Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and probably never will…
Once in a Blue Moon
"Vernon!" Petunia's high pitched screech reverberated around Number 4 Privet Drive. Her dull brown hair was tightly curled in rollers and she was wearing a light pink, silky bathrobe. Her face was devoid of any of the makeup that usually suffocated it, leaving her pale, pimply skin for all to see. She was staring at the telephone in her hand as though it was a rat in her kitchen.
"What is it?" Came the slurred reply from upstairs.
"It's Mrs Figg. She can't look after it today. One of her cats had to be taken to the vets and she claims to be unable to leave it on its own."
"Stupid woman and her stupid obsession with stupid animals," Vernon grumbled as he waddled down the stairs, "Why is she ringing at this ungodly hour anyway? No respect for normal people."
"It's ten to ten in the morning, darling. We probably ought to wake ickle Dudders up now."
"Petunia, it's the day before his birthday, give the young man a break!"
"Oh, alright then. Anyway, she can't look after it, so he'll have to come with us."
"Nonsense, woman," Vernon admonished, "he can stay here and learn to do as he's told after that stunt he pulled this week. Blue hair? Honestly, he's out of his goddamn mind. And we wouldn't want him to ruin Dudders' special day, would we? Six is his favourite number after all."
Petunia sighed resignedly, thinking of her beloved son upstairs. "As long as he is not allowed in my lounge."
"Of course not! He'll be in his cupboard, where freaks like him belong!" With that, Vernon wobbled over to the hallway, earning a wince from his wife as he nudged the brand new coffee table out of place. She scuttled after him to set it right.
Vernon raised a pudgy fist and hammered on the little wooden door to the cupboard under the stairs. A muffled shuffling came from within.
"Oh, freaky!" He cried in an out of tune sing-song voice, "Where's my breakfast? And extra rashers of bacon as well. It's Duddikins' birthday party today. I want it to be extra special." He roughly slid the latch across and yanked the door open. A pair of startling green eyes stared back, blinking owlishly in the blinding light. "Now get up, you lazy brat, and get to work!" Reaching a purple hand into the cupboard, he dragged a dishevelled boy out.
"And comb your hair while you're at it!" Petunia shrieked from the other room. The young boy stumbled down the hallway and into the unusually clean kitchen.
He was small: appearing to be around four years old, despite the fact that he was almost six. Taking his comb from the table – he had one of his own so his relatives didn't get infected by his freakishness- he tried to tame the mop of unruly black hair on his head. It did nothing to help the uncontrollable mess. Instead, he ran a thin, pale hand through it, revealing a red, lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead. His clothes hung off his body like a potato sack, and he had to constantly pull his trousers up. They were hand-me-downs, just like the rest of his things, but he didn't mind – not at home, anyway. It was only at school that it mattered.
School confused him. There were so many people. They had been nice at first, but then Dudley bullied anyone who tried to be his friend. The teachers knew, of course, but they stopped helping ever since that fateful call one of the teachers made to Uncle Vernon about his oversized school uniform. He had spent five days in his cupboard for that. It didn't happen again.
The teachers confused him too. For some reason, they insisted on calling him Harry, but he didn't complain: he liked it better than 'freak'. They were wary of him, too. He had overheard Aunt Petunia talking to Miss Boaler (His Year One teacher) and she used words he had never heard before, like 'drunks', 'criminals' and 'scoundrels', but he was pretty sure he knew what they meant.
Harry wasn't stupid. In reality, he was quite clever. When he started school, he always tried his hardest in an attempt to please his teachers. But as soon as word got back to Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia that he was outperforming Dudley in school work, he knew he had to stop. After being threatened with his cupboard for the umpteenth time, he decided to lower his marks. In spelling tests, he would no longer get full marks. He would no longer finish his work ahead of time and ask for more. He would no longer be the best behaved student in the class.
Mind focused on the task ahead of him, Harry dragged a white painted stool over to the pristine work surface and set about preparing breakfast. Before long, thick slices of bacon were sizzling away in a pan and white bread roll were warming through in the oven. It made Harry's mouth water. Keeping a careful eye on the bacon, he climbed up to fetch some sauces for the table.
He was still a rookie at the culinary game (he'd only been able to see over the sideboard for a few months) but he liked to think he was quite good at it. Aunt Petunia had spared a few hours to teach him the basics, and he could just about decipher the various recipe books hurled his way. Cooking was by far his favourite chore. He didn't get too dirty, and he could occasionally pinch some of the goods before he served them up. But he probably shouldn't do that today.
You see, it was Dudley's sixth birthday party. They were going to the new theme park that had just opened down the road. Nothing less for my Dudders! Aunt Petunia had crowed. Dudley was taking three friends (read: henchmen) from school and regularly took the time to point out to Harry that he was spending the day with the mad old cat lady across the road. Evidently that wasn't going to happen now.
Harry sighed as he transferred the greasy bacon over to the serving platter. He now had a delightful day to look forward to, locked away in his cupboard. It wasn't his fault that Mrs Figg's cat was at the vet. And it certainly wasn't his fault that the librarian's hair turned blue. She had reprimanded him for having mud on his shoes, so it kind of served her right. Karma, he believed it to be called.
Turning to get a grapefruit out of the fridge for his Aunt, Harry flinched as Dudley's footsteps thundered across the ceiling, announcing his arrival into the land of the living. He waddled down the staircase in much the same way as his father and promptly plonked himself down on the sofa.
"How's my sweet Duddikins doing this wonderful morning?" Aunt Petunia asked in a voice sweeter than candy floss as she smothered him in kisses. Harry snickered at the disgusting display of affection but was quickly silenced by the sharp glare sent his way.
"Where are my presents?" Dudley demanded by way of reply.
"There's my boy, always knows what he wants, no beating around the bush." Vernon praised.
"But Dudley, honey, it's your birthday tomorrow. You can have them then." The high pitched voice cooed.
"Where are they? I want them now!" Dudley persisted, his bottom lip trembling.
"I'm sure we can sort something out, can't we Vernon?"
"Of course, anything for the young man of the house." Vernon agreed. Dudley sent Harry a pointed grin of glee, delighted at yet another display of his supremacy. As if Harry didn't already know.
Announcing that breakfast was served, Harry quickly skittered out of the way.
"Boy!" Vernon shouted, "Where are you going? Drinks, and fast."
Biting his lip in frustration, Harry quickly fulfilled his Uncle's demand, and left the room.
It wasn't long before Pier Polkiss and Dudley's two other henchmen arrived. They were dressed in ridiculous clothes for a six year old to be wearing (namely matching leather jackets and combat boots) but their mothers were all fussing over how handsome they all looked. Before they arrived, Harry was banished into his cupboard and was now watching this scene unfold in front of him through the slats in the door.
The mothers soon left; not before drowning their respective child in kisses, cuddles and reassurances that they would be safe and sound. The boys spent a small amount of time watching cartoons and trading collecting cards before they too left for the car. Dudley aimed a kick at Harry's cupboard as he passed by – obviously.
Petunia lingered behind, letting Harry out to swiftly wolf down a sweaty cheese sandwich and locking him back in his cupboard for a final time. She did not say a word.
And so Harry lay in the dark, listening to the front door slam shut and wishing for a life where his parents hadn't been killed in that car crash. He daydreamed of his parents and their friends, of a woman with dark red hair and a man who looked just like him. In his dream there was a man with a mane of shaggy black hair and one last man with greying hair and a worn, weathered face. They were all laughing.
Then he disappeared with a crack.