Content warning: Child abuse, panic, isolation, gender dysphoria, panic attacks, misgendering, transphobia, homophobia, use of homophobic and transphobic slurs, bullying.

Mr and Mrs Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say they were perfectly normal, thank-you very much.
Except, you've already read this part. You know all about the Dursleys, the firm Mr Dursley directs (Grunnings) and his oversized moustache. You've already read about Mrs Dursley and her penchant for spying on her neighbours; and how they both pretend she doesn't have a sister. You probably even remember the owls in daytime, the revelry, the sudden appearance of cloaked strangers in the streets. There's every chance you remember the delivery of a tiny newborn with a lightning scar to the doorstep of number four, Privet Drive; by an oversized man on a flying motorcycle and his companions - Professor McGonagall formerly in the shape of a bespectacled tabby cat, and a flamboyantly violet-robed wizard by the name of Professor Dumbledore.

So let's skip ahead some, to the story you don't know. Or at least, a story you know with a character you may not know so well.

Almost ten years passed in the wake of a dark wizard's death, and life at number four, Privet Drive, continued in the determinedly ebullient manner of wealthy suburban families ignoring facts they don't like. The weak English sun rose on the neat garden, rows of pictures hung precisely equidistant from each-other on the walls - depicting the one and only Dudley Dursley's transformation from a round, demanding baby in a variety of ugly baby hats to a round, demanding pre-teenage boy with a variety of expensive new toys; and all in all there was no sign to any visitor that the Dursleys sheltered more than one child under their roof.

Yet another there was, enjoying the brief quiet as she gradually accustomed herself to waking. The peace was not long undisturbed, however, as her Aunt Petunia soon made her presence known; and her shrill voice was the first jarring sound of Harry's day.
"Up! Get up! Now!"
Idly, Harry considered feigning sleep for a little longer but decided quickly that would only bring more trouble. Aunt Petunia's footsteps receded and Harry rolled out of the narrow bed, dragging the covers up into some semblance of made and then rummaging in a drawer for clothes. Brief recollections of her dream drifted across her mind, and Harry smiled. She didn't quite remember what it was about, except that there'd been a flying motorbike. She had a strange sensation that she'd had the dream before.

Aunt Petunia returned to the door, jarring Harry again with a sharp knock.

"Are you up yet?" she demanded, a note of impatience entering her voice.

"Almost," Harry responded quietly, a flicker of discomfort crossing her features at the sound of her own voice.

"What was that?" Aunt Petunia snapped, clearly Harry had spoken too quietly to hear. Aunt Petunia hated mumbling. "I said, almost." Harry replied again, now more audible.

"Well, hurry up, boy," - at this, Harry flinched -" I want you to watch the bacon. And I'll have your hide if you let it burn, you hear me? Everything has to be perfect for Dudders' birthday."

Harry groaned – inaudibly, she'd thought.
Clearly not. "No whinging from you. Dressed and in the kitchen, two minutes." Aunt Petunia said, with an air of finality about her tone.

Harry decided that didn't merit a response. She dressed quickly, staring at the ceiling to avoid looking at anything as the day's usual weight of discomfort settled on her thin shoulders. And Dudley's birthday, how could she have forgotten? She gently removed a spider from one ugly purple sock and put it on, looking at herself in the cracked mirror that hung on the inside of her door with trepidation.

Her impression was one of very wide, verdant hazel eyes in a thin face before wrenching her gaze away and making her way out to the kitchen. The table was laden with Dudley's presents, and Harry cast them a look of longing as she passed them on her way over to the stove. Seemed her cousin had got the new computer he wanted, and the racing bike. Why exactly Dudley wanted a racing bike Harry had no idea; as he was overweight and hated exercise almost as much as he hated Harry. Maybe he wanted to even out the speed advantage she had over his gang in their weekly episodes of Harry-hunting?

Either way, it didn't matter. If Dudley punched Harry, Uncle Vernon would congratulate him on a good swing. If he was bored, his favourite punching bag was always stuck right here in the cupboard under the stairs.

It probably had something to do with her residence in a closet, but Harry had always been small and thin for her age – not something she really minded, except that in Dudley's hand-me-down clothes she looked even smaller and thinner than she really was. Harry had a delicate face that would have been heart-shaped if she was healthier, thin legs ("like sticks," Dudley had so eloquently commented last time he attempted to break them) and a thick mane of unruly black hair that almost reached her shoulders, shot through with reddish highlights. Her eyes were a brilliant green with a coppery ring around the irises, set in her dusky olive face they really were her most striking feature; magnified as they were by crooked glasses mended at the bridge and hinges with tape. Aside from her eyes, the only thing Harry really liked about her own appearance was the scar on her forehead, shaped like forked lightning as it strikes earth. She'd seen it every time she looked in the mirror for as long as she could remember. According to the Dursleys, she'd got it in the car crash when her parents died and hadn't questioned it since. Don't ask questions – the first rule to peace and quiet in the Dursley house.

Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Harry was turning the bacon. "Petunia, cut this boy's hair would you? He looks like a girl." he commented by way of a greeting, pitching his voice over the crackling bacon and other morning clamour. Harry winced at the usual epithet of 'boy' but took the unintended boost. This was a weekly occurrence, although usually with more volume. Harry must have had more haircuts than the rest of her classmates combined, but it didn't seem to make a difference - her hair grew back quickly, as thick and unruly as it had been before Aunt Petunia hacked it off.
Harry was scrambling eggs and frying the hash browns by the time Dudley lumbered down to the kitchen. Dudley resembled his father - short nose, thickset, not much neck and hands perpetually curled almost into fists. His hair was smooth, thick and blonde, slicked neatly over one eyebrow in a way Harry's never would. Aunt Petunia commented he looked like a baby angel. Privately, Harry snickered and thought Dudley's hair looked so mismatched it appeared to be a wig.

Ignoring Dudley petulantly counting presents – apparently there was less than last year, not that anyone except Dudley would notice – Harry set the plates of eggs, hash brown and bacon on the table, a difficult feat given the sheer number of assorted boxes and objects piled upon it. In placing Uncle Vernon's breakfast she knocked something off – small and round, probably a light-up yo-yo given that Dudley had been demanding one for a solid month. Luckily her hands were now free, and she caught the package before it hit the floor. Uncle Vernon cuffed her over the ear, hard, and she returned it to the table with shaking hands. Well, Harry had quick reflexes - that was one thing she had going for her. She'd have had a lot worse than a smack over the ear had that present actually hit the ground. Harry set herself at the foot of the table, far away from the oncoming Hurricane Dudley tantrum that was brewing over there being less presents than before; and began wolfing down her breakfast slowed only by Aunt Petunia's shrill reminder to chew your food, boy!

Harry's aunt was then distracted by the disruptive ring of the telephone and she left the kitchen to answer it. Her conversation was inaudible to Harry over the sounds of her uncle and cousin bantering, some other sad excuse for Dudley's spoilt antics by what little Harry actually picked up. Her attention was drawn by Aunt Petunia's pinched expression growing sourer by the moment, and she flinched when her aunt hung up the phone with a resounding clatter. "Bad news, Vernon, Mrs Figg's broken her leg. She can't take him." she said grimly.

Dudley's mouth dropped open in horror and Harry looked away from the revolting sight of his mashed food, though her heart beat a little faster in anticipation. Every year on Dudley's birthday, his parents took him out to new hamburger bars, adventure parks or the cinema. Every year Harry was left behind with Mrs Figg, an old lady who lived two streets away. Harry hated it there. Mrs Figg was nice enough, but the house was filled with an unpleasant miasma of cabbage and Mrs Figg always had some angry new cat ready to sharpen its' claws on Harry's legs.

"Now what?" said Aunt Petunia, casting a furious glance in Harry's direction as though somehow she'd made this happen from her cupboard. Harry knew she ought to be sorry that Mrs Figg had broken her leg and the old lady was kind enough to her, but it wasn't easy when she was reminded that it was a whole year before she'd have to look at photos of Mrs Figg's old cats and warily evade her new ones.

"We could phone Marge," Uncle Vernon said with the air of one who already knew the answer he'd receive.

"Don't be silly, Vernon, she hates the boy."

Harry's aunt and uncle often spoke about her like this, as if she were an inconvenient piece of furniture to be rehomed once a year – or rather, something really unpleasant like one of the aforementioned Aunt Marge's bulldogs that couldn't understand a word they were saying.

This continued for some time and Harry eventually tuned out and set about washing the dishes, figuring she'd find out whatever her punishment would be whenever they got around to it. Between her aunt and uncle's arguing and Dudley's brewing tantrum, it was easier to just let the racket fade and daydream. An image from Harry's half-remembered dream flitted across her mind and her imagination seized on it, constructing a picture of Harry herself, older and so glamourous-looking in leather jacket, heeled boots and dramatic makeup accented with red lips seated astride a motorbike - flying, as it had in her dream. A faint smile touched the corners of Harry's mouth though her pleasant train of thought was soon interrupted by the arrival of one of Dudley's friends.

Piers Polkiss was a sneering, scrawny boy – though not quite so scrawny as Harry – with greasy hair and a pointed nose with a perpetually reddened tip that reminded Harry every time she saw him of a rat. Dudley's feigned sobs ceased almost immediately and he wiped the crocodile tears from his now smugly grinning face.

An hour or so later, Harry had been bundled into the car and still couldn't quite believe the turn of events as she was, her face now pressed against the window, on the way to the zoo for the first time in her life. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had been unable to think of anything to do with her and so, after many warnings of dire consequences for any 'funny business' and recollections of such incidents, here Harry was. Piers' constant sharp prodding was admittedly spoiling the novelty somewhat, but still. Nothing could quite dampen her good mood. Today, nothing was going to go wrong.

It was even worth being here, squished against the window next to Piers Polkiss and her cousin to be spending the day somewhere that wasn't school, her cupboard or Mrs Figg's cabbage-smelling lounge.

As he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia. Uncle Vernon was happiest when complaining – his workmates, Harry, young people enjoying themselves, Harry, 'those queers', Harry, and the state of education in England were just a few of his favourite topics. Today the subject was motorbikes, and Harry couldn't help interrupting his rant with a quick interjection: "I had a dream about a motorbike. It was flying," she commented unhelpfully.

Uncle Vernon's reaction was so sudden, he almost rear-ended the car he was following closely – not ten minutes before the topic of complaint had been bad driving and the speed limits set for 'nervous Nellies' - as he whirled around to face Harry, his fleshy face turning an interesting shade of violet. "MOTORBIKES DON'T FLY!"

Piers and Dudley sniggered.

"I know they don't. It was just a dream." Harry murmured, wishing more now that she hadn't said anything. If there was anything the Dursleys despised more than questions, it was her talking about things behaving in ways they shouldn't, even in books or films or as in this case, a dream. They seemed to think it might encourage her, whatever that meant.

The day was sunny, for England, and given it was a Saturday the zoo was crowded with families of all kinds. The Dursleys bought Piers and Dudley massive chocolate ice-creams at the entrance, and when the zoo worker asked if Harry would like anything they, to Harry's surprise, bought her a lemon ice-block. It seemed their usual cruelty would be limited, outside of their own home. The Dursleys were nothing if not concerned with public appearances.

Harry wandered along a little apart from her aunt, uncle and the boys, concerned that when they grew bored with hassling the zoo animals they would find a more satisfying target in Harry's own skinny form. Still, she had a fine time peering at all the exotic animals and when they stopped for lunch, Dudley threw a tantrum about his dessert and Harry was allowed to finish it while Uncle Vernon bought Dudley another. All in all, no more eventful than usual and far more pleasant.

They then made their way into the reptile house. It was dark and cool with muted lighting, and Harry found it a relief after the glaring sun and complete overload of sounds outside. Behind glass, all manner of lizards and snakes slithered and scampered and hissed. Harry scanned over the names - the strange dark-eyed dragonesque lizard was a tuatara, from somewhere called New Zealand. Harry wasn't sure where New Zealand was, but it sounded very far away and she wondered why they'd felt the need to uproot this sleepy creature. Over on the other side of the reptile house, Dudley and Piers were trying to find the deadliest animal the could and annoy it. They'd quickly found the largest snake in the place, marbled in amber and black and brown, and were pounding on the glass and generally just doing everything the signs said not to.

When they got bored, Harry made her way over to the exhibit and let her head fall forward, forehead resting against the glass with a soft thunk. The snake opened its' dark, slitted eyes and for a moment Harry and the snake just watched each-other. "It's not nice being trapped, is it," Harry whispered, and she could have sworn the snake shook it’s head. "I'm sorry. They're loud. They're always loud." she murmured. The snake's expression seemed to say quite clearly, 'I get that all the time'. Harry smiled tiredly, she knew that feeling. "Where are you from? It must be nicer than here," she asked, and the snake flicked its' tail at the placard in front of its' terrarium: Boa Constrictor, Brazil. This specimen was bred in the zoo. "Oh... I'm sorry. So you've been stuck here, your whole life... in a big glass box? That's gotta suck. I get how that feels. You live in a box, I live in a cupboard." she whispered, feeling bad for the snake all of a sudden. She cast her eyes around at the other placards and the little 'bred in the zoo' captions jumped out at her everywhere. Overwhelmed, she turned and leaned against the glass again. She didn't have the words for it but... breeding wild animals and keeping them in captivity for people like the Dursleys to look at whenever they felt like it, didn't seem right.

"Oi, Dudley! Mr Dursley! You gotta see what this snake's doing!" a jeering nasal voice called out; and Harry's moment of quiet was interrupted. She tried her best to get out of the way but wasn't quite fast enough and caught Dudley's fist to the ribs. Coughing, she stumbled back and caught hold of the wooden rail running along the front of the terrarium wall for balance. Hunched over as she was, Harry found herself on eye level with the boa constrictor. Her eyes narrowed, the Dursleys' chatter faded into a dull hum and the edges of her vision went black. She swayed, and caught herself on the rail again, only to straighten in shock. Where once had been the boa's clear prison wall was now a doorway. Dudley was frozen in horror and Piers reeled backwards, pressing back against the wall of another terrarium with the intent of getting as far away from the now-free boa constrictor as possible. As the snake uncoiled itself from the branch and slipped to the ground, Harry could have sworn she heard a hissing voice say "Home, here I come. Thankssss, amiga."

The keeper of the reptile house was in shock. "But the glass," he kept saying, staring at the now-solid terrarium wall, "where did the glass go?

Piers and Dudley could only gibber, while Aunt Petunia recovered and Uncle Vernon gathered his fury. Harry was shepherded into the car and squished against the window again, and they were halfway home before the boys recovered enough to make things difficult. "Harry was talking to it, weren't you Harry?" Piers commented, some of his sneer returning though his face was still an ashy pale hue.

The car ride the rest of the way home then was dead silent, Harry could barely dare to breathe. She knew the punishment was coming though still couldn't quite fathom how miraculously strange happenings were her fault at all. They had barely handed a still-pale Piers off to his hovering mother before Harry was shoved unceremoniously into her cupboard, Uncle Vernon's declaration of 'no meals' drifting off after her.

Harry lay in the dark with her spider friends, wishing she had a watch to keep time. She drifted off at some point, green light and strange, disjointed memories flicking across her consciousness like so many disconnected stars. A woman's laughter, red hair falling across her face, someone's hazel eyes behind thick glasses, cruel laughter, a piercing scream, green light and then darkness, over and over behind Harry's closed eyelids.