The moon was high in the sky in this night of autumn 1981. The few trees exposed by the approach of winter dominated with their ghostly silhouettes a periurban street well named Privetdrive. A very common street in these recent suburban town . Lined by rows of identical and soulless houses stretching as far as the eye can see. A very normal place populated by normal and civilized people in a very normal part of Surrey. These people, these families living perfectly normal lives without any turmoil or waves, drifting in their flat existence on the rails of their self-imposed normality. In short, a place, if you will, empty of life, soul, change and any form of ambition.
But in this terribly normal place, on the threshold of one of these small white houses, sister of a thousand others, there is a terrifying anomaly on this most normal evening. A nightmare for the inhabitants of this small corner of paradise, fearing more than anything the arrival of change, of this monster that is the unforeseen, in their small morose life. This thing, this stain in the perfect picture that is Privetdrive, is a man. An old man, although we can't clearly define his age, dressed in long purple robes edged with gold, his face worried and hesitant, holding in his arms a letter and a little being wrapped preciously in green woolen sheets.
He is hesitant, the parents of the child: Aster Potter, had died on that tragic evening to protect their daughter from the most terrible dark lord of the last 35 years. And by a miracle. Thanks to an unknown arcana, the child survived. Survived Voldemort. Survived a dark magic that by its very nature is impossible to escape. And yet. Yet this little girl of barely one year ended a bloody civil war that was about to be lost. The man hesitates. He knows that the muggles living in this seemingly innocent house are not kindred spirits. He knows that the child will not be spoiled. That she will not know the love that is due to her. That she will not discover her rightfull heritage until much later. That Lily was far from being on good terms with her sister Petunia.
He could keep the child. Put her in a loving wizarding family, keep her in Hogwart's under his protection. But he can't do that even though he'd like to. Oh that he would like to keep Lily's daughter with him. But he knows. He knows that to leave her under his care in the magical world would put her in danger. The government of magical England is in deep chaos, with Death-eaters roaming the land like headless dragons sowing death and destruction in their wake. The best wards would not keep the child safe. Not even Hogwart would be safe for her. Some Death-eaters high up in the government could easily wash their hands of their war crimes and plead to regain custody of the child and arrange her disappearance.
No. Only the Bloodwards left behind by her mother and linked to Petunia Dursley could keep her safe until the situation in magical England stabilizes. Here, under the Bloodwards she will remain incognito. No one but him will know what really happened to her. No, her childhood will not be happy, but she will live, far from her intoxicating and debilitating fame, far from Tom's servants and their influence. She will have a stable if not happy childhood. A childhood from which she will not come out spoiled but with a clear and stable mind. Ready to enter the magical world strong and with enough distance to face the world. Strong enough to survive while the adults take care of Tom.
Dumbledore crouched down at the doorway and gently placed the interlacing blanket protecting the child on the threshold. He inserts the letter into a fold of the cloth and pulls out the elder wand. With a few smooth movements of the wrist the child is now protected from the cold of the night, from the wind and from any danger that could threaten her until Petunia or her husband takes her inside.
He gets up slowly and looks at the child one last time, big green eyes meeting the blue of his own. A hint of regret pierces his withered heart as he turns around, takes a few steps towards the street lit by the soft orange glow of the streetlights, before evaporating into the night like a sigh.
It's a morning like any other at #4 Privet Drive. Petunia Dursleys is comfortably seated in her chair around the kitchen table sipping her tea and keeping an eye on her adorable little Dudley while Vernon, as usual, reads the nonsense in the newspaper with an air of importance, as if he were a judge of world affairs. All in all, a perfectly ordinary morning in the image of the normal life that Petunia has struggled to build. In a small suburban house, as a housewife, with a child and a caring husband bringing in his paycheck to support the family's life. In a network of friendly relationships with other women of the neighborhood, wallowing in their monotonous lives where the days follow each other, all the same, in a long farandola of monotony where the only distractions are the few rumours that are exchanged within the neighborhood. Frankly, Petunia could not have dreamed of having a better life. And every day, before each meal, before going to sleep, she thanks the Lord with Vernon. She knows how lucky she is, to have such a normal family, far from those satanic, cultist witches and wizards, devoted to making the lives of good people miserable. She has not forgiven them, and will never forgive them for taking away her little sister, sweet Lily, so good, so perfect, dragging her into this crazy world. First this boy with a big nose and long black hair talking about magic, then this three times cursed letter, the refusal of these satanists to let her accompany her sister to be able to continue to watch over her in their crazy world. Yes, she had wished one day, in her young and innocent years, to be able do magic like her sister. But now she knows better, she knows how lucky she is to be away from it all. In a normal life, in a normal house, with a normal husband and son.
Pulled out of her reverie by the sound of the mailman's truck passing by, Petunia reluctantly got up from her chair and sighed. "Vernon, honey, I'm going to get the mail and I'll be back in no time.
Vernon looks up from his newspaper and grumbles, "You can throw the flyers and other nonsense directly into the trash, Pet.
Petunia looks up and sighs, it's the exact same conversation every morning since they moved in together. "Yes Vernon, I'll think about it" she says as she walks towards the front door, through her white and bleached hallway. About to grab the handle Petunia is suddenly taken by a sudden and inexplicable apprehension, a shiver runs down her spine, however she decides to ignore the feeling and open the door. A decision she will bitterly regret for the rest of her life.
On the doorstep lies a child, a baby who by the looks of it is not even two years old, and in the sheets that swaddles him, a letter. A simple letter. Petunia remains stunned by the spectacle. The baby observes her, her big green eyes throwing her a questioning glance. Petunia comes out of her state of shock, closes her jaw having opened it against her will and seizes the letter with a trembling hand. A litany resounds in her head, -no no no no no no no no no no no no ... - She opens the envelope gently peeling off the red wax seal and unfolds the parchment before reading it carefully, her eyes widen with each line and her hand sticks to her mouth in horror. Her life had just been turned upside down, Lily, her little sister Lily, dead at the hands of the Satanists, the same Satanists who for some reason saw fit to drop her ... niece on the doorstep in the middle of the night. Petunia tears showing in the corner of the eyes, folds the letter with difficulty, her hands trembling more and more as she gaze at the child deposited on the ground, in front of her door, in this beautiful morning of autumn, although the leaves of the trees have already begun to fall the last heats of the summer did not leave yet.
The big green eyes of her niece stare at her, Lily's eyes inform her aching mind. It is a beautiful baby, calm, beautiful eyes, hair of a deep red already present, and a face whose forms still undecided announce beauty. A perfect sister, a perfect baby, she says to herself as she bends down to pick up her niece. What to do with her? How to announce the news to Vernon? The letter from the Satanists says that as long as she is under their roof they will be protected, and that they will receive a monthly payment to take care of the child. This will surely help her husband to get the message across. Her decision is already made. They will keep the child no matter how much Vernon resists.
Petunia closes the door and returns in direction of the kitchen where Vernon awaits her, her niece in the arms. The child staring at her, silently. A small hand comes out of the covers and grabs the fabric of her dress and pulls slightly. Petunia sighs, strange mother, strange child she says to herself. Petunia takes a deep breath and exhales slowly to regain composure and prepare herself for what is to come. She opens the door and enters the kitchen.
Vernon lowers his newspaper, folds it up and sets it down on the table next to his plate of bacon and his cup of tea. He watches her as she enters the kitchen, his gaze dropping to her niece, Aster as indicated in the letter, before settling on her face. He raises an eyebrow questioningly, his posture changes slightly, a tension growing in the air as he stares at her. His voice, like a dull roar, emerges from his chest. "Petunia? What is this? It doesn't look like mail at all."
Petunia lets out a shaky sigh as she tries to regain control of her emotions. She gathers her courage and begins. "Vernon, this," she says, pointing to Aster who turns slightly to stare at Vernon. "Is my niece, Aster Potter. She was left at our door last night by the crazy group I told you about long ago. Apparently my sister Lily and her husband James were killed last night by a bunch of terrorists. A group of lunatics, crazier than the other lunatics in their society of freaks. Albus Dumbledore in the letter he left with her entrusts us with her care apparently for safety reasons and because we are her last remaining close relatives".
Vernon stares at Petunia in silence for a long moment, an eternity, before bursting into a thunderous laugh. He takes a moment to hold his sides before catching his breath enough to speak. "Petunia, you're kidding. No, we're not going to take care of your crazy sister's child. Who knows, maybe the daughter is as crazy as the mother. And you want to obey these Satanists? it's a good one. No, we'll leave her at the first orphanage stupid enough to accept this kind of monster.
Petunia closed her eyes tightly and squeezed her nose in exasperation. "Listen Vernon, read the letter for yourself and dare to tell me you don't see the advantages of the situation."
Petunia holds out the letter and Vernon grabs it, crumpling it up as he goes, his face turning a dangerous shade of red as he reads it, before whitening all of a sudden around the middle of the letter, then he regaining colour as a toothy grin appears on his fat face. He sets the letter down on the table, and turns back to petunia. "Do you realize that they are threatening us in this letter? That apparently if we don't deal with their demon we won't be protected from whatever threat the Satanists are talking about? However, the 1000 pound per month to take care of her, weighs heavily in the balance. Petunia. I agree that the girl can be accommodated. But with certain conditions. First of all the priority is and will remain Dudley. The girl is only to be housed and fed. Then the neighbours must not know. We will not be the shame of the neighbourhood for having adopted the creature. No satanist nonsense in this house or the demon will have to be beaten out of her! Finally, if things ever get too out of hand, we'll have to get rid of her.
Petunia quickly agrees and nods. She won't have a better compromise with Vernon. Besides, it's not like she wanted her niece to show up unannounced on the doorstep one morning. Hopefully Aster will be normal. Otherwise...
Five years have passed on Privet Drive and none of the residents of this suburban surroundings can imagine what's going on in this quiet little street. A family of such good character as Petunia, Vernon Dursley and their son Dudley could not be less than their skillfully polished image. But the attentive eye may notice some strange occurrences under the shiny varnish of this model family's image. A small shadow passing behind a window while the family is away on vacation, the garden always well kept despite the absence of the inhabitants of the house, sometimes even, on rare occasions, a little girl with green eyes, dressed in second hand clothes, with holes and patches in many places far too big for her. Her frail body, far too thin, her emaciated cheeks, her thin limbs sometimes decorated with bruises of various colours. In spite of her uncharitable appearance she stands upright and acts in a strangely natural way, wandering the streets in such a way that no one really pays attention to her existence. She is sometimes the subject of conversation but even more strangely she floats out of the minds and thoughts of those paying attention to her.
Aster knows for sure that her situation is not normal, she has had enough opportunity to observe other families on her brief trips to the neighbourhood park to know this. Mothers are supposed to love their children, to protect them, to guide their steps in a world that is still far too big for them. Fathers have the same role, setting the example, showing the way for their offspring. Accompanying them to the park to play with them, pushing them on the swing, waiting for them at the bottom of the slide, bringing them snacks, drinks and treats when their sons or daughters show their first signs of tiredness or hunger before taking them back to their homes. Aster is not so lucky. And can she really regret it? Does she have the luxury? No, after all she doesn't live with her parents, they died, stupidly, in a car accident, because of their drunken consumption of alcohol and drugs. Leaving her alone, with a terrible scar over her heart as a parting gift, she finds herself in the care of her aunt Petunia and uncle Vernon. Who have the extreme kindness to offer her a roof, a cupboard, and a little food from time to time depending on their mood and if she has let herself go, or has not let her freakiness escape.
A family like that is not normal, having eyes and being able to use them makes her realize that. As much as Vernon likes to repeat that his family is normal and that she is the despicable anomaly, the stain in an otherwise perfect setting, she knows that it is he who is not normal, no other adult hits a child, or hits her, the others certainly ignore her, and thank God for that, but they don't use their belts on her at the first sign of awakening of what lives, nestled deep inside her. Just thinking about it sends a shiver down her spine, the pain from Vernon's last outburst of rage after she saved a glass from breaking by stopping it in mid-air, is still there. The scars on her back are a constant reminder of her place and the new ones she received from that unfortunate event is still red, painful and sometimes reopens in the middle of the night, staining her thin mattress and ratty old blanket with her blood.
Dudley, like all the other children, follows his father's example. He doesn't have a belt to "beat Satan out of her body" as Vernon likes to say, but he does his best, pushing her, hitting her, and accusing her of mischief with something approaching vehemence. Her father must be proud of him, she thinks, to participate actively in beating the little demon nestled in his heart. Petunia as for her, although at the beginning trying sometimes to help or to offer her the minimum of care, stopped abruptly at the first occurrence of an action of her little demon. To lock herself in a cold indifference.
Today Aster is lucky, she managed to finally escape from the house after more than a month of barely getting out of the closet to do her business. Although it is the heart of winter, Aster is feeling good for the first time in far too long. She is perched in the high branches of an oak tree dominating the park with it's tall stature. She holds in her hands, numbed by the cold, a loaf of bread stolen from the local bakery with the help of her little demon. She takes a bite every now and then, watching the sun slowly rise above the ground, dissipating the mists of dawn creeping quietly at the bottom of the small valley stretching beyond the borders of the infernal houses, identical replicas of each other. She feels a deep desire to leave this place, to fly away from Privet Drive. To walk beyond the valley of lazy mists, to go far away, and never see her cupboard again, never see her huge uncle and his belt, her ugly cousin, an exact copy of his father, his large fists and his porcine screams, her aunt and her indifference, as if her niece's existence were only a convenient dream, a little slave with thankless tasks.
But she knows that as tempting as this free life is, at her age, even with the help of her little demon, she would not survive it. Although her "family" is not the most considerate towards her (euphemism of the century) they offer her a roof to protect her from the elements and offer her enough warmth so that her fingers do not become hard and black. But sometimes the temptation to abandon this relative safety becomes more and more tempting. Her little demon is becoming more and more active and is trying to help her, even in cases where a little suffering is preferable to an angry Vernon ( she wish her little demon would be more considerate of the possible reaction of her relatives). And with her demon more present than ever, Vernons episodes of anger become more and more intense. He doesn't even call her a girl or a freak as usual but simply satan or devilspawn. On these dark thoughts she finishes her piece of bread and is about to grab the second one lodged at the bottom of her pocket but stops and wisely decides, to the great despair of her stomach, to keep the bread for the next time she finds herself locked up at the bottom of her cupboard.
In fact, over the years, she has begun to appreciate her cupboard. Deep in the darkness of it, she is safe, Vernon and Dudley are far too big to enter and Petunia wouldn't even dare to put her hand in what she calls the beast's lair. It's warm in there and when she politely asks her little demon he offers her a pretty glowing orb of light floating in the empty space of the cupboard and offering her enough light to read the few books she managed to snatch from the public library. One of the few ways not to become an empty shell lost in an ocean of warm enveloping darkness during her longests stays locked in the cupboard.
The sun is starting to be high above the horizon and the creeping mists of the valley floor have gone to hide from the sun and its pale winter rays. Moreover Aster is starting to seriously shiver with cold and she will soon have to hurry back to the Dursleys' house to prepare their stupidly huge breakfast and avoid being punished for her alleged laziness. She then skilfully jumps from branch to branch, lower and lower before grabbing the trunk firmly and sliding down it until she reaches the ground with a last gracious jump. There she starts walking, steps fast to make sure she arrives well before the other inhabitants of the house wake up. She crosses the few streets separating her from n°4 quickly, passes in the garden before entering discreetly by the back door. She listens for any agitation that would signal the awakening of Vernon, Dudley or Petunia and when only silence answers her, she starts to cook. With a hand that has become expert through repetition and many burns, she cooks the bacon perfectly, toasts the bread, takes out the jams, honeys, milk and the rest. Before she could finish setting the table Vernon and Petunia settled in their usual place. Aster as always finish her task before serving them the food and put herself in position in a corner of the room waiting for a possible request from her uncle or her aunt. The breakfast goes as usual, Dudley spilling half of his bowl of milk on himself, and exceptionally Aster is lucky enough to get a slice of bacon and a piece of toast before starting to wash the dishes.
She does it as usual, enjoying the warm water against her hands but something bothers her, and she quickly realizes that Dudley is staring at her strangely.
He gets up from his chair with some difficulty and walks towards her, saying in a voice that is far too high pitched. "Hey Mom, Satan has something in his pocket!
Aster feels her blood freeze in her veins and her eyes widen. "no!". She turns abruptly to face the bloated face of Dudley who stares at her for a moment before frowning and pushing her violently against the sink. Aster lets out a small cry of pain and surprise as Dudley shoves his big hand into the pocket of her disproportionate shorts to pull out the freshly stolen bun from the bakery.
"Mom!" Dudley shouts in a mischievous tone. "Look! The freak has stolen from the bakery again!"
Vernon rises from his seat with his eyebrows furrowed, his face changing from its usual reddish hue to a bright purple, while Petunia remains impassive.
Aster feels the panic growing in her, "no, no, no, no, this can't happen, no, NO!" her field of vision narrows, she feels the terror growing in her, why didn't she directly hide the bun in the closet? Why didn't she just did that? It is too late for regrets, Vernon approaches her, determined, while Dudley continues to fix her a glow of sadism in the glare. She is not going to undergo the belt again, the scars in her back are still fresh and painful, she has not eaten enough to last long in her cupboard! The panic confuses her mind, everything becomes grey, the colours abandon her sight, no she can't take it anymore. She knows what awaits her if she does nothing and remains passive for the umpteenth time. She feels her demon growing inside her, she feels the power sizzling under her skin like a million needles, her eyes widen, her posture stiffens, and in a desperate attempt she screams.
"DON'T COME ANY CLOSER!"
Her demon then unleashes all he's accumulated power in an ultimate effort to defend her, and in an instant, the air is charged with energy. A violent wave of shock is released from her, throwing the table, the chairs, Dudley, Petunia and Vernon across the room. The table and the rest of the furniture is reduced to pieces while the rest of the family crashes with force against the wall in a great crash.
After this sudden explosion of violence the energy in the air slowly dissipates to give way to an almost supernatural silence. For some time everything remains motionless, almost suspended in time, as if the universe was holding its breath. Aster watches her adoptive family lying motionless on the floor against the wall, far away from her at the other end of the room, and she catches herself hoping. A deep feeling sprouts in her heart, an apprehension mixed with hope but also disgust towards herself, even. She wishes that they remain on the ground, that he does not get up, that they never get up. That never again the belt lacerates his fragile back. She then realizes with horror that she wishes them dead. All of them. Even Dudley. But in wishing that, isn't she a bit like them? Her hands begin to shake and she watches in silence, praying that they don't get up, ever.
But as if it was a dream the silence vanishes when Vernon pushes a growl and gets up slowly with difficulty, he then fixes her with an infinite hatred in his small pig eyes. And her last strand of hope is suddenly, crushed by a deep terror. A terror which freezes her blood and paralyzes her, she remains immobile leaned against the sink, whereas Vernon, now standing dominates her of all his height. Petunia gets up in her turn while pushing a small moan of pain. She leans on Dudley, still immobile on the ground then embraces in a glance the kitchen devastated as by the passage of a hurricane.
In a tone strangely calm in view of the situation Petunia says. "Vernon, this is too much. I'm taking Dudley to the hospital, do whatever you want with that monster, I don't care anymore. I just don't want to see her again. EVER!
Vernon takes his eyes off her and answers in a hoarse voice. "Count on me, Pet, I said we shouldn't have taken her, we shouldn't have left her in an orphanage far from here, I promise, you will never see her again. I will take care of it.
On these words Petunia nods, takes delicately Dudley in her arms and leaves the kitchen. Silence returns in the room, Aster still paralyzed with terror, a minute later the silence is disturbed by the muffled noise of a car that moves away.
Once Pétunia is away Vernon's eyes darken and he adds with an even darker tone "No, she won't be the only one to never see her again".
With a movement of a frightening speed Vernon rushes, Aster does not have time to react nor even to understand what it occurs when the enormous fist of Vernon crashes in her face with an unheard-of violence. A lightning of a pain more intense than all that she knew until then splits her skull, she feels her eye crushing in the bottom of its orbit and her jaw yielding. She flies on several meters with the force of the blow, before crashing on the ground in the middle of the debris of wood and Glass. Her left eye does not answer any more, all thoughts have left her skull replaced by an ocean of pain. Vernon advances with great step and unbuckle his belt before smashing it down on her in a repeated way while shouting insults which she does not manage to understand.
After a moment the avalanche of blow ceases finally and Vernon lowers himself and seizes her by the arm without ceremony before throwing her at the bottom of her cupboard and locking the door. She remains there motionless, the spirit empty of all other thing than the pain before sinking in unconsciousness.
She slowly re-emerges from her coma in a place she doesn't recognize. She leans on her aching arms and moves to a sitting position. She feels the hum of an engine under her hands. She raises her head and looks in front of her with her still valid eye. She sees a window and behind it the darkness of a night studded with stars. sometimes a tree scrolls to the right or left of the window before disappearing. She understands then. She is in the trunk of a car. The memories come back to her little by little. The explosion of her demon, the coma of Dudley, the escape of Petunia, the violence of Vernon, the pain. Finally she remembers Vernon's last words after Petunia left. And she understands. Why she is in the trunk of a car, on a small country road, far from everything in the middle of the night. It is Vernon's car. She recognizes the colour and shape of the trunk. She is in the trunk of Vernon's car, at night, far away from everything, after the last thing he said was that no one would ever see her again. Her right eye widens causing the pain in what's left of her left eye to flare up as she finally connect the dots. Vernon will kill her.
Her breathing quickens, her heart beats wildly. Her broken ribs hurt terribly and tonight she is going to die, before she has even had time to live. No! She refuses! She will not part from this world without a fight. Without at least trying. She is fast, she knows it, she is used to escape from Dudley and his gang. Vernon, although tall, is also big, a whale looks slim next to him. He will quickly run out of steam. After the blows that she received, he is surely convinced that she is still in a coma. Her mind is working at a mile a minute. She knows what to do, her only real option, her demon his still exhausted after his useless outburst against Dudley and the remaining of his strength is focused to keeping her alive. She'll have to run, and bet on the surprise effect. She crouches down in the trunk of the car, all her senses awake, unmoving, ready to jump out of the trunk the moment Vernon opens it. She pretends to be still asleep and listens. She is ready, the adrenalin starts to build up in her system. She will need it.
About half an hour later the car takes a sharp turn and then slows down gently before parking. The driver's door opens and Vernon's heavy footsteps on the gravel are heard. His footsteps stop just outside the trunk and a series of strange clunks that Aster doesn't recognize follow. Aster is ready to pounce. Determined. Her legs stretched like springs.
Finally, the trunk opens on the imposing silhouette of Vernon in the night. And Aster, in a desperate dash leaps out of the trunk. She slips between his arms without him being able to seize her. And she lands in a thick layer of snow. Just before running towards the forest stretching out in front of her, she notices out of the corner of her eye the origin of the strange clattering. In Vernon's hands is a shotgun. The last doubts about his intentions disappear and she dashes as fast as her aching legs will allow it in the direction of the leafless trees. Vernon loses a few seconds out of surprise but soon regains his senses and starts to run after her.
She runs madly, she runs for her life. Vernon is at her heels armed with the family rifle. She passes between the first trees, jumps over the brambles, her path only lit by the weak moonbeams reflecting on the snow. The icy winter wind freezes her skin, her breath releases small clouds of steam with each painful exhale, the frozen air burns her throat and lungs. Behind her the yells of Vernon gradually lose volume as she distances him. But it is then that the first thunderclap resounds, the lead meets the wood of an oak to less than one meter on her right and she is sprinkled with a rain of shrapnel. She accelerates impossibly, terror gives her wings, she must put as much distance as possible between her and the monster at her heels. Another thunderous sound. Bullets whistle in the air not far from her head.
She runs faster and faster, leaps over a frozen stream, slides under a broken tree blocking her path. An extreme pain takes her as she feels her arm dislocate and her bones break as a new crash disturbs the sleeping forest. She collapses to the ground, under the force of the lead tearing her flesh. A warm liquid flows down her right arm and tints the snow otherwise a pure white of a vibrant scarlet under the moonlight. She hears Vernon approaching, but does not admit defeat yet, she crawls a few meters in the snow before finding the strength to get up. And to run again.
She continues, without really knowing where the force that pushes her forward comes from, she's under the impression that the light of the moon weakens and that mists seem to surround her little by little. At first she doesn't know if it's the steam of her breath or if she's really entering a mist, but the sounds of Vernon's footsteps and his insults seem to diminish rapidly in volume more even as she slows down her run. A final explosion sounds but it seems distant, muffled. Soon a deep silence surrounds her, the only thing that reminds her that she is not dreaming and that she is conscious is the intense pain in her arm and the warm blood that drips slowly from her fingertips. She then stops running completely and starts walking in the thickening mist. It's been a while since she hears the sound of her own steps, as if she was walking in cotton. The mist around her is so thick that she can't even see her knees. She gradually catches her breath and continues to walk in the middle of this supernatural layer of mist. At the end of what seems to her to be an eternity the mist becomes more and more luminous and the temperature increases slowly, the cold of the winter far behind her.
The mist dissipates little by little until she comes out of it completely, to face the strangest landscape she ever seen. She is standing in the middle of a path of short grass punctuated with forget-me-nots in the middle of a hill landscape stretching as far as the eye can see, the ground is covered with asphodel releasing a soft almost intoxicating perfume. The sky is of a dark blue with in the distance a reddening sun low on the horizon. She couldn't tell if it was dawn or dusk, but one thing was for sure, she was far from the forest of England and the icy cold of winter, here the air is soft and a light breeze caressed her cheeks. She turns around to see where she came from only to find the same landscape stretching as far as the eye can see. Not a trace of this mysterious mist. She collapses to the ground, on her knees, her eyes fill with tears and she can't fight, the relief is too strong, the pain is too strong, the fear and adrenaline evaporates from her system leaving her without energy, in a state of total exhaustion.
After about ten minutes of uncontrollable sobbing she regains some mind clarity and the pain reminds her of her lamentable state. She tears off her T-shirt, too big for her small size and her sickly thinness, and wraps it as best she can around her injured arm. Fortunately her demon seems to have stopped most of the bleeding. She gets up and looks around again. The landscape has not changed. Nothing but asphodel, this small path studded with forget-me-nots and this glowing sun like an ember of a dying fire, motionlessly suspended above the horizon.
Aster knows that she cannot remain there, she must find help, and quickly, she lost too much blood, her left eye makes her suffer terribly and if she falls asleep here she knows that she will never get up again. She didn't escape Vernon to die in the middle of nowhere. And then her situation is not so hopeless. She's on a path. Which means people are passing by. She needs to find someone, anyone, and ask for help. As unnatural as it is for her to do this, she doesn't really have a choice if she wants to survive. She gets up painfully and observes each end of the path in the distance. Not a house. No trace of an animal, or of any human presence except the path itself. The two ends seem identical in any point. So she takes a random direction and starts to stagger.
She advances thus during a long, very long time. She has no notion of the time which passes here, this cursed sun remains motionless suspended above the horizon in an eternal dawn or an eternal twilight she would not know how to say. The hunger tortures her, her eye threatens to close, her whole body makes her suffer terribly. But she advances nevertheless, always further through the hills in the silence, if it is not the light breeze whistling by moment between the leaves of the asphodel. It has surely been hours, she would says. The landscape is annoying, the same thing everywhere, all the time. However the temperature and the light breeze caressing her hair is pleasant.
Her walk continues like this for hours, the only change being that there is movement in the grass around the path. And that at times she sees a strange humanoid creature with empty eyes an too long legs and arms silently spying on her, as if waiting for something. A shiver runs down her spine but she continues to advance. Always further.
An immense feeling of relief seizes her when, in the distance she sees a shape on the path in front of her, the silhouette gets closer, and she presses the step, staggering in the direction of her possible salvation. But her strength fails her, she continues with the energy of despair, and pushes a cry in direction of the unknown person. Her eyelids are heavy, the pain is too intense, she puts a knee on the ground. She sees what seems to her to be a woman in travelling clothes starting to run in her direction with that her eyelid are slowly closing against her will. The pain is now only a distant hum. She hears a voice but can't make sense of it, panicked noises the coolness of a hand on her forehead, then her senses abandon her completely as she sinks into the oblivion, her body battered, broken, but safe, her last thought filled with hope that this person is not like the Dursleys, although it can't be difficult to be better than them. No ?