A Happy Christmas
I awake to the thunk of footsteps above me. I am lying in the dark, my shoulder painfully digging into some sort of thin pad on the floor. The cramped space around me smells faintly of urine and bleach. I hurt all over and am ravenously hungry.
A door just beyond my feet swings open. “BOY! Wake up!”
I sit up, disoriented, reaching instinctively to a shelf above me for a pair of glasses. Boy? I am a woman roughly the same age as the lanky shrew glaring at me with increasing impatience. “Lazy freak! Five minutes for the bathroom and then make breakfast. I won’t have you ruin our holiday.”
Moments later I am yanked out of a closet (acloset?) and shoved in the direction of a small bathroom. The reflection in the mirror before me leaves me stunned.
I am apparently now a small boy–maybe 8 years old?–with wild black hair and drowning in ratty clothes. My arms–and ohgod, my throat–are littered with a rainbow of bruises. A striking pair of bright green eyes are partially obscured by a set of taped-together circular frames. My stomach drops as my appearance clicks in recognition. Shit. Hands shaking, I brush the bangs from my forehead, revealing a lighting-bolt scar.
I begin to spiral. Somehow, I’ve been dropped into the Harry Potter universe. I’ve either gone insane, or… this is a nightmare, oh god, if I’m Harry Potter I’m in really big danger… I squeeze my eyes shut and lean into the sink in front me, trying to take long, deep breaths. I don’t have a lot of time. I need to pull myself together, keep my head down, until I can make a plan.
I spend the next few minutes washing my face and using the bathroom (man, having a penis is really weird and not something I am prepared to think too much about right now). Further inspection reveals additional bruises on my chest and legs, and partially healed welts (from a belt?) on my back.
Fuck, this is worse than canon, right? Shit, I can’t assume anything. I’m not sure if the Dursleys are survivable… Can I trust Dumbledore? Even within canon, he’s neglectful at best… Focus. Calm down. Find out what you can. Get through today.
* * *
The next half hour has me cowering over the stove as I fumble through making my first Full English. Fortunately, I’m not a terrible cook, and it seems like the body that I’m possessing has retained some degree of unconscious knowledge of where things are located in the kitchen. I find myself hoping that as long as I don’t think too hard–as long as I let myself go into autopilot–that maybe I can manage this. It’s hard to judge how well I’ve succeeded, really, since I suspect that nothing I do could spare me from the relentless round of insults. Still, as I stand in the corner watching the male Dursleys inhaling the food I prepared, I’m allowed a piece of toast, a bit of crusty scrambled egg, and even a small piece of burned bacon–so I’ve probably done at least adequately well? Gods, this is pathetic.
“... but Mummy, I don’t wanna have Harry come. He ruins everything.” Dudley’s whines startle me out of my inner monologue cum panic. I shove the rest of my toast in my mouth and head over to the sink. Engaging in this conversation would only lead to regret.
“Not like Marge cares to see the boy anyway,” mutters Petunia.
“We could leave the brat in the cupboard? We’ve done it before,” Vernon offers.
“Never for a full week though.” She strums her fingernails against her teacup, considering. On cue, Dudley begins to cry. “Oh my sweet duddykins, don’t worry. Mummy won’t let the freak ruin her precious boy’s Christmas.” I begin to scrub harder, hoping for a hasty retreat.
* * *
Later that morning, after cleaning the kitchen and hauling an absurd amount of luggage to the Dursley’s car, I am, in fact, locked in the fore-mentioned cupboard. Aunt Petunia throws a loaf of bread and a jug of water in my direction with a sniff. Uncle Vernon wishes me a “Happy Christmas” with sadistic glee, leaving me with a bucket and a roll of single-ply.
I sit in the darkness, waiting for the Dursley’s to drive far, far away. Had I ever felt so small and vulnerable in my previous life?
It takes an embarrassingly long time for me to collect myself, but once I do, I take stock of my surroundings. I’m relieved to discover that the bulb above me works. Most of the floor space is taken up by a crib mattress on the floor, with a sheet and what I presume is Harry’s baby blanket. Squeezed between the cleaning supplies on shelves is a small stack of neatly folded clothes and a few toiletries. Harry has done his best to brighten the miserable space with a few drawings and magazine cutouts taped along the wall next to the door. An inspection of the contents of the bookbag next to the bucket reveals that it’s December 1990, which means that Harry is 10. I stretch out on the mattress and trace my fingers against where “Harry’s Room” has been carved out of the beams of wood beneath the lower steps. Seven months until the Hogwarts letter. Should I ride this out?
I vaguely remember from the books that Harry has hidden things beneath loose floorboards. While it takes a few minutes, I am rewarded with a small horde of coins totalling nearly eight pounds, and a collection of small treasures: a few disfigured toy soldiers, buttons and shiny stones, a matchbox car, and a few clearly beloved paperbacks. More importantly, there’s also a water bottle, a flashlight, a pull-tin of tuna, and a pocket knife. Bingo .
It’s tedious work, and I need to stand on the bucket to reach the top of the closet door, but I eventually manage to detach the door hinges with the pocketknife without irrevocably stripping the screws. The other end of the door is still latched in place, but there’s now just enough give for me to wiggle out the loose end.
The thrill of my newfound freedom quiets quickly as I try to determine the next course of action, still terrified that the Dursleys might return at any minute. I make quick work in the kitchen, gathering additional shelf-stable goods I might take with me. I hide a few more in the cupboard should I be unfortunate enough to be forced to return. Rummaging through Dudley’s rooms reveals more than fifty quid, a cracked but functional wristwatch, and a polaroid camera. I spend the next few minutes documenting my current physical condition and the cupboard, hiding one copy beneath the floorboards in the closet and taking two additional sets to keep with me.
I work more systematically through the ground floor study. I’m disappointed, but not surprised, that the phone books have neither Mrs. Figg’s address nor that of the Leaky Cauldron. I do find a map of Little Whinging, and make a note of a few useful numbers–police, train station, child protective services–and that of a V. Dursley, 4 Privet Way.
I’m pleased that Petunia’s anal retentiveness extends to file organization, and pleased further to find that I have a birth certificate and NHS card. Henry, huh. I am not, unfortunately, able to find Dumbledore’s letter–or any reference to the magical world–or a copy of my parents' will. I am, however, able to find financial statements that include regular transfers of funds that are likely for my care. I photograph the most recent statement and grab originals of a few older statements. I help myself to small items that seem of use: blank checks, postage stamps, batteries, film. I set aside a few fancy pens which might have some resale value. After a moment’s consideration, I add a letter opener to the pile. While I don’t think I’m going to run, I figure a sheathed blade would be safer to carry than a kitchen knife, and that the letter opener would offer more effective protection than my tiny pocket knife.
The real find in the study, however, is my Aunt’s address book. I tear through it, and yes, there it is–Mrs. Figg’s address: 7 Wisteria Lane. Suddenly overwhelmed, I close my eyes for a moment. With her address, and the map of Little Whinging, I realize that I might now have some options for entering the magical world before my birthday, and that I may want to explore those options before calling child protective services. It’s a lot to process–too much, in fact. It seems like a good moment to eat again and rest my beaten body.
* * *
The next morning I leave for Mrs. Figg’s house before dawn. I had spent the remainder of the previous day working out a rough plan as I gathered supplies and searched, in vain, for any evidence of Harry’s magical heritage. I decided to play my cards close to my chest until I learn more. Since I didn’t want anyone to realize that I escaped the closet as quickly as I had, I made a point of peeing in the bucket (eew) and to turn on a few hallway lights before dark so that the neighbors won’t see lights turning on and off through the windows. The night was spent fitfully near the phone in the master bedroom upstairs, ready to call 9-9-9 should the Dursleys return unexpectedly.
Mrs. Figg lives right around the corner. It’s early on Christmas eve, so I think I manage to slip away unnoticed before the neighborhood stirs. While her front door is locked, I easily find a spare key stashed beneath a flower pot on the front stoop. A cursory inspection of the house confirms that she is out, presumably on holiday. While I am tempted to snoop further, I decide that it is better to disturb things as little as possible. It’s already a risk coming to her house, since I don’t know what magical detection might be in place.
There’s a vase at the foot of her fireplace filled with glittery soot. Floo powder, presumably. I fill a small ziplock and place it in my pocket in case I need it to return. It takes a bit of trial and error, but once I realize that I need to light a fire first, it’s pretty straightforward. Hoping that I am not about to make a big mistake, I call out “Diagon Alley” and step into the now-green flames.
The main room of the Leaky Cauldron is empty, although I can hear someone setting up in the kitchen beyond the bar. I decide to walk out the muggle entrance, so that I can figure out just where the pub is located. I wander around the neighborhood a bit, sketching out a rough map of streets and nearby storefronts before returning to Leaky about half past seven. By this time, there are a few folks moving about and I manage to tag along with a group heading out into the Alley.
The Alley is quiet this early in the morning, the signs of magic present but subtle. I am surrounded by wooden storefronts, warming and welcoming, shop names sparkling in the sunshine. Gringotts is unmistakable. The bank towers over the shops and appears to have been hewn from a single, massive block of snow-white marble. Cold and imposing.
Although it’s hard to tear my eyes away from the glittering window displays, I recognize that I am less likely to be intercepted if I walk with purpose. For the moment, I’m pleased that it’s winter as I can easily obscure my scar with a hat, my bruises with long sleeves and a scarf, my emaciated frame and ragged clothes with my bulky winter coat. I head directly to Gringotts, which appears to be open. I wonder about goblin work ethic and whether the bank ever closes.
The lobby is startling. I am suddenly struck by the revelation that this building was built both by and for non-human people. While I had managed to take the Alley thus far in stride, the interior of the bank is nothing like the movies, nothing like anything I’ve ever seen before. The angles are wrong, the lighting is strange, the artwork unsettling, the goblins…
Still, it’s a bank. A bank that is used to human customers. Even in the overwhelming foreignness, I think I know how to operate in this space. It’s easy enough to queue behind the single wizard ahead of me before approaching the teller window.
“Business?”
I remove my hat and brush apart my bangs to reveal my trademark scar. “I’ve heard that Gringotts is discreet. I think I may have an account here. I’m wondering whether I could meet with the account manager in private.”
The goblin’s expression doesn’t change. After a beat, the “open” lettering on the window morphs into “closed” and the goblin gestures to an open door several paces down. “Follow me.”
* * *
Griphook is preparing the end-of-year statements when Toothsplitter ushers a small child into his office. “He appears to be the Potter heir, unaccompanied and asking about his accounts. Mentioned discretion,” he whispers in their native tongue. He leaves them both without a further glance.
Griphook peers at the child still standing on the other side of his desk. The child radiates uncertainty. A few moments pass in silence.
The boy, naturally, breaks first. “Greetings, Sir Goblin. May your coffers, uh flow with gold and your enemies tremble at your feet.”
Griphook blinks. Uneducated then, but not the worst attempt. “May your coffers overflow and your enemies be vanquished,” he corrects, gesturing to a seat. “Name?”
The child settles on an armchair that would be uncomfortably short were his client an adult instead of a small child. “Henry James Potter, sir. How should I refer to you?”
“I am Apprentice Account Manager Griphook of Gringotts. You may refer to me as Griphook.” Not that most wixen would care. “What brings you to Gringotts, Heir Potter?”
“I am new to the magical world and know little of my status and heritage. I do not know what services Gringotts offers, but I would appreciate whatever assistance you might provide.” The child pauses his practiced statement, evidently hoping for Griphook to jump in. Hard stones, child-wizard. We only offer what is asked. With no direction forthcoming, the boy continues. “Am I correct that I am entitled to vaults here at Gringotts?”
“Yes, Heir Potter.”
The child frowns at the terse response. As if deciding something, he leans back against the seat, perhaps preparing for a longer encounter than he anticipated. “I’ve heard that Gringotts values client confidentiality. Can I trust that you will inform me if my presence or requests will be revealed to outside parties?”
Griphook releases a feral grin. Just who are you hiding from, Potter-child? “Yes, Heir Potter.”
“Please give me an overview of my accounts and holdings, including a list of whomever has accessed them following the death of my parents and any material withdrawals since that time.”
Griphook complies. The Potter accounts are relatively straightforward. Following the death of his paternal grandparents, most of the Potter fortune was consolidated into a single vault, with a few conservative investments in the magical and muggle worlds. Beyond account fees, a small stipend sent discreetly to the Dursley family, and a few recurring charitable donations, the vaults have remained untouched. The Potter child has access to a trust fund that will easily see him through Hogwarts with an allowance suiting the heir of a wealthy and honorable house. At his majority at 17, Potter will have full access to his accounts and stored heirlooms. Potter asks for, and is given, a statement of his accounts.
“Can I access my trust fund today?”
“Do you have your vault key?”
“No. I have not received one.”
“There is a blood test we can conduct to confirm your identity and re-key your vault. For a fee, of course.” Griphook pauses. “However, as you requested, I will now inform you that doing this will require us to notify your magical guardian.”
“Crap. And who is my magical guardian?”
“Albus Dumbledore.”
The child sighs but seems unsurprised. Interesting. The boy clearly recognizes Dumbledore’s name, but otherwise seems ignorant of his status. The next few minutes are spent in a back-and-forth as the child asks Griphook about magical guardianships and emancipation. Griphook deftly shuts this line of questioning down when it veers away from what is reasonable for an account manager to answer. The heir accepts a list of law-wizards to consult should he wish to pursue the matter further.
“I assume that if I were to request the payments to the Dursleys be stopped, that you would need to inform Albus Dumbledore.”
“Yes.”
Potter grumbles but accepts this. “Are there any other funds that I might be eligible to withdraw from that would not require notifying the ministry or my magical guardian? A Black account, perhaps? I’ve heard that Sirius Black is my godfather and that he might have named me his heir, and I think I might otherwise have Black ancestry.”
Griphook blinks a second time. The request is unexpected, but the boy has already shown himself to be remarkably thorough. And, in fact, the Black accounts do differ from those of most wixen. A family plagued by madness has ensured its continuance with safeguards to protect young descendants from potentially unhinged family members. Griphook opens a desk drawer and removes two small crystals. “Place a crystal in each hand, Heir Potter.”
Almost immediately, Griphook senses the crystals’ acceptance. “You are correct, Heir Potter. You do indeed have Black ancestry by way of your father’s mother, Dorea Potter née Black.” He returns the crystals to the drawer. “As the grandson of a Black by blood and magic, you are entitled to an unsupervised allowance of 200 galleons each calendar year until the age of 25.”
“Unsupervised… that means I can make use of the funds without anyone knowing?”
“Essentially, yes. Withdrawals from the account will not be linked to your person. In theory, the records of the withdrawals themselves are accessible by Lord Black and his steward, but in practice it is unusual for Arcturus Black to monitor the trust.”
There’s a brief explanation of the mechanics of accessing the account, exchanging between galleons and pounds, and the relative strength of the two currencies (nearly 20 pounds to the galleon). The boy accepts a vault key that can be used for owl orders and a purse linked to the account, charmed against muggles and theft. For a fee, of course.
“Anything else, Heir Potter?”
The boy smiles a bit sheepishly. “Actually, yes. Are there any titles, inheritances, or positions that I am eligible for? Any that require acceptance of some kind by a specific date? Are there any family properties, house elves, vassals, or sworn allies? Marriage contracts?”
Griphook chortles despite himself. “Reinforcing your mine shafts, child? You will become the Potter paterfamilias at the age of twenty-five, at which point in time you will be eligible to be elected to a Wizengamot seat. No marriage contracts. The Potter estate and cottage in Godric’s Hollow were sealed by the ministry in ‘81. In terms of other registered Potter properties…” Griphook rifled through a couple of pieces of parchment on his desk. “Gringotts has records of a Parisian residence and a holiday home in Spain. Without assistance from your magical guardian, it would be difficult to access these properties before your magical majority at 17. I am unaware of other properties, alliances, or elves.”
Potter releases a breath and soldiers on. “The people I currently live with, the Dursleys… are not the nicest to say the least. Does Gringotts have healers on staff, or can you arrange a confidential health assessment?”
“Without accessing the Potter account, Gringott healers are outside of your current means. We can, however, facilitate a visit from St. Mungos. For a fee, of course. While the findings of the visit would be confidential, most non-routine treatment would need to be approved by your magical guardian.”
“How much, and how quickly can this be arranged?”
“St. Mungo’s does not charge patients for ordinary assessments or histories. The cost of treatments varies. Gringotts can arrange a private visit for this afternoon for twenty galleons.”
The boy shifts in his seat. “If evidence of… abuse is found, is the Healer or anyone else obligated to report it? Can Gringotts hold the records in safekeeping should I wish to press charges at a later date?”
“While in the normal course of things it would need to be reported, you will be disguised by a goblin glamor which will prevent the healer from definitively identifying you. The records can be held for you and you alone at no additional charge for five years.”
“Alright then. I’m not familiar with Goblin culture, so I don’t know whether negotiation would be appropriate. If I accept the twenty galleon fee, would you be willing to provide me with a list of recommended books to read so that I can navigate future interactions without risk of offense?”
“Of course, Heir Potter. Would a 2pm appointment be amenable?”
“Yes, thank you, Griphook. I don’t suppose you would be willing to apply the glamor now, so that I can shop more discreetly?”
Griphook grins again. “Excellent suggestion, Heir Potter.”
* * *
The alley has gotten pretty busy as folks squeeze in some last-minute holiday shopping.
I’m pretty wiped out after the meeting with Griphook, but I want to make the most of my time. I dig out a sandwich from my scruffy bookbag while I familiarize myself with the alley and venture a bit into a few of the safer-looking side streets. Glamor or no, I’m not going to brave knockturn without a wand, and I’m pretty certain I can’t legally acquire one until I’m 11.
The first thing I decide I need is something to store my magical purchases discreetly in the muggle world. I spend a lot of time considering my options, but in the end am unable to resist a rather expensive messenger bag. It’s fashioned from green-going-on-black dragonhide (which makes it fire and spell-resistant) and the bag has the standard anti-theft and anti-loss charms. Perhaps the most remarkable thing about the bag, however, is just now unremarkable it appears–it is one of the few options in the luggage store boasting a notice-me-less charm. The bag has four sections: an ordinary pocket and three concealed compartments that are keyed to my magical signature and charmed with featherweight and expansion spells. I’m still limited in what I can carry–items need to fit in the opening of the bag, and each compartment is only a couple cubic feet–but it’s an immensely satisfying purchase. I smirk thinking of all the things I’ll be able to take with me from Privet Drive.
I’m tempted to hunt down concealing charms or protective amulets, but I don’t really know where to start, and the bag has already made a pretty serious dent on my allowance. Instead, I head over to Flourish and Blotts, and then quickly bounce back and forth between two used bookstores. It turns out that books–even used ones–are surprisingly expensive, and I reluctantly pass over dozens of fascinating tomes.
(Other than books on Goblin culture, Griphook had declined to offer further book recommendations, arguing that it was “outside the purview of the services offered by an account manager”. It made me wonder whether there was a booklet somewhere that listed the services that Gringotts would offer.)
I search for books that might help me protect and prepare myself before I formally enter the wizarding world, forgoing books that I might easily buy during a future chaperoned visit. Unfortunately, there are pretty slim pickings on books covering any form of wandless magic, and most of the books on magical theory or wizarding history and culture are overly specialized, biased, or both. In the end, I leave with seven books before returning to Gringotts:
A Journey into the Meditative Arts
Protective Runes Demystified
Intuitive Homecraft
Modern Etiquette for the Pureblood Heir
Deciphering the Wizengamot: Perspectives on Magical Law in the Twentieth Century
The Stones Must Speak: The Cultural Practices of Subterranean Beings
A Pocket Atlas of Magical Britain
* * *
I have one more stop before I return to Gringotts: the owl post office. While I wonder whether there’s a better chance of success if I handle things myself at Hogwarts, I’ll be damned if I do nothing for months while Sirius rots in Azkaban. I fish out two letters I typed out the day before:
To Amelia Bones, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Ministry of Magic
CC: Arthur Weasley, Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, DMLE, Ministry of Magic
I have compelling reason to believe that there is a dangerous unregistered animagus masquerading as a pet rat in the Weasley family home. Please question him about his involvement in the war, with a particular emphasis on events occuring in the autumn of 1981. The life of a falsely accused man hangs in the balance.
Respectfully,
A Friend of Justice
* * *
Clara Cornfoot knew that Healers weren’t summoned to Gringotts for easy cases, but her heart still sank as she read through the diagnosis scroll.
“Any evidence of memory or compulsion charms, magical bindings, or potions?”
What? “... No.”
“That’s something, at least.” The boy’s face remained passive. “Is there anything about my present condition where delaying treatment by six months or a year would lead to significant harm?”
Clara frowned. “Not really, no. However, I’d like to get you on nutrient potions as soon as possible to reverse the damage of chronic malnutrition and avoid stunting your growth further,” she began.
The child nodded. “What do you recommend?”
“Ideally, two vials of customized nutrient potions daily with biweekly visits to monitor progress and adjust the potions. Given your history, I would expect treatment to last six to nine months, tapering off gradually”
“And if visits weren’t possible for the foreseeable future?”
Clara sighed. “Am I correct in guessing that your guardians are… uncooperative?”
The boy nodded, refusing to meet her gaze.
While her heart urged her to convince the boy to contact child protective services, she recognized the futility. “While a customized regimen would be best, I can prescribe a monthly course of standardized nutrient potions that is designed for more mild malnourishment than your current condition. More than that would require alerting your guardians.”
“Thank you. What else?”
“There’s some lingering dark curse residue. I’d normally recommend getting your guardian’s permission to consult with a specialist, but given the age of the damage, waiting a few more months is unlikely to make much of an impact.” She sighed again. “You also have several poorly mended fractures that would benefit from overnight skelegro treatment. This would reduce pain and increase your range of motion. However, this would require guardian notification. I can, however, heal your current abrasions and bruises.”
The boy shook his head. “No. I need the evidence in order to change my current situation. I’ll do it later.” The boy bit his lip. “Can you do anything for my eyesight?”
“I recommend waiting on an eyesight potion until after you’ve finished growing. I can, however, refresh the prescription on your glasses and fix the frames.”
“Please do.”
* * *
The sun is low in the sky when I return to the Alley. I confirm that there are very few ready-made potions that above-board apothecaries will sell to an underaged wizard without a prescription. No aging potions for me, then. I leave with a restorative draught, a month’s worth of nutrient potions, and a nearly exhausted allowance. There’s just enough for me to pick up a few inexpensive writing supplies, the latest issues of the Daily Prophet and The New York Ghost , and a copy of The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts . As I walk back to the Leaky Cauldron, I spot a self-cleaning handkerchief with a lily tastefully embroidered in the corner. Harry would love that. Unable to resist the impulse, I part with the last of my galleons.
The remainder of Christmas Eve is spent loading up my messenger bag at the Dursley residence. I devote one compartment to my magical purchases and the entirety of a second to non-perishable foodstuffs. I shove an assortment of tools, supplies, and housewares into the final expandable pocket. In the decoy pocket I place a few things I don’t mind the police or child services discovering: a few office and art supplies, a dictionary, and a beaten-up walkman I found in Dudley’s second bedroom. While I make an effort to make the absences of what I’ve taken not immediately noticeable, I feel absolutely no guilt helping myself to whatever seems most useful. Nearly all of Harry’s original belongings fit in the bookbag.
I wait until after breakfast on Christmas morning to call the police.
* * *
Ever since his divorce, Sargent Stevens made a point of volunteering for the Christmas shift. If he wasn’t going to be able to spend the holiday with his kids, he’d rather keep busy. He also appreciated the bonus holiday pay and the goodwill he earned for picking up an unpopular shift. So while it wasn’t the first Christmas Sargent Stevens spent at the precinct, it was the first that he spent introducing a traumatized ten-year-old to Chinese take-away.
Bloody child abusers.