Chapter Text
The snake incident had earned Harry the longest punishment he could remember—locked in his cupboard for over a week with only a cracked bowl of cold soup and a single, dusty blanket. When he was finally allowed out, summer had started, the sun glaring too cheerfully for the mood inside Number Four.
Dudley had already broken his new video camera, crashed his remote control plane, and knocked over poor Mrs. Figg on her crutches while testing out his racing bike. Petunia, hovering over Dudley like a hen with a single, enormous chick, only cooed and patted his cheeks. Vernon chuckled indulgently, so long as the damage didn’t require repairs.
Harry was glad school was over—he had trouble keeping up with the work anyway, and his classmates laughed when he asked simple questions—but summer came with its own problems. Dudley's gang was always nearby: Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon. They were all big, loud, and dim, but Dudley was biggest and loudest of all. Naturally, he was the leader. Their favorite game? Harry Hunting.
Harry, though, didn’t really mind the game. It got him out of the house, and he liked wandering on his own. He didn’t go far—he wasn’t sure how buses worked and always forgot directions—but he enjoyed watching people from afar, sitting on warm sidewalks with a piece of bread in his pocket and wondering if the birds would like him better if he sang to them.
The only good thing about the holidays was the promise that come September, he and Dudley would finally attend different schools. Dudley had been accepted at Uncle Vernon’s old school, Smeltings, along with Piers. Harry was headed to the local public school, Stonewall High. Vernon had grunted something about “character building,” and Petunia had only sniffed. Dudley found it hilarious.
“They push your head down the toilet first day,” he told Harry proudly. “Want to practice?”
Harry blinked. “Wouldn’t the toilet cry?”
It took Dudley two full seconds to work that out—and by then Harry had scurried out of reach.
One morning, Petunia took Dudley to London to buy his Smeltings uniform. She left Harry with Mrs. Figg, who had recently broken her leg tripping over one of her cats. She was much quieter than usual and even let Harry watch a cartoon. He clapped delightedly when the characters danced.
That evening, Dudley paraded his new uniform around the house, chest puffed. It was maroon and orange, with a straw hat and a thick stick called a Smelting stick.
“Good for discipline,” Vernon said gruffly.
“Handsome as a young duke,” Petunia breathed, dabbing her eyes.
Harry tried not to smile. He’d never seen Dudley look more ridiculous. His knickerbockers puffed like overcooked sausages.
The next morning, the kitchen reeked of something sour. Harry padded in quietly.
“What’s that?” he asked, peering into a tub in the sink. It was filled with water and strange gray cloth.
Petunia pursed her lips. “Your new school uniform.”
Harry stared into the tub. “Oh. It’s... wet.”
“I’m dyeing some of Dudley’s old clothes,” she snapped. “They’ll look just like the others.”
Harry nodded solemnly, even though he thought it looked like elephant skin. He sat at the table, quietly humming to himself and tracing circles on the surface with his finger.
The mail slot clattered.
“Mail, Dudley,” Vernon grunted from behind his paper.
“Make Harry do it.”
“Get the mail, Harry.”
“Make Dudley do it.”
“Just poke him,” Vernon added.
Dudley made a face and lifted his stick.
Harry flinched, then laughed nervously and scrambled away before the stick could touch him.
There were three letters. One was a postcard. One was a bill.
The third—Harry froze.
It was thick, yellowed parchment. Heavy. The address was written in curling green ink. Not just his name—but everything.
Mr. H. Potter
The Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey
His heart fluttered. He turned it over with trembling fingers and saw a purple wax seal, stamped with a crest—a lion, an eagle, a badger, a snake. An H.
No one had ever written to him before. Not even once.
He stepped into the kitchen, eyes wide, still clutching the envelope.
Uncle Vernon barely looked up. “Who’s it from, then?”
“I—I don’t know,” Harry whispered. “But it’s for me.”
He started to open it—but Vernon yanked it out of his hands.
“Oi!” Harry blinked up at him, startled and hurt. “That’s... mine.”
Vernon’s face turned the oddest color Harry had ever seen. Then he passed the letter to Petunia, who gasped so hard she nearly swallowed her tongue.
“Vernon!” she croaked. “Oh—oh my—”
Dudley, offended at being ignored, stomped his stick on the floor. “Let me see it!”
“I want to read it!” Harry said, confused and desperate.
But Vernon barked, “OUT!”
He grabbed both boys by their collars and tossed them into the hallway like sacks of potatoes. Harry landed on his knees. Dudley pouted, red-faced, and shoved Harry out of the way to listen at the keyhole.
Harry, confused but determined, laid flat on the floor, squinting under the door.
“They know where he sleeps, Vernon!” Petunia hissed. “They’re watching the house—watching him—what if they come?”
“We’ll ignore it,” Vernon said breathlessly. “They’ll give up. It’s nonsense. Filthy, dangerous nonsense!”
That night, Vernon did something no one expected—he visited Harry in the cupboard.
“We’ve been thinking,” he said, with a forced smile. “You’re getting big. How’d you like a proper room?”
Harry blinked at him. “Can I have my letter?”
Vernon’s eyes flashed. “It was a mistake. I burned it.”
“But—but it had my name—”
“Enough!” Vernon thundered, and two spiders dropped from the ceiling. “Get your things and move upstairs.”
Harry’s new room was Dudley’s second bedroom, filled with broken toys and dusty furniture. He set his few belongings neatly in the corner and sat on the bed, still thinking about the letter.
The next morning, Dudley fetched the mail—and there it was again.
Mr. H. Potter
The Smallest Bedroom...
Another letter.
Vernon had to tackle Dudley to the floor. Harry joined in, grabbing Vernon’s collar. The Smelting stick flew, and everyone got hit at least once. Vernon emerged gasping, letter in hand.
“Back to your rooms!” he wheezed.
Harry lay awake the next night with a plan.
At dawn, he tiptoed to the front door. He would wait for the postman, catch the letter himself—
“AAARGH!”
He jumped. His foot had landed on something squishy. Vernon’s face.
Uncle Vernon, in a sleeping bag, had camped in front of the door. He shouted for half an hour and made Harry brew him tea. When Harry returned, the mail had arrived—three more letters—and Vernon was tearing them up before Harry could breathe.
By the end of the week, the house was sealed. Vernon nailed the mail slot shut, then boarded up every crack. Letters came through the bathroom window, inside eggs, under the door. Petunia shredded them. Vernon burned them. Dudley, in shock, threw his tortoise through the greenhouse roof.
Harry just stood and watched, holding his hands over his chest, feeling something growing inside him—a strange warmth.
Someone out there knew who he was.
Someone wanted to find him.
On Sunday, Vernon sighed with relief. “No post today,” he said with a weak laugh. “Finally, peace—”
A letter smacked him in the head. Then another. Dozens burst from the chimney like a storm of parchment.
Harry leapt for the air, trying to catch one like a butterfly.
“OUT!” Vernon howled, dragging Harry away.
“That’s it! Pack your things! We’re leaving!”
Petunia didn’t argue. Not when Vernon was tearing at his own mustache.
Ten minutes later, Harry sat squished in the car with Dudley and a bag of toast.
He didn’t know where they were going.
But he hoped—maybe, wherever it was—they had letters there too.