Chapter Text
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense. In fact, the same could be said for everyone who lived in Privet Drive.
Everyone, except the very strange man who has just moved into number three.
He had the most hideous run-down blue car parked outside that Vernon Dursley and the other men of Privet Drive would scoff about at the pub. Petunia Dursley had been the first to point out a lack of wife or children, which fueled all sorts of scandalous gossiping amongst her book club. He was polite enough, reported Sandra Polkiss, who had cornered him in the bread aisle at the shop and all but interrogated him. However, she said, he had the most ghastly scars that she had ever seen. When she had very politely asked about them, he told her that he had been in a very terrible motorcycling accident. This explained that while he was young-looking (thirty, according to Sandra), he seemed to hobble around tiredly and, most days, carried a wooden walking stick with him.
"He works as a teacher at some boarding school," Sandra told them. By now, all of their books had been long discarded.
"Hm. Did he tell you why he moved here?" Petunia Dursley asked, who didn't ah in pity like the other women had. In fact, she had a very suspicious look and, these last few days, was frequently found hiding behind her curtains- watching the house across from hers with the sharpness of a hawk.
"He said he had family nearby."
Petunia pursed her lips as if eating a sour lemon.
"Odd man," Tammy Taylor hummed, despite also being found watching number three from behind a curtain, although for a very different reason if her flushed cheeks had anything to say about it. "That John Smith,"
A series of light steps trickled down the staircase, a sign it was neither Vernon nor Dudley Dursley, and sure enough, Petunia Dursley's nephew poked his head through the living room door.
Harry Potter had always been such a strange boy around Privet Drive. He hadn't made friends with any other children on the street and hardly ever left the house. And when he was spotted around, it was with his head down and a terribly gloomy look across his face. Recently, though, ever since his week trip to a (according to Mr. Dursley) "special camp" for "touched children," he had come back without whatever chip was on his shoulder.
"Aunt Petunia," he said, politely smiling at the group of ladies. "I'm going to R—Mr. Smith's. I'll be back later."
Petunia's eye twitched.
"Take the bins on your way out," She told him.
"Yes, Aunt Petunia!" He beamed before rushing off.
"He's an odd boy, your nephew," Sandra Polkiss mused. "But he is awful helpful,"
"That camp really did sort him out," Tammy Taylor nodded along.
"But what is he doing at number three?" Mary Thomas asked with curiously blinking eyes. She was the quietest of the group but arguably the loudest gossip and the first to jump to a conclusion (usually scandalous). Last year, she called the police of Jenny Davies, accusing her of embezzling from the Girl Guides fund because she had a pair of new pearl earrings.
"He cuts the grass and cleans the house," Petunia told them, eyeing her nephew as he returned with the kitchen bin bag. He waved at her brightly, and Petunia placed her mug on the side table a little too hard. "He says Mr. Smith struggles to move around," she said.
"What a lovely boy you're raising, Petunia!" Jen Owen fawned. She was now the second newest edition to Privet Drive and had been trying to get in Petunia's good books for quite some time—desperate to be invited to her annual end-of-summer holiday barbecue.
Petunia didn't say anything for a minute before a stiff smile forced its way onto her face.
"Hm. Have I told you about Dudley's new obsession with American Football?"
Outside of number four, away from Petunia Dursleys "book club" Harry Potter opened the front door to number three. The home of "John Smith" or Remus Lupin, as Harry knows him.
"Remus!" He called, letting the door swing shut behind him. "I finally escaped!"
Harry's Aunt spent so much of her day creating images in her head of all the freakish and magical horrors within the house opposite her, but nothing could prepare her for what it was actually like. Music was always playing in every room, even the hall, coming from seemingly nowhere- and the side table where Remus kept his car keys in a little dish followed you around like an eager dog if you gave it too much attention. There were books that organized themselves piled up on the floor, and on any flat surface, a floating feather duster drifted around, keeping them clean. Harry had to duck to avoid one flying book about to go straight through his head as he made his way through the busy corridor.
The kitchen was covered in empty coffee mugs, takeaway containers, and chocolate wrappers. In fact, Harry hardly had to look at all for a mars bar; all he had to do was walk into the room- open a cabinet, and one just fell into his waiting hand. He ripped it open and took a big bite. It was perhaps the least exciting room, as magic didn't mix too well with all the muggle appliances fitted in, but Harry thought it was the room his Aunt would find the most offensive. Especially considering her kitchen was kept meticulously clean, in a constant state of gleaming.
"Are they still behaving themselves?" Remus called from the living room, and Harry wandered in, wiping his chocolatey hand on his jeans.
The living room had a two-seater sofa, an armchair, and a scuffed coffee table. But despite being quite bare in furniture, it was covered in thick quilts, blankets, and pillows- making it very cozy and homely. There was even a dark red beanbag with a dark blue starry blanket in the corner dubbed "Harry's seat." Harry had never had a "seat" before and quickly found he rather liked the concept. The fireplace was always on, giving the room a warm orange glow; the first thing Remus did when he moved in was unblock it and remove the faux electric one in its place. Apparently, wizards can travel by fireplace- Harry is desperate to give it a shot. Lining the shelf above the fireplace and the living room were moving pictures. Some were of a child who must have been Remus, standing between two people who must have been his parents. The rest were of Remus and Harry's mum and dad.
Harry had spent most of the last few days lounging on his beanbag (sometimes upside down), staring at those pictures. His mother was beautiful, with flaming red hair, pale, freckled skin, and, sure enough- green eyes that matched his exactly. She had a gap between her teeth that showed when she smiled widely (something she was doing in every picture), and she wore thick knitted sweaters that were charmed with dancing cats, falling stars, and bouncing bunnies.
Everything about her was magical.
The pictures of Harry's father began at the age of eleven (the age Harry is now) and ended at the age he died. Harry had to admit that he really was the spitting image of him. Harry's skin was a little lighter, but only just, and his thick, dark brown, almost black hair was just as wild. His second favorite picture of his father was of him at around fifteen, hanging upside down from a tree branch. He had a lopsided grin stretched across his face and was holding a little golden ball with wings between his fingers. A snitch, Remus had told him. A ball in a game wizards and witches play on brooms. The picture Harry loved most of his father, however, was of him just a few years older- holding a bundle of blankets that must have been Harry. He had tears in his eyes and a different kind of grin on his face, the type that wasn't in any of the other pictures. Harry hadn't even known it was possible to look that happy.
Another man appeared in some of the pictures. He was short, around the same height as Harry's mother when they stood side by side in the pictures. He had a round face, bright blue eyes, and light blonde hair. "Whose he?" Harry asked one day.
"Peter Pettigrew," Remus had replied. "He was one of your dad's best friends. They knew each other from even before Hogwarts,"
Harry hadn't needed to be told he was dead. The way Remus looked at the picture of him said enough. He looked at all the photos like that. Harry wanted to tell him that he could take them down, that he didn't have to live in a house of ghosts- but he didn't. Instead, Harry pretended it was his house. Filled with magic and with pictures of people who were ghosts, but ghosts who had loved him once.
"They're okay," Harry finally replied, swallowing the last of his chocolate.
Remus was kneeling in front of a cardboard box. His hair was messy, his flannel shirt and jeans were as scruffy as usual, and his eye bags were even darker.
"Define okay," Remus insisted. He lent away from the box and sent Harry a worried look that had the eleven-year-old rolling his eyes (although he couldn't stop the grin twitching on his lips because who knew nagging would feel so nice?).
"Dudley is still angry that I have his second bedroom, but Aunt Petunia gives him a cornetto every day he doesn't beat me up about it. Uncle Vernon pretends I don't exist, and Aunt Petunia spends less time making me do chores because she's too busy plotting ways to drive you out of Privet Drive." Harry folds his arms and raises his brow. "Happy?" he asked.
"Never," Remus replied teasingly. He shoved his arm back into the box and-
"Aha! Found it," Remus held up the book, and Harry laughed.
"Where did you even keep all your books? You have thousands."
Remus pushed himself off the ground with a groan, and Harry followed him out of the living room and up the stairs.
"I had a storage locker, and I do not have thousands," He huffed, and they made their way to his office. Which was really just a room with a shabby desk and chair and even more stacks of books on the floor. There were boxes of rolled-up scrolls, parchment paper with chicken scratch sprawled over it, half-empty ink pots, and feather quills everywhere. The neon green sticky notes stuck to the walls made a contrast to all the old-fashioned magical tools, and overall, the room looked like it belonged to a madman. In fact, Remus actually looked half-mad, collapsing onto his chair and frantically scanning the book he had grabbed from downstairs.
"Will you calm down already?" Harry asked. "You're going to be fine."
"I know I'm acting crazy," Remus groaned, slamming the book closed and dragging a hand down his face. "But this job is a big deal, Harry. Hogwarts is one of the most prestigious schools in the wizarding world. And somehow, I've become a Professor there, teaching a core subject. Merlin, I'm not even qualified for it!"
At this, Harry feels his inner Petunia urge him to smack Remus around the head. He doesn't, of course. Instead, he balls up a ball of discarded scrap parchment and throws it at him. "Professor Dumbledore said that you knew just as much if not more, than any other Defense Against The Dark Arts Professor he has ever hired. It's only because of stupid wizards and their stupid ignorance that you don't have any official qualifications. But he worked his way around that, so you don't even have to worry about it!"
"Fuck and that . It's only because of Dumbledore I'm not on the werewolf register to begin with. If any of the students find out, it would ruin him. I'll go to Azkaban and- oh god, if I hurt one of the students-" Remus moved to pull his hair, and Harry quickly cut in.
"You're not going to hurt anyone," Harry told him. "And no one is going to find out, I'll help you,"
"You shouldn't have to worry about me, Harry. This is your first year at Hogwarts; you should spend it making friends, learning, and having fun!" Remus seemed to be stuck in whatever cycle of misery he was in, so Harry placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
"I'll spend it however I want. You're my friend, no matter what you are or who knows it."
Remus looks at Harry like he's looking at a ghost. Harry hates it when he does that.
"What's Azkaban?" Harry asked a second later in an attempt to change the conversation.
Very bizarrely, however, Remus's face shuts down, and he turns sharply away from Harry, going back to his book.
"Nothing. It's just a... It's just a prison." He takes a deep breath. "Listen," He said, turning back to Harry with a very much forced smile. "I'm going away for the weekend tomorrow, full moon-"
Harry tried to focus on whatever Remus was saying, but there was an irritating buzzing in the back of his head. All of a sudden, it became very hard to focus on anything other than the book Remus had been reading. Before he knew it, his hand moved towards the book, his finger hooking under a random page. He flipped it over and trailed his fingertip along the words before landing on one in particular.
Almost instantly, the buzzing went away, and so did the crawling tingle making its way up and down his arm.
"-what do you think?" Remus finished and then blinked at Harry's blank look. He followed Harry's finger, and simultaneously, their eyes landed on the word four.
"What time is it?" Harry asked.
"Quarter past one," He replied. "Are you-"
"Sorry, Remus, I've got to go do something," Harry jerked his hand away from the book and shook his head.
"What?" Remus asked, looking terribly confused.
"Don't know yet, but I'll see you around, alright?" He had the growing uneasy feeling that comes when you're running late for something.
Harry took off, and from the stairs, he called. "Good luck with the moon!"
"Thanks?" He heard Remus say to himself mildly before Harry swung open the door and jogged across the road to number four.
Aunt Petunia's book club had begun to disperse. The only person left was Jen Owen, who was hovering by the front door—probably trying to find a way to bring up the summer barbeque to Petunia.
"Aunt Petunia," Harry said, flashing Mrs. Owen a brief smile. "I, uh, think you need to go to the shop. We don't have... toilet roll."
"What are you-" Aunt Petunia cut herself off when she noticed Jen Owen was still standing there, smiling awkwardly. "Oh yes. I do need to go...to the shop. Sorry, Jen, I'll catch you next week," She grabbed the car keys and started shuffling Mrs. Owens out the door.
"But I was just going to ask-"
"Really must dash! Vernon will be back from work soon, and I should pick up Dudley a snack for after his little playdate at his friend's house. You know how growing boys get-"
The door shut behind them, and Harry sighed in relief. He could always count on his Aunt's unfounded petty dislike of pretty much any woman who wasn't exactly like her.
He went to the kitchen, filled the kettle with water, and put it on the hob. He got his stool from the cupboard under the sink and used it to reach the high shelf. He picked up a packet of custard creams, had a think, and put them back. Instead, he grabbed the raisin shortbread at the back and hopped down from the stool. He laid out the biscuits, teacups, saucers, a little milk jug, and his Aunt Petunia's pink tin of nice tea in the living room. He was just putting the kettle in a cozy when there was a gentle knock on the front door. He rushed to the door, kettle in hand, and when he opened it, he revealed a woman waiting for him.
She was the strangest woman Harry had ever seen. She had massive frizzy black hair that made her little head and frail body look even smaller. Her eyes were round and almost bulging out of her sunken sockets and made to look even odder by her glasses. They were as round as Harry's and unbelievably twice as thick. Her olive-toned skin was rich and tanned, her facial features sharp, and she was drowning in fabric. She was wearing two large knitted cardigans, scarves draped over her neck, wrapped around her hips, and tied around her head, acting as a headband to keep the mountain hair out of her face. She even had a shawl around her shoulders. Harry wondered how she wasn't sweating to death. She was covered head to toe in jewelry and beads, long dangly earrings, multiple in each ear, long necklaces, gold belts, and multiple gold bangles traveling all the way up her arms. She even had piercings in her nose, which Harry had never seen outside Remus's album covers.
"You forgot the sugar," She said, her voice raspy.
"The shortbreads a little stale, sorry," Harry replied.
Her eyes snapped to his because, until then, she had been looking through Harry rather than at him. They stared at each other for a minute but Harry felt very at peace under her magnifying eyes. For a second, it even felt like he was staring at himself.
Then, she tore her eyes away. Harry stepped to the side, and she hobbled into number four. She leaned heavily on a jeweled gold walking stick, more so than Remus does on his, and went straight to the living room. Harry set the kettle down on the coffee table, nipped into the kitchen to grab the floral sugar jar, and quickly joined her.
"My name is Sybil Trelawney. I am a Professor at Hogwarts," she told him as she selected a tea bag. Harry poured some hot water into her mug and paused over the jar of sugar. He looked at her, and she looked back. Harry hesitated just for a second and put four teaspoons of sugar into her drink. She smiled at him, and Harry relaxed.
"Professor Dumbledore asked me to visit. He also requested that I take you to buy your school supplies, although I don't much like crowds, and Diagon Alley can get busy. A colleague of mine will be around shortly to help with that."
Harry took a moment to think and then cleared his throat.
"What do you teach at Hogwarts?" He asked as she wasn't one of the teachers Remus had mentioned.
"I teach divination, a third-year elective," She answered, and Harry furred his brows.
"What's divination?" He asked, and Professor Trelawney smiled.
"It is the art of predicting the future."
Harry feels his heart race.
"The headmaster tells me you traveled to the other side of Britain in seven days because an owl told you to, " she said, idly stirring her tea.
"I did." Harry hadn't told anyone the truth, not even Remus. He told the headmaster, and the headmaster alone, that he saw things. Things that hadn't happened, and he seemed to take it in his stride. But judging by the looks he kept sending him it wasn't exactly normal- so Harry decided to leave it at that. How do you say that you made it all up inside your head? That you spoke to yourself and did things you don't remember doing? That sometimes, there's just a voice or a feeling that tells you to do something, and you actually do it. How do you say it all without sounding mad? The answer is you don't. Because the likely truth is, you are mad. As mad as a hatter.
"Do you like animals?" She asked, taking a sip.
"Not really," he said, but Professor Trelawney just continued to stare. She sat and waited expectantly and Harry scrambled around for something to say- to fill the awkward silence.
"Mrs. Figg, next door, has a lot of cats. She used to baby sit me when I was younger and I played with them, I feed them when she's away for the weekend too. I like them; they're clever." Harry smiled a little as the memories rushed through his head. "My Uncle's sister has a dog called Ripper. I don't like him, but it's not his fault. She doesn't treat him right, kicked him when he was a just a puppy and now she gives him treats when he tries to bite me. He's not a nice dog, but it's only because she's made him that way..." Harry chews on his bottom lip. "I mean, I know they're not animals, but I don't mind bugs and spiders and stuff either. People find them gross, but I think they're alright." He thinks about how for a while his only friends were the spiders in his cupboard under the stairs, or the worms in Aunt Petunia's flower beds. "And before I left for Dunnet Head, I went to the zoo for the first time. Seeing all the animals was pretty cool at first but really...it was a bit sad. You know, seeing them all locked up behind glass. Where people like my cousin can shout at them, scare them..."
Harry remembers standing in front of the snake enclosure. Dudley had been banging on the glass, scaring the snake away, before taking off to find something else to frighten. Harry had apologised for his pig-headed cousin and oddly enough the snake had perked up a little, tilting its head like it was listening. Harry asked where the snake was from, but he was still mainly talking to himself, when it turned its head to the left. Harry followed the snake's eyes and saw a sign. Bred in Captivity , it had read.
"I don't remember my real home either," Harry had whispered.
Dudley had come running back.
"Look Mummy! It's moving! Come see Piers!"
He pounded and pounded on the glass, frightening the snake and making it flinch back and try to hide. Harry remembers how angry he felt at his cousin, how furious he was. And then, Harry remembers how his fingers twitched, and how a second later the glass disappeared and Dudley who had been leaning on it- tumbled in head first. The snake had taken its chance for freedom and slithered out of the enclosure, landing on the ground with a thump.
"Thanksss," It hissed while looking at Harry, before making its escape.
Harry doesn't tell Professor Trelawney that though, because hearing one animal talk is strange enough.
"Hm." She eyed Harry, as if she knew he had more to say, but finally decided to let it go. "When you come to Hogwarts, you'll meet me every Friday after lunch. It's sorted out in your timetable and with your other teachers, so you won't have to worry about that,"
"Are you going to teach me to see the future?" Harry asked, blinking up at her.
"No. You can't teach anyone that, " she said bluntly, and Harry gaped a bit at her.
"But isn't that your job?" He asked, bewildered.
"You can teach people the theory, the method, how to guess- that's easy. I can do that in my sleep. What my job really is, is waiting for someone like you to come along," Professor Trelawney leaned forward, a very intense and slightly scary look to her all of a sudden. "By the time I'm done with you, Harry Potter, you'll do more than see the future. In fact, you just might be it."
"That doesn't make any sense," Harry stuttered, leaning away from her.
Professor Trelawney smiles eerily.
"And isn't that just wonderful?"
There's a heavy, booming pound on the front door.
"I think you'd better get that,"
Harry stumbles away from her and once he gets to the corridor the pounding increases. The door to number four shakes and Harry fears it's going to fly off the hinges.
"I'm coming!" he called out frantically. He pulled open the door and stood there was a man big enough to be a giant.
"APPY BELATED BIRTHDAY ARRY!"
The giant was holding a squashed bright pink cake in one hand and in the other, a cage containing a squawking snow white owl.
Harry prayed to god this one didn't talk.