Harry woke up early, when the light was only a weak dishwater seeping through the slit of his window and put his spectacles on more out of habit than anything else, as he could have navigated the small gaol of Privet Drive with his eyes closed.
Petunia took a strange amount of pride in not hiring domestic help, like most families in Surrey, although the neighbours had no way of knowing that Harry completed all the tasks. And so, garbed in his suspenders and Dudley's old, baggy trousers Harry scrubbed floors and dishes with carbolic soap – the choking smell lacing around his nostrils, and sinking into his skin, and Harry could imagine himself being buried still smelling of it – and served porridge and kippers just in time for the death knoll of Dudley's heavy pounding down the stairs.
Dudley was clothed smartly in a waistcoat and flat cap. Why, Harry had no idea, given he was simply going out to terrorise younger boys in alley ways, but it certainly delighted Petunia, who pinched Dudley's cheeks and cooed, "You look dashing Duddeykins.".
Harry snorted into his porridge. Vernon knocked him on the head with the newspaper, and Harry's eyes flared wide as a deer's before a shotgun at the headline: "Britain at War."
"Stop contorting your face like that." sneered Petunia, and then her eyes, too, caught sight of the headline and her hand trembled violently on its teacup, drops of brown liquid splattering on the white tablecloth. "Oh, oh." she said softly, her terrified eyes darting to Dudley, and then to Vernon.
Vernon, who seemed to usually hold the morning paper more for effect than anything else, finally caught on, and his ruddy face spread into a wide grin. "A war, ey! So those pansies in Parliament finally got round to it. Our Dudley will make a fine soldier. It's the making of a man, I tell you boy, why I remember the Boer War – "
"Oh Vernon, do shut up."
There was utter silence, except for the clinking of Dudley's spoon on the rim of his bowl, as he methodically shovelled porridge into his mouth. And then Dudley, who Harry wasn't entirely sure could read, at last caught on to what had been said, and spewed porridge across the table.
"A war!" roared Dudley excitedly, muscles bunching as though the Boche were in their dining room. "We'll kick those Germans up the – "
"Now really," said Petunia, who was flushed a peculiar puce colour that Harry had never seen. "this is not appropriate for the dinner table." And she said it with such uncharacteristic firmness that there was, indeed, silence. Harry pushed away his porridge, feeling quite sick.
That night, through the paper-thin walls of his bedroom, Harry could hear the hoots of owls, and creaks of floorboards, and at last the hushed argument of his Aunt and Uncle.
"I won't have it Vernon. Not while he's still a child."
"The boy's eighteen Pet – "
"Exactly. No. I won't hear of it."
"And what will the neighbours say?"
Petunia hesitated, and then said very softly, so quietly that Harry had to strain to hear, "We can send the other one. Yes, that will do it."
Vernon hmphed unhappily, then all went quiet. Harry's heart was thumping in his chest like a rabbit on the run. He wondered if that made him a coward.
Sleep came uneasily that night.
The medical examination to join the Territorial Force seemed especially daunting given Harry had never been to a doctor. He hopped up onto the padded table and removed his t-shirt as the Doctor, Slughorn, requested. A cursory eye ran over Harry's jutting ribs, and the mottled yellow bruising that twined its way between the bones like flowers. Harry almost hoped for a reaction, some gasp of disapproval, but the doctor's eyes were detached. He took Harry's height – five foot and five inches – and pressed a stethoscope against his chest, the metal so cold it almost stung.
'Approved' read the green stamp on Harry's forms, and that was that.
He put his hand on the cool leather cover of a King James Bible and recited an oath that rang hollow in his chest: 'I swear to faithfully defend His Majesty, His Heirs and successors…against all enemies.'.
Harry did not have many goodbyes to make. He went over to Mrs Figg's house, as the widower had always been kind to him. "Oh, you must stay for tea, Harry dear." Mostly because he could not figure how to refuse, Harry relented, and found himself chewing on a slice of fruit cake, and warily eyeing the clowder of cats that predatorily circled his feet in figures of eight.
And then, on the day of his departure, Vernon, Petunia and Dudley formed some strange procession on the lawn, awkwardness laying over them thickly, as they tried to figure out how to bid adieu to their unwanted nephew. "You show those Germans what for, eh." commanded Vernon, giving Harry a relatively friendly shove on the shoulder.
"Alright." agreed Harry. "I suppose that's it, then." he said, almost daring them to say anything more. Petunia gazed into his eyes rather intently, like she was looking for something, and her lips pursed then twitched, like some butterfly of speech was trapped in her mouth, trying to fly out.
But she turned and clipped her way inside, so Harry, feeling a little disheartened, donned his cap – the military uniform, at least, with its crisp lines a welcome surprise. Harry had never owned clothes of his own before, and he treasured the well-fitted ink green wool and brass buttons – and made his way to the train station. People cheered him on out of windows, and toasted him from tea shops, filling Harry with a little of the patriotic pride he'd been lacking.
Then he entered the station filled with sweethearts and soldiers and hopped on the train to the Downs. They chugged past lush green countryside and babbling brooks. Harry, who had never really left Privet Drive before, pressed his hands against the glass, mouth lolling open in wonder.
All too soon the train slowed, and they had arrived at Woodcote Park training camp. There were hundreds of tents pitched in the grass, and officers brought out of retirement trotting around on horses. Most were old, and very fat, their poor horses straining beneath their weight, but one officer stood out. He was young and trim with a slew of medals pinned to his uniform, topped by wild black eyes, and oiled black curls, and was sat astride a splendid large stallion.
"Oi!" called out someone else from the crowd. "Recruits 0 through 50 with Officer Rogers… the lucky lads from 190 through to 230 with Colonel Black." Harry, almost reflexively, checked his number 217, though it was burnt into his memory, and then made his way giddily to the Colonel, unable to believe his luck.
He recognised a few of the boys around him from school before the Dursleys had pulled him out – as soon as they could at 12 – but they made no move to greet him. Harry couldn't find it in him to care, not when Colonel Black began speaking. "Welcome boys, or should I say men, because you're all soldiers now. And that means plenty of courage, plenty of booze and the occasional woman – I'd say that makes you men!"
The crowd roared its approval, and the horse paraded back and forth before them, tossing its braided head.
"I've fought in the Boer wars, the Zanzibar war and crushed the Boxer rebellion, and you can bet I'll drag your asses through this war too."
His eyes, flitting through the crowd, glanced on Harry and then froze. Colonel Black went pale as curdled milk, staring wildly like he'd seen a ghost, and then he snapped back to attention.
"I'll see you at zero six hundred hours men, but for now – find your tents then enjoy a night of revelry."
Their platoon dispersed, suitably impressed, and Harry trailed at their feet a bit like a puppy, only to freeze at the feeling of a hand on his shoulder.
"Colonel Black." said Harry, still filled with awe.
The man flashed him a wild grin. "Just Sirius is fine.". He took a slight breath. "And what might your name be?"
"Harry Potter."
'Just Sirius'' eyes rolled up into his head, and he fainted off his house.
Harry despaired slightly for their platoon's chances.
Having dragged the surprisingly heavy man all the way to the sick bay, where the nurses were more than happy to tend to – 'that handsome Colonel Black' – as opposed to their normal arthritic patients, Harry hovered hesitantly. Soon, Sirius' eyes blinked open. "Warghh." he mumbled, lids drooping shut again and Harry fought a grin.
"No, the name's Harry. Harry Potter. I'm very sorry if I upset you in some way – "
Sirius' eyes snapped to attention, and he pushed himself upright in the small metal bed.
"Was your father by any chance James Potter?"
"Why yes, he was." said Harry eagerly, starving to know more. "You didn't know him by any chance, did you?"
"Know him." echoed Sirius wryly. "He was my best friend, more like a brother really. We met at Eton and got practically disowned around the same time – him for marrying your mother and I – well, that's a story for another time. We enlisted together and it was my sorry fault he was killed."