Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any other books/films etc. referenced in this text. This is my first fic attempt, please bear with me :)
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large moustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbours. The Dursleys had a son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They shuddered to think what would happen if their neighbours found out the truth about the twins in their care.
Eleven years before the day our story starts, the Dursleys were confronted by a number of strange sights. Cats acting in ways the Dursleys were sure was not normal cat behaviour, owls behaving equally as abnormally, unusual weather patterns, shooting stars all over Britain and people dressed strangely, wearing cloaks and unusual hats - the Dursleys couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes. The greatest shock of all, however, was overhearing these strangely dressed folk whispering excitedly about the Potters. They could not believe it when they heard the name. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be.
The Durselys knew this funny business would have to have had something to do with her lot. Mrs Dursley wished not to speak of the matter; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. Mr Dursley, however, was concerned. If these things did have something to do with the Potters… if it got out that they were related to a pair of - well, he didn't think he could bear it.
His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind… He couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on… he yawned and turned over. It couldn't affect them…
How very wrong he was.
That night, as Mr and Mrs Dursley slept, three most peculiar looking people appeared on the street. The first was a man - tall, thin and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak which swept the ground and half-moon spectacles behind which his light blue eyes sparkled brightly. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.
The second was a rather severe-looking woman, called Minerva McGonagall, who was wearing square glasses. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.
They spoke of the behaviour Mr Dursley had observed with much animosity during the day. Professor McGonagall seemed to find it most unimpressive indeed. It seemed that these people had been celebrating something. They consulted the demise of someone they reffered to as "You-Know-Who"; saying that this person had gone to a place called Godric's Hollow, and that he had killed James and Lily Potter. It was revealed that this You-Know-Who also tried to kill the Potter's son, but he couldn't, and that it was this boy who was responsible for his defeat.
The third person to appear on the street that night was a huge man, who flew to the house on a giant motorbike. Dumbledore told McGonagall this person, named Hagrid, was bringing the Potter's now-orphaned twins to come live with their Aunt and Uncle, the only family they had left. McGonagall expressed her concerns that Dumbledore would trust Hagrid with something so important, but Dumbledore simply responded that he would trust Hagrid with his life. Hagrid was almost twice as tall as a man and at least five times as wide. He simply looked too big to be allowed, and so wild - long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.
Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby girl, her large, hazel, doe-like eyes staring up at them curiously. Next to her, fast asleep, was her brother; under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.
'Is that where -?' whispered Professor McGonagall.
'Yes,' said Dumbledore. 'He'll have that scar forever.' Dumbledore took them in his arms and walked to the front door of the Dursley's house. He laid the twins down gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside the blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid sobbed, his face buried in a large spotted handkerchief, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.
'Well, that's it, we have no business staying here,' said Dumbledore finally. 'We may as well go join in the celebrations.'
Hagrid said goodbye, wiped his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, and took off into the night on the motorbike. Professor McGonagall bid her farewells also. Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped; he could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.
'Good luck, Harry and Charlotte,' he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak he was gone.
A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside the blankets without waking up. One of Charlotte's small hands closed on the letter beside her. They slept on, not knowing they were special, not knowing they were famous, not knowing they would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that they would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by their cousin Dudley… They couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: 'To Harry and Charlotte Potter - the twins who lived!'
It had been many years since the Dursleys had woken up to find their niece and nephew on the front step, but Privet Drive had hardly changed at all. The sun rose on the same tidy front gardens and lit up the brass number four on the Dursleys' front door; it crept into their living room, which was almost exactly the same as it had been on the night when Mr. Dursley had seen that fateful news report about the owls. Only the photographs on the mantelpiece really showed how much time had passed. Ten years ago, there had been lots of pictures of what looked like a large pink beach ball wearing different-colored bobble hats - but Dudley Dursley was no longer a baby, and now the photographs showed a large blond boy riding his first bicycle, on a carousel at the fair, playing a computer game with his father, being hugged and kissed by his mother. The room held no sign at all, however, that two other children lived in the house, too.
Yet, Harry and Charlotte Potter were still there, asleep at the moment, but not for long. Their Aunt Petunia was awake and it was her shrill voice which made the first noise of the day.
'Up! Get up! Now!'
Harry woke with a start. Next to him, Charlotte yawned and rubbed her eyes lazily. Their aunt rapped on the door again.
'Up!' she screeched. Harry rolled onto his back and tried to remember the dream he had been having. It had been a good one. There had been a flying motorcycle in it. He had a funny feeling he'd had the same dream before.
'Get up, Harry. Come on,' Charlotte mumbled sleepily, tugging his arm. She pulled a jumper over her head and stood at the door, her arms folded.
Their aunt was back outside the door.
'Are you two up yet?' She demanded.
'Nearly,' Charlotte said.
'Well, get a move on, for God's sake. I want you to make breakfast. And make it good, everything needs to be perfect for Dudley's birthday.'
Harry groaned.
'What did you say?' his aunt snapped through the door.
'Nothing. He didn't say anything,' Charlotte replied hastily, shooting her brother a leery glare. He stuck his tongue out in response, shamelessly apathetic.
Harry climbed out of bed begrudgingly and started looking for socks. He found a pair under the bed and, after pulling a spider off one of them, put them on. Harry and Charlotte were used to spiders, because the cupboard under the stairs was full of them, and that was where they slept.
The pair dressed and went down the hall into the kitchen, where the table was hidden under a mountain of birthday presents for Dudley, who was sulking querulously because he wanted forty presents and only had thirty-five. His mother attempted to soothe his outburst by promising to buy him five more presents to make it up. He immediately demanded a racing bike. Charlotte rolled her eyes indiscreetly. Exactly why he wanted a racing bike was a mystery, as the boy was fat and hated exercise – unless it involved punching somebody, especially when that somebody was Harry.
Perhaps it had something to do with living in a broom closet, but the Potter twins had always been small and skinny for their age. Harry looked even small and skinnier than he really was because all he had to wear were old clothes of Dudley's and Dudley was about four times bigger than he was. Harry had a thin face, knobbly knees, black hair and bright-green eyes. He wore round glasses held together with a lot of Sellotape because of all the times Dudley had punched his nose.
It would seem the world had been much kinder to Charlotte. For starters, she wasn't forced to wear her obese cousin's tattered hand-me-downs; the Polkiss family, close friends of the Dursleys, were kind enough to gift her with their daughter Tatum's old clothes, most of which were well kept and of good taste. Charlotte was quite a pretty young lady, with soft, hazel eyes, long eyelashes, a freckled nose and long hair that was exceptionally straight and a beautiful shade of dark brown. She and Harry had the same, long face. Much to the Dursley's relief, there was nothing unusual, disproportionate or unsightly about Charlotte's appearance. She was pleasantly ordinary-looking indeed.
The same could not be said for Harry. He was scrawny and scruffy. No matter how much time had been spent trying to remedy the fact, his hair simply insisted on growing all over the place, unable to be tamed. Last of all, he had a very thin scar on his forehead, shaped like a bolt of lightning. Harry liked it, but Aunt Petunia most certainly did not, and insisted he hide it with his fringe at all times.
'Comb your hair!' Uncle Vernon barked at Harry, by way of morning greeting, once he had realised the twin's presence in the room. 'And hurry up with that breakfast, you lazy boy! What happens if our guests arrive and we've nothing to serve them?' Harry made his way over to the stove, not bothering with a response.
Dudley greedily unwrapped his presents as Petunia paced the room, aimlessly straightening furniture and wiping photos that were already clean. Her eyes were scanning the room when they landed on Charlotte.
'Charlotte, make some coffee, will you.'
Charlotte made her way into the kitchen, she and Harry exchanging dreary looks as Petunia continued to chatter pointlessly.
'Good to see you're wearing some nice clothes, Charlotte. The Polkiss' will he pleased, I'm sure. Isn't it just so kind of them to give us Tatum's old clothes? So thoughtful.'
'Yes, Aunt Petunia.' Charlotte replied flatly.
'The boy, what are we going to do about him, Vernon? He can't sit and eat with us in that state. He looks a disgrace.'
'What're we to do, Petunia? Hide him in the cupboard? They know he lives here, they'll wonder where he is. We needn't have them think something strange is going on.'
'Oh, no. Of course not. I'll just make him change into something less… dowdy.'
The Dursley's often spoke about Harry like this, as though he wasn't there – or rather, as though he was something very nasty that couldn't understand them, like a slug. They did not often do the same to Charlotte, however. They made no effort to conceal the fact they preferred her much more.
Harry put the plates of egg, bacon, toast and tomato on the table just as Charlotte approached with a jug of coffee and milk. She gave him an apologetic glance. He shook his head; it wasn't her fault. She couldn't help it.
'Go find some nicer clothes to wear, boy! Why you would choose to dress so badly when you know we have guests coming… if you're not simple, I'll eat my hat…' Uncle Vernon growled at Harry, who rushed off to the cupboard before he could say any more. Harry emerged, wearing the best of Dudley's hand-me-downs he could find, just as the doorbell rang. Petunia seized him roughly by the shoulder and forced him down the hall.
'Answer the door, would you, Charlotte?' She called, in a sing-song voice she only put on when other people were present. After pushing Harry into the kitchen she rushed off to greet the Polkiss'.
Harry turned to find Uncle Vernon towering over him, a fat finger pointed inches away from his nose. 'I'm warning you. I'm warning you now, boy – any funny business, anything at all – and you'll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas.'
'I'm not going to do anything,' said Harry, 'honestly…'
But Uncle Vernon didn't believe him. No one ever did.
The problem was, strange things often happened around Harry and it was just no good telling the Dursleys he didn't make them happen.
Once, Aunt Petunia, tired of Harry coming back from the barbers looking as though he hadn't been at all, had taken a pair of kitchen scissors and cut his hair so short he was almost bald except for his bangs, which she left 'to hide that horrible scar.' Dudley had laughed himself silly at Harry, who spent a sleepless night imagining school the next day, where he was already laughed at for his baggy clothes and taped glasses. Next morning, however, he had gotten up to find his hair exactly as it had been before Aunt Petunia had sheared it off. He had been given a week in his cupboard for this, even though he had tried to tell them that he couldn't explain how it had grown back so quickly.
Another time, Aunt Petunia had been trying to force him into a revolting old sweater of Dudley's. The harder she tried to pull it over his head, the smaller it seemed to become, until finally it might have fitted a hand puppet, but certainly wouldn't fit Harry. Aunt Petunia had decided it must have shrunk in the wash and, to his great relief, Harry wasn't punished.
On the other hand, he'd gotten into terrible trouble for being found on the roof of the school kitchens. Dudley's gang had been chasing him as usual when, as much to Harry's surprise as anyone else's, there he was sitting on the chimney. The Dursleys had received a very angry letter from Harry's headmistress telling them Harry had been climbing school buildings. But all he'd tried to do (as he shouted at Uncle Vernon through the locked door of his cupboard) was jump behind the big trash cans outside the kitchen doors. Harry supposed that the wind must have caught him in mid-jump.
Charlotte was very lucky, as Harry continuously reminded her, in the way that nothing strange ever happened to her. She never acted in a way she shouldn't, just as the Dursley's preferred. This was the primary reason for their favouritism of her in comparison to her brother. That, and Charlotte was always quiet, pleasant, and unassuming. She was always on her best behaviour, because – as she'd told Harry time and time again – 'it was just easier that way.'
'She's growing up so much, isn't she Petunia?' Mrs Polkiss cooed as Aunt Petunia, Charlotte and the Polkiss family entered the living room, 'and don't Tatum's clothes just suit her so well?'
'Yes, isn't she just?' Aunt Petunia replied, her bony hand on Charlotte's shoulder, a superficial smile plastered across her face, 'thank you so much again for kindly giving those clothes to us. We are most appreciative.'
The group joined Vernon, Harry and Dudley at the dining table. Piers Polkiss, a lanky, nasty looking boy, with a face like a rat, immediately seated himself next to Dudley. He was usually the one who held people's arms behind their backs while Dudley hit them. Piers and Harry exchanged antagonistic glances, before Piers helped himself to more bacon than was necessary.
'Don't be ridiculous, Petunia, it's the least we could do,' Mrs Polkiss replied, patting Aunt Petunia's hand, 'I know it must be difficult for you. You are so brave.'
'We do our best,' Aunt Petunia said, smiling. One of the only things the twins were good for in the Dursley's mind was the attention and pity they aroused from others. They never tired of hearing about how selfless and caring they are to take in their niece and nephew, what a grand personal sacrifice it was to do something so courageous, and never tired of telling people how difficult it was to raise not only their Dudley but also not one, but two other children at the same time. Apart from sticking her long, pointed, beak of a nose into other people's business, Aunt Petunia loved nothing more than playing the victim in order to be the centre of attention.
For some time they all sat at the table eating; Piers and Dudley murmured amongst themselves, Harry and Charlotte communicated wordlessly in blatant discomfort, and the adults spent a great deal of time listening to Uncle Vernon complain. He liked to complain about things: people at work, Harry, the council, the twins, the bank and Harry were just a few of his favourite subjects. This morning, it was the gardens the council had been planting around the neighbourhood.
'… tacky, waste of taxpayer's money, a donkey could do a better job in charge than that lot…'
When he paused to wolf down a very large helping of eggs and bacon, Mrs Polkiss changed the subject.
'Excited for middle school, Dudley?' She asked, her voice the sort of sweet, high-pitched one you put on for a toddler, 'I know Piers is.'
'Yes, Mrs Polkiss,' Dudley replied smugly.
'Will the boy be attending Smelting's too, Petunia?' Mrs Polkiss asked briskly. It was the first time she had acknowledged Harry since they had arrived. This was not out of the ordinary- she shared the opinion of most that there was something off about him. Not many people gave him a chance; they preferred to avoid that odd Harry Potter in his baggy old clothes and broken glasses.
'No, no. He gets in too much trouble, you see. We're sending him to Stonewall High.'
'Don't blame yourself, Petunia. Sometimes these things can't be helped.'
With that, Charlotte cleared her throat. 'May we be excused?' She asked politely.
'Oh, um, very well.' Aunt Petunia said. Dudley and Piers took that as an invitation to leave as well, and ran upstairs to Dudley's room. The twins went and sat outside in the garden. Charlotte didn't try to comfort Harry. They both knew this was just the way things were.
One morning in July, something quite strange happened. Two letters arrived in the post; one for each of the twins. When Harry found them, he stared, confused. No one, ever, in their whole lives, had written to them. Who would? They had no other relatives, no real friends… yet here they were, two letters, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake:
Mr H. Potter
The Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging, Surrey
Miss C. Potter
The Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging, Surrey
Harry immediately went and showed Charlotte the letters, but before the twins could open them Dudley alerted his father, who promptly snatched the letters out of their hands. Upon reading one of the letters, Uncle Vernon's face turned the colour of old porridge. He called Aunt Petunia over and showed her; she looked as if she might faint.
'Vernon! Oh my goodness – Vernon!'
They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten the children were still in the room. Harry and Charlotte looked at each other questioningly- something very strange was going on here. Dudley tried to snatch the letter from Uncle Vernon, who held it out of his reach. Not used to being ignored, he hit his father and demanded he give him the letter. Harry then interjected that he wanted to read it, as it was his. Eventually, after much protesting, Uncle Vernon forced them out of the room.
Harry listened to the following conversation between his Aunt and Uncle through the door.
'Vernon,' Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, 'look at the address – how could they know where the twins sleep? Do you think they're watching the house?'
'Watching – spying – might be following us,' muttered Uncle Vernon wildly, pacing the room.
. 'We'll ignore it. If they don't get an answer… yes, that's best… we won't do anything…'
'But – maybe we should write back, tell them we don't want -'
'I'm not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn't we swear when we took them in we'd stamp out that dangerous nonsense?'
When Uncle Vernon returned home from work that evening, he did something he'd never done before; visited the twins in their cupboard. While there, he told them they would be moving into Dudley's second bedroom, as they were getting a bit big for the cupboard.
It took the twins just one trip to move everything they owned up to one of the four bedrooms in the Dursley's house, one which had previously been used as a second bedroom for Dudley, to store all of the things that wouldn't fit into his first one. The twins sat on the bed, surrounded by the broken, dust covered things their cousin had long since abandoned. They could hear Dudley bawling to his mother that he didn't want them to take his room, that he needed it.
'What is going on, Charlie?'
'I wish I knew, brother. Did you read any of the letters?'
'No, he took them before I could get one unfolded.'
'What do you reckon they meant, with all that "stamp out that dangerous nonsense" stuff?'
'No clue.'
The next few days saw more and more strange behaviour. Dudley was in shock. He'd screamed, whacked his father with his Smelting's stick, been sick on purpose, kicked his mother and thrown his tortoise through the greenhouse roof and still he didn't have his room back. Every morning the strange letters arrived in the post saw Uncle Vernon become more and more insane. He'd burned, shredded and torn every letter that arrived for the twins, each day going to more drastic measures to keep them from entering the house. He'd nailed up the letter-box, and when that didn't work, he progressed to boarding up all the cracks around the front and back doors so no-one could get out. The day after that they arrived, rolled up in the two dozen eggs a very confused milkman handed Aunt Petunia through the living room window. Uncle Vernon hummed 'Tiptoe through the Tulips' as he gradually enclosed the entire house, and jumped at small noises.
On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat at the kitchen table, spreading marmalade on his newspapers, happily reminding the family, 'no post on Sundays. No post on Sundays. No damn letters today - '
At that moment, forty odd letters came flying out the fireplace like bullets. Harry tried to grab one, but Uncle Vernon seized him around the waist, grabbed Charlotte's arm and threw them into the hall.
'That does it!' He yelled, once everyone had retreated from the kitchen, pulling great tufts out of his moustache as he spoke. 'Pack your clothes, I want everyone ready in five minutes, we're leaving! No arguments!'
He looked so dangerous with half his moustache missing no-one dared argue. He hit Dudley round the head for holding them up by trying to pack his television in his sports bag, and in ten minutes they were driving. Not even Aunt Petunia dared ask where to. Every so often Uncle Vernon would do a U-turn and drive in the opposite direction.
'Shake 'em off… shake 'em off,' he would mutter whenever he did this. Charlotte secretly found his behaviour quite amusing. She did not dare laugh, however, as he had become a raving lunatic and was unpredictable at best.
They stopped at a gloomy-looking hotel on the outskirts of the city, but still the letters followed. Uncle Vernon once again drove the family across the country aimlessly, before parking somewhere on the coast and locking the family in the car. Dudley was sulking that it was Monday and he wanted to watch "The Great Humberto's".
Monday. Harry and Charlotte exchanged knowing looks. If it was Monday – and you could usually rely on Dudley to know the days of the week, because of television – that meant tomorrow was the twin's eleventh birthday. Their birthdays were never exactly fun – last year, the Dursley's gave Harry and old coat hanger and a pair of socks, and Charlotte an old encyclopaedia of cacti species which they no doubt found lying about in the attic. Still, you weren't eleven every day.
Uncle Vernon returned smiling, carrying a long, thin package and telling them all he'd found the perfect place, that there was a storm forecast for tonight and some kind gentleman had lent them his boat. After what seemed like hours rowing the tiny fishing boat they reached a large rock way out to sea, perched on top of which was the most miserable little shack imaginable.
The inside stank of seaweed, the wind whistling loudly through the gaps in the wooden walls. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon went off to sleep on the lumpy bed in the second of two rooms, while Dudley was soon snoring on the moth-eaten sofa, leaving the twins to cuddle up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket, on the softest bit of floor. It was too cold and stormy to sleep, so they stayed up, Charlotte scribbling with a stick on the dirt floor and Harry watching the lighted dial of Dudley's watch, counting down the minutes till their birthday.
'Uncle Vernon seems pretty pleased with himself.' Charlotte said.
'Yeah, obviously he thinks nobody would stand a chance reaching us here in a storm to deliver post.' Harry replied gloomily, secretly agreeing. 'Five minutes to go until our birthday.'
'Do you think they'll remember at all?'
'Doubt it.' Harry heard something creak outside. 'I hope the roof doesn't fall in. Though maybe we'd be warmer if it did.'
'What's that funny crunching noise? Is the rock crumbling into the sea?'
'One minute to go, and we'll be eleven.' Harry counted down, wondering if he should wake Dudley, just to annoy him, 'thirty seconds… twenty… ten – nine'
Charlotte joined in from here, and the two's chanting grew increasingly louder as they progressed, 'three – two – one!'
BOOM.
The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, grabbing Charlotte's hand instinctively. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.
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