Chapter 10
Disclaimer: I Don't Own Harry Potter or Five Nights at Freddy's
Snow still clung to the Pizzaplex windows on December 28th, 1988, though much of the Christmas grandeur had faded into a gentle calm. Early that morning, Harry stirred from sleep in the security office, the faint buzz of overhead lights and the hum of distant machinery lulling him into a slow, easy waking. The leftover holiday decorations—small twinkling lights, garlands draped around doorframes—gave the otherwise sterile corridors a cozy sparkle. He stretched, tugging the Vanny costume closer as though it were a plush companion. Its fabric pressed against him with a familiar warmth. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he caught sight of Vanessa hunched at her desk, sipping coffee. She looked over at the soft sounds of him shifting, and her lips curled in a lazy smile.
He rose on stiff legs, and Vanessa tossed him a sweater. The morning chill lingered in the building, and he pulled the sweater over his head, its fabric smelling faintly of laundry soap. Padding over to her side, he settled into the spare chair she'd drawn up. She nudged a small cup of cocoa toward him, steam coiling in the cold air. He wrapped his hands around it, soaking up the heat.
"You look miles away, kiddo," she murmured, genuine warmth in her voice.
He fiddled with the cuff of his sweater, glancing at the quiet halls visible on the security monitor. "Just... thinking," he said. Then his gaze slid to the suit draped across his lap. "I'm happy," he added, voice small but steady.
Vanessa ruffled his hair in that casual gesture of affection that had grown second nature. "Me too," she said, and for a moment, they shared a contented silence. The Pizzaplex beyond the door was waking up, staff rolling in with subdued chatter, animatronics running their daily boot-up routines. The swirl of normalcy comforted Harry more than words could convey.
The next few days passed in a gentle lull. Snow continued to fleck the windows, but inside, the leftover Christmas lights made everything feel festive. Families still wandered in, some seeing the holiday decor before it vanished. The animatronics, no longer in full holiday show mode, gave smaller performances that Harry sometimes joined. He was growing bolder with each step onstage, the Vanny costume swishing around his ankles, the voice within its seams whispering quiet reassurances whenever his nerves fluttered.
As December 31st approached, excitement stirred once more. The Pizzaplex readied itself for a New Year's Eve event, draping banners of neon tinsel across balconies and setting up a giant digital clock in the atrium for the midnight countdown. The day flew by in a blur of final preparations—Chica juggling confetti cannons, Monty fine-tuning a music playlist, Roxanne double-checking the timing for the stage lights, and Freddy ensuring everything ran smoothly. Harry watched from the sidelines at first, timid curiosity in his eyes, but as they beckoned him closer, he found himself caught up in the bustle.
That night, the atrium pulsed with families who decided to ring in the new year with bright arcade lights and comedic animatronic shows. A hush of expectancy hung in the air as midnight crept closer. Vanessa kept near Harry, a reassuring hand on his shoulder. The illusions of the Afton family lingered at the edges of the crowd—William, Clara, Elizabeth, Evan, and Michael—smiling softly, proud yet unobtrusive.
When the countdown began, a roar of voices joined in unison: Ten, nine, eight... Harry's heart thumped at the throng of excitement. Overhead, screens displayed colorful images, and the costume gave a gentle squeeze around his waist, almost as if encouraging him not to shrink away. Five, four, three... Monty flashed him a thumbs-up, Roxy leaned over to smirk and say, "You got this." Chica clapped her wings, stoking the crowd's feverish energy, while Freddy stood tall, radiating calm. Two, one—fireworks appeared on the screens, confetti rained from overhead, and cheering filled every corner of the building. Harry gazed upward, confetti dusting his hair, the costume pulsing like a second heartbeat.
"Happy New Year," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. The confetti caught the neon glow, turning the air into a kaleidoscope of color. He felt an undercurrent of confidence, a notion that the future, once a scary blur, might be bright after all.
January dawned with a crispness in the air outside, though inside the Pizzaplex the climate remained warm and humming. Harry's daily routine shifted. He woke each morning in the security office, often to the smell of brewed coffee and the sound of whirring monitors. After a quick wash and breakfast—sometimes Chica's leftover pastries—he ventured out to help staff with small tasks. Passing out tickets to new arrivals, giving directions to lost parents, even retrieving plushies from storerooms—these chores fostered his sense of belonging. No longer the quivering, uncertain boy, he found a quiet pride in each completed errand.
Vanessa began teaching him practical skills. She guided him through counting change for the occasional parents who needed to break larger bills, or reading brief item descriptions on a supply list. He felt both nerves and thrill each time he successfully identified numbers or words. Early on, he stumbled, but never faced scorn; staff and animatronics alike praised his progress, Roxanne especially giving enthusiastic encouragement. "Look at you, learning the ropes," she teased, but her grin was genuine, and her words lit a spark of confidence in him.
The animatronics took turns showing him bits of their expertise. Freddy gently coaxed him to breathe deeply whenever he seemed anxious, focusing on the steady in-and-out of air until the tension ebbed. Monty, in a more playful approach, made him practice reflex games—swinging a foam club at colored targets, teaching him to trust his instincts. Roxanne, ever the flamboyant cheerleader, reminded him in a half-joking tone that he was "cool enough to handle anything." And Chica, in a motherly stroke, taught him simple cooking skills—a basic sandwich-making session that left them both giggling when he tried too many toppings at once. These lessons, scattered throughout the day, filled him with a sense of normal childhood learning he'd never experienced.
In quieter evenings, when the crowds thinned, Harry draped himself in the Vanny costume and napped backstage or in the security office. That intangible voice now spoke more frequently, though still in hushed murmurs he couldn't fully articulate. One night, he dozed off near a crate of spare plushies, only to jolt awake to that soft whisper, "Stay close to your family." His heart thumped. He blinked at the dark corners of the hallway, as if expecting someone to appear. The costume's warmth anchored him, the plush arms snug around his torso. Who was speaking? The question coiled in his mind, and that sense of protective magic hovered.
When he relayed the experience to Vanessa the next morning, voice tremoring with uncertainty, she knelt, placed both hands on his shoulders, and told him, "We'll figure it out together." Her seriousness pressed through her usual gentle smile, a flicker of concern in her eyes. He nodded, relieved. Though this new dimension of the costume sometimes unnerved him, he felt safe confiding in her.
Late in January, Dumbledore's efforts took a darker turn. Though Harry remained blissfully ignorant in the neon sanctuary, the wizard's frustration crackled like a storm. In a far-off office wreathed in the hush of ancient walls, Dumbledore paced, eyes flinty behind half-moon glasses. His attempts to track Harry had yielded nothing—no magical signature of a child in the usual Muggle areas. He commanded witches and wizards to scour city after city, rationalizing it as a caring search for the "lost Boy Who Lived," while inwardly cursing their failures to locate any trace. To mask his desperation, he spun tales of concern, stoking the wizarding public's pity. But in private, he seethed at the realization that the boy must be shielded by something beyond his normal manipulations. So he redoubled his efforts—pressuring the Ministry, forging alliances that ensured if Harry were ever found, Dumbledore alone would have final say in his fate.
While the wizarding sphere trembled under his iron grip, Harry's world brimmed with laughter and camaraderie. As February arrived, more and more returning guests recognized the shy boy in the bunny suit, greeting him with waves and occasionally showering him with small tokens of appreciation—drawn pictures, whimsical postcards, or store-bought candy. He carefully stashed each memento in a little drawer in the security office. Each new day, his place in the Pizzaplex felt more vital. Staff joked that he was the building's unofficial mascot, while children giggled whenever he hopped through a corridor, the costume's ears flopping in comedic arcs.
In turn, Harry began leaving small notes for the animatronics. He pinned them in discreet spots on their resting stations—a hand-drawn heart for Roxanne with scribbled "thank you for being brave," a star for Monty labeled "for helping me play games," a poorly spelled but heartfelt letter for Freddy about feeling safe when he's around, and a cartoonish doodle for Chica praising her cookies. Each animatronic discovered these tokens in their own time, and though they often acted amused or casual, a deeper tenderness flickered in their manner thereafter. Even from behind mechanical eyes, it was clear his appreciation touched them.
All the while, the Vanny costume's presence deepened. On quiet nights, it no longer just offered fleeting whispers or maternal hums; sometimes it guided his steps, as though a comforting hand pressed against his back. More than once, he found himself sidestepping hazards in dim corridors—loose wires, scattered boxes—at the last second, with the costume seeming to gently steer him away. The voice that lulled him to sleep carried both an affectionate warmth and a growing urgency. He sensed that it wanted him to remain vigilant, though the Pizzaplex felt as safe as ever.
In late February, a small jolt of alarm rippled through Harry's haven. The security monitors flickered one night, showing garbled static for a handful of seconds. Vanessa frowned at the glitch, tapping keys rapidly to diagnose the system. Harry stood beside her, the costume draped across his shoulders, eyebrows pinched in worry. Moments later, the feed restored, but the logs hinted at an odd anomaly near the building's perimeter. Vanessa shook her head, chalking it up to an equipment hiccup, but soon after, William appeared in his illusions form, brow creased with unease.
He lingered in the office, glancing at the logs. "Wizarding magic," he muttered under his breath, voice taut. Vanessa paled slightly, chewing her lip. Neither elaborated in front of Harry, but the tension in their postures screamed of real danger. Harry observed them with rising anxiety, and the costume pressed tighter against him, that motherly voice murmuring half-formed words. Something was changing outside these neon walls. In hushed, intense whispers, William told Vanessa that "they" were inching closer. He didn't need to name Dumbledore or the wizarding world; the warning was enough.
Despite this, daily life marched on. In early March, the routine continued: families visited, animatronics performed, staff kept the place spotless, and Harry, bunny suit in tow, offered shy greetings that brightened visitors' days. His stutter, once a frequent companion, slipped away. He spoke with a clear softness now, laughter seeping into his words. He navigated the Pizzaplex with ease, occasionally venturing into areas he once found intimidating—like the echoing backstage corridors or the large staff lounge. He no longer tripped or froze in doorways. Instead, he walked forward with that quiet resilience, the costume's comforting hum never far from his thoughts.
The animatronics noticed. One evening, Roxanne cornered him at a vending machine, arms folded with a playful grin. "You know, you're not the same scared little squirt we found months ago," she teased. "I remember you shaking like a leaf. Now look at you. You've got fans, you do chores, you even scold Monty when he throws stuff around." She ruffled his hair as he blushed. "Told you you were a star, kid."
He ducked his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I guess... I feel braver," he admitted. "I'm still shy, but... I'm not so afraid of everything now."
Roxanne gave him a gentle knock on the shoulder. "Good. About time you believed in yourself." With that, she swished away, confident stride unabated. Harry stood in that hallway for a moment, the costume's arm in his hand. He whispered, "Thank you," not sure if it was directed at Roxy or the suit or the swirling sense of hope in his chest. Perhaps all three.
But the calm was not absolute. As the weeks pressed into early March, a faint tension loomed. Sometimes, late at night, Harry felt the costume's voice speak more clearly, urging caution. "They're searching. Stay hidden, little one." It came as a gentle but firm directive, stirring a ripple of unease through him. He tried not to dwell on it during daylight, focusing instead on his tasks and the bright energy of the Pizzaplex. Still, at the periphery of his mind, a question lingered: who was searching, and how close were they?
On one particular night, March 3rd, he lay awake in the security office, the building's after-hours hush broken only by distant beeps of cleaning bots. Vanessa had turned in for a short rest, trusting the locked doors and the animatronics to keep watch. Harry, though, couldn't sleep. He cradled the Vanny costume, feeling the warmth in its seams. The voice flickered like a lullaby, but beneath it was an edge of warning. In half-lidded dozing, he imagined a hooded silhouette standing outside the Pizzaplex's neon glow, peering in with hungry eyes. He stirred, heart pounding. The costume squeezed gently, steadying him, letting him drift into restless dreams.
In truth, a lone figure did stand beyond the perimeter that very night, cloaked and silent in the darkness. Observing, waiting. Perhaps it was one of Dumbledore's dispatched wizards, or a hired wand searching for faint traces of a boy rumored to be out here. Harry would not see them, nor would the staff or animatronics, but the subtle glitch in the security feed earlier suggested a presence. Unseen but not inactive. William had been right—the wizarding realm was inching nearer, though their progress was slow and uncertain against the cunning illusions that cloaked Harry from detection.
Nevertheless, within the Pizzaplex, everything still felt like home. On March 4th, Harry woke to Monty's boisterous greeting in the corridor. The gator brandished a new scoreboard for mini-golf, proclaiming that today was the day Harry might beat a few employees. Harry giggled at Monty's teasing challenge. The morning was a swirl of tasks and children's laughter, no hint of the potential threat creeping in from outside. Even the illusions of the Afton family occasionally popped up, reassuring them all that so far, no wizard had breeched the building's wards. A fleeting sense of normalcy persevered.
Finally, on March 5th, as the day began, the leftover winter gloom gave way to a timid spring sun peeking through the windows. Staff strolled in, animatronics powered up for performance, and Harry found his gaze drawn to that morning light. He realized how far he'd come—how the suffocating darkness of his old life no longer cast its shadow on him. He was no longer that hollow-eyed boy scurrying from any raised voice. He was stronger, more confident, wrapped in a magical costume that whispered sweet reassurances and guided him with gentle nudges. He had a caretaker who cared deeply, animatronic friends who believed in him, and illusions of a family that wanted him safe.
Outside, though, a ripple of tension crackled in the air. The wizarding world would not remain oblivious forever. Dumbledore's frustration rose with each passing failure to locate Harry. The watchers he stationed grew bolder, scanning new corners of Muggle society. Their presence might soon brush against the Pizzaplex's threshold, drawn by the faint magical anomaly that was Harry's existence. The costume's warnings, the glitch in security, William's concerned visits—these hints swirled like storm clouds. The illusions that protected him were strong, but how long could they hold?
Yet in that moment, Harry stood at the cusp of the atrium, a passing staff member offering him a bright hello. He raised a hand in response, smile blossoming across his face. Monty teased him from a side corridor, boasting about an upcoming show. Roxy pretended not to watch but clearly angled her ears in his direction, proud of his improvements. Chica beckoned him for another taste-test in the staff kitchen. Freddy spotted him from across the room, giving an encouraging nod. And Vanessa's voice, calm and certain, called him to help her set up a small display near the security desk. Each step he took radiated a quietly building strength. He believed, wholeheartedly, that he belonged here.
Night would come again, bringing with it that intangible voice reminding him that danger lurked beyond the neon walls, that a figure might stand in the shadows, searching. But for now, Harry savored the light, comforted by the Vanny costume's gentle presence. He had a new family—a patchwork of animatronics, illusions, and a caring guard—who uplifted him each day. He was learning to stand on his own two feet, to speak without trembling, to find joy in simple tasks and fleeting applause. The looming threat remained on the periphery, intangible but real.
Quietly, in the hush of an afternoon lull, he took a break in a side hallway, the costume's plush hood resting against his shoulders. He closed his eyes, listening to the beep of a distant arcade machine, the faint laughter of kids, and the rhythmic hum of air vents. Then that familiar warmth tightened around him, and a whisper echoed in his mind: "They're searching. Stay hidden, little one."
His eyes opened slowly, but the fear that once would have seized him was tempered by something deeper. He placed a gentle hand on the suit's stitched fabric. "I'm not alone," he whispered. Outside, the corridor lay empty, the overhead lights softly buzzing. The Pizzaplex thrummed on, a haven of bright illusions and heartfelt unity. If a figure truly stood beyond the glass, cloaked and hunting, they had not dared to breach these doors yet. Harry breathed in, letting the hush fill him, and let out a measured exhale.
He didn't know what form the threat would take or when it might arrive, but the foundation of love and strength built here felt unbreakable. The days ahead might bring confrontation—magic against magic, illusions unraveling. But for the first time in his life, he wasn't trapped or alone, and the knowledge burned like a steady flame within his chest.
As evening fell on March 5th, the swirling crowds dwindled, and the corridors took on their usual after-hours calm. Harry retreated to the security office for the night, curling onto the small cot. Vanessa gave him a gentle goodnight, eyes reflecting her silent promise of protection. The animatronics set to low-power mode in the shadowed corners of the building. In the hush of that moment, the last faint glow of the overhead lamp revealed the boy wrapped in plush bunny fabric, heart steady, mind drifting. A sense of foreboding hovered just out of reach, unspoken but undeniable.
The voice came one last time before sleep, a lullaby whisper: "Stay safe, little one. The shadows move closer." He swallowed, eyelids heavy. Yet fear did not dominate him. He pressed the costume to his cheek, letting trust in his newfound family overshadow any dread. Wizarding forces might close in, but he had a circle of guardians here—a caretaker in Vanessa, mechanical protectors in the animatronics, an unseen lineage with the Aftons, and a magical costume that spoke like a mother's spirit. Darkness flickered at the edges, but in the heart of the Pizzaplex, a soft light thrived.
He drifted into slumber, lulled by the quiet hum of screens and the gentle pulse of fabric. Tomorrow would come, and with it, challenges. But the foundation of safety and strength had been laid. For a boy once cast aside, that was everything.
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