An expected twist of fate
Dad was excited, his ghostly form fluctuating between transparency and his normal, watery body. He seemed to be trying to hold his breath in lungs that didn’t need air, much like he looked like he was struggling to not blink when he didn’t need to.
“ Go get it!” He whispered, excitedly. Sometimes, I wonder if he forgot he was dead. Forgot that nobody else but me could hear him.
I walked towards the post that had just been pushed in. It looked normal, a postcard from Marge , a letter from the crazy old cat lady Ms Figg, and-
There it was.
The letter they’ve told me about.
Old, yellowed paper ( parchment?) it smelt horrid, like they had warned me -“ You’ll get used to the smell!” - green calligraphy sprawled elegantly across the letter.
Mr H Potter, it read, School of Witchcraft and Wizardy.
Albus Dumbledore and Minerva Mcgonagall.
It seemed that was enough to set Dad off, the lights started to flicker in his excitement and Mom came rushing through walls to calm him down.
“ I know, James, I know.”
“ Boy! What are you doing? Checking for bombs?” Vernon chuckled at his joke, chins fluttering obscenely.
I tucked the parchment into my worn waistband and made my way to the kitchen - careful to cover the letter in my shirt.
The letters were snatched from my hands.
Vernon’s piggy little eyes glinted as he read, his face slightly red. It seemed it took him a lot of effort but who could blame him with that much fat on his face ; he’d probably had to keep his eyebrows up against tonnes of weight in order to keep them open.
He grunted and snorted.
“ Where’s breakfast boy?” Oh. Right.
I got to work, redoing well-rehearsed steps. It was simple. Things I’d been doing since I was four or maybe younger. But it wasn’t. Since when I was four, I didn’t have to hide anything in my waistband. Since when I was four, I didn’t have the key to my escape hidden metres away from my captors.
Seconds ticked by and nobody went to grab for it. No little piggy fingers, no grubby hands, no long skeletal fingers to pry it from me. It was mine ( and the ghost’s) little secret.
Something curled happily around me when I thought that, I knew it never showed on my face. Nothing ever showed on my face. It did, once. Aunt Petunia stopped my smiling at the air, lest the neighbours think I was mental , talking to things that didn’t exist. Knowing things that I shouldn’t know exist. What they didn’t know that existed.
But the secret seared itself into my skin, like a brand. The seal whispered sweet, desirable sins into my skin, much like a mother would to her baby. The houses, snake , badger , lion , eagle , they each sung their own melodious tune, their messages crawling across my skin like Dad’s map from his stories.
Watching the pigs eat mocked me but it was soothed by the snake. It hissed gently into my skin, wrapping around my body but not constricting - like a welcomed friend. None of the other houses did that for me. It felt like the embrace of my parents ghosts, on a particularly bad night. It felt like family. Home.
My forehead prickled, the snake nesting there happily. It rested, hissing in pleasure. Belonging.
“ -we can’t just leave the boy here.”
“- get in the car.”
“ We’re going to the zoo! I don’t want Harry to come along!”
“ Now, Now… Dudders-“
The zoo came and went. The only interesting part was the snake but I only had a small talk with it, not wanting Dudley to lumber over in all his lardy glory and cause an earthquake in his excitement.
“-the cupboard boy.”
And that was the last I knew before being shoved into the cupboard.