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Chapter Text

The snipping of his hair wasn’t what irritated him- it was Aunt Petunia’s grating, high-pitched voice as she cooed over Dudley. She always spoke to him like that, like he was some precious little prince, and Harry hated it.

Perched on a rickety kitchen stool, Harry sat stiffly as Aunt Petunia stood behind him, her short blonde hair perfectly in place as she wielded a pair of dull kitchen scissors. She barely paid attention to what she was doing, too busy chatting to Dudley, who lounged on the couch, shoveling crisps into his mouth as he watched his favorite cartoon.

Pausing for a moment, Aunt Petunia looked over Harry’s head to her son as Dudley reached into the nearly empty packet. “Oh, Diddykins, do you want Mummy to buy you more tomorrow at the supermarket?” she asked. “I know you like those cheesy ones.”

Dudley grunted something through a mouthful of food, and Aunt Petunia giggled before her voice turned sharp again as she yanked a strand of Harry’s hair between her fingers, returning to the hair cut.

“You’d think you could at least keep your hair tidy,” she sniffed, wrinkling her nose. “Look at Dudley- his hair always looks presentable. Not a mess like yours.”

Harry bit back a sarcastic reply.
Right, because kitchen scissors were such a luxury.

He found it rather ironic that she was saying this, considering Dudley got taken to the salon every few weeks, his hair always neatly trimmed and combed into place. Meanwhile, Harry was sat on a rickety kitchen chair every few months, his hair hacked at with blunt scissors as if he were nothing more than an overgrown hedge. And yet he was the one being scolded for looking untidy.

And even worse- tomorrow was monday, and Harry was less than excited. It was the middle of January, which meant half the school year had already gone by, and he already knew exactly how the day would go. Everyone would ignore him during class, as if he didn’t exist, or, they’d tease him and laugh. Dudley and his stupid friends would chase him around at lunch, laughing as they turned his misery into a game of “Harry Tag.” The teacher would sigh and roll her eyes whenever he didn’t understand something, speaking to him in that slow, patronizing voice that made his ears burn. The day would drag on, each hour stretching endlessly, until he was finally allowed to go home- not that home was any better.

Nothing was ever fun. Not school, not home, not anywhere.

It was just another cold, miserable evening in January. And instead of doing anything remotely enjoyable, he was getting a god-awful haircut.

“Done.” She placed the scissors down on the kitchen bench with a clatter and gave him a firm tap on the head. “Now get out, I have to make dinner.”

Harry obeyed without a word, slipping off the chair and making a beeline for the hallway. As soon as he was out of sight, his hand shot up to his head, fingers brushing over the freshly cut strands. Oh god. It felt so short.

A sinking feeling settled in his stomach as he bolted upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. He burst into the bathroom, his pulse quickening as he reached for the light.
Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it felt. Maybe-

His heart dropped.

The mirror didn’t lie. His hair was ruined. Chopped unevenly, sticking up in places it shouldn’t, looking as though someone had hacked at it with garden shears instead of scissors.

Harry swallowed hard, irritated tears threatening his eyes, forcing down the lump in his throat as he stared at his own horrified reflection.
It was awful, the worst haircut he’d ever had.

And worse of all, school was tomorrow.

-

The next morning, Harry was jolted awake by the sound of heavy knocking- no, pounding- on the cupboard door.

“Get up, boy!” Uncle Vernon’s voice thundered through the thin wood, each blow making the entire cupboard rattle. “I won’t have you lazing about all morning!”

Groaning quietly, he blinked against the dim light filtering through the cracks in the door, his body stiff from another night curled awkwardly on his thin mattress. His limbs ached, his neck was sore, and there was a stale chill in the air that made his threadbare clothes feel even thinner than usual.

With a resigned sigh, he lifted himself up to sit, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with one hand while doing so. His fingers brushed against his hair- and he froze.

Something was wrong.

Still half-asleep, he hesitantly reached up and ran his hand through it again. His fingers slid through thick, untamed strands, longer than they had been when he went to bed. His pulse quickened.

His hair had been cut last night. Aunt Petunia had taken the kitchen scissors to it, hacking it short, leaving it jagged and uneven. He remembered the way it had felt beneath his fingers when he checked his reflection in the mirror- how choppy and rough the strands had been, how much he had hated it.

But now…

Harry grabbed a lock of his hair and pulled it forward, his breath hitching.

It was back. Completely back.

His heart began to pound. His hair had grown back overnight. That wasn’t normal. That wasn’t possible.

“BOY!” Uncle Vernon bellowed again, the cupboard door rattling with the force of his knock.

Harry jumped, his mind still whirling. He had no time to think, no time to question it. He shoved the thought aside, focusing on what was most important right now- getting out of bed before Uncle Vernon lost his temper.

He fumbled putting his glasses on and yanked the door open.

Uncle Vernon stood before him, dressed in his usual dark suit. His mustache twitched as he glared down at Harry, small, piggy eyes already gleaming with irritation.

“Finally,” he grunted. “Breakfast. Now.”

Harry nodded quickly and brushed past him, ducking into the kitchen, still absently running a hand through his hair.

The kitchen was already warm from the stove, the scent of sizzling bacon heavy in the air. Aunt Petunia stood at the counter, her back stiff as she flipped bacon in the pan. Dudley sat at the table, slouched in his chair, shoveling cereal into his mouth between loud, contented slurps.

Harry had barely taken two steps inside when Aunt Petunia turned.

Her sharp, bird-like eyes landed on him, and for a moment, she simply stared.

The spatula in her hand clattered against the edge of the pan.

Her mouth fell open slightly, eyes going wide, unblinking.

Harry’s stomach clenched. She noticed.

“What-?” she started, her voice high and tight, before quickly snapping her mouth shut. Her expression twisted, disbelief flashing across her face. She took a quick, jerky step forward, her gaze flicking wildly between his face and his hair.

Harry tensed.

“It was short last night,” she said sharply, her tone laced with accusation. “I cut it. I made sure of it!”

Before he could move, she reached out and grabbed a handful of his hair between her fingers, yanking at it roughly.

Harry winced but was too stunned to pull away. “I- I don’t know what happened,” he stammered. “I just woke up and-”

“Don’t you lie to me!” she snapped before letting go. “This- this is one of your freakish little stunts, isn’t it? Some nasty little trick to make me look like a fool!”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. “I didn’t-”

“Petunia, what the devil are you screeching about now?”

Uncle Vernon’s gruff voice cut through the tension as he stomped into the kitchen. His heavy brows furrowed at the sight of Aunt Petunia, red-faced and fuming, standing over a clearly bewildered Harry.

She whirled on him, eyes flashing. “Look at him!” she shrieked, pointing at Harry. “His hair! It was short last night, I cut it, and now-”

Uncle Vernon’s gaze snapped toward Harry. His small eyes narrowed.

For a moment, he simply stared.

Then, his face darkened. “What is she on about, boy?”

Harry swallowed hard, his pulse thudding in his ears. “I- I don’t know,” he said truthfully. “I just woke up and it was like this.”

A heavy silence filled the kitchen.

Then-

“Rubbish!” Uncle Vernon thundered, his face turning a deep, blotchy red. “Hair doesn’t just grow back overnight! Do you think we’re stupid?”

Harry flinched at the sheer force of his voice, but he had no idea what to say. He knew hair didn’t grow back overnight. But he also knew he hadn’t done anything… not on purpose, at least.

Aunt Petunia crossed her arms so tightly her knuckles turned white. “I won’t have it,” she muttered furiously. “I won’t have this nonsense in my house.”

“It’s bad enough you already cause trouble,” Uncle Vernon growled, his face still red with fury. “And now this?” His lip curled in disgust. “Mark my words, boy, I don’t know what kind of nonsense you’re pulling, but it stops now. I won’t have this freakishness in my house, do you understand me?”

Harry clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand at all.

But he knew better than to argue.

“…Yes, Uncle Vernon,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Uncle Vernon huffed and stomped back to his seat at the table. Aunt Petunia lingered for a moment longer, glaring at him as if she could will the hair to shrink back down to the length she had cut it.
Then, with a huff, she turned away, snatching up the spatula.

Harry remained frozen in place, his heart still pounding.

His hair had grown back overnight.

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were furious.

And worst of all, he had no idea how it had happened.

“Well?” Aunt Petunia snapped, jolting him from his thoughts. “Are you going to stand there all morning, or are you going to make yourself useful?”

Harry knew what that meant. He moved toward the stove, automatically taking over cooking while Aunt Petunia went to prepare Dudley’s lunch. The smell of bacon and eggs filled the air as he worked, carefully plating food for the Dursleys. Of course, there was none for him.

He set their plates on the table before stepping back, watching as Dudley immediately dug in, bits of egg and toast falling onto the tablecloth. Uncle Vernon grunted in approval as he took a sip of his coffee, flipping open the morning newspaper.

“Go get ready for school,” Aunt Petunia ordered, not bothering to look at him.

Harry gave a small nod and slipped away. He changed quickly, not that it took much time- his uniform was too big, hanging off his small frame, and the soles of his shoes were worn thin.

Another day. Another miserable morning.

-

Sitting in the back seat, he kept his gaze fixed out the window, watching the grey sky and bare trees blur past. January mornings were cold and dull, and the snow and frost on the pavement made everything look even more lifeless. Aunt Petunia was silent in the front seat, her hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, lips pursed in that thin, disapproving way she always wore around him. She had barely said a word to him since breakfast, but Harry was used to that.

Dudley, however, was never silent for long.

He let out a loud, exaggerated sigh before turning to Harry with a smirk. “Aren’t you embarrassed walking around like that?”

Harry didn’t look at him, just kept his gaze on the window.

“Your clothes are disgusting,” Dudley sneered, kicking at Harry’s foot with his own polished shoe. “Honestly, Mum, you should just make him wear a bin bag instead.”

Aunt Petunia said nothing, just kept driving.

Dudley grinned. “Wouldn’t be much different, anyway. Look at your jumper- it’s falling apart.”

Harry’s hands curled into fists in his lap. He knew what he looked like. He didn’t need Dudley to remind him. His jumper was Dudley’s old one, stretched and faded, the sleeves hanging past his fingertips, it was far too large for him. His trousers weren’t much better- too big at the waist, worn at the knees. And his bag- well.

Dudley noticed it then, slumped at Harry’s feet. He wrinkled his nose. “Is that even a real school bag? Looks like something someone threw away.”

Harry’s grip tightened around the strap. It was a real school bag, but it was years old, the fabric fraying, the zip barely holding together.

Dudley snickered. “Bet the other kids think you’re some kind of tramp.”

Harry clenched his jaw.

It didn’t matter. He didn’t care.

The car rolled to a stop in front of the school gates, and before Dudley could say anything else, Harry shoved the door open and climbed out without a word.

Even if school wasn’t exactly fun for him, at least it was better than home.

—

The classroom was already filling up as Harry stepped inside, weaving past clusters of students hanging up coats and chatting in small groups. He kept his head down, moving toward the front of the room where the carpeted area was. Dudley, of course, went straight to his usual spot near the back, immediately surrounded by his friends.

Harry sat alone.

That was normal.

What wasn’t normal was the fact that their teacher wasn’t there.

Harry frowned. Normally, Mrs. Godfrey would already be sitting at her desk, sipping tea with that pinched, tired expression she always wore. But this morning, her chair was empty.

The other students had started to notice too, their quiet chatter turning into murmurs of confusion. Then, just as the bell rang, the door swung open.

The woman who stepped inside was not Mrs. Godfrey.

She was younger, for one- probably in her early thirties, at most- and she didn’t have Mrs. Godfrey’s stiff, businesslike appearance. Instead, she had long brown hair that tumbled over her shoulders in soft waves, her warm tan skin standing out against the crisp white blouse and deep green trousers she wore.

What really caught Harry’s attention, though, was the streak of hot pink that ran through the front of her hair.

She smiled brightly as she stepped forward, clasping her hands together. “Good morning, everyone,” she greeted, her voice warm and full of energy.

The murmurs died down as the class turned to face her properly.

She moved toward the large, cushioned armchair at the front of the room and lowered herself into it, crossing one leg over the other.

“My name is Mrs. Marshall,” she said, still smiling, “and I’ll be your teacher for the rest of the year.”

A ripple of surprise passed through the students.

Harry blinked. Mrs. Godfrey was gone?

That… wasn’t bad news, exactly.

If anything, he was almost relieved.

Mrs. Godfrey had never been outright cruel, but she’d never been particularly kind, either. She was the type of teacher who got impatient quickly, who sighed whenever Harry didn’t understand something and barely looked at him unless it was to scold him. She never outright ignored him, but she certainly overlooked him whenever possible.

But Mrs. Marshall, though he had only just met her, already seemed different.

There was something in the way she spoke, the way her eyes scanned the room-not just skimming over the louder students like other teachers often did, but actually looking at everyone.

Harry shifted slightly where he sat, watching her carefully.

Mrs. Marshall crossed her legs in the armchair, her posture relaxed yet confident, as if she had done this a thousand times before. The warm smile never left her face as she glanced around at the sea of young, eight year old faces before her.

“I know it can be a little surprising to have a new teacher all of a sudden,” she said, her voice smooth and friendly. “So I thought I’d take a moment to introduce myself properly!”

The classroom was silent, all eyes on her. Even the more talkative students, the ones who normally whispered amongst themselves when teachers weren’t looking, seemed curious enough to listen.

“My name is Mrs. Marshall, and I’m very excited to be your teacher for the rest of the year.” She clasped her hands together, resting them on her knee. “A little bit about me- I have a husband, but no kids yet. Instead, we have two very spoiled cats who think they run the house.”

A few students giggled.

“Their names are Luna and Silk, and they spend most of their time either napping in the sun or trying to climb places they shouldn’t. Just the other day, I caught Luna on top of the fridge, staring at me like she had no idea how she got there.”

More laughter, this time a little louder. Harry didn’t join in, but he found himself watching her a little more closely.

Mrs. Godfrey had never talked about her personal life.

In fact, Harry barely knew anything about her beyond the fact that she drank her tea black and wore the same stiff grey cardigan every day. She certainly had never taken the time to tell the class anything about herself.

But Mrs. Marshall continued as if she genuinely wanted them to know her.

“When I’m not at school, I love hiking. My husband and I try to go as often as we can- whenever the weather isn’t miserable, at least.” She let out a small chuckle. “We like to explore new trails, and sometimes, if we’re lucky, we’ll see deer or foxes along the way.”

The class murmured in interest.

Harry wasn’t sure he had ever even seen a proper hiking trail before, much less been on one.
But before he could dwell on that, a student near the middle of the carpet raised their hand. “What happened to Mrs. Godfrey?”

Mrs. Marshall’s expression didn’t change, but there was something about the way she tilted her head- almost as if she had expected the question but had hoped to avoid it.

“Well,” she said after a short pause, “Mrs. Godfrey has moved on to another school. But I know she was with this class for a long time, so it’s always a big adjustment when things change. If you have any questions or concerns, you’re welcome to talk to me privately later, alright?”

The student nodded, seeming satisfied enough with that answer, and Mrs. Marshall quickly moved on.

“Now,” she said, straightening up, “since I’ve told you a little about me, I’d love to learn more about all of you.”

There was a quiet shuffling as students glanced at one another.

Mrs. Marshall smiled. “I have a short activity for you. Nothing difficult- I promise.” She leaned forward slightly, as if she were letting them in on a secret. “Just a few questions about who you are, what you like, what makes you you.”

Harry blinked in surprise.

Mrs. Godfrey had never done anything like this before.

In fact, Harry doubted she had ever cared about what made them them.

“Before I hand everything out, I’d like you all to move to your table groups,” Mrs. Marshall continued, gesturing to the small clusters of desks around the room. “Once you’re settled, I’ll bring the sheets to you.”

The students didn’t need to be told twice.

Chairs scraped against the floor as they hurried to their usual seats, Dudley and his friends laughing loudly as they shoved each other along the way.

Harry got up more slowly. He already knew where he was sitting- the same table he had been at since the start of the year, the one with the students who weren’t really friends with anyone else. They didn’t talk to him much, but that was fine. He was used to that.

As he pulled out his chair and sat down, he glanced toward the front of the room.

Mrs. Marshall was gathering the stack of worksheets, her pink-streaked hair falling slightly over her shoulder as she smiled to herself.

Harry had only known her for a few minutes.

And yet, she already felt different from every teacher he’d ever had.

-

Harry tapped his pencil against the paper, the faint scratching sound the only thing he could hear as he filled in the last few questions on the worksheet.

For once, he was actually enjoying an assignment.

It was simple- just a list of personal questions- but the act of writing about himself felt strangely… fun. No one had ever asked him these things before.

Favourite colour? Blue. Though he didn’t really have anything that was Blue. But he always liked the way the sky looked when it was clear, or how the faded blue wallpaper in his classroom was softer on the eyes than the dull beige of the Dursleys’ house.

Favourite animal? Owls. He wasn’t sure why, exactly. He just thought they were nice.

Interesting fact about yourself?

Harry hesitated.

He couldn’t think of much. There wasn’t anything particularly interesting about him. He didn’t have cool hobbies, he wasn’t good at sports, and he didn’t have funny stories like the other kids did.

Eventually, he wrote: I can run really fast.

It was true. Years of being chased by Dudley and his friends had made sure of that.

He rested his chin in his hand, rereading his answers, a small flicker of contentment settling in his chest. It wasn’t often he got to talk about himself- even if it was just on paper.

But just as he was about to move on to the next question, a voice interrupted him.

“That’s some very neat handwriting.”

Harry jumped slightly.

He hadn’t even noticed Mrs. Marshall moving around the room, stopping at different tables to talk to the other students.

And now, without him realising, she was suddenly beside him, kneeling down so they were at eye level.

Harry immediately stiffened.

Up close, she was even more different than the other teachers he’d had. Her eyes were warm, kind, and she didn’t have that impatient, tight-lipped expression that most adults wore when they spoke to him.

“What’s your name?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

Harry swallowed.

“…Harry.” His voice came out quieter than he meant it to.

“Nice to meet you, Harry.” She smiled, then glanced at his worksheet. “Owls, huh? That’s a great choice. They’re amazing birds.”

Harry just nodded.

She continued reading. “And your favourite colour is blue?”

Another nod.

“I like blue too,” Mrs. Marshall said. “But I think green is my favourite.”

Harry’s grip on his pencil tightened slightly.

He didn’t know what to say to that. Was he supposed to respond? Ask why she liked green?

He had never been good at conversations.

Especially not with adults.

His stomach twisted uncomfortably as she read on, stopping at the “interesting fact” question. “You can run fast?” She looked back at him, eyes bright with interest. “That’s a great skill to have.”

Harry shrugged. “I guess.”

“Do you like running, or are you just naturally good at it?”

He hesitated.

He didn’t really like running. It wasn’t something he did for fun. It was just something he was forced to be good at.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled.

Mrs. Marshall didn’t push him.

She just smiled again. “Well, either way, that’s a pretty cool fact about you.”
Harry’s ears burned slightly.
He wasn’t used to adults talking to him like this.

Normally, when a teacher spoke to him, it was to scold him or sigh at him in frustration. They never asked about him. They never cared.

But Mrs. Marshall seemed too.

And that made him even more uncomfortable.

As if sensing his discomfort, she gave a small nod and stood back up. “I’ll let you finish up,” she said kindly. “You’re doing a great job, Harry.”

And just like that, she moved on to another student.

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

He could hear his classmates chattering loudly, their voices overlapping as they laughed and shared their answers with each other. The whole room felt bright, buzzing with energy.

And yet, he just sat there, gripping his pencil, feeling small and out of place.

But… Mrs. Marshall seemed nice.

Chapter Text

By the time a full week had passed with Mrs. Marshall as his new teacher, Harry still couldn’t say that he liked school. The loud classrooms, the whispered teasing from Dudley’s friends, the feeling of always being on the outside looking in- none of that had changed.

And yet… for the first time in as long as he could remember, he didn’t completely dread walking through the school gates every morning.

Because Mrs. Marshall’s lessons were different.

They weren’t just dull lectures or endless worksheets with instructions barked at them in a bored monotone. Her lessons were fun, sometimes even exciting, and the way she spoke to the class made it feel like she actually wanted them to enjoy learning.

Harry still didn’t talk to her much- his voice always seemed to get stuck in his throat whenever she asked him anything directly- but even without speaking, he couldn’t deny she was the best teacher he had ever had.

-

Mrs. Marshall smiled as she looked out at the class, her hands clasped in front of her. “Alright, everyone,” she said, her voice warm and encouraging. “For your writing task this morning, I want you to tell me about your weekend. What did you do? Where did you go? Who did you spend time with? If you didn’t go anywhere, that’s alright- just write about what you did at home.”

She moved to the whiteboard, quickly writing My Weekend in large, clear letters. “Try to give as much detail as possible,” she continued. “Did you have fun? Was there something you didn’t enjoy? I want to hear all about it.”

Harry stared down at the blank sheet of paper in front of him, gripping his pencil a little too tightly.

He didn’t need to think about what to write.

He hadn’t done anything. At least, not in the way Mrs. Marshall meant. He hadn’t gone to the park or watched a movie or spent time with family. There had been no laughter, no fun, nothing special at all.

But he had done something.

So he pressed the tip of his pencil to the paper and began to write, his letters small and uneven.

‘On saterday I weaded the garden then I cleened the kitchen I moped the flore and wiped the sides after lunch I did the dishes then I helped cook diner on sunday I vacumed the living room and dusted the shelves I washed the windos I made brekfast I did the laundry.’

He blinked down at the words, suddenly feeling self-conscious. He knew his spelling wasn’t great, and the sentences felt… wrong. Too simple. Too boring.

The classroom was filled with the soft scratching of pencils against paper as the students worked on their writing. Occasionally, a chair scraped against the floor, or a whispered conversation flitted between table mates, but for the most part, the room was quiet.

Harry kept his head down, focusing on his writing. He didn’t look up when Mrs. Marshall started making her way around the room, stopping at different desks to read what students had written and chat with them about their weekends. Her voice was warm and encouraging, her laughter soft when a student shared something funny.

He didn’t pay much attention to where she was.

Not until she was suddenly right beside him.

“That’s a lot of work for an eight-year-old.”

Harry startled, his shoulders jumping as his grip tightened on his pencil. He hadn’t noticed her coming up to him at all. For the second time now, she had managed to creep up on him without him realising.

Was he really that deep in thought?

Mrs. Marshall didn’t seem to notice how tense he had become. She simply knelt beside his chair, her brown eyes scanning over his paper, her smile warm and easy.

Harry didn’t say anything. He just quickly looked back down at his writing, suddenly feeling embarrassed by the messy letters and spelling mistakes that covered the page.

“Well,” Mrs. Marshall continued after a moment, her tone still light and friendly, “I can tell you’re a hard worker by what you wrote! Do you help around the house a lot?”

Harry hesitated.

He could feel her eyes on him, waiting for an answer, but he didn’t know what to say.

He didn’t know how to explain that ‘helping’ wasn’t exactly the right word.

He swallowed, shifting in his seat.

“…Yeah,” he mumbled at last, his voice barely above a whisper. “A lot.”

Mrs. Marshall hummed thoughtfully. “I see,” she said, glancing at his paper again. “And do you ever get time to play? Or do something just for fun?”

Harry blinked.

Fun?

His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

Because… what was he supposed to say to that?

But Mrs. Marshall was still looking at him, waiting.

His fingers twisted together on the paper. He tried to think of something- anything- that might sound like the right answer. Something normal.

Finally, he spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“I play with my army horses before I’m supposed to go to sleep. That’s fun sometimes…”

The words felt strange as he said them out loud. He didn’t know if they counted.

His army horses weren’t real toys. They were small, plastic figures he’d found at the bottom of an old toy chest once- forgotten, dusty things, with chipped paint and bent legs. But they were his. And at night, when the house was quiet and no one was watching, he’d line them up on his thin blanket, marching them into battle.

Sometimes he imagined they were fighting off monsters. Other times, they were just running- running far away, past the little room under the stairs, past the house, past everything.

He swallowed, glancing up at Mrs. Marshall.

She was watching him carefully, her expression softer than before.

“That does sound fun,” she said gently. “Do they win their battles?”

Harry hesitated, then gave a tiny shrug.

“…Sometimes.”

Mrs. Marshall smiled, but there was something thoughtful in her eyes. She looked down at his paper again, tapping her fingers lightly against the desk.

“Well,” she said after a moment, her voice light again, “maybe one day you’ll write a story about them.”

Harry blinked.

“A story?”

“Sure,” she said. “A grand adventure for your army horses. You’ve already got the imagination for it.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. No one had ever told him he had imagination before.
He looked down at his hands, thinking about his little plastic horses. A story.

-

The sun hung high overhead, casting a golden glow over the schoolyard, but to Harry, it might as well have been raining. Laughter and shouting filled the air as groups of children dashed across the grass, playing tag, kicking balls, and clambering over the rusted monkey bars. Everywhere he looked, there was movement- kids chasing each other, calling out in excitement, their faces flushed with joy. He watched them for a moment, but only for a second. Looking too long only made the hollow feeling in his chest worse.

He sat alone near the fence, cross-legged on the patchy grass, idly plucking at the blades between his fingers. The tiny green strands split apart easily in his hands, one after another, something to keep him occupied, something to focus on besides the fact that he had no one to play with. He told himself he didn’t mind- being by himself was fine. At least, that’s what he wanted to believe.

But sometimes, when he glanced up and saw the other kids running together, shouting to each other, laughing, pushing and shoving in that playful way friends did, something inside him twisted. He wished he could join them.
He used to ask if he could join them, once. Back when he was younger, back when he still had hope that maybe someone would say yes.

But the answer was always the same.

“No, go away.”

“We don’t want you here.”

“My friend says you’re weird.”

So eventually, he stopped asking. He learned to keep to himself, to find ways to pass the time that didn’t require anyone else. He would sit by the fence, picking at the grass, listening to the sound of play all around him but never quite part of it.

He hunched his shoulders, staring down at the ground, trying not to look at them, trying not to think about how much he wished he wasn’t alone. But then, just as he was beginning to lose himself in his own thoughts, a shadow loomed over him.

“Well, well,” came a familiar, sneering voice. “Look who it is. Little Harry No-Friends.”

The words made his stomach clench before he even looked up. He knew that voice. He knew what was coming before he even saw the plump, smug face above him.

Dudley.

And, of course, he wasn’t alone. Piers Polkiss was right beside him, his rat-like face twisted into a smirk, and behind them, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon- Dudley’s usual gang- stood snickering, watching him like a pack of dogs waiting for their leader to give the command.

Harry exhaled sharply, flicking away the blade of grass he had been twisting between his fingers. He didn’t want to deal with this right now. He just wanted to be left alone.

“Go away, Dudley,” he said, his voice flat, tired.

Dudley snorted. “Or what? Gonna go cry to a teacher?”

Harry didn’t bother answering. He couldn’t go to a teacher. He’d learned long ago that it wouldn’t do any good. Even when they did believe him over Dudley- and that was rare- it only made things worse later, especially at home.

When Harry didn’t react, Dudley took a step closer, leaned down and prodded him sharply in the shoulder, his thick fingers jabbing into Harry’s thin frame. “What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?”

Harry swatted his hand away and pushed himself up to his feet, brushing off his trousers. “I said, go away.”

Dudley’s gang cackled at that, their eyes lighting up at the idea that Harry thought he could stand up to them. Dudley, however, just grinned, his piggy little eyes glinting with amusement.

“Oh! Look at that! Little freak thinks he can boss me around.”

Piers laughed. “Maybe he thinks he’s normal, like us.”

Dudley chuckled, puffing up his chest as he turned to the others. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?” His grin stretched wider, turning wicked. “Time to remind him.”

Before Harry could even take a step back, Dudley shoved him-hard.

Harry stumbled, the force of the push sending him further back, but he refused to let them see that it hurt. He refused to give them the satisfaction.

“What’s the matter?” Dudley jeered, stepping closer. “Too weak to fight back?”

Harry gritted his teeth and moved to step around him, but Dudley was faster, blocking his path before jabbing him in the shoulder again. It wasn’t enough to knock him over, just enough to make him stumble, just enough to make him look weak.

“Hey,” Dudley said suddenly, glancing over his shoulder at his gang, his grin widening. “You lot up for a game?”

Piers perked up, grinning. “What kind of game?”

Dudley’s smirk was cruel. “Harry Tag.”

Harry’s stomach twisted into a knot.

He knew what that meant.

Before he could react, the others whooped in excitement, already stepping into place, eyes locked onto him like a pack of wolves. His heartbeat stuttered in his chest, and for a brief second, he stood frozen, his brain scrambling for a way out, for an escape-

Then, as Dudley took a step closer, Harry turned on his heel and ran.

Laughter erupted behind him, followed by pounding footsteps as they surged after him.

“Get him!” Dudley bellowed, his voice thick with amusement.

Harry’s heart pounded, his legs burning as he sprinted across the schoolyard, dodging past a group of younger kids who barely noticed the chase. His breath came fast and sharp, but he pushed himself harder, knowing he had to stay ahead.

He could hear them closing in- the heavy thudding of Dudley’s feet, the sharp breaths of Piers right behind him.

He had to run faster.

The world around Harry blurred as he ran, his feet pounding against the dry grass and concrete, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. His heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might burst right out of his chest, but he didn’t dare slow down. The sound of footsteps behind him was relentless- Dudley and his gang were gaining on him.

His lungs ached, but he forced himself to keep running, weaving through the schoolyard. He knew what would happen if they caught him. Dudley had played Harry Tag before, and it always ended the same way- Harry curled up on the ground, breathless, bruised, and aching, while Dudley and his gang stood over him. He couldn’t let that happen today.

The wind rushed past his face as he neared the back of the school, where an old brick building stood slightly apart from the rest. It was quieter back here- most of the other kids didn’t play in this area, and the teachers rarely came by. The only sounds were the distant echoes of children’s laughter and the furious pounding of his own heartbeat.

He could hear Dudley getting closer, his heavy footsteps crunching on the grass behind him.

Panic clawed at his chest. His body screamed for him to stop, to rest, but he couldn’t. He could already hear Dudley’s wheezing breath, Gordon’s cruel laughter-

He had to get away- He had to-

A loud crack split the air.

For a split second, Harry thought the ground had given way beneath him. The world lurched, his stomach flipped, and suddenly-

Everything changed.

The pounding footsteps behind him vanished. The shouting and laughter of Dudley’s gang became muffled, distant. The air around him felt different- thinner, cooler.

And then he realised.

He wasn’t running anymore.

He wasn’t even on the ground.

His heart nearly stopped. He was on the roof of the brick building.

He stood there, frozen, his breath caught in his throat, his arms slightly outstretched as if afraid the slightest movement would send him tumbling off the edge. His shoes scraped against the rough, slanted tiles, and the moment he looked down, his stomach twisted so violently he thought he might be sick.

The schoolyard stretched below him, the ground impossibly far away.

His hands trembled as he took a step back, his knees threatening to buckle beneath him. He had no idea how he had gotten up here. One moment he had been running, his legs burning, his mind screaming for an escape, and the next- this.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe, but his chest felt tight. This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t possible. People didn’t just- just appear on rooftops.

“What the- where did he go?!”

Harry’s breath caught as Dudley’s voice rang out from below. He carefully inched forward on the roof, peering over the edge.

Dudley and his gang stood in the grass below, their heads swivelling in all directions. Piers was frowning, looking around in confusion, while Malcolm scratched his head.

“I swear he was right there,” Gordon muttered.

Dudley turned in a slow circle, his face flushed with frustration. “He couldn’t have just disappeared!”

“Well, he’s not here,” Piers said, scowling. “Maybe he ran behind the building?”

Dudley hesitated, his hands on his hips, before finally jerking his head toward the other side of the school. “Come on! He can’t have gotten far!”

The group muttered in agreement, and within seconds, they were running off again, disappearing into the school yard.

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Relief washed over him, so strong his legs nearly gave out. They were gone. He was safe.

But then another thought hit him, one that made his stomach twist all over again.

How on earth was he supposed to get down?

He glanced around wildly, searching for something- anything- that could help. But there was no ladder, no drainpipe within reach. The roof sloped steeply on all sides, and the drop to the ground was far too high to even consider jumping.

He was stuck.

A nervous shiver ran through him as he carefully edged away from the drop, sitting down on the rough tiles. His mind was still spinning, trying to make sense of what had just happened. One moment he had been running for his life, the next he had heard that crack- and then this.

His fingers curled into the fabric of his trousers as he swallowed hard.

“What just happened?”

-

The lunch bell was only a few minutes away from ringing when Harry heard the voice that made his stomach drop.

“Harry!? How on earth did you get up there?!”

His breath caught in his throat as he flinched at the sound of his name. Slowly, hesitantly, he inched forward on the roof and peered down.

Mrs. Marshall stood at the base of the building, her dark eyes wide with shock as she craned her neck to look up at him. Her tan face wasn’t twisted in anger, nor did she look like she was about to scold him for climbing somewhere he shouldn’t be. Instead, her expression was one of genuine worry, her lips slightly parted, her eyebrows drawn together in concern.

Harry swallowed hard, he had no idea what to say.

“I- I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice small.

Mrs. Marshall blinked at him, clearly taken aback. “You don’t know?”

Harry hesitated. He could lie. Say he climbed up here on purpose. Say he wanted to get away from Dudley and his gang. But the truth was, he hadn’t climbed. He couldn’t even begin to explain what had happened.

So he just shook his head.

Mrs. Marshall’s concern deepened. She glanced around the emptying schoolyard, as if looking for anyone else who might have seen, then back up at him. “Alright, hang tight,” she said, before turning on her heel and briskly walking towards a building.

Harry exhaled shakily, shifting where he sat. He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or more anxious. At least she wasn’t yelling at him. But now she was going to get help, which meant more people were going to see him stuck up here.

Within a few minutes, she returned with Mr. Evans, the school caretaker, an older man with thinning gray hair and a gruff but not unkind demeanor. He was carrying a long wooden ladder, which he positioned carefully against the side of the building before looking up at Harry with a raised brow.

“Well, lad,” he said, his voice rough. “This is a new one. Usually, I’m getting footballs off the roof, not students.”

Harry’s face burned with embarrassment, but he said nothing as Mr. Evans steadied the ladder and gestured for him to climb down.

He moved slowly, his legs stiff, his hands gripping the sides tightly. His body still felt light, as if he hadn’t quite come back to himself yet, and the sensation made his stomach churn. When his feet finally touched the ground, he let out a breath of relief, resisting the urge to rub his shaking hands on his trousers.

Mrs. Marshall, who had been watching him the whole time, stepped forward. “Are you hurt?” she asked, her voice quieter now, gentle.

Harry shook his head, avoiding her gaze.

There was a pause, and then, “Harry, how did you get up there?”

He hesitated, staring at the grass beneath his shoes. He could feel both of them waiting for his answer- Mrs. Marshall, patient but expectant, and Mr. Evans, mildly curious but not overly concerned.

But what was he supposed to say? That he was running from Dudley, and then suddenly wasn’t on the ground anymore?

“…I don’t know,” he muttered again, his voice barely above a whisper.

Mrs. Marshall studied him carefully, but whatever she was thinking, she didn’t say it. After a long moment, she gave a small nod. “Alright,” she said simply, before glancing at Mr. Evans. “Thank you, Mr. Evans. I’ll take him to class.”

The caretaker hummed in acknowledgment, hoisting the ladder back into his grip. “Try to keep both feet on the ground from now on, alright, lad?” he said with a faint smirk before heading off.

Harry nodded, though he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to keep something like this from happening again- especially when he didn’t even understand how it had happened in the first place.

Mrs. Marshall didn’t say anything as they started walking toward the classroom, but her presence beside him felt strangely comforting. She wasn’t rushing him. She wasn’t scolding him. She wasn’t telling him he was making things up, the way Aunt Petunia might have.

He liked Mrs Marshall.

-

The next morning, Harry entered the classroom with a quiet sense of relief. No one had mentioned what had happened yesterday- not Dudley, not his friends, not Mrs. Marshall. He had half-expected her to pull him aside, to ask again how he had gotten on the roof, but she didn’t. Instead, she greeted the class as usual, standing at the front of the room with her warm, steady presence.

“Good morning, everyone,” she said, clapping her hands lightly to get their attention. “Since it’s Friday, you all know what that means- Creative Day!”

Excited murmurs rippled through the classroom. Creative Day was different from their usual lessons- it was the one time of the week where they got to paint, build things, and let their imaginations run wild. Even Harry, who often kept to himself, felt a flicker of excitement.

Mrs. Marshall smiled at the enthusiasm before continuing, “For the first half of the day, we’re going to be drawing. And today’s activity is something special- we’re going to draw our rooms. But there’s a twist.” She leaned forward slightly, her voice taking on a playful tone. “You’re not just going to draw them as they are. You’re going to draw them exactly how you’d want them to be. You can add anything you like- maybe a giant slide instead of a door, or a swimming pool in the middle of the floor! Let your imagination take over.”

As she spoke, she began setting out stacks of thick card paper and small trays of pastels on every table. The scent of chalky pigment filled the air, and Harry’s fingers twitched with anticipation.

He could already picture it in his head- his room, but better. Bigger. Not the small, dark cupboard under the stairs, but a real room. A proper one, like the kind Dudley had. Maybe even better than Dudley’s.

As soon as the supplies were in front of him, Harry got to work. He started with the shape of the room, making sure it had four proper walls and a big window that let in lots of light. He added a bed- a real one, not the thin, scratchy mattress on the floor of his cupboard. It had fluffy pillows and a thick blanket, the kind that looked warm and soft. He coloured the walls blue, the way he imagined the sky would look on a bright, sunny day.

Then he added more. A bookshelf, stacked with stories he could lose himself in. A toy chest filled with things just for him, not Dudley’s old broken toys. A small desk where he could sit and draw whenever he wanted. And, in the corner, lined up neatly, his little army of toy horses, standing tall and proud.

For the first time in a while, Harry felt truly absorbed in something. The rest of the classroom faded into the background, the usual noise of chatter and scraping chairs barely registering in his mind. He focused on every detail, layering colours, shading carefully, making this imagined version of his room feel real.

But then a familiar voice broke through his concentration.

“That’s wonderful, Harry.”

Harry’s hand paused mid-stroke. He looked up to see Mrs. Marshall standing beside his desk yet again, her expression warm but curious as she studied his drawing.

He swallowed, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Thanks,” he mumbled, gripping the pastel in his hand.

She smiled and knelt slightly so she could see his work better. “I love how much thought you’ve put into it. The details are amazing. Can you tell me about it?”

Harry hesitated, glancing at the picture before looking back at her. “It’s my room,” he said, then hesitated before adding, “Well… it’s how I want my room to be.”

Mrs. Marshall’s smile didn’t falter, but there was something in her eyes- something sharp, thoughtful. “Oh? And what makes this version different from your real room?”

Harry blinked at the question. It seemed obvious to him, but he supposed she wouldn’t know. He glanced at the drawing again, his fingers absentmindedly smudging a bit of pastel on the edge of the paper.

“This one’s proper,” he said simply. “It’s a real room.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

He hadn’t meant to say that. He hadn’t meant to tell her that.

Mrs. Marshall didn’t react immediately. But Harry saw it- the way her eyebrows furrowed, just slightly, the way her lips pressed together in a way that wasn’t quite a frown but wasn’t nothing, either.

“A real room?” she repeated, her voice still gentle, but now laced with something else. Concern.

Harry tensed. He quickly shrugged, as if brushing it off. “Yeah. But I like this one better,” he said, nodding at his drawing in an attempt to change the subject.

Mrs. Marshall didn’t push, but her expression remained thoughtful. She nodded slowly, then tapped the edge of his paper lightly with her finger. “Well, I think it’s a wonderful room, Harry,” she said. “And I think you deserve a space that makes you happy.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that.

He just nodded, feeling an odd tightness in his chest as Mrs. Marshall gave him one last thoughtful glance before moving on to check the next student’s work.

For the rest of the lesson, Harry tried to focus on finishing his drawing. But his mind kept drifting back to Mrs. Marshall’s reaction.

Had he said too much?

Would she ask him more questions later?

Would she tell someone?

He could only hope she’d forget about it. Just like she had forgotten about the roof.

But deep down, something told him that Mrs. Marshall didn’t forget things that easily.

Chapter Text

The supermarket was loud and bustling, the hum of conversation blending with the clatter of carts and the beeping of checkouts. Aunt Petunia strode ahead with her usual sharp efficiency, her heels clicking against the linoleum as she scanned the shelves.

Harry trailed behind, gripping the handle of the trolley tightly, careful to push it at just the right pace- fast enough to keep up, but not so fast that he risked bumping into her. Dudley, of course, had no such concerns. He bounced ahead, grabbing snacks at random and tossing them into the cart, barely looking at what he was taking.

Aunt Petunia never scolded him for it.

But Harry?

“Faster, boy,” Aunt Petunia snapped without even glancing at him.
Harry bit the inside of his cheek and quickened his steps, manoeuvring the trolley as best he could.

The aisle was narrow, and a woman pushing her own cart passed by, forcing Harry to adjust his path slightly. It was a tiny movement, barely a second’s hesitation, but Aunt Petunia noticed. She always noticed.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, do try not to look so clueless!” she hissed, her voice sharp and cutting. “You’re embarrassing yourself. Honestly, it’s bad enough I have to be seen with you looking like that-”

She stopped abruptly, turning to look at him fully now, her eyes narrowing.

“Just look at you,” she said, her voice dropping to a scathing whisper. “Messy hair, shirt all untucked, sleeves wrinkled- do you even try to look presentable? Or do you like looking like a scruffy little disaster?”

Harry’s fingers tightened around the trolley handle.

It didn’t matter that his clothes had been clean when he left the house. It didn’t matter that his hair never lay flat no matter how much he tried to smooth it down. It didn’t matter that he had been careful not to get in her way.

Aunt Petunia always found something wrong.

“People are looking, you know,” she continued, her voice low but vicious. “They’re seeing what a mess you are. They’re wondering why I even bother bringing you out in public. Ungrateful little burden-”

Dudley snickered beside her, stuffing a handful of crisps from an open bag into his mouth. “Maybe they think he’s a stray we picked up off the street,” he said thickly through his chewing.

Harry’s throat felt tight, his vision blurring slightly. He blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears come.

But she was right about one thing. People were looking.

A man browsing the canned goods shot them a quick glance before looking away. A woman with a toddler in her cart frowned slightly as she passed. A teenage girl near the end of the aisle barely spared them a second glance, but Harry could still feel the weight of everyone’s silent judgment pressing down on him.

They all heard her.

They all saw.

Heat crawled up the back of his neck, shame curling in his stomach like something rotten. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to melt into the floor, slip between the cracks of the tiles, vanish

“Hello there, Harry. Dudley.”

The voice was warm, familiar.

Harry’s breath caught.

Slowly, hesitantly, he turned his head- and there, standing at the other end of the aisle, was Mrs. Marshall.

She was holding a shopping basket, dressed in a simple jumper and jeans, looking nothing like a teacher and yet exactly the same. Her warm brown eyes met his, and in an instant, he knew she had heard everything.

His chest tightened.

His eyes were still wet, but he refused to let the tears fall.

Mrs. Marshall’s gaze flickered to Aunt Petunia, her expression unreadable. Then, just as quickly, she looked back at him, her face softening into a small, kind smile.

“Fancy seeing you two here,” she said lightly, as if she hadn’t just walked in on something awful. “How are you?”

Harry opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Aunt Petunia stiffened beside him, her posture going rigid, her fingers clenching around the shopping cart handle.

“Oh,” she said, her voice instantly changing- sweet and airy, but stretched so thin that it nearly snapped. “You must be their teacher.”

Mrs. Marshall nodded, her gaze flicking between them. “That’s right. It’s lovely to see you again, Harry, Dudley.”

Harry swallowed. His throat felt dry. Dudley, on the other hand, just grunted, stuffing another crisp into his mouth.

Aunt Petunia, of course, ignored his rudeness completely.

“Oh, Dudley just adores your class,” she said, placing a proud hand on his shoulder and giving him a little shake as if he were a prize to be shown off. “Always coming home talking about how much he enjoys school, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Dudley didn’t respond, too busy licking cheese dust off his fingers.

Harry doubted that was true. Dudley never talked about school unless he was complaining about something or bragging about getting away with not doing work.

Mrs. Marshall, to her credit, smiled politely, but there was something about her expression- something knowing, like she could see through every false word Aunt Petunia was saying.

“And Harry?” she asked, glancing at him. “How are you enjoying class?”

Aunt Petunia let out a clipped, forced laugh before he could even think of answering.

“Oh, well, Harry- he’s a quiet one,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “Always off in his own little world.”

Harry lowered his gaze, his fingers gripping the trolley tighter.

Mrs. Marshall didn’t reply right away.

Instead, she simply looked at him.

Not through him, not past him- at him.

Then, just as gently, she smiled.

“Well,” she said, “it was lovely running into you all. I’ll see you in class on Monday.”

And with that, she turned and walked away.

Harry exhaled slowly, the knot in his chest still tight.

“Move,” Aunt Petunia ordered, her tone sharp once more.

Harry obeyed, pushing the trolley forward.

But even as he walked, he could still feel Mrs. Marshall’s kind gaze lingering on him. And he didn’t know what to do with that.

-

The week after the supermarket incident was unbearable.

Harry had thought things were bad before, but now it was as if Aunt Petunia had made it her mission to drain every ounce of energy he had. The moment he stepped foot inside the house after school, he was put to work. Scrubbing the kitchen floor until his arms ached, weeding the garden in the freezing cold, washing Dudley’s clothes by hand because Aunt Petunia suddenly decided the washing machine was “too good” for him to use. Even when he finished one task, another was immediately thrown at him, and if he hesitated- even for a second- he’d be met with a sharp voice of anger.

Meals were taken away entirely. Not reduced, not made smaller- gone. He was still expected to cook breakfast and dinner for the family, but if he so much as lingered near the food after setting the plates down, Aunt Petunia would send him a glare sharp enough to cut through stone. His stomach ached constantly, a deep, hollow pain that made it hard to think, and by the end of the week, he felt lightheaded every time he stood up too fast.

Dudley, of course, was delighted by Harry’s suffering. He smirked whenever Harry struggled to keep up with his chores, casually stuck out a foot to trip him when Aunt Petunia wasn’t looking, and once, when Harry had dropped a plate from exhaustion, Dudley had laughed as Aunt Petunia screeched at him for being “clumsy” and sent him to bed without a single scrap of food.

By Friday, Harry was exhausted beyond belief. His limbs felt heavy, his eyelids drooped no matter how hard he tried to stay awake, and he couldn’t even find it in himself to feel relieved when he stepped into the classroom. Normally, school was the slightly better part of his day, but now, all he wanted to do was crawl under his desk and sleep for hours.

And Mrs. Marshall had started noticing.

At first, it was little things- how Harry barely seemed to listen during lessons, his gaze fixed on his desk as if lost in thought. Then, when he did focus, it wasn’t for long. His head would droop forward, his body swaying slightly, and once or twice, she’d caught him actually asleep during quiet reading time.

She also noticed how different he was compared to Dudley. While Dudley was loud, always chatting away with his friends and making himself the centre of attention, Harry was quiet. He never spoke unless spoken to, never joined in with the other kids at lunch, never raised his hand in class. And unlike Dudley, who never missed an opportunity to pull faces and laugh, Harry never smiled. Not once.

Then there were the other things. The way he flinched whenever voices were raised, how he tensed if someone moved too quickly around him, how he recoiled slightly when she rested a hand on his desk. And one thing she couldn’t ignore- the fact that she had never, not once, seen him eat a proper lunch.

Her concern had been growing steadily, but now, it was becoming undeniable.

Something was going on.

-

The classroom was filled with the quiet hum of students working, pencils scratching against paper, the occasional hushed conversation floating through the air. At one of the tables, Mrs. Marshall leaned over a student’s maths worksheet, her voice calm and patient as she pointed to a mistake.

“See here?” she tapped lightly on the page with her red pen. “You’ve taken away five from twelve, which is right, but here you’ve written six instead of- ?” She waited for the student to answer the rest of the problem.
Chewing on their bottom lip as they squinted at the problem. “Um… oh! It’s s’posed to be… six?”

“That’s right!” Mrs. Marshall’s smile was warm and encouraging. “Remember, if you’re ever unsure, you can always count backwards on your fingers. Nothing wrong with double-checking your work.”

The student nodded eagerly, quickly erasing their mistake and rewriting the correct answer. Mrs. Marshall patted their paper lightly. “Keep going, you’re doing great,” she said before turning her attention back to the rest of the class.

Across the room, Harry sat at his table, barely holding himself upright. His chin rested heavily in his palm, elbow propped against the desk, and his eyelids kept fluttering shut despite his best efforts. His body ached with exhaustion, a dull, persistent weight that made it feel like his limbs were made of lead. His brain was sluggish, struggling to make sense of the numbers in front of him. He had started the maths worksheet with the best intentions, but by question three, he had simply given up, his pencil lying abandoned on his paper. His vision blurred as he stared blankly at the page, his mind too drained to force itself to work through the numbers.

He was just so tired.

Dudley, however, had plenty of energy.

Harry was too out of it to notice his cousin shifting closer across the room, that cruel smirk curling on his pudgy face. He didn’t even realise Dudley had his pencil out until- jab!

A sharp poke to his side made Harry jolt, a startled yelp escaping his lips before he could stop it. His heart leapt into his throat, his head snapping toward Dudley, who sat there grinning, pencil still raised from where he had just jabbed it into Harry’s ribs.

“Feeling sleepy, Harry?” Dudley whispered, his voice quiet enough that no one else could hear over the classroom murmurs. “S’pose you didn’t eat enough last night, did you?” He snickered.

Harry stiffened, swallowing hard. He turned away, ignoring him.

Another poke.

Harry flinched.

Another.

And another.

His jaw tightened as Dudley now started lightly hitting and poking him, at his arm, his shoulder- each hit and jab light but persistent, just enough to irritate him.

“Bet you’re starving, huh?” Dudley continued in a singsong whisper. “Probably dreaming about food. I had loads for dinner last night. Loads. Mum made pudding too. It was so good. Did you have some, Harry? Oh, wait-” he let out a mocking gasp, “you probably don’t even know what pudding tastes like.”

Harry’s fingers curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms.

Dudley snickered again. “What’s wrong? You don’t like me touching you? You don’t like me reminding you that you’re-”

Hit.

“-a pathetic little-”

Smack.

“-freak-”

“Stop it!”

Harry’s voice, sharp and louder than intended, sliced through the classroom noise like a knife.

The room fell silent.

Mrs. Marshall’s head snapped up.

And the moment her eyes landed on them, her usually warm expression hardened.

“Uh- excuse me, Dudley!” she called out, her voice firm, unwavering. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The silence deepened. Every student froze, eyes darting between their teacher and Dudley, who had now gone rigid, his face paling slightly.

Harry himself stiffened, his heart still hammering in his chest. He had never heard Mrs. Marshall speak like that before.

Dudley swallowed. “Uhm-”

But Mrs. Marshall didn’t let him finish. “We do not hit our classmates,” she stated, her voice clipped and precise. “That is unacceptable behaviour.”

Dudley sat there, stunned. He wasn’t used to being told off- especially not in front of the entire class.

Mrs. Marshall stared him down, her sharp gaze unwavering. “I want to never see you do that again. Do you understand?”

Dudley’s mouth opened and closed, his chubby fingers twitching at his sides. Eventually, he gave a stiff, reluctant nod.

But she wasn’t done yet.

Standing up, she strode toward the front of the classroom, picked up a whiteboard pen, and, with a single flourish, wrote Dudley’s name in big, bold letters on the board.

“This is your warning,” she said, turning back to him. “If I see anything like that again today, you will be going to the office. Is that clear?”

Dudley’s face burned red, his entire body stiff with humiliation. He gave another small nod.

Mrs. Marshall’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before she nodded, satisfied. “Good.” Then, as if the whole event had never happened, she walked to her desk and sat down. “Now, go back to your work, please.”

To Harry’s absolute shock, Dudley actually listened. Without another word, he turned back to his his desk, sat down and started writing, his head bowed, his entire demeanour changed.

Harry blinked, still processing what had just happened.

He wasn’t used to this. He wasn’t used to anyone standing up for him, much less scolding Dudley of all people.

The whole thing had been shocking… but also, strangely enough, nice.

Kind of amusing, even.

-

The afternoon sun shone brightly over the playground, casting long shadows over the patches of grass where children sat eating their lunches. The air was filled with chatter, laughter, and the occasional shriek from a game of tag. But Harry wasn’t paying attention to any of it. He was still feeling a little annoyed about what had happened earlier with Dudley. Even though Mrs. Marshall had actually told him off- which was a miracle in itself- it didn’t change the fact that Dudley had still managed to get under his skin.

It wasn’t even the poking or the teasing that had bothered him the most. He was used to that. It was just how easy it was for Dudley to get away with things. The way he could do whatever he wanted and still be the one who got all the attention, all the praise. Even when he got in trouble, it was never real trouble. He would go home, probably whine about it to Aunt Petunia, and she’d just coddle him and tell him it wasn’t his fault. Meanwhile, Harry would still be the one getting scolded over every little thing- whether it was something as small as just existing in the wrong place at the wrong time. The whole thing just left a bitter feeling in his chest.

So now he sat alone on a worn wooden bench near the edge of the playground, away from the loud groups of kids sitting in circles or running across the yard. His legs dangled just above the ground, and in his hands, he held a small plastic packet of dry crackers- his lunch. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing he supposed. He nibbled on one absentmindedly, the bland, dry taste doing little to ease the emptiness in his stomach.

A few feet away, he could see Dudley with his gang, laughing loudly as they stuffed their faces with sandwiches, crisps, and chocolate bars. He didn’t stare for long- there was no point. If Dudley noticed him watching, he’d probably make a scene about it. Harry was already in a bad enough mood without giving his cousin another reason to bother him.

He sighed and broke off another small piece of cracker when a shadow passed over him. He glanced up just as Mrs. Marshall approached.

“Hello, Harry,” she greeted warmly, her voice light yet deliberate.

Harry blinked up at her before swallowing the bite of cracker in his mouth. “Hi,” he said, his voice quiet.

Mrs. Marshall didn’t leave right away. Instead, she observed him for a moment, her eyes flickering over the small packet of crackers in his lap before she spoke again.

“I wanted to have a chat about what happened earlier,” she said, crouching slightly to be at his level. “But first, are you okay?”

Harry paused mid-motion, his hand hovering over the packet of crackers. No one ever asked him that. He gave a short nod and quickly looked back down, feeling weirdly self-conscious.

Mrs. Marshall studied him for a moment longer before continuing. “Does Dudley pick on you a lot? I can’t help but notice.”

Harry stiffened slightly. His fingers clenched around the plastic wrapper as his mind raced. He had never been asked something like that before- not by an adult, at least. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say. If he told the truth, would she tell Aunt Petunia? Would things get worse at home?

So he said nothing. Instead, he just shrugged, his eyes trained on the ground.

Mrs. Marshall didn’t push, but there was something thoughtful in her expression. “Well… do you have any friends you play with?”

Harry hesitated. Lying would be pointless. He shook his head.

A silence stretched between them, the shouts of children playing in the background seeming distant. Mrs. Marshall didn’t fill the space with forced words or meaningless reassurances. Instead, she simply sat down beside him, leaving just enough space so he didn’t feel crowded.

“Why do you sit alone?” she asked after a while, her voice still gentle.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “Just do,” he mumbled, breaking off another small piece of cracker but not eating it.

Mrs. Marshall nodded slowly, as if considering his answer. “Do you like being on your own?”

He gave another shrug, keeping his gaze fixed downward.

She sighed softly, but there was no frustration in it- just understanding. “You know, I used to sit alone at school sometimes too,” she said, her tone light, as if she were sharing a small secret. “Not because I wanted to, but because I wasn’t sure how to make friends. It can be hard sometimes, can’t it?”

Harry didn’t respond, but he shifted slightly, listening.

Mrs. Marshall waited a moment before continuing. “I think you’re a very kind boy, Harry. And I think there are plenty of kids who would like to get to know you.”

Harry felt his stomach twist at that. He doubted it. No one ever wanted to get to know him. They all listened to Dudley, and Dudley made sure no one ever spoke to him.

Mrs. Marshall didn’t say anything more right away, as if giving him space to process her words. Then, after a moment, she glanced at the crackers in his lap.

“Is that all you have for lunch?” she asked casually.

Harry stiffened slightly before nodding.

Mrs. Marshall’s brow furrowed for just a second, but before he could wonder what she was thinking, she simply smiled and said, “Well, I won’t keep you from it, then. But if you ever need someone to talk to, Harry, I’m here. Okay?”

Harry hesitated but eventually nodded.

She didn’t get up right away, though. Instead, she glanced around at the bustling playground before looking back at him. “You know, if you don’t want to stay out here by yourself, you’re welcome to come sit inside with me.”

Harry looked up at her, a little surprised.

Mrs. Marshall smiled gently. “You don’t have to, of course. But if you’d rather be inside, you can bring your lunch and keep me company for a bit.”

Harry hesitated, glancing down at his crackers. Sitting outside wasn’t exactly enjoyable, but going inside with her felt… unfamiliar. He wasn’t sure what to think of it.

Still, after a few moments of consideration, he found himself giving a small nod.

Mrs. Marshall’s smile widened slightly, and she stood up. “Alright then. Come on.”

Harry grabbed his packet of crackers and quietly followed her back inside.