The Value of Me
By Rey
Shout out to: thunderofdeath97 – thank you very, very much for informing me about the typo in the year Harry came to Privet Drive!
Chapter 1: How It All Begins
1.
30th March 1980
Albus Dumbledore stares at the would-be Divination teacher, stunned.
Such a double-edged windfall!
He fidgets.
…Vanquish the Dark Lord…
He frowns.
…Born as the seventh month dies…
He stares unseeingly at the worn, grimy wall of the Hog's Head's private parlour.
…Neither can live while the other survive…
He waves the eager, hopeful girl in gaudy robes and accessories away, promising the hoped-for position at Hogwarts to her in the meantime.
She is confused, but utterly elated. He believes it is the least that he can do, for getting such a weapon on hand, when he is figuratively just inches away from utter defeat.
Knowledge is power. Knowledge is a tool. This knowledge in particular can help him defeat Tom. That boy's shinanigans are his responsibility, after all. If only he did not introduce Tom to Hogwarts….
…Die at the hand of the other…
He must prepare, now. He must find the boy spoken in the prophecy. He must make sure that the boy has the tools needed to survive, to live; or, in the worst kind of situation, to bring the enemy down alongside the boy's own life. He must make sure the boy knows about responsibility, about humbleness, about the dangers of power and fame, about the sacrifices that one must make, about….
"Get out, now!"
He gives his brother Abe an absently cheerful wave, as he hurriedly exits the Hog's Head, dogged by the said brother's semi-vicious ushering spell.
…Born as the seventh month dies…
Seventh month. When is it? In what calendar? It will not be hard to trace such a birth in British magical community nowadays, sadly, so he will just need to determine the time. He surely hopes the boy will not be born out of the United Kingdom. His position in the International Conference of Wizards is already tenuous, given what has been going on inside his borders these days, which has unfortunately spilt in droplets and spurts into the rest of Europe. He doubts he will not lose all semblance of influence in the international circles if he tries to nab a boy from, say, Finland, or Japan.
It is doubtful that he will go to such a length, but….
…Die at the hand of the other…
…Neither can live while the other survives…
2.
31st July 1980
James Potter gives the bundle in his arms a sappy look, uncaring that Sirius, his best friend, has just captured the moment in a camera. "Daddy's boy, Daddy's boy," he croons lowly, just for his newborn baby boy's ears.
The said baby boy gives him a sleepy, disgruntled look through a pair of green unfocused eyes – Lily Flower's eyes! – but he does not care. "Daddy's boy, Daddy's boy."
Sirius lets out a raucous laugh, joined by the exhausted Lily-Flower with an amused snort from the birthing bed at his side. He still does not care.
But he does care when, jolted out of his semi-asleep state by the sudden loud noise, his baby boy erupts into hiccupping cries again. "Ssh, Daddy's boy. Daddy's going to take care of Uncle Padfoot for you."
A loving kiss from Lily-Flower's lips on his baby boy's tiny nose makes the cries peter out. But still, this atrocity cannot be let go and forgotten, especially when it comes from the precious boy's own godfather.
A loving caress on a brandished wand, and Sirius is sent skittering out of the room with a shout caught between terror and thrill.
Serves that mutt right.
3.
1st November 1981
A bundle of blue blanket, accompanied by a note in a parchment letter, arrives at the doorstep of Privet Drive number 4 late at the night of the 1st of November, 1981. It invites a shrill yelp of surprise from the woman who finds it in the morning the next day, then her tears, as she reads the letter left alongside it.
It does not take long for the grief to manifest as anger and resentment. Anger to the world that has just ripped her little sister away anew from her, despite their strong differences since the previous decade. Resentment to the boy who is alive in his mother's stead.
A boy with bright, inquisitive almond-shaped green eyes, just like hers, Lily's.
Just like Lily, but not Lily.
She keeps the cold, brief letter included in his blanket in her attic. She keeps the tiny, unwanted legacy of her sister in the cupboard under the stairs, blue blanket and all. Both painful in their own ways; both out of sight and out of mind. She agrees when her husband Vernon stipulates that the boy – the freak – be kept away from magic and all mentions of his parents. After all, he may be a freak, but he is also her sister's freak, and her sister is dead because of the freaks in that world. This particular freak is not going to die on her watch, not like her stubborn, far-too-eager-for-the-wrong-things sister.
Well, but Lily was always the apple of their parents' eye…. Lily, and not Petunia. She swears, now it is going to be Dudley, not Harry – not the freak but Dudley, her own son. She shall never let Dudley experience what she did when growing up with Lily. He shall have everything; and if she must otherwise take it from her sister's son, she shall.
It is already enough – more than enough – that she has willingly taken the freak in, despite her history with his mother. Those freaks in that community of freaks must have known about the nearly nonexistent relationship she had with her sister; and yet they still dumped him on her, in such a rude, uncaring manner at that. It is not her fault, then, should she treat her nephew less than her own child.
That boy will earn his keep. He will learn that nothing is without a price, in this cold, cruel world. He will learn the skills he needs to thrive alone in his adulthood, because she cannot – will not – be there for him.
And still, secretly, Petunia Rose Dursley, formerly Evans, hopes that, wherever the boy will end up once he is out of her family's hair, he will never know of – let alone join – the freaky community that has robbed him of his parents, heritage and inheritance.
He will be safer that way.
He will be alive.
Well, after all, he is still her sister's child. She wants the best for him, despite everything.
4.
31st July 1984
The cupboard's door is unlatched with a silent clack. "Kitchen," comes the shrill demand, next, albeit in a lower pitch than usual.
It is early morning, then, or maybe late at night. The orders always come at a lower voice when the other occupants of the house are still asleep or need silence.
The tiny pile of bones curled up inside, sparingly wrapped by flesh and muscles and skin that shows signs of ill health, shifts silently and murmurs dutifully like he has been taught, "Yes, ma'am."
He gets a dismissive huff for that, as per usual. The thin woman who ordered for his presence in the kitchen leaves, then, and he scrambles out of his cupboard hastily, to go after her.
Not a mean feat, that. He has to blink furiously given the difference of lighting between his cupboard and the outside. The sliver of sunlight that peeks inside from a gap on the front window's curtains is particularly bright, and it happens to fall right on his face as he emerges from his tiny room.
Early morning, then.
Squinting against the light, he stumbles into the kitchen just as the woman's flowery dressing gown swishes past the doorway leading to that space in the house. Thankfully!
He takes the plastic stepstool from the cupboard under the sink, then carries it to the stove as fast but as carefully as he can. Again, not a mean feat, that, since he has eaten nothing for two days in a row, having been punished for messing up his chores the day before yesterday. The messing up has been done by Dudley, mostly, but he shall never, ever say that to Dudley's parents. He does want to eat, after all, and the big man gives a mean punishment when angry, usually when freaks like him say bad things against Dudley, however truthful the words are. Forget doing bad things against Dudley, however falsified the deed might be!
The thin woman rattles off the day's breakfast once he is situated on the stepstool, and he listens very, very carefully to that. She tends to punish him, too, if he misses an item or a detail in the meal, or – horror of all horrors – mess up the meal itself. He can make all three meals of the day now, and breakfast is not the hardest to do, but still.
Fried bacon. Grilled bacon. Boiled eggs. Scrambled eggs. Chicken sandwich with toasted bread. Sausage salad. Salad greens, washed with hot then cold water. Cold whipped cream. Melted cheese with pepper and bits of celery. Strawberries with chocolate cream. Scones with jam and butter. Leftover blueberry pie from yesterday. Thick-sliced bread glazed with honey. Cold chocolate pudding. Warm milk with sugar. Hot sweet tea. Hot bitter coffee. Got it.
Get the cooking oil and water kettle heated first. Boil the eggs next. Go to the pantry and fridge afterwards. Toast the bread, microwave the leftover pie, bake the sconce and prepare the uncooked things while waiting for the oil and water to heat up.
Cooking oil ready. Fry the bacon rashers while grilling some. Fry the sausages. Fry the chicken chunks for the sandwich. Scramble and fry the eggs.
Water kettle ready. But so heavy! How to lift it up from the stove, let alone carry it to the table? Arms too weak, too shaky. Too tired. Hungry. Food smells so nice….
Try. Must try. Scolded by the woman if not. Scalded by the water if yes….
He shrieks. The full, heavy water kettle falls on top of him, thunking against his head and shoulders and drenching him from head to toe with its roiling contents. The thin woman shrieks as well, but for an entirely different reason, as the kettle clatters loudly onto the floor and boiling water pools round the crumpled little boy.
"You, freak! You can't even boil water! You're going to wake up my boys with that racket! And now you ruin my kettle too!"
The Freak gets no breakfast, in the end. He got nothing to soothe his expansive burns, either. The thin woman drags him outside quickly and drops him at Mrs Figg's house. She claims to the old woman – his on-and-off sitter – that she must prepare "her boys" for a quick outing, and that he has only disturbed her preparations thus far.
Mrs Figg clucks her tongue at his raw skin and his sopping-wet baggy clothes, once the thin woman is gone, but she is quickly distracted by her many cats. She leaves him standing in her cabbage-smelling, cat-smelling living-room, promising to fetch him a burn salve, but she never comes back.
Not before his clothes all dry up and his burns sting worse than when they firstly formed, at any rate. And what she brings in is instead her most beloved cat of all: Snowy.
She gives him a small plate of mildly stale cookies, though, and a distracted smile as well. So he murmurs, "Thank you, Mrs Figg." After all, being polite to everybody and giving no complaint are two of the most important rules in the home of the thin woman, the big man and Dudley; the rest being: do no freakishness, be silent, earn your keep, don't talk back, don't be seen whenever possible, don't touch anything that is not in your cupboard except when you are doing your chores cleaning things, never steal from other people, and obey everything told to him by the thin woman, the big man and Dudley.
He nibbles at one cookie. Then, when Mrs Figg is not looking, he stuffs the other three into his trouser pocket, thankful that he has mended the large hole in that pocket three days ago. Mrs Figg has given the cookies to him, anyway, so this does not count as stealing. This stash can soothe his belly for the rest of the day, or even till three days from now if he nurses them carefully, if he manages to keep them guarded till he returns to his cupboard to store them under his cot.
He gets to watch the telly, too! This morning is proving to be not so bad, it seems, though his burns still throb and sting mightily. The telly is a black-and-white one, and he can't find how to switch the channels, so it is stuck on the news channel, but it is more than all right to him. He doesn't get to watch the Telly in the house where he lives, after all, though he can usually listen from inside his cupboard.
He can always pretend that his mum and dad are watching on the threadbare rug on the floor at his either side, maybe with a sibling or three, or even a visiting family friend.
He can always pretend that he is home, wherever home is.
5.
31st July 1985
HYDRA's asset, code-name Winter Soldier, crouches in a thick, lush bed of some flowery bush under the window overlooking the living-room of its target's house. Night has fallen quite some time ago, but it is patient, it is invisible. It has scouted round the town, the neighbourhood and the house since 0500 yesterday morning. The target will not elude it. The mission will be successful.
The mission: Make a blatant, jarring example of the target's death: a warning to the company the target works for as sales manager, that nothing and nobody upsets HYDRA. No witnesses, no evidence but for the target's body itself, no detection by the authorities.
It is now 2340. The target at last lumbers away from the living-room, switching off the light on its way. The Asset waits until the target's wife, too, exits the kitchen farther away and turns off the light there. The target's child has long retired to bed, lulled asleep in front of the colourful screen in its bedroom.
The Asset moves away stealthily for a better angle to observe the upstairs, where the bedrooms are. A lush tree now becomes its vantage point, situated metres away from the window overlooking the target's bedroom.
The target enters the bedroom and readies itself for bed first, but the Asset does not take the chance to execute its mission then and there. It is because the target's wife is still away, most likely in the child's bedroom, since the Asset can hear soft sounds of adult feet coming from there, beneath the loud snores of the child. The wife might come into the bedroom it is observing any time soon, thus witnessing its mission's execution if it happened now, creating mission noncompliance. The Asset can afford to wait longer to ensure optimum mission outcome.
The wife joins the target in bed at 2350. It lies restlessly there until 0013, at which point it at last seems to be deeply asleep.
The Asset shimmies down the tree and slinks into the house via the back door, which is the closest 'proper' entry point, after relieving itself of its boots to limit evidence on the floor. Utilising its nightvision goggles to compensate for the lack of illumination, and padding along on thickly socked feet to muffle any footsteps, it thoroughly investigates every nook and cranny on the first floor, then creeps down the hallway towards the stairs. It slowly climbs the wooden thing to the second floor, testing each step carefully to avoid creating any noise, then repeats the investigation upstairs.
The farthest two bedrooms are as empty as the Asset's distant visual observation has noted, although one of them holds many broken toys and untouched-looking books. Next door, the child is still asleep in its large, overly cluttered bedroom, although the colourful screen is no longer turned on.
And then, the Asset arrives at the target's bedroom.
The wife and husband, like their child, are deeply asleep. However, given its proximity to the target, the Asset holds a breathing mask attached to a bottle of sleeping gas to the wife's nose and mouth anyway, to keep it deeper under. To fail now because of such sloppiness would guarantee severe punishment for the Asset later on, something that is to be avoided at all cost.
And then, the Winter Soldier goes to work.
The target makes it easier, sleeping still like that, laid on its back to boot. But even if it did not, well, the Asset must have worked with much less convenience in prior missions, even if it does not remember such occasion.
The fat ankles, legs and thighs are bound tightly together. The no-less fat arms are bound to the obese body in several places, next: wrists, elbows, and upper arms near the shoulders. It leaves just a rather narrow margin on the chest to work on, but the Asset must have worked with less, as previously pointed out.
The gag comes next, making the target snores and snorts louder.
Well, the target is going to vocalise more than that, in the next moment.
Using one of the knives it is equipped with, the Asset slits open the target's sleepshirt above the heart, so precise that the keen blade grazes neither the closest rope that binds the target together nor the skin underneath. And then, it goes to work.
The target lets out muffled screams, but those sounds are only background noise to the Asset. A simple but delicate sketch of a star forms slowly but surely on the quivering canvas, padded with so many layers of fat that there is not enough colour to brighten the inside of the line.
The Asset remedies that, once the sketch is finished.
The colour is going to spread far out of line soon enough, but the star pattern will still be visible. The Asset has made sure of that.
Red star. HYDRA's star. Everyone will know that HYDRA has visited vengeance on the company, now.
The gag and the ropes are duly retrieved. Its work done, the Asset erases the signs of its presence from the room, then creeps back down the stairs.
From the other occupied bedroom, the loud snores of the child never change in tempo and intensity.