Waking Up At Hogwarts

1.

I leaned my head against the cold bathroom wall, hugging my knees and sighing, wiping away the tears. I was emotionally drained. The flashbacks were getting worse, and I didn't know how much longer I could cope. Shakily, I reached for the Emergency Harry Potter Book I always have on hand in the bathroom (collapsing against the wall because of the flashbacks was a pretty regular occurrence...and I sometimes read on the toilet) and tried to engross myself, but even the magical world of Hogwarts and magic and fantasy and love could not capture me as it usually did.

Mr and Mrs Dursley of number 4, Privet Drive, were proud to say they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.

But I wasn't perfectly normal. I was losing myself. I was going crazy, locked inside my mind...I couldn't concentrate.

I slammed the book down and leaned my head against the wall, my long, dusty blonde hair cushioning my scalp from the hard, cold bathroom wall. The flashbacks were becoming frequent now, till seemingly wherever I went I was plagued with having to relive my worst nightmare over and over. My mum died after giving birth to me, so that night, at five years old, I officially became an orphan and spent my childhood being passed around between foster parents and orphanages. I had never known my mum, but I still missed my dad like a constant stomachache.

I sighed, wiped my tears and went back to my room. I lived in an okay flat in an okay part of London-not dirty or dangerous, which was a record for a London flat. Nothing was decorated because I was only renting, so all the walls were a boring, default magnolia and the carpet a scratchy, cream monstrosity. My room was once my haven, the walls covered in fanart, book covers and Harry Potter paraphernalia that I'd BluTacked up; now, though, it was my prison.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. Someone was calling me. Someone actually cared. My heart leaped, until I pulled it out and read the Caller ID. "Sarah H."

Sarah H (for Holliday) was my landlord. She came to check on me every now and again because my doctor had had to tell her about my "psychiatric condition" when I moved in. Sarah H claimed she worried about me. Lie alert. She was simply the nosiest woman alive. Except you, of course, Tuney, I thought with a fond smile, glancing up at one of the fanarts I was most proud of, of Harry and Petunia hugging tightly (set before the Dursleys left Privet Drive in the Deathly Hallows).

I sighed and swiped the screen to answer the phone.

"Savannah, honey, how are you?" Sarah H was in her early thirties, and had bobbed auburn hair, and a condescending, patronising voice she saved just for me.

"Okay," I lied bleakly.

"You don't sound so sure, honey."

"Do I not, honey?" My voice imitated hers. There was an awkward pause. "Savannah, I only want to help you." She sounded hurt, and I felt pretty bad, for a few seconds.

"I don't need help," I emphasised.

"Yeah you-"

"Sarah. Please don't call back."