The Ties That Bind
Little Whinging, 1986 – Primary School
Petunia Dursley was absolutely fuming.
Her heels struck the pavement like gunfire as she dragged her nephew from the school gates. Six-year-old Harry, small for his age and quieter than most children, didn’t cry. Crying meant more punishment. Crying meant the cupboard. He kept his eyes on the ground, stumbling slightly to keep pace with her clipped stride.
Apparently, he’d done something. Again. This time, the teacher’s hair had turned blue. Bright, unnatural blue.
Harry hadn’t meant to—he’d just been frustrated. He already knew how to write the alphabet. He’d been sneaking library books for over a year, slowly teaching himself things no one else bothered to teach him. But when he tried to correct the teacher, she’d laughed. Told him boys like him should worry about behavior, not books.
And something inside him had… snapped.
Now he was being dragged home again, small fingers clenched tightly in Petunia’s clawed grip.
They passed a quiet cul-de-sac, and that’s when Harry first heard it—a voice like sunlight on warm water, soft and musical in a way he couldn’t name.
> “Excuse me—Miss?”
Harry blinked.
She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her sari shimmered like water in the sunlight, deep indigo and copper embroidery catching the light with each movement. Her long braid draped over one shoulder, and golden earrings danced at her ears. But it was her eyes—rich brown and filled with something like recognition—that rooted him in place.
She looked like him. Not pale and stretched thin like Aunt Petunia. Not pink and piggish like Uncle Vernon. Her skin was warm-toned and real and alive.
> “I’m a bit turned around,” the woman said kindly. “I was hoping for directions?”
Petunia sniffed. “If you’re lost, try the train station. And next time, drive on the correct side of the road.”
But Harry couldn’t look away. Something inside him reached out—not with words, not really. A thought. A feeling.
Please help me. Please. I don’t want to go back.
The woman’s eyes widened ever so slightly. Then, her expression changed. Sharpened. She crouched, meeting his eyes directly.
> “Is this your child?” she asked, voice still soft, but edged with steel.
> “Of course not! He’s my nephew,” Petunia snapped, jerking his arm. “A burden we didn’t ask for.”
The woman didn’t flinch. “Interesting,” she said coolly. “Because he looks nothing like you.”
A beat. A spark.
Something shifted in the air—like static before a storm. Harry felt it in his bones.
Petunia muttered something under her breath and pulled him away with more force, but the woman didn’t follow. She only watched.
Watched until they disappeared down the street.
---
Later that evening
Mira Patil walked the silent streets of Little Whinging, her shawl pulled tight against the damp chill. She had not intended to linger in this bleak suburb. She had appointments to keep—mundane and magical—but something about that boy haunted her. His eyes. His stillness. The echo of magic around him—wild, cracked, and starved.
And then she saw him.
Hunched beneath the rusted skeleton of a bus shelter, hands folded in his lap like a child playing statue. His jumper was too thin, his jeans too short. Knees scabbed. Hair a dark mess of curls. And on his forehead…
Her breath caught.
A scar. A lightning bolt.
No. Not here. Not like this.
She approached slowly, every instinct screaming that she was looking at something—someone—sacred and wounded. Magic clung to him like smoke after a fire. Not just accidental magic. Ancient magic.
"Hello, little one," she said gently.
The boy flinched.
"My name is Mira," she continued. “Are you lost?”
He shook his head, almost imperceptibly. “No. I was sent here.”
She frowned. “Sent by who?”
No answer.
But her magic stirred beneath her skin. This child wasn’t just neglected. He had been abandoned—in soul, if not in law. And something about him… something old and tangled in blood and fate tugged at her memory.
“I don’t suppose you remember your parents?” she asked softly.
He looked down. “They’re dead. They died in a car crash. I’m not supposed to ask about them.”
Mira’s stomach turned. A car crash? Not likely. That scar—and the magic laced around him—told a very different story. She knew who he was now. And why no one had come for him.
“Are you cold?” she asked.
He hesitated. “I’m not supposed to feel things. It makes them mad.”
That did it. Her fury bloomed hot behind her eyes. She had seen enough.
"Would you like to come home with me?"
His body tensed. "I’ll be in trouble."
"No,” she said firmly. “You’ll be safe. I promise, on my name and on my magic. That’s a very old kind of promise, you know. One that can’t be broken.”
His eyes lifted, slow and wary. “Are you a fairy?”
She smiled through the ache in her chest. “Not quite. I’m something a little better.”
She held out her hand.
This time, he took it.