The Cold Dawn
"Some cruelties are not done by wicked hands, but by trembling ones too afraid to hold the truth."
The morning air was crisp, the last remnants of night clinging to Privet Drive like an unwanted memory. Pushing open the front door with stiff, weary hands, Petunia Dursley stepped onto the porch, her robe wrapped tightly around her thin frame. The dull ache in her limbs reminded her that she had barely slept—again.
She had only meant to fetch the milk. Just a brief moment to herself before Vernon woke up, before Dudley’s wails demanded her attention. But as she bent to pick up the bottle, her breath hitched in her throat.
A basket.
And inside, an infant.
For a long moment, she did not move. A whisper of wind stirred the blanket wrapped around the child, revealing a tuft of unruly black hair and a small, lightning-shaped wound just above his brow. Petunia knew, before even seeing the letter tucked beside him, who this was.
Her hands trembled as she reached for the envelope, its parchment rough beneath her fingertips. Albus Dumbledore. The name on the wax seal sent a shudder through her, though she did not know why. Her lips were dry as she peeled it open and read:
Petunia Dursley,
It is with great sorrow that I must inform you of the deaths of your sister, Lily, and her husband, James Potter. Their son, Harry, now rests in your care. You are his only remaining family, and as such, his protection is bound to you. Keep him safe, and he will be safe. You may not understand now, but this is of the utmost importance.
Lily trusted you once. I hope you will honor her by caring for her child.
Albus Dumbledore.
The letter slipped from her fingers.
Lily was dead.
James Potter was dead.
And this child—this tiny, fragile thing—was all that remained of her sister.
She should have felt something. Grief, perhaps. Horror. Anything. But she was hollow. It was as though something inside her had fractured, and she could not quite understand what had broken.
Her knees nearly buckled as she stumbled back into the house, closing the door with a quiet click. The warmth inside did not reach her. Her gaze drifted to the staircase where Dudley still lay sleeping in his crib, his chubby cheeks rosy with warmth and comfort. A proper child, a proper baby, her baby.
She turned to the basket. Not hers. Not hers. Not hers.
Petunia Dursley had never wanted this child. When she first found him on her doorstep that cold November morning, wrapped in a thin blanket with only a letter as an explanation, something inside her had twisted. She had always known her sister’s world was dangerous, unnatural, but to learn of Lily’s death through ink on parchment had left her hollow.
She had stood there, barefoot on the icy stone, rereading the letter again and again, as though it would change if she stared at it long enough. Her fingers trembled as she traced the words—her sister was dead. James Potter was dead. And this... this child, their child, was all that remained.
Her voice was barely above a whisper when she called, “Vernon.”
Vernon had woken to the sound of her sobs. When he stumbled into the hallway, groggy and irritated, his face contorted in disgust the moment he saw the baby.
A groggy grunt came from the bedroom before the heavy thump of feet against the floorboards. The bedroom door creaked open, and Vernon Dursley emerged, rubbing his thick hands over his face. His mustache twitched with irritation.
“What is it, Pet? It’s barely dawn—” His eyes fell on the basket. On the baby. On the letter now lying forgotten on the floor.
Petunia did not turn to face him. She was still staring at the child, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her voice was distant, empty. “Lily is dead.”
Vernon did not speak at first. Then, with a deep breath, he exhaled sharply. “Good riddance.”
Petunia flinched.
He stepped closer, squinting at the tiny form curled in the basket. “And this—this is him?” His voice rose in barely restrained fury. “They think they can just dump him here, like some—some stray?”
She did not answer. She could not. She only watched as Vernon’s face turned red, his hands clenching into fists. And then, before she could protest, he reached down and grabbed the child by the blanket wrapped around him.
Harry stirred, blinking up at the unfamiliar face. His tiny fingers curled instinctively, reaching for something—someone—to hold onto. But Vernon’s grip was iron as he stormed across the living room.
“Vernon—” Petunia’s voice cracked, but she did not move. She should move. She should say something.
But she couldn’t.
Vernon yanked open the cupboard under the stairs, tossing the baby—blanket, basket, and all—inside. The soft thud of the basket hitting the wooden floor echoed through the hallway.
Harry whimpered. A tiny, confused sound.
Vernon turned to her, his face twisted with anger. “Get breakfast started. And stop looking at that thing like he matters.” He cast a glare at the cupboard. “You have a real son to take care of.”
Petunia stood frozen for a long moment. Then, slowly, she turned toward the kitchen. The scent of formula still clung to her nightgown, the reminder of the baby upstairs who needed her, who was hers.
Behind her, from the darkness of the cupboard, the sound of quiet breathing filled the empty space.
For the first year, Petunia tried to tolerate him. At least, she told herself she did. But she never called him by his name. He was just "the boy." Just another responsibility, another shadow of her sister looming over her life.
And then the anomalies started. Small things at first—broken toys fixing themselves, food appearing when he was hungry. The kind of things she had seen Lily do when they were young. Every time it happened, something inside Petunia coiled tighter, and tighter, and tighter.
By the time he was old enough to walk, Vernon had made it clear where he stood. "You will earn your keep, boy," he had sneered one morning, thrusting a rag into his small hands. "Since you’re so special, you can start by cleaning up."
From then on, Harry—though no one called him that—was the house’s silent servant. He was given chores before he could properly understand them, scrubbing floors with hands too small to grip the brush, cooking meals he never got to eat. And as the years passed, Petunia's hollow grief twisted into something darker.
She told herself that she was justified. That the boy deserved it. That he was unnatural. That he was a freak, just like Lily. That his very presence was an insult to the normal life she had built.
Dudley grew up knowing that his cousin was lesser. He watched, delighted, as his father belittled the boy, as his mother turned her back on him. He learned that the world had its rightful order: he was important, the boy was not.
And so the hatred festered.
By the time he was seven, Harry knew better than to speak out of turn. He knew better than to ask questions. He knew better than to fight back. Because fighting back only made it worse.
But the one thing he did not know—could not know—was just how much worse it would become.
Petunia sat on the edge of the bed, the dim light of the bedside lamp casting shadows across her weary face. She had been trying to lose herself in the pages of her book, the words blurring together as she read without truly seeing them. Her mind was elsewhere, always elsewhere—on the boy down the hall, on her increasingly fragile life. She had never asked for this. She hadn’t asked for the boy. She hadn’t asked for the pain that came with the weight of his existence, but here he was, a constant reminder of everything she could never have.
Vernon, sitting beside her, shifted, his heavy breathing rattling the walls as he tried to get comfortable. His presence loomed like a shadow, and as the silence stretched on, Petunia could feel it. The tension. The unease. He had been quiet for a while now, and that in itself was enough to raise the hairs on the back of her neck. He was plotting something. He always was.
"Did you hear about that neighbor, the one with the... well, the unsatisfied wife?" Vernon’s voice broke through the stillness, low and casual, as though he were simply commenting on the weather. "I hear he’s looking for a... solution. Apparently, he’d pay handsomely for someone to give her what she wants. Quite a sum, I imagine."
Petunia’s grip tightened around the book, her knuckles whitening. She didn’t want to listen. She didn’t want to hear any more of this, but she couldn’t ignore the cold creeping up her spine, the dread curling in her stomach. She kept her gaze fixed on the book, pretending not to care, but Vernon’s voice continued, like a growing storm that refused to be ignored.
"Perhaps," Vernon continued, a chuckle escaping his lips, "we could use the boy. You know, give him to them for a while. It’ll pay for our vacation, maybe more. Maybe we could use the money for a nice trip. Just think, Petunia, we could finally get away from all this." His laugh, deep and dark, echoed through the room.
The words hit Petunia like a physical blow. Her heart thudded in her chest, her breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. She had heard him say things like this before, but it never hurt less. He had always been cruel, but now... now there was something else. Something far worse in the way he spoke of Harry. The boy was nothing more than an object to him, a thing to be used for his own gain.
Petunia’s face stiffened. She wanted to argue, to scream, to tell him how monstrous his words were, but something inside her stopped her. She had learned long ago to swallow her anger, to bury the truth beneath layers of forced indifference. There was no room for rebellion in this house, not for her. Not with Vernon, not with Dudley, not with any of them.
Instead, she closed her book, the weight of it suddenly unbearable in her hands. She pretended that nothing had changed, that his words hadn’t cut through her like a knife. "I’m sure it’s nothing," she murmured softly, though her voice shook. She forced a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. "Just an idea. Nothing to worry about."
Vernon didn’t seem to notice the tremor in her voice. He was already turning away, his mind drifting back to whatever dark corner it had come from. Petunia kissed him goodnight mechanically, the familiar gesture feeling hollow, empty. It was the same every night. She didn’t know how long she could keep pretending that everything was fine, that her life was fine.
She lay in bed, the sound of Vernon’s snoring soon filling the room. His deep, guttural breaths were like the rumblings of a beast, and Petunia, unable to sleep, listened to it all. It was as if he had never spoken those words, as if he had never suggested the unimaginable. But the truth lingered in the air like a toxic cloud, suffocating her. Harry, that poor, lost child, was nothing more than a pawn in this sick game. A pawn that Petunia had no power to protect.
Her mind raced as she stared up at the ceiling, thoughts spiraling, the crushing weight of her silent despair pressing down on her. She had tried to pretend that she was okay, that everything was normal. But it wasn’t. It never had been. And now, with Vernon’s cruel words hanging between them, Petunia realized something she had been avoiding for so long.
The boy—the one she had once tried to love, once tried to care for—had become her burden. And in her heart, deep down, she knew she would never be able to protect him from what was to come. Not from Vernon. Not from Dudley. Not from herself.
As the night stretched on, Petunia closed her eyes, wishing for a way out, a way to escape the nightmare her life had become. But there was no escape. Not for her. Not for Harry.
And so, as the night wore on, the house fell silent, the only sound the soft rhythm of Vernon’s breathing, as Petunia lay awake, trapped in a world that was falling apart piece by piece.
The sun had barely crept over the horizon when Petunia woke. She moved through the motions, as she always did—dressing in the same dull, drab clothes, making the bed with mechanical precision, preparing for another day that held no meaning. Her mind was clouded with thoughts of the boy, that wretched child. She had tried to ignore the heaviness that had settled in her chest. She had tried to pretend that things could be normal, that she could force herself to love him, to care for him. But every day was a struggle, and the boy was a reminder of everything she had lost. Her sister. Her family. The life she might have had if it hadn't all been ripped away.
In the kitchen, Harry was already up. He had long since taken it upon himself to prepare the breakfast, as he always did, despite the gruffness in his aunt’s tone whenever she asked him to do something. He worked quietly, his hands moving with practiced ease as he scrambled eggs and set the table. He didn’t know why he bothered, really. He wasn’t sure his aunt ever appreciated it. But it was the only thing he could do to feel like he belonged—if only for a moment.
Dudley, as usual, stomped down the stairs, dressed in his oversized clothes, his face set in a permanent scowl. Vernon lumbered into the kitchen soon after, grumbling as he sat down at the table, ready to eat his breakfast and prepare for another long day of work. Harry stood in the corner, trying to stay out of their way, but they never missed a chance to remind him of his place.
“Harry, don’t just stand there. Get ready,” Petunia’s voice cut through the silence. She didn’t look up from the stove as she flipped the eggs. “You’re coming with me today. Get your things together.”
Harry blinked, confused. This was strange. Aunt Petunia never asked him to go anywhere. Never took him with her. He hesitated, unsure of what to do. He glanced at Dudley, who was stuffing his face with cereal and staring at Harry with disdain. Vernon didn’t seem to care; his attention was on his newspaper. It was as though Harry didn’t even exist.
“Go on,” Petunia repeated, her tone clipped. “We’re going out.”
Harry nodded slowly, gathering his things, still unsure of what was happening. Why was she taking him with her? Was this some twisted version of a family outing? He’d never had one of those. Not with Aunt Petunia. Not with anyone.
After a few minutes, they were in the car, the silence hanging thick between them as the miles stretched out before them. Harry watched the landscape blur outside the window, the same dull scenery that never seemed to change. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but he tried to push aside the gnawing feeling in his gut that something wasn’t right.
Hours passed in silence. The car droned on, its engine the only sound in the otherwise quiet space. Harry was beginning to feel restless, his stomach aching with hunger and uncertainty. He had no idea where they were going, but his aunt never once spoke, her eyes focused on the road ahead. The further they went, the more Harry’s unease grew. This wasn’t a typical trip. This wasn’t anything he had ever experienced.
Eventually, they pulled off the highway and into the parking lot of a small diner, its neon sign flickering weakly in the afternoon light. Petunia parked the car and turned to him.
"Stay here. I’ll be right back," she said, her voice devoid of warmth. She grabbed her purse and stepped out of the car, leaving Harry sitting there in stunned silence. He didn’t know what to do. This was all so strange.
He sat for a moment, staring out the window, his thoughts a jumble of confusion and fear. Why had Aunt Petunia brought him here? Where was she going? Why hadn’t she told him anything? As the minutes ticked by, Harry’s sense of unease grew stronger. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.
Then, he heard it.
The sound of the engine revving.
Turning quickly, Harry’s heart sank into his stomach. Through the rearview mirror, he saw the car—his aunt’s car—pulling away from the diner, heading back down the road.
A shockwave of realization hit him all at once. She was leaving him. She was abandoning him.
His mind raced as he scrambled to open the door. But it was too late. The car was already out of sight. The reality of the situation hit Harry like a brick wall, and he stumbled back, unable to comprehend what had just happened.
He had been left behind. Forgotten. Just like that.
Harry stood there, frozen for a moment, his breathing shallow. The world around him seemed to blur as his thoughts spiraled into chaos. He had always known that he was different, that he didn’t belong here, but this... this was something else entirely. His aunt had never cared for him, but this was something he couldn’t have imagined. She had discarded him as if he were nothing more than a piece of trash.
Tears burned in his eyes, but he blinked them away quickly. He couldn’t cry. Not now. Not when he was already so alone.
He turned to the diner, but it seemed like a distant memory, the idea of walking in there to ask for help feeling like a joke. Who would help him? Who would care? It was just him now. Harry Potter. Alone in the world.
As he walked into the diner, the smell of grease and coffee made his stomach churn. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care about food. He didn’t care about anything anymore. Not when the only family he had ever known had turned their back on him so easily.
The waitress, a kind-faced woman with dark hair, noticed him standing at the counter, her eyes flicking between him and the empty space where his aunt’s car had been.
“Are you alright, dear?” she asked, her voice soft with concern.
Harry nodded numbly, though his heart felt as though it were breaking into a thousand pieces. “I’m fine,” he said, the words coming out more hollow than he had intended. “I’m fine.”
But he wasn’t fine. Not anymore.
Not when he had just been abandoned.
And so, Harry stood there, staring out at the empty parking lot, feeling like a forgotten ghost, left to drift alone in a world that had never cared for him.
Harry sat in silence, his thoughts swirling, a storm of confusion and pain, as he watched the remnants of his past vanish down the road. The car that had left him—had abandoned him—was now a distant memory, but the hollow ache it left behind stayed with him, tightening his chest, like a knot that wouldn't loosen. He didn’t know where to go, who to turn to, or if anyone would ever believe him again.
The waitress—who had been so kind just moments before—stepped forward. Her eyes were soft with concern, yet there was an edge of confusion in them as well. She had noticed everything. The look in Harry’s eyes, the way he held himself like he was waiting for something terrible to happen. She couldn't shake the feeling that there was more going on here than just a typical case of a kid being left behind.
"Hey," she said gently, her voice almost a whisper, as if she were trying not to startle him. "Do you need help? Is someone coming back for you?"
Harry didn’t respond right away. He couldn’t—his throat felt like it was closing in on him. He had no more words to give, no more hope. He had been waiting for his aunt to come back, waiting for someone to notice the way they treated him, but deep down, he knew better. She was never coming back.
"No," Harry finally muttered, his voice barely audible. "I don’t want them. I don’t want to go back."
The waitress's heart ached. She could see it now—the sadness, the defeat. The boy wasn't just lost; he was broken. She knelt down in front of him, trying to make herself as small as possible to not overwhelm him. "What’s your name?" she asked softly, her eyes meeting his.
"H-Harry," he said, his voice raw and fragile.
Before the waitress could speak again, two officers entered the diner. They had been informed about the situation, and now their job was to assess the situation, to decide what to do with this boy who had clearly been abandoned.
"Is this the boy?" the older officer asked, his eyes scanning Harry’s face. He was serious, but there was a gentleness in his eyes that Harry wasn’t used to seeing.
"Yes," the waitress replied. "I saw the car drive away. He’s been left here alone."
The officers nodded to each other before the younger officer pulled out a notepad and began writing. "What’s his name?" the officer asked, his voice sounding as though he was simply doing his job, not yet fully realizing the gravity of the situation.
"Harry," the waitress answered, glancing at Harry for confirmation.
Harry’s heart sank. He felt exposed, vulnerable. All these people looking at him, asking questions, questioning his life. He had learned not to trust people a long time ago, not after everything that had happened. He didn’t want to answer any more questions. He didn’t want to be seen as some kind of victim, though the truth felt like an invisible weight pressing down on him.
"Do you know where your parents are?" the officer asked, his voice softer now, like he was trying to approach the topic gently. But Harry didn’t want to talk about them.
"No," Harry muttered, shaking his head. "They never wanted me."
The officer’s face softened, but it didn’t make Harry feel any better. He had heard that kind of softness before. It didn’t change anything.
The police officer called in a social worker, a woman named Agent Thompson, who arrived soon after. She was calm, approachable, and her eyes held a kindness that Harry found unsettling. She knelt beside him, her voice quiet and soothing. "Hi, Harry. I’m here to help you. We’re going to make sure you’re safe, okay?"
Harry didn’t know how to respond. He wanted to scream, to say that he didn’t want help, that he was fine on his own. But deep down, he knew that was a lie. He needed something. But what? What could anyone offer him that he hadn’t already lost?
The ride to the orphanage was silent, the car winding through streets that felt unfamiliar and cold. It was a quiet town, and the buildings were old, worn down by time and weather. The orphanage, when they finally reached it, was an old stone building at the edge of the village, with ivy creeping up its walls. It looked like a place that had seen far too many children come and go, each leaving their own mark behind.
"This is where you'll be staying for now," Agent Thompson said as she opened the door, her voice kind but weary. "There are rules here, but you'll be safe, Harry."
Harry didn't respond. He barely noticed the agent's words as his eyes scanned the dreary orphanage. It was colder than he had expected, the walls cracked, the air thick with an oppressive stillness. There was nothing here that felt like a sanctuary. He’d been in enough places like this to know what to expect.
Agent Thompson led him down a narrow, dimly lit hallway. The orphanage seemed even colder inside, as if it had swallowed any warmth long ago. They came to a door at the end of the hallway, and as it creaked open, Harry was introduced to the woman inside: the head of the orphanage, who Harry immediately recognized as someone who wouldn’t waste time with niceties.
The woman was tall, sharp-featured, her face stern, with an icy gaze that made Harry feel small. She didn’t offer him a smile, and her handshake felt more like a formality than a welcome.
"This is Mrs. Fawley," Agent Thompson said. "She runs the orphanage."
Mrs. Fawley nodded curtly, her cold eyes scanning Harry as though he were just another case file. "I’ll take it from here," she said, her voice sharp. She didn’t look at Agent Thompson as she spoke, dismissing her without so much as a glance.
Agent Thompson gave Harry a quick, sympathetic look before turning to leave. "I’ll check on you tomorrow," she said softly, her voice almost apologetic. "Try to get some rest."
Mrs. Fawley led Harry through the orphanage. Her footsteps echoed harshly in the quiet halls, making Harry feel even more alone than he already did. She didn’t speak as they passed other children, their faces too tired to show curiosity or excitement at the arrival of a new boy. They just watched him, silent and wary, as if they knew what he was walking into.
Finally, they arrived at a large, dimly lit room with five beds lined up against the wall. Each bed was occupied by a child who was already lying down, their faces turned away. Mrs. Fawley gestured toward the empty bed near the window, which was covered with a thin, scratchy blanket.
"Here," she said, pointing toward the bed. "You’ll sleep here tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll go over the rules. For now, just get some rest. We don’t allow disruptions here."
Harry nodded mechanically, not even sure what to feel anymore. He didn’t want to argue. He didn’t want to fight. Not here. Not now.
Mrs. Fawley left without another word, her heels clicking sharply on the floor as she disappeared down the hallway. Harry was alone again. He walked over to the bed, his movements slow and heavy, as if the weight of everything was pressing him down.
On the bed, there was a plain set of pajamas. It seemed so out of place here, the soft fabric against the cold atmosphere of the room. He picked it up, staring at it for a moment before slipping into the pajamas. There was no warmth in the clothes, no comfort to be found. Just a reminder of how far he had fallen.
With a sigh, Harry crawled into bed, pulling the thin blanket up to his chin. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, the silence around him suffocating. There was no comfort here. No peace. Just the gnawing emptiness of a life he couldn’t understand.
He closed his eyes, but sleep didn’t come. Not yet.
He wasn’t sure what would come tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that. But one thing was clear: this place wasn’t going to fix him. He was on his own now, and he would have to find a way out, a way to survive, in a world that seemed to be forgetting him, one small step at a time.