Disclaimer: Sadly, I own nothing, because I'm not JK Rowling (o hail the queen) and I wish I were British, and I'm not even sure if the place I'm describing is in Monterrey, because I used to live there and I remember a place like this, but I'm not sure if they're linked.
Bottle
It was Dudley's tenth birthday.
Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had decided that they would take the money that Dudley's grandmother had left them in her will and go on holiday to Cornwall. They'd very nearly left Harry with the SPCA for the week.
But here they were in Monterrey, the four of them, sitting on a mat on the soft but prickly green, green grass, watching the river trickle discontentedly downstream.
Uncle Vernon was poking the water suspiciously with a stick, looking very much the picture of a French detective in a tweed suit with a pageboy cap and a walking stick. Aunt Petunia was seated primly on the mat, grimacing and dusting imaginary dust off her clothing, trying to force feed a struggling Dudley grapes and birthday cake.
Harry sat perched on a fragile looking log in between the two banks of the tiny river, feet dangling in the stream. If he lost his hand-me-down shoes to the rushing water, it wouldn't be much of a loss, he'd just get new ones from the ever-growing stack of Dudley's old ones.
An hour passed uneventfully.
Harry's feet were numb with cold but he couldn't care less, he was rather enjoying himself. An empty glass bottle of juice sat precariously next to him. Dudley was off in a nearby clearing of trees bullying ants with the magnifying glass he'd gotten from Piers Polkiss.
Aunt Petunia was reading a novel she'd brought with her out loud, and Uncle Vernon was scoffing at regular intervals. "He put a rolled up note in a bottle and sent it out to sea and his girl found it? Ha! Love is for sissies."
Harry's subconscious mind absorbed this, and his thoughts drifted absentmindedly to his parents.
His parents...
He'd never known them. Not even the slightest memory, except for that blinding flash of light that haunted his dreams. Lily and James Potter, he said in his head. They sounded like nice people, happy, loving people. His father, playful and funny, maybe a avid sports fan, with his black, untamable, hated-by-parents hair and glasses. His mother, clever and probably kind, with his green eyes. Yes, that was it.
Harry pulled a tattered sheet of ripped notepaper from his equally tattered jacket. He turned it over in his hands a few time, making sure his relatives weren't looking or he'd be locked in his room for a year.
He'd written the letter on his sixth Christmas, when he'd finally started questioning why he got presents like coat hangers and old socks for his birthdays. He'd stolen a notebook from Dudley's mountain of gifts, something he definitely wouldn't notice missing, then chickened out and merely torn out a sheet.
It was a short, horrid letter. Way too emotional for a proper boy, and his handwriting left something to be desired. He'd been so tempted to tear it up and throw it away thousands of times, but somehow it always ended up back folded in his pocket or under his pillow with yet another crease or one more tear stain.
"Well!" Uncle Vernon's voice startled Harry out of his reverie, and he nearly fell into the stream. "We'd better be going now. Mustn't be late for the last bus back to the hotel..." He got up and stood on two rocks looking important, while Aunt Petunia packed up what they'd brought, and then trotted off to fetch Dudley.
The Dursleys set off along the path back through the trees, almost forgetting their nephew. Then his aunt turned back and shouted for him to follow, and Harry got up reluctantly. He saw the three silhouettes, so badly mismatched, framed by the green vines and twigs, and felt a pang of longing. They weren't the best of people, but they had family.
Harry shouted something back.
He looked at the bottle in his hand, and slowly took the note out of his pocket. 'He put a rolled up note in a bottle and sent it out to sea and his girl found it.' Quickly, before he could back out, he stuffed the note in and dropped the juice bottle into stream. He watched it float away for a moment, then hurried off after his relatives.
Dear Papa and Mama,
I don't know if you remember me anymore, but I'm your son, Harry.
Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon say a car killed you. They told me I won't ever see you again. Are they lying? I wish I could meet you.
(I took Cousin Dudley's notebook to write this, I hope I don't get in trouble. Aunt Petunia might scold me. But I really want to talk to you. Just this once.)
Happy Christmas, Mama and Papa. I miss you. I'm sorry that we never knew each other. I guess you must have known me once? I'm sorry I can't send you presents wherever you are.
I love you to the moon and back, twice.
Harry James Potter