Chapter Text
The sweet smell of baking mixed with the spice of fresh brewed potions, the kitchen of Godric’s Hollow a great mess of scents and stains, flying utensils and moving parts. Lily and James Potter worked around each other to pull together a decent dinner, neither of them all that competent in the kitchen to begin with. Lily rarely spent time with her mother in the kitchen and the only kitchen James had ever been in was the one at Hogwarts, so they really didn't expect much in the first place. They'd had plenty of time to practice once Harry was born, though. The radio was playing some muggle band, something Mode, they could never remember. Neither of them were even listening, not really, too busy burning butter and rushing to put in a roast and wishing they had a working microwave for the corn. That was, of course, until they hear a familiar warm coo.
James wiped his hands while Lily snapped to turn the radio off, both of them turning and smiling at their little boy in Severus’ arms, reaching toward them with grabby, pudgy hands.
“Ooh, my favorite boys all in one room,” Lily smiled, coming over to kiss Harry on the cheek, then Severus, leaving a glossy ring on their tan cheeks.
“You say that everyday,” Severus rolled his eyes, though he smiled a crooked, toothy smile.
“Hard not to be together when we’re stuck inside,” James grumbled, even as he came forward to place a hand around Severus’ nape, kissing him and harry as well, right on top of Lily's.
“No point thinking too hard about it.” Lily hushed them, pulling harry from her lover’s arms. She held him close, his little head resting below hers, her curly hair feathering over his own like two halves of a whole. He fit against her like a puzzle piece. “At least we’re safe, together.”
“Yeah, Evans. Together.”
—
Harry was small. Well, not small, perhaps. But smaller, surely, than his grown ups. His mummy could dwarf him in her warm arms, protecting him in the night from anything that could hurt him. His daddy could throw him up in the air like he was absolutely tiny, and Harry giggled and screamed because he trusted him to catch him in strong arms. His Sevvy carried him for hours, sweeping through their home, standing over pretty bubbling potions and playing toys with him as long as he wanted, like Harry was the most important thing in his world. His grown ups were big and strong and trust worthy, and Harry hoped one day he could be big like them.
Mummy and daddy had placed him in his crib while they went to talk to their friend, and Sevvy was out doing grown up work. Harry played quietly, abandoning his pacifier for the ear of his favorite teddy bear, Baloo. His pretty light lit up the dark room, a warm, low light made to look like a fire. He loved looking at fire, especially the big one in the living room! but he wasn't allowed to touch them, even if they were pretty, because they could hurt him.
Harry stood, climbing around his crib, when he heard a loud noise— a bang from somewhere far away. He squeaked, suddenly scared. He gripped Baloo tightly, backing up in his crib to get away from the noise as much as he could. Harry whimpered, suddenly hearing yelling and screaming, like he'd never heard before. His grown ups never sounded like that. He couldn't help it, he cried, afraid and alone and wanting his mummy.
his nursery door flung open and mummy ran in, coming for his crib. he reached out for her, wanting to be held, to be enveloped by her arms and held to her chest and made safe. Instead, she covered him in his blankets and stuffies, like she was hiding him. “Sweet boy, my Harry,” She whispered to him, looking at him with wide, bright eyes. “We love you. Mummy, Daddy, Sevvy, we love you so much. Be good, be strong. you'll be safe with Severus, I promise.”
Harry whimpered, but mummy shushed him and he felt a tingle go down him and suddenly his cries made no sound.
Mummy turned away from him and a man walked in. Harry shrieked, though he couldn't hear it. The man hissed and yelled and mummy fell. Mummy fell and wouldn't get up. Harry cried for her, he wanted his mummy, his daddy, his sevvy, he wanted to be safe and held and the most important thing in someones world.
The man walked to his crib, stepping over his mummy. He bent over Harry's crib walls and gently moved the blankets and stuffies away from him. When the man's skin brushed Harry's, it was cold. “Harry Potter...” The man hissed, like the snake stuffie in the living room. “A shame you are to die.”
The man lifted his hand and a great green light took over his nursery.
—
Harry was in the kitchen, watching the chicken in the oven. he was too small to take it out on his own, so Aunt Petunia has told him to sit and watch it once he was finished with the potatoes and green beans. Harry knew it was just to keep him out of the way, but he appreciated being able to sit in the silence of the kitchen, smelling the good food. he only ever got to eat it once it was cold and sparse, so being near the warmth at least felt good.
In the living room, Petunia and Vernon are entertaining a guest, some cousin or another of Vernon's who'd recently had a baby. He couldn't remember her name or the baby's, but Harry knew to stay out of sight and do his job without making a fuss. Uncle Vernon hated when he fussed, especially with guests over. It made him look bad. And Harry was a big boy, already four. He had to be all grown up to earn his keep.
When the chicken looked ready, Harry poked his head into the living room, just enough for Petunia to notice him. While he was looking in, his eyes were drawn to the baby carrier sitting beside the cousin's feet. She was holding the baby, so the thing was empty besides a plush bear, an impossibly small blanket, and what looked like a set of jingling toys tied to the handle for the baby to watch as they moved.
He didn't know what it was about it, but he couldn't stop staring. the bright colours of the jingling toys, the soft fur of the bear, the intricate knitting of the blanket. They looked nice. They made something deep ache in Harry's stomach, something he was sure he'd never felt before.
“-And who's this little thing? Is this Dudley?” He heard the cousin too late, looking up to see her eyes right on him. behind her, Vernon glared.
“Oh no, of course not!” He said, getting the cousin's attention. “My Dudley's a strapping young lad, a healthy boy. This one is the boy we took in from dear Petunia's sister. dreadful story really- dreadful boy as well. I'm sure I've told you about it-”
Harry took the opportunity to bold, slipping quickly and quietly away from the doorway and back into the kitchen. he took a deep breath, savouring the smell of dinner. he knew he wouldn't be having any that night.
—
Harry laid in his cupboard, curled up with his thin blanket, staring forward into the darkness. his body hurt, bruises blooming across his ribs like ink. he didn't know what was worse, the beating from Dudley and his friends, or the one from Vernon when the teachers found out and questioned him about it.
Absently, his hand came up, his thumb brushing his bottom lip. he didn't even realize he was doing it until he felt the sting on his tongue and ripped his hand away from his face.
it was a disgusting habit, sucking his thumb. It was for babies and simpletons. He was already six. He was grateful to Aunt Petunia for helping him stop, rubbing hot peppers on his thumbs in the morning before school and before he went to bed. It was disgusting, disgusting, it just proved how horrid he was. The taste wasn't much better.
He shivered, holding himself. it wasn't that he was cold, though he was a bit, not that he would linger on it. The problem was that even with the deterrent, he still wanted to. Whatever compelled him to suck his thumb, on nights like this, was stronger than his need to be normal. he'd learned at some point how long it took to suck away the burning sensation and be left with just skin. it wasn't fun and it hurt to do, but it at least was an option.
He thought, for a moment, about Dudley's toy room. Nothing in there ever got thrown away, he knew there were soft toys and old balls and other toys no one would miss but that he left compelled beyond belief to stick in his mouth to replace his thumb. what was wrong with him? he really was a freak.
He fell asleep to that thought, dreaming of warm arms and soft things and being the most important thing in someone's world. What a silly thought.
—
Harry was looking down at the bathroom tiles, trying desperately to keep his eyes open. if he closed them, no matter how much they stung, his tears would fall and then he'd really be in for it. it wasn't his fault this time, he kept trying to tell his Aunt Petunia. The school thought his hair was 'unkempt' and 'unhygienic', but how was that his fault? he didn't even know how to brush his own hair, Petunia did that for him. Another thing for him to be grateful for, another debt to his aunt and uncle he repayed with bad behavior and trouble. It was only fair Aunt Petunia take matters into her own hands.
And there they were, Harry sitting on the floor of the bathroom, watching the tiles as his curls fell like feathers through his vision, Petunia on the edge of the bathtub, handfuls of his hair in one hand and kitchen shears in the other. Every cut she grumbled angrily about ungrateful little boys and nappy, unruly curls.
He wondered, as his eyes forced themselves to close, burning and stinging with shame and the odd sharp hair, whether Petunia ever had to have her hair cut like this? He'd seen her in the kitchen, a hot comb on the stove as she fretted over her slowly curling roots. He would never ask her, but he considered straightening his own hair sometimes. As thought it would make things easier.
When she was finished and almost all of his hair was laid out like grass across the bathroom floor Aunt Petunia ordered Harry to sweep up the mess and get to bed, without even letting him at the leftovers for supper. He thought he was in trouble then, he wouldn't be able to imagine what trouble he would be in the next day, when his whole head of hair grew back overnight.
He should know better than to be so freakish.
—
Harry was running. He was small for an 8 year old, reedy and knobby in all the wrong places, but he could run. He always knew where to turn, what to duck under, where to cut through to get away. He ran until the shouts and jeers of Dudley and Piers and Dennis and Gordon sank into the background, far behind the sound of his feet on the pavement and the wind in his ears.
He ran until he saw the sun move, until he knew he would be in for it by the time he got home, coming back after dark. He ran until his feet ached and he had to slow down to go uphill and to keep up appearances as he passed from neighborhoods to convenience and thrift stores. He slowed down into a walk, looking around to orient himself.
He'd somehow found his way to a retail park, half the shops already closed, the other half so sparse on customers it was hard to say they were open. He looked into the windows, the sky just light enough that he could still see his reflection in the windows. He always tried to avoid looking into mirrors, but shop windows were just dull, scratched and warped enough to make it better. Still, he looked past his thin, too pale form, the dark curls falling around his face, to look inside.
He looked into a thrift store, too afraid to step inside and be shooed out like a cat. He was clothes, candlesticks, toasters and waffle makers. he wondered for a moment if it would really be such a hardship to go to a place like this and get him some clothes that fit.
Not that he wasn't grateful for Dudley's old things, of course, he knew he wouldn't get thinks like that if he were out on the street, but still. It would be nice, he thought, too have something that was just his. He can't remember ever having something that was just his besides, perhaps, his cupboard. He thought, considered, just for a second, walking in and slipping one of those old, soft sweaters on the rack into his waistband and running. He was good at running.
He thought about it, but didn't make it any closer before someone was opening the door.
“Did'ya need something, lad?” An older man stepped out of the store, looking down at him with nice eyes. kind eyes, deep brown and sunk under a wrinkled brow.
“I- I didn't mean to-” Harry swallowed, suddenly self conscious of his sticking sweat and half hidden bruises. “I don't need anything, sir. I was just looking.”
“Nonsense, nonsense.” The man waved off his denial. “It's getting cold out and you're soaked. Come in, put on something warm.”
Warning bells rang loud and wild in Harry's mind, recalling lessons in school about predators and rants from Uncle Vernon about perverts who prayed on scrawny boys like him. Still, the threat of harm could not outweigh the allure of warmth. He nodded slightly and followed the man into the store.
He was not, in fact, attacked and hidden away in the basement. The man told Harry his name was Newton and he'd taken over the store, Apple of My Eye, after his son, who'd taken it over from him years ago, died suddenly and his granddaughter was too young to take over. So he was out of retirement and just keeping the lights on until he could pass the store on again. The whole thing seemed terribly sad to harry but he couldn't exactly say that to the man's face.
Instead, he nodded politely, asking questions when he was taught it was appropriate and didn't say anything freaky or strange.
“And you, boy?” Newton eye'd him. “What's your story? you look a bit young to be out on your own.”
“I'm not.” He said quickly. It would look so bad for Vernon and Petunia if people thought he was a bum. “Not really. I live with my aunt and uncle nearby.”
“And they let you go out like that? wandering the city by yourself, dressed like a vagrant?” The man frowned. “That shirts more like a tunic on you than anything else.”
“I'm grateful for what I've got, sir.” Harry looked down at his hands. “They didn't have to take me in, and I can be such trouble. I'm lucky they clothe me at all.”
That must have been the wrong thing to say, because when he looked up, Newton looked angrier than anyone Harry had ever seen besides Uncle Vernon. He blustered and scoffed and turned red in the face before he looked down at harry, very seriously.
“Now you listen here, boy. I've been around a long time and i recon i know a bit more than your aunt and uncle do.” He nodded to himself, folding his arms. “Call me a hippy or a poof or any kind of thing like that, but I'll tell you how it is. No child, ever, should have to be grateful for scraps.”
“But, sir-”
“No no, you listen to me. Children are put on this earth to be cared for and loved, to be nurtured into good upstanding men and women of tomorrow. And you can't do that if you're filling a child's head with such- such nonsense as they have to be grateful for clothes better left for scrap heaps or for the very basics of having a home.” Newton moved inward, getting closer to Harry. “And I don't know you, boy, I don't know what trouble you may cause, but no amount of trouble makes a child not deserve the basics.”
Harry looked at him, the words unable to sink into his brain. “I... I don't-”
Newton sighed, putting up a hand to stop Harry. “You don't have to say anything. I know I can't put all of that on a boy your age.”
“I'm sorry, sir.”
“Don't be sorry, lad. Just come pick out a sweater before you make your way home.”
—
Harry woke up to banging on his cupboard door, dust falling from the ceiling as Dudley ran up and down the stairs.
“Up! Get up“ now!” Aunt Petunia shouted through the door, slapping the wood with her whole hand to get him up.
Harry whimpered as he stretched, as much as one could stretch in a literal cupboard, and tried to remember the dream he'd been having before he woke up. Something about flying kitchen utensils. It seemed so silly, but he could swear he'd had that dream before. Probably wishing he could have something like that in real life, to help him in the kitchen.
Harry blew a spider off of his socks and a pair of shorts to wear and got dressed for the day, just as another round of smacking on his door made his head pound.
“Aren't you up yet!?” Petunia demanded. Harry could smell the coconut oil and lotion on her, even under the heavy floral perfume sher wore. He wished she would let him use some.
“Almost,” He called back.
“Well hurry up! I've already started breakfast, but I need you to mind the bacon!” she huffed, no doubt fiddling with her earrings. “and if even one strip burns, you'll be in the oil next! This day has to be perfect!”
Of course it did. It was Dudley's birthday after all, not that harry could forget. It was a grand even every year, with Dudley's friends running around the house and great big sunday style meals for breakfast, lunch and dinner and a whole new population of toys to be abandoned to Dudley's second bedroom in a month. Harry sighed and hurried out of his bed and down the hall, not wanting to risk getting his hand in oil again.
He was half way through plating bacon and just about done with the fried eggs by the time Vernon looked over his news paper to bark at him, something about his rats nest hair. Harry didn't know how to fix it. Petunia had stopped combing his hair for him a year ago and he could never figure it out on his own with his limited resources. he kept it clean the best he could, but for the past while his hair had been coiling together into a great mass of thick parts that looked like the ends of ropes all across his head. Vernon said he looked like some kind of punk.
Harry was lost in thought about his hair when Dudley came into the kitchen, whining about his presents. Harry knew he deserved them more, being Vernon and Petunia's real son and all, but he still felt it was a bit ridiculous for him to scream about having thirty-seven presents instead of thrity-eight, and even more so that Petunia promised him two more just to get him to stop. If he tried acting like that, he would get a pop in the mouth for his troubles.
The phone rang as Harry was setting the table and Dudley was unwrapping the first of many presents, and Petunia rushed over to answer it. He was just about to take his portion to eat in his cupboard when Petunia came back looking frustrated.
“Oh, Vernon, it's bad news.” She started, patting down her skirt as if the very thought was dust across her perfectly laundered and ironed clothes. “Mrs. Figg broke her leg tripping over one of her cats, she can't take him.”
As she said this, Petunia looked at Harry like he'd somehow caused this. His heart seemed to skip, even as Dudley gaped in horror and Vernon huffed in anger.
“And what now?” Vernon demanded, “It's not like the boy is fit to go with us!”
“We could always phone Marge, dear,” Petunia suggested hopefully.
“No, no, she'd far to busy- it's prime breeding season.” Vernon waved off the idea.
“Well there's Yvonne!“ Petunia perked up a moment before frowning again. “No, no, she's on vacation.”
Harry considered slipping away into his cupboard anyways and hoping they forgot about him, and maybe he could have the time to himself in the house. Sadly, that did not happen.
As Vernon and Petunia threw thoughts back on forth on where to kennel him like a dog and Harry himself tried to slip away to his bed, the doorbell rang.
“Oh, good Lord, they're here already!” Petunia fretted, ringing her hands. She ran to open the door and a moment later, Piers Polkiss was running in ahead of his mother to find Dudley.
“Hello, Petunia dear,” Pier's mother greeted her politely, seemingly having no thoughts on her son running rampant in someone else’s home. “Happy birthday to your little boy, it's so nice that my Piers and him can be such good friends!”
Harry watched from around a corner, and couldn't help but be reminded of all the times Petunia had complained about Piers' mother being too familiar and too willing to foist her son off on others for the day, apparently not thinking that was the slightest bit ironic considering how she tended to deal with Harry.
“Rachel, it's so good to see you!” Petunia smiled, holding Piers' mother's hand. “Please., come in, come in, have some coffee, we were just having breakfast!”
Harry got the feeling he was supposed to have slunk away into the shadows like some kind of servant when Piers and his mother came, but his cupboard was in between the kitchen and front door so he had no chance but to face the music and head back into the kitchen, where Piers and Dudley were fawning over his new computer games.
“Can't he eat outside?” Piers sneered, looking down at Harry. Even at 10, he was short and thin for his age, so it wouldn't have been hard, even if Piers wasn't one of the tallest boys in their grade. “Thought dogs weren't supposed to eat at the table.”
Dudley laughed, which wasn't a surprise, his snorting laughter often followed Piers' jokes, no matter how bad they were. What almost shocked Harry, was that Vernon laughed too.
“Now now, boys!” his uncle chuckled, folding over his news paper. “Let's not give the boy too much of a ribbing! Save your energy for the Zoo!”
“He's not coming with us, is he dad!?” Dudley suddenly gawked. “I don't want him to!”
“Well, it's either take him or leave him at home,” Vernon said, eyeing Dudley. “Do you want to risk leaving him alone with all of your brand new things?”
Dudley whined and scoffed and grumbled, but eventually he relented, glaring at Harry all the while. And thus, Harry was able to go to the Zoo, on the express promise of no funny business or freakishness.
What could he possibly do at a Zoo?