Harry doesn't remember much about the day Vernon died, back in the old house at Privet drive.
(He'd been cooking for them, hoping for scraps- this was back in the time before Aunt Petunia loved him, back when he wore Dudley's cast-offs tied at the waist to form dresses. Vernon had just come home, bottle in hand, and said something to Petunia. Harry had not been looking, had only heard a brief exchange of words and a crack and when he turned around she was on the floor.
"Well, what are you looking at, girl?" Vernon had growled. It mightn't have been those exact words, Harry's not sure. He only remembers turning back to the food on the stove, catching a brief glimpse of Dudley cowering in the hall, and then a burst of pain on his back; then, something happened, something flew from his hands and there was fire.)
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HOME FIRE ON PRIVET DRIVE!
by Lia Thomas
Vernon Dursley, of the esteemed Grunnings Corporation, perished in a terrible cooking fire this Wednesday. For the full article, turn to page 6. For obituaries, turn to page 16.
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Their new home was smaller, and Petunia worked all day to feed him and Dudley. They both wore used clothes now, from a local store, until a few years later when Harry stopped wearing dresses.
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At school, they were both the poor kids, the half-orphans. He in particular was an outcast, with his girl's name and determined androgyny.
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When Harry was fiv, he turned a teacher's wig blue. He turned it back.
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That afternoon, Petunia sat the both of them down for a talk. She told them about a world full of magic and danger, about two sisters who grew apart.
Two siblings. One who had magic, the other who did not. She could not help but see herself and Lily there, in her own sons- for despite their differences in appearance, despite the orphanage fiasco when they were three and the remnants of Vernon's hate locked into Dudley's psyche, they were her sons and they loved her and each other. She wouldn't let them grow apart like she and Lily had, she couldn't.
She told them, a little bit, about the war. Explained that, to some, Harry was a hero.
"I'm not sure how advanced things are there, socially," she said. "I know gay men are at least somewhat accepted- your father had two friends who were definitely together- but their ideas about you center on a little girl. They call you the Girl Who Lived there." At Harry's obvious dismay, she hugged him tight. "If they don't understand, we'll make them. If anyone can change the world, it's you."
Then she turned to Dudley.
"Harry is the same person he's always been, you just know more about him now."
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Harry remembers Petunia's death well; she'd been sick for only a few months when the doctors told her she wasn't responding to treatments.
In desperation, he tried to pull his magic on command, to heal her. It did not work.
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Dudley did not blame him. Harry almost wished he did, both of them crying out for their mother in the darkness of the orphanage.
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(They ran away from the orphanage, once. It did not go well.)