Song: Once Upon a December from Anastasia
There was a time when Harry remembered. A time where he sat dejectedly in his cupboard and watched as the memories replayed over and over again like a broken telly. He could see the colourful bubbles from his Daddy's wand floating through the air, but when he reached up to touch them, they vanished. Poof. Just like that.
He sometimes sat and wondered when Mummy would come and tell him a story. He had a request ready on his lips, but every time the cupboard door opened, he was greeted by sour-faced Aunt Petunia or angry Uncle Vernon. He wanted to hear the story about talking teddy bears and beautiful flying horses that were the colours of the rainbow. He wanted to listen to his Mummy's soothing voice, repeating a well-loved story that he cherished.
But slowly, as he grew older, Harry forgot.
The last time he ever reached out to grab the bubbles Daddy made was on his second birthday when Uncle Vernon yelled at him because his first word had been 'Daddy'. The last time he ever thought of the beautiful stories Mummy wove was when he was three and told the story to Dudley. Aunt Petunia had overheard, she seemed to have ears and eyes everywhere, and called him a 'good-for-nothing little freak that put evil ideas into Diddyduddikins head'. Harry hadn't understood what that meant but he thought it sounded nasty.
Dancing bears, painted wings, things I almost remember.
When Harry was five, Mummy and Daddy had become Mum and Dad, people whom he knew but didn't know. He would wake up in the middle of the night and hear a lullaby, a faint whisper of words that sent goosebumps up his skin. It was a vague sound with misty words, words that he couldn't make out but was sure he heard somewhere before. Tears of frustration would spring, and he would curl up in a ball and strive to forget.
And a song, someone sings, once upon a December.
On his seventh birthday, Uncle Vernon had invited Aunt Marge over for a visit. Dudley ran into her famously well-paying hugs and almost bowled poor Harry over as he looked on. The fingers of jealously squeezed his heart as Aunt Marge clutched her over-sized seven-year-old nephew and hugged him tightly, slipping a ten pound note into his sticky fist. For that thirty seconds, Harry wondered if he was going to get a hug too but Aunt Marge rounded on him, throwing her heavy leather suitcase at him and laughing her high and mirth-filled laugh. Harry grabbed it in time, but staggered backwards and collided painfully with the staircase.
That night, Harry sat in his cupboard with exactly seven candles and a matchbox that he had snitched from the kitchen drawer. Pulling them out from their battered box, he carefully lit them and wished himself a happy birthday. For the his third time in his life, he wondered what his birthday would be like if Mum and Dad were still alive. Would he get the big party that Dudley got every year? Would he get whatever he wanted and a giant chocolate cake decorated with dancing teddy bears? A single tear escaped and he wiped it away fiercely, accidentally toppling a candle as he did so. He stifled a yelp, batting at the fire with the thin blanket he owned. As suddenly as the bed sheet ignited, however, they vanished, leaving no mark. Harry sat back with a relieved exhalation. Maybe there was someone looking out for him after all.
Someone holds me safe and warm, horses prance through a silver storm, figures dancing gracefully, across my memory…
By his eleventh birthday, Harry had forgotten who his parents were. That was, until the half-giant showed up on the hut-on-the-rock. Harry sat and listened, rapt, to what he had to say. Vague memories of a tall man with messy hair and glasses holding a wand that emitted multi-coloured bubbles drifted through his mind. He tried to remember the tall lady with flaming red hair and beautiful crystal green eyes that shone and danced as she gazed lovingly at him. He missed them so badly then he almost cried but held it in. He didn't want to embarrass himself in front of the stranger.
He had always known he didn't belong with the Dursleys yet he never really questioned why. Now he did and as Hagrid opened the door to the hut and invited him out, he didn't hesitate before stepping back home.
Far away, long ago, glowing dim as ember, things my heart, used to know, once upon a December.
Author's note: I don't own the song and neither do I own the world this story is set in.