Wow, everyone, thank you so much! Reviews really do lift my spirits. So…here's chapter one. Hope you like it.
Disclaimer: I'm not J.K. Rowling, so I don't own Harry Potter. Sigh.
Chapter One
I stared at the blank, grayish-brown wall, reflecting upon my life. With two supportive siblings, my sisters and I enjoy a cheerful, happy life in a nice cottage by the beach with our rich, wonderful parents, who take us on regular family outings and do fantastic shows for us with magic. If only.
No, my life was almost the complete opposite from this. I do have a sister, but she's not supportive at all. No, Petunia is a stuck up, bratty, Muggle-movie cheerleader-type skank that enjoyed watching me get beaten by my excuse for a father. At her magic school, Hogwarts, which I was not allowed to attend, I hear Petunia bragging a lot about how popular she is and how she has a lot of friends that like her a lot.
Oh, friends! I want one, a real one, so badly. But, as I was locked up all the time in the small, dusty attic in my otherwise cozy house with no contact with the outside world, I don't really have a whole lot of socializing time.
Suddenly, the fading door to my room-if you can call it that- was flung open, and in waltzed a very drunk, very dangerous Jon Evans, followed by Petunia, a little smirk playing on her horse-like features.
"Lily," Robert drawled in a slurred tone, "why have you not made my breakfast? Why are you just sitting here like a lazy little bitch?"
Immediately, I jumped up from my uncomfortable, lumpy bed. No matter how ridiculous his orders and requests were when he was drunk, I had to abide by them, or else he might accidently kill me if the torturing went too far. Not that anyone would notice, or care.
"Um…um…" I stammered, trying to think some kind of excuse. "I…didn't have enough materials. But now I do, so I'll make you something really good," I offered hopefully.
My father's eyes narrowed, as though he was weighing how plausible this explanation was in his head. Apparently, it passed inspection, because he just grunted and shoved me out of the room towards the kitchen, then seating himself and a now pouting Petunia at the table. I could hardly believe my luck. I barely ever got away unscathed when he was drunk and he cornered me.
I whipped pots, pans, and baking utensils out of the wooden cupboard, then turned to the refrigerator and hurriedly brought sausages, eggs, toast, and muffins out and started to cook. If I had a little luck today, maybe I could make a satisfactory breakfast, lunch, and dinner, slip into my room in between, and escape today with no new bruises or cuts.
After leaving sausages sizzling in an iron pan, I cracked four eggs into another and beat them until they turned light yellow in color. Then, after they were a satisfying consistency, I lifted it and tried to place it on the stove. Key word: tried, as it slipped through my fingers, went hurtling through the air, and clattered to the floor, spilling raw egg everywhere.
I froze. Luckily, Jon would be too drunk to remember one of his stupid rules: no wasting food, or else you get a beating. Of course, I'm not really a person who carries a whole lot of luck, because at that moment, Jon pushed his chair back and walked over to me slowly, a dangerous expression on his face. I shrank back as he towered over me.
"You little bitch," he said in a low voice. "Do you know how many times I've told you? You aren't allowed to waste food in this household. Apparently, the message hasn't sunk in yet." He gave Petunia, who was watching the display eagerly, a small, very evil smile.
Taking me by the top of my collar, he threw me against the leg of the rickety table. I groaned silently in pain as I heard and felt something in my arm crack. Jon walked up to me, his eyes wild, and kicked me, really hard, in the ribs, which cracked under the pressure. Excruciating, almost unbearable pain needled the left part of my upper body, making it near impossible for me to breath. This time, I couldn't help it- I let out a little moan, but bit down on my tongue, hard, so I couldn't do anything that would be audible. It just goaded Jon to hurt me more.
After that, he didn't break anything, just kicked me around a bit and caused a few fresh bruises to blossom on my skin. Luckily, he seemed to have forgotten his wand, or else I'd be in real trouble.
Then, very, very suddenly, the attacks on me stopped. Gasping, I pulled myself up from the floor, looking around wildly. Luckily, Jon, my father, had passed out drunk. I slumped against the counter, exhausted from the beating. It was like my life couldn't get any worse.
Petunia was there, smirking. How much I wanted to go over there and give her a good right hook to the jaw, I can't tell you. But I was too tired and in too much pain to do much besides army crawl off towards the stairs. Getting to the stairs hadn't been terribly difficult- the part I was worried about was getting up the stairs.
Bracing myself, I bent my arms on the raised ground of the stair and pulled the weight of my body up. My muscles screamed in protest, and I flopped back down, right onto my broken rib. Again, I couldn't help but scream, but at least this time there was no one here to torture me for it.
Petunia watched me silently, smiling, as I struggled to strain hard enough to get myself upstairs. She offered me no help whatsoever, and I didn't ask for any- I didn't need to grovel at the feet of scum like her and my dad to get me up to my bedroom.
Finally, after what seemed like a thousand steps, I managed to labor my way up to the attic. Heaving myself onto the bed, I took a pillow from the top of my bed, pressed it against my mouth, and shrieked into it for what must have been a full minute. I did this rather than cutting myself, to let out all the emotion. I never got why abused people like me cut themselves. Why cause yourself even more, unnecessary pain? Well, for whatever reason they do it is beyond me.
I shook my head, trying to clear it so I could have a peaceful little nap. Petunia would probably tell my father that I didn't make her lunch or dinner or anything when he woke up and was sober, but at the moment, I didn't really care.
Laying my head on one of the hard, flat pillows, I closed my eyes and fell into a dark abyss of unconsciousness.
I woke up, sweating and thrashing around on the sheets. Then, as I took in my surroundings, I stopped and thought about my disturbing dream.
It didn't exactly make sense, but that didn't make it any less terrifying. I was sitting on the floor, cleaning up eggs that had fallen to the kitchen floor, when I heard heavy footsteps thump down the stairs.
Looking up, I had seen my father's face, alive with malice, a knife clutched in one hand, the other squeezing a chair leg, which splintered into little sharp fractions.
"Why are you cleaning up eggs?" he bellowed at me. "You were supposed to be scrubbing the walls a half hour ago!" In a flash, he was at my side, teasing the side of my neck with the silver blade of the knife.
"You must do as I ask, or your pretty little neck won't be so pretty with guts and blood running all over it," he crooned. I pleaded with him, "No, please, I can't, it's too dangerous."
He laughed; it was a chilling, cold sound. "You'll have to do better than that, my little flower," he told me nastily, then pressed the blade against my neck, drawing blood…and then I woke up.
It was only a dream, I told myself frantically. Only a dream.
Slowly, as if in a daze, I put on new clothes that were hardly cleaner than the ones that I just changed out of and stared at my reflection in the dirty mirror on my chipped oak dresser.
My shining red hair was the only thing about me that seemed cheery. My eyes had a dull, dead sort of look about them, and my face was hollowed out and pale, as was the rest of my skin. I had no muscle, and bruises dotted my arms and legs like sick artwork.
I knew my mother would have never wanted this. She would have wanted me to have a happy, fun-filled life with two loving parents and a sibling who went to Hogwarts with her and supported her the whole way through. But, when my mother died from cancer, something wizards can't even cure, Dad started to drink and he…well, he became like he was today: a monster, someone that should be locked up with all the rest of the insane people- in Azkaban.
Sometimes, I blame my mother for my life being this way, even though I know deep down it's not her fault. It just feels better to have something, anything, concrete to blame, because it takes a miniscule amount of pressure off my shoulders, knowing that it's not my fault that my father and sister are this horrible. But I don't want to say that nothing has made them like this, because that's not something that I can attempt to fight against, even though I know I won't win.
With that, I buried my head into my pillow and let a few tears escape. Sometimes my screwed up life was too much to deal with.
Suddenly, I heard my dad's voice ring out through the house, saying, "Petunia, Lillian, get down here now." I sat up, rubbing my eyes tiredly. What could he want now?
As I walked down the stairs, I saw a sight that stuck me as very odd indeed; my father had his arm wrapped around the waist of a witch that looked like she'd gone through plastic surgery three times to achieve the perfectly sculpted nose that she showed off.
"Girls," he said proudly, "this is Alison, a witch that I met when I went to go clubbing. She's moving in next week, and her and I decided that we don't want any kids around while we're here. So, after a lot of debate, we have decided to send Lillian," he spat out my name, looking at me nastily, "to school. Lillian," he turned to me, narrowing his eyes, "you'll get all of Petunia's old stuff. But I'm going to make one thing clear." He held my gaze, his eyes cold and piercing. "Any owls saying that you've been trouble, any sign that you have broken the rules at all or in any way, then I'll be there first thing the next morning to bring you to the beatings of your life." The other witch, Alison, didn't do anything at all during his speech, so I'm guessing that she agreed with all of his parenting methods. Well, actually, torturing would be a better word there.
I nodded quickly. Jon's foot collided suddenly with my already broken ribs, and I cried out in my head. I heard Jon's voice whisper into my ear, "Now get upstairs and start packing. I've already sent the owl, so we're leaving tomorrow." I nodded, my eyes filled to the brim of tears that wouldn't spill over, and stumbled to my room, my hands wrapped around my torso.
When I landed on my bed, I couldn't help but almost sing for joy in spite of the pain. A real school. Real friends. And a real chance that maybe, just maybe, I could be normal.
Sorry, I'm not sure if that's a good enough ending for you, but I promise that another chapter will be up tomorrow, as early as I can. By the way, review please!