Night was quiet at Private Drive. Harry liked it. He was allowed to work in the garden at night, with no small about of begging and extra chores from Aunt Petunia to convince her otherwise. He liked the silence of Private Drive, but he also liked how alive it was, expecially in summer. The grass was green and lush and bouncey, expecially after he cut it. The smell from the flowers was better than any detergent his Aunt could find, and the flowers were all very vibrant. He could hear tiny creatures scurry in the bushes around him as they tried to find food, and nocturnal predators watching for their mistakes. Most of all, he liked the moon. He leaned back from his kneeling position and smiled up at the half-moon. It bathed the entire area in faux-light, and it made him feel as if he had just taken a shower and had a good nights rest and a nice, filling meal for the first time in what felt like forever. The moon felt like what he imagined a mother's love. Not like Aunt Petunia's love towards Dudley, but like the little girls in the street with their mums in London, guiding them with a gentle touch and smiling at them with every opportunity. Aunt Petunia was more like a flighty hummingbird.
Harry sighed, and bent forward again. He was weeding out the garden tonight. It was hard work, and made his back, shoulders, elbows, and knees ache, but it was worth it. If he did a really good job, Aunt Petunia would give him a slice of bread with cheese and jam on it. He licked his lips, feeling his mouth water just thinking about it. He shook himself out of his food-induced haze and kept working. Idle hands were the devil's playground after all.
All the while the moon watched, and it was burning.
Harry was watching Aunt Petunia. This wasn't something that was unusual. He often watched his caretakers. This time was different.
His aunt was moving around. Not unusual. But she was almost pacing, but keeping busy so it didn't seem like she was pacing. She had an apron on, and mittens, and she was moving back and forth from the table to the stove, doing idle things. She would move a plate to the counter, then move a cup containing silverware, then move back to the counter and take the plate back to the table, then add a dash of salt to the pot bubbling on the stove, then scowl and move the silverware to the counter under the overhead counters, then she would move the toaster from one end of the counter to the other, then she would take a stack of plates to the table and replace the ones that were already there.
Harry blinked. His Aunt Petunia was nervous. He tilted his head. Nervous about what? What could his aunt nervous about? His head tilted the other way. Petunia was always nervous about other people's opinion of her. She always wanted to make a good impression. She wanted to be the most prim, the most proper, the most perfect. She didn't want other people to think bad of her, or think she was less than perfect. Which is why the Dursleys hid him, Harry, away. Because he was weird. He tilted his head the other way, his eyes sad. Did his Aunt think that someone was going to think bad of her? His Aunt was perfect. She never let him miss a meal, or get up late, or skip out on any of his responsibilties. She always made sure the neighbors were okay, and made sure Uncle Vernon got his morning paper and a kiss on the cheek, and always made sure that Dudley's scratches and bruises were healed with magical mum kisses. Aunt Petunia was the best aunt ever. She didn't get to be sad.
Harry breathed in and out, watching his aunt. He needed to be calm for what he was going to do. He had to wait. Finally, Aunt Petunia sat down in a kitchen chair with a huff, her mittens covering her face. Harry quietly plodded towards her. When he reached her chair, he tugged very lightly on the short sleeve of her dress, keeping his eyes down on her opposite shoulder. Petunia looked at him.
"What do you want?" She said harshly. He didn't let it hurt him. She was scared, after all.
"You'll do perfect, Auntie Petunia," He said quietly. She gave him a bewildered stare.
"What?" Harry cleared his throat and said more clearly:
"What you're nervous about. You're worried it won't be enough, but it will. You always make everything perfect, you never settle for anything less. It's just who you are." Harry stopped himself there, afraid to talk much more. He lowered his eyes and bit his lip. Did he talk too much? He didn't want her to overlook his words, they were true after all, and when people talked too much other people tended to tune them out. Petunia cleared her throat and sat up straighter.
"Of course I do, silly mongerel," she said, the burn in her voice not as concentrated. "I settle for nothing less. I have no reason to worry or be nervous." She seemed to be peptalking to herself, and repeated those words under her breath. "I will not settle for anything less than perfect. Everything is perfect. Settle for nothing less." She nodded and stood, glaring down at Harry. "Speaking of less," she hissed. "What are you doing out of your cupboard? Clean up and stay there. Vernon is bringing important business guests and you will not be tolerated." Harry nodded, happy to have his aunt back to the way she was. Even if it hurt him a little.
Harry watched his teacher. Class was not to begin for another 10 minutes, but he did not have any friends besides Dudley, and Dudley only wanted to play games that ended with Harry being hurt. Harry had seen the Principal, Mr. Briggsby, talking with the teacher. He had seemed mad. He was pointing at Ms. Borne in a way that meant she was in trouble. He knew that very well, but he did not know that normal people got the finger too. She must be in big trouble. Finally, with one last huff, Mr. Briggsby had left, and Ms. Borne was left with her head in her hands, leaning sadly against the teacher's desk.
It reminded him so much of his Aunt Petunia. Ms. Borne was very lenient with them, and let the class color and talk all they wanted. Harry did not like it. He was used to learning. Aunt Petunia was always teaching him a new dish, new numbers, new words, new ways to sweep and mop the floor, how to detect things that other people never noticed. Maybe Mr. Briggsby had noticed the class's inactivity, and had scolded the teacher. Was this what Aunt Petunia was scared of? This scolding, that left his teacher looking so defeated. He bit his lip. He had helped his Aunt when she needed it, and Ms. Borne was much kinder than Aunt Petunia. He stepped in the room, and walked closer to the woman. She looked up as he was approaching and smiled at him kindly.
"Hello Mr. Potter."
He bowed his head, blushing. "Hello, Ms Borne." Her smile widened at the cute boy.
"What did you need, dear?" She asked. Harry was aways so quiet and isolated than the rest of the class. His eyes seemed much older than they were, and watched everything. It creeped her out a bit, but she would never outst a child because of her personal feelings. Harry stood up a little straighter and breathed deeply.
"Was Mr. Briggsby asking you to be stricter during classes?" He asked boldly. Ms. Borne blinked.
"I- What?" Harry deflated a little.
"Mr. Briggsby. I saw him in here scolding you a minute ago. I thought it was because you don't teach us anything in class. You only let us color and talk." He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "At home, Aunt Petunia is always teaching me new things." His voice got quieter, and his gaze flickered between her chin and her shoes. He looked down to his own shoes when he heard her laugh at him.
"Oh, Harry, dear," she said kindly. To his ears it sounded like what stepping in honey felt like. "That is what he was talking about, yes. He is going to send in another teacher to watch me oversee the class." She stepped closer, ruffling his hair. "You are very smart, and I'm glad that you're getting the boost in your education that your aunt feels you need. But I don't need a child like you to help me teach my class." The way she said the words were affectionate, and he felt that she truely meant them. It felt like she was screwing nails to the bottom of his jaw. "Speaking of, why don't you sit down? The rest of the kids are going to be coming in soon from recess." Harry turned and sat in his seat. The room was at a slight slant, and the seat he had claimed his gave him a way to see everyone in the class.
Soon the kids did come in, and after them came a stern looking woman. The Watcher sat in the corner, and Ms. Borne did not introduce her, but she was not the only one watching. Harry was watching both of them. He watched how Ms. Borne did as she usually did, and every time the Watcher wrote something down he watched her. She was expressionless, but he watched how she reacted with Ms. Borne. She did not write when Ms. Borne was aiding a student or looking at what a child was showing off, but her eyes tensed when Ms. Borne spoke with her hurting honey voice, or pat a child on the head that made them look down, or said something that seemed to make them shut their mouths with a click.
After three days, Ms. Borne did not come back. The Watcher introduced herself as Mrs. Lund. Mrs. Lund was a different teacher than Ms. Borne, and made them learn letters and numbers and write with smooth lines and stay in the lines when coloring and what certain shapes where what and how lines affected shapes. Many of the students complained, talking loudly about how awesome Ms. Borne was. None of them were louder than Dudley. Some of the students, however, were quiet. The ones with nails screwed into the bottom on their jaws. The girl at the back who no longer liked the color blue, because it was for boys. The boy who didn't like to draw anymore. Harry watched all of them, and his heart hurt.