Home and house, are two very different things.
The manor stood in perpetual gloom, its tall, spindly turrets clawing at the pale sky. Harry had woken to the faint creak of the house settling, a sound he had grown used to in the months he’d lived there. It was unsettling at first, but now it was just part of his life—a background murmur to his strange new reality.
Harry stretched out on the bed, his toes curling against the cold sheets. The room had been his first project. Once a forgotten corner of the sprawling house, it had been caked in dust and decay when he first arrived. Now it was… livable. Clean walls, a patchwork blanket he had found in one of the storage rooms, and a single flower in a cup he’d picked from the garden. It wasn’t much, but it was his.
This was freedom—of a sort.
The first rule was simple: don’t leave the gates.
The garden sprawled like an ancient wild maze. Over time, Harry had cleared small paths between the dense greenery and overgrown vines, carving out spaces where sunlight occasionally filtered through. But beyond the wrought iron gates that loomed at the edge of the property was an unseen boundary Harry had only dared to test once.
That day had ended with him being dragged back through the dirt by one skeletal hand clamped firmly on his arm. The monster hadn’t roared or screamed—it didn’t need to. The long teeth, the sharp claws, the impossibly tall frame—it exuded enough menace with its presence alone.
Now, Harry didn’t even glance at the gates.
The second rule required more effort: cook for the monster at least once a week.
Harry still wasn’t sure why the monster had spared him. He had seen its teeth, rows of needle-sharp daggers that gleamed unnaturally even in the dim light. It had taken him for food—that much Harry understood. But something had shifted the first time he’d stood on a stool, stirring a pot of stew, and served the creature what it wanted.
The monster didn’t speak. It communicated in gestures and strange guttural noises. But Harry had learned to understand: when it brought him ingredients, it expected a meal.
That morning, Harry wandered into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The hearth glowed faintly from last night’s fire, casting the tall shadows of the room into eerie shapes. On the counter, a pile of items waited—human food this time. Some flour, a basket of eggs, a bundle of herbs, and a suspiciously fresh slab of meat.
It wasn’t normal, of course. Nothing in the house ever was. The eggs were slightly larger than they should have been, and the herbs smelled faintly metallic. But Harry had gotten used to working with whatever he was given.
He found a knife, wiping it clean with a corner of his shirt. The meat would need seasoning, he thought. Maybe roasting it with the herbs…
The monster returned that evening.
It didn’t announce itself—never did. Harry only knew it was back when the air in the room shifted, a faint draft brushing against his skin even though no windows were open. He turned from the stove, a plate in hand, and there it was.
The monster loomed in the doorway, its elongated limbs casting shadows that stretched across the walls. It crouched slightly to fit under the low beams, moving with an unnatural grace. Its skin gleamed a sickly, smooth gray, stretched too tightly over its skeletal frame. Its eyeless face turned toward Harry, as if it could see him anyway.
Harry set the plate on the table, his movements quick but careful. He had learned early on not to anger the monster.
“I made… something else today,” Harry said quietly, not really expecting a response. “Eggs. And, uh, some kind of roast. It smells okay, I think.”
The monster lowered itself into a corner, its clawed hands resting on the floor. It didn’t eat immediately, instead watching—if it could watch—as Harry picked at his portion.
Harry was used to this. The monster rarely ate first. It seemed to… observe. Waiting, perhaps, to see if Harry would poison it—or maybe just watching the way Harry handled his food.
Finally, the monster reached out with one long claw, hooking the edge of the plate and dragging it closer. Its teeth gleamed as it tore into the food with frightening efficiency, but there was no malice in its movements.
After dinner, Harry sat in the kitchen’s dim light, the fire crackling softly.
The monster remained in the corner, its elongated form folded unnaturally. For the first time that Harry could remember, it didn’t leave immediately after eating. Instead, it tilted its head toward him, letting out a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the floorboards.
Harry didn’t know what it meant. But he didn’t feel afraid anymore—not of the monster. It was strange, in a way. He had never felt this… seen before.
“Good night,” he said softly, his voice echoing in the quiet.
The monster tilted its head further, almost as if acknowledging the words, before slinking back into the shadows of the house.
The rules were simple. The house was strange. The monster was terrifying.
The Dursleys were a house.
But for now, this was home.