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Chapter Text

✹ ❈ ✹ Pars Prima ✹ ❈ ✹

❈ 𝑀𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑚𝑎𝑠 𝑞𝑢𝑎𝑠 𝑣𝑜𝑙𝑒𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑠𝑖, 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠 𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑠 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑎 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑠, 𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑐𝑢𝑙𝑜𝑠 𝑒𝑜𝑟𝑢𝑚 𝑙𝑎𝑒𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑚, 𝑢𝑡 𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑢 𝑒𝑜𝑟𝑢𝑚 𝑝𝑎𝑢𝑙𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑖𝑢𝑠 𝑑𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑡 ❈

❈ 𝐼 𝒻𝑜𝓁𝒹𝑒𝒹 𝓂𝓎𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓅𝑒𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹, 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓂𝓎 𝑒𝒹𝑔𝑒𝓈 𝒻𝓁𝒶𝓉 𝓈𝑜 𝐼 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒽𝓊𝓇𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝒾𝓇 𝑒𝓎𝑒𝓈, 𝓈𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝒾𝓇 𝓈𝓂𝒾𝓁𝑒𝓈 𝓂𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝑒𝓉𝒸𝒽 𝒶 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇 ❈
- Fiorwyn A.P

Chapter Text

Fiorywn thought she was very good at noticing things. Grown-ups usually didn't notice much, not really. But she did. She liked to keep her eyes open and her mouth shut, because that way she could figure out how people worked. It was like a game, and she was getting very good at it.

Take her uncle. He was big and blobby, like a walrus who had wandered into a dressing gown. Every morning he came downstairs snorting and grumbling, and if his tea wasn't already on the table—hot enough to make steam puff up like a little ghost—he'd roar and shake the house with his shouting. So Fiorywn always made sure the cup was waiting for him, otherwise breakfast would be a battle.

Her cousin was easier. He was round and squishy, like a toad that ate too many puddings, and he liked to hit her whenever he felt like it. But she had learned the magic trick: snacks. The moment she offered him a sandwich or a biscuit, the hitting stopped. He'd sit and munch instead, crumbs falling down his chin. Since his mummy called him "her precious little Dudumms," Fiorywn was allowed to go into the kitchen whenever she wanted. She didn't mind too much—sometimes she even pinched a biscuit or two for herself.

But her aunt... her aunt was the hardest puzzle of all. She had sharp eyes, like a hawk, and Fiorywn always felt as if those eyes were pecking through her thoughts. She tried to be extra good: finishing her chores before the clock struck noon, making tea with scones and jam, smiling politely. But every time she tried, her aunt just frowned harder, lips pinched like she'd bitten into a lemon. It was as if being good made her look guilty.

So for now, she was a work in progress.

The day started like all the others: with her aunt screeching. It was a sound that could probably wake the dead, and to Fiorywn it always reminded her of the vacuum when it swallowed a sock. Very glamorous way to start the morning.

She got out of bed fast and washed up, because breakfast wasn't going to appear on the table by magic. (Though if it ever did, Fiorywn would definitely take the credit.)

Her uncle was easy to time. She knew the exact moment his thumping footsteps left the bathroom, so she put the kettle on and poured his tea just in time for him to sit down, steaming cup waiting like she'd read his mind.

Her cousin was trickier—well, not really tricky, just greedy. If he didn't get his extra bacon, he'd whine and grumble like a broken accordion. So she piled his plate with it, along with a few extra sausages for him and her uncle both.

And for her aunt? She carefully set out fruit, yogurt, honey, and nuts—very proper, very neat, just the way she liked it.

Then, when everyone was busy stuffing their faces, Fiorywn nabbed the best part: the leftovers. Those were always hers.

After breakfast, Fiorywn had to deal with the dishes. Mountains of them. She scrubbed and splashed until the sink looked like a tiny bubble volcano. Then came the big job: lunch.

Today she was making honey garlic chicken. Her aunt loved it, which meant it had to be perfect. Fiorywn plopped the chicken into the slow cooker like it was a baby going to bed, then mixed up the magic potion: honey, soy sauce, garlic, and ketchup. She stirred until her arm hurt, then poured it all over the chicken, making sure not a single bit was left naked. Naked chicken was simply not allowed.

Next, she chopped carrots and potatoes into chubby little chunks, sprinkled them with salt and pepper, and tucked them underneath, where they could soak up all the gooey sauce like sponges. Onion slices made a pillow on top, and then she crowned the whole thing with sprigs of rosemary. Very royal.

She clapped the lid shut, turned the dial to "low," and stepped back. Four or five hours, and lunch would be ready. Fiorywn felt proud. Honestly, she thought, if she could cook like this at five, what on earth would she be making when she was ten?

The day was going like it always did—until it didn't. Usually nothing surprising ever happened in the house, because Fiorywn was, according to her aunt and uncle, "a freak." Visitors almost never came. And if they did, it was always planned like a royal parade, with Fiorywn hidden away so no one had to see her.

So when the doorbell rang out of nowhere, Fiorywn scuttled over, wiping her hands on her dress. The dress was old, grey and red checks, second-hand but almost fitting. She'd pulled her curly black hair into a braid that looked half neat, half bird's nest, but she told herself it was "on purpose."

She opened the door, expecting to see her aunt back from her morning gossip patrol. But no. Standing there was Mrs. Edith Penrose. Or as Aunt Petunia hissed through her teeth whenever her name came up—Mrs. Perfect Edith Penrose.

Mrs. Penrose lived two doors down, and she was everything Fiorywn's aunt secretly hated. Long shiny blonde hair that never got tangled (probably even when she woke up), cheeks pink like she lived in a storybook, eyes that sparkled as if they'd been polished, and lips just a little plumper than Aunt Petunia's—which of course was unforgivable. She was small and dainty too, like she could float if the wind blew hard enough.

Oh, and of course she had the whole collection: a proper husband, one son, one daughter, both polite and clever. The kind of family people in magazines had. Which made her aunt grind her teeth even harder whenever she saw her.

Mrs. Edith blinked in surprise when the door swung open. For a moment she just smiled politely, but then her eyes fell on Fiorywn. She bent down a little, all soft and sweet, and said, "Well, hello there! I don't believe we've met before. Are you visiting today?"

Fiorywn's brain whirred. She only had seconds to decide what to say. Option one: admit she'd been living here forever. That would get "Perfect" Edith suspicious, and suspicious neighbors meant gossip, and gossip meant Aunt Petunia melting down because her perfect picture frame life had a crack in it. (Oh, the horror—what would Privet Drive do if the Dursleys weren't flawless?)

Option two...

Fiorywn's dimples appeared as she smiled up at Mrs. Penrose, big innocent eyes at the ready. "Um, hello, Miss. I—I'm sorry, but... who are you?" she asked in a small, careful voice, leaning halfway behind the door as if she needed protecting.

It worked instantly. Mrs. Penrose's face melted into kindness, like butter on toast. "Oh, of course! I must have startled you, my dear. I'm Mrs. Penrose, two doors down. I was just hoping to ask Mrs. Dursley a favor. Do you know where she might be?"

Fiorywn shifted her weight like she wasn't sure if she should answer, then whispered, "U-um... Aunt Petunia's out right now. B-but if you'd like, you could wait inside? She'll be back soon. I can... I can make you some tea and biscuits, if you'd like?"

"That would be lovely, my dear," Mrs. Penrose said, her smile so bright it showed off her perfect teeth—another reason Petunia probably wanted to throw a teacup at her.

Fiorywn grinned, her dimples digging deep, which seemed to tug at something in Mrs. Penrose's heart. She swung the door wide and let the neighbor step in, closing it softly behind them.

Leading her toward the living room, Fiorywn said politely, "Please, make yourself comfortable, Mrs. Penrose. I'll just put the kettle on."

"Do you need any help, my dear?"

Fiorywn shook her head quickly, her braid bouncing. "Oh no, thank you, Mrs. Penrose. Aunt Petunia even got me a stool so I can reach the counter! Wasn't that nice? I love cooking—she's been teaching me so many things lately!" She let her words spill out in a tumble, then gasped, covering her mouth as though horrified by her own excitement. "S-sorry, Mrs. Penrose. I... I talk too much when I get excited." Her cheeks turned pink as she ducked her head, then she scurried off toward the kitchen before the neighbor could answer.

Petunia rapped three times on the door—brisk, no-nonsense—and huffed. She hated being kept waiting on her own step. The door swung open almost at once, and she strode forward, words already gathered on her tongue, sharp and scalding as always. She would remind the girl of her place, as she did every day.

But before she could get a single syllable out, her niece—her wretched, unnatural niece—cut her off.

"Aunt Petunia, you're here!" Fiorywn's voice rang out in a shrill, far-too-bright chirp that stopped Petunia mid-step. The child's wide eyes and sugary smile were so uncharacteristic it jarred her, and for a moment she simply stared, wrong-footed.

Then came the true horror. "See, Aunt Edith? I told you she'd be here any minute." The girl's eyes cut meaningfully toward the sitting room, her head jerking in that direction like a badly trained actor giving cues on stage.

Petunia's heart dropped into her stomach. Edith.

Her lips pinched into a white line, her breath hissed between her teeth, and she felt her face bleach of color. Edith Penrose is in my house.

In an instant, all her careful years of control threatened to unravel. For so long, she had managed to keep the girl hidden—no school, no nursery, no playmates. Always one excuse or another. She had kept the creature shut away, out of sight, as though secrecy could scrub away the shame of her existence. But now... what had the child said? What lies had she spun? Or worse—what truths? Had she told Edith about the cupboard?

Clamping down on the sick twist of fear, Petunia forced herself forward. Her heels clicked sharply down the hall as she marched into the sitting room, every step tight with dread.

And there she was. Edith Penrose. Of course. Sitting on Petunia's sofa as though it were her throne, tea cup balanced delicately in her perfect hands. Blonde hair gleaming, not a strand out of place. Cheeks flushed prettily, eyes bright as cut glass. Lips a little fuller than they had any right to be. A petite, graceful figure, not worn down by years of real work and child-rearing.

The sight of her made Petunia's insides twist with loathing—and envy. Edith, with her perfect husband, her polite little brood, her polished manners. Edith, who always smiled too sweetly, who asked questions too innocently, whose compliments always felt like knives pressed lightly against the skin.

Petunia's stomach turned to stone. This was it. Edith would see through everything. She always did. She would probe, with that simpering voice and those knowing eyes, until the whole ugly truth spilled out.

Petunia gripped her hands together to keep from trembling. For the first time in years, she felt it: the humiliating, undeniable truth that she was standing on the edge of ruin.

"Petunia!" Edith exclaimed, rising to her feet with a gasp that seemed fit for the stage. Far too dramatic, at least in Petunia's opinion. Before Petunia could even stiffen her back in protest, Edith reached forward and clasped both of her long, bony hands. The contact made Petunia wince inwardly. Her own hands looked like garden tools next to Edith's — thin, pale, knobbly — while Edith's were soft, delicate things, perfectly proportioned, as though they had never known a single rough chore.

"Fiorywn, the poor dear, explained everything to me," Edith went on, her voice rich with sympathy, her bright blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. "You have my deepest condolences. I never even knew you had a sister! You never once mentioned her — not once. But it's ever so sweet of you, Petunia, to have taken her niece under your care."

For a moment, Petunia felt as if her brain had abandoned her body. Left the room entirely. She could do nothing but blink at Edith, her tongue pressed against the roof of her mouth.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Petunia," Fiorywn whispered from behind, her voice trembling. Tears balanced on her lashes like raindrops about to fall. "I didn't know you hadn't told anyone about... about Mum's accident. It must still be really hard for you to talk about." She rubbed at her cheek with the back of her hand, lowering her eyes, then added softly, "I was just telling Aunt Edith that you and Uncle Vernon are looking after me now... 'cause you didn't want me to go to an orphanage."

The words hung in the air like a spell. And just like that, the tight band of dread squeezing Petunia's chest snapped loose. Relief swept over her so suddenly her knees nearly buckled. She glanced sharply at the girl, who had slipped behind Edith's skirts and peered out with wide, solemn eyes that seemed to dare Petunia not to follow her lead.

And Petunia, to her own astonishment, did. A flicker — brief, unwelcome, but undeniable — of gratitude stirred in her chest. At least the girl had cunning, she thought, unlike her precious Dudumms. Slyness and quick wit were dangerous qualities, of course, hardly fit for decent children... but in this one rare moment, they served her well.

Edith squeezed her hands again, her own expression soft with what looked like genuine pity. "Oh, Petunia... I truly had no idea. What a burden you've carried on your own, and so bravely too. To think, you've sheltered this sweet girl all this time and never once sought a word of praise for it." She shook her head, golden hair slipping elegantly over one shoulder in a way that looked infuriatingly rehearsed.

Petunia drew in a careful breath through her nose before replying, her voice clipped but steady. "Yes, well. I wasn't about to parade my niece about like some charity case. My sister and I... we hadn't spoken in years. We'd had our differences. But even so, I couldn't very well leave her child to rot in an orphanage, could I?"

From the corner of her eye, she caught Fiorywn shooting her a sharp, disbelieving glare — the sort of look far too old for a child's face.

"Aunt Petunia, would you like some Earl Grey?" the girl asked a moment later, her tone gentle, her dimples appearing again.

Petunia gave a stiff little nod, and Fiorywn slipped off toward the kitchen, steps light and purposeful. The performance was impeccable. She even had the sense to leave them alone, as though she truly understood the art of giving adults "privacy."

From that day on, everything changed for Fiorywn.

The moment Perfect Edith had finally swept out of the house — all perfume and polite smiles — Petunia had stood in the hall staring at her niece. A long, cold, measuring stare. Then, with a sigh so dramatic it seemed to rattle her birdlike shoulders, she announced, as though delivering a sentence, that Fiorywn would no longer be sleeping in the cupboard under the stairs. No — she was to have Dudley's second bedroom.

Fiorywn's mouth had nearly fallen open in shock. The room had been Dudley's "spare," a dumping ground for his cast-off toys, broken gadgets, and piles of outgrown clothes. Still, to Fiorywn, it might as well have been a palace. She didn't dare smile, not with Petunia watching her so closely, but inside she felt something sharp and giddy twist in her chest.

Later that evening, when Vernon came home, Petunia kept silent. Not a word of Edith, not a whisper of the visit — not yet. She waited until after supper, once the honey garlic chicken had been devoured, rice and mashed potatoes drowned in thick gravy until the plates gleamed. Only when Vernon's belly was full, and Dudley was slumped in front of the television with his sticky fingers jammed into a sweet, did Petunia finally set her fork down with a little click.

"Vernon," she said in that careful, tight way she had when something serious was coming.

And out it all came.

Edith — Perfect Edith, with her polished voice and simpering sympathy — had practically demanded that Petunia bring the girl to her upcoming garden party. Her weekly garden party, no less, that glittering, insufferable gathering of neighborhood women who nibbled dry biscuits and chattered as though their dull lives were the height of intrigue. Edith had said it would "do the girl good to get out of the house."

As if she had the faintest idea.

Apparently Edith thought the child was mired in grief, that she had shut herself away from the world after the tragic accident that had taken her parents. Edith's eyes had even gone misty when she said it. Of course, that had been Petunia's own invention — the carefully planted tale that her stubborn niece refused to attend pre-school, though naturally she would be starting primary this year. Definitely. Absolutely.

Now Edith was prattling on about how there would be other children there, that Fiorywn could "make some new friends." Petunia nearly scoffed aloud. As though she cared whether the girl made a single friend. Edith's own daughter was practically a young lady already, teetering on the edge of secondary school, but apparently that didn't matter. "Plenty of little girls running about," Edith had promised.

Petunia pursed her lips, rage and unease curling in her chest. Edith knew far too much already. And if Fiorywn opened her mouth again — oh, Petunia could only imagine the ruin that might follow.

Well. That meant new clothes, didn't it? Petunia ground her teeth at the thought. There was no way she would allow her niece to appear at Edith's precious garden party dressed in those old, tight rags. Absolutely not. The neighborhood would notice immediately — whispers of neglect, murmurs of charity cases, scandalous speculation about her abilities as a guardian. Petunia could feel the heat rising just thinking about it.

She had barely managed to patch things up when Edith had pried. The old dress Fiorwyn wore had been straining at the seams, practically screaming for attention. Petunia had forced a tight, polite smile and explained that it was a gift from her late mother, and that the child clung to it for "sentimental reasons." Thankfully, Edith had nodded solemnly, swallowing the story without question. Perfect Edith Penrose, ever trusting, ever polished, ever infuriating.

But tomorrow... tomorrow the entire street would know there was a child living under her roof. And Petunia was certain Edith would make that happen with all her irritating perfection. Petunia clenched her fists. She would not allow even the tiniest crack through which anyone might discover where, precisely, the girl had been sleeping each night. The cupboard under the stairs? Out of the question. Not a word, not a hint.

Vernon, as usual, reacted in his typical fashion: his face purple with outrage, his fists clenching, his booming voice threatening storms. But even he understood, deep down, that the usual treatment — keeping Fiorywn out of sight, ignored, disciplined with a glare or a hand raised — would no longer work. The little freak was coming out into the world, and Petunia had to keep control any way she could.

That night, Fiorwyn stretched out on the thin blanket in Dudley's second room, letting her limbs splay like a starfish across the mattress. The room smelled faintly of old toys and dust, but it was luxurious compared to the cupboard under the stairs. A quiet, triumphant smile spread across her face as she whispered a little prayer of thanks to God for everything that had happened that day. If it weren't for Mrs. Edith's unexpected visit, she thought, she'd probably still be crammed into that dark, narrow space — possibly until the end of time.

But today had shifted something in her. It wasn't just relief anymore; it was a spark of ambition, a sense of possibility she hadn't felt before. She understood now how to get what she wanted — by showing her worth, by making herself useful, all while keeping her aunt's precious reputation intact. Petunia's obsession with appearances, her fear of gossip, her desperate need to look proper in the eyes of the neighborhood — those were leashes Fiorwyn could tug at whenever she wished.

If her aunt and uncle failed to live up to what polite society expected, Fiorwyn knew exactly what would happen. Petunia would bend, squirm, maybe even panic, rather than risk being seen as anything less than flawless. And Fiorwyn intended to use every ounce of that to her advantage.

Chapter Text

Shortly after Mrs. Edith's untimely visit—an ordeal that left most of the household muttering in sour tones, though Fiorwyn herself had found very little to complain about—things, quite miraculously, only seemed to improve. If one could believe such a turn of fortune, the air in Privet Drive grew lighter, as though the walls themselves had been coaxed into a rare good mood, (for Fiorwyn anyway).

The very next morning Aunt Petunia, in a display of brisk determination, declared that Fiorwyn was to be taken shopping. No one dared question the decision, and so Fiorwyn found herself whisked into town, her arm lightly but firmly held by her aunt's bony hand, as though she might otherwise slip away.

In the course of a single afternoon, Aunt Petunia selected not one, but three proper outfits for her. The first was a simple yet charming pale-blue cotton dress that brushed just below the knee, paired with a cream cardigan so soft that Fiorwyn could hardly keep from brushing her fingers across its sleeve. The second was a delicate pink linen dress, fastened with neat little pearl-like buttons down the bodice, accompanied by a light-grey cardigan that gave it a slightly more grown-up air. The third—and by far the most coveted—was a soft lavender dress that Fiorwyn's eyes had lingered on for far too long. She hadn't dared hope her aunt would indulge her preference, yet Mrs. Bentley (a frequent guest at Mrs. Edith's garden parties, and a woman with a hawk's gaze for propriety) happened to notice her interest. With one arched brow and a knowing smile, she urged Aunt Petunia to take it up. To Fiorwyn's astonishment, not only was the dress chosen, but Mrs. Bentley herself plucked a soft ivory cardigan from the rack, declaring that it would suit the lavender perfectly.

But Aunt Petunia did not stop there. To complete the ensembles, she added two pairs of polished leather Mary-Jane shoes—one in sensible brown, the other in glossy black—along with half a dozen pairs of crisp white socks edged in frills fine enough to make Fiorwyn blush with delight. Into the shopping bags went a small collection of hair accessories as well: narrow silk ribbons in pale hues meant to be tied into bows that would flutter against her braids or curls, each one carefully matched to her new dresses.

Then, to Fiorwyn's utter disbelief, Aunt Petunia swept up a neat stack of underthings: fresh white cotton vests, five pairs of soft knickers, all new, all for her. And—this was the detail that truly left Fiorwyn reeling—two whole sets of proper pajamas, matching top and bottom. Two sets! Fiorwyn could hardly comprehend the extravagance. She had never owned pajamas that matched, never mind a second pair as well. It was so uncharacteristic of Aunt Petunia that Fiorwyn almost wondered if her aunt might be unwell—until she caught the quick, satisfied glance Petunia exchanged with Mrs. Bentley, and realized that this generosity was less about indulgence and more about appearances.

Even so, Fiorwyn was not about to complain. Not when the lavender dress was folded neatly into a paper bag on her lap, not when the scent of new cotton and silk ribbons clung to her fingers.

To be quite honest, most of the time, Fiorwyn was half convinced she had fallen into some sort of dream. Surely, none of it could be real—the dresses, the ribbons, the shoes, the little luxuries that until now belonged to other girls, never to her. She sat in the backseat of the car on the ride home, fingers worrying at the smooth handles of the paper shopping bags as though they might vanish if she let them go. Every now and again she dared to peek inside, just to reassure herself that the lavender folds of her new dress were still tucked safely there, waiting.

Her reverie ended the moment they stepped back into Number Four. Aunt Petunia, reverting to her usual shrillness as naturally as a bird to song, spun on her heel and fixed Fiorwyn with a glare sharp enough to cut glass. In a voice that was little more than a venomous hiss, she declared that if Fiorwyn so much as dirtied or tore one of her new clothes, she would be sent straight back into the cupboard without hesitation. The words struck like cold water over Fiorwyn's head, banishing any foolish fantasies of gentleness or affection behind the sudden memory of the dark, cramped space under the stairs. The clothes might be new, but the rules were very old indeed.

Not long afterward, Aunt Petunia had cause to parade her niece before more critical eyes. Mrs. Edith's annual garden party—a social event of modest importance, but in Petunia's world, of the highest order—provided just the opportunity. On that day, Fiorwyn was dressed in her favourite of the spoils: the lavender dress, its soft folds brushing lightly against her knees, paired with the ivory cardigan Mrs. Bentley had so approvingly chosen. Her ink-dark, silky hair, usually a wild tumble of waves, was drawn back neatly with a slender white ribbon that gleamed faintly in the sunlight, leaving her small face framed and clear.

It was then that her features, so often overlooked, seemed to emerge with startling clarity: the round softness of her cheeks, the delicate line of her chin, and above all, her great green almond-shaped eyes—luminous, curious, and far older than her years. To those gathered, she appeared the very image of innocence: a picture-book child, sweet and adorable, her every detail carefully curated. And yet, behind her lashes, Fiorwyn's mind ticked busily, half-aware that this display was not for her benefit, but for her aunt's reputation. She was being exhibited, not celebrated.

Still, standing amidst the lilac bushes and neat rows of rosebeds, bathed in the glow of the summer sun, Fiorwyn could not help but savour the moment. For once, she did not look out of place.

All the ladies at Mrs. Edith's gathering were eager to make the acquaintance of the "poor orphan," as they whispered when they thought she was out of earshot. They showered Fiorwyn with sympathetic smiles and soft words, their voices full of a tender ache, as though they might patch up her misfortune with cooing alone. To their eyes she was a fragile little thing, deserving of pity, yet her composure startled them.

Their fondness only grew when Fiorwyn, unprompted, insisted on pouring tea for the company. With the solemnity of a priestess, she sat up straighter, lips pursed ever so slightly, her tiny brows furrowed in determination. Her small hands guided the teapot with studied care, the light clink of porcelain saucers marking each success. Not a single drop stained the lace tablecloth—a triumph that earned her a ripple of indulgent applause. The ladies declared her a darling child, so diligent and polite, and marveled aloud at her poise.

But Fiorwyn's charms extended beyond manners. She proved ever so helpful, tending to the younger children while their mothers leaned close together, gossiping under the murmur of rustling leaves and the faint scent of roses. She told little stories in soft tones, organized small games, and comforted any child who grew fretful. It came to her so naturally, as though she had been born with the instinct to nurture and to lead. Even those children who were her own age—or a touch older—gravitated toward her, orbiting her presence like celestial bodies caught by a gentle sun. They tugged her hands, called her name, laughed at her little quips, and looked up at her with open adoration.

From that day onward, the spell seemed to linger. The neighborhood children began calling out for her on the streets, their voices bright and eager: "Fiorwyn! Come play!" It was as if the garden party had anointed her as their chosen star, and they could not imagine an afternoon without her.

Aunt Petunia, meanwhile, could hardly conceal her satisfaction. She basked in the glow of whispered admiration. Here was her niece—picture-perfect in every respect. She did not cry or sulk, never raised her voice, never so much as tracked dirt across the floor. She was well-mannered, neat, and endlessly obliging, the very model of a child who could be shown off without fear of embarrassment. And the more Fiorwyn shone, the more Petunia found herself the quiet envy of the other ladies.

Yet this was only the beginning. Matters would grow worse for them—and far sweeter for Petunia—once Fiorwyn began school.

Teachers quickly discovered that Fiorwyn was leagues ahead of the other children in her year. She devoured lessons with an appetite that startled them, answering questions with such quick precision that the classroom often fell silent around her. After a series of assessments—pages filled in neat, careful handwriting—she was quietly moved up into a higher year. The transition, though unusual, suited her perfectly; Fiorwyn adapted without fuss, her sharpness shining all the more in the company of older students.

It wasn't long before her primary school teacher, brimming with pride, suggested that she be entered into academic competitions. The recommendation was met with little more than a dismissive shrug at home. Petunia and Vernon had little patience for "extra fuss" where the girl was concerned. Yet the first time Fiorwyn came back clutching a certificate, cheeks flushed pink from applause, and with a neat envelope of vouchers in her schoolbag, Vernon's eyes sharpened with sudden interest.

Ever the businessman, he smelled profit in the child's aptitude. What use was talent, after all, if it did not yield some return? Soon, Fiorwyn was arranged to have private tutoring in the three subjects that mattered most—mathematics, English, and science—along with regular lessons in chess. Vernon reasoned that strategy on the board would sharpen her wits off it. Fiorwyn submitted quietly, though inwardly she treated every new challenge as though it were a puzzle meant to be conquered. And conquer them she did.

Her knowledge grew by leaps and bounds, and in no time Vernon was escorting her about the county on weekends, entering her into youth competitions of every stripe. Fiorwyn, small and unassuming in her pressed frock and ribboned hair, stunned judges and spectators alike by besting opponents twice her size and age. She returned home again and again with medals, vouchers, and tidy sums of prize money—sometimes a few dozen pounds, sometimes a few hundred.

Vernon, of course, made certain everyone knew. At work, he mentioned Fiorwyn with the pride of a man who had cultivated genius under his own roof. Colleagues clapped him on the back, managers nodded approvingly, and before long, Vernon's reputation as a respectable man with a prodigious child in his care smoothed the way to a promotion. People adored a family man whose "guidance" had bred brilliance. Vernon Dursley, naturally, was only too happy to accept their admiration, while Fiorwyn, quiet as ever, let her victories speak for themselves.

What impressed everyone most was not the steady stream of certificates or the neat ribbons she returned with, but the day Fiorwyn won her first chess match at seven — a small, quiet triumph that surprised even the teachers who had watched her study with a kind of hungry focus. She moved the pieces like someone reading a book she had already finished: calm, precise, and with an economy of motion that put older, noisier opponents off their rhythm. Two years later she stunned the county and then the nation by taking first place in the annual four-stage chess competition open to schoolchildren across the UK, walking away with the five-figure excitement of a cash prize — two thousand five hundred dollars in a paper envelope that felt impossibly heavy in her small hands.

Vernon, who had always measured things in pound signs and practical returns, treated the money as if it were his by right. Every coin and cheque from Fiorwyn's winnings — each voucher, each prize — was folded into his accounts and presented as "payment" for room and board.

Fiorwyn, contrary to what others might expect, did not rage. The truth was quieter: compared to the months of being underfed, hidden, and shoved into a cold, spider-strewn cupboard that smelled of dust and old wood, Vernon's taking felt like a small price for the things it bought her. She now had a narrow but private room all to herself, with a proper bed and a window she could sit by and watch the street below. She ate three full meals a day — plates of hot food that filled her belly and made her limbs stop aching — because Petunia had been shamed, or perhaps reasoned, into feeding her properly so no one would notice the gauntness she once tried to hide. She wore clothes that were new rather than patched, got the chance to play outside after finishing chores, and, most important to her, was allowed to learn without constant interruption.

To Fiorwyn, these changes were practical gains. Yes, they had been bought out of her labours and successes, and yes, the fairness of it stung when she thought about it closely. But she had learned early on that circumstances were not playground rules to be negotiated; they were the board she had been dealt. All she could do was play the pieces she had and, where possible, use them to change the game.

At nine, turning ten soon, she felt quietly proud. The medals and the money were not the measure of her worth so much as proof that she could make something of herself even in a house that thought her usefulness began and ended at its ledger. In the small secret places of her mind she made plans: save, learn, practise, and then, one day, leave. She imagined cutting herself free and living beyond their control — a bright and stubborn independence. She did not yet know that the day she had scheduled in whispers and vows would arrive far sooner than she expected.

Albus Wulfric Brian Dumbledore did not like to think of himself as an evil man. No, evil was too simple a word, too blunt a measure. He preferred instead to see himself as one of the rare few who possessed the will to make hard choices—choices others would shrink from, choices that might tarnish his hands so that others could keep theirs clean. If history judged him harshly, so be it. What mattered was that history endured.

And yet, for all his accolades and the ceaseless reverence that followed him like a cloak, Albus carried a secret weight that pressed against him more heavily with each passing year. In the silence of his study, when the castle slept, he could admit to himself what he never dared speak aloud: Tom Marvolo Riddle had survived that night in Godric's Hollow. The boy he had once failed to save had become the man he could not kill, and though the wizarding world drank to peace and paraded in triumph, Dumbledore did not. He could not. For he alone knew that the story of Voldemort's death was, at best, a pause in the tale.

That same night, as owls swept across Britain bearing the news of salvation, Dumbledore performed an act that still unsettled him when he thought on it too long. He laid the child—Fiorwyn, so small, so heartbreakingly innocent—upon the doorstep of her only remaining blood relatives. It was not merely abandonment to a family ill-suited for tenderness, though in truth that would have been damning enough. It was what he layered around the act that haunted him most.

With careful, deliberate movements, he placed a minor compulsion charm upon the property at Number Four, Privet Drive. Nothing overt, nothing forceful—he would not risk cracking the fragile minds of the Muggles within, nor would he dare weave a net so strong that it left an unmistakable magical signature for enemies to trace. No, this was subtle work, delicate as spun glass. A quiet tugging at thought and feeling, no more than a nudge to ensure that the girl remained where she had been placed, to keep her tethered to that house and that blood, however unkindly it might treat her.

Albus had long ago observed that children who suffered mistreatment were rarely left unmarked by it. They carried their wounds forward, wearing them like armour, or else sharpening them into weapons. More often than not, such children grew vengeful, brittle, and dangerous. Tom Riddle had been the prime example—a boy shaped by neglect and cruelty until he could imagine no world but one where others must suffer as he had. Albus had failed Tom once, failed to rescue him from that spiral, and now all the world bore the cost of that mistake.

It was with that memory seared into him that Dumbledore crafted the small compulsion at Number Four. A subtle enchantment, no more than a whisper, nudging Petunia Dursley and her household to feel toward young Fiorwyn a current of minor dislike, annoyance, and faint contempt. Nothing unbearable, nothing that would draw notice, but enough that she would never grow too comfortable in their care. Combined with Petunia's already simmering envy of her sister Lily and her abiding hatred of magic, Albus hoped the effect would ensure that Fiorwyn arrived at Hogwarts humbled, tempered, perhaps even a little broken.

A broken child, he told himself, could be mended. A broken child could be guided. And in his most private thoughts, Albus believed such a child would be more pliable to the greater destiny awaiting her. The prophecy had spoken: the one to vanquish the Dark Lord. A hero must be made, and heroes, in Albus's experience, were not raised in ease and gentleness. They were forged in fire, in deprivation, in the lonely places where resilience is born.

He did not, of course, call himself cruel. Never evil. He preferred to think of himself as a man willing to shoulder what others could not. It was not pleasure he took in Fiorwyn's hardship, nor would he find joy in the burdens that might yet be laid upon her. But he had convinced himself it was necessary. He prayed, in quiet hours, that Lily and James might forgive him—that their sacrifice not be made vain by his hard choices. And still, a part of him whispered that if another way existed, he would have chosen it. Truly, he would have.

By ordinary reckoning, his plan might have worked. The girl would grow into the image of a saviour, carrying a sense of obligation that bound her to her role, mistaking duty for destiny. It would all proceed as neatly as prophecy demanded.

But fate is never so obliging. It shifts and stirs, an ever-turning wheel where the smallest act—a choice, a word, a kindness, a cruelty—can turn the course of lives. And in that restless shifting, Albus's carefully woven design would soon begin to unravel.

And so it was, on that seemingly ordinary day when Fiorwyn opened the door, that everything shifted. It was not the turning of a great wheel, not a crack of thunder or a flash of light, but the quiet, deliberate choice of a child—a lie, spoken with calm conviction, to shield her relatives from scrutiny and to cover the truth of her own mistreatment. A lie that altered the path laid out before her.

In that moment, the web of magic Albus had spun began to unravel. The compulsions he had woven into the very air of Privet Drive, those subtle nudges of dislike and contempt, could not withstand the strain. For the first time, the Dursleys had to wrestle with their own feelings rather than being guided by an invisible hand. Petunia's barbed resentment, Vernon's bluster, Dudley's mimicked cruelty—all of it became their own, unmediated, unsoftened. And in struggling against it, in finding ways—however begrudging—to endure the presence of the girl in their home, they weakened the spell further. The enchantment starved, having nothing left to cling to, and then at last it broke entirely.

So it was that by the time the letter came, heavy parchment sealed in green ink, addressed with uncanny precision to Miss Fiorwyn Asteria Potter, The Second Bedroom, Number Four, Privet Drive, the world had already shifted beneath Dumbledore's carefully laid plans.

What should have been a seamless continuation of his design instead opened into something entirely different. Fate, ever contrary, had chosen a new road for the girl he meant to shape.

Very different indeed.

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✹ The Third chapter ✹

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Fiorwyn's eyes blinked open at precisely 3 o'clock, as though some quiet inner clock had tugged her awake. The house was still wrapped in pre-dawn silence, the kind where every creak of the floorboards feels sharper, and the air seemed cooler against her skin as she swung her legs out of bed. She moved with quiet efficiency, slipping into the bathroom to splash her face with cold water, brushing her teeth, and pulling her hair back into a neat tie. It was her routine, almost mechanical, but comforting in its familiarity.

By 3:15 she was already seated at her small desk, a faint lamp casting a warm circle of light across the scattered revision notes. Fiorwyn always began here, reading steadily through the pages she had prepared the night before. Her lips moved faintly, whispering lines of definitions and formulas as though the act of giving them voice would help pin them more firmly in her mind. For twenty minutes she stayed like this, reviewing, pausing occasionally to underline a key phrase or add a small note in the margin.

When the clock shifted toward 3:35, she neatly stacked the papers aside and reached for her math work booklet. Numbers and symbols filled the pages, and she set about solving problem after problem with a sharp pencil, the rhythmic scratch of graphite the only sound in the room. She worked in focused bursts, checking each answer twice before moving to the next. The problems weren't easy, but she had grown used to the challenge, even finding a sort of satisfaction in the way the solutions fell into place when she gave them her full attention.

At 3:55 she closed the booklet and switched to English. This time the task was different—reading comprehension and essay outlines. Fiorwyn jotted down quick phrases, testing out topic sentences, reshaping arguments in her head before letting them flow onto the paper. Words came more slowly than numbers, but she stayed at it, steady and unhurried.

By 4:10 she had shifted once more, this time to her science book. She traced diagrams with her finger, reviewing processes and definitions, her mind piecing together how everything connected: cells, systems, reactions. Her eyes darted back and forth between text and illustration until, finally, the alarm she had set on her watch chimed softly at 4:15.

With that, Fiorwyn closed the book, exhaled, and allowed herself a brief pause. The morning had already been productive, just as she liked it.

Fiorwyn stretched her arms high above her head until her joints gave a soft crack, then rolled her shoulders with a quick twist, as though shaking off the last traces of sleep. The floor was cool beneath her palms as she dropped down to begin her routine, the one she'd pieced together from a dog-eared book she'd found in the library. For the next fifteen minutes she moved steadily through the basics—push-ups, sit-ups, planks. Nothing fancy, nothing with weights. The book had claimed that exercise helped children grow stronger, sleep more soundly, and keep their moods in check. Fiorwyn had decided she needed all of that and more.

When the last set was done, she didn't stop. Another fifteen minutes went into stretching, reaching toward the ceiling, bending until her fingers brushed her toes, holding each pose until the burn eased. Some stretches, according to the book, could even help a person grow taller and leaner. The idea appealed to her. She wanted height, wanted the kind of presence that made it impossible for anyone to look down on her again. More than that, the stretches left her steadier, quieter inside—her thoughts sharper, her nerves calmer, as if the world might finally be something she could get a handle on.

By the time the clock hands crept toward 4:45, her body was humming with a restless charge. The day felt wide open, waiting. 

And now, finally, came the fun part.

You see it all began with a book. Roald Dahl's Matilda had been released barely two months after Fiorwyn's eighth birthday, and she still remembered the day she first pulled it from the library shelf. She had no idea, at the time, that it would feel less like reading and more like stumbling into a mirror. She tore through it cover to cover, then turned back to the beginning and did it again—five times in all, maybe more. Each read left her with that same spark of recognition, as though someone had finally put her own life into words.

In Matilda, Fiorwyn saw herself. The sharp little girl nobody wanted. The clever one, underestimated at every turn. The child who seemed to have been born into the wrong family. She couldn't stop drawing the parallels, couldn't help running her own life alongside the story like two halves of the same line. And yet—if she was being honest—admiration wasn't the only thing she felt. Envy burned in her too, sharp and undeniable. Because Matilda, lucky Matilda, had found her happy ending. She'd found people who loved her, who wanted her. And, of course, she had powers.

Fiorwyn tried to be sensible about it. She told herself not to be ridiculous, that such thoughts were childish, even pathetic. Powers were for fairy tales and bedtime stories, not for lonely girls in quiet rooms. But the idea clung to her anyway, like a burr that wouldn't let go. Night after night it returned, whispering possibilities into the silence.

Until, finally, she surrendered. One evening, sitting cross-legged on the worn rug of her bedroom, she shut her eyes tight and reached for the dream she'd been scolding herself for. She willed it, begged it, demanded it: for the book across the room to fly into her waiting hands.

And—impossibly—it did.

From that instant, Fiorwyn knew her world would never look the same again.

Since that night, Fiorwyn had carved out a routine of her own. Every evening, she slipped into bed at seven o'clock sharp — which suited her relatives just fine. The earlier she vanished from their line of sight, the happier they were. But while the rest of the house drifted into sleep, she rose long before dawn, slipping out of bed at three a.m with the kind of precision most adults couldn't manage.

The first hour always belonged to her studies. Fiorwyn refused, outright refused, to let herself fall behind in school. Her cleverness was the one thing nobody could take from her, the single corner of her life she could guard like a treasure. After that came exercise — nothing heavy, just enough to wake her body and shake off the sluggishness of sleep.

And then came the best part. From the end of her workout until eight o'clock, when Aunt Petunia usually began rattling about the kitchen, Fiorwyn gave herself over entirely to her powers. She practised them with a focus so sharp it sometimes frightened her, testing, refining, pushing, learning.

Of course she knew the risk. If her relatives ever discovered what she was capable of, it wouldn't matter how much credit or admiration she managed to win for them. They'd lock her back in the cupboard without a second thought and never let her out again. Petunia and Vernon loathed anything that strayed from their rigid idea of normal — and Fiorwyn's gift was not just unusual, it was impossible. So she kept it hidden, pressed down into secrecy, and promised herself that no one, no matter how close, would ever uncover the truth.

Years of practice had changed everything. What once sputtered and slipped from her grasp now bent neatly to her will. Her control sharpened, refined itself, like a blade honed on stone. She had learned, however, that her gift came with limits — and when she pushed too far, the price was brutal. On those days, her body gave out without mercy. Fever would burn through her skin, her chest would tighten with coughing, her strength would drain until even lifting her head became too much. For three to five days she would lie trapped in bed, useless, aching, and half-drowned in sweat.

And yet, strangely enough, she always came back stronger. Each collapse was followed by a surge, as if the weakness had been nothing more than a pruning — trimming her down so the power could grow back fiercer, deeper, sharper than before. Curious, yes, but Fiorwyn was nothing if not deliberate. She made a tactic of it, choosing a few times each year to drive herself past the breaking point, willingly paying the toll. She thought of it as investment: sacrifice a few days, return with abilities no one else could even imagine.

Now, a single thought was all it took. Objects leapt at her command as easily as other people twitched a finger. But that wasn't all. Fiorwyn had discovered, almost by accident, that she had gone further than Matilda Wormwood ever did.

She remembered one school trip in particular, the memory carved into her as sharply as the scar on her ankle. The class had gone hiking through a tangle of hills, the air damp and green with summer. Somewhere along the trail she had fallen behind — and then, in one careless step, the ground gave way. Her foot slipped, her body lurched, and she went tumbling down a steep incline. By the time she skidded to a stop, her ankle throbbed with white-hot pain, swollen and twisted at an angle that made her stomach lurch. Worse still, the only path back was uphill, the slope rising like a wall she could never climb in her state.

She sat there in the dirt, clutching her throbbing ankle, her pulse drumming fast and wild in her ears. Panic tried to take her in quick, shallow gulps. What if no one came? What if the class kept walking, laughing, chattering, never even noticing she was gone? Her mind leapt straight to the worst endings — left behind forever, her body curled cold at the bottom of the hill, or torn apart by some hungry mountain cat that prowled the woods after dark.

Her breath started to hitch, rising too fast, until she snapped her palm against her own cheek. The sting cut through the spiral. Stop it, Fiorwyn. Think.

By ordinary rules, yes — she was in trouble. The kind of trouble that could end badly. But her life didn't run on ordinary rules, did it? She had something no one else could claim. She had her powers.

So she shut her eyes tight, both hands wrapped around the swollen joint, and drew every bit of focus she had down into that single point. She pictured the bone knitting clean and strong, the tendons sliding back into place, the angry puff of swelling retreating until her skin looked smooth again. She imagined it so hard she almost saw it, almost believed she could feel the work happening beneath her palms.

And then—release. A wave of relief shivered through her. When she cracked her eyes open and shifted her foot cautiously, the pain was gone. She pushed herself upright, leaned on the ankle, and found it steady beneath her. Whole.

A grin split her face wide. Healing. She could heal. The thought rushed through her veins hotter than blood, brighter than sunlight. If she could do this... what else might be possible?

She didn't waste a heartbeat. If she could mend herself, what else might be within reach? Fiorwyn closed her eyes again, drew her focus inward, and aimed for something far bolder. She pictured her classmates up ahead on the trail, their bright jackets bobbing through the trees, and imagined herself stepping back among them. Not right in their midst — that would be far too suspicious — but near enough that no one would wonder where she had been.

It was harder, far harder than healing. Her first tries fizzled into nothing, leaving her sweaty and lightheaded. She tried again, pushing harder, only to have her head spin so violently she thought she might faint. Still she kept at it, grinding down with sheer stubbornness until at last something gave way.

The sensation was awful — a stomach-lurching yank, as though she'd been shoved headfirst into a narrow tube and squeezed through like toothpaste. The closest comparison that sprang to mind was Augustus Gloop vanishing up the chocolate pipe: grotesque, dizzying, utterly unnatural. Her stomach heaved, her vision swam, but when she staggered and blinked herself steady, the world around her had changed.

She was no longer at the bottom of the hill.

As Fiorwyn gulped air, willing her legs not to buckle, a voice rang out. One of the teacher's assistants had spotted her. Their face folded with relief as they hurried over, fussing at her, scolding her lightly, bending to check the ankle she had already healed. They saw only a child who had slipped, who had found her way back. They hadn't the faintest idea what had truly just happened.

That made three powers she could claim now: levitation, healing, and teleportation. Healing was the trickiest by far — mostly because it wasn't something she could practice at will. Unless she deliberately went around injuring herself (and Fiorwyn valued her own skin far too much for that), she had no way to test it properly.

Teleportation was no easier. Yes, it was incredible, thrilling even — but it drained her like nothing else, leaving her weak and shaky for hours afterward. Fiorwyn decided it was best saved for the future, when she was older, stronger, and better able to withstand the cost.

But none of this discouraged her. Quite the opposite. Fiorwyn knew there was more buried inside her, waiting to be uncovered, and she relished the challenge. Training was the highlight of her day, the secret joy that no one could take from her.

So, as she had done every morning since the beginning, she closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and carefully let her power slip free. She had learned, over long practice, that if she didn't keep it contained, the energy might leak out and reveal itself around ordinary people. Pulling it inward, holding it tight, gave her control.

And in doing so, she had stumbled on another discovery: she could read people's energy.

Most of the time, what she saw was dull and gray — a limp little haze that clung to people like an invisible shadow. But every so often, she met someone different. Someone whose presence startled her, whose aura shone bright and vivid, alive in a way that was almost impossible to put into words. The contrast was stark: like comparing a drizzling, colorless afternoon to a summer morning full of sunlight and wind. Whenever she glimpsed those rare, dazzling auras, she couldn't help but wonder what it meant — and whether her own power was somehow tied to theirs.

That was only the simple version. The truth ran deeper. Everyone carried a distinct energy, a kind of signature as unique as a fingerprint. Fiorwyn could have explained the nuances — the subtle shifts in color, the textures, the rhythms — but then she'd be talking all day, and still it wouldn't capture the whole of it.

She called the gift energy reading, and it proved more useful than almost anything else she had discovered. With it, she could catch the edges of people's emotions, sense the truth beneath whatever mask they wore. More than once, that ability had steered her out of situations that might have gone very wrong, very quickly.

The only time she dared release her own energy was in the gray hush of morning, when the house slept and no one would notice. She would stretch it slowly, cautiously, like a cat uncoiling from a nap. But her power was growing, and each year it became harder to handle. The last time she had let it pour out too freely, every piece of furniture in her room had shuddered. She had frozen, terrified that the noise would carry, certain Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would come storming in.

When she did allow it out — even in the smallest measure — the sensation was overwhelming. Her energy surged and curled around her, enveloping her like a living thing. It touched her with a tenderness she had never known, a warmth so profound it brought tears to her eyes. This, she thought, must be what a mother's hug feels like.

She loved her powers with a fierceness she could never quite put into words. And she believed — no, she knew — that they loved her too. They sheltered her, watched over her, clung to her almost jealously, as though unwilling to let her go. Overprotective, possessive even. But Fiorwyn only adored them more for it.

It was a recent discovery — unsettling, but impossible to ignore. Her powers were beginning to feel almost... sentient. There were moments when she could sense them pressing against the barriers she'd built to contain them, clawing at the edges like a caged animal desperate to be free. It happened most often in the worst moments: when Aunt Petunia's shrill voice cut her down with insults, or when Uncle Vernon droned on about how completely, utterly useless she was. They always tried to minimize her successes, to grind her back down into nothing. And all it did was sharpen her resolve to rise higher, to prove them wrong.

But her powers responded differently. In those moments of humiliation and fury, they didn't shrink — they surged. They wanted to lash out, to shred, to maul. She could feel it, hot and insistent, almost begging her to let them loose.

One day, she promised herself, she would. Not for her own sake — Fiorwyn wasn't sure she had it in her to strike the first blow. Her conscience still bristled at the thought of harming them outright. But protection? That was another matter. If it came down to preventing something from happening, if her powers hungered for vengeance, then perhaps the choice wouldn't be hers at all. And if they demanded their due... who was she to deny them?

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word count: 2990 words

Ok when i originally started the chapter i was heading into the direction of it being Dumdums B-day, but i ended up going into so much detail regarding her powers ( magic) and how she discovered it... the Matilda thing just came out of nowhere and i was like that could work. 

Also I decided on a literal whim to make her magic kind of sentient, like you know how magic is intent and all that– I thought that maybe Fiorwyn unknowingly intended her magic into a more sentient form... like deep down she wants to be loved, cared and protected and her magic kind of fed on that thought and intent... idk does it make sense?

Also it occurred to me that it could just be Voldie, being all protective... I'm thinking of making it both.. Wait, that'll work!

How about her magic turned Voldie's soul into something – not pure –but something that's protective and carning over her ... 

This is me thinking out loud... does this count as a spoiler lol– but i feel like its an obvious observation.

What do you guys think????

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✹ The Fourth chapter ✹
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Today was dear Dudums' birthday.

Hurray.

As expected, Dudley was drowned in gifts — far more than he could count, which, to be fair, wasn't saying much. Fiorwyn chose not to dwell on the morning festivities; every time she tried to recall the shrieks of delight, the crinkling of wrapping paper, and Aunt Petunia's squeals of adoration, she felt her brain cells shriveling one by one. Every time she tried to form a thought that involved a Dursley, she could feel her brain cells packing their bags and abandoning ship. Best to spare herself the loss.

It was, as far as Fiorwyn was concerned, highly unfortunate that she shared a birthday with her cousin. Not that she ever truly marked the day as her own. In fact, she had spent most of her life pretending it didn't exist at all — a quiet coping mechanism she'd invented when she was very small. Year after year, she had watched Dudley drown in presents and attention while her own celebrations amounted to... nothing. No cards, no balloons, no cheerful songs or ribbons. Just the dull, aching awareness that she had been forgotten yet again. Pretending her birthday didn't exist was easier than confronting the disappointment, and so she had done it for as long as she could remember, burying the day deep, where it couldn't hurt her quite so much.

Still, since Fiorwyn was six years old, the Dursleys had been forced to bring her along on Dudley's birthday outings. Leaving her behind would have raised far too many questions — and heaven forbid the neighbors noticed anything unusual. This year's grand excursion: the zoo. Fiorwyn privately thought her relatives belonged there more than the animals did, but, alas, fate had decreed she accompany them rather than watch them be caged.

The animals, at least, were a comfort. She admired them quietly, marveling at their patience, their dignity, their sheer ability to endure a crowd of gawking humans. Compared to the company she lived with, the creatures seemed practically noble.

But the true highlight of the trip came when she slipped away ahead of the group and wandered into the reptile house.

Fiorwyn never cared much for animals — or rather, for pets. Owning one was out of the question anyway, and she knew it. Still, the idea had its appeal: a companion that belonged to her alone, loyal in a way no human ever seemed to be. The problem was finding the right sort. A dog? Far too much effort. She doubted she could ever keep up with their boundless enthusiasm. A cat? Well, that was a gamble. Loyalty wasn't exactly their strong suit, and from what she'd heard, they were happy to curl up with anyone willing to fill their bowl. Best not to waste time imagining. She couldn't have one either way.

Her eyes drifted back to the glass enclosure. Brilliant green met gleaming scales, and Fiorwyn found herself drawn toward the enormous snake coiled within. It looked strong enough to wrap twice around Uncle Vernon's car and crush it flat without the slightest strain. And yet, for all its size and menace, she thought it was beautiful.

"Aren't you pretty," Fiorwyn whispered, unable to keep the awe from her voice.

The great snake stirred, lifting its head as though it had heard her. Its dark eyes fixed on hers, and it let out a low hiss. Fiorwyn nearly stumbled backward when the sound slid into words inside her mind.

Thank you.

Her eyes flew wide. "W–what?" she gasped, darting a quick glance over her shoulder. Relief washed over her when she spotted the Dursleys clustered at the far end of the reptile house, oblivious as ever. No one was close enough to notice.

She leaned nearer to the glass, voice barely above a breath. "Can you understand me?"

The snake inclined its massive head in a slow, deliberate nod. Fiorwyn let out a half-huff, half-laugh — disbelief and wonder tangled together.

Another power? She had never once imagined speaking to a snake would be on the list, of all things. Dogs, cats, birds — she'd crossed paths with them often enough that she'd surely have noticed by now if they'd answered her back. But snakes? Of course it would be snakes. How perfectly strange.

Before she could say more, a familiar and unwelcome energy prickled against her senses. Her cousin. Fiorwyn straightened at once, schooling her face into blank interest, pretending she was merely watching the reptile.

And then Dudley came crashing into her, nearly knocking her flat, his thick fingers slamming against the glass. "WOAH! Look at what this snake is doing!" he bellowed, grinning like he'd discovered fire.

Fiorwyn gritted her teeth, staring up at her cousin from the floor. Her powers churned beneath her skin, a storm of righteous anger itching to lash out. She clenched her fists and forced herself to breathe deeply, willing the heat to settle. One wrong move, and Dudley might very well end up flying across the room — and that would do her absolutely no good here.

Honestly, she could not wait to get back to the house — though she refused to call it home, and it never would feel like one. Once she was safely tucked away in her room, she could lose herself in the book she'd discovered a while back at the library. A treasure, in her opinion. The volume offered step-by-step instructions on building a mind palace, a technique designed to sharpen memory dramatically. And if she did say so herself, she had come far.

Her mind palace was like fireworks frozen in mid-burst against the night sky — brilliant strings of color, each one vibrant and alive. It reflected how she felt about her powers: magnificent, loud, eye-catching, and impossible to ignore. Every thought she stored there shone with its own brilliance, commanding attention the way she imagined her magic would if the world were ready for it.

As she glanced once more at her painfully ordinary, dull relatives, Fiorwyn felt a familiar thrill of anticipation. One day, she promised herself, she would be free of their company entirely.

It was well past four in the afternoon by the time they returned. The ride home had been long and stuffy, and Fiorwyn didn't rush. She lingered in the car, letting Dudley barrel past her the moment Aunt Petunia swung open the front door. He thundered inside like a conquering hero, no doubt bound straight for the kitchen before flopping onto the sofa or vanishing into his room to wage war on his computer games.

Sure enough, when Fiorwyn finally stepped through the doorway, she found him already sprawled across the living room cushions, crumbs tumbling down his shirt. She barely gave him a glance. They were all so predictable, so tediously consistent, it was almost impressive in its monotony.

At first, she noticed nothing unusual. Which made sense — what she felt was faint, nearly invisible, like the flicker of a candle at the edge of her vision. But the longer she stood there, the more it tugged at her. She narrowed her focus, steady and sharp, and then she felt it properly.

Her gaze slid to Uncle Vernon, who was huffing and muttering as he shuffled through the stack of letters that had been pushed through the slot while they were out. And there it was.

In that pile of ordinary envelopes, she saw it: the barest thread of color. A seam so fine it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But not her. Her breath caught, her eyes widening, because she knew this color — and yet she had seen it only a handful of times in her life.

It was the kind of brilliance she carried with her into sleep, clutching it like a secret flame. The kind of warmth and care and unspoken want she longed for, bright and undeniable against the dull, gray haze of everything else. Until now, she had thought only people could bear such a light. That objects — let alone letters — could shimmer with it had never once occurred to her. And yet here it was, gleaming quietly in her uncle's hands.

Maybe she ought not to have stared so openly, but she couldn't help herself. Her eyes were glued to that single letter, glowing faintly in Uncle Vernon's thick, sausage-like fingers. And apparently, her fascination didn't go unnoticed.

Petunia's gaze, sharp as a hawk's, darted from Fiorwyn's fixed expression to Vernon, who had just torn open one of the envelopes. Her lips pinched tight. Why, indeed, would the girl be staring at that?

"Girl!" Petunia shrieked so suddenly that Fiorwyn jumped, her heart jolting up into her throat.

She turned instinctively, but her aunt's face was set, pale and trembling — though whether from anger or something nearer to fear, Fiorwyn couldn't say.

"Up! Up to your room this instant!" Petunia snapped, her voice quivering as though the words themselves might shatter if she spoke them any louder.

Fiorwyn froze on the spot, torn. Her mind screamed at her to stay, to look harder, to see what was written in that strangely radiant letter. She ached to know what made it shine while the rest of the world sat dull and lifeless.

But then Vernon looked up. His scowl was a stormcloud, dark and heavy, ready to break at the smallest provocation. That decided it. Trouble was the one thing she couldn't afford.

Her fists clenched tight at her sides, nails biting into her palms. She forced the words out between her teeth:

"Yes, Aunt Petunia."

And with a swift, reluctant turn, she fled up the stairs — every step heavy with the weight of the letter she hadn't seen.

"What's the girl done now?" Vernon barked, his tone carrying that familiar weight of annoyance, as though Fiorwyn were no more than a mongrel dragging mud through the house.

Petunia ignored him. Her hands darted for the pile of post, rifling through one envelope after another. Bills, junk, catalogues—her breath quickened the deeper she went. And then, at the very bottom, she saw it.

That letter.

Her throat went dry. She let the stack fall, envelopes scattering across the floor like feathers from a burst pillow. The single parchment in her hand felt heavier than all the rest, heavier than the years of pretending this day would never come.

Vernon peered over her shoulder, his piggy eyes widening as he read the address scrawled in green ink. He looked at her, and for a moment they shared the same sick dread.

Of course. Of course it had come to this.

For nearly ten years, the girl had seemed manageable enough. Quiet, obedient, not prone to those wild tantrums that had plagued Lily from the moment she could toddle. No accidental outbursts, no flowers blooming in her fists, no freakish sparks at her fingertips. Petunia had almost allowed herself to believe she'd been spared.

But she should have known better. Magic always found its way through — Lily had proved that well enough.

Petunia's jaw tightened, bitterness rising sharp and acrid in her throat. Lily, with her clever little tricks and that self-satisfied air. Lily, who had left Petunia in the shadow of her strangeness, always shining brighter, always chosen, always special.

And now here it was again. Lily's curse, alive in the girl upstairs.

Normal? Ordinary? She had been a fool to dream of such things. A fool to hope that blood could ever run normal when it was that blood.

"I'll deal with her," Petunia snapped before Vernon could get another word in, her mouth puckering as though she'd bitten into something sour. "There's no point pretending we can stamp it out now. And clearly she hasn't got much talent—if she did, we'd have seen more by now. At least this way she'll be out of our hair for most of the year." Her eyes glinted with something hard and mean. "Yes. Best to dump her on them. We've already wasted far too much time and money on the little parasite."

Vernon grunted, the sound low and brutish. "Fine. But make sure she understands this—if I see even a whisper of that nonsense in my house, she's straight back in the cupboard. And she can forget ever stepping foot outside again."

Petunia's lips twitched into a thin, sour line. She gave a sharp nod, though her fingers trembled as she reached for the letter. The parchment felt heavier than it should, weighted with memories she had spent her whole life trying to bury. She recognized it instantly—she had seen one just like it decades ago. The very same kind that had once arrived for her sister.

Her sister. Always Lily.

Never her.

Upstairs, Fiorwyn pressed herself against her bedroom door, straining to catch even fragments of their voices. Her heart thundered, each beat quickening as though it wanted to leap out of her chest.

What were they talking about?

She had no time to wonder—footsteps were already pounding up the stairs.

The door flew open without so much as a knock, crashing hard against the wall. Fiorwyn flinched, startled, as Petunia filled the doorway. Her lips were pressed into a knife-thin line, her shoulders stiff, and in her hand she clutched a crisp envelope as if it had crawled out of the gutter and dared to touch her.

"This," she hissed, her voice sharp enough to cut glass, "came for you. And don't you dare pretend you don't know what it means."

She stepped forward and let the letter fall onto the bed, dropping it like refuse, her fingers snapping back instantly as though the parchment had scorched her.

Her mouth curled with a sneer. "I should have known. I thought—because you kept quiet, because you didn't throw fits, because you never showed any... oddities—that maybe, maybe we'd been spared. But no. No, of course not." Her eyes blazed as they fixed on Fiorwyn. "You're just like her. My sister."

The word came out like venom.

Her voice cracked but grew sharper still, bitter, trembling with a fury that had been fermenting for years. "Lily. Always Lily. Always the special one. The chosen one. The clever, talented, adored one. Parading her freakish tricks about like some prize pony while I—" Petunia bit the words off, but her chest rose and fell in jerks, her hands balling at her sides.

"And now you."

She smoothed her blouse with shaking fingers, as though the gesture might press her bitterness flat. It didn't.

"They've picked you too," she spat, "to drag you off to that ridiculous place. A school for witchcraft and wizardry." She rolled the words on her tongue with absolute contempt, her lip curling. "Utter rubbish. Waving sticks, ruining decent things. And what did it get her?"

Her gaze snapped up, hard and gleaming. "Dead. That's where all that unnatural filth leads. Dead and gone."

For a moment her eyes flicked wildly about the room, hunting for something to anchor herself to—something plain, ordinary, safe. But in this moment, there was nothing ordinary left to cling to.

"Don't you dare think this makes you special," Petunia spat, her face twisting, sharp with envy and rage. "It makes you a freak. Just like her. Always her. And now you. No matter how well you've hidden it, no matter how proper you've pretended to be—underneath, you're the same. Rotten. Wrong. Unnatural."

Her voice pitched higher, shrill and ugly, echoing off the walls like broken glass. "You'll never be normal. Never belong. People will look at you and they'll know. Do you want the truth?" She leaned in close, so close Fiorwyn could see the fine tremor of her aunt's clenched jaw, the sour twist of her mouth. "It's shameful. Disgusting. You should be grateful they're taking you—because no decent person would keep you here."

Straightening, Petunia's whole frame trembled, her breaths ragged, as though the venom in her words had cost her as much as they wounded Fiorwyn. But she wasn't finished.

"You'll end up just like my sister," she hissed, each word trembling with fury. "Strange. Dangerous. And dead. That's all your kind ever comes to."

With a sudden, violent jerk, she wrenched the door open and slammed it behind her so hard the glass rattled in the windowpanes, as if she wanted to shatter the house itself just to shut Fiorwyn out of it.

Silence fell.

Fiorwyn sat frozen, wide-eyed, the air heavy and electric, her heart pounding like a trapped bird. The words lingered, clinging to her skin, worming into her mind, repeating and repeating until they felt like a curse branded into her very bones.

Witchcraft.

Her powers... her magic... had that been it all along?

Magic? Truly?

Fiorwyn scrambled to open the letter, her mind a whirlwind of questions and confusion. Her hands were clumsy, trembling so badly she nearly tore the envelope in half. The crisp parchment slipped free, smoother and heavier than any paper she had ever touched. Her eyes darted across the words, her lips moving silently as she read:

Fiorwyn scrambled to open the letter, her mind a whirlwind of questions and confusion, her hands clumsy, trembling so badly she nearly tore the envelope in half. The crisp parchment slipped free, smoother and heavier than any paper she'd ever touched. Her eyes darted across the words, her lips moving silently as she read.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Miss. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Fiorwyn read the letter once. Twice. Three times. By the fifth reading, the words finally began to take root, though she still couldn't quite believe them. Under ordinary circumstances, she would have tossed such a claim aside as nonsense. But this wasn't ordinary. The parchment itself thrummed with a living presence, colour bleeding faintly across its surface — not ink, not light, but something richer. Energy, yes, but not the kind she had always thought she was seeing. Magic.

Her stomach twisted as the truth clicked into place. All these years, she hadn't been reading people's energy at all. She had been seeing their magic. That explained everything: why most people trudged through life draped in dull gray clouds, so hopelessly bland it hurt to look at them. They were ordinary. They had nothing. And those rare few, the dazzling ones who startled her with their brilliance? They weren't anomalies at all. They were witches. Wizards. Magic folk.

Like her.

The thought slammed into her with breathtaking force. She was a witch. Not a freak, not strange — but magic. Magic was in her bones, in her blood.

Just as it had been in her mother's.

Her chest tightened at the thought, and just as quickly, heat surged through her veins. Aunt Petunia. That woman had known. She must have known all along. The memory of Petunia's pinched face, her sharp words, her constant attempts to grind Fiorwyn into dust — all of it curdled now into something sharper. Anger. Raw and molten, spilling into her limbs until her fingertips tingled. Her magic answered it instinctively, sparking like flint, every pulse of fury feeding the crackling current building inside her.

She had thought she could control her. That by keeping Fiorwyn in the dark, by shaping the world around her with silence and half-truths, she could snuff out the most important part of who she was. She had stolen it—her right to know herself, her right to see clearly what had always been there.

And no doubt, she thought herself clever for it. Clever to shield Fiorwyn from her own nature, to twist ignorance into obedience. Clever to make her stumble through life blindfolded, when even blindfolded Fiorwyn had seen more of the world than Petunia ever would. It was laughable, really. How quaint. How petty. Like a child clutching a toy, refusing to share—not because she needed it, but because she couldn't bear to see someone else take joy in it.

She had stolen from her. Stolen her chance to claim what had been hers from the very beginning, and now she had the gall to stand there, chin lifted, voice sharp and clipped, as though confessing her theft made her noble. As though admitting the truth painted her the hero of the tale.

She could almost laugh. Almost.

But today is meant to be a joyous day, and she would not—absolutely would not—let her aunt sour it. Fiorwyn refused to give her that kind of victory, refused to let Petunia's bitterness gnaw away at her happiness.

Still, one problem loomed large, stubborn as a stone in her chest. How was she supposed to attend? The letter had enclosed a list of requirements—robes, books, cauldrons, even a wand—and Fiorwyn had not a single coin to her name. She knew with absolute certainty that her aunt and uncle wouldn't part with a penny. They'd rather lock her in the cupboard for another decade than spend money on her.

The school she was meant to attend had been through a scholarship — but that plan, of course, was now scrapped.

Surely, though, a school like this—one that trained witches and wizards—would have something in place for students like her? Some kind of fund, some allowance for those who could not possibly afford all that was required? If only she'd known sooner, she would have saved every single penny she'd ever found or earned, hoarded them all like treasure, until she had enough to walk into the wizarding world on her own terms.

But that was no use now. She would simply have to send a reply, explain the situation, and hope something could be arranged. It was the only option she had.

To the Deputy Headmistress,

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

I write to confirm my acceptance of a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It is an honour, and I am eager to begin my education.

That said, I must raise a practical concern. I have no funds of my own, nor do I have access to any means of purchasing the items listed in the enclosed requirements. While my attendance is expected, the question remains of how I am to obtain the necessary books, robes, and other materials.

I cannot imagine this is a unique situation. Surely I am not the first student to arrive at your school without financial support. Therefore, I trust that Hogwarts maintains provisions for pupils of my circumstance. I should like to know what steps may be taken, and whether I might rely on the school's assistance in preparing me for the term.

I look forward to your reply, and to beginning this new chapter of my education.

Yours sincerely,

Fiorwyn A. Potter

There. The letter was written, folded, and tied. All that remained was to send it off... the instructions had mentioned an owl.

Curious, though not without a twinge of skepticism, Fiorwyn unlatched her window and leaned out into the cool air. For a moment, there was nothing but the quiet rustle of leaves and the far-off hum of passing cars. She felt ridiculous—what had she expected? That an owl would simply be waiting for her, perched like some patient postman?

And then, as if summoned by her doubt, wings sliced the air. A tawny owl swooped down from the roof, landing neatly on her sill. Its enormous amber eyes blinked once, twice, then fixed on her with an expression that was at once grave and expectant.

"Oh," Fiorwyn breathed, awe softening her voice. "Aren't you a cutie?"

She lifted a cautious hand, brushing the sleek feathers along its chest, marveling at their warmth and softness. The owl tolerated her touch with regal composure, as though it had done this countless times before.

With no envelope to spare, she folded her letter as neatly as she could and tied it around the bird's leg with a hair ribbon. "There you go," she murmured, giving its feathers one last affectionate stroke. "Travel safely."

The owl answered with a low, throaty hoot, then spread its wings and leapt into the night. She watched until it dwindled to a speck against the sky and vanished altogether.

Only then did she close her eyes. Slowly, deliberately, she let her magic—her magic, oh how right the word felt—spill free. Colours flared into the air around her, alive and shifting. At first they burst in vivid red, hot and sharp, bristling as though on guard. When no danger stirred, the edges softened, the red dissolving into the familiar swirl of hues that curled about her body like smoke.

The tendrils wrapped her in their embrace, warm and steady, as though her own soul had taken shape and gathered her into its arms. Her breath evened, her worries dissolved, her limbs went slack—but her magic held her, lifted her, cradled her with a tenderness so fierce it ached.

Yes. Whatever else might come, however uncertain the days ahead, she had this. She had her magic.

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