Chapter Text
Prologue. June, 1988
All good men are dead; evil men live forever.
Everything was just terribly so at Durmstrang. As Headmaster, Igor Karkaroff enjoyed the power of his position thoroughly. Hypocrisy and cruelty did not bother him; he was, in fact, content with it. And yet, Karkaroff did not see himself as he was– terrible bloodshot eyes, rotten teeth, youth cleanly cut from him– but as a father. It was, in his mind, his responsibility to nurse the children of the wizarding world with despair and to save them from their false grandeur. But Karkaroff was not a father, he was a horrible man, and he had been for a very long time…
The reality of his weakness came to him slowly. The mark of Lord Voldemort remained on his arm and had begun to haunt him. Increasingly often, he fell asleep and awoke to his left hand around his throat, gripped tightly as if attempting to have him commit suicide. Irony hunts the weak; Karkaroff quickly became emaciated from his own fear. He was awake in the morning and at night, but he did not leave his quarters– not even to eat. It was not the Dark Lord he was afraid of, not yet, but the reminder of his followers, and what other traces of him remained…
Drunk off paranoia, a faint conclusion came to him. Karkaroff bid his school, his expertise, and thus, himself, away; if the time came, he would welcome Harry Potter and raise him by his side. It was reasonless and illogical, but…
The evil man is unfaithful to his cruelty and his indifference. He begs for divine intervention; it is all he can do.
Years later…
Tap Tap Tap.
Harry jerked awake with all the grace of a newborn calf.
Groggily, he sat up and reached for the string light positioned somewhere above his head. He found it and pulled as hard as he could. It didn't turn on. Biting his lip in concentration, Harry took another heavy tug, twisting the string awkwardly so that it would work.
"Hurry up, boy,” said Aunt Petunia from outside the cupboard door. Her foot tapped on the hardwood sharply and impatiently.
Harry pulled off Dudley’s hand-me-down pajama set and slipped into more of his cousin’s old clothes. The shirt was loose, though he remembered the tan teddy drawn on the front from Dudley’s fourth birthday.
“I said up !” snapped Aunt Petunia, swinging the cupboard door open violently.
Harry dropped the edges of his bedspread and felt the pain of a tweaked ear as his Aunt took his pace into her own hands.
“Ouch!” he said. “Whasamatter?”
“Don’t slur your words, it’s a nasty habit,” said his Aunt, striking the back of his head. “And you’d do well to remember Dudley’s birthday.”
Right, he remembered. Dudley’s birthday, the most important day of the year.
And it was; more than Christmas or New Years or Easter. At least during proper holidays, it was his Aunt’s reputation on the line. On those days, Harry only had one job: to stay quiet and out of sight. Not so much was granted today.
He’d have to cook through the morning and the afternoon, clean the house for Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge to kip over in the guest room, and all on an empty stomach. Well, maybe a half-spoiled apple if he was good. His stomach growled at the thought, and Harry patted it hastily as if to calm it down.
Aunt Petunia practically punted him to the kitchen at the first indication that he was awake in his right mind. She forced him to wash his hands three times to make sure he didn’t get anything untoward in the food (what? Harry wasn’t sure. Maybe it was just the concept of his person that was unappetizing).
“And what are you smiling for?” his Aunt demanded as Harry scrubbed absentmindedly. Her chin jutted out and emphasized her giraffe-like neck. “Cook now! You haven’t got much time.”
Aunt Petunia didn’t bother to supervise and instead left to place all of her son’s presents atop the coffee table in front of the telly.
Luckily, there was a recipe on the counter. Harry skimmed through it twice before pulling out the appropriate ingredients and setting off to work. This was the silence before the storm. Harry was free to daydream as he moved back and forth from the fridge to the counter to the cupboards on the walls for the hundredth time.
I wonder how many presents Dudley’s got this year, Harry thought to himself, more curious than bitter. Never the one to receive anything for himself, Harry viewed the whole thing in a detached alien sort of way, as if there was a science to it he ought to observe. He ignored the thin remains of jealousy in his chest easily as he took to beating some eggs with a fork.
By half past six, Harry had a rather large bowl of pancake batter sitting on the countertop proudly, along with a generous tray of finger sandwiches (that was for Aunt Petunia and Marge) and a pot pie, which he placed in the oven for all the Dursleys to share. The broom leaning next to him was a testament to the chores he had completed during the in-betweens, and so was the letter holder, which he had refilled with the day’s mail.
At seven, Uncle Vernon grumbled down the stairs. Petunia put on the kettle at his request, and Harry listened to the unpleasant boiling sound as he stuck a butter knife into the pot pie to make sure it was cooked all the way through. The knife came out wet, so he determined to let it cook for another twenty minutes to a half hour.
“I’d best go to the station,” said Uncle Vernon a few minutes later. He glanced at the large watch on his beefy wrist to reassure himself. “Yes, yes. Looks about time.”
He peeled himself from the armchair with a heavy groan of discomfort and didn't bother turning off the telly. The female news reporter continued to talk about something to do with the economy as Uncle Vernon clapped Aunt Petunia’s shoulder and gave her a wet kiss on the cheek.
“Marge is due in half an hour. And don’t ask why she couldn’t have gotten a later train. Really, a man shouldn’t be expected to wake up earlier than half past nine on a Saturday.”
“Oh.. my sweet,” Aunt Petunia simpered.
Just then, the entire upstairs shook with the force of a colossal boom. Harry flinched uncomfortably.
“Mummy, Mummy!” Dudley exclaimed as he jumped carelessly down the stairs. “It’s my birthday. My tenth birthday!”
Aunt Petunia cooed and clutched at her pearls, as though her five-chinned, wobbly son was as cute (or more so) than a wide-eyed puppy, or else a particularly loveable kitten.
“Oh yes! That's right, my Diddykins,” she praised, leaning down for a bony hug which Dudley valiantly clawed against until she gave up and let him go running towards the living room.
Despite his fat legs, which both his parents insisted were preventing him from excelling in sissy activities like running during Sport at school, he reached the pile of presents in no time at all.
“How many are there?” he demanded.
“Thirty-four,” said Aunt Petunia, with pride. “But Auntie Marge will bring one or two more.”
“Can I open that?” asked Dudley, pointing a meaty little finger at a gift bag with a large golden bow.
“Well…” said Aunt Petunia, “just one wouldn't hurt, would it, Vernon?”
“No, no, certainly not. He’s a determined boy.” Uncle Vernon chuckled.
The oven timer went off. Harry slipped his red oven mitts back on and went to review the state of the pot pie. He missed the present entirely.
"I want to open another! ” Dudley was now writhing on the ground and pounding his fists on the floor like a baby.
“Now, now,” Petunia smiled and wagged her finger. “Wait for your Auntie to arrive. You can open your gifts after you’ve had your breakfast.”
“But I want to open them now!”
Uncle Vernon made to leave then, walking past Harry’s cupboard and to the hanger. He pulled on his coat and unlocked the door, then doubled back unexpectedly.
“Boy!” he said.
Once Harry was in front of him, Uncle Vernon lowered himself to match his height. Globs of spit expelled from his uncle's mouth and caught in his mustache as he proclaimed with great intent, “I shouldn't have to tell you this, but no funny business from you. Not on my watch. And not today. You will behave in front of Marge, and you will behave at Mrs. Figg’s, or you’ll be in the cupboard for three... no, four days. And you won’t have supper. Alright?”
Harry nodded.
Uncle Vernon slammed the door in his face.
Marge Dursley was an unpleasant woman whom her younger brother, Harry’s Uncle Vernon, took after marvelously. They were practically identical, in fact, from their broad, fat features to the thick hairs on their upper lips.
“Oh, let me have at that Vernon. You were always too much of a sissy for my taste..” said Marge. She snatched her bulging suitcase from him testily and dragged it through the open door.
“Ripper, sit!” She used her free hand to tug at the leash of her favorite, foul-tempered bulldog.
She chuckled once she entered Number Four and shook her head in humor.
“Where’s my boy? I see that wrapping on the floor– he’s playing with his presents, I expect,” said Marge with pride.
Noticing Harry, she said: “I'm disappointed you two have yet to rid yourself of this one. Really, Petunia, you ought to send him off. Think of his influence on poor Dudley.”
Harry fell over when she pushed her luggage at him, full force.
Marge threw her coat on his head.
“Dog treats are in the right pocket. Mind your fingers, Ripper’s got sharp teeth,” said Marge with a distinct lack of sincerity.
The three Dursleys vacated the entrance hall with the thunk of the front door closing. Marge made small talk by discussing the incestuous breeding habits of her new pups. Uncle Vernon clapped her on the back while Aunt Petunia held her distance, a bit put off.
“Well, here you go..” said Harry to Ripper the dog. He held out the stale biscuit as far away from him as possible.
Ripper jumped and began barking with a clear, violent intent. Harry dropped the biscuit fearfully and backed away from where his leash was tied.
“You. Up!” Aunt Petunia peeked her long giraffe's neck out from beyond the foyer. “Snacks. Now!”
With relieved haste, Harry made his way to the kitchen. Carefully, he held the neck and the base of the repurposed fruit stand and placed it on the coffee table.
“... to call him down. Dudley! Be a dear and greet your Aunt.”
From upstairs came: “Don’t wanna!”
Marge chuckled. “‘Course, my nephew is too much of a man to pussyfoot around. Let’s cut to it, then. I’ve got presents!”
Like a dog, Dudley made his hasty way down the stairs. When his Aunt gave him a wet, slimy kiss on the cheek, she slipped a fifty-pound note into his pocket. Dudley looked like he might wet himself in excitement.
“Fifty pounds! Fifty pounds!” he cheered. “A lolly is only half a quid! That’s, that’s ten lollies… twenty lollies… thirty lollies… er..”
“One hundred lollies,” Aunt Petunia added helpfully.
“Oh tah! Maths is all tosh anyhow,” said Marge, pinching Dudley’s cheek. “A true man like you is better off learning how to throw a punch.”
Harry’s bruised, knobby knees were a testament to Dudley’s achievement, in this respect. The sport of ‘Harry Hunting’ was still alive and well, if on a bit of a hiatus; Dudley’s best mate and partner in crime, Piers Polkiss, had taken the front end of the summer holiday off to visit family in Cambridge.
Dudley was entertained for no longer than five minutes by finger food or goggling at the dollar bill. With intent, he marched to where Harry had sectioned off Marge’s suitcase and kicked it to the ground. He gnawed at the zipper in his haste to rip the thing open. Only Harry and Ripper, who had both been on the receiving end of a cane for far less, marveled at his lack of propriety.
Marge laughed. “Eager, are you? Look in the front pocket, no, the front pocket. Your present is the orange one. Yes, that’s it.” Her stubby winger waved all about the place.
Dudley tore all the wrapping in one go. It was a computerized robot. Poking at it carelessly for a few moments, Dudley scratched one of the wobbly chins.
“What’s it do?” he asked.
“All sorts.” said Marge, “once you’ve got the batteries in.”
“Maybe it would do some good to play with your lovely robot after the waterpark?” Aunt Petunia said pointedly. She elbowed her husband.
“Oh! I expect Pet's quite right. Look at the time! Your friends will be here at any moment.”
There was a hustle and bustle in the house as Dudley (with the help of his mother and Aunt) bagged his swim clothes, pool noodles, and sandals. Uncle Vernon put ice creams and sodas into the freezer and started up the car after he’d escorted (thrown) Ripper to the guest bedroom.
“And you!” Marge caught Harry’s shoulder from where he was awkwardly standing. “What are we to do with you?”
“He’ll be off to the neighbor's,” sniffed Petunia. “Wonderful woman.”
“Must be a saint to take in a no-good like him, even for a couple of hours,” Marge said agreeably. “See, there are people who live for that stuff, fixing up delinquent boys. Schools, even. I wrote to Yvonne about just that a few weeks ago. She mentioned something… Brutus' institute, or whatnot. It would be good for him to go there, next year if he doesn’t shape up, and God knows he won't. Sense comes from blood and beatings, only, Petunia. There’s no hope, otherwise.”
Aunt Petunia hummed in affirmation, but there was a pale quality about her.
“If it was me, he’d have felt the taste of the streets a long while ago–”
The doorbell rang just as the Dursley family car revved in the garage. Dudley threw himself up and about in a joyous interpretive dance.
“They’re here! They’re here!” he exclaimed.
Harry sank into disregard as introductions were made and pleasantries were exchanged. Angrily, he tidied up the sitting room.
Didn’t Marge know he'd prefer the streets to the sweaty, mean smell of the Dursleys? For once, he felt disappointed that his Aunt and Uncle were all bark, no bite. He felt he’d do anything to be rid of the place.