Chapter 1
October starts on a bad foot for Harry.
He wakes up Monday morning after only a few hours’ sleep still muzzy and tired, with his crumpled maths worksheet on the floor next to his bed. He spent half the night trying to salvage his work from Dudley’s interference but somehow, despite his efforts, he doubts Ms Mason will be happy with the ripped pages and scribbled out answers.
If he’s lucky, she’ll let him hand it in still, but he thinks he might have to resign himself to losing marks. Probably for the best, anyway; it’ll give Aunt Petunia something safe to complain to his teachers and Uncle Vernon about, one of her favourite past-times.
Dudley’s already in the kitchen by the time Harry starts breakfast, which is never ideal. He starts pelting Harry with marbles as he pulls out the bread and eggs, and it’s lucky that he’s a terrible shot, because Harry’s reflexes are lagging this morning.
Between the tiredness gumming his eyelids and the projectiles distracting him, Harry burns the bacon. He yanks the pan off the cooker, spilling burning oil on his hands, but it’s too late. The Dursleys have a knack for knowing the instant Harry makes a mistake.
Uncle Vernon, sitting beside Dudley reading the paper, gives Harry a beady stink-eye and a displeased ripple of his moustache. One look at Aunt Petunia’s scowl tells Harry that he will not be joining them to eat this morning.
Harry quickly dishes up the food and serves the three of them, ignoring Dudley’s loud complaints about the state of the bacon and the consistency of the eggs. He lingers a moment too long eyeing the toast and Aunt Petunia gives him a half-hearted swat to the back of his head.
He slinks off to his cupboard to get ready for school, blowing gently on his stinging hands.
He picks out the nicest of Dudley’s castoffs to wear because he knows that one of Ms Mason’s biggest complaints is how scruffy he looks (“Like a delinquent, no respect for himself or those around him!”), and maybe if he tries extra hard to look presentable, she’ll be easier to win over when it comes to handing in his homework. He even tries to tame his hair a bit, since Ms Mason always sniffs at it like Aunt Petunia, though his success is debatable.
Harry stuffs his homework to the bottom of his bookbag, figuring a few more wrinkles will hardly make a difference. He throws in his school planner, unsigned by his guardians and full of red ink from his teachers, and a library book over top, hoping it’ll dissuade Dudley from exploring further if he gets into Harry’s bag. There’s always the possibility that his cousin will destroy the library book instead, but at least the librarian, Mr Alden, likes Harry well enough.
He stays in his cupboard until he hears the Dursleys start moving about the house, gathering their things for the day. While he waits, he notices that his best trousers have a hole in the pocket, big enough for him to wriggle a few fingers through. He doesn’t think it’s too noticeable yet, but he’ll have to try to mend it before it gets worse.
“Come on, Snotter, we’re going to be late!”
Wary of this game, Harry tentatively pushes the cupboard door open. Dudley immediately kicks it back in, narrowly avoiding smashing in Harry’s face. He cackles a laugh like it’s the best joke in the world, despite doing it nearly three times a week since the start of term.
Harry’s Monday does not look promising. It does not get better.
Ms Mason refuses to take his work, giving him a zero for the lesson and making a note to the headteacher about his disregard for his studies. Harry spends the rest of class slumped down in his seat, trying to tune out his cousin’s taunting.
He’s given an apple at lunch from a quiet girl that sits three rows ahead of him who’s always smiled shyly at him, but that’s about the highlight of his day. Dudley and his gang promptly chase her away before Harry can say thank you, and then shoves him into the mud and kicks rocks at him for a few minutes before losing interest. The apple gets smashed before he gets more than a few bites.
Subsequently, Harry tracks dirt into the classroom after the bell, and Ms Mason sends him into the hallway for the rest of the lesson.
As soon as they get home, Aunt Petunia shoves a list of chores at him while Dudley ambles off to watch one of his action shows on the telly. Harry’s under strict orders to finish everything on the list before Vernon gets home, making sure to leave enough time to fix dinner by seven, else he won’t be getting more than a cheese sandwich for himself.
“I want the windows spotless,” Aunt Petunia snaps.
This is likely so she’ll have a clear view into the neighbours’ windows next door for spying, but Harry smartly doesn’t say so.
So, he spends Monday afternoon sweeping the flagstones, taking out the rubbish, and painstakingly cleaning every window he can safely reach, and then some he probably shouldn’t try to. He has to clamber up the trellis a little bit to get to the upper windows, but although he slips a few times, he doesn’t end up falling. He can’t clean the windows out front because the neighbours will wonder, and Aunt Petunia hates for him to draw attention, but he does what he can and calls it a job well done.
He doesn’t burn dinner and his chores are completed, so Aunt Petunia reluctantly lets him serve himself a small plate of chicken, although she looms over him the whole time to make sure he doesn’t take more than permitted.
She locks him in his cupboard immediately afterwards but doesn’t kick up a stink about him turning the light on, so it isn’t too bad. Plus, this means Dudley can’t get to his homework this time.
He stays up late into the night doing his work and reading a bit of his library book, a story about an odd, friendly giant that Mr Alden had recommended after Harry finished the last one.
Finally, Harry gets to sleep. He hopes tomorrow will be better.
*
Tuesday isn’t so bad.
He gets toast for breakfast and dodges Dudley all morning, even in class. He doesn’t dare go outside at lunch, not wanting to be caught out by his cousin’s cronies, but he doesn’t mind spending time in the library. It’s quiet and bully-free, which is all he can ask for, really, and Mr Alden is always happy to eat with him and talk about interesting books. He even shares homemade biscuits with him, ginger molasses that his wife makes special.
“Forget your lunch again?” Mr Alden asks cheerfully, prodding a treat over the table to him. “Well, no matter. I won’t tell if you don’t. How is your reading going? Enjoying it?”
Harry nods dutifully and shows him how far he’s gotten into the book. They pass the lunch break pleasantly enough, talking about their favourite bits of the book, and Harry walks away with an extra biscuit in his pocket.
Things get a little rockier in the afternoon. Ms Mason accuses him of cheating on the spelling test, even though it had been Piers reading over Harry’s shoulder instead of the other way around, but she eventually subsides when Harry proves he can spell the word aloud and Piers can’t. She lets him off with a verbal warning, while Piers promises revenge later.
Harry runs all the way home after school and manages to avoid him and Dudley.
He finishes his chores—scrubbing down the kitchen and bathroom floors—but takes longer than he should, making dinner late. Uncle Vernon orders him to the cupboard as soon as he’s done cooking, so Harry nibbles on Mrs Alden’s ginger biscuit while he does his reading.
He thinks he’ll have to try to mend his trousers soon, since the hole is getting bigger. He’d almost lost the biscuit on his dash back to Privet Drive, and then he would’ve been out of his dinner.
*
Piers and Dudley don’t catch up to him on Wednesday, but only because Piers is already planning to come over on Thursday, giving them the perfect opportunity to pound him into the dirt without worrying about teachers or well-meaning adults. They’re very explicit, if uncreative, in their threats.
Harry keeps his head down at school and doesn’t bother trying to hand in his homework, since it would require crossing paths with Dudley on the way to Ms Mason’s desk, and he’d likely destroy it while somehow finding a way to land Harry in trouble.
When they get home, Harry manages to snag some supplies from Aunt Petunia’s largely untouched sewing kit while he goes about his chores. He tucks them into his sock so she doesn’t see and accuse him of stealing.
Dudley hounds his every step in the house, crooning insults at him and trying to trip him on the stairs while he’s carrying the overflowing laundry basket.
Harry wobbles, losing his balance, and a few of the clothes fall out of the basket and go tumbling down the stairs. Harry almost follows them, feeling a sickening lurch in his stomach, but something stops him at the last minute, giving him just enough time to get his feet back under him. Before he can even think what’s happened, Dudley’s gone tearing down the stairs yelling for Aunt Petunia gleefully.
“Mum! Mum! He’s done something freaky again!”
Aunt Petunia meets him at the bottom of the stairs with a hard look in her eyes, mouth twisted in a disgusted sneer. She hits him with the wooden spoon in her hand, but it glances off his shoulder instead of the back of his head because he manages to twist away in time, despite the laundry in his arms.
Whatever it is he’s done, it’s bad enough that she can’t stand the sight of him for a moment longer. She makes him abandon the laundry, chasing him straight into his cupboard.
“I don’t want to hear a peep out of you for the rest of the night,” she says. “You’re lucky Vernon wasn’t here to see you—and in front of Dudders, too!”
Harry curls up in his cupboard and definitely does not cry. He’s much too old to cry—a whole ten years, now—especially over Dudley and Aunt Petunia. He just wishes he knew exactly what was so freakish about him so that he might try to change it.
Eventually, he dares to turn the light in the cupboard on. There’s no cry of immediate outrage, so he’s probably safe. He fishes out the needle and thread in his sock, eyeing it speculatively. The thread’s pink, which won’t blend in with the material, and if Dudley or Uncle Vernon see it… But they won’t, because Harry will be careful and only sew where it can’t be seen.
He sets about carefully mending the hole in his school trousers. His sewing work’s a bit sloppy, but it holds up well enough, even if it does take him a couple of tries and more than a few jabs to the tips of his fingers.
He doesn’t mind it, really. He hates Dudley’s old clothes, but he feels good when he can fix them and make them last. He squints at his work critically and decides he’s rather proud of the result. He bets Dudley can’t do anything half as useful.
The pink isn’t so bad, either.
*
On Thursday, Harry is bitten by a werewolf.
*
The gravel crunches under his beaten trainers as he tries to shift into a better position. He’s getting awfully sore, staying crouched in the bushes like this, but it’s not nearly so bad as that time he tried to hide from his cousin in one of the cabinets at school, so he stays put.
Harry’s pretty sure Dudley and Piers will get bored soon. Harry Hunting is one of their favourite games, but he’s been pretty good at evading them today, and their patience only reaches so far. Piers brought over his brand-new Game Boy and promised Dudley a go, so the temptation will likely draw them indoors eventually. Harry just has to wait them out and creep back into Number 4 while they’re hopefully distracted enough to miss him. He’ll catch trouble from his aunt and uncle for not doing his chores, but at least he’ll avoid Dudley’s fists.
It’s particularly chilly for early October, and it’s getting dark out. Harry isn’t scared of the dark, having outgrown that quick, stuck in his cupboard, but he doesn’t like being out in the open when it’s late. Everything looks different at night, and he never knows if someone’s around. He imagines he can feel eyes watching him from the shadows.
He stuffs his hands under his armpits, almost grateful for the size of Dudley’s hand-me-downs. At least they might keep him a little warmer.
He reckons it must be past dinner by now. Aunt Petunia will be fuming; that’s two days in a row she’s had to cook without him around to so much as wash the dishes. Dudley and Piers have probably spent the evening telling all sorts of tales about him, too, which will only work up her ire more. Maybe Uncle Vernon will be the one to punish him when he gets back if Aunt Petunia’s upset enough.
Uncle Vernon’s slow, though. Harry’s much faster. Better to take his chances with his uncle, who loses interest quickly once Harry ducks into his cupboard, rather than his cousin, who’s generally more persistent when it comes to beating him up.
Harry gives up on crouching, plopping right down on the ground. He curls his knees up under his chin.
The stars are starting to come out now, though sometimes it’s hard to see them under the streetlamps. He can only make out a few of them through the clouds, including a bright cheery one and what Harry thinks might be the constellation of Orion’s Belt, though he doesn’t know for sure. Mr Alden had given him a book on constellations once, but Dudley had gotten to it before Harry could finish it. He’d liked it while he had it, though.
He waits a while longer, watching the clouds drift by overhead until his fingers and toes start to feel frozen. He doesn’t know what time it is, but there hasn’t been any sign of passersby for quite some time, and the few houses he can see around the park are starting to go dark as their occupants turn in for the night. It’s probably late enough that Piers will have gone home, and Dudley will either be asleep or sulking about not having a Game Boy of his own.
Harry cautiously crawls out of the bush. His body feels sore as he straightens to his feet, but it’s a small price to pay to avoid being a walking patchwork of bruises for the next week. He knows from experience that it’s much harder to finish all his chores when he’s covered in the pattern of Dudley’s fists.
No one’s out on the streets as he makes his way back to Privet Drive, which suits him just fine.
He starts to think, rather optimistically, that he might just make it without incident. He’ll catch all hell for it tomorrow, but that’s a problem for the future, and at least he’s usually good at thinking on his feet. He isn’t too worried.
Then he reaches Number 4 and finds the front door locked.
He feels the first tendrils of panic start squeezing at his chest, but he fights those down. He tries to think.
This is punishment, clearly, a lesson not to be out so late, or a reminder that no one will come looking for him should he wander off and go missing.
He could try knocking, in the hopes that Aunt Petunia’s waiting up to let him in and lecture him, but that risks waking the Dursleys up and bringing them down on his head, all three at once. No, he doesn’t want to do that.
Perhaps he can find a way into the back garden and try the door to the kitchen. Aunt Petunia may have left that one open so that he can find his way in while still getting the message. He’ll have to climb over the fence to get into the garden, though. It isn’t a large fence, and Harry’s pretty sure he can scale it, but he’d be in view of Number 7’s windows. It doesn’t seem like anyone’s awake, but Harry knows full well how nosy the neighbours are, and if wind gets back to Aunt Petunia that he was seen doing something so delinquent… No, better not to risk it.
That doesn’t really leave him with a way to get inside. Perhaps that’s the point.
Harry can’t help but try the doorknob again, jiggling it futilely. It would be very handy if he could do something freaky right about now, with no one around to see, but he’s never been able to control it, make his freakishness useful.
There’s nothing for it. He’ll have to kip outside for the night.
He knows better than to hunker on the front step. What will the neighbours say, after all?
Harry tries not to think about how cold it’s going to be, how little protection Dudley’s rags will give him.
He’ll try a bench at the kid’s park where he spent the evening hunkered down. He’s a light sleeper, so hopefully, he’ll wake if anyone comes by and be able to avoid any trouble. The last thing he needs is for a concerned citizen—or, worse, the police—to bring him back to his aunt and uncle in the early hours. Neighbours have called the police on him before when he’s dared to wander out too long, and the Dursleys’ hate when he brings coppers to their door.
Grimly, Harry turns back to the darkened streets. He suppresses a shiver.
He isn’t afraid of the dark, he reminds himself firmly. He’s much too old for that now.
Still, he feels terribly alone and exposed, wandering the streets so late. He can’t shake the feeling of being watched, shadows looking darker and more sinister than they should. He can’t help but remember every story he’s ever heard about monsters waiting to prey on lost little children, every bogeyman he’s been threatened with to keep him in line. He doesn’t believe in that sort of thing, but—well, if any of it were real, he imagines this would be the sort of scenario where he’d find them, or they’d find him.
He does find a bench at the park, and it’s even under a bit of shelter for the bus stop. It’s not very comfortable, and not nearly as safe as his cupboard feels, but it’ll do for the night. He curls up in a little ball at the end, burying his face in his shirt. He’s cold and tired and wishes he were at home, even bruised and locked away. Maybe he should have knocked on the door anyway and dealt with the consequences.
Harry hears a rustling in the same bushes he used as cover from Dudley. He tells himself it’s just the wind, curling up tighter.
But then there’s a snap and a growl and breathing, and Harry shoots up straight on the bench, heart galloping in his chest. He catches a streak of grey hidden among the branches and makes out twin sickly yellow specks.
“Hello?” he says nervously. “Is someone there?”
Ten-year-old boys should not be out on their own this late, he knows that. He’s heard all sorts of stories about children meeting messy ends, and Uncle Vernon’s always said he’s destined to end up the same way, just like his parents, and maybe he’s right, maybe this is it. Maybe the Dursleys will wake up tomorrow and Harry will just be another story on the news, a terrible tragedy quickly forgotten, and no one will care.
There’s another growl from the bushes.
Harry scrambles off the bench, backing away. “Stay away,” he warns, voice high and shaky. He doesn’t know how to stave off wild animals—they don’t teach it at school, and Dudley’s television programmes only show the attacks, not how to prevent them.
Harry’s fast. He might be able to make it back to Number 4, assuming whatever this is isn’t faster. And animals usually are, aren’t they?
Another flash of yellow, large and menacing, peers at him. Definitely an animal, but a big one. Harry didn’t think they got wolves in Privet Drive; the largest animal he’s ever seen was a badger in Number 3’s garden. Dudley claims he saw a fox once, but Harry never really believed him.
Harry stumbles back a few more steps. He doesn’t want to take his eyes off the animal, but he can’t run backwards.
The choice is taken from him in an instant. The thing makes a horrendous noise—it echoes in his ears, impossibly loud—and bursts out from the bush, leaping at Harry. It’s massive, an explosion of grey fur, practically three times Harry’s size. Harry’s never seen a wolf in person before, but it looks wrong; something about its proportions sets off warning bells, makes his skin prickle.
Harry yells and falls backwards, hitting the ground hard enough to get the air punched out of him.
“No!” he shouts, hoping to scare the thing off, hoping someone will hear him, hoping someone will come help. “Leave me alone!”
The thing—monstrous wolf that it is—stalks closer, looming over him. Harry can feel its breath as it pants over him, hot and rancid, and he can barely breathe through the panic stuttering in his chest. His hands scrabble in the dirt, looking for a stick or a rock or anything he can use to keep this thing away.
The wolf’s eyes are unnerving, too lucid, trained on his face and watching as he tries and fails to get to his feet. It’s too close, right on top of him. He can’t get away.
The wolf’s jaws, snarling, drooling, pulled back to expose a row of dangerously sharp teeth, snap warningly. Harry whimpers.
A long tongue rolls out, dripping saliva, and the wolf jumps forward the last few feet, closing the gap. Harry screams as it closes its jaws around him, sinking those teeth into the meat of his shoulder with a sudden inferno of pain.
Blood rushes to his head even as it spouts from his wound, splashing into the beast’s waiting mouth. Harry sees flashes of red staining the thing’s teeth, pain making him dizzy, and then, in great relief, he passes out and sees nothing more.