Chapter Text
It was the year 1995, and the hottest days of summer were drawing to a close.
Cars that were once clean and shiny now stood dusty in their driveways. Plants wilted and lawns turned a sickly yellow color in the unforgiving July heat.
In the town of Little Whinging, Surrey, most people were tucked away inside, hoping to escape the sun. On Privet Drive, # 4, however, one person stood outside, crouched behind dying hydrangea bushes. This young man's name was Harry Potter.
Now, you may be thinking, what on earth was he doing? Well, to know that, first you would need to know a bit about his aunt and uncle, the Dursleys.
Petunia and Vernon Dursley were what you would call boring, but only behind their backs. They prided themselves on being extraordinarily normal, and made sure everyone else knew it, too. Their lawns had to always be green, their new car red and shiny in their driveway. They absolutely detested anything that didn't fit their perfect little bubble.
Our dear Harry, for example, did not fit in the bubble. This was for many reasons, each one divulging just what kind of people the Dursleys were. For one, he was an orphan, entrusted to the Dursley family when he was just a babe. His parents had died when he was barely a year old, leaving him in the care of his closest living relatives. For that reason, they saw him as a personal burden and despised him for simply existing in their space. There was no way they could pass him off as their own, you see. Because, dear reader, while the family might not admit it to your face, and assured their neighbours they have no issue with people that are, in fact, different from themselves, anyone with half a brain might see through this thin facade.
When young Harry, fresh from the scene of his parents’ murder, showed up at their doorstep looking just like his father, their hatred for him started.
The icing on this terrible, rotten, no-good cake that was his existence, however, was the discovery they made when Harry was nearly 2. They had discovered he was magic, just like his good for nothing parents. It did not help, of course, that this discovery came by when young Harry broke one of Petunia's fine vases, overwhelmed as he was by yet another of his uncles shouting bouts. And oh no, they assured the neighbors, he did not mind staying inside all the time, conveniently away from prying eyes. They locked him in the dusty cupboard under the stairs, and all but forgot him most of the time. ‘
This was a blessing in disguise, Harry would come to learn, for Vernon could not shout and hit him if he forgot his existence, however long that lasted.
He got his Hogwarts letter when he turned eleven, and ever since, the magical boarding school on the Scottish Highlands had been more of a home to him than number 4 Privet Drive ever would.
The Dursleys had tried their absolute best to keep his ‘freakishness’ a secret, and to their knowledge, succeeded. Despite that, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley still lived in constant fear that someone would find out. They treated him horribly in hopes of stamping out the teen's magic; or in Vernon's case, simply because he could.
This particular summer day, his uncle had gone to work, and as punishment for needing breakfast, aunt Petunia had him weed out the back garden, and he was not to come in until the whole yard was finished.
Harry didn't mind, really. Anything was better than being around his uncle, who drank more and more nowadays, or his aunt, who always had a sharp remark to throw his way. Or being in his cupboard.
Ever since he had gotten his school letter for the first time, they moved him upstairs to the spare room, out of fear of how these people could possibly know where he slept. But still locked him in the stuffy broom closet when Vernon decided he was being too disappointing, which was often.
Sometimes he was there for weeks at a time.
That was his uncle's oh so original way of telling him he would never belong, never be good enough for his perfect family.
And as much as Harry was used to it, sometimes a tiny part of him, buried under carefully curated layers of unfeeling shields, cried out in pain. For a child is meant to be loved, and yet.
During his time with them, his only escape from spiraling was his cousin Dudley. A few months older than Harry himself, his cousin had been his only friend, up until he was given Hedwig, his snowy owl, in July before his first year. They bonded over their shared hatred for Dudley's father. When Harry received his Hogwarts letter, Dudley was the only one happy for him, even though he didn't truly understand what that meant.
But in the last couple years, Vernon had taken to locking Harry away more and more, no doubt hating the influence his wife's nephew held over his 'heir'. For a muggle, he was quite obsessed with the idea of a legacy. It sometimes reminded Harry of the stuffy purebloods of London.
Thankfully, Harry only had to be there for less than 3 months of the year, as the rest of his time was spent in the Scottish countryside, at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Since he received his first letter, he had yet to spend the winter and easter holidays back here.
Now, Hogwarts may be his favorite place, but it was far from perfect. Encounters with one of Voldemort's minions was basically commonplace now, and even the bastard himself has paid Harry a visit more than once. The year before, Harry had been tricked into a magically binding tournament, despite being too young to participate, and was then forced to watch his friend Cedric Diggory be killed by Voldemort right in front of him.
Then, as the cherry on top of the situation, he wasn't allowed to go to his godfather—Sirius Black’s— house for the summer and was instead forced back to Privet Drive. Dumbledore had assured the teen it was for his own safety, but Harry didn't buy it. The headmaster had this twinkle in his eyes, one the teen had come to associate with another one of Dumbledore’s schemes.
He had been forbidden to communicate with anyone, and as such, had yet to hear from any of his so-called 'friends', Ron and Hermione, or even Ginny and the twins. Sirius as well had yet to write to him, and none of Harry's own letters seemed to be going through. Even Molly, who usually sent him something for his birthday at least, had not been heard from.
His only escape from boredom was listening to the neighbours' new gossip, outlandish tales drifting through the window in his aunt's high shrieks. And, of course, having conversations with the small garden snakes he sometimes came across.
-Flashback-
Vernon Dursley POV
Vernon Dursley was a proud man, overly so. He ran a successful company called Gunnings, which made drills. He believed himself to be quite influential in social circles, and prided himself in being something of a leader. He wasn't, of course, but no one confronted him about his ways, lest they be caught in the crossfire of one of his impressive temper tantrums. Now, the day his Dursley was born might have been the proudest moment of his life, had he not been driven mad by greed. He saw, instead of his newborn son, only an heir to his 'legacy'. The baby in his arms held the weight of all his expectations and dreams.
Then, Harry arrived. The dark skinned brunette, swaddled in blankets and gripping a letter tightly in his pudgy hands, was left on his doorstep on a cold November night at barely a year old. The infant immediately became the bane of Vernon's existence.
When he was young, he had an unsettling habit of suddenly appearing in rooms he wasn't in moments before. As he got older, weirder and weirder things occurred. Jumping onto the school roof, birds flocking to him, strangers waving (Mrs. Dursley had complained incessantly about that one, much to his chagrin), snakes and disappearing glass. All in all, a weird, horrible child, and a wrench in his careful plans.
Then came the little freak’s 11th birthday. Vernon did not keep track of such unimportant things, of course, and neither did his wife.
Or so he thought. Looking back, she had seemed more fidgety than normal, voice shrill and constant as she found new ways to complain about the same old things. If he had paid more attention, he might have noticed how she flinched when watery blue eyes met green, or the lengths she would go to never be in the same room as the boy. He didn't.
That day, it all changed. In all the years that Harry was forced upon their perfect, normal family, not once did anyone write to him, except for the library looking for an overdue book. No distant relatives, coming to claim him, and no one to dispute the handsome checks they received each month to keep the brat under their roof.
But that day, someone did.
The day began like any other. A drab, cloudy morning, a wednesday. His family was sitting around the table, having bacon and eggs, when the post arrived.
Harry was, of course, sent to retrieve it from the door. He came back and dropped a stack of bills on the table. One envelope stayed in his hand. The Letter.
And so, it began. Really, Vernon should be glad. After all, now he only had to see the brat a couple months of the year.
It would be better, of course, if he didn't have to see him at all.
-End of flashback-
Harry POV
In a couple of days, his best friend Ron's dad, Mr. Weasley, would come for Harry, to finally take him away from this awful house, to spend the rest of the summer in Ron’s home, The Burrow. The Weasleys treated him like family, and Harry missed the chaos the house was usually like. Molly Weasley, Ron’s mum, was like a mother to him, and the twins, Fred and George, treated him like a little brother.
Sometimes, he wished he could bring Dudley along, if only to experience what it was like to have a good family.
His other best friend, Hermione Granger, was a muggle-born, and usually met them in Diagon every August. She would then spend the last week or so at the Burrow, before heading to Kings Cross all together.
Harry smiled grimly as he pulled the last of the stubborn weeds. It was well past lunch time, and he wasn't confident about his chances of getting food. He had heard some interesting gossip today (#7 was pregnant out of wedlock, #3 had cheated on his wife, and other inconsequential things.) but nothing that sounded like it could be a cover up for something more magical.
With a grunt, Harry stood, knees aching from kneeling so long. He gathered all the tools and shoved them in the shed, and threw the last of the weeds into the bin before walking into the house.
Inside, it was significantly cooler, and Harry relished the change. Quickly washing his dirty hands and bolting upstairs, he let out a sigh of relief when the door was closed behind his thin frame.
His dirty clothes were stripped off, and after a quick, quiet shower, soft pajamas replaced the coarse feel of his old jeans. his head hit the pillows and his eyes closed, glasses sliding down his nose. Soon, his aunt would call him down to start on dinner for the family, but for now, the Boy Who Lived had a moment to himself.
He smiled softly to himself, his dear Hedwig hooting softly from her perch by the window.
‘Soon, I'll be free. Just a few more days…’