Chapter Text
Nothing Uncustomary
Tightly-folded bud,
I have wished you something
None of the others would:
Not the usual stuff
About being beautiful,
Or running off a spring
Of innocence and love –
They will all wish you that,
And should it prove possible,
Well, you’re a lucky girl.
But if it shouldn’t, then
May you be ordinary;
Have, like other women,
An average of talents:
Not ugly, not good-looking,
Nothing uncustomary (...)
(Born Yesterday by Philip Larkin)
Part One — Christmas
Round One — Harry
It was a nasty, rainy day when Harry’s life changed completely. It happened not long after Mrs Anderson from Social Services had come to see Aunt Petunia and the two of them had spent a long time talking in the kitchen. While they talked, Harry had been told to sit in the sitting room in front of the television and pretend that watching television was something he did all the time. Harry didn’t find this particularly difficult, though he was a little worried he might have to pay for it later with several weeks shut in his cupboard, but that didn’t matter: he was allowed to watch television, and what was more, Aunt Petunia’s sweet dish was sitting on the coffee table not very far away, and surely nobody could notice if one or two sweets happened to disappear while he watched...
Of course, he would very much have liked to know what they were talking about in the kitchen, too, but to find out he would have had to go into the hall, where he could easily have been caught, so he decided not to risk it. And from the sitting-room door — he had tried — he couldn’t hear a thing. Because, of course, the kitchen door was shut.
It would have been good to know what the two grown-ups were talking about, though, because they were definitely talking about him. Mrs Anderson had said so as soon as she introduced herself. She had said she was looking for him. Or, to be exact, for ‘Harry Potter’s guardian’. That was Aunt Petunia, of course, but still, somehow that meant Aunt Petunia in connection with him, Harry, not with Dudley, or simply Aunt Petunia on her own.
But then he had been sent in here, and even though he was allowed to watch Tom and Jerry, he couldn’t help feeling that somehow it would be better to be washing up in the kitchen just now and hearing what they were talking about.
He gave a great sigh and popped another sweet into his mouth.
Then another.
Then he heard the kitchen door open and footsteps falling softly, carefully, on the carpet in the hall. Mrs Anderson said something while she was still in the passage, but Tom — or possibly Jerry — was too loud, and by the time Harry reached the front door and peeped out, his heart thumping, both women were already standing by the gate in the front garden.
He crept closer to the front door. Perhaps he would hear something now.
‘...with him. It’s very important that you ask him what he wants,’ Mrs Anderson was saying firmly, making small, emphatic movements with one hand, and Aunt Petunia began to nod.
‘Of course, of course.’
‘Come and see us at the office when you’ve made your decision. On a weekday, during our usual opening hours.’
‘All right. But I shall have to speak to my husband as well.’
‘Naturally. Well, then... goodbye!’ With that, Mrs Anderson stepped through the gate, and Harry saw her rummage briefly in her handbag before finding her car keys.
‘Have a nice day!’ Aunt Petunia called after Mrs Anderson, then turned towards Harry with an irritated expression. ‘How many times have I told you not to eavesdrop?’
Harry had no idea how Aunt Petunia knew he was standing in the doorway. He hunched his shoulders and said, rather sulkily,
‘I didn’t hear anything.’
‘Because it’s none of your business.’
‘Mrs Anderson came to see me...’ he tried to protest, but Aunt Petunia cut him off.
‘Mrs Anderson came to see me. And she did. Now, that’s enough. Back into the sitting room and clear up after yourself!’
Still half sulky and half rather cowed, Harry went back into the sitting room.
He had eaten quite a lot of sweets. Even Aunt Petunia might notice, and if she did, he’d be for it! But at least he could leave the sofa looking tidy. That way, when Uncle Vernon came home that afternoon, Harry wouldn’t be caught out straight away.
He straightened the cushions, then the rug, then switched off the television.
Who cared about Tom and Jerry!
They were keeping something from him.
That evening, when he was already lying in his cupboard, Harry heard Aunt Petunia talking to Uncle Vernon in the kitchen. They were speaking more quietly than usual, and they had carefully shut the kitchen door behind them, which was not at all like them: by this time of the evening they were normally sitting in front of the television watching the news or the evening film. Harry therefore felt he had to take the risk. They were bound to be talking about whatever had brought Mrs Anderson to the house. Something which, somehow, concerned him too.
He carefully opened the cupboard door and crept on tiptoe to the kitchen. When he still could not make out properly what they were saying, he pressed his ear to the keyhole and even held his breath so that he could hear what was being said inside.
‘...Birmingham... would never have thought... my mother... perfect...’ came Aunt Petunia’s muffled soprano.
‘What... their kind? ...take him away... perhaps...’ Uncle Vernon rumbled back.
‘...Social Services... contact... by owl...’ came Aunt Petunia’s voice, and Harry straightened up, frowning.
He was only catching odd words, and not even those properly. Owl? An owl!? What could they possibly be talking about?
He must have misheard.
He took a deep breath and pressed himself against the door again.
‘...try. If it works... their kind...’ He caught a few more words from Uncle Vernon.
Their kind? That was the second time Uncle Vernon had used those words. Did they have something to do with the owl? Or with him, Harry?
The conversation carried on.
‘But not... through the system... like we...’ Aunt Petunia seemed to be arguing with Uncle Vernon.
That was strange. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon did not argue. Or at least Harry had never heard them do it.
‘They can still take him away, can’t they?’ Uncle Vernon asked suddenly, much louder, and Harry heard the leg of a chair scrape across the kitchen floor.
Harry shot towards his cupboard at once, but he still heard Uncle Vernon add with satisfaction as he opened the kitchen door,
‘...and then we’ll finally be rid of him.’
Harry had only a moment to dive into the cupboard and pull the door shut behind him, but he made it, and from inside, with his heart thumping in his throat, he heard Uncle Vernon’s heavy footsteps going up the stairs.
He could feel his hands trembling, though he did not know why. Uncle Vernon obviously wanted to get rid of him, Harry. He had never made any secret of that. But where did they mean to send him, and who were they going to give him to? Some sort of... pet shop owner? After all, they had been talking about kinds of animals and owls.
Or an orphanage? Was that why Mrs Anderson had come to see them?
What would it be like in an orphanage, he wondered? Would he have a bed and a wardrobe of his own there?
Perhaps it would not be so bad... though, if Oliver Twist was anything to go by, he would rather stay with Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. At least here he did not have to steal, and they did not beat him regularly, even if he did have to do quite a lot of work...
When he fell asleep, owls were flying through his dreams, and then somebody scooped him up and carried him away on an enormous flying motorbike while green flashes of lightning tore through the storm clouds gathering around them.
###
The strange dream stayed with Harry for days afterwards, so vividly that it even pushed Mrs Anderson’s visit out of his mind. Of course, he did not dare talk about it, because it was just as abnormal as the things that sometimes happened to him, and he had no wish to risk losing his breakfast over a dream — or even going without food for the whole day. And now that the Christmas holidays had begun, that would have been particularly bad. During term time, at least he was certain of getting something to eat once a day, even when he was being punished at home, but during the school holidays he had to be careful. Two weeks was a very long time. Whether you were shut in a cupboard or had nothing to eat.
His stomach began to rumble at the very thought of it. And to tighten, too, the way it always did when that strange squeezing feeling came over his chest.
Then, on the first day of the holidays — or rather, the third, because the first two had been Saturday and Sunday — something unexpected happened.
Harry already knew, from an argument he had accidentally overheard on Sunday, that Uncle Vernon would not be going to work on Monday, but that sort of thing had happened before. What had never happened before was Uncle Vernon getting up before eight o’clock on a day off.
Yet that was exactly what happened that Monday. Aunt Petunia dragged Harry out of his cupboard much earlier than she normally woke him for school, combed his hair over and over again with a wet comb until it lay quite flat against his head, then made him change his clothes five times before finally deciding that Harry ought to wear his school uniform — though, of course, instead of the blazer he had to wear one of Dudley’s old jumpers, which almost fitted him, except that it was a horrible goose-dropping sort of colour.
Even so, he looked as though he was supposed to be taking part in some school ceremony.
Harry could not decide whether to be pleased about this. The uniform certainly looked better than any of the other trousers and shirts he might have had to wear, because all of those were Dudley’s old cast-offs, whereas Aunt Petunia had bought the uniform second-hand from an Oxfam shop, and although the trousers were already a little short on Harry, they still fitted him better than any of the others, which were big enough for two of him.
Why did he have to dress up?
While Aunt Petunia was trying to make Harry look ‘presentable’, Uncle Vernon was attempting to wake Dudley, who threw an enormous tantrum about having to get up so early and even refused to eat breakfast. Meanwhile, Aunt Petunia threw Harry’s clothes into an old, battered travelling bag (which made Harry’s heart start beating so fast he thought it might burst out of his chest) and thrust a slice of bread and butter with cheese into his hand. He ate it while, with great difficulty, Dudley was finally dressed and somehow hauled downstairs, and then two enormous bars of chocolate were pressed into his hands before his cousin could at last be persuaded to get into the car.
Harry wondered whether he ought to resist, but once Uncle Vernon had put the travelling bag containing his clothes into the boot and growled angrily at Harry to get in, he did not dare protest.
He climbed in beside Dudley with his stomach trembling. Dudley was still grumbling and taking angry bites out of his chocolate — and at last, while it was still dark, they set off.
Dudley soon fell asleep, but Harry was not sleepy at all. In fact, he grew more and more tense.
Were they taking him to the owls now? Or were they taking him to the orphanage?
Swallowing hard, he watched the world slowly grow light outside, the rain-soaked landscape passing by. Again and again his hand went up to smooth the damp hair plastered against his head, and he could feel his fingers trembling.
They travelled for a long time, nearly three hours, before they reached Birmingham. After a while Harry was quite certain that was where they were going: Uncle Vernon had mentioned the city in the conversation Harry had overheard, and then he began seeing its name more and more often on the road signs.
By the time they stopped in a large city car park, Harry was terrified. His palms were sweating and he could hardly swallow.
What was going to happen to him now?
When they got out, Uncle Vernon did not take Harry’s bag from the boot, but waited for Aunt Petunia to catch up and then beckoned to the boys.
‘Get a move on!’ he growled at Harry, then added more kindly to Dudley, ‘Come along, son.’
They headed towards the entrance of a large red-brick building — BIRMINGHAM CITY SOCIAL AND CHILD WELFARE SERVICES CENTRE was written across it in large, official-looking letters — and went in through the heavy wooden door.
A heavy, damp smell met Harry’s nose, and their footsteps echoed through the high entrance hall.
Uncle Vernon went over to the reception desk, and after asking a few questions they were directed up to the first floor and along a corridor lined on both sides with identical doors. It seemed to go on for so long that Harry was quite certain he would never find his own way out again, but then a woman in glasses stepped through one of the doors and beckoned to them.
‘Ah, Mr and Mrs Dursley!’ she said with a broad smile, then moved aside and gestured them in. ‘Do come in. We’ve been expecting you!’
Harry’s heart was no longer beating in his throat but in his ears, or at least that was what it felt like, because he could hardly hear anything over the thump-thump-thump, but he tried to smile at the woman, who looked quite kind, and for all he knew she might be in charge of the orphanage (the name of the place might mean that, too; at least he was certain now that they were not taking him to some sort of pet shop), and she was going to decide what happened to him, so it was probably safest if she thought he was polite.
And at least he had escaped the owls...
Of course, now that he thought about it, he must have misheard something, and it had been silly to think...
But by then he was already standing inside the room, half hidden behind Uncle Vernon.
Opposite them stood a tall, tired-looking woman with bleached-blonde hair, and beside her was an ordinary-looking child. With short black hair, the child looked like a boy to Harry at first. The woman in glasses went to stand beside them.
‘I’m Mrs Tarkin,’ she introduced herself. ‘I deal with children’s rights cases here at the office. Let me introduce you to Helen’s mother, Catherine McDowell.’ She gestured towards the blonde woman, who briefly shook hands with both Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. ‘And this is Helen McDowell,’ she went on, indicating the child, who had been watching Harry steadily ever since they came in. ‘If I understand correctly, Mrs Dursley, Helen is your niece,’ she added brightly.
Aunt Petunia went white, Uncle Vernon went red, and Dudley merely stared stupidly, but Harry felt his throat tighten.
Meanwhile, Uncle Vernon shook hands with Mrs Tarkin and then with the blonde woman; he only gave the girl a nod, as Aunt Petunia did after him.
Dudley folded his arms and made no move towards anyone, and Harry could tell that they were only moments away from a full-blown Dudley tantrum, so he edged a little farther away from him.
That left him standing directly opposite the blonde woman and the girl.
‘I’m Cathy,’ the woman said, holding out her hand to him.
Harry swallowed.
‘I’m Harry,’ he managed, then looked at the girl.
The girl who was Aunt Petunia’s niece.
Family things like this always muddled him, and he had to work them out in his head. Niece. That meant she was Aunt Petunia’s sibling’s daughter.
But Aunt Petunia did not have a sibling.
So she could not have a sibling’s daughter, either.
Harry looked uncertainly up at the girl. She took a deep breath and stepped towards him.
‘Hello, Harry,’ she said uncertainly, then held out her hand. ‘I’m Helen. Your sister.’