DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, as do all the characters and relative plotlines. I can claim none of it.


CHAPTER ONE

THE GIRL WHO DIED


Sephie Potter was an odd girl. None in the neighbourhood ever saw her; small thing that she was, crafted from pale porcelain, arched cheekbones, a sharp face, wide green almond-shaped eyes, and soft pink lips that were decidedly docile. She was a creature of softness, of arms and legs, of dainty green silken ribbons in dark inky locks, of a Lily-necklace that was wound tightly around her neck. She was pretty, had a soft voice, and disappeared into the shadows as quickly as she came. The Neighbours never saw Miss Potter of Privet Drive unless it was in the white halls of the Chapel on a Sunday evening. It was not this that was odd, in fact, in the eyes of man, little Sephie was a good girl. Raised with the good manners of her respectable aunt, Petunia Dursley. No, it was simply her. The neighbours stiffened when she walked past, mothers clutching their babes as they wailed. Then there were the shadows, the dark inky things that followed her. Many blinked, shaking away the sight as an illusion. If it was not this, it was her eyes. Beautiful as they were, the frightening eerie glow to them shuddered a chilling tingle into many of the elders' spines.

It was almost as if she reminded them of death, of the rattling pale bones and croaking throats, of the withering palms and breaking nails as death clung to the shells of their ageing forms. Brittle and broken.

This fear, that dawning horror of shrivelled hearts and the trembling, stuttering desire to live consumed them. None even spoke to Miss Potter in school, the children gasping from the playground as they all fled to the swings when Sephie sat alone. She never spoke to them, she had nothing to say, and them, fearful of the little girl with fish-tail braids, whispered about the strange, freakish girl. Dudley, her cousin, did little to ease the tension. He laughed, as uproariously as his father had taught him, tugging at her hair, and kicking at small pale knees. Sometimes (with his band of merry hooligans) he would even brag, of how nobody wanted her, that his mother had been forced to put up with her when the Potters', after another bout of substance abuse had driven off a bridge, and into the dark, swallowing depths below.

"Freak," Dudley would spit, his fist meeting her ribs with a loud smack, "Nobody wants you here!"

The children would giggle, nine year olds surrounding Dudley, as if he were the Jester-King, his blonde hair a crown, and his fat beefy neck a golden chain of jewels. Sephie often thought he seemed to think so, a fat pig in a wig, is what she'd call him in the privacy of her summer evenings, her soft hands cupping at her pencil as she wrote. It distracted her from him, her snickering cousin in the back of the class, whispering to his goons as he spat profanities about her. The teachers never seemed to care much either. They dismissed the crude behaviour of Dudley, passing him a candied mint, or a piece of bubble-gum for his favour. In return, the financial delight of one Mr. Vernon Dursley who was the upcoming CEO of Grunnings, once his father passed on.

In truth, the Dursleys were a foul, ill bred family of atrocious manners that descended on the evening markets in their black BMW; the Mrs. dressed in a glistening orange summer gown, and a necklace of pearls, Mr. Dursley was no better, in thick sweltering suits, and polished leather shoes. The son was much the same. The niece was never to be seen, some sighed in relief, and others frowned, their treatment of the girl was exhausting and concerning. But none of them ever reported Miss Potter, not of her thin bruised wrists, and hollow face, nor did they mention her absence. Their fear was a tightening noose, too many business dealers had their stocks held by the Dursleys'. The eldest was a Lord, the Earl of Surrey, who had three sons, two grand-sons and a grand-daughter, and a great-grandson, Dudley.

If anyone had ever had the common sense to report such suspicions they were quickly lost, stumbling into the casks of greed, hidden beneath the need to please the Earl, and his grand-son, the future CEO of Grunnings. The community, much like the head-family, were spineless cretins that loved the taste of their own wealth.

Sephie sighed, shoulders slumped, the very image of a young girl lost to the world, burdened by the avarice that surrounded her. It echoed in the halls of her home, twisted into the thick wooden walls, and grand staircase that wound its way up to the second, third, and fourth floor. Her pale fingers tugged at the soft material on the dining table. This was where they all sat together, even her, at the far end, secluded from the family of three. There, her Aunt Petunia didn't have to speak to her, she would clutch at her pearls (an anniversary gift from her husband), and simper, telling him about her day, of the old witless hags that she called friends; "Oh, my dear! You'll never believe what Mrs. Phillips told me…"

It was an endless pattern, a spiral of insanity that Sephie was forced to put up with. She hated it, hated them.

One of her green orbs twitched, her knuckles creaking as the shadows whispered.

("Foul things. Wretched mortals. How dare—")

It was drowned by the screeching voice of her aunt as those claws dug into her arm, forcing her to sit up straight, and eat her food. As if she was not doing just that! As if her Aunt Petunia hadn't given her a slice of bread, covered with mustard and cold ham, as if they weren't eating a roast wellington that she had cooked!

Sephie wrinkled her nose, tongue tasting the dry, stale meat. It was at least a week old, left over from the last roast that she'd been forced to cook. It was hardly the first she'd made, Sephie had been seven, barely ahead of her mathematics in school when she'd been handed a knife and a leg of lamb. It had only continued from then, her young hands working feverishly to finish it in time. It had to be perfect.

It had to be.

Otherwise Uncle Vernon wasn't happy. It was him she feared. Not the voices in her head or the shadows that swarmed, but the dark, vicious fists of her uncle as she screamed. It only got worse, his belt striking out against her flesh as the lamps shuddered, lights flickering, as a vicious fever swarmed her.

(Sephie was alone. Sephie was unwanted. Unloved. A freak.)

She'd once told a teacher, hands shaking from the fear of her home; the dark, dank cupboard that rested under the stairs. She told Mr. Williams of her little cot, of the spiders that she'd named Henry and Eugene. It was never enough, he'd sent her home with a stern frown, a fierce hiss that to defame such characters as the Dursleys was a shame on her, that they'd taken her in out of the kindness of their hearts.

("Your mother was a whore, your father an alcoholic ingrate. You should be grateful that they took you in at all!")

Her Uncle Vernon had made her sleep in the basement for a week. Stuck with the dark, terrifying, drip-drip-drip, as a rat or two squeaked and crawled over her feet. Sephie had wailed, little fists banging against the old door. It never budged, and she'd awoken the next morning, covered in dirt and dust as her aunt forced her into the garden, washing her down with a hose.

Sephie would never forget, not even now, when small fingers picked at her sandwich and quietly ate. Not now, when her cousin nudged her in the ribs sharply, waving a piece of beef wellington in her face, as if she were lesser. She gritted her teeth, smiling sharply at her cousin. It wasn't fair, she wished to scream (at the stars, at the heavens, at the moon, at any one that would listen), why me, she wanted to wail, what have I done to deserve this? God, how can you be so cruel?

Not that Sephie believed in such things. She'd spent most of her life sitting in the pews, her hands bunched together, head down, as she prayed. Murmurs of praise and worship slipping from her tongue, watching with a cautious eye as her Aunt Petunia grasped tightly at her golden cross. She doubted her aunt believed in him either. It was more for show than anything else.

"Girl!" Boomed Vernon, jolting Sephie out of thoughts, "Watch what you're doing with the table cloth! Do you know how expensive that was?!"

Sephie anxiously dropped the silken table-cloth, her hand trembling as she quickly tried to finish off her sandwich.

Petunia patted her husband's hand, smiling with that wretched, foul, thing of hers. A twitch of lips that were strained, firm and barely moved at all. She knew the truth, Sephie thought vindictively, Aunt Petunia had never loved Vernon. He was nothing but a placeholder for her position in society; her jewels, gowns, perfume, manor, cars, and holiday estates that were divided between the Dursley siblings throughout Spain and Italy. Sephie had never been, often left in the care of the maids.

"My dear, don't worry about the freak," she murmured, kissing him softly on the cheek. "Such stress isn't good for you! It's no matter, we won't have to deal with her for a couple of months. You know this, darling."

Vernon grunted.

A smile stretched wide and far across her cousin's lips, a malicious thing that stared back at her cruelly. He jabbed her in the ribs once more, forcing a hiss from her pink, scowling lips.

God, she thought fiercely, I hate them all.

"Yes!" Cheered Dudley, throwing about his fists in the air, thick lumpy arms landing back on the table (like the fat pork of shit he was), "We're going to Florence," he sniffed. "Not that you're coming with us. They don't let freaks in. Daddy says they keep your lot in the stables. Where the servants work. Mummy?" He asked, voice high and garbled. "Does that mean she's our servant?"

Sephie scowled.

"We don't have any stables."

Petunia flushed, stuttering as she gripped tightly at her cutlery, those cool blue eyes boring into Sephie's. She shuddered, twitching at the calculating grin that swept across her lips. Gone as quickly as it came.

"Persephone is your cousin, Dudley. Yes, she's not like us… Lily," she sneered, "was as much of a freak. Hmm," Petunia turned to her son, smiling softly at the boy. "Perhaps a servant isn't the right word. She eats with us, no?"

"B-but, she cooks all our meals and cleans the house, I thought that was servants' work. You'd never make me do tha—"

"No," snapped Petunia. "Of course I wouldn't! My perfect boy, I would never."

"You're quite right," said Vernon, folding the paper as he rested it beside him, dark brown eyes peering into her own. "A servant? Come now, Pet. She does clean the house. My own father often wonders why we keep her, considering where she comes from…"

Dudley frowned, clutching at his fork, terrified at the thought of losing his only means of entertainment in the drab, dull, and monotonous village of Little Whinging.

"Where else would she go?" Said Dudley, shoving a roast potato into his mouth, "She's my cousin isn't she? She has to live here!"

"Oh, yes," breathed Petunia in dismay. "It's important that Persephone stays with us. She is my sister's daughter."

Sephie glared at them, biting roughly at the cold ham, tongue tasting the sweet glaze of orange and ginger. It was a worthy distraction of the zoo-show that was her family. She didn't dare to call them that either; she was pale and small, Vernon bore no resemblance with his whale flesh that bulged out of his trousers, dress-shirts barely fitting him at all. Petunia, with a neck almost as long as a giraffe, and teeth that glanced back at her, long and yellow, like that of a horse's. Dudley didn't need mentioning. He was repulsive, vile, and spoiled to high degrees that only brought about cruelty and lack-witted thinking.

"Girl," snapped Vernon, turning his wretched gaze to her, she'd never liked it either; a dark festering thing that seethed. "Get me some Rum. My wife could do with a glass of wine too."

Sephie finished her sandwich with a large swallow, almost choking on the stale bread as she fled to the kitchen, her small legs brushing past the tea towels as she frantically reached for the wine and rum. Her uncle always kept them in reach, her serving them was a reluctant delight for the man. She knew not to be late to his whims, or early. Uncle Vernon was a brute of a man that favoured his fists and belt, an echoing of scars marred her back from his own barbarity. The kind that on his worst nights, extended to his wife.

She cracked the ice into the glass, pouring the Rum in, and mixing it with a spoon. It had to be perfect, there could be no room for nothing else. Vernon's dark eyes had stared at her for the evening, those deep pits of festering abhorrence that followed. He was in a mood, she'd seen it before, his sweltering anger from a terrible day at work. This was nothing new, Sephie had been raised under those dark, intolerable eyes, against the prejudice and ignorance of his inferior views. It mattered little if one was black, gay, or Persephone Potter, they were all freaks. She knew this, as did her Aunt Petunia with a pleasant smile and a loving kiss. They were both disgusting, she thought, twisted and deformed creatures that roamed the hallways, decadent and robed with wealth. Unworthy.

"Hurry up!" Barked Vernon, his snarling voice echoing through the dining room, and near the bar where she stood. It was a new edition, covered in bottles of ale, gin, beer, and wine, all the favourites of her uncle and aunt. "Girl, what the fuck are you doing?!"

Sephie shuffled back into the room, carrying the glasses awkwardly in her thin, bruised, and scarred arms. The glasses shook, rattling against her thin wrists, bony and bent from the pains of her youth. Sometimes, on her worst days, wrapped in her old woollen blanket, in the darkness of her cupboard, she wondered if that's all she would be in the end, a bent creature of festering darkness. Would her ankles bend before he broke them with his foot? Would her fingers snap under the weight of his own? Would her neck— She was jolted out of her thoughts by her cousin, fat and pudgy as the day he was born, malicious eyes staring into her own.

"Uncle," she muttered, as if it was a title of worthy respect, of forced worship at the altar of his own twisted, demented ego. "Aunt."

Sephie froze, the air tightening and crackling against her skin, a hissing sound as her shadows seethed, an echoing wrath that boiled in her blood and bone. She gritted her teeth, gnashing against her gums as she choked. It did little to stop her cousin, a smirking sly creature that kicked, sleek sneakers thrusting into the sides of her ankles as she fell. Knees buckling, a startled yelp slipping from her lips.

"GIRL!" Thundered Vernon, his fat wrinkled face flushing purple, a vein bulging and twitching on his forehead. His snarl was that of the wolves, violent and leering.

Her aunt's wine was spilt all over the pale, creamy carpet. A sloshing colour that looked like tainted, spilt blood. Sephie swallowed anxiously, peering up into the gleeful eyes of her cousin. Dudley wanted her in trouble, he wanted her on the floor, bruised and pained. He was a mixture of his parents; a callous boy with a need for barbaric violence. His fists were sharp, and his knuckles bruised well. She hated him the most. It was Dudley that forced her head down the toilet (cackling like a proud, jumping hyena), watched as his friends kicked and tugged, and trapped her in the basement on a weekly basis with bruised arms and a tender stomach. She was his beating bag, Sephie had once possessed the boldness to complain, to plead before her aunt.

In hindsight, it was rather stupid of her, but she did, nonetheless.

Her aunt had sneered, spit flying out of her mouth as she raged.

("Why should I care?! If Dudley needs to use you as his means of releasing anger, all the better for us! Better you than my precious China pots. What did you think we'd do, freak, help you? Stop him? Don't make me laugh!")

Sephie screamed, a wailing sound that shook the china, and delicate cups of tea; it infuriated her uncle all the more. His fat fingers pulled at her hair, dark inky locks wound around his pudgy fist, tugging her hair back with a sharp pull, her neck stretched back as she desperately tried to escape. Her knees sliding across the floor, struggling under the weight of his rage.

"You foolish girl! Do you know how much that carpet cost us?!"

"Uncle, please, I-I didn't mean—"

Vernon snarled, his palm slamming her face into the carpet, right into the rich smelling scent of spilt wine. Sephie choked, consumed by the smell, it was almost too much. She struggled, her limbs flailing as she tried to crawl away. But she couldn't, her uncle had his gleaming leather boot placed tightly on her cheek. She was trapped.

"Oh Vernon," Aunt Petunia simpered, a deceitful sound that covered her vicious, callous nature. "It's ruined! What are we going to do?!"

Her aunt was always like that. A delicate flower wrapped in silk and satin, with long hands and gentle fingers, but beneath all that was a snake. The kind that watched in delight as her poison brought about suffering she could've very well prevented. Perhaps it brought her joy, a twisted sense of delight that grew in her shrivelled light-less heart.

"Punish her!" Demanded Dudley, who always seemed to get a sick kick out of it (along with the poor girls he harassed at school), he smiled viciously, all teeth bared at Sephie. A feral little thing. "Mummy!"

"Hmph," groaned Aunt Petunia. "We could have her garden for the next few weeks?"

Vernon snarled. "She likes to garden!"

"Well I don't know! You come up with something, nothing too strenuous, Vernon. We're leaving in a week, and the maids can't see her cleaning everything in sight. It would be suspicious. Oh," she screeched. "What would the neighbours think, Vernon? We cannot. Give her something simple."

Her uncle snarled, kicking at Sephie's side, a crunch echoing through the room as his foot met her ribs. It was a cold, hard day, she thought, curling up amidst spilt wine and old carpet. It wasn't new, and she doubted her uncle had even brought it. The smell was musky, an old smell, mixed with the trails of dust and specs of dirt.

"We should've dumped her at an Orphanage," sneered Vernon, "or left her to the police! We never agreed to take the little freak in, Pet! I won't have it."

Those dark eyes of her uncle peered down at her, a wrinkle of his nose and a fierce sneer spoke of his disgust and disdain.

"Why should we have to put up with her? The old man doesn't even check in on her!"

Petunia whimpered, hands shuddering. She gazed at her aunt, eyes lidded from the pain, frowning at the fear that shook Petunia's bony arms and fingers.

"Vernon!" Hissed Aunt Petunia, "Don't mention… h-him! They could be listening."

Her uncle scoffed, swiftly kicking at Sephie's stomach, smiling at the scream that slipped from her lips.

(He was a sick man that more often enjoyed the pleasure of pain, than the soft luxuries of his own wife and their wealthy income.)

"If they were listening, Pet. We'd have heard from them by now, nobody cares. Not about her. She's got no one but us. I say we leave her in the streets and be done with it all."

Petunia gasped, raising a trembling hand to her lips. "Vernon," she breathed. "We can't. What if she went to the police? We could go to prison!"

Dudley stared at them wide-eyed, reaching for a piece of roast as he watched the performance, a smirk tugging at his lips as he taunted her. Waving the roast about before he ate it, reaching for another and another.

"But Mummy, we can't leave her. She's mine. It won't be fun if she's not here."

Vernon rolled his eyes, patting the boy on the head. "You don't want her here, Duds. We can get you something else instead, a new computer, hmm?"

"A computer?" Sneered Dudley. "I don't want a computer!"

Petunia frowned.

"He's right. We can't get rid of her, Vernon. I won't allow it. She's my sister's daughter."

"You never cared," he roared, foot slamming down on Sephie's back as she choked, spit gurgling in the back of her throat. "We leave her at the station, we wont have to deal with her again! Robert works down at the station, I'll give him a call—"

"It won't be enough," hissed Petunia, "you know why she's here. Persephone keeps us safe from them."

Sephie groaned, gritting her teeth as her hands thumped at her uncle's foot, rolling desperately away from him, she didn't get that far. Her Uncle Vernon was a large man, and was quicker than he looked.

"Let me go!" Sephie shouted, clawing at his arm as he lifted her, his fat sweaty palm grasped at the back of her shirt. She tried to wriggle away, feet kicking at the older man with a fierce scowl. "Let me go!"

"We haven't seen anyone," growled Vernon. "None of those freaks have haunted our door except her. I won't have it, Pet! She's clumsy, useless, and a god-damned filthy freak! What if she starts influencing Dudley, have you thought of that?"

Sephie shivered, her nails digging into the flesh of his arm. It did little, her uncle was too tall and big. She scowled, legs kicking at his kneecaps, hissing at the monster that shook her with thick, filthy palms.

"Fine," seethed Petunia, staring cooly at her husband. "We can't leave her on the streets."

"Mummy! I don't want her to go!"

"Hush, darling. We could plan another trip? What about Disneyland?"

The boy's eyes lit up, his sweaty palms shuddering in excitement as he grinned. It was a wretched thing; a tug of thick lips as they stretched wide, teeth glanced back at them, stained yellow from sweets and mugs of hot cocoa. He rushed at his mother, wrapping his arms tightly around her thin waist.

"Thank you, Mummy! Thank you!"

"It's alright, darling. Mummy will take you there herself, hmm, we can have a great time. Just the three of us."

Sephie could imagine it. The three of them; walrus, his wife, giraffe, and their son, the little piglet. A complete matching set. Flourishing in their own wealth, striding through the parks and beaches of America. Bulging under the weight of their own greedy avarice, filled with ice-creams and burgers. An endless option, gobbling down one after the other. Sephie wondered if by the time they reached England, Dudley and Vernon wouldn't fit through the front door.

"Go, Dudley," ordered Vernon sternly, "Go and play on your computer."

Petunia ushered him out the door, gently leading him up the stairs with the promise of more soda and chocolate cake. An evening pudding that Dudley snacked on more often than anything else. It was no wonder the boy was as big as a house.

The door clicked shut, it was a loud deafening noise that rang in her ears. A terrifying sound that spoke of the violence that rested in her uncle's soul.

Sephie had little time to bolt, crawling up and away. Uncle Vernon struck like a snake, fat sweaty palms grasping at her neck and hair, tugging and choking as he forced her to the ground, his knee digging into the flesh of her back. Sephie groaned and spluttered, spit dripping onto the floor. She couldn't breathe. All she could feel was him. His weighing leg on her back as her lungs heaved.

"Do you feel that, freak," he sneered, "That's your lungs. A little more pressure and you won't be able to breathe at all. It'll be a kindness, your aunt would forgive me. She's right, I can't leave you in the streets, we'd have the police on us in seconds. What should be done about that?"

Sephie clenched her teeth, anger flooding through her veins as she fumed.

"You'll infect my son," he mumbled, feverish and deluded, his twisted tongue muttering. "And my wife, if you weren't her sister's child she would've left you to the rats. It's about time we put you where you belong!"

Sephie wanted to cry, to scream and wail, as her fists banged at the floor. The rage simmered, a boiling thing that festered in her pale bone and porcelain flesh.

She screamed, a piercing wailing sound as her uncle wrapped his belt around her throat and squeezed. The lights shook, the walls shuddered, and the old oak table shattered, ancient wood scrambling across the floor. The shadows writhed, flowing over the carpet, winding its way around her fingers and toes. It was power. It was life. It was the glowing sustenance of the blinding sun that burnt down on them all. Eternal.

"Freakish whore!" Spat her uncle, fear trembling in his mouth, a delightful quaking sound that brought life to Sephie's heart. "Stop it! I demand it!"

Sephie's screamed again, a chilling screech that echoed through the halls. Maybe, maybe the neighbours will hear. She prayed, her teeth gritting as her uncle's sweaty palm bared down on her lips and nose. Suffocating her in that wet, damp moisture.

She gagged. The smell was putrid too.

"We should've strung you up to the pole out back and burnt you, fucking freak. It's what you deserve," rambled Vernon. "I always wanted to, you know. Ever since you were a babe. I told Petunia that she should've god-damned smothered you in your sleep. Nobody would've ever known."

Sephie twitched, her lungs quivering as her sight began to darken, her small toes and fingers shuddering, stretching wide and far, desperate for an escape from him.

"Well, I'm ending it now. I've had enough with you, Potter. You freaks won't be bothering us good folk anymore, haha! No. Oh, they won't! We can go on with our lives."

"S-Stop."

It was a crooked sound that slithered from her lips, pressed against his palm as she murmured. Her limbs were drowsy, a soft feeling that ached in her muscles and bone. The world, Sephie realised, was tilting, it was as if she'd been pressed down to nothing. Not even a single splutter left her lips. Sephie could no longer scream. She was empty. Her uncle laughed, it was the last thing she saw, his bright, delighted (dementedly cruel) grin that stared down at her. Hovering over her as if he were the devil himself. A masterful creation of horror.

Sephie, in that moment, exploded. Her back arched as she screamed, once more, fire breathed to life on the curtains and floor. A wretched hissing sound that shook through the manor-house. It screeched and echoed, a blazing sound that burst forward, entwined with the shadows that leaked from little Sephie's fingers and palms.

Emerald eyes snapped open, blinking at the Uncle that rolled around on the floor, his wife and son screaming from the third floor. They wouldn't escape, she thought, none of them would. Sephie stood up, her muscles regrowing under the weight of her shadows.

This, she thought, as her uncle's flesh was melted to the bone, this is freedom. This is me.

She giggled. A mouthful of sharp white teeth, a small pair of fangs that glistened with venom under the firelight.

Sephie — No.

Persephone smiled, as fire and ash caked to her skin, it was beautiful and it was bright.