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Chapter Text

Number Four Privet Drive was not a simple home.

Of course, they loved and obsessed the idea of normality, it was something strived for and something they were very proud of. From the beginning, they criticized and detested every ideal or subject that they deemed not up to their standards. They adored the illusion of pristine and speckless countertops and a well-kempt garden, the fence high enough to keep the nosier neighbors from getting too curious, but not enough to keep the lovely Petunia from doing the same. They loved clean and plain sheets and crystal-clear windows, nothing less than perfect and normal was acceptable.

Which is why, when Harry Potter was dropped onto their porch one late November night, that once perfect picture of normalcy was shattered. For Petunia, the infant was a nightmare. Near constant screaming quickly became a common occurrence within the household. He was inconsolable, the infant still harboring an angry red wound that wrapped and scattered across his browbone and forehead, nearly reaching his eye. The wound was ugly, and closely resembling a violent strike of lightning, red electricity branching out. Petunia tried to soothe the wound with what little first aide they had, but nothing seemed to ever help, the wound seldom showing signs of improvement. Eventually, she just gave up.

Harry was three when he first demonstrated those terrifying abilities that her now deceased sister once had.

Before then, Petunia simply would push coincidences to the side, even if they were nearly impossible to explain. The incident with the moving plates, where they somehow slid from one end of the counter to the other with no explanation, she put the blame on herself; she must’ve misplaced them without thinking, there was no reason to think otherwise. Or the time when Dudley came screaming to her and Vernon’s bedroom in the middle of the night, claiming he saw his teddy bear walk, but he was dismissed with sweet but empty comforts and a kiss to a chubby flushed cheek. Incidents like this continued and eventually escalated, until it was too much to ignore. Harry had made a vase burst and shatter in a moment of childish anger, the shards flying and cutting her poor son’s face in the crossfire.

That was the first time they had locked Harry in the cupboard.

He cried and begged to be let out, profusely apologizing, tiny fists knocking and pounding on the cupboard door. Vernon simply slammed his own fist into the door and shouted for Harry to stay quiet. It made her feel sick. It felt wrong, he was only a child. Her and Vernon had gotten into an argument later that night, voices raising and tempers rising. In the years they’d been married, they’d never laid or raised a hand to each other. It was the first time Vernon had hit her during their spats. Once he’d realized what had been done, he apologized and promised to never do it again.

Petunia never really forgot the aching and the bruised aftermath.

After that, Petunia would watch on with a steeled heart and stinging eyes as Vernon would antagonize Harry. The hurt in Harry’s eyes was so similar to the way Lily’s were, they both had the small crinkle above their right brow whenever they got upset, and the sad but defiant lip quiver was the same as hers. Petunia’s eyes stung worse whenever her Diddykins began joining in, sometimes actively breaking things to get Harry in trouble. As time went on and both Dudley and Harry grew older, eventually making their way into primary school, she noticed many things. She noticed how dejected and scuffled Harry always looked, head bowed and shoulders hunched every time he came home. It was hard to ignore the new and alarmingly common scrapes and bruises, but Petunia pinched her lips and didn’t comment, occasionally sliding him an extra piece of toast or cup of soup whenever he was locked away in that dingy and undoubtedly claustrophobic cupboard.

Harry was five when she raised her hand to him for the first time.

It’d been in a moment of weak, burning anger. Dudley had already been all but maddening that morning, demanding sweets or toys. She loved to provide for her son, and she adored him, but she knew when enough was enough. Dudley had clearly disliked the boundary, and threw a blearing tantrum. She had been furiously cooking supper, a frying pan in hand, when she heard a voice attempt to grab her attention and swung without thought, her already stewing anger flaring. A startled shriek, and then quiet whimpers and hurt tears. She slowly processed the situation with a dawning horror, realizing she had hit her nephew with a frying pan. She quickly set down the pan and cradled her dazed and crying nephew’s face in her hands, wiping the tears as he deliriously flinched away, “Get up, come on. Let’s fix that up.” She quietly soothed as his small and lithe frame wracked with smothered sobs. The stinging in her eyes came worse than ever, a knot festering at the base of her throat as she gingerly pressed an ice pack to the already swelling nub on her nephew’s head. She dreamt of her sister that night.

After that the incidents seemed to only escalate. Vernon became particularly cruel and Dudley continued his tirade of adolescent torment. Petunia increasingly found herself adding more and more duties and chores to Harry’s already too-long list. The garden needed tending to, and the kitchen would occasionally find itself in need of scrubbing and disinfecting. It was alarming, but soon after the thought would slip from her mind whenever the landline would ring or when Dudley would demand her attention.

Stranger incidents began to occur as time continued. Her nephew’s head of hair had become particularly unruly and Petunia without much thought, used a shaver and hacked her nephew’s thick hair. Harry did not struggle, though the occasional hiccup would escape him, which always sent a flare of anger through her. Once she was finished, Harry’s shoulders were hunched, his neck bent downwards. Petunia brushed off her hands of scattered hair and forced herself to scoff, ignoring the slight twinge of guilt. The next day, her fears about her nephew came true, he was like her sister and her god-awful prat of a husband. Harry’s hair came back fuller and thick, black curls framing the nape of his neck and his sullen face. Vernon shouted and shouted until her nephew’s eyes were filled with tears and his lip quivered, chin dimpling like her sister’s used to.

At the age of nine Harry attempted to run away.

Of course, he hadn’t gotten far. His aunt had neglected to lock the cupboard the night before and he minutely hesitated before bolting like a imprisonedman with a chance of freedom. He had only managed to narrowly escape Dudley and his crew before darting around the corner of the nearest Post Office, pressing haphazardly against the dirty red brick that was more brown than red from age. The ground had been wet and cold from the recent London rain and mist, which hadn’t gone over well with Harry’s slightly oversized and worn shoes, second-hand from Dudley. The few things he owned had been stuffed into the ragged backpack that he used for school. His clothes, a toothbrush, and the few broken toy soldiers that had been left abandoned by his cousin. He’d managed to make it only a few more blocks before a concerned policeman shouted and called for his attention from the other side of the road, pen and notepad in hand and writing a ticket for the car next to him. The sudden fear and panic must have shown clearly on Harry’s face, because the policeman’s eyes and posture softened considerably, hands that still held the notepad and pen, put in front of him to show he meant no harm.

“Hey there kid, I’m not trying to scare you.” The man’s voice was soft and soothing, holding a rasp only a kinder man could have, “Are you alright? You shouldn’t be out this early on a Saturday, chap. It’s not exactly safe.” The man now was closer, voice still soothing and calm. Harry felt himself begin to stumble backwards, away on instinct. The concern in the policeman’s eyes only grew, “C’mon, let’s get you home.” Harry almost wanted to shake his head and shout No! Please don’t make me go back!, but his tongue seemed almost rooted to the bottom of his mouth. So, he did not protest when the policeman coaxed him into his car and asked for his name and address, mumbling it defeatedly.

---

Petunia liked to think she wasn’t heartless. When she opened the cupboard one Saturday morning at 6am, only to find the somewhat dingy space empty, Petunia panicked. Looking up and down for her missing nephew, even checking the garden. She couldn’t find him until hours later, when a policeman came by, hand on a dejected Harry’s shoulder and his head bowed. The policeman briefly questioned her and Vernon until he eventually left with a nod of his head. Vernon was furious and she could barely stand to be in the same room as him, fleeing when Harry was subjected to his wrath.

Just before Harry’s eleventh birthday- about a month or so- , a letter came. The letter was quickly snatched from Harry’s hands after Dudley had shouted that he’d gotten something in the mail and Harry seethed, shouting about wanting it back. Petunia abruptly kicked both Dudley and Harry out of the kitchen and looked anxiously at Vernon. “I knew it! That boy is just like his good-for-nothing parents!” Petunia shifted on her feet nervously and wiped her hands with a cloth, opting to remain silent in his tirade. Vernon, without even bothering to look at the address of the letter, wrenched the unopened letter in his hands and ripped it into two, then four, then eight, until the letter was nothing but a pile of scraps. She watched quietly as the kitchen door opened and her son and nephew stood there, eyes expectant.

“What did you do to my letter?”, Harry’s voice was almost pleading, eyes worried and hopeful. “Decided to toss it out, it was the wrong person it was addressed to.” Vernon’s bloated and reddened face was smug and arrogant, almost victorious with his words. Several emotions flitted through Harry’s face before settling on blank, an expression that deeply unsettled Petunia. For a tense moment, the house was dangerously quiet, the atmosphere abruptly shifting. Everyone felt it, but Petunia could feel it suffocating her, threatening to wrap around her neck and lungs. This continued for another minute before Harry broke the silence. “Okay.” Harry’s voice was even, though his curled fist and bone-white knuckles barely gave away his anger. Harry spun around without another word and went into his cupboard.

---

Later that night Harry, curled on the small dingy dog bed given to him by his aunt Petunia, contemplated. He knew that this was far from normal to be treating children like the way he’d been treated, if the stories he’d heard from his peers talking about their parents were of any indication. During break times when he and his classmates were allowed outside, he’d hide in the tree, avoiding Dudley and his crew and listening to his peers faintly talk about the gifts they received or the events they went to, or even just how their parents loved them. He did not know his parents, so he couldn’t miss them, even if he wanted to. He more so missed the idea of them. That was the thought that always made his chest constrict. He wished he had birthdays and presents and quality time with his parents. He wanted kisses and lullabies from his mum and hugs and praises from his dad. He knew those wishes were futile, he wasn’t dense. It didn’t mean he didn’t want those things any less. He felt robbed, in a way.

Shifting into a position that wasn't so straining on his neck, Harry sighed. It was useless to let himself fall into that mindset. It was useless to wish for something he could never hope to have. Harry remembered a sermon preacher on the telly that would loudly preach and exclaim that God takes his people home with him, to heaven. He tried and struggled to understand what he’d done wrong to God to have his parents taken away. What had he done to upset God? Was it because he didn’t pray? Was it because he stole scraps from the top of the rubbish bin when no one was looking because he was starving?

It wasn’t fair. He tried his hardest to stay quiet and unnoticed and good. But it wasn’t enough, God still took his mum and dad. Without another thought, Harry curled into himself, and let a pitiful hiccup escape him. He wished God would take him too.

---

The next day was dull and dreary, the sky already filled with an overhang of grey and heavy rainclouds. Nonetheless, his aunt Petunia expected yardwork to be done. He wasn’t allowed to use Petunia’s good tools in the shed, so he was only permitted to use the much older, rustier and slightly mud-crusted tools that must’ve been years old. They were dull and difficult to use with particularly delicate plants, but they worked regardless. Gardening was one of the more relaxing and mind-numbing tasks that aunt Petunia gave, besides cooking, which he also somewhat enjoyed whenever his aunt wasn’t hovering.

The sun was well hidden behind the dark clouds that hung overhead. It provided a much more preferable cool air to the garden, rather than the slightly sweltering heat. Harry quietly hummed to himself, fingers and knuckles aching after he pulled weed after weed from the garden. His knees and spine were aching, and his pant legs were without a doubt dirty, but the garden was quiet for once. Dudley had gone out with his crew to the park, doing whatever they did. Harry had listened attentively to the conversation Dudley had with Aunt Petunia while he had hand-washed the dishes, making sure to keep his expression schooled and his hands busy to appear inconspicuous. Dudley would be gone for the rest of the afternoon, but would be home for supper. It provided some semblance of relief from Dudley’s torment, as well as working in the garden.

He had just started working on the arugula when an insistent hoot rang out behind him. Harry wrenched his body around and startled when he saw a Tawny Owl staring him down from a few feet away, eyes agitated and feathers puffed, clearly displeased. Harry spotted a letter and something else in the bird’s talons and slowly inched towards the owl and eased the letter out of its grip, cautious of it striking or suddenly deeming him as a threat. The owl made no move to attack, though it obviously seemed agitated by something. Harry spared one last glance to the bird before carefully opening the letter, but not before looking at the address.

Mr. H. Potter,

The Cupboard under the Stairs,

4. Privet Drive,

Little Whinging,

SURREY

A quick and seizing stab of fear went through Harry’s chest. How did they know where he slept? That- that shouldn’t be possible-

A murmur and other sounds coming from inside the house broke Harry out of his impending panic attack, and quickly stuffed the letter and inky-feather-thing into his pocket, streaking black ink onto his wrist and fingers. Harry nearly swore and attempted to wipe the quickly drying ink onto his pants, hoping the dirt would blend with the ink. The back door swung open with a resounding BANG! Petunia standing with a hard look in her eyes and furrowed brows. She raked her eyes across the expanse of the garden, face suddenly blank and stern. She nodded once and said, “Keep working, boy. The garden could be looking better.” Before spinning on her heels and marching away back inside to the kitchen. Harry quickly looked back behind him, only to see the owl gone, the only evidence of it being real was the letter and inky feather that felt like it was burning a hole through his pocket.

---

That evening, Harry was practically buzzing with anticipation once he was safely locked away in his cupboard. He slowly and carefully pulled the letter and inky feather from his pocket, ink further smearing over his palm and fingertips. He set the feather aside gingerly and carefully opened the letter, the dim lightbulb overhead providing barely sufficient lighting.

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 inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall Deputy Headmistress

Eyes wide with excitement and wonder, Harry quickly pushed aside the first to look at the second page.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

UNIFORM First-year students will require: 1. Three sets of plain work robes (black) 2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear 3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar) 4. One winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings) Please note that all pupil's clothes should carry name tags.

COURSE BOOKS All students should have a copy of each of the following:

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk

A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot

Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling

A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore

Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

OTHER EQUIPMENT

1 wand

1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)

1 set glass or crystal phials

1 telescope

1 set brass scales

Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad.

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICK

Harry’s heart would burst if it would go any faster. Witchcraft and Wizardry? Was that what he was, a wizard? So, he wasn’t a freak, just a wizard?

Horrifyingly enough, Harry felt his eyes begin to sting and his lip start to quiver. There was a reason he was the way he was, and he wasn’t alone. From a young age, he knew there was something monumentally wrong or odd about himself. The way animals seemed to take comfort around him, no matter how feral they seemed, or the way the garden thrived under Harry’s touch right before his eyes. Tears one by one tracked down Harry’s sullen cheeks, onto the letter below. He quickly wiped his tears and sniffled quietly to himself. Harry noticed there was an additional blank paper included in the letter. It was thicker and slightly rough, but not calloused. It appeared older, but smelled like new. Harry looked over to the inky feather and set the paper on the wall, shakily writing.

Dear Miss McGonagall, I accept and wish to attend Hogwarts. If it’s not any trouble, may I receive instructions or assistance on how to find and purchase my supplies? Thank you.

Sincerely, Harry Potter.

Gently blowing on the paper to dry to ink, Harry worried on how he was going to deliver the letter. Folding the paper neatly, he gently pushed on his cupboard door, finding it locked still. He briefly wondered if he could somehow use his freakishness to open the lock. He had never attempted it before, fearing the consequences should Uncle Vernon find out, but he needed to find a way to deliver this letter. Breathing evenly and closing his eyes, he focused and imagined faintly the image of the lock sliding open. He continued to focus for a few minutes before opening his eyes and gently pushing on the cupboard door. Still locked. Disappointment and slight frustration filling him, he tried again. And again. And again. After 3 hours, Harry was tired and ready to give up. One more time. His mind told him. Try one more time. Harry nodded to himself and closed his eyes again, setting both palms onto the door. Suddenly, warmth coursed from his chest, down his arms and up his neck, raising chills. The small click that was heard was almost silent. Hope budded in his chest, and slowly he tried to push open the door. It opened.

Harry silently celebrated and grinned. Grabbing the letter he wrote, he quietly padded through the kitchen to the garden, looking around in hope to see the owl. A quiet hoot alerted him, and he spun to see the same Tawny owl from before, glare still piercing and agitated. Harry cooed quietly, hoping to coax the bird closer. The owl seemed to roll its eyes and extended a leg, allowing Harry to tie the letter to its leg. The owl cooed once before taking off, flying and disappearing into the distant clouds. Harry was entranced for a moment, before suddenly remembering where he was and quickly padding inside to his cupboard, taking another hour trying to lock himself back in and succeeded. A few hours later, Harry was awoken by Petunia’s incessant shrieking, but not even that or Dudley’s torment could ruin his excitement.

Chapter Text

The next few days proved to be almost grueling, given how slowly they seemed to drag on.  

Harry waited patiently, always alert and diligent, just in case Miss McGonagall decided to reply to his letter, if she wished. However, no such letter came, and each hour that passed seemed to be slowly dimming the small light of hope that had flickered in Harry’s chest. Number Four Privet Drive was almost worse than ever and close to unbearable, with Uncle Vernon seemingly hell-bent that inflicting every last bit on his anger on Harry, Dudley following- more like waddling in Harry’s opinion- quickly in his footsteps. The only one who hadn’t gotten worse was his Aunt Petunia, who now acted like he didn’t exist. She was now significantly colder towards him, giving only one- or two-word responses or command, rarely more if the situation didn’t call for it, “Clean it.” She’d say, pointing to the glossy-surfaced bathtub or already shiny kitchen floors. Other than that, he was mostly left alone, and he was perfectly fine with that.  

On the fourth or so day with no response from Miss McGonagall, the small light that laid in Harry’s chest in dim and weak, but still alive. He’d given to roaming around the park whenever he’d finish his chores and was able to avoid his aunt, as well as Dudley and his crew. There Harry found a small clearing, hidden away behind the tree line that was thick and dense enough to hide him whenever Dudley came around. It was very secluded, and for a moment Harry couldn’t hear the sound of distant cars or of children laughing on the nearby playground, it was suddenly quiet. Clovers littered the ground, accompanied with the occasional white fluff of dandelions. The sun peaked through the canopy of the trees. It was warm and comforting, providing a figurative security blanket.  

Harry’s stomach grumbled, but he couldn’t really bring himself to care about it at the moment. The clearing was still quiet, almost unsettlingly so. Then a bird chirped, and suddenly any uneasiness that had coiled in Harry’s stomach and chest unraveled like a sunbathing snake. Harry slowly walked to the middle of the clearing, and sat down. The blades of grass tickled his sides where they reached underneath his oversized shirt, as well as his palms. More birds chirped, and something cooed in the trees, a mourning dove, Harry remembered reading in a book at school once. He breathed in and closed his eyes, feeling at peace for the first time in a while. He was distantly aware of the still chirping birds, and the soft rustling of leaves against bark and branches. They seemed so far away now. He was also distantly aware of the warmth settling into his chest, running slowly down his arms and up his neck, raising gooseflesh. His fingertips now felt prickly, as if they’d fallen asleep or as if he’d touched a cactus, those spiked plants that are only found in deserts or hotter climates that didn’t receive much rain- or precipitation. He’d read that once in a book too.  

A breeze carrying dandelion seed pods and leaves suddenly blew, ruffling his hair in an almost affectionate manner. And distantly, Harry swore he almost heard a light twinkling sound. Something that strongly resembled wind chimes or little golden bells, or perhaps a mother’s laughter. Another breeze caressed and blew into his face and nose gently, as if fond, and the twinkling continued for another two heartbeats before dishearteningly falling quiet. Harry exhaled, close to breathless before laughing soundlessly, nearly afraid of disturbing the peaceful atmosphere. Another mourning dove responded in tune, breaking the silence, but not destroying it. For a while, Harry waited for the doting wind to come back, for the light and gentle chiming sound to come back. It didn’t, but that didn’t prevent Harry from lingering for another hour or so, still waiting and hoping to experience that kind of adoring affection again. It hardly mattered if it was physical or not. Moments passed and that sunbathing snake recoiled again tight in his chest, shivering and bitter. Harry’s shoulders slumped pitifully, and he fiddled with his fingers and nails, feeling dejected. He stared down at the plush grass at his legs, almost letting himself slip away into a state of static and bliss. This continued on for an unknown amount of time, before his hand suddenly itched, and the far-away state of mind he’d slipped into broke.  

He suddenly couldn’t recall exactly how long he’d been sitting there, in that clearing with the gentle and almost comforting cooing of the mourning doves and the clovers. It felt like he’d been waiting almost forever and no time at all waiting for those bells to come back, for the laughter he wanted to hear again. The snake in his chest was still shivering and coiled tighter than ever, but it wasn’t bitter at him. It was quiet and bitter without the bells, the windchimes, and the laughter. Harry didn’t want to think too hard on the bells; they suddenly make him grieve for reasons he couldn’t understand. If he thought too hard about the bells, an awful weight would settle in his chest and a knot would develop in his throat, so he opted to not think about the bells at all. The sun was abruptly very low in the sky, the deep concoction of orange and pink gave a flattering view of the clouds and horizon through the canopy of trees. As if a switch had been flipped, Harry could now hear the industrial noises of traffic, and the faint chatter and laughter of strangers. Harry’s heart was immediately in his throat as he quickly stumbled to his feet, fumbling with the loops of his oversized shoes, which had somehow been discarded off of his feet in favor of digging his toes into the dark soil. Dirt and severed blades of grass clung stubbornly to his clothes as he rushed brushing them off, huffing in panic at how much time had passed unexpectedly. “Nonononono-” , Harry whispered frantically to himself, stumbling clumsily through the dense tree line and down the street, careful to avoid the curious and prying gazes of strangers.  

When he finally stumbled up to the steps of Number 4 Privet Drive, the house was unusually silent.  

Harry’s impending panic attack and already amplified anxiety did nothing to ease the unnerving quiet of the house. The Dursleys’ car wasn’t in the driveway, and their shoes were gone. He was unsure of whether or not Aunt Petunia had informed him of an outing or anything of the such, but nothing came to mind. If there was an outing, she would not bother to tell him about it, unless he needed to be watched by Mrs. Figg. The warm golden hour of the sun was long gone, as were the beautiful swirls of oranges and pinks of the dusk sky, and a dull blue took its place, the moon already slightly visible and up above the horizon line Harry could see through the window. Whatever coiled and tense feeling that had twisted inside his chest, slowly began to unravel itself, the color finally returning to Harry’s face from where it undoubtedly paled in petrification. Harry's shoulders slumped, and his spine and posture slouched in relief. He was lucky today, and he thanked profusely to whatever or whoever had played the scenario in his favor today.  

Harry cautiously slipped inside the house, once again feeling incredibly lucky that the door was left unlocked. He carefully brushed any lingering dirt and debris on his clothes and shoes before stepping down the narrowed hallway to the cupboard, suddenly choosing to simply stare at it for a moment. There was abruptly a sense of apprehension, almost like anxiety now that he was so close to his cupboard. He primarily blamed the vague sense of claustrophobia that he’s always had, but he had a feeling that there was a deeper meaning to his hesitation. Like something was telling him not to go in.   

Breathing in deeply, Harry attempted to shake off the looming dread to no avail. The anxiety was insistent and was becoming worse, coiling like a frightened snake in his chest. Without his permission his chest began to tighten like a steel wire wrapping constrictively, his breath becoming quickly shallow and airy. It felt like nearly every ounce of his soul, his being told him not to go into that blasted cupboard again, and he was more than willing to listen to that urge, even against his intense fear of his uncle. His vision focused and unfocused, the dark but deceptively small doorway of his cupboard flickering back and forth between clear and horribly blurred. Without meaning to, Harry stumbled clumsily backwards, his back hitting solidly against the wall behind him. He slid down slowly, his breath still horribly shallow and panicked, as he rapidly tapped his fingers against the floor, his leg, the wall behind him. The attempt of grounding himself brought him back somewhat, enough to realize he’d been sitting there long enough for the moon to be high in the sky, the eerie glow of it filtering in gently through the windows, blue light peeking into ruffled curtains.  

Harry’s breath stuttered one last time, a small hiccup leaving his throat as he turned his head from the window back to the wooden floor. He absently noted he’d been crying, though he hardly let himself acknowledge the fact, it was embarrassing enough that he’d freaked out over his cupboard, of all things. Wiping his reddened cheeks with his dirt-tinged sleeves, Harry allowed himself one or two more sniffles before stumbling and picking himself back up after a few long minutes of just staring at the floor, drifting. He felt almost disconnected, completely disassociated from his body, in a sense. The dingy, small cupboard that had once held and fostered a warped form of claustrophobia and faux security from his aunt and uncle, dissipated, and in its placed formed an unadulterated fear.  

There were good memories, sometimes. He remembered of the only slightly stifling warmth of the cupboard, of the darkness and muffled sounds of the Dursley family outside. The dark had become a constant once the small lightbulb above his head had gone out, and never got replaced. Harry, who’d once been petrified of the dark, had grown to find comfort in it, learning to accept the quiet and the pitch blackness as if it was a mother’s hug. As if it was something he could thrive in. In there, he would line the pebbles and twigs he’d find, along with his broken toy soldiers, and play in the dark and create fun, imaginative stories full of joy, or action, or betrayal. He was fond of those untainted memories, as few as there were.   

Harry only allowed himself a few more minutes of quiet, white static making itself present other than the occasional rough and hoarse huff of breath or sniffle. He slowly and quietly stumbled his way past the cupboard and into the kitchen, finding it messy. A small coil of frustration-perhaps even annoyance- settled deep into his chest and throat, and Harry grumbled to himself, marching over to his cupboard and picking up the nearly empty bottle of bleach and sponges and brushes. As he set to work, Harry let his thoughts drift and focus on the field, on the clovers, on the bells. He abruptly pushed his mind away from that particular topic, and instead focused on the new book his teacher at school made them read before school had let out. It was old, and very boring according to his classmates, but he’d found the story of Jane Eyre rather relatable. More than once after school, he’d settle in the school library- a place Dudley and his motley crew rarely go- and read and find himself imagining his self-there in the story, as if he was right there with Jane. He admired her fire, her courage and ambition (A new word he’d learned!) to overcome any obstacles that were thrown at her. He never finished the book; Dudley had found him reading one day and destroyed the book on the spot with boots and a large mud puddle. But occasionally, he’ll find himself daydreaming and wondering about what happened to Jane Eyre. Whether or not she ends up rich and successful and married. He hoped so.  

Soon enough, the kitchen is as spotless as he’d left it. A warm curl of satisfaction embeds in him as he looks at his finished result. Everything is where it’s meant to go, and everything has a place. Eventually, Harry sighs tiredly to himself, exhausted beyond measure from the run here and the cleaning session. Nearly dragging his feet, he makes haste in putting away with the cleaning chemicals and settled quietly into his cupboard. He’d noted at how late it was, confused at how the Dursleys were not yet home. Unusual, but deciding to let it go in case it’s a “special occasion" regarding Uncle Vernon’s business affairs.  

Slowly, Harry began to drift off. The lingering smell of bleach still on his hands but ignored. Just as he was close to succumbing to sleep, a sharp BANG! Rattled the kitchen window and an indignant screech followed. Like lightning, Harry was already wide awake and bolting out of the cupboard and into the kitchen. There, just outside of the window, was the same owl as before glaring witheringly at him. Harry quickly and clumsily unlatched the window and let the poor bird in.  

In its sharp talons, was a letter. Or more accurately, the letter.