file away that information for later. It's as much news to me as it is to the Professor.

Who knew mini-me was such a terror?

At some point McGonagall is pulling out a elegant wand and turning a lamp into a parrot. If Martha and Thomas had any suspicions they've definitely been disproven with actual, real, magic being performed before their eyes. I just focus on the fact that the spell was done silently with just a flick of McGonagall's wrist.

The Professor hands Martha a letter made from parchment, and after opening and going over the contents together, they've picked a date and time to go and get supplies from Diagon Alley.

I'm worried, I can't die, and I want to go home.

Suppose you just have to deal, though.