Arabella lay flat on her back, breathing hard as though she had been running. She had awoken from a vivid dream with her hands pressed over her face. The old scar on her forehead, which was shaped like a bolt of lightning, burned beneath her fingers as though someone had just pressed a white-hot wire to her skin. Beside her, lying peacefully like an angel, was her twin sister Lyla. Beside them, a clock read 3:32 am.
As quietly as she could, Arabella carefully shifted into a sitting position, one hand clamped firmly on her forehead. It continued to throb horribly, so much so that she gasped as another jab of pain overwhelmed her senses. After a moment's pause, she slipped her feet into a set of slippers at the end of the bed and carefully got up, stumbling in the direction of the bathroom. Once flicking the lights on, she turned to face the mirror, frowning.
Arabella once again ran her fingers over the scar, hissing as it still stung. She took a groggy second to look at herself, noting that a skinny girl of fourteen looked back, her bright green eyes puzzled under a mess of untidy black hair. She brushed back her hair and squinted, examining the lightning-bolt scar of her reflection more closely. It looked as it always did, but it was still stinging fiercely.
Arabella tried to recall what she had been dreaming about before the pain had awoken her. It had seemed so real. . . There had been two people she knew and one that she didn't. . . . The dim picture of a darkened room came to her the more she thought. . . . There had been a long coiled snake on a hearth rug . . . a small man called Peter, nicknamed Wormtail . . . and a cold, high voice . . . the voice of Lord Voldemort. It felt as though an ice cube had slipped down into the girl's spine at the very thought. . . .
She closed her eyes tightly and tried to recall what Voldemort had looked like, but it was impossible. . . . All Arabella knew was that at the moment when Voldemort's chair had swung around, and she, Arabella, had seen what was sitting in it, she had felt a spasm of horror, which had awoken her . . . or had that been the pain of the scar?
But who had the old man been? For there had definitely been an old man; Arabella had watched him tumble to the ground. It was all becoming quite confusing. Thinking hard, she put her face into her hands, blocking out the bathroom, trying desperately to hold onto the picture of that dimly lit room. But it was like trying to keep water in cupped hands; the details were now trickling away as fast as she tried to hold on to them. . . . Voldemort and Wormtail had been talking about someone they had killed, though she couldn't remember the name . . . and they had been plotting to kill someone else . . .
Groaning softly, Arabella took her face out of his hands, opened her eyes, and sighed. The pain was subsiding now, and the dream itself was nothing more but a faint imprint. As she made her back to her bedroom, she swiftly made for the window that overlooked the street below. Privet Drive looked exactly as a respectable suburban street would be expected to look in the early hours of Saturday morning. All the curtains were closed. As far as Arabella could see through the darkness, there wasn't a living creature in sight, not even a cat.
And yet . . . and yet . . .
Inhaling quietly, Arabella went restlessly back to the bed and sat down on it, running a finger over her scar again. It wasn't the pain that bothered her, for she was no stranger to pain and injury. In her second year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, she had lost all the bones from her right arm and had them painfully regrown in a night. The same arm had later been pierced by a venomous foot-long fang not long afterward. Only last year Arabella had fallen fifty feet from an airborne broomstick. To say the least, she was used to bizarre accidents and injuries; they were unavoidable if you attended Hogwarts, and she just happened to have a knack for attracting trouble.
No, the thing that was bothering Arabella was that the last time her scar had hurt, it had been because Voldemort had been close by. . . . But Voldemort couldn't be here, now. . . . The idea of Voldemort lurking in Privet Drive was absurd, impossible. . . .
She listened closely to the silence around, and the soft breathing of Lyla. She was half expecting to hear the creak of a stair or the swish of a cloak, and then she jumped slightly as she heard her brother, Dudley, give a tremendous grunting snore from the next room. Arabela shook herself mentally; she was being stupid. There was no one in the house with her except for her father, Vernon, mother, Petunia, and brother, Dudley, and they were all plainly still asleep, their dreams untroubled and painless.
Laying in the darkness made the young girl begin to ponder the idea of Voldemort, and how he had become something so dark and evil. If it hadn't been for his actions against Lily and James Potter, Arabella and Lyla Potter would still live with their witch and wizard parents. Instead, he'd killed them in cold blood, which later resulted in the Potter's surviving children being handed off to the care of Muggle relatives, who had no love for magic nor the world it belonged to.
They had been a year old the night that Voldemort — the most powerful Dark wizard for a century, a wizard who had been gaining power steadily for eleven years — arrived at the Potter residence and killed Lily and James. He had then turned his wand on two small babies; had performed the curse that had disposed of many full-grown witches and wizards in his steady rise to power— and, incredibly, it had not worked. Instead of killing the small children, the curse had rebounded. The twins had survived with nothing but a lightning-shaped cut on their forehead, and Voldemort had been reduced to something barely alive. His powers gone, his life almost extinguished, he had fled; the terror in which the secret community of witches and wizards had lived for so long had lifted. Voldemort's followers had disbanded, and Lyla and Arabella had become famous.
She looked hopelessly around her room, and her eyes paused on the birthday cards her friends had sent her and her sister at the end of July. What would they say if Arabella wrote to them and told them about her scar throbbing with pain? At once, Hermione Granger's voice seemed to fill her head, shrill and panicky.
"Your scar hurt? That's really serious. . . . Write to Professor Dumbledore! And I'll go and check Common Magical Ailments and Afflictions. . . . Maybe there's something in there about cursed scars. . . ."
Yes, that would indeed be Hermione's advice: Go straight to the headmaster of Hogwarts, and in the meantime, consult a book. She tried to imagine what Blaise Zabini would say, a clever Slytherin boy who excelled in subjects such as Potions and Charms.
"Hmm… you say your scar is hurting? That can't be a good sign— old injuries caused by Dark Magic typically is a nod that something bad's about to happen."
No, that wouldn't do. Huffing silently, she thought of her friend Ron Weasely, who was practical and didn't offer bookish or superstitious reasoning.
"Your scar hurt? But . . . but You-Know-Who can't be near you now, can he? I mean . . . you'd know, wouldn't you? He'd be trying to do you in again, wouldn't he? I dunno, maybe curse scars always twinge a bit. . . . I'll ask Dad. . . ."
Mr. Weasley was a fully qualified wizard who worked in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office at the Ministry of Magic, but he didn't have any particular expertise in the matter of curses, as far as Arabella knew. In any case, she didn't like the idea of the whole Weasley family knowing that she was getting jumpy about a few moments' pain. Mrs. Weasley would fuss worse than Hermione, and Fred and George, Ron's sixteen-year-old twin brothers, might think she was losing her nerve at last. The Weasleys family were perhaps the most exciting and loving wizarding family the Potter sisters knew. And as the days passed, Arabella couldn't help but hope that they might reach out and invite her and Lyla to watch the Quidditch World Cup.
Arabella kneaded her forehead with her knuckles gently. What she really wanted (and it felt almost shameful to admit it to herself) was someone like— someone like a true wizard or witch parent: an adult wizard whose advice she could ask without feeling stupid, someone who cared about her and her magic, who had had experience with Dark Magic. . . And then the solution came. It was so simple, and so obvious, that she couldn't believe it had taken so long — Sirius.
Arabella leaped up from the bed, hurried across the room, and sat down at her desk. By the light of the moon, she pulled a piece of parchment toward her, loaded the eagle-feather quill with ink, wrote Dear Sirius, then paused, wondering how best to phrase her problem, still marveling at the fact that he hadn't thought of Sirius straight away. But then, perhaps it wasn't so surprising— after all, Lyla and she had only recently found out that Sirius was their godfather two months ago.
There was a simple reason for Sirius's complete absence from their lives until then — Sirius had been in Azkaban, the terrifying wizard jail guarded by creatures called dementors, sightless, soul-sucking fiends who had come to search for Sirius at Hogwarts when he had escaped. Yet Sirius had been innocent — the murders for which he had been convicted had been committed by Wormtail, Voldemort's supporter, whom nearly everybody now believed dead. But some, like Arabella and her friends, knew otherwise.
For one glorious hour, she and Lyla had believed that they had a magical relative who truly cared about them and their magic. But the chance had been snatched away from them— Wormtail had escaped before they could take him to the Ministry of Magic, and Sirius had had to flee for his life. They had helped him escape on the back of a hippogriff called Buckbeak, and since then, Sirius had been on the run.
The sisters had received two letters from Sirius since being back at Privet Drive. Both had been delivered, not by owls (as was usual with wizards), but by large, brightly colored tropical birds. Both Merlin and Nicolas had not approved of these flashy intruders and had been most reluctant to allow them to drink from their water tray before flying off again.
Lyla woke up on a usual Saturday with a mind-splitting headache, one so bad that she could hardly manage to crawl out of bed. The sudden pain of a throbbing head was odd, to say the least, and soon, she understood why. While she lay in bed, Arabella sat at their shared desk scribbling a letter out to their godfather.
"What are you writing?" she asked curiously. "You look… serious."
Arabella sighed and turned, flicking her quill so that the feather brushed against her cheek.
"Don't freak out," Arabella started in a low whisper, "but last night I— I had this awful dream… except, that I don't necessarily think it was a dream at all."
"What?"
Arabella huffed and came over to Lyla, leaning forward and brushing her sister's deep scarlet hair free of her forehead so that she gazed at the bolt-shaped scar. She poked at it softly, and when Lyla winced, she bit her lip.
"I woke up last night, my scar hurting," she said.
"That— that doesn't make sense," responded Lyla. "It only hurts when he— when he's near…"
"That's what I thought," agreed Arabella with a grunt, "so I thought I'd write a letter to Sirius; ask if old scars are known to hurt without any reason. Want help me?"
Lyla nodded and struggled until she was in a sitting position. However, the movement caused her to become quite woozy.
After an hour, they had concocted a letter they deemed was sendable.
Dear Sirius,
Thank you for your last letter, that bird was enormous! It could hardly get through our window, and Mum nearly fainted. Things are the same as usual here. Dudley's diet isn't going too well, Dad caught him smuggling doughnuts into his room yesterday, and are now cutting his pocket money.
We're doing okay, but a weird thing happened early this morning. Arabealla's scar hurt, really badly this time, and Lyla woke up with a splitting headache. The last time that happened it was because Voldemort was at Hogwarts. But we don't reckon he can be anywhere near us now, can he? Do you know if curse scars sometimes hurt years afterward?
We'll send this with Merlin when he gets back; he's off hunting at the moment. Say hello to Buckbeak for us.
"That looks good enough," said Lyla with a yawn. "No point putting that weird dream you had. It was probably just that, a dream…"
Arabella folded up the parchment and laid it aside on her desk, ready for when the owls would return. Then she got to her feet, stretched, and opened her wardrobe once more.
"Think you can make it down for lunch?"
Lyla grunted, and slowly rose from her sheets. By the time they had arrived in the kitchen, the three other Dursleys were already seated around the table. Their father's face was hidden behind the morning's Daily Mail, while their mother was cutting grapefruit into quarters, her lips pursed together. Dudley looked furious and sulky and somehow seemed to be taking up even more space than usual.
"There you are, Diddy darling," said their mother pleasantly, setting down a quarter of unsweetened grapefruit onto Dudley's plate with a tremulous hand.
Dudley glowered at her. His life had taken a most unpleasant turn since he had come home for the summer with his end-of-year report. The school nurses had sent home a health evaluation, one that the Dursley parents did not take kindly. The fact remained, however, that the school outfitters didn't stock knickerbockers big enough for him anymore.
So — after many tantrums, after arguments that shook the walls of the house, and many tears from their mother— the new regime had begun. The diet sheet that had been sent by the Smeltings school nurse had been taped to the fridge, which had been emptied of all Dudley's favorite things — fizzy drinks and cakes, chocolate bars and burgers — and filled instead with fruit and vegetables and the sorts of things that their father referred to as 'rabbit food'. To make Dudley feel better about it all, Petunia Dursley had insisted that the whole family follow the diet too. She now passed a grapefruit quarter to Lyla and Arabella, who both looked down at it sadly.
But no one in the family knew what was hidden under the loose floorboard upstairs. The Dursley parents had no idea that their daughters were not following the diet in the slightest. The moment they had got wind of the fact that they were expected to survive the summer on carrot sticks and lettuce, Arabella had sent owls to friends with pleas for help, and they had risen to the occasion magnificently.
Each owl that belonged to the twins had returned from their friends bearing immense gifts— Hermione had sent a large box stuffed full of sugar-free snacks, while Draco had sent a batch of pastries from a Muggle bakery from his travels to Germany. Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, had obliged with a sack full of his homemade rock cakes, which none of the girls had touched. By now, most in their friend group were quite weary of the man's cooking skills. Mrs. Weasley and Mrs. Greengrass had both sent enormous homemade cakes, along with assorted meat pies.
And then on their birthday, each sister received a series of superb birthday cakes, one from each of their friends.
Their father laid aside his paper with a deep sniff of disapproval and looked down at his grapefruit quarter.
"Is this it?" he said grumpily.
His wife only gave him a severe look, and then nodded pointedly at Dudley, who had already finished his own grapefruit quarter and was eyeing Arabella's portion with glinting eyes.
"You can have my half," said Lyla, pushing her plate away. "I'm not hungry, I don't think I can stomach anything at the moment."
Their mother gave her daughter a worried glance, while their father only sighed heavily. He was about to dig into his own grapefruit slice when the doorbell rang unexpectedly. He heaved himself out of his chair and set off down the hall. Quick as a flash, while their mother was occupied with the kettle, Dudley stole their father's grapefruit.
Lyla heard her father talking at the door, and someone laughing. Then the front door closed, and the sound of ripping paper came from the hall. Their mother set the teapot down on the table and looked curiously around to see where her husband had gotten to. She didn't have to wait long to find out; after about a minute, he was back, and he looked extremely strained.
"You two," he barked at his daughters. "In the living room. Now."
Bewildered, wondering what on earth they could have done this time, the Dursley girls stood stiffly and followed their father out of the kitchen and into the next room. He closed the door sharply, slowly pivoting where he stood.
"So," he said slowly. "So."
"So what?" asked Arabella.
"Do not speak to me like that!" snapped their father, a vein now visible in his temples "This… this just arrived," he continued, brandishing a piece of purple writing paper. "A letter. About you."
"Really?" said Lyla, perking up with interest. Just which one of their friends knew how to send letters by Muggle post?
Their father only glowered deeper, then looked down at the letter and began to read aloud:
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Dursley,
We have never been introduced, but I am sure you have heard a great deal from your daughters about my son Ron. As I'm sure they might have told you, the final of the Quidditch World Cup takes place this Monday night, and my husband, Arthur, has just managed to get prime tickets through his connections at the Department of Magical Games and Sports.
I do hope you will allow us to take Arabella and Lyla to the match, as this really is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity; Britain hasn't hosted the cup for thirty years, and tickets are extremely hard to come by. We would of course be glad to have them stay for the remainder of the summer holidays as well and to see them safely onto the train back to school. It would be best for you to send us your answer as quickly as possible in the normal way because the Muggle postman has never delivered to our house, and I am not sure he even knows where it is. Hoping to see the twins soon,
Yours sincerely,
Molly Weasely
P.S. I do hope we've put enough stamps on.
When their father finished reading, he put his hand back into his breast pocket and drew out something else.
"Look at this," he growled.
He held up the envelope in which Mrs. Weasley's letter had come, and Lyla had to fight down a laugh. Every bit of it was covered in stamps except for a square inch on the front, into which Mrs. Weasley had squeezed the Dursleys' address in minute writing.
"She did put enough stamps on, then," said Lyla pleasantly, trying to sound as though Mrs. Weasley's was a mistake anyone could make.
"The postman noticed," said their father through gritted teeth. "Very interested to know where this letter came from, he was. That's why he rang the doorbell. Seemed to think it was funny."
The sisters remained silent. Other people might not understand why Vernon Dursley was making a fuss about too many stamps, but they had lived with him too long not to know how touchy they were about anything even slightly out of the ordinary.
"So — can we go then?" asked Arabella lightly.
A slight spasm crossed their father's face.
"Who is this Ron?" he asked, eyes narrowed. "And how come I've never heard about this young man until now?"
Arabella shot her sister a mirrored glance of confusion.
"I'm sure we've mentioned him to you," said Lyla after a moment's pause. "He's been our friend since nearly the beginning, isn't that right, Ara?"
"Mhm," confirmed Arabella. "And he's one of my best mates, so I don't know how that slipped."
Their father's eyes had narrowed into small suspicious slits.
"One of your best mates?"
"Ugh, no! Not like that at all!" gasped Arabella in horror.
Their father paused and read the letter again.
"Quidditch," he muttered under his breath. "Quidditch — what-what is this Quidditch?"
Lyla felt a second stab of annoyance.
"It's a sport," said Arabella. "Played on a broom —"
"Alright, alright!" said their father loudly. "… send us your answer… in the normal way. What does she mean, 'the normal way'?"
"Normal for us," said Lyla lightly, and before Arabella could be interrupted, she added, "you know, owl post."
Vernon Dursley looked as outraged as if she had just uttered a disgusting swear word. Even four years later, he was still filled with rage and disgust that his daughters were magical.
"How many times do I have to tell you not to mention that unnaturalness under my roof?!"
"We're sorry!" cut in Arabella, glaring furiously at her sister.
"Okay," said Lyla snappishly. "We can't see the World Cup. Can we go now, then? Only I've got a letter to Sirius I want to finish. You know — our godfather."
She had done it. She had said the magic words this time. Now she watched the purple recede blotchily from her father's face, making it look like badly mixed black currant ice cream.
"You're — you're writing to him, are you?" he asked in a would-be calm voice.
"Well — of course," she said casually. "It's been a while since he heard from us, and, you know, if he doesn't, he might start thinking something's wrong."
"… well, okay then," their father said after an agonizing pause. " You can go to this. . . this stupid . . . this World Cup thing. You write and tell these Weasleys they're to pick you up. I haven't got time to go dropping you off all over the country. And you can spend the rest of the summer there. And you can tell your — your godfather . . . tell him… tell him where you're going…"
"Okay then," said Lyla brightly.
P.S. If you could, if one has the time, please leave
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