‹ Prequel: ορφανό και Εὐρυδίκη
Sequel: The Return of the Dark Witch ›
The Dark Witch
Number 4 Privet Drive
P.O.V – Becky Sinclair
You can never truly appreciate the outside world until you’ve been apart from it for at least three years, and trust me, I never thought I’d be saying that. I took a deep breath, grinning like the lunatic that I am, as I observed the wonderful world of the outdoors. The cloudless blue sky, the bright sun, the lack of cabbage and cat smells in the air…
Of course, the houses were a little bland. Sameness had never been a thing for me and I could barely tell one brick house from another brick house on this street. Even Mrs. Figg’s blends in, on the outside at least. I shouldn’t be ungrateful though, prior to my being institutionalized, it had been years since I had a home, and, to be frank, an orphanage is not a home. Not a real one at least.
I took a deep breath. I don’t like to think about my life at the orphanage. Though, I guess it’s been the best part of my life so far, and boy is that sad. Apparently I turned up there when I was 3 years old, dehydrated and dying. I couldn’t even tell them what my name was or describe in the slightest who my parents were. It was later assumed that they had died in a fire, as an entire town had burned not far away on the same night I had arrived. A fire, really, wonder how that started? I couldn't help but think.
Anyways, to this day, no one knows how I managed to turn up on the steps of the orphanage. But, what can I say? I’m a mystery. I breathed out heavily, sticking my hands in the pockets of my jean shorts, and began to walk down Mrs. Figg’s driveway.
I often wonder about my parents. Who they were, what they did for a living, were either of them schizophrenic. You know, the things any orphan wonders about their parents. Self consciously, I reached up and twirled my black hair around my index finger. It had grown thicker in my time with Mrs. Figg and, with any hope, it will be back to its old illustrious self in time for Hogwarts, or whatever that “school” is called.
I used to have pride in my hair you know. I thought haughtily to myself, releasing it from my finger and letting it unwind, as I turned to walk aimlessly down the road. I would brush it for hours, it was my pride and joy. I often would get punished for taking so long on it, but I never cared. Everyone loved my hair, in the end that is. It at least got me noticed by the foster families. They’d always comment on it, though, they never picked me, obviously.
It was always a mystery for everyone, why I never got picked. At least, while I was young, but I never did. Apparently there was always something about me that was a turn off. Maybe hints of my future insanity?
My jaw clenched slightly, well, it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m a witch now and I’m off to Hogwarts in a week. Okay, that sounded insane, even in my head.
Hold on, wait. I stopped abruptly in the road, blinking my way out of my thoughts as I stared up at a street sign, Privet Drive. Harry Potter’s street, I knew he lived nearby, but walking distance? Mrs. Figg should have said. Especially after all those stories she had to tell about his former visits.
I tilted my head, looking back and forth from the empty street to the incriminating sign. It would be interesting to meet Harry Potter, the boy who the wizarding world, my world, seemed to think so highly of. Plus, he’s a student at Hogwarts, he’s actually been there. Maybe if I talk to him, if he tells me about it, I mean, I can’t have that good of an imagination, right?
Taking a deep breath, I turned down the street. Whipping my head from right to left, looking for notorious number four. My mouth going dry as butterflies began to fly around inside my stomach. I’m actually feeling nervous about meeting this guy, I realized, as I passed number 7. Well, I rationalized, he is famous, and I do suppose whatever I had of manners has gone done the drain by now. Nerves are quite understandable, I froze, as the number 4 clearly shown from the house on my right side.
“I guess I’m here.” I muttered to myself, fiddling once again with my hair, and, who am I kidding. I’m not nervous because he’s supposedly a famous wizard, I’m nervous because I haven’t been around a guy since Sirius kissed me, and I haven’t seen a real guy in about three years before that. Though, Mrs. Lankins swore up and down that Sirius Black had been a real guy. A real guy who was Harry Potter’s godfather nonetheless, however, he died a couple of months back. Words cannot express how that news had chilled me at the time, how it still chills me.
Nervously, I took a deep breath, I walked all the way here, and I will do this. I thought determinedly to myself as I took a step forward, onto the driveway. It’s just a little meet and greet. Nothing scary, I used to do it all the time, I’m sure it’s just like riding a bicycle. A few more steps. Then, of course, there is still the chance that this is all fake and all you’re scared of is meeting a figment of your imagination, and isn’t that silly? To be scared of someone you made up? The door’s only a few feet away. I mean, come on, can’t get much sillier than that. Plus, I’ve met Voldemort, the most feared dark wizard ever. Surely I can handle little Harry Potter.
My thoughts broke off abruptly as I stood face to face with Privet Drive’s most ominous door, or at least to me it was. I gulped, I can do this, slowly I began to stretch out my hand to rap on the door. When the sound of a car coming down the road snapped me out of my trance. I drew back away from the door instantly. Whipping around to see a new silver truck pull into the driveway, number 4’s driveway to be exact, I felt my eyes go wide. A chill running throughout my body and a sinking feeling beginning in my stomach, all basic reactions to someone who has been caught in a wrong doing. Or, in my case, about to knock on a famous person’s door.
I stood there frozen, as a pencil thin blonde woman, with an enormous amount of neck, exited the driver’s side. Her lips pursed, giving her an almost horse like appearance. Shifting uncomfortably, I turned to watch an enormous blonde boy, roughly the size of a killer whale, exit the passenger’s side. His eyes looking me up and down, causing bile to rise in my throat, is that Harry Potter? The famous chosen one? I don’t see a scar, but that would be next to impossible to see from this distance, plus with his fat and his mop like hair…
Swallowing, I watched nervously as the horse like woman began to make her way towards me, a deep set frown appearing on her face, the humongous guy, who might be Harry, waddling close behind. His beady eyes still looking me over, I shifted again, not meeting his gaze.
Well, I thought, plastering a fake smile on my face and stepping towards the pair, it’s time to face the music, “Hi,” I began, causing the two to freeze mid step, the woman’s mouth left agape like she had been about to say something, “I’m Becky Sinclair.” I turned slightly to face the blonde boy directly, his eyes still roaming me uncomfortably, “Are you Harry Potter?”
You can never truly appreciate the outside world until you’ve been apart from it for at least three years, and trust me, I never thought I’d be saying that. I took a deep breath, grinning like the lunatic that I am, as I observed the wonderful world of the outdoors. The cloudless blue sky, the bright sun, the lack of cabbage and cat smells in the air…
Of course, the houses were a little bland. Sameness had never been a thing for me and I could barely tell one brick house from another brick house on this street. Even Mrs. Figg’s blends in, on the outside at least. I shouldn’t be ungrateful though, prior to my being institutionalized, it had been years since I had a home, and, to be frank, an orphanage is not a home. Not a real one at least.
I took a deep breath. I don’t like to think about my life at the orphanage. Though, I guess it’s been the best part of my life so far, and boy is that sad. Apparently I turned up there when I was 3 years old, dehydrated and dying. I couldn’t even tell them what my name was or describe in the slightest who my parents were. It was later assumed that they had died in a fire, as an entire town had burned not far away on the same night I had arrived. A fire, really, wonder how that started? I couldn't help but think.
Anyways, to this day, no one knows how I managed to turn up on the steps of the orphanage. But, what can I say? I’m a mystery. I breathed out heavily, sticking my hands in the pockets of my jean shorts, and began to walk down Mrs. Figg’s driveway.
I often wonder about my parents. Who they were, what they did for a living, were either of them schizophrenic. You know, the things any orphan wonders about their parents. Self consciously, I reached up and twirled my black hair around my index finger. It had grown thicker in my time with Mrs. Figg and, with any hope, it will be back to its old illustrious self in time for Hogwarts, or whatever that “school” is called.
I used to have pride in my hair you know. I thought haughtily to myself, releasing it from my finger and letting it unwind, as I turned to walk aimlessly down the road. I would brush it for hours, it was my pride and joy. I often would get punished for taking so long on it, but I never cared. Everyone loved my hair, in the end that is. It at least got me noticed by the foster families. They’d always comment on it, though, they never picked me, obviously.
It was always a mystery for everyone, why I never got picked. At least, while I was young, but I never did. Apparently there was always something about me that was a turn off. Maybe hints of my future insanity?
My jaw clenched slightly, well, it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m a witch now and I’m off to Hogwarts in a week. Okay, that sounded insane, even in my head.
Hold on, wait. I stopped abruptly in the road, blinking my way out of my thoughts as I stared up at a street sign, Privet Drive. Harry Potter’s street, I knew he lived nearby, but walking distance? Mrs. Figg should have said. Especially after all those stories she had to tell about his former visits.
I tilted my head, looking back and forth from the empty street to the incriminating sign. It would be interesting to meet Harry Potter, the boy who the wizarding world, my world, seemed to think so highly of. Plus, he’s a student at Hogwarts, he’s actually been there. Maybe if I talk to him, if he tells me about it, I mean, I can’t have that good of an imagination, right?
Taking a deep breath, I turned down the street. Whipping my head from right to left, looking for notorious number four. My mouth going dry as butterflies began to fly around inside my stomach. I’m actually feeling nervous about meeting this guy, I realized, as I passed number 7. Well, I rationalized, he is famous, and I do suppose whatever I had of manners has gone done the drain by now. Nerves are quite understandable, I froze, as the number 4 clearly shown from the house on my right side.
“I guess I’m here.” I muttered to myself, fiddling once again with my hair, and, who am I kidding. I’m not nervous because he’s supposedly a famous wizard, I’m nervous because I haven’t been around a guy since Sirius kissed me, and I haven’t seen a real guy in about three years before that. Though, Mrs. Lankins swore up and down that Sirius Black had been a real guy. A real guy who was Harry Potter’s godfather nonetheless, however, he died a couple of months back. Words cannot express how that news had chilled me at the time, how it still chills me.
Nervously, I took a deep breath, I walked all the way here, and I will do this. I thought determinedly to myself as I took a step forward, onto the driveway. It’s just a little meet and greet. Nothing scary, I used to do it all the time, I’m sure it’s just like riding a bicycle. A few more steps. Then, of course, there is still the chance that this is all fake and all you’re scared of is meeting a figment of your imagination, and isn’t that silly? To be scared of someone you made up? The door’s only a few feet away. I mean, come on, can’t get much sillier than that. Plus, I’ve met Voldemort, the most feared dark wizard ever. Surely I can handle little Harry Potter.
My thoughts broke off abruptly as I stood face to face with Privet Drive’s most ominous door, or at least to me it was. I gulped, I can do this, slowly I began to stretch out my hand to rap on the door. When the sound of a car coming down the road snapped me out of my trance. I drew back away from the door instantly. Whipping around to see a new silver truck pull into the driveway, number 4’s driveway to be exact, I felt my eyes go wide. A chill running throughout my body and a sinking feeling beginning in my stomach, all basic reactions to someone who has been caught in a wrong doing. Or, in my case, about to knock on a famous person’s door.
I stood there frozen, as a pencil thin blonde woman, with an enormous amount of neck, exited the driver’s side. Her lips pursed, giving her an almost horse like appearance. Shifting uncomfortably, I turned to watch an enormous blonde boy, roughly the size of a killer whale, exit the passenger’s side. His eyes looking me up and down, causing bile to rise in my throat, is that Harry Potter? The famous chosen one? I don’t see a scar, but that would be next to impossible to see from this distance, plus with his fat and his mop like hair…
Swallowing, I watched nervously as the horse like woman began to make her way towards me, a deep set frown appearing on her face, the humongous guy, who might be Harry, waddling close behind. His beady eyes still looking me over, I shifted again, not meeting his gaze.
Well, I thought, plastering a fake smile on my face and stepping towards the pair, it’s time to face the music, “Hi,” I began, causing the two to freeze mid step, the woman’s mouth left agape like she had been about to say something, “I’m Becky Sinclair.” I turned slightly to face the blonde boy directly, his eyes still roaming me uncomfortably, “Are you Harry Potter?”