Chapter Text
The letter arrives while Harry is cooking himself breakfast.
The kitchen is quiet, at least until the owl bangs into the window and starts tapping at the glass with its beak. Harry frowns, leaves the meat to sizzle in the pan for a minute, and goes over to check it out.
He’s not unfamiliar with strange things happening, but this is a little… well, he’s never seen an owl carrying a letter before. It’s weird, is all. And specifically, a letter for him? Strange.
Interesting, though.
He cracks the wax seal. It’s soft and brittle under his fingers, an excellent texture to it when it snaps. The paper, too, is stiff and crackly and thicker than normal paper. It smells natural; no chemicals, just a sharp, subtle scent, maybe like pine and herbs? Along with the meat cooking right now, it tickles Harry’s nose and filles his lungs with something faintly electric.
Swivelling on the balls of his feet, Harry pads over to the kitchen table and hops onto a stool. His feet leave a trail on the linoleum.
Mr H. Potter,
The Basement,
7 Blueridge Avenue,
North Hampton,
New Hampshire
Well, it’s got the address down right. Down to where he slept the night, even. How scary.
How curious.
Hary smiles and opens it.
The bloody footsteps on the floor gleam wetly in the morning light.
*
There is a kitchen. It’s a clean kitchen. The main colors are white, lemon-yellow, and silver. The owner of this kitchen takes pride in how well-kept it is.
The person who does all the actual work takes a slightly more pessimistic view of it. That being, it’s a fucking chore to keep clean.
It’s a clean kitchen. There’s no place for muddy footprints in it. The garden outside, full of damp earth from the latest bout of rain, is a much better place to be muddy, Aunt Petunia says.
Harry agrees. He agrees very much. In fact, there’s nothing more he’d like to do than clean up mud that should be outside and not inside where he has to get the mop and clean the water in freezing cold water because his fucking relatives won’t let him warm up water to stop his hands from literally freezing into ice blocks. Well. Not literally, but.
But nooo, of course Dudley had to go and play outside, and of course he couldn’t be bothered to wipe his feet, and of course Harry, despite in no way shape or form having anything to do with this at all, gets blamed for it.
And now he has to do it quickly or the roast in the oven will burn. And then he’ll get blamed for that too. Harry sighs and kneels down to start scrubbing it.
The smells of roasting pork fill the air. Onions, and potatoes, and garlic, all mingling together with the juices of the meat to create a tantalizing aroma of pure fucking decadence. Harry’s stomach growls.
Just one bite. Tonight, he’ll try to reach that goal: just one taste of the meal he’s made, the creamy salad and roast and chocolate brownies all. A little bit of everything… it’s not too much to ask for! The salad won’t be hard to get, no one on the Dursley side of the family likes any plants, and his aunt doesn’t eat much at all.
The other things, though… ah, that’ll be difficult. Normally, Harry would at least get the scraps off the bones, but with Aunt Marge visiting, that’s gone down the drain… or rather, down the gullet of Ripper, her awful stupid dog.
Even the other scraps he usually manages to get are being given to the little bastard, so Harry’s even hungrier than usual.
…speak of the devil.
Ripper the bulldog pokes his squashed face from behind the doorframe and growls at Harry. Harry growls back. The bite mark on his leg throbs painfully, the fruit of yesterday’s labor. He’d spent an entire hour up in a tree after dinner, while his relatives laughed at him from the garden.
It had been cold, too.
Where the beast goes, the master is sure to follow, and true to form Aunt Marge appears soon after, simpering over her ‘baby boy’ with a wide smile on her face—one that drops as soon as she spots Harry.
He keeps his face neutral, going back to wiping the floors, in the hope that she’ll just ignore him. Well, it should work sometimes, right?
Nope.
“You,” the woman sneers, face scrunching into something about as squashed as her inbred dogs. “What did you do? Even my Ripper doesn’t track in mud. But I suppose some mutts just can’t be taught,” she smirks.
Harry catches the tip of his tongue between his teeth. Fuck you.
He says nothing. It was Dudley. It wasn’t him. It doesn’t matter. He’ll take the blame anyway.
“What’s cooking?” she asks rudely, strolling into the kitchen—and right through the puddle of muddy water Harry’s bent over.
He grits his teeth.
“Roast pork,” he mutters, and her cane swings down to rap his skull. Harry flinches in surprise.
“Don’t take that attitude with me, boy,” Marge snaps. “God, look at you. Ungrateful little thing, aren’t you? Here you are, in a warm house, while thousands of children are freezing out in the cold somewhere. If you have the nerve to complain, get to work cooking our food. I see Petunia’s trained you a little better than last year, eh?”
Biting his lip until it bleeds, Harry bends down and focuses on the mud, scrubbing ruthlessly until the floor shines.
In a way, it’s better when Aunt Marge gets him alone. With his relatives, she’s more… performative. Aggressive. Here alone, she’s more relaxed, casual… which also means that she talks more. And Harry hates it when she talks. Uncle Vernon yanks him around and Aunt Petunia gives him chores but Marge is… cruel.
“Auntie!” Footsteps pound on the staircase as Dudley stampedes down, clutching a box in his hands. Harry makes a face out of sight of Marge. He’s been really, really insufferable ever since Christmas, rubbing it into Harry’s face at literally every opportunity he gets that yes, Harry is an orphan, and yes, his relatives hate him enough to go out of their way to give him a fucking coat hanger, and yes! He’ll never have family who can buy him all the toys he wants! It’s a no-brainer! If Harry had literally any other option he wouldn’t be here with the fucking Dursleys! Captain Obvious strikes again!
The water in the bucket steams. Harry blinks and darts a glance up, but no one’s noticed, so her plunges his hands inside and sighs at the blessed warmth. Ahh…
“What is it, Dudders?” Marge coos, and Dudley beams wide and smug.
“I wanna try out my remote-controlled car! I bet it’s faster than Ripper can run!”
“Oho, so you want to play with us, then?” She bends down and picks the dog up. “What do you say, Rippy-poo? Want to play with Dudley? Oh yes you do! Good boy! Who’s a good boy!”
Harry rolls his eyes. No one notices. Really, the one good thing about these two Dursleys are the fact that they’re unobservant enough a meteorite could probably miss them by two feet without them noticing. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon are much more attentive to any mistakes he makes.
Oh. Speaking of mistakes. He should get the roast out of the oven before it burns.
“You, boy!”
He startles when Marge barks at him, glancing back warily. Ah, did she notice the steaming water? Why’s she—
Marge scowls. “Once you’re done with cooking, go upstairs and take the fur coats down from the attic,” she snaps. “Honestly, what is Vernon thinking? Hiking in this weather? All that Jack Daniels is turning his brain to mush.” She turns, waddling out of the kitchen.
Harry exhales carefully. Right. The hiking trip. Well, it’s some work thing at a resort somewhere in north England but he wasn’t paying much attention, so. The only things Harry really cares about is when they’ll be leaving and how long they’ll be gone, since he’s staying at Mrs Figg’s.
He likes staying at her place. When the Dursleys went to the beach last year, he spent a glorious week of summer, able to do what he wants and eat until he’s full. No cupboard at all! She’d barely noticed him, but she’d still fed him, and there were so many cats.
Considering she’s the kindest person he’s ever interacted with, Harry’s looking forward to staying with her again. It’ll be for just a few days, though, so he’s going to make it count! Maybe it’ll even snow and he can make a snowman!
The roast slides out of the oven, brown and tender and crisp on the outside. Caramelized onions and potatoes glisten on the sides. Saliva pools in Harry’s mouth.
Just a bit. A single potato. A slice of onion. Maybe even some of the char flaking off the meat, soaked in the juices—
“BOY!”
Harry sighs.
He does pop a potato into his mouth and chew furiously, but that’s all the time he has before Uncle Vernon storms into the kitchen, grabs his shoulder, and drags him up the stairs. His fingers dig painfully into Harry’s arm, no doubt leaving bruises.
The man tosses him into the wall. Harry grips his arm and stares up at his face—ears, not eyes, because he doesn’t like looking into their eyes. They still want him to, though, to show ‘respect’, so he settles for pretending.
“Coats,” Uncle Vernon clips out. “Get ‘em down, dust them on the porch, pack them into the blue suitcase. Then serve dinner. Understand?”
Harry nods. Uncle Vernon snorts and strides away.
When his footsteps fade away down the stairs, Harry relaxes. Ahh, a man of few words, his uncle. Only to Harry, though. When in better company, i.e. his coworkers, bosses, family, friends—the man goes on and on and on, puffing up his own ego and pandering to others’.
He’d be surprised to know how much Harry can hear from inside the cupboard. It’s useful, albeit a pain when the dinner parties stretch on late into the night.
“Inside voices…” Harry sighs, and then snickers. “Who’s that? Never heard of her.”
The attic makes him sneeze, dust swirling in the air with each step. Harry cranes his neck back, just barely catching sight of the box labelled ‘COATS’. It’s barely legible through the dust.
A spider scuttles out from between boxes when he reaches out to try and climb the pile. It’s large and hairy and could easily sprawl over his palm, so it’s perfectly reasonable for Harry to yelp and jerk back.
“Oh, gross, gross, gross—fuck.” He stares up at the box wall with narrowed eyes. “Now would be a good time to do something freakish, Harry. Make the box float down… or just knock them all down,” he mutters. “I don’t even care at this point.”
He gets them down eventually, well aware that he’s working on a time limit: dinner. It’s not like his relatives could be expected to serve themselves, right?
Ha ha… ha.
“I can’t wait to go to Mrs Figg’s,” he sighs into the dust.
*
“What do you mean she can’t take him?” Aunt Petunia screeches.
Uncle Vernon sighs irritably, mustache twitching. Dudley watches from the sofa with growing discontent.
“She’s sick, apparently. Very contagious. Won’t leave the house.” The man clicks his tongue. “Apparently, she refused to go to hospital, even to see a doctor. Anyways, the old bat can’t take the boy for our trip. He’ll have to come with us.”
“What?” Dudley whines. “But Dad, he can’t come! He’ll ruin everything, he always does! I don’t want him to come!”
Harry snorts. You were just going to hang out in the resort room and watch TV all day, lingers at the tip of his tongue. What would I ruin, your popcorn and sugar induced frenzy that makes you break the screen?
“I’m telling you, just drop him off at some orphanage and save yourselves the trouble,” Marge crows, already halfway into her third glass of wine. “He’s like a sickly pup, you know? If they’re not born right, they’ll just cause you more and more trouble as time goes on, and then they up and die despite all the effort you’ve put into keeping ‘em alive!”
Harry, sitting hidden behind the doorframe to the kitchen, sighs and knocks his head back against the wall softly. Again with the dog comparisons. He’s getting tired of them. He’s also getting a little sick of how well they fit.
“No, we can’t,” Petunia says absently. “Honestly, Marge. What would the neighbors think?”
“They’d think you’ve finally tossed him out like you should have,” his least favorite aunt says nastily. “Little delinquent won’t be missed, will he?” Not that there’s much competition, but at least Aunt Petunia ignores him more than she singles him out.
“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Uncle Vernon says good-naturedly, jokingly. “Not nearly enough time to make sure he can’t come back!”
They laugh, loudly and boisterously. Harry pokes his head out from behind the door and looks at them, and—
It’s just the perfect picture of a family, isn’t it? The parents and child and aunt, all laughing together with a full, delicious meal on the table, in a warm, cozy room. There’s a fire crackling in the fireplace. The wind blows outside, winter-cold and biting, but it can’t reach the little golden bubble they’re in right now.
The floor where Harry is sitting is cold. He stares at the picture-perfect scene for a long moment.
Then he gets up, goes to the fridge, and starts eating the leftovers of lunch. They were meant to be had for breakfast tomorrow, before they left for the trip. Right now he doesn’t care.
Harry doesn’t care that he’s not supposed to eat from the Dursley’s food beyond what they give him. He’s had a single potato and a handful of lettuce and he’s still so hungry. Let them scream at him for eating their food. At least he’ll be full when he’s locked in the cupboard.
Or, oh, wait! The trip is tomorrow. So it doesn’t matter whether they find another person to watch him or they take him along, they can’t shove him into the cupboard for more than a night!
Harry grins. Ah, isn’t it lovely when his relatives are foiled by their own previous actions? Another win for longform karma! They absolutely did not predict that their tales about the delinquent nephew of Number Four Privet Drive would end with them having no one who wanted to so much as look at him, let alone watch him for days.
“BOY!” Uncle Vernon barks. Despite himself, Harry flinches, quickly and quietly putting the empty Tupperware into the sink. “Get the dessert, what are you waiting for?”
Hmm. Harry eyes up the delicious, sugary squares. Can he—no. No need to push his luck.
But, damn, those smell good. And there definitely won’t be any left over with the gluttons three sitting at the table over there.
“I WANT DESSERT!” Dudley screams from the table. “HURRY UP!”
Harry sighs.
*
“Boy!”
Harry shoots upright, panting. There was—in his dream, blurry and foggy, there had been someone. Red hair and green eyes laughter. Warmth.
Aunt Petunia bangs on the door again, dust slithers down from the ceiling of the cupboard, and the impression, the memory of a warmer place, fades away. Harry blinks sluggishly.
“UP!” his aunt barks, rapping the door a third time for good measure, before stalking off.
Harry gives the door a testing push with his foot. It creaks open. Good, she remembered to unlock it, then.
Putting on his glasses, he crawls to the door and pokes his head out. The hallway is dark, but the kitchen light is on, and there’s noise upstairs. A glance at Dudley’s watch says it’s four in the morning, so that explains the darkness. Aunt Petunia is bustling around in the kitchen and living room, going over her luggage, so he stumbles out and into the bathroom.
It’s so nice to have a warm bath! No one’s used up the hot water yet, so Harry gets to have a steaming hot five minutes of bliss before his aunt starts banging on the door again, demanding he get out.
Scrubbing his ratty, torn towel over his hair, Harry opens the door and immediately rears back from the bag thrust into his face. He peers up at Aunt Petunia.
“What’s this?” he asks warily. Is he supposed to pack it, or…?
“It’s your bag,” she snaps. “Put your things in it. There’s a change of clothes inside, so put those on too. I’m not having you run around in those rags in front of Vernon’s colleagues and bosses. And can you try to do something about that hair? It might match your daily clothes, but if you’re wearing good clothes then try to make an effort to look normal, will you?” she sneers.
Harry huffs. “I’m not the one who made them into rags,” he mutters. Aunt Petunia cuffs him over the head for that comment.
“Don’t talk back,” she orders. “Now, get to packing, and then help take the smaller bags to the car. And for god’s sake, remember to clean up after Marge uses the bathroom! Dog hair everywhere.” She hurries off upstairs, grumbling to herself, and Harry snorts. It’s always a tossup over who pisses the woman off the most: Harry or Ripper. Currently Ripper seems to be winning in that race.
The house is quiet. There’s noise, but it’s muffled upstairs; no one else is in the hall, and it remains unlit. Harry pads to the door, opening it and looking outside. It’s dark. The air bites at his nose and cheeks, smelling of car exhaust and snow.
He shivers, shutting the door and retreating back up the hallway. Cold, cold, he’s just wearing a t-shirt and pants! How’s anyone supposed to be outside in this weather?
Now, what to pack?
Well. Flashlight, Dudley’s jacket—damn it, he doesn’t have any warmer clothes, not for the fucking mountains in winter. If he’s going to go on the hike – oh, he really hopes he can. If Uncle Vernon lets him instead of locking him in the room, he wants to walk through the forest! …Even if it means being chased by Ripper.
Hm. The rubix cube he’d scavenged from Dudley’s stuff—seriously, who thought giving that boy a puzzle would be a good idea? Maybe the one book he’s got, Dragon Rider—wait, no, bad idea. He’s hidden it so far, but with only a bag to hide it in? any of the Dursleys could find it. No, no books. Book. Whatever.
By the same logic, none of his precious things, either: the ripped-up stuffed cat, the smooth and shiny rock he’d found one day, the rubber-band bracelet he’s made over the past year. All hidden under the floorboard, all too dear to him to be risked.
Then, what… pencil, notebook, textbooks? Dudley’s not interested in that, and neither are the adults. Maybe Aunt Marge would make a snide comment about how no matter how hard he tries he’ll never be smart, but she won’t take it away from him. Maybe he can draw as well… as long as it’s not anything magical, like a dragon.
He’ll leave his stash of crackers and peanuts at home, then. And maybe if he wears a bunch of layers at once it’ll be less cold?
Harry nods to himself. There. That’s about all he really needs, right? They’re just going for three days, and anything that happens he’ll deal with when it happens.
*
January twelfth, 1989, Three days later:
“Oh, you’ll never believe what happened!” Ellen Smith cries. Her husband looks up from his breakfast and raises an eyebrow.
“What is it, dear? You look awful. Have you been reading the crime section again?”
“No, it’s—it’s the Dursleys!” Ellen takes a deep breath, her hands clenching around the newspaper. “It’s all over the news! They were on some trip—”
“A business meeting in north England,” Mark Smith provides. “Vernon was talking about going on a hike, can you believe it? I don’t think I’ve seen that man do any exercise, apart from the way he runs to get to the table at out parties.”
“Mark!” Ellen snaps. “Are you serious right now? They’re dead!”
“Damn,” the man winces. “Shit, sorry, I forgot for a second.” He pointedly ignores the incredulous look coming from his wife. “Are you sure it’s them the papers are talking about?”
Ellen huffs and starts reading the paper again. “They were on a hike, like you said, and—oh, it’s terrible. There was this snowstorm the same day, and they were caught in it, and they were, well—killed. The police say it’s most likely wolves that did it. The bodies were found by locals, and they’ve identified the faces of the Dursleys and Marge—”
“Awful woman, good riddance,” Mark murmurs, unheard by his wife.
“-but the children still haven’t been found! Oh, I hope they’re alright.” Ellen presses a hand to her mouth, looking a little green.
“Could I see the paper, dear?” Mark takes it and scans the article, before raising both bushy eyebrows. “Even included a picture, I see. Nasty business. Well, don’t worry. They’ll be found in no time. Poor things.”
They never are, but people are sometimes very superficial. In a month when the case is closed on the incident, no one is really looking for one Harry Potter at all.