fanfic
The homes of Privet Drive were very normal indeed. The same cookie-cutter aesthetic wherever you look, the same tax brackets wherever you looked, the same white-uppder-middle class neighbours wherever you looked.It was the picture of suburban England and not pretentious at all.
Only, one house had a secret. Not one that could harm them; would vaguely inconvenience them at best. That was enough for them.
They hid this secret under the stair-cupboard, where Petunia Dursley couldnât see her sisterâs eyes brimming with tears and where Vernon Dursley could ignore one of them in his house.
The secret was, of course, one Harry James Potter. Arguably, the worst kept secret of the estate as everyone either went to school with him, or saw him out and about like the little miscreant was prone to do. A miscreant. A bad kid. A freak. Only, no one had seen Harry Potter for a few days. The black-haired child was usually seen loitering around the park by now, teasing his poor little cousin Dudley.
One presumes the neighbours werenât too fussed by his absence, but nosiness was prolific and they were all dying to know what has happened to their favorite gossipee.
The boyâs family included.
Harry Potter of Privet Drive was ill. He had been in his room under the stairs, coughing up a lung and swelling at the throat. Petunia, his aunt, had thrown him in by the collar about 3 days ago when he first started swelling, sniffling, and sobbing. Those symptoms hadnât ceased, as most illnesses did after a few days with the boy, and his aunt was starting toâŚworry?
Oh, not worry about him. That was absurd. About her precious son, Dudley, who had just got his vaccinations so was particularly prone to illness.
âIsolation is key.â Vernon, Harryâs uncle and Dudleyâs father, declared smartly. And in his room he was thrown. Days ago.
Desperately, the boy clutched at his throat with his hands. It was still swelling, almost three times the size of normal, and burning.
The eight year old was still able to breathe it just rattled his throat and made him cough, which made him tear up, which set it all off tenfold. It wasnât the worst pain heâd felt (Petuniaâs frying pan topped that) it was just nonstop and that made it agonising in itself.
Heâd been force fed water,calpol, painkillers. Nothing worked. Petunia checked up on him every few hours, looked more harried everytime, and would whisper something inaudibly to her husband, whilst Harry slugged around to try to be human. It was difficult to keep his mind focussed on walking and he wished he could just go to sleep. The pain was beginning to worsen.
He tucked himself back into his cramped room, rocking himself softly because he had no one to do it for him, and wished himself better soon. His tears dripped down his face pathetically, he had no energy to wipe them. He had no one to care he was crying.
A bright light and a grabbed arm forced Harry to stumble out from his safe room. He blinked rapidly and his eyes rested on Petunia, who had darkened circles under her eyes and light bruises from when she was cleaning out the attic earlier that day.
Harry only knew this because Vernon had originally unlocked his cupboard to tell him to do it, before being squirreled away by a whispering Petunia.
âOver here, boy.â she hissed, beckoning him towards the back garden.
Harry, who had felt a bit bad at Petuniaâs worsened state, was hurt to realise she wanted him to do the gardening in his state! He shook as he walked closer to his aunt, who took more steps back the closer he came into the back garden.
âCall an owl.â she whispered through gritted teeth. Harry blinked owlishly at her. She started to get cross. âMake an owl sound, boy. I donât know. Youâre lucky Iâm doing this much.â
Unnerved at the absurdity of her request, Harry hastened to oblige anyway, he needed to lay back down before it started to hurt to stand again. Absurdly, a brown owl hooted at him and grasped the letter Petunia had in her hand.
Harry looked at Petunia. Petunia looked down at Harry. Harry threw up. Promptly wrestled back into his room, the boy couldnât help but remember the haunted look on his auntâs face as she gazed out after the owl. It made no sense.
He dreamed of green, flashing lights throughout a sleep that kept him restless and ragged.
â-----------
Another day passed and Harry had no way to describe his aunt, except weird.
Of course, with his illness he was only seeing the bare minimum of her as she force-fed him more remedies and stale water. With the only difference being he was now stationed in Dudleyâs second bedroom.
The black washing up bowl that Harry is so familiar with under the bed to catch him vomit, the clutter of toys surrounding him, an albeit reluctant maternal-ish figure checking in on him.
Harry could almost get used to the set up.
Then his body would flush hot, heâd get a pounding headache and the urge to go back to normality would have him begging.
But back to Petunia. He would spot her sometimes just stare at him in the middle of the night, when he was curled up. She would chase Dudley away when he got too close to a tantrum about Harry in his other bedroom. She would check out the window constantly, as if awaiting something.
(Someone? Harryâs thought helpfully supplied. She had a letter in her hand that day with the owl, and instinctively he knew it was a mailing system of some kind.)
On one truly monumental occasion, his aunt had pushed a cup of lemon tea at him. She choked out; âYour motherâs favorite.â Had left it at that, and fled.
Harry wouldnât ever get the full story of that from her, but he understood enough even at his young age of eight. The tea was tepid, but Harry was still warmed.
His pondering, and spluttering, was interrupted by a single rap on the door. The past week has bored Harry stiffless, so he used his strength to drag along the floor and peak through the window at a man.
Definitely not a neighbour, Harry decided, unless it was for Vernonâs work meeting? Maybe? It was a Tuesday, his uncle normally had meetings at home on Tuesdays and Harry made sandwiches and the like. Before he was ill.
Though, this man was a bit too hippie.
Suddenly, the long haired man at the front of the house eyes snapped up to meet with Harryâs and he felt like he couldnât look away.
Only Petuniaâs voice hurried the man in, curtains closed and Vernonâs footsteps hit the landing.
âOne of your lot downstairs.â His walrus mustache bristled whilst he warned. âBest behavior.â
And that was all that was said before more, unfamiliar footsteps crossed his bedroom threshold.
âMr Potter.â It was the hippie.
Secretly, harry had no idea what a hippie meant, but he heard Vernon say it to Dudley enough to get the general gist.
The long-haired man gave a cursory once over glance at him and his surroundings before he turned his piercing stare towards the boy.
âSymptoms?â âUm?â âThink, boy! Coughing? Vomiting? Swelling?â
âOh. My face is hot? It hurts to breathe sometimes. Uh. Swelling.â
He proved this by hacking up the other lung.
âEnough. Mumblewumps. Your son and husband will be fine, Tuney, itâs inherently magical.â
Petunia slunk around the corner, her face pinched at having been caught eavesdropping.
âI will take him to St. Mungoâs, since your owl was so lacklustre in giving information. Do not wait up.â
The man, who definitely knew his aunt, then grabbed Harryâs arm and spun him away with a loud pop. Their feet landed on the floor in front of a mannequin. Harryâs vomit landed on the manâs floor. Harry flinched backwards as the manâs hand flew his way but it was only to point a stick at his shoe. âEvanesco.â The vomit disappeared.
Harry blinked, looked up at the man, opened his mouth, then closed it. The man walked off at a brisk pace, so the boy had no choice but to give chase.
