The motorcycle rumbled down the street, tearing through the breeze like a knife through butter. As it gained speed, it began to rise, lifting from the ground into the air. The houses and cars grew smaller and smaller as the motorcycle shot toward the ceiling of cloud above.
The bike broke into the blissful silence of the heavens. A sea of clouds stretched indefinitely before it, and kind, glossy eyes gazed down from among the glittering stars.
The quiet, only infected by the exhaust of the bike, was deep enough that all other sounds were forgotten. There was nothing to worry about up in the sky, up in the solitude - nothing to hurt you, nothing to scare you…
But this time, it was different. The blanket of clouds was growing perpetually darker below, and a low, booming thunder was starting to disrupt the peaceful tranquility of the night, shaking the great cycle as it raced through the wind. Among the great bellowing, there was a second sound budding, a high-pitched but distant screaming. The kind of scream that erects the hairs on your neck. The sky had always been peaceful before… what was happening?
With a deafening crash, the delicate window of quiet was shattered completely, as if smashed by a great hammer of thunder. A green flash lit the night as lightning struck his forehead, and as the deafening thunderclap filled his ears, Harry awoke.
The panicked seven-year-old Harry Potter opened his eyes, his heart racing, and his forehead prickling uncomfortably. He reached up, stroking it, searching for whatever was causing the tickle, but his hands found only the lightning-shaped scar he had received as a baby.
As the tingling died, Harry slowly sat up, drawing shaky breaths. To say the nightmare had caught him off guard was an understatement. He had had the flying motorcycle dream before, and it was always a good dream. The clouds always stayed calm and quiet. Harry felt violated; like something personal had been stolen from him, but he couldn't figure out why.
Harry's arms shot over his head as another boom shook the walls and shook dust loose from the ceiling. A succession of smaller booms followed. Harry cowered, confused and tired, until the last boom rang out, paired with a creak.
Of course, Harry thought as he recovered, just the daily routine. His cousin, Dudley, liked to descend the stairs as loudly as possible every morning. While it meant Harry didn't require an alarm clock, being startled awake is never a good start to the day.
He looked around at the dismal cupboard where he slept; a tiny, dank storage room under the stairs. It was his only safe space beside being outside. To the Dursleys, Harry was a waste of space who didn't deserve his own room, so they stuck him under the stairs. He didn't mind for the most part, at least they were all too fat to get through the small door. Harry rubbed his tired eyes. Oh, how he wished he was still asleep.
Harry loved dreaming and sleeping; in his opinion, it was a fantastic way to pass time. It meant that he didn't have to listen to the Dursleys; he didn't have to do chores or cook or fear beatings. It was bliss - a perfectly quiet and peaceful escape to the clouds. It didn't take long for Harry to discover that he preferred unconsciousness to what awaited him in his waking hours, such as being Dudley's punching bag or Petunia's little housekeeper.
For this reason, Harry frequently attempted to pass the day by napping. Dudley, however, found it extremely amusing to jump up and down above his little cupboard while he was in it, so these attempts would often leave him curled in a ball on his bed staring at the damp, yellowing walls that enclosed him as dust rained down on him from above.
Harry grabbed his glasses and, wiping the dusty lenses with his filthy shirt, got out of bed. He stretched and yawned, savoring the feeling as blood poured into his muscles and dusty air filled his lungs. He didn't bother changing, the few other articles of clothing he possessed were just as unclean if not more so, because his aunt only did his laundry once a month.
For Harry, the most difficult part of every day was mentally preparing himself for it. He tried not to think about the chores or the hours of unjustified treatment he would receive and instead forced himself to leave his little cabinet.
It would be worse if he didn't, Harry recalled vividly, remembering one morning when made the mistake of ignoring his uncle. Vernon, after nearly an hour of yelling, had opened the door, unceremoniously threw a cereal box and water bottle through the opening, and then locked the door for an entire week.
Harry had no desire of being locked up again, so he stood up, and with a deep breath, opened the door and hurried to the kitchen to begin making breakfast. As Harry entered, his uncle glared at him over his newspaper.
"It's about time, you little runt!" he snarled. "We're starving over here, so get cooking." Harry wondered how his Uncle could possibly claim that he was starving after eating three burgers for dinner the night before. If he was on my diet, Harry thought morbidly, he wouldn't last a single day.
Vernon took an angry sip of coffee and slammed it back onto the table, spattering the table with its contents. "Clean this up." he finished, gesturing towards the table. Vernon shifted his gaze back to his newspaper but continued to grumble mild insults under his breath, his mustache bristling with anger. Harry didn't try to understand why his presence invoked such viscerally negative responses in his family, he just accepted it.
"Yes, Uncle Vernon," Harry responded lazily. Over time he had learned to keep his temper in check: no matter how much he hated or disagreed with his uncle, and no matter the injustice, disrespect and defiance would only end in a belting. Pain is an effective teacher (albeit cruel), and his family took advantage of it quite often.
Harry carefully finished making breakfast for his three relatives: three sunny eggs and bacon for Vernon, a large bowl of sugary cereal for Dudley, and a small salad for Petunia. After delivering their dishes, Harry returned eagerly to the kitchen. He was famished and wanted to make himself something before the hours of chores that laid ahead of him. Unfortunately for Harry, his aunt was a bloodhound of happiness. She could smell and eliminate even the smallest bit of joy with unbelievable haste and ease. When she turned to him with a familiar expression of sour disgust, Harry's hopes for a meal disappeared.
"Now where do you think you're going, you ungrateful little arse?" She scathed. "How many times do I have to bloody tell you? Garden – before – food!" She punctuated every word by pelting him with a cherry tomato. The garden, which Petunia liked to claim as hers, was massive. It was late July, so it was full to the brim with veggies that needed harvesting and flowers that needed pruning.
Suppressing a groan, he replied his obligatory, "Yes, Aunt Petunia," before hastily scooping up the tiny fruits that lay at his feet and moving to the backyard.
~~~~H~P~~~~
The hours dragged by, and Harry continued to clip, cut, and dig his way down the rows of plants. Dirt was caked on his clothes and under his fingernails.
It was late noon when he finally set down his garden spade and laid back on the grass, feeling the soreness leave his body as he stretched. His stomach, which he had been constantly subduing with promises of lunch, growled at him, and the sun blazed above him in the middle of the clear sky. It was a beautiful day; he could hear birds chirping in the neighboring trees and wind rustling in the leaves. The weather, it seemed, was finally taking pity on him: he would no longer be contained within the cursed walls of #4, Privet Drive.
Perhaps he would visit Mrs. Figg today, who was always kind to him. She sometimes even seemed to enjoy his company, even if she looked upon him with sad eyes. Harry figured it was part of being an old woman, stuck living alone with her cats. Such strange cats, he thought. They were friendly, yes... but he couldn't shake the feeling that they could understand him.
Harry found his thoughts wandering to his parents, whom he knew nothing about. He didn't know what they looked like, what they did, their names… only that they died in a car crash, and he survived with a scar on his forehead.
It wasn't his only scar, of course - the belt always left marks. The welts, cuts, and bruises were scattered like angry red fissures across his back, shoulders, and chest. He hardly ever deserved the beatings he received; they just seemed to be the cruel way that his family let out all of their frustration. Harry had even heard his aunt and uncle talking one night – apparently, their marriage had been repaired by the new method of stress relief.
This is why, in a strange, horrible way, they enjoyed Harry's presence. Telling him otherwise was simply another way for them to shit on his emotional wellbeing – hence restoring their own. Harry was sure that if they truly hated him being there, they would have gotten rid of him. Why wouldn't they?
He dismissed the subject, and with a final stretch and yawn, Harry stood up, excited for lunch. He made his way inside and had just started preparing some food for himself when the Dursley Joy Bloodhound smelled excitement once again. She practically bounded into the room eyes glowing with rage as she gazed at him.
"MUDDY LITTLE ARSEHOLE!" she cried. Harry froze, looking down in horror at filthy pants and shoes. A path of his footprints stretched away from him toward the back door. How could I have forgotten? He asked himself incredulously. Aunt Petunia's fiery stare traced the path from the door to Harry's shoes and up his filthy pants, finally coming to rest directly on Harry's eyes.
Harry could hear his heart beating as he stared in terror at the woman in front of him. He was frozen with fear: he knew what was coming, and the scariest part was that it hadn't happened yet. To his confusion, Petunia dropped her gaze, turned around, and left the room. Harry didn't move, but instead stared dumbly at the opening, trying to process what had just happened. Had he gotten away with it?
But Harry's confusion was short-lived, she quickly returned with a look of pure hatred on her face, wielding Vernon's walking stick like a sword. He didn't even have time to open his mouth before she grabbed him by the hair and dragged him into the backyard, throwing him to the ground in the mud.
"You want to be a pig, do you?" The walking stick cracked against his back with terrible force. "You want to roll around in the mud, and drag it back into the house for me to clean up?" Two more loud cracks drew tears from Harry's eyes as he thrashed around in the mud, trying to protect himself with his arms. He had learned to expect the belt, which stung but never went deeper than the skin. The walking stick was different… It was harder, more unforgiving, and it had a nasty little metal piece on the end.
"So ungrateful," came her wicked voice, lashing against his mind in rhythm with the stick against his back. Harry tried crawling away as the stick once again split across his shoulders. "We take you in after your freaks of parents got themselves killed, we feed you and clothe you and shelter you with the warmth of our hearts, and this is what you do?"
Petunia, apparently overcome with rage at her last statement, released an endless barrage of smacks against Harry, causing him to scream in pain. He clawed at the ground, trying to get away and pleading to his aunt to stop.
The pain was overwhelming; not even his Uncle had beaten him this badly. Harry tried to call for help, but only a strangled hiss escaped his throat. His back was wet with blood; he could feel it seeping into his shirt and down his sides. Harry curled into a ball and cowered, waiting for it to end as he sobbed to himself.
Suddenly, Petunia released a high-pitched screech. She hastily dropped the stick and raced to the house.
Harry slowly opened his eyes and looked around him finding that he was surrounded by small brown grass snakes. They were making no movements, save breathing; they were just staring at Harry as he slowly rose to his feet. He eyed them curiously – he felt no fear – in fact, he felt the strange obligation to thank them.
The strange distraction had dulled the pain momentarily, but it was now returning in full force. Harry knew he needed help, and there was only one place he would find it.
~~~~H~P~~~~
Harry arrived, gasping and stumbling, on the doorstep of #9, Wisteria Walk. Tears were still streaming from his eyes. He still didn't understand why she had beaten him so badly this time.
He needed help now - he hoped to the heavens that Mrs. Figg was home. His arm felt impossibly heavy as he lifted his fist to the door.
Two knocks were all that his remaining strength allowed before his arm dropped back to his side. He clenched his jaw and shut his eyes tight, trying to block out the pain as he heard Mrs. Figg's steps growing closer. With a hollow clank, the door opened before him.
"Harry! Thank goodness you're alright! One more minute and I would've come and got you myself." She gestured for him to come inside. "Please, dear, we have to get you cleaned up."
Harry followed her inside, thinking to himself. The house was just as it had always been: floral pattern furniture, lots of cats, and a strange cabbage-like smell. He was – for good reason – very confused. "You knew I was coming?" He inquired in a broken voice.
"Well, I was very much hoping so. I didn't need the cats to tell me you were in trouble, I reckon the entire neighborhood knows."
"Your cats?"
She ignored the question. "All in good time, dear, we really need to get you cleaned up." She hurried up the stairs, and Harry heard the water heater kick on.
Before following her up the stairs, Harry noticed several pairs of glowing eyes staring at him from around the living room. What had Mrs. Figg said? They told her something? Shooting pain across his shoulders distracted him, causing his breath to come in short, rasping gulps. He dragged his heavy legs up the stairs.
The bathroom was the only open door, resting at the far end of the upstairs hall. The walls were adorned with photos of peculiar men and women wearing oversized robes and holding what appeared to be thin sticks. He barely noticed them.
Making his way down the hall, he found Mrs. Figg waiting for him in the bathroom filling the bath with warm water and soaps. She turned to him with concerned eyes, and patting the edge of the tub, said, "Alright, Harry, take a seat here and we'll get that bloody shirt off."
He quietly sat down, looking around him. The bathroom was perfectly ordinary save the strange-looking pouch that Mrs. Figg was extracting from a drawer beneath the sink. It was roughly the same size and shape as a first aid kit, but instead of being red with a white cross, it was black with a curious gold inlay of a steaming pot.
Harry and Mrs. Figg started meticulously removing his shirt, trying to be as slow as possible. Harry flinched and winced every time the fabric touched his skin, and he was straining to keep tears from falling as they finally lifted the shirt over his head. The fresh air on his open wounds invoked a wave of smarting pain, causing Harry to nearly pass out.
"Can you turn around for me, deary?" Mrs. Figg requested as she steadied him. "I need to see how bad it is."
Harry slowly turned around, moving with careful precision as to not disturb his injuries. He had no idea what his back looked like, but he could feel how tense Mrs. Figg was behind him as she observed it. She silently evaluated the cuts and bruises for an entire minute before finding her voice again.
"Merlin's beard, Harry," she whispered incredulously. He turned; she was piercing him with knowing eyes. "Harry," She continued softly, "Can you tell me what happened?" He faltered under her gaze, again turning away.
"I can't tell you," he responded in a shattered voice. If the Dursleys found out, they would never let him leave the house again. He would lose everything good about his life; it would just be chores and beatings and cooking and weeding…
"Harry," she implored. "You can trust me. I've never lied to you. I'm asking because I want you to stay safe, and we can't have this happen again. It's serious."
"I can't, they'll lock me up again!"
"Who will?"
"Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon! If I told anyone and they found out…" His voice broke. "Please, Mrs. Figg, please don't tell them I came here." More tears leaked from his eyes, but no longer from pain.
"Don't worry, Harry, I won't. I need you to drink this medicine, it will help with the pain." she reached into the black bag, pulling out a small vial of blood-red liquid. "I'm going to put something on your cuts as well, it's called Essence of Dittany. It'll sting at first, but I'm sure it's nothing worse than what you're already feeling."
Harry gulped down the foreign remedy, puckering his lips unpleasantly; it tasted like vaguely metallic cough syrup. The poor flavor was made up for with a numbing sensation covering his back. Mrs. Figg began applying the Dittany, which made a low sizzling sound as it sealed his wounds.
Several minutes passed in silence as Mrs. Figg made her way through all his cuts and gashes. When she finally seemed satisfied, she announced, "I didn't fancy showing the open wounds, but I reckon you can look at it now." Harry rose, making his way over to the sink. He slowly turned his body around, keeping his head tilted so he could see the mirror.
A rainbow of bruises was displayed dramatically across his shoulder blades, and angry red gashes stood out vividly against his pale skin like craters and canyons. His back resembled a battlefield as much as it represented one: his battle of injustice against his forced family. He reached around, running his hands over the rough skin. He knew in his heart that the scars would never leave. They went deeper than his skin, to his very soul, as did the hatred that put them there. No seven-year-old should have battle scars.
He stared for a long time, his thoughts wandering to the Dursleys. Why did they hate him so goddamn much? Harry thought it similar to a school bully. If you start going to school with a bully, and they always treat you like shit, you just assume that they are always like that. You never question why.
Harry's entire life fit into that metaphor. Harry never had a loving family, at least that he can remember. He was raised by people who treated him like dirt, less than dirt, so he had never thought it strange. Now Harry realized that it didn't make sense… he was more well-behaved than Dudley, he did more chores than the entire family combined, and yet he was still an outcast. They still hate me.
Harry tried as hard as he could to think of a single person that loved him. His parents were his first thought, but they couldn't exactly love anymore. His second thought was Mrs. Figg, who he thought he knew well, but remembering the pictures in the hallway, Harry realized he didn't know her at all. The Dursleys did not once enter his mind during these notions, and Harry finally concluded that there wasn't anyone. Not a single person loved him. He was alone.
So why am I here? Why do I get up every day? He couldn't answer his own simple questions. There was simply no reason – every waking hour was just serving his family that despised him. Harry was so emotionally deprived of happiness that the smallest things could excite him: a pretty flower, an extra bite of food, an extra ten minutes of sleep. He now realized, however, that he was not feeling joy, he was feeling relief.
A cruel, twisted relief it was – making him feel better about his horrible situation when nothing had changed for the better. His own mind was tricking him into thinking that he was okay when nothing actually was. Harry had to face the truth: that he wasn't special, he wasn't loved, and he wasn't welcome.
When he finally turned his gaze on Mrs. Figg, tears threatened to fall from his eyes. Why had he bothered this poor woman with his problems? She didn't want him here. He was wasting her time. He responded in a voice like glass shards.
"Th-thanks, Mrs. Figg. I really think I sh-should be getting back now..."
"Don't be daft, Harry," she looked at him sympathetically. "They'll still be in a foul mood if you go back now, I think it best if you stay here for a bit." The sympathy was clouded by analysis before the fog cleared into resolve. "Let's go downstairs, you can get comfortable on the couch until it gets dark."
"I really don't want to bother you, Mrs. Figg- "
"Nonsense, boy. I enjoy your company."
Harry, feeling that familiar joy that he loathed so dearly, consented. Mrs. Figg collected a shirt for him from her bedroom, "One of my husband's", as she reported. Harry remembered seeing a man in some of the portraits; he had a warm, friendly smile and eyes filled with content. He sadly wondered what had happened.
The shirt was much too big for him, but it covered all his scars (save the one) and was the same size as the clothes he got from Dudley anyway. He soon found himself, not for the first time, wrapped up in a blanket adjacent to Mrs. Figg on her couch. She folded her hands in her lap and turned to him, a slight smile on her face.
"I'm sure you'd rather watch the tele than listen to an old woman's ramblings but hear me out. I think you'll find this quite interesting, anyway." Harry had not expected this, so he gave her his full attention. Her expression turned serious. "You remember what I said earlier, right? About how you can trust me."
He looked at her quizzically before responding, "Yes, ma'am."
"So, you promise to believe what I tell you, no matter how crazy it sounds?"
Harry was now quite intrigued, and the faux joy drove an eager confirmation through his lips.
"You must promise me one more thing, Harry." She leaned forward toward him and whispered, "You mustn't tell anyone what I tell you, especially your aunt and uncle."
His intrigue was increased tenfold by this demand – his previous self-deprecatory thoughts were masked behind anticipation. "Yes, I promise!"
She looked at him silently for a time. "Do you remember your parents?" she finally asked.
"No, they died in a car crash when I was a baby. That's how I got this scar." He gestured toward his forehead.
"Is that so?" The quizzical expression returned to his face, and he carefully chose his reply.
"That's… what Aunt Petunia told me."
"Interesting – yes, that would work, I suppose." Harry had no idea what she was talking about. "I knew your parents, Harry, did you know that?"
Harry was flabbergasted. "What – no! You knew them? H-how?"
"We worked together. For all too short a time, I should say. They deserved a long and peaceful life if anyone ever did."
"You mean before the crash?"
"No car crash killed Lily and James. No, no, no, they were murdered."
"What? Lily and Ja…? B-but – but who would do that?"
"I'm afraid you'll need to understand some other things first." She looked at him as if squaring him up, before continuing, "You're a wizard, Harry."
"I'm a what?"
"A wizard, and so were your parents."
He took a deep breath. Don't get excited, Harry, he told himself. Wizards are just fairy tales. She is pulling your leg. It's part of the story. You aren't special.
But part of him wished she was telling the truth, no matter how preposterous. It meant he was more than the Dursleys liked to tell him. He would no longer be the dregs at the bottom of their teacups; he'd be a wizard.
He decided to divulge in the fantasy, even if it was just part of the tale: the very prospect of magic was exhilarating. She had never lied to him, after all.
"So, what, I can use magic? Like in the movies? And my parents could too?" Harry asked feverishly.
"Yes, and I'm quite sure you already have," she replied knowingly, smiling at him. "Can you remember anything happening that you couldn't explain, perhaps when you were angry or scared?"
"Er, no, I-" He paused. Come to think of it, some strange things had happened in the past when Dudley's gang was chasing him. He remembered one specifically, just the year before. Dudley cornered him in the courtyard at school, and Harry had somehow found himself on the roof of the building he had been adjacent to. He looked curiously at Mrs. Figg. There were also the snakes earlier that day, and how they had nipped at Petunia's ankles but just stared at Harry and did nothing. That didn't mean it was magic, of course, perhaps those snakes are just weird. Mrs. Figg continued to gaze at him with a look of smug satisfaction.
"See? The same thing happened to my siblings when they were your age. They'd wake up different colored bedsheets or make random shit float when they were angry. Scared the hell out of us the first few times, but we got used to it fast." The memory was apparently an amusing one, for she laughed out loud, the sudden noise making Harry flinch considerably. She quickly stopped laughing, a grave expression filling her features. She must've thought that the vulgarity alarmed him, because she continued in a calmer voice.
"Sorry about the language, Harry, but if I'm not mistaken, my 'sentence enhancers' are quite tame in contrast to your Aunt and Uncle."
Harry chose not to address this; he had practically told Mrs. Figg about the beating already. He didn't want to dig a deeper hole for himself, because he had to return to the Dursleys eventually. Or do I? He began to think. Can't I just use magic to get away?
"You know magic, right? Can't I just live with you?" Harry blurted.
"Unfortunately, no," she said with another sympathetic look. "I actually can't use magic. I'm a squib, which means I had magical parents, but I can't use it - that's not what's important though. The Dursley's house is your home. It provides more protection than just walls if I'm understanding Dumbledore correctly."
"Dumbledore?"
"Yes, Dumbledore is probably the most well-known wizard of the century, after You-Know-Who - or rather, You-Don't-Know-Who, because I haven't gotten there yet." She smiled at her own joke. "Anyway, he is the headmaster of Hogwarts, which is where you will be going to school in a few years."
"I'll be going to a magical school?" He asked incredulously, practically vibrating with happiness.
"Indeed, you will, with hundreds of other witches and wizards like yourself."
Harry was ecstatic, for he had just realized the most exciting factor, "And I get to leave the Dursleys?"
"Yes… yes you do," she said with a small frown. "Now, Harry, please suppress your further questions, I'm sure many will be answered as I explain. Let your parents' fate not be lost in the excitement of magic's wonders." She finished dramatically with a faux flourish of her hands. She got up and walked to the kitchen to fetch tea, speaking as she went. "Just like Muggles, who are completely non-magical folk, wizard kind has its own conflicts.
"To start, you need to know about the aforementioned 'You-Don't-Know-Who. A decade ago, a very powerful wizard rose from the shadows. His name was Voldemort." She shivered. "Dumbledore says, 'fear of the name increases fear of the thing itself', but I still don't like to say the name, and most others agree. We instead call him You-Know-Who, or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named." She returned to the couch, placing a tea tray on the low table and pouring a cup for each of them.
"He is the one who murdered your parents. I will spare you the details," -She waved her hand dismissively- "but when he tried to kill you, he was defeated somehow. Nobody knows how, I suspect Dumbledore doesn't even know. The Dark Lord disappeared, and you were left parentless with the scar on your forehead." As he tried in vain to process the barrage of new information, Harry's mind provided a single query: Why did he try to kill me? He was just a baby after all.
"Dumbledore, who oversaw your protection after your parents' death, did not want any of this information divulged to you. I fancy calling myself a rather clever old woman, Harry, but I am not nearly as wise as Dumbledore, therefore it was very hard for me to disobey his direct orders.
"Harry," she looked at him with pleading eyes. "Please forgive me. I haven't protected you well enough. I want to make up for it, and the only way I can think of is by preparing you for your future as much as I can.
"You are no normal wizard, Harry. Your collective fate with the Dark Lord was sealed from birth. You, my boy, are prophesied."
The tea lay cold and forgotten.