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Aster, growing up, never knew her last name. But it didn't matter now. Whatever familial relations she had left were burning in front of her eyes. A freak fire. A freak, they called her.
It started out innocent enough. She had just turned five that day, you see, and her Aunt Petunia, like most days, dragged her out of the cupboard but this time leading her towards the stove.
"You're old enough now, it's about time you start earning your keep," Petunia pursed her lips.
Like any normal child, Aster didn't like the sound of that. She could see it now. First, it would be cooking, next, it would be sanitizing the bathroom, then it'd be tending to the hideous garden out front in the harsh summer heat. Aunt Petunia sure made it known that she hated all things to do with housework.
The Dursley's called her a freak with every chance they get. But Aster knew what 'freak' meant. It was more along the lines of someone special, extraordinary. She read it once in the public library when she got old enough to wander by her own and the Dursley's didn't care if she'd get run over or not, the librarian taught her.
So it didn't hurt her that they called her a freak, but it was their tone of voice that signalled to her, they meant something else. And from what Aster could understand, they would treat her like a slave. If they haven't already, from the meagre rations she had to go on to feed herself and to the slap of a hand whenever she couldn't do something right, when she was still just learning. She'd rather be called a freak than be treated like a slave.
And starting from then on, she would cook for them, no reward for her good behaviour like she knew Dudley would get, just scraps.
But Aster couldn't— wouldn't let that happen.
Aster knew another word, see. Magic.
It flowed and crackled like lava in her veins. She could feel it within her better when she was alone, no one to disrupt her. Sometimes it was easier to touch, sometimes too temperamental.
And sometimes it was easier to hold back. Like whenever she'd skipped to the library, the wind in her hair and a spring to her step, she could let it flow wild, intertwining with the surrounding air like ribbons of silk. When she'd step foot in the library she would reel them back in, careful not to make contact with the books if not her skin.
Today, however, even at the tender age of five, Aster can see a future she wanted no part of. Years tending to these vexing people. Countless chores, countless days with no food, dressed in rags from the clothes her cousin tore. No, thank you, Aster thought.
And like magic, the ribbons whipped like tendrils of lava until it was inseparable with the fire from the stove. It leapt into the air, catching onto Petunia's arm as she screamed when she tried to put a pan on top of it. Shaking her arms to no progress, it caught onto the table cloth where Dudley and Vernon were sitting. In no time, the fire consumed them too.
