Chapter Text
It was Dudley's seventh birthday, and like every year, Harry wasn't invited. This year, Dudley had decided he wanted to go to the new theme park in Surrey, the one everyone at school had been talking about for weeks, and Harry had heard enough about roller coasters and sweets and games to form a clear picture of a place he already knew he would never see. He asked anyway.
Uncle Vernon hadn’t even looked at him properly before letting out a loud, dismissive snort.
“We're not paying for your ticket, freak.”
Harry knew better than to ask again.
So, as usual, Harry was sent to Mrs Figg's. This always happened whenever the Dursleys wanted to pretend he didn’t exist—when they had plans, he might spoil, when visitors came, or simply when no one wanted him around.
Mrs Figg lived a short walk away, in a house that always felt too full and too quiet at the same time, cluttered with furniture that didn’t quite match, shelves lined with cat ornaments, and actual cats that seemed to appear out of nowhere. She herself was a small, elderly woman who wore a hairnet and slippers regardless of the time of day, and although she was noticeably kinder to him than the Dursleys, there was something about her house that made staying there feel longer than it was, especially because of the persistent smell of overcooked cabbage that seemed to cling to the walls, the curtains, and even to his clothes long after he left.
Still, there were days when going there was not entirely unpleasant.
Sometimes Luci was there.
Harry didn’t know if she was related to Mrs Figg, only that she came irregularly, and from the first time he had seen her, he had been struck by how different she was from any other adult she knew. She was beautiful in a way that made him instinctively quiet, with pale blond hair, that would shimmer softly golden whenever the sunrays shone through the windows. Like Mrs Figg, she wore unusual clothes, though unlike the mismatched things, Luci’s were long, flowing, light-coloured gowns that almost reached the floor, reminding him of a dress he had once seen displayed in a shop window. She always radiated a calm authority, but none that would shout or snap at him, or never made him feel like he had done something wrong by just being there—instead she always spoke to him in a soft, calm voice.
To Harry, she had to be an angel—or at least what an angel looked like. Though his idea of angels came mostly from the small porcelain figures Aunt Marge would bring—those he had once found thrown away in the bin behind the house— and even as this comparison crossed his mind, he felt that it didn’t quite fit, because it was difficult to imagine that someone as harsh and frightening as Aunt Marge would have anything to do with someone like Luci.
Whenever she was there, the atmosphere of the house seemed to shift, becoming calmer, and, most importantly to him, Mrs Figg tended to leave him alone more, which meant fewer long stretches of sitting on the sofa being shown albums filled with photographs of cats he couldn’t tell apart. There was also the matter of the small things Luci sometimes brought with her, which she would give to him without making a fuss about it, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to hand him something like a biscuit or a book, sometimes even a toy. None of it was large or expensive, but to Harry they were the most valuable things he owned, placing them neatly on the shelve over in his cupboard. No one else ever gave him anything at all.
What puzzled him most was that she always seemed to know when his birthday was. His aunt and uncle, on the other hand, never acknowledged in any way, behaving as if it was just any other day. Sometimes Harry wondered if they had really forgotten or simply didn't care. However, he suspected the latter.
That morning, he walked to Mrs Figg’s on his own, as he always did, because Aunt Petunia insisted that walking him there herself would be embarrassing due to the state of the garden was “a complete mess” and “embarrassing to have in the neighbourhood.” Though Harry never quite understood why that mattered at all.
He liked the garden. Very much so, especially on days like today. The grass grew high enough to brush his legs as he walked through it, wildflowers of all kinds spread across without any order, and butterflies in all different colours danced between them; bees buzzed everywhere, filling the air with a low, calming hum. He paused when he noticed a dark red butterfly, its wings patterned with what looked almost like eyes, as it settled on a purple flower consisting of small clusters of blossoms, whose delicate, sweet scent always reminded him of Luci. For a moment he simply stood there, watching it, and felt something in him ease slightly, as if the tightness he carried most of the time had loosened.
Then he walked on through the tall grass until he reached Mrs Figg’s house and knocked on the door.
When Luci opened the door after only a few seconds, his eyes lit up.
“Hello, Harry,” she said warmly. “Nice to see you.”
“Hello, Luci,” he replied, a small smile tugging at his lips.
He immediately knew this was going to be a good day.
The hallway was as narrow and crowded as ever, lined with stacked boxes, loose objects, and pieces of furniture that seemed to have been moved there temporarily and then forgotten, but Harry navigated it easily, having learned the path by repetition, and made his way towards the sitting room where he usually spent most of his time. Here, he could always forget he was forgotten.
He slowed as he reached the doorway. Someone else was there. A girl he had never seen before.
She lay face down on her belly out on the carpet, her legs bent her legs swinging in the air as she read a small book held close to her face, completely absorbed in it to the point where she hadn’t reacted to the sound of the door or his footsteps. For a moment, Harry stayed where he was, uncertain whether he was meant to speak or leave or wait to be told what to do.
Luci entered the room behind Harry, gently touching his shoulder. A touch that made him flinch slightly at first, but which eventually had a soothing effect thanks to her warm hand. A delicate floral scent came from her, mingled with the scent of mint, and something else he couldn’t make sense of. He took a deep breath.
“Harry, this is my daughter Betty. Maybe you two want to play a bit.”
Before Harry could respond, she had already moved on, disappearing into the kitchen where Mrs Figg could be heard moving about, leaving him standing there.
Hesitantly, he stepped forward. The girl looked up, meeting his eyes.
Her eyes were green—close enough to his own that he noticed it immediately, though hers were darker, watchful and intense but not dismissive, and her hair was light brown, curling in loose, uneven strands that didn’t look as if anyone had tried very hard to tame them. He liked that unlike Aunt Petunia, Luci didn’t seem to care about Betty’s hair, even if it wasn't as messy as his own.
She looked about his age, maybe a little older. Harry wasn't sure what to do. He had never just played with someone like this. Not with a stranger, nor with someone who hadn't shunned him or was pushed aside by Dudley.
She looked at him directly, not with the quick dismissal he was used to, but with something more neutral, as if she was simply waiting to see what he would do.
“Hi,” he mumbled, the word coming out quiet then he intended.
“Hi,” she replied, just as quietly.
For a moment, neither of them moved, and Harry became acutely aware of how little he actually knew about what came next in situations like this, because playing had always been something that happened around him rather than with him, something he watched or was excluded from rather than invited into.
Then, without a word, she pushed herself up and took out one of the small boxes from a cupboard filled with toothpicks. She sat down again and tipped the toothpicks onto the carpet. Carefully but skilfully, she began to stack them on top of each other. She didn't say a word. That was good. Talking was hard. But lying side by side on the carpet, that he could do. He recognized the game—not because he had played it often, but because Mrs Figg had once suggested it during a particularly long afternoon.
So, he lowered himself down next to her, took one of the toothpicks and carefully placed it on top of the others.
A smile appeared on the girl’s face, without looking up.
They worked silently, placing one toothpick after another in the wobbly tower. One of Mrs Figg's curious cats settled closer to Betty, who gently petted it as she worked. When the cat came too close to the tower, she softly pushed it away to keep the tower safe.
It was crooked, thin, and in Harry's opinion—beautiful.
When Luci entered again and set down a plate of biscuits between them, neither of them spoke immediately, but both paused long enough to take one, eating slowly before returning to the task.
“Do you come to Mrs Figg's often?” Betty asked suddenly.
Harry nodded. “Whenever my aunt and uncle have plans. Or don't want me with them.”
“And today?”
“It’s my cousin's birthday.”
She paused for a moment to think. “Does your cousin have to come here on your birthday too?”
The question made him hesitate, because saying it out loud always felt slightly different. “No,” he said quietly. “We don't celebrate mine.”
She looked at him then, more closely than before.
“Never?”
He shook his head slowly.
“And they don’t give you anything?”
Again, he shook his head.
Betty looked at him for a long moment. She said nothing.
The quiet that followed felt heavier, though oddly comfortable.
“I don't have any friends,” he said after a while.
Betty turned to him slightly. “None at all?”
“My cousin—Dudley... makes sure of that.” He shrugged. “If I like someone, he says he'll hit them, and people believe him.”
Betty straightened up and looked him directly. “I wouldn't fear your cousin,” she said. “If he tried that to me, I'd hit him back.”
The certainty in her voice caught him off guard, and a small, unexpected laugh escaped him before he could stop it. He felt a brief, unfamiliar sense of lightness.
“I don't have many friends either,” she added after a moment. “But I like reading. It's easier than talking.”
That surprised Harry. He found it difficult to believe. She seemed so... normal. So kind.
He watched her more closely. Her words made him feel like someone who understood being lonely, having no one to play with.
“Are the kids at school mean to you too?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I don't go to school. I'm taught at home.”
Harry blinked. “You are?”
“Yep. My mum teaches me sometimes. And Aunt Dromeda. And some of Mum's friends.”
Harry thought about it. He didn’t like school himself, but he hated the summer holidays even more—being stuck at his aunt and uncle’s all day, with Dudley teasing him constantly. The thought of being stuck at Aunt Petunia’s house all the time made him feel sick.
“I don't like school much,” he said after a while, “but it's better than being stuck at home with my aunt.”
Betty glanced at him sideways. “Do you always live with your relatives?”
Harry nodded.
“And your parents?”
“They died,” he said, the words came easier than he thought, “In a car accident when I was a baby.”
He considered telling her the part he always remembered. He had no memory of the crash, only a flash of green light and a scar on his forehead. He didn't like showing it to anyone. But something made him hesitate.
“I'm sorry,” Betty said quietly. Then added, “I don't have a father either.”
Harry tilted his head. “Is he... dead too?”
Betty didn’t reply. Instead, she lowered her gaze, and her shoulders twitched slightly. The sudden shift in her posture made it clear enough that it was something she didn’t want to share, so he let it drop without pressing further.
They continued building in silence, the tower now tall enough that he had to adjust his position to reach the top.
“How old are you?” Harry asked suddenly
“Eight.”
“Really? I’m six,” he said, then added, almost automatically, “but it’s my birthday next month.”
Betty smiled crookedly. “Almost seven, then.”
They returned to the tower, carefully inserting one toothpick after another. He realised, that he liked her, and he found himself wishing that this moment would never end. The quiet presence of someone who clearly didn’t mind him being there.
Suddenly, Harry thought of things he usually kept to himself.
Strange things happened to him sometimes, things he had learned very quickly not to talk about, because talking about them only made everything worse. He remembered the way his jumper that he hated wearing had suddenly shrunk at school, and the time he had somehow ended up on the school roof without climbing, with no clear memory of how he had got there, only the certainty that he hadn’t done it the normal way.
He had tried to explain, but Uncle Vernon’s voice, shouting words like freakishness, followed by him being pushed into the cupboard under the stairs, sometimes for hours, sometimes longer, sometimes without food, and sometimes with something worse that he didn’t let himself think about too closely, as if the thought alone would make it happen again. He knew, without needing to be told again, that he wasn’t supposed to speak about any of it; however, he had a vague feeling that maybe Betty wouldn’t find them odd.
He looked up and only then realised that Betty had been watching him the whole time.
“Your uncle hurts you, doesn’t he?”
Harry froze. The words landed so hard, it felt like he was being punched.
How does she know?
Panic rushed through him in a sudden overwhelming wave, that made his breath caught and filled his ears with a ringing, making him feel dizzy, and his thoughts raced in his mind, searching for answers, his gaze dropped instinctively to his arms.
Had she seen the bruises?
He quickly pulled down his long sleeves. He felt a sudden urge to disappear, to hide, just as he did every time Uncle Vernon chased him through the house, tried to grab him by the collar, and then dragged him along behind him. He jumped up too fast, his knee hit the side of the tower, making it collapse. Toothpicks scattered across the carpet in all directions.
“Sorry!” he shouted immediately. “I—I didn't mean to! I didn’t mean to break your tower!”
He stared at the mess like he had done something unforgivable.
Betty followed his gaze briefly, then shrugged unbothered.
“I like how it looks when things fall apart.”
The response wasn’t what he had expected, and that made him hesitate. There was no anger, no frustration in her voice.
He stood there frozen for a moment, as if waiting for her to change her mind after all and give him a punch.
He lowered himself back down slowly, leaning closer to her, his voice dropping further.
“You mustn't tell anyone,” he whispered. “About what you said. About my uncle. Please.”
Betty nodded. “I promise.”
Before he could say anything else, Luci’s voice called from the other room, reminding Betty it was time for them to go.
A heavy feeling settled over Harry, tightening his chest in a way that made it suddenly difficult to breathe evenly, because he didn’t want her to leave, and that the thought of her walking out of the house and back into a world he wasn’t part of created a painful tightening inside him. He felt the urge to go with them, even though he knew he couldn’t.
Betty stood, brushing her hands lightly against her skirt, and walked toward the door, though she slowed just before reaching it, as if she remembered something.
She turned around and slipped a bracelet from her wrist, a simple band made of small, coloured beads, and held it out to him.
“For you,” she said, “my cousin Dora made it for me. She said it protects the person who wears it.”
Harry stared, hardly believing someone would give him something like that.
“It’s yours now,” she added.
When he finally reached out, he handled it carefully.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
He closed his fingers around it like he was holding a treasure. For him it surely was.
After they left, he ran to the window without thinking, watched as they walked away through the overgrown garden, with wildflowers in all colours while bees drifted lazily through the air around her. Just before they turned the corner, Betty turned halfway and waved his hand one last time. He raised his own in response.
The living room settled into its familiar quietness, but something inside him felt different, something in him had shifted to something lighter and softer. As he stood there watching the sunlight shone through the windows, he found himself holding onto that feeling, uncertain of what it meant, but not wanting it to disappear too quickly.
For the first time, he felt a flicker of hope. And for once, he didn't feel so alone.