Chapter Text
August, 1986.
HARRY POTTER— at the tender age of four, was a much smarter child than his relatives gave him credit for. He was no fool and had already realized that he wasn't ordinary, despite how much Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of 4 Privet Drive prided themselves on being completely normal, thank you very much.
According to them, they were a thoroughly ordinary couple, living in an ordinary house, with an ordinary life. Mr. Dursley was a large, beefy man with hardly any neck, but he had a perfectly normal job as the director of a firm called Grunnings, where he enjoyed bossing people around and spending time with his equally ordinary colleagues. Mrs. Dursley, on the other hand, was a thin, blonde woman with a penchant for gossiping about the neighbors and fussing over her son, Dudley, who was as plump and spoiled as could be. They were the last people anyone would expect to be associated with anything unusual or mysterious, as they had no tolerance for such nonsense.
However, even the most ordinary lives can hide secrets.
Harry was five years old when he discovered he could do things that were not considered normal-he could make things vanish, move objects without touching them, and even change the color of his surroundings with a mere thought. Most importantly— he could talk to snakes!
“FREAK!” was what his Aunt Petunia called him when she saw him move a glass of water without touching it, which resulted in him being locked up in his cupboard for three days with only a biscuit to eat. Harry learned quickly that his unusual abilities were not something to be shown around his aunt and uncle.
He spent those days in the cupboard under the stairs, the only light coming from a small crack in the door. The darkness and isolation were harsh, but they also gave Harry plenty of time to think. He thought about the strange things he could do and how different he was from the Dursley's. They seemed to hate him for reasons he couldn't understand, but he knew it had something to do with the things he could do— things that scared them.
In the darkness, Harry promised himself that he would be more careful. He would keep his abilities a secret, no matter how difficult that might be. He didn't want to be called a freak again, and he certainly didn't want to be locked up in the cupboard anymore.
Even at such a young age, Harry understood that he had to survive, and that meant keeping his strange abilities hidden.
However, life had other plans for him.
It was Saturday-just like any other normal and very ordinary day. Even Harry's sixth birthday, which had passed just yesterday, was as unremarkable as this one, devoid of celebration or acknowledgment. Harry found himself tasked by his Aunt Petunia to tend to her most prized lilies.
Despite the mundane task assigned to him, Harry approached it with a sense of determination. He knew the importance of keeping his aunt's prized lilies in perfect condition, even if it meant enduring her sharp tongue and constant criticism.
As Harry carefully tended to the delicate flowers, his cousin—Dudley, and his best friend—Piers Polkiss— came running out from the house. Without warning, they shoved him hard out of the way, causing him to lose his balance from crouching down. Harry watched in horror as they stomped on his Aunt Petunia's prized lilies before running back inside the house and calling out, "Mom! Harry ruined your flowers!" Dudley's voice, loud enough to carry through the open window, echoed across the garden. Piers joined in, his tone equally accusatory: "Aunt Petunia! We saw him stomp on your lilies!"
Harry's heart sank as he listened to his cousin and his friend blaming him for the damage. He knew he hadn't done anything wrong, but he also knew that Aunt Petunia wouldn't believe him. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Harry braced himself for the inevitable punishment that would follow.
Kneeling in front of the lilies, he desperately tried to fix them, but no matter what he did, the flowers remained crushed and broken. Their once vibrant petals were now torn and bruised, the stems bent and snapped. The lilies lay in a disheveled mess, a stark contrast to their former beauty, and Harry knew there was no way to restore them.
Harry sat on the ground, his hands and knees covered with soil. He was scared-not because he knew his aunt would scold him-no, it was because he knew exactly what punishment awaited him. He wanted to cry, but he knew once his aunt saw him, it would only make things worse. So, he held back his tears, closed his eyes, and wished hard for the lilies to bloom once again as he waited for his aunt's angry voice.
"Oh God-" Aunt Petunia gasped, "what have you done, freak?!" Each word was punctuated by a desperate gulp of air, reflecting her panic and fear.
Harry's brows furrowed in confusion. His aunt only called him 'freak' when he did something out of the ordinary, according to his aunt and uncle. He cautiously opened his eyes, expecting to see the once crushed and broken lilies still in disarray- to his astonishment, they were now as vibrant as ever.
The lilies stood tall, their colors more vivid than ever. It was as if the very essence of life had come back into them. Harry blinked, and the only thought that kept running through his mind was how to convince Aunt Petunia that he was innocent.
"I didn't-" Harry began, but Aunt Petunia cut him off.
"Enough!" Aunt Petunia's voice trembled as she continued, "You will stay in your cupboard until Vernon comes back, and he will punish you accordingly due to your freakishness!" She grabbed his arms, gripping them tightly. Harry winced as her fingernails dug into his skin, and she dragged him harshly inside, pushing him hard into the cramped space of his cupboard. The door thudded shut, locking him in darkness.
Harry's world narrowed to the small gap beneath the door. He could hear Aunt Petunia's footsteps receding, her anger echoing in his ears. He sank to the floor, the rough wood pressing into his back. The cupboard smelled of dust and despair. Outside, the lilies had bloomed, but Harry felt as though he were wilting.
Thus, Harry found himself waiting for the arrival of his punisher.
Harry had been waiting all day for Uncle Vernon to come and deliver his punishment. His uncle had been home for a couple of hours now. Harry had remained extra quiet since his arrival, vividly recalling the pain from his last punishment-when he had done something 'freakish' that left him struggling to move, causing inconvenience while performing the household chores Aunt Petunia had assigned him.
Harry froze when he heard Uncle Vernon's heavy footsteps approaching. His mind buzzed with desperate thoughts—how he longed to escape the confines of his cupboard without alerting anyone. If only he could run toward freedom… even death felt like a kinder companion than what awaited him here.
The rustling sound of keys jangled outside the cupboard, sharp and grating in the stillness, making Harry flinch. His pulse quickened, each beat echoing in his ears like a drum. His chest tightened, and he pressed himself further into the corner of the cramped space, as if the shadows could shield him.
Anywhere else, he thought desperately. Anywhere but here, where the beatings were a cruel, inevitable routine.
The lock clicked, the metallic scrape sending shivers down his spine. Moments later, the door swung open, the sudden flood of light blinding him. Harry squinted and barely made out Uncle Vernon’s towering form. His face was a blotchy shade of red, his small eyes gleaming with fury as they bored into Harry.
Vernon leaned down, his shadow swallowing the narrow space, and his large frame seemed to fill the entire room. “You’ve done it now, boy,” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that sent a chill down Harry’s spine. Harry pressed himself harder against the back wall, his small body trembling, but he stayed silent—he had learned long ago that silence was his only defense.
Without warning, Uncle Vernon’s large, clammy hand shot out, seizing Harry’s arm with brutal force. Harry yelped in pain, but the sound was swallowed by the crushing weight of his uncle’s grip. Vernon's fingers dug into Harry’s skin as he yanked him roughly from the corner of the cupboard, dragging him across the floor. Harry’s feet scraped helplessly against the rough wood, his body jerking with each step.
“MOVE!” Vernon snarled, his face inches from Harry’s, his foul breath hot and acrid against his skin. Harry tried to dig his heels into the floor, but it was useless. The grip on his arm was unyielding, pulling him along like a ragdoll.
“Freak,” Vernon hissed, his voice venomous and dripping with hatred. The word hung in the air, suffocating, echoing off the walls as if the room itself was complicit in the cruelty. Vernon twisted his hand tighter, forcing Harry forward until his feet barely touched the ground. His nails dug deeper into Harry’s arm, leaving marks that would linger long after the pain faded.
Then, with a merciless shove, Harry was tossed to the floor, his body crashing down like a ragdoll. The impact knocked the wind from him, and he lay there gasping, struggling to breathe, the cold floor biting into his cheek. For a moment, the room spun, but he quickly curled into a tight ball, trying to make himself as small as possible. His knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around them, as he clung to the last vestiges of his dignity.
"Think you can get away with this- making a mockery of this family?" Vernon hissed, dragging Harry upright by the scruff of his shirt.
The first blow landed hard against Harry's cheek-a slap so forceful it sent him sprawling to the floor. His cheek stung, hot tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Crying would only make it worse.
A heavy kick followed, catching Harry in the stomach and knocking the wind from his lungs. He curled into himself, clutching his middle as pain shot through him, sharp and unforgiving. Vernon's foot came down again, slamming into his side. Harry bit his lip until he tasted blood, choking back the scream that clawed its way up his throat. His uncle's voice was loud and furious, but the words blurred together as Harry focused on staying silent, on not giving Vernon the satisfaction of hearing him beg for mercy.
"You don't deserve this roof over your head, this food we waste on you!" The words cut deeper than the blows, each syllable a reminder of his place in this house-beneath them, beneath everyone.
As Harry watched his uncle's foot rise to strike him again, a desperate cry escaped him—“STOP!” His eyes snapped shut, instantly regretting his outburst. The pain would only worsen now. He braced himself, squeezing his eyes tighter, preparing for the inevitable impact of Uncle Vernon’s hand. But the seconds dragged on, stretching into an unbearable minute. Still, no pain came. Instead, all Harry could hear was the oppressive silence, thick enough that he could almost hear a pin drop.
When Harry’s eyes fluttered open, his body screamed in protest, stiff and aching as though he had been trampled by a stampede. For a moment, he was disoriented, unsure of what was happening. His uncle stood still, frozen in place—like a statue, unblinking, not moving a muscle.
Harry blinked, stunned by what was happening. It was as though time had frozen. It felt unreal, but the throbbing pain in his ribs and the taste of blood on his tongue brought reality crashing back.
He tried to move and winced. Every shift sent sharp pangs radiating through his bruised limbs, but something was different—less severe than before. The dull ache persisted, but it was as if the worst of it had been muted, softened. Harry didn’t know how, nor did he have time to question it.
As his senses cleared, he noticed the cupboard door wasn’t closed. His heart leapt. He watched Uncle Vernon, frozen in time, with one foot hanging in the air—it was almost comical, if only he didn’t know that foot was about to strike him.
Carefully, Harry sat up, wincing as his sore muscles protested. He hesitated for a moment before reaching for the door. His small fingers pushed it open with a soft creak. He froze, holding his breath, afraid that any sound might bring everything back into motion.
Nothing stirred.
Harry took a deep breath. He didn’t know how long time would stay frozen, but he hoped it would last long enough for him to escape. Without wasting any more time, Harry grabbed his old school bag and hastily packed some clothes.
Barefoot and trembling, Harry stepped into the hallway. The cold floor sent shivers up his spine, but he ignored it. His mind was racing—he couldn’t stay here any longer. Not anymore.
He glanced toward the kitchen and bit his lip, knowing he couldn’t risk it. But something in him insisted it was fine—so long as he stayed inside the house, time would remain frozen. With a breath, he made his way into the kitchen.
The moonlight streaming through the window illuminated the counter, and Harry’s eyes darted to a loaf of bread on the table. Quietly, he grabbed it, stuffing it into his bag. He also snatched a handful of crackers from the cupboard and an apple that Dudley had left half-eaten on the counter.
Clutching his bag to his chest, Harry moved toward the front door, slipping on Dudley’s old loafers left near the door. Twisting the knob, Harry stepped out of the Dursley house. With a deep breath, he ran—never looking back, even as he heard Uncle Vernon’s angry scream echo in the distance.
For the first time in his life, Harry was free.