Harry Hates The Holidays
If there was one thing Harry Potter knew it was that he hated the holidays. There wasn’t exactly one reason he could put his finger on, there were so many reasons. From the general dreary weather of Little Whinging to Dudley’s spoiled tantrums, to the usual lack of care from his very unloving relatives.
All Harry knew in his 9 years was that for him, the holidays were not a time of cheer but rather one of disappointment, bitterness and sadness. A constant reminder that he was alone in this world, without his parents, damn drunks he thought bitterly, dying in a crash and leaving him to the Dursley’s tender care.
Not that he believed in the Dursley’s story, but what else could have happened? Harry remembered nothing but a flash of green light and a woman’s screams, fleeting memories of a time before true awareness.
It was December, which in Little Whinging meant desolate, dry and windy streets, god awful cheer and no end to his relatives' torment. What little enjoyment Harry could find came in his escape from the house once his chores for the day were done. Harry had learnt early, do them well and you’ll not have to do them over. Aunt Petunia much preferred him out of sight after all.
Harry walked the empty streets, kicking his feet at whatever loose stones lingered on the pavement. There was nothing to do this time of year. The dreary weather having dried up all that remained of the few children willing to play with him. By the time Harry had reached the park, his usual spot to sit and watch cars, he was in for a surprise.
Not only was there a girl playing at the park, but one he didn’t recognize too. She was an odd looking girl, hair white like that of the elderly, clad in a black wool coat, and a matching black skirt peeking out from underneath it to fall to her ankles. The one dash of colour being a dark red knitted head scarf wrapped around to cover a part of her hair, only splitting to allow her long braid to dangle down her back.
Even for the picturesque propriety of little Whinging that was rather conservative, old and proper like the floral monstrosities Aunt Tuny favoured. A leftover from another era, Harry thought, she hadn’t quite realized they were out or the 50s and 60s and women didn’t need to wear long dresses and could have prospects outside the home.
Harry knew it was that, he’d been to the library, he’d seen those same dresses in the pictures hanging in Aunt Petunia's closet, utterly out of date and aged. But, that shouldn’t matter should it. Even if the girl in all her odd glory was rather frumpy in Harry's opinion, it was still worth trying. If she was new that could mean she might not even be aware about Harry’s freakishness. His relatives were so keen to spread word about around to all who would listen.
He hated them for their lies and disparagements, it was them who were the freaks. In Harry's humble opinion it was the dursleys who were more freakish. They were grotesque caricatures of bygone eras and over normalized corpulence and greed, as attested to by Dudley’s spoiled attitude while Harry usually got nothing. Harry was normal, well, as normal as a boy who could talk to snakes was. Rather be a snake than a pig in human form after all.
Harry approached the girl quietly, with all the grace of a wild animal stalking his prey, he analyzed her, trying to understand what made her different. This was all he could do after all, 9 years with the Dursley’s had taught Harry to trust his instinct. Appearances could be deceiving.
As Harry drew within a couple meters the girl turned to face him, her eyes bright and unsettlingly green, even from this distance.
“Hello, who are you?” She cocked her head inquisitively, biting her lip as she examined him in the same way he had examined her.
“No one..” Harry said cautiously, he needed to know if she was new first. No point in trying if she’d already been poisoned against him.
“Well, Mr, No one. How do you do?” The girl curtsied gracefully yet another obvious marker of her outdated propriety. She then, however surprising Harry, began to walk towards him purposefully, only stopping when she noticed Harry had begun to back up.
“Are you new to this neighbourhood? Recently moved in ?” Harry questioned, almost feverish in his demands, this girl creeped him out and he needed to understand if she was safe or not.
“What? The girl replied, eyes wide with confusion, not hearing him with his almost lightning fast questioning.”
“I said…” Harry repeated his question slower and in a louder tone with the hope she understood this time. “Are. You. New ?”
“Why yes I am! Griselda Grimore at your service, who might you be ?” She smiled inquisitively, emerald eyes boring into Harry’s own more mossy greens.
“I’m Harry, Harry Potter.”
“Nice to meet you Harry, Harry Potter.” She laughed, clearly finding his introduction odd, if you were referencing Bond you should have said. “Potter, Harry Potter.” She giggled and moved forward before Harry could react… reaching up with nimble fingers to part his fringe, fingers stroking his scar.
What the hell! Harry shoved her hand off his forehead and stumbled back. “What was that for?”
“Sorry! Sorry! The girl looked ashamed, “I needed to know if it was you. If you were really, THE,” She emphasized… “Harry Potter.”
“What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean!?” Harry spat, flustered and uncomfortable with this girl's familiarity with him, why was she talking like she knew him? He certainly did not know her, and that for one, made Harry rather uneasy. Whenever this happened, bad things were bound to follow, like that time some old geezer started shaking his hand and then Aunt Petunia didn't let him out of the cupboard for a week.
“That its really you? The savior of the wizarding world, the boy-who-lived, vanquisher of he who must not be named… Defeater of the dark lord, last of the potters.”
To this Harry really did not know what to say, all he could summon was a rather undignified…”HUH?”
“Really!? You really don't know?” the girl gawked at him, her face twisted into an expression of absolute incredulity. It was if his confusion was completely catching her off guard, like she had expected him to understand what she was talking about.
“What's the wizarding world? Or a dark lord?” Harry questioned, eager to understand.
“Not A dark lord! THE Dark Lord!” The girl moaned in annoyance, as if it was his fault for not understanding her meaning.
“Who?”
“Honestly! Have you been raised by muggles?” The girl scoffed, almost offended by Harry’s lack of knowledge. “You're worse than Reginald, my foster brother, and he's been raised by muggles all his life. Not that it would be possible with you, no one would be so stupid as to let the Great Harry Potter be raised by no-mag’s. The girl rambled on and on, each sentence more incomprehensibly confusing than the last.
“Stop! Stop! What the bloody hell are you talking about? What in the world is a muggle??” Harry shouted, having grown utterly tired of her attitude.
“No need to shout.” The girl acquiesced and explained slowly, as if talking to a baby.. “Magic is real, there are witches and wizards. Muggles are the mundanes, people without magic. The people of this neighbourhood for example. But you; you’re a wizard Harry.
“I'm a what?”