Chapter Text
The boy can’t remember a life before the cupboard.
In fairness, he’s barely a year old when his parents pass away and leave him all alone in the world. Less than twenty-four hours later, he's dumped on the doorstep of his closest living relatives—The Dursleys.
In the middle of the night, mind you.
Petunia Dursley is horrified when she finds a half-frozen baby among her milk bottles, but not for the reasons you might think. You see, she’s not worried about his well-being or his chances of contracting pneumonia. Instead, she’s fuming that he's shown up here at all.
Since she knows EXACTLY who he is.
It doesn't take much to recognise the mud-brown skin of her wastrel brother-in-law or the bright green eyes of her estranged sister. The brat has both, which answers any questions about his parentage. No doubt he's tainted with their freakish habits, too.
The woman does wonder what the hell he's doing here on HER doorstep, of all places. There must be some mistake, as she knows Lily would never designate her as the next of kin, not with the way they left things.
It's been a peaceful few years since Petunia cut all ties with her sister and her degenerate husband. Honestly, it's no surprise that they both met a sticky end. God only knows what they were involved in, but good riddance.
Petunia supposes she should have foreseen their dratted orphan turning up. But honestly, it never even crossed her mind that he'd be sent here, not even when she was informed of her sister's death late last night. It's hardly a suitable arrangement.
No matter, she needs to fix this problem immediately before the neighbours catch on. But one thing is for certain: Petunia's not getting stuck with the parentless whelp. God knows what weirdness he'd spread to her precious family.
No, she most certainly thinks not. The boy will be dropped off at a local fire station as soon as she can get some clothes on.
Before she takes him to the authorities, Petunia allows the boy inside for a moment to warm up. Somewhat against her better judgment, but she’s not a monster. And she can't turn up to a firehouse in her dressing gown.
A note flutters from his blanket as she's placing the basket on the kitchen table, materialising to throw a wrench in her plans. Its contents are persuasive, even subtly threatening, and Petunia feels a helpless rage at the non-negotiable situation. Vernon is barely awake when his angry wife informs him that the boy is staying after all. It appears they have no choice.
And they never let him forget it.
Objectively, the Dursleys are a nasty sort anyway, narrow-minded and obsessed with appearing normal. In their warped minds, being forced to keep the boy is a stain on their perfect family, never mind the fact that he is only a child. From that moment on, they vow to keep him a secret from the world.
They are vigilant about his potential freakishness and vow it will never jeopardise their respectable way of life. Any hint of THAT type of nonsense will be swiftly dealt with, no matter the contents of the letter. Not in their house, thank you very much.
Appearances will be kept.
Exiling him swiftly to a dusty mattress beneath the stairs, they bolt the door behind him and do their best to pretend he doesn't exist for most of the day.
And though the boy does cry at first—as children often do, he quickly discovers the truth.
No one is coming. Nobody cares.
As the years pass by, the boy adjusts. His parents’ memories fade to nothing, and over time, he forgets what they look like. The dusty cupboard becomes his entire universe.
His aunt and uncle spend each day reminding him that he is unwanted, even by those who left him on their doorstep. They take a voyeuristic pleasure in telling him nasty stories about his dead family, mostly to feast on his reaction like the vultures they are. Their sneers haunt his waking hours.
Over and over, he is forced to listen to the tale of Lily and James Potter. Useless drunken freaks whose stupidity ruined both their own lives and the Dursleys. Each poisoned barb from his aunt is like a knife to the heart. It makes his tummy ache.
He is only four years old.
Although the boy is smart for his age, thankfully, he doesn’t understand every detail that his relatives spew. But he gets the general idea.
His parents were bad, and so is he. That's the message he's told every day of his life.
The boy honestly doesn't want to be bad, but if being "good" means acting like the Dursleys, then he thinks he's better off. He never wants to be like THEM.
As he grows, he creates an image of his Mum and Dad inside his mind, outside the reach of his relatives. In his dreams, his parents love him. They are kind.
Sometimes, when he examines himself in the mirror, while cleaning it, of course, he wonders what his mum and dad might look like. He’s never seen a picture, however, and Petunia won’t hear of it. Do they look like him?
He thinks his mum was pale, like her sister, since his aunt likes to point out that he shares his dad's dirty brown skin. He doesn't understand why it's dirty, though, and tries to scrub it clean one day. Unsurprisingly, it fails to work.
Petunia finds this hilarious for some reason and continues to remind him of it for years afterwards. Almost like a private joke, but only one person is laughing.
His bright green eyes could have come from either, he supposes, but he knows his messy locks come from his father. The boy once overheard his aunt mocking his mum's long red hair in great detail. Red hair is attention-seeking, according to Petunia—nothing like her own refined dark blonde.
Collecting these little details, the boy builds up a picture of his mum and dad in his head.
And while he doesn’t exactly remember, he does imagine.
When the Dursleys aren't busy ignoring him, they believe it's their moral duty to stamp out any odd behaviour. They are positive that the boy is abnormal like his parents.
"Keeping him in line" is a full-time job for his so-called guardians, which they both relish in their own twisted way. They encourage their brute son to do the same. Harry Hunting becomes his cousin's new favourite sport.
Vernon is a violent pig who believes that regular discipline will beat the trouble out of him, but Petunia is a different breed. Every time she sets her beady eyes on him, her pinched face curdles even further. Indeed, you won’t catch her actually touching the boy, no more than she would a disease-ridden rat.
Corporal punishment is best left to her husband, while she keeps her perfectly manicured hands clean. She has her own weapons, mind you. Spiteful words to teach him his place and withholding food to punish him until he gets the message. He must be a slow learner, as the boy is always hungry and often battered and bruised from his uncle's "lessons."
It’s a miserable sort of existence.
The boy is remarkably clever and, by age five, works out that no amount of good behaviour will ever endear him to his aunt or uncle. They hate him regardless. No matter what he tries, he always ends up in the same place – the cupboard.
If he is stupid enough to cry during his punishments, Vernon will grab and shake his body until he is silent. He reaches a point where he no longer cries or speaks very much at all. His relatives seem indifferent to his silence, since this suits their goal of pretending he does not exist.
Sometimes, if he is lucky, Dudley will leave the sitting room door open as he watches TV. The boy can just about make out the screen through the vent in his cupboard door.
Danger Mouse is his favourite show, and he watches it whenever possible. He adores all the characters and likes to imagine them as his friends, especially his favourite, a mouse called Fifi—and Danger Mouse himself, of course, his own personal hero.
When alone, the boy likes to pretend he’s a secret agent, carrying out covert missions like his idol. He takes every chance to sneak around on special assignments while he tries to avoid his evil relatives catching him. He becomes an expert at walking without making a sound.
And if his missions mostly involve filching food from the kitchen, that's nobody's business. Danger Mouse would be proud of his ingenuity.
The boy feels somewhat safe in his cupboard, a mouse in its nest.
But spending so much time confined isn't healthy for him, not really. He is already thin from malnourishment, and his naturally copper complexion is pale from the lack of sunlight. He longs to go outside like Dudley. (He regrets that thought once his garden chores kick off).
His circumstances make him short for his age. His oversized, tattered clothing, which is made up of Dudley's cast-offs, only emphasises this. Nothing like a tee-shirt down to his knees to make the boy seem even shorter.
Spending too much time in the dark has damaged his eyesight, so he wears an ugly pair of battered spectacles his aunt sourced from a bargain bin. They are held together by sticky tape and a prayer, damaged from countless run-ins with the "Precious Dudders." He's certainly never had an eye test.
The crowning touch to his messy look is his wild head of coarse black curls. Petunia hates them. They defy every law of physics to stick out at crazy angles, and nearby scissors and brushes stand no chance, much to his aunt's annoyance. The boy likes to think it’s payback from his dad from beyond the grave for all his aunts' bad-mouthing.
That thought makes him a little prouder of his hair, especially since it drives his aunt so crazy.
The little boy sometimes feels embarrassed by how grubby he looks, but he doesn’t know how to improve his situation. He’s rarely allowed to shower, and sleeping in the dusty cupboard doesn’t help. He spends most of his energy trying to pilfer enough food to stay awake and out of his relatives' clutches.
He doesn’t have much left for vanity.
He knows better than to mention these things to his relatives. But he still longs for certain things his cousin takes for granted, such as his own room or new clothes.
Instead, he spends his days as an unpaid housemaid, trying to keep cheerful as he scrubs every inch of the bland semi-detached. The rest of his "little jobs," as Petunia likes to call them, take place in the kitchen, where he learns to chop, fry, mix, and bake despite his tiny size.
His small size prevents him from reaching the stove or counter, making cooking a tricky business. No matter how sharp his reflexes become, minor cuts and burns pepper his upper body. Eventually, he grows accustomed to that too. He knows not to complain.
Despite all this, he doesn't completely hate the kitchen; it's warm and bright, and a nice contrast to the darkness of his cupboard. And if he's really lucky, he can sneak a few bites of food while cooking.
The fire on the gas stove always seems to welcome him, soothing his worries. It makes him feel oddly calm as he gazes into the flames, dancing and flickering beneath the pots.
Sometimes, it feels like the fire winks back at him.
But maybe he’s losing it, to be honest.
His warped routine continues, with the five-year-old boy having zero contact with the outside world. Dudley starts school, but he’s told that it’s not for the likes of him.
The boy withdraws further each day as the mountain of tasks consumes his waking hours.
The boy has just turned six when he discovers that he might be special after all.
Like most of his troubles, it starts with his hair. Of course.
Petunia has been warning him for weeks now that she’s going to give him the chop. He never considers it a real threat; she rarely follows through. But that changes quickly when he sees her coming in with a malicious smile and a set of shiny new hair clippers.
Petunia recruits Vernon and Dudley to hold him down, which they do with vindictive pleasure. She then brutally shears Harry, forcing rough passes over his scalp with the electric razor. The result is a patchy stubble dotted with small lacerations where she was less than careful. They bleed sluggishly.
The hair makes his emaciation look worse, but it only seems to make her gleeful. Satisfied with her efforts, she sends him to his cupboard quickly, in case he gets a notion to retaliate.
No fear of that.
Truth is, the boy hides his reactions from his relatives, no matter what they do to him. He’s learned the hard way that they take too much pleasure in his pain. Sometimes hiding’s easy, and sometimes it’s hard. Today, it feels impossible.
As he curls up on his mattress and hears the door lock click, his tough façade disintegrates. He feels so small. It’s all a bit much for his six-year-old brain to take in. Why did they hold him down like that? He could barely breathe.
To his horror, the boy begins to cry.
As his body shakes with heavy sobs, he weeps for his hair and everything else that he’s lost or never had in the first place. He desperately wants someone to love him. To hug him and say it will be ok. But that person doesn’t exist.
He learned to swallow his tears almost a year ago, and he was proud of it. But now that he starts, he can’t stop. Snot and tears soak into his ratty T-shirt as his face grows hot and puffy.
It’s not about the hair, not really—just the soul-deep humiliation.
As he cries, an intense feeling takes over his body, which feels like a million insects crawling under his skin. It starts in his stomach and spreads outward to his limbs until it takes over. It builds and builds until eventually, he passes out from sheer overwhelm.
When he wakes the next morning, something feels different. Startled, he notices that he can see one stray ringlet hanging down over his eye.
It couldn't be.
The boy reaches up with one hand to find thick curls where he expected short fuzz. Tracing his hair, he can feel how it reaches past his shoulders. WHAT IS HAPPENING?
Gasping in disbelief, the boy sits up and runs his trembling hands through his fully regrown hair, which seems to be about three times the length. Petunia is going to be furious. Somehow, it still feels like a miracle.
His joy is short-lived once his aunt spots it. Her face goes strangely blank as she seems to stare through him. She’s never looked like that before, and it freaks him out. What’s going to happen?
Petunia grabs him roughly by the shoulder and steers him towards the couch, calling for her husband. She’s touching him, and does he have to sit on the couch?
He feels clammy all over. This is bad. He’s never allowed on the couch.
She almost looks like she’s been waiting for something like this. Impossible, right?
In a flat voice, Vernon orders Dudley outside to play, much to his cousins’ dislike. This sends a real tendril of fear curling into his stomach. They never send Dudley away. The boy fiddles with a thread on the couch, waiting for his judgment.
"This changes things," Petunia states tonelessly, sitting opposite him in the armchair. She stares vacantly somewhere past his head. "This changes everything."
"Indeed, Petunia," Vernon replies, standing on the fireplace with his hands on his hips, "we’ve been much too lenient. That much is obvious. It seems our efforts in stopping the freakishness haven’t worked."
Did they know this would happen? They know something.
"If you ever use that foul sorcery again, we’ll kill you, boy, make no mistake," Vernon shouts, his face turning a deep purple. Spit flies from his lips, "Do you understand?"
The boy nods shakily. He doesn't dare make eye contact with his aunt. What do they mean by sorcery? He feels disconnected from his body, his mind adrift as he tries and fails to process.
Time loses all meaning as Vernon rants and raves about demons and freaks and a whole manner of things that the boy has no clue about. He’s not sure what any of it has to do with his hair, but he sits in fearful silence all the same.
"This power is pure evil, sent by the devil himself," his aunt declares with venom, pulling him back into the conversation. "And we will not tolerate such evil in our home. If you ever use it again, you’ll regret ever being born, boy."
Funny, he sometimes does that anyway.
Exhaling harshly, she places her hands flat on her lap. "Now go to your cupboard."
It's her composure that truly disturbs him. He knows how to handle the ranting and screaming, but her calm detachment is chilling. He suddenly believes their threat to kill him is a real one. They really could. He's nothing to them, after all.
Nobody would even know he has gone.
Unsteadily, he climbs to his feet and heads towards his cupboard. His whole body shakes as he wills his legs to keep working. He can feel the twin glares of his relatives burning into his back. Once inside, he quickly closes the door behind him and collapses onto the mattress, staring blankly at the ceiling. What now?
Footsteps thump in the hall outside, and he hears the lock fall into place. He was hoping they’d forget.
He’s never getting out this time.
Hours pass in the semi-darkness of his makeshift cell. Each wood grain pattern on the ceiling is as familiar as the scars on his body; every single one has been traced a million times.
In his shock, it takes a while before he registers what his aunt and uncle had insinuated.
Does he have some type of power?
The boy has heard of superpowers, of course. Dudley's favourite hero, Superman, can fly and shoot lasers from his eyes. Maybe he can do something too. But what? He really hopes it’s more than magical hair growth.
Bit of a dumb superpower, to be honest.
The idea of having power isn’t as surprising as it should be, though.
There have been incidents. Weird things that happen when he’s angry, hungry, or scared. He thought he was imagining things, but clearly not.
He tries to feel enthusiastic about this new development, but mostly he’s just anxious. What if he manages to make his power work, and then his relatives really do kill him?
God knows they hate him enough.
Now it must be said, he's far less bothered by their claim that his power is evil. Something that scares the Dursleys, this can only be good. He’s sure about that much.
To pass the time, he considers the pros and cons of figuring out his gift. Getting caught by his relatives is his biggest concern. And yet. Maybe it would be worth it.
Undecided, the boy tries to regain a sense of control by double-checking his emergency food stash. He knows this cupboard stay will be extra-long.
In the end, it’s this thought of an endless lockup that decides for him. Better to make the most of it and work out this superpower stuff. At least until he escapes his wooden prison.
With nothing better to do, he figures he should start straight away.
Danger Mouse would do the same. Prepare for your enemies.
As he squints at the cupboard ceiling, the boy tries to think about where his power comes from. His eyes? Or his hands? Some superheroes use their minds. Before his hair grew back, he had felt a sensation that started in his stomach. He starts with that.
Scrunching up his face in concentration, he imagines a ball of energy building up in his tummy and thinks really hard about making something happen. Of course, nothing does.
Mind you, he has no clue what exactly he’s trying to make happen. Which probably doesn’t help the situation. He reckons Superman never had it this hard.
Determined to do something, he spends the rest of the day repeatedly trying to make it work. By the end, he’s exhausted and annoyed. Maybe his hair was a freak accident after all?
He tries the next day again, spending all his hours trying to make his mystery power do something… anything.
On the third day, when his food is almost gone, he finally has a breakthrough. Frustrated and hungry, he decides to focus on moving a wooden shaving lying on the floor.
For hours, he stares at it and tells it to move. It’s only the final time, when he gets really angry about his failure, that a warm sensation builds in his stomach area and the wood flies up into the air.
FINALLY.
Before he has a second to celebrate, a wave of exhaustion hits him like a truck and knocks him unconscious. He wakes much later after what feels like a long nap. It's hard to tell how much time passes inside the cupboard, but he feels rested. He can't believe he actually did it.
Still, he’s pretty sure that Superman never passes out.
He doesn't get another chance to try again before his aunt and Uncle finally leave him out. By then, he's so weak from the lack of food that he can barely walk. Magic is far from his mind.
This has been the longest time they have ever locked him away that he can remember. The power thing must be pretty serious to cause this sort of reaction.
But if it frightens the Dursleys, it can only help him.
All the same, just like Danger Mouse, he keeps his practice secret from his evil overlords.
And practice he does. Every day after that, he tries to use his gift with mixed success.
In all honesty, the majority of the time, nothing happens, except for the odd blinding headache.
However, on one glorious occasion, he makes a set of deep blue lights appear out of thin air. They circle his head like some glowing crown, and thankfully, the tiredness isn't half as bad this time.
As he watches the flickering orbs, he thinks to himself that this is the prettiest thing he has ever seen, and it came from him; he created this. He can't help but feel a sense of pride.
Satisfied, the boy watches the lights for hours, taking comfort in their company and the lack of darkness. Eventually, he drifts to sleep, a soft smile on his face.
By the end of the summer, the cupboard is both his haven and his prison.
On the one hand, all his practice is paying off, and he can make things light up or fly towards him more often now, although it’s far from reliable.
He does have one horrifying moment where he creates a small fire on his mattress. For about five endless seconds, the boy is convinced that he will burn alive in his wooden prison.
Luckily, he comes to his senses quickly and squashes the flame before it can really catch. Still, better not to repeat that one.
He still feels a bit singed inside.
The incident puts a damper on his practice, as he becomes nervous about a repeat performance.
Simultaneously, he’s scared about his power getting loose in front of his relatives, who are on a constant high alert for any “freakishness”. They lecture him regularly about how evil it is, just in case he forgets.
Sometimes, when he’s angry or scared, he can feel it buzzing around underneath his skin. It feels like a swarm of fiery bees that want to attack.
Since he has a feeling this might come out as the dreaded fire, he grips the sensation tightly and concentrates on how abruptly his life will end if Vernon catches alight. For the most part, it works.
As the eventful summer ends, Petunia snootily informs him that he will be attending school in the autumn. Apparently, someone has gotten wind of his existence, and they are required to send him even if it’s two years late.
He isn't exactly sure what school is about, except that Dudley goes every day. Still, bravely armed with Dudley's old uniform, a scathing lecture from his aunt and a few pencils, he sets off once September arrives.
It’s strange for him to leave the house; he’s never really been outside beyond the odd garden chore.
His school uniform is ragged, and he feels embarrassed when he sees the other children are nicely dressed. It's the first time he feels shame about who he is.
It seems that even in the outside world, he’s not as good as everybody else. It figures.
The school bus is loud and chaotic, with Dudley and his friends shoving him around the moment he gets on. Nothing new there. The boy hadn’t realised how many people would try to speak all at once, and even worse, expect him to speak back.
He grows increasingly nervous as he remains silent, slipping down in his seat to avoid attention.
Talking is quite hard for him, actually; it’s been so long since he properly used his voice that the words seem to tangle in his throat every time he tries.
He cringes away from anyone who tries to speak to him and hurries into the school as quickly as possible. He remembers that he must go to classroom six and eventually finds it. Petunia had shown him the symbol before he left that morning.
As he walks into his class, he resigns himself to the fact that things will be difficult. They always are.
You can imagine his surprise when he arrives at his new classroom, and the teacher greets him with a smile, before calling him by a different name. Confused, he smiles and nods back at her before taking his seat.
Huh.
He’s never really thought about his name before; his relatives call him all sorts of things, to be honest, the most common being “Boy”. He genuinely thought that was his name. That or "Freak".
He prefers to avoid being called anything at all.
Still, as he sits expectantly in his new classroom on the first day of school, he finds himself pleasantly surprised when the teacher calls him something new.
Apparently, his name is Harry Potter.