DURSLEY ― harry potter

‣︎︎ CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER SEVEN:
HOGWARTS EXPRESS

☍︎︎

DESPITE GROWING UP UNABLE TO STAND EACH OTHER, DAISY AND HARRY HAD BECOME INSEPARABLE AFTER HARRY'S BIRTHDAY.

Daisy steered clear of the shed, in hopes her father would forgo his promise and leave her supplies and paintings alone. It was false hope. Regardless of the anger her family held for her and Harry, their fear seemed to overshadow their thoughts and they pretended Harry and Daisy didn't exist.

At first, it bothered Daisy. Her heart ached each night when her mother ignored her presence when her father didn't kiss her head after work. Daisy cried herself to sleep the first two weeks, missing her brother, even if they weren't exactly close. She didn't know if he was scared of what she could do or her in general.

After the initial hurt wore off, Daisy began to enjoy the silence. Not being dotted on for everything felt freeing, in a way. She spent time with Harry, they took long walks and stayed out past her curfew. Her parents didn't care.

"Daisy!"

Daisy jumped, exchanging a look with Harry, tossing her book to the ground. He sat, back flat against the wall on her bed, and she lay over the edge with her head hanging upside down, both reading different books she'd stolen from Dudley's room.

"Did he say my name?" She asked Harry, surprised. She'd thought her father was going to ignore her for the rest of her life, or at least until next summer when she returned from Hogwarts.

"Daisy!"

Harry didn't answer her, instead, shoving her feet off the bed and she landed with a thump on the ground. "Prick," she scowled at him, before dashing out of her bedroom, downstairs. The walls seemed more barren than before -- had they taken down photos of her? She could've sworn some of her artwork hung in the hallway upstairs.

"Dad?" She questioned, reaching the bottom of the stairs, sweat tickling her skin. On one of the warmest summers they'd had in years, she was wearing a thin tank top and a pair of pajama shorts. Anything else felt too hot, and her mother hadn't done her laundry in the past month. She didn't have many clean clothes left.

"Come with me," he ordered, standing near the back door. Daisy frowned, suspicion rolling through her mind. Why did he seem so excited talking to her? A switch had flipped in her family dynamic -- she was no longer a welcome addition to the family. Walking slowly, her nose crinkled up at the smell of smoke. "See that?"

He was pointing at something outside. Moving out of the way, he grinned gleefully, his mustache rubbing against his teeth. He needed to shave.

Tears flooded Daisy's eyes and she felt her knees go weak. Pulled from the back shed her painting supplies and everything she'd ever painted lay in a big pile in the middle of the backyard. Daisy shook her head, shoving past her father and running down the back steps. She tripped on the last step, skinning her knee on the pavement, and sobs racked her body as her artwork burned.

She could smell the oil in the flames, the canvases slowly burning, chipping away like fragments of her soul. She spotted the one of Harry, her favorite one, and reached her hand in. It was burning from the edges in, and most of the painting was already charcoal. Her hand singed as a flame nicked her. She pulled back, cupping her hand in pain.