Ladder of Dreams

𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫, 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐭 𝐃𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞

Soft sunlight caressed her face, leaving trails of warmth — she sprang up in bed, panic swelling in her chest, there was no sunlight, there was no soft mattress or sturdy pillows, not here — and the memories rose to the forefront of her mind.

She shook her head as her breathing slowed. Everything looked as though she had trapped it in a time capsule, every speck of dust exactly where it had been. She surveyed each item, memorizing the details as though it would suddenly disappear like all the rest had. But her white desk stayed solid, the grey covers underneath her bare legs stayed tangible, and the walls didn't blur.

She threw her legs out of the covers and onto the floor, then pushed herself up. The bright light sored her eyes, but it was from her night of sleep and not her more extended stay — the physical scars she knew she had collected were gone, leaving only pale skin behind. Her eight-year-old body had no recollection of those nine years.

As she made her way to the door, the familiar sounds of number four, Privet Drive, echoed through the cracks: motor wheels running in Dudley's room next door, humming from the downstairs television, plates scraping on the dining room table.

She peered out the door, not quite in the mood to run into Dudley, and seeing no one, stepped out. In the hallway, fresh air hit her from the ventilation that her room lacked, courtesy of Dudley's favourite birthday present last year. Each step down the carpeted stairs was like submerging herself slowly into a cold yet refreshing lake, her old yet new reality.

Aunt Petunia's long neck turned from the kitchen sink, and her eyes lightly passed over her before she said, "We already ate. Get yourself something."

An oily pan with just two bacon pieces sat atop the stove; she grabbed a fork from the drawer, pinched the first piece straight out of the pan, and slowly ate it. She ate the next one much faster — Aunt Petunia was no chef, but the bacon had been a staple in this household, and so it would have been hard not to perfect it.

Hefty thumps behind her drew her attention away. Dudley thundered down the stairs wearing a wide grin that displayed his yellow-tinted teeth. Alora still couldn't see him through the tinted glasses Aunt Petunia did, and so she saw no baby angle, but instead a pig in a tutu.

"Sweetums," Aunt Petunia said, her voice now several notches higher, "Daddy's off to work, but Mrs Polkiss has invited us over."

"Piers!" Dudley cheered, loud enough to be heard over the booming noise that came after he jumped the last two steps, slipping slightly with his socks on the floor.

"You too, Alora," she said with a glance back. "Get ready to go. Now."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia." She grabbed a piece of toast already spread with butter and ate it on her way back upstairs. She looked through the tossed and rumpled clothes in her dresser and pulled on a dress that looked tiny at first. As she stepped out of her room, she caught sight of something on her bed — the thing Merlin had tossed her right before she had left. Curiosity pulled her to it, and she picked up the worn journal. But before Alora could open it, Aunt Petunia footsteps sounded — she was making her way out of the kitchen. She'd have to hurry to avoid getting scolded.

She turned back to the dresser and decided that a jumper in July wasn't too suspicious and tugged one over her dress. She shoved the journal in the sizeable right pocket, then joined her aunt.

The moment Dudley barreled out into the street, she shut her eyes and took in a deep breath. The roses' rich and regal aroma in Mrs Smith's front yard, the subtle hint of pink peonies and crisp lavender from Mrs Williams gardens, and freshly moved lawn overwhelmed her senses.