Gender
November 1st, 1981 was a black day in wizard history. It was the day that Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Savior of the Wizarding World, died at fifteen months of age—or so it was reported by his muggle Aunt Petunia and her muggle husband, Vernon Dursley, who had found the infant frozen on their doorstep that very morning. A very nice little stone was place in the cemetery of Godric’s Hollow, and The Daily Profit called for the immediate arrest of whomever had the bright idea to leave an infant on someone’s doorstep overnight. Sirius Black was arrested and sent to Azkaban for life without so much as a trial, for no one would speak against the esteemed Albus Dumbledore who claimed that the boy had been handed off to his godfather—the criminal in question—after the death of his parents, Lily and James Potter.
The wizarding world was so caught up in itself, that no one bothered to check in with the Dursleys afterwards—they were muggles anyways, so who cares? Had anyone the basic decency to do so, they may have notice Petunia purchasing an odd amount of baby food for her own infant son, Dudley, who was nearing the age of two. If someone had asked, Petunia had the ready answer that her son was a growing boy! The boy was rotunda enough for it to be believable. But no one asked.
Over the years, no one questioned how Petunia’s gardens were seemingly tended overnight or how her house was so immaculate even though she seemed to spend more time entertaining gentlemen callers than cleaning. No one wondered how, four years after that dark day, her cooking was miraculously delicious, instead of the mediocre it had been all her life.
Ah, no. No one questioned. No one wondered. No one saw the little creature that lived in the cupboard under the stairs. There was no record of such a thing. No evidence. It only crept out of its cage to prepare dinner, spent the dark hours cleaning and tending to the Dursleys’ every need, and then prepared breakfast before hobbling back to its dark little space.
This creature had no name. No gender. No identity. No significance. It responded to the harsh rubble of Vernon’s bellow and the high-pitched flutter of Petunia’s screech. It did not understand most words, having been dropped one too many times in infancy and lost most of its hearing, but it knew that when ‘boy’ or ‘freak’ was called, that meant someone was giving it an order. It knew to pay close attention, to watch the blurred gestures being made with its one good, nearsighted eye, the other having been blinded since Before.
Before was the time before it was at the Dursleys. It didn’t really remember much, just blurred faces, soft tones, and a harsh green light. It knew there was a time Before because those memories, vague though they were, were filled with a warm emotion. It didn’t know what that emotion was, that feeling that squeezed at its heart, but it was one that it had never felt at the Dursleys’.
Time was inconsequential to it. It knew that the bright time was of hiding, of sleep, of staying out of sight, and that dark time was of silent work. It knew that it got older, but it didn’t know how old it was. It never went to school like Dudley, never learned to read or write or speak, but it could vaguely understand a clock. It knew that supper was to be served when the little line pointed at the ‘7’ and the long one the ’12,’ but it didn’t know what those symbols actually meant.
Yet, time did pass. Days turned to months, which turned to years. Slowly, it got bigger, longer, but never as big or long or round as Dudley. It was always much smaller than the Dursleys’ son. It was always tiny, its limbs thin and pointy.