Chapter Text
1/10/1990
Harry blinks blearily, finding himself dragged to consciousness, for once beating Aunt Petunia to her usual routine of standing at his door, hitting it with a broom until he woke up, yelling at him to get up and make the breakfast.
He had no way of telling the time in his cupboard, he wasn’t allowed a clock, and besides, it was pitch black, but Harry could hear the sound of birds just waking up, chirps and tweets outside.
His lungs felt thick and stuffy with the dust in the air of his little “room”, and the dampness of the black mould in the corner didn’t help, he often found it difficult to breath when in his closet, when he was little he’d developed asthma, but Dudley always took his inhalers, so Harry got very good at breathing in a specific way so he wouldn’t suffocate.
He sits up, groggy, staring around, the faint slits of light in the closet door illuminating his room slightly, revealing a small society of dust, floating aimlessly about in the air, Harry wished he could be that lazy.
Finally, he sat up, unable to really stretch in the space, unless he wished to hit his head on the roof, so he opted to merely perch at the edge of his bed and get ready, feeling around on the cold floorboards, finally coming upon his uniform, pressing the jumper to his nose, hoping it was still clean enough to be presentable, he only owned one school jumper, so he had to keep it good. Thankfully, it just smelled of nothing.
Once dressed, he stands, although carefully, having to stoop slightly so he didn’t bump his head or scalp himself, pausing to fumble blindly with the fastenings of his trousers, trying to make them stay up, eventually tying a thin cord around his waist through the belt loops, hoping it would do, although they were still so loose that, should his cousin Dudley see fit, he could still be pantsed with ease.
Harry didn’t have a mirror in his room, so he could only guess what he looked like, but he gave his face and eyes a good rub, and decided that he was probably clean enough, finally reaching for his glasses on the bedside table, putting them on, the blur to the world was lessened, but tape was visible in his peripheral vision, cutting into the corners of his sight, rather distracting, and they sat funny on his ears, after years of bending and taping them back into shape, they were, understandably so, lopsided.
Harry decided to risk turning on the light in his little room, bored, and wanting to do something, although he felt anxious doing so, as the last time Harry had been caught up “too early” by Uncle Vernon, he’d received a mighty fine talking to, and a finer slap, for wasting his uncle’s expensive, precious electricity by turning on his light.
But Harry decided it was a risk he’d have to take, as he’d finally found the time to go to the library, and wanted to read the book he’d snuck home. If Uncle Vernon found it, Harry wouldn’t be allowed supper for a week, but Harry found himself ensnared in Tolkien’s writing, the lord of the rings was surely the greatest books he had ever laid eyes on.
It was nothing like the other books in privet drive, not that Harry was allowed to touch them, but they were all rather bland. Cookbooks, or politics, or something about boring real-life.
Uncle Vernon hated anything remotely fun, and should he find out Harry was reading books with wizards and magic and epic adventure, Mr Dursley was sure to punish Harry severely.
When Harry was nine, he had tried to read the chronicles of Narnia, and when Aunt Petunia found him in the back garden, reading, minding his own business, she started screaming bloody murder, and Uncle Vernon had given him a good talking to indeed.
“Harry! Get your head out of the ruddy clouds, boy.”
“Now, you listen here, Harry, magic is all filthy, unchristian nonsense, not real, neither. Why read about something that’s not real? Awful foolish.”
Harry this, Harry that, Harry, Harry, Harry-
“HARRY! Get up!”
Harry’s head snaps up, he hadn’t even noticed Aunt Petunia was knocking on the door, the pounding, irritating sound yanking him out of his brooding. He lets out a short, huffed sigh, hoping she didn’t hear it. “Yes, Aunt Petunia!” he calls, opening the door, finding himself slightly blinded by the light in the hall, bright and artificial.
Fifteen minutes later, he finds himself standing in front of the stove. Aunt Petunia is very proud of her new, gas burner stove, she’s spent the last month showing off to anyone who’d listen, and everyone on the whole of Privet Drive had been dragged into the kitchen to see. As such, Harry had received a threat a day about how if “one single mark appears on my good stove, you’ll be eating nothing cooked on it”, so Harry tried to make sure that he was cooking the morning bacon very carefully.
He hears the familiar sound of a chair being pulled out from the table, and then a heavy weight settling in it, the wood groaning in protests. Uncle Vernon taking his seat at the table, but Harry doesn’t dare turn around, shoulders tensing, hoping he’s in a good mood today.
Breakfast was served soon enough, the Dursleys sitting around the table for toast and bacon, Harry’s stomach turned hopefully at the delicious scent of buttery toast and smoky bacon, unable to stop his natural reaction to salivate at the thought, despite knowing he’d get none.
No, Harry always left twenty minutes earlier that Dudley for school, St Oliver Plunket was only a fifteen-minute drive away from Privet Drive, but Harry was never driven to school, he always walked, no matter the weather, so he has to leave earlier as to not be late and receive a detention.
Arriving at the large green gates of his school, Harrys met with the familiar sight of fellow students arriving at school, cars at the drop off points, children moping about, some arriving from trips to the nearby spar, little primary ones crying and clinging to their mothers legs, not wanting to go, a sea of green funnelling into the doors all the same.
Harry didn’t have anyone to talk to on the way in. He’d never really had friends, Dudley liked to guarantee this, but then again, Harry would be singled out at St Oliver’s anyways, Harry was the only year seven who’s skin wasn’t white.
Harry doesn’t know much about why this is, but he knows he surely got it from his father, his mother is Aunt petunias sister, after all, and despite all her tanning, her skin remains a placid, milky sort of tone, so Harry was sure that it must be from his father, though he knew nothing about him.
People acted like it was no big deal, the slogan of the nineties was “I can’t even SEE race”, which harry found stupid, frankly. They could see, and it’s half the reason people know who he is. Still, his peers aren’t nearly as mean as Uncle Vernon, calling him dirty, saying that his mother made a mistake going around with a “good for nothing, leeching migrant”. When Uncle Vernon said things like that, Harry felt a little like crying, or screaming, or both at once.
Thinking about it made his stomach curl tightly in a mixture of anger and anxiety, so he decided not to think about it, instead making his way to his form classroom, taking his seat at the table closest to the window, where he’s been seated since the start of year Seven.
He sits down, rummaging through his old, beaten schoolbag, finally pulling out his book, and suddenly he’s sucked into the world of Frodo Baggins, his quests with the fellowship of the ring, devouring every word as though he’s been starved of it.
He didn’t care much about what was going on, this year, Dudley and his cronies were in a different class, so he wouldn’t be tormented all day, Dudley was 7b, Harry is 7c, so he’s left alone during class time, although during lunch and break, he was still tormented by Dudley and his big, burly friends.
He was remotely aware that everyone else in his class had entered by now, and usually, Miss Kelly was already tacking the register, and telling them to get out their math’s books, writing about fractions on the whiteboard.
However, no teacher had arrived, and as such, his class was getting rowdier, clearly taking their five minutes of free reign over the class with nothing but chaos in mind. While harry wasn’t too bothered with what they got up to, he found the noise rather grating, unable to focus on what Gandalf the Grey was saying with all the noise.
Suddenly, there was a scuffle, as the door to the class opens, students flurrying to try to look innocent as the principal enters the room, looking around sternly.
Mrs Flemming was a strict woman, hair short and almost boyish, thin, mousey brown around her heart shaped face, dressed in a smart suit, a simple wedding band on her finger, plain gold, no diamonds or jewels like the other married teachers had, face pulled into a frown, as though she had been sucking on a lemon shortly before.
Following behind her was a man Harry had never seen before. He was tall, taller than Uncle Dursley, and even Mrs Flemming, but rather thin, a little sickly, as if he was recovering from a bad bout of flu. Most noticeable, however, were the scars, mapping out across his skin, thin strips of silver fading into his skin, but his face appeared friendly, warm, as though you could trust this strange man with all your troubles, if a bit tired looking.
The class fell into a hushed sort of curiosity, although there was still confused whispering between tables. Harry didn’t bother with listening, it was just getting good, but then Mrs Flemming cleared her throat, staring around the class.
“7c,if I could have your attention, please.” She said, although it wasn’t a request as much as it was an expectant demand. He sighs, closing his book, tucking his bookmark -an old receipt from shopping with Aunt Petunia- into his page, chiming in dully with the grumbled “good morning Mrs Flemming” along with the rest of the class.
“Good morning, year seven. As I’m sure you noticed, Miss Kelly is absent today, and I’m very sorry to say that due to an emergency, she has to leave us. Luckily, we’ve found you a new teacher. This is Mr Lupin, he’ll be in charge of you from now on.” There's a stunned pause, before it devolves into shocked whispers across the room. Chris in the corner whispered “the wicked witch is dead” to his friend, before finally, the principal clears her throat. “Would we like to welcome Mr lupin?” she asks, the irritation in her voice clear, and they snap back into it, murmuring an uncertain “Good morning, Mr Lupin.”
The man in question smiled rather meekly, finally speaking. “Good morning to you too, Year seven. I hope that we’ll get along quite nicely.” He hummed, his voice wasn’t from around here, he was English, for certain, but it was a mixture of something from a rougher part of the country, melted in with a posh enunciation of his words.
Dark, hazel eyes searched the classroom, investigating each face with calm curiosity, Harry couldn’t help but feel as though Mr Lupin went back for a double take on him, but mentally slaps himself, what would the new teacher have to do with a nobody like Harry?
“I expect you shall all be on your best behaviour for Mr Lupin, year seven, if I hear anything about misbehaviour, your whole class will be banned from the Halloween party on the last day before break, do I make myself clear?” she says, and the class quickly mumbles out a “yes, Mrs Flemming.” In unison, no one wanting to miss out on fruit punch and the ghostbusters’ theme on repeat.
With that, Mrs Flemming nods, turning sharply on her patent heel, marching out of the classroom, and Mr Lupin smiles.
“Well, then, what do we say about some cheesy get to know me’s?” He asks, grinning, producing a pile of those annoying get to know me pages, with blank lines for students to fill in, their hobbies, a special talent, all that boring stuff. “I’m sure they’re better than fractions. Would anyone like to hand these out?”
Harry kept his eyes down, while a few other students raised their hands, and began handing the pages out to their classmates, Harry stares down at the page, pondering over what his hobbies are.
He likes watching the Saturday morning cartoons when he can, usually when everyone’s in a good mood and he can sit on the floor and watch them, Dudley propped up on the sofa like a king, laughing through mouthfuls of buttery popcorn as teenage mutant ninja turtles plays in front of him. But watching telly isn’t exactly a hobby.
Harry really tries to think, but nothing he does is particularly hobby-worthy, he cleans, and cooks, because Aunt Petunia makes him, but that’s not something he enjoys, and if he wrote that down, all the other boys would call him a poof, or something equally horrid.
He comes to the conclusion that he’s just very boring, writing “reading” as a last resort, after all, he does enjoy reading, when he finds a good book, such as the Lord of the Rings.
Finally, Mr Lupin collects the pages in after about five minutes, he had purposefully shuffled the pages, so he could try to match the name and little facts to a face, Harry thought this was an awful lot of effort to get to know a bunch of ten year olds, but he’d take it over fractions.
“Let’s see.. Wendy? You like to play lacrosse, and your favourite thing is your dog?” Mr Lupin reads out, glancing up around the room, Wendy's friends giggle and nudge her, and Remus’s eyes twinkle. “Er... Are you the Wendy in question?” He asks Reyna, who shakes her head, laughing.
After a few more guesses, he finds Wendy, who laughs at him for taking so long, and Mr Lupin just apologies, laughing himself.
“Maybe I’m not as good at this as I thought, oh, well. David? Reading comics, hmm? And your favourite food is bangers and mash? Wise choice, David, let’s see, then...”
By the time he’s halfway through the class, Harry has grown bored, finding the game incredibly dull and boring, returning to his book, ignoring the sound of Lupin’s guessing games and his classmate’s laughter and tips.
Finally, he hears his name.
“Harry, a reader! Well, I think that one is quite obvious.” Mr Lupin says, suddenly in front of Harrys desk, a bemused grin on his face, Harry glances up from his book, feeling his ears go a little pink.
“Oh, er... Yes, sir.” He says, making a face that he hopes is pleasant, Mr Lupin nods, smiling. “First try! The fellowship of the ring is a wonderful book, Harry, you’re a man of taste.” Lupin says, before wandering off, reading his next slip, now searching for Amanda.
Once Mr Lupin finished, he finally called the class to attention, ruining the atmosphere that they could chat as much as they wanted.
“Alright, settle down. Time to actually get on with some work, everyone. If you could please take out your math’s books, your title is converting fractions.”
All throughout class, Harry doesn’t bother with much, but he still answers the questions set for him in his textbook. It’s fairly easy stuff, just putting the fractions into decimals or percentages, and Mr Lupin is a good teacher, never seeming to get irritated with people who don’t understand, and setting them a very small homework task for Thursday.
Finally, the bell for lunch rings, and there’s the usual scuffle for escape throughout the class, people grabbing lunch boxes from their bags, or money from their coats in the cubbies, Harry hanging back, tempted to ask to stay in the class to hide from Dudley, Miss Kelly had always allowed Harry to stay and read so long as he was quiet, but he was unsure with Mr Lupin, so not wanting to push his luck, Harry grabbed his book and wandered off down the corridor, wondering where he could go.
Going to the lunch room was stupid for a multitude of reasons, for one, he didn’t even have any lunch money, so he wouldn’t be able to get anything to eat, and besides, Dudley was in there, going in would be a death sentence, giving himself up to have milk poured into his hair and lumpy mashed potatoes flicked at him.
He opted instead to settle outside behind the PE shed, not somewhere students were allowed by any means, they had to stay in the courtyard where the meager park set was, but Dudley was too hefty to slip through the fence, so Harry was relatively safe from harm, settling on the damp ground cross-legged, opening his book, finding himself back in the world of middle-earth, as Frodo finds himself making his way through the abandoned dwarf city.
Unfortunately, his lunch period was never long enough, and soon enough, Harry was back at his deck, as Mr Lupin starts to talk about creative writing, saying that they’d be practicing writing short stories based on the prompt of “Dogs”, written on the board in Mr Lupins rather messy writing.
Harry didn’t mind English, really, but he’d rather read his book than write something about dogs. Why couldn’t the prompt be wizards? Or magic? Or the ring to rule them all. Even if Mr Lupin had said the prompt was Halloween, Harry could’ve made it work.
Instead, he wrote a story about some stupid dogs that lived in a dog cave or...something. Harry isn’t too sure of where he’s going with this story, the only thing he wants to think of is Legolas and Gimli-
“Oh, occurred has two c’s and two r’s, Harry.” Mr Lupin comments in passing, and Harry tenses, keeping his eyes down, nodding.
“Sorry.” He mumbles, frowning, he’d been feeling progressively more groggy and irritated, considering that he hasn’t eaten since supper last night. “No problem, easy mistake.” Mr Lupin smiles encouragingly, but all Harry sees is pity, the hunger and annoyance churning in his stomach, as he glances towards the clock, just an hour left until home time, then Harry would do his chores, and finally eat, he couldn’t care less what Aunt Petunia gives him to eat, so long as it’s something.
As the end of the day came, Harry eagerly packed up his things, being sure to stuff his book into the very bottom of his back, hoping his aunt and uncle wouldn’t go through it and find the book.
“Well, then, you’ve all worked wonderfully for me, considering it’s only our first day together, year seven. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Mr Lupin said, clapping his hands together, looking pleased.
“Ah-“ he chuckles, quickly stopping Tom and his friend Bill from slipping out early, sighing, gesturing them back to their desks. “Bell hasn’t rung yet, boys, I can’t let you out just yet.” The two boys didn’t look too pleased, but reluctantly returned to their desks.
Finally, the bell rang, and the class quickly joined the sea of students pouring out of the corridors, pushing and shoving, whining about busses and missing what’s on the telly, Harry hanging back to stay a good three strides away from Dudley, who was busy trying to shake a P3 down for her leftover lunch money.
Once Harry was back in the house, he was slightly pink around the cheeks and nose from the October cold, lips chapped and dry, and he didn’t have the self-control to refrain from licking them over and over, only worsening the problem.
Mr Dursley wasn’t to be home until at least five, and it was quarter to four, so Harry has about an hour and fifteen minutes to sort out all his chores, or else face a scolding. Aunt Petunia had his work cut out for him, as always.
Dishes, firstly, scrubbing and rinsing and drying, until his skin was red and raw from the soap and hot water, fingers slightly pruned, water split down his front, glasses fogged slightly from the steam, then he dried them off with a tea towel, before neatly putting them away back into their places in the cupboards -he was made to do this twice, because the first time looked “sloppy.”-
Then it was mopping the floors, making sure to get in every corner of the floor, till they were shining and slightly slippery, windows open to let in a breeze to dry them quicker, Aunt petunia nodding approvingly, occasionally snapping at him about “missed spots”, Harry wasn’t sure if there actually were any missed spots, but he didn’t have the nerve to say that aloud, so went over the imaginary dirt all the same.
After mopping, he dusted each and every shelf and picture, going over the photos on the mantle until they shined, wet rag running over a small, wailing Dudley’s face.
Harry yawns, polishing off a family portrait, not a single picture contained Harry, making him feel more like a spirit, a hidden secret to be ashamed of. There was also none containing his mother. When Harry was young, maybe six, he’d asked for a photo of his parents for a family project, and had been backhanded so hard he fell, so Harry was rather put-off with the idea of asking about his parents.
He dusts over the display cabinet, with pretty little trinkets, figures of angels that Aunt Petunia collects, a picture of her and Mr Vernon’s wedding day, some of Uncle Vernon’s finer whiskey, which he seems to hold no interest in drinking, rather keeping it there to show off. There was also, of course, the tiny band that had been around a new-born Dudley Dudley’s wrist in the hospital, and some fake, plastic flowers, all of which was carefully polished and dusted, then placed back inside.
By the time Harry was done, his feet ached, and he could feel the familiar tension of a headache coming on, rubbing his eyes hard, just to see the pictures painted into his retinas from the force, staring at the swirling, colourful, spotty waves in his eyes, the pressure somehow easing the dull ache in his temples, he lets out a slow, exhausted sigh, sounding awful old for eleven.
Once Aunt Petunia had critically observed all of his work, she decided, mercifully, that he was permitted to go into his cupboard and do homework until dinner, and Harry gratefully made his way to his cupboard, clicking on the light, the bulb wasn’t doing too well, considering the flickering, but Harry didn’t mind much, curling up on his bed, math’s book on his lap, converting fractions to percentages without much thought, it really was quite easy.
Six over ten was sixty percent, four and a half over ten was forty five percent, blah, blah blah...
“Potter!”
He heard the loud, familiar shout of Uncle Vernon calling him, sighing, he sits up, leaving his math’s on his bed, reluctantly venturing into the sitting room, where Mr Dursley was propped up on his armchair, feet crossed languidly on the pouffe, sipping at his usual after work brandy.
“Yes, Uncle Vernon?” Harry asks timidly, standing in the doorway, feeling rather hesitant to enter, hoping he’s not in trouble. “Bring me the remote, boy, I need to change the channel.” Vernon barks, pointing lazily at the Tv remote, which rested on the coffee table, Uncle Vernon could very easily grab it, if he just bothered to sit up, but Harry wasn’t going to criticize him, dutifully grabbing the remote and handing it to him.
Uncle Vernon hates top of the pops, Harry found he didn’t mind it, he liked seeing the people, or hearing the music, but Vernon called it a “ridiculous display” and always turned it off. The channel was changed in an instant, and Uncle Vernon happily settled down to watch a news broadcast about weather and politics and all that boring rubbish, deciding he was no longer needed, Harry made his way back to his cupboard, sighing.
By the time his homework was finished, supper was ready, and Harry found himself starving, holding back from eating like a wild animal, managing to slow down a little, as he cheerfully picks up his spoon, ready to dig into the hot, steaming stew in front of him, however, Aunt Petunia had other things in mind, demanding a prayer before they begin, the four of them holding hands, Aunt Petunia muttering a whole load of nonsense, Harry doesn’t know why it matters, really, despite being forced to Sunday school and church every Sunday, but he mumbles along anyways, because he wasn’t allowed to eat if he didn’t, and Harry would pray to whoever it took so long as he got to fill the pit in his stomach.
Harry finished his meal quickly, he was so very tempted to ask for a second helping, but didn’t have the guts to do so, knowing that he could end up shouted to bed, and decided not to push his luck, today had been yell-free, he wanted to finish the evening on a good note, so instead, he cleared up the table, feeling heavy and sleepy from the food, but still managing to power through the washing up, finally, feeling dead on his feet, he excused himself to bed, receiving no protest from his Aunt and Uncle, Petunia busy gossiping about how the neighbours daughter was pregnant and didn’t know who the father was, and Uncle Vernon poured over that days crossword.
The calm felt fragile, already cracking, as though it was just to fill in the in-between space for the screaming, the slamming, but Harry was long since used to the tension in every room, the anxiety curled deep in his gut, the little voice, often cruel, warning Harry not to do this and how exactly to do that, in an obsessive, protective commentary.
Shut in his cupboard, Harry swiftly changed into his pyjamas, well, it was just an old shirt and joggers, but they were comfortable and he had mostly washed the smell of Dudley off them, so they were the best Harry could get.
Curling up in bed, he hunkers down under his meager, rather scratchy blanket, tucking his feet in, feeling that usual chill setting in, already dreading the state that December would be, numb fingers, frozen feet, seeing his own breath most mornings.
He decides to risk a little more reading, pouring over his book with drooping eyes, occasionally sitting up and pushing his glasses back up on his eyes, yawning, head lolling every so often, eventually giving into the warm, tempting offer of sleep in his mind, faceplanting into the pages, glasses digging into his face, sure to leave dents the following morning, not that Harry cared, all that mattered now was sleep.