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

SPECIFIC content warning on this chapter for assault, homophobia & transphobia and child abuse.

Harry awoke the next morning to an acrid stink that wafted from the kitchen and crept into every cranny of the usually-immaculate Dursley house. Wrinkling her nose she dressed hurriedly and headed on out for breakfast, noting that the smell seemed to originate from a large steel bucket in the kitchen sink. Peering curiously into it, she recoiled quickly - not only did its' contents reek, but the fumes stung her eyes and throat. Her brief glimpse had hardly enlightened her at all, it seemed to be no more than a tub of greyish rags suspended in storm-water.

"Um... what's that?" She asked hesitantly, immediately regretting it as Aunt Petunia's lips went tight in the way they always did when Harry dared ask questions.

"Your new school uniform," she responded tersely.

Harry dared a second peek into the bucket and immediately decided that whatever she had to say was only going to get her in more trouble. She fished her toast out and sat down in her usual place at the far end of the table to eat, though she was interrupted by the click-shuffle-thump of the mail. Dodging Dudley's Smeltings stick, Harry made her way for the door. Sifting through the usual collection of shiny-crinkly junk mail, what looked like bills, the daily paper and a very generic postcard and – a letter for Harry.

Harry stared at it in bewilderment, but there was no mistaking it. Lettered out in spiralling cursive that confused her eyes, that was indeed her name, her address. Peculiar, to be addressed to her cupboard but... it was very specific, if nothing else.

The envelope was stiff and heavy, made of a thick ochre parchment. Harry's address was spelled out clearly in viridian green ink of a strange hue, the colour seemed to shift and sparkle under the light as she examined it. Turning it over in her shaking hands, Harry took in the violet wax seal stamped with an elaborate crest of a lion, a snake, an eagle and a badger encircling an elaborate letter H which was the centrepoint of the crest.

"Hurry up boy! What are you doing, checking for bombs in the post?" Uncle Vernon called down the hallway, snickering at his own joke as he craned his fleshy neck to see what Harry was up to.

Harry made her way back to the kitchen, sliding her letter into a back pocket. She handed over the bills, junk mail, paper and postcard. Feeling the parchment crumple under her, she thought of opening it under the table but decided she was on thin ice already. She finished her toast hurriedly and dropped her plate in the dishwasher, slinking from the room when -

"Oi, Dad, Harry's got something!" Dudley pointed out, always eager to dob Harry in for anything and everything. Vernon stood and held out his hand, palm up, eyeing Harry with a steely gaze withholding the unsaid threat - Hand it over, or else.

Eyes downcast, Harry's shoulders slumped and she passed the letter over without complaint. Inside, she wanted to protest, 'That's mine!' but knew there was no point. Merely having the letter put her on thin ice already, any sort of dissent would have her back in her cupboard.

Uncle Vernon flicked the letter open and stared, his face going through an impressive transformation from it's usual red through purple, then the unhealthy beige of overcooked porridge. "P-Petunia!" he gasped, fending off a grab from Dudley as he passed the letter to Aunt Petunia. Harry looked between the two of them with growing anxiety as Aunt Petunia’s features went tense and a vein ticked in her throat while Uncle Vernon’s ashen face now showed a sheen of sweat.

“OUT! Both of you, out!” Uncle Vernon snapped, taking both Harry and Dudley by the collar and flinging them into the hallway, slamming the door behind them both. A sharp elbow from Dudley knocked Harry against the wall and she fought between the desire to know what was going on, and the desire to hide.

Hiding won out and, dodging an ankle tap from her cousin, Harry fled for her cupboard. Her aunt and uncle’s voices sounded faintly through the wall and Harry curled against it in the corner formed by her door and the wall at right-angles, shaking and fighting back tears. The thin walls muffled only some of the agitated conversation, and Harry caught snatches of it through her tears and irregular breathing.

“How could they know... spying... following us... Vernon? ... write back? Tell them...” the voices continued back and forth, Aunt Petunia’s rising in pitch and Uncle Vernon’s in volume. What little she heard did nothing to de-mystify the matter for Harry, but it was clear that the wax-sealed letter meant a lot more to her uncle and aunt than it did Harry. Moving stiffly, she rose and crawled into bed, her back against the far wall and pillow screwed up under her as she curled up into a knot of worry. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon carried on, shouting about stamping something out, dangerous nonsense and the like. It only served to confuse Harry, and she fell into a fitful doze thinking her cupboard would be safer than anywhere near them that day.

Later that day a truly unexpected event occurred. Usually Aunt Petunia was the one to peer in on Harry from the hallway, but when Uncle Vernon returned from work in the evening he flung Harry’s door open by way of greeting and ducked his head under the lintel as he leaned on the door-frame to speak to her. He forced his face into a smile, though it looked rather painful as if his muscles weren’t accustomed to it. “Harry, about this cupboard... Petunia and I, we had a talk and we rather feel you’re getting too big for it now. We’d.. like you to move upstairs, into Dudley’s spare bedroom.”

The question ‘Why?’ died on Harry’s lips, the Dursleys hated questions. Uncle Vernon stepped back and straightened up, dusting his hands on his jacket as if he’d just done some unpleasant task. “Well, that’s that. Take this stuff upstairs and then get down and help Petunia with dinner.” he said with an air of finality.

It didn’t take Harry much time to pack her meagre belongings into two old schoolbags and trudge upstairs, her steps hesitant as she reached the landing. Upstairs was out of bounds to Harry – she’d been taught time and again where she belonged, in the cupboard under the stairs. Strains of a Richter scale nine Dudley tantrum drifted upstairs as Harry peered into her new bedroom.

The Dursleys had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for guests, one where Dudley slept and one where Dudley kept everything he’d ever broken. Darkly amused, Harry cast her eyes around the room. Dudley had tried his best to break Harry too, but she was a little more durable than his air rifle – she flinched and turned away, remembering waking one morning to its’ muzzle pressed to her brow – or his near-new video camera. One shelf was full of books, and Harry dropped her bags as she wandered over to them in a haze, running a forefinger along the spines as she read out the titles in a soft, wondering whisper. The Faraway Tree, Matilda, the Chronicles of Narnia – a full set of seven books, though she noticed by the numbers on the spine that they were out of order; the Lord of the Rings – a boxed trilogy, with a fourth book entitled The Hobbit included in the box; and a solid hardcover titled The Once and Future King were some of the titles that caught her eye. Of all the broken things in the room, only these seemed untouched and they were like treasure to Harry. Hurricane Dudley carried on down below, but Harry tugged a book from the shelf and curled up on the bed – her bed – to read.

The next few days passed in a blur of swearing and green-inked letters appearing in the strangest of places. Harry didn’t dare mention the letters around the house, but she dragged herself out of bed first thing one Thursday morning with the intent to catch the post before the Dursleys did. She didn’t get half-way down the stairs before she caught sight of a strange collection of shapes in the grey dawn light. Harry shook her head and took her glasses off to wipe them on her pyjama shirt, taking in the hulking shape sprawled on the mat in mounting horror as she crouched on the stairs. Luckily she’d seen him before she left the staircase, but it seemed Uncle Vernon had predicted her planned heist and slept out here in the hallway. Horrified at the prospect of what might happen if he woke, Harry turned tail and scurried back to her room, closing the door behind her and curling up in bed again as waves of panic and her anxiety’s projections of what could have happened played in an interminable loop in her conscious.

After Harry’s attempted mail heist, she left the house for a few hours only to return and find Uncle Vernon again with the door jammed open, his mouth full of nails as he boarded up the mail slot. “See, boy?” He asked, a malicious glint in his eye as he spoke around the nails. “No letters for you if they can’t deliver them!” Harry wasn’t so sure, but it did seem worrying that Uncle Vernon had stayed home from work today on account of the letters.

On Friday, a good dozen or so letters arrived; all addressed to Harry Potter. As they couldn’t get through the mail slot they had been forced under the door and slotted through the gaps at either side, a few had even made their way through the small window in the downstairs toilet. Uncle Vernon stayed home again boarding up any noticeable cracks, still with that vindictive gleam in his eye as he whistled tunelessly to music of his own imagining.

Saturday morning was pandemonium. Twenty-four letters made their way into the house, rolled up inside each one of the two-dozen eggs that the very confused milkman delivered through the kitchen window. Aunt Petunia shredded them mercilessly in the blender while Uncle Vernon raged at the post company and the dairy, trying to find someone to bully who knew anything about this. Dudley was taken aback. “Who could want to talk to you this much? Didn’t think you had any friends.”

Harry quipped back that Dudley should leave the thinking to someone better qualified, unfortunately just as Uncle Vernon hung up the phone. She spent the rest of the day locked in her room, absorbed in another of Dudley’s unwanted books as the sound of hammer strikes punctuated almost every daylit moment.

On Sunday morning, Harry tiptoed tentatively downstairs to find a grimly smiling Uncle Vernon already seated at the breakfast table. Pouring milk over her cereal, Harry watched him cautiously as his smile broadened. “No post on Sundays,” he reminded her as he spread marmalade on her toast, nodding an eerily cheerful greeting as Aunt Petunia and Dudley wandered out of the kitchen. “None. No bloody letters today-”

Whatever Uncle Vernon had planned to say next was cut off as something whistled down the chimney and connected sharply with the back of his head. He swore and turned, just as another flew past and skidded down the dining table to knock against the flower vase standing in the middle. Then, like a dam unstopped, a torrent of letters flooded out of the fireplace bringing ash and soot with them; creating a veritable whirlwind in Aunt Petunia’s pristine kitchen.

“Out! OUT!” Uncle Vernon thundered, and Harry didn’t have to wait to be thrown this time as she bolted from the kitchen, fleeing upstairs to her room and slamming the door behind her before she was able to stop, and breathe, and remember she was safe. Harry stumbled over to the bed and flung herself down on it, her breath still coming in ragged gasps as she recovered from her panic. She was not permitted long, however, as Uncle Vernon’s heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. He opened the door with his usual subtlety and scowled at the sight of Harry cowering against the wall, The Once and Future King cradled in her lap. “Pack some things and get downstairs. Five minutes. We’re going away.” he snapped before striding from the room.

He had looked so unsettling with half his moustache and soot in his receding hair that Harry supposed no one else dared argue, and she set about shoving some of her clothes into a holey old schoolbag. She supposed it had once been black, but it had been faded by the sun and wear to a dull purple colour that Harry rather liked; although continuing to use it had earned her a few dark comments from Uncle Vernon about appropriate behaviour and belongings for boys. Their displeasure didn’t extend so far as replacing it, however, so she continued to do so.

Harry eyed her bed, considering the clothes she’d hidden under the mattress. With a reckless shrug she lifted it and snagged the pocketless jeans, a shirt and some other things, stuffing them in the very bottom of her bag. She wasn’t sure why she bothered bringing them, perhaps there was by now something comforting about sleeping with her secrets near. Still, she thought little more of it as she slid her lipgloss into an inner pocket of the bag until her hand brushed against something-

Something stiff, and made of parchment. Her eyes wide with wonder, Harry drew her hand from the bag, a final envelope clutched in her grasp. Hands now shaking, she lifted the wax seal from the parchment with a nail and opened the letter, unfurling it to reveal a letter written in the same emerald ink as the address. She read it, her wonder growing with every passage.

Hogwarts School of Magic

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed of Wizards)

Dear Harry Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Magic. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 2 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

Well now, Harry almost regretted opening the letter; for its’ contents explained almost nothing of her aunt and uncle’s reaction. Magic? She’d have ignored it and taken it for a prank, had the mysterious sender not been so peculiarly insistent on her receiving this missive. She sat for a moment studying its’ contents again, flipping open the supplies list in the help it might help elucidate the situation. If anything, it made it worse– a wand? And these textbook titles seemed sheer nonsense. Harry knocked the heel of her palm against her forehead, as if the sensation might shock some sort of working order into her brain.

No such luck. As she began to read the letter for a third time, Uncle Vernon reappeared in her doorway with the ghosts of a demand written across his lips that died the moment he saw what lay in Harry’s hands. “You – when did you get that? Give that here, you thieving brat,” he snarled, crossing the room in angry strides to snatch the letter from a shrinking Harry’s grasp.

He raised his fist and Harry closed her eyes, cowering behind her own vainly defensive arms as she prepared for yet another beating. His fist met her ribs and Harry gasped in pain, something cracked and the wind was knocked from her body. She was used to more, ready for more when -

BOOM.

Someone, someone far stronger than her current tormentor, was knocking at the door.