Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Harry Potter series or any of its characters or plot.
Don't Ask Questions
"How did his parents die? What were their names? Something far more than just curiosity is nagging at Harry—but one mustn't ask questions in the Dursley household."
The Dursley household was a perfectly normal household, but for one member: Harry James Potter.
And at this moment, Harry James Potter, age seven, was on a mission.
His objective—to get some answers.
Of course, Harry knew that many children would call this particular mission neither very important nor difficult—but then, not many children had the Dursleys as their only relatives, did they? It would be an accomplishment if he could even meet his aunt's eyes. And anyway, not a lot of kids had to ask the kind of question he had to, anyway. He peered back into the kitchen, having finished with both his chores and his homework. He took a few deep breaths, partly to calm himself and partly to gather his nerve. "Aunt Petunia?"
Aunt Petunia only glanced at him impatiently.
Just ask her, Harry thought. Just ask her, real quick, just do it already, it can't hurt...
Don't ask questions.
"What is it, boy?"
Harry gulped, the little daring he'd even had in the first place fleeing him, and he fumbled for an excuse. "I, uh—I was just wondering if I was done for the day?"
What a horrible alibi. He'd never been very good at lying. Aunt Petunia looked furious. "No," she snapped, "But if you're so eager, why don't you go and wash Vernon's car, then? It'll save us the trip to the car wash."
It wasn't a suggestion. Harry winced as he darted back out the door. Well... there was always next time, he conceded.
(In the Dursley household, he has to tread carefully;
even forever walking on eggshells was better than tripping and falling completely.)
Harry stumbled into the living room. Exhaustion weighed upon him like ten boulders. The whole reason why he even got the extra chores wasn't even his fault; one minute Dudley and his stupid friends had been after him, and the next, he had been on the school roof. It wasn't his fault. But Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon wouldn't even believe that Dudley would ever chase after him, so what chance did he have?
His muscles ached. But he still had that question to ask. He knew he'd put it off enough. And besides, something far more than just curiosity nagged at him.
He rocked back and forth on his heels. It wasn't supposed to be a crime, but it was in the Dursley household. At least, it was for him. Dudley asked dozens of questions each day (Of which about seventy percent was "What's for dinner?"—with the other thirty percent being, "What's for breakfast?" and "What's for lunch?"). Harry sighed. Don't ask questions. He bit his lip. He just needed to know...
Aunt Petunia sniffed, raised an eyebrow. "For God's sake, boy, out with it!"—and Harry realized he'd been standing there for nearly ten minutes.
He stared at anywhere but his aunt. "How—how did my—"
But his courage failed him again. His shoulders slumped, and he asked instead, in a toneless, dead sort of voice, "When do I stop doing the extra chores, Aunt Petunia?"
Aunt Petunia glared at him. "Until the end of the month," she said harshly. Harry's face fell. "Now—if that's all—"
Harry jumped and disappeared from sight before she could say another word. Coward, he wanted to shout at himself.
(In the Dursley household, he was not allowed to inquire;
his curiosity was a hobby from which he was forced to retire.)
He couldn't ask Uncle Vernon. Aunt Petunia was terrifying enough. If he asked his uncle, the man would lock him in his cupboard and throw away the key. Harry just knew it.
That is it, Harry told himself. You've just got to get in there and ask her, Potter. Nothing to it.
"Aunt Petunia, I—may I ask you something?"
Aunt Petunia surveyed him disdainfully, and the irritation in her gaze alone made Harry want to turn back and hide, but he'd promised himself he wouldn't... Not this time, anyway. Three times was the charm, wasn't it?
"You just did," his aunt scowled. "Fine, then. What now?"
"How did my parents die?"
Aunt Petunia stilled in that ominous way when Harry knew he was in really big trouble. "What?" Yes, definitely in big trouble. Worse than when he ended up on the school roof, worse than when Aunt Petunia gave him a haircut and it grew back in one night, probably worse than the night he was dumped on the Dursley's door. But he stood his ground.
"How did my parents die?" Harry repeated, very quickly—as though that would get him out of the mess he was already in. Don't ask questions. But this time, a pure wistfulness to know took over. "What were they like? Have you met them? You were my mum's sister, weren't you—"
"Enough!" Aunt Petunia hissed—how ever did she manage to make her voice so shrill, even while hissing into his face?—and Harry flinched away, brought back to reality. Aunt Petunia grabbed his shoulders and shook him angrily. "Didn't I tell you not—to—ask—questions?"
"Who were they?" Harry suddenly shouted back, too far gone to care. All his life he'd missed his parents without even knowing them, and he could not stand it; not anymore. "You had to have at least known their names—"
"Fine, then," said Aunt Petunia dangerously, and she sneered: "They were drunks. Freaks, just like you. That's how they died! They were good-for-nothing animals, and they died from a car crash because of it, and they deserved it." She pointed a finger in Harry's stricken face. "There's your answer!" she screeched. "Now go to your cupboard—now, before I really lose my temper!"
Harry fled.
(In the Dursley household, he has to know the danger signs,
when to run and where to hide.)
Harry stayed in his cupboard for a very long time.
His aunt's words rang back to him hauntingly. Tears threatened to arise, and he could not stop them.
Drunkards.
Good-for-nothing animals.
Freaks.
They deserved it—
LIES!
Still shaking, Harry drew a long breath, clutching his arms tighter around himself. He would never believe it, he vowed. Whatever happened, he would never ever believe it—
"Boy!" Uncle Vernon's voice bellowed, and Harry jumped. "Get down here!"
Harry gasped. In record time, he had dried off his tears and climbed out of his cupboard. If he wasn't fast enough, he'd only be given more chores—and he knew that from experience.
(In the Dursley household, he must never take too much time;
even being a single minute late would be a horrid, horrid crime...)
Petunia rubbed her eyes. Her hands were trembling slightly, to her own annoyance. Ridiculous.
She stumbled as she made her way to the bedroom. Her hands seemed to move of their own accord; she pulled out a box of old pictures and opened it: Inside, buried underneath dozens of others, was her only picture of Lily.
It was a simple family portrait: Petunia's mother had an arm around Petunia's father, both of their smiles lighting up their faces; Petunia was sitting primly by her father, hands in her lap and smiling for the camera; Lily was sitting beside her, grinning wildly, her feet swinging to and fro.
This was taken two days before Lily got her letter, Petunia thought suddenly.
Before everything had gone to hell.
She scowled at her sister's face, laughing at her from the picture. The fool. What were you thinking... marrying Potter, making yourself a target for that murderer... What were you thinking, Lily?
Her lips twisting into a bitter grimace, Petunia threw the picture back into the box and hid it away. As she stepped back down the stairs her eyes caught sight of the boy's cupboard. Her hands clenched into fists, and she glared at the tiny door. If you hadn't been born, that would've been great, she thought furiously. If you hadn't been born, that would've been wonderf—
"Mummy!"
Petunia whirled around. Dudley was staring at her with wide eyes. "Mummy, I want the new game from the store! Oh, please, Mummy?"
Petunia blinked for a moment, confused. Then she forced her mouth into a smile.
"Why, of course, Dudders," she said.
(The Dursley household was a perfectly normal household.)
AN: Ack. This just wouldn't turn out the way I wanted, I'm afraid, but anyway. I'm getting kinda addicted to Pre-Hogwarts stories... Guh. Hope this didn't sound too rushed. Reviews and constructed criticism are always appreciated, blah blah blah...