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Chapter Text

Every morning, the sun rose, bringing light to the occupants of Privet Drive. In almost all of the years since the houses had been constructed, with the notable exception of a cold October night involving a crying baby, the houses all silently greeted the sunrise. Their plain, off-white siding and dull grey roofs sat in neat little rows, like soldiers standing to attention. Eventually, alarm clocks went off and tired husbands left their wives to go to their various jobs, while the wives stayed home and cared for the houses and their children.

Except, of course, in number four, Privet Drive. Now, the occupants of the house would’ve sworn up and down that they were perfectly ordinary, just like any of their neighbours, but they had a terrible, horrible secret. A child.

Not their child, of course, no, Dudley was everything they wanted him to be. Perfect, just like his father. But… the girl.

Oh, she was a stain on their reputation. Petunia just knew they whispered about her, at their tea parties she was never invited to. It was infuriating, that her sister could be tormenting her this way, even beyond the grave. Her and her good-for-nothing husband, that Potter, leaving behind nothing but a nuisance for Petunia to deal with.

“Up, get up, girl, now!” Harry jolted awake, his heart pounding. He’d been dreaming of- of something. A motorbike, and the smell of leather, and something like the woods. It was an odd combination, but it made his heart twist in a nostalgic way.

“Get up!” His aunt Petunia rattled the door one more time before going to the kitchen, the sounds of pans being pulled out the closest thing to an alarm clock that Harry had ever had. 

Mentally, he steeled himself, lying still for just a moment longer before rolling on his side, planting his feet in the only open space in his cupboard. The rest was taken up by his bed.

The latch to his door was quite rusted and he hated the sensation of opening it, shielding his hand with the bottom of his sleeping shirt before emerging into the hallway. Upstairs, the distinctive sound of his uncle snoring immediately became clear, and he winced. How Petunia slept next to that, he’d never know.

Maybe it was because she worked herself to exhaustion every day, obsessively cleaning, then barely eating enough at dinner to replace the energy she’d used. Vernon certainly ate enough for the both of them. They made a funny picture: Petunia, whip-thin and blonde, with large brown eyes. When she smiled, her teeth often protruded over her lower lip, so she didn’t smile often. Vernon, on the other hand, was an impossibly large man who spent his day working, eating, or both. He had dark hair which just lay sort of limply on top of his skull and small, beady eyes that followed Harry’s every move.

“In here, girl, come on.” Shrilly, just like every other day, Petunia called him into the kitchen. “You’re watching the bacon, today. Don’t let it burn, it’s Dudley’s birthday, you know.” Behind her back, Harry quickly rolled his eyes.

Oh, yes it was Dudley’s birthday! How could he ever have forgotten, considering he’d been up late last night preparing? Oh, silly him.

As soon as the bacon started crackling, the sound of Dudley’s heavy footsteps sounded over the stairs. The dining table hardly had room for the eggs Petunia was making, covered as it was by presents. The bright wrapping paper was distracting and Harry caught himself staring a couple of times. 

To be fair, it was more than likely that a few of the presents would end up with him after Dudley broke them. 

A few of the presents were very distinctive shapes, like the bike propped up on the side and what could only be a new television monitor to replace the old one that Dudley had put his foot through. Others, though, were an exciting mystery. There was a rectangular object that might be a book, which made Harry fight a smile. Any books Dudley received invariably found themselves under the cot in Harry’s cupboard, after Dudley left them in the top of the garbage bins.

The sound of someone tromping down the stairs announced Uncle Vernon, who had finally dragged himself out of bed. He made a displeased sound as he lowered himself into his chair at the table, almost completely blocked from view by the presents.

“Did you have another haircut?” He asked suspiciously, beady eyes peering over the top of a green bow. Harry held back the urge to roll his eyes.

“I can’t reach any of the scissors,” he replied, turning the bacon over. It was true, as well. Vernon was waging a constant war against Harry’s hair, which was curly and wild and refused to grow longer than his ears. For years, Harry had been accused of getting up in the night and cutting his own hair, which was ridiculous. He did get up in the night, but that was usually only to eat something.

Petunia said something to Vernon about Dudley, and his birthday party, but Harry dedicated his focus singularly to moving the heavy pan of bacon without splashing grease all up his arm. The inside of his left forearm was still slightly glassy-looking in texture from the first time he’d made that mistake.

There was a spectacular thud from the main hallway as Dudley jumped down the stairs, as he did every morning. For years, he’d been trying to make it from the top step but Petunia had expressly forbade him from trying- something she never did- after a broken arm and an urgent care visit. 

He paraded into the dining room as Harry set the bacon plate precariously on the corner of the table, praying it wouldn’t fall. His cousin looked the same as he did most mornings: dirty blond hair sleep-mussed because he couldn’t be fussed to brush it, wearing probably the first pair of shorts and shirt he’d seen in his closet. Harry had the same fashion taste as Dudley, though entirely unwillingly. It was the same reason Harry swam in all his clothes while they at least fit Dudley: Harry dressed almost entirely in Dudley’s cast-offs. Dudley was identifiably related to Vernon, with his same wide build. Harry was thin, wiry, and short.

“Morning, dear,” Petunia greeted Dudley, lips twisting in what was probably supposed to be a smile. Harry had a theory that both she and Vernon lacked the proper muscles to actually create the expression.

“Mornin’,” he replied, a strip of bacon already in his mouth. Harry looked away, wondering if he could go back to his cupboard. Surely no one would notice until the dishes needed to be done. 

His musings were interrupted by the phone ringing, and Petunia flitted away from the tea kettle to answer it. “Hello?” As the person on the other side talked, her sugary-sweet demeanour faded away. “In the hospital?” She asked, a sharp edge of anger under the words. Harry really, really wanted to not be in the room. 

From his chair, Dudley knocked his heel against the leg of the table. Harry looked over as he held out a sausage link, casting a furtive glance at Petunia. She was facing the other way, muttering in upset at the phone. Vernon was completely blocked by his newspaper and the mountain of presents.

Quickly, he reached out and took the sausage from his cousin, flashing a brief grin before practically inhaling the food to make sure that his aunt wouldn’t turn around and catch him with it. As he licked the last of the taste off his fingers, she hung up the phone, a line appearing between her perfect brows.

She marched over to Vernon, resting a hand on his shoulder. “She can’t take the girl.”

Vernon made a noise vaguely resembling a pig searching for truffles. “Who?”

“Arabella. Figg. She’s broken her leg and can’t watch the girl.”

At the words, Harry and Dudley looked at each other. Dudley gave Harry a piece of toast and then nodded enthusiastically. He leaned in, whispering, “Maybe they’ll leave you here?”

Harry, mouth full of dry bread, shrugged. He swallowed painfully, then replied, “Hopefully.”

When the furious mutterings of Vernon and Petunia abruptly ceased, Harry leapt away from Dudley like he’d been burned and moved to the sink to start scrubbing the dirty pans.

“Dudley, darling, there’ve been a few complications,” Petunia started, then trailed off. From the corner of his eye, Harry watched Dudley school his expression into one of absolute upset with the mastery of a professional actor.

“Complications?” He asked, voice taking on a bit of a whine. 

Petunia hesitated. “There’s… Ms. Figg can’t watch the girl for today. She’s broken her leg.”

Dudley frowned. “It’s my birthday,” he said slowly, as though he was struggling to put together what she meant.

“Yes, diddykins,” Petunia said, and Harry nearly lost an eye holding in the tremendous snort that the name always inspired. “But don’t worry! It won’t even be like she’s there,” she placated.

Tilting his head, Dudley took a bite of his toast. “She’s coming with us? Why not just leave her here?” He focused his eyes on his mother, pushing his lower lip out. Harry had told him time and time again that it made him look like an overly large bulldog, but it always worked on Petunia for some reason.

Before Petunia could cave, though, Vernon set down his newspaper. Harry felt dread curl in his stomach, though the effect was lessened by the bright wrapping paper completely blotting him out. “No,” he growled. “She’ll probably destroy something. It’s better to keep her where we can see her.”

Exactly how Harry would manage to destroy something, or even what he would destroy remained a mystery as Vernon did not elaborate, but the normal dread he’d feel at the idea of a day completely monitored by the Dursleys was completely overridden by the fact that he was going to the zoo . The brochure that Dudley had brought home about it had specifically mentioned their expansive displays of exotic snakes. It was taking everything Harry had to not glow with excitement. He loved the little grass snakes that hid under Petunia’s over-pruned bushes, but their conversations could get a bit dull.

Wild snakes, though, from Africa and Brazil and any other number of places? That would be thrilling . Dudley clearly had caught onto this train of thought, because he didn’t raise any other complaints, instead scowling at his breakfast while Petunia promised him more presents to placate him. 

Harry thought, for a second, of when the frown on Dudley’s face had been real. It was the same day, five years ago. Harry shuddered, his shoulder aching at the memory.

The doorbell rang, interrupting all four of them, and Petunia straightened. “They’re here!” She exclaimed, dusting off her skirt. Dudley straightened in his seat as well, although he looked less excited than Petunia.

Piers Polkiss was, in a sense, Dudley’s friend. They spent time together, ate together at lunchtime in school, and Piers was the only person invited to Dudley’s birthday outing. Most importantly, however, was that Piers’ mother and Petunia were friends. Dudley had other friends, but none that Petunia, and by extension Vernon, so thoroughly approved of.

Privately, Harry thought that Piers wasn’t that bad. He wasn’t cruel, or mean-spirited, or a true bully. But Harry got the sense that if Dudley had asked him to be any of those things, he could. Plus, he was remarkably similar to Vernon Dursley in that if he didn’t need to, he simply ignored that Harry existed.

With the addition of Harry to the car, it was a bit of a squeeze in the backseat, especially with Dudley in the middle seat to separate Harry from Piers. Harry spent the entire car ride staring out the window and thinking about the zoo. He wondered if the Dursleys might be convinced to leave Harry unattended so he could see whichever exhibits he wanted. 

The zoo itself was incredibly crowded and the possibility of Harry slipping away and pretending to have been lost was seeming more and more likely by the minute. But it seemed Petunia had the same thought, as her hand was firmly planted on his shoulder, keeping him within arm’s reach. 

When the lady in the booth stamped his hand, she smiled and said, “Have a nice day, young man,” lighting a glow of happiness in Harry’s ribcage. He tucked it away before it could show on his face. Of course, Petunia’s hand immediately tightened on his shoulder and she snapped that her niece would have a nice day, thank you very much , but he’d gotten used to ignoring her.

Because it was no secret, to the Dursleys at least, that Harry was a girl. Which- he knew, of course, that he was a girl. He was a girl and his name wasn’t really Harry, but he’d started thinking of himself that way and never really stopped.

It was all because of a book, really, not even his fault. It had been in one of the displays at his primary school, and it’d been quiet reading time. But then the boy in the book had turned into a girl, and it had been a silly story but Harry hadn’t quite been able to get the idea out of his head. He’d always had an overactive imagination, something the Dursleys despised when he was a child, and he was certain this book would have been something they’d have absolutely abhorred. But it was only in his head, so it didn’t hurt anyone, really. And so he’d imagined what it would be like if he had turned into a boy, and then he’d had to come up with a name to use if he was turned into a boy, and then he just hadn’t stopped pretending.

Because, really, being a boy wasn’t so bad. And lots of people thought he was a boy anyway, with how short his hair was and that the only clothes he ever wore came from Dudley. Of course, Petunia did try sometimes to force him into a dress for a nice dinner party, but more often than not they seemed to shrink until they could barely have fit over the head of a baby. Petunia sometimes blamed him, sometimes blamed them having shrunk in the wash.

But Petunia despised the idea that he might have been a boy- You already look enough like your father - and she hated even more that anyone else would think it. Harry knew that she had once weighed the merits of people mistaking him for a girl over having to spend money on buying him clothes, and people mistaking him for a girl had lost. 

She’d dragged him to the shops, buying an entire closet’s worth of brightly patterned sweaters and leggings and T-shirts, Harry uncomfortable every second. He’d gotten so used to Dudley’s clothes wearing the new ones made him feel like he stuck out entirely far too much.

To Petunia’s horror, two days after she’d bought all of that, Harry’s teacher was out sick. The substitute called home to inform her that her little boy had come in dressed in his sister’s clothes , no matter how much Harry tried to tell her that he had no sister. Luckily, she’d been more angry at the substitute than Harry, though, and she’d not bought him new clothes again, going back to Dudley’s hand-me-downs.

So Harry was sharply reminded of all of that when Petunia’s hand tightened on his shoulder, and he fought the urge to duck away from her as she steered him through the crowd to where Vernon and the boys were waiting. She released him, but it was to duck over and mutter furiously to Vernon about the state of the people they hire these days, honestly . Harry was more than content to scurry a half-step behind all of them.

Dudley led them all through the zoo, stopping for a whole ten minutes to stare, enraptured, at a giraffe. Harry tried his absolute hardest not to laugh at the disgruntled faces of the other three, all looking like they were trying to figure out how to hurry him along. After he was finally coaxed away they all stopped for lunch and Dudley whined to Petunia about how his sandwich isn’t as big as I thought it would be, can I order something else, Mum? and she gave in, pushing the plate towards Harry. Dudley, an incredible actor but not very subtle, winked at Harry over his new sandwich.

So, overall, not a bad day. And it was shaping up to be even better, with Dudley catching sight of the reptile house and tugging them all along towards it. 

Petunia turned a shade paler. “You know Mummy doesn’t like snakes all that much, darling,” she said, but caved before he even had a chance to finish frowning. “I’ll just stay out here, stay close to Daddy, alright?” Once Dudley had nodded he led the way into the dark building, followed by Piers, Harry, and Vernon.

Vernon, finding himself for perhaps the first time in several months the sole adult responsible for his child, started leading Dudley and Piers around on a mission to find the biggest snake. Harry, on the other hand, made a beeline for the furthest corner possible from their little group, finding himself in front of an enclosure full of branches and leaves. Movement to his right brought his attention to a bright blue snake about twice as long as his arm, staring down at him.

Harry felt quite bad for it, trapped behind the glass. At least it had some branches, he supposed. “You’re very beautiful,” he told it. In his experience, snakes were very vain. Although he wasn’t quite sure if it could even hear him from behind the glass.

The snake raised its head, looking at him head-on. Harry glanced behind him, checking to make sure the others were all still tapping on the glass of a boa constrictor, and then turned back. It was still looking at him, although it seemed quite bored. “Do you like your enclosure?”

The snake considered him, then gestured with its tail to its placard.

White-Lipped Island Pit Viper, Komodo Island, Indonesia . “I bet the jungle was better than here,” he realised, but the snake shook its head, pointing again. Upon second inspection, it had been bred in captivity. 

Harry felt a twinge of sympathy. “I get that. It’s not fun, being locked up all the time.” The snake nodded. It uncurled a bit from where it was looped around some branches, reaching its face closer to his. Harry blinked at it. It seemed it could hear him, but it couldn’t speak to him through the barrier. Or perhaps it just wasn’t a very talkative snake.

“Look at that one, Mr. Dursley!” Was shouted from behind Harry, and both he and the snake flinched away. He turned quickly, just in time to catch Vernon’s face as he processed the sight of Harry face-to-face with a blue snake. It rapidly cycled through shock, horror, and anger, turning pink, red, then purple at the same time. Harry’s stomach dropped out from him. 

Before Vernon could even open his mouth, though, Piers shrieked, causing everyone else in the exhibit to turn towards them. Harry also glanced back, watching with muted horror as the viper slithered out from its exhibit, the glass suddenly gone. Screams sounded from other children, most people scrambling away from the now-freed snake. Harry, however, stayed rooted in place in his shock. It travelled over Piers’ shoes, hissing at him when he shrieked again. Moving quickly towards the propped-open doors, it looked at Harry as it passed.

Thanks, friend , it whispered, and he at least had the self-awareness not to respond.

Zookeepers scrambled about, having heard the screams, but it was too late. The snake made it out the door, and Harry heard a new, distinctive scream, Aunt Petunia . Overall, he was dead.

When he looked back to Vernon, the man looked ready to burst a blood vessel.

The zookeepers announced that the zoo was closed for the rest of the day in order to search for the snake, which was apparently incredibly venomous. They apologised profusely to the Dursleys and Piers, repeating we just can’t understand what happened to the glass over and over. Every time, Vernon shot a look at Harry and Harry felt the pit in his stomach grow a little bit.

The ride back to Privet Drive was almost entirely silent, broken only by Piers sniffling and Petunia turning on the radio to distract herself. Harry tried in vain to make himself melt into the backseat, so that when they got back to the house he simply wouldn’t be there. Dudley shifted every so often, casting looks at Harry, who refused to return his gaze.

He wished, desperately, to be anywhere other than where he was going.

Piers’ mother came to collect him, standing outside with Dudley and Petunia to gossip about the poor quality of zoos these days, haven’t you heard? Harry walked away from them numbly, feeling as though he was going to die once the door closed.

Silence descended on the entryway to number four, Privet Drive. 

“Get in your cupboard,” Vernon said, sounding remarkably calm.

Harry got in his cupboard, and did not come out for a long time.

Chapter Text

When Harry was finally let out of his cupboard, it was already the summer holidays. He’d been called in sick for the end of the school year, Vernon lying easily that he’d caught something long-lasting and incredibly contagious. Harry listened to him make the phone call through his thin wall and wished with his entire body that someone would call him out on the lie, ask which disease he had, something .

No one ever came to check on him.

Dudley had been almost entirely unsuccessful in slipping him food due to the door being locked unless Petunia was giving him dinner. His muscles were weakened by the whole thing and he had almost gotten used to the piercing pain of being hungry.

The only good thing about being locked in his cupboard was that Harry was free to imagine without being interrupted. He spent his days slipping between absolute hunger, sleep, and complete boredom. His dreams bled into the shadows of his cupboard and he imagined a great many things.

He went on wild adventures through the dirty underbellies of dark cities, solving crimes and saving his friends. He fought dragons, befriended wizards, and met giants. He learned to play the guitar and became a world-famous rockstar.

He imagined that someone came to save him, sometimes. The key would click in the lock, and he’d curl away from it, not wanting to face Petunia’s gaze. But when the door creaked open and light flooded in, it wouldn’t be Petunia’s nasally voice that spoke. Instead, someone with a soft, kind voice- or maybe a low, soothing voice- would speak to him. He imagined their hands resting gently on his arm, running through his hair, lifting him, and carrying him out of the cupboard. They’d take him back home and he’d finally be back with his family and the Dursleys would become little more than a bad dream-

And then Petunia unlocked the door, and Harry quickly ate another meal of cold, canned soup, then used the bathroom before returning to his cupboard to fall into another fantasy.

So it was a little disorienting to one day be woken up by Petunia rapping on his door again, ordering him to make breakfast as though it had never happened. He was grateful the punishment was over, even more because he’d come out of it more or less unscathed, but that didn’t help when his arms trembled trying to balance the spatula to make breakfast.

Dudley was sulking at the table, looking absolutely ridiculous in the uniform for his new secondary school. Vernon was practically bursting with pride at the idea of his legacy being passed on. Harry thought that even Petunia knew it was an ugly outfit, but held her tongue. He, personally, was deciding if he was going to tease Dudley for the maroon coat, orange knickerbockers, or straw hat first. The knickerbockers were currently on top of the list.

As Harry cooked, Petunia was dying old dress shirts from Dudley grey in a plastic bin. Allegedly, they were for Harry to wear as the public school’s uniform, though Harry was fairly certain they were fine in the original colour.

He was almost surprised that the school had accepted him, despite being public. He’d missed so much primary school that he would’ve fallen behind even if it wasn’t forbidden to do better than Dudley. He still struggled to read more advanced books, something that caused him immense frustration and no small amount of shame. 

Combining that with his strange-smelling, dyed school uniforms, he was certain they’d expel him within a week.

The sound of letters being pushed through the mail slot interrupted Harry setting the now-empty breakfast pan in the sink. He went off to retrieve them without being asked, Vernon grunting as he went.

The pile of mail was small, with only a few things: a postcard from Vernon’s sister Marge, who was vacationing about twenty minutes away from her house, a bill similarly addressed to Vernon, and-

And a letter for Harry. For Harry. Not- not Jasmine, Harry.

It read:

Mr. H Potter

The Cupboard Under the Stairs

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

Harry stared for only a moment, before realising that a letter addressed to Harry Potter would break the fragile peace only recently re-established in the house. He hurried back to the dining room, shoving the letter into the crack under his cupboard door as he went.

The remaining mail was deposited on the table near Vernon’s hand, and Harry wanted nothing more than to retreat to his cupboard and read that letter.

It seemed impossible, yet he’d felt the roughness of the paper with his own hand. It’d even been sealed with red wax and stamped with some kind of symbol. Unless he’d finally lost his mind, the letter was real.

But how ? For one, no one knew he lived in the cupboard under the stairs. That was important because if someone knew, they’d call the child protective services. But this letter implied that someone did know, and they hadn’t called anyone about it. 

On top of that, unless this was some monumental, cosmic error, the letter had been addressed to H . Potter. It would be rather difficult to confuse an H with a J, after all. And it said Mr. H Potter. But to acknowledge that would be to admit that not only did someone know Harry lived under the stairs, but this mysterious letter-writer also had mind-reading abilities. No one knew that Harry was, well Harry . 

All of these were very troubling thoughts, and Harry spent the day mentally wrestling with the idea that someone knew . Petunia had him out in the garden, tending to the weeds so that her flowers would be in an acceptable state to gloat about to all the other neighbourhood women. He wasn’t close enough to the wooden fence for there to be a chance of encountering one of the garden snakes, although Harry was mostly fine with that. Thinking of snakes nowadays always reminded him of the zoo, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

Only once the sun had burned its path across the yard and all the weeds had been thoroughly removed was Harry allowed back inside. Dinner was a mostly quiet affair, which always made Harry uncomfortable. Without conversation to distract them, Vernon and Petunia always managed to remember something to criticise about Harry.

It took everything in his body to not look excited when he was finally dismissed back to his cupboard. He sat, unsleeping, on his cot until Vernon’s droning snores could be faintly heard through the ceiling. Only then did he carefully stand, unlatching the door. The hinges had never been oiled, probably to make it easier to catch him when he did sneak out, but the incredible amount of noise produced by a sleeping Vernon Dursley just about cancelled it out. 

Once there was room to manoeuvre, Harry bent down and fished the letter out from under his cot. Though it made him nervous, he scurried to the living room to sit in a patch of light from the half-moon.

He traced the words written in an elegant, curling font on the envelope, feeling the indentation where the writer’s pen had pressed down. It didn’t seem real, but he couldn’t imagine how it could be fake.

Even if it was some elaborate prank, to have guessed that Mr. H Potter was in any way accurate was- impossible. Truly, really impossible.

Turning the envelope over, he inspected the red wax seal. It was too dark to make out the symbol stamped into it, but he traced a finger over it all the same. 

It occurred to Harry that he was stalling, so he slipped a fingernail (still dark with dirt from the gardens) under the seal, breaking it open.

The paper within was the same as what made up the envelope, and he unfolded it with careful movements. The same fancy, looping script ran its way down the paper and he squinted frustratedly. His glasses were barely any help seeing, it was shadowy, and Harry had never learned to read cursive. He settled the letter in his lap, briefly closing his eyes and breathing through a wave of pure frustration.

“Jasmine?” This whispered question startled him and he jolted, nearly slamming his head into the wall. It was only Dudley, though, standing in the darkened threshold.

It was a very familiar scene to him, and Harry closed his eyes briefly against the memories of all the times they’d done this; Harry, fresh out of punishment, and Dudley, struggling with guilt over not doing anything.

Maybe Dudley’s birthday was just an unlucky day for Harry, although he was almost glad about the first time it’d happened. They’d both been younger- only five, Dudley turning six. Harry didn’t blame him for the way he’d acted anymore, had told Dudley time and time again that a little kid copying their parents was hardly the worst sin to commit.

Dudley had kids from their primary over for his birthday, everybody milling about the backyard, and Harry was lurking in a corner, hoping desperately that he’d get a slice of cake so the other parents wouldn’t get suspicious. Dudley had been very upset at the idea that he’d have to share something of his with Harry for the first time in his life and had started throwing a spectacular tantrum about it.

Vernon had laughed it off, shooing Harry back inside. Harry did not get a slice of cake that day. 

And, had Dudley not followed them both inside that day, he probably would’ve gotten worse than the soreness of his arm being wrenched out of its socket, though it’d never healed properly.

That bout in the cupboard had been rounded off by a similar scene to the one they found themselves in now: Dudley, standing across the room, struck for the first time in his life with the thought that his actions had consequences.

Harry smiled at him weakly. “Hi.” He set the letter aside as Dudley drew closer. He had a cereal bar in hand, and he thrust it towards Harry before saying anything else.

“I’m sorry,” he started, fiddling with his hands as Harry tore into the wrapped bar.

Harry shook his head. “S’not your fault.” He swallowed the mouthful, then took a breath. “You weren’t the one that made the snake escape, or anything.”

Dudley’s eyes were wide. “So it was you,” he breathed, elation briefly overriding his guilt. Harry shrugged.

“Can’t imagine anyone else did it, and I was talking to the snake anyway.”

Dudley grinned. “That’s wicked. Reckon you could make another window disappear?” Harry stifled a laugh, shaking his head.

“I never do it on purpose, you know. It just… happens. I wish it didn’t.”

“We can trade, if you want,” Dudley said promptly, earning another grin as Harry took another bite. The silence between them stretched for a moment, the smile dropping off Dudley’s face. He looked at the letter Harry had discarded. “What’s that?”

“I’ve no idea. A letter showed up this morning for me, but I can’t read it.” Harry felt his ear burn with a familiar shame, but Dudley nodded.

“Want me to read it for you?” 

Harry considered for a moment. “Yeah, thanks. It’s all cursive.”

Dudley frowned, pulling the letter back into a patch of moonlight. “It says,” he cleared his throat, “‘Hog- Hogwarts School of… Witchcraft and Wizardry’?” The boys locked eyes, and Harry stamped down immediately on the flutter of emotion that appeared.

“It’s got to be a prank, then,” he said morosely.

“No way! Jas, you- you’ve got-” Dudley glanced at the ceiling, as though to check that his parents were still asleep, then lowered his voice. “ Magic.” 

Magic was, of course, a forbidden word in the Dursley household. If Harry even dared mention anything fantastical, Vernon and Petunia started acting as though he was going to summon Satan himself in their dining room. It had been very confusing for a young Harry, who still didn’t understand that he was different in more ways than appeared.

He shrugged again. “Maybe. Keep reading?” He took the last bite, then crumpled up the wrapper. Dudley took it back, to throw away in his own garbage bin.

“‘Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore. Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Ch- Chief Warlock, Supreme Mug… Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards’,” Dudley read out dutifully, stumbling a couple of times over the unfamiliar words and abbreviations. “He certainly sounds magical. Like Gandalf, or something.”

Harry snorted. “You hated the Lord of the Rings,” he said, tracing the strange words with his eyes.

“It was a boring book! Anyway, this seems much more interesting. Hey, Jas, maybe you’re a wizard, or something.” He grinned, and Harry couldn’t help but return the expression.

“That’s not all it says. Keep reading and maybe we’ll find out.”

“‘Dear- Dear Mr. Potter’.” Dudley stopped, then looked at Harry. “Mr.? Was this meant for your cousin, or something?” Something akin to dread curled around Harry’s spine, but he shook his head.

“No, look, see? They’ve got our address on the envelope. Even… even my cupboard.” They both fell silent at that before Dudley hummed consideringly.

“Wonder why they’ve got you as a boy, then,” he said, and Harry sat on his hands to keep from fidgeting. He continued reading: “‘We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of’-” Dudley sucked in a breath, excited. “Magic! Hogwarts School of Magic!” Harry couldn’t help but feel as though Dudley wasn’t being honest, but what he could make out of the letter seemed to accurately reflect the same words. “‘Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. If financial assistance is required, please owl back before the term starts.

Term begins on September 1. We await your confirmation owl no later than 31 July’- hey, that’s your birthday!” It was also in a little more than a week.

Harry frowned. “Even if this is all real, how am I meant to ‘owl’ back? We haven’t got an owl just stored up the chimney, have we?”

Dudley pointed to some smaller script at the bottom of the letter. “They’ve left a mailing address here- look, see?” Indeed, written in plain script, 1 Doxie Way, Hogsmead, Wizarding Scotland had been left for those young wizards who found themselves owl-less.

“That doesn’t look like a proper address,” Harry said doubtfully. “It’s not even got a postal code.”

“’Cuz it’s magic Jas, I bet wizards don’t even need postal codes!” Dudley exclaimed, practically vibrating with excitement.

Harry wrinkled his nose. “Maybe.”

“Well, are you going to write back?”

Harry stared at the letter, considering the side note about financial assistance for school supplies. Surely he was going to need financial assistance, since Petunia and Vernon certainly wouldn’t be helping him- if, of course, any of this was real. “Alright, then, it won’t hurt to respond.”

He took a pen from the kitchen counter and tore off a page from Petunia’s chore notepad, settling down to write on the floor. Dudley hovered eagerly over his shoulder.

“Who did it say the letter was from? Albert something?”

Shuffling the letter around, Dudley responded, “It’s signed by Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, actually.” He spelled out the name and Harry carefully copied it down in his shaky handwriting.

Dear Deputy Headmistress McGonagall,

Hello! I reciev received your letter. I have a few questions for you.

I don’t have any money for books or anything, and I don’t know where to buy any of them. Also, how is someone supose supposed to ‘owl’? Finally, how would I get to this school? Scotland is very far away.

If this is real, I would like very much to attend.

Thanks,

H Potter

He capped the pen, glancing at Dudley, who didn’t comment on how he’d signed his name. “Well?”

Dudley nodded. “I’ll get you a stamp and an envelope, you can mail it tomorrow.”

With that settled, Harry bid goodnight to Dudley and they both slipped back into their respective bedrooms, Harry’s mind alight with questions. He didn’t want to believe it was real. It couldn’t be real. But as he lay there in the dark of his cupboard, letters tucked back under his cot, he couldn’t help but imagine.

Chapter Text

The plan to send the letter went off without a hitch. Dudley asked for an envelope and a stamp to mail something to his favourite TV station, and he carefully copied the address from the bottom of the letter into it, sticking the stamp in place, then put it in the mailbox himself so neither of his parents could see the address.

With Petunia inside cleaning and Vernon off to work, Harry and Dudley sat together on the curb and waved to the postman when he came by to pick up their mail. They both watched carefully to make sure he didn’t miss the letter, then sat in silence once he’d driven off.

“Well,” Harry said. “That’s that, then.”

Dudley snorted, knocking their shoulders together. “That’s not that, Jas. You’re going to magic school!” He paused, eyebrows furrowing. “You reckon they’d let me come?”

“Maybe,” Harry paused, considering. “I mean, we are related. Maybe you’ve got the magic gene as well.” It was sometimes hard to remember that they did share the same blood, the tie between Lily and Petunia Evans now connecting them. Harry hadn’t even realised they were related when he was younger, not when no one ever told him Petunia and Vernon were his aunt and uncle. It would’ve been hard to guess since they looked almost nothing alike. 

Harry had once spent an evening where Vernon and Petunia were entertaining guests with Dudley in the bathroom, both using the mirror to try to find any commonalities between them. Harry had staunchly refused to believe they were related, Dudley stubbornly insisting that they were.

The image in the mirror hadn’t been convincing: Harry, small, slight, with dark skin and darker hair, and bright green eyes, next to Dudley, heavyset and pale, with blue eyes and light hair. Dudley had evidently thought the same thing, squinting at the pair of them. 

“We’ve got the same bump in our nose,” he eventually decided, turning to the side and showing Harry the way the bridge of his nose protruded. Harry traced a finger over his nose and begrudgingly acknowledged that yes, they did have that. So did Petunia, which was what convinced him for sure.

Dudley poked him in that same nose, pulling him from his thoughts. “If I had the magic, I probably would’ve made something blow up by now. Plus, only you got the letter.” He sounded sad, and Harry frowned.

“Maybe there’s magic you can do without having magic the way I do. If this school is real, I’ll ask for you,” he promised, glad to see the way that brightened Dudley’s expression.

“Of course it’s real. Makes sense, too. They’re probably going to teach you to disappear windows on purpose instead of by accident,” he said with all the surety of an 11-year-old boy who had absolutely no experience with the topic.

Harry laughed. “I hope so,” he said.

Dudley opened his mouth to respond when a resounding crack sounded on the street. Both boys flinched, Dudley standing up and Harry falling backward. When they looked, there was a severe-looking woman wearing a collared shirt and fancy, pressed slacks despite the summer heat. Strapped to her arm was a leather holster of some kind, light-coloured wood poking out the end. Her black hair had thick silver streaks and it was all pulled back into a tight bun at the base of her head. As she surveyed the street from behind her wire-rimmed spectacles, her gaze landed on the two boys, both of their mouths agape. When she made eye contact with Harry, her mouth did a funny sort of twisting thing, and she straightened her back.

“Hello, Harry. It’s wonderful to finally meet you,” she said with a Scottish accent, sounding incredibly sad.

Dudley made a strange coughing noise, and Harry could almost see all the things he wanted to say battling for dominance.

“My- how do- why do you call me Harry?” Harry stammered out, the most pressing of his questions spilling out. As he pushed himself back upright from the lawn, coming to stand next to Dudley, he tried to imagine this woman reading his thoughts and desperately hoped that wasn’t the answer.

“That’s the name for you on Hogwarts’ registration book,” she answered primly. “Unless there’s something else you’d like to go by?”

Harry glanced nervously at Dudley, who stared back at him. “Uh, no, thanks.” Dudley tilted his head but didn’t say anything.

“Shall we go inside, boys?” The woman, presumably Deputy Headmistress McGonagall now that Harry thought about it. Dudley was still gaping like a fish out of water, so Harry half-dragged him to the front door.

“This is my cousin, Dudley,” he explained, poking the boy in question in his ribs. This startled him out of his stupor and he poked Harry back.

McGonagall didn’t comment. “It’s lovely to meet you,” she said to Dudley, managing to sound like she actually meant it.

Harry opened the door for all of them. Dudley, finally having found his voice, called out, “Mum! We’ve got a visitor!”

Something thudded in the upstairs bathroom and moments later Petunia stuck her head out the door, looking quite frazzled. “Dudders, if it’s one of your-” The moment her eyes landed on McGonagall, her face paled significantly and she swept down the stairs, grabbing Dudley’s arm and pulling him behind her. “You’re not welcome here,” she spat, which was quite confusing for Harry.

Evidently, these two knew each other, because recognition also flickered on McGonagall’s face. “Petunia,” she said, still sounding sad. “I’m not here for your son.”

This did not appear to help matters. “The girl, then?” She hissed, venom in every word. “I won’t have it. We’ve spent eleven years stamping that freakishness out of her.”

Harry couldn’t help himself, he blurted, “You knew ?” As soon as the words left his mouth, he slapped one hand over his mouth, but it was too late. Petunia’s eyes snapped to his, burning with anger.

“I knew , oh, how couldn’t I know? I knew when Lily went off to that awful school, knew she was a freak when she came home and turned rats into frogs, when she managed to charm my parents into not recognising it,” she sucked in a breath, sounding like she’d wanted to say all of this for a very long time. “And then she met that Potter boy and they had you and got themselves blown up-”

“Blown up?” Harry interrupted, something remarkably similar to anger building in his body. Petunia scoffed, but McGonagall cut in.

“Let’s go to the living room, shall we?” She said, all traces of warmth gone from her voice. Petunia tried to push Dudley up to his room, but he ducked under her arm and all but ran to the living room. Harry kept McGonagall between him and Petunia as they all filed into the room, a tense silence around them.

Only once Petunia had settled onto the couch, arm around Dudley, and glaring at McGonagall did Harry sit gingerly on Vernon’s usual chair, dividing his attention between all the other people in the room. He glanced at the woman who was settled on the loveseat that had been in the living room for all his life. She was completely incompatible with everything Privet Drive stood for, from her appearing out of thin air to the formal slacks she wore.

“Well, I suppose a traditional approach is out the window, but magic is real,” McGonagall said, pulling a stick from the holster on her arm and easily raising the coffee table and all its contents nearly a metre off the ground, near the ceiling. He supposed it must be a wand of some sort. Harry and Dudley gasped at the spectacle in unison, while Petunia sat and glared. McGonagall ignored her, instead smiling at Harry’s gobsmacked face and saying, “Your mother made the same face.”

Petunia sniffed but didn’t say anything. Harry took that as an invitation to lean forward but didn’t yet dare ask any of the questions he had. 

McGonagall could apparently sense his apprehension, though, because she continued speaking without needing any input from him. “I’m the deputy headmistress at Hogwarts, though you already know that.” Harry could feel Petunia’s eyes on him and he steadfastly ignored her. “As such, it is my duty to visit the homes of mundane-born children and help introduce their families to magic.”

“Mundane?” As it turned out, Harry didn’t have to ask his questions, because Dudley would ask them for him. He’d managed to wriggle out from under Petunia’s arm and put distance between them so her attempts at silencing him went unheeded.

McGonagall gently lowered the coffee table back to the floor and turned back to Petunia and Dudley. “It means anyone without access to their magical core. Most of the people you’ve ever known, except for perhaps Harry.” At first, Harry didn’t even register the problem with what McGonagall had said.

“Harry?” Petunia asked, her tone completely unrecognisable to Harry. He’d never heard her sound like that. When he dared look at her, she was staring right back. Harry, for his part, was planning the fastest route to grab all his things and leave before Vernon came home. 

McGonagall seemed to recognise her mistake but was at a loss as to how to fix it. “Yes, well, I’d assumed- well, given Lily-”

“Given Lily ,” Petunia said, so, so , quietly. “Given my sister . Explain to me how my niece telling you that she’s a boy has anything to do with my sister .” Her voice rose in pitch and volume in equal measure, and Harry wanted nothing more than to melt into the cushions beneath him. “Explain to me, then, how my dead freak of a sister has managed to still pervade every good part of my life and ruin it at every turn.” McGonagall looked about as lost as Harry felt but with none of the terror. He envied her. She seemed so fearless, even in the face of Petunia’s rage. Then again, she could command coffee tables to float and teleport at will, so certainly Petunia’s wrath was not a true threat to her.

“I think this conversation would be better had with Harry and I alone,” McGonagall responded, confusion replaced with resolve. “It’s my duty to escort you to Diagon Alley anyway.” She stood suddenly, dusting off her slacks. “Come, let’s get you packed for an overnight trip.” Harry stared at her, completely uncomprehending.

“So that’s it, then. You dump her on us for eleven years then whisk her away to learn magic? Are we still expected to care for her over the summer?” Suddenly on her feet, Petunia advanced on McGonagall. Harry flinched back into the chair, very glad for the iron wall of McGonagall between them.

“No.” McGonagall’s voice was icy. “You were never responsible for him in the first place, it appears, and I daresay he will never return. Not if I have anything to do about it.” Behind both women, Harry and Dudley locked eyes. Something dangerously close to hope stirred in Harry, but the primary concern was the wild confusion he saw mirrored in Dudley.

Petunia scoffed, just as righteous as McGonagall. “Eleven years, we’ve dealt with her. Good luck .” With that, she grabbed Dudley’s arm and dragged him from the room, stumbling behind her. Their footsteps went all the way up the stairs and behind a slammed door before McGonagall’s shoulders slumped and she turned around to face Harry.

“I would apologise for that but I don’t think that would serve either of us. Come now, I suppose you have some packing to do.” She held out a hand, ostensibly for Harry to take.

“I’m not coming back over the summer?” He asked, still pressed back into Vernon’s chair. If the man could see Harry he’d be furious.

McGonagall nodded, the same fire from her voice burning in her eyes. “Never. And for whatever it’s worth, I am deeply sorry that you’ve been here for so long without anyone realising. I suspect I’ll regret that for a long time.” Harry didn’t know what to do with that, so he silently slid from the chair and led her to his cupboard. When he turned back to face her, the anger had faded back into sadness.

Shuffling awkwardly, Harry unlatched the door. “I haven’t got much anyway,” he told her. She smiled at him encouragingly, pasting the expression over her frown. Harry privately thought the expression looked a touch unfamiliar on her face.

He opened the cupboard door, revealing his cot and the tiny dresser in which he kept everything he owned. A backpack was pulled out from under the cot, and into it went Dudley’s old clothes, a few overdue library books (it wasn’t stealing if he intended to return them) and a couple of toys Dudley had left scattered for him to collect. McGonagall made a noise in the back of her throat but didn’t speak until he turned back to her.

“Anything else?” She asked, and he shuffled a bit. It was embarrassing to reveal, but he didn’t want to leave without the baby sweater and blanket he’d been delivered to the Dursleys with. He pried up the mattress of the cot from the frame and slid them quickly into his bag, zipping it closed.

“That’s all,” he said, staring intensely at the ground.

“Alright then,” she agreed briskly, then held out a hand. He glanced at her, then back at the ground. “Take my hand, we’re going to apparate out of here. It’s a bit like teleportation, but it might make you sick. Mind your stomach,” she advised, and after a moment of hesitation he grabbed her hand.

The world lurched, his vision clouded, and he felt a great tugging on the bottom of his belly. It was all he could do to keep hold of both his bag and the contents of his stomach. When his vision cleared again, they were no longer in the entryway of number four, Privet Drive. Instead, Harry fought between a gasp and a retch as he tried to process the bustling street just in front of him. McGonagall coughed slightly, then dropped his hand to pull out her wand.

“I’m going to perform a slight transfiguration charm on you for while we walk to our room,” she said, though it came out as a question.

Harry desperately wanted to ask so much , like how a feeling of nausea could transport him to who-knows-where and why McGonagall needed to “transfigure” him and what “transfigure” even meant. Instead, he slung his backpack over his shoulder and nodded once, slightly.

She waved her wand and Harry felt a cool, tingling sensation race down the skin of his face. He shivered and rubbed at the skin of his cheek after the feeling faded, shaking his head to rid himself of the feeling. McGonagall waited while he scrubbed the affected skin (his forehead was especially itchy) then held out her hand once again.

“It’s a busy day. I’d hardly like to lose you,” she explained. Harry regarded her.

“Alright,” he said, feeling a bit foolish to be holding an adult’s hand at the age of eleven. He hoped no one payed attention to him, or they might think he was a baby. Nodding once, McGonagall squeezed his hand once then started into the fray.

Sunlight drenched the street, and Harry blinked once or twice before resigning himself to squinting around. People bustled all around them, dressed in strange clothing that swept down to the floor and flowed dramatically after people walking quickly. Harry even spotted a few witch hats, and he glanced at McGonagall’s distinctly normal clothing. Very few people they passed even appeared to be wearing trousers.

He was suddenly glad she was pulling him along, as he watched an owl swoop down into the door of a shop in broad daylight. No one even gave it a second glance. The next storefront proudly displayed floating pieces of paper and feathers dancing around each other. It was all Harry could do not to stop dead and gape at them.

Very quickly, McGonagall pulled him into what appeared to be a restaurant. Harry glanced back out the door, wishing he could go back to see what sort of mechanism must be suspending the objects he’d seen in the shop window. Perhaps the store the owl had entered was a circus of some kind, and it was just a very well-trained owl. He’d heard somewhere that birds were smarter than they seemed.

McGonagall spoke briskly with the man at the bar, paying with big golden and silver coins after he handed her a key. She turned to Harry. “I’ve gotten us a room for a few nights,” she said, beginning to lead him to the stairs. “I’ll get us some lunch and then perhaps we can explore Diagon Alley together.” A spark of mischief entered her voice and it made Harry feel brave enough to ask a question.

“That owl—it flew right into a store!” He exclaimed, then pulled his hand from hers to clap it over his mouth. “I only mean—how did it do that?”

At the top of the stairs, McGonagall checked a tag hanging from the loop of the key and led them to a door midway down the hallway. “Owls are remarkably clever creatures,” she explained, turning the key in the lock. Once the door was open, it revealed a slightly shabby, cosy room with two beds, a desk, and a small couch. “Magical folk use them mainly to deliver mail, although they can also serve other purposes.”

Harry didn’t understand how an owl could serve the job of a postman, but he nodded anyway and set to scanning the room, setting his bag on the smaller of the two beds. McGonagall sighed but didn’t say anything further on the matter.