Chapter Text
Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to find their nephew on the front steps, but Privet Drive had hardly changed. The sun rose on the same tidy front gardens, meticulously kept flowerbed, and lit up brass number four on the Dursleys’ front door. It crept into the living room, which looked like the night Mr. Dursley had seen that fateful news report. Only the photographs on the mantelpiece showed how much time had passed. Ten years ago, there had been lots of pictures of what looked like a peach beach ball wearing different bonnets – but Dudley Dursley was no longer a baby, and now the photographs showed a large blonde boy riding his first bicycle, on a carousel at the fair, playing a computer game with his father, and a school photo of him grinning like a fox.
There was only one broken photo in the very back; the glass was cracked in places, but it was the only photo that showcased another boy in the house. A young blonde woman, now recognized as Mrs. Dursley, was holding a dark-haired baby, kissing his cheeks and cuddling him close to her chest. It was clear from the position of the camera that she had taken the photo herself, but it was precious, nonetheless.
Despite such little evidence, Harry Potter was still there, asleep then, but not for long. His Aunt Petunia was awake, and her gentle knocking on his door made the first noise of the day. “Harry, it’s time to wake up.” She whispered through the door.
Harry woke with a start, already half awake. His aunt knocked again.
“Come out in the kitchen when you’re ready, dear.” She said, being quiet so as not to alarm anyone in the house. Harry heard her walking toward the kitchen, and then the sound of the frying pan being put on the stove. He rolled onto his back and tried to remember the dream he had been having. It had been a good one, one he had told his aunt about before. There was a flying motorcycle in it and a lovely forest of deer.
His Uncle Vernon was suddenly outside his door, judging from the deep huffs and wheezes.
“Are you up yet?” he demanded.
“Nearly,” hissed Harry.
“Well, get a move on, I want you to help Petunia in the kitchen, look after the bacon. And don’t you dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Dudley’s birthday.”
Harry groaned onto his pillow.
“What did you say?” His uncle snapped through the door
“Nothing, nothing…” 'You fat whale' was left unsaid - for Harry's own well-being.
Dudley’s birthday – how could he have forgotten? Harry got out of bed slowly and started looking for socks. The kitchen floor tiles were freezing cold, even in summer. He found a pair under his bed and, after gently plucking a spider off one of them, put them on. Harry was used to spiders, even liked them, because the cupboard under the stairs was full of them, and that’s where he slept. He set the sweet spider on the floor, careful to step around it.
When he was dressed, he went down the hall into the kitchen. The table was almost hidden beneath all of Dudley’s birthday presents. It looked as though Uncle Vernon had gotten Dudley the new computer he wanted, not to mention the second television and the racing bike. Exactly why Dudley needed a racing bike was beyond Harry’s understanding, as Dudley was fat and hated exercise–unless of course it involved fighting someone. Dudley’s favorite victim was Harry, but he couldn’t often catch him. And the few times he had caught Harry off guard, Dudley and his friends and wound up with several black eyes and a broken wrist. That had earned him his longest punishment yet from Uncle Vernon.
Perhaps it had to do with living in a small and dark cupboard, but Harry had always been small and skinny for his age. He looked even smaller and skinnier than he was because all he had to wear were Dudley’s old clothes. His Aunt Petunia had tried to stitch what she could, but even her fabulous sewing skills were no match for the bagginess of Dudley’s garments. He had a few shirts and pants that his aunt had bought him, but they were few, and he was stuck with Dudley's clothes when they were in the wash. Harry had a thin, tan face, knobby knees, black hair, and bright green eyes. He wore round glasses, held in place by gauze and scotch tape, because of all the times kids punched him in the nose. The only things Harry liked about his own appearance were his face, which strangers said looked just like his Aunt Petunia's, and a large thin scar that covered his forehead and spread out like a stroke of lightning. Harry thought it looked as if his head had been split open and healed back jagged and wrong. He had had it as long as he could remember, and one of the first questions he had ever asked Aunt Petunia was how he had gotten it.
She had clammed up and turned quite pale before answering. She looked at Uncle Vernon the whole time. “In the car crash when your parents died,” she had finally said. “And please don’t ask too many questions.”
Don’t ask questions – the secret to a quiet life with Vernon and Dudley Dursley.
Uncle Vernon, who had apparently run to the bathroom, entered the kitchen while Harry was turning the bacon and Aunt Petunia was browning the toast.
“Comb your hair!” he barked, by way of morning greeting.
About once a week, Uncle Vernon shouted over the top of his newspaper that Harry needed a haircut. Harry must have had more haircuts than the rest of the boys in his year combined, but it made no difference. His hair just grew like that – all over the place. At some point, Harry had gotten so frustrated with it that he simply wore it in a tiny, messy ponytail at the nape of his neck. Dudley liked to call him a girl.
Aunt Petunia was showing Harry how to fry eggs by the time Dudley stomped his way into the kitchen. Dudley looked a lot like Uncle Vernon, and Harry couldn’t recognize any part of his aunt in the boy. Dudley had a large, pink face, not much neck, small, watery, blue eyes, and thick, blonde hair that lay smoothly on his thick, fat head. Harry often said that Dudley looked like a pig in a wig or maybe an albino gorilla.
Aunt Petunia put the plates of eggs, bacon, and toast on the table, which was difficult as there wasn’t much room. Dudley, meanwhile, was counting his presents. His face fell.
“Thirty-six,” he said, looking at his father. “That’s two less than last year.”
“You haven’t counted Aunt Marge’s present, see, it’s here under the big one from me.”
“All right, thirty-seven then,” said Dudley, going red in the face. Harry, who could see a huge Dudley tantrum coming on, began to wolf down his bacon as fast as he could in case Dudley turned the tables. The last time he got eggs smashed all over his pants. It took Aunt Petunia a week to get the smell out.
Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger as well, but knew better than to speak her mind. She hurriedly picked up the plates of food and shoved them onto the counter, hands shaking.
“After church, I’ll buy you another two presents while we’re out today. How's that? Two more presents. Is that alright?” Uncle Vernon asked.
Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard work. Finally, he said slowly, “So I’ll have thirty…thirty…”
“Thirty-nine,” whispered Aunt Petunia.
“Oh.” Dudley sat down and flushed an ugly red, clearly upset at being corrected by his mother, whom he had never quite liked. He grabbed the nearest parcel. “All right, then.”
Uncle Vernon chuckled.
“Little tyke wants his money’s worth, just like his father. ‘Atta boy, Dudley!” He ruffled Dudley’s hair.
They all watched Dudley unwrap the racing bike, a video camera, a remote-controlled airplane, sixteen new computer games, a VCR, and a shiny new gold wristwatch, all bought by Uncle Vernon, of course. Harry knew Aunt Petunia had very little say in how her son was raised; she just stood behind Harry, rubbing his shoulders in a way that comforted both.
It was unfortunate, for Dudley at least, that his birthday that year fell on a Sunday. This meant that Sunday mass came before Dudley’s big event, but even Dudley knew that having any tantrums about it would only be futile, for Uncle Vernon was a very religious man. He had sung in the church choir and had attended every mass since he was old enough to walk. Aunt Petunia was not as much, but she knew what fate awaited her if she refused, so she always dragged her son and nephew.
All of them were dressed in their best and clambered into the car after Aunt Petunia and Harry cleared away breakfast. Uncle Vernon drove, Aunt Petunia smoothed down any creases in her sundress and pulled the sleeves of her cardigan to cover her wrists. Harry knew what she was hiding, and his tiny body seethed with rage. Now was not the time, however, as the car pulled into the church's parking lot.
They all climbed out, and Harry and Aunt Petunia grew the fakest smiles they had ever worn like a well-tuned oil drum. Her hands clutched Harry’s like she was afraid he would disappear. He squeezed her hand in reassurance. Uncle Vernon, Dudley, Aunt Petunia, and Harry followed the crowds of people, dressed impeccably, into the large marble church.
The Dursleys have been going to this church for all of Harry’s life, its walls lined with religious paintings and artifacts. There was always too much light in the building, Harry had to block his eyes when he entered. There were rows upon rows of pews, all filled with only people Harry was vaguely familiar with. The pastor was about ready to begin his sermon, standing in the pulpit.
Uncle Vernon soon found a buddy of his and guided his family to sit beside the man on one of the many benches. Mr. Walsh was a friend from Grunnings and could have been mistaken for Uncle Vernon’s twin brother. Harry had never liked Mr. Walsh; he often said many words and made his aunt uncomfortable. There was one instance where Mr. Walsh had been invited over to dinner. Once Uncle Vernon had excused himself to the bathroom, Mr. Walsh had placed his grubby hands on his aunt’s waist. Harry had broken three of his fingers. Harry was beginning to develop something of a reputation in Little Whinging.
Harry sat himself between Aunt Petunia and Mr. Walsh, hoping to block her from the man’s view. Lucky for Harry, Mr. Walsh was busy talking to Uncle Vernon about the newest drill deal.
Mass soon started, and Harry tried his best to stay alert; honestly, he did. But the pastor droned on and on about stuff Harry had honestly never been interested in. Dudley was squirming in his seat, clearly just as uninterested.
Harry had never attended Sunday school like Dudley; he didn’t know these things, and the only impression he had gotten about religion was Uncle Vernon’s enraged screaming matches. If religion bred people like Uncle Vernon, Mr. Walsh, and Dudley, Harry wanted nothing to do with it. He looked around at all the smiling faces, and he felt like an outsider amongst humans, people screaming the name of some old forgotten foreigner's god.
The final prayer came quicker than Harry had expected, although he zoned out after the opening song, which Vernon happily hummed along. Harry was so overstimulated that you could pop him like a balloon. His hands shook, and he tugged his aunt’s sleeve, wanting to leave.
Mass ended, allowing Harry and the Dursleys to leave, but not before Vernon talked Mr. Walsh’s ear off about more new drill technology that honestly sounded like torture to Harry. Uncle Vernon knew it was time to go when Dudley started whining and sulking like a toddler.
Once they had gotten back to number four, Dudley waddled his fat little legs back inside the house to throw off his Sunday best and tug on more casual clothes. Harry followed, leaving Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon to trail behind.
Just then, the doorbell rang – “Oh, goodness, they’re here!” said Aunt Petunia frantically. She ran to the door. A moment later, Dudley’s best friend, Piers Polkiss, walked in with his mother. Piers was a scrawny boy with the face of a rat. He was usually the one who held people’s arms behind their backs while Dudley beat them. Unless you were Harry- Harry had some idea that Piers was mildly scared of him. Dudley stomped down the stairs at once.
Half an hour later, Harry, who couldn’t believe his luck, was once again sitting in the back of the Dursleys’ car with Piers and Dudley, on the way to the zoo for the first time. Earlier this week, Mrs. Figg had called Aunt Petunia and told her that she had broken her leg and couldn’t take Harry for the day. Every year on Dudley’s birthday, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia took Dudley and a friend out for the day, wherever Dudley would like. Every year, Harry was left behind with Mrs. Figg, a mad old lady who lived two streets away.
Harry liked Mrs. Figg; she was warm and kind, baked the best chocolate cake Harry had ever had, and owned lots of cats that loved to sit on Harry’s lap. They would often fall asleep on the couch watching various cooking shows together. So really, Harry did like spending time with Mrs. Figg, it was just, Harry wished he could experience the same things as Dudley. And now, after Aunt Petunia’s begging, he can.
Before they had left, Uncle Vernon had taken Harry aside.
“I’m warning you,” he had said, putting his large purple face right up close to Harry’s. “I’m warning you now, boy – any funny business, anything at all – and you’ll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas, no matter what Petunia says.”
“I promise I’m not gonna do anything,” muttered Harry, half holding his breath because of Uncle Vernon's hot breath.
But Uncle Vernon didn't believe him; he never did.
The problem was that strange things often happened around Harry, and it was just no good telling Uncle Vernon that he didn’t make them happen.
Once, Uncle Vernon’s bulbous sister, Marge, tired of visiting Privet Drive and seeing Harry’s shaggy hair, had taken a pair of kitchen scissors and cut his hair so short he was almost bald except for his bangs, which she left to “hide that awful scar.” Dudley had laughed himself silly at Harry, while Aunt Petunia looked the most horrified he had ever seen her. Harry had a sleepless night, imagining school the next day, where he already got into fights over people laughing at his baggy clothes and taped glasses. The next morning, however, he had gotten up to find his hair exactly as it had been before Marge cut it off. He had been given a week in his cupboard by Uncle Vernon, even though he tried to explain that he couldn’t explain how it had grown back so quickly. It almost felt like some terrible dream.
Another time, he’d gotten into terrible trouble for being found on the roof of the school kitchens. Dudley’s gang had been chasing him like usual, and this day Harry was really trying not to get into trouble, when, as much to Harry’s surprise as anyone else’s, there he was sitting on the chimney. The Dursleys had received a very angry letter from Harry’s headmistress telling them Harry had been climbing school buildings. But all he tried to do (as he shouted at Uncle Vernon through the locked door of his cupboard) was jump beyond the big trash cans outside the kitchen doors. Aunt Petunia had been so apologetic about this incident, leaving Harry confused – it wasn’t her fault.
But today, nothing was gonna go wrong. It was even worth being with Dudley and Piers, to be spending the day somewhere fun and exciting.
While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to a silent Aunt Petunia. He liked to complain about things; people at work, Harry, the council, Harry, the bank, and Harry were just a few of his favorite topics. This morning, it was liberal political agendas; now it was motorcycles.
“... roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums,” he said.
Harry had a sudden thought to mention his dream of flying motorcycles, but he thought better of it and bit his tongue. If there was anything Uncle Vernon hated even more than asking questions, it was his talking about anything acting in a way it shouldn't, no matter if it's a dream or even a cartoon – he seemed to think that Harry might get dangerous ideas. God forbid Harry enjoyed some fantasy every once in a while.
It was a very sunny Sunday, and the zoo was overcrowded with families. Uncle Vernon bought Dudley and Piers large chocolate ice creams at the entrance, but refused to buy Harry anything. Aunt Petunia looked at the smiling lady in the van and reached into her purse, where she stashed extra cash. She bought Harry a nice lemon pop, seeing how it was all she could afford. Harry didn’t care, he thanked her all the same.
The lemon pop wasn’t bad either. Harry thought, licking it as they watched a gorilla scratching its head, which looked remarkably like Dudley, except it wasn’t blonde.
Harry had the best morning he’d had in a long time. He and Aunt Petunia were careful to walk a little way apart from Uncle Vernon, Dudley, and Piers, who were starting to get bored with the animals by lunchtime. They ate in the zoo restaurant, and when Dudley had a tantrum because his knickerbocker glory didn’t have enough ice-cream on top, Uncle Vernon bought him another one, and Aunt Petunia told Harry he could finish the first. Uncle Vernon had sulked and insisted Aunt Petunia was beginning to spoil him, first with the lemon pop, and now the dessert. Harry held his tongue, knowing that if he spoke his mind, it would be a long time before he would be able to eat again.
Harry felt, afterward, that he should have known it was too good to last.
After lunch, they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark in there, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all sorts of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over rough and smooth bits of stone and wood. Dudley and Piers wanted to see huge, poisonous cobras and thick man-crushing pythons. Harry spent most of the time watching various spiders with starry eyes. Dudley had found the largest snake in the place and dragged Piers to go see it. The snake could have wrapped its body twice around Uncle Vernon’s car and crushed it into a trash can – but at that moment, it didn’t look in the mood. It was fast asleep.
Dudley stood with his fat nose pressed against the glass, his body heat fogging up the window. He stared at the glistening brown coils in irritation.
“Make it move,” he whined at his father. Uncle Vernon tapped the glass, but the snake didn’t budge.
“Do it again,” Dudley ordered. Uncle Vernon rapped the glass smartly with his knuckles, and his rings clanged harshly. The snake didn’t so much as twitch.
“This is boring,” Dudley moaned. He shuffled away, Piers following closely at his heels.
Harry moved in front of the tank and looked intensely at the snake. He wouldn't have been surprised if it had died of boredom itself – no company except stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass, trying to disturb you all day. It was worse than having a cupboard as a bedroom, where your only visitor was Aunt Petunia gently knocking to wake you up; at least Harry had someone who loved him.
The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly, it raised its head until its eyes were level with Harry’s startled green eyes.
“Hello.”
Harry wiped his head back and forth, looking around. Had someone just greeted him? Nobody was looking at him, aside from the massive snake. He looked back at the snake. God, he may be going insane, but…
“Hey,” Harry whispered, low enough where he was sure nobody could hear him, nobody besides the snake.
The snake jerked its head towards Uncle Vernon and Dudley; then raised its eyes to the ceiling. It gave Harry a look and said:
“I get that all the time.”
“I’m sure you do,” Harry chuckled. “I’m sorry, that must be really annoying.”
The snake nodded vigorously.
Harry leaned over to read the little sign next to the glass:
Boa constructor, Brazil.
This specimen was bred in the zoo.
Harry suddenly felt even worse for the snake trapped behind glass. “So, you’ve never been out of this cage, huh?”
“Not unless they are checking me for illness.”
Harry nodded, feeling a sense of kinship with the large reptile. Harry opened his mouth to say something else before a deafening shout behind Harry made them both jump. Harry instinctively covered his ears with his hands, rocking a bit.
“DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT IT’S DOING!”
Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he could.
“Out of the way, you,” he said, punching Harry in the arm so hard, he fell on the concrete. The only thing stopping Harry’s head from painfully hitting the floor was Aunt Petunia, as quickly as she could, grabbing the back of his head before it hit the floor.
“Dudley!” She screeched, but Dudley paid her no mind; he never did.
What happened next happened so fast, nobody saw how it happened– one second, Piers and Dudley were leaning right up close to the glass, and the next, they leaped back with howls of horror.
Harry sat up and gasped; the glass in front of the boa constrictor tank had vanished. The great snake was uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering out onto the floor. People throughout the reptile house screamed and started running for the exits.
As the snake slid swiftly past him and Aunt Petunia, she grabbed Harry and shielded him behind her. Harry heard the snake mutter:
“Brazil, here I come… Thankssss, amigo.”
The keeper of the reptile house was in shock.
“But the glass,” he kept saying, “where did the glass go?”
The zoo director made Aunt Petunia a cup of strong, sweet tea while he apologized repeatedly. Piers and Dudley could only gibber. As far as Harry had seen, the snake hadn’t done anything except snap playfully at their heels as it passed, but by the time they were all back in Uncle Vernon’s car, Dudley was saying how it had nearly bitten off his leg, while Piers was swearing it tried to squeeze him to death. But worst of all, for Harry at least, was Piers calming down enough to say, “Harry was talking to it, weren’t you, Harry?”
Uncle Vernon waited until Piers was safely out of the house and Dudley had escaped upstairs before starting on Harry. He was so angry that he grabbed the back of Harry’s hair; he could hardly speak.
“Let him go, Vernon, you know perfectly well it wasn’t his fault!” Aunt Petunia begged; she was always begging.
“Listen here, you worthless cunt!”
Uncle Vernon let go of Harry’s now throbbing head. He blinked to make the black dots disappear. His aunt’s painful cry made his blood boil. Uncle Vernon’s fat purple fingers gripped her thin throat, squeezing. Harry could barely make out his aunt’s eyes as they began to roll into the back of her head.
He felt the heat of anger and bitterness well up in his body, Aunt Petunia was clutching and clawing at her husband’s hand, leaving bright red welts.
“Leave her alone!” Harry screamed with all his might, throat gone hoarse, and like with the vanishing glass, something unexpected happened. Uncle Vernon suddenly flew across the living room. Aunt Petunia gulped in air as she fell to the ground, clawing at her chest in utter relief. Uncle Vernon’s whale-like body went bouncing into the wall like a bouncy ball, a large bruise beginning to form on his bulbous cheeks. All the anger drained out of Harry’s scrawny body, and he ran over to Aunt Petunia.
“Aunty…” Harry whispered, clutching desperately to her frail chest.
“It's okay…” Aunt Petunia wheezed; her voice raspy. Her pale eyes were dark and glossy from tears. She cradled his thin face in her small, delicate hands. She brought his face right to her neck and hugged him with as much strength as she could muster. “You did nothing wrong, Harry, darling, it’s alright.”
Harry lay in his dark cupboard much later, wishing he had a watch or had at least smuggled Dudley’s new one off the kitchen table. He didn’t know what time it was, or if Uncle Vernon and Dudley had gone to sleep. Until they were, he knew his Aunt Petunia couldn’t risk sneaking downstairs to get him food.
He’d lived with the Dursleys for ten years, ten miserable years, as long as he could remember, ever since he was a baby and his parents had died in that car crash. He couldn’t remember being in the car when his parents died. Sometimes, though, when he strained his memory during long hours in his cupboard, he came up with a strange vision: a blinding green light and a burning pain spreading from his forehead down to his eyes. This, he supposed, was the crash, though he couldn’t imagine where all the green light came from. He couldn’t remember his parents at all. There were no photographs of them in the house, but when he was younger, when Uncle Vernon and Dudley had gone out, Aunt Petunia would sit Harry on her lap and allow him to ask any question he wanted. These were some of Harry’s favorite memories, and Aunt Petunia had told him that his father looked a lot like him, but with the darkest hazel eyes and the squarest glasses imaginable. It was Harry’s mother that Aunt Petunia spoke the most about, her lush red hair and beautiful green eyes. Harry had gotten his mother’s eyes. But, according to Aunt Petunia, she had always been the kindest and most welcoming person in the room. Harry wished he could remember them.
When he was younger, he dreamed about some unknown relative coming to take him and Aunt Petunia away, but it never happened. They were trapped.
Yet sometimes he thought (or rather hoped) that strangers on the street seemed to know them. Very strange strangers as well. A tiny man in a violet top hat had bowed to Harry and Aunt Petunia once while out shopping. Aunt Petunia had rushed them out of the shop without buying anything. A wild-looking old woman dressed head to toe in green had waved excitedly to them on a bus once. A dark bald man in a very long purple coat had shaken his hand in the street the other day and walked off without a word. The weirdest thing about these people was that they all vanished the minute Harry tried to get a closer look.
At school, Harry had no one. Everybody knew that not only did Dudley’s gang hate that odd Harry Potter in his baggy clothes and broken glasses, but Harry was quickly growing an unwanted reputation for breaking people’s limbs.
That’s when he heard it, the tiniest of squeaking coming from the stairs above him, the light and graceful steps of a woman used to sneaking around after dark. A finger lightly tapped on his door.
One!
Two!
Three!
Three meant all clear, and Harry slowly slid the door to his cupboard open. He could see his aunt shuffling her way to the kitchen, and she opened the fridge as quietly as she could. Harry tiptoed in behind her, sitting himself at the table while his aunt heated up the leftover Sunday roast Uncle Vernon and Dudley had devoured for dinner. She made up two plates tonight, one for her and one for Harry. Harry knew Uncle Vernon starved her as well, but she had always put on a brave face for him. Tonight, it seems she was tired of the facade, as she normally waited for Harry to go back to his cupboard to eat.
They stayed silent as the food heated up, and once it was done, Harry’s mouth watered at the smell of Aunt Petunia’s Sunday roast.
He dug in as soon as Aunt Petunia set it on the table, shoveling the potato and roast meat into his mouth, hunger gnawing at his belly. He looked up at her as she sliced her potatoes; he could see the nasty handprint on her neck, tattooing her pale skin like a rash. The feeling of red-hot anger flooded his chest for a moment before he took a deep breath. Harry never understood why Aunt Petunia didn’t leave Uncle Vernon. He could very well raise Dudley alone, and Dudley didn’t care for his mother much anyway. He sometimes even laughed when she got smacked around by Vernon like a ragdoll.
“Aunty?” asked Harry, setting down his fork for a moment.
“Hmm?”
“Why don’t you leave?” The rest of Harry’s thoughts were left unsaid, but Aunt Petunia understood all the same.
“I just can’t darling…I-I,” She paused and licked her lips, Harry didn’t even realize they were split until this moment. “I’m afraid I would have nowhere else to take you, dear, nothing is under my name, I have almost no money to speak of… and I’m not strong…I’m not like you, Harry.” Aunt Petunia lifted her hand to caress his cheek, and he leaned in, savoring the loving touch.
“You’re so strong and so brave. You’re going to do something amazing with your life, and one day you’re going to prove to everyone who has ever doubted you how wrong they were,” Aunt Petunia said. “There is so much ambition and kindness in your heart, you’ll get out of here, Harry, sooner than you could ever realize.”
“And I’ll take you with me,” said Harry, his heart filled with determination.
“Oh…” Aunt Petunia looked as if she was debating something, like there were words on the tip of her tongue. “…promise me, Harry, even if you go alone, you will do your best, show them what you're made of.”
“I promise, I’ll make you proud,” Harry whispered.
Aunt Petunia smiled, and for perhaps the first time in weeks, a light twinkled in her eyes.