Chapter Text
Over the following weeks, Harry often found himself thinking about Betty. It was only a few hours, a simple game, one beaded bracelet, and yet the memory of it lingered in a way nothing else ever had. There weren’t many memories he wanted to return to, but this one came easily—especially in moments when things were bad, when Aunt Petunia complained about his stubborn hair again, when he dropped something and Uncle Vernon shouted at him, locking him in the cupboard under the stairs. In those moments, he would hold the bracelet tightly in his hand, and the thought of the brown haired and green-eyed girl would calm him.
Sometimes he even dreamed about her. In his dreams, when Dudley and his friends chased him around the school’s playground just as they often did, she would appear out of nowhere and help him hide, or stand between them and him, or even fight back for him—really fight back, not just shout. And in those dreams, Harry laughed.
Whenever he felt unobserved, usually outside, hidden among the bushes that Aunt Petunia tended so carefully, he would hold the bracelet up to the sun, watching the light filter through the slightly translucent beads. A dark green, as the rich leaves above him; a deep red that reminded him of the port wine Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge liked to drink—a thought he quickly pushed aside. Then there were the pink and purple beads, mixed with yellow and lime green, which almost seemed out of place beside the darker colours. Perhaps that was what Harry liked about it most—it didn’t quite match, and somehow, that made sense to him.
At first glance, it was the sort of thing Dudley would laugh at immediately, the sort of thing Aunt Petunia would call cheap and unnecessary before telling him to take it off. But to him, it was the most precious and valuable thing he had ever owned—perhaps because it was the first act of kindness he had ever experienced from someone his own age that felt… genuine.
He would often sit on the thin mattress in the cupboard under the stairs, when the house had finally settled into a more or less peaceful quiet—if it could ever be called peaceful at Number 4, Privet Drive. In the darkness of his cupboard, holding it in his hands, he would run his fingers over the colourful, slightly uneven beads. There was something soothing about it, a sense of lightness that washed over him, though he couldn’t quite explain it. He always traced them one by one, memorising their shapes simply by the way they felt against his skin, as if that might bring back the feeling of that afternoon at Mrs Figg’s.
He had expected to see her again—at least at first. Each time he was sent to Mrs Figg’s, he found himself hoping, quietly and without quite admitting it to himself, that she would be there. But when it was Aunt Petunia’s birthday in September and he was sent to Mrs Figg’s, she wasn’t there. Nor was Luci. And she wasn’t there the next time either, on Uncle Vernon’s birthday in November.
It wasn’t unusual. He hadn’t even known Luci had a daughter before that day, and Luci herself wasn’t there very often. There was no reason to expect Betty to be.
And yet, he still hoped. Especially after the odd things that began happening after he had met her.
At first, it hadn’t been anything obvious, nothing that caught his attention or point out as meaningful, only small incidents that could have just been coincidences—lucky coincidences.
Like the time Dudley had been following him around the house, laughing at his bracelet, calling it stupid, and trying to rip it off. His cousin had blocked his way as he always did, his small eyes fixed on Harry’s wrist.
“Only girls wear bracelets,” Dudley had sneered. “Give it to me, freak!”
“But you’re not a girl either, are you?” Harry had replied, trying to duck away from Dudley’s chubby hands as they reached for him.
That had made Dudley even angrier. His face had flushed red and he had clenched his hands into fists.
“I’m not a girl!”
He pushed Harry further into the corner until his back was already brushing the wall, leaving no way out. Just as Dudley was about to swing his fists and strike, something odd happened.
His movement stumbled in a way that made no sense. Although his foot stood where it was supposed to, the rest of his body seemed to shift its balance, as if his sense of balance had failed him. His arm shot forward, then came to an abrupt halt, and instead of hitting Harry, his weight shifted backwards.
Trying to keep his balance, he stumbled backwards, his heel caught on the edge of the carpet, and he fell to the floor with a thud, his usually small eyes wide open.
Dudley blinked, looking completely bewildered, and to Harry it was a miracle he didn’t burst into tears straight as he usually would.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence.
Harry was still standing where he’d been, his back pressed against the wall, his heart pounding far too fast in his chest. He hadn’t moved. He knew he hadn’t done it.
Dudley remained sitting on the floor, staring at Harry as if something had happened that he couldn’t understand. His expression slowly shifted from confusion to something sharper.
“It was you,” he said, his voice quiet, almost uncertain. “You did something.”
Harry shook his head immediately. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t even touch you.”
He doubted he even had the strength to push Dudley, even if he had tried.
Dudley kept staring at him for another second, his eyes narrowing as if he was trying to make it make sense.
“It was you!” he said again, more firmly this time.
Then he scrambled to his feet and ran down the hallway, shouting for his mother.
Under normal circumstances, that would have led to Uncle Vernon being called, followed by punishment, but something had distracted Aunt Petunia that day, a phone call, a kitchen accident, something small enough that it shouldn’t have mattered, and she had simply told Dudley to be quiet before eventually forgetting about it entirely. Odd.
Another time, the day he had forgotten his homework and had spent the entire morning expecting to be called out, only to discover halfway through the day that his teacher had been absent—supposedly ill—the whole day and the lessons had been cancelled.
And once, only once, he had forgotten to put the bracelet on at all.
Something warm and wet had suddenly landed on his shoulder while he was outside during lunch break. He had looked up in surprise just in time to see a dove flying away, and Dudley and his friends had laughed loudly at him. Harry had stood there, frozen, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
But later, sitting in the cupboard again with the bracelet back around his ankle, he had thought about it more than he meant to.
But the oddest of it all was when one day, he had been sent to the cupboard—he couldn’t even remember what for. Something small. Something that had gone wrong in the way things always did. He had learned not to question it.
He remembered sitting in the dark when the doorbell rang.
Uncle Vernon’s heavy footsteps had crossed the hallway, followed by the sharp pull of the front door opening.
“I’m not interested,” Vernon had snapped immediately, his voice already raised in the way it always was when he wanted someone gone. “We don’t expect visitors, and I’m certainly not buying anything from you.”
Nothing out of the ordinary—that was just Uncle Vernon’s way. Visitors, especially unannounced ones, were never welcome. And yet, the voice that replied had made Harry’s heart beat faster. His body reacted first, his thoughts catching up a moment later. It was a woman’s voice, muffled through the door and the hallway that separated them—cool and calm, so different from the way he usually knew her, and yet unmistakably familiar.
“I’m not here to sell you anything, Vernon,” Luci had said. “You probably remember me.”
Harry had stilled completely. He hadn’t understood how she could be standing at their door, or why she knew Uncle Vernon. Nor did he understand why she sounded so different—so distant, and controlled. The softness he associated with her, the kindness in her voice, was gone, replaced by something so sharp, something that made even Uncle Vernon hesitate for a fraction of a second before his voice returned, louder than before—almost shrill.
“We don’t want your kind here,” he had spat. “We told him when we took the boy in. You’re not welcome here.”
Harry had frowned in the darkness of his cupboard, as he tried to make sense of the words. Your kind? What did that mean? And who had they told what?
Harry couldn’t make sense of the words his uncle said. A strange unease settled in his stomach, growing slowly.
Luci had been there. At this house. His aunt and uncle’s house. For a moment, a sudden, yet fragile hope had stirred in him—that she had come to take him away. Away from here, away from Dudley, away from Uncle Vernon’s punishments. Away from Aunt Petunia’s coldness that always softened only for her son, never for him, as if warmth itself was something he simply wasn’t allowed to be included in, and as if he was something she rather ignored. Luci was never like that.
Luci had shown him the same warmth she had shown Betty. She had come to get him; he was sure of it.
A smile had appeared on his lips, his chest rising and falling with excitement.
He had pressed his ear against the door, hoping to hear them more clearly, but his heart was pounding so loudly in his chest that it almost drowned out the voices.
“I know what you’re doing to Harry. I’ve seen the bruises.”
She knew. She wasn’t supposed to know.
For a second, everything inside him had seemed to stop. His heart had given a sharp, painful jolt before it started racing again—too fast, too loud—filling his ears, forcing him to press his hands against them.
No, she mustn’t tell him. Uncle Vernon told me not to tell anyone.
He had taken a step back, tripped over the mattress, and hit the wall hard. Pain flared through his back, taking his breath away. He had pressed his hand against his mouth to keep from making a sound. Uncle Vernon always hated it when he cried.
No, no, no. She’s not supposed to tell. He’ll know. Uncle Vernon will know. He’s going to be angry.
Whimpering, Harry had curled up on the mattress, rocking himself. His fingers had clenched the thin fabric of his too long sleeves, pulling them down as ar as they would go, as if that could hide it—as if that could undo it.
Uncle Vernon had told him. Every time something went wrong—burnt toast, a dropped plate, a word said at the wrong moment—his hand would close around Harry’s wrist, tight enough until his hand went numb.
But it had been worse when things happened that Harry couldn’t explain. Once, a teacher’s hair had suddenly turned bright green in the middle of class. Another time, he had somehow ended up on the school roof without knowing how he got there. Harry had tried to explain. He had told Uncle Vernon it wasn’t him—that he hadn’t done anything, that he didn’t know how it had happened. Uncle Vernon hadn’t believed him. He never did.
Those times were worse. Uncle Vernon would shove him into the cupboard, yanking the door shut right in front of his face. The lock would click, and the darkness would follow. For hours. Sometimes longer. He wasn’t given anything to eat. Most of the time, he wasn’t even allowed to go to the toilet. Sometimes he couldn’t hold it, no matter how hard he tried. This made things only worse. The marks where Uncle Vernon had grabbed him would fade after a few days, but the feeling of it never quite did.
Harry’s breath had come too fast, catching in his throat. He had tried to make it quieter, tried to swallow the sound, but it only made his chest hurt more. He had squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead into the thin mattress.
How does she know? Uncle Vernon will blame me. I didn’t tell anyone. He won’t believe me.
Uncle Vernon would think he had done exactly what he had been warned not to do. It would be worse this time.
He had rocked himself harder for a moment, his head wrapped in the blanket to muffle his sounds, until he slowed. His heartbeat was still uneven, and the blood was pounding in his ears. Yet his breathing began to slow, and when he had finally calmed down, there was only silence.
Harry hadn’t dared to make a move. He had stayed where he was, curled up tightly on the mattress, his whole body tense, listening for footsteps, waiting for the moment the door would be yanked open and everything would shift. Seconds had passed. Then a minute. Then more. But nothing had come. No shouting, nor heavy steps crossing the hallway.
He had frowned slightly, his breathing still uneven, his body still tight with expectation. But the house had remained quiet.
After that, things changed. Not all at once, and not in a way that would anyone make the Dursley’s call kind, but enough that Harry noticed it, enough that he couldn’t ignore it.
Uncle Vernon would still shout, still grab him sometimes, or drag him out of the way, but he didn’t hit him.
Harry, however, didn’t trust the change. He remained tense, still anxious whenever he made a mistake, tense as if he were waiting for Uncle Vernon to suddenly change his mind at some point. For a long time, he expected it to return, expected things to fall back into place the way they always had. But as weeks turned into months, Harry found himself slowly letting go of his tension, even if never entirely.
He told himself that Luci must have frightened Uncle Vernon in some way—that was the only explanation that made sense. He thought, she must be some kind of guardian angel.
What he couldn’t explain, however, was that even Dudley seemed to lose interest more often than before. The bullying didn’t stop entirely, but less frequently.
Did the bracelet actually protect him?
And just like that, life at Privet Drive, Number 4 became… bearable.
But there was something else that still weighed heavily on Harry’s mind.
Every time he was sent to stay with her, he would hope he walked into the cluttered living room to find Betty lying belly-up on the carpet, her legs dangling in the air, engrossed in the book she was holding.
But each time, he was disappointing to discover only one of Mrs Figg’s cats, sharpening its claws on the colourful carpet. Even Luci would come by less and less often.
When Luci had finally stopped by briefly to deliver a box containing several oddly shaped bottles with colourful contents to Mrs Figg, Harry, who had been sitting bored in front of the telly all afternoon—sadly realised that Luci had come alone. Gathering up his courage, he asked her, “When is Betty coming again?”
She had paused for a moment, gave him a weary smile and replied, “You’ll see each other again—eventually.”
Time passed, months turned into years. However, that ‘eventually’ never came.
He almost lost hope, until the summer he turned ten.
They went all the way to London by train. Mrs Figg hadn’t had time to take him that day, much to Aunt Petunia’s dismay, and so Harry had been made to come along instead. Not that he particularly enjoyed joining them anyway—he would much rather have stayed at home. Yet Aunt Petunia didn’t trust him; he might get up to no good if left alone.
Dudley needed new clothes, his old ones having become too small, “because her Dudders grows so quickly,” Aunt Petunia would say proudly. Harry rather had the impression that it was less the fact that Dudley grew so quickly and far more with the fact that Dudley received three servings at every meal while Harry often received only what was left over, if anything at all.
The city was louder than anything Harry was used to, filled with people moving in every direction at once, their voices blending into a constant, overwhelming noise that made it difficult to think. Dudley complained about the heat, about the crowds, about everything, while Aunt Petunia walked ahead as though she would rather be anywhere else.
Harry stayed slightly behind them, as he always did, careful not to draw attention, but also careful not to lose sight of them completely. He was used to it. Used to being there without really being part of anything.
He was also used to the looks.
The strange, lingering glances from people who seemed out of place in ways he couldn’t quite explain, the occasional smile or nod that felt too familiar for strangers, as if they were greeting someone they already knew. Once, a weirdly dressed woman had even hugged him suddenly before hurrying away again, leaving him standing there in confusion while Dudley laughed. He had stopped questioning it.
It was easier that way.
So when someone in the crowd called, “Isn’t that—Harry Potter?” he didn’t think much of it at first.
He looked up almost automatically, expecting nothing more than another stranger who would pass by just as quickly as they had appeared.
Instead, his eyes landed on a girl with short pink hair, sticking out in every direction as if it refused to be controlled, just as his own. She was looking straight at him, and for a brief moment that alone was enough to catch his attention.
But it wasn’t what held it. It was the girl standing next to her.
Harry slowed, then stopped entirely as recognition settled in, as if something inside him had known before he had allowed himself to think it through. The noise of the crowd seemed to fade slightly, pushed aside of his awareness, while his gaze remained fixed on her.
He knew her.
Betty.
She was looking at him the same way he was looking at her, her expression shifting as she recognised him, her eyes widening slightly as if she hadn’t expected this any more than he had.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
And then, she raised her hand, waving at him. He lifted his hand in return, slower than he meant to. He wanted to say something, but the words remained stuck in his throat.
Then Dudley’s voice cut through it, loud and sharp and far too close.
“Is that your girlfriend, freak?”
The words shattered the moment, and before Harry could react, Aunt Petunia turned, her eyes following his sight. Her expression tightened immediately, her lips pressing into a thin, disapproving line as she spotted the two girls in the crowd.
Without a word, she reached for him, grabbing his arm, pulling him back toward her.
“Keep up,” she said curtly.
Harry stumbled slightly as he was dragged along, his feet struggling to match her pace, but he twisted around anyway, just enough to look back over his shoulder.
For a moment, he caught sight of her again—Betty, still standing where he had left her, still watching him—and something in his chest steadied at the confirmation that she was real, that he hadn’t imagined her after all.
Then the crowd shifted.
People moved between them, and within seconds she was gone from his view, swallowed completely by the motion of the crowd.
Harry turned back slowly, his arm still caught in Aunt Petunia’s grip, the noise of the city rushing in around him once more as if nothing had happened.
But something had.
He could feel it, settling somewhere deep inside him where his doubts usually lingered.
He had lost sight of her again. And yet the certainty remained, he would see her again—eventually.