Disappear-io?
Harry Potter, of Number Four Privet Drive, was not like any other child in Little Whinging. He didn’t play with his toys on the driveway like his cousin, he never ran after the ice cream trolley in the summers, and at dinner time, when all the neighborhood children could be seen running home to the calls of loving mothers and fathers, he was nowhere to be found. In fact, Harry Potter was so much unlike the other children in his neighborhood that Harry Potter didn’t really think of himself as a child at all. (Not that he thought much of himself to begin with, really.)
Tuesdays were toilet days–Harry, having been put in charge of all of the chores in his relatives’ house from…well, since he could remember, decided on the schedule years ago. His aunt never really interfered–as long as the house was sparkling clean 24/7 and she never had to lift a finger, it didn’t bother her if the water closet was bleached on Tuesdays or Saturdays. The bespectacled 10 year-old typically avoided mirrors, but it was mid-July, unseasonably warm, and the Durselys’ air-con had gone out the day before. Consequently, Harry had been required to open the windows in each room, redirecting all the fumes from the cleaning products. To do so, he needed to climb on top of the toilet seat, unlatch the rectangular screen, and climb back down. The mirror was in his line of sight, and since Aunt Petunia had taken Dudley to the cinema for an end-of-summer treat, he could afford to spend a few minutes dallying.
He squinted through the cracks in his glasses to see himself clearer. He was pretty sure he needed a different prescription–but Aunt Petunia had picked them up in a charity bin four years ago, and Uncle Vernon punched him in the stomach when he whispered his request for a new pair when he was eight. He had known better, but the headache was making it hard to cook that night, and he had been tricked into asking by the stupid grass snake he met in the garden earlier. Snakes were always trying to get him into trouble like that—Harry just avoided them now.
He ran a hand through his hair—unruly as ever. Aunt Petunia had tried to buzz it once, but it inexplicably grew back the next day. White-faced, she yelled for Harry’s uncle who slapped Harry upside the head, and then locked him in his cupboard for two days for his freakishness. Apparently, long, unruly hair was just another evil thing he inherited from his good-for-nothing slur of a bastard father and was just one reason of many he’d never amount to anything. When the insults about his parents came out, Harry knew he needed to make himself scarce—the Durselys never talked about them unless they were drunk (which was quite humorous, really, since their biggest complaints about his parents was their substance use) or Harry was about to catch the worst beating of his life. Luckily, he learned early on how to avoid most of those.
His black curls fell into his face, and he brushed them back with a wet paper towel, wiping off the sweat beading around his forehead. He winced as the water made contact with the deep scarring above his right eyebrow. If he squinted, he could kind of describe it as looking like a thunderstorm—the deepest of the grooves looked like a lightning bolt, pink against his brown skin. It didn’t ache, not really, not often, but he preferred to keep it hidden. It was the reason the Durselys kept him inside, “homeschooling” him so as not to subject the finer folk in the community to his ugliness. His face was thin and gaunt, like the rest of him. He was short enough to still require a stool when reaching the top oven of the double oven, and he was more bone than fat. Harry wondered if the dark circles under his eyes were shared by other people his age—and Dudley didn’t count because Harry was pretty sure Dudley wasn’t as much person, as bloated, spoiled whale. Or an extremely pampered cat.
Harry shook the thoughts from his head and went back to cleaning. He had received gloves last Christmas—a rare treat and thoughtfulness from his aunt that surprised him, but then again, it was the same year Uncle Vernon got promoted after his boss praised the turkey dinner Harry made, but Aunt Petunia took credit for. The cheap, vinyl gloves had since worn through, and a couple of Harry’s knuckles were red and inflamed from the bleach, but they were so much better than nothing.
The doorbell chimed downstairs and Harry stilled. It was only 11 AM, and visitors to Number Four were usually appropriately scared away by the three “no trespassing: vicious dog” signs Uncle Vernon nailed up. It wasn’t his relatives—neither his aunt or uncle would be using the front door—they both preferred to enter through the garage. His uncle wouldn’t be back from his work trip until Sunday (one of the reasons Harry felt confident in opening the windows today) and Dudley and Aunt Petunia had only left twenty minutes ago. It could have been one of Dudley’s friends, but Piers had gone to the movie with Dudley and the rest of the neighborhood kids tended to avoid the large bully as much as possible.
Maybe it was the post with a package. Shrugging, Harry kept cleaning. The bell chimed again twice, a little more insistently. Go away, please, Harry thought, kicking himself that he risked opening the windows today just for a little comfort. The number one rule in the Dursley house was that no one—NO ONE—was to see or hear Harry. The punishment for breaking this would be bad. (Had been bad, back two years ago when a neighbor spotted him working in the fenced-in backyard. One of the slats was broken thanks to Dudley’s football, and Harry forgot about it as he was mowing. A neighbor asked Aunt Petunia if they had hired a new landscaper, and “wasn’t he a little young, Tuney, even for a migrant?” and Harry couldn’t sit for a week after that encounter. Harry’s backside still hurt thinking about it.)
He put the cleaning supplies under the sink, and walked quietly down the steps, into the hallway. There was knocking at the door that joined the bell, and Harry thought it was all a little dramatic for such a hot and sunny Tuesday morning, but his stomach hurt a bit as he chewed on his lip worriedly. He had a couple of choices. If he ignored whoever was at the door, they’d go away eventually. He could sit in his cupboard for thirty minutes until he was sure the coast was clear. The problem was every window in the house was open and he didn’t think his aunt would be understanding of a burglary, even if Uncle Vernon had just gotten a raise. He could answer the door and politely tell whoever was there to come back when his relatives were back. Harry had hardly any practice speaking to strangers (he rarely had practice outside of the “yes sirs” and “no ma’ams” he presented to his relatives, rarely had practice except for the cupboard spiders he chatted with on the nights he couldn’t sleep) but he could do it. Summoning his courage (and it always seemed to be more accessible on the weeks Uncle Vernon was away on work trips), Harry made his way over to the door.
The knocking and bell obscured the muffled, seemingly frustrated whispers coming behind the door—it sounded like several people were standing on the porch—and Harry’s steps faltered when he realized his public speaking might have a larger audience than just one. Slowly, he unlocked the door. The group must have heard the unlatching, because everything instantly went quiet. Harry felt the air crackle around him in anticipation and wondered if maybe the air-con had inexplicably kicked in again.
His body was on autopilot and Harry felt himself drift as he opened the door—his brain was protesting against the broken rule but he had already committed. Thinking about what to say and how to say it clearly, he chose to look down at his socked feet instead of the people in front of him.
“G-good morning, may I help you?” He cleared his throat, and counted the shoes in front of him—a woman’s cream colored high heels, a man’s brown loafers, motorcycle boots with buckles, and an expensive pair of trainers that Harry saw Dudley point out to Piers on the telly the other day. Four visitors then.
A choked off, startled sound came from one of the people on the porch, and Harry dared to look up. No one had moved or said anything, so he steeled his courage and took in the faces staring at him.
One woman and three men, each with identical stunned expressions on their faces. Harry, through years of hard-won instincts, cataloged the woman first. Her nails weren’t as long as Aunt Petunia’s, but he backed up out of her reach just in case. She was wearing a smart looking business suit and had a briefcase in her left hand. Her blonde hair was in a bun and she had a stern, but kind face. A stick was in her right hand, resting gently against her leg. Her eyes were blue and squinted in concern as she and Harry looked at each other. He quickly moved his eyes away (prolonged eye contact was never smart) to the man standing next to her.
Loafer man was taller than the woman. Despite the heat, he was wearing an argyle sweater vest with a dark blue dress shirt underneath—sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His trousers were pressed but had several ink spots on them. The open concern in his face was a lot more noticeable than his companion’s. Harry could see three deep scars across his nose and cheeks, and that fact alone put him at ease. The man’s sandy hair wasn’t long enough to cover his scarring, the way Harry’s was covered, and a shock of pity and understanding traveled through Harry as they looked at each other. His eyes were brown with flecks of gold sparkling in them—they looked almost lit up and glowing, like the candle from that Beauty and the Beast movie Dudley used to like when he was little.
“Hello,” his voice was deep and soft, matching Harry’s own whispered greeting. “Are–” he cleared his throat a little, while the man standing next to him put his hand on his shoulder, as if to steady him, “Are you Harry?”
Harry didn’t nod or react (though his inside voice was very much freaking out because besides his aunt and uncle, no one knew his name, not even Dudley, and Harry himself only dared whispered it in the middle of the night, to the spiders and the snakes and the mirrors, away from people, away from strangers most definitely). He instead looked at the man beside Loafer Man, who looked kind of like the fae King in that fantasy book Harry stole from Dudley’s second bedroom last year. His face was all sharp angles and his hair was long and dark black. It was tied in a ribbon, and his eyes were gray and Harry swore they looked tearful. He was wearing a black leather jacket and dark blue denim trousers with leather boots and buckles. His shirt was bright pink with white lettering, from what Harry could make out the words spelled Weird Sisters. He lifted his hand as if to touch Harry and only retracted it as Harry stepped back, further into the house. He shared a look with Loafer Man, saying something sharp and angry under his breath that Harry didn’t understand.
Harry was regretting his impulsive decision to open the door as awkward silence settled between all of them. The fourth man, who Harry forgot about until this moment, stepped forward and then stopped abruptly. The Leather Jacket man grabbed his arm as if restraining him. Something was swirling in the air—dust maybe—it was making Harry feel like he needed to sneeze or throw up or run away—it was vibrating around him like a mix of anxiety and fear and anger—and as he locked eyes with the fourth man, he felt as if he was caught in the eye of a hurricane. He heard rushing wind in his ears and his face grew hot and tears pricked his eyes, which he didn’t understand at all. It was just—
It was just—
Looking at this fourth man made Harry feel safe. It was such an odd feeling, but it was hot and steady, like if he kept looking, all of his problems would go away. He was shorter than the two other men, but still tall—his black hair was messy and windswept and he was wearing thick rimmed glasses that complimented his face. His eyes were brown and warm and his nose was the same shape as Harry’s. He had a short beard. He was wearing a burgundy dress shirt and black trousers, and his arms were lean but muscly. He looked strong and kind and a bit scary and familiar. Harry swallowed back a surprised noise as the man got on one knee to look him in the eye.
“Harry?” His voice sounded like a soft blanket and a comfy couch and a treehouse and potato soup. Harry was pretty sure he died from the fumes in the bathroom upstairs because this voice sounded like heaven and God and home, and Harry knew nothing about any of those things, but he knew he didn’t want the man to stop speaking.
And suddenly, the dream stopped.
These people knew his name.
Jesus, he opened the door for them.
These were strangers.
Uncle Vernon was going to kill him.
Aunt Petunia was going to resurrect him and then kill him again, just more slowly.
Harry could feel his heartbeat speed up and his breath hitched. The kneeling man looked alarmed as he jerked further back into the hallway. He could only think of one thing as all four adults looked confused and helpless. Leather Jacket was still gripping the fourth man by the shoulder, Loafer Man was inching slowly towards him, hands outstretched and, weirdly, nostrils flaring like he smelled something alarming, and the woman was setting her briefcase down to probably abduct him or something, Harry couldn’t figure it out, but two words filled his head: get away.
So Harry—who had already broken the most important rule of the Dursley household by letting himself be seen—broke the second most important rule of the Dursley household and did something freaky.
He disappeared with a loud pop.