Chapter Text
Mr. Dursley kept his word, more than Harry was expecting. Though they did let him out of the room daily to clean and cook, he was immediately sent back under the cupboard once his chores had been completed. At least seeing less of Dudley allowed his nose more time to heal.
Every day was like this. Until, a few months later, the Dursleys had finally mellowed out. With summer coming to an end, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley were busy preparing Dudley for the new school year.
Of course, Dudley had been accepted into the most perfect private school: Smeltings Academy. Uncle Vernon had gone to this exact school years ago. Soon, Smeltings became the only topic of conversation in the house.
“Some of my best days were at that school,” Vernon would boast. Harry believed it. Uncle Vernon would be the type of person to peak in secondary school.
One evening, toward the end of July, Dudley strutted into the living room wearing his brand-new uniform. With his chin jutted up high and shoulders rolled back confidently, he posed himself for Aunt Petunia, who began snapping pictures like the paparazzi. Smelting boys wore maroon tailcoats, bright orange knickerbockers, and a straw hat called a ‘boater’. As Vernon proclaimed how proud he was of Dudley, all Harry could do was wrinkle his nose at the horrid color combination.
Though Harry truly believed Dudley looked ridiculous, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy. Even though the uniform was horrible, Smelting was known for being a great school. Harry had always dreamed of going off to school. Yet, he barely had any formal education.
Harry had attended primary school for a couple of years. However, once he started getting harassed by the other students, things change drastically. He was hastily expelled from school one day, the day when he had accidentally ended up on the roof. Harry had tried to explain multiple times that something had “pulled him up there”. But nobody believed him. He barely believed himself.
Since he had been expelled, Mrs. Dursley took to homeschooling him. This resulted mostly in her occasionally giving him a hand-me-down textbook from Dudley or simply dropping him off at the local library. Harry didn’t mind this too much. He liked being able to learn whatever he wanted. Though, he did wish he had someone to ask for the occasional guidance. That night, he dreamed of attending somewhere like Smelting. He wanted nothing more than to make some friends his own age. Ones that wouldn’t threaten to break his nose constantly.
-
The next morning, Harry started the day as he always did, cooking breakfast for the Dursleys. Petunia, Vernon, and Dudley were all sitting at the kitchen table, chattering about their plans to go pick up Dudley’s textbooks from the school library. The clicking of the mail slot and the soft flop of letters hitting the floor caught Harry’s attention. He gently placed down his spatula and began maneuvering his way toward the front door.
Bending down slowly, Harry groggily picked up the parchments. In his hands was: a brown envelope that looked like a bill, a postcard from Aunt Marge (she was vacationing on the Isle of Wight), and… a letter addressed to Harry.
The paper made a soft crinkling noise as Harry’s hands began to shake. Never, not once in his life, had Harry received a letter. How would he? Nobody knew he lived here. The Dursleys were very efficient at covering up their tracks. Yet, no matter how many times he shut and reopened his eyes, the letter was still in his hands.
Mr. H. Potter
The Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey
The envelope felt heavy in his hands. It was more than just a simple note, Harry could sense it. He held the letter up to the hall light, squinting. The only thing he was able to make out was a thick rectangular shadow. He brought the envelope back down, making note of how the beautiful emerald-green calligraphy glistened.
He rubbed his trembling thumb along the letter’s purple wax seal. It was a strange coat of arms, featuring a lion, snake, raven, and badger. All of these animals surrounded an ornate letter H .
“Hurry up, boy!” Uncle Vernon shouted, snapping Harry back down to reality. “What are you even doing? Checking for bombs?” He laughed at his joke, but not even Mrs. Dursley could pretend to be amused.
Harry made his way back to the kitchen, his eyes still fixated on the yellow envelope in his hands. He absently handed Vernon the postcard and bill, sat down at the table, and slowly began to open his letter.
Uncle Vernon glanced up from his newspaper, briefly scanning over the mail. He ripped open the bill, groaned, and then began grumbling something about “government con artists”.
“Dad!” Dudley interrupted in a snide voice. “Harry’s opening something!”
Harry had just gotten the actual parchment out of the envelope when Uncle Vernon swiftly leaned over and snatched it right out of his grasp. “Boy, don’t you know that opening mail that’s not yours is a federal offense?!”
“It is mine,” Harry insisted, his heart rate suddenly spiking. The Dursleys had done a lot of things to upset Harry, but nothing had filled him with as much rage as this moment. He needed to know who was writing to him.
Uncle Vernon scoffed. “Really? Who on Earth could possibly be writing to you?”
As he began to read Harry’s letters, Uncle Vernon’s vicious sneer morphed into gaped-mouth horror. His pasty skin had turned milk-white.
“P-P-Petunia!” Uncle Vernon sputtered.
Dudley curiously tried to take the letter from Uncle Vernon. Startled, Uncle Vernon slapped Dudley away. It was the first time Harry had ever seen Uncle Vernon raise a hand to his own son. The only person more shocked by this was Dudley, who simply stood there in stunned silence.
Craning her head over Uncle Vernon’s shoulder, Aunt Petunia began to quietly read the letter. Her face, which was scrunched with confusion, was now matching Uncle Vernon’s shock. She wheezed, tumbled backward, and began clutching her heaving chest.
“Vernon!” She cried out, tears spilling out of her. “Oh my goodness, Vernon!”
Uncle Vernon sharply turned to face the two boys before jerking his hand toward the back door. “You two. Go outside. Now.” He began to cram the letter hastily back into the envelope, creasing the edges of the parchment.
“No,” Harry enforced, his voice wavering only slightly. “It’s my letter. And I deserve to read it.”
“No!” Dudley argued. “I want to see it!”
“GET OUT,” Uncle Vernon roared. He reached his bear-like arms out and grabbed them both by the scruff of their necks. He dragged the two boys down the hall and shoved them through the backyard door. Slamming the door shut, the two boys were left stunned.
Dudley and Harry exchanged a look. Without words, they had come to a temporary truce. They both wanted the same thing: answers. Both Dudley and Harry knew that Aunt Petunia always left the kitchen window open. It was a nasty habit of hers. However, they both had to be quiet to avoid getting caught.
Carefully, Harry tip-toed through the grass, kneeling down under the kitchen window. Dudley followed exactly in his footsteps, only a little more clumsily. He lacked Harry's sneaking experience.
“Vernon,” Petunia whimpered, holding up the letter. “Just look at this. They’ve been stalking us. How else would they know where he sleeps?!”
“Watching us… spying on us!” Vernon growled. “Those filthy, rotten little—“
“What do we do?” Petunia whined. “Should we write them back? Should we call the police?”
“No,” Vernon responded, an uneasy calmness washing over his voice. “We’ll ignore them. If they don’t get an answer… then they can’t do anything.”
“But-“
“Trust me, Petunia. I will not let one of those freaks in my home.”
—
That evening, Harry was startled by Uncle Vernon sharply swinging open his cupboard door. Once they made eye contact, Harry scowled and lowered himself back onto his pillow. Fury coursed through his veins. That night, he had refused to cook dinner, sweep, or even take out the trash. He didn’t care what punishment he would receive, nothing would hurt more than his lost letter.
After clearing his throat uncomfortably, Uncle Vernon began to speak. “Harry,” he began, his lips pulling into an unnatural smile. “Your aunt and I have been thinking… You’re getting so big now. We think it’s time you moved to Dudley’s second bedroom.”
Harry sat up on his bed, raising his eyebrow suspiciously. “Why?”
“Oh, don’t be ungrateful,” Uncle Vernon grunted in response. “Move your stuff upstairs right now!”
“Where’s my letter?” Harry pressed.
“NOW.”
The Dursley household had four bedrooms: the master suite where Mr. and Mrs. Dursley slept, Dudley’s room, a guest bedroom for visitors (like Aunt Marge), and spare room used as storage for all of Dudley’s extra toys and games. Harry was able to shove everything he owned into one bag and lug it up the stairs to his new room.
Harry vacantly sat down on the bed, eyes fixated on the floor. After a couple of minutes, he lifted his head to take on his surroundings. Most of the belongings in here were broken. There was a television that had a gaping hole in it from Dudley’s foot, a large birdcage that once held the boy’s pet parrot (who didn’t survive for more than a week), and hundreds of books (nearly untouched).
From downstairs, Harry could hear Dudley wailing to his parents. “That’s my room! I need it! Get him out, now!”
Harry groaned, grabbing a pillow from the bed and slamming it over his own head to muffle the noise. Yesterday, he would have done anything for this room. Now, he would rather be in his cupboard with a letter than in a bedroom without one.
The next morning was extremely grim. All four of them were sitting at the kitchen table, not saying a single word to each other. Harry lazily stirred the bowl of cereal in front of him. He was exhausted and had gotten very little sleep. Dudley’s weeping and wailing had kept everyone in the house up all night long. Even after screaming at the top of his lungs, kicking his parents, and smashing Petunia’s ceramic vases, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia stayed firm in their decision of moving Harry to the second bedroom.
When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon exasperatedly asked Dudley to go pick up the mail. Dudley stomped his way over to the front door.
“There’s another one!” Dudley shouted. “To ‘Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive—,”
Harry had never seen Uncle Vernon move as fast as he did at this moment. In one blink, he had made his way from the kitchen and into the front hallway. Right on his heels was Harry, who dived at Dudley for the letter. All three of them wrestled on the ground until finally, Uncle Vernon sat up victoriously. He raised the letter above both of their heads.
“Uncle Vernon, please,” Harry begged, but he was quickly shut down by Uncle Vernon. “Go back to your cupboard — I mean— go back to your room!”
Sulking, Harry dragged himself up the stairs and into his new room. He paced around in circles, deep in thought. Whoever had sent the letter not only knew about the cupboard, but they knew that Harry had moved into Dudley’s second bedroom. They also seemed to know that Harry hadn’t received his first letter. Surely, this meant that they would try again. And this time, Harry would be ready for it.
The next morning, Harry woke up at 6:00 am to the blare of his alarm clock. His heart jolted and he quickly slammed his hand onto the silence button. If the Dursleys heard him, his plans would be ruined.
Cautiously, he got himself dressed, and began tip-toeing down the stairs in the dark. His plan was to make it outside, stake out the corner of Privet Drive, and ask the postman for the letters. Harry crept closer and closer to the door, his heart hammering in his chest.
“AAAAAAUGH!”
Harry leaped backward, his heart practically jumping out of his chest. He had just stepped on some kind of creature!
When the lights clicked on, Harry realized (to his horror) that the thing he had stepped on was his Uncle’s face. Uncle Vernon was sleeping right at the door, in a black sleeping bag, clearly staking out to make sure that Harry wouldn’t be doing exactly what he was scheming.
After a long lecture from Uncle Vernon, Harry was sent to the kitchen to make tea. Right as Harry turned on his foot, three letters plopped into Uncle Vernon’s lap. All three were addressed in emerald-green ink.
Before Harry could even reach for them, Uncle Vernon began shredding the letters into the tiniest pieces imaginable.
Harry watched from the living room as Uncle Vernon stayed home from work to nail up their mail slot. “Can’t get any letters if they can’t be delivered,” Uncle Vernon snickered, a hint of madness in his tone.
“Darling,” Petunia began. “I don’t think…”
“Oh Petunia,” Vernon replied, his wrist twirling around his hammer in small circles. “These people are not like you and me. This will work, I promise.”
On Friday, at least twelve letters had arrived for Harry. Since the mail slot had been blocked off, the mysterious postman had shoved the letters under the door, through the side slots, and even in the bathroom window. Harry watched in annoyance (and a little bit of amusement) as Vernon sprinted around the houses, snatching up letters and burning them in the fireplace. The rest of that evening, Vernon spent the day boarding up every window, door, and crack in the wall.
On Saturday, Harry was tasked with making omelets for the family. When he cracked the first egg on the side of his pan, instead of a delicious yellow yolk falling out, a rolled-up piece of parchment tumbled out. The paper miraculously flattened itself out, revealing itself to be another envelope for Harry.
Clever as it was, Harry was now constantly being monitored by either Vernon or Petunia. Petunia quickly seized the envelope from the pan, wincing when the tips of her fingers grazed against the burning metal. “How…” she began, trailing off as her eyes fell upon the carton of a dozen eggs. Cautiously, she cracked one of the eggs over the sink. Another envelope gracefully fell out. She cracked another. Then another. Soon, she was crushing the eggs right in the palm of her hands. Letter. Letter. Letter. Frustratedly, she piled the envelopes into her arms and jammed them into her food processor.
Dudley stared at Harry with a look of dumb-founded amazement. “Seriously, who wants to talk to you this badly?”
On Sunday, Vernon plopped himself down in his usual seat. He looked exhausted, his skin pale and droopy. However, he gave Harry a very peaceful smile.
“No post on Sundays,” he sang in a low voice. Though he pointed this comment in Harry’s direction, it almost sounded like he was reminding himself.
At that moment, a small object zipped down the chimney and smacked Vernon in the back of the neck. His head slammed down into his plate of toast and marmalade. Letters shot out from the chimney like bullets. There were at least forty or so letters that Harry could count. He stood up to grab one but was quickly scooped up from the ground in Vernon’s monsterous grip.
Dragging Harry outside, he threw the boy into the back of his car and locked the door. “Hey!” Harry screamed, banging on the windows.
“Petunia!” Vernon yelled sharply. “Pack our things. We are leaving. No arguments!”
Ten minutes later, the rest of the Dursleys had piled into the car, and the silent drive began. Well, mostly silent. The occasional sniffle could be heard from Dudley, who had gotten berated by his father for trying to bring his video game console along for the journey.
They drove for miles and miles. Harry had never been in a car this long in all his life. Every so often, Vernon would peek in the rearview mirror before taking a sharp turn. He would drive down one road for an hour just to whip around and drive in the exact opposite direction. It was true madness.
Vernon did not stop for food or drink all day. Dudley’s sniffles had turned into full-on sobs. Never before had his father treated him this way. He was hungry, thirsty, bored, and extremely confused.
Finally, around midnight or so, Uncle Vernon pulled into a shady hotel on the outskirts of a big city. Harry and Dudley shared a room together, a tight space with two twin beds. Under normal circumstances, Dudley would have complained for hours about not having his own room. But tonight, once his head touched the pillow, he was out like a light.
Not Harry, though. Harry stayed awake, staring dreamily out the window. He hoped that he would be able to see a letter slip through the crack before morning.
Tired, timid, and cold, the four all gathered around the next morning to share a box of cornflakes. They had just finished their meal when the owner of the hotel came knocking on their door. Uncle Vernon answered the door cautiously, his knuckles white from gripping an umbrella like a samurai sword.
“Um,” she started, eyeing Uncle Vernon with concern. “Is there an H. Potter here? We’ve just been delivered like a hundred of these.”
Uncle Vernon wordlessly took the letter before slamming the door in the woman’s face.
“Maybe we should just go home?” Petunia suggested. However, she might as well have not spoken at all. Within minutes they were all piled back into Uncle Vernon’s car and paraded around the country. However, whether they were in a large empty field or the top of a parking garage, the letters were always found them.
Their last resort came in the form of a boat. Mr. Dursley had forced them all to brave the icy cold waters, reach a tiny island in the middle of the lake, and stay the night in a dingy, broken-down cabin.
Horrid smells of seaweed and mold penetrated Harry’s nostrils the instant they stepped inside. Even Aunt Petunia was gagging. This was their new home. An empty, washed-out room with no furniture. Even the fireplace was miserable and damp.
“It’s Monday,” Aunt Petunia sighed. “I’m missing all my shows.”
Oh right. It was Monday. Time had felt so unreal the past few days, especially with Uncle Vernon forcing everyone to pile into the car at strange hours. Tuesday was Harry’s birthday. Not that it mattered much. They never really celebrated it.
Uncle Vernon tried to start a fire by burning some discarded books on the floor that had too much water damage to be legible. But the soggy books simply would not light.
“Could do with some of those letters right now,” Uncle Vernon chuckled, gleefully chucking the book against the washed-out walls.
It was clear to Harry that Uncle Vernon had gone completely bonkers. Vernon thought he was now victorious. How could any postman possibly reach them here?
That night, Harry couldn’t sleep. He leaned his back against the wall of the cabin and watched outside the window. The storm brewing just outside was vicious. It whipped up the lake water and splashed it repeatedly against the walls of the cabin. A leak from the ceiling began to drip right by Harry’s left foot.
Five minutes left until his birthday.
There was a large crash outside. Most likely lightning hitting a tree.
Four minutes left.
He wondered if their house was filled to the brim with letters by now.
Three minutes left.
There was a pounding noise on the wall.
Two minutes left.
He would steal one of those letters, no matter what.
One minute to go, and he’d finally be eleven. Not that anybody would care.
When the clock reached midnight, the front door swung open with a large BANG, followed by a crash of lightning. Harry bolted upright, as did the rest of the Dursleys.
Standing in the door frame was the silhouette of the largest man Harry had ever seen.