Trigger warning: physical abuse. I try not to go into it, as it isn't vital to the story.
It was as the faculty of the esteemed institution of Hogwarts were sitting down to breakfast in the Great Hall when Professor Filius Flitwick, the Charms instructor who, despite the vitriol he faced being half Goblin, was a Master in Duelling, exclaimed a question to his esteemed colleague Minerva McGonnagall.
"Isn't this year the one where Mr Longbottom arrives, Minerva?" He asked with a raised voice as he could barely see her due to his three other colleagues in between them and due to his usual tenor being more of a squeak than anything, the only option he had was to near enough shout. His topic cut short most conversation of others swiftly as they all realised that it was indeed around the time the Boy Saviour was due to arrive.
At Minerva's confirmation with a prim nod and anecdote that she saw his letter be sent out personally after receiving a preemptive letter from Mr Longbottom's grandmother to assure that he was accepted as was his due as a member of the Sacred Twenty-eight, a legacy of Hogwarts with all his family before him attending and not least of all his status as a celebrity for all of Wizardkind. Augusta was always a presumptuous witch, who though shunned the prejudice that most of her pureblood peers preached against blood purity, she herself prescribed to the notion that purebloods should be the priority.
As the staff muttered about how well he would do in their subjects, and for those who taught electives, considered if they would bestow them with his attendance in his future years, there were a couple of teachers who were...withdrawn at the reminder of who else would be arriving that year. For one particular half-Giant with a wonderfully bushy beard, he couldn't help but think if the young inky haired witch, whom he helped place in the tender care of her aunt, would like to know him. Minerva herself was dreading another Weasley addition and the prospect of a celebrity who would likely have cause to be neglectful of his studies. There was of course another young name that popped up in Minerva's mind, conjuring two faces of some of her most treasured students cut down too early, like so many others. Gods, she hoped that the girl was not too badly treated. They really are the worst kind of muggles.
The other two members of staff who fell into contemplative silence was a dour young man, especially for Wizardkind, with a permenant sneer on his thin face, who had narrowed his eyes at the reminder of the snot nosed twit who would be designing them with his presence. Plus there would be Draco, although he wasn't much better himself, and finally her. He didn't know whether he wanted her to be a carbon copy of her father so he could while away the time loathing her very being, or a doppelganger of her mother, barring the colour of her hair...supposedly. Either way, it would be torturous to having to stand another seven long years being sentenced to deal with her. The ever living reminder of his life long regrets.
The final man was the antithesis of the scowling young man. He had a flowing white beard shaped perfectly as a teardrop, fastened halfway down with a flashy bit of ribbon to match his eye catching teal robes and hat that resembled a Victorian muggles sleeping hat. His half moon glasses sat neatly on his nose just covering sparkling blue eyes which everyone was sure had an enchantment for twinkling at you for the specific purpose to annoy everyone to pettiness. The old man, even nearly by Wizarding terms, was heavily speculating on only the one student, the Longbottom boy will surely cause mischief and mayhem simply due to his status, and so he was not one to ponder certainties which he had no reason to circumvent. The prospective new student he thought on however was the young girl he, for all intents and purposes, abandoned at the tender age of eighteen months, to a family
who was estranged from her own. Even now, he pondered on whether she should have been taken elsewhere. Blood wards or no, Minerva was right, they really were the worst kind of muggles, reminding him of a group of boys when he was one himself, so many, many winters ago, targeting a pure and beautiful child. But, he would have to endure the next two months to see how right or wrong he was for leaving her there on that most brutal of nights.
Later on that day, when Minerva was sat in her office going through her syllabi for the new year starting in September, there was a persistent tapping sound at her window. When she turned to look, a large crow was perched, its head cocked to the side with a crinkled envelope in its beak. As she stared, the crow decided tapping was clearly not enough and proceeded to almost headbutt the pane instead. Deciding that she did not need the carcass of a bird by her office for the foreseeable future, she flicked open the window with a flick of her wand, expecting it to fly and flap its way into the room. Instead the bird stared at her for another few seconds before all but flinging the letter into the room before taking flight back to where it came from.
Blinking at the rather sudden turn of events, she picked up the envelope which appeared to be made out of normal paper, if all of the muggle version of spellotape was any indication, then taking out the paper inside itself, once checking there were no hidden spells or detritus intended for harm.
As she read the letter, with a hand that was clearly trying to make as neat as possible, the almost shy nature of the letter touched her heart. It had been a long time since a student had meant an inordinate amount to her, after knowing how one of her favourites betraying two others, she tempered herself to remain withdrawn. Yet, this young girl had already started niggling her way into her regard. She was already at risk with just who her parents were, but with this polite enquiry had dug a little hole which would likely ensure that resulted in an almost familial affection. There was only one word to succinctly describe what her feeling of this was as she came to this realisation: "Bugger".
Approximately 500 miles south of the imposing castle, young Aster patiently went about her first weekend off from school, quietly going about her jobs without (much) complaint while avoiding her beast of a cousin. It was the Monday morning after she sent off the letter with the bird and she was back out in the garden again, wrestling with the hydrangea which had grown an inordinate amount and resisting her attempts to prune it into a shape. Goodness knows why Aunt Petunia wanted the hydrangea like that, it was more likely to kill it but apparently she was the expert in all manners of gardening. Except for actually doing it. It was as Aster was deciding that she may even just try negotiating with the damn thing to see if that worked when a caw disturbed the sound of her grunts and childish expletives.
Looking up to the fence, there it was. Her bird. Minus a letter. Well that didn't mean much, he (she?) could have just dropped it elsewhere, but with the rather satisfied glint in her (his?) eye she was guessing that was not the case. Not five minutes later after starting at the crow (she went to the library and checked) an owl came swooping by, dropping another letter of the same calibre as her last.
Checking over her shoulder that she was undisturbed, she took out the missive and read it through. This was a little more informative with guidelines on how to get things. Apparently she needed to go to a Diagon Alley in London and the platform was between nine and ten at King's Cross, where she would need to run into a nonexistent wall. Nothing else was mentioned, nothing particularly astounding except for that. She needs to walk into a wall. Sounds legitimate.
Checking that there was no map, which would be only too helpful, Aster decided she would need to plan a day out. Which would be rather difficult considering that she had a full page of chores to do every day. She was going to have to tell her family. Well, her aunt at least. She can then tell Uncle Vernon. But first, this hydrangea.
Three hours later, several scratches, one cut from the shears, and several petals in her hair later, Aster came stumbling into the tidy little kitchen and peeling off her shoes which were covered in soil so as not to dirty the pristine linoleum floor.
"Careful where you put yourself girl. You're filthy. Go change. Now." Her aunt's nasal voice intoned behind her from where she was shining the glasses at the kitchen counter. At the pinched expression on her face, she slipped into the hall and her cupboard, peeling off the cast off jeans which were roughly sheared off to fit her legs, as they were once her cousin's when he resembled a football rather than a baby whale. As she put her clean clothes on, she went to pick up her new letter with her other, when she froze. She couldn't see it anywhere, but she remembered that she put it down her t shirt again...which she untucked in the kitchen.
Not thinking ahead, she whipped open the cupboard door and tripped into the room, scouring the floor for it when she heard the telltale sign of parchment crinkling. Looking up at her aunt, she inwardly cringed. There her aunt stood, still wearing the garish marigold gloves, reading the contents of her correspondence.
It was silent for around five minutes as her aunt read through the letter several times, unable to comprehend how the little blighter managed to write to the freakish school. Petunia discarded the letter the morning after it came through the door, she know she did as she dropped it into the river while she was in town. She didn't even tell Vernon. How could she? She promised that none of that nonsense would effect them.
It was at this point Aster knew things were going to get bad. While Aunt Petunia had never been kind or good towards her, she at least had her boundaries. The most she had ever done before was smack her on the back of her head if she dropped something inconsequential, or rapped a wooden ruler across her knuckles for when she was really bad, like the time she thought she was included when she said everyone could have a slice of cake.
It was Uncle Vernon who was dangerous, he would go a funny colour which would alternate between red and purple, his moustache would twitch like it was a living thing and his beady little eyes would glitter in rage. Whereas Aunt Petunia would smack her on the head, he would whack her with his meaty paw of a hand, where she would hold tightly to her arm or shoulder to steer her, he would dig his fingers in until they bruised. He never outrightly hit her without compunction, there was always a reason for why he got a little more physical than normal, the most he had ever done was throw her into the cupboard which occasionally gave her splinters or had a concussion from smacking her head on the wooden shelf that was in there. She was only taken to A and E for that because she kept being sick afterwards. When she got home, the shelf had been taken down and the few things she had stored up there were put into the rubbish.
So when she looked and saw Aunt Petunia turn that funny shade of grey melting into a bright violet, her lips curling back against her teeth making her look like a horse, she ran to her cupboard. She tucked herself right into the corner where she could barely be reached as her aunt screeched like nails on a chalkboard and thundered after her, scrabbling into the cupboard to get at her. When she realised she couldn't reach her, she snatched out of the cupboard, slamming the door, with the ominous threat of "wait until Vernon gets home", before bashing the vents closed and the lock home.
She lost count of how many seconds went by as she counted past 136 minutes. She was shaking so much she could barely move, too scared to make even a sound in case it brought the wrath of her aunt down on her. She sat in the corner, her head bowed at an awkward angle to the concave of where the stairs lead up, her knees aching from them being pulled up so tight to her chest. Silent tears streaked down her face, matting her eyelashes together so much it hurt to blink. She heard when her cousin came blundering through the door after playing outside with Piers and Duncan, loudly taunting for Aster so he could see her until Petunia even gave him a tongue lashing to shut up. It worked, for about ten minutes and then he had a temper tantrum of his own, throwing himself up the stairs and shutting his bedroom door twice so hard it vibrated the house. And still Uncle Vernon did not come home.
It was hours later he arrived, she guessed anyway. The house was utterly silent, Dudley still stewing in the fact he was dressed down by his own mother who coddled him relentlessly. All Aster could hear were her aunt and uncle mutterings, likely about her, and after another unknown length of time, the bolt on the door slid open and the door banged wide, streaming in glaring light from the passage. All she heard were two hissed words at her, spoken so low she couldn't tell who said it.
"Get. Out." She didn't want to get out, she didn't want to see them, but she knew to do otherwise would make things worse by tenfold. And she was already sure that she would be coming away from this with some form of pain. Not wanting to prolong the inevitable, she crawled out of the cupboard, her shoulders bunched up to her ears, hair falling to cover her face.
Nothing happened at first until a sweaty and flabby hand grabbed her by her wrist and yanked her into the front room, flinging her on to the floor before shutting the door closed. Aster peered up between the strands of her hair to see her aunt and uncle towering over her, caging her in by the fireplace.
Uncle Vernon pulled out the letter she received only that morning, crumpled and torn. "What did you do, girl? Hmm?" He growled, leaning into her face and when she wasn't quick enough he yelled. "Well?! What in God's blazing earth did you do?! You gonna bring in all your freakishness to our house? Disrespect us?! We, who brought you into our home, fed you our food, gave you clothes, some off our son's own back?! Even gave you books! Well whatever you're doing it stops now. D'you hear me? It. Stops. NOW!" He bellowed, sweat poured down his forehead, his entire frame shaking.
Aster flinched as he rose his finger to her face, ignoring the looks of smug satisfaction from the two adults as he continues his diatribe on her ungrateful hide and her inability to be normal.
Towards the end of his lecture he had been stepping closer and closer until her back touched the grate of the electric fire, each
bar pressing painfully into her, so they when he grabbed her by the shoulders to drag her back on her feet, the brickwork scraped along her entire body. And like a match she found her voice, albeit small and trembling.
"I'm not going to stop. I can't stop being a witch. I'm not going to Stonewall High. Ever. I'm going to Hogwarts. That's it." Aster tried to step around her uncle however at the same time he had raised his hand causing her to unknowingly walk into his palm, her head whipping so hard to the side she clipped her elbow on the fireplace as she collapsed in a new heap on the ground by the armchair her aunt usually sat.
Aster couldn't help but look to her aunt, hoping she could supplicate to some miniscule amount of maternal instinct she may have had for her. After all, didn't she look after her as a baby? Didn't she teach her how to do fundamental things for someone to function. But, looking at her there, there was nothing. Not even a glimmer of pity, just simple vindication that she was getting her comeuppance. The only concern seemed to be towards Uncle Vernon and whether he was in danger. Probably because the colour he had seemed to permenantly turn was likely a precursor to a heart attack. With his size, it wouldn't be out of the realms of possibility.
As the tirade wound down, Uncle Vernon panting to the point of near hyperventilation, Aster's aunt took charge, directing her to the cupboard with nary a glance, then cooing and shepherding her husband to bed, with a nice cup of tea to help soothe him. As she sat back in the dark of the cupboard, she realised that she wouldn't be able to stay. She was terrified on what may happen. Although she never had any truly bad beatings, now that the floodgates of Uncle Vernon's rage had broken open, who knew if they could be fully fastened shut again, but even then, that would imply they could open again. She needed to leave.
So as the house settled as the night wore on, Aster pulled her bag she took to school out of its place, taking out her school things and rolling up her clothes, arranging her scavenged goods so that they all fit in. She would wait to leave, just before dawn so that she could slip out relatively unobserved with the early summer dawn.
Well that was her plan, until the stairs creaked as someone came down them quietly, their gait uneven as if prolonging each creak to ensure nobody was around. Aster's heart pounded, her eyes blew wide, her hair crackling (which was weird but happened for some reason), her breathing hitched as the bolt on her door slowly slid out. The door opened. And she was faced with the floral patterned night dress of her aunt.
"Get out. Come on." She hissed at her, waving her out impatiently with a flap of her hand. Aster whimpered, but slowly crawled out of her hole, dragging the bag out with her - if this was her aunt's turn she would just leg it. Screw her plans.
Once she had come out, her wrist was clasped tightly and dragged to the kitchen where she was then let go as Aunt Petunia rummaged inside her bag...and the bin?
"You can't stay here. Knew we shouldn't have taken you in the first place. But now, you can't stay. So. Take this damned letter, I don't want anything like that in my house, and ... I suppose you best take this. It should be enough to get a bus or two. Just... get out." With that, she shoved the letter at her and a £10 note (the latter with a conflicted expression). Aster scrambled to put them away in her bag as her wrist was in another vice like grip and dragged to the back door, as "she can't be seen, what would the neighbours think?", and unceremoniously thrown out the door, in the cold, her shoes luckily still outside from her time in the garden which started off this nightmare.
No loving words, no wishes to be safe, just a blunt dispossession of her. She was officially on her own.
Wiping her face dry of her tears with her sleeve, she slipped on her shoes, hiked her bag over her shoulders and started her trek from the garden to the path that backed onto the main road.
After fifteen minutes or so, the fear of the unknown, gave way to a near exhalation of finally being free. The birds that occupied the night softly cooed and hooted their songs, the rustle of leaves from the foxes and rabbits which nestled in the underbrush and the stars that would peak out from the clouds in the indigo sky were here background and overture of her new life.
It was another ten minutes when she realised that the hair on the back of her neck being raised wasn't from the breeze but the sensation of being watched. There went the peaceful feeling. Scanning her surroundings, she whipped her head back and forth, nearly missing the perpetrator. It was the sodding bird again.
She skidded to a stop in front of him, planting her hands on her hips, levelling a glare. "You got me kicked out." She accused, which really was unfair as for one he/ she didn't deliver the letter and second, she was the one who dropped it.
Realising this, her shoulders slumped, as she went through her bag, locating her doomed letter, to scan its contents again. Still no map to get to Diagon Alley.
"Don't suppose you know how to get to Diagon Alley at all?" Taking the apology at face value, she thought the bird did anyway, it responded with a caw, jerked it's head in a singular nod, and took flight.
"So the bird knows where I'm going. Great." At that she set off after him, a slight skip in her step as her sense of freedom returned.
"If you're gonna be a recurring character, I suppose you better have a name... I hereby name you ... Clacker." She got no reply.
Oh well, she could check he was OK with it once they got to her first taste of the Wizarding World.