Chapter Text
The summer days made the mornings quieter, usually.
Everyone got lazier when the heat spread over the neighbourhood, stretching the silence until the sun was properly out, all sleeping in.
But not today.
Harry was sitting on his cot, watching the cupboard door attentively. There was activity outside, fervent noises betraying the nervous buzz of last minute preparations. Dudley—his cousin—kept jumping around, making loud ‘boom, boom, boom,’ with every step. Uncle Vernon was grumbling, passing back and forth in front of his door as he loaded the car. Aunt Petunia was puttering about in the kitchen, making sure they had all the snacks they needed for the journey.
Harry was clutching his threadbare school bag, now filled with clothes, his single plushie, and a schoolbook (his only book). He was holding it to his chest, his green eyes wide as they stayed fixed on the door, in the dark of his little world.
“Boy!” he heard from the kitchen, and pushed the wood to jump out. Dudley and Uncle Vernon were outside, the front door partly open still, revealing their idle chatter, always too loud and grating.
He slipped his arms through the straps of his bag and walked to the kitchen, looking up at his Aunt.
Petunia had a certain looseness to her face, as if somewhere in her eyes, she was already gone from here. Her stern look seemed distracted.
“You better not make any trouble,” she said, packing a bag of crisps into a bright red bag. “You heard me? I don’t want any calls, or next time, you’ll just stay in your cupboard all week, understand?”
He simply nodded, all still and quiet. His own eyes were distracted, already gone, too.
Petunia gave him another stare, as if to be sure, and then dismissed him with her small, neat hand. “Go on, then. Mrs. Figg is expecting you.”
Harry turned around, hurried but careful. Running and faltering at the door, looking out at his uncle and cousin. When they both seemed occupied, he rushed again down the front steps and across the driveway, his backpack hindered his movements, jumping rhythmically over his shoulders.
Under the sun, he went to the yellow house on the other side of the street.
The door was white, with lace over the glass. He could barely see anything through, and knocked quietly.
“Coming,” he heard, and when the door rattled, his view was filled by a flowery dress. He looked up, wide green eyes observing Mrs. Figg. “Hullo, Harry,” she said, and he looked back down, muttering a greeting as if the words were too costly to be properly pronounced. “Come in, love.”
The dark floorboards creaked as he made his way inside. He didn’t take his backpack off, not until she told him to. And he didn’t sit down on the couch until she invited him to.
The sofa was sticky, smelling heavily of new leather, despite its age. He laid his cheek against it, wedged against the armrest. Mrs. Figg sighed as she sat on her rocking chair.
Were the Dursleys gone? Harry wasn’t sure, but maybe. Maybe they managed to shove themselves and their luggage in that car, and were already on the road to Cornwall.
Harry wasn’t sure what Cornwall was, but he’d seen a pamphlet. There were beaches and greasy looking fish and chips. Harry never went to the beach, or ate any more than a tiny crumb of chips, all burned and crunchy.
“Don’t be sad, Harry,” Mrs. Figg said when she noticed his looks at the window. “You’ll get to go next year, I’m sure.” But Harry wasn’t sad. He didn’t care about Cornwall. He couldn’t imagine what Cornwall was even like at all. How could he miss something he’d never known?
So, he just blinked a little, glancing at her, then at his hands. She didn’t press, and opened the telly.
A detective show started to play, with men in suits carrying guns and speaking of murders. He watched absently, listening to Mrs. Figgs muttered comments. Sometimes, he moved, and the sofa creaked, and he’d stop.
When she went to the kitchen to start lunch, he finally stood up, grabbing his bag and going to the bathroom.
He was tall enough to see the top of his face in the mirror, above a delicate white sink. His hair was sticking up everywhere.
The room was small, with a bath, a toilet, a sink, and a tall shelf. He sat on the toilet seat and got his plushie out.
It was a squirrel, and it squeaked—because it was a dog toy. But it was also Harry’s, found and cared for by him, soft enough to be nice, with a small unmoving face. So, it was also his plushie.
“Mrs. Figg is nice,” he whispered, looking at Mr. Redcoat’s face. He didn’t really have anywhere to go in the small house, and he wasn’t used to always being out in the open. He breathed in here for a little while, before coming out to the smell of a casserole.
Sitting at the table, he looked at the tablecloth while eating. It was yellow and blue, with small drifting designs and suns. It was pretty, but he didn’t say that. He didn’t say anything, and Mrs. Figg didn’t comment on his silence. Maybe she thought it was normal for an eight-year-old boy to seem so scared. Maybe she avoided thinking about it at all.
In his bowl, the stew was heavy, with bubbles of grease hidden in the thick liquid. He ate quickly, even his vegetables. He didn’t think they tasted very good, but he didn’t taste much of his food. He barely chewed before swallowing.
On his tip toe, he rinsed off his bowl and spoon once he was done. Then, he hesitated for a while, not looking at the old lady still at the table, reading her magazine. “Can I go outside?” he finally asked, because he supposed, here, he should ask. He didn’t want to get in trouble, and she wasn’t like Aunt Petunia, she might notice his absence, or care.
Harry dared peeking over his shoulder, and Mrs. Figg was looking at him. “Oh, do you want to go play with your friends?”
“Er,” Harry mumbled. He didn’t have friends. “Yes.”
With that, she allowed him to go with a vague warning to 'be careful out there, love, and come back before dinner.’
With his backpack on his shoulders, he walked through the door of the small yellow house, closing it gently behind him. Across the street, the Durselys’s driveway was empty, the house looking abandoned. Harry still rushed away from it.
The sun was pounding onto every surface, including his nape, arms, and face. It was heavy enough to slow him down, but not enough to stop his march forward.
After walking straight for a while—crossing roads with glances and quick little steps—he turned a corner onto the fancy street.
Immediately, it looked nicer than his own neighbourhood. The sidewalk was bigger with trees lining the path. Harry felt relieved by the shade, but even more uncomfortable here. He was out of place, messy and small against this backdrop of pretty and grandiosity.
He tried to walk unnoticed, almost running when a couple in pastel clothes greeted him. Face all red, he finally found the little stone path between trees and big houses. Following it, the shade grew thicker, and high-pitched noises grew louder. But before he arrived at the playground, he veered to the right, off the path, right into the forest.
There, he knew where to go. The whiff of wet dirt and the separation from the world made his shoulders relaxed, his mind slowed, and his small steps lingered. On a patch of moss beneath a tree, he plopped down comfortably.
Alone, he took out Mr. Redcoat, and with one of his flannels shoved behind his back, he leaned back against the bark.
Harry had his little routine, out-here. He played quietly with Mr. Redcoat, read his school book, and mostly relaxed. He could never really relax, normally. But here, where there was no one, it was much easier.
Through the canopy of leaves and branches, he looked at the clouds, his blinks becoming slower. He hugged his plushie to his chest, feeling the curtain of sleep closing over his gaze—when a sudden sob made him jump out of his skin.
His breath stuck to his throat and he looked in the direction of the noise with wide eyes. For a long while, he didn’t move, and the wails shifted—quieter in moments, sniffles slipping in—but never ceased. They were too loud.
With Mr. Redcoat in his fist, he stood and weaved his way through the trees, toward the cries.
And there, in the crook of two thick roots, he found a child. The blond little boy was curled up, clutching his stained white shirt for dear life—as if his very heart was being torn out. His thin mouth was turned down, his lips parted to allow the pitiful noises to escape.
Harry shuffled closer, his ears warm. “Um,” he whispered. The boy looked up sharply, a glimpse of a vivid gaze, and Harry wanted to hide. “You’re being too loud,” he whispered shakily.
“Huh?” the boy answered, pale eyebrows furrowing.
Harry took a deep breath, clutching Mr. Redcoat, averting his gaze. He stood shamefully in front of the boy. “The others, from the playground…They’ll hear you.”
His face just scrunched up further, somehow looking judgmental despite his pathetic sniffling. “And?” he continued wetly.
Harry hesitated again. “They’ll beat you up,” he settled on nervously, shifting from foot to foot.
That seemed to make the boy explode. “No, they won’t! They wouldn’t dare! They’re my—my…” The waterwork started again, almost double the intensity of before.
Harry was shocked by the loud explosion of emotions. He stood confused and afraid, glancing toward the playground, then back toward his little spot in the forest. Should he run? He took a few steps back instinctively, unsteady.
He wasn’t very good at socializing—or so his teacher had said. She had brought it up with his Uncle, who just laughed all the way home. So how was he supposed to handle this unpredictable boy?
“Here,” Harry said, and shuffled closer once more, thrusting his plushie toward him.
“What’s—what’s that? I don’t want that,” he answered, snatching the squirrel from Harry’s hand nevertheless.
The boy hugged it to his chest and shoved his face against it, wetting it with tears and snot. As he wailed, Harry looked down at the ground. There were little rocks hidden in the grass, along with small white flowers. Weeds Harry would usually have to mow right out, shredding them. Sometimes, though, he managed to gather the small flowers from the Dursely’s garden, and hide them behind a bush to later look at. They were pretty, even if they had nowhere to go.
Now that Mr. Redcoat was in the sad boy’s hand, he had no choice but to stay. So he slowly sat down, a few paces away, and picked at the grass. Gathering flowers and rock as the boy’s emotions passed.
Then, “I’ve never seen you before,” came suddenly, a voice trying hard to stay steady. It broke the silence, maybe because the boy didn’t like silence.
“I’m Harry.” He gave a small glance up, noticing those piercing grey eyes again, blood-shot from tears but still firm.
“You look like you’ve been beaten up before,” he continued as if he didn’t hear Harry. He wiped at his face, sitting up between the roots. “S’that why you said that before? I’ve never been beaten up, you know. I don’t need your help, I don’t need anyone. My father says I’m bound to go far, anyway.” He sniffled and stared at Harry intensely. As if watching his reaction carefully. “I’m Draco Malfoy,” he added hastily, as if that was somehow an explanation.
Harry didn’t say anything, not really knowing what to say to all that. Yet, it seemed he didn’t need to answer.
“I’m not crying because I’m a baby, you know,” Draco exclaimed strongly, the detail necessary. Harry opened his mouth to say he never thought that, but he was beaten to the punch again. “It’s just—nobody wants to play with me,” he sniffles, curling further on himself. “Which doesn’t matter, obviously. I can play alone, I don’t care.”
Another lull emerged after that. Harry could relate, somewhat. Nobody wanted to play with him either. And sometimes, when he was alone in his cupboard, he would cry too, dreaming of friendship like he dreamed of everything else; vaguely, faintly, ideally, as something he’s never known.
“Maybe you’re too loud,” Harry tried clumsily, not meaning it as an insult. He wanted to help.
Although Draco’s face pinch, as if ready to defend himself, somehow, a snort came out instead. He seemed surprised, and it made Harry blush and hunch forward, almost ready to apologize.
When he looked up again, the boy seemed to be watching him. “You’re Harry, right? That’s what you said?” Harry nodded. “And what’s this?” he held up Mr. Redcoat.
“That’s, um,” Harry tried, swallowing. “That’s mine.”
“He’s a bit ugly, don’t you think?” Vivid grey eyes stare at him, and he shrugged helplessly. He didn’t think he was ugly. “Well…thank you,” Draco finally rushed out. “You can have it back.” He almost threw it at Harry, and stood up quickly, brushing his pants in jerky movements. “Right, bye.”
As he rushed away, leaving him wide-eyed and confused, Harry noticed that the boy’s pale skin was redder than before.