In the morning, Harry was telling Ron about the eerie encounter with Sirius Black, Ron listening raptly, when there was a swift knock on the door. Before either of them could answer it, it opened, admitting a slightly ruffled Hestia Jones.
They both made to stand up, but she waved Ron off, "Easy, Weasley, I just need to speak with Dursley, here, for a moment."
Harry felt his stomach drop. Was this something to do with last night? Ron gave him a concerned look, but Harry just forced a grin, got up, and followed the coach out.
…
Hestia ushered him into her office, closed the door, and fixed him with a look he couldn't quite decipher. They stared at each other until Harry broke her gaze to study his feet.
"Am I being fired?"
She started, then seemed to come back to herself. She smoothed down her quidditch robes, "No, nothing like that." She moved away from him to seat herself on her desk and gestured to the chair in front of it, "Have a seat."
"No thank you," Harry said politely.
She nodded distractedly, then, "I have some…upsetting news." She paused, seeming to gather herself, "My sister has…She has passed away."
Harry looked at her, nonplussed. "Gwenog?" he asked dully.
She dipped her head, "No—" Her voice cracked. "No," she said, clearing her throat. She looked up again to look him in the eye. Her eyes were glistening.
"No," Harry repeated, uncomprehending.
She stood up and went around to the back of her desk, bending to rifle through a stack of something. "Arabella was getting on in age, so I suppose it shouldn't have come as such shock, but still, I just wish— Well, she didn't have much, but she left you quite a bit, actually—"
"No," Harry said loudly, causing her to look up. What was she saying, she wasn't making any sense— "No. What are you—? She was barely fifty! I just— I saw her last month, she was perfectly fine—"
She looked at him pityingly, "The life-spans of squibs—"
"Don't call her that."
"Fine, the life-spans of people with… my sister's condition can be tragically short-lived, even by muggle standards."
Harry's limbs had gone numb.
Hestia straightened; she was holding a beautifully-crafted broom with a look of consternation on her face. She thrust it out to him and he took it mechanically.
The wood sang in his hands.
"It's a custom Firebolt," Hestia explained. "Arabella had several notes and ideas for modifications and she sent them to me; I had them sent to the broom-smith— it's tailored for you specifically. I think she was planning to give it to you on your birthday."
He turned the well-polished broom handle over in his hands, and just barely made out the name Harry engraved in stylized gold lettering on the end before the world blurred. He blinked, trying desperately not to let the tears spill over. The back of his neck felt hot.
He felt a hand tentatively close over his knuckles, before it withdrew. "I'm sorry. Rest assured, you'll always have a place here; I know the two of you were close—"
It was hot, stiflingly hot, but abruptly, Harry felt absolutely calm. "I know you the two of you weren't," he bit out, his voice acid. He looked up in time to see her recoil visibly, before she composed herself.
"Despite our… differences… I loved my sister—"
Harry felt completely out of his own body. He'd been mistaken— he wasn't calm, he was livid. His blood was boiling; he thought he might burst. Instead, he chuckled, and it was loud and harsh and angry and choked. "Well, you certainly put on a good show," he accused.
"Excuse me?" Hestia looked outraged; she'd obviously reached the end of her tolerance of him, but he didn't care. "I know you're upset, but I just lost my sister!"
"Oh yeah? Tell me, what's that like?" Harry bellowed. He could hear the windowpanes rattling, and in the back of his mind warning bells were going off, but he was too bent out of shape to understand or care or try to reel himself back in, "What's it like losing a sister? Having her turn her back on you, leave you behind to go somewhere you can—can never follow—?!"
Hestia looked at him like she'd been slapped. "It wasn't like that—"
But Harry ignored her. The pressure was building in his head and he thought he might explode—
The window exploded.
The glass shattered, and the drapes blew out into the room with the force of the sudden wind, papers flying everywhere, and it was like Harry had been doused with cold water.
He blinked, feeling small and stupid and mortified and very, very empty. He looked at the shattered glass, suddenly terrified, before turning his gaze to Hestia to gauge her reaction.
She was studying him with narrowed eyes. "I was under the impression that you were also a squib," she stated, her eyebrows raising.
"I am," Harry said automatically, before flushing at his obvious lie. He ran a hand through his hair nervously, and her eyebrows climbed even higher.
She took two steps towards him. "That's an interesting scar," she commented.
Harry's blood went cold. He turned to leave, in two strides making it as far as to touch the doorknob before—
"Colloportus!"
The door clicked solidly, and Harry knew it was locked, but he tried the knob anyway before slowly turning around, breathing hard.
She was still at her desk, looking as calm and collected as one could be amidst the disaster that her office currently was— papers and shattered glass scattered everywhere, drapes billowing, the floor-to-ceiling windows gaping open.
Ginny's face swam into his head, and he remembered her excitedly pointing to the Quidditch poster, "Nothing to show for it but a cut—though I reckoned it scarred—in the shape of a lightning bolt."
Don't tell anyone your last name, Arabella had said. But did that extend to her own sister?
Harry's feet were moving before he had even processed what was likely the stupidest idea he'd ever had. He broke into a run, not even checking Hestia's face for a reaction before he hurled himself out the open window.
He heard her strangled gasp behind him, and when he hit the cool air, a few screams from the girls outside, but he let himself fall for a scant, heady moment, the wind whipping in his streaming eyes, before he pulled the broom under him and rolled—swift and fluid— into a sharp right, rocketing off into the sky.
...
Harry spent most of his childhood in a cupboard under the Dursley's stairs. It wasn't until a dinner guest wondered why there was a lock on outside of their supply cupboard that they relocated him to the attic.
Harry liked the relocation, actually, because despite the dust and the cobwebs and all the wood shavings, it was much bigger than the cupboard and there were lots of boxes up there, filled with all sorts of interesting things. Opening each box was like a little adventure.
From these boxes he'd salvaged a broken little Mickey Mouse clock as well as several half-melted action figures, which he had arranged with care on his rickety little bedside table. There had also been several books— beautiful fairytales and storybooks about magical kingdoms that had been packed away and left to decay, forgotten, in the attic.
Harry treasured all of his little finds, but it wasn't until his tenth birthday that he finally opened the large, dusty trunk that was hidden away in the corner and uncovered the greatest of treasures. When he blew at the layer of dust on the lid, it scattered, revealing four letters stitched into the leather. Harry traced them reverently: L-I-L-Y. This was his mother's trunk. It was padlocked, but when he tentatively touched one of the heavy-duty locks, it clicked open under his touch.
He opened the trunk and found the most magical books of them all. He thumbed through one titled Hogwarts: A History, drinking in the exquisite illustrations and strange, beautiful words— he almost dropped the book when he first saw one of the pictures move— but the book that called to him was the next one: a worn, battered tome called Quidditch Through the Ages. He devoured that one in a single night, learned the strange rules of a strange, impossible game, played on flying broomsticks in the air, and drank in every single inked letter of the notes and diagrams scribbled in the margins. Was this his mother's handwriting?
Yes, he learned, when he retrieved another book from the trunk: a small, leather-bound diary, filled with a young Lily's thoughts— her surprise and joy upon learning she was a witch, learning that there was an entire world that nobody knew about, a world with magic wands and robes and goblins… There were descriptions of a magnificent castle, of strange, magical classes, and then, a fascination with flight, with broomsticks, and notes about this wonderful game called Quidditch, plays scribbled into the journal's pages and on the backs of scraps of homework assignments, and also… irritated musings about a boy called Potter, and then, later, about a wonderful man named James.
And then Harry found the broom. It was as old as the trunk; the twigs were weepy and the handle knotted and gnarled, but when he held it in his hands it hummed with energy, almost like a living thing. He had never felt more alive in his life, or more sure of who he was. He believed, then, without a doubt, that magic was real. His mother was magic, and his father. And he, Harry Potter, was magic. He wasn't a freak. He was special. And one day, the letter would come for him just as it came for his mother and he would join their world.
That night he snuck out and flew the broom around the neighborhood. He tried to take it slow at first, and keep low to the ground, but he found he couldn't help but push the limits. It wasn't until he was soaring far above the rooftops, laughing, that he felt, for the first time that he could remember, absolutely and utterly free.
He became an expert at sneaking out at night, tip-toeing out the door, broom in hand, when the Dursleys were snoring in their beds, and hurling himself at the sky.
One night the Dursleys were out on a weekend trip and Harry was home alone. It wasn't that late out, yet, but it was dark, and Harry was itching to try a maneuver he'd found in an old video in the trunk from what was apparently the 1966 Quidditch World Cup.
He executed the flip almost perfectly, but he was too low on the ground and he over-corrected trying to avoid a fence, and tumbled head-first into someone's bed of begonias. He looked up, dazed, only to meet the shocked eyes of Mrs. Figg, the strange, cat-loving widow who lived down the street. She'd reached to pull him to his feet, her face determined, and he'd been filled with the abrupt certainty that he was going to jail.
He would have never guessed that he'd actually found himself a coach.
She taught him how to fly, Arabella Figg did, taught him how to play. They trained hard, late into the night, and she worked out a deal with the Dursleys, even, asking to borrow him on certain days to help her with gardening and household chores, but really she'd be barking at him as he ran laps and did push-ups and practiced dodging bludgers and catching snitches.
Harry's letter did come, eventually. He was eleven, and he picked it up with the rest of the mail, but Uncle Vernon saw it, and before Harry even had a chance to read it, it'd been plucked from his hands and thrown in the fireplace.
Harry watched it burn, watched his dreams burn with it, and fervently held onto the hope that another letter would come—
It never did.
Maybe they only sent one, or maybe the Dursleys had somehow contacted the school and rejected the offer. They refused to tell him anything when he asked, demanded, and finally pleaded with them about it.
When he brought it up to Arabella, she confessed to him that she'd never received a letter either. She was what the wizarding world called a "Squib," meaning she had no magic. Consequently she'd been shunned by the entire wizarding world, and even her own family. That was why she lived in the muggle world, like Harry and the Dursleys.
Eventually, Harry gave up. He stopped asking about the letter, about Hogwarts. Somehow, he'd fallen through the cracks. He'd been forgotten, like Arabella.
His life stayed the same. He went to school, endured Dudley's torment, and put up with the neglect and abuse of his aunt and uncle. Weird things still happened around him— once, when Dudley steal someone's lunch, he inexplicably grew a pig's tail. He had to have it surgically removed!— but Harry was better at controlling it, now.
In school, they had an assignment where they had to write to pen-pals across the world. Harry's pen-pal was a bloke named Roonil Wazlib, from Egypt. He was a strange bloke. He didn't understand basic things like electricity or telephones, but his English was pretty good, even if he did say strange things sometimes and used very strange paper. Harry didn't know much about Egypt, but he guessed that it was probably very poor if they didn't even have electricity. But Roonil was nice, and Harry liked talking to him.
When he'd finally come to terms with the fact that he was not getting another Hogwarts letter, he'd wanted to quit Quidditch. He had blown up at Arabella and thrown his broom on the ground and accidentally smashed a lot of her bowls with his magic; he'd apologized to her for the broken bowls and then stormed off, telling her he'd never be back.
…He'd been at her door the next night, figurative hat in hand. Magic had forgotten him, but he couldn't forget magic, couldn't forget that freedom, that utter joy of flight, the absolute bliss of soaring through the night sky like a bird.
The pen-pal assignment was officially over, but they kept in touch. Harry gave Roonil Arabella's address, and she gave him Roonil's letters when he came over to train and posted his own letters for him.
They were his only friends: his pen pal and his Quidditch coach.
And so the years went.
Things got worse, at the Dursleys.
Harry was fifteen when Uncle Vernon lost his job. Aunt Petunia was constantly anxious and snappish; not even Dudley was spared her ire. But Uncle Vernon was the worst. He started drinking more, and since he was around the house more often, he saw more of Harry, and it was so very easy for him to direct his anger at Harry.
Harry's tactic was to keep his head down, but it wasn't easy. It was harder to find time to write to Roonil, and harder to sneak out to meet Arabella. And when he was at the house, it was impossible to do anything right. Uncle Vernon was looking for any reason to punish him.
Uncle Vernon certainly had a temper, but while before he would yell, scream, deprive him of meals, and sometimes push him around a little, he only rarely resorted to physical violence.
He was different now, though. Meaner, more dangerous. It was scary— Harry had no frame of reference for this new Uncle Vernon's limits, for what he would or wouldn't do.
He gave Harry a black eye, once, when Harry, exhausted from a late-night practice with Arabella, tripped and accidentally spilled Uncle Vernon's coffee all down the man's front while serving breakfast. Harry had frozen, terrified and suddenly alert, cup still in hand. Uncle Vernon had simply stood up, grabbed Harry by the collar of his shirt, and socked him.
It seemed inevitable when he was finally caught sneaking back in one night by an angry, purple-faced, and very drunk Vernon Dursley.
He remembered very little of it, later, only remembered being cursed at and spat at and slammed against the banister of the stairs, remembered meaty hands closing around his windpipe, squeezing, crushing, as he choked for air and scrabbled uselessly at the hands for release, remembered Aunt Petunia screeching from far off, and his whole body screaming and his vision going black, and Uncle Vernon's red, red face—
And then, suddenly, the hands released him, and Harry bent double, gasping for air, and Aunt Petunia screamed, and he looked down, and Uncle Vernon was lying on the ground, clutching his chest in pain, his face very, very red, and all three Durleys were staring at Harry in horror, like he was a monster—
Harry ran.
Ran all the way back to Arabella's house and nearly pounded her door down, sobbing, frightened terrified— Dear God, had he killed his uncle? –
And Arabella listened to his wheezy, snot-filled, incoherent story, eyes blazing as she looked at the bruises on his throat.
"I've been very selfish with you, Harry," She said, grabbing his face in her hands. "I saw you on that broom, saw your talent, and I wanted to be the one to make you into something great. I'm sorry. I should have let you go sooner. You didn't deserve this."
She wiped his tears with her hands, and then disappeared into the back room. She returned with his mother's ratty old broom, which she thrust into his hands, and a piece of paper with a name and address written on it. "My sister," she said, giving him the piece of paper, "Ask her for a job. Tell her I sent you."
Minutes later, they stood on the curb.
"Hold out your right arm," She told Harry.
He did, and moments later, a large, triple-decker, garish purple bus whooshed into existence in front of them so quickly that Harry stumbled backwards in surprise.
Arabella hugged him tight, and then held him away from her. "Don't tell anyone your last name, okay?" She demanded.
When he didn't respond, she shook him slightly until he nodded.
"Go get 'em, Harry," she whispered, and then pushed him towards the bus.
Hermione had finished the paperwork she'd needed to get done that morning and all that was left for her to do was to turn it in to her supervisor. She stacked the parchment neatly into a folder and grabbed her cloak and badge, casting a look around the bullpen at the empty cubicles— apparently none of the other interns had been crazy enough to come in on a Saturday.
It was a short walk to Bagman's office. She knocked, but there was no answer, so she dropped the stack of parchment in the box attached to the door before heading to the elevators and pressing the button for the first floor. She'd finished earlier than expected; maybe she could go surprise Ron at the stadium, she mused.
The elevator doors dinged open and she heard raised voices. She almost ignored it, was already turning to the fireplaces, when she recognized one of the voices.
"—please, you have listen to me!"
"You want to report what?"
Hermione walked closer to get a better view. It was an uncharacteristically quiet day, and only one witch was on duty at the front desk. Said witch was gawking at a harried-looking man in a familiarly shabby cloak. Hermione couldn't clearly see his face from her vantage point.
"Fraudulent impersonation!" The man said, splaying his hands against the desk, "Maybe kidnapping, too!"
"…Of Sirius Black," The woman stated, "Owner of the Wimbourne Wasps."
"Yes," The man confirmed, nodding his head urgently, "We have to search for him! And Harry—Oh God, Harry!"
"Harry who?" The witch asked, inspecting her fingernails and looking rather bored.
"Harry Potter!" The man burst out.
Something whirred in Hermione's brain. Why did that name ring a bell?
The witch let out a short, derisive laugh. "Of course," she said, looking up from her fingernails "Silly me. Who else would we be talking about?" She folded her hands, looking down at the distressed man. "So let me get this straight," she drawled, "Someone is impersonating Sirius Black and may possibly have kidnapped the Boy-Who-Lived, is that right?"
The man nodded.
"And on what grounds are you making these ridiculous claims?" The witch asked, sounding irritated.
"I— He— Sirius is my best friend!" The man said desperately, "I met with him the other day, and I swear—"
"You met with your 'best friend' Sirius Black the other day," She interjected skeptically. "Right," She pressed a button, "Security—"
"No, wait, please, just look into it— Sirius has custody of Harry; we have to make sure he's okay—"
The witch lifted her finger from the button. "You're saying Sirius Black has custody of Harry Potter," she dead-panned, "Why not you, since you're apparently so friendly with all of them?"
"I— I couldn't get custody, legally," The man bit out. He shifted, and Hermione could see his face at last; it was Professor Lupin!— "Because I— I'm a werewolf."
"Agh!" The witch screeched, slamming her hand down on the button immediately, "SECURITY!"
And that was when Hermione couldn't possibly not intervene. "That's enough," She declared, marching out from the shadows.
Lupin looked at her in surprise— "Hermione Granger?"
Hermione just waved her badge at the front desk witch and at the security wizard who had emerged and was glaring menacingly at the man— "I think I just witnessed a clear-cut case of discrimination on Ministry grounds by a Ministry employee due to an immutable characteristic. I believe that's a violation of the Decree of Reasonable Protections under the Wizards Afflicted by Dark Creatures Act, isn't that right, Runcorn?" She rounded on the hulking security wizard, who nodded uncertainly at her in answer, shifting on his large feet. "In any case," Hermione said, pivoting back to fix the witch at the front desk— her nametag read 'Donna'— with a superior look, "Mister Lupin is with me. Sorry about that, Professor," she beckoned to her former Defense professor with a kind smile, "We can talk in my office. Good Day, Doris." She turned, her cloak swishing, and heard Lupin's uncertain footsteps behind her.
A/N: Okay so tbh, I'm not 100% happy about how this turned out, but there you go. Let me know what y'all thought! J
Love and kisses,
OS
