Chatting with folks on the Discord leads to strange things sometimes. One of our members brought up a discussion she’d been having: Did the Dursleys keep Harry in the cupboard under the stairs when he was a toddler and more dependent on them? This led to a whole discussion of how horrible the Dursleys were and why you gotta make ’em worse? That discussion put this idea in my head. Let me know what you think.
“Will you do something and shut that boy up?” Vernon grumbled, shifting his considerable bulk onto his left side.
“We need to wait him out,” Petunia hissed over the creaking of the bed frame. “If we go down now, he’ll know we’re weak.” She lay on her back, as still as a stone, seemingly unbothered by the shrieks and wails coming from downstairs.
“I’m going to soundproof that cupboard tomorrow, see if I don’t. I’d like to see him wake us then.”
“He’s bound to get tired soon. He’s only two and a half.”
“I’ve got a big meeting tomorrow and I need to be alert. If that little rat costs me a sale,” Vernon said, leaving the rest of his threat unspoken.
Petunia opened her mouth to reply, to soothe her irritated husband but was brought up short by a wail from Dudley’s room. “Duddies,” she breathed, springing up out of the bed. She threw on a dressing gown and walked quickly to her son’s room, leaving Vernon’s mutterings behind her.
In his room, her son stood up in his cot, chubby hands clutching the top rail, fat tears coursing down his fat, pink cheeks. “Oh, Duddiekins, don’t cry. Mummy’s here, Mummy’s here,” she cooed as she leaned down to plant gentle kisses on top of her son’s shining blond hair.
“Arry,” the toddler mumbled, raising his arms to be picked up.
Petunia picked him up, grunting with the effort. “I know, loviekins, I know. He’s horrible, isn’t he?” She bounced Dudley in her arms as she whispered into his ear. “He’ll quiet down soon. He has to learn to be quiet, doesn’t he?”
As she spoke, the wailing cut off and she sighed in relief. “See? He’s smarter than he looks.” She sat down in the antique rocking chair, her beefy son nestled in her embrace and rocked him back to sleep before putting him back into his cot. On the way back to her own bed, she paused for a moment as she briefly thought about going to check on her nephew. No, I don’t want him to wake and start up again. He’ll still be there in the morning.
Bathilda Bagshot was quite fond of a hot toddy before bed, especially on chill evenings such as this one. An evil night, she thought, chasing away a shudder with a sip of warmed brandy. No, October 31 was no longer one of her favorite nights. The memory of the Potter family’s destruction outweighed memories of Halloween feasts at Hogwarts shared with friends and ghosts alike.
Thinking of Hogwarts put her in mind for a bit revising on her latest edition of A History of Magic and she waved her wand, summoning a stack of parchment to her. She’d just settled down to read over the section about Helga Hufflepuff when she heard something outside.
That wind. I must ask Mr Graves to see to my windowsills before the snow falls. She shifted in her chair and sipped a bit more from her hot toddy. A moment later, she put down her papers, no longer sure that what she was hearing was the wind. That cat is outside again, poor puss. She recalled the Potter’s cat from when she used to visit and had been trying to coax it indoors every time she saw it. The poor thing seemed to recall its former home and showed up every now and then, crying out for its old family as it slunk around the ruined house.
In the hall, she put her heavy coat and ventured outside, trusting her house slippers to keep her feet warm enough. Determined to lure the cat, she brought along a saucer of milk. Outside, she paused for a moment, listening for the sound. Soon enough, she heard it and she set off for the ruined cottage.
“Here, puss, puss, puss,” she called as she got closer, squinting to see the cat in the darkness. “I have some nice warm milk for you.” As she approached the cottage, she slowed, no longer certain that what she was hearing was a cat. Quickening her steps, she let out a gasp of surprise at the sight of a little boy standing on the top step in front of the door.
“All my days,” she breathed, hardly daring to believe what she was seeing in front of her. The little boy had on pajamas that looked much too large on his small frame, his jet black hair a wild halo around his head. He clutched a ragged teddy in one hand, the thumb of the other firmly in his mouth as he looked at her, almond-shaped green eyes solemn.
“Mummy,” little Harry Potter said, his young voice hoarse from crying.
“Oh, Albus, thank you for coming,” Bathilda said as she opened the door at his knock.
“Of course, Bathilda. Thank you for sending your owl,” Albus Dumbledore said, stooping just a little as he came into the cozy little house. “Where is he?”
“Sleeping. Poor little mite was knackered. I gave him a bit of porridge and then he was out,” Bathilda said, leading Albus to her warm lounge. Little Harry was curled up on the settee under a tartan blanket, his ragged bunny clutched to his chest.
Dumbledore looked down, his keen blue eyes staring down at the small figure. Bathilda saw his mouth tighten and she was reminded of when he was her Transfiguration professor. “How do you think he got here? You don’t think he was kidnapped, do you?”
“No, I don’t think anyone took him,” he said, smiling at her. “I think Harry Apparated himself here.”
Bathilda gasped and placed her hand on her chest. “You really think he did it himself?” She looked down at the sleeping child. “How?”
Dumbledore shrugged. “I daresay Halloween night has memories for all of us, even Harry.”
“Do you think he remembers what happened?”
“I think he knows something is missing in his life.” The headmaster’s shoulders sagged and he sighed. “I’ll take him back. Thank you, Bathilda.”
Bathilda put a hand on Dumbledore’s arm. “Does he have to go back?”
“Yes. He has to be with Lily’s blood,” he said, his voice soft as he picked up the sleeping child. He gestured to the blanket, giving her a questioning look.
“Oh of course. Take it. Keep it with him,” Bathilda said, laying her hand on top of Harry’s head, his black hair silky against her palm.
She followed the pair as he carried the child out of her house and watched as he Apparated away, taking Harry back to his aunt and uncle. “Come visit me when you’re all grown up,” she whispered to the empty air.
“Now what?” Vernon mumbled, his voice hoarse with sleep. “What’s that banging?”
“Duddiekins,” Petunia murmured as she sat up, disoriented from being sound asleep. She frowned, hearing nothing from Dudley’s room. Downstairs, she heard what sounded like someone banging on the front door. “I’ll go see who it is. You need your rest for tomorrow,” she said, scrambling out of bed.
Clad in a dressing gown, she opened the door, ready to give whoever it was on the other side a piece of her mind for waking decent, hardworking people in the middle of the night when they were trying to get some rest but her words died on her lips at the sight of Albus Dumbledore on her doorstep.
“Dumbledore,” she breathed. “What are you—” her eyes darted down to the bundle wrapped in a tartan blanket he held in his arms. “Oh no, we’ve already taken in one of your foundlings. You can’t ask us to—”
“Petunia Evans,” Dumbledore said, his voice stern and calm. “It seems as if our Harry had a bit of accidental magic tonight. Tell me, was he upset?”
Petunia’s heart nearly stopped in her chest. “He was crying, but we thought he’d settled down and gone to sleep. What did he do?”
“He ended up in Godric’s Hollow. A neighboring witch found him and alerted me. May I?” he asked, inclining his head to indicate the inside of the house.
Stepping aside, Petunia let him enter, his tall, robe-clad body looking quite at odds with the formal lounge. “Oh, well, I’m glad he was found. Safe.” She reached out for him, feeling a bit like a butterfly pinned to a wax board as Dumbledore looked at her over his half moon glasses before handing her the sleeping Harry.
She held him, his warm little body curling instinctively around her. The headmaster brushed his thumb over the lightning bolt-shaped scar on his forehead before meeting Petunia’s eyes, his gaze holding hers. She had a queer sort of ringing in her ears as she stared into his bright blue eyes. Remember your last, she heard, even though Dumbledore didn’t open his mouth.
A moment later she was alone with Harry in her well-appointed formal lounge.
