EvaEvaluation
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Perhaps Father was right to preach about the danger of the Dark Arts? To speak of the many wizards who fell victim to Dark magic and never managed to return to the Light. Perhaps Father was right to shield him from all that is dark, but the temptation is too great, and the serpent-tempter has already set its sights on him.
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The boy was huddled in an old blanket that had once belonged to his cousin, Dudley, but he had outgrown it far too quickly (and not in the vertical sense), rendering it surplus to requirements. He was fighting back tears: from the pain, from the injustice, from the desperate desire for comfort from anyone at all. The door to his cupboard creaked open with a barely audible sound, and a tall woman stood before him. She was slightly shorter than Petunia, though not as gaunt as his aunt. Blinded by tears and his poor eyesight—which his relatives had point-blank refused to have corrected—the boy could barely make out the woman’s face, but she smelled of something bitter and fragrant, like proper herbal soap. The boy had once seen a photograph of a girl with curly hair in his aunt’s room and had privately decided, not daring to ask his relatives, that it was his mother. The woman before him had the same wild, bushy hair, though in the poor light, or rather the near total lack of it, he couldn’t make out its colour.
“Are you my mum?” the child whispered, hiccupping with the force of his emotions.
“Yes,” the woman whispered back, in the same tone. She held out her hand, and the boy grabbed it without a second thought.