Chapter Text
As soon as Harry heard Aunt Petunia’s voice piercing the quiet of the morning, he knew it was going to be a long day. She always had a way of making everything feel more difficult and exhausting than it had to be.
They were dragging him along on a shopping trip to London. You see they had made new acquaintances in Little Whinging. A new family had just moved a couple of houses down, and what better way to get into their business than going to dinner at their house, and this meant one thing: they had to buy new outfits. Mrs. Figg, their usual babysitter, was unfortunately out for the day, which meant Harry was stuck tagging along.
“Get in, boy,” Uncle Vernon grumbled, a permanent scowl etched into his face as Harry climbed into the back seat.
As they finally arrived in London, Harry was struck by the bustling energy of the city. The streets were lined with buildings and people, so many that he felt almost invisible. This, he decided, was the best part of London. No one paid attention to him; no one knew who he was. He didn't have to worry about being picked on by Dudley and his gang. Even the Dursleys seemed too preoccupied with their own plans to pay him any mind.
“Boy!” Uncle Vernon barked, snapping Harry out of his amazement. “Go stand near the car and keep an eye on it. And don’t you dare cause any trouble, or this will be the last time you see a street. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” Harry replied, instinctively obeying with the practiced response that was practically ingrained into him. After years of strict lessons on how to address his aunt and uncle, he had learned it was best to just say “yes” to everything, and of course it had to be followed by the proper titles. So whenever they told him something it had to be “Yes, Aunt Petunia” and “Yes, Uncle Vernon”. It was always best to just agree with everything they said to avoid conflict. So he stood by the car for a while, and after realizing the Dursleys weren’t coming back anytime soon, he started to relax. This day might not be so bad after all, he thought.
That is, until he spotted Dudley’s round figure waddling towards him, red-faced and furious. “Freak! Show me where the car is,” Dudley demanded.
“It’s right there,” Harry replied coolly, nodding over his shoulder at the car.
But Dudley’s eyes narrowed, and Harry knew what was coming, and after all who could blame him for what he was about to do after all this was his only kind of entertainment.
“Is your face too fat to see it from here, Dudley?” Harry muttered under his breath.
“WHAT did you say?” Dudley hissed, grabbing Harry by the collar and trying to shove him. Instinctively, Harry twisted out of his grasp and started running, ducking through the crowds as Dudley shouted threats behind him.
Harry darted around strangers, nearly running into a few of them as he searched for anywhere he could hide. Finally, he spotted a door swinging shut on a nearby building—a pub, by the looks of it. Without a second thought, he ducked inside.
The interior was dim and warm, filled with the hum of quiet conversations and the occasional clink of glasses. The walls were a dark wood, lined with shelves of books and dusty trinkets. He knew he shouldn’t be here; a ten-year-old had no place in a pub. But at this point, anywhere was better than being out there with Dudley close behind. As he moved further inside, trying to blend in as best he could— or as much a a child in a room full of adults and drinks could, something caught his eye. On the wall, tucked among various other photographs, was a framed picture. Harry stopped in his tracks, unable to look away. The faces in the photograph were young and full of life—two people with bright, kind eyes and warm smiles. There was something hauntingly familiar about them.
Then, realization hit him: Those were his parents.
His heart jumped as he took a step closer, his eyes fixed on the faces of James and Lily Potter, and for a moment, it felt like they were right there with him. It was the closest he had ever felt to them, and the weight of it all left him speechless.
“Hey, kid, you can’t be here,” a voice said from behind him. A man—a waiter, he thought, if pubs even had waiters—had spotted him and was looking down at him with a frown.
Harry barely heard him, still lost in the faces in the photo. “That’s my parents,” he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else.
The man looked at him disbelievingly, and someone else leaned over, curious. “Your parents?” they asked, their tone softening a bit. “Where are they?”
Harry didn’t take his eyes off the photo as he replied quietly, “In the photo. They’re…they’re dead.”
An awkward silence settled over the people around him, and then one of the workers seemed to soften, looking at Harry with a mix of curiosity and concern. “Why are you here, kid? Shouldn’t someone be with you?”
Harry swallowed, shifting uncomfortably. “I was just running from my cousin. He…he pushes me around sometimes. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble; I just wanted to hide.” After a brief, hushed conversation among themselves, one of the men turned and disappeared into the back.
After a few minutes, the door opened and a woman stepped out. Her tall frame was softened by her warm smile, and she exuded an air of confidence and authority. She approached Harry and extended her hand. "I'm Sarah," she said kindly, introducing herself. “Someone tells me you’ve had a bit of trouble today,” she said gently.
Harry's looked down, his feet nervously moving back and forth in a hesitant shuffle. His mind raced to try and find the words, but he couldn't think of what to say.
“You know, kid,” she continued, her tone warm, “I knew your parents.”