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Chapter Text

The Dursleys were the picture British family; everything about their lives was pristine, like puzzle pieces slotted together to produce a photo of a perfect family. Their house was kept showroom clean; every room could’ve been used to display furniture, with no idea an actual family lived there. Even the garden was pristine, the grass mowed to the perfect length bushes pruned and trimmed till perfectly symmetrical.

The perfect image for the perfect family.

Petunia was a tall, thin woman, her face always looked like she was sucking on lemons, and her blonde hair was constantly pulled into a too-tight bun, not a single stray hay in sight. She always wears modest clothes, she believes are befitting of a housewife. Spending her days cleaning, taking care of their young son, and spying on the neighbours.

Vernon, on the other hand, is a large beefy man, with very little neck and a perpetually red face light he’s inches away from a raging outburst. His moustache twitches with every sight that displeases, which is any number of things, and he wears plain suits lacking any interesting colour. He spends his time working for a drilling company and judging anyone who's not normal enough.

The two of them have a singular son, Dudley, a large pink-faced baby set on making it the world's problem he exists today.

It is well known that anybody who portrays a perfect image has something to hide, to bury deep.

For the Dursleys, that’s the Potters. Petunia has a sister, even if she hates to admit it, called Lily Potter. Many, many years ago, a world was shown to Petunia, a world of strange and wondrous things, of magic.

And she hated it.

To Petunua, it’s everything she hated, too different, too abnormal, too freaky, so the day her sister joined that world was the day she poster her sister. The girl who came back each holiday was never the same, and Petunia buried all knowledge of her sister. The only person who knew Petunia had a sister in Little Whinging was Vernon, because every now and then, some information about their lives turns up in a small letter that Petunia scans and then burns.

Petunia preferred to focus on her perfect Muggle life with her husband and Duddykins.

For a while, Petunua got her wish. Everything to do with that world, to do with her sister, kept their distance. Until one Halloween night, when the majority of that world breathed a sigh of relief, and another part grieved as a piece to them was stolen as payment. And a child was left far too early an orphan.

Owls had flooded the sky in disbelief of the events that had occurred in the darkness of Samhain night.

Strange whispers filled the street on the first day of November, Vernon hated it, everybody was being weird. Maybe it was some strange celebration, whatever it was, Vernon did not approve. It was ruining his day. Some small, strange man had run up to him squawking about it being a wonderful day. Whispers of a boy seemed to follow him the name “Harry Potter” sent eerie shivers of familiarity through him.

Probably nothing to do with them, Vernon thought, it’ll have nothing to do with them, they aren’t a part of them.
~
In the brisk cold of the first night of November, an unusually still tabby cat sat on the garden wall in front of Number 4 Privet Drive. She sat still as a statue as she had done for most of the day, observing the comings and goings around her. The road was now quiet; the only sign of life was the glow of lampposts, and the houses had long since gone dark and silent.

A crack sounded through the air, but the cat did not startle.

One by one, the lights of each lamppost went out, and the street was enveloped in darkness. But throughout it all, the cat never moved, like she was waiting for this to happen. An aged man with a long silvery beard appeared out of the darkness and perched on the wall beside the cat. As he stood there, the cat became a woman.

Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall, as they were called, exchanged a short discussion about celebration. McGonagall expressed her distaste at how many of their fellow wixen had broken the Statute of Secrecy. McGonagall believed that in the following days they had as much reason to be as cautious as they had been since the war began; now was a time for adjustment to begin progressing past the days of endless war and fear.

Her heart ached as she thought about how the war had ended. She grieved the deaths of Lily and James Potter, two integral young fighters in the war, and her soul aches for their son, made an orphan at such a young age. Too young to have to face the world without his parents.

With the change in mood, she voiced the thought that clung to her mind all day as she had observed the Dursley family.

“Here, Albus? Do you truly believe here with the most muggle of muggles is the best place to send him?” Her face is disbelieving.

Dumbledore's voice was gentle, his usual grandfatherly tone warm and convincing.

“Minerva, my dear, they are the last relatives of young Harry. In our darkest moments, do we not often turn to our own blood for guidance and safety?” His eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles as he glanced over to McGonagall. The Scottish was not so easily satisfied.

“But they hate anything that isn’t normal? Harry is anything but normal, and there are any number of families willing to take him.”

Dumbledore's expression darkens slightly at the rebuttal, but he continues with his point.

“Petunia will grow to love him as her own, as she herself will miss her sister even as estranged as they were. Would it not also be as cruel for Harry to be forced to surround himself with people who celebrate on the very night of his parents’ death? The night he lost everything?”

As grief bleeds across Professor McGonagall’s face, Dumbledore knows he’s won her over to the idea. Now all that’s left is for the child to arrive.
“If you’re certain, Albus, how is he getting here?” It was obvious to McGonagall that Albus had planned something prior to the Potters' death, a fallback in case their protections failed. She could only hope they got here soon.

“Hagrid's bringing him, he was ecstatic when I entrusted the duty to him.”

The younger professor's lips thinned with barely concealed concern. Hagrid, while extremely loyal, was not the most cautious of people, the half-giant rarely understood the limitations of humans and the health and safety put in place to mitigate that. “Is that wise, Albus?”

“Oh, certainly, my dear, Hagrid is one of my most trusted. Harry will get here unharmed. Lemon sherbet?” He asked, reaching into his purple robes.

Before McGonagall declined, the roar of a motorbike sounded from above, and they turned their gazes upwards to see a large man on a bike headed towards them, Hagrid. “Oh, what is he doing? Does he want to wake the whole street?” She muttered despairingly.

Dumbledore ignored her comment and moved off the wall, preparing to meet Hagrid as soon as the bike set down.
Hagrid swung off the bike and carefully reached into the sidecar, collecting a small white bundle.

A tiny baby wrapped in a white blanket sound asleep. A large cut, shaped like the arc of a lightning bolt, arced down the right side of his forehead, ending just below his right eye. Despite the thin but angry-looking injury, the child seemed unbothered by it. Dumbledore reached over and took the child from Hagrid’s arms. Hagrid blubbered out a goodbye to the tiny child as McGonagall shushed him, reminding him of the sleeping muggles.

“Surely there’s something that can be done about the injury?” She asked Dumbledore, her Scottish accent tinged with worry as she looked down at the small boy.
“My dear, this is a curse scar, nothing may be done to remove the mark it will leave on Harry. However, scars can be most useful, I myself have one on my left knee that’s a perfect map of the London Underground.”

The old man turned from his colleagues and walked up the garden path towards the front door of the house. The headmaster cradles him, quietly whispering, “Your path awaits you, little lion, wixen from across the world will watch as you walk it.”

With that, he lowered Harry onto the cold stone step, laying him beside the empty milk bottles left tidily by the door. A small bundle that stood out starkly against the grey concrete step.

The headmaster turned away once the baby was settled and slowly walked away, his eyes glimmering with the light of a thousand plans.

A concealment charm lay over him, hiding him from random Muggle eyes, as a letter settled on his chest. Unseen by those who stood by the wall.
Bidding a quiet goodbye, they each turn away. Hagrid mounted his bike; McGonagall changed from and Dumbledore returned light to the street. Without another glance, a half-giant, a wizard, and a cat disappeared into the silence of the night.

In the dark shadows of the houses, another figure watches, wearing a suit and leaning against a cane. Their face is stern and aged, but there’s a quiet warmth as he stares at the child lying upon the stone. His master sleeps soundly, unaware of the danger being left here could present.
Death swore to stand watch, invisible to all that may wander, and he stands there until the child is discovered. Hours after the milkman left fresh milk by a child he could not see, an hour after a newspaper was thrown and missed him by mere inches, Petunia stepped out and screamed as she saw the child with a lightning bolt mark lying at her feet.

~

Harry has always been on the small side. He’s skinny and one of the smallest in his year at school. At 6 years old, Harry’s head is barely above the oven he’s supposed to work at, thankfully, due to Petunia's impatience at wanting him to work, he has his small step. It leaves him vulnerable, he’s, but it prevents more accidents this way. His left arm moves carefully searching for the handle of the pan sizzling with the bacon, when he has a grasp, he moves slightly towards turning away from the sausages to turn the sizzling bacon.

Fear races through him as he realises his mistake. His foggy mind had been so focused on perfecting the meat he’d forgotten about the eggs, just out of his vision. Maybe he should have put them on the right side in easy sight for him, but Petunia's disdain at seeing him adjust tasks for himself makes it more likely he’ll suffer Vernon's distaste.

Too late now. His hands shake as he places the pans back down and tries to rescue the eggs.

Yelling at him seems a bit pointless, as there’s not a lot he could do either way that wouldn’t lead them to yelling. It’s a bit of a waste of time? Ar least that's what Harry thinks.

Maybe his brain is wrong, that’s what Uncle says, maybe that’s why he doesn’t understand their actions? Maybe that’s why Dudley is treated like prince was he’s forced to serve them?

Because Boy is wrong, Boy is a freak?

It’s been a year since Harry was first sent to school, since they were forced to tell him the name his parents had chosen for him. He loves it, the only thing other than his blanket that his parents gave him. As much as he loved it, Harry still identified as Boy, it still being the name Uncle uses when he needs something.
Harry had been so excited to earn his name, to earn the ability to go to school with Dudley. Even if it was lonely, he got to learn and read.

He’s more than just the boy, or the freak; he’s Harry Potter. He knows who he is.

Well, he’s more to everybody except the Dursleys, who have firmly cemented him in that identity.
“YOU BLOODY FREAK, CAN’T DO ANYTHING, CAN YOU?” Spittle flew out of Vernon's mouth as his face grew progressively redder with rage, “AFTER ALL WE’VE DONE FOR YOU?”
Very little, young Harry’s mind supplies in response, he knows better than to say that aloud. Watching Dudley grow up has shown him how very little he actually is given as opposed to what he's supposed to be given.

He’d not meant to burn the eggs, but there’s so much for him to watch, and he’s so limited compared to the rest of them.

Why don’t they get it? I’m not the same. He thinks as Vernon gets more and more annoyed.

The Dursleys seemed to get that Harry wasn’t the same in everything else, so why was this so hard to get? It was certainly obvious with the way the scar ran over the eye, and his green eye was so much paler than the other.

Harry’s face is mournful as he watches Petunia move to sort breakfast, no chance if any scraps now, he’d have to stay hungry longer. He hadn’t earned his share yet. He hadn’t done enough right for them gift him his share of food.

He’d been so focused on feeling sorry about the loss of his food that he didn’t see Vernons hand racing the grab him. He flinched violently as the man’s beefy hands gripped tightly around his small arm. He knew there would be no escape from this.

Dudley’s face is full of delight as he watches his father. Aunt Petunia's face is pinched as she throws the eggs away and starts serving the rest of the breakfast. He’s shaken roughly before they start moving away from the other member of the family and out of the kitchen.

Vernon drags the boy out of the kitchen, his small frame hits the frame as he marches him into the hallway and stops by the stairs.

Harry’s body aches from where Vernon dragged him into the door frame, and he watches as Vernon wrenches the cupboard door open. His cupboard. Harry is thrown bodily into the small space, and his head hits hard against the wall. The world is spinning violently as he turns to look as Vernon slams the door shut.

“FREAK, YOU’LL BE THERE TILL YOU’RE NEEDED! NOT A NOISE OUT OF YOU OR IT’LL BE WORSE!”

Harry carefully moves his bruised and aching body to settle comfortably on the mat in his cupboard. His old white blanket is gripped in his hands, and he curls around it. Praying for the dizziness to leave so he can rest.

Despite the pain, Harry feels safe. None of them would ever come into the Freaks' space, the Freaks' home. Harry’s heart slows, as safety blankets it him and he allows himself to succumb to the quiet, hiding himself away in his mind till he’s dragged out to do something else.
For now, though, Harry is safe in the peace of his cupboard.

~

Harry, in the years he’s been here at the Dursleys' home, has learn that Vernon hates a great many things. He hates Harry, the government, dust, Harry, freakishness, gay people, and Harry are just a few of the extensive list of things he hates.

So, Harry isn’t surprised to find himself being yelled at again. If anything, it’s more surprising when he isn’t being yelled at within this house. Vernon's face was getting more purple with every word he yelled, his moustache would twitch violently with every word.

Harry wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done, it could range from anything. Maybe he’d breathe the wrong way? Or brushed against the Christmas decorations? Or maybe Dudley’s come up with something to tell them he’s done?

Dudley likes that game because it doesn’t even have to be believable for Petunia’s face to sour and Vernon to go bright red and begin yelling.
“YOU UNGRATEFUL FREAK”, his eyes are bulging now with a familiar manic light, “HOW DARE YOU DO THIS TO US, AFTER ALL WE DO FOR YOU?” Which is what exactly? Harry’s mind supplies, but he keeps his mouth shut. As per usual, listening to Vernon's rantings teaches him nothing of what he’s done. Vernon is just cycling through his top 10 phrases to hate on Harry with. After 7 years of this, you’d think he’d get more creative, but for as long as he can remember, the same few phrases have been screamed in his general direction.

The manic light is the only thing that provides any information, and that look sends chills up Harry’s spine. This is not going to be a good night for Harry. It’s going to be brutal.

Vernon grabs Harry, one hand winds itself in Harry’s black mop of hair, and the other grabs the collar of his shirt. It pulls painfully on Harry’s scalp as he’s dragged out of the living room, down the hall and into the kitchen. Seeing what his uncle intended, Harry began to fight. Usually safer to just let Vernon get it out of his system, but what Vernon was going to do might kill him. It hurt like hell, but Harry twisted every which way in Vernon's grip. He fought with all he had, his hand gripping Vernon's wrist, panic flashing across his face.

He wouldn’t survive this. Not now.

“Please, Sir, anything but that, please.” His pitiful whimper filled the air. Vernon only smirks as he opens the back door and shoves Harry through. Harry scrambled up out of the snow, his clothes soaked. The rolled-up cuffs of his hand-me-down trousers were only getting wetter and colder by the second. He shivered and his teeth chattered violently as the door slammed shut.

Harry hurried to sit by the door, hoping to feel some warmth.

There was nothing. Only the icy feeling of the December air.

He sits there shivering, the cold clawing at his body, taking all the energy he has. Tears fell steadily before eventually stopping, the salt water froze on his cheek. He stayed, lent again the door, listening to them laugh in the warmth.

Slowly, the cold changed. An uncomfortable warmth settled over him, his body felt sweaty and shaking and entirely too warm to say he was out in the middle of December with very little clothes on.

Harry knew what this was. He’d spent enough time in the library reading medical books to help him survive to know what was happening.

Hypothermia.

His fingers are stiff, and he looks down while trying to move them to wrap them around himself.

His hands were turning bluer, progressing to black with every second. He tried to see if his toes looked the same, but his vision wouldn’t focus long enough for him to tell. His mind turns to mush, and a distant noise tickles at the edge of his senses.

Oh, his pulse. He thinks distantly. I’m fine. It’s alright, it’s not so cold anymore.

Some part of Harry, almost silent now, feels like it's bad that the cold has lessened, but that’s buried deep beneath layers of numbness.

The pain of the cold has numbed, Harry barely feels anything as his eyes slip closed and he falls into the familiar darkness of unconsciousness.

A figure walks from the edge of the Garden. Not a single snowflake touches him. Behind him, there are no imprints within the snow, no sign he ever walked there.
His face is marred with concern as he leans heavily on his cane, watching his master's suffering. There is little he can do to help. He is only to guide his young master, never to interfere. His child is close to joining him, but he mustn’t yet there is much to do, so much responsibility lies upon the shoulders of this tiny child.
Death approached his master and pulled his old, aged cloak out of the briefcase he carries with him. Leaning against his cane heavily, he lays it over Harry. Sheltering him from the oncoming snow and wandering eyes. He allows his child a moment of peace.

None shall approach while Death shelters his young master.

Distantly, a chirp begins, a familiar sound, the sound of a mother's hymn, sung shortly before the child lost his mother. Harry’s shoulder loosens beneath the cloak as its warmth covers him, and his soul remembers the warmth of Lily’s embrace.

This is all Death can provide, until his master holds his first hallow, takes his first step towards him. A small comfort.

For now, it will do.

One day soon, his master shall walk with him.

Until then, he will survive and walk the path that joins him to Death.

~

Chapter Text

Almost 10 years on from that cold November night, the first of many events that disrupted the excessively normal life the Dursleys were trying to live. They had never forgiven the world that encroached on theirs. Despite that the house had barley changed, for any who visited it looked as though only three lived in Number 4 Privet Drive. There was not a photo nor belongings to suggest another boy had lived with them for almost a decade.

A decade of existence that could be wiped out in mere moments, by simply clearing out the cupboard. The only place there was any sign of the small, skinny 10-year-old boy who also lived in this house. Harry looked nothing like his relatives with a black mop for hair, vivid green eyes and a scar of lighting that ran from his forehead to below his right eye. Harry lived in the cast-off clothes of Dudley, which made him look even smaller than he actually was.

Harry had lived in the chipboard for as long as he could remember, sleeping on a small mattress with a worn out box containing his few items he could call his own, some broke toys he’d stolen from Dudley, spare clothes, a bag for school and the blanket he arrived on the doorstep. Harry was grateful for what he had, despite the fact everyone else seemed to have an abundance of items, it was better than nothing.

On a warm June morning, Harry slept soundly, curled in the corner of his cupboard facing the door. Petunia's loud banging startled him from his sleep and his head hit the low roof hard. Rubbing the forming bruise, he reached onto the shelf at his feet and placed his taped-up glasses on his nose.
“Out boy, now! Be quick about it!” Her voice, nails on a chalkboard, was loud and unwelcoming. Harry scrambled to get out, determined to be out and in the kitchen, before Dudley had a chance to step on the stairs. Dudley loved to try to force him back into the cupboard. He had enough injuries without that addition, and he didn’t need the problems coming into the kitchen after Dudley always caused. No need to be manhandled into getting another concussion or bruise.

Harry closed to the door quietly determined to exist on the edge of the Dursleys life, the safest spot for him. He slipped into the kitchen and began the familiar process of preparing breakfast after a few mishaps in his earlier years Harry had finally perfected the process. His differences no longer hindered him, finally having picked up his own shortcuts. All well and good being being directed by someone with perfect vision, but part of the kitchen would always be a blind spot no matter how he stood.

He plated up meat, eggs, and fruit. Harry only ever took one plate at a time to the table anymore meant he was hindered in avoided Dudley’s attempts to cause him to screw up. For example, this morning as Harry carried the last plate to the table Dudley stormed in and made a wild grab at Harry. Years of avoiding taking part in Dudley’s favourite game, Harry hunting, taught him to be quick on his feet’s so he danced away out of reach laid the eggs beside the toast. Grabbed a small slice and went to stand out of the direct view of Vernon when he came in.

Today was Dudley’s birthday and Harry’s least favourite day. It meant Dudley gained more toys to torment him with and Vernon was always quick to anger at any sign of Harry ruining his little Dudder’s perfect day. Harry’s cousins had a knack for turning anything into weapon especially if he didn’t like the gift because at that point he didn’t care if the item got damaged in the process of hurting Harry.

Harry prayed to any deity that would listen that today would go smoothly.

Something in him told him it wouldn’t be that easy.

Eventually, Vernon finished his food and the family raced to the living room. He could never see the appeal of being stared at while opening gifts; it seems like an uncomfortable experience.

His eyes roamed over the gifts cataloguing anything that could cause him a bigger problem. What surprised Harry was the racing the racing bike settled amongst the other gifts. Seemed like a waste, considering Dudley was rather fat, and had no want to exercise, the most he ever did was take part in Harry hunting and even then, sometimes he only reaped the reward of his boys catching him. Even then it often got delegated off when he ran out of energy.

Dudley appeared to be attempting to count his presents, spoilt brat, “thirty-four … thirty-five … thirty-six.” His face grew splotchy, and his lip began to wobble as he began to manipulate his parents, “b-bu-but that’s two less than last year!”

“Oh let, you’ve missed one see and we’ll get you two more while out.” Petunia said to her little prince.

“So, I’ll have…I’ll have…” Dudley’s face was screwed in concentration looking rather similar to an obese pug.

“Thirty-nine, sweetums.” Petunia coddled her son.

That answer brightened him up immensely and he dropped into a seat and began ripping into the nearest one. Harry shudders at the name, they get more and more sickly.

Vernons voice sounds from his armchair, a chuckle in his words, “Little tyke just wants his money worth, atta boy son.” Dudley ignores his parents' content in ripping into each item. New games, a ball, various bits, and bobs that he’s ’asked’ for. “Fine man he’l make one day.” Vernon looks disparagingly at Harry as he says this.

His uncle has every idea of what a man should be, and Harry is quite the opposite. Something he takes great joy in pointing and mentioning as an excuse for whatever he’s doing.

Harry stayed carefully tucked away again the doorframe nibbling on toast and kept a steady eye on each item Dudley unwrapped. Useful information for producing a good defence if ever caught.

As Dudley reaches about the half-way point the phone in the hallway rings, Petunia who had been stood watching her son with joy in her eyes left the room. She glared at Harry as though whatever conversation she was having was his fault, he had no idea what was being said and that made him nervous. Petunias responses were quiet and vague. Eventually she said a quiet goodbye, her face was sour as she walked back into the living room.

“Bad news Vernon, Mrs Figg can’t take him,” her face tightens more as she says the next bit, “fell over one her cats and is in hospital getting checked.” Vernon glared at Harry like this is his fault.

Mrs Figg is an older lady who lives a short walk from the Dursleys house and is the Dudley’s favourite person to leave Harry with when they can’t be bothered with him. Harry knows he should feel sorry that’s she injured, but not having to see them cats or eat that slimy cabbage soup, he can’t bring himself to. He just hopes he’s not sent anywhere worse.

When Harry first started being sent to her house, he began trying to become friendly with the neighbours on their street, offering to do little jobs for them and such. He was kind and polite but Petunia having seen him talking to them spread lies when she met with the wives of the street next. Calling him a criminal, he was four, but it didn’t matter. For people who barely saw any danger it was enough their imaginations ran wild, and Harry began to be avoided.

Now that little lie was biting them in the ass, Harry’s soul sung with delight knowing it was their own fault they were in a mess. Sure, it had worked in their favour in that no one questioned when Harry walked the street injured constantly, they just assumed he was getting up to more criminal activity and that it was his own fault.

Vernons face grew redder with every word that Petunia spoke. “That bloody woman, unreliable and crazy I say. What about that friend of yours what’s her name?”

“Yvonne, she’s away in Majorca and marge can’t take him either she’s at some conference.”

Harry couldn’t see why they didn’t just leave at home even if they left him locked in the cupboard not as though he’s going to go anything. “I could just stay here?” He’s careful not to sound hopeful but being home alone would be nice some peace without fear.

At his suggestion, both turned to him, their faces a picture of disgust. “Don’t be stupid, boy!”

It’s clear to Harry they think he’ll cause some form of havoc when they leave. To be fair to him all the strange things that happen to him were never by his own hand, he can’t explain them, but he didn’t choose for them to happen. There was the awful hair cut that grew back after a night of worrying about the ammo it would give his bullies, he had enough with his current appearance, the ugly jumper that shrank and shrank when Petunia tried to make him wear it, when he reached a dead end at school and ended up the roof. The school had sent an angry email, and Petunia had raged about his hair for days – he was punished both times. Luckily, it was assumed the jumper shrank in the wash, so he was not punished for that event. Although now he thinks about it, maybe they do have a reason to not want him alone in their house, but another knows he’s too used to the routine to risk creating a mess for himself.

“What if we leave him the car?”

Harry shudders at the idea of being in a hot car all day.

Vernons face is horrified, “He’s not staying in there it’s new!” Again, it seems like an overreaction what’s he going to do, murder the seats?

Dudley, who watched his parents like they were a tennis match, was quickly realising where this conversation was headed. His dropped more and more with each word, Harry knew what would happen and while it meant at day with them it would be kind of fun for him.

Dudley, however, did not find joy in it. His face goes blotchy as he screws it up and wails, “I-I don’t w-want him tug-to come,” his wails cover the fact not a single tear is present, “he r-r-ruins everything.” Harry has to admit it’s a good attempt, but he knows it won’t work. They’re out of options.

Their faces are resigned as they look to their son, “We’ll have to take him Dudders, there’s no one else to take him.” Petunia tries her best to smooth things over. It doesn’t work but as Dudley takes a deep breath a prepare to throw himself into a bigger tantrum the doorbell rings. His amazing friend is here for their day trip.

Harry’s face is like concrete when he opens the door, a polite smile fixed in place as he welcomes them in. Piers Polkiss’ mother look downs at him as her son stand beside her, she of course missed the swipe her perfect son takes at him and waits expectantly. “Come in, they’re in the living room.”

Piers attempts to barge Harry as he races forward but he moves away knowing if anything happens, he’ll be blamed.

Clearly like Petunia Piers’ mother is wilfully ignorant of the demon that resides where her son should be. Harry wonders again, if he should have sent her a voucher for an exorcist, he would send one petunia if he didn’t think he’d end up being the one it’s used on, a treat for Harry from Harry.

Piers holds out a messily wrapped gift to Dudley who grabs it with his chubby hands, “Happy Birthday, D.” A pair of boxing gloves. Just great, Harry thinks, he can be a professional bully now because that bodes well for the future. The two boys share an evil grin while their mothers discuss the days plans and pick-up.

~

Soon enough they’re all piled in the back of Vernons car, both boys pretending their perfect princes, despite this they both have Harry squashed against the door luckily this way neither can throw an elbow at him.

Vernon was complaining as usual. He often complained about anything, Harry made topic of the week quite often, today it was motorbikes.

“…roaring along without a care in the world, like they own the bloody road.” He muttered as another overtook them.

Every time he saw a motorbike he remembered the strange dream he sometimes had. Always around the time he had dreams of a green light and a scream, of a man and a flying motorbike. Harry was always staring up at the sky in this dream, but he knew they were high. If Harry had been anywhere else, he might have said something, but he knew better than to mention anything that wasn’t normal and show any form of creativity. Maybe it’s because they lacked it that they got so annoyed?

No need to poke the bear. Anytime he mentioned something strange whether he thought it or he saw it on to they gave him this look like he was dangerous, like they thought he was going to get ideas and try to recreate impossible things.

The one time he had dared ask about his nightmares he’d asked Petunia. He got a funny pinched look and a sharp answer, “The car crash your parents died in,” she give him before repeating her usual answer, “Don’t ask questions!” Those three words had speckled his childhood.

The secret to surviving at the Dursleys no questions and no waves.

So, Harry kept silent, Vernons threat as they left hung at the back of his mind. “Any funny business and you’ll not like what happens!” He’d gripped tight as if trying to force him to absorb the message. It’s not as though Harry would cause anything, he got the same warning every time he went anywhere with them.

It was a beautiful Saturday morning at the zoo; families were all around. Harry thought about where he could be, sat in the car, it quickly heating up as the day wore on and shuddered. Glad he’s not in there, he’s warm outside let alone in there. He kept a steady distance in case either boy got any bright (more like dim) ideas. Plus, he could pretend for a short while that he didn’t live with them, that he had a nice life somewhere far from Privet Drive.

At about mid-morning Dudley whined till his parents bought them ice creams. They would have gotten away with not getting Harry had the worker not asked him before they hurried away. His concerned face for the small boy had cause Petunia to quickly order the cheapest thing she could before he could ask anymore questions.

Harry celebrated that man, it had been ages since held had any sort of treat. The lemon ice pop was nice enough and it soothed his dry mouth; he wasn’t allowed to pour himself a glass of water and knew better than to ask this morning.

Harry stood off to the side watching a gorilla scratch its head, looking remarkably like Dudley when he’s trying to figure out if Harry’s being sarcastic or not. Harry makes it a game trying to match each of the Dursleys to an animal; his best is Petunia as a meerkat and Vernon as a warthog.

It grew hotter as the day wore on and eventually the false positivity, they were trying to show was getting harder for them to maintain. So, they headed to café for a break. Harry sat near Petunia who was the safest person in the group. He stayed silent when food was ordered not even attempting to see a menu, he’d get what he got.

As Piers and Dudley laughed and talked sometimes making snide comments about him Harry nibbled on his tray of chips. He was careful not to eat too fast, one so he wasn’t sick and two so he could savour having the food. He knew somehow, he’d have to pay them back for this, his aunt and uncle were keeping a tally and would ensure he played his dues in however they chose.

The other two boys raced through their food and when pudding came Dudley whined until his father bought him two of the very sickle sundaes. How he wasn’t constantly in hospital Harry had no idea but somehow, he wasn’t.

Restaurant staff had concerned looks as they saw what was bought for him and the wash the two boys were acting but they weren’t payed enough to intervene. So, they left them alone except for refilling drinks.

After dinner they headed to their final stop do the day and Harry’s most anticipated – the reptile house. Harry loved snakes and lizards held never gotten close, the snakes common in the UK didn’t venture far from their homes and being stuck with chores meant or avoiding Dudley meant he had little time to go adventuring.

The house was cooler than outside and dark, the lamps in each of the tanks providing light to see each animal. Harry loved seeing them climb or sliver over rocks and wood. They fascinated him even the ones happily dozing away. Piers and Dudley, however, wanted to find the biggest and deadliest creature in the building, so raced from tank to tank.

Eventually, they both came to the stop before the boa constrictor tank. Both their faces were pressed close to the glass as they looked at the animal. It took Harry’s breath away a large sleek scaly body thick enough to crush a man to death. Its head was tucked beneath a green dappled coil clearly it was enjoying a nice nap beneath its sun lamp.

Dudley was not happy. Whining he turned to his father, “make it move!” Vernon tapped on the glad impatiently, but the snake only lifted its head to sit atop his coils look at Vernon. It seemed entirely unimpressed by the display. After a few minutes, the three of them grew bored attempting to demand the snake move and they drifted off to find something more interesting to stare at.

Harry read the plaque that described its ability to kill, it’s home, the fact it had never left the zoo. How boring that must be for it, an animal with instinct to hunt, kill and survive?

Harry is staring at the snake, studying its beauty when he hears a quiet voice. “Stupid humans, always demanding.” It’s a smooth sound the s is dragged out and while it sounds like English there’s an undertone that says it’s not.

“I can’t imagine it’s fun, them goggling at you all day.” Harry doesn’t know why he responded, but something said he should.

The snakes head jerked up to look at him as its tongue flicked out, it was clearly quite surprised by something. “A speaker, a hatchling speaker!” Oh, it’s surprised by him, Harry thinks, it is strange talking to a snake.

He’s so focused on this strange event that he loses track of the group not for long through. Pier's voice sounds loud ply from nearby, “Look at this Mr Dursley, Dudley, look at what the snakes doing with Harry!” Dudley shoves him out of the way, and he lands hard on the floor. His uncle gives Harry a look that says he’s not happy. Rage broiled within Harry showering every thought in red and something twisted in him.

All of a sudden, Dudley’s and Piers had landed in the tank, and the snake was winding around Harry, “Thanks nestling, good luck with your nest mates.” With its goodbye spoke it disappeared out the staff entrance as rangers came racing in having received an alert about the disturbance.

By this point the glass was back in place. They unlocked the access point and got the boys out and wrapped in towels. Both were a blubbering mess of fear, the snake had only snapped at Dudley’s ankles, but both seemed since convinced they were were going to die.

Petunias face was paper white as she stood close to Dudley and watched the boys while Vernon raged at the rangers. It was clear they were confused as to how they ended up in there, but they kept apologising anyway making promises so as to smooth over Vernon’s ire.

They were escorted to the car and both boys were handed an apology gift bag that neither even looked at too busy staring off into the distance. Vernon eyes were bright with rage but kept his face neutral till they were sat on the car. As they left, he gives Harry a look, clearly, he thought Harry had caused this. Sat beside his cousin, Harry wasn’t certain his uncle was wrong something had happened to him and then that happened.

Maybe it was his fault.

Fear coated Harry’s brain as got out the car. Petunia guided both boys the kitchen table while Vernon’s iron grip wrapped around Harry’s thin throat. His thoughts scrambled, as he fought to free himself, his oxygen running out. Harry tried everything to get air into his lungs, to get out but Vernon just kept dragging him.

Eventually he let go when he threw Harry into his cupboard.

“I’ll deal with you later, freak.” His voice was deadly quiet and Harry shook where he sat gasping for breath. He stayed shaking as he leant against the walk when the door shut trying to breath. Harry would have to face consequences for something he didn’t understand.

He removed his glasses, no need to risk the getting broken too, something has to fixable if he isn’t. Stubbornness and tape scraps held them together.

Harry curls up in his corner to wait. It’s always worse when he has to wait. The hours he sits alone with his thoughts and then the event itself. So much worse than a normal day.

~