"Harry always ruins everything," Dudley faux-wailed on the morning of his eleventh birthday.
Harry nodded at his shoes. The boy had a point, after all. He resigned himself to another day in Mrs Figg's house, flinching away from her kneazles and waiting for her to take a nap so that he could get at the good books on her shelves.
Fate, it seemed, had other ideas. "Arabella's ill, broke her leg," Vernon announced, slamming the phone down with more force than necessary. "Can't we leave him in his room? It's not like he notices us anyway."
This seemed extremely unfair, but Harry was used to things being unfair so he said nothing. He cut his squares of toast into triangles, then halved them again.
"Of course he'll notice," Aunt Petunia said. "Besides, we can't possibly leave him alone, anything could happen." She turned to her son then, giving him a Stern Look . "Take a deep breath and let's see if we can't make your day extra special, alright Dudders?"
Either the Stern Look or her words sufficed; a mollified Dudley wiped the faux-snot off his face. Peter had a new special teacher this year, and she'd promised to help him learn how to do a Stern Look, too. With any luck it'd give him the power to make Dudley back off so he could eat his breakfast in peace.
Thankfully the doorbell rang then, saving them from further debate.
Harry stacked his miniature toast triangles before slipping them into his pocket. They'd make a good snack for later.
xoxox
The zoo was loud, smelly, and sunny, causing sweat to itch unbearably against his skin. It was also full of animals, which was neat. Harry loved animals, though not as much as he loved stars. There weren't any bulls or wolves, but the reptile houses made up for it with spiders, scorpions and snakes. Reptile house was a bit of a misnomer—perhaps it was another metaphor?
While they walked through the loud crowds full of sweaty people and screaming children, Harry made sure to keep his eyes glued to the back of Aunt Petunia's shoes, trying very hard not to cause a scene. He pictured the procedure of removing his eyeballs and wondered if school glue would be strong enough to attach them to leather shoes. He'd been reading about van-der-waals forces in class the other day, and made a mental note to look up cohesion again later.
Later, when he got back to Privet Drive, or back to school, or just out of this zoo with its people, there were so many people, weren't zoos meant to be for animals? Harry wanted to go home.
This was Dudley's special day. Harry had promised to be good. He kneaded his arm and took deep breaths.
After lunch Petunia let him spend the rest of the day in the cool, dark reptile house with a stern command to Stay. Some days, Harry felt like he was the Dursleys' dog, except that he didn't shed or dig up the garden. He sat himself before a tank of colourful fish until Petunia picked him up at the end of their zoo trip.
When they finally got home she gave him an ice lolly and granted him a rare smile. "Thank you. I know that was hard for you."
Peter made his lips smile back and wondered if he could ask for a pet scorpion, just in case Orion and his hunting dogs ever came back.
xoxox
The click of the mail slot was audible even against the background of the Dursleys' incessant chewing. Harry was still sorting his foods by colour; he'd made sure to burn his bacon so that it coordinated better with the burnt toast.
"Get the mail, Dudley," Vernon ordered.
Harry followed the sounds easily. Every second step was punctuated by the rap of the Smelting stick against the wall, then the banister, and finally the door. Dudley was still chewing his mouthful of breakfast as he returned, dumping the letters on Vernon's lap.
"Bills, letter from Marge, a library notice for you boy, overdue again," the man leered at Harry, revealing a bit of bacon stuck between his teeth, then—
All three of them looked up. Vernon seemed to be turning an alarming shade of purple. Harry's special teachers didn't have Turning Purple on their list of faces he should study, though he had learnt about Vernon's various shades of red from experience. Harry had been proud of that fact, but now he was wondering if purple was the moment the man's heart gave out.
He knew the spell for restarting a heart but couldn't cast it without a wand. Was Harry supposed to know CPR? They'd had some paramedics teach a class at school once, but he'd been excused for special lessons again. (Look at me, Harry. If you do this maths worksheet you may read the latest National Geographic, there's an article about the Hubble in there. Look at me, Harry—)
"Out, get out," Vernon spluttered.
"Go play outside, boys," Petunia ordered.
Sighing, Harry got to his feet. He might as well go return his library books.
Things had settled down by the time he got back. Vernon was in his armchair on what looked to be his third glass of brandy. Dudley had his 8-bit video game on at full volume.
Petunia called Harry into the kitchen. "You've been accepted to a special school," she began.
That wasn't really surprising. Harry knew a lot of maths and science, even if he was terrible at communicating. He'd been going to special lessons since his first month of muggle school, so it only made sense they were sending him to the special version of Smeltings, or Stonewall High, or whatever. "I did well in the Eleven-plus tests," Harry explained. "They put me in a quiet, boring room." It had done marvels for his ability to concentrate on the papers before him.
"I'm sure you did," Petunia said, swallowing. She made them both a cup of tea, making sure the handle of his cup was facing him just right. "This is a different kind of special school. Your parents went there."
Harry looked at her then. Oh.
He would be eleven next week. His Hogwarts letter had arrived.
His throat felt dry. He sipped his tea. "Do I have to go there?" Not-not-McGonagall had promised to take him to the National Space Centre on a field trip.
"I suspect," Petunia said, pursing her lips, "that they're going to be very insistent. We'll ask, though. I've requested they send a teacher to explain...things."
Harry waited until he'd finished his cuppa for her to mention magic. "Alright," he decided when she didn't. "May I be excused?"
xoxox
Professor Flitwick arrived bright and early the day after, ear-hair longer and grayer but spirit not having lessened the faintest with age.
Harry could hear his aunt talking to the Charms master in the kitchen, saying things like Autism and Different and Struggles to Make Friends.
He wondered a bit at that; had she really been concerned about his ability to make friends? Maybe he should try harder. He gave her enough trouble as things were.
"You can come in now, Harry," Petunia said then. She didn't even raise her voice, as if she'd known he was eavesdropping.
She'd probably known he was eavesdropping, actually.
"This is Professor Flitwick, he teaches at Hogwarts."
Harry forced himself to look up. "How do you do."
Flitwick beamed back. Pleasantries accomplished, Harry let himself look at the tiles on the wall, counting them in groups of ten, then eight, then twelve. He still hadn't decided which base made for a better numbering system and was rather upset they'd tried teaching him only the one option.
"Are you listening, Harry?" Petunia interrupted.
The guilt must have been clear on his face. Harry hated the way everyone could always see his thoughts even without legilimency. He straightened, schooling himself to look Perfectly Polite. "Yes, sorry. Magic, Charms, Hogwarts. But what about Leicester?"
"What's in Leicester, then?"
They could hear Dudley's snickering from the hallway.
Petunia flushed. Harry liked Petunia's face, it was easy to read, too. "Dudley Hamish Dursley, I thought I'd raised you better than that!"
Footsteps stomped back up the stairs, though Harry could hear his cousin sneaking right back down again. "Can Dudley come in?" The good thing about the boy was his excellent ability to hold a conversation. When he wasn't acting jealous or pretending to be 'cool', he'd even talk to Harry, never minding that Harry needed a lot of extra time to find the right words for his responses.
Right now Flitwick was trying to carry this conversation with his enthusiasm alone, and that didn't seem fair.
On cue, Dudley burst in. "That museum's in Leicester, the fancy space one. Harry's wanted to go for ages." He turned to Flitwick. "Harry's obsessed with stars. He knows all the names and all the stories. He can tell you the science stuff too, but that's boring."
"Dudley," Petunia warned.
The boy stood at attention. "Dudley Dursley, Harry's cousin. Pleased to meet you Professor Flitwick sir." He sat.
Flitwick smiled. "I see you've raised two fine young gentlemen, Mrs. Dursley."
At this point Vernon would have said something about Dudley being a strapping young lad. This, too, was a metaphor, though completely unrelated to the Velcro straps on Harry's shoes. It seemed like everything Harry didn't understand turned out to be a metaphor, but not-not-McGonagall had promised he'd figure them out eventually.
Petunia softened with Flitwick's compliment. With any luck she'd even let Harry take a train over to Leicester.
"As I was saying," Flitwick continued, "it's very important that Harry learns to control his magic. It might get dangerous otherwise, especially when he gets emotional. You mustn't worry, Mrs Dursley, he's not the only special child at Hogwarts, and we'll look into getting him some extra help if you're sure he needs it. Now, how about a trip to Diagon Alley?"
Harry groaned. Diagon Alley was loud, colourful and very, very busy. He could feel the headache coming already.
Apparently, Petunia could too. "I'll do his shopping. Just the robes will need adjusting, yes? I'll take his measurements myself."
"He'll need to choose his own wand, Mrs. Dursley."
Harry thought of the wand sitting in the farthest corner of his room, resting under the loose floorboard next to a gaudy ring, and a cloak that felt like water spun to thread. Ollivander would be hard-pressed to find a wand more eager to be used than that one.
In a very un-flashy demonstration of magic, Flitwick cast a common measurement charm. And then they were off: Dudley to Piers' house, while Harry, Aunt Petunia and Flitwick embarked on their journey to the Leaky Cauldron the muggle way.
As much as Harry didn't want Vernon to be involved, this would have been so much easier in the man's car with its smooth leather upholstery.
The seats on the bus were entirely overgrown by bacteria, though Flitwick and Petunia seemed unbothered. The tube was even worse, sporting fabric older than both Harry's lives combined. The Leaky Cauldron wasn't any cleaner, but at least it was magical dirt. Somehow, that seemed a little less horrifying.
Harry was dropped off at Ollivander's—Stay, Aunt Petunia had again ordered firmly—so that she and Professor Flitwick could get his Hogwarts things.
"Harry Potter," Ollivander greeted, his voice seeming to whisper from the shadows.
Being left at Piers' house would have been preferable. Ollivander had terrified him when he was eleven the first time, and the man had gotten even creepier with age. At this point, it was unclear if the man was even fully human.
Of course, it was perfectly normal that Ollivander had been expecting him, but did he have to be so freakish about it?
And yet, the man was a notorious gossip. Seeing as he was likely to be Harry's only contact with wizardkind before September, Harry thought he might as well take advantage. The wand-maker had already rattled off descriptions of James' and Lily's wands.
"What about my parents' friends'?" Harry asked.
Alice, Remus, Marlene, and finally—
"Peter Pettigrew's tale is a tragic one, of course. They awarded him a posthumous Order of Merlin, for whatever good that might have done him. Chestnut and dragon heartstring, only nine inches, but he always was on the smaller side. Such a brave, brave soul."
There was something in Harry's throat stopping him from swallowing. It was suddenly very loud in the room, the dust making it difficult to breathe properly. What miraculous story had they bestowed upon him? It made no sense, they couldn't have known about him stepping in front of that car. The muggles had buried his body as John Doe and the only visitors his grave received were Harry and Petunia, every January.
"And Sirius?" he asked once he was sure he could get the words out without choking.
Ollivander's face closed. "He's rotting in Azkaban for his crimes, boy, don't you worry."
xoxox
Harry didn't remember the rest of the conversation. He'd been fitted with a wand, phoenix and holly. Petunia had come in at some point bearing a pouch full of Galleons to pay, then Flitwick had apparated them home: first Petunia, then Harry, then the trunk full of his shopping.
The trunk's soft sheep's leather made him think of Aries, who died for the prince. Harry ran his finger over the runes on the inside cover and wondered who had taken over Master Whittaker's shop.
His wand was promptly taken from him, 'lest he get himself in trouble,' but he got to keep the rest. Even the dust between the pages of his textbooks smelled of magic. It felt soothing, comfortable.
On Harry's wall a calendar counted down the days until September first. He was going back to Hogwarts.
He was going back to magic.
xoxox
By the time the day arrived Harry's trunk had somehow—as if enchanted—expanded its internal dimensions while shrinking to the size of a valise. There was even a hidden compartment worked into the lining so that the Hallows could come with him.
At this point Harry wasn't sure they'd let him leave them behind.
Petunia saw him off with a packed lunch and an uncomfortable kiss pressed to his hair. "Be good," she said. "Listen to your teachers." And as if as an afterthought, just before the barrier, "Promise me you'll try to make friends."
"I promise," Harry told her. He pushed through the brick wall.
The Express looked just like he remembered it. The platform was overrun with children, adults, and noise. Yet somehow it wasn't the bad kind of noise, it was noise like the rumble of trains and the sound of laundry snapping about in the wind. Harry carried his smaller-on-the-outside trunk up the steps and into the communal carriage.
When a boy called Draco came and introduced himself, Harry politely sent him on his way. He had tried making friends with a star last time.
This time around, he wanted something a bit more…grounded.
xoxox
Do we have a canon middle name for Dudley? I've been reading Sherlock fics lately, so calling him Hamish just tickled me.
Remember to check out my other stories, and head over to ao3 where I'm three chapters ahead with posting this.