Hi, this is my First real HP fic.
I do not own Harry Potter and thus do not make money out of this.
Summary: What if the social services in England were not as incompetent as JKR portrayed them? What would happen to poor Harry?
WARNING: This is an AU Fiction, some characters may be dangerously OOC.
Now on the story.
WM
Wearing Masks
WM
Chapter 1: The Ogre and The Horse
WM
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It was a sunny Saturday morning in the small town of Little Whinging, Surrey. Rays of light pierced through the off-white flower-pattern laced curtains of the kitchen of number Four Private Drive. A small blue bird was perched on the windowsill, tweeting happily at the feeling of the soft sunlight on its plumage.
A sudden noise coming from the kitchen startled it and it flew away in a flurry of feather.
Behind the frilly curtains, inside the medium-size kitchen, was a small boy by the name of Harry James Potter. Harry, as he liked to be called, had dark brown hair which could not be tamed by any brush, and green eyes which gleamed like the purest emerald under the light of the sun and were half hidden behind too big black rimmed glasses perched precariously at the tip of his nose. On the top of his toes, Harry could reach a proud 3 feet 4 inches just high enough to reach the counter top of the kitchen!
But if one asked young Harry what his favourite feature about himself was, he would not tell about his green eyes which the lady at the supermarket seemed to found fascinating; nor his shy little smile that his teacher seemed to love...
No, what Harry loved the most about himself was the small scar which was the shape of a perfect lightning bolt right at the top of his forehead, hidden behind a spike of hair. It was a source of constant stories for him; as each night, before going to sleep, he invented a new tale about how he got that scar which he had had for as long as he could remember.
Of course, being the young boy that he was, it always marked his heroism as he slayed the dragon that had captured a princess – he often wondered why the princess would not kill the dragon herself, she surely could have done it, no?
Today, Harry wore one of his best outfit: a gigantic grey shirt a little shabby on the edges that seemed to swallow his small frame, hanging loosely down to his knobby knees, maroon shorts which were hidden under his shirt and his missed-matched grey socks: one going up to his knee the other barely covering his ankle. Harry did not have the most extensive wardrobe: he had only three shirts, two pairs of trousers and one pair of shorts, one belt – which did not have enough holes to fit him – and two and a half pairs of miss-matched socks.
Currently, Harry was wobbling around the kitchen. In his arms was a beige ceramic bowl in which laid six eggs, a pack full of bacon, a can of kidney beans and six big juicy oranges. He was going to prepare breakfast for his uncle Vernon, this morning.
You see, Harry had no papa and no mama. All Harry had was an uncle and an aunt. He did not have brothers or sisters, he had a cousin. No, Harry was not a normal child: he was an orphan whose parents had died in a car wreck, and his aunt had had to take him in; he was nothing more than a burden to a good NORMAL family like hers.
But Harry was not sad about it. If having parents meant he would be like his cousin Dudley who was as fat as a pig and as wicked as the wicked witch of the East, he would rather have none!
He shuddered as he imagined what he would have been like if he had been his aunt's and uncle's child: He would be scrolling around like an over-weight seal demanding to be fed clapping his fatty arms together and emitting unintelligible high pitched sounds like his cousin so often did.
"Vernon!" came a shrilled cry.
Harry turned away from his task – putting the crumbled eggs exactly in the middle of Uncle Vernon's plate – and watched a distressed aunt Petunia enter the average size kitchen of the average house they lived in.
Aunt Petunia was an average woman in all things and was very proud of it:
Her hair was appropriately long for a woman – that was what he had heard her say once when she had dragged him to her hair-cutter appointment one day madam Figg had not been able to take him in – so she could twist it up into a tight bun. The colour was quite a dull brown shade with a few pecks of grey – result of the cheap colouring shampoo his aunt preferred.
Her face was thin and horse-like but none of her features would have made her stand out in the crowd and certainly not her brown eyes which she narrowed way too often trying to catch the next hot gossips of the neighbourhood.
She was of average height too which she enhanced by wearing only heel-less shoes as she hated high heels. Harry often wondered about those women on their high heels towering over people's head like some kind of giraffe: what was so interesting up in the clouds that would be worth the price of those shoes? Harry did not know. He had entertained, for a time, the thought of wearing heels himself when he got older: He wanted to walk gracefully like Miss Patton – his teacher this year. Unfortunately, it was highly inappropriate for a man to wear any kind of heels – or so Aunt Petunia said.
His aunt most outstanding feature was her slender figure: not too curvy, a bit on the thin size, a little under the average also, which, in all honesty, did not seem to bother her so much. At least, she could still wear her wedding dress which she never missed a chance to gloat about. Harry often wondered about that: Was it really that important to be able to fit in a who-knew-how-many-years-old, off-white, yellowish, smelly dress?
In all, Aunt Petunia valued normalcy and average above everything else in the world – apart Dudley and Uncle Vernon who were the only exception to normalcy she would grudgingly accept.
Thus Harry was the disturbance in her perfectly average little family: two boys of the same age in the same family was preposterous! Harry knew this and as the added piece, he could only be the faulty one. And Aunt Petunia made a point to remind him so.
"What is it?" groaned Uncle Vernon as he devoured his eggs not even glancing at him – which Harry was thankful for.
Each time his uncle took notice of him, it ended up badly for him.
Uncle Vernon had all the characteristic of an Ogre like the ones described in the fairy tales the Misses at the baby school read:
He was very very tall like a giant – surely he did not need heels to see over clouds!
He had thin short dark blond hair completed with a thick dark blond moustache which he brushed carefully every morning, sculpting it down with a small pair of scissors – Harry knew because he had to sweep the floor of the bathroom every morning after his uncle went to work.
Uncle Vernon had a pink-tainted round face too which would go a horrible dark shade of red when he was angry at Harry – and he was often angry at Harry –, and beady blue eyes which narrowed so much that it disappeared under his thick brows when he looked angrily at Harry – because Uncle Vernon never looked at Harry like he looked at Dudley.
He had enormous hands also, to accompany his enormous sized body and Harry made sure to stay out of reach of those – unfortunately that never amount to much in the end.
What made Uncle Vernon more of a real ogre was the fact that when Uncle Vernon walked, he made the ground shake under his weight; and when he spoke, Harry would shiver in fear at the deep rock tone of his voice which seemed to echo down to Harry's very core.
And like every ogre in the fairy tales, Uncle Vernon had an obsession – or two: It was neatness and normalcy! Everything had to be in its place and be as Normal as it could possibly be.
And as Harry – as it was previously explained – was the anomaly in the Dursley's otherwise normal little life, it was his work to make sure everything was neat and normal for Uncle Vernon: a way to amend for being a burden – Harry was not really sure what those words meant but he sure heard Uncle Vernon ranting about that quite often when talking about him.
"It's Mrs Figg!" Madam Dursley explained hysterically, rubbing her sweaty hands on her flower patterned dress. "She had an accident!"
"Is the old hag dead yet?" Vernon asked with disinterest, spitting out bit of eggs all over the previously pristine kitchen.
Harry blinked, he did not really understand what Uncle Vernon meant by dead, but he knew Madame Figg!
She was a weird old lady of small stature always sporting something with dots on it and who Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia disliked greatly as they hated anything which was not normal: 'a woman with so many cats is definitely not normal.' Uncle Vernon claimed.
To be honest, Harry did not like her much either: her house smelt like cat poop and she kept giving him mouldy biscuits and staring at his forehead every time she thought he was not looking. Did she, like Harry, like his thunderbolt scar?
Nevertheless, he hoped she was not 'dead'. He was not sure what it meant exactly – something about organs of life stopping or that what was written in the dictionary he had been reading – but he knew it was not something nice: after all, Aunt Petunia kept snarling the word each time he uttered a question about his parents.
"She tripped over one of her blasted cat and broke her hip! She is in the hospital." Aunt Petunia snivelled pitifully. "They said she had to stay there for at least three months."
Three months?! That was an eternity!
Harry frowned.
Wait a second!
Was he not supposed to go to madame Figg sometime today while uncle Vernon, aunt Petunia and Dudley would be visiting uncle Vernon's sister at her dog competition?
Marjorie Dursley was a feminine version of uncle Vernon. The ogress was the size of a little whale, had nearly no neck, wavy hair the colour and texture of hay, blue beady eyes hidden under too thick brows, a voice which sounds like nails grating on a blackboard, her face was an unflattering shade of red the same red as her favourite drink: Cherry which she gulped down by the galleon; and, like her brother, she sported a moustache albeit it was less bushy than uncle Vernon's own.
She had a kennel and raised beasts with big maws full of razor sharp fangs that she called dog. Harry was pretty sure that those flat face slumbering things were Hell's hound like the one the witch sent after Snow White and not actual dogs – dogs were supposed to be nice and loyal and liked to be petted: everything that the beasts were not.
Her prize pet was a Victorian Bulldog – apparently there were different type of beasts but Harry could not tell the difference as, when their fangs sank into his flesh, they hurt just the same – by the name of Ripper, an enormous mastiff that made a point to rip anything that came near its impressive jaws.
Harry often wonder if there had not been a mistake in the little red riding hood and the wolf had been instead one of those atrocious Bulldog monster! Sure Ripper would have had no problem gulping down a grand mother! Though, Harry was not so sure about the tricking part as Ripper which, apparently, was a prime representative of his race – if one believed Marjorie Dursley –, was as stupid as it looked.
But what annoyed Harry the most about Marjorie Dursley, was not her stupid dog, nor her cherry tainted breath. No, It was that he had to called the woman "aunt" even though the fat woman was not related to him in any ways. He disliked her greatly as she never missed an occasion to order Ripper to attack him or belittle him and made his life generally more difficult – uncle Vernon was much worst to him when his sister was here to witness his Ogre's way. But Uncle Vernon insisted that he called her Aunt: 'You'll show some respect, little bugger!'
Anyway, this year was a grand year for Aunt Marge's annual dog competition, as she had finally been made part of the jury!
Uncle Vernon had raved about the importance of his sister and what a great achievement this all was, assuring Dudley he would do even better: It was in his genes, Uncle Vernon had exclaimed.
And he had clearly proclaimed that nothing would make him miss the event!
Harry remembered how Uncle Vernon's blue eyes narrowed menacingly at him slowly disappearing under his brows: that had sent shivers down Harry's spine and Harry had scampered as noiselessly as possible away to safety.
Uncle Vernon suddenly raised from his chair, making it screeched on the off-white tiles of the kitchen breaking abruptly Harry's daydream, making him jump in fright and lose his grip on the pan which clanked loudly on the porcelain sink.
"You little bugger!" Uncle Vernon yelled turning around marching menacingly toward Harry.
Harry immediately curled into a tight ball on the white tiles mumbling apologies more to himself than to his Uncle, knowing that his uncle never cared for his apologizes.
The ogre's steps thundered in the kitchen and Harry shivered in fear. He cracked an eye opened seeing his uncle ugly brown dressing shoes just a few inches away from his face. He felt his uncle grip his arm tightly and he gritted his teeth trying to stop himself from crying out.
"Does it make you laugh hearing from someone's else misery?" Uncle Vernon snarled at him. "I bet you've something to do with it? Ugh?"
Harry did not even tried to deny anything. It was always like this with Uncle Vernon: everything that went wrong, every little abnormalities in Uncle Vernon's otherwise very normal life, were always Harry's fault – even though, most of the time, Harry could not be the culprit: what with him being locked up into the cupboard under the stairs.
"We'll see how much you'll laugh after a couple of days in your cupboard, You ungrateful brat!"
With that, uncle Vernon proceeded to drag Harry on the floor roughly pulling on his arm. Harry let out a small cry of distressed as his uncle single handily threw him in the little cupboard which was the only semblance of bedroom Harry had ever known.
Harry's head collided violently against the wooden panel of the cupboard making him dizzy. Harry blinked a few time trying to adapt to the darkness.
Harry sighed.
Of course, uncle Vernon would follow through with his threat, and Harry knew that the next few days would be very long, as he would not be allowed outside his room at all – grounded, that was the name of his punishment. As for food, he would have stale bread and water: Naughty boy's meal, aunt Petunia called it; Harry often wondered why his cousin Dudley never got those kind of meal, he sure was naughtier than Harry.
Harry blindly fetched for the switch to turn on the light, he could feel the white porcelain handle dangling a few centimetres away from him. He tried to grip it but his fist closed around thin air; he felt the cold porcelain handle brushing against his hand: so close!
He tried again, his hand closed around the oval form, he firmly drawn the long cord down so hard that he thought it would snap and with an echoing click the bulb above his head turned a weak yellow yew.
The cupboard was a small closet three feet depth, four feet wide under the staircase leading to the second floor, just one door away from the kitchen and Harry very own bedroom – he was quite happy he did not have to share it with Dudley as he would have taken all the space in there. Pushed against the wall was a trunk – which had belonged to uncle Vernon during the short time he had been in the army and which barely fit in the cupboard – and was now Harry very own bed. For a mattress, Harry had a thin cotton mattress that had been used for Dudley's cradle and Harry had made his own pillow out of rags. The rest of the room was filled by shelves full of all the things Aunt Petunia needed him to use for cleaning, precious dishes that could not fit anywhere else, even books – cooking books, sewing books, novels... – which his aunt regularly threw inside the cupboard away from his uncle's prying eyes; and other stuffs his aunt never used but still insisted on keeping, her treasure she said.
Behind the bleach, between the polishing cream and the anti-slugs, Harry had hidden the treasures he had saved from the seal.
Harry bit his lower lip down, looking around his shelves to see what he could do to occupy himself. He caught sight of the illustrated encyclopedia Dudley had received as a present at the beginning of the school year – Harry wondered why his aunt had bothered buying such thing to Dudley as the boy did not care about anything apart from food – Harry had been easily able to take the book without Dudley being the wiser. Harry sure could read that, he was nearly down with it at Y letter but the lack of light forced him to narrow his eyes to the point it hurt and Harry had taken on the habit to only read before going to bed.
Maybe he could play with some of the broken soldiers and the plastic cows and horses he had smuggled from Dudley's second bedroom. That was not a good idea either. Dudley would wake up soon and he would no doubt come gloat at Harry. If he even caught a glimpse of a toy, Harry would be in deep trouble.
No matter that most of the toys Harry had, he had fetched from the garbage bin, if any of the Dursley ever caught him with a toy, he would be dubbed a thief and a liar and uncle Vernon would ramp his little room for other toys, then Harry would have to watch as uncle Vernon threw each of the toys, books and drawings he would have found in the shredding machine – which had broken down more than once due to plastic toy getting stuck in-between the metal claws which continued to turn emitting that horrible sound – a bit like Aunt Marge's uneven breath after she got too many drinks – in a hopeless attempt to shred the plastic toys.
Harry pouted, it left him with only one thing to do: Make fairy tales of his own. It was the less dangerous and hurtful of all the solutions. He would, carefully, tell himself in the quietest voice he could, a fairy tale of his own.
He would take his last story back as he had not finished it yet:
It was about a glass-wearing king with a soft honey voice, a red-headed queen with startling green eyes and the most beautiful singing voice and a dark knight who instead of riding a horse – horse were overrated, really – was riding a huge motorcycle, but not any type of boring motorcycle like the one Harry had seen once in the parking lot of the supermarket.
No, this one was special!
No, it was not a magic bike! Magic did not exist, silly!
It was a super-bike – just like Superman! It could do a bunch of things: like illuminating the night like the sun or creating a big cloud of smoke one could hide into for surprise attack. But its most outstanding feature was that it could FLY!
And Harry imagined himself as the small prince mounting the motorcycle with the dark knight and touring around the castle.
He would laugh and giggle and he could heard the faint screams of the queen asking for the knight to come down with her son NOW.
Harry shook his head.
He could not get back to that part or he would never finish the story!
Harry did not particularly like to finish his stories, but he did not like when things were not moving forward either. He had already twisted and changed things so often in this story that he was quite confused about what happened exactly.
He would have to retell the story to himself once more, he thought with a smile.
Anyway, where was he?
Oh! Yes, he remembered now.
He was at the moment the courageous king had taken his sword up to fight the evil dark sorcerer, a tall lanky fellow wearing dark hooding robes which hide his features and who hissed evil words Harry could not understand.
The evil sorcerer did not use magic! No silly tricks for him! No, he used technology like all respectable villain.
Harry wanted to stay there and watch the battle unfold. But, as the little prince, he could not stay. He needed to be put in safety as he was the precious thing the evil sorcerer was after.
Apparently, the sorcerer feared that the prince would grow to be a threat to him and decided to kill him before that happened.
The queen took the little prince upstairs and all he could heard were the clank of the swords and the creek of stairs.
"Move aside." Harry hissed to himself trying to imitate the hissing voice of his sorcerer. "And you shall be spared."
"Never!" Harry whispered a bit too forcefully the queen's reply.
He let out a small shudder at the loud sound he had just made. He just hoped that no one had heard him.
He stayed silent for a few minutes more, forcing his breathing down.
Why was he breathing so loudly suddenly?
He tried to listen for any sound coming from outside his cupboard but he could not heard anything. Maybe the Dursley had gone to Aunt Marge's already.
But would they not have left him at his sitter?
Surely he was grounded, but they would not have left him alone in the house. Uncle Vernon always insisted that Harry should never be left alone in his house.
And Harry did not want to be left alone. Yes, he was fine in his cupboard by himself. But that did not mean he was fine with being alone in the house.
He knew he had been naughty: he should never have let the pan fall from his grip. He knew Uncle Vernon could not suffer loud sound, especially coming from Harry.
But, but this punishment was far above all the other he had received: being left all alone in the dark house. There would not be the noise of Dudley pounding down the stairs, not the noises of Aunt Petunia favourite East Enders (1) episode.
Nothing but silence.
He shuddered, suddenly feeling cold.
He wished there would be a fire in the chimney in front of which he could get warmer.
He shivered taking his small tattered blue baby blanket – H.J.P. was embroidered elegantly on it marking it as his only – and trying to cover himself with it in a desperate attempt to fight the cold. But he had long ago outgrown the blanket, and it only covered him from waist down. He curled himself in a tight ball so only his feet would stuck out and shivered again.
He really wished he was in front of one of those warm fire like on the telly, it seemed so comfortable.
Harry curled his toes as another shiver run through him. He closed his eyes and rock himself back and fro.
The crackle of the fire would lull him to sleep slowly.
Crick, crack.
The homey and soft warm would surround him slowly like a mother's arms.
Crick, crack.
He sniffed a bit trying to imagine the faint smell of smoke that would escape from the fire.
He sniffed again.
Was he dreaming?
He sniffed again and cough violently.
SMOKE!
It was not possible!
Why was there smoke?!
Harry began to panic as he saw the greyish coloured smoke began to fill his little room. He began pounding and pounding on the door, screaming on top of his lungs.
But the door would not open. He continued hitting the door for several minutes until he collapsed on his bed, exhausted.
He could heard in the distance noises: the hooter of the fire trucks and the clamour of a crowd, the little scream of fears and awe that were not his own, and then a blunt noise coming from the inside of the house like when Dudley slammed the front door opened. And voices... distorted low voices and loud breathing sounding like the bad guy who was the father of the good guy in that film Dudley had watched with his friend Piers not so long ago.
He did not know who those voices belonged to, maybe it was the dark knight coming to rescue him.
Harry tried to scream again, but he found he could not, each breath made him cough and his eyes burned with tears. He sniffed again coughing and coughing and coughing.
"Is there anyone?" One of the strange voice called.
Harry tried to answer, but each time he opened his mouth all that would come out was cough and cough.
"Is there anyone?" Another voice called.
Harry decided that if he could not talk the next best thing to make his present known was to make a racket. He needed out. He would deal with his punishment later. Now he needed out somewhere he could breath.
Pushing his back against the wall, aiming his feet at the door, he kicked the cupboard door as hard as he could, making all the shelves totter: old jam pots hurtling against each other, empty plastic bottle rolling off. Harry kicked and kicked the door, trying to avoid the falling objects.
"I think I heard something coming from the kitchen, Jon." One of the voice said.
Harry took aim of the door yet again and throw another kick. He kicked so hard that the big glass wine decanter Aunt Petunia was so proud of, came off the highest shelve where Aunt Petunia had put it, sailing down to the ground and fell in a loud crash sending little piece of glass all over Harry.
Harry winced, that would cost him a hell of a grounding maybe even the spanking his uncle Vernon kept promising him. Maybe he was better off staying in his cupboard after all. It would certainly alleviate Uncle Vernon's anger if Harry had not left his cupboard.
"Here, Paul!" A voice came just outside his cupboard's door.
Harry stayed curled up in the cupboard trying to decipher which would be less harmful: getting away from the smoke thus leaving the cupboard facing Uncle Vernon's wrath or staying in the cupboard and coughing.
At the thought, Harry let out a succession of small coughs.
"Don't worry, we'll get you out." The same voice as before came through the door.
And suddenly, goggle-covered eyes appeared across the small grill of the cupboard's door. The same grill Aunt Petunia used to make sure he was doing something 'devilish'.
"Put your blanket over your mouth and nose kid." The eyes said. "It'll help you with breathing."
Harry did as he was told. Did Uncle Vernon not order him to always obey adults in the house?
"Turn your head away from the door, we're going to break it down." The person ordered.
And Harry did so, his hand full of his blanket still pressed against his mouth and nose, he used his other hand to protect his head as best as he could, closing his eyes tightly.
He heard one loud blunt noise of axes meeting the thick wood of the door and a second, clearer as if the sound came from nearer, and a third one accompanied with a loud crack informing Harry that the door did come down.
Harry felt himself being scooped into someone's arms. He could feel the strong arms tightening their grip around him and he let out a whimper closing his eyes tighter.
"Shit look at that Paul!" A voice next to him exclaimed.
Harry wanted to open his eyes to see, but he was suddenly feeling exhausted. His head felt fuzzy and his chest was hurting. The warm humid feeling of his blanket against his nose was becoming annoying, he let his hand slip slowly, he had not the strength to keep maintain it there anyway, and coughed weakly into the man's chest, letting his head drooped on the soft leather of the man's jacket.
"We have to get him out of here, Jon." The man said. "He inhaled too much smoke..."
The man continued on, manoeuvring carefully around the house. Harry tried to listen, but the world was slowly fading into a black pool. Now, all he could hear was the sweet voice of the red headed queen saying that everything would be okay, he could nearly feel her hand threading in his hair – but that did not make sense, because the queen did not exist, did she?
WM: The Ogre and the Horse
Far away from the little house in Surrey, a quirky old man with long white hair and a long thin beard that reached a little over his waist and wearing red and gold bathrobe, was sitting at a tall solid oak desk sipping a well-deserved cup of lemon tea after an hour of tedious paper work fighting.
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, as was the name of the man, was a well-respected man of high standing. In fact, Albus Dumbledore was a living legend in his own right. He, grand sorcerer, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, had defeated single handily one of the most feared Dark Lord of modern time: Dark Lord Gellart Grindelwald; and was the only person the Dark Lord Voldemort had ever feared.
But his greatest achievement, in his humble opinion, was when he was chosen to be the headmaster of the most renown Wizarding school in the world: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
And that was where he currently was, on this fine Saturday morning, battling the evil known as paperwork.
The peace of the moment was broken when a shrill alarm rang loudly in his office. He slowly put the flower decorated cup back on its likewise-decorated saucer and sighed.
The alarm was for Privet Drive, the place were he had left, a little less than four years ago, the greatest hero of the wizarding world: Harry Potter. Given the nature of the alarm, the integrity of the structure of the house of four Privet Drive had been compromised.
Dumbledore took a quick look at the small painting behind his desk. He could see the enormous muggle fire-engine driving around the corner and stopping in front of the four Privet Drive and the smoke coming out of the house.
He let out a breath: It was just a small fire, nothing too alarming.
The Dursley, as was the name of the family of the young hero, were not there anyway – gone to Essex at Mr Dursley's sister's, Mrs Petunia Dursley had informed him. Thus young Harry was in no danger of being burnt alive.
A good thing too! Because Dumbledore did not fancy having to spell all those muggle – non-magical people – who were now gathering around the small house like vultures goggling and gossiping over the horror happening right next door.
Dumbledore sighed. He would have to send word to Petunia to stay a bit longer in Essex – if that was possible –, while the goblins spelled the house back to its original state.
That reminding him that he needed to find someone to stand in for Madam Figg. The poor woman had informed him that she would not be able to fulfil her duty, apparently the poor thing had tripped over one of her cat and broken her hip.
Maybe he could ask Madam Tonks, she was always willing to be of service. Plus, she was a familiar face in Privet drive as she often came to visit her squib cousin.
WM: the Ogre and the horse
Harry was not sure how long he had been sleeping but it could not have been that long because he felt like he had not been sleeping at all. All he wanted was for that annoying beeping sound to stop so he could go back to the Dark Knight kicking the evil sorcerer back to his evil tower and the handsome king and the beautiful queen walking with him hands in hands their laughs echoing in an happily-ever-after ending.
Harry took a deep breath and wrinkled his nose as the smell of bleach reach him.
Was it time for the Autumn Cleaning Spree already?
He was sure it was not due before next week-end.
Harry hummed softly, keeping his eyes closed – opening them would mean waking up and he was not all too ready for that yet – trying to remember of something that would have made Aunt Petunia change her schedule. Aunt Petunia never liked changing schedule, everything was organized months ahead! Even having to change her schedule to adapt to Aunt Marge's Dog Competition had made her screechy even though she was warned about it as early as March.
Harry groaned knowing that he had to get up soon because there was no way Aunt Petunia would do the work by herself. He wondered for a minute why Aunt Petunia had not woken him up when she had taken the bleach out of the cupboard.
Harry frowned as a flash of a broken door came to his mind.
He opened his eyes suddenly, half afraid not to find himself in the comfort of his cosy little cupboard.
There it was a huge wide white opened space, the odour of bleach became even more present if it was possible.
Harry nibbled his lips, panic seizing his heart.
He looked around the too big room painted in white and a sickening shade of pale green. There was nothing much in the room. Just the metal framed bed with puppy patterned bed spray and weird looking machines, one from which came the annoying beeping sound. There was also something alike a coat rack on which was dangling a bag full of a transparent liquid that dripped down a hose.
Harry pouted.
His cupboard was way better! Harry decided. At least, he had things to distract himself in there. But here, apart from watching the watery liquid drop down the hose.
Harry sighed. This was all too boring. He closed his eyes reflecting on his situation.
Suddenly he realised something: He was in a bed! A bed!
He moved around a bit on the mattress, it was... uncomfortable. There was like little pins poking his back and his all body seemed to get swallowed by the mattress. And the bed frame creaked loudly each time he made the tiniest move. All in all, a bed was barely more comfortable than his own cot, he could understand now why Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia did not bother with buying one for him.
Harry tried to raise out of the bed. Even if it was not comfortable, if Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon found him there instead of his cupboard, he would be in so much trouble!
He felt a sharp twinge coming from his left elbow, it was really painful and stopped him from moving. It felt as if something was attached to his arm. He discovered with horror there was the hose attached to his arm, pasted to his skin with a small bandage.
Where was the liquid going?
What was the liquid?
And if it was poison?
Harry scampered trying to tear the hose off his arm, not caring of the pain.
"You're awake?" Came a voice Harry did not recognize. "That's good."
Harry froze, looking up to see a person had entered the room and was now standing a few feet away from him: a petite woman with a round friendly rosy face, brown eyes hidden behind small glasses and blond hair knotted in a long braid. She wore a glaringly white uniform with a small bit of colour on the hems, she had one of those things the doctors in one of Aunt Petunia's favourite show wore around their neck: a Sss-te-tho-s-cooop-e.
"Are you a doctor?" Harry asked in an impulse.
As realization slowly downed to him that he had addressed an adult so abruptly he blushed. Way to make a bad first impression!
Aunt Petunia always said: 'The first impression is the most important because it will determine how people will treat you for the rest of your life.'
He always thought he must have made a very bad first impression on aunt Petunia and uncle Vernon when he first met them. Maybe he had been an ugly baby and had wake them up in the middle of the night – waking someone in the middle of the night was, in Harry's opinion, more than rude.
Speaking of aunt Petunia and uncle Vernon, where were they?
"I'm not a doctor. What is your name sweetie?" The kind looking young lady asked Harry.
"My name is Harry." He repeated like aunt Petunia had instructed him to do, never giving his full name. "But where are we? Where are aunt Petunia and uncle Vernon?"
"You're at the hospital." The kind looking woman informed. "Are you living with your uncle and aunt? Where are your parents?"
Harry blanched, he would surely get severely punished for this one like that time when he had forgotten the kettle on the burner: aunt Petunia had taken his hand and dragged it to the kitchen: 'I'll make sure you won't let it happen again.'
Then all Harry really remembered was waking up well-into the night, his right hand had felt like it had been still under the burning trickle; it had been a horrible shade of red sprinkled with whiter spots and throbbing with pain. He had blown and blown and blown on it in an effort to cool it down but the hot air of his breath had only made the matter worst.
He remembered falling asleep in the wee-hour of the morning, cradling his hand against his chest sobbing.
This time, it would be oh so much worst!
He had gotten out of his cupboard while he had been clearly grounded, broken aunt Petunia wine decanter and he had answered the lady even though neither uncle Vernon or aunt Petunia were present.
His mind was reeling, he could not avoid the punishment for getting out of the cupboard and breaking the precious decanter for sure; but he could, maybe, escape the one for talking to a stranger without aunt Petunia's or uncle Vernon's direct approbation. He simply just had to zip his mouth close and not say one more word.
Harry bit his lip: on the other hand, he really wanted to know where aunt Petunia and uncle Vernon were.
"You don't need to worry, we are going to take good care of you." The lady continued.
Care?
No-one cared for a stupid orphan like Harry, Dudley and uncle Vernon repeatedly told him so.
So why would that strange woman want to take care of' him?
Maybe she was here to take care of' his punishment.
That was it! Uncle Vernon must have sent her in for the punishment. She was surely there from the orphanage.
Harry knew exactly what an orphanage was. It was a place full of orphans, children who had no papa and no mama like him, who needed to be taught how to be Normal so they could have a family. Uncle Vernon often promised him to sent him there but aunt Petunia always talked him out of it. Honestly, he did not understand, if the orphanage could make him Normal, why would Aunt Petunia not send him there?
So if the lady was from the orphanage maybe she was there to decide his punishment.
"Are you from the orphanage? Do you know what's my punishment, Ma'am?" Harry asked trying to be as polite as possible.
No need to anger the lady, that could make matters worst.
"Punishment?" The lady asked in a gasp.
"Because I got out of my room even though I was grounded." Harry explained.
"Your room?" The lady's voice turned a strange rocky tone as if she had just chocked on something.
If you asked Harry, it did not fit her at all.
"My cupboard under the stairs." Harry explained frowning as if it was an evidence.
"They kept you in a cupboard under the stairs?" The woman exclaimed clearly appealed at the notion.
Harry moaned in distress.
He had made such a mess!
Aunt Petunia always told him he talked too much and that he should 'keep his nasty trap shut.' And now he had gone and babbled all those things to a stranger. This time, for sure, uncle Vernon and aunt Petunia would be very very angry with him.
WM: The Ogre and the Horse
Detective Helen Pritchard was a plump twenty one years old police officer freshly out of the academy. She had not been the top of her year but she had not be the last of her class either. That's how she had landed an affectation in her native Little Whinging. A very calm town were the crime rate was near to nil apart from the occasional brawls between drunks. The police was so small, not a dozen men were working there. She was the first and subsequently only woman working there and to make matter worst she outranked most of the men. Thus most of the men had respect for her and her work: even her partner detective Simon Thompson, a fit 5 feet twelve middle-age man who had been in the force for 20 years, did not seem to take her seriously.
So this time, when they had been called, Helen had jumped on the occasion to prove herself and told her colleague that she could handle talking to the survivor. That she would be able to question the young boy about the fire and his being locked in a cupboard. She had been sure that she could stomach whatever it was the obviously undernourished boy would send her way. After all, she had learned all about dealing with traumatized victims at the academy. Simon had looked at her sceptically before muttering about how he preferred it that way anyway.
But that she had not expected. How could she have?
When the call from the fire-fighter department had come about an 'obviously not accidental fire' in a small house in Privet Drive – just a few blocks away from where she grew up – with one under-age victim, she had made up her theory.
For her, it had been quite clear: The victim – surely some rebellious teenager – had lit the fire and when it got out of control, they got trapped. Nothing much to investigate, but a lot of paperwork on the way – and as the rookie, she would be the one doing it.
When inside the car, her partner and she had received a few more information: like the fact that the victim was a young boy found locked inside a cupboard, and that it had not been possible to localize his guardians as of yet, her theory took another shape.
The boy had found some matches and tried to imitate his 'papa' while his pop was away, the fire had lit and the boy had not known how to deal with it and had hidden himself in the cupboard hoping to escape his punishment.
So, when her partner had asked her if she really wanted to be the one interrogating the boy or if she would rather have him do it, she had told him off, explaining it would be a good opportunity to practice her skills.
After all, this case had had every characteristics of an easy case. And she had been quite certain that she would have the boy easily confided in her and it would be good training for her.
So, she had done her best to follow the instruction she had been given at the academy: Put the under-age victim/delinquent at ease.
She had asked for a nurse uniform, braided her long hair, put on her reading glasses and tried her friendliest smile.
She had entered the room confidently, throwing a stethoscope around her neck as the final touch to her disguise. But, at the view of the small boy obviously undernourished lying limply in a bed hooked to several machines beeping in a discordant chorus, she had recoiled in horror, taken aback by the pathetic image in front of her.
And they did not even know his name!
She had stayed there staring at the boy for a few minutes. She had had half a mind to go to her partner and asked if she could go visit the crime scene with him instead.
She had had her hand on the handle ready to escape the nightmarish vision of a four-years-old – maybe even five-years-old – boy lying on the too big bed. But the boy waking-up had squashed her plans.
She had purposely asked her partner to divide the share:
"Investigate the crime scene." She had told him. "I'll manage the boy. Tonight you will be home early and buy a big bouquet for Ann Mary."
Such arrogance! She now realized.
Listening to the boy – Harry was his name – babbled about punishment, and how Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would be rightfully angry at him for being out of his room, a cupboard, while he was grounded, had made her sick.
How could people like that exist?
And they lived a few blocks away from her own house too!
Helen closed the door softly behind her as to not wake the boy who had fallen asleep exhausted still muttering about punishment.
She took out her radio ignoring the glaring sign just in front of her informing her that the use of radio, walk-man and other electronic devices was strictly forbidden in the hospital.
"Simon?" Helen asked. "How is it on your side?
…
Yeah... not that good!
…
Harry did not say much.
…
It's the boy name.
…
I'm sure!
…
Not Dudley! That's an horrible name by the way.
...
Since I'm telling you he told me his name was Harry.
…
What no trace of any other child?! You've looked in every room?
…
I know you know your work but... You're sure?
…
Did you look in the cupboard?
…
Harry kept referring to it as his room."
So this was reality… there were monsters living next to her home! How could she not have known! She was a police officer, for Pete sake! That was her job to know where the monsters were hidden!
"The use of radio is strictly forbidden in this area please shut it down." came a strict voice.
Helen turned ready to raise hell to whoever had interrupted her.
There was standing not a millimetre away from her face, a tall woman in a black skirt and a professional looking dark grey vest glaring angrily at her through the lenses of her black rimmed glasses.
"I'm a police officer and this is an important call." Helen replied annoyed.
"And I'm a social worker who knows how much the youngsters need their rest here. That is far more important than any call. OUT with it!" The woman berated.
"Listen here! I'm the detective in charge of a case that would surely not be if your services were competent." Helen answered back annoyed at the rule loving woman.
A groan came out of the radio, and Helen realized what sort of big mistake she had just made. She would have to work with this person, at least on this case, and maybe on some other in the future. And she could not afford bad blood between her service and the Social services
"I'm sorry, I spoke out of turn." Helen apologized quickly, switching her radio off in an attempt of damage control.
"That you did! Know, officer, that this young mister is just one more name on the endless list of those the social services have to protect." The woman explained calmly. "It's our greatest regrets to see that we could not protect even only one of them from suffering at the hands of unfit guardians. But I assure you, officer, that if that young mister was left in the care of those persons, it would be only because they fit the several criteria of my services and no one could have predicted such events."
Helen frowned not convinced by the half-baked speech the woman had given her.
"The young mister's name is Harry." Helen replied, picked at the woman attitude.
"Harry James Potter living 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. Guardian: Petunia Dursley née Evans – Maternal Aunt – and Vernon Dursley – Uncle –." The woman read from her files.
Helen noted quickly the name for her files wondering what kind of woman could do this to her own blood. Was blood not meant to be thicker than water? Should she not have raised him as her son?
"I'll speak with the young mister and then have arranged for a new living arrangement as soon as possible. I see here that he got a Godfather, maybe he would be willing to take the boy."
Helen nodded dumbly.
Little Harry would be taken care of. So now she just had to take care of his guardians.
"How should I proceed to have access to little Harry's medical file?" Helen asked.
"You should get this paperwork down." The woman gave a stack of papers. "And give them back in triple, one will go to our archives, one for the judge, one will be yours. It'll give you access to young mister Potter's medical files and his Social services files."
Helen nodded looking through the paperwork.
"Are you going to pursue them for endangerment of a minor under fifteen?" The woman asked.
"I was thinking of something a bit bigger." Helen answered half-listening;
"How so?" The woman probed.
"I was thinking of attempt of murder on a person aged under fifteen, I could certainly wrap the case." Helen explained absent-mindedly as she quickly read through the paper work.
She was going to be buried in paper-work hell for the next few weeks, it seemed.
WM: The Ogre and the Horse
Walburga Black was an old stern looking widow who had been living on her own since the death of the two loves of her life: her husband: Lord Orion Arcturus Black; and her beloved son Regulus Arcturus Black.
Her only company was a creature looking like a failed breeding experience between a goblin and a mouse or a rat which was commonly called house elf. No need to say, the thing was ugly and bore the equally ugly name of Kreacher.
She had a well established routine that she took good care of never disturbing. But that day, something had changed: She had received a letter.
She had not got any missive since the death of her precious Regulus in the service of that ridiculous lord who had taken both her sons away from her – this, as much as she agreed with his ideology, was unforgivable.
But that morning, she got a missive: The first one in six very long years. A muggle one at that.
"KREACHER." She screamed taking the disgusting thing by a corner with glove covered hand.
"Yes, Mistress." The vile creature appeared just next to her bowing pitifully as it should.
"Open this." She said letting the missive fall into Kreacher awaiting hands as if it was a soiled sock.
Normally, nothing Muggle would have been able to enter the house for the exception of official missives from the Muggle government. It was something that happened every twenty years or so: the head of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black would receive a missive from the Muggle government trying to steal their land away from them.
Walburga frowned; she could not quite remember when such a missive had arrived but she was sure it was not yet quite the time to receive another of the same kind.
"Unfold it, you incompetent fool. Or do you want your head aligned with those of your ancestors?"
She watched as Kreacher beamed happily at the idea and hit him repeatedly with her cane as hard as she could.
"Take a stool so I can read." She berated.
"Yes Mistress." Kreacher answered in his most sugar coated voice, snapping his fingers.
A small wooden three legged stool appeared, it was a little wobbly but it was enough for elf to be at his mistress' eyes.
'HM Custody & Child Protection Services,
Guildford Surrey
Phone: 0845 413 2545
Date: 23 September 1985
Mr Sirius Orion Black
12 Grimmauld Place
London
Dear Mister S. Black,
It had come recently to our attention that you had a right in guardianship concerning Mr Harry James Potter, son of James Harold Potter and Lily Penelope Potter née Evans, born on the 31st of July 1980 at Godric's Hollow, aged 5. His current guardians having been deemed unfit to keep him any longer, we humbly request if you, as the child's godfather, could take over the guardianship of mister Harry James Potter.
If it is agreeable to you, please contact our services answering to this letter and a meeting should be schedule as soon as possible.
Yours sincerely,
HER MAGESTY'S CUSTODY & CHILD PROTECTION SERVICES
Area Director'
"What?" Walburga snatched angrily the letter away from the little creature.
She stayed still for a moment re-reading the letter, mumbling to herself.
"Harry Potter? Part of my family?" She screeched.
Her hands closed around the letter, she was more than ready to burn it to ashes. She glanced up at the tapestry representing the tree of the Black family, glaring at one of the small burnt spots she knew had once spelled the name of her eldest son. If she had had the power, she would have disowned the traitor. Her eyes fell on the name directly next to the burnt mark.
'Regulus A. Black' it read and in glaring black letters: 'Deceased.'
Walburga moaned in distressed in front of the tapestry. Her precious little boy, her pride, her joy, Her Regulus. If only she had...
She abruptly stopped her train of thought, that Harry was young, was he not?
She checked on the letter. Yes, he was very young...
She could... maybe she could raise him as her own...
She smiled a crooked smile.
Yes, the Fates had once again given the chance to the Black to raise above the other. With the marvellous power of the young Harry – because one who survived the killing curse could only be powerful in their own rights –, their standing would finally reach unprecedented heights.
His name would have to go: Harry... such a plebeian name was unfit for a Black.
But before even considering him a Black, she would have to get rid of his bad blood and for that she would have to visit the extensive Black library and the portraits of her illustrious ancestors.
First, she would have to secure the muggle loose ends. She had to adopt young Harry legally to tramp any claim from that thrice cursed muggle lover of Dumbledore.
"Kreacher!" She yelled totally ignoring that the creature was already grovelling at her feet.
"Yes, mistress." He answered all readily.
"Go answer this missive. Tomorrow we shall have a new member into the household, and soon a new name on our precious tapestry. Prepare the antechamber of the ritual room, too. The boy will stay there until we get rid of his bad blood. I would not want him contaminating my precious house." Walburga ordered.
WM
To be Continued...
WM
(1) For those who do not know EastEnders is an UK soap.
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