Chapter Text
It is February, and the frost of winter coats the world like powdered silver. The winter has been hard, and the spring is late. The hedges of Little Whinging are untidy with tousled and withered grass; even a few lustreless seedy blackberries linger. The grey concrete of the opulent town was overlaid with the mushy, dank, lifeless brown leaves from the previous Autumn. In the keen wind the dead leaves and stalks rustle like paper, and it might as well be incredible that this frost parched earth ever produced, or ever would produce, young life. Yet there is one, single, undeniable fact. The plants would flower again.
If you had ever decided to go out for a leisurely stroll down Privet drive, a road known for its ostentatious appearance; Every house is indistinguishable from the next. It was a respectable area, known for its comfortable lifestyle in the countryside, housing many thriving families.
Tucked away in this vibrant picture of pure serenity, was house number 24, an inconspicuous looking house, with a pristine garden. Not one blade of grass was out of place, each bush perfectly trimmed and not a weed in sight. It very well could have brought a seasoned gardener to tears.
The impeccable garden was an emblem of the Dursley family. Petunia Mary Dursley, a reputable homemaker. Wife of Vernon Dursley, the director at a drill-making firm. Now with such a prosperous couple, it would be a shock for them to not have blessed with a little boy; Dudley Dursley.
And of course, as the way of life goes, something unanticipated befell the Dursley family
That unanticipated something was called Harry Potter.
The shrill call of a banshee awoke Harry–wait banshees don't exist? Oh. Petunia.
Reluctantly, Harry Potter squeezed out of his cupboard, his solace from the harsh outdoors. Blinking, he reached for his glasses as he finished waking himself. Today marked the day he was allowed out of his cupboard, after spending a week of being locked inside–only allowed out for hygiene–and that was the Dursleys being merciful.
“Boy!” Yelled Petunia “Why is taking so long! You better not make me come over there, or else” Petunia’s tone dropped to a deadly whisper, making Harry freeze on the spot, every fiber of his being telling him to run. He didn't need to ask to know what ‘or else’ meant.
“Yes Miss Petunia.” Harry said, already halfway inside of the kitchen. Petunia had the strange habit of wanting to be called Miss, even though she was married. Harry came to the conclusion that it was because she liked feeling young. He stopped calling her Aunt years ago.
As he took over the breakfast that Petunia all but threw into his arms, he couldn't help but think: “Petunia is a gentle flower…Petunia flower and Miss Petunia are polar opposites…” he pondered, mixing the porridge a little longer than necessary
“ I hope my mum's name was true to her character…..”
Petunia never spoke of his mother or father, and when she did, it was never kind-
*SNAP* “I knew it! I knew it!” Said Petunia, snapping her boney fingers in front of his face,
“ Dozing off are we? Get back to work, I'm talking to Vernon about this when he returns.” She let go of Harry’s wrist, which was now a vibrant coral due to her iron grip.
Any annoyance Harry had with her interrupting his daydreaming was now overclouded with fear. Anything but Vernon!
“I’m sorry Miss Petunia.” he mumbled. “As you should be, freak!” she began, wrinkling her nose as if she had smelt something particularly unpleasant– which was unfortunately, him. Harry tuned out the rest of her screaming
After eventually creating breakfast, he saw a small ramekin with some leftover porridge. After practically inhaling it, and thanking whatever force had pitied him enough to leave him some food, he got ready for school.
St. Gregory’s Primary School. The name is inaccurate, it is not a school, it is a prison. The teachers only suck up to children whose parents pay….extra if you would call it. And for Harry, the Dursleys would rather jump off a cliff than spare a penny for him.
Dudley, a child approaching the size of a small pig, was also not helping his school life, doing whatever his small brain could think of to make him suffer.
Harry’s eyes narrowed, and he briefly entertained the idea of running away, he could easily slip past the children when exiting the school and make a run for it.
But then what?
Harry was not stupid, either Vernon would catch him or the police would. He wasn’t exactly an inconspicuous looking 10 year old.
He was scrawny– wearing a baggy shirt 3 sizes too big, oversaturated green eyes, and a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt.
He would be more shocked if he wasn't found.
Plus, he would rather not risk being caught by Vernon.
Swallowing his woes, he stepped out onto the pavement, and the moment the door to Number 24 closed, Harry felt the beginning of an earthquake.
Except it wasn't an earthquake. It was something worse.
Shoving Harry with his sausage hands, Dudley attempted to run past him.
“Watch it, freak!”
Harry spent a good moment on the pavement, wishing he wouldn't have to get up.
Collecting himself, he got up, ignoring the searing pain in his lower back.
Well his day couldn't possibly go any worse, right? He thought with false enthusiasm.
How wrong he was.
Harry took his seat at the back of the class, it was a roughed up wooden seat with dozens of scratches on it. Even just looking at it made him feel all the splinters.
He was treated much like a leper in his class.
The boring class dragged on, the distance between each tick of the clock seemingly getting longer and slower. Harry was tucked away; out of sight, out of mind. Which was useful, considering Harry had been observing from the shadows most of his life. He loathed being treated like the circus clown, but children were crueler then adults would like to admit.
Almost like the rapture had begun, a bell rang through the school, signalling the end of the torturous class. Stuffing his bag with his books, he slipped through the crowd and out into the courtyard.
Harry always adored plants.
Even though some might have found it tedious, due to how often Miss Petunia would give him menial tasks in the garden, Harry doted on plants like they were his own children.
Harry has heard all about the wonders of the world, where the air is laden with the perfume of thousands of flora; where the sky is painted like a sea of azure that washes away all, where each gust of wind carries the unspoken words between people.
Oh how he longed to explore the world around him! To not be boxed into his little cupboard, to stretch his wings and set out to fly.
In his hand was a fresh buttercup-colored petal, plucked from the Winter's Aconite.
Winter's Aconite is a wild flower which is nowadays more commonly found in parks or gardens. It was also primarily called a Buttercup, because it was from the same family.
It was a fragile little thing, barely even out of its babyhood. But nevertheless, it fought the harsh conditions of winter and still blooms into a vibrant yellow.
How Harry wished to be a Buttercup.
How Harry wished to be many things.
Children began pooling into the courtyard, and a group of bulky boys – and Dudley began stomping towards him.
“Oh, freak!” They cried, and other children rushed to circle around them to observe the drama like sharks catching the scent of blood. He sighed, contained his frustration of being interrupted, and prepared to face them.
Harry stood up, and began trying to get as far as possible from them.
‘What now? Leave me alone’
“Where are you going?” they called after him, screaming and laughing.
“Oh look! His fingers are brown, and he is always In the mud, he must be a pig!” Yelled Dudley, as the gang of boys began chasing after Harry.
‘Look who's talking.’ Harry internally rolled his eyes. Dudley had no right to talk because his fingers were always in chocolate. Hmph.
But Harry was agile, and easily outran them.
“Leave me alone Dudley!” Harry screamed.
“What was that, freak?” Dudley yelled, snickering.
A boy–which Harry identified to be Piers Polkiss caught him, and restrained him.
Dudley reached them, panting like he had run a marathon. Which to him, it probably was.
‘Let–let me go!” Harry struggled, thrashing around.
Dudley smirked, and raised his fist. WHAM
A searing pain burst through Harry’s right cheek, and he tasted the familiar tangy taste of blood.
Luckily for Harry, the impact also hit Polkiss, and he wriggled himself out. A thin, scrawny looking boy who resembled a stick tried to chase after him-- Gordon. Taunting him while the other boys stood and laughed.
“Shut up! Just SHUT UP!” Harry yelled, wishing that the boy would just leave him alone.
Piers froze, and the laughing died down into an uncomfortable silence. Suddenly, the boy reached for is throat, and opened his mouth, choking.
And out bloomed a buttercup. All the boys – excluding Dudley– rushed the boy to the nurse, as he began to struggle to breathe. The boy was crying and the others were panicking, thinking that he was going to die.
“What did you do?!” Shrieked Dudley “This was your doing, y-your freakishness!” His face turned into a deep puce, rivalling that of Vernon's. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree afterall.
“I didn't do anything!” Said Harry “I swear, i-it was like magic!”
Like the world had ceased to spin, it went silent.
Dudley’s face rapidly turned from puce to pale.
“Oh. Oh shite. Shite. Shite. Shite. If I didn't commit suicide by my breakfast stunt, then saying the M- word certainly did.’
But as if the gods had heard Harry's desperate internal plea, the walrus of a child just turned around and marched away.
Harry blinked once.
He blinked twice.
He blinked thrice to check he wasn't hallucinating.
Dudley, leaving him alone for once? Impossible! Harry was already suspicious, today was going too well in his favour.
Well,
Small mercies.
It wasn’t long before a teacher stormed out furiously, likely because the witnesses painted a narrative about how archangel Dudley Dursley had been attacked by the demon-child Harry Potter.
‘I am so doomed.’
‘Yes of course Mr. Peterson, we will discipline him accordingly. We are terribly sorry.’ Said Vernon with a saccharine tone and sickly-sweet smile.
But Harry could read Vernon’s eyes. He was thunderous.
Harry’s throat closed up and he just stood there, hoping it would make him invisible.
He heard the beep of the call ending and braced himself for impact, closing his eyes.
But he did not feel the familiar spit spraying his face, nor the fist to the gut, nor the harsh yank on his hair.
He hesitantly opened his eyes, and gazed into Vernon’s, who was just standing there with a menacing smile.
‘I believe we ought to discipline him properly, pet, do you?’ He said, turning to Miss Petunia.
Harry’s heart dropped to his stomach when he saw Miss Petunia pull out his notebook filled with illustrations and descriptions of the plants he had collected over the years.
‘Why yes Vernon, I believe we its about time we did.’ Her smile widened, accentuating her horse-like features.
‘Come now, boy’ He said in a suspiciously soft tone.
Harry didn’t move, standing there opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish, his eyes darting wildly around for any sign of escape.
‘Now.’ Miss Petunia’s sweet tone dropped into an icy-cold one, and Harry felt shivers crawl up his back.
He cautiously approached them. Eyes nervously flickering from Vernon's to Petunia's.
‘Now, come and sit here’ Vernon pointed to the fireplace.
Harry slowly sat down in front of it, shoulders tense.
He felt Miss Petunia’s hands put something around his neck– a collar?
Humiliation burned his cheeks, he was used to embarrassment from the Dursley's, but this was a low bar, even for them.
‘What?’ Harry tugged at it, but she smacked his hands away.
‘Now. In the fire. ' she gestured to the book 'We will watch you, so do it properly.’
Harry’s world froze.
‘They wanted him to destroy it?....’
'W-wait, no. Please! I'll do anything! Not this! anything else!' He began to plead with the Dursley's, hoping to find some some small shred of humanity they had left. But all Harry was greeted with was cold.
‘NOW BOY!’ Vernon spat.
Harry violently flinched, and put his hands in the fire. His face eerily vacant as his skin burned and his book was being burnt to pieces.
'Now for talking back, you will keep your hands there until I say so.'
Petunia and Vernon stood there triumphantly, before she left to go cook dinner for Dudley.
His gaze absent-mindedly swept over the room looking for escape as the sweat droplets sprinkled his face.
He was collared to the armchair, he couldn’t escape if he wanted to.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
Then fifteen.
The book was already reduced to ashes.
The burn of the fire was gradually becoming less painful as Harry got used to it.
But It wasn’t only Harry's book that burnt down that night.