Amira stared at her ceiling, whispering dozens of besmillahs into the skies. She wondered if the dusty, greyed grandfathers felt that way. If, as they tapped at their rosaries, their words were nothing more than drops of sound rising into the heavens. Heard or unheard? Understood or dismissed? Amira shifted on her bed. The springs groaned.
She shut her eyes, reaching into the past. She grabbed a handful, pulled it towards the present, and relived it. This had become her coping method for staying inside the cupboard for so long. Her only breaks were the meals slid under the door or routine bathroom breaks in the morning and evening.
She felt like a prisoner.
A memory caught her attention. It was the first and only time she ever got to come in contact with her culture. Before, whenever she walked down the streets and saw a veiled woman, her uncle and aunt would make a muted remark. At least they didn't scream in terror. Like they did when an odd man or woman approached Amira and patted her hand, giving her curt and speedy vows, murmuring "the one who lived" under their breaths. It confused her. She wondered if they did it on purpose, in order to get her punished.
Then, there was that one time…
Amira and aunt Petunia were walking through the grocery store. Dudley was close to his mother, a lumpy roll of fat trundling along, and Amira lingered behind. She looked around the shop, fingering the tight braid Petunia had forced into her curled, unruly hair.
They turned a corner and Amira stopped. She saw what she believed to be the most beautiful woman in the entire world. The woman stood next to a tower of apples, holding one in her hands and examining it. Her manicured fingers slid over the surface. Her eyes were like olives, dark and deliciously black. Her lips were thin but sweet. A white veil clung to her head, giving the oval shape of her face prominence. She turned around, one of her feet rising from the floor, an elegant curve to the sole of her foot.
Amira approached her. Unabashedly blunt, as a child her age usually is, she tugged on the woman's blouse. The woman turned. Amira half-expected her to begin admonishing her actions, as Petunia does when a question is asked. Instead, the woman gave her a smile. A smile that clearly indicated that she liked children, and people really for that matter.
"Hello, girl." She said softly.
Amira smiled.
"Hi. You're very pretty."
The woman laughed. "Why, thank you!" Her eyebrows were smooth and curved.
Aunt Petunia looked around and shot Amira a burning glance. Amira shrunk, her shoulders twisting inwards. Aunt Petunia's scowl lengthened when she saw the woman.
"Is that your mother?" The woman asked Amira. Her accent was like honey. Sweet, singsongy, melodious.
"No. My aunt. She takes care of me." Amira whispered.
"Hm.. What's your name?"
"Amira."
"Princess."
"Huh?"
"Your name. It means princess. It sounds like mine, Amal. But my name means 'hope'."
"Amal…" Amira smiled.
"We are of the same culture." Amal crouched down to meet Amira's eyes. "Culture is like family. Inshallah you will never forget this."
Amira tried to repeat the word.
Amal grinned. "You will learn. Do you have your father or mother to teach you these things?"
Amira shook her head.
She still didn't know what happened to her parents at that age. They were dreamy, hazy distant figures. Dancers in a stage far, far away.
Somehow, in a manner of two minutes, Amal managed to tell her that word, besmillah, and embed it into her mind forever.
"Even if you do not believe in it, it is at least a word to remind you of the past."
Something crossed Amal's gaze, a knowing look. As if she knew who the-one-who-lived was, and had given her a secret key. Amira, who was not sure of God, and still wouldn't for a long, long time, tucked the key away.
Sitting up, Amira shook her head. How had she remembered this all so clearly? From the woman's eyes to the colour of her veil…
"Bathroom break."
Amira jumped, squinting at the half-opened cupboard door. Petunia stood their, her broom-like figure cutting into the light. Her severely pursed lips pointed towards her. Amira hastily stood, stumbling out of the room like a critter that hadn't seen light for days creeping out of its cave.
She shut her eyes, rubbing them, and letting her feet guide her.
. . .
"Mind if I sit here?"
Amira opened her eyes and stopped yawning. The train rocked with movement. She trained her eyes on the door. A girl her age stood their, smiling meekly.
"Go ahead." Amira pulled her trunk out of the way, removing her feet from the seat.
The girl walked in, tugging her luggage with her and setting it down.
"I'm Hermione Granger." She held out her hand. Amira shook it.
Hermione was a dark girl, with a mess of black curls and soft, beautifully coloured lips. A light smattering of freckles crossed her cheeks. Her eyebrows looked as though they had been painted on briskly but elegantly with a thick brush.
She sat down across from Amira and dug around her bag, retracting a thick volume. Hogwarts: A History.
So it was true. She really was escaping.
Amira closed her eyes and leaned back. She hoped the dark circles of exhaustion would dissolve before they arrived. As she drifted off to sleep, she started. She sat up and looked around.
Wait.
She had no memory of how she got there. But, she clearly knew where she was going and was already accustomed to the oddity. Her eyes met Hermione's.
"Hm?"
"I have a bit of a problem." She said.