Ironically Alive

Luckily for him and his very unhappy stomach, Harry ended up being released from his cupboard only two and a half days later. All his ears picked up was that it had something to do with Aunt Petunia not having enough time in the day to complete all of the jobs around the house; Harry just thinks she's a lethargic slob.

Well, it's not like Harry was expecting a warm welcome back from his little hole in the wall and a red carpet to be rolled out for him by his lovely aunt. After all, being stuffed in a cupboard is just the Dursleys' way of saying, in a grossly fake voice that would leave Harry wanting to throw up, "We care."

He thinks that his nose is healing well, or at least he's pretty sure it is. There is a bit of a bump along the bridge of his nose, but other than the colourful bruising, it's not very noticeable unless you're looking for something wrong. Plus, none of the Dursleys has pointed it out or even looked at it since he was allowed back out of his cupboard; actually, no one has even looked at his nose... Never mind; he's probably just missing anyone looking.

At the moment, Harry is tidying up the kitchen after the Dursleys' Friday breakfast, which included French toast, waffles, and pancakes for Dudley, who was then forced to drink orange juice by his overbearing mother, and Uncle Vernon, who also had his morning coffee. Harry hopes that one of them might choke on the large amount of food, but sadly, it doesn't happen. Then just a fruit and yoghurt salad with tea for Aunt Petunia. “One sugar, two swirls with the teaspoon, and be quick about it, boy. I’m parched just from waiting.”

There's a clatter from the front door, and Uncle Vernon's voice booms from the living room. "Dudley, get me the post."

There is a droned complaint from the living room.

"Fine. Brat, fetch the post! Now!"

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at his uncle and cousin's laziness, Harry puts away the last of the cutlery and closes the kitchen presses. Then he saunters out to the front door, quickly snatching the pile of letters strewn across the welcome mat.

As he rises from picking up the post, Harry flicks through everything. He’s got to get entertainment from somewhere, right? 

Voting notice, heating bills, and electricity payments—a letter from Uncle Vernon's sister—a letter for Harry Potter—another bill, insurance notice, a second voting notice, and an invite to the new bingo club down in the community hall. Oh, that last one will get some words from Aunt Petunia.

"Wait..." Harry backpedals, searching to see if his eyes are just playing tricks on him or not. It turns out it wasn't a trick of the light, but a real letter just for him.

Who would write to him? He doesn't have any family members that he knows of who would contact him. He also doesn't have anyone from school that would even dare speak, let alone write, to him, much less want to face Dudley and his gang of imbeciles if the letter was discovered.

The envelope has his address and name.

Mr. H. Potter

The Cupboard Under the Stairs

4. Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey.

Harry just stands there for a while, his fingers tracing over the words and his thumb fiddling with the edges of the wax seal on the other side. This person knows that he sleeps in the bloody cupboard under the stairs, but they think that he is treated well and hasn't done anything about it. Typical. Someone who thinks that the cupboard under the stairs is a luxury suite at the Ritz.

His uncle's barked voice knocks him out of his daze. "Boy! Where's my post?"

"Coming, Uncle Vernon!" Harry fumbles with his letter for a moment. Then, as he makes his way to the living room, he slips the envelope through the grate on the door of his cupboard and heads inside the living room to hand his uncle the post.

Uncle Vernon snatches the post from Harry's hand and glowers at him suspiciously. Harry merely walks away to begin his chores for the day, his face giving away nothing; he can't wait for the evening to come.

oOo 

At high noon, Harry is in the garden, gardening gloves on, a silver bucket beside him half full of weeds, and a hand trowel in one hand. So far, he has deweeded the daffodil patch and the hydrangeas and is currently working his way through the tulips.

The tulips in front of him look wonderful in the high-risen sunlight. Their bright pinks, reds, oranges, yellows, blues, and purples are popping out among the dull green grass and their dark stems. He’s amazed that they’ve lasted this long in one piece.

The rose bush in the corner isn't looking the same; the tips of the petals are withering with black spots, and any of the limited number of leaves left on their prickly stems are a sad, crispy beige. Harry blames its state on the lack of sun reaching the corner of the garden from the tall fencing.

He sighs, his eyes drifting up to the sky as he allows his hands to work on instinct. It's a bit cloudy, and the sun is playing peek-a-boo behind the thin clouds, casting a soft glow on everything around him. Oh, there are a few crows up there too. Two magpies land on one of the neighbour's roofs in front of Harry; one of them has something shiny in its beak. Oh, is that a ring in its beak? Cool, to Harry, anyway; probably not so cool for the owner of said ring.

Harry's ears caught wind of Dudley and his posse down the street, their voices cracking as they yelled at each other, and they used their smelting sticks to chase one another around the place. Harry rolled his eyes at the sound of Dudley and his cronies, knowing they were about as useful as the weeds he was pulling.

Movement in the corner of his eye caused Harry to turn his head; his eyes just caught the shadow of some type of animal hiding underneath one of the bushes lining the perimeter fence of the garden. Now, with his curiosity piqued, Harry sets down the tools in his hands beside the silver bucket and slowly crawls over to investigate the garden visitor. As not to spook the little creature. The little flicking of a tongue brings a small smile to his face.

"Oh! Hello there?" Harry, acutely aware of how his voice turned into the strange hissing it usually did whenever he saw any type of snake, tilted his head at the grass snake hiding beneath the leaves of the bush. The snake lifts its head up at the sound of his voice, its tail twisting nervously. The action makes Harry want to tuck the snake into his pocket and away from everyone else.

Harry slowly reaches out his hand, hoping to touch the snake's smooth scales. The snake flicks its tongue out at his hand, then seems to deem him safe, and Harry watches curiously as it coils around his hand. Then he sits back on his heels as the snake's tail end slips around his wrist. 

The corners of his lips curl up, but then he hears a voice that's barely above a whisper coming from the snake on his hand. "Ssspeaker? You can ussse the mother tongue?"

Harry blinks confusedly and asks, "'Mother tongue?' Is that what this is called?"

"Yess! Ah, no. The mother tongue isn't itsss true name. What did the large sssnake call it? Oh! Parssseltongue?" The snake flicks its tongue happily, tensing around Harry's arm. Nodding absentmindedly, Harry allows his fingers to gently stroke the snake's cool scales, making it coo at the action.

"You probably shouldn't stay here." Harry carefully returns the snake to the grass. "My, uh, nestmate will try to hurt or kill you if he catches sight of you."

The snake doesn't try to argue, quickly sliding off of Harry and turning its head back to him. "Sssee you, Ssspeaker."

Harry waves goodbye to the snake. As he turns around, Harry can't help but wonder if he'll ever see the snake again. He continues with the weed picking, not paying any attention to what he's ripping out of the ground, which was sort of stupid of him to do. You would think he knows better than to lose focus by now.

"Ah!" A gasp shoots out of his mouth. He rips the gardening glove off of his left hand and cradles the limb close. Blood oozes from a deep cut on his pointer finger, staining the soil beneath him. He curses under his breath, then sticks the injured finger into his mouth. Ew, bad idea.

"Damn it," he spits, swiping the glove off of the soil and sneering at the tear in one of the finger seams. "Oh, of course, there's a hole. Just what I need."

Sliding the remaining glove off, Harry rises and goes over to the small shed tucked into the far corner of the garden. Using his worn, hand-me-down shoe to nudge the rickety door open, he steps inside and starts looking through the boxes shoved underneath the rotting shelf. The shed smells of damp earth and old wood; oh, and there's also the delightful scent of mould, or black mould, too. How homey, Harry thinks while trying not to gag at the foul smell and the taste of iron on his tongue. He really shouldn’t spend more than a minute here.

He rummages through the boxes and hopes he'll find the ancient first aid kit he thinks he saw when he grabbed the hand trowel earlier. Thankfully, he locates the kit within two minutes and sits down in the shed doorway. He grits his teeth as he cautiously wraps his bleeding finger with some bandages, which he then ties with a medical staple.

He takes a deep breath and tries to ignore the throbbing pain as he continues with his thorough job of banishing the weeds from his elegant flowers.

By dinnertime, his marvellous flowers are weed-free, and two buckets full of weeds and nettles have been dumped into the compost bin.

He washes his hands the moment he enters the house, making sure to avoid overly drenching his injured finger while doing so. Infections suck. He’s speaking from experience, people. 

Once his hands are clean and dried, Harry reaches into the back of the bathroom cupboard and pulls out the first aid kit. Setting the cold metal box onto the counter, he takes out a medium-sized plaster and swaps it with the bandages wrapped on his finger. Luckily for him, the bleeding has slowed a significant amount.

Once that's said and done, Harry proceeds to set the table, and as he finishes putting out the dinner on the plates, Dudley comes barging in the front door with his smelting stick. Said item hits the door frame, the coats hung on the coat hanger on the wall, and the shelf holding the masses of photographs of himself since he was born until now.

Harry can't decide what's worse: the dulling throbbing left in his plastered finger or the oncoming headache from Dudley's boisterous entrance. He’s willing to go with the latter. Harry holds his breath as multiple photo frames shake on the edge of the surface, and he releases it once they settle back down after a few seconds.

Dudley stomps his way to the dining table, aiming and missing a whack at Harry's thin legs. The hit is easily dodged by Harry, who continues to bring food to the table. Only backing away once Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia enter the room.

As he cleans the dishes he used to cook the food, Harry's mind keeps drifting back to the letter—his letter—inside his cupboard just outside the kitchen, only a few steps away, waiting for him to read. Setting down the last dish on the draining board, Harry glances at his cupboard, then at the Dursleys seated at the table, back to the cupboard, and then to the drying dishes beside the sink.

Moving as quietly as he could, Harry tiptoed out of the kitchen and cracked open his cupboard door. Glancing back one more time at the kitchen doorway, Harry reaches for his letter and brings it over to the end of the stairs. He sits down on the second-to-last step and turns the envelope around.

The vibrant purple wax seal pops out against the stained parchment paper of the envelope. On the seal is a crest; on it are a snake, a lion, a bird of some kind, possibly a raven or an eagle, and a badger, one animal at each corner, and then there is an 'H' in the centre. Just over it is the word 'Hogwarts.'

With his eyebrows furrowed, Harry peels open the envelope. Inside are two pages of the same parchment paper. One is some sort of list, while the second is a letter addressing him. He takes out the letter first and reads it.

— — — — — — — — — — 

"Dear Mister Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Please find enclosed a list of all the necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1st. We await your owl no later than July 31st.

Yours sincerely,

Professor Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards)

P.S. You may find a third note within your envelope.

P.P.S. Only those who are magical and/or receiving the letters can see the list attached. Wishing you good health and prosperity, child. - Pr. F.

P.P.P.S. One of the school's most trusted staff members shall appear within the next week to assist you with any issues that may arise.

P.P.P.P.S. "Poof."

— — — — — — — — — — 

Frowning at the last word, Harry narrowly manages to cover a surprised shriek as the letter in his hand bursts into a cloud of purple smoke, leaving no evidence that the letter ever was there. He stays staring at his empty hands for a couple of seconds, confusion itching its way over his face. Harry shakes his head, reaching back to the envelope to search for the third letter that was mentioned.

He finds it easily; the note attached to the inside of the envelope is inside a smaller black envelope of its own. This letter's seal is a deep green. He does his best to avoid damaging the pretty seal, a gorgeous snake this time with silver eyes, and carefully opens the smaller envelope to reveal a handwritten message on a crisp white sheet of parchment paper with elegant calligraphy that reads:

— — — — — — — — — — 

"I shall be arriving on the last Friday of June at noon.

Be ready to leave when I arrive.

I'll have no Hogwarts student, or future student, be disorderly, even if you end up in another house.

I hope that you will be cooperative with me when I appear.

Pr. S. Snape.

P.S. The letter will vanish within a minute of being read. I suggest you place it away from any bare skin, lest you wish to have green skin for a week."

— — — — — — — — — — 

Harry bites the inside of his cheek as he sets the letter down on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. The letter bursts into a beautiful cloud of emerald green and tiny sparkles of silver. It leaves no remnants, just like the first letter.

A grin tries to worm its way onto his face, and Harry glances back to the kitchen doorway. Uncle Vernon's voice bounces around the kitchen, but the Dursleys are all still seated at the dining table.

Forcing his face back into a neutral expression, Harry collects the envelopes and the list of books and equipment from beside him and hides them back inside his cupboard before returning to the kitchen.

As he washes the plates and cutlery from the Dursleys' dinner, Harry hides his eyes filled with delight under his wavy, smoky black hair.

In his head, he wonders to himself, letting his hands work on automatic.

What would Hogwarts be like? The subjects? What would the teachers be like? How many yearmates would he have? The second note mentioned houses; which house would he be put into? How does the school sort everyone into houses? Does he need to take some type of test?

Then his thoughts led him down a confusing trail. What was he going to be doing with Mr. Snape? Was the man going to take him away from the Dursleys? Oh, never mind all of that. He should be thankful that his aunt and uncle have let him stay in their home at all since his parents died.

Aunt Petunia had told him when he first asked about his parents—Harry thinks it was when he was around five or six years old—that they had been lowlifes and that they were living out of her parents' pockets. They apparently had little to no sense of responsibility or order either. She had then told him that Harry's father was a freak, just like Harry and his mother, and that he couldn't keep a job any longer than a week.

She had told Harry that they'd died while drunk driving, apparently arguing over him, and that was how he had gotten the strange scar just along his hairline. After that, Harry wasn't allowed to ask more about his parents. 

(He didn’t really want to know more about them, especially if they disliked him enough to leave him to Aunt Petunia and her family.)