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BEYOND MIGHT
Part I: Harry Potter and the Sword of Time
Chapter II: Lily and Petunia


A loud noise and a whooshing sound, followed by Aunt Petunia's shriek and a large thud made Harry open his eyes. His uncle was nursing his arm, glaring furiously at him. His Aunt Petunia was terrified, seemingly conflicted between getting away from them and standing between him and Uncle Vernon. Time seemed to stop, but Harry was the first to move when his aunt finally snapped him back.

"To your bedroom! Now!"

He wouldn't need to hear it twice. He quickly jumped the fallen stand, dodging the ceramic pieces of some horrid vase of his aunt and quickly went for the stairs. He heard the heavy sounds of his uncle right on his tails.

"Vernon!" He heard his aunt shouting.

He ran as fast as he could to his bedroom. In a not so bright move, he quickly got under his bed, trepidant and out of breath. He closed his eyes and waited for the worst. His door whacked on its frame, apparently closing itself from the air he displaced on his run. Soon after, his uncle began punching it, trying to open it. He tried, and tried, and tried, but it was only his luck that it didn't budge. Uncle Vernon was so upset that even as he fumbled with the handle he couldn't get it to open.

Soon after, a shouting match between his relatives started. Harry's heartbeat and breathing began to slow down, and against his will, because he was so tired, he fell asleep after just a few minutes. Sleep took him blissfully, and the hostile world right outside that door ceased to be a problem.

For now, of course.


When he finally woke up, his body's soreness almost made him want to stay there and forget about everything that happened, but his mouth was so dry that he couldn't help but get up and go get a cup of water. He drowsily made his way from under the bed and to the door. He turned the handle and stepped outside.

Immediately after, it was as if an alarm had suddenly struck his brain. He went from sleepy and inattentive to highly alert in a matter of seconds. He suddenly could remember the night before with much more clarity. He rapidly returned to his bedroom and closed the door slowly.

It was open, then. But why then hadn't his uncle been capable of opening it? How hadn't he just barged into his room if all that was holding the door was the turn of the handle? He pressed his ears on the door and listened to the sounds that came from the corridor. Nothing, at first, and then he heard it. Loud snores, from his uncle probably. He waited for a few minutes to see if they continued and carefully tiptoed into the corridor again. All the lights were out, but he could make a few details here and there from the occasional appliance indicator or glass reflection. He descended the stairs, mindful of the creaky step that had denounced him earlier—or was it yesterday? He didn't have a way to know, honestly.

He went to the kitchen and ravenously downed three glasses of cold water. He nicked some sandwiches from the fridge, too. He ate one and put the others in his pocket. Having only eaten sweets the day before (it was indeed past midnight already), he was famished. He looked out of the window, to the sky outside and contemplated what he should do. Should he leave the Dursleys? After his uncle had snapped, did he still have a room in the house? Could he at least sleep there? Was it even safe, given his uncle's anger?

He entertained the possibilities with great anxiety, serving himself the sandwich that he'd nicked for later.

It would be best if he left the house altogether. But from there, to where? That he didn't know. He had no one to go, after all.

He could go to Mrs Figg, he supposed. Would the old lady mind if he … if he invaded her house and lived there for a few weeks until she returned?

The thought made him sick to the stomach. Would he have to become a criminal, stealing food and a bed from incapable people? Were the Dursleys so bad that a life of crime was preferable to living with them? Harry wondered about it for a few minutes.

'Yes!'

But then, why didn't they open the door to his bedroom and kicked him out or did whatever? He couldn't understand why they would just leave him be, after all that ruckus.

Taking a deep breath, he came to an answer. It didn't please him at all, but if he was safe for now …

'For now, Potter, remember that!'

He carefully cleaned whatever he'd messed in the kitchen and made his way back to his bedroom.

Or he would've, if it was not for a terrifying noise he heard just after entering the foyer. Someone was keying the front door, trying to enter. Was it Uncle Vernon? Was it a robber? Harry panicked and looked all around him, searching for a place to hide. He frankly didn't know which one he was scared the most, to be honest.

He looked left and right, and contemplated briefly going back to the kitchen, but he couldn't be sure they were heading that direction. He looked finally at a white, unremarkable door and had an idea. He quickly scurried his way through it and held it closed.

He hadn't been there for a long time, but he still remembered it. The cupboard under the stairs, or—as he knew it for the greater part of his childhood—'Harry's bedroom'. Though a part of him loved the place, he didn't know if he could bear to live in such a cramped space ever again. He'd even been a little sad parting ways with it, and it was only in retrospect that he realised how uncaring someone would have to be to put a child there, even if the child was himself and the 'someones' were his relatives. There were quite an impressive number of spiders there judging by the quick look he'd gotten from it before closing the door, but he forced the thoughts of those nasty things out of his mind for a while. There were more worrying things, now.

It was Uncle Vernon! He locked the door and carefully made his way to the kitchen. Harry was relieved he hadn't chosen the kitchen to hide, but was also, at the moment, paralyzed with the choice of leaving or not leaving the cupboard. He was almost making up his mind when his uncle appeared again, heavily making his way upstairs. Something fell on Harry's hands and he dearly wished it was wooden debris of some sort and not what he was thinking. After a few many long seconds, he finally couldn't take it anymore. He opened the door and frantically shook himself from whatever had fallen into him—it wasn't debris!

He then stayed quiet again and tentatively took a few steps towards his bedroom.

The house was silent again, and the door to his relative's bedroom was almost shut, with only the barest of the openings. It illuminated the corridor and the path to his bedroom. Already at the top of the stairs, Harry supposed it was better to risk and go to his bedroom now than to wait for another opportunity.

And he would've succeeded. But as he took careful steps towards his room, he couldn't help but hear it.

"—deal with this, once and for all."

He froze where he was standing. Were they planning to …

Against his screaming survival instincts, he did a double back, and crouched behind a stand that was close to the door. His back was turned towards the corridor, but he supposed if Uncle Vernon suddenly opened the door, he could flatten himself and get underneath it. In the dark, he wouldn't even see him, or so he hoped.

He would see him, of course, but a curious child wouldn't let this keep them from prying.

"I've already told you, Petunia. I won't tolerate this silliness any more. Either you address it or I'm going to take some actions of my own."

"Vernon, you know I can't do that. I promised them that I would—"

"Forget about these promises, Petunia. Look at what happened to us, look at what happened to Dudley! Do you really believe it will just stop? Do you believe he will turn into a decent person? Better that he go to those people and explode—"

"Vernon!" Aunt Petunia shouted his uncle's name a bit too loud. Harry glanced nervously at Dudley's door.

"I understand what you feel, Petunia, but you can't have everything. You have more important priorities."

At that point she wasn't even bothering to hush any more. And although she wasn't overly loud, the way she said the next words carried such an energy that he bet that he could hear it clearly, even if he was tucked inside his bedroom.

"You do not need to lecture me. You have no right to say that. You know there's nothing more that I treasure than—"

"Then act like it" Uncle Vernon's raised reprimand was so sudden Harry almost jumped. He thought he heard a click and rapidly flattened himself to the ground. It seemed that his uncle had grabbed the door to pull it but had turned around. He got closer to his bedroom door, not daring to look away from his uncle's door. It wasn't like he needed to be that close, even. The discussion was loud enough for now.

Uncle Vernon continued with his tirade. "All I see is you doing nothing and nothing and nothing, again and again. I gave you almost ten years already to deal with this. If you don't do anything, I'll do it."

There was silence for a few seconds and then he heard Aunt Petunia, in a voice softer than he had anticipated.

"Vernon, this—this is a bit…"

"It is necessary. I grabbed these ones on my way back from Nielsen's. As I said to you earlier, Petunia, I'm not taking any risks any further."

"I'll talk to him … I'll explain it all."

"You better do. With a bit of well-deserved luck he'll follow his parents' example and blow himself up. It would do us great, for a change."

Harry's hands balled into a fist and a vicious energy ran through his limbs. How dare he talk about his parents like that. How dare he say such cruel things about people that had apparently such gruesome deaths. He wanted to leap out of where he was and give his uncle his own strong opinions on who deserved to be blasted off, but he shoved those irrational ponderations out of his mind for the while.

There was a long silence before his uncle finally spoke again.

"Oh, Petunia! Don't start with this again…"

"Don't say that, Vernon. I forbid you, you hear me! I will not hear you talking in this manner ever again," she said with a morose—but trying to be firm—voice.

"Alright, alright. Please don't cry. Okay, I'll speak no more; I have some other ideas—I have already talked to Marge about that one. I'll—I'll leave it to you. But mark my words, if push comes to shove—"

"You will do nothing! Because I'm already doing it. I'll—I'll take care of it. I'm certain he will understand, and he will realise what his mother would've wanted him to do."

Uncle Vernon grunted in disagreement, but the next words he said felt like a block of ice was being shoved down Harry's throat.

"Of course he will listen," he snorted ironically. "And to think that it only took almost killing Dudley for you to finally do something!"

A long silence again, and then…

"He didn't do such a thing. And if he did—"

"If?! I should not be even listening to you. I should've been dragging him by the hair and—"

"And if he did—" Aunt Petunia said, as if he hadn't heard him saying a word. "He'll have to deal with me. I won't speak a word anymore on this. Good night, Vernon."

His uncle grunted in answer, and not long after lights were out and the heavy breathing sounds subdued.

Harry, on the other hand, couldn't move. His relatives thought he'd been trying to kill Dudley … He couldn't believe it. And there was something about his parents. They had—it pained Harry to even think about it—blown themselves up? What did that even mean? He wiped the sweat out of his forehead, still not believing what he'd heard, when he heard it again.

A clicking sound. He quickly looked at his uncle's door but he realised it came from his back. He looked warily into the direction of Dudley's bedroom. Was he … was he listening to the conversation, too?

Did he also think that Harry was trying to—kill him?

Harry made his way to his cousin's bedroom door and listened on it.

For a minute, two, three whole minutes.

Nothing, not a sound. One would suppose he was sleeping, but Harry knew that Dudley had already begun to snore a few months ago. He couldn't be certain, but there was more than a small chance that he hadn't been the only one listening to the voices in the corridor.

With this cheerful thought, he finally went to his own bedroom.

He paced back and forth, thinking about what he should do next. Aunt Petunia said that she would finally tell him. Tell him what?. Was it related to the freakishness? Were his parents … freaks like him too? Should he flee, now that they thought he was a murderer-in-the-making? He desperately wanted to, but he wished more than anything to know more about his parents.

The next day would be a long one, and he hadn't the slightest idea of what he should be doing.


As the days passed, he still maintained his doubts.

The mood in the house had dramatically changed, no matter how much they tried to insist on ignoring what had happened. For the first days, Harry himself was all too happy to steer clear of his relatives, going to a nearby park with packed sandwiches and a precarious lidded jar to pass the time. From there to the public library to the hills between their borough and the motorway, he could spend a great deal of his days just pretending that the Dursleys didn't exist at all.

Dudley was quite erratic in his behaviour in the first few days. Some days he appeared quite willing to spend the majority of his free time glaring viciously at him; other days he seemed to find his presence a great threat, scurrying out of the room the moment he stepped into it. The degree of his reaction correlated more or less directly with the number of fellows that were accompanying him.

Uncle Vernon, similarly, was uncharacteristically absent from home. He got up very early in the morning and got home much too late for his normal working hours. From what Harry could gather, there was this new outstanding and resourceful project the company had just started, probably a direct consequence from that business deal with the Brazilian businessman. As it was, it seemed that the car's engine couldn't get a rest. It was London one week, Birmingham for a few days, then Liverpool, back to London and so on. He even had to go across the channel one day. He would be grumbling about ferry prices and delays for a good three days after his trip.

Aunt Petunia was strangely silent on this whole thing. The amount of chores she'd distributed to Harry lessened a great deal, though she still had him tend to the garden. In a way, Harry almost wished she would annoy him with that everlasting list of chores, just so perhaps she would have gathered the courage—or he for that matter—to approach the matter of his 'freakishness'. She would stare at him for long periods when she thought he was oblivious to it, but he didn't know how to address this. Was it that bad?

He had gone to the Wilsons, too, to ask about Mrs Figg. Mr Wilson was, similarly, tending to his garden when Harry first approached him. He didn't know a lot about the man, but he knew that Aunt Petunia was a close friend to Mrs Wilson, so he supposed he should tread carefully around that one. He had looked down to him with not a very small amount of suspicion, apparently judging him before answering.

She had not broken her leg. In fact, he wasn't too sure what had happened to her. She had apparently burned it, but it seemed to be because of the hot water that was spilled on the floor when he finally got to her. She was sprawled on the kitchen's floor, and he rushed her to the hospital. It was good that he came fast, because the doctors said that was a nasty thing for someone her age, and they had only stabilised her enough to send her to a better centre for the kind of treatment she required.

Harry remembered how his eyes narrowed when he told this to him.

"You see, lad, it was almost as if she was attacked. It was as if someone had purposely barged into her house and shoved her a bit too hard on the floor. Maybe they threw one or two water pots to cover their bumbling attempt to rob the woman; or not. It's not like I have any to back up this tripe, is it? It was a tragic accident, perhaps?" He said to Harry, his pale eyes looking at his searchingly. "What do you make of that, boy? Do you know of someone Mrs Figg had problems with beforehand?"

Harry looked at him confused, trying to decipher the way he said those things. It was almost as if …

"I don't think I could answer that with a 'yes'. Mrs Figg never did anything to anybody."

He nodded curtly.

"She didn't. But she was kind enough, even to those that didn't deserve all that much, don't you think?"

Harry's eyebrows creased as he understood what he was trying to say.

"You know what would be just splendid? If the thugs who are responsible for this had a change of heart or got their sick heads righted up, and spilled whatever to the Constable. What do you make of that?"

Harry's hands balled into a fist at the insinuation.

"I have nothing to do with this, if that's what you're implying, sir."

He huffed and shovelled a bit of soil before answering him.

"You didn't, did you? It's not like you could've done something too bad to her either. She's got very thin arms, but a mean spirit that one, ha!" But even then, Harry noted the accusing tone in his voice.

He got angry at the remarks. How dare he think he would do something like that to poor Mrs Figg! If anyone were to be accused …

"Mr Wilson, how did you even know she was hurt?"

He tried to keep his tone neutral, but the insinuation still slipped. Well, he didn't really believe Mr Wilson had anything to do with this whole mess, but it was nice to shoot it back to him. The old man's eyebrows creased with the accusation, and he briefly gazed down the street before answering Harry.

"Well, those darned cats just wouldn't quit! Yelling bloody murder and trying to strip the car's painting on their nails only! One of them even got inside through our bathroom window. Had a great piece of mind to deal with the old lady, but after I saw her downed on the floor, it seems they were just looking out for her, after all, God bless them."

Harry mulled over that information. So it was the cats, then! He did find it extremely unnerving when they had seemingly disappeared from Little Whinging. But where were they now? How were they so smart and obstinate in calling for help?

"Haven't managed to catch a single one of them, if that's what you're thinking. Those are some other kinds of cats, I say. Never seen ones so smart!"

He took some notes from his wallet and fished a single one, before straightening it and handing it to Harry.

"You've got a talent, boy, that I have to give you! With a bit of luck, Maureen will be convinced that I finally struck gold with this one here," he said, pointing to a neatly-trimmed bush that Harry was tending to. "Stay out of trouble, you hear me? People are bound to be a little nervous about this whole thing, especially when Old Figg made a great deal of minding her own business. And falling on her head didn't do herself any favours …"

Harry accepted the bill, but paused at that last remark.

"She fell on her head? Didn't she just get burned? Wasn't that the reason she fell?"

At this, Mr Wilson took off his hat and fixed his hair absent-mindedly before answering him.

"She's already elderly, lad. Whatever fall she took is prone to mess with her head. It's not like the reflexes are still preserved. They can't say too much about it, at the moment. I think they don't even know about it enough, to be honest with you, but things definitely got a little scrambled with the fall."

He guided Harry out of his garden and bade him a good afternoon, leaving a boy with immense feelings of apprehension, sadness and …

Was that guilt?

Why was he feeling guilty?


He was absent-mindedly thinking back on the conversation with Mr Wilson for half-of-the-way 'home'. It wasn't like he really considered it home anymore, at least, not for the last days, especially. It was more of his dormitory at best, at least until he was old enough to find employment and get a place of his own.

Maybe he could try his hand at gardening. He knew there were these very rich people, some of them even people with titles who maintained these big, beautiful castles, with glass gardens and vast expanses of bushes and flowers. He wouldn't say no to a job tending to them.

But as he rounded the corner, something inside him snapped again. The situation seemed to down on him. His relatives knew something he didn't, something related to his parents; they thought he had tried to kill Dudley. Uncle Vernon insinuated getting something from a guy. He had looked into it, and apparently Nielsen was either a lawyer in the main square of Little Whinging or a guy who lived in an extremely shady part of the town, on the other side of the motorway.

And speaking of him:

Harry was surprised to see the shiny new car in front of the house. He had not expected Uncle Vernon to be home until tomorrow afternoon, since he would leave Truro the next day only. It filled him with not a small amount of apprehension.

He tiptoed inside. With luck, Uncle Vernon would be in the living room or in the kitchen and would not notice him getting back to his bedroom.

But it was not his lucky day. Uncle Vernon was seated at his desk, reading from a business magazine. Harry tried to slip back, but his uncle had looked up and caught him entering.

"Potter, inside. Close the door, please."

Harry did not want to move. Nevertheless, fear of the consequences had he not obeyed won out his fear of confronting Uncle Vernon. He closed it, taking great care to not let it be firmly shut, so as he had a way out if things went awry again—to say the least.

He didn't dare look up from the floor as he sat on his bed and waited his uncle to start speaking.

A minute had passed, two, five minutes. Harry risked a glance to his uncle and was surprised by his pensive face. He, too, was looking at the floor, occasionally hesitating to speak, but never starting. It seemed he felt Harry's gaze onto him, because he then gathered his wits and began talking to the boy.

"First of all, I have to … apologise to you. It was unbecoming the way I exploded that day. I let anger overcome me and was a bit off my wits if I could say so. There was only so much that was justified."

Harry's head was spinning. Uncle Vernon was apologising. That was unbelievable to him. Immediately all alarms were set in his head, though.

"I'm—I'm sorry, Uncle Vernon. Sorry—that is— no problem, of course. It was nothing."

He huffed.

"Well, great to hear that," he replied, sarcastically. "Because I regret only that. You see, I have quite the reason to be angry and would like your point of view on the subject."

He then went on an enormous tirade. Harry glanced at a suspiciously long brown sack that he had put on the table.

"... and let's not forget the whole thing in Bromyard. Poor Mrs Bell, I wonder if her eyebrows had the chance to grow again. She was already balding, after all. But you know what irks me most terribly?"

Harry, who had been silent for the whole thing, was surprised at the long pause. It seemed that his uncle wanted his input, finally. His throat was dry but he managed to croak a meek 'I don't think I know, Uncle Vernon'.

"Well, I'll tell you, then. We gave you everything, absolute everything. Good shoes, good clothes, a good place for you to rest your head on, a good school so you wouldn't be left without options in the future, and what happened to you? Are you satisfied with the person you are today? Tell me honestly, and without mockery."

"No, Uncle Vernon," he said. At the back of his head there was a little defiant voice that shouted 'Yes', however.

"Do you believe that, had any other family in this town accepted your burden, would you have the same opportunities you have today? The Boxleys would chuck you in a river and forget all about it, for a start."

"No, Uncle Vernon." 'Yes, a great part of them.'

"Do you believe it fair to our family that, albeit having everything you needed to have a great living, you still managed to spill it all off and make a mess of yourself?"

"No, Uncle Vernon." 'I'm not a mess!'

"Do you think it right that whenever there's a situation where there's minimal grace and good manners required, you still manage to bring shame not only to your far-too-forgiving aunt, but to me and to your cousin, too?"

"No Uncle Vernon." 'I don't shame anyone!'

"Do you believe these strange things to be just coincidences, that you don't have a hand whatsoever: with the car, the rubbish bin, the blue hair or Dudley almost getting bit?"

"I didn't do anything!"

Harry was trembling and noticed he was standing glaring down at his uncle. Uncle Vernon was angry and pushed him back onto the bed.

"Be quiet and comply. I can make your life very difficult if you don't listen. It was only Petunia's good, bleeding heart that made me wait so much. You. Will. Listen."

It was now Uncle Vernon who was up. The size difference and the anger in his voice, even if he was whispering made Harry cower, lifting his little feet off the floor and getting back until his back found the wall.

These conversations with Uncle Vernon were few and very far in between. He still reminded vividly of the last one, however. It was about Edith King, a very friendly girl and his last friend in school. Their family had moved recently, and she had trouble making friends—Harry was her only friend, at the time. Dudley began to pick on the girl, and she was having difficulties following the material. Harry tried to help but he didn't know everything. Nobody talked to the girl, as nobody wanted to be seen talking to Potter. Harry made sure to make up for it as best as he could, however—he truly enjoyed their short-lived friendship. But it did not last.

Uncle Vernon had spoken to him, apparently catching on to Dudley's whining about the new girl. He said he met the girl's family, that they were right and fair people and were worried she was having hardships at school. Harry wanted to shout at him that if it was anyone, it was Dudley who was making their life difficult, but he knew his uncle wouldn't listen. It got to a point, however, when he couldn't stand to hear it anymore, so he remarked that Dudley was the one that bullied them. Uncle Vernon hadn't paid a single mind over that and just said that he understood that his son could be a bit rough around the edges—'he had to be if he was going to grow into a great man'—but still had his heart in the right place, looking after his fellow classmates. He then ordered him to solve that, and not to make the girl suffer his presence anymore.

And so, that cowardly man forced his nephew to give up on one of his most cherished things, playing with the noble sentiments that prevailed upon his golden heart, even with all the injustice and carelessness of his upbringing.

Harry thought it was not fair that Edith should go through that, too.

Edith had been absolutely devastated for the first days after he began to push her away, but she had all but forgotten about it a few weeks later. They always did.

Harry didn't know much about the world, but even he could comprehend that it wasn't absolutely fair what they did to him. It was almost cartoonishly villainesque at times, but he did his best not to mind it. Uncle Vernon was harsh, but he only acted on the whines of Dudley and Aunt Petunia, never believing a word of Harry. Dudley was a jealous, spoiled brute, but he was easy to work around with if Harry got out of his way. It was Aunt Petunia that was the cruellest, going out of her way to make his life miserable. She was always so good to hide her anger, though, and so delicate in delivering it. He would almost swear she didn't do anything to him.

And yet, she protected him at times. It left Harry's heart all confused and made him question every now and then if he could do something to make things right. Uncle Vernon took a deep breath and continued, his voice barely controlled.

"In a few days, your aunt will approach you with a decision," he said, twirling his moustache. "I want you to do your best to placate her, and your best to not make her grievances continue. Can I count on you to do that?"

Harry nodded mutely. Uncle Vernon was not finished.

"That's not enough. Get up, boy. Get up," he said while pulling him from the bed. "Now, man to man. Take my hand here and listen right. Can I count on you not to burden our family anymore?"

He was hardly a burden. He ate less than a bird, at times! But he agreed nonetheless.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," he answered meekly.

"Louder!"

"Yes, Uncle Vernon!" Harry said a little louder than he had intended.

Rapid footsteps were heard in the corridor and suddenly Aunt Petunia appeared at the door.

"Is everything alright here?" She said looking at her husband. "I managed to find the kit, it's at the kitchen table," she finished grabbing his arm.

He shook her off and warned her with a glare. She closed the door silently, not looking up at him.

"I warned you," he said before grabbing his magazine and the sack, closing the door on his face, leaving him alone to his thoughts.

Harry was feeling like all strength sapped away from his body. It was in times like these that he wished his relatives used some form of physical punishment. They never resorted to that, however. He was sure it would hurt less than that.

Quick note: it is unacceptable to ever hit a child. If you ever find yourself as a witness in a situation like that, speak up, and look for help. Do not hesitate, lest we maintain this great tragedy.

The word 'burden' repeated itself in his head over and over and over as he drifted off to sleep.


It was a couple of weekends later that he finally got the answer to all his mysteries. Uncle Vernon had taken Dudley to a fair in the city and had left Harry and his aunt home. He was returning from a walk when his aunt called him onto the living room.

He was curious when she had a pile of letters with her. Her expression was hard-set and she seemed absolutely frightened to talk to him. He sat at the table and looked around before his aunt began speaking.

There were these same letters tucked away in various places. He saw a few of them in the fireplace, some under a window and there was one even protruding from the cartridge slot on Dudley's video game. He was astounded by the randomness of it all and wondered if Aunt Petunia had gone a bit barmy while he was spending so much time outside. Nonetheless, what she said after was even crazier than he had anticipated.

It was an emotional conversation—more than he had any right to anticipate. It was a tragic and sad tale of a girl who fell too deep into the rabbit hole that would eventually lead to her violent fall.

It was the story of his mother, Lily Evans, a witch.

"—and while she was coming back from that horrid place with snot-tasted candies and cauldrons to boil dead animals in green slime, I was thankfully awarded a place at Varse School, a place that would open its doors to Lily had she ever thought about someone not herself for a single moment—"

Harry tried hard to listen, but Aunt Petunia had given water to a stranded wanderer. He could only roll the words all over his head when she talked about his mother. He forced himself to hear her, nonetheless.

"She became—deranged, yes that's the word. While she was a sweet girl once, they had transformed her. You wouldn't believe the stories she would come home to tell. They treated her as if she was a dirtball under their shoes, and she still managed to come back, even after they made it clear, that she—never mind she—that we are not a part of their world. It was all very fanciful and interesting, but she paid a great price to learn that kind of stuff. It didn't matter what she said, I knew it by looking at her eyes," she said, ventilating herself with a fan.

Magic. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Make things fly and turn tables into birds. If it was another person he would never believe it, but as she spoke her words seemed to resonate deep within him. He finally understood what it all was, why he was so different, from all of his colleagues in school, different from the Dursleys. It warmed his heart so much that it had been because of his mother that he had this talent.

"Your father, James Potter, obviously went to that same dreadful school. He was one of them, of course, so he was long lost before he had even a chance—"

"Wait, my father was a wizard, too?" He said grinning.

Petunia seemed to focus on him, her face darkening.

"Are you not listening to me, boy? It destroyed her life to meddle with those—those people. It's not just parlour tricks and magical wands. They—they can hurt people, too. Common people, like us."

Harry did pause at that.

"She did not—she did not die in a car accident. There was this wizard, he was called … I don't even like to say his name, argh: Voldemort. Apparently he had waged war against his own people. He wanted—he wanted to make us slaves, all of us without magic, he wanted to bring us, common people, into his machine and rule over all as if we were naught but little pets to him and his ilk. Lily and Potter had fought against him, but he found them in the end. They hid you but he killed both of them. That monster died that night, too, but … but he took—he took Lily with him."

Tears began to stream across her face. Harry was paralyzed, not knowing what to do.

"Father and mother loved the whole thing, too. It was me that warned them! I was the only one capable of seeing that—that madness, that freakishness for what it was. They destroyed our family, they killed Lily …" She hesitated, before, continuing with a trembling voice. "And no matter what the detectives said, they killed your grandparents, too!"

"They killed—they killed Grandpa and Grandma Evans?"

She regarded him with an odd look, before answering.

"It's hard to know. They both had a bad heart, but to die on the same day …"

She glanced at her lap and shuddered.

"Their expressions were so strange, peaceful while at the same time … unnatural. I did ask your mother, but that—but she said she did not know. But she did not deny it, that little …"

She sobbed again. Harry felt extremely uncomfortable—at the same time he felt deeply sorry for what Aunt Petunia was telling him, for his grandparents and all the destruction that happened, a part of him burst with happiness as she talked about how his parents had apparently been fighters, heroes, who died defending a cause. He thought about magic; about the many strange incidents that happened around him and his heart was full of wonder—for the many things he could already image in his mind.

"But it did not have to be this way. When she graduated, there was this nice man; I had met his sister in Varse School. He even went to Eton and was just finishing his degree at the University of Bristol. He even wrote to her, invited her to his sister's wedding, but that—woman couldn't be bothered by us simpletons. No, she had to marry that drunk, that scatterbrained, doless, jobless Potter—"

"SHUT UP—"

Suddenly the cup which she had poured water in exploded in her hand. She glanced at her nephew in fright and a little bit of defiance as she saw his glare.

Harry was angry, but also very surprised by that outburst. It was him, wasn't it? It was him that had caused the glass to explode. It filled him with a strange feeling: he suddenly remembered the many times where he felt cornered—o, what a little bit of magic wouldn't do to serve him in those times. And yet, at the same time, he saw the fear and anger in Aunt Petunia's face and he deflated from it. He was not a bad person, he was not like this … Voldemort fellow.

"It is better you hear from me than be surprised," she said, analysing him with a weird stare. "I would gladly continue if we can be civil. Control yourself, you brat, and shut it YOURSELF."

She then got up and put her hands on the table before him.

"James Potter picked a fight with his kind! He did not have the minimal right to involve yourself or Lily or us into this whole mess."

"You said this Voldemort was killing people—"

She pushed him back to his chair.

"Then he should continue doing that, as long as he stayed far away from us. Your father did not have to put OUR family on the line for this. He did not have the right. He did not have the right to push Lily into all that. To push you even. To put our parents, me, Dudley or even you into the whole thing!"

Harry felt dejected at her tirade, but yet something tugged at his heart. He did not know his father, but he was sure that whoever he was, he would not do that if it weren't the right thing to do. What about his grandparents? Grandpa and Grandma Evans even seemed to think so too!

"You do not have the right to badmouth him. He is not here—"

"To defend himself? Of course he is not. He is dead. He blew himself up with your mother."

BANG!

Another glass exploded and Harry was pushed back once again.

"Look at yourself. You do not know the man and yet defend him at all costs. Its is pathetic. He died," her voice faltered. "He took Lily with him. And it was only you that was left …"

She looked at him with such strong emotions that Harry's heart reached out to hers in that short moment—but that would not last.

"This disappointment, this freakishness, this—" she couldn't complete her phrase, choosing to look at the wall.

Harry felt dejected as his aunt went on her tirade—it did not matter what was left unsaid; he had already heard it many times already.

There was silence for a long time, before he croaked his answer.

"Why—why are you telling me all this, then? Why now and why—why even?"

Aunt Petunia stared at him for a few seconds before grabbing one of those letters that were stuffed everywhere and throwing at him. Harry looked at the thing with great curiosity, avidly tearing it open as he saw his name: an invitation to that famed school! Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!

Toads, owls, wizarding hats, a bloke named Dumbledore, books on potions, charms—what a queer thing. He could not help but to let a splitting grin form on his face. He looked at the dejected face of Aunt Petunia, who had cleared her throat before once again speaking.

"I talked to Vernon. There is this really excellent school in America, in the continent or even in Australia that you could go. Money would be a little tight, but at least you would be far away from these people, and—"

Wait! Far away? In his mind there was almost nothing but the thought of going to the school where his own parents had went to, to experience magic and charms, and spells, and—what was it? Potions, brooms, something called Transfiguration. This was wonderful! Why would he ever pass on this?

"—but you are not really listening, are you, you ungrateful brat?"

He looked at he angry face, trying to muster a neutral expression, but he was never a good liar and it showed on his face how he must have been feeling.

Aunt Petunia seemed desperate behind all that anger and all that anguish and looked at him, again, this time a bit more forceful in her address.

"You do not have to go to these people. I—I will make sure that they would not bother us. You can live a normal life."

But Harry would never let go of this little piece of happiness—there was the key to his problems: a way away from the Dursleys, something to remember his parents, something that not even Dudley could do—magic! He could not believe it!

"But I want to go to Hogwarts! I want to learn magic like my dad and my mum!"

"You do not understand what these people are capable of, Potter. It is not only jokes and pretty lights. These people can be really dangerous—"

"But my parents went there. Surely—"

"Surely nothing. You do not understand. If you go there you will be killed, boy."

Harry stopped and stared at his aunt. He did not understand her at all. In one moment she was prepared to be the worst person he had ever known; in the next, she was almost pleading with him to heed her warnings—as if she suddenly … cared.

He stuttered when he gave her his answer.

"It is part of me, Aunt Petunia. The freakishness, that is, the magic. This is a school, after all. They would not, you know—"

"They would! You do not understand, Potter, they would! That monster had followers. If only you could see the things they were capable of. Your mother was a great …" She trembled as she forced out the next words. "Witch, but not even she was capable of holding them off. They just went to her house and killed her and your father as if they were nothing but flies, nothing but little rats to step on. Please, do not go to that school."

Harry felt a great pang in his chest as he pondered everything Aunt Petunia was talking. If she cared so much about him, why hadn't she ever done something nice to him? What did it cost to be there? To care for him? To help him? Now she had just showed him something beautiful, fantastical—magic!—and now she just wanted him to—what? Let it go? Forget it ever existed?

"I—I want to know more about this school. They say a representative will come on the thirti—"

"Do not listen to them. They just want you to go away, to forget your people. Please do not go."

Harry was absolutely confused. He surely wanted to learn magic, to go to the school his parents went to; he wanted—at the same time—to get … to leave …

He did not know what he wanted. He just felt it was nice that some part of Aunt Petunia cared. He so wished she had cared sooner. He would not let go off this.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Petunia. This is too fantastic, too—cool! I cannot—I have to see these things for myself. I really want to go to this school."

She seemed defeated for a spare moment, before anger—again—took its place.

"Then you'll only prove your ungratefulness. Weren't we good caretakers? Have you ever gone hungry? Or thirsty? You always had our clothes, our food, a good education! That meant nothing to you?"

"And what about Dudley? You only give him the best; you only give me scraps and what's left of everything—"

"He is my son. He is special. You are not special, you hear me. YOU are not special!"

She said that with such a heavy emotion that it left Harry floored for a moment. Those words seemed to carry a great weight for her.

"I should have listened to Vernon. I should …"

She seemed a bit wary of continuing. Harry prompted her, but she stayed silent. She trembled before getting a hold of herself again. A timid voice cut through Harry's musings.

"What about us?"

Harry blinked at the question, not fully understanding.

"What do you mean?"

She looked at him with fearful eyes.

"If you go to that place, they will come for us. The house will not be protected when you get older. Is that what you want?"

He did not have the slightest idea what she was on about, and she had now a deranged look on her—it made him quite scared, in fact.

"I—I'll study magic in the school. I could see a way to protect you. I'll—"

She left out a humourless laugh.

"Oh my, what a flashback. Your mother did say the exact same words to me, not long ago."

She got up and looked at him with a mocking stare.

"Like mother, like son. The same arrogance, the same pride, the same disregard. You will make something up, won't you? You will wave a wand silly and make everything pretty and perfumed again, won't you Lily?"

Harry felt ashamed about that. He would never let Aunt Petunia know, but he suspected that if she had insisted, things would be quite different—his feelings were all over the place as she continued talking, though. She was with her back turned as she finished.

"Fine, then. Go and destroy yourself. Do your best not to bring anything to us. It is not like we can do anything, can we? We are just a simple bunch of muggles," he annotated that strange word for later. "Go on then, suit yourself; just do not break this family."

Harry hesitated once, twice, many times, but he had to say it—he was hopeful even then.

"Aunt Petunia, I am family, too. I will not let them do anything to us, to Dudley—"

She laughed.

"We are family, aren't we? I had not even noticed … It is clear to me now, as it was for Vernon since the beginning: you are nothing but a little manipulative, rotten brat. I want nothing to do with you anymore."

Then she turned her back.

"Know this, though: if anything—anything at all—happens to Dudley or to MY family, I will come for you, no matter what kinds of magic you spruce up against me. I will come back from the dead to haunt you—I know that that is possible, at least. I may not know much, but I know enough about your world to make your life miserable, if you even dare to lay a single hand on him."

She left, pounding the kitchen door as she went, using a small handkerchief to dry up the trails on her face.

Harry felt as the worst person in the world as he stared at the letter.