Voldemort returns and is intent on revenge, preventing the prophecy from coming true and ensuring his reign over the wizarding world. But everything changes when he realizes the girl who lived, his ultimate nemesis...is actually a Horcrux...
Voldemo...
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The weeks slipped by, uneventful yet oddly tethered. Hadria's days revolved around the Dursleys' mundane existence. She toiled in Petunia's garden, her green thumb coaxing life from the soil. When not immersed in earth and blossoms, she retreated to her room...solitude her refuge. There, she penned letters to distant friends, their words a lifeline to a world beyond the confines of 4 Privet Drive.
Petunia remained cool, her demeanor frostier than the winter winds that swept through the garden. Yet, beneath the veneer of indifference, something flickered. Perhaps it was Hadria's knack for coaxing reluctant blooms or the quiet companionship they shared during their gardening sessions. The silence between them held a fragile thread, woven with unspoken gratitude.
Hadria, ever restless, occasionally shattered the quietude. She'd recount school tales, the mundane transformed into magic through her storytelling. Petunia, like a reluctant audience, would nod or even...surprisingly...softly snicker. The girl's presence, her stories, became a curious balm for Petunia's soul, though she'd never admit it aloud.
One day, while rummaging through the Dursleys' neglected garden shed, Hadria stumbled upon an old hammock. Its frayed fabric whispered of forgotten summers. Brimming with audacity, she sought permission to hang it in a secluded corner of the yard. Petunia's acquiescence surprised her...an unspoken thank-you, perhaps, for the garden's transformation.
Vernon, ever the gruff man that he was, grunted at the sight of the hammock. He retreated indoors, eyes glued to the television screen. The hammock swayed gently, cradling Hadria's dreams, bridging the gap between her silent world and the one beyond the garden gate.
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Hadria's afternoons unfolded in the hammock...a cocoon of woven threads and dappled sunlight. She lost herself in books or simply gazed upward, savoring the warmth on her skin. The sky stretched wide, a canvas of azure and cotton-white. Here, she was alone, a fragile boundary against the world beyond.
Dudley, her brutish cousin, haunted her existence. When not tormenting her, he roamed with his gang of miscreants, leaving a trail of juvenile chaos. His parents, blissfully ignorant, believed his tales of innocent tea visits. Little did they know...he vandalized, smoked, bullied, and hurled stones at passing cars. A juvenile criminal, hidden behind a cherubic facade.
