Disclaimer: I do not own HP or Lindsey Stirling's "Song of the Caged Bird". Again comment if like…constructive criticism welcome ;)
(but...holy shitaki mushrooms...10,711 words in this chapter alone...so many sleepless nights staying up typing this...0.0 All I ask is you enjoy and comment. Phew )
Warning(s): Mentions of past child abuse and domestic violence, blood, implications of near death, trigger warning! If you have suffered abuse (like my mom did; she even helped me write a lot of this based loosely on her experiences), crude language and possible sexual innuendo (nothing explicit…I don't do rape scenes, I just can't) and mention of nudity...lol
"Vocal speaking" (everyone sans Heather)
"Thoughts" (mainly Heather)
(A/N- Song Featured: Song of the Caged Bird by Lindsey Stirling.)
Chapter 1- Pain of the Past (pt.1)
The clock presiding proudly over King's Cross Station struck midday. At this time, a young girl noted, many people are out and about. A lot of people equal a large crowd; a large crowd equals a lot of money, which promises dinner tonight…maybe some new clothing. Well, newer than what she has at present.
She wore her oversized but warm knitted maroon sweatshirt that fell past her fingertips, which was in miraculously perfect condition and in no need of replacing (despite the numerous times she had tripped and fallen, it had never once sustained any damage…no, only her pride). Not that she would, she argued, it was an unbidden but welcome gift from a rather plump, but kind red headed woman who spied her shivering form one winter day. Under it, a black hoodie with a broken zipper that her cousin gave her long ago, under the guise it was "too plain" and he didn't like it (the elder Dursley's didn't even think twice, and promised a new one by the end of the day), the mid-thigh length black monotone black and white plaid skirt was frayed and torn in some places at the edges, her black knee high cotton socks resembled swiss cheese with the numerous holes dotting the fabric (she a made mental note to replace the skirt and socks), and a lightly worn pair black and white of converse that comfortable hugged her feet, having been brand new and unworn when she got them.
She made sure she forgot no article of clothing (unlike last time…she forgot her boxers at the Laundromat and walked around like a Scotsman the whole day with no one the wiser), she went to the restroom to tidy up as much as possible for the day's performance.
Sure enough, there she was observing the appearance of the girl staring back at her.
The girl had a choppy, perpetually unkempt rat's nest she called hair, it was mid-neck in length and black as a raven's wing, as well as in need of a proper washing (and brushing, as if that made a difference). Her face, washed of sleep and grime for the most part, was pale and soft looking with baby fat, with perfect pink lips chapped from the cool London air, and half-blind but piercing vivid green eyes that gave nothing away.
She ran petite, callused fingers though the greasy mop of hair in a fruitless attempt to order the rebellious strands into some semblance of neatness.
As her raven bangs shifted, her enigmatically keen eyes caught sight of the abnormal lightning shaped scar sitting innocuously above her left brow.
Heather Potter eyed the mark dubiously. So many questions about her past arose to the forefront at the sight, yet eluding capture at every turn (She chose to ignore the tripe her relatives spouted).
Heather fixed her appearance as if it mattered, and smirked sardonically at the pitiful image she made; her expression morphed into a tragic travesty of cockiness, for the sheer irony that she had nothing to be cocky for made the situation at hand that much more ironic.
Heather Jaclyn Potter, aka Anonymous Melody, left her large dressing room commonly known as the public restroom. The girl pointedly ignored the obscurely long line extending out of the men's loo, choosing not to ponder the fact that the women's designated loo remained lineless (only at King's Cross did the small girl ever come across such a backwards phenomenon)
With her dearest Melody at her back and face adorned with a bittersweet smile, Heather walked through the doors leading to the busy streets of London as ready as she will be to take what life will throw at her today...
The sun shined brightly at the zenith of its daily journey, under which a small crowd steadily gathered around the publically known Anonymous Melody of King's Cross as she prepares for her midday serenade.
The crowd waited with growing anticipation, their quiet chatter buzzing in the air.
Amidst the masses of muggles and magical people alike, a very similar looking pale featured figure stood at the front of the gathered masses, watching the young violinist's back as she tuned her violin, making small adjustments every now and then. Then she stood, eyes on the brick support in front of her, and taking a preparatory breath. Finally, after minutes of composing herself mentally, she turned to the eager crowd (that only grew in those anticlimactic moments) entrapping her on all sides as far as she could see (which was not far…).
As she raised her bow to Melody's vocal chords, a hush reminiscent of a silencing charm fell over the surrounding masses.
As the first note sang out, Heather fell into a trance like state. Memories unbidden played across her eyes. She remained unaware of each emotion echoing vividly in the hearts and minds that heard her song, uncannily manipulating their emotions to match her own; and they unaware of the fact she practically vacated her body, her mind lost in the chaotic din of memories…
- (Memories: Song of the Caged Bird) -
She was turning 5 today, she sighed longingly, and as usual was sans a gift.
Girl's blurry gaze tried and inevitably failed to focus on a small indeterminate dot in the corner that she was sure to have been a benign house spider.
It was 8:30 am and another day of primary school.
She completed her usual morning ritual; breakfast was cooked and any facial bruising was covered by her long raven hair (because expensive concealer was too good for the likes of her). Despite Aunt Petunia's many warning about not hitting her in the face, ("it's too conspicuous and someone might take notice" she reprimands him), Uncle Vernon still threatens her not to tell lest she wish for a beating that would make her wish she had never been born.
Truth be told, Freak already wishes herself dead, no beating was needed. But she wouldn't tell anyways because, quite frankly, she doesn't want her bruises to have bruises.
Her Aunt harshly rapped on the boundary to her little haven (though not much its better than having nothing, right?), "Were leaving out in 5 minutes, don't forget anything!" her screeching voice, comparable to nails on a chalkboard, was barely muffled by the flimsy vented gate.
Heather (as happy as she was to that discover she a name like Dudley, she still had to get used to using it) had been perched on her cot, dressed in her donated uniform that hung off her bony underdeveloped frame. Frea-…no, Heather found herself quietly thanking the former student who had the foresight and kindness to do so. At that inspiring thought, she left out the front door of her personal hell for the better part of three and three quarters* (given the fact she was about one and a half at the time) of her life to the failed juvenile correctional facility disguised cleverly as an institute of learning.
Yep, just another day like any other because freaks don't have birthdays.
- (Silence born in the dead of night) -
The silence reigning over the night was broken by the sharp sound of an open palm hitting bare skin, the sound originating from within the walls of number 4 Private Drive.
Neighbors of the Dursley's, save two, have all but severed any form of communication and relations with number four's residents, the exception being their small abused niece. None dared to file a lawsuit against them after that one time someone did; the accuser lost the case due to insufficient evidence. The small child's agonized screams had never been heard louder or more prolonged until that night; many still had nightmares about the aftermath of that event. If they stood by and did nothing, she was hurt. If they tried to help her, she was hurt worse; A lose-lose situation.
She wasn't seen for a week after that.
It's happening again, and no one can do a single thing to stop it.
Heather fell to the floor of Dudley's second bedroom with a solid thump. She cried out as her head came into contact with the drywall, her glasses flying somewhere behind the towering figure casting a shadow over her in the moonlit night, lying in a dazed stupor at their feet.
-Instinctively, she curled into a ball in attempt to protect her throbbing head and cheek. She was facing the abused wall, although she'd succinctly point out that her head had been more aggrieved, but it's kind of hard to do when one's back is being viciously lambasted. Pained cries and pleas for mercy were forced from her fading vocal chords, worn and scratchy from extended periods of abuse.
-"Shut your lying mouth, Girl! You deserve this you freak of nature!" the man, whose face was an unattractive purple from rage, growled harshly and emphasizing every word with a solid kick to her body, made frail from malnourishment, "Your wiseacre mouth landed you here! Shut up! Shut up! Your voice annoys me!"
She bit her tongue to stifle her steadily weakening cries; she could feel her feeble body giving out. This continued as Uncle Vernon ranted on about how she, a freak, made his boy look dumber than a rock (truly he was, with grades that would barely pass him to the next year) and how it had been her to cheat off of Dudley, not the other way around. The idiot girl, in his mind, cannot possibly get an A+ on a test without cheating off of his intelligent son. Not without using her freaky powers. She manipulated the teachers' mind. It's inconceivable! It's madness! It's scandalous!
"He's Deranged…" she mused weakly as her vision started tunneling, her body went blissfully numb, and her assailant's words became more indiscernible until…silent oblivion followed.
She awoke hours later to the rising sun, sprawled on her back as if someone had prodded and tried to rouse her from her comatose state.
Heather could only lie there inert, staring listlessly at the ceiling of the vacant room.
Her voice annoyed him? At this Heather decided "I will not speak for any reason; not even when spoken to. From this day forward, I forsake my voice."
She dragged her flagging body out of the spare bedroom (knowing if her cousin found her in there he'd cause a bedlam and earn herself another beating, quite possibly her last) and down the stairs, painstakingly avoiding the creaky step, to her small haven under the stairs. She landed in an ungainly heap of hypersensitive nerves and protesting limbs.
"Nevermore…" the ravenette croaked hoarsely one final time, "quoth the raven, nevermore…" She finished reciting in her head, imagining a phantom raven sitting over her cupboard door, crowing in response, "Nevermore…" and flew away.
Heather fell into a dreamless sleep…all this grief over a test score she had rightfully earned.
When she next awoke, she said nothing as she found herself lacking the will to do so, and held her head down demurely in what she knew was a vain effort to gain her objectionable relatives' indifference. Predictably, her hopes were crushed.
On a sad note, they hate her for reasons unfathomable to her shattered psyche.
Then, the youthful shine in her emerald eyes all but faded as a solitary tear slipped down her bruised cheek unhindered. Heather mourned the loss of her own innocence, tainted by the bigotry and hatred of those who were supposed to care.
A single phantasmal feather fell from somewhere unknown, disintegrating into a shower of irretrievable lights.
- (A Syren's Call) -
Today, the raven haired girl could be found at the top most rung of a trio of horizontal bars, standing easily 15 feet off the ground, eating a small lunch of Vienna sausages and a Kool-Aid juice box. The bars themselves were comfortably situated in the shade of the towering English oaks that enclosed the area.
Her school mates, Heather learned early on, avoided the equipment like the plague. Few had a valid reason; the only one being acrophobia, the fear of heights.
Yet, Heather harbors no such fear; in fact she'd venture to say she loves them…if her current position is any indication, that is.
Many of her peers try to cajole her down, going as far as to calling her names, only to receive goading look that clearly read, "Come and get me." Needless to say, they walked away thoroughly cowed and unsatisfied with her response (or lack thereof in Heather's case).
With them gone, she enjoyed the September air as it caressed her cold-reddened face and playfully teased her wild ebony locks with wordless insinuations being so intimately exchanged in mere moments.
Her spectacled gaze caught sight of a raven with ebony plumage taking flight and disappearing into to the horizon. "I wish I could fly away and never come back." Heather gazed longingly at the place the beautiful avian was last spotted, "I wish I could escape, if only for an hour…"
The school bell rang, loudly announcing the end of recess, and the imminent start of the day's final lesson.
All children at Surrey's local primary school are required to take either an arts or computer based elective, much to the Dursley's dismay as this included Heather as well.
Predictably, Dudley chose something computer based and was greatly distressed to learn that video games were not an option, before grudgingly going with typing. He, in his truest fashion, threw a tizzy to get his way. This was met with mixed reaction; the school counselor was blatantly bemused and appalled by the lack of discipline, his parents were quietly beaming in pride ("He's a protesting prodigy!" the man whispered excitedly to his wife who nodded in agreement), and Heather was smugly amused at the embarrassing display. The very unmoved student counselor told him in no uncertain terms that she is here to help him not appease his puerile whims, and that if he didn't choose for himself, she would choose for him.
This shut him down, nonplussed that his go-to tactic failed him, and earned Heather's eternal respect simultaneously.
In fact, the memory made her laugh every time it came to mind.
Heather, after much consideration, decided on orchestral music. This incited loud protests from her relations; she breaks anything she touches, she is incapable of learning anything, she is prone to tantrums (the counselor raises a brow, pointedly looking at her despondent cousin), and she is incorrigible. Heather shook her head in amused disbelief.
It's funny, in the mind of the girl in question, all those things describe the unnaturally quiet boy in the seat adjacent her own.
As for the last accusation, Heather neither confirms nor denies it…
So naturally, the ravenette has a scheduled place in the music class.
The emerald eyed brunette sat ever so quietly at the end of the arched row of chairs as far from her other section mates as possible, a fact the first seat violin found odd but said nothing.
Heather took in the sight of the stringed instrument: its body lost quite a bit of its polished luster finish and its finger board was scratched and indented in places form the strings being pressed down. Yet, each string was in perfect tune; a sign of being well loved and cared for.
Unlike herself, Heather found herself envious of the inanimate object.
The violin was property of the school as her legal guardians adamantly refused to "waste their hard earned money on the likes of her." To this Heather shrugged nonchalantly, she already knew, garnering a look of heart wrenching comprehension from the school counselor. Heather never understood the pitying looks sent her way; truly she isn't worth anyone's time or money. Heather is a freak of nature, she receives nothing less than she deserves.
Soon enough, the ravenette found herself deaf to every off key note and irrelevant conversation by the most beautiful sound she had ever heard, evergreen eyes catching sight of a faint glow from an empty practice room window…
Heather was awoken from her reverie by the deafening silence. Only when she felt a cool weight in her hand did she open her eyes, an action that she had no recollection of doing, did she notice she wasn't alone in the room she somehow wound up in.
The music professor, whose name she missed, wore a gentle rueful expression on her face; her eyes pained but accepting as if silently saying good bye to a departing friend she may never see again and yet fully unwilling to keep them from their happiness.
What would she miss so dearly, yet liberate so willingly?
Upon looking down, Heather's breath caught in her throat at the ornate beauty of a violin that lay across her lap, rather contently she might add. She stared questioning her admittedly lacking sanity, wondering if an inanimate object has the ability to feel anything, let alone content.
A wave of pure amusement of indeterminate origin washes over and puts her jumbled thoughts at peace.
"It's like…" Heather briefly wondered if even thinking the word would jinx her…only to find herself incapable if caring at the current moment, her already rotten luck can't get any more so (or so she thinks…), "magic." The violin sang its pleasure at her conclusion.
Heather put the unresolved dilemma aside for the moment as she took her first real look at the object in question; it had a lustrous ebony wood body, a gold accented engraving reading Melody in vine like calligraphy along the lower bout, strange runes were carved and in lain with gold into the thin sides of its body, and shining with a mysterious aura.
It- no, Melody felt very much alive, and Heather accepts this fact.
The ravenette looks pointedly at Melody, then back to the professor, her eyes inquisitive.
"As I am sure you have guessed, this is no ordinary instrument you now hold," The woman laughed at the evident shock on the girl's face, "as indicated by the engraving, her name is Melody."
"Her full title is Vagabond Melody, Healer of the Broken," She informed, "and today, she is living up to given status as a wanderer."
Heather looked confused, "Oh, I'm terrible at explaining things, do pardon me…" the girl nodded for the flustered woman to continue, "…in any case, Melody is alive in a sense and long story short chose you to be her next companion and eh…Patient if you will until she decides her mission is accomplished." While the elucidation (1) made little sense to Heather, it was clearly the only way to explain the situation at hand, profoundly indicating that even the professor didn't know everything about the mystifying object in question.
With the shake of her head, the music professor conceded with a tone of finality and assurance, "Only time and experience will shed light on the answers you seek." The woman contemplated her next words carefully, wonder just how much the girl knew of her parents and the world she was born to, "Knowing more about yourself and past will be essential to answering the questions you have about your new knew friend there."
At this point, the green eyed ravenette resolved to uncover her unknown past. Although, going about that was truly a conundrum in itself.
"But even knowing that much, she will remain an enigma by any set of laws; written, spoken or otherwise." The professor stated frankly, "Knowing of Melody's origins is key, once again living up to her vagabond status. Ever wandering and just as secretive; their origin unknown to all save the one in question."
Heather's curiosity was piqued, an inquisitive gleam made her jaded emerald eyes glitter like gems; for the first time, in the short time she knew Heather, the young girl looked her physical age.
The woman preened her metaphorical feathers in pride for bringing a small light to eyes that have seen far too much, far too young.
"With that said, no more is known of her past companions save myself and the one who bestowed her to me, at Melody's volition. Rowena was a mother figure to me as my own had died years prior to meeting her; both of them were." The professor closed her eyes, her happy smile morphing into a wistful one at a disturbing thought that plagued an otherwise happy memory.
"At this point, I leave her in your care." The woman smiles perhaps too brightly and stands up, "My parting advice to you is as follows; take care of her and she will repay you tenfold. There is only one way to repay her: to let her go when she calls for another." She advises, "But rest easy, Heather, she will not be leaving you any time soon, that much is assured. In fact, I'd chance to say you might become her favorite adventure yet." She smiled knowingly at that last part.
Heather sat stupefied by the aspect of returning to her blood relations' house with her new mystifying companion. But what of Melody's safety?
As if reading her mind, the professor replied to unspoken question, "It's not her safety I'd worry for…" came the cryptic answer, as she quickly left the room before the small ravenette could protest.
Heather had a smile on her face for the rest of the day, even when the Dursleys' dragged her to the car, only to be promptly locked in her cupboard for whatever reason Uncle Vernon thought perfectly justified.
Heather couldn't bring herself to care the reason. It was invalid.
That night, Melody lulled Heather to sleep, a small smile rested easily on her sleeping face. For the first time in her short life, she was content.
- (Of muggle antics and acts of rebellion by inanimate objects) -
Murphy's Law states that anything that can go wrong will go wrong; and additionally stating that if something has not gone wrong, it is waiting for a much worse time to go wrong.
And this, it seems, is one of these times.
Heather watches the proceedings with rampaging trepidation and burning righteous anger. However, the ravenette desists from giving her legal guardians the pleasure of reaction.
Thus, she watches from behind an impassive mask at their antics with ambivalence; at the multitude of failed attempts to dispose of or separate Melody from her.
Perhaps and explanation is in order…
The following morning after meeting and bonding with Melody, her cousin whom she loathingly dubs pig-in-a-wig (while silently apologizing to the tasty animal she had just blatantly insulted) was set loose in order to sniff out truffles*…particularly, one named Heather.
Heather was rudely awoken at being lugged around by the back of her oversized rags she called a shirt to the living room, where Dudley was raising a riot. At what, Heather could not discern in her current state.
He pointed at her limp bleary eyed person; at the violin case she had held in an iron grip to her front explicitly (she was unaware of this detail…until later).
"It's probably school property, Dudley-kins," cooed Petunia, whom hilariously resembled a horse-head-on-a-stick other normal kids her age would play pretend with, in what she felt was a placating tone before turning her steely gaze to Heather, "Right, Freak?"
Heather merely tilts her head to the side mutely, her jet black hair in disarray from resting, to rub the sleepy blurriness out of her eye with a balled fist calmly…too calmly for the middle aged woman to ignore; the dangling girl offered up no response.
It was as if… "Is she even awake, Vernon?" looking pointedly at the one in question.
"Well, are you, Girl?" he spat at the outwardly demure girl, but not expecting a verbal response. He loved and hated this new development; no more questioning or arguing, but making his own endeavors at questioning her completely moot.
Uncle Vernon (a relation she is far from proud of) is a whale of a man with enough blubber on him to make a whaler turn his way. The mental image in itself forced her bite back a laugh (but she still sent a mental apology to the graceful sea dweller for that off-comment regardless).
Apparently she missed something, because momentarily she wound up dazed and lying prostate the carpeted floor sporting a sore back and found herself looking at a very upside world.
"Whazzahfuchkh…?" came the intelligent thought.
Heather watched lethargically as the travesty-of-a-mare opened plain the black case and the abject shock that planted itself onto her face at the sight of the beautiful creation.
Then Dudley spotted something that Heather had yet to notice before now; a small black plaque on the zipper cover with her name engraved and inlaid with gold in the same artfully elegant calligraphy as on Melody itself.
"Lying thieving girl!" Petunia accused, "Who did you steal this from! It's too beautiful and expensive looking to be yours!"
Funny, how Heather was thinking the same. She gave no response.
A surge of protective instinct ran though her Heather as the homely woman motioned to hand the instrument, her new companion, to her cousin. "He'll break it-her like everything else!" she glares fiercely, picking herself up and lunging herself at the now pale terrified boy.
Minutes later Heather was locked up in her cupboard; silent, bitter tears burning pale trails down her unwashed face. She failed Melody…she couldn't keep her promise to the woman who entrusted her with her former companion's safety and care*. (A/N: she coincidentally forgot the teacher's last statement)
Busy drowning in her mental anguish, she didn't hear the sound of something being fitfully chucked into the spare room (that quintessentially served the role of a graveyard for broken things), nor the loud pitiful whining of her cousin; All within an hour.
She was forced out later to slave away on dinner (that she couldn't have any of, not that she was particularly hungry at this point anyways) and smirked despite herself at his rehashed rant, "It's broken, mum. I tried playing it, it made no sound…"
"Curious", Heather muses, "always played for me."
"…not even when I threw it across the room!" Heather glared heatedly at the dunderheaded brat. "Is it really any wonder why he has a small bedroom half filled with broken or discard things." Either her look went unnoticed or was pointedly ignored.
She leaned more towards the former, however, when he showed no signs of being bothered by the eyes glaring holes through his back and no smirk splitting his face.
That night, as she fitfully slept, Melody appeared by Heather's side unharmed and soon was enveloped in the arms of a now peacefully slumbering child, her mere presence chased away the nightmares plaguing her girl.
The next day, the Dursleys confiscated Melody and locked her in the basement. For good measure, they also locked Heather in her cupboard as well, only letting her out to use the loo.
That night, all hell broke loose.
At approximately 1:30 in the morning, an explosion shook the very foundation of the house and jolted number 4's residents awake; but strangely only them.
Heather, now awake, was pleasantly surprised that new her friend lay contently next to her on her cot. Melody seemed disgruntled, her aura flickering in annoyance, at the fact she had been locked in the stuffy basement, instead of with her girl.
Melody, like the better part of two nights, found herself the snuggle buddy of her girl. Heather noted with awe as her only friend's flickering vexation gave way to immediate humming contentment with the action.
She fell asleep to Melody's soothing humming.
Her guardians assessed the damage the next morning; two Dursleys were reduced to slack jawed fools at the sight of the perfectly round epicenter of the explosion with boxes haphazardly thrown about; lying around either damaged, squashed or just gone. At least one item, Heather observed, was blown out the now shattered windows from the force of the explosion. Petunia broke into a fit of tears at the sheer mess she had to reorganize –for she felt she could not trust Heather to not deliberately destroy anything else– and for the irreplaceable and priceless china, family heirlooms and keepsakes of her now deceased parents, that lay scattered in innumerable shards on or embedded in the floor and walls, and buried amongst a pile of splinters that once served as a door or outside with the many shards of blown out window glass.
Heather starred in wide-eyed shock at the image of mayhem before her, but could not muster up any feelings of pity for the broken woman on her knees; only sadistic amusement.
The rest of the day, Heather wore a smug smile with Melody against her back –that strangely enough, went unseen by all but herself– and at one point, wordlessly humming part of a song she heard on the radio once, following along with lyrics she remembered in her head:
Woah, Mona Lisa,
I'd pay to see you frown
Say what you mean
Tell me I'm right
And let the sun rain down on me
Give me a sign
I want to believe
There's nothing wrong with just a taste of what you've paid for*(3)
(Melody, Meet Fireplace...)
The next two days entailed assimilating and organizing anything salvageable –which was not much as more than expected was just gone, and even more was irreparable fine china– and a plethora of phone calls that for the most part were ignored in favor of it all being an overzealously elaborate prank. It amazed Heather when one glass fitter actually came. Upon completing his job he left skeptical, and muttering about having been quite sure these people have bats in the belfry*(4).
This was all well and good for Heather as she was given free reign of her time…and the pantry; but for the most part, she practiced scales and melodies (in many of the aforementioned scales). Heather found she was perfectly content, and for the first time was not asleep to find such a reprieve.
But as they say, all good things must come to an end.
On the third day, her time on cloud nine abruptly ended.
Vernon held her Melody precariously close to the lit fireplace, exasperation rolling off of her in waves. Heather hid her unnerve behind her trained impassive mask as she stood helplessly with her arms held behind her back by one of Dudley's pudgy hands, the other unoccupied one fisted in her newly washed hair –having done so during the two days of being left to her own devices– pulling it at such an angle she could not turn her head, close her eyes, or look away discreetly without bringing about more comfort for herself, even more than her current position granted her.
Aunt Petunia sat off to Heather's right in the pale blue love seat, her already equine-like face made more hideous by the bags under her eyes indicating a distinct lack of sleep (Dudley was no better off), her bloodshot eyes focused solely on her cringe worthy niece's stony expression ready to capture Heather's satisfying misery to placate her own desire for requital after what she had lost merely three days ago. One that, by the end of it all, remained woefully unsated.
Petunia had always jealous of her sister; Lily had been the looker of the family as well as the talented one and it seems her daughter had inherited her beautifully soft features, as well as some of her father's sharp, rugged appeal. Her ebony hair, untamed and spirited as it was, had done nothing to detract from her promising beauty; and nor did being a filthy unwashed mess. It infuriated her to no end, and in her sleep deprived mind, found it completely reasonable to watch the girl suffer for daring to promise to be so handsomely beautiful. She avoids her eyes, which she knows to be the hauntingly familiar bright emerald green of her estranged and late younger sister; the last look of betrayal still haunts her to this day.
Blubber-sama*(5) then proceeded to interrogate Heather about the latest development, only to receive affirmative or negative shakes of the head, unsure shrugs of her shoulders (which hurt her to do), or no reaction at all the various stratagems to induce a verbal response from the reticent ravenette; she remained steadfastly silent. That wont(2) paired with those piercing green eyes of hers, which he contends glow with inherited freakishness (for he objects to even think that cursed word), make a formidable combination.
Her innate ability to instill fear by simply looking at him, or anyone else for that matter, secretly unnerves him. He, much to his chagrin and envy, had to work at perfecting this particular ability.
After obtaining no real answers from the obstinate child, he tossed the uncased instrument into the crackling flames, fully expecting the thing to be slowly burned to a pile of ash*(6).
But it was not to be.
Melody's aura flared, and then she vanished from sight. Petunia, whose eyed had been darting between the ravenette's face and the fireplace, in that very moment was the facsimile of a threatened possum; and Heather, an imp.
She was, as usual, locked up in cupboard with melody as ever by her side.
Thus, bringing her up this day; Heather watched as the land whale (not to be confused with land shark*(7)) personally handing the trash collector a chained up trashcan. Heather sighed, yet another attempt.
"I can only hope your day is not as rubbish…as mine, good sir." Vernon remarked in what he thought was a witty manner, as he laughed himself silly at his own joke.
Dudley let Heather go as a token of goodwill, and both made themselves as scarce as possible. The cousins, nodding in a tentative truce, shared a look that clearly read, "I don't know him."
The trash collector appreciated the gaily(3) laughing man's not-so-phunny joke as much as the shrinking children and grimacing wife. He gave the rotund man an odd constipated look before turning his gaze to the suddenly much more interesting ground and shaking his head incredulously, hurriedly signaling for the driver to move on to the next house as he got in the doorless passenger seat just as quickly.
Needless to say that particular employee avoided Vernon like the bubonic plague from that day forth.
Moral of the story, blatant puns make bad jokes...and as Heather predicted, Melody was later discovered safely in her cupboard…so yeah.
- (Bodyguard Melody) –
Uncle Vernon did not his promotion, and it's all Heather's fault.
"What a brilliant display of deductive reasoning," the ravenette mused sarcastically, "ever the epitome of sensibility and intelligence."
She scoffed derisively. Not.
Heather sat half sprawled on the ground, watching the man flap his thick arms like an attention seeking seal, taking in the barked out expletives and slanderous comments; at who, she was unsure.
But there was one thing she was sure of; one being her tremendously expanded of blasphemous words, as well as her competence to string said words together and make sense of it at the same time.
Most of the man's rant was incomprehensible, save a few coarse mentions and a legion of admittedly creative locker-room utterances that no five-year-old should hear, let alone understand.
"Operative word being 'should'"
"…saddled with you thanks to that meddling old buffoon…all your fault…you freak of nature…!"
"So the usual then, it's entirely my fault and I'm a freak." Heather mused, "What's new?"
Either the pitiful man is going with the reinforcement method or is merely uncreative –although the latter could be easily disproved as he was plenty creative when he insulted his boss' secretary– or maybe she was just a special case...
Better yet, just who this "meddling old buffoon" anyway?
The ravenette was shocked out of her reverie when the resident harridan cared out in shock, "Not her head, Vernon, and most not when that thing can actually kill her." The horse faced woman nagged irately, snatching the iron-headed shovel out of his pudgy hands, "I won't be going to jail for being a murder accomplice! Just use your fists, you dunderhead!"
"Well," Heather shuddered as her heart raced in her chest, "that's new…"
Uncle Vernon ignored the woman's scathing insult as he seized Heather by front of her holey shirt, fist cocked back and poised to strike in a very real threat to leave her in a world of pain.
Heather crossed her arms in front of her face in a defensive "X", bracing for the pain to come.
He swung…
And was violently thrown back, hitting the brick wall; Hard. Minuscule cracks spider webbed out from the vertex of impact. Heather was gently deposited on the soft earthen floor.
Wailord*(8) lay in a lumpy crumpled heap, unconscious; while Heather sat completely unharmed on the cushiony grass with not even a sore tush.
"How…?" Then she felt a reassuring weight on her back. It was Melody, "Thank you, my one true friend." She smiled appreciatively.
While the shrewish woman fretted over her motionless husband, Heather made her getaway to a small grove in the forest bordering the uptown housing area, and bowed the day away with Melody.
She forgot to go back to her relative's house that night.
(She Fell to ashes...)
Heather was sent reeling back as a harsh knee to her ribs shot agony throughout her body, effectively causing the girl to fall into a balled up heap on the once white carpet and coming to facing the wall. She failed to contain the tortured scream that left her raw throat.
She found herself laboring for breath, blood welling up in her mouth at an alarming rate and slipping out of her agape lips.
How did she wind up in this predicament again…?
Another hit, another suffering groan.
"Oh yeah…I tried to escape, only to be caught unlocking the door…" her pain addled mind supplied. "Why was I even trying to escape again…?" She searched her head for a comprehensive thought somehow finding it in the jumbled mess that was her mind, "He was drinking again." If she had thought he was irrationally violent without alcohol, she now knew that he was much more volatile under the influence.
Kick. Wince.
She usually avoided him when he got this way. But tonight, lady luck was not on her side.
She mutely gasped as something impacted and cut into her forehead, leaving a bleeding gash along her hairline, prompting more of her life blood to settle into her raven hair and the carpet under her.
For the most part, she was perfectly content to ignore his drunken ramblings; until his last remark, that is:
"Speak idiot girl, speak! You make everything more difficult by not speaking you munger scrubber!"
Now, she could ignore the fact he essentially called her a really ugly prostitute, which was physically impossible (as she is still in fact a maiden…), but not at his disquiet at the silence he beat into her all those months ago.
"This ends tonight, one way or another." Heather clenches her fists white, her mind resolute. Her power crackled in the surrounding air fueled by her rampaging anger, throwing and pinning the drunk, compensating man against the wall, glaring with wrathful eyes.
The deplorable monster was about to imperiously demand to be let down this instant, but the words died in his throat at the scathing look of pure hatred in those emerald eyes, that glowing an acid green in a very wolf-like manner with unrestrained power.
Adrenaline over rid the coursing agony as she stood. Heather, bloody and brutalized, looked every part the martyr*(10) she was.
She turned and left the room unhindered and unaccosted, tacitly(3) letting a warning hang in the dead silence, and not even the nocturnal critters dared let out a sound lest the perceived predator find them.
Heather gathered Melody, who sang in worry and regret, and positioned her in her rightful place at her back, a small pouch filled with money she earned by doing small chores for the appreciative neighbors, and the baby swiss army knife Dudley had upon receiving, handed surreptitiously to Heather and mouthing "In case of emergency."
This defiantly counts as an emergency.
More determined than ever Heather did the sane thing and made a second attempt to undo the last lock of her incarcerator's lair*(11) , and growled near ferally when her diminutive height forbade her access to the very top catch.
Heather flinched when a portly shadow loomed over her, shuddering in dread…deep seeded fear started to consume her…
Until she looked up at the faint clicking of an undone lock, the warm summer night's air rushing in from the crack in the door gently eased her maddening terror.
Dudley wore an expression of heart wrenching contrition(3), his watery blue suspiciously bright with unshed tears.
She looked at him wide-eyed, "He helped me but..."
"I'm sorry I couldn't help you before," he sniffed, and taking a shuddering breath, "But I can now. I got a plan, and all I need you to do is listen to me, okay Heather?" he said, a newfound determination hardened his eyes.
She nodded just as determinedly, if a bit dubiously.
"When we reach piers' house, at my cue, just run…and I'll do my part." He grabbed her petit hand, spitefully leaving the front door wide open.
(Time skip)
Despite her ailing body she kept up with the taller boy. Upon reaching their destination, Dudley surprised her by pulling her into a gentle embrace ever mindful of her injuries, "If this works, we'll both be free of them, and they will be in big trouble; a win-win-lose."
He elaborated further, "I wanted out the moment he started doing this to you. I hope one day if…no, when, we meet again, that you can forgive me for being a prat; I had to." Heather felt him shudder in memory of something, "Or I couldn't help you at all."
She nodded in understanding, accepting the apology; an imperceptible smile grew on her red lips. "I'll start earning it today, by helping you get away and I'll get revenge on them on your behalf; for the pain you went through because I was too weak to suffer alongside you."
"Would you believe that I wanted a sibling or a cousin, a girl one 'cause I wanted to play with and spoil and protect them but even if you were a boy I still would've treated you the kinda same, cause 'yknow you'd be a boy. But when I had one just down the stairs, I was told I had to be mean and hurt you…and if I was caught helping or being nice to you, he said he would throw me to the streets and would make sure nobody in their right mind would take me in or help me. So if I was kicked out, I couldn't protect you at all." He babbled just coherently though his full blown sobbing. Heather peered up at her cousin and finally returned the small show of affection, for the first and quite possibly the last time for a long time.
He let her go, facing her towards the bordering woods. "…run!" He whispers harshly.
She bolted off, never once looking back. The boy watched her until he could no longer discern her shadow from the surrounding darkness.
Only then, did Dudley set off to do his self-appointed task; All in the name of his sweet broken cousin…
(Time skip)
Upon reaching the center of the local park, she perched herself on the fountain's edge, then she took in her devastated appearance; blood-matted raven hair and red smeared face, a blood-congealed shirt that hung off one shoulder exposing a particularly nasty gash over her prominent collarbone –which clotted up during her get-away– with broken and red spattered opticals.
Heather Potter was the embodiment(4) of pity.
"I have to hide, in plain sight." she decided
Heather opened the blade part of her red and silver Swiss knife, placing it down on the fountain's edge.
She gathered her blood congealed mane in a firm hold, and used the nearest reflective surface –this being the water– raising the razor edge to the raven feather locks.
Shoulder length is good; mid-neck length is better. She sawed back and forth twice before the remaining strands fell into their desired placement. Heather let fall the hacked off locks, a few stubbornly adhering to her hand. She swished the appendage in the water, watching mesmerized as midnight wisps danced on the distorting crystal surface, as the life giving agent encircled her hand faded from red to pink then evanescing(5), as if never there.
She must become anonymous… a faceless nonperson… zero…
Heather removed the distinctive bifocals; these, too, must go. Folding the arms reverently in a preemptive apology for her next course of action, she tossed them somewhere in front of her; they landed in the water on the other side of the park fountain with a quietly echoing 'ploink'.
Turning heel, she ran sightlessly onward into the unknown.
(Time skip)
After what felt like hours of running, Heather paused to wipe her brow free of accumulated perspiration, inadvertently nudging the newly formed scab at her hairline; it started to bleed profusely.
She mouthed a curse that would make any adult wonder where she learned it, closing her right eye to keep blood from hindering her already poor vision. She tore a half detached sleeve from her shirt, pressing it to the reopened gash, hissing at the accompanying sting.
Soon though, it was drenched beyond usage; she threw the red-leaden rag to the side.
Well, at least the bleeding was slowed down to a manageable rate…until she could get professional help that is.
Heather traversed a few more meters, having thankfully crossed to the other side of the road, before feeling unnaturally uncoordinated (beyond even being nearly blind) and tired, her limbs in that moment were akin to lead, the world started to dance tauntingly before her eyes, and the ground seemed closer than before.
"Oh, it was…" she mused intelligently as she fell on all fours. The cement scraped her knees and palms; the small pains opened the floodgate of agony.
Heather moaned agonizingly, blood once again welling up in her parched mouth, expectorating(6) viscous irony discharge on the ground below her.
While she was no medic she knew this didn't bode well for her, living on borrowed time as she is. Heather's frail and battered body, wracked with tremendous pain, fell to the unforgiving ground lying on its side; she noted this with a strangely serene calm as the all-consuming pain gradually gave way to a comfortable numbness.
Turning her head as much as her deplorable state allowed, as she was immobile from the shoulders down, she peered at the sight before her. Heather knew of this place, yet ne'er once saw it; it was King's Cross Train Station. She took note of the arches supporting the clock tower presiding proudly overhead for all to see.
Heather was dying and she knew it; and she had a single regret. She only wished she could've given Melody the adventure she eagerly sought from her.
She smiled ruefully in memory of the music teacher (whose name she still has yet to learn) who bestowed Melody to her unworthy self, the light in her short anguished life, and making her last few weeks of life as happy and as fulfilling as possible. She found an unlikely ally in her estranged cousin; he gave her an opportunity to escape, and he hugged her for the first and last time.
Heather could only hope, his plan at the very least set him free, for she was too far gone…
"I've always wanted to visit King's cross…" she muses faintly, wistfully aware that she'd not live long enough to see the interior, ever elusive to her leaden eyes that took on a startlingly dead appearance, and beckoned her to sleep…
Then oblivion swallowed her whole…
(...To Be Reborn a Phoenix)
Heather awoke to a plethora of sounds; of incoming and outgoing steam engines, the protesting of steel wheels coming to a halt, some being churned into action, and the buzzing of echoed voices.
Bleary emerald eyes opened for the first time in days; her head aching, her body and limbs sore and stiff from a combination of reasons.
Uncurling gingerly, Heather moaned lowly as the stiffness is dashed by the movement. Her spine realigned itself in a series of sickening pops and cracks, sending a feeling of pleasurable relief throughout her body and making the soreness in her limbs all the more apparent.
Still lying down, she stretched her limbs free of torpor(7). Heather reached out a naked arm to lift her warm cover; she instantly regretting the action as her eyes, so unused to sunlight, burned and teared up from sudden exposure and let the cover shroud her in darkness once again.
This time, Heather gradually let in light until she could see clearly (as much as a half-blind girl can) without pain.
Peering at her sideways world from her prostrate position, she could make out the vast number of stacked trunks forming an enclosed area supported by a brick pillar, and a small inconspicuous opening just wide enough to egress and ingress.
Heather sat up from her disagreeable bedding, which happened to be yet another trunk, her head swimming briefly. A draft from somewhere caressed her bare abdomen; the ravenette fleetingly enjoyed the summer breeze on her naked skin.
Wait a tick…that would imply a certain of undress…then she looked down…
Buggering nonce*(12)! She was starkers! In a very public, very crowded building, no less!
Heather looked around her man made cove red-face and flustered, wondering how the bloody hell nobody stumbled across her yet.
Not that it was illegal anything…then she remembered the male streaker that paraded through the park one day, completely starkers save for the yellow outlined orange letters painted down his nicely toned front and back reading "Chudley Cannons" (front and back respectively), bearing a flag with a winged insignia colored and reading the same that flowed behind him as he dished by; cheering the whole time, not at all embarrassed or ashamed.
"…speaking of behinds…it was a right toned one…" came the unbidden but honest thought, as idyll as it was.
At this revelation, Heather no longer felt any shame at her nudity. At this point she gathers that her "pillow" was in fact a black messenger bag and next to her lay Melody humming joyfully, perhaps even laughing as if having read her mind.
In the bag, she discovered, was her coin pouch, her knife, and a set of clothing consisting of a pure white sundress, sky-blue boxers ("Hmm, never worn under garments before…"), and a pair of tan soled, white strapped sandals.
Every item fit her perfectly; and given the time of year, was perfect for the weather.
Now dressed, she perches on the trunk that served as her bed and sits there pondering the topic she tried and evidently failed to avoid.
"How am I alive anyway?" she expected no answer, but still hoped for a sign. Anything. Mental sigh, nothing…as expected.
"Better yet, where am I?" then it hit her, well, like a steam engine. There was a saying, "When in doubt, look up." So she did, wholly expecting the heavens above to answer her question.
Heather was not disappointed. The glass domed high roof gave the setting an archaic chapel feel.
She suspected where she was…but first…
"Thank you savior*(13), for giving me a chance to live a free life, for allowing me to fulfill a promise a kind music professor, to Melody; I will give her an adventure of a lifetime…for allowing me to see the aftermath of my cousin's plan. Thank you…for letting me live my only selfish dream, to visit King's Cross. And here I will stay…"
Somewhere, a lone woman shed a single tear, knowing she changed a life forever.
Heather brought Melody close, "I will take you on adventure you will never forget…"
Melody sang giddily in response.
Standing, Heather passed through the narrow gap of her newly christened sanctuary, and disappeared into a crowd of towering strangers, seemingly shrouded in a metaphorical cloak of long sought after ambiguity.
Little did the little ravenette know how true her words would ring…
(End of memory)
As the last note dispersed into silence, there was not a single dry eye or unstained face to be seen. But the applause came as enthusiastic as ever. Heather was in the same state, as she bowed her head modestly in thanks, eyes made brighter with unshed tears.
Heather looked every part the pure, yet broken, angel she was.
A young girl, no older than three, shyly approached Heather looking up at her imploringly with a fully bloomed twig of lilac hued heathers grasped gently in her hand.
The older girl knelt down, wordlessly inviting the child to place it behind her ear. Heather adjusted the flower of her namesake slightly before hugging the unresisting girl in heart-felt thanks for the small, but meaningful, offering; the exuberant child immediately responded in kind before skipping back to her mother, chatting away about "the sad angel" accepting her gift and how "Angel thanked Elsie for making her happy again."
Heather blushed, "Angel?" she bashfully smiled at the surrounding crowd who smiled gently at the display, most agreeing with the little girl; the small purple blooms were a stark contrast to her raven hair and made her eyes seemingly glow.
"An angel indeed." Her mother acquiesced; she watched the young girl carefully entrap the stem into a braid behind her ear and tie it off with a small green rubber band. At this time people brought forth their own offerings of appreciation to her that, with grace, she accepted.
Heather housed Melody in her case and stood. Upon noticing a familiar face, she froze in recognition…
(A/N): Before anyone asks, no, Heather has not come to terms with her past; in fact, she's trying to deny it, to forget it happened. The closer she comes to accepting herself as a person and not a waste of air, the closer she is… but whether or not if she can bring herself to talk about it is of no consequence, she will never be okay. 99.99% is as okay as she ever will get; maybe less than that, but never more.
And if I wasn't clear enough, Heather does not know of Dudley's discreet, and some not so discreet, favors and subtle preparation; she isn't the only one who wants out, after all. She only realizes this when he explains his past actions, and she quickly realizes this fact. But understanding doesn't necessarily mean she forgave him. Around age 7 is the age of reason. He may be slow to the take and weak academically, but he's not completely a lost cause. He, while it's for the most part overlooked, is in some way abused. He's morbidly overweight for his age and his parents are doing nothing about that…as well as his lack of discipline, a form of neglect if you will. So yes, it is abuse, at least my mind.
Heather is a victim of circumstance, therefore a martyr; she is hated and/or envied for having magic, for having a natural appeal, intrigue and the innate ability of intimidation. Something both her abusers hate or are lacking.
~on a happier note, just who could it be...?~
Send in a review if you have any questions, comments, or ideas to improve your understanding of the story and/or the subject at hand.
Reviewers:
Minna Vipera: thx for the advice, I did and will heed this in the future.
(Guest) Snow-Angel: thx, and will do ASAP.
Sinful Vanity: thx again for the honest review, and I do hope I edited the summary to be more eye catching.
Details to keep in mind for future reference (and the symbolism behind them):
*only those that apply will be in the author's notes section of each chapter.
~The phantom raven: Two aspects of Heather:
· A visual representation of her solemn swear to never speak a word again. She will break this vow later on, of course; she just doesn't realize that it's completely normal to ask questions. Her treatment doesn't exactly support any other opinion.
· An animalistic comparison to what she sees herself as; Ravens, like crows, are often seen as a bad omen or a foreteller of misfortune due to their carrion diet as scavengers (most, but not all cases).
~The shed phantasmal feather: Her Innocence of mind; once lost it cannot found again.
~Melody's runes: most, if not all, are protective runes. The only mentioned few that are not solely protection but a precaution are the invisibility and the unbreakable runes. The tracking mechanism is actually a charm, the tracking charm. But how does Melody just appear by Heather…that's the mystery (You may speculate, but I won't tell you even IF you are right). *wink*
~Chopping off her hair: Physically leaving the past behind.
~Broken glasses: Sightless of the future to come.
~Blood drenched rag: Living on borrowed time.
~the blood imbued water:
· The water is her soul; so clear of a conscious evil taint and so innocent of many things about the world.
· The blood mixing in is the visual taint of suffering, hatred, and bigotry she endured; it is there, but is not seen, or shown.
*starred facts*
*(0) Given that Heather was around one and a half at the time.
*(1) Pigs love truffles. It is common practice to send out pregnant female pigs to sniff out those rare and expensive truffles, a type of mushroom.
*(2) She coincidentally forgot the last of her music professor's statements…hint: whose safety should Heather NOT worry for…?
*(3) The Ballad of Mona Lisa by Panic at the Disco
*(4) Bats in the belfry- Bats are, of course, the erratically flying mammals and 'belfries' are bell towers, sometimes found at the top of churches. 'Bats in the belfry' refers to someone who acts as though he has bats careering around his topmost part, that is, his head.
*(5) The Japanese suffix –sama translates to the English title of "Lord"; it also can be used in a mocking way, like the way I did in describing the oh so lovable Dursley patriarch. (Eye roll)
-ex: Sesshomaru-sama = Lord Sesshomaru (comment if you get this reference)
The idea that something is too beautiful to exist, therefore must be destroyed.
*(6) The idea that something is so beautiful it must be destroyed. Think war mongers; peace is beautiful therefore, in their mind, must be destroyed.
*(7) Land shark- One who comes out of nowhere and snag's another person's food before they know what's happening. Any land mammal can be a Land shark, as long as it uses speed to steal someone's food.
*(8) I have nothing against Wailord, pokemon fans, truly. I just had to.
*(9.1) Munger - (British slang) someone who is seen as really ugly.
*(9.2) Scrubber – (British slang) (usually referring to a woman) a prostitute offering sex for enough money.
*(10) Martyr- a person who is killed or who suffers greatly for a religion, cause, etc.- Google search.
*(11) "Insanity is defined as doing something over and over again, and expecting a different result." –Albert Einstein
*(12.1) Buggering- Verb. As a verb, the word is used by the British to denote sodomy (noun;
sexual intercourse involving anal or oral copulation.). In GB, the phrase "Bugger me sideways" (or a variation of this) can be used as an expression of surprise. It can be used as a synonym for "broken", as in "This PC's buggered"; "Oh no! I've buggered it up"; or "It's gone to buggery". – Google search
*(12.2) Nonce- Nonce first came into widespread use in UK prisons, where it is primarily used by prisoners to refer to convicted sex offenders, especially abusers of children. "Nonces" are traditionally targets of physical abuse from their prison inmates, and so usually go on Rule 45 (formerly Rule 43),[1] the rule that enables the segregation of vulnerable prisoners from the other prisoners for their own safety. The Rule 45 section of British prisons in which sex offenders are segregated (also known as going on 'The Numbers' or, in rhyming slang, 'The Cucumbers') is often referred to as the "nonce wing" - Wiki
*(13) No, not God…she is not a believer because she was never helped before this point. She is talking about the mysterious person who saved her life… (No, I won't tell you who, Neh)
Phoenix- the Phoenix is a legendary Arabian bird which is said to periodically burn itself to death and emerge from the ashes as a new phoenix, a symbol of life, death and rebirth. In Heather's case, she escapes domestic abuse, thus gaining a new life; one of her creation (until fate steps in, of course). She is a survivor.
(1) Elucidation- n. explanation that makes something clear; clarification.
(2) Wont- (no it's not a spelling error) adj. (of a person) in the habit of doing something; accustomed. (Heather's wont of perpetual silence.); one's customary behavior in a particular situation; mannerism, quirk. -Google search.
(3) Contrition- sincere penitence or remorse.-Google search
(4)Embodiment- a tangible or visible form of an idea, quality, or feeling; the representation or expression of something in a tangible or visible form.
(5) Evanesce(ing)- pass out of sight, memory, or existence.-Google search
(6) Expectorating- cough or spit out from the throat or lungs.
(7) Torpor- a state of physical or mental inactivity; lethargy. –Google search.
Question: Hmm, who could it be that Heather met up with? feel free to guess -.*