Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A man slowly stepped onto the porch of a small cottage. He would have preferred to… 'visit' much sooner, but his underlings had a ridiculously hard time finding this place. In fact, he would have still not known its location if it hadn't been for one of his loyal followers. He would have to remember rewarding the young man.

Smirking, he pushed the door open, revealing a dimly lit interior. He was greeted with the wary hazel eyes of a man he had wanted to get rid of for oh so long. Said man's eyes widened in alarm as he realized who stood before him, and the intruder could observe pure panic bloom on his face. Shifting his stance uneasily, the man got into a defensive position while never letting his gaze stray away from the smirking man in front of him.

His opponent was visibly more relaxed as he surveyed the room with calm amusement. Safe for some expensive but outdated furniture and pictures, there was nothing special to be found. So he moved on to the person in front of him. As he looked his form up and down, his good mood rapidly deteriorated, and his lips curled in disgust. This man was not fit to be a pureblood at all. From his unkempt brown hair to his common, muggle-like attire, nothing indicated that he was born a noble.

Unacceptable. He should at least try to act the part. Even if nothing would ever make him a true pureblood. Not since he married that filth.

No matter. He was getting off track. Soon, it wouldn't matter anymore anyway. At last, he spoke in a sweet but dangerous voice, "Well, hello there, Mr. Potter. How... delightful to see you." Slowly, his smirk grew anew as he watched the man shift anxiously, casting a glance up the stairs.

Still humming softly, he ascended the old creaking stairs. He had dealt with this little annoyance swiftly. Barely broken a sweat. Because, after all, what could such a meager Auror do against him? As he rounded the corner, he caught sight of the door that led to the nursery and broke off the hum. No sense in ending this too quickly, was there?

He swiftly stepped over shards of a broken vase scattered on the floor and stretched out a hand to reach for the door. But as soon as his fingers brushed over the handle, it became apparent that there was a thin sheen of water on it. He cursed and whipped his hand back, but the damage had already been done. Where his fingers had simply been wet a moment before, they were now covered in ice. The coldness was quickly spreading to his wrist. An aggressive warding spell. Not a strong one, mind you, but it could do some damage nonetheless. He had been too relaxed; now that he paid attention, he could see the telltale shimmering patterns on the door. In his mind, he cursed the Mudblood who was surely behind this to high heaven. How dare she try to stop him?

Well, what was done was done. He tapped his unharmed finger to his arm, which was now completely frozen over. After a few seconds, he sneered condescendingly. The spell was really poorly done. With a little concentration, the ice simply shattered. He shook the offending hand out and turned back to the door.

"Open this door at once, and I might feel inclined to let you live," he hissed. Merlin, he felt stupid talking to a damn wooden door. This was beneath him. Just why had his follower requested he let her live?

After a few seconds of nothing, he snarled, "You chose this for yourself, Mudblood."

Before this whole spectacle, he was of half a mind to grant this ridiculous request, since this particular follower had always been very eager to please him. Alas, she had annoyed him enough.

With a wave of his hand, a bubble formed around him, and a muttered spell was all it took for the door to explode into splinters. Warded against touch, but nothing else. Figures. She had probably been in a hurry. At that thought, a cruel smile contorted his features, and he let the water shield burst. He loved to see how his power affected others.

Once the dust from the explosion cleared, he could see a warmly decorated room. It smelled distinctly like baby, he absently noted. Then, his eyes locked onto the corner with the crib, or rather, the eyes of the woman standing in front of it.

Green, framed by fiery red, stared back at him. Hatred and desperation were etched into those eyes. For a second, he forgot to breathe. A fleeting sense of danger put him on edge.

Right after he registered that feeling, fury spread through him like a blooming flower. He could never be scared of a mudblood. Not him. Never him. They were weak. His face twisted into something ugly, and a sound akin to a growl left his throat.

Without warning, a film of water sped away from him towards the woman's feet. He didn't want to prolong this any more than necessary. Her eyes went wide, and she stumbled back against the small bed while trying to block the water with a small wave of her own. Even with only a few centimeters of water, the clash was quite loud. Each was vying for dominance, fighting to gain control, but he was visibly winning. Laughing, he sent another wave forward into her already brittle defenses. In her desperation to protect herself and her child, she made bigger movements than necessary with her already shivering arms and bumped against the crib once more. This time, the baby made a strangled sound of unrest at being jostled so roughly.

The woman's eyes went wide with fear, and her head whipped around at once to check if he had somehow managed to sneak past her defenses. Observing this, he mentally scoffed. As if he would have the need for such underhanded tactics. But that was all it took. Nothing more than this little waver in concentration gave him the opening he needed.

Feeling her defenses break, she went rigid for a millisecond before jolting herself into action, trying to snatch up the baby, but he made sure she couldn't reach it in time.

In the blink of an eye, the water had perfectly molded around her body and pulled her away from the child. It might not be much liquid, and a very thin layer to boot, but she couldn't break through it, try as she might. He lifted her up into the air so that he could see her face while she frantically tried to gasp for air through the sheen over her mouth and nose.

Pleased, he watched with rapt attention as her struggling grew weaker and weaker. For a second, she stopped moving while frantically looking around. Seemingly coming to a decision, she drew her eyes back to him, and after a second, her lips started to form words. Salty tears slowly mixed with the water around her face as she spoke unheard words.

She was begging, he realized. Begging for the life of the one that would spell his demise.

A sardonic smile spread over his lips. She was delusional. Once it registered that she wouldn't be able to move him, she tried anew to get out, her eyes flashing in despair. But she had already lost the battle. Before she knew it, her head lolled against her chest, unmoving.

After he let her float like this a while longer, he let his control over the water wane, and her still body crumbled to the wooden floor with a low thunk.

He spared her one last glance and turned to the baby.

He strode over to the small crib, stepping over some discarded, now soaked toys. Glancing down at the small baby, he noted its big green eyes and soft tufts of almost black hair. He stood still for a second, mesmerized by the seemingly endless depths in those eyes. Then he shook his body out of that pull. Unsettled, he took a step back before catching the movement and scowling. But no, he didn't need to worry; the child would soon be dead anyway. He would make sure of that.

This little one was special. He deserved to go in a way only his strongest enemies had been allowed to go. Softly at first, he began to hum.

As the volume grew and a song started to take shape, he smiled down at the boy in a way that could have been mistaken for 'fond' if it wasn't for the ruthless glint in his eyes.

Slowly, the melody started to sound more and more like waves crashing against a cliff. It could have sounded beautiful, but there was something about the song that made it seem incredibly eerie.

The floor started to flood once more, but this time with dark, almost blackish water. Droplets started to gradually rise, but the child didn't seem to notice. It was unmovingly staring at the strange man with an unnatural, vacant look in its eyes. It seemed as if the song had lulled the previously agitated baby into a false calm. The dark droplets had now reached the height of the crib and settled in next to the little one, floating slightly above the blankets. The song continued on, and the air grew damp, almost oppressive.

The windows started to creak from invisible pressure, and the unsettling sound drew the child away from that calm. It took one look at the singing stranger, and its eyes started to flood with tears. The man looked on with interest at this unexpected turn of events. Nothing quite like this had ever happened. No one had been able to escape the influence of the music. He increased the power he put into the song, and scales started to grow all over his body. Slowly, some veins around his throat and mouth started to glow in an unsettling black light.

The little boy was now convulsing and wailing as if he was in pain. The man looked on with keen interest as the child started thrashing around, clearly trying to escape his grasp. Too bad that he knew no one could do so.

The song was nearing its end, and an ecstatic smile was etched into the man's lips. Suddenly, faster than he could blink, he was shoved back roughly. An orange flash caught his eye out of the corner of his vision. The woman was alive. How was she alive?! She shouldn't be. She couldn't be. She was now bowed over the crib, scaly hands with yellow glowing veins on her baby's face, while salty tears dropped onto its pillow and hair. She was whispering something. He couldn't hear what, but his instincts were screaming at him to stop her.

But he couldn't do anything. Not even move a muscle. The song had reached its end. He could not stop it. Damn this woman. Damn her and every ounce of magic he had now wasted. In one last attempt, his gaze searched for the baby, but no, she had it completely hidden, shielded with her own body. How someone could throw away their life in such a futile attempt was beyond him.

The water was clawing furiously at the woman, trying to pull her away from her child, but she wasn't letting go of it. Her lips pulled into a sad smile as she closed her eyes and whispered her last words in its ear; she would never see it again.

The water stopped floating, and the song let up.

The child watched as the still body of the woman was dragged off the crib and furiously thrown somewhere on the wet floor. A string of mad curses was let loose by the man, but it didn't pay him any mind; it couldn't figure out what he was saying anyway. It began searching for those warm hands that had just held it. It felt around with scaly fingers, but all it could feel were the soaking wet red sheets.

They were gone.

It scrunched up its nose and tried calling out. It wanted those hands back. Preferably now.

Nothing.

Tears welled up, and it started sobbing. The man in the background was furiously muttering under his breath.

But still nothing.

It started to cry earnestly now. Why would no one come? They always came.

Then, a tall shadow stepped up to the crib. For a second, it let up on its cries, but while it didn't know much, it knew that it didn't like this man. That he didn't belong. So, it started crying louder. Scales started popping up in more places other than those touching the wet bedding.

The man was now reaching for it. A huge scaly hand with black throbbing veins was coming right towards its face. The child decidedly did not want that. So, in its desperation, it did the only thing it knew to do—it screamed. Some of its veins started to glow and pulse in a blue light. Interestingly enough, there were now yellow patches in that light. But no one noticed since a powerful, invisible wave was suddenly released from the child.

The windows shattered, and the man was pushed back violently, his finger brushing against the child's forehead before flying against the wall. A loud, sickening crack echoed through the room. The body of the man slid down onto the floor, where he stayed without moving a muscle. In the wall was now a small crater, and beneath the man, blood and brain matter seeped out.

But the child could neither see nor process that. It was way more preoccupied with some strange warm liquid, which was trickling down the sides of its face. To add insult to injury, its head was also throbbing painfully.

This pain kept it busy for a while, but soon it became apparent how silent the room had become. Miffed, it scrunched up its nose and started sobbing harder.

It didn't want the silence. It didn't want to be alone.

It continued to cry for a long time.

At two points in time, two different black-haired men showed up. Both checked on the two bodies, but while one stayed for a while, crying over the fiery-haired woman's body, barely sparing a glance for the child before stumbling out the door, the other murmured a few words to the child before hurriedly taking off again.

It didn't matter to the little one. The only thing that did matter was that no one stayed long enough to ease his sobs. The strength of its cries had let up a bit, but they returned full force once the second man had left. He really hated to be alone. That's when the ceiling and walls started to creak, fissures appeared, and water came dripping down. Before long, everything started crumbling even further, and rocks came raining down. Miraculously, nothing touched the boy.

A pop sounded through the room as an old man appeared. He took one look at things before securing the creaking walls and ceiling with a spell. He then picked up the child, whose cries subsided. Someone was there. It was finally warm again. As the child calmed down, its veins finally stopped glowing, and its now fully scaled body eased on the shivering.

Exhausted little hands attempted to grab the long white beard of the old man. Once it finally grasped the coarse white strands, a high laugh filled the air, its tired eyes twinkling happily.

It could not know how its life had changed today.

The old man raised his wand and tapped its bloody forehead. Promptly, the small child relaxed, its eyes closing slowly, as its hand dropped down to its chest.

Tucking his wand away, the man let his eyes roam over the ruined nursery. After checking the two bodies and deeming them both dead, he apparated away.

In his wake, the whole room collapsed in on itself.

In the middle of the night, on a normal street with identical houses, on the doorstep of one such house, now sat something that didn't quite fit in.

In a little woven basket, there lay a sleeping, brown-almost-black-haired child with a note on top of the rust-colored blanket that read:

"This is Harry Potter.
Lily's Son.
I trust no harm shall befall him here.
- Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore"

Chapter Text

9 Years later, Number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey

Harry's dreary cupboard would've in no way been his first choice for a bedroom, especially since the dust that coated every surface made his nose itch something awful, but given that no one had asked for his opinion, he figured it could have been worse. A lot worse. Like being sent to sleep on the street. It was at the very least warm in here. Even if it was getting pretty cramped since his last growth spurt.

Its biggest redeeming factor was probably that no one could hurt Harry when he was in there—not physically, anyway. The hunger pangs that plagued him were a whole different kind of pain altogether.

He had sought refuge in that knowledge since he was old enough to think. Without it, he probably wouldn't have gotten through all those years.

It was the only place in this house that remotely resembled a safe space for Harry. He had some small things of his own in there—just for him. Nicking them from Dudley's pile of discarded items hadn't been much of a challenge, but afterwards he still felt as if he'd just run a marathon. He obviously made sure to only take the ones that wouldn't be missed. No one would notice anyway (he hoped).

Initially, Harry had been caught with them a few times, and punishments always followed fast and ruthlessly. So, it obviously wasn't all that great to be in his shoes back then, but looking back on it now, he couldn't help but be glad it happened like it did. All those times had taught him essential skills—like walking silently—and he could always tell the other three apart just by their footsteps. As a child he'd also found many nice hiding spots where no one ever found him, but he didn't bother with those anymore. They only delayed the inevitable. (Didn't mean he wasn't still proud of them)

Obviously, all of those toys were a bit broken—Dudley was never careful with anything—but Harry thought they were absolutely brilliant. For example, the worn little toy soldiers he managed to nick when he was four. He had been cleaning under the couch and had excitedly rushed them to his 'room' with a pounding heart the second he found them lying in the dust. They sadly had missing arms and legs, but he could make up wonderfully tragic stories with them.

He had thought long and hard on how to keep them from being discovered, but in the end he had to give up and place them on a wobbly wooden shelf as far away as possible from the door so that they wouldn't be seen. He had wanted to find somewhere more secluded that wouldn't be seen even if someone happened to crawl into the dark little nook. But alas, it had worked until now, and Harry hoped he could keep it that way.

With books, it was way harder to find any that were worth salvaging. Dudley wasn't an avid reader in the first place, and when he did decide to touch one, he quickly got frustrated and tore it up. Harry had only found two that were in an acceptable state, with just a few pages in between missing.

The first was a book about plants—which Harry knew like the back of his hand by now (it had helped immensely with his work in the garden)—that Aunt Petunia had gotten to see if she could awaken Dudley's interest in nature. The other was The Hobbit. It apparently was a must-read for everyone. So much so that his cousin had gotten it as a gift twice (even though everyone knew that reading really wasn't his thing). Harry now possessed the older one, since Uncle Vernon had simply chucked it in the trash.

Sifting through there while simultaneously trying to be as silent as possible had been more than gross, and the book still had some unidentified stains. But it was hardly illegible.

Harry pulled a face at the thought of the weird sticky things he had to touch and shook his head to clear it.

How long had he already been lying down here? He could only think about so many things until it all got a tad bit dull.

Sighing, Harry rolled onto his stomach, only to jerk back to his previous position in pain. The ribs that Dudley had gotten a good kick at during his latest session of Harry Hunting were still tender enough that he couldn't touch them without his face scrunching up in discomfort. For all his cousin's lacking stamina, he had mean hits.

"This sucks," he whispered into the darkness and pressed his face into the dingy old mattress, which twisted his body in such an unusual way that he could feel his body protesting.

He had long resigned himself to being locked in, but it was still so frustrating to lie around all day.

Harry stayed in that position as long as he could without breathing, but after a while, he righted himself and massaged his smarting neck. This really hadn't been his best idea, he thought glumly as he pressed on a particular sore spot (he wasn't sure if that one was from his great decision-making now or if it was a remembrance of his uncle's rough treatment the other day). As he continued poking and prodding rhythmically, he let his thoughts wander.

His eleventh birthday was in two weeks, which called forth all kinds of conflicting emotions. Harry knew that nothing changed on or after it, but he still couldn't help the slight glimmer of hope in his chest that he had never been able to put out. "Maybe the Dursleys would finally accept him as part of their family now that he was older?" Those were the kind of thoughts that snuck up on him when he wasn't paying attention. They were very annoying, and he always immediately squashed them, but they kept. coming. back. Scowling, he pushed a more persistent one away and pinched his neck a bit harder. He really shouldn't dwell on such childish fantasies at his age. Nothing good ever came out of it.

They hadn't done that the last ten years either, Harry reasoned with himself. They wouldn't start now. Not that he wanted them to. Obviously.

But maybe something else could happen, he thought wistfully. Perhaps a forgotten relative would come get him. He giggled as he imagined how well that would go over with the Dursleys.

Harry was shaken out of his reverie as he finally heard the door to his aunt's and uncle's room open. A person was dragging themselves with heavy footsteps over the creaky wooden floor towards the bathroom. Uncle Vernon was up then.

Finally, he'd be able to do anything other than stare at the spiders in the corners all night (not that they weren't good company, of ofcourse, just very quiet).

Not that he was especially happy about the list of tedious chores he'd be assigned. But if it meant he could empty his bladder and scrub down a bit, it would be worth it. Well, he didn't particularly fancy getting that weird rash again, but it had to be done. Otherwise, Aunt Petunia would complain about the stench, and he'd be booted right back in here.

Harry just hoped Uncle Vernon would be in a good mood this morning. He didn't really want to face an angry, purple-faced man this early. Or ever, actually.

With a groan, he pulled his aching body into a sitting position and diligently waited for his uncle to open the door.

Once he finally did, Harry took care not to look directly into the big man's eyes while trying to gauge his body language. One look at his scrunched-up face but unclenched hands told Harry that he was in the clear. Grumpy, but not overly so. He could work with that. He simply would have to be careful today.

Harry dutifully waited until his uncle gave him verbal confirmation (in the form of a grunt) and swiftly clambered out into the open, all the while keeping a watchful eye out. He didn't want to be caught off-guard if the man decided Harry was going too slow after all. His shoulder still felt slightly sore after the last ordeal.

Glancing at his uncle's face once more, he decided it would be best if he got started with preparing coffee right away and hurried towards the kitchen.

After preparing the beverage and delivering it to the table, Harry finally had time to use the bathroom. He completed his business on the toilet and then turned towards the white porcelain sink. It was spotless, of course. He had scrubbed it down just the other day.

To make absolutely sure, Harry sniffed his armpits and immediately wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Yeah, no way another day without washing would go over well with the Dursleys," he muttered to himself.

Sighing, he shuffled the last few steps and turned on the water. After warily glaring down at it for a few seconds, Harry finally willed himself to wet his hands, shuddering at the thought of the cold water.

Exactly when his fingers touched the first few droplets, his skin got all itchy and weirdly scaly. Groaning, he pulled his hands back. This allergy thing still hadn't miraculously solved itself. What a surprise.

Well, there was nothing he could do about it. Harry knew that the itching would abate after a while anyway.

Grimacing, he pulled off his shirt and meticulously began to wash himself, being as careful as he could to minimize the amount of skin the water touched.

Once he was finally dry and the weird scaling had also disappeared, Harry went to find his uncle.

He had taken longer than he should have; Aunt Petunia was surely up by now. But whatever punishment they would dole out for his tardiness was better than if Harry let them see the scaling.

The last time that had happened was years ago, but he could still vividly remember it. His uncle had slapped him around so hard that his head had collided with the edge of their dining table. After he had woken up, he was in his locked cupboard with a bucket and a bottle of water. That had to last Harry for the next seven days. No matter how much he'd cried and pleaded with them, no one would let him out; they just yelled at him to "shut his trap."

Sometimes he still thought he could smell the stink of the bucket.

Now, a week was pretty normal, but he'd been so young back then, and the most he'd been locked in for was one day at a time. The experience had left a notable mark on his memories. He didn't think he'd ever be able to forget it.

Harry shuddered at the memories and sped up, hoping to reduce his punishment. "I definitely don't want to go through something like that again," he thought glumly.

Suddenly a loud, whiny voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

"But Mom, I don't want to go on a diet again!"

Dudley was up then. Aunt Petunia had fruitlessly tried to convince her son to eat healthier or at least fewer sweets multiple times now, which her "Dudders" obviously didn't appreciate. Harry allowed himself a short, humorless grin at their argument before quickly schooling his features into something neutral, stepping over the threshold to join his lovely "family" at the table.

Fortunately, it seemed like his uncle had already left, and Harry puffed out a breath of relief. The man wouldn't know about his misstep since Petunia tended to ignore small ones like this. Great news.

But as soon as Dudley saw him, he brightened up, and Harry's good mood (if you could call it that) evaporated. "Mum, just tell that freak to make pancakes! Then wasting your time isn't a problem anymore!" Petunia started stuttering and shot him a glare over her shoulder before turning back and continuing to try and explain to Dudley why he couldn't have anything "unhealthy like that" for breakfast.

So she used herself actually having to cook it as an excuse? What a joke. Harry mentally scoffed. His aunt hadn't touched the stove in weeks, if not months. Subtly shaking his head, he took his place two steps away from the table and stood at attention.

It didn't take long for Dudley to wear his aunt down, and she tiredly told him to go make the pancakes her son wanted so badly. "Make them with more sugar this time!" crowed a delighted Dudley, and Harry quickly but silently complied, vanishing into the kitchen.

Cooking was his favorite chore—it really wasn't hard to do, and he didn't have to work in the scorching sun or touch any water. Yeah, cooking really wasn't so bad. But only on days when Petunia didn't decide to hover over his shoulder and commandeer him around with her shrill voice. Most of the time, she even had the gall to complain about the end product afterwards.

Today, sadly, was one of those days, and Harry had to actively work on suppressing his frustration in the face of her patronizing tone. He was sure he was better at cooking than her by now, but no, she obviously knew everything better than him.

Cracking the eggs with more force than necessary and accidentally getting some shell into the batter made him stop his mental rant, breathing in deeply. Meanwhile, he also tried to get the lost piece out as discreetly as possible so that he wouldn't alert his aunt.

But of course, she had to come check on him in that exact moment. Once she saw his mistake, she started rounding on him with her eyes blazing furiously.

"Oh my god, you can't even do something this easy, right? You useless child! Go remake this! Go!"

While her voice was still ringing in his ears, Harry felt a gooey mass hit the top of his head, and he drew in a quick, shuddering breath. He waited until he heard his aunt's retreating footsteps before moving away from the wall he had involuntarily pressed himself against.

He just stood there for a second, trying to calm his racing heart until he felt the sticky substance slowly sliding down his face and neck. Bringing a trembling hand up to his hair, Harry tried touching it. The dough mixture. She had seriously just upended the whole container of dough ingredients above his head. They were clumping together in his hair, not separated anymore.

He felt fuzzy. How had he not noticed her picking it up?

Actually, why had she even done that? She normally wouldn't have flipped like that over something so small.

"What should I do now?" Harry numbly thought.

Right, she wanted him to remake it. But what should he do about the mess on his head?

There wasn't enough time to try and wash it out, so he resolved to removing as much as he could with his hands.

After haphazardly removing just enough that it wouldn't completely cake his hair to his head, Harry started working on the new batch. He had to be fast now, with no room for error. Otherwise, both of the remaining Dursleys would be absolutely furious.

Aunt Petunia was the lesser evil; she mostly just screamed at him or locked him up. Unless she held a frying pan, then he had to be on very high alert. But all in all, she wasn't so bad—Harry could deal with her. His uncle and cousin were the bigger problem. Dudley loved to chase Harry around and beat him up after he got tired—even more so when Harry did anything to make him mad.

But Vernon—Vernon was the one he had to look out for the most. The man had very poor impulse control and obviously wasn't above getting physical. Shaking Harry around or slapping him was daily business, but there had also been graver instances.

Luckily—or unluckily—for him, Harry had his freakishness to save him. Just a few months ago, Vernon had shoved him down the stairs, and he surely would have broken something if the steps hadn't been so weirdly soft and bouncy. He didn't even blame his uncle; Harry didn't think he had meant to kill him or anything, and well, it was Harry's fault for standing so close to the stairs despite knowing better, wasn't it? He nonetheless was very grateful that Uncle Vernon had already left for work.

But in any case, his relatives had never liked him doing something freaky, so the result was—once again—him being locked up. At least that was just incredibly boring.

Dudley's whining from the other room brought him back to the task at hand, and Harry hurriedly looked around for the maple syrup.

Now Harry finally had a bit of free time. The Dursleys didn't care what he did as long as he was back by the end of their breakfast to receive his list of chores. So, he went out—like almost every morning when he was allowed this slight reprieve.

Silently humming to himself, he strode down the road to get to the park. That was Harry's favorite place, as almost no one came there, which he welcomed gladly. Aunt Petunia had spread enough ugly rumors about him that pretty much no one in the neighborhood wanted to see his face.

Plopping down onto the coarse earth at the foot of an old oak tree, Harry cracked open the slightly damaged coloring book he had stolen just last week. He fished around in his pocket for two broken crayons—green and red—and started coloring in a cute picture of a dog. He thought it might have been a golden retriever.

Harry actually didn't like dogs very much, because his aunt Marge's dog, Ripper, had chased him up a tree once. Sadly, not without getting a good go at his ankle. Even so, golden retrievers were fine. One of their neighbors had one, and it was friendly towards him, even if its owner wasn't. But anyway, even if he didn't like any dogs, it would still be fun to color them in.

Dudley had gotten the thing last Christmas from Aunt Marge, but he obviously hadn't been interested in the slightest and sullenly voiced as much to her. How spoiled can someone be? Harry thought, rolling his eyes. He would have been grateful no matter what he got. Heck, he hadn't even complained about the clothes hanger.

But well, Dudley being Dudley, he had complained endlessly, and in the end, Aunt Marge went to buy something different with him. And as with almost all of his cousins' discarded items, the book had ended up in his second bedroom, where Harry had retrieved it a few months later. He was really lucky back then; he hadn't found quite such a treasure in a while. Aunt Petunia made sure of that.

Stopping halfway through the image, he put his head back against the rough bark of the tree and just stared at the lush green above. Harry didn't want to leave yet; it was so much more peaceful here. The birds in the surrounding trees were merrily chirping away, and a gentle breeze occasionally ruffled his impossible-to-tame hair. Shifting slightly, he got into a more comfortable position—without any rocks poking him. "This is dangerous," Harry thought lazily. He hadn't gotten much sleep last night. But he really wanted to stay like this a tad bit longer.

"A few more minutes should be alright... after all, I know what will happen if I don't get back in time. Yeah, no, I would never be able to relax like this." But it seemed that he had underestimated his own tiredness. Slowly, his eyes began to drift shut, his body seemingly melting against the old oak. In his sluggish mind, Harry managed to catch on to it, blinking his eyes open furiously. He wanted to ready himself and stand up, but the pull was just too strong.

So, he found himself being gently lulled to sleep by singing birds and rustling leaves.

Chapter Text

The first thing Harry felt was a sharp pain in his left cheek and stones scraping over his face. Disoriented, he tried to scramble to his feet, but a well-placed kick to his back sent him tumbling back down. The hit had knocked the air out of his lungs, and he was sent into a coughing fit.

Confused, he rubbed his burning cheek and lifted his head to look around.

Finally, his tired mind caught up to the situation. He fell asleep. Fuck. Another kick from somewhere behind him to his still-bruised ribs made Harry yell out in pain. Cradling his head and pressing his feet close to his stomach, he tried to get into a defensive position. Now he caught a glimpse of the perpetrator through his arms.

It was Dudley. Grinning widely, the other boy lifted his foot again. That face never meant anything good for Harry. Quickly closing his eyes, he readied himself for the expected hit. Not a second too early either. The following blow was directly to his temple , making everything spin for a few seconds, and tears started leaking from the corners of his eyes. Blinking harshly, he forced them back; he would not show weakness.

Gleefully laughing, Dudley spat on his head. Wrinkling his nose, partly in disgust and partly against the sparse grass tickling his nose, Harry thought about the mess caked in his hair. The mop on his head was unruly on good days, but with dried dough, dirt, and now spit clinging to it, it was positively disgusting.

The next words his cousin spoke made his blood run cold and kicked his brain into a panicked overdrive. "You actually slept, you freak! You have no idea how angry Mom is right now!"

Could he weasel himself out of punishment somehow? He didn't think so—short of running away, he couldn't avoid his family forever, and the longer he stayed away, the worse it got.

His cousin was obviously delighted by this turn of events, but that wasn't much of a surprise. As long as Harry could think, Dudley's sadistic pleasure in his pain was the norm, never changing in the slightest. No matter how gruesome it got.

Well, that's what comes from bad parenting, he supposed.

But if Dudley was already like this, then something had to be wrong with him as well, right? He didn't even have parents.

He was painfully ripped out of his thoughts by a punch to the gut. Coughing and dry-heaving, Harry made himself as small as possible and tried to scoot a few steps back. Of course, he didn't make it far. The second he moved away, he was grabbed by the hair and roughly pulled back.

He'd just have to endure it, then. If he didn't give Dudley the satisfaction of reacting any more than he already had, he should hopefully get bored soon. His cousin had a very short attention span, so once he was bored, he'd leave and do something else, hopefully something not involving Harry.

Another kick to his back made him wince in pain. Harry tightly closed his eyes and tried to let the distant chirping of the birds carry him away.

Once Dudley had gotten enough, Harry continued lying there for a bit, enjoying the summer heat that seemed to melt all his pain for a little while.

Gathering himself, he painfully got to his feet, testing his throbbing foot his cousin had jumped onto as a "parting gift." Luckily, it wasn't hurt too badly. He had to hurry. One look at the sky told him that he had messed up big time, and he started limping towards home. Judging from the sun that was almost exactly overhead, it should be around 12 o'clock.

Aunt Petunia would surely tell Uncle Vernon about this mistake. Oh, he was so dead.

Finally at the house, he ran his tongue over his bloodied teeth and pushed open the door. Once inside, Harry heard the sounds of cooking and caught a whiff of fried rice hanging in the air. Petunia was in the kitchen then. Briefly contemplating the merits of simply turning around and running back out the door, he sighed and trudged further into the house. It wouldn't do him any favors to be missing much longer.

Stepping into the room, he slightly knocked on the first wooden thing he could find—the open door—to alert her to his presence and started nervously wringing his hands. His aunt whirled around, her beady eyes fixing onto his roughed-up form, scowling.

Harry swallowed. He really was so dead.

"Where were you?"

Her tone was calm. Too calm.

Wait, that was a question; he had to answer. Fast.

"I—I'm sorry, Aunt Petunia. I didn't mean to fall asleep, I swear. I was just so—"

Harry stopped and dove to the side just in time, but he couldn't avoid a few droplets of hot oil that landed on his skin. From behind him, a deafening clatter sounded, ringing in his ears.

For a few seconds he couldn't hear anything else but his own harsh breathing and feel nothing but the searing pain.

Gasping, he stood back up, his knees so soft he needed the counter to support him. She hadn't hit him this time; he had managed to avoid it; he was fine. The pan hadn't touched him. He was fine.

His fingers started tracing the tiny ridges in the material beneath his fingers to focus on anything else but this.

"Look at me, Freak."

He froze, his body numb. Harry had forgotten she was even there.

"I'm an idiot, a godforsaken, blundering idiot," he anxiously thought. He was supposed to know better. He hadn't made such mistakes in years.

Suddenly, cold, bony fingers wrapped around his chin and yanked it up. He had been wallowing in self-hatred for so long that he hadn't obeyed her yet. What was going on with him today?!

Flexing his jaw against her bruising grip, Harry brought his eyes up to the bridge of her nose.

"You will go and scrub every damn floor in this house and weed the garden. You will finish before Vernon gets back. Is. That. Clear?" The command was hissed so close to his ear that he couldn't suppress a shiver in response.

But he somehow managed to nod, even though she hadn't loosened her fingers on his face in the slightest.

Apparently satisfied, Petunia released her grip on Harry as if he were something disgusting and went to wash her hands.

As soon as he was free, he scurried out of the kitchen and towards the bathroom to get the cleaning supplies. Better to quickly get to it before she found anything else that would make her fly off the handle on him again.

Once he had those, he jogged back, filled up the bucket with water, and started mopping up the mess the dirty pan had made.

Cleaning oil was always a pain, but it was not as bad as cleaning blood; Harry knew that. So, he didn't allow himself to silently complain. But the biggest motivating factor to keep his mind on neutral thoughts was that he was terrified that something on his face would betray his thoughts and incense his aunt again.

Once that was done, Harry moved on to cleaning the rest of the house. He did try to be careful not to get much water onto his skin, but he had to hurry, so his rash was soon almost everywhere.

He couldn't afford to stop and dry off or even scratch the itchy spots since his uncle would be back in about four hours.

Groaning, Harry hurried up even more.

Harry had made it. His hands and knees were raw and open now, but it was worth it. Hopefully, he had taken a large chunk out of his impending punishment by perfectly completing everything he had been assigned.

Absentmindedly picking at the dirt under his nails, Harry sat in his open cupboard, waiting for Uncle Vernon.

He relished the time he had left before disaster struck.

After about an hour—did he have to stay late for work again?—A very grumpy Vernon slammed the door shut.

Pressing against the wall, trying to make himself invisible, Harry hoped the news hadn't reached the man yet.

It seemed like luck was on his side—for now. His uncle simply ignored him and went to greet Petunia. But that didn't mean anything good for Harry himself.

With a heavy heart and bated breath, he tried to listen to the muffled voices of his so-called family, but he couldn't understand much.

Then, heavy, angry stomping let him know that Vernon was on his way back and knew about what he'd done. Irrationally panicking—this really was not anything new; he shouldn't act like a baby—Harry tried to shrink back into the darkness, to hopefully hide from the angry man.

Obviously, that didn't work, and a rough hand grasped his injured leg. He barely had time to draw a pained breath before he was yanked out into the open.

Somewhere during the process, he had squeezed his eyes shut, and once he opened them, he saw a red-faced Vernon standing over him.

Harry had landed on his back. Not a favorable position. He quickly got up and backed away a few steps.

"Boy. BOY. HOW DARE YOU MAKE YOUR AUNT WAIT AROUND FOR YOU?!" The man inhaled once.

"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT WE'VE DONE FOR YOU ALL THESE YEARS?!"

The rant that followed had been repeated so often over the years that Harry zoned out, instead focusing on Uncle Vernon's body language.

After an indefinite amount of time, he finally stopped to catch his breath and wipe the sweat that had started pearling down his face.

"Are you even listening to me?"

That calm, forced tone was what made Harry look up. He hurriedly tried to open his dry mouth and reassure him, but he was too late.

In a few quick steps, his furious uncle had backed him up against the rough wall.

He had nowhere left to run to. He was trapped.

A million options ran through his mind at once and were promptly discarded again.

He had no way of getting out of this. And to make matters worse, his uncle was now fully riled up.

He would never be able to escape the burly man's grasp.

Harry's chest felt as if an invisible hand was wrapped around it and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing—

His breaths came in short, panicked gasps, and it felt as if his mind was being stuffed with cotton. Everything seemed to fade in the background, and his focus honed in on Uncle Vernon.

It felt like he was watching himself through a screen as his uncle lifted his hand above Harry's head.

But no, he didn't want to do this. He didn't want the pain. He couldn't do this. Not again.

Not today. He was already hurting so. much.

Please stop it. Please.

Suddenly, he heard a desperate yell.

"No! Stop!"

No wait, that wasn't someone else; it was his own voice! It was slightly scratchy and rough from disuse, but it was definitely his.

Shit.

"Oh God," Harry had screamed at his uncle.

He had messed up. Once again.

His breaths were getting shorter once more until he noticed that the impending hit hadn't landed yet.

Fearfully, he cast a glance upwards. Somehow, Uncle Vernon was just standing still, his hand unmoving. How was that possible?

Forcing his gaze up to meet his uncle's, Harry barely caught a flicker of confusion that quickly gave way to fear.

Wait, fear? His uncle was scared? Of what? He quickly looked around; nothing unusual—then was it him? It couldn't be, could it?

Harry's eyes widened, and he drew in a shocked breath. The realization hit him like a train. He was causing this. He froze his uncle. Or well, more like his freakishness did.

But now, whatever force had taken hold of his uncle broke.

Spluttering, the man in question took a step back. Vernon looked haunted. But luckily—or unluckily?—that didn't last long; just as quickly as the moment had come, it passed, and his uncle's face was twisted in a familiar furious scowl.

Well, now Harry had done it. But he was somehow glad that that look was off his uncle's face.

With an increasingly purple head, Vernon started to round in on him again.

"DID WE NOT REPEATEDLY TELL YOU TO KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT, BOY?! I WILL RIP YOUR GODDAMN THROAT OUT IF THAT IS WHAT IT TAKES FOR YOU TO LISTEN!"

His face was now so close to Harry's that he could feel the spittle spewing out of his uncle's mouth.

Two big, meaty hands grabbed his shoulders, and in the next second, he felt a blinding hot pain on the back of his head.

Black spots were dancing across his vision, and he couldn't quite grasp what had happened just now.

From experience, Harry would say that Uncle Vernon had shaken him so roughly that his head had caught the wall, but maybe it was just a single shove, not multiple. Who knew? He couldn't tell anymore.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that that probably wasn't a good sign and that he should do something, but he couldn't bring himself to care either. Everything hurt. The only thing Harry knew was that thinking was like wading through a swamp.

Dimly, he felt something warm and wet trickling down his neck, but he couldn't concern himself with that right now. There were more pressing matters. Which were... ah, right, the loud voice that was yelling incoherent words at him.

He tried to focus on it, but all he could feel was his pounding head.

Wait, no, why could he feel a cold surface on his cheek as well? Had he fallen over? He sluggishly tried to open his eyes and look around, but he couldn't make out much more than a few blurry shapes.

That wasn't good, right?

Somehow, his mind was getting slower and slower.

He couldn't think.

He desperately tried to claw at the tiniest semblance of awareness, but it kept slipping through his fingers like wisps of smoke.

Then, everything went black.

Chapter Text

Bright light was shining through the cracks of his door, hitting his eyes just right to slowly and comfortably wake him up. Just a second later a shrill voice told him to get moving, and he heard the metal latch sliding back.

Groaning, he lifted his hand to his head—there was still blood in his hair. It honestly felt as if something inside was hammering against his skull, trying to get out. Slowly, he opened his eyes, taking his time to get used to the light because it certainly didn't make this headache any better.

So, his aunt had finally decided that he'd been locked in for long enough. After Uncle Vernon had knocked him unconscious, he had woken up in the small space, completely parched and very dizzy.

As far as he could tell, it had been a few days since then, and he luckily already felt loads better. His head was an annoyance, but he had long learned to just block out any pain.

Sighing, Harry sat up and pushed a hand through his mussed-up, gross hair. He really needed a good cleanup, and the bucket absolutely had to be emptied soon.

Oh great, now that he had actively thought about it, the smell was so much worse.

Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Harry tried to shake it off and reached for his glasses. Just then, he heard Dudley running down the stairs.

Just a second later, the footsteps above him stopped and backed up again slightly.

Then, loud thumping, a tell-tale sign that his cousin was jumping up and down. His antics dislodged some grime and little debris from the ceiling, which rained down on Harry. What kind of start to the day would it be without being greeted by a dust shower? Rolling his eyes, he suppressed a sneeze and waited for him to stop.

But surprisingly, Dudley actually had something interesting to say this time.

"We're going to the zoo today!" He sounded very excited.

Harry hadn't known that yet. Was he included in that statement? Probably not. He wasn't really sure if he wanted to go anyways. Animals were interesting, but it would be much nicer to clean the house in peace without someone constantly nagging or sabotaging him. Yes, he really didn't want to see the zoo. Of course not.

He continued to try and convince himself of that while he mulishly started to climb out of the cramped space.

But Harry was so engrossed in his thoughts that he didn't notice Dudley charging at him until it was too late, and he couldn't do more than brace himself for the inevitable impact. Nevertheless, the rough shove still had its intended effect, and Harry found himself back in the cupboard.

Annoyed, he climbed back out, harshly rubbing the spot on the back of his head he had inadvertently hit during this tumble. Why was everyone aiming for his head nowadays??

Once he finally stood in the hallway with no more distractions, he could smell the bacon Aunt Petunia had started frying. Spit was collecting in his mouth at a rapid pace, and he couldn't stop himself from hungrily sniffing the air, his stomach painfully contracting.

He allowed himself a few seconds of pure bliss, breathing in the heavenly aroma, before collecting himself and stretching his sore limbs. He would hopefully get some food later.

"What an absolutely great morning," he thought sullenly while traipsing into the kitchen on bare feet.

As soon as Harry entered the room, Petunia pressed a hot, sizzling pan with breakfast into his hands, and he had to scramble to adjust his grip on the handle before the heavy thing just tipped over.

While he got to finishing that, Dudley was brought over by his aunt to take a look at the big tower of presents.

Was it really already this late into the month? That meant his birthday wasn't so far off either—8 days, if he counted right.

Of course, his cousin had to throw a tantrum about the number of presents. Honestly, that was almost a ritual by now.

Harry's face had, unbeknownst to him, twisted into a scowl, and he hurriedly looked away. If anyone caught him thinking like this...

He involuntarily shuddered at that thought. He was definitely better off without it; that was for sure. Especially since his last punishment just ended.

Once Harry had distributed breakfast, Uncle Vernon promptly sent him off again to get him coffee.

After he got that, he took his place by the table and stood there with his hands folded in front of his stomach, simply waiting. If he was pressing said hands into his belly so that the hunger pains wouldn't feel like they were ripping him apart sideways, well, then no one had to know.

After what felt like an eternity of keeping completely still, everyone had finally finished and Aunt Petunia handed Harry a few pieces of stale bread, her face twisted into a scowl.

She told him that he should be grateful they were even feeding a freak like him after his last stunt, with this ear-grating high pitched tone she only used with him. Somehow, he supposed she was right. After all, they hadn't asked for him, and he continued to make their lives harder..

He shrugged off the thought with a sense of resignation—he didn't actually care, even if he did understand them—and Harry went to sit in his cupboard with his food and wait until someone came to give him his to-do list.

He didn't need to wait long; as soon as he was finished with his food, Petunia came, pressing the paper into his hands.

"Go clean yourself and that—" she pointed to the bucket, "thing up and get started on my flower bed. Be finished and presentable by one; we're going out."

So, Harry actually was going with them. Weird, they'd normally never let him come.

Locking his gaze onto her black sandals—was she planning on going out before their trip?—he nodded, waiting for her to leave before jumping up and racing up the stairs, bucket in hand. He really wanted to get rid of it. Fast.

After that absolutely nasty job was done, Harry got to work on cleaning his hair. For once, he was really grateful for the cool sensation of water on his skin. Even the itching only solidified it more that he was getting clean.

Of course, he couldn't spend too much time, so after around ten minutes, he dried himself off and went to weed the garden.

Normally it could be a pretty unforgiving job at times, but today he enjoyed that as well.

Somehow, everything was always so much better after being locked up. Even the blistering sun was nice. But Harry knew that it wouldn't stay like that for long.

Soon his hands would get raw, his skin sunburnt, and his throat parched. At that point, only his pride would keep him going. Or maybe it was the threat of punishment hanging over his head—he wasn't actually sure.

Harry was working on dusting off the shelves in the living room when his aunt called.

He hurriedly checked the clock—it wasn't time yet. Why was she already calling him?

Maybe he did something wrong? His hands involuntarily began to tremble, and he quickly followed her voice. Dawdling would make her even angrier.

She was outside by the car—and not just her; everyone was there. Clasping his hands to stop them from shaking, he carefully looked at her.

"We're leaving earlier," she sniffed primly, narrowing her eyes at him. "Vernon wants to have a word with you before we go."

After saying her part, she ushered the smirking Dudley into the car and got in as well.

Swallowing against the knot in his throat, he turned to his uncle. Said man grasped his shoulder and lowly, dangerously told him, "No funny business today, you hear me, boy? We do not want a repeat of last time, do we?"

Harry silently let out a breath of relief—this wasn't so bad.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon."

His voice was still rough and cracking at the edges, but it had always been weird to hear himself speak. His uncle nodded once before giving his shoulder one final, hard squeeze and getting into the car.

Dudley had probably bugged them to leave until they gave in earlier than planned. That happened quite often, and Harry felt a bit ridiculous, jumping to conclusions like that. (Even if he was right more often than not)

The ride itself wasn't all that bad; he mostly got ignored, and Dudley only shot a few candy wrappers at him, so all in all, he counted it as a win. No matter what he wanted to make himself believe before, he was now honestly pretty excited about the zoo—Harry had only seen these kinds of animals on the telly while looking through the gaps of his cupboard door.

What sounds would the giraffes make? Did they actually spread their front legs like that while drinking? Would there maybe be elephants doing tricks?

Thinking about all the possibilities, his excitement only grew, and he soon could hardly keep still. Harry had to pin his hands between his legs to stop himself from bouncing up and down.

He couldn't wait to get there.

Once they finally arrived, Dudley wanted to go see the lions first, but since they were still far away from that part of the zoo, Harry got to see many wonderful creatures on the way. He almost got left behind a few times because he got too enthralled watching every last one of them.

He hadn't known how many different species of monkeys there were. And that they would be so loud.

But his cousin didn't share his enthusiasm. He wanted to see the 'cool' animals. Which was pretty much anything dangerous. Harry was a bit confused about that; in his opinion, the monkeys looked plenty dangerous. But then again, what did he know?

After a while, it turned out that the big cats were all at the end of the zoo. He was secretly happy about that; he could see so much more now! They even went through a long, dark tunnel with bats—they had to be the coolest thing he had seen until now. They were almost completely silent! Apparently, they used echolocation, and their calls were so high-pitched no human could hear them.

Around 1 hour later, Dudley finally got his wish.

"Mom, Mom, look! They have such big teeth!"

"Yes, Dudley dear," Petunia distractedly answered.

Casting a glance at her, Harry could tell that it was probably something important in the way she was anxiously biting her lip while writing something on her phone. But his cousin obviously wasn't happy about being brushed off and pulled on her dress in an attempt to get her attention.

His aunt gritted her teeth and finally looked up.

"Go play somewhere else, dear. Maybe your father wants to hear about it."

Pouting, he stomped his foot. "But today is my birthday! You're supposed to only pay attention to me!"

Harry impassively watched on as the argument dissolved into a full-blown tantrum. (Obviously Dudley was the one throwing the tantrum, his aunt would never.) Shaking his head, he decided he'd look around a bit. 

Here, the path was just reddish dirt with a few patches of grass in between. When had it changed? At the entrance, it had still been concrete. Well, this was much nicer anyway.

The lions were separated from visitors with a sturdy fence and a glass wall. Frowning, Harry noted that their cage seemed to be a bit small, but maybe there was more to it he simply couldn't see?

"Whatever... it's not like I can do anything about it." Thinking that, he sent the lions one last sympathetic look and wandered to the next cage, which luckily wasn't too far away. He could still hear his cousin shouting and his aunt's futile attempts at placating her son, so he would be able to find his way back easily.

He could already see the next cage, but before he could get a glimpse of the animals inside, the shouting behind him cut off.

Disappointed, he turned on his heel and speed-walked back to his family. They didn't like it when they couldn't keep an eye on him. Said he would do something freaky if they weren't looking.

Dudley was apparently already bored of the lions and badgered Uncle Vernon about the reptile house, which was close by, in the opposite direction Harry had gone beforehand.

Snakes and stuff, huh? Well, he had already seen quite a few in their garden. The same went for lizards. Sadly, they all were very shy, never letting him get too close before scurrying away, which kind of sucked. He'd love to have a little friend.

But Harry honestly couldn't fathom why they would be in a zoo? They were small and you could find them everywhere anyway...

Even though he didn't see the point of going there, it wasn't like he could go around on his own, so he soon found himself standing in front of an iguana.

For the first few seconds, he just stared at it with big eyes, blinking owlishly. There were lizards this big?? He was lucky the things hadn't turned up in Petunia's precious garden yet.

Wait, no, they couldn't. The little info plague said they were from... Mexico? Well, at least this one was. Shaking his head, he felt a twinge of embarrassment. Of course, there would be different-sized lizards. It probably depended on where they came from or something. Yeah, that sounded right.

So, there could be big snakes as well? Curious, he turned around and began walking from cage to cage. There were many different lizards in all colors and sizes which were all very pretty and he found the snakes in the next room which were even more awe-inspireing.

The things were massive and looked incredibly cool! He stepped closer to a terrarium, almost touching the glass before he saw the sign that said "Do Not Touch The Glass" in bright red letters.

In hindsight, he probably wouldn't like it if big people constantly banged against the glass and ogled at him either. He could understand that. As he was contemplating that, heavy familiar footsteps sounded from behind him, alerting him to a presence, and he turned around to see who it was.

It was Dudley who had found the snakes as well and ran right up to the one Harry was standing in front of, excitedly clapping his hands.

"Mom, Dad, look! It's so big!" He squished his face against the glass, trying to see it better. But after a few seconds of nothing happening, his face fell.

"Why isn't it doing anything? Make it move!" His cousin whined, and upon hearing this, Uncle Vernon lifted a hand, knocking against the glass. He said something to the animal, but Harry couldn't quite concentrate on the words; he was too busy cringing at the loud knocks. The snake surely didn't like that. And to add insult to injury, Dudley took it as permission to do the same—only, his 'knocks' were more like punches.

Even his uncle looked worried that the glass was going to crack. Harry anxiously shifted his attention back to the snake, hoping that it wouldn't be too scared, but to his surprise it was still just lying there.

"This is boring!" was Dudley's sullen response to the unmoving snake, and he stomped off to somewhere else.

Slowly, Harry moved closer to the glass again, softly putting his fingertips against it. He gathered his courage, looking around to see if anyone was near him, and lowly said, "I'm sorry about them; that must have been scary, huh?"

What he didn't expect was that the snake actually lifted its head and.. looked at him? Harry wasn't actually all that sure if it was "looking" at him per-se, but it was definitely facing him.

"Can you... understand me?"

Weirdly enough, the animal nodded—had it learned that from watching humans?

"Wow..." He let out a breath. That was so cool. 

"I've never talked with a snake before. Have you ever talked with another human?"

It shook its head. For the first time in a while, Harry felt his face stretch into a smile.

"Do you like being here? Don't you miss your home?"

It moved its head as if it was pointing at something. Harry's gaze followed the direction it was pointing to, and ah—

"So you have been here since your birth?" A nod again. "Born in a cage, huh... I can relate to that."

Before he could ask it anything else, he was suddenly pushed aside, sprawling onto the cold tiles.

"Mom, look! It's doing something now! Wow, so cool!"

His cousin was once again pressing his whole body against the glass, grinning widely.

Harry sat up, rubbing his smarting hip, and for a second, he was just so mad. He was angry because it was so unfair he had to be treated this way. That he had to live in a cage. Even the poor snake didn't have it any better.

It sucked.

Why did he have to live this way? 

He didn't like getting hurt! Surely, the snake didn't either.

In his anger, he glared at Dudley and the glass—he couldn't really decide which one he liked less—and suddenly, he felt a weird warmth spread through him. And then—

Then everything went to shit.

The glass his cousin was leaning against vanished. The boy tipped over the railing into the little pond the snake had been dozing in, his eyes widening in terror.

Of course, his cousin was scared and hurriedly scrambled back, trying to get out of the snake's reach, screaming.

Actually, now everyone was screaming.

It was so loud. And oh-

Oh, he had messed up. He had let his freakishness loose again. His uncle would kill him for real this time.

The screams multiplied.

At the edge of his consciousness, he was dimly aware that the snake had slithered out and a "thank you" had flitted through his mind, but he had much bigger problems now.

Terrified, Harry stared at his uncle, who was currently trying to break into the terrarium—when had the glass reappeared?—until a flustered worker came to shakily open it up. The big man heaved a soaking Dudley out of the enclosure without sparing anyone a second glance. 

Once the child was wrapped in a blanket, Vernon looked up, and their eyes met.

What he saw next made his heart drop. Fumbling, he scooted a few steps back, trying to get further out of his uncle's reach.

Realization. Harry had seen realization on Uncle Vernon's face. Oh god.

Dread was pooling in his stomach, and he could feel phantom pain throbbing at the back of his head where it had previously connected with the wall.

What should he do? His heart was pounding in his ears, drowning out the terrified screams of other visitors. He couldn't focus on anything else other than his uncle's furious eyes.

Perhaps, because of that focus he could see some other underlying emotion.

He couldn't really name it.

But it somehow looked a little bit like… anxiety? He stared until his uncle turned away and shook himself.

That thought had to wait until later; first, he had to get himself under control.

Harry started tracing the ridges of the tiles underneath his fingers and counted his breaths until the stinging subsided, and he felt he could stand without keeling over.

His family was already on their way out of the door, so he hurriedly stood on shaking legs and ran after them.

Harry couldn't really remember the car ride, but he came back to himself so fast he almost got whiplash as Vernon grabbed his hair and yanked it back.

He hissed at the stinging pain, his face scrunching up in discomfort, and he couldn't stop himself from lifting his arms to try and dislodge his uncle's hands.

"What. was. that?"

"I don't know! I really don't know!" His voice broke in the middle, and he was horrified at the realization that he was almost crying. His breaths were coming in unsteady heaves, and he begged his breakfast to stay down.

As Vernon's head grew more red by the second, Harry found that he couldn't stop the words from flowing past his lips.

"I'm sorry, I really am—"

He didn't want to hurt again.

"-I dunno what happened there either, I promise—!"

He didn't want to be here anymore.

"-It was just like magic—"

The resulting silence was deafening. A few tears slid down his cheeks as he realized what he had just done.

The following slap left his head spinning and dizzy. He tried lifting a hand to his burning cheek, but he was suddenly picked up by the scruff of his neck and thrown.

Then a familiar door loudly slammed shut. Ah. His cupboard. Harry almost melted in relief, but a hissing voice had him tensing up again.

"There is no magic. Just freakishness, boy."

The metal sound of the cover sliding shut and the bolt being locked again signaled the end of it all.

Shivering, he wrapped his arms around himself and took a bit to simply breathe.

Yeah. This was for the best.

It could've been so much worse. Harry probably wouldn't be allowed to eat for quite a while, but he liked this better than hurting.

He wiped at his wet cheeks, wincing at how hot one of them was. That would surely leave an ugly bruise.

Moving onto his back, he pulled a small, threadbare blanket over himself and closed his eyes.

He had done… magic, hadn't he? Maybe that could help him get out of here. Yeah, that was something worth thinking about.

With grim determination he set on crafting plans. 

He would get out of here.

And if it was the last thing he did.

Soon, a new day would begin. Maybe, hopefully, something good could happen for once.

Chapter Text

It had been more than a week since he had been allowed outside.

It had been more than a week since he had sworn he would get away from this family.

It had been more than a week since he had first started experimenting with his freakishness—no, magic.

He would have to get rid of that habit.

He wouldn't be a freak anymore.

Not if Harry could help it, anyway. But right now he couldn't do anything at all; his body was so weak.

Because it had also been more than a week since he had gotten any amount of food.

Groaning, he curled up tighter, pressing his arms even harder into his midsection, trying to smother that awful, empty feeling (it was beyond being painful now).

Today was his birthday, so they surely would let him out or at least give him something to eat, right? They couldn't be that cruel. There were still a few hours until sunrise, and waiting was killing him. Literally. 

The first few days, Harry had made some real progress with his frea- magic. He had figured out how to consciously call and eventually direct that warmth. He had even managed to coax it into doing what he wanted, at least to some extent.

His first few attempts had, of course, ended in disaster—which was expected. But what he hadn't thought was how violent it would be. One of his action figures had been blown to bits in one of his very first tries. It was sad, but he told himself that the tears had been from the dust the maneuver had blown into the air. He'd have to be stronger if he wanted to get out of here. 

Casting a miserable look at the pile of limbs lying in one of the corners, he sniffed and promised the soldier that he'd fix him soon. He'd figure out how along the way. In the worst-case scenario (and the most realistic one), he would have to steal some glue.

After that incident, Harry had stopped simply forcing this... energy out of his body and tried directing it instead. That more or less had worked. He had also found that using his arms and hands to gesture while thinking of a specific thing made it infinitely easier to keep the flow steady.

With all of that accumulated knowledge, he had been able to sway the paper on the wall (reading "HARRY'S ROOM" in big, bold letters) with a gust of wind on command. Which, granted, didn't seem like much, but it was a big breakthrough compared to before. It didn't even rip or anything!

After those initial days, Harry managed less and less training, and he soon grew too weak physically and especially mentally to call upon the magic. Which was seriously a shame. Those days would have been very precious time since he wouldn't get this kind of chance again anytime soon.

Unless he deliberately did something wrong. It was a thought worth considering, but Harry didn't want his face to meet Vernon's fists again soon—or ever—if he could help it.

Sighing, he sat up and reached for his water bottle. Its content had been steadily dwindling over the last two days, and his aunt had yet to come refill it, so he could only take a small gulp to soothe his protesting stomach and endlessly dry throat. There was less than a fifth left in the container. If his family decided to keep him in here any longer and didn't 'grant' him fresh water today, he seriously wouldn't know what to do.

Honestly, this whole situation simply sucked, but since Harry now had an actual chance at getting out of here, he felt so much more alive. He had a plan now. He soon wouldn't be the stupid, delinquent, freakish Harry anymore. No, he'd be just Harry.

Of course, it would take a while until he could control the magic sufficiently to survive on the streets, but in the end, it would all be worth it. He'd have to try and see how far it could take him, where its limits were, but right now? Right now, it felt as if he could do anything. Even Vernon wouldn't stand a chance against him. He would be unstoppable.

Harry felt absolutely giddy at that thought. He would never have to bow his head and take it again. His family wouldn't be able to touch him. He was special now.

Like in those superhero movies.

That thought brought his mind to a screeching halt. Who was he kidding? A hero? Him? Yeah, right.

And anyway, who is to say there are no others like him? He hadn't even known there were different-sized snakes. How would he be able to tell if anyone else had this ability? How stupid of him to give in to such childish fantasies.

...just in case he would start planning a costume. Just in case. 

But even if Harry happened to not be special, he sure as heck was stronger than his 'family' now. Alright, no, scratch that—he wasn't stronger yet. But he would be. He would make sure of that.

A few hours later, Harry heard his aunt coming downstairs, and he wouldn't admit it to anyone, but he was silently begging for her to stop and let him out. He wouldn't be able to take much more.

Somehow, in a stroke of luck, she actually did. She didn't talk to him, no, not a word—didn't even look at him. But she did slide the bar back and open the door.

And, for the first time after a grueling week, he could taste the sweet, fresh air he so desperately needed.

While he was still busy just breathing, Petunia silently pressed a list into his hands. So, it would be a normal day, then.

Or rather, somewhat normal, because her eyes still didn't look anywhere near him, and her face was more neutral than anything else. She was acting as if he were air. It was not like that trick was anything new, but she had never kept her expression this clean of any dislike.

It was downright eerie.

As if she wanted to hide something.

He continued watching her as she was walking towards the kitchen entrance, but it wasn't until the last second that he saw her eyes flicker towards him and her face betray an emotion.

Or rather, multiple, tightly interwoven ones.

Nervous anticipation and anxiety were the most prominent, shining through the cracks of her facade. He tried dissecting his memories of that glance further once she had left but couldn't decipher anything more. What he did see was all gibberish to him.

He leaned back, pondering, the paper forgotten in his hands.

He couldn't help being curious. This whole morning was just so... off. She acted as if something was different—in a bad way. But what? Was it somehow linked to his birthday? Even if it wasn't that, he was sure it was about him in some way.

Thinking back on it, she had looked at him like that a few times in the past. Mostly after he'd done magic.

Alright, she definitely knew something. But what?

He couldn't figure it out for the life of him, so he gave up, with a promise to revisit the topic another day.

Finally remembering the list in his lap, he lifted it and took a look at it.

Nothing terribly unusual. He'd have to get started on breakfast first, before the other two woke up.

Reading further, he noted the point 'mail'. That was the only thing he'd need to have a specific time plan for.

The mailman hadn't been here yet, but as soon as he came, Vernon would want his newspaper to go with his coffee.

Well, better get to it then.

Harry carefully stood up on soft legs, gripping the little door for support, and waited until the darkness that had shrouded his vision receded again before slowly trotting into the dimly lit kitchen.

Breakfast was pretty uneventful, and just as Vernon finished his first coffee, the mail was dropped off.

Harry quickly ran to the door, bending down to pick up the envelopes. He was just about to walk back when one letter caught his eye. Was that his name?

Flipping through them again, he quickly found it. He absent-mindedly noted the complicated-looking wax seal and the word 'Hogwarts' as he flipped it around. And there it was.

"Mr. H. Potter,"

It was indeed his name.

Who would send him post?? Curious, he shifted his gaze further down to read the rest of the address.

As he saw the next line, he could've sworn his heart stopped.

"The Cupboard under the Stairs,"

No one knew about this. No one. His aunt and uncle made sure of that. They would never tell anyone.

His mind was reeling as he quickly skimmed over the rest.

"4, Privet Drive,
Little Whinging,
SURREY,"

Nothing else that was unusual. His eyes returned to the second line. How was this possible?

Then he stopped short. This meant someone, anyone out there, knew about this. Why had they not done anything? This surely wasn't how he should be treated, right? Why would they just let this happen?

Harry could feel tears prick at the corners of his eyes, and he furiously scrubbed them away. Just because someone else thought he should be treated like a freak didn't mean everything was lost. It was just another adult (probably?) he'd have to be wary of. Nothing new. He could do this. He could.

He squashed the empty feeling in his chest down as hard as he could. This was not the time to wallow in something as stupid as self-pity.

Hovering his fingers over the fancy seal, he was just about to tear it open when a loud laugh from the table brought him back to reality. He couldn't open it now, and they surely wouldn't let him keep it. But where to put it? They'd hear it if he opened the cupboard—the door's hinges squeaked and its bottom scratched against the floor. No, that was surely out of the question. He frantically looked around—the flowerpots? No, too dirty. The ornate vases? Petunia liked to rearrange them, and she'd surely notice something stuffed inside.

In a split-second decision, he shoved it into his waistband, trusting the baggy shirt to cover the part that stood out. This would have to do for now. He could excuse himself soon to go tend to the garden. There he would have a look at it.

He picked up the rest of the letters again—he had thrown them on the floor in his excitement—and went to give them to his uncle.

As said man received them, Harry was promptly sent for more coffee. He was glad for it. Less time anyone could spot the paper peeking out of his trousers or the weird way he was moving to keep it from slipping down his leg.

While he was waiting for the coffee to finish brewing, he made the knot around his waist tighter so his pants would keep the envelope nice and secure. He also stuffed his shirt into the waistband since there were multiple large holes along its bottom. He'd just have to be careful not to make any big movements so that it wouldn't shift and show the paper.

As Harry re-entered the room with a mug in hand, he heard Vernon say something about Aunt Marge being sick. Good news for him, she wouldn't be able to visit anytime soon then. He suppressed a triumphant smile and bent down slightly to place the cup of coffee on the table.

While doing so, he felt his shirt slightly shift and slip. A hot spike of panic shot through him—he hadn't been careful enough. He quickly rightened himself, keeping his arm over where he knew the hole was to hopefully cover up his mistake. But no such luck.

Looking around discreetly, he saw that Dudley was watching him with wide eyes.

A second later, a shit-eating grin split his face.

"Mom, Dad! Harry is hiding a letter!" He gleefully crowed, all the while keeping his glittering eyes on Harry.

The boy in question was now rapidly paling as he saw both adults slowly turn to him with an astonished expression. It had been a while since he actively went against them, he reckoned. For a second, he debated simply making a break for it, but before he could commit, a pale-faced Petunia was next to him and ripped the envelope out of its hiding spot.

He could pinpoint the exact moment she spotted the seal. She was so deathly pale in one second to the next that he was seriously worried for her well-being.

"Dear? What is it?" a slightly anxious-sounding Vernon asked.

God, what was going on right now? Why was everyone so nervous today? What was so special about one letter?

"Quiet, Vernon," the woman hissed, turning the envelope around.

Harry honestly didn't think she could look any worse, but his aunt quickly proved him wrong. He knew what she'd seen. So she hadn't told anyone either.

Her hands were trembling harshly, her lips so pale he would have bet everything he owned that she'd have passed out then and there if she hadn't sat down.

Vernon was now worried enough that he stood up to look over his wife's shoulder. He apparently didn't like what he saw any better than her since he promptly staggered back into the chair, putting his face into his hands.

The whole situation was baffling enough that Harry found himself sharing a confused look with Dudley of all people—until both caught onto what they were doing, that is. His cousin promptly pulled a face at him. Figures. It wouldn't do to be civil for once, would it?

But that was decidedly not the most pressing matter at hand. What was going on with that letter? Like, seriously?

Harry was already cursing himself to hell and back for being stupid enough to get caught. Their reactions made it even worse. Because now, he really, really wanted to know what was written in it.

He actually had to bite his cheek to not tell them to give it back, that it was his. Yeah, because that would surely be appreciated.

His aunt and uncle seemed to have gathered themselves enough to stand back up.

Harry knew that what would follow now wouldn't end pretty, so he closed his eyes beforehand. He didn't want to see this.

After some furious whispers—too low for him to make out—he heard footsteps walking around him, not touching a single hair. This was entirely against his expectations. After nothing more happened for a few seconds, he slowly cracked his eyes back open. Everyone was gone.

Confused, he looked around. Nothing. No one was in the room.

Seriously.

What. was. going. on???

The next day wasn't any less weird; no one had done anything. Not even Dudley.

All three of them were skittish and pale-faced around him. He really couldn't fathom why. He was honestly wishing more and more that he would have just read the letter once he had seen it. It would probably answer so many of the damn questions he currently had.

Uncle Vernon had taken it after they found it—which really wasn't surprising, but it sucked nonetheless.

Even if the sender seemed to be an asshole, it had been his only tie to the outside world, so Harry was now in a pretty bad mood. But again, his family didn't do anything about it. Didn't even comment on it. They just left him to go about his day.

Which was, like, very weird and out of character for them.

Petunia loved to look over his shoulder and criticize everything she saw, and Dudley normally never missed a chance to make his life a living hell.

As strange as this day began, his routine was the same as always. So, Harry was once again standing in front of the stove, waiting for eggs to finish boiling. Quickly glancing at the clock on the wall, he noted that he'd have to take them out of the water in about… thirty seconds.

Harry grabbed the spoon and held it tightly in his hand as he watched the clock tick down. He needed to be very precise; otherwise, he would be sent to remake them.

5, 4, 3, 2…

Now.

Quickly, he fished the eggs out, taking care not to drop any of them. Even if his family was weirdly… lenient since yesterday, he really didn't want to risk it.

After he had put them on small plates, he brought them to the table carefully.

Petunia looked at him primly before… stomping on Uncle Vernon's foot? Harry blinked at them. He was just about to decide whether he should play it off or not as his uncle awkwardly coughed once.

"Boy… you will get the day… off." His face was pulled into a tight grimace at the last few words, and Harry got the distinct feeling that he would have rather eaten an especially sour lemon than say that.

His aunt sent her husband another sharp look, and he begrudgingly continued.

"You will act as if you don't exist and only leave your cupb—" A cough. "...Room… if necessary. Understood?" Had everyone just lost their marbles? He continued blinking at the man owlishly before visibly straightening himself and answering.

"Yes? Yes, sir." Harry really was not sure if this was a test, but with how the adults had been acting the last two days, he somehow didn't think so.

He continued hovering for a bit, waiting for… anything, really. But nothing came. He took two unsure steps towards the door.

No one said anything.

Well then.

He was still a bit nervous, glancing at the two people at the table while briskly walking to his cupboard. Once inside, he held his breath, waiting for the telltale sound of the bar sliding shut.

Harry listened closely for a few minutes, but other than his heartbeat, he couldn't hear anything. He let his breath out in a loud whoosh and experimentally tried to crack open the door. To his surprise, it gave way easily. Huh. Well. If things continued like this, he wouldn't be too sad about the lost contents of his letter. Whatever was written in there wouldn't be better than this… freedom. He was sure of it.

Since he now had some free time, he'd just play with his remaining soldiers. Maybe the destroyed one could've walked into a bomb. Yeah, like in that movie his uncle watched on TV a few weeks back! The other figures would be very sad to find him like that. They'd weep and apologize to the dead one. Then he'd have a grand burial with many, many people.

Harry briefly wondered if anyone would do the same for him, but a noise from the door distracted him. The post had come. Should he go get it? They didn't outright say so—no, in fact, they heavily implied he should simply make himself scarce. Yeah, better safe than sorry; he'd stay in here.

Absentmindedly, he moved two of the figures. It had been the right choice to stay put—he could hear his uncle moving down the hall towards the door.

A few seconds later, the sound of paper ripping filled his ears. Huh. Maybe something came that his uncle didn't like? 

Well, what did it matter to him? At least he wasn't the bearer of bad news this time.

Shrugging, he went back to his little story.

But a few minutes later, he was once again interrupted by loud… drilling? It certainly sounded like drilling, anyway. Intrigued (and slightly annoyed by the repeated disturbances), he near-silently opened his door just enough to peek through.

Now he was fully convinced that Uncle Vernon must've gone mad. The man was bent over, frantically trying to obstruct the letterbox with a wooden plank. Harry thought he could also hear some murmuring about "No more mail through here." Did he like the letter he had gotten so little? But even if so, Harry still thought this was a bit of an overreaction. Shaking his head, he shot his uncle one last judging look and went back inside, softly closing the door. He reckoned any help would come too late for the man anyway.

Unconcerned, he wanted to go back to playing, but—

"Aw, shucks, I forgot where I was."

He threw himself back onto the dusty mattress, crossed his arms, and pouted.

The next day, Uncle Vernon had decided that he'd make him 'learn a lesson' or something through burning five of the weird envelopes in front of him. But the thing was—he had long made peace with not knowing what was written in them. Of course, it irked him a bit—especially since he learned that the letters his uncle had ripped up the day before had also been his—but it didn't bother him quite as much as the man obviously hoped. And anyway, Vernon's lessons were normally much more brutal. So this? This was nothing.

Of course, he still took care to appear sufficiently affronted and sad about the whole ordeal. He didn't need to rile his uncle up any more than the man had already been the last few days. Yesterday, there were several instances where Petunia visibly had to hold him back from giving Harry a hiding. No need to challenge the man's poor self-control.

But speaking of his aunt, he seriously wasn't sure what to think of her right now. Of course, the logical part of his mind knew that she had a reason for stepping up now of all times (something to do with those letters, for sure), but he couldn't help but feel hopeful at her change.

Harry harshly stuffed those unnecessary feelings in a small box in the back of his mind and looked at his smiling (kind of crazed-looking) uncle, who just threw the last letter into the crackling fire.

Right as he thought it was acceptable, he turned on his heel and slid out of the room. Since his aunt was so hell-bent on… what—protecting him? Not overworking him? Something like that anyway—he had way too little to do. So he could only go back to his cupboard and try to get some sleep (he didn't dare do magic for fear someone would call on him in a crucial moment).

The next morning, everything was a tad bit more normal. He had gotten at least some chores to do (finally, he'd been going stir-crazy), and the mood in the house somehow seemed lighter.

Harry was just fetching cookies for Vernon and Dudley as his uncle loudly proclaimed:

"Fine day, Sunday. In my opinion, best day of the week. Why is that, Dudley?" Said boy seemed wholly uninterested in the topic and just shrugged, most of his attention on the plate full of sweet snacks.

"Because there is no post on Sundays, of course. So no more freakish letters for you, boy!" The last sentence was accompanied by a mean grin in his direction, and Harry involuntarily shuddered. He really didn't look forward to things returning to normal again.

Suddenly, he saw something feathery fly by the window. He had only seen those kinds of birds on television, but he knew that it was an owl. Suddenly, it clicked. Petunia's whispers about exactly those animals over the last few days, plus her apprehension of letting him go outside (even today, there wasn't any garden work on his list), her weird screams, and Vernon's frantic shooing noises outside the house yesterday made much more sense now.

Quickly, he checked if anyone was paying attention to him (no) before rushing to the window.

It was a sunny day, and everything looked almost normal, except…

Except there were hundreds of owls everywhere. And when he said everywhere, then he meant everywhere.

All over their house, their neighbors' houses, their lawns, their cars, the roof—everything was decked in owls. Delighted, he let out a small giggle, smiling at the sight. If he was right, then all these owls meant—

A loud rumbling interrupted his train of thought, and he turned around to face the source of the quaking. Somehow, he wasn't scared at all, but one look at his relatives' faces told him that he was the odd one out (once again).

He didn't think he had ever seen his aunt looking this anxious and resigned at the same time. Gaze moving to his uncle, he caught the man closing his eyes and covering his ears with a weird expression on his face.

While the two adults in the room seemed at least somewhat prepared, his cousin was a completely different story. Somehow, Harry almost felt pity, looking at the pale-faced, shivering boy whose eyes frantically sought his parents'.

Then—with a loud boom—a flood of letters blasted out of the furnace.

Alright, while he had expected something, it hadn't quite been like this. This was simply… crazy. Magical.

Harry was staring big-eyed at the never-ending stream of letters, a small smile playing on his lips before he shook himself out of his stupor and tried to discreetly nick one of the fluttering envelopes.

His plan went (mostly) alright; he had deftly caught a letter and hidden it in his trousers again when he heard the shrill voice of his aunt trying to get her husband to do something about him.

He froze for a second. She had been watching him. He had been too preoccupied by… everything to properly pay attention to her.

Harry grit his teeth and lowly murmured, "Screw it all," before making a break for it towards the front door. He only needed to get out of here. The adrenaline was pumping through his veins, and it seemed as if everything was in slow motion as big, heavy footsteps sounded from behind him—following him.

He could feel his heart in his throat, and it felt way too long before he finally skidded around the corner, his eyes catching the glimmer of the handle. He couldn't let himself get caught.

Just a few more steps. A few more steps, and he would be out of here. A few more—

A big, meaty hand grabbed him around his stomach from behind, and he was dragged back. It all happened so fast; he didn't have any time to react, so before he could even blink, he was caught in an iron grip, being pinned against the burly man behind him.

Anxious, he tried to find that weird feeling from before when he'd made his uncle stop mid-swing and whispered,

"Let go."

Nothing happened.

Desperate, he tried again, louder this time.

"Let go!"

Nothing again. Now he was full-blown panicking, kicking behind him and simultaneously trying to pull the heavy arms off. But nothing had any effect. His breaths were coming in sharp gasps, and it felt as if his lungs just couldn't get enough air, no matter how much of it he gulped down.

"LET GO!"

Harry could feel the arms around him freeze and strain. Had it worked? Slowly, very slowly, he could feel the pressure that had kept him in place lessen.

But then suddenly the wooden board over the letterbox splintered away, and even more envelopes came pouring in.

The noise had made him flinch hard, and he could feel the flow of his magic cut off abruptly. Instantly the arms around him got tighter than before, and the man behind him gasped loudly.

While Harry couldn't help but slightly resent the letters that had broken his concentration, he also noticed that they seemed to be targeting Uncle Vernon's face alone. Which, he had to admit, was pretty funny—even in this situation.

Spluttering and coughing, the man in question tried to swat the offending envelopes away as he growled? Squeaked? It was a weird mix of both.

"That's it. We're going away—far away!"

At some point during all of this, Petunia and Dudley had arrived in the doorway.

"Daddy's gone mad, hasn't he?" His cousin remarked while his aunt just stared at her husband, shocked. Harry absent-mindedly noted that his voice sounded scared and apprehensive, but he was currently still preoccupied with trying to wiggle his way out of the bruising grip Vernon held him in.

Seriously, if things continued like this, he wasn't sure if he would like tight spaces much anymore. 

Harry had never been to the ocean before.

Vernon had promptly dragged them off to the coast as soon as the letters had stopped blowing in. The drive there had been tense, with his uncle breaking all speed limits and his aunt looking as if she might pass out any second the whole ride. Even Dudley managed to pick up on the atmosphere and kept to himself.

For the most part he hadn't known what to do with himself until he caught the first few glimpses of the sea. From then on he was glued to the window, hoping to see more of it. Harry honestly couldn't explain it, but the large body of water just had… a weird pull. The longer he looked at it, the more he wanted to jump out of the moving car and go take a dip in the water—which was weird since he couldn't even swim. Heck, he couldn't even remember ever being fully submerged—he had never been allowed to use the actual shower either.

The ocean was, in general, very mind-blowing to him. In commercials it always looked so calm—almost tame—blue and sparkly. But now? Now the waves were almost taller than him, crashing violently against the cliffs. It was a restless, stormy grey that threatened to swallow you if you got too close to it.

Somehow he liked this version better. Like this, it reminded him of his own whirling mind..

Like that, the car ride flew past him in a daze.

Once they had arrived at the old, dingy wooden hut that looked like it would soon collapse if as little as a breeze hit its walls (even if it probably wouldn't since the wind was plenty strong right now), Harry was ordered to clean the whole thing before they'd even set foot into it.

That took him the whole rest of the day. At the end it still didn't look great, and it smelled funny, but he did his best with what he'd been given because no one had thought to pack cleaning supplies in their hurry. Which was an inconvenience, to say the least.

His hands and knees were raw from scrubbing the floor with nothing more than cloth and water.

He thoughtfully flexed said hands as he sat in front of the ocean-facing window. It was weirdly calming to simply watch the storm rage over the sea as the wind howled through crevices in the thin walls. Even the still burning fire couldn't hold off the creeping cold that clung to everything like gum.

Slightly shivering, he eyed the rest of the room. Nowhere else looked like it was any warmer than here—other than the dusty couch, but that was Dudley's bed for now. Harry had not even been given a blanket, which seriously should be criminal in this weather. He probably should stay awake for the night—he had read somewhere that sleeping in the cold could lead to death or something like that. He didn't know if that was accurate or even true, but he didn't want to risk it either.

And anyway, today was his birthday, so staying up longer than usual had already been the plan from the beginning.

Sighing, he started curling in on himself a little more as he heard his cousin's watch go off twice. Midnight.

He lifted his hand and started writing in the condensed water on the window. After the first few letters, he could feel the telltale prickling of his 'rash'. Grimacing, he grit his teeth and powered through; he could deal with it in a moment.

Finally, it was finished. He started scratching his finger absentmindedly, his nail catching in the weird small scales that had formed, and leaned back a bit to get a good look at his writing.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HARRY"

Satisfied, he nodded. At some point he would work on prettier letters, but for now the bold style brought the message across just fine.

"Alright! Let's make a wish." He thought as he closed his eyes. Luckily, he didn't need to think at all about what he wanted.

"Please make my magic strong enough so I can get away." He lowly whispered into the dark room, a little smile dancing on his lips as he imagined that life.

Opening his eyes, he took the bottom of his shirt and wiped the evidence on the window away.

Suddenly, loud bangs made the door rattle in its hinges.

Both Dudley and Harry shot up from their respective spots at the loud noise. Harry only froze for a second before he quickly ran to a corner, pressing himself against the wall with a pounding heart. From here he could keep an eye on the door without being easily spotted himself.

The heavy thumps continued on as his aunt and uncle came stumbling down the stairs. Harry did a double take at them. Where had Vernon gotten a gun from?? He didn't even know they had one.

Then, the door gave in, and Harry now had more pressing things to worry about.

Silently cursing, he pressed himself further into the shadows, hoping the intruder would go for the others first (which, yeah, was morbid, and he'd probably feel so guilty if that happened, but he was so. close. to getting out of here).

Lightning lit up the sky, and Harry could briefly make out the form of a very, very tall man. Apparently the Dursleys could too because all three of them were now screaming loudly.
Grimacing, Harry glanced around the corner again, holding his breath for good measure, while he watched the giant duck through the comparatively small door and step into the room.

He quickly looked the now visible man up and down, stopping short at the… pink umbrella??

Why was the man holding a pink umbrella of all things?? Confused, Harry tore his gaze away from it, wanting to continue observing the man just to hear:

"Sorry 'bout tha'."

Chapter Text

His heart felt like it was about to beat out of his chest, and adrenaline was coursing through his veins but Harry still couldn't help thinking, "How can someone realistically be this big?!"

The man that was just putting the ruined door back in its approximate place was taller than anyone Harry had ever seen, which, granted, wasn't hard, but he was sure that it wasn't normal for someone to be nearly twice as tall as anyone Harry knew.

As he was still eying the man warily, his uncle recovered from the shock the sudden visitor had caused and spluttered "I demand that you leave at once, sir! You are breaking and entering!"

Surprised, Harry whipped his head around. What was with that polite request? He would have never thought his uncle would be so 'nice' to anyone intruding on them. The normal reaction would've been to incoherently scream at the cause of his ire and then promptly call the police.  

Right as he thought that, his eyes caught the glint of steel, and he rapidly tensed. Vernon was aiming the gun at the stranger. That thing wasn't just for show? No, no, it could still be. But what would happen to the man if he fired it? Harry didn't want to imagine that scene at all. Even if the newcomer was big, that gun looked like it would do more than enough dama-

Suddenly, the room was filled with an ugly creaking, effectively interrupting his morbid imagination as the giant man bent the barrel, previously pointing at him, skywards. A soft gasp echoed through the room, and Petunia hurriedly slapped her hands over her mouth, stifling it.

Blinking rapidly, Harry pressed himself back against the wall. This was surreal. This man was very, very dangerous. How could any human being do that with just one hand?

Then, everything happened in quick succession. The stranger said, "Dry up, Dursley, yeh great prune." and a gunshot echoed through the room.

In response, shrill shrieks sounded, and Harry barely managed to stifle a scream himself. Panting from the nerves, he peeked out of his hiding spot, eying the now new hole in the ceiling with trepidation. He gulped. If that had hit a human… it would have been so much worse than he imagined.

The sound of the man speaking had him tense up  and shifting to keep an eye on him.

"Man, I haven' seen ya since yeh was a baby, Harry. But yer a bit more along 'n I would have expected. Particularly 'round the middle." The stranger was looking Dudley up and down as he said that. He thought Dudley was him? That was kinda insulting—no wait, more importantly, how did the man know him? What did he even want from him? And did he say he'd known him as a child?? Harry certainly didn't know him!

Everything just got so much more bizarre.

Of course his cousin knew that he was indeed not Harry, and so he timidly voiced as much while sweating profusely and wringing his hands.

"I-I-I'm not Harry."

The boy really didn't know what was going on anymore. But who could blame him? Not even Harry knew that.

In any case, obviously he wouldn't be reckless enough to show himself. But come to think of it, that man might've been the sender of the letter. He might know what was going on with him. But on the other hand, the sender also knew about things and hadn't said or done anything about it.

Harry absentmindedly started chewing on a hangnail as his mind continued to turn in circles.

He didn't seem to like the Dursleys much—or at least not his uncle, so that was a point in his favor.

"Really? Where is he then?"

But the risk of showing himself was still huge. The Dursleys obviously wouldn't like the stranger much now, so if he were to have a normal conversation with him, they might just throw him out for real this time.

"Uh- Uhm, He- He is over there!"

And contrary to his last reckless decision, he knew he wasn't yet ready to—wait. Had his cousin just said 'over there'?

His hand stilled, finger still in his mouth as heavy footsteps sounded, moving in his direction.

His face contorted at the ugly realization. Dudley had sold him out. Oh, the little rat— 
(He knew that he would've done the same, but still.)

A tall shadow, illuminated by lightning, fell on him as the man rounded the corner.

"Ah! there ya are Harry! Come, come, got somethin' fer yeh. 'fraid I might have sat on it at some point, but I imagine it'll taste fine jus the same."

Harry stared at the man, not moving an inch (besides taking the finger out of his mouth and placing the hand on the wall) as he watched him cheerfully rummaging through his pockets and pulling a squished square box out from somewhere (by god, he didn't know where).

"There we go. Baked it meself, words an' all. Heh."

He slowly looked at the box that was thrust in his face and back at the man before carefully extending a hand and hesitantly taking it.

"Come on, open it up!"

Harry stalled for a second longer before cautiously lifting the lid. He was half expecting spiders and insects, but no, it was really just a very squished cake with green frosting that read "Happee Birthdae Harry". He would have been lying if he said that tears didn't gather at the corners of his eyes at the sight, but sue him; he hadn't gotten a real present, much less a cake, ever, so he was allowed to be a little emotional.

But now he stood before a whole new dilemma: should he say thank you? Because, socially, he knew he absolutely should. But it was him they were talking about. It had always been expected of him to remain silent unless asked a question.

He resolved to simply smiling brightly and hoped that it conveyed his full appreciation (he knew that nothing would be able to express exactly how grateful he actually was, but this would have to be enough).

The man kindly smiled "'s not every day tha' yer young man turns 11, now is it? Aye?" Not waiting for an answer, he trudged towards the couch and plopped down on it before aiming his umbrella at the smoldering logs in the fireplace. (The fire had gotten blown out by the wind as the door was... let's say, not in its place.) A few small sparks shot from the tip and landed on the coals, which promptly sparked to life with new vigor.

Harry watched with amazement obvious in his eyes. He was right. He hadn't been the only one. That realization made him feel weird. He thought it would bother him, but no, he couldn't quite place it, but it was good.

He slowly traipsed after the man, still enraptured by the brightly burning flames. He didn't even notice as all three Dursleys gasped in shock at the blatant display of 'freakishness' in their presence.

He took his place next to the sofa, biting down hard on his tongue. He really, really wanted to ask who he was and what he wanted. But he couldn't. Not for the first time, the unfairness of it all hit him hard. He knew he shouldn't speak. But why was it just him? Why was it only him that had these rules? None of the other kids at his school ever seemed to have the same restrictions. They were only told to clear their plate and such, which, really now, was more a blessing than a curse in his opinion.

Fueled by his anger, he gathered his confidence to ask, "E-excuse me, who are... you?"

His confidence had rapidly left him while he was speaking, and now his whole body was shaking. He knew he shouldn't have done that. Why was he such an idiot? He and his stupid pride! Now he'd get a hiding from a complete stranger he'd just met simply because he couldn't keep his mouth shut. And who knew what his punishments were? After all, he had magic at his disposal as well.

Harry's fingers dug into the soft cushions of the couch as he waited for the inevitable to come to pass.

"Rubeus Hagrid, keeper o' keys an' grounds at Hogwarts. O' course, yeh'll know all 'bout Hogwarts."

The kind, cheery voice of the strang- Hagrid threw him for a loop. So… it didn't bother him? Well, at least not now. He'd still have to keep an eye on things. Just to be sure.

Replaying the sentence in his head, he noticed the last part. He indeed did not know what Hogwarts was. It was all in all phrased more like a statement than a question but-...

"N-No, Sir, I don't."

Hagrid was obviously surprised by this, but Harry honestly didn't know why he would be. It didn't seem like some well known place; otherwise, Petunia would have talked about it at some point.

"No? Blimey, Harry, didn' yeh ever wonder where yer mum an' dad learned it all?"

Now that was just confusing. His parents? His aunt always said they were delinquents, that he got it from them. So what could they possibly have learned? And, disregarding that, they were dead. He never knew them; how was he supposed to know what special things they might have learned? But he obviously couldn't say all that.

"Sorry, sir, learned what?"

Hagrid just looked at him deadpan before saying four words he'd never in his whole life forget.

"Yer a wizard, Harry."

A pause. (If he'd pay attention, he could've seen his uncles' and aunts' faces contorting almost painfully.)

"Well, actually not quite. Yeh are half merman, half wizard, belonging ter the merfolk. And a thumping good one, I'd wager, once yer trained up little."

The first part made sense but- "Wait- a,.. a merman? S-sir?" He almost forgot to be polite in his shock. Luckily he remembered. But that—that opened up so many new possibilities. And questions. Especially questions.

"Well, of course, an' also a wizard.- "He seemed to think Harry hadn't understood the wizard part "- Did yeh ever make anything happen? anything yeh couldn' explain when yeh were angry or scared? I imagine your merman half must've bin glaringly obvious!"

He laughed loudly, as if he just made the joke of the century. And while that explained very much (so the magic reacted to emotions), it did not explain anything about him supposedly being a merman.

"Sorry, sir, I-.. I think you might've gotten the wrong person..?"

"'Course I haven'."

Hagrid said it with so much conviction that Harry couldn't help but waver a little bit, but it changed nothing—he'd never had any sort of… fish tail? (Was that something you got when you were a mermaid, or did that only happen in the movies?) or anything else that might've pointed towards him being a… merman. And it sounded kinda crazy. But on the other hand… magic existed, so why shouldn't such creatures be real as well?

Didn't change the fact that he was increasingly nervous. He was about to talk back to an adult for the second time in a row. He took a deep breath and tried to power through it.

"Bu-" another breath "- But I've never.. no-noticed anything of the sort, sir…?"

Now Hagrid looked baffled and confused, scrunching up his face.

"Yeh wan' ter tell me nothin' has ever happened when yeh touched water? No scales growing? nothin'?"

Wait, that did sound familiar—his weird allergy?? He automatically looked down at his finger, which was already back to normal. Now he had to know.

He hurriedly ran towards the still moist window and smacked his hand against the glass. Not a second later, he could feel the familiar tingling spreading through his palm. Slowly, he took it off the glass and studied it, picking at the little.. 'scales'. Same as always when he touched water; come to think of it, he wouldn't know what to look for anyways.

In a few fast bounds he was back by the couch and stretched out his hand for Hagrid to see. Said man studied it for a second before smiling brightly. "There! Yeh see? Told yeh, yeh were one Harry!"

"Now then." He pulled a familiar letter out of his coat pockets, and Dudley let out a tortured whine in the back of his throat at the sight.

This time, Harry didn't waste any time and opened it on the spot.

Lowly, he began to read: "Dear Mr. Potter. We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.- "

He didn't get any further into the letter before he was interrupted by his uncle screeching, "He will not be going, I tell you! We swore when we took him in, we'd put a stop to all this rubbish!"

They knew? Obviously they knew; who was he kidding. But still… they knew? He turned to his aunt; unbeknownst to him, with a look of betrayal on his face as his eyes sought hers.

"Oh, don't look at me like that, boy. Of course we knew. How could you not be? My perfect sister being who she was. Oh, my mother and father were so proud the day she got her letter. "We have someone magical in the family. Isn't it wonderful?" I was the only one to see her for what she was. A freak! And then she met that Potter. And then she had you, and I knew you would be the same. Just as strange, just as abnormal. And then, if you please, she went and got herself blown up! And we got landed with you."

"Blown up? You told me my parents died in a car crash!"

Right after he blurted that out, he slapped both of his hands over his mouth and retreated two steps. He had talked back to them. With Hagrid it seemed to be fine, but with them? Oh no. They wouldn't like that.

Vernon opened his mouth to speak but was promptly interrupted by a livid-looking Hagrid. "A car crash? A car crash killed Lily an' James Potter?!"

At the sudden change in Hagrid's demeanor, Harry involuntarily also backed away from him for a few steps before catching himself, but luckily Hagrid was too enraged by his family to notice.

Petunia scoffed, eying Hagrid up and down. "We had to say something."

That didn't calm Hagrid down in the slightest, and he took a deep breath before continuing, "'s an outrage! 's a scandal!"

Now Vernon also chimed in, snapping at Hagrid, trying to shut him up. "He'll not be going!"

Harry was looking back and forth between the three of them, feeling slightly overwhelmed. How did this situation escalate so quickly??

"Oh-ho-ho, an' i suppose a great muggle like yerself's goin' ter stop 'im, are yeh?"

"Muggle?" Harry whispered to himself. He hadn't intended for anyone to hear, but it seemed Hagrid had anyways. (He got used to talking way more quickly than he was comfortable with.)

Said man calmly turned to him and said, "Non-magic folk." before promptly turning back, snarling at his aunt and uncle, "This boy's had his name down ever since he were born! -"

Meanwhile, Harry noticed that Dudley had left his parents' side. He had probably just hid somewhere - after all Hagrid was pretty intimidating. Looking around, he quickly found him—but not out of sight like he thought, no. His cousin was eating his cake. Helplessly, he could only stare as another mouthful vanished into his cousin's endless stomach.

"- He's goin' ter the finest school o' witchcraft an' wizardry in the world, an' he'll be under the finest headmaster tha' Hogwarts has ever seen: Albus Dumbledore."

Hagrid shot a triumphant look at Harry, thinking he'd won, but of course his uncle could not keep silent for even a minute.

"I will not pay to have some crackpot old fool teach him magic tricks!"

This brought Hagrid to the tipping point, and he thundered, "NEVER. INSULT. ALBUS DUMBLEDORE. IN FRONT O' ME.", while whipping out his umbrella and pointing it threateningly at Vernon.

Right in the second where it went silent, you could hear a loud slurping sound. Hagrid slowly turned his head, spotting Dudley leaning over the cake box, gripping another handful of the dessert. The umbrella was whipped around, faster than Harry thought possible, and another magic spark came out of it.

For a second nothing happened, but then his cousin started screaming. He had grown a pig's tail. Both adult Dursleys yelled, alarmed, promptly rushing towards him and half shoving, half pulling their child up the stairs.

Hagrid laughed, but Harry could only stare at where the other three vanished from his sight. So, he hadn't quite escaped the punishments then. It seemed that even in the magic world physical punishments were doled out. This one was obviously aimed to embarrass the child, but who said that there wasn't more? Chewing on his lip, he turned back to Hagrid, who seemed completely oblivious to his worries.

"Oh, um, I'd appreciate it if yeh didn' tell anyone at Hogwarts abou' tha'. Strictly speaking, I'm not allowed ter do magic."

Harry nodded. He didn't know there were such rules, and wasn't this whole thing a bit reckless then? Well, in any case, he wouldn't condemn the man who stood up for him and brought him a birthday cake. It really was a shame that he hadn't gotten to try it.

Checking his pocket watch, Hagrid stood up and went to the door while saying, "Ooh, we're a bit behind schedule. Bes' be off."

He easily pulled it down again and discarded it on the side before turning to Harry again, "Unless yeh'd rather stay, o' course. Hmm?"

Harry hesitated slightly before coming to a decision. He already had a plan for how to get away from this family, and they were a known evil, whereas the magic world was not. But even so, he was curious, and it was a school, so he'd learn much more than if he tried to do it alone. Plus, the inevitable fallout with the Dursleys was something he did not want to be here for.

Shaking his head, he quickly went to Hagrid's side. He did not want to stay with them. He'd rather face the unknown.

Hagrid grinned and stepped out, Harry following his lead, and off they were to London.

Chapter Text

Walking down the streets of London, Harry honestly wasn't sure if following Hagrid had been the right choice. The man had cleared up many questions, and everything he said had made sense, but he was still a stranger. Harry knew almost next to nothing about him.

...Where had he left his survival instinct to be so gullible…?

To be fair, he had been desperate to get away from his family and that situation in general, but it had been a very, very rash choice.

...Maybe he should give running a try after all? He knew what grown men could do to children.

Chewing on his lip, Harry looked through the crowds; vanishing into them would be all too easy right now.

Sighing, he shook his head, dispelling those thoughts. The risk of staying was enormous, but if Hagrid had been telling the truth… then it would also be everything he'd ever wished for.

To find somewhere he could fit in, to just be normal for once.

...He would just give it a try, he could still give running a chance later on.

Hagrid had been silently guiding him through the streets until now, causing people to glance up at him, flabbergasted. He cleared his throat to get Harry's attention, and once he saw that Harry had turned to look at him, he started speaking. "We will be there soon, so why don't yeh go ahead and take a look at your letter? Yeh might also wan' ter make a mental list o' wha' yeh wan' ter get."

After shooting him a last playful wink, he turned back around.

Taking that for the dismissal it was, Harry nodded and began to rummage through his pockets, silently hoping that he didn't put it into the ripped one during all that chaos.

Thankfully, muscle memory (or simply pure luck) had served him well, and he was able to pull out the crinkled piece of parchment.

Silently he began to read through it.

UNIFORM

First-year students will require:

1. Two sets of standard school robes (black)

2. One set of plain work robes (black)

3. One set of formal robes

4. One plain pointed hat (black) for daywear

5. One winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings)

Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags.

That sounded reasonable enough.

But were they actually going to walk around with a witch hat? Like those from Halloween costumes? The mental image of Hagrid with a too small witch hat popped into his head, and he barely managed to stifle some giggles. He made almost no sound, but Hagrid still glanced at him curiously, and Harry hurriedly continued reading.

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)
by Miranda Goshawk

A History of Magic
by Bathilda Bagshot

Magical Theory
by Adalbert Waffling

A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration
by Emeric Switch

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi
by Phyllida Spore

Magical Drafts and Potions
by Arsenius Jigger

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them
by Newt Scamander

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection
by Quentin Trimble

Nymphology, Wizardkind and Their Hybrids 3
by Ridge Strix

He maybe understood three of those initial titles, and there were way too many words he couldn't even begin to imagine their meaning, so he simply skimmed over the rest of the listed books before getting to the last section.

OTHER EQUIPMENT

1 wand-ring
1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
1 potion kit (first-year edition)
1 set glass or crystal phials
1 telescope
1 set brass scales
1 pair of student-grade protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
1 standard writing set (full year)
1 school trunk (with extension charms & separate compartment for potion ingredients with stasis charm)

Students may also bring, if they desire, an owl OR a cat OR a toad.

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS
ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICK

Yours sincerely,
Lucinda Thomsonicle-Pocus

Chief Attendant of Witchcraft Provisions

All the other things you'd expect to find on lists from any school, but this, this was different. They'd be making potions? That sounded really cool, a bit like cooking. And anyway, dragons existed?? Or maybe the hide was just called that because it was that strong? Maybe it was fire resistant?
...
He really, really wanted to know if dragons existed.. Fidgeting with the parchments, he shot a quick glance through his fringe at Hagrid, who just so happened to already be looking at him.

As Harry hurriedly glanced away, he still caught the kind smile in his direction as Hagrid asked, "Yeh got any questions?"

Silently Harry wrestled with himself as he debated whether he should actually ask.

Worrying his lip between his teeth, he risked another glance at Hagrid's general facial expression. It was still kind and open, patiently waiting for him to ask. Swallowing, he murmured "Dodragonsactuallyexist?" under his breath.

A beat went by before he started flushing rapidly, and he cleared his throat, scrambling to try again before Hagrid could say anything. "Do dragons actually exist?" This time, he took care to speak slowly and to deliberately space out his words, not wanting Hagrid's impression of him to be that of a fool.

The amused smile that spread over Hagrid's face only made Harry duck his head more with shame (his teachers always said his habit of speaking too fast, too quiet or too stuttery was disgraceful, but he couldn't help it; every time he opened his mouth there was a coiling knot of anxiety in his stomach), and Hagrid's smile only widened, mistakenly believing Harry was simply embarrassed, as he answered.
"O' course dragons exist; I have wanted one since I was young. They're fine beasts. If yeh're lucky yeh'll see one in Gringotts!"

Harry's eyes sparkled as he quickly turned to face Hagrid again, and he didn't even think about it before he fired off the next question.

"Really?! And are we actually allowed to bring owls to school? I didn't even know they could be tamed! Where are we even going to get all that stuff from? Is all of that really in London? I have never seen anything remotely magical here!"

He only stopped talking since he needed to take a big gulp of air, all the while impatiently bouncing on his toes.

Hagrid looked at him a bit surprised but still gladly started answering his questions. "'Course yeh can tame owls; we've bin using 'em fer hundreds o' years ter carry our letters. As fer yer second question, there is enough magic around if yeh know where ter look!"

Smiling, he led Harry to an unassuming corner store. At first Harry was a bit confused as to why they were going there, but as they got closer, a sign started to appear out of thin air.

'The Leaky Cauldron'

Before, he was so excited he just had to ask every question he could (without even noticing his blunder), whereas now he was speechless in face of something this surreal but oh so very amazing.

Hagrid gave him a second to go back and forth over that threshold just to see it vanishing and appearing again before continuing to walk towards the door, with Harry scurrying after him, eyes still shining.

As they walked into the little pub, Harry expected it to be very different from normal ones, but... it was pretty similar. The moving pictures were cool though. As he continued to look around, they walked up to the counter, and Harry noticed that no one seemed to think that Hagrid's height was weird. Were there more people like him?

The sound of an unfamiliar voice pulled him out of his thoughts, and he turned to face the man.

"Ah, Hagrid! The usual, I presume?"

So Hagrid was a returning customer then? That would explain why no one batted an eye.

"No thanks, Tom. I'm on official Hogwarts business today. Jus helpin' young Harry here buy his school supplies."

The barkeeper—Hagrid called him Tom—sharply sucked in a breath and exclaimed in surprise (it even sounded a bit reverent), "Bless my soul, it's Harry Potter!"

Surprised, Harry looked up at him. How come he knew his name? But he couldn't even begin to debate whether asking would be fine because right as Tom said his name, every head in the tavern whipped around to catch a glimpse of them—no, him—and loud whispers broke out.

"Is that really the Harry Potter?"

"Look at his clothes..."

"Can anyone see his scar?"

"Anyone go up and ask him to show us!"

"The Daily Prophet was right! He really is here today!"

"Do you think I might get an autograph?"

Surprised, Harry looked around, trying to find the owners of those voices, but there now was way too much noise for him to be able to pinpoint the direction. Why did everyone seem to know him? And what was that about his scar?

Self-conscious, he reached up to flatten his fringe against his forehead, hoping to hide the mark up there.

They were acting as if he was… famous. He didn't want to be famous, not if he didn't do anything to earn that himself. (And he probably didn't since he didn't even know about magic not too long ago.)

Or maybe… maybe he was famous for something bad? Like, like—maybe he accidentally did something magical that harmed someone! It was fairly possible! He still barely knew what magic actually was or what it looked like, so there was a big chance he just wouldn't have noticed doing anything back then!

Oh no, what if his life in this community was already doomed from the start?

But right as his mind threatened to spiral, a deep voice pitched up from the crowd; it was clear and obviously intended for him to hear (not like the rest of the people who weren't planning on him hearing anything they said), greeting him kindly.

"Welcome back, Mr. Potter. Welcome back."

Lifting his head that he'd unconsciously lowered, Harry looked up to the man who had spoken with wide eyes, gaze following the movement of his hand as the stranger wiped away a tear while smiling widely.

The callout seemed to shake everyone out of their reverie, since people were suddenly jumping up, trying to get to him.

One woman in specific was currently literally elbowing her way through the crowd, barreling towards him. Taking an unsure step back, Harry waited to see what she was going to do once she got to him, which she managed in a whopping 3 seconds (he counted).

Even though he probably looked confused and unsure, that didn't stop her from grasping his hand in a tight handshake while breathlessly saying, "Doris Crockford, Mr. Potter. I can't believe I'm meeting you at last!"

Harry honestly didn't know if he was supposed to do something in response, but before he could decide, the woman continued to blabber on about something to do with a "You-Know-Who" (he matter of factly didn't, but it was not like he could get a word in) and how he had "saved them—no, all of mankind!"

Honestly, most of her words pretty much flew over his head—she was talking too fast, too much, and his own thoughts were racing so quickly that he could barely follow them on their own, let alone her blubbering thrown into the mix.

He couldn't tell how long he'd been standing there, staring at the woman's boots, before a male voice piped up from behind Hagrid (effectively cutting the witch off), but it couldn't have been longer than a minute.

"Harry P-potter. C-can't tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you." At the beginning Harry had felt slightly hopeful that the man had taken pity on him, but it obviously was just another weirdo. Curling back in on himself, he averted his gaze, this time to his own boots, since the woman had stomped off. (He didn't know, but with looking away, he missed the peculiar look the stranger had sent his way.)

"Hello, professor. I didn' see yeh there. Harry, this is Professor Quirrell. He'll be yer defense against the dark arts teacher at Hogwarts this year."

When Hagrid had started speaking, both Harry and the professor had turned to face him, and at the end, Harry hesitantly turned towards Quirrell, thinking the man might try and greet him with a handshake. Luckily, the man only glanced at Harry's scar with a complicated mix of emotions playing on his face before cryptically stating, "F-fearfully f-fascinating subject. N-not that you need it, e-eh, Potter? Heheh."

Frowning, Harry looked to Hagrid for guidance, but the man didn't seem to find any fault in the ominous statement. Rather, he cheerfully proclaimed, "Yes, well, mus' be goin' now. Lots ter buy. Heh-heh-heh."

Uneasily, Harry glanced back at Quirrell; he didn't know why, but the man gave him a weird feeling.

But luck seemed to favor him today, since Hagrid quickly beckoned him to follow along before it became too apparent that he hadn't said or done anything to really acknowledge his new professor's words.

Scurrying after the big man, he was led into a back room winery with a bare brick wall, in front of which Hagrid stopped.

Jovially the man said, "See, Harry? Yeh're famous!" while grinning from ear to ear, as if all that attention was something to be happy about.

Obviously Hagrid had already been aware of his… status in this community, so why hadn't he warned him?

Harry lifted his troubled gaze up to Hagrid's nose; he wanted to ask why Hagrid hadn't said anything at all to let him know beforehand, but all that left his mouth was a weak "But… why?"

(He knew that he shouldn't be this disappointed; he had only known Hagrid for about a day after all, but his foolish heart couldn't help but hope once again.)

The other man obviously misunderstood the intent behind his question, but he still grew abnormally serious as he said, "I'm not sure i'm exactly the righ' person ter tell yeh tha', Harry."

Hesitatingly he tacked on "t is a difficult topic… prob'ly bes' fer Dumbledore ter tell yeh..."

As Hagrid turned back towards the wall, Harry's face morphed into a frown, but it didn't stay that way for long, because the other man had started tapping some bricks in a specific order, and the wall was magically opening up on its own—it kind of looked like it was curling in on itself brick by brick.

Eyes wide with wonder, Harry stared at the scene unfolding in front of him.

There was just so much going on; he didn't quite know what to concentrate on first. For starters, there was a huge crowd, and everyone was weirdly dressed (even though they were strange, Harry really liked those clothes; hopefully he could get some for himself as well?). In addition, most of the people came with family, and kids were running around, playing with toys that… moved? There was even a man who was doing magical tricks while some instruments were floating behind him, playing completely on their own.

Once he had his fill of watching the wondrous performance, he moved on to the buildings framing the street. He couldn't even begin to describe them—everything was moving: signs, displays, mannequins, books and at the end of the street he could see a dragon made from stone, which was occasionally spewing fire over the heads of people.

"Welcome, Harry, ter Diagon Alley."

Snapping his mouth shut, Harry turned to Hagrid with sparkling eyes, impatiently waiting until the man chuckled and took the lead, stepping out into the alley with Harry following hot on his heels.

"Alrigh', Harry let us first go and get your books, ye?"

Up until now, Hagrid had been showing Harry around, telling him which alleyways not to stroll into and pointing out different shops.

He was honestly slightly overwhelmed, but in a good sense—everything was just so amazing. He was even allowed to pet an owl! (The owner had laughed kindly and beckoned him closer as she saw his star-filled gaze directed at her owl.) Luckily, the message of him being Harry Potter hadn't spread into the alley itself, so he had been able to spend his time inspecting everything rather than being swarmed by masses of people.

Suddenly, it dawned on him. He had no money to his name. Despairing, he turned to Hagrid. "How am I going to pay for anything? I've got no money!"

His eyes were burning, but he held it in; nothing had been lost yet. Up until now, Hagrid had always found a solution.

This time wasn't any different.

"Ai, forgo' bout that; don' worry Harry, yeh got enough money. We jus' gotta get it."

Stopping, Hagrid rubbed his hand over his beard and steered him away from a shop they were about to enter. Instead, they went down the alley, almost to the end, before stopping again and pointing to the white marbled building with the dragon on the roof. "Well, there's yer money, Harry."

'Gringotts Bank' was written in big, golden letters above the door, and right as Harry read it, Hagrid said, "Gringotts, the Wizard Bank. T'ain't no safer place, not one. 'Cept perhaps Hogwarts."

A big hand was placed on his back as Hagrid lightly pushed him up the stairs and through the big, ornate doors.

After entering, Harry was greeted by a big bustling hall-like room with marble pillars reaching up to the high ceiling, which had subtle carvings painting a fancy picture. Throughout the room were 2 rows of expensive-looking wooden desks, each with a grumpy-looking creature positioned behind it, tending to swarms of people.

Said creatures did look humanoid, but there were distinct differences—for one, they had sharp teeth and long, pointed but slightly drooping ears. As they passed a desk, Harry could also see that they were standing on pedestals and were actually quite small.

Curiously, he looked at Hagrid, and for once, the man seemed to guess his meaning correctly. "They're goblins, Harry. Clever as they come but not the most friendly o' beasts. Bes' stay close."

Nodding, Harry huddled closer as they approached a counter with a goblin that wore a waistcoat and spectacles. Clearing his throat, Hagrid stepped in front of the creature and said, "Mr. Harry Potter wishes ter make a withdrawal," making no effort to keep his voice down. Right as his name fell, all heads in their vicinity swiveled around, trying to get a glimpse of the rumored child.

Groaning, Harry pulled his shoulders up over his ears and shuffled further behind Hagrid, trying to make himself as small as possible.

The goblin looked Harry up and down with his black, inscrutable eyes and snarled out a loud "Quiet, get back to your business." Perhaps he pitied the child in front of him, or perhaps he just didn't like the commotion; in any case, Harry was thankful. Seemingly no one wanted to insult the goblins by going against their explicit orders in their own domain, so everyone hastily went back to doing as they were, only stealing small glimpses at the dark-haired child by the giant's side.

After that was dealt with, the goblin's dark, beady eyes snapped back to Hagrid as he said, "And does Mr. Harry Potter have his key?"

A key? He was supposed to have a key? Confused, he looked at Hagrid, but the man was already patting his coat down as he said,

"Oh, wait a minute. Got it here somewhere."

Fishing through his endless pockets, one of his arms vanished up to his elbow even though Harry could see that the space wasn't nearly big enough.

Magic was so cool.

"Ha! There's the little devil." Triumphant, Hagrid held the key up into the air before handing it over to the receptionist.

As he did so, he also leaned in closer to the goblin (not paying any heed to how the creature subtly inched back a bit) and whispered (or tried to; Harry didn't think that could be classified as whispering), "Oh, and there's something else as well." He slipped a string-wrapped letter out of his breast pocket. "Professor Dumbledore gave me this." He held the missive up meaningfully before handing it over to the goblin, who scrutinized it before sliding the wax seal through some kind of scanner. Meanwhile, Hagrid continued speaking. "It's about You-Know-What in vault You-Know-Which," and wiggled his eyebrows meaningfully.

Looking up from the apparatus, the goblin slid the letter into a compartment before saying, "Very well, so be it."

After jumping down from his pedestal, he flicked his wrist, and glowing letters appear over his desk, reading 'Closed until further notice.'

Turning around, the goblin's gruff voice sounded out, "Follow me," and Hagrid led Harry along in the same manner as before as they followed the creature.

They were now sitting in some carts, and Harry honestly wasn't sure how he got there. They went from being in a glittering marble hall to racing through a cavern on sometimes floating rails.

Not to say that he wasn't having fun—no, he really was—but this seemed like a massive waste of time if you always had to do this while getting money.

They had already passed through a magic waterfall at the beginning of this ride, and Harry could've sworn he regularly felt weird sensations (which felt quite a bit magical as well) as they passed other vaults.

Finally, the goblin, who he now knew was called Griphook, stopped the carts and clambered out, reaching with his hand in their direction. "Vault 687. Lamp, please."

Hagrid fumbled the handover a bit, as the lamp almost slipped out of his grasp, but Griphook patiently waited until the big man handed it over before he went to the big vault door sitting in the cave wall.

Once he got there, he stretched out his hand again. "Key, please," and Hagrid obediently handed it over.

Harry couldn't help but think that this was inefficient. Why hadn't the goblin asked for the key along with the lamp? Seemed kinda stupid to do it separately if you asked him.

As Griphook began the unlocking process, he glanced back at Harry, looking him directly in the eyes, before he turned around and said, "There is an extra ward on the way from the cart to this door; your escort here couldn't have handed me the key if he had any bad intentions regarding your gold."

Flushing, Harry looked down.

...he was really easy to read, it seemed.

...

Griphook glanced back at him again, but this time in a somewhat disapproving way, and Harry's brain scrambled to think of why.

"I... thank… you?"

Pleased, the goblin gave him a nod before swinging the door open and stepping aside.

Once again, Harry's eyes grew wide, and he had to noticeably stop himself from bursting out a loud "WOW." There were mountains of gold in the room, which looked quite impressive to an eleven-year-old, but if anyone would have paid attention, they could have seen a slight frown creasing Griphook's brow as he caught a ledger from thin air and began to rifle through it.

Harry looked back at Hagrid, his expression seemingly saying, "All this is really mine?" and the giant man smiled back at him.

"Didn' think yer mum an' dad will leave yeh with nothin' now, did yeh?"

Taking two steps forward, the giant began to scoop handfuls of coins into a pouch he'd unclipped from his belt.

While Hagrid was doing that, Harry chanced a glance around the rest of the room, but there was nothing else but the gold. Somehow he had imagined some more stuff to be in his vault, something like… like… cutlery, pictures, heck, even furniture! Just… things that were important to his parents.

Slightly disappointed (but berating himself not to be; he had all this gold now, after all) His gaze was drawn in by the movement of Griphook throwing the thick book back into the air, where it vanished. Cocking his head, Harry studied the all-time sullen face of this particular goblin. Something looked a bit odd about him, and Harry got the distinct feeling that all was not right.

Come to think of it, how much was all this gold?

As if Griphook had read his mind, he once again answered exactly the question that Harry had been asking himself.

"Approximately 50,625 Galleons are in Mr. Harry Potter's vault at this time."

Hagrid straightened up abruptly. "50,625?"

The goblin shot the big man a meaningful look over the top of Harry's head.

"Yes, Mr. Rubeus Hagrid."

An uncomfortable look crossed over Hagrid's face before he said, "Ah well, still a tidy sum fer little Harry over here."

At Harry's worried look, the big man sent him a forced smile and said, "Don' worry, Harry, it will be quite enough fer at least yer school years."

Well, that should be fine then, no? But still, the way these two were acting..

He didn't get much more time to think about it, since Hagrid threw the pouch into his hands and ushered him out of the door quickly.

Meanwhile, disapproving eyes were boring into the big man's back.