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Harry Potter rarely comes down with colds. Or flus. Or anything that Dudley has picked up at school. His aunt likes it because it means he doesn’t need time off from his chores. Harry likes it because he doesn’t think she’d give him time off even if he were sick.
When Harry gets sick, he doesn’t exactly know what to do with himself. His relatives have locked him away this summer, pushing tins of cold congealed soup through a cat flap, and Harry lies in his bed, feverish and thinking about how Quirrel looked when he burnt up into dust. He feels cold, very cold, like he can’t get warm, but he only has one blanket.
For a moment, he considers calling out to his aunt and telling her he’s sick. He wants her to take care of him like she does for Dudley. He can imagine it, as surreal as it sounds. She would put her hand to his forehead and call him a poor boy. She would make him honey and ginger tea. Take time off from being horrible.
He doesn’t ask her. He can’t think straight with his thoughts clogged with illness. He stumbles to the bathroom twice daily when Aunt Petunia lets him out - so that he won’t stink up the room. She sees his red-ringed eyes and raw nose and tells him that he should keep his distance. She doesn’t want him to get her or her precious Dudders sick.
To stop his pained moans in the night, she shoves a half-used packet of Nurofen through the cat flap. Blearily, he swallows them, hoping that it will stop the sharp pain that has begun to swell in his back. He let Hedwig out days ago to hunt and look after herself because he couldn’t take care of her anymore. He could hardly get out of bed.
The pain persists. It twists, levers, and throbs. Harry lies on his front, panting, trying to smother his sounds into the pillow. If this is what being sick is like, he feels a lot more sympathy for Dudley and how much he whined as a kid. The pain keeps him awake so he feels every moment of it when the blistering heat pops and something emerges from his back.
Am I hallucinating? Harry groans helplessly into the bedcover, tears spilling from his eyes. Oh no, oh no no no. He twists his arm around to feel at his back. There. Two feverish stumps.
“Oh god-” Harry whimpers, pulling the blanket off of his back. The cool air is a sharp relief against his back. He keeps his window open behind its bars to alleviate the humidity in his room.
Is this puberty? Harry has heard the boys whispering about it in the dorm - of hair growing in strange places, of sticky sheets, of mysterious changes. It’s not like Harry has anyone he can ask because his friends aren’t returning his letters. He’d thought fighting Voldemort together would’ve meant something to them but it turns out that out of sight is out of mind when it comes to Harry Potter. Even Hermione hasn’t replied.
The pain ebbs and the flu ends. The stumps remain. Horrifically, they grow. The pain is not as sharp but a dull constant ache - a reminder that something is not right in his body. They are well enough hidden with a shirt that during his daily toilet visits Aunt Petunia does not ask any questions. Harry is too embarrassed to ask her, either. Too afraid, too, that it isn’t a normal part of growing up.
He’s never heard of this happening to anyone except him. That’s the story of his life.
Dobby appears one day to warn him not to go to Hogwarts. Harry feels a great relief that his friends haven’t really been ignoring him - that this house elf has been stealing his letters. Harry lies through his teeth and promises he’ll stay home. Dobby, with his wide bulging eyes, believes him and allows him his correspondence. Harry explains the letter theft situation to Ron - who admits he had been so worried he’d been about to rescue him, somehow - and they exchange bored letters.
There’s nothing else to do but write to his friends. His school books are locked up under the stairs along with his wand. Harry has a feeling that Professor Snape won’t take that as a reasonable excuse for not finishing his homework so he plans to complete it on the train.
One day, obliquely, Harry mentions his changes to his friends. Ron sends a commiseratory letter and Hermione sends a book on male puberty. He scours the book from cover to cover but can find nothing about the stumps growing from his backs that are becoming increasingly difficult to hide. The fleshy points are almost as long as his arm and have begun to grow a downy texture. Harry tugs a blanket around his shoulders to hide them. They are an extension of himself, like another limb, and fold close to his back when he wants them to.
Two weeks before Hogwarts goes back, they break through the fabric of his shirt, and Harry is certain that this is not normal. Aunt Petunia is out for morning tea when it happens. His uncle lets Harry out to the bathroom with an unsightly smirk on his face. He must see how skinny and awkward Harry is.
“Pet said you had the flu, boy.” He comments, as Harry uses the facilities. “Didn’t think freaks like you could get sick.”
Harry says nothing, gritting his teeth to repress the I didn’t think you thought much at all, Uncle Vernon that wants to slip out. He’s been very good at avoiding confrontations with his relatives this summer. Mostly because he’s been locked away but, hey, Harry still takes that as a win.
He slips out of the bathroom, blanket tugged over himself, wishing his uncle would shut up already. “Still sick, are you?” Uncle shoves at Harry’s shoulder, demonstrably. The boy winces. His back and shoulders hurt something terribly due to the new unbalanced weight. “What’s that blanket for? Cold, are you, boy?”
“Yes,” Harry lies, stiffly.
Before Harry can say another word, Uncle Vernon snatches the blanket off of him. A flash of horror pools in his stomach. The man says, cruelly, “Wouldn’t want you to overheat, right, boy? Fevers can-” He pauses, his voice rising two notches. “What in the damned is that?”
Harry swallows, backing away and turning so that his back is hidden. “Nothing, sir, I-”
“FREAK! FREAK!” His eyes bug wide with fear and disgust. “No. I’ll have none of it, freak! OUT! OUT OF MY HOUSE, DEMONSPAWN!”
“But, where would I-?”
“I DON’T CARE! OUT!” Uncle Vernon shoves him none-too-nicely down the stairs. “OUT OF MY HOUSE, DEMON!”
Harry stumbles, catching himself before he can break his neck. He fumbles with the lock to his cupboard.
“What do you think you’re doing?” His uncle growls, grabbing at the back of Harry’s neck to shove him towards the door.
“My books- My wand-”
“I DON’T CARE!” His spittle lands on Harry’s cheek. “GET OUF OF MY FUCKING HOUSE!” He shoves him towards the door.
“Please, my wand-”
Fearfully, his uncle slams the door in his face. Harry watches from the front garden as he shuts all of the windows and blinds. Nervously, he knocks on the door. “Um, Uncle Vernon-”
A moment later, Uncle Vernon shouts through the door, “No solicitors! We’re not interested!”
I’m a solicitor, now? Numbly, hardly believing what’s just happened, Harry steps away from his childhood home. He’s exposed here, his stumps on display as they poke through his shirt, and he feels a welling of shame inside him. He can’t help but think his uncle is right. He is a freak. Closing his eyes and breathing out through his nose, Harry eventually manages to force his legs to walk him down the street to Miss Figg’s house.
She was nice when he was a kid. Maybe she could help him now.
)(
“Oh dear, Harry, what’s happened?” Miss Figg pulls in a pale-with-shock Harry Potter who has recently been kicked out of his house. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Here, take this.” She clatters around in her kitchenette and makes him a hot and tasteless tea. Her cats sit on various appliances and household objects, observing the new visitor.
Harry thanks her for the tea and takes a long throat-burning sip. “They kicked me out. My relatives, I mean.”
“Oh dear, oh dear. That’s no good, is it?” The dotty old lady pats him on the top of his head and says, “Just a moment, blossom. I think I know someone who can help.” She leaves Harry to watch over her cats - or perhaps it is the other way around - and shortly returns covered in sparkly soot. “Be a good boy and come in here, Harry.”
On legs that feel like wooden stilts, he makes his way to her dining room, taking note of the mantle piece and various pictures of Miss Figg and her relatives. The pictures don’t move. It makes him miss Hogwarts all the more.
“Kneel down by the fireplace, dear.” She instructs him, kindly, and dotters off to fetch his tea for him. “Poor poor boy,” she can be heard muttering to herself whilst Harry flushes in embarrassment and kneels on a cushion set out before the fireplace.
For a moment, he thinks does she think I’m cold? before he sees a face in the flames. “Shit!” Harry leaps backwards, scrambling away from the almost familiar face.
“Language, Mr. Potter!” McGonagall’s voice says, sternly. Harry blinks. Once, twice. Nope, she’s still there. Her expression softens slightly. “Now, Arabella has told me some concerning news - have you been kicked out of your home, Mr. Potter?”
“Well, yes.” He bites his lip, reeling from the shock. Miss Figg knows people from Hogwarts! Is she a witch? Has she known all along? “Just now.”
“Hmmph.” McGonagall frowns severely. “There’s no other recourse, dear. I will contact Albus immediately.” She says it as if it’s Harry’s fault! He never agreed to go through this weird puberty!
“Oh dear, your back!” Miss Figg drops the mug and it shatters, just as McGonagall’s face disappears. “What - happened, Harry?” She ambles over to him, too old to walk very fast and risk breaking a hip. A gentle wrinkled hand lands on his back from where he’s frozen in shame.
“I don’t really know, Miss Figg.” He cranes his neck back at her as she marvels and strokes at his feathered back. “Something magical, I think. Which you’d know about, wouldn’t you? Are you a witch?”
Miss Figg smiles sadly. “Not as such, blossom. I’m a squib - my parents are magical but I am not.”
“But you’ve always known about the wizarding world?” He can’t quite get over that. “You knew and never told me?”
She removes her hand and a soft part of Harry wilts at the removal of affection. He feels the strange urge to trill and self-consciously touches his throat. What on Earth. “I was only following orders, my dear. Dear Albus asked me to look over you growing up, of course.”
“He did?” And you found nothing wrong? Harry second-guesses all his complaints about the Dursleys. Maybe they weren’t so bad after all if she hadn’t needed to intervene.
Miss Figg hums, distractedly, likely thinking about cleaning up the shattered mug. “He did indeed, dear Harry. Now, has Minerva shared any news with you?”
“Oh, yes!” He’d almost forgotten. “She’s contacting Professor Dumbledore right away.” On cue, the fireplace lights up again and Harry jerks back. Good thing he does because a moment later Dumbledore steps out of the fireplace and into Miss Figg’s dining room.
“Hello, Albus!”
“Arabella, what a pleasure.” Harry watches as Dumbledore inspects him from behind his half-moon spectacles. “Harry, my boy, Minerva has told me some very unfortunate news. Is it true? Has your family displaced you?”
Displaced, what a polite word for how gutted Harry is left feeling. He nods, shyly. “Yes, sir.”
“Arabella, if you would give us a moment.” Dumbledore says, kindly.
“Oh! Of course, Albus! Would you like a cuppa?”
“Yes, my dear, that would be lovely.” Once Miss Figg has left the room, Dumbledore kneels down before Harry and puts a hand on his shoulder. “What has happened, dear Harry?”
He bites his lip and contemplates lying. Will Dumbledore think he’s a freak too? Is this too bizarre for even the Headmaster of Hogwarts to accept? Taking a leap of faith, Harry whispers, “I’m a freak, sir. I’m- I’ll just show you.” He turns around and hears a sharp inhale of realisation. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what’s happened, I-”
Dumbledore embraces him and says, gently, “No, Harry. Never apologise for what you are. Never.”
Harry asks, hopefully, “And what am I, sir?”
The headmaster pulls back, his hand still resting with care on his shoulder. “You, my dear boy, are a dragon.”
“A dragon?”
“Yes, Harry. Every century or so a very special witch or wizard comes around who has the most courageous gift of all. The gift of dragonkin.” The old man smiles, kindly. “There are some people to talk to but simply put - you can be with your own kind, now. Over the course of this year, you will complete your transformation into dragonkin and will become a dragon completely.”
Harry gasps in horror. “You mean- I won’t be human anymore? I’ll be a dragon?” It sounds cool in theory but Harry likes being a human! He likes going to Hogwarts and last he checked, he hasn’t seen any dragons at Hogwarts. “Sir, please- You’ve got to stop this-”
The old man shakes his head. “No, my boy, you must be with your own kind.”
F i n