Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or his universe, I simply dabble with the characters that J. K. Rowling created.

Trigger Warning: Mentions of abuse and minor self-harm.

Edited to add date and line breaks for ease of understanding timeline and timeshifts.

Saturday, 5th of September, 1987

The sun shone between clouds, a light mist falling from the sky. A calm seemed to envelop the morning, as even the sounds of creatures were muffled. The houses that lined Privet Drive, were seemingly identical in design, only varying in colour and plant life in the front garden. Inside each house, quiet sounds of people stirring from slumber and shuffling through Saturday morning routines joined the quiet trills of birds from their nests.

The sounds of breakfast cooking and washing being started in No 4 Privet Drive were much the same as any house on the street, the only difference being that the one making them was not the lady of the house or the bachelor, but one small boy in worn, baggy shorts and an extremely large stained shirt. At only seven years of age, this boy was well versed in the early morning chores of a well-functioning household, as he'd been doing them unassisted for two years. Each day the routine was the same. Wake with the sun, straighten his room, emerge quickly and quietly, gather the washing together, start the machine running, and then start the process of cooking a full fry up for breakfast. If done correctly, and promptly, he might be rewarded with more than just the table scraps from his cousin's plate. He might even manage to sneak a whole poached egg for himself.

This particular day, however, he would not receive such a luxurious meal, as before he managed to get the water boiling for the eggs, his Aunt Petunia stepped into the kitchen.

"Late again, boy." her shrill voice frightened birds from the back garden. "If this lazy behaviour keeps up I'll lock you in that cupboard with no meals for a week." She said this easily, a normal speech pattern from her thin, chapped lips. She sat, her lips pursed as she perused the morning's paper, muttering to herself about whatever rotten news the headline was today.

Yes, the boy must be lazy. Never mind the fact that the beans were done, kept warm in the pot, or that the scones were nearly finished baking, the sausages sizzling, and the bacon nigh the perfect crispness. Forget about the fried mushrooms having just been started so they finish on time with the eggs. The tomatoes would be fried at the very last minute, shortly after the last egg was plated. The toast was the only part of the meal his relatives made themselves, as no one wants cold or soggy toast with their breakfast.

Yes, Aunt Petunia." he answered quickly, knowing any reasoning he gave would simply be taken as an excuse and not an explanation of his aunt's constant early rising or the shocking amount of food he readied each morning.

It seemed that no matter how early he woke, or how quiet he was in gathering the washing, his aunt woke just when he thought he'd accomplished his goal. The one time he got an egg from the large morning meal, having wolfed it down, still scalding hot, before his relatives woke, his aunt had somehow known, and he'd been shrieked at for an hour, before being thrown into his room for nine days straight, only receiving a reprieve for bathroom breaks and sips of water before being shut in once more. The fullness in his stomach had been worth it though, even if it left him hungrier in the following days.

At least his uncle had agreed that his punishment was thorough enough. He wasn't sure he'd have survived another beating so shortly after the last one. He'd somehow measured the laundry detergent incorrectly, which resulted in several spots of discolouration on the clothing, including his uncle's favourite blue collared shirt. It didn't matter how many times he said that he'd measured correctly, or how detailed a description he gave of the steps of that particular chore, the blows came continuously, bruises blooming on his back, ribs, and thighs, his uncle's rage evident. That had been months ago, the only remaining evidence was a twinge in his ribcage when he reached too high or twisted wrong.

The water was now boiling, and the young child added the salt and began rapidly stirring the water in preparation for the eggs, his left working the mushrooms so they caramelized evenly. Though he was so young, he loved this part of cooking. The ability to add flavours and ingredients together to make a delicious meal was enthralling, the science of parts combining to create a whole. The order of it gave him a feeling of security, he knew that unless steps were properly followed, the eggs wouldn't set right, the bacon would burn, or the salt would overpower the flavour of the meal. Even without the threat of his uncle's violence, the boy would've enjoyed this process.

Heavy steps sounded above them as said uncle slid out of bed and thumped to the bathroom to prepare for his day. The boy's heart thudded in his chest. Unless these eggs were done and on a plate soon, his several months' worth of recovery would be for nought, and with school starting again the upcoming Monday, he knew his uncle would be much more… creative in his punishments.

"My sweet little Duddi-kins!" Aunt Petunia's voice cut through his panicked thinking, as egg after egg cooked in the pot. "Breakfast is almost finished, time to rise and shine, my sweet Love!"

The loud thuds from Dudley's steps filtered into the kitchen. His steps were quieter than Uncle Vernon's, though not by much.

In the distraction of the moment, the young boy plated the final egg and quickly seared the tomatoes, the smell making his mouth water. He waited only briefly for the egg water to cool before he quickly gulped the salty mixture. With his aunt only poking her head out of the kitchen, he only risked a few drinks, before dumping the rest into the sink. While the salt flavour was strong, the remaining bits of floating egg were enough motivation for him to overcome it.

Thankfully, the three plates of food were set on the table right as Uncle Vernon and Dudley ambled into the room.

"Into the cupboard, boy!" Uncle Vernon barked unnecessarily, as the boy in question was currently headed in the direction of his 'room'. Yes, the cupboard space under his relative's stairs that he was frequently locked into as punishment was his room, it had been for as long as he could remember. Though, if he tried hard, and squished his eyes with the palms of his hands, he could almost see a brightly lit room decorated with colourful toys and a small bed with zoo-themed bedding adorning it. It must be from a dream, details long since forgotten, or maybe a distant memory of one of Dudley's old themes, he changed them frequently.

Now sequestered in the dark space, he shooed the spiders that had gathered in his absence and settled onto his bed. A worn mattress on the floor, a tattered blanket that had long since lost its pattern and colour next to him, his glasses set gently on the floor near the top of his mattress, the small triangular space as organized as it could be, for the astonishing lack of personal belongings the boy had. He lay down, his green eyes flicking to a spot on the bottom of the step near his head. Even without light and his glasses, he could trace the writing there with his finger. 'Harry's Room' was scrawled messily where his relatives couldn't see. The misshapen letters were typical for a boy just learning to write, as that was when he'd labelled the space he spent the majority of his time in.

He'd written it as a reminder for himself. 'Harry, my name is Harry. This is my room. This is my life. This is the best a freak like me deserves, and so it's mine.' Harry thought to himself. He wasn't sure how his aunt and uncle would feel about his thoughts, so he never spoke them aloud, not even in a whisper.

He had learned his name the week before starting Reception, as his uncle didn't want him to stand out even more than he already would, being so freakish. It had been a shock to learn that his name wasn't 'boy' or 'freak' as his relatives frequently called him. An even greater shock though was that he had not just one name, but two.

Harry Potter. He repeated it to himself several times a day during that week. Then his teacher quizzed him on it daily, every morning, with the rest of the children. He assumed that was normal, only special kids, like Dudley, knew their name from birth, and everyone else learned it at school. He had taken to school quickly, especially since his cousin had been placed in a different class. 'A class for special, intelligent children, just like my Duddi-kins!' his aunt had crooned at the time. His uncle just expressed gratitude that Harry wouldn't drag him down into his freakish idiocy during school.

The week after school started was when Harry had been 'promoted' to independent chores, where he now was taking care of the morning routine, cleaning up from breakfast, and weeding the front garden every three days without the prompting or assistance of his aunt. Uncle Vernon had watched as his wife puttered around doing work while Harry was seemingly idle, cooking breakfast, and his face had grown darker with rage. "That's it, Petunia," he growled, "if the freak's old enough to get head knowledge, he's old enough to do his chores alone."

In the last two years, Harry had made more English Breakfasts, done more loads of washing, and pulled more weeds than any kid in his school, even the students in sixth year. Not that he was aware of that fact, as like most children, he only knew what he'd grown up with, believing his life was the normal life of a child like him.

Harry fought the sleep that tried to claim him as he lay there. It wouldn't do for his aunt or uncle to find him sleeping when he knew he'd be called upon to clean up from the morning meal. He yawned for the third time and rubbed roughly at his eyes, bright flashes of colour sparking across his vision as he did. As the time dragged on, he started pinching his thighs to stay awake, his usual method of staving off the sleep a little longer.

His dirty fingernails dug into his soft flesh as he worked to keep himself awake. For whatever reason, this was one of the few methods that kept him awake while waiting for his relatives to finish their meals. Maybe it was something about the rush he felt when his nails would break through the skin, or perhaps it was the sensory experience of the stickiness of the blood that would form small beads at the surface of the crescent-shaped wound. Maybe it was that this was pain he was in control of, instead of at the mercy of his violent uncle and cousin. Whatever the reason was, it worked and kept him from many a beating.

Only three satisfyingly painful pinches later, a sharp rapping sounded through his door. "Out, clean, now!" Vernon's order was short and not so sweet, as he refused to waste unnecessary energy on ordering the freak around. Harry jumped up quickly, grabbed his glasses, and left his room for the kitchen squinting in the sudden change of lighting, though refusing to slow in case his uncle decided to thump him one 'for good measure'.

The dishes and kitchen took little time to clean and straighten, as Harry had done this several hundred times before. Once it was satisfyingly sparkling, he tentatively stood in the entrance to the living room, where his relatives sat watching the telly. His eyes were drawn to the moving pictures on the screen, and his ears picked up each sound, though he resisted lingering on them, knowing if he was caught indulging in this special pastime, he'd be punished. Freaks like him didn't have time to waste watching a show, he had far too many chores to be done before the noon meal was to be made.

Harry coughed quietly, drawing his aunt's attention. "The kitchen is clean, Aunt Petunia, would you like to check it?"

Petunia stood roughly, "Obviously!" She spat, her face twisted in anger. "You can't be trusted with a task so important without checking it, especially since you might've done something freakish to finish so fast."

Harry nodded, not knowing what he could've done that was freakish, but knowing that his relatives were sure to know if he'd been freakish, and could help cure him of it. While he and Petunia were checking his work in the kitchen, the phone rang in the hall.

"Petunia, phone," Vernon called across the house, his attention only off the TV for a second.

"It looks good enough, even for you." Petunia sauntered to the phone, leaving Harry to start on his next chore, maintaining her award-winning front garden.

"Yes, hello? Oh, Hi, Betsy! Mhm? Today? Of course. No, not at all. Quite right. Oh, really?" Petunia's half of the conversation flowed into the living room, where Dudley sat staring into the TV from three feet away, his large form splayed out on the floor. He sat up, however, when he heard his mother say, "Yes, we'll see you soon Mrs Polkiss, thank you for calling."

"Dudley, my sweet cherub," Petunia called, "Your friend is coming over to play in an hour, what would you like to do, play here with your new computer games? Or go to the park?"

Dudley screwed up his face in thought. While he did love his new computer games, though they could've had more fighting in them, something tickled the back of his mind as he thought about the park. 'Oh yeah, I promised Piers we'd have some fun with Harry next time he came over.'

"The park, Mummy, I want the park!"

"Are you sure? You don't want to stay home so Mrs Polkiss and I can have a cuppa and a chat?" Petunia asked.

"No! MUMMY, PARK!" Dudley twisted his face into an expression of sadness and wailed. No tears, of course, just enough to manipulate his mother into giving him his way. It was scary how easily she gave in to his demands. "I WANNA CHASE FREAK!"

"All right, my sweet, brave boy," Petunia acquiesced, especially since her Duddi-kin was so good at wearing down the boy so he wouldn't do any freakish things. Of course, that boy would only be able to go if he'd finished all his morning chores in time.

A short hour later, Harry's morning chores were complete, Piers and his mother had arrived at the Dursley's sparkling clean abode, and the three boys were allowed to walk, or in Dudley's case, waddle, to the neighbourhood park down the street. Harry ran ahead, desperate to put as much distance between himself and the other two before they got to the park. He may have to suffer with the boys beating on him, but only if they could catch him. The two mothers lagged, sharing the newest gossip between them as they kept one eye on the children in front of them.

Harry's lungs felt like they were bursting with each breath he took, his ribs twinging in pain as he rested his hands on his knees at the entrance to the park. Piers could've caught up with him long before Dudley, but they always worked together to catch Harry in the game they'd creatively titled 'Harry Hunting'. His black, tousled hair fell forward as he hung his head as he recovered from his sprinting. His eyes continuously scanned around him, ready to start running as soon as he caught a glimpse of the two boys who filled what little free time he had with torment.

Once his breathing returned to somewhat normal, Harry ventured a glance around the rest of the park. Several families had taken advantage of the brief reprieve from the rain to have a picnic in the shady grass area, the children shrieking with glee as swings flew through the air and structures were climbed. The area behind the play structure is where Harry usually ran first, hoping that the boys would grow distracted by the shining colours of the play area and the joyful noises of play. Hearing panting sounds approach made him look once more behind him to see his cousin and his friend ambling towards him.

Off he ran, zigging and zagging between picnic blankets and other children's chase games. Through the sandy area, ducking under bars and platforms, jumping wooden barriers holding the sand in the play area. Now in the small ditch just behind the play structures, he lay flat on his belly, wishing himself smaller so the boys wouldn't see him and give up for better prospects on the swings.

"What are you doing?" a voice from the top of the dome climbing structure called.

Harry barely moved, assuming the voice was talking to a friend on the equipment.

You, the little boy in the ditch!" the voice called again, followed by the thud of a body jumping off the structure into the sand. The footsteps approached, the sand crunching beneath shoes as the overly curious child came near to Harry's hiding spot. Harry covered his head with his hands and tucked his body into the fetal position, surely this normal child would see his freakishness and attempt to cure him as well.

"Hey, are… are you alright?" The voice, clearly a girl's, spoke again, softer this time. "Who are you hiding from?"

Harry peeked one eye open and looked at the girl standing there. "My cousin and his friend. They're chasing me." He shut his eyes tight again, hoping that if he couldn't see, his tormentors wouldn't see him.

"Oh, are you playing hide and seek?" She asked, clearly determined to ruin his chances at escape by drawing attention to his hiding place.

"Something like that, so go away or they'll find me," Harry spoke without opening his eyes.

"Well that's a terrible hiding spot," She stated matter of factly. Harry opened his eyes in shock. She was squatting at the edge of the play area, her head tilted to the side, and her eyes, a subtle mix of brown and dark grey, were wide as she stared at him. "Come with me!" She said, her arm extended to him, offering him help.

He flinched and then looked past her frame to see Dudley and Piers finally entering the park, with his aunt and her friend close behind. He looked back at the girl, her eyes seemed friendly, and she had a faint smile on her slightly angular face as she kept her hand out for him. Harry made a split-second decision, and grabbed the girl's hand, disregarding all the lessons he'd heard from teachers and other parents about stranger danger to children his age. After all, stranger danger only applies to adults, right?

She led him away from the play structure, towards a picnic blanket under a shady tree. "This is my picnic, my Da went to the loo, but he won't mind if you hide behind our shade tree," the girl explained as they walked. Harry was constantly checking behind them, positive that the boys would catch him sneaking away and give chase, but they seemed oblivious to them as they searched the many faces on the playground equipment for his.

Safely sequestered behind the tree, Harry sat, leaning against the tree, his hands shaking with adrenalin and fear. He was safe, for now. At least until Aunt Petunia turned her attention from the gossip to his whereabouts and noticed his absence. The girl sat comfortably on the centre of the checkered blanket, a wicker basket propped open next to her. She reached inside and grabbed a packet of crisps, the package crinkled in her hands.

Harry's stomach growled incessantly at the sight, a reminder that he'd only had the end bit of a particularly crunchy piece of bacon that Dudley hadn't wanted, and the egg water for breakfast, and nothing since. He clutched his sides, wrapping his arms around him in an attempt to muffle the atrocious sound. He didn't deserve more food, freaks like him needed to starve the freakishness out before it could corrupt anyone else. He turned away, knowing that watching the girl eat the crisps would be far too painful, and not in the oddly comforting way his pinches could be.

He closed his eyes, letting the sounds of the park amplify in his head, till he could hear the children playing on the equipment, the birds chirping in the trees, and even a squirrel above him cracking an acorn. In the few brief moments he had, he liked to play this game. He didn't exist, his relatives didn't exist, nothing except these sounds, a cacophony of pleasant noises that ebbed and flowed with the wind. Sometimes, if he could have quiet long enough, he thought he could even hear the sounds of ants crawling on the dirt, or the heartbeat of the titmouse peeking out of her nest, maybe even the sound of the light from the sun reflecting from the windows of the houses near the park.

"My name's Sylvia," the girl's voice broke through his concentration and his eyes flew open. He rotated slightly, just enough to see her, but to not be seen himself. She wasn't looking at him, not giving away his spot, just sitting there with her crisps in hand, leaning back on her other arm as she snacked. "What's yours?"

"Harry," he answered.

"Those boys you're hiding from, they didn't look like they were playing hide and seek," There was no question in her voice, simply stating a fact as casually as one would talk about the weather.

"They call it 'Harry Hunting'," he muttered, now looking at the grass poking into his legs. He brushed a leaf that fell from the tree off his knee. "If I'm caught, they win, and the prize is extra boxing practice."

A few moments of silence passed until Sylvia gasped. She realized what Harry was hinting at. If they caught him, it wasn't just a friendly game of touch-and-go, he would walk away with bruises from this game, especially as he looked to be at least two years younger than the hulking boy that she'd first noticed while leading Harry away.

Harry blinked, having long accepted the consequences of his cousin's favourite game, and flicked a blade of grass into the air. They sat in silence a while longer, until he heard the sounds of unfamiliar footsteps approaching. Sylvia shuffled over on the blanket, making room for whoever had just arrived.

"Da?"

"Yes, my dear," a distinct, yet quiet voice responded.

"I met a little boy on the playground while you were in the loo."

"Oh? Which one?"

"He's hiding behind our tree. Some boys are picking on him, and if he's caught, it will escalate to fisticuffs." Sylvia's voice was even, once more simply stating facts clearly and calmly.

"Ah, well, welcome to our picnic young one," The voice now greeted him, though he still hadn't looked for the source, as a new arrival to the blanket might attract unwanted attention from his cousin. "Would you like a morsel or two? Or did your family bring a picnic of your own?"

Harry started in surprise. An offer of food? From a stranger? Hiding behind their claimed tree was one thing, but taking their food? Absolutely not, that was not an option. He was far too freakish for this nice family to share their food with him. He simply couldn't. If he did, some of his freakiness might corrupt them, and turn them into freaks too. "No, thank you."

"Your new friend is polite, Sylvia, perhaps you could learn a thing or two from him?" the voice, still soft, now had a hint of mirth in it.

"Oh Da, you know I try," Sylvia responded, "I just need to speak the facts, if I don't, who will?"

The laughter that followed Sylvia's statement spoke of many prior conversations on this topic, a loving moment between parent and child. Harry risked a look. The man who had arrived was tall, very tall. Even while sitting his height was intimidating. His long black hair was tied in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. His eyes, focused on Sylvia, were black as well, though when they caught the sun they hinted at a deep, rich brown. He was pale, not abnormal for living in Surrey, but it seemed to run deeper than most. His hook nose was the most prominent feature, though it suited his build, long and angular.

Harry looked between the two, they looked similar, but not as similar as children usually do to their parents. Perhaps he was her uncle… no, Sylvia had called him 'Da'. No matter, they seemed to be family, and who was he to judge? No one, just a freak who was taken in generously by his aunt and uncle in their attempt to cure him of his freakish nature.

He shook himself from his musings, not wanting to be rude to the nice man who hadn't shooed him away. The motion drew the man's attention, and their eyes met for a brief moment. The man's dark eyes widened ever so slightly, and Harry blinked and turned back around.

"What's your name, young man?" The man spoke, his voice subtle, yet strong.

"I'm Harry, sir," He answered, once more fidgeting with the greenery at his fingertips.

"Harry what?" The man's voice had taken an odd quality to it, almost, nervous.

"Harry Potter, sir," Harry started to feel nervous himself, surely he'd been hiding long enough for Aunt Petunia to notice he was missing. Not wanting to get into trouble only two days before school started, he moved to stand. "If you'll excuse me, you've both been very kind. Thank you, Sylvia, for helping me find a great hiding spot, but I'm sure my relatives must be wondering where I am."

"Wait!" Sylvia cried, "Let me make sure those bullies are gone first!"

"They won't be," Harry answered, not pausing at all. This girl's concern was touching, but not worth getting in more trouble for.

"What do you mean? How do you know?"

"The big one's my cousin," Harry answered, "And the smaller one is his friend."

The man had been silent during this entire exchange, his mouth slightly agape and his eyes focused on the young boy before him. There was no way, this couldn't be… He was way too young, he looked to be only four or five, though his speech was very polite for a boy that age, a testimony to his parents raising him. Which completely ruled him out, the Harry Potter he was thinking of was an orphan, with no parents to raise him. The boy's - Harry's- response to Sylvia's blunt question drew him from his thoughts.

"Cousin? Why are you here with your cousin?" He asked. Why was he so curious? Aunts and uncles watched their nieces and nephews all the time, what was so odd about spending time with a cousin at the park? Nothing at all.

"My aunt brought me, sir," Harry responded, trying to detach himself from this conversation that never seemed to end. If he didn't go soon, Aunt Petunia would surely find him goofing off, or worse, think he was spreading his freakishness to other families.

"Ah, well, you'll be wanting to hurry back soon then, to see your parents?" The man raised one eyebrow quizically.

"No, sir, it's just my aunt and uncle," Harry sidestepped further from the picnic blanket, his head turning back and forth between the conversation and where he was sure he'd last seen his aunt sitting with Mrs Polkiss. "My parents are dead."

The man blinked. He cleared his throat, opened his mouth, and closed it again.

"If you don't mind, sir," Harry spoke again, "I really must be getting back." If he hurried, he might even avoid a punishment.

"Let me walk you back, Harry," the man stood abruptly as if a difficult decision had just been made.

Harry sighed, of course, this person had noticed his freakishness too. He'd tried so hard to hide any abnormalities from these nice people, it wouldn't do for them to tell his aunt just how freakish he'd been at the park, stealing their shade tree for a hiding spot of all things. Not seeing a way to convince the man otherwise, he nodded and started walking towards the benches where all the parents sat.

Sylvia moved to join them but stopped at the look her Da gave. Just who was this boy? Harry Potter sounded familiar, but why? She wracked her brain, memories turning over and over like mirrors. Reflections of her younger self reading book after book, absorbing as much knowledge as she could. Her eyes widened. She knew it was familiar! That boy was… THE boy, the one!

Harry walked sullenly towards the sound he recognized as his aunt's voice, now close enough to hear.

"And then she dared to claim that my front garden had never been trimmed!" Petunia prattled.

Mrs. Polkiss gasped in shock. "How dare she! The nerve of some people, I tell you!"

Petunia nodded in agreement. "Well, it looks as though the boys have had enough of the playground. Our regular time next week, dear friend?"

"Oh, yes, I'll call you if plans change again," Mrs. Polkiss answered. "My sister should be back home by then."

As Mrs Polkiss and her son walked out of the park, Petunia noticed that her nephew was not with her precious baby boy. He had a look of consternation on his face. "Duddy boy, where is the F-Harry," Petunia corrected herself. It would be utterly disastrous to have her carefully crafted image shattered simply because she couldn't control her tongue. It always loosened when she spoke with Betsy, something about that woman could coax a secret from the toughest criminals.

"He ran, Mummy," Dudley cried, "I just wanted to chase him and he ran and hid. We looked all over the whole park and he's just gone."

"Well, don't worry, we'll find him," she tried to hush him quickly, worse than speaking the wrong name in public, would be the mothers at the park hearing she'd lost the child in her care. Even if they knew he was not right in the head.

It was at this moment that she noticed the boy approaching, with a man walking beside him. "See, there he is," Petunia pointed at Harry. The man looked oddly familiar, like from a dream, or a long-forgotten memory, but she quickly dismissed it.

"Is this your nephew?" The man asked, gesturing to the boy in question.

"Yes, yes, thank you so much for bringing him here," Petunia spoke quickly, "He wasn't bothering you was he? If he was, we're sorry, he's a bit touched." Petunia's voice dropped to a dramatic whisper at the end, though barely quieter than her normally shrill voice.

"Well, he seemed perfectly reasonable to me, rather polite in fact," the man explained, "Pardon my curiosity, if I'm prying do feel free to disregard my question and send me packing, but, what is your name, ma'am?"

"Oh," Petunia giggled, though it sounded more like a gasping sea lion, "I'm Petunia Dursley, three times award winner of Little Whinging Best Groomed Garden."

"Ah, wow, your garden must be lovely then," he complimented, "Again, pardon my curiosity, but you seem so familiar to me, I feel I must've gone to primary with you, what is your maiden name?"

"Oh, erm, I was thinking you were a bit familiar also," Petunia furrowed her brow, something niggling in the back of her mind but she again, brushed it away, "Evans, my maiden name is Evans."

Bingo. There was his answer. His suspicions were confirmed, though what he planned past that he hadn't a clue. He cleared his throat, "I guess not, you must just have one of those familiar faces."

"Right, well, best be on our way," Petunia grasped Harry's hand and pulled him toward her. "Thank you again for returning my… nephew." Grabbing Dudley's hand with her free one, she dragged them from the park, the conversation had gotten awkward, and if there was one thing Petunia didn't do, it was awkward.

A/N: Well, that's a lot different than when I first wrote this story. I had planned for Harry to meet Sylvia in much the same way, but one of the many things I've learned in the years since I've written it is that the original way I wrote their meeting was very unrealistic. A typical nine-year-old probably wouldn't be walking around Little Whinging by herself, let alone Petunia's precious 'Duddi-kins'. Well, no worries, I knew rewriting it would be a challenge, and that it would turn out a lot different than the first one.