Chapter Text
Nearly ten years had passed since Mr. and Mrs. Dursley-Evans had hidden in a rose bush to spy upon Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall – look, it’s a story for another time – and Aspen Avenue had changed quite a bit. It was evident in the way the sun rose on number one’s vegetable garden, which had doubled in size, and now included potatoes, carrots, tomatoes, cherry tomatoes, romaine, arugula, kale, basil, thyme, rosemary, an apple tree, an orange tree, and a strawberry patch. The sunlit up the copper number one on the Dursley’s front door, which had gained a patina of stains and character. The leaves diffused the light that crept into their living room, which had more bookshelves and easels and a baby grand piano now. The sofas were worn, the upholstery faded from use, and the hardwood floors had aged as well, now a dark oak shade.
The photographs on the mantlepiece of the living room only helped to show how much time had passed. Ten years ago, there had been lots of pictures of what looked like a smear of oil paint on canvas, the photographs’ subject moving too fast to be captured. Now, however, Darius Dursley-Evans was no longer a baby, and the photographs showed a less-blurry smear riding his first bicycle with a raven-haired boy, the two of them on a carousel at the fair, playing a computer game together; being hugged and kissed by Mrs. Dursley-Evans.
It was obvious that two boys were living in the home, from the baby pictures, preschool class photos, and family portraits that were all on the mantle. Hung there, as well, was an unfinished family portrait, with three Dursley-Evanses painted in wide, broad strokes, and a baby Harry. But against the portrait’s richly painted tones was a glaring white expanse of canvas, a space where Lily and James Potter were supposed to be painted. The stark white of the empty space was dusty, now, and it looked like the painting would never be completed, instead staying in its unfinished current state for eternity.
Both Harry Potter-Dursley-Evans and Darius Dursley-Evans were still in that home, asleep at the moment, but not for long. Petunia – Harry’s aunt and Darius’ mother – was humming in the kitchen as she cracked four eggs in a pan – Crr! Crr! Crr! Crr! – each of them a perfect circle. The humming reached the boys’ bedroom, and it was the melodic tune of breakfast preparation that was the first sound within the home.
Harry and Darius woke up slowly, the sound of rashers of bacon sizzling in a pan – tssssssss – being added to one of eggs being fried – shtss! Harry heard her walking in the kitchen, whisking together eggs, flour, sugar, milk, butter, baking powder, a pinch of salt, and a teaspoon of vanilla extract, the whisk’s whokp whokp whokp whokp sound in time with her humming. Harry rolled onto his back and tried to remember the dream he had been having before the smell of eggs and bacon awoke him. It had been a good one. There had been a flying motorcycle in it. He had a funny feeling he’d had the same dream before.
His aunt was now pouring the pancake batter into another, third pan, and it was here that she first called out the boys. “Harry! Darius! Breakfast is almost ready!” Harry suddenly straightened his back, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and pulled on a pair of socks. When he was fully dressed he rushed down to the kitchen while Darius fell back into slumber. Aunt Petunia was flipping the first pancake with a spatula in her right hand while simultaneously frying eggs with her left. She worriedly glanced at the second pan on the range, which had several rashers of bacon. She looked like she wanted to grow a third arm to handle that, an arm going straight from her abdomen. “Aunt Petunia, I’ll look after the bacon, you really need to focus on those pancakes. And the eggs. Actually, scratch that, I’ll take the bacon and eggs, you deal with the pancakes.”
Aunt Petunia sighed with relief, smiling at her nephew. “What would I ever do without you? You’re like the second son I never had. Ooh, careful there with the bacon, I want it to be perfect on Darius’ birthday.”
Harry stood still in shock, the pans in his hands unmoving as the bacon’s tssss grew in volume and the eggs’ yolk became less and less runny, the shtss turning into a Ptss! Ptss! Ptss! “Harry! The bacon! The eggs! The pancakes! The birthday! The parliament! The queen!” Aunt Petunia began to shriek, snapping Harry from his shock. He quickly transferred the bacon to a plate with a paper towel and gently slid the egg as well onto the plate, as his aunt continued shrieking, “The garden! The pans! The dishes! The paint! The canvas!” while somehow subconsciously managing to slide the pancake onto the plate as well. Harry chuckled lightly to himself at his aunt’s shrieks, until she grabbed both of his arms and shrieked the loudest, “Harry! THE GIFT!!” Harry took that opportunity to grab a rasher of bacon still in the pan and stuck it in Aunt Petunia’s mouth to shut her up. “MumPHuuRtALi-” she muffled out, still shrieking. Finally, with an audible ungh, she swallowed the bacon. “My, now that was tasty! Great job, Harry! But whatever shall we do about Darius’ gift?”
“Well, I don’t know about you and Uncle Vernon, but I’ve already gotten Darius one,” Harry laughed, pouring more pancake batter into the pan and frying a rasher of bacon in the other.
“Well, it’s not as if we haven’t gotten him a gift – we’ve just forgotten where it is!” she said, exasperated.
“Have you checked under the table?”
Aunt Petunia walked to the dining room, peered under the white linen, and smiled.
“It’s there isn’t it?” Harry called out from the kitchen, not bothering to turn from the trio of pans on the range.
“Yes, Harry. Once again, Aunt Petunia’s lost item is under the table.”
Along with Darius’ gift, Aunt Petunia also encountered a tube of lipstick – Mac Ruby Woo, the alt key from the family computer, and a single pearl earring which upon closer inspection was one of her great-great-great-grandmother’s prized heirlooms. She sighed, collecting the items in her hands, and placed the gift on the top of the table.
“What would we ever do without you, Harry?” Aunt Petunia smiled, putting on the pearl earring – the other one was on her left ear already.
“Probably lose the entire house under that damned table, if you ask me.”
“We wouldn’t lose the whole house! Just the furniture. And our clothes. And the kitchen. And the- oh well, perhaps we would lose the whole house.”
Harry slid another perfect sunny side up onto another plate along with the bacon and pancakes and grinned at his breakfast. He was rather quite good at cooking, he decided – it was just like chemistry, or as his writer of a science teacher said, “potion-making”.
“What is it with our family and that table, anyway?” Harry asked, balancing the plate along with three others, bringing them to the dining room.
“Well you see – well you see, first, hand me two of those plates, they’re going to topple,” Aunt Petunia began, before taking the two plates from Harry’s forearms. “Ever since you and Darius used that house as a fort – and a rather nice fort, I might add – as little toddlers, everything we’ve lost or needed has been under that table!” Aunt Petunia whispered conspiratorially, leaning in.
“And ever since then, the magical land of Fortable has never been found again,” Harry chuckled, remembering the fort he and Darius had in fact, built, so many years ago. Harry had heard the story many, many times, but it never got old, and it always amused him how vivid Darius’ memories of their land of make-believe.
Aunt Petunia and Harry’s nostalgia was interrupted by a baritone voice melodically making its way down the stairs. “No more talk of darkness; forget these wide-eyed fears, I’m here, nothing can harm you, my words will warm and calm youuuuu!” Uncle Vernon’s voice slowly increased in volume as he entered the dining room, a form-fitting black leotard obvious under his white V-neck and ripped skinny jeans. “No more talk of darkness indeed! What a beautiful breakfast!” Uncle Vernon roared, clapping Harry on the back and kissing Aunt Petunia. “I just hope that the birthday boy will be here in time… I might finish all of this before he even gets out of bed!” he whispered to Harry, who laughed as Aunt Petunia whacked him on the back of his head. “Now there’ll be none of that. It’s the boy’s birthday, after all.”
Harry glanced at the large gift-wrapped package on the table, which was no bigger than a shoebox. It looked as though Darius had gotten a new pair of trainers, which by all means was fine, but Harry was secretly hoping he had finally gotten the ukulele he had dropping hints about for months. Harry had seen Darius try playing his father’s electric guitar using only the first four strings and had gotten quite good at it. Harry himself was quite adept at classical piano and violin, but he had yet to try his father’s guitar. Darius, on the other hand, was skilled at playing the piano as well but preferred to perform more contemporary, rock pieces. He also borrowed his father’s aforementioned electric guitar often, and he and Harry would duet, Harry on the violin, performing and singing so loudly that the neighbours would complain if it didn’t sound so great. Harry was hopeful that Darius would receive a ukulele – he would love its sound in harmony with his piano. Needless to say, both he and his brother were very musically inclined, thanks to Vernon Dursley, although Harry didn’t quite look the part of established concert-pianist-singer-violinist-painter.
Perhaps it had something to do with being raised in the Dursleys’ rather eccentric home, but Harry had always looked a bit wild for his age. He looked even stranger because he often chose to wear clothes of his own making, with fabrics he had salvaged from the recycling centre and his and Darius’ old clothes. Harry had a slender face, much like Aunt Petunia’s, but he was recognizable by his high cheekbones, elfin jawline, aquiline nose, and lifted brow bone. He had thin, chapped lips that always seemed to be in a friendly smirk as if to say, I know more than you, and that makes me better than you, but I’m the kindest person you will ever meet.
Harry had black, unkempt hair, which grew every which way like a thorny rose bush. About once a week, Harry’s teachers would call him to their office and tell him he needed a haircut. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia appealed against this, of course, citing “creative freedom” and “individuality”. On the rare occasion the Dursleys were unable to argue against the teacher, and Harry did get a haircut, it made no difference: his hair simply grew that way, all over the place.
Harry wore round glasses held together with a lot of Scotch tape because of all the times he had fallen asleep reading, resulting in the glasses snapping in half as his head dropped onto the book he would be engrossed in. Aunt Petunia would insist on having them replaced before, but after the bill for new glasses almost exceeded that of the family’s groceries, she gave up.
One of the things Harry liked about his very own appearance was a very thin scar on his forehead that was shaped like a bolt of lightning. He had it as long as he could remember, and the first question he could ever remember asking his Aunt Petunia was how he had gotten it.
“Someone tried to kill you, once, a long time ago,” she had said. “I can’t say his name – names hold power, you know that, Harry – but he was on the other side of a war your parents had fought in. For some reason, you survived his attempt at murder. But you were left with that scar,” she whispered, stroking his hair. Harry believed the story for a few years, along with the other ones she and Uncle Vernon would tell him, but after a few years he realized they were just fairy-tales – dark, intricately-told fairy-tales, but fictional fairy-takes nonetheless - made up by his Aunt and Uncle, designed to hide him from the truth of his parents’ death. He had done his research – there hadn’t been any wars, at least not in the U.K., in the past few decades, anyway.
Harry, Uncle Vernon, and Aunt Petunia had just finished setting the table when Darius arrived in the dining room. He looked a lot like Uncle Vernon, with an angular jawline and cerulean, piercing eyes. He was a bit bigger than Harry, from joining the school’s soccer team, but he also had the same friendly smirk as Harry, although his was much sunnier, saying, I am kind and trustworthy and loyal and I will defend you, no matter what it takes. Darius’ hair was the complete opposite of Harry’s, a dirty blonde that was always somehow perfectly coiffed, a trait he obviously inherited from his mother. Aunt Petunia often said he could be a movie star one day, what with his father’s dazzling white smile, and Harry had to agree with her.
“Happy birthday, Darius!” the extended Dursley-Evans family harmoniously greeted Darius. The boy was still dressed in his silk pyjama set, not a crinkle on the fabric nor a hair out of place, which seemed highly unnatural for someone who had just woken up but was perfectly normal behaviour with the blondes of the Dursley-Evans household. “Haaaaaa…” Uncle Vernon’s baritone began, signalling the first note. “Haaaaaapy Birthday to you!” he began, with the bass part of the song. “Happy birthday to you!” Harry and Aunt Petunia joined in, blending the bass with a soprano and alto. “Happy Birthday, Dear Darius!” Now all three were singing, and the three voices were in near-perfect harmony. “Happy Birthday to you!” It was here Darius joined in the last line, adding his tenor voice to the mix. The family had, subconsciously, created a perfect Soprano-Alto-Tenor-Bass chorus of the Happy Birthday song, the tones, and notes of their voices in tune after hours of practice. “Well, that was pretty good, if I do say so myself! Although, Petunia darling, you were a little bit flat,” Uncle Vernon cooed at Aunt Petunia. “We both know you were sharp, Vernon, and I was perfectly in tune,” she countered, wrapping her arms around his neck.
“Can we save the romance for later? It’s my birthday, after all!”
Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia separated from their embrace, laughing, as the extended Dursley-Evans family sat down to enjoy their breakfast.
“Darius! Blow out your candles first, sweetie,” Aunt Petunia said, bringing out a stack of 5 pancakes with eleven birthday candles.
“All right, all right mum, don’t worry,” he grumbled, blowing out the candles as Uncle Vernon’s Polaroid camera flashed.
“Perfect shot! This one’s for the mantle!” Uncle Vernon exclaimed, showing everyone the Polaroid.
“Oh, Darius, darling, we do hope you like your present,” Aunt Petunia crooned, gesturing to the shoebox-shaped object in the middle of the table. Uncle Vernon ruffled Darius’ hair as he carefully unwrapped the present, revealing… an actual shoebox.
“A new set of trainers? Well, thanks mum and dad,” Darius smiled, giving Harry a look that said Are they serious?
“Well, open them! We can’t wait to see how they look on you!” Uncle Vernon said, winking at Harry.
It was at that moment that Harry realized the magic his Uncle had performed, and he looked at Darius’ slightly pained smile, giving him a smile of his own, albeit one of expectation and hope. Darius gently opened the shoebox, expecting to see a pair of fashionable but unneeded shoes (because God forbid Vernon Dursley-Evans would have his children be caught not en Vogue) but was instead elated to find a beautiful varnished bamboo ukulele, with brass hardware and an engraving of his initials, V.D.E., on the front.
“A ukulele! It’s just what I wanted!” Darius screeched in awe, standing up and hugging his parents. “Indeed,” Aunt Petunia tittered, “And we’ve gotten it engraved, as well, and the bamboo is responsibly sourced, aiding struggling farmers in Indonesia and the Philippines.”
Harry smiled at his cousin. He had personally been the one to help his Aunt and Uncle pick out the ukulele for Darius. But the surprises weren’t over yet. “Darius? Do you think you’ll only get one gift this year?” Harry smirked mischievously at Darius, hands behind his back. “Well – err… there’s Aunt Marge’s present, right? Mum and Dad probably have it, and Paul is coming over, so maybe he-” Darius’ rambling was cut off as Harry pulled his hands from behind his back, revealing a small box, no bigger than one for an engagement ring. Harry gently placed the box into Darius’ hands. “Open it,” Harry whispered. “I think you’ll quite like it.” Darius, with even more utmost care, gently unwrapped the present, whose wrapping paper proved to be a detailed map of One Aspen Avenue, with all its hiding spots and décor done in full watercolour.
“Harry… the wrapping paper alone… it’s a gift in and in of itself.”
“Well, that’s not the only surprise. Open the box!”
Darius’ was trembling ever so slightly as he opened the box, and within, was a glimmering silver swiss-made mechanical watch with a matching silver Milanese loop; it’s almost silent tick-tock-tick-tock sound filling the air of the dining room. Darius gazed at the watch in awe, which had an almost completely transparent body that showed the inner trappings and workings of the watch, each movement sending at least five gears and seven cogs into motion. “Harry… I can’t accept this… it’s amazing, but… it’s too much.”
Harry pouted at his cousin, obviously irked at his reaction. “Well, come off it now. I spent six months making that watch, I’m not letting it go to waste without you wearing it at least every day,” he complained.
Darius choked on air, sputtering, “You – you – you made this?” He suddenly put the watch back in the box and the box on the table and backed away, almost as if it was a ticking time bomb.
“Well, of course, I made it. None of the watches in the stores were good enough for my cousin,” Harry sniffed, taking the watch and putting it firmly on Darius’ wrist.
Darius Dursley could only watch in shock as his cousin fiddled with the watch’s Milanese loop to secure it onto his wrist.
“There. Nice and secure. What do you think?”
Darius checked the time on the watch, and chuckled, “It looks like it’s half-past gorgeous if that’s what you’re asking.”
Harry beamed at his cousin, obviously proud of his gift. He loved his cousin, very much, because it was almost as if they were brothers – they were raised together, after all. The six months he’d spent on his cousin’s present – six months of hard labour and research, alongside ordering from musty catalogues for watch repairers, had proved to be worth it in the end.
Or had it?