Chapter Text
The sun rose on Mrs. Dursley's tidy back gardens and lit up the brass number four on the Dursleys' front door.
The house was the most prim and proper place on the street, basically shining underneath the morning sun, Petunia Dursley took great pride in it as it meant she could gloat to her neighbours every now and then about how she was better then them.
Everyone asked and moaned how she kept it in such an amazing condition, but almost everyone with a discerning eye could tell why. She had a 'secret weapon' of sorts, a foolproof, undeniable way to keep her home spotless.
Even now as the sun came through her curtains and the rays of fresh light awoke her from her slumber, her first thought was making sure her 'secret weapon' got to work, so she marched down stairs and started banging on the small cupboard underneath the steps.
"Up! Get up! Now!"
Harry woke with a start. His aunt rapped on the door again.
He rolled onto his back and tried to remember the dream he had been having. It had been a good one. There had been a flying man in green in it. He had a funny feeling he'd had the same dream before.
"Up!" she screeched.
The familiar, oppressive weight of the morning settled on him. It was the first Saturday of the spring holidays, a day that for any other child meant sleeping in. For Harry, it meant the full force of his relatives' demands.
He pulled on his too-large hand-me-downs, the fabric smelling faintly of Dudley's old sweat, and stumbled out. The sun had begun to properly warm the kitchen, its light glinting off the pristine surfaces that Petunia had made him polish the day before.
He took in the light and let it wash over him, waking him from the last fibers tiredness.
“Don’t just stand there looking gormless, boy,” Petunia snapped, her lips a thin line as she inspected a piece of toast for an invisible speck of dust. “The garden needs weeding. The hedge needs trimming. And I want the shed cleaned out. It's an absolute disgrace. You’ll get nothing to eat until it’s all done.”
Harry’s stomach, which had been a gnawing pit of emptiness since last night’s meagre dinner, gave a pathetic lurch. He knew better than to argue. The sight of Vernon’s purple face and ham-sized fists, already at the table, was deterrent enough.
"Yeah, I get it, absolutely spotless, not Dudley knows anything about that." Harry groaned aloud.
"What did you say?" his aunt snapped
"Nothing, absolutely nothing..." he put his hands up in surrender, the only action he can ever take when fighting his aunt. She looked through him and her eyes were basically screaming death if he screwed up her garden.
He simply nodded, grabbed the gardening gloves that were as threadbare as his own, and walked out into the expanding heat of the day.
The morning dew lingering on the grass gave a brief respite to the growing, blistering heat.
I thought we lived in London for heaven's sake, where's all the mist and cool weather!
The sun beat down on him, merciless and bright. He’d been at it for hours. His back ached from bending over the flowerbeds, his hands were blistered even through the worn gloves, and the taste of dust and exhaustion was a permanent fixture in his dry mouth.
A single, pitifully small glint of hope had been a single glass of water Petunia had begrudgingly allowed him, a token to keep him from passing out and drawing unwelcome attention from the neighbours.
At some point past 12 he finally felt the effect of no food in his body and began to slow down, his hands shaking uncontrollably, making him incapable of pruning anything effectively. So while making sure she didn't see him, he hid out in the shed.
The shed smelled of soil, old wood, fertilizer, rusting metal and the faintly sweet scent of whatever Aunt Petunia had sprayed around the garden last week.
Harry liked it.
Not the smell, exactly.
The quiet.
The shed was small enough that Dudley couldn't comfortably fit inside without ducking his head, which meant Harry could sometimes hide here when he needed to disappear.
It wasn't really his shed.
Nothing at Number Four Privet Drive was his.
But there were several gardening tools inside that Harry had been told were his responsibility, so he privately considered the shed his.
He slumped against the back wall, the rough wood pressing into his shoulder blades. His stomach cramped painfully, a sharp reminder of his empty state. He pressed a hand against it, trying to quiet the growling, and let his head fall back. His eyes drifted across the cluttered space—rusted shears, a cracked terracotta pot, a coil of brittle garden hose, stacks of old newspapers yellowed with age.
His gaze settled on a corner where the floorboards looked different. One of them was slightly raised, as if it had been pried up before and never properly hammered back down. A thin line of shadow ran along its edge. In the shadow he could see a small something glinting in the light.
Harry frowned.
He'd cleaned this shed dozens of times over the years. He knew every inch of it. But he'd never noticed that loose board before, much less anything underneath. Or maybe he had, and simply hadn't cared.
But today, with nothing else to do and no energy left for the garden, he found himself crawling across the dusty floor.
Probably just some loose change that rolled beneath the floor, even if it is, better than just sittin' here.
His knees protested against the hard wood. He reached the loose board and ran his fingers along its edge. It shifted slightly under his touch.
His 11 year old child curiosity sparked.
He hooked his fingers underneath and pulled, his weak noodle arms not providing much leverage, but years of tedious chores had given him the strength of persistence. The board came up with a groan of old nails reluctantly surrendering their grip. Dust puffed into the air, making him cough. He peered into the dark space beneath.
It was shallow, barely more than a few inches deep. Cobwebs stretched across the cavity like grey lace. He saw a small bug race across to escape the new light peering in, and something glinted green in the dim light filtering through the shed's grimy window.
Harry's heart gave a strange little jump, he knew he shouldn't be excited but he still was.
He reached in, his fingers brushing against dirt and the dry husks of dead insects. Then his fingertips touched something smooth and cool. He closed his hand around it and pulled it out.
A ring.
It was unlike any ring he'd ever seen. Not gold, not silver—but a deep, vivid emerald green that seemed to glow with its own faint under the light. The band was thick and smooth, cool against his blistered palm. Set in the centre of it was a symbol—a circle with a bar on each side, like a stylised eye or a lantern. It was utterly weightless, yet felt impossibly solid.
He turned it over in his hand. The inner surface was smooth, unmarked by any stamp or return address.
Hunger and exhaustion momentarily forgotten, Harry stared at it. It was beautiful. A small, perfect thing in a world of dull, grey monotony. He'd never owned anything beautiful. Everything he had was second-hand, beaten, or broken. His glasses were held together with tape. His clothes were Dudley's castoffs. His bed was a cupboard under the stairs.
But this. This was his.
His discovery.
The Dursleys didn't know about it. It had been hidden, waiting for someone to find it. And he was the one who had.
He found himself lifting it closer to his face. It's features pulling him in as he wondered if it was made with emerald, or was just some stylized glass. He could see his own reflection in its polished surface, a boy with wild black hair and too-bright green eyes, staring back at him with wonder.
He slipped it onto his right middle finger. It was a perfect fit, as if it had been made for him. The metal was cool against his skin for a moment, then it seemed to warm, settling against his finger like it had always been there.
He held his hand out, turning it this way and that. The light reflecting off the ring shimmered, casting dancing reflections on the shed walls. It was beautiful. Magical. And it was his.
He flexed his fingers, watching the ring catch the light. A strange sense of calm washed over him.
The as he heard the back door of the house slam open, he was broken out of his stuppor.
"BOY! Where are you? If you're lazing about I'll—"
Harry scrambled to his feet, shoving the loose floorboard back into place with his foot. He smoothed down his shirt, trying to look as if he'd been hard at work.
He quickly ripped the ring off his finger and shoved it deep in his pocket, praying to whatever god still watching over him that his Aunt didn't find it, as she sometimes checked to see if he was smuggling food in his pocket and eating while he was supposed to be working.
"I'm here Aunt Petunia, just getting some more tools from the shed!" He screamed as he ran out the shed door, his hunger forgotten as he cherished his new treasure in secret, not even noticing the faint, imperceptible glow the ring gave off once out of his sight.