⇁ narrative for counted_stars
You’re eleven years old and arguing with your sister.
It’s not strange or unusual, especially not these days when all you have to do is accidentally heat a mug of cold cocoa to get her to yell at you. But you’re leaving now - right now! - and you’ve never been apart for so long before, and you really, really don’t want to part on bad terms. You trip over your words trying to explain to her, and it’s a mark of how upset you are. You’re usually so good at explaining things.
Petunia will have none of it, though, pale eyes scanning the surrounding area before narrowing at you, and you have a split-second of premonition that has nothing to do with magic and everything to do with knowing your sister that tells you this conversation isn’t going to end well.
“-you think I want to be a - a freak?”
The word hits you like a slap to the face and you hate crying, but you can’t help it, the way your eyes fill with tears as the word echoes through your mind.
“I’m not a freak,” you reply instantly, and stamp down thoughts of Severus, the way he always hesitates and avoids your eyes before answering your questions about people whose parents don’t have magic. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”
You shouldn’t have said that, shouldn’t have let Petunia know that word had such power over you, because she’s grasping at it now and digging her nails in. “That’s where you’re going.” The words are said with relish, like she’s pleased she’s got one over on you, her smarter, prettier, magic younger sister. “A special school for freaks. You and that Snape boy…weirdos, that’s what you two are. It’s good you’re being separated from normal people. It’s for our safety.”
You’re only eleven, although you’d like to pretend that you’re much older than that, so much more mature. This is you’re older sister saying such hurtful things to you, though, and each word is another slap. You can feel the tears threatening to spill over, and that makes you angry, because you’re not the one who’s saying such horrid things, you’re not the one who’s deliberately trying to hurt anybody. Your temper flares at the unfairness of it all, and you look around to make sure your parents aren’t watching because this is between you and Petunia, and then you play your trump card.
She’s jealous. That’s all it is - she’s just jealous, and maybe you’re rubbing her face in it a little bit, but she started it, and she called you a freak. Angry as you are, hurt as you are, it doesn’t make you feel good to do it, though - in fact the only thing it makes you feel is more hurt and sort of hopeless as she spits that word at you again and storms off.
Hindsight is twenty-twenty. If you’d known then what you know now, you would have tried to be more understanding. That day caused the crack that has since widened into a gaping chasm between you, and if you’d just handled it differently, maybe you wouldn’t be so far apart now.
Or maybe you’re deluding yourself, and the crack has been there since the day you jumped off the swing and flew instead of falling. But it’s so much easier to believe that it was something that you did that made your sister hate you, rather than something that you simply are.
It’s not strange or unusual, especially not these days when all you have to do is accidentally heat a mug of cold cocoa to get her to yell at you. But you’re leaving now - right now! - and you’ve never been apart for so long before, and you really, really don’t want to part on bad terms. You trip over your words trying to explain to her, and it’s a mark of how upset you are. You’re usually so good at explaining things.
Petunia will have none of it, though, pale eyes scanning the surrounding area before narrowing at you, and you have a split-second of premonition that has nothing to do with magic and everything to do with knowing your sister that tells you this conversation isn’t going to end well.
“-you think I want to be a - a freak?”
The word hits you like a slap to the face and you hate crying, but you can’t help it, the way your eyes fill with tears as the word echoes through your mind.
“I’m not a freak,” you reply instantly, and stamp down thoughts of Severus, the way he always hesitates and avoids your eyes before answering your questions about people whose parents don’t have magic. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”
You shouldn’t have said that, shouldn’t have let Petunia know that word had such power over you, because she’s grasping at it now and digging her nails in. “That’s where you’re going.” The words are said with relish, like she’s pleased she’s got one over on you, her smarter, prettier, magic younger sister. “A special school for freaks. You and that Snape boy…weirdos, that’s what you two are. It’s good you’re being separated from normal people. It’s for our safety.”
You’re only eleven, although you’d like to pretend that you’re much older than that, so much more mature. This is you’re older sister saying such hurtful things to you, though, and each word is another slap. You can feel the tears threatening to spill over, and that makes you angry, because you’re not the one who’s saying such horrid things, you’re not the one who’s deliberately trying to hurt anybody. Your temper flares at the unfairness of it all, and you look around to make sure your parents aren’t watching because this is between you and Petunia, and then you play your trump card.
She’s jealous. That’s all it is - she’s just jealous, and maybe you’re rubbing her face in it a little bit, but she started it, and she called you a freak. Angry as you are, hurt as you are, it doesn’t make you feel good to do it, though - in fact the only thing it makes you feel is more hurt and sort of hopeless as she spits that word at you again and storms off.
Hindsight is twenty-twenty. If you’d known then what you know now, you would have tried to be more understanding. That day caused the crack that has since widened into a gaping chasm between you, and if you’d just handled it differently, maybe you wouldn’t be so far apart now.
Or maybe you’re deluding yourself, and the crack has been there since the day you jumped off the swing and flew instead of falling. But it’s so much easier to believe that it was something that you did that made your sister hate you, rather than something that you simply are.