𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐑 || H.P

𝟒𝟗

TW; blood, abuse.
-

He never came back.

He never explained.

In his defense, I never let him.

It felt like a decade since I've met silence. Not the secluded kind, unfortunately. Cold. Unnerving.

The Quibbler.

'Battle of The Astronomy Tower: Aster Shallow Spotted Free.'

'Battle of The Astronomy Tower: The Tragic Death of Albus Dumbledore.'

How could he die when everyone else was need?

Masked men against children.

For so long I had believed my fate was sealed by the prophecy. Now, it seems my father may end me while I slept.

I should be worried. I feel no remorse, no sadness. Nothing. I should have a plan to escape; but nothing is not an overstatement.

Nothing. I have nothing.

So now, I sat in an empty train compartment, letting the newspaper crumple up in my fists, and my tears dry, leaving streaked marks along my cheeks.

While 'The Quibbler' was being shoved into my school bag, two unknown items toppled out.

A clear vial, and a note.

After the newspaper, reading felt like a nuisance. But, the note was too short—two sentences—and too enticing to ignore.

'How do weasels make burrows? I reckon you'd know the answer.'

-Harry.

There was a reason I was not sorted into Ravenclaw.

-

A bottle of whiskey sat on the counter. Half empty.

My fathers forehead was bandaged. Perhaps staring was the wrong decision.

Silence.

He downed the rest of his glass in two seconds.

My mother hadn't even glanced at me since I stepped onto the platform. Her calm gaze was planted on the ground, strong and collected.

"Alicia." It was as if he had cursed me already. "Go to your bedroom."

I stood up slowly.

"Make haste!"

I flinched.

He's drunk! Drunk! Drunk!

"Aster!" Oh how my mothers demanding voice had become so desperate.

"Alicia!" My father slurred. "Go to your bedroom!"

My breath shook. "Yes, father."

I had gotten so used to Harry's dorm room floor that now, sitting on my comforter felt uncomfortable. He could make the cold wood warm.

The door creaked open five minutes later. I should be terrified. But, I had nothing.

The door was slammed shut. "Muffliato."

I bit down on my lip to keep myself distracted.

My father started to unwrap his bandage. "One entire year, my dear daughter, one year."

He revealed the large gash on his forehead. "Do you see this?"

I nodded hastily.

"Words!"

"Yes, sir!"

He slowly took a step. "Stand up."

I did as he said.

"What have I done wrong, child?"

I did not have the courage to respond.

"My own daughter." He gestured to the cut. "Why?"

"I- er-"

"Why!"

"I didn't mean to!" Sob. "I was scared- I was trying to-"

"Trying to what?!" The space between us was closed and his shadow made everything dark. "Go on!"

"I was trying to protect..."

"Trying to protect yourself?" His hand clasped around my now less sore wrist and I squeaked. "Do not lie to me, foolish girl."

"Father, you're hurting me-"

"Trying to protect Potter?"

His grasp did not falter, but the pain only got worse. "Father, please!"

"Tell me!" His wand was jabbed into my cheek. "Where have I gone wrong!"

I quivered under his hardened gaze. "I- I don't-"

Smack.

I could've cried out, but I was too concerned with the look on his face. No remorse. No regret. Truly psychotic.

He shoved me to the ground. My body was limp and defenseless. I had nothing.

"Stupid, stupid girl! You must learn, Harry Potter can not do anything for you!"

"F-father-" I managed to choke out.

"Silencio."

My nails scraped against the floors as my lips were magically stitched together. Tears flooded my eyes until they could not be held anymore.

"Stupid girl!" He repeated, almost with a hint of emotion.

I felt a prickling sensation along the length of my jaw line.

"Diffindo."

I screamed but I made no noise.

Another cut ran along my forearm.

My nails dug into the palms of my hand, but I did not notice how that had drawn blood as well.

The process felt like centuries of torture.

"You will not step foot outside that door, you hear me?! Bloody disgrace."

Everything was cloudy.

My mouth had not been unstitched until he left the room, breaking the lock and charming the door instead.

I could breathe.

I blinked a couple of time before looking around. Blood infused with tears dripped down to my neck and ran down my arm.

Some splattered onto the floor. The cold wooden floor.

It took some time, but eventually, I slid myself across the room to find my school bag. Quickly shuffling around papers, I took out three items.

My wand, a vial, and a note.

With shaky fingers, I placed the vial upon my lips, slipping a small amount of the potion inside. Suddenly, it was as if the note was the most obvious thing in the world.

I chocked out a laughed between my sobs and gripped my wand tightly.

The father had forgotten something. I was of age.

How do weasels make burrows?