Chapter Text
It really didn’t take so long for Harry to learn.
His first word was spoken at three months, his last at sixteen months. He became intrigued and enticed by all sorts of food at six months, he became used to and content with stale bread and metallic water at eighteen months. He began running and jumping at fourteen months, he slowed to a careful walk at fifteen months.
Mama and dada liked his voice and energy, they cheered him on when he succeeded and encouraged him when he failed. But, An’ Tuia and Unc’ Verr did not.
He was yelled at when he talked, pushed when he ran, and called fat and selfish when he asked for his favorites—cheerios or eggs or strawberries.
Harry couldn’t tell you why Duda’s mama and dada were so different from his own, or why they took him from his mama and dada when they clearly only had eyes for Duda. He couldn’t tell you where his mama and dada were or why they didn’t want him anymore. He couldn’t really tell you anything anymore, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know stuff.
He knew he was no longer loved, and he knew it must be his fault. He knew he was ugly and bad and disgusting, which weren’t good things to be. He knew when you weren’t loved and you weren’t good things you didn’t get nice things you want, and he wasn’t getting those things, nor would he ever.
It’s not like he didn’t try his best, but it never seemed to go right, he always messed up because he was so bad. His attempts were deemed a ploy to infect the house with evil, and Harry didn’t quite understand what they meant when they said that, but he knew The Evil Queen and Maleficent and Cinderella’s stepmother were all described as evil and he didn’t didn’t want to be like them. So, he tried again, just to get the same result.
When he heard An’ Tuia complain over and over again about making breakfast, waking up so early just to do work, he stumbled to the table, climbed up, and tried to crack an egg just like her, to make it easier for her. He thought she would be grateful, finally see him as useful, but instead she smacked his hand, called him a nuisance, and locked him in the small room beneath the stairs he used as a bedroom.
When he saw Duda drop his toy out of his crib and cry, forcing his mama to drop what she’s doing and rush in over and over again, he rushed over to hand it back through the bars before she made it. He thought Duda would be so happy to get his toy back and An’ Tuia happy to not have a distraction, but Duda threw the toy at his head, knocking him over, and An’ Tuia demanded he not try and spread his freakish sickness to her perfect son. Harry didn’t even feel sick.
When he felt Duda hit or pinch or kick him, he didn't respond. Doing those things were bad, he’d never do them back, but when he asked Duda to stop at first he was yelled at because Duda couldn’t be in the wrong ever. So, he thought ignoring Duda doing that would get him praised, or at least not yelled at, but instead An’ Tuia got mad at him for treating Duda badly. For doing something to upset Duda then framing him as being bad, for not paying attention to Duda when he tried to be a good cousin and play even though Harry didn’t even deserve it.
So, then, Harry stopped trying to do good stuff and just did what he was told, but that wasn’t right either. He never did what was asked of him right, even when his results looked the same as the ‘correct result’ it was deemed abysmal, intentionally wrong to make everyone else’s lives harder.
Harry didn’t know what to do, let alone how to do it correctly. Before he came to this oddly shaped, oddly colored, oddly run house in the middle of a street so identical he couldn’t tell one place from another, everything made sense.
His toys went on shelves and in buckets and trunks, his mama and dada hugged and cuddled him tight, he was allowed to speak and run and eat different food. But, here….
He had no toys. He had no mama and dada. He wasn’t allowed to do anything and what he did do was wrong.
And, somehow, it was all his fault.
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Ron always knew that his parents, well mostly his mommy, didn’t feel the exact same way about him that they did about his brothers, and mommy definitely didn’t feel the same way about him as she did towards his sister.
Mommy and daddy definitely loved him, they fed him and hugged him, but….
“Oh, look at our pretty, perfect girl.” Mommy cooed as Ginny fell to the floor after taking her first couple steps. She didn’t seem to notice Ron had been standing in the doorframe of the living room on the kitchen side for five minutes.
Mommy never called him pretty, or even handsome like she did to Bill and Charlie so often. She didn’t call him perfect either, or get super excited when he learned something new.
It made sense, when he thought about it, though.
Bill was never at home anymore, mommy and daddy said he was at school, whatever that was, but from what mommy and daddy said he was about the most perfect thing ‘school’ had ever seen. Charlie could remember so much, he didn’t even need books to remember stories or lyrics to remember songs. Percy was smart, everyone said so, he knew everything. Fred and George made people laugh, they were good at making people feel better when they were sad. And Ginny was a girl.
But, Ron, though? He wasn’t really anything, was he?
Not perfect, not smart, not funny, and not a girl.
So, maybe it made sense he wasn’t as praised, as valued—there was nothing to praise, nothing to value.
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Hermione was very excited about turning three, very . Because three year olds have all twenty of their deciduous teeth and can name basic colors and can talk in sentences and typically establish bladder and bowel control.
Of course, Hermione already had her deciduous teeth and could name more than the basic colors and had been talking in sentences since she was ten months and had been potty trained since she was barely one, but that’s besides the point.
Now her peers would finally be on her level! Or, at least, on the level she was when she was fifteen months. Well, she didn’t have all her teeth then, but besides that.
“Happy birthday, pretty girl!” Mommy said after Hermione walked into the kitchen at 7:00; she was also already getting herself dressed.
“Thank you.” Hermione didn’t understand the whole ‘thank you/you’re welcome’ thing, but she said it anyway because it seemed to stop people from getting upset and she hated dealing with them when they were.
“You’re welcome, baby girl.”
“I made your favorite.” Daddy said, bringing her plate to the table where she was sitting, then bringing his and mommy’s too.
Her favorite was vegan banana waffles, no syrup, and almond milk—she wasn’t lactose intolerant, but around 70% of people are and it can develop at any time, so she wasn’t taking any chances. She especially wasn’t because she has multiple family members who are and even though scientists haven’t said so, she’s pretty sure it’s genetic.
After breakfast is present time, which Hermione is a little wishy-washy about. She likes getting stuff, but the whole event of it is overwhelming.
At both Christmas and her birthday she gets five presents, which is new. Last birthday and the one before she only got three presents, but starting last Christmas she’s been getting five.
The pattern is the same as always. Daddy hands her a present, she opens it, mommy tells her to smile even though she already is,—no one ever seems to know when she’s smiling—then mommy takes her picture, rinse and repeat.
Her first three presents were Roald Dahl books: James And The Giant Peach , Charlie And The Chocolate Factory , and The BFG , which was pretty exciting because she loved reading, even if she had never heard of Roald Dahl and wouldn’t have chosen fictional children’s books herself. The other two, though….Not the best.
Her fourth present was a purple teddy bear, which wasn’t the worst thing in the world. She had been hoping for a book about something she liked, especially human biology, but she did like stuffed animals. The fifth present, however, was completely and utterly undefendable.
A fluffy, glittery, itchy pink dress.
Hermione looked back and forth between the dress and her current outfit in confusion. She was wearing what she always wore—plain black trainers, blue jeans, and a Batman or Spiderman tee-shirt, today Batman.
“Do you like it, princess?” Mommy asked, looking so hopeful. Hermione didn’t want to crush her, but she also absolutely despised everything about the dress.
She liked soft clothes, dark colors, and not dresses.
“Well?” Daddy asked, and Hermione still just had no idea what to say.
“It’s, um….Thank you….” Hermione got her picture taken, picked up her stuff, and walked to her room, doing her best not to run.
Why?
Why?! Why??!! Why???!!!
What did she do to deserve this?! What did she do wrong?!
It was so good; today was supposed to be so good. She was finally three, she got her favorite breakfast, she got three new books, everything was perfect. And then, and then , everything—everything went wrong in seconds and now today was ruined, forever.
She couldn’t help herself from crying, but not the simple quiet kind that could be hidden with a pillow.
She was sobbing and kicking and screaming. She didn’t throw tantrums, ever, but right now—she just couldn’t help it.
She was absolutely devastated.
They could have given her a book about human biology, a microscope, or RAeS pamphlets. She would have been fine with another Roald Dahl book, stuffed animal, or just four presents.
But this?
This was the worst thing that could have happened.
A dairy filled breakfast—AKA no breakfast, because she wouldn’t have eaten it if that’s what was presented—followed by no presents and a trip to the mall where she was forced to get a cookie from the cookie stand as her birthday dessert would have been better.
The tantrum lasted nearly an hour before she managed to calm down. She didn’t have the energy to do anything by that point, though, not even put her gifts away, so instead she just climbed into her Spiderman toddler bed and fell asleep.
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“Am I a girl or a boy?” Draco asked Uncle Sev one snowy day halfway between his second and third birthdays.
“You’re a boy.” Uncle Sev informed, not paying complete attention as he graded his students final exams from a couple days prior.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, why?”
“How do you know?”
“I was at your birth.”
“You were?”
“Was mommy?”
“Yes.”
“Was daddy?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He was working.” That was the most child friendly answer Severus could give.
“So, does daddy know if I’m a girl or a boy?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He changes your diapers.”
“Not all of them.”
“No, not all of them, but some.”
“So have you.”
“So have I.”
“And mommy.”
“Yes, and your mommy has.”
“Why am I a boy?”
“You just are. Some people are boys and some are girls; that’s just how the world works.”
“How’s it chosen?”
“It’s random.”
“How do you know?”
“Science.”
“What’s science?”
“It’s how the world works.”
“Thought that was magic?”
“It’s both.”
“Oh….Is there just girls and boys?”
“That’s complicated.”
“How?”
“Different species and countries and other types of people have different amounts of genders. Mushrooms have thousands of genders.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“What if I don’t want to be a boy?”
Severus froze, not even breathing, not even feeling annoyed when ink dripped all over his favorite pair of pants.
“Uncle Sev? What if?”
“You—I—Don’t.”
“Don’t?”
“Just—I’m sorry, but just don’t.”
“Why?”
“You’re too young to understand.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
“Uncle Sev,” Draco whimpered, “why so grumpy?”
“Draco, just—just play with your toys.”
“But—”
“Just play.”
“....Okay.”