Chapter Text
April, The Dursleys
Aunt Petunia had spent most of Uncle Vernon's bonus check on bulbs. Delicate things that Harry was meant to plant in the beds around the house so that they grew into beautiful flowers that Aunt Petunia could boast about to her neighbours.
He was nervous about the whole process. What if they grew too close together? Or worse, too far apart? What if he put the bulbs that need more light in the darker part of the garden? What if it rained too much and none of them grew at all? What if a gopher got into the yard and destroyed the beds?
He was sure his Uncle would blame him and take out his anger in the way that was becoming more and more common. With heavy fists and scary shouting.
So even as he bends over the soil, taking care with each bulb and making sure to pull stones and position the bulbs upright, he tries to figure out what he can do to prevent the garden from getting messed up.
Of course, like the rest of his life, he can’t control what happens. But that doesn't stop him from feeling anxious. Scared.
“I want the crocuses along the fence,” Aunt Petunia instructs, setting a glass of water down on the front steps.
Then she turns around and heads back inside.
Harry sips the water greedily and then sets the crocus bulbs into the beds along the fence.
Everything feels like life or death lately.
What to say at the dinner table. When to ask his aunt for lunch on a saturday. How to vacuum the carpet in the living room or fold his uncle’s shirts.
Harry feels like everything in the world is impossibly hard.
For him.
Not for everyone else.
His cousin certainly doesn’t struggle with asking for things. He demands them. And gets what he demands.
His aunt knows exactly what to say, knows what conversations are important and interesting and necessary.
His uncle has such a perfect grasp on the way things are meant to work, he seems intent on beating the answers into Harry.
How could Harry not understand that he was lucky to be living at Privet Drive?
How could he not feel obligated to make up for what a burden he was?
Sometimes, more often than not nowadays, Harry thinks that maybe he really is a freak.
He doesn’t understand anything. Doesn’t fit in. Can’t seem to figure out what he is supposed to be doing.
“Why are you just sitting there?” Dudley asks, tilting his head to look at Harry like he is some weird anomaly.
It only adds to Harry’s dread.
“I was only resting,” he defends himself.
“You look stupid,” Dudley sneers.
Harry bites his tongue.
Stands up and brushes his knees off.
“I got distracted,” he says, walking away from his cousin.
“Where are you going?”
Harry doesn’t want to answer. Doesn’t want to talk to his cousin. Ever.
“Wales,” he answers, grabbing the crate of crocus bulbs and heading for the fence.
“Shut up!” Dudley says, suddenly right behind Harry.
Harry should be ready for it. The punch that his cousin sends into his side with surprising force for an eight year old.
Harry groans and grips tighter to the crate of bulbs, focusing on not dropping them.
“You are such a waste of space!” Dudley shouts.
Harry knows that.
He sets the crate down next to the fence and sighs.
“Isn’t Aunt Petunia making pudding?” Harry asks, hoping to dangle a carrot shaped like pudding in front of his bully of a cousin’s face.
Dudley looks back towards the house and then punches Harry- hard- in the arm before stomping back into the house.
Harry rubs at his arm and then kneels down in front of the garden beds, his chest tight.
As he digs into the soil and plants each bulb, he can’t help but ask himself what the point of it all is.
All this work. The garden, the chores, the cooking.
Still, he plants the crocuses in a perfect line, waters them just enough and puts everything away neatly in the shed.
April, Remus and Sirius
April Fool’s Day. Harry isn’t sure it is a magical holiday, but he is certain it is one that Sirius, Remus, and his father celebrated while at Hogwarts.
He’d overheard Remus telling Sirius that they would be skipping the holiday this year. Something about not wanting Harry to feel his trust was misplaced in any way.
Harry was determined to ask them all about the Fool’s days past, but first- he is going to play a prank on his guardians.
His Godfather and his Uncle Moony.
Now, Harry doesn’t have a lot of skills beyond vacuuming, scrubbing, and cooking. So it takes him a while to decide on what he wants to do.
Once he does though, it is easy.
A carton of eggs, some boiling water, and fifteen minutes.
When he is done, Harry sneaks back up to bed and lays there until the light is streaming through his window and Sirius is calling his name from the other side of the door.
He is so giddy he has to cover his giggles under his blankets before he calls back.
“Be right down!”
Most mornings, Kreacher is too busy polishing his mistress’s portrait to make breakfast. Sirius says it is because he is lazy. Remus says it is because his old hands struggle with cracking eggs.
So Sirius and Remus usually cook. Eggs on toast with sausage. Easy and filling. For a growing boy, Sirius always says.
Remus usually asks Sirius when he will be done growing. Standing at well over four inches taller than his partner, Remus likes to poke fun.
Harry likes it too. None of Remus’s snarky comments make Harry feel the way the Dursley’s words had.
When he hears Remus shuffle down the hall, Harry pushes back his blankets, shoves his feet into his lion slippers and follows after him.
Once he reaches the kitchen he sits at the table and watches. Usually he helps set the table or pull the orange juice out of the fridge. Not today. He wants a front row seat.
He can barely keep his excitement hidden as Sirius asks Remus to grab the eggs.
“Sure, and some cheese?” Remus asks, standing in front of the refrigerator.
“Extra protein! Of course,” Sirius says, casting a short spell that sets the stovetop alight and begins heating the pan.
“How did you sleep, Harry?” Remus asks, fishing around in the fridge.
“Great!” He says just a little too loudly. Both men turn to look at him but he just smiles shyly.
“I was thinking we could go to the park after breakfast,” Sirius offers, the pan in front of him preheating.
Harry has watched Sirius cook breakfast dozens of times.
Which is why his prank is perfect.
Remus sets the carton of eggs on the counter.
Sirius kisses him quickly.
And then Harry watches as his Godfather picks up an egg, cracks it on the side of the pan and drops the yolk into the pan.
He covers his mouth to muffle his laugh.
Another egg.
Raw.
And then… when he cracks the egg, the shell breaks but the boiled egg just sinks down on the rim of the pan.
“What the?” Sirius asks, lifting the egg and blinking at it.
Harry laughs.
Remus asks Sirius what’s the matter.
Harry’s laugh draws their attention.
“What did you do?” Sirius asks, his face hard to gauge.
Harry interprets it as cross when he should have interpreted it as incredulous.
“I’ll eat them! I promise they won’t go to waste!” He stammers. Panic crawls up his spine and tears spring from nowhere. “It was just a prank. I thought- I don’t know, I'm sorry!”
“Harry, Harry, breathe. I love your prank. Truly,” Sirius comforts him.
He hadn’t meant to cry.
Harry sniffles and wipes at his face.
And then Remus bursts out laughing. Followed by Sirius laughing. Harry joins in, remembering who his guardians are.
“Brilliant. You’re brilliant,” Remus says, leaning against the counter and pointing at the hard boiled egg in Sirius’s hand. “When did you even manage to do that? We hardly give you a moment’s peace.”
Sirius shoves Remus.
Harry shrugs.
“This morning. I woke up early.”
The eggs in the pan burn, Sirius insists they try and guess which ones left in the carton are boiled and which are still raw.
The three of them push breakfast back in favour of going outside and throwing the eggs against the garden wall.
Harry laughs so hard his side hurts.
And Sirius declares that it is now open season on pranks.