Chapter Two: The (Quite Questionable) Letter
"Boy! Get the post, now!" barked Uncle Vernon to a now ten-year old Harry Potter.
"Yes, sir." complied Harry, flinching ever so slightly at the sound of his voice; not that he'd let Uncle Vernon see him do so, as it would surely result in the harsh buckle of a belt.
Placing the toast and bacon he had just finished making in the centre of the dining table for three, the scrawny boy headed towards the front door to pick up the mail that had been deposited at the bottom of the door. Crouching down, his black hair falling slightly into his eyes, Harry retrieved the post, flicking through it idly. Votings Polls, a bank statement for Vernon Dursley, a letter for-for…
Harry let in a sharp intake of breath as he held a thick, yellowed envelope addressed to him. Him! Mr. , Number Four Privet Drive, The Cupboard Under The Stairs, read the envelope in emerald green ink and fancy calligraphy. He was shocked and confused, blinking to make sure he wasn't imagining it, but it was his name, yes, but…The Cupboard Under The Stairs? How the bloody hell-
"BOY!" bellowed his Uncle, and in a split second decision, Harry stuffed the letter inside the overly large t-shirt he wore. "I'll not have any more of your insolence!" Which meant that he was getting the cane out. Great, he must've been really impatient this morning then. The scrawny boy darted into the kitchen, lowering his gaze as he muttered, "Sorry, Sir!" as he lay the remaining post atop the table. This, however, seemed to aggravate the massive man even more, if that were possible. Vernon exploded, his face turning purple in rage, "Now, listen here you insolent freak!..."
And as his Uncle brought the cane down on him countless times, bruising his bones as Harry curled into a fetal position, silent tears of pain falling down his gaunt face, whilst his Uncle listed his many faults, his cousin simultaneously eating his third breakfast, guffawing at him in sheer delight, and his aunts eyes gleaming in wicked approval...Inside, Harry felt victorious as he felt the thick letter press into him, because he knew that there would be something life changing in it, and that the Dursleys didn't know he had it, and he was going against them yet again.
Of course, that didn't stop the pain, the red hot pain that made him shake all over and wish he were simply not there, it didn't, but something else burned brighter- a flame of hope that ignited in his chest and told him that things were going to get better.
iii
For all his curiosity, Harry had somehow managed to get through the day without just ripping the letter open, Durseys or no. Obviously, that was a death wish, and so the boy (still in pain from earlier, as he knew his Aunt would get suspicious if he were suddenly cured) somehow managed to drift through his chores, weeding the garden and cooking roast chicken (Aunt Petunia's "Wonderful Duddikins" favourite!) of which, of course he got none of, unless you counted the offer to gnaw on the bones like the "fucking mutt he was," which Harry, for obvious reasons, didn't. But finally, finally Harry was subjected to the retreat to his cupboard, which Petunia was locking him in for crimes he wasn't paying attention to, only nodding gravely or apologising where it felt appropriate.
Aptly, Harry listened for the tell-tale creaks that told him that his Aunt and Uncle had definitely turned in for the night, and once he could confirm they were sleeping from the thunderous snoring that he was frankly surprised none of the neighbours had complained about yet, he cautiously removed the letter from where it had been pressed to his stomach with shaking hands.
Decidedly, he placed the letter next to him whilst he crouched for a moment, relieving himself from the pain he had felt all day. Harry could have cried, and he did, indeed, release a few tears, at the relief he felt as the bruises faded away slightly and it didn't hurt so much to simply breathe. Blinking away excess water in his eyes, he willed for a small ball of light to appear above him, grinning slightly as it did. It was so pretty! One of the few private joys he had left.
He shivered slightly, as he wished for the room to become warmer. Feeling wholly comfortable and only marginally tired after expending his abilities, due to all his practice, Harry reached for the letter, breath catching slightly as he read the words on the envelope that had been on the forefront of his mind all day.
Trembling, he ever-so-carefully broke the old fashioned red wax seal that was on the equally old fashioned papyrus-like paper.
Excitedly, Harry started to read the first of the two letters that had been included.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the first line read.
Hogawhat? Hog...warts? Witchcraft and Wizardry? Was that what he could do...but didn't wizards use wands? Head spinning in sheer bafflement and questions filling his head, Harry carried on reading, his eyebrows furrowed in thought.
Headmaster; Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress
Oh. Well, this induced way more answers than questions. It could all be some sort of elaborate joke, but, of course Petunia and Vernon Dursley were not the sort to joke, and especially not with the likes of him. Dudley...No, Dudley certainly was not smart enough to come up with this, and even if he did the words were way too advanced to have been accumulated from his cousins highly lacking vocabulary, which consisted mainly of grunts and the singular pronoun "I", not to mention that Harry could recognise Dudley's handwriting, and he knew for a fact that his cousin didn't own such a fancy pen, green!, at that, nor did he have such weird paper.
But, the letter being real didn't make any sense either...did it? He hadn't had his name registered for such a school; his aunt had made it abundantly clear he was to attend Stonewall High, the local comprehensive, and had reiterated many, many times how lucky he was that she was going out of her way to dye his clothes the correct colour, for which he was expectedly grateful.
Yet, the "Wizarding" part implied that whoever this was knew of his abilities, which he was certain that he'd hid rather well, if you'd ignore certain slip ups, which Harry certainly did not make again after a few broken arms and was the night of the twenty-ninth of June, which meant he had two more days to reply to the letter, which coincided with the date of his birthday.
The whole thing was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous, and all the made up words such as "Mugwump" made Harry's head hurt...Why was being described as such a word seemingly a revered position? And owl? Why would they...whoever they were, be awaiting his owl? Maybe it was a code word or something? But why bother using such codes if no one had informed him beforehand of what they meant?
It couldn't be a simple mistake of giving it to the wrong person, certainly not, since it had his name on it twice, once on the envelope, the other the letter. And then there was the fact that it had been addressed to the occupant of the cupboard underneath the stairs, and there was no way in hell that any of the Dursleys (apart from Dudley, who could have flaunted it whilst gloating, but Harry had already overruled Dudleys participation in any of this) had disclosed any part of his living environment, and there was no way in hell Harry had.
Oh, he'd tried, alright. When Vernon had broken three (or from what he could tell) of his ribs when he'd tried to sneak some food from the fridge at night after he'd only been able to chew at some mint leaves and some water from the garden hose for the whole week. He'd read in a book about how a girl who was getting similar (though less harsh) treatment to him had gone to a teacher and it had all gotten better.
Stupidly, blindly, Harry had gotten hopeful. Gathering up all his courage, he went to his Year Four teacher, where he had confessed all about the cupboard, that starvation, even the beatings.
The teacher, Miss Bales, had never liked him, granted, but he'd read that teachers were supposed to be impartial. Of course, what the books (which he now decided to use as a crutch for his own observations, instead of trusting them without further fact checking) had failed to mention was that impartial didn't mean much in the face of pure scepticism, distrust and something akin to actual hatred(?) (just what, exactly, had Petunia told all the staff? He was nine years old and a seemingly mediocre and mostly quite student, for God's sake, how could he elicit such emotions?), and that, when faced with such accusations, their resolution was to actually inquire with said people who were being accused.
Needless to say, the couple had reigned in their temper and had, in a few well placed simpering comments and remarks, had given a seemingly standard lecture of:
"Poor Harry has never been the same after his parents were killed in that car crash. We've tried all we could, but he's got a penchant for attention seeking and bullying, the child has a sort of sadistic streak, you see, and probably thought it would be funny to see us get in trouble by lying. It's a hard decision, but myself and Vernon are trying to help him get past it, but he refuses any form of therapy, and he's getting to an age where he tries to be quite, well, violent and we're trying but it seems inevitable that he'll get a criminal record at this rate..." and at that point, Harry had stopped listening, feeling slightly sick and he had, actually, vomited what little food he'd had in stomach.
As soon as Miss Bales had left, there'd certainly been hell of the worst kind to pay. After the teacher had retreated with platitudes of regret for not pegging him out for a liar in the first place, and her condolences of the burden placed upon their family, the fake smiles had dropped and Harry found himself being slammed into the wall, hard.
Thick, meaty fingers closed tightly around his own thin neck as his Uncle snarled ferally at him, spittle accosting Harry's face, his eyes shut tightly as he bellowed, "You idiot, good for nothing freak! You fucking freak! You thought that you'd tell someone, did you? Thought that they wouldn't be fucking happy at us beating the freak out of you? Now, if you ever think of telling someone about what goes on in our household again, make no mistake…"
At that, the man chuckled darkly, his beady, piggish eyes taking on a darkly sadistic gleam of utter glee. Afterwards, it was pretty difficult focusing on much of anything, other than the pain. A punch to the jaw (in a rare divergence of retaliation to the unspoken to the "no visible marks" rule) so hard Harry was shocked that he managed to keep all of his teeth; Vernon kicking and punching every inch of him he could reach with all his force, which was a fucking lot considering the major size difference, and finally reaching for the belt, lashing out with all the force he had, his puce coloured face perspiring, his face victorious, whilst his nephew lay near comatose beneath him, defenseless, bleeding and in so much pain, he was shaking uncontrollably. Vernon smirked; stating coldly "No, I don't think you'll ever even think of telling anyone."
And all Harry could think of was that he would never become the person his Uncle had described him as, never become a bully (which was putting it quite mildly, actually) or treat someone badly for no reason than existing. If Harry were to conform to the expectations everyone had of him, then he'd let his Uncle win, and then what would the point be?
Harry snapped out of his reverie, shaken, remembering the problem at hand. He decided that it would become obvious, once the evasive staff members of the odd school had realised that he'd not been able to owl them (maybe they actually used real owls to communicate, since the words weren't capitalised as an acronym would be? But then how did they tame them?), they would provide the necessary means to contact him. Maybe Harry should mail them? But he had no money for a stamp and Uncle Vernon would have a fit if he realised that Harry had stolen something of his. Yawning, the boy belatedly realised just how tired he was. He decided to stow the letter away in a nook of the cupboard, lest it be discovered. Curling up in the warmth the cupboard provided, courtesy of whatever the heck he'd done to emanate it, Harry Potter fell asleep.
