Chapter Text
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One day in July, a scruffy, dark-haired, emerald-eyed boy was dozing off in his cupboard under the stairs, dreaming of flying motorbikes and the sort. He woke up with a start, when his Aunt Petunia, a thin, blonde woman with an unusually large amount of neck (it was useful for spying on the neighbours over the hedge), rapped harshly on his cupboard door.
“Up!” Aunt Petunia instructed, more coldly than she normally did. She had been treating him that way since the incident involving the boa constrictor. Idly, Harry wondered if it had found its way to Brazil yet. If it did, Harry hoped it would be happy there.
Ever since he could talk, Harry had learned that most times, it was best to pretend that he was non-existent, to only talk when addressed, and most importantly— to never ask questions. Then where was a ten-(nearly eleven!)-year-old boy supposed to get his answers, then? Well, Harry had found that most of the answers he wanted could either be attained through observing, or… well, there was no second option, so he supposed the questions with unattainable answers just had to remain unanswered, stored away in the depths of his mind.
His most recent question with an unattainable answer was the boa constrictor incident, of course. The glass had disappeared— disappeared! Judging from how his Aunt and Uncle were treating him, Harry would have to simply assume that they blamed him, which wasn’t really that much of a surprise. Whenever Dudley messed up his homework, it was always Harry’s fault for disturbing him. Perhaps he was being too loud while he washed the dishes. It was always something along the line of that.
“Boy! Are you up yet?” came Petunia’s sharp voice once more.
Harry sighed, composing himself. It would be no use to throw a tantrum— besides, he really, really, really didn’t want to be on the receiving end of Dudley’s new Smeltings stick. Not that Dudley would ever have a good enough hand-to-eye coordination to be able to hit him with it— no. It was just that his cousin carried the stick everywhere, which meant that it was an easily accessible weapon to Uncle Vernon, should the man feel the urge to hit him.
Uncle Vernon preferred to punch Harry most of the time— but that man’s arms weren’t really that long, and he sometimes had trouble catching Harry, as the boy was small and nimble enough to cause suspicion. When it came down to it, an angry Uncle Vernon was just Dudley’s favourite sport (Harry-hunting), but played by an adult.
At the end of the day, however, Uncle Vernon would still be able to get his hands on Harry. It wasn’t like there was any place Harry could go to hide from his Uncle until the man had calmed down, so another survival tip Harry had learned early on was to gauge how angry his Uncle was. If it seemed like Uncle Vernon would only get angrier if he couldn’t catch Harry, well, Harry would prefer to just get the beating over sooner than later.
Slinking into the kitchen as quietly as he could, Harry tried not to reel back from the smell. He quickly found the source of it— a huge, metal tub by the sink. Inside the tub were what appeared to be decade-old kitchen rags soaking in grey water. Knowing how much Aunt Petunia hated questions, Harry decided to keep his mouth shut.
Aunt Petunia had already made breakfast that morning— a surprise, really. Harry had expected to have to do it, but he didn’t say anything and moved to clean the pans that Aunt Petunia had used. The smell of his Aunt’s dishwasher— lemon— soothed his emotions more than they should. Washing the dishes and cleaning in general always did make the scruffy, small boy feel calm. The chores were a routine, something that he was always expected to do, something that was consistent, quite unlike his Uncle’s unpredictable temper.
“What’s that terrible smell?” Dudley, unlike Harry, had no qualms about keeping his mouth shut. Then again, Harry supposed the boy didn’t have to be on the receiving end of Aunt Petunia’s tight-lipped glare every time a sentence finished with a question mark.
“Harry’s new school uniform.” Aunt Petunia brushed it off, like the tub of grey matter was a minor issue at most.
Meanwhile, Uncle Vernon had already made his way into the kitchen, and he, like his son, scrunched up his nose at the repulsive stink. Plopping onto the chair (Harry wondered how long it would be until the chair legs gave way), the man opened the newspaper while Dudley banged his stick on the table, making Harry wince.
When Harry was on his last pan (for the thousandth time, he wondered if Aunt Petunia must use that much oil when cooking breakfast), there came a click from the letter box, and the flop of letters on the doormat.
Without even looking up, Uncle Vernon instructed from behind his paper: “Get the post, Dudley.”
“Make Harry get it.” responded Dudley defiantly.
“Get the post, boy.”
Harry paused, wondering for a moment if he would get reprimanded for leaving the last pan unwashed before he retrieved the post. In the span of half a second, he decided that he didn’t want to risk it, and rinsed the pan as quickly as the water flow would allow. Wiping his hands on one of Dudley’s old pants, Harry set the pan onto the drying rack and quietly walked out of the kitchen, passing his cupboard on his way to the front door.
Lying on the doormat forlornly were three letters— a postcard from Uncle Vernon’s sister, Marge, who would mostly leave him alone if he was quiet; A brown envelope that Harry guessed was either the electricity or water bill, and lastly a thick letter, made with yellowish parchment. Curiosity got the best of him as he brought it to the top, eyes bulging when he read the first line.
Mr H. Potter
The letter was addressed to him, Harry processed slowly. A part of him started to feel excited— perhaps he had a long-lost relative from his father’s side that had risen to claim him? Surely no relative could be any worse than the Dursleys. Two seconds passed by, within which Harry chastised himself— it would do no good to get excited. He didn’t want to set high expectations, as they more often than not lead to high disappointments.
Luckily for Harry, his cupboard was on his return route to the kitchen, which meant that he could, very discreetly, slip his letter (even though he didn’t want to feel excited, it was rather thrilling to think of it as his letter .) through the little shafts on his cupboard door. He could only imagine how angry his Aunt and Uncle would be if they learned that he had received a letter— if he had to choose, the most likely outcome was getting locked in his cupboard again after watching Uncle Vernon tear the letter to pieces before him.
“Hurry up, boy!” shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. “What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?” The man chuckled at his own joke. As quickly as possible, Harry walked back into his kitchen, wearing mismatched socks that diminished the little noise he made against the floor (Harry was rather proud of his ability to walk completely silently).
Quietly, he set the two remaining letters on the table in front of Uncle Vernon, retreating back to the sink to wipe up the splashes of water he had caused when wrestling the oily pans. The smell of his uniforms (dyed from Dudley’s old things) was strongest by the sink, but he managed to push the urge to vomit back down. The night before, Dudley had been parading around in his new Smeltings uniform, so while his Uncle and Aunt had been busy getting emotional over their ‘Ickle Dudleykins’ (Harry had never been gladder that his Aunt wasn’t affectionate enough to give him a similar nickname), he snagged more dinner than usual.
By the time he was done wiping the sink, Dudley was already three-quarters through his breakfast, which consisted of a whole platter of greasy bacon. It didn’t look very healthy to Harry, but both Dudley and Uncle Vernon liked bacon, so Aunt Petunia made it for breakfast rather often. His Aunt had already set aside a small plate of bacon for Harry, accompanied by the pieces of burnt scrambled egg that Dudley refused to eat.
Uncle Vernon ripped open the brown envelope— the bill— with distaste, setting it aside in favour of the postcard. “Marge’s ill,” He informed Aunt Petunia as he read the back of the card, “Ate a funny whelk…”
Harry tuned out the rest of the conversation, silently retrieving his plate before sitting himself into the corner of the kitchen, where there was a rug. It was better than sitting on the floor, as Harry’s back was still hurting from when he slept on his lumpy mattress (which was on the floor) the night before. It didn’t take long for him to finish his skimpy meal, so once he was done, he placed the plate into the sink and washed it up. Soon, the rest of the Dursleys were done eating, too, and discarded their plates for him to clean.
The family left him in the kitchen to clean up, which Harry was grateful for. He appreciated the rare moments of quietness and peace that he could get. For one, Aunt Petunia wouldn’t be snapping at him for whatever reason, Uncle Vernon wouldn’t be sneering and calling him ‘boy’ (he thought that his name was ‘boy’ until he was seven and had to go to primary school), and Dudley wouldn’t be making fun of him or whacking him with the Smeltings stick.
Harry could only think about one thing as he washed the dishes. It repeated in his head over and over, a restless chant that wouldn’t leave him alone. His letter. His letter in his cupboard. His letter, in his cupboard, addressed to his cupboard. The urge to open it was rising rapidly, but Harry knew he had to bide his time— it wouldn’t do good to let the Dursleys know too early. Knowing them, they would snatch it away from him, and that would be the end of it.
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It was a lovely afternoon outside, but Harry wanted anything but to go outside. Dudley had left to go play with Piers, Dennis, Gordon and… Was it Mark? Harry pursed his lips for a moment, trying to recall what they were calling each other as he ran away… No, it wasn’t Mark… Oh, right, it was Malcolm.
Dudley had left to go play with his friends, which meant they were all outside, which meant that the last place Harry wanted to be was outside . With Dudley. Harry was rather tired from his restless night— his spine was practically sitting on the cold floor of his cupboard, and at that point his lumpy mattress made little to no difference. He didn’t particularly feel like playing ‘Harry-hunting’ at the moment. Not that they’d listen if he told them so, anyway.
Uncle Vernon, who had taken the day off, was watching the telly with Aunt Petunia, and they hadn’t bothered with him ever since they left him in the kitchen, so Harry felt like it was safe. Harry snuck out of the kitchen, silent as ever. The telly was still going on in the living, so Harry crouched next to his cupboard door, hand on the handle. There was some sort of drama show going on, and the female lead had just burst into tears, accompanied by heart-wrenching background music.
Luckily for Harry, he didn’t have to wait long, as his knees were starting to hurt. The male lead burst into the room and started yelling about who had upset the female lead. The noise was loud enough for Harry to sneak back into the cupboard without his Aunt or Uncle hearing the squeak of the door.
Breathing quietly, Harry’s eyes shone as he fumbled for the letter, sitting obediently on his mattress. Taking care not to make any noise, Harry traced his hand over the purple wax seal, holding it up so he could see it properly under the light that strewn in from the shafts of his door. Amazed, he carefully ran his fingers over the four animals pictured— a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake .
The snake’s eyes seemed to be brighter than the rest, which caught Harry’s attention. He studied it curiously, half-wishing that he could be opening the letter in better lighting even though he’d rather not risk it. All of a sudden, the snake blinked at him, causing the scruffy boy to do a double take. Did an animal— on a wax seal— just blink ?
Harry rubbed his eyes and looked again. The snake looked as normal as it could be, one of the four creatures surrounding the ‘H’ in the centre. Deciding that his myopia had just gotten worse (yes, Harry knew what myopia was— he’d read it once in his primary school library, which was his preferred place to hide from Dudley during school hours. The librarian was very kind and understanding about how isolated he was from his yearmates— no one wanted to get close to Harry-The-Target-Of-Dudley’s-Bullying-Potter. In fact, she even promised not to tell anyone about his bullying situation upon his request, and let him take his meals into her office to avoid his bullies. Harry carefully tore the envelope so that the wax seal would be undamaged. Just as he was about to take the letter out, his cupboard door burst open.
“If you’ve got nothing better to do, go weed the yard—” Aunt Petunia faltered as her eyes trailed down to the letter in her nephew’s hands. “Give me that!” She snapped, snatching it away from him, much to Harry’s dismay. Her cheeks flared a sharp red before turning a sickly green as realisation dawned onto her. “V-V-Vernon!” She squeaked, suddenly breathless and rapidly turning to the colour of old porridge, “Come quick!”
“No!” For the first time in a while, Harry opened his mouth and spoke. He hardly said anything anymore— once, Piers’s mother, who had come over for the boys’ sleepover, asked if Harry was mute. “It’s— It’s mine.” Deciding he had said enough now, Harry shut his mouth and hoped that he wouldn’t get punished too badly for speaking on impulse.
“Not anymore,” Uncle Vernon said, eyes gleaming beadily. If anything, he looked delighted that Harry had been so upset he’d used his voice. That delight quickly faded as soon as he saw the letter Aunt Petunia was holding up, though. The man, like his wife, flushed red in anger, turning into vomit-green as if he were a traffic light. “T-This is…”
The two stared at each other for a moment, standing in front of Harry’s cupboard. “Vernon… Look at the address… How… How do they know where he sleeps? You… You don’t think they’re… They’re spying on us?” Aunt Petunia’s whispers trembled as she looked progressively more horrified by the moment.
“Watching— spying— following us,” Vernon replied, even though he didn’t have the thought to keep his voice down. He looked around wildly, as if a man would suddenly appear and introduce himself as the spy. Then, as if he’d suddenly remembered Harry’s existence, the man put on his darkest glare. “Back to your cupboard!” He barked.
Harry stared at him for a moment, not wanting to point out that he was in his cupboard.
“O-Out.” Aunt Petunia said, still shaking. “Get out. Go weed the yard.”
Harry’s heart clenched slightly, and for a moment he wanted to refuse— that was before he thought it out. Dudley— and his gang— Would do less damage than an angry Uncle Vernon, which was not something Harry felt like risking. If Aunt Petunia wanted to give him a chance to get away, he wasn’t going to turn it down. Hurriedly, Harry stepped out from his cupboard and to the front door, closing it before his Uncle could blink.
A part of him wanted to be furious. That letter was his , and he hadn’t even gotten to read it. The other part blamed himself— he should’ve been more sensible. He could’ve hidden the letter under his mattress and no one would be wiser— and then after the Dursleys had gone to bed, after the house was completely dark— Harry could take out the flashlight that Dudley had ‘lost’ after coming back from summer camp— and then it would be truly safe for him to read it.
Glumly, Harry rolled up his sleeves, not wanting to incur his Aunt’s anger. He wasn’t exceptionally keen on her coming out to yell at him for slacking off. There would be a whole, hushed tirade about how kind she and her husband were being, how they were generous for keeping and feeding him. Knowing Aunt Petunia, she would throw in something about his parents, mentioning that they were foolish and drunk and that they probably purposely got themselves in the crash because they didn’t want him .
Eventually, the sun began to set and Dudley thundered back into the front yard of number four, Privet Drive. His cousin made a dismayed expression when he realised Harry had been outside— the opportunity to have a day of Harry-hunting had slipped by.
Without saying a word, Harry slipped into the kitchen, clothes damp with sweat that the afternoon sun had rained onto him. His fingers relaxed when they made contact with the sponge, and he set himself to begin washing the dishes with practiced efficiency. Most of the tension that had built up through the day seeped out from his hands into the foams, washed away when he rinsed the pans and pots his Aunt used to make dinner.
Harry chided himself when he was nearly done with the dishes— he was lucky that he managed to eat extra the night before. From what he heard, Dudley had a picnic at the park with his friends, which was why his cousin didn’t return for lunch. Since Dudley didn’t come back for lunch, Aunt Petunia hadn’t seen the point in calling Harry in for lunch. Admittedly, Harry was a little hungry from having skipped a meal— but he, just as quickly, reminded himself that he could’ve been hungrier , and that he should be thankful that he wasn’t.
Dinner was a brief affair, similar to how breakfast had gone. Aunt Petunia had set aside a plate filled with scraps and burnt food, and Harry had accepted without complaint. Once more, he squished himself into the corner, eating as quickly as he could in case Dudley changed his mind and decided that he wanted Harry’s scraps, too.
Once they finished eating, Dudley and Uncle Vernon headed into the living room to watch some telly— Harry remembered that it was Thursday, that Dudley’s favourite show was starting soon. Aunt Petunia, who wasn’t all that interested, had stayed behind to ‘make sure Harry didn’t break anything’, despite the fact he had always been careful and had never broken anything since he was six.
“Could I have my letter?” Harry asked quietly, deciding that the risk was worth it. Aunt Petunia didn’t hit him often, and even when she did, it was a slap on his cheek and not a punch onto his ribs. “Please?”
“Absolutely not!” She hissed sharply, frightening Harry to the point that he jumped into the air, hunching and hanging his head down in an effort to make himself appear smaller. “Don’t think about asking again,” She wriggled her finger at him, her eyes ablaze with scorn. “Vernon burned the letter. Don’t think about seeing it again, either.”
Harry nodded quietly, back pressed up against the kitchen wall. He stood under the scrutiny of his Aunt’s gaze for a moment longer before the woman scoffed and stalked away, leaving him alone. Weighed down by helplessness, Harry slipped down the wall until he was on the floor, feeling sick to the stomach. Someone out there had reached out to him— and just because he got careless, his hope got burned away, just like his letter. Before he realised what was happening, tears slipped down Harry’s cheeks, and with all the emotion of a neglected ten-year-old, the last Potter alive wept silently.
In the living room, Petunia joined her husband and child, pretending she couldn’t hear the sniffles originating from the kitchen. For a brief moment, when Harry looked up at her, wearing the hopeful face of a child, Petunia had seen her sister for the first time in over ten years. Lily’s eyes had gazed up into hers, and upon catching herself, the woman had lashed out on her nephew, crushing any hope he had of a world beyond number 4, Privet Drive.
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The next evening— Friday evening— Uncle Vernon did something he’d never done before. He visited Harry, who was mourning quietly, in his cupboard. Harry had tried not to look too bewildered as his Uncle squeezed himself into the small space under the stairs, causing a few spiders to fall when he hit the doorframe by accident.
Harry stared at his Uncle as the man took a few large, shuddering breaths— the boy wanted to point out there was a spider on his Uncle’s shoulder, but thought better of it when Uncle Vernon painfully arranged a smile onto his face.
“Er— Yes— Harry.” Uncle Vernon began. Harry couldn’t remember the last time his Uncle had addressed him by his name, so he immediately tensed up— Something serious was going on if his Uncle had taken the time to remember his nephew’s name. “About your cupboard…” Uncle Vernon cleared his throat, looking constipated as he fought to remain smiling. “Your aunt and I have been thinking… You’re really getting big for it… We think it might be nice if you moved to Dudley’s second bedroom.”
Harry squinted at Uncle Vernon for a couple seconds longer, hovering on the possibility that the man had knocked his head a little too hard on the doorframe and had a concussion.
“So— er— take your things upstairs.” Uncle Vernon adjusted his jaw, as if it physically hurt him to smile at Harry for more than two seconds.
Deciding not to question anything, Harry nodded and gathered his things— a stack of Dudley’s old clothes, a couple of his old textbooks— and waited for Uncle Vernon as the man struggled to get out of the doorframe. The stairs rattled slightly when he finally broke free, and Harry held his breath so he wouldn’t breathe in the dust and sand falling from the ceiling of his cupboard.
The Dursleys house had four bedrooms: One for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for visitors (Usually Uncle Vernon’s sister, Marge), one where Dudley slept and one where Dudley kept all his toys and things that wouldn’t fit in his first bedroom. It only took Harry one trip to move everything he owned from the cupboard to his new bedroom. Practically everything inside the room was broken, which meant that all of it was unwanted trash— just like Harry himself.
Downstairs, Dudley’s bawls of ‘I don’t want him there!’ and ‘I need that room’ and ‘Make him get out!’ drifted up from the stairs and into Dudley’s old— er, Harry ’s new room. From the snippets that Harry could catch, Aunt Petunia was standing her ground, placating her son with ‘I’ll buy you some new toys this weekend, alright Dudleykins?’. He listened for a little longer, just to be sure that the Dursleys wouldn’t chuck him back downstairs— he didn’t want to start cleaning up only for his efforts to be wasted.
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