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Boy was a strange child. Well, at least according to his aunt and uncle but they were his only source of information, so their word was like the holy bible to him – something his uncle worshiped and his aunt liked to throw at him.
Boy was strange. Boy was always wrong. Boy needs to work to stay with them. Boy should stay away from them in public places.
However weird it may sound, boy really didn’t mind this arrangement – sure the gardening and cleaning was clearly far too much work for a boy who only recently learnt his ABC’s – but Boy was happy to spend as little time with his family and be as far away from them as possible. What he did mind was the fact that he always had a distinct sense that he was being lied too – that the weren’t telling him the full story like they did to Dudley at bedtime.
You see, Boy had a thirst for the truth that the Dursleys hadn’t quite managed to stomp out of him just yet – whether it was a childish sense of justice or just plain stubbornness he was not old enough to figure out, but when one day after a particularly hard morning weeding and with no breakfast for his sub-par results he got a sense that the air right next to him was just as strange as he was.
And when that air suddenly turned into an equally strange woman dressed in what looked like No.2’s curtains – he felt a sense of just rightness that he had never felt before in his short life. Not with Uncle Vernon’s purposefully painful slaps on the back, not with Aunt Petunia’s stiff and bony hugs when the neighbours are watching, not with Dudley and his meaty fists and already hefty punches.
No. This woman was right. Right in the way that she looked at Boy straight in his eyes in a way no one else did since they were ‘too freakish’ and right in the way she stood and held herself not with misplaced arrogance like the winners of this years manicured lawn contest but with a pride that she knew she could back up with evidence.
Yes. Boy liked this woman.
Suddenly breaking their staring contest, the woman cleared her throat and started in a posh drawl,
“You are Harry Potter correct?” that’s disappointing, Boy let the shame of hoping for someone like him stew heavy in his gut – just his luck finding someone freakish just for them to get the wrong freak.
“No, I am Boy. I don’t know a Harry Potter.” She crinkled her eyebrows at that, boy thought it looked quite funny.
“Is that what those mugg- your relatives call you?”
“Yes, why?”
The woman’s chest puffed out as if she was holding in one of aunt petunia’s screeches, “Well they are wrong. That is not your name, It is Harry Potter -at least on paper- “
Bright green eyes widened in a strange mix of surprise and delight. “Really? How do you know? Who are you?” Harry suddenly remembered Aunt Petunia’s scolding on asking too many questions, he snapped his mouth shut as quickly as possible, though he didn’t do a good job of hiding the embarrassed flush on his cheeks by the way the woman chuckled.
“Do not be embarrassed, questions show wit and curiosity, but to answer your last question I am your grandmother.” She smiled a smug satisfied smile, like having a direct relation to the freakiest boy around was something priceless.
It seemed almost too good to be true, the Dursleys had tried getting Boy’s hopes up before to crush them satisfyingly under their heels – maybe this was just another, grander, method of torment?
“But Aunt Petunia’s parents are dead.” He stated bluntly, hoping honesty would return honesty. But at his comment the woman sneered as if she had bitten into a particularly sour lemon.
“I am not related to that vile woman, thank merlin, no my son adopted you shortly before you parents died.” Boy’s jaw dropped; it answered his question but raised more in its place. Why was he adopted? Why wasn’t her son here? They whirled around his head before all thoughts stilled at the sight of a warm smile gracing tired features of the woman – no, his grandmother – something he’d forever longed for from his aunt but refused at every turn.
His grandmother extended a weary hand. “They do not treat you well, do they? You deserve far better; you could come with me if you wish, and I swear I will look after and care for you come rain or sun – I will protect you. All you need to do is ask”. The hand was shaking, her features twisted with trepidation, with anxiety, fear of rejection.
Tears started to swim in his eyes, threatening to spill, as he realised what she was offering. She was offering him a family.
A whisper from deep within his soul escaped into the still air between them. “please” was all he needed to tell her as his small bony hand grasped her own large but equally bony one.
“But what will you tell the Dursleys? How will we get past them?” That doubt was back, there had to be a catch, it was too good to be true.
The sharp grin that flashed across his grandmother’s face eased his clawing worries before she even answered.
“How? It’s simple, we are wixen Harry.”
And that was the last thing he heard before the world twisted away from beneath his feet and everything went black.