Chapter Text
Eight rashers of bacon, three sausages, an egg, four buttered pieces of toast, a blueberry muffin or two, and a glass of orange juice for Dudley. Two of everything for Uncle Vernon, plus a mug of strong coffee, and a “healthier” Danish with a generous amount of butter for Aunt Petunia. And a cup of Earl Grey tea, since she sneered at the “disgusting foreignness” of chai.
That was Harry’s typical morning routine, and by now he knew it by heart. Harry’d gotten quite fast at preparing it, too, and he could usually sneak a couple pieces of bacon in addition to the usual apple and piece of unbuttered toast that was his own morning meal.
A gust of wind rattled the trees outside the window, and the sound of business class Surrey “traffic” -- Astons and German cars -- filled the air outside. But Harry couldn’t hear any of it over the sound of Uncle Vernon’s daily political tirade -- today, on “those damn liberal pansies, letting the lazy get handouts for nothing while us upstanding citizens get a pittance for our hard work.”
Harry stuffed the remainder of his toast into his mouth and stood up, pushing his chair back. He returned to his cupboard, read a page of the newspaper he’d nicked from the rubbish, gathered the books his schoolteacher Mrs. Pocket had assigned, and stuffed them into Dudley’s old knapsack, making sure they didn’t fall out of the hole Dudley had torn in it after she assigned too much maths. As he reentered the kitchen, Uncle Vernon snapped, “Haven’t you forgotten something, boy? The trash needs to be taken out before you go running off to that library of yours. I won’t have our house being filthy just because you’re insistent on useless things."
Without a word, Harry pivoted and gathered up the trash bag from its basket, the rustling drowning out Vernon’s fading “Now boxing, there’s a sport for real boys. All this laying about and reading never did sit right with me....”
“I’ve done everything, Uncle Vernon.”
“Is Dudley’s lunch packed? With candy? You know Dudders likes his Werther’s. Growing boy,” he added, ruffling his son’s hair with pride. Harry stifled a snort -- “Dudders” now resembled a pig with a Mohawk -- and said “Yes, I told you I’ve done everything. Can I go?”
“Don’t be insolent with me, boy, and get back in time for lunch. I won’t have our meals being late. Healthy boys need their food on time,” Uncle Vernon said, apparently miffed at not being able to delay Harry’s presumed opportunity at happiness. It wasn’t happiness, not by a long shot, but the library was certainly where Harry got his peace, and was Dudley-free to boot: his cousin never touched a book if he could help it, though at age nine he could certainly read.
Harry headed straight to the fantasy section, running his finger along the shelf until he came to the L’s. His teacher had mentioned “A Wrinkle in Time” today, and Harry, hungry for new reading material, had noted the oddly French name “Madeleine L’Engle.” He rocked up on his tiptoes, squinting at the titles above his head. “Lenard, Lender, L’Engle. There.” He stretched upwards, to no avail - Harry had always been small for his age, and the book had ended up on the very top shelf. He peered round the shelf, contemplating asking the librarian -- though she always looked oddly at his too-large clothes -- but she was nowhere to be found. No help for it, then -- Harry gripped the edge of the shelf and pulled himself upwards, one foot seeking purchase on the bottom shelf. His other hand reached out and caught hold of the slim book, slotted it out, and then a nasal voice demanded “Is that you, Potter boy? Get off my shelf!”
Harry’s gripping hand let go in surprise, his trainer toe slipped off the shelf below, and Harry grasped furiously at the shelf as he teetered backwards, causing the metal bookcase to rock dangerously. Harry landed, took a deep breath, and gasped as the bookcase teetered, groaned, and began to fall, books sliding out and thumping to the ground. There was a moment of shock -- I’m in so much trouble, so much trouble, I’ll never be able to come here again -- and then, miraculously, all was as is.
Harry looked up. There was the bookcase, stable, there was the librarian, looking dazed. Had he imagined it? -- but no, there was “A Wrinkle in Time” in his hand. What in the world had happened? Harry, for the first time in his life, was speechless.
The librarian in front of him shook her head for a moment and then, collecting herself, demanded, too sharply for her, “Do you want to borrow that book or not? I don’t have all day.” And Harry, shocked for a completely different reason, followed her meekly to the desk, the delight of the new book in his arms curiously muted by what had just happened. And then he noticed the time on his watch and, having scanned the book out, took off running for home.
Harry jogged rapidly down the street, the rhythmic thuds of the library book in his backpack reminding him of the happy reading he would be able to do later. He checked the watch on his wrist -- once Dudley’s until the strap had broken, but now, with a little mending, Harry’s -- and sped up his pace, thinking about the odd occurrence in the library. He was sure he’d climbed the shelf, because the book had been on top. He’d startled and slipped off when the librarian came, and the small bookcase had toppled with his moving weight. Yet a moment later all was well, and the book in his hand. He could find no explanation for it. Certainly he wouldn’t have been able to lift the bookcase back upright -- he was only nine (and a half!), after all, and small at that -- and he didn’t remember doing so. He’d heard of temporary amnesia, but only in cases of trauma -- Vernon’s second cousin had been injured in a construction accident and remembered nothing for three days -- and even if he’d suffered amnesia, what about the librarian? She would certainly have said something.
Engrossed in his thoughts, Harry nearly ran over Mrs. Figg, who was walking down the street with Mr. Wibbles. He got up, muttering apologies, and was about to continue when Mrs. Figg called “Harry! Wait a moment, tell your aunt Petunia I’m very sorry but I won’t be able to take you on Thursday, my niece is having a baby you see.” Harry nodded and set off again, only thinking, “Aunt Petunia won’t be happy with the short notice” before he arrived at the front door.
Harry took a moment to catch his breath -- Uncle Vernon never liked to be disturbed by the sound of his wretched gasps, can’t you leave a bit earlier, boy? You think your silly books are as important as a hard-earned meal for my family? -- and stepped inside, glancing at the clock. He frowned. He’d arrived at the house with a minute to spare, even though he could’ve sworn it was exactly half two when he’d left Mrs. Figg. A lot of odd things seemed to be happening today, but he didn’t dwell on this one as Vernon shouted “What did I tell you about coming back late, boy,” as Harry walked in the door. “You know my Dudders likes his steak well-done.”
It was no use being snarky when Vernon was in a mood like this, so Harry moved off to the kitchen to prepare Dudley’s meal -- he didn’t want to consider the consequences if it was actually a minute late.
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“Now remember, boy, don’t touch anything while we’re gone. Petunia’s set out a banana and some toast for you, stay in your cupboard and read those pansy books of yours or something. If I come home and find any, any freaky stuff has happened -- ”
Harry mused, privately, that “freaky stuff” meant quite a bit more than it used to before the library incident. The Dursleys didn’t know that, of course, but it comforted Harry in an odd sort of way.
“Are you listening, boy? We’re taking a great risk leaving you alone like this, the Figg lady bailed at the last second -- unreliable bint --" "Language, Vernon!" "and I always said that boys - ”
At this point Petunia tugged on his arm and pointed to the clock, and Vernon turned, if possible, even purpler -- a dinner with the Director of Grunning’s Drills was not to be late to.
“You know the rules boy. Now in, in, and we’ll be back by eight. I want nothing disturbed, do you hear me, and I want your chores done, and if there’s a speck of dirt on the floors by the time we return -- ”
Vernon’s voice faded off as he waddled, still blustering, out the door and squeezed with difficulty into his car. The rumble of the engine signaled their departure, and Harry opened his cupboard door once again.
Though it was the same house as usual, it felt freer without the Dursleys’ oppressing presence. Harry stretched, rolling his shoulders backwards, and stepped out, looking around. He could go and play on Dudley’s computer, or watch some television -- the channels he liked, for once -- or eat whatever he wanted. He could read in the living room instead of by flashlight in his cupboard. He dithered for a moment, and headed for the kitchen, slipping a slice of “premium” ham out of the refrigerator and thickly buttering toast before assembling a sandwich. He stuck a finger into a jar of jam for good measure, and, finger still jam-coated and sandwich in tow, headed for the living room to watch TV.
A good three hours later, having finished his first sandwich, extricated himself from the telly, and finished his chores, Harry was back in the kitchen, building another sandwich. He spread jam on the bread, enough of it to nearly soak through, then peanut butter, then a very little of Dudley’s precious marshmallow fluff -- just enough to be unnoticeable. He added the final slice of bread and, overwhelmed with luxury, stretched his arms out wide and spun around in glee. It wasn’t until he stopped his spin and came to a dizzy stop against the counter that a frisson of nervousness went through him, and something in his body went taut. He looked to his right almost fearfully, and saw the jam jar.
Floating in midair.
Harry stopped dead and closed his eyes. He opened them again. Still there, still floating. He’d brushed against something while spinning, he could easily have knocked the jar off the counter. It looked as if he had - and yet. Harry thanked some deity for not letting it smash and ruin Aunt Petunia’s floor. He stared at the jar again, and, possessed by an odd impulse, pointed his arm at it. His hand was trembling, and it may have been imagination, but -- was the jar trembling in sync? He tightened his muscles, and, slowly, raised his arm.
And the jar floated upwards.
Harry exhaled very, very slowly. Logic and rationality were falling apart around him, but he couldn’t think about that. He raised his arm more, genuinely shaking now, and the jam jar copied his movements, floating ever so slowly, up, up, and over, and gently coming to a stop on the counter, just as it had been a minute or an hour ago.
Harry leaned against the counter, sandwich and glee forgotten. This -- this thing, this thing that had happened - “freaky stuff,” Uncle Vernon seemed to say in his mind - was the same kind of thing that had happened in the library. Harry was rather certain he couldn’t speak for his mind whirling in fear and terror and a bit of excitement, but one forgotten corner of his soul seemed to whisper in his ear -- “Magic.”
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Click. Aunt Petunia shut his cupboard door behind him, and Harry listened in the dark, periodically brushing his hair off, as the sprays of cement dust from the ceiling melded with Dudley’s heavy thumps up the stairs. Aunt Petunia’s soft footsteps went into the parlor, Uncle Vernon’s house-shaking bangs preceding her, and in a few moments Harry heard the news channel blare to life. If all went well, even if what he was doing made any noise, neither Petunia nor Vernon would notice.
Harry took a deep breath, and held his hand out in front of him. He couldn’t even make out its outline without the cupboard’s derelict bulb, but tonight he didn’t want it. He squinted at his fingers and unconsciously held his breath, hoping -- willing -- for them to -- yes, there it was -- just a little more -- and a bit more -- and it was quite good now -- then his palm flared with a burst of white light and Harry, temporarily blinded, fell backwards. Blinking the afterimages out of his eyes, he let out his breath. It had worked much better than when he tried it last night, though as his still-watering eyes could testify, he still needed to work on controlling his --
Well, what was it exactly? The logical part of Harry’s brain refused to believe it was magic. But Harry was in the end a nine-year-old experiencing something he’d never known before, and the adventuring side of him firmly quashed the logical side, appealing it with a promise to be logical later, after Harry experimented more.
He gritted his teeth and willed his fingers into light once more, shakily, as if they were a guttering candle. Nothing. Perhaps words would help. “Light up?” he wondered tentatively. Nothing happened. “Light.” Nothing. The image of the candle stuck in his mind’s eye, and he watched as the “candle” flared into life, wavered back and forth, and slowly strengthened. “Li-” and his hand began to glow. “Light!” he thought desperately, his mental candle sparking wildly, and his hand flared sharply in response.
He tried imagining the candle once again, slowly holding a match to it in his mind, the wick glowing and then igniting. The flame grew, and his hand glowed brighter. Once he had a steady glow, he breathed out in relief -- not even realizing he’d been holding his breath -- and the candle in his mind, buffeted by wind, abruptly went out, as did his hand. Uncontrollably, he grinned.
Struck by an idea, he made a pushing motion at an old toy car of Dudley’s. “Move!” It twitched, but stayed static. He imagined Dudley in front of the TV, watching sports cars sprint in Formula One Racing. The cars would rev, sparks flaring from the tires, and screech into motion -- and the car in front of him slid half an inch or so across the carpet.
How was this possible? No, it wasn’t time to think yet, this was exciting. Harry raised his hand again, imagining the racecars, and unbidden his mind flicked to the time Dudley had put his foot through the telly in anger. He had heard an almighty crash, a roar of Dudley-brand rage, and a shatter, and -- the car in front of him shuddered and cracked slightly. Whoops. He forced his mind to concentrate, to push out interfering thoughts, and tried once again. And again, and again. He wouldn’t sleep tonight, but that was all right. He was willing to spend as long as it took.