001
BEYOND MIGHT
Part I: Harry Potter and the Sword of Time
Chapter I: 4 Privet Drive
There was nothing about that rainy and perfectly pleasant Saturday afternoon to suggest that strange things should be happening; and they should not, of course.
Little Whinging was an adorable little village not very far from a few major cities in Surrey, England. It was a lovely middle-class community, with a quaint and merry feeling that only this country could muster, even though the majority of the properties that dotted the well laid out streets were recently-built. It was not in a terraced-houses borough, but in a street filled with two-storey mock cottages that our story begins.
The reader of this piece of fan fiction is, obviously, quite aware of the illustrious local celebrity we shall be accompanying. But, to be polite, of course, and to be certain we are talking about the same person, introductions are greatly necessary.
We are talking about Mr Harry James Potter. Not Henry—at least, not to my knowledge; magical records do have a tendency to allow themselves to change at a whim, especially with this Ministry! He was not Henry, or Harrison, Harold, not Hadrian, certainly not Herakles—he was Harry, just Harry, whose fantastic tales of friendship and perseverance enchanted—quite literally I suspect—a whole generation of young readers, and many more to come.
This is but a humble attempt to honour the lovely adventures written by Ms J.K. Rowling: in a somewhat limited and broken English, with a few plot craters here and there and a substantial amount of nonsense that the person who is writing this right now knows only magic will—try to—unravel.
Reviews are always welcomed, and I would very much appreciate any and all feedback. I hope that you have a wonderful reading; I am certainly doing my best. But let's not break the immersion any further, and advance already with the story.
Privet Drive, proud of its empty, sober and well maintained lawns and bushes, had gone through what only people with too much time on their hands would call a revolution. Gone were the flat and boring front gardens that in times of old bore the paramount purpose of showing off that your family did not need to bother with foolish produce farming—not so close to the eye, that is—being replaced by well-built and vividly decorated hedges and beds—something distinctly American, as its detractors would love to vainly proclaim.
A great variety of geraniums, roses and marigolds adorned the right side of the houses, usually; shiny new cars complimented them on the left. It was in one of these houses, currently missing its best-of-the-year model, that we begin—truly—our story.
Tortuous notes echoed inside the house, coming from a terribly maintained vertical piano that sat on the corner of the living room, at a safe distance away from the telly—that one clearly in the centre. A pair was hunched over the white and black keys, frustration and annoyance clearly putting weight on their shoulders. He was Mr Harry Potter, of course, and that was his aunt, Mrs Petunia Dursley. When asked if they were really relatives, they would have to assert it very vehemently, otherwise risking the person whom they were talking to not really believing them.
Harry and his aunt were very much different appearance-wise. They shared the Evans bony knee—that Mrs Dursley was always quick in trying to hide—and the pale complexion that no sun— and certainly, no England's sun—could tan, but that was it.
She was a well dressed and well mannered fair-haired woman, a bit too far on the thin side according to their favoured general practitioner—a great deal far from it, according to Mrs Wilson, of 14 Privet Drive—and with a pair of seemingly kind blue eyes that hid her snappy and uptight personality, which always made its presence in conversations where the other was, in her own personal rules book—seriously, she'd written one—absent of clear distinction, or so she judged. It was a show for stringent pretences, but she was happy for it, nonetheless.
Her nephew, Mr Harry Potter, on the other hand, couldn't be more different.
The boy's hair was ungovernable, and it was his fortune that it tamed a little when he let it grow for a while—something that Aunt Petunia unflinchingly opposed, which only made it all the more impressive that it had won the war in the end; the armistice had clear terms, however: 'past the shoulder, out of the house!' Harry wished not to test her resolve on this one even though he was quite cynic over the possibility of it ever not sticking up to go beyond shoulder-length.
Well, not since 'The Incident' at least, but that is a talk for later.
He had green eyes, a bit of a freckled face—that formed a strange pattern under one of his eyes, resembling half a monocle to no one but the author; but that is as close as I can manage describe it—and a long nose with a slightly prominent bridge that looked, to be honest, a little funny on a face so young, especially with his round spectacles that had a tendency to droop off it quite frequently.
He was a pinch on the small side for his age, but was otherwise unremarkable—with one exception, of course.
Above one of his eyebrows there was a very particular scar, thin and carefully-carved—or so it seemed; like a lightning bolt. It had failed to disappear, even years after the accident that sliced it on his face, but that's—again—a conversation for another time.
He was an amicable enough child, whose manners were mild even at situations they should not be so. It irked his cousin terribly, who, in his bored moments, amused himself by prodding him.
But even the boy had his limits.
"Wrong. That is enough. Can't you see that you are doing it again? Read, boy, I beg you, read. It should not be this hard. C, not E. C, see?" He did not see anything; he pretended to, however. "One more time then. One, two, three …"
And he was almost reaching his!
Allow me, if you may, to shed light on the context:
Mr Vernon Dursley, Petunia's husband, which we shall be introducing later, had a very singular way of conducting business deals—or so he thought. As part of the sales office for a company that was on a rapid way to its bankruptcy, it was quite a feat that he had gotten so many successes in all of his years of work. His sales philosophy embraced the erasure of private and corporate life, blending businesses and families, creating a network of like-minded people who were always ready to deliberate and to help when needs arose and favours needed to be settled.
It would, of course, backfire spectacularly in a few years, with the markets abating a little and geopolitical turmoil being greatly reduced—comparatively, that is—but, for now, it was all the rage. It was the Grunnings plc way, and it would be so for a few years, when it suddenly wouldn't, and a great deal of jobs would be quickly and efficiently erased from the Isles.
That evening, a Brazilian gentleman and his wife were coming to iron out a few details on an amazing deal of supply exclusivity that surprised even the most optimistic shareholders in the London headquarters. They weren't going to a fancy restaurant nor to a particularly classy venue; no, the meeting was to be conducted in the Dursleys's own house. The reader might find it a bit unprofessional, but it worked, so London didn't complain too much, as long as the chap in the Guildford branch kept on bringing money to them.
And, as a united front, displaying the great institution that was the traditional family, it was Vernon, the breadwinner, Petunia, the devoted and talented wife, and Dudley—Harry's cousin— the promising and bright heir.
It was a great foundation for success and happiness, and it had been a great source of pride for many families, not only in Britain, but around the world just as much. Too bad the Dursleys favoured the shallowest aspects of it, most evident in the clear absence of our dearest protagonist in the picture.
Petunia, whom we will be using as an example, represented far too well how the Dursleys chose their priorities. There was always a prominent moment in every business meeting when Mrs. Dursley would prove herself very knowledgeable on the guest's cultural customs—particularly their music. It was not always very sensible, but it seemed to be doing its purpose, as every other week Harry could hear the same tortured sounds flutter up to his bedroom. It would be flattering, if she did not choose such blatantly stereotypical tunes.
For the day's meeting, they had been shopping over the next town, when she decided to buy a music sheet to prepare for the upcoming guest. When she had laid her eyes on the cover title 'One Note Samba', by Mr Tom Jobim, she knew she had her piece. She also knew, of course, that it wouldn't be strictly one note, but she supposed, with a name like that, she'd lucked out on her choice, and did not bother too much opening it. It turns out that bossa nova was quite a difficult genre.
Well, that is an understatement at best, Harry would say.
"Wrong. Why are you pressing so many keys?"
"They are meant to be pressed. Look, here!"
She blinked owlishly at where he was pointing.
"You are right. But how did you—"
She looked down to his fingers and blinked once more, confused, and Harry did so as well; and for a moment he could swear he saw all of his thirteen fingers on the board. He yelped and shook his hands, which thankfully returned to its normal digit numbers—a trick of the light, he presumed.
His aunt closed her eyes for a moment, then blinked a few times more while curling and uncurling her fingers and sighed.
"Again, then. One, two, three."
Thankfully she had managed to learn both her and his part by the time Harry had to go to his bedroom. Left alone with his thoughts, he reflected upon what had transpired earlier: he knew that something was strange with him; were it not for the occasional odd situations happening around him, his uncle calling him particularly unsavoury and eccentric names gave him clues enough to know that something was amiss.
He remembered when Mr Thompson's hair—his wig, to be more petty and more precise—kept turning blue when Harry had been particularly annoyed by the teacher's unrelenting and ill-mannered way of calling him out after he tried, unsuccessfully, to wrap his mind around the operations he had been given. It was not fair that he was the single one being picked out. He was almost sure Malcolm Boxley, who dared—and failed to—imitate his grandfather's trademarked sneer at him, had invented a new number that day—Sir Isaac Newton reborn, if it were not for the jackfruit that replaced the apple and dealt its damage to the next great British mathematician.
He also remembered the strange occurrences around his own hair. My, what a 'hairy' subject! Get it? Hairy, as in like Harr—
Sorry, that was a bit much, wasn't it? I hope, in time, the reader may forgive me for my terrible sense of humour.
Anyway, let's not dawdle too much; about 'The Incident': when Aunt Petunia, for who knows what reason, decided that enough was enough and grabbed herself a pair of rusty scissors to make her piece of art on Harry's head, another freakish accident had occurred. Not only had those dreadful bangs and mullets been gone by the next morning, he was then sporting a rad mane, down to the middle of his back. The rapidly-muffled shriek she let out when she glanced at him and the sorry excuses she had made up on the spot to the astounded barber were definitely high points of that day.
There were a lot of these little strange accidents, here and there. Some were rather trivial occurrences; others, however, were of great consequence; like the Bromyard Incident—capital letters once again indeed—in which Harry, a rubbish bin, a Bilberry tree, a can of beans and a penny whistle had equally important and bizarre roles, but that is—again—a story for another time.
Oh, and he teleported himself once. A one-way trip directly to the school's roof. Thought I had better mention it.
So, yes, there were more than just an unfortunate sequence of nature-defying occurrences. But his relatives would make sure there would be none more of it, one way or the other. Uncle Vernon in particular considered this matter as most important—as in: of inadmissible possibility of recurrence and, as of the last scolding, of directly proportional consequences to Harry. The boy could not even bear thinking about whatever his uncle would do when he heard about that afternoon's events.
But, then, Aunt Petunia had not been so antagonistic as to outright rat him out these days; she was not very talkative about these topics for quite some time now that he thought about it. He would think he had an ally, but he was not so stupid; nevertheless, he supposed he owed her one, at least. Perhaps he was even being a bit ungrateful, to be honest. She was not that bad.
Her shrill laughter cut through his musings, swiftly breaking that ghastly train of thought.
A powerful laughter accompanied hers, and rightly after, the booming remarks and thanks of that evening's guest distracted Harry. He noticed the Brazilian gentleman had a very strong accent, and did not bother hiding it too much—good for him; Received Pronunciation did tend to wear out one's ear, even if some of what he said sounded like absolute claptrap to Harry.
He was effortful in being heard, at least—volume seemed to be his main attribute, even. Harry wouldn't be surprised if Mrs Wilson, way down the street, thought so too. Harry would be hearing his aunt complain about it for weeks, he was sure of that.
Hear that: there she was again at the piano. Apparently the performance was so outstanding it warranted an encore. Harry did notice the gentleman's laughter seemed to get more and more strained as the night rolled out.
A few hours later, however, it all seemed to have ended well—that is, if we judged its success by the happy squeals of Cousin Dudley and his promised three new video games ('for his bold and good behaviour', Uncle Vernon had chortled) for the machine he'd gotten a few days ago, that would come just in time to join the bundle of the five cartridges he would receive tomorrow, on his birthday, bringing the total amount to ten, when including the one that came with the system and the other cartridge which was, as his Uncle Vernon succinctly put it: in 'Asian'.
It was all fine at 4 Privet Drive.
Harry took off his glasses, stretched and turned off the lights, hoping to get a good night of sleep before the inevitable came to wake him up.
And it came, lively swinging and all too happy to hit him, were it not for his heightened senses that only practice could hone. It was not totally Aunt Petunia's fault, he supposed. He was, indeed, a heavy sleeper. One could not help but to be so in 4 Privet Drive, of course—and Harry, out of everyone, certainly could not. Since he had changed bedrooms—if anyone could even call where he used to lay down for sleep a bedroom—Uncle Vernon's snores right down the corridor were overpowering. His only alternatives were either to develop some kind of resistance to the booming sounds, or … well, nothing else, really. It was not like he had anywhere to go—no matter how many times he had thought about it.
Of course, I should also point out that attitude was absolutely reprehensible and unacceptable whatsoever, but that was how it worked sometimes at the Dursleys. There is no justifiable reason to treat anyone—much less a close relative—let alone a child—like that, and similar actions warrant dueful intervention.
But, as it was, Harry was needed in the kitchen, and Aunt Petunia made sure he was up.
It was almost a ritual at that point, which was why Harry managed to so expertly dodge her wobbly badgering—the physical one, of course, because the verbal one was grating and made sure he complied with the task of the morning.
It was Dudley's birthday, and for the 'First Princely Banquet'—breakfast, for the closest—nothing short of 'Mum's Special Breakfast' would be acceptable. Of course, by 'Mum's Special', we mean 'Harry's', but Dudley need not know that. Harry thought it would not make a difference had he discovered it, however. He groggily got up from the floor, and let his aunt's tugs guide him to the bathroom, where she just shut the door and barked at him, as is tradition.
"Wash your face!"—"Brush your teeth!"—"You're stinking!"—"Brush your hair!". Or something like that.
"Good morning to you too, Aunt Petunia," he mumbled, yawning and looking at the mirror. Aunt Petunia's heavy steps went back downstairs, and Harry could only imagine what an eventful day she was planning for them, if she was that snappy already.
And by 'them', Harry meant the three of them: Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and Birthday Boy. He was never included, and when he was, things did have a tendency to get terribly amiss—it occasionally happened, but that was not such a day. And, honestly, he preferred it that way—most of the time, at least.
It would help greatly if his relatives were a bit more civil, he supposed, but he had learned not to expect much of the Dursleys. That did not mean it did not hurt all the same. But he would never admit it to them, certainly. And it was not like it bothered him all that much, really; 'they' weren't bothered.
A little pause: I have to point out, again, the less than adequate environment that no child should ever live in. Hopefully it would soon change, but tragedies like these often happen unnoticed; worst: they happen under the careful watch of competent people, who just don't bother with it or think it less important. I write this—and interfere rather rudely with the story flow—to emphasise the absurdity of the situation, and how it must not be normalised or allowed to lose its shock value. I have little sophistication with my writing skills to present a believable and nuanced picture of the family context—the full picture, I mean. I ask, you, the reader, to be accommodating of my limitations, and invite you, so we can—together—understand the Dursley's home as the prejudicial environment that it was: it's not the outright brutishness and violence—though they are, in many cases, an acute symptom of severe underlying contexts, and should never be ignored, for they are just as grave by themselves only—but the dismissal, the lack of empathy, the subtler forms of neglect and violence that misshape the lives of countless individuals, everyday—our protagonist included, or so we hope it doesn't.
I present the story of a young child who—quite literally—would be magically rescued out of this whole mess. Many more would not.
Oh, and look: he finally freshened up for the day. We can finally advance with the story, then. He descended the stairs and the all-too-familiar smell of burnt bacon assaulted his senses.
Well, to be fair to Aunt Petunia, it was only beginning to get bad, so it was manageable still. But Harry knew just what would happen if he put that in front of his uncle and cousin.
"What a shame, what a shame. Burnt again!"
He made himself a serving of those perfectly sizzled rashers—he had an appalling fondness for overcooked meals, anyway—and grabbed a pitcher of juice to down the magnificent sandwich he was making. While this all happened, Aunt Petunia glanced at him from time to time, and looked impatiently at the pile of ingredients that was on the worktop right behind Harry. He was supposed to bake Dudley's chocolate delight before he would wake up, but Harry thought it absolutely manageable, so he didn't hasten himself too much. And she did not dare yet push the wrong buttons, lest Harry—oops!—get a bit distracted and forget how to make it not perfect.
Usually, Petunia was very handy with sweet recipes and the likes, but there was something special in Harry's cooking that brought an extra touch to it she never got. It was nothing fancy—not at all. In fact, she had scrutinised him several times to learn just what was his secret; even Harry did not know what it was. It was almost like magic the way he and his aunt would prepare the same things and get surprisingly different results.
And he even liked to do it, if he was honest. There was, at one point, gossip going around that Petunia Dursley made her nephew cook all the family meals. Well, it was kind of true, but that didn't mean he was forced to do it. Not that he thought his relatives would not make him, if he stopped all of a sudden, though. It is hard to get accustomed to what it was if you knew what it could be, after all. It was perhaps one of the reasons things tended to be a bit more serene nowadays.
Another interruption: it should be noted, however, that Harry was far too young to even think about cooking and the likes.
He dabbled his mouth rather crudely with his sleeves—much to the absolute disgust in his aunt's face—and promptly began to whiz through the day's chores. Given they would go out today, there would not be a whole lot of them, hopefully.
Aunt Petunia turned on the radio to hear the weather report, and moments after instrumental music began to play. Engrossed as he was in his tasks, he had not even noticed the front door closing or his aunt returning. The sour face he was confronted with when he finally wiped his hands could only mean something went terribly wrong.
"Mrs Figg had an accident the night before. Mr Wilson had to rush her to the hospital—he had to, it seemed. Apparently, those dreadful creatures began to scratch his windshield."
Harry looked frightened at that revelation. If someone asked, a few years back, what he thought about Mrs Figg, he would have rather brattily dismissed her as the cat-lady of Little Whinging—kind enough, if not a little strange given the amount of cats she had adopted. But as the years went by and Harry learned to appreciate her more, he could not help but feel a considerate amount of affection for the old woman. She had been, after all, one of the only people who had been nothing but nice to him—she had even stood up to Harry's relatives on occasion, when they had been a bit too much.
"I think it goes without saying that you will not be left alone in the house—the set is far too new, still."
Harry would have protested if he was not thinking about Mrs Figg's condition.
"What about Mrs Figg? How is she now? What happened exactly—"
Aunt Petunia lifted a warning finger, looking at him with a strange expression. Some would call it disgust, but she was far too dismissive of the boy to muster up such caring efforts.
"I do not know. I would suggest you ask the Wilsons after they come back from London—"
"From London?!" Harry exclaimed, warily looking outside the front window, trying to get a glimpse at Mrs Figg's house far down the road. "Is she—"
"I do not know; and stop interrupting me, you boorish brat. This is all that I know: she had an accident, probably tripped herself on one of those monsters and broke her leg or something; then, she had been towed to Epsom, and after they could not manage it—somehow—they had to send her to the city." She had been standing and glaring down at him when he turned. "I do not know, or even wish to know why you are so worked up over this, and I would suggest you listen very carefully from now on: you will come with us, you will be on your best behaviour, you will keep your hands in your pockets. You will keep your mouth shut, unless we address you directly, is that understood?"
Harry tried to stare back at her in defiance, before finally succumbing under her scowling face. He turned away from her and took a piece of lemon cake he had made a few days prior out of the fridge, and went out of the kitchen.
"Are you listening to me, boy? Potter, come back here!"
Well, she was the one who ordered him to keep his mouth shut! He walked decidedly away from her in a dignified manner, or so he intended. In reality, he flusteredly moved away from his aunt, in the direction of the front door.
"Your uncle will speak to you before we leave, you hear me?!" She said, looking at him from the porch, her face sporting a winning smile—a terrible sight—as she slammed the door on him.
"As if I care," he mumbled, ignoring the growing pang in his chest, as he quickly made his way towards Mrs Figg's house.
Usually, Mrs Figg didn't bother locking up the backdoor, through which she told Harry he was always welcome to come through when he visited her. He did not know why he came there, at first, but when he finally arrived he noticed—immediately—things were … strange.
There was not a cat in sight. Not even when Mr Jones's dangerous dog escaped and wreaked havoc around the neighbourhood they had not fled. The way Mrs Figg liked to enthusiastically retell how the large breed suddenly became a docile thing after her cats put him on the run never failed to bring a smile to Harry's face. But now she was gone. And so were her cats.
'She is not gone. She is at the hospital,' Harry reminded himself, even though he had a strange feeling about this whole situation.
He tried the backdoor and was surprised to discover it locked. It did not even budge when he put his weight on it—it was getting creaky for quite some time. He supposed Mr Wilson had it locked when he came to take her to the hospital. Yes, that was it. Probably.
He would talk to Mr Wilson whenever he got the chance.
Harry sat down at the little wooden stairs that gave access to the back porch and unpacked the paper plate and towels that covered his lemon cake. He supposed if Mrs Figg was not home, he should not let it go spoiled. Lemon cake was one of his favourites—he liked lemon sweets in general, of course. The reason for that was rather peculiar, though. It was not like lemon was the tastiest flavour out there, but it had one great advantage to it: Dudley could not stand it. This, in turn, made all lemon-things his own, and Harry was pretty much in favour of this. His relatives were not very fair when sharing things between him and his cousin, after all.
He had been sitting there for a long time and not one cat came to him. That unsettling feeling was beginning to grow more and more. Usually the kitties liked to follow him whenever he got out of the house, much to the dismay of Aunt Petunia, and the apprehension of cousin Dudley—they had, after all, very sharp claws.
But he did notice something. It was not a cat in fact, but another animal. A brown and tall owl was sitting on the roof of a neighbour's house—to the back of Mrs Figg's. It carried a purse of some kind if Harry was not mistaken. No, he was mistaken. It was not carrying it! In fact, someone had tied it to its talons. It hooted and left. Were they even supposed to be awake at this hour? He wondered if there was someone in their neighbourhood trying to recreate messenger birds. But then, they used pigeons, didn't they? What an eccentric thing! He knew Malcolm's grandfather was in the 'Communications' branch of the army, whatever that meant. He wondered if it was the old man doing this. He would have to ask the old man … or wouldn't— it is not like he liked Harry, at all. His Uncle Vernon, on the other hand …
Mr Boxley always had quite the selection of words about his Uncle Vernon. How great of a man he was, how he should have gone to the army instead, and how Harry should be grateful for having such a person as his uncle.
Old man Dursley, before he died, had also quite a few words to say about Mr Boxley: how he had not ever dared to take arms to defend King and Country, and preferred to sit in a room full of machines and computer-thingies all day, instead of going to the real thing.
"The whole family—full of cowards", he was quick to say whenever he could. Aunt Petunia absolutely detested him, but even she thought him tolerable compared to old Boxley.
"I know them when I see them, you know? The—" Mr Boxley once hiccuped. "You could've done much better, son," he said on the last time he was at the Dursleys, quite a few years ago, after drinking a few too many glasses of his favoured spirit—the one he insisted on putting on the table, despite the numerous requests of Aunt Petunia to take it away.
With pursed lips and a few choice words between her and her husband, Aunt Petunia made it so that was the last time the old man was ever in their house. That did not mean that he would stop suggesting things to Vernon whenever they happened to meet outside, though.
"I know of quite a few orphanages in Guildford who would be very glad to take him out of here …"
There were no orphanages no more it seemed though—not in their area, at least. His uncle had looked into it, could you believe that?
Anyway, he was thinking too much about the wrong person. He should have been thinking about Mrs Figg. It was a shame what had happened to her and he wondered if she had a condition before that he did not know about. She had always let him free to do whatever when he was in her house, but most of the time, he liked to talk to her about her old stories. She was always happy to tell him about science, and even though he could not get most of what she was saying, he liked to know that there was an explanation for everything—even the most strange phenomena. Whenever Harry was preoccupied he had been the reason something strange happened, Mrs Figg knew just what could have happened, and if she didn't know, she entertained all of his most absurd theories. He wasn't very sure about some of the things she told him, but he supposed she knew it better than him, anyways. She was a true friend of his, and only now he was acknowledging this.
His only friend, he supposed.
Whenever Harry was invited to something, Aunt Petunia managed to find just the right amount of unfinished chores that he would have to complete before going—and so he never went. At school, most ignored him. This was in part because of Dudley and friends, who took upon themselves to make him their target, and another was how they were very proficient at making him the apparent culprit of their misdeeds. Another part was that, frankly, he just did not bother sometimes. It was tiring making friendships only for them to disappear after some time. In fact, he was hopeful that going to Stonewall High, the local comprehensive, away from Dudley, he could finally get a fresh start. He would still have to see his relatives everyday, but he supposed with Dudley and his friends going to a boarding school, he could finally get some peace.
But as it was, there were quite a few weeks before the term started, and he would've to put up with them until then.
He dusted his clothes and prepared himself to return 'home'.
The moment he entered the small foyer he noticed his uncle was already up.
Gone were the melodic sounds that Aunt Petunia preferred. They were now replaced by a gentleman smartly reading national and international news. Uncle Vernon had once boasted to Harry how he had taken a hint from unrest in some place very far away from there, which he used to make a 'rational and intelligent' bet on the price of something. Harry had trouble understanding how it had all happened, but he knew that an yearly (or so) trip to Majorca, Malta or Gibraltar weren't such a heavy burden anymore to them.
And by them … Well, you've got the gist of it, already.
Harry entered the kitchen and sat opposite his uncle. There was no point in delaying it, after all. He waited patiently for his uncle to finish reading the newspaper, or for the broadcaster to stop spouting out the names of countries Harry didn't even know existed—whichever came last.
His uncle finally turned off the radio, and put down his newspaper. He looked at Harry for one moment, before taking a sip of tea. The man had a formidable appearance, that one Harry could grant Harry. He had dull sandy hair, and a dark moustache that was more grey than dark brown these days. His cheeks were flushed and stayed that way for far too much of a time already. He had blue eyes very similar to his wife's and the thick earlobes his son had inherited. He tried his best not to show any emotion on his face, but the reddening was enough of a hint to Harry of what was in his uncle's mind when he began addressing him.
Well, that and the clearly hostile discourse, of course.
But we will not focus on that. Suffice to say, it was enough to make the boy even more sullen. Mr Dursley barked one last thing to the boy and he looked back at his uncle, a little fearful, but he rapidly steeled his face and tried to put on an indifferent mask.
It did not work of course, but it was, nonetheless, uncomfortable to watch.
But, for the sake of not having someone say I am being too biassed and taking little Harry's side a bit too much, we shall entertain some of Vernon Dursley's thoughts.
He, too, was plagued with uncertainties. He was a man of resolve, a problem-solver. So when he faced a problem he could not solve, he would rapidly learn the quickest way to make it go away. Some were solvable with money, others with phone calls; he could even ignore some of them long enough for them to go away.
Some, however, kept him worried: the cultural impact of the decimalisation and how it would make Britain more stupid, the long-term prospects of honest manufacturing jobs, the increasing number of asian cars everywhere abroad and at home, and, of course, his nephew. His nephew, above all others, was a major concern: to the public opinion of them, of course, but more important, to the family safety. There were nights he could not get to sleep peacefully, thinking where he went wrong.
Oh, he had come to the conclusion soon enough. But that did not mean he tried to look for other things that could explain it. He knew, for a fact, just where he had been wrong.
They—never mind them … He was too slow in dealing with the boy. Too little, too late, that was what it was.
He should not have listened to his dear wife—bless her heart. She was much too forgiving, much too naive, much too ineffective. The boy was a menace, a time bomb meant to go off at any moment, and they could not escape it, no matter what she thought. He wondered if sending him away was not that much of a problem as she was making it to be.
And thinking about that, he realised his own failures. Oh, how he wished the boy followed a more respectful path, but he did not seem to hear them whatsoever. Not even Marge—who had always been better acquainted with these types's behaviour—could stand the boy for more than two weeks. He remembered the defeated look in his sister's face when she'd brought the boy back.
"Rotten, I say! There's no out-training nature when it is so spoiled like that!"
And even though he would be seeing a lot less of the boy in just a few weeks—or so he hoped, against his wife's wishes—he could not shake the strange feelings he always got in his presence. He was more than sure that if it depended on the boy, they would be done for in little to no time.
Barmy old Figg may try to explain whatever happened with her science stuff, but she, too, was far too naive to not see the boy for what he was; she was too arrogant thinking she could explain it all. There were things more cursed than she could imagine. If only she could get a glimpse at how those people would make her degrees all the more stupid … He would pay to see that … But then, she did not deserve meddling with those people, either. Rather, she did not deserve those people meddling with her—he, for one, never cared about them and they still burdened him.
But he knew. He had to know, and in a way, he was glad he knew. It was easier to see those creatures as they were, those … devils, for lack of a better word.
How he wanted to stamp it out of the boy, and he would have done so—going against his nature, even—if it were not for Petunia's always-high prudishness. She was endangering little Dudley, that was what she was doing. She was endangering her own son, the woman. For her sake, he had never done anything too brash.
But as time went on, he began concocting new theories, each one more outlandish than the other, but one could not hope to dismiss them in a world where those people existed.
She was fearful for Dudley, he realised. If she was that fearful, he could not comprehend why she was not doing anything about it. He mulled this over for a long time, and he had his answer finally. It came a few weeks ago, but it was not so far-fetched given the types they were dealing with.
She always said she had made a promise, but it was only recently that he took heed of her words, and the meaning behind them. She had promised, of course, but on what grounds? He supposed that, barbaric as they were, a signed piece of paper and good Common Law was not going to cut it. What was it then? What were the penalties, the consequences of this deal?
Deep down, he mused, he had always known it. He could not bring himself to think about it; to voice it, even today, but, oh, he knew.
They had trapped her with something. They had ensnared her. They had … bewitched her. He was married to a bewitched wife, to a cursed person. What did they have her do? Were they threatening her? Were they threatening Dudley? Was that the reason she was always tight-lipped about this whole mess? Was she being controlled?
Worst of all, was he, Vernon Dursley, being controlled by a bewitched wife?
He had been scared by the prospect, but that realisation had also served another purpose. It gave him a mission. Soon enough, the puzzle began to make sense to him.
He remembered one particular occasion, when the brakes of his car failed him on the motorway. It was only his luck that there was not a single car there that day—a strange occurrence, now that he thought about it; there was not a single uncrowded space in England these days. He had been much too relieved to survive the accident, thanking whatever he could for the miracle. But now, months after it had happened, he could not help but wonder. It was a new model, with this innovative brake system. That it failed so suddenly was not only a mystery to him, but to the brand store, also, who had made a point in looking closely into his case. Surely, something from outside was putting pressure on this odd situation—something outside his control, something … freakish.
The mullish glares he received only served to confirm his theories.
He realised, in retrospect, the way the boy tried to control his wife, how he had even tried to control him, trying to ingratiate himself into the family. Petunia was somewhat too sensitive on these things, but he had seen right through the boy. He had seen the act. Those innocent eyes who would endear a man inferior to him would not make a difference to Vernon Dursley. He feared, though, that if he did something now, the relationship with his wife would not bear the strain. She was far too ensnared, already.
Even his Dudley, the intelligent young man that he was, could see the boy for what it was. He remembered a particular occasion, when his son came to him privately, telling him that he could not learn the material. Even Peterson's daughter could not get it that day. Peterson was the owner of the bookstore on Main Street, as politically naive as he was arrogant. Bless his father because the son was not that much of a man. But a bookworm he was, and so was his daughter. On that day, only the Potter boy had done it, apparently. It was only Dudley's luck that the professor had not been impressed also, and rightfully put him on the spot. Mr Thompson, a lawful man he was.
He vividly remembered the conversation with Dudley, and the way the boy had absorbed his father's teachings.
"People like him," he'd explain to Dudley, "are not always right in the head. At any given moment, they are savant on one thing; give them just another moment, they are stupid as they come. It is best to steer clear of these types of people, son. People like him, when they focus on you, it—it is not pleasant. They are unpredictable, wild. Beware of him, son, and take care of your peers, also."
It seemed his son took the lesson well enough. He was proud to learn that he looked after his little friends, too. He was turning into a big man, and would fare incredibly well at Smeltings. He got teary-eyed just thinking about it.
But things were beginning to get more dangerous, and he swore to himself that it was too many times too much already.
If he needed to do something, he would.
Harry was downstairs again when Birthday Boy finally decided to show his face. Aunt Petunia was valiantly trying to comb the hair on the back of his head with a metal comb. No matter what it refused to stand down. She had voiced aloud trying to heat the comb, but Uncle Vernon was immediately against it. When he suggested back to her that she could use some of her two hundred hair products to try and tame it, she scowled at him, to which he paid no mind, preferring to laugh at his quip.
Harry adjusted his shirt and tried to put on a smile for his cousin. He supposed everyone deserved to have a nice day on their special date, but Dudley grated Harry's nerves sometimes.
The boy was not as unflattering as Harry would suggest I write. He was a normal kid, a bit too chubby, but nonetheless, unremarkable. He was very similar to what a person would imagine being a young Vernon Dursley, minus the hair, which was a bit lighter than his father's. He was bustling about with great exuberance, and it was sweet seeing his interactions with his parents.
No, Harry. He was not squealing, stop projecting this unfavourable image.
Dudley proceeded to flat out ignore his cousin, even when Harry tried, once again, halfheartedly to wish him a happy birthday.
'I tried,' Harry reasoned.
And it was good enough for now. His uncle grunted and went back to his newspaper, while his aunt stopped paying attention to him in favour of helping Dudley with the presents.
Okay, I have to give it to Harry. The boy was a brat. He was certainly irritating.
Could you believe that? Arguing that there were more presents last year? The nerve of that boy! The pile was worth quite a few weekly wages in some places not very far from there. And that video game was not cheap either. Harry looked earnestly at the coveted piece of tech that Dudley was ripping out of the box and glanced morosely at the rusted comb at his hands, trying not to show too much on his face.
"Please! Just for a few minutes! I won't break anything, mummy, please!"
That was like apple crumble to Aunt Petunia. Mollified by her adorable son's plea, she could not help but give him permission to connect the thing to the telly. He all but ran towards the living room, with his mother hot on his toes, desperately pulling the cable off the ground, so it didn't hit anything on the way.
He then supposed it would not hurt to see the new games Dudley got. He went into the living room and sat on the couch right behind Dudley, who had not even bothered to get up from where he had mounted the system. Aunt Petunia was a little to his side, in an armchair, looking lovingly at her son.
Harry was marvelled with all the colours and all the action. It seemed so fun!
"Ah! I can only play this with another person!"
"Really, Duddykins! Well, what a shame then, try this other one. The gentleman told us at the store it was the best-selling."
Dudley sat down and searched the box for something. He pulled out another controller.
"Hey, it came with two pieces!" He looked up to Harry, as if he was first seeing his cousin for the first time that day. "Do you want to play, Harry?"
Harry sat there stunned for a moment. He grinned and began to answer, but he was rapidly cut off by his aunt.
"Actually, I have been meaning to ask. Could you be a dear and put the card that is on the stand right there at the mailbox, please?"
Harry tried to argue, but the look his aunt gave him stopped him right there. He fumed and grabbed the letter. He could hear his cousin arguing with his mother, so he supposed he had a chance to play some, still. He couldn't believe the … the … honestly, he did not even know how he would describe her.
He quickly chucked the packet on the mailbox and went back to the house, as quickly as he could without messing his clothes. When he returned, he was surprised to see his aunt waiting for him at the porch. He paused, hesitantly, before her.
"What are you doing?" She asked, in a tight voice.
Harry couldn't understand what he'd done wrong.
"I put the letter in the mailbox, as—as you asked."
"Don't be stupid, boy," she snarled at him. "What do you think you're playing at?"
Harry bit his tongue and suppressed the urge to say that it would be that combat game, if she could budge a few inches to the left—or a few kilometres, rather. It would not earn him any points at all with his aunt however, so he wisened up.
"Well, he invited me, so I thought …"
"You thought wrong. You hear me, you thought wrong!" She said, unusually angry. "To think that even on his birthday … Go to your room, now. I will get you when we are finally leaving."
Harry felt frustrated and not a little offended. It was one thing to barge into their stuff, but what she was doing just was not fair.
"He invited me! This is not fair."
"Do you know how many weeks your uncle had to work to buy him that machine? Do you care at all?"
Harry wanted to say that it was probably a few hours, but bit his tongue again. It was not like they were rich. Uncle Vernon always said, after all, how much it cost to raise him and his cousin.
"I will not break it," he said, not daring to look at his aunt's eyes. "Just for a minute, please."
He looked up at his aunt and tried to decipher her expression. She looked away from him. When she finally spoke her words could barely conceal her anger.
"To your room. Now."
Harry glared at her and dejectedly went upstairs. He could hear the sounds from the living room, and looked wistfully in the direction of it, but his aunt's glare at his back made him move forward. He laid on the bed and crossed his arms, trying to fight emotions he could not quite name yet.
A few minutes later, there was a commotion downstairs. By the shouting and general ruckus, he correctly guessed his cousin had already managed to break something. It was ironic, but Harry did not think they would see it the same way.
They would probably think that he had something to do with it, even.
The baleful stares he was receiving from his cousin and his friend, Piers Polkiss, when he was finally allowed to come downstairs told him that he had been right about his guess.
It was all well and good on 4 Privet Drive.
Piers Polkiss was irritating.
The boy wasn't this grating when he was with the other kids on Dudley's gang. But now that there were only he and Dudley, he could see why it was that the boy was his cousin's best friend. Harry couldn't stand him.
No matter how interesting and fascinating the different expositions at the zoo were, they had always managed to drag them away to something mind-numbing and jam-packed. But to be completely honest, barring that, Harry could even say he was having some fun.
He was happily eating away from an obscenely large package of lemon sweets. The kind gentleman had made a point to loudly ask Uncle Vernon if the little dark-haired one would not get anything after he had bought elaborate ice cream rolls for everyone but him. Harry had zeroed on the bag of sweets, not wanting to push his luck too much. The vendor was absolutely unfazed by it all, and happily handed Harry the package, looking knowingly at him while his uncle grumpily took some coins from his wallet. He would be grumbling about 'obnoxious Pakis' for the better part of an hour after that, but Harry couldn't care less. Even though they never stayed at a particularly interesting exhibition, he was content enough.
Piers and Dudley wouldn't be satisfied with the large and colourful birds chirping away, no, sir. They wanted to see the wolves. They didn't want to see the giraffe, of course. Harry found them a little funny, not only because Aunt Petunia looked like them, but also because they looked just plain silly, with their big necks and funny faces. But rather than see the giraffes, the boys preferred the rhinoceroses. A kid from their class whose parents were from South Africa swore to them that they pooped upwards, and it was just because of that that they spent some good ten minutes looking at the thing's backside. Well, Dudley and Piers did. Uncle Vernon wasn't very interested at all, preferring to read a magazine of some sort they'd been selling at the zoo's entrance. Aunt Petunia wasn't also very pleased with her son's choice, but refrained from saying anything.
Harry also preferred not to be on the lookout for the event, and instead began to look at the people who passed them.
There were so many families. One thing he liked to do was see what each kid had inherited from their parents. Often they weren't very similar, but even then no one could deny that they were relatives. He supposed a good amount weren't even parents. He saw an older gentleman looking appreciatively at the rhinoceros with someone who was probably his grandchild. He saw a girl with a man and two women with her. He supposed one of them was her mother, but you couldn't tell the difference between them. The child seemed to appreciate both. He wondered if he were more similar appearance-wise, the Dursleys would accept him more. His appearance did make quite a contrast to theirs, he conceded.
But even then, there were lots and lots of families that didn't look very much alike. None of them dismissed each other though.
Oh, and the rhinoceros didn't poop upward. Quite the contrary, in fact, and with great might, too, much to the dismay of Aunt Petunia.
They then went to see the badgers. Harry found them very interesting creatures, but that didn't last long, because a moment later they found a map of the zoo, and on the map, they found …
"The Ophidiarium? What is this, Dad?"
Uncle Vernon twirled his moustache and straightened himself before trying to read the small letters in the picture before them. Harry was also curious to know what it was.
"Snakes, I think. Something to do with snakes," Aunt Petunia explained with a sour expression.
Immediately after she said that, Dudley's eyes gleamed and he exchanged excited glances with his friend. On the way to the snakes, Harry learned that there was this snake who could swallow you whole in one bite. It apparently had enough venom to kill an elephant in thirty seconds too. It would be a terrifying thing if it existed, but Harry didn't think his cousin knew what he was talking about.
'It doesn't exist, does it?'
They came to a circular building. The place smelled strangely and the floor seemed to be always wet, even though it was dirty and under the shade. There were few people going about, and the majority of them seemed to be going for the snack bar which was just behind the building.
Aunt Petunia had an apprehensive look on her face, especially when Dudley got a bit too close to some of the snakes. They all had a glass cover, but she couldn't help but let out a little yelp each time he ran over to those things. Uncle Vernon, for a change—not!—wasn't very interested at all. He read the plaques on each one of the beasts, looking mainly to the little flags and maps at the bottom. If it weren't native to Britain, he didn't worry too much about it.
Dudley and Piers, on the other hand, were having the time of their lives. They had chanced upon a mighty specimen; a snake so … brute, so large and menacing that even Harry couldn't help but be a bit cautious around. It wasn't as scary as his Aunt Petunia was making it to be, but Harry didn't fancy going near the thing if it were awake, though.
They were vigorously banging the glass, trying to make it move. Harry looked embarrassed about the whole thing and put some healthy distance between him and the Dursleys, preferring to look at some of the garden snakes that were joyfully drinking some water from a miniature waterfall. They were cute, he supposed. Just minding their own business and laying around all day.
There weren't any more sounds, so he supposed they were moving. There was nobody in sight, in fact. He was on the opposite side of the snack bar route, so he was the only one looking at the animals, at the moment.
And it was only because he was alone that he could faintly hear it.
"… stupid, hairless monkey …"
He stopped and turned around quickly. There was some kind of dead tree, next to a set of stone stairs, and in the distance, he could hear children laughing. But that voice. It was so strange, so unnatural.
"… disturbing rest …"
He turned again, now a little spooked if he was honest with himself. It had come from his back. He looked upwards, he looked at the edges of the glass, looking for some kind of speaker, he looked through the glass to see if there was somebody there.
Nothing.
Just the snake. That huge, greyish brown snake Dudley had been bothering just a few moments ago.
Wait.
Was it …
"Hello?"
The snake lifted its head from the trunk it was settled on, and elevated itself a little to look directly at him.
Harry blinked at it.
The snake blinked back at Harry.
'Wait, could snakes blink? Could snakes even listen?'
"Hello?"
Harry jumped backwards involuntarily. He looked around, wondering if this was some sort of joke for Dudley's birthday, but there was nobody in sight. Tentatively, he came closer to the glass.
"Well, hi …"
He jumped again, this time he even yelped a little, though he would deny it vehemently in the future. The snake moved so fast Harry swore it was coming to bite him. But it had only slithered closer to the glass, and elevated itself so their heads were at the same level.
"You speak!"
If Harry wasn't so shocked, he would've the good sense to go to the bathroom and splash some water on his face or something. This was just the beginning of another freakish accident. But as it was, he couldn't help but indignantly look at the thing and retort.
"I speak?! You're a talking snake!"
The snake nodded to him as if he'd said the most intelligent thing he had ever heard.
"Yes! You're talking snake, too."
It continued nodding like he'd said something profoundly impactful, and Harry couldn't help but let out a little giggle. The snake tried to copy him, but what it came out with was horrifying, to say the least. Harry looked around, seeing if there wasn't anyone looking at him. A person ran by, but they were too far to notice him. Harry looked a little shyly at the snake.
"I didn't know snakes could talk!"
The snake turned its head upwards a little.
"I knew!"
Harry nodded, unconsciously mimicking its behaviour. The snake nodded to him as if it were agreeing back. This was all far too silly.
Harry shook his head, trying to clear it.
"Well. I'm Harry Potter, nice to meet you," he said, extending a hand to the snake, realising only a second too late how absurd his extended hand looked. He tried to correct the act by making a kind of wave with his arm, swishing it around like a snake. Improvise!
The snake looked at his hand and back at his face before mimicking him.
"Hello!"
It continued to stare at him. Harry scratched his head, looking around, at the edges of the glass and at the little plaque that contained its information.
"So, Brazil! Was it good there?!"
The snake looked at the plaque and at him, quizzically.
"Brazil? What is Brazil?"
Harry looked puzzled at its answer and looked again at its info.
'Boa constrictor, natural from Brazil.'
And in small letters, just below it: 'Bred in captivity'.
Ah, that explained it.
Wait, that didn't explain it at all. He was talking to a snake! What the—
But he humoured the animal and explained what was Brazil, and what was the UK. It went as well as one would expect it.
"Interesting. Hotter there, you say?"
It should be, shouldn't it? It was in South America, wasn't it? Tropical and what not. Harry felt a little embarrassed when he couldn't detail it any further.
"I suppose so."
The snake nodded. Harry nodded back to him.
To him, to her? What was it, after all.
"Hmm—what's your name?"
The snake opened its jaw and let out a long barrage of hisses and gurgling and unnatural sounds that frankly were more than a little terrifying.
"Erm, that's quite a difficult name, eh?"
The snake blinked at him, again. Should they even do that?
"What name you prefer?"
Harry looked incredulously at the thing. He was supposed to give it a name? What do you even name a snake? He supposed Mrs Cuddles wouldn't cut it. Blimey, Mrs Figg hadn't prepared him for this kind of situation.
He looked at the plague looking for some tips. Red-tailed, nocturnal, Brazil. Well, there was this chap, wasn't there? The bossa nova guy! What was his name, again?
"What about Tom?"
The snake nodded appreciatively, and Harry stupidly nodded back at him. Wait, was it a him? He wasn't sure yet.
"Tom. What it mean?"
Harry scratched his head and thought about it.
"I don't know. Great musician, I suppose."
The snake nodded again.
"Great musician. Great musician, yes."
It was Harry's turn to nod appreciatively to the thing.
No, not to the thing. To Tom. What a weird thing to say.
"So, how are you, err, Tom?"
The snake nodded before answering.
"Cold. Go to Brazil!"
Harry couldn't help but laugh a little. He was a single-minded little creature, but he was so funny.
"Don't we all wish we could, ha. At least, it shouldn't rain every other day."
Tom licked the air and nodded.
"Too much water in air. It doesn't warm fast in United Kingdom," he said sagely.
Harry agreed. He let his mind wander for a moment and thought about it. How different would his life be if he lived there, in Brazil. Perhaps some relatives of his lived there and could've taken him away from the Dursleys. He would surf, and lay in the sun, and play football, and have drinks at the beach with his family …
They did that in Brazil, didn't they? Harry hoped they did. It sounded absolutely delightful.
"Harry—" He was shaken up from his daydreaming by Tom. "What is musician?"
But Harry never got the chance to answer him, because at that moment, he heard a shout from behind him. He barely had the time to glance at Dudley before he was rudely shoved by his cousin away from the glass. His head hit the metal bar in front of the glass next to Tom's with a sick thud. He saw stars and went out for a few seconds.
When he blinked his eyes open, he saw a terrified Dudley, lying in his buttocks, desperately trying to get away from something that was slowly slithering towards him. In the distance, he could see Piers running terrified. In his dazed state, Harry couldn't make too much of anything else, and the loud sirens didn't help him at all. But he had the quick wit and sense to say, finally:
"Tom, stop!"
The snake stopped immediately and went quickly to his fallen form.
"Harry! You are…"
Harry heard shouting and could make a few people in the distance, rapidly making their way to them. Dudley had finally managed to get on his feet and went hobbling away from them. Harry realised what would happen if they got Tom. They would kill him!
"Tom, flee!"
"Flee! Where?"
Harry looked as the people got closer, and hurriedly said the first thing that was in his mind.
"I don't know! To Brazil! You are going to Brazil! Run fast, don't let them catch you!"
The snake nodded quickly and made its way towards the dead tree. It descended the stairs faster than Harry thought it possible and slithered away from his view.
His head was on fire, but before he closed his eyes again, there was only one thing on his mind.
Uncle Vernon wouldn't like that at all.
They were exiting the fancy building, finally. It was only after a great deal of reassurances, men in suits promising a bunch of things and exchanged words between the zoo director and Uncle Vernon that they could finally go to the car. The consultant physician who had a look at Harry and Dudley could almost hide his annoyance behind his bored facade. He would have succeeded if Aunt Petunia hadn't bothered him to take some imaging exams and what not for a good half an hour or so.
The journey between the director's office and the car park was a silent one. The young man that accompanied them tried to make small talk, and assured them that they would track down the snake, and the zoo should be reopened soon, but it hadn't yielded a lot but a glare from Aunt Petunia, so he'd shut it after a few tries. Harry didn't want to look at his cousin or at his uncle's face. Dudley seemed a little scared by the afternoon events, but Harry didn't dare to see what his uncle was thinking.
By the time they got out of the city centre, however, Piers was already retelling Aunt Petunia how the snake had advanced on Dudley. Not long after, he was vividly recounting how Dudley had kicked it when it tried to lunge and how he had grabbed it by its tail and threw it far away. Emboldened by his friend's nothing but sincere tales, Dudley continued, saying how it had wrapped around his torso and he had to bite it to finally let him go.
The comments didn't amuse Harry's relatives. Not at all. Aunt Petunia alternatively glanced nervously at everyone in the car, skipping Harry when she thought he was looking. Occasionally she let out a nervous laugh and reacted to Dudley's outlandish stories. Uncle Vernon, on the other hand, didn't let his eyes go off the road for a second. Not one moment, until Piers Polkiss had to say it.
"You was talking to it, wasn't you Harry?"
Oh, how he wanted to lock Polkiss in the glass back at the ophidiarium. Uncle Vernon's car wobbled a little on the road as he looked to Harry through the driving mirror, and Aunt Petunia scolded him. He looked at Harry for a few too many seconds and focused on the road again.
Harry didn't have a very good feeling about that.
When they finally pulled up to 4 Privet Drive, his Uncle Vernon stormed inside. Aunt Petunia was quick to rush Dudley up to his bedroom and lock his door, no matter the shouting that ensued.
Harry was at the garden, unsure if he should enter the house.
It was silly. Why should he not enter? Besides, what choice did he have?
He steeled himself and opened the door slowly. He closed the door as quietly as he could. He could hear his uncle grumbling something to his aunt in the living room. He supposed that if he went to his bedroom and put on his pyjamas, he—
'Creak!' The fourth step! He'd forgotten it.
"Potter! Living room, now!"
His uncle was pacing in front of the television when Harry entered the living room. His aunt was pouring some brown beverage into his tea, mixing it carefully as she glanced at her husband. Harry went to sit on the sofa, but his uncle interrupted him.
"Don't!"
He quickly went into the kitchen and brought a wooden chair so Harry would sit. "There, in front of me!"
Harry apprehensively sat down on the chair, making sure that his legs stayed to the side of it.
Now that he could look at his uncle more carefully, an unsettling feeling began to bubble up in his stomach.
He was not grumbling to Aunt Petunia. He was mumbling to himself. His hair was in disarray and his usually well groomed moustache stuck out at weird angles, covering his mouth and nose. His shirt was not tucked, he had only one shoe and even his belt was missing. Harry was not sure what he should do. Should he wait and see if his uncle would calm down? Should he try and draw his attention?
But that wouldn't be necessary, because, suddenly his uncle nodded to himself and looked at Harry, finally.
"In all those years, I wouldn't dare to … to even think you'd stoop this low."
Aunt Petunia tried to push the tea into his hands, but his uncle pushed her. Some of it dripped into the floor, but she paid it no mind. She stood back again from the chair to which he'd pushed her and glared at him. His uncle seemed a little sheepish about that.
"Sorry, Petunia, it's just that—"
"I know. I think it would be best if we talked about this sometime—"
At this, anger returned to Uncle Vernon's face.
"No! We will talk about this, and we will talk about this now! Sit down, boy!"
Harry hadn't even noticed, but he was also standing. His legs trembled as he obeyed his uncle.
"Did you think it was funny, did you? To sick a—a killer snake at your cousin? Did you?" Uncle Vernon said to his face. He'd tried to speak calmly, but by the last phrase he was already shouting again.
Harry tried to stammer out an answer, but found that he couldn't quite speak at the moment. It was as if the muscles on his face had locked. Vernon grabbed his arm and shook him.
"We took you in, we took care of you, gave you everything, and you. Just. Can't. Be. Normal!" He said throwing Harry at the couch as he said the last word. Harry quickly got up and ran behind the couch.
"I—I didn't do nothing—"
But that seemed to be the final strain for his uncle. Aunt Petunia cried his uncle's name, while he shoved the wooden chair away and tried to jump the sofa to get to Harry. He closed his eyes and lifted his arms to the top of his head.
Bang!