Yo, hope all is well! Finally back with the 4th installment. Ngl, I really struggled with indecisive doubt, so I'm not gonna hold myself to a strict upload schedule this time. Just gonna go with tha writing flow, ya feel me?

Disclaimer for anyone somehow confused: I included Hazel Wells back when A New Wish was just a rumor (mostly because I wanted a POC godchild in the mix,) so she's more like an OC in this AU. Love ANW, though; need that S2.

Slanting rays of the setting sun gave a warm, orange tinge to the sky, sheening off the brunette shingles roofing the yellow-bricked home where a rose vine snaked along the left side of the hexagonal section. Patches of overgrown grass littered the lawn, shrubs misshaped and messy with some of its leaves littered along the cement path closest to the maroon front door. Only one Jeep Wrangler occupied the space of the driveway once reserved for two cars.

The widower sat at the foot of the wooden table within the dining room, its bright-yellow walls in contrast to his darkened demeanor. Crinkles and lines creased his wildlife rescue uniform, his ranger hat barely taming the platinum-blonde disheveled mess of his outgrown hair. His chin, once cleanshaven now prickly with blonde stubs, hunter-green eyes red-rimmed and sore from many sleepless, lonely nights. A low sigh escaped as Clark sorted through the pile of upcoming bills and other documents regarding the estate of his late wife, Connie Carmichael.

Three weeks since he and their only daughter had laid Connie to rest, tackling the mount of responsibilities felt like trying to swim above the murky surface with no life vest. The same in-laws that hardly spoke to him before were now picking fights over what was rightfully his as the surviving spouse. Arguing that because he had initiated divorce that he was no longer entitled to what had been written in their daughter's will. Clearly a crock of bull since the divorce had barely gotten off the ground and the marriage was still legal at the time of her death.

Between that, long hours at work, and trying his best to keep his daughter as a priority, he was growing uncertain of how he can handle this all on his own.

Preparing Friday night's dinner of Sweet Potato Curry over steamed rice, the ten-year-old platinum blonde carefully cut the sweet potato peeled and washed, stationed by the kitchen counter next to the stove where a deep pot over medium-high heat cooked down the onions and tomatoes. With a lavender bow tying her back-length strands leaving a puffy bang in the front, she wore a white tee with the collar and sleeves hemmed in purple underneath her gold dress, accented with a black belt and a lavender underskirt and black leggings with lavender sandals keeping her feet warm from the cool tile.

Within the ten minutes it would take for the juices of the tomatoes to release and the onions to soften in the pot, Chloe took her time positioning the chef knife to cut the sweet potato evenly in preparation for the ¾ cubes required for the recipe. Holding the potato steady with one hand, the other pressed down with the knife's handle in a fine chop, only to find that the blade was not fully centered before the potato was cut in an imperfect half.

My goodness, are you even trying?! That's nowhere near centered!

Blue eyes took on a haunted look as Chloe's stomach shriveled, feeling her heart begin to pace inside her tightening chest. Once again haunted by a punitive voice only her psyche could hear.

It's so simple a blind monkey could do it! How pathetic can you be!?

Her fairy godmother had been hovering off to the side near a counter when she noticed her goddaughter's fingers start to tremor while wielding the knife, concern bunching between her indigo eyes. Looking past her godchild to see Clark's back still facing them, the ebony fairy inched closer to her godchild, her afro kinky with black curls. She sported a purple off-shoulder blouse over white long-sleeves fluttering fly-like wings behind her back, dark denim jeans paired with navy block-heel Canyons.

"…you okay, Chlo-bird?"

"…yeah, Susie." Chloe kept her tone deceptively even, unable to meet Susie's gaze. Why make a spectacle over nothing?

Baby-blue then took a darting glance at the timer still counting down on the stove. There was no time for panicking over nothing with four minutes left before the sweet potatoes needed to be added. Taking the two off-centered halves of the potato with one hand, she turned them horizontally to cut down the middle, quaking fingers finding difficulty in positioning the knife directly center.

Her gap bit down on her bottom lip as she tried willing her hand to stop shaking, but her efforts proved futile when the knife slid through the potato in a diagonal line.

What the heck is wrong with you!? GET a GRIP!

She now struggled to control her quavering legs, arms tensing sharply. She could almost feel her mother's baby-blue glare burning the back of her neck, running shivers up Chloe's spine.

Why are you just standing there!? Hurry up! No point fixing your stupid mistakes now…you never do anything right the first time!

Her breaths grew labored, causing the handle of the knife to drop and clink onto the cutting board as the hand that once held it clutched her chest.

Susie floated towards Chloe at the sign of distress, making Chloe face her by setting gentle hands onto Chloe's stiffening shoulders. "Breathe, Chloe..."

Clamping her eyes, Chloe forced her lungs to expand. Counting to ten through the barrage of chides booming between her ears, battling for dominance in her mind's already waning concentration.

Oh, stop the dramatics! You're doing this to yourself!

Why can't you just grow up! You're not a baby anymore!

She clutched both hands to her chest as if trying to stop her pounding heart from escaping. No matter what she did to quiet her panic, the voice only grew louder.

Stop being such a whiney brat! You act like I'm beating you when I've never used corporal punishment even when I should have!

You think you have it rough?! I'M DEAD!

"Chloe, what's wrong?" Clark turned in his chair when he could hear strained gasps for breath from the kitchen, causing the fairy godmother to conceal her identity in her booby bird disguise. He saw his daughter choke a gasp in her throat as her chest constricted to where it'd become impossible to breathe. Her face drained chalk-white, and helpless, unblinking eyes glazed over…

Lack of oxygen dropped to her knees, and frantic worry leapt from his chair.

"Chloe!"

Clark dashed to his daughter's aid, kneeling to support her crumpling body by the arms. Terror-stricken eyes widened at the whites of her eyes rolling into her head, her jaw slack as tremors shook throughout her arms and chattered in her legs. His arms could barely contain her as her limbs began to flail vigorously, her head bobbling as his cries for her to come back to him fell on deaf ears.

Clark goggled as his breath caught, his hammering heart plummeting to his stomach's pits; Chloe has had bad panic attacks, attacks that have rendered her clinically deceased. But this? This was…eerie.

Heat steaming with no ventilation bubbled in the pot, bubbling through the closed lid and down the sides. Pooling onto the electric burner producing flickering cackles that turned the father's horrified eyes sharply towards the stove.

"Shit…" Clark spat, now faced with another crisis. Lowering his thrashing daughter to the ground as careful as possible before he sprung to his feet and quickly twisted the temperature dial to 'Lo.' Smoke emitted from liquid meeting hot burners, thickening the air and triggering the fire alarm's blares.

He coughed as his hand swatted to clear the smoke while the indigo booby bird raised her wand in the background, making attempts with her magic to quell ramped anxiety…

. . . . . .

Thick, black specs rested on the nightstand within the bedroom decorated with everything Gryffinsnore, from the red and gold color palette of the crest to the themed memorabilia. His white, long-sleeve shirt poked beneath the short sleeves of his buttoned shirt patterned in turquoise flannel, sporting denim jeans in the shade of dark-green.

The freckled boy parted purple eyes out of their drowsed slumber with a soft groan, blinking away the haze that visually remained without his frames. His bright-auburn hair trimmed shorter from its usual bowls-shape, he tilted his head towards the sun setting through the sole window of his dimmed room as his adjusting eyes squinted.

"How ya doin', Wighty?"

Slowly sitting himself up, the now twelve-year-old turned his head towards the fairy floating towards him, his reddish-brown hair curled behind elfin ears in his receding hairline. Bushy brows lightly furrowed with the visible concern through dark-teal eyes, his nose large and distended like his chin. Holding his wand with his left hand, his white button-up was cloaked in a teal cardigan matching his bowtie, tucked into dark-teal slacks looped in black leather and black Darbies on his feet.

"I was startin' ta worry you wouldn't wake up..." Irving spoke, sounding heavyhearted.

Dwight shifted and planted socks to the carpet, rubbing a knuckle to one corner of his eye as his other hand felt for his glasses on the nightstand beside his bed. After settling his glasses on his face, Dwight looked to the worry written all over his godfather's face. Confirming the gravity of what the aura from earlier in the day had foreshadowed as Dwight's own brows knitted with a murmur "…that bad?"

Bunching his chin, Irving squeezed his wand between both hands. Speaking in a tone that was clearly managed "…you never made it to fourth period; three tonic-clonics in a row. Nurse Judy had to call an ambulance so Principal Lewis called your dads. Then the last grand mal had got so bad that…" he pressed his wand to his tightening chest "…y-you stopped breathing."

Dwight lowered his chin, biting down on his lip. Unfortunately (or fortunately,) he had no recollection of this. He did remember being really tired because he couldn't sleep the night before, and the last he could vividly remember was barely supporting himself against the nearest locker and complaining to Gary that he was going to be sick…then everything went black.

"The only reason you're not in the hospital is cuz insurance couldn't cover the cost of keepin' you there, so I used a lil' magic to make it safe to discharge you…" Irving rattled on "…your dads didn't even wanna deal with the ambulance ride, but they had no choice cuz it was an emergency…"

Great, more big bills. As if his dads didn't already owe the hospital over ten grand as it were. "So…" Dwight lifted his head "…w-where are my dads now?"

"I mean, I don't even know how the hell we're supposed to afford all this!"

Dwight slightly shuddered, hearing his pa, Chisholm, shout from down the hall through his closed door.

"Babe, please!" they could hear Dwight's dad, DeWitt, attempt to reason. "Just calm down!"

"Before or after we go bankrupt?!"

Irving watched as Dwight rose to his feet, fiddling with his long sleeves as he shuffled his feet towards his bedroom door. Twisting the knob to open it ajar as the marital argument ensued in clearer clarity once the door was opened.

"All we ever do is work, and if we're not working, we got our bosses on our ass because the school keeps calling us about seizures!" Chisholm continued to gripe in frustration. "Dwight practically misses as much school as we miss work! All of which is because your insurance went and changed their fucking policies, so now they refuse to cover even just the antiseizure medication to control them no matter how much we appeal!"

Fretful fingers began to meddle with the medic alert bracelet around his wrist.

"But what if Dwight has another grand mal and it lands him in the hospital again!?" DeWitt argued. "We're overqualified for Medicaid, I can't cancel my plan until open enrollment, and you don't want us applying for other coverage because that would be another premium!" he groaned a sigh in attempts to keep his own nerves calm. "I mean, we could try finding other jobs-"

"With what PTO!?" Chisholm interrupted. "We've used it faster than we can accrue it! Job searching would mean pay cuts, which would mean more late fees tacked on top of the late fees we already have on other bills!" The longer he talked, the more his voice broke from the anger of sadness in disguise. "Life just keeps piling shit on top of shit and it's driving me up the fucking wall!"

Staring at the carpet behind his door still ajar, purple eyes began to glisten with unshed tears behind his glasses.

Irving grimaced at the sight of Dwight choking back sobs, silent tears trickling from his eyes. He hovered to his godchild, lowering a comforting hand to Dwight's shoulder. "You shouldn't be listenin' to all this…" he cautioned softly. "C'mon…shut the door back."

But Dwight flinched his shoulder away from his godfather's comfort, clutching his medic alert bracelet with internal contempt. He turned his bowed head to the side, refusing to look at Irving's pout.

The air around him felt suffocating, heavy with an oppressive guilt that clung to every corner. He hated the lack of control, the constant worry from friends and family. The mental and emotional strain of an almost unavoidable burden as chronic as the condition itself…

Another sob of self-hatred hiccupped in his throat. His 'fits' made him nothing but a burden. Always had, always will…

In the affluent outskirts of Dimmsdale stood a privately-owned building of brown shingles and white marble walls tall within the groves of large oak trees, surrounded by neat, massive acres of trimmed pasture. 'Fancy Schmancy Country Club' inscribed within the golden plate, mounted high above the double-door entrance behind Corinthian columns supporting the full entablature.

Families and affiliates of Dimmsdale's 1% were gathered within the grand foyer, surrounding the elderly hosts filling in the space that their late son and daughter-in-law had left behind. The male of the pair had light grey streaks of his age sleeked in even blonde swoops, bristling in his extended goatee. His pastel-lilac button-up was tied with an orchid-purple tie tucked into a Ralph Lauren suit fitted to his heavier set, polished and white complimented with black Oxfords.

Beside him stood his top-heavy love of his life, silky white-gold locks trimmed in a mid-length bob. Freshwater pearls lined the neckline of her Christian Dior vintage dress that looked to be custom made with a synthetic blend of lilac fabric, white Louboutins on her feet and a fresh French manicure modeling the white diamond ringed on her left hand.

Orville Remy Buxaplenty III, or 'Orvy' as he preferred to be addressed, and his wife of thirty-eight years, Frances Shand Buxaplenty, had filled gold-plated urns with the ashes of Orville IV and Diana Buxaplenty. They had buried the urns within the plot of land separate from Dimmsdale's cemetery, specifically and purposefully designated for every Buxaplenty to ever exist, including that of the original Orville Remy Buxaplenty. Due to the poor and unintelligible conditions of the charred bodies left by the aftermath of the private jet's crash and burn, they were lucky to have ashes to lay to rest.

Upheld fondly by the upper-class elite, the tragic demise of Orville and Diana hit hard for country club members old and new. They were the pinnacle of success, the richest of the rich. They were the standard of wealth that one could only hope to be, and now…they were nothing more than cremated worm food.

Inspections of the plane had found no definitive answer as to how a routine flight went catastrophically haywire, and as much as most of Dimmsdale were aware of, nothing and no one could explain how the richest couple deserved for their lives to be cut short without warning. Moreover, Orvy and Frances were thrusted out of early retirement to keep the family multi-businesses afloat for the sake of the Buxaplenty name. Left to start over in raising their sole surviving grandson who was currently couped in his bedroom.

The sun setting through the window casted warm hues along floors sheened in seafoam marble. Light and dark shades in the finest pistachio green stripes along the walls where a canopy framed creamy-white bedding of the highest thread count, finished in 14-carot gold similar to the nightstand that housed an empty steel ferret cage.

A Hispanic fairy hovered with somber blue-violets facing the setting sun, arms folded reflectively across the chest of his fitted-white tee outlining every one of his muscles. Black hair pulled from his widow's peak into a low pony, blue-violet belt looped around black skinny-jeans tight against his bulging glutes and calves. He sighed quietly as he took in the air's stillness, alone with thoughts best kept secret. Until he could hear the eleven-year-old billionaire weakly whimper in his sleep.

Due to almost no sleep throughout the week, Juandissimo could see in his ahijado's bloodshot eyes that he was utterly exhausted. Since his grandparents did not expect new members and the heir's presence at the country club was not entirely necessary, Juandissimo had suggested skipping out in favor of a nap. A part of Juandissimo had found it troubling when Remy had argued against the idea at first, as if Remy was trying to avoid what his fatigue needed otherwise. In the end, Remy was ultimately too tired to argue further, proven when he was out cold as soon as he laid his head to rest.

Glancing over his shoulder, the fairy godfather pivoted towards his godchild whose head started tossing and turning. Mumbling incoherently aside from the word 'no' clear as day, making Juandissimo furrow. He didn't need a clock to know it'd only been about an hour since Remy had fallen asleep; somniloquy came like clockwork, a symptom of troubled sleep that'd begun well before their return from the Fairy Council's realm but had notably worsened overtime.

Mumbles grew into wordless groans, once lax features now twisting and bunching. Toss and turns amping from minimal to vehement as his arms and legs kicked beneath the duvet and sheets. Sweat beaded the boy's forehead within seconds, prompting the fairy to hover over to assess what was happening. Juandissimo lowered a hand to the blonde's clammy hairline, frowning when he felt his palm radiate with heat as he felt Remy's skin tremor beneath his palm. As if dread was burning him alive.

Juandissimo then pressed palms tenderly against Remy's face. "Wake up, Remy…"

But Remy could not hear him as his jerks transitioned into thrashes of terror, his uncontrollable jolts knocking Juandissimo's palms off his cheeks. His groans grew hysterical, eyes wide shut as his violent stirs kicked off the covers. Flailing clenched fists as if fighting off whatever imaginary foe was attacking him.

Juandissimo managed to duck and dodge the involuntary swings, resorting to shaking Remy's shoulders as not to hurt him yet in desperation of freeing him from whatever imprisoned Remy's mind.

"Remy, wake up!"

Mint-green flashed in a sharp breath, the chest of his white t-shirt heaving through thunderous beats of his heart hammering between his ears as his panicked eyes darted. Rattled nerves still on overdrive, he swatted at the firm grip on his shoulders. "Get off!"

"Ahijado, it is me!" Juandissimo shook Remy once more with unharmful force, and when Remy's fear-stricken goggle froze, it finally clicked in that moment that the person holding onto him was not that of his predatory devil, but of his magical angel.

His dire need for comfort threw himself against his godfather as he buried his face into Juandissimo's chest, clinging to him. In return, Juandissimo cradled him, shushing him softly as Remy mewled pitifully against him.

Juandissimo deepened his frown; he'd never seen Remy so fraught from a dream. Or, from his own experience, a nightmare from Hell.

. . . . . .

Within the affluent outskirts inside the gated community of Dimmsdale Acres lived the once family of five tragically reduced to the family of four. Three members of the Wells, all blonde-haired and blue-eyed, occupied the dining room table. Impatiently waiting for a nine-year-old girl of brown eyes and a head of bushy black curls who was, almost literally, slaving over a hot stove in the home's luxurious kitchen.

Skin smooth in a rich umber aside from the dark welt of a man's leather belt to the right of her cheek, her rounded, slightly plump nose and full lips were fixed in a solemn frown as she stirred the creamy concoction of fresh minced onion, balsamic vinegar, and fresh tomatoes bubbling with sweet yet alliaceous aromas. Her cropped hoodie bore a similar scheme to the pink and navy-striped sweater she used to wear, worn over a long white-sleeved shirt with teal denim jeans and purple Chuck Taylors.

As the bottom side of the last grilled cheese left to make finished browning in the skillet beside the pot of tomato soup, perched on the quartzite countertop beside the stove was a ferret with bright-red fur and bright-red eyes. "Are you sure you do not need help, Kakao?" the Kenyan accent of the fairy godmother asked gently; originally concealing her true identity as a mouse, Nyekundu had switched her disguise at her goddaughter's request.

"No…" Cleaning off excess soup from the wooden spoon by hitting the handle on the pot's rim, Hazel switched off the heat for both the soup and the grilled cheese when she then stalled in consideration. "Actually…I wish the soup and grilled cheese were served in the dishes." She spoke indifferently, as though in the end, it doesn't even matter.

Nyekundu raised her sparkling wand, and in clouds of red magic, the three grilled cheese on golden, buttered toast and three bowls of rich tomato soup were all prepped on respective plates and poured inside bowls with silver spoons. Everything organized with full glasses of water on a rounded black tray ready to serve.

"Thank you…" Hazel mumbled, lackluster in her movements as she stepped away from the stove and steadied the tray off the counter with both hands.

The corners of the godmother's lips pulled down; the bubbly little cocoa drop she once knew seemed sunken, or trapped, rather. Trapped in a dark despair that either stripped her of emotions or caused an endless stream of tears. Then again, reasons to smile came few and far between these days. Particularly due to a certain patriarch on his high horse.

"Jesus, will you hurry up?! You know better than to keep us waiting!" Marcus growled from the dining room, stationed at the head of the table in his stern, rigid posture. Black polo embellished in white Gucci logos paired with beige khakis and black Gucci boots.

His wife, Angela, pressed her tense lips from the other end of the dining table, tan and brown jacquard-knit dress embedded in black Gucci embellishments with ankle Gucci boots similar to her husband's. Though not a fan of Marcus's hostility towards their youngest, Angela kept her mouth shut. Like most days, Marcus had been in a nasty mood, hence why they were not currently in attendance at the Fancy Schmancy Country Club.

They'd already clashed three separate times that day in the most mundane of disagreements, and she didn't want to risk worsening his mood by speaking on his unfavorable behavior. That would just upset him further, and she had little energy for his enmity.

Seated between her parents still wearing her Brightsburg Academy uniform of gold sweater vests and black-pleated skirt, the eldest daughter huffed with arms crossed against her prepubescent chest, unable to stay still as her knee bounced underneath the table. Sheesh, that tar baby got her sitting here starving! How long does it take to boil soup in a pot and throw slices of cheese and bread together!?

After what felt like ages, Hillary's entire body recoiled at Hazel's approach, a mixture of hatred and revulsion just at the sight that good-for-nothing swine carrying the tray with a dinner that looked like a blind monkey made it. She fixed her glare as Hazel served her parents first, starting with Marcus whose grimace towards her never wavered.

Hazel kept her eyes averted from Marcus, her skin crawling from the narrowed blue eyes burning with animosity down her neck. Keeping her chin down, she quickened her pace setting his dish with utensils before him to then carry the tray towards her mother who gave a pained grin as her show of gratitude. As for Hillary, when Hazel made her way to serve her last, Hazel hardly lifted the bowl of soup from the tray before Hillary snatched the glass of water, flashing it in Hazel's line of view.

"Where's my ice!?"

Stunned only for a second, Hazel struggled with eye contact when she licked her lips and weakly mumbled "…you said you didn't want ice-"

"That was yesterday, dummy!" Hillary snarked. She shoved the glass to the chest of Hazel's cropped hoodie, making Hazel step backwards slightly from the small splash of water upon impact. "Get me ice! Now!"

Angela frowned as she watched the little girl take the glass without argument. Dragging her feet, Hazel passed behind Hillary and behind Marcus's chair, and when she disappeared into the archway, Angela directed slit brows towards her eldest daughter.

"Hillary, how dare you!" she chided before she heard her husband scoff.

"She did nothing but call out such an incompetent mistake!" Marcus lasered his glare, and Angela bit the inside of her cheek.

Hazel was approached by the red ferret who had jumped off the counter, coming to the much-needed rescue the moment her goddaughter stepped foot back into the kitchen. Try as she might, Nyekundu could not contain the scowl clenching her jaw. If only she could serve those mbwembwe an ass-whooping on a platter without risking the suspension of her license.

Brown eyes moistened as she held out the glass and muttered "I wish this water had ice…"

When the red ferret sparked her wand once more, ice cubes spattered within the water, clinking the sides of the glass.

Hazel sighed, her broken spirit lowering her eyes. "Thanks, Nee-Nee…"

"You should not have to just sit there and take that mess, Hazel." Nyekundu did her best not to sound too heated. She did not want Hazel to think she was angry with her. "Don't let them treat you that way."

Yet Hazel simply turned away from her godmother without another word, returning to the dining room where the patriarch felt the need to sneer a comment that literally no one asked for.

"That was fast. Almost too fast."

Hazel didn't bother looking Marcus in the eye. "You wanted me to hurry up…so I did."

Though her voice was barely audible, she'd been close enough for Marcus to snatch her by the hood, yanking her backwards just as she traveled by his chair. She stumbled to steady footing as he forcibly spun her to face him, his blue eyes bearing into her with the white-hot intensity of 1,000 loathing suns.

"Talkback like that to me again, I'll tear that black ass up!" he snapped, his tone a whip-crack of fury. "

Lips thinned to a straight line, Hazel shuddered from the searing throb in her right cheek. Almost as if Marcus's threat had irritated the scar left behind from the last time his boiling temper took its anger out on her.

"Marcus!" Angela slammed a fist on the table. Her thin patience had had enough of this nonsense.

Ignoring his wife, Marcus proceeded to snatch the glass from Hazel's grasp, slamming it onto the table in an audible clink that reverberated through the light quake of plates and bowls. "You know what? You're done testing me!" his stern finger pointed towards the archway leading into the living room, bearing his fangs. "Go to your room!"

Hazel's breathing gradually turned shallow, her noticeable gap chewing her bottom lip as tears threatened the corners of her eyes. Pivoting on her feet, she dashed out of the dining room, through the living room, and into the entryway of the grand foyer, rushing up the cream-marbled staircase.

She had to get away while she could barely keep her tears intact. Crying only guaranteed another lashing.

Hazel fled into her room, scurrying to twist the doorknob before she disappeared behind her door, slamming it shut in her upset. Not soon after, a gust of red magic materialized the fairy of a coffee-brown complexion, kinky red curls styled in a fro-hawk with baby hairs gelled down. Hourglass figure showcased in a burgundy short-sleeved jumpsuit belted with dark-green, black and green bracelets cuffed on both wrists with green socks folded over black-leather Madalynns.

"Hazel…" Nyekundu breathed, saddened as Hazel slid down to the carpet with her back to the door. Drawing knees to the ache in her chest as she hid her face into crossed arms, tears now free to flow in hushed sobs.

Days after their only son was laid to rest could his mother and father even fathom opening his bedroom door, no longer able to avoid the weight of cleaning out a room left in the same condition as the day he'd chosen to leave them all behind. While sorting through furniture and personal belongings, Angela had stumbled across a folded note hidden in one of the drawers to the dresser, and when she'd unfolded the wrinkled piece of paper of her son's suicide letter, her own eyes couldn't believe what she read.

The contents of the letter were not only telling, but damming, to say the least. Damming not only to himself, but to his nine-year-old sister. He owned up to sexually attacking his own sister, a huge shock for anyone who was not Hazel; however, Anthony had taken victim blaming to a whole other level.

Majority of the blame was placed onto Hazel, accusing her of blackmailing him to 'give her what she wanted.' If he didn't, she'd threatened to tell their parents about what their former nanny was doing to him behind closed doors. Never did he explain how Hazel had found out about Fenwick, nor did he go into explicit details. But his note made sure to highlight how awful it was for him, how awful it was to keep their 'quality time' a secret. The shame and regret of doing to his sister what a grown man had done to him…all while he suffered in silence. It ate him up inside, haunted him to the point that he couldn't live with himself anymore.

Angela had shown the note to Marcus and Hillary upon its discovery, and as expected, steam practically fumed from Marcus's ears. He'd marched to Hazels room and immediately started grilling into her. Shouting epithets, calling her out of her name. And just when Hillary's venom couldn't possibly be more vicious, she'd taken her dead brother's word and ran with it. Spreading false allegations to everyone and anyone she could at their private school, worsening the harassment Hazel already dealt with on a daily.

From then on, Marcus and Hillary showed no shame in their disdain for Hazel. Treating her less than subhuman without a care for her point of view, her truth, the truth. And Angela, her 'mother,' was so consumed by grief that she bothered not to listen to her daughter, no matter how outrageous it is to any sensible human to fathom a little girl coercing a teenaged boy into incestual rape. But while it was clear that the grieving mother did not condone treating a little girl so harshly, she'd often turn a blind eye as to not redirect her husband's ire onto her.

Only when things went too far or when her complacency did not fear her husband would she intervene. Even then, motherly duties gave Hazel almost little to no protection…

Not even magic could protect her from this Hell.