Chapter Text
Prologue
"...By the age of 17, she had taken the lives of six prominent wizards…”
-The Daily Prophet
"While her heritage had predetermined certain expectations for her future, her upbringing deviated from the norm among her peers . . . Academic underachievement, minimal ambitions, and evident evil tendencies defined her school years—professors at Hogwarts critiqued her weak performance, and peers bore witness to her violence."
-The New York Ghost
"Predictably, given her family's sordid history of breeding criminals, it was hardly surprising that she would morph into a bloodthirsty killer, much like her vile father. Curiously, Albus Dumbledore not only mentored her but also shielded and observed her evolution into precisely what he had doubted she'd become. He quietly watched as she unfurled her black wings and proudly paraded them throughout her years at school, leaving this inquisitive writer to ponder whether he played a role in her ascent to prominence or if he was merely a well-intentioned but naive soul who sympathized with a young orphan. Whatever case it was, one undeniable truth remains: this young yet malevolent girl stands as one of the most notorious terrorists of our time."
-Chats with Rita Skeeter
Part I: The Lost Child
Dedicated to the child I once was,
who dreamed only of boundless skies and untamed freedom.
Chapter 1: Vera
Wednesday, July 26, 1989
Before the resting place of her parents, a faint smile graced Vera’s lips, a quiet victory carved from the depths of her tumultuous past.
Yet, the Humphreys were never truly her parents, despite their frequent claims. To them, she was nothing more than a servant, a source of unpaid labor, and a tool to elevate their social standing.
It was a warm August afternoon in 1986 when she first arrived at their house.Their home, along with their goat farm, lay nestled among the golden fields of Cornwall. Though she had been through nine foster families before, it was clear that these elderly farmers would leave the most indelible mark on her life.
As she watched the social worker's car fade into the distance down the gravel road, the dark-haired girl stood before the unfamiliar farmhouse, clutching her small backpack with anxious hope. The old couple, their faces weathered from years of hard work, looked stern and unyielding. They greeted her with faint smiles that never quite reached their eyes, then quickly suggested a tour of the house.
In her tattered dress, she followed her new foster parents through the wooden doors of a rustic barn, where the air was thick with the earthy scent of hay and the soft bleating of goats. Mr. Humphrey's gaze, as cold as the steel tools he worked with, settled on her. He then pointed to a nanny goat, tethered by a frayed rope.
"Let's see your worth, girl," he grumbled, thrusting a pail into her hands.
"Milking a goat isn't easy," Mrs. Humphrey added. "You’ve got to be gentle, yet firm."
Vera placed the pail on the ground and knelt before the goat, her eyes wide with fascination. She waited, expecting the milk to flow on its own, unaware of what was required.
"Looks like they've sent us a dim one," Mr. Humphrey remarked, his tone dripping with disdain.
"She's merely eight, Gerald," Mrs. Humphrey countered. "She’s meant to learn."
"I told you, a lad would’ve been more useful."
"We've discussed this already—there were no boys available! And what choice do we have now? Sending her back would set tongues wagging."
“Volunteering ourselves was unwise, Ruth.”
"Father George assured us it was a virtuous act, one that would elevate our standing in the church. I'll put her to use in the kitchen. Lord knows I need the extra hands these days."
“Fine! But mark my words, girl,” he said, turning to Vera, “any mischief won’t be tolerated.”
Oh, and it certainly wasn't.
Standing at Mrs. Humphrey's funeral nearly three years later, Vera couldn't escape the haunting memories of the painful days she had endured in their home. The years of relentless torment had etched themselves into her very being, leaving scars on her soul. As memories surged like an overwhelming tide, a single tear slipped down her cheek. In the somber atmosphere of the funeral, onlookers mistook her tears for sorrow, unaware that they were, in fact, tears of joy.
She was finally free.
After the burial concluded, Miss Jones, the dedicated social worker overseeing her case, approached to offer her condolences. Vera sat by the fireplace, munching indifferently on a scone, her eyes frequently darting toward the door.
"Poor Mrs. Humphrey," Miss Jones sighed. "Her death was so sudden, and only a week after her husband's passing? What an absolute shock."
"They were almost bloody ninety," Vera muttered under her breath.
Miss Jones offered a sympathetic smile. "I know how hard it’s been for you, Vera. But I promise, everything will be okay."
Vera’s uncertainty was evident, though she remained mostly unbothered. "Where will my new foster home be?" she asked with a mouthful.
Miss Jones sighed, her expression kind but troubled. "To be honest, dear, finding a long-term placement for someone your age has been a bit... complicated. But don’t worry, there’s a girls' home in London that has a spot for you."
"A girls' home?" Vera echoed, a hint of fear in her voice.
"Yes, dear. We’ll be leaving Cornwall today by train. I know it’s sudden, but we need to reach London before nightfall. Could you pack quickly?"
Vera didn’t own much: three plain dresses, a single pair of pajamas, a worn-out hairbrush she despised, a couple of loose hair ties, a toothbrush, and an old sketchbook with four colored crayons and a pencil that had been sharpened to death. She packed everything into the same backpack she had arrived with—now old and frayed—then quickly made her way to Miss Jones’s car.
Pausing for a moment, she took one last look at the farm. Her sapphire eyes, sharp with disdain, swept over the familiar surroundings. She eagerly anticipated leaving it all behind—especially those fucking goats.
They arrived at their destination shortly before sunset. The girls' home, located in Sutton, just south of London, blended seamlessly with the surrounding houses, distinguished only by a sign near the entrance that read:
St. Mary's Home for Girls.
As Vera stepped inside, she was greeted by Miss Nelson, the matron in charge. She was a strikingly beautiful Black woman in her early thirties, exuding an air of sophistication and grace. Her hair was impeccably styled, and a simple cross hung around her neck, which stirred an uneasy feeling in Vera's chest. After bidding a final farewell to Miss Jones, she followed her matron on a thorough tour of the home.
The residence was not overly grand, housing only a modest number of girls, but it had a warm, welcoming atmosphere. Toys and shoes were scattered across the floor, and the sound of loud music drifted down from one of the rooms upstairs.
The ground floor of the house served as a common area, featuring a television, a small library, cozy sofas, a fireplace, and a dining hall. A concealed door led to the underground kitchens, pantry, and laundry room. On the first floor were the matron's office, staff rooms, and a nursery with six cradles. The second floor housed four bedrooms, each crammed with four closely packed beds and shared closets. However, Vera was instructed to store her belongings beneath her bed, which was a creaky iron frame that emitted a distinct squeak with every movement.
Throughout the house, a persistent blend of wood and baby powder filled the air, accompanied by the never-ending cries of infants. Despite the noise and the crowded conditions, Vera found herself drawn to the place. There was a warmth to it, and she could already imagine herself settling in.
"Now pay close attention," Miss Nelson's voice momentarily jolted her from her thoughts. "You must follow a certain set of rules if you intend to remain under this roof."
Suppressing an almost instinctual eye-roll, Vera checked herself.
"Firstly, no fighting with the other girls.” Miss Nelson began. “Should I catch wind of any hair-pulling, you will be punished.”
Vera nervously nibbled on her lip, recalling all the kids she had punched before.
“Secondly, you are not a guest here. This is your home. Meaning you would have to participate in taking care of the house as well as your younger sisters. You shall be assigned certain tasks throughout the day."
Nothing new, Vera thought.
"Lastly, your presence at school along with a good record of marks is non-negotiable. Am I making myself clear?"
"Yes."
"Good. Supper is served at 8. Furthermore," she concluded, her steps drawing her towards the exit, "attend to your personal hygiene at once. The bathroom is situated down the hallway, to the left."
A trace of disdain lingered in her voice, prompting Vera to wonder whether the scent of the farm still clung to her skin. The door closed with a decisive thud, leaving her alone. She took a deep breath, allowing the reality of her new situation to settle in. After freshening up, she intended to rest before joining the others for dinner, exhausted from the train journey to London. However, her brief respite was interrupted when two girls burst into the room.
"Check it out, it's the newbie," one of the girls said, her tone both curious and dismissive.
She was older than Vera, tall with dirty blonde hair and sharp green eyes accentuated by smudged eyeliner.
"We ought to give her the grand tour then," the other girl added.
She was slightly chubby, wore glasses, and had red hair with a face full of freckles.
"I'm Lydia," said the blonde one. "And this 'ere is Abbie."
"I'm Vera," she offered with a smile, extending her hand politely. However, the girls disregarded it, walking past her toward the bed.
“Right, Bumpkin. Where's your shite?” Abbie asked, reaching beneath her new bed.
With a flourish, she retrieved Vera’s backpack, and both girls indulged in a fit of giggles. They proceeded to scatter her items onto the bed, making fun of what she owned. They mocked her plain dresses and Lydia even went so far as to spit on her toothbrush.
Vera stood by the bedside, her astonishment palpable. It was only when Abbie unearthed her sketchbook that she jolted from her shock.
"What do you think you’re doing?" She demanded.
"Easy now, we're just giving you a bit of a welcome." Lydia said as she wrested the sketchbook from Abbie's grasp. “Now, what's this then?"
She peered into the pages, and their chuckles soon filled the room as they flicked through, mocking every doodle.
"Is that a bloody dragon?" said Lydia, pointing at one of the sketches.
Vera acted swiftly, reclaiming her sketchbook from their hold. "Let's see you try and draw a dragon then."
Lydia narrowed her eyes. "I'm not a fucking wonk."
"You're a moron that's what you are." Vera said, inciting a surge of wrath from the blonde girl.
"Watch your gob dipstick."
"See? That's exactly what a moron would say." Vera countered, unflinching.
Lydia's visage flushed crimson; clearly, she wasn't used to people talking back to her.
"Looks like we're gonna 'ave to teach the newbie a lesson." She proposed to Abbie.
Vera quickly recalled Matron’s first rule and had no intention of breaking it on her first night at the orphanage. As Lydia and Abbie aimed to punch her in the belly, she stepped back, instinctively raising her arms to protect herself.
Just as the girls were about to strike, another girl walked in, halting the confrontation.
"What’s going on here?" She yelled, pulling Lydia and Abbie away. "Pack it in, or I'll grass you lot up to Miss Nelson."
“Get lost, Em!" Lydia shouted. “This ain't your business!"
"Leave her alone or I'll tell Miss Nelson you're sneaking out to meet your dimwit boyfriend at Kuster's."
"Take that back! Danger ain't dimwit, you bloody tosser!"
"Anyone who goes by Danger is a right bloody dimwit in my book."
"Well, fuck your book!"
"Clear off!" Em snapped, her presence looming over them.
"Fine,” Lydia hissed, dragging Abbie out of the room. “Let's go, Abs. We'll sort the newbie out later, and don’t you dare think of dobbing us in!"
"You alright?" the new girl asked, her voice filled with concern.
She was a lot older, with shoulder-length amber hair that framed her face. She wore a short black dress and a leather jacket, accessorized with fishnet stockings and an array of bracelets on her arms. Vera found herself captivated by her presence, silently wishing she could exude the same cool confidence.
"I'm fine," she replied, adjusting her dress in place.
"Don't mind them. Lydia's a right cunt and Abbie's got about as much sense as a box of rocks."
Vera chuckled, slightly taken aback by the unexpected swearing. She resumed gathering her belongings and placing them back into her backpack.
"I'm Emily, but you can call me Em."
“I’m Vera."
“Oh, like that lady on Corrie!” Em exclaimed, picking up the sketchbook from the floor.
Vera blinked, momentarily puzzled.
"Did you do these?" Em asked, flipping through the pages.
Vera hesitated, unsure if she could trust her. But Em quickly reassured her.
"These are brilliant!" She exclaimed. "You've got real talent."
"Thanks," Vera said, her mood lifting.
She had never shown anyone her drawings before; they had always been a source of insecurity. The Humphreys had derided her hobby, calling it devilish, something she never fully understood.
"These are all so bloody creative!” Em added. “Ok so that’s a dragon, these might be mermaids but what is that? A smurf?" she asked, gesturing at a drawing of a wrinkled being with large eyes, tall nose and bat-like ears.
"No it's just some... Creature." Vera said shyly.
"Blimey! Where do you come up with ideas for these drawings?"
Vera hesitated before replying, unsure of how crazy her answer might sound. "I dream them up most of the time."
“Well done you!” Em said, handing back the sketchbook.
The two girls then descended to the ground floor, where the younger ones were engaged in playing with dolls near the fireplace, while the older ones prepared the dining table.
It became clear that the group was notably small, mostly composed of children barely five years old, and Vera found herself among the older few. Emily then excused herself, slipping into the kitchen to lend a hand, leaving her to navigate the room on her own.
"Hiya," a girl suddenly greeted, approaching with a warm smile.
She had a cascade of beautiful black curls that framed her bronze complexion exquisitely. Her hazel eyes radiated warmth, and her full lips curved into a graceful smile.
“I'm Kaya." She herself with a polite smile. "You must be Vera. Miss Nelson told us about you.”
Vera returned the greeting with a genuine smile.
“How old are you?” Kaya asked.
"Oh, I'm ten."
"Oh, mint!!! I'm eleven. But I skipped a year, so we'll be in the same class.”
“That’s nice,” Vera said, feeling a sense of comfort in this connection, as Kaya was the closest in age among the others.
"The school we go to is pretty decent,” Kaya added, “and the teachers are really nice. Although I think it’s because they feel sorry for us. You’ll see what I mean in September.”
Vera learned that she would be attending a local school nearby, like many of the other girls at the orphanage. Before moving in with the Humphreys, her education had been sporadic due to her frequent changes in foster homes. She had completed her third, fourth, and fifth years at a small school in Cornwall. Despite the challenges, she excelled in her studies, finding solace in learning amid her farm chores. However, her time at her previous school was marred by relentless bullying.
She was often targeted for her “shitty” odor and her status as an orphan. One boy cruelly taunted her by calling her a “bastard,” while a girl named Maggie spread hurtful rumors about her mother, claiming she was a London prostitute who had abandoned her baby. Knowing nothing about her biological parents, Vera felt powerless to defend herself against the slander. But when Maggie pushed her too far, she retaliated by punching her in the face, knocking out one of her teeth. Although the Humphreys punished her for it, she was too fucking proud of herself to feel any regret.
“Can we be friends?” Kaya asked with an innocent smile.
Vera’s excitement was palpable as she nodded enthusiastically. She had never truly had any friends before; most of the other children were advised to keep their distance from her due to her unknown lineage. But Kaya’s warm conversation before dinner was a comforting change, giving her hope that her new school experience might be different from her past.
"You’ve never had a chippy before!"
"Not really," Vera admitted. "My foster parents were old and always sick. They didn’t like any sort of unhealthy food."
"But it’s not unhealthy! I mean, it’s fish, init?”
"I suppose so."
"And you must’ve gone to the beach a lot?"
"No, never been."
"But you lived in Cornwall!"
Vera shrugged, unsure how to explain.
"I wish I lived down south.” Kaya said wistfully. “It’s so stunning."
"I think I prefer it here, to be honest."
"Sutton? It’s dull as dishwater, and no one important ever lived here."
Vera offered a polite smile. She wasn’t quite sure how to express her excitement about living in a town with people and shops instead of just trees and cow shit.
As dinner approached, the senior girls took charge, serving food and guiding the younger ones to the table. Vera found comfort sitting beside Kaya, enjoying the simple pleasure of friendly company. After the meal, Em assigned them to dishwashing duty. Surprisingly, Vera found joy in the task; their shared laughter made it enjoyable and gave her a sense of belonging she had longed for.
“Hey, new girl,” Grace, an older girl, suddenly interrupted. “Miss Nelson wants to see you in her office.”
Anxious thoughts swirled in Vera’s mind as she pondered the unexpected summons. Climbing to the first floor, where Miss Nelson's office awaited, she hesitated briefly before the open door and knocked gently to announce her arrival.
"Come on in," the matron’s voice invited from within.
As Vera stepped into the room, she took in her surroundings. The space was impeccably organized, featuring a small library filled with an array of files and books. A sizable window behind the desk offered a view of a bustling street outside. One wall was adorned with a crucifix, a framed portrait of the Virgin Mary, and beside it, a poster of... Dolly Parton?
"Do you fancy my collection?" Miss Nelson inquired, noticing her gaze fixed on the small religious figurines arranged on the desk.
"Yes, they're quite lovely." Vera politely replied.
"I had this one shipped all the way from France," Miss Nelson said, indicating a particularly ornate statue. "It cost me a pretty penny, but it was worth every quid. It's called Maddona and Child."
Vera offered a polite smile.
"Do you recall the rules, Vera?"
"Yes, Ma’am."
"Oh heavens, Ma’am makes me feel ancient," the matron joked, placing a hand on her chest. "Just call me Miss. Or Rosemary, if you're feeling naughty."
“Yes, Miss,” Vera said with a giggle, feeling a weight lift off her shoulders. It was a rare comfort to encounter such kindness from an adult.
"Alright, then. I heard you were a bit of a troublemaker at your last school."
Vera definitely couldn’t deny it.
“But I was also informed that you possess remarkable intelligence.” Miss Nelson continued. “Your academic performance, particularly in Science stands as a testament to your capabilities. I have high expectations for your time at Sutton's."
Vera was overwhelmed with a sense of validation, a feeling foreign to her. The Humphreys had always managed to diminish any achievements she garnered in the past, and being spoken to in such a supportive manner felt novel and invigorating.
"Now, there's one matter I wish to discuss," Miss Nelson said. "While you might attend interviews on a regular basis, I want to emphasize that adoption is not a certainty, especially given your age. Please understand that if a family doesn't choose you, it's not a reflection of your worth. As for the future, you'll reside here until you turn eighteen. After that, you'll be responsible for yourself. I strongly advise you to devote yourself to your studies. No matter what anyone says, education is and will always be a girl's only guarantee for a better life."
The weight of her advice resonated with Vera, and she found herself involuntary smiling.
"One last thing," Miss Nelson carried on, prompting her attention. "Do you have any talents or particular hobbies that you excel in?"
The unexpected question left her momentarily puzzled, a flicker of confusion crossing her features.
"It's for your profile, dear.” Miss Nelson clarified. “I need to include it for potential adoptive families."
A moment of thought later, Vera recalled her conversation with Em about her drawings and the acknowledgment of her talent.
“I enjoy drawing, ma'am, uh, I mean, Miss."
"Excellent," Miss Nelson responded. "I'll make sure to include that in your profile, if that's alright with you?"
"Yes, thank you," Vera answered with gratitude, inwardly relieved that Miss Nelson did not disapprove of her artistic inclination.
“Now go join the other girls in the Living area." the matron concluded, casually resting her feet on the desk. "I have loads to do."
With a carefree air, she flipped open what appeared to be a romantic novel, featuring a shirtless man on the cover.
Vera swiftly head back downstairs to meet Kaya and the others. She found them all squatting in front of a medium sized television watching a show.
"You into Eastenders, Vera?" Kaya asked, turning to her.
Vera nodded and crouched beside her and Grace. She had only heard about the show from her peers back in Cornwall but had never had the chance to watch it. Her eyes widened in disbelief as she realized she could finally enjoy television—something the Humphreys had never allowed her to do. Within five minutes of the show, she was completely hooked.
This newfound joy was just one of the many pleasures she experienced during her summer at the girls' home. She and Kaya formed a deep bond, as if they had been friends forever. Their laughter echoed through the hallways, solidifying their friendship with each passing day. Whether it was watching television, drawing, playing board games, or kicking a football on the street, the two girls were inseparable.
However, their play often led to trouble with the neighbors, as many would come out, shouting about the noise or accusing them of breaking windows. Yet, there was one elderly woman who never yelled at Vera. Instead, she would simply stare at her with a disturbing, unsettling gaze.
That woman was a curious figure in the neighborhood. A bit chubby, she had a pair of sharp grey eyes that seemed to see straight through people—usually with a look that hovered between knowing amusement and mild disapproval. Her wardrobe was a spectacle in itself: layers upon layers of fabric, swirling around her like she was perpetually caught in a gust of wind, all in colors and patterns that clashed so violently they might have started a war. And then there was the hat—always present, always enormous, as if it had been grafted onto her head at birth. Wherever she went, a delegation of cats followed, weaving through her ankles like devoted acolytes.
"Do you know Mrs. Wriggleshore?" Kaya asked, glancing over her shoulder.
Vera frowned. "No, never seen her before."
"Well, she seems to know you. She’s always staring."
"Yeah," Vera muttered, shifting uncomfortably.
Then, in an attempt to shake off the unease, she added with a smirk, "What kind of name is Wriggleshore, anyway? Sounds like a fish trying to escape a net."
Kaya snorted with laughter, and Vera managed a grin—but the weight of the old woman’s gaze still pressed against the back of her mind.
After an electrifying football match, the girls trudged home at sunset, exhausted but determined to freshen up before dinner—an event both anticipated and feared, thanks to the formidable Mrs. Quinn.
The house’s resident chef was a middle-aged Irish woman with hair so violently orange it looked like it had a personal vendetta against gravity. By the end of the day, her flushed face often matched her hair, a testament to the battlefield that was her kitchen.
Vera found her endlessly entertaining—when she wasn’t yelling at them, that is. Mrs. Quinn had a habit of belting out songs as she cooked, only pausing to hurl creative insults at anyone foolish enough to interrupt her process.
Despite her boisterous charm, she ruled the kitchen with an iron spoon, and the girls knew better than to question her methods—or her food. Especially her puddings, which were... an acquired taste. Criticism was out of the question. Instead, they smiled, nodded, and lied through their teeth, showering her with praise to avoid the wrath of a woman who took her desserts very personally.
That day's dinner held a distinct quality as Miss Nelson joined them to deliver some news.
"Tomorrow, we're having visitors," She announced, and the girls erupted in excited chatter, as if they already knew what she was about to say.
"Visitors?" Vera asked, turning to Kaya, her usual dinner companion.
"Potential adopters," Kaya replied, her excitement mirroring that of everyone else.
"They will be meeting with you all, so I expect everyone to be ready, with tidy hair and clean clothes. Emily, Cynthia," Miss Nelson directed her attention to the 17-year-old girls seated near her at the table. “Assist in dressing your younger sisters, please. And make sure they don't choke on their hair ties this time."
"Yes, Miss." Emily and Cynthia responded.
"Now, carry on with supper and sleep early. No longer than one hour of telly is allowed tonight."
"Oh crikey!” The girls erupted in protest, their voices rising in unison.
“No, Miss! We're gonna miss Top of the Pops!"
"Please, Miss! Kylie's performing!"
"Alright," Miss Nelson relented, rolling her eyes. "Hour and a half for Kylie bloody Minogue."
As excitement rippled through the group of girls, Vera remained preoccupied with thoughts of the visitors expected the following day.
"Are they going to adopt one of us?" She asked Kaya.
"Usually, they go for the babies.”
"But they might adopt one of us, right?"
"Yeah, of course," Kaya answered, attempting to reassure her, though her response carried a hint of uncertainty.
Vera's excitement mirrored that of her peers. The idea of adoption had never crossed her mind before, but she perceived it as a preferable alternative to being fostered. As she imagined a life with two parents, an unfamiliar but hopeful desire emerged. Despite fears of ending up with unkind people again, she clung to the hope that a warm and welcoming one would embrace her, fulfilling her long-standing wish for a proper family.
However, her visible excitement did not go unnoticed by the girl seated across from her at the table. Lydia, unwilling to let the newbie escape calling her a ‘moron’ without consequence, seemed to be already planning her revenge.
Friday, August 4, 1989
Vera woke up earlier than usual, a rare occurrence for someone who usually enjoyed sleeping in. Because today, she had a mission.
She joined the impossibly long queue for the shower, fully aware that by the time she stepped in, the hot water would be nothing more than a fond memory. Still, she refused to let this minor tragedy ruin her plans. She was going to look her absolute best for the visitors—no matter what.
Once under the water, she took her time, scrubbing and rinsing like she was preparing for battle. Her excessive thoroughness earned her a chorus of impatient sighs from the other girls, but today, she cared about exactly one person: herself.
The real war, however, began after the shower.
Her hair—long, untamed, and seemingly possessing a will of its own—refused to be tamed. An hour and one broken hairbrush later, she surrendered, twisting it into a braid and adorning it with borrowed accessories that made her feel just a touch more elegant.
Her dress, a faded blue number that Mrs. Humphrey had stitched together from salvaged fabric, had been hers for three years. But today, it wasn’t just an old dress. With a bit of effort—and a great deal of ironing—she willed it into something worthy of admiration.
"Girls, be ready in 10 minutes!" Miss Nelson's voice echoed from downstairs.
As Vera hastily spritzed on some old borrowed perfume, a younger girl, Lola, suddenly approached, gently tugging at her dress.
"Mrs. Quinn wants to see you," she lisped adorably.
"What?" Vera replied, surprised. "NOW?"
She swiftly hurried downstairs, joining the other girls in a somewhat chaotic shuffle. In the living room, the older girls were busy fixing the younger ones' hair and stopping them from chewing on their shoelaces. She made her way to the underground kitchen to find out what Mrs. Quinn needed. To her surprise, the kitchen was empty, though the pantry door was wide open.
"Mrs. Quinn?" She called out, her voice trembling slightly.
"I'm right here," a voice replied from just beyond the pantry door.
Vera cautiously stepped closer, but before she could react, she was shoved inside, the door slamming shut behind her. Laughter echoed in the distance—Lydia and Abbie, unmistakably.
"Get me out of here!" she shouted, pounding on the door with all her might.
"No chance, newbie," Abbie taunted from the other side
"Enjoy the mice!" Lydia added, her voice fading as they walked away.
As their footsteps grew distant, a wave of panic washed over her.
"No, no! Please, get me out of here! Please!" she pleaded, but the silence that followed was deafening.
Trapped in the dark, cramped space, her attempts to escape only deepened her frustration. With each passing minute, her anger grew, fueled by the realization that Lydia’s cruel prank had ruined her day. The excitement of meeting potential parents, a moment she had eagerly anticipated, now felt hopelessly lost.
The room, packed with food cans and vegetables, seemed to close in on her, amplifying her sense of entrapment. As tears streamed down her face, memories of the Humphreys’ harsh punishments resurfaced, and the weight of past trauma overwhelmed her.
Her despair soon turned into hysteria, and the hope of a new home, a fresh start, crumbled in her mind. It felt as if misfortune was woven into her very existence, and pain pulsed through her veins.
Her anger, no longer containable, erupted like a volcano, and she screamed with everything she had, her voice raw with emotion. Suddenly, the door to the pantry shook violently and, in an instant, burst open. On it's own.
Vera’s body radiated heat, her head throbbed with pain, and her vision blurred. She cast one last glance at the now-open door before collapsing onto the floor.