Chapter Text
One eight-year-old Harry Potter is sat at the dining room table, frowning at the blue biscuit tin and small pieces of fabric that have been placed in front of him by Aunt Petunia.
He’s not exactly sure what he’s meant to be looking at. He has no recollection of anyone ever taking a biscuit from the tin, but he does recall seeing it before— not in the kitchen, but placed in the shelf of the television stand and underneath a stack of VHS tapes. Now that he’s able to observe it more closely, he can just barely make out the words detailing the box’s contents underneath a thick layer of dust, promising Danish Butter Biscuits.
Aunt Petunia looms over him, and Harry can feel her glaring. He looks up at her hesitantly, her face wound in a tight expression.
“Do you remember what you told me yesterday?” she demands.
Harry blinks, taken aback. He is not much used to questions that cannot be answered with a simple ‘Yes, Aunt Petunia’, nor does he usually tell her much else. He goes over what he’d done yesterday— cook breakfast, weed the garden, cook lunch, weed some more, hoover the floors, cook dinner, hang the clothes up to dry— and finds no answer to her question.
It seems he’s taken too long to respond, as Aunt Petunia tuts.
“You said that Janith was bragging about her new hand-embroidered curtains,” she hisses shortly.
Harry pauses, searching his mind for who Janith is out of the dozens of housewife-neighbours they have, each of whom Aunt Petunia cares all too much about, when he finally remembers.
He’d been weeding the garden and overheard Mrs. Number Seven bragging loudly about her curtains to Mrs. Number Nine. She’d been talking about how she had hand-embroidered them herself and how painstaking it’d been and the long hours it’d taken her to complete them and how beautiful they’d turned out and how ‘absolutely worth it’ it’d been, and whatever else.
He’d taken a glance at them before going in, and with the new glasses he’d gotten a few weeks ago— helpfully covered for by the NHS, the world was so much clearer now— he had been able to make out the embroidered flowers running along the bottom half of her curtains in, what was in his opinion, a frankly ugly shade of cornflower blue.
When he’d gone back in to cook lunch, Aunt Petunia had interrogated him on the conversation, which she had surely been spying on from behind their own curtains, and he’d dutifully reported the information. He vaguely remembers the strained expression she’d made after hearing his words, how she’d stalked off to the living room right afterwards, spending the rest of the day in the master bedroom.
“Yes, Aunt Petunia, I remember now,” he responds.
She squints at him. “Well then, I’m sure you can figure out what I’d like you to do, then,” she sniffs haughtily, swiping her perfectly manicured index finger over the lid of the box and glaring disgustedly at the dust that sticks to it. “There are sewing supplies in this box. You’ll practice embroidery on those squares of fabric, and once you’ve gotten it down and I’ve given my approval, you’ll embroider the curtains. Do I make myself clear?”
Embroidery, really? Harry thinks.
He has to tend to the garden, cook, clean, and now he has to embroider? He doesn’t even have the slightest idea how to sew, let alone embroider, and the only thing he’s sure of is that it involves a needle and thread. Still, there is really only one answer to give.
“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”
She gives his expression a once-over and must be sufficiently satisfied with whatever she finds, as she responds, “Good. Now, take these off to the cupboard. You’ll work on this every night after dinner.”
She pauses, seemingly thinking for a moment, before her face tightens and her eyebrows furrow.
“And you will not tell Vernon of what you are doing. I will ensure he doesn’t ask questions. Anyhow, you’ll certainly make less trouble if you’re locked away earlier.”
“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”
Harry isn’t completely sure of why he must keep it a secret, but he can gander a guess— likely something along the lines of sewing being for girls and poofs— and he wonders a bit angrily why exactly Aunt Petunia is making him do the embroidery instead of figuring it out herself. She must sense the animosity in his expression, as her own becomes harsher.
“Quickly, then, and get started on dinner immediately after. It's already much too late,” she orders snappily.
Well, I wonder who’s fault that is, Harry thinks. Certainly not me, as I finished cleaning the windows at a perfectly appropriate time to begin dinner, but you just had to push another chore onto me.
Still, Harry picks up the tin and scraps of fabric, tucking the chair in and scurrying off to his cupboard. He opens it and shoves the items in, before making his way to the kitchen as quickly as possible. Soon, Uncle Vernon will be home from work, and Dudley will be home from terrorizing the neighbourhood, and they’ll definitely be hungry. Hungry Dursleys are angry Dursleys, and that does not spell good things for Harry.
---
Later that night, Harry is in his cupboard, as usual, although a bit earlier due to his lack of evening chores in favour of his new task, embroidery. In the dark, he stares at the biscuit tin and fabric, sighing.
He turns on the singular lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, which he normally keeps off, save for when he’s got homework or a new book from the school library.
The last time his lightbulb had burnt out, it’d taken a whole month before Uncle Vernon had replaced it. He’d only done so because he couldn’t do his homework properly in the dark, and his teacher had called about his missing work. Uncle Vernon had been furious, the new lightbulb coming at the cost of a bruised left arm.
Hopefully, this time, if he needs a new lightbulb, Aunt Petunia will explain.
Harry takes one of the scrap pieces of fabric and wipes the dust off of the lid. He puts the biscuit tin on his lap and opens it tentatively. For a moment, he holds out some foolish hope that he’ll find the promised butter biscuits, but it shatters quickly.
Inside lay seven spools of thread in black, white, navy, brown, red, green, and pink, a pair of fully metal scissors, measuring tape, some loose buttons, a box of what seems to be chalk, a circular red container that contains several dozen needles, some loose safety pins, and a plush tomato with little plastic balls in different colours sticking out of it.
There are also a few things he can’t name. He picks up one of those items, flipping it over and squinting at it. It’s a flimsy piece of metal, consisting of a circular portion not unlike a coin, a longer pointy-ish bit, and a rhombus shape made up of a more wiry piece of metal.
Unable to make heads or tails of it, he puts it back in the box, instead picking up a different tool. This one is made up of a blue plastic grip, with a thin metal sticking out of it and branching into two. The shorter end has a small red ball attached, while the longer one ends in a point. The entire metal bit is covered in a clear, plastic lid.
He takes the lid off and pokes his little finger on the point experimentally, before hissing in pain, removing it quickly.
Stupid, very pointy, definitely don’t do that again.
He puts the lid back on the tool and places it in the tin again, deciding not to go picking up any of the other unidentifiable tools. He places his finger in his mouth and sucks on it gently for a few seconds while looking over the tin’s contents once again. He contemplates for a moment.
In the past, Aunt Petunia had shown him how to complete different chores the first time around, before leaving him to figure it out on his own afterwards. This time, it seems he is decidedly on his own. He isn’t exactly sure why Aunt Petunia hasn’t at least shown him how to start sewing before leaving him to figure out how to embroider of all things. Surely he had to figure out the basics before moving on to the fancy stuff.
He removes the open tin from his lap, instead placing it beside him where he is seated on his cot, and picks up a scrap piece of fabric. He peers at it. Looking closely, he can see several dozen tiny holes, their size matching that of a sewing needle, and a few rips where thread has been pulled out half-hazardly.
Ah, that explains a lot, Harry thinks. If Aunt Petunia doesn’t know how to sew either, then she most certainly can’t teach him. Prideful as she is, she’d never been one to seek help from their neighbours — she absolutely wouldn’t ask about sewing, the paragon task of femininity and being a perfect housewife.
Harry could almost laugh.
Only almost, because if Aunt Petunia can’t teach him how to sew, then there’s no way Harry is going to figure it out, and he’ll be in for trouble if he doesn't get those curtains embroidered soon.
He puts down the piece of fabric and picks up the circular container of needles from the tin. He shakes it gently, and the needles rattle.
Harry squints at it, trying to figure out how to open it up. Running his thumb against the edge, he finds that the top begins turning, and a hole, originally at the bottom of the container, becomes aligned with one of the sections containing a few needles. He tips the container over, and one of them falls into his open hand. He spins the hole back to the bottom of the container and places it back.
Harry looks at the needle.
Although he knew what a sewing needle looked like in theory, he’d never actually seen one in real life. It’s thin, and the metal reflects the dim light of the lightbulb. Its thinness suggests fragility, but giving it an experimental bend, Harry instead finds it rather durable. The needle seems incredibly sharp on one end— Harry had learned his lesson and would not be attempting to poke it— while the other has a hole in it, seemingly much smaller than he had imagined.
He’s meant to somehow get thread through that? It seems impossible.
With the thread in mind, he places the needle on the inside of the tin’s lid and picks up a spool in black. He’s able to find the beginning of the thread, unraveling it gently until it is the length of his forearm. Harry then picks up the pair of scissors, cutting the thread, and it snips through incredibly easily. He’s never seen a pair of scissors quite like this one, and he guesses that it was probably specifically made for cutting thread and fabric.
Harry puts the scissors down, exchanging them for the needle, and peers at its hole. He concentrates, attempting to stick the thread through it. He misses. Terribly. He tries again. Fails. He keeps going, and begins to find himself frustrated, as the thread frays. Perhaps… He cuts off the frayed parts of the thread and sticks the new end in his mouth, coating it with his saliva, before trying again. After a few more tries, finally, the thread goes through the hole. He lets himself give a silent cheer, and begins pulling the thread further through the needle.
Okay, that’s done. Now what?
He picks up a square of fabric, one with decidedly less holes than the one he’d inspected earlier, and sticks the needle through. Almost immediately, the thread, which he’d so painstakingly put through the hole, falls out.
Harry nearly screams. Nearly. He’d very much like to scream, but that’d surely get him in massive trouble. Instead, he grumbles, picks the thread back up, and attempts to get it in the needle’s hole once more. After a minute or two, he’s got it through again. This time, he pauses, running through the little he knows about sewing. His knowledge fails him.
If he wants the thread to stay in the hole, then he should probably tie a knot, or something. Issue is, the only knot he knows to use is the one he uses to tie his too-large trainers, and he’s fairly certain that won’t work for sewing. So. He’s very much, absolutely, decidedly, stuck.
He sighs, frustrated with himself. Angrily, he begins shoving everything back into the biscuit tin, too upset to bother putting everything back properly. He slams the lid back on, and shoves the tin on the floor of the left corner of his cupboard.
Flopping face down on his cot, he tries to figure out what to do. There’s no way he’ll be able to figure out how to sew on his own, and it doesn’t look like he’ll be able to ask Aunt Petunia.
Perhaps he can find a book on sewing or embroidery? The school library has a fairly wide selection of books, and he could probably find something if he asked. It’ll be Monday tomorrow, and conveniently, Monday is the day all the Year Four classes, including his, are scheduled for their weekly library visit.
Harry sighs. He’d really been looking forward to taking out another book from the Roald Dahl bin. He’d taken out Charlie and the Chocolate Factory the previous week, and it’d been amazing. It was immensely satisfying to imagine Dudley as Augustus Gloop, wide as a hippopotamus, squeezed by a pipe and made paper thin— that way, he wouldn’t be able to push Harry around anymore.
Nevertheless, Roald Dahl would have to wait another week, lest Harry be smacked with a frying pan. He rolls over, and after turning off the light, he shuts his eyes and lets sleep overtake him.
---
The next morning, Aunt Petunia, thankfully, does not ask about his progress on the embroidery. He makes it to school safely after only being pushed over by Dudley once (score!). His class is scheduled to visit the library first period, and they’re lined up single-file in front of the classroom door. Harry is at the back of the line, pushing up his glasses, as their teacher does a headcount.
Once she’s confirmed that everyone is there, the class is guided down the hallway and towards the school library.
This year, for the first time ever, Harry is not in the same class as Dudley. This means that whatever trouble Dudley gets into cannot be blamed on him, and therefore, the new school librarian, Ms. Khan, doesn’t seem to actively dislike Harry.
The previous librarian, Mrs. Harris, had hated him, of which Harry was certain. She’d been the splitting image of the librarians Harry read about in books— elderly, with a round frame, pale skin, gray hair in a tight bun, cat-eyed glasses, thick cardigans, and a stern attitude. Harry had always been chased around the library at a much too loud volume, and whatever books Dudley ripped apart were always blamed on him, so this ‘stern attitude’ was often directed towards him. As punishment, she’d frequently not allowed him to take out books.
After her retirement— apparently, she’d had a heart attack during the summer— she’d been replaced by Ms. Khan, her polar opposite in more ways than one. Ms. Khan was on the younger side, with a tall, willowy build, warm skin, flowing, wavy long hair, loose blouses, and a warmer demeanour. She was the only teacher at the school with darker skin similar to Harry’s (she must be fully South Asian, though, he registers faintly. He’s fairly certain he himself is only half at most, and often finds himself wondering about his parents’ race) and had never treated him poorly. For that, he privately feels a sort of kinship with her. He’d even overheard some of the teachers saying the same sorts of things about Ms. Khan’s skin that some of his classmates had said about his own.
The class makes it to the library, where Ms. Khan is waiting for them at the door. She waves them in kindly, a smile on her face. Harry shuffles in, offering her a quiet good morning, before rushing over to the reading carpet to claim a seat, Ms. Khan not far behind him.
Recently, Ms. Khan had been reading them books from the Paddington Bear series. He’d certainly never admit it, but Harry finds himself reluctantly fond of read-aloud time— he’d never had anyone read to him outside of it, so he cherishes the experience and makes sure to pay extra attention— but today, he finds himself distracted.
He realizes he isn’t exactly sure where to find books on sewing— he’d certainly never seen any in the past. He scans the shelves of the library the best he can while seated on the floor, but by the time he realizes that Ms. Khan has finished reading, he’s still got no idea where to begin looking. His classmates have begun standing up and scattering around the library, while he rises slowly.
Harry makes his way over to the opposite side of the library, where he remembers the non-fiction section is— Ms. Khan had given them a tour of the newly-organized library at the beginning of the school year, and Harry distinctly remembers her definition of the term, non-fiction, which she’d explained as facts and not-fake, unlike fiction.
Privately, Harry had thought non-fiction sounded awfully boring compared to the allure of dragons and superheroes, so he had not ventured to the section before. Now, he finds himself regretting it terribly, as he is faced with a distinctly non-alphabetical shelving system of incredibly long numbers and decimals he only ever sees while cooking.
Harry spends a while trying to find what he’s looking for on his own, but as a fifteen minute warning is given by the teacher with no trace of the word embroidery found, he realizes he’ll almost certainly run out of time before he does. Working up the courage, he walks over to the check-out desk where Ms. Khan seems to be taping up some new books, as there aren’t any of his classmates in line to get anything checked out. He hovers for a moment, Ms. Khan seemingly having not yet noticed him.
“Uhm, excuse me, Ms. Khan?”
She startles, looking up from her work.
“Oh, Mr. Potter! My apologies, I didn’t notice you there,” she chuckles— Ms. Khan has always referred to students with a Mr or Ms along with their last name, unlike the other teachers who almost exclusively use their first, and it makes him feel awfully grown up. “What can I help you with?”
Harry fidgets, peeling at a bit of dead skin on his left thumb, with his hands behind his back.
“Could you… Help me look for books about embroidery?”
Ms. Khan blinks, looking a bit surprised at his question. At this, Harry’s eyes widen, convinced he’s somehow offended her or done something wrong. He backtracks quickly.
“It’s just that, it’s my Aunt’s birthday soon, and I’d like to get her a gift, and I thought she’d like a handmade one, but I’ve never embroidered before, and…” he trails off uncertainly.
Ms. Khan recollects herself, her expression returning to one of pleasant warmth.
“That’s very sweet of you! I’d be happy to help you out. Follow me,” she smiles, standing while gesturing for him to come along, Harry scrambling after her. They make a quick stop as Ms. Khan asks Harry’s homeroom teacher to manage the front desk while she helps him out, before continuing on.
She walks to the further half of the non-fiction section, which he hadn’t even ventured to himself, stopping and ducking into the third-to-last row of shelves. She scans the books confidently, before smiling and looking down at Harry.
“Here it is. You’ll find any books about sewing and embroidery right around here,” she explains, pointing vaguely at a shelf. “Do you have an idea of what exactly it is you’re looking for?”
Harry is sure he looks like a deer-in-the-headlights, shaking his head with a wide eyed look. “No, not really,” he says, looking down at his shoes. “I don’t know anything about embroidery.”
“Not to worry then, I’ll help you out. Have you ever sewn before?” she asks.
Harry shakes his head.
At this, Ms. Khan begins shuffling through the books. She seems to find what she’s looking for quite quickly.
“There it is!” she exclaims, at which Harry looks up from his shoes. She’s pulled out a thin, orange book, titled Sew Easy: A Sewing Book for Children. She flips to the table of contents and holds the book towards him so that he can read it. “This book covers how to get started, some basic sewing stitches, and some basic embroidery stitches. It should be a fine place to start.”
Harry reads it over. As she said, the table of contents promises sections such as Getting Ready to Sew, Sewing Safely, How to Begin, Basic Sewing Stitches, Basic Embroidery Stitches, and a whole lot more. She shuts the book, but does not yet hand it to him.
“May I ask when your Aunt’s birthday is?” she asks. Harry blinks, unsure of where this is going.
“It’s… It’s next Friday,” he lies. Although it isn’t actually Aunt Petunia’s birthday anytime soon, the following Friday is probably his rough deadline, as it’s likely the latest Harry will be allowed to finish the embroidery without facing her anger, and even that is lenient.
Ms. Khan hums, turning back towards the shelf. “That’ll be a bit of a tight deadline, but if you work hard, I’m sure you’ll be able to finish in time.” Her fingers pause over another book, and she pulls it out, turning back to look at him with a smile. She shows it off, this one titled Effortlessly Easy Embroidery.
“Tell you what. I’ll let you take out two books this week, like the older kids, as long as you promise to take good care of them and not tell any of your classmates,” she says, winking at him with a mischievous look in her eyes and a finger against her lips. “This way, you’ll definitely learn everything you need to finish your Aunt’s gift before her birthday.”
Harry lights up— teachers never give him any special privileges, much more likely to keep him in for break time or mark down his homework, than offer an extra sweet. “Yes! I promise!” Harry responds eagerly, bouncing on the balls of his feet with a bright smile on his face.
“Well then, your class’ Library Time is just about to end, so come with me, and I’ll help you take these out.”
She begins walking back to the front desk, books in hand, as Harry trails after her with a skip in his step. When they arrive, she starts to check out the books for him, pulling out a pen and the checkout card from the books.
“I’ve done a bit of sewing and embroidery myself, so if you ever need any help, feel free to come by after school,” she offers, while stamping down the check out date.
Harry blinks, startled at the prospect— just as teachers do not give him special privileges, they do not personally offer him extra help. A warm, unfamiliar feeling bubbles in his chest— gratefulness— and he nods.
“I will! Thank you so much, Ms. Khan,” he responds, just as she finishes up and hands him the books. Harry takes them, hugging them to his chest protectively.
“You’re very welcome,” she smiles. “Now, go line up. Your class will be leaving as soon as you all finish taking out books,” she tells him, gesturing at the small line that has formed behind him.
Harry nods, before scampering off. As he joins the end of the line, he doesn’t dare to begin flipping through the books, instead tightening his grip around them. He firmly does not want anyone to question why he has two books, instead of the one they are typically allowed, especially not the teacher.
He’s positive that she will demand him return one, or maybe even both, and tell Ms. Khan what a terrible, no-good student he is, and that he most certainly does not deserve to take out an extra. In the past, his Reception teacher had warned his Year 1 teacher of his horribleness, and his Year 1 teacher had warned his Year 2 teacher, and his Year 2 teacher had warned his Year 3 teacher, and his Year 3 teacher had warned his Year 4 teacher, but perhaps, because she is the librarian, Ms. Khan had not been warned.
If Ms. Khan is warned, Harry will lose the only teacher that has ever treated him decently.
When he gets to the classroom, Harry carefully puts his books into his dirty, damaged backpack, zipping it up cautiously. It is not until after dinner, in the privacy of his cupboard, that he takes them out.
He holds them in a way that is almost reverent, studying the books carefully, running his fingers over their spines. After a minute, he finally cracks open Sew Easy: A Sewing Book for Children, slowly and gently.
And he begins to read.
---
Harry finds himself drifting off in class. The previous day, he had read late into the night, intrigued by the library books’ contents despite himself. Typically, he’d find himself hating, despising, anything even somewhat related to the chores demanded of him— cooking reminds him of the food he cannot have, cleaning is exhausting and disgusting, and gardening is, at best, miserable, at worst, the quickest route to heatstroke— but the books on sewing and embroidery had been brilliant.
How could works of art be created with only needle and thread? The images of embroidered flowers, birds, and butterflies in the books had been stunning, breathtaking, and much more so after reading of the individual stitches that went into creating them— he mentally apologizes for anything offensive he’d thought about Mrs. Number Seven’s curtains, even if the cornflower blue she’d used really is horribly ugly.
And although he’d enjoyed the pretty pictures of embroidered designs, Harry had found sewing in of itself was so much better, an immensely practical and multi-purpose art form. He’d certainly known that sewing was what made clothing wearable, but his knowledge had only been a vague awareness of the fact. He is intrigued by the sewing techniques described in the books— not only could sewing create brand new clothing, but pre-existing articles could be adjusted, tailored, and refitted to suit the wearer. He had found himself thinking that maybe, perhaps, if he could successfully learn to sew, he would be able to adjust his hand-me-downs from Dudley so that they wouldn’t be so large and ‘unflattering’— flattering clothing being a concept he had learned from the books.
The only issue is, sewing seems positively difficult and incredibly time-consuming. Harry had fallen asleep right as he’d finished the final page of Effortlessly Easy Embroidery and hadn’t gotten to try his hand at any of the described techniques, but they’d seemed complicated. The books had been spattered with unfamiliar vocabulary, and Harry isn’t all that sure he’ll be able to finish the curtains in a short enough time-frame before Aunt Petunia starts getting angry at him.
Right now, Harry desperately wants to reread the books, to review the images of the embroidered designs, and to attempt the method of tying a knot at the end of the thread, now that he knows how— hold the tail of the thread against the needle with your thumb, wrap the thread around the needle 2-4 times, pull the loops down the needle to the end of the thread, give the thread a tug— but he’d left the library books at home, hidden underneath his cot in his cupboard, in fear of them getting damaged. With the way Dudley and his gang liked to steal his bookbag and throw it around, there was too high a chance of them being drowned in some puddle along with the rest of his things.
“Harry? Harry. Mr. Potter.”
Harry blinks, and returns to a reality with no beautifully embroidered flowers.
“Sorry?”
His teacher sighs, glaring pointedly.
“Harry, please pay attention to the lesson and refrain from daydreaming.”
Harry’s class giggles at the scolding and he blushes angrily, but resigns himself to not thinking about needles, thread, or fabric until he returns home.
“Yes, Miss.”
Harry completes his afternoon chores in a daze, with a brain still overloaded and reviewing everything he’d learned. He rakes leaves while thinking of running stitches, washes the windows while thinking of backstitches, and cooks dinner while thinking of satin stitches. Finally, when he’s thrown into his cupboard for the night on a stomach of burnt garlic bread and the salad Dudley had refused to touch, he’s overjoyed to start his proper first attempt at sewing.
Thankfully, they hadn’t been assigned any worksheets today. He immediately pulls the tin of sewing supplies into his lap and sets to work. He grabs the spool of black thread, a needle, and the coin-like tool— which he now knows is a threader— and sets to work.
After a bit of fiddling, he’s got a properly knotted bit of thread in the eye of the needle. A warm feeling washes through him, and he can’t help but feel proud of himself as he spins the needle around between two fingers.
A moment later, he pulls out a square of fabric— off-white, with a brown stain in the middle— and Sew Easy: A Sewing Book for Children from underneath his cot. He opens it to page 16, where it describes how to do a running stitch, and reviews it carefully. After rereading it a few times and trying his best to permanently imprint the instructions in his mind, he tentatively picks up the threaded needle and fabric from where he’s laid them on the biscuit tin’s lid.
Hands trembling, he holds the needle to the back of the fabric and begins pushing through it, and very, very, very carefully, he pulls it through until the knot hits the back of the fabric. He gives it an experimental tug to make sure the knot is big enough to keep the thread in place— it is— and proceeds to the next step. About a centimetre ahead, he pushes the needle down through the top of the fabric and pulls it through. Slowly, he watches as his first successful stitch appears and lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.
It certainly isn’t perfect. It’s ever so slightly crooked, probably because of his shaking hands, and he’s sure it’s probably too long or too short, but he’s done it. A singular, actual, proper, running stitch. He continues carefully, now with slightly firmer hands, pulling the thread over-and-under, over-and-under, over-and-under. By the time he’s nearly reached the other end of the fabric, he’s got a fairly straight line of running stitches. He carefully knots off the end without fanfare and snips off the excess thread.
After he’s put down the needle, he holds the fabric in both hands, staring at it reverently. He gently runs a finger over the stitches on the front side, and flips it over to do the same on the other.
Now that he’s really comparing, his work’s noticeably messier than the images in the book, and some of the stitches are larger than others, but he can’t bring himself to care, because he’s done it.
Suddenly fueled by adrenaline, he flips to the next page of the book, titled backstitching, and threads his needle once more, this time with a red, and begins performing the described steps. After another ten minutes, he’s got a backstitched line that is only tilting upwards slightly. He then begins repeating the process with the other stitches described in the Basic Sewing Stitches chapter of the book.
Once he’s not riddled with nerves at the prospect of trying something new (and also properly realizes there isn’t an Aunt Petunia around to scream over his shoulder about his wobbly stitches, or an Uncle Vernon to yell at him for how slow he’s working), sewing is actually quite calming. He finds he’s able to lose himself in the repetitive process of performing the same stitches over and over, only occasionally interrupted by a spike of annoyance at a crooked stitch. It’s as if he’s in a trance, where the only things that matter are the needle, thread, and fabric.
In the past, Harry had never really had the time, nor the ability or energy to have a proper hobby like his classmates. He remembers the self introductions at the beginning of each new school year. His classmates had easily talked about their hobbies: drawing, writing, playing, watching TV, sports, the list went on. On the other hand, he’d always lied or said something distinctly boring like gardening, which was the closest he could get to the truth— that he doesn’t have hobbies, and he’s more likely to be found cleaning the bathroom than playing pretend.
His time at home is spent on chores, and he doesn’t have many personal belongings. He isn’t willing to waste his few pencils and erasers for homework on drawing or writing, and stray crayons or paper aren’t always easy to come by. Of course, he isn’t permitted to touch Dudley’s toys, or his gaming console, or the television, or anything at all, really, unless it’s to clean. The kids at school aren’t usually willing to play football with the freak, and he can only obtain books from the school library.
But now, he has the opportunity to maybe, just maybe, develop a real hobby! Something he can do for fun, something he can do for himself. Maybe during self introductions in Year Five, he’ll be able to talk about sewing— ‘I’ve sewn shirts, pants, ball gowns, even a stuffed dragon!’ he imagines himself saying. He’ll have a hobby, just like normal kids, and he won’t be as much of a freak.
Before he knows it, he realizes he’s finished all of the stitches in the chapter, and it’s the beginning of the next: Basic Embroidery Stitches. He looks down at the piece of fabric he’d been using, now covered in several different stitches. He’d successfully completed the running stitch, backstitch, baste stitch, ladder stitch, catch stitch, whip stitch, and blanket stitch (he’d done the blanket stitch twice. The first attempt had been… questionable, at best).
He rubs at his fatigued eyes and flips through the pages in the chapter. This one has another ten different stitches, starting with the satin stitch. It has to be late now— the house is completely quiet, and there’s no light coming from outside his cupboard door— but he’s determined to give every single one of the stitches in the book a shot. Strengthening his resolve, he begins threading his needle once more.
---
The next morning is typical. Harry awakens to the sound of Aunt Petunia unlocking his cupboard and banging on its door.
The unusual bit is after he’s scrambled up. He is greeted by the sight of three scrap pieces of fabric, filled with different stitches, and the contents of the sewing tin scattered over the floor— he’d gone to sleep as soon as he’d finished the last stitch. He quickly stuffs everything into its rightful place, before using the toilet and starting on breakfast. As he fries the eggs, he ponders on how to move forward with his embroidery.
Last night, he’d realized quite quickly why Sew Easy had differentiated between sewing thread and embroidery thread. Although he could make the same stitches displayed in the pictures, his embroidery hadn’t been nearly as vibrant or as clear. Without embroidery thread, he’d be stuck layering stitches for ages to get them even half as visible.
Maybe he could ask Aunt Petunia to purchase embroidery thread?
…
He finishes all eight eggs and begins frying the bacon.
…
No, that definitely won’t work, is barely even worth considering. She clearly hadn’t had the slightest idea of how to embroider in the first place, and he could practically already hear her calling him ‘untrustworthy’ or accusing him of ‘tricking her so she’d spend more of Vernon’s hard-earned salary’ if he tried to explain the differences between types of threads.
The last two slices of toast jump up, and he puts them on a plate with the other five.
Perhaps he can ask his babysitter, Mrs. Figg, if she’d be willing to part with a bit of embroidery thread. In the past, he’d seen several spools of yarn around her house, even if he’d never seen her actually knitting— in ways, embroidery was a similar type of hobby, so it seems plausible for her to have embroidery thread, too. He could stop by on his way home, and as long as he was quick, Aunt Petunia wouldn’t notice a thing.
He finishes frying the last of the bacon, plates it all, and sets the table just in time, as the loud footsteps of Uncle Vernon and Dudley begin thundering down the stairs. He slips a piece of bacon and a slice of toast under his shirt and runs back to his cupboard without anyone noticing.
Eating quickly, he packs his bag at the same time. Most of his things are already in it, but on a last second whim, he slides his squares of stitches into the front pocket. After making sure they’re big enough to not slip through the small hole in its right corner, he runs out to use the bathroom before his relatives finish their breakfast.
During the schoolday, he takes care not to daydream in class again; he doesn’t want to give his teacher any reason to get him in trouble. It’s raining out, somehow even drearier and more gray than the usual British weather, so everyone is restless. His classmates are significantly louder than usual, and Dudley’s gang spends all of break trying to push him into the mud. Harry uses the same thin, distinctly not-waterproof coat all year-round, so when it’s finally time to go back in, he’s drenched.
By the end of the day, Harry finds his fingers twitching for a needle and thread. Sewing had been calming in a way he’d never felt before and taken enough focus to take his mind off of his misery. For once in his life, he’s desperate to leave school, but as he opens the front pocket of his bag to put in his pencil, he’s reminded of the sewing that he’d brought to school.
He takes out the first square of fabric with the basic sewing stitches he’d done, and finds himself flooded with an unfamiliar feeling of pride. At the same time, he feels the desire for someone to praise his work, to tell him he’d done a good job, to reassure him that he’d done even a fraction as well as he’d thought he’d done.
Suddenly, he’s four years old again, sure that Dudley will want to play with him in the blanket fort he’d made. He’s five, standing on a step-stool, leaning over a stove that is still too tall for him, desperate for Aunt Petunia to tell him he’s done well. He’s six, scrubbing away at the bathroom, and hoping that if the toilet is clean enough, Uncle Vernon will give him a pat on the head.
After that last disappointment, he’d thought he was done holding out hope, but apparently not.
As the bell signalling the end of the day rings, he’s made his decision. Harry takes all three squares of fabric out from his bag, barely remembering to zip it up, before rushing out the classroom and down the hall. Instead of making his way to the exit, he goes in the opposite direction, towards the library.
It’s not only because he wants a compliment on his sewing, he tries to convince himself. Maybe he’ll get some advice on how to improve his stitches, so he’ll have a higher chance of getting Aunt Petunia’s approval. Or maybe she won’t even be there, and he’ll end up going home as usual.
Still, he continues on his path, barely even hearing his old Year One teacher telling him to slow down and not to run in the halls!
Finally, he makes it to the library, only slightly out of breath. He opens the door.
Harry is immediately greeted with the sight of Ms. Khan sitting at the front desk and the realization that he hadn’t quite thought this through, as his resolve cracks.
Ms. Khan looks up at the sudden noise of the heavy library door shutting behind him. She looks down a bit and notices him.
“Mr. Potter! It’s lovely to see you,” she greets, a welcoming smile widening on her face.
Harry fidgets with the corner of one of the squares of fabric.
“Hullo, Ms. Khan,” he replies nervously. “I. Uhm. Well…” Harry trails off, unsure of himself.
Ms. Khan sets down whatever she’d been busy with, and comes out from behind the desk.
“How can I help you today?”
“Well, I…” he steels himself, straightening and looking her in the eye with as much confidence as he can muster. “The other day, when you were helping me check out my books, you mentioned that you’d be able to help me with my sewing, right?”
She smiles once more. “Ah, yes, I did. I’d be more than happy to give you a hand,” she glances at the pieces of fabric he has in his hand. “Would you like me to take a look at those?”
He nods rapidly, shuffling his feet and handing them to Ms. Khan. She takes and begins inspecting the first piece, with the basic sewing stitches he’d done. A moment later, she looks back at him.
“These are incredibly well done, especially for your first attempt!” she tells him.
He blinks, as a disbelieving smile grows on his face. “Really?”
She chuckles. “Yes, really! I can tell that you worked hard,” she says, and points at some of the stitches. “The later half of your stitches already look really straight— with some practice, you’ll definitely improve even more.”
Harry feels warmth spread throughout his chest, as his smile morphs into one of happiness. It’s perhaps the first time he can remember getting, at least what seems to be, genuine praise from, well, anyone. Constantly, he is struck down and ridiculed by not only the Dursleys, but his classmates and teachers, and he can’t help but feel joyful.
Embarrassingly, Harry feels his eyes start to wet— he has not truly cried since he was four. He had learned not to after Uncle Vernon’s punishments for tears, unbecoming of a boy. He quickly rubs his eyes with his long sleeve.
Thankfully, Ms. Khan isn’t looking at him— instead, she is inspecting the stitches on the second scrap of fabric. Harry shuffles his feet nervously— she’s taking a bit longer to look at these compared to the first few, and her mouth is slowly turning down. He gnaws at his lips. Perhaps it had been too optimistic of him to hope for solely her praise. Maybe she’d only complimented him so that he’d feel even worse once she berated him— Uncle Vernon had done that once when he was feeling particularly vindictive, told him he’d done a good job with Aunt Petunia’s begonias in front of the neighbors, only to yell and beat him worse than ever before once they’d left.
Lost in thought, he startles when Ms. Khan begins talking again, barely suppressing a flinch.
“These stitches are also really well done,” she begins, as Harry braces himself for the inevitable but. “Did you notice anything about the thread you used?”
Harry blinks a few times, confused, and looks up from his shoes— his left shoe is untied, he registers distantly— while thinking. For a moment, he’s not sure what she’s talking about, before he’s struck with realization.
“Oh, yes! The books mentioned using embroidery thread, but I was using sewing thread, so they ended up being less visible,” he responds.
Ms. Khan nods at him. “That’s exactly right, good job noticing that,” she praises, and Harry feels himself warm once more. “Do you have any embroidery thread at home?”
Harry shakes his head. “I don’t wanna ask my Aunt for any because…” he pauses, quickly thinking of a possible reason. “It’d… ruin the surprise for her, and my Uncle is always at work, so I can’t ask him either. I was thinking I’d ask my babysitter who lives nearby if she has any she’d be fine with me borrowing.”
Ms. Khan hums in response, looking back down at his work for a moment, before looking at him again.
“How do you feel about this? I have a few sets of embroidery thread that I bought to experiment with a couple months ago, but I never got around to using them. I would be willing to part with one or two of them, if you’d be kind enough to take them off my hands.”
Harry’s shocked. Sure, she’d let him take out an extra library book before, but prior to that, he’d barely spoken a word to her. It was unimaginable that she’d offer to give him something purchased with her own money.
He shakes his head vehemently. “No, I’m fine. That’s- too much. I can’t take them from you.”
Ms. Khan chuckles at him. “I’m offering, Mr. Potter. You’d be doing me a favour, really.”
Harry only shakes his head once more. “But you bought them! With your own money! You can’t just give them to me!”
She sighs at him, sounding both exasperated and something else that Harry doesn’t think he can bring himself to consider (indulgent, maybe fond, a tone in which he’s never heard anyone speak to him).
“How about this,” she begins. “I’ll give them to you, but on the condition that you come by and show me what you create with them once you’re finished. That way, it’s an exchange, rather than a gift.”
Harry frowns and contemplates for a moment, peeling at dead skin on his hand. It certainly isn’t an equal exchange, but he really does need embroidery thread, and there’s no guarantee Mrs. Figg will have any. Plus, this way, he might have some leftovers for personal use, even once he’s finished with the curtains.
Decision made, he hesitantly nods at Ms. Khan slowly. “I’d be happy with that,” he says carefully, continuing to peel at dead skin. “Thank you,” he continues, trying to sound as genuine as possible.
Ms. Khan smiles at him, clapping her hands together. “Perfect. Follow me, then, I believe I left them in my office.”
She begins guiding him through the library, as Harry shuffles along behind her.
“Back when I got the position as school librarian, I had some misconceptions about the amount of time I’d spend bored. I’d purchased embroidery thread in hopes of doing some needlework while I wait around, but as it turns out, being a school librarian is a good deal more work than just being a librarian.”
Harry’s face scrunches. “What do you mean?”
“Before I acquired this position, I spent a bit of time as assistant librarian over in Hampshire. Librarians are quite busy, shelving books, helping people check them in and out, repairing old books, or wrapping up new ones, so I’m already quite occupied as this school’s only librarian,” she explains. “Some of the older students come by on their break to help me do a bit of easy work, which is always a great help, but on top of the expected work, I’m often pulled away to substitute for classes if they can’t get a hold of someone else.”
As she finishes her explanation, they make it to a door hidden in the back of the library, behind the small Teen Fiction section that only the Year Sixes with special permission can check out books from. Ms. Khan pauses in front of it, reaching into the pocket of her blazer and searching through it.
“What year do I have to be in to help out during break?” Harry asks, his interest poorly disguised. Hiding away in the library during break sounds fantastic— it would be a brilliant way to avoid getting caught up in a round of Harry Hunting, even if he has to help shelve books or something.
“Are you that eager to escape going out?” Ms. Khan laughs while unlocking the door. “I do remember not being the biggest fan of break time, either. I have vivid memories of spending it sitting under a tree and reading.”
Harry gives a sheepish laugh, stopping in the open doorframe while Ms. Khan walks into her office. It’s fairly impersonal, with a long desk on the left side and a shelving unit lining the right. There’s a computer taking up a majority of the desk space, a framed picture of a pretty woman with a tabby cat, some generic stationary, a thick blanket on the office chair, and the shelves are filled with books, but what immediately catches his attention is the walls. There are several embroidery hoops hung on the wall behind the desk, displaying embroidered cats surrounded by flowers. They’re very well done, and Harry feels an itch to get a closer look.
Lost in his observation, he’s interrupted by a chuckle, making him take a startled step back. It’s Ms. Khan, now holding two plastic boxes of embroidery thread in at least a dozen different colours— what’s more is the two small embroidery hoops on top of them.
“Here you are,” she presents, showing off the items with a smile.
Harry blinks.
“I thought you were giving me embroidery thread?” he says uncertainly.
“That’s correct. It’s just that I’m also giving you some sewing hoops.”
“I never agreed to taking sewing hoops,” he frowns.
Ms. Khan gives him an exasperated look, pushing the items into his chest.
“You would be doing me a favour, taking these, really. I’m not fond of this hoop size, so these have been sitting around and collecting dust for years now, far before I got this position,” she insists.
After another push, Harry takes the items. He looks down at them, feeling his lips curve up into a tentative smile, before looking back up at her.
“Fine, then,” he says, as his finger goes to fidget with the corner of one of the plastic boxes. “Really though, thank you so much.”
Ms. Khan’s look of exasperation shifts into a smile.
“And it’s really my pleasure, there’s no need for thanks,” she responds, at which Harry feels confident enough to roll his eyes. “Ah, and about your earlier question— you’ll have to wait until at least next year when you’re a Year Five to apply to help out,” she tells him.
At this, Harry frowns, but he nods nonetheless. “I s’pose I’ll have something to look forward to, then.”
As Ms. Khan turns around to close the drawer she’d left open while looking for the thread and hoops, Harry’s gaze shifts to the clock hung on the opposite wall, and he startles.
It’s late, really late, only five minutes to the time he usually arrives home. Even if he runs, he’ll be at least fifteen minutes late, longer with the ground still muddy from a day of rain.
He shifts out of the doorway and quickly slings his backpack off onto the floor, with it emitting a dull thud, carefully slides in the packs of embroidery thread and hoops, before roughly shrugging it back on.
A second later, Ms. Khan comes out from her office.
“It’s quite late, now isn’t it?” She asks rhetorically, glancing at her watch. “Are you planning to leave?”
Harry straightens and nods.
“Yeah, I’ve got to be back quickly, my Aunt is probably worried.”
The woman nods back at him and smiles.
“Well then, goodbye for now. Remember to come by and show me some of your progress when you can.”
Harry agrees and gives his own quick goodbyes, waving and rushing out of the library. By now, the school is nearly empty of students and the teachers are in their classrooms, so he’s free to run through the hallways and out the exit.
The only thought on his mind is that he’s absolutely screwed.
---
Harry cries out as he’s roughly shoved into his cupboard, his left arm making a thud as it hits the ground harshly. He immediately feels pain blossom throughout it, hearing more than seeing the door being slammed shut.
“Runt! You dare to come home late and make trouble for your aunt, and now you’re ruining dinner?”
He hears Uncle Vernon lock his door.
“Now you’ve left Petunia to fix your mistakes and we’ll have to go hungry! It’s only right that you don’t get dinner. Maybe it’ll force you to finally think about your mistakes.”
With a final kick to the door that sends Harry flinching backwards, Uncle Vernon leaves, his loud steps thudding further into the house. For an indefinite amount of time, Harry is left lying and shaking on the ground. The pain in his arm throbs, and he feels his vision spin.
Whether it’s a few minutes or hours later, Harry does finally unwrap from his fetal position, sitting up slowly. For a second, he’s hit with a wave of nausea and he’s certain he’ll be sick, but the moment passes. Slowly, he experimentally moves his arm around, and, thank God, he’s able to do so. It throbs dully, but he has no urge to scream, so he figures it probably isn’t broken. He peels off his shirt to get a closer look, twisting his head around. The area is red, and when he raises his hand to touch it, it’s slightly warm. It’ll bruise, but it should heal fine.
He’s thankfully not bleeding anywhere. He’d been wearing one of his nicer shirts and it would’ve been a shame if he’d gotten blood on it.
He unties the piece of rope he’d been using as a belt and takes off his jeans, slipping into a T-shirt and pair of trousers that’d both been stained with too much blood to be completely washed out, demoted to pajamas. His arm only really hurts when he reaches his hands above his head to wiggle his hands into the sleeves, but he bites his lip and bares it.
Hopefully, he’ll have enough time in the bathroom to take a shower in the morning— on schooldays, he normally takes one after coming in from gardening, or whatever chore he has to complete outside, and before cooking dinner, but hadn’t had the time after returning late.
As he sits on his cot, his eyes drift around his cupboard. His eyes catch on his— he supposes it’s ‘his’ now— sewing tin. He does another experimental circle of his left arm, and decides he’s probably okay to do a bit of embroidering. It’s his right arm that’ll be doing most of the work, anyways.
He slides out Effortlessly Easy Embroidery from under his cot. He hadn’t gotten a chance to use it the previous night. It’s much more complicated than Sew Easy, full of step-by-step guides to embroidering different flowers, butterflies, stars, fruits, even animals. He then grabs his backpack, taking out the embroidery thread and hoops.
With the guidance of the book and some trial and error, he’s able to secure one of the larger pieces of scrap fabric into a hoop without wrinkles, feeling quite proud of himself. He does a quick count of how many scraps of fabric he has left— four— and goes to open one of the two packs of embroidery thread.
In it are two dozen colours of embroidery thread, each wrapped with a piece of paper around their middles, unlike the spools of sewing thread he’d been given by Aunt Petunia. He scans over them. There’s one in pink, two shades of red, five different greens, four different blues, two yellows, two purples, two whites, two blacks, one gray, one orange, and two browns.
There’s certainly less of each colour compared to the spools of sewing thread, so he notes that he’ll need to be careful about which colours he uses and how. He’s not yet sure of the exact design he’ll embroider on the curtains, but he’s almost certain he’ll be doing flowers. As for the colours, Aunt Petunia will likely want pink. He’ll probably also need green and yellow, perhaps also red. In the end, he decides to make a few test flowers using cornflower blue for the petals— the exact ugly shade Mrs. Number Seven had used— a poopy brown for any leaves or stems, and the orange in place of yellow.
He flips to one of the first pages of the book, showcasing steps for a simple daisy. As he reviews the instructions, he threads his needle, finding that it’s not dissimilar to threading a needle with sewing thread.
He then begins embroidering. Over the next few hours, he practices embroidering everything he thinks he might use for the curtains, including daisies, orchids, chrysanthemums, vines, and leaves.
Once he’s satisfied, he begins attempting to arrange them in designs. He does one with flowers lined up next to each other with stems of different heights and one wrapped in vines, but finds himself dissatisfied with both. He’s unsure of how good his eye for aesthetics is, but he is a master of knowing Aunt Petunia’s preferences, and he knows these aren’t to her taste— the first is too basic, the other too unruly.
On a whim, he pulls out a pencil and scrap of paper from his bag, and begins sketching out a design. He flips to a page in the book displaying a design on the corner of a handkerchief, a branch of flowers with stems going in all different directions. He takes inspiration from it— instead of all coming from one direction, he sketches them spread along the bottom of the paper, arranged similarly to the image. Combining the straight flowers of his first attempt and the chaotic vines of his second, his sketch is of twisting stems and flowers in different arrangements, ending in slightly different heights, the tallest hitting the quarter height of the paper.
When he’s finished, he finds himself quite satisfied— he’s not sure his art abilities would translate well to anyone else attempting to interpret his designs, but he understands them well enough, and he supposes that’s all that matters.
He rethreads his needle once more while blinking rapidly to keep himself awake. He’s tired, but despite that, he finds himself having fun. It’s fun to think up different ways to arrange the designs, it’s fun to think about which colours will look good together, and it’s fun to lose himself in the repetitive motions of stitching. He knows he’s not the most patient person in the world— he’s never been good at sitting still and isn’t the best at paying attention in class— but embroidery and sewing take just enough thinking that he feels both calm and engaged at once.
By the end of the night, he’s finished a sample he thinks is good enough to show Aunt Petunia in the morning. He’ll have to do it before either Uncle Vernon or Dudley wake up, so likely just before he sets the table, but for once, he’s nearly certain she’ll approve.
Besides, he thinks, there’s only one person in this household who can embroider, and it’s certainly not her. If she doesn’t approve, she’ll simply have to do without embroidered curtains, and succumb to the fact that Mrs. Number Seven is better than her.
---
Harry is very much correct in his prediction.
He stands in front of Aunt Petunia, who is holding his embroidered sample and sketch in her hands, while keeping an eye on the sausages he’s frying out of the corner of his eye. Her face is twisted in an incredibly unpleasant expression with her eyebrows scrunched together, as if she’s tasted something completely foul. She makes an ugly noise, as if she’s choked on something, and frowns deeply. She looks at him.
“These colours are disgusting,” she comments scathingly.
Harry was prepared for this.
“There are other ones,” he replies steadily.
She squints at him, glaring as if he is a worm under her heels, or perhaps a roach.
“Pink?”
He nods.
Aunt Petunia’s scowl grows even deeper, in a way that highlights her ugly frown lines. She stands straighter and stretches her neck to look down at him even further. Somehow, it makes her look even more like a giraffe than usual, he thinks distantly.
At that moment, heavy footsteps begin falling upstairs. Probably Uncle Vernon, Harry deduces. Dudley isn’t quite big enough to make so much noise just yet, but it probably won’t be long before he catches up.
Aunt Petunia shoves the fabric and paper into his chest, and Harry immediately grabs them, slipping them into the large pocket of his trousers— the left one, as the right one has a hole in it.
“You’ll use pink, red, yellow, and green, nothing else. The curtains will be in the cupboard by the time you’re home. If anyone asks, I’ve taken them to get dry cleaned. I don’t trust that you won’t mess this up, and I can’t have the neighbours thinking I’m the one who did.”
“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”
She sniffs and turns away, leaving for the dining area. Just in time, too, as Uncle Vernon has begun banging down the stairs, and the sausages seem to be just about done.
Just as she’d said, the curtains are laid on the floor of his cupboard once he’s back from school. After hoovering, pruning, and cooking dinner— he’d successfully snuck a few spoonfuls of mash while cooking— it’s time to begin.
It seemed that Aunt Petunia’d had the sense to iron the curtains beforehand, as they’re less wrinkly than he remembers them. Still, he doubts it’s a good idea to embroider without using a hoop, so he decides to work in sections, reclasping it around a new section of fabric each time. It perhaps isn’t the most efficient, but it’ll have to do.
He carefully inspects the curtains, double-layered and sewn together at the top. The first piece of fabric, the one that is visible from out the window, is slightly sheer, but fairly sturdy, with a line of lace running across five centimetres above the hem. The second is thick and heavy, likely difficult to get a needle through. Harry is fairly certain that Aunt Petunia only wants him to embroider the first piece, as it’s the one visible to the neighbours— the second will thankfully hide the back from inside, so that the messy stitch backs’ are covered.
He threads his needle in only a few seconds— he’s definitely improved, and he finds himself feeling quite proud— and sets off to begin.
Harry takes a deep breath. It isn’t technically a big deal if he messes up. He now knows that the tool he’d pricked himself on the first night— which felt so long ago— had been a seam ripper, and it wouldn’t be difficult to use it to fix any mistakes. Still, in a ridiculous, superstitious kind of way, he feels as if messing up the first few stitches would be bad luck for the rest of the project.
He begins working, slowly, carefully, even more so than he’d been when first attempting to embroider real shapes last night. He wants, needs, this to be perfect.
What feels like an eternity later, he makes it to the end of the fabric in the hoop. Carefully, he unclasps the hoop, putting it down. He shuts his eyes tightly, grabbing the fabric of the curtain. He holds it with both hands, stretching his arms straight, before finally opening his eyes to inspect his work.
He lets out a sigh of relief.
The section is straight, right above the line of lace at the bottom of the curtain, and doesn’t creep too far up the curtain’s length. The colours are balanced, and Harry can’t see any obvious mistakes— he knows that one of the stitches of the chrysanthemum is slightly longer than he’d wanted it to be, but no one was going to notice that. Probably. Hopefully.
He moves on to clasp the next portion of fabric, feeling much more confident in his abilities. He works until he no longer can, eyes shutting of their own volition.
---
Over the course of the next few days, Harry continues his embroidery. There are a few hiccups along the way (he’d nearly misjudged the amount of pink he was going to need, and had been getting seriously worried toward the end) and a few injuries (too many times has his needle drawn blood, and he does end up poking himself on the seam ripper once more— along with the usual injuries from Dudley and Uncle Vernon, which he tries not to think too much about), but he successfully completes embroidering both curtains before he falls asleep Thursday night.
Not a moment too soon, too. By Friday morning, Aunt Petunia is somehow even shorter with him than usual, bumping into him and causing oil to nearly splash him in the arm.
Despite this, Harry does not yet show the curtains to her.
He’d made a promise to Ms. Khan, after all.
He hasn’t spoken to her since the day she’d given him the embroidery supplies. That Monday, he’d decided to keep his library books on sewing, rather than taking out a new book. Instead, he’d spent the period reading the Paddington Bear book that he’d missed while distracted the previous week, and hadn’t gotten the chance.
Today, he decides, neatly folding the curtains and putting them in the bottom of his bag, he’ll show his embroidery to her. Even better, he can make some last minute changes if she notices anything off. Then, he’ll give the final product to Aunt Petunia, and hopefully she’ll be satisfied.
He slings on his bag— it’s slightly lumpier than usual, but he seriously doubts anyone will pull him aside and say ‘I know you have two lacy, embroidered curtains in your bag and I want to take them and rip them up’, so he’s probably in the clear— and heads out.
It’s breaktime. He has two options. One, sneak away to the library, hoping that Ms. Khan is there so he can show her the curtains, and possibly get into trouble for not being outside. Two, go after school, when Ms. Khan will definitely be in the library, but also definitely be punished when he gets back late.
He chooses the first option.
He walks through the hallway with his backpack slung on one shoulder, trying his best to look confident and sure of himself, as if he’s supposed to be indoors during break. Looking shifty would just be more suspicious, he’s sure.
His strategy works, as he passes by several teachers without suspicion.
Once he reaches the library door, he hesitates. He can’t see anyone through the library windows, but it seems impolite to barge in without notice. At the same time, Ms. Khan had told him to come by once he finished his ‘gift’ for his aunt.
In the end, he raises a fist to the door and gives three, firm knocks. He watches through the windows for a few more nerve-wracking moments. He finally sees a girl come from behind a shelf and towards the door. She opens it for him.
“Can I help you?” she asks shortly.
She appears to be an older student, maybe a Year Six. She looks similar to one of his classmates, so she may be an older sibling who’d been told about the class Freak, which would explain her lack of patience. Or maybe she was just rude. Both possibilities.
“Is Ms. Khan here?”
She squints at him for a moment, before turning around.
“Follow me.”
She doesn’t hold the door, so Harry scrambles to catch it and follow her in. She leads him to Ms. Khan’s office and leaves without a word, before he can even think about thanking her.
Harry’s left in front of the door, and with a feeling of deja vu, he knocks on it as politely as he can. He hears a faint ‘enter!’ and opens the door.
Inside, Ms. Khan is seated at her desk, typing at her computer. She gives a one moment gesture with her hand, so he fidgets nervously in the doorway, taking to his usual habit of peeling at dead skin.
What feels like an eternity later, but must be at most thirty seconds, Ms. Khan turns her chair to look at him. Her face shifts into a warm smile that immediately calms his nerves.
“Hello, Mr. Potter! What a pleasant surprise. It’s nice to see you.”
Despite the generic words, they seem genuine, and Harry smiles back.
“Hi, Ms. Khan, it’s nice to see you too,” he greets in return.
She stands up, smoothing out wrinkles in her long skirt.
“How can I help you today?”
Harry’s fidgeting speeds up a bit.
“I, uhm… I finished the gift for my aunt, and I wanted to show you, like you told me to, before I give it to her after school.”
Ms. Khan’s eyes widen for a moment.
“Oh, that’s right! Yes, you mentioned her birthday was today. Please give your aunt my best wishes,” she says politely, at which Harry only nods— he will not be doing that. “I’d be honoured to take a look at your work.”
Harry’s eyes brighten, and he stops fidgeting.
“Great! It’s in my bag. Give me a sec!”
He slings his bag off and onto the floor, Ms. Khan waiting for him patiently. Feeling awkward, Harry fumbles but tries to be quick, unzipping the bag and shuffling his few belongings around, his hand finally gripping onto the fabric and pulling out the curtains.
“Here!” Harry stands, trying his best to mask both the pride and nervousness he’s feeling.
Ms. Khan’s eyes widen, her smile dropping slightly, and Harry immediately tenses in response.
“Oh! I can’t say I was expecting something quite so large for your first project,” she laughs, expression returning to her earlier smile. “What have you made?”
“I embroidered some curtains. They’re, uhm, spares I found in the attic.”
Ms. Khan makes a noise of interest, reaching out her hand to grab one of them. She unfolds it gently. Almost immediately, she lets out an out-of-character gasp.
“This is wonderful!”
Harry blinks, stunned, as he lets himself relax again.
“Are you serious?”
She directs a smile towards him and laughs, before looking back down at the curtain.
“Very much so. These are incredibly well done, and I’m certainly not one to give out meaningless compliments.”
She flips the curtain to look at the other side and runs a finger over it.
“Tidy stitches on the back, too. I know that must’ve been difficult.”
Harry feels himself glow at the recognition— he’s very proud of the back.
His expression must be humorous, as Ms. Khan laughs while re-folding the curtain and handing it back to him. Harry’s face scrunches at her reaction, while he takes the curtain from her, which only seems to make her laugh harder. After a moment, her laughter dies down, expression shifting to a simple smile.
“You’re quite the natural talent at embroidery, although I’m sure it’s not without hard work on your part. I can tell you must love your aunt a lot,” she says, at which Harry grimaces but nods anyway. “I’d be excited to see what else you’re able to make if you continue to do embroidery in the future. Do you think you’ll be doing so?”
Harry nods slowly.
“I’d like to, if I can. It was really fun,” he says tentatively.
At the very least, he really does want to embroider more, but he’s sure he’ll start getting after-dinner chores again now that he’s finished with the curtains. He can’t be positive that he’ll have the time to do any more embroidery, and he doesn’t want to make any surefire statements.
“I’d understand if you don’t, but I hope that you will. If you do, feel free to come by and show me your work, anytime you’d like.”
Harry nods. That answers his question on whether or not he’d get in trouble if he swings by for a bit during breaks, he notes.
“The bell will likely ring soon, and I wouldn’t want you to be late for the beginning of class, so it might be best if you be on your way out now,” she suggests, making a shooing gesture with her hands. Harry laughs, quickly putting the curtains back in his bag.
They both say their goodbyes, and Harry sneaks back to rejoin his class while they come in from outside, hopefully without arousing any suspicion.
---
Standing in front of Aunt Petunia, Harry is reminded of the previous week, awaiting judgement once again. She’s been looking over every millimetre of his embroidery for at least the past five minutes.
An eternity passes before she finally looks at him.
Her expression seems to be carefully neutral, but her eyebrows are scrunched together, and her jaw is tense.
“You’ll continue your evening chores as usual starting today. Start with tidying Dudley’s toy room.”
“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”
For a moment, she opens her mouth as if about to say something more, but closes it. She nods at him tightly and walks further into the house without a word.
From Aunt Petunia, the lack of reaction is equivalent to a jump for joy or neverending compliments from anyone else. Against his will, Harry feels a smile grow on his face (hope grows in his chest, maybe Aunt Petunia doesn’t hate him after all, maybe he can have the affection he’s always wanted, maybe—), before getting ahold of himself, suppressing his stupidity and turning towards the stairs.
When he awakens the next day, the curtains have been hung up. While he is tending to the African lilies, he hears Aunt Petunia bragging to Mrs. Number Nine and Mrs. Number Six about how much nicer her embroidered curtains are compared to Mrs. Number Seven’s.
He’s used to her claiming credit for his work now, from their well-pruned garden to baked goods she brings to their neighbours’ houses, so rather than anger, he feels a smirk grow on his face. He ducks closer to the flowers before anyone can see.
She doesn’t ask for him to return the sewing tin.