Chapter Text
“So, Mr. Durley?” The officer looks down his nose towards the fat middle aged man.
Said man shifts his fat body onto his other foot, looking very annoyed with the situation. “It’s Dursley.” He had been woken up early in the night after heading to bed early after a ‘hard’ day of work. His hard day being him dealing with his wife, child, and that freak. Huffing he changes his position, trying to seem more intimidating. The officer is unimpressed.
“I’ll make this short. A neighbor called in hearing disturbing noises around 7:45 this evening. Said there was some terrible screaming. Everything alright?”
“Oh! I uh…” He stutters for a moment, blubbering, and the officer raises an eyebrow. “You know how things can be…” The one questioning him frowns, thinking the worst of the situation: an abused household at the hands of-.
He doesn’t get to finish that thought as Mrs. Dursley and her son peer in from the living room, concerned. “Is everything alright?” A nasally obnoxious voice sounds from the living room, the perfect image of a concerned housewife. “Was Ickle Diddykins tantrum earlier too loud for the neighbors?” Her face contorted in mock sadness.
The whole matter ends up getting resolved for the good family that lives on 4 Privet Drive. They wait patiently, invite the officer in for some biscuits, everything becomes a funny misunderstanding. Meanwhile a young boy of 7 rocks back and forth in his cupboard under the stairs; frowning at every word his Uncle and Aunt make, luring the officer (who should be helping him) onto their side.
He probably sees the pretty pictures without me, of all of them smiling. The clean house, that I cleaned. And their pretty lies, that leave me out of the picture. They’ve got him wrapped around their finger.
As the years move forward, the young boy who lives under the stairs grew up how everyone wanted him to. Hiding from ‘Harry Hunting’, shying away from his Uncles way, and dealing with it.
He also learned how to take the information from his classmates, who talked loudly while he sat quietly. To sneak extra food underneath a plank of wood in his cupboard, because isn’t that what they’re for? Forgetting the things that go missing. His conglomerate of skills and items fill him up, bring him joy since nothing else cannot.
The pawn shops, he overheard some older guys at the bodega on the walk to primary talking, don’t question the diamond earrings or cellular device he slips in as he takes the cash. At ten he’s got a little money to afford food for lunch before heading to school, and a little more hiding away in his cupboard.
When the summer hits again he finds an odd letter in the beak of an owl, which he doesn’t question and slips his letter into trousers. The idea of a school of magic, Hogwarts, seems laughable but he is only a kid. He sits there in his cupboard confused. Why should he believe this and does he want to? Strange things have happened in the past, running away from Dursley and his friends then somehow winding up on a roof away from them. It could make sense, but someone could also be messing with him. He makes the decision as the letter crumbles under his fists and he throws it into the corner before falling into a fitful sleep. No one makes him out to be a fool.
He comes home the next day from the library, where he is strolling down the street, only to see Dudley and his friends guarding the front yard of the house. Gritting his teeth, the way through the back seems like a better idea. That’s how he finds himself scaling over the back of the fence and tumbling down into a rose bush. He winces at all the cuts and bruises, willing himself not to scream. He’s used to more than this normally, so it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, he thinks panting.
Sitting there catching his breath, he does not see the garden snake curling up his shoddy hand-me-down pants. The raspy speech catches his attention, “the young one is hurt”, forked tongue whishing in and out its’ mouth. He yelps, clamping his hands over his mouth, because that was loud. The Harry Hunters don’t seem to notice though. A sigh of relief breathes out through his nose.
“Y-you can speak!” He licks his lips, scoffing a little in mirth at the snakes supposed look of shock. “You must be really special! How can you talk!” His eyes alight in excitement he peers down at the snake who just tilts their head to the side.
The tongue slithers out, “You speak mine; you speak mine.”
What? “What?” He says a few more words, and that’s when he realizes the rasping sounds coming from his mouth. Briefly the moons align and he wonders if his week can get any weirder as the garden snake makes their escape while he’s distracted. “Wait, come back!” Tumbling out of the bush, he looks around to make sure no one saw that, because he didn’t want an extra hit tonight.
The owls that start popping up on his way to the pawn shop and the snake at the zoo make his week weirder. That’s when he makes the impulsive decision to smooth out the crumbled letter, pencils in his response, and hands it over to one of the owls on the fencepost a couple blocks away from 4 Privet Drive. Because even if someone is trying to fool him, he has magic, guts, and a lot of questions.
Early the next morning and he wakes up, get his response from the ‘magical school’ before slaving over breakfast for the Dursleys. Petunia, his Aunt, kicks him out before he can get his measly plate and he’s happy he has some money stuffed in his pockets. The Leaky Cauldron it is then.
The pub is supposedly the entrance and Harry is skeptical as he holds a knife in his thin coat pocket. It’s very hot but if this is a kidnapping, he is determined not to be taken advantage of. He peers over towards the bookshop nestled beside the building in longing as he walks inside. The first thing noticeable is how crowded it is, the second that only a couple of people take notice of him, and thirdly the odd barkeep at the back eyeing him.
More specifically it feels like he is eyeing the bit of his scar the peaks out of his messy hair that he didn’t bother to style today. Normally he has his scar out front in center because he finds it unique and cool -even if the Dursleys hate it. Instead of sweeping his hair to uncover it he awkwardly messes with it so it’s completely covered. The mans eyes widen a bit in recognition?
Harry walks over to the bartender nervously, because what kind of creep would know him? His hand tightens on the handle of the knife. “Uh, I’m here to go to Diagon Alley.” He stutters a bit, watching oddly dressed people walk through a door to the backroom out of the corner of his eye. The man notices and gives him a look, pointing towards the door. “That’s the way in, is it?”
Before he can awkwardly shamble away the man leans over the bar whispering, “Best be careful Mr. Potter.” He disappears to serve drinks before Harry can respond. Creeped out ‘Mr. Potter’ saunters over to the door peeking in, because curiosity killed the cat and if he was this scared why did he come anyway? Throwing caution to the wind he steps into the room and watches as one of the oddly dressed people in garish robes raises a wand to the red brick wall. Suddenly the bricks rumble and creak, moving to show an opening in the small rooms wall into a bustling alley full of magic.
Shops line both sides, side alleys springing off occasionally, and a massive white building barely visible at the end. Witches and Wizards walk up and down the way; laughs and seedy glances run abound. Harry is mystified by the surface glance of wonder and amazement. The letter was real!
Excited he takes out the letter he received in response.
[HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to hear that you will be attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Your parent(s) or guardian(s) will be able to find all required school supplies, from the list provided in the acceptance letter, at Diagon Alley. Muggle money can be exchanged at Gringotts Wizarding Bank, and you should be able to withdraw funds from the vault your parents left behind for you. Your parent(s) or guardian(s) should have a key.
Yours Sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress]
He already has the school supply list tucked into his pant pockets, and rather worries about the comment about his parents. The ones that died in a car crash. Why did he not know that they were wizards and why did no one ever check in on him at the Dursleys. Water beads around his eyes and he shakes his head furiously to get rid of them. It doesn’t matter, someone else had the key and the Dursleys definitely didn’t? Right?
This plagues his mind as he smiles nervously at the Goblin leading the way to his vault, vault 687. The Goblin, Griphook, mummers’ unpleasant things as he leads Harry to the rickety cart. The tracks look unsafe and he distantly hears a waterfall echoing throughout the underground cavern. Nervously, he hops into the cart with his ‘lovely’ companion.
The cart tilts and turns every which way, making him feel like it will careen too far and they will plummet to the ground. They miraculously make it alive, and the Goblin leads Harry out of the cart. The cavern narrows into a hallway, dark and lit ominously. “You know Mr. Potter, normally we require your guardians to come in with you.” The words echo throughout as they make their way past vaults “… 680... 683…"
Harry shuffles a bit behind Griphook, and looks off to the side nervously. “I received this letter after I mailed Hogwarts…” He rummages in his pockets to hand the letter to the creature. “My guardians don’t like magic, and…”
“You haven’t told them, hm. Your magical guardian should be here with you then.”
“What’s a magical guardian?”
The goblin leans forward, grabbing Harry’s hand and places it against the door. “Since your Godfather cannot take you in and your parents were killed, it falls upon an appointed witch or wizard to look after you. You are saying you haven’t been?”
“Killed! My Aunt and Uncle said they died in a car crash!” Little Potter exclaims loudly and stifles a scream as the door pinches his skin, drawing blood. Griphook waves a hand over the small wound, if it could even be called that, and heals it instantly as the door opens.
“Well we can sort through that after we get you settled with galleons.” A nasty grin is sent towards the distraught boy, who has gold gleaming in his eyes.
