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Nearly ten years had passed since Harry Potter had been left on the front step of Number Four, Private Drive, but the house looked almost exactly the same. The same neatly cut front lawn, the same perfectly maintained front door. If someone had stepped out of the past Number Four, into the future one, it would almost be impossible to tell the difference, if not for the photographs placed on the mantle and spread liberally throughout the house.
Mr and Mrs Dursley’s son featured primely in most of these photographs, the rather- to put it plainly -fat beachball of a boy, no longer a baby to be dressed up in eyeball-scorching onesies or too-small bobble hats, but an eleven-year old boy, as of today. Mr and Mrs Dursley’s son would spend the day with the rat-faced Pires Porkis, having the time of his life at the Zoo.
Meanwhile, Harry would be presented with a list of chores, twice his height, a planned and fun day for him. First, though he would wake up like he always did, his stars staring back at him from the ceiling.
The little impressions of stars carved into the dark wood of his cupboard roof were a poor replacement for the real night sky, Harry thought, sullenly, as his Aunt Petunia stumbled out of bed upstairs, turning on the shower. He had, in fact, been up for several hours, but it was funnier pissing Petunia off, seeing her get gradually more and more annoyed when nothing was done for her when she got up. She was raised spoilt, he presumed.
A harsh knock on the cupboard door.
“Up! Get up!”
The unpleasant voice was no way to start the day, but he sighed, pushing open the now unlocked door, eyes narrowed to the sudden light. After, of course, folding his blanket neatly and pulling a pair of socks Uncle Vernon’s old socks from the depths of his cupboard.
He took delight in annoying Petunia any chance he got, wether it was waking up late, or taking just a touch too long to clean his cupboard. This, naturally, resulted in some minor beating, berating, the like. Relatively unimportant to him, when held to the subtle and entirely satisfying art of aggravating the Dursleys. It took just the right amount of naivety and ignorance to convince them that he was just an irritating and slightly unpunctual person, and not deliberately trying to vex them, which, if that small fact was ever found out, would end in a row of neat, red lines, etching into his skin by ‘his’ iron.
It was probably his least favorite punishment, and, therefore his most frequent one.
Aunt Petunia was in the kitchen, writing down a list of chores that would compose his day, but immediately swept out with her chin tipped to the ceiling as soon as he entered, snobby and irritating as ever. God, it was satisfying to see her uncomfortable; posture straight and hands almost shaking. Even after eleven years (he’d been smart enough to sense changes in the atmosphere for seven of them) of her acting like a cornered wolf when she was alone with him, he still found it hilarious, and somehow, valiantly resisted the urge to smirk, every single time.
He was quite proud of his acting skills, especially when they saved him with a well timed frown or a particularly believable mask.
Harry flicked through the two-page-long list, relaxing slightly when ‘clean the roof’ was not listed. Unfortunately, ‘mow the lawn’, ‘make Dudley a cake’ and ‘mop the floors’ were, along with his favorite, ‘cut hair’.
When Harry was seven, his hair started changing colour, the dark, chocolate-y brown fading into something lighter. At the time, he hoped for blond, maybe, something interesting, pretty. He did, in fact get his wish; his hair was pretty once it finished. A dark wine red that looked, well, magical, swam around his head in a mess of curls, softer and more beautiful than he anything he had ever seen in his short life. He was oh so proud, presenting them to Aunt Petunia, forgetful of the times she’d punished him in the face of his delight. Harry was devastated, when, instead of smiling at him, ruffling is new curls like any proud parent would, she cut it all off, leaving him with only millimeters of hair left.
He’d never made the same mistake since.
Harry sighed, starting the ridiculously greasy pudding that would serve as breakfast for those unpleasant whales he called relatives.
000
The house was beautifully, wonderfully quiet once the Dursleys left, the usual tantrums from Dudley, and the squeak of Petunia’s house shoes on the polished floor gone at last. Harry left is cupboard immediately, happy for some time to simply do whatever he wished.
The house was practical shining from all the times he had polished it in the last few days, and almost all of the chores on the list were already done. He was already contemplating playing a few games on Dudley’s new computer, when someone knocked on the door.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
Well, someone’s eager, he thought, dryly. Or just really, really strong. Harry started towards the door, reluctantly.
KNOCK, KNOCK.
“Coming! For God’s sake!” Impatient, much? Some people.
The eggshell-blue door was shaking, a crack slowly spreading through the neat paint. . .
That was all the warning he had, and, indeed all the warning he needed, before the door folded in two (reminiscent of origami), wood fragments flying everywhere.
Well, that’s going to take a while to clean up, he thought, shakily.
And, when he looked up, to the towering, hulk of a giant who stood right where the door used to be, a poor replacement for the mundane thing.
And this person- giant, he suspected- was anything but mundane. He stood well above the average height, so far that you should probably just chuck the concept of ‘average height’ out of the extremely tall skyscraper that this stranger was.
Long, rather unruly dreadlocks swung down to his (he was pretty sure the giant was a he) waist, an extremely ugly black fur coat paired with an even worse (if possible) orange-and-maroon tie and mud-crusted black slacks. Harry winced at the ensemble. Was he, like, cosplaying or something? Because, really, no sane person would just galavant around in this. . . Outfit.
The Giant’s features were rough, oachar skin and beady black eyes that crinkled in- excitement? Surprise? It was hard to tell from the sheer wildness of his features. His massive beard didn't help either.
The Giant looked at him like he was expecting something.
“Why did you break the door down?” Harry was surprised at how calm his voice sounded.
Bewildered (?) black eyes looked back at him.
Harry met the giant’s gaze with his own. He was going to receive a punishment straight form Dante’s Seventh Circle of Hell for this, so the least he could do is was find out why in bloody hell someone decided to knock down someone else’s door.
“To get in, o’ course. Yer wern’t opening. But, anyway-”
Harry felt a sort of dark anger seeping through him. Honestly, how thick exactly was this person.
“Well give me a bloody second to open it! You don’t knock a god damn door down if someone doesn't open it fast enough for you, you prick! Doors don’t grown on bloody trees! And- agggh- I mean- who in hell BREAKS A FUCKING DOOR IN HALF?!!!??”
His temper was, admittedly, becoming a problem at this point.
It actually always had been. Many idiots dumb enough to try and annoy him were flayed, period. Physical contact with other people? Insults, jibes and teasing?
No, thank you.
The only people who got close enough to him to even be able to touch him were the Dursleys, because Uncle Vernon and Dursley were rather. . . Large, and even though he could throw a decent punch, there was no way he could take down those whales.
Harry turned his focus back to the giant, finding intense eyes still fixed on him. They stared, awkwardly, for a few seconds, before-
“Rubeus Hagrid. Erm- keeper of the keys and grounds at Hogwarts. An’, o’ corse, you'll know all ‘bout Hogwarts. Don’t you?” He tacked on, worriedly.
More awkward silence.
The rather mad wizard-to-be exploded, face a colour that would make Vernon proud. “THAT’S your fucking answer? I’m going to get goddamned walloped for this, bastard!” He frowned. “And, what, in God’s fucking name is Hogwarts?”