QLFC Reserve League
S1, R2
Seeker:
"I paced around for hours on empty
I jumped at the slightest of sounds
And I couldn't stand the person inside me
I turned all the mirrors around."
- Control by Halsey
TW: Self-Loathing; Mentioned Bullying; Implied Drug Use
"I'm a freak," Petunia breathes.
Her heart stutters a beat in her chest and she clenches her hands into fists. Her breathing is rapid paced and shallow, her lungs ache even though they are filled with air.
Tears prick her eyes and she scrubs them away roughly, spinning on her heel once she gets to the other side of her room.
She couldn't—
Talking to snakes isn't normal.
Annabelle's words ring through her head so much that they give her a headache, her shrill, accusing voice so loud that she can hear it over the rush of blood in her head.
"ONLY FREAKS CAN THINK THEY CAN TALK TO ANIMALS!" Annabelle had shouted, disgust on her face.
She's supposed to be normal.
Annabelle had shouted it so loud that Maria and Issa didn't want to talk to Petunia anymore either, which meant that Petunia had zero friends now.
And while this happened, her small corn snake continued to kiss and slither over her shoulders. And Petunia continued to understand what was being said.
No no no no no— she's not supposed to be a freak.
She cannot be a freak.
Petunia asked—so very stupidly—if they could understand the snake. She thought she had been imagining things. She hadn't known that it wasn't her imagination!
The leaves that Marley always brought—Logically she can take a guess as to what they are, but Petunia does not want to know what it was because if Marley got caught, she could truthfully deny knowing—made her head spin and sometimes she imagined stuff. And she'd burnt a few earlier so she thought—
Petunia clamps her hand over her mouth to muffle her scream. It makes her throat ache, her ears ring, and tears slide down her face.
FREAKFREAKFREAKFREAKFREAKFREAK—
Annabelle doesn't want to be around Petunia; Maria and Issa follow everything Annabelle does so that means that she doesn't have a hope in the world of them speaking with her.
The only person that would speak to her is Marley and Marley only speaks to her when Petunia can pay for a handful of leaves. Other than that, Marley has no interest in Petunia and that's the way it works.
Everybody follows their lead at school and anybody would be a social pariah for trying to be her friend—not that anybody would want to be her friend if she wasn't so unpopular now.
Petunia desperately tries to stifle the sob that bubbles in her chest.
It doesn't work.
Not even Lily can speak to snakes.
And Lily goes to a school for magic.
But Petunia isn't a witch. She can't do magic, she can't do anything.
She'd tried.
She asked to go, begged even, but she was still turned away.
So Lily got to go be the special sister, go to a school for witches, and that left Petunia by herself.
Compared to Lily, Petunia isn't much.
Maths is where she excels, numbers are constant and always make sense—unlike people—and they don't care that she isn't pretty. Petunia is bland. She has red–hair that she bleaches because her red hair always marks her as Lily's sister, not Petunia Evans; her blue eyes are common, light and dull, and nobody gives them a second glance.
Lily is good with people; she's smart, she can understand things that make no sense to most; she has bright scorching red hair that makes her stick out in a crowd and vibrant green eyes that make everybody do a double take to register them. She's amazing and tasteful and so very not bland.
This meant that Lily now had more friends than her. Even though she is good with people, the only people outside of the family she talks to is Snape.
The only not–bland thing Petunia can do is talk to snakes apparently.
"Which is fucking useless," she croaks. "What am I going to do with it? Be a snake charmer? Fat fucking chance. I'm just a freak who got the one thing Lily didn't; she got everything else."
Her face is hot, her eyes burn, and Petunia sniffles.
A knock on the door makes her startle; she flinches, her shoulders hunching, before she forces herself to relax.
Her mum's voice rings out from the other side of the door. "Tunia, love, how are you feeling? I saw you had a fight with Annabelle." Her mum sounds concerned, a touch angry, and Petunia somehow feels worse.
She swallows and licks her lips, trying to level how bad she'll sound if she speaks. "I'm— okay, mum," she says, louder than she meant too, but she doesn't sound too terrible. "It's not important."
There is a beat of silence and a soft sigh from the other side of the door. "If you're sure, love. Supper will be ready in about 20 minutes, if you'd like to come downstairs and eat with your father and I. If you're not hungry, I'll leave the pot on the stove for you."
"Okay, mum. I'll be downstairs to eat with you and Dad in a bit."
Footsteps sound and Petunia stays where she is, listening and staring at the painted flowers on her wall.
Her and Lily had painted them when they were 6 and 8. It is all of their favorite flowers: Roses, Tulips, Daisies, Petunias, Lilies. They look horrendous too, now that they've managed to refine their art skills since then.
Tears prick her eyes again as a well of sorrowful anger rises within her and she forces it down. "No more crying," she snaps to herself as she turns away from the wall. She wrenches her door open. "You've cried enough."
She goes to the bathroom and turns on the tap, splashing her face with cold water. In the mirror, Petunia can trace her eyes over her puffy, red eyes, the tear streaks, and the pimples and impurities that have been on her skin since she turned 13 years old six months ago.
She hates it.
She despises it.
Petunia turns away from the mirror, hating the way she looks, hating the way she can't be right, hating— she hates herself and her chest aches with the weight of the emotion.
"Nobody can know you're a freak," she mumbles to herself. "You're already halfway to useless. You don't need to be a useless freak in addition." Her hands are trembling as she wipes them dry.
"Just be normal; it'll be okay."