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1.
Sally didn’t want to be a single mother at 20.
That’s the thing none of her family understands: she had sex, of course she did, she’s a teenager. How is it her fault she’s part of the miniscule percentage for whom birth control fails?
And now she’s stuck in this godawful place where literally everything is identical. Little Whinging is a very accurate summarization of what its people – particularly the housewives – tend to do all day.
She thinks her parents sent her here just to see the oh-so-perfect families gracing the place.
Annoyed, she slammed the door and leaned against, taking in the chaos she’d made of the perfect house.
She noticed yelling outside – shouts of freak and cruel laughter. Huh. So maybe this place wasn’t as shiny as it seemed. After all, pretty houses often contained ugly people.
She peered out of the window. One of the boys – the one with the face like a rat, she observed unkindly – had the black-haired boy’s arms behind his back while the other blond was punching him. Sally considered interfering, but she doubted that would make a difference long-term. In fact, it might make it worse for the kid.
As she weighed regular beatings vs someone interfering and them getting worse, the black-haired boy twisted away after stomping on his captor’s foot. He launched a kick at one of them and punched the other – though not the one punching him, Sally noted frowning – and ran off.Resourceful kid. That would serve him well.
She thought for a moment.
“Hey kids,” She said. “Off the lawn.” She nodded at the black-haired boy, the one being punched. “You, stay back.”
Likely assuming that he was in trouble, the others smirked and ran off without a protest.
The boy scowled. His eyes are beautiful, Sally couldn’t help noticing.
“Yes Ma’am?” He asked politely.
Sally studied him. “Come on in,” She said. “I have ice for your nose.” She could feel the boy’s surprise as he followed her. “I didn’t want to interfere,” She said. “Should I have?”
“No,” The boy said with certainty. “That would’ve made it worse.”
She gave him an iced pack of peas. He flinched like he knew what was coming, and held it to his nose with a long suffering look. He was clearly used to it.
“You should tell your parents about this,” Sally noted mildly. She knew kids like that didn’t take to stuff like that well.
The boy gave her a deeply amused look. “My parents are dead,” He said without hesitation. “But thanks for the concern.”
Sally felt a deep shock. She knew orphans existed, of course. But they always seemed like something other, never something that affected her. She was so used to complaining about her parents –“Well, what about your guardians?” She said.
The boy considered her. “You saw the one who was punching me?” He asked. “The fat blond one with the face of a pig?”
Sally had to stifle a laugh. “Sure. Why?”
“He’s their son. And they’re more likely to reward him than punish him for this.” He gestured at all of himself. “Thanks for the ice Miss–?”
“Hopper.” Sally said, unable to understand all the implications of that at that moment. “Sally Hopper.”
The boy smiled. “Thanks, Miss Hopper. I’ll see you around.”
Then he ran away with the swiftness of someone used to running away from dangerous people and situations.
Sally blinked. She sat down heavily and patted her stomach. “I don’t know, kiddo.” She told it. “There’s something… really odd about that family. The way that boy talked, how used he was to it, what he said about his guardians…” She shook her head, disturbed. “Wish I could help,” She sighed. “But he won’t let me… . I’ll see what I can do,” She promised. “And I’ll never let anything like that happen to you.”
2.
“How is he?” Hermione asked.
“No change,” Her friend replied gloomily, throwing himself into the chair sulkily. “And Madam Pomfrey still won’t let us see him!”
“It is her job,” Hermione pointed out sensibly. “And… . . Still no reply?”
At that, Ron’s face became serious. He shook his head. “I don’t think they’re coming.”
Hermione considered that. She thought about how Harry ate, how he always packed food from the table that Ron reported he kept under the stasis charm in their room, and how he talked about his family.
“I don’t think his relatives treat him very well,” Ron said soberly.
“Maybe.” Hermione said. “His robes don’t have nametags, you know that?”
To them, that was quite possibly the hardest proof. The rest could be coincidences – but the nametags thing? That wasn’t just abuse, it was lack of thought. Lack of any affection.
Hermione’s parents had been able to talk to her through a ‘floo call’. Which was still so cool! How did the fireplace thing even work? What were the enchantments on the floo powder? Did it make the fire unable to hurt people? But then how did the transport–?
She cut herself off.
And Ron’s parents had come in to see him because his injuries were more severe. They’d come within hours of the owl.
And Harry’s relatives hadn’t answered nearly two days after the owl.
Some of Hermione’s favourite stories and books featured abuse, but she’d never thought she’d meet, let alone befriend someone who had been in a less than supportive and unstable environment.
“I noticed,” Ron looked uncomfortable.
Something was Not Right about Harry Potter’s family.
But.
“He has us,” Ron continued softly.
“Right,” Hermione agreed, not knowing the magnitude of what she was saying, but meaning it with all her heart. “He does.”
3.
Florean Fortescue had been a witness to quite a few spectacular events.
He’d scored fairly well on his NEWTs, but he hadn’t been content with the thought of becoming a Ministry stooge. He wanted a peaceful job, but one where he would still wake up looking forward to the day and to something exciting.
The ice cream parlour was perfect.
He’d survived Voldemort’s first war, to see the dull streets blossom back to what they had been. He’d had the famous Harry Potter’s parents here on a date, when only two years before his mother’d dumped a cone on a grinning James Potter’s head. The parlour had been the place Miranda Goshawk had agonized over her first book. Where he’d driven out the Mulciber and Travers heirs for calling someone a mudblood. Which had fallen apart during the famous Diagon Alley strike after the war.
And now host to Harry Potter’s summer of teenage angst and History of Magic homework.
Florean liked the young man. Polite but cheeky, with bright green eyes and untameable black hair, smart and sincere but bored by academics, loving stories of the ancient times, and a clear talent and adoration for quidditch, he was a beautiful mix of his parents with a lovely added flavour of his own.
But he was thin. Painfully so. Florean fed him free ice creams everyday because he wasn’t sure what else he could do. And he’d run away, the rumours of the Alley said. Diagon Alley had a wonderful gossip network, which, unlike others, was rarely wrong. He didn’t talk about his relatives, at all. And he had a natural instinct for survival – he always picked a table by the wall from where he could see others clearly. And had ducked a flying plate easily without any interference or even seeing it.
Florean was certain Harry’s family wasn’t what it seemed – pleasant muggle relatives who let their foster son wander out to his leisure but with proper strictures in place.
He’d seen these signs before. He knew what they pointed to. He knew there was something worrying about Harry’s family.
But he didn’t know if he was right. He didn’t know what to do.
4.
Mark hadn’t meant to piss Dudley Dursley off.
It just happened.
And now he was lying on the street, completely beaten down.
Dursley’s such a coward, he thought sullenly. You’d think he’d at least leave his bloody goons behind. At least he didn’t bring his criminal cousin.
“Easy there,” A voice came. There was a boy with a narrow face, a few years older than Mark himself, with black hair, a lithe body, and what his sister would call ‘striking eyes’. “You get up too quickly, you’ll risk worsening those.” He nodded at Mark’s injuries.
He helped him up, and it was clear that the thin frame held more strength than it looked like it did. “Where do you live?”
“Er – Wisteria Walk. Number Thirteen.”
“Right,” The boy said briskly. “Dudley and his mates should have gone to the park by now, so if we take the long route we shouldn’t run into them.”
“I could take them,” Mark said defensively.
“If you say so,” The boy said, clearly not believing him for a moment. “But you certainly can’t with those lovely bruises. Come on.”
He began walking, matching his pace with Mark’s. Unable to stand the silence, Mark said, “I’m Mark Evans.”
The boy’s eyebrows rose. “Huh. Probably a coincidence,” He muttered to himself.
“What?”
“Nothing. Nice to meet you, kid. What did you do to get Duddykins on your trail?”
Mark had to snicker at the nickname. “Nothing, really. Doesn’t take much to rile him up.”
At that, the boy smirked. “Doesn’t, does it? His temper hasn’t improved at Smeltings.”
Mark groaned. “God, my mum’s going to kill me. I’m probably going to have to miss school, and Smeltings wants a near perfect record.”
“Can’t be helped,” The boy said, though his voice was sympathetic. “D’you think your mum’s going to toss a frying pan at your head? Threaten to whip you to every inch of your life? Starve you?”
Mark stared in horror. “What? No!”
The boy relaxed. Mark hadn’t noticed, but he’d apparently tensed sometime. “Then I wouldn’t really say she’s going to kill you,”
“I didn’t meant that, well, literally,” Mark said. He sounded ridiculously stupid. The boy shrugged. “I guess it could be worse.”
His gaze grew distant. “Pretty much everything could be.” He agreed. “Except when your friend gets murdered in front of you and your parents’ killer comes back to life,” He muttered under his breath.
Mark blinked. “What?”
“Nothing. Just said that your situation could be worse too.”
“Yeah, Dursley could’ve got his delinquent cousin too,” Mark changed the subject and noticed the boy’s eyebrows rise.
“Really?”
“It’s said he goes to St. Brutus’, where he trains to be in a gang,” Mark whispered excitedly, feeling important to be the one to impart such crucial information. “The Dursleys did everything they could for him, but he’s really, really dangerous. Criminally insane. They call him crazy cousin Harry.”
“Hmm.” The boy hummed. “Sounds … interesting.” He nodded at the signpost for Wisteria Walk. Mark hadn’t noticed they’d already reached. The boy was a pretty good conversation partner. “You reckon you can make it to Thirteen without being caught up in more trouble?”
Mark’s chest puffed indignantly. “Can too!”
“Okay,” The boy said, sounding amused. “See you around, Mark Evans.”
“Hey!” Mark called. “What’s your name?”
The boy looked even more amused. “Harry. Harry Potter. Or crazy cousin Harry, you called me, I think?”
Mark blinked, unable to comprehend.
The boy laughed and then turned around and walked off, whistling.
As his mum scolded and fussed over him, Mark couldn’t help but wonder.
The utter derision Harry had had towards his relatives, the brisk kindness he’d shown Mark, the mocking familiarity he’d talked about Dudley with – and most of all, the questions he’d asked about his mum.
He couldn’t help an uneasy feeling that something was very wrong there.
5.
Sirius Black was losing his mind.
He hated being back here, his childhood prison. He hated everything about the place.
Harry being here and helped, mostly, in the summer, and in December before Christmas, but now… .
He didn’t know. He liked locking himself in with Buckbeak. Buckbeak liked food, sleep, respect, freedom and him, Hagrid and maybe Harry. Completely uncomplicated.
Better than the memories that rose with every step he took in this godforsaken house. His mother’s ghost wasn’t limited to the portrait – her shrieks at him and Regulus echoed through his mind, replaying over and over from his childhood. Bella’s insanity. Cissy’s whininess. Father’s coldness. The beatings. The expectations. The suffocation. The pain. And Reg, a combination of all of those. Weak, stupid, clever, incredible Reg, who’d gone and gotten himself killed by the Death Eaters.
Sirius loved Harry. He’d loved him with all his heart since the moment Lily had put him in his arms, even before James had declared he was godfather.
But Harry’s eyes and jaw and face and laugh were ghosts that didn’t belong in this house. Ghosts he couldn’t bear to see.
And his manner, it brought back ghosts it had no business bringing. Abuse left its marks. Sirius had no doubt theirs was different, but there were somethings all abuses wrought.
And Sirius didn’t like it. Not one bit.
He wanted to drag Harry out of the stupid Dursleys’ house. He wanted to hex them if Harry would let him. He wanted to live with Harry in one of the Potter properties. He wanted to get custody – or at least get someone else, anyone other than his current ones, as his guardian. He wanted to show Harry the world.
He wanted to give Harry everything Sirius had been denied at his age.
But he couldn’t.
Sirius wasn’t free. Either his soul would be sucked out or he would be killed in an instant if he went outside. He wasn’t sure which was worse.
And the prophecy. The Merlin damned prophecy, which Harry still didn’t know about.
James and Lily would have killed him.
Sirius wanted so badly to have given Harry a childhood. But he hadn’t. To prove that his suspicions regarding Harry’s guardians were incorrect. But he couldn’t. He didn’t want to believe that Dumbledore had let this be done to his godson. But he had to. And he couldn’t.
And so he couldn’t bear to admit that Harry’s family was one of the very worst things that could happen to anyone, let alone a child, on the planet.
+ 1.
Malantha had been living in the small town for a long time.
She liked it. Remote, closer to a village than a city, yet more developed, it had next to no dangerous things there, but still the once-in-a-while interesting occurrence.
She’d witnessed some amazing things in her long life.
Then the Potters came along.
They seemed like a normal family. Happy. The three children – four, sometimes, Teddy, Jamie, Al and Lily Lu – tumbled over one another, laughing and mischievous. Their myriad of relatives who came once in a blue moon for parties were headache inducing. The adults, Harry and Ginny, were kind, if a bit aloof.
But Malantha could feel it down to her bones. Something was up with this family.
The way the kids sometimes stumbled over their words. How they didn’t know some very obvious things. How they made up unbelievable, tall stories. How isolated the family was.
All the symptoms pointed to a very grim picture.
Malantha tried to be subtle, but that wasn’t really in her nature. Her inquiries had clearly made their way to Harry and Ginny. She tried not to be mortified, but it was hard. She set her jaw. It was needed. No child would go through anything like what she had on her watch.
“I’m sorry for my assumption,” She said after a long conversation.
“I’m glad you’re looking out for children,” Harry admitted. “And that you actually took some action. That something like – well. That won’t happen.”
The darkness in his eyes. Malantha recognized that. They locked eyes, and for a moment, they understood one another: one abused broken child becoming a functional loving adult to another.
“The signs… . .” She shook her head, sighing. “Maybe I was seeing things. You… You understand.” She didn’t say that lightly.
Harry smiled, his hand coming up to move over the strange scar over his forehead. “I do. But I wouldn’t say you were seeing things. There may be somethings off about my family, but not like that. Not anymore.”
Malantha smiled softly. “I’m glad.”